11032	----	Distributed Proofreaders Wilson's TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND. HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE. REVISED BY ALEXANDER LEIGHTON, _One of the Original Editors and Contributors_. VOL. XXIII. CONTENTS. THE LAWYER'S TALES (_Alexander Leighton_)--LORD KAMES'S PUZZLE. THE ORPHAN (_John Mackay Wilson_). THE BURGHER'S TALES (_Alexander Leighton_)--THE BROWNIE OF THE WEST BOW. GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT (_Professor Thomas Gillespie_)--THE LAST SCRAP. THE STORY OF MARY BROWN (_Alexander Leighton_). TIBBY FOWLER (_John Mackay Wilson_). THE CRADLE OF LOGIE (_Alexander Leighton_). THE DEATH OF THE CHEVALIER DE LA BEAUTÉ (_John Mackay Wilson_). THE STORY OF THE PELICAN (_Alexander Leighton_). THE WIDOW'S AE SON (_John Mackay Wilson_). THE LAWYER'S TALES (_Alexander Leighton_)--THE STORY OF MYSIE CRAIG. THE TWIN BROTHERS (_John Mackay Wilson_). THE GIRL FORGER (_Alexander Leighton_). THE TWO RED SLIPPERS (_Alexander Leighton_). THE FAITHFUL WIFE (_Alexander Leighton_). WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND. * * * * * THE LAWYER'S TALES. LORD KAMES'S PUZZLE. On looking over some Session papers which had belonged to Lord Kames, with the object, I confess, of getting hold of some facts--those entities called by Quintilian the bones of truth, the more by token, I fancy, that they so often stick in the throat--which might contribute to my legends, I came to some sheets whereon his lordship had written some hasty remarks, to the effect that the case Napier _versus_ Napier was the most curious puzzle that ever he had witnessed since he had taken his seat on the bench. The papers were fragmentary, consisting of parts of a Reclaiming Petition and some portion of a Proof that had been led in support of a brieve of service; but I got enough to enable me to give the story, which I shall do in such a connected manner as to take the reader along with me, I hope pleasantly, and without any inclination to choke upon the foresaid bones. Without being very particular about the year, which really I do not know with further precision than that it was within the first five years of Lord Kames's senator-ship, I request the reader to fancy himself in a small domicile in Toddrick's Wynd, in the old city of Edinburgh; and I request this the more readily that, as we all know, Nature does not exclude very humble places from the regions of romance, neither does she deny to very humble personages the characters of heroes and heroines. Not that I have much to say in the first instance either of the place or the persons; the former being no more than a solitary room and a bed-closet, where yet the throb of life was as strong and quick as in the mansions of the great, and the latter composed of two persons--one, a decent, hard-working woman called Mrs. Hislop, whose duty in this world was to keep her employers clean in their clothes, wherein she stood next to the minister, insomuch as cleanliness is next to godliness--in other words, she was a washerwoman; the other being a young girl, verging upon sixteen, called Henrietta, whose qualities, both of mind and body, might be comprised in the homely eulogy, "as blithe as bonnie." So it may be, that if you are alarmed at the humility of the occupation of the one--even with your remembrance that Sir Isaac Newton experimented upon soap-bubbles--as being so intractable in the plastic-work of romance, you may be appeased by the qualities of the other; for has it not been our delight to sing for a thousand years, yea, in a thousand songs, too, the praises of young damsels, whether under the names of Jenny or Peggy, or those of Clarinda or Florabella, or whether engaged in herding flocks by Logan Waters, or dispensing knights' favours under the peacock? But we cannot afford to dispose of our young heroine in this curt way, for her looks formed parts of the lines of a strange history; and so we must be permitted the privilege of narrating that, while Mrs. Hislop's _protegée_ did not come within that charmed circle which contains, according to the poets, so many angels without wings, she was probably as fair every whit as Dowsabell. Yet, after all, we are not here concerned with beauty, which, as a specialty in one to one, and as a universality in all to all, is beyond the power of written description. We have here to do simply with some traits which, being hereditary, not derived from Mrs. Hislop, have a bearing upon our strange legend: the very slightest cast in the eyes, which in its piquancy belied a fine genial nature in the said Henney; and a classic nose, which, partaking of the old Roman type, and indicating pride, was equally untrue to a generosity of feeling which made friends of all who saw her--_except one_. A strange exception this _one_; for who, even in this bad world, could be an enemy to a creature who conciliated sympathy as a love, and defied antipathy as an impossibility? Who could _he_ be? or rather, who could _she_ be? for man seems to be excluded by the very instincts of his nature. The question may be answered by the evolution of facts; than which what other have we even amidst the dark gropings into the mystery of our wonderful being? Mrs. Hislop's head was over the skeil, wherein lay one of the linen sheets of Mr. Dallas, the writer to the signet, which, with her broad hands, she was busy twisting into the form of a serpent; and no doubt there were indications of her efforts in the drops of perspiration which stood upon her good-humoured, gaucy face, so suggestive of dewdrops ('bating the poetry) on the leaves of a big blush peony. In this work she was interrupted by the entrance of Henney, who came rushing in as if under the influence of some emotion which had taken her young heart by surprise. "What think ye, minny?" she cried, as she held up her hands. "The deil has risen again from the grave where he was buried in Kirkcaldy," was the reply, with a laugh. "No, that's no it," continued the girl. "Then what is it?" was the question. "He's dead," replied Henney. "Who is dead?" again asked Mrs. Hislop. "The strange man," replied the girl. And a reply, too, which brought the busy worker to a pause in her work, for she understood who the _he_ was, and the information went direct through the ear to the heart; but Henney, supposing that she was not understood, added-- "The man who used to look at me with yon terrible eyes." "Yes, yes, dear, I understand you," said the woman, as she let the coil fall, and sat down upon a chair, under the influence of strong emotion. "But who told you?" "Jean Graham," replied the girl. An answer which seemed, for certain reasons known to herself, to satisfy the woman, for the never another word she said, any more than if her tongue had been paralyzed by the increased action of her heart; but as we usually find that when that organ in woman is quiet more useful powers come into action, so the sensible dame began to exercise her judgment. A few minutes sufficed for forming a resolution; nor was it sooner formed than that it was begun to be put into action, yet not before the excited girl was away, no doubt to tell some of her companions of her relief from the bugbear of the man with the terrible eyes. The formation of a purpose might have been observed in her puckered lips and the speculation in her grey eyes. The spirit of romance had visited the small house in Toddrick's Wynd, where for fifteen years the domestic _lares_ had sat quietly surveying the economy of poverty. She rose composedly from the chair into which the effect of Henney's exclamation had thrown her, went to the blue chest which contained her holiday suit, took out, one after another, the chintz gown, the mankie petticoat, the curch, the red plaid; and, after washing from her face the perspiration drops, she began to put on her humble finery--all the operation having been gone through with that quiet action which belongs to strong minds where resolution has settled the quivering chords of doubt. Following the dressed dame up the High Street, we next find her in the writing-booth of Mr. James Dallas, writer to his Majesty's Signet. The gentleman was, after the manner of his tribe, minutely scanning some papers--that is, he was looking into them so sharply that you would have inferred that he was engaged in hunting for "flaws;" a species of game that is both a prey and a reward--_et praeda et premium_, as an old proverb says. Nor shall we say he was altogether pleased when he found his inquiry, whatever it might be, interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Margaret Hislop of Toddrick's Wynd; notwithstanding that to this personage he and Mrs. Dallas, and all the Dallases, were indebted for the whiteness of their linen. No doubt she would be wanting payment of her account; yet why apply to him, and not to Mrs. Dallas? And, besides, it needed only one glance of the writer's eye to show that his visitor had something more of the look of a client than a cleaner of linen; a conclusion which was destined to be confirmed, when the woman, taking up one of the high-backed chairs in the room, placed it right opposite to the man of law, and, hitching her round body into something like stiff dignity, seated herself. Nor was this change from her usual deportment the only one she underwent; for, as soon appeared, her style of speech was to pass from broad Scotch, not altogether into the "Inglis" of the upper ranks, but into a mixture of the two tongues; a feat which she performed very well, and for which she had been qualified by having lived in the service of the great. "And so Mr. Napier of Eastleys is dead?" she began. "Yes," answered the writer, perhaps with a portion of cheerfulness, seeing he was that gentleman's agent, or "doer," as it was then called; a word far more expressive, as many clients can testify, at least after they are "done;" and seeing also that a dead client is not finally "done" until his affairs are wound up and consigned to the green box. "And wha is his heir, think ye?" continued his questioner. "Why, Charles Napier, his nephew," answered the writer, somewhat carelessly. "I'm no just a'thegither sure of that, Mr. Dallas," said she, with another effort at dignity, which was unfortunately qualified by a knowing wink. "The deil's in the woman," was the sharp retort, as the writer opened his eyes wider than he had done since he laid down his parchments. "The deil's in me or no in me," said she; "but this I'm sure of, that Henrietta Hislop--that's our Henney, ye ken--the brawest and bonniest lass in Toddrick's Wynd (and that's no saying little), is the lawful heiress of Mr. John Napier of Eastleys, and was called Henrietta after her mother." "The honest woman's red wud," said the writer, laughing. "Why, Mrs. Hislop, I always took you for a shrewd, sensible woman. Do you really think that, because you bore a child to Mr. John Napier, therefore Henney Hislop is the heiress of her reputed father?" "_Me_ bear a bairn to Mr. Napier!" cried the offended client. "Wha ever said I was the mother of Henney Hislop?" "Everybody," replied he. "We never doubted it, though I admit she has none of your features." "Everybody is a leear, then," rejoined the woman tartly. "There's no a drap of blood in the lassie's body can claim kindred with me or mine; though, if it were so, it would be no dishonour, for the Hislops were lairds of Highslaps in Ayrshire at the time of Malcolm Mucklehead." "And whose daughter, by the mother's side, is she, then?" asked he, as his curiosity began to wax stronger. "Ay, you have now your hand on the cocked egg," replied she, with a look of mystery. "The other was a wind ane, and you've just to sit a little and you'll see the chick." The writer settled himself into attention, and the good dame thought it proper, like some preachers who pause two or three minutes (the best part of their discourse) after they have given out the text, to raise a wonder how long they intend to hold their tongue, and thereby produce attention, to retain her speech until she had attained the due solemnity. "It is now," she began, in a low mysterious voice, "just sixteen years come June,--and if ye want the day, it will be the 15th,--and if ye want the hour, we may say eleven o'clock at night, when I was making ready for my bed,--I heard a knock at my door, and the words of a woman, 'Oh, Mrs. Hislop, Mrs. Hislop!' So I ran and opened the door; and wha think ye I saw but Jean Graham, Mr. Napier's cook, with een like twa candles, and her mouth as wide as if she had been to swallow the biggest sup of porridge that ever crossed ploughman's craig?" "'What's ado, woman?' said I, for I thought something fearful had happened. "'Oh,' cried she, 'my lady's lighter, and ye're to come to Meggat's Land, even noo, this minute, and bide nae man's hindrance.' "'And so I will,' said I, as I threw my red plaid ower my head; then I blew out my cruse, and out we came, jolting each other in the dark passage through sheer hurry and confusion--down the Canongate, t'll we came to Meggat's Land, in at the kitchen door, ben a dark passage, up a stair, then ben another passage, till we came to a back room, the door of which was opened by somebody inside. I was bewildered--the light in the room made my een reel; but I soon came to myself, when I saw a man and Mrs. Kemp the howdie busy rowing something in flannel. "'Get along,' said the man to Jean; 'you're not wanted here.' "And as Jean made off, Mrs. Kemp turned to me-- "'Come here, Mrs. Hislop,' said she. "So I slipt forward; but the never a word more was said for ten minutes, they were so intent on getting the bairn all right--for ye ken, sir, it was a new-born babe they were busy with: they were as silent as the grave; and indeed everything was so still, that I heard their breathing like a rushing of wind, though they breathed just as they were wont to do. And when they had finished-- "'Mrs. Hislop,' said the man, as he turned to me, 'you're to take this child and bring it up as your own, or anybody else's you like, except Mr. Napier's, and you're never to say when or how you got it, for it's a banned creature, with the curse upon it of a malison for the sins of him who begot it and of her who bore it. Swear to it;' and he held up his hand. "And I swore; but I thought I would just take the advice of the Lord how far my words would bind me to do evil, or leave me to do gude, when the time came. So I took the bairn into my arms. "'And wha will pay for the wet-nurse?' said I; 'for ye ken I am as dry as a yeld crummie. But there is a woman in Toddrick's Wynd wha lost her bairn yestreen: she is threatened wi' a milk-fever, and by my troth this little stranger will cure her; but, besides the nourice-fee, there is my trouble.' "'I was coming to that,' said he, 'if your supple tongue had left you power to hear mine. In this leathern purse there are twenty gowden guineas--a goodly sum; but whether goodly or no, you must be content; yea, the never a penny more you may expect, for all connection between this child and this house or its master is to be from this moment finished for ever.' "And a gude quittance it was, I thought, with a bonny bairn and twenty guineas on my side, and nothing on the other but maybe a father's anger and salt tears, besides the wrath of God against those who forsake their children. So with thankfulness enough I carried away my bundle; and ye'll guess that Henney Hislop is now the young woman of fifteen who was then that child of a day." "And is this all the evidence," said the writer, "you have to prove that Henrietta Hislop is the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Napier?" "Maybe no," replied she; "if ye weren't so like the English stranger wha curst the Scotch kail because he did not see on the table the beef that was coming from the kitchen, besides the haggis and the bread-pudding. You've only as yet got the broth, and, for the rest, I will give you Mrs. Kemp, wha told me, as a secret, that the child was brought into the world by her own hands from the living body of Mrs. Napier. Will that satisfy you?" "No," replied Mr. Dallas, who had got deeper and deeper into a study. "Mr. Napier, I know, was at home that evening when his wife bore a child: that child never could have been given away without his consent; and as for the consent itself, it is a still greater improbability, seeing that he was always anxious for an heir to Eastleys." "And so maybe he was," replied she; "but I see you are only at the beef yet, and you may be better pleased when you have got the haggis, let alone the pudding. Yea, it is even likely Mr. Napier wanted an heir, and, what is more, he got one, at least an heiress; but sometimes God gives and the devil misgives. And so it was here; for Mr. Napier took it into his head that the child was not his, and, in place of being pleased with an heir, he thought himself cursed with a bastard, begotten on his wife by no other than Captain Preston, his lady's cousin. And where did the devil find that poison growing but in the heart of Isabel Napier, the sister of that very Charles who is now thinking he will heir Eastleys by pushing aside poor Henney? And then the poison, like the old apple, was so fair and tempting; for Mr. Napier had been married ten years, and enjoyed the love that is so bonnie a 'little while when it is new,' and yet had no children, till this one came so exactly nine months after the captain's visit to Scotland, that Satan had little more to do than hold up the temptation. You see, sir, how things come round; but still, according to the old fashion, after a long, weary, dreary turn. Mrs. Napier died next day after the birth; Mr. Napier lived a miserable man; Henney was brought up in poverty, and sometimes distress, but now I hope she has come to her kingdom." Here Mrs. Hislop stopped; and as there could be no better winding-up of a romance than by bringing her heroine to her kingdom at last, she felt so well pleased with her conclusion, that she could afford to wait longer for her expected applause than the fair story-tellers in the _brigata_ under Queen Pampinea; and it was as well that she was thus fortified, for the writer, in place of declaring his satisfaction, with her proofs, seemed, as he lay back in his chair in a deep reverie, to be occupied once more in hunting for flaws. At length, raising himself on his chair, and fixing his eyes upon her with that look of scepticism which a writer assumes when he addresses a would-be new client who wants to push out an old one with a better right-- "Mrs. Hislop," said he, "if it had not been that I have always taken you for an honest woman, I would say that you are art and part in fabricating a story without a particle of foundation. There may possibly be some mystery about the birth and parentage of the young girl. You may have got her out of the house of Meggat's Land in the Canongate from a man--not Mr. Napier, you admit--who may have been the father of it by some mother residing in the house; and Mrs. Kemp may have been actuated, by some unknown means, to remove the paternity from the right to the wrong person. All this is possible; but that the child could be that one which Mrs. Napier bore is impossible, for this reason--and I beg of you to listen to it--that Mrs. Napier's child _was dead-born, and was, according to good evidence, buried in the same coffin with the mother_." A statement this, which, delivered in the solemn manner of an attorney who was really honest, and who knew much of this history, appeared to Mrs. Hislop so strange that her tongue was paralyzed; an effect which had never before been produced by any one of all the five causes of the metaphysicians. Even her eyes seemed to have lost their power of movement; and as for her wits, they had, like those of the renowned Astolpho, surely left, and taken refuge in the moon. "If you are not satisfied with my words," continued the writer (no doubt ironically, for where could he have found better evidence of the effect of his statement?), "I will give you writing for the truth of what I have said to you." And rising and going towards a green tin box, he opened the same, and taking therefrom a piece of paper, he resumed his seat. "Now listen," said he, as he unfolded an old yellow-coloured sheet of paper, and then he read these words: "'Your presence is requested at the funeral of Henrietta Preston, my wife, and of a child still-born, from my house, Meggat's Land, Canongate, to the burying-ground at St. Cuthberts, on Friday the 19th of this month June, at one o'clock;' and the name at this letter," continued Mr. Dallas, "is that of 'John Napier of Eastleys.' Will that satisfy you?" And the "doer" for Mr. Charles Napier, conceiving that he had at last effectually "done" his client's opponent, seemed well pleased to sit and witness the further effect of his evidence on the bewildered woman; but we are to remember that a second stroke sometimes only takes away the pain of the former, and a repetition of blows will quicken the reaction which slumbered under the first. Whether this was so or not in our present instance, or whether Mrs. Hislop had recovered her wits by a process far shorter than that followed by the foresaid Astolpho, we know not; but certain it is, that she recovered the powers of both her eyes and her tongue in much less time than the writer expected, and in a manner, too, very different from that for which he was probably prepared. "Weel," replied she, smiling, "it would just seem that even the haggis has not pleased you, Mr. Dallas;" and, putting her hand into a big side-pocket, that might have served a gaberlunzie for a wallet, she extracted a small piece of paper. She continued: "But ye see a guid, honest Scotchwoman's no to be suspected of being shabby at her own table; so read ye that, which you may take for the bread-pudding." And the writer, having taken the paper, and held it before his face for so long a time that it might have suggested the suspicion that the words therein written stuck in his eyes, and would not submit to that strange process whereby, unknown to ourselves, we transfer written vocables to the ear before we can understand them, turned a look upon the woman of dark suspicion-- "Where, in God's name, got you this?" he said. "Just read it out first," replied she. "Ye read yer ain paper, and why no mine?" And the writer read, perhaps more easily than he could understand, the strange words: "This child, born of my wife, and yet neither of my blood nor my lineage, I repudiate, and, unable to push it back into the dark world of nothing from which it came, I leave it with a scowl to the mercy which countervaileth the terrible decree whereby the sins of the parent shall be visited on the child. This I do on the 15th of June 17--. JOHN NAPIER of Eastleys, in the county of Mid-Lothian." After reading this extraordinary denunciation, Mr. Dallas sat and considered, as if at a loss what to say; but whether it was that scepticism was at the root of his thoughts, or that he assumed it as a mask to conceal misgivings to which he did not like to confess, he put a question: "Where got you this notable piece of evidence?" "Ay," replied Mrs. Hislop, "you are getting reasonable on the last dish. That bit of paper, which to me and my dear Henney is werth the haill estate of Eastleys, was found by me carefully pinned to the flannel in which the child was wrapt." "Wonderful enough surely," repeated he, "_if true_"--the latter words being pronounced with emphasis which made the rough liquid letter sound like a hurling stone; "but," he continued, "the whole document, in its terms of crimination and exposure, and not less the wild manner of its application, is so unlike the act of a man not absolutely frantic, that I cannot believe it to be genuine." "But you know, Mr. Dallas," replied she, "that Mr. John Napier was a man who, if he threw a stone, cared little whether it struck the kirk window or the mill door." "That is so far true; but, passionate and unforgiving as he was, he was not so reckless as to be regardless whether the stone did not come back on his own head." "And it's no genuine!" she resumed, as, disregarding his latter words, she relapsed into her more familiar dialect. "The Lord help ye! canna ye look at first the ae paper and then the ither? and if they're no alike, mustna the ither be the forgery?" An example of the conditional syllogism which might have amused even a writer to the signet, if he had not been at the very moment busy in the examination of the handwriting of the funeral letter and that of the paper of repudiation and malison--the resemblance, or rather the identity of which was so striking, as to reduce all his theories to confusion. "By all that's good in heaven, the same," he muttered to himself; and then addressing his visitor, "I confess, Mrs. Hislop," said he, "that this paper has driven me somewhat off my point of confidence; but I suppose you will see that, if the child was actually, as the letter indicates, buried with its mother, Henrietta's rights are at an end. It is just possible, however, I fairly admit, that Mr. Napier, who was a very eccentric man, may have so worded the letter as to induce the world to believe that the so-considered illegitimate child had been dead-born, while he gratified--privately he might verily think--his vengeance by writing this terrible curse. Still I think you are wrong; but as this wonderful paper gives you a plausible plea, I would recommend you to Mr. White, in Mill's Court, who will see to the young woman's rights. He will be the flint, and I the steel; and between our friendly opposition we will produce a spark which will light up the candle of truth." "Ay," replied she; "only as the spark of fire comes from the steel, we'll just suppose you are the flint--and by my troth you're hard enough; but, come as it may, it will light the lantern that will show Henney Napier to the bonnie haughs of Eastleys." Mrs. Hislop having got back her paper from Mr. Dallas, left the writer's chambers, and directed her steps to Mill's Court, where she found Mr. White, even as she had Mr. Dallas, busy poring over law papers. She was, as we have seen, one of those people who can make their own introduction acceptable, and, moreover, one of those women, few as they are, who can tell a story with the continuity and fitting emphasis necessary to secure the attention of a busy listener. So Mr. White heard her narrative, not only with interest, but even a touch of the pervading sympathy of the spirit of romance. And so he might; for who doesn't see that the charm of mystery can be enhanced by the hope of turning it to account of money? Then he was so much of a practical man as to know that while every string has two ends, the true way to get hold of both is to make sure in the first place of one. Wherefore he began to interrogate his client as to who could speak to the doings in the house in Meggat's Land on that eventful night when the child was born; and having taken notes of the answers to his questions, he paused a little, as if to consider what was the first step he ought to take into the region of doubt, and perhaps of intrigue, where at least there must be lies floating about like films in the clear atmosphere of truth. Nor had he meditated many minutes till he rose, and taking up his square hat and his gold-headed cane, he said-- "Come, we will try what we can discover in a quarter where an end of the ravelled string ought to be found, whether complicated into a knot by the twisting power of self-interest or no." And leading the way, he proceeded with his client down the High Street, where, along under the glimmering lamps, were the usual crowds of loungers, composed of canny Saxon and fiery Celt, which have always made this picturesque thoroughfare so remarkable. Not one of all these had any interest for our two searchers; but it was otherwise when they came toward the Canongate Tolbooth, where, out from a dark entry sprang a young woman, and bounding forward, seized our good dame round the neck. This was no other than Henney Hislop herself, who, having been alarmed at the long absence of her "mother," as she called her, and of course believed her to be, was so delighted to find her, that she sobbed out her joy in such an artless way, that even the writer owned it was interesting to behold. Nor was the picture without other traits calculated to engage attention; for the girl whose fortunes had been so strange, and were perhaps destined to be still more strange, was dressed in the humblest garb--the short gown and the skirt peculiar to the time; but then every tint was so bright with pure cleanliness, the earrings set off so fine a skin, the indispensable strip of purple round the head imparted so much of the grace of the old classic wreath; and beyond all this, which might be said to be extraneous, her features--if you abated the foresaid cast or slight squint in the eyes, which imparted a piquancy--were so regular, if not handsome, that you could not have denied that she deserved to be a Napier, if she was not a very Napier in reality. A few words whispered in Mrs. Hislop's ear, and the girl was off, leaving our couple to proceed on their way. Even this incident had its use; for Mr. White, who had known Mr. Napier, and had faith (as who has not?) in the hereditary descent of bodily aspects, could not restrain himself from the remark, however much it might inflame the hopes of his client--"The curse has left no blight there," said he. "That is the very face of Mr. Napier--the high nose especially; and as for the eyes, with that unmistakeable cast, why, I have seen their foretypes in the head of John Napier a hundred times." An observation so congenial to Mrs. Hislop, that she could not help being a little humorous, even in the depth of an anxiety which had kept her silent for the full space of ten minutes. "Nose, sir! there wasn't a man frae the castle yett to Holyrood wha could have produced that nose except John Napier." And without further interruption than her own laugh, they proceeded till they came to the entry called Big Lochend Close, up which they went some forty or fifty steps till they came to an outer door, which led by a short dark passage to two or three inner doors in succession, all leading to separate rooms occupied by separate people. No sooner had they turned into this passage than they encountered a woman in a plaid and with a lantern in her hand, who had just left the third or innermost room, and whose face, as it peered through the thick folds of her head-covering, was illuminated by a gleam from the light she carried. She gave them little opportunity for examination, having hurried away as if she had been afraid of being searched for stolen property. "Isbel Napier," whispered Mrs. Hislop; "she wha first brought evil into the house of the Napiers, with all its woe." "And who bodes us small hope here," said he, "if she has been with the nurse." And entering the room from which the ill-omening woman had issued, they found another, even her of whom they were in search, sitting by the fire, torpid and corpulent, to a degree which indicated that as it had been her trade to nurse others, she had not forgotten herself in her ministrations. "Mrs. Temple," said Mr. White, who saw the policy of speaking fair the woman who had been so recently in the company of an evil genius; "I am glad to find you so stout and hearty." "Neither o' the twa, sir," replied she; "for I am rather weak and heartless. Many a ane I hae nursed into health and strength, but a' nursing comes hame in the end." "And some, no doubt, have died under your care," continued the writer, with a view to introduce his subject; "and therefore you should be grateful for the life that is still spared to you. You could not save the life of Mrs. Napier." "That's an auld story, and a waefu' ane," she replied, with a side-look at Mrs. Hislop; "and I hae nae heart to mind it. Some said the lady wasna innocent; and doubtless Mr. Napier thought sae, for he took high dealings wi' her, and looked at her wi' a scorn that would have scathed whinstanes. Sae it was better she was ta'en awa--ay, and her baby wi' her; for if it had lived, it would have dree'd the revenge o' that stern man." "The child!" said Mr. White, "did it die too?" "Dee! ye may rather ask if it ever lived; for it never drew breath, in this world at least." A statement so strange, that it brought the eyes of the two visitors to each other; and no doubt both of them recurred in memory to the statement in the funeral letter, which, whatever may have been the case with the assertion now made by the nurse, never could have been dictated by her they had met in the passage; and no doubt, also, they both remembered the statement made by Mr. Dallas, to the effect that both the mother and child were buried together. "Never drew breath, you say, nurse!" resumed Mr. White, with an air of astonishment; "why, I have been given to understand, not only that the child was born alive, but that it is actually living now." "Weel," replied the nurse, "maybe St. Cuthbert has wrought a miracle, and brought the child out o' the grave by the West Church; but he has wrought nae miracle on me, to mak' me forget what my een saw, and my hands did, that day when I helped to place the dead body o' the innocent on the breast o' its dead mother; ay, and bent her stiff arms sae as to bring them ower her bairn, just as if she had been faulding it to her bosom. And sae in this fashion were they buried." "And you would swear to that, Mrs. Temple?" said the writer. "Ay, upon fifty Bibles, ane after anither," was the reply, in something like a tone of triumph. Nor could the woman be induced to swerve from these assertions, notwithstanding repeated interrogations; and the writer was left to the conclusion--which he preferred, rather than place any confidence in the funeral letter--that the nurse's statement was in some mysterious way connected with the visit of Isabel Napier; and yet, not so very mysterious, after all, when we are to consider that her brother was preparing to claim Eastleys, as well as the valuable furniture of the house in Meggat's Land, as the nearest lawful heir of his deceased uncle. The salvo was at least comfortable to both Mr. White and his client, and no doubt it helped to lighten their steps, as, bidding adieu to the "hard witness," they left her to the nursing which comes "aye hame in the end." But their inquiries were not finished; and retracing their steps up the Canongate, they landed in the Fountain Close, where, under the leading of Mrs. Hislop, the writer was procured another witness, with a name already familiar to him through the communication of his client; and this was no other than that same Jean Graham, who was sent to Toddrick's Wynd on that eventful night, fifteen years before, to bring Mrs. Hislop to the house in Meggat's Land;--one of those simple souls--we wish there were more of them in the world--who look upon a lie as rather an operose affair, and who seem to be truthful from sheer laziness. There was, accordingly, no difficulty here; for the woman rolled off her story just as if it had been coiled up in her mind for all that length of time. "There was a terrible stir in the house that night," she began. "The nurse, wha is yet living in Lochend Close, and Mrs. Kemp the howdie, wha is dead, were wi' my lady; and John Cowie, the butler, was busy attending our master, who had been the haill day in ane o' his dark fits, for we heard him calling for Cowie in a fierce voice ever and again; and his step sounded ower our heads upon the floor as he walked back and fore in his wrath. Then I was sent for you, and brought you, and you'll mind how Cowie bade me go along; but I had mair sense, for I listened at the door, and heard what the butler said to ye when he gied ye the bairn; and think ye I didna see ye carry it along the passage as ye left? Sae far I could understand; but when I heard nurse say the bairn was dead, Mrs. Kemp say the bairn was still-born, and Cowie declare it was better it was dead and awa, I couldna comprehend this ava; nor do I weel yet; but we just thought that as there was something wrang between master and my lady, he wanted us to believe that the bairn was dead, for very shame o' being thought the father, when maybe he wasna. And then he was so guid to me and my neighbour Anne Dickson,--ye mind o' her--puir soul, she's dead too,--that we couldna, for the very heart o' us, say a word o' what we knew. But now when Mr. Napier is dead, and the brother o' that wicked Jezebel, Isbel Napier, may try to take the property frae Henney, wha I aye kenned as a Napier, with the very nose and een o' the father, I have spoken out; and may the Lord gie the right to whom the right is due!" "It's all right," said the writer, after he had jotted with a pencil the evidence of Jean, as well as that of the nurse; "and if we could find this John Cowie, we might so fortify the orphan's rights, as to defy Miss Napier and her brother, and Mr. Dallas, and all the witnesses they can bring." "Ay," continued the woman, "but I doubt if you'll catch him. He left Mr. Napier's service about ten years ago, and I never heard mair o' him." "Nor I either," said Mrs. Hislop. "Well, we must search for him," added Mr. White; "for that man alone, so far as I can see, is he who will unravel this strange business." And thus the day's work finished. The writer parted for Mill's Court, and Mrs. Hislop, filled with doubts, hopes, and anxieties, sought her humble dwelling in Toddrick's Wynd, where Henney waited for her with all the solicitude of a daughter; but a word did not escape her lips that might carry to the girl's mind a suspicion that the golden cord of their supposed relationship ran a risk of being severed, even with the eventual condition that one, if not both of the divisions, would be transmuted into a string of diamonds. Meanwhile the agent was in his own house, revolving all the points of a puzzle more curious than any that had yet come within the scope of his experience. Sometimes he felt confidence, and at other times despair; and of course he had the consolation, which belongs to all litigants, that the opposite party was undergoing the same process of oscillation. It was clear enough that Cowie was the required Oedipus; and if it should turn out that he was dead, or could not be found, the advantage was, with a slight declination, on the part of Charles Napier; insomuch as, while he was indisputably the nephew of the deceased, the orphan, Henrietta, was under the necessity of proving her birth and pedigree. And so, as it appeared, Mr. Dallas was of that opinion, for the very next day he applied to Chancery for a brieve to get Charles Napier served nearest and lawful heir to his uncle; and as in legal warfare, where the judges are cognisant only of patent claims, there is small room for retiring tactics, Mr. White felt himself obliged, however anxious he was to gain time, to follow his opponent's example by taking out a competing brieve in favour of Henrietta. The parties were now face to face in court, and the battle behoved to be fought out; but as in all legal cases, where the circumstances are strange or peculiar, the story soon gets wind, so here the Meggat's Land romance was by-and-by all over the city. Nor did it take less fantastic forms than usual, where sympathies and antipathies are strong in proportion to the paucity of the facts on which they are fed. It was a favourite opinion of some, that the case could only be cleared by supposing that a dead stranger child had been surreptitiously passed off, and even coffined, as the true one; while others, equally skilled in the art of divining, maintained that the child given to Mrs. Hislop by Cowie was a bastard of his own, by the terrible woman Isabel Napier, who was thus, according to the ordinary working of public prejudice, raised to a height of crime sufficient to justify the hatred of the people: on which presumption, it behoved to be assumed that the paper containing the curse was a forgery by Cowie and his associate in crime, and that the money paid to Mrs. Hislop was furnished by the lady; all which suppositions, and others not less incredible, were greedily accepted, for the very reason that it required something prodigious to explain an enigma which exhausted the ordinary sources of man's ingenuity; just as we find in many religions, where miracles--the more absurd, the more acceptable--are resorted to to explain the mystery of man's relation to God, a secret which no natural light can illuminate. But all these suppositions were destined to undergo refractions through the medium of a new fact. The case, by technical processes, came before the Court of Session, where the diversity of opinion was, proportionably to the number of judges, as great as among the quidnuncs outside. The only clear idea in the heads of the robed and wigged wiseacres was, that the case, Napier _versus_ Napier, was a puzzle which no man could read or solve. It seemed fated to be as famous as the old Sphinx, the insoluble Moenander, or the tortuous labyrinth, or the intricate key of Hercules--_ne Apollo quidem intelligat_; and if it had not happened that Lord Kames suggested the possibility of getting an additional piece of evidence through the examination of the coffin wherein Mrs. Napier was buried, the court might have been sitting over the famous case even in this year of the nineteenth century. The notion was worthy of his lordship's ingenuity; and accordingly a commission was issued to one of the Faculty to proceed to the West Church burying-ground, and there cause to be laid open and examined the coffin of the said Mrs. Henrietta Preston or Napier, with the view to ascertain whether or not the body of a child had been placed therein along with the corpse of the mother. This commission was accordingly executed, and the report bore, that "he, the commissioner, had proceeded to the burying-ground of the parish of St. Cuthberts, and there caused David Scott, the sexton, to lay open the grave of the said Henrietta Preston or Napier, and to open the coffin therein contained; which having accordingly been done by the said David Scott and his assistants, the commissioner, upon a faithful examination, aided by the experience of the said David Scott, did find the skeletons of two bodies in the said coffin identified as that of the said lady, one whereof was that of a woman apparently of middle age, and the other that of a babe, which lay upon the chest of the larger skeleton in such a way or manner as to be retained or held in that position by the arms of the same being laid across it; that having satisfied himself of these facts, the commissioner caused the coffin to be again closed and the grave covered with all decency and care. And he accordingly made this report to their lordships." The fact thus ascertained, in opposition to the expectation of those who favoured the orphan, was viewed by the court as depriving, to a great extent, the case of that aspect of a riddle by which it had been so unfortunately distinguished; and as the case had been hung up even beyond the time generally occupied by cases at that period, when, as it was sometimes remarked, law-suits were as often settled by the old rule, _Romanus sedendo vincit_--by the death of one or other of the parties--as by a judgment, the case was again put to the Roll for a hearing on the effect of the new evidence. It was contended for the nephew by Mr. Wight, that the question was now virtually settled, insomuch that the court was not bound to solve riddles, but to find to whom pertained a certain right of inheritance. The birth of the child had been sworn to by the nurse, as well as its death, and the final placing of it in the coffin; and now the court had, as it were, ocular demonstration of these facts by the body having been seen by their own commissioner, placed on the breast of the mother in that very peculiar way described by Mrs. Temple. All claim on the part of the girl was thus virtually excluded, for the proceedings which took place that evening in another room, under circumstances of suspicion, were sworn to only by Mrs. Hislop herself, an interested witness, and were only partially confirmed by an eavesdropper, who, as eavesdroppers generally do (except when their own characters are concerned), perhaps heard according as foregone prejudices induced her to wish. These suspicious proceedings might be explained by as many hypotheses as had been devised by the wise judges of the taverns, among which was the theory of the living child being Cowie's own by Isabel Napier, and palmed off as Mrs. Napier's to hide the shame of the true mother,--all unlikely enough, no doubt, but not so impossible as that the coffined child should now be alive and awaiting the issue of this case, in the expectation of being Lady of Eastleys. On the other side, Mr. Andrews, counsel for Henrietta, maintained that while his learned brother assumed the one half of the case as proved, and repudiated the other as a lie or a myth, he had a right to embrace the other half, and pronounce the first a stratagem or trick. The proceedings in the back-room into which Jean Graham introduced Mrs. Hislop were more completely substantiated than those in the bedroom where Mrs. Napier lay; for while the one were sworn to by Mrs. Hislop herself, a soothfast witness, and confirmed in all points by the woman Graham, the other were attempted to be proven by the solitary testimony of the nurse Temple. The paper containing the curse was as indisputably in the handwriting of Mr. Napier as was the funeral letter. The money paid was proved by the fact that the orphan had been kept and educated for fifteen years. The name Henrietta was not likely to have been a mere coincidence, and it was still more unlikely that a respectable woman such as Mrs. Hislop would invent a story of affiliation so strangely in harmony with the secrets of the house in Meggat's Land, and fortify it by a forged document. Then Mrs. Hislop was unable to write, and no attempt had been made on the other side to prove that Henrietta had a father other than he who was pointed out by the paper of the curse. So he (the counsel) might follow the example of his brother, and hold the other half of the case to be unexplainable by hypotheses, however ridiculous. The child having been disposed of to Mrs. Hislop,--a fact thus proved,--what was to prevent him (the counsel) from going also to the haunts of the _tabernian_ Solons, or anywhere else in the regions of fancy, for the theory that Mr. Napier, or some plotter for him in the shape of Mrs. Kemp or John Cowie, substituted the dead child of a stranger for the living one of his wife, and bribed the nurse Temple to tell the tale she had told? to which she would be the more ready by the golden promptings of the woman Isabel Napier, the niece, whose brother would, in the event of the stratagem being concealed, succeed to the estate of Eastleys. At the conclusion of these pleadings, the judges were inclined to be even more humorous than they had been previous to the issuing of the commission, for they had thought they saw their way to a judgment against the orphan. The president (Braxfield), it is said, indulged in a joke, to the effect that he had read _somewhere_--it was not for so religious a man to say where--of a child having been claimed by two mothers; he would like to see two fathers at that work, at least he would not be one; but here the claim was set up by Death on the one side, and Life (if a personification could be allowed) on the other, and they could not follow the old precedent, because he suspected none of their lordships would like to see the grim claimant at the bar to receive his half. And so they chuckled, as judges sometimes do, at their own jokes--generally very bad--altogether oblivious of the fable of the frogs who could see no fun in a game which was death to them; for, as we have indicated, the opinion of a great majority was against the claim of the young woman: nor would the decision have been suspended that day, had not Mr. Andrews risen and made a statement--perhaps _as_ fictitious as a counsel's conscience would permit--to the effect that the agent (Mr. White) had procured some trace of the butler Cowie, who could throw more light on the case than Death had done, and that if some time were accorded to complete the inquiry, something might turn up which would alter the complexion even of this Protean mystery. The request was granted. But, in truth, Mr. Andrews' suggestion was simply a bit of ingenuity, intended to ward off an unfavourable judgment, and allow a development of the chapter of accidents;--a wise policy; for as the womb of Time is never empty, so Fate writes in the morning a chapter of every man's life of a day, at which in the evening he is sometimes a little surprised. No trace had yet been got of Cowie; it was not even known whether he was alive. But if we throw some fourteen days into the wallet-bag of Saturn, we may come to a day whereupon a certain person, in an inn far down in a valley of Westmoreland, and in the little town called Kirby Lonsdale, was busy reading the _Caledonian Mercury_--for it was not more easy to say where the winged _Mercury_ of that time would not go, than it is to tell where a certain insect without wings, "which aye travels south," might not be found in England as an immigrant. It was at least no wonder that the paper should contain an account of the romance wrapped up in the case Napier _versus_ Napier; and certainty, if we could have judged from the face of the individual, we would have set him down as one given to the reading of riddles; for, after he had perused the paragraph, he looked as if he knew more about that case than all the fifteen, with the macers to boot. Nor was he contented with an indication of a mere look of wisdom: he actually burst out into a laugh--an expression wondrously unsuited to the gravity of the subject. You who read this will no doubt suspect that we are merely shading this man for the sake of effect: and this is true; but you are to remember that, while we are chroniclers of things mysterious, we work for the advantage to you of putting into your power to venture a shrewd guess; in making which, you are only working in the destined vocation of man, for the world is only guesswork all over, and you yourself are only guesswork as a part of it. The reader of the _Mercury_ was verily Mr. John Cowie, whilom butler to Mr. John Napier, and now waiter in the Lonsdale Arms of the obscure Kirby--a place like Peebles, where, if you wanted to deposit a secret, you could do so by crying it out at the market-cross; and, moreover, he was verily in possession of the key to the Napier mystery. Accordingly, Mr. White of Mill's Court in two days afterwards received a letter, informing him that John Cowie was the writer of the same, and that, if a reasonable consideration were held out to him, he would proceed to the northern metropolis, and there settle for ever a case which apparently had kept the newsmongers of Edinburgh in aliment for a length of time much exceeding the normal nine days. Opportune and happily come in the very nick of time as the latter was--for the delay allowed by the court had all but expired--Mr. White saw the danger of promising anything which could be construed into a reward; but he could use other means of decoying the shy bird into his meshes; and these he used in his answer with such effect, that the man who could solve the mystery was in Edinburgh at the end of a week. Nor was Mr. White unprepared to receive him, for he had previously got a commission to examine him and take his deposition: but then an agent likes to know what a witness will say before he cites him; and the canny Scotchman, of all men in the world, is the most uncanny if brought to swear without some hope of being benefited by his oath. There was, therefore, need of tact as well as delicacy; and Mr. White contrived in the first place to get his man to take up his quarters in the house in Mill's Court. A good supper and chambers formed the first demulcent--we do not say bribe, because, by a legal fiction, all eating and drinking is set down to the score of hospitality. A Scotch breakfast followed in the morning, at which were present Mrs. White and Mrs. Hislop, and our favourite Henney--the last of whom, spite of all the efforts of her putative mother to keep from her the secret of her birth and prospects, had caught the infection of the general topic of the city, and wondered at her strange fortune, much as the paladin in the "Orlando" did when he got into the moon. No man can precognosce like a woman, and here were three; but perhaps they might have all failed, had it not been for the natural art of Henney, who, out of pure goodness and gratitude, was so delighted with the man who had rolled her in a blanket and sent her to her beloved mother, as she still called her, that she promised to make him butler at Eastleys, and keep him comfortable all his days. "Now," said the cautious agent, "this promise of Henney's is not made in consideration of your giving evidence for her before the commissioner." "I'm thinking of nothing but her face," said John. "I could swear to it out of a thousand; and Heaven bless her! for I think I am again in the once happy house in Meggat's Land." And John pretended he was wiping a morsel of egg from his mouth, while the handkerchief was extended as far as the eye. "A terrible night that was," he continued. "Mrs. Napier had been in labour all day; and when Mrs. Kemp told me to tell my master that my lady had been delivered of TWINS--" "_Twins_!" cried they all, as if moved by some sympathetic chord which ran from heart to heart. "Ay, twins," he repeated; "one dead, and another living--even you yourself, Henney, who are as like your father as if there never had been a Captain Preston in the world." And thus was John Cowie precognosced. We need not say that he was that very day examined before the commissioner. He gave an account of all the proceedings of the house in Meggat's Land on the eventful night to which we have referred. The case was no longer a puzzle; and accordingly a decision was given in favour of Henrietta, whereby we have one other example of truth and right emerging from darkness into light. Some time afterwards, the heiress, with Mrs. Hislop alongside, and John Cowie on the driver's box, proceeded to Eastleys and took possession; where Henrietta acted the part of a generous lady, Mrs. Hislop that of a kind of a dowager, and John was once more butler in the house of the Napiers. We stop here. Those who feel interest enough in the fortunes of Henney to inquire when and whom she married, and what were the subsequent fortunes of a life so strangely begun, will do well to go to Eastleys. THE ORPHAN. About forty years ago, a post-chaise was a sight more novel in the little hamlet of Thorndean, than silk gowns in country churches during the maidenhood of our great-grandmothers; and, as one drew up at the only public-house in the village, the inhabitants, old and young, startled by the unusual and merry sound of its wheels, hurried to the street. The landlady, on the first notice of its approach, had hastily bestowed upon her goodly person the additional recommendation of a clean cap and apron; and, still tying the apron-strings, ran bustling to the door, smiling, colouring, and courtesying, and courtesying and colouring again, to the yet unopened chaise. Poor soul! she knew not well how to behave--it was an epoch in her annals of innkeeping. At length the coachman, opening the door, handed out a lady in widow's weeds. A beautiful, golden-haired child, apparently not exceeding five years of age, sprang to the ground without assistance, and grasped her extended hand. "What an image o' beauty!" exclaimed some half-dozen bystanders, as the fair child lifted her lovely face of smiles to the eyes of her mother. The lady stepped feebly towards the inn, and though the landlady's heart continued to practise a sort of fluttering motion, which communicated a portion of its agitation to her hands, she waited upon her unexpected and unusual guests with a kindliness and humility that fully recompensed for the expertness of a practised waiter. About half an hour after the arrival of her visitors, she was seen bustling from the door, her face, as the villagers said, bursting with importance. They were still in groups about their doors, and in the middle of the little street, discussing the mysterious arrival; and, as she hastened on her mission, she was assailed with a dozen such questions as these--"Wat ye wha she is?" "Is she ony great body?" "Hae ye ony guess what brought her here?" and, "Is yon bonny creature her ain bairn?" But to these and sundry other interrogatories, the important hostess gave for answer, "Hoot, I hae nae time to haver the noo." She stopped at a small, but certainly the most genteel house in the village, occupied by a Mrs. Douglas, who, in the country phrase, was a very douce, decent sort of an old body, and the widow of a Cameronian minister. In the summer season Mrs. Douglas let out her little parlour to lodgers, who visited the village to seek health, or for a few weeks' retirement. She was compelled to do this from the narrowness of her circumstances; for, though she was a "clever-handed woman," as her neighbours said, "she had a sair fecht to keep up an appearance onyway like the thing ava." In a few minutes Mrs. Douglas, in a clean cap, a muslin kerchief round her neck, a quilted black bombazine gown, and snow-white apron, followed the landlady up to the inn. In a short time she returned, the stranger lady leaning upon her arm, and the lovely child leaping like a young lamb before them. Days and weeks passed away, and the good people of Thorndean, notwithstanding all their surmises and inquiries, were no wiser regarding their new visitor; all they could learn was, that she was the widow of a young officer, who was one of the first that fell when Britain interfered with the French Revolution; and the mother and her child became known in the village by the designation of "Mrs. Douglas's twa pictures!"--an appellation bestowed on them in reference to their beauty. The beautiful destroyer, however, lay in the mother's heart, now paling her cheeks like the early lily, and again scattering over them the rose and the rainbow. Still dreaming of recovery, about eight months after her arrival in Thorndean, death stole over her like a sweet sleep. It was only a few moments before the angel hurled the fatal shaft, that the truth fell upon her soul. She was stretching forth her hand to her work-basket, her lovely child was prattling by her knee, and Mrs. Douglas smiling like a parent upon both, striving to conceal a tear while she smiled, when the breathing of her fair guest became difficult, and the rose, which a moment before bloomed upon her countenance, vanished in a fitful streak. She flung her feeble arms around the neck of her child, who now wept upon her bosom, and exclaimed, "Oh! my Elizabeth, who will protect you now, my poor, poor orphan?" Mrs. Douglas sprang to her assistance. She said she had much to tell, and endeavoured to speak; but a gurgling sound only was heard in her throat; she panted for breath; the rosy streaks, deepening into blue, came and went upon her cheeks like the midnight dances of the northern lights; her eyes flashed with a momentary brightness more than mortal, and the spirit fled. The fair orphan still clung to the neck, and kissed the yet warm lips of her dead mother. As yet she was too young to see all the dreariness of the desolation around her; but she was indeed an orphan in the most cruel meaning of the word. Her mother had preserved a mystery over her sorrows and the circumstances of her life, which Mrs. Douglas had never endeavoured to penetrate. And now she was left to be as a mother to the helpless child, for she knew not if she had another friend; and all that she had heard of the mother's history was recorded on the humble stone which she placed over her grave: "_Here resteth the body of Isabella Morton, widow of Captain Morton; she died amongst us a stranger, but beloved_." The whole property to which the fair orphan became heir by the death of her mother did not amount to fifty pounds, and amongst the property no document was found which could throw any light upon who were her relatives, or if she had any. But the heart of Mrs. Douglas had already adopted her as a daughter; and, circumscribed as her circumstances were, she trusted that He who provided food for the very birds of heaven, would provide the orphan's morsel. Years rolled on, and Elizabeth Morton grew in stature and in beauty, the pride of her protector, and the joy of her age. But the infirmities of years grew upon her foster-mother, and, disabling her from following her habits of industry, stern want entered her happy cottage. Still Elizabeth appeared only as a thing of joy, contentment, and gratitude; and often did her evening song beguile her aged friend's sigh into a smile. And to better their hard lot, she hired herself to watch a few sheep upon the neighbouring hills, to the steward of a gentleman named Sommerville, who, about the time of her mother's death, had purchased the estate of Thorndean. He was but little beloved, for he was a hard master, and a bad husband; and more than once he had been seen at the hour of midnight, in the silent churchyard, standing over the grave of Mrs. Morton. This gave rise to not a few whisperings respecting the birth of poor Elizabeth. He had no children; and a nephew, who resided in his house, was understood to be his heir. William Sommerville was about a year older than our fair orphan; and ever, as he could escape the eye of his uncle, he would fly to the village to seek out Elizabeth as a playmate. And now, while she tended the few sheep, he would steal round the hills, and placing himself by her side, teach her the lessons he had that day been taught, while his arm in innocence rested on her neck, their glowing cheeks touched each other, and her golden curls played around them. Often were their peaceful lessons broken by the harsh voice and the blows of his uncle. But still William stole to the presence of his playmate and pupil, until he had completed his fourteenth year; when he was to leave Thorndean, preparatory to entering the army. He was permitted to take a hasty farewell of the villagers, for they all loved the boy; but he went only to the cottage of Mrs. Douglas. As he entered, Elizabeth wept, and he also burst into tears. Their aged friend beheld the yearnings of a young passion that might terminate in sorrow; and taking his hand, she prayed God to prosper him, and bade him farewell. She was leading him to the door, when Elizabeth raised her tearful eyes; he beheld them, and read their meaning, and, leaping forward, threw his arms round her neck, and printed the first kiss on her forehead! "Do not forget me, Elizabeth," he cried, and hurried from the house. Seven years from this period passed away. The lovely girl was now transformed into the elegant woman, in the summer majesty of her beauty. For four years Elizabeth had kept a school in the village, to which her gentleness and winning manners drew prosperity; and her grey-haired benefactress enjoyed the reward of her benevolence. Preparations were making at Thorndean Hall for the reception of William, who was now returning as Lieutenant Sommerville. A post-chaise in the village had then become a sight less rare; but several cottagers were assembled before the inn to welcome the young laird. He arrived, and with him a gentleman between forty and fifty years of age. They had merely become acquainted as travelling companions; and the stranger being on his way northward, had accepted his invitation to rest at his uncle's for a few days. The footpath to the Hall lay through the churchyard, about a quarter of a mile from the village. It was a secluded path, and Elizabeth was wont to retire to it between school hours, and frequently to spend a few moments in silent meditation over her mother's grave. She was gazing upon it, when a voice arrested her attention, saying, "Elizabeth--Miss Morton!" The speaker was Lieutenant Sommerville, accompanied by his friend. To the meeting of the young lovers we shall add nothing. But the elder stranger gazed on her face and trembled, and looked on her mother's grave and wept. "Morton!" he repeated, and read the inscription on the humble stone, and again gazed on her face, and again wept. "Lady!" he exclaimed, "pardon a miserable man--what was the name of your mother?--who the family of your father? Answer me, I implore you!" "Alas! I know neither," said the wondering and now unhappy Elizabeth. "My name is Morton," cried the stranger; "I had a wife; I had a daughter once, and my Isabella's face was thy face!" While he yet spoke, the elder Sommerville drew near to meet his nephew. His eyes and the stranger's met. "Sommerville!" exclaimed the stranger, starting. "The same," replied the other, his brow blackening like thunder, while a trembling passed over his body. He rudely grasped the arm of his nephew, and dragged him away. The interesting stranger accompanied Elizabeth to the house of Mrs. Douglas. Painful were his inquiries; for, while they kindled hope and assurance, they left all in cruel uncertainty. "Oh, sir!" said Mrs. Douglas, "if ye be the faither o' my blessed bairn, I dinna wonder at auld Sommerville growing black in the face when he saw ye; for, when want came hard upon our heels, and my dear motherless and faitherless bairn was driven to herd his sheep by the brae-sides--there wad the poor, dear, delicate bairn (for she was as delicate then as she is bonnie now) been lying--the sheep a' feeding round about her, and her readin' at her Bible, just like a little angel, her lee lane, when the brute wad come sleekin' down ahint her, an' giein' her a drive wi' his foot, cursed her for a little lazy something I'm no gaun to name, an' rugged her bonnie yellow hair, till he had the half o' it torn out o' her head; or the monster wad riven the blessed book out o' her hand, an' thrown it wi' an oath as far as he could drive. But the nephew was aye a bit fine callant; only, ye ken, wi' my bairn's prospects, it wasna my part to encourage onything." Eagerly did the stranger, who gave his name as Colonel Morton, hang over the fair being who had conjured up the sunshine of his youth. One by one, he was weeping and tracing every remembered feature of his wife upon her face, when doubt again entered his mind, and he exclaimed in bitterness, "Merciful Heaven! convince me! Oh, convince me that I have found my child!" The few trinkets that belonged to Mrs. Morton had been parted with in the depth of her poverty. At that moment Lieutenant Sommerville hastily entered the cottage. He stated that his uncle had left the Hall, and delivered a letter from him to Colonel Morton. It was of few words, and as follows: "Morton,--We were rivals for Isabella's love; you were made happy, and I miserable. But I have not been unrevenged. It was I who betrayed you into the hands of the enemy. It was I who reported you dead--who caused the tidings to be hastened to your widowed wife, and followed them to England. It was I who poisoned the ear of her friends, until they cast her off; I dogged her to her obscurity, that I might enjoy my triumph; but death thwarted me as you had done. Yet I will do one act of mercy--she sleeps beneath the grave where we met yesterday; and the lady before whom you wept--is your own daughter." He cast down the letter, and exclaimed, "My child! my long lost child!" And, in speechless joy, the father and the daughter rushed to each other's arms. Shall we add more? The elder Sommerville left his native land, which he never again disgraced with his presence. William and Elizabeth wandered by the hill-side in bliss, catching love and recollections from the scene. In a few months her father bestowed on him her hand, and Mrs. Douglas, in joy and in pride, bestowed upon both her blessing. THE BURGHER'S TALES. THE BROWNIE OF THE WEST BOW. I cannot say so much for the authenticity of the legend I am now to relate, as I have been able to do for some of the others in this collection; but that is no reason, I hope, for its failing to interest the reader, who makes it a necessary condition of his acceptance, that a legend shall keep within the bounds of human nature: not that any one of us can say what these bounds are, for every day of our experience is extending them in both the inner and outer worlds; and we never can be very sure whether the things which rise upon the distant horizon of our nocturnal visions are less unstable and uncertain than those that exist under our noses. True it is, at any rate, that the legend was narrated to me in a meagre form by a lady, sufficiently ancient to be supposed to be a lover of strange stories, and not imaginative or wicked enough to concoct them. That part of Edinburgh called the West Bow was, at the date of our legend, the tinsmiths' quarter; a fact which no one who chanced to walk down that way could have doubted, unless indeed he was deaf. Among the fraternity there was one destined to live in annals even with more posthumous notoriety than he of the same place and craft, who long got the credit of being the author of the "Land o' the Leal." His name was Thomas, or, according to the Scottish way of pronouncing it, Tammas Dodds; who, with a wife going under the domestic euphuism of Jenny, occupied as a dwelling-house a small flat of three rooms, in the near neighbourhood of his workshop. This couple had lived together five years, without having any children procreated of their bodies, or any quarrel born of their spirits; and thus they might have lived to the end of their lives, if a malign influence, born of the devil, had not got possession of the husband's heart. This influence, which we may be permitted by good Calvinists to call diabolical, was, as a consequence, not only in its origin, but also in its medium, altogether extraneous to our couple. For so far as regards Mrs. Jenny Dodds, she was, as much as a good wife could be, free from any great defects of conduct; and as for the tinsmith himself, he had hitherto lived so sober and douce a life, that we cannot avoid the notion, that if he had not been subject to "aiblins a great temptation," he would not have become the victim of the arch-enemy. Thus much we say of the dispositions of the two parties; and were it not that certain peculiarities belonged to Jenny, which, as reappearing in an after-part of our story, it is necessary to know, we would not have gone further into mere character--an element which has little to do generally with legends, except in so far as it either produces the incidents, or may be developed through them. The first of these peculiarities was a settled conviction that she had as good a right to rule Tammas Dodds, as being her property, as if she had drunk of the waters of St. Kevin. Nor was this conviction merely natural to her; for she could lay her finger on that particular part of Sacred Writ which is the foundation of the generally-received maxim, "One may do what one likes with one's own." No doubt, she knew another passage in the same volume with a very different meaning; but then Mrs. Dodds did not _wish_ to remember that, or to obey it when she did remember it; and we are to consider, without going back to that crazy school of which a certain Aristippus was the dominie, that wishing or not wishing has a considerable influence upon the aspects of moral truth, if it does not exercise over them a kind of legerdemain of which we are unconscious, whereby it changes one of these aspects into another, even when these are respectively to each other as white is to black. This "claim of right" does not generally look peaceful. No more it should; for it is clearly enough against nature; and one seldom kicks at her without getting sore toes. True enough, there do appear cases where it seems to work pretty well; but when they are inquired into, it is generally found either that the husband is a simpleton, submitting by mere inanity, or a man who has resisted to the uttermost, and is at last crumpled up by pure "Caudlish" iteration and perseverance. How Tammas took it may yet appear. Proceeding with the peculiarities: another of these was, that Mrs. Dodds, like her of Auchtermuchty, or Mrs. Grumlie, carried domesticity to devotion, scarcely anything in the world having any interest to her soul save what was contained in the house--from Tammas, the chief article of furniture, down, through the mahogany table, to the porridge-pot; clouting, mending, darning, cleaning, scouring, washing, scraping, wringing, drying, roasting, boiling, stewing, being all of them done with such duty, love, and intensity of purpose, that they were veritable sacrifices to the _lares_. This was doubtless a virtue; and as doubtless it was a vice, insomuch as, if we believe another old Greek pedagogue of the name of Aristotle, "all virtues are medial vices, and all vices extreme virtues." How Tammas viewed this question may also appear. But we may proceed to state, that Mrs. Janet Dodds was not content with doing all those things with such severity of love or duty. She was always telling herself what she intended to do, either at the moment or afterwards. "This pan needs to be scoured." "Thae stockings maun be darned." "This sark is as black as the lum, and maun be plotted." "The floor needs scrubbing." "Tammas's coat is crying, 'A steek in time saves nine,' and by my faith it says true;" and so on. Nor did it signify much whether Thomas or any other person was in the house at the time--the words were not intended for anybody but herself; and to herself she persisted in telling them with a stedfastness which only the ears of a whitesmith could tolerate; even with the consideration that he was not, as so many are, deaved with scandal--a delectation which Janet despised, if she did not care as little for what was going on domestically within the house on the top of the same stair, as she did for the in-door affairs of Japan or Tobolsk. We may mention, also, that she persevered in reading the same chapter of the Bible, and in singing the same psalm, every Sunday morning. In addition to these characteristics, Janet made it a point never to change the form or colour of her dress; so that if all the women in Edinburgh had been of her taste and mode of thinking, all the colours by which they are diversified and made interesting would have been reduced to the dead level of hodden-grey; the occupation of the imp Fashion would have been gone; nay, the angels, for fear of offending mortals, would have eschewed the nymph Iris, from whom the poets say they steal tints, and dipt their wings in a grey cloud before appearing in the presence of the douce daughters of men. With all these imperfections--and how many husbands would term some of them perfections!--the married life of Thomas and Janet Dodds might have gone on for another five years, and five to that, if it had not been that Thomas, in a weary hour, cast a glance with a scarlet ray in it on a certain Mary Blyth, who lived in the Grassmarket--a woman of whom our legend says no more than that she was a widow, besides being fair to the eye, and pleasant to the ear. We could wish that we had it not to say; but as truth is more valuable than gold, yea, refined gold, we are under the necessity of admitting that that red ray betokened love, if an affection of that kind could be called by a name so hallowed by the benedictions of poets and the songs of angels. You must take it in your own way, and with your own construction; but however that may be, we must all mourn for the fearful capabilities within us, and the not less awful potentialities in the powers without--the one hidden from us up to the moment when the others appear, and all wrestling with the enemy prevented by what is often nothing less than a fatal charm. From that moment, Thomas Dodds was changed after the manner of action of moral poisons; for we are to remember that while the physical kill, the other only transmute, and the transmutation _may be_ from any good below grace to any evil above the devil. This change in the mind of the husband included his manner of viewing those peculiarities in the mental constitution of Janet to which we have alluded. Her desire to rule him was now rebellion; her devotion to "hussyskep" was nothing better than mercenary grubbing; her adhesion to her hodden-grey was vulgar affectation; and as to her monologues, they were evidence of insanity. Such changes in reference to other objects happen to every one of us every day in the year, only we don't look at and examine them; nor, if we did, could we reconcile them to any theory of the mind--all that we can say being, that if we love a certain object, we hate any other which comes between us and our gratification; and thus, just as Mr. Thomas Dodds loved Mrs. Mary Blyth, so in an equal ratio he hated his good helpmate Jenny. And then began that other wonderful process called reconciliation, whereby the wish gradually overcomes scruples through the cunning mean of falsifying their aspects. Whereunto, again, the new mistress contributed in the adroit way of all such wretches--instilling into his ear the moral poison which deadened the apperception of these scruples at the same time that it brought out the advantages of disregarding them. The result of all which was, that Jenny's husband, of whom she had made a slave, for his own good and benefit, as she thought, and not without reason, arrived, by small degrees, and by relays of new motives, one after another, at the conclusion of actually removing her from this big world, and of course also from that little one to her so dear, even that of her household empire. A resolution this, which, terrible and revolting as it may appear to those who are happily beyond the influence of "the wish," was far more easily formed than executed; for Nature--although improvident herself of her children, swallowing them up in thousands by earthquakes, tearing them by machinery, and drowning them in the sea by shiploads--is very careful to defend one of them against another. Every scheme the husband could think of was surrounded with difficulties, and one by one was laid aside, till he came to that of precipitating his faithful Jenny, as if by accident, into a deep pool in the North Loch, that sheet of water which contained as many secrets in its bosom as that more romantic one in Italy, not far removed from a certain pious nunnery. Even here there was the difficulty of getting Jenny out at night, and down Cranstoun's Close, and to west of the foot thereof, where the said deep pool was, for no other ostensible purpose in the world than to see the moon shedding her beams on the surface of the water--an object not half so beautiful to her as the clear tin pan made by her own Tammas, and in which she made her porridge every morning. But the adage about the will and the way is of such wondrous universality, that one successful effort seems as nothing in the diversity of man's inventions; and so it turned out to be comparatively easy to get Janet out one evening for the reason that her husband did not feel very well, and would like his supper the better for a walk along the edge of the loch, in which, if it was her pleasure, she would not refuse to accompany him. So pleasant a way of putting the thing harmonized with Janet's love of rule, and she agreed upon the condition she made with herself, by means of the eternal soliloquy, that she would put on the stew to be progressing towards unctuousness and tenderness before they went. Was that to be Janet's last act of her darling hussyskep? It would not be consistent with our art were we to tell you; but this much is certain, that Janet Dodds went down Cranstoun's Close along with her beloved Tammas, that shortly after she was plunged by him into the said deep hole of the loch, and cruelly left there to sink or swim, while he hastened back to tell his new love, Mrs. Blyth, how desperately he had done her bidding. But sometimes running away has a bad look; and it happened that as Thomas was hurrying up the dark close, he met a neighbour brother of the craft, who cried to him, "What, ho! Tammas Dodds; whaur frae and whaur tae, man?" To which, seeing how the act of running away would look in the Justiciary Court, he replied with wonderful invention for the moment, that Janet had fallen into the deep pool of the loch, and that though he had endeavoured to get her out, he had failed, by reason of his not being able to swim, and that he was running to get some one to help to save her, whereupon he entreated his brother craftsman to go with him to the spot, and help him to rescue his beloved wife, if she weren't yet dead. So away they went, in a great hurry, but to no purpose; for when they came to the said pool, no vestige of a creature being therein they could see, except some air-bubbles reflecting the moonbeams, and containing, no doubt, the living breath of the drowned woman. Nor when the terrible news was spread through the city, and a boat and drags were made to do their uttermost, under the most willing hands, could the body be found. It was known that the bank there was pretty steep in declivity, and the presumption was, that the body had rolled down into the middle of the loch, where, in consequence of the muddiness of the waters, it would be difficult to find it. The efforts were continued next morning, and day by day, for a week, with no better success, till at last it was resolved to wait for "the bursting of the gall-bladder," when, no doubt, Mrs. Janet Dodds's body would rise and swim on the top of the waters. An event this which did not occur till about three weeks had passed; at the end of which time a crowd of people appeared at Mr. Dodds's door, bearing a corpse in a white sheet. It was received by the disconsolate Thomas with becoming resignation, and laid on the bed, even the marriage-bed, realizing that strange meeting of two ends which equalizes pain and pleasure, and reduces the product to _nil_. Nor were many hours allowed to pass when, decayed and defaced as it was, it was consigned to a coffin without Mr. Dodds being able to bring his resolution to the sticking point of trying to recognise in the confused mass of muscle and bone, forming what was once a face, the lineaments of her who had been once his pride, and now, by his own act, had become his shame and condemnation in the sight of Heaven. Next day she was consigned to the tomb, in so solemn a manner, that if man were not man, one would have had a difficulty in recognising in that gentle hand that held the head-cord, and dropped it so softly on the coffin, the same member which drove the innocent victim into the deep waters. There is a continuous progress in all things; a fact which we know only after we get hold of the clue. And so, when Mrs. Mary Blyth appeared as Mrs. Mary Dodds, in room of the domesticated Jenny, it was in perfect accordance with the law of cause and effect. No doubt they did their best to be happy, as all creatures do, even the devil's children, only in a wrong shaft; but they had made that fearful miscalculation, which is the wages of sin, when they counted upon conscience as a pimp to their pleasures, in place of a king's-evidence against them, that king being the Lord of heaven and earth. And so it turned out in the course of several years, that, as their love lost its fervour, their respective monitors acquired greater power in pleading the cause of her who was dead, and convincing them, against their will (for the all-powerful wish has no virtue here), that they had done a cruel thing, for which they were amenable to an avenging guardian of the everlasting element of good in nature's dualism. Yet, strange enough, each of the two kept his and her own secret. Their hearts burned, even as the fire which consumes the wicked, under the smother of a forced silence--itself a torment and an agony; yea, neither of the two would mention the name of Jenny Dodds for the entire world. And there was more than a mutual fear that one should know what the other thought. Each was under a process of exculpation and inculpation--a mutual blaming of each other in their hearts, without ever yet a word said to indicate their thoughts. It was the quarrel of devils, who make the lesser crime a foil to show the greater, and call it a virtue for the reason that they would rather be the counterfeits of good than the base metal of evil; yet with no advantage, for hypocrisy is only the glow which conceals the worm in its retreat within it. The plea of the wife was, that she was courted by the man, and that although she might have wished Jenny out of the way, and hinted as much, she never meant actual murder; while his, again, was the old Barnwell charge, that his better nature had been corrupted by the woman, and that he did it at her suggestion, and under the influence of her siren power. They thus got gradually into that state of feeling by which the runaway convicts from a penal settlement were actuated, when, toiling away through endless brakes and swamps where neither meat nor drink could be procured, they were so maddened by hunger, that each, with a concealed knife under his sleeve, watched his neighbour for an opportunity to strike; nor could one dare to fall behind, without the suspicion being raised in the minds of his companions, that he was to execute his purpose when they were off their guard. So like, in other respects too; for these men, afraid to speak their thoughts of each other, journeyed on in deep silence, and each was ready to immolate his friend at the altar of selfishness, changed into a bloodthirsty Dagon by the fiends Hunger and Thirst. The years were now to be counted as seven since Janet Dodds was plunged into the deep pool of the North Loch, and the state of mind of the married criminals, which we have tried to describe, had been growing and growing, for two of these years, as if it threatened to get stronger the older they grew, and the nearer the period of judgment. One morning when they were in bed--for even yet, while they concealed their thoughts from each other, and the name of Jenny Dodds was a condemned word in their vocabulary, even as the sacred name among the Romans, they had evinced no spoken enmity to each other--they heard a tirl at the door. The hour was early, and the douce genius of the grey dawn was deliberating with herself whether it was time to give place to her advancing sister, the morning. Mrs. Mary Dodds rose to answer the knock, and Thomas listened with natural curiosity to know who the early visitor was, and what was wanted. He heard a suppressed scream of fear from his wife, and the next moment she came rushing into the room; yet the never a word she uttered, and her lips were so white and dry that you might have supposed that her silence was the result of organic inability. Nor even when she got into bed again, and tried to hide her head with the bed-clothes, did her terror diminish, or her lips become more obedient to the feeling within; so that Thomas knew not what to think, except it was that she had seen a ghost--not an unnatural supposition at a time when occult causes and spiritual appearances were as undoubted as the phenomena of the electric telegraph are in our day. But he was not destined to be left many minutes more in ignorance of the cause of Mrs. Mary Dodds's terror, for, upon listening, he heard some one come into the kitchen, and bolt the door on the inside--so much for his ears; then he turned his eyes to the kitchen, into which he could, as well as the light of the grey dawn would permit, see from where he lay; and what did he see? "How comes it? whence this mimic shape? In look and lineament so like our kind. You might accost the spectral thing, and say, 'Good e'en t'ye.'" No other than the figure of Mrs. Janet Dodds herself. Yes, there she was in her old grey dress, busy taking off that plaid which Thomas knew so well, and hanging the same upon the peg, where she had hung it so often for five long years. Thomas was now as completely deprived of the power of speech as she who lay, equally criminal as himself, alongside of him; but able at least to look, or rather, unable to shut their eyes, they watched the doings of the strange morning visitor. They saw that she was moving about as if she were intent upon domestic work; and, by-and-by, there she was busy with coals and sticks brought from their respective places, putting on the fire, which she lighted with the indispensable spunk applied to the spark in the tinder-box. Next she undertook the sweeping of the floor, saying to herself--and they heard the words--"It looks as if it hadna been swept for seven years." Next she washed the dishes, which had been left on the table, indulging in the appropriate monologue implying the necessity of the work. Thereafter it appeared as if she was dissatisfied with the progress of the fire, for she was presently engaged in using the bellows, every blast of which was heard by the quaking couple in bed, and between the blasts the words came, "Ower late for Tammas's breakfast." So the blowing continued, till it was apparent enough, from the reflection of the flame on the wall, that she was succeeding in her efforts. Then, having made herself sure of the fire, she went to the proper place for the porridge goblet, took the same and put a sufficient quantity of water therein, placed it on the fire, and began to blow again with the same assiduity as before, with still interjected sentences expressive of her confidence that she would overcome the obstinacy of the coals. And overcome it she did, as appeared from the entire lighting up of the kitchen. Was ever Border Brownie so industrious! Some time now elapsed, as if she were sitting with due patience till the water should boil. Thereafter she rose, and they saw her cross the kitchen to the lobby, where the meal was kept, then return with a bowl containing what she no doubt considered a sufficient quantity. The stirring utensil called a "theedle" had also got into its proper place, and by-and-by they heard the sound of the same as it beat upon the bottom and sides, guided by an experienced hand, and, every now and then, the sweltering and totling of the pot. This process was now interrupted by the getting of the grey basin into which the porridge behoved to be poured; and poured it was, the process being followed by the sound of "the clauting o' the laggan," so familiar to Scotch ears. "Now it's ready for him," said the figure, as it moved across the kitchen again, to get the spoon and the bowl of milk, both of which they saw her place beside the basin. All things being thus completed according to the intention of the industrious worker, a period of silence intervened, as if she had been taking a rest in the chair which stood by the fire. A most ominous interlude, for every moment the couple in bed expected that she would enter the bedroom, were it for nothing else than to "intimate breakfast;" an intimation which, if one could have judged by their erect hair and the sweat that stood in big drops on their brows, they were by no means prepared for. They were not to be subjected to this fearful trial, for the figure (so we must persist in calling it) was seen again to cross the kitchen, take down the plaid, and adjust it over the head according to the manner of the times. They then heard her draw the bolt, open the door, and shut the same again after her as she departed. She was gone. Mr. Thomas Dodds and his wife now began to be able to breathe more freely. The hair resumed its flexibility, and the sweat disappeared; but, strange as it may seem, they never exchanged a word with each other as to who the visitor was, nor as to the morning's work she had so industriously and silently (with the exception of her monologues) executed. Too certain in their convictions as to the identity, whether in spirit or body, of the figure with that of her they had so cruelly put out of the way, they seemed to think it needless to question each other; and, independently of this, the old terror of the conscience was sufficient to seal their lips now, as it had done for a period before. Each of them supposed that the visitor was sent for the special purpose of some particular avengement of the crime upon the other; the appearance in so peaceful a way, in the meantime, being merely a premonition to show them that their consciences were not working in vain; and if Thomas was the greater sinner, which he no doubt suspected, in spite of himself, he might place against that conviction the fact that the inscrutable visitor had shown him the kindness at least of preparing his breakfast, and entirely overlooking the morning requirements of his spouse. Under these thoughts they rose and repaired with faltering step and fearful eyes to the kitchen. There everything was in the order they had anticipated from what they had seen and heard. Each looked with a shudder at the basin of porridge as if it had been invested with some terrible charm--nay, might it not have been poisoned?--a thought which rushed instantaneously into the head of Thomas, and entirely put to flight the prior hypothesis that he had been favoured by this special gift of cookery. The basin was accordingly laid aside by hands that trembled to touch it, and fear was a sufficient breakfast for both of them on that most eventful morning. This occurrence, as may readily be supposed, was kept a profound secret. They both saw that it might be the forerunner of divine means to bring their evil deeds to light; and, under this apprehension, their taciturnity and mutual discontent, if not growing hatred, continued, broken only by occasional growls and curses, and the ejaculations forced out by the inevitable circumstances of their connection. The effect of the morning visit was meanwhile most apparent upon the man who committed the terrible act. He could not remain in the house, which, even in their happiest condition, was slovenly kept, showing everywhere the want of the skilled hands of that queen of housewives, Mrs. Janet Dodds--so ill-requited for her devotion to her husband. Nay, he felt all this as a reproof to him, and sorely and bitterly lamented the fatal act whereby he had deprived of life the best of wives, and the most honest and peaceful of womankind. Then the awe of divine vengeance deepened these shadows of the soul till he became moody and melancholy, walking hither and thither without an object, and in secluded places, looking fearfully around him as if he expected every moment the spectre visitor of the morning to appear before him. Nor was he less miserable at home, where the growing hatred made matters worse and worse every hour, and where, when the grey dawn came, he expected another visit and another scene of the same description as the last. Nearly a week had thus passed, and it was Sabbath morning. The tinsmiths' hammers were silent, the noisy games of the urchins were hushed, the street of the Bow resounded only occasionally to the sound of a foot--all Edinburgh was, in short, under the solemnity enjoined by the Calvinism so much beloved by the people; and surely the day might have been supposed to be held in such veneration by ministering spirits, sent down to earth to execute the purposes of Heaven, that no visit of the feared shadow would disturb even the broken rest of the wicked. So perhaps thought our couple; but their thoughts belied them, for just again, as the dawn broke over the tops of the high houses, the well-known tirl was heard at the door. Who was to open it? For days the mind of the wife had been made up. She would not face that figure again; no, if all the powers of the world were there to compel her; and as for Thomas, conscience had reduced the firmness of a man who once upon a time could kill to a condition of fear and trembling. Yet terrified as he was, he considered that he was here under the obligation to obey powers even higher than his conscience, and disobedience might bring upon him some evil greater than that under which he groaned. So up he got, trembling in every limb, and proceeding to the door, opened the same. What he saw may be surmised, but what he felt no one ever knew, for the one reason that he had never the courage to tell it, and for the other that no man or woman was ever placed in circumstances from which they could draw any conclusion which could impart even a distant analogy. This much, however, was known: Thomas retreated instantly to bed, and the visitor, in the same suit of hodden-grey, again entered, passed the bolt, took off her plaid, hung it up, and began the duties which she thought were suited to the day and the hour. So much being thus alike, the couple in the bedroom no doubt augured a repetition of the old process. They were right, and they were wrong. Their eyes were fixed upon her, and watched her movements; but the watch was that of the charmed eye, which is said to be without motive. They saw her once more go deliberately and tentily through the old process of putting on the fire, and they heard again the application of the bellows, every blast succeeding another with the regularity of a clock, until the kitchen was illuminated by the rising flame. This was all that could be called a repetition; for in place of going for the porridge goblet, she went direct for the tea-kettle, into which she poured a sufficient quantity of water, saying the while to herself, "Tammas maun hae his tea breakfast on Sabbath morning"--words which Thomas, as he now lay quaking in bed, knew very well he had heard before many a time and oft. Nor were the subsequent acts less in accordance with the old custom of the dwelling. There was no sweeping of the floor or scouring of pans on the sacred morning; in place of all which she had something else to do, for surely we must suppose that this gentle visitor was a good Calvinist, and would perform only the acts of necessity and mercy. These she had done in so far as regarded necessity, and now they saw her go to the shelf on which the Bible was deposited--a book which, alas! for seven years had not been opened by either of the guilty pair. Having got what she wanted, she sat down by the table, opened the volume at a place well thumbed, and began to read aloud a chapter in the Corinthians, which Thomas Dodds, the more by reason that he had heard it read two hundred and fifty times, knew by heart. This being finished, she turned up a psalm, yea, that very psalm which Janet Dodds had sung every Sunday morning, and, presently, the kitchen was resonant with the rising notes of the Bangor, as they came from a throat trembling with devotion-- "I waited on the Lord my God, And patiently did bear; At length to me He did incline My voice and cry to hear. "He took me from a fearful pit, And from the miry clay, And on a rock He set my feet, Establishing my way." The service finished, they saw her replace the book where she had found it; and by this time the kettle was spewing from the mouth thereof a volume of steam, as if it were calling to its old mistress to relieve it from the heat of the fire; nor was she long in paying due obedience. The tea-pot was got where she seemed to know it would be found, so also the tea-canister. The quantity to be put in was a foregone conclusion, and steadily measured with the spoon. The water was poured in, and the utensil placed on the cheek of the chimney in order to the indispensable infusion. Next the cup and saucer were placed on the table, then followed the bread and butter, and the sugar and the milk; all being finished by the words to herself, "There's nae egg in the house." Having thus finished her work, she took down her plaid, adjusted it carefully, opened the door, and departed. The effect produced by this second spectral appearance could scarcely be exaggerated, yet we suspect you will not find it of that kind which is most in harmony with human nature, except in the case of Mrs. Dodds the second, who lay, as on the former occasion, sweating and trembling. It was now different with the husband, on whom apparently had fallen some of the seeds of the word, as they were scattered by the lips of the strange visitor, and conscience had prepared the soil. The constitutional strength of character which had enabled him to perpetrate a terrible deed of evil, was ready as a power to achieve his emancipation, and work in the direction of good. So, without saying a word of all that had been acted that morning, he rose and dressed himself, and, going into the kitchen, he sat down without the fear of poison, and partook of the breakfast which had been so strangely prepared for him, nor was he satisfied till he read the chapter and psalm with which he had been so long familiar. He then returned to the bedroom, and addressing his wife-- "You now see," said he, "that Heaven has found us out. That visitor is nae ither than Mrs. Janet Dodds returned frae the grave, and sure it is that nane are permitted to leave that place o' rest except for a purpose. No, it's no for naething that Janet Dodds comes back to her auld hame. What the purpose may be, the Lord only knows; but this seems to me to be clear enough--that you and I maun pairt. You see that nae breakfast has been laid for you. I have taen mine, and nae harm has come o't; a clear sign that though we are baith great criminals, you are considered to be the warst o' the twa. It was you wha put poison into my ear and cast glamour ower my een; it was you wha egged me on, for 'the lips of a strange woman drop as a honeycomb, and her words are smoother than oil; but her feet take hold of hell.' That I am guilty, I know; and 'though hand join in hand, the wicked shall not go unpunished.' I will dree my doom whatever it may be, and so maun you yours; but there may be a difference, and so far as mortal can yet see, yours will be waur to bear than mine. But, however a' that may be, the time is come when you maun leave this house. 'Cast out the strange woman, and contention shall go out; yea, strife and reproach shall cease;' but 'go not forth hastily to strive, lest thou know not what to do in the end, when thy neighbour hath put thee to shame.' Keep your secret frae a' save the Lord; and may He hae mercy on your soul!" With which words, savouring as they did of the objurgations of the black pot to the kettle, Mr. Thomas Dodds left his house, no doubt in the expectation that Mrs. Dodds _secunda_ would move her camp, and betake herself once more to her old place of residence in the Grassmarket. Where he went that day no man ever knew, further than that he was seen in the afternoon in St. Giles's Church, where, no doubt, he did his best to make a cheap purchase of immunity to his soul and body, in consideration of a repentance brought on by pure fear, produced by a spectre; and who knows but that that was a final cause of the spectre's appearance? We have seen that it was a kindly spirit, preparing porridge and tea for him at the same time that it made his hair stand on end, and big drops of sweat settle upon his brow or roll down therefrom--a conjunction this of the tawse and the jelly-pot, whereby kind and loving parents try to redeem naughty boys. Nor let it be said that this kindly dealing with a murderer is contrary to the ways of Heaven; for, amidst a thousand other examples, did not Joshua, after the wall of Jericho lay flat at the blast of a trumpet, save that vile woman Rahab at the same time that he slew the young and the old, nay, the very infants, with the edge of the sword? All which, though we are not, by token of our sins, able to see the reason thereof, is doubtless consonant to a higher justice--altogether unlike our goddess, who is represented as blind, merely because she is supposed not to see a bribe when offered to her by a litigant. So the penitence of Mr. Thomas Dodds might be a very dear affair after all, in so much as terror is a condition of the soul which, of all we are doomed to experience, is the most difficult to bear, especially if it is a terror of divine wrath. On his return to his house in the evening, he found that Mrs. Mary had taken him at his word and decamped, but not without providing herself with as good a share of the "goods in communion" as she could, perhaps, at two or three returns, carry off. So was she like Zebulun in all save her righteousness, for she "rejoiced in her going out;" nay, she had some reason, for she had discovered that in a secret drawer of an old cabinet there was a pose of gold collected by the industrious hands of Mrs. Janet, and unknown to her husband, every piece of which she carried off in spite of all fear of the spectre, which, if a sensible one, might have been supposed to be more irritated at this heedless spoliation than at all the Jezebel had yet done, with the exception of the counselling her death in the deep hole of the North Loch. On seeing all this robbery, Mr. Dodds became more and more aware of the bad exchange he had made by killing his good spouse to enable him to take another, who had merely found more favour in his eyes by reason of her good looks; and we may augur how much deeper his feeling of regret would have been, had he known the secret pose, so frugally and prudently laid up, perhaps for his sake, at least for the sake of both, when disease or old age might overtake them, in a world where good and evil, pleasure and pain, appear to be fixed quantities, only shoved from one to another by wisdom and prudence, yet sometimes refusing to be moved even by these means. After satisfying himself of the full extent of the robbery, which, after all, he had brought upon himself, and very richly deserved, he sat down upon a chair and began to moralize, after the manner of those late penitents who have found themselves out to be either rogues or fools--the number of whom comprehends, perhaps, all mankind. He had certainly good reason to be contrite. The angel in the house had become a spectre, and she who was no angel, either in the house or out of it, had carried off almost everything of any value he possessed. Nor did he stop at mere unspoken contrition, he bewailed in solemn tones his destiny, and then began to cast up all the perfections of good Janet, the more perfect and beautiful these seeming in proportion as he felt the fear of her reappearance, perhaps next time, in place of making his breakfast, to run away with him to the dire place of four letters. All her peculiarities were now virtues--nay, the very things which had appeared to him the most indefensible took on the aspect of angelic endowments. While her careful housewifery was all intended for his bodily health and comfort, her perseverance in adhering to the one chapter and the one psalm was due to that love of iteration which inspires those who are never weary of well-doing. And what was more extraordinary, one verse of the psalm--that which we have quoted--had special reference to the manner of her death, and her deliverance from condemnation in the world to come. No doubt the man who meditates upon his own crime or folly at the very moment when he is suffering from its sharp recalcitrations, is just about as miserable a wretch as the reformatory of the world can present; but when, to the effects upon himself, he is compelled to think of the cruelty he has exercised towards others--and those perhaps found out to be his best friends--we doubt if there are any words beyond the vocabulary of the condemned that are sufficient to express his anguish. Even this did not comprehend all the suffering of Mr. Dodds, for, was he not under doom without knowing what form it was to assume, whether the spectre (whose cookery might be a sham) would choke him, burn him, or run away with him? Deeply steeped in this remorseful contemplation, during which the figure of his ill-used wife flitted before the eye of his fancy with scarcely less of substantial reality than she had shown in her spectral form, he found that he had lost all regard to time. The night was fast setting in, the shadows of the tall houses were falling deeper and deeper on the room, and the Sabbath stillness was a solemn contrast to the perturbations inside the chamber of his soul, where "the serpents and the cockatrices would not be charmed." Still, everything within and without was dreary, and the spoliation of his means did not tend to enliven the outer scene, or impart a charm to the owner. While in this state of depression, Tammas heard a knock at the door. It was not, as on the former occasions, what is called a tirl. It might be a neighbour, or it might be an old crony, and he stood in need of some one to raise his spirits, so he went to the door and opened it. But what was his horror when he saw enter a female figure, in all respects so like his feared visitor that he concluded in the instant that she was the same! nor could all his penitence afford him resolution enough to make a proper examination; besides, it was grey dark, and even a pair of better eyes than he could boast of, might, under the circumstances soon to appear, have been deceived. Retreating into the kitchen, he was followed by this dubious, and yet not dubious visitor, who, as he threw himself upon a chair, took a seat right opposite to him. "Ye'll no ken me, Tammas Dodds?" said she. Whereupon Tammas looked and looked again, and still the likeness he dreaded was so impressive, that, in place of moving his tongue, he moved, that is, he shuddered, all over. "What--eh?" at length he stuttered; "ken ye? wha in God's name are ye? No surely Mrs. Janet Dodds in the likeness of the flesh!" "No, but her sister, Mrs. Paterson," replied the other. "And is it possible ye can hae forgotten the only woman who was present at your first marriage?" "Ay, ay," replied Tammas, as he began to come to a proper condition of perceiving and thinking; "and it was you, then, wha was here this morning?" "No, no," replied she; "I have not been here for seven long years, even since that terrible night when you pushed Janet into the North Loch." "And may Heaven and its angels hae mercy upon me!" ejaculated he. "Aiblins they may," said she, "for your purpose was defeated; yea, even by that Heaven and thae angels." "What mean you, woman?" cried the astonished man. "What, in the name o' a' that's gude on earth and holy in heaven, do ye mean?" "Just that Janet Dodds is at this hour a leevin' woman," was the reply. "The Lord be thanked!" cried Tammas again, "for 'He preserveth all them that love Him.'" "'But all the wicked He will destroy,'" returned she; "and surely it was wicked to try to drown sae faithful a wife and sae gude a Christian." "Wicked!" rejoined he, in rising agony. "'Let the righteous smite me, it shall be a kindness; and let them reprove me, it shall,' as Solomon says, 'be an excellent oil.'" "I am glad," continued the woman, "to find you with a turned heart; but whaur is the Jezebel ye took in her place?" "Awa this day," replied he. "I have found her out, and never mair is she wife o' mine." "Sae far weel and better," said she. "Ay, but speak to me o' Janet," cried he, earnestly. "Come, tell me how she escaped, whaur she is, and how she is; for now I think there is light breaking through the fearfu' cloud." "Light indeed," continued Mrs. Paterson; "and now, listen to a strange tale, mair wonderfu' than man's brain ever conceived. When ye thought ye had drowned her, and cared naething doubtless--for ye see I maun speak plain--whether her spirit went to the ae place or the ither, ay, and ran awa to add to murder a lee, she struggled out o' the deep, yea-- 'He took her from the fearfu' pit, And from the miry clay.' And when she got to the bank she ran as for the little life was in her, until she came to the foot of Halkerstone's Wynd, where she crossed to the other side of the loch. When she thought hersel' safe, she took the road to Glasgow, where I was then living wi' my husband, wha is since dead. The night was dark, but self-preservation maks nae gobs at dangers; so on she went, till in the grey morning she made up to the Glasgow carrier, wha agreed to gie her a cast even to the end o' his journey. It was the next night when she arrived at my door, cold and hungry, and, what was waur, sair and sick at heart. She told me the hail story as weel as she could for sobs and greeting; for the thought aye rugged at her heart that the man she had liked sae weel, and had toiled for night and day, should hae turned out to be the murderer o' his ain wife." "And weel it might hae rugged and rugged," ejaculated Tammas. "I got aff her wet clothes," continued she, "and gave her some strong drink to warm her, and then we considered what was to be dune. My husband was for off to Edinburgh to inform on ye, even if there should hae been a drawing o' the neck on't; but Janet cried, and entreated baith him and me to keep the thing quiet. She said she couldna gae back to you; and as for getting you punished, she couldna bear the thought o't. And then we a' thought what a disgrace it would be to our family if it were thought that my sister had been attempted to be murdered by her husband. We knew weel enough ye would say she had fallen in by accident; and when afterwards we heard that ye had buried a body that had been found in the loch, we made up our minds as to what we would do. We just agreed to keep Janet under her maiden name. Nane in Glasgow had ever seen her before, and her ain sorrows kept her within doors, so that the secret wasna ill to keep. Years afterwards, my husband was ta'en from me, and Janet and I came, about twa months syne, to live at Juniper Green, wi' John Paterson, my husband's brother, wha had offered us a hame." "And is Janet there now?" cried Tammas, impatiently. "Ay," continued Mrs. Paterson; "but, alas! she's no what she was. She gets at times out o' her reason, and will be that way for days thegether. The doctor has a name for it ower lang for my tongue, but it tells naething but what we ken ower weel. When in thae fits she thinks she is here in the Bow, and living with you, and working and moiling in the house just as she used to do langsyne. Mairower, and that troubles us maist ava, she will be out when the reason's no in, so that we are obliged to watch her. Five days syne she was aff in the morning before daylight, and even so late as this morning she played us the same trick; whaur she gaed we couldna tell, but I had some suspicion she was here." "Ay," replied Mr. Dodds, as he opened his eyes very wide; "she was here wi' a vengeance." Thus Mrs. Paterson's story was finished; and our legend of the Brownie, more veritable, we opine, than that of Bodsbeck, is also drawing to a conclusion. Tammas, after a period of meditation, more like one of Janet's hallucinations than a fit of rational thinking, asked his sister-in-law whether she thought that Janet, in the event of her getting quit of her day-dreams, would consent to live with him again. To which question she answered that she was not certain; for that Janet, when in her usual state of mind, was still wroth against him for the attempt to take away her life; but she added that she had no objection, seeing he was penitent, to give him an opportunity to plead for himself. She even went further, and agreed to use her influence to bring about a reconciliation. It was therefore agreed between them that the sister should call again when Janet had got quit of her temporary derangement, and Thomas might follow up this intimation with a visit. About four days thereafter, accordingly, Mrs. Paterson kept her word, and next day Mr. Dodds repaired to Juniper Green. At first Janet refused to see him; but upon Mrs. Paterson's representations of his penitence and suffering, she became reconciled to an interview. We may venture to say, without attempting a description of a meeting unparalleled in history, that if Janet Dodds had not been a veritable Calvinist, no good could have come of all Mr. Dodds's professions; but she knew that the Master cast out the dumb spirit which tore the possessed, and that that spirit attempted murder not less than Tammas. Wherefore might not _his_ dumb spirit be cast out as well by that grace which aboundeth in the bosom of the Saviour? We do not say that a return of her old love helped this deduction, because we do not wish to mix up profane with sacred things. Enough if we can certify that a very happy conclusion was the result. The doctor did his duty, and Janet having been declared _compos mentis_, returned to her old home. Her first duty was to look for "the pose." It was gone in the manner we have set forth; but Janet could collect another, and no doubt in due time did; nor did she fail of any of her old peculiarities, all of which became endeared to Thomas by reason of their being veritable sacrifices to his domestic comfort. GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT. THE LAST SCRAP. It is a fact well known to Dr. Lee, and to many besides, that notwithstanding the extensive researches of Wodrow and others, there have died away in the silent lapse of time, or are still hovering over our cleuchs and glens, in the aspect of a dim and misty tradition, many instances of extreme cruelty and wanton oppression, exercised (during the reign of Charles II.) over the poor Covenanters, or rather Nonconformists, of the south and west counties of Scotland. In particular, although the whole district suffered, it was in the vale of the Nith, and in the hilly portion of the parish of Closeburn, that the fury of Grierson, Dalzell, and Johnstone--not to mention an occasional simoom, felt on the withering approach of Clavers _with his lambs_--was felt to the full amount of merciless persecution and relentless cruelty. The following anecdote I had from a sister of my grandmother, who lived till a great age, and who was lineally descended from one of the parties. I have never seen any notice whatever taken of the circumstances; but am as much convinced of its truth, in all its leading features, as I am of that of any other similar statements which are made in Wodrow, "Naphtali," or the "Cloud of Witnesses." The family of Harkness has been upwards of four hundred years tenants on the farm of Queensberry, occupying the farm-house and steading situated upon the banks of the Caple, and known by the name of Mitchelslacks. The district is wild and mountainous, and, at the period to which I refer, in particular, almost inaccessible through any regularly constructed road. The hearts, however, of these mountain residents were deeply attuned to religious and civil liberty, and revolted with loathing from the cold doctrines and compulsory ministrations of the curate of Closeburn. They were, therefore, marked birds for the myrmidons of oppression, led on by Claverhouse, and "Red Rob," the scarlet-cloaked leader of his band. It was about five o'clock of the afternoon, in the month of August, that a troop of horse was seen crossing the Glassrig--a flat and heathy muir--and bearing down with great speed upon Mitchelslacks. Mrs. Harkness had been very recently delivered of a child, and still occupied her bed, in what was denominated the chamber, or cha'mer--an apartment separated from the rest of the house, and set apart for more particular occasions. Her husband, the object of pursuit, having had previous intimation, by the singing or whistling of a bird (as was generally reported on such occasions), had betaken himself, some hours before, to the mountain and the cave--his wonted retreat on similar visits. From this position, on the brow of a precipice, inaccessible by any save a practised foot, he could see his own dwelling, and mark the movements which were going on outside. The troop, having immediately surrounded the houses, and set a guard upon every door and window, as well as an outpost, or spy, upon an adjoining eminence, immediately proceeded with the search--a search conducted with the most brutal incivility, and even indelicacy; subjecting every child and servant to apprehensions of the most horrid and revolting character. It would be every way improper to mention even a tithe of the oaths and blasphemy which were not only permitted, but sanctioned and encouraged, by their impious and regardless leader. Suffice it to say, that after every other corner and crevice was searched in vain, the cha'mer was invaded, and the privacy of a female, in very interesting and delicate circumstances, rudely and suddenly entered. "The old fox is here," said Clavers, passing his sword up to the hilt betwixt the mother and her infant, sleeping unconsciously on her arm, and thrusting it home with such violence that the point perforated the bed, and even penetrated the floor beneath. "Toss out the whelp," vociferated Red Rob--always forward on such occasions; "and the b--ch will follow." And, suiting the action to the word, he rolled the sleeping, and happily well-wrapped, infant on the floor. "The Lord preserve my puir bairn!" was the instantaneous and instinctive exclamation of the agonized and now demented mother, springing at the same time from her couch, and catching up her child with a look of the most despairing alarm. A cloud of darkened feeling seemed to pass over the face and features of the infant,[*] and a cry of helpless suffering succeeded, at once to comfort and to madden the mother. "A murderous and monstrous herd are ye all," said she, again resuming her position, and pressing the affrighted, rather than injured child to her breast. "Limbs of Satan and enemies of God, begone! He whom ye seek is not here; nor will the God _he_ serves and _you_ defy, ever suffer him, I fervently hope and trust, to fall into your merciless and unhallowed hands." [note *: "In the light of heaven its face Grew dark as they were speaking."] At this instant a boy about twelve years of age was dragged into the room, and questioned respecting the place of his father's retreat, sometimes in a coaxing, and at others in a threatening manner. The boy presented, to every inquiry, the aspect of dogged resistance and determined silence. "Have the bear's cub to the croft," said Clavers, "and shoot him on the spot." The boy was immediately removed; and the distracted mother left, happily for herself, in a state of complete insensibility. There grew, and there still grows, a rowan-tree in the corner of the garden or kailyard of Mitchelslacks; to this tree or bush the poor boy was fastened with cords, having his eyes bandaged, and being made to understand, that, if he did not reveal his father's retreat, a ball would immediately pass through his brain. The boy shivered, attempted to speak, then seemed to recover strength and resolution, and continued silent. "Do you wish to smell gunpowder?" ejaculated Rob, firing a pistol immediately under his nose, whilst the ball perforated the earth a few paces off. The boy uttered a loud and unearthly scream, and his head sunk upon his breast. At this instant, the aroused and horrified mother was seen on her bended knees, with clasped hands, and eyes in which distraction rioted, at the feet of the destroyers. But nature, which had given her strength for the effort, now deserted her, and she fell lifeless at the feet of her apparently murdered son. Even the heart of Clavers was somewhat moved at this scene; and he was in the act of giving orders for an immediate retreat, when there rushed into the circle, in all the frantic wildness of a maniac, at once the father and the husband. He had observed from his retreat the doings of that fearful hour: and, having every reason to conclude that he was purchasing his own safety at the expense of the lives of his whole family, he had issued from the cave, and hurled himself from the steep, and was now in the presence of those whom he deemed the murderers of his family. "Fiends--bloody, brutal, heartless fiends--are ye all! And is this your work, ye sons of the wicked and the accursed one? What! could not _one_ content ye? Was not the boy enough to sacrifice on your accursed temple to Moloch, but ye must imbrue your hands in the blood of a weak, an infirm, a helpless woman! Oh, may the God of the Covenant," added he, bending reverently down upon his knees, and looking towards heaven, "may the God of Jacob forgive me for cursing ye! And, thou man of blood" (addressing Clavers personally), "think ye not that the blood of Brown, and of my darling child, and my beloved wife--think ye not, wot ye not, that their blood, and the blood of the thousand saints which ye have shed, will yet be required, ay, fearfully required, even to the last drop, by an avenging God, at your hands?" Having uttered these words with great and awful energy, he was on the point of drawing his sword, concealed under the flap of his coat, and of selling his life as dearly as possible, when Mrs. Harkness, who had now recovered her senses, rushed into his arms, exclaiming-- "Oh Thomas, Thomas, what is this ye hae done? Oh, beware, beware!--I am yet alive and unskaithed. God has shut the mouths of the lions; they have not been permitted to hurt _me_. And our puir boy, too, moves his head, and gives token of life. But you, you, my dear, dear, infatuated husband--oh, into what hands have ye fallen, and to what a death are ye now reserved!" "Unloose the band," vociferated Clavers; "make fast your prisoner's hands, and, in the devil's name, let us have done with this drivelling!" There was a small public-house at this time at Closeburn mill, and into this Clavers and his party went for refreshment; whilst an adjoining barn, upon which a guard was set, served to secure the prisoner. No sooner was Mr. Harkness left alone, and in the dark--for it was now nightfall--than he began to think of some means or other of effecting his escape. The barn was happily known to him; and he recollected that, though the greater proportion of the gable was built of stone and lime, yet that a small part towards the top, as was sometimes the case in these days, was constructed of turf, and that, should he effect an opening through the soft material, he might drop with safety upon the top of a peat-stack, and thus effect his escape to Creechope Linn, with every pass and cave of which he was intimately acquainted. In a word, his escape was effected in this manner; and though the alarm was immediately given, and large stones rolled over the precipices of the adjoining linn, he was safely ensconced in darkness, and under the covert of a projecting rock; and ultimately (for, in the course of a few days, King William and liberty were the order of the day) he returned to his wife and his family, there to enjoy for many years that happiness which the possession of a conscience void of offence towards God and towards man is sure to impart. The brother, however, of this more favoured individual was not so fortunate, as may be gathered from Wodrow, and the "Cloud of Witnesses;" for he was executed ere the day of deliverance, at the Gallowlee, and his most pathetic and eloquent address is still extant. Let us rejoice with trembling that we live in an age and under a government so widely different from those now referred to; and whilst on our knees we pour forth the tribute of thankfulness to God, let us teach our children to prize the precious inheritance so dearly purchased by our forefathers. * * * * * THE STORY OF MARY BROWN. If the reader of what I am going to relate for his or her edification, or for perhaps a greater luxury, viz. wonder, should be so unreasonable as to ask for my authority, I shall be tempted, because a little piqued, to say that no one should be too particular about the source of pleasure, inasmuch as, if you will enjoy nothing but what you can prove to be a reality, you will, under good philosophical leadership, have no great faith in the sun--a thing which you never saw, the existence of which you are only assured of by a round figure of light on the back of your eye, and which may be likened to tradition; so all you have to do is to believe like a good Catholic, and be contented, even though I begin so poorly as to try to interest you in two very humble beings who have been dead for many years, and whose lives were like a steeple without a bell in it, the intention of which you cannot understand till your eye reaches the weathercock upon the top, and then you wonder at so great an erection for so small an object. The one bore the name of William Halket, a young man, who, eight or nine years before he became of much interest either to himself or any other body, was what in our day is called an Arab of the City--a poor street boy, who didn't know who his father was, though, as for his mother, he knew her by a pretty sharp experience, insomuch as she took from him every penny he made by holding horses, and gave him more cuffs than cakes in return. But Bill got out of this bondage by the mere chance of having been taken a fancy to by Mr. Peter Ramsay, innkeeper and stabler, in St. Mary's Wynd (an ancestor, we suspect, of the Ramsays of Barnton), who thought he saw in the City Arab that love of horse-flesh which belongs to the Bedouin, and who accordingly elevated him to the position of a stable-boy, with board and as many shillings a week as there are days in that subdivision of time. Nor did William Halket--to whom for his merits we accord the full Christian name--do any discredit to the perspicacity of his master, if it was not that he rather exceeded the hopes of his benefactor, for he was attentive to the horses, civil to the farmers, and handy at anything that came in his way. Then, to render the connection reciprocal, William was gratefully alive to the conviction that if he had not been, as it were, taken from the street, the street might have been taken from him, by his being locked up some day in the Heart of Midlothian. So things went on in St. Mary's Wynd for five or six years, and might have gone on for twice that period, had it not been that at a certain hour of a certain day William fell in love with a certain Mary Brown, who had come on that very day to be an under-housemaid in the inn; and strange enough, it was a case of "love at first sight," the more by token that it took effect the moment that Mary entered the stable with a glass of whisky in her hand sent to him by Mrs. Ramsay. No doubt it is seldom that a fine blooming young girl, with very pretty brown hair and very blue eyes, appears to a young man with such a recommendation in her hand; but we are free to say that the whisky had nothing to do with an effect which is well known to be the pure result of the physical attributes of the individual. Nay, our statement might have been proved by the counterpart effect produced upon Mary herself, for she was struck by William at the same moment when she handed him the glass; and we are not to assume that the giving of a pleasant boon is always attended with the same effect as the receiving of it. But, as our story requires, it is the love itself between these two young persons, whose fates were so remarkable, we have to do with--not the causes, which are a mystery in all cases. Sure it is, humble in position as they were, they could love as strongly, as fervently, perhaps as ecstatically, as great people--nay, probably more so, for education has a greater chance of moderating the passion than increasing it; and so, notwithstanding of what Plutarch says of the awfully consuming love between Phrygius and Picrea, and also what Shakespeare has sung or said about a certain Romeo and a lady called Juliet, we are certain that the affection between these grand personages was not _more_ genuine, tender, and true, than that which bound the simple and unsophisticated hearts of Will Halket and Mary Brown. But at best we merely play on the surface of a deep subject when we try with a pen to describe feelings, and especially the feelings of love. We doubt, if even the said pen were plucked from Cupid's wing, whether it would help us much. We are at best only left to a choice of expressions, and perhaps the strongest we could use are those which have already been used a thousand times--the two were all the world to each other, the world outside nothing at all to them; so that they could have been as happy on the top of Mount Ararat, or on the island of Juan Fernandez, provided they should be always in each other's company, as they were in St. Mary's Wynd. And as for whispered protestations and chaste kisses-- for really their love had a touch of romance about it you could hardly have expected, but which yet kept it pure, if not in some degree elevated above the loves of common people--these were repeated so often about the quiet parts of Arthur's Seat and the King's Park, and the fields about the Dumbiedykes and Duddingstone Loch, that they were the very moral aliments on which they lived. In short, to Mary Brown the great Duke of Buccleuch was as nothing compared to Willie Halket, and to Willie Halket the beautiful Duchess of Grammont would have been as nothing compared to simple Mary Brown. All which is very amiable and very necessary; for if it had been so ordained that people should feel the exquisite sensations of love in proportion as they were beautiful, or rich, or endowed with talent (according to a standard), our world would have been even more queer than that kingdom described by Gulliver, where the ugliest individual is made king or queen. Things continued in this very comfortable state at the old inn in St. Mary's Wynd for about a year, and it had come to enter into the contemplation of Will that upon getting an increase of his wages he would marry Mary, and send her to live with her mother, a poor, hard-working washerwoman, in Big Lochend Close; whereunto Mary was so much inclined, that she looked forward to the day as the one that promised to be the happiest that she had yet seen, or would ever see. But, as an ancient saying runs, the good hour is in no man's choice; and about this time it so happened that Mr. Peter Ramsay, having had a commission from an old city man, a Mr. Dreghorn, located as a planter in Virginia, to send him out a number of Scottish horses, suggested to William that he would do well to act as supercargo and groom. Mr. Dreghorn had offered to pay a good sum to the man who should bring them out safe, besides paying his passage over and home. And Mr. Ramsay would be ready to receive Will into his old place again on his return. As for Mary, with regard to whom the master knew his man's intentions, she would remain where she was, safe from all temptation, and true to the choice of her heart. This offer pleased William, because he saw that he could make some money out of the adventure, whereby he would be the better able to marry, and make a home for the object of his affections; but he was by no means sure that Mary would consent; for women, by some natural divining of the heart, look upon delays in affairs of love as ominous and dangerous. And so it turned out that one Sabbath evening, when they were seated beneath a tree in the King's Park, and William had cautiously introduced the subject to her, she was like other women. "The bird that gets into the bush," she said, as the tears fell upon her cheeks, "sometimes forgets to come back to the cage again. I would rather hae the lean lintie in the hand, than the fat finch on the wand." "But you forget, Mary, love," was the answer of Will, "that you can feed the lean bird, but you can't feed me. It is I who must support you. It is to enable me to do that which induces me to go. I will come with guineas in my pocket where there are now only pennies and placks; and you know, Mary, the Scotch saying, 'A heavy purse makes a light heart.'" "And an unsteady one," rejoined Mary. "And you may bring something else wi' you besides the guineas; maybe a wife." "One of Mr. Dreghorn's black beauties," said Will, laughing. "No, no, Mary, I am too fond of the flaxen ringlets, the rosy cheeks, and the blue eyes; and you know, Mary, you have all these, so you have me in your power. But to calm your fears, and stop your tears, I'll tell you what I'll do." "Stay at hame, Will, and we'll live and dee thegither." "No," replied Will; "but, like the genteel lover I have read of, I will swear on your Bible that I will return to you within the year, and marry you at the Tron Kirk, and throw my guineas into the lap of your marriage-gown, and live with you until I die." For all which and some more we may draw upon our fancy; but certain it is, as the strange story goes, that Will did actually then and there--for Mary had been at the Tron Kirk, and had her Bible in her pocket (an article, the want of which is not well supplied by the scent-bottle of our modern Maries)--swear to do all he had said, whereupon Mary was so far satisfied that she gave up murmuring--perhaps no more than that. Certain also it is, that before the month was done, Will, with his living, kicking charges, and after more of these said tears from Mary than either of them had arithmetic enough to enable them to count, embarked at Leith for Richmond, at which place the sugar-planter had undertaken to meet him. We need say nothing of the voyage across the Atlantic, somewhat arduous at that period, nor need we pick up Will again till we find him in Richmond, with his horses all safe, and as fat and sleek as if they had been fed by Neptune's wife, and had drawn her across in place of her own steeds. There he found directions waiting from Mr. Dreghorn, to the effect that he was to proceed with the horses to Peach Grove, his plantation, a place far into the heart of the country. But Will was content; for had he not time and to spare within the year, and he would see some more of the new world, which, so far as his experience yet went, seemed to him to be a good place for a freeman to live in? So off he went, putting up at inns by the way, as well supplied with food and fodder as Mr. Peter Ramsay's, in St. Mary's Wynd, and showing off his nags to the planters, who wondered at their bone and muscle, the more by reason they had never seen Scotch horses before. As he progressed, the country seemed to Will more and more beautiful, and by the time he reached Peach Grove he had come to the unpatriotic conclusion that all it needed was Mary Brown, with her roses, and ringlets, and eyes, passing like an angel--lovers will be poets--among these ebon beauties, to make it the finest country in the world. Nor when the Scotsman reached Peach Grove did the rosy side of matters recede into the shady; for he was received in a great house by Mr. Dreghorn with so much kindness, that, if the horses rejoiced in maize and oats, Will found himself, as the saying goes, in five-bladed clover. But more awaited him, even thus much more, that the planter, and his fine lady of a wife as well, urged him to remain on the plantation, where he would be well paid and well fed; and when Will pleaded his engagement to return to Scotland within the year, the answer was ready, that he might spend eight months in Virginia at least, which would enable him to take home more money,--an answer that seemed so very reasonable, if not prudent, that "Sawny" saw the advantage thereof and agreed. But we need hardly say that this was conceded upon the condition made with himself, that he would write to Mary all the particulars, and also upon the condition, acceded to by Mr. Dreghorn, that he would take the charge of getting the letter sent to Scotland. All which having been arranged, Mr. Halket--for we cannot now continue to take the liberty of calling him Will--was forthwith elevated to the position of driving negroes in place of horses, an occupation which he did not much relish, insomuch that he was expected to use the lash, an instrument of which he had been very chary in his treatment of four-legged chattels, and which he could not bring himself to apply with anything but a sham force in reference to the two-legged species. But this objection he thought to get over by using the sharp crack of his Jehu-voice as a substitute for that of the whip; and in this he persevered, in spite of the jeers of the other drivers, who told him the thing had been tried often, but that the self-conceit of the negro met the stimulant and choked it at the very entrance to the ear; and this he soon found to be true. So he began to do as others did; and he was the sooner reconciled to the strange life into which he had been precipitated by the happy condition of the slaves themselves, who, when their work was over, and at all holiday hours, dressed themselves in the brightest colours of red and blue and white, danced, sang, ate corn-cakes and bacon, and drank coffee with a zest which would have done a Scotch mechanic, with his liberty to produce a lock-out, much good to see. True, indeed, the white element of the population was at a discount at Peach Grove. But in addition to the above source of reconciliation, Halket became day by day more captivated by the beauty of the country, with its undulating surface, its wooded clumps, its magnolias, tulip-trees, camellias, laurels, passion-flowers, and palms, its bright-coloured birds, and all the rest of the beauties for which it is famous all over the world. But nature might charm as it might--Mary Brown was three thousand miles away. Meanwhile the time passed pleasantly, for he was accumulating money; Mary's letter would be on the way, and the hope of seeing her within the appointed time was dominant over all the fascinations which charmed the senses. But when the month came in which he ought to have received a letter, no letter came--not much this to be thought of, though Mr. Dreghorn tried to impress him with the idea that there must be some change of sentiment in the person from whom he expected the much-desired answer. So Halket wrote again, giving the letter, as before, to his master, who assured him it was sent carefully away; and while it was crossing the Atlantic he was busy in improving his penmanship and arithmetic, under the hope held out to him by his master that he would, if he remained, be raised to a book-keeper's desk; for the planter had seen early that he had got hold of a long-headed, honest, sagacious "Sawny," who would be of use to him. On with still lighter wing the intermediate time sped again, but with no better result in the shape of an answer from her who was still the object of his day fancies and his midnight dreams. Nor did all this kill his hope. A third letter was despatched, but the returning period was equally a blank. We have been counting by months, which, as they sped, soon brought round the termination of his year, and with growing changes too in himself; for as the notion began to worm itself into his mind that his beloved Mary was either dead or faithless, another power was quietly assailing him from within,--no other than ambition in the most captivating of all shapes--Mammon. We all know the manner in which the golden deity acquires his authority; nor do we need to have recourse to the conceit of the old writer who tells us that the reason why gold has such an influence upon man, lies in the fact that it is of the colour of the sun, which is the fountain of light, and life, and joy. Certain it is, at least, that Halket having been taken into the counting-house on a raised salary, began "to lay by," as the Scotch call it; and by-and-by, with the help of a little money lent to him by his master, he began by purchasing produce from the neighbouring plantations, and selling it where he might,--all which he did with advantage, yet with the ordinary result to a Scotsman, that while he turned to so good account the king's head, the king's head began to turn his own. And now in place of months we must begin to count by lustrums; and the first five years, even with all the thoughts of his dead, or, at least, lost Mary, proved in Halket's case the truth of the book written by a Frenchman, to prove that man is a plant; for he had already thrown out from his head or heart so many roots in the Virginian soil that he was bidding fair to be as firmly fixed in his new sphere as a magnolia, and if that bore golden blossoms, so did he; yet, true to his first love, there was not among all these flowers one so fair as the fair-haired Mary. Nay, with all hope not yet extinguished, he had even at the end of the period resolved upon a visit to Scotland, when, strangely enough, and sadly too, he was told by Mr. Dreghorn, that having had occasion to hear from Mr. Peter Ramsay on the subject of some more horse-dealings, that person had reported to him that Mary Brown, the lover of his old stable-boy, was dead. A communication this which, if it had been made at an earlier period, would have prostrated Halket altogether, but it was softened by his long foreign anticipations, and he was thereby the more easily inclined to resign his saddened soul to the further dominion of the said god, Mammon; for, as to the notion of putting any of those beautiful half-castes he sometimes saw about the planter's house at Peach Grove, in the place of her of the golden ringlets, it was nothing better than the desecration of a holy temple. Then the power of the god increased with the offerings, one of which was his large salary as manager, a station to which he was elevated shortly after he had received the doleful tidings of Mary's death. Another lustrum is added, and we arrive at ten years; and yet another, and we come to fifteen; at the end of which time Mr. Dreghorn died, leaving Halket as one of his trustees, for behoof of his wife, in whom the great plantation vested. If we add yet another lustrum, we find the Scot--fortunate, save for one misfortune that made him a joyless worshipper of gold--purchasing from the widow, who wished to return to England, the entire plantation under the condition of an annuity. And Halket was now rich, even beyond what he had ever wished; but the chariot-wheels of Time would not go any slower--nay, they moved faster, and every year more silently, as if the old Father had intended to cheat the votary of Mammon into a belief that he would live for ever. The lustrums still passed: another five, another, and another, till there was scope for all the world being changed, and a new generation taking the place of that with which William Halket and Mary Brown began. And he was changed too, for he began to take on those signs of age which make the old man a painted character; but in one thing he was not changed, and that was the worshipful stedfastness, the sacred fidelity, with which he still treasured in his mind the form and face, the words and the smiles, the nice and refined peculiarities that feed love as with nectared sweets, which once belonged to Mary Brown, the first creature that had moved his affections, and the last to hold them, as the object of a cherished memory for ever. Nor with time, so deceptive, need we be so sparing in dealing out those periods of five years, but say at once that at last William Halket could count twelve of them since first he set his foot on Virginian soil; yea, he had been there for sixty summers, and he had now been a denizen of the world for seventy-eight years. In all which our narrative has been strange, but we have still the stranger fact to set forth, that at this late period he was seized with that moral disease (becoming physical in time) which the French call _mal du pays_, the love of the country where one was born, and first enjoyed the fresh springs that gush from the young heart. Nor was it the mere love of country, as such, for he was seized with a particular wish to be where Mary lay in the churchyard of the Canongate, to erect a tombstone over her, to seek out her relations and enrich them, to make a worship out of a disappointed love, to dedicate the last of his thoughts to the small souvenirs of her humble life. Within a month this old man was on his way to Scotland, having sold the plantation, and taken bills with him to an amount of little less than a hundred thousand pounds. In the course of five weeks William Halket put his foot on the old pier of Leith, on which some very old men were standing, who had been urchins when he went away. The look of the old harbour revived the image which had been imprinted on his mind when he sailed, and the running of the one image into the other produced the ordinary illusion of all that long interval appearing as a day; but there was no illusion in the change, that Mary Brown was there when he departed, and there was no Mary Brown there now. Having called a coach, he told the driver to proceed up Leith Walk, and take him to Peter Ramsay's inn, in St. Mary's Wynd; but the man told him there was no inn there, nor had been in his memory. The man added that he would take him to the White Horse in the Canongate, and thither accordingly he drove him. On arriving at the inn, he required the assistance of the waiter to enable him to get out of the coach; nor probably did the latter think this any marvel, after looking into a face so furrowed with years, so pale with the weakness of a languid circulation, so saddened with care. The rich man had only an inn for a home, nor in all his native country was there one friend whom he hoped to find alive. Neither would a search help him, as he found on the succeeding day, when, by the help of his staff, he essayed an infirm walk in the great thoroughfare of the old city. The houses were not much altered, but the signboards had got new names and figures; and as for the faces, they were to him even as those in Crete to the Cretan, after he awoke from a sleep of forty-seven years--a similitude only true in this change, for Epimenidas was still as young when he awoke as when he went to sleep, but William Halket was old among the young and the grown, who were unknown to him, as he was indeed strange to them. True, too, as the coachman said, Peter Ramsay's inn, where he had heard Mary singing at her work, and the stable where he had whistled blithely among his favourite horses, were no longer to be seen--_etiam cineres perierunt_--their very sites were occupied by modern dwellings. What of that small half-sunk lodging in Big Lochend Close, where Mary's mother lived, and where Mary had been brought up, where perhaps Mary had died? Would it not be a kind of pilgrimage to hobble down the Canongate to that little lodging, and might there not be for him a sad pleasure even to enter and sit down by the same fireplace where he had seen the dearly-beloved face, and listened to her voice, to him more musical than the melody of angels? And so, after he had walked about till he was wearied, and his steps became more unsteady and slow, and as yet without having seen a face which he knew, he proceeded in the direction of the Big Close. There was, as regards stone and lime, little change here; he soon recognised the half-sunk window where, on the Sunday evenings, he had sometimes tapped as a humorous sign that he was about to enter, which had often been responded to by Mary's finger on the glass, as a token that he would be welcome. It was sixty years since then. A small corb would now hold all that remained of both mother and daughter. He turned away his head as if sick, and was about to retrace his steps. Yet the wish to enter that house rose again like a yearning; and what more in the world than some souvenir of the only being on earth he ever loved was there for him to yearn for? All his hundred thousand pounds were now, dear as money had been to him, nothing in comparison of the gratification of seeing the room where she was born--yea, where probably she had died. In as short a time as his trembling limbs would carry him down the stair, which in the ardour of his young blood he had often taken at a bound, he was at the foot of it. There was there the old familiar dark passage, with doors on either side, but it was the farthest door that was of any interest to him. Arrived at it, he stood in doubt. He would knock, and he would not; the mystery of an undefined fear was over him; and yet, what had he to fear? For half a century the inmates had been changed, no doubt, over and over again, and he would be as unknowing as unknown. At length the trembling finger achieves the furtive tap, and the door was opened by a woman, whose figure could only be seen by him in coming between him and the obscure light that came in by the half-sunk window in front; nor could she, even if she had had the power of vision, see more of him, for the lobby was still darker. "Who may live here?" said he, in the expectation of hearing some name unknown to him. The answer, in a broken, cracked voice, was not slow-- "Mary Brown; and what may you want of her?" "Mary Brown!" but not a word more could he say, and he stood as still as a post; not a movement of any kind did he show for so long a time that the woman might have been justified in her fear of a very spirit. "And can ye say nae mair, sir?" rejoined she. "Is my name a bogle to terrify human beings?" But still he was silent, for the reason that he could not think, far less speak, nor even for some minutes could he achieve more than the repetition of the words, "Mary Brown." "But hadna ye better come in, good sir?" said she. "Ye may ken our auld saying, 'They that speak in the dark may miss their mark;' for words carry nae light in their een ony mair than me, for, to say the truth, I am old and blind." And, moving more as an automaton than as one under a will, Halket was seated on a chair, with this said old and blind woman by his side, who sat silent and with blank eyes waiting for the stranger to explain what he wanted. Nor was the opportunity lost by Halket, who, unable to understand how she should have called herself Mary Brown, began, in the obscure light of the room, to scrutinize her form and features; and in doing this, he went upon the presumption that this second Mary Brown only carried the name of the first; but as he looked he began to detect features which riveted his eyes; where the reagent was so sharp and penetrating, the analysis was rapid--it was also hopeful--it was also fearful. Yes, it was true that that woman was _his_ Mary Brown. The light-brown ringlets were reduced to a white stratum of thin hair; the blue eyes were grey, without light and without speculation; the roses on the cheeks were replaced by a pallor, the forerunner of the colour of death; the lithe and sprightly form was a thin spectral body, where the sinews appeared as strong cords, and the skin seemed only to cover a skeleton. Yet, withal, he saw in her that identical Mary Brown. That wreck was dear to him; it was a relic of the idol he had worshipped through life; it was the only remnant in the world which had any interest for him; and he could on the instant have clasped her to his breast, and covered her pale face with his tears. But how was he to act? A sudden announcement might startle and distress her. "There was once a Mary Brown," said he, "who was once a housemaid in Mr. Peter Ramsay's inn in St. Mary's Wynd." "And who can it be that can recollect that?" was the answer, as she turned the sightless orbs on the speaker. "Ye maun be full o' years. Yes, that was my happy time, even the only happy time I ever had in this world." "And there was one William Halket there at that time also," he continued. Words which, as they fell upon the ear, seemed to be a stimulant so powerful as to produce a jerk in the organ; the dulness of the eyes seemed penetrated with something like light, and a tremor passed over her entire frame. "That name is no to be mentioned, sir," she said nervously, "except aince and nae mair; he was my ruin; for he pledged his troth to me, and promised to come back and marry me, but he never came." "Nor wrote you?" said Halket. "No, never," replied she; "I would hae gien the world for a scrape o' the pen o' Will Halket; but it's a' past now, and I fancy he is dead and gone to whaur there is neither plighted troth, nor marriage, nor giving in marriage; and my time, too, will be short." A light broke in upon the mind of Halket, carrying the suspicion that Mr. Dreghorn had, for the sake of keeping him at Peach Grove, never forwarded the letters, whereto many circumstances tended. "And what did you do when you found Will had proved false?" inquired Halket. "Why should that have been your ruin?" "Because my puir heart was bound up in him," said she, "and I never could look upon another man. Then what could a puir woman do? My mother died, and I came here to work as she wrought--ay, fifty years ago, and my reward has been the puir boon o' the parish bread; ay, and waur than a' the rest, blindness." "Mary!" said Halket, as he took her emaciated hand into his, scarcely less emaciated, and divested of the genial warmth. The words carried the old sound, and she started and shook. "Mary," he continued, "Will Halket still lives. He was betrayed, as you have been betrayed. He wrote three letters to you, all of which were kept back by his master, for fear of losing one who he saw would be useful to him; and, to complete the conspiracy, he reported you dead upon the authority of Peter Ramsay. Whereupon Will betook himself to the making of money; but he never forgot his Mary, whose name has been heard as often as the song of the birds in the groves of Virginia." "Ah, you are Will himself!" cried she. "I ken now the sound o' your voice in the word 'Mary,' even as you used to whisper it in my ear in the fields at St. Leonard's. Let me put my hand upon your head, and move my fingers ower your face. Yes, yes. Oh, mercy, merciful God, how can my poor worn heart bear a' this!" "Mary, my dear Mary!" ejaculated the moved man, "come to my bosom and let me press you to my heart; for this is the only blissful moment I have enjoyed for sixty years." Nor was Mary deaf to his entreaties, for she resigned herself as in a swoon to an embrace, which an excess of emotion, working on the shrivelled heart and the wasted form, probably prevented her from feeling. "But, oh, Willie!" she cried, "a life's love lost; a lost life on both our sides." "Not altogether," rejoined he, in the midst of their mutual sobs. "It may be--nay, it is--that our sands are nearly run. Yea, a rude shake would empty the glass, so weak and wasted are both of us; but still there are a few grains to pass, and they shall be made golden. You are the only living creature in all this world I have any care for. More thousands of pounds than you ever dreamt of are mine, and will be yours. We will be married even yet, not as the young marry, but as those marry who may look to their knowing each other as husband and wife in heaven, where there are no cruel, interested men to keep them asunder; and for the short time we are here you shall ride in your carriage as a lady, and be attended by servants; nor shall a rude breath of wind blow upon you which it is in the power of man to save you from." "Ower late, Willie, ower late," sighed the exhausted woman, as she still lay in his arms. "But if all this should please my Will--I canna use another name, though you are now a gentleman--I will do even as you list, and that which has been by a cruel fate denied us here we may share in heaven." "And who shall witness this strange marriage?" said he. "There is no one in Edinburgh now that I know or knows me. Has any one ever been kind to you?" "Few, few indeed," answered she. "I can count only three." "I must know these wonderful exceptions," said he, as he made an attempt at a grim smile; "for those who have done a service to Mary Brown have done a double service to me. I will make every shilling they have given you a hundred pounds. Tell me their names." "There is John Gilmour, my landlord," continued she, "who, though he needed a' his rents for a big family, passed me many a term, and forbye brought me often, when I was ill and couldna work, many a bottle o' wine; there is Mrs. Paterson o' the Watergate, too, who aince, when I gaed to her in sair need, gave me a shilling out o' three that she needed for her bairns; and Mrs. Galloway, o' Little Lochend, slipt in to me a peck o' meal ae morning when I had naething for breakfast." "And these shall be at our marriage, Mary," said he. "They shall be dressed to make their eyes doubtful if they are themselves. John Gilmour will wonder how these pounds of his rent he passed you from have grown to hundreds; Mrs. Paterson's shilling will have grown as the widow's mite never grew, even in heaven; and Mrs. Galloway's peck of meal will be made like the widow's cruse of oil--it will never be finished while she is on earth." Whereupon Mary raised her head. The blank eyes were turned upon him, and something like a smile played over the thin and wasted face. At the same moment a fair-haired girl of twelve years came jumping into the room, and only stopped when she saw a stranger. "That is Helen Kemp," said Mary, who knew her movements. "I forgot Helen; she lights my fire, and when I was able to gae out used to lead me to the Park." "And she shall be one of the favoured ones of the earth," said he, as he took by the hand the girl, whom the few words from Mary had made sacred to him, adding, "Helen, dear, you are to be kinder to Mary than you have ever been;" and, slipping into the girl's hand a guinea, he whispered, "You shall have as many of these as will be a bigger tocher to you than you ever dreamed of, for what you have done for Mary Brown." And thus progressed to a termination a scene, perhaps more extraordinary than ever entered into the head of a writer of natural things and events not beyond the sphere of the probable. Nor did what afterwards took place fall short of the intentions of a man whose intense yearnings to make up for what had been lost led him into the extravagance of a vain fancy. He next day took a great house, and forthwith furnished it in proportion to his wealth. He hired servants in accordance, and made all the necessary arrangements for the marriage. Time, which had been so cruel to him and his sacred Mary, was put under the obligation of retribution. John Gilmour, Mrs. Paterson, Mrs. Galloway, and Helen Kemp were those, and those alone, privileged to witness the ceremony. We would not like to describe how they were decked out, nor shall we try to describe the ceremony itself. But vain are the aspirations of man when he tries to cope with the Fates! The changed fortune was too much for the frail and wasted bride to bear. She swooned at the conclusion of the ceremony, and was put into a silk-curtained bed. Even the first glimpse of grandeur was too much for the spirit whose sigh was "vanity, all is vanity," and, with the words on her lips, "A life's love lost," she died. TIBBY FOWLER. "Tibby Fowler o' the glen, A' the lads are wooin' at her."--_Old Song_. All our readers have heard and sung of "Tibby Fowler o' the glen;" but they may not all be aware that the glen referred to lies within about four miles of Berwick. No one has seen and not admired the romantic amphitheatre below Edrington Castle, through which the Whitadder coils like a beautiful serpent glittering in the sun, and sports in fantastic curves beneath the pasture-clad hills, the grey ruin, the mossy and precipitous crag, and the pyramid of woods, whose branches, meeting from either side, bend down and kiss the glittering river, till its waters seem lost in their leafy bosom. Now, gentle reader, if you have looked upon the scene we have described, we shall make plain to you the situation of Tibby Fowler's cottage, by a homely map, which is generally _at hand_. You have only to bend your arm, and suppose your shoulder to represent Edrington Castle, your hand Clarabad, and near the elbow you will have the spot where "ten cam' rowing owre the water;" a little nearer to Clarabad is the "lang dyke side," and immediately at the foot of it is the site of Tibby's cottage, which stood upon the Edrington side of the river; and a little to the west of the cottage, you will find a shadowy row of palm-trees, planted, as tradition testifieth, by the hands of Tibby's father, old Ned Fowler, of whom many speak until this day. The locality of the song was known to many; and if any should be inclined to inquire how we became acquainted with the other particulars of our story, we have only to reply, that that belongs to a class of questions to which we do not return an answer. There is no necessity for a writer of tales taking for his motto--_vitam impendere vero_. Tibby's parents had the character of being "bien bodies;" and, together with their own savings, and a legacy that had been left them by a relative, they were enabled at their death to leave their daughter in possession of five hundred pounds. This was esteemed a fortune in those days, and would afford a very respectable foundation for the rearing of one yet. Tibby, however, was left an orphan, as well as the sole mistress of five hundred pounds, and the proprietor of a neat and well-furnished cottage, with a piece of land adjoining, before she had completed her nineteenth year; and when we add that she had hair like the raven's wings when the sun glances upon them, cheeks where the lily and the rose seemed to have lent their most delicate hues, and eyes like twin dew-drops glistening beneath a summer moonbeam, with a waist and an arm rounded like a model for a sculptor, it is not to be wondered at that "a' the lads cam' wooin' at her." But she had a woman's heart as well as woman's beauty and the portion of an heiress. She found her cottage surrounded, and her path beset, by a herd of grovelling pounds-shillings-and-pence hunters, whom her very soul loathed. The sneaking wretches, who profaned the name of lovers, seemed to have _money_ written on their very eyeballs, and the sighs they professed to heave in her presence sounded to her like stifled groans of--_your gold_--_your gold_! She did not hate them, but she despised their meanness; and as they one by one gave up persecuting her with their addresses, they consoled themselves with retorting upon her the words of the adage, that "her _pride_ would have a fall!" But it was not from pride that she rejected them, but because her heart was capable of love --of love, pure, devoted, unchangeable, springing from being beloved, and because her feelings were sensitive as the quivering aspen, which trembles at the rustling of an insect's wing. Amongst her suitors there might have been some who were disinterested; but the meanness and sordid objects of many caused her to regard all with suspicion, and there was none among the number to whose voice her bosom responded as the needle turns to the magnet, and frequently from a cause as inexplicable. She had resolved that the man to whom she gave her hand should wed her for herself--and for herself only. Her parents had died in the same month; and about a year after their death she sold the cottage and the piece of ground, and took her journey towards Edinburgh, where the report of her being a "great fortune," as her neighbours term her, might be unknown. But Tibby, although a sensitive girl, was also, in many respects, a prudent one. Frequently she had heard her mother, when she had to take but a shilling from the legacy, quote the proverb, that it was "Like a cow in a clout, That soon wears out." Proverbs we know are in bad taste, but we quote it, because by its repetition the mother produced a deeper impression on her daughter's mind than could have been effected by a volume of sentiment. Bearing therefore in her memory the maxim of her frugal parent, Tibby deposited her money in the only bank, we believe, that was at that period in the Scottish capital, and hired herself as a child's maid in the family of a gentleman who occupied a house in the neighbourhood of Restalrig. Here the story of her fortune was unknown, and Tibby was distinguished only for a kind heart and a lovely countenance. It was during the summer months, and Leith Links became her daily resort; and there she was wont to walk with a child in her arms and another leading by the hand, for there she could wander by the side of the sounding sea; and her heart still glowed for her father's cottage and its fairy glen, where she had often heard the voice of its deep waters, and she felt the sensation which we believe may have been experienced by many who have been born within hearing of old Ocean's roar, that wherever they may be, they hear the murmur of its billows as the voice of a youthful friend, and she almost fancied, as she approached the sea, that she drew nearer the home which sheltered her infancy. She had been but a few weeks in the family we have alluded to, when, returning from her accustomed walk, her eyes met those of a young man habited as a seaman. He appeared to be about five-and-twenty, and his features were rather manly than handsome. There was a dash of boldness and confidence in his countenance; but as the eyes of the maiden met his, he turned aside as if abashed and passed on. Tibby blushed at her foolishness, but she could not help it, she felt interested in the stranger. There was an expression, a language, an inquiry in his gaze, she had never witnessed before. She would have turned round to cast a look after him, but she blushed deeper at the thought, and modesty forbade it. She walked on for a few minutes, upbraiding herself for entertaining the silly wish, when the child who walked by her side fell a few yards behind. She turned round to call him by his name--Tibby was certain that she had no motive but to call the child, and though she did steal a sidelong glance towards the spot where she had passed the stranger, it was a mere accident, it could not be avoided--at least so the maiden wished to persuade her conscience against her conviction; but that glance revealed to her the young sailor, not pursuing the path on which she had met him, but following her within the distance of a few yards, and until she reached her master's door, she heard the sound of his footsteps behind her. She experienced an emotion between being pleased and offended at his conduct, though we suspect the former eventually predominated, for the next day she was upon the Links as usual, and there also was the young seaman, and again he followed her to within sight of her master's house. How long this sort of dumb love-making, or the pleasures of diffidence continued, we cannot tell. Certain it is that at length he spoke, wooed, and conquered; and about a twelvemonth after their first meeting, Tibby Fowler became the wife of William Gordon, the mate of a foreign trader. On the second week after their marriage William was to sail upon a long, long voyage, and might not be expected to return for more than twelve months. This was a severe trial for poor Tibby, and she felt as if she would not be able to stand up against it. As yet her husband knew nothing of her dowry, and for this hour she had reserved its discovery. A few days before their marriage she had lifted her money from the bank and deposited it in her chest. "No, Willie, my ain Willie," she cried, "ye maunna, ye winna leave me already: I have neither faither, mother, brother, nor kindred; naebody but you, Willie; only you in the wide world; and I am a stranger here, and ye winna leave your Tibby. Say that ye winna, Willie." And she wrung his hand, gazed in his face, and wept. "I maun gang, dearest; I maun gang," said Willie, and pressed her to his breast; "but the thocht o' my ain wifie will mak the months chase ane anither like the moon driving shadows owre the sea. There's nae danger in the voyage, hinny, no a grain o' danger; sae dinna greet; but come, kiss me, Tibby, and when I come hame I'll mak ye leddy o' them a'." "Oh no, no, Willie!" she replied; "I want to be nae leddy; I want naething but my Willie. Only say that ye'll no gang, and here's something here, something for ye to look at." And she hurried to her chest, and took from it a large leathern pocket-book that had been her father's, and which contained her treasure, now amounting to somewhat more than six hundred pounds. In a moment she returned to her husband; she threw her arms around his neck; she thrust the pocket-book into his bosom. "There, Willie, there," she exclaimed; "that is yours--my faither placed it in my hand wi' a blessing, and wi' the same blessing I transfer it to you--but dinna, dinna leave me." Thus saying, she hurried out of the room. We will not attempt to describe the astonishment, we may say the joy, of the fond husband, on opening the pocket-book and finding the unlooked-for dowry. However intensely a man may love a woman, there is little chance that her putting an unexpected portion of six hundred pounds into his hands will diminish his attachment; nor did it diminish that of William Gordon. He relinquished his intention of proceeding on the foreign voyage, and purchased a small coasting vessel, of which he was both owner and commander. Five years of unclouded prosperity passed over them, and Tibby had become the mother of three fair children. William sold his small vessel and purchased a larger one, and in fitting it up all the gains of his five successful years were swallowed up. But trade was good. She was a beautiful brig, and he had her called the _Tibby Fowler_. He now took a fond farewell of his wife and little ones upon a foreign voyage which was not calculated to exceed four months, and which held out high promise of advantage. But four, eight, twelve months passed away, and there were no tidings of the _Tibby Fowler_. Britain was then at war; there were enemies' ships and pirates upon the sea, and there had been fierce storms and hurricanes since her husband left; and Tibby thought of all these things and wept; and her lisping children asked her when their father would return, for he had promised presents to all, and she answered, to-morrow, and to-morrow, and turned from them and wept again. She began to be in want, and at first she received assistance from some of the friends of their prosperity; but all hope of her husband's return was now abandoned; the ship was not insured, and the mother and her family were reduced to beggary. In order to support them, she sold one article of furniture after another, until what remained was seized by the landlord in security for his rent. It was then that Tibby and her children, with scarce a blanket to cover them, were cast friendless upon the streets, to die or to beg. To the last resource she could not yet stoop, and from the remnants of former friendship she was furnished with a basket and a few trifling wares, with which, with her children by her side, she set out, with a broken and a sorrowful heart, wandering from village to village. She had travelled in this manner for some months, when she drew near her native glen, and the cottage that had been her father's, that had been her own, stood before her. She had travelled all the day and sold nothing. Her children were pulling by her tattered gown, weeping and crying, "Bread, mother, give us bread!" and her own heart was sick with hunger. "Oh, wheesht, my darlings, wheesht!" she exclaimed, and she fell upon her knees and threw her arms round the necks of all the three, "you will get bread soon; the Almighty will not permit my bairns to perish; no, no; ye shall have bread." In despair she hurried to the cottage of her birth. The door was opened by one who had been a rejected suitor. He gazed upon her intently for a few seconds; and she was still young, being scarce more than six-and-twenty, and in the midst of her wretchedness, yet lovely. "Gude gracious, Tibby Fowler!" he exclaimed, "is that you? Poor creature! are ye seeking charity? Weel, I think ye'll mind what I said to you now, that your pride would have a fa'!" While the heartless owner of the cottage yet spoke, a voice behind her was heard exclaiming, "It is her! it is her! my ain Tibby and her bairns!" At the well-known voice, Tibby uttered a wild scream of joy, and fell senseless on the earth; but the next moment her husband, William Gordon, raised her to his breast. Three weeks before he had returned to Britain, and traced her from village to village, till he found her in the midst of their children, on the threshold of the place of her nativity. His story we need not here tell. He had fallen into the hands of the enemy; he had been retained for months on board of their vessel; and when a storm had arisen, and hope was gone, he had saved her from being lost and her crew from perishing. In reward for his services, his own vessel had been restored to him, and he was returned to his country, after an absence of eighteen months, richer than when he left, and laden with honours. The rest is soon told. After Tibby and her husband had wept upon each other's neck, and he had kissed his children, and again their mother, with his youngest child on one arm, and his wife resting on the other, he hastened from the spot that had been the scene of such bitterness and transport. In a few years more, William Gordon having obtained a competency, they re-purchased the cottage in the glen, where Tibby Fowler lived to see her children's children, and died at a good old age in the house in which she had been born--the remains of which, we have only to add, for the edification of the curious, may be seen until this day. THE CRADLE OF LOGIE. It is not very easy, when we consider the great desire manifested by authors and editors to serve up piquant dishes of fiction on the broad table of literature, to account for the fact that the undoubtedly true story of the Cradle of Logie and the Indian Princess, as she is often called, should never have appeared in print. It has apparently escaped the sharpest eyes of our chroniclers. Sir Walter Scott did not appear to have much fancy for Angus; but it would seem that the facts of this strange occurrence in a civilised country, and not very far back, had never reached him. Even the histories of Forfarshire are silent; and the pictures of Scotland for tourists, which generally seize on any romantic trait connected with a locality or an old ruin, have also overlooked them. Yet the principal personage in the drama was one whose name was for years in the mouths of the people, not only for peculiarities of character, but retribution of fate; and this local fame has died away only within a comparatively recent period. It was in my very early years that I saw the Cradle, and heard, imperfectly, its tale from my mother; but her account was comparatively meagre. I sought long for details; nor was I by any means successful till I fell in with a man named Aminadab Fairweather, a resident at the Scouring Burn, in Dundee, who was in the habit of frequenting Logie House, and who, though very old, remembered many of the circumstances. The truth is, there were rich flesh-pots in Logie House--richer than those which supplied the muscles of the Theban mummies, so enduring through long ages, no doubt, from being so well fed; for Mr. Fletcher of Lindertes,[*] who was proprietor of the mansion, was the greatest epicurean and glossogaster that ever lived since Leontine times. Then a woman called Jenny McPherson, who had in early life, like "a good Scotch louse," who "aye travels south," found her way from Lochaber to London, where she had got into George's kitchen, and learned something better than to make sour kraut, was the individual who administered to her master's epicureanism, if not gulosity. Nay, it was said she had a hand in the tragedy of the Cradle; but, however that may be, it is certain she was deep in the confidences of Fletcher. But then Mrs. McPherson, as she chose to call herself--though the never a McPherson was connected with her except by the ties of blood, which, like those of all Celts, had their loose terminations dangling into infinity at the beginning of the world's history--was given to administering the contents of her savoury flesh-pots to others than the family of Logie; yea, like a true Highlander, she delighted in having henchmen--or haunchmen truly, in this instance--who gave her love in return for her edible luxuries. It happened that our said Aminadab was one of those favoured individuals; and it is lucky for this generation that he was, for if he had not been, there would assuredly have been no records of the Cradle and the black lady. [note *: Mr. Fletcher had also the property of Balinsloe as well as Logie. They've all passed into other hands.] It was in a little parlour off the big kitchen that Janet received her henchmen. And was there ever man so happy as our good Aminadab?--and that for several human reasons, whereof the first was certainly the Logie flesh-pots; the second, the stories about the romantic place wherewith she contrived to garnish and spice these savoury mouthfuls; and last, Janet herself, who was always under the feminine delusion that she was the corporate representative of the first of these reasons, if, indeed, the others were not mere _adjecta_, not to be taken into account; whereas there were doubts if she was for herself ever counted at all, except as the mere "old-pot" which contained the realities. And their happiness would certainly have been complete if it had not been--at least in the case of Aminadab--that it could be enjoyed only by passing through that grim medium, a churchyard. But then, is not all celestial bliss burdened by this condition; nay, is not even our earthly bliss, which is a foretaste of heaven, only a flower raised upon the rottenness of other flowers--a type of the soul as it issues from corruption? Yes, Aminadab could not get to the holy of holies except by passing through Logie kirkyard, a small and most romantic Golgotha, on the left of the road leading to Lochee, whose inhabitants it contained, and which was so limited and crowded, that one might prefigure it as one of those holes or dungeons in Michael Angelo's pictures, belching forth spirits in the shape of inverted tadpoles, the tail uppermost, and yet representing ascending sparks. The wickets that surrounded Logie House--lying as it does upon the south side of Balgay Hill, and flanked on the east by a deep gully, wherethrough runs a small stream, which, so far as I know, has no name--were locked at night. The terrors of this place, at the late hours when these said henchmen behoved to seek their savoury rewards, were the only drawback to Aminadab's supreme bliss. And if the time of these symposial meetings had been somewhat later in the century, how much more formidable would have been a passage through this contracted valley of tumuli and bones! No churchyard, except those of Judea, was ever invested with such terrors--not the mystical fears of a divine fate seen in the descending cloud, with Justice gleaming with fiery eyes on Sin, and holding those scales, the decision of which would destine to eternal bliss or eternal woe, and that Justice personified in Him "whose glory is a burning like the burning of a fire,"--no, but the revolting fears produced by the profanity of that poor worm of very common mud, which has been since the beginning of time acting the God. Ay, the aurelia-born image of grace sees a difference when it looks from the sun to the epigenetic thing which He raises out of corruption. There was, in that small place of skulls, a rehearsal of the great day. We hear little of these freaks now-a-days; but it was different then, when men made themselves demons by drink. One night William Maule of Panmure, then in his days of graceless frolic; Fletcher Read, the nephew of the laird, and subsequently the laird himself, of Logie; Rob Thornton, the merchant, Dudhope, and other kindred spirits, who used to sing in the inn of Sandy Morren, the hotel-keeper, "Death begone, here's none but souls," sallied drunk from the inn. The story goes that the night was dark, and there stood at the door a hearse, which had that day conveyed to the "howf," now about to be shut up because of its offence against the nostrils of men who are not destined to need a grave, the wife of an inconsolable husband and the mother of children; and thereupon came from Maule's mouth--for wickedness will seek its playful function in a pun--the proposition that the bacchanals should have a rehearsal in the kirkyard of Logie. Well, it signified, of course, nothing that the Black Princess had been buried there, so far away from the land of "the balmy East," "Where the roses blow and the oranges grow, And all is divine but man below." Fletcher Read might have recollected this, but what though? Was not the pun a good one--worthy of Hood? They all mounted the hearse, Panmure being driver; nor could Sandy Morren give to these white-robed spirits, who were so soon to rise in glory from the envious earth, more than a sour-milk horn and half a dozen of snow-white table-cloths for the theatrical property of the great players. So it has been since the time when the shepherd who killed the son of Aebolus, for that he gave them wine which they thought was poison, because they found their heads out of order--wine still generates on folly the afflatus of madness. The story goes on. The night was as dark as those places they were to illumine with their white robes, alas! not of innocence. But the darkness was not of the moon's absence in another hemisphere; only that darkness which is cloud-born, and must cede in twinkling yet glorious intervening moments to the moon, when she will salute the graves and the marriage-guests; and the hearse, as it slowly wended its way up the road to Lochee, every now and then pouring forth from its dark inside peals of laughter. The travellers on the road look with wide eyes at the grim apparition, and flee. They arrive at the rough five-bar stile; it is thrown back, and the hearse is driven into the place of the dead. The story goes on. There is silence everywhere, and appropriately there, where the four brick corners of the smoke-coloured Cradle rise from the hollow of Balgay Hill. They waited till the moon shone out again in her calm, breathless repose; and then resounded from the clanging black boards of the hearse a terrible din resembling thunder, and already each man, with his table-cover rolled round him, was snug behind the solemn head-stones, storied with domestic loves severed by the dark angel. Now was the time for the trumpet-call, which behoved to be sounded by the cycloborean lungs of the broad-chested Panmure. The story has no reason to flag where the stake of the _grimelinage_ is the upraising of white-robed spirits. The sour-milk horn is sounded as it never was sounded before on the earth which had passed away; every spirit comes forth from below the head-stones; and there rose a wail of misery which nothing but wine could have produced. "Mercy on our poor souls!" "Justice," cried Maule. "Stand out there, Bob Thornton, and answer for the sins done in the body." The story goes on, and it intercalates "fie, fie, on man." Thornton stands forth shrieking for the said mercy. "Was not you, sir, last night, of the time of the past world, in the inn kept by Sandy Morren, in the town called Bonnie Dundee--bonnie in all save its sin, and its magistracy gone a-begging, and its hemp-spinners,[*] and the effect of Sandy Riddoch's reign--drinking and swearing?" [note *: There is some prevision here which I cannot explain.] "I was." "Then down with you to the pit which has no bottom whatsomever." And Thornton disappears in the hollow not far from where the brick Cradle stands. "Stand forth, Fletcher Read." "Weren't you, sir, art and part in confining in yonder dungeon the poor unfortunate black lady, whereby she was murdered by that villain of an uncle of yours, Fletcher of Lindertes?" "I was." "Down with you to the pit and the lake of brimstone." And down he went into the same valley. "Stand forth, Dudhope." "Were not you, sir, seen, on the 21st of December of the late dynasty of time, in the company of one of these denizens of Rougedom in the Overgate, that disgrace of the last world, for which it has very properly been burnt up like a scroll of Sandy Riddoch's peculations?" "I was." "Then down to the pit." And Dudhope--even he the representative of Graham of opprobrious memory--disappeared. "You're all (cried Maule) like the Lady of Luss's kain eggs, every one of which fell through the ring into the tub, and didn't count." And so on with the rest, till there were no more to go down. Yet the horn sounded again, for Maule was not so drunk that he did not remember there were any more to come; but then, had he not been singing in Sandy Morren's, "Death begone, here's none but souls?" The story goes on. The horn having sounded, there stood forth a figure that did not belong to this crowd of sinners. It was a woman dressed in dark clothes, with a black bonnet, and an umbrella in her hand. How the great God can show his power over the little god, man! The woman was no other than a Mrs. Geddes of Lochee, who, having got a little too much at the Scouring Burn, had, on her way home, slipped into the resting-place of her husband, who had been buried only a week before, and having got drowsy, had fallen asleep on the flat stone which covered him. In a half dreamy state she had seen all this terrible mummery--no mummery to her; for she thought it real: and as every one stood forward by name, she often said to herself, "When will it be Johnnie's turn, poor man? for he was an awfu' sinner; I fear the pit's owre guid for him." But Johnnie was not called. And then she expected her own summons--fell agony of a moment of the expectation of scorching flames to envelope her body, the flesh of which, as she pinched herself, had feeling and sensibility. Then if these great men, whose names she had often heard of, and who, as having white robes, and riches, and honours, might have expected to get to heaven, and yet didn't, what was to become of her, who had only dark garments, and who had been drinking that night at the Scouring Burn? There was no great wonder that Mrs. Geddes was distressed, yea miserable; and when she heard the horn sounded and no one went forward--Johnnie was of course afraid, and was concealing himself--she stood up with her umbrella in her hand. And Maule, now getting terrified through the haze of his drunkenness, cried out, "Who are you?" "Mrs. Geddes, Johnnie Geddes's wife, o' the village o' Lochee, just twa miles frae that sink o' sin, Bonnie Dundee. I hae been a great sinner. I kept company wi' Sandy Simpson when Johnnie was living, and came here to greet owre his grave." "A woman!" cried Maule; "then to heaven as fast as your wings will carry you." And this man, who braved God, shook with terror before a weak woman; and so did all these brave bacchanals, who, on hearing the horn when no more remained to be condemned, thought their false God had called them, and had returned to witness the object of their new-born fear. Hurrying into the hearse, the party were in a few minutes posting to Dundee in solemn silence, where they arrived about two o'clock, not to resume their orgies, but to separate each for his home, with the elements in him of a sense of retribution, not forgotten for many a day. At the long run the story finishes, and the chronicler, lifting up his hands to heaven, cries, "Is there no end, Lord, is there no end to the profanity of man? Lord, why stayeth the hand of vengeance?" If guidman Aminadab had known these things--which he couldn't do, because, like Sir James Colquhoun's last day (of the session), which he wanted the judges to abolish, this last day (of the world) happened after the said Aminadab was in the habit of seeking Mrs. M'Pherson's parlour--he would have had greater deductions from his pleasure; for Aminadab read his Bible, and belonged to the first Secession. And so it was better he didn't, especially on that night when Mrs. M'Pherson had been so extraordinarily condescending to her henchman as to set before him a fine piece of pork, in recognition of his adherence to the resolution of leaving the flesh-pots of Egypt--the old Church. It was a dark night in January. There was a cheerful fire in the neat parlour, and Janet was communicative, if not chatty, in good English, got in George's kitchen at Kew. "I would like all this better," said Aminadab, "if I had not that churchyard to come through; and then there's that fearful-looking Cradle in the hollow, with four lums like the stumpt posts of a child's rocking-bed. What is it, Janet?--it's not a cow-house, nor a henhouse, but a pure dungeon, fearful to free men, who might shudder to be confined in it." "What more?" said Janet. "Do you know anything more, Aminadab?" "Yes; but I am eating Logie's pork, and don't like to say much." "Never mind the pork, man; speak out. Do the folks down in the town say anything, or shake their heads, or point their fingers?" "Well, they say there's a human being confined in it," replied Aminadab. "And so they may, for sounds have been heard coming from the dark hole--ay, and I have heard them myself--deep moans and weeping. I would like to know if there's a secret." "Hush, hush, Aminadab. There is a secret, and you're the only man I would speak of it to." And Mrs. McPherson rose solemnly and locked the door upon herself and her henchman. "You know, Aminadab, that my master came from Bombay some years ago, and brought home with him a black wife. Dear, good soul--so kind, so timid, so cheerful too; but, Heaven help me, what could I do?--for you know Mr. Fletcher is a terrible man. He does not fear the face of clay; and the scowl upon his face when he is in his moods is terrible. I am bound to obey." "But what of her?" said Aminadab. "It's no surely she who is in the horrid hole?" "Never you mind that, but eat your bacon, you fool for stopping me. When I'm stopped, I seldom begin again for a day and night at least." "Something like your master, Janet." "No, Aminadab; I have _a heart_, lad." "That I know, Janet," said Aminadab, with a lump of pork in his mouth; "and--and--it--is--fat--lass." "And the easier swallowed," said she "I meant your heart, Mrs. McPherson. "And I must swallow that too, as it seems to come up my throat and choke me, even as the pork seems to do you. Take time, Aminadab. There's no hurry, man. Ah well, then, we have it all among the servants how Mr. Fletcher got my lady. He was a great man in Bombay--governor, I think, or something near that--and my lady was the only daughter of the Nawab or Nabob of some kingdom near Bombay--I forget the strange Indian name. She was the very petted child of her father; and when Mr. Fletcher saw her, she was running about the palace like a wild, playful creature--I may say, our bonny little roes of the Highland hills, or maybe another creature she used to speak about, I think they call it gazelle, with such wonderful eyes for shining, that you cannot look into them no more you could at the sun. For, oh, Aminadab! they have strange things in these places, which are much nearer the sun than we are here in this old country. But the mighty Nabob was unwilling to give her to the white-faced lover, even though he was the governor of Bombay, forbye having Balinsloe and Lindertes in Scotland too. Maybe he thought a Scotsman could not like a black Indian princess, though she was with her grand shawls about her, and her jewelled turban, and diamonds and pearls, and all that; and maybe, Aminadab, he thought"--and here Janet lowered her husky voice--"that it was just for these fine things he wanted her, rich though he was himself. Yet, strange enough too, the Nabob had promised the man who should marry his daughter the weight of herself in fine Indian gold, weighed in a balance, as her tocher. Heard ye ever the like of a tocher, man?" "That would depend upon her size and weight, Janet, lass. Now, had you a tocher like that, it would be a gey business, I think,--fourteen potato-stones at the very least, I would say, eh?"--and he must get quit of the mouthful before he could finish--"Eh, Janet?" "And if you go on at that rate with my pork, you will not, by-and-by, be much behind me. But, guid faith, Aminadab, I'm not ashamed, lad, of my size. A poor, smoke-dried, shrivelled cook shames her guid savoury dishes, intended to fatten mankind and make them jolly. But you are right about the offer of the Nabob. The creature was small, and light, and lithe, and could not weigh much. But then, think of the jewels! These did not depend upon her weight, but upon their own light. Oh, what diamonds, and rubies, and pearls as big as marbles! I have looked at them till my eyes reeled with the light of them; and no wonder, when I have heard them valued at a hundred thousand guineas--and to think of all that being held in a little box! There is one necklace worth fifteen thousand itself." "And yet a small neck, too, maybe?--'And thou shalt make a necklace to fit her neck,' said the Lord. It would not be half the girth of yours, Mrs. M'Pherson?" "Ay, Aminadab; not a half, nor anything like it. But don't stop me again, lad, or I'll stop the pork. (A pause.) Ah, well, I fear it was the shining jewels, and not the black face, did the business on my master's side. And, of course, he would be all smiles at the Nabob's court; for, Aminadab, my lad, there never was on the face of God's earth a man who could so soon change the horrid dark scowl into the very light of sunshine as Mr. Fletcher. I have seen him, when in company with Kincaldrum, and Dudhope, and Gleneagles, and the rest, laughing till his face was as red as the sun, then, all of a sudden, when some of his moods came over him, turn just like a fiend new come out of--oh, I'll just say it out, Aminadab, though ye be of the Seceders--just hell, lad." "But, good mother Janet--" "Mother your own mother, man, till you be a father, Aminadab. Have I not told you to let me go on? There's no honour in a mother: that sow you are eating was the mother six times of thirteen at each litter; and I think that's about seventy-eight. Mother, forsooth! Ay, and yet you'll see a beggar wretch, clad in tanterwallops--rags is owre guid a word--coming to Logie door, and looking as if she had the right to demand meal from me, merely because she has two at her feet and one in her arms. Such honourable gaberlunzies get no meal from me. My master was keen for the match; but the Nabob was shy of the white face. And here's a curious thing--I got it from my lady herself. She said the Nabob, her papa, as she called him--for, just like us here, they have kindly words and real human feelings--made a bargain with my master, that if he took her away out of India to where the big woman they call the Company lives, he would be kind to her, and '_treat her as he would do a child which is rocked in a cradle_.'" "Better than Naomi's wish," said Aminadab; "'And the Lord grant ye find rest in the house of thy husband.'" "That bargain they made him sign with blood drawn just right over his heart; and the Nabob signed, too, for the weight of gold and the jewels. Then came the marriage. Such a day had not been witnessed in Bombay for years, if ever, when a great son of the big woman was to be married to the daughter of a Nawab. All the great men of Bombay, and the rich Parsees, she called them, were at the king's court, and the little princes round about for hundreds of miles, and all the ministers of Indian state,--for you must know that the marriage was in the English fashion, as the Nawab thought he could bind the bridegroom best in that way. Then the grand feast, and such dancing, and deray, and firing of cannons, and waving of flags, was never seen!" "'And all Israel shouted with a great shout, so that the earth rang again.'" "Just so, guid auld Burgher lad," rejoined Mrs. M'Pherson. "They had only been a few months married, when Mr. Fletcher's health having failed him,--and surely his liver is rotten to this day, if not his heart too,--he came home with his wife, and bought this bonnie place. She brought with her a squalling half-and-half thing,--there he's at the door this moment." By-and-by, "My little prince (she cried), go to Aditi--Ady, we call her--that's the black ayah my lady brought home with her." "That will be another wife, I fancy," said Aminadab. "They have all two or three wives in the East, haven't they? Guid faith, ane's mair than eneugh here, if the Nawab's daughter's in her cradle." "No, no, no, ye fool." "'And I shall cut off the multitude of No,' Ezekiel thirtieth, fifteen." "An ayah is a servant; and Ady's a good black soul as ever foolishly washed her face when there's no occasion for the trouble. And yet these black creatures are for ever washing themselves. They wash before breakfast and after breakfast, before dinner and after dinner, before supper and after supper, but the never a bit whiter they are that ever I could see." "Yea, they might save themselves a great deal of trouble," said Aminadab. "But they won't," rejoined Janet. "We have been tortured with their washings. Sometimes, when angry, I say to Ady, Can't you go down to the _Scouring Burn_?" "'And wash thyself in the brook Cherith, which is before Jordan.'" "But she says it's Brahma that bids her--that's their biggest god; and this Brahma is a trouble to us too. It seems he is everywhere; and Ady seeks him on Balgay Hill and in the churchyard o' nights, when the moon's out; thereafter coming in with those eyes of hers like flaming coals, darting them on us, who don't believe in Brahma, as if we were the real heathens, and not she and her mistress." "'And thou shalt not erect a temple to Dagon, but cut him down to the stumps,'" said Amimadab. "Hush, hush, man. Our servants are all in terror. They say that Ady is right, for that they have seen him in about the skirts of Balgay woods, and down in the hollow of the ravine, moving about like a spirit of darkness, with something white round his head, and a wide cloak wrapped about him." Aminadab had just taken up a large tankard of ale, wherewith he intended to make a clean sweep of his hearty supper down his throat; but he paused, laid down the tankard, turned pale, shook, and looked wistfully into the face of his chieftainess. Nor did he speak a word, because some idea had probably magnetized his tongue at the wrong end, and the other would not move. "Ady says, and so do the servants, that he has no shadow; and we should think he shouldn't, because our ghosts hereaway have none that ever I heard of. But that's a lie of their foolish religion; for I could swear I one night saw his shadow flit like that of a sun-dial, when the sun's in a hurry to get the curtains round his head, away past the east end of the house, and disappear in a moment. But I'll tell you what, Aminadab, he may, like our spirits, be a shadow himself. I could hardly speak for fear, though five minutes before I had as good a tankard of that Logie-brewed as you have before you; but I got my tongue through the ale at the other end o't, and cried out with Zechariah, wherein I was something like you, Aminadab, 'Ho, ho, come forth, and flee from the land of the north.'" "That would stump his Dagonship," said Aminadab, with an effort to be cheerful in spite of the foresaid idea, whatever it was. "Ay," he continued, after drinking off the tankard, and getting courage and wit at same time, "a line from the Bible is just like a rifle-shot in the hinder-end of these false gods. They can't stand it nohow." "And you've stumpt me," replied the cook, "with the chopping-knife of your folly, so that I don't know where to find my legs again. It was a year after he came to Logie before another half-and-half was born--a boy too; and then there came a change over Mr. Fletcher's mind. There's something strange about those English that live long in India. I've noticed it when I was in London, in George's house; but it's all from the liver," continued the cook. "First grilled upon the ribs, then cooled with champagne, then healed up with curry, chiles, and ginger. No wonder the devil gets into the kitchen, where a dish like that is waiting him. Then they're so proud and selfish, and fond of themselves and their worthless lives." "'Skin for skin, yea, all that they have, will they give for their lives.' So the devil said of him of Uz." "But you see it's all in the liver," continued the cook. "Aditi came to me one day, and said, 'De 'Gyptians in India tink body divided into sixteen parts, with God to each part! he! he! Janette!' and the black creature laughed. Then I say, the liver of an Englishman, after he comes from India, is the devil's part; and so it was with Mr. Fletcher. He began first to interfere with Kalee's religion. 'Oh, terrible, Janette!' cried Ady, on another day; 'master cut off head of Kartekeya's peacock, and smashed de tail of Garoora.' On another day, 'Right eye of elephant head of Ganeso knocked into de skull.' Another day, this time in tears, weeping awfully, 'Oh, Janette! tail of holy cow clean snapt over de rump!'" "All right," said Aminadab of the first Secession. "'And I will cause their images to cease out of Noph.'" "Ay, but I am 'wide,'" continued the cook. "Three feet and a half across the bosom," said Aminadab, who was still in his reverie, with the secret idea still exercising a power over him, even after the tankard of ale. "Wide in my mind and charities, ye fool, man," continued she, not disinclined this time to laugh; for she was proud of being jolly in the person. "I felt for poor Kalee. She wept incessantly at the loss of the cow's tail, and asked me if I had seen it, nay, implored me like a worshipper to try to recover it for her. I said, God forgive me, that I had seen it in the dung-pit, and that George had carted it away. 'And didn't know de value!' cried Ady. 'Worth de necklace of diamonds;' and both she and Kalee broke out into such a yell as made the house ring. Yet with all this, Kalee still loved the gloomy man. She would throw her jewelled arms about his neck, and hang upon him, with her feet off the ground, so little, light, and lithe. She was so like a sapling, you could have bent her any way. And when the love was in her heart, and it was never absent, she was really bonny. Our eyes hereaway are mere cinders to these glowing churley bits of flaming sulphur; and then that strange look of the shining face, just as if she yearned to enter into his very soul,--ay, as the souls of these black creatures go up and form a part of Brahma's spirit, that's all over the earth." "All art," cried Aminadab, getting impatient of Janet's eloquence--eloquence, I say; for Janet was a superior woman, and, though a cook, a natural genius. "All art. 'And he made her to use enchantments, and deal with familiar spirits and wizards,'" "No, no, man, it was all real nature. But it wasna real nature made him throw the poor black soul away, whose gold and jewels he had bartered his white, I should say yellow, rotten-livered body for. Ay, if she had been a man, I would have liked her better than him; for, as I hate the skin of an old hen when the fat becomes rancid and golden, so do I hate a yellow-faced man, with the devil sitting gnawing at his liver." "The reason the devil's so bitter," said Aminadab. "Ay, if you were to try a beef-steak off his rump or spare-rib, ye'll find it more like the absynth I use in the kitchen than the flesh of a capon or three-year old stot." "Yea, I would be like unto him who was made to 'suck honey out of the living rock.'" "The cruel man threw her away from him, just as if her tocher had been the weight of herself in copper, instead of gold. And oh! it was so easily done; for the creature was not only, as I have said, light, but she had such a touchiness when her glancing eye saw that her love was not returned by him she loved beyond all the earth, that you would have thought she shrunk all up into a tiny child, couring in the corner of the big drawing-room, so like a wounded bird." "Yaw-aw-aw," yawned the Seceder, half asleep. "'And he gave up the ghost in the room, while he sought his meat to relieve his soul.'" "Asleep and dreaming," cried Mrs. M'Pherson, who had got into the very spirit of description. "Away to the Scouring Burn, and never show your face here again." But Aminadab soon pacified the wide-souled and wide-bodied cook, who, being of his own persuasion, really loved the man. Yes, she was a Seceder from the old faith; and such a Seceder! No wonder there was a blank among the congregation of mere bodies. It was now well on to twelve, and Aminadab had that Cradle to pass, and the kirkyard to get through; all, too, with that idea in his head to which we have alluded, and which, we may as well tell, was no other than a vivid recollection of having seen this Brahma on a prior night. He had discharged the notion at the time as an illusion, though in general he had little power over his supernatural fears, which were to him not indeed supernatural, but very natural; so much so, as we have said, that a mere inanimate and dead, very dead burying-place, had been more than once the means of cutting him out of a savoury piece of pork, and a good Logie-brewed tankard. It was the allusion made by Janet that recalled the suspicion that he had seen "something." Ah, "something!" what a pregnant vocable--so mysterious, so provocative of curiosity--an "it!"--of all the words in our language, the most suggestive of a difference from the real being of flesh and blood, carrying a name got at the baptismal font, whereby it shall be known and pass current like a counter. And is it not at best only a counter, yea, a counterfeit? We are only to each other as signs of things which are not seen; and yet we laugh when we hear the "it," as if it might not be the very thing of which we are one of the signs! Is it not thus that we are all humbugged in this world of ours? For we take the sign for the thing; yea, talk to the sign, and love it, or hate it, or worship it--all the while being as ignorant as mules, "ne pictum quidem vidit;" the very sign may be as far from the reality, as in philosophy we see it every day. And thus, all wandering and groping in the dark, the blind leading the blind, we screech like owls at a spark of light from the real fountain beyond Aldebaran. And the owls were more busy than pleasant that night in the deep woods of Balgay Hill. It was a sign that the moon was not kindly to their heavy eyes. The scene, as Aminadab issued from the postern, might have been felt as beautiful, from the very awe which it inspired. But Aminadab was no lover of Nature, especially if he saw in her recesses any hiding-places for such beings as Brahma, more mysterious to him from knowing nothing at all about him, except that he was some Ashtoreth, or Chemosh, or Milcom, in a new form, let loose from hell, to disturb the pure souls of Seceders destined for heaven. The full moon fell on the hollow in the hills, surmounted by the dark woods of Balgay right aface of him, the house of Logie behind, and the declinations on either side, in one of which lay the little Golgotha. There, in the midst of the hollow, stood, grim and desolate, the dark brick-built Cradle, casting its shadow to the south; the four-corner prominences shooting out like horns, and so unlike the habitation of a human being, yea, unlike any composition of brick and lime ever reared by the hand of a genius for house-making. The shadow lay on the grass like those ghastly sun-pictures so called, yet more like moon-born things; and then the solemn silence, only relieved to be deepened by the occasional to-hoo! was oppressive to him, as if a medium for some footsteps to startle him into superstition. Yet he was drawn towards the horrid dungeon in spite of his very self. Janet's story would come at last, he thought, to a termination which would justify his own suspicions. And even there before him was evidence in the same direction; for having thrown himself, as if by an effort, into the shade of the dungeon, he could see beyond its verge, and by, as it were, looking round the corner, the body of the dark-faced Aditi. She had, no doubt, come stealthily from the house, and was postured in an attitude far deeper in humiliation and adjuration than we practise in our land. Her face was covered by her hands; for, in truth, she could see nothing through these mere light-permitting slips of a brick's width, wherewith this horrible hole was supplied, as if by a relaxation of severity in its last stage of perfect inhumanity. No, nothing could be seen, but something might be heard; yea, the most piteous moans that ever burst from an oppressed heart, and yet so soft, so uncomplaining, as if the sufferer found no fault with aught in the world but herself. Then Aditi's sounds were something like responses, rising as the internal sounds rose, and as they died away--a jabbering wail of an Eastern tongue. Aminadab, blunt though he was, and fonder of pork than poetry, and of scriptural quotations--which he had always at his tongue's end for conclaves of weavers--than impassioned sentiments, rising at the inspiring touch of this strange world's endless and ever-occurring occasions, was impressed. He looked over the dark abode, up at the moon, then at the prostrate Ady, and thought of the distance between that prisoner and the gay palace where she was brought up, with its paradise of flowers, and aromas, and singing birds of gold and azure--far away, far away. And then that blood-written oath--oh, so literally fulfilled and obeyed! But the thought was evanescent from very fear. Nor was his nervousness unjustified; for, even as he turned his head, he saw a figure wrapped up in a dark cloak, and surmounted by a white coil of pure linen, as he thought, emerging from the clump of thick trees that stood on the north end of the burying-ground. The figure, having run as it were in fear so far forward, no sooner saw the projecting head of Aminadab, than it turned and retreated. At the same instant Ady rose, as if disturbed, and ran to the house. Yet the moaning did not cease. It seemed interminable; or, if to be terminated by the absence of Ady, the sufferer did not know she was gone. And oh, these wails!--Aminadab fled and took them along with him, nor did they ever leave him. Even when he went to bed they were fresh upon his ear, claiming precedence to the vision of his eye; though that, too, asserted its authority as something miraculous--whether the Eastern mystery itself, or some tutelary genius brought from heaven by the shriek of man's cruelty. Nor could he rest for the thought that, humble as he was, he was surely taken there that he might go to the powers of earth to ask them to aid the powers of heaven. Why, that Cradle had been built within the limits of civilisation. Even the mason was known: the bricks were not Egyptian bricks, nor the mortar foreign, nor the wood a tree from the heart of Africa; and yet, why was it there--nay, why was the use of it not inquired into? If Jeshurun had waxed fat and kicked against the Lord of heaven, was there no lord of earth that could tame this yellow-livered worshipper of Baal, who yet was received among the chiefs of Israel to drink the pure juice of the grape, and make a god of his belly, and to sing obscene songs? Even in that house there was riot and debauchery upon the spoils of that woman, encaged like a beast, and at the world's end from her natural protectors. Yea, our good soul Aminadab became bold. He was privileged, if not called. But then that Brahma--that incarnation of a power confessed by millions on millions of people possessed of souls, and therefore something in God's reckonings! It was no illusion. Twice he had seen the mysterious being. How did he come hither to the Ultima Thule, as it were, of the known world? Why did he come just at a juncture when the daughter of a king of his own favoured people was immured in a dungeon, and calling for his help? Because he must have known that a spark of the spirit that belonged to him, and would go back to him, was threatened to be extinguished by power in a land owing no obedience to him. But didn't that same moon shine on the children of Brahma as well as on the children of Christ? and were there no powers in heaven but what we confessed? How philosophical all this in a Scouring Burn weaver in hysterics! Yet there are greater men than Aminadab who could not explain such things. Ah, well; to the honour of poor Aminadab, it was for once not pork he sought at Logie House. Next night at ten he was in the parlour; but how did he get there, and Brahma in these very woods? Aminadab very probably could not have told himself; yet there he was. "Come again so soon, Aminadab?" "Ay," replied he. "'Though a man may fall, he may be raised up again.' I stumbled in front of my friend, but she will not kick me; yea, she will lift me up." "Be silent," she said. "You were seen last night near the Cradle, where no one dare approach. None of the servants go there save me; and even Ady, if she goes, it is by stealth. Ah, you know something now; but there's one thing you don't know, and that is, that rich men can pay watchers to discover those who search into their iniquities." "Whatever I know," said Aminadab, "I am ignorant of this: why that dungeon, containing a human being, can keep its place at the distance of a mile from a town with 30,000 inhabitants." "But they don't know it, lad. Be you quiet, and pick that leg of a chicken; that is better than the knowledge that kills. There is not one of the magistrates would dare to touch a hair on Mr. Fletcher's head, no, for all that lies in the power of Brahma." "But why do you keep the secret? 'The steps of a good woman are ordered by the Lord;' but does He order you to step to the Cradle?" "I do it for good," said she, "because I can soften griefs that are unbearable; and cooks have something in their power. But if I were to say a word to Fletcher, I would be turned away, and another might treat the prisoner worse." "But why would not the powers interfere?" "Because bailies love a dinner and fine wines; and it is easier to wink than think, and easier to think than get themselves out of trouble by acting on their thoughts. Will that satisfy you? It is a strange business; but the world's a strange place, and strange men and women live therein. Meat and drink and honour are better than wisdom. Look to your plate, Aminadab. Oh! I wish I knew less; but I saw what was coming when I saw George Cameron begin to build what he said was to be like a cradle. Did I not recollect what Kalee told me about the blood-bond? Did we not all witness the growing gloom gathering day by day over his face? Then separate beds. Then no more companionship, out or in. The gloom for ever, and the tears of Kalee for ever and ever, and the terror and anguish of poor soul Aditi! Ah! yes; but he never struck her, never upbraided her; and at length she shrunk from him as if from a serpent. And this he could not bear: it made his dun-yellow black, Aminadab! Then, when the Cradle was finished, and a truckle and a table and a chair were put in, he called me to him, and said, with a horrid smile on his face, 'M'Pherson, you are a Highlander, and staunch to your master. I am true to my word. Yes, I signed a bond, when I married Kalee, that I would treat her as a father would a child whom he rocked in a cradle. I have obeyed. Kalee goes into the Cradle to-night. You are to give her child's food; but you cannot rock the Cradle. Let the winds which drive in past Balgay woods do that if they can. My honour is pure. Swear to obey me.' "I could not say no, and look on that face. Kalee has been in that dungeon, fed by me, and has never seen her children for a whole year." "The vengeance of the Lord hangeth over the wicked by a burnt thread," said Aminadab. "Yes, who was to know that her own protector, even the great spirit of her land, was to come here to help her? He was seen last night again! He wanders about and about--flits hither and thither. He needs no rest--no food. He is independent of rain, and wind, and thunder, and storms." "But he does not help her," said Aminadab. "His time is coming. Kalee is dying." "Dying!" "Ay, dying. Then Brahma will claim that which is a part of himself, and then will be the time of his return to his chosen people." "Horrible!" ejaculated Aminadab. The chicken stood untasted. "Does Mr. Fletcher know this?" "Why, to be sure, haven't I told him? But may not a child die in its own cradle, and the father continue feasting with the lords and the lairds, drinking and swearing, and debauching, when he knows that his honour is discharged,--ay, and the blood-bond paid?" "And the body, when she dies--" "Will be in Logie burying-ground; ay, and strange people from the East, a long way beyond where our sun rises, with black faces and bleeding hearts, will come and bend over the little grave, and weep for the daughter of their prince. Ah! Aminadab, grief makes a learned woman of me, a poor servant; but I cannot save Kalee, none can save her now. Consumption has set in; and bad air, and a rejected love, and a mother's yearning will do the work. I was with her now with my cruse--all alone with her; for no one dare approach. She knows she's dying. She asked for the children-- "'Will you not let me see my boys?' "I shook my head. "'And will Fletcher not see me before I die, to receive my last kiss?' "I shook my head. "'And Aditi, who will return to my father's palace, is she to be kept from me to the end?' "I shook my head." "And will no one watch?" said Aminadab. "Yes, I will watch all night; but it will be unknown to Fletcher. No one can speak to him now. He goes hither and thither. He has no rest yet; the gloom is deeper than ever." "Horrible mystery!" again ejaculated Aminadab. "But 'the wicked shall perish; they shall consume into smoke, they shall consume away.'" Occasions make heroes of very ordinary men; and Aminadab felt that he could be one of these worthies that night. He soon left after these words of Janet; but he was now more upon his guard against watchers. Perhaps Janet had mentioned them to induce him to avoid too minute an examination where there was danger of another kind; and this rather encouraged him. The only fault of his heroism was the strange feelings which arose in his mind when he thought of the Indian spirit. Somehow this vision could not be got rid of, or analyzed by the small philosophy he had. As for Fletcher, he viewed him merely as a human monster,--no uncommon phenomenon at a time when, although there might not be any greater evil than now, men were more reckless of consequences, more dead to shame, less under the control of public opinion, probably not less under the fear of God. He cleared the wicket. It was again a bright moonlight night. He passed again the Cradle, and was bold enough to listen again. Alas! the wail was weaker, the bright lamp of these eyes was fast losing its oil. So he thought; for he could hear only now and then a very inaudible sob, and occasionally a very weak wail, shrill and yet low. He could not stay, for Janet would be coming stealthily with her cruse,--yes, her cruse; for, so far as he could see by the narrow slips, all was darkness around the dying stranger, in a proud land of liberty and humanity--the proudest seen on the face of the earth, or perhaps ever will be seen; yet by-and-by to have more reason to be proud--by-and-by, when Kalee would be asleep in the bosom of Brahma, her body only the monument of the shams of that proud land of liberty and humanity, and the true religion of God's covenant from the beginning. Retreating quickly, he proceeded over the green hollow, and got into the skirt of Balgay wood. There he stood patiently, still fearful, but with the new-born zeal of curiosity and sympathy. By-and-by he saw Janet come out with her cruse, and walk as lightly as her huge body would permit. She looked round and round, as if in great fear of Fletcher, probably of the Indian spirit; for it was clear she had a conviction of the truth of the real presence of Brahma. All is still; no Fletcher seen, nor watch. But in about half an hour the dark Aditi came trotting out, clothed in pure white, looking also fearfully about her; but it was more clear that she expected some one. Stranger still, she made for the very spot where Aminadab was watching. He studied her direction to the breadth of a line, and stepped aside. There was plenty of foliage and some thick bushes. He threw himself down on the ground, and heard the sighing of Ady as if almost close to him. By-and-by she was joined by the mystery--yes, that being who had so long been the terror of Logie House to all but the master, who knew nothing of him. He was there; but Aminadab could not see more of him than his head, which was, as usual, enveloped in the same white cloth. He heard their conversation, of which not a word could he understand. But oh, that natural language of the heart, which is the same in all lands, and will be the same in heaven--those quick utterances, deep sighs, shakings of the frame as if the beings were convulsed! It seemed to be the last meeting; it was so eloquent of heart loves, so mysterious in religious aspirations. But here occurred a strange incident. Even at the distance where they were, a loud, shrill scream was heard, as if the last of expiring human nature. How it shook these two, till the very leaves rustled, and the night-hawks and owls screamed their terrible discord! All was still again. The male ran, as if moved by the frenzy of a dervish, forward towards the Cradle; then, as he saw the door half open, retreated. Aminadab could make nothing of the figure, beyond the conviction that it was the same he had seen by fitful glimpses before. It was altogether indescribable, unlike anything he had ever seen or read of. On his return, Ady met him and caught him in her arms, as if to lead him back to the wood. Yet he was fitful, anxious, and flighty, as if he knew not where to go, or what to do. Again the rapid whisperings, so sharp and intense as sometimes to appear like hissing of strange foreign creatures. It seemed as if his soul was on fire, and urged him he knew not whither. At that instant the door of the Cradle opened altogether, and Janet came out with the light. Ady darted forward like a moonbeam in the midst of another moonbeam, and seen by its superior whiteness. An instant served for some communication between her and Janet. Then a shrill scream from Ady, a running hither and thither on the part of the male figure, and at length, darting into the wood, he disappeared. Aminadab now saw Janet go into the house. Was all over? Aminadab could not tell. Ady still hung round the Cradle. She even circled it like a hovering ghost. At length she neared the door. The key had been left, and she entered. Now was Aminadab's time. He rushed forward, opened the door, and entered the dungeon. A terrible sight met his eyes--sight! yes; even in the comparative darkness, there was enough in the small glimmer of moonlight entering by one of the holes to carry objects to eyes that would have pierced the deepest gloom. There is said to be no darkness in the world sufficient to conceal objects entirely; but here there was, in addition to the attenuated beam, the white dress of Ady, and the bed where Kalee lay. Janet had described it, and the table and the chair: what more than the bare walls was there to describe? Nothing. On that bed, covered by a thin white cloth, lay this Indian princess dead, with Ady hanging over her, and pulling at her, and offering to her blank eyes, once like diamonds, a small figure of an Indian god. Then the groans and suppressed shrieks of the faithful soul, as she still pulled and shook the corpse, as if she could get from it one last look directed to the wooden figure. Too late! Kalee had died, not only away from her people, but away from the gods of her people. All of a sudden the ayah ceased her endeavours, and directed her eagle eye, suffused with tears, up to the roof. Quick words followed the look. Aminadab could not understand them, but the motions and aspirations convinced him that she cried, "There, there, Brahma; there she goes, to be of thy eternal and infinite soul, from which she came, and to which she flies." Then, suddenly, she rushed out of the dungeon. Aminadab looked after her. She did not go to Logie House, but in the direction of the wood, whither the indescribable figure had gone. Aminadab heard no more, scarcely saw more, if it was not the corpse lying before him. He was afraid of Janet, more of Fletcher, who might now at length come to pass his eyes over the body in the Cradle, where he was to cherish her as a father cherisheth his child; yet he would look, and look again. How shrivelled that face of darkness, yet how calm and loving-like; as if, even in the midst of the agony of the last hour, it smiled love to her destroyer! By-and-by a light again approached. It was Janet with a white sheet. "You here! Good heavens! Away, away! Fletcher is to look at her; yes, he is to look at her in the cradle he promised her. Away! no more." "I saw Brahma," said Aminadab; "yes, true Brahma, Brahma!" "Fool, fool! Man, I only told you it was Brahma to keep you from the Cradle for your own safety." "Then who was the strange being?" "I dare not tell you that; but I fear Ady's away with him, without hat, or cloak, or box, or supper." "To where?" "Nor that, lad. But I fear you will hear more of this Scotch tragedy some day. Get you gone; there is Fletcher." Aminadab obeyed. And Fletcher did see her. Some time after the departure of Aminadab he crossed the green. It seemed that night he had refrained from company, not through penitence, or any motive that man could divine in the nature of the man. Strangely-formed beings do things which do not seem to belong to their natures or to human nature, and it is this that makes them strange. Before he entered this, not, alas! Domdaniel, he called Janet to the door. He wanted to be alone. She gave him the cruse; and with the old gloom upon his face, perhaps he wanted to test his courage. It could not be that he wanted to look once more on the face of the mother of his children; nor that he felt now that there had been one in the world who really did love him, as few women have ever loved. Then man measures woman's love by his own; but when was man's heart stirred by nature's strongest passion like that of devoted woman? while now the world did not contain one heart that was moved to him by anything stronger than dithyrambic delirium. Who knows? But there was Fletcher looking on the corpse of his wife, and waving over her face the light of the small cruse he held in his hand! Was he moved, as he saw the still, death-bound features, that once could not contain the expression which the leaping heart, with that burning fire in it of that land of the sun, tried in vain to force into it; the eye, too, that flashed and leapt as never is seen in our country of humid fogs, stifling the inborn heat and blearing the vision; and those arms that entwined him so as the vine holds the olive in its grasp, as if it would give the juice which fires and inebriates, for the oil that calms, and fattens, and sustains? All over that lithe body which enabled her, when he saw her first in the land of her fathers, to bound and flee as if she had wings, and these beautiful as the monaul's, ay, and enabled her, too, to play round him in that Eastern gaiety which had charmed him, if he ever loved her, and even for a time made his home like Fairydom! Who shall say there was no movement in his stern features, no moisture in his eye, no trembling of the lip, no tremor of the body, as he might have read the last effort of nature in the expression of calm forgiveness or continued affection? Who could read _him_? At midnight, two days after, Kalee slept in Logie kirkyard. There is no stone to point out the grave of the Indian princess, who lies--as becomes, too, in our boasted land of liberty, entitled to her boast in an equality at length, which even pride cannot deny--among the humble artisans and cottars of Lochee. Did Fletcher Read, on that after day, when Panmure blew the white iron trump, not expect to see Kalee rise up and seek judgment on the house of Logie? The blood was hereditary, and the heart that is fed by the blood, and which impels it. If it had not been that Aminadab married the portly Janet, we might have heard no more of the fortunes of this man. But how true Aminadab's quotation, that God's vengeance never sleeps! Where, in all the scathed corpses of heaven's lightning, was there ever one that told its tale like that of Fletcher of Balinsloe, Lindertes, and Logie? He was recalled to India again. "Ay, Aminadab, he was forced to go by the Government; but maybe the Government was only like a thing that is moved by the storm, and cuts in twain, where its own silly power could do nothing. Before he went, he married a beautiful little woman,[*] perhaps the most spirited in the shire, white as Kalee was black, and come, too, of gentle blood. Why did she marry this man? Had she not heard of the fate of Kalee? Had she not seen the Cradle (still standing in the hollow of the hill)? No doubt; but woman will go through worse storms than man's passion to get to the goal of wealth and honour. Then there is a frenzy in woman, Aminadab. She is like the boys, who seek danger for its own sake, and will skim on skates the rim of the black pool that descends from the film of ice down to the bubbling well of death below. Women have an ambition to tame wild men; ay, even wild men have a charm for them, which the tame sons of prudence and industry cannot inspire. So it was: they were married, and he took her to India." [note *: Afterwards, as I have heard, the wife of Milne of Milneford. She lived till nearly a hundred.] "'So the Lord did lead him; and there was no strange god with them.'" "Ay, but there was a God _before_ him, lad." "What mean you, Janet?" "Do you not recollect of Brahma?" "Do not mention that strange figure, Janet. My blood runs cold." Janet laughed. "Runs cold, lad, at what? Brahma was just one of the Nawab's great men, whom he sent over here to watch the fate of his daughter. Why, man, he lodged next door to you, with Mrs. Lyon at the Scouring Burn." "The black man the boys used to run after?" "The very same. He returned with Ady, and was at the court of the Nawab and told all, ay, and more than we knew--that Fletcher would be obliged to visit Bombay again ere long after. He had got this from some of the authorities in England. For many a day did the prince weep for his Kalee; for many a day did he watch for the murderer's arrival, ay, as a tiger of his jungles watches in the night with fiery eyes for a beast even more cruel than himself. He had even all the coast of Coromandel, I think they call it, to give intelligence of the vessel. The very name of the vessel was known; the very paint of its sides, and the flag it bore--so well had he kept up his knowledge of what was going on in England." "Wonderful!" cried Aminadab. "'And the fowler that did slay, falleth into his own net.'" "And a terrible net, with meshes of sharp steel to hold and cut." "Ah!" cried Aminadab, as he rubbed his hands, and chuckled like a big boy who sees the porridge boiling. "You may well be anxious, lad; but you'll have more than you want." "No, unless he is put into a fiery pit and burnt to a cinder, or into a den of tigers, or a nest of hooded snakes, or--" "Peace, lad; better than all. But surely we are forgetting that we are Christians, that we have seen the new light of grace, Aminadab." "Ay, true. Mercy pertaineth to the Lord. We belong to the furnace which trieth gold; not to the refining-pot of the Old Church, which is for silver." "Ah, well! God's judgment was soon executed. The ship was recognised and hailed long before she arrived at Bombay. A crowd of black devils boarded her, seized Fletcher, and dragged him on shore. Not an instant was lost. Trial was a laughter. They danced round in joy, making the very Brahma hear their orgies. Four horses, ropes, victim between two and two, whip, yell, and Fletcher is in four quarters. "Nor did they end here. They had forgotten the white wife. She too--justice demanded it. They did not ask why; but the sailors had suspected what was going on; and when they saw the devils coming back, they put Mrs. Fletcher into a big basket, and hoisted her to the top-mast. The poor woman could see from that height the mangled remains of her husband; but she was an extraordinary woman. She kept her place composedly as she heard the yells of the demons. They could not find her, and went away like wild animals deprived of their bloody prey. The ship went on. Mrs. Fletcher returned safe to Scotland, where she was known as the heroine who had gone through so much for the love of a villain." The story of Fletcher has died away in Angus; but at one time it was in every mouth, and many a head was shaken as the Sunday loiterers from Dundee and Lochee passed by the Cradle in their walks on Balgay Hill. I have heard that it was demolished as a disgrace to Scotland somewhere about 1810 or 1812. The hollow where the ruins stood is quite visible yet, and the old circumambulating ghost, which, by-the-bye, has unfortunately a white face, is not yet laid. THE DEATH OF THE CHEVALIER DE LA BEAUTÉ. It was near midnight, on the 12th of October 1516, when a horseman, spurring his jaded steed, rode furiously down the path leading to the strong tower of Wedderburn. He alighted at the gate, and knocked loudly for admission. "What would ye?" inquired the warder from the turret. "Conduct me to your chief," was the laconic reply of the breathless messenger. "Is your message so urgent that ye must deliver it to-night?" continued the warder, who feared to kindle the fiery temper of his master, by disturbing him with a trifling errand. "Urgent, babbler!" replied the other, impatiently; "to-day the best blood of the Homes has been lapped by dogs upon the street; and I have seen it." The warder aroused the domestics in the tower, and the stranger entered. He was conducted into a long, gloomy apartment, dimly lighted by a solitary lamp. Around him hung rude portraits of the chiefs of Wedderburn, and on the walls were suspended their arms and the spoils of their victories. The solitary apartment seemed like the tomb of war. Every weapon around him had been rusted with the blood of Scotland's enemies. It was a fitting theatre for the recital of a tale of death. He had gazed around for a few minutes, when heavy footsteps were heard treading along the dreary passages, and the next moment Sir David Home entered, armed as for the field. "Your errand, stranger?" said the young chief of Wedderburn, fixing a searching glance upon him as he spoke. The stranger bowed, and replied, "The Regent"------ "Ay!" interrupted Home, "the enemy of our house, the creature of our hands, whom we lifted from exile to sovereignty, and who now with his minions tracks our path like a bloodhound! What of this gracious Regent? Are ye, too, one of his myrmidons, and seek ye to strike the lion in his den?" "Nay," answered the other; "but from childhood the faithful retainer of your murdered kinsman." "My murdered kinsman!" exclaimed Wedderburn, grasping the arm of the other. "What! more blood! more! What mean ye, stranger?" "That, to gratify the revenge of the Regent Albany," replied the other, "my lord Home and your kinsman William have been betrayed and murdered. Calumny has blasted their honour. Twelve hours ago I beheld their heads tossed like footballs by the foot of the common executioner, and afterwards fixed over the porch of the Nether Bow, for the execration and indignities of the slaves of Albany. All day the blood of the Homes has dropped upon the pavement, where the mechanic and the clown pass over and tread on it." "Hold!" cried Home, and the dreary hall echoed with his voice. "No more!" he continued; and he paced hurriedly for a few minutes across the apartment, casting a rapid glance upon the portraits of his ancestors. "By heavens! they chide me," he exclaimed, "that my sword sleeps in the scabbard, while the enemies of the house of Home triumph." He drew his sword, and approaching the picture of his father, he pressed the weapon to his lips, and continued, "By the soul of my ancestors, I swear upon this blade, that the proud Albany and his creatures shall feel that one Home still lives!" He dashed the weapon back into its sheath, and approaching the stranger, drew him towards the lamp, and said, "Ye are Trotter, who was my cousin's henchman, are ye not?" "The same," replied the messenger. "And ye come to rouse me to revenge?" added Sir David. "Ye shall have it, man--revenge that shall make the Regent weep--revenge that the four corners of the earth shall hear of, and history record. Ye come to remind me that my father and my brother fell on the field of Flodden, in defence of a foolish king, and that I, too, bled there--that there also lie the bones of my kinsman, Cuthbert of Fastcastle, of my brother Cockburn and his son, and the father and brother of my Alison. Ye come to remind me of this; and that, as a reward for the shedding of our blood, the head of the chief of our house has been fixed upon the gate of Edinburgh as food for the carrion crow and the night owl! Go, get thee refreshment, Trotter; then go to rest, and dream of other heads exalted, as your late master's is, and I will be the interpreter of your visions." Trotter bowed and withdrew, and Lady Alison entered the apartment. "Ye are agitated, husband," said the gentle lady, laying her hand upon his; "hath the man brought evil tidings?" "Can good tidings come to a Home," answered Sir David, "while the tyrant Albany rides rough-shod over the nobility of Scotland, and, like a viper, stings the bosom that nursed him? Away to thy chamber, Alison; leave me, it is no tale for woman's ears." "Nay, if you love me, tell me," she replied, laying her hand upon his brow, "for since your return from the field of Flodden, I have not seen you look thus." "This is no time to talk of love, Aley," added he. "But come, leave me, silly one, it concerns not thee; no evil hath overtaken the house of Blackadder, but the Homes have become a mark for the arrows of desolation, and their necks a footstool for tyrants. Away, Alison; to-night I can think of but one word, and that is--vengeance!" Lady Alison wept, and withdrew in silence; and Wedderburn paced the floor of the gloomy hall, meditating in what manner he should most effectually resent the death of his kinsman. It was only a few weeks after the execution of the Earl of Home and his brother, that the Regent Albany offered an additional insult to his family by appointing Sir Anthony D'Arcy warden of the east marches, an office which the Homes had held for ages. D'Arcy was a Frenchman, and the favourite of the Regent; and, on account of the comeliness of his person, obtained the appellation of the _Sieur de la Beauté_. The indignation of Wedderburn had not slumbered, and the conferring the honours and the power that had hitherto been held by his family upon a foreigner, incensed him to almost madness. For a time, however, no opportunity offered of causing his resentment to be felt; for D'Arcy was as much admired for the discretion and justice of his government as for the beauty of his person. To his care the Regent had committed young Cockburn, the heir of Langton, who was the nephew of Wedderburn. This the Homes felt as a new indignity, and, together with the Cockburns, they forcibly ejected from Langton Castle the tutors whom D'Arcy had placed over their kinsman. The tidings of this event were brought to the Chevalier while he was holding a court at Kelso; and immediately summoning together his French retainers and a body of yeomen, he proceeded with a gay and a gallant company by way of Fogo to Langton. His troop drew up in front of the castle, and their gay plumes and burnished trappings glittered in the sun. The proud steed of the Frenchman was covered with a panoply of gold and silver, and he himself was decorated as for a bridal. He rode haughtily to the gate, and demanded the inmates of the castle to surrender. "Surrender! boasting Gaul!" replied William Cockburn, the uncle of the young laird; "that is a word the men of Merse have yet to learn. But yonder comes my brother Wedderburn; speak it to him." D'Arcy turned round, and beheld Sir David Home and a party of horsemen bearing down upon them at full speed. The Chevalier drew back, and waiting their approach, placed himself at the head of his company. "By the mass! Sir Warden," said Sir David, riding up to D'Arcy, "and ye have brought a goodly company to visit my nephew. Come ye in peace, or what may be your errand?" "I wish peace," replied the Chevalier, "and come to enforce the establishment of my rights; why do you interfere between me and my ward?" "Does a Frenchman talk of his rights upon the lands of Home?" returned Sir David; "or by whose authority is my nephew your ward?" "By the authority of the Regent, rebel Scot!" retorted D'Arcy. "By the authority of the Regent!" interrupted Wedderburn; "dare ye, foreign minion, speak of the authority of the murderer of the Earl of Home, while within the reach of the sword of his kinsman?" "Ay! and in his teeth dare tell him," replied the Chevalier, "that the Home now before me is not less a traitor than he who proved false to his sovereign on the field of Flodden, who conspired against the Regent, and whose head now adorns the port of Edinburgh." "Wretch!" exclaimed the henchman Trotter, dashing forward, and raising his sword, "said ye that my master proved false at Flodden?" "Hold!" exclaimed Wedderburn, grasping his arm. "Gramercy, ye uncivilised dog! for the sake of your master's head would ye lift your hand against that face which ladies die to look upon? Pardon me, most beautiful Chevalier! the salutation of my servant may be too rough for your French palate, but you and your master treated my kinsman somewhat more roughly. What say ye, Sir Warden? do ye depart in peace, or wish ye that we should try the temper of our Border steel upon your French bucklers?" "Depart ye in peace, vain boaster," replied D'Arcy, "lest a worse thing befall you." "Then on, my merry men!" cried Wedderburn, "and to-day the head of the Regent's favourite, the Chevalier of Beauty, for the head of the Earl of Home!" "The house of Home and revenge!" shouted his followers, and rushed upon the armed band of D'Arcy. At first the numbers were nearly equal, and the contest was terrible. Each man fought hand to hand, and the ground was contested inch by inch. The gilded ornaments of the French horses were covered with blood, and their movements were encumbered by their weight. The sword of Wedderburn had already smitten three of the Chevalier's followers to the ground, and the two chiefs now contended in single combat. D'Arcy fought with the fury of despair, but Home continued to bear upon him as a tiger that has been robbed of its cubs. Every moment the force of the Chevalier was thinned, and every instant the number of his enemies increased, as the neighbouring peasantry rallied round the standard of their chief. Finding the most faithful of his followers stretched upon the earth, D'Arcy sought safety in flight. Dashing his silver spurs into the sides of his noble steed, he turned his back upon his desperate enemy, and rushed along in the direction of Pouterleiny, and through Dunse, with the hope of gaining the road to Dunbar, of which town he was governor. Fiercely Wedderburn followed at his heels, with his naked sword uplifted, and ready to strike; immediately behind him rode Trotter, the henchman of the late earl, and another of Home's followers named Dickson. It was a fearful sight as they rushed through Dunse, their horses striking fire from their heels in the light of the very sunbeams, and the sword of the pursuer within a few feet of the fugitive. Still the Chevalier rode furiously, urging on the gallant animal that bore him, which seemed conscious that the life of its rider depended upon its speed. His flaxen locks waived behind him in the wind, and the voice of his pursuers ever and anon fell upon his ear, like a dagger of death thrust into his bosom. The horse upon which Wedderburn rode had been wounded in the conflict, and, as they drew near Broomhouse, its speed slackened, and his followers, Trotter and Dickson, took the lead in the pursuit. The Chevalier had reached a spot on the right bank of the Whitadder, which is now in a field of the farm of Swallowdean, when his noble steed, becoming entangled with its cumbrous trappings, stumbled, and hurled its rider to the earth. The next moment the swords of Trotter and Dickson were through the body of the unfortunate Chevalier. "Off with his head!" exclaimed Wedderburn, who at the same instant reached the spot. The bloody mandate was readily obeyed; and Home, taking the bleeding head in his hand, cut off the flaxen tresses, and tied them as a trophy to his saddle-bow. The body of the _Chevalier de la Beauté_ was rudely buried on the spot where he fell. A humble stone marks out the scene of the tragedy, and the people in the neighbourhood yet call it "_Bawty's Grave_." The head of the Chevalier was carried to Dunse, where it was fixed upon a spear at the cross, and Wedderburn exclaimed, "Thus be exalted the enemies of the house of Home!" The bloody relic was then borne in triumph to Home Castle, and placed upon the battlements. "There," said Sir David, "let the Regent climb when he returns from France for the head of his favourite; it is thus that Home of Wedderburn revenges the murder of his kindred." THE STORY OF THE PELICAN. Though not so much a tradition as a memory still fresh probably in the minds of some of the good old Edinburgh folks, we here offer, chiefly for the benefit of our young female readers who are fond of a story wherein little heroines figure, as in Béranger's _Sylphide_, an account of a very famous adventure of a certain little Jeannie Deans in our city--the more like the elder Jeannie, inasmuch as they both were concerned in a loving effort to save the life of a sister. Whereunto, as a very necessary introduction, it behoves us to set forth that there was, some sixty years ago, more or less, a certain Mr. William Maconie, who was a merchant on the South Bridge of Edinburgh, but who, for the sake of exercise and fresh air--a commodity this last he need not have gone so far from the Calton Hill to seek--resided at Juniper Green, a little village three or four miles from St. Giles's. Nor did this distance incommode him much, seeing that he had the attraction to quicken his steps homewards of a pretty young wife and two little twin daughters, Mary and Annie, as like each other as two rosebuds partially opened, and as like their mother, too, as the objects of our simile are to themselves when full blown. Peculiar in this respect of having twins at the outset, and sisters too--a good beginning of a contract to perpetuate the species--Mr. Maconie was destined to be even more so, inasmuch as there came no more of these pleasant _deliciae domi_, at least up to the time of our curious story--a circumstance the more to be regretted by the father, in consequence of a strange fancy (never told to his wife) that possessed him of wishing to insure the lives of his children as they came into the world, or at least after they had got through the rather uninsurable period of mere infant life. And in execution of this fancy--a very fair and reasonable one, and not uncommon at that time, whatever it may be now, when people are not so provident--he had got an insurance to the extent of five hundred pounds effected in the Pelican Office--perhaps the most famous at that time--on the lives of the said twins, Mary and Annie, who were, no doubt, altogether unconscious of the importance they were thus made to hold in the world. Yet, unfortunately for the far-seeing and provident father, this scheme threatened to fructify sooner than he wished, if indeed it could ever have fructified to his satisfaction; for the grisly spectre of typhus laid his relentless hand upon Mary when she--and of a consequence Annie--was somewhere about eight years old. And surely, being as we are very hopeful optimists in the cause of human nature, we need not say that the father, as he and his wife watched the suffering invalid on through the weary days and nights of the progress towards the crisis of that dangerous ailment, never once thought of the Pelican, except as a bird that feeds its young with the warm blood of its breast. But, sorrowful as they were, their grief was nothing in comparison with the distress of little Annie, who slipped about listening and making all manner of anxious inquiries about her sick sister, whom she was prohibited from seeing for fear of her being touched by the said spectre; nor was her heart the less troubled with fears for her life, that all things seemed so quiet and mysterious about the house--the doctor coming and going, and the father and mother whispering to each other, but never to her, and their faces so sad-like and mournful, in place of being, as was their wont, so cheerful and happy. And surely all this solicitude on the part of Annie Maconie need not excite our wonder, when we consider that, from the time of their birth, the twin sisters had never been separated, but that, from the moment they had made their entrance on this world's stage, they had been always each where the other was, and had run each where the other ran, wished each what the other wished, and wept and laughed each when the other wept or laughed. Nature indeed, before it came into her fickle head to make two of them, had in all probability intended these little sisters--"little cherries on one stalk"--to be but one; and they could only be said not to be _one_, because of their bodies being two--a circumstance of no great importance, for, in spite of the duality of body, the spirit that animated them was a unity, and as we know from an old philosopher called Plato, the spirit is really the human creature, the flesh and bones constituting the body being nothing more than a mere husk intended at the end to feed worms. And then the mother helped this sameness by dressing them so like each other, as if she wanted to make a _Comedy of Errors_ out of the two little female Dromios. But in the middle of this mystery and solicitude, it happened that Annie was to get some light; for, at breakfast one morning--not yet that of the expected crisis--when her father and mother were talking earnestly in an undertone to each other, all unaware that the child, as she was moving about, was watching their words and looks, much as an older victim of credulity may be supposed to hang on the cabbalistic movements and incantations of a sibyl, the attentive little listener eagerly drank in every word of the following conversation:-- "The doctor is so doubtful," said the anxious mother, with a tear in her eye, "that I have scarcely any hope; and if she is taken away, the very look of Annie, left alone 'bleating for her sister lamb,' will break my heart altogether." "Yes," rejoined Mr. Maconie, "it would be hard to bear; but"--and it was the first time since Mary's illness he had ever remembered the insurance--"it was wise that I insured poor Mary's life in the Pelican." "Insured her life in the Pelican!" echoed the wife in a higher tone. "That was at least lucky; but, oh! I hope we will not need to have our grief solaced by that comfort in affliction for many a day." And this colloquy had scarcely been finished when the doctor entered, having gone previously into the invalid's room, with a very mournful expression upon his face; nor did his words make that expression any more bearable, as he said-- "I am sorry to say I do not like Mary's appearance so well to-day. I fear it is to be one of those cases where we cannot discover anything like a crisis at all; indeed I have doubts about this old theory being applicable to this kind of fever, where the virus goes on gradually working to the end." "The end!" echoed Mrs. Maconie; "then, doctor, I fear you see what that will be." "I would not like to say," added he; "but I fear you must make up your mind for the worst." Now, all this was overheard by Annie, who, we may here seize the opportunity of saying, was, in addition to being a sensitive creature, one of those precocious little philosophers thinly spread in the female world, and made what they are often by delicate health, which reduces them to a habit of thinking much before their time. Not that she wanted the vivacity of her age, but that it was tempered by periods of serious musing, when all kinds of what the Scotch call "auld farrant" (far yont) thoughts come to be where they should not be, the consequence being a weird-like kind of wisdom, very like that of the aged; so the effect on a creature so constituted was just equal to the cause. Annie ran out of the room with her face concealed in her hands, and got into a small bedroom darkened by the window-blind, and there, in an obscurity and solitude suited to her mind and feelings, she resigned herself to the grief of the young heart. It was now clear to her that her dear Mary was to be taken from her; had not the doctor said as much? And then she had never seen death, of which she had read and heard and thought so much, that she looked upon it as a thing altogether mysterious and terrible. But had she not overheard her father say that he had insured poor dear Mary's life with the Pelican? and had she not heard of the pelican--yea, the pelican of the wilderness--as a creature of a most mythical kind, though she knew not aught of its nature, whether bird or beast, or man or woman, or angel? But whatever it might be, certain it was that her father would never have got this wonderful creature to insure Mary's life if it was not possessed of the power to bring about so great a result. So she cogitated and mused and philosophized in her small way, till she came to the conclusion that the pelican not only had the destiny of Mary in its hands, but was under an obligation to save her from that death which was so terrible to her. Nor had she done yet with the all-important subject; for all at once it came into her head as a faint memory, that one day, when her father was taking her along with her mother through the city, he pointed to a gilded sign, with a large bird represented thereon, tearing its breast with its long beak, and letting out the blood to its young, who were holding their mouths open to drink it in. "There," said he, "is the Pelican;" words she remembered even to that hour, for they were imprinted upon her mind by the formidable appearance of the wonderful-looking creature feeding its young with the very blood of its bosom. But withal she had sense enough to know--being, as we have said, a small philosopher--that a mere bird, however endowed with the power of sustaining the lives of its offspring, could not save that of her sister, and therefore it behoved to be only the symbol of some power within the office over the door of which the said sign was suspended. Nor in all this was Annie Maconie more extravagant than are nineteen-twentieths of the thousand millions in the world who still cling to occult causes. And with those there came other equally strange thoughts; but beyond all she could not for the very life of her comprehend that most inexcusable apathy of her father, who, though he had heard with his own ears, from good authority, that her beloved Mary was lying in the next bedroom dying, never seemed to think of hurrying away to town--even to that very Pelican who had so generously undertaken to insure Mary's life. It was an apathy unbecoming a father; and the blood of her little heart warmed with indignation at the very time that the said heart was down in sorrow as far as its loose strings would enable it to go. But was there no remedy? To be sure there was, and Annie knew, moreover, what it was; but then it was to be got only by a sacrifice, and that sacrifice she also knew, though it must of necessity be kept in the meantime as secret as the wonderful doings in the death-chamber of the palace of a certain Bluebeard. Great thoughts these for so little a woman as Annie Maconie; and no doubt the greatness and the weight of them were the cause why, for all that day--every hour of which her father was allowing to pass--she was more melancholy and thoughtful than she had ever been since Mary began to be ill. But, somehow, there was a peculiar change which even her mother could observe in her; for while she had been in the habit of weeping for her sister, yea, and sobbing very piteously, she was all this day apparently in a reverie. Nor even up to the time of her going to bed was she less thoughtful and abstracted, even as if she had been engaged in solving some problem great to her, however small it might seem to grown-up infants. As for sleeping under the weight of so much responsibility, it might seem to be out of the question; and so, verily, it was; for her little body, acted on by the big thoughts, was moved from one side to another all night, so that she never slept a wink, still thinking and thinking, in her unutterable grief, of poor Mary, her father's criminal passiveness, and that most occult remedy which so completely engrossed her mind. But certainly it was the light of morning for which sister Annie sighed; and when it came glinting in at the small window, she was up and beginning to dress, all the while listening lest the servant or any other one in the house should know she was up at that hour. Having completed her toilet, she slipped down stairs, and having got to the lobby, she was provident enough to lay hold of an umbrella, for she suspected the elements as being in league against her. Thus equipped, she crept out by the back door, and having got thus free, she hurried along, never looking behind her till she came to the main road to Edinburgh, when she mounted the umbrella--one used by her father, and so large that it was more like a main-sheet than a covering suitable to so small a personage; so it behoved, that if she met any other "travellers on purpose bent," the moving body must have appeared to be some small tent on its way to a fair, carried by the proprietor thereof, of whom no more could be seen but the two short toddling legs, and the hem of the black riding-hood. But what cared Annie? She toiled along; the miles were long in comparison of the short legs, but then there was a large purpose in that little body, in the view of which miles were of small account, however long a time it might take those steps to go over them. Nor was it any drawback to all this energy, concentrated in so small a bulk, that she had had no breakfast. Was the dying sister Mary able to take any breakfast? and why should Annie eat when Mary, who did all she did--and she always did everything that sister Mary did--could not? The argument was enough for our little logician. By the time she reached, by those short steps of hers, the great city, it was half-past eleven, and she had before her still a great deal to accomplish. She made out, after considerable wanderings, the street signalized above all streets by that wonderful bird; but after she got into it, the greater difficulty remained of finding the figure itself, whereto there was this untoward obstacle, that it was still drizzling in the thick Scotch way of concrete drops of mist, and the umbrella which she held over her head was so large that no turning it aside would enable her to see under the rim at such an angle as would permit her scanning so elevated a position, and so there was nothing for it but to draw it down. But even this was a task--heavy as the mainsheet was with rain, and rattling in a considerable wind--almost beyond her strength; and if it hadn't been that a kindly personage who saw the little maid's difficulty gave her assistance, she might not have been able to accomplish it. And now, with the heavy article in her hand, she peered about for another half-hour, till at length her gladdened eye fell upon the mystic symbol. And no sooner had she made sure of the object than she found her way into the office, asking the porter as well as a clerk where the pelican was to be found,--questions that produced a smile; but smile here or smile there, Annie was not to be beat; nor did she stop in her progress until at last she was shown into a room where she saw, perched on a high stool, with three (of course) long legs, a strange-looking personage with a curled wig and a pair of green spectacles, who no doubt must be the pelican himself. As she appeared in the room with the umbrella, not much shorter or less in circumference than herself, the gentleman looked curiously at her, wondering no doubt what the errand of so strange a little customer could be. "Well, my little lady," said he, "what may be your pleasure?" "I want the pelican," said Annie. The gentleman was still more astonished, even to the extent that he laid down his pen and looked at her again. "The pelican, dear?" "Ay, just the pelican," answered she deliberately, and even a little indignantly. "Are you the pelican?" "Why, yes, dear; all that is for it below the figure," said he, smiling, and wondering what the next question would be. "I am so glad I have found you," said she; "because sister Mary is dying." "And who is sister Mary?" "My sister, Mary Maconie, at Juniper Green." Whereupon the gentleman began to remember that the name of William Maconie was in his books as holder of a policy. "And what more?" "My father says the pelican insured Mary's life; and I want you to come direct and do it, because I couldn't live if Mary were to die; and there's no time to be lost." "Oh! I see, dear. And who sent you?" "Nobody," answered Annie. "My father wouldn't come to you; and I have come from Juniper Green myself without telling my father or mother." "Oh yes, dear! I understand you." "But you must do it quick," continued she, "because the doctor says she's in great danger; so you must come with me and save her immediately." "I am sorry, my dear little lady," rejoined he, "that I cannot go with you; but I will set about it immediately, and I have no doubt, being able to go faster than you, that I will get there before you, so that all will be right before you arrive." "See that you do it, then," said she; "because I can't live if Mary dies. Are you quite sure you will do it?" "Perfectly sure, my little dear," added he. "Go away home, and all will be right; the pelican will do his duty." And Annie being thus satisfied, went away, dragging the main-sheet after her, and having upon her face a look of contentment, if not absolute happiness, in place of the sorrow which had occupied it during all the time of her toilsome journey. The same road is to be retraced; and if she had an object before which nerved her little limbs, she had now the delightful consciousness of that object having been effected--a feeling of inspiration which enabled her, hungry as she was, to overcome all the toil of the return. Another two hours, with that heavy umbrella over head as well as body, brought her at length home, where she found that people had been sent out in various directions to find the missing Annie. The mother was in tears, and the father in great anxiety; and no sooner had she entered and laid down her burden, than she was clasped to the bosom, first of one parent, and then of the other. "But where is the pelican?" said the anxious little maid. "The pelican, my darling!" cried the mother; "what do you mean?" "Oh! I have been to him at his own office at Edinburgh to get him to come and save Mary's life, and he said he would be here before me." "And what in the world put it in your head to go there?" again asked the mother. "Because I heard my father say yesterday that the pelican had insured dear sister Mary's life, and I went to tell him to come and do it immediately; because if Mary were to die, I couldn't live, you know. That's the reason, dear mother." "Yes, yes," said the father, scarcely able to repress a smile which rose in spite of his grief. "I see it all. You did a very right thing, my love. The pelican has been here, and Mary is better." "Oh! I am so glad," rejoined Annie; "for I wasn't sure whether he had come or not; because, though I looked for him on the road, I couldn't see him." At the same moment the doctor came in, with a blithe face. "Mary is safe now," said he. "There has been a crisis, after all. The sweat has broken out upon her dry skin, and she will be well in a very short time." "And there's no thanks to you," said Annie, "because it was I who went for the pelican." Whereupon the doctor looked to the father, who, taking him aside, narrated to him the story, at which the doctor was so pleased that he laughed right out. "You're the noblest little heroine I ever heard of," said he. "But have you had anything to eat, dear, in this long journey?" said the mother. "No, I didn't want," was the answer; "all I wanted was to save Mary's life, and I am glad I have done it." And glad would we be if, by the laws of historical truth, our stranger story could have ended here; but, alas! we are obliged to pain the good reader's heart by saying that the demon who had left the troubled little breast of Mary Maconie took possession of Annie's. The very next day she lay extended on the bed, panting under the fell embrace of the relentless foe. As Mary got better, Annie grew worse; and her case was so far unlike Mary's, that there was more a tendency to a fevered state of the brain. The little sufferer watched with curious eyes the anxious faces of her parents, and seemed conscious that she was in a dangerous condition. Nor did it fail to occur to her as a great mystery as well as wonder, why they did not send for the wonderful being who had so promptly saved the life of her sister. The thought haunted her, yet she was afraid to mention it to her mother, because it implied a sense of danger--a fear which one evening she overcame. Fixing her eyes, now every moment waxing less clear, on the face of her mother-- "Oh mother, dear," she whispered, "why do you not send for the pelican?" In other circumstances the mother would have smiled; but, alas, no smile could be seen on that pale face. Whether the pelican was sent for we know not, but certain it is, that he had no power to save poor Annie, and she died within the week. But she did not die in vain, for the large sum insured upon her life eventually came to Mary, whom she loved so dearly. THE WIDOW'S AE SON. We will not name the village where the actors in the following incidents resided; and it is sufficient for our purpose to say that it lay in the county of Berwick, and within the jurisdiction of the Presbytery of Dunse. Eternity has gathered forty winters into its bosom since the principal events took place. Janet Jeffrey was left a widow before her only child had completed his tenth year. While her husband lay upon his deathbed, he called her to his bedside, and, taking her hand within his, he groaned, gazed on her face, and said, "Now, Janet, I'm gaun a lang and a dark journey; but ye winna forget, Janet--ye winna forget--for ye ken it has aye been uppermost in my thoughts and first in my desires, to mak Thamas a minister; promise me that ae thing, Janet, that, if it be HIS will, ye will see it performed, an' I will die in peace." In sorrow the pledge was given, and in joy performed. Her life became wrapt up in her son's life; and it was her morning and her evening prayer that she might live to see her "dear Thamas a shining light in the kirk." Often she declared that he was an "auld farrant bairn, and could ask a blessing like ony minister." Our wishes and affections, however, often blind our judgment. Nobody but the mother thought the son fitted for the kirk, nor the kirk fitted for him. There was always something original, almost poetical about him; but still Thomas was "no orator as Brutus was." His mother had few means beyond the labour of her hands for their support. She had kept him at the parish school until he was fifteen, and he had learned all that his master knew; and in three years more, by rising early and sitting late at her daily toils, and the savings of his field labour and occasional teaching, she was enabled to make preparation for sending him to Edinburgh. Never did her wheel spin so blithely since her husband was taken from her side, as when she put the first lint upon the rock for his college sarks. Proudly did she show to her neighbours her double spinel yarn--observing, "It's nae finer than he deserves, poor fallow, for he'll pay me back some day." The web was bleached and the shirts made by her own hands; and the day of his departure arrived. It was a day of joy mingled with anguish. He attended the classes regularly and faithfully; and truly as St. Giles's marked the hour, the long, lean figure of Thomas Jeffrey, in a suit of shabby black, and half a dozen volumes under his arm, was seen issuing from his garret in the West Bow, darting down the frail stair with the velocity of a shadow, measuring the Lawnmarket and High Street with gigantic strides, gliding like a ghost up the South Bridge, and sailing through the Gothic archway of the College, till the punctual student was lost in its inner chambers. Years rolled by, and at length the great, the awful day arrived-- "Big with the fate of Thomas and his mother." He was to preach his trial sermon; and where? In his own parish--in his native village! It was summer, but his mother rose by daybreak. Her son, however, was at his studies before her; and when she entered his bedroom with a swimming heart and swimming eyes, Thomas was stalking across the floor, swinging his arms, stamping his feet, and shouting his sermon to the trembling curtains of a four-post bed, which she had purchased in honour of him alone. "Oh, my bairn! my matchless bairn!" cried she, "what a day o' joy is this for your poor mother! But oh, hinny, hae ye it weel aff? I hope there's nae fears o' ye stickin' or using notes!" "Dinna fret, mother--dinna fret," replied the young divine; "stickin' and notes are out o' the question. I hae every word o' it as clink as the A B C." The appointed hour arrived. She was first at the kirk. Her heart felt too big for her bosom. She could not sit--she walked again to the air--she trembled back--she gazed restless on the pulpit. The parish minister gave out the psalm--the book shook while she held it. The minister prayed, again gave out a psalm, and left the pulpit. The book fell from Mrs. Jeffrey's hand. A tall figure paced along the passage. He reached the pulpit stairs--took two steps at once. It was a bad omen; but arose from the length of his limbs--not levity. He opened the door--his knees smote upon one another. He sat down--he was paler than death. He rose--his bones were paralytic. The Bible was opened--his mouth opened at the same time, and remained open, but said nothing. His large eyes stared wildly around. At length his teeth chattered, and the text was announced, though half the congregation disputed it. "My brethren!" said he once, and the whiteness of his countenance increased; but he said no more. "My bre--thren!" responded he a second time; his teeth chattered louder; his cheeks became clammy and death-like. "My brethren!" stammered he a third time emphatically, and his knees fell together. A deep groan echoed from his mother's pew. His wildness increased. "My mother!" exclaimed the preacher. They were the last words he ever uttered in a pulpit. The shaking and the agony began in his heart, and his body caught the contagion. He covered his face with his hands, fell back, and wept. His mother screamed aloud, and fell back also; and thus perished her toils, her husband's prayer, her fond anticipations, and the pulpit oratory of her son. A few neighbours crowded round her to console her and render her assistance. They led her to the door. She gazed upon them with a look of vacancy--thrice sorrowfully waved her hand, in token that they should leave her; for their words fell upon her heart like dew upon a furnace. Silently she arose and left them, and reaching her cottage, threw herself upon her bed in bitterness. She shed no tears; neither did she groan, but her bosom heaved with burning agony. Sickness smote Thomas to his very heart; yea, even unto blindness he was sick. His tongue was like heated iron in his mouth, and his throat like a parched land. He was led from the pulpit. But he escaped not the persecution of the unfeeling titter, and the expressions of shallow pity. He would have rejoiced to have dwelt in darkness for ever, but there was no escape from the eyes of his tormentors. The congregation stood in groups in the kirkyard, "just," as they said, "to hae anither look at the orator;" and he must pass through the midst of them. With his very soul steeped in shame, and his cheeks covered with confusion, he stepped from the kirk door. A humming noise issued through the crowd, and every one turned their faces towards him. His misery was greater than he could bear. "Yon was oratory for ye!" said one. "Poor deevil!" added another, "I'm sorry for him; but it was as guid as a play." "Was it tragedy or comedy?" inquired a third, laughing as he spoke. The remarks fell upon his ear--he grated his teeth in madness, but he could endure no more; and, covering his face with his hands, he bounded off like a wounded deer to his mother's cottage. In despair he entered the house, scarce knowing what he did. He beheld her where she had fallen upon the bed, dead to all but misery. "Oh mother, mother!" he cried, "dinna ye be angry--dinna ye add to the afflictions of your son! Will ye no, mother?--will ye no?" A low groan was the only answer. He hurried to and fro across the room, wringing his hands. "Mother," he again exclaimed, "will ye no speak ae word? Oh, woman! ye wadna be angry if ye kenned what an awfu' thing it is to see a thousan' een below ye, and aboon ye, and round about ye, a' staring upon ye like condemning judges, an' looking into your very soul--ye hae nae idea o' it, mother; I tell ye, ye hae nae idea o't, or ye wadna be angry. The very pulpit floor gaed down wi' me, the kirk wa's gaed round about, and I thought the very crown o' my head wad pitch on the top o' the precentor. The very een o' the multitude soomed round me like fishes!--an' oh, woman! are ye dumb? will ye torment me mair? can ye no speak, mother?" But he spoke to one who never spoke again. Her reason departed, and her speech failed, but grief remained. She had lived upon one hope, and that hope was destroyed. Her round ruddy cheeks and portly form wasted away, and within a few weeks the neighbours, who performed the last office of humanity, declared that a thinner corpse was never wrapt in a winding sheet than Mrs. Jeffrey. Time soothed, but did not heal the sorrows, the shame, and the disappointment of the son. He sank into a village teacher, and often, in the midst of his little school, he would quote his first, his only text--imagine the children to be his congregation--attempt to proceed--gaze wildly round for a moment, and sit down and weep. Through these aberrations his school dwindled into nothingness, and poverty increased his delirium. Once, in the midst of the remaining few, he gave forth the fatal text. "My brethren!" he exclaimed, and smiting his hand upon his forehead, cried, "Speak, mother!--speak now!" and fell with his face upon the floor. The children rushed screaming from the school, and when the villagers entered, the troubled spirit had fled for ever. THE LAWYER'S TALES. THE STORY OF MYSIE CRAIG. In detailing the curious circumstances of the following story, I am again only reporting a real law case to be found in the Court of Session Records, the turning-point of which was as invisible to the judges as to the parties themselves--that is, until the end came; a circumstance again which made the case a kind of developed romance. But as an end implies a beginning, and the one is certainly as necessary as the other, we request you to accompany us--taking care of your feet--up the narrow spiral staircase of a tenement called Corbet's Land, in the same old town where so many wonderful things in the complicated drama--or dream, if you are a Marphurius--of human life have occurred. Up which spiral stair having got by the help of our hands, almost as indispensable as that of the feet, we find ourselves in a little human dovecot of two small rooms, occupied by two persons not unlike, in many respects, two doves--Widow Craig and her daughter, called May, euphuized by the Scotch into Mysie. The chief respects in which they might be likened, without much stress, to the harmless creatures we have mentioned, were their love for each other, together with their total inoffensiveness as regarded the outside world; and we are delighted to say this, for we see so many of the multitudinous sides of human nature dark and depraved, that we are apt to think there is no bright side at all. Nor shall we let slip the opportunity of saying, at the risk of being considered very simple, that of all the gifts of felicity bestowed, as the Pagan Homer tells, upon mankind by the gods, no one is so perfect and beautiful as the love that exists between a good mother and a good daughter. For so much we may be safe by having recourse to instinct, which is deeper than any secondary causes we poor mortals can see. But beyond this, there were special reasons tending to this same result of mutual affection, which come more within the scope of our observation. In explanation of which, we may say that the mother, having something in her power during her husband's life, had foreseen the advantages of using it in the instruction of her quick and intelligent daughter in an art of far more importance then than now--that of artistic, needlework. Nay, of so much importance was this beautiful art, and to such perfection was it brought at a time when a lady's petticoat, embroidered by the hand, with its profuse imitations of natural objects, flowers, and birds, and strange devices, would often cost twenty pounds Scots, that a sight of one of those operose achievements of genius would make us blush for our time and the labours of our women. Nor was the perfection in this ornamental industry a new thing, for the daughters of the Pictish kings confined in the castle were adepts in it; neither was it left altogether to paid sempstresses, for great ladies spent their time in it, and emulation quickened both the genius and the diligence. So we need hardly say it became to the mother a thing to be proud of, that her daughter Mysie proved herself so apt a scholar that she became an adept, and was soon known as one of the finest embroideresses in the great city. So, too, as a consequence, it came to pass that great ladies employed her; and often the narrow spiral staircase of Corbet's Land was brushed on either side by the huge masses of quilted and emblazoned silk that, enveloping the belles of the day, were with difficulty forced up to and down from the small room of the industrious Mysie. But we are now speaking of art, while we should have more to say (for it concerns us more) of the character of the young woman who was destined to figure in a stranger way than in making beautiful figures on silk. Mysie was one of a class: few in number they are indeed, but on that account more to be prized. Her taste and fine manipulations were but counterparts of qualities of the heart--an organ to which the pale face, with its delicate lines and the clear liquid eyes, was a suitable index. The refinement which enabled her to make her imitation of beautiful objects on the delicate material of her work was only another form of a sensibility which pervaded her whole nature--that gift which is only conceded to peculiar organizations, and is such a doubtful one, too, if we go, as we cannot help doing, with the poet, when he sings that "chords that vibrate sweetest pleasures," often also "thrill the deepest notes of woe." Nay, we might say that the creatures themselves seem to fear the gift, for they shrink from the touch of the rough world, and retire within themselves as if to avoid it, while they are only courting its effects in the play of an imagination much too ardent for the duties of life; and, as a consequence, how they seek secretly the support of stronger natures, clinging to them as do those strange plants called parasites, which, with their tender arms and something so like fingers, cling to the nearest stem of a stouter neighbour, and embracing it, even though hollow and rotten, cover it, and choke it with a flood of flowers. So true is it that woman, like the generous vine, lives by being supported and held up; yet equally true that the strength she gains is from the embrace she gives; and so it is also that goodness, as our Scottish poet Home says, often wounds itself, and affection proves the spring of sorrow. All which might truly be applied to Mysie Craig; but as yet the stronger stem to which she clung was her mother, and it was not likely, nor was it in reality, that that affection would prove to her anything but the spring of happiness, for it was ripened by love; and the earnings of the nimble fingers, moving often into the still hours of the night, not only kept the wolf from the door, but let in the lambs of domestic harmony and peace. Would that these things had so continued! But there are other wolves than those of poverty, and the "ae lamb o' the fauld" cannot be always under the protection of the ewe; and it so happened on a certain night, not particularized in the calendar, that our Mysie, having finished one of these floral petticoats on which she had been engaged for many weeks, went forth with her precious burden to deliver the same to its impatient owner, no other than the then famous Anabella Gilroy, who resided in Advocate's Close--of which fine lady, by the way, we may say, that of all the gay creatures who paraded between "the twa Bows," no one displayed such ample folds of brocaded silk, nodded her pon-pons more jauntily, or napped with a sharper crack her high-heeled shoes, all to approve herself to "the bucks" of the time, with their square coats brocaded with lace, their three-cornered hats on the top of their bob-wigs, their knee-buckles and shoe-buckles. And certainly not the least important of those, both in his own estimation and that of the sprightly Anabella, was George Balgarnie, a young man who had only a year before succeeded to the property of Balgruddery, somewhere in the north, and of whom we might say that, in forming him, Nature had taken so much pains with the building up of the body, that she had forgotten the mind, so that he had no more spiritual matter in him than sufficed to keep his blood hot, and enable his sensual organs to work out their own selfish gratifications; or, to perpetrate a metaphor, he was all the polished mahogany of a piano, without any more musical springs than might respond to one keynote of selfishness. And surely Anabella had approved herself to the fop to some purpose; for when our sempstress with her bundle had got into the parlour of the fine lady, she encountered no other than Balgarnie--a circumstance apparently of very small importance; but we know that a moment of time is sometimes like a small seed, which contains the nucleus of a great tree--perhaps a poisonous one. And so it turned out that, while Anabella was gloating over the beautiful work of the timid embroideress, Balgarnie was busy admiring the artist, but not merely--perhaps not at all--as an artist, only as an object over whom he wished to exercise power. This circumstance was not unobserved by the little embroideress, but it was only observed to be shrunk from in her own timid way; and probably it would soon have passed from her mind, if it had not been followed up by something more direct and dangerous. And it was; for no sooner had Mysie got to the foot of the stairs than she encountered Balgarnie, who had gone out before her; and now began one of those romances in daily life of which the world is full, and of which the world is sick. Balgarnie, in short, commenced that kind of suit which is nearly as old as the serpent, and therefore not to be wondered at; neither are we to wonder that Mysie listened to it, because we have heard so much about "lovely woman stooping to folly," that we are content to put it to the large account of natural miracles. And not very miraculous either, when we remember that if the low-breathed accents of tenderness awaken the germ of love, they awaken at the same time faith and trust. And such was the beginning of the romance which was to go through the normal stages,--the appointment to meet again, the meeting itself, the others that followed, the extension of the moonlight walks, sometimes to the Hunter's Bog between Arthur's Seat and Salisbury Crags, and sometimes to the song-famed "Wells o' Weary,"--all which were just as sun and shower to the germ of the plant. The love grew and grew, and the faith grew and grew also which saw in him that which it felt in itself. Nay, if any of those moonlight-loving elves that have left their foot-marks in the fairy rings to be seen near St. Anthony's Well had whispered in Mysie's ear, "Balgarnie will never make you his wife," she would have believed the words as readily as if they had impugned the sincerity of her own heart. In short, we have again the analogue of the parasitic plant. The very fragility and timidity of Mysie were at once the cause and consequence of her confidence. She would cling to him and cover him with the blossoms of her affection; nay, if there were unsoundness in the stem, these very blossoms would cover the rottenness. This change in the life of the little sempstress could not fail to produce some corresponding change at home. We read smoothly the play we have acted ourselves; and so the mother read love in the daughter's eyes, and heard it, too, in her long sighs; nor did she fail to read the sign that the song which used to lighten her beautiful work was no longer heard; for love to creatures so formed as Mysie Craig is too serious an affair for poetical warbling. But she said nothing; for while she had faith in the good sense and virtue of her daughter, she knew also that there was forbearance due to one who was her support. Nor, as yet, had she reason to fear, for Mysie still plied her needle, and the roses and the lilies sprang up in all their varied colours out of the ground of the silk or satin as quickly and as beautifully as they were wont, though the lilies of her checks waxed paler as the days flitted. And why the latter should have been, we must leave to the reader; for ourselves only hazarding the supposition that, perhaps, she already thought that Balgarnie should be setting about to make her his wife--an issue which behoved to be the result of their intimacy sooner or later; for that in her simple mind there should be any other issue, was just about as impossible as that, in the event of the world lasting as long, the next moon would not, at her proper time, again shine in that green hollow, between the Lion's Head and Samson's Ribs, which had so often been the scene of their happiness. Nay, we might say that though a doubt on the subject had by any means got into her mind, it would not have remained there longer than it took a shudder to scare the wild thing away. Of course, all this was only a question of time; but certain it is, that by-and-by the mother could see some connection between Mysie's being more seldom out on those moonlight nights than formerly, and a greater paleness in her thin face, as if the one had been the cause of the other. But still she said nothing, for she daily expected that Mysie would herself break the subject to her; and so she was left only to increasing fears that her daughter's heart and affections had been tampered with, and perhaps she had fears that went farther. Still, so far as yet had gone, there was no remission in the labours of Mysie's fingers, as if in the midst of all--whatever that all might be--she recognised the paramount necessity of bringing in by those fingers the required and usual amount of the means of their livelihood. Nay, somehow or other, there was at that very time, when her cheek was at the palest, and her sighs were at their longest, and her disinclination to speak was at the strongest, an increase of work upon her; for was not there a grand tunic to embroider for Miss Anabella, which was wanted on a given day; and were there not other things for Miss Anabella's friend, Miss Allardice, which were not to be delayed beyond that same day? And so she stitched and stitched on and on, till sometimes the little lamp seemed to go out for want of oil, while the true cause of her diminished light was really the intrusion of the morning sun, against which it had no chance. It might be, too, that her very anxiety to get these grand dresses finished helped to keep out of her mind ideas which could have done her small good, even if they had got in. But at length the eventful hour came when the gentle sempstress withdrew the shining needle, made clear by long use, from the last touch of the last rose; and doubtless, if Mysie had not been under the cloud of sorrow we have mentioned, she would have been happier at the termination of so long a labour than she had ever been, for the finishing evening had always been celebrated by a glass of strong Edinburgh ale--a drink which, as both a liquor and a liqueur, was as famous then as it is at this day. But of what avail was this work-termination to her now? Was it not certain that she had not seen Balgarnie for two moons? and though the impossibility of his not marrying her was just as impossible as ever, why were these two moons left to shine in the green hollow and on the rising hill without the privilege of throwing the shadows of Mysie Craig and George Balgarnie on the grass, where the fairies had left the traces of their dances? Questions these which she was unable to answer, if it were not even that she was afraid to put them to herself. Then, when was it that she felt herself unable to tie up her work in order to take it home, and that her mother, seeing the reacting effect of the prior sleepless nights in her languid frame, did this little duty for her, even as while she was doing it she looked through her tears at her changed daughter? But Mysie would do so much. While the mother should go to Miss Allardice, Mysie would proceed to Miss Anabella; and so it was arranged. They went forth together, parting at the Nether Bow; and Mysie, in spite of a weakness which threatened to bring her with her burden to the ground, struggled on to her destination. At the top of Advocate's Close she saw a man hurry out and increase his step even as her eye rested on him; and if it had not appeared to her to be among the ultimate impossibilities of things, natural as well as unnatural, she would have sworn that that man was George Balgarnie; but then, it just so happened that Mysie came to the conclusion that such a circumstance was among these ultimate impossibilities. This resolution was an effort which cost her more than the conviction would have done, though doubtless she did not feel this at the time, and so with a kind of forced step she mounted the stair; but when she got into the presence of Miss Gilroy, she could scarcely pronounce the words-- "I have brought you the dress, ma'am." "And I am so delighted, Miss Craig, that I could almost take you into my arms," said the lady; "but what ails ye, dear? You are as white as any snow I ever saw, whereas you ought to have been as blithe as a bridesmaid, for don't you know that you have brought me home one of my marriage dresses? Come now, smile when I tell you that to-morrow is my wedding-day." "Wedding-day," muttered Mysie, as she thought of the aforesaid utter impossibility of herself not being soon married to George Balgarnie; an impossibility not rendered less impossible by the resolution she had formed not to believe that within five minutes he had flown away from her. "Yes, Miss Craig, and surely you must have heard who the gentleman is; for does not the town ring of it from the castle to the palace, from Kirk-o'-Field to the Calton?" "I have not been out," said Mysie. "That accounts for it," continued the lady; "and I am delighted at the reason, for wouldn't it have been terrible to think that my marriage with George Balgarnie of Balgruddery was a thing of so small a note as not to be known everywhere?" If Mysie Craig had appeared shortly before to Miss Gilroy paler than any snow her ladyship had ever seen, she must now have been as pale as some other kind of snow that nobody ever saw. The dreadful words had indeed produced the adequate effect, but not in the most common way, for we are to keep in view that it is not the most shrinking and sensitive natures that are always the readiest to faint; and there was, besides, the aforesaid conviction of impossibility which, grasping the mind by a certain force, deadened the ear to words implying the contrary. Mysie stood fixed to the spot, as if she were trying to realize some certainty she dared not think was possible, her lips apart, her eyes riveted on the face of the lady--mute as that kind of picture which a certain ancient calls a silent poem, and motionless as a figure of marble. An attitude and appearance still more inexplicable to Anabella, perhaps irritating as an unlucky omen, and therefore not possessing any claim for sympathy--at least it got none. "Are you the Mysie Craig," she cried, as she looked at the girl, "who used to chat to me about the dresses you brought, and the flowers on them? Ah, jealous and envious, is that it? But you forget, George Balgarnie never could have made _you_ his wife--a working needlewoman; he only fancied you as the plaything of an hour. He told me so himself when I charged him with having been seen in your company. So, Mysie, you may as well look cheerful. Your turn will come next with some one in your own station." There are words which stimulate and confirm; there are others that seem to kill the nerve and take away the sense, nor can we ever tell the effect till we see it produced; and so we could not have told beforehand--nay, we would have looked for something quite opposite--that Mysie, shrinking and irritable as she was by nature, was saved from a faint (which had for some moments been threatening her) by the cruel insult which thus had been added to her misfortune. She had even power to have recourse to that strange device of some natures, that of "affecting to be not affected;" and casting a glance at the fine lady, she turned and went away without uttering a single word. But who knows the pain of the conventional concealment of pain except those who have experienced the agony of the trial? Even at the moment when she heard that George Balgarnie was to be married, and that she came to know that she had been for weeks sewing the marriage dress of his bride, she was carrying under her heart the living burden which was the fruit of her love for that man. Yet not the burden of shame and dishonour, as our story will show, for she was justified by the law of her country--yea, by certain words once written by an apostle to the Corinthians, all which may as yet appear a great mystery; but as regards Mysie Craig's agony, as she staggered down Miss Gilroy's stairs on her way home, there could be no doubt or mystery whatever. Nor, when she got home, was there any comfort there for the daughter who had been so undutiful as to depart from her mother's precepts, and conceal from her not only her unfortunate connection with a villain, but the condition into which that connection had brought her. But she was at least saved from the pain of a part of the confession, for her mother had learned enough from Miss Allardice to satisfy her as to the cause of her daughter's change from the happy creature she once was, singing in the long nights, as she wrought unremittingly at her beautiful work, and the poor, sighing, pale, heart-broken thing she had been for months. Nor did she fail to see, with the quick eye of a mother, that as Mysie immediately on entering the house laid herself quietly on the bed, and sobbed in her great agony, she had learned the terrible truth from Miss Gilroy that the robe she had embroidered was to deck the bride of her destroyer. Moreover, her discretion enabled her to perceive that this was not the time for explanation, for the hours of grief are sacred, and the heart must be left to do its work by opening the issues of Nature's assuagement, or ceasing to beat. So the night passed, without question or answer; and the following day, that of the marriage, was one of silence, even as if death had touched the tongue that used to be the medium of cheerful words and tender sympathies--a strange contrast to the joy, if not revelry, in Advocate's Close. It was not till after several days had passed that Mysie was able, as she still lay in bed, to whisper, amidst the recurring sobs, in the ear of her mother, as the latter bent over her, the real circumstances of her condition; and still, amidst the trembling words, came the vindication that she considered herself to be as much the wife of George Balgarnie as if they had been joined by "Holy Kirk;" a statement which the mother could not understand, if it was not to her a mystery, rendered even more mysterious by a reference which Mysie made to the law of the country, as she had heard the same from her cousin, George Davidson, a writer's clerk in the Lawnmarket. Much of which, as it came in broken syllables from the lips of the disconsolate daughter, the mother put to the account of the fond dreams of a mind put out of joint by the worst form of misery incident to young women. But what availed explanations, mysteries or no mysteries, where the fact was patent that Mysie Craig lay there, the poor heartbroken victim of man's perfidy--her powers of industry broken and useless--the fine weaving genius of her fancy, whereby she wrought her embroidered devices to deck and adorn beauty, only engaged now on portraying all the evils of her future life; and above all, was she not soon to become a mother? Meanwhile, and in the midst of all this misery, the laid-up earnings of Mysie's industry wore away, where there was no work by those cunning fingers, now thin and emaciated; and before the days passed, and the critical day came whereon another burden would be imposed on the household, there was need for the sympathy of neighbours in that form which soon wears out--pecuniary help. That critical day at length came. Mysie Craig gave birth to a boy, and their necessities from that hour grew in quicker and greater proportion than the generosity of friends. There behoved something to be done, and that without delay. So when Mysie lay asleep, with the innocent evidence of her misfortune by her side, Mrs. Craig put on her red plaid and went forth on a mother's duty, and was soon in the presence of George Balgarnie and his young wife. She was under an impulse which made light of delicate conventionalities, and did not think it necessary to give the lady an opportunity of being absent: nay, she rather would have her to be present; for was she, who had been so far privy to the intercourse between her husband and Mysie, to be exempt from the consequences which she, in a sense, might have been said to have brought about? "Ye have ruined Mysie Craig, sir!" cried at once the roused mother. "Ye have ta'en awa her honour. Ye have ta'en awa her health. Ye have ta'en awa her bread. Ay, and ye have reduced three human creatures to want, it may be starvation; and I have come here in sair sorrow and necessity to ask when and whaur is to be the remeid?" "When and where you may find it, woman!" said the lady, as she cast a side-glance to her husband, probably by way of appeal for the truth of what she thought it right to say. "Mr. Balgarnie never injured your daughter. Let him who did the deed yield the remeid!" "And do you stand by this?" said Mrs. Craig. But the husband had been already claimed as free from blame by his wife, who kept her eye fixed upon him; and the obligation to conscience, said by sceptics to be an offspring of society, is sometimes weaker than what is due to a wife, in the estimation of whom a man may wish to stand in a certain degree of elevation. "You must seek another father to the child of your daughter," said he lightly. And not content with the denial, he supplemented it by a laugh as he added, "When birds go to the greenwood, they must take the chance of meeting the goshawk." "And that is your answer?" said she. "It is; and you need never trouble either my wife or me more on this subject," was the reply. "Then may the vengeance o' the God of justice light on the heads o' baith o' ye!" added Mrs. Craig, as she went hurriedly away. Nor was her threat intended as an empty one, for she held on her way direct to the Lawnmarket, where she found George Davidson, to whom she related as much as she had been able to get out of Mysie, and also what had passed at the interview with Balgarnie and his lady. After hearing which, the young writer shook his head. "You will get a trifle of aliment," said he; "perhaps half-a-crown a week, but no more; and Mysie could have made that in a day by her beautiful work." "And she will never work mair," said the mother, with a sigh. "For a hundred years," rejoined he, more to himself than to her, and probably in congratulation of himself for his perspicacity, "and since ever there was a College of Justice, there never was a case where a man pulled up on oath for a promise of marriage admitted the fact. It is a good Scotch law, only we want a people to obey it. But what," he added again, "if we were to try it, though it were only as a grim joke and a revenge in so sad and terrible a case as that of poor Mysie Craig!" Words which the mother understood no more than she did law Latin; and so she was sent away as sorrowful as she had come, for Davidson did not want to raise hopes which there was no chance of being fulfilled; but he knew as a Scotchman that a man who trusts himself to a "strae rape" in the hope of its breaking, may possibly hang himself; and so it happened that the very next day a summons was served upon George Balgarnie, to have it found and declared by the Lords of Session that he had promised to marry Mysie Craig, whereupon a child had been born by her; or, in fault of that, he was bound to sustain the said child. Thereupon, without the ordinary law's delay, certain proceedings went on, in the course of which Mysie herself was examined as the mother to afford what the lawyers call a _semiplena probatio_, or half proof, to be supplemented otherwise, and thereafter George Balgarnie stood before the august fifteen. He denied stoutly all intercourse with Mysie, except an occasional walk in the Hunter's Bog; and this he would have denied also, but he knew that he had been seen, and that it would be sworn to by others. And then came the last question, which Mr. Greerson, Mysie's advocate, put in utter hopelessness. Nay, so futile did it seem to try to catch a Scotchman by advising him to put his head in a noose on the pretence of seeing how it fitted his neck, that he smiled even as the words came out of his mouth-- "Did you ever promise to marry Mysie Craig?" Was prudence, the chief of the four cardinal virtues, ever yet consistent with vice? Balgarnie waxed clever--a dangerous trick in a witness. He stroked his beard with a smile on his face, and answered-- "_Yes, once--when I was drunk_!" Words which were immediately followed by the crack of a single word in the dry mouth of one of the advocates--the word "NICKED." And nicked he was; for the presiding judge, addressing the witness, said-- "The drunkenness may be good enough in its own way, sir; but it does not take away the effect of your promise; nay, it is even an aggravation, insomuch as having enjoyed the drink, you wanted to enjoy with impunity what you could make of the promise also." If Balgarnie had been a reader, he might have remembered Waller's verse-- "That eagle's fate and mine are one, Which on the shaft that made him die Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high." So Mysie gained her plea, and the marriage with Anabella, for whom she had embroidered the marriage gown, was dissolved. How matters progressed afterwards for a time, we know not; but the Scotch know that there is wisdom in making the best of a bad bargain, and in this case it was a good one; for, as the Lady of Balgruddery, Mysie Craig did no dishonour to George Balgarnie, who, moreover, found her a faithful wife, and a good mother to the children that came of this strange marriage. THE TWIN BROTHERS. William Sim was the son of a feuar in the southern part of Dumfriesshire, who, by dint of frugality, had hoarded together from three to four hundred pounds. This sum he was resolved to employ in setting up his son in business; and, in pursuance of this resolution, at the age of fourteen William was bound as an apprentice to a wealthy old grocer in Carlisle; and it was his fortune in a few months to ingratiate himself into the favour and confidence of his master. The grocer had a daughter, who, though not remarkable for the beauty of her face or the elegance of her person, had nevertheless an agreeable countenance, and ten thousand independent charms to render it more agreeable. She was some eighteen months older than William; and when he first came to be an apprentice with her father, and a boarder in his house, she looked upon him as quite a boy, while she considered herself to be a full-grown woman. He was, indeed, a mere boy--and a clownish-looking boy too. He wore a black leathern cap, edged and corded with red, which his mother called a _bendy_; a coarse grey jacket; a waistcoat of the same; and his trousers were of a brownish-green cord, termed _thickset_. His shoes were of the double-soled description, which ought more properly to be called brogues; and into them, on the evening previous to his departure, his father had driven tackets and sparables innumerable, until they became like a plate of iron or a piece of warlike workmanship, resembling the scaled cuirass of a mailed knight in the olden time; "for," said he, "the callant will hae runnin' about on the causeway and plainstanes o' Carlisle sufficient to drive a' the shoon in the world aff his feet." When, therefore, William Sim made his debut behind the counter of Mr. Carnaby, the rich grocer of Carlisle, and as he ran on a message through the streets, with his bendy cap, grey jacket, thickset trousers, and ironed shoes, striking fire behind him as he ran, and making a noise like a troop of cavalry, the sprucer youngsters of the city said he was "new caught." But William Sim had not been two years in Carlisle when he began to show his shirt collar; his clattering brogues gave place to silent pumps, his leathern bendy to a fashionable hat, and his coarse grey jacket to a coat with tails. Moreover, he began to bow and smile to the ladies when they entered the shop; he also became quite a connoisseur in teas and confections; he recommended them to them, and he bowed and smiled again as they left. Such was the work of less than two years; and before three went round, there was not a smarter or a better dressed youth in all Carlisle than William Sim. He became a favourite subject of conversation amongst the young belles; and there was not one of them who, if disengaged, would have said to him, "Get thee behind me." Miss Carnaby heard the conversation of her young companions, and she gradually became conscious that William was not a boy; in fact, she began to wonder how she had ever thought so, for he, as she said unto herself, was "certainly a very interesting _young man_." Within other four years, and before the period of his apprenticeship had expired, William began to repeat poetry--some said to write it, but that was not the fact; he only twisted or altered a few words now and then, to suit the occasion; and almost every line ended with words of such soft sounds as bliss, kiss--love, dove--joy, cloy, and others equally sweet, the delightful meanings of which are only to be met with in the sentimental glossary. He now gave Miss Carnaby his arm to church; and, on leaving it in the afternoons, they often walked into the fields together. On such occasions, "Talk of various kinds deceived the road;" and even when they were silent, their silence had an eloquence of its own. One day they had wandered farther than their wont, and they stood on the little bridge where the two kingdoms meet, about half a mile below Gretna. I know not what soft persuasion he employed, but she accompanied him up the hill which leadeth through the village of Springfield, and they went towards the far-famed Green together. In less than an hour, Miss Carnaby that was, returned towards Carlisle as Mrs. Sim, leaning affectionately on her husband's arm. When the old grocer heard of what had taken place, he was exceedingly wroth; and although, as has been said, William stood high in his favour, he thus addressed him-- "Ay, ay, sir!--fine doings! This comes of your Sunday walking! And I suppose you say that my daughter is yours--that she is your wife; and _she_ may be _yours_--but I'll let you know, sir, my _money_ is _mine_; and I'll cut you both off. You shan't have a sixpence. I'll rather build a church, sir; I'll give it towards paying off the national debt, you rascal. You would steal my daughter--eh!" Thus spoke Mr. Carnaby in his wrath; but when the effervescence of his indignation had subsided, he extended to both the hand of forgiveness, and resigned his business in favour of his son-in-law. Mr. William Sim, therefore, began the world under the most favourable circumstances. He found a fortune prepared to his hands; he had only to improve it. In a few years the old grocer died; and he bequeathed to them the gains of half a century. For twenty years Mr. Sim continued in business, and he had nearly doubled the fortune which he obtained with his wife. Mrs. Sim was a kind-hearted woman; but by nature, or through education, she had also a considerable portion of vanity, and she began to think that it was the duty of her opulent husband to retire from business, and assume the character of an independent gentleman; or rather, I ought to say, of a country gentleman--a squire. She professed to be the more anxious that he should do this on account of the health of her daughter--the sole survivor of five children--and who was then entering upon womanhood. Maria Sim (for such was their daughter's name) was a delicate and accomplished girl of seventeen. The lovely hue that dwelt upon her cheeks, like the blush of a rainbow, was an emblem of beauty, not of health. At the solicitations of her mother, her father gave up his business, and purchased a neat villa, and a few acres that surrounded it, in the neighbourhood of Windermere. The house lay in the bosom of poetry; and the winds that shouted like a triumphant army through the mountain glens, or in gentle zephyrs sighed upon the lake, and gambolled with the ripples, made music around it. The change, the beauty, I had almost said the deliciousness of their place of abode, had effected a wondrous improvement in the health of Maria; yet her mother was not happy. She was not treated by her neighbours with the obsequious reverence which she believed to be due to persons possessed of twenty thousand pounds. The fashionable ladies in the neighbourhood, also, called her "a mean person"--"a nobody"--"an upstart of yesterday." In truth, there were not a few who so spoke, because they envied the wealth of the Sims, and were resolved to humble them. An opportunity for them to do so soon occurred. A subscription ball or assembly, patronized by all the fashionables in the district, was to take place at Keswick. Mrs. Sim, in some measure from a desire of display, and also, as she said, to bring out Maria, put down her husband's name, her own, and their daughter's, on the list. Many of the personages above referred to, on seeing the names of the Sim family on the subscription paper, turned upon their heel, and exclaimed--"Shocking!" But the important evening arrived. Mrs. Sim had ordered a superb dress from London expressly for the occasion. A duchess might have worn it at a drawing-room. The dress of Maria was simplicity typified, and consisted of a frock of the finest and the whitest muslin; while her slender waist was girdled with a lavender ribbon, her raven hair descended down her snowy neck in ringlets, and around her head she wore a wreath of roses. When Mr. Sim, with his wife and daughter, entered the room, there was a stare of wonderment amongst the company. No one spoke to them, no one bowed to them. The spirit of dumbness seemed to have smitten the assembly. But a general whispering, like the hissing of a congregation of adders, succeeded the silence. Then, at the head of the room, the voices of women rose sharp, angry, and loud. Six or eight, who appeared as the representatives of the company, were in earnest and excited conversation with the stewards; and the words--"low people!"--"vulgar!" --"not to be borne!"--"cheese! faugh!"--"impertinence!"--"must be humbled!" --became audible throughout the room. One of the stewards, a Mr. Morris of Morris House, approached Mr. Sim, and said-- "You, sir, are Mr. Sim, I believe, late grocer and cheesemonger in Carlisle?" "I suppose, sir," replied the other, "you know that without me telling you; if you do not, you have some right to know me." "Well, sir," continued the steward of the assembly, "I come to inform you that you have made a mistake. This is not a _social dance_ amongst _tradesmen_, but an _assembly_ of _ladies_ and _gentlemen_; therefore, sir, your presence cannot be allowed here." Poor Maria became blind, the hundred different head-dresses seemed to float around her. She clung to her father's arm for support. Her mother was in an agony of indignation. "Sir," said Mr. Sim, "I don't know what you call _gentlemen_; but if it be not _genteel_ to have sold teas and groceries, it is at least more _honourable_ than to use them and never pay for them. You will remember, sir, there is a considerable sum standing against you in my books; and if the money be not paid to me tonight, you shall have less space to dance in before morning." "Insolent barbarian!" exclaimed Squire Morris, stamping his foot upon the floor. Mrs. Sim screamed; Maria's head fell upon her father's shoulder. A dozen gentlemen approached to the support of the steward; and one of them, waving his hand and addressing Mr. Sim, said, "Away, sir!" The retired merchant bowed and withdrew, not in confusion, but with a smile of malignant triumph. He strove to soothe his wife--for his daughter, when relieved from the presence of the disdainful eyes that gazed on her, bore the insult that had been offered them meekly--and, after remaining an hour in Keswick, they returned to their villa in the same chaise in which they had arrived. In the assembly room the dance began, and fairy forms glided through the floor, lightly, silently, as a falling blossom embraceth the earth. Mr. Morris was leading down a dance, when a noise was heard at the door. Some person insisted on being admitted, and the door-keepers resisted him. But the intruder carried with him a small staff, on the one end of which was a brass crown, and on its side the letters G. R. It was a talisman potent as the wand of a magician; the doorkeepers became powerless before it. The intruder entered the room--he passed through the mazes of the whirling dance--he approached Mr. Morris--he touched him on the shoulder--he put a piece of paper in his hand--he whispered in his ear-- "You are my prisoner!--come with me!" His lady and his daughters were present, and they felt most bitterly the indignity which a low tradesman had offered them. Confusion paralyzed them; they stood still in the middle of the dance, and one of the young ladies swooned away and fell upon the ground. The time, the place, the manner of arrest, all bespoke malignant and premeditated insult. Mr. Morris gnashed his teeth together, but, without speaking, accompanied the officer that had arrested him in the room. He remained in custody in an adjoining inn throughout the night; on the following day, was released on bail; and, within a week, his solicitor paid the debt, by augmenting the mortgage on Morris House estate. It is hardly necessary to say--for such is human nature--that, after this incident, the hatred between Mr. Sim and Squire Morris became inveterate; and the wives of both, and the daughters of the latter, partook in the relentless animosity. Two years passed, and every day the mutual hatred and contempt in which they held each other increased. At that period, a younger son of Squire Morris, who was a lieutenant in the service of the East India Company, obtained leave to visit England and his friends. It was early in June; the swallows chased each other in sport, twittering as they flew over the blue bosom of Windermere; every bush, every tree--yea, it seemed as if every branch sent forth the music of singing birds, and the very air was redolent with melody, from the bold songs of the thrush and the lark to the love-note of the wood-pigeon; and even the earth rejoiced in the chirp of the grasshopper, its tiny but pleasant musician. The fields and the leaves were in the loveliness and freshness of youth, luxuriating in the sunbeams, in the depth of their summer green; and the butterfly sported, and the bee pursued its errand from flower to flower. The mighty mountains circled the scene, and threw their dun shadow on the lake, where, a hundred fathoms deep, they seemed a bronzed and inverted world. At this time, Maria Sim was sailing upon the lake in a small boat that her father had purchased for her, and which was guided by a boy. A sudden, but not what could be called a strong, breeze came away. The boy had little strength and less skill, and, from his awkwardness in shifting the sail, he caused the boat to upset. Maria was immersed in the lake. The boy clung to the boat, but terror deprived him of ability to render her assistance. She struggled with the waters, and her garments bore her partially up for a time. A boat, in which was a young gentleman, had been sailing to and fro, and, at the time the accident occurred, was within three hundred yards of her. On hearing her sudden cry, and the continued screams of the boy, he drew in his sail, and, taking the oars, at his utmost strength pulled to her assistance. Almost at every third stroke he turned round his head to see the progress he had made, or if he had yet reached her. Twice he beheld her disappear beneath the water--a third time she rose to the surface--he was within a few yards of her. He sprang from his boat. She was again sinking. He dived after her, he raised her beneath his arm, and succeeded in placing her in his boat. He also rescued the boy, and conveyed them both to land. Maria, though for a time speechless, was speedily, through the exertions of her deliverer, restored to consciousness. Even before she was capable of thanking him or of speaking to him--yea, before her eyes had opened to meet his--he had gazed with admiration on her beautiful features, which were lovely, though the shadow of death was then over them, almost its hand upon them. In truth, he had never gazed upon a fairer face, and when she spoke, he had never listened to a sweeter or a gentler voice. He had been beneath an Indian sun, where the impulses of the heart are fervid as the clime, and where, when the sun is gazed upon, its influence is acknowledged. But, had she been less beautiful than she was, and her features less lovely to look upon, there was a strong something in the very manner and accident of their being brought into each other's society, which appealed more powerfully to the heart than beauty could. It at least begot an interest in the fate of each other; and an interest so called is never very widely separated from affection. The individual who had saved Maria's life was Lieutenant Morris. He conveyed her first to a peasant's cottage, and afterwards to her father's villa. He knew nothing of the feeling of hatred that existed between their families; and when Mr. Sim heard his name, though for a moment it caused a glow to pass over his face, every other emotion was speedily swallowed up in gratitude towards the deliverer of his child; and when Maria was sufficiently recovered to thank him, though she knew him to be the son of her father's enemy, it was with tears too deep for words--tears that told what eloquence would have failed to express. Even Mrs. Sim, for the time, forgot her hatred of the parents in her obligations to the son. When, however, the young lieutenant returned to Morris House, and made mention of the adventure in which he had been engaged, and spoke at the same time, in the ardour of youthful admiration, of the beauty and gentleness of the fair being he had rescued from untimely death, the cheeks of his sisters became pale, their eyeballs distended as if with horror. The word "wretch!" escaped from his mother's lips, and she seemed struggling with smothered rage. He turned towards his father for an explanation of the change that had so suddenly come over the behaviour of his mother and sisters. "Son," said the squire, "I had rather thou hadst perished than that a son of mine should have put forth his hand to assist a dog of the man whose daughter thou hast saved!" On being made acquainted with the cause of the detestation that existed between the two families, Lieutenant Morris, in some degree, yielded to the whisperings of wounded pride, and began to regret that he had entered the house of a man who had offered an indignity to his father that was not to be forgiven. But he thought also of the beauty of Maria, of the sweetness of her smile, and of the tears of voiceless gratitude which he had seen bedimming the lustre of her bright eyes. He had promised to call again at her father's on the day after the accident; and with an ardent kindliness, Mr. Sim had welcomed him to do so. But he went forth, he wandered by the side of the lake, he approached within sight of the house, there was a contention of strange feelings in his breast, and he returned without paying his promised visit. Nevertheless, thoughts of Maria haunted him, and her image mingled with all his fancies. She became as a spirit in his memory that he could not expel, and that he would not if he could. Three weeks passed on--it was evening--the sun was sinking behind the mountains, and Lieutenant Morris was wandering through a wooded vale, towards Mr. Sim's mansion; for though he entered it not, he nightly drew towards it, as if instinctively, wandering around it, and gazing on its windows as he did so, marvelling as he gazed. He was absorbed in one of those dreamy reveries in which men saunter, speak, and muse unconsciously, when, in following the windings of a footpath which led through a thicket, he suddenly found himself in the presence of a young lady, who was walking slowly across the wood with a book in her hand. Their eyes met--they startled--the book dropped by her side--it was Maria. I must not, however, dwell longer on this part of the subject; for the story of the twin brothers is yet to begin. Let it be sufficient to say that William, or, as I have hitherto called him, Lieutenant Morris, and Maria whom he saved, became attached to each other. Their dispositions were similar; they seemed formed for each other. Affection took deep root in their hearts; and to root up that affection in the breast of either, was to destroy the heart itself. He made known his attachment towards Maria to his father; and galled pride and hatred to those who had injured him being stronger in the breast of the old squire than the small still voice of affection, he spurned his son from him, and ordered him to leave his house for ever. The parents of Maria, notwithstanding their first feelings of gratitude towards the saviour of their daughter, were equally averse to a union between them; but with Maria the impulse of the heart and the lover's passionate prayer prevailed over her parents' frowns. They were wed, they became all to each other, and were disowned by those who gave them birth. When Lieutenant Morris left India, he obtained permission to remain in England for three years; and it was about twelve months after his arrival that the marriage between him and Maria took place. He had still two years to spend in his native land, and he hired a secluded and neat cottage on the banks of the Annan for that period, for the residence of himself and his young and beautiful wife. Twelve months after their marriage, Maria became the mother of twins--the twin brothers of our tale. But three months had not passed, nor had her infants raised their first smile towards their mother's face, when the sterile hand of death touched the bosom that supplied them with life. The young husband wept by the bed of death, with the hand of her he loved in his. "William!" said the gentle Maria--and they were her dying words, for she spoke not again--"my eyes will not behold another sun! I must leave you, love! Oh my husband! I must leave our poor, our helpless infants! It is hard to die thus! But when I am gone, dearest--when my babes have no mother--oh, go to _my mother_, and tell her--tell her, William--that it was the dying request of her Maria, that she would be as a mother to them. Farewell, love!--farewell! If"-- Emotion and the strugglings of death overpowered her--her speech failed--her eyes became fixed--her soul passed away, and the husband sat in stupefaction and in agony, holding the hand of his dead wife to his breast. He became conscious that she stirred not--that she breathed not--oh! that she was not! and the wail of the distracted widower rang suddenly and wildly through the cottage, startling his infants from their slumber, and, as some who stood round the bed said, causing even the features of the dead to move, as though the departed spirit had lingered, casting a farewell glance upon the body, and passed over it again, as the voice it had loved to hear rose loud in agony. The father of Maria came and attended her body to its last, long resting-place. But he did no more; and he left the churchyard without acknowledging that he perceived his grief-stricken son-in-law. In a few months it was necessary for Lieutenant Morris to return to India, and he could not take his motherless and tender infants thither. He wrote to the parents of his departed Maria; he told them of her last request, breathed by her last words; he implored them, as they had once loved her, during his absence to protect his children. But the hatred between Mr. Sim and Squire Morris had in no degree abated. The former would have listened to his daughter's prayer, and taken her twins and the nurse into his house; but his wife was less susceptible to the influence of natural feeling, and even, while at intervals she wept for poor Maria, she said-- "Take both of them, indeed! No, no! I loved our poor, thoughtless, disobedient Maria, Mr. Sim, as well as you did, but I will not submit to the Morrises. They have nothing to give the children; we have. But they have the same, they have a greater right to provide for them than we have. They shall take one of them, or none of them come into this house." And again she broke into lamentations over the memory of Maria, and, in the midst of her mourning, exclaimed--"But the child that we take shall never be called Morris." Mr. Sim wrote an answer to his son-in-law, as cold and formal as if it had been a note added to an invoice; colder indeed, for it had no equivalent to the poor, hackneyed phrase in all such, of "_esteemed favours_." In it he stated that he would "bring up" one of the children, provided that Squire Morris would undertake the charge of the other. The unhappy father clasped his hands together on perusing the letter, and exclaimed-- "Must my poor babes be parted?--shall they be brought up to hate each other? Oh Maria! would that I had died with you, and our children also!" To take them to India with him, where a war was threatened, was impossible, and his heart revolted from the thought of leaving them in this country with strangers. At times he was seen, with an infant son on each arm, sitting over the stone upon the grave of their mother which he had reared to her memory, kissing their cheeks and weeping over them, while they smiled in his face unconsciously, and offered to him, in those smiles, affection's first innocent tribute. On such occasions their nurse stood gazing on the scene, wondering at her master's grief. Morris, of Morris House, reluctantly consented to take one of his grandchildren under his care; but at the same time he refused to see his son previous to his departure. The widowed father wept over his twin sons, and invoking a blessing on them, saw their little arms sundered, and each conveyed to the houses of those who had undertaken to be their protectors, while he again proceeded towards India. The names of the twin sons were George and Charles: the former was committed to the care of Mr. Morris, the other to Mr. Sim. Yet it seemed as if these innocent pledges of a family union, instead of destroying, strengthened the deep-rooted animosity that existed between them. Not a month passed that they did not, in some way, manifest their hatred of and their persecution towards each other. The squire exhibited a proof of his vindictiveness, in not permitting the child of his son to remain beneath his roof. He had a small property in Devonshire, which was rented by an individual who, with his wife, had been servants under his father. To them George Morris, one of the infant sons of poor Maria, before he was yet twelve months old, was sent, with an injunction that he should be brought up as their own son, that he should be taught to consider himself as such, and bear their name. The boy Charles, whose lot it was to be placed under the protection of his mother's parents, was more fortunate. The love they had borne towards their Maria they now lavished upon him. They called him by their own name--they spoke of him as their heir, as their _sole_ heir, and they inquired not after his brother. That brother became included in the hatred which Mrs. Sim, at least, bore to his father's family. As he grew up, his father's name was not mentioned in his presence. He was taught to call his grandfather--father, and his grandmother--mother; and withal, his mother so called instilled into his earliest thoughts an abhorrence of the inmates of Morris House. At times his grandfather whispered to her on such occasions, "Do not do the like of that, dear; we know not how it may end." But she regarded not his admonitions, and she strove that her grandchild should hold the very name of Morris in hatred. The peasants to whose keeping George was confided, occupied, as has been stated, a small farm under his grandfather, which lay on the banks of the Dart, a few miles from Totnes. Their name was Prescot: they were cold-hearted and ignorant people; they had no children of their own, nor affection for those of others; neither had they received instructions to show any to him whom they were to adopt as a son; and if they had been arraigned for not doing so, they were of a character to have said with Shylock--"It is not in the bond." When he grew up, there was then no school in that part of Devonshire to which they could have sent him, had they been inclined; but they were not inclined; though, if they had had the power to educate him, they could have referred again to their bond, and said that no injunction to educate him was mentioned there. His first ideas were a consciousness of cruelty and oppression. At seven years of age he was sent to herd a few sheep upon Dartmoor; before he was nine, he was placed as a parish apprentice to the owner of a tin mine, and buried from the light of heaven. Often and anxiously Lieutenant Morris wrote from India, inquiring after his sons. He sent presents--love-gifts to each; but his letters were unheeded, his presents disregarded. His children grew up in ignorance of his existence, or of the existence of each other. It was about eighteen years after the death of Maria, and what is called an annual _Revel_ was held at Ashburton. Prizes were to be awarded to the best wrestlers, and hundreds were assembled from all parts of Devonshire to witness the sports of the day. Two companies of soldiers were stationed in the town at the time, and the officers, at the suggestion of a young ensign called Charles Sim, agreed to subscribe a purse of ten guineas towards the encouragement of the games. The young ensign was from Cumberland, where the science of wrestling is still a passion; and he, as the reader will have anticipated from the name he bore, was none other than one of the twin brothers. The games were skilfully and keenly contested; and a stripling from the neighbourhood of Totnes, amidst the shouts of the multitude, was declared the victor. The last he had overcome was a gigantic soldier, a native of Cumberland. When the young ensign beheld his champion overcome, his blood rose for the honour of his native county, and he regretted that he had not sustained it in his own person. The purse subscribed by the officers was still to be wrestled for, and the stripling victor re-entered the ring to compete for it. On his design being perceived, others who wished to have contended for it drew back, and he stood in the ring alone, no one daring to come forward to compete with him. The umpire of the games was proclaiming that, if no one stood against him, the purse would be awarded to him who had already been pronounced the victor of the day, when Ensign Sim, who, with his brother officers, had witnessed the sports from the windows of an adjacent inn, said-- "Well, the lad shall have the purse, though I don't expect he will win it; for, if no one else will, I shall give him a throw to redeem the credit of old Cumberland." "Bravo, Sim!" cried his brother officers, and they accompanied him towards the ring. The people again shouted when they perceived that there was to be another game, and the more so when they discovered that the stranger competitor was a gentleman. The ensign, having cast off his regimentals, and equipped himself in the strait canvas jacket worn by wrestlers, entered the ring. But now arose a new subject of wonderment, which in a moment was perceived by the whole multitude; and the loud huzzas that had welcomed his approach were hushed in a confused murmur of astonishment. "Zwinge!" exclaimed a hundred voices, as they approached each other; "they be loik one anoother as two beans!" "Whoy, which be which?" inquired others. The likeness between the two wrestlers was indeed remarkable; their age, their stature, the colour of their hair, their features, were alike. Spectators could not trace a difference between the one and the other. The ensign had a small and peculiar mark below his chin; he perceived that his antagonist had the same. They approached each other, extending their arms for the contest. They stood still, they gazed upon each other; as they gazed they started; their arms dropped by their sides; they stood anxiously scrutinizing the countenance of each other, in which each saw himself as in a glass. Astonishment deprived them of strength; they forgot the purpose for which they met; they stretched forth their hands, they grasped them together, and stood eagerly looking into each other's eyes. "Friend," said the ensign, "this is indeed singular; our extraordinary resemblance to each other fills me with amazement. What is your name? from whence do you come?" "Whoy, master," rejoined the other, "thou art so woundy like myself, that had I met thee anywhere but in the middle o' these folk, I should have been afeared that I was agoing to die, and had zeen mysel'. My name is George Prescot, at your sarvice. I coom from three miles down the river there; and what may they call thee?" "My name," replied the soldier, "is Charles Sim. I am an orphan; my parents I never saw. And tell me--for this strange resemblance between us almost overpowers me--do yours live?" "Whoy," was the reply, "old Tom Prescot and his woif be alive; and they zay as how they be my vather and moother, and I zuppose they be; but zoom cast up to them that they bean't." No wrestling match took place between them; but hand in hand they walked round the ring together, while the spectators gazed upon them in silent wonder. The ensign presented the youth, who might have been styled his fac-simile, with the purse subscribed by his brother officers and himself; and in so doing he offered to double its contents. But the youth, with a spirit above his condition, peremptorily refused the offer, and said-- "No, master--thank you the zame--I will take nothing but what I have won." Charles was anxious to visit "old Tom Prescot and his wife," of whom the stranger had spoken; but the company to which he belonged was to march forward to Plymouth on the following day, and there to embark. His brother officers also dissuaded him from the thought. "Why, Sim," said they, "the likeness between you and the conqueror of the ring was certainly a very pretty coincidence, and your meeting each other quite a drama. But, my good fellow," added they, laughing, "take the advice of older heads than your own--don't examine too closely into your father's faults." Three years passed, and Charles, now promoted to the rank of a lieutenant, accompanied the Duke of York in his more memorable than brilliant campaign in Holland. A soldier was accused of having been found sleeping on guard; he was tried, found guilty, and condemned to be shot. A corporal's guard was accompanying the doomed soldier from the place where sentence had been pronounced against him to the prison-house, from whence he was to be brought forth for execution on the following day. Lieutenant Sim passed near them. A voice exclaimed-- "Master! master!--save me! save me!" It was the voice of the condemned soldier. The lieutenant turned round, and in the captive who called to him for assistance he recognised the Devonshire wrestler--the strange portrait of himself. And even now, if it were possible, the resemblance between them was more striking than before; for, in the stranger, the awkwardness of the peasant had given place to the smartness of the soldier. Charles had felt an interest in him from the first moment he beheld him; he had wished to meet him again, and had resolved to seek for him should he return to England; and now the interest that he had before felt for him was increased tenfold. The offence and the fate of the doomed one were soon told. The lieutenant pledged himself that he would leave no effort untried to save him; and he redeemed his pledge. He discovered, he obtained proof that the condemned prisoner, George Prescot, had been employed on severe and dangerous duties, against which it was impossible for nature longer to stand up, but in all of which he had conducted himself as a good, a brave, and a faithful soldier; and, more, that it could not be proved that he was actually found asleep at his post, but that he was stupified through excess of fatigue. He hastened to lay the evidence he had obtained respecting the conduct and innocence of the prisoner before his Royal Highness, who, whatever were his faults, was at least the soldier's friend. The Duke glanced over the documents which the lieutenant laid before him; he listened to the evidence of the comrades of the prisoner. He took a pen; he wrote a few lines; he placed them in the hands of Lieutenant Sim. They contained the free pardon of Private Prescot. Charles rushed with the pardon in his hand to the prisoner; he exclaimed-- "Take this--you are pardoned--you are free!" The soldier would have embraced his knees to thank him; but the lieutenant said-- "No! kneel not to me--consider me as a brother. I have merely saved the life of an innocent and deserving man. But the strange resemblance between us seems to me more than a strange coincidence. You have doubts regarding your parentage; I know but little of mine. Nature has written a mystery on our faces which we need to have explained. When this campaign is over, we shall inquire concerning it. Farewell for the present; but we must meet again." The feelings of the reprieved and unlettered soldier were too strong for his words to utter; he shook the hand of his deliverer and wept. A few days after this some sharp fighting took place. The loss of the British was considerable, and they were compelled to continue their retreat, leaving their dead, and many of their wounded, exposed, as they fell behind them. When they again arrived at a halting-place, Lieutenant Sim sought the regiment to which the soldier who might be termed his second self belonged. But he was not to be found; and all that he could learn respecting him was, that, three days before, George Prescot had been seen fighting bravely, but that he fell covered with wounds, and in their retreat was left upon the field. Tears gushed into the eyes of the lieutenant when he heard the tidings. His singular meeting with the stranger in Devonshire; their mysterious resemblance to each other; his meeting him again in Holland under circumstances yet more singular; his saving his life; and the dubious knowledge which each had respecting their birth and parentage,--all had sunk deep into his heart, and thoughts of these things chased sleep from his pillow. It was but a short time after this that the regiment of Lieutenant Sim was ordered to India, and he accompanied it; and it was only a few months after his arrival, when the Governor-General gave an entertainment at his palace, at which all the military officers around were present. At table, opposite to Lieutenant Sim, sat a man of middle age; and, throughout the evening, his eyes remained fixed upon him, and occasionally seemed filled with tears. He was a colonel in the Company's service, and a man who, by the force of merit, had acquired wealth and reputation. "I crave your pardon, sir," said he, addressing the lieutenant; "but if I be not too bold, a few words with you in private would confer a favour upon me, and if my conjectures be right, will give us both cause to rejoice." "You may command me, sir," said the youth. The colonel rose from the table and left the room, and the lieutenant rose also and accompanied him. They entered an adjoining apartment. The elder soldier gazed anxiously on the face of the younger, and again addressing him, said-- "Sir, do not attribute this strange behaviour upon my part to rudeness. It has been prompted by feelings painfully, deeply, I may add tenderly, interesting to me. It may be accident, but your features bring memories before my eyes that have become a part of my soul's existence. Nor is it your features only, but I have observed that there is the mark of a rose-bud beneath your chin. I remember twins on whom that mark was manifest, and the likeness of a countenance is graven upon my heart, the lineaments of which were as yours are. Forgive me then, sir, in thus abruptly requesting your name." The lieutenant looked surprised at the anxiety and looks of the stranger, and he answered-- "My name is Charles Sim." "Yes! yes!" replied the colonel, gasping as he spoke; "I saw it; I felt it! Your name is Charles, but not Sim; that was your mother's name--your sainted mother's. You bear it from your grandfather You come from Cumberland?" "I do!" was the reply, in accents of astonishment. "My son! my son!--child of my Maria!" were the accents that broke from the colonel, as he fell upon the neck of the other. "My father!" exclaimed Charles, "have I then found a father?" And the tears streamed down his cheeks. Many questions were asked, many answered; and amongst others, the father inquired-- "Where is your brother--my little George? Does he live? You were the miniatures of your mother; and so strikingly did you resemble each other, that while you were infants, it was necessary to tie a blue ribbon round his arm, and a green one round yours, to distinguish you from each other." Charles became pale; his knees shook; his hands trembled. "Then I _had_ a brother?" he cried. "You had," replied his father; "but wherefore do you say you _had_ a brother? Is it possible that you do not know him? He has been brought up with my father--Mr. Morris of Morris House." "No, he has not," replied Charles; "the man you speak of, and whom you say is my grandfather, has brought up no one--none of my age. I have hated him from childhood, for he has hated me; and but that you have told me he is my grandfather, I would hate him still. But he has brought up no one that could be a brother of mine." "Then my child has died in infancy," rejoined the colonel. "No, no," added Charles; "I knew not that I had a brother--not even that I had a father; but you say my brother resembled me; that I from my birth had the mark beneath my chin which I have now, and that he had the same: then I know him; I have seen my brother!" "Where, where? when, when?" breathlessly inquired the anxious parent. "Speak, my son!--oh speak!" "Shortly after I had joined my regiment," continued Charles, "I was present in Devonshire, at what is called a revel. Our mess gave a purse towards the games. We put forward a Cumberland man belonging to the regiment, in the full confidence that he would be the victor of the day; but a youth, a mere youth, threw not only our champion, but all who dared to oppose him. I was stung for the honour of Cumberland; I was loath to see the hero carry his laurels so easily from the field. I accoutred myself in the wrestler's garb; I entered the ring. The shouting of the multitude ceased instantaneously. I gazed upon my antagonist, he gazed upon me. Our hands fell; we both shook; we were the image of each other. Three years afterwards I was in Holland. A soldier was unjustly condemned to die; I saved him; I obtained his pardon. He was my strange counterpart whom I met in Devonshire. He had the mark of the rose-bud beneath his chin that I have, and which you say my brother has." "And where is he now?" eagerly inquired the colonel. "Alas! I know not," answered Charles; "nor do I think he lives. Three days after I had rescued him from unmerited death, I learned that he had fallen bravely on the field; and whether he be now a prisoner or with the dead, I cannot tell." "Surely it was thy brother," said the colonel; "yet how he should be in Devonshire, or a soldier in the ranks, puzzles me to think. No, no, Charles, it cannot be; it is a coincidence, heightened by imagination. Your grandfather has not been kind to me, but he is not capable of the cruelty which the tale you have told would imply he had exercised towards the child I entrusted to his care. He hates me, but surely he could not be cruel to my offspring. You know Morris House?" he added. "I know it well," replied Charles; "but I never knew in it one who could be my brother, nor one of my age; neither did I know Mr. Morris to be my grandfather; nor yet have I heard of him but as one who had injured my mother while she lived, and who had been the enemy of her parents." "Enough, enough, my son," said the colonel; "my soul is filled with words which I cannot utter. I weep for your angel-mother; I weep for my son, your brother; and I mourn for the unceasing hatred that exists between your grandsires. But, Charles, we must return to England; we must do so instantly. I have now fortune enough for you and for your brother also, if he yet live, and if we can find him. But we must inquire after and go in quest of him." Within three months Charles Morris, or Lieutenant Sim as he has hitherto been called, and his father returned to England together. But instead of following them, I shall return to George Prescot, the prize-wrestler and the condemned and pardoned soldier. It has been mentioned that he was wounded and left upon the field by a retreating army. I have to add that he was made prisoner, and when his wounds were healed, he was, though not perceptibly, disabled for active service. Amongst his brethren in captivity was a Captain Paling, who, when an exchange of prisoners took place, hastened to join his regiment, and gave George, who was deemed unfit for service, a letter to his mother and sisters who resided in Dartmouth. The letter was all that the captain could give him, for he was penniless as George was himself. George Prescot feeling himself once more at liberty, took his passage from Rotterdam in a sloop bound for Dartmouth, and with only the letter of Captain Paling in his pocket to pay for his conveyance. He perceived that the skipper frequently cast suspicious glances towards him, as though he were about to ask, "Where is your money, sir?" But George saw this, and he bore it down with a high hand. He knew that the certain way of being treated with the contempt and neglect which poverty always introduces in its train, was to plead being poor. He was by no means learned, but he understood something of human nature, and he knew a good deal of the ways of men--of the shallowness of society, and the depths of civility. He therefore carried his head high. He called for the best that the ship could afford, and he fared as the skipper did, though he partook but sparingly. But the vessel arrived in Dartmouth harbour; it entered the mouth of the romantic river, on the one side of which was the fort, still bearing the name of Cromwell, and on the other Kingsbridge, which Peter Pindar hath celebrated; while on both sides, as precipitous banks, rose towering hills, their summits covered by a stunted furze, and the blooming orchard meeting it midway. Some rather unpleasant sensations visited the disabled soldier as the vessel sailed up the river towards the town. The beauty of its situation made no impression upon him, for he had seen it a thousand times; and it was perhaps as well that it did not; for to look on it from the river, or from a distant height--like a long line of houses hung on the breast of romance--and afterwards to enter it and find yourself in the midst of a narrow, dingy street, where scarce two wheelbarrows could pass, produceth only disappointment, and that, too, of the bitterest kind. It seems, indeed, that the Devonians have conceded so much of their beautiful county to the barrenness of Dartmoor, that they grudge every inch that is occupied as a street or highway. Ere this time, George Prescot had in a great measure dropped his Devonshire dialect; and now, taking the letter of Captain Paling from his pocket, he placed it in the hands of the commander of the packet, saying, "Send your boy ashore with this to a widow lady's of the name of Paling; you will know her family, I suppose. You may tell the boy to say that the letter is from her son, Captain Paling, and that I shall wait here until I receive her answer before proceeding up the river." The skipper stated that he knew Mrs. Paling well, who was a most respectable lady, and that he remembered also her son, who was an officer in the army, and who for some time had been a prisoner of war. The boy went on shore with the letter, and within a quarter of an hour returned, having with him a young gentleman, accompanied by a couple of pointer dogs. The stranger was the brother of Captain Paling. He inquired for George Prescot, and on seeing him, invited him to his mother's house. The skipper, on seeing his passenger in such respectable company, let fall no hint that the passage-money was not paid; and the soldier and the brother of Captain Paling went on shore together. In his letter the captain dwelt on many kindnesses which he had received from its bearer, and of the bravery which he had seen him evince on the field; informing them also that his pockets would be but ill provided with cash, and regretting his own inability to replenish them. The kindness of Mrs. Paling and her family towards him knew no limits. She asked him a hundred questions respecting her son, her daughters concerning their brother; and they imagined wants for him, that they might show him a kindness. Now, however, twelve miles was all that lay between him and his home. They entreated him to remain until next day; but he refused, for "Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home." It is true, he could hardly give the name of home to the house of those whom he called his parents, for it had ever been to him the habitation of oppressors; yet it was his home, as the mountain covered with eternal snow is the home of the Greenlander, and he knew no other. The usual road to it was by crossing the Dart at a ferry about a hundred yards above the house of Mrs. Paling. Any other road caused a circuit of many miles. "If you will not remain with us to-night," said the brother of Captain Paling, who had conducted him from the vessel to his mother's house, "I shall accompany you to the ferry." "No, I thank you--I thank you," said George, confusedly; "there is no occasion for it--none whatever. I shall not forget your kindness." He did not intend to go by the ferry; for though the charge of the boatman was but a halfpenny, that halfpenny he had not in his possession; and he wished to conceal his poverty. But women have sharp eyes in these matters. They see where men are blind; and a sister of Captain Paling named Caroline read the meaning of their guest's confusion, and of his refusing to permit her brother to accompany him to the shore; and, with a delicacy which spoke to the heart of him to whom the words were addressed, she said-- "Mr. Prescot, you have only now arrived from the Continent, and it is most likely that you have no small change in your pocket. The ferrymen are unreasonable people to deal with. If you give them a crown, they will row away and thank you, forgetting to return the change. The regular charge is but a halfpenny; therefore you had better take coppers with you;" and as she spoke, she held a halfpenny in her fingers towards him. "Well, well," stammered out George, with his hand in his pocket, "I believe I have no coppers;" and he accepted the halfpenny from the hand of Caroline Paling; and while he did so, he could not conceal the tears that rose to his eyes. But, trifling as the amount of her offer was, it must be understood that the person to whom it was tendered was one who would not have accepted more--who was ashamed of his poverty, and strove to conceal it; and there was a soul, there was a delicacy, in her manner of tendering it which I can speak of, but not describe. It saved him also from having to wander weary and solitary miles at midnight. No sooner had the disabled soldier crossed the river, and entered the narrow lanes overshadowed by dark hedges of hazel, than he burst into tears, and his first words were, "Caroline, I will remember thee!" It was near midnight when he approached the house which he called his home. The inmates were asleep. He tapped at the window, the panes of which were framed in lead after the form of diamonds. "Who be there?" cried an angry voice. "Your son! your son!" he replied. "George!" "Zon!" repeated the voice; "we have no zon. If it be thee, go to Coomberland, lad. We have noughts to do with thee. Thy old grandfather, Zquire Morris, be now dead, and he ha'n't paid us so well for what we have done as to have oughts to zay to thee again; zo good night, lad." "Father! mother!" cried George, striking more passionately on the window, "what do you mean?" "Whoy, ha'n't I told thee?" answered the voice that had spoken to him before. "Thou art no zon of ours. Thou moost go to Coomberland, man, to Zquire Morris--to his zeketors,[*] I mean, for he is dead. They may tell thee who thou art; I can't. We ha'n't been paid for what we have done for thee already. However, thou may'st coom in for t'night;" and as the old man who had professed to be his father spoke, he arose and opened the door. [note *: Executors.] George entered the house, trembling with agitation. "Father," he said--"for thou hast taught me to call thee father; and if thou art not, tell me who I am." "Ha'n't I told thee, lad?" answered the old man. "Go to Coomberland; I know noughts about thee." "To Cumberland!" exclaimed George; and he thought of the young officer whom he had twice met, who belonged to that county, and whose features were the picture of his own. "Why should I go to Cumberland?" "Whoy, I can't tell thee whoy thou shouldst go," said the old man; "but thou was zent me from there, and there thou moost go back again, vor a bad bargain thou hast been to me. Zquire Morris zent thee here, and forgot to pay for thee; and if thou lodgest here to-night, thou won't forget to be a-moving, bag and baggage, in the morning." George was wearied, and glad to sleep beneath the inhospitable roof of those whom he had considered as his parents; but on the following morning he took leave of them, after learning from them all that they knew of his history. But I must again leave him, and return to Colonel Morris, and his son Charles. They came to England together, and hastened towards Morris House; and there the long disowned son learned that his father was dead, and that his mother and his sisters knew not where his child was, or what had become of him. But his kindred had ascertained that he was now rich, and they repented of their unkindness towards him. "Son," said his mother, "I know nothing of thy child. Thy father was a strange man--he told little to me. If any one can tell thee aught concerning thy boy, it will be John Bell, the old coachman; but he has not been in the family for six years, and where he now is I cannot tell, though I believe he is still somewhere in the neighbourhood." With sad and anxious hearts the colonel and his son next visited the house of Mr. Sim--the dwelling-place in which the infancy, the childhood, and what may be called the youth, of the latter had been passed. Tears gathered in the eyes of Charles as he approached the door. He knew that his grandsire and his grandmother had acted wrongly towards him, in never speaking to him of his father, or making known to him that such a person lived; but when he again saw the house which had been the scene of a thousand happy days, round which he had chased the gaudy butterfly and the busy bee, or sought the nest of the chaffinch, the yellowhammer, and the hedge-sparrow, the feelings of boyhood rose too strong in his soul for resentment; and on meeting Mr. Sim (his grandfather) as they approached the door of the house, Charles ran towards him, and, stretching out his hand, cried, "Father!" The old man recognised him, and exclaimed, "Charles!--Charles!--child of my Maria!" and wept. At the mention of her name, the colonel wept also. "What gentleman is this with thee, Charles?" inquired Mr. Sim. "It is _my father!_" was the reply. Mr. Sim, who was now a grey-haired man, reeled back a few paces--he raised his hands--he exclaimed, "Can I be forgiven?" "Forgiven!--ay, doubly forgiven!" answered Colonel Morris, "as the father of lost, loved Maria, and as having been more than a father to my boy, who is now by my side. But know you nothing of my other son? My Maria bore twins." "Nothing! nothing!" replied Mr. Sim; "that question has cost me many an anxious thought. It has troubled also the conscience of my wife; for it was her fault that he also was not committed to my charge; and I would have inquired after your child long ago, but that there was no good-will between your father and me; and I was a plain, retired citizen--he a magistrate, and a justice of the peace for the county, who could do no wrong." The colonel groaned. They proceeded towards the villa together. Mrs. Sim met her grandson with a flood of tears, and, in her joy at meeting him, she forgot her dislike to his father and her hatred to that father's family. The colonel endeavoured to obtain information from his father-in-law respecting his other son; and he told him all that his mother had said, of what she had spoken regarding the coachman, and also of what Charles had told him, in twice meeting one who so strongly resembled himself. "Colonel," said Mr. Sim, "I know the John Bell your mother speaks of; he now keeps an inn near Langholm. To-morrow we shall go to his house, and make inquiry concerning all that he knows." "Be it so, father," said the colonel. And on the following day they took a chaise and set out together--the grandfather, the father, and the son. They had to cross the Annan, and to pass the churchyard where Maria slept. As they drew near to it, the colonel desired the driver to stop. "Follow me, Charles," he said; and Mr. Sim accompanied them. They entered the churchyard; the colonel led them to the humble grave-stone that he had raised to the memory of his Maria. He sat down upon it, he pressed his lips to it and wept. "Charles," said he, "look on your mother's grave. Here, on this stone, day after day, I was wont to sit with you and your brother upon my knee, fondling you, breathing your mother's name in your ears; and though neither of you knew what I said, you smiled as I wept and spoke. Oh Charles! though you then filled my whole heart (and you do now), I could only distinguish you from each other by the ribbons on your arms. Would to Heaven that I may discover my child! and, whatever be his condition, I shall forgive my father for the injustice he has done me and mine--I shall be happy. And, oh! should we indeed find your brother--should he prove to be the youth whom you have twice met--I shall say that Heaven has remembered me when I forgot myself! But come hither, Charles--come, kneel upon your mother's grave--kiss the sod where she lies, and angels will write it in their books, and show it to your mother, where she is happy. Come, my boy." Charles knelt on his mother's grave. He had arisen, and they were about to depart; for his grandfather had accompanied them, and was a silent but tearful spectator of the scene. They were leaving the churchyard, joined in the arms of each other, when two strangers entered it. The one was John Bell, the other George Prescot. "Colonel! Colonel! there is John Bell that you spoke of," exclaimed Mr. Sim. "Father! father!" at the same instant cried his son, "he is here--it is him!--my brother--or--he whom I have told you of, who so strangely resembles me." Charles rushed forward--it was George Prescot--and he took the proffered hand of the other, and said, "Sir, I rejoice to meet thee again--it seems I belong to Cumberland as well as thou dost; and this gentleman (pointing to John Bell), who seems to know more of me than I do myself, has promised to show me here my mother's grave!" "And where is that grave?" cried the colonel earnestly, who had been an interested spectator of all that passed. "Even where the wife of your youth is buried, your honour," answered John Bell; "you have with you one son--behold his twin brother!" The colonel pressed his new-found son to his breast. With his children he sat down on the stone over Maria's grave, and they wept together. Our tale is told. Colonel Morris and his sons had met. His elder brothers died, and he became the heir of his father's property. Mr. Sim also stated that, in his will, he should divide his substance equally between the brothers; and he did so. I have but another word to add. George forgot not Caroline Paling, who had assisted him when his heart was full and his pocket empty, and within twelve months he again visited Dartmouth; but when he returned from it, Caroline accompanied him as his wife; and when he introduced her to his father and his brother--"Behold," said he, "what a halfpenny, delicately tendered, may produce." THE STORY OF THE GIRL FORGER. It is a common thing for writers of a certain class, when they want to produce the feeling of wonder in their readers, to introduce some frantic action, and then to account for it by letting out the secret that the actor was mad. The trick is not so necessary as it seems, for the strength of human passions is a potentiality only limited by experience; and so it is that a sane person may under certain stimulants do the maddest thing in the world. The passion itself is always true--it is only the motive that may be false; and therefore it is that in narrating for your amusement, perhaps I may add instruction, the following singular story--traces of the main parts of which I got in the old books of a former procurator-fiscal--I assume that there was no more insanity in the principal actor, Euphemia, or, as she was called, Effie Carr, when she brought herself within the arms of the law, than there is in you, when now you are reading the story of her strange life. She was the only daughter of John Carr, a grain merchant, who lived in Bristo Street. It would be easy to ascribe to her all the ordinary and extraordinary charms that are thought so necessary to embellish heroines; but as we are not told what these were in her case, we must be contented with the assurance that nature had been kind enough to her to give her power over the hearts of men. We shall be nearer our purpose when we state, what is necessary to explain a peculiar part of our story, that her father, in consequence of his own insufficient education, had got her trained to help him in keeping his accounts with the farmers, and in writing up his books; nay, she enjoyed the privilege of writing his drafts upon the Bank of Scotland, which the father contrived to sign, though in his own illiterate way, and with a peculiarity which it would not have been easy to imitate. But our gentle clerk did not consider these duties imposed upon her by her father as excluding her either from gratifying her love of domestic habits, by assisting her mother in what at that time was denominated hussyskep or housekeeping, or from a certain other gratification, which might without a hint from us be anticipated--no other than the luxury of falling head and ears, and heart too we fancy, in love with a certain dashing young student of the name of Robert Stormonth, then attending the University, more for the sake of polish than of mere study, for he was the son of the proprietor of Kelton, and required to follow no profession. How Effie got entangled with this youth we have no means of knowing, so we must be contented with the Scotch proverb-- "Tell me where the flea may bite, And I will tell where love may light." The probability is, that from the difference of their stations and the retiring nature of our gentle clerk, we shall be safe in assuming that he had, as the saying goes, been smitten by her charms in some of those street encounters, where there is more of love's work done than in "black-footed" tea coteries expressly held for the accommodation of Cupid. And that the smiting was a genuine feeling we are not left to doubt; for in addition to the reasons we shall afterwards have too good occasion to know, he treated Effie not as those wild students who are great men's sons do "the light o' loves" they meet in their escapades, for he entrusted his secrets to her, he took such small counsel from her poor head as a "learned clerk" might be supposed able to give; nay, he told her of his mother, and how one day he hoped to be able to introduce her at Kelton as his wife. All which Effie repaid with the devotedness of that most wonderful affection called the first or virgin love--the purest, the deepest, the most thorough-going of all the emotions of the human heart. But as yet he had not conceded to her wish that he should consent to their love being made known to Effie's father and mother. Love is only a leveller to itself and its object: the high-born youth, inured to refined manners, shrank from a family intercourse, which put him too much in mind of the revolt he had made against the presumed wishes and intentions of his proud parents. Wherein, after all, he was only true to the instincts of that institution, apparently so inhumane as well as unchristian in its exclusiveness, called aristocracy, and yet with the excuse that its roots are pretty deeply set in human nature. But, proud as he was, Bob Stormonth, the younger of Kelton, was amenable to the obligations of a necessity, forged by his own imprudent hands. He had, by a fast mode of living, got into debt--a condition from which his father, a stern man, had relieved him twice before, but with a threat on the last occasion, that if he persevered in his prodigality, he would withdraw from him his yearly allowance, and throw him upon his own resources. The threat proved ineffectual, and this young heir of entail, with all his pride, was once in the grasp of low-born creditors; nay, things in this evil direction had gone so far that writs were out against him, and one in the form of a caption was already in the hands of a messenger-at-arms. That the debts were comparatively small in amount, was no amelioration where the purse was all but empty; and he had exhausted the limited exchequers of his chums, which with college youths was, and is, not difficult to do. So the gay Bob was driven to his last shift, and that, as is generally the case, was a mean one; for necessity, as the mother of inventions, does not think it proper to limit her births to genteel or noble devices to please her proud consort. He even had recourse to poor Effie to help him; and, however ridiculous this may seem, there were reasons that made the application appear not so desperate as some of his other schemes. It was only the caption that as yet quickened his fears; and as the sum for which the writ was issued was only twenty pounds, it was not, after all, so much beyond the power of a clerk. It was during one of their ordinary walks in the Meadows that the pressing necessity was opened by Stormonth to the vexed and terrified girl. He told her that, but for the small help he required in the meantime, he would be ruined. The wrath of his father would be excited once more, and probably to the exclusion of all reconciliation; and he himself compelled to flee, but whither he knew not. He had his plan prepared, and proposed to Effie, who had no means of her own, _to take a loan_ of the sum out of her father's cash-box--words very properly chosen according to the euphemistic policy of the devil; but Effie's genuine spirit was roused and alarmed. "Dreadful!" she whispered, as if afraid that the night wind would carry her words to honest ears. "Besides," she continued, "my father, who is a hard man, keeps his desk lockit." Words which took Stormonth aback, for even he saw there was here a necessity as strong as his own; yet the power of invention went to work again. "Listen, Effie," said he. "If you cannot help me, it is not likely we shall meet again. I am desperate, and will go into the army." The ear of Effie was chained to a force which was direct upon the heart. She trembled and looked wistfully into his face, even as if by that look she could extract from him some other device less fearful, by which she might have the power of retaining him for so short a period as a day. "You draw out your father's drafts on the bank, Effie," he continued. "Write one out for me, and I will put your father's name to it. You can draw the money. I will be saved from ruin; and your father will never know." A proposal which again brought a shudder over the girl. "Is it Robert Stormonth who asks me to do this thing?" she whispered again. "No," said he; "for I am not myself. Yesterday, and before the messenger was after me, I would have shrunk from the suggestion. I am not myself, I say, Effie. Ay or no; keep me or lose me--that is the alternative." "Oh, I cannot," was the language of her innocence, and for which he was prepared; for the stimulant was again applied in the most powerful of all forms--the word farewell was sounded in her ear. "Stop, Robert! let me think." But there was no thought, only the heart beating wildly. "I will do it; and may the penalty be mine, and mine only." So it was: "even virtue's self turns vice when misapplied." What her mind shrank from was embraced by the heart as a kind of sacred duty of a love making a sacrifice for the object of its first worship. It was arranged; and as the firmness of a purpose is often in proportion to the prior disinclination, so Effie's determination to save her lover from ruin was forthwith put in execution; nay, there was even a touch of the heroine in her, so wonderfully does the heart, acting under its primary instincts, sanctify the device which favours its affection. That same evening Effie Carr wrote out the draft for twenty pounds on the Bank of Scotland, gave it to Stormonth, who, from a signature of the father's, also furnished by her, perpetrated the forgery--a crime at that time punishable by death. The draft so signed was returned to Effie. Next forenoon she went to the bank, as she had often done for her father before; and the document being in her handwriting, as prior ones of the same kind had also been, no scrutinizing eye was turned to the signature. The money was handed over, but _not counted_ by the recipient, as before had been her careful habit--a circumstance with its effect to follow in due time. Meanwhile Stormonth was at a place of appointment out of the reach of the executor of the law, and was soon found out by Effie, who gave him the money with trembling hands. For this surely a kiss was due. We do not know; but she returned with the satisfaction, overcoming all the impulses of fear and remorse, that she had saved the object of her first and only love from ruin and flight. But even then the reaction was on the spring; the rebound was to be fearful and fatal. The teller at the bank had been struck with Effie's manner; and the non-counting of the notes had roused a suspicion, which fought its way even against the improbability of a mere girl perpetrating a crime from which females are generally free. He examined the draft, and soon saw that the signature was a bad imitation. Thereupon a messenger was despatched to Bristo Street for inquiry. John Carr, taken by surprise, declared that the draft, though written by his daughter, was forged--the forgery being in his own mind attributed to George Lindsay, his young salesman. Enough this for the bank, who had in the first place only to do with the utterer, against whom their evidence as yet only lay. Within a few hours afterwards Effie Carr was in the Tolbooth, charged with the crime of forging a cheque on her father's account-current. The news soon spread over Edinburgh--at that time only an overgrown village, in so far as regarded local facilities for the spread of wonders. It had begun there, where the mother was in recurring faints, the father in distraction and not less mystery, George Lindsay in terror and pity. And here comes in the next strange turn of our story. Lindsay all of a sudden declared he was the person who imitated the name--a device of the yearning heart to save the girl of his affection from the gallows, and clutched at by the mother and father as a means of their daughter's redemption. One of those thinly-sown beings who are cold-blooded by nature, who take on love slowly but surely, and seem fitted to be martyrs, Lindsay defied all consequences, so that it might be that Effie Carr should escape an ignominious death. Nor did he take time for further deliberation: in less than half an hour he was in the procurator-fiscal's office--the willing self-criminator; the man who did the deed; the man who was ready to die for his young mistress and his love. His story, too, was as ready as it was truth-seeming. He declared that he had got Effie to write out the draft as if commissioned by John Carr; that he took it away, and with his own hands added the name; that he had returned the check to Effie to go with it to the bank, and had received the money from her on her return. The consequence was his wish, and it was inevitable. That same day George Lindsay was lodged also in the Tolbooth, satisfied that he had made a sacrifice of his life for one whom he had loved for years, and who yet had never shown him even a symptom of hope that his love would be returned. All which proceedings soon came on the wings of rumour to the ears of Robert Stormonth, who was not formed to be a martyr even for a love which was to him as true as his nature would permit. He saw his danger, because he did not see the character of a faithful girl who would die rather than compromise her lover. He fled--aided probably by that very money he had wrung out of the hands of the devoted girl; nor was his disappearance connected with the tragic transaction; for, as we have said, the connection between him and Effie had been kept a secret, and his flight could be sufficiently accounted for by his debt. Meanwhile the precognitions or examination of the parties went on, and with a result as strange as it was puzzling to the officials. Effie was firm to her declaration, that she not only wrote the body of the cheque, but attached to it the name of her father, and had appropriated the money in a way which she declined to state. On the other hand, Lindsay was equally staunch to his statement made to the procurator-fiscal, that he had got Effie to write the draft, had forged the name to it, and got the money from her. The authorities very soon saw that they had got more than the law bargained for or wanted; nor was the difficulty likely soon to be solved. The two parties could not both be guilty, according to the evidence, nor could one of them be guilty to the exclusion of the other; neither, when the balance was cast, was there much difference in the weight of the scales, because, while it was in one view more likely that Lindsay signed the false name, it was beyond doubt that Effie wrote the body of the document, and she had, moreover, presented it. But was it for the honour of the law that people should be hanged on a likelihood? It was a new case without new heads to decide it, and it made no difference that the body of the people, who soon became inflamed on the subject, took the part of the girl and declared against the man. It was easy to be seen that the tracing of the money would go far to solve the mystery; and accordingly there was a strict search made in Lindsay's lodgings, as well as in Effie's private repositories at home. We need not say with what effect, where the money was over the Border and away. It was thus in all views more a case for Astraea than common heads; but then she had gone to heaven. The Lord Advocate soon saw that the law was likely to be caught in its own meshes. The first glimpse was got of the danger of hanging so versatile, so inconsistent, so unsearchable a creature as a human being on a mere confession of guilt. That that had been the law of Scotland in all time, nay, that it had been the law of the world from the beginning, there was no doubt. Who could know the murderer or the forger better than the murderer or the forger himself? and would any one throw away his life on a false plea? The reasoning does not exhaust the deep subject; there remains the presumption that the criminal will, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, deny, and deny boldly. But our case threw a new light on the old law, and the Lord Advocate was slow to indict where he saw not only reasons for failure, but also rising difficulties which might strike at the respect upon which the law was founded. The affair hung loose for a time, and Lindsay's friends, anxious to save him, got him induced to run his letters--the effect of which is to give the prosecutor a period wherein to try the culprit, on failure of which the person charged is free. The same was done by Effie's father; but quickened as the Lord Advocate was, the difficulty still met him like a ghost that would not be laid, that if he put Effie at the bar, Lindsay would appear in the witness-box; and if he put Lindsay on his trial, Effie would swear he was innocent; and as for two people forging _the same name_, the thing had never been heard of. And so it came to pass that the authorities at last, feeling they were in a cleft stick, where if they relieved one hand the other would be caught, were inclined to liberate both panels. But the bank was at that time preyed upon by forgeries, and were determined to make an example now when they had a culprit, or perhaps two. The consequence was, that the authorities were forced to give way, vindicating their right of choice as to the party they should arraign. That party was Effie Carr, and the choice justified itself by two considerations: that she, by writing and uttering the cheque, was so far committed by evidence exterior to her self-inculpation; and secondly, that Lindsay might break down in the witness-box under a searching examination. Effie was therefore indicted and placed at the bar. She pleaded guilty, but the prosecutor, notwithstanding, led evidence, and at length Lindsay appeared as a witness for the defence. The people who crowded the court had been aware from report of the condition in which Lindsay stood; but the deep silence which reigned throughout the hall when he was called to answer, evinced the doubt whether he would stand true to his self-impeachment. The doubt was soon solved. With a face on which no trace of fear could be perceived, with a voice in which there was no quaver, he swore that it was he who signed the draft and sent Effie for the money. The oscillation of sympathy, which had for a time been suspended, came round again to the thin pale girl, who sat there looking wistfully and wonderingly into the face of the witness, and the murmuring approbation that broke out, in spite of the shrill "silence" of the crier, expressed at once admiration of the man--criminal as he swore himself to be--and pity for the accused. What could the issue be? Effie was acquitted, and Lindsay sent back to gaol. Was he not to be tried? The officials felt that the game was dangerous. If Lindsay had stood firm in the box, had not Effie sat firm at the bar, with the very gallows in her eye, and would not she, in her turn, be as firm in the box? All which was too evident, and the consequence in the end came to be, that Lindsay was in the course of a few days set at liberty. And now there occurred proceedings not less strange in the house of John Carr. Lindsay was turned off, because, though he had made a sacrifice of himself to save the life of Effie, the sacrifice was only that due to the justice he had offended. The dismissal was against the protestations of Effie, who alone knew he was innocent; and she had to bear the further grief of learning that Stormonth had left the city on the very day whereon she was apprehended--a discovery this too much for a frame always weak, and latterly so wasted by her confinement in prison, and the anguish of mind consequent upon her strange position. And so it came to pass in a few more days that she took to her bed, a wan, wasted, heart-broken creature; but stung as she had been by the conduct of the man she had offered to die to save, she felt even more the sting of ingratitude in herself for not divulging to her mother as much of her secret as would have saved Lindsay from dismissal, for she was now more and more satisfied that it was the strength of his love for her that had driven him to his great and perilous sacrifice. Nor could her mother, as she bent over her daughter, understand why her liberation should have been followed by so much sorrow; nay, loving her as she did, she even reproached her as being ungrateful to God. "Mother," said the girl, "I have a secret that lies like a stane upon my heart. George Lindsay had nae mair to do with that forgery than you." "And who had to do with it then, Effie, dear?" "Myself," continued the daughter; "I filled up the cheque at the bidding o' Robert Stormonth, whom I had lang loved. It was he wha put my faither's name to it. It was to him I gave the money, to relieve him from debt, and he has fled." "Effie, Effie," cried the mother; "and we have done this thing to George Lindsay--ta'en from him his basket and his store, yea, the bread o' his mouth, in recompense for trying to save your life by offering his ain!" "Yes, mother," added Effie; "but we must make that wrang richt." "And mair, lass," rejoined the mother, as she rose abruptly and nervously, and hurried to her husband, to whom she told the strange intelligence. Then John Carr was a just man as well as a loving parent; and while he forgave his unfortunate daughter, he went and brought back George Lindsay to his old place that very night; nor did he or Mrs. Carr know the joy they had poured into the heart of the young man, for the reason that they did not know the love he bore to their daughter. But if this was a satisfaction to Effie, in so far as it relieved her heart of a burden, it brought to her a burden of another kind. The mother soon saw how matters stood with the heart of Lindsay, and she, moreover, saw that her or her daughter's gratitude could not be complete so long as he was denied the boon of being allowed to marry the girl he had saved from the gallows, and she waited her opportunity of breaking the delicate subject to Effie. It was not time yet, when Effie was an invalid, and even so far wasted and worn as to cause apprehensions of her ultimate fate, even death; nor perhaps would that time ever come when she could bear to hear the appeal without pain; for though Stormonth had ruined her character and her peace of mind--nay, had left her in circumstances almost unprecedented for treachery, baseness, and cruelty--he retained still the niche where the offerings of a first love had been made: his image had been indeed burned into the virgin heart, and no other form of man's face, though representing the possessor of beauty, wealth, and worldly honours, would ever take away that treasured symbol. It haunted her even as a shadow of herself, which, disappearing at sundown, comes again at the rising of the noon; nay, she would have been contented to make other sacrifices equally great as that which she had made; nor wild moors, nor streams, nor rugged hills, would have stopped her in an effort to look upon him once more, and replace that inevitable image by the real vision, which had first taken captive her young heart. But time passed, bringing the usual ameliorations to the miserable. Effie got so far better in health that she became able to resume, in a languid way, her former duties, with the exception of those of "the gentle clerk"--for of these she had had enough; even the very look of a bank-draft brought a shudder over her; nor would she have entered the Bank of Scotland again, even with a good cheque for a thousand pounds, to have been all her own. Meanwhile the patient George had plied a suit which he could only express by his eyes or the attentions of one who worships, but he never alluded, even in their conversations, to the old sacrifice. The mother too, and not less the father, saw the advantages that might result as well to the health of her mind as that of her body. They had waited--a vain waiting--for the wearing out of the traces of the obdurate image; and when they thought they might take placidity as the sign of what they waited for, they first hinted, and then expressed in plain terms, the wishes of their hearts. For a time all their efforts were fruitless; but John Carr getting old and weak, wished to be succeeded in his business by George; and the wife, when she became a widow, would require to be maintained--reasons which had more weight with Effie than any others, excepting always the act of George's self-immolation at the shrine in which his fancy had placed her. The importunities at length wore out her resistings, without effacing the lines of the old and still endeared image, and she gave a cold, we may say reluctant, consent. The bride's "ay" was a sigh, the rapture a tear of sadness. But George was pleased even with this: Effie, the long-cherished Effie, was at length his. In her new situation, Effie Carr--now Mrs. Lindsay--performed all the duties of a good and faithful wife; by an effort of the will no doubt, though in another sense only a sad obedience to necessity, of which we are all, as the creatures of motives, the very slaves. But the old image resisted the appeals of her reason, as well as the blandishments of a husband's love. She was only true, faithful, and kind, till the birth of a child lent its reconciling power to the efforts of duty. Some time afterwards John Carr died--an event which carried in its train the subsequent death of his wife. There was left to the son-in-law a dwindling business, and a very small sum of money, for the father had met with misfortunes in his declining years, which impaired health prevented him from resisting. Time wore on, and showed that the power of the martyr-spirit is not always that of the champion of worldly success, for it was now but a struggle between George Lindsay, with a stained name, and the stern demon of misfortune. He was at length overtaken by poverty, which, as affecting Effie, preyed so relentlessly upon his spirits, that within two years he followed John Carr to the grave. Effie was now left with two children to the work of her fingers, a poor weapon wherewith to beat off the wolf of want, and even this was curtailed by the effects of the old crime, which the public still kept in green remembrance. Throughout, our story has been the sensationalism of angry fate, and even less likely to be believed than the work of fiction. Nor was the vulture face of the Nemesis yet smoothed down. The grief of her bereavement had only partially diverted Effie's mind from the recollections of him who had ruined her, and yet could not be hated by her, nay, could not be but loved by her. The sensitized nerve, which had received the old image, gave it out fresh again to the reviving power of memory, and this was only a continuation of what had been a corroding custom of years and years. But, as the saying goes, it is a long road that does not offer by its side the spreading bough of shade to the way-worn traveller. One day, when Effie was engaged with her work, of which she was as weary as of the dreaming which accompanied it, there appeared before her, without premonition or foreshadowing sign, Robert Stormonth of Kelton, dressed as a country gentleman, booted, and with a whip in his hand. "Are you Effie Carr?" The question was useless to one who was already lying back in her chair in a state of unconsciousness, from which she recovered only to open her eyes and avert them, and shut them and open them again, like the victim of epilepsy. "And do you fear me?" said the excited man, as he took her in his strong arms and stared wildly into her face; "I have more reason to fear you, whom I ruined," he continued. "Ay, brought within the verge of the gallows. I know it all, Effie. Open your eyes, dear soul, and smile once more upon me. Nay, I have known it for years, during which remorse has scourged me through the world. Look up, dear Effie, while I tell you I could bear the agony no longer; and now opportunity favours the wretched penitent, for my father is dead, and I am not only my own master, but master of Kelton, of which you once heard me speak. Will you not look up yet, dear Effie? I come to make amends to you, not by wealth merely, but to offer you again that love I once bore to you, and still bear. Another such look, dear--it is oil to my parched spirit. You are to consent to be my wife; the very smallest boon I dare offer." During which strange rambling speech Effie was partly insensible; yet she heard enough to afford her clouded mind a glimpse of her condition, and of the meaning of what was said to her. For a time she kept staring into his face as if she had doubts of his real personality; nor could she find words to express even those more collected thoughts that began to gather into form. "Robert Stormonth," at length she said, calmly, "and have you suffered too? Oh, this is more wonderful to me than a' the rest o' these wonderful things." "As no man ever suffered, dear Effie," he answered. "I was on the eve of coming to you, when a friend I retained here wrote me to London of your marriage with the man who saved you from the fate into which I precipitated you. How I envied that man who offered to die for you! He seemed to take from me my only means of reparation; nay, my only chance of happiness. But he is dead. Heaven give peace to so noble a spirit! And now you are mine. It is mercy I come to seek in the first instance; the love--if that, after all that is past, is indeed possible--I will take my chance of that." "Robert," cried the now weeping woman, "if that love had been aince less, what misery I would have been spared! Ay, and my father, and mother, and poor George Lindsay, a' helped awa to the grave by my crime, for it stuck to us to the end." And she buried her head in his bosom, sobbing piteously. "_My_ crime, dear Effie, not yours," said he. "It was you who saved my life; and if Heaven has a kindlier part than another for those who err by the fault of others, it will be reserved for one who made a sacrifice of love. But we have, I hope, something to enjoy before you go there, and as yet I have not got your forgiveness." "It is yours--it is yours, Robert," was the sobbing answer. "Ay, and with it a' the love I ever had for you." "Enough for this time, dear Effie," said he. "My horse waits for me. Expect me to-morrow at this hour with a better-arranged purpose." And folding her in his arms, and kissing her fervently, even as his remorse were thereby assuaged as well as his love gratified, he departed, leaving Effie to thoughts we should be sorry to think ourselves capable of putting into words. Nor need we say more than that Stormonth kept his word. Effie Carr was in a few days Mrs. Stormonth, and in not many more the presiding female power in the fine residence of Kelton. THE BURGHER'S TALES. THE TWO RED SLIPPERS. The taking down of the old house of four or five flats called Gowanlock's Land, in that part of the High Street which used to be called the Luckenbooths, has given rise to various stories connected with the building. Out of these I have selected a very strange legend--so strange indeed, that, if not true, it must have been the production, _quod est in arte summa_, of a capital inventor; nor need I say that it is of much importance to talk of the authenticity of these things, for the most authentic are embellished by invention--and it is certainly the best embellished that live the longest; for all which we have very good reasons in human nature. Gowanlock's Land, it would seem, merely occupied the site of an older house, which belonged, at the time of Prince Charlie's occupation of the city, to an old town councillor of the name of Yellowlees. This older house was also one of many stories--an old form in Edinburgh, supposed to have been adopted from the French; but it had, which was not uncommon, an entry from the street running under an arch, and leading to the back of the premises to the lower part of the tenement, that part occupied by the councillor. There was a lower flat, and one above, which thus constituted an entire house; and which, moreover, rejoiced in the privilege of having an extensive garden, running down as far as the sheet of water called the North Loch, that secret "domestic witness," as the ancients used to say, of many of the dark crimes of the old city. These gardens were the pride of the rich burghers of the time, decorated by Dutch-clipped hollies and trim boxwood walks; and in our special instance of Councillor Yellowlees' retreat, there was, in addition, a summer-house or rustic bower standing at the bottom, that is, towards the north, and close upon the loch. I may mention also that, in consequence of the damp, this little bower was strewed with rushes for the very special comfort of Miss Annie Yellowlees, the only and much petted child of the good councillor. All which you must take as introductory to the important fact that the said Miss Annie, who, as a matter of course, was "very bonnie," as well as passing rich to be, had been, somewhat previous to the prince's entry to the town, pledged to be married to no less considerable a personage than Maister John Menelaws, a son of him of the very same name who dealt in pelts in a shop of the Canongate, and a student of medicine in the Edinburgh University; but as the councillor had in his secret soul hankerings after the prince, and the said student, John, was a red-hot royalist, the marriage was suspended, all to the inexpressible grief of our "bonnie Annie," who would not have given her John for all the Charlies and Geordies to be found from Berwick to Lerwick. On the other hand, while Annie was depressed, and forced to seek relief in solitary musings in her bower by the loch, it is just as true that "it is an ill wind that blaws naebody gude;" nay, the truth of the saying was verified in Richard Templeton, a fellow-student of Menelaws, and a rival, too, in the affections of Annie; who, being a Charlieite as well as an Annieite, rejoiced that his companion was in the meantime foiled and disappointed. Meanwhile, and, I may say, while the domestic affairs of the councillor's house were still in this unfortunate position, the prince's bubble burst in the way which history tells us of, and thereupon out came proscriptions of terrible import, and, as fate would have it, young Templeton's name was in the bloody register; the more by reason that he had been as noisy as Edinburgh students generally are in the proclamation of his partisanship. He must fly or secrete himself, or perhaps lose a head in which there was concealed a considerable amount of Scotch cunning. He at once thought of the councillor's house, with that secluded back garden and summer-house, all so convenient for secrecy, and the envied Annie there, too, whom he might by soft wooings detach from the hated Menelaws, and make his own through the medium of the pity that is akin to love. And so, to be sure, he straightway, under the shade of night, repaired to the house of the councillor, who, being a tender-hearted man, could not see a sympathiser with the glorious cause in danger of losing his head. Templeton was received--a report set abroad that he had gone to France--and all proper measures were taken within the house to prevent any domestic from letting out the secret. In this scheme, Annie, we need hardly say, was a favouring party; not that she had any love for the young man, for her heart was still true to Menelaws (who, however, for safety's sake, was now excluded from the house), but that, with a filial obedience to a beloved father, she felt, with a woman's heart, sympathy for one who was in distress, and a martyr to the cause which her father loved. Need we wonder at an issue which may already be looming on the vision of those who know anything of human nature? The two young folks were thrown together. They were seldom out of each other's company. Suffering is love's opportunity, and Templeton had to plead for him not only his misfortune, but a tongue rendered subtle and winning by love's action in the heart. As the days passed, Annie saw some new qualities in the martyr prisoner which she had not seen before; nay, the pretty little domestic attentions had the usual reflex effect upon the heart which administered them, and all that the recurring image of Menelaws could do to fight against these rising predilections was so far unavailing, that that very image waxed dimmer and dimmer, while the present object was always working through the magic of sensation. Yes, Annie Yellowlees grew day by day fonder of her _protégé_, until at length she got, as the saying goes, "over head and ears." Nay, was she not, in the long nights, busy working a pair of red slippers for the object of her new affections, and were not these so very suitable to one who, like Hercules, was reduced almost to the distaff, and who, unlike that woman-tamed hero, did not need them to be applied anywhere but to the feet? In the midst of all this secluded domesticity, there was all that comfort which is said to come from stolen waters. Then was there not the prospect of the proscription being taken off, and the two would be made happy? Even in the meantime they made small escapades into free space. When the moon was just so far up as not to be a tell-tale, Templeton would, either with or without Annie, step out into the garden with these very red slippers on his feet. That bower by the loch, too, was favourable to the fondlings of a secret love; nor was it sometimes less to the prisoner a refuge from the eeriness which comes of _ennui_--if it is not the same thing--under the pressure of which strange feeling he would creep out at times when Annie could not be with him; nay, sometimes when the family had gone to bed. And now we come to a very wonderful turn in our strange story. One morning Templeton did not make his appearance in the breakfast parlour, but of course he would when he got up and got his red slippers on. Yet he was so punctual; and Annie, who knew that her father had to go to the council chamber, would see what was the cause of the young man's delay. She went to his bedroom door. It was open; but where was Templeton? He was not there. He could not be out in the city; he could not be even in the garden with the full light of a bright morning sun shining on it. He was not in the house; he was not in the garden, as they could see from the windows. He was nowhere to be found; and, what added to the wonder, he had taken with him his red slippers, wherever he had gone. The inmates were in wonderment and consternation, and, conduplicated evil! they could make no inquiry for one who lay under the ban of a bloody proscription. But wonders, as we all know, generally ensconce themselves in some snug theory, and die by a kind of pleasant euthanasia; and so it was with this wonder of ours. The councillor came, as the days passed, to the conclusion that Templeton, wearied out by his long confinement, had become desperate, and had gone abroad. As good a theory as could be got, seeing that he had not trusted himself in going near his friends; and Annie, whose grief was sharp and poignant, came also to settle down with a belief which still promised her her lover, though perhaps at a long date. But, somehow or another, Annie could not explain why, even with all the fondness he had to the work of her hands, he should have elected to expose himself to damp feet by making the love-token slippers do the duty of the pair of good shoes he had left in the bedroom. Even this latter wonder wore away; and months and months passed on the revolving wheel which casts months, not less than moments, into that gulf we call eternity. The rigour of the Government prosecutions was relaxed, and timid sympathisers began to show their heads out of doors, but Richard Templeton never returned to claim either immunity or the woman of his affections. Nor within all this time did John Menelaws enter the house of the councillor; so that Annie's days were renounced to sadness, and her nights to reveries. But at last comes the eventful "one day" of the greatest of all story-tellers, Time, whereon happen his startling discoveries. Verily one day Annie had wandered disconsolately into the garden, and seated herself on the wooden form in the summer-house, where in the moonlight she had often nestled in the arms of her proscribed lover, who was now gone, it might be, for ever. Objective thought cast her into a reverie, and the reverie brought up again the images of these objects, till her heart beat with an affection renewed through a dream. At length she started up, and, wishing to hurry from a place which seemed filled with images at once lovable and terrible, she felt her foot caught by an impediment whereby she stumbled. On looking down she observed some object of a reddish-brown colour; and becoming alarmed lest it might be one of the toads with which the place was sometimes invaded, she started back. Yet curiosity forced her to a closer inspection. She applied her hand to the object, and brought away one of those very slippers which she had made for Templeton. All very strange; but what maybe conceived to have been her feelings when she saw, sticking up from beneath the rushes, the white skeleton of a foot which had filled that very slipper! A terrible suspicion shot through her mind. She flew to her father, and, hurrying him to the spot, pointed out to him the grim object, and showed him the slipper which had covered it. Mr. Yellowlees was a shrewd man, and soon saw that, the foot being there, the rest of the body was not far away. He saw, too, that his safety might be compromised either as having been concerned in a murder or the harbourage of a rebel; and so, making caution the better part of his policy, he repaired to a sympathiser, and having told him the story, claimed his assistance. Nor was this refused. That same night, by the light of a lamp, they exhumed the body of Templeton, much reduced, but enveloped with his clothes; only they observed that the other red slipper was wanting. On examining the body, they could trace the evidence of a sword-stab through the heart. All this they kept to themselves; and that same night they contrived to get the sexton of the Canongate to inter the body as that of a rebel who had been killed, and left where it was found. This wonder also passed away, and, as time sped, old things began to get again into their natural order. Menelaws began to come again about the house; and as an old love, when the impediments are removed, is soon rekindled again, he and Annie became even all that which they had once been to each other. The old vows were repeated without the slightest reference being made by either party to the cause which had interfered to prevent them from having been fulfilled. It was not for Annie to proffer a reason, and it did not seem to be the wish of Menelaws to ask one. In a short time afterwards they were married. The new-married couple, apparently happy in the enjoyment of an affection which had continued so long, and had survived the crossing of a new love, at least on one side, removed to a separate house farther up in the Lawnmarket. Menelaws had previously graduated as a doctor, and he commenced to practise as such, not without an amount of success. Meanwhile the councillor died, leaving Annie a considerable fortune. In the course of somewhere about ten years they had five children. They at length resolved on occupying the old house with the garden, for Annie's reluctance became weakened by time. It was on the occasion of the flitting that Annie had to rummage an old trunk which Menelaws, long after the marriage, had brought from the house of his father, the dealer in pelts. There at the bottom, covered over by a piece of brown paper, she found--what? The very slipper which matched the one she still secretly retained in her possession. _Verbum sapienti_. You may now see where the strange land lies; nor was Annie blind. She concluded in an instant, and with a horror that thrilled through her whole body, that Menelaws had murdered his rival. She had lain for ten years in the arms of a murderer. She had borne to him five children. Nay, she loved him with all the force of an ardent temperament. The thought was terrible, and she recoiled from the very possibility of living with him a moment longer. She took the fatal memorial and secreted it along with its neighbour; and having a friend at a little distance from Edinburgh, she hurried thither, taking with her her children. Her father had left in her own power a sufficiency for her support, and she afterwards returned to town. All the requests of her husband for an explanation she resisted, and indeed they were not long persisted in, for Menelaws no doubt gauged the reason of her obduracy--a conclusion the more likely that he subsequently left Scotland. I have reason to believe that some of the existing Menelaws' are descended from this strange union. THE FAITHFUL WIFE There is very prevalent, along the Borders, an opinion that the arms of the town of Selkirk represent an incident which occurred there at the time of the battle of Flodden. The device, it is well known, consists of a female bearing a child in her arms, seated on a tomb, on which is also placed the Scottish lion. Antiquaries tell us that this device was adopted in consequence of the melancholy circumstance of the wife of an inhabitant of the town having been found, by a party returning from the battle, lying dead at the place called Ladywood-edge, with a child sucking at her breast. We have not the slightest wish to disturb this venerable legend. It commemorates, with striking force, the desolation of one of Scotland's greatest calamities; and though the device is rudely and coarsely imagined, there is a graphic strength in the conception, which, independently of the truth of the story, recommends it to the lover of the bold and fervid genius of our countrymen. We must, at same time, be allowed to say that there is another version, and this we intend, shortly, now to lay before the public, without vouching for its superiority of accuracy over its more favoured and cherished brother; and rather, indeed, cautioning the credulous lovers of old legends to be upon their guard, lest Dr. Johnson's reproof of Richardson be applicable to us, in saying that we have it upon authority. When recruits were required by King James the Fourth for the invasion of the English territory, which produced the most lamentable of all our defeats, it is well known that great exertions were used in the cause by the town-clerk of Selkirk, whose name was William Brydone, for which King James the Fifth afterwards conferred on him the honour of knighthood. Many of the inhabitants of Selkirk, fired with the ardour which the chivalric spirit of James infused into the hearts of his people, and with the spirit of emulation which Brydone had the art of exciting among his townsmen, as Borderers, joined the banners of their provost. Among these was one, Alexander Hume, a shoemaker, a strong stalwart man, bold and energetic in his character, and extremely enthusiastic in the cause of the king. He was deemed of considerable importance by Brydone, being held the second best man of the hundred citizens who are said to have joined his standard. When he came among his companions he was uniformly cheered. They had confidence in his sagacity and prudence, respected his valour, and admired his strength. If Hume was thus courted by his companions, and urged by Brydone to the dangerous enterprise in which the king, by the wiles and flattery of the French queen, had engaged, he was treated in a very different manner by Margaret, his wife,--a fine young woman, who, fond to distraction of her husband, was desirous of preventing him from risking his life in a cause which she feared, with prophetic feeling, would bring desolation on her country. Every effort which love and female cajolery could suggest was used by this dutiful wife to keep her husband at home. She hung round his neck,--held up to his face a fine child five months old, whose mute eloquence softened the heart, but could not alter the purpose of the father,--wept, prayed, implored. She asked him the startling question--Who, when he was dead--and die he might--would shield her from injury and misfortune, and cherish, with the tenderness and love which its beauty and innocence deserved, the interesting pledge of their affection? She painted in glowing colours--which the imagination, excited by love, can so well supply--the situation of her as a widow and her child as an orphan. Their natural protector gone, what would be left to her but grief, what would remain for her child but destitution? His spirit would hear her wails; but beggary would array her in its rags, and hunger would steal from her cheek the vestiges of health and the lineaments of beauty. These appeals were borne by Hume by the panoply of resolution. He loved Margaret as dearly, as truly as man could love woman, as a husband could love the partner of his life and fortunes. He answered with tears and embraces; but he remained true to the cause of his king and his country. "Would you hae me, Margaret," he said, "to disgrace mysel' in the face o' my townsmen? Doesna our guid king intend to leave his fair Margaret, and risk the royal bluid o' the Bruce for the interests o' auld Scotland? and doesna our honoured provost mean to desert, for a day o' glory, his braw wife, that he may deck her wimple wi' the roses o' England, and her name wi' a Scotch title? Wharfore, then, should I, a puir tradesman, fear to put in jeopardy for the country that bore me the life that is hers as weel as yours, and sacrifice, sae far as the guid that my arm can produce, the glory o' my king and the character o' my country?" Margaret heard this speech with the most intense grief. She was incapable of argument. She was inconsolable. Her husband remained inexorable, and entreaty gave way to anger. She had adopted the idea that Hume was buoyed up with the pride of leadership; and she told him, with some acrimony, that his ambition of being thought the bravest man of Selkirk would not, in the event of his death, supply the child he was bound to work for with a bite of bread. Her love and anger carried her beyond bounds. She used other language of a harsher character, which forced her good-natured husband to retaliate in terms unusual to him, unsuited to the serious subject which they had in hand, and far less to the dangerous separation which they were about to experience. The conversation got more acrimonious. Words of a high cast produced expressions stronger still, and Hume left his wife in anger, to go to the field from which he might never return. Regret follows close upon the heels of incensed love. Alexander Hume had not been many paces from his own house, when his wife saw, in its proper light, the true character of her situation. Her husband had gone on a perilous enterprise. He might perish. She had perhaps got her last look of him who was dearest to her bosom. That look was in anger. The idea was terrible. Those who know the strength and delicacy of the feelings of true affection may conceive the situation of Margaret Hume. Unable to control herself, she threw her child into its crib, and rushed out of the house. One parting glance of reconciliation was all she wanted. She hurried through the town with an excited and terrified aspect, searching everywhere for her husband. He had departed with his companions; and Margaret was left in the agony of one whose sorrow is destined to be increased by the workings of an excited fancy, and the remorseful feelings of self-impeachment. In the meantime, Hume having joined his companions, proceeded to the main army of the king, which was encamped on the hill of Flodden, lying on the left of the river Till. The party with which he was associated put themselves under the command of Lord Home; who, with the Earls of Crawford and Montrose, led the left of the van of the Scottish army. This part of the king's troops, it is well known, was opposed to Sir Edmund Howard. They were early engaged, and fought so successfully that Howard soon stood in need of succour from Lord Dacre, to save him from being speared on the field. In this struggle Alexander Hume displayed the greatest prowess. He was seen in every direction dealing out death wherever he went. He was not, however, alone. His companions kept well up to him; and, in particular, one individual, who had joined the party as they approached the field, fought with a bravery equal to that of Hume himself. That person kept continually by his side, and seemed to consider the brave Borderer as his chosen companion-in-arms, whom he was bound to defend through all the perils of the fight. A leather haubergeon and an iron helmet, in which there was placed a small white feather, plucked from a cock's wing, constituted the armour of this brave seconder of Hume's gallantry. When Hume was attacked by the English with more force than his individual arm could sustain, no one of his companions was more ready to bring him aid than this individual. On several occasions he may be said to have saved his life, for Hume's recklessness drew him often into the very midst of the fight, where he must have perished had it not been for the timely assistance of his friend. On one occasion, in particular, an Englishman came behind him, and was in the very act of inserting a spear between the clasps of his armour, when his companion struck the dastardly fellow to the earth, and resumed the fight in front of the battle. This noble conduct was not unappreciated by Hume; for where is bravery found segregated from gratitude and generosity? He called upon him, even in the midst of the battle, for his name, that he might, in the event of their being separated, recollect and commemorate his friendship. The request was not complied with, but the superintending and saving arm of the stranger continued to be exercised in favour of the Borderer. They fought together to the end of the battle. The result of the bloody contest is but too well known. The strains of poetry have carried the wail of bereavement to the ends of the earth, and sorrow has claimed the sounds as its own individual expression. The Scottish troops took their flight in different directions. Hume and his companions were obliged to lie in secret for a considerable time in the surrounding forests. He made many inquiries among his friends for the individual who had fought with him so bravely and saved his life. He could find no trace of him, beyond the information that he had disappeared when Hume had given up the fight. The direction in which he went was unknown; nor could any one tell the place from which he came. The people of Selkirk who had been in the fight, sought their town as soon as they could with safety get out of the reach of the English. Their numbers formed a sorry contrast to those who had, with light hearts and high hopes, sought the field of battle; and it has been reported that when the wretched wounded and bloodstained remnant entered the town, a cry of sorrow was raised by the inhabitants collected to meet them, the remembrance of which remained on the hearts of their children long after those who uttered it had been consigned with their griefs to the grave. Hume, who had also grievously repented of the harsh words he had applied to his beloved wife on the occasion of their separation, was all impatience to clasp her to his bosom, and seal their reconciliation with a kiss of repentance and love. Leaving his companions as they entered the town, he flew to the house. He approached the door. He reached it with a trembling heart. He had prepared the kind words of salutation. He had wounds to show, and to get dressed by the tender hand of sympathy. Lifting the latch, he entered. No one came to meet him. No sound, either of wife or child, met his ear. On looking round he saw, sitting in an arm-chair, the person who had accompanied him in battle, wearing the same haubergeon, the same helmet, the individual white feather that had attracted his attention. That person was Margaret Hume. She was dead. Her head reclined on the back of the chair, her arms hung by her side, the edge of her haubergeon was uplifted, and at her white bosom, from which flowed streams of blood, her child sucked the milk of a dead mother. _Omissis nugis rem experiamur_. END OF VOL. XXIII. 
11334	----	Wilson's Tales of the Borders and of Scotland. HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE. WITH A GLOSSARY. REVISED BY ALEXANDER LEIGHTON, _One of the Original Editors and Contributors_. VOL. XXII. 1884. CONTENTS. UPS AND DOWNS; OR, DAVID STUART'S ACCOUNT OF HIS PILGRIMAGE, (_John Mackay Wilson_), THE BURGHER'S TALES. THE ANCIENT BUREAU. (_Alexander Leighton_), LADY RAE, (_Alexander Campbell_), THE DIAMOND EYES, (_Alexander Leighton_), DAVID LORIMER, (_Anon_.) THE CONVICT, (_Anon_.) THE AMATEUR ROBBERY, (_Alexander Leighton_), THE PROCRASTINATOR, (_John Mackay Wilson_), THE TEN OF DIAMONDS, (_Alexander Leighton_), WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND. * * * * * UPS AND DOWNS; OR, DAVID STUART'S ACCOUNT OF HIS PILGRIMAGE. Old David Stuart was the picture of health--a personification of contentment. When I knew him, his years must have considerably exceeded threescore; but his good-natured face was as ruddy as health could make it; his hair, though mingled with grey, was as thick and strong as if he had been but twenty; his person was still muscular and active; and, moreover, he yet retained, in all their freshness, the feelings of his youth, and no small portion of the simplicity of his childhood. I loved David, not only because he was a good man, but because there was a great deal of _character_ or _originality_ about him; and though his brow was cheerful, the clouds of sorrow had frequently rested upon it. More than once when seated by his parlour fire, and when he had finished his pipe, and his afternoon tumbler stood on the table beside him, I have heard him give the following account of the ups and downs--the trials, the joys, and sorrows--which he had encountered in his worldly pilgrimage; and, to preserve the interest of the history, I shall give it in David's own idiom, and in his own words. "I ne'er was a great traveller," David was wont to begin: "through the length o' Edinburgh, and as far south as Newcastle, is a' that my legs ken about geography. But I've had a good deal o' crooks and thraws, and ups and downs, in the world for a' that. My faither was in the droving line, and lived in the parish o' Coldstream. He did a good deal o' business, baith about the fairs on the Borders, at Edinburgh market every week, and sometimes at Morpeth. He was a bachelor till he was five-and-forty, and he had a very decent lass keep'd his house, they ca'd Kirsty Simson. Kirsty was a remarkably weel-faur'd woman, and a number o' the farm lads round about used to come and see her, as weel as trades' chields frae about Coldstream and Birgham--no that she gied them ony encouragement, but that it was her misfortune to hae a gude-looking face. So, there was ae night that my faither cam' hame frae Edinburgh, and, according to his custom, he had a drap in his e'e--yet no sae meikle but that he could see a lad or twa hingin' about the house. He was very angry; and, 'Kirsty,' said he, 'I dinna like thae youngsters to come about the house.' "'I'm sure, sir,' said she, 'I dinna encourage them.' "'Weel, Kirsty,' said he, 'if that's the way, if ye hae nae objections, I'll marry ye mysel'.' "'I dinna see what objections I should hae,' said she, and, without ony mair courtship, in a week or twa they were married; and, in course o' time, I was born. I was sent to school when I was about eight years auld, but my education ne'er got far'er than the rule o' three. Before I was fifteen, I assisted my faither at the markets, and in a short time he could trust me to buy and sell. There was one very dark night in the month o' January, when I was little mair than seventeen, my faither and me were gaun to Morpeth, and we were wishing to get forward wi' the beasts as far as Whittingham; but just as we were about half a mile doun the loanin' frae Glanton, it cam' awa ane o' the dreadfu'est storms that e'er mortal was out in. The snaw literally fell in a solid mass, and every now and then the wind cam' roarin' and howlin' frae the hills, and the fury o' the drift was terrible. I was driven stupid and half suffocated. My faither was on a strong mare, and I was on a bit powney; and amang the cattle there was a camstairy three-year-auld bull, that wad neither hup nor drive. We had it tied by the foreleg and the horns; but the moment the drift broke ower us, the creature grew perfectly unmanageable; forward it wadna gang. My faither had strucken at it, when the mad animal plunged its horns into the side o' the mare, and he fell to the ground. I could just see what had happened, and that was a'. I jumped aff the powney, and ran forward. 'O faither!' says I, 'ye're no hurt, are ye?' He was trying to rise, but before I could reach him--indeed, before I had the words weel out o' my mouth--the animal made a drive at him! 'O Davy!' he cried, and he ne'er spak mair! We generally carried pistols, and I had presence o' mind to draw ane out o' the breast-pocket o' my big coat, and shoot the animal dead on the spot. I tried to raise my faither in my arms, and, dark as it was, I could see his blood upon the snaw--and a dreadfu' sight it was for a son to see! I couldna see where he had been hurt; and still, though he groaned but once, I didna think he was dead, and I strove and strove again to lift him upon the back o' the powney, and take him back to Glanton; but though I fought wi' my heart like to burst a' the time, I couldna accomplish it. 'Oh, what shall I do?' said I, and cried and shouted for help--for the snaw fell sae fast, and the drift was sae terrible, that I was feared that, even if he werena dead, he wad be smothered and buried up before I could ride to Glanton and back. And, as I cried, our poor dog Rover came couring to my faither's body and licked his hand, and its pitiful howls mingled wi' the shrieks o' the wind. No kennin' what to do, I lifted my faither to the side o' the road, and tried to place him, half sitting like, wi' his back to the drift, by the foot o' the hedge. 'Oh, watch there, Rover,' said I; and the poor dog ran yowlin' to his feet, and did as I desired it. I sprang upon the back o' the powney, and flew up to the town. Within five minutes I was back, and in a short time a number o' folk wi' lichts cam' to our assistance. My faither was covered wi' blood, but without the least sign o' life. I thought my heart wad break, and for a time my screams were heard aboon the ragin' o' the storm. My faither was conveyed up to the inn, and, on being stripped, it was found that the horn o' the animal had entered his back below the left shouther; and when a doctor frae Alnwick saw the body next day, he said he must have died instantly--and, as I have told ye, he never spoke, but just cried, 'O Davy!' "My feelings were in such a state that I couldna write mysel', and I got a minister to send a letter to my mother, puir woman, stating what had happened. An acquaintance o' my faither's looked after the cattle, and disposed o' them at Morpeth; and I, having hired a hearse at Alnwick, got the body o' my faither taen hame. A sorrowfu' hame-gaun it was, ye may weel think. Before ever we reached the house, I heard the shrieks o' my puir mither. 'O my faitherless bairn!' she cried, as I entered the door; but before she could rise to meet me, she got a glent o' the coffin which they were takin' out o' the hearse, and utterin' a sudden scream, her head fell back, and she gaed clean awa. "After my faither's funeral, we found that he had died worth only about four hundred pounds when his debts were paid; and as I had been bred in the droving line, though I was rather young, I just continued it, and my mother and me kept house thegither. "This was the only thing particular that happened to me for the next thirteen years, or till I was thirty. My mother still kept the house, and I had nae thoughts o' marrying: no but that I had gallanted a wee bit wi' the lasses now and then, but it was naething serious, and was only to be neighbour-like. I had ne'er seen ane that I could think o' takin' for better for warse; and, anither thing, if I had seen ane to please me, I didna think my mother would be comfortable wi' a young wife in the house. Weel, ye see, as I was telling ye, things passed on in this way till I was thirty, when a respectable flesher in Edinburgh that I did a good deal o' business wi', and that had just got married, says to me in the Grassmarket ae day: 'Davy,' says he, 'ye're no gaun out o' the toun the night--will ye come and tak' tea and supper wi' the wife and me, and a freend or twa?' "'I dinna care though I do,' says I; 'but I'm no just in a tea-drinkin' dress.' "'Ne'er mind the dress,' says he. So, at the hour appointed, I stepped awa ower to Hanover Street, in the New Town, where he lived, and was shown into a fine carpeted room, wi' a great looking-glass, in a gilt frame, ower the chimley-piece--ye could see yoursel' at full length in't the moment you entered the door. I was confounded at the carpets and the glass, and a sofa, nae less; and, thinks I, 'This shows what kind o' bargains ye get frae me.' There were three or four leddies sitting in the room; and 'Mr. Stuart, leddies,' said the flesher; 'Mr. Stuart, Mrs. So-and-so,' said he again--'Miss Murray, Mr. Stuart.' I was like to drap at the impudence o' the creatur--he handed me about as if I had been a bairn at a dancin' school. 'Your servant, leddies,' said I; and didna ken where to look, when I got a glimpse o' my face in the glass, and saw it was as red as crimson. But I was mair than ever put about when the tea was brought in, and the creatur says to me, 'Mr. Stuart, will you assist the leddies?' 'Confound him,' thought I, 'has he brought me here to mak' a fule o'me!' I did attempt to hand round the tea and toast, when, wi' downright confusion, I let a cup fall on Miss Murray's gown. I could have died wi' shame. 'Never mind--never mind, sir!' said she; 'there is no harm done;' and she spoke sae proper and sae kindly, I was in love wi' her very voice. But when I got time to observe her face, it was a perfect picture; and through the hale night after, I could do naething but look at and think o' Miss Murray. "'Man,' says I to the flesher the next time I saw him, 'wha was yon Miss Murray?' 'No match for a Grassmarket dealer, Davy,' says he. 'I was thinkin' that,' says I; 'but I wad like to be acquainted wi' her.' 'Ye shall be that,' says he; and, after that, there was seldom a month passed that I was in Edinburgh but I saw Miss Murray. But as to courtin', that was out o' the question. "A short time after this, a relation o' my mither's, wha had been a merchant in London, dee'd, and it was said we were his nearest heirs; and that as he had left nae will, if we applied, we would get the property, which was worth about five thousand pounds. Weel, three or four years passed awa, and we heard something about the lawsuit, but naething about the money. I was vexed for having onything to say to it. I thought it was only wasting a candle to chase a will-o'-the-wisp. About the time I speak o', my mither had turned very frail. I saw there was a wastin' awa o' nature, and she wadna be lang beside me. The day before her death, she took my hand, and 'Davy,' says she to me--'Davy,' poor body, she repeated (I think I hear her yet)--'it wad been a great comfort to me if I had seen ye settled wi' a decent partner before I dee'd; but it's no to be.' "Weel, as I was saying, my mither dee'd, and I found the house very dowie without her. It wad be about three months after her death--I had been at Whitsunbank; and when I cam' hame, the servant lassie put a letter into my hands; and 'Maister,' says she, 'there's a letter--can it be for you, think ye?' It was directed, 'David Stuart, _Esquire_ (nae less), for----, by Coldstream.' So I opened the seal, and, to my surprise and astonishment, I found it was frae the man o' business I had employed in London, stating that I had won the law-plea, and that I might get the money whene'er I wanted it. I sent for the siller the very next post. Now, ye see, I was sick and tired o' being a bachelor. I had lang wished to be settled in a comfortable matrimonial way--that is, frae e'er I had seen Miss Murray. But, ye see, while I was a drover, I was very little at hame--indeed I was waur than an Arawbian--and had very little peace or comfort either, and I thought it was nae use takin' a wife until something better might cast up. But this wasna the only reason. There wasna a woman on earth that I thought I could live happy wi' but Miss Murray, and she belanged to a genteel family: whether she had ony siller or no, I declare, as I'm to be judged hereafter, I never did inquire. But I saw plainly it wadna do for a rough country drover, jauped up to the very elbows, and sportin' a handfu' o' pound-notes the day, and no' worth a penny the morn--I say, I saw plainly it wadna do for the like o' me to draw up by her elbow, and say 'Here's a fine day, ma'am,' or, 'Hae ye ony objections to a walk?' or something o' that sort. But it was weel on for five years since I had singled her out; and though I never said a word anent the subject o' matrimony, yet I had reason to think she had a shrewd guess that my heart louped quicker when she opened her lips than if a regiment o' infantry had stealed behint me unobserved, and fired their muskets ower my shouther; and I sometimes thought that her een looked as if she wished to say, 'Are ye no gaun to ask me, David?' "But still, when I thought she had been brought up a leddy in a kind o' manner, I durstna venture to mint the matter; but I was fully resolved and determined, should I succeed in getting the money I was trying for, to break the business clean aff hand. So, ye see, as soon as I got the siller, what does I do but sits down and writes her a letter--and sic a letter! I tauld her a' my mind as freely as though I had been speakin' to you. Weel, ye see, I gaed bang through to Edinburgh at ance, no three days after my letter; and up I goes to the Lawnmarket, where she was living wi' her mother, and raps at the door without ony ceremony. But when I had rapped, I was in a swither whether to staun till they came out or no, for my heart began to imitate the knocker, or rather to tell me how I ought to have knocked; for it wasna a loud, solid drover's knock like mine, but it kept rit-tit-tat-ting on my breast like the knock of a hairdresser's 'prentice bringing a bandbox fu' o' curls and ither knick-knackeries, for a leddy to pick and choose on for a fancy ball; and my face lowed as though ye were haudin' a candle to it; when out comes the servant, and I stammers out, 'Is your mistress in?' says I. 'Yes, sir,' says she; 'walk in.' And in I walked; but I declare I didna ken whether the floor carried me, or I carried the floor; and wha should I see but an auld leddy wi' spectacles--the maiden's mistress, sure enough, though no mine, but my mother-in-law that was to be. So she looked at me, and I looked at her. She made a low curtsey, and I tried to mak' a bow; while all the time ye might hae heard my heart beatin' at the opposite side o' the room. 'Sir,' says she. 'Ma'am,' says I. I wad hae jumped out o' the window had it no been four stories high; but since I've gane this far, I maun say something, thinks I. 'I've ta'en the liberty o' callin', ma'am,' says I. 'Very happy to see ye, sir,' says she. Weel, thinks I, I'm glad to hear that, however; but had it been to save my life, I didna ken what to say next. So I sat down; and at length I ventured to ask, 'Is your daughter, Miss Jean, at hame, ma'am?' says I. 'I wate she is,' quo' she. 'Jean!' she cried wi' a voice that made the house a' dirl again. 'Comin', mother,' cried my flower o' the forest; and in she cam', skippin' like a perfect fairy. But when she saw me, she started as if she had seen an apparition, and coloured up to the very e'ebrows. As for me, I trembled like an ash leaf, and stepped forward to meet her. I dinna think she was sensible o' me takin' her by the hand; and I was just beginning to say again, 'I've taken the liberty,' when the auld wife had the sense and discretion to leave us by our-sel's. I'm sure and certain I never experienced such a relief since I was born. My head was absolutely ringing wi' dizziness and love. I made twa or three attempts to say something grand, but I never got half-a-dozen words out; and finding it a' nonsense, I threw my arms around her waist, and pressed her beatin' breast to mine, and stealing a hearty kiss, the whole story that I had made such a wark about was ower in a moment. She made a wee bit fuss, and cried 'Oh fie!' and 'Sir!' or something o' that kind; but I held her to my breast, declaring my intentions manfully--that I had been dying for her for five years, and now that I was a gentleman, I thought I might venture to speak. In fact, I held her in my arms until she next door to said 'Yes!' "Within a week we had a'thing settled. I found out she had nae fortune. Her mother belanged to a kind o' auld family, that, like mony ithers, cam' down the brae wi' Prince Charles, poor fallow; and they were baith rank Episcopawlians. I found the mither had just sae muckle a year frae some o' her far-awa relations; and had it no been that they happened to ca' me Stuart, and I tauld her a rigmarole about my grandfaither and Culloden, so that she soon made me out a pedigree, about which I kenned nae mair than the man o' the moon, but keept saying 'yes' and 'certainly' to a' she said--I say, but for that, and confound me, if she wadna hae curled up her nose at me and my five thousand pounds into the bargain, though her lassie should hae starved. But Jeannie was a perfect angel. She was about two or three and thirty, wi' light brown hair, hazel e'en, and a waist as jimp and sma' as ye ever saw upon a human creature. She dressed maist as plain as a Quakeress, but was a pattern o' neatness. Indeed, a blind man might seen she was a leddy born and bred; and then for sense, haud at ye there, I wad matched her against the minister and the kirk elders put thegither. But she took that o' her mither; o' whom mair by-and-by. "As I was saying, she was an Episcopawlian,--a downright, open-day defender o' Archbishop Laud and the bloody Claverhouse; and she wished to prove down through me the priority and supremacy o' bishops ower presbyteries,--just downright nonsense, ye ken; but there's nae accounting for sooperstition. A great deal depends on how a body's brought up. But what vexed me maist was to think that she wad be gaun to ae place o' public worship on the Sabbath, and me to anither, just like twa strangers; and maybe if her minister preached half an hour langer than mine, or mine half an hour langer than hers, or when we had nae intermission, then there was the denner spoiled, and the servant no kenned what time to hae it ready; for the mistress said ane o'clock, and the maister said twa o'clock. Now, I wadna gie tippence for a cauld denner. "But, as I was telling ye about the auld wife, she thocht fit to read baith us a bit o' a lecture. "'Now, bairns,' said she, 'I beseech ye, think weel what ye are about; for it were better to rue at the very foot o' the altar, than to rue it but ance afterwards, and that ance be for ever. I dinna say this to cast a damp upon your joy, nor that I doubt your affection for are another; but I say it as ane who has been a wife, and seen a good deal o' the world; an,' oh bairns! I say it as a _mother_! Marriage without love is like the sun in January--often clouded, often trembling through storms, but aye without heat; and its pillow is comfortless as a snow-wreath. But although love be the principal thing, remember it is not the only thing necessary. Are ye sure that ye are perfectly acquainted wi' each other's characters and tempers? Aboon a', are ye sure that ye esteem and respect ane anither? Without this, and ye may think that ye like each other, but it's no real love. It's no that kind o' liking that's to last through married years, and be like a singing bird in your breasts to the end o' your days. No, Jeannie, unless your very souls be, as it were, cemented thegither, unless ye see something in him that ye see in naebody else, and unless he sees something in you that he sees in naebody else, dinna marry still. Passionate lovers dinna aye mak' affectionate husbands. Powder will bleeze fiercely awa in a moment; but the smotherin' peat retains fire and heat among its very ashes. Remember that, in baith man and woman, what is passion to-day may be disgust the morn. Therefore, think now; for it will be ower late to think o' my advice hereafter.' "'Troth, ma'am,' said I, 'and I'm sure I'll be very proud to ca' sic a sensible auld body _mither_!' "'Rather may ye be proud to call my bairn your _wife_,' said she; 'for, where a man ceases to be proud o' his wife, upon all occasions, and at all times, or where a wife has to blush for her husband, ye may say fareweel to their happiness. However, David,' continued she, 'I dinna doubt but ye will mak' a gude husband; for ye're a sensible, and I really think a deservin' lad; and were it nae mair than your name, the name o' Stuart wad be a passport to my heart. There's but ae thing that I'm feared on--just ae fault that I see in ye; indeed I may say it's the beginning o' a' ithers, and I wad fain hae ye promise to mend it; for it has brought mair misery upon the marriage state than a' the sufferings o' poverty and the afflictions o' death put thegither.' "'Mercy me, ma'am!' exclaimed I, 'what de ye mean? Ye've surely been misinformed.' "'I've observed it mysel', David,' said she seriously. "'Goodness, ma'am! ye confound me!' says I; 'if it's onything that's bad, I'll deny it point blank.' "'Ye mayna think it bad,' says she again, 'but I fear ye like a _dram_, and my bairn's happiness demands that I should speak o' it.' "'A dram!' says I; 'preserve us! is there ony ill in a _dram?_--that's the last thing that I wad hae thought about.' "'Ask the broken-hearted wife,' says she, 'if there be ony ill in a dram--ask the starving family--ask the jailer and the gravedigger--ask the doctor and the minister o' religion--ask where ye see roups o' furniture at the cross, or the auctioneer's flag wavin' frae the window--ask a deathbed--ask eternity, David Stuart, and they will tell ye if there be ony ill in a dram.' "'I hope, ma'am,' says I,--and I was a guid deal nettled,--'I hope, ma'am, ye dinna tak' me to be a drunkard. I can declare freely, that unless maybe at a time by chance (and the best o' us will mak' a slip now and then), I never tak' aboon twa or three glasses at a time. Indeed, three's just my set. I aye say to my cronies, there is nae luck till the second tumbler, and nae peace after the fourth. So ye perceive, there's not the smallest danger o' me.' "'Ah, but, David,' replied she, 'there _is_ danger. Habits grow stronger, nature weaker, and resolution offers less and less resistance; and ye may come to make four, five, or six glasses your set; and frae that to a bottle--your grave--and my bairn a broken-hearted widow.' "'Really, ma'am,' says I, ye talked very sensibly before, but ye are awa wi' the harrows now--quite unreasonable a'thegither. However, to satisfy ye upon that score, I'll mak' a vow this very moment, that, except'---- "'Mak' nae rash vows,' says she; 'for a breath mak's them, and less than a breath unmak's them. But mind that, while ye wad be comfortable wi' your cronies, my bairn wad be frettin' her lane; and though she might say naething when ye cam hame, that wadna be the way to wear her love round your neck like a chain of gold; but, night after night, it wad break away link by link, till the whole was lost; and if ye didna hate, ye wad soon find ye were disagreeable to each other. Nae true woman will condescend to love ony man lang, wha can find society he prefers to hers in an alehouse. I dinna mean to say that ye should never enter a company; but dinna mak' a practice o't.' "Weel, the wedding morning cam, and I really thocht it was a great blessin' folk hadna to be married every day. My neckcloth wadna tie as it used to tie, and but that I wadna swear at onybody on the day o' my marriage, I'm sure I wad hae wished some ill wish on the fingers o' the laundress. She had starched the muslins!--a circumstance, I am perfectly certain, unheard of in the memory o' man, and a thing which my mother ne'er did. It was stiff, crumpled, and clumsy. I vowed it was insupportable. It was within half an hour o' the time o' gaun to the chapel. I had tried a 'rose-knot,' a 'witch-knot,' a 'chaise-driver's knot,' and a 'running-knot,' wi' every kind o' knot that fingers could twist the neckcloth into, but the confounded starch made every ane look waur than anither. Three neckcloths I had rendered unwearable, and the fourth I tied in a 'beau-knot' in despair. The frill o' my sark-breast wadna lie in the position in which I wanted it! For the first time my very hair rose in rebellion--it wadna lie right; and I cried, 'The mischief tak' the barber!' The only part o' my dress wi' which I was satisfied, was a spotless pair o' nankeen pantaloons. I had a dog they ca'ed Mettle--it was a son o' poor Rover, that I mentioned to ye before, Weel, it had been raining through the night, and Mettle had been out in the street. The instinct o' the poor dumb brute was puzzled to comprehend the change that had recently taken place in my appearance and habits, and its curiosity was excited. I was sitting before the looking-glass, and had just finished tying my cravat, when Mettle cam bouncing into the room; he looked up in my face inquisitively, and, to unriddle mair o' the matter, placed his unwashed paws upon my unsoiled nankeens. Every particular claw left its ugly impression. It was provoking beyond endurance. I raised my hand to strike him, but the poor brute wagged his tail, and I only pushed him down, saying, 'Sorrow tak' ye, Mettle, do ye see what ye've dune?' So I had to gang to the kitchen fire and stand before it to dry the damp, dirty footprints o' the offender. I then found that the waistcoat wadna sit without wrinkles, such as I had ne'er seen before upon a waistcoat o' mine. The coat, too, was insupportably tight below the arms; and, as I turned half round before the glass, I saw that it hung loose between the shouthers! 'As sure as a gun,' says I, 'the stupid soul o' a tailor has sent me hame the coat o' a humph-back in a mistak'!' My hat was fitted on in every possible manner, ower the brow and aff the brow, now straight, now cocked to the right side and again to the left, but to no purpose; I couldna place it to look like mysel', or as I wished. But half-past eight chimed frae St. Giles'. I had ne'er before spent ten minutes to dress, shaving included, and that morning I had begun at seven! There was not another moment to spare; I let my hat fit as it would, seized my gloves, and rushed down stairs, and up to the Lawnmarket, where I knocked joyfully at the door o' my bonny bride. "When we were about to depart for the chapel, the auld leddy rose to gie us her blessing, and placed Jeannie's hand within mine. She shed a few quiet tears (a common circumstance wi' mithers on similar occasions); and 'Now, Jeannie,' said she, 'before ye go, I have just anither word or twa to say to ye'-- "'Dearsake, ma'am!' said I, for I was out o' a' patience, 'we'll do very weel wi' what we've heard just now, and ye can say onything ye like when we come back.' "There was only an elderly gentleman and a young leddy accompanied us to the chapel; for Jeannie and her mother said that that was mair genteel than to have a gilravish o' folk at our heels. For my part, I thought, as we were to be married, we micht as weel mak' a wedding o't. I, however, thought it prudent to agree to their wish, which I did the mair readily, as I had nae particular acquaintance in Edinburgh. The only point that I wad not concede was being conveyed to the chapel in a coach. That my plebeian blood, notwithstanding my royal name o' Stuart, could not overcome. 'Save us a'!' said I, 'if I wadna _walk_ to be married, what in the three kingdoms wad tempt me to walk?' "'Weel,' said the auld leddy, 'my daughter will be the first o' our family that ever gaed on foot to the altar.' "'An' I assure ye, ma'am,' said I, 'that I would be the first o' my family that ever gaed in ony ither way; and, in my opinion, to gang on foot shows a demonstration o' affection and free-will, whereas gaun in a carriage looks as if there were unwillingness or compulsion in the matter.' So she gied up the controversy. Weel, the four o' us walked awa doun the Lawnmarket and High Street, and turned into a close by the tap o' the Canon gate, where the Episcopawlian chapel was situated. For several days I had read ower the marriage service in the prayer-book, in order to master the time to say 'I will,' and other matters. Nevertheless, no sooner did I see the white gown of the clergyman, and feel Jeannie's hand trembling in mine, than he micht as weel hae spoken in Gaelic. I mind something about the ring, and, when the minister was done, I whispered to the best man, 'It's a' ower now?' 'Yes,' said he. 'Heeven be thankit!' thought I. "Weel, ye see, after being married, and as I had been used to an active life a' my days, I had nae skill in gaun about like a gentleman wi' my hands in my pockets, and I was anxious to tak' a farm. But Jeannie did not like the proposal, and my mother-in-law wadna hear tell o't; so, by her advice, I put out the money, and we lived upon the interest. For six years everything gaed straight, and we were just as happy and as comfortable as a family could be. We had three bairns: the eldest was a daughter, and we ca'ed her Margaret, after her grandmother, who lived wi' us; the second was a son, and I named him Andrew, after my faither; and our third, and youngest, we ca'ed Jeannie, after her mother. They were as clever, bonnie, and obedient bairns as ye could see, and everybody admired them. There was ane Luckie Macnaughton kept a tavern in Edinburgh at the time. A' sort o' respectable folk used to frequent the house, and I was in the habit o' gaun at night to smoke my pipe and hear the news about Bonaparte and the rest o' them; but it was very seldom that I exceeded three tumblers. Weel, among the customers there was ane that I had got very intimate wi'--as genteel and decent a looking man as ye could see; indeed I took him to be a particular serious and honest man. So there was ae night that I was rather mair than ordinary hearty, and says he to me: 'Mr Stuart,' says he, 'will you lend your name to a bit paper for me?' 'No, I thank ye, sir,' says I; 'I never wish to be caution for onybody.' 'It's of no consequence,' said he, and there was no more passed. But as I was rising to gang hame, 'Come, tak' anither, Mr. Stuart,' said he; 'I'm next the wa' wi' ye--I'll stand treat.' Wi' sair pressing I was prevailed upon to sit doun again, and we had anither and anither, till I was perfectly insensible. What took place, or how I got hame, I couldna tell, and the only thing I remember was a head fit to split the next day, and Jeannie very ill pleased and powty-ways. However, I thought nae mair about it, and I was extremely glad I had refused to be bond for the person who asked me; for within three months I learned that he had broken and absconded wi' a vast o' siller. It was just a day or twa after I had heard the intelligence, I was telling Jeannie and her mother o' the circumstance, and what an escape I had had, when the servant lassie showed a bank clerk into the room. 'Tak' a seat, sir,' said I, for I had dealings wi' the bank. 'This is a bad business, Mr. Stuart,' said he. 'What business?' said I, quite astonished. 'Your being security for Mr. So-and-so,' said he. 'Me!' cried I, starting up in the middle o' the floor--'Me!--the scoundrel--I denied him point blank!' 'There is your own signature for a thousand pounds,' said the clerk. 'A thousand furies!' exclaimed I, stamping my foot; 'it's a forgery--an infernal forgery!' 'Mr. Such-a-one is witness to your handwriting,' said the clerk. I was petrified; I could hae drawn down the roof o' the house upon my head to bury me! In a moment a confused recollection o' the proceedings at Luckie Macnaughton's flashed across my memory, like a flame from the bottomless pit! There was a look o' witherin' reproach in my mother-in-law's een, and I heard her mutterin' between her teeth, 'I aye said what his three tumblers wad come to.' But my dear Jeannie bore it like a Christian, as she is. She cam forward to me, an', poor thing, she kissed my cheek, and says she, 'Dinna distress yoursel', David, dear--it cannot be helped now--let us pray that this may be a lesson for the future.' I flung my arm round her neck--I couldna speak; but at last I said, 'Oh Jeannie, it will be a lesson, and your affection will be a lesson!' Some o' your book-learned folk wad ca' this conduct philosophy in Jeannie; but I, wha kenned every thought in her heart, was aware that it proceeded from her resignation as a true Christian, and her affection as a dutiful wife. Weel, the upshot was, I had robbed mysel' out o' a thousand pounds as simply as ye wad snuff out a candle. You have heard the saying, that sorrow ne'er comes singly; and I am sure, in a' my experience, I have found its truth. At that period I had two thousand pounds, bearing six per cent., lying in the hands o' a gentleman o' immense property. Everybody believed him to be as sure as the bank. Scores o' folk had money in his hands. The interest was paid punctually, and I hadna the least suspicion. Weel, I was looking ower the papers one morning at breakfast, and I happened to glance at the list o' bankrupts (a thing I'm no in the habit o' doing), when, mercy me! whose name should I see but the very gentleman's that had my twa thousand pounds! I had the paper in one hand and a saucer in the other. The saucer and the coffee gaed smash upon the hearth! I trembled frae head to foot. 'Oh David! what's the matter?' cried Jeannie. 'Matter!' cried I; 'matter! I'm ruined!--we're a' ruined!' But it's o' nae use dwelling on this. The fallow didna pay eighteenpence to the pound; and there was three thousand gaen out o' my five! It was nae use, wi' a young family, to talk o' living on the interest o' our money now. 'We maun tak' a farm,' says I; and baith Jeannie and her mother saw there was naething else for it. So I took a farm which lay partly in the Lammermoors and partly in the Merse. It took the thick end o' eight hundred pounds to stock it. However, we were very comfortable in it; I found mysel' far mair at hame than I had been in Edinburgh; for I had employment for baith mind and hands, and Jeannie very soon made an excellent farmer's wife. Auld grannie, too, said she never had been sae happy; and the bairns were as healthy as the day was lang. We couldna exactly say that we were making what ye may ca' siller, yet we were losing nothing, and every year laying by a little. There was a deepish burn ran near the onstead. We had been about three years in the farm, and our youngest lassie was about nine years auld. It was the summer time, and she had been paidling in the burn, and sooming feathers and bits o' sticks; I was looking after something that had gaen wrang about the threshin' machine, when I heard an unco noise get up, and bairns screamin'. I looked out, and I saw them runnin' and shoutin'--'Miss Jeannie! Miss Jeannie!' I rushed out to the barnyard. 'What is't, bairns?' cried I. 'Miss Jeannie! Miss Jeannie!' said they, pointing to the burn. I flew as fast as my feet could carry me. The burn, after a spate on the hills, often cam awa in a moment wi' a fury that naething could resist. The flood had come awa upon my bairn; and there, as I ran, did I see her bonnie yellow hair whirled round and round, sinking out o' my sight, and carried awa doun wi' the stream. There was a linn about thirty yards frae where I saw her, and oh! how I rushed to snatch a grip o' her before she was carried ower the rocks! But it was in vain--a moment sooner, and I might hae saved her; but she was hurled ower the precipice when I was within an arm's length, and making a grasp at her bit frock! My poor little Jeannie was baith felled and drowned. I plunged into the wheel below the linn, and got her out in my arms. I ran wi' her to the house, and I laid my drowned bairn on her mother's knee. Everything that could be done was done, and a doctor was brought frae Dunse; but the spark o' life was out o' my bit Jeannie. I felt the bereavement very bitterly; and for many a day, when Margaret and Andrew sat down at the table by our sides, my heart filled; for as I was helpin' their plates, I wad put out my hand again to help anither, but there was nae ither left to help. But Jeannie took our bairn's death far sairer to heart than even I did. For several years she never was hersel' again, and just seemed dwinin' awa. Sea-bathing was strongly recommended; and as she had a friend in Portobello, I got her to gang there for a week or twa during summer. Our daughter Margaret was now about eighteen, and her brother Andrew about fifteen; and as I thought it would do them good, I allowed them to gang wi' their mither to the bathing. They were awa for about a month, and I firmly believe that Jeannie was a great deal the better o't. But it was a dear bathing to me on mony accounts for a' that. Margaret was an altered lassie a'thegither. She used to be as blithe as a lark in May, and now there was nae gettin' her to do onything; but she sat couring and unhappy, and seighin' every handel-a-while, as though she were miserable. It was past my comprehension, and her mother could assign nae particular reason for it. As for Andrew, he did naething but yammer, yammer, frae morn till night, about the sea; or sail boats, rigged wi' thread and paper sails, in the burn. When he was at the bathing he had been doun aboot Leith, and had seen the ships, and naething wad serve him but he would be a sailor. Night and day did he torment my life out to set him to sea. But I wadna hear tell o't--his mother was perfectly wild against it, and poor auld grannie was neither to hand nor to bind. We had suffered enough frae the burn at our door, without trusting our only son upon the wide ocean. However, all we could say had nae effect--the craik was never out o' his head; and it was still, 'I will be a sailor.' Ae night he didna come in as usual for his four-hours, and supper time cam, and we sent a' round about to seek him, but naebody had heard o' him. We were in unco distress, and it struck me at ance that he had run to sea. I saddled my horse that very night and set out for Leith, but could get nae trace o' him. This was a terrible trial to us, and ye may think what it was when I tell ye it was mair than a twelvemonth before we heard tell o' him; and the first accounts we had was a letter by his ain hand, written frae Bengal. We had had a cart down at Dunse for some bits o' things, and the lad brought the letter in his pocket; and weel do I mind how Jeannie cam' fleein' wi' it open in her hand across the fields to where I was looking after some workers thinnin' turnips, crying, 'David! David! here's a letter frae Andrew!' 'Read it! read it!' cried I, for my een were blind wi' joy. But Andrew's rinnin' awa wasna the only trial that we had to bear up against at this time. As I was tellin' ye, there was an unco change ower Margaret since she had come frae the bathin'; and a while after, a young lad that her mother said they had met wi' at Portobello began to come about the house. He was the son o' a merchant in Edinburgh, and pretended that he had come to learn to be a farmer wi' a neighbour o' ours. He was a wild, thoughtless, foppish-looking lad, and I didna like him; but Margaret, silly thing, was clean daft about him. Late and early I found him about the house, and I tauld him I couldna allow him nor ony person to be within my doors at any such hours. Weel, this kind o' wark was carried on for mair than a year; and a' that I could say or do, Margaret and him were never separate; till at last he drapped off comin' to the house, and our daughter did naething but seigh and greet. I found that, after bringing her to the point o' marriage, he either wadna or durstna fulfil his promise unless I wad pay into his loof a thousand pounds as her portion. I could afford my daughter nae sic sum, and especially no to be thrown awa on the like o' him. But Jeannie cam to me wi' the tears on her cheeks, and 'O David!' says she, 'there's naething for it but partin' wi' a thousand pounds on the ae hand or our bairn's death--and her--shame on the ither!' Oh! if a knife had been driven through my heart, it couldna pierced it like the word _shame_! As a faither, what could I do? I paid him the money, and they were married. "It's o' nae use tellin' ye how I gaed back in the farm. In the year sixteen my crops warna worth takin' aff the ground, and I had twa score o' sheep smothered the same winter. I fell behint wi' my rent; and household furniture, farm-stock, and everything I had, were to be sold off. The day before the sale, wi' naething but a bit bundle carrying in my hand, I took Jeannie on my ae arm and her puir auld mither on the other, and wi' a sad and sorrowfu' heart we gaed out o' the door o' the hame where our bairns had been brought up, and a sheriff's officer steeked it behint us. Weel, we gaed to Coldstream, and we took a bit room there, and furnished it wi' a few things that a friend bought back for us at our sale. We were very sair pinched. Margaret's gudeman ne'er looked near us, nor rendered us the least assistance, and she hadna it in her power. There was nae ither alternative that I could see; and I was just gaun to apply for labouring wark when we got a letter frae Andrew, enclosing a fifty-pound bank-note. Mony a tear did Jeannie and me shed ower that letter. He informed us that he had been appointed mate o' an East Indiaman, and begged that we would keep ourselves easy; for while he had a sixpence, his faither and mither should hae the half o't. Margaret's husband very soon squandered away the money he had got frae me, as weel as the property he had got frae his faither; and, to escape the jail, he ran off, and left his wife and family. They cam to stop wi' me; and for five years we heard naething o' him. We had begun a shop in the spirit and grocery line, and really we were remarkably fortunate. It was about six years after I had begun business, ae night just after the shop was shut, Jeannie and her mother, wha was then about ninety, and Margaret and her bairns, and mysel', were a' sittin' round the fire, when a rap cam to the door; ane o' the bairns ran and opened it, and twa gentlemen cam in. Margaret gied a shriek, and ane o' them flung himsel' at her feet. 'Mother! faither!' said the other, 'do ye no ken me?' It was our son Andrew, and Margaret's gudeman! I jamp up, and Jeannie jamp up; auld grannie raise totterin' to her feet, and the bairns screamed, puir things. I got haud o' Andrew, and his mother got haud o' him, and we a' grat wi' joy. It was such a night o' happiness as I had never kenned before. Andrew had been made a ship captain. Margaret's husband had repented o' a' his follies, and was in a good way o' doing in India; and everything has gane right and prospered wi' our whole family frae that day to this." THE BURGHER'S TALES. THE ANCIENT BUREAU. The sources of legends are not often found in old sermons; and yet it will be admitted that there are few remarkable events in man's history, which, if inquired into, will not be found to embrace the elements of very impressive pulpit discourses. Even in cases which seem to disprove a special, if not a general Providence, there will always be found in the account between earth and heaven some "desperate debt," mayhap an "accommodation bill," which justifies the ways of God to man. It may even be said that the fact of our being generally able to find that item is a proof of the wonderful adaptability of Christianity to the fortunes and hopes of our race. That ministers avoid the special topics of peculiar destinies, may easily be accounted for otherwise than by supposing that they cannot explain them so as to vindicate God's justice; but if ever there was a case where that difficulty would seem to the eye of mere reason to culminate in impossibility, it is that which I have gleaned from a veritable pulpit lecture. I have the sermon in my possession, but from the want of the title-page, I am unable to ascertain the author. The date at the end is 1793, and the text is, "Inscrutable are _his_ judgments." Inscrutable indeed in the case to which the words were applied--no other than an instance of death by starvation, which occurred in Edinburgh in the year we have just mentioned. In that retreat of poverty called Middleton's Entry, which joins the dark street called the Potterrow, and Bristo Street, the inhabitants were roused into surprise, if not a feeling approaching to horror, by the discovery that a woman, who had lived for a period of fifteen years in a solitary room at the top of one of the tenements, had been found in bed dead. A doctor was called, but before he came it was concluded by those who had assembled in the small room that she had died from want of food; and such was the fact. The body--that of one not yet much past the middle of life, and with fair complexion and comely features--was so emaciated, that you might have counted the ribs merely by the eye; and all those parts where the bones are naturally near the surface exhibited a sharpness which suggested the fancy, that as you may see a phosphorescent skeleton through the glow, you beheld in the candle-light the figure of death under the thin covering of the bones. She realized, in short, the description which doctors give of the appearance of those unfortunate beings who die of what is technically called _atrophia familicorum_--that Nemesis of civilisation which points scornfully to the victim of want, and then looks round on God's bountiful table, set for the meanest of his creatures. So we may indite; but rhetoric, which is useless where the images cannot rise to the dignity or descend to the humiliation of the visible fact, must always come short of the effect of the plain words that a human creature--perhaps good and amiable and delicate to that shyness which cannot complain--has died in the very midst of a proclaimed philanthropy, and within the limits of a space comprehending smoking tables covered with luxuries, and surrounded by Christian men and women filled with meat and drink to repletion and satiety. Some such thoughts might have been passing through the minds of the assembled neighbours; and they could not be said to be the less true that a shrunk and partially-withered right arm showed that the doom of the woman had been so far precipitated by the still remaining effects of an old stroke of palsy. And the gossip confirmed this, going also into particulars of observation,--how she had kept herself so to herself as if she wished to avoid the neighbours,--a fact which to an extent justified their imputed want of attention; how almost the only individual who had visited her was a peculiar being, in the shape of a very little man, with a slight limp and thin pleasant features, illuminated by a pair of dark, penetrating eyes. For years and years had he been seen, always about the same hour of the day, ascending her stair, and carrying a flagon, supposed to contain articles of food. Then the gossiping embraced the furniture and other articles in the room, which, however they might have been unnoticed before, had now assumed the usual interest when seen in the blue light of the acted tragedy: the small mahogany table and the two chairs--how strange that they should be of mahogany!--and some of the few marrowless plates in the rack over the fireplace, why, they were absolute china! but above all, the exquisite little bureau of French manufacture, with its drawers, its desk, and pigeon-holes, and cunning slides--what on earth was it doing in that room, when its value even to a broker would have kept the woman alive for months? Questions these put by a roused curiosity, and perhaps not worth answer. Was not she a woman, and was not that enough? Not enough; for legendary details cluster round startling events, and often carry a moral which may prevent a repetition of these; and so, had it not been for this apparently inexplicable death by starvation, our wonderful story might never have gathered listeners round the evening fire. We must go back some twenty years before the date of the said sermon to find a certain merchant-burgess of the city of Edinburgh, David Grierson, occupying a portion of a front land situated in the Canongate, a little to the east of Leith Wynd. It would be sheer affectation in us to pretend that this merchant-burgess had any mental or physical characteristic about him to justify his appearance in a romance, if we except the power he had shown of amassing wealth, of which he had so much that he could boast the possession of more than twenty goodly tenements, some of wood and some of stone, besides shares of ships and bank stock. And no doubt this exception might stand for the thing excepted from, for money, though commonly said to be extraneous, is often so far in its influences intraneous, that it changes the feelings and motives, and enables them to work. And then don't we know that it is by extraneous things we are mostly led? But however all that may be, certain it is that our merchant-burgess was a great man in his own house in the Canongate, where his family consisted of Rachel Grierson, his natural daughter, by a woman who had been long dead, and Walter Grierson, his legitimate nephew, who had been left an orphan in his early years, and who was his nearest lawful heir. Two servants completed the household; and surely in this rather curious combination there might be, if only circumstances were favourable to their development, elements which might impart interest to a story. So long as the shadow of the dark angel was, as Time counted, far away from him, Burgess David was comparatively happy; but as he got old and older, he began to realize the condition of the poet-- "Now pleasure will no longer please, And all the joys of life are gone; I ask no more on earth but ease, To be at peace, and be alone: I ask in vain the winged powers That weave man's destiny on high; In vain I ask the golden hours That o'er my head for ever fly." Then he waxed more and more anxious as to what he was to do with his money. He tried to put away the thought; but the terrible _magistra necessitas_ went round and round him with ever-diminishing circles, clearly indicating a conflict in which he must succumb. He must make a will; an act which it is said no man is ever in a hearty condition to perform, unless mayhap he is angry, and wishes to cut off an ungrateful dog with a shilling; and besides the general disinclination to sign the disposal of so much wealth, of which he was more than ordinarily fond, and to give away, as it were, _omnia praeter animam_, in the very view of giving away the soul too, he was in a great perplexity as to how to divide his means. Nor could he reconcile himself to a division at all, preferring, as the greatly lesser evil, the alternative of destinating his fortune all of a lump, with some hope of its being kept together. As for Walter, though he had some affection for him, he had not much confidence in him, for he had seen that he was hare-brained as regarded things which suited his fancy, and pig-brained as respected those which solicited and required sound judgment; while Rachel, again, was everything which, among the lower angels, could be comprehended under the delightful title of "dear soul," an amiable and devoted creature, as stedfast in her affections as she was wise in the selection of their objects. So by revolving in his mind all the beauties of the character of her who, however disqualified by law, was still of his flesh and blood, yea, of his very nature, as he complacently thought in compliment to himself, he became more and more reconciled to his intention, if the very thought of making a will, which had been horrible to him, did not become even a pleasing kind of meditation. So is it--when Nature imposes an inevitable duty, she gives man the power of inventing a pleasing reason for his obedience; nay, so much of a self-dissembler is he, that he even cheats himself into the belief that his obedience is an act of his own will. In all which he at least proved the value of one of the arguments in favour of marriage; for trite it is to say, a bachelor bears to no one a love which reconciles him to will-making, while a father, in leaving his means to his children, feels as if he were giving to himself. But this plan of our merchant-burgess had in addition a spice of ingenuity in it which still more pleased him--he would so contrive matters that the daughter and the nephew would become, after his death, man and wife. He had only some doubts how far their tastes agreed,--probably an absurd condition, in so much as we all know that love is often struck out by opposition, and that there is a pleasant suitability in a husband preferring the head of a herring, and the wife the tail. Having thus arrived at a sense of his duty by the pleasant path of his affection, Mr. David Grierson seized the first opportunity which presented itself of sounding the heart of Rachel, in order to know in what direction her affections ran. Sitting in his big chair, all so comfortably cushioned by the hands of the said Rachel herself, and with a good fire alongside, due also to her unremitting care, he called her to him, and placing his arm round her waist, as he was often in the habit of doing, said to her-- "Rachel, dear, I feel day by day my strength leaving me, and it may be, nay, will be, that I will not be very much longer with you." Rachel looked at him for a little, but said nothing, for, as the saying goes, her heart came to her mouth, and she could not have spoken even if she would; but the father understood all this, and preferred the mute expression of a real grief to a hysterical burst--of which, indeed, her calm genial nature was incapable. "Forgive me, dear," continued he, "for I would not willingly cause you sorrow, but I have a reason for speaking in this grave way. Who is to fill the old arm-chair when I cannot occupy it?" And he smiled somewhat grimly as he sought her eye, in which he could observe the most real of all nature's evidences of emotion. "What mean you, father?" she replied, with something like an effort to respond to his humour. "Why, then, Rachel," he said, "to be out with it, I want to know whether you have fixed your heart on any one." "Only upon you, dear father," she replied, with a smile which struggled against her seriousness. "Nay, Rachel," continued he. "It is no light matter, and I must have an answer. I intend to leave you my whole fortune, but upon one condition, which is, that if Walter Grierson shall sue for your hand, you will consent to marry him." To this there was a reply given with an alacrity which showed how her heart pointed--"Yes;" then, adding that wonderful little word "but," which makes such havoc among our resolutions, she paused, while her eyes sought the ground. "What 'but' can be here?" interjected the old man. "Surely you do not mean to doubt whether _he_ would consent?" "And yet that is just my doubt," she replied, as if she felt humiliated by the admission. "Doubt!" cried the father, in rising wrath; "doubt, doubt if a beggar would consent to be made rich by marrying _you_! Why, Rachel, dear, if the fellow were to breathe a sigh of hesitation, he would deserve to be a beggar with more holes than wholes in his gabardine, and too poor even to possess a wallet to carry his bones and crumbs. Have you any reason for your strange statement?" "No," replied the girl, with a sigh. "It is only my heart that speaks." "And the heart never lies," said he sharply. "But I shall see," he muttered to himself, "whether a certain tongue in a certain head shall speak in the same way." "But would it not bring me down," said she, "were he to think that he was forced by a promise?" "A promise!" rejoined he; "why, so it would, my dear. I see you are right." But then he thought he could sound him without putting any obligation upon him. "And a pretty obligation it would be," he continued, "for a young fellow cut off with a shilling to bind himself to consent to be the acceptor of two such gifts as a fine girl and a fortune." And Burgess David tried to laugh; but the effort was still that of a heavy heart, and, reclining his head upon the back of the chair, he relapsed into those thoughts which, as Age advances to the term where Hope throws down her lamp, press in and in upon the spirit. Rachel glided away quietly, perhaps to think; and certainly she had something to think about. So, too, doubtless had Mr. David Grierson, who, after indulging in his reverie, wherein the subject of will-making suggested a match between himself and a certain bridegroom who never says nay, awoke to the interest of his scheme of match-making in this world. So far he had accomplished his object, for he could rely upon his faithful Rachel's performance of her promise; and if the two should be married, he knew how to take care to give her the power of the money, and keep a youth, in whose prudence he had no great faith, in proper check. Next he had to sound the nephew. Nor was it long before he had an opportunity--even that same afternoon. "Walter," he began with an abruptness for which probably the young man was scarcely prepared, "I am getting old, and must now think of arranging my affairs so as to endeavour to make my fortune serve the purpose of rendering those happy in whom I have a natural interest. So I have some interest also as well as, I suspect, some right to put the question to you, whether you ever thought of Rachel Grierson for your wife?" "Upon my word," replied the nephew, with just as little _mauvais honte_ as suited his nature, "I never thought of aspiring to the _honour_." A word this last which grated on the ear of the rich merchant-burgess, inasmuch as it suggested a suspicion of the figure of speech called irony, seeing that Rachel Grierson was a bastard, and the youth carried the legitimate blood of the Griersons in his veins. "Honour or no honour," replied he sharply, and perhaps contrary to his original intention, "Rachel Grierson is to inherit my fortune, ay, every penny thereof." "Every penny thereof," echoed the youth, as if his mind had flown away with the words, and dropt them in despair as it flew. "Yes," rejoined the angry uncle, "lands, tenements, hereditaments, shares, dividends, stock, furniture, bed and table linen." "And table linen," echoed the entranced nephew. "Yes; everything," continued the uncle; and calming down as he saw the white lips and blank despair of the youth, he added--"And to you I will leave and bequeath my natural-born daughter, Rachel Grierson." And as he uttered these significant words, he watched carefully the face of the youth, where, however, all indications defied his perspicacity, inasmuch as blank astonishment was still the prevailing expression. But after some minutes the young man stuttered out-- "A legacy worthy of a nobleman!" Words that sounded beautifully, because they were true as regarded Rachel, whatever they might be as respected his secret intention; yet as the children vaticinate from the examination of each other's tongues, if the uncle had examined the organ, he might have discovered some of those blue lines which produce an exclamation from the young augurs. "_Words_ worthy, too, of a nobleman," cried the old man in a trembling voice; and holding out his hand, which shook under his emotion of delight at hearing his beloved Rachel so praised, he seized that of his nephew-- "Yes, Walter," he added, "you have by these words redeemed yourself, and I will take them as an offering of your willingness to accept my legacy; but, remember, I extort no promise, which might reduce the value of a young woman's affection,--a gift to be accepted for its own sake." "I am content," said Walter. "And I am satisfied," added the uncle. "But here is wine on the table," he continued, as he turned his eye in the direction of a decanter of good claret, just as if Rachel had, by her art of love, anticipated what he wished at this moment. "Ah, Walter, if she shall watch your wants as she has done mine, you will live to feel that you cannot want _her_, and live; so fill up a glass for me, and one for yourself, that we may drink to the happiness of the dear girl when, after I am dead, she shall become your wedded wife." "With all and sundry lands, tenements, hereditaments, and so forth," cried Walter, with a laugh which might pass as genuine, and which was responded to by a chuckle from the dry throat of the uncle, which certainly was so. So the pledge was taken; and Walter Grierson went away, leaving the old merchant-burgess as happy as any poor mortal creature can be when so near the term of his departure. Such is our way of speaking; and yet we are forced to admit, that at no period of life, however near the ultimate, abating the advent of the great illumination which breaks like a new dawn upon the internal sense of a favoured few, can you say that the hold of this world upon the spirit is ever renounced. Whether the young man was as happy, we may not venture to say; but this we might surmise, even at this stage of our story, and in reference to the classical proverb, that the bastard might be the beautiful Nisa, and the lawful heir the ill-favoured Mopsus. These things we may leave to development; and with a caution to the reader not to be over-suspicious, we will follow our Nisa, Rachel Grierson, as she proceeds from the house of the merchant-burgess up the High Street, at a period of the evening of the same day when the shadows of the tall lands wrapped the crowds of loiterers and passengers almost in utter darkness; not that she chose this time for any purpose of secrecy,--for she had no secret, except that solitary one which every young woman has, and holds, up to the minute of conviction, that she is engaged, after which it becomes a flame blown by her own breath,--but simply because it suited the routine of her duties. Her night-cloak kept her from the cold, and the panoply of her virtue secured her from insult; so, threading her way amidst the throng, she arrived at the head of the old winding street called the West Bow, where, at a projection a little to the north of Major Weir's Entry, she mounted a narrow stair. On arriving at a door on the third landing-place, she tapped gently, and in obedience to a shrill voice, which cried "Come in," she lifted the latch, and entered a small room, where, at a bench, sat a very peculiar personage. This was no other than the famous Paul Bennett, an artist in jewellery, who at that time excelled all his compeers for beauty of design and exquisite refinement of minute elaboration. And this, perhaps, a good judge of mankind might have augured of him; for while his body was far below the middle size, his long thin fingers, tapering to a point, seemed to be suitable instruments intended to serve a pair of dark eyes so lustrous and sharp, that nothing within the point of the beginning of infinitesimals might seem to escape them. Nor was his pale face less suggestive of his peculiar faculties; for it was made up of fine delicate features, harmonized into regularity, and so expressive, that it seemed to change with every feeling of the moment, even as the flitting moonbeams play on the face of a statue. In addition to these peculiarities, his appearance was rendered the more striking, that, working as he did under a strong reflected light, cast down immediately before his face by a dark shade, the upper part of his person and a circle on the bench were in bright relief, while the other parts of the room were comparatively dark. "Still at work, Paul," said Rachel, as she entered; "how long do you intend to work to-night?" "Till the idea becomes dim, and the sense waxes thick," replied he, as he turned his eyes upon her. "I have something to tell you," she continued, as she sat down on a chair between him and the fire, if that could be called such which consisted of some red cinders. "Some other wonder," replied he; "another cropping out of the workings of fate." Words these, as coming from our little artist, which require some explanation, to the effect that Paul was a philosopher, too, in his own way. Early misfortunes, which mocked the resolutions of a will never very strong, had played into a habit of thinking, and brought him to the conviction that every movement or change in the moral world, not less than in the physical, is the result of a cause which runs back through endless generations to the first man, and even beyond him. Paul was, in short, a fatalist; not of that kind which romance writers feign in order to make the character work through a gloomy presentiment of his own destiny, but merely a believer in a universal original decree, the workings of which we never know until the effects are seen. A fatalist of this kind almost every man is, less or more, in some mood or another; only, to save himself from being a puppet, moved by springs or drawn by strings, he generally contrives to except his _will_ from the scheme of the iron-bound necessity. But Paul would permit of no such exception. The will, with him, was merely the _motive in action_; and as he compelled you to admit that no thought is, in man's experience, ever called into being, only developed from prior conditions, and that, even as to an idea, the doctrine _Nihil nisi ex ovo_ is true, and therefore that no man can manufacture a motive, so he took a short way with the maintainers of a moral liberty. This doctrine, so gloomy, so grand, yet so terrible, was, to Paul, a conviction, which he almost made practical; nay, he seemed to realize a kind of poetic pleasure from reveries, which represented to him the universe, with the sun and the stars, and all living creatures--walking, flying, swimming, or crawling--going through their parts in the great melodrama of destiny, no one knowing how, or why, or wherefore, yet every human being believing that he is master of his actions, at the very moment that he might be conscious that his belief is only a part of the great law of necessity. Then it seemed as if this delusion in which men indulge, and are forced to indulge, was an element of the farce introduced into the play, so as to relieve the mind from the heavy burden of contemplating so terrible a theory. "Something to tell me, Rachel!" continued he; "and what may that be?" "My father has told me to-day," replied she, "that he is to leave me all his fortune; and however grieved I may be at the thought of losing him, I am glad to think that it may be in my power to be of service to you, Paul, as my only relative on my mother's side." "Service," muttered Paul to himself, while he looked into her face as wistfully as a lover, which indeed he was, though in secret. "And what is to become of Walter Grierson?" he asked. "When he finds that the entire fortune is mine," replied she, "he will propose to marry me; and this is what my father wishes to bring about by putting the fortune in my power." "So the events crop out from the long chain of causes," thought Paul; "but who shall tell the final issue? Look here, Rachel," he continued, as he laid his hand on a golden locket which lay before him in the shape of a heart, "I have made this to order;" and as he spoke he touched a spring, whereupon a lid opened, and up flew a pair of tiny doves, which, with fluttering wings of gold and azure, immediately saluted each other with their long bills, and piped a few notes in imitation of the cushat. The touch of another spring immediately consigned them again to the cavity of the heart,--a conceit altogether of such refined manufacture and ingenuity of design, as to remind us of the saying of Cicero, that there is an exquisiteness in art which never can be known till it is seen fresh from the hand of genius. "And who ordered that beautiful thing?" inquired Rachel. "Walter Grierson," replied Paul, fixing his eyes upon her sorrowfully, as if he felt oppressed by that gloomy theory of his. Nor did he fail to perceive the effect his few words had produced upon the heart of his cousin, where there was a fluttering very different from that of cooing turtles; for the fate of her happiness seemed to her to be suspended on the answer to a question, and that question she was afraid to put. "Be patient, and learn to hear," continued the little philosopher. "Ere yet Cheops built the Pyramids, or Joshua commanded the sun to stand still, yea, before the first sensation tingled in the first nerve made out of the dust, the beginnings were laid of these events of this day and hour, and, in particular, of that one which may well astonish you and grieve you--viz., that the locket is intended for and inscribed to Agnes Ainslie." "Agnes Ainslie!" repeated Rachel, with parched lips and trembling voice, "the daughter of Mr. John Ainslie, my father's agent, to whom I am even now going, by Mr. Grierson's command, to request him to call to morrow for the purpose of preparing the settlement!" "A strange perplexity of events," said Paul. "But what is this mingling of threads to the great web of the universe, which is eternally being woven and unwoven, unaffected by the will of man? And then these small issues, the loss of a fortune by a man, and that of a lover by a woman, how mighty they are to the individual hearts and affections!" "Mighty indeed," sobbed Rachel, who had loved Walter so long, and rejoiced to have it in her power to bestow a fortune upon him, and now found all her hopes dissolved into the ashes of grief and disappointment. "Mighty indeed; and these thoughts of yours are so dreary, how can one believe in them and live!" "We are compelled to live," replied he, "even by that same decree which binds us to the infinite chain. Were it not so, man would imitate the day-flies, and die at sundown, that he might escape the dark night which reveals to him the mystery of his being, whereat he trembles and sobs; and all this is also in the decree." "But if all these things are so," said Rachel, "what do you say of happiness? Is there no joy in the world? Are not the birds happy, when in the morning the woods resound with their song, and so, too, every animal after its kind? Are not children joyful when the house rings with their mirth? and have not men and women their pleasures of a thousand kinds? nay, might not I myself have been one of the happiest of beings, if, with the fortune which is to be left to me, that locket had been engraved with the name of Rachel Grierson in place of Agnes Ainslie?" "Yes," replied he, "happiness is in the decree as well; and," he added with a smile, "it is always cropping out around us, but no one can manufacture the article. If you wait for it, you may feel it; if you run after it, you will probably not find it, because it is not ready by those eternal laws which, at their beginning, involved its coming up at a certain moment of long after-years. Then, at the best, pleasure and pain are mere oscillations; but the first movement is downwards, for we cry when we come into the world; and the last is also downwards, for we groan when we go out of it. It is the old rhyme-- 'We scream when we're born, We groan when we're dying; And all that's between Is but laughing and crying.'" A parade of philosophy all this which at another time might have had but a small effect upon a youthful mind, but Rachel was in the meantime occupied by looking at the inscription on the fatal toy; and we all know that the feeling of the dominant idea of the moment assimilates to its own hue the light or shade of all other ideas of a cognate kind; and there is in this process also a selection and rejection whereby all melancholy ideas cluster in the gloomy atmosphere, if we may so term it, of the prevailing depression, and all joyful ones come together by the attraction of a joyful thought; and so Rachel was impressed by views which, if they had been modified by the comforting doctrines of Christianity, might have enabled her at once to bear and to hope. Even when Paul had finished, she was still gazing on the locket. A moment or two more, and she laid it down with a deep sigh, saying, almost involuntarily, "If my name had been there, I would not have repined at the loss of all my expected fortune." Then, shaking hands with this peculiar being, whom she could not but respect for his ingenuity, as well as for a kindliness and sympathy which lay at the bottom of all his abstract theories, she left him to his work, at which he would continue till drowsiness made, as he said, the idea dim and the nerve thick. Retracing her steps down the long dark stair, not a very efficient medium for the removal of impressions so unlike the results of our natural consciousness, Rachel Grierson found herself again among the bustling crowds of the High Street. Nor could she view these busy people in the light by which she saw them before entering the little dark room of the philosopher. Though she did not know the classical word, she looked upon them as so many _automata_; and the long chain of causes came into her mind so vividly, that she found herself repeating the very words of Paul. Then there was the reference to her own individual fate; and was it not through the self-medium she saw all these people in so strange a light?--with Hope's lamp dashed down at her feet, and extinguished at the very moment when, by the communication of her father, she thought she had the means of recruiting it with a store of oil never to be exhausted till possession was accomplished. Still under these impressions, she came to the door of Mr. Ainslie's house. There were sounds of mirth and music coming from within; and so plastic is the mind when under a deep and engrossing feeling, that she found no difficulty in concentrating and modifying these sounds into joyful articulations from the very mouths of Walter Grierson and Agnes Ainslie themselves. Such are the moral echoes which respond to, because they are formed by the suspicions of, disappointed love. No longer for the moment were Paul's thoughts true. These happy beings inside were happy because they had the hearts and the wills to enjoy; but she could draw no conclusion that she herself could dispose her mind for the acceptance of the world's pleasures also when her gloom should be away among the shadows, and nature's innumerable enjoyments placed within her power. Yet, withal, she could execute her commission, and upon the door being opened, she could enter in the very face of that mirth of which she fancied herself the victim. On being shown into a parlour, she was presently waited upon by Mr. Ainslie, who seemed to her to have come from the scene of enjoyment in the drawing-room. She could even fancy that he eyed her as in some way standing in the path of his daughter's expectations through Walter--a fancy which of course would gain strength from the somewhat excited manner in which he received the words of her commission, to the effect that he would repair the next forenoon to the house of the merchant-burgess, for the purpose of preparing his last will and testament. The notary agreed to attend, and thus, still construing appearances according to the assimilating bent of her mind, she departed for home. After going through the routine of her domestic duties, and caring for her invalid father, she retired to bed--that place of so-called rest, where mortals chew the cud of the thoughts of the day or of years. And how unlike the two processes, the physical and the mental!--in the one is brought up for a second enjoyment the green grass of nature, still fresh and palatable and nutritious; in the other, the seared leaves of memory, feeding unavailing regrets, and filling the microcosm with phantoms and dire shapes of evil, the types whereof never had an existence in the outer world. Walter Grierson was lost to her for ever, and the dire energies of fate, as described by the artist-philosopher, seemed to hang over her, claiming, in harsh tones, her will as a mere instrument in the working out of her own destiny. Next day Mr. Ainslie called, and was for a long time closeted with Mr. Grierson; but so careless was she now of the fortune about being left to her, and which she was satisfied would not now be a means of showing her affection for Walter, that she felt little interest in an affair which otherwise might have appeared of so much importance to her. Her attention was, notwithstanding, claimed by an incident. After the interview, the notary visited Walter Grierson in his room, where the young man seemed to have been waiting for him. In ordinary circumstances it might have appeared strange that a man of business, bound to secrecy, would divulge the terms of a will to any one, but far more that he should take means for apprising a nephew that he was deprived of any share of his uncle's means. Nor could she account for this interview on any other supposition than that Mr. Ainslie knew of the intentions of Walter towards his daughter, and that he took this early opportunity of intimating that a disinherited young man, of the grade of a merchant's clerk, would not, as a son-in-law, suit the expectations of an ambitious writer. Yet out of this interview there came to, if not drawn by, her fancy a glimmer of hope, inasmuch as, if the young man were rejected by the notary in consequence of the ban of disinheritance, he would be left to the attractions of her wealth; but this supposition involved the assumption that her triumph would be over a mind that was mercenary, and not over a heart predisposed to love; nay, her generosity revolted at the thought of gratifying her long-concealed passion at the expense of the sacrificed love of another. That other, too, had a better right to the object than she herself, in so far that Agnes Ainslie's love had been returned, while hers had not. But these speculations were to be brought to the test by words and actions. No sooner had Mr. Ainslie left than Rachel was visited in her private parlour by Walter Grierson himself. He had seldom taken that liberty before, for her secret passion had been ruled by a stern virtue. A natural shyness, remote from coyness, demanded the conciliation of respect, though ready at a moment to pass into the generosity of confidence where she was certain of a return; but his presence before her might have been accounted for by his appearance, which was that of one whose excitement was only attempted to be overborne by an effort--a result more mechanical than spiritual. His manner, not less than his countenance, composed to gravity, was belied by the tremulous light of his eye; and as he seized her hand and pressed it fervently, she could feel that his trembled more than her own. Her manner was also embarrassed, as it well might be, where so many conflicting feelings, some revived from old memories, and some produced by the singular events of the day and hour, agitated her frame. "I am going to surprise you, cousin," he said, while he fixed his eye upon her, as if to watch the effect of his words. Rachel forgot for a moment the philosophy of Paul--why should one be surprised when the thing that is to be is a result of a change in something else as old as Aldebaran, let alone "the sun and the seven stars?" She was indeed prepared for a surprise. "It is just the old story of the heart," he resumed. "Our intercourse began so early, and partook so much of that of mere relations, that I never could tell when the mere social feeling gave place to another which I need not mention. You know, Rachel, what I mean." She was silent because she was distrustful, yet her heart beat bravely in spite of her efforts; for was not this man the object of her love, and is not love moved with an eloquence which makes reason ashamed of her poor figures and modes? "Yes," he went on, "I take it for granted that you know I am only labouring towards a confession. Yes, dear heart, for years I have considered you as the one sole object in all this world of fair visions formed to make me happy. You see I cannot get out of the ordinary mode of speech. The lover is fated to adjure, to praise, and to petition always in the same set form of words; yet is not the confession enough?" "So far," said she; "but I have never seen any evidence of all this;" as if she wanted more in the same strain--sweet to the ear, though distrusted by the reason. "No more you have," he continued, "yet you know that love is often suspicious of itself. I have watched with my eye your movements and attitudes when you thought I was not observing you. My ear has followed your voice through adjoining rooms when you thought I was listening to other sounds. I have admired your words, without venturing the response of admiration. Often I have wished to fold you in my arms when you dreamt nothing of my inward thoughts. In short, Rachel, I have loved you for years! Yes, I have enjoyed, or suffered, this gloating, yea, delightful misery of the heart when it feeds upon its own secret treasures, and trembles at the test which might dissolve the dream." "And why this suppression and secrecy, Walter?" she asked. "How could you know," she continued, as she held down her head, "that I would be adverse to your wishes; nay, that I was not even in the same condition as yourself?" "Surely you do not mean to say that?" he cried, with something like the rapture of one relieved by pleasure from pain. "I am not worthy even of the suspicion that you speak according to the bidding of your heart. Have I not watched your looks, and penetrated into your eyes, to ascertain whether I might venture to know my fate, and yet never could discover even the symptom of a return; and then was I not under a conviction that your affections were engaged elsewhere?" "Where?" asked Rachel, with a look of surprise. "We are apparently drifting into confessions," responded he. "I may say that I never could construe your visits to Paul, the ingenious artist, merely as dictated by admiration of his wonderful genius." "You do not know that Paul is the son of my mother's sister," replied she. "Your uncle knows; but there may be reasons why you don't." "Then I am relieved," was the lover's ejaculation, in a tone as if he had got quit of a great burden. "Yes, that is the truth," continued she; "but I also confess that I have been attracted to his small dark workshop by the exquisite curiosities of art on which he is so often engaged, and which, by occupying so much of his time, keep him poor. It was only yesterday I saw on his bench a locket which seems to transcend all his prior efforts." The young man smiled and nodded. What could he mean? Why was he not dumbfoundered? "It is in the shape of a heart," she continued; "and upon touching a spring there fly up two tiny figures, which, with fluttering wings, seem to devour each other with kisses." Words which forced themselves out of her in spite of her shyness, but which she could not follow up by more than a side-look at her admirer. "And upon which," said he, still smiling, "there is engraven the inscription, 'From Walter Grierson to Agnes Ainslie.'" "Yes," sighed Rachel, "the very words. I read them again and again, and could scarcely believe my eyes." "And well you might not," said he; "but your simple heart has never yet informed you that love finds out strange inventions. I have been guilty of a _ruse d'amour_, for which I beg your pardon. Knowing that you were in the habit of visiting Paul's workroom, and seeing all the work of his cunning fingers, I got him to make the locket out of a piece of gold I got from my uncle, and the inscription was,"--and here he paused as if to watch her expression,--"yes, designed, to quicken your affection for me by awakening jealousy. I confess it. Agnes Ainslie was and is nothing to me; and I used her name merely because I thought that you would view her as a likely rival." "Can all this be true?" muttered Rachel to herself, as the wish to believe was pursued by the doubt which revolted against a departure from all natural and rational actions. Perhaps she was not versed in the ways of the world; but whether so or not, the difference in effect would have been small; for what man, beloved by a woman, ever yet pled his cause before his mistress without other than a wise man for his client? "And if it is your wish, my dear Rachel," he continued, "the inscription shall be erased, and replaced by the name of Rachel Grierson. What say you?" His hand was held out for that acceptance which betokened consent. It was accepted; yes, and more, His arms were next moment around her waist; the heart of the yielding girl beat rarely, the wistful face was turned up as even courting his eyes, the kiss was impressed;--why, more, Rachel Grierson was surely Walter Grierson's, and he was hers, and surely to be for ever in this world. Rachel was now in that state of mind when the pleasantness of a contemplated object excludes any inquiry whether it is true or false, good or evil; and, in spite of Paul's fatalism, she was satisfied that it was with Walter's own free will that he had done what he had done, and said what he had said. The changed inscription on the locket, and the delivery of that pledge to her, would complete the vowing of the troth whereby she was to become his wife. Entirely ignorant of what had taken place between the nephew and the uncle, by means of which she might have been able to analyze his conduct, she had only the closeting of Mr. Ainslie and Walter to suggest to her that the young man's sudden declaration was the result of his knowledge that she was to be sole heiress. The heart that is under the influence of love, as we have hinted, is too credulous to the tongue of the lover to doubt the sincerity of his professions. So all appeared well. The motives in action were adequate to the will of the parties who used them; and as she felt that her love was in the power of herself, so she could not doubt that Walter's affection was the result of his approval of her good qualities. Paul was now no longer an oracle. She would be pleased to have an opportunity of showing him that his genius lay more in his fingers than in his head. She had now, however, something else to do. She went to her father's room. He was in one of those reveries to which, as we have said, all the thinking of the extremely aged is reduced, when the world and its figures of men and women, its strange oscillations and changes, its passions, pleasures, and pains, seem as made remote by the intervention of a long space--dim, shadowy, and ghost-like. It is one of the stages through which the long-living must pass, and, like all the other experiences of life, it is true only to one's self--it cannot be communicated by words. "Old memories are spectres that do seem to chase the soul out of the world,"--an old quotation which may be admitted without embracing the metaphysical paradox, that "subjective thought is the poison of life," or conceding the sharp sneer of the cynic-- "Know, ye who for your pleasures gape, Man's life at best is but a scrape." But the entry of his daughter brought the old man back to the margin of real living existences. He held out his hand to her, and smiled in the face that was dear to him, as if for a moment he rejoiced in the experience of a feeling which connected him with breathing flesh and blood. The object of her visit was soon explained. Whispering in his ear, as if she were afraid of the sound of her own words, she told him that Walter had promised her a love-token, and that she wished to give him one in return, for which purpose she desired that she might be permitted to use one or two old "Spanish ounces" that lay in the old bureau. "Yes, yes, dear child," said he. "Get a golden heart made of them. It will be an emblem of the true heart you have to give him, and a pledge to boot." Then, falling into one of his reveries, in which his mind seemed occupied by some strong feeling--"I am thus reminded," he continued, "of the old song you used to sing. There is a verse which I hope will never be applicable to you as it was to me. I wish to hear it for the last time," he added, with a languid smile, "in consideration of the ounces." Rachel knew the verse, because she had formerly noticed that it moved some chord in his memory connected with an old love affair in which his heart had been scathed; but she hesitated, for the meaning it conveyed was dowie and ominous. "Come, come," said he, "the fate will never be yours." She complied, yet it was with a trembling voice. The tune is at best but a sweet wail, and there was a misgiving of the heart which imparted the thrilling effect of a gipsy's farewell-- "If I had wist ere I had kisst, That true love was so ill to win, I'd have lock'd my heart in some secret part, And bound it with a silver pin." "Now you may take the ounces," said he with a sigh. "The verse has more meaning to me than you wot off, and surely, I hope, less to you." And having thus gratified his whim--if that could be called a whim which was a desire to have repeated to him a sentiment once to him, as he hinted, a reality connected with the young heart when it was lusty, and his pulse strong and thick with the blood of young life--- she went to the bureau, and, taking three of the ounces, she left the room. In the gloaming, she was again on her way to Paul's workshop, where she found the artist, as usual, with his head bent over the bright desk on the bench, engaged in some of his fanciful creations. Having seated herself in the chair where she had so often sat, she commenced her story of the circumstances of the day,--how Walter Grierson had acted and spoken to her; how he had accounted for the locket and inscription; how he intended to change the latter, and substitute her name for that of Agnes Ainslie; how he had sought her love, and succeeded in his seeking; how she was satisfied that he was sincere in his professions; and how she had got the ounces from her father to make a love-token, to give in exchange for Walter's. All which Paul listened to with deep attention, now and then a faint smile passing over his delicate face, and followed by the old pensive expression which was peculiar to one so deeply imbued with the conviction that he was an organism in nature's plan, acted upon to fulfil a fate of which he could know nothing. "And so the powers work," said he, as he looked in the hopeful face of his friend. "You are now happy, Rachel, because you believe what Walter has said to you, and you have no power over your belief. But," he continued, after a moment or two's silence, "I _may_ have power over you, but not over myself. Walter Grierson has told you a falsehood, and his motive for it is adequate to his nature. Since he gave me the order for the locket, he has learnt that you are to inherit the whole fortune of your father, on the condition that you are to marry him; and his love for Agnes has been overborne by another feeling--the desire to possess your wealth. Neither the one nor the other of these feelings could he manufacture, or even modify, any more than he could charm the winds into silence, or send Jove's bolt back to its thunder-cloud; and now, look you, his game is this: if you succeed to the money, he will marry without loving you; if not, he will marry the woman he loves--Agnes Ainslie." "You alarm me, Paul," said she, involuntarily holding forth her arms, as if she would have stopped his speech. "And you cannot help your alarm," said he calmly; "neither can I help _not_ being alarmed by your alarm." "Oh, you trifle with my feelings," she cried, with a kind of wail. "What have all these strange thoughts to do with this situation in which I am placed? Even though all things are pre-ordained, neither of us can be absolved from doing our duty to God and ourselves." "Absolved!" echoed Paul. "Why, Rachel, look you, we are forced to do it, or not to do it, precisely as the motive culminates into action, but we are not sensible of the compulsion; and so am I under the necessity to tell you that Walter Grierson is playing false with you, according to the inexorable law of his nature. It is not an hour yet since Agnes Ainslie called here with some old trinkets, and requested me to make a ring out of them; nor was I left without the means of understanding that it was to be given in exchange for the locket." "Is it possible?" cried she. "And can it be that I am deceived, and that secret powers are working my ruin?" "Not necessarily your ruin," said he; "no mortal knows the birth of the next moment. The womb of fate is never empty; but no man shall dare to say what is in it till the issue of every moment proves itself. Nor does all this take away hope, for hope is in the ancient decree, like all the other evolutions of time, including that hope's being deferred till the heart grows sick; and," he added, as he looked sorrowfully into her face, "that is the fate of mine, for, know you, Rachel Grierson, I have long loved you, and have now seen that the riches you are to inherit put you beyond the sphere of my ambition. I have often wished--pardon me Rachel--yes, I have often wished you might be left a beggar, that I might have the privilege of using the invention with which I am gifted to astonish the world by my handiwork, and bring wealth to her I loved." "I am surrounded on all sides by difficulties," sighed the young woman, as she seemed to find herself in the mazes of an unseen destiny. As she looked at her cousin, she thought that one of her evils was that the capture of her affections so early by Walter had prevented her from viewing Paul in any other light than that of an ingenious artist, and a man of kindly sympathies, however much he was separated from mankind by a theory of the world too esoteric for ordinary thought, and which yet, at some time of man's life, forces its way amidst palpitations of fear to every heart. On reaching home she met there the notary, Mr. Ainslie, who informed her, probably at the request of her father (for information of that kind is seldom given gratuitously), that the will had been signed, and left in the possession of the old man. Even this communication, so calculated to shake from the heart so many of the sorrows of life, had no greater effect upon her generous nature than to increase the responsibility of fulfilling the condition upon which the inheritance was to be received and held. If she had not been under the effect of an early prepossession in favour of Walter, she might have doubted the sincerity of his statement, as it came from his own mouth. Suspicion attached to every word of it; but after the communication made by Paul, it was scarcely possible for her to resist the conclusion that he had told her a falsehood, and that he was aiming at the fortune, without the power or the inclination to give her in return his love; nay, that he was heartlessly sacrificing to his passion for gold two parties--the object of his real love, and that of his feigned. Yet she did not resist that conclusion; and so good an analyst was she of her own mind, that even when in the very act of throwing away these suspicions of his honesty, she knew in her soul that her love was in successful conflict with an array of evidence establishing the fact which she disregarded. Then the consciousness of this inability to cease loving the man whom she could hardly doubt to be a liar, as well as heartless and mercenary, brought up to her the strange theory of Paul. The motive which no man or woman could make or even modify, was the prime spring as well as ruler of the will, cropping out, to use his own words, from moral, if not also physical causes, laid when God said, "Let there be light, and there was light." A deeper thinker than most of her sex, she felt "the sublimity in terror" of this view of God's ways with man. If she could not resist the resolution to love Walter, how could he resist the love he bore to another? The thought shook her to the heart; nor was she less pained when she reflected on the hapless Paul, with his long-concealed affection, so pure from the sordidness of a desire for money, that he would have toiled for her under the flame of the midnight lamp, continued into the light of the rising sun. During the night the persistency of her resolution to remain by her past affection was maintained; yet as it was still merely a persistency implying the continuance of a foe ready to assert the old rights, she was so far unhappy that she wanted that composure of mind which consists in the absence of conflict among one's own thoughts. In the morning she found the locket lying on her parlour table, with the inscription changed from Agnes Ainslie to Rachel Grierson. She took it up and fixed her eyes upon it. At one time she would have given the world for it; now it attracted her and repelled her. It came from the only man she loved; but another name had been on it, which ought, for aught she could be sure of, to have been on it still. It might be the pledge of affection, but it might also be the evidence of falsehood to her and unfaithfulness to another. And then, as she traced the lines of her name, she thought she could discover the signs of a tremulousness in the hand that traced them. Amidst all these thoughts and conflicting feelings, she could not help recurring to the circumstance that he had not presented the locket with his own hands. She was unwilling to indulge in an unfavourable construction; and perhaps the more so that it so far pleased her as relieving her from the dilemma of accepting it with more coldness than her love warranted, or more warmth than her reason allowed. Nay, though she gloated over his image when she was alone, she felt an undefined fear of meeting him. Might he not be precipitated into some further defence or confession, which might fortify suspicions still battling against her prepossessions, and diminish her love? Nor was this disinclination towards personal interviews confined to this day--it continued; and it seemed as if he also wished his connection with her to stand in the meantime upon the pledges and confessions already made. This she could also notice; but as for rendering a true reason for it, she couldn't, even with the great ability she possessed in construing conduct and character. But meanwhile time was accumulating antagonistic forces which would explode in a consummation. Her thoughts were to be occupied by another, who claimed her affections and care by an appeal as powerful as it was without guile. Her father was seized with paralysis. He was laid speechless on the bed where she sat, a watchful and affectionate nurse, ready to sacrifice sleep and peace and rest to the wants of him who, all through her life, had been her friend and benefactor, and who had provided for her future days at the expense of hopes entertained by his legitimate heirs. For three days he had lain without speaking a word, and Rachel could only guess his wants by mute signs. During all this time her thoughts had scarcely glanced at Walter. He seemed anxious about the condition of his uncle, calling repeatedly at the bedroom door, and going away without entering. But his manner indicated no affection, if it did not rather seem that he considered the old man had done his worst against him, and that sorrow was not due from one he had disinherited. Her affections were too much engrossed by her patient to permit her thinking of what was being transacted in the outside world. Yet, when she looked upon the face of the invalid, so pale and motionless, where so long the shades of grief and the lights of joy had chased each other, by the old decree of human destiny, the words of Paul would occur to her. Was the death that was there impending the result of a more necessary law than that which had ruled every other condition of body or mind which had ever been experienced by the patient sufferer? Then there came the question, Could Walter Grierson so regulate his heart as to force it to love her in preference to Agnes Ainslie? Could she, Rachel herself, so rule her feelings as to cease loving the man she still suspected of falsehood and treachery? It was even while she was thus ruminating over thoughts that made her tremble, that she observed, on the third night, a change in her patient. He seemed to start by the advent of some recollection. His body became restless, and he waved his hand wildly, as if he wanted her to bend over him, to hear what he might struggle to say. She immediately obeyed the sign. He fixed his eyes upon her, made efforts to articulate, which resulted only in a thick, broken gibberish. She could only catch one or two indistinct words, from which it seemed that he wished to tell her _where she would find the will_; but the precise phrase whereby he wished to indicate the deposit was pronounced in such an imperfect manner that she could not make it out. Strangely enough, yet still consistently with the generosity of her character, she did not like to pain him by indicating that she did not understand him. Nay, she nodded pleasantly, as if she wanted him to be easy, under the satisfaction that he had succeeded in his efforts to articulate. Yet so far was she from thinking of the importance of the communication to herself, that she flattered him into the belief that, as he could now speak so as to be understood, he was in the way of improving. Alas for the goodness which is evil to the heart that produces it! "There are of plants That die of too much generosity-- Exhaling their sweet life in essences." Paul would have said that this too was a cropping out of the old causal strata. In two hours more, David Grierson was dead, and Rachel was left to mourn for her parent and benefactor. Now the issues were accumulating. A very short time only was allowed to elapse before Mr. Ainslie, accompanied by Walter, came to seal up the repositories; an operation which was gone through in a manner which indicated that both of them thought they were locking up and making secure that which would destroy their hopes. They seemed under the conviction that the will was in the bureau; and if they had been men otherwise than merely what, as the world goes, are called honest, they might have abstracted the document; for the generous Rachel never even looked at their proceedings, grieved as she was at the death of her father. They were, at least, above that. In a few days David Grierson was consigned to the earth, and, after the funeral, Mr. Ainslie, accompanied by Walter, again attended to open the repositories and read the testament. Rachel agreed to be present. When the seals were removed, she was asked by the notary if she knew where the document was deposited. She now felt the consequence of the easy manner in which she had let slip the opportunity so dearly offered by her father, of knowing the _locale_ of a writ in all respects so important; for it cannot be doubted that, if she had persevered, she might have succeeded in drawing out of him the word, articulated so as that she might have comprehended it. She accordingly, yet without any anticipation of danger, answered in the negative, whereupon the notary and nephew, who seemed to be on the most friendly terms, set about a search. Rachel remained. A whole hour was passed in the search; the will was not yet found. Every drawer of the bureau was examined,--the presses, the cabinets, the table-drawers, the trunks. And so another hour passed--no will. Rachel began to get alarmed, and perhaps the more that she saw upon the faces of the searchers an expression which she could not comprehend. Their spirits seemed to have become elated as hers became depressed; yet why should that have been, if Walter Grierson was to be "true to his troth?" "We need search no more," said Mr. Ainslie. "The will is not in the house. I should say it is not in existence, and that Mr. Grierson, having changed his mind, had destroyed it." "Not so," replied Rachel, "for a few minutes before his death he tried to tell me where it was, but the name of the place died away upon his tongue, and I could not catch it." "Neither can we catch the deed," said Walter, with a laugh which had a spice of irony in it. And so the search was given up. The two searchers left the house, apparently in close conversation. Rachel sought her room and threw herself on a sofa, oppressed by doubts and fears which she could not very well explain. The manner of Walter appeared to her not to be that of one who was pledged to marry her. Her mind ran rapidly back over doubtful reminiscences which yielded no comfort to the heart; nay, she felt that he had never been as a lover to her; and far less that day when, as it appeared, he was to be master of his uncle's wealth. Yet again comes the thought, Was he pledged to her? Ay, that was certain enough; and then she was so little versed in the subtle ways of the world, that she could not doubt of his being "true to his troth." As soon as she recovered from her meditation, she sought again the workroom of the artist, to whom she told the issue of the search for the will. Paul looked at first greatly struck, but under his strange philosophy he recovered that calmness which belongs to those of his way of thinking. "Have I not often preached to you, Rachel," said he, as he lay back on his chair, "that all these things were fixed ere Sirius was born? Yea," he added, as a smile played amid the seriousness of his face, "ere yet there was a space for the dog-star to wag his tail. The croppings out will now come thick, and you will know whether you are to be a lady or a beggar." Rachel might have known that the consolation offered by fatalists is only the recommendation of a resignation which, as fated itself, is gloomy, if not awful, for it amounts to an annihilation of self, with all hopes, energies, and resolutions. She heard his words, and forgave him, if she did not believe him; for she knew that he was true in his friendship, and benevolent in his feelings--parts these, too, as he would have said, of the decree. She left him in a condition of sadness for which she could not yet account, and the hues of her mind seemed to be projected on all objects around her. She retired to rest; but she could not banish from her mind that the realities of her condition required to be read by the blue light of Paul's philosophy. It was far in the morning before she fell asleep; and when nine came she felt unrested. The servant came in to her and told her the hour. The breakfast was ready; but Walter, who had not returned on the prior night, was not as usual waiting for her. The announcement was ominously in harmony with the thoughts she had tried to banish. She scarcely touched the breakfast, and the day passed in expectation of Walter. Night came, but it did not bring him. The next day passed in the same way. People called to condole without knowing how much she stood in need of condolence; but still no Walter came to redeem the pledge of his love. Yet still she hoped; nor till an entire month had gone over her head did she renounce her confidence that he would be "true to his troth." At the end of this period Paul advised her to take counsel. He told her that the law had remedies for losses of deeds; and she accordingly consulted a legal gentleman of the name of Cleghorn. The result was not favourable. It appeared that Mr. Ainslie denied that there was any copy or scroll of the will, through the means of which it might have been "set up," by what is called a proving of the tenor. There was no hope here, and by-and-by she saw advertised in the _Caledonian Mercury_ that the furniture of the house was to be sold within a week. She was there on mere tolerance; and now she had got a clear intimation to flit. As for money or effects, she had none, except her wardrobe, for she never thought of providing for an exigency which she was satisfied never would occur. Again she applied to Paul, who, with her consent, went and took for her a solitary room in the close we have already mentioned. It was her intention to acquire a livelihood by means of her needle, at that time almost the only resource for genteel poverty. Some articles of furniture were got, principally by Paul; and there, two days before the sale, she took up her residence. Nor did the kindness of Paul stop here. He attended the sale, and, considerately judging that some articles belonging to her father would be acceptable to her, he purchased, for a small sum, the old bureau of which we have already spoken. The article was removed to Rachel's room. For a period of fifteen years did Rachel Grierson live in that room plying her needle to obtain for her a subsistence. Her story, which came to be known, procured her plenty of work; and the ten fingers, which were sufficiently employed, sufficed for the wants of the stomach,--small these wants, probably, in her who had heard of the marriage of Walter with Agnes Ainslie; yea, she who could bear to hear that intelligence might claim a right to be a pupil of Paul's school of philosophy. Paul she indeed loved as a friend, but she never could bring herself to the resolution of marrying the little artist. There was a train of evils: the "croppings out" of her fate, as Paul called it, were thick enough and to spare; for she fell into bad health, which was the precursor of a fit of palsy, depriving her for ever of the power of working for herself. Then it was that Paul's affection was shown more clearly than ever. Day by day he brought her all the food she required; but at length he himself was taken ill, and his absence was fatal. Pride prevented her from making her necessity known to the neighbours, with whom she had but little intercourse. We have told how she was found dead; and when we say that Paul recovered to be present at her funeral, we have only one fact more to state. It is this: Paul took the old bureau home to his own little room, to keep as a memorial of the only woman he ever loved. One day, when repairing the internal drawers, he found in a hollow perpendicular slip, which looked like a broad beading, a document which was thus entitled on the back: LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT BY DAVID GRIERSON, IN FAVOUR OF RACHEL GRIERSON, 1776 LADY RAE. During the time that Oliver Cromwell was in Edinburgh, a lady called one day at his lodgings and solicited an interview. She was closely wrapped up in a large and loose mantle, and deeply veiled. The former, however, did not conceal a shape of singular elegance, nor mar the light and graceful carriage of the wearer. Both were exceedingly striking; and if the veil performed its duty more effectually than the mantle, by completely hiding the countenance of the future Protector's fair visitor, it was only to incite the imagination to invest that countenance with the utmost beauty of which the "human face divine" is susceptible. Nor would such creation of the fancy have surpassed the truth, for the veiled one was indeed "fair to look upon." On its being announced to Cromwell that a lady desired an interview with him, he, in some surprise, demanded who and what she was. The servant could not tell. She had declined to give her name, or to say what was the purpose of her visit. The Protector thought for a moment, and as he did so, kept gazing, with a look of abstraction, in the face of his valet. At length-- "Admit her, Porson, admit her," he said. "The Lord sends his own messengers in his own way; and if we deny them, He will deny us." Porson, who was one of Cromwell's most pious soldiers--for he served in the double capacity of warrior and valet--stroked his sleek hair down over his solemn brow, and uttered a sonorous "amen" to the unconnected and unintelligible observation of his master, who, it is well known, dealt much in this extraordinary sort of jargon. Having uttered his lugubrious amen, Porson withdrew, and in a few minutes returned, conducting the lady, of whom we have spoken, into the presence of Cromwell. On entering the apartment, the former threw aside her veil, and discovered a countenance of such cunning charms as moved the future Protector to throw into his manner an air of unwonted gallantry. At the lady's first entrance he was busy writing, and had merely thrown down his pen when she appeared, without intending to carry his courtesy any further; but he had no sooner caught a sight of the fair face of his visitor, than, excited by an involuntary impulse, he rose from his chair and advanced towards her, smiling and bowing most graciously; the latter, however, being by no means remarkable either for its ease or its elegance. "Pray, madam," now said Cromwell, still looking the agreeable--so far as his saturnine features would admit of such expression--"to what happy circumstance am I indebted for the honour of this visit?" "The circumstance, sir, that brings me here is by no means a happy one," replied the lady, in tones that thrilled even the iron nerves of Oliver Cromwell. "I am Lady Rae, General; the wife of John Lord Rae, at present a prisoner in the Tolbooth of Edinburgh for his adherence to the cause of the late king." "Ah, my Lady Rae, I am sorry for you--sorry for you indeed; but doubtless you have found consolation in the same source whence your afflictions have sprung. Truly may I reckon--indeed may I, doubtless--that the Lord, who has seen fit to chastise you, has also comforted you under this dispensation." "None, Sir General, who seek the aid of the Almighty in a true spirit ever seek that aid in vain," replied Lady Rae; "and I have been a seeker, and have found; nor have I, I trust, been wanting on this occasion in a due submission to his will." "Truly, I hope not; indeed do I," replied Cromwell. "Then, what would ye with me, fair lady? What would ye with one so feeble and humble as I am, who am but as a tool, a mean instrument in the hand of the artificer?" And the speaker assumed a look of the deepest humility. "I dare not utter it! I dare not utter it, General!" exclaimed Lady Rae, now giving way, for the first time, to that emotion which was agitating her whole frame, although she had hitherto endeavoured, and not unsuccessfully, to conceal it. "I dare not utter it," she said, "lest it should bring death to my hopes; yet came I hither for no other purpose." "Speak, lady, speak," said Cromwell. "What would'st thou with me?" Lady Kae flung herself on her knees, and exclaimed, with upraised countenance and streaming eyes-- "Save my husband, General! Restore him to liberty and to me; and thus, on my knees, shall I daily offer up prayers to heaven for thy safety and prosperity. Oh refuse me not!--refuse me not, General, as thou thyself hopest for mercy from thy God in the hour of retribution!" And she wildly grasped the knees of the republican commander. Without saying a word, Cromwell gently disengaged himself from the fair suppliant, and, turning his back upon her, stalked to the further end of the apartment, seemingly much agitated. On gaining the extremity of the room, Cromwell stood for two or three minutes, still keeping his back to Lady Rae, with arms folded, and drooping his head, as if musing deeply. At the expiry of this period, he suddenly turned round, and advancing towards his fair visitor with quick and hurried step, said-- "My Lady Rae, may the Lord direct me in this matter and in all others. I have been communing with myself anent your petition; truly have I, but see not that I can serve thee; I cannot indeed. If we would all walk in the straight path, we had need to walk warily; for in this matter I cannot help thee, seeing my Lord Rae is a State prisoner, and I have no power over him; none, truly, none whatever. The law is strong, and may not be trifled with. But I will consider, fair lady, indeed will I; I will seek direction and counsel in the matter from on high. I will do so this night; I will have this night to think of the matter, and thou wilt call upon me at this hour to-morrow, and I will then see if the Lord will vouchsafe me any light as to how I may assist thee and thy poor husband; for on thy account I would do so if I could." Confused, and all but wholly unintelligible, as was this address of Cromwell's, Lady Rae perceived that it contained a gleam of comfort, that a ray of hope-inspiring light, however feeble, played through its obscurity; and, satisfied with this, she urged her suit no further, but, with a thankful acceptance of the Parliamentary general's invitation to her to wait upon him on the following day, she withdrew. On Lady Rae issuing from Cromwell's lodgings, she stood in the street, gazing around her for an instant, as if looking for some one whom she had expected to find waiting her, but who was not at the moment in sight. This was the case; but it was only for a moment that she was so detained. She had glanced but two or three times around her, when she was joined by a personage of very striking appearance. This was a huge Highlander, considerably above six feet in stature, proportionably stout and well made, and apparently of enormous strength. He was dressed in the full costume of his country, and armed to the teeth. By his side depended a tremendous claymore; in his belt were stuck a dagger and a brace of pistols; and on his shoulder rested that formidable weapon called a Lochaber axe. The countenance of this tremendous personage was in keeping with his other charms: it was manly, and decidedly handsome, but withal was marked with an expression of fierceness that was appalling to look upon; and was thus calculated, when associated with his gigantic figure, to inspire at once admiration and fear. As this formidable personage approached Lady Rae, he touched his bonnet with an air of the most profound respect, and assumed a look and attitude of devoted attention to her commands. "I have seen him, John," said Lady Rae, addressing her Goliath of an attendant, who was neither more nor less than a retainer of Lord Rae's, but one who stood high in the estimation of both the former and the latter for his fidelity, and, fierce as he looked, for the gentleness of his nature. John M'Kay--for such was his name--was, in short, an especial favourite of both Lord and Lady Rae, and was admitted to a degree of confidence and familiarity that elevated him much above his real condition. They were proud, too, of his superb figure, and delighted to exhibit him in the full dress of his country, as a specimen of the men which it produced. "I have seen him, John," said Lady Rae, whose protector and attendant John always was when she went forth on occasions of business of importance like the present. "And what he'll say, my letty?" inquired John in a low and gentle tone, and stopping to catch Lady Rae's communication. "Not much that is quite satisfactory, John. He speaks in a strange style, but I think there is ground of hope. He did not altogether refuse the prayer of my petition, but bade me call upon him again to-morrow." John looked grave, but made no reply. His lady walked on, and he followed at a respectful distance. The former now directed her steps to a locality in the city with which she was but too familiar, and which she had had occasion of late but too often to frequent. This was the Tolbooth--the place of her husband's confinement. On reaching the outer entrance to the jail, the low half-door, thickly studded with huge-headed nails, by which it was temporarily secured during the day, was immediately thrown open for her admission by the turnkey--a little crusty-looking personage in a fur cap--who had been leaning over it, listlessly looking around him, on her ladyship's approach. As the latter entered the prison door, the former stood to one side, doffed his little fur cap, and respectfully wished her ladyship a good morning. "How are you to-day, James?" said Lady Rae in kindly tones; "and how is my lord?" "Quite well, my lady, quite well," replied the little turnkey, extremely proud, seemingly, of the condescension of her ladyship. The latter passed on, and commenced threading her way through the tortuous but well-known passages which led to her husband's prison-room. John M'Kay followed his mistress into the jail, previously leaving his arms at the door--a condition to which he had always to submit before gaining admission. Having denuded himself of his weapons, John also passed on, but not before he had shaken his fist ominously in the face of the little jailer. This was John's constant practice every time he entered the prison; and, simple as the act was, it had a good deal of meaning. It meant, in the first place, that John associated the misfortune of his master's confinement with the little turnkey's employment; that he considered him as aiding and abetting in the same. It further meant, that if it were not for one thing more than another, or, as John himself would have expressed it, "for todder things more nor ones," he would have brought his Lochaber axe and the turnkey's head into more intimate contact. In the meantime, Lady Rae having ascended several flights of dark and narrow stairs, and traversed several passages of a similar description, had arrived at a particular door, on either side of which stood a grenadier, with shouldered musket and bayonet fixed. They were the guards placed upon her husband, who occupied the apartment which they sentinelled. The soldiers, who had orders to admit her ladyship and attendant to the prisoner at any time between the hours of nine in the morning and seven at night, offered no hindrance to her approaching the door and rapping for admittance. This she now did; and the "Who's there?" of the captive was replied to in a powerfully Celtic accent by John M'Kay, with--"My Letty Rae, my lort." The door instantly flew open, and its inmate came forth, with a smiling and delighted countenance, to receive his beautiful and faithful wife. In the meantime, John M'Kay took his station on the outside of the door--a more friendly guard over the inmates of the apartment to which it conducted than those who stood on either side of him. Here the same feeling which had dictated John's significant hint to the turnkey below, suggested his general bearing and particular manner to the two soldiers now beside him. Maintaining a profound and contemptuous silence, he strutted up and down the passage--without going, however, more than two or three yards either way--in front of the door of his lordship's apartment, keeping his huge form proudly erect, as he thus paced the short walk to which he had limited himself, and casting, every now and then, a look of fierce defiance on the appalled soldiers, who looked with fear and dread on the chafed lion with whom they found themselves thus unpleasantly caged, and who seemed every moment as if he would spring upon and tear them to pieces; and, in truth, little provocation would it have taken to have brought John M'Kay's huge fists into play about their heads. There can be no doubt that there was nothing at that moment which would have given John more satisfaction than their affording him an excuse for attacking them. This, however, the soldiers carefully avoided; and, not content with refraining from giving the slightest offence, either in word, look, or deed, endeavoured to conciliate John by an attempt to lead him into friendly conversation. But the attempt was in vain. Their advances were all repelled, either with silent contempt or with a gruff uncourteous response. A specimen of the conversation which did take place between M'Kay and the guards may be given:-- "Delightful day, friend!" said one of the soldiers. "S'pose it is!" replied John sternly, and continuing his walk. A pause. "Anything new in the town to-day?" at length said the other soldier. "S'pose something new every tay!" replied John gruffly. "Ay, ay, I dare say; but have _you_ anything new to tell us?" "Maype I have," said John, with a grim smile. "What is it?" "Tat I'll knock your tam thick head against tat wall if you'll pe botter me wi' any more o' your tam nonsense. Tat's news for you!" and John gave one of those peculiar Celtic grunts which no combination of letters can express. "And you, you scarecrow-looking rascal," he continued, addressing the other sentinel, "if you'll spoke anoder word, I'll cram my sporran doon your dam troat." Having delivered himself of these friendly addresses, John resumed his march, with additional pride of step and bearing. In a minute after, he was summoned into Lord Rae's apartment, where he remained until Lady Rae left the prison, which she did in a short time afterwards. It was with a beating heart and anxious mind that Lady Rae wended her way, on the following day--attended, as usual, by her gigantic serving-man--to the lodgings of Oliver Cromwell. On reaching the house, M'Kay took his station, as on a former occasion, on the outside, while her ladyship advanced towards the door, within which she speedily disappeared, her admittance having been more prompt on the present visit than the former. In an instant after, Lady Rae was again in the presence of Oliver Cromwell. As on the former occasion, he was employed in writing when she entered, and as on that occasion, so also he threw down his pen, and rose to receive her. "Anent this matter of yours, my lady," began Cromwell abruptly, and without any previous salutation, although he looked all civility and kindness, "I really hardly know what to say; truly do I not; but the Lord directs all, and He will guide us in this thing also." "I trust so!" interrupted Lady Rae, meekly. "Yes," resumed the future Protector of England; "for we are but weak creatures, short-sighted and erring. But indeed, as I told you before, my lady, your husband is a State prisoner; truly is he, and therefore may I not interfere with him. I cannot; I have not the power. Yet would I serve thee if I could; truly would I with great pleasure. But these, you see, are strange times, in which all men must walk warily; for we are beset with enemies, with traitors--deceivers on all sides, men who fear not the Lord. Yet, for this matter of yours, my Lady Rae, I will tell you: I cannot take your husband from prison; it would be unseemly in the sight of all God-fearing men; but truly, if you could in any ways manage to get his lordship once without the prison walls, I would take upon me to prevent his being further troubled. He should have a protection under my hand; truly he should, although it might bring me to some odium with my friends. But he should have it, nevertheless, out of my respect for you, my lady. Now go, go, my lady; I may say no more on the subject. Go, try and fall on some means of getting thy husband without the walls of his prison; this done, come instantly to me, and thou shalt have a protection for him under my hand; indeed thou shalt." To Lady Rae, this proposal was a grievous disappointment. It contained an arrangement which she had never contemplated, and which seemed as impracticable as it was strange; yet she saw it was all she had to expect, and that whatever might be the result, she must be content with the extent of interference on her husband's behalf, which was included in the singular measures suggested by Cromwell. Impressed with this conviction, Lady Rae thanked him for his kindness, said she would endeavour to get her husband without the prison gates by some means or other, and would then again wait upon him for the protection he was so generous as to offer. "Do so, my lady, do so," said Cromwell, escorting her ladyship to the door with an air of great gallantry; "and may the Lord have thee in his holy keeping." Lady Rae turned round, again thanked the general, curtseyed, and withdrew. On reaching the street, her ladyship was instantly joined by her faithful attendant M'Kay, who had been waiting with the greatest anxiety and impatience for her return; for to him his master's life and liberty were dearer far than his own, and he well knew that both were much in the power of the extraordinary man on whom his lady was now waiting. On the first glance which he obtained of his mistress's countenance, John saw, with a feeling of disappointment that lengthened his own several inches, that the interview had not been a satisfactory one. His native sense of politeness, however, and of the deference due to his mistress, prevented him making any inquiries as to what had passed until she should herself choose to communicate with him on the subject. For such communication, however, he had longer to wait than usual; for, lost in thought and depressed with disappointment, Lady Rae walked on a good way without taking any notice whatever of her attendant, who was following at a distance of several yards. At length she suddenly stopped, but without turning round. This John knew to be the signal for him to advance. He accordingly did so, and, touching his bonnet, waited for the communication which it promised. "I am afraid, John," now said Lady Rae--"I am afraid we shall be disappointed, after all. The general has made the strangest proposal you ever heard. He says that he cannot, without compromising himself, or to that effect, liberate his lordship from jail; but that if he were once out--that is, if he could be got out by any means--he would save him from being further troubled, and would grant him a protection under his own hand. But how on earth are we to get him out? It is impossible. These two guards at the door, besides other difficulties, render it altogether impracticable. I know not what is to be done." It was some seconds before M'Kay made any reply. At length-- "I'll no think ta difficulty fery crate, after all, my letty," replied John. "There's shust ta bodachan at ta dore, I could put in my sporran, and ta twa soger." "Yes, John; the first you might perhaps manage," said Lady Rae, smiling, and glancing unconsciously at the huge figure of her attendant, which presented so striking a contrast to that of the little, slim, crusty turnkey; "but the two soldiers--" "Whoich," exclaimed John contemptuously; "if's no far prettier men than was there yesterday, it'll no trouble me much to manage them too, my letty. A wee bit clamsheuchar wi' my Lochaper axe, or a brog wi' my skean-dhu, will make them quate aneuch, my letty. Tat's but a small shob." "John, John, no violence, no violence!" exclaimed Lady Rae, in great alarm at the sanguinary view of the process for her husband's liberation which John had taken. "No violence. If his lordship's liberation be attempted at all, there must be no violence; at least none to the shedding of blood, or to the inflicting the smallest injury on any one. The idea is horrible; and, if acted on, would only make matters worse. Your own life, John, would be the forfeit of such an atrocious proceeding." "Foich, a figs for tat, my letty, beggin' your lettyship's pardon," replied John, a good deal disappointed at the peaceful tone of his mistress, and at the loss of an opportunity, such as he had long desired, of taking vengeance on his master's guards and jailers. "Foich, a figs for tat, my letty, beggin' your lettyship's pardon," he said. "I could teuk to the hills in a moment's notice, and see who'll catch John M'Kay then." "Well, well, perhaps, John, you might, but you must speak no more of violence; I charge you, speak no more of it. We will, in the meantime, go to his lordship and submit the matter to him, and be guided thereafter by his advice." Having said this, Lady Rae directed her steps to the jail, and, closely followed by M'Kay, was soon after in the apartment of the prisoner. Lord Rae having been apprised by his lady of the result of her interview with Cromwell, a secret consultation between the two, which lasted nearly an hour, ensued. During this consultation, many different plans for effecting the liberation of the prisoner were suggested, and, after being duly weighed, abandoned as impracticable. One at length, however, was adopted, and this one was proposed by M'Kay; it was characteristic of the man, and came as close in its nature to his original one as he durst presume upon. This plan, which was a simple enough one, was to seize the two guards at the outside of the door, and to hold them fast until Lord Rae should have rushed past them and got out of the prison. The turnkey at the outer door, who, as has been already said, was a little slender man, his lordship was to seize and throw down, and then get over the little half-door, which was under his guardianship, the best way he could. A row of short, sharp pikes, however, with which it was fenced on its upper edge, rendered this a formidable difficulty; but it was thought that it might, to speak literally, be got over by the aid of a long form which stood on one side of the passage of the jail, for the accommodation of visitors. All this trouble a touch of the key would have saved; but this the little man always carried in his pocket, never allowing it to remain in the lock an instant, however frequent or numerous his visitors might be. The securing of the two guards at the prisoner's door, by far the most serious part of the business, M'Kay took upon himself, and with a degree of confidence that sufficiently showed how well he was aware of his own surpassing strength. This plan of proceedings arranged, it was resolved that it should be put in execution that very afternoon. On that afternoon, accordingly, John M'Kay again appeared at the jail door, demanding admittance to his master. The door was immediately thrown open to him by the little turnkey, whom he now for the first time addressed in a friendly tone. The same change of manner marked his salutation to the guards at the door of his master's apartment. To these he spoke in the most civil and obliging terms possible. The men, who had often winced under his savage growls and fierce looks, wondered at the change, but were glad enough to meet with it in place of his former ferocity. John, after talking for a few minutes with the sentinels, went into his lordship's room. The latter was dressed, and ready for the bold proceeding about to be adopted. "Think you you can manage them, John?" said his lordship in a whisper, after the door had been secured in the inside. "Pooch, a dizzen o' them, my lort!" replied M'Kay in the same under-tone. "It's twa bits o' shachlin' podies no wors speakin' aboot." "But they are armed, John--they have guns and bayonets; and the former are loaded." "Pooch, their guns! what'll sicknify their guns, my lort, when I'll have cot a hold o' the craturs themsels in my hants?" and he held out his enormous brown paws as if to certify their power. "I'll crush the podies like a mussel shells." "No violence, John, remember," said Lord Rae energetically, but smiling as he spoke,--"that is, to the extent of doing the men any, the smallest personal injury. Remember now, John; do otherwise," continued his lordship in a more severe tone, "and you forfeit my favour and esteem for ever. Mark, John, besides," added his lordship, who seemed most anxious on the point which he was now pressing on M'Kay's consideration, "your doing any injury to these men would be destruction to me; for, under such circumstances, the general would not grant me a protection after I was out, and my case would otherwise be rendered infinitely worse and more hopeless than it is. Now, remember all this, John, and do the men no personal injury, I charge you." John's face reddened a little at the earnestness with which these injunctions were delivered, and probably he thought they indicated something like degeneracy in his chief; but he promised compliance with his commands; and, to render his obedience more certain, by lessening the temptation to infringe them, he denuded himself of a concealed dirk, which he always carried about him, over and above the arms he openly wore. Of this proceeding, which was voluntary on M'Kay's part, his master highly approved, but, smiling, said-- "You have still your fists, John, nearly as dangerous weapons as that you have just laid aside; but I hope you will use them sparingly." John smiled, and promised he would. In a few minutes afterwards M'Kay came forth from Lord Rae's apartment to perform the daring feat of securing two armed men by the mere force of physical strength; for he was now without weapon of any kind. When he came out, however, it was with an appearance of the most friendly feeling towards the soldiers. He came out smiling graciously, and entered into familiar chat with the men, alleging that he came to put off the time till his master had written a letter which he was to deliver to a person in town. Thrown off their guard by M'Kay's jocular and cordial manner, the soldiers grounded their muskets, and began to enter in earnest into the conversation which he was promoting. M'Kay, in the meantime, was watching his opportunity to seize them; but this, as it was necessary he should be placed, with regard to them, so as to have one on either side of him, that he might grasp both at the same instant, he did not obtain for some time. By dint, however, of some exceedingly cautious and wary manoeuvring, M'Kay at length found himself in a position favourable to his meditated proceedings. On doing so, he, with the speed and force of lightning, darted an arm out on either side of him, seized a soldier by the breast with each hand, and with as much ease as a powerful dog could turn over a kitten, laid them both gently on their backs on the floor of the passage, where he held them extended at full length, and immovable in his tremendous grasp, till he felt assured that Lord Rae had cleared the prison. This the latter effected with the most perfect success. The moment M'Kay seized the soldiers--an act of which Lord Rae was apprised by the former's calling out, "Noo, noo, my lort"--he rushed out, ran along the passage, descended the stair in three or four leaps, came upon the little turnkey unawares, as he was looking over the half-door of the prison entrance--his sole occupation during three-fourths of the day--seized him by the neck of the coat behind, laid him down, as M'Kay had done by the soldiers, at his full length--no great length after all--on the floor; drew the form to the door, placed it over the little turnkey in such a way as to prevent his rising, jumped on it, leapt into the street at one bound, and instantly disappeared. All this was done in the tenth part of the time that has been taken to relate it. It was, in truth, the work of but a moment. On being satisfied that Lord Rae had made his escape-- "Noo, lads, ye may got up," said M'Kay, loosening his hold of the men, and starting himself to his feet. "Ta burd's flown; but ye may look after ta cage, and see tat no more o' your canaries got away." Freed from the powerful grasp which had hitherto pinned them to the floor, the soldiers sprang to their feet, and endeavoured to get hold of their muskets. Seeing this, M'Kay again seized them, and again threw them to the floor; but on this occasion it was merely to show the power he had over them, if they should still have any doubt of it. "Noo, lads, I'll tell you what it is," said M'Kay, addressing the prostrate soldiers--"if you'll behave yoursels desenly, and no be botherin' me wi' ony more o' your tarn nonsense, I'll aloo you to make me your prisoner; for I'm no intending to run away; I'll kive myself up to save your hides, and take my shance of ta law for what I'll do. Tat's my mind of it, lads. If you like to acree to it, goot and well; if not, I will knock your two heads togidder, till your prains go into smash." But too happy to accept of such terms, the soldiers at once assented to them; and on their doing so, were permitted once more to resume their legs, when M'Kay peaceably yielded himself their prisoner. The gigantic Highlander could easily have effected his own escape; but he could not have done so without having recourse to that violence which had been so anxiously deprecated by both his master and mistress. Without inflicting some mortal injury on the soldiers, he could not have prevented them from pursuing him when he had fled, and probably firing on him as he did so. All this, therefore, had been provided for by the arrangements previously agreed upon by Lord Rae and his retainer. By these it was settled, that he should, on the former's making his escape, peaceably yield himself up to "underlie the law," in a reliance on the friendly disposition of Cromwell towards the fugitive, which, it was not doubted, would be exerted in behalf of his servant. Such proceeding, it was thought too, would bring Lord Rae's case sooner to issue; and be, with regard to the law, as it were, throwing a bone in the dog's way to arrest his attention, and interrupt his pursuit of the original and more important object of his vengeance. On delivering himself up, M'Kay was immediately placed in confinement, and shortly after brought to trial, for aiding and abetting in the escape of a State prisoner. The trial was a very brief one; for the facts were easily established, and sentence was about to be passed on the prisoner, when a stir suddenly arose at the court door. The presiding judge paused; the stir increased. In the next instant it was hushed; and in that instant Cromwell entered the court. On advancing a pace or two within the apartment, he took off his hat, bowed respectfully to the judges, and proceeding onwards, finally ascended the bench and took his seat beside them. When a man feels himself master, he need be under no great ceremony; neither need he trouble himself much about forms or rules which regulate the conduct of inferiors. Cromwell, on this occasion, got up in a few minutes after he had taken his place, and delivered to the court a long, and, after his usual fashion, obscure and unconnected oration in favour of the prisoner at the bar. The chief ground, however, on which he rested his defence and exculpation of M'Kay, was the fidelity to his master, which the crime with which he was charge implied, and the worse effect to the cause of morality than good to the political interests of the State, which the infliction of any punishment in such case would produce. "If," concluded Cromwell, "fidelity to a master is to be punished as a crime, where shall we look for honest servants?" The reasoning of Cromwell, even had it been less cogent than it was, could not be but convincin to those who knew of and dreaded his power. He was listened to with the most profound attention, and the justness of his arguments and force of his eloquence acknowledged by the acquittal of the prisoner. As M'Kay rose from his seat at the bar to leave the court, Cromwell eyed him attentively for some seconds, and, struck with his prodigious size and fierce aspect, whispered to one of the judges near him, "May the Lord keep me from the devil's and _that_ man's grasp." We have now only to add, that the protection promised by Cromwell to Lady Rae for her husband was duly made out, and delivered to her. We need not say that it was found to be a perfectly efficient document. THE DIAMOND EYES. When I entered Edinburgh College the students were tolerably free from any of those clubs or parties into which some factitious subject--often a whim--divides them. In the prior year the spirit of wager had seized a great number of them with the harpy talons of the demon of gambling, giving rise to consequences prejudicial to their morals, as well as to their studies. A great deal of money among the richer of them changed hands upon the result of bets, often the most frivolous, if not altogether ridiculous. Now, we are not to say that, abstracted from the love of money, the act of betting is unqualifiedly bad, if rather we may not be able to say something for it, insomuch as it sometimes brings out, and stamps ingenuity or sagacity, while it represses and chastises arrogance. But the practice at the College at that time was actually wild. They sought out subjects; the aye and the no of ordinary converse was followed by the gauntlet, which was taken up on the instant; and they even had an umpire in the club, a respectable young man of the name of Hawley, who was too wise to bet himself, but who was pleased with the honour of being privileged to decide the bets of the others. In the heat of this wild enthusiasm, it happened that two of these youths, one called Henry Dewhurst, and the other Frank Hamilton, were walking on the jetty which runs out from the harbour of Leith a full mile into the Forth. Dewhurst was the son of a West India planter, who allowed him £300 a year, every penny of which was spent in paying only a part of his bills long before the year was done; one of which bills I had an opportunity of seeing, to my wonder--how any one could eat £15 worth of tarts and sweetmeats in the course of not many months! Hamilton was the son of a west country proprietor, and enjoyed the privilege of using, to his ruin, a yearly allowance of £250. In the midst of their sauntering they hailed two of their friends,--one Campbell, a sworn companion of the young West Indian; and the other Cameron, as closely allied to Hamilton;--all the four being, as the saying goes, "birds of a feather," tossing their wings in the gale of sprees, and not always sleeping in their own nests at night. As they approached the end of the jetty, they met a lad who had wounded one of these large gulls called Tom Norries,--a beautiful creature, with its fine lead-coloured wings and charming snow-white breast, and eye like a diamond. "I will give you a shilling for the bird," said Dewhurst. "But what are you to do with it?" replied the lad. "I would not like it to be killed. It is only hurt in the wing; and I will get half-a-crown for it from one who has a garden to keep it in." "No, no," said Dewhurst, "I'll not kill it. Here's your half-crown." And the bargain was struck. Dewhurst, with the struggling bird in his hand, went down, followed by his friends, one of the side stairs to the stone rampart, by which the jetty is defended on the east. There they sat down. The sun was throwing a blaze of glory over a sea which repaid the gift with a liquid splendour scarcely inferior to his of fire; and the companions of the bird, swirling in the clear air, seemed to be attracted by the sharp cries of the prisoner; but all its efforts were vain to gratify its love of liberty and their yearning. It was in the hands of those who had neither pity for its sufferings, consideration for the lessons it carried in its structure, nor taste for estimating its beauties. One of another kind of students might have detected adaptations in the structure of that creature sufficient to have raised his thoughts to the great Author of design and the source of all beauty,--that small and light body, capable of being suspended for a great length of time in the air by those broad wings, so that, as a bird of prey, it should watch for its food without the aid of a perch; the feathers, supplied by an unctuous substance, to enable them to throw off the water and keep the body dry; the web-feet for swimming; and the long legs, which it uses as a kind of stay, by turning them towards the head when it bends the neck, to apply the beak--that beak, too, so admirably formed--for taking up entire, or perforating the backs of the silly fishes that gambol too near the surface. Ay, even in these fishes, which, venturing too far from their natural depths, and becoming amorous of the sun, and playful in their escapades, he might see the symbol of man himself, who, when he leaves the paths of prudence, and gets top-light with pleasure, is ready, in every culmination of his delirium, to be caught by a waiting retribution. Ah! but our student, who held the bird, was not incurious--only cold and cruel in his curiosity. "Hamilton," said he, "that bird could still swim on the surface of that sea, though deprived of every feather on its body." "I deny it," replied Hamilton. "It will not swim five minutes," "What do you bet?"--- The old watchword. "Five pounds." "Done." And getting Campbell to hold the beak, which the bird was using with all its vigour, he grasped its legs and wings together by his left hand, and began to tear from the tender living skin the feathers. Every handful showed the quivering flesh, and was followed by spouts of blood; nor did he seem to care--although the more carefully the flaying operation was performed, the better chance he had of carrying his wager--whether he brought away with the torn tips portions of the skin. The writhing of the tortured creature was rather an appeal to his deliberate cruelty, and the shrill scream only quickened the process. The back finished and bloody, the belly, snow-white and beautiful, was turned up, the feathers torn away, the breast laid bare, and one wing after the other stript of every pinion. Nothing in the shape of feathers, in short, was left, except the covering of the head, which resisted his fingers. "There now is Plato's definition of a man personified," said he as he laughed. During all this time a lady looked over the parapet. Dewhurst caught her eye red with anger, but he only laughed the louder. "Now, Hamilton," said he, "you take the bird, and we mount to the platform. When I give the sign, fling him in, and we shall see how the bet goes." They accordingly mounted, and the lady turning her back, as if she had been unable to bear longer the sight of so much cold cruelty, directed her vision towards the west; but a little boy, who was along with her, seemed to watch the operation. "Now," cried Dewhurst. And Hamilton thiew the bird into the sea. The creature, still vivacious, true to its old instinct, spread out its bare wings in an attempt to fly, but it was in vain; down it came sinking below the surface, but rising quickly again to lash, with the bleeding wings, the water on which it used to swim so lightly and elegantly. The struggle between the effort to fly and the tendency to sink was continued for several minutes, its screams bringing closer around it many of its compeers, who looked as if with pity and amazement on the suffering victim, known to them now only by the well-known cry of distress. Meanwhile these curious students of natural history stood looking over the rail, watch in hand; and the little boy, an important personage in our story, also intent upon the experiment, cried out two solitary words, very simple ones too, and yet fraught with a strange import, as regards consequences, that could not be gathered from them. "See, ma'." But the lady to whom they were addressed had still her head turned away. "Six minutes," cried Dewhurst. "The time is up, and the bird is only this instant down. I win." "I admit it," responded Hamilton, evidently disconcerted. "I shall pay you to-night at Stewart's, at seven o'clock. I got my remittance yesterday." "Content," said Dewhurst, "That's the third bet I have gained off you within a fortnight," Hamilton bit his lip and scowled--- an act which only roused against him the raillery of his comrades, who were now collected in a circle, and symptoms of anger of a more expressive kind showed themselves. "You have been at this trade of flaying before," said he, looking sternly at Dewhurst. "Your father, like the other West Indians, is well acquainted with the flaying of negroes, and you have been following his example with the Jamaica lungies. But, by G--d," he added, getting enraged, "next time we cross the rapiers of a bet, it shall be for ten times five." "This instant," answered Dewhurst, on whom the imputations about his father acted as a fiery stimulant. "Seek your subject," responded Hamilton. "You see that lady there?" continued the West Indian. "She has a boy with her." "I do." "The mother of the boy, or not?" continued Dewhurst. "I say she is; and, in place of fifty, I'll make it a hundred." "Have you ever seen them before?" asked Hamilton, trying to be calm. "Never. I know no more of them than you do; and, besides, I give you your choice of mother, or not mother." "Ha! ha!" laughed Campbell, as he looked intently at Dewhurst. "Are you mad, Dewhurst? Has your last triumph blinded you? The woman is too old by ten years." Hamilton turned round without saying a word, and drew cautiously near the lady, whose eyes, as she stood looking at a foreign ship coming in, were still scornful, and it seemed as if she waited until some gentleman came up to inform him of the cruel act she had so recently witnessed. Resisting her fiery glances, he surveyed her calmly, looking by turns at her and the boy. A slight smile played on his lip in the midst of the indications of his wrath. One might have read in that expression-- "Not a feature in these two faces in the least similar, and the age is beyond all mortal doubt. I have the gull-flayer on the hip at last." And returning to the companions with the same simulated coolness-- "Done for a hundred," he said. "That lady is not the mother of that boy." "Agreed," answered Dewhurst, with a look of inward triumph. "How to be decided?" "By the lips of the lady herself." "Agreed." "Yes," joined Campbell, "if you can get these lips to move. She looks angry, and now she is moving along probably for home, bequeathing to us the last look of her scorn. We shall give her time to cool down, and Cameron and I will then pay our respects to her. We shall get it out of the boy if she refuse to answer." It was as Campbell said. The lady with the boy, who held her by the hand, had begun her return along the jetty. The companions kept walking behind; and of these, Campbell and Dewhurst fell back a little from the other two. "Hark, Campbell," said Dewhurst. "Back me against Cameron for any sum you can get out of him. I'm sure of my quarry; and," laughing within the teeth, he added, "I'll gull him again." "You're ruined, man," whispered his companion. "The woman is evidently too old, and I am satisfied you will catch some of her wrinkles." A deeper whisper from Dewhurst conveyed to the ear of his friend-- "I heard the boy call her mother." "The devil!" exclaimed Campbell in surprise; but, catching himself, "it might have been grandmother he meant." "No, no. Children in Scotland use grandma', never ma', to grandmother. I'm satisfied; and if you are not a fool, take advantage of my "-- "Dishonesty," added Campbell. "No; all fair with that fellow Hamilton. Besides, all bets assume a retention of reasons, otherwise there could be no bets. In addition, I did not assert that I did not hear them address each other." "That's something," said Campbell. "I do not say it is impossible, or even very improbable, that she may be the mother; and if you will assure me, on your honour, of what you heard, I will have a little speculative peculation on Cameron." "I can swear; and if I couldn't, do you think I would have bet so high, as in the event of losing I should be ruined?" "I'm content," said Campbell. "Ho, there, Cameron! I will back Dewhurst on the maternity for ten." "That will just pay Nightingale," replied Cameron. "I accept. Now for the grand _denouement_. Let us accost the arbitress of our fortunes." "Not yet," said Hamilton. "Wait till she gets to the lighthouse, where there are people. It is clear she has not a good opinion of us, and in this solitary place she might get alarmed." Hanging back to wait their opportunity, now upon the verge of a decision which might be attended with disastrous results to some of them, the whole four appeared absorbed in anxiety. Not a word was spoken; and it seemed possible that, during these trying minutes, a hint would have broken up the imprudent and dangerous compact. The terror of the club was before them, and the false honour which ruled them, in place of obedience to their fathers, and humanity to dumb creatures, retained the ascendency. So has it ever been with the worship of false gods: their exactions have always been in proportion to the folly and credulity of their votaries. The moment was approaching. The die was to carry formidable issues. Dark shadows broke in through the resolution to be brave, as might have been observed in the features of both the principals. At length Campbell took the lead. They approached the lady, who at first seemed to shrink from them as monsters. "We beg pardon," he said. "Be assured, madam, we have not the most distant intention to offend you. The truth is, that we have a bet among us as to whether you are the mother of this fine boy. We assure you, moreover, that it was the sport of betting that sought out the subject, and the nature of that subject cannot, we presume, be prejudicial either to your honour or your feelings. While I ask your pardon, allow me to add that the wager, foolish or not, is to be decided by your answer--yes or no." "No." After pronouncing, with a severe sternness, this monosyllable, she paused a little; and looking round upon the youths with a seriousness and dignity that sat upon her so well that they shrunk from her glance, she added, with a corresponding solemnity-- "Would to God, who sees all things--ay, and punishes all those who are cruel to the creatures He has formed with feelings suitable to their natures, and dear to them as ours are to us--that he who bet upon my being the mother of this boy may be he who tortured the unoffending bird!" And, with these words, she departed, leaving the bewildered students looking at each other, with various emotions. It was, perhaps, fortunate for Dewhurst that the little sermon, contrary to the practice of the courts, came after, in place of preceding the condemnation, for he had been rendered all but insensible by the formidable monosyllable. He saw there was some mystery overhanging his present position. He doubted, and he did not doubt the lady; but he heard the boy use the word, and he took up the impression that he was, by some mistake on his part, to be punished for the flaying of the bird. The lady's eye, red and angry, had been fixed upon him, and now, when she was gone, he still saw it. But there were more lurid lights, playing round certain stern facts connected with his fortunes. He must pay this £100 on the decision of her who had burned him with her scorn. There was no relief for him. The club at the College had no mercy, and he had enraged Hamilton, whose spirit was relentless. He had been under rebuke from his father, who had threatened to cut him off; and, worse still, the remnant of the last yearly remittance was £110 in the Royal Bank, while debts stood against him in the books of tailors, confectioners, tavern-keepers, shoemakers--some already in the form of decrees, and one at least in the advanced stage of a warrant. To sum up all, he was betrothed to Miss M------- sh, the sister of a writer to the signet, who had already hinted doubts as the propriety of the marriage. He saw himself, in short, wrecked on the razor-backed shelving rocks of misery. In his extremity, he clutched at a floating weed: the woman, the lady, did not speak the truth. He had ears, and could hear, and he would trust to them. The boy could not be wrong. "Campbell," he cried, "dog her home--she lies!" Hamilton and Campbell burst out into a laugh, but Campbell had been taken aback by the lady's answer: he had not £10 to pay Cameron, and the fear of the club was before him, with its stern decree of the brand of caste and rejection by his associates. Since the moment of the lady's answer, he had been conscious of obscure doubts as to her truthfulness, clustering round the suspicion that she might have known, by hearing something, that Dewhurst, the gull-flayer, was on the side of the maternity, and that she wanted to punish him--a notion which seemed to be favoured by the somewhat affected manner of her expressing her little sermon. These doubts, fluid and wavering, became, as it were, crystallized by Dewhurst's cry that she was a liar; and, the moment he felt the sharp angles of the idea, he set off after the lady. This hope, which was nothing more than despair in hysterics, enabled Dewhurst to withstand, for a little, the looks of triumph in Hamilton and Cameron, in spite of their laugh, which still rung in his ears. The sermon had touched him but little, and if he could have got quit of this wildly contracted debt, he would likely be the same man again. He did not, as yet, feel even the dishonour of having taken advantage of the boy's statement--an act which he had subtlety enough to defend. Give him only relief from this debt, the fire of the club, the stabbing glances of Hamilton's eye. At least he was not bound to suffer the personal expression of his companions' triumph any longer than he could away. "We will wait the issue of Campbell's inquiry," he said with affected calmness. "I have a call to make in the Links." And he was retreating, even as he uttered these words. "I owe you £5," cried Hamilton, "which, _as a man of honour_, I pay you to-night at seven o'clock, upon the instant, at Stewart's. I have no wish to be dragged before the club." With this barb, touched with wararra poison, or ten times distilled kakodyle, and a layer of honey over all, Dewhurst hurried away, to make no call. He was hard to subdue, and a puppy, whose passion it was to strut, in the perfection of a refined toilette, among fashionable street-walkers. While he was abroad, his cares rankling within were overborne by the consciousness of being "in position." The dog's nose is cold even when his tongue is reeking; and as he walked slowly along, his exterior showed the proper thermo-metric nonchalance--it was not the time for a pyrometric measurement within the heart. On his way, he talked to a Leith merchant, who hailed him; yet he exhibited the required _retenu_, so expressive of confidence and ease within, and withal so fashionable. You might have said that he had the heart to wing a partridge,--to "wing it," a pretty phrase in the mouth of a polite sportsman, who, if a poacher were to break the bones of his leg, would, in his own case, think it a little different. Yes, Dewhurst might have been supposed to be able to "wing a partridge,"--not to "flay a gull." It was while thus "in position"--not its master, but its slave--that curvation of the spine of society, which produces so much paralysis and death--that, when he came to Princes Street, he felt himself constrained and able to walk up South St. Andrew Street, direct to the door of the Royal Bank. He even entered; he even drew a draft; he even made that draft £110, all the money he had there in keeping for so many coming wants and exigencies; he even presented it to the teller, who knew his circumstances and his dangers--ay, and his father's anxieties while he sent the yearly remittance. "All, Mr. Dewhurst?" said the teller, looking blank at the draft. "All, sir; I require it all," answered the student, with such a mouthful of the vowel, that we might write the word _requoire_, and not be far from the pronunciation. The teller gave his head a significant shake. If he had had a tail to shake, and had shaken that tail, it would have been much the same. Having got the money, he was more than ever under the law of that proclivity, on the broad line to ruin, on which so many young men take stations; and still retaining his, he went at the hour of the hot joints, to dine at the Rainbow, where he met many others, in that refreshment house, of the same class, who, like himself, considered--that is, while the money was there--that guineas in the purse supersede the necessity of having ideas in the head. He took to such liquid accompaniments of the dinner, as would confirm the resolution he had formed, of paying at once his debt of honour. And why not? Was not he of that world whose code of laws draws the legitimate line of distinction between debts contracted to industrious tradesmen for the necessaries of life, and those which are the result of whim, pride, or vindictiveness? All recollections of the flaying of the bird, and of the lady's adjuration to heaven, had given way to the enthusiasm of the noble feeling to obey the dictates of that eternal and immutable code of honour. And by seven o'clock he was at Stewart's, where he found Hamilton and Cameron waiting for their respective "pounds of flesh." "Here is the £5," cried Hamilton, as he entered; and, throwing the note upon the table, "it is for the gull trick." "And here," responded the West Indian, "is your £100 for the woman trick." And he cast from him the bundle of notes, with a grandeur of both honour and defiance. "But I have a reservation to make. Campbell has not reported to me the issue of his commission; and if it shall turn out that the woman retracts, I will reclaim the money." "And get it too," said the other, laughing sneeringly, as he counted the notes. "But here comes Campbell." "Campbell," cried Cameron, as his debtor entered, "I want my £10 to pay Nightingale." "Ask Dewhurst," said Campbell. "I have been cheated by him. He told me a lie. The woman speaks true, and I shall be revenged." "I have nothing to do with Dewhurst," answered Cameron. "You are my debtor; and if I don't get the money to-night--you know my lodgings--the club will decide upon it to-morrow." And, throwing a withering look upon his old friend--a word now changed for, and lost in that expressive vocable, debtor--he hurried out, followed by Hamilton, who had both his money and his revenge, and wished to be beyond the reach of a recall. Left to themselves, the two remaining friends of the hour before, but now no longer friends, looked sternly at each other. The one considered himself duped; the other was burning under the imputation of being a cheat and a liar. "Oh I don't retract," said Campbell, with increased fierceness. "It was upon the faith of your word that I ventured the bet against my own convictions. I have traced the lady to Great King Street, where she resides, as the aunt of the boy; and I am satisfied that, in a case where the boy's mother is alive, and now in her own house, he, of the age he is, never could have used the word mother or mamma, or any word of that import, to his father's sister. All power and energies are comparative. This £10 cracks the spine of my fortune as effectually as ten times the amount. I have not the money, and know no more where to find it than I do to get hold of the philosopher's stone. I repeat I have been cheated, and I demand of you the money." "Which you shall never get," replied Dewhurst. "I can swear that I heard the words. They thrill on my ears now; and the best proof of my conviction is, that I am myself ruined. Yes," and he began to roll his eyes about, as the terrors of his situation came rushing upon him, on the wake of the now departing effects of the Rainbow wine--"Yes, the swell, the fop, the leader of the college _ton_, whose coat came from the artistic study of Willis, whose necktie could raise a _furore_, whose glove, without a wrinkle, would condescend only to be touched by friendship on the tip of the finger, is now at the mercy of any one of twenty sleasy dogs, who can tell the sheriff I owe them money. Money! why, I have only fifteen pounds in the wide world, and I must pay that to my landlady." As he uttered these last words, the door opened, and there stood before him a man with a blue coat, surmounted by a red collar. He held a paper in his hand; his demeanour was deferential and exuberantly polite. "That sum you have mentioned, sir," he said, looking to the student, "with £10 added, will save you and me much trouble. The debt to Mr. Reid is £25; and here is a certain paper which gives me the power to do an unpolite thing. You comprehend? I am an advocate for painless operations." "Will you accept the £15?" said Dewhurst, now scarcely able to articulate. "Yes, if this gentleman here, who is, I presume, your friend, will kindly add the £10. The expenses may stand." Campbell could only grin at this strange conversation. "Unwilling?" continued the messenger. "Ah, I see. It is strange that when I devote myself to a gentleman, his friends fly away. This is my misfortune. Well, there is no help for it. We must take a walk to the prison," addressing himself to his debtor. "You are a gentleman, and I shall be your servant in livery." Dewhurst braced himself with a violent effort, like a spasm, and took his hat. "Give me the £10," said Campbell. "It will make no difference now. There are no degrees in despair." "I must take care of my master's money," said the officer, with an attempt at a smile; and without going the full length of imitating that most philanthropic of all executors of the law, Simpson, who patted his victims on the back while he adjusted the rope, he added, "And now, sir, I am at your humble service." In a very short time after, the strange events of that day were terminated by the young man being placed in the debtor's prison of the Calton. Like other jail birds, he at first shunned his brethren in misfortune, fleeing to his room, and shrouding himself in solitude and partial darkness. The change from a life of gaiety, if not dissipation, to the experiences of prison squalor, had come upon him without preparation, if indeed preparation for evil ever diminishes or much ameliorates the inevitable effects of the visitation. Unfortunates exhibit wonderful diversities in their manifestations. Dewhurst became dejected, broken in spirits, sad, and remorseful. He scarcely stirred from the bed on which he had thrown himself when he entered; and his mind became a theatre where strange plays were acted, and strange personages performed strange parts, under the direction of stage managers over whom he had no control. Though some unhappy predecessor in the same cell had scribbled on the wall, "A prison is a cannie place, Though viewed with reprobation, Where cheats and thieves, and scants o' grace, Find time for cogitation," he did not find that he could properly cogitate or meditate, even if he had been, which he never was, a thinker. All his thoughts were reduced to a continued wild succession of burning images,--the mild face of his mother, so far away, as it smiled upon him when he ran about among the cane groves of the west; the negroes, with their "young massa" on their tongues, jabbering their affection; his father scowling upon him as undutiful; another, not so far away, in whose eyes--beautiful to him--love dwelt as his worshipper, looking all endearment, only the next moment to cast upon him the withering glance of her contempt, if not hatred; admirers, toadies, satellites, and sycophants, all there in groups and in succession, beslabbering him with praises, then exploding in peals of laughter. Nor was another awanting in these saturnalia--the form and face of her whose one word of sentence had been to him as a doom, and who fixed that doom in his soul by her red glance of reproof. Seemingly very indifferent objects assumed in the new lights of his spirit gigantic and affraying features,--the sea-gull, with its torn back, bleeding and quivering, and those diamond eyes so bright even in its looks of agony--an object low indeed in the scale of nature, but here elevated by some overruling power into the very heart of man's actions and destinies, as if to show out of what humble things the lightnings of retribution may come. Nay, these diamond eyes haunted him; they were everywhere in these saturnalian reveries, following every recurring image as an inevitable concomitant which he had no power to drive away, entering into the orbits of the personages, gleaming out of the heads of negroes, that of his father, that of his mother, even that of his mistress, imparting to the looks and glances of the latter a brilliancy which enhanced beauty, while it sharpened them into poignancy. But most of all were they in some way associated with the form of the unknown lady. She never appeared to him as the being on whom his destiny was suspended; but, sooner or later, her own comparatively lustreless orbs changed into those diamonds, which could fulminate scorn not less than they could beam out supplication. For several days and nights he had scarcely any intervals of peace from these soul-penetrating fancies, and these moments were due to visits. But who came to visit? Not the writer to the signet, the brother of his affianced, whom he had expected to see first of all as a friend, if not as a relation, ready to extend the hand that would save him; not any of those with whom he had shared the folly of extravagance, if not dissipation, on whom he had lavished favours in the wildness of his generosity. The first was felicitating himself on his sister's escape; the latter received the lesson that teaches prudence _a la distance_. His only visitors were one or two heads of families where he had been received as a fashionable friend, and these came only to look and inquire. Their curiosity was satisfied when they got out of him the amount of his debt, and pleased when they considered that their daughters were at home, and under no chance of becoming allied to a prisoner. One or two old associates, too, paid their respects to him, but they were of those who had resisted his fascinations and found their pleasures in their studies. We seek for the virtues, but we do not always find them in the high places, where masks, copied from them and bearing their beautiful lineaments and their effulgence, are worn in their stead only to cover the vices which are their very antipodes. No: more often in lowlier regions, lying _perdu_ behind vices, not voluntary, but often, as it were, inflicted and peering out, ashamed to be seen, because arrayed in the rags of poverty. A solitary female stole in to him. Who was she? One with whom he had formed a connection of not an honourable kind, only now interrupted by the walls of the prison? No. One whom he had long before cast off, only because the vice he had inoculated her with had cast off the beauty that had inflamed him. Nor did he know the meaning of that stealthy visit, which lasted only for a few minutes--so unexpected, for he had not seen her during many months, so singular, so unnatural, so unlike the world, returning gratitude for injury, benediction for infamy, until, after she had suddenly slipped away, he found by the side of the wall a small bottle of wine. That form and face, once more beautiful in his estimation than were those even now of his honourable affianced, entered among the imagery of his reveries; but the diamond eyes never displaced those of her gentle nature. He had wronged her, but they never filled with the fire of denunciation. She had looked her grief at him only through the tears he had raised in them, and had never attempted to dry. Yes, the diamond eyes entered everywhere, and into every form but that one where the red heat of revenge might have been expected to shrivel up and harden the issues of tears. Further on in the same evening, the jailer, a good-natured sort of fellow, came in to him while he was absorbed in these thoughts. He was at the time sitting on his bed. "A lady called in the dusk," he said, "and inquired if it was true you were here. I told her it was." "And what more?" asked the youth, as he started out of his day-dream. "But, stay--what like was she?" "I could scarcely see her," replied the man; "middling tail, rather young, as I thought--with a veil, through which I could see a pair of pretty, bright eyes." "Were they like diamonds?" cried the student, absolutely forgetting that he was speaking to an ordinary mortal about very ordinary things. "Ha, ha! I never saw diamond eyes," answered the jailer; "but I've seen glass ones in a doll's head looking very bright. Why, you 'aven't got mad, like some of the chicken-hearted birds in our cage?" "Yes," cried the youth, "I'm frantic-mad; but stay, have patience. Did she want to see me?" "Yes, she asked if she could; but when I told her she might, she seemed to get afeared to come into a jail, and said she would call again to-morrow night at the same hour." "Can you tell me nothing more of what she was like?--not she who was here this evening?" "Why, no; don't you think I know her kind? Oh, we see many o' them. They stick closest to the unfortunate, but 'tis because they are unfortunate themselves. Common thing, sir. Never feel for others till we have something to feel for ourselves. The visitor is a lady, sir." "Can you tell me nothing more?" said the student eagerly. "How was she dressed?" "A large, elegant cloak, sir; can scarcely say more." "Was it trimmed with fur?" "Not sure; but now, when I think, there was some lightish trimming--I mean lighter than the cloak." "And the bonnet?" "Why, I think velvet; but you'll maybe see her yourself to-morrow. The like o' her may do you good. The unfortunates who stick so close to the unfortunate do no good--they're a plaster that don't cure." "It is Maria!" ejaculated Dewhurst, as the jailer shut the door. "She feels for me, and has come in spite of her hard-hearted brother. Her diamond eyes are of another kind. They speak wealth, and love to bestow it. Her fortune is her own, and with that I may yet turn that wayward destiny, and laugh at my persecutors." That ray of hope, illuminating his soul, changed almost in an instant the whole tenor of his mind. It might be compared to a stream of nervous energy, emanating from the brain, and shooting down through the network of chords, confirming convulsed muscles, and; imparting to trembling members consistency of action and graces of motion. His reveries were scared by it, as owls under the influence of a sunbeam, and retreated into the dark recesses from which they had been charmed by the enchantment of despair. The personages of these visions were no longer avengers, casting upon him the burning beams of the diamond eyes. They were hopeful, pitiful; the flatterers and fawners were at their old work again, and Pleasure, with her siren face, smiled blandishments on him. Then he would justify the favours of the heaven he made for himself. He would be a logician, for once, in that kind of dialectics called the "wish-born." "What was I afraid of?" he said to himself. "There is no turpitude, no shame in a fair bet. I was worsted in an honourable contest. What crazy power mocked me into the belief that all this that has befallen me was connected with the flaying of a bird? Don't we break the necks of innocent, yea, gentle fowls, not depredators like gulls, every day for our dinners? And don't ladies, as delicate as the unknown censor who dared to chastise me with her eyes, eat of the same, with a relish delightful to the tongues that pronounce the fine words of pity and philanthropy? But, even admitting there was cruelty in the act, where is the link that binds it with the consequences which have brought me here? The bet upon the maternity was not an effect of the flaying of the bird. If it followed the prior bet, it would have followed another, in which I was gainer, equally the same. The mad energy which weaves in my head these day-dreams, and pursues me with these diamond eyes of wrath, is a lying power, and I shall master it by the strength of my reason, which at least is God's gift. Come, my Maria, as my good angel, and enable me to free my mind from illusions. I will sit and look into your eyes, as I have done so often. Yes, I will satisfy myself that they shine still with the lustre of love, hope, and happiness; and oh, let these, and these only, enter into my dreams." And thus he satisfied himself, as all do, whose hope weaves the syllogisms of their wishes, and sits to see pleasure caught on the wing. The day passed apace to usher in the evening with its messenger of peace. Where, in that squalid place, would he seat her, whose peculiar province was the drawing-room? How would he receive her first look of sympathy? how repay it? with what words express his emotions? with what fervour kiss those lips redolent of forgiveness? with what ecstasy look into those eyes refulgent with love? He would control himself, and be calm. He would rehearse, that he might not fail in the forms of an interview on which hung his destiny, almost his life. The hour of seven arrived. He heard the heavy foot of the jailer come tramp, tramp along the lobby. There was a softer step behind, as if the echo of the heavier tread. A stern voice and a softer one mingled their notes. The door opened. "My Mar--! O God! these scornful eyes again." "Not scornful now," replied the soft voice of a woman, as she came forward, and stood before him in the dusk. "Were there light enough," she continued, "I would lift my veil and show you that they are capable of a kindlier light than even that they now carry, for the offering I made to heaven has been more than answered." "Ah, you come to retract," he said, "to speak the truth at last. It is not too late to say you _are_ the mother--the mother of the boy. Nor need you be ashamed: there may be reasons; but many a woman lives to repent--" "Hold, sir," she cried with indignation, as she fixed upon him a look even more penetrating than that he so well remembered. "I have nothing to retract--nothing to be ashamed of. I came here out of pure sympathy, to make amends to one who has fallen for a prayer which burst from me in my anger. Your friend, who called for me, told me that you were a prisoner, and that your imprisonment was the consequence of the wager which it fell to me to decide. I did not come to repeat to you what I said before, that I am not the mother of the boy, but to make an explanation." "And I have one to ask," said he. "I am ready to answer." "How could I be deceived?" said he. "I heard the boy address you as his mother." "And that is what I came to explain. I have taxed my memory since Mr. Campbell insisted, in my presence, that Frederick did address me in the manner you have stated. Shall I tell you the precise words he used?" "I wait for them." "Well, they were, 'See ma.'" "The very words; and were they not enough for proof and belief?" "Yes, sir; but there are words which have two significations. Ma' is the contraction, as you know, for mamma, but it is pronounced the same as _maw_, which is a word which we use to designate those birds otherwise called gulls. I recollect that while I was unable to bear the sight of the tortured bird, and had turned my head in another direction, my nephew kept looking over the rails, and that, as he saw the struggling creature, he cried out to me the words you misconstrued. And thus the mystery is cleared up." "Miserable and fatal error," he gasped out, as he staggered back. "And the connection!--the connection! There _was_ retribution in those diamond eyes." "What mean you, sir?" "The bird's eyes that haunt me in my reveries, and enter into the sockets of my dream-beings!" "Are you mad?" "No; or the heavens are mad, with their swirling orbs and blazing comets, that rush sighing through space before some terrible power that will give them no respite, except with the condition that when they rest they die." "Poor youth! so early doomed; I pity you." "Ay, pity those who have no pity--those are the truly wretched; for pity, in the world's life, is the soul of reason's action. Ah, madam, it is those who have pity who do not need the pity of others, for they are generally free from the faults that produce the unhappiness that needs pity." "But you have been punished, I admit, in a very strange and mysterious way; for the word used by the boy was the joining link of the two transactions, and you were led to misconstrue it--ay, and to take advantage of your misconstruction to get the better of your friend." "I see it all." "But I say you have been punished," continued she, consolingly; "and I perceive you are penitent--perhaps justice is satisfied; and when you are liberated, you may be the better for the lesson. I shall now reverse my prayer, and say to one I shall perhaps never see again, May God deal mercifully by you." And with these words, she retreated. But her prayer was never answered, so far as man can judge of heaven's mysterious ways. The conviction settled down and down into his heart, that that apparently simple affair of killing a bird--which, even with the aggravation of all the cruelty exhibited by the thoughtless, yet certainly pitiless youth, is so apt to be viewed carelessly, or only with an avowal of disapprobation--which, if too much insisted on as an act to be taken up by superior retribution, is more apt still to be laughed at--was the cause of all the ills that had befallen him. The diamond eyes proved to him no fancy. But for all this, we are afforded, by what subsequently occurred, some means of explanation, which will be greedily laid hold of by minute philosophers. Even then it was to have been feared that the seeds of consumption had been deposited in favourable soil. In our difficulties about explanations of mental phenomena, we readily flee to diseases of the body, which, after all, only removes the mystery a step or two back in the dark. It remains for me to add some words of personal experience. A considerable period after these occurrences, I had occasion--by a connection with a medium through which Dewhurst received from his father, whose fortunes had in the meantime failed, a petty allowance--to be the bearer to him, now liberated, of a quarter's payment. I forget the part of the town where I found him, but I have a distinct remembrance of the room. It was a garret, almost entirely empty. He was lying on a kind of bed spread upon the floor. There was a small grate, with a handful of red cinders in it; only one chair, and a pot or pan or two. There was a woman moving between him and the fireplace, as if she had been preparing some warm drink or medicine of some kind for him. I did not know then, but I knew afterwards, that that woman was she who called upon him in prison, and deposited the small bottle of wine. Her love for him had always overcome any of those feelings of enmity, or something stronger, generally deemed so natural in one who has been robbed of her dearest treasure, and ruined. She alone had indeed not assumed the diamond eyes. The diamonds were elsewhere,--yea, in her heart, where she nourished pity for him who had so cruelly deserted her, and left her to a fate so common, and requiring only a hint to be understood by those who know the nature of women. After he had got out of prison, she sought him out, got the room for him, collected the paltry articles, procured food for him, and continued to nurse him till his death, with all the tenderness of a lover who had not only not been cast off, but cherished. He betrayed the ordinary symptoms of consumption, and the few words he muttered were those of thanks. I think he was buried in the Canongate Churchyard. DAVID LORIMER. "There is a history in all men's lives."--SHAKSPEARE. It has been often said, and, I believe, with truth, that there are few persons, however humble in station, whose life, if it has been of any duration, does not present some incidents of an interesting, if not instructive, nature. Induced by a belief in this assertion as a general truth, and yet further by an opinion that, in my own particular case, there are occurrences which will be considered somewhat extraordinary, I venture to lay the following sketch of my life before the reader, in the hope that it will not be found altogether devoid of interest. With the earlier part of my history, which had nothing whatever remarkable in it, I need not detain the reader further than to say that my father was, though not a wealthy, a respectable farmer in Lanarkshire; that he lived at----, within fourteen miles of Glasgow; that I was well educated; and that, at the period when I take up my own history, I was in the eighteenth year of my age. Having given these two or three particulars, I proceed: It was in the year 18--, and during the week of the Glasgow Fair, which occurs in July, that my father, who had a very favourable opinion of my intelligence and sagacity, resolved to entrust me with a certain important mission. This was to send me to the fair of Glasgow to purchase a good draught horse for him. I am not sure, however, that, with all the good opinion my father entertained of my shrewdness, he would have deputed me on the present occasion had he been able to go himself; but he was not able, being confined to bed by a severe attack of rheumatism. Be this as it may, however, the important business was put into my hands; and great was the joy it occasioned me, for it secured me in an opportunity of seeing Glasgow Fair--a scene which I had long desired to witness, and which I had seen only once when but a very young boy. From the moment I was informed by my father of his intention of sending me to the fair, and which was only on the day preceding that on which the horse-market is held, my imagination became so excited that I could attend to nothing. I indeed maintained some appearance of working--for though the son of a farmer, I wrought hard--but accomplished little of the reality. The joys and the splendours of Glasgow Fair, of which I had a dim but captivating recollection, rose before my mind's eye in brilliant confusion, putting to rout all other thoughts, and utterly paralyzing all my physical energies. Nor was the succeeding night less blessed with happy imaginings. My dreams were filled with visions of shows, Punch's opera, rope-dancers, tumblers, etc. etc., and my ears rang with the music of fiddles, bugles, tambourines, and bass drums. It was a delicious night with me; but the morning which brought an approach to the reality was still more so. Getting up betimes, I arrayed myself in my best attire; which attire, as I well recollect, consisted of a white corduroy jacket, knee-breeches of the same colour and material, and a bright-red waistcoat. A "neat Barcelona," tied carelessly round my neck, and a pair of flaming-red garters, at least two inches broad, wound round my legs just below the knee, and ending in a knot with two dependent ends hanging down, that waved jauntily as I walked, completed my equipment. Thus arrayed, and with thirty pounds in my pocket to purchase a horse for my father, I took the road, stick in hand, for Glasgow. It was a fine summer morning. I was in high spirits; and, in my red waistcoat and red garters, looked, I believe, as tight and comely a lad as might be seen. Pushing on with a light heart and light step, I quickly reached the suburbs of the city, and in a few minutes more was within view and earshot of the sights and sounds of the fair. I saw the crowd; I got a glimpse of the canvas roofs of the shows at the end of the old bridge--the locality on which the fair was then held; and heard the screaming and braying of the cracked trumpets, the clanging of the cymbals, and the thunders of the bass drums. My heart beat high on hearing these joyous sounds. I quickened my pace, and in a few seconds was in the thick of the throng that crowded the space in front of the long line of shows extending from the bridge to the Bridgegate. As it was yet several hours to the height of the horse-market, I resolved on devoting that interval to seeing some of the interesting sights which stood in such tempting array before me. The first that fixed my regard was "The Great Lancashire Giant," whose portrait at full length--that is, at the length of some fifteen or twenty feet--flapped on a sheet of canvas nearly as large as the mainsail of a Leith smack. This extraordinary personage was represented, in the picture, as a youth of sixteen, dressed in a ruffled shirt, a red jacket, and white trousers; and his exhibitor assured the spectators that, though but a boy, he already measured nine feet in height and seven feet round the body; that each of his shoes would make a coffin for a child of five years old, and every stocking hold a sack of flour. Six full-grown persons, he added, could be easily buttoned within his waistcoat; and his tailor, he asserted, was obliged to mount a ladder when he measured him for a jacket. Deeply interested by the astounding picture of this extraordinary youth, and the still more astounding description given of him by his exhibitor, I ascended the little ladder that conducted to the platform in front of the show, paid my twopence--the price of admission--and in the next minute was in the presence of "The Great Lancashire Giant;" a position which enabled me to make discoveries regarding that personage that were not a little mortifying. In the first place, I found that, instead of being a youth of sixteen, he was a man of at least six-and-thirty; in the next, that if it had not been for the raised dais on which he stood, the enormous thickness of the soles of his shoes, and the other palpably fictitious contrivances and expedients by which his dimensions were enlarged, he would not greatly have exceeded the size of my own father. I found, in short, that the tremendous "Lancashire Giant" was merely a pretty tall man, and nothing more. Quitting this exhibition, and not a little displeased at being so egregiously bitten, I passed on to the next, which was "Mr. Higgenbotham's Royal Menagerie. The Noblest Collection of Wild Beasts ever seen in the Civilised World." This was a splendid affair. On a narrow stage in front were seated four fat red-faced musicians, in beef-eater coats, puffing and blowing on bugles and trombones. Close by these, stood a thin, sharp-eyed, sallow-complexioned man in plain clothes, beating a huge drum, and adding the music of a set of Pandean pipes, which were stuck into his bosom, to the general harmony. This was Mr. Higgenbotham himself. But it was the paintings on the immense field of canvas above that particularly attracted my attention. On this field were exhibited an appalling collection of the most terrific monsters: lions, as large as cows, gambolling amongst rocks; ourang-outangs, of eight feet in height, walking with sticks in their hands, as grave and stately as drum-majors; and a serpent, as thick as a hogshead, and of interminable length--in truth, without any beginning, middle, or end--twining round an unfortunate black, and crushing him to death in its enormous folds. All this was irresistible. So up the stair I sprang, paid my sixpence, and in a moment after found myself in the centre of the well-saw dusted area in the interior, gazing on the various birds and beasts in the cages around me. It was by no means a perplexing task; for, as in the case of "The Great Lancashire Giant," the fulfilment of the inside but little corresponded with the promise of the out. The principal part of the collection I found to consist of half-a-dozen starved monkeys, as many parrots--grey and green, an indescribable monster, in a dark corner, strongly suspected by some of the spectators of being a boy in a polar bear's skin, a bird of paradise, and a hedgehog, which they dignified with the name of a porcupine. "Whaur's the lions, and the teegers, and the elephants, and the boy instructor, and the black man?" said a disappointed countryman, addressing a fellow in a short canvas frock or overall, who was crossing the area with a bucket of water. "Ah! them's all in the other caravan," replied the man, "vich should 'ave been here on Monday night, but hasn't coom yet, and we suppose has broken down by the way; but there's a hanimal worth 'em all," he added, pointing to the indescribable monster in the dark corner. "The most curiousest ever was seen. Take a look on him; and if you don't own he is, I'll heat him, skin and all. They calls him the great Guampa from South America." Having said this, the fellow, desirous, for reasons best known to himself, to avoid further questioning, hurried away, and disappeared at a side door. It was just as this man left us, and as the small crowd of spectators, of whom I was one, who had surrounded him, were dispersing, that a gentleman--or a person, at least, who had the air and manner of one, although somewhat broken down in his apparel--came close up to me, and whispered in my ear, in a perfectly calm and composed tone-- "My lad, you are robbed." With a start of horror, and a face as pale as death, I clapped my hand on the outside of my buttoned jacket, to feel for my pocket-book, which I carefully deposited in an inside pocket. It was gone. "Be calm--be composed, my lad," said the gentleman, marking my excessive agitation, and seeing that I was about to make some outcry. "The fellows will bolt on the least alarm; and as there are three or four of them, may force their way out, if driven to extremity. Leave the matter to me, and I'll manage it for you." During all this time, the stranger, who had spoken in a very low tone, carefully abstained from looking towards those of whom he was speaking, and wore such an air of composure and indifference, that no one could possibly have suspected for a moment what was the subject of his communication to me. Having made this communication, and desired me to remain where I was, and to exhibit no symptom of anything particular having happened, my friend, as I could not but reckon him, went out for an instant. When he returned, he kept hovering about the entrance into the show, as if to prevent the egress of any one, but without making any sign to me, or even looking at me. My agitation during this interval was excessive; and although I strictly obeyed my friend's injunctions, notwithstanding that I knew not to what they were to lead, I could not suppress the dreadful feelings by which I was distracted. I, however, did all I could to refrain from exhibiting any outward sign of consciousness of my loss. To return to my friend. He had not stood, I think, more than a minute at the entrance to the menagerie, when I observed three fellows, after having winked to each other, edging towards it. My friend, on seeing them approach, planted himself in the doorway, and, addressing the first, at the same time extending his arms to keep him back, said-- "Stop a moment, my lad, I have something to say to you." The fellow seemed taken aback for a moment by this salutation; but, quickly regaining his natural effrontery, he, with a tremendous oath, made an attempt to push past, when four policemen suddenly presented themselves at the entrance. "Come away, my lads," said my friend, addressing them. "Just in time; a minute later, and the birds would have been flown. Guard the door there a moment." Then, turning to the astonished spectators who were assembled in the area--"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "there has been a robbery committed here within these fifteen minutes. I saw it done, and know the person who did it; but as he has several colleagues here, all of whom I may not have discovered, I have no doubt that the pocket-book--the article stolen--has been long since transferred to other hands than those that first took it. It is therefore necessary that we should all, without any exception, submit to a search of our persons by the officers here." No objection to this proceeding having been offered by any of the persons present, the search began; my friend submitting himself the first. The operation was a tedious one; for it was unsuccessful. One after another, including the three suspicious characters already alluded to, was searched, but no pocket-book was found. At length, the last person was taken in hand; and he, too, proved innocent--at least of the possession of my lost treasure. I was in despair at this result, thinking that my friend must have been mistaken as to the robbery--that is, as to his having witnessed it--and that my money was irretrievably gone. No such despair of the issue, however, came over my friend--he did not appear in the least disconcerted; but, on the completion of the fruitless search, merely nodded his head, uttering an expressive humph. "It's gone," said I to him in bitter anguish. "Patience a bit, my lad," he replied, with a smile. "The pocket-book is within these four walls, and we'll find it too." Turning now to one of the men belonging to the establishment, he desired him to bring one of the rakes with which they levelled the sawdust in the area. It was brought; when he set the man to work with it--to rake up, slowly and deliberately, the surface of the sawdust, himself vigilantly superintending the operation, and directing the man to proceed regularly, and to leave no spot untouched. I need not say with what intense interest I watched this proceeding. I felt as if life or death were in the issue; for the loss of such a sum as £30, although it could not, perhaps, be considered a very great one, was sufficiently large to distress my father seriously; and already some idea of never facing him again, should the money not be recovered, began to cross my mind. All thoughts, however, of this or any other kind were absorbed, for the moment, by the deep interest which I took in the operations of the man with the rake; an interest this in which all present, less or more, participated. For a long while this search also was fruitless. More than half the area had been gone over, and there was yet no appearance of my lost treasure. At length, however--oh! how shall I describe the joy I felt?--a sweep of the rake threw the well-known pocket-book on the surface of the sawdust. I darted on it, clutched it, tore it open, and saw the bank-notes apparently untouched. I counted them. They were all there. "I thought so; I thought we should find it," said, with a calm smile, the gentleman who had been so instrumental in its recovery. The whole proceedings of the thief or thieves, so promptly and correctly conjectured by my friend, were now obvious. Finding that passing it from hand to hand would not avail them, he who was last in possession of it had, on the search commencing, dropt it on the ground, and shuffled it under the sawdust with his foot. The police now requested my friend to point out the person who had committed the robbery, that they might apprehend him; but this he declined, saying that he was not quite sure of the man, and that he would not like to run the risk of blaming an innocent person; adding, with the quiet smile that seemed to be natural to him, that as the money was recovered, it might be as well to let the matter drop. The police for some time insisted on my friend pointing out the man; but as he continued firmly to decline interfering further in the matter, they gave it up and left the place. Every one saw that it was benevolence, however impoperly exerted, that induced my friend to refuse giving up the culprit; and as I had now recovered my money, I felt pretty much in the same disposition--that was, to allow him to fall into other hands. I now presented the man who had been employed to rake the area with five shillings, for his trouble. But how or in what way was I to reward the friendly person to whom I was wholly indebted for the recovery of my pocket-book? This puzzled me sadly. Money, at least any such sum as I could spare, I could not offer one who, notwithstanding the little deficiencies in his apparel formerly noticed, had so much the appearance and manner of a gentleman. I was greatly at a loss. In the meantime, my friend and I left the exhibition together; he lecturing me the while, although in the most kindly manner, on the danger of going into crowded places with large sums of money about one's person. He said he had seen a good deal of the world, had resided long in London, and knew all the tricks of the swell mob. "It was my knowledge and experience of these gentry," he added, "that enabled me to manage your little matter so successfully." We were at this time passing along Stockwell Street, when, observing a respectable-looking tavern, it struck me that I might, without offence, ask my friend to take a little refreshment,--a glass of wine or so. With some hesitation, I proposed it. He smiled; and as if rather complying with my humour, or as if unwilling to offend me by a refusal, said, "Well, my young friend, I have no objection, although I am not greatly in the habit of going to taverns. Not there, however," he added, seeing me moving towards the house on which I had fixed my eye. "There is a house in the Saltmarket, which, on the rare occasions I do go to a tavern, and that is chiefly for a sight of the papers, I always frequent. They are decent, respectable people. So we'll go there, if you please; that is, if it be quite the same to you." I said it was, and that I would cheerfully accompany him wherever he chose. This point settled, we proceeded to the Saltmarket; when my friend, who, by the way, had now told me that his name was Lancaster, conducted me up a dark, dirty-looking close, and finally into a house of anything but respectable appearance. The furniture was scanty, and what was of it much dilapidated: half the backs of half the chairs were broken off, the tables were dirty and covered with stains and the circular marks of drinking measures. A tattered sofa stood at one end of the apartment, the walls were hung with paltry prints, and the small, old-fashioned, dirty windows hung with dirtier curtains. To crown all, we met, as we entered, a huge, blowzy, tawdrily dressed woman, of most forbidding appearance, who, I was led to understand, was the mistress of the house. Between this person and Mr. Lancaster I thought I perceived a rapid secret signal pass as we came in, but was not sure. All this--namely, the appearance of the house and its mistress, the shabbiness of the entrance to the former, the secret signal, etc. etc.--surprised me a little; but I suspected nothing wrong--never dreamt of it. On our taking our seats in the apartment into which we had been shown, I asked my good genius, Mr. Lancaster, what he would choose to drink. He at once replied that he drank nothing but wine; spirits and malt liquors, he said, always did him great injury. But too happy to be able to contribute in any way to the gratification of one who had rendered me so essential a service, I immediately ordered a bottle of the best port, he having expressed a preference for that description of wine. It was brought; when Mr. Lancaster, kindly assuming the character of host, quickly filled our glasses, when we pledged each other and drank. Wine, at that time, was no favourite liquor of mine, so that I soon began to show some reluctance to swallowing it. Mr. Lancaster, perceiving this, began to banter me on my abstemiousness, and to urge me to do more justice to the wine, which he said was excellent. Prevailed on partly by his urgency, and partly by a fear of displeasing him by further resistance, I now took out my glass as often as he filled it. The consequence was, that I soon felt greatly excited; and eventually so much so, that I not only readily swallowed bumper after bumper, but, when our bottle was done, insisted on another being brought in; forgetting everything but my debt of gratitude to Mr. Lancaster, and losing sight, for the moment at any rate, of all my obligations, in the delight with which I listened to his entertaining conversation. For another half hour we went on merrily, and the second bottle of wine was nearly finished, when I suddenly felt a strange sinking sensation come over me. The countenance of Mr. Lancaster, who sat opposite me, seemed to disappear, as did also all the objects with which I was surrounded. From that moment I became unconscious of all that passed. I sank down on the floor in the heavy sleep, or rather in the utter insensibility, of excessive intoxication. On awaking, which was not until a late hour of the night, I found the scene changed. The room was dark, the bottles and glasses removed, and my friend Mr. Lancaster gone. It was some seconds before I felt myself struck by this contrast; that is, before I fully recollected the circumstances which had preceded my unconsciousness. These, however, gradually unfolded themselves, until the whole stood distinctly before me. After having sat up for a second or two--for I found myself still on the floor when I awoke, having been left to lie where I fell--and having recalled all the circumstances of the day's occurrences, I instinctively clapped my hand to the breast of my jacket to feel for my pocket-book. It was again gone. Thinking at first that it might have dropt out while I slept, I began groping about the floor; but there was no pocket-book there. In great alarm I now started to my feet, and began calling on the house. My calls were answered by the landlady herself, who, with a candle in her hand, and a fierce expression of face, flushed apparently with drink, entered the apartment, and sternly demanded what I wanted, and what I meant by making such a noise in her house. Taking no notice of the uncourteous manner in which she had addressed me, I civilly asked her what had become of Mr. Lancaster. "Who's Mr. Lancaster?" she said fiercely. "I know no Mr. Lancaster." "The gentleman," I replied, "who came in here with me, and who drank wine with me." "I know nothing about him," said the virago; "I never saw him before." "That's strange," said I; "he told me that he was in the habit of frequenting this house." "If he did so, he told you a lie," replied the lady; "and I tell you again, that I know nothing about him, and that I never saw him before, nor ever expect to see him again." I now informed her that I missed a pocket-book containing a considerable sum of money, and, simply enough, asked her if she had it, or knew anything about it. At this, her rage, which before she seemed to have great difficulty in controlling, burst out in the wildest fury. "I know nothing about your pocket-book," she exclaimed, stamping passionately on the floor; "nor do I believe you had one. It's all a fetch to bilk me out of my reckoning; but I'll take care of you, you swindler! I'm not to be done that way. Come, down with the price of the two bottles of wine you and your pal drank--fifteen shillings--or I'll have the worth of them out of your skin." And she flourished the candlestick in such a way as led me to expect every instant that it would descend on my skull. Terrified by the ferocious manner and threatening attitude of the termagant, and beginning to feel that the getting safe out of the house ought to be considered as a most desirable object, I told her, in the most conciliatory manner I could assume, that I had not a farthing beyond two or three shillings, which she was welcome to; all my money having been in the pocket-book which I had lost--I dared not say of which I had been robbed. "Let's see what you have, then," she said, extending her hand to receive the loose silver I had spoken of. I gave it to her. "Now," she said, "troop, troop with you; walk off, walk off," motioning me towards the outer door, "and be thankful you have got off so cheaply, after swindling me out of my reckoning, and trying to injure the character of my house." But too happy at the escape permitted me, I hurried out of the house, next down the stair--a pretty long one--at a couple of steps, and rushed into the street. I will not here detain the reader with any attempt at describing my feelings on this occasion: he will readily conceive them, on taking into account all the circumstances connected with my unhappy position. My money gone now, there was no doubt, irretrievably; the market over, no horse bought, the hour late, and I an entire stranger in the city, without a penny in my pocket; my senses confused, and a mortal sickness oppressing me, from the quantity of wine I had drunk, and which, I began to suspect, had been drugged. Little as I was then conversant with the ways of the town, I knew there was but one quarter where I could apply or hope for any assistance in the recovery of my property. This was the police office. Thither I accordingly ran, inquiring my way as I went--for I knew not where it was--with wild distraction in my every look and movement. On reaching the office, I rushed breathlessly into it, and began telling my story as promptly and connectedly as my exhaustion and agitation would permit. My tale was patiently listened to by the two or three men whom I found on duty in the office. When I had done, they smiled and shook their heads; expressions which I considered as no good augury of the recovery of my pocket-book. One of the men--a sergeant apparently--now put some minute queries to me regarding the personal appearance of my friend Mr. Lancaster. I gave him the best description of that gentleman I could; but neither the sergeant nor any of the others seemed to recognise him. They had no doubt, however, they said, that he was a professed swindler, and in all probability one of late importation into the city; that there was little question that he was the person who had robbed me; adding, what was indeed obvious enough, that he had assisted in the recovery of my pocket-book from the first set of thieves who assailed me, that he might secure it for himself. The house in the Saltmarket, which I also described as well as I could, they knew at once, saying it was one of the most infamous dens in the city. The men now promised that they would use every exertion in their power to recover my money, but gave me to understand that there was little or no hope of success. The event justified their anticipations. They could discover no trace of Lancaster; and as to the house in the Saltmarket, there was not the slightest evidence of any connection whatever between its mistress, or any other of its inmates, and either the robber or the robbery. The police indeed searched the house; but of course to no purpose. Being, as I have already said, penniless, and thus without the means of going anywhere else, I remained in the police office all night; and, in the hope every hour of hearing something of my pocket-book, hung about it all next day till towards the evening, when the sergeant, of whom I have before spoken, came up to me as I was sauntering about the gate, and told me that it was useless my hanging on any longer about the office; that all would be done in my case that could be done; but that, in the meantime, I had better go home, leaving my address; and that if anything occurred, I would instantly be informed of it. "But I think it but right to tell you, young man," he added, "that there is scarcely any chance whatever of your ever recovering a sixpence of your money. I mention this to prevent you indulging in any false hopes. It is best you should know the worst at once." Satisfied that the man spoke truly, and that it was indeed useless my hanging on any longer, I gave him my name and address, and went away, although it was with a heavy heart, and without knowing whither I should go; for to my father's house I could not think of returning, after what had happened. I would not have faced him for the world. In this matter, indeed, I did my father a great injustice; for although a little severe in temper, he was a just and reasonable man, and would most certainly have made all allowances for what had occurred to me. The determination--for it now amounted to that--to which I had come, not to return home, was one, therefore, not warranted by any good reason; it was wholly the result of one of those mad impulses which so frequently lead youthful inexperience into error. On leaving the vicinity of the police office, I sauntered towards the High Street without knowing or caring whither I went. Having reached the street just named, I proceeded downwards, still heedless of my way, until I found myself in the Saltmarket, the scene of my late disaster. Curiosity, or perhaps some vague, absurd idea of seeing something or other, I could not tell what, that might lead to the recovery of my pocket-book, induced me to look about me to see if I could discover the tavern in which I had been robbed. I was thus employed--that is, gaping and staring at the windows of the lower flats of the houses on either side of the street, for I did not recollect on which was the house I wanted--when a smart little man, dressed in a blue surtout, with a black stock about his neck, and carrying a cane in his hand, made up to me with a-- "Looking for any particular place, my lad?" Taken unawares, and not choosing to enter into any explanations with a stranger, I simply answered, "No, no." "Because if you were," continued my new acquaintance, "I should have been glad to have helped you. But I say, my lad--excuse me," he went on, now looking earnestly in my face, and perceiving by my eyes that I had been weeping, which was indeed the case--"you seem to be distressed. What has happened you? I don't ask from any impertinent curiosity, but from sympathy, seeing you are a stranger." Words of kindness in the hour of distress, by whomsoever offered, at once find their way to the heart, and open up the sluices of its pent-up feelings. The friendly address of the stranger had this effect on me in the present instance. I told him at once what had occurred to me. "Bad business, my lad; bad business indeed," he said. "But don't be cast down. Fair weather comes after foul. You'll soon make all up again." This was commonplace enough comfort; but without minding the words, the intention was good, and with that I was gratified. My new friend, who had learnt from what I told him that I was penniless, now proposed that I should take share of a bottle of ale with him. Certain recollections of another friend, namely, Mr. Lancaster, made me hesitate, indeed positively decline, this invitation at first; but on my new acquaintance pressing his kindness, and the melancholy truth occurring to me that I had now no pocket-book to lose, I yielded, and accompanied him to a tavern at the foot of the High Street. I may add that I was the more easily induced to this, that I was in a dreadful state of exhaustion, having tasted nothing in the shape of either food or drink for nearly thirty hours. Having entered the tavern, a bottle of ale and a plate of biscuit quickly stood before us. My entertainer filled up the glasses; when, having presented me with one, he raised his own to his lips, wished me "better luck," and tossed it off. I quickly followed his example, and never before or since drank anything with so keen a relish. After we had drunk a second glass each-- "Well, my lad," said my new acquaintance, "what do you propose doing? Do you intend returning to the plough-tail, eh? I should hardly think you'll venture home again after such a cursed mishap." I at once acknowledged that I did not intend returning home again; but as to what I should do, I did not know. "Why, now," replied my entertainer, "I think a stout, good-looking, likely young fellow as you are need be at no loss. There's the army. Did you ever think of that, eh? The only thing for a lad of spirit. Smart clothes, good living, and free quarters, with a chance of promotion. The chance, said I? Why, I might say the certainty. Bounty too, you young dog! A handful of golden guineas, and pretty girls to court in every town. List, man, list," he shouted, clapping me on the shoulder, "and your fortune's made!" List! It had never occurred to me before. I had never thought, never dreamt of it. But now that the idea was presented to me, I by no means disliked it. It was not, however, the flummery of my new acquaintance, who, I need hardly say, was neither more nor less than a sergeant in coloured clothes, assumed, I suppose, for the purpose of taking young fellows like myself unawares,--I say it was not his balderdash, which, young and raw as I was, I fully perceived, that reconciled me to the notion of listing. It was because I saw in it a prompt and ready means of escaping the immediate destitution with which I was threatened, my foolish determination not to return home having rather gained strength than weakened, notwithstanding a painful sense of the misery which my protracted absence must have been occasioning at home. To the sergeant's proposal of listing, therefore, I at once assented; when the former calling in the landlord, tendered me in his presence the expressive shilling. The corps into which I had listed was the----, then lying in the Tower, London, there being only the sergeant and two or three men of the regiment in Glasgow recruiting. The matter of listing settled, the sergeant bespoke me a bed for the night in the tavern in which we were, that being his own quarters. On the following day I was informed, much to my surprise, although by no means to my regret, that a detachment of recruits for the---- were to be sent off that evening at nine o'clock by the track boat for Edinburgh, and from thence by sea to the headquarters of the regiment at London, and that I was to be of the number. At nine o'clock of the evening, accordingly, we were shipped at Port-Dundas. Before leaving Glasgow, however, I made one last call at the police office to inquire whether any discoveries had been made regarding my pocket-book, but found that nothing whatever had been heard of it. On the following day we reached Edinburgh; on the next we were embarked on board a Leith smack for London, where we arrived in safety on the fourth day thereafter, and were marched to the Tower, which was at the time the headquarters of the regiment. Amongst the young men who were of the party who came up with me from Scotland, there was one with whom I became particularly intimate, and who was subsequently my comrade. His name was John Lindsay, a native of Glasgow. He was about my own age, or perhaps a year older--a lively, active, warm-hearted lad, but of a restless, roving disposition. It was, I think, about a fortnight after our arrival in London, that Lindsay one day, while rummaging a small trunk in the barrack-room, which had formed the entire of his travelling equipage from Scotland, stumbled on a letter, with whose delivery he had been entrusted by some one in Glasgow, but which he had entirely forgotten. It was addressed in a scrawling hand--"To Susan Blaikie, servant with Henry Wallscourt, Esq., 19, Grosvenor Square, London." "Here's a job, Davy," said Lindsay, holding up the letter. "I promised faithfully to deliver this within an hour after my arrival in London, and here it is still. But better late than never. Will you go with me and see the fair maiden to whom this is addressed? It contains, I believe, a kind of introduction to her, and may perhaps lead to some sport." I readily closed with Lindsay's proposal, and in ten minutes after we set out for Grosvenor Square, which we had no difficulty in finding. Neither were we long in discovering No. 19, the residence of Henry Wallscourt, Esq. It was a magnificent house, everything about it bespeaking a wealthy occupant. Leaving me on the flagstones, Lindsay now descended into the area; but in two or three minutes returned, and motioned me with his finger to come to him. I did so, when he told me that he had seen Susan Blaikie, and that she had invited us to come in. Into the house we accordingly went, and were conducted by Susan, a lively, pretty girl, who welcomed us with great cordiality, into what appeared to be a housekeeper's room. My comrade, Lindsay, having given Susan all the Scotch, particularly Glasgow, news in his budget, the latter left the room for a few minutes, when she returned with a tray of cold provisions--ham, fowl, and roast beef. Placing these before us, and adding a bottle of excellent porter, she invited us to fall-to. We did so, and executed summary justice on the good things placed before us. After this we sat for about half an hour, when we rose to depart. This, however, she would not permit till we had promised that we would come, on the following night, and take tea with her and one or two of her fellow-servants. This promise we readily gave, and as willingly kept. One of the party, on the night of the tea-drinking, was the footman of the establishment, Richard Digby--a rakish, dissipated-looking fellow, with an affected air, and an excessively refined and genteel manner, that is, as he himself thought it. To others, at least to me, he appeared an egregious puppy; the obvious spuriousness of his assumed gentility inspiring a disgust which I found it difficult to suppress. Neither could I suppress it so effectually as to prevent the fellow discovering it. He did so; and the consequence was the rise of a hearty and mutual dislike, which, however, neither of us evinced by any overt act. Having found the society of our fair countrywoman and her friends very agreeable, we--that is, Lindsay and myself--became frequent visitors; drinking tea with her and her fellow-servants at least two or three times a week. While this was going on, a detachment of the new recruits, of whom Lindsay was one, was suddenly ordered to Chatham. I missed my comrade much after his departure; but as I had by this time established an intimacy with Susan and her fellow-servants on my own account, I still continued visiting there, and drinking tea occasionally as formerly. It was on one of these occasions, and about ten days after Lindsay had left London, that as I was leaving Mr. Wallscourt's house at a pretty late hour--I think about eleven at night--I was suddenly collared by two men, just as I had ascended the area stair, and was about to step out on the pavement. "What's this for?" said I, turning first to the one and then to the other of my captors. "We'll tell you that presently," replied one of the men, who had by this time begun to grope about my person, as if searching for something. In a moment after--"Ah! let's see what's this," he said, plunging his hand into one of my coat-pockets, and pulling out a silver table-spoon. "All right," he added. "Come away, my lad;" and the two forthwith began dragging me along. The whole affair was such a mystery to me, and of such sudden occurrence, that it was some seconds before I could collect myself sufficiently to put any such calm and rational queries to my captors as might elicit an explanation of it. All that I could say was merely to repeat my inquiry as to the meaning of the treatment I was undergoing--resisting instinctively, the while, the efforts of the men to urge me forward. This last, however, was vain; for they were two powerful fellows, and seemed scarcely to feel the resistance I made. To my reiterated demand of explanation they merely replied that I should have it presently, but that they rather thought I did not stand greatly in need of it. Obliged to rest satisfied, in the meantime, with such evasive answers, and finding resistance useless, indeed uncalled for, as I was unconscious of any crime, I now went peaceably along with the men. Whither they were conducting me the reader will readily guess; it was to Bow Street. On being brought into the office, the men conducted me up to a person who, seated at a desk, was busily employed making entries in a large book. One of my captors having whispered something into this person's ear, he turned sharply round and demanded my name. I gave it him. "The others?" he said. "What others?" I replied. "I have only one name, and I have given it." "Pho, pho!" exclaimed he. "Gentlemen of your profession have always a dozen. However, we'll take what you have given in the meantime." And he proceeded to make some entries in his book. They related to me, but I was not permitted to see what they were. The table-spoon which had been found in my pocket, and which had been placed on the desk before the official already spoken of, was now labelled and put past, and I was ordered to be removed. During all this time I had been loudly protesting my innocence of any crime; but no attention whatever was paid to me. So little effect, indeed, had my protestations, that one would have thought, judging by the unmoved countenances around me, that they did not hear me at all, for they went on speaking to each other, quite in the same way as if I had not been present. The only indication I could perceive of a consciousness of my being there, and of their hearing what I said, was an occasional faint smile of incredulity. At one time, provoked by my importunity and my obstinate iteration of my innocence, the official who was seated at the desk turned fiercely round, exclaiming-- "The spoon, the spoon, friend; what do you say to that--found in your pocket, eh?" I solemnly protested that I knew not how it came there; that I had never put it there, nor had the least idea of its being in my possession till it was produced by those that searched me. "A very likely story," said the official, turning quietly round to his book; "but we'll see all about that by-and-by. Remove him, men." And I was hurried away, and locked up in a cell for the night. I cannot say that, when left to myself, I felt much uneasiness regarding the result of the extraordinary matter that had occurred. I felt perfectly satisfied that, however awkward and unpleasant my situation was in the meantime, the following day would clear all up, and set me at liberty with an unblemished character. From all that had taken place, I collected that I was apprehended on a charge of robbery; that is, of abstracting property from Mr. Wallscourt's house, of which the silver spoon found in my possession was considered a proof. There was much, however, in the matter of painful and inexplicable mystery. How came the constables to be so opportunely in the way when I left the house? and, more extraordinary still, how came the silver spoon into my possession? Regarding neither of these circumstances could I form the slightest plausible conjecture; but had no doubt that, whether they should ever be explained or not, my entire innocence of all such guilt as the latter of them pointed at, would clearly appear. But, as the saying has it, "I reckoned without my host." On the following morning I was brought before the sitting magistrate, and, to my inexpressible surprise, on turning round a little, saw Richard Digby in the witness-box. Thinking at first that he was there to give some such evidence as would relieve me from the imputation under which I lay, I nodded to him; but he took no further notice of the recognition than by looking more stern than before. Presently my case was entered on. Digby was called on to state what he had to say to the matter. Judge of my consternation, gentle reader, when I heard him commence the following statement:-- Having premised that he was servant with Mr. Wallscourt, of No. 19, Grosvenor Square, he proceeded to say that during the space of the three previous weeks he had from time to time missed several valuable pieces of plate belonging to his master; that this had happened repeatedly before he could form the slightest conjecture as to who the thief could possibly be. At last it occurred to him that the abstraction of the plate corresponded, in point of time, with the prisoner's (my) introduction to the house--in other words, that it was from that date the robberies commenced, nothing of the kind having ever happened before; that this circumstance led him to suspect me; that in consequence he had on the previous night placed a silver table-spoon in such a situation in the servants' hall as should render it likely to be seen by the prisoner when he came to tea, Susan Blaikie having previously informed him that he was coming; that, shortly after the prisoner's arrival, he contrived, by getting Susan and some of the other servants out of the room, on various pretexts, to have the prisoner left alone for several minutes; that, on his return, finding the spoon gone, he had no longer any doubt of the prisoner's guilt; that, on feeling satisfied of this, he immediately proceeded to the nearest station-house, and procuring two constables, or policemen, stationed them at the area gate, with instructions to seize the prisoner the moment he came out; and that if the spoon was found on him--of which he had no doubt--to carry him away to Bow Street. Such, then, was Mr. Digby's statement of the affair; and a very plausible and connected one, it must be allowed, it was. It carried conviction to all present, and elicited from the presiding magistrate a high encomium on that person's fidelity, ability, and promptitude. The silver spoon, labelled as I had seen it, was now produced, when Mr. Wallscourt, who was also present, was called on to identify it. This he at once did, after glancing at the crest and initials which were engraven on the handle. The charge against me thus laid and substantiated, I was asked if I had anything to say in my own defence. Defence! what defence could I make against an accusation so strongly put, and so amply supported by circumstances? None. I could meet it only by denial, and by assertions of innocence. This, however, I did, and with such energy and earnestness--for horror and despair inspired me with both courage and eloquence--that a favourable impression was perceptible in the court. The circumstantial statement of Digby, however, with all its strong probabilities, was not to be overturned by my bare assertions; and the result was, that I was remanded to prison to stand trial at the ensuing assizes, Mr. Wallscourt being bound over to prosecute. Wretched, however, as my situation was, I had not been many hours in prison when I regained my composure; soothed by the reflection that, however disgraceful or unhappy my position might be, it was one in which I had not deserved being placed. I was further supported by the conviction, which even the result of my late examination before the magistrate had not in the least weakened, that my innocence would yet appear, and that in sufficient time to save me from further legal prosecution. Buoyed up by these reflections, I became, if not cheerful, at least comparatively easy in my mind. I thought several times during my imprisonment of writing to my father,--to whom, by the way, as I should have mentioned before, I wrote from Edinburgh, when on my way to London, in order to relieve the minds of my mother and himself from any apprehensions of anything more serious having happened me, telling them of my loss, and the way it had occurred, but without telling them that I had listed, or where I was going,--I say I thought several times during my confinement of writing to my father, and informing him of the unhappy circumstances in which I was placed; but, on reflection, it occurred to me that such a proceeding would only give him and the rest of the family needless pain, seeing that he could be of no service to me whatever. I therefore dropped the idea, thinking it better that they should know nothing about the matter--nothing, at least, until my trial was over, and my innocence established; concomitant events, as I had no doubt they would prove. In the meantime the day of trial approached. It came, and I stood naked and defenceless; for I had no money to employ counsel, no friends to assist me with advice. I stood at the bar of the Old Bailey shielded only by my innocence; a poor protection against evidence so strong and circumstantial as that which pointed to my guilt. My trial came on. It was of short duration. Its result, what every one who knew anything of the matter foresaw but myself. I was found guilty, and sentenced to fourteen years' transportation. As on a former occasion, I will leave it to the reader himself to form a conception of what my feelings were when this dreadful sentence rung in my ears--so horrible, so unexpected. A sudden deafness struck me that, commingling all sounds, rendered them unintelligible; a film came over my eyes; my heart fluttered strangely, and my limbs trembled so that I thought I should have sunk on the floor; but, making a violent effort, I supported myself; and in a few seconds these agitating sensations so far subsided as to allow of my retiring from the bar with tolerable steadiness and composure. It was several days, however, before I regained entire possession of myself, and before I could contemplate my position in all its bearings with anything like fortitude or resignation. On attaining this state, a thousand wild schemes for obtaining such a reconsideration of my case as might lead to the discovery of my innocence presented themselves to my mind. I thought of addressing a letter to the judge who had tried me; to the foreman of the jury who had found me guilty; to the prosecutor, Mr. Wallscourt; to the Secretary of State; to the King. A little subsequent reflection, however, showed me the utter hopelessness of any such proceeding, as I had still only my simple, unsupported assertions to oppose to the strong array of positive and circumstantial evidence against me; that, therefore, no such applications as I contemplated could be listened to for a moment. Eventually satisfied of this, I came to the resolution of submitting quietly to my fate in the meantime, trusting that some circumstance or other would, sooner or later, occur that would lead to a discovery of the injustice that had been done me. Writing to my father I considered now out of the question. The same reasons that induced me to abstain from writing him before my trial, presented themselves in additional force to prevent me writing him after. I resolved that he should never know of the misfortune, however undeserved, that had befallen me. I had all along--that is, since my confinement--looked for some letter or other communication from Lindsay. Sometimes I even hoped for a visit from him. But I was disappointed. I neither saw nor heard anything of him; and from this circumstance concluded that he, too, thought me guilty, and that this was the cause of his desertion of me. Friendless and despised, I at once abandoned myself to fate. Of poor Susan Blaikie, however, I did hear something; and that was, that she was discharged from her situation. This intelligence distressed me much, although I had foreseen that it must necessarily happen. In the apartment or cell into which I was placed after having received sentence, there were five or six young men in similar circumstances with myself--not as regarded innocence of crime, but punishment. They were all under sentence of banishment for various terms. From these persons I kept as much aloof as possible. My soul sickened at the contamination to which I was exposed by the society of such ruffians, for they were all of the very worst description of London characters, and I did all I could to maintain the distinction between myself and them, which my innocence of all crime gave me a right to observe. Under this feeling, it was my habit to sit in a remote part of the cell, and to take no share whatever either in the conversation or in the coarse practical jokes with which they were in the habit of beguiling the tedium of their confinement. There was one occasion, however, on which I felt myself suddenly caught by an interest in their proceedings. Seeing them one day all huddled together, listening with great delight to one of their number who was reading a letter aloud, I gradually approached nearer, curious to know what could be in this letter to afford them so much amusement. Conceive my astonishment and surprise when, after listening for a few minutes, I discovered that the subject which tickled my fellow-prisoners so highly was a description of my own robbery; that is, of the robbery in Glasgow of which I had been the victim. It was written with considerable humour, and contained such a minute and faithful account of the affair, that I had no doubt it had been written by Lancaster. Indeed it could have been written by no one else. The letter in question, then, was evidently one from that person to a companion in crime who was amongst those with whom I was associated--no doubt he who was reading it. The writer, however, seemed also well known to all the other parties. In the letter itself, as well as in the remarks of the audience on it, there was a great deal of slang, and a great many cant phrases which I could not make out. But, on the whole, I obtained a pretty correct knowledge of the import of both. The writer's description of me and of my worldly wisdom was not very flattering. He spoke of me as a regular flat, and the fleecing me as one of the easiest and pleasantest operations he had ever performed. He concluded by saying that as he found there was nothing worth while to be done in Scotland, he intended returning to London in a few days. "More fool he," said one of the party, on this passage being read. "That affair at Blackwall, in which Bob was concerned, has not yet blown over, and he'll be lagged, as sure as he lives, before he's a week in London." "Well, so much the better," said another. "In that case we'll have him across the water with us, and be all the merrier for his company." It was, I think, somewhat less than a month after this--for we were detained in prison altogether about two-months after sentence till a sufficient number had accumulated for transportation--that we, meaning myself and those in the ward in which I was confined, were favoured with a new companion. Throwing open the door of our ward one afternoon, the turnkey ushered in amongst us a person dressed out in the first style of fashion, and immediately again secured the door. At first I could not believe that so fine a gentleman could possibly be a convict; I thought rather that he must be a friend of some one of my fellow-prisoners. But I was quickly undeceived in this particular, and found that he was indeed one of _us_. On the entrance of this convict dandy, the whole of my fellow-prisoners rushed towards him, and gave him a cordial greeting. "Glad to see you, Nick," said the fellow who had foretold the speedy apprehension of the letter-writer, as already related. "Cursed fool to come to London so soon. Knew you would be nabbed. What have you got?" "Fourteen," replied the new-comer, with a shrug of his shoulders. During all this time I had kept my eyes fixed on the stranger, whom I thought I should know. For a while, however, I was greatly puzzled to fix on any individual as identical with him; but at length it struck me that he bore a wonderful resemblance to my Glasgow friend Lancaster. His appearance was now, indeed, greatly changed. He was, for one thing, splendidly attired, as I have already said, while at the time I had the pleasure of knowing him first he was very indifferently dressed. His face, too, had undergone some alterations. He had removed a bushy pair of whiskers which he sported in Glasgow, and had added to his adventitious characteristics a pair of green spectacles. It was these last that perplexed me most, in endeavouring to make out his identity. But he soon laid them aside, as being now of no further use--an operation which he accompanied by sundry jokes on their utility, and the service they had done him in the way of preventing inconvenient recognitions. Notwithstanding all these changes, however, in the new-comer's appearance, I soon became quite convinced that he was no other than Lancaster; and, under this impression, I took an opportunity of edging towards him, and putting the question plumply to him, although under breath, for I did not care that the rest should hear it. "Your name, sir, is Lancaster, I think?" said I. He stared in my face for a second or two without making any reply, or seeming to recognise me. At length-- "No, youngster, it isn't," he said with the most perfect assurance. "But you have taken that name on an occasion?" said I. "Oh, perhaps I may," he replied coolly. "I have taken a great many names in my day. I'll give you a hundred of them at a penny a dozen. But, Lancaster, let me see," and he kept looking hard at me as he spoke. "Why, it can't be," he added, with a sudden start. "Impossible! eh?" and he looked still more earnestly at me. "Are you from Glasgow, young un?" I said I was. "Did you ever see me there?" I shook my head, and said, to my cost I had. How my friend Mr. Lancaster received this intimation of our former acquaintance I must reserve for another number, as I must also do the sequel of my adventures; for I have yet brought the reader but half through the history of my chequered life. THE CONVICT; BEING THE SEQUEL TO "DAVID LORIMER." The reader will recollect that when he and I parted, at the conclusion of the last number, I had just intimated to Mr. Lancaster my conviction of our having had a previous acquaintance. Does the reader imagine that that gentleman was in any way discomposed at this recognition on my part, or at the way in which it was signified? that he felt ashamed or abashed? The sequel will show whether he did or not. On my replying to his inquiry whether I had ever seen him in Glasgow, by shaking my head, and saying that I had to my cost, he burst into a loud laugh, and, striking his thigh with as much exultation as if he had just made one of the most amusing discoveries imaginable, exclaimed-- "All right. Here, my pals," turning to the other prisoners. "Here's a queer concern. Isn't this the very flat, Dick," addressing one of their number, "that I did so clean in Glasgow, and about whom I wrote you! The fellow whom I met in the show." "No! Possible!" exclaimed several voices, whose owners now crowded about me with a delighted curiosity, and began bantering me in those slang terms in which they could best express their witticisms. I made no reply to either their insolences or their jokes; but, maintaining an obstinate silence, took an early opportunity of withdrawing to a remote part of the apartment. Nor did I--seeing how idle it would be to say a word more on the subject of the robbery which had been committed on me in Glasgow, as it would only subject me to ridicule and abuse--ever afterwards open my lips to Lancaster on the matter: neither did he to me, and there the affair ended; for, in a few days after, he was removed, for what reason I know not, to another cell, and I never saw him again. Let me here retrograde for a moment. In alluding, in the preceding number, to the various wild ideas that occurred to me after my condemnation, on the subject of obtaining a reconsideration of my case, I forgot to mention that of applying to the colonel of my regiment; but, on reflection, this seemed as absurd as the others, seeing that I had been little more than three weeks in the corps, and could therefore lay claim to no character at the hands of any one belonging to it. I was still a stranger amongst them. Besides, I found, from no interference whatever having been made in my behalf, that I had been left entirely in the hands of the civil law. Inquiries had no doubt been made into my case by the commanding officer of my regiment, but with myself no direct communication had taken place. My connection with the corps, therefore, I took it for granted, was understood to be completely severed, and that I was left to undergo the punishment the sentence of the civil law had awarded. To resume. In about a week after the occurrence of the incident with Lancaster above described, I was removed to the hulks, where I remained for somewhat more than a month, when I was put on board a convict ship, about to sail for New South Wales, along with a number of other convicts, male and female; none of them, I hope, so undeserving their fate as I was. All this time I had submitted patiently to my destiny, seeing it was now inevitable, and said nothing to any one of my innocence; for, in the first place, I found that every one of my companions in misfortune were, according to their own accounts, equally innocent, and, in the next, that nobody believed them. It was in the evening we were embarked on board the convict ship; with the next tide we dropped down the river; and, ere the sun of the following day had many hours risen, found ourselves fairly at sea. For upwards of three weeks we pursued our course prosperously, nothing in that time occurring of the smallest consequence; and as the wind had been all along favourable, our progress was so great, that many of us began thinking of the termination of our voyage. These, however, were rather premature reflections, as we had yet as many months to be at sea as we had been weeks. It was about the end of the period just alluded to, that as I was one night restlessly tossing on my hard straw mattress, unable to sleep, from having fallen into one of those painful and exciting trains of thought that so frequently visit and so greatly add to the miseries of the unfortunate, my ear suddenly caught the sounds of whispering. Diverted from my reflections by the circumstance, I drew towards the edge of my sleeping berth, and thrusting my head a little way out--the place being quite dark--endeavoured, by listening attentively, to make out who the speakers were, and what was the subject of their conversation. The former, after a little time, I discovered to be three of my fellow-convicts--one of them a desperate fellow, of the name of Norcot, a native of Middlesex, who had been transported for a highway robbery, and who had been eminently distinguished for superior dexterity and daring in his infamous profession. The latter, however--namely, the subject of their conversation--I could not make out; not so much from a difficulty of overhearing what they said, as from the number of slang words they employed. Their language was to me all but wholly unintelligible; for although my undesired association with them had enabled me to pick up a few of their words, I could make nothing of their jargon when spoken colloquially. Unable, therefore--although suspecting something wrong--to arrive at any conclusion regarding the purpose or object of this midnight conversation, I took no notice of it to any one, but determined on watching narrowly the future proceedings of Norcot and his council. On the following night the whispering was again repeated. I again listened, but with nearly as little success as before. From what I did make out, however, I was led to imagine that some attempt on the ship was contemplated; and in this idea I was confirmed, when Norcot, on the following day, taking advantage of a time when none of the seamen or soldiers, who formed our guard, were near, slapped me on the shoulder with a-- "Well, my pal, how goes it?" Surprised at this sudden familiarity on the part of a man from whom I had always most especially kept aloof, and who, I was aware, had marked my shyness, as he had never before sought to exchange words with me, it was some seconds before I could make him any answer. At length-- "If you mean as to my health," said I, "I am very well." "Ay, ay; but I don't mean that," replied Norcot. "How do you like your quarters, my man? How do you like this sort of life, eh?" "Considering all circumstances, it's well enough; as well as ought reasonably to be expected," said I, in a tone meant to discourage farther conversation on the subject. But he was not to be so put off. "Ay, in the meantime," said he; "but wait you till we get to New South Wales; you'll see a difference then, my man, I'm thinking. You'll be kept working, from sunrise till sunset, up to the middle in mud and water, with a chain about your neck. You'll be locked up in a dungeon at night, fed upon mouldy biscuit, and, on the slightest fault, or without any fault at all, be flogged within an inch of your life with a cat-o'-nine-tails. How will ye like that, eh?" "_That_ I certainly should not like," I replied. "But I hope you're exaggerating a little." I knew he was. "Not a bit of it," said Norcot. "Come here, Knuckler;" and he motioned to a fellow-convict to come towards him. "I've been telling this young cove here what he may expect when we reach our journey's end, but he won't believe me." Having repeated the description of convict life which he had just given me-- "Now, Knuckler, isn't that the truth?" he said. "True as gospel," exclaimed Knuckler, with a hideous oath; adding--"Ay, and in some places they are still worse used." "You hear that?" said Norcot. "I wasn't going to bamboozle you with any nonsense, my lad. We're all in the same lag, you know, and must stick by one another." My soul revolted at this horrible association, but I took care to conceal my feelings. Norcot went on:--"Now, seeing what we have to expect when we get to t'other side of the water, wouldn't he be a fool who wouldn't try to escape it if he could, eh? Ay, although at the risk of his life?" At this moment we were interrupted by a summons to the deck, it being my turn, with that of several others, to enjoy the luxury of inhaling the fresh sea breeze above. Norcot had thus only time to add, as I left him-- "I'll speak to you another time, my cove." Having now no doubt that some mischief was hatching amongst the convicts, and that the conversation that had just passed was intended at once to sound my disposition and to incline me towards their projects, I felt greatly at a loss what to do. That I should not join in their enterprise, of whatsoever nature it might be, I at once determined. But I felt that this was not enough, and that I was bound to give notice of what I had seen and heard to those in command of the vessel, and that without loss of time, as there was no saying how wild or atrocious might be the scheme of these desperadoes, or how soon they might put it in execution. Becoming every moment more impressed with the conviction that this was my duty, I separated myself as far as I could from my companions, and, watching an opportunity, said, in a low tone, to the mate of the vessel, whom a chance movement brought close to where I stood-- "Mischief going on. Could I have a moment's private speech of the captain?" The man stared at me for an instant with a look of non-comprehension, as I thought; and, without saying a word, he then resumed the little piece of duty he had been engaged in when I interrupted him, and immediately after went away, still without speaking, and indeed without taking any further notice of me. I now thought he had either not understood me, or was not disposed to pay any attention to what I said. I was mistaken in my conjectures, and in one of them did injustice to his intelligence. A moment after he left me I saw the captain come out of the cabin, and look hard at me for a second or two. I observed him then despatch the steward towards me. On that person's approach-- "I say, my lad," he exclaimed, so as to be heard by the rest of the convicts on deck, "can you wipe glasses and clean knives, eh? or brush shoes, or anything of that kind?" Not knowing his real purpose in thus addressing me, I said I had no experience in that sort of employment, but would do the best I could. "Oh, if you be willing," he said, "we'll soon make you able. I want a hand just now; so come aft with me, and I'll find you work, and show you how to do it too." I followed him to the cabin; but I had not been there a minute when the captain came down, and, taking me into a state room, said-- "Well, my lad, what's all this? You wanted a private word of me, and hinted to the mate that you knew of some mischief going on amongst the convicts. What is it?" I told him of the secret whisperings at night I had overheard, and of the discourse Norcot had held with me; mentioning, besides, several expressions which I thought pointed to a secret conspiracy of some kind or other. The captain was of the same opinion, and after thanking me for my information, and telling me that he would take care that the part I had acted should operate to my advantage on our arrival in the colony, he desired me to take no notice of what had passed, but to mingle with my associates as formerly, and to leave the whole matter to him. To cover appearances, I was subsequently detained in the steward's room for about a couple of hours, when I was sent back to my former quarters; not, however, without having been well entertained by the steward, by the captain's orders. What intermediate steps the captain took I do not know, but on that night Norcot and other ten of the most desperate of the convicts were thrown into irons. Subsequent inquiry discovered a deep-laid plot to surprise the guard, seize their arms, murder the captain and crew and all who resisted, and take possession of the ship. Whether such a desperate attempt would have been successful or not, is doubtful; but there is no question that a frightful scene of bloodshed would have taken place; nor that, if the ruffians had managed well, and judiciously timed their attack, they had some chance, and probably not a small one, of prevailing. As it was, however, the matter was knocked on the head; for not only were the leaders of the conspiracy heavily ironed, but they were placed in different parts of the ship, wholly apart, and thus could neither act nor hold the slightest communication with each other. Although the part I had acted in this affair did not operate in my favour with the greater part of my fellow-convicts,--for, notwithstanding all our caution, a strong suspicion prevailed amongst them that I was the informer,--it secured me the marked favour of all others on board the ship, and procured me many little indulgences which would not otherwise have been permitted, and, generally, much milder treatment than was extended to the others; and I confess I was not without an idea that I deserved it. On our arrival at Sydney, whither I now hurry the reader, nothing subsequent to the incident just recorded having occurred in the interval with which I need detain him, I was immediately assigned, with several others, to a farmer, a recently arrived emigrant, who occupied a grant of land of about a thousand acres in the neighbourhood of the town of Maitland. Before leaving the ship, the captain added to his other kindnesses an assurance that he would not fail to represent my case--meaning with reference to the service I had done him in giving information of the conspiracy amongst the convicts--to the governor, and that he had no doubt of its having a favourable effect on my future fortunes, provided I seconded it by my own good conduct. The person to whom we had been assigned, an Englishman, being on the spot waiting us, we were forthwith clapped into a covered waggon, and driven off to our destination, our new master following us on horseback. The work to which we were put on the farm was very laborious, consisting, for several weeks, in clearing the land of trees; felling, burning, and grubbing up the roots. But we were well fed, and, on the whole, kindly treated in other respects; so that, although our toil was severe, we had not much to complain of. In this situation I remained for a year and a half, and had the gratification of enjoying, during the greater part of that time, the fullest confidence of my employer, whose good opinion I early won by my orderly conduct, and--an unusual thing amongst convicts--by my attention to his interests. On leaving him, he gave me, unasked, a testimonial of character, written in the strongest terms. I was now again returned on the hands of Government, to await the demand of some other settler for my services. In the meantime I had heard nothing of the result of the captain's representation in my behalf to the governor, but had no doubt I would reap the benefit of it on the first occasion that I should have a favour to ask. The first thing in this way that I had to look for was what is called a ticket of leave; that is, a document conferring exemption for a certain period from Government labour, and allowing the party possessing it to employ himself in any lawful way he pleases, and for his own advantage, during the time specified by the ticket. My sentence, however, having been for fourteen years, I could not, in the ordinary case, look for this indulgence till the expiration of six years, such being the colonial regulations. But imagining the good service I had done in the convict ship would count for something, and probably induce the governor to shorten my term of probation, I began now to think of applying for the indulgence. This idea I shortly after acted upon, and drew up a memorial to the personage just alluded to; saying nothing, however, of my innocence of the crime for which I had been transported, knowing that, as such an assertion would not be believed, it would do much more harm than good. In this memorial, however, I enclosed the letter of recommendation given me by my last master. It was eight or ten days before I heard anything of my application. At the end of that time, however, I received a very gracious answer. It said that my "praiseworthy conduct" on board the ship in which I came to the colony had been duly reported by the captain, and that it would be remembered to my advantage; that, at the, expiry of my second year in the colony, of which there were six months yet to run, a ticket of leave would be granted me--thus abridging the period by four years; and that, if I continued to behave as well as I had done, I might expect the utmost indulgence that Government could extend to one in my situation. With this communication, although it did not immediately grant the prayer of my petition, I was much gratified, and prepared to submit cheerfully to the six months' compulsory labour which were yet before me. Shortly after this I was assigned to another settler, in the neighbourhood of Paramatta. This was a different sort of person from the last I had served, and, I am sorry to say, a countryman. His name I need not give; for although the doing so could no longer affect him, he being long dead, it might give pain to his relatives, several of whom are alive both here and in New South Wales. This man was a tyrant, if ever there was one, and possessed of all the passion and caprice of the worst description of those who delight in lording it over their fellow-creatures. There was not a week that he had not some of my unhappy fellow-servants before a magistrate, often for the most trivial faults--a word, a look--and had them flogged by sentence of the court, by the scourger of the district, till the blood streamed from their backs. Knowing how little consideration there is for the unhappy convict in all cases of difference with his taskmaster, and that however unjust or unreasonable the latter's complaints may be, they are always readily entertained by the subordinate authorities, and carefully recorded against the former to his prejudice, I took care to give him no offence. To say nothing of his positive orders, I obeyed his every slightest wish with a promptitude and alacrity that left him no shadow of ground to complain of me. It was a difficult task; but it being for my interest that no complaint of me, just or unjust, should be put on record against me, I bore all with what I must call exemplary patience and fortitude. I have already said that my new master was a man of the most tyrannical disposition--cruel, passionate, and vindictive. He was all this; and his miserable fate--a fate which overtook him while I was in his employment--was, in a great measure, the result of his ungovernable and merciless temper. Some of the wretched natives of the country--perhaps the most miserable beings on the face of the earth, as they are certainly the lowest in the scale of intellect of all the savage tribes that wander on its surface--used to come occasionally about our farm, in quest of a morsel of food. Amongst these were frequently women with infants on their backs. If my master was out of the way when any of these poor creatures came about the house, his wife, who was a good sort of woman, used to relieve them; and so did we, also, when we had anything in our power. Their treatment, however, was very different when our master happened to be at home. The moment he saw any of these poor blacks approaching, he used to run into the house for his rifle, and on several occasions fired at and wounded the unoffending wretches. At other times he hounded his dogs after them, himself pursuing and hallooing with as much excitement as if he had been engaged in the chase of some wild beasts instead of human beings--beings as distinctly impressed as himself with the image of his God. It is true that these poor creatures were mischievous sometimes, and that they would readily steal any article to which they took a fancy. But in beings so utterly ignorant, and so destitute of all moral perceptions, such offences could hardly be considered as criminal; not one, at any rate, deserving of wounds and death at the caprice of a fellow-creature acting on his own impulses, unchecked by any legal or judicial control. Besides, it were easy to prevent the depredations of these poor creatures--easy to drive them off without having recourse to violence. The humanity and forbearance, however, which such a mode of proceeding with the aborigines would require was not to be found in my master. Fierce repulsion and retaliation were the only means he would have recourse to in his mode of treating them; and the consequence was, his inspiring the natives with a hatred of him, and a desire of vengeance for his manifold cruelties towards them, which was sure, sooner or later, to end in his destruction. It did so. One deed of surpassing cruelty which he perpetrated accomplished his fate. One day, seeing two or three natives, amongst whom was a woman with a young infant on her back, passing within a short distance of the house, not approaching it--for he was now so much dreaded by these poor creatures that few came to the door--my master, as usual, ran in for his rifle, and calling his dogs around him, gave chase to the party. The men being unencumbered, fled on seeing him, and being remarkably swift of foot, were soon out of his reach. Not so the poor woman with the child on her back: she could not escape; and at her the savage ruffian fired, killing both her and the infant with the same murderous shot. This double murder was of so unprovoked, so cold-blooded, and atrocious a nature, that it is probable, little as the life of a native was accounted in those days, that my master would have been called upon to answer for his crime before the tribunals of the colony; but retribution overtook him by another and a speedier course. On the following day my master came out of the house, about ten o'clock in the forenoon, with an axe in one hand, and the fatal rifle, his constant companion, with which he had perpetrated the atrocious deed on the preceding day, in the other, and coming up to me, told me that he was going to a certain spot in an adjoining wood to cut some timber for paling, and that he desired I should come to him two hours after with one of the cars or sledges in use on the farm, to carry home the cut wood. Having said this, he went off, little dreaming of the fate that awaited him. At the time appointed I went with a horse and sledge to the wood, but was much surprised to find that my master was not at the spot where he said he would be;--a surprise which was not a little increased by perceiving, from two or three felled sticks that lay around, that he had been there, but had done little--so little, that he could not have been occupied, as I calculated, for more than a quarter of an hour. Thinking, however, that wherever he had gone he would speedily return, I sat down to await him; but he came not. An entire hour elapsed, and still he did not make his appearance. Beginning now to suspect that some accident had happened him, I hurried home to inquire if they had seen or heard anything of him there. They had not. His family became much alarmed for his safety--a feeling in which my conscience forbids me to say that I participated. Two of my fellow-servants now accompanied me back to the wood, which it was proposed we should search. This, so soon as we had reached the spot where my master had appointed to meet me, and where, as already mentioned, he had evidently been, we began to do, whooping and hallooing at the same time to attract his attention should he be anywhere within hearing. For a long while our searching and shouting were vain. At length one of my companions, who had entered a tangled patch of underwood which we had not before thought of looking, suddenly uttered a cry of horror. We ran up to him, and found him gazing on the dead body of our master, who lay on his face, transfixed by a native spear, which still stood upright in his back. It was one of those spears which the aborigines of New South Wales use, on occasion, as missiles, and which they throw with an astonishing force and precision. Such, then, was the end of this cruel man; and that it exceeded his deserts can hardly be maintained. Luckily for me, my period of service with my late master was at this time about out. A few days more, and I became entitled to my ticket of leave. For this indulgence I applied when the time came, and it was immediately granted me for one year. On obtaining my ticket I proceeded to Sydney, as the most likely place to fall in with some employment. On this subject, however, I felt much at a loss; for not having been bred to any mechanical trade, I could do nothing in that way. Farming was the only business of which I knew anything; and in this, my father having been an excellent farmer, I was pretty well skilled. My hope, therefore, was, that I would find some situation as a farm overseer, and thought Sydney, although a town, the likeliest place to fall in with or hear of an employer. On arriving in Sydney, I proceeded to the house of a countryman of the name of Lawson, who kept a tavern, and to whom I brought a letter of introduction from a relative of his own who had been banished for sedition, and who was one of my fellow-labourers in the last place where I had served. On reading the letter, Lawson, who was a kind-hearted man, exclaimed-- "Puir Jamie, puir fallow; and hoo is he standin't oot?" I assured him that he was bearing his fate manfully, but that he had been in the service of a remorseless master. "Ay, I ken him," said Lawson. "A man that's no gude to his ain canna be gude to ithers." "You must speak of him now, however, in the past tense," said I. "Mr.----- is dead." "Dead!" exclaimed Lawson, with much surprise. "When did he die?" I told him, and also of the manner of his death. "Weel, that is shockin'," he remarked; "but, upon my word, better couldna hae happened him, for he was a cruel-hearted man." Then, reverting to his relative, "Puir Jamie," he said; "but I think we'll manage to get Jamie oot o' his scrape by-and-by. I hae gude interest wi' the governor, through a certain acquaintance, and houpe to be able to get him a free pardon in a whily. But he maun just submit a wee in the meantime." "But anent yoursel, my man," continued Lawson, "what can I do for ye? Jamie, here, speaks in the highest terms o' ye, and begs me to do what I can for ye; and that I'll willingly do on his account. What war' ye bred to?" I told him that I had been bred to the farming business, and that I should like to get employment as a farm overseer or upper servant, to engage for a year. "Ay, just noo, just noo," said honest Lawson. "Weel, I'll tell you what it is, and it's sae far lucky: there was a decent, respectable-looking man here the day, a countryman o' our ain--and I believe he'll sleep here the nicht--wha was inquirin' if I kent o' ony decent, steady lad who had been brocht up in the farmin' line. I kenna hoo they ca' the man, but he has been in my house, noo, twa or three times. He's only twa or three months arrived in the colony, and is settled somewhere in the neighbourhood o' Liverpool--our Liverpool, ye ken, no the English Liverpool. He seems to be in respectable circumstances. Noo, if he comes to sleep here the nicht, as I hae nae doot he will, seein' there's nae coach for Liverpool till the morn's mornin'--I'll mention you till him, and maybe ye may mak a bargain." I thanked Lawson for his kindness, and was about leaving the house, with a promise to call back in the evening, when he stopped me, and insisted on my taking some refreshment. This, which consisted of some cold roast fowl and a glass of brandy and water, I readily accepted. When I had partaken of his hospitality I left the house, repeating my promise to call again in the evening. The interval, knowing nobody in Sydney, I spent in sauntering about the town. On the approach of evening, I again returned to Lawson's. He was standing in the doorway when I came forward. "Come awa, lad," he said, with a glad face, on seeing me. "Your frien's here, and I hae been speakin' to him aboot ye, and he seems inclined to treat wi' you. But he's takin' a bit chack o' dinner 'enoo, sae we'll let him alane for twa or three minutes. Stap ye awa in there to the bar, in the meanwhile, and I'll let him ken in a wee that ye're here." I did so. In about ten minutes after, Lawson came to me, and said the gentleman up stairs would be glad to see me. I rose and followed him. We entered the room, the worthy landlord leading the way. The stranger, with his elbow resting on the table, was leaning his head thoughtfully on his hand when we entered. He gazed at me for an instant wildly; he sprang from his chair; he clasped me in his arms. I returned the embrace. Reader, it was my own father! "Davie, my son," he exclaimed, so soon as his surprise and emotion would permit him to speak, "how, in the name of all that's wonderful, has this come about? Where are you from? how came you here? and where on earth have you been all this weary time, since you left us?" It was several minutes before I could make any reply. At length-- "I have much to tell you, father," I said, glancing at the same time towards Lawson, who stood with open mouth and staring eyes, lost in wonder at the extraordinary scene, which he yet could not fully comprehend. Understanding, however, the hint conveyed in that look, the worthy man instantly quitted the apartment, leaving us to ourselves. On his doing so, I sat down at table with my father, and related to him the whole history of my misfortunes, without reserve or extenuation. The narrative grieved and distressed him beyond measure; for, until I told him, he had no idea I stood before him a convicted felon; his first impression naturally being that I had come to the colony of my own free will. Unlike all others, however, he, my poor father, believed implicitly my assertions of entire innocence of the crime for which I had been transported. But he felt bitterly for the degrading situation in which I stood, and from which neither my own conscious innocence nor his convictions, he was but too sensible, could rescue me in so far as regarded the opinion of the world. Having told my father my story, he told me his. It was simply this--the story of hundreds, thousands. Tempted by the favourable accounts he had heard and read of Australia, he had come to the resolution of emigrating; had, with this view, sold off at home; and here he was. He added that he had obtained a grant of land, of about 500 acres, in the neighbourhood of Liverpool, on very favourable terms; that although he had not found everything quite so suitable or so well-ordered as he had expected, he had no doubt of being able to do very well when once he should have got matters put in proper train. He said he had already got a very good house erected on the farm, and that although their situation for the first two or three months was bad enough, they were now pretty comfortable; and he hoped that, with my assistance--seeing, as he interpolated with a faint smile, I had just cast up in the nick of time--they would soon make things still better. "Your poor mother, Davie," continued my father, recurring to a subject which we had already discussed--for my first inquiries had been after that dear parent, who, I was delighted to learn, was in perfect good health, although sunk in spirits in consequence of long mental suffering on my account,--"Your poor mother, Davie," he said, "will go distracted with joy at the sight of you. Her thoughts by day, her dreams by night, have been of you, Davie. But," he added, seeing the tears streaming down my cheeks, "I will not distress you by dwelling on the misery you have occasioned her. It's all over now, I trust, and you will compensate for the past. Neither will I say a word as to the folly of your conduct in flying your father's house as you did. You have paid dearly for that false step; and God forbid, my son, that I, your father, should add to the punishment. You are, I perceive, too sensible of the folly to render it necessary. So, of that no more." Of that folly I was indeed sensible--bitterly sensible; and could not listen to the calm, rational, and kind language of my father, without looking back with amazement at the stupidity of my conduct. It now seemed to me to have been the result of utter insanity--madness. I could neither recall nor comprehend the motives and impulses under which I had acted; and could only see the act itself standing forth in naked, inexplicable absurdity. Recurring again to the circumstances which had led to my present unhappy position, and which were always floating uppermost in my father's mind-- "That scoundrel, Digby," he said, "must have been at the bottom of the mischief, Davie. It must have been he who put the spoon into your pocket. What a fiendish contrivance!" "I have always thought so, father," I replied; "and on my trial ventured to hint it, as I also did to the turnkeys and jailers; but although none said so directly, I saw very clearly that all considered it as a ridiculous invention--a clumsy way of accounting for a very plain fact." My father now proposed that I should start with him on the following morning, per coach, for Liverpool, from which his farm was distant an easy walk of some six or seven miles. On the following morning, accordingly, after having duly acknowledged our worthy host's kindness, we took our seats on the outside of the coach, and were soon whirling it away merrily toward our destination. During our journey, it gave both my father and I much painful thought how we should break the matter of my unhappy position to my mother. It would be death to her to learn it. At first we thought of concealing the circumstances altogether; but the chances of her hearing it from others, or making the discovery herself when she was unprepared for it, through a hundred different means, finally determined us on communicating the unpleasant intelligence ourselves; that is, my father undertook the disagreeable task, meaning, however, to choose time and circumstance, and to allow a day or two to elapse before he alluded to it. Having arrived at Liverpool, we started on foot for my father's farm. Should I attempt it, I would not find it easy to describe what were my feelings at this moment, arising from the prospect of so soon beholding that dear parent, whose image had ever been present to my mind, whose kind tones were ever sounding in my ears like some heart-stirring and well-remembered melody. They were overpowering. But when my father, after we had walked for about an hour, raised his stick, and, pointing to a neat farm-steading on the slope of a hill, and on the skirt of a dense mountain forest that rose high behind it, said, "There's the house, Davie," I thought I should have sunk on the ground. I had never felt so agitated, excepting in that unhappy hour when I stood at the bar of the Old Bailey, and heard sentence of transportation awarded against me. But I compare the feelings on these two occasions only as regards their intensity: in nature they were very different indeed. On the former, they were those of excruciating agony; on the latter, those of excessive joy. As we approached the house, I descried one at the door. It was a female figure. It was my mother. I gasped for breath. I flew over the ground. I felt it not beneath my feet. I would not be restrained by my father, who kept calling to me. My mother fixed her gaze on me, wondering at my excited manner--wondering who I could be; all unconscious, as I could perceive by her vacant though earnest look, that I was her son--- the darling of her heart. But a mother's eye is quick. Another moment, and a shriek of wild joy and surprise announced that I was recognised; in the next, we were in each other's arms, wrapt in a speechless agony of bliss! My father, whom I had left a long way behind, came up to us while we were locked together in this silent embrace, and stood by us for a few seconds without speaking a word, then passed quietly into the house, leaving us to ourselves. "My son, my son!" exclaimed my mother, so soon as the fulness of her feelings would allow of utterance, "you have been cruel, cruel to your mother. But I will not upbraid you. In seeing you again--in clasping you once more to my bosom--I am repaid a thousandfold for all you have made me suffer." With what further passed between us, I need not detain the reader. The tender expressions of a mother and son meeting under such circumstances as we met, being the language of nature, the embodiment of feelings which all ran conceive, there is no occasion for dilating on them in my particular case. I pass on to other things of more general, or at least more uncommon interest. The first day of my arrival at my father's farm was passed entirely within doors in social communion, and in bringing up that arrear of interchange in thought and feeling which our separation for so long a period had created. On the following day I commenced work with my father; and although I had done my duty faithfully by both the masters I had served since I came to New South Wales, I soon found the difference between compulsory and voluntary labour. In the former case I certainly wrought diligently, but as certainly not cheerfully. There was an absence of spirit that quickly gave rise to listlessness and fatigue, and that left the physical energies weak and languid, in the latter case, it was far otherwise. Toil as I might, I felt no diminution of strength. I went from task to task, some of them far harder than any I had yet encountered, with unabated vigour, and accomplished with ease double the work I ever could get through with when in bondage. The joint labours of my father and myself, assisted occasionally by hired service--for he could not endure the idea of having convicts about him--soon put a new and promising face on the farm. We cleared, we drained, we enclosed, and we sowed and planted, until we left ourselves comparatively little to do--I mean in the way of hard labour--but to await the returns of our industry. It was some time after we had got things into this state--that is, I think about three months after I had joined my father--that the latter received intelligence of a band of bushmen or bushrangers having been seen in the neighbourhood. He was assured that they were skulking in the adjoining forest, and that we might every night expect our house to be attacked, robbed, and ourselves, in all probability, murdered. This information threw us into a most dreadful state of alarm; these bushrangers, as the reader probably knows, being runaway convicts, men of the most desperate characters, who take to the woods, and subsist by plundering the settlers--a crime to which they do not hesitate to add murder--many instances of fearful atrocities of this kind having occurred. For some time we were quite at a loss what to do; for although we had firearms and ammunition in the house, there were only four men of us--my father, myself, and two servant lads--while the bushrangers, as we had been told, were at least ten or twelve in number. To have thought then of repelling them by force, was out of the question; it could only have ended in the murder of us all. Under these circumstances, my father determined on applying to the authorities for constabulary or military protection; and with this view went to Liverpool, where the district magistrate resided. On stating the case to the latter, he at once gave my father a note to the commanding officer of the garrison, enjoining him to send a small party of military along with him,--these to remain with us for our protection as long as circumstances should render it necessary, and, in the meanwhile, to employ themselves in scouring the adjoining woods, with a view to the apprehension of the bushrangers, and to fire on them without hesitation in all cases where they could not be captured. The result was, that a party of twelve men, commanded by a sergeant, were immediately turned out, and marched off with my father. I was sitting on an eminence close by the house, and which commanded a view of the road leading to and from Liverpool, looking out for my father's return, when the party came in sight. As they neared, I recognised the men, from certain particulars in their uniform, a party of the--th, the regiment into which I had enlisted. The circumstance excited some curious feelings, and awakened a train of not very pleasing reflections. I had never dreamt of meeting any of the corps in so distant a part of the world; yet there was nothing more likely or more natural, a large military force being always kept in New South Wales, and frequently changed. I felt, however, no uneasiness on the subject, thinking that it was not at all probable, seeing the very short time I had been in the regiment, and the constant accession of new men it was receiving, I should be recognised by any of the party. In the meantime, the party were rapidly approaching me, and were now so near, that I could perceive the sergeant to be a tall and handsome young man of about two or three and twenty. Little did I yet dream who this sergeant was. I descended to meet them. We came up to each other. The sergeant started on seeing me, and looked at me with a grave surprise and fixed gaze. I did precisely the same by him. We advanced towards each other with smiling faces and extended arms. "Lorimer!" exclaimed the sergeant. "Lindsay!" I replied. It was indeed Lindsay, my old comrade, promoted to a sergeantcy. Our mutual astonishment and satisfaction at this extraordinary and unexpected meeting was, I need not say, very great, although I certainly thought I perceived a certain dryness and want of cordiality in Lindsay's manner towards me. But for this I made every allowance, believing it to proceed from a doubt of my innocence, if not a conviction of my guilt, in the matter for which I had been transported. He in short, it seemed to me, could not forget that, in speaking to me, although an old comrade, he was speaking to a convicted felon. However, notwithstanding this feeling on his part, we talked freely of old stories; and as we were apart from the men, I did not hesitate, amongst other things, to allude to my misfortune, nor to charge the blame of it on Digby. "Well," said the sergeant, in reply to my remarks on this subject, "since you have mentioned the matter yourself, Lorimer, I am glad to hear you say so--that is, to hear you say that you are innocent of that rascally business; for, putting your assertions, so solemnly made, to what my wife says--for she has some queer stories of that fellow Digby--I have no doubt now of your innocence." "Your wife!" exclaimed I in some amazement. "In the first place, then, you are married; in the next, how on earth, if I may ask, should she know anything of Digby?" "Why, man, Susan Blaikie is my wife," replied the sergeant, laughing; "and she's not, I take it, half a dozen miles from us at this moment. I left her safe and sound in my quarters in Liverpool not two hours ago; and right glad will she be to see you, when you can make it convenient to give us a call. But of that we will speak more hereafter." Like two or three other things recorded in this little history, this information gave me much surprise, but, like few of them, much gratification also; as I had feared the worst for poor Susan, seeing that she had been discharged from her situation, as I had no doubt without a character, probably under a suspicion of being concerned with me in the alleged robbery. By the time I had expressed the surprise and satisfaction which Sergeant Lindsay's communication had given me, we had reached the house, when all conversation between us of a private nature ceased for the time. The first business now was to set some refreshment before the men. This was quickly done; the sergeant, my father, and I taking care of ourselves in a similar way in another apartment. The next was to take the immediate matter in hand into consideration. Accordingly, we three formed ourselves into a council of war, and, after some deliberation, came to the following resolutions:--That we should, soldiers and all, keep closely within doors during the remainder of the afternoon; and that as it was more than probable the bushmen would make their attack that very night, and as it was likely they would know nothing of the military being in the house, seeing that they always kept at a distance during the day, or lay concealed in hidden places, we should take them by surprise; that, for this purpose, we should remain up all night, and place ourselves, with loaded arms, by the windows, and in such other situations as would enable us to see them approaching, without being seen by them. Having determined on this plan of operations, we resumed our conversation on indifferent matters, and thus spent the time till it was pretty far on in the night, when Lindsay suggested that it was full time the men were distributed in the positions we intended them to occupy. Two were accordingly placed at each window of both the back and front of the house, the sergeant and I occupying one,--he with one of our muskets, and I with a rifle. It was a bright moonlight night; so that, as the vicinity of the house was completely cleared around, to the distance of at least 200 yards on every side, no one could approach it without being seen; although they could remain long enough invisible, and in safety, in the dense wood beyond, and by which the house was surrounded on all sides but one. The sergeant and I had thus sat for, I think, about an hour and a half, looking intently towards the dark forest beyond the cleared ground, when we thought we saw several small, dark objects flitting about the skirts of the wood; but whether they were kangaroos or men, we could not tell. Keeping our eyes fixed steadily on them, however, we by-and-by saw them unite, and could distinctly make out that they were approaching the house in a body. Soon they came sufficiently near to enable us to discern that it was a party of men, to the number of about eight or ten. There might be more, but certainly no fewer. We could now also see that they were armed--at least a part of them--with muskets. Satisfied that they were the much dreaded bushrangers, of whose vicinity we had been apprised, the sergeant hastily left the window at which he and I had been seated, and, stealing with soft and cautious steps through the house, visited each of his posts to see that the men were on the alert. To each he whispered instructions to put their pieces on cock, to go down on their knees at the window, and to rest the muzzles of their muskets on the sill, but not project them out more than two or three inches. He concluded by telling them not to fire a shot until they heard the report of his musket; that then they were to pepper away as hard as they could pelt, taking, however, a sure and steady aim at every shot. In the meantime the bushmen, whose advance had been, and still was, very slow and cautious, as if they dreaded an ambuscade, had approached to within seventy yards of the house. Thinking them yet too distant to make sure of them, we allowed them to come nearer. They did so; but they had now assumed a stealthy step, walking lightly, as if they feared that their footfalls should be heard. They were led on by one of their number; at least there was one man considerably in advance of his fellows. He was armed with a sword, as we saw it flashing in the moonlight. The party, handling their guns in readiness to fire, on the slightest alarm, at any living object that might present itself, were now within thirty or forty yards of the house, and had halted to reconnoitre; when the sergeant, who had been on his knees for several minutes before, with his piece at his eye, said softly, "Now," and fired. Whether he had aimed at the foremost man of the gang, I do not know; but if so, he had missed him, for he still stood firm. At this person, however, I now levelled, fired, and down he came. In the next instant the shots were rapping thick and fast from the different windows of the house. The bushrangers, taken by surprise, paused for an instant, returned two or three straggling shots, and then fled in the utmost consternation and disorder. We kept pelting after them for a few minutes, and then, quitting the house, gave them chase, with a whooping and hallooing that must have added in no small degree to their terror. In this chase we overtook two that had been severely wounded, and came upon a third near the skirt of the wood, who, after running so far, had dropped down dead. The others, who had fled, some of whom, we had no doubt, were also wounded, escaped by getting into the forest, where it was no use looking for them. The two wounded men we made prisoners, and carried back to the house. As we were returning, we came upon the man whom I had brought down. Being extended motionless on the ground at full length, we thought him dead, and were about to pass on, intending to leave him where he lay till the morning, when I thought I heard him breathing. I knelt down beside him, looked narrowly into his face, and found that he was still living. On discovering this, we had the unfortunate man carried to the house; and having placed him on a mattress, staunched the bleeding of his wound, which was on the right breast, and administered a little brandy and water, which almost immediately revived him. He opened his eyes, began to breathe more freely, and in a short time was so far recovered as to be able to speak, although with difficulty. The excitement of the fray over, if the late affair could be so called, my heart bled within me for the unhappy wretch who had been reduced by my hand to the deplorable condition in which he now lay before me. My conscience rose up against me, and would not be laid by any suggestions of the necessity that prompted the deed. In my anxiety to make what reparation I could for what now seemed to me my cruelty, I sat by the miserable sufferer, ready and eager to supply any want he might express, and to administer what comfort I could do him in his dying moments; for that he was dying, notwithstanding the temporary revival alluded to, was but too evident from his ghastly look and rapidly glazing eye. It was while I thus sat by the unhappy man, and while silently contemplating his pallid countenance, by the faint light of a lamp that hung against the wall of the apartment, that I suddenly thought I perceived in that countenance some traces of features that I had seen before. Whose they were, or where I had seen them, I did not at first recollect. But the idea having once presented itself, I kept hunting it through all the recesses of my memory. At length Digby occurred to me. But no, Digby it could not be. Impossible. I looked on the countenance of the sufferer again. It was slightly distorted with pain, and all trace of the resemblance I had fancied was gone. An interval of ease succeeded. The real or imagined resemblance returned. Again I lost sight of it, and again I caught it; for it was only in some points of view I could detect it at all. At length, after marking for some time longer, with intense interest, the features of the sufferer, my conviction becoming every moment stronger and stronger, and my agitation in consequence extreme, I bent my head close to the dying man, and, taking his cold and clammy hand in mine, asked him, in a whisper, if his name was not Digby. His eyes were closed at the moment, but I saw he was not sleeping. On my putting the question, he opened them wide, and stared wildly upon me, but without saying a word. He seemed to be endeavouring to recognise me, but apparently in vain. I repeated the question. This time he answered. Still gazing earnestly at me, he said, and it was all he did say, "It is." "Don't you know me?" I inquired. He shook his head. "My name is Lorimer," said I. "Thank God," he exclaimed solemnly. "For one, at least, of my crimes it is permitted me to make some reparation. Haste, haste, get witnesses and hear my dying declaration. There's no time to lose, for I feel I am fast going!" Without a moment's delay--- for I felt the importance of obtaining the declaration, which I had no doubt would establish my innocence--I ran for my father and Sergeant Lindsay, and, to make assurance doubly sure, brought two of the privates also along with me. It was a striking scene of retributive justice, On our entering the apartment where Digby lay, the wretched man raised himself upon his elbow. I ran and placed two pillows beneath him to support him. He thanked me. Then raising his hand impressively, and directing it towards me-- "That young man there," he said, "David Lorimer, is, as I declare on the word of a dying man, innocent of the crime for which he was banished to this country. I, and no other, am the guilty person. It was I who robbed my master, Mr. Wallscourt, of the silver plate for which this young man was blamed; and it was I who put the silver spoon in his pocket, in order to substantiate the charge I subsequently brought against him, and in which I was but too successful." He then added, that in case his declaration should not be deemed sufficient to clear me of the guilt imputed to me, we should endeavour to find out a person of the name of Nareby--Thomas Nareby--who, he said, was in the colony under sentence of transportation for life for housebreaking; and that this person, who had been, at the time of the robbery for which I suffered, a receiver of stolen goods, and with whom he, Digby, had deposited Mr. Wallscourt's plate, would acknowledge--at least he hoped so--this transaction, and thus add to the weight of his dying testimony to my innocence. Digby having concluded, I immediately committed what he had just said to writing, and having read it over to him, obtained his approval of it. He then, of his own accord, offered to subscribe the declaration, and with some difficulty accomplished the task. The signature was hardly legible, but it was quite sufficient when attested, as it was, by the signatures of all present excepting myself. Exhausted with the effort he had made, Digby now sank back on his pillow, and in less than three minutes after expired. We now learned from the unhappy man's two wounded companions, who, the reader will recollect, were our prisoners, that, soon after my trial and condemnation, he, Digby, had left Mr. Wallscourt's service, not under any suspicion of the robbery of the plate, but with no very good general character; that he had the betaken himself entirely to live with the abandoned characters whose acquaintance he had formed, and to subsist by swindling and robbery; that he had proceeded from crime to crime, until he at length fell into the hands of justice; and his banishment to the colony where he had arrived about six months before, was the result; that he had not been more than a month in the country when he and several other convicts ran away from the master to whom they had been assigned, and took to the bush. Such was the brief but dismal history of this wretched man. On the following day we buried his remains in a lonely spot in the forest, at the distance of about half a mile from the house, and thereafter proceeded with our prisoners to Liverpool. On arriving there, I accompanied my father to the magistrate on whom he had waited on a former occasion, and having stated to this gentleman the extraordinary circumstance which had taken place--meaning Digby's declaration--he advised an immediate application to the governor, setting forth the circumstances of the case. This I lost no time in doing, enclosing within my memorial Digby's attested declaration, and pointing out Nareby as a person likely to confirm its tenor. The singularity and apparent hardship of the case, combined with the favourable knowledge of me previously existing, attracted the attention of the governor in a special manner, and excited in him so lively an interest, that he instantly had Nareby subjected to a judicial examination, the result of which was a full admission on the part of that person of the transaction to which Digby alluded. Satisfied now of my innocence, and of the injustice which had been unwittingly done me, the governor not only immediately transmitted me a full and free pardon but offered me, by way of compensation, a lucrative government appointment. This appointment I accepted, and held for thirty years, I trust with credit to myself, and satisfaction to my superiors. At the end of this period, feeling my health giving way, my father and mother having both, in the meantime, died, and having all that time scraped together a competency, I returned to my native land, and have written these little memoirs in one of the pleasantest little retirements on the banks of the Tweed. I have only now to add, that I had frequent opportunities of seeing both Lindsay and his wife after the establishment of my innocence, and that no persons would more sincerely rejoice in that event than they did. My poor mother, whom my father had made aware of my situation soon after my arrival, and who had borne the intelligence much better than we expected, it put nearly distracted with joy. "My puir laddie," she exclaimed, "I aye kent to be innocent. But noo the world 'll ken it too, and I can die happy." THE AMATEUR ROBBERY. If there is anything more than another of which civilisation has reason to be proud, it is the amelioration that has been effected in punishment for crimes. Nor is it yet very long since we began to get quit of the shame of our folly and inhumanity, if we have not traces of these yet, coming out like sympathetic ink dried by the choler of self-perfection and a false philosophy, as in such writings as the latter-day pamphlets. How a man who loves his species, and has a heart, will hang his head abashed as he turns his vision back no further than the sixteenth century, and sees the writhing creatures--often aged unhappy women--under the pilniewinkies, caschielaws, turkases, thumbikens, and other instruments of torture, frantically bursting out with the demanded confession that was to fit them for the stake or the rope! And even after these things in the curiosity shop of Nemesis were got rid of, the abettors of the law rushed with full swing into the operation of hanging, scarcely allowing a crime to escape, from cold-blooded murder down to the act of the famished wretch who snatched a roll from a baker's basket. However insensible these strange lawgivers may have been to so much cruelty, however blind to the perversity, prejudices, and weaknesses incident to human testimony, however ignorant of the total inefficacy of their remedy to deter from crime, one might have imagined that they could not but have known, if they ever looked inwardly into their own hearts, how obscure are human motives, and especially those that instigate to breaches of the law; and yet their consistent rule was, to make the _corpus delicti_ prove the intention. These considerations have been suggested to me by the recollection of a wild adventure of some young men in Edinburgh, the circumstances of which, not belonging to fiction, will show better than a learned dissertation how easy it was for these Dracos to catch the fact and miss the motive. The skeleton names--now, alas! the only representatives of skeleton bodies--Andrew W----pe, Henry S----k, and Charles S----th, may recall to the memory of some people in Edinburgh still, three young men, who, with good education, fair talents, and graces from nature, might have played a respectable _rôle_ in the drama of life, had it not been for a tendency to "fastness," a disease which seems to increase with civilisation. In their instance the old adage of Aristotle, _simile gaudet simili_, was exemplified to the letter; and the union confirmed in each a mind which, originally impatient of authority, fretted itself against the frame of society, simply because that frame was the result of order. They were never happy except when they went up to the palisades, struck upon them with their lath-blades, and when some orderly indweller looked over atop, ran away laughing. No doubt they had strong passions to gratify too; but, as is usual with this peculiar race of beings, the gratification was the keener the more it owed to a rebellion against decorum. If they ever differed, it was only in their rivalry of success; or when they did not go a spree-hunting together, they recounted their exploits at their nightly meetings, and then the result was an increase of moral inflammation. Sometimes, for a change, they would take strolls into the country, where they could extract as tribute the admiration or wrath of clodhoppers without being troubled with any fears of the police; not that on any of these occasions they perpetrated any great infringements on the law, for, like the rest of their kind, if they could make themselves objects of observation, they were regardless whether their bizarreries were paid with admiration or only anger or fear, though, if they could produce by any means a causeless panic, the very height of their ambition was attained. In regard to this last effect of their escapades, they were, in the instance I am about to record, more than satisfied. They had gone, on a fine, clear, winter day, along the coast of the Firth of Forth towards Cramond; and, to diversify their amusements, they took with them a gun, which was carried by S----th, with the intention of having a shot at any wild bird or barn-door fowl that might come conveniently within his range. Of this kind of game they had fewer chances, and the stroll would doubtless have appeared a very monotonous affair to a person fond of rational conversation. Nor was there much even to themselves of diversification till they got into a small change-house at Davidson's Mains, where, with a rampant authority, they contrived to get served up to them a kind of dinner, intending to make up for the want of better edibles by potations of whisky toddy. If facts, as Quinctilian says, are the bones of conversation, opinions are certainly its sinews; and we might add, that whisky toddy is its nervous fluid. These youths, though unwilling to acquire solid information, could wrangle even to quarrelling; but such were their affinities, that they adhered again in a short time, and were as firm friends as ever. They had raised a subject--no other than the question whether highwaymen are necessarily or generally possessed of true courage. Very absurd, no doubt, but as good for a wrangle as any other that can be divided into affirmative and negative by the refracting medium of feeling or prejudice. S----th declared them all to be cowards. "What say you to Cartouche?" said S----k; "was he a coward?" "Not sure but he was," said S----th; "he kept a band of blackguards and received their pay, but he was seldom seen in the wild _mélee_ himself. He was fond of the name of terror he bore; but then, as he listened to the wonderful things the Parisian _blanchisseuses_ and _chiffonniers_ and _gamins_ said of him, he knew he was not recognisable, for the very reason that he kept out of sight." "Oh yes," said W----pe, who joined S----k; "and so he was like Wallace, who kept out of the sight of the English, and yet delighted in Dundee to hear himself spoken of by the crowds who collected in these troublesome times to discuss public affairs. S----th, you know Wallace was a coward, don't you?" "A thorough poltroon," cried S----th, laughing; "ay, and all the people in Scotland are wrong about him. Didn't he run off, after stabbing the governor's son? and he was always skulking about the Cartland Crags. Then, didn't he flee at the battle of Falkirk; and was he not a robber when Scotland belonged to Longshanks? No doubt the fellow had a big body, strong bones, and good thews; but that he had the real pluck that nerved the little bodies of such men as Nelson, or Suwarrow, ay, or of Napoleon, I deny." Then he began a ludicrous singing, see-saw recitation of the English doggrel-- "The noble wight, The Wallace dight, Who slew the knight On Beltane night, And ran for fright Of English might, And English fight, And English right;" and so on in drunken ribaldry. "All very well for you who are a Shamite, Shmite, Shmith, Smith," said W----pe. "We happen to be Japhetites. Then what say you to Rob Roy?" "That, in the first place," replied S----th, "he was a Shemite; for Gathelus, the first Scottish monarch, was a grandson of Nimrod, and, what is worse, he married Scota, the daughter of an Egyptian queen, so there was a spice of Ham in Rob; and as all the Hamites were robbers, Rob was a robber too;--as to whose cowardice there is no doubt whatever; for a man who steals another man's cattle in the dark must be a coward. Did you ever hear one single example of Rob attacking when in good daylight, and fighting for them in the sun?" "Ingenious, S----th, at any rate," roared S----k; "but I don't agree with you. A robber on the highway, must, in the general case, have courage. He braves public opinion, he laughs at the gallows, and he throws himself right against a man in bold competition, without knowing often whether he is a giant or a dwarf." "All the elements of a batter pudding," cried S----th, "without the battering principle. Ay, you forget the head-battering bludgeon, the instantaneous pistol, or the cunning knife; none of all which would a man with a spark of courage in him use against an unarmed, defenceless traveller. Another thing you forget, the robber acts upon surprises. He produces confusion by his very presentation, fear by his demand of life or money; and when the poor devil's head is running round, he runs away with his watch or his purse, perhaps both. 'Tis all selfishness, pure unadulterated selfishness; and will you tell me that a man without a particle of honesty or generosity can have courage?" "Not moral courage, perhaps; but he may have physical." "All the same, no difference," continued the doughty S----th. "Who ever heard of a bodily feeling except as something coming through the body? There are only two physical feelings: pain in being wounded or starved, and pleasure in being relieved from pain, or fed when hungry or thirsty. I know none other; all the others are moral feelings." "You may be bold through drink acting on the stomach and head." "Ay, but the boldness, though the effect of a physical cause, is itself a moral entity." "Whoever thought that S----th was such a metaphysician!" said W----pe, a little agoggled in his drunken eyes. "But the same may be said of every feeling," rejoined S----k, somewhat roused to ambition by W----pe's remark. "And so it may, my little Aristotle," continued the clever asserter of his original proposition. "Why, man, look ye, what takes you into Miss F----'s shop in Princes Street for snuff, when you never produce a physical titillation in your nose by a single pinch? Why, it's something you call love, a terribly moral thing, though personified by a little fellow with pinions. Yes, wondrously moral; and sometimes, as in your case, immoral. Well, what is it produced by? The face of the said Miss F---- painted as a sun picture in the camera at the back of your eye, where there is a membrane without a particle of nitrate of silver in its composition, and which yet receives the image. Well, what is love but just the titillation produced by this image imprinted on your flesh, just as the pleasure of a pinch is the effect of a titillation of the nerves in the nose? Yet we don't say that snuff pleasure is a moral thing, but merely nasal or bodily. What makes the difference?" "How S----th is coming it!" said W----pe, still more amazed. "Where the devil has he got all this?" "Why, the difference lies here. You know, by manipulation and blowing it, that you have a nose; but you don't wipe the retina at the back of your eye when you are weeping for love--only the outside, where the puling tears are. In short, you know you have a nose, but you don't know you have a retina. D'ye catch me, my small Stagyrite, my petit Peripatetic, my comical Academician, eh? Take your toddy, and let's have a touch of moral drunkenness." "You ray-ther have me on the hip, S----th." "Ay, just so; and if I should kick you there, you would not say the pain was a moral thing. All through the same. It's just where and when we don't know the medium we say things are moral and spiritual, and poetical and rational, and all the rest of the humbug." "But though you say all highwaymen are cowards, you won't try that trick with your foot," said S----k, boiling up a little under the fire of the toddy. "Don't intend; though, if you were to produce moral courage in me by pinching my nose, I think I could, after making up my mind and putting you upon your guard with a stick in your hand if you chose. Eh! my Peripatetic." And S----th was clearly getting drunk too. "D----n the fellow, his metaphysics are making him [Transcriber's Note: missing part of this word] dent," cried W----pe. "Why, you don't see where they hit," said S----th drawlingly. "Somewhere about the pineal; and therefore we say impudence is moral, sometimes immoral, as just now when you damned me. No more of your old junk, I say, sitting here in my cathedra, which by the way is spring-bottomed, which may account for my moral elasticity that a highwayman is a coward." "Well," cried S----k, starting up. "I'll deposit a pound with W----pe, on a bet that you'll not take sixpence from the first bumpkin we meet on the road, by the old watchword, 'Stand and deliver;' and you'll have the gun to boot." "Ay, that's a physical bribe," cried W----pe; and, after pausing a little, "The fellow flinches." "And surely the reverse must hold," added S----k, "that, being a coward, he must be a highwayman." "Why, you see, gents," said S----th coolly, "I don't mind a very great deal, you know, though I do take said sixpence from said bumpkin; but I won't do it, you know, on compulsion." "If there's no compulsion, there's no robbery," said S----k. "Oh, I mean _your_ compulsion. As for mine, exercised on said bumpkin, let me alone for that part of the small affair; but none of your compulsion, if you love me. I can do anything, but not upon compulsion, you know." "Done then!" "Why, ye-e-s," drawled S----th, "done; I may say, gents, done; but I say with Sir John, don't misunderstand me, not upon compulsion, you know." "Your own free will," shouted both the others, now pretty well to do in the world of dithyrambics. "Here's your instrument for extorting the sixpence by force or fear." And this young man, half inebriated--with, we may here say parenthetically, a mother living in a garret in James' Square, with one son and an only daughter of a respectable though poor man, and who trusted to her son for being the means of her support--qualified, as we have seen, by high parts to extort from society respect, and we may add, though that has not appeared, to conciliate love and admiration--took willingly into his hand the old rusty "Innes," to perpetrate upon the highway a robbery. And would he do it? You had only to look upon his face for an instant to be certain that he would; for he had all the lineaments of a young man of indomitable courage and resolution--the steady eye, the firm lip, all under the high brows of intellect, nor unmixed with the beauty that belongs to these moral expressions which in the playfulness of the social hour he had been reducing to materialism, well knowing all the while that he was arguing for effect and applause from those who only gave him the return of stultified petulance. What if that mother and sister, who loved him, and wept day and night over the wild follies that consumed his energies and demoralized his heart, had seen him now! The bill was paid by S----k, who happened to have money, and who gave it on the implied condition of a similar one for all on another occasion. They went, or, as the phrase is often, sallied forth. The night had now come down with her black shadows. There was no moon. She was dispensing her favours among savages in another hemisphere, who, savages though they were, might have their devotions to their strange gods, resident with her up yonder, where no robbery is, save that of light from the pure fountain of heat and life. Yes, the darkness was auspicious to folly, as it often is to vice; and there was quietness too--no winds abroad to speak voices through rustling leaves, to terrify the criminal from his wild rebellion against the peace of nature. No night could have suited them better. Yes, all was favourable but God; and Him these wild youths had offended, as disobedient sons of poor parents, who had educated them well--as rebellious citizens among a society which would have hailed them as ornaments--as despisers of God's temple, where grace was held out to them and spurned. They were now upon the low road leading parallel to the beach, and towards the end of Inverleith Row. Nor had the devil left them with the deserted toddy-bowl. There was still pride for S----th, and for the others the rankling sense of inferiority in talent and of injury from scorching irony. Nor had they proceeded two miles, till the fatal opportunity loomed in the dark, in the form of a figure coming up from Leith or Edinburgh. Now, S----th; Now, the cowardly Cartouche; Now, the poltroon Rob Roy; Now, the braggart Wallace! But S----th did not need the taunts, nor, though many a patriotic cause wanted such a youth, was he left for other work, that night of devil-worship. The figure approached. Alas! the work so easy. S----th was right; how easy and cowardly, where the stranger was, in the confidence of his own heart, unprepared, unweaponed! Yet those who urged him on leapt a dyke. "Stand and deliver!" said S----th, with a handkerchief over his face. "God help me!" cried the man, in a fit of newborn fear. "I'm a father, have wife and bairns; but I canna spare my life to a highwayman. Here, here, here." And fumbling nervously in his pocket, and shaking all over, not at all like the old object of similitude, but rather like a branch of a tree driven by the wind, he thrust something into S----th's hand, and rushing past him, was off on the road homewards. Nor was it a quick walk under fear, but a run, as if he thought he was or would be pursued for his life, or brought down by the long range of the gun he had seen in the hands of the robber. Yes, it was easily done, and it was done; but how to be undone at a time when the craving maw of the noose dangled from the post, in obedience to the Procrustes of the time! And S----th felt it was done. His hand still held what the man had pushed into it, but by-and-by it was as fire. His brain reeled; he staggered, and would have fallen, but for S----k, who, leaping the dyke, came behind him. "What luck?" "This," said S----th,--"the price of my life," throwing on the ground the paper roll. "Pound-notes," cried S----k, taking them up. "One, two, three, four, five; more than sixpence." "Where is the man?" cried S----th, as, seizing the notes from the hands of S----k, he turned round. Then, throwing down the gun, he set off after his victim; but the latter was now ahead, though his pursuer heard the clatter of his heavy shoes on the metal road. "Ho, there! stop! 'twas a joke--a bet." No answer, and couldn't be. The man naturally thought the halloo was for further compulsion, under the idea that he had more to give, and on he sped with increased celerity and terror; nor is it supposed that he stopt till he got to his own house, a mile beyond Davidson's Mains. Smith gave up the pursuit, and with the notes in his hand, ready to be cast away at every exacerbation of his fear, returned to his cowardly companions with hanging head and, if they had seen, with eyes rolling, as if he did not know where to look or what to do. "What is to be done?" he cried; and his fears shook the others. "Yes, what is to be done? You urged me on. Try to help me out. Let us go back and seek out this man. To-morrow it may be too late, when the police have had this robbery in their hands as a thing intended." "We could not find the man though we went back," said S----k. And his companions agreed. But W----pe, who had some acquaintanceship with the police Captain Stewart, proposed that they should proceed homewards, go to him, give him the money, and tell the story out. "That, I fear, would be putting one's hand in the mouth of the hyaena at the moment he is laughing with hunger, as they say he does." An opinion which S----th feared was too well founded. Nearly at their wits' end, they stood all three for a little quite silent, till the sound of a horse's clattering feet sounded as if coming from Davidson's Mains. All under the conviction of crime, they became alarmed; and as the rider approached, they concealed themselves behind the dyke, which ran by the side of the road. At that moment a man came as if from Edinburgh, and they could hear the rider, who did not, from his voice, appear to be the man who had been robbed, inquiring if he had met a young man with a gun in his hand. The man answered no, and off set the rider towards town at the rate of a hard trot. The few hopeful moments when anything could have been done effectually as a palinode and expiation were past; and S----th, releaping the dyke, was again upon the road in the depth of despair, and his companions scarcely less so. All his and their escapades had hitherto been at least within the bounds of the law; and though his heart had often misgiven him, when called upon for the nourishment of his wild humours, as he thought of his widowed mother at home, without the comfort of the son she loved in spite of his errors, he had not ever yet felt the pangs of deep regret as they came preluding amendment. A terrible influx of feelings, which had been accumulating almost unknown to him during months and months--for his father had been dead only for a year and a half--pushed up against all the strainings of a wild natural temperament, and seemed ready to choke him, depriving him of utterance, and making him appear the very coward he had been depicting so sharply an hour before. A deep gloom fell over him; nor was this rendered less inspissated by the recollection that came quick as lightning, that he was the only one known to the mistress of the inn. And now, worse and worse--for the same power that sent him that conviction threw a suspicion over his mind which made him strike his forehead with an energy alarming to his companions--no other--"O, merciful God!" he muttered--than that the man he had robbed was his maternal uncle; the only man among the friends of either his father or his mother who had shown any sympathy to the bereaved family, who had fed them and kept them from starvation, and by whom he had been himself nourished. He had no power to speak this: it was one of those thoughts that scathe the nerves that serve the tongue, and which flit and burn, and will not ameliorate their fierceness by the common means given to man in mercy. It now appeared to him as something miraculous why he did not recognise him; but the occasion was one of hurry and confusion, and so completely oblivious had he been in the agony which came on him in an instant, that he even thought that at the very moment he knew him, looking darkly, as he did, through the handkerchief over his eyes. In his despair, he meditated hurrying to Leith, and with the five pounds getting a passage over the sea somewhere, it signified nothing where, if away from the scene of his crime and ingratitude; and this resolution was confirmed by the additional thought that Mr. Henderson, however good and generous, was a stern man--so stern, that he had ten years before given up a beloved son into the hands of justice for stealing; yea, stern _ex corde_ as Cato, if generous _ex crumena_ as Codrus. This resolution for a time brought back his love of freedom and adventure. He would go to Hudson's Bay, and shoot bears or set traps for wild silver-foxes, that would bring him gold; or to Buenos Ayres, and catch the wild horse with the lasso; or to Lima, and become a soldier of fortune, and slay men with the sword. The gleam of wild hope was shortlived--his triumph over his present ill a temporary hallucination. The laurel is the only tree which burns and crackles when green. The intention fled, as once more the thought of his mother came, with that vigour which was only of half an hour's birth, and begotten by young conscience on old neglect. They had been trailing their legs along till they came to Inverleith Row, where he behoved to have left his companions, if his resolution lasted; for the road there goes straight on to Leith Harbour. He hesitated, and made an effort; but S----k, who knew him, and fancied from the wild look of his eye that he meditated throwing himself into the deep harbour of Leith, took him by an arm, motioning to W----pe to take the other, and thus by a very small effort--for really his resolution had departed, and his mind, so far as his intention went, was gone--they half forced him up the long row. When they arrived at Canonmills, here is the rider again, hurrying on: he had executed his commission, whatever it was, and was galloping home. But the moment he came forward, he pulled up. He had, by a glance under the light of a lamp, caught a sight of the gun in the hands of S----k, who had carried it when he took S----th's arm. The man shouted to a policeman, "Seize that robber!" "Which of them?" "Him with the gun." And in an instant the cowardly dog who had done the whole business was laid hold of. "The gun is mine," cried S----th. "It is I who am answerable for whatever was done by him who carried that weapon. Take me, and let the innocent off. I say this young man is innocent." "Very gallant and noble," said the man; "but when we go to the hills, we like the deer that bears the horns." "We are up to them tricks," said the policeman. And S----k is borne along, with courage, if he ever had any, gone, and his eye looking terror. S----th wanted to go along with him; but W----pe seized him by the arm again and dragged him up by the east side of Huntly Street, whereby they could get easily to James' Square. In a few minutes more S----th was at his mother's door with the burning five pounds in his pocket. He had meditated throwing it away, but the hurrying concourse of thoughts had prevented the insufficient remedy from being carried into effect. When he opened the door he found his mother alone. The sister had not yet come from the warehouse where she earned five shillings a week, almost the only source of her and the mother's living; for the money which S----th earned as a mere copying clerk in a writer's office, went mostly in some other direction. The mother soon observed, as she cast her eye over him, that there was something more than ordinary out of even his irregular way. He was pale, woe-worn, haggard; nor did he seem able to stand, but hurried to a chair and flung himself down, uttering confusedly, "Something to drink, mother----whisky." "I hae nane, Charlie, lad," said she. "Never hae I passed a day like this since your father died. I have na e'en got the bit meat that a' get that are under God's protection. But what ails ye, dear Charlie?" "Never mind me," replied the youth in choking accents. "I am better. Starving, starving! O God! and my doing. Yes, I am better--a bitter cure--starving," he again muttered; and searching his pockets, and throwing the five pounds on the table--"There, there, there," he added. The mother took up the notes, and counted them slowly; for she had been inured to grief, and was always calm, even when her heart beat fast with the throbs of anguish. "And whaur fae, laddie?" she said, as she turned her grey eye and scanned deeply the pale face of her son. Silent, even dogged! Where now his metaphysics, his gibes on the physicalities, the moralities, the spiritualities?--all bundled up in a vibrating chord. "Whaur fae, Charlie," had she repeated, still looking at him. "The devil!" cried he, stung by her searching look, which brought back a gleam of the old rebellion. "A gude paymaster to his servants," she said; "but I'm no ane o' them yet; and may the Lord, wham I serve, even while his chastening hand is heavy upon me, preserve me frae his bribes!" And laying down the notes, she added, not lightly, as it might seem, but seriously, yet quietly, "Nae wonder they're warm." The notes had carried the heat of his burning hand. "The auld story--billiards," said she again; "for they are the devil's cue and balls." No answer; and the mother seating herself again, looked stedfastly and suspiciously at him; but she could not catch the eye of her son, who sat doggedly determined not to reveal his secret, and as determined also to elude her looks, searching as they were, and sufficient to enter his very soul. Yet she loved him too well to objurgate where she was only as yet suspicious; and in the quietness of the hour, she fell for a moment into her widowed habit of speaking as if none were present but herself. "Wharfor bore I him--wharfor toiled and wrought for him for sae mony years, since the time he sat on my knee smiling in my face, as if he said, I will comfort you when you are old, and will be your stay and support? Was that smile then a lee, put there by the devil, wha has gi'en him the money to deceive me again?" Then she paused. "And how could that be? Love is not a cheat; and did ever bairn love a mither as he loved me? or did ever mither love her bairn as I hae loved him? Lord, deliver him frae his enemies, and mak him what he was in thae bygone days--sae innocent, sae cheerful, sae obedient; and I will meekly suffer a' Thou canst lay upon me." The words reached the ears of the son, and the audible sobs seemed to startle the solemn spirit of the hour and the place. "What would she say," he thought, "if she heard me declare I had robbed my uncle?" At that moment the door opened, and in rushed little Jeanie S----th,--her face pale, and her blue eyes lighted with fear, and the thin delicate nostril distended, and hissing with her quick breathings,-- "Oh mither, there's twa officers on the stair seeking Charlie!" And the quick creature, darting her eye on the table where the notes lay, snatched them up, and secreted them in her bosom; and, what was more extraordinary, just as if she had divined something more from her brother's looks, which told her that that money would be sought for by these officers, she darted off like a bird with a crumb in its bill, which it has picked up from beneath your eyes; but not before depositing, as she passed, a paper on a chair near the door. "That creature is a spirit," said the mother. "She sees the evil in the dark before it comes, and wards it off like a guardian angel; but oh! she has little in her power to be an angel." And rising, she took up the paper. It was only some bread and cheese, which the girl, knowing the privations of her mother, had bought with a part of her five shillings a week. Thereafter, just as little Jeannie had intimated, came in two officers, with the usual looks of duty appearing through their professional sorrow. "We want your son, good woman." "He is there," said she; "but what want ye him for?" "Not for going to church," said the man, forgetting said professional sorrow in his love of a joke, "but for robbery on the highway; and we must search the house for five pounds in British Linen Company notes." And the men proceeded to search, even putting their hands in the mother's pockets, besides rifling those of the son. They of course found nothing except the powder and shot, which had still remained there, and a handkerchief. "That is something, anyhow," said one of the men, "and a great deal too. The one who is up in the office says true; he was not the man." "No more he was," said Charles. "I am the man you ought to take; and take me." "Sae, sae; just as I suspected," muttered the mother. "Lord, Lord! the cup runs over. It was e'en lipping when John died; but I will bear yet." And she seemed to grasp firmly the back of a chair, and compressed her lips--an attitude she maintained like a statue all the time occupied by the departure of her son. The door closed--he was gone; and she still stood, the _vivum cadaver_--the image of a petrified creature of misery. Yet, overcome as her very calmness was, and enchanted for the moment into voicelessness and utter inaction, she was not that kind of women who sit and bear the stripes without an effort to ward them off. If Jeannie was as quick as lightning, she was sure as that which follows the flash. She thought for a moment, "God does not absolutely and for ever leave his servants." Some thought had struck her. She put on her bonnet and cloak deliberately, even looking into the glass to see if she was tidy enough for where she intended going, and for whom she intended to see. And now this quiet woman is on her way down Broughton Street at twelve o'clock of a cold winter night, which, like her own mind, had only that calmness which results from the exhaustion of sudden biting gusts from the north, and therefore right in her face. She drew her cloak round her. She had a long way to go, but her son was in danger of the gallows; and thoughtless, and as it now seemed, wicked as he was, he was yet her _son_. The very word is a volume of heart language--not the fitful expression of passion, but that quiet eloquence which bedews the eye and brings deep sighs with holy recollections of the child-time, and germinating hopes of future happiness up to the period when he would hang over her departing spirit. Much of all that had gone, and been replaced by dark forebodings of the future; and now there was before her the vision of an ignominious death as the termination of all these holy inspirations. But her faithful saying was always, "Wait, hope, and persevere;" and the saying was muttered a hundred times as she trudged weariedly, oh! how weariedly, for one who had scarcely tasted food for that day, and who had left untouched the gift brought by her loving daughter that night--for which, plain as it was, her heart yearned even amidst its grief, yea, though grief is said, untruly no doubt, to have no appetite. Perhaps not to those who are well fed; but nature is stronger than even grief, and she now felt the consequence of her disobedience to her behests in her shaking limbs and fainting heart. Yet she trudged and trudged on, shutting her mouth against her empty stomach to keep out the cold north wind. She is at the foot of Inverleith Row, and her face is to the west; she will now escape the desultory blasts by keeping close by the long running dyke. She passes the scene of the robbery without knowing it; else, doubtless, she would have stood and examined it by those instincts that force the spirit to such modes of satisfaction, as if the inanimate thing could calm the spiritual. She was now drawing to Davidson's Mains: a little longer, and much past midnight, she was rapping, still in her quiet way, at the door of her brother. The family had had something else to do than to sleep. There were the sounds of tongues and high words. Mrs. S----th was surprised, as well she might; for though sometimes Mr. Henderson partook freely of the bottle when he met old friends in town, he and the whole household were peaceable, orderly, and early goers to bed. The door was opened almost upon the instant; and Mrs. S----th was presently before Mr. Henderson and two others, one of whom held in his hand a whip. "What has brought you here, Margaret, at this hour?" "I want to speak privately to you." "Just here; out with it," said he. "These are my friends; and if it is more money you want, you have come at an unlucky time, for I have been robbed by a villain of five pounds, which I could ill spare." Mrs. S----th's heart died away within her. She clenched her hands to keep her from shaking; for she recollected the old story about his own son--a story which had got him the character of being harsh and unnatural. She could not mention her errand, which was nothing else than to induce her brother to use his influence in some way to get Charles out of the hands of the law. She could not utter even the word Charles, and all she could say was-- "Robbed!" "Ay, robbed by a villain, whom I shall hang three cubits higher than Haman." And the stern man even laughed at the thought of retribution. Yet, withal, no man could deny his generosity and general kindliness, if, even immediately after, he did not show it by slipping a pound into the hands of his needy sister. "There," said he; "no more at present. I will call up and see you to-morrow morning, as I go to the police office to identify the villain. Meantime, take a dram, dear Peggy, and get home to bed. The night is cold, and see that you wrap yourself well up to keep _out_ the wind and _in_ the spirit; it's good whisky." Shortly afterwards she was on her way home, with more than blasted hopes of what she had travelled for. His uncle the man he had robbed! Even with all her forced composedness, this seemed too much--ay, so much too much, that she was totally overpowered. She paused to recover strength; and, looking forward, saw a thin flying shadow coming up to her, with a shriek of delight; and immediately she was hugged rapturously and kissed all over by little Jeannie, whose movements, as they ever were--so agile, so quick, so Protean--appeared to her, now that she was stolid with despair, as the postures and gestures of a creature appearing in a dream. "Oh, I know all," she cried; "don't speak--nay, wait now till I return." And the creature was off like a September meteor disappearing in the west, as if to make up again to the sun, far down away behind the hills from whence it had been struck off in the height of the day. What can the strange creature mean? But she had had experience of her, and knew the instinctive divination that got at objects and results where reason in full-grown man would syllogize into the darkness of despair. Nor was it long before she is running back, leaping with all the _abandon_ of a romp, crying-- "I will save dear Charlie yet; for I love him as much as I hate that old curmudgeon." "What does the girl mean? Whaur was you, bairn?" said her mother. "Oh mother, how cold it is for you! Wrap the cloak about you." "But what _is_ it that you mean, Jeannie?" "We shall be home by-and-by; come." And, putting an arm round her mother's waist, she impelled her forward with the strength of her wythe of an arm. "Come, come, there are ghosts about these woods;" and then she cowered, but still impelled. Nor did the mother press the question she had already put twice; for, as we have said, she knew the nature of the girl, who ever took her own way, and had the art to make that way either filial obedience or loving conciliation. "Oh, I'm so frightened for these ghosts!" she continued. "You know there was a murder here once upon a time. They're so like myself--wicked, and won't answer when they're spoken to, as I would not answer you, dear mother, just now; but wait till to-morrow, and you shall see that I am your own loving Jeannie." "Weel, weel, bairn, we _will_ see. But, oh, I'm muckle afraid; d'ye know, Jeannie, Charlie has been robbing! And wha, think ye, was the man--wha but--" "Hush, hush, mother, I know it all already; but let me beneath your cloak, I'm so frightened." And the little sprite got in, keeping her head and the little cup of a bonnet protruding every moment to look round; yet if it could have been seen in the dark, with such a sly, half-humorous eye, as betokened one of those curiously-made creatures who seem to be formed for studies to the thoroughgoing decent pacers of the world's stage. "Ah! now we're all safe, as poor Charlie will be to-morrow," she cried, as they got to the foot of the long row, and she emerged in the light of one of the lamps, so like a flash from a cloud, running before her mother to get her to walk faster and faster, as if some scheme she had in her head was loitering under the impediment of her mother's wearied, oh, wearied step. Having at length reached home, Jeannie ran and got the fire as bright as her own eye, crying out occasionally, as she glanced about, "Poor Charlie in a dungeon!" and again, a few minutes after, when puffing at the fire with the bellows, "No fire for dear Charlie; all dark and dismal!" And then, running for the little paper packet with the cheese and bread, and setting it down, "But he'll see the sun to-morrow, and will sleep in his own bed to-morrow night too; that he shall. Now eat, mother, for you will be hungry; and see you this!" as she took from her pocket a very tiny bottle, which would hold somewhere about a glass. "Take that," filling out a little whisky. "Oh dear, dear bairn, where learnt ye a' that witchery?" said the mother, looking at her. But the sly look, sometimes without a trace of laughter in her face, was the only answer. And now they are stretched in bed in each other's arms; but it was a restless night for both. And how different the manifestations of the restlessness! The groans of the elder for the fate of her only boy, now suspended on the scales of justice--one branch of the balance to be lopt off by Nemesis, and the other left with a noose in the string whereon to hang that erring, yet still beloved son; hysterical laughs from Jeannie in her dreams, as she saw herself undo the kench, and Charlie let out, clapping his hands, and praying too, and kissing Jeannie, and other fantastic tricks of fancy in her own domain, unburdened with heavy clay which soils and presses upon her wings and binds her to earth, and to these monstrous likenesses of things, which she says are all a lying nature under the bonds of a blind fate, from where she cannot get free, even though she screams of murder and oppression and cruelty, and all the ills that earth-born flesh inherits from the first man. Yet, for all these deductions from the sleep they needed, Jeannie was up in the morning early, infusing tea for herself and mother, muttering, as she whisked about, "No breakfast for him made by me, who love him so dearly; but in this very house, ay, this night, he will have supper; and such a supper!" In the midst of these scenes in the little room, a knock came to the door. It was a policeman, to say that she and her mother must be up to the office by ten. "And shall we not?" said Jeannie, laughing; "wouldn't I have been there at any rate?" Then, a little after, came the stern Henderson, still ignorant of who robbed him. Mrs. S--th got up trembling, and looking at him with terror, so dark he appeared. "Where is Charles?" he said. "We don't know," said Jeannie, turning a side-glance at her mother. It was true she hated her uncle mortally, for the reason that, though he was to an extent generous to them, he was harsh too, and left them often poorly off, when from his wealth, which he concealed, he might have made them happy; and then how could they help the conduct of the son whose earnings ought to have relieved the uncle of even his small advances? But though Jeannie hated the curmudgeon, who was, if he could, to hang her brother--worth to her all the world and a bit of heaven--the mother saw some change in the girl's conduct towards her uncle. Though pure as snow, she flew to him and hugged him with the art of one of the denizens of rougedom, and kissed him, and all the time was acting some by-play with her nimble fingers. "Where is your box, you naughty uncle? Doesn't my mother like her eyes opened in the morning? Ah, here it is." And getting the box, she carried it to her mother, who was still more surprised; for she never had got a pinch from Mr. Henderson nor any one, though she sometimes, for her breathing, took a draught of a pipe at night. "It is empty, you witch," cried Henderson. "Ah! then, my mother will not get her eyes opened." And she returned it into his pocket with these said subtle fingers. The mother got dressed, and took a cup of Jeannie's tea, and in a few minutes they were all on their way to the police office. They found Captain Stewart in his room, and along with him the procurator-fiscal. "Come away, Mr. Henderson; this is a bad business," said Stewart. "The villain!" cried Henderson; "I hope he will hang for it." "Ay, if guilty though, only," replied the captain. "Would you know the man?" said the fiscal. "No, he had a napkin over his face; but I could guess something from his size and voice." "He admits the robbery," said Stewart; "but he has an absurd qualification about a frolic, which yet, I am bound to say, is supported by his accomplices." "Then the money, five pounds, has not been got," said the fiscal. "This is a great want; for without it, I don't see what we can make of the case." "Money here or money there, I've lost it anyhow; and if he isn't hanged, I'll not be pleased." "Was there any but one man engaged in the affair?" "Just one, and plenty." "He had a gun?" "Yes." "Would you know it?" "No. I was, to say the truth, too frightened to examine the instrument that was to shoot me." "Then we have nothing but the admission and the testimony of the accomplices, who say it was a frolic," said Stewart. "No frolic to me," cried Henderson. "Why then didn't they return the money?" "They say they called and ran after you, and that you would not wait to get it back." "Then why didn't they produce it to you?" said Henderson. "The money is appropriated." "A circumstance," said the fiscal, "in itself sufficient to rebut the frolic. Yes, the strength of the case is there." "So I thought," growled the man. "You wasn't in liquor?" "No." "Are you ever?" "I don't deny that in town I take a glass, but seldom so much as to affect my walking; never so much as make me dream I was robbed of money, and that too money gone from my pocket." "Where do you carry your money?" "In my waistcoat pocket. Sometimes I have carried a valuable bill home in my snuff-mull, when it was empty by chance." "Where had you the five pounds?" "I am not sure, but I think in my left waistcoat pocket." "And you gave it on demand? It was not rifled from you?" "I thrust it into the villain's hand, and ran." "Well, we must confront you with the supposed robber," said the captain. "But you seem to be in choler, and I caution you against a precipitate judgment. You may naturally think the admission of the young men enough, and that may make you see what perhaps may not be to be seen. I confess the admission of _three_ to be more than the law wants or wishes; yet there are peculiarities in this case that take it out of the general rules." Stewart then nodded to an officer, who went out and returned. "There stands the prisoner." "Charles S----th!" ejaculated the uncle: "my own nephew! execrable villain!" And he looked at the youth with bated breath and fiery eyes. There was silence for a few minutes. The officials looked pitiful. The mother hung down her head; and little Jeannie leered significantly, while she took the strings of her bonnet, tied them, undid them again, and flung away the ends till they went round her neck; nay, the playful minx was utterly dead to the condition of her brother who stood there, ashamed to look any one in the face, if he was not rather like an exhumed corpse; and we would not be far out if we said that she even laughed as she saw the curmudgeon staring like an angry mastiff at the brother she loved so well. But then, was she not an eccentric thing, driven hither and thither by vagrant impulses, and with thoughts in her head which nobody could understand? "Was this the man who robbed you, Mr. Henderson?" "Yes, the very man; now when I recollect. Stay, was there any handkerchief found on him?" "Yes; that," said an officer, producing a red silk handkerchief. "Why, I gave him that," said Mr. Henderson. "It cost me 4s. 6d.; and it was that he had over his face when he robbed me of my hard-earned money!" "It is true," said Charles; "and sorry am I for the frolic, which my companions forced me into." "A frolic with five pounds at its credit," said Mr. Henderson. "Where is the money, sir?" "Ah! I know, dear uncle," cried the watchful Jeannie, in a piercing treble of the clearest silver. All eyes were turned on Jeannie. "Then where is it, girl?" "I saw him put it in his snuff-mull last night when he was at mother's." "Examine your box, Mr. Henderson." The man growled, took out the box, and there was the five pounds. He looked at Jeannie as if he would have devoured her with his nose at a single pinch. "Was Mr. Henderson sober, Miss S----th?" "No." "Was he drunk?" "No. Only he couldn't stand scarcely, though he could walk; and he called mother Jeannie, and me Peggy, and he said 'twas a shame in us to burn two candles at his expense, when one was enough." "_Saved by a pinch_," cried Captain Stewart. "Mr. Henderson," said the fiscal, "the case is done, and would never have come here if your nose had happened last night to be as itchy as your hand. The prisoner is discharged." And no sooner had the words been uttered than Jeannie flew to her brother, hung round his neck, kissed him, blubbered and played such antics that the fiscal could not refrain searching for his handkerchief. He found it too; but just as if this article were no part of his official property, he returned it to his pocket; and then, as he saw Charles leaning on his mother's breast, and making more noise with his heart and lungs than he could have done if he had been hanged, he resolved, after due deliberation, to let the "hanging drop" have its own way in sticking on the top of his cheek, and determined not to fall for all his jerking. "BARBADOES, _15th July_ 18--. "MY DEAREST LITTLE JEANNIE,--I am at length settled the manager of a great sugar factory, with £400 a year. Tell your mother I will write her by next post; and all I can say meantime is, that Messrs. Coutts and Co. will pay her £100 a year, half-yearly, till I return to keep you, for saving me from the gallows. Accept the offer of the old man. He is worth £500 a year; and you're just the little winged spirit that will keep up a fire of life in a good heart only a little out of use. "_P.S._--Tell uncle that I will send him five pounds of snuff, by next ship, in return for the five pounds I took out of his box on that eventful night, which was the beginning of my reformation. "Tell Mrs. S----k and Mrs. W----pe that their sons arrived at Jamaica; but, poor fellows, they are both dead. "The same vessel that carries the snuff will convey to mother a hogshead of sugar and a puncheon of rum. So that at night, in place of the tiny phial which held a glass, and which you used to draw out of your pocket so slily when mother was weakly, you may now mix for her a tumbler of rum-punch; and if you don't take some too, I'll send you no more. But, hark ye, Jeannie, don't give uncle a _drop_, though he tried to give me one that, I fear, would have made my head, like yours, a little giddy. Adieu, dear little Ariel." THE PROCRASTINATOR. Being overtaken by a shower in Kensington Gardens, I sought shelter in one of the alcoves near the palace. I was scarce seated, when the storm burst with all its fury; and I observed an old fellow, who had stood loitering till the hurricane whistled round his ears, making towards me, as rapidly as his apparently palsied limbs would permit. Upon his nearer approach, he appeared rather to have suffered from infirmity than years. He wore a brownish-black coat, or rather shell, which, from its dimensions, had never been intended for the wearer; and his inexpressibles were truly inexpressible. "So," said I, as he seated himself on the bench, and shook the rain from his old broad-brimmed hat, "you see, old boy, '_Procrastination is the thief of time_;' the clouds gave you a hint of what was coming, but you seemed not to take it." "It is," replied he, eagerly. "Doctor Young is in the right. Procrastination has been my curse since I was in leading-strings. It has grown with my growth, and strengthened with my strength. It has ever been my besetting sin--my companion in prosperity and adversity; and I have slept upon it, like Samson on the lap of Delilah, till it has shorn my locks and deprived me of my strength. It has been to me a witch, a manslayer, and a murderer; and when I would have shaken it off in wrath and in disgust, I found I was no longer master of my own actions and my own house. It had brought around me a host of its blood relations--its sisters and its cousins-german--to fatten on my weakness, and haunt me to the grave; so that when I tore myself from the embrace of one, it was only to be intercepted by another. You are young, sir, and a stranger to me; but its effects upon me and my history--the history of a poor paralytic shoemaker--if you have patience to hear, may serve as a beacon to you in your voyage through life." Upon expressing my assent to his proposal--for the fluency and fervency of his manner had at once riveted my attention and excited curiosity--he continued:-- "I was born without a fortune, as many people are. When about five years of age, I was sent to a parish school in Roxburghshire, and procrastination went with me. Being possessed of a tolerable memory, I was not more deficient than my schoolfellows; but the task which they had studied the previous evening was by me seldom looked at till the following morning, and my seat was the last to be occupied of any other on the form. My lessons were committed to memory by a few hurried glances, and repeated with a faltering rapidity, which not unfrequently puzzled the ear of the teacher to follow me. But what was thus hastily learned, was as suddenly forgotten. They were mere surface impressions, each obliterated by the succeeding. And though I had run over a tolerable general education, I left school but little wiser than when I entered it. "My parents--peace to their memory!"--here the old fellow looked most feelingly, and a tear of filial recollection glistened in his eyes: it added a dignity to the recital of his weakness, and I almost reverenced him--"My parents," continued he, "had no ambition to see me rise higher in society than an honest tradesman; and at thirteen I was bound apprentice to a shoemaker. Yes, sir, I was--I am a shoemaker; and but for my curse--my malady--had been an ornament to my profession. I have measured the foot of a princess, sir; I have made slippers to his Majesty!" Here his tongue acquired new vigour from the idea of his own importance. "Yes, sir, I have made slippers to his Majesty; yet I am an unlucky--I am a bewitched--I am a ruined man. But to proceed with my history. During the first year of my apprenticeship, I acted in the capacity of errand boy; and, as such, had to run upon many an unpleasant message--sometimes to ask money, frequently to borrow it. Now, sir, I am also a _bashful_ man, and, as I was saying, _bashfulness_ is one of the blood relations which procrastination has fastened upon me. While acting in my last-mentioned capacity, I have gone to the house, gazed at every window, passed it and repassed it, placed my hand upon the rapper, withdrawn it, passed it and repassed it again, stood hesitating and consulting with myself, then resolved to defer it till the next day, and finally returned to my master, not with a direct lie, but a broad _equivocation_; and this was another of the cousins-german which procrastination introduced to my acquaintance. "In the third year of my servitude, I became fond of reading; was esteemed a quick workman; and, having no desire for money beyond what was necessary to supply my wants, I gave unrestricted indulgence to my new passion. We had each an allotted quantity of work to perform weekly. Conscious of being able to complete it in half the time, and having yielded myself solely to my ruinous propensity to delay, I seldom did anything before the Thursday; and the remaining days were spent in hurry, bustle, and confusion. Occasionally I overrated my abilities--my task was unfinished, and I was compelled to count a _dead horse_. Week after week this grew upon me, till I was so firmly saddled, that, until the expiration of my apprenticeship, I was never completely freed from it. This was another of my curse's handmaidens." Here he turned to me with a look of seriousness, and said, "Beware, young man, how you trust to your own strength and your own talents; for however noble it may be to do so, let it be in the open field, before you are driven into a corner, where your arms may come in contact with the thorns and the angles of the hedges. "About this time, too, I fell in love--yes, _fell_ in love; for I just beheld the fair object, and I was a dead man, or a new man, or anything you will. Frequently as I have looked and acted like a fool, I believe I never did so so strikingly as at that moment. She was a beautiful girl--a very angel of light--about five feet three inches high, and my own age. Heaven knows how I ever had courage to declare my passion; for I put it off day after day, and week after week, always preparing a new speech against the next time of meeting her, until three or four rivals stepped forward before me. At length I did speak, and never was love more clumsily declared. I told her in three words; then looked to the ground, and again in her face most pitifully. She received my addresses just as saucily as a pretty girl could do. But it were useless to go over our courtship; it was the only happy period of my existence, and every succeeding day has been misery. Matters were eventually brought to a bearing, and the fatal day of final felicity appointed. I was yet young, and my love possessed all the madness of a first passion. She not only occupied my heart, but my whole thoughts; I could think of nothing else, speak of nothing else, and, what was worse, do nothing else: it burned up the very capabilities of action, and rendered my native indolence yet more indolent. However, the day came (and a bitter stormy day it was), the ceremony was concluded, and the honeymoon seemed to pass away in a fortnight. "About twelve months after our marriage, Heaven (as authors say) blest our loves with a son and, I had almost said, heir. Deplorable patrimony!--heir of his mother's features--the sacrifice of his father's weakness." Kean could not have touched this last burst. The father, the miserable man, parental affection, agony, remorse, repentance, were expressed in a moment. A tear was hurrying down his withered cheek as he dashed it away with his dripping sleeve. "I am a weak old fool," said he, endeavouring to smile; for there was a volatile gaiety in his disposition, which his sorrows had subdued, but not extinguished. "Yet, my boy! my poor dear Willie!--I shall never--no, I shall never see him again!" Here he again wept; and had nature not denied me that luxury, I should have wept too, for the sake of company. After a pause, he again proceeded:-- "After the birth of my child, came the baptism. I had no conscientious objection to the tenets of the Established Church of my country; but I belonged to no religious community. I had never thought of it as an obligation beyond that of custom, and deferred it from year to year, till I felt ashamed to 'go forward' on account of my age. My wife was a Cameronian; and to them, though I knew nothing of their principles, I had an aversion. But for her to hold up the child while I was in the place, was worse than heathenism--was unheard-of in the parish. The nearest Episcopal chapel was at Kelso, a distance of ten miles. The child still remained unbaptized. 'It hasna a name yet,' said the ignorant meddlers, who had no higher idea of the ordinance. It was a source of much uneasiness to my wife, and gave rise to some family quarrelling. Months succeeded weeks, and eventually the child was carried to the Episcopal church. This choked up all the slander of the town, and directed it into one channel upon my devoted head. Some said I 'wasna sound,' and all agreed I 'was nae better than I should be,' while the zealous clergyman came to my father, expressing his fears that 'his son was in a bad way.' For this, too, am I indebted to procrastination. I thus became a martyr to supposed opinions, of which I was ignorant; and such was the unchristian bigotry of my neighbours, that, deeming it sinful to employ one whom they considered little other than a pagan, about five years after my marriage I was compelled to remove with my family to London. "We were at this period what tradesmen term _miserably hard up_. Having sold off our little stock of furniture, after discharging a few debts which were unavoidably contracted, a balance of rather less than two pounds remained; and upon this, my wife, my child, and myself were to travel a distance of three hundred and fifty miles. I will not go over the journey: we performed it on foot in twenty days; and, including lodging, our daily expense amounted to one shilling and eightpence; so that, on entering the metropolis, all we possessed was five shillings and a few pence. It was the dead of winter, and nearly dark, when we were passing down St. John Street, Clerkenwell. I was benumbed, my wife was fainting, and our poor child was blue and speechless. We entered a public-house near Smithfield, where two pints of warm porter and ginger, with a crust of bread and cheese, operated as partial restoratives. The noisy scene of butchers, drovers, and coal-heavers was new to me. My child was afraid, my wife uncomfortable, and I, a gaping observer, forgetful of my own situation. My boy pulled my coat, and said, 'Come, father;' my wife jogged my elbow, and reminded me of a lodging; but my old reply, '_Stop a little_,' was my ninety and nine times repeated answer. Frequently the landlord made a long neck over the table, gauging the contents of our tardily emptied pint; and, as the watchman was calling 'Past eleven,' finally took it away, and bade us 'bundle off.' Now I arose, feeling at once the pride of my spirit and the poorness of my purse, vowing never to darken his door again, should I remain in London a hundred years. "On reaching the street, I inquired at a half-grown boy where we might obtain a lodging; and after causing me to inquire twice or thrice--'I no ken, Sawney--haud awa' north,' said the brat, sarcastically imitating my accent. I next inquired of a watchman, who said there was no place upon his beat; but _beat_ was Gaelic to me; and I repeated my inquiry to another, who directed me towards the hells of Saffron Hill. At a third, I requested to be informed the way, who, after abusing me for seeking lodgings at such an hour, said he had seen me in the town six hours before, and bade us go to the devil. A fourth inquired if we had any money, took us to the bar of a public-house, called for a quartern of gin, drank our healths, asked if we could obtain a bed, which being answered in the negative, he hurried to the door, bawling 'Half-past eleven,' and left me to pay for the liquor. On reaching Saffron Hill, it was in an Irish uproar: policemen, thieves, prostitutes, and Israelites were brawling in a satanic mass of iniquity; blood and murder was the order of the night. My child screamed, my wife clung to my arm; she would not, she durst not, sleep in such a place. To be brief: we had to wander in the streets till the morning; and I believe that night, aided by a broken heart, was the forerunner of her death. It was the first time I had been compelled to walk trembling for a night without shelter, or to sit frozen on a threshold; and this, too, I owe to procrastination. "For a time we rented a miserable garret, without furniture or fixture, at a shilling weekly, which was paid in advance. I had delayed making application for employment till our last sixpence was spent. We had passed a day without food; my child appeared dying; my wife said nothing, but she gazed upon her dear boy, and shook her head with an expression that wrung me to the soul. I rushed out almost in madness, and, in a state of unconsciousness, hurried from shop to shop in agitation and in misery. It was vain; appearances were against me. I was broken down and dejected, and my state of mind and manner appeared a compound of the maniac and the blackguard. At night I was compelled to return to the suffering victims of my propensity, penniless and unsuccessful. It was a dreadful and a sleepless night with us all; or if I did slumber upon the hard floor for a moment (for we had neither seat nor covering), it was to startle at the cries of my child wailing for hunger, or the smothered sighs of my unhappy partner. Again and again I almost thought them the voice of the Judge, saying, 'Depart from me, ye cursed.' "I again hurried out with daybreak, for I was wretched, and resumed my inquiries; but night came, and I again returned equally successful. The yearnings of my child were now terrible, and the streaming eyes of his fond mother, as she pressed his head with her cold hand upon her lap, alone distinguished her from death. The pains of hunger in myself were becoming insupportable; my teeth gnashed against each other, and worms seemed gnawing my heartstrings. At this moment, my dear wife looked me in the face, and, stretching her hand to me, said, 'Farewell, my love, in a few hours I and our dear child shall be at rest! Oh! hunger, hunger!' I could stand no more. Reason forsook me. I could have died for them; but I could not beg. We had nothing to pledge. Our united wearing apparel would not have brought a shilling. My wife had a pair of pocket Bibles (I had once given them in a present): my eyes fell upon them--I snatched them up unobserved--rushed from the house, and--Oh heaven! let the cause forgive the act--pawned them for eighteenpence. It saved our lives, it obtained employment, and for a few weeks appeared to overcome my curse. "I am afraid I grow tedious with particulars, sir; it is an old man's fault--though I am not old either; I am scarce fifty-five. After being three years in London, I was appointed foreman of an extensive establishment in the Strand. I remained in this situation about four years. It was one of respectability and trust, demanding, hourly, a vigilant and undivided attention. To another, it might have been attended with honour and profit; but to me it terminated in disgrace. Amongst other duties, I had the payment of the journeymen, and the giving out of the work. They being numerous, and their demands frequent, it would have required a clerk for the proper discharge of that duty alone. I delayed entering at the moment in my books the materials and cash given to each, until they, multiplying upon my hands, and begetting a consequent confusion, it became impossible for me to make their entry with certainty or correctness. The workmen were not slow in discovering this, and not a few of the more profligate improved upon it to their advantage. Thus I frequently found it impossible to make both ends of my account meet; and in repeated instances, where the week's expenditure exceeded the general average, though satisfied in my own mind of its accuracy, from my inability to state the particulars, in order to conceal my infirmity, I have accounted for the overplus from my own pocket. Matters went on in this way for a considerable time. You will admit I was rendered feelingly sensible of my error, and I resolved to correct it. But my resolutions were always made of paper; they were like a complaisant debtor--full of promises, praying for grace, and dexterously evading performance. Thus, day after day, I deferred the adoption of my new system to a future period. For, sir, you must be aware there is a pleasure in procrastination, of a nature the most alluring and destructive; but it is a pleasure purchased by the sacrifice of judgment: in its nature and results it resembles the happiness of the drunkard; for, in exact ratio as our spirits are raised above their proper level, in the same proportion, when the ardent effects have evaporated, they sink beneath that level. "I was now too proud to work as a mere journeyman, and I commenced business for myself; but I began without capital, and a gourd of sorrow hung over me, while I stood upon sand. I had some credit; but, as my bills became payable, I ever found I had put off, till the very day they became due, the means of liquidating them; then had I to run and borrow five pounds from one, and five shillings from another, urged by despair, from a hundred quarters. My creditors grew clamorous; my wife upbraided me; I flew to the bottle--to the bottle!" he repeated; "and my ruin was complete--my family, business, everything, was neglected. Bills of Middlesex were served on me, declarations filed; I surrendered myself, and was locked up in Whitecross Street. It is a horrid place; the Fleet is a palace to it; the Bench, paradise! But, sir, I will draw my painful story to a close. During my imprisonment my wife died--died, not by my hands, but from the work of them! She was laid in a strange grave, and strangers laid her head in the dust, while I lay a prisoner in the city where she was buried. My boy--my poor Willie--who had been always neglected, was left without father and without mother! Sir! sir! my boy was left without food! He forsook visiting me in the prison; I heard he had turned the associate of thieves; and from that period five years have passed, and I have obtained no trace of him. But it is my doing--my poor Willie!" Here the victim of procrastination finished his narrative. The storm had passed away, and the sun again shone out. The man had interested me, and we left the gardens together. I mentioned that I had to go into the city; he said he had business there also, and asked to accompany me. I could not refuse him. From the door by which we left the gardens, our route lay by way of Oxford Street. As we proceeded down Holborn, the church bell of St. Sepulchre's began to toll; and the crowd, collected round the top of Newgate Street, indicated an execution. As we approached the place, the criminal was brought forth. He was a young man about nineteen years of age, and had been found guilty of an aggravated case of housebreaking. As the unhappy being turned round to look upon the spectators, my companion gave a convulsive shriek, and, springing from my side, exclaimed, "Righteous Heaven! my Willie! my murdered Willie!" He had proceeded but a few paces, when he fell with his face upon the ground. In the wretched criminal he discovered his lost, his only son. The miserable old man was conveyed, in a state of insensibility, to St. Bartholomew's Hospital, where I visited him the next day: he seemed to suffer much, and in a few hours he died with a shudder, and the word _procrastination_ on his tongue. THE TEN OF DIAMONDS. At length I reached the Moated Grange, on a visit to my friend Graeme. But since I am to speak a good deal of this place, I may as well explain that it was misnamed. There was no moat, nor had there been for a hundred years; but round the old pile--hoary, and shrivelled, and palsied enough, in all conscience, for delighting the mole-eye of any antiquarian hunks--- there was a visible trace of the old ditch in a hollow covered with green sward going all round the house, which hollow was the only place clear of trees. And these trees! They stood for a mile round, like an army of giants seventy feet high, all intent, it would seem, upon choking the poor old pile, throwing their big arms over the hollow, swinging them to and fro, and dashing their points against the panes as the wind listed. It would come by-and-by to be a hard task for the stone and lime victim to hold its place, with its sinews of run mortar, against these tyrants of the wood. And then they were as full of noises as Babel itself--noises a thousand times more heterogeneous--croaking, chirping, screeching, cawing, whistling, billing, cooing, cuckooing. "What a place to live in!" I thought, fresh as I was from town, "where, if there are noises, one knows something of their meaning--maledictory, yea, devilish as it often is, expressive of the passions of men which will never sleep. But these! what could one make of such a _tintamarre_? Nothing but the reflection--that is, if you happen to be a philosopher, which, thank God, I am not--that not one note of all this rural oratorio is without its intention; and thus we always satisfy ourselves. But when we run the matter up a little further, we find it a very small affair: two responses, one to each of two chords vibrating for ever and ever throughout all nature--pleasure and pain, pain and pleasure, turn by turn--the last pain being death!" "How can you live here, Graeme?" I said, as we stood under the old porch, looking out, or rather having our look blocked up by the thickness, and our ears deaved by the eternal screeching and cawing of five thousand crows overhead. "There's gloom everywhere where man is," he replied, "and screeching owls in every brain. You can't get quit." Then, lowering his voice, "I am haunted, and yet live here in this Moated Grange! The difference is this: in the town the gaslight and eternal clatter distract a man like me who is plagued from within; here I find some concord between the inside and the out, only the owls in the inside are more grotesque and horrible." "Well, Graeme," said I, "it is needless to disguise what brought me here. The secret is out. The choke-damp has got wind. If the idiot had not blown his brains out, it would have been nothing. You could have paid him back, and he might now have had both his money and his brains." "Got wind!" cried he, clutching me by the breast of the coat with the fury of a highwayman or a spasmodic actor. "Did the villain Ruggieri tell you?" "No." "So far well," he added, taking a long pull with his lungs, as if he had got quit of an attack of asthma; "but though I may satisfy the widow, how am I to appease Heaven? Come," he added, again seizing me with a force in which there was a tremble, "I want to ease my mind. You are my oldest friend, and a load divided is more easily carried." And leading the way into the parlour, where the fire had got into a fine red heat, and was sending a glare through the ruby and golden contents of several strangely-shaped bottles on the table, he threw himself on a chair on the one side, I taking one on the other. A few minutes of silence intervened. "If it be as painful for you," he continued, "to hear a confession as it is for me to make it, you may help yourself to bear the infliction by pouring into your stomach some of that Burgundy. I will take none. I have fire enough in my brain already;" and he pushed the bottle to me. "You were a bit of a blackleg yourself," he continued, as he threw himself back in the arm-chair, and compressed his chest with his folded arms till the blood seemed to mount to his face. "You were present at that game where I took the five thousand by a trick from Gourlay. You know, as a gambler yourself, that all the tribe are by constitution cheats. It is folly to speak of an honest gambler. The passion is a ten thousand times distilled selfishness, with no qualm of obligation to God or religion to keep it in check--only a little fear of that bugbear, society. Our club at the 'Red Lion' all knew this in our souls; but every one of us knew also that the moment he would be discovered cheating, he would be scorched with our hatred and contempt. He must leave our pure society on the instant--not of course that he was any worse than the rest of us, but only that he was unfortunate in being discovered. That night Gourlay and I were demons. We had baffled each other, and drank till our brains seethed, though our countenances and speech betrayed nothing but the extreme of coolness. He had won a thousand of me, and hounded me from post to pillar, offering to be cleared out by my _skill_, as he called it sneeringly. The fellow, in short, hated me, because the year before, at Baden-Baden, I had taken two thousand out of him, and would not give him his revenge." "He must have thought you honest," said I; "otherwise he would not have thus badgered you to play." "No; he had not the generosity to think me honest. I repeat, no gambler ever thinks another gambler honest, and he lies when he says so. He knew himself to be a rogue, and thought it diamond in the teeth of diamond;" and, pausing and meditating, he repeated the word, "diamond--diamond--diamond." I looked at him in surprise. He continued to keep up the cuckoo sound, trying to laugh, and yet totally unable to accomplish even a cackle, as if some internal force clutched the diaphragm and mocked him, so that his efforts were reduced to a gurgling as in cynanche--like a dog choking with a rope round his craig, the sounds coming jerking out in barks, and dying away again in yelps and whines. "You will know presently why that word produces these strange effects upon me," he at length contrived to be able to say. "Nor less the form of the figure as painted in these hell-books. It is blazoned everywhere. The devil wears it in fiery lines on his face as he hounds me a-nights through these thick woods. Yet I am not afraid of it--rather court it, as if I yearned for the burning pain of its red signature in, and in, and in to my brain, as far as thought goes." "Have you got mad, Graeme?" I ejaculated. "What has the figure of a diamond, or of ten diamonds----" "_Ten_, you would say?" he immediately cried, as he started up, and immediately threw himself down; "_the_ ten, if you dared. You are commissioned by the powers yonder--you, you, too, along with the others, including the devil." "I have no wish to be in the same commission with that great personage," said I, with a very poor attempt to laugh, for I felt anxious about my friend. "I gave him up when I threw his books into the fire, and swore never more to touch the unhallowed thing." I perceived that my attempt at humour increased his excitement. "Repeat the words," he cried. "Say 'the ten of diamonds' right out with open mouth, and repeat them a thousand times, so as to give me ear-proof that the powers yonder," pointing to the roof, "are against me." At this moment the door of the parlour was opened by some timid hand. "Come hither, my pretty Edith," he said, in a calmer voice, as a little cherub-looking child, with a head so like as if, after the fashion of Danäe's, it had been powdered by Jupiter with gold dust, and a pair of blue eyes, as if the said god, in making them, had tried to emulate the wing of the Halcyon in a human orb, and intended, moreover, the light thereof to calm the storm in those of her father. And so it did, to a certain extent; for Edith got upon his knee, and, putting her arms round his neck, kept peering with those eyes into the very pupils of her father's, till the light of innocence, softening the rigid nerve, enabled them to regain somewhat of their natural lustre. "What did Trott, the crazy girl who spaes fortunes, give you, Edith?" and coruscations began again to mix with the softer light. "A card," replied the girl, as she undid her embrace, and, casting her head to a side, viewed him timidly. "She has been frightened," thought I, "by some consequences resulting from the same question put at some former time." "And what was the name of the card?" he continued. But the girl was now on her guard. She hesitated, and struggled to get away. "Tell this gentleman, then." "The ten of diamonds," cried she; and no sooner were the words out than she fled, like a beam of light chased by the shadow of a tombstone. "You see how it is," continued Graeme, getting into his former expression: "through this channel, this innocent medium, this creature the fruit of my loins, the idol of my heart, is the lightning of reproof hurled. A wandering idiot is prompted by the very inspiration of her imbecility to put into the hands of my child the emblem of my wickedness, that she in her love might place it before my eyes, there to develop the sin-print in the dark camera of my mind. No wonder she is alarmed at the mention of the words, for she read the horror produced in me when she held up what she called the pretty picture in my face. But, thank God! thank God!"---- And he fell for a moment into meditation. "For what?" said I, as my wonder increased. "That her mother, who is within a week of her confinement, knows nothing of this mystery." I was silent. I might have said, "What mystery?" but I would only have irritated him. "Rymer!" I started. I was looking into the fire, with my ear altogether his, yet the strange mention of my name startled me. "What could infamy--infamy, with just a beam of consciousness to tell it was infamy, and no more but that beam--think and feel to be worshipped by purity and love? I have shrunk from the embrace of that woman with a recoil equal to that produced by the enfolding of a snake." "Though she knows not, and may never know, anything of this affair which has taken such a hold of you?" said I, rather as a speaking automaton, forced to vocabulate. "The very reason why I recoil and shudder." I had made a mistake--I would not risk another. "The man has got into the enfolding arms of mania," I thought, "and I must be chary." "Will you keep in your remembrance," he continued, "the words uttered by Edith, and how she came by them? Will you?" "Yes." "Then take another glass; you will need it, and another too." I obeyed not quite so mechanically. The Burgundy was better than the conversation, and I made the pleasure of the palate compensate for the pain of the ear. He now drew out his watch, and, going to the window, withdrew the curtains. The shades of night had fallen. It looked black as Tartarus, contrasted with the light within. "Come here!" he cried; and when I had somewhat reluctantly obeyed what I considered the request of one whose internal sense had got a jerk from some mad molecule out of its orbit in the brain--"Do you see anything?" "Yes," said I--"a big black negative; but as for anything positive, you might as well look into a coal-pit and find what philosophers do in the wells of truth. There's nothing to be seen." "No? Look there--there! See," pointing with his finger, and clutching me tremulously, "once more--the traces as vivid as ever! See!" I verily did think I saw something luminous, but it quickly disappeared. "Oh, probably the reflection of a lantern," I said. "Yes, a magic one," he replied sneeringly. "I know of no more magical lantern than a man's head," I replied, a little disconcerted by his sneer. "Chemists say there's more phosphorus in the brain than anywhere else; and so I sometimes think." He made no reply, but, seizing me by the coat, dragged me after him as he hurried out of the room, and making for a back door, led me out, bareheaded as I was, into the wood. The darkness had waxed to pitchiness, and the noises were hushed. The crows had gone to roost; and had it not been for some too-hoos of the jolly owl, sounding his horn as he rejoiced that the hated sun had gone to annoy other owls in the west, the silence would have been complete. But, in truth, I hate silence as well as darkness, and have no more sympathy with the followers of Pythagoras than I have with the triumph of the blind Roman who silenced the covey of pretty women, in the heat of their condolences for his blindness, by reminding them that they forgot he could feel in the dark. I thought more of the fire inside, and the bottle of Burgundy, on which I had made as yet only a small impression. "If I want darkness, I can as well shut my eyes," said I peevishly, "and I would even have the advantage of some phosphorescent touches of the fancy." "Will you see that with your eyes shut?" he exclaimed triumphantly, as he bent his body forward to an angle of forty-five, and pointed with his finger to an object clearly illumined, and exhibiting distinctly a large card, with ten red diamonds sharply traced upon it. The advantage he had got over me was lost in the rapture of his gaze; and he seemed to be charmed by the apparition, for he began to move slowly forward, still pointing his finger, and without apparently drawing a breath. Though a little taken by surprise for the instant, it was not easy for me to give up my practical wisdom, which, as a matter of course, pointed to a trick. "You do see it, then?" said he. "Surely," said I. "There is no mistake it is the figure of the ten of diamonds, probably stuck upon a turnip lantern." "I did not ask you for a banter," he replied angrily. "I can draw my own conclusions. All I wanted was to satisfy myself that I was free from a monomaniacal illusion. We cannot both be mad; besides, you're a sceptic, and the testimony of a sceptic's eyes is better than the sneer of his tongue." Still he proceeded, I following, and the apparition retreating. "I told you to remember what Edith said," he continued, as he still pointed his finger; "and I fancy you can never forget that before you. The two things are wide apart." "And so are the two ends of a rope with which a man hangs himself," said I. "It is gone!" cried my friend, without noticing my remark. "It has receded into that infinite from whence it was commissioned to earth to strike its lightning upon the eye of a falling, erring, miserable mortal." "It is gone," said I; "and I am gone also--to finish my bottle of Burgundy, which I have as little doubt was commissioned from finitude to strike a little fire into the heart of another erring mortal, not at this moment perfectly happy." And I made my way as quick as possible into the parlour, glad to get quit of the chill of the night air. Meanwhile, there appeared signs of some extraordinary movement in the other parts of the house, the nature of which Graeme probably ascertained as he came along the lobby, for I heard bustling and earnest conversation; and presently little Edith came stepping in beside me, with something very mysterious in her blue eyes, far too mysterious for being confided to loud words, and so a whisper told me that her mother was taken ill, and that Dr. Rogers had been sent for. This little bit of information carried more to my mind than it brought away from Edith's. I knew before that Mrs. Graeme was on the eve of confinement, and it now appeared she had been taken in labour. I saw, too, that my visit had not been very well timed, and the worse that Graeme himself was in the extraordinary frame of mind in which I found him--unfit for facing the dangers, repaying the affections, performing the duties, and receiving the honours or enjoying the hopes of his situation. A rap at the door was the signal for Edith's departure, with the words on her tongue that she knew the doctor's knock. I was now, I thought, to be left to myself; nor was I displeased, for I wanted a lounge and a meditation; though of the latter I could not see that I could make much, if any, more than confirming myself against all preternaturals as agents on earth, however certain their existence may be beyond the mystic veil that divides the two worlds. I had known Graeme's crime and Gourlay's self-murder; but the crime was a trick among blacklegs, and the suicide was the madness of a gambler, who had risked his money and was ruined at the moment he wanted to ruin another. Surely Heaven had something else to do with its retributive lightnings than employ them, in subversion of all natural laws, in a cause so inferior in turpitude to others that every hour pass into oblivion, with more of a mark of natural, and less or none of supernatural chastisement. I thought I might be contented with such a view of these prodigies as might quickly consign them to the limbo of men's machinations; yet somehow or other--perhaps the Burgundy bottle, if it could have spoken, like that of Asmodeus, might have helped the solution--I got dreamy, and of course foolish, raising objections against my own conclusions, and instituting an _alter ego_ to argue against myself for Graeme's theory. It has always seemed strange to me, that though mankind hate metaphysics, they are all natural metaphysicians, especially when a little _wined_. Perhaps the true reason may be, that as wine came from the gods, it is endued with the power of raising us to its source. At least, our aspirations, from being _devine_, become wonderfully _divine_, so that supernatural agencies wax less difficult to our imaginations; and while we are ten times more ready to meet a ghost, we are as many times more ready to admit their possibility. But the end of these grand and elevated conditions is generally sleep and an ugly nightmare; and though my case was an exception as regards the latter, I awoke in not a very happy mood, just as Graeme entered the room and told me it was twelve o'clock. As I rubbed my eyes, he sat down in his chair, and seemed inclined to court silence; but it was clear he could not achieve repose. I felt no inclination to add to his apparent disturbance by any remarks on what I had seen; but it struck me as remarkable, that, while he got into contortions and general restlessness, putting his hand to his brow, throwing one leg over another, closing his hands, and heaving long sighs, he never so much as thought it worth his pains to ask my opinion of the scene in the wood. It seemed as if he was so thoroughly convinced of a divine manifestation against him, that he despised any exceptional scepticism as utterly beneath his notice or attention--thoroughly engrossed, as he appeared to be, with the terrible sanction of a portent of some coming retribution. His silence in some degree distressed me, as I thought he resented my levity in commenting upon his convictions; so it was with some relief that Dr. Rogers came in and sat down at the table, apparently to wait for a call to the bedroom. A man this of ostentatious gloom,--too grave to deign to be witty, too sanctified to stoop to be cheerful, and therefore not the man I could have wished to see as the medical adviser, and perhaps the religious confidant, of my friend and his wife. A temperate man, too, by his own confession, pronounced over the top of a bottle; and he drank as if for health, while his manner of beslabbering the glass with his thick lips indicated a contempt for its confined capacity; a tumbler would have suited him better; and he waxed apparently graver when the delightful aroma of the Bordeaux grape fondled his nostrils. We got into supernaturals immediately, though how the subject was introduced I cannot remember; but Dr. Rogers was a grave and heavy advocate for divine manifestation, and Graeme's ear, circumcised to delicacy, hung upon his thick lips. I asked for instances beyond the domain of the addled brains of old women, or the excited fancies of young; and Graeme looked at me intently, without saying a word. "I have seen hundreds die," said the doctor, "ay, strong men, the tissues of whose brain were, in comparison of those of your old women and young enthusiasts, as iron wires to pellicles of flesh. And how do they die if they are Christians, as all men ought to be? What is there in death, think you, to subvert the known laws of physiology? We might suppose, that as the spirit is about to leave the mortal frame, it will be fitful, and flit from tissue to tissue, and gleam and die away, to flare up again in some worldly image, perhaps, of the past; as where I have known it show the face of an early beloved one, long since gone, in all its first glory, to the eyes of a lover. Such are mere exceptions, from which no rule can be drawn; but they occur, and we admit them as consonant enough to natural causes. So far we all agree; but where is that consonance in all those numerous cases which have come under my own observation, where the man--a strong man even in death--is rapt into a vision set in a halo of light, and showing forth, as an assurance of divine favour, the very form and features of Him who died on the cross of Calvary? Is there anything in physiology to account for this? And then it occurs so often as almost to amount to a rule." "I have too much respect for religion," replied I, "to throw a doubt on certain workings of the spirit in that mysterious condition when it hovers between the two worlds, and when it can hardly be said to belong to earth; but the case is entirely different where the common agencies are all working through their fitted and natural means. We can never say that any of those means are superseded--only others are substituted; and we do not understand the substitution." "You are unfortunate," said the doctor, with a triumphant gravity. "If you admit that supernatural agencies ever have--in any stage of the world, in any place, way, or manner, or by any means--had to do with earthly things, or have to do in those days, or will have to do in any future time or place on the earth's surface, your admission closes up your mouth for ever." "To do, in those days, on this night, not many hours agone!" cried Graeme, with rolling eyes. "Who cares for admissions of those who see, when one's own eyes are nearer the brain than are the eyes or lips of him who admits, or of him who denies?" "Not hours ago!" said the doctor, fixing his big eyes on the face of Graeme; "and so near a birth?" "Oh, she knows nothing," said Graeme. "And I am supremely ignorant," said I. "Of what?" inquired Rogers, turning his face again to Graeme, as if he would take him into his mouth. But just as he expected an answer, a slight rap sounded from the door. Rogers himself opened it, and found that the call was for him. Graeme and I were left again together, but not to resume the former silence. "I did not ask you," said he, "what you thought of the figure in the wood, for I expected nothing but a sceptical sneer. You have heard Rogers. He is a shrewd fellow, belonging to a profession not remarkable for credulity." "Answer me this," said I: "Did no one know the duplicate card you used in the cheat?" "You were present and Ruggieri, no others; did you know it?" "No." "Then do you know that Ruggieri is dead in Italy? and even if he had more penetration than you, the secret died with him. But, I tell you, he could not have known. Nothing transpired at the play to show that a duplicate card was used at all, far less to show that it was a particular card." "You may stagger me," said I, "but never can convince me that you are not having a nice game played off upon you, something similar to your own; only in place of duplicates, I fear there are triplicates. Why might not Gourlay have been aware of the fact you think only known to yourself?" "And yet have shot himself as a ruined gambler?" "Certainly it is more probable," said I, somewhat caught, "that he would have insisted upon your repaying him, under the threat of exposure. Yet one does not know what a man may do or not do, even if we knew the circumstances. Two doves will not pick up for their nests a straw each of the same shape. But I believe it is now settled, that no case of mystery has ever happened, or can be supposed by the most ingenious imagination, where the chances are more for supernatural agency than for human ingenuity or chance. The latter I put away out of your case, though the marvels of coincidence are stranger than fiction. Every one of us has a little record within his heart of such experiences. I have been startled by a coincidence into a five minutes' belief in supernatural agency. One opens a book of six hundred pages, and catches, on the instant, the passage for which he looked the whole day before. An actor dies in ranting 'there is another and a better world.' A soldier is saved from the punishment of death for sleeping on his post, by the fact of having been able to say that St. Paul's on a certain night struck thirteen, which it never did before. Andrew Gordon, the miser, drew a prize of twenty thousand pounds for the number 2001, which he dreamed of the night previous he bought the ticket. A shepherd was the discoverer of the Australian diggings, by having taken up a piece of what he considered quartz to throw at his dog called Goldy. Human history is full of such things; but, marvellous as they are, they are not more so than the ways by which man manufactures mysteries, and gets them believed as the work of Heaven. As to that illuminated figure I saw in the wood"---- My speech was interrupted by a strange sound from the other end of the house. Graeme started to his feet. It was not one of pain coming from a sick-room, but rather one of surprise, and there seemed a bustle among the servants. The door opened, and a woman's face, with two wild staring eyes, looked in. "Come here, sir," she cried, and disappeared upon the instant. "Something more," ejaculated Graeme, as he hurried away. I was allowed no time for an absurd monologue. Graeme was not absent many minutes, when he hurried in as he had hurried out, but his face was not that which he took with him, braced up into surprise and fear, as that was. He was now as pale as death's pale horse, and nearly as furious. His eye beamed an unnatural light--his breathing was quick and snatchy, as if every inspiration and expiration pained the lungs. He seemed to wish some one to bind him with ropes, that he might escape the vibrations of his muscles, and be steadied to be able to speak. "Be calm," said I, taking him by the shoulders; "what new discovery is this? Nothing wrong with Mrs. Graeme, I hope?" "The child," he cried; but he could get no further. "The child is"-- "Is what?" said I. "Is marked on the back with the figure of the ten of diamonds." "Pity it was not marked where it will wear its pockets," said I; "but it will assuredly be a very fortunate child, nevertheless, and shall bear a load of diamonds on his back like the Arabian Alcansar." "Are you mad?" he cried. "Yes, with reason," I replied. "You know, nothing appears so outrageously insane to a madman, as that same God's gift called reason. They say, those who are bitten by the tarantula, and get dancing mad, think the wondering crowd about them raving maniacs. And there was the weeping philanthropist in the asylum of Montrose, in Scotland, who wept all day, and could not be consoled, because of all the people outside the asylum being mad." "But," he gasped, "the thing is there." "No doubt on't," said I, "and you ought to be grateful. I have read somewhere of one John Zopyrus, who went mad when he heard of a son being born to him; and here you are not mad, though you have a son (I hope) born to you, with ten diamonds besides." "But the thing is there," he again cried. "Ay, there's the rub, my dear fellow; the rub is there--let the rub _be_ there; that is, go and rub, and the thing rubbed will not be there after the rubbing." "Madness, man! It is a true mother's mark." "Verily, a real _noevus maternus_" said I, "impressed by an avenging angel on the mother's brain, and transferred by nature's daguerreotype to the back of the child." "You have said it." "Nay, it is you who have said it," I continued; "and I will even suppose it is a mother's mark, to please you for a little, though it has no more that character than this sword-prick in my left cheek. But taking it in your own way, I have a theory I could propound to you about these marks. We say that the soul is in the body. It is just as true that the body is in the soul. Every member of the entire physical person is represented in the brain, though we cannot discern the form in these white viscera. Now, see you, if a man loses his finger, his son will not be awanting in that member. But there are cases where the want of a member is hereditary. Why? Because the member was not represented in the cerebral microcosm of the first deficient person. From this small epitome in the brain, the child is an extended copy--_extended_ from a mathematical point, where all the members and lineaments are _intended_. So, when the fancy of the mother is working in the brain--say, in realizing some external image--it will impress it in the cerebral person (woman) there epitomized; and if she is in a certain way, the image will go to a corresponding part of the foetal point, which is the epitome of the child. A most ingenious, and satisfactory, and simple theory, which will explain the ten-of-diamond naevus, for"---- "Dreadful imbecility!" he exclaimed, as he threw himself on his chair; "most unaccountable and cruel trifling with a notable visitation of retributive justice, indicated by visible signs of terrible import to him who must bear the cross, and be reconciled to an angry Deity." "Against all that may tend to penitence for a past crime," said I, getting grave, where gravity might avail for good, "I have nothing to say. But Heaven does not work through the mean of man's deceit and stratagem, and the good that comes of fear goes with returning courage." Conscious of getting into a puling humour, I had no objection to an interruption by the entrance of Rogers, who, having finished his work, was probably intent upon the gratification which generally follows. "I wish you joy of the boy and the diamonds," he said, as he seized Graeme by the half-palsied hand. "The nurse is reconciled to the omen of a fortune; and surely never was omen more auspicious, for no sooner had the strange indication shown its mute vaticination than it disappeared, that there might be no deduction of beauty from the favourite of the gods." And drawing, with his lumbering hand, the tumbler near him, he filled it two-thirds up of pure wine, and presently his lips grappled with it like a camel at the bucket in the desert, with such effect that the contents changed vessels in a twinkling. "Disappeared!" said I musingly. "Yea, temperance hath her demands on occasions," said he, thinking I alluded to the exit of the wine, and not the ominous mark; "for there be two kinds of this noble virtue, the jejune and the hearty, whereof the former observes no plethoric gratifications, and the other is not averse to an extreme of cordial indulgence." "Disappeared!" said I in a harping way, once again, "and left the skin discoloured." "But it was there, and I saw it with these eyes," cried Graeme, "and the doctor saw it, and Betha, but, thank God, not the mother." "The vouchsafing of the eyes is an easy task," drawled Rogers. "The truth of present fact is of the moment of experience as regards the seer; but, as a moral entity, it never dies. The great Author of nature has his intention in these mysterious signs. We know only that there are two kinds of these God's finger-touches--the enduring and the evanescent. That we have now witnessed was of the latter kind, which we also call superficial in opposition to the other, which is painted on the _rete mucosum_, and never goes off. The difference of indications we know not, further than that a mysterious purpose is served by both. But might I ask if ever there was any occasion on which the figure of this card might, as connected with some thrilling incident, have been impressed upon the imagination of the mother?" "Never," cried Graeme, as he shook violently. "Then it betokens fortune to the heir of the Moated Grange," said Rogers. "It betokens vengeance!" roared Graeme, no longer able to contain himself; and he began to pace rapidly the room. Then stopping before me-- "How long will you torment me with your scepticism? Here, Betha," he cried to the woman, who at the instant again called Rogers, "what did you see on the back of the boy?" "The ten of diamonds, sir," replied she, evidently frightened by the wild eyes of her master. "But you are not to be feared. Do I not know God's signs when I see them fresh from his very finger? I have seen them aforetime; and no man or woman on earth, no, even our minister, will convince me they are meant for nothing. This bairn will be a rich man, but it will not be by the devil's books; for he who made the mark does not tempt to evil by promises printed on the bodies of them he loves." "I want not this drivelling," said her master, on whom her reading of the sign had an effect the very opposite of that intended. "You're a fool, but you have eyes. Say, once for all, you saw it, and will swear. Take her words, Rymer." "As clear as I see the mark on your cheek, sir," she said, addressing me. "It was not from one who loved you so well as your mother did when she bore you, you got that mark." "I got it from a villain called Ruggieri," I replied, caring nothing for the start I produced in Graeme, but keeping my eye on the face of Rogers. I will say nothing of what I observed on that long, sombre, saturnine index. It was an experiment on my part, and I might have found something, merely because I expected it; nor do I think Graeme knew my object, though he felt the words as a surprise. "And who is Ruggieri?" said the doctor, by way of putting a simple question. "_Perhaps_ an Italian," said I. "Rogers is, they say, the Scotch representative of that name." "It is a lie, sir!" cried the grave son of Aesculapius; but finding he had committed a mistake, he beat up an apology close upon the heels of his insult. "I beg your pardon; I simply meant that the two names are different, and that you were out in your etymology." "I am satisfied," I replied. "And so am I," growled the doctor, as he shuffled out, followed by Betha. "What the devil do you mean?" said the colonel, coming up, and looking me sternly in the face. "Is not this business serious enough for me and this house already, without the mention to that man, who knows nothing of me or of my history, of a name hateful to both you and me?" "At present I have no intention of telling you what I meant by introducing that name in the presence of Rogers." "More mystery!" said he. "No mystery--all as plain as little Edith's card she got from Trott, or the blazon in the wood, or the mark on the child's back. But I do not wish to dwell longer on a subject which gives you so much pain. I am to be off in the morning, and I should wish, before I go, to know what is to be the issue of all this wonderful working." Graeme had now seated himself; and I resumed my chair also, to wait an answer, which his manner seemed to indicate might be slow and delicate. We looked, in the dim light of the room, at two in the morning, like two wizards trying our skill in working out some scheme of _diablerie_; yet, in reality, how unlike! For though we had both been gamblers, and consequently bad men, we had for years renounced the wild ways of an ill-regulated youth, and settled down to tread, with pleasure to ourselves and profit to others, the decent paths of virtue. "I am resolved," said Graeme at length---- "On what?" I inquired. "On making amends. That money, which by means of the substituted card I took from Gourlay, sticks like a bone-splint in the red throat of my penitence. I cannot pray myself, nor join Annabel, nor listen to Edith, when they send up their supplications to that place where mercy is, and where, too, vengeance is--vengeance which, in the very form of my pictured crime, dogs me everywhere, as you have seen, though a philosophical pride prevents you from giving faith to what you have seen--vengeance which, though using no earthly instruments, is yet the stronger, and more terrible to me, for that very circumstance that it brings up my conscience, and parades its pictured whisperings before my vision, scorching my brain, and making me mad--vengeance, breaking no bones, nor lacerating flesh, nor spilling blood, yet going to the heart of the human organism, among the fine tissues where begin the rudiments of being, and whence issue the springs of feeling, sympathy, hope, love, and justice, all of which it poisons, and turns into agonies. Yes, sir, vengeance which, claiming the assistance of the fairest virtues, conjugal love and angelic purity, makes them smite with shame, so that it were even a relief to me that the wife of my bosom were wicked, and the child of my affections a creature of sin. What are these signs that haunt me but instigators to redemption? and can I hesitate when Heaven asks obedience?" "A useless harangue," said I, "when you have the means of saving yourself. Pay the money, read your Bible, and the signs will cease." "You have said it. I will pay the money; but I do not know where the woman Gourlay lives." "That is not a difficult matter. Where money is to be paid, the recipient will start out of the bosom of the earth. I am about sick of this chamber of mysteries--though no mysteries to me; and I go to bed. I doubt if you may expect to see me at the breakfast table in the morning." "Will you leave me in this condition?" he said, with an imploring eye. "You will hear from me. Good night." In the midst of all these supernaturals, I remained myself pretty natural--got naturally among the comfortable bed-clothes, fell naturally asleep, and, in consequence of late hours, slept naturally longer than I intended. I started at seven, got my bag, and, without seeing Graeme, set out for C---- town, got breakfast, and then took the stage for a seaport not very far distant. Having arrived at my destination, I sought out the Eastergate, a dirty street inhabited by poor people, mounted three pair of stairs till I saw through a slate-pane, knocked at a door, and was met by a woman, with an umbrageously bearded face peering out from the side of her head-gear--that is, there was a head there in addition to her own. "The devil!" said the man. "How did you find me out?" "By the trail of evil," I said, as I walked in, and shut the door behind me. "Did you not know I was dead?" he continued, by way of desperate raillery. "Yes, the devil was once reported to be dead and buried in a certain long town, but it was only a feint, whereby to catch the unwary Whigs. Let us have seats. I want a little quiet conversation with you both." We seemed rather a comfortable party round the fire. "Ruggieri," said I, "do you know that scar?" "I have certainly seen it before," replied he, with the utmost composure. "Well, you know the attack you made upon me at Brussels, for the convenient purpose of getting buried along with your victim a certain little piece of dirty paper I have in my pocket, whereby you became bound to pay to me a thousand florins which I lent you, on the faith of one I took for a gentleman." "The scar I deny," he replied, unblushingly; "and as for the bit of paper, if you can find any one in these parts who can prove that the signature thereto was written by this hand belonging to this person now sitting before you, you will accomplish something more wonderful than finding me out here." And he laughed in his old boisterous way. "The more difficult, I daresay," replied I, as I fixed a pretty inquisitive gaze on him, "that you have a duplicate to your real name of Charles Rogers." "'Tis a lie!" he exclaimed. "My father was--was--yes--an artist in Bologna--the cleverest magician in Italy." "And that is the reason," said I calmly, "that your brother the doctor works his tricks so cleverly at the Moated Grange." Subtle officers accomplish much by attacks of surprise--going home with a fact known to the criminal to be true, but supposed by him to be unknown to all the world besides. I had acted on this principle, and the effect was singular. His tongue, which had laid in a stock of nervous fluid for roaring like a steam-boiler a little opened, was palsied. He turned on me a blank look; then, directing his eye to the woman, "You infernal hag," he exclaimed, "all this comes from you!" "I deny it," said the woman, as she left his side and came round to mine. "But I now know, what I always suspected, that you are a villain. Sir," she continued, "this man, and his brother Dr. Rogers, prevailed upon me to give them a paper, to enable them to get out of Colonel Graeme the money he won from my husband. I believe they have got it, and that they are keeping it from me." "They have not got it," said I, "and never will. The money is yours, and will be paid to you, if to any." "Thank God!" she exclaimed. "No good could come out of the designs of this man and his brother. They made it up to terrify the colonel"---- A look from the man stopped her; but the broken sentence was to me a volume. They sat and looked lightnings at each other; and I contented myself with thinking, that when a rotten tree splits, bears catch honey. "Oh, I'm not to be frightened," she continued, as she gathered up courage to dare the villain. "I will tell all about the ten of diamonds which I heard made up between them." "You most haggard of all haggard hags!" cried the man, as his fury rose, "do you know, that while I could have got you this money, I can cut you out of it? Was it the loss of the money, think ye, that made the wretched coward, your husband, shoot himself? No, it was conscience. They were a pair of villains. I know that Gourlay had a secreted card, whereby he was to blackleg Graeme, and that it was disappointment, shame, and conscience, working all together, that made him draw the trigger to end a villanous life. But the game is up," he continued, as he rose and got hold of his hat; then standing erect and fearless, he held out his finger, pointing to me--"Rymer!" he said impressively, but with devilish calmness, "let your ears tingle as you think of me; it will keep you in remembrance of a friend, who, when next he meets you, will embrace you _cordially_--about the heart, you know. Good night!" "And well gone," said the woman, as she heard the door slammed with a noise that shook the crazy tenement. "Oh! I am so happy you have come to relieve me of an engagement which I was ashamed of, and which would have yielded me nothing; for their object was to force money out of your friend, and then divide it between them." "How did Rogers or Ruggieri find you out?" inquired I. "I cannot tell; the nose of a bloodhound has a finer sense than a sheep-dog's." "And how did you come to know of the compact between the brothers?" "They got unwary under wine drunk at that fir table. The doctor was the medical attendant of Colonel Graeme, and this gave him means of working upon his conscience; and I know they have been at this work for a time." "But how did Ruggieri come to know about the ten of diamonds?" "Oh, the card was found crumpled up under the table by Ruggieri himself, who, with you, was present at the play. He has the card at this moment. I have seen it. But this is the first time I ever heard of Gourlay's intention to cheat. I will never believe that; but then I am his widow, and may be too favourable to him, while Ruggieri was his enemy, and may be too vindictive." "And how was the colonel to be applied to, after his conscience was wrought up to pay?" "The doctor was to open the subject, and undertake to negotiate with me, to whom he was to hand over the money--one penny of which I never would have received." "The matter is now in better hands," said I. "Will you be staunch and firm in detailing all you know of the scheme?" "Yes, though I should not receive a farthing." "And you will be willing to go to the Moated Grange, and, if necessary, swear to those things?" "I will; and, sir, serious though the whole affair has been to me--for I am poor, and have children--I sometimes wondered, if I did not laugh, at the queer, far-brought, devilish designs of the doctor. Oh, he is a very dragon that for cunning! I heard him say he would impress a painted piece of paper on the child's back, so as to leave a mark, and swear it was a mother's mark, graven by the hands of the Almighty. Oh the blasphemy and wickedness of man!" "Go, dress yourself," said I, "and come with me to the Grange." "I will, if you can give me some minutes to get a neighbour to take charge of George and Anne." And away she went to get this family arrangement completed, while I sat panting with desire to free my friend from the agony of his condition. It was about seven o'clock of that same evening that Mrs. Gourlay and I reached the Moated Grange. I got her shown into an ante-room, to wait the issue of my interview with Graeme. It happened that the doctor and he were together, and it even seemed as if they were converging towards a medium state of confidence. I could observe from the looks of the victim that he had been so far at least drawn into a recital of facts (the nature of which it was not difficult for me to conjecture), for I heard the word Gourlay fall from his lips, as the last of a sentence which my entry had cut short. Indeed, I may as well state here that Graeme afterwards admitted to me that when I entered he was in the midst of a confession of the whole secret of the false play, to which confession he had been first driven by his internal monitor; and secondly, led or rather pulled on by the arch-ambidexter, whose game it was to cheat the cheater, and get the money from him upon some pretence of seeking out Mrs. Gourlay and paying the money to her. I was, in short, in the very nick of time, and could hardly help smiling at the strange part I was playing in what was, as I thought, one of those serious melodramatic farces of which (in the Frenchman's sense) this strange world of laughter and groans is made up. "Dr. Rogers," said I, after the customary greetings, "it is well I have found you. I picked up a poor woman by the way who lay under the seizure of premature labour, and knowing the generosity of my friend, I brought her here for succour and relief. She is in the green parlour, and, I fear, in exigency. Come." "May I see her?" said Graeme. "Certainly, for a moment," said Rogers. "Ah! I rejoice at these opportunities of employing the beneficence of our profession. Who knows but I may bring into the world one who will change the aspect of a hemisphere, and work out some great blessings to the human race!" And following me, they arrived at the door of the green parlour. I opened it. Rogers walked forward, Graeme followed, and I stood in the midst of the three. "Dr. Rogers--Mrs. Gourlay, an intimate friend of your brother, Signor Ruggieri." "Colonel Graeme--Mrs. Gourlay, the widow of that unfortunate man, Ebenezer Gourlay." To which Mrs. Gourlay responded by a curtsey, deep and respectful. "I am master for the nonce. The door is locked, and Mrs. Gourlay must be delivered of her child with the naevus of the ten of diamonds on its back." And she was delivered, but not with the assistance of the doctor. She performed her part well. By a little drawing out, on my part, I got her to tell her story; how she had got acquainted with the two brothers; how they had laid their plans; how she came to know of the crumpled card, and the use they were to make of it; the trick of the impression on the child's back; the forcing of the money from the colonel on the pretence of paying it to her, with her conviction that she would never handle a penny of it. During the period of this extraordinary recital, it was my part to watch the countenances of the two listeners. Graeme sat as if bound to his chair; every word of the woman seemed to work as a charm upon him, relieving him of the conviction he had been impressed with, that he was specially under the judgment of Heaven, without depriving him of the consolation of a late penitence. Sometimes I caught his eye, and, I fairly admit, I was wicked enough to indulge in a little mute risibility to give him confidence in the conclusions he was fast drawing from the somewhat garrulous narrative of the poor widow. As for the doctor, he held out like a Milo. From the first moment he saw the woman he knew that the game was up with him, but he knew also, what all hardened sinners know, that they owe it to the cacodaimon they obey, to deny everything to the last, as if they were afraid to show any indication of what they consider the weakness of being good. We allowed him to get quit upon the condition of silence on his part, for a prudent forbearance on ours. Mrs. Gourlay remained at the Grange for some time, whereby we had an opportunity of further ascertaining all the details of the machination. A sum of money was given to her, and Graeme's conscience was relieved, as well by this retribution as by a conviction to which we both came, that the game between him and Gourlay was rendered at least equal by the fact which we had both reason to believe, as stated by Ruggieri, that Gourlay himself intended to cheat, and that his death could be more easily accounted for on that theory than on any other. So far as peace could be brought to one truly penitent, that peace was brought; and many a time since I have admired, in the happiness of the family at the Grange, that exemplification of the promise of our blessed faith, that there is no degree of guilt which may not be atoned for by the heart that is contrite, and trusts to the mercy of Heaven through the eternally-ordained source. I may gratify a whim by informing the readers of the Border Tales that the secret of the mark on the child's back was never communicated to Mrs. Graeme. The nurse had told her of the fact of the strange phenomenon, and she always clung to the belief that it was an omen of good fortune to the boy. But under what mysterious conditions is the chain of cause and effect kept up! The frequent allusion made by the mother to the fact of the mark, drew her son's attention to the cards. He early became fond of playing with them, as boys do. The early feeling germinated, and became a kind of passion, and I have reason to believe he became a gambler like his father, squandering away a great part of his patrimony. END OF VOL. XXII. 
14416	----	Proofreading Team STORIES OF THE BORDER MARCHES [Illustration] BY JOHN LANG AND JEAN LANG LONDON: T.C. & E.C. JACK LTD. 67 LONG ACRE, W.C., AND EDINBURGH 1916 PREFACE The quotation that speaks of "Old, unhappy, far-off things, and battles long ago," has grown now to be hackneyed. Yet, are not they those "old, unhappy, far-off things" that lure us back from a very commonplace and utilitarian present, and cause us to cling to the romance of stories that are well-nigh forgotten? In these days of rushing railway journeys, of motor cars, telegrams, telephones, and aeroplanes, we are apt to lose sight of the tales of more leisurely times, when lumbering stage-coaches and relays of willing horses were our only means of transit from one kingdom to the other. Because the "long ago" means to us so infinitely valuable a possession, we have striven to preserve in print a few of the stories that still remain--flotsam and jetsam saved from the cruel rush of an overwhelming tide. One or two of the tales in this volume are perhaps not quite so familiar as is the average Border story, and some may contain less of violence and of bloodshed than is common. Yet it must be owned that it is no easy task to divorce the Border from its wedded mate, violence. JOHN LANG. JEAN LANG. CONTENTS THE WHITE LADY OF BLENKINSOPP 1 DICKY OF KINGSWOOD 17 STORM AND TEMPEST 28 GRISELL HOME, A SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY HEROINE 45 KINMONT WILLIE 66 IN THE DAYS OF THE '15 82 SEWINGSHIELDS CASTLE, AND THE SUNKEN TREASURE OF BROOMLEE LOUGH 108 THE KIDNAPPING OF LORD DURIE 115 THE WRAITH OF PATRICK KERR 132 THE LAIDLEY WORM OF SPINDLESTON-HEUGH 136 A BORDERER IN AMERICA 147 BORDER SNOWSTORMS 164 THE MURDER OF COLONEL STEWART OF HARTRIGGE 187 AULD RINGAN OLIVER 195 A LEGEND OF NORHAM 208 THE GHOST OF PERCIVAL REED 223 DANDY JIM THE PACKMAN 231 THE VAMPIRES OF BERWICK AND MELROSE 237 A BORDER MIDDY 244 SHEEP-STEALING IN TWEEDDALE 256 A PRIVATE OF THE KING'S OWN SCOTTISH BORDERERS 271 HIGHWAYMEN IN THE BORDER 282 CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE 295 ILLICIT DISTILLING AND SMUGGLING 304 SALMON AND SALMON-POACHERS IN THE BORDER 322 THE GHOST THAT DANCED AT JETHART 342 A MAN HUNT IN 1813 346 LADY STAIR'S DAUGHTER 351 STORIES OF THE BORDER MARCHES THE WHITE LADY OF BLENKINSOPP Among the old castles and peel towers of the Border, there are few to which some tale or other of the supernatural does not attach itself. It may be a legend of buried treasure, watched over by a weeping figure, that wrings its hands; folk may tell of the apparition of an ancient dame, whose corpse-like features yet show traces of passions unspent; of solemn, hooded monk, with face concealed by his cowl, who passes down the castle's winding stair, telling his beads; they whisper, it may be, of a lady in white raiment, whose silken gown rustles as she walks. Or the tale, perhaps, is one of pitiful moans that on the still night air echo through some old building; or of the clank of chains, that comes ringing from the damp and noisome dungeons, causing the flesh of the listener to creep. They are all to be found, or at least they _used_ all to be found, somewhere or other in the Border, by those who love such legends. And, perhaps, nowhere are they more common than amongst the crumbling, grass-grown ruins of Northumberland. Away, far up the South Tyne, and up its tributary the Tipalt Burn, close to the boundary of Cumberland, there stands all that is left of an ancient castle, centuries ago the home of an old and once powerful family. The building dates probably from early in the fourteenth century. In the year 1339 "Thomas de Blencansopp" received licence to fortify his house on the Scottish Border, and it is supposed that he then built this castle. Truly that was a part of England where a man had need be careful in his building if he desired to sleep securely and with a whole skin, for on all sides of him were wild and turbulent neighbours. From the strenuous day of the old Romans, who built across those hills that long line of wall, which stands yet in parts solid and strong, for centuries the countryside was lawless and unruly, the inhabitants "ill to tame," and every man a freebooter. The Thirlwalls, the Ridleys, the Howards of Naworth, the wild men of Bewcastle; the Armstrongs, Elliots, Scotts, and others across the Border, they were all of them--they and their forebears to the earliest times--of the stuff that prefers action, however stormy, to inglorious peace and quiet, and the man who "kept up his end" in their neighbourhood could be no weakling. Whether the Blenkinsopps were strong enough permanently to hold their property intact among such neighbours one does not know, but at any rate, in 1488 John de Blenkinsopp and his son Gerrard committed the castle to the custody of Henry Percy, Earl of Northumberland, Warden of the East and Middle Marches. Percy's care of the building, however, does not seem to have been particularly zealous, or else "the false Scottes" had again, as was their wont, proved themselves to be unpleasant neighbours, for in 1542 the place is described as "decayed in the Roof, and not in good reparation." Before this date, however, there had been at least one of the Blenkinsopp family on whose reputation for daring and strength no man might cast doubt. Far and wide, Bryan de Blenkinsopp was known for his deeds in war; he was counted gallant and brave even amongst the bravest and most gallant, and his place in battle was ever where blows fell thickest. But it is said that he had one failing, which eventually wrecked his life--he was grasping as any Shylock. Love of money was his undoing. In spite of many chances to do so, in spite of the admiration in which he was universally held, Bryan de Blenkinsopp had never married. He was greatly admired, and yet, for a certain roughness and brutality in him, greatly feared, by many women, and he had been heard many a time scoffingly to say that only would he bring home a wife when he had found a woman possessed of gold sufficient to fill a chest so large that ten of his men might not be able to carry it into his castle. Brides of this calibre did not then grow in profusion on either side of the Border, and had he continued to live uninterruptedly in his own country, no doubt Bryan de Blenkinsopp might have remained to the end unmarried. But: "When I said I would die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I was married." In that, Bryan might have anticipated _Benedick_, as well as in the resolution. "Rich she shall be, that's certain." He went abroad to the wars. Perhaps he was with Henry V at Agincourt, and thenceforward, till the king's death in 1422, saw more of France than of England. In any case, to the unbounded wonder of the countryside, when at length he did return, Bryan brought back with him a foreign bride to Blenkinsopp. And what added to the wonder, the bride brought with her a chest of treasure so heavy that twelve of Bryan's retainers could with difficulty bear it into the castle. Naturally, all this gave rise to endless talk; what prattling little busybody but would relish so succulent a morsel! Ere long the local gossip-mongers revelled in a perfect feast of petty scandal. Stories in minute detail spread quickly from mouth to mouth. The eccentricities and shortcomings of the foreign bride were a priceless boon to the scanty population of the district; in castle and in peel tower little else for a time was talked of. To begin with, the mere fact that she was a foreigner, and that neither she nor any of her immediate followers could speak English, told heavily against the lady in the estimation of the countryside. Then, hardly anyone ever saw her (which in itself was an offence, and the cause of still further tattle). She was very little, folk said who professed to be well informed, and her face and hands showed strangely brown against the white robes that she habitually wore; her eyes were like stars; her temper quick to blaze up without due cause. Backstairs gossip, no doubt; but there were even pious souls who, in strictest confidence, went so far as to hazard the opinion that the lady was not quite "canny"; she might, they thought, quite possibly turn out to be an imp of the Evil One sent with her gold to wile Bryan's soul to perdition. The belief was not more fantastic than many another that prevailed at that day, and later; and the fact that she was never known to go to mass, nor had been seen to cross the threshold of a sacred building, lent some weight to it. This was the kind of "clash" that floated about the countryside. But assuredly there was this much foundation for talk: Bryan and his foreign bride were far from happy together. As time went on, their quarrels, indeed, became notorious. It was whispered that the fount from which flowed all the trouble was nothing more nor less than that chest of gold which the bride had brought for dowry. The lady, folk said, would not surrender it to her husband; no matter how he stormed. _She_ was not of the kind that tamely submits, or cringes before a bully; on the contrary, she ever gave back as good as she received. Finally, things came at length to such a pitch, that the lady and her foreign servants, it was said, at dead of night had secretly dug a great hole somewhere in the huge vaulted dungeons of the castle, and had there buried her gold and the rich jewels which now she hated as the cause of her troubles. Then, a little later, followed the climax--after violent scenes, Bryan himself disappeared, as if to show that, the treasure being somewhere beyond his ken, or out of his reach, he had no further use for the wife. He might, no doubt, have resorted to poison, or to the knife, in order to revenge himself; or he might have so made life a burden to her--as is done sometimes, one is told, even by modern husbands--that she would have been glad to lick his hand like a whipped spaniel, and to have owned up, perhaps, to the place where she had hid the gold. But if he killed her, her secret might die with her, or the servants who were in her confidence might themselves secure the treasure. Again, she had plenty of spirit, and, indeed, rather seemed to enjoy a fight, and it was possible that bullying might not cause her to try to conciliate him by revealing the whereabouts of the hidden treasure. So Bryan took the course that he judged would make things the most unpleasant for his wife, and which would at the same time rid him of her. He simply disappeared. And now the poor little lady, fierce enough in quarrel, and bitter enough in tongue, was inconsolable. In spite of all--it is one of the most inscrutable of the many inscrutable points in the nature of some women--in spite of all, she had loved her great, strong, brutal, bullying husband, and probably was only jealous of the gold because he had showed too plainly that in his estimation it, and not she, came first. Her days, unhappy enough before, were now spent in fruitless misery, waiting for him who returned never again. A year and a day passed, and still no tidings came to her of Bryan de Blenkinsopp. The deserted wife could bear no longer her life in this alien country, and she, too, with all her servants, went away. Folk, especially those who had always in their hearts suspected her of being an imp of Satan, said that no man saw them go. Probably she went in search of her husband; but whether or not she ever found him, or whether she made her way back to the land from which she had come, none can say, for from that day to this all trace is lost of husband and of wife. Only the tale remained in the country people's minds; and probably it lost nothing in the telling as the years rolled on. The story of the White Lady of Blenkinsopp became one to which the dwellers by Tyneside loved to listen of a winter's evening round the fire, and it even began to be whispered that she "walked." More than one dweller in the castle claimed to have seen her white-robed figure wandering forlorn through the rooms in which she had spent her short, unhappy wedded life. Perhaps it may have been due to her influence that by 1542 the roof and interior had been neglected and allowed to fall into decay. Yet though shorn of all its former grandeur, for some centuries the castle continued to be partly occupied, and as late as the first quarter of last century, in spite of the dread in which the White Lady had come to be held, there were families occasionally living in the less ruined parts of the building. About the year 1820 two of the more habitable rooms were occupied by a labouring man with his wife and their two children, the youngest a boy of eight. They had gone there, the parents at least well knowing the reputation of the place; but weeks had passed, their rest had never in any way been disturbed, and they had ceased to think of what they now considered to be merely a silly old story. All too soon, however, there came a night when shriek upon shriek of ghastly terror rang in the ears of the sleeping husband and wife, and brought them, with sick dread in their hearts, hurrying to the room where their children lay. "Mither! mither! oh mither! A lady! a lady!" gasped the sobbing youngest boy, clinging convulsively to his mother. "What is't, my bairn? There's never a lady here, my bonny boy. There's nobody will harm ye." But the terrified child would not be comforted. He had seen a lady, "a braw lady, a' in white," who had come to his bedside and, sitting down, had bent and kissed him; she "cried sore," the child said, and wrung her hands, and told him that if he would but come with her she would make him a rich man, she would show him where gold was buried in the castle; and when the boy answered that he dare not go with her, she had stooped to lift and carry him. Then he had cried out, and she had slipped from the room just as his father and mother hurried in. "Ye were dreamin', my bonny lamb," cried the mother; and the parents, after a time, succeeded in calming the child and in getting him again to fall asleep. Night after night, however, as long as the boy remained in that room, this scene was re-enacted; the same terror-stricken screams, the same hurried rush of the parents, the same frightened tale from the quivering lips of the child. Dreams, no doubt, induced by some childish malady; a common enough form of nightmare, suggested by previous knowledge of a story likely to impress children. But to the day of his death--and he died an old man, a successful colonist, prosperous and respected, a man in no way prone to superstitious weakness--the dreamer ever maintained that it was something more than a dream that had come to him those nights in Blenkinsopp Castle. He could feel yet, he said, and shuddered to feel, the clasp of her arms and the kiss on his cheek from the cold lips of the White Lady; and the dream, if dream it were, was not due to suggestion, for he was conscious of no previous knowledge of the legend. The White Lady of Blenkinsopp has fled now, scared from her haunt by the black smoke of tall chimneys and the deep--throated blare of steam hooters; coal dust might well lay a more formidable spectre than that of a Lady in White. But no man has ever yet discovered the whereabouts of her hidden treasure, though many have sought. Seventy or eighty years ago, there came to the inn of a neighbouring village a lady, who confided to the hostess of the inn that in a dream she had seen herself find, under a certain stone, deep in the dungeon of a ruined castle, a chest of gold; and Blenkinsopp, she said, answered in every detail to the castle of her dream. Assuredly, she thought, to her now was to be revealed the long-sought burial-place of the White Lady's treasure. But patiently though the dreamer waited on and importuned the castle's owner, permission to make a systematic search among the ruins was too hard to obtain, and the disheartened seer of visions departed, and returned no more. And so the hidden treasure to this day remains hidden; no prospector has yet lit on that rich "claim," no "dowser" has poised his magic hazel twig above its bed, nor has clairvoyant revealed its whereabouts. But rumour had it once that the long-sought hiding-place was found. Orders had been given that the vaults of the castle should be cleared of rubbish, and fitted up as winter quarters for cattle, and as the workmen proceeded with their task they came on a low doorway, hitherto unknown, on a level with the bottom of the keep. This doorway gave on a narrow passage, leading no man knew whither. The report flew abroad that here at last was the Lady's vault, and people flocked to see what might be seen. None dared venture far along this passage, till one, bolder than the rest, taking his courage in both hands, went gingerly down the way so long untrod by human foot. The passage was narrow and low, too low for a man to walk in erect; after a few yards it descended a short flight of steps, and then again went straight forward to a door so decayed that only a rusted bolt, and one rust-eaten hinge, held it in place. Beyond this door, an abrupt turn in the passage, and then a flight of steps so precipitous that the feeble beam of his lantern could give the explorer no help in fathoming their depth; and when this lantern was lowered as far as it was in his power to do so, the flame burned blue and went out, killed by the noxious gases that stagnant centuries had breathed. Dizzy and frightened, the explorer with difficulty groped his way back to the fresher air of the vault, and no persuasion could induce him, or any of his fellows, to venture again so far as to that long flight of steps. The employer of those labourers was a man entirely devoid of curiosity or of imagination, possessed of no interest whatsoever in archaeology; so it fell out that the passage was closed, without any further effort being made to discover to what mysteries it might lead. About the year 1845, one who then wrote about the castle visited the place, and found that boys had broken a small hole in the wall where the passage had been built up. Through this hole they were wont to amuse themselves by chucking stones, listening, fascinated, to the strange sounds that went echoing, echoing through the mysterious depths far below. Here, say some, lies the buried treasure of the White Lady of Blenkinsopp. But there are not wanting unsympathetic souls, who pride themselves on being nothing if not practical, who pretend to think that this hidden depth is nothing more mysterious than the old draw-well of the castle. This story of the White Lady is not the only legend of the supernatural with which the old family of Blenkinsopp is connected. Where Tipalt Burn falls into Tyne, stand on the opposite bank the ruins of Bellister Castle. There, many hundred years ago, dwelt a branch of the Blenkinsopps. To Bellister there came one night at the gloaming a wandering harper, begging for shelter from the bitter northerly blast that gripped his rheumatic old joints, and sported with his failing strength. He was a man past middle age, with hair thin and grey, and a face worn and lined; his tattered clothes gave scant protection from inclement weather. As was the custom in those times, the minstrel's welcome was hearty. Food and drink, and a seat near the fire, were his, and soon his blood thawed, the bent form of the man seemed to straighten, and his eye kindled as, later in the evening, "high placed in hall, a welcome guest," he touched his harp and sang to the company. You could scarcely now recognise the weary, bent, old scarecrow that but two hours back had trailed, footsore and tired, across the castle drawbridge. The change was astonishing, and many jested with the harper on the subject. But one there was who noticed, and who did not jest. They were increasingly uneasy looks that the lord of the castle from time to time threw towards the minstrel. What, he pondered unquietly, caused this amazing change in the appearance of one who so lately had seemed to be almost on the verge of the grave? Was he in truth the frail old man he had pretended to be, or had he overacted his part, and was he no minstrel, but an enemy in disguise? The lord's looks grew blacker and more black, and ever more uneasy as the evening proceeded; and the more he suspected, the more he drank to drown the disquiet of his mind. At length his unease became so marked that unavoidably it communicated itself to the rest of the company. Even the rough men-at-arms desisted from their boisterous jests, and spoke beneath their breath. The harper glancing around as the silence grew, and finding the lord's black looks ever upon him, trailed off at last in his song and sat mute, with uncertain fingers plucking at the strings of his instrument. The company broke up, glad to escape from the gloom of their lord's glances, and somebody showed the old man to a rude chamber, where a bundle of pease straw was to serve him for bed. But the lord of Bellister sat on, "glooming" morbidly to himself. Bitter feud existed between him and a neighbouring baron. Had he not cause to distrust that baron, and to believe that means neither fair nor honourable might be employed by his enemy to wipe out the feud? What if this self-styled harper should turn out to be no minstrel after all, but a hired assassin, a follower of that base churl, his hated foe! To suspect was to believe. In his excited, drink-clouded brain wrath sprang up, fully armed. He would speedily put an end to that treacherous scheme; his enemies should learn that if one can plot, another may have cunning to bring to naught such treachery. And little mercy should be shown to the base tool of a baser employer. "Bring hither quickly to me that minstrel," he called. "And it will be the better for some of you that there be no delay," he muttered beneath his breath, with a threatening blow of his fist on the table. Of old his servants and dependants had learned the lesson that it was well not to linger over the carrying out of their passionate lord's orders. But in this instance, speed was of no avail; they were obliged to return, to report to a wrathful master that the bird had flown; the place was empty, the old man gone. Threatening glances and black looks had scared him; without waiting for rest, he had fled while yet there was time, less afraid of exposure to a wild and stormy night than to find himself in the clutches of a petty tyrant. That the man had fled was to Blenkinsopp quite convincing proof that his suspicions were justified. Immediate pursuit was ordered. "Lay the sleuth hounds on his trail without an instant's delay. Let _them_ deal with him!" * * * * * Less than a mile away, by some willows that once marked a ford in the river, men hurrying after the baying hounds came up too late. Echoing across the heath, an agonised shriek rang on their ears, drowned by the snarling as of wild beasts. Lying on its back on the river bank, head and shoulders in the shallow stream, the man-hunters found but a frail, mutilated body that had once been the wandering old minstrel. This was what gave rise to the legend of the Grey Man of Bellister. Ever since that hideous night, at intervals the "Grey Man" has been wont to appear to belated travellers along that road. Near the clump of willows he might first be seen, hurrying, hurrying, his long grey cloak flying in the wind. And woe to him on whom he chanced to turn and look; his wild eye and torn face, his blood-clotted beard, would freeze with horror those who gazed, and disaster or death followed hard on the track of the vision. It is a hundred years now, and more, since last the "Grey Man" was seen. Perhaps his penance for sins committed on earth is ended; or perhaps it is that against railways, and drainage, and modern scoffings, he and his like cannot stand. He is gone; but even yet, about the scene where once as a man the old minstrel fled for dear life, there hangs at the dead time of night a sense of mystery and awe. As the chilly wind comes wailing across the everlasting hills, blending its voice with the melancholy dirge of the river, one may almost believe that through the gloom there passes swiftly a bent, hurrying figure. Perhaps it is but the swaying of a branch near by, that so startlingly suggests the waving in the wind of a threadbare cloak. DICKY OF KINGSWOOD Your Border ruffian of the good old days was not often a humorist. Life to him was a serious business. When he was not reiving other people's kye, other people were probably reiving his; and as a general rule one is driven to conclude that he was not unlike that famous Scotch terrier whose master attributed the dog's persistently staid and even melancholy disposition to the fact that he "jist couldna get enough o' fechting." In olden times, "fechting" was the Border man's strong point; but in later, and perhaps less robust, days there were to be found some who took a degenerate pride in getting by craft what their fathers would have taken by force. Of such, in the early days of the eighteenth century, was Dicky of Kingswood. Had he lived a hundred or a hundred and fifty years earlier, Dicky would no doubt have been a first-class reiver, one of the "tail" of some noted Border chieftain, for he lacked neither pluck nor strength. But in his own day he preferred the _suaviter in modo_ to the _fortiter in re_; his cunning, indeed, was not unworthy of the hero of that ancient Norse tale, "The Master Thief," and in his misdeeds there was not seldom to be found a spice of humour so disarming that at times his victims were compelled to laugh, and in laughter to forget their just resentment; and with the perishing of resentment, to forego their manifest duty and that satisfaction which virtue should ever feel in the discomfiture of vice. Compounding a felony, we should call it now. And no doubt it was. But in those days, when the King's writ ran with but halting foot through the wild Border hills, perhaps least said was soonest mended. Kingswood lies just across the river from Staward Peel, but Dicky dwelt generally at the latter place--in former days an almost unassailable stronghold, standing on a bold eminence overlooking Allen Water, some miles to the east of Haltwhistle. Here of old, when beacon-fires blazed on the hill-tops, "each with warlike tidings fraught," flashing their warning of coming trouble from "the false Scottes," the people of these regions were wont to hurry for safety, breathlessly bearing with them whatsoever valuables they prized and had time to save. Many a treasure is said to lie here, buried, and never again dug up, because those who alone knew where to look had perished in defence of the Peel. Truly, if the troubled spirits of those slain ones yet wander, brooding over hidden chattels and lost penates, they are not greatly to be pitied, for a spot more beautiful, one less to be shunned if our spirits _must_ wander, it would be hard to find in all Northumberland or in all England. Not distant would they be, too, from good company, for away to the north across the Tyne, in a mighty cavern in the rock--below what once was the castle of Sewing Shields--does not local tradition tell that Arthur and his knights lie asleep, waiting the inevitable day when England's dire need shall bring them again to life, to strike a blow for the land they loved. And along that noble line of wall which spanned England from sea to sea, might they not perchance foregather--some dark and stormy night, when snow drives down before a north-east wind--with the dim forms of armoured men, wraiths of the Roman legions, patrolling once more the line that they died to defend? Dicky of Kingswood was making for home one day in early spring. He was outside the radius of his usual field of operations, far to the east of Kingswood and Staward, plodding along with the westering sun in his eyes, and thinking ruefully that he had come a long way for nothing. Sometimes it is convenient for gentlemen of Dicky's habits to visit foreign parts, or parts, at least, where their appearance may not attract undue notice--for such as he are often of modest and retiring disposition. On this occasion he had so far done no business of profit, and Dicky was depressed. He would fain turn a more or less honest penny ere he reached home, if it might but be done quietly. Late in the day came his chance. Grazing in a neighbouring lush pasture were two fine fat bullocks. Dicky paused to look, and the more he looked, the more he admired; the more he admired, the more he coveted. They were magnificent beasts, seldom had he seen finer; nothing could better suit his purpose. Such beasts would fetch a high price anywhere--they _must_ be his. So, with what patience he could command, till darkness should come to his aid, Dicky discreetly retired to a neighbouring copse, where, himself unseen, he might feast his eyes on the fat cattle, and at the same time make sure that if they did happen to be removed from that particular pasture, at least he would not be ignorant of their whereabouts. But the bullocks fed on undisturbed. No one came to remove them; only their owner stood regarding them for a while. Darkness fell, and the call of an owl that hooted eerily, or the distant wail of a curlew, alone broke the stillness. Then up came Dicky's best friend, a moon but little past the full. Everything was in his favour, not a hitch of any kind occurred; quietly and without any fuss the great fat beasts began to make their slow way west across the hills for Cumberland. Morning came, bringing with it a great hue and cry on that farm bereft of its fat cattle, and things might chance to have fared ill with Dicky had he not adroitly contrived to lay a false trail, that headed the furious owner in hasty pursuit north, towards Tweed and Scotland. Meanwhile, in due time--not for worlds would Dicky have overdriven them--the bullocks and their driver found themselves in Cumberland, near by Lanercost. There, as they picked their leisurely way along, they encountered an old farmer riding a bay mare, the like of which for quality Dicky had never seen. His mouth watered. "Where be'st gangin' wi' the nowt?" asked the farmer. "Oh, to Carlisle," said Dicky. "Wad ye sell?" "Oh aye!" answered Dicky. "For a price. But the beasts are good." "Yes, they were good," admitted the farmer. And Dicky must come in, and have a drink, and they'd talk about the oxen. So in they went to the farmer's house, and long they talked, and the more they talked the more the farmer wanted those bullocks; but the more he wanted them the more he tried to beat Dicky down. But Dicky was in no haste to sell; he could do better at Carlisle, said he; and the upshot, of course, was that he got the price he asked. And then said Dicky, when the money was paid, and they had had another drink or two, and a mighty supper: "That was a bonnie mare ye were riding." "Aye," said the farmer. "An' she's as good as she's bonnie. There's no her like in a' Cumberland." "Wad ye sell?" "Sell!" cried the farmer. "No for the value o' the hale countryside. Her like canna be found. Sell! Never i' this world." "Well, well," said Dicky, "I canna blame ye. She's a graund mare. But they're kittle times, thir; I wad keep her close, or it micht happen your stable micht be empty some morning." "Stable!" roared the fanner boisterously. "Hey! man, ah pit her in no stable. She sleeps wi' me, man, in my ain room. Ah'm a bachelor, ah am, an' there's non' to interfere wi' me, and ivvery nicht she's tied to my ain bed-post. Man, it's music to my ear to hear her champin' her corn a' the nicht. Na, na! Ah trust her in no stable; an' ah'd like to see the thief could steal her awa' oot o' my room withoot wakenin' me." "Well, maybe ye're right," said Dicky. "But mind, there's some cunnin' anes aboot. Ye'll hae a good lock on your door, nae doot?" "Aye, I _have_ a good lock, as ye shall see," cried the farmer, caution swamped in brandy and good fellowship. "What think ye o' that for a lock?" "Uhm--m!" murmured Dicky reflectively, carefully scrutinising lock and key--and he was not unskilled in locks. "Aye, a good lock; a very good lock. Yes, yes! Just what you want; the very thing. They'll no pick that." "No! They'll never pick _that_. Ho! Ho!" laughed the complacent farmer. Then Dicky said he "maun be steppin'. It was gettin' late." And so, after one more drink, and another "to the King, God bless him," and yet one more to "themselves," and a fourth, just to see that the others went the right way and behaved themselves, the two parted, the best and dearest of friends. It might have been the outcome of a good conscience, or perhaps it was the soothing thought that he had made a good bargain, and had got those bullocks at a figure lower than he had been prepared to pay; or, possibly, it may only have been the outcome of that extra last glass or two that he had had with Dicky. But whatever it was, the fact remained that the farmer's slumbers that night were very profound, his snoring heavier than common. Towards morning, but whilst yet the night was dark, dreaming that he and the mare were swimming a deep and icy river, he woke with a start. Everything was strangely still; even the mare made no sound. And--surely it must be freezing! He was chilled to the bone. And then, on a brain where yet sang the fumes of brandy, it dawned that he had absolutely no covering on him. Sleepily he felt with his hands this way and that, up and down. To no purpose. His blankets must certainly have fallen on the floor, but try as he might, no hand could he lay on them. Slipping out of bed to grope for flint and steel wherewith to strike a light, with soul-rending shock he ran his forehead full butt against the open door of his room. "De'il tak' it! What's this?" he bellowed. It was inconceivable that he had forgotten to close and lock that door before getting into bed, however much brandy he might have drunk overnight. What was the meaning of it? At last a light, got from the smouldering kitchen fire, revealed the hideous truth--his room was empty, the cherished mare gone! The door (as he had found to his cost) stood wide open; along the floor were carefully spread his blankets, and over them no doubt the mare had been led out without making noise sufficient to awaken even a light sleeper, let alone one whose potations had been deep as the farmer's. Lights now flashed and twinkled from room to room, from house to stable and byre, and back again, as the frenzied, cursing farmer and his servants tumbled over each other in their haste to find the lost animal. It is even said that one servant lass, in her ardour of search, was found looking under the bed in an upstairs room--scarcely a likely grazing ground for any four-footed animal (unless perhaps it might be a night-mare). But whether she expected to find there the lost quadruped, or the man guilty of its abduction, tradition says not. At any rate, all that any of the searchers found--and that not till broad daylight--was the print of the good mare's hoofs in some soft ground over which she had been ridden fast. And no one had heard even so much as the smallest sound. The day was yet young, and the breeze played gratefully cool on Dicky's brow, as, fearless of pursuit, he rode contentedly along towards home a few hours later. Skirting by Naworth, thence up by Tindale Tarn and down the burn to South Tyne, he had now come to the Fells a little to the south and east of Haltwhistle. To him came a man on foot; and, said he: "Have ye seen onny stray cattle i' your travels? I've lost a yoke o' fat bullocks." "What micht they be like?" asked Dicky innocently; for he had no difficulty in recognising the farmer from whom he had stolen the beasts, though the latter, having never set eyes on Dicky, had no idea of whom he was talking to. "Oh," said the man, "they were fine, muckle, fat beasts, red, baith o' them, ane wi' a bally face, an' the tither wi' its near horn sair turned in." And some other notable peculiarities the farmer mentioned, such as might strike a man skilled in cattle. "We-el," answered Dicky thoughtfully, "now that ye mention it, I believe I did see sic a pair, or twa very like them, no later agone than yesterday afternoon. If I'm no mista'en, they're rinnin' on Maister ----'s farm, no far frae Lanercost." "Man, ah'm that obleeged to ye. But ah'm that deid tired wi' walkin', seekin' them, ah canna gang that far," said the farmer. "That's a gey guid mare ye're ridin'. Ye wadna be for sellin' her, likely?" "Oh aye, I'll sell. But she's a braw mare; there's no her like i' the countryside, or in a' Northumberland. I'll be wantin' a braw price." Dicky was always ready for a deal, and in this instance of course it suited him very well to get rid of his steed. So, after some chaffering, Dicky was promised his "braw price," and he accompanied the farmer home to get the money. A long way it was. The farmer perforce walked, but Dicky, with native caution, rode, for, said he, in excuse to his companion: "I'm loth to part wi' my good auld mare, for I've never owned her like. Sae I'll jist tak' a last bit journey on her." In due course Dicky got his money, and food and drink, as much as he could swallow, into the bargain. Then the farmer rode away for Lanercost; and Dicky, of course, remembered that he had business in a different part of the country. Sure enough, when the farmer reached Lanercost there were his bullocks contentedly grazing in a field, while contemplatively gazing at them stood an elderly man, with damaged face. Up rode the farmer on the mare. "Here!" shouted he angrily, "what the de'il are ye doin' wi' my bullocks?" "Wh-a-at?" bellowed the other with equal fury. "_Your_ bullocks! And be d----d to ye! If it comes to that, what the de'il are _ye_ doin' ridin' my mare? I'll hae the law o' ye for stealin' her, ye scoondrel! Come _doon_ oot o' my saiddle afore ah pu' ye doon." And the two elderly men, each red in the face as a "bubbly jock," both spluttering and almost speechless with rage, glared at each other, murder in their eyes. Then came question and answer, and mutual explanation, and gradually the comic side of the affair struck them; each saw how the other had been done, and they burst into roar after roar of such laughter as left them weak and helpless. They had been properly fooled. But the fat bullocks were recovered, and the well-loved mare, even if the money paid for each was gone. And after all, he laughs best who laughs last. But they saw no more of Dicky of Kingswood. STORM AND TEMPEST When we think of "the Border," the picture that rises to mind is usually one of hill and dale, of peat-hag and heathery knoll, of brimming burns that tumble headlong to meet the embrace of rivers hurrying to their rest in the great ocean. One sees in imagination the solemn, round-shouldered hills standing out grim in the thin spring sunshine, their black sides slashed and lined with snow; later, one pictures these hills decked with heartsease and blue-bells a-swing in the summer breeze, or rich with the purple bloom of heather; and, again, one imagines them clothed in November mists, or white and ghost-like, shrouded in swirling clouds of snow. But there is another part of the Border which the inland dweller is apt to forget--that which, in sweep upon sweep of bay, or unbroken line of cliff, extends up the coasts of Northumberland and Berwickshire. That is a part of the Border which those who are not native to it know only in the months of summer, when the sea is sapphire-blue, when surf creams softly round the feet of limpet-covered rocks, and the little wavelets laugh and sparkle as they slide over the shining sands. It is another matter when Winter with his tempests comes roaring from the North. Where are then the laughing waters and the smiling sunlit sands? Swallowed up by wild seas with storm-tossed crests, that race madly landward to dash themselves in blind fury on shoreless cliffs, or sweep resistless over a shingly beach. It is a cruel coast in the winter time, and its children had need be strong men and fearless, for they who make their living on the face of its waters surely inherit a share greater than is their due of toil and danger; they, verily, more than others "see the works of the Lord, and His wonders in the deep." From earliest times when men first sailed the seas this coast has taken heavy toll of ships and of human lives, and in the race that it has bred, necessarily there has been little room for weaklings; their men are even to this day of the type of the old Vikings--from whom perhaps they descend--fair-bearded and strong, blue-eyed and open of countenance. And their women--well, there are many who might worthily stand alongside their countrywoman, Grace Darling, many who at a pinch would do what she did, and "blush to find it fame." Yet one must admit that, as a whole, this community was not always keen to save ship and crew from the breakers, nor prone to warn vessels off from dangerous reef or sunken rock. In days long gone by, if all tales are true, the people of these coasts had no good reputation among sailors, and their habits and customs were wont to give rise to much friction and ill-will betwixt England and Scotland. It is certain that in 1472 they plundered the great foreign-going barge built by Bishop Kennedy of St. Andrews--the greatest ship ever seen in those days--when she drove ashore one stormy night off Bamborough. And of her passengers, one, the Abbot of St. Colomb, was long held to ransom by James Carr, a deed the consequences of which, in those days of an all-powerful Church, might be dreadful to contemplate. Pitscottie says the "Bishop's Barge" cost her owner something like £10,000 sterling. Perhaps the harvest reaped by Bamborough when she came ashore may have encouraged Northumbrians to adopt this line of business in earnest, for by 1559 we read that "wreckers" were common down all that coast; and their prayer: "Let us pray for a good harvest this winter," contained no allusion to the fruits of the field. In 1643 there was a Scottish priest, Gilbert Blakhal, confessor in Paris to the Lady Isabelle Hay, Lord Errol's daughter, who in the course of a journey to his native land visited Holy Island, and in the account of his travels he makes mention of the ways of the island's inhabitants, and of their prayer when a vessel was seen to be in danger. "They al sit downe upon their knees and hold up their handes, and say very devotely, 'Lord, send her to us. God, send her to us.' You, seeing them upon their knees, and their handes joyned, do think that they are praying for your sauvetie; but their myndes are far from that. They pray, not God to sauve you, or send you to the porte, but to send you to them by ship-wrack, that they may gette the spoile of her. And to showe that this is their meaning, if the ship come wel to the porte, or eschew naufrage (shipwreck), they gette up in anger, crying: 'The Devil stick her; she is away from us.'" Father Blakhal does not pretend that with his own ears he heard the Holy Islanders so pray. It was told to him by the Governor of the island. But, then, this Governor, Robin Rugg by name, was "a notable good fellow, as his great read nose, full of pimples, did give testimony." Perhaps he exaggerated, or it was but one of his "merry discourses." Yet I think he told the truth in this instance. To "wreck" was the habit of the day, and by all coastal peoples the spoil of wrecks was regarded as not less their just due than was the actual food obtained by them from the sea. On our own coasts and in our islands until quite recent times such was undoubtedly the case, just as in savage lands it continues to be the case to this day; and the distinction is a fine-drawn one between doing nothing to prevent a vessel from running into danger which would result in profit to the spectators, and the doing of a something, greater or less--say the showing of a light, or the burning of a beacon--which may make it certain that the same vessel shall go where she may be of "the greatest good to the greatest number"--the "greatest number" in such instances being always, of course, the wreckers. A wrecked vessel was their legitimate prey, and the inhabitants of many coastal parts are known to have deeply resented the building of lighthouses where wrecks were frequent. In his notes to _The Pirate_, Sir Walter Scott mentions that the rent of several of the islands in Shetland had greatly fallen since the Commissioners of Lighthouses ordered lights to be established on the Isle of Sanda and the Pentland Skerries. And he tells of the reflection cast upon Providence by a certain pious island farmer, the sails of whose boat were frail from age and greatly patched: "Had it been _His_ will that a light hadna been placed yonder," said he, with pious fervour, "I wad have had enough of new sails last winter." Then as to the saving of life--in those days, and well on into the eighteenth century, it was believed to be a most unlucky thing to save a drowning person; he was sure eventually to do his rescuer some deadly injury. A similar belief, as regards the ill luck, prevails in China to this day; nothing will induce a Chinaman to help a drowning man from the water. In our own case, probably this superstition as to ill luck originated in the obvious fact that if there were no survivor from a wreck, there could be no one to interfere with the claim made by the finders to what they considered their lawful due. If a vessel drove ashore on their coast, that surely was the act and the will of God, and it was not for them to question His decrees or to thwart His intentions. Many, since the days of the wreckers, have been the ships cast away along that rugged coast-line which starts southward from the grim promontory of St. Abb's Head, and runs, cruelly rock-girt or stretched in open bay of yellow sand, away past Berwick and down by Holy Island. Many have been the disasters, pitiful on occasion the loss of life. But never, since history began, has disaster come upon the coast like to that which befell the little town of Eyemouth in the early autumn of 1881, never has loss of life so heartrending overwhelmed a small community. Once the headquarters of smuggling on our eastern coast, and built--as it is well known was also built a certain street of small houses in Spittal--with countless facilities for promoting the operations of "Free Trade," and with "bolt-holes" innumerable for the smugglers when close pressed by gangers, Eyemouth is still a quaint little town, huddling its strangely squeezed-up houses in narrow lanes and wynds betwixt river and bay. There, too, as at a northern town better known to fame than Eyemouth, "The grey North Ocean girds it round, And o'er the rocks, and up the bay, The long sea-rollers surge and sound, And still the thin and biting spray Drives down the melancholy street." * * * * * Truly, in Eyemouth it is not alone spray that drives. So close a neighbour is the protecting sea-wall to some of the houses that turn weather-beaten backs on the bay, that at high tide during a north-easterly gale the giant seas, breaking against the wall, burst also clear over the houses, hurling themselves in torrents of icy water into the street beyond. And up the width of one little street that runs to the bay, and past its barricaded doors, you may see sometimes billows that have overleapt the wall come charging, to ebb with angry swish and long-drawn clatter of shingle as the waves suck back. It is a strange sight, and it causes one to wonder what manner of men they are who dwell here, who draw their living from the bosom of a sea that thus harshly treats its children. Yet it is a sea that can be kindly enough; and in the long, golden summer evenings, when the brown-sailed fishing-boats in endless procession draw out from the "haven under the hill," to vanish seaward in the deepening twilight, you would scarce believe that a thing so gentle could be guilty of treachery, or ever could arise in sudden mad frenzy to slay those who had trusted it. Yet that was what happened that terrible Friday, the 14th of October 1881. No summer's morning could have dawned more peaceful and fair. And here we were but in mid-October, when the woods are in their glory and Scotland looks still for the settled weather of her "Indian summer"; there should yet be ample measure of quiet days and nights ere winter gales rumble in the chimneys and wail through the rigging of boats lying weather-bound in harbour. A cloudless day, sea of deepest blue, without even the faintest cat's-paw to wrinkle its shining face; a morning warm, genial, windless, reminiscent of fairest summer, such a day as landsmen rejoice in, feeling that it is good to be alive. But the glass came tumbling down, the sea heaved sullenly in the oily calm, seething around the bared fangs of jagged rocks, drawing back with threatening snarl or snatching irritably at the trailing sea-weed; and high aloft the gulls wheeled, clamouring. Old men amongst the fishers looked askance. Why did they not take warning? Alas! The year had been a lean year; the weather latterly had been bad, and for near on a week the boats had been unable to go out. The fish were there for the taking. Prices now were good. And "men must work" even if "women must weep." So it befell that boat after boat put out from harbour and headed over the windless sea, dragged, galley-like, by the clumsy sweeps, till, clear of the land, the fanning of a light air from the south-west gave her gentle steerage way. Soon not a boat was left in port; even those whose weather-wise "skeely" old skippers had counselled caution, at length, against their will and better judgment, were shamed into starting. After all, it was no great distance they were going; with ordinary luck they might be back before much wind came. And if the worst came to the worst and they were caught out at sea, why, the boats were weatherly craft, manned by the best of seamen, and an hour or two at the most would see them fight their way back to port. It was all in the day's work. Nothing venture, nothing win. If one may take a risk, so may another. It does not do to stand idle in the background whilst one's neighbour by superior daring secures the prize we also sorely need. So by 9 A.M. the last boat of the five and forty had got to sea. Before midday all had made an offing of eight or ten miles, and had started to shoot their lines. Folk who had watched them creep out of the harbour now gave no further heed, save perhaps that wives may chance to have cast anxious looks seaward now and again. But none dreamt of evil. Then of a sudden, as the morning passed, some on shore became aware of a strange, death-like stillness that had fallen over all things, a feeling of gloom and oppression in the air. The sun indeed still shone unclouded over the land, but away out at sea to the north-east there was a horrible canker of blackness that was eating up the sky, and that already had hid from sight, as by a wall, those boats that lay farthest from the land, whilst those still visible could be seen hurriedly letting everything go by the run. Then the blackness shut down over all, and men could but guess what was going on behind that terrible veil. Over the town, as people deserted their houses and hurried to cliff or sea wall, or wherever there seemed possibility of gaining sight or knowledge of the fleet, the same horror of darkness came rushing; wind raved and screamed, and already a sea, indescribable in its appalling fury, was raging into the bay, the crests, cut off as with a knife, flying through the air like densest smoke. Rain scourged and blinded, the driving spray lashed beyond bearing the faces of those who, dread in their souls, peered through their sheltering hands, trying vainly to penetrate the smother to windward. A few hundred yards of raging water, a blurred vision of rushing, tumbling seas; tumultuous, deafening roar of surf, the tortured scream of wind; and that was all. It was as if one might try to gaze into the mouth of hell. Then through this Hades of waters, rolling, tumbling, pitching, buried almost in the breaking seas, into the bay came rushing three yawls, manned by crab-fishers from St. Abb's, past the Hurcar Rock, and round safely into the harbour; then a large Eyemouth fishing-boat, and another, and another, and then a pause of sickening suspense, and two more large boats from St. Abb's fought their way to safety. Men began faintly to pluck up heart. If these had come out of the jaws of death, why not the others? But now again they hoped with ever sinking hearts, for minutes passed and there came no more. Then, even as they strained their eyes despairingly, there came one into the bay that failed to get far enough to windward. Down on the rock behind the breakwater she drove, helpless, and went to pieces. Another took the same road, and smashed to atoms almost at the pierhead, so near, and yet so far from human aid, that the voices of both crews could be heard by the helpless, distracted spectators--white-lipped men, wailing women, who clustered there by the rocks in impotent agony. One struggling drowning man fought hard--it is said that the outermost of a chain of rescuers once even touched his hand. But no help was possible, no human power could have drawn those helpless men from that raging cauldron; against such wind no rocket could fly, near these rocks no lifeboat could live. Even if she could have lived, there was no crew to man her; all were away with the fleet. It was near low water now, and into the bay came driving a big boat that rushed on the rocks at Fort Point, pounded there a brief second, and was hurled by the following sea on to the beach, so nearly high and dry that her crew, by the aid of lines, were readily saved. And then into view through the welter came staggering a new boat, one whose first trip it was, sore battered, but battling gallantly for life, and making wonderful weather of it. Yet, even as hope told the flattering tale of her certain safety, there came racing up astern a sea, gigantic even in that giant sea, raced her, caught her, and, as it passed ahead, so tilted her bows that the ballast slid aft, and down she sank by the stern, so near to safety that betwixt ship and shore wife might recognise husband and husband wife. As at Eyemouth, so it was all down the coast. At Burnmouth, at Berwick (though no boat belonging to Berwick that day was out), at Goswick Bay, and elsewhere, boat after boat, driven before the fury of the gale, was forced over by wind and sea, and sunk with all her crew, or was dashed to pieces on the shore. Night fell on Eyemouth; and, God, what a night! "In Rama was there a voice heard, lamentation, and weeping, and great mourning; Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted, because they are not." By little and little, by ones and twos, boats, battered and with sails torn to ribbons, with crews exhausted and distraught, kept arriving during the Saturday and Sunday, bringing men, as it were, back from the dead. One or two, under bare poles, had ridden the gale out at sea, lying up into the wind as near as might be, threshing through those awful seas hour after hour, buried almost, sometimes, in the seething cauldron, or struck by tons of solid water when some huge mountain of a wave, toppling to its fall, rushed at her out of the blackness. From minute to minute the men never knew but that the next roaring billow would engulf them also, as already they had seen it roll over and swallow up their neighbours. It was the skipper of the _White Star_ that told afterwards how, before the tornado burst--as some said, "like a clap of thunder"--the first thing to take his attention from the shooting of his lines was boats on the weather side of him hurriedly shortening sail, or letting all run. To the nor'ard, from horizon almost to zenith, already the sky was black as ink, the sea beneath white with flying spume. Then like magic the sea got up, and the _White Star_ turned to run for Eyemouth, with the _Myrtle_ in company. But darkness and the fierce turmoil of waters forced them to lay to in order to make certain of their position. As they lay, pitching fearfully and many times almost on their beam ends from the violence of the wind, a foaming mountain of water came thundering down on the _White Star_, so that for a brief moment all thought that she was gone; and almost as she shook herself free, just such another tremendous wave struck the _Myrtle_, and rolled her over like a walnut-shell skiff, a child's plaything. As the _White Star_ rose on successive waves, her crew twice afterwards saw the _Myrtle_ heave up her side for a second ere she went to the bottom, but of her seven hands no man was ever seen again. Head-reaching into the wind, the _White Star_ gradually made her perilous way, presently passing yet another boat floating bottom up, her rigging trailing in the water around her, but no bodies visible anywhere. Of the rest of the fleet, no sign. Four and forty hours later the _White Star_ reached safety at North Shields. Other boats that also headed for the open sea were even longer in coming to port, but all, as they drew farther and farther from land, found weather less terrible, a sea less dangerous, than that from which by the skin of their teeth they had escaped. Some of the smitten craft drove far to the south before the wind, and after escapes many and incredible, reached a haven of safety, with men worn and dazed, but not all with crews complete; too many paid toll to the sea with one or more lives. For as long as a day and a half, there were skippers who sat, unrelieved, at the tiller of their boat, an awful weight of responsibility on their shoulders, human lives depending on their nerve and skill. Some of these men had to be carried ashore, when at length they reached safety; the legs of one were found to be so twisted and wedged in beneath his seat, that it was only with the greatest difficulty and pain that he was got out of the boat. There was one boat that found refuge at Shields on the Sunday. She arrived too late to permit of a telegram being sent announcing her safety, but in time to allow her crew--or what was left of it--to catch a late train to the north, and the solemn, echoing tramp of their heavy feet at midnight in the silent street of Eyemouth brought the stricken people from their beds with a start, and with vague apprehension of fresh disaster. But their dread was turned to rejoicing, except for the family of that man who came home never again. In all, on that Sunday night it was known that sixty-four of the men of Eyemouth had perished, and seventy-one were still missing. Of these but a handful ever returned. Eyemouth alone lost one hundred and twenty-nine--the men of whole families, almost of clans, swept away. Truly to her that day was as of old had been Flodden Field to Scotland. The total number of men who perished along this coast in that hurricane was one hundred and eighty-nine. Will the terror of that time ever be forgotten, or its horror wiped out from the town of Eyemouth? In the face of disaster such as that, smaller happenings appear for the time almost insignificant. Yet it was but the other year that another great gale on that coast brought disaster most pitiful. A Danish steamer, feeling her way to the Firth of Forth in weather thick with fog and with a great gale blowing, mistaking her position, came creeping in the darkness close in to the little village of St. Abb's. Nearer and nearer to the people, snug in their warm, well-lit houses, came the roar of her fog-horn. And then, from the neighbourhood of a treacherous rock--awash at low water--and little more than a stone's throw from the village houses, there rushed up a rocket, and a flare was seen dimly burning. In the heavy sea, the steamer had brought her bows with a mighty crash on to that sunken rock, and there she lay, the great seas sweeping her from stem to stern. Rockets from the cliff that overlooked the wreck could not reach her in that fierce wind; the life-boat, when it arrived from Berwick, could not live in the broken water near to her. All was done that man could do to rescue the perishing men in that hapless vessel; but that "all" in the end amounted to just nothing. Helpless, the watchers listened with sick hearts to the cries of her doomed crew and to the deep baying of a great hound that was on board the doomed ship; helpless, they gazed in impotent agony at the despairing signals made. In the morning she was still there, but the cries were fainter, the faces seen fewer, the vessel more often buried under breaking seas. Then the cries ceased. And when daylight came a second time, where the hull had been there was now but white, raging water, and seas that spouted high in air from a black rock that showed its cruel head at intervals. And of the crew there was found no sign. Only to and fro on the shore there ran a great white dog, that would let no man approach it, that would take no food from strange hands. Day and night, like a lost spirit, to and fro between Eyemouth and St. Abb's Head trotted the great white hound, never resting. And ever when a sail hove in sight, or a steamship passed near in, he would run hurriedly to the farthest projecting point, and throwing back his head, wail piteously for the drowned sailors, his friends. GRISELL HOME, A SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY HEROINE The Merse has given many a gallant man to the mother-country, oftentimes a fighter, now and again a martyr, but no fairer flower has ever blossomed in that stretch of land that has the North Sea for one of its boundaries, and looks across fertile plains to the long, blue line of Cheviots in the south, than one whose name must ever find a sure place in the hearts of those whom courage and fortitude, sweetness and merry humour, exquisite unselfishness, and gay uncomplainingness in the face of dire emergency are things to be honoured and held dear. Grisell Home was the eldest of eighteen children, two of whom died in infancy. She was born at Redbraes Castle--now Marchmont--on December 25, 1665. There is a belief that Christmas babies always have an extra large share of the nature of Him who was born on Christmas Day; and truly Grisell Home was one of those who never seemed to know the meaning of Self. Her father, Sir Patrick Home, a man of strong character and large fortune, was known to be a rigid Presbyterian, no friend to the house of Stuart, and he was regarded by the Government of his day as "a factious person." His great friendship with his neighbour, Robert Baillie of Jerviswoode, in no way increased the favour with which either of those good men was regarded in high places. Jerviswoode and Home were "suspects," and being known as close allies, where one was supposed to be plotting, the other was always expected to be at his back. To be the eldest of so large a brood must have been a sobering thing for any little girl, but Grisell shouldered her responsibilities with a happy heart, and united with that happy, child-like heart the wisdom and discretion of a woman. She was only twelve when she was chosen as messenger from her father to his friend Mr. Baillie, who was then in prison in Edinburgh. Over lonely Soutra Hill (where highway robbery and murder were things not unknown), it was no easy or pleasant ride from Marchmont to the Port of Edinburgh; and here the bleaching skulls of martyred covenanters gave to those who entered the town grim warning of the risks of nonconformity. Doubtless little Grisell had been provided by her parents with a suitable escort, but, even so, her heart must have beat faster as she went up the High Street to where the "Heart of Midlothian" then stood, and asked to see Mr. Robert Baillie, her father's friend. The bright-eyed, slim little maid, with her chestnut hair and exquisite complexion, must have been as unexpected a sight in that gloomy place as a wild rose in a desert. None could suspect her of meddling with affairs of State, or of tampering with the prisoners of his gracious Majesty. Thus Grisell Home was able successfully to carry a letter of advice and information, and to bring back to her father in the Merse tidings of a blameless martyr. With his father in prison that day was Baillie's son, George, a boy one year older than Grisell. He had been, as were many of the well-born lads of his time, at his studies in Holland, reading law, when his father was put in prison, but hastened home on hearing the news. Boys wore swords, and not Eton jackets, in George Baillie's day. He had, as his daughter afterwards wrote of him, "a rough, manly countenance"; and from that day until the day of her death that face, which she knew first as a boy's, was more beautiful to Grisell Home than any other face on earth. Several times afterwards was Grisell sent as bearer of important letters from her father to him whose son, in days still long to come, was to be her husband, and never once was the douce little messenger suspected. Not many months later her own father was a prisoner in Dumbarton Castle, and during the fifteen months in which he lay there, Grisell was still the messenger, not only to him, but to his friends in various parts. Her early childhood may have been unharassed, but Grisell Home's girlhood was a careful and anxious one. On the discovery of the Rye House Plot, Baillie of Jerviswoode and Home of Polwarth, innocent men both, were denounced as traitors to their King. Baillie was taken, and after several months of imprisonment in London, so heavily loaded with chains that his health completely broke down, he was brought by sea to Edinburgh in stormy November weather which kept the ship a fortnight on its way. A dying man when he was put in the Tolbooth, he yet had to undergo many exhausting examinations and a farcical trial, with "Bluidy Mackenzie" for chief inquisitor, and on Christmas Eve, 1684, he gallantly and cheerfully met a martyr's death at the Market Cross of Edinburgh. Sir Patrick Home's denunciation was longer in coming than that of his friend, and not until November 1684 was the warrant for his apprehension issued. He, good man, had no desire for martyrdom; moreover, at that time he already possessed ten children, whose future as orphans was likely to be wretched, and so Sir Patrick sought concealment from the hounds of the law. Foiled in laying hold of him, the law seized his eldest son, Patrick, and cast him into prison. Two days after Jerviswoode's death, the lad petitioned the Privy Council for release. He was but "a poor afflicted young boy," he said, loyal to his principles and with a hatred of plots, and only craved liberty that he might "see to some livelihood for himself" and "be in some condition" to help and serve his disconsolate mother and the rest of his father's ten starving children. Most grudgingly was the boon bestowed, and not until the boy had obtained security for his good behaviour to the extent of two thousand pounds sterling was he allowed to return to the Merse. Meantime Redbraes Castle was constantly kept under supervision. Scarcely a week passed without a party of redcoats clattering up the drive, interrogating the servants, tramping through all the rooms, hunting round the policies, and doing everything in their power to make things unpleasant for the wife and children of this attainted rebel. To only two people in the house, and to one out of it, was the secret of Sir Patrick Home's hiding-place known. With the help of a faithful friend and retainer, Jamie Winter, the carpenter, Lady Home and her daughter Grisell had one dark night carried bed and bedclothes to the burying-place of the Homes, a vault under Polwarth Church, a mile from Redbraes. A black walnut folding-bed, exactly underneath the pulpit from which the minister of Polwarth preached every Sunday, was the fugitive's resting-place at night, while for a month he saw no more daylight than was able to reach him from a slit at one end of the vault. The ashes of his ancestors were scarcely lively company, but Sir Patrick found "great comfort and constant entertainment" by repeating to himself Buchanan's Latin Version of the Psalms. Each night, too, the prisoner was cheered by a visit from his daughter Grisell. Through an open glen by the Swindon Burn, down what is called The Lady's Walk, Grisell nightly came to the vault with her little store of provisions. She was an imaginative, poetic little maid, and the whisper of the wind in the lime trees that grew on either hand would make her shiver, and yet more loudly would her heart thump when in the darkness she stumbled over the graves in the kirkyard, and remembered all the tales she had ever heard of bogles and of ghosts. That lonely walk in the night must always have been full of terrors, yet Grisell's love for her father was so great that she steadfastly braved them all. One fear only she had--that of the soldiers. The wind moaning through the trees or rustling the long grass, the sound of a rabbit or some other wild thing in the bracken, the sudden bark of a dog,--all these made her sure that some spy had found out her secret, and sent her running as fast as her little legs could carry her to try to save her father from his captors. The first night she went was the worst, for the minister kept dogs, and the manse was near the church, and even her light footfall was sufficient to set every one of them a-barking. But Lady Home sent for the minister next day, and upon the pretence of one of them being mad, persuaded their owner to hang them all. Grisell and her father had the same sunny nature, and both dearly loved a joke, and each amusing little incident of the day was saved up by the former to be told while the prisoner made a meal on the food which she brought with her. Many a hearty laugh they had together in that dark, dismal place, and often Grisell stayed so late that she had to run up the glen, so as to get home before day dawned. The difficulties she encountered in securing food enough for her father without arousing the suspicion of the servants was always a subject for jest, for, more often than not, the only possible means of getting the food was by surreptitiously conveying it, during a meal, from her own plate into her lap. Her amazing appetite was bound to be commented upon, but never did she surprise her brothers and sisters more than on a day when the chief dish at dinner was her father's favourite one--sheep's head. While the younger members of the family were very busy over their broth, Grisell conveyed to her lap the greater part of the head. Her brother Sandy, afterwards Lord Marchmont, dispatched his plateful first, looked up, and gave a shout of amazement. "Mother!" he cried, "will ye look at Grisell! while we have been eating our broth, she has eaten up the whole sheep's heid!" "Sandy must have an extra share of the next sheep's heid," said the laughing father when he heard the tale. During the month that Sir Patrick Home lay hid in the vault, it was not only by collecting food for him by day, and by taking it to him by night, that his young daughter gave proof of her devotion. In a room of which Grisell kept the key, on the ground floor at Redbraes Castle, she and Jamie Winter worked in the small hours, making a hiding-place for the fugitive. Underneath a bed which drew out they lifted up the boards, and with their hands, scraped and burrowed in the earth to make a hole large enough for a man to lie in. To prevent making a noise they used no tools, and as they dug out the earth it was packed in a sheet, put on Jamie's back, and carried, Grisell helping, out at the window into the garden. Not a nail was left upon her fingers when the task was completed, and a sorely unslept little maid she must have looked at the end of a month's foraging by day and hard work by night, with that nerve-tearing walk as a beginning to her nightly labours. The hole being ready, Jamie Winter conveyed to it a large deep wooden box which he had made at home, with air-holes in the lid, and furnished with mattress and bedding, and this was fitted into the place made for it. It was then Grisell's duty to examine it daily, and to keep the air-holes clean picked, and when it had for some weeks stood trial of no water coming into it from its being sunk so low in the ground, Sir Patrick one night came home. For a couple of weeks only was Redbraes his sanctuary, for, on Christmas Day, upon Grisell lifting the boards as usual to see that all was well with the lair that her father was to retire to in case of a sudden surprise, the mattress bounced to the top, the box being full of water. The poor child nearly fainted from horror, but Sir Patrick remained quite calm. "Obviously," he said to his wife and daughter, "we must tempt Providence no longer. It is now fit and necessary for me to go off and leave you." Later in the day, news brought by the carrier confirmed him in his resolution. Baillie of Jerviswoode had been hanged in Edinburgh on the previous day, and his head now adorned a spike on the Nether Bow. The death of his best friend was a great shock to Sir Patrick, perhaps an even greater one to Lady Home, and to little Grisell, for could not their imagination readily paint a picture of _their_ dear "traitor" hanging where his friend had hung. No time was to be lost, and Grisell at once began work on her father's wardrobe, and in the coming days and nights, with anxious fingers, made such alterations in his clothing as seemed necessary for a disguise. Meantime a friend and neighbour of Sir Patrick's, John Home of Halyburton, had "jaloused" that his namesake was not hidden so far afield as some imagined, and when, one cold January afternoon, he heard the clatter of hoofs on the high-road and saw the red coats of the dragoons, he had a stab at his heart at the thought of another good son of the Merse going to martyrdom. "Where do you ride to-day?" he asked, when the party came up. "To take Polwarth at Redbraes," they said. "Is it so?" said Home. "Then I'll go with you myself and be your guide. But come your ways into the house and rest you a little, till I get ready for the road." Nothing loth, the troopers followed him, and were still contentedly testing the quality of the contents of his big case-bottles when a groom galloped off to Redbraes. Halyburton's message to Lady Home of Polwarth was a brief one, for when she opened his envelope there was nothing there to read--only a little feather fluttered out, giving as plainly the advice to instant flight as pages of words might have done. There was nothing for it but to take another into their secret. John Allen, the grieve, was sent for, and fainted dead away when he heard that his master was in the house instead of being in safety in foreign lands, and that the dragoons were even then on his tracks. He, too, had visions of a figure dangling from a gibbet, and of a head on the Nether Bow--and small blame to him, worthy man. It was then the darkening, and Allen's instructions were at once to tell his fellow-servants that he had received orders to sell three horses at Morpeth Fair, and to be off on the road without further delay. Sir Patrick took farewell of his wife and of Grisell, climbed out of a window, met the grieve near the stables, and was off in the darkness, with as little noise as might be. It was a sorrowful parting, but when, not long after he was gone, the dragoons rode up to Redbraes, Lady Home and her daughter were glad indeed that he was away. Somewhat regretting their prolonged enjoyment of the hospitality of Home of Halyburton, the search-party thoroughly ransacked every hole and corner of Redbraes Castle. Inside they could find no trace nor pick up one crumb of information, but from an outside servant they heard of John Allen's departure, Morpeth way, with three horses. "_Horses,_ indeed! for Morpeth Fair?" the dragoon officer hooted at the thought. "Boot and saddle, lads!" he called to his men; "we'll run the traitorous fox to earth long before he gets to Berwick!" At a canter they were off down the drive, the contents of Halyburton's case-bottles still warming their hearts and giving extra zest to their enterprise. It was a dark night, and they were thick black woods that they rode between, but they had not ridden very many miles when they were able to make out, some way in front of them, the outlines of two horses. "We've got him, lads!" cried the officer; "run him down at last. Worry, worry, worry!" But instead of the horses in front breaking into a gallop at the sound of pursuit, they were pulled up short by the roadside, and instead of there being two riders there was only one, leading an unsaddled horse. More exasperating than all to the ardour of the hunters was the fact that in place of the thin, clever face of Sir Patrick Home being the one to confront them, the round, scared face of a Berwickshire peasant stared at them in dismay. In vain did the officer question, bully, cross-examine. John Allen was unshakeable. He was gaun tae Morpeth Fair tae sell the horse. Na, he didnae ken where the maister was. Sure's daith he didnae ken. Aye, he left Redbraes mebbes twa hour sin', in the darkening. No amount of hectoring, no quantity of loudly--shouted oaths could move the grieve from his tale. "A wuss a _did_ ken whaur he is," he said, "but _a_ dinnae ken." Finally he had to be given up as hopeless, and the dragoons rode back, a little shamefacedly and cursing their luck. John Allen, his honest face still full of scared amazement, rode slowly on. Every now and again he would check his horse, look round and listen, mutter to himself bewilderedly, shake his head, and go on once more. The clatter of the dragoons had not long died away when, coming towards him from the other direction, he heard the regular beat of a horse's hoofs. It was no strange horse, he soon realised, nor was the rider a stranger. The gay smile that his face so often wore irradiated Home of Polwarth's when he heard his servant's greeting. "Eh, losh me, Polwarth!" he said, "a never had sic a gliff in a' _ma_ days! Here a' em, thinking aye that ye was riding no far ahint us, and when a hears a gallopin' an' turns roond, ye've santed, an' here's a pack o' thae bluidy dragoons that wad blast ye black in the face an' speir the inside oot o' a wheelbarra. Man, where were ye? It's naething short o' a meericle?" Nor was it much short of a miracle, as Sir Patrick acknowledged. He had followed Allen at first as the grieve had thought, but his mind was full of the parting he had just gone through and of the misty future before him, and when his thoughts came back with a jerk to the actualities of the present, he heard the rush of a winter river and found that he was close by the side of the Tweed. It was some time before he could exactly find his bearings, but he did so at last, and, after some reconnoitring, found a place that could be safely forded. Once across the river, he rode quickly back towards Redbraes, hoping that by good fortune he might yet meet with Allen, and so neatly escaped the soldiers who pursued him. The high-road after this was no longer deemed safe, and the rest of his ride to London was done on bye-ways and across the moors. In two days honest John returned to Redbraes and brought to the sad hearts of Lady Home and Grisell the joyful news that Sir Patrick had not fallen into the hands of the dragoons, as they had greatly feared, but was now safely on his way to England. As a travelling surgeon, calling himself Dr. Wallace, Sir Patrick Home worked his way south, bleeding patients when need be, prescribing homely remedies when called upon to do so. None ever penetrated his disguise, and he was able to cross from London to France and journey, on foot from France to Holland with complete success. Years afterwards, when Sir Patrick was Earl of Marchmont, Chancellor of Scotland, and President of the Privy Council, it was his lot to have to try for his life a certain Captain Burd. And during the trial there came back to him like a flash the old days when, in company with another wayfarer, he tramped the long French roads, unwinding themselves like white ribbons before him, between the avenues of stiff, tall, silvery poplars on to the flat, windmill-dotted Dutch country, with the brown-sailed boats that seemed to sail along the fields. And here, in Captain Burd, he recognised the companion of those often weary, often hungry days, when pockets were empty, fortunes at dead-low tide, and Scotland and wife and children very far away. In public the Chancellor treated his old friend with severity, but arranged with his son, Sir Andrew Home, then a young lawyer, to see Captain Burd alone. Timidly and nervously, with downcast eyes, the poor man repeated the tale to which the Chancellor had already listened. In silence he heard it again, and then: "Do you not know me?" he asked, smiling. "God's wounds! Dr. Wallace!" cried Captain Burd, and fell with tears of joy on the neck of the Chancellor, who was readily and gladly able to prove the innocence of his old companion. No sooner had Sir Patrick Home left Scotland than his estates were forfeited and given to Lord Seaforth, and although Lady Home went by sea to London, and there for a long time did all possible to obtain from Government an adequate allowance for the support of her family of ten, £150 a year was all that she was able to secure. Of course Grisell was her companion there, and her companion also when she sailed to Holland to join Sir Patrick. Of the ten, a little girl, Julian by name, had to be left behind with friends as she was too ill to travel, and when Grisell had safely handed over her mother and brothers and sisters to her father's care, she returned to Scotland alone, to act as escort to the little sister, "to negotiate business, and to try if she could pick up any money of some that was owing to her father." The brave and capable little woman of business, having managed affairs to her satisfaction, secured, for the passage, a nurse for the sister, who was still a weakly invalid. Moreover, the voyage to Holland, being in those days more than just the affair of a night, a cabin-bed--the only one in the ship, apparently--was engaged for Julian, and a good store of provisions laid in. But when the ship had sailed, Grisell found that the cabin-bed had been separately engaged and paid for by four other ladies, and at once these four began a violent dispute as to which should have it. "Let them be doing," said a gentleman, who had to share the cabin with the rest, "you will see how it will end." So the disappointed little maid had to arrange a bed on the floor as best she could for herself and her sister, with a bag of books that she was taking to her father for pillow, while two ladies shared the bed and the others lay down where they could find room. Any place where they could lie flat must have been welcome, for a storm was brewing, and as a cradle the North Sea usually leaves a good deal to be desired. As they all lay, in fairly sickening discomfort, in the cabin, lit only by an evil-smelling oil-lamp that swayed back and forwards with each roll, the heavy step of the captain was heard coming down the companion way. Grisell had expected honesty from her fellow-travellers, and her store of provisions was laid out in what she had considered a convenient place. It did not take the captain long to devour every scrap of what had been meant to last the girls and their maid for days. His gluttonous meal over, he tramped up to the bed. "Turn out! turn out!" he said to the women who lay there, and having undressed himself lay down to snore in that five time's paid for sleeping-place. It must have been somewhat of a comfort--if, indeed, comfort was to be found in anything that night--that the captain did not long enjoy his slumbers. A fierce gale began to blow, and during the furious storm that never abated for many an hour to come, the captain had to remain, drenched to the skin, on deck, working and directing with all his might, in order to save his ship. They never saw him again until they landed at the Brill. That night the two girls set out on foot to tramp the weary miles to Rotterdam, a gentleman refugee from Scotland, who had come over in the same boat, acting as their escort. The stormy weather of the North Sea had followed them to land. It was a cold, wet, dirty night, and Julian Home, still frail from illness, soon lost her shoes in the mud. There was but one solution to the difficulty. The gentleman shouldered their baggage along with his own; Grisell shouldered her sister, and carried her all the rest of those weary miles. At Rotterdam they found Sir Patrick Home and his eldest son awaiting them, to take them on to their new home in Utrecht, and wet and cold and tiredness were all forgotten at the sight of those dear faces, and Grisell "felt nothing but happiness and contentment." For three years and a half they lived in Utrecht, and once again during that time Grisell voyaged to Scotland to see to her father's business affairs. It is difficult to discover what, during the rest of that time, she did not do for her parents and family. There were many Scottish refugees then in Holland, and the Homes kept open house, and spent nearly a fourth part of their income on a mansion sufficiently commodious to allow of their hospitalities. This made it impossible for them to keep any servant save a little girl who washed the dishes, and consequently Grisell acted as cook, housekeeper, housemaid, washerwoman, laundress, dressmaker, and tailoress. Twice a week she sat up at night to do the family accounts. Daily she rose before six, went to the market and to the mill to see their own corn ground, and--in the words of her daughter, who proudly tells the tale--"dressed the linen, cleaned the house, made ready the dinner, mended the children's stockings and other clothes, made what she could for them, and in short did everything." She was very musical and loved playing and singing, but when, for a small sum, a harpsichord was bought, it was her younger sister, Christian, who was the performer, and by it "diverted" her parents, and the girls had many a joke over their different occupations. Yet even with all her other work she found time to take an occasional lesson in French and Dutch from her father along with the younger ones, and even wrote a book of songs--many of them half written, broken off in the middle of a sentence as a pot boiled over or an iron grew hot enough to use. Some of them are dear to us still. Do we ever think of all the hardships that were nobly endured by a Scottish girl two hundred years ago when we quote the words of her exquisite song?-- "Were na my heart licht, I wad dee." Of all her brothers and sisters, her eldest brother, Patrick, was her closest friend, and, when he became one of the Prince of Orange's Guards, Grisell had extra labours, for the Guards wore little point-lace cravats and cuffs, and many a night she sat up to have these in such perfect order that no dandy officer in the service could compete with the young Scottish soldier. An added happiness to those happy, busy days came to Grisell through her brother's fellow-guardsman and greatest friend, for George Baillie, the lad she first met in the Tolbooth, gave his heart to her that day within the gloomy prison walls, and they were lovers still when, after forty-eight years of married life, death came to part them. With the accession of the Prince of Orange the merry, light-hearted days in Holland came to an end. There was probably no poorer Scottish family to be found in all Holland. There was certainly no happier one. When they came home they were prosperous once again, and honours were showered upon Sir Patrick Home. Grisell was asked to become a maid of honour to the Princess but she preferred to go back to the quiet country life at Redbraes. Already, during their least prosperous days, Grisell's beauty and charm had made at least two Berwickshire gentlemen "of fortune and character" beg for her hand, and it was to her parents' regret that she refused them both, because her heart was already in the keeping of a penniless guardsman in the Dutch service. Only poverty kept them apart, and when King William gave back to George Baillie his lands, there was no other obstacle in the way, and they were married forthwith. They were man and wife for forty-eight years, "in all of which time," writes their daughter, "I have often heard my mother declare that they never had the shadow of a quarrel, or misunderstanding, or dryness betwixt them--not for a moment"; and that, "to the last of his life, she felt the same ardent and tender love and affection for him, and the same desire to please him in the smallest trifle that she had at their first acquaintance." To the day his last illness began, her husband never went out without her going to the window to watch him till he was out of sight of those kind, bright, beautiful eyes, through which shone as beautiful a soul as any that ever made the earth a better and a happier place for having been in it. Grisell Home was Lady Grisell Baillie when, in 1703, her mother died. "Where is Grisell," she asked, almost with her latest breath. And when Lady Grisell came and held her hand the old lady said, "My dear Grisell, blessed be you above all, for a helpful child you have been to me." Lady Grisell Baillie lived through the '15 and the '45, and those who suffered in the first of those years had the kindest of friends and helpers in her large-minded husband and in herself. She was eighty at the time of the '45, but during that year and during the next, when her death took place, she helped by every means in her power those who had suffered from fighting for a cause that was dear to their hearts. She always remembered what she herself had gone through. "Full of years, and of good works," as her somewhat pompous epitaph has it, Lady Grisell Baillie died in December 1746, and was buried at Mellerstain on the day upon which she should have celebrated her eighty-second birthday. And surely the angels who, on that first Christmas Eve, long, long ago, sang of "Peace on earth--goodwill towards men," must have been very near when she, who was a Christmas baby, and whose whole long life had been one of love and of peace, of goodwill and of charity to others, was laid in the earth as the snowflakes fell, on Christmas Day, one hundred and sixty-eight years ago. KINMONT WILLIE A venerable and highly respected Scottish professor of literature was once asked what was his ruling passion--his heart's desire? If the secrets of his soul could be laid bare, what, above all, would be found to be his predominant wish? The question was an indiscreet one, but he was tolerant. He tightly compressed his gentle mouth, and firmly readjusted his gold-rimmed glasses. "I _wish_" said he, "to be a corsair." It would have been interesting to know how many of a following he would have had from sedate academic circles had he been given his heart's desire and had sailed down the Clyde with the raw head and bloody bones showing on the black flag that flew at his mast-head. How many of us are there with whom law-abiding habits, decorous respectability, form but a thin covering of ice over unplumbed depths of lawless desire? Not long since, when a wretched criminal case in which the disappearance of a pearl necklace was involved, was agitating every Scottish club and tea-table, a charming old Scottish lady, whose career from childhood up has been one of unblemished virtue, was heard to bemoan the manner of commission of the crime. "She did it _very_ stupidly. Now, if _I_ had been doing it I should"--And her astounded auditors listened to an able exposition of the way in which she would successfully have eluded justice. Is it the story of the villain who is successfully tracked to his doom that attracts us most? or that of the great Raffles and his kind whose villainies almost invariably escape detection, and who burgles with a light and easy touch and the grace and humour of a Claude Duval? Let us be honest with ourselves. How many of us really wish to be corsairs? Which of us would _not_ have been a reiver in the old reiving days? Have we not noticed in ourselves and other Borderers an undeniable complacency, a boastful pride in a mask of apology that would not deceive an infant, when we say, "Oh yes; certainly a good many of my ancestors were hanged for lifting cattle." And, however "indifferent honest" we ourselves may be, which of us does not lay aside even that most futile mask and boast unashamedly when we can claim descent from one of those princes among reivers--Wat o' Harden, Johnnie Armstrong, or Kinmont Willie? William Armstrong, better known as Kinmont Willie, lived in the palmiest days of the Border reivers. The times of purely Scottish and purely English kings were drawing to a close, and with one monarch to rule over Britain the raider could no longer plead that he was a patriot who fought for king and country when he made an incursion over the Cheviots, burned a few barns and dwelling-houses, lifted some "kye and oxen," horses, and goats, and what household gear and minted money he could lay hands on, slew a man or two, and joyously returned home. But with Elizabeth still on the English throne, and with Queen Mary, and afterwards her son, reigning in Scotland, the dance could go merrily on, and when we look at those days in retrospect it seems to us that the last bars of the music, the last turns in the dance, went more rapidly than any that had gone before. In Kinmont Willie's lifetime the Wardens of the Marches had but little leisure. It was necessary for them to be fighting men with a good head for figures, for on the days of truce when the Wardens of the Scottish and English Marches met to redd up accounts, not only had they to work out knotty arithmetical problems with regard to the value of every sort of live stock, of buildings, of "insight," and the payment of such bills, but they had to have expert knowledge in fair exchange of a Scottish for an English life, an English for a Scotch. Little wonder if their patience sometimes ran short, as did that of a Howard of Naworth upon one famous occasion. He was deeply engrossed in studies that had no bearing upon Border affairs when an officer came to announce the capture of some Scottish moss-troopers, and to ask for the Warden's commands with regard to them. The interruption was untimely, and Lord Howard was exasperated. "Hang them, in the devil's name!" he said angrily, and went on with his studies. A little later he felt he could better give his mind to the consideration of the case, and sent for his officer. "Touching the prisoners," said he, "what have you done with them?" Proud of being one of those who did not let the grass grow beneath their feet, the officer beamingly responded: "Everyone o' them's hangit, my lord!" It was a March day in 1596, when a Wardens' meeting took place at Dayholm, near Kershopefoot. The snow was still lying in the hollows of the Cheviots, the trees were bare, the Liddel and the Esk swollen by thaws and winter rains; but weather was a thing that came but little into the reckoning of the men of the Marches unless some foray was afoot. They got through the business more or less satisfactorily, and proceeded to ride home before the day of truce should be ended. From sunrise on the one day until sunset on the next, so the Border law ordained, all Scots and Englishmen who were present at the Wardens' meeting should be free of scathe. Now the Warden of Liddesdale at that time was Sir Walter Scott of Branxholme, laird of Buccleuch. He was one of the greatest men of his century; a "fyrebrande," according to Queen Elizabeth, and a fierce enemy according to those who incurred his enmity; but, according to all others, a man of perfect courage, stainless loyalty and honour, charming wit, and great culture. He never spared an enemy nor turned his back on a friend, and he was a born winner of hearts and leader of men. Amongst his retainers was Kinmont Willie, and as Willie rode from the Wardens' meeting, along the banks of the Liddel, in company with only three or four men, a body of two hundred English horsemen, commanded by Salkeld, Warden of the Eastern March, marked him from across the water. Truce or no truce, the chance seemed to them one that was too good to lose. Speedily some of them pushed on ahead, and an ambush was laid for Kinmont Willie. He and his friends were naturally totally unprepared for such a dastardly attack, but it took them but little time to gather their wits, and Willie gave them a good run for their money. For nearly four miles they chased him, but ran him down at length. After some hard giving and taking, he had to acknowledge his defeat, and, pinioned like a common malefactor--arms tied behind him, legs bound under his horse's belly--they rode with him into Carlisle town. The news of the treacherous taking of his follower was not long in reaching Buccleuch, who at once raised an angry protest. Scrope, the English Warden, received this with an evasive and obviously trumped-up counter-charge of Kinmont Will having first broken truce. Moreover, he said, he was a notorious enemy to law and order, and must bear the penalty of his misdeeds. This was more than the bold Buccleuch could stomach. "He has ta'en the table wi' his hand, He garr'd the red wine spring on hie-- 'Now Christ's curse on my head,' he said, 'But avenged of Lord Scrope I'll be! O, is my basnet a widow's curch? Or my lance a wand o' the willow-tree? Or my arm a ladye's lilye hand, That an English lord should lightly me?'" No time was lost in making an appeal to King James, which resulted in an application to the English Government. But while the English authorities quibbled, paltered, and delayed--with a little evasion, a little extra red-tapism, a little judicious procrastination--the days of Kinmont Willie were being numbered by his captors. The triumph of putting an end to the daring deeds of so bold a Scottish reiver when they had him safely in chains in Carlisle Castle, was one that they were not likely lightly to forego. It would be indeed a merry crowd of English Borderers that flocked to Haribee Hill on the day that Will of Kinmont dangled from the gallows. Buccleuch saw that he had no time to lose. He himself must strike at once, and strike with all his might. The night of April 13, 1596, was dark and stormy. All the Border burns and rivers were in spate; the winds blew shrewd and chill through the glens of Liddesdale, and sleet drifted down in the teeth of the gale. The trees that grew so thick round Woodhouselee bent and cracked, and sent extra drenching showers of rain down on the steel jacks of a band of horsemen who carefully picked their way underneath them, on to the south. Buccleuch was leader, and with him rode some forty picked men of his friends and kinsmen, to meet some hundred and fifty or so of other chosen men. Scotts, Elliots, Armstrongs, and Grahams were there, and although Buccleuch had requested that only younger sons were to risk their lives in the forlorn hope that night, Auld Wat o' Harden and many another landowner rode with their chief. "Valiant men, they would not bide," says Scott of Satchells, whose own father was one of the number. Kinmont Willie's own tower of Morton, on the water of Sark, about ten miles north of Carlisle, was their rallying point. Buccleuch had arranged every detail most carefully at a horse-race held at Langholm a few days before, and one of the Grahams, an Englishman whose countrymen were not yet aware that the Graham clan had allied themselves to that of the Scotts, had conveyed his ring to Kinmont Willie to show him that he was not forgotten by his feudal lord. One and all, the reivers were well armed, "with spur on heel, and splent on spauld," and with them they carried scaling ladders, picks, axes, and iron crowbars. The Esk and Eden were in furious flood, but no force of nature or of man could stay the reivers' horses that night. "We go to catch a rank reiver Has broken faith wi' the bauld Buccleuch." That was the burden of their thoughts, and although they well knew that ere the dawning each one of them might be claiming the hospitality of six feet of English sod, their hearts were light. To them a message that the fray was up was like the sound of the huntsman's horn in the ears of a thoroughbred hunter. "'Where are ye gaun, ye mason lads, Wi' a' your ladders, lang and hie?' 'We gang to berry a corbie's nest, That wons not far frae Woodhouselee.'" No light matter was it to harry that corbie's nest. Carlisle Castle was a strong castle, strongly garrisoned, and to make a raid on an English town was a bold attempt indeed. But fear was a thing unknown to the Border reivers, and the flower of them rode with Buccleuch that night--close on his horse's heels Wat o' Harden, Walter Scott of Goldielands, and Kinmont's own four stalwart sons--Jock, Francie, Geordie, and Sandy. As the dark night hours wore on, sleet and wind were reinforced by a thunderstorm. "And when we left the Staneshaw-bank, The wind began full loud to blaw, But 'twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet, When we came beneath the castle wa'." When the besiegers reached the castle they found some of the watch asleep, and the rest sheltering indoors from the storm. The outside of the castle was left to take care of itself. It was dismaying to find the scaling ladders too short to be of any use, but a small postern gate was speedily and quietly undermined. Drifting sleet, growling thunder, and the wails of the wind drowned all sounds of the assault, and soon there was no further need for concealment, for the lower court of the castle was theirs. The guard started up, to find sword-blades at their throats; two of them were left dead, and the rest were speedily overpowered. Buccleuch, the fifth man in, gave the command to proclaim aloud their triumph: "'Now sound out trumpets!' quoth Buccleuch; 'Let's waken Lord Scroope right merrilie!' Then loud the Warden's trumpet blew-- _'O wha daur meddle wi' me?'_" While Buccleuch himself kept watch at the postern, two dozen stout moss-troopers now rushed to the castle gaol, a hundred yards from the postern gate, forced the door of Kinmont Willie's prison, and found him there chained to the wall, and carried him out, fetters and all, on the back of "the starkest man in Teviotdale." "Stand to it!" cried Buccleuch--so says the traitor, a man from the English side, who afterwards acted as informer to the English Warden--"for I have vowed to God and my Prince that I would fetch out of England, Kinmont, dead or alive." Shouts of victory in strident Scottish voices, the crash of picks on shattered doors and ruined mason-work, and that arrogant, insolent, oft-repeated blast from the trumpet of him whom Scrope described in his report to the Privy Council as "the capten of this proud attempt," were not reassuring sounds to the Warden of the English Marches, his deputy, and his garrison. Five hundred Scots at least--so did Scrope swear to himself and others--were certainly there, and there was no gainsaying the adage that "Discretion is the better part of valour." So, in the words of the historian, he and the others "did keip thamselffis close." But no sooner had the rescue party reached the banks of the Eden than the bells of Carlisle clanged forth a wild alarm. Red-tongued flames from the beacon on the great tower did their best, in spite of storm and sleet, to warn all honest English folk that a huge army of Scots was on the war-path, and that the gallows on Haribee Hill had been insulted by the abduction of its lawful prey. "We scarce had won the Staneshaw-bank, When a' the Carlisle bells were rung, And a thousand men on horse and foot, Cam' wi' the keen Lord Scroope along. Buccleuch has turn'd to Eden Water, Even where it flow'd frae brim to brim, And he has plunged in wi' a' his band, And safely swam them through the stream. He turned them on the other side, And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he-- 'If ye like na' my visit in merry England, In fair Scotland come visit me!' All sore astonished stood Lord Scroope, He stood as still as rock of stane; He scarcely dare to trew his eyes, When through the water they had gane. 'He is either himsel' a devil frae hell, Or else his mother a witch maun be; I wadna' have ridden that wan water For a' the gowd in Christentie.'" At a place called "Dick's Tree," not far from Longtown, there still stands the "smiddy" where lived the blacksmith who had the honour of knocking off Kinmont Willie's fetters. Sir Walter Scott has handed on the story of the smith's daughter who, as a little child, was roused at daybreak by a "sair clatter" of horses, and shouts for her father, followed, as the smith slept soundly, by a lance being thrust through the window. Looking out in the dim grey of the morning, the child saw "more gentlemen than she had ever seen before in one place, all on horseback, in armour, and dripping wet--and that Kinmont Willie, who sat woman-fashion behind one of them, was the biggest carle she ever saw--and there was much merriment in the party." Furious was the hive of wasps that Buccleuch brought about his head by thus insultingly casting a stone into the English bike. The wrath of Queen Elizabeth was unappeasable. Scrope found it sounded better to multiply the number of the raiders by five, but Scottish tongues were not slow to tell the affronting truth, and the Englishmen of Carlisle had the extra bitterness of being butts for the none too subtle jests of every Scot on the Border. The success of so daring a venture made the Scottish reivers arrogant. Between June 19 and July 24 of that year, the spoils of the western Marches were a thousand and sixty-one cattle and ninety-eight horses, and some thirty steadings and other buildings, mostly in Gilsland, were burned. The angry English made reprisals. It was in one of them that the Scots who were taken were leashed "like doggis," and for this degradation Buccleuch and Ker of Cessford made the English pay most handsomely. Together those "twoo fyrebrandes of the Border" led an incursion into Tynedale, where, in broad daylight, they burned three hundred steadings and dwelling-houses, many stables, barns, and other outhouses, slew with the sword fourteen of those who had been in the Scottish raid, and brought back a handsome booty. King Jamie was in a most uncomfortable position. Queen Elizabeth demanded Buccleuch's punishment, and he argued. She nagged, and he wriggled. Finally, after continual angry remonstrances from the insulted English monarch, he had to give in, and Buccleuch and Ker had both, at different periods, to suffer imprisonment for the sin, in the virgin Queen's eyes, of the rescue of Kinmont Willie, and of its bloody consequences. We realise what was the reputation of Buccleuch and of his followers when we see into what a state of panic the mere prospect of having the Border chieftain as prisoner at Berwick-on-Tweed threw Sir John Carey, the governor. To Lord Hunsdon he wrote: "I entreat your Lordship that I may not become the jailor of so dangerous a prisoner or, at least, that I may know whether I shall keep him like a prisoner or no? for there is not a worse or more dangerous place in England to keep him than this; it is so near his friends, and, besides, so many in this town willing to pleasure him, and his escape may be so easily made; and once out of this town he is past recovery. Wherefore I humbly beseech your honor, let him be removed from hence to a more secure place, for I protest to the Almightie God, before I will take the charge to kepe him here, I will desire to be put in prison myself, and to have a keeper of me. For what care soever be had of him here, he shall want no furtherance whatsoever wit of man can devise, if he himself list to make an escape. So I pray your Lordship, even for God's sake and for the love of a brother, to relieve me from this danger." But there was no attempt at a rescue of Buccleuch. He did not desire it. Not as a criminal, but as a state prisoner he gave himself up to the English governor, and, having given his parole, he kept it, like the gentleman of stainless honour that he was. Two years after his imprisonment at Berwick-on-Tweed, Buccleuch, on his way with two hundred followers to serve with Prince Maurice of Nassau in the Low Countries--a raid from which many a Borderer never returned--was sufficiently received into favour to be permitted to go to London and kiss the hand of her most gracious Majesty, Queen Elizabeth. The remembrance of Kinmont Willie still rankled in that most unforgiving of royal breasts. "How dared you," she imperiously demanded, "undertake an enterprise so desperate and presumptuous?" "Dared?" answered Buccleuch; "what is it that a man _dares_ not do?" Elizabeth turned impetuously to a lord-in-waiting. "With ten thousand such men," she said, "our brother of Scotland might shake the firmest throne in Europe." That Kinmont Willie avenged himself not once, but many times, on those who had treacherously trapped him and done their best to make him meat for the greedy English gibbet, is not a matter of surmise, but one of history. His ride into Carlisle on that bleak March day, and the long days and dreary nights he spent in chains in the English gaol, were little likely to engender a gentle and forgiving spirit in the breast of one of the most fiery of the "minions of the moon." When, in 1600, he raided Scrope's tenants, they were given good cause to regret the happenings in which Scrope had taken so prominent a part. We have no record of the end of Kinmont Willie, and can but hope, for his sake, that he died the death he would have died--a good horse under him almost to the end, a good sword in his hand, open sky above him, and round him the caller breeze that has blown across the Border hills. In a lonely little graveyard in the Debatable Land, close to the Water of Sark, and near the March dyke between the two countries, his body is said to rest. Does there never come a night, when the moon is hidden behind a dark scud of clouds, and the old reiver, growing restless in his grave, finds somewhere the shade of a horse that, in its day, could gallop with the best, and rides again across the Border, to meet once more his "auld enemies" of England, and, to the joyous accompaniment of the lowing of cattle and the jingle of spurs, returns to his lodging as the first cock crows, and grey morning breaks? "O, they rade in the rain, in the days that are gane, In the rain and the wind and the lave; They shoutit in the ha' and they routit on the hill, But they're a' quaitit noo in the grave." IN THE DAYS OF THE '15 Close on two hundred years back from the present time there stood far up the South Tyne, beyond Haltwhistle, on the road--then little better than a bridle-track--running over the Cumberland border by Brampton, an inn which in those days was a house of no little importance in that wild and remote country. If its old walls could speak, what, for instance, might they not have told of Jacobite plottings? Beneath its roof was held many a meeting of the supporters of the King "over the water," James the Eighth; and here, riding up from Dilston, not seldom came the unfortunate Earl of Derwentwater, to take part in the Jacobite deliberations. The young lord and the horse he usually rode were figures familiar and welcome to the country folk around, and at the inn they were as well known as was the landlord himself. It was not long after a secret meeting held here in the earlier half of the year 1715 that the warrants were issued which led to Derwentwater's flight from Dilston, and precipitated the Rising that within a few months rolled so many gallant heads in the dust of the scaffold. It might perhaps have been better for Lord Derwentwater had he been less beloved in Northumberland, and had his devoted admirers been unable to send him notice of the coming of the warrant for his arrest. He might not then have had opportunity to commit himself so deeply; and there might have been a romantic and pathetic figure the less in the doleful history of that unhappy period. As it was, he had time to get clear away, and was able to lie securely hid, partly in farmhouses, partly near Shaftoe Crags, till the news reached him that Forster had raised the standard of rebellion. On 6th October 1715, at the head of a little company of gentlemen and armed servants, he joined Forster at Greenrig. A poor affair at the best, this muster in Northumberland; and though the county was seething with excitement, and a few notable men went out with the Earl, his personal following did not exceed seventy in all. Then followed the march which ended so disastrously in pitiful surrender at Preston that fatal November day. However gallant personally, Forster was an incapable soldier, no leader of men, and General Wills had but to spread wide his net to sweep in the bulk of the insurgents--Forster, Derwentwater, Kenmure, Nithsdale, Carwath, Wintoun, and men less exalted in rank by the score and the hundred. The bag was a heavy one, that day of disaster to the Stuart cause; and alas, for many of those who filled it! Alas, too, for the wives and the mothers who sat at home, waiting! Not to everyone was given the opportunity to dare all for husband or son; to few came such chance as was seized by the Countess of Nithsdale, who so contrived that her husband escaped from the Tower disguised in woman's clothing. It was boldly schemed, and success followed her attempt. Others could but pray to God and petition the King. She not only prayed, but acted. Would that there might have been one so to act for Derwentwater! More happy had it been, perhaps, for his Countess had she never uttered the taunt that ended his hesitation to join in the Rebellion: "It is not fitting that the Earl of Derwentwater should continue to hide his head in hovels from the light of day, when the gentry are up in arms for their lawful sovereign." They say that her spirit mourns yet within the tower of Dilston. Away up the valley of the Tyne, amongst the wild Northumberland hills, news went with lagging gait, those leisurely days of the eighteenth century; even news of battle or of disaster did not speed as it is the wont of ill news to do: "For evil news rides fast, while good news baits." Tidings, in those good old days, but trickled through from ear to ear, slowly, as water filters through sand. Little news, therefore, of Lord Derwentwater, or of the Rising, was heard in or around Haltwhistle after the insurgent force left Brampton; no man knew for a certainty what fortune, good or bad, had waited on the fortunes of his friends. Night was closing down on the desolate Border hills on a drear November evening of 1715. Throughout a melancholy day, clinging mist had blurred the outline of even the nearest hills; distance was blotted out. Thin rain fell chillingly and persistently, drip, dripping with monotonous plash from the old inn's thatched eaves; a light wind sobbed fitfully around the building, moaning at every chink and cranny of the ill-fitting window-frames. "A dismal night for any who must travel," thought the stableman of the inn, as he looked east and then west along the darkening road. No moving thing broke the monotony of the depressing outlook, and the groom turned to his work of bedding down for the night the few animals that happened to be in his charge. They were not many; most of those that so frequently of late had stood here were away with their owners, following the fortunes of the Earl of Derwentwater; business was dull at the inn. Well, let the weather be what it liked, at least the groom's work was over for the night, and he might go sit by the cheerful peat fire in the kitchen, and drink a health to the King--the rightful King, God bless him; and it was little harm, thought he, if he drank another to the Earl--whom might the Saints protect. Even as he turned to go, in the dusk at the door, framed, as it were, in a picture, there appeared a horseman leading a tired horse, the reins loose over his arm. Though seen only in that half light, the outline of man and beast were familiar to the stableman. Both seemed far spent; the horse held low its head, and sweat stood caked and thick on neck and heaving flanks, and dripped off inside down by the hocks. "Ye've ridden hard, sir," said the groom, bustling forward to take the horse. The stranger said no word, but himself led the tired animal into an empty stall. Yet, as the groom remembered later, of the other horses in the stable, not one raised its head, or whinnied, or took any notice whatever as the new-comer entered. The stableman turned to lift his lantern, and when, an instant later, he again faced about, he stared to find himself alone; the strange horseman was nowhere to be seen. And the horse in the stall? Him the groom knew well; there was no possibility of mistake; it was the well-known grey on which Lord Derwentwater had ridden away to cast in his lot with Forster. "Mistress! Mistress!" he cried, hurrying into the house, "has his lordship come in? He's led his grey gelding into the stable the noo, and niver a word wad he say to me or he gaed oot. An' I'm feared a's no weel wi' him; he was lookin' sair fashed, an' kind o' white like." "His lordship i' the inn? Guide us!" cried the landlady, snatching up a tallow dip and hurrying into the unlit guest-room. "Ye hae gotten back, my lord? And is a' weel wi' your lordship? And--e-eh! what ails--?" she gasped, as a tall figure, seated in the great oak chair by the smouldering fire, turned on her a face wan and drawn, disfigured by bloody streaks across the cheek. Slowly, like a man in pain, or one wearied to the extreme of exhaustion, the seated figure rose, stood for a moment gazing at her, and then, ere the landlady could collect her scattered wits, it had vanished. Vanished, too, was the grey horse that the groom had seen brought into the stable; and, what was more, the bedding in the stall where the animal had stood was entirely undisturbed, and showed no trace of any beast having been there. It was long that night ere anybody slept within the walls of the old inn, and broken was their sleep. None doubted but that the Earl was killed, or if not killed, at least soon to die; and the news of Preston, when it came, was to those faithful friends no news, only confirmation of their fears. None, after that, dared hope; they knew that he must die. And the 24th of February 1716 saw a countryside plunged in grief, for that day fell on the scaffold the head of one whom everybody loved, who was every man's friend, who never turned empty away those who went to him seeking help. Blood-red were the northern lights that flashed and shimmered so wildly in the heavens that night, red as the blood that had soaked into the sawdust of a scaffold; never before in the memory of living man had aurora gleamed with hue so startling. But the sorrow in the hearts of his people passed not away like the fading of the northern lights. His memory lives still in Northumberland; still, when they see the gleam and flicker of the aurora, folk there call it "Lord Derwentwater's Light"; and even yet it is a tradition that dwellers by the stream which flows past Dilston were wont to tell how, on that fatal day, its waters ran red like blood. When "a' was done that man could do, and a' was done in vain," there remained but to convey his headless body, if it might be, to the spot where his forebears lie at rest. "Albeit that here in London Town, It is my fate to die, O, carry me to Northumberland, In my fathers' grave to lie." The Earl's body had been buried at St. Giles-in-the-Fields, and of those who went to recover it and to bring it home, there was one famous in Northumberland story, Frank Stokoe of Chesterwood. A remarkable man was Stokoe, of enormous personal strength and of great height--in stature a veritable child of Anak--a man without fear, brave to recklessness, a good friend and a terrible enemy. Added to all this, he was an extraordinarily expert swordsman. He was a man, too, of much influence and acknowledged authority in the county--a useful man to have on the side of the King--one to whom the people listened, and to whom often an appeal for help was made in ticklish affairs. There was, for instance, that affair of the feud between Lowes of Willimoteswick Castle and Leehall of Leehall, which kept a great part of Tynedale in hot water for so many years. Leehall appears to have been physically the better man; at any rate, on more than one occasion Lowes seems to have escaped from the clutches of his enemy solely by the superior speed of the horse he rode, or possibly he was a light, and his enemy a heavy, weight, which would make all the difference in a rousing gallop across deep ground or heathery hill. In any case, as a general rule, Lowes was more often the hunted than the hunter. Yet, to the followers of Lowes--there must always be two sides to a story--it was he, and not Leehall, who was the finer man, for, of an encounter between the pair near Bellingham, when Lowes' horse was killed by a sword-thrust directed at the rider's thigh, the old ballad says: "Oh, had Leehall but been a man As he was never ne-an, He wad have stabbed the rider And letten the horse alean." But perhaps the animosity here shown to Leehall comes more from one who was a lover of horses--as who in Northumberland is not?--than from a partisan of Lowes. However, the feud ran on, year in, year out, as is the custom of such things, and no doubt it might have been bequeathed from father to son, like a property under entail, had it not been for the intervention of Frank Stokoe. Lowes and Leehall, it seems, had met by chance near Sewing Shields, with the usual result. Only, upon this occasion, the former was possibly not on the back of an animal the superior in speed and stamina of the horse on which Leehall was mounted. At least, Lowes was captured. But, having got him, his enemy did not proceed to cut him into gobbets, or even to "wipe the floor" with him. Something lingering and long was more to his taste; he would make Lowes "eat dirt." With every mark, therefore, of ignominy and contempt, he dragged his fallen foe home to Leehall, and there chained him near to the kitchen fire-place, leaving just such length of chain loose as would enable the prisoner to sit with the servants at meals. The position can scarcely have been altogether a pleasing one to the servants, to say nothing of the prisoner. Doubtless the former, or some of them, may have found a certain joy in baiting, and in further humiliating, a helpless man, their master's beaten enemy. Yet that pleasure, one would think, could scarcely atone for the constant presence among them of an uninvited guest--a guest, too, who had not much choice in the matter of personal cleanliness. However, trifles of that nature did not greatly embarrass folk in days innocent of sanitary science. As for Lowes, it must have been difficult so to act consistent with the maintenance of any shred of dignity, or of conciliatory cheerfulness. If, for example, the cook should happen of a morning to have got out of bed "wrong foot first," how often must the attentions of that domestic have taken the form of a pot or a pan, or other domestic utensil, flung at his head. Here, no soft answer would be likely to turn away wrath. On the spur of the moment, when a pot, or an iron spit, has caught one on elbow or shins, it might not be altogether easy to think promptly of the repartee likely to be the most conciliating. And he could not "make himself scarce." The situation was embarrassing. Now, the law, in those breezy times, took small cognisance of such little freaks as this; the law, indeed, was pretty powerless up among those wild hills. It wanted some force stronger, or, at all events, some force less magnificently deliberate, than that of the law. Frank Stokoe was that force. To him went the friends of Lowes; and next morning saw the peel tower of Leehall besieged. Frank demanded the surrender of Lowes, uninjured. Leehall retorted that he might take him--if he could. But Leehall had reckoned without his retainers; they dared not fight against Frank Stokoe. So they said. But was it not, in reality, a sort of incipient Strike? Did they, perhaps, being wearied of the somewhat tame sport of baiting him, think the opportunity a fitting one to get rid of their uninvited guest for good and all? In any case, before an hour had passed, Leehall found it convenient to hand Lowes over to Stokoe, who safely deposited him by his own fireside at Willimoteswick, and the feud was pursued no further. Whether or not Leehall was content to have thus played second fiddle, one does not know. Perhaps it was his men who, a year or two later, paid a nocturnal visit to Stokoe's peel tower. Frank was roused from sleep one winter night by his daughter, who told her father that some one was attempting to force the outer door. Stokoe stole quietly downstairs, to find that some one outside was busy with the point of a knife trying gently to prise back the great oaken bolt which barred his door. A very little more, a few minutes longer of work, and the beam would have been slid back, the door would have been quietly opened, and the throats of all the occupants of the house might have been cut. Whispering to his daughter to stand behind the door, and softly to push back the bolt each time the attempt was made to prise it open, Frank snatched down, and loaded with slugs, his old musket. Then very quietly he let himself down through the trap-door into the cow-house, which in all, or nearly all, old peel towers formed the lower story of the building. Cautiously unclosing the door of the cow-house, which opened on the outer air close to the flight of stone steps leading up to the main door of the tower, he stepped out. There, plainly to be seen at top of the stair, were several men, busily employed in trying to gain an entrance. "Ye bluidy scoundrels," roared Stokoe, "I'll knock a hole in some o' ye that the stars will shine through." And with that he let drive at the nearest, the charge, at so close a range, literally "knocking a hole" in him. Like a startled covey of partridges the remaining robbers fled, not only without attempting reprisals, but without even waiting to use the steps as an aid to escape; they simply flew through the air to mother earth and made tracks towards safety, anywhere, out of the reach of Frank Stokoe's vengeance; which perhaps was the wisest thing they could have done, for Stokoe was the kind of man who in a case such as this would willingly have knocked a hole in each one of them. In those days people were not very squeamish, and Stokoe seems to have gone quietly back to bed without greatly troubling himself about the slain robber; but the man's friends must have stolen back during the night, for in a copse near by, in a shallow grave hastily scooped out of the frozen earth, the dead body was found next day. It is almost needless to say that Frank Stokoe was of those who would be certain to concern themselves in an enterprise such as the Rising of 1715. His sympathies were entirely with the Stuart, and against the Hanoverian King. Moreover, though he owned his peel tower and the land surrounding it, he was yet, as regards other land, a tenant of the Earl of Derwentwater, as well as being a devoted admirer of that nobleman. Naturally, therefore, when the Earl took the field, Stokoe followed him; and had all been of his frame of mind, there had been no ignominious surrender at Preston. Whilst fighting was to be done, no man fought so hard, or with such thorough enjoyment, as Stokoe. "Surrender" was a part of the great game that he did not understand; he was not of the stuff that deals in "regrettable incidents." At Preston that day, when all was done, there stood King George's men on either side, as well as in his front; in his rear a high stone wall, even to a man less heavily handicapped than he by weight, an obstacle almost insurmountable. But his horse was good--Stokoe's horses _had_ to be good--and it knew its master. Never hitherto had the pair refused any jump, and they were not like to begin now. With a rush and a scramble, and the clatter of four good feet against the stone coping, they were over; over and away, galloping hard for the North Countrie, the free wind whistling past their ears as they sped, Stokoe throwing up his arm and giving a mocking cheer as each ineffective volley of musketry from the troops spluttered behind him; and the great roan horse snatched at his bit, and snorted with excitement. Yes, that part of it was worth living for, and the blood danced in the veins of horse and man while the chase lasted. But what of it when once more the hills of Northumberland were regained, when the great moors that lay grim and frowning under the dark November skies were again beneath his horse's feet? It was a different matter then, for the hue and cry was out, and the earths all stopped against this gallant fox. Chesterwood was closed to him, no friend dared openly give him shelter. "He had fled, had got clear away to France," was the story they gave out. But Frank Stokoe all the time lay snug and safe in hiding, not so very far from his own peel tower. And he was one of those who, disguised--perhaps in his case not very effectually--ventured to London, intent on bringing back the body of their chief, that it might lie at rest in the grave where sleep the fathers of that noble race. There, in London, Frank narrowly escaped being taken. As it chanced, at that time an Italian bravo was earning for himself an unsavoury notoriety by going about boastfully challenging all England to stand up before him to prove who was the better man. He would mark his man, pick a quarrel with him, and the result was always the same. The Italian's trick of fence was deadly, his wrist a wrist of steel. None yet had been able to stand long before him; not one had got inside his guard. As he walked once near Leicester Field in the dusk of an evening, Stokoe's great figure caught the eye of this little Italian, in whose mind suddenly arose the irresistible longing to bring this huge bulk toppling to earth. That would be something not unworth boasting about--that he, a sort of eighteenth-century David, should slay this modern Goliath. No one had ever been able to complain that it was difficult to pick a quarrel with Frank Stokoe. Not that he was quarrelsome--far otherwise; but never was he known to shrink from any combat that was pressed on him, and on this occasion the venomous little foreigner found him most ready to oblige. It wanted but a slight jostle, an Italian oath hissed out, a few words in broken English to the effect that big men were proverbially clumsy, and that bigness and courage were not always to be found united. Stokoe knew very well who his assailant was, knew his reputation, and the slender chance the ordinary swordsman might expect to have against this foreigner's devilish skill, but his weapon was unsheathed almost before the Italian had ceased to curse. Cautiously keeping a check on his habitual impetuosity, calling to his aid every ounce of the skill he possessed, and content meanwhile if he could evade the vicious thrusts of his enemy, Stokoe for a time kept the fiery little man well at bay. Irritated at length by the giant's coolness, and by finding him, perhaps, not quite so easy a conquest as he had anticipated, unable to draw him on to expose himself by attacking, the Italian for a moment lost patience. None other in England had given him so much trouble. It was time this farce ended; he would spit the giant now. Once, twice, thrice--it was with the utmost difficulty that Stokoe saved himself from being run through the body, and once the sword of his enemy went through his clothes, grazing his ribs, and sending a warm stream trickling down his side. Then, suddenly, again the Italian lunged. This time it surely had been all over with Stokoe. But the foot of the hectoring little foreigner slipped, or he stumbled owing to some slight inequality of the ground. For a single instant the man was overbalanced and off his guard, and before he could recover, Frank Stokoe's sword passed through his body, sending out of this world one who whilst in it had wrought much evil. "Well done, Stokoe! Old Northumberland for ever!" cried a voice from amongst the considerable crowd of spectators who had run up before the fight had been in progress many seconds. "Well done, Stokoe!" Here was danger greater even than that from which he had but now escaped. He was recognised! And for him to be recognised in London probably meant instant arrest, and an almost certain end on the gallows. He was too deeply involved in the late Rebellion; King George's Government would show him as little mercy as they had showed to his chief. Stokoe glanced round uneasily as he wiped his sword, but it was not possible to say which in the group of spectators was the man who had given that compromising cry; it might be one of several who, to Stokoe's extreme discomposure, seemed to look at him rather intently. Time to be out of this, thought he; the farther he was from London the more freely he would breathe just at present, and the less chance was there of that breathing being permanently stopped. Policemen had not been invented in those days, and there was not much chance of his being arrested for duelling, for what was then called "the watch" was singularly inefficient, and seldom to be found when wanted. Nevertheless, it was now no easy matter for Stokoe to shake off the little "tail" of admirers who insisted on following him; it was not every day that they had the chance of seeing a man killed in fair fight, and they were loth to lose sight of the man who had done it--a hero in their eyes. However, by dint of plunging down one narrow street and up some other unsavoury alley, and repeating the manoeuvre at intervals, blinding his trail as far as possible, he at length shook off the last persevering remnant of his admirers, and, without being tracked or shadowed, gained the shelter of the house where he lodged. A few days saw him and his friends safely out of London, bearing with them the body of the Earl of Derwentwater, which was later buried at Dilston. Frank Stokoe's position was an unfortunate one from now on. He was a proscribed man; his property had been seized, and those now in possession threatened if he put in an appearance, or made any attempt to regain the property, that they would give him up to Government. Times consequently became hard for poor Stokoe; his affairs went from bad to worse, and though his name was included in the general pardon which Government issued some time later, he never got back his land nor any of his possessions. Part of the land passed with the Derwentwater Estate to Greenwich Hospital, part, including the peel tower, where he and his ancestors had lived for generations, remained in the clutches of those who had seized it. Old age came upon Frank and found him poverty-stricken; want came, "as an armed man," and found him too weak to resist. The spirit was there, but no longer the strength that should have helped the spirit. He sank and died, leaving behind him no shred of worldly gear. Another noted Northumbrian who was "out" in the '15 was him whom men then called "Mad Jack Hall" of Otterburn. Not that he was in any sense mad, or even of weak intellect--far from it; the name merely arose from the fiery energy of the man, and from the reckless courage with which he would face any danger or any odds. As a man, he was extremely popular, and no one could have been more beloved by his dependents. His fine estate he managed himself, and managed well, though before he went "out" misfortunes fell on him which no management could have averted. They were misfortunes so crushing, and following so immediately on each other's heels, that amongst the simple country folk they were looked on, and spoken of, with awe, as manifestly judgments from Heaven for some fancied sin they supposed him to have committed. He might, people said, have prevented, but did not prevent, a duel which took place in the streets of Newcastle, in which a very popular young man was killed. It was "murder," and no fair fight, folk said; and, whatever the rights of the case, at least the successful duellist was afterwards hanged for the murder. Hall's failure to interfere seems to have strained his popularity for a time. In such circumstances people are prone to assume that an all-wise Providence, necessarily seeing eye to eye with them, inflicts some special punishment on the person who has sinned some special sin, or who has, at all events, done (or not done) something which, in the popular judgment, he should not have done (or done, as the case may be). Misfortune or accident comes to some one who has roused popular clamour. "I told you so," cries the public; "a judgment!" In this instance, the sin of not interfering to prevent a duel--or a murder, as popular opinion called it--was punished, firstly, by Hall's house at Otterburn being burned to the ground, together with all his farm buildings and great part of his farm stock; and, secondly, this grievous loss was followed in the time of harvest by a devastating flood in the Rede, which swept away from the rich, low-lying haughs every particle of the fat crops which already had been cut, and were now merely waiting to be carried home. By such drastic means having apparently been purged of his sin, Mr. Hall seems to have regained his normal popularity, and an incident which presently occurred raised it to an even greater height than before. As far back at least as the time of Cromwell it had been customary to send offenders against the law, political prisoners and the like who were not judged quite worthy of the gallows or the block, to what in Charles the Second's day were called His Majesty's Plantations--our colonies, that is, in America or the West Indies. Not only were "incorrigible rogues, vagabonds, and sturdy beggars" thus dealt with, but those also who attended illegal prayer-meetings found themselves in the same box if they happened to have been previously convicted of this heinous offence; and the moss-troopers of Northumberland and Cumberland were treated in similar fashion when taken--deported from their own heathery hills and grey, weeping skies, to the hot swamps and savannahs of Jamaica or Virginia. In the beginning, those sentenced were merely compelled, under penalty of what Weir of Hermiston called being "weel haangit," to remove themselves to the Plantations. Later, a custom sprang up under which criminals of all sorts were delivered over by the authorities to the tender mercies of contractors, who engaged to land them in the West Indies or America, it being one of the conditions of the contract that the services of the prisoner were the property of the contractor for a given number of years. On landing, these wretched prisoners were put up to auction and sold to the highest bidder--in other words, they were slaves. Many men made large sums of money in this inhuman trade, trafficking in the lives of their fellow-countrymen. The thing at last reached such a pitch that practically no able-bodied man was safe from the danger of being kidnapped, sold to some dealer, and shipped off to slavery in the Plantations. That was the fate of many a young man who mysteriously disappeared from the ken of his friends in those seventeenth- and eighteenth-century days. Once shipped to the Plantations, the chance was small of a man ever returning to his native land. Fever, brought on by exposure to the hot sun and heavy rain of a tropical or semi-tropical climate, took care of that; in the West Indies, at least, they died like flies. Not many had the luck, or the constitution, of one Henry Morgan, who, kidnapped in Bristol when a boy and sold as a slave in Barbadoes, lived to be one of the most famous--or rather notorious--buccaneers of all time, and died a knight, Lieutenant-Governor of Jamaica, and commander of our forces in that island. It was "Mad Jack Hall's" fortune to save from this fate of being kidnapped and sent to rot in fever-laden swamps of the West Indies a young Northumbrian at that time in his service. It was the time of year when Stagshaw Bank Fair was held, and Mr. Hall, meaning to attend the fair, had instructed this young man to join him there at a certain hour, and himself had ridden over to Corbridge, there to pass the night. In the morning, when Jack Hall reached the fair at the appointed hour, he was astonished to find his servant, very dejected in appearance, being led away in charge of a man on horseback. Hall questioned the lad, who brightened up vastly at sight of his master, but could give no explanation as to the cause of this interference. All he knew was that as he stood waiting for Mr. Hall, this man had ridden up, claimed him as a prisoner, and was now marching him off. Hall looked at the mounted man, and recognised him as one of a family named Widdrington, who claimed to be invested by the Government of Queen Anne with authority to arrest from time to time sundry persons who, so far as the general public knew, were guilty of no crime, but who nevertheless were in the end sent to the dreaded Plantations. These Widdringtons were greatly feared throughout the countryside, but as they had always selected their victims from amongst people who had few friends, and who were little likely to have the means of making any great outcry, no person of influence had yet been moved to take the matter up, or to make troublesome inquiries. Hall, however, was not the man to let his servant be taken without protest, even if this Widdrington really had the authority he claimed to possess. But to all Hall's remonstrances Widdrington merely replied haughtily that he was accountable to no one, save only to her most gracious Majesty the Queen; that he was there in the execution of his duty, and that anyone interfering with him did so at his own peril. The situation was awkward. On the one hand, if this man really was acting within his rights and in the execution of his duty, then Hall himself was likely to get into serious trouble; on the other, he was not going to see a young man, his own servant, a man, so far as he knew, innocent of all offence against the law, marched off in this way, if by any means he might be saved. As mere remonstrances appeared to be of no avail, Hall hotly pressed his horse close up to Widdrington's, completely barring his way, and demanded that, if he were really acting within the law, he should show his authority. "_This_ is my authority," cried Widdrington, drawing his sword. "We'll soon prove whether that's strong enough," replied Hall, jumping from his horse and also drawing his weapon. There was, as it chanced, close to the lane in which the two had been wrangling, a bit of nice level ground covered with short, crisp turf, and to this Hall quickly made his way, followed by Widdrington and by a crowd of people who had run up from the fair, attracted by the quarrel. A very few minutes sufficed to prove that Widdrington's "authority" was _not_ strong enough. He fought well enough for a time, it is true, and his opponent had need of all the skill he could command, but within five minutes Hall had caught Widdrington's point in the big basket hilt of his sword, and with a sudden jerk had sent the weapon flying, leaving the disarmed man entirely at his mercy. That was enough to satisfy Hall, who was too much of a man to push his advantage further. But it by no means satisfied the surrounding crowd of country people. By them these Widdringtons had long been feared and detested, and only the belief in the minds of those simple country folk that, in some mysterious way beyond their ken, the law was on the side of their oppressors, had on more than one occasion prevented an outbreak of popular fury. Here, now, was one of the hated brood, proven to be in the wrong, and with no authority to arrest beyond that bestowed by bluster and brute force. The air grew thick with groans and savage threats, and a clod flung by a boy gave the mob a lead. In an instant sticks and stones began to fly. Widdrington was unable to reach his sword or to get to his horse; there was nothing for it but to take to his heels, pursued by a crowd thirsting for his blood. That was the last of the oppression of the Widdringtons; their horrible traffic in human beings was ended, and none of them ever again dared show their faces in that part of the country. As for Hall, henceforward an angel of light could not have been more highly regarded, and his fate, a very few years later, brought grief on the county almost as universal as that felt for the Earl of Derwentwater himself. Hall was at Preston with Derwentwater, but he did not, like Frank Stokoe, ride for it when Forster surrendered. One would almost have expected a man of his fiery, reckless disposition to have made a dash for it, and to fight his way through or fall in the attempt. Perhaps he considered it a point of honour to stick by his friends, and share their fate, whatever it might be. Anyhow, he surrendered with the rest, and with the rest was condemned to death. Time after time he was reprieved, owing to the exertions of friends who happened to be high in favour with the Hanoverian King's Government, but time after time he was recommitted, and finally Tyburn saw the last of poor "Mad Jack Hall." They hanged him on the 13th of July 1716. SEWINGSHIELDS CASTLE, AND THE SUNKEN TREASURE OF BROOMLEE LOUGH The old castle of Sewingshields is one of which there are many legends. If local tradition might be accepted as a guide, we should find that Arthur the King lived there once on a time. But surely another Arthur than him of whom Tennyson sang. One, "Not like that Arthur, who, with lance in rest, From spur to plume a star of tournament, Shot through the lists at Camelot, and charged Before the eyes of ladies and of kings," but a being even more mythical than that Arthur to whom, with his knights, legend assigns so many last resting-places--in that vast hall beneath the triple peak of Eildon, here in a cavern below the rocks at Sewingshields, and in many a spot besides. This Arthur of Sewingshields in his feats was indeed more akin to the old Norse gods and heroes. And it is told that, as he talked with his Queen one day when they sat on those great rocks to the north of the castle, which still bear as names the King's and the Queen's Crag, Guinevere chanced to let fall a remark which angered Arthur; whereupon he, snatching up a rock that lay ready to his hand, hurled it at his royal consort. Now, Guinevere at the moment was combing her long, fair locks; but she saw the stone come hurtling through the air, and, with remarkable presence of mind and dexterity, with her comb she fended off the missile, so that it fell between them, doing no harm. And if anyone should presume to disbelieve this tale, there lies the rock to this day, and the marks of the teeth of the Queen's comb are on it still for all to see. The distance that the King hurled this missile is not above a quarter of a mile, and the pebble itself may weigh a trifle of twenty tons or so. Local tradition tells also how once on a time there came to Sewingshields, to visit Arthur, a great chieftain from the wild north, one named Cumin. And when Cumin departed from the castle to go back to his own land, he bore with him a certain gold cup that Arthur, in token of friendship, had given to him. But sundry of the King's retainers, having learned that the Scot was bearing away with him this cup, greatly desired that they might themselves possess it, and they pursued Cumin, and slew him ere he had gone many miles. Wherefore Arthur caused a cross to be erected there on the spot where the slain man fell; and the place is called Cumming's Cross to this day. Of the building of the castle of Sewingshields, or Seven-shields, there is the legend told in _Harold the Dauntless_: "The Druid Urien had daughters seven, Their skill could call the moon from heaven; So fair their forms and so high their fame, That seven proud kings for their suitors came. King Mador and Rhys came from Powis and Wales, Unshorn was their hair, and unpruned were their nails; From Strath-Clywd came Ewain, and Ewain was lame, And the red-bearded Donald from Galloway came. Lot, King of Lodon, was hunchback'd from youth, Dunmail of Cumbria had never a tooth; But Adolph of Bambrough, Northumberland's heir; Was gay and was gallant, was young and was fair. There was strife 'mongst the sisters, for each one would have For husband King Adolph, the gallant and brave; And envy bred hate, and hate urged them to blows, When the firm earth was cleft, and the Arch-fiend arose! He swore to the maidens their wish to fulfil-- They swore to the foe they would work by his will, A spindle and distaff to each hath he given, 'Now hearken my spell,' said the Outcast of Heaven. 'Ye shall ply these spindles at midnight hour, And for every spindle shall rise a tower, Where the right shall be feeble, the wrong shall have power, And there shall ye dwell with your paramour.' Beneath the pale moonlight they sate on the wold, And the rhymes which they chaunted must never be told; And as the black wool from the distaff they sped, With blood from their bosom they moisten'd the thread. As light danced the spindles beneath the cold gleam, The castle arose like the birth of a dream-- The seven towers ascended like mist from the ground, Seven portals defend them, seven ditches surround. Within that dread castle seven monarchs were wed, But six of the seven ere the morning lay dead; With their eyes all on fire, and their daggers all red, Seven damsels surround the Northumbrian's bed. 'Six kingly bridegrooms to death we have done, Six gallant kingdoms King Adolf hath won; Six lovely brides all his pleasure to do, Or the bed of the seventh shall be husbandless too.' Well chanced it that Adolf the night when he wed Had confessed and had sain'd him ere boune to his bed; He sprung from the couch, and his broadsword he drew, And there the seven daughters of Urien he slew. The gate of the castle he bolted and seal'd, And hung o'er each arch-stone a crown and a shield; To the cells of St. Dunstan then wended his way, And died in his cloister an anchorite grey. Seven monarchs' wealth in that castle lies stow'd, The foul fiends brood o'er them like raven and toad. Whoever shall questen these chambers within, From curfew to matins, that treasure shall win. But manhood grows faint as the world waxes old! There lives not in Britain a champion so bold, So dauntless of heart, and so prudent of brain, As to dare the adventure that treasure to gain. The waste ridge of Cheviot shall wave with the rye, Before the rude Scots shall Northumberland fly, And the flint cliffs of Bambro' shall melt in the sun Before that adventure be perill'd and won." Long afterwards, when Harold the Dauntless entered the castle, the seven shields still hung where Adolf had placed them, each blazoned with its coat of arms: "A wolf North Wales had on his armour coat, And Rhys of Powis-land a couchant stag; Strath Clwyd's strange emblem was a stranded boat; Donald of Galloway's a trotting nag; A corn-sheaf gilt was fertile Lodon's brag; A dudgeon-dagger was by Dunmail worn; Northumbrian Adolf gave a sea-beat crag; Surmounted by a cross,--such signs were borne Upon these antique shields, all wasted now and worn." And within the castle, in that chamber where Adolf repelled the embarrassing advances of that most unmaidenly band of sisters, and did "a slaughter grim and great": "There of the witch brides lay each skeleton, Still in the posture as to death when dight; For this lay prone, by one blow slain outright; And that, as one who struggles long in dying; One bony hand held knife, as if to smite; One bent on fleshless knees, as mercy crying; One lay across the floor, as kill'd in act of flying." Perhaps it is part of the wealth of those "seven monarchs" that now lies sunken in Broomlee Lough. Did some one, greatly daring, "adventure that treasure to win," and succeed in his attempt? Tradition tells that a dweller in Sewingshields Castle, long ago, being compelled to flee the country, and unable to bear away with him his hoard of gold, resolved to sink it in the lough. Rowing, therefore, far out into deep water, he hove overboard a chest containing all his treasure, putting on it a spell that never should it be again seen till brought to land by aid of "Twa twin yauds, twa twin oxen, twa twin lads, and a chain forged by a smith of kind." Long centuries the treasure remained unsought; yet all men might know exactly where lay the chest beneath the waves, for it mattered not how fierce blew the gale, above the gold the surface of the water was ever unbroken. At last there came one who heard the tradition, and set about the task of recovering the sunken chest. The twin horses, twin oxen, and twin lads he procured readily enough, but to find a smith of kind was not so easy--"a smith of kind" being a blacksmith whose ancestors for six generations have been smiths, he himself being the seventh generation. But this, too, at length was found, and the smith forged the necessary length of chain. Then, taking advantage of a favourable day, when breeze sufficient blew to reveal the tell-tale spot of calm water, the treasure-hunter started in his boat, leaving one end of the chain on shore and paying out fathom after fathom as his boat swept round the calm and again reached shore. Now hitching the yauds to one end and the oxen to the other, the animals were cautiously started by the twin drivers. Slowly the chain swept over the bed of the lough, and tightened, fast in something heavy that gave and came shoreward in the bight of the chain. Cannily the drivers drove, and ever came the weight nearer to dry land. Already the treasure-seeker in his boat, peering eagerly down into the quiet water, fancied that he was a made man; he could almost _see_ that box. But a few more yards and it was his. Alas! In his eagerness to secure "a smith of kind" he had made insufficient inquiries into that smith's ancestry. There was (as he discovered when too late) a flaw in his pedigree! Some ancestress, it was said, could not show her marriage lines, or something else was wrong. At any rate, there was a flaw, and that was sufficient to upset the whole thing, for the chain, not being made by a smith of kind, was of course not of the true temper. Hence, just when success was about to crown their efforts, the horses made a violent plunge forward--and the chain parted at a weak link! No further attempts to ascertain the exact bearings of that box have ever been successful. It is, as of old, at the bottom of the lough--at least so says tradition. And Sewingshields Castle is now no longer a castle; its very vaults and its walls have disappeared. "No towers are seen On the wild heath, but those that Fancy builds, And save a fosse that tracks the moor with green, Is nought remains to tell of what may there have been." THE KIDNAPPING OF LORD DURIE "It is commonly reported that some party, in a considerable action before the Session, finding that Lord Durie could not be persuaded to think his plea good, fell upon a stratagem to prevent the influence and weight which his lordship might have to his prejudice, by causing some strong masked men to kidnap him, in the Links of Leith, at his diversion on a Saturday afternoon, and transport him to some blind and obscure room in the country, where he was detained captive, without the benefit of daylight, a matter of three months (though otherwise civilly and well entertained); during which time his lady and children went in mourning for him as dead. But after the cause aforesaid was decided, the Lord Durie was carried back by incognitos, and dropt in the same place where he had been taken up." (Forbes's _Journal of the Session_, Edinburgh, 1714.) With the early part of the seventeenth century, moss-trooping in the Border country had not yet come to an end. Its glory, no doubt, and its glamour, had begun to fade before even the sixteenth century was far spent, and where were now to be found heroes such as the far-famed Johnnie Armstrong of Gilnockie? Yet, as a few stout-hearted leaves, defiant of autumn's fury, will cling to the uttermost branches of a forest tree, so, in spite of King or Court, there were even now some reckless souls, scornful of new-fangled modern ways and more than content to follow in the footsteps of their grandsires, who still held fast to precept and practice of what seemed to them "the good old days." It is true their reiving partook now somewhat more of the nature of horse-stealing pure and simple. No longer were fierce raids over the English Border permissible; not now could they, practically with impunity, "drive" the cattle of those with whom they were at feud, and live on the stolen beeves of England till such time as the larder again grew bare. The times were sadly degenerate; Border men all too quickly were becoming soft and effeminate. Yet in Eskdale there was one patriot, at least, who boasted himself that as his fathers had been, so was he. Willie Armstrong of Gilnockie was that man--"Christie's Will," he was commonly called, a great-grandson of the famous Johnnie, and not unworthy of his descent. Had he lived when Johnnie flourished, there might indeed have been two Armstrongs equally famous. As it was, Willie spent his days at constant feud with the law, and even the strong walls of Gilnockie were not for him always a secure shelter. Once it befell that the Lord High Treasurer of Scotland, the Earl of Traquair, visiting Jedburgh, there found Willie lying in the "tolbooth." "Now, what's broucht ye to this, Gilnockie?" the Earl inquired. "Oh, nocht but having twa bit tethers in my hand, my lord," said Willie. But: "Weel, I wadna say but there micht mebbes hae been twa cowt at the tae end o' the tethers," he admitted, on being pressed by the Earl. Now, it happened that Willie was well known to Lord Traquair--had, in fact, more than once been of considerable service to his lordship; and it was no failing of the Earl to desert a friend in trouble, if help might be given quietly and judiciously. So it came about that the prison gates swung back for Christie's Will, the halter no longer threatened his neck, and Lord Traquair acquired a follower who to repay his debt of gratitude would stick at nothing. Some little time later it chanced that a great lawsuit fell to be decided in the Court of Session. In this lawsuit Lord Traquair was deeply concerned. A verdict in his favour was of vital importance to him, but he very well knew that the opinion of the presiding judge was likely to be unfavourable to his claim, and that should Lord Durie preside, the case in that event would almost certainly go against him. Could that judge, however, by any means be quietly spirited away from Edinburgh before the date fixed for the trial, with almost equal certainty he might count on a favourable verdict. In this predicament Lord Traquair turned his thoughts to Christie's Will; if anyone could aid him it must be the bold Borderer. "'Bethink how ye sware, by the salt and the bread, By the lightning, the wind, and the rain, That if ever of Christie's Will I had need, He would pay me my service again.'" And Lord Traquair did not plead in vain. It was a little thing to do, Will thought, for one who had saved him from the gallows tree. "'O mony a time, my lord,' he said, 'I've stown the horse frae the sleeping loon; But for you I'll steal a beast as braid, For I'll steal Lord Durie frae Edinboro toon.'" * * * * * A light northerly breeze piped shrill through the long bent grass beyond Leith Links, sweeping thin and nippingly across shining sands left bare by a receding tide; down by the rippling water-line, as the sun of a late spring day neared his setting, clamouring gulls bickered noisily over the possession of some fishy dainty. Out from near-lying patches of whin, and from the low, wind-blown sand-hills, rabbits stole warily, nibbling the short herbage now and then, but ever with an air of suspicion and manifest unease, for behind a big clump of whin, during half the day there had lain hid a thick-set, powerfully built man. "De'il tak' the body!" he grumbled, sitting up and stretching himself as he glanced along the beach; "he's lang o' comin'." As he gazed, the sight of a distant horseman riding westward brought him sharply to his feet, and snatching up a long cloak that lay by his side, he walked leisurely through the yielding sand till he reached the firm beach within tide mark, along which the horseman was now quietly cantering. "Ye'll be Lord Durie, I'm thinkin'," he cried, raising his hand to stay the rider, a middle-aged, legal-faced man, who sat his sober steed none too confidently, with thighs but lightly wed to the saddle. "Yes, I'm Lord Durie. What can I do for you?" "Weel, my lord, I've come far to see ye. They say there's no' a lawyer leevin' or deid that kens mair nor you on a' thing. It's jist a bit plea that I've gotten," said the man, laying a hand on the horse's neck and sidling along close to his rider's knee. "For onny advice on kittle points o' law, ye maun go to counsel, my friend. I'm a judge, no' an advocate. Gude e'en to ye." "Ay, but, my lord," said the man, laying a detaining left hand on the near rein, "it's this way it is; ye see--" and at that, with a sudden powerful upward push of the unskilled rider's leg, Lord Durie was hurled from the saddle and lay sprawling on his back on the wet sand, as the horse sprang forward with a startled bound. "Goad's sake! what's this o't?" cried the poor judge, already tangled in the folds of the long cloak, and struggling to rise. "Wad ye murder are o' his Majesty's judges!" "Lie still, my lord, lie still! There's no skaith will come to ye 'gin ye but lie still. De'il's i' the body; wull the auld lurdane no hand sae!" Of small avail were the judge's struggles; as well might an infant struggle in the folds of a python. Ere even an elderly man's scant breath was quite spent, he lay among the whins, bound hand and foot, trussed like a fowl, and with the upper part of his body and his head wrapped in the stifling folds of the great cloak. That was the last of the outer world that Lord Durie knew or saw for many a long day. His horse, with muddied saddle, and broken reins trailing on the ground (muddied and broken, no doubt, by the horse rolling), was found next day grazing on the links. But of the judge, no trace. He might--as some, with the superstition of the day, were disposed to believe[1]--have been spirited away by a warlock; or, perhaps, even like Thomas the Rhymer, he had vanished into Fairyland. Tidings of him there were none. The flowing waters of the Forth had effectually wiped out his horse's tracks along the shore, and during the night a rising wind had effaced the footsteps of his captor in the dry loose sand between tide-mark and links. Thus every trace of him was lost. His body, maybe, might have drifted out to sea; perhaps it lay now by the rocks of some lonely shore, or on the sands, with mouth a-wash and dead hands playing idly with the lapping water. Wife and family mourned as for one dead. And after the first nine days' wonder, even in Parliament House and Law Courts, for lack of food speculation as to his fate languished and died. A successor filled his office. [1: In the seventeenth century belief in witchcraft was almost at its height over the whole of Europe, and in Scotland the hunt after witches and warlocks was peculiarly vindictive. To obtain confession, the most incredible tortures--as cruel as anything practised by Red Indians on their prisoners--were inflicted on accused persons, men and women, and escape was seldom possible for these poor creatures. Nor were such beliefs and practices confined to the benighted times of the seventeenth century. Even as late as 1722, in Sutherlandshire, a woman was burned for witchcraft. Her crime was that she had transformed her own daughter into a pony, and had ridden her throughout an entire night. Conclusive proof of the charge was found in the fact that the poor woman's daughter was lame afterwards both in hands and feet. Nothing was too absurd, no charge too wicked or too childish, to obtain universal belief in those times.] Meantime, bound to the saddle in front of his captor, by little-known hill paths the judge had been borne swiftly through the night. The long, melancholy wail of a whaup, the eerie hoot of an owl, at times smote dully on his ear; but to all his entreaties and his questions no human voice made answer; in stony silence his abductor rode steadily on. Over hill and dale, over rough ground and smooth, splashing through marshy soil where the hoofs of the heavily laden horse sucked juicily, through burns, and across sodden peaty moor where the smell of swamp rose rank on the night air, they floundered; and once the homely smell of peat reek told the unhappy judge that they passed within hail of some human dwelling. But throughout the night he saw nothing, and gradually the long strain, the discomfort of being pitched forward or back as the horse scrambled up or down where the ground was extra rough and broken, the pain of sitting half in, half out, of a saddle, told upon a frame unaccustomed to much exercise, and at intervals he wholly or partially lost consciousness. Thus unutterably distressed in body and broken in spirit, in one of these partial lapses it seemed to the judge--as it might be in some disordered nightmare--that there came a respite from the torment of ceaseless motion, and that by means of some unknown agency he lay in heavenly peace, stretched full length on a couch or bed. He thought--or did he dream?--that he had heard, as it were far off, the muffled trairip of feet and the murmur of low voices; and it seemed almost as if his body, after falling from some vast height, had been lifted and gently swung in the air. But exhaustion of mind and body was so great that the problem of what might be happening was quite beyond solution; let him only rest and sleep. Then, later, it seemed to him that he woke from broken, tossing slumber. But it was dark, and he fell again into an uneasy doze, in which every muscle and bone in his harassed old body ached pitifully, every spot of sorely chafed skin stung and burned, till the multitude of pains put an end to sleep. Where was he, and how had he got there? On a low couch, free and unbound, he lay; by his side, on a rude table, was food and a jack of small-beer. Whether the time was morning or evening he could not tell, but it was very dark; what little light entered the room came through a narrow slit, high up in the wall, and all things smelled strangely of damp. Somewhere he could hear faintly a slow, shuffling step and the rustle of a dress; then the mew of a cat. Where was he? Few, very few, persons at that day were above the weakness of a firm belief in witchcraft; even a judge of the Court of Session would not dare openly to question the justice and humanity of the Mosaical law: "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live." Superstition was rampant, and to Lord Durie there had ever seemed nothing incongruous in accepting belief in the undoubted existence of both witches and warlocks. Could it be that he was now actually in the power of such beings? His mind was yet in a whirl, and he could form to himself no connected account of yesterday's happenings, if indeed it was really yesterday, and not in some remote, far-away time, that he had last ridden along the sands of Leith. Thirst consumed him, but he hesitated to drink; if he were now in the hands of those wretches who, it was well known, that they might work evil sold themselves to the Prince of Darkness, then might it not be that by voluntarily drinking, his soul would be delivered into the clutches of the Evil One? The thought brought him painfully to his feet with many a groan, and roused him to a careful examination of his gloomy prison. Rough stone walls, oozing damp, an earthen floor, three stone steps leading up to a heavy iron-studded door in a corner of the room; and nothing else. The one small window was far out of his reach. A feeling of faintness crept over him; it might be a wile of Satan, or a spell cast over him by supernatural powers, but the time was past for hesitation, and he drank a great draught from the jack, sank feebly on the couch, and slept profoundly. When the judge again awoke it was in a prison somewhat less gloomy, for a thin splash of pale sunlight now struck the wall, and gave light sufficient to show every corner of the room. Again Lord Durie went through his fruitless search, and then, feeling hungry, and having suffered no visible ill effects from his first incautious draught of small-beer, he ate and drank heartily. From the way in which the patch of sunlight crept up the wall, it was easy to tell that the time was evening. Could it indeed be that no more than twenty-four hours back he had ridden, secure and free from this horrible care, along the shining sands by the crisp salt wavelets of the Forth? What was that voice that he now heard, thin and hollow, on the evening air? "Far yaud! far yaud!" and then, with eldritch scream, "_Bauty_," it cried. Such sounds, coming from he knew not where, fell disturbingly on the unaccustomed ears of a seventeenth-century Judge of Session, and Lord Durie's sleep that night was broken by grim dreams. Day followed day, week pressed on the heels of week, and still never a human face smiled on the unhappy judge. Each morning he found on his little table a supply of food and drink, all good of their kind and plenty--boiled beef or mutton, oaten cakes, pease bannocks, and always the jack of small-beer--but never did he see human hand place them there, never did human form cheer him by its presence. The solitary confinement and the utter want of occupation told on a nervous, somewhat highly strung temperament; and in the judge's mind superstition began to hold unquestioned sway. Things taught him in childhood by an old nurse, things which now folks, indeed, still believed, but which he himself had to some extent given up or dismissed from his thoughts, began to crowd back again into his brain. No mere human power, surely, could have brought him here as he had been brought. Was it in the dungeon of some sorcerer, of some disciple of the Devil, that he now lay? Then, the shuffling old step that he heard so frequently, the thin voice calling, "Hey! Maudge," followed always by the mewing of a cat--what could that be but some old hag, given over to evil deeds, talking to her familiar? It was but the other day that, with his own eyes, he had seen nine witches burned together on Leith Sands, and all, ere they died, had confessed to the most horrid commerce with the Devil. It was no great time since a witch, under torture, had revealed in her confession the terrible truth, of how two hundred women had been wont to flock at night to a certain kirk in North Berwick, there to listen eagerly to Satan preaching blasphemy and denouncing the King. Even a judge was not safe from their malice. And could he but escape from the snare in which he now lay entangled, assuredly, Lord Durie thought, there should be more witch-burnings. So the weeks dragged past, and Lord Durie lost all reckoning of the flight of time; but ever the belief strengthened that it was no mere human power that held him in bondage. And this belief received confirmation at last, for he awoke one night from confused and heavy sleep, to find himself once more bound, and wrapped, body and head, in the thick folds of a cloak. Then, seemingly without moving from his bed, he was borne through the air and set upon a horse; and again began that awful journey which once before he had endured. This time, too, in confirmation of his theory of the supernatural, when he came to his full senses it was to find himself lying behind a clump of whins by the sands of Leith, near to the very spot where, ages before, he had met a strange-looking man who tried to draw him into conversation on law. And nowhere was any cloak to be seen, nor trace of human agency. Only, he ached sorely, and his legs almost refused to bear the weight of his body, and in his head was the buzzing as of a thousand bees. It was warlocks who had dealt with him--so his family and all his friends agreed when his tale was told. But his successor in office mourned, perhaps, that their dealings had not been more effectual, for he liked ill to give up a post he had filled with ability for an all too short three months. To Lord Durie's regret, his return was too late to enable him to preside in the famous case which was about to come on shortly after the date of his disappearance. That had already been decided in a manner of which he could not have failed to disapprove, and Lord Traquair had secured a verdict. For long the judge held to the warlock theory, and he was not averse, after dinner, over a bottle, from telling at great length the story of his terrible experiences during those mysterious three months of captivity. Younger men, indeed, began to find the tale somewhat boring, and in private some had been known to wish that the devil had flown away permanently with Lord Durie. But those scoffers were chiefly a few rising young advocates; the judge's family and his friends accepted the tale in its entirety. Nor ever did any man, to the end of his days, actually hear Lord Durie express doubt as to the supernatural nature of his adventure. Yet something did happen, later, which at least seemed in some measure to have shaken his faith, and it was noticed that, towards the end of his life, he was not fond of dwelling on the subject--had even been known, in fact, to become irritable when pressed to tell his story. It fell out, a year or two after the events which he had loved to narrate, that Lord Durie had occasion to visit Dumfries. On the way back to Edinburgh, travelling with some colleagues, it chanced that a heavy storm caught them, and necessity drove them to take shelter for the night in a farmhouse near to an old peel tower which stood on the verge of the wild moorland country beyond Moffat. That night Lord Durie, in his stuffy box-bed, dreamed a terrible dream. He was once more in the power of the wizard or warlock; and it seemed to him that in his dream he even heard again those mysterious words that had once so haunted him. With a start he woke, bathed in perspiration, to find that day had broken, and that from the hillside echoed the long-drawn cry: "Far yaud! Far yaud! _Bauty!_" While, ben the house, he could hear a slow, shuffling step, and a thin old voice quavering: "Hey, Maudge!" to a mewing cat. "What was yon cry oot on the hill? Oh, jist oor Ailick cryin' on his dowg, Bauty, to weer the sheep," said the grey-haired, brown-faced old woman to whom they had owed their shelter for the night. "Veesitors?" she continued, in reply to further questions. "Na. We hae nae veesitors here. There was aince a puir sick man lay twa three months i' the auld tower yont by, a year or twa back, but there's been nae veesitors. They said he was daft, an' I was kind o' feared whiles to gie him his meat. But, oh, he wad be jist a silly auld body that did naebody hairm. Na, I never richtly got sicht o' his face, for I aye put his bit meat an' drink doon beside him whan he was sleepin'. An' them that broucht him took him awa again whan they thoucht he was some better." It was noted that after this visit Lord Durie no longer pursued the subject of warlocks. [NOTE.--The story of Lord Durie's abduction and captivity is differently told by Chambers in his _Domestic Annals of Scotland_, as far, at least, as the instigator of the kidnapping and its accomplisher are concerned. It is there recorded that the maker of the plot to kidnap the judge was George Meldrum the Younger of Dumbreck. Accompanied by two Jardines and a Johnston--good Border names--and by some other men, Meldrum seized Lord Durie and a friend near St. Andrews, robbed them of their purses, then carried the judge across the Firth of Forth to the house of one William Kay in Leith, thence past Holyrood, and, by way doubtless of Soutra Hill, to Melrose, from which town he was hurried over the Border to Harbottle, and there held prisoner. An account of the trial of the perpetrators of the abduction is to be found in Pitcairns' _Criminal Trials._ Sir Walter Scott, however, in his _Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border_, gives to Will Armstrong of Gilnockie the credit, or discredit, of carrying out the abduction single-handed. Will was certainly a much more picturesque ruffian than ever was Meldrum, and many a wild deed might be safely fathered on him. Tradition tells of his long ride to convey important papers from Lord Traquair to King Charles I, and of his perilous return journey, bearing a reply from his Majesty. Tidings of his mission had come to the ears of the Parliamentarians, and orders were issued to seize him at Carlisle. In that town, Will, unwitting of special danger, had halted an hour to refresh man and beast, and as he proceeded on his journey, and was midway over the high, narrow bridge across the Eden, the sudden clatter of horses' feet and the jingle of accoutrements at either end of the bridge showed him that his way was effectually blocked by the Roundhead troopers. Without a moment's hesitation, Will faced his horse at the parapet, and with a touch of the spur and a wild cheer over went the pair into the flooded river, disappearing in the tawny, foaming water with a mighty splash. Instead of hastening along the bank, Cromwell's troopers crowded on to the bridge, gazing with astonishment into the raging torrent. Thus, when Will and his horse, still unparted, came to the surface a considerable way down, there was time for them to reach the bank. But the bank was steep and the landing bad, and the weight of Will's saturated riding-cloak was the last straw that hindered the horse from scrambling up. With a curse Will cut the fastening that held the cloak about his neck, and, relieved from the extra weight, the animal with a desperate struggle gained the top of the bank and got away well ahead of the pursuing troopers. Had it not been for the speed and stamina of his horse, Will had surely been taken that night. As it was, ere they reached the Esk, one trooper was already far in front of his comrades, and thundering on Will's very heels. But a pistol pointed at his head by Will, a pistol with priming saturated, and incapable of being fired--had the man only thought of it--caused the trooper to draw back out of danger, and Will gained Esk's farther bank in safety, where, regardless of possible pistol shots, he waited to taunt his baffled pursuers. THE WRAITH OF PATRICK KERR This is a tale they tell at the darkening, and you who are Rulewater folk probably know it well. But however well you may know it, you have to own that it is an eerie thing to listen to when the fire is dying down, and there are queer-shaped shadows playing on the walls, and outside in the wood the owls are beginning to hoot, or, from the far moor, there comes a curlew's cry. Not long after Prince Charlie's day there lived at Abbotrule, in Rulewater, a laird named Patrick Kerr. Patrick Kerr was a Writer to His Majesty's Signet, a dour man, with a mischancy temper. The kirk and kirkyard of Abbotrule, as still may be seen, lay near the laird's house--too near for the pleasure of one who had no love for the kirk and who could not thole ministers. Most unfortunately, too, the laird took a scunner at the minister of the parish of Abbotrule. It may be that he and the minister saw too much of each other, and only saw each other's faults, but of that no one now can tell. But, about the year 1770, Patrick Kerr set about to put an end to Abbotrule Parish and Abbotrule Kirk, that had seen many an open-air Sacrament on summer Sabbaths long ago. For four years the laird laboured to attain his end, and a blithe man was he when, in 1774, he got Eliott of Stobs and Douglas of Douglas to side with him and wipe out for evermore the kirk and parish of Abbotrule. The parish was joined to the parishes of Hobkirk and Southdean, and the glebe--twenty-five acres of good land--which should have been shared between the Southdean and Hobkirk ministers, was taken by Patrick Kerr for his own use. Fifty acres of poor soil lying between Doorpool and Chesters he certainly gave them in its stead, and must have had pleasure in his bargain, for he had gained a rich glebe and had for ever freed himself from his clerical neighbours. Speedily he pulled down the manse and unroofed the kirk. He would willingly have ploughed up the kirkyard, but this could not be. For a hundred years after he was gone, the Rulewater folk still buried there. Now, in Patrick Kerr's day, a Sacrament Sabbath was not quite what it is now. They were solemn enough about the fencing of the tables, serious and longfaced enough were ministers and elders as the bread and wine were handed round, but the minister's wife, poor body, found it took her all her time to preserve an earnest spirituality and to search her soul as the roasts and pies and puddings spread out on the manse dining-table haunted her anxious mind. Harder still, too, it was for a tired minister and elders to abstain from all appearance of casuality as the hospitality of the manse went on far into the afternoon, and the whisky toddy had more than once gone the round of the table. Seventeen years after the doing away with Abbotrule Parish there took place at the manse of Southdean, after the Sacrament had been dispensed, one of these gatherings of sanctified conviviality. It was dusk before the party broke up, and it was probably due to the kindly forethought of the minister that he and his guests strolled in little companies of two's and three's out into the caller air before their final parting. Their gait was solemn--if a trifle uncertain--as they slowly daundered up the road between the trees. It was a still Sabbath evening, when one can hear the very whispers of the fir branches, the murmur of a burn far away--when suddenly the stillness was broken by the thud of a horse's hoofs. Beat--beat--beat--on the turf by the side of the road they came, and each man of the party cocked his ears and strained his eyes into the darkness to see who might be the horseman who profaned the Sabbath by riding in such hot haste. There was an elder there who, had the party been held at any time but on the Sacrament Sabbath and anywhere but in the manse dining-room, might have been said to have a trifle exceeded. So when, cantering on the turf between the two fir woods, they saw a white horse appear, he looked byordinar grave. "I mind," said he, "a passage in the Revelations, '_Behold a pale horse; and his name that sat on him was Death_.'" With that the horse was upon them, and one and all looked up at the rider's face. Fearsome and gash was the countenance they looked upon. Hatred and scorn was in the burning eyes--anger, and the hatred that does not die. And there was not one man of them but ran like hunted sheep back into the manse, and there, in the light, faced each other, forfeuchen and well-nigh greeting like terrified bairns, that did not know the face for that of Patrick Kerr, the laird of Abbotrule. Next day they all had the news that Patrick Kerr, who hated the kirk and all ministers, and had done away with the parish of Abbotrule, had died in the darkening of that Sabbath evening and gone to his last account. THE LAIDLEY WORM OF SPINDLESTON-HEUGH In a land where fairy tales die hard, it is sometimes no easy task to discriminate between what is solid historical fact, what is fact, moss-grown and flower-covered, like an old, old tomb, and what is mere fantasy, the innocent fancy of a nation in its childhood, turned at last into stone--a lasting stalactite--from the countless droppings of belief bestowed upon it by countless generations. Scientists nowadays crushingly hold prehistoric beasts, or still existent marsh gas, accountable for dragons and serpents and other fauna of legendary history; but in certain country districts there are some animals that no amount of Board School information, nor countless Science Siftings from penny papers can ever destroy, and to this invulnerable class belongs the Laidley Worm of Spindleston-Heugh. High above the yellow sand that borders the fierce North Sea on the extreme north of the Northumbrian coast still stands the castle of Bamborough. Many a fierce invasion has it withstood during the thousand odd years since first King Ida placed his stronghold there. Many a cruel storm has it weathered, while lordly ships and little fishing cobles have been driven to destruction by the lashing waves on the rocks down below. And there it was that, once on a day, there lived a King who, when his fair wife died and left to him the care of her handsome, fearless boy, and her beautiful, gentle daughter, did, as is the fashion of every King of fairy tale, wed again, and wed a wicked wife. To the south land he went, while his son sailed the seas in search of high adventure, and his daughter acted as chatelaine in the castle by the sea, and there he met the woman who came to Bamborough all those many years ago, and who, they say, remains there still. As the dawn rose over the grey sea, making even the dark rocks of the Farnes like a garden where only pink roses grew, the Princess Margaret would be on the battlements looking out, always looking out, for her father and brother to return. At sunset, when the sea was golden and the plain stretched purple away to the south, landward and seaward her eyes would still gaze. And at night, when the silver moon made a path on the sea, the Princess would listen longingly to the lap of the waves, and strain her beautiful eyes through the darkness for the sails of the ship that should bring the two that she loved safe home again. But when the day came when the King, her father, returned, and led through the gate the lady who was his bride, there were many who knew that it would have been well for the Princess had she still been left in her loneliness. Gracious indeed was her welcome to her mother's supplanter, for she loved her father, and this was the wife of his choice. "Oh! welcome, father," she said, and handed to him the keys of the castle of which she had kept such faithful ward, and, holding up a face as fresh and fragrant as a wild rose at the dawn of a June day, she kissed her step-mother. "Welcome, my step-mother," she said, "for all that's here is yours." Many a gallant Northumbrian lord was there that day, and many a lord from the southern land was in the King's noble retinue. One of them it was who spoke what the others thought, and to the handsome Queen who had listened already overmuch to the praises her husband sang of his daughter, the Princess Margaret, the words were as acid in a wound. "Meseemeth," said he, "that in all the north country there is no lady so fair, nor none so good as this most beautiful Princess." Proudly the Queen drew herself up, and from under drooped eyelids, with the look of a hawk as it swoops for its prey, she made answer to the lord from the south. "I am the Queen," she said; "ye might have excepted me." Then, turning swift, like a texel that strikes its quarry, she said to the Princess: "A laidley worm shalt thou be, crawling amongst the rocks; a laidley worm shalt thou stay until thy brother, Wynd, comes home again." So impossible seemed such a threat to the Princess that her red lips parted over her white teeth, and she laughed long and merrily. But those who knew that the new Queen had studied long all manner of wicked spells and cruel magic were filled with dread, for greatly they feared that the fair Princess's joyous days were done. The Farne Islands were purple-black in a chill grey sea, and the waves that beat on the rocks beneath the castle seemed to have a more dolorous moan than common when next evening came. The joyous Princess, jingling her big bunch of keys and smiling a welcome to her father's guests, had gone as completely as though she lay buried beside the drowned mariners, for whom the silting sand under the waves makes a safe graveyard all along that bleak and rugged coast; but a horror--a crawling, shapeless, loathsome thing--writhed itself along the pathway from cliff to village, and sent the terror-striken peasants shrieking into their huts and battering at the castle gates for sanctuary. The old ballad tells us that: "For seven miles east and seven miles west, And seven miles north and south, No blade of grass or corn could grow, So venomous was her mouth." Like an embodied plague, the bewitched Princess preyed on the people of her father's kingdom, who daily brought to the cave, where she coiled herself up at night to sleep, a terrified tribute of the milk of seven cows. All over the North Country spread the dread of her name, but now she was no longer the lovely Princess Margaret, but the Laidley Worm of Spindleston-Heugh. "Word went east, and word went west, And word is gone over the sea, That a Laidley Worm in Spindleston-Heughs Would ruin the North Countrie." Far over the sea, with his thirty-three bold men-at-arms, the Princess's brother, "Childe Wynd," was carving a career for himself with his sword. Nothing on earth did Childe Wynd fear, yet ever and again, when success in battle had been his, he would have a heavy heart, dreading he knew not what, and often he longed to see again the castle on the high rock by the sea, and the fair little sister with whom so many happy days had been spent amongst the blue grass and on the yellow sand of the dunes at Bamborough. To his camp came rumour of the strange monster that was devastating his father's lands, and down to the coast he hastened with his men, a great home-sickness dragging at his heart--home-sickness, and a terror that all was not well with Margaret. Some rough, brown-faced mariners, whose boat had not long before nearly suffered wreck on the rocks of the Northumbrian coast, were able to tell the Prince that rumour spoke truth, and that a laidley worm was laying waste his father's kingdom. Of the Princess they could give no tidings, but the Prince needed no words from them to tell him that all was not well. "We have no time now here to waste, Hence quickly let us sail: My only sister Margaret Something, I fear, doth ail." And so, with haste, they built a ship, a ship for a Prince of Faery, for its masts were made of the rowan tree, against which no evil witchcraft could prevail, and its sails were of fluttering silk. With fair winds and kindly waves the Prince and his men soon sped across the sea, and gladly they saw again the square towers of the castle King Ida had built, proudly looking down on the fields of restless water that only the bravest of the King's husbandmen durst venture to plough. From her turret window the Queen watched the sails of the gallant ship gleaming in the sun, and knew full well that Prince Wynd was nearly home again. Speedily she summoned all the witch wives along with whom she worked her wicked magic, and set them to meet the ship, to use every spell they knew that could bring shipwreck, and disaster, and death, and to rid her of the youth whom she had always dreaded. But they returned to her despairingly. No spell was known to them that could work against a ship whose masts were made of the rowan tree. Then, casting aside magic, the Witch Queen dispatched a boat-load of armed men to meet the ship, to board it, and to slay all that they could. Little cared Wynd and his men for a boat-load of warriors, and few there were left alive in the boat, and those sore wounded, when Wynd's ship came to anchor in the shallows under the dark cliff. But here a more dangerous adversary met Prince Wynd. Threshing through the water came the horrible, writhing thing that Northumbrians knew as the Laidley Worm; and ever as they would have beached the ship, the huge serpent beat them off again, till all the sea round them was a welter of froth and slime and blood. Then Childe Wynd ordered his men to take their long oars once more and bring the ship farther down the coast and beach her on Budle sand. Down the coast they went, while the Queen eagerly watched from the battlements, and the Laidley Worm followed them fast along the shore, and all the folk of Bamborough scrambled up the cliff side, and, holding on by jagged bits of crags and tough clumps of grass and of yellow tansy, kept a precarious foothold, waiting, wide-eyed, to see what would be the outcome of the fray. As near the sandy beach of Budle as they durst venture their ship came Prince Wynd and his thirty-three men, then the rowers sat still, and the Prince leapt out, shoulder deep, into the water, and waded to the shore. Like a wounded tiger that has been baulked of its prey but gets it into its power at last, the Laidley Worm came to meet him, and all who watched thought his last hour had come. But like the white flash of a sea-bird's wings as it dives into the blue sea, the Prince's broad sword gleamed and fell on the loathsome monster's flat, scaly head, and in a great voice he cried aloud on all living things to witness that if this creature of evil magic did him any harm, he would strike her dead. Then there befell a great wonder, for in human voice, but all hoarse and strange and ugly, as though almost too great were the effort for human soul to burst through brute form, the Laidley Worm spoke to her conqueror: "Oh! quit thy sword and put aside thy bow!" it moaned--so moans the sea through the crash of the waves on nights when the storm strews the beach of the North Country with wreckage--"Oh! quit thy sword, for, poisonous monster though I be, no scaith will I do thee." Then those who heard the wonder felt sure that the Worm sought by subtilty to destroy their Prince, for still as a white, dead man he stood, and gazed at the brute that shivered before him like a whipped dog that would fain lick his master's feet. But again it spoke, in that terrible, fearsome voice of mortal pain: "Oh! quit thy sword and bend thy bow, And give me kisses three; If I'm not won ere the sun go down, Won I shall never be." Brave men, well-proved soldiers, were Childe Wynd's three-and-thirty, but they cried out aloud to him, and some let go of their oars and sprang shoulder-deep in the sea that they might drag their lord back from this noisome horror that would destroy him. Prince Wynd's heart gave a great stound, and back rushed the blood into his face, that had been so pale and grim, and none was quick enough to come between him and what his heart had told his mind, and what his mind most gladly willed. As though he were kissing for the first time the one he loved, and she the fairest of the land, so did he bow his head in courtly fashion, and three times kiss with loving lips the Laidley Worm of Spindleston-Heugh. And at the third kiss a great cry of wonder rose from his men, for lo, the Laidley Worm had vanished, as fades an evil dream when one awakes, and in its place there stood the fairest maid in all England, their own dear Princess Margaret. With laughter and with tears did Childe Wynd and his sister then embrace; but when the Princess had told her tale, her brother's brow grew dark, and on his sword he vowed to destroy the vile witch who had been his gentle sister's cruel enemy. With tears and with laughter, and with gladsome shoutings the folk of Bamborough came in haste to greet their Prince and Princess, and to speed them up to the castle, where the King, their father, welcomed them full joyously. But there were angry murmurs from the men of Northumbria, who called for vengeance on her who had so nearly ruined their dear land, and who had striven to slay both Prince and Princess. Childe Wynd held up his hand: "To me belongs the payment," he said, and the men laughed loud when they saw his stern face, for those were days when grim and bloody deeds were gaily done, and blithe they were to think of torture for the Witch Queen. Cowering in a corner of her bower in the turret, white-faced and haggard, they found her, and dragged her out to Childe Wynd. But no speedy end by a clean sword blade was to be hers, nor any slower death by lingering torture. "Woe be to thee, thou wicked witch!" said the Prince; and she shivered and whimpered piteously, for well she knew that in far-off lands across the sea Childe Wynd had studied magic, and that for her were designed eternal terrors. "Woe be to thee, thou wicked witch, An ill death mayst thou dee; As thou my sister hast lik'ned, So lik'ned shalt thou be. I will turn you into a toad, That on the ground doth wend; And won, won, shalt thou never be, Till this world hath an end." To the fairy days of long, long ago belong Prince Wynd and the Princess Margaret and the wicked Witch Wife. But still in the country near Bamborough, as maids go wandering in the gloaming down by the yellow sands and the rough grass where the sea-pinks grow, they will be suddenly startled by a horrible great dun-coloured thing that moves quickly towards them, as though to do them a harm. With loudly beating hearts they run home to tell that they have encountered the venomous toad that hates all virtuous maidens, who once was a queen, her who created the Laidley Worm of Spindleston-Heugh. A BORDERER IN AMERICA It would be matter for wonder if, in the histories of old Border families, record of strange personal experiences did not at times crop up. Sons of the Border have wandered far, and have sojourned in many lands, and borne their part in many an untoward event. But it is not likely that any can lay claim to adventures more strange and romantic than those which, in the latter part of the eighteenth century, befell a youthful member of one of the most ancient of these Border clans. This story of his adventures is literally true, as the family records prove, but the descendants of the person to whom they happened prefer that he should not figure in the tale under his own name. For convenience, therefore, it must suffice here to call him Andrew Kerr. The responsibilities of life began early in his day. A boy who would now find himself in a very junior form at school, was then considered old enough to serve his Majesty in a marching regiment, or left his home to engage in business whilst yet his handwriting had scarcely emerged from childhood's clumsy formation, and veritable infants served as midshipmen in ships of war. Young Kerr was no exception to this general rule. Long before the boy had reached the age of sixteen he was shipped off to New York, there to join an uncle who, in order to engage in commerce, had lately retired from the 60th "Royal American" Regiment, then a famous colonial corps. Those were stirring times, and for a passenger the voyage to America was no hum-drum affair devoid of excitement or peril. We were at war with France and Spain. Every white sail, therefore, that showed above the horizon meant the coming of a possible enemy; no day passed, in some part of which there might not chance to arise the necessity to employ every device of seamanship if escape were to be effected should the enemy prove too big to fight, or in which there was not at least the possibility of smelling powder burned in earnest. Nor were danger and excitement necessarily ended with the ship's arrival in New York harbour. We were still fighting the French in Canada; men yet told grim tales of Braddock's defeat and of the horrors of Indian warfare. To him whom business or duty took far from the sea-board into the country of the savage and treacherous Iroquois, there was the ever-present probability that he would some day--perhaps many times--be compelled to fight for his life, with the certainty that, if disabled by wounds he fell into the enemy's hands, the scalp would be torn from his skull ere death could put an end to his sufferings; whilst capture meant, almost for a certainty, the being eventually put to death after undergoing the most hideous tortures that the cruelty of the Redskins could devise. To the colonists, "the only good Indian was a dead Indian"; and doubtless, by the newly-landed Andrew Kerr, the order at once to proceed up-country with a convoy in charge of military stores must have been received with somewhat mixed feelings. On the one hand, his boyish love of adventure would be amply satisfied, while, on the other, there were risks to be faced which might well have caused more than uneasiness to many an older man--risks which the boy's acquaintances possibly were at no pains to conceal, which, indeed, a few of them would probably take pleasure in painting in the gloomiest of colours. But duty was duty, and the lad had too great a share of Border stubbornness and grit to let himself be badly scared by such tales as were told to him. The destination of the convoy was Fort Detroit. In those far-off days New York was but a little city of some twenty thousand inhabitants, and the western part of New York State was quite outside the bounds of civilisation. To reach the Canadian frontier there were then two great routes of military communication--one, up the Hudson River, and so by way of Lakes George and Champlain and down the Richelieu to the St. Lawrence; the other, by the Hudson and Mohawk Rivers, then by way of Lake Oneida and the Oswego River to the first of the great lakes, Lake Ontario; thence the journey to Fort Detroit would be chiefly by canoe, up Lakes Ontario and Erie. Between the last military post at the head of the Mohawk, however, and the mouth of the Oswego River, there was a great gap in which no military post had been established. Thus the route of the convoy to which Kerr was attached necessarily took them through country overrun by hostile Indian tribes. No mishap, however, befell the party; probably they were too strong, too wary and well skilled in Indian warfare, to give the enemy a chance of ambushing or taking them by surprise on their march through the woods. At Fort Detroit, it was found that a small exploring party, under a Captain Robson, was about to set out with the object of determining whether or not certain rivers and lakes were navigable, and young Kerr, boylike, eagerly volunteered to join the expedition. Here began his strange adventures. The party, all told, consisted but of eleven persons--Captain Robson, Sir Robert Davers, six soldiers, two sailors, and young Kerr. Apparently they did not think it necessary to take with them any colonists, or Indian scouts. It is a curious characteristic of the average Britisher who finds himself in a new land, that he appears to regard it as an axiom that he must necessarily know much more than the average colonist; can, in fact, teach that person "how to suck eggs." The colonist, of course, on his part--and in the majority of cases with justice--regards the "new chum," or "tender foot," as a somewhat helpless creature. But the Britisher despises, or at least he used to despise, the mere colonist. Hence have arisen not a few disasters. The little--travelled Britisher does not readily learn that local conditions in all countries are not the same, that dispositions and customs which suit one are totally out of place and useless in another. That was how General Braddock made so terrible and absolute a fiasco of his expedition; it was the custom of the British army to fight standing in line--(and, in truth, many a notable victory had they won before, and many have they won since, in that formation)--therefore fight thus in line they must, no matter what the nature of the country in which they fought. Hence, in dense forest, surrounded by yelling savages, our men stood up to be shot by a foe whom they never saw till it was too late, and panic had set in amongst the few survivors. Had our troops been taught to adapt themselves to circumstances and to fight as the colonists fought, as the French in Canada had learned to fight, as the Red Indians fought, taking every advantage of cover, Braddock need not thus unnecessarily have lost nearly seventy per cent, of his force. In matters appertaining to war or to fighting, it was beneath the dignity, most unhappily it was beneath the dignity, of a British general to regard as of possible value the opinion of a mere colonial, no matter how experienced in Indian fighting the latter might be, or how great his knowledge of the country. It was that, no doubt, which induced Braddock to disregard the opinion, and to pooh-pooh the knowledge of his then A.D.C. George Washington. Yet it was nothing but Washington's knowledge that saved the van of Braddock's defeated force. In like manner, had this little exploring expedition been accompanied by colonists experienced in Indian ways, or had they chosen to make use of Indian scouts, disaster might have been averted. As it was, almost on the threshold of their journey they were ambushed, and cut off by the Redskins. Robson, Davers, and two of the men were speedily picked off by the concealed enemy, or were killed in the final rush of the painted, yelling savages. The little force was scattered to the winds. One or two, taking to the water, under cover of the darkness, and protected by that Providence which sometimes watches over helpless persons, eventually reached safety. But young Kerr was not amongst these fortunate ones. For him, experiences more trying were in store. In the last mêlée he fell into the hands of a grim-looking, powerfully-built warrior, who bound him to a tree, and in that most unpleasant predicament the lad for a time remained, from moment to moment anticipating for himself the treatment he saw being dealt out on the bodies of his friends. His youth saved him. Too young to be considered by the Indians as fit to be a warrior, his scalp was not added to the other bloody trophies of victory; for him was reserved the fate of slavery, the disgrace (from an Indian point of view) of performing menial offices, of doing the work usually performed by squaws. Kerr's captor, a warrior named Peewash, of the tribe of the Chippeways, dragged his prisoner home to his wigwam. There the boy was stripped naked, painted as Indians were painted, his head clean shaved except for one tuft on top called "the scalp lock," which amongst the Indians it was the custom to leave in order to facilitate the operation of scalping by their enemies should the owners chance to fall in battle. A scalp was the recognised trophy of victory. It was not regarded as absolutely necessary to kill an enemy; if his scalp could be torn from his head, no more was required, and not infrequently a wounded man was left scalpless on the ground, writhing in speechless agony, to linger and die miserably. After undergoing the preliminaries of an Indian toilet, young Kerr had moccasins given to him, and a blanket to wear--a costume perhaps more convenient than becoming--and he entered on a round of duties new and strange. He was not, after a time, unkindly treated by Peewash and his squaw. But the work was far from pleasant, and many were the terrible sights forced on his unwilling notice at this time. Once, when the little garrison of Detroit sent out a small party, which, making a dash at the Indian camp, succeeded in killing a Chippeway Chief, the Redskins in revenge tortured and killed Captain Campbell, a Scot, who had been captured by the Ottawas. Such sights filled the boy with sick horror, and with a not unnatural dread of the fate which might yet await himself. Rather than remain to furnish in his own person the leading feature of an Indian festival, it was surely better, he thought, to die in attempting escape. As it chanced later, a French trader--these tribes were the allies of the French--arrived in camp, and remained there some time. Moved to pity by the boy's unhappy condition, this man, with some difficulty, persuaded Peewash to sell the lad to him for goods to the value of £40. Great was Kerr's exultation; once more he was free, free too without having had to face the terrible ordeal of attempting to escape from these murderous Indian devils. All would now be well, for assuredly he, or his friends, would repay to the Frenchman the ransom money. The boy felt as if his troubles were already over; in a day or two at longest he would sleep again under the flag of his own land; perhaps even, at no distant date, he might once more gaze on scenes for which throughout his captivity his soul had hungered, see, once more, Cheviot lying blue in the distance, the Eildons with their triple crown, hear the ripple of the Border streams. What tales of adventure he would have to tell. Alas! he counted without his hosts. The Chippeways when they heard of the transaction would have none of it. The captive boy had been the property of the tribe, they said, and they refused to part with him; he must be given up by the Frenchman. And the latter had no choice but to comply. Black now were the nights, gloomy the days, for Andrew Kerr, the blacker and the more gloomy for the false dawn that for brief space had cheered him; unbearable was his burden, more hopeless and wretched than ever before, a thousandfold, his captivity. It was as it might be with a man dying of thirst if a cup of cold water were dashed from his lips and spilt on the sandy desert at his feet. Who can blame the boy if only the knowledge of what treatment he would avowedly receive from the young Indians if he should play the squaw and weep, kept him from shedding tears of misery and vexation. A new master was now his, a chief of the Chippeways; a new squaw set him hateful, degrading tasks, and ordered him about; the young men and the squaws laughed him to scorn; life became more bitter than ever before. Gradually, however, Kerr's new owners relaxed their severity of treatment, and his lines grew less unpleasant. Time, indeed, made him almost popular--embarrassingly popular--for there came a day when the tribe more than hinted its desire that the Pale-face should wed one of its most beauteous daughters. Happily, the question of who should be bride was left in abeyance. He became, too, almost reconciled to his dress, or want of dress--though, to be sure, a coat of paint and a blanket cannot, at the best, be regarded as more than a passably efficient hot-weather costume. With the easy adaptability of boyhood, Andrew Kerr had become almost a veritable Indian. Now, Peewash all this time had looked with covetous eye on his former slave, and desired to repossess him. A big price would have to be paid, no doubt; but Peewash was prepared to bid high, and the owner could not withstand a temptation, backed, as it was, by that bait irresistible to a Red Indian, "firewater." The boy again changed hands, and now for some time served his original captor. About this period the Tribes again "dug up the hatchet," and set out on a big war-trail. Cruel and bloody was the fighting, many the prisoners taken and brought into camp from time to time. On one occasion young Kerr was compelled to stand, a horrified spectator, among the exulting Redskins as with yells of gratified triumph, warriors and squaws, young men and children, gloated fiercely over the brutal torture and lingering death of eight English prisoners. It was a grim and grisly spectacle, for no form of torment--from the nerve-wracking test of knife and tomahawk, arrow or bullet, aimed with intent to graze the flesh and not immediately to kill, to the ghastly ordeal of red-hot ramrods and blazing pine-root splinters thrust into the flesh or under the nails --was omitted by those bloodthirsty red devils. Many a sleepless hour, many a night broken by awful dreams, must the sight have cost the boy. But it determined him to attempt escape at all hazards whenever kind fortune should put the chance in his way. And fortune did help him ere long. There was a French trader named Boileau who came much about the camp. To him Andrew very cautiously made advances, and succeeded at last in enlisting the man's sympathies. Kerr confided to the trader his desire to attempt escape, and, none too willingly at the beginning, Boileau agreed to take the risk of helping. It was no easy task to lull the suspicions and to evade the watchful eye of the crafty Indians; but the boy had never, so far, shown any desire to escape, and he was not now so everlastingly under supervision. In very bad English on Boileau's part, and in worse French on that of Kerr, a plan of escape was devised. Early in the day, Boileau, after his usual habit, was to leave camp in his canoe, ostensibly setting out on an ordinary trapping expedition. After nightfall, he would return to a certain rock on the lake shore, and then Kerr was to steal out and attempt to join him; thereafter, a night's paddling ought to take the fugitive out of the immediate danger-zone. The night was cloudy and black, and not too still; everything, in fact, was in the boy's favour as, with beating heart, he wormed his way out of the wigwam and crawled stealthily on his belly from the camp towards the dense gloom of the forest. Then, almost as he had succeeded in gaining the comparative safety of the trees, beneath his moccasined foot a stick snapped, and a cursed Indian dog gave tongue, rousing the entire pack, and the sleeping camp, like an angry swarm of bees, woke at once to venomous life. But Kerr by this time was at least clear of the wigwams; if he could but reach that rock by the lake-side, and if the Frenchman had kept faith, he might get safely away. Boileau would surely never fail him. Hampered and constantly tripped up by roots and tangled undergrowth, confused by the blackness of the night, the boy toiled on with thumping heart and shortening breath; and at last, looming above him, was the welcome outlines of the great rock. But on neither side of it could he find sign of the trader or of his canoe. And already by the rustlings in the woods and the occasional snapping of dry sticks, he could tell that the pursuing Indians were drawing perilously near him. "Boileau!" he whispered. "Boileau!" And then, in an agony of mind he risked all, and shouted: "Boileau, Boileau! _A moi!_" An angry whisper from almost at his side replied viciously: "_Pas de chahut, malheureux! A bord vite, mille dieux!_" And as the canoe silently glided from the shore with the boy safely on board, the form of an Indian could be dimly seen where Kerr had stood the previous moment, and a bullet sang past his ear. There for the time his more acute troubles ended. A few days later, at Detroit, a throng of persons, half helpless with laughter, noisily escorted to the Fort a forlorn, bald-headed, painted scare-crow, clad in a tattered Indian blanket, which scare-crow presently introduced itself to the commandant as Andrew Kerr, lately a prisoner of the Indians. Once recovered from his fatigues and hardships, Andrew, as one of a small force, was sent to Niagara to obtain supplies for the Detroit garrison. The outward voyage down Lake Erie was safely and pleasantly accomplished. But these vast American lakes are subject to sudden and violent storms, and on the return trip, during an exceptionally fierce squall, the little 40-ton sloop, heavily laden as she was with military stores, sprang a leak, and to save themselves the crew were forced to run her aground on a gravelly beach under the lee of a projecting headland. The situation at best was most critical, for if the wind should shift but a few points the sloop must inevitably break up; and not only was the one boat available a mere skiff incapable of living in a heavy sea, but even should they all succeed in safely getting ashore with muskets intact and ammunition dry, their position would still be in the last degree precarious. For well they knew in what manner of country they were about to set unwilling foot--forest land occupied by the fiercest and most treacherous of the hostile Indian tribes. Capture meant death, probably with torture to precede it. With great difficulty and some danger the ship-wrecked crew did at length succeed in getting ashore, with their rifles and a fair supply of powder and lead, and without an instant's delay they set about building a rude breastwork for protection if matters should come to a fight. The stranded vessel must certainly have been already seen by the Indians; at any moment they might appear. But the breastwork was completed without interruption, and still no sign of the Redskins had been seen. It was at least breathing space, though all knew what must assuredly follow, and to some the actual immediate combat would have been less unwelcome than was now the suspense. After consultation, a few of the party, including Kerr, whose knowledge of Indian ways it was thought might be useful, left the breastwork to spy on the enemy--or at least to try to pick up some knowledge of their whereabouts. Had it been into that enchanted land that they now entered, where lay the Sleeping Beauty, the forest shades could not have been more still, more apparently devoid of life. No breath of wind stirred leaf or bough, all nature breathed peace, and, lulled to a sense of security, the little party ventured farther among the trees than was prudent. In Indian warfare, appearances were ever deceitful; the greater the apparent security, the greater the need for caution. So it was now here. "I guess it ain't all right," one man was saying; "I don't like it. Get back, boys." And even as he spoke, "crack" went a rifle on their left--"crack," "crack," "crack," came the sound of fire-arms on three sides; and as they turned and ran for the breastwork, a man hiccoughed and fell on his face, clutching at the grass, coughing up his life-blood. No time to turn and help; the yelling Redskins were at their heels, tomahawk and scalping knife in hand; delay meant certain death for all, and the fugitives tumbled into the breastwork just in time. Then, save for one awful scream of agony, again for a time all was quiet; for any sign that might be seen of them by the white men, the forest might have swallowed up the enemy. But let one of these white men for but an instant show his head over the breastwork, or in any way expose an arm or even a hand, then from the concealed foe came at once a hail of bullets, and the forest rang with the crack of rifles. Several of the little garrison, careless, or too impatient to fire only through the roughly made loopholes, lost their lives in this way; and some others were picked off by Indians who had managed to get into the high branches of neighbouring trees, and thence, concealed behind thick foliage, fired on the garrison, for a time with impunity, till by chance it was discovered from where the fatal shots were coming. Meantime, for the white men it was almost like letting off their rifles into the night; seldom could a Redskin be seen, and men fired only at the spots where the smoke of Indian muskets hung about the undergrowth, or where they saw a spirt of flame. And so the fight went on, hour after hour, till many of the defenders had fallen, and the necessity of husbanding ammunition slackened the fire of Kerr and his comrades. Then the Indians, knowing that the white men were few, abandoning caution tried to rush the breastwork. But now necessarily they exposed themselves, and as the white men had reloaded the empty rifles of their dead and wounded comrades, and thus had at least two apiece ready, heavy toll was taken of the stormers, and the Redskins were beaten back. Time and again was this repeated, once even during the night--just before dawn. But each attempt failed, and the baffled Indians finally drew off. With thankful hearts, if with sore labour, the surviving white men, by lightening their vessel, got her off the ground, and succeeded in finding and stopping the leak. A few days saw them again safely at Detroit. No more, as a civilian, did Andrew Kerr face the Indians. On getting back to New York in 1764 he was given a commission as ensign in the 1st battalion of the 42nd Regiment, and in various parts of the world he saw much service, finally retiring about 1780 with the rank of captain. He did not wholly, however, sever his connection with the service, for later, after he had purchased an estate in the Border, and had married, he became a major in the Dumfries Militia. It is given to few to pass a youth so stormy as Kerr's, and to end, as he did, by becoming a peaceful, prosperous Border laird. BORDER SNOWSTORMS "St. Agnes' Eve--ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold." The great round-backed, solemn Border hills, in summer time kindly sleeping giants, smiling in their sleep, take on another guise when winter smites with pitiless blast, when "The sounds that drive wild deer and fox To shelter in the brake and rocks," bellow fearsomely among the crags, and down glen and burn rushes the White Death, bewildering, blinding, choking, and at the last, perhaps, with Judas kiss folding in its icy arms some luckless shepherd whom duty has sent from his warm fireside to the rescue of his master's sheep. You would not know for the same those hills that so little time gone past nursed you in their soft embrace. Then, in the warm, sunny days, shadows of great fleecy clouds chased each other leisurely up the braes through the bracken and the purpling heather; the burn sang to itself a merry tune as it tumbled from boulder to boulder, rippling through pools where the yellow trout lay basking; on the clear air came the call of grouse, and afar off a solitary raven croaked in the stillness of a sun-steeped glen. Now the bracken is dead, the bent sodden and chill with November's sleet; against a background of heavy, leaden-grey sky the heather lies black as if washed in ink. Across from the wild North Sea comes a wind thin and nipping, waxing in strength, and with the gathering storm piping ever more shrilly down the glen, driving before it now a fine, powdery white dust that chokes nostril and mouth, and blinds the eyes of those whom necessity compels to be out-doors. It is "an oncome," a "feeding storm." Thus have begun many of the great snowstorms that from time to time have devastated the Border and taken heavy toll of man and beast. In March 1615 snow fell to such a depth, and drifted so terribly, that not only did many men perish, but likewise "most part of all the horse, nolt, and sheep of the kingdom." In the years 1633 and 1665 there were great storms, when vast numbers of sheep perished, and "the frost was severe enough to kill broom and whins." But greater than these, both in devastating effect and in duration, was the memorable storm of 1674. The early part of that year was marked by extraordinarily tempestuous weather. In January came a violent gale from east and by north that strewed the coasts with wreckage. Down by Berwick and Eyemouth, by St. Abb's, and along all that rugged shore, the cruel sea sported daily with bodies of drowned sailors, flinging them from wave to wave, tossing them headlong on to a stony beach, only with greedy far-stretched grasp to snatch them back again to its hungry maw. In every rocky fissure, where angry waves spout cliff-high and burst in clouds of spray; in every rugged inlet, where the far-flung roaring seas boil furiously, timbers and deck-hamper of vessels driven on a lee-shore churned ceaselessly, pounding themselves to matchwood. Throughout January, and till February was far advanced, this bitter easterly gale blew fiercely. In mid-February the wind died down, leaving a sky black with piled-up cloud gravid with coming evil. Inland, hill and river lay frost-bound, white with snow, and already the pinch of winter had begun to make itself seriously felt amongst the sheep. In those days, beyond driving the flocks, when necessary, from the hill to more sheltered, low-lying country, but little provision was ever made for severe weather, and even the precaution of shifting the sheep to lower ground was frequently too long delayed. Turnips, of course, had not yet come into cultivation in Scotland, and feed-stuffs were generally unknown. This time farmers were caught napping. On 20th February a rising wind drove before it snow, fine powdered and dry as March dust, and with the waxing gale, and cold "intense to a degree never before remembered," the drift quickly became a swirling blizzard which no living thing could face. Day and night for thirteen days this maelstrom of snow continued, and till the 29th of March no decided improvement took place in the weather; the snow lay deep, and the frost held, so that there was "much loss of sheep by the snow, and of whole families in the moor and high lands; much loss of cows everywhere, also of wild beasts, as of doe and roe." "The Thirteen Drifty Days," folk called this storm, and by that name it has gone down to history. "About the fifth and sixth days of the storm," says the Ettrick Shepherd, writing in _Blackwood's Magazine_ of July 1819, "the young sheep began to fall into a sleepy and torpid state, and all that were affected in the evening died over-night. The intensity of the frost wind often cut them off when in that state quite instantaneously. About the ninth and tenth days, the shepherds began to build up huge semicircular walls of their dead, in order to afford some shelter for the remainder of the living; but they availed but little, for about the same time they were frequently seen tearing at one another's wool with their teeth. When the storm abated on the fourteenth day from its commencement, there was, on many a high-lying farm, not a living sheep to be seen. Large misshapen walls of dead, surrounding a small prostrate flock, likewise all dead, and frozen stiff in their lairs, was all that remained to cheer the forlorn shepherd and his master." As a matter of fact, something like nine-tenths of all the sheep in the south of Scotland perished in this one storm, or if they did not then actually perish, their vitality was so lowered, their constitutions so wrecked, by the intense cold and the long deprivation of food, that they never again picked up condition, but died like flies when the spring was further advanced. Hogg says that in Eskdalemuir, out of 20,000 sheep "none were left alive but forty young wedders on one farm, and five old ewes on another. The farm of Phaup remained without a stock and without a tenant for twenty years subsequent to the storm." On another farm all the sheep perished save one black-faced ewe; and she was not long left to perpetuate her breed, for dogs hunted her into a loch, and she too went the way of her fellows. Amongst other great storms, Hogg also mentions one in this same century, long remembered as the "Blast o' March." It occurred on a Monday, the twenty-fourth day of March, and was of singularly short duration, considering the havoc it wrought. The previous Sunday was so warm that lassies returning from Yarrow Kirk in the evening took off shoes and stockings and walked barefoot; the young men cast plaids and coats. To their unconcealed astonishment, as they sauntered homeward these young people found that an old shepherd, named Walter Blake, had driven his entire flock of sheep into a sheltered position by the side of a wood, near the road. Now, Blake was a deeply religious man, one to whom the Sabbath was in the strictest sense a holy day, a day too sacred to be broken in any fashion whatever, except for some extraordinarily powerful reason. On being asked how it came to pass that he was found thus following his worldly vocation, to the neglect of church-going, he said that in the morning he had seen to the northward so ill-looking a "weather-gaw" that he was convinced a heavy storm was coming, and that probably before morning there would be a dangerous drift. The young men laughed the old one to scorn. A snowstorm! The auld man was daft! Why, the air was like June; no sensible body would even so much as dream of snow. "Belike we'll be up to oor oxters in snaw, the morn, Wattie," chirrupped one damsel, in the bicker of rustic wit and empty laughter that flew around. "Weel, weel, lads! Time will show. Let them laugh that win," said old Wattie. That night there came a sudden shift of wind, and ere morning the country-side was smothered in snow. Twenty thousand sheep perished, and none but old Walter Blake came out of that storm free from loss. The years 1709, 1740, and 1772 were all notable for unusually heavy falls of snow. In the latter year the country was snow-clad from mid-December till well on in April, and the loss of sheep was very great, chiefly because partial thaws, occurring at intervals, encouraged hill farmers to believe each time that the back of the winter was broken. Hence, they delayed too long in shifting their sheep to lower lands, and when the imperative necessity of removal at length became obvious, if life were to be saved, it was too late; from sheer weakness the poor animals were unable to travel. Then came that terrible storm of 1794, a calamity that old men of our own day may yet remember to have heard talked about by eye-witnesses of the scenes they described. Nothing in nature ever wrought such havoc in the Border. Seventeen shepherds perished in the endeavour to rescue their flocks; no less than thirty others, overwhelmed by the intense cold, the fury of the gale, and the blinding, choking whirlwind of snow, dropped and lay unconscious, to all intents dead, sleeping the dreamless sleep of those whom King Frost slays with his icy darts. And dead would those thirty assuredly have been, but for the timely aid of brave men, themselves toil-worn to the verge of collapse, who, through the deep drifts and the swirling snow, bore home the heavy, unconscious bodies, to revive them with difficulty. The storm began on the 24th of January, and though the snow lay but a week, whole flocks were overwhelmed, in some instances buried fifty feet deep. Countless numbers of sheep, driven into burns and lochs by the pitiless strength of the wind, were never again seen, swept away into the sea by the tremendous floods that followed the melting of the snow. There is on Solway Sands a place called the Beds of Esk, where with terrible persistency the tides cast up whatever may have been carried to sea by the rivers which in this neighbourhood empty themselves into the Firth. Ghastly was the burden here strewn when the floods now went down. In those Beds lay the lifeless bodies of two men and of one woman; the swollen carcasses of five-and-forty dogs, eighteen hundred and forty sheep, nine black cattle, three horses, one hundred and eighty hares; and of rabbits and small animals a multitude innumerable. Death held high carnival in Eskdalemuir that January of 1794. Hogg gives a vivid picture of his own adventures in this storm. He had gone from home the previous day, tramping over the Ettrick hills many a long mile to attend some friendly meeting of fellow-shepherds, leaving his sheep in charge of his master. Arrived at his destination, and rendered uneasy by the unwonted appearance of the sky, without waiting for rest or for anything but a little food and drink, he turned and set out straightway on his homeward journey. A tramp of thirty or forty miles over the hills is ordinarily no great matter for a young and active shepherd. But now snow was falling; already it lay to some depth, making the footing toilsome and insecure. Moreover, a curious yellow mist had spread over the hills, shrouding the hollows from sight; darkness must be on him hours before he could hope to reach home, and the night promised to be wild. But what would daunt an ordinary pedestrian has no terrors for the Border shepherd, and Hogg safely reached his home before bedtime, to learn, greatly to his dismay, that his master, good easy man, had left the sheep that evening on an exposed part of the hill. Not even the master's "Never mind them the nicht, Jamie; they're safe eneuch, and I'll gie ye a hand in the morning," could calm his anxiety. However, on looking out before going to bed, he was comforted to find the wind coming from the south, and apparently a thaw beginning. He might sleep in peace after all; things were going to turn out less bad than he had feared. Tired as he was, however, try as he might, sleep would not come that night; an unaccountable feeling of restlessness and of vague apprehension had him in its grip. Hour after hour he lay, listening irritably to the snoring of his fellow-shepherd, Borthwick, starting nervously at every scraping of rat or creak of timber. At last, long after midnight, he rose and looked out. The wind had fallen, but snow still fell; there was nothing abnormal in the night, and the weather might have been described as merely "seasonable." But away in the northern sky, low down, appeared a strange break in the mist, such as in all his experience he had never before seen. And it came to his mind that the previous day, when on his homeward way he had "looked in" at his uncle's house, the old man had predicted the coming of a violent storm, which would surely spring from that quarter in which should first be seen a phenomenon such as that on which Hogg was now looking. The shepherd returned to bed, and had almost succeeded in falling into a doze, when again some impulse caused him to sit up and listen. From far in the distant hills came quivering a strange low moaning that brought with it something of awe and suspense. Nearer it drove, and nearer, rising at length to a fierce bellow; and then, with appalling roar, as of thunder, the gale hurled itself on to the building, shaking it to the foundations. In the pitch blackness of the night Hogg groped his way to an opening in the byre over which he and Borthwick slept, and thrust out a hand and arm. "So completely was the air overloaded with falling and driving snow that, but for the force of the wind, I felt as if I had thrust my arm into a wreath of snow," he writes. Presently he roused Borthwick, who had slept soundly through the hubbub, and at once his fellow-shepherd dressed and tried to make his way from the byre to the kitchen, a distance of no more than fourteen yards. But even in the little time which had elapsed since the breaking of the storm the space between kitchen and byre had drifted up with snow as high as the house walls, and Borthwick straightway lost himself; neither could he find his way to the house, nor succeed in regaining the byre. Eventually both men with no small toil made their way to the kitchen, where they found master and maids already assembled, and in a state of no little alarm. Their first concern was manifestly the safety of the sheep. But at such an hour, in such a night, what could be done? Nevertheless, two hours before daylight shepherds and master started for the hill, taking first the precaution to _sew_ their plaids round them, and to tie on their bonnets. For the thrilling details of the dangerous undertaking one must refer to Hogg's own account, but it may here be noted that no sooner was the kitchen door closed on the men than they lost each other, and lost also all sense of direction; it was only by the sound of their voices that the little party succeeded in keeping in each other's neighbourhood. And such was the fury of the wind and the confusion of the drift that frequently, in order to draw breath, they were compelled to bend till their faces were between their knees. The farmhouse stood within what in Scotland is called a "park," in this instance a small enclosure, the wall of which might be at most three hundred yards distant from the house door. It was two hours before daylight when they entered this park; when morning broke, they had not yet succeeded in making their way out of it. Hogg's own story must be read, to learn how, and at what dire peril to the searchers, Borthwick's flock was at length found. They were huddled together, and buried deep in a snow wreath so compact that when the outside sheep had been extricated, most of the remainder were able of themselves to walk out, leaving where they had stood a sort of vast cave. Hogg himself, when the bulk of Borthwick's sheep had been at length saved, started alone to rescue his own flock. With comparatively little trouble he found them, got them by slow degrees to a place of safety, and then turned to make his way home. Of the course to steer, it never occurred to him to doubt; he had known the hills from infancy, and could have walked blindfold across them. His instinct for locality was as the instinct of some wild animal, or of an Australian black-fellow. But what put some dread in his mind was the knowledge that between him and home lay the Douglas Burn, possibly by now in spate, and dangerous to cross. The noise of the wind would prevent him from hearing the roar of the swollen torrent, the driving snow prevent him from seeing the danger, and a false step on the bank might deposit him where he would never come out alive. To a man alone on the hill in such weather, the task was arduous, the danger great; moreover, in the last thirty-six hours he had walked far, had undergone great toil, and he had been without sleep all night. The prospect was no pleasing one. But he struggled on through the blinding, wind-driven snow, heading, as he confidently believed, straight for home. Yet doubt presently began to fill his mind. He should long ago have reached the Douglas Burn, but not a sign even suggestive of such a thing as a watercourse had he yet seen. Presently he roused with a start, for now he stood amongst trees, stretching apparently in endless succession to an infinite distance. After all, it seemed that he _had_ missed his way. Where he was he could not tell; and it needed some minutes of anxious groping ere he could clear his mind and make certain of his position. He stood not much more than fifty yards from the farm-house door, by the side of a little clump of trees, which in that blurred light and in the confusion of the drifting snow took on the semblance of some vast forest. Without being aware of it, Hogg had crossed the gully of the Douglas Burn on a bridge formed by the deep snow, and crossed over the park wall in similar fashion. Many have been the terrible winters since those of which Hogg wrote, many the lives lost, and more, perhaps, the narrow escapes from what seemed certain death. In 1803 the frozen, deep-buried body of a man was found near Ashestiel, within what--but for the raging storm the previous night--must have been easy hail of his own cottage, where, sick with anxiety, his wife and little ones sat waiting his return from the hill. In that same storm a young shepherd, within sight of his own father, fell over a precipice near Birkhill, and, with spine hopelessly injured, lay helpless amongst the snow-covered boulders in a place inaccessible to the distracted father. A party succeeded in rescuing him, but rescue availed him little; he lay afterwards at home for several weeks unable to stir hand or foot, and in great pain, till death mercifully released him. In 1825 came an on-fall so sudden and violent that scores of people who happened to be on journeys were compelled to remain for weeks wherever they had chanced to be when the storm broke. There was no possibility of getting away; except those in the immediate vicinity of large towns, all roads were completely blocked, and communication was absolutely cut off. The mails had ceased to run, and of course in those days the electric telegraph was unknown. Thus, many a man, the father of a family, was parted indefinitely from wife and children without possibility of allaying their anxiety for his welfare; many a commercial traveller passed week after week in some roadside inn, waiting vainly for the long-delayed thaw to enable him to communicate with his employer. And had country people in those days depended for their supplies on tradesmen's carts, as is the custom now, many a family must have found itself in the direst straits ere the storm was half over. Then a few years later came that memorable storm of 1831, of which men in Tweedsmuir still speak almost as if it were an event of yesterday. It was in the days of the old mail coaches, and the event which served to fix this storm indelibly in the public mind occurred on or near the old coach road from Dumfries to Edinburgh. The road runs past Moffat and up something like five miles of very heavy gradient to the Devil's Beef Tub, ascending in that distance nearly nine hundred feet; from the Tub it crosses the lonely, desolate watershed which divides Tweed from Annan, then by easy slope drops past Tweedshaws and Badlieu, and so by Tweedsmuir and the old Crook Inn--with Broad Law upheaving his massive shoulder on the right--slips gradually into country less unkind in days of storm than are those bleak upper regions. Snow had been falling all day on the 1st of February 1831, and the morning mail from Dumfries to Edinburgh was already late in reaching Moffat. Would "she" go on, would "she" risk the terrible drifts that even now must have formed nearer the bleak moorland summit? And the little knot of faithful admirers who, according to custom, daily assembled by one's and two's about the inn door at Moffat to wait the coming of the coach--their one excitement--agreed that "MacGeorge would gang on if the de'il himsel' stude across the road." MacGeorge was guard of the mail-coach, a fine, determined man, an old soldier, one imbued with abnormally strong sense of duty. Once before, for some quite unavoidable delay, the Post-Office authorities had "quarrelled" him (as he expressed it), and this undeserved blame rankled in the old soldier's heart. It should not be said of him a second time that he had failed to get his mails through on time. So it came to pass that, in spite of rising gale and fiercer driving snow, in spite of earnest remonstrance from innkeepers and spectators, with "toot-toot" of horn away into the white smother, spectral-like, glided the silent coach. A mile from the inn she was blocked by a huge drift. That safely won through, a couple of miles farther she plodded on, slowly and ever more slow; and finally, in a mighty wreath, stuck fast; "all the King's horses" might not have brought her through that. MacGeorge was urged to turn now, to make the best of a bad business and to go back to Moffat. The delay was unavoidable; no one could cast blame on him, for the worst part of the road was yet to come, and no power on earth could get the mails through that. But no! It was his duty to go on, and go he would. The horses were taken out of the coach. Some were sent back to Moffat in charge of the lads who rode the extra tracers used in snowy weather for the few miles of heavy collar-work out of Moffat; of the rest, loaded with the mail-bags, MacGeorge led one, Goodfellow, the coachman, another; and the two set off for Tweedshaws, accompanied by a man named Marchbanks, the Moffat roadman, who had been a passenger on the coach. It was but four miles to Tweedshaws, yet before they had struggled through half the distance the horses had come to a standstill, utterly blown and exhausted; nothing could get them to stir forward, or longer to face the drift. Marchbanks suggested that now at length they might reasonably turn and fight their way back. Goodfellow hesitated. "What say ye, Jamie?" he asked of MacGeorge. "Come ye or bide ye, I go on," answered the stern old soldier. "I can carry the bags mysel'." "Then that settles the maitter. If ye gang, I gang." So the horses were turned adrift to find their own way home, and the two men went off into the mirk, carrying the bags; whilst Marchbanks, on their urgent advice, turned to force his arduous way back to Moffat. Snow still fell in the morning, but the worst of the storm seemed over when Marchbanks again started to try for Tweedshaws to ascertain if MacGeorge and Goodfellow had won their way through. The country was one vast drift; the snow-posts by the roadside, where not altogether buried or so plastered with the driving snow on their weather side as to be invisible, pushed their black heads through the universal ghostly shroud; where the road had been, the abandoned coach itself loomed, a shapeless white mound. On and on Marchbanks toiled, and, far past the spot where last night he had parted from his comrades, something unusual hanging to a snow post caught his eye. It was the mail-bags, securely tied there by hands which too evidently had been bleeding from the cold; but of guard or coachman there was never a sign. The meagre winter day was already drawing to a close; with the gathering darkness a rising wind drove the snow once more before it, and the clouds to windward piled black and ominous. By himself Marchbanks was powerless to help, if help were indeed yet possible; he could but return to Moffat and give the alarm. That night men with lanterns and snow-poles fought their way to Tweedshaws, only to learn there what all had feared--neither guard nor coachman had come through. Therefore, if by remote chance they still lived, the men must lie buried in the snow, perhaps within very few yards of the high-road. For two days scores of men searched every likely spot, but never a clue they found, except Goodfellow's hat, which lay in a peat-hag at no great distance from the post where the mail-bags had been hung. Then--some said it was a dream that guided them--some one thought of an old, disused road along which there was possibility the lost men might have made their way. There, from a drift protruded something black--a boot; and on his back, deep buried, lay Goodfellow. Near at hand they found MacGeorge, in an easy attitude, as if quietly sleeping, on his face a smile--"a kind o' a pleasure," the finders called it--such a smile, perhaps, as the face of the "good and faithful servant" may wear when he entereth into the joy of his Lord. Many have been the snowy years since that in which MacGeorge threw away life for duty's sake. Besides winters, such as that hard "Crimean" one of 1854-5, there have been, for example, the terrible season of 1860-1, the bitter winter of 1878-9, when snow lay, practically unbroken, from November till March, and the frost was unrelenting in severity; and there have been others, too numerous to specify. Many a man has perished on the hill, before and since, but no tragedy ever seized the popular imagination so firmly as did that on the Moffat road in 1831. It is a district lonely enough even in summer time, that joint watershed of Tweed, Annan, and Clyde, but when winter gales sweep over those lofty moorlands, and snow drives down before the bitter blast, let no man unused to the hill attempt that road. It was but the other year that a lonely shepherd's wife near Tweedshaws, one stormy evening when snow drove wildly across the moor, thought that she heard the cry of a human voice come down the gale. Again and again, as she sat by her cosy fire of glowing peat she imagined that some one called for help. Again and again she rose, and opening the door, listened, but never, when she stood by the open door waiting for the call to come again, was anything to be heard but the noise of the storm and the rush of the wind, anything to be seen but the driving snow. Long she listened, but the cry came no more, and naturally she concluded that imagination had fooled her. In the morning, not very many yards away from the door, half-covered by its snowy winding-sheet, lay the stiff-frozen body of a young man. There had been the breakdown of some vehicle down the road the previous evening, and he had thought to make his way to Moffat on foot. Of what do men think when they are lost in the snow? Of nothing, probably, one may conclude; very likely, before it has dawned upon them that there is danger, the mind, like the body, has become numbed with the cold, and they probably only think of rest and sleep. To some spot sheltered from the blast they may perhaps have stumbled, and they pause to take breath. After the turmoil through which they have been struggling, this sheltered spot seems a quiet little back-water, out of the raging torrent, peaceful, even warm, by comparison. A little rest--even, it may be, a few minutes' sleep--will revive them, and afterwards they will push on, refreshed. All will be well; it is not far to safety. And the snow falls quietly, ceaselessly, softly lapping them in its gentle folds, and the roar of the wind comes now from very far away--their last lullaby, heard vaguely through "death's twilight dim." The desire to sleep, men say, is irresistible, and once yielded to, sleep's twin brother, death, is very near at hand. There was found many years ago in the Border hills the body of a man, who had taken off his plaid, folded it carefully to make a pillow, on it had rested his head, and so had passed to his long rest, contented enough, if one might judge from the smile on his face. But men do not always thus loose consciousness when buried in the snow. There was the case of Mr. Alexander Laidlaw of Bowerhope, on St. Mary's Loch, in the year 1842. One wild day of storm and deep-lying snow he started out to see after the safety of his sheep. Hours had passed, darkness had fallen, and he did not come home. Then a shepherd remembered having seen him crossing a certain hill where snow lay extra deep. To this hill in the morning the searchers betook themselves, to find that a great avalanche had taken place, leaving the hill bare but for the night's coating of snow. At the hill-foot the old snow was piled in giant masses. Here a dog sniffed, and whimpered, and began to scrape. They found Laidlaw buried there in tons of snow, uninjured save in one arm, and after fourteen hours burial in his snowy sepulchre he was still partly conscious. When the tumbling snow mass overwhelmed him he had had presence of mind and strength to clear from before his face breathing space sufficient to preserve life. Laidlaw lived for many years after, in no permanent respect a sufferer from his burial and resurrection. His was an experience of no common order, yet it was a case less strange than that of a sportsman, many years ago, who, unused to the hills, was lost amongst the snow one evening of sudden storm. Far and long he wandered, till, utterly exhausted, dropping from fatigue and cold, he chanced on a roof-less cottage, the crumbling walls of which promised some shelter from the wind and the terrible drifting snow. By the empty chimney-place he sat down, thankful that at least the bitter gale no longer buffeted him. But the snow fell thick and fast, eddying into every corner, gently covering his feet and stealing up over his body. A drowsy languor crept over his senses, an irresistible feeling of warmth and comfort came to him; his head fell forward. Again and again, knowing the deadly peril, he roused himself with ever-increasing effort; again and again his head sank. Then suddenly it seemed that all was well. How _could_ he have fancied that he was out amongst the snow? The sound of the gale still thundered in his ears, but dully, muffled by thick walls, and he stood in a bedroom wherein burned a cheerful fire. On the bed lay a man, who presently, with a start, sat up, looked at him, and lay down again. Three times this happened, but the fourth time the man in bed got up and hurriedly began to dress. He was a man unknown to the dreamer--if dreaming he was--but his features were strongly marked, and bore a scar on the cheek, unmistakable to anyone who had once seen it. Then, suddenly, except for himself, the room was empty, and, as the dreamer in his dream strove to reach the fire, to thrust cold hands close to the pleasant glow, room and fire faded, and he knew no more till a bright light shone in his dazed eyes, and by his side, a hand on his shoulder, vigorously shaking him, knelt the man whom he had seen in his dreams. "I knew you were coming," drowsily murmured the awakened sleeper, glancing feebly at his rescuer, and immediately dropping off to sleep again. When next he came to full consciousness, it was in a warm bed in a comfortable room, where every evidence of luxury met his eyes. In an armchair by the fire, with outstretched feet, sat his rescuer, his face turned towards the bed. And presently: "Why did you say last night that you knew I was coming?" he asked. And when the dreamer had told his dream: "It is strange," said the other, "that last night I should have been forced, as it were, to get up and go to the old cottage by the wood. Over and over again I woke, plagued by an unaccountable impulse to visit those ruined walls. Struggle as I might against it, argue with myself as I would on its folly, it always returned; and at last, about midnight, it conquered me, and I arose and went." THE MURDER OF COLONEL STEWART OF HARTRIGGE Since a time long prior to the Raid of the Redeswire--when on Caterfell the rallying cry, "Jethart's here," fell like sweetest music on the ears of a sore-pressed little band of armed Scots, fighting for their lives, and giving back sullenly before superior English strength--the worst enemies of Jedburgh have never been able to taunt her with apathy, or with want of strenuousness. In the fighting of days long gone by, in questions social or political of more modern times, lack of zeal has not been one of her characteristics; nor, perhaps, in past times have her inhabitants, or those resident in the district, been conspicuous for tolerance of the religious or political convictions of neighbours who might chance not to see eye to eye with them in such matters. The first half of the eighteenth century was a time more fully charged than most with questions which, on the Border as elsewhere, goaded men to fury. There was, for example, the Union; there had been, prior to that, the unhappy Darien Scheme, which ruined half Scotland and raised hatred of England to white heat; there was, later, the advent of George the First and his "Hanoverian Rats," to the final ousting of the rightful King over the water; there was the Rising of 1715, and, finally, there was the gallant attempt by Bonnie Prince Charlie to regain his father's crown in 1745. Thus they had, indeed, a superfluity of subjects over which men might legitimately quarrel. And when it is remembered that gentlemen in those days universally carried swords, and as a rule possessed some knowledge of how to use them, and that the man who did not habitually drink too much at dinner was a veritable _rara avis_--a poor creature, unworthy to be deemed wholly a man--the wonder will be, not that so many, but rather that so few, fatal quarrels took place. Whatever in other respects might be their failings--and these were, indeed, many and grave--Scottish inns in those days were noted for the goodness of their claret. As a consequence of our ancient alliance and direct trade with France, that wine was not only good, but was plentiful and cheap--cheap enough, indeed, to become almost the national drink--and vast quantities were daily consumed; though there were not wanting those who, protesting that claret was "shilpit" and "cauld on the stomach," called loudly for brandy, and with copious draughts of that spirit corrected the acidity of the less potent wine. Possibly the very depth of the drinking in those days guarded many a life from sacrifice; the hand is not steady, nor the foot sure, when the brain is muddled by fumes of wine, and it was perhaps more often chance than design that guided the sword's point in some of these combats. Still, even so, Death too often claimed his toll from such chance strokes. A duel between opponents equally armed was fair enough, provided that the skill and sobriety were not unequally divided, and that one of the fighters did not chance to be unduly handicapped by age. If a man wore a sword, he knew that he might be called upon to use it--even the most peace-loving of men might not then, without loss of honour, always succeed in avoiding a brawl; the blame was his own if he had neglected to make himself proficient in the use of his weapon. At that period the tongue of the libeller was not tied by fear of the law; for the man insulted or libelled there existed no means of redress other than that of shedding, or trying to shed, his insulter's blood. It was a rough and ready mode of obtaining justice; and if it had its manifest disadvantages, it was at least not wholly unsuited to the rough and ready times. But cases, unhappily, were not unknown in which one or other of the tipsy combatants--in his sober moments possibly an honourable and kindly-natured man--thrust suddenly and without warning, giving his opponent small time to draw, or even, perhaps, to rise from his chair, a course of action which, even under the easy moral code of those days, was accounted as murder. Such a case occurred at Jedburgh in the year 1726. Sir Gilbert Eliott of Stobs and Colonel Stewart of Stewartfield (now called Hartrigge) were the principals in the affair. Sir Gilbert (father of the General Eliott afterwards so famed for his defence of Gibraltar in the great siege of 1779-83) was a man who had spent some part of his youth in London, a place then, as ever, little calculated to repress leanings towards conviviality in young men possessing the command of money. Probably the habits there contracted were emphasized later, when ebbing fortune consigned him for good to what no doubt then seemed to him the deadly dull life of a dull country-side. More than likely, too, he was a little scornful of his neighbours who knew not the delights of London, a trifle contemptuous of their country manners, and possibly he may have been of quarrelsome disposition, when in his cups quick to take offence and to see slights where none existed. In any event, if one may judge from the evidence given later at an inquiry held in Jedburgh, throughout the affair with Colonel Stewart, Sir Gilbert Eliott was the aggressor. Possibly, after the fashion of the day, both were more or less tipsy; certainly, without any doubt, Sir Gilbert was greatly the worse of liquor, and did not carry that liquor as a gentleman was expected to carry it. He persistently forced a quarrel on the Colonel. It was in the old Black Bull Inn at Jedburgh that the meeting took place. There had been a Head Court that forenoon to determine the list of voters for the year, and a large and already somewhat convivial company assembled afterwards in the dining-room of the Black Bull. Wine flowed, and as the evening waned, guest after guest prudently took himself off, till of the original party there were left but five--Sir Gilbert, Colonel Stewart, two officers of the Royal Regiment of North British Dragoons (the Scots Greys), and the proprietor of Timpendean--the latter described in the evidence as being "very noysie." It is easy to imagine the scene. The long, low-ceilinged room, lit by candles, reeking of dinner and of wine. Eliott, still brooding over his defeat in the recent parliamentary election, bent on picking a quarrel; Stewart, amiable and for a time conciliatory, till goaded beyond endurance; the two officers, very red in the face, laughing and treating the whole affair as a huge joke; and Timpendean, the while, in a monotonous loud bawl, chanting, very much out of tune, a song, most of the verses of which he forgot before he had sung two lines, ever starting afresh _ad nauseam_, after the manner of drunken men. It was not a seemly spectacle, but it was the fashion of the day, and but for Eliott all might have ended with no worse effect than a bad headache next morning. But for Eliott--unfortunately. Nothing, apparently, would satisfy that gentleman. Colonel Stewart had let fall words which were twisted into an affront. The Colonel assured him that no such words had passed his lips; but that if he had by chance uttered anything which could be construed as an insult, or if anything said by him had hurt Sir Gilbert's feelings, he was sorry for it, and he willingly apologised. Then Sir Gilbert must needs drag in politics. There was the burning question of the late election. Why had Colonel Stewart voted against him? He would have expected the Colonel's vote sooner than anybody's, and he took it ill that it had not been given to him. Colonel Stewart explained that as he lay under very great obligations to Sir Patrick Scott and his family, he considered that he had no choice but to vote as he had done; but this did not satisfy Sir Gilbert; the vote _should_ have been his by rights, and all the efforts of Captain Ross as peacemaker could not keep him from harping on this one string--the supposed slight put upon him in the matter of the vote. Colonel Stewart was more than willing to drop the subject, and at last Captain Ross, thinking the matter settled, momentarily turned away, in an endeavour to stop the monotony of Timpendean's tuneless, dreary song. And then the mischief began. Sir Gilbert used words which, owing to Timpendean's noise, Ross did not catch, but he heard Colonel Stewart's reply: "Pray, Sir Gilbert, you have said a great deal already to provoke me; don't provoke me further." Then more hot words from Eliott, and Colonel Stewart threw a glass of wine in the baronet's face. With that, Eliott started to his feet, drew his sword, and plunged it into Stewart's stomach before the latter could rise from his chair or defend himself in any way. Thereupon arose a babel of sound--a shout, the scuffle and tramp of unsteady feet, noise of chairs pushed aside and overturned on the bare boards, servants running to and fro. And Colonel Stewart, with clammy brow and failing limbs, sat silent in his chair, a dying man. Captain Ross and his brother officer secured the swords of both men--shutting the stable door, indeed, after the steed was stolen; in hot haste doctors were sent for; and 'mid the bustle and "strow" Eliott stumbled from the room and down the stair, "wanting his wig," as the landlady, whom he passed on the way, deponed. Sir Gilbert's old and faithful servant hurried his master out of the inn, and behind a great tombstone in the Abbey churchyard hid him till the cool night air gave him sense to attempt escape. In a thick wood near the head of Rulewater Sir Gilbert Eliott lay concealed, till his friends succeeded in smuggling him aboard a small craft off the coast of Berwickshire, and an outlaw, with a warrant out against him, he lived an uneasy life in Holland for some years, until influential friends with difficulty got him pardon, and enabled him again to return to the Border. That is the story as it is usually known. But it is fair to add that the tale is differently told in Chambers' _Domestic Annals of Scotland_, where it is stated that Colonel Stewart was "a huffing, hectoring person," and that he had given "great provocation, and gentlemen afterwards admitted that Stobbs was called upon by the laws of honour to take notice of the offence." Evidence given at the inquiry, however, hardly seems to favour this view. Possibly neither side was quite free from blame; wine has other effects than to make glad the heart of man. AULD RINGAN OLIVER Amongst the flying, broken rabble that represented all that was left of the Covenanting army after the disastrous business of Bothwell Bridge, a dismounted Borderer, with one or two other stout hearts by no means disposed even now to give up the day, continued still to strike fiercely at Claverhouse's pursuing troopers. But their efforts to stem the tide of disaster were utterly without avail, and the Borderer, zealously protesting and struggling, was at length swept off the field by a wild panic rush of the fugitives. Missing his footing on the broken ground as the flying mob pressed on to him, the Borderer fell, and, hampered by the bodies of a couple of wounded and exhausted countrymen, ere he could again struggle to his feet, the horse of more than one spurring rider had trampled over him, and he lay disabled and helpless, at the mercy of any dragoon who might chance to ride that way. "'The Lord hath afflicted me in the day of His fierce anger,'" groaned the Covenanter. "'He hath made my strength to fall; the Lord hath delivered me into their hands, from whom I am not able to rise up.'" "Aye!" whimpered a wounded man who lay partly across the Borderer's legs. "'The Lord was as an enemy; He hath swallowed up Israel.' And I'm thinkin', 'gin He send nae help, and that sune, we're no muckle better than deid men. Eh! weary fa' the day I left my ain pleugh stilts, an' my ain fireside." "Na, na, freend. He that setteth his hand to the plough, let him not look back," answered the Borderer. "'Gin I win oot o' this, I trow I'll 'hew Agag in pieces before the Lord,' or a's dune. We will yet smite the Philistines, destroy utterly the Amalakites! Aye! smite them hip and thigh, even from the rising of the sun to the going down thereof!" This fiery Borderer, Ringan Oliver by name, a man of gigantic strength and great courage, a strong pillar of the Covenant, was a native of Jedwater, where he and his fathers before him had for generations occupied the small holding of Smailcleuchfoot. From the turmoil of the disastrous flight after the battle of Bothwell Bridge, and from the close search of the pursuing soldiers, Ringan Oliver did eventually escape, sore battered, and not without much difficulty and danger, and for many a month thereafter he lay in hiding; caves, holes in the moors, and dripping peat hags, were his shelter, heather and ferns his bed, many a time when the hunt waxed hot. And in 1680, hearing of the return from Holland of the outlawed Hall of Haughhead, he speedily joined that noted Covenanter, hiding with him, "lurking as privily as they could about Borrowstounness and other places on both sides of the Firth of Forth"; and he was with Hall and "worthy Mr. Cargill" when "these two bloody hounds, the curates of Borrowstounness and Carriden, smelled out Mr. Cargill and his companion," and sent to the Governor of Borrowstounness that information which led to the death of one of the three Covenanters. Mr. Cargill and Ringan Oliver got clear away from the house at Queensferry where Colonel Middleton, single-handed, tried to arrest them, but Hall, severely wounded in the head, was taken, and died before he could be carried even so far as Edinburgh. For some years after this we have no record of Ringan's doings; possibly part of the time he spent on his farm at Smailcleuchfoot. In 1689, however, he was with General Mackay at Killiecrankie. And again, as at Bothwell Bridge, sorely against his inclination he experienced the horrors of headlong flight in company of a broken rabble. Reaching Dunkeld in an exhausted condition early in the following morning, he and a few comrades found shelter in the house of a friend. But as they sat, about to fall to on a much needed meal, down the little street came the "rat-tat-tat" of a drum, and past the window swaggered an unkempt Highland drummer, halting at intervals to hurl defiance at all Whigs, and a challenge to them to fight the famous Highland champion, Rory Dhu Mhor. And this is something after the fashion of what Ringan and his weary comrades heard drawled out with fine nasal whine: "This will pe to pe kiving notice to aal it may pe concerning, tat Rory Dhu Mhor of ta Clan Donachy will pe keeping ta crown of ta causeway in ta toun of Tunkel for wan hour and mhore. And he iss civilly tesiring it to pe known tat if there will pe any canting, poo-hooing, psalm-singing whig repellioner in ta toun, and he will pe so pould as to pe coming forth his hiding holes, and looking ta said Rory Dhu Mhor in ta face, ta said Rory Dhu Mhor herepy kifs promise to pe so ferry condescending as to pe cutting ta same filthy Whig loon shorter by ta legs, for ta honour of King Tchames. Ochilow! Cot save King Tchames!" A few paces behind this tattered herald strutted the champion, Rory Dhu Mhor, swinging his kilt, and like the wild stag of his native mountains, haughtily sniffing the breeze. At this sight, all the fierce old Border blood began to surge through Ringan Oliver's veins. The contemptuous challenge goaded him to fury; for the Christianity of our Covenanting ancestors was seldom of that cast which prompts the turning of the other cheek to the smiter, and Ringan was one of the most militant of a militant sect. "God do so to me, and more also," shouted he, springing to his feet, "'gin I humble not this blethering boaster, and stop his craw, or he maun stop mine." "Na, na, Ringan," cried his friends, "haud sae, man, haud sae. Ye'll be clean dung-ower; ye're ower sair spent to fecht thenow." But this only goaded Ringan the more. "As the Lord liveth, he shall lick the dust. Hinder me not, friends, withstand me not; I maun do battle with this Philistine." And with that, he rushed into the street, broadsword in hand. "Diaoul! Fwhat will this creatur pe tat will pe approaching in such ways and manners pefore a Hieland shentleman?" cried the Highlander with a snort, giving an extra cock to his bonnet. "I am an unworthy follower of Christ, our spiritual Redeemer, and a soldier of King William, our temporal deliverer; and I stand here to bid you make good your profane boasting." "Fhery goot inteet! Fhery goot inteet! you haf peen suppering at Killiecrankie, and now you would pe after breakfasting at Tunkeld? By Cot, you shall haf it!" And Rory drew his claymore. They were not ill-matched. Both were big men, both of gigantic strength, both skilled swordsmen. But the Highlander had by far the greater experience of duelling; it was, in fact, the pride of his life to pick a quarrel and to slay his antagonist. Moreover, he had his target, which was of immense assistance in warding off blows; and Ringan had no guard other than his sword, which fact, in itself, made the combat unequal. And, to crown all, the Highlander was infinitely the fresher. But the dour, fiery, old Border blood had brought Ringan to this pass, when he was in no way fit to fight, and, whatever the cost, he must now go through with it. So to it they fell. Long they fought, and fiercely, till the breath came hard-drawn and short, and the red blood ran fast from both combatants. Only, the Highlander was less distressed than Ringan, his wounds fewer and less serious. Still, they kept on without pause, till to the fierce joy of the Highland onlookers, and the dull misery of others, it became quite plain that Ringan's time had come. Human nature could do no more; he was beaten, and was being driven slowly back and back, his defence each minute getting less vigorous and confident, his attack less to be dreaded. Loud rang the exulting Gaelic yells to Rory to finish him, to "give his flesh to the eagles." And now Ringan, blood flowing from a dozen gashes, was down on one knee, but still almost mechanically guarding head and body from the whirlwind final attack of the Highlander. Sick at heart, the Lowland onlookers turned their looks aside; they hated to see such an end of a brave comrade, and they were too few to avenge him. Suddenly, and with bent heads, they turned away from looking at the figure of the wearied Borderer, beaten down on to his knee, away from sight of the flashing claymore that was now so near to tasting their friend's life-blood. And then to their ears came a roar, as of the routing of some mighty bull of Bashan. Glancing back quickly, their astonished eyes saw Rory Dhu Mhor standing rigidly erect and stiff, an expression of blank wonder on his hairy face, and the point of Ringan's broadsword appearing out between the Highlander's shoulders. Then, with another mighty roar, as the sword was withdrawn, he sprang convulsively off the ground, and with a clatter fell heavily on his target, dead. It was a spent man that he was dealing with, he had rashly thought. Too well he knew the game; he had played it successfully so often before. It needed but to go in now and slay. In his over confidence the Highlander neglected for one moment to be cunning of fence, and during that moment he exposed his body. It was enough for a swordsman so skilled as Ringan Oliver. Exhausted as he was, like a flash his weapon leapt forward, and the great Highland champion had fought his last fight. It was near to being a dearly bought victory. Murder was in the hearts of the Highlanders, as for the moment they stood in savage silence, hungering for the life of their champion's overthrower. And Ringan was fainting from loss of blood, unable to raise himself from the trampled, muddy ground on which he had fallen. Things indeed looked ill for him and for his friends. And ill, no doubt, it would have fared with them, if just then it had not chanced that the certain news reached the Highlanders in Dunkeld of the death of him they called "Ian Dhu nan Cath" (Black John of the Battles), John Graham of Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee, slain the previous day in Killiecrankie fight. Thus it happened that, instead of falling sword in hand on the little party of Lowlanders, the dismayed clansmen began to slip away, and Ringan's friends succeeded in getting their sorely wounded comrade into safety. It was some time after this, when life had become less stormy, that Ringan again took up his residence at Smailcleuchfoot. Here he continued to live till he was quite an old man. It was here, too, that the incident befell which gave rise to the ballad written by Mr. James Telfer early in last century. Ringan had ever been known as well for his rigid ideas of faith and honour as for his great strength and undaunted courage, and these qualities had brought him greatly into the esteem and friendship of his landlord, one of the earliest of the Marquesses of Lothian. It is said that when the Marquess, towards the end of his life, found it necessary to take what was then the tedious and toilsome journey to London, he sent for Ringan, and giving him the key of a room in Ferniehurst in which were kept important and valuable deeds and family papers, charged him on no account to allow anyone to enter the room or to interfere with the papers until he (the Marquess) should return. It happened, however, shortly after Lord Lothian's departure that his heir had occasion to wish to enter this locked room, and he sent to demand the key from Ringan. The old man, naturally and rightly, refused to depart from the instructions he had received when the key was delivered to him, and the reply he sent to the young lord may probably have been somewhat blunt and uncompromising. In any case, hot words passed between him and the indignant heir, who considered, perhaps not unnaturally, that prohibition to enter the locked room, to whomsoever else it might apply, certainly could not under any circumstances apply to him. Perhaps had he gone in the first instance himself to Ringan and explained matters the affair might without much difficulty have been arranged. But he had taken the other course, and had demanded the key as a matter of right. Hence came hot words between the two, and the upshot was that the younger man left boiling with resentment at the "old Cameronian devil, Ringan Oliver," and threatening to pay him out. No very long time after this the old Marquess died, and Ringan's enemy reigned in his stead. Nor was it long ere he began to show that no portion of the wrath conceived by him against the old man had been allowed to die for want of nursing. One September day, when Ringan's crop was all but ready to cut, there came across the water from Ferniehurst the new Marquess accompanied by several mounted men, servants, and others, with dogs. Soon the party began riding over the farm, ostensibly looking for hares; finally, they all went into the standing crop, trampling it down wantonly, hallooing their dogs here, there, and everywhere, and galloping furiously about wherever the corn stood thickest. Ringan had been rapidly becoming more and more angry as he found that the damage done was so manifestly wilful damage; and at last, finding remonstrance to be so much waste of breath, he snatched up an old musket, which possibly had not seen the light since Killiecrankie, and shot one of the dogs. That was enough for the Marquess; he had got the old man in the wrong now. Off he went at once and lodged with the Sheriff of Roxburghshire a complaint against Ringan, and a summons was issued. Ringan refused to appear in court. "Na!" he said. "I've done nae wrong. I daur them to lay a hand on me." But the Law was not to be thus flouted. If he wouldn't come freely, then he must be made to come, said the sheriff. Here a difficulty arose. Ringan's reputation for gigantic strength and utter fearlessness still survived, and no one dared even attempt to apprehend the old man. In such circumstances the sheriff pressed into his service the Marquess and his men, and this party set off for Smailcleuchfoot. Friends warned Ringan of their coming and counselled him to fly. But the dour old Cameronian's spirit refused to let him do aught that might even remotely suggest a doubt as to his being absolutely in the right. He only retired into his house, and resolutely set about barring doors and windows; and when that was done-- "Let them touch me that daur," he cried, taking up and carefully loading the same old musket with which he had shot the dog. Soon came the sheriff's summons, to which Ringan paid no heed, beyond letting the party know that he was at home, and had no intention of surrendering. There was in the house with him at this time a young girl (whether an adopted daughter or merely a maid who cooked and looked after the old man's house, one does not know), but she had refused to leave when he began to barricade the place, and Ringan's sole anxiety was now apparently for her. Of his own safety or that of his house, he seemed to think not at all; the grim old dourness and determination that had distinguished him at Bothwell Bridge and elsewhere were again smouldering, ready to burst into flame. "Keep oot o' the licht, lass, and rin nae risk; gang in ahint yon press door," he said to the girl, when the men outside began firing at the windows. Then he, too, began to fire back at his enemies, and for a time he was too much absorbed in his practice to pay attention to what the girl might be doing. Thus, he had just fired a shot which clipped away one of the curls from the Sheriff's wig, when a gasp, and the sound of a heavy fall on the floor behind him, caused the old man hastily to look round. Curiosity had overcome her caution; the girl had ventured from her shelter, and, standing behind Ringan, had been trying to see, past the edge of the window, how things were going outside. Perhaps she had a lover in the attacking party, and feared for his safety. Anyhow, as she lent forward, forgetting her own danger, a bullet meant for the old man found its billet in her throat. For a moment Ringan stood aghast, then knelt by the dying girl, striving in vain to staunch the blood that gushed from her wound. And as he realised that such a hurt was far beyond his simple skill, the lust to kill was born again in the old man's breast. He forgot that he was old, forgot how the treacherous years had stolen from him the vigour and spring that had been his, forgot everything but the half-crazy desire for vengeance. With the roar of a wounded tiger he tore down the barricades fixed by himself not an hour before, snatched from its place over the fire the trusty old broad-sword that had served him so well in former days, flung wide the door, and charged blindly out on his enemies. Alas for Ringan Oliver! Even as he crossed the threshold, a rope, or some part of his discarded barricade, caught his foot, and like the Philistines' mighty god Dagon lang syne before the Ark of the Lord, he fell prone on his face, and the enemy was on him in an instant. Even then, disarmed and smothered by numbers as he was, the struggle for a time was by no means unequal, and more than once, with gigantic effort, he had all but flung off his captors. Perhaps, in the end, the task might even have been too much for the sheriff's party had it not been that a treacherous tinker, named Allan, with a hammer struck the old man a heavy blow on the face, fracturing the jaw and partially stunning him. Then, bound hand and foot, Auld Ringan was carried to Edinburgh. There, in the Tolbooth, he lay for eight long years, suffering tortures, first from his broken jaw, and later from old wounds that now broke out afresh. He that had lived so long a life in the pure fresh air of the Border, who had loved more to hear the lark sing than the mouse cheep, now languished in a foul, insanitary prison, and it was but the ghost of his former self that at the end of his long confinement crept away to pass the brief remainder of his days in a house in the Crosscauseway, Edinburgh. Auld Ringan Oliver died in 1736. He sleeps among the martyrs in Greyfriars Churchyard. A LEGEND OF NORHAM In the days, now happily remote, when folks, provided as for a picnic, laboriously travelled great distances in order to be present at the execution of some unhappy wretch; in the days when harmless old women, whose chief fault may probably have been that they were poor and friendless, and perhaps by age and privation rendered little better than half-witted, were baited, and dragged by an ignorant and credulous populace to a fiery or to a watery death, there survived in Scotland yet another barbarous custom not unworthy to take rank with witch-burning. It was a custom so pitiless and revolting that the mind shrinks from its contemplation, for if its victims were not necessarily frail old women, they were yet human beings guilty of no crime, innocent perhaps of all but misfortune. The study of medicine in those days was in its infancy, and many were the strange virtues attributed to certain herbs, vast the powers claimed for certain things in nature. Aconitum (or wolf's-bane) for example, was reputed to "prevail mightily against the bitings of Scorpions, and is of such force that if the Scorpion pass by where it groweth, and touch the same, presently he becometh dull, heavy, and senseless, and if the same Scorpion by chance touch the White Hellebore, he is presently delivered from his drowiness." A certain root, too, was of sovereign efficacy in the prevention of rabies in human beings who had been bitten by a mad dog. In Gerard's _Herbal_, a medical work published in 1596--"Gathered by John Gerarde of London, Master in Chirurgerie"--it is laid down that "the root of the Briar-bush is a singular remedy found out by oracle against the biting of a mad dog." Then, as now, rabies was regarded with a sickening dread, but in that remote day there had arisen no Pasteur, and dread too frequently degenerated into panic, and panic, as it ever does, revealed itself in brutality. In olden days the remedies generally administered to patients suffering from the bite of a dog were many and curious, and probably by the average patient they were regarded in reality rather as something in the nature of a charm than as medicines. Doubtless they gave confidence to the person who had been bitten, and, so far, were good. But in very many cases they got the credit of being infallible remedies solely because in most instances the dog which had given the bite was no more afflicted with rabies than was the person whom it bit; probably it was some poor, hunted, frightened beast which had lost its master, and against which some panic-stricken individual had raised the senseless cry of "mad dog." One remedy prescribed by a famous physician who lived so late as mid-eighteenth century, was "ash-coloured ground liver-wort a half-ounce, black pepper a quarter-ounce," to be taken, fasting, in four doses, the patient having been bled prior to beginning the cure. Thereafter for a month, each morning he must plunge into a cold spring or river, in which he must be dipped all over, but must stay no longer than half a minute. Finally, to complete the cure, he must for a fortnight longer enter the river or spring three times a week. It is all eminently simple, and tends at least to show that our ancestors after all were not wholly ignorant of the virtues of cold water. Amongst other remedies, also, was a medicine composed of cinnabar and musk, an East Indian specific, and one of powdered Virginian snake-root, gum asafoetida, and gum camphire, mixed and taken as a bolus. So far, at least, if the various treatments did little good, they did no great harm. Brutality began where a person had been bitten by a dog that really was mad, and when undoubted symptoms of hydrophobia had shown themselves. Then it was no uncommon practice to deliberately bleed the unhappy patient to death, or, worse still, to smother him between mattresses or feather beds. Necessarily, a custom so monstrous opened wide the door to crimes of violence, and doubtless many a person whose presence was found to be inconvenient to relatives, or whose permanent absence would further certain desires or plans of those relatives, was opportunely found to be suffering from an attack of hydrophobia, and came to his end miserably in some such fashion as has been indicated. The popular mind was credulous to an extent inconceivable at the present day, and the mere accusation of madness was seized on and swallowed with an avidity that discouraged investigation of individual cases. In the Border, if all tales are true, at least one crime of this nature was perpetrated. Not far from Norham Castle, it is said that there stood till well on in the eighteenth century a large mansion, of which no trace now remains. As the story goes, the place once belonged to an old Border family, but the folly and extravagance of more than one generation had brought in their train what these failings ever must bring, and evil times fell on that house. Piece by piece, one after the other, the ancient possessions passed away from their former owners, sacrificed to gratify some passing whim or to pay some foolishly contracted debt, till, finally, the house itself and what land remained had also been flung into the melting-pot, and the last male heir of the old line, with his only child, a daughter, sat homeless in their old home, awaiting the hour which should bring with it the new owner, and to them the sorrow of for ever quitting scenes dear to them from infancy. By the dying embers of a wood fire they two lingered one December night, wrapped in no pleasant thoughts, and idly listening to the shrill piping of a wind that dismally foretold the coming of snow. The father was a man well advanced in life, on whose good-looking, weak face dissipation had set its seal; the daughter, a woman of six or seven and twenty, who preserved more than all her father's good looks, but--as is so often the case in the females of a decadent family--who, in her expression, showed no trace of weakness. Indeed, if a fault could be found in face or figure, it was that the former for a woman told of too much firmness and resolution, qualities which circumstances might very readily develop into obstinacy, and even into cruelty. Her mother had died when Helen was but an infant, and thus it chanced that, as a child, her upbringing had been left pretty well to nature, aided (or perhaps hampered) only by the foolish indulgence of an ignorant and not very high-principled nurse, in whom fidelity was perhaps the only virtue, and who now, in her old age, almost alone of a once large staff of servants, still clung to "her bairn," and to the fallen fortunes of her master. Of education the child received but what little she chose to receive, and of discipline she knew nothing, for to the hopelessly weak father her will had too soon become law. Naturally, Helen grew up headstrong and self-indulgent, recognising no rule but that of her own inclinations, and before her eighteenth birthday she had, without the knowledge of her father, engaged herself to a penniless youth of good family, the younger son of a neighbour. An entire lack of funds, however, seemed--at least to the lad--sufficient cause for delaying the marriage, and "to mak' the croon a pound," he went, not "to sea," but (as was then not uncommon with young Scotsmen) to the wars in High Germanie. Since that date, no direct word had come from the young man, only the rumour grew that in the storming of some town he had fallen. Years had passed since then; years that came and went and brought neither confirmation nor denial of the rumour. In Helen's heart hope at last was killed, and with the death of hope seemed to die all that had ever been womanly or soft in her character. The one tender spot left was a kind of pitying affection for her weak old father. Now, as they two sat here together this bitter winter evening, the old man grumbling, as ever, half to himself, half to his daughter, of the ill-luck that had steadily dogged him all his days, there came suddenly to them the sound of horses' feet on the stones of the courtyard outside, and presently one of the few remaining servants entered the room to say that a stranger was outside begging shelter for himself and for his groom. Nor did the stranger wait to be invited, for, brushing past the servant, and carelessly, as he entered, dusting from his riding-coat the light snow with which it was grimed, taking stock the while with pinched-up little grey eyes of the room and its occupants, he pulled in a chair towards the fire and coolly seated himself. He was a man considerably over fifty--probably nearer sixty than fifty--with a frame burly and coarse, and a face seared by tropical suns and disfigured by the ravages of small-pox; obviously a man of low origin whose mind probably lacked refinement or consideration for others as much as his body lacked grace. Father and daughter for a minute gazed mutely at their uninvited guest, the girl at least in no very amiable mood. But whatever her father's faults might be, want of hospitality was not one of them, and what the house could supply of meat and drink was speedily set before the stranger. He was, as he made haste to inform them, the new owner of the property, come down to take possession. "And egad! sir," said he brusquely, "it strikes me it's not before it was time. There's a bit o' money wanted here, anybody can see with half an eye." And with choice criticisms of a similar nature he lightened the time in the intervals of shovelling food into his heavy-lipped mouth. "Yes, I've bought it--and paid for it, too--lock, stock, and barrel," he resumed; "and we'll put things to rights in a brace of shakes. For what's the use o' having money, says I, if a man don't spend it on his whim! Ay! whether it's a fine lass, or what not, plank it down, and enjoy yourself while ye can. That's what _I_ say. What's the sense o' waiting till a man's too old? And I'm not so young as I was, thinks Missie, eh? But let me tell you, there's many a fine lass, yet, that would snap me up if she had the chance, if it was only for the sake of the ducats. Now, when I was in the Spanish Main--hey! _that_ was the place!--I mind...." But what he "minded" Helen had no wish to hear, and she retired, leaving her father and the stranger, both rapidly becoming somewhat over-loose of speech under the influence of brandy. "A likely wench!" cried the stranger as the door closed. "A likely wench, sir. He'll be a lucky dog that get's her. Now ... ah!... hum!... here's you, an old man, leaving this place--and not likely to get another, says you; and here's me, a bachelor, or anyways a widower, with plenty of cash and wanting a wife. Come I what's against our making a bargain? You give me your daughter, and I'll see that you don't want a home. Eh? What do you say to that, now?" It was not very delicately put, but neither were the times very delicate, and the upshot was that Helen's father, weak and selfish, agreed to use his influence towards bringing the marriage about. The stranger did not tell--and perhaps it would have made little difference if he had told--his full history; how as a boy in London, the son of a petty tradesman, he had been kidnapped and sold to the Plantations (a common enough fate in those days); how in the West Indies, after a varied and not over reputable career, in which buccaneering played no small part, he had at length persuaded the wealthy old widow of a planter to marry him; and how, when she had suddenly ended her days, in a way which gave rise to more than a little talk in the island, he had sold the estate and the slaves without haggling much over the price, and had abruptly left for England, where--the talk ran--he meant to settle down and found a family. Helen's scornful rejection of the proposal at first was scathing, and little less her scorn of a parent who could urge it. "It's to save me from want, and from worse than want," he whimpered. Finally, ere many days had passed, wearied by her father's importunity, she gave her consent. A pair more ill-matched could not have been found; the man by nature coarse, brutal, and cowardly; the woman, insolent, fearless, and of ungoverned temper. From the first things went badly, and when, within a week of the wedding, Helen's father was drowned in attempting to ford the Tweed on horseback, she chose to consider that her part of the bargain was ended. Henceforward she was a wife only in name. Bluster and storm as he might, she was more than the master of her husband, and after one wild outburst he cringed before her. And as, before her marriage, the wife had insisted on reinstating the greater number of the old servants, who to fidelity to the old line added hostility to a master whom they looked on as an interloper, the husband soon found it to his advantage to conciliate the household by giving way to the whims of his wife. Thereafter, the two met, if at all, only at meals. For something over a year things continued on this unpleasant footing. Then there came a day in spring, when Tweedside was tender with the bursting of buds and the lush green of young grass, when birds sang gaily from every thicket, and the hurrying brown water was dimpled into countless rings by the rising trout. To Helen, listless and indifferent even to Tweed's charm in springtime, came one of the younger servants saying that a gentleman, desiring to speak to her, waited below. A gentleman to see _her_? Nay, there must certainly be some mistake, thought Helen. It must assuredly be one of the useless hangers-on of her husband come to ask her to plead for him in regard to some trumpery loan. Well! anything for a novelty, and to take her thoughts away from herself. In this frame of mind she entered the lower room, where the visitor stood with his back to the door, gazing from the window, beside him a large deerhound. "Well, sir," she exclaimed sharply, "what is there that I ... My God! You!... Back from the dead! Back from the dead!" she wailed. "Nay. Back from sickness and wounds; back from captivity. Many a message have I sent you, Helen, during the long years; little did I think to find you thus." Apathy and listlessness no longer held her in bondage; the full horror of the irrevocable gripped her. Tied for ever to a brute whom she despised and hated, sacrificed to no purpose; whilst here, alive and well, stood the man to whom in ardent youth she had plighted her undisciplined heart. The thought maddened her. And as she struggled to choke back this overwhelming rush of feeling, her husband's unwelcome entrance broke the tension of a scene the strain of which was past bearing. Surely it was in an evil moment for himself that her husband entered that room. In a clumsy effort to propitiate his wife's guest, the unfortunate man laid his hand on the head of the visitor's dog, and with vicious side-snap the animal bit his hand to the bone. No consideration had the wife for her husband's sufferings, no trace of sympathy did she show, as, with an oath, he hurried from the room to bind up the ugly wound--her whole being was centred in the man before her. And her very heart stood still when her stunned ears realised that that man was now saying farewell. Lamentations and entreaties were of no avail. "There remained nothing else for a man of honour to do," he said. All these years he had been faithful to her; all these years no other woman had entered his thoughts. Had she been as true to him as he had ever been to her, the dearest wish of his heart would have been fulfilled. Nay, had he come home to find her a widow, even so all might yet perhaps have been well. But now, when, with his own eyes, he had seen what, manner of man she had preferred to him, the old love was killed--killed by her act. The clatter of his departing horse's feet rang loud in her ears; and now, great as of old had been her detestation of the man to whom she was tied, it was but a feeble flame in comparison with the furnace of hate that began to rage in her heart. Daily and hourly the anguish of the "might have been" tormented her. Incessantly the words her lover had spoken seethed in her brain: "If even you had been a widow," he had said. "A widow?" ... Ever to the same word her thoughts returned--"a widow." What if he were to die now? If only...! Then she thought of the bitten hand. Was it not more than likely that the dog was mad when, unprovoked, it bit a man? And if it _were_ mad ... But assuredly it was mad! She would ask old Elspeth. Who so wise as Elspeth, who so skilled as she in the treatment of wounds? And if she could _cure_ wounds, why ... perhaps...! Did not wounds sometimes refuse to heal, and did not the patient sometimes gradually sink and die without anybody being to blame? But no comfort was found in Elspeth--no help. Surely the woman was in her dotage. Fool! Why did the feckless old idiot not know that the dog _must_ have been mad? The man was drinking heavily now, goaded by grim terror of that very thing, and sodden with drink. Body and soul the old nurse was hers, she believed. Then, what so easy to make as a mistake in her treatment of the wound--to dress it with an irritating salve instead of with a healing one? what so easy as to inflame a mind already stricken by fear and maddened by drink? _Must_ she speak more plainly the thing that had arisen in her mind? * * * * * Day followed day, and soon rumour spread and grew to certainty that of a surety the dog was mad that had bitten the master. From his room, they said, came the sound of ravings and of shouts. Folk spoke below their breath of how it was said he foamed at the mouth, and few dared venture near. At last there came a night when Elspeth's son crept stealthily by the back stairs to aid his mother in holding down the sick man in the paroxysms of his madness; and the guilty wife, cowering alone in her room, stopped her ears lest awful sounds should reach them. * * * * * Summer was spent, and Tweed murmured seaward between banks ruddy and golden with autumn's foliage. In a house in Edinburgh, not far removed from Holyrood, clad in deep black, there lingered restlessly a Border woman, for whom the months had dragged with halting foot since a certain spring night near Norham. "Will he come?" to herself she whispered for the hundredth time. "Surely he must come." And as she waited, a flush leapt to her cheek at the sound of a step nearing her door. A man entered, grave, almost stern, of face, and she sprang to her feet with a cry, and with outstretched arms, that sank slowly to her side, as her eyes questioned those of her visitor. "You have come," she said unsteadily; "you have come. And you know ... my husband ... is dead?" "Rumours had reached me," he answered coldly. "When did he die?" "It was in the spring, five months since. He was bitten by a dog, and he died ... raving mad." "Bitten by a dog?" he queried. "Do you not remember? The dog you brought with you bit him. He never recovered. And ... and he died mad." "It was my dog that bit him? And he died mad in consequence of that bite? I do not understand. My dog is alive and well; he was never mad." Her eyes fell. What need to plead further! She knew now too well that his love for her was indeed dead and buried. Had a spark of it yet lived in his heart, suspicion could have found no place. Gone now was all pride, all control; at his feet she threw herself, clasping her knees. "Have you no pity--no pity? He is dead, I tell you. I always cared only for you." "Good God!" he cried hoarsely, and pushed her from him; and the horror in his eyes smote her as his bitterest words could not have done. Alone once more in the room, she lay face downwards on the floor, and the echo of his footfall on the stair beat into her brain like the stroke of doom. Alone till the end of her days she lived a friendless, wretched woman, eating out her heart with the canker of "the might have been." THE GHOST OF PERCIVAL REED When we look back on the past history of the Border, we might almost think that St. Andrew and St. George, who are supposed to keep watch and ward over North and South Britain, had overlooked that hilly stretch of country that lies between the Solway and the Tyne, leaving the heathen god Mars to work his turbulent will with it. From the days of the Roman Wall it was always a tourney-ground, and in the long years when English and Scots warred against each other, scarcely one day in any year went past without the spilling of blood on one or other of its hills or moors. Not only did the Borderers fight against those of other nations. Constantly they fought amongst themselves. A quick-tempered, revengeful lot were the men of those Border clans. On the Northumberland side the quarrels were as frequent as they were amongst those hot-headed Scots--Kers and Scotts, Elliots and Turnbulls and Croziers. In the sixteenth century one of the most powerful of the clans in the wild Northumbrian country was that of the Reeds of Redesdale. Even now it is a lonely part of the south land, that silent valley down which, from its source up amongst the Cheviots, the Rede flows eastward. Bog and heather and bracken still occupy the ground to right and to left of it, and there are few sounds besides the bleat of sheep or the cries of wild birds to break the silence of the hills and moors. But when the Reeds held power the hills often echoed to the lowing of driven cattle, to the hoof-beat of galloping horses, and to the sounds of a fight being fought to the death. A foray into England brought many a sturdy Scottish reiver riding over the Carter Bar; and Reeds, and Halls, and Ridleys were never averse from a night ride across the English Border when a Michaelmas moon smiled on the enterprise. The Reeds were a strong clan, but in power and in reputation they took only a second place, for the family of the Halls was stronger still. The head of the Hall clan lived at Girsonfield, a little to the north of Otterburn, a farmhouse which had belonged to the proprietors of Otterburn Castle since the time of Queen Elizabeth. Only a few stones of it now remain, and the new house stands on a much more exposed situation; but when Hall was its occupant, Girsonfield stood on a plot of rich green sward on the east side of the Otter. Now it must have seemed to Hall of Girsonfield, the head of the chief of the northern clans, a very clear error in judgment for any of the powers that existed to pass him over and appoint as keeper of Redesdale his friend and neighbour, Percival Reed. To have to bow to Reed's authority, to obey his summons when called on to help to intercept a party of reiving Scots or to pursue them, hot trod, into Scotland, to hear the praises of Percival Reed in all mouths--these were bitter things to be swallowed by him who has come down to us as "the false-hearted Ha'." And so, having opened the door of his heart for the messengers of Satan to come in, Hall of Girsonfield had not long to wait for his tenants. Clearly Percival Reed had no right to be keeper, but as he did his duties bravely and well, there was no chance of his being deposed, save by death. Never a day or a night was there when Hall and his friend Reed cantered together to meet some of the Scott or Elliot clan, or to rescue a drove of cattle or sheep from them, or from some of the Croziers or Turnbulls, but what Hall rode with murder in his heart. Reed was utterly unconscious. There was no scheme that he did not confide to him whom he took for his loyal friend, no success for which he did not jubilantly claim Hall's sympathy and congratulations. He laid bare the whole of his innocent heart, and Hall hated him all the more bitterly because of it. "If he were not so handy with his Ferrara," brooded Hall.... "If only he had been a little slower that time in getting out his dag when Nixon had covered him." ... "If only his mare had not only stumbled, but had fallen there by the peat hag when Sandy's Jock so near had him...." To Hall of Girsonfield Providence seemed to take special care of Percival Reed, for no other reason than to goad him to extremity. The devils who possessed him were skilfully nursing their prey. There came at last a day, when no raids were afoot, when Hall met some of the Crozier clan, and opinions were frankly expressed with regard to the keeper of Redesdale. Things had been going badly with the Croziers. Their beef-tubs were empty. The Borders were evidently going to the dogs. It was no longer possible for any hard-working reiver to make a living on them. Percival Reed would have to get his leave, or it was all up with reiving in Redesdale. To all of these complaints Hall lent a willing ear; nay, more, to their surprise, a sympathetic one. Apparently he, too, had some little schemes afoot, with which the keeper's over-vigilance had seriously interfered. What a merry jest it would be, next time the Croziers crossed the Border by moonlight, if the keeper's plans for that night were known to them, and if, instead of finding in the clan Hall enemies, they found them allies. The Croziers might have all the spoil, but the Halls would share the joke, and Percival Reed would crow less crouse for the future. It was a quite simply arranged affair. The Halls entered with zest into the plot. Second place was not good enough for them, and the Reeds had boasted long enough. And Percival Reed, in all innocence, soon heard rumour of a foray by the Croziers, and confided in his friend Girsonfield exactly how he meant to meet it. This information speedily found its way to the Scottish side of the Border, and in Hall of Girsonfield Reed found a more than usually willing supporter. The appointed night came, and ere they started in the uncertain light of a misty moon the keeper of Redesdale supped at Girsonfield. "Ye're loaded, are ye, Parcy?" asked the genial host in the burring Northumbrian voice we know so well even to-day. "I'll give a look to our primings while ye drink a stirrup-cup." More than a look he gave. Strong spirit from the Low Countries might be good jumping powder for the Keeper of Redesdale, but it was a damping potion for the keeper's musket when gently poured on its priming. At Batenshope, on the Whitelee ground, Reeds and Halls and Croziers met, and a joyous crew were the Croziers that night as they homewards rode up the Rede valley. For at the first fire of Percival Reed's musket it burst, and he dropped from his horse a murdered man. The Reeds knew it for treason, and the subsequent conduct of the Halls left them no room for doubt. It was, indeed, a fine foundation for a family feud, and for generation after generation the feud went on. What was the end of Hall of Girsonfield no one has chronicled; it is not hard to imagine the purgatory of his latter years. But it is not of him but of his innocent victim that tales are still told in the Rede valley. From the night when his spirit was by treachery and violence reft from his body, there was no rest for Percival Reed. In the gloaming, when trees stand out in the semblance of highway robbers, and a Liddesdale drow meets a North Sea haar, his sorrowful spirit was wont to be seen by the lonely traveller, making moan, seeking rest. Far and near, through all that part of the Border that he had so faithfully "kept," the spirit wandered. A moan or sigh from it on the safe side of the Carter Bar would scatter a party of Scottish reivers across the moorland as no English army could have done. Any belated horseman riding out of the dark would take the heart out of the most valiant of Northumbrians because they feared that they saw "Parcy Reed." Not always in the same form did the Keeper appear. That was the terror of it. At times he would come gallantly cantering across the moorland as he had done when blood ran warm in his veins. At other times he would be only a sough in the night wind. A feeling of dread, an undefinable something that froze the marrow and made the blood run cold. And yet, again, he would come as a fluttering, homeless soul, whimpering and formless, with a moaning cry for Justice--Justice--Judgment on him who had by black treachery hurried him unprepared to his end. The folk of Redesdale bore it until they could bear it no longer. The blood of many a Hall was spilt by the men of Percival Reed's clan without giving any ease to that clamouring ghost. At last they sought the help of a "skeely" man. He was only a thatcher, but whilst he plied his trade of covering mortal dwellings with sufficient to withstand the blasts of heaven, he had also studied deeply matters belonging to another sphere. "Gifted," says his chronicler, "with words to lay it at rest," he summoned the ghost to his presence, and "offered it the place and form it might wish to have." Five miles of land did that disembodied spirit of the Keeper of Redesdale choose for his own. As might be guessed, he fixed on the banks of the Rede, and he chose that part of it that lies between Todlawhaugh and Pringlehaugh. The fox that barks from the bracken on the hillside at early morning, the grouse that crows from the heather, the owl that hoots from the fir woods at night, to those did the ghost of Percival Reed act as keeper. By day he roosted, like a bat or a night bird, on some tree in a lonely wood. By night he kept his special part of the marches. Still the Keeper of Redesdale was Percival Reed. Todlaw Mill, in ruins long ago, was his favourite haunt, and there, as the decent folk of the valley went on the Sabbath to the meeting-house at Birdhope Cragg, they often saw him, a dreary sight for human eyes, patiently awaiting his freedom. The men would uncover their heads and bow as they passed, and the Keeper of Redesdale, courteous in the spirit as in the body, would punctiliously return their salutations. Thus did the years wear on until the appointed days were fulfilled, and the Rede Valley knew its Keeper no more. On the last day of the time fixed by him, the skeely man was thatching a cottage at the Woollaw. Suddenly he felt something touch him, as though the wing of a bird had brushed by. He came down the ladder on which he stood, and it seemed as though the bird's feathers had brushed against his heart, and had come from a place where the cold and ice are not cold and ice as mortals know them, for "he was seized," says the chronicler, "with a cold trembling." Some power, too strong for his own skill to combat, had laid hold on him, and shivering, still shivering, he fell into the hands of Death. Such was the passing of Percival Reed, Keeper of Redesdale, who took with him, when at length he relinquished his charge, a humble henchman, a hind of the Rede Valley. DANDY JIM THE PACKMAN It was the back end of the year. The crops were all in, and but little was left of the harvest moon that had seen the Kirn safely won on the farms up "Ousenam" Water. A disjaskit creature she looked as the wind drove a scud of dark cloud across her pale face, or when she peered over the black bank below her, only to be hidden once more by an angry drift of rain. It was no night for lonely wayfarers. Oxnam and Teviot were both in spate, and their moan could be heard when the wind rested for a little and allowed the fir trees to be still. Only for very short intervals, however, did the tireless wind cease, and always, after a short respite, the trees were attacked again, and made to beck and bow their dark heads like the nodding plumes of a hearse. The road from Crailing was in places dour with mud, heavy-rutted by harvest carts, with ever and anon a great puddle that stretched across from ditch to ditch. But dismal or not dismal, the night had apparently no evil effect on the spirits of the one man who was trudging his homeward way from Crailing to Eckford. Dandy Jim, the packman, was a young fellow who wanted more than evil weather and a dreich, black night to depress him. A fine, upstanding lad he was, with a glib English tongue that readily sold his wares, and which, along with a handsome, merry face, helped him with ease into the good graces of those whom he familiarly knew as "the lasses." Dandy Jim had had many a flirtation, but now he felt that his roving days were nearly past. He was seriously thinking of matrimony. "She's a bonny lass," thought he contemplatively, dwelling on the charms of the young cook at the farmhouse he had left just past midnight, "bonny and thrifty, and as fond o' a laugh as I am mysel. That bit shop as ye come out o' Hexham, with red roses growing up the front o't, and fine-scented laylock bushes at the back, that would do us fine...." And so, safely wrapped up in happy plans and in thoughts of his apple-cheeked lady-love, Jim manfully splashed through puddles and tramped through mud, conscience free, and fearful of nothing in earth or out of it. The graveyard at Eckford possessed no horrors for him. "Bogles," quoth he, "what's a bogle? I threw muckle Sandy, the wrestler, at Lammas Fair, an' pity the bogle that meddles wi' me." But, nevertheless, Jim, glancing towards the old church with its surrounding tombstones as he went by, saw something he did not expect, and quickly checked the defiant whistle that is, somehow, an infallible aid to the courage of even the bravest. There was a light over there among the graves, a flickering light that the wind lightly tossed, and that, somehow, did not suggest likeable things, even to Dandy Jim. Stock-still he stood for a couple of minutes watching the yellow glimmer among the tombstones, and then, with grim suspicion in his mind, he walked up to the churchyard gate. Nowadays we have only an occasional "watch-tower" in an old kirkyard, or a rusted iron cage over a grass-grown grave to remind us of times when human hyænas prowled abroad after nightfall, and carried off their white, cold prey to be chaffered for by surgeons for the dissecting-rooms. But Dandy Jim's day was the day of Burke and Hare, of Dr. Knox, and of many another murderous and scientific ghoul, and a lantern's gleam in a churchyard in the small hours usually meant but one thing. As he expected, a gig stood at the churchyard gate; a bony, strong-shouldered, chestnut mare tethered to the gate-post, munching, mouth in nose-bag. In the gig was a sack, standing upright--a remarkably tall sack, five foot ten high at least, stiffly balanced against the seat. "Aye, aye," said Jim to himself, "it was a six-foot coffin when they planted Jock the day. Him an' me was much of an age and of a height, poor lad; and here he is now, off to Edinburgh to be made mincemeat of." But even as he thought, he acted. The mare threw up an inquiring head as she felt a light step in the gig, and a sudden lightening of her load. But the wind wailed round the church and the rain beat down, dimming the glass in the flickering lantern, and every now and then Jim could hear a pick striking against a stone or a heavy thud as of a spadeful of damp earth being beaten down. Out of the gig came the sack, and out of the sack speedily came the packman's erstwhile acquaintance, Jock. A gap in the hedge across the road conveniently accommodated Jock's unresisting body, over he went into the next field, and once again the mare started as Dandy Jim sprang into the gig with one bound and quickly struggled into the empty sack. He was only just in time. A parting clatter of pickaxe and thud of spade, a swing of the lantern, that sent a yellow light athwart some grey old headstones, rough voices and hasty steps, and two men appeared, pushed their implements into the back of the gig, released the mare from her nose-bag, clambered in, one on either side of the upright sack, and drove off at a quick trot. For some time they proceeded in silence. "A good haul," at last one man remarked; "a young chap--in fine condition." "A heavy load for the little mare," said he who held the reins; "fifteen stone if he's a pound. Not an easy one to tackle afore he died for want o' breath." Packman Jim lurched against the speaker ere the words were well out of his mouth. With an oath the man shoved him back, and Jim stiffly leaned against the seat in as nearly the attitude of the corpse, to whom he was acting as understudy, as he was able to assume. They had got a little beyond Kalefoot, and the flooded river was sending its moaning voice above the sough of the wind and the drip of the rain when one of the men spoke again to his companion. His voice was husky, and he spoke in a low tone as though he feared some eavesdropper. "Before God, man," he said, "I can feel the body moving." The other, in his voice all the horror of a dread he had been trying to hide, answered in a shrill scream, "It's _warm_, I tell ye!--the corpse is _warm!_" Then came Dandy Jim's opportunity. His face was white enough in the uncertain glimmer of the gig's lamps when he thrust his head out of the sack and looked first at one and then at another of his companions. In a deep and hollow voice he spoke: "If you had been where I hae been, your body would burn too," said he. A screech and a roar were, according to Dandy Jim, the result of his remark, and on either side of the gig a man cast himself out into the darkness, the rain, and the mud, and ran--ran--in heedless terror for an unknown sanctuary. What happened to the pair no subsequent historian has recorded, but when Dandy Jim shortly afterwards wed an apple-cheeked cook and took up his abode in a rose-covered cottage near Hexham, he no longer trudged the Border roads with a pack on his back, but drove a useful gig, drawn by a very willing, strong-shouldered, chestnut mare. THE VAMPIRES OF BERWICK AND MELROSE At Berwick-on-Tweed a man had died. In life he was a man of much weight, one of the wealthiest of the freemen. He did his good deeds with pomp. The devoutness of his religion was visible for every man to see, and his look of sanctity as he went to pray was surely an example and a reproach to every rough mariner whose boat was moored in the harbour beneath the walls. But when death came to him, an evil thing befell the reputation of that holy man of means. Those tongues that had been tied in his lifetime began to wag. The dark passages of his history, of the doors to which he had held the keys, were thrown open. And a horrified town discovered that their respected fellow-citizen had been a man of foul life, guilty of many a fraud and of many a crime, and that a dog's death had been too good a death for him. What wonder that every decent person in the town spoke of him with horror? But the horror they had of him who had so deceived them was but a little thing when compared with the hideous dread that the impostor inspired ere he had lain for a week in his grave in Berwick. Men who lived in those days had many an evil thing to dread, for wolves, ghouls, and vampires were as terribly real to them as in our day are the microbes of cancer, of fever, or of tuberculosis. And when a man who was notoriously a sinner came to his end, there was in the grave no rest for him, nor was there peace for his fellow-men. Night after night he was sure to rise from his tomb and go a-hunting for a human prey. He sucked blood, and so drained the life of the innocent clean away. He devoured human flesh. He chased his victims as though he were a mad dog, sending them crazed by his bite, or worrying and mangling them to a dreadful death. This citizen, then, was not likely to rest in peace, and but a night or two after the earth had been heaped over his grave, he was up and out and rushing through the dark streets where his decorous footsteps had so often fallen solidly by day, so often slunk stealthily by night. By Satan's agency he was set free, all men averred, yet the master that he had faithfully served did but little to pleasure him. For all the night through, as long as darkness lasted, the dead sinner was hunted through the deserted streets by a pack of baying hell-hounds. Round the walls, down by the quay, up Hyde Hill, through the Scots Gate, down lanes and byeways and back again round the walls--a weariful hunt it was. Thankfully must the quarry have welcomed the first streaks of light on the grey sea line, when the chase was ended and he was permitted to rest in his coffin once more. Only the bravest durst venture out of doors after dusk, and the good people of Berwick lay a-trembling in their beds as the hunt swept past their very doors, and the blood-curdling howls of the hounds turned their hearts to water within them. But always, in such a case, there are to be found one or two bold spirits, or one or two so heedless of what is passing around them that they rush into danger unawares. Such there were at Berwick-on-Tweed, and to them the hunted soul spoke as he fled past, the hell-hounds slavering at his heels. "Until my body is burnt," he cried, "you folk of Berwick shall have no peace!" And as they rushed for sanctuary into the nearest dwelling they fancied they could still hear the tormented wretch's shriek, shrill above the baying of the dogs--"Burn! burn! Peace! peace!" So the people of the town took counsel together, and having solemnly concluded that "were a remedy further delayed, the atmosphere, infected and corrupted by the constant whirlings through it of the pestiferous corpse, would engender disease and death to a great extent," they resolved to follow the vampire's own suggestion. Ten young men, "renowned for boldness," were appointed to lay the Horror. They went to the grave, dug up the corpse, cut it limb from limb, then burned it until a little heap of white ash was all that remained of the man of evil life, whose shade had brought dread to all the citizens of Berwick. But their wise action must, unfortunately, have been taken too late. Very soon afterwards a great pestilence arose, and decimated the town's population. "Never did it so furiously rage elsewhere," says William, Canon of Newburgh, the learned churchman, who has chronicled for us the tale, "though it was at that time general throughout all the borders of England." According to him, the vampire had done his evil work. And as man, woman, and child were carried by night to the graves prepared for the plague-stricken, there were those who vowed they could still hear the distant sound of baying hounds, and above them the shrill scream of the man who in life had seemingly walked so godly a walk, and who had given example to the rough mariners down at the quay as he daily went to pray. Such is the story of the vampire at Berwick, and of the way in which valiant men laid him. But the old Canon of the Austin Friars has yet another tale to tell of a vampire on the Border. Destruction by fire was not the only means of laying the unholy spirit that "walked" to the hurt of its fellow-creatures. When a suicide was buried, or when one who was a reputed witch, warlock, or were-wolf, or who had been cursed by his parents or by the church, was laid in the grave, it was always well to take the precaution of driving a stake through the body. Such a stake (in Russia an aspen) driven at one blow bereft the evil thing of all its power. Only in the reign of George IV was the custom in the case of suicides abolished. If the precaution had not been taken at burial, in all probability when the vampire had already done some harm, the corpse was exhumed and the ghastly ceremony gone through. And always, so it was declared, the body of the vampire was found with fresh cheeks and open, staring eyes, well nourished by the blood of his victims. In such condition was found the vampire of Melrose, whose tale is also told by William of Newburgh. Many a holy man has chanted the Psalms under the arches of Melrose Abbey, but the vampire priest had never lived aught but a worldly, carnal life. He held a post that suited him well, as chaplain to a certain illustrious lady whose property lay near the Eildons, and who, so long as her Mess John performed his duties as family priest, paid no heed to his mode of occupying his time when these were performed. The chaplain was of the type of the sporting parson of later days. He loved the hunt. He loved a good bottle, a good horse, a good dog. "_The Hundeprest"_ was the name he went by. Other things he also loved that made not for sanctity, and when, at last, he died, his death was no more holy than his selfish, sensual life had been. No protecting aspen stake had been driven through his body, and so when he was laid to rest under the shadow of the monastery, for him rest there was none. The holy brothers inside the walls protected themselves from him, when he came a-wandering, by vigils and by prayers. The lady whose chaplain he had been was less well protected, and when, night after night, her sleep was broken by horrible groans and murmurings from a thing that always seemed just without her room, and almost about to enter, she became nearly frantic. She came to Melrose, and with tears besought the holy fathers, who owed much to her bounty, to wrestle for her in prayer and drive this evil thing away. The monks of Melrose did for her what they could. Not only did they pray, but two stout-hearted friars and two powerful young laymen all well armed were appointed to guard the grave of the lady's late chaplain, and to go on duty that very night. It was chill autumn, and as they paced the damp grass of the graveyard there was a smell of dead leaves in the air, and a grey mist crept up from the Tweed that moaned as it bore its flooded waters to the sea. When midnight came they expected to see the Hundeprest, but midnight passed in safety, and in "the wee, sma' hours" the two laymen and one of the monks went into the nearest cottage to warm their icy feet. Now came the chance of the vampire. With "a terrible noise" the Hundeprest suddenly appeared, a thing of horror, and rushed at the monk who was slowly pacing towards the grave. The holy man bravely stood the charge, and, as the monster was almost touching him, he swung the axe which he carried, and drove it with all his might into the body of his diabolic adversary. With a groan, the vampire turned and fled away, and the friar, the tables turned, ran in pursuit until the grave of the Hundeprest was reached, and the horror vanished. Nothing of the encounter was to be seen when the other three watchers returned, but grey dawn was near, and at the first sign of light the four men, with pick-axe and spade, opened up the grave. Even as they dug their spades turned up mingled blood and clay, and when they came to the corpse of the Hundeprest, they found it fresh as on the day he died, but with a terrible wound in the body, from which the blood still oozed away. With horror they bore it out of sight of the monastery of which he had been so unworthy a brother. A cleansing fire burned it to ashes, and a shrewd, clean wind that blew from over the Lammermoors swept away all trace of the accursed thing. No pestilence came to Melrose. Perchance in the twelfth century it was by prayer and fasting that the holy men won the day. A BORDER MIDDY One blustering February evening towards the close of the eighteenth century there sat in a back room in a little inn at Portsmouth three midshipmen, forlorn-looking and depressed to a degree quite at variance with the commonly accepted idea of the normal mental condition of midshipmen. It was a room, not in the famous "Blue Posts"--that hostelry beloved by lads of their rank in the service--but in a smaller, meaner, less frequented house in a very different quarter of the town, a quarter none too savoury, if the truth were told. Why they had betaken themselves to this particular tavern in preference to that generally used by them, who can say. Perhaps--as Peter Simple's coachman remarked on that occasion when Peter first made acquaintance with Portsmouth--perhaps it was because they had too often "forgotten to pay for their breakfastesses" at the "Blue Posts," and had not the wherewithal to pay up arrears. In any case, here they were, and, midshipman-like, during their stay they had recklessly run up a larger bill than they had means to settle. There was no possibility of following the course recommended by the drunken sailor, namely, to "cut and run," for the landlady of the inn was much too astute a personage to make that a possibility, and she had too little faith in human nature generally, and in that of midshipmen in particular, to let her consent to wait for her money till time and the end of their cruise again brought their frigate back to Portsmouth. Pay they _must_, by some means or other, for already the Blue Peter was flying at the fore and the _Sirius_ would sail at daylight. If she sailed without them it was very plain that there was an end of their career in the Navy--they would be "broke." Small wonder that the three middies were in the last stage of gloom. Their entire possessions, money and clothes, could not cover one half of what they owed, and every compromise had been rejected by the obdurate landlady. Appeal to their friends was useless, for time did not admit of an answer being received before the ship sailed. And escape was hopeless, for the one window that the room possessed was heavily barred, the door carefully locked, and the key kept in the capacious pocket of the landlady. It was the very deuce of a situation--the devil to pay and no pitch hot. Again and again as the evening wore on they discussed possibilities; again and again the same conclusion was arrived at. Hope was dead. No doubt in the end their friends might pay up, but they groaned as the certainty forced itself on them that their career at sea was as good as over. If only they had been entitled to any prize-money! But prize-money there was none, and the few guineas each had had from home had long been idly squandered. "We're done, my boys; we're done! Oh, Lord, what swabs we have been!" cried the senior of the three with a groan, laying his head on the table. "Oh, never say die!" said another, a cheery-faced, ruddy lad with a noticeable Scottish accent. "I've been in as tight a hole before and got out of it all right. We've a few hours yet to come and go on. Something's pretty sure to turn up." As he spoke the key was put in the door, and in came the landlady. "Well! wot's it goin' to be? Am I to get that there money you owes me, or am I not? You ain't got much time for shilly-shallyin', I can tell you, young gentlemen. An' paid I'm agoin' to be, one way or other." She was a big-boned, florid, dark-eyed woman, well over thirty, somewhat inclined to be down-at-heel and slatternly, though not yet quite destitute of some small share of good looks; a woman solid of step and unattractive to the eye of youth; moreover, as they knew from recent experience, possessed of a rasping tongue. "None o' ye got anything to say? Well, then, I'll tell you what I'm ready to do and let you go. One of you shall marry me! I don't care two straws which of you it is. But if you three're to get aboard your ship afore she sails, one of you's got to come with me to the parson this night an' be spliced. Take it or leave it; them's my terms. For the good o' my business I must 'ave a 'usband, now my old dad's gone aloft. Whether he's on the spot or not I don't care not the value of a reefer's button, so long as I can show my 'lines.' I'll give you 'alf an hour to make up your minds an' settle atween you who's goin' to be the lucky one." And with that she left the room, again carefully locking the door and taking away the key. Truly were they now between the devil and the deep sea. And no amount of discussion improved the prospect. "We _can't_ do it, you know," piteously cried one. "I'll see her shot first." "Blest if I see any other way out of it," said another. "And she's pretty old. She _might_ perhaps die before we came back, mightn't she?" hopefully ventured the third. "Oh, stow that! She's not more than forty, and she's likely to live as long as any of us." "Well, if you won't allow that _she's_ likely to oblige us by leaving this world, at anyrate you'll admit that there's always a goodish chance that the husband-elect may run up against a French cannonball and get out of the scrape _that_ way. Anyhow, we've come to the end of our tether. The alternative's ruin. It's pretty black to windward, whichever way you look at it, but one way spells ruin for the lot of us; the other, at the worst, means disaster for only one. I vote we draw lots, and the man who draws the shortest lot wins--er ... at least he marries the lady," said the cheery-faced boy, with rather a rueful laugh. "You'll laugh perhaps on the wrong side of your face before all's done. But, all right. If we must, we must. You make ready the lots, Watty, and I'll take first draw. Only, I think if the bad luck's mine, I'll slip over the side some middle watch," said the senior middy miserably. With haggard young faces two drew, leaving the third lot to the Scottish boy. "Thank Heaven!" cried the first, wiping his brow as he saw that his, at least, was not a short lot. "It's yours, Watty, old boy," he said to the middy from north of the Tweed. "My God! what will my dear old mother say?" groaned the poor boy, with face grey as his own Border hills in a November drizzle. "Promise me, on your honour, both of you, to keep this miserable business a dead secret for ever.... Well, I've got to face it. Bring the woman in, and let's have it over and get aboard." Watty Scott was a scion of a good Scottish Border family, a youth careless and harum-scarum as the most typical of middies, but a gentleman, and popular alike with officers and men. He was about eighteen, had already distinguished himself in more than one brush with the enemy, and was looked on as a most promising officer. But now...! "Oh, little did my mother ken, The day she cradled me," (might he have wailed), in what dire scrape the recklessness inherent in her boy would land him. "I _thought_ you'd take my terms," said the landlady, when she came into the room. "Faith! an' I've got the pick o' the basket! Well, come along, my joker; we'll be off to the parson. But you'll take my arm all the way, d'ye see!--as is right an' nat'ral for bride and bridegroom. You ain't agoin' to give _me_ the slip afore the knot's tied, I can tell you. Not if _I_ knows it, young man." Broken clergymen, broken by drink or what not, ready to go through anything for a consideration, were never hard to find in those days in a town such as Portsmouth, and all too soon the ceremony, binding enough, so far as Watty could see, was over. Then the new-made wife insisted, before the three lads left her, that she should stand them a good dinner, and as much wine as they cared to drink to the health of bride and bridegroom. "An' now," she said to her husband ere the youngsters departed, "I aint agoin' to send my man to sea with empty pockets. Put _that_ in your purse!" But Watty would have none of the five guineas she tried to force on him. "Well, I think none the worse of you for that," she cried. "Come, give us a kiss, at anyrate." And with a shudder Watty Scott saluted his bride. Never did the grey waters of the English Channel look more cheerless than they appeared to one unhappy midshipman of H.M.S. _Sirius_ next morning, as the frigate beat down channel in the teeth of a strong westerly breeze; never before had life seemed to him a thing purposeless and void of hope. "To have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part." The words rang in his ears still, with a solemnity that even the red-nosed, snuffy, broken-down parson who hiccuped through the service had not been able to kill. But, God! the irony of the thing--the ghastly mockery! _To love and to cherish till death us do part_! Verily, the iron entered into his soul; day and night the hideous burden crushed him. The castles in the air that, boylike, he had builded were crumbled into dust. Was _this_ the end of all his dreams? Well, at least there was that friendly cannon-ball to be prayed for, or a French cutlass or pike in some boat expedition, if the Fates were kind. The frigate's orders were--Halifax with despatches; thereafter, the West India Station for an indefinite time. Six or eight weeks at Halifax, varied by some knocking about off the Nova Scotia coast, did not tend to relax Watty's depression, but rather the contrary. For just before the frigate took her departure from those latitudes a lately received Portsmouth journal which reached the midshipmen's berth had recorded the arrest on a serious charge of, amongst others, a woman giving her name as "Mrs. Walter Scott, licensee of the Goat's Head Tavern, Portsmouth." Now the Goat's Head Tavern was that little inn where in an evil moment the three lads had taken up their abode before the sailing of the _Sirius_, and to Watty it appeared as if his disgrace must now be spread abroad by the four winds of heaven. It was mental relief to get away out to sea, and to feel that now at least there was again some probability of the excitement of an action. To Bermuda, thence to Jamaica, were the orders; and surely in no part of the world was a ship of war more certain of active employment. Those were days removed by no great number of years from Rodney's famous victory over de Grasse, and not yet had we completed the reduction of the French West India Islands; the greatest glutton of fighting could scarce fail to have his fill. One night, after the frigate had left Bermuda, it had come on to blow desperately hard from the north-west, and with every hour the gale increased, till at length--when sail after sail, thundering and threshing, had come in--the ship lay almost under bare poles, straining in every timber and nosing her weather bow into the mountainous seas that swept by at intervals, ere they roared away into the murk to leeward. It was the middle watch, and Watty had been standing for some time holding on by the lee mizzen rigging, peering eagerly into the darkness. "I've thought two or three times, sir, that I can see something to leeward of us," he reported to the officer of the watch. And presently the "something"--a mere patch of denser black in a darkness emphasized more than relieved by the grey-white crests of breaking seas--resolved itself into a large vessel, which as day broke was seen to be a frigate, like themselves under the shortest of canvas, and with all possible top-hamper down on deck. Pitching and rolling heavily, she lay; sometimes, as a sea struck her, half buried in a grey-green mountain of foam and flying spray that left her spouting cascades of water from her scuppers; one moment, as she rose, heaving her fore-foot clean out of the water, showing the glint of the copper on her bottom; the next, plunging wildly down, till some mighty billow, roaring aloft between the vessels, hid each from the other's ken as effectually as if the ocean had swallowed them. The stranger had hoisted French colours, and the _Sirius_ beat to quarters. But as far as possibility of engaging was concerned, the ships might have been a hundred leagues apart: the sea ran far too high. And so there all day they lay, impotent to harm each other. When grey dawn came on the second morning, bringing with it weather more moderate, the French frigate was seen under easy sail far to leeward, evidently repairing damage aloft, and, in spite of every effort on the part of the _Sirius_, it was late afternoon ere the first shot was fired. Darkness had begun to fall as the French ship struck her colours after a bloody action in which her losses mounted to over one hundred men, including her captain and several officers. In less degree the _Sirius_ suffered; and of those who fell, Watty was one. Early in the engagement he was carried below, badly torn by a severe and dangerous splinter wound in the head. "There goes poor Watty--out of his trouble, anyhow," cried one of the three friends. Thereafter, the life in him hovered long 'twixt this world and the next, and weeks passed ere, in the house of a friend at Kingston, Jamaica, he came once more to his full senses. Even then his progress was but dilatory. "I can't make the boy out," said his doctor. "He _ought_ to get well now. Yet he doesn't. Doesn't seem to make an effort, somehow. If he was a bit older you'd think he didn't _want_ to live. It's not natural. If he were to get any little complication now, he'd go." And so the listless weeks dragged on, and it was but a ghost of the once merry boy that each morning crept wearily and with infinite labour from his room to the wide, pleasant verandah. And there he would pass his days, vacantly listening with dull ears to the cool sea-breeze whispering through the trees, or brooding over his misery. Sometimes, in his weak state, tears of self-pity would roll unheeded down his cheeks; he pined for the heather of his native hills, for the murmur of Tweed and Teviot, and for the faces of his own people. Never again could the happiness be his to live once more in the dearly loved Border land; for how could he face home when that terrible fate awaited his landing at Portsmouth. "Oh! _why_ had he been guilty of folly so great? Why had he thus made a shipwreck of life's voyage almost at its very outset?" Yet at last there came a morning when the cloud of depression began to lift from his mind. An English packet had arrived, bearing despatches for the Admiral, and, as Watty languidly turned the pages of a late Steel's List, ambition once more awoke on finding his name amongst the promotions. Braced in mind, and roused from his apathy by this unlooked-for good fortune, he turned to other papers brought out by the packet, and waded steadily through the news sheets. There was little at first that interested him. But presently, as he picked up a little Portsmouth journal, a paragraph that caught his eye fetched from him a shout that roused the house and brought his host flying to the verandah. "What the deuce ails you? Confound it, the boy's off his head again!" he cried. "Heaven be thanked! My wife's hanged!" shouted Watty. "Oh! mad as a March hare!" fussed his host, running into the house. "Mad, sure enough. Must send off a boy for the doctor." But Watty's news was true. The paragraph which had caught his eye as he picked up the Portsmouth paper was, in effect, the continuation and conclusion of that other announcement which he had seen at Halifax, and was indeed an account of the execution for robbery and murder of certain persons, amongst whom, as "accessory before the fact," was the landlady of the "Goat's Head" Tavern. It is uncertain if Lieutenant Walter Scott ever returned to settle in the Border; but he was a cousin of Sir Walter, who gave to Captain Basil Hall, R.N., some outline of such a story as is here told. SHEEP-STEALING IN TWEEDDALE "The cattle thereof shall ye take for a prey unto yourselves." (Josh. viii. 2.) "The men are shepherds, for their trade hath been to feed cattle." (Gen. xlvi. 32.) In days even earlier than those of the early Israelites, to a certain class of persons the flocks and herds of a neighbour have been an irresistible temptation. The inhabitants of few, if indeed of any, lands have been quite free from the tendency to "lift" their neighbour's live-stock (though probably it has not been given to many, in times either ancient or modern, to emulate the record in "cattle duffing" of Australia and Western America). In the Scottish Border in the days of our not very remote forefathers, to take toll of the Southron's herds was esteemed almost more a virtue than a vice, and though times had changed, even so recently as a couple of centuries back it may have seemed to some no very great crime to misappropriate a neighbour's sheep. March dykes or boundary fences were then things unknown; the "sheep wandered through all the mountains, and upon every high hill." What, therefore, so natural as that the flocks should in time draw together and blend; what so easy for a man, dishonestly inclined, as to alter his neighbour's brand and ear-mark, hurry off to some distant market, and there sell a score or two of sheep to which he had no title? The penalty on conviction, no doubt, was heavy--at the least, in Scotland, flogging at the hands of the common hangman, or banishment to the Plantations; but more commonly death. The fear of punishment, however, has never yet put an end to any particular form of crime, and here detection was improbable if the thief were but clever. He might be aided, too, by a clever dog, for "some will hund their dowg whar they darna gang themsel'," and a really clever dog may be taught almost anything short of speaking. In the year 1762 men's minds, in the upper reaches of the Tweed, began to be sore perplexed by an unaccountable leakage in the numbers of their sheep. Normal losses did not greatly disturb them; to a certain percentage of loss from the "loupin' ill," from snowstorm, from chilly wet weather during lambing, they were resigned. But the losses that now disquieted them were quite abnormal. It was not as if the sheep were perishing on the hillside; then at least their skins would have been brought in, and the element of mystery would not have agitated the minds of owners. But here were sheep constantly vanishing in large numbers without leaving even a trace of themselves. Something must be very far wrong somewhere. They were angry men, the Peeblesshire hill farmers, that summer of 1762, angry and sore puzzled, for up Manor Water and the Leithen, by Glensax Burn and the Quair, and over the hills into Selkirkshire, the tale was ever the same, sheep gone, and never a trace of them to be found. In Newby was a tenant, William Gibson, whose losses had been particularly severe, and, not unnaturally, Gibson was in a very irritable frame of mind; so upset, indeed, was he that, before the faces of the men, he blurted out on one occasion the statement that in his opinion these continued losses were due chiefly to carelessness or ignorance of their work, if not to something even worse, on the part of the shepherds. Now, to throw doubt on their knowledge or skill was bad enough, but any insinuation as to their honesty was like rubbing salt on open wounds. It touched them on the raw, even though no direct accusation had been made, for a finer, more capable, careful, and honest class of men than the Border shepherd has never existed anywhere. Deep, therefore, was their anger, wrathful the mutterings that accompanied them in their long tramps over the windy hills; it would have gone ill with any one detected in possession of so much as a lamb's tail to which he might fail to establish his legal right. Eyes sharpened by resentment were continually on the watch, yet the losses continued, now less, now more, but always a steady percentage, and it seemed beyond mortal power to guess how and when these losses occurred. But at last it chanced one day that Gibson, for some purpose, had mustered his ewes and lambs, and as the men went about their work, one of the older shepherds, Hyslop by name, halted abruptly as a lamb ran up to a certain ewe, and suckled. "Dod!" cried Hyslop, "thon's auld Maggie an' her lamb!" Now "Maggie" was a black-faced ewe, so peculiarly speckled about the face that no one, least of all a Border shepherd, could possibly make any mistake as to her identity. She had been missing for some days, and was given up as lost for good and all. Yet here she was suckling her lamb as if she had never been away. Something prompted Hyslop to catch the ewe. Then he whistled long and low, and swore beneath his breath. "Hey!" he cried to Gibson. "What d'ye think o' that?" "God! It canna be," muttered Gibson. And: "Aye! _That's_ gey queer like!" chorused the other shepherds. What had caught the quick eye of old Hyslop was a fresh brand, or "buist," on the ewe's nose; the letter "O" was newly burned there, nearly obliterating an old letter "T." The latter was Mr. Gibson's fire-brand; "O" that of his not distant neighbour, Murdison, tenant in Ormiston. Gibson and Murdison were on friendly terms, and both were highly respectable and respected farmers. Necessarily, this discovery anent the brands was most disturbing, and could not fail to be difficult of satisfactory explanation. Gibson did not wish to act hastily, but all his private investigations pointed only to the one conclusion, and there was no room for doubt that the ewe had been seen by shepherds on other farms making her way across the lofty hills that lie between Newby and Wormiston, as the latter place was locally called. Still, he hesitated to act in so ugly looking an affair, and it was only after long and painful consultation with a neighbour, himself of late a heavy loser, that Gibson went to Peebles in order to get the authority necessary to enable him to inspect the flocks on Ormiston. With heavy heart, Gibson, accompanied by Telfer, a well-known Peebles officer of the law, trudged out to Ormiston. As they neared the farm-house a shepherd, leaning against an outbuilding, turned with a start at sight of them, slipped suddenly round a corner of the outhouse, and presently was seen, bent nearly double, in hot haste running for a field of standing corn. "Aye! yon's John Millar awa'. I'm feared things looks bad," muttered Gibson to his companion as they approached the door of the farm-house. "You keep ahint in the onstead, John Telfer, and I'll get Murdison to come oot. We'll never can tell him afore his wife." "Wulliam Gibson! Hoo are ye? Man, this is a sicht for sair een," cried Murdison heartily to his visitor. "Come awa' in ben, and hae a glass." A greeting so friendly brought a lump into Gibson's throat that he found it hard to swallow. "Na, I canna come in," he answered in a low voice; "John Telfer's ahint the onstead, wantin' to speak to ye." "John Telfer! what can _he_ want wi' me?" cried Murdison, going grey in the face. "Oh, aye! In one minute," he said, hastily stepping back into the kitchen and whispering a few words to his wife. Gibson did not hear the words, but his heart sank like lead as he noticed Mrs. Murdison fling herself into a chair, bury her face in her hands, and wail, "Oh God! my heart will break." "Alexander Murdison, I hae a warrant here, and I maun hae a bit look at a wheen o' your sheep," said the officer of the law when Murdison came with Gibson into the Steading. Quite enough was soon seen to make it necessary for Murdison and Millar, his shepherd, to be taken to Peebles, where bail was refused. The case came on a few months later, in Edinburgh, before Lord Braxfield, and it created intense interest, not only throughout the Border but amongst the entire legal faculty. It was proved that thirty-three score of sheep were found on Ormiston bearing Murdison's buist branded over, and, as far as possible, obliterating, the known buists of other farms. None of these sheep had been sold to the prisoners. Many of the animals were known, and were sworn to, by the shepherds on sundry farms, in spite of brands and ear-marks having been altered with some skill. It was proved also that Murdison had sold to farmers at a distance many scores of sheep on which the brands and ear-marks had been "faked." Evidence in the case closed at 5 P.M. on a Saturday, the second day of the trial; speeches of the counsel and the judge's summing up occupied until 11 P.M. of that day; and the jury sat till 5 o'clock on Sunday morning, when they brought in a verdict, by a majority, against Murdison, and an unanimous verdict against Millar, his shepherd. Both prisoners were sentenced to death, and though an appeal was made on various grounds, the sentences were eventually carried out. Whilst he lay in prison under sentence Millar confessed the whole affair to a friend, and the story, as told by the shepherd, possessed some very curious features. He and his master, Murdison, had jointly conceived a scheme by means of which it seemed possible to defraud their neighbours almost with impunity. And, indeed, but for some mischance against which no one could guard, such as happened here when the ewe made back to her old home and her lamb, they might have gone undetected and unsuspected for an indefinite time. The shepherd owned an extraordinarily clever dog, without whose help the scheme could not possibly have been worked, and operations were carried out in the following manner. Murdison knew very well what sheep his neighbours possessed, and where on the hills they were likely to be running. Millar, with his dog "Yarrow," was sent by night to collect the sheep which master and man had determined to steal, and to one so familiar with the hills this was no difficult task. The chief danger was that in the short nights of a Scottish summer he might be seen going or returning. Therefore, when daylight began to appear, if the sheep had already been got well on their way towards Ormiston, Millar would leave "Yarrow" to finish the drive single-handed, a task which the dog always carried out most successfully if it could be done reasonably early, before people began to move abroad out of their houses. But as soon as the dog caught sight of strangers he would at once leave the sheep and run home by a circuitous route. One such instance Millar particularly mentioned. He had collected a lot of old ewes one night, but had utterly failed, even with "Yarrow's" help, to get them down a steep hill and across Tweed in the dark. Accordingly, as usual when day broke, he left the ewes in charge of the dog, and by low-lying ways, where he would be little likely to attract attention, he betook himself home. From a spot at some distance Millar looked back and for a time watched "Yarrow," in dead silence, but with marvellous energy, trying to bustle the ewes into the river. Time and again he would get them to the edge of the pool and attempt to "rush" them in; time and again he failed, and the ewes broke back--for of all created creatures no breathing thing is so obstinate as an old ewe. Finally, the dog succeeded in forcing two into the water, but no power on earth could drive the others farther than the brink, and the only result was that by their presence they effectually prevented those already in the water from leaving it, and in the end the two were drowned. At last "Yarrow" seemed to realise that he was beaten, and that to persevere farther would be dangerous, and he left the ewes and started for home. The sheep were seen later that day making their way home, all raddled with new keel with which Millar had marked them in a small "stell" which he had passed when the ewes were first collected. "Faking" the brands, Millar confessed, used to be done by him and his master on a Sunday, in the vault of a neighbouring old peel tower, and at a time when everyone else was at church. It was easy enough, without exciting suspicion, to run the sheep into the yards on a Saturday night, and thence to the vaults, and no one would ever see the work of altering the buists going on, for "Yarrow" sat outside, and always, by barking, gave timely notice of the approach of any undesirable person. The report was current in the country after the executions that the dog was hanged at the same time as his master, a rumour probably originated by the hawking about Edinburgh streets of a broadside, entitled the "Last Dying Speech and Confession of the Dog Yarrow." In reality "Yarrow" was sold to a farmer in the neighbourhood of Peebles, but, strange to say, though as a thief he had been so supernaturally clever, as a dog employed in honest pursuits his intelligence was much below the average. Perhaps he was clever enough to be wilfully stupid; or maybe he had become so used to following crooked paths that the straight road seemed to him a place full of suspicion and dread. In his _Shepherd's Calendar_ Hogg tells several tales of dogs owned by sheep-stealers, to which he says he cannot attach credit "without believing the animals to have been devils incarnate, come to the earth for the destruction of both the souls and bodies of men." And certainly there was something uncanny, something almost devilish and malevolent, in the persistency with which they lured their masters on to crime. One young shepherd, for instance, after long strivings succumbed to the temptation to steal sheep from a far-distant farm, where at one time he had been employed. Mounted on a pony, and accompanied by a dog, the young man arrived at the far-off hill one moon-lit night, mustered the sheep he meant to steal, and started to drive them towards Edinburgh. Then, before even he had got them off the farm, conscience awoke--or was it fear of the consequences?--and he called off his dog, letting the sheep return to the hill. Congratulating himself on being well out of an ugly business, he had ridden on his homeward way a matter of three miles when again and again there came over him an eerie feeling that he was being followed, though when he looked back nothing was to be seen but dim moor and hill sleeping in the moonlight. Yet again and again it returned, that strange feeling, and with it now something like the whispering of innumerable little feet brushing through bent and heather. Then came a distant rushing sound and the panting as of an animal sore spent, and hard on the shepherd's tracks there appeared over a knoll an overdriven mob of sheep flying before the silent, demoniacal, tireless energy of his own dog. He had never noticed that the animal had left him, but now, having once more turned the sheep towards their home, and severely chid his dog, he resolved that it should not again have the chance to play him such a trick. For a mile all went well, then suddenly the beast was gone. Dawn was breaking; he dared not stop where he was, nor dared to return to meet the dog. All that he could do was to take a route he was certain his dog did not know, and so would be sure not to follow, and thus he might abandon the animal to its own devices, hoping that he himself might not be compromised. For in his own mind he was very sure that the dog had once more gone back to collect the sheep. By a circuitous route which he had never followed before, going in at least one instance through a gate, which he securely fastened behind him, the shepherd at length reached a farm-house, where, as it chanced, both his sister and his sweetheart were in service. Here he breakfasted, and remained some time, and still there was no sign of the dog. All was no doubt well; after all, the beast must have somehow missed him in the night and had gone home; after the punishment he had received he would never have gone back again for the sheep. So, comparatively light of heart, the shepherd was just about to start on his journey, when up there came to him a man: "Ye'll hae missed your dowg, I'm thinking? But ye needna' fash; he's waitin' for ye doon by the Crooked Yett, wi' a' your yowes safe enough." It was useless after this. The wretched man gave in; he struggled no more, but actually went off with the sheep and sold them. And the gallows ended his career. But how the dog followed him is a mystery, and why he waited for him at the "Crooked Yett." For miles he must have tracked him by the scent of the feet of the pony the shepherd rode. But he never came within sight of the farm-house, and how did he know to wait at the gate? Instances of depravity amongst animals are not altogether unknown, though they are rare. A case is mentioned in _Blackwood's Magazine_ of October 1817, where a lady walking along a London street had her bag snatched from her by a drover's dog. The animal, apparently without any master, was noticed lying, seemingly asleep, by the pavement-side, but on the approach of the lady it sprang suddenly up, snatched from her hand what is described as her "ridicule," and made off at full gallop. On inquiry it was ascertained that the dog was well known as a thief, and that his habit was to lie in the street, apparently taking no notice of passers-by until a lady with a bag, or some poor woman carrying a bundle, came by, when he would jump up, snatch the bag or bundle from its bearer's hand, and make off, no doubt to join a master who waited in security whilst his dog stole for him. On the special occasion here mentioned the lady lost with her bag one sovereign, eighteen shillings in silver, a pair of spectacles, and various papers and small articles. There is also on record the case of a good-looking spaniel which was bought in London from a dog-fancier by a wealthy young man. The new owner soon observed that, when out with the dog, if he entered a shop the animal invariably remained outside for a time, and that, when at last he did follow his master, the presence of the latter was persistently ignored, nor would the spaniel take any notice when his master left the shop, but continued unconcernedly to sniff about; or else he would lie down and seem to fall asleep. Invariably after this the animal would turn up at home, carrying in his mouth a pair of gloves, or some other article which his master had happened to handle whilst in the shop. By going to establishments where he was known, and giving notice of what he expected to happen, the owner of the dog was enabled to try a series of experiments, and he found that the spaniel would sometimes remain quietly in a shop for hours until the door chanced to be left open, when, if no one appeared to be watching him, he would jump up on the counter, seize some article, bolt with it down the street, and make his way home. There was also known to the writer, some years ago, a big, honest-looking, clever mongrel, which was taken by his master to India. "Sandy" became quite a regimental pet, but, though friendly with the whole regiment, he clung throughout faithfully to his master. He was a big, heavy dog, with a good deal of the bull in him, and more than a suspicion of collie. The combination of these two breeds made him an exceptionally formidable fighter. Nothing could flurry him, and his great weight and powerful jaw gained him an easy victory over anything he ever met, even when tackled one dark night by a young panther. Unfortunately he developed a passion for killing everything that walked on four legs--short of a horse or an elephant--and of domestic pets and of poultry he took heavy toll. Nothing could break him of this propensity; he would take any punishment quite placidly, and then straightway repeat the offence at the first opportunity. And he developed also a curious habit of tracking his master when he dined out. No matter how "Sandy" was fastened up in barracks, before the meal was half over in the bungalow where his master happened to be dining, in would march the dog, quite calm and apparently at home, and would make willing friends with everyone at table, except with his master, whom he would steadily ignore throughout the evening. Though "Sandy" was very far from being a lady's dog, and though at ordinary times he would take small notice of ladies, yet now he would most gently and affectionately submit to be caressed and fondled by all the ladies at table, and would apparently in reality be the "sweet," good-natured "pet" they styled him; yet too well his master knew from bitter experience that already that evening had Death, in the shape of "Sandy," stalked heavy-footed amongst the domestic pets and poultry of that bungalow. And morning always revealed a formidable list of dead. "Sandy's" bite was sure; he left no wounded on the field of his labours. A PRIVATE OF THE KING'S OWN SCOTTISH BORDERERS As the evening closed in, the heavy south-westerly gale that had raged throughout the long-drawn summer's day gradually dropped, and blew now only in fitful gusts. Instead of the sullen, unending roar of artillery, which till past mid-day had stunned the ear, there was now to be heard only the muttering of distant thunder; the flash of guns was replaced by the glare of lightning flickering against the dark background of heavy cloud that hung low on the horizon; and, except for an irregular splutter of musketry, or an occasional dropping shot from direction of the town, the ominous, sustained rattle of small-arms had now entirely ceased. The night of the 31st July 1759 had seen the French army march out beyond the ramparts of Minden, to take up position against the Allied Forces under Duke Ferdinand of Brunswick. So fiercely blew the gale then that it drowned the sound of the town clocks striking midnight; so furiously raged the storm with the coming of day that, to windward, even the roar of cannon could not be heard, and it was only the dense clouds of smoke that told they were engaged. As day broke on the 1st of August the French, under a heavy artillery fire, had attacked with fury, but now, repulsed and broken at every point, they were driven back to their old position behind the town ramparts, where for a few hours longer they staved off surrender. On the Allied right, where fighting had been hottest and most stubborn, the chief brunt of the action fell on six regiments of British infantry, supported by three battalions of Hanoverians. Never have troops of any nation reaped greater glory, nor earned more lasting fame, than that day fell to the lot of those battalions. In the first line were the 12th, 37th, and 23rd Regiments; in the second line, the 20th, 51st, and 25th, the latter that famous regiment raised in Scotland in the year 1688 by the Earl of Leven, and then called "Leven's" or the Edinburgh Regiment. At Minden it fought as Sempil's Regiment, later it was known as the King's Own Borderers, and now it is familiar to all as the King's Own Scottish Borderers. Entirely unsupported, these two lines of scarlet-clad men marched steadily against a mass of cavalry, the flower of the French army. Without haste, without even a sign of hesitation or of wavering, over ground swept by the fire of more than sixty cannon, they moved--a fire that ploughed through their ranks and mowed down men as the hurricane blast smites to the earth trees in a forest of pines. Not till the threatening squadrons of horse began to get into motion did these British regiments halt, and then, pausing coolly till the galloping ranks were all but within striking distance, they fired a volley so withering that men and horses fell in swathes, while the survivors reeled in confusion back on their supports. Never before had volley so crushing been fired by British troops. Up to that day, musketry had seldom been blasting in effect; firelocks then in use were singularly clumsy weapons, noted for anything but accuracy, and, to add to their inefficiency, it was not the practice to bring the cumbersome piece to the shoulder, and thus to take aim, but rather, the method was to raise the firelock breast high and trust to chance that an enemy might be in the line of fire. Now all was changed. During the Peace troops had been taught to aim from the shoulder, and Minden showed the effect. In spite of their losses, however, the French horse rallied and came again to the attack, this time supported by four brigades of infantry and thirty-two guns. "For a moment the lines of scarlet seemed to waver under the triple attack; but, recovering themselves, they closed up their ranks and met the charging squadrons with a storm of musketry which blasted them off the field, then turning with equal fierceness upon the French infantry, they beat them back with terrible loss."[2] [2: Fortescue, _History of the Army_.] Yet again the enemy came on; squadrons that up to now had not encountered those terrible islanders, thundered down upon them, undaunted. Through the first line this time the horsemen burst their way, and surely now they must carry all before them. But no farther went the measure of their success; the second line shattered them to fragments, and all was over. Back behind the ramparts fell the French, crushed and dispirited, for nothing now remained to them but surrender. And for this great victory Prince Ferdinand's thanks were chiefly bestowed on those British regiments whose magnificent valour and steadiness had alone made it possible. But the British cavalry, under Lord George Sackville, did not come in for equal commendation. Lord George and the Prince had long been at daggers drawn. Hence, probably, it may have been, that when the French were broken and in full flight, and Prince Ferdinand's repeated orders to bring up his cavalry reached Lord George, that officer ignored or wilfully disobeyed them. The Marquis of Granby, Lord George's second in command, had already begun to move forward with the Blues, and behind were the Scots Greys and other famous regiments, thirsting to be at the throats of the French. But Lord George Sackville's peremptory orders brought them to a grudging and reluctant halt. Thus, throughout an engagement which brought honour so great to their countrymen, the British cavalry stood idle in the rear, chafing at their inaction and openly murmuring. And now that all chance of further fighting was over for the day, parties of the men, irritated and bent on picking a quarrel, had strayed from their own lines, and made their way over to the bivouacs of the British infantry regiments, where already camp fires were twinkling, and the men around them slaking with wine throats parched by long hours of marching and fighting. Those were days when, after a victory, discipline went to the wall and was practically non-existent; they were days when the bodies of those who were killed in action were robbed, almost as they fell--nay, when even the wounded, as they lay helpless, were stripped naked by their own comrades and left to perish on the field (though _that_, indeed, was common enough amongst our troops even in the Peninsular War half a century later). And now, here at Minden, as ever after a great engagement, when villages or towns are sacked, much plunder had fallen into the hands of the victorious army; wine and brandy from the wine-houses of the wrecked villages was being poured recklessly down the ever-thirsty throats of the men, and soldiers, already half drunk, were to be seen knocking out the heads of up-ended wine-casks the quicker to get at their contents, whilst others, shouting and singing, reeled about, many of them perhaps with a couple of loaves, or a ham, or what not, stuck on their bayonets. Such scenes, and scenes worse by far, were but too common in those days, and even the authority of officers was of small avail at such a time. Into the midst of such a pandemonium as this came small parties of the cavalry, most of them already excited with drink and ready for any devilry. Among the noisiest and most quarrelsome of the dragoons were two non-commissioned officers--brutal-looking ruffians both of them--who made their way from group to group, drinking wherever the chance offered, shouting obscene songs, and making themselves insufferably offensive whenever a man more quietly disposed than his comrades happened to be met. Boastful and quarrelsome, these two, with a few dragoons of different regiments, at length attached themselves to Sempil's Regiment, amongst whom it chanced that a group of men, more quiet and well-behaved than the general run, sat around a fire, cleaning their arms or cooking rations, and discussing the battle and the heavy losses of the regiment. It was not difficult to guess that the majority of the group were men bred among the great, sweeping, round-backed hills of the Scottish Border--from "up the watters" in Selkirk or Peeblesshires, some of them, others again perhaps from Liddesdale, Eskdale, or Annandale, or one of the many dales famous in Border history; you could hear it in their tongue. But also there was in those quiet, strongly-built men something that spoke of the old, dour, unconquerable, fighting Border stock that for so many centuries lived at feud with English neighbours. Many of them had joined the regiment four years earlier, when it had passed through the Border on its march from Fort William to Buckinghamshire. But if they had seen much service since then, never had they seen anything to approach this famous day of Minden, and as the long casualty list was discussed, many were the good Border names mentioned that belonged to men now lying stiff and cold in death, who that morning when the sun rose were hale and well. "Rob Scott's gane," said one. "Ay, and Tam Elliot," said a grizzled veteran. "I kenned, and _he_ kenned, he wad never win through this day. He telled me that his deid faither, him that was killed at Prestonpans, had twice appeared tae him. And we a' ken what _that_ aye means. Some o' you dragoon lads maybe saw as muckle as ye cared for o' auld Scotland that day o' Prestonpans?" "And if we did, Scottie, we made up for it later," bawled one of the two dragoon non-commissioned officers. "Ay? And whan was that, lad? At Falkirk, belike!" "No, it wasn't at Falkirk, Scottie. But fine sport we had when we went huntin' down them rebels about your Border country, after Culloden had settled their business. By G----! I mind once I starved an old Scotch witch that lived up there among your cursed hills. She was preaching, and psalm-singing, and bragging about how the Lord would provide for the widowed and fatherless, or some cant of that sort. But _I_ soon put her to the test." "Ay?" said a stern-faced, youngish man, dressed in the uniform of a private of Sempil's Regiment, jumping up hurriedly in front of the dragoon, "ay? And what did ye do?" "Do?" replied the cavalryman; "why, I just sliced the throat of the old witch's cow, and I cut all her garden stuff and threw it into the burn. I'm thinking it would take a deal o' prayer to get the better o' that! But, oh! no doubt the Lord would provide, as she said," sneered the man. "And was that in Nithsdale?" asked the young Borderer. "It was," said the dragoon. "An' ye did that, an' ye hae nae thocht o' repentance?" "Repentance! What's there to repent? D---- you, I tell you she was a witch, and I gave her no more than a witch deserves," roared the half-tipsy dragoon. "Then, by God! I tell _you_ it was my mother that you mishandled that day. Draw! you bloody dog! Draw!" shouted the now thoroughly roused Borderer, snatching from its scabbard the sabre of a dragoon who stood close at hand. It was no great fight. The cavalryman had doubtless by far the greater skill with the sabre; but drink muddled his brain and hampered his movements, and the whirlwind attack of the younger man gave no rest to his opponent nor opportunity to steady himself. In little more than a minute the dragoon lay gasping out his life. "Had ye rued what ye did, ye should hae been dealt wi' only by your Maker," muttered the Borderer as the dead man's comrades bore away the body. "Little did I look to see _you_ this day after a' they years, or to have _your_ bluid on my hands. It was an ill chance that brought us thegither again, and an ill day for me an' mine that lang syne brought you into our quiet glen." But the incident did not end here. The private soldier had slain his superior in rank, and but for the strenuous representations of his company commander and sure friend, a native of his own part of the Border, it had gone hard with Private Maxwell. The story, as told to his captain, was this. Maxwell, then a half-grown boy, lived with his mother in a lonely cottage in a quiet Dumfriesshire glen. They came of decent folk, but were very poor, sometimes in the winter being even hard put to it to find sufficient food. The father, and all the family but this one boy, were dead; the former had perished on the hill during a great snowstorm, and the sons, long after, had all died, swept off by an outbreak of smallpox. Thus the widow and her one remaining boy were left almost in destitution; but by the exercise of severe economy and by hard work, they managed to cling to their little cottage. One morning--it was a day in the summer of 1746; the heather was bursting into bloom, shadows of great fleecy clouds trailed sleepily over the quiet hillsides, larks sang high in the heavens, blue-bells swung their heads lazily in the gentle breeze, and all things spoke of peace--there came the tramp of horses down the glen, past the rocks where the rowan-trees grew, and so up to the cottage door. "Hi, old lady!" shouted the sergeant in charge of a half-dozen dragoons, "we must ha' some'at to eat and drink. We've been scouring them infernal hills since break o' day, and it's time we picked a bit." "Weel, sirs," said the poor widow, "it's but little I hae gotten, but that little ye shall freely hae." And she brought them "lang kale" and butter, and for drink offered them new milk, saying, as she handed it to the man, that this was her whole stock. "Whole stock!" growled one who did not relish such food, "whole stock! A likely story! I daresay, if the truth was known, the old hag's feeding a rebel she's got hidden away in some snug hole hereaway." "'Deed, sirs, there's no rebels here. An' that's a' my son an' me has to live on." "How do you live in this outlandish spot all the year round, then, mistress?" "Indeed, sir," said the woman, "the cow and the kailyaird, and whiles a pickle oat meal, wi' God's blessing, is a' my _mailen_. The Lord has provided for the widow and the faitherless, and He'll aye provide." "We'll soon see about that," said the ruffian. With his sabre, and paying no heed to the helpless woman's lamentations or to the half-hearted remonstrances of his comrades, he killed the poor widow's cow; then going to the little patch of garden, he tore up and threw into the burn all the stock of kail. "There, you old rebel witch," said he, with a heartless laugh, as the party set forward again, "you may live on God's blessing now." It broke the poor toil-worn widow's heart, and she died ere the summer was ended. Lost to the ken of his few friends, her boy wandered sorrowfully to another part of the country, and winter storms soon left but the crumbling walls and broken roof of what had been his home. Thirteen years, almost to a day, passed ere fate brought together again the man who committed that foul wrong and his surviving victim. If retribution came with halting foot, it came none the less surely, for "though the mills of God grind slowly, they grind exceeding small." HIGHWAYMEN IN THE BORDER It can scarcely be said that the Border, either north or south of Tweed, has ever as a field of operations been favoured by highwaymen. Fat purses were few in those parts, and if he attempted to rob a farmer homeward bound from fair or tryst--one who, perhaps, like Dandie Dinmont on such an occasion, temporarily carried rather more sail than he had ballast for--a knight of the road would have been quite as likely to take a broken head as a full purse. There has occasionally been some disposition to claim as a north country asset, Nevison, the notorious highwayman, who is said to have been the true hero of the celebrated ride to York, which, in his novel, _Rookwood_, Mr. Harrison Ainsworth assigns to Dick Turpin. Nevison, however, was a north countryman only in the sense that he was born in Yorkshire, and he never did frequent any part of the north country, but confined his operations chiefly to districts adjacent to London, where he flew at higher game than in those days was generally to be found travelling Border roads. Nor in reality was it he who took that great ride to York. The feat was accomplished in the year 1676 by a man named Nicks, if Defoe's account is to be relied on. Nicks committed a robbery at Gadshill, near Chatham, at about four o'clock one summer's morning. Knowing that, in spite of his crape mask, his victim had recognised him, Nicks galloped to Gravesend, where, together with his mare, he crossed the Thames by boat, then swung smartly across country to Chelmsford, and thence on, with only necessary halts to bait his horse, by way of Cambridge, through Huntingdon, and so on to the Great North Road. Without ever changing his mount, he reached York early that evening, having taken only fifteen hours for a journey of two hundred miles. If the time is correct, she must have been a great mare, and he a consummate horse-master. At his subsequent trial, as it was proved beyond question that in the evening of the day on which the robbery took place he had played bowls in York with well-known citizens, the jury, holding it to be impossible that any person could have been on the same day in two places so far apart as Gadshill and York, on that ground acquitted the prisoner. But if Nevison, nor Nicks, nor Turpin, ever crossed into Scotland, there were others, less known to fame, who occasionally tried their fortune in that country. In the early part of the year 1664, robberies, highway and otherwise, were of extraordinary frequency in Scotland, and this was attributed to the great poverty then prevalent amongst the people, owing to "the haill money of the kingdom being spent by the frequent resort of our Scotsmen at the Court of England." In 1692-3 there seems to have been what one might almost call an epidemic of highway robbery over the southern part of Scotland, and he was quite a picturesque ruffian who robbed William M'Fadyen near Dumfries on 10th December 1692. Or, rather, there were two ruffians engaged in the affair. M'Fadyen was a drover who had been paid at Dumfries a sum of £150 for cattle sold. Sleeping overnight in the town, the drover started for home next morning before daylight. Possibly he had seen at the inn the previous evening some one whose appearance or manner made him uneasy, and being a cautious man, with a good deal of money in his possession, he had hoped by an early start to give this suspected person the slip. A clear, cold December morning, stars winking frostily in a cloudless sky, and a waning moon casting sharp black shadows over the whitened ground, saw him out of Dumfries, and well on his homeward road. And, as he blew on his fingers, and beat his unoccupied hand briskly against his thigh, to warm himself withal, M'Fadyen chuckled to think how cleverly and quietly he had slipped unnoticed from the inn and through the town. They must be up early indeed who would weather on _him_! And so, ruminating somewhat vain-gloriously, he pushed on over the ringing ground, his horse snorting frosty breaths on the chill air, and inclined to hump his back and squeal on the smallest excuse. Mile after mile slipped easily behind him, and the sun began to show a blood-red face over the hill; a "hare limped trembling through the frozen grass," and crows cawed hungrily as they flew past on sluggish, blue-black wing, questing for food. The world was awake now, and M'Fadyen reckoned that by a couple of hours after noon he should be safe home with his money. Only--who was that on the road ahead of him? A soldier by his coat, surely, with his servant riding behind. Well, so much the better; that would be company for him over the loneliest part of his ride, across the moor which bore an evil name. So M'Fadyen pressed on, and soon he caught up the two riders, first the servant, "mounted upon ane dark grey horse" and armed with a "long gun"; then the master, also riding a dark grey horse, and dressed in a scarlet coat with gold-thread buttons. A tall man, the latter--a striking-looking man, quite a personage, with thin refined face and high Roman nose; instead of a wig he wore his own brown hair tied in a cue behind, and over one eye he had a notable peculiarity, "a wrat (wart) as big as ane nut." In his holsters this gentleman carried a brace of pistols. Surely here was good fortune for M'Fadyen! A party so well armed could afford to look with contempt on any highwayman that ever cried "Stand and deliver" over all broad Scotland. And it was not long before the honest drover, in the joy of his heart at finding himself in such goodly company, had expressed to the red-coated stranger the pleasure it would give him if he might be granted the escort across the moor of a gentleman so well armed and mounted; "for," said he, "in sic ill times it was maist mischancey wark to ride far ane's lane." Little objection had the tall gentleman in red to make to such a proposition, and on they rode, amicably enough, with just such dryness of manner on the stranger's part as the humble drover might expect from an army officer, yet nothing to keep his tongue from wagging. "It was a gey kittle bit they were comin' to, where the firs stude, and he wad hae liked ill to be rubbit. Muckle? O--oo, no; just a wee pickle siller, but nae man likit to lose onything. And folk said they highwayman wad skin the breeks aff a Hielandman. No that he was a Hielandman, though his name did begin wi' a "Mac." And so chattering, they had already won half-way across that lonely stretch of moor regarding which the drover had had misgivings. And even as they came abreast of that thick clump of stunted firs, up to M'Fadyen rode the servant, pointing towards the trees, and saying: "This is our way. Come ye wi' me." There were few roads--such as they were--in the south of Scotland with which M'Fadyen's business as a drover had not made him familiar, and naturally he refused now to leave a track which he knew to be the right one. Whereupon the servant up with his "long-gun" and struck him heavily over the head with the butt; and as M'Fadyen strove to defend himself and to retaliate, up rode the master, clapped a pistol to his breast, and forced him to go with them behind the clump of trees. The last M'Fadyen saw of his pleasant escort was the two knaves cantering over the heath, bearing with them his cloak-bag containing his £150. A great fuss was made over this robbery, and the Privy Council took the matter up. The chief robber was undoubtedly an officer, said M'Fadyen, and besides the large wart over his eye, there were other marks which made him noticeable--for example, "the little finger of his left hand bowed towards his loof." Notwithstanding these tell-tale marks, neither robber was ever found; M'Fadyen and his hard-earned £150 had parted company for ever. And though the Privy Council went so far as to "recommend Sir James Leslie, commander-in-chief for the time being of their Majesties' forces within this kingdom, to cause make trial if there be any such person, either officer or soldier, amongst their Majesties' forces, as the persons described," no one was ever brought to book, either amongst the troops in Scotland, or amongst "the officers which are come over from Flanders to levy recruits." Not so fortunate as this scarlet-coated gentleman was Mr. Hudson, _alias_ Hazlitt, who in 1770 stopped a post-chaise on Gateshead Fell, near Newcastle, and robbed the occupant, a lady who was returning to Newcastle from Durham. A poor-spirited creature was this Hudson, a little London clerk gone wrong, and he trembled so excessively when robbing the lady that she plucked up spirit, and, protesting that half a guinea was all she had, got off with the loss of that modest sum, not even having her watch taken. Despite his pistol, one cannot but feel that of the two the lady was the better man, and that, had it occurred to her, she might very readily have bundled the highwayman neck and crop into her chaise, and handed him over to the authorities. His career, however, was almost as brief as if she had done so. That same evening he robbed a mounted postman of his mail-bags--having first ascertained that the postman was unarmed. And here Hudson came to the end of his tether. The postman gave the alarm, and the robber was arrested in Newcastle the following day, some of the property lost from the mail-bags still in his possession. At his trial the following week at Durham Assizes he did not attempt to make any defence, but after conviction, by confessing where the booty was hid, he made what reparation lay in his power. Poor wretch! He had not even the posthumous satisfaction of going down to posterity as a bold, bad man, a hero of the road. Not for him was it to emulate Jack Shepherd or Dick Turpin; he was of feebler clay, unfitted to excel in evil-doing. After the barbarous fashion of the day, they hanged his body in chains on the scene of his poor, feebly-executed crimes; and there, on Gateshead Fell, through many a dreary winter's night, fringed with loathly icicles, lashed by rains, battered by hail, dangled that pitiful, shrunken figure, creaking dolefully, as it swung to and fro in the bitter blasts that come howling in from a storm-tossed North Sea. And far from acting as the warning intended to others, so little was this gruesome thing a "terror to evil-doers," that the vicinity of the gibbet actually became a place noted for the frequency of crimes of violence. There have been others, of course, who might perhaps be recognised as Border highwaymen, though not many of them could claim to have achieved even moderate notoriety. Drummond, who was hanged at Tyburn in 1730, certainly began his infamous career in the north, but that was quite a petty beginning, and--at least after his return from transportation to the Virginian Plantations--his chief haunts were Hounslow or Bagshot Heaths, or other places in the neighbourhood of London. But at least there was one Border highwayman--or is "footpad" here the more correct term?--who, if the story is true, may surely claim to have been the most picturesque and romantic of criminals. In this instance the malefactor was a woman, not a man, and her name was Grizel Cochrane, member of (or at least sprung from) a noble family, which later produced one of the most famous seamen in the annals of naval history. Her story is very well known, and it may therefore be sufficient to say here that her father, having been concerned in one of the many political conspiracies which in those days were judged to merit death, lay in prison under sentence, and that, to save his life, the brave lady, disguised as a man, on two separate occasions, on Tweedmouth moor, robbed the mail by which her father's death warrant was being conveyed from London to Edinburgh. Thus she twice prevented the sentence from being carried out, and eventually the prisoner was pardoned. The greater number of highway robberies in the Border, however, were accomplished without the aid of a horse or the disguise of a crape mask. The Border highwayman, as a rule, was no picturesque Claude Duval, no chivalrous villain of romance who would tread a measure in the moonlight with the lady whose coach he had plundered, thereafter returning her jewels in recompense for the favour of the dance. He was much more often of the squalid type--in a word, a footpad--frequently a member of some wandering gipsy gang, who, attending country fair or tryst, had little difficulty in ascertaining which one of the many farmers present it would be easiest and most profitable to rob as he steered his more or less devious course homeward in the evening across the waste. What the farmer had that day been paid for his cattle or sheep he usually carried with him, probably in the form of gold; for in those days there were of course no country agencies of banks in which the money might be safely deposited. Not unusually, too, the farmer had swallowed enough liquor to make him reckless of consequences; and the loneliness of the country-side, and the absence of decent roads, too often combined with the condition of the farmer to make him an easy prey to some little band of miscreants who had dogged him from the fair. Frequently, too, these robbers were in league with the keepers of low roadside public-houses, where passengers on their homeward way were encouraged--nothing loth, as a rule--to halt and refresh steed and rider, and possibly whilst they drank their pistols were tampered with. Who does not remember the meeting of Harry Bertram and Dandie Dinmont in such a place? And who has not read in the author's notes to _Guy Mannering_, Sir Walter's account of the visit to Mump's Ha' of Fighting Charlie of Liddesdale, and what befell him thereafter? In spite of a head that the potations pressed on him by an over-kind landlady had caused to hum like an angry hive of bees, Charlie had sense enough, after he had travelled a few miles on his homeward way, to examine his pistols. Finding that the charges had been drawn and tow substituted, Charlie, now considerably sobered, carefully reloaded them, a precaution which certainly saved his money, and possibly his life as well, for he was presently attacked by a party of armed men, who, however, fled on finding that "the tow was out." Mump's Ha' was in Cumberland, near Gilsland. In olden days it was a place of most evil repute, but one may question if in ill name it could take precedence of a similar establishment which in the days of our great-grandfathers stood on Soutra Hill, on the Lauder road. Travellers had need to give this place a wide berth, for it was a veritable den--indeed "Lowrie's Den" was the name by which it was known, and feared, by every respectable person. Many a bloody, drunken fight took place there, many were the evil deeds done and the robberies committed; not even was murder unknown in its immediate vicinity. Well for us that in our day we know of such places only by ancient repute. When we talk regretfully of "the good old days," we are apt to leave out of the reckoning those Mump's Ha's and Lowrie's Dens of our forefathers' times; we forget to add to the burden of a journey such items as indifferent roads and highway robbers, and the possibility of reaching one's destination minus purse, watch, or rings. From an encounter with highwaymen, few passengers emerged with flying colours, having had the best of the deal. Not to many persons was such fortune given as fell to the lot of a country lass near Kelso one winter's evening. She had little enough to lose in the way of money or valuables, and it was "bogles," more than the fear of footpads that disturbed her mind as she stumped along that muddy road in the gathering gloom. Consequently, after one terrified shriek, it was almost a relief to her to find that the two figures which bounced out on her from the blackness, demanding her money, were flesh and blood like herself, and not denizens of another world. Five or six shillings was all that the poor lass possessed, but they took that paltry sum. Only, when she pled hard that they should leave her at least a trifle to take to her mother, who was very poor, one of the footpads relented, and with a gruff, "Hey, then!" thrust three coins back into her not unwilling hand. With a mixture of joy and fear the girl fled into the darkness, but as she ran, she thought she heard a shout, and soon, to her consternation, she made certain that hurrying footsteps were coming up behind her. In dire terror now, she left the road, and crept into some bushes in an adjacent hollow. There, with thumping heart, she cowered whilst two men ran past, and presently, whilst she still lay hid, they returned, vowing loud vengeance on some person who had "done" them. It was long ere the poor girl dared leave her shelter, late ere she got home to tell her tale to an anxious mother. But when the three rescued shillings were produced, the cause of the robbers' anger was not far to seek; they were not shillings that came this time from the depths of a capacious pocket, but three golden guineas. CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE When the skipper of some small coastal trading craft is able to retire from leading a sea-faring life, it is usually within close range of the briny, tarry whiffs that with every breeze come puffing from the harbour of some little port out of which he has formerly traded that he sets up his shore-going abode. There, when he has paid off for the last time, and everything, so to speak, is coiled down and made ship-shape, he settles within easy hail of old cronies like himself; and if he should chance to be one of those who have lived all their days with only their ship for wife, then he not unnaturally falls easily into the habit of dropping, of an evening, into the snug, well-lit bar-parlour of the "Goat and Compasses" or the "Mariner's Friend," or some such house of entertainment, with its glowing fire and warm, seductive, tobacco-and grog-scented atmosphere, there to wile away the time swopping yarns with old friends. Sometimes, if opportunity offer, he is not averse from a mild game of cards for moderate points; and usually he takes, or at least in old days he used to take, his liquor hot--and strong. Captain Alexander Craes was one of those retired merchant skippers; but he had not, like the majority of his fellows, settled near the sea-coast. It was Kelso that had drawn him like a loadstone. An inland-bred man, in his boyhood he had run away to sea, and the sea, that had irresistibly woed his youthful fancy, had no whit fulfilled his boyish dreams. It was not always blue, he found; the ship was not always running before a spanking breeze; more kicks than ha'pence, more rope's-endings than blessings, came his way during the first few years of his sailor life. Perhaps it was because he had been ashamed to go back and own himself beaten, or perhaps it was his native Border dourness that had caused him to stick to it; but at any rate he did stick to it--though, like most sailors, he growled, and even swore sometimes, that he hated the life. And now, in the winter of 1784-5, here he was in Kelso, stout, weather-beaten, grey-headed, over fifty, living within earshot of the deep voice of flooded Tweed roaring and fretting over the barrier with which the devil, at bidding of Michael Scott the Wizard, long syne dammed its course. Many a time when the captain's little vessel, close hauled, had been threshing through leaden-grey seas under hurrying, leaden-grey skies and bitter snow squalls, with a foul wind persistently pounding at her day after day, he had thought, as some more than ordinarily angry puff whitened the water to windward and broke him off his course, with the weather leech of his close-reefed topsail shivering, how pleasant it must be to be a landsman, to go where he pleased in spite of wind or weather. Ah! they were the happy ones, those lucky landsmen, who could always do as they chose, blow high, blow low. Well, here he was at last, drinking in all a landsman's pleasures, enjoying his privileges--and not too old yet, he told himself with self-conscious chuckle, to raise a pleasant flutter of expectation in the hearts of Kelso's widows and maidens. Not that he was a marrying man, he would sometimes protest; far from it, indeed. Yet they did say that the landlord of a rival inn was heard to remark that "the cauptain gaed ower aften to Lucky G----'s howf. It wasna hardlys decent, an' her man no deid a twalmonth." Maybe, however, the good widow's brand of whisky was more grateful to the captain's palate, or the company assembled in her snug parlour lightsomer, or at least less dour, than was to be found at the rival inn, where the landlord was an elder of the kirk and most stern opponent of all lightness and frivolity. Whatever the cause, however, it is certain that the captain did acquire the habit of dropping in very frequently at the widow's, where he was always a welcome guest. And it was from a merry evening there that, with a "tumbler" or two inside his ample waistcoat, he set out for home one black February night when a gusty wind drove thin sleety rain rattling against the window panes of the quiet little town, and emptied the silent, moss-grown streets very effectively. An hour or two later, it might be, two men, Adam Hislop and William Wallace, were noisily steering a somewhat devious and uncertain course homeward, when one of them tripped over a bulky object huddled on the ground, and with an astonished curse fell heavily. "What the de'il's that? Guide us, it's a man! Some puir body the waur o' his drink, ah'm thinkin'. Haud up, maister! Losh! it's the cauptain," he cried, as with the not very efficient aid of his friend he tried to raise the prostrate man. But there was more than drink the matter here. "There's bluid on him!" cried one who had been vainly essaying to clap a battered hat on to the head of the form that lay unconscious in the mud. A hard task it was presently, when his senses began to return, to get the wounded sailor unsteadily on his legs; a harder to get him home. The captain could give but a poor account of how he came to be lying there; thickly and indistinctly he tried to explain that he had laid a course for his own moorings, and had been keeping a bright look-out, when suddenly he had been brought up all standing, and he thought he must have run bows on into some other craft, for he remembered no more than getting a crack over his figurehead. Morning was treading on the heels of night before Hislop and Wallace had got the damaged man home and had left him safely stowed in bed, and themselves were peacefully snoring, unconscious of coming trouble. A day or two passed quietly, and the damaged man already was little the worse of his adventure. Then, however, the rumour quickly spread that not only had the Captain been assaulted, but that he had been robbed. Gossip flew from tongue to tongue, and folk began to look askance on Wallace and Hislop, muttering that "they aye kenned what was to be the outcome"; for who, thought they, but Wallace and Hislop could have been the robbers? They had found him lying, the worse of liquor, having damaged his head in falling, and they had robbed him, either then or when they undressed him in his room, believing that he would have no recollection of what money he had carried that night, nor, indeed, much of the events of the entire evening. It was all quite plain, said those amateur detectives. They wondered what the fiscal was thinking of that he had not clapped the two in jail lang syne. So it fell out that, almost before they realised their danger, the two men were at Jedburgh, being tried on a capital charge. The evidence brought against them was for the most part of no great account, and the old sea captain was unable to say that either man had assaulted him, or, indeed, that he had any clear recollection of anything that had happened after he left the inn. They might have got off--indeed they _would_ have got off--but for one unfortunate circumstance, which in the eyes of the jury completely damned them. In possession of one of them was found a guinea, which the captain had no hesitation in identifying as a peculiarly-marked coin which he had carried about with him for many years. That was enough for the jury. They and counsel for the prosecution would credit no explanation. The story told by Hislop and Wallace was that on the night of the assault they had been drinking and playing cards in a public-house in Kelso; that late in the evening a soldier had come in and had joined in the game, losing a considerable sum; that in consequence of his losses he had produced a guinea, and had asked if any of the company could change it. Hislop had given change, and the guinea found in his possession was that which he had got from the soldier. "A story that would not for a moment hold water," said counsel, when the unfortunate men failed to produce evidence in support of their story; and the judge, in his summing up, agreeing with the opinion of counsel for the prosecution, the jury brought in a verdict of guilty, and both men were condemned to be hanged. On May 17, 1785, this sentence was carried out. But here arose circumstances which caused the credulous--and in those days most people were credulous--first to doubt, and finally to believe implicitly in the innocence of the convicted men. From first to last Wallace and Hislop had both most strongly protested that they were entirely guiltless. That, of course, went for nothing. But when, on the day of execution, the ropes which were used to hang the poor creatures both broke; when the man who ran to fetch sounder hemp fell as he hurried, and broke his leg, then the credulous and fickle public began to imagine that Providence was intervening to save men falsely convicted. Then, too, the tale spread abroad among a simple-minded people how a girl, sick unto death, had said to her mother that when Hislop's time came she would be in heaven with him; and it was told that as Hislop's body, after execution, was carried into that same tenement, in a room of which the sick girl lay, her spirit fled. Judgment, also, was said to have fallen on a woman who occupied a room in that house, and who had violently and excitedly objected to the body of a hanged man being brought to defile any abode which sheltered her. That same evening the body of her own son, found drowned in Tweed, was carried over that threshold across which she had tried to prevent them from bringing the corpse of Hislop. All these events tended to swing round public opinion, and those who formerly had been most satisfied of their guilt, now most strenuously protested their entire belief in the innocence of the hanged men. The years slipped away, however, and there had arisen nothing either to confirm or to dissipate this belief; only the story remained fresh in the minds of Border folk, and the horror of the last scene grew rather than lessened with repeated telling. But there is a belief--not always borne out by facts--that "murder will out"; a faith that, "though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small." Ten years had passed, and the spring of 1795 was at hand, when it chanced one day that a citizen of Newcastle, homeward bound from Morpeth, had reached a point on the road near Gosforth; here, without word or challenge, a footpad, springing on to the road, fired a pistol at the postillion of the postchaise, knocking off the man's cap and injuring his face. The frightened horses plunged, and dashed off madly with the vehicle, leaving in the footpad's possession no booty of greater value, however, than the postillion's cap. Later in the same day the same footpad fired, without effect, on two mounted men, who galloped off and gave the alarm, and a well-armed band setting out from Gosforth soon captured the robber, still with the incriminating postillion's cap in his possession. He was a man named Hall, a soldier belonging to the 6th Regiment of Foot, of which a detachment was then stationed in the district. And he was in uniform, though, as a measure of precaution, and not to make himself too conspicuous, he wore his tunic turned inside out--a disguise that one would pronounce to be something of the simplest. There was, of course, no possible defence--indeed, he owned up, and at the next assizes was condemned to death. And here the link with the fate of Wallace and Hislop came in. As he lay awaiting execution, Hall confessed that it was he, that February night in 1785, who had stunned and robbed Captain Craes. He had seen the old sailor making his not very steady way homewards, and had followed him, and at the loneliest part of the street, where no house showed a light, he came up behind and tripped him; and as the captain essayed to get again on his feet, Hall had struck him a violent blow on the head with a cudgel, stunning him. The man told, too, how a little later he had gone into a public-house to get a drink, and that there he found some men playing at cards; he had joined them, and had lost money, and one of the men (Hislop, as he afterwards understood) had changed for him a guinea which he had a little time before taken from the pocket of the man he had stunned. Thus were Wallace and Hislop added to the long list of the victims of circumstantial evidence. ILLICIT DISTILLING AND SMUGGLING From about the close of the seventeenth until well on in the nineteenth century, smuggling was carried on to a large extent in the Border counties of England and Scotland, not only as regards the evasion of customs duties on imported articles, but as well in the form of illicit distillation. In the good old times, better than half-way through the eighteenth century, cargoes consisting of ankers of French brandy, bales of lace, cases of tobacco, boxes of tea, and what not, were "run" almost nightly on certain parts of the coasts of Berwick, Northumberland, and Galloway, borne inland by long strings of pack-horses, and securely hid away in some snug retreat, perhaps far up among the Border hills. Few of the inhabitants but looked with lenient eye on the doings of the "free-traders"; few, very few, deemed it any crime to take advantage of their opportunities for getting liquor, tea, and tobacco at a cheaper rate than they could buy the same articles after they had paid toll to the King. Smuggled goods, too, were thought to possess quality and flavour better than any belonging to those that had come ashore in legitimate fashion; the smuggler's touch, perhaps, in this respect was-- "... sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes Or Cytherea's breath"; it imparted to the brandy, apparently, a vague, unnameable something that tickled the palate of the drinker, to the tobacco an extra aroma that was grateful to the nostrils of those who smoked it. Nay, the very term "smuggled" raised the standard of those goods in the estimation of some very honest folk, and caused them to smack their lips in anticipation. Perhaps this superstition as to the supreme quality of things smuggled is not even yet wholly dead. Who has not met the hoary waterside ruffian, who, whispering low,--or at least as low as a throat rendered husky by much gin _can_ whisper,--intimates that he can put the "Captain" (he'd promote you to be "Admiral" on the spot if he thought that thereby he might flatter you into buying) on to the "lay" of some cigars--"smuggled," he breathes from behind a black and horny paw, whose condition alone would taint the finest Havanna that ever graced the lips of king or duke--the like of which may be found in no tobacconist's establishment in the United Kingdom. There have been young men, greatly daring, who have been known to traffic with this hoary ruffian, and who have lived to be sadder and wiser men. Of the flavour of those weeds the writer cannot speak, but the reek is as the reek which belches from the Pit of Tophet. However, in the eighteenth century our forefathers, for a variety of reasons, greatly preferred the smuggled goods, and many a squire or wealthy landowner, many a magistrate even, found it by no means to his disadvantage if on occasion he should be a little blind; a still tongue might not unlikely be rewarded by the mysterious arrival of an anker of good French brandy, or by something in the silk, or lace, or tea line for the ladies of his household. People saw no harm in such doings in those good old days; defrauding the revenue was fair game. And if a "gauger" lost his life in some one or other of the bloody encounters that frequently took place between the smugglers and the revenue officers, why, so much the worse for the "gauger." He was an unnecessarily officious sort of a person, who had better have kept out of the way. In fact, popular sentiment was entirely with the smugglers, who by the bulk of the population were regarded with the greatest admiration. Smuggling, indeed, was so much a recognised trade or profession that there was actually a fixed rate at which smuggled goods were conveyed from place to place; for instance, for tea or tobacco from the Solway to Edinburgh the tariff was fifteen shillings per box or bale. A man, therefore, owning three or four horses could, with luck, make a very tidy profit on the carriage, for each horse would carry two packages, and the distances were not great. There was certainly a good sporting chance of the convoy being captured in transit, but the smugglers were daring, determined men, and the possibility of a brush with the preventive officers merely added zest to the affair. Of the other, the distilling branch of the smugglers' business, a great deal was no doubt done in those lonely hills of Northumberland and Roxburgh and the other Border counties. There they had wealth of fuel, abundance of water, and a plentiful choice of solitary places admirably adapted to their purpose; it was easy to rig up a bothy, or hut of turf thatched with heather, in some secluded spot far from the haunts of inconvenient revenue officers, and a Still that would turn out excellent spirit was not difficult to construct. With reasonable care the thing might be done almost with impunity--though there was never wanting, of course, the not entirely unpleasurable excitement of knowing that you were breaking the law, that somebody _might_ have turned informer, and that at any moment a raid might be made. Every unknown face necessarily meant danger, each stranger was a person to be looked on with suspicion till proved harmless. Even the friends and well-wishers of the illicit distiller did not always act in the way most conducive to his comfort and well-being, for if his still turned out a whisky that was extra seductive, he speedily became so popular, so run after, and the list of his acquaintances so extended, that sooner or later tidings of his whereabouts leaked round to the ears of the gaugers, and arrest, or a hasty midnight flitting, was the outcome. Besides, such popularity became a severe tax on the pocket of the distiller, for the better the whisky the greater the number of those who desired to sample it, and the oftener they sampled it, the more they yearned to repeat the process. Nor was it safe to make a charge for the liquor thus consumed, lest it might chance that some one of those who partook of it might, out of revenge for being charged, lay an information. About the end of the eighteenth century there lived in a remote glen on Cheviot a Highlander, one Donald M'Donald, who was famous for the softness and flavour of the spirit he distilled. Whether it was a peculiar quality imparted to his whisky by some secret process known only to Donald himself, a knowledge and skill perhaps handed down from father to son from generation to generation, like the secret of the brewing of heather ale that died with the last of the Picts, one cannot say. Only the fact remains that, like the heather ale of old, Donald's whisky was held in high esteem, its effects on the visitors who began in numbers to seek the seclusion of his bothy, as "blessed" as were ever those of that earlier mysterious beverage beloved of our Pictish ancestors: "From the bonny bells of heather They brewed a drink long-syne, Was sweeter far than honey, Was stronger far than wine. They brewed it, and they drank it, And lay in a blessed swound For days and days together In their dwellings underground." Donald M'Donald had formerly been a smuggler, but he had wearied of that too active life, and he had longed for an occupation more sedentary and less strenuous. Distilling suited his temperament to a nicety. It was what he had been used to see as a boy when his parents were alive, for his father before him had been a "skeely" man in that line. So Donald built to himself a kind of hut in a wild, unfrequented glen. A little burn, clear and brown, ran chattering past his door; on the knolls amongst the heather grouse cocks crowed merrily in the sunny August mornings, and the wail of curlews smote sadly on the ear through the long-drawn summer twilights. Seldom did human foot tread the heather of that glen in the days before Donald took up his abode there; to the raven and the mountain-fox, the muir-fowl and the whaup, alone belonged that kingdom. From afar you might perhaps smell the peat reek as he worked his primitive Still, but unless the smoke of his fire betrayed him, or you knew the secret of his whereabouts, it had been hard to detect the existence of Donald's hut, so skilfully was it constructed, so gently did it blend into the surrounding landscape. Even if it were accidentally come upon, there was nothing immediately visible which could excite suspicion. At a bend in the stream, where the banks were steep, and the burn tumbled noisily over a little linn, dashing past the rowan trees that clung there amongst its rocks, and plunging headlong into a deep black pool, stood Donald's hut. Little better than a "lean-to" against a huge rock, it seemed; at one end a rude doorway, filled by a crazy door that stood ajar, walls of turf, windowless and heather-thatched, innocent of chimney, but with an opening that allowed the smoke of his fires to steal up the face of the rock before it dispersed into the air. That was all that might be seen at first glance--that and a stack of peat near the door. Inside, there were a couple of rough tables, made of boards, one or two even rougher seats, a quantity of heather in a corner, tops upper-most, to serve as a bed; farther "ben," some bulky things more than half hidden in the deep gloom of that part of the hut that was farthest from the door and from the light of the fire. And over and through everything an all-pervading reek of peat that brought water to the eyes of those not inured to such an atmosphere, and caused them to cough grievously. To the Highlander it was nothing; he had been born in such an atmosphere, and had lived in it most of his days. But to visitors it was trying, till Donald's Dew of Cheviot rendered them indifferent to the minor ills of life. One day, as Donald was busily engaged with his Still, a charge for which he was just about starting, there came to the door of his hut a man leading a horse from which he had just dismounted. This man did not wait for an invitation to enter, but, having made fast his reins to the branch of a neighbouring rowan tree, walked in and sat down, with a mere "Good day." "A ferry goot tay," politely replied Donald. But he was not altogether happy over the advent of this stranger; there was a something in the manner of the man that roused suspicion. However, there he was. It remained only to make the best of it, and to be careful not to show that he suspected anything. Perhaps the man was harmless after all; and, in any case, it might be just as well to pretend that he was not possessed of any great knowledge of English. There was nothing to be gained by talking. "Have ye not such a thing as a drop of spirits in the house?" inquired the stranger. "I'm tired with my ride." Donald "wasna aaltogether sure. Mebbes perhaps there micht pe a wee drappie left in ta bottle." But there was no dearth of fluid in the bottle that, with Highland hospitality, he set before the strange man, along with cheese and oatcake. Donald took a liberal "sup" himself, and sat down, purposely near the door, just in case of any possible coming trouble, and out of the corner of his eye he kept a wary gaze on his uninvited guest, who had also helped himself liberally to the whisky, and was already making a great onslaught on the cheese and oatcake. "Aye, capital whisky; cap-i-tal whisky," said the stranger graciously. "And I daresay there's more where that came from, if the truth were kenned." But that was a suggestion which Donald found it convenient to ignore. He had "ferry little English," he said. "And I daresay, now," pursued the stranger, in tones if anything perhaps a trifle over-hearty, "I daresay, now, the devil a drop of it will ever have helped to line the King's pocket? Eh?" But here, again, Donald's knowledge of English was at fault; he "wad no pe kennin' fhat his honour's sel' wad pe sayin'." "And what might your name be?" presently inquired this over-inquisitive guest. "Ach, it micht joost pe Tonal," said the Highlander. "Donald? Aye, and what more than Donald?" "Ooh, there wull pe no muckle mair. They will joost be calling me Tonal M'Tonal." "Donald M'Donald? Aye, aye. I thought so. Well, Donald, I'm an excise officer, and you've been distilling whisky contrary to the law. I'll just overhaul your premises, and then you'll be coming with me as a prisoner. And you'd best come quietly." "Preesoner?--_Preesoner_? Her honour will no be thinkin' o' sic a thing. There micht aiblins pe a thing or twa in ta hoose tat his honour wad pe likin' to tak' away, but it iss no possible tat he can do onything wi' her nainsel'." "It's no use talking, my mannie. Duty's duty. You must come wi' me." "Ochon! Ochon! Tuty wull pe a pad thing when it's a wee pit pisness sic as this. Yer honour wull joost be takin' the pits o' things in ta bothy, an' her nainsel' wull gang awa' an' no say naething aboot it at aal." "I'm not here to argue with you," cried the exciseman, getting impatient. "You're my prisoner. I confiscate everything here. If there's any resistance, I can summon help whenever I please. You'd best come quietly." "Oh, 'teed tat's ferry hard; surely to cootness very hard indeet. But she wull no pe thinkin' aaltogether tat she wull pe driven joost like a muckle prute beast either. Her nainsel' wull mebbes hef a wheen freends tat could gie her help if she was wantin't. Could ye told me if there wud pe ony o' them tat wad pe seem' yer honour comin' in here?" "Not one of _your_ friends, my mannie. Nor nobody else." "Then, by Gott, there wull pe nopody tat wull pe seem' ye go oot," shouted Donald in an excited, high-pitched scream, as he snatched a heavy horse-pistol from behind the door, and cocked it. "If ye finger either your swort or your pistol, your plood wull pe on your ain head. She wull pe plowin' your prains oot." A very different man this from the submissive, almost cringing, creature of a few minutes back! Now, there stood a man with set mouth and eyes that blazed evilly; the pistol that covered the gauger was steady as a rock, and a dirk in the Highlander's left hand gleamed ominously as it reflected the glow from the fire in the middle of the room. The exciseman had jumped to his feet at Donald's first outburst. But he had underrated his man, and now it was too late. To attempt to draw a pistol now would be fatal--that was a movement with which he should have opened the affair. The exciseman was disposed to try bluster; but bluster does not always win a trick in the game, more especially when the ace of trumps, in the shape of a pistol, is held by the adversary. In this instance, after a long glance at the Highlander, the gauger's eyes wavered and fell; he swallowed hard in his throat once or twice, and lost colour; and finally he sat down in the seat from which a minute ago he had sprung full of fight. Then slowly, and almost as it seemed, against his own volition, his hand went out and closed on the whisky bottle. He helped himself largely, drank copiously, without diluting too much with water, but still said never a word. Now his colour came back a little, and he nibbled at the oatcake and cheese. Then more whisky. Gradually the man became talkative--even laughed now and then a trifle unsteadily. And all the time Donald kept on him a watchful eye, and had him covered, giving him no opportunity to turn the tables. For here the Highlander saw his chance. He had no wish to murder the gauger, but, at any price, he was not going to be taken. If, however, he kept the man a little longer in his present frame of mind, it was very evident that presently the exciseman would be too tipsy to do anything but go to sleep. And so it proved. From being merely merry--in a fashion somewhat tempered by the ugly, threatening muzzle of a pistol, he became almost friendly; from friendly he became aggrieved, moaning over the insult that a breekless Highlander had put on him; then the sentimental mood seized him, and he wept maudlin tears over the ingratitude and neglect shown to him by his superior officers; finally, in the attempt to sing a most dolorous song, he rolled off his seat and lay on his back, snorting. As soon as he had satisfied himself that the enemy was genuinely helpless and not shamming, Donald promptly set about saving his own property. The exciseman's horse still stood where his master had left him, hitched to a rowan tree a few yards from the door. Him Donald impressed into his service, and long before morning everything in the hut had been removed to a safe hiding-place, and scarcely a trace was left to show that the law had ever been broken here, or that illicit whisky had been distilled. Before daylight came, however, the exciseman had awakened in torment--a racking headache, deadly thirst, a mouth suggestive of a bird-cage, all, in fact, that a man might expect who had partaken too freely of raw and fiery whisky. He felt, indeed, extremely and overpoweringly unwell, as, with an infinity of trouble, he groped his devious way to the open air, and to the burn that went singing by. Here, after drinking copiously, he lay till grey dawn, groaning, the thundering of the linn incessantly jarring his splitting head. Then, when there was light enough, the unhappy man rose on unsteady feet, and started looking for his horse. A fruitless search; no sign of a horse could be seen, beyond the trampled space where he had stood the previous night, and a few hoof-prints in the soft, peaty soil elsewhere. There was no help for it; he must tramp; and with throbbing temples he pursued a tottering and uncertain course homewards. Next day he returned, full of schemes of revenge, and with help sufficient to overcome any resistance that Donald and his friends could possibly make, even if they thought it wise to attempt any resistance whatever, which was unlikely. It was a crestfallen gauger that reached Donald's bothy on this second visit. He found his horse, it is true, pinched and miserable, and with staring coat, and without saddle or bridle. But of Donald or of the Still, or the products of that Still, not a sign--only a few taunting, ill-spelled words traced in chalk, with evident care and much painful toil, on the knocked-out head of an old cask. In another part of this volume mention has already been made of Frank Stokoe, who, after being "out" in the '15 with Lord Derwentwater, died in great poverty. His family never again rose to anything like affluence, nor even to a status much above that of the ordinary labouring classes, but his descendants were always big, powerful men, perhaps slow of brain, but ready with their hands, and there was at least one of them who was afterwards well known in Northumberland. This was Jack Stokoe, a noted and very daring smuggler. Jack lived in a curious kind of a den of a house far up one of the wild glens that are to be found in that moorland country which lies between the North and the South Tyne. It could scarcely be claimed that he was a farmer--indeed, in those days there was nothing to farm away up among those desolate hills--and therefore Stokoe made no attempt to pose as anything in the bucolic line; it was a pretty open secret that his real occupation was neither more nor less than smuggling. But he had never yet been caught while engaged in running a contraband cargo, and, whatever reason there may have been for suspicion, no revenue officer had ever had courage to make a raid on his house. There came, however, to that district a new officer, one plagued with an abnormally strong sense of duty, a "new broom," in fact, an altogether too energetic enthusiast who could by no means let well alone, but must ever be poking into other people's affairs in a way that began at length to create extreme annoyance in the minds of those honest gentlemen, the smugglers. Now it chanced that this officious person had lately received sure information of the safe landing of an unusually valuable cargo, large part of which was reported to be stowed somewhere on Stokoe's premises, and he resolved to pay Jack a surprise visit. Accordingly, the Preventive man went to the nearest magistrate, demanding a warrant to search. The magistrate hummed and hawed. "Did the officer think it necessary to disturb Stokoe, who was really a very honest, douce lad? Well, well, if he must, he must, and there was an end of it! He should have the warrant. But Jack Stokoe was a man, he'd heard say, who had no liking to have his private affairs too closely inquired into, and if ill came of it--well, the officer must not forget that he had been cautioned. A nod was as good as a wink." Notwithstanding these well-meant hints, the gauger made his way across the hills to Stokoe's house. He was alone, but then he was a powerful man, well armed and brave enough, and never in all his experience had a bold front, backed by the majesty of the law, failed to effect its end. If he found anything contraband there was no doubt in his mind as to the result. Stokoe should accompany him back as a prisoner. There was no one at Stokoe's when the officer arrived, except Jack himself and a little girl, and when the gauger showed his warrant and began his search, Stokoe made no remark whatever, merely sat where he was, smoking. The gauger's search was very thorough; everything was topsy-turvy before many minutes had passed, but nothing could he find. There remained the loft, to which access was given by a ladder somewhat frail and dilapidated. Up went the gauger, and began tossing down into the room below the hay with which the place was filled. Quite a good place in which to hide contraband articles, thought he. And still Stokoe said never a word. Then, when all the hay was on the floor below and the loft bare, and still nothing compromising had been found, down came the gauger, preparing to depart. "Hey! lassie," at length then came the deep voice of Stokoe; "gie me Broon Janet." The little girl slipped behind the big box-bed, and handed out a very formidable black-thorn stick. Up then jumped Stokoe. "Ye d----d scoundrel, ye've turned an honest man's hoose upside doon. Set to, and leave it as ye fand it. Stow that hay where it was when ye cam' here; and be quick aboot it, or I'll break every bane in your d----d body." The gauger backed towards the door, and drew a pistol. But he was just a fraction of a second too late; "crack" came Stokoe's cudgel and the pistol flew out of his hand, exploding harmlessly as it fell, and before he could draw another he was at Stokoe's mercy. There was no choice for the man; Stokoe took away all his arms, and then compelled him to set to and put back everything as he had found it. There was nothing to be gained by obstinately refusing. Stokoe was a man of sixteen or seventeen stone, a giant in every way, and as brave as he was big--a combination that is not always found. He could, literally, have broken every bone in the gauger's body, and the chances in this case were strongly in favour of his doing it if his adversary chose to turn rusty. Truly "the de'il was awa' wi' the exciseman." So for hours the unhappy Preventive officer toiled up and down that rickety ladder, carrying to the loft again all the hay he had so lately thrown down, and putting the whole house as far as possible again in the state in which it had been when he began his search. And all the while Stokoe sat comfortably smoking in his big chair by the fire, saying never a word. At length the task was ended, and the gauger stood dripping with perspiration and weary to the sole of his foot and the foot of his soul, for all this unwonted work came on top of an already long day's duty. Then: "Sit doon!" commanded Stokoe, an order that the poor man obeyed with alacrity and thankfulness. Stokoe slipped behind the box-bed, was absent a few minutes, and then returned, bringing with him a keg of brandy. Setting that upon the table, he was not long in drawing from it in a "rummer" a quantity of spirit that four fingers would never half conceal. "Now, drink that," he said, handing the raw spirit to his involuntary guest. Then when the liquor had all disappeared, said he: "You are the first that has ever searched my house. See you be the last! Ye're a stranger i' thae parts, so we'll say nae mair aboot it this nicht. But mind you this--if ever ye come again, see that ye be measured for your coffin before ye start." Tradition has no record of Jack Stokoe having ever again been disturbed. SALMON AND SALMON-POACHERS IN THE BORDER What is it that causes a salmon to be so irresistible a temptation to the average Borderer? He knows that it is illegal to take "a fish" from the water at certain seasons, and at other times except under certain circumstances. Yet at any season and under any circumstances the sight of a fish in river or burn draws him like a magnet, and take it he must, if by any means it may be done outside the ken of the Tweed Commissioners and their minions. Even if he be a rigid observer of the law, a disciplinarian of Puritan fervour, in his heart he takes that salmon, and his pulse goes many beats faster as, standing on the bank, he watches the "bow wave" made by a moving fish in thin water, or sees it struggle up a cauld. One can remember the case of a middle-aged gentleman, the most strict of Presbyterians, a church-goer almost fanatical in his attendance, one who would have suffered martyrdom rather than be compelled to forego long family prayers morning and evening; a man ordinarily rigid in his observance of the law to its last letter, unforgiving of those who even in the mildest manner stepped an inch beyond the line. Yet that old man, returning after long years to the scenes of his boyhood from a far land, where like Jacob of old he had "increased exceedingly, and had much cattle," when in remote Border waters one day he was tempted by the Evil One with a salmon, fell almost without a struggle. To secure that salmon the old gentleman must needs get exceeding wet; moreover, it was close time. There was no shadow of excuse. But he was a boy again; fifty years had slipped off his shoulders. And I know not what came of the salmon, but it left the water; nor do I know what the watcher said who came over the hill inopportunely. Maybe the trouser-pocket where the old gentleman kept his silver was a good deal lighter, and that of the watcher a good deal heavier, when the twain parted. And therein the old gentleman sinned doubly; for himself he broke the law, and he put temptation in the way of the watcher, and caused him also to sin and to be guilty of grave dereliction of duty. Yet there it was! The most rigid of his kind in pursuit of virtue and in observance of the law, saw "a fish"--and straightway, irresistibly the old Adam moved within him. Nay! Under certain circumstances hardly would one trust even a black-coated Border minister if a salmon provoked him too sorely. In former days, many were the ways whereby a fish might be induced to quit his native element. Now, it is different; though even now possibly his end might not in every case endure too close scrutiny. But in the days when our grandsires and great-grandsires were young, salmon were regarded as of small value; they sold possibly at _2d._ the pound, and servants in Tweedside homes were wont to bargain that they should not be forced to eat salmon every day of the week. Then, practically no method of capture was illegal; you might take him almost when, where, and how you pleased. Indeed, one reads that at St. Boswells in 1794 the neighbourhood was "seldom at a loss for a small salmon, which proves a great conveniency to families." It was not as if such a thing as a close season had never been known. Five hundred years before the date above mentioned there were laws in existence regulating the capture of salmon, and in the reign of James I of Scotland the law was most stringent. In 1424 it was enacted that "Quha sa ever be convict of Slauchter of Salmonde in tyme forbidden be the Law, he shall pay fourtie shillings for the unlaw, and at the third tyme gif he be convict of sik Trespasse he shall tyne his life." But the law had fallen into disuse--was, in fact, a dead letter; practically there was no "tyme forbidden," or at least the close season was as much honoured in the breach as in the observance, and, especially in the upper waters of Tweed and her tributaries, countless numbers of spawning fish were annually destroyed. But as the salmon fisheries of Great Britain grew in value, so were various destructive methods of capturing the fish declared to be illegal, and many a practice that in earlier days was regarded as "sport" may now be indulged in not at all. Some of those practices were picturesque enough in themselves, and brimmed over with excitement and incident; indeed, as portrayed in the pages of _Guy Mannering_, they were, to use Sir Walter's own words, "inexpressibly animating." Such, for instance, were "burning the water" and "sunning." Others, such as rake-hooking, cross-lining, and decking salmon out of shallow water, were mere poaching devices with little redeeming virtue, commending themselves to nobody, except as a means of filling the pot. Then there was the taking of salmon from the "redds" as they spawned, of all methods of capture the least allied to "sport," for the fish then were soft and flabby, and almost useless as food. Nevertheless, there was in that, too, a strong element of excitement, for the weapon used, the clodding or throwing leister, required no mean skill in the using. This throwing leister was a heavy spear, or rather a heavy "graip," having five single-barbed prongs of unequal length but regularly graduated. To the bar above the shortest prong was lashed a goats'-hair rope, which was also made fast to the thrower's arm, carefully coiled, as in a whaling-boat the line is coiled, so that it may run free when the fish is struck. This leister (or waster) was cast by hand at fish lying in not too deep water--generally, in fact, when they were on the spawning beds. It was with this weapon, as one may read in Scrope's _Days and Nights of Salmon Fishing_, that Tam Purdie--Sir Walter's Purdie--when a young man captured that "muckle kipper" that seemed to him to be the "verra de'il himsel'," so big was he. One Sunday forenoon, as he daundered by the waterside (instead of being, as he should have been, at church) Tam saw him slide slowly off the redd across the stream. "Odd! my verra heart lap to my mouth whan I gat the glisk o' something mair like a red stirk than ought else muve off the redd. I fand my hair creep on my heid. I minded it was the Sabbath, and I sudna hae been there. It micht be a delusion o' the Enemy, if it wasna the de'il himsel'." All that peaceful Sabbath day Tam's meditations were disturbed by visions of great salmon. And as at family worship that night his master read aloud from "the Word," Tam quaked to realise that no syllable had penetrated his dulled ears, but that, with the concluding solemn "Amen," had come to his mind the resolution to clip the wings of the Sabbath, and at all costs to capture that fish before anyone could forestall him. According, as soon as his too ardent mind judged that the hands of the clock must be drawing near to midnight, Tam arose, and, rousing a farm boy to bear the light for him as he struck, with "clodding waster" in hand set off for the river. Now this clodding waster (or leister) was a possession of which Tam was inordinately proud; amongst his friends its temper and penetrating power were proverbial. It had been made for him by the Runcimans of Yarrowford, smiths celebrated far and wide for the marvellous qualities they imparted to all weapons made by them. As Purdie said: "I could hae thrawn mine off the head o' a scaur, and if she had strucken a whinstane rock she wad hae been nae mair blunted than if I had thrawn her on a haystalk." Yet when anon he came to cast this leister at the muckle kipper, "the 14 lb. waster stottit off his back as if he had been a bag o' wool." That was proof enough, if any were needed, that a fish so awesome big must be something uncanny and beyond nature. In a cold sweat, Tam and the boy fled from the waterside and cast themselves shivering into their beds over the byre at home. But as he lay awake, unable to close an eye, Purdie's courage crept back to him, and again he resolved that have that fish he would, muckle black de'il or no. So again he roused his now reluctant torch-bearer, and having with difficulty convinced him that the fish was actually a fish, and not the devil let loose on them for their sin in having broken the Sabbath--"Irr ye _sure_, Tam, it wasna the de'il?" the boy quavered--before daylight they again found the spot where the great kipper lay. And whether it was that this time, knowing that it really was Monday morning, Purdie threw with easier conscience and consequently with surer aim, or to what other cause who may say, but certain it is that the man and the boy, soaked to the skin and chilled to the marrow, triumphantly bore home that morning to the mill, where Purdie's father then lived, a most monstrous heavy fish. The leister used in "sunning" or in "burning the water" differed somewhat in shape from the weapon with which Tam Purdie secured his big kipper. It, too, had five single-barbed prongs, but these were all of equal length, and the wooden handle of this implement was straight, and very much longer than that of the throwing leister; sixteen feet was no unusual length for the handle of the former weapon. Burning the water, as its name implies, was a sport indulged in at night by torchlight. Sunning, on the other hand, was the daylight form of "burning," but it could be practised only when the river was dead low, and then not unless the weather were very calm and bright. The salmon, as they lay in the clear, sun-lit water, were speared from a boat, and vast numbers were so killed; indeed, the frightened fish had small chance of escape, for spearing began at the pool's foot, and men with leisters blocked the way of escape up stream. No doubt into this, as into its kindred sport "burning," excitement in plenty, and boisterous fun, entered largely; many a man, miscalculating the depth of water in which a fish lay, to the unfeigned delight of his comrades, took a rapid and involuntary header into the icy stream. But both sports partook too much of the nature of butchery--carts used to be needed to carry home the spoil--and they are "weel awa' if they bide." "Bide" they must, though in times not remote one has heard faint whisperings of the burning of the waters in some far-off district of the Border. Nor are there wanting those who yet openly defend the practice, deeming it indeed no sin, but rather a benefit to the water, to take from it some of the superfluous fish, which, say they, would otherwise almost certainly die of disease and contaminate the stream. Yet, if in our day the water has been burned, it cannot have been oftener than once in a way, and probably no great harm has resulted. Nor can the game be worth the candle, one could imagine, for watchers now are many and alert, in the execution of their duties much more conscientious than was common in days gone by. There are none now, we may hope, like the bailiff of Selkirk in the early part of last century, who constantly find salmon in close time mysteriously appearing on their dinner-table. Yet this early nineteenth-century bailiff could truly swear that such a thing as salmon on his table he never had seen. For it appears that his wife, canny woman, having first brought in a platter of potatoes, was wont to tie round his eyes a towel before she brought in the boiled fish; and before she again took away the towel, every vestige or trace of salmon had been carefully removed from the room. Obviously that bailiff, honest man, could not report a breach of the law which had never come under his observation! Of various forms of netting which in olden days were legal, but now, happily, are forbidden, there was that by means of the Cairn net, a most destructive form, and that by the Stell net, which was worse; but to describe these obsolete instruments is unnecessary, and might be tedious. There was also the Pout net, an implement somewhat like a very large landing-net, wherewith a man might readily whip many a fish out of flooded water. That, however, need not be considered as in these days a serious form of poaching. Of all poachers of salmon, perhaps that one with whom one is least out of sympathy was the man--is he now extinct, one wonders?--who, fishing with trout-rod and fly, and bearing on his back the most modest of trout creels, instantly, when he came to a likely cast for a fish, was wont to change his trout fly for a salmon one. If he hooked a salmon and a watcher appeared on the scene, invariably the fish "broke" him. If no watcher put in an appearance, generally the angler found that he had sudden and pressing business at home, and that fish left the riverside snugly smuggled inside the lining of a coat, or in a great circular pocket made for the purpose. It was such an one that, nigh on a hundred years ago, Mr. Scrope caught red-handed one day on his rented salmon water near Melrose. The man was a guileless creature from Selkirk, too innocent, it appeared, to be able to account for the salmon flies in the inside of his dilapidated hat, or for the 10 lb. salmon reposing in his pocket. "Dodd! I jalouse it's mebbes luppen in whan I was wadin' the watter," he said with artless smile. "They're gey queer beasts, fish." Still to this day there may perhaps be found instances where they have "luppen in" to a too capacious pocket; for the nature of the salmon has not changed, and they are still "gey queer," and are found occasionally in "gey queer" places. There was, one remembers, not so long ago, a certain boy from Eton, or from some other of the great public schools, who, with a sister, wandered one lowering autumn evening by the brown waters of a Border stream. And how it happened there is none to say, save those who dimly saw it, but there came a vision of a water-bailiff, scant of breath, pounding heavily across the fields, whilst a maiden, fleet of foot, sped away through the gloom, sore handicapped by the antics of a half-dead and wholly slippery fish that nothing would induce to stay inside her jacket. And whether she won free, I know not. But it is said there was salmon steak for breakfast next morning in that maiden's home. Surely the devil played but an amateur part when he essayed to break down the stern virtue of St. Anthony with temptations no stronger than those over which the good Saint so easily triumphed. Had he clapped the holy man down by the banks of a Border stream when fish were running in the autumn, there might have been another tale to tell--that is, if a close season had existed in mediæval times. I trow we should have seen St. Anthony nipping hot-foot over the hill, with the bosom of his monk's gown protruding in a way at which no honest water-bailiff could possibly have winked. Things as strange have happened in our own day; but maybe they were due to that drop of reiver blood which courses more or less swiftly through the veins of most Border folk, and which, now that there are no cattle to "lift" from the English side, impels them for want of better to lift from the water a salmon whenever opportunity may offer. There was lately, it is said, a lady of ancient Border lineage, who sat one day with a grown-up daughter in the library of her ancestral home. It was the hunting season, and at intervals the two glanced anxiously from the windows in full expectation of seeing the hounds sweep in full cry over the fields of which the library commanded a view. "They must be coming," cried the daughter, starting up. "There's one of the stable-boys running over the lawn." And, indeed, past the old trees a youth was to be seen skirting the lawn, flying down terraces, making towards a burn which ran through the grounds before joining a small tributary of Tweed. At best speed mother and daughter followed the boy, who had halted excitedly by the burn side. But what the cause of his agitation might be they could not for the moment conjecture; certainly the burn had no apparent connection with hunting, nor indeed was there sign of horse or hound. What they found was something very different. A mile or so up the rivulet there was a farm-steading, and in that steading was the usual water-driven threshing-mill. It happened that this particular day had been selected by the farmer as one on which he might advantageously thrash part of his crop. Consequently, the water from his mill pond was now making a temporary spate in the little stream, which, in the course of nature, had caused many salmon to run their noses into the burn's unexplored meanderings. When the two ladies reached the stream's bank, they found the stable-lad up to his knees in the water, and a fish, not over silvery, already floundering high and dry, far from its native element; in shallow, broken water, two or three others vainly struggled to gain higher latitudes. "Oh-h! _mother!_" cried the daughter excitedly. And said the elder lady with little hesitation: "Get them out, Jim; get them out. We'll kipper them." Then, after a thoughtful pause: "I think I'd like to catch one myself." So into the water she plunged, and the three--the lady and her daughter and the stable-boy--were so busily and excitedly plowtering in the burn, engaged in this most nefarious and illegal capture of fish, that they failed to hear or to see that hounds and a full field had swept over the hill in front, and had checked, in full view of them, at a small strip of wood in their immediate neighbourhood; in fact, there was little doubt these poachers must, a few minutes before, have headed the fox. Most embarrassing of all, however, was the fact that amongst the riders was one in immaculate pink, whose face flushed a deeper shade than his coat as he pulled up not a hundred yards distant. For what must be the feelings of a Justice of the Peace, of strictest principles, who, without warning, lights upon the wife of his bosom, his innocent daughter, and one of his servants, all engaged in the most barefaced poaching? "Good _Gedd!_" he was heard to say--if indeed the words were no stronger--as, mercifully, the hounds picked up the scent again at that moment, and the chase swept on. There are none so blind as those who will not see, however, and nothing more was ever heard of this episode. But report has it that the lord of that manor has no great partiality for kippered salmon. But salmon-poaching is perhaps not entirely confined to the human species. There have been instances known where dogs have been the most accomplished of poachers--generally, it must be said, in conjunction with a two-legged companion. The lurching, vagabond hound that one sees not infrequently in certain parts of the country, following suspicious-looking characters clad in coats with suspiciously roomy pockets, might, no doubt, be easily trained to take salmon from burns, or from the shallow water into which, in the autumn, the fish often run. And, to the present writer's mind, a black curly-coated retriever recalls himself as a poacher of extreme ability. A most lovable dog was "Nero," but--at least as regards salmon--he was a most immoral breaker of the law. It was well, perhaps, that he lived in days when water-bailiffs were neither so numerous, nor so strict in the execution of their duties, as they now are, for nothing could cure him of the habit, when he saw a fish struggling up a shallow stream, of dashing in, seizing that salmon in his teeth, and laying it at the feet of his embarrassed master, who, far from being connected with the poaching fraternity, was, indeed, a magistrate, to whom the gift of a salmon in such circumstances brought only confusion. After all, is there not generally a something lovable in the man who poaches purely for _sport's_ sake? Who can fail to mourn the end of poor, harmless, gallant, drucken Jocky B----, who gave his life for his love of what he conceived to be sport? "Here's daith or glory for Jocky," he cried, when the watchers surrounded him, leaving but the one possibility of escape. And in that swollen, wintry torrent into which he plunged, the Bailiff Death laid hands on Jocky. Perhaps even now in the shades below, his "ghost may land the ghosts of fish"; mayhap, with a cleek such as that to which his cold fingers yet stiffly clung when they found him in the deep pool, he may still, now and again, be permitted with joyous heart to lift from the waters that ripple through Hades spectral fish of fabulous dimensions. Salmon do not now appear to be so numerous in Tweed as apparently they were eighty or a hundred years ago; it is said that in 1824, when the nets had been off the lower reaches of the river for the Sunday, sometimes as many as five hundred salmon and grilse would be taken at Kelso of a Monday morning by the net and coble. It is a prodigious haul of fish. One's mouth, too, waters as one reads of the numbers that were in those days taken in most stretches of the river by rod and line--though probably a goodly number of them were kelts. Yet, even now, if in the month of November, when waters are red and swollen, one stands by Selkirk cauld, the fish may be seen in numbers almost incredible. By scores at a time you may see them, great and small, hurl themselves into the air over the great wave which boils at the cauld-foot. And the bigger fish, landing--if one may use the term--far beyond the first upheaval of the wave, will rush stoutly up the swirling, foaming rapid, perhaps half-way to the smooth water above the cauld, ere they are swept back, still valiantly struggling, into the seething pool below. The smaller fish less frequently succeed in clearing the wave, but generally pitch nose foremost into the water where it begins to rise, and are hurled back head over tail in impotent confusion. Some of the heavier fish, too, after their jump may be seen to come down with portentous skelp on top of the retaining wall of the salmon-run in mid-stream, thence--apparently with "wind bagged"--to be ignominiously hurried back into the deep pool from which they have but the moment before hurled themselves. The general effect of the spectacle is as if one watched an endless kind of finny Grand National Steeplechase; one grows dizzy with the constant rise and fall of innumerable fish over the big jump, and it is almost a relief to turn and watch the bailiffs with their landing-nets lift from the shallow, rushing water at the cauld-side fish after fish, which they carry up and carefully put in the smooth water at top of the cauld. How many hundreds of salmon one may thus see in the course of a couple of hours, on a day when the river is in spate too heavy for the fish to succeed in ascending the cauld, it is impossible to estimate. Big fish do not seem to have been so common in olden days as they are now. Mr. Scrope mentions that in all his twenty years' experience he never caught one above 30 lbs. weight, and very few above 20 lbs. Fish of that size are common now almost as sparrows in a London street, more especially in the lower stretches of Tweed. Thirty pounds hardly excites remark, and salmon up to 40 lbs. or over are caught with fly nearly every autumn. Much larger fish, too, have been taken of recent years; one of 57 lbs. was landed in 1873, one of 57-1/2 lbs. in 1886, and various fish of over 50 lbs. weight at later dates, whilst in December 1907 a dead fish of 60 lbs. was found in Mertoun Water. Then there was that giant fish lost near Dryburgh by Colonel Haig of Bemersyde, "perhaps the greatest salmon ever hooked in Tweed," as Sir Herbert Maxwell remarks in his _Story of the Tweed_. Lost fish are proverbially the largest fish, but in this instance it was not the fisher who boasted of the weight. Late one evening, fishing in the Haly Weil, the Colonel got fast in something heavy which, resistless as fate, bored steadily down the river a full half mile to the Tod Holes in Dryburgh Water. Here, heavy and sullen, and never showing himself, he ploughed slowly about, and Colonel Haig, already overdue at home, became impatient, believing that he must have foul-hooked a moderate-sized fish. Darkness was fast coming on, and at last the Colonel told his attendant to wade in and try to net the fish. "He's that muckle I cannot get him in, sir," cried the lad after a time. But the Colonel could not wait. "Nonsense," he said. "Get his head in. I can't stop here all night." Then came the not uncommon result of trying to net a big fish in an uncertain light; the rim of the net fouled the gut cast, and away went the fish. It would spoil the story not to tell the rest of it in Sir Herbert Maxwell's own words. "The Colonel did not realise the magnitude of his disaster until two or three weeks later, when he happened to be waiting for a train at St. Boswells Station. The porter came to him and said: "'Hae ye ony mind, Colonel, o' yon big fush ye slippit in the Tod Holes yon nicht?' "'Oh, I mind him well,' replied the Colonel; 'a good lump of a fish he was, I believe, but I never saw him rightly.' "'Ay,' said the other dryly; 'yon wad be the biggest sawmon that ever cam oot o' the water o' Tweed, I'm thinking.' "'Why, what do you know about him?' asked the Colonel. "'Oh, I ken fine aboot the ae half o' him, ony way,' replied the porter. 'Ye see, there was twa lads clappit amang the trees below the Wallace statue forenenst ye, waiting till it was dark to set a cairn net, ye ken. Weel, didna they see you coming doun the water taigled wi' a fish? And when ye cam to the Tod Holes, they saw ye loss him, and they got a visee o' the water he made coming into the east bank, ye ken. There's a wee bit cairn there, ye ken, wi' a piece lound water ahint it, where they jaloused the fish wad rest himsel a wee. Weel, they waited till it was mirk night, and then they jist whuppit the net round him, and they sune had him oot. He was that big he wadna gang into the bag they had wi' them; so they cuttit him in twa halves; and the tae half they brocht to the station here to gang by rail to Embro'. Weel, if the tither half was as big, yon fish bud to be seeventy pund weight; for the half o' him I weighed mysel, and it was better nor thirty-five pund. Ay, a gran' kipper!'" Yet occasionally, in olden days, a salmon big as Tam Purdie's muckle kipper was got by rod and line. In 1815 Rob Kerss, the famous "Rob o' the Trows," hooked a leviathan in Makerstoun Water--the biggest fish, he said, that ever he saw; so big that it took even so great a master as Rob hours to land, and left him "clean dune oot." At last the fish lay, a magnificent monster, stretched on the shingle. With aching arms but thankful heart, Rob moved away a trifle to lift a stone wherewith to smite his captive over the head. And with that, Rob's back being partly turned, from the tail of his eye he saw the salmon give a wammle. In novels, it is usually "but the work of a moment" for the hero to turn and perform some noted feat. Here, alas! it was different. It was but the work of a moment, certainly, for Rob to turn, and to jump on the huge salmon. But there all resemblance to the typical hero ceased, for the line fouled his foot, and broke as it tripped him up; and before the fisherman knew where he was, he and the salmon were struggling together in deep water. It was only Rob that came out. _Sic transit_. Trust not a fish till the bag closes on him. THE GHOST THAT DANCED AT JETHART Six centuries before Edward the Peacemaker reigned over Britain, the people of Scotland knew the blessing of having for a King one who was known as "The King of Peace." Alexander the Third was a child of eight when he inherited the Scottish crown, and was only two years older when he married the Princess Margaret, eldest daughter of Henry the Third of England. Even in his early boyhood the young King displayed a wisdom, an energy, and a forcefulness in his management of affairs that marked him for a great ruler, and made his royal father-in-law's fond vision of gradually gaining such an ascendancy over Scotland, that he might in time be able to claim that kingdom as an appanage of England, fade altogether away. Alexander had only recently come of age when he had to defend his country against her old enemies, the Norsemen, and his complete victory was a triumph for him and for his people. Nineteen years later, his only daughter, Margaret, married Eric, King of Norway, and the Scots saw peace for them and for their children smiling on them from every side. But if prosperity as a monarch was his, misfortune overshadowed King Alexander's private life. His wife died; his children died. His eldest son, born at Jedburgh, and married, as a lad, to a daughter of the Count of Flanders, died childless. His daughter, the young Queen of Norway, died the year after her marriage, leaving behind her the baby who has come down to us, even through chilly history, as a pitiful little figure, known as "The Maid of Norway." In 1285 King Alexander was wifeless and childless, and the heir to the Scottish crown was his two-year-old grandchild in "Norroway ower the faem." In the eyes of all his people the King's duty was plain. He was only forty-four, a brilliant _parti_ for the daughter of any royal or noble house, and the Scots wished a man, not a maid, to rule over them. He must, obviously, marry again. Joleta, also called Yolande, daughter of the Count de Dreux, and a descendant of the Kings of France, was his chosen bride. She was of surpassing fairness, and even most of those who had harboured scruples with regard to the match, because the maid had been destined for a nunnery, forgot such scruples when they looked upon her beauty. On All Saints' Day, 1285, the wedding--a more brilliant function than anything that had ever before been held in Scotland--was celebrated in Jedburgh Abbey. The little grey town on the Jed was packed with Scottish and French nobles and their retinues. Few were the noble houses that were not there represented, and the monks of Beauvais--the black-cloaked Augustinian friars from St. Quentin's Abbey--who held rule at the Abbey of Jedburgh in those days, must have had their ears gladdened by the constant sound of the French tongue coming from seigneur, squire, and page-boy who passed them on the causeway. There was nothing awanting in pomp or in splendour at the royal wedding. The trees were shedding their leaves, the bracken and the heather on the moors were brown, and winds that swept across the Carter Bar and down from the Cheviots had a winter nip in them; but indoors there was warmth enough, and all the gorgeousness and feasting and merrymaking that the most exacting of guests could desire for the marriage of a great king. The banquet after the wedding was followed by a masque. Musicians ushered into the banqueting hall of the castle a gorgeously attired procession of dancers, many of them armed men. It was a radiant scene for the bright eyes of Queen Yolande. Lights flashed on swords and on armour, and on the sumptuous trappings and brilliant-coloured attire of lords and of ladies, for courts in those days looked like hedges of sweet-peas in the summer sun. The musicians played their best, the guests mingled gaily with the dancing mummers, and then, suddenly, above all the sounds of music and of revel, there arose a cry, a woman's cry, shrill and full of fear. What was that grisly figure that appeared amongst the dancers?--a grinning skeleton--a dancing Death. No masquer this, but a grim messenger from the Shades, bringing dire warning to one, at least, of that gay company. As it had come, so it vanished, but all the gaiety had gone from the merry throng. The ill-omened dancer had laid a chilly hand on the heart of many a wedding guest. There were some who said it was a monkish trick, contrived for his own ends by one of the brethren from Beauvais, but, less than six months later, all Scotland believed that the skeleton masquer at Jedburgh had, indeed, come to warn an unfortunate land of its approaching doom. On a dark March night of 1286, King Alexander rode along the rough cliff path between Burntisland and Kinghorn on a horse that stumbled in the darkness, and in the morning, on the rocks far down below, the grey waves lapped against the ashen dead face of a mighty king. Not only was the fair Queen Yolande a widow. Scotland was widowed indeed. For long years thereafter she was to be a battlefield for fiercely contending nations, and if the ghost that danced at Jethart was truly a portent of the death of the King of Peace, it also was a portent of the death of many a gallant warrior and of much grievous spilling of innocent blood in the woeful years to come. A MAN HUNT IN 1813 It was a clear, crisp, sunny day, early in March 1813, that the laird of Wauchope was riding into Hawick. A little snow still lay on the crest of Cheviot and on some of the foot-hills, and a smirr of hoar-frost silvered the turf by the roadside; but the sun was bright--strong to overcome frost and snow--and in it the leaves that still clung to the beech hedges shone like burnished copper. Walter Scott of Wauchope was one of the most popular men in Liddesdale. He it was who had, by his own exertions, raised the Light Company of Roxburghshire Volunteers, a band of nearly a hundred men of fine physique and first-rate horsemanship, whose bearing was the admiration of everyone when the laird marched them into Hawick on that momentous night in 1804 when "Boney" was supposed to have landed on Scottish shores. Mr. Scott's services had not been forgotten. A captain's commission in the 1st Regiment of Roxburgh Local Militia now belonged to him, and he squared his shoulders with an air and gave the military salute to those on the road with whom he exchanged greetings. It was a morning for only peace and goodwill to be abroad, and the laird rode on in cheerful frame, and put his horse to a canter along the turf. But as he cantered, the good steed's ears suddenly went back, he plunged, swerved, and answered his master's voice and heels by standing stock-still, staring affrightedly at what at first, to his rider, seemed a mere limp, inanimate bundle of old clothing lying half in, half out of the ditch. In a moment the laird was standing beside the mysterious heap, and found an old, white-haired man, grievously mishandled, with blood on his face, blood dabbling the dead leaves in the ditch, blood on the turf where the pure hoar-frost had lain. There was but little life left in him, and it was not easy for him to explain his sorry plight when the words came only with hard-fought breathing, hoarse and low. "She will pe a pedlar," he said, "an' she will haf peen robbed and murdered.... Och, so little she will pe hafing, and now all gone.... Ochone, ochone!" Gently the laird put his questions to the dying man. The robbery had been committed only a short time before. The assailant was a big man--"a fery big man"--an Irishman, and he could not have gone far. Up again on his wondering steed sprang the laird, and at steeplechase pace rode on. Near Birney-knowe he came in sight of his quarry, a powerful six-footer, but carrying too much flesh to do more than a good sprint without failing. In a neighbouring field a ploughman with his pair of horses was turning up the rich brown loam. "_Hup_, Jess! Woa-_hi_, Chairlie!" sounded his cheerful voice from over the dyke, above the jingle of his horses' harness as they turned at the head-rig with their greedy following of screaming, white-winged gulls. "_Hi!_ Will Little!" shouted the laird. "Leave the plough, lad! There's murder afoot the day! Come and help catch the murderer!" William Little, a handsome fellow of six feet, clean built and athletic, required but little explanation. In two minutes his pair was unyoked and tied to the beam of the plough, his coat off and cast at the back of the dyke, and as sturdy a pair of legs as any in Liddesdale had joined in the chase. The robber had not failed to hear the laird's shouts, and as Little unyoked his horses, he ran on, adding still more to the distance that already separated him from his pursuers. Clearly his best chance was to leave the high-road and get on to ground where it was impossible, or, at least, most unlikely, that a mounted man could follow him. Through hedges he clambered, vaulted dry stone dykes, leapt ditches, made somewhat heavy weather over the plough, but got away on rough turf up the hillside. The morning wore on, and both hunters and hunted wished that the sun had shone less warmly on that March day. On a steep part of High Tofts Hill, however, the chase at last came to an end. The steep face of the hill was more than the laird's good steed could manage, though nobly, in response to his call, did it do its best. He had to turn back and come round by a part where the ascent was less steep, while Little, hot but undaunted, went on with the chase alone. The robber's extra weight was telling on him, and he was not in the hard training of the young Border farmer. The hill pumped him, he stumbled as he ran, and, as Little gained on him yard by yard, he saw that he could run no longer, but must come to bay. He turned round and faced his pursuer, breathing hard, and with all his might tugging at a big butcher's knife in his pocket. Ordinarily the knife came easily to his hand, but he had forgotten that the pocket was stuffed with articles stolen from the old pedlar. The knife was hopelessly jammed, and Little was almost upon him. A large, sharp-pointed stone stuck out of the ground at his feet. "_Keep off!_" he yelled to the ploughman. "Hands off! or I'll scatter your brains!" And as he threatened, he stooped to seize the stone and make good his threat. But the Fates that day had signed the Irish villain's death-warrant. The good Border earth clung to the stone, refusing to let it go. With all his force he tugged and tugged, but ere the earth could give way, Little had thrown himself upon him, and when Mr. Scott appeared over the brow of the hill, the sturdy farmer was still holding his own with a kicking, biting, struggling, cursing ruffian who would have had no compunction in adding another to his list of victims that day. Between them, Little and the laird tied their captive's hands behind his back with part of the bridle reins, and walked him back to Kirkton. There help was sent to the old Highlander, but no doctor could undo the ill that had been wrought him, and he died a few days later. In one of the Kirkton farm-carts the old man's murderer was conveyed to Hawick, and from thence to Jedburgh jail. It was too much a case of "hot trod" for him to do anything but plead guilty, and he hung on a gallows at Jedburgh, as many a worthier man had done in earlier days. The laird lived for more than twenty years after his man hunt on that March day in 1813, and his worthy fellow-huntsman had no cause to forget his morning's work, for he was presented with a baton and relieved from paying taxes for the rest of his natural life. LADY STAIR'S DAUGHTER The story of the Bride of Lammermoor is one that all the world knows, but how many are there who realise that the tragedy which Sir Walter Scott's genius has given to the world is in truth one of the annals of a noble Scottish family? Possibly among all the "old, unhappy, far-off things" there is none more pitiful than the tale of the Earl of Stair's daughter and her luckless lover, Lord Rutherfurd. They were never laggards either in love or in war, those Border Rutherfurds. "A stout champion," according to contemporary history, was Colonel Andrew Rutherfurd, Governor of Dunkirk, and afterwards of Tangier, ennobled for his doughty deeds in foreign lands under the title of Earl of Teviot, and when, in 1664, he was slain by the Moors, his distant relative, Lord Rutherfurd, inherited most of his fortune. Presumably the fortune was not great, and even in the old reiving days no Rutherfurd ever rolled in wealth. Moreover, Lord Stair was a staunch Whig, and Rutherfurd an ardent Jacobite, and so it was that when the young lord became a suitor for the hand of Janet Dalrymple, daughter of that famous lawyer, James Dalrymple, first Lord Stair, neither her father nor her mother smiled on his suit. Sir James Dalrymple was made a baronet in the same year that Andrew Rutherfurd got his title, and both he and his wife, Dame Margaret, a daughter of Ross of Balniel, were ambitious folk. The worldly success in life of her husband and of all her family was what Lady Stair constantly schemed and planned and worked for. A clever, hard, worldly woman, with a witty and unsparing tongue, was Lady Stair, but obviously she was not a popular member of the society in which she lived, and when her plans succeeded in spite of all obstacles, there were many who were ready to say that she belonged to the blackest sisterhood of her day, and that to be "worried at the stake" and burned would only be the fate that she deserved. Lady Stair's daughter was singularly unlike the mother who bore her, for the beautiful Janet Dalrymple was a gentle, shrinking, highly strung girl, who was like wax in the hands of one who ruled her household with a rod of iron. As a child her will had always had to bend to her mother's. Scarcely had she dared to hold an opinion on anything save under her mother's direction, and so when it came about that the tricksy god of love made her give her heart passionately and utterly to a man of whom her parents disapproved, poor Janet Dalrymple must have felt as though she were the victim of a sort of moral earthquake. Naturally she could see no reason why the man who in her eyes was peerless was not approved by her parents. Surely his politics did not matter. He had money enough for all their needs, and he would make her the Lady Rutherfurd; and, besides, what more could they want than just this--that he loved her and she loved him, and they would love each other until death--and after it. These reasons given to a woman of Lady Stair's type were scarcely likely to be listened to with much patience, and Janet Dalrymple and Lord Rutherfurd soon saw that all their love-making must be done under the rose, and that they must wait as best they could for the obdurate parents to change their minds. Together they broke a gold coin, of which each wore a half, and solemnly called upon God to witness them plighting their troth, and together imprecated dreadful evils upon the one who should prove faithless. Doubtless Lady Stair was too clever a woman not to have a shrewd suspicion that her daughter's attachment to Lord Rutherfurd was something more than a mere piece of girlish sentiment; but if she did know, the knowledge did not overburden her. Obviously another suitor must be provided without loss of time. The expulsive power of a new affection must promptly be tried on the love-sick girl, whose pale face was in itself enough to betray the condition of her heart. To Lord Stair belonged the credit of finding one who was approved of by Lady Stair as an entirely suitable match. David Dunbar, younger, of Baldoon in Wigtonshire, a solid young man with a good, solid fortune, was the son-in-law of their choice; and Lady Stair found no difficulty in getting him to see that her beautiful daughter was undoubtedly the right wife for him. Contemporary history furnishes us with no description of Andrew, Lord Rutherfurd, but we learn from the Edinburgh printer who furnished the Dunbar family with an enthusiastic elegy on the death of David Dunbar of Baldoon that apparently he was a little red-faced man, ardently keen about agricultural pursuits, and deeply interested in the breeding of cattle and horses. Moreover, he was a student, well versed in modern history and in architecture, and with a good head for arithmetic (did he add up the figures of the fortune of Janet Dalrymple entirely to his own satisfaction?), and he had the additional amazing distinction chronicled by his eulogising biographer-- "He learned the French, be't spoken to his praise, In very little more than forty days." It is impossible to tell how much of the love story of the girl whom he proposed to make his wife was known to young Baldoon. Possibly he had had it lightly sketched to him by Lady Stair's skilled hand, as a mere girlish fancy, likely to be very soon past and already entirely on the wane. In any case, Baldoon evidently saw no more difficulties in the way of his nuptials than did Lord and Lady Stair. The fact that the bride "canna thole the man" must ever be a purely secondary consideration in such matrimonial arrangements. Meantime the unhappy bride-elect had the scheme laid before her, and in spite of her sobbing protests, was commanded to conform to the wishes of her parents. The news of Lady Stair's triumph was not long in coming to Lord Rutherfurd's ears, and he at once wrote to Janet Dalrymple to remind her that she was pledged to him by everything that they both considered holy. No reply came from the unhappy girl, but a letter from Lady Stair informed the distracted lover that her daughter was fully sensible of the grave fault of which she had been guilty in entering into an engagement without the sanction of her parents, and that she now retracted her vows, and was about to give her hand to Mr. David Dunbar of Baldoon. Such an answer, written by the mother of his betrothed, and not by the girl herself, was scarcely likely to be received with meekness by one of the Rutherfurds of that ilk. Lord Rutherfurd demanded an interview with Janet Dalrymple, and absolutely declined to accept any reply that did not come to him from her own lips. It was a struggle between a high-spirited, determined man, deeply in love with her that he strove for, and a woman whose heart was as hard as her brain was keen, and who did not scruple to use any means, fair or foul, by which to gain her own ends. The lion and the snake are unequal combatants, and in this case the lion was worsted indeed. Lady Stair granted the interview, but took care that not for one moment was her daughter permitted to be alone with her lover. Lord Rutherfurd had many arguments that he had deemed unanswerable, but the lady's nimble wits and ready tongue found an answer for each one. It must have been a strange scene that took place that day in the old mansion of Carsecreugh. The girl herself was present, but, had the tales of Lady Stair's dealings with the Evil One been true, she could not have substituted for her beautiful, happy daughter any witch-made thing that looked more lifeless than the poor, white-faced creature that sat with silent lips and down-cast eyes, terror-ridden, broken-hearted. With every impassioned word he spoke Rutherfurd hoped to bring some sign of life to her, to glean a look from her eyes that showed that her love was still his, but he pled in vain. As for his arguments, Lady Stair could quote Scripture with any minister in the land, and the texts she hurled at him were fearful missiles for one who had not the book of Numbers at his fingers' ends. "If a woman vow unto the Lord, and bind herself by a bond, being in her father's house in her youth; and her father hear her vow, and her bond wherewith she hath bound her soul, and her father shall hold his peace at her: then all her vows shall stand, and every bond wherewith she hath bound her soul shall stand. But if her father disallow her in the day that he heareth; not any of her vows, or of her bonds wherewith she hath bound her soul, shall stand: and the Lord shall forgive her, because her father disallowed her." So quoted the pitiless voice. Even the devil, they say, can quote Scripture for his own ends. Finally, the mother, again telling Rutherfurd that her daughter acknowledged the wrongness of her conduct and desired to hold no further intercourse with him, turned to the white, marble creature, who seemed to hear nothing, to understand nothing, and commanded her to restore the broken half of the golden coin to him who had bestowed it. For the fraction of a second her icy fingers touched Lord Rutherfurd's, and yet she spoke no word. To the fiery Borderer it was an insupportable situation. His temper went. The broken coin was cast to the ground, and with furious words he poured out on Lady Stair all his long pent-up anger. Then, turning to her who, so short a time before, had been all the world to him, he cast on her the curse, "For you, madam, you will be a world's wonder," and strode from the room, his face ablaze with wrath, black murder in his heart. Scotland was no longer a friendly home for Andrew, Lord Rutherfurd. He went abroad, and died there sixteen years later. Meantime the preparations for the marriage of young Baldoon with Lord Stair's daughter went on apace. The bride showed no active dislike to the bridegroom her parents had provided, but behaved as a mere lay figure on which wedding garments were fitted, and which received with cold unresponsiveness all the attentions of the man who was to be her husband. When the wedding day--August 24th, 1669--arrived, a large assemblage of relations and friends of both bride and bridegroom mustered at Carsecreugh. And still the white-faced lay figure mechanically went through all that was required of her, received the compliments and jests of the company with chill politeness, but with never a smile--a bride of marble, with a heart that had turned to stone. She rode pillion to church behind a young brother who afterwards said that the hand which lay on his as she held her arm round his waist was "cold and damp as marble." "Full of his new dress and the part he acted in the procession, the circumstance, which he long afterwards remembered with bitter sorrow and compunction, made no impression on him at the time." Great were the festivities that Lord and Lady Stair had prepared for the wedding of their daughter with so eligible a suitor as the young laird of Baldoon, and when the ceremony in the church was over, there were great doings at Carsecreugh. Baldoon must either have been a very stupid man or a wilfully blind one, for his bride of snow seemed to look on everything that took place with vacant, unseeing, unsmiling eyes, and spoke and acted as one in a dream. In the evening there was a dance. One can see the bright lights, the gaily-coloured wedding garments of the festive company, hear the sound of clarionet and of fiddle gaily jigging out country dances, and the loud hum of talk and laughter of the many guests. Baldoon, a proud husband, tricked out in all the finery of a bridegroom of that day, leads out his bride, the beautiful Janet, in her white bridal robe. Can he not feel the clammy chill of the little hand he takes in his? Why does he not understand the piteous look in the eyes of the girl whose feet are treading so gay a measure? No trapped bird with broken wing was ever more pitiful. While the guests still were making merry, the bride and her bridesmaids went up to the bridal chamber. The virgins who prepared Iphigenia for her sacrifice had a task no less terrible. Then, amidst the animal jocularities that were looked on as wit in that day, the bridegroom followed, and the best man locked the door on the married pair and put the key in his pocket. The dance went gaily on, but not for long. High above the sound of the violins, the laughter that grew more unlicensed as the night wore on, the sound of voices, the thud of feet, the tap of heels and rustle of brocades on a polished floor, came terrible shrieks and groans that made the heart of each wedding guest stand still. There could be no doubt from which room they came, and the panic-struck company dashed upstairs like a breakaway mob of cattle. The best man, livid-faced and with a shaking hand, unlocked the door, and on the threshold stumbled over the body of the bridegroom, terribly wounded and streaming with blood. At first they could see no bride, and then, in the corner of the wide chimney, they found her crouching, with no covering but her shift, and that dabbled with gore. "She sat there grinning at them, mopping and mowing," so says Sir Walter Scott--"in a word, absolutely insane." "Tak' up your bonny bridegroom!" she screamed, with hysterical laughter, and pointed mockingly at what seemed to be the corpse of young Baldoon. Sick in body she was, as well as sick in mind, and on September 12th, 1669, a little over a fortnight from the day she was married, the Bride of Baldoon died. David Dunbar of Baldoon recovered from his wounds, but during the thirteen years that remained for him to live, he declined to help the curious to elucidate the mystery of his attempted murder. In the words of Sir Walter Scott: "If a lady, he said, asked him any question upon the subject, he would neither answer her nor speak to her again while he lived; if a gentleman, he would consider it as a mortal affront, and demand satisfaction as having received such." Many, of course, were the explanations given by the general public as to the real happenings on that tragic wedding-night. The majority inclined to think that the bride herself, crazed by grief at the loss of her lover, tried to kill her husband rather than be his wife in anything save legal formality. Others swore that the assailant was none other than the discarded lover, and that Lord Rutherfurd, having left Baldoon for dead, had escaped by the chimney where the unfortunate bride was crouching. But in those days there was bound to be yet another factor brought into the tale. Witches were held responsible for many a crime in Scotland in the seventeenth century, and of course Lord Stair's "auld witch wife" was adjudged guilty of the whole tragedy. In a sense, doubtless, so she was, but the description given by the credulous of how, on her marriage night, Janet Dalrymple was "harled" through the house by evil spirits in such a way as to cause her death shortly afterwards, is slightly at variance with the actual facts. Yet others there were who said that she who had sworn solemnly by all that was holy to keep her plighted troth with Andrew Rutherfurd, had obviously handed herself over, body and soul, to Satan when the troth was broken, and that he who would have slain David Dunbar was the Evil One himself. "He threw the bridegroom from the nuptial bed, Into the chimney did so his rival maul, His bruised bones ne'er were cured but by the fall." The "fall" referred to by this scurrilous lampoon, written by Sir William Hamilton, a bitter enemy of Lord Stair, was the accident by which Dunbar of Baldoon met his death. While riding from Leith to Holyrood on March 27, 1682, his horse fell with him. His injuries proved fatal, and he died next day, and was buried in Holyrood Chapel. Of the other actors in the tragedy there is little to tell. That great and able lawyer, Viscount Stair, has left behind him permanent record of the ability that brought him his title. For fifty years his wife and he lived together, and history tells us that "they were tenderly attached to the last." A witty, brilliant, worldly woman, she had the power of keeping the love of her husband fresh and living to the very end. She it was who is reported by a local historian, whose standard possibly may not have been of the very highest, to have made "one of the best puns extant." "Bluidy Clavers" was Sheriff of Wigtown in her day, and in her presence he dared to inveigh against one who was still the idol of Presbyterian Whigs, John Knox. "Why are you so severe on the character of John Knox?" asked the Lady Stair. "You are both reformers: he gained his point by clavers; you attempt to gain yours by knocks." When the lady died, in the year 1692, she left an order regarding the disposal of her body which entirely confirmed the popular belief that, early in life, she had bargained with the Evil One for the worldly success of herself and her descendants, and had paid her soul as price. She asked that her body might not be buried underground, but that the coffin containing her should be stood upright in the family vault of Kirkliston. While she remained so placed, she said, the Dalrymples should flourish. But woe betide the line when that coffin should be moved and laid on common earth as those of common people. Her orders were carried out. Does she, a dismal sentry, keep guard there still? And what sort of a Purgatory has her poor soul had to pass through to atone for the cruel murder of the child she bore? 
14421	----	WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND. HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE. WITH A GLOSSARY. REVISED BY ALEXANDER LEIGHTON, _One of the Original Editors and Contributors_. VOL. XXIV. LONDON: WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE, AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE. 1884 CONTENTS. THE MINSTREL'S TALES-- I. EDMUND AND HELEN, (_John Mackay Wilson_), 5 II. THE ROMAUNT OF SIR PEREGRINE AND THE LADY ETHELINE,...... (_Alexander Leighton_), 43 III. THE LEGEND OF ALLERLEY HALL, _(Alexander Leighton_),................................. 52 IV. THE LEGEND OF THE LADY KATHARINE, (_Alexander Leighton_),..................... 57 V. THE BALLAD OF AILIE FAA,.......(_Alexander Leighton_),................................. 67 VI. THE LEGEND OF THE FAIR EMERGILDE, (_Alexander Leighton_),..................... 72 VII. THE ROMAUNT OF THE CASTLE OF WEIR, (_Alexander Leighton_),..................... 78 VIII. THE ROMAUNT OF ST. MARY'S WYND, (_Alexander Leighton_),..................... 87 IX. THE LEGEND OF MARY LEE,.......(_Alexander _Leighton_),................................ 98 X. THE BALLAD OF AGE AND YOUTH,...(_Alexander Leighton_),................................. 107 XI. THE LEGEND OF CRAIGULLAN,.....(_Alexander _Leighton_),................................ 113 XII. THE HERMIT OF THE HILLS,...(_John Mackay Wilson_),................................... 119 XIII. THE BALLAD OF RUMBOLLOW,....(_Alexander Leighton_),................................. 123 XIV. THE LEGEND OF THE BURNING OF MRS. JAMPHRAY, ................(_Alexander Leighton_),..... 133 XV. THE BALLAD OF BALLOGIE'S DAUGHTERS,........ (_Alexander Leighton_),..................... 141 XVI. THE LEGEND OF DOWIELEE,........(_Alexander Leighton_),................................. 145 XVII. THE BALLAD OF MAID MARION,....(_Alexander Leighton_),.................................. 154 XVIII. THE BALLAD OF ROSEALLAN CASTLE,......... (_Alexander Leighton_),...................... 158 XIX. THE BALLAD OF THE TOURNAY,.....(_Alexander Leighton_),.................................. 160 XX. THE BALLAD OF GOLDEN COUNSEL,...(_Alexander Leighton_),.................................. 164 XXI. THE BALLAD OF MATRIMONY,......._(Alexander _Leighton_),................................. 168 XXII. THE SONG OF ROSALIE, .........(_Alexander Leighton_),.................................. 171 XXIII. THE BALLAD OF THE WORLD'S VANITY,....... (_Alexander Leighton_),...................... 173 XXIV. THE SIEGE: A DRAMATIC TALE,........(_John _Mackay Wilson_),............................ 177 XXV. FAREWELL TO A PLACE ON THE BORDERS,....... (_Rev. W.G._),............................... 207 GLOSSARY,...................................... 211 GENERAL INDEX,................................. 251 WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND. THE MINSTREL'S TALES. I. EDMUND AND HELEN. CANTO FIRST. Come, sit thee by me, love, and thou shalt hear A tale may win a smile and claim a tear-- A plain and simple story told in rhyme, As sang the minstrels of the olden time. No idle Muse I'll needlessly invoke-- No patron's aid, to steer me from the rock Of cold neglect round which oblivion lies; But, loved one, I will look into thine eyes, From which young poesy first touched my soul, And bade the burning words in numbers roll;-- They were the light in which I learned to sing; And still to thee will kindling fancy cling-- Glow at thy smile, as when, in younger years, I've seen thee smiling through thy maiden tears, Like a fair floweret bent with morning dew, While sunbeams kissed its leaves of loveliest hue. Thou wert the chord and spirit of my lyre-- Thy love the living voice that breathed--"aspire!"-- That smoothed ambition's steep and toilsome height, And in its darkest paths was round me, light. Then, sit thee by me, love, and list the strain, Which, but for thee, had still neglected lain. II. Didst thou e'er mark, within a beauteous vale, Where sweetest wild-flowers scent the summer gale, And the blue Tweed, in silver windings, glides, Kissing the bending branches on its sides, A snow-white cottage, one that well might seem A poet's picture of contentment's dream? Two chestnuts broad and tall embower the spot, And bend in beauty o'er the peaceful cot; The creeping ivy clothes its roof with green, While round the door the perfumed woodbine's seen Shading a rustic arch; and smiling near, Like rainbow fragments, blooms a rich parterre; Grey, naked crags--a steep and pine-clad hill-- A mountain chain and tributary rill-- A distant hamlet and an ancient wood, Begirt the valley where the cottage stood. That cottage was a young Enthusiast's home, Ere blind ambition lured his steps to roam; He was a wayward, bold, and ardent boy, At once his parents' grief--their hope and joy. Men called him Edmund.--Oft his mother wept Beside the couch where yet her schoolboy slept, As, starting in his slumbers, he would seem To speak of things of which none else might dream. III. Adown the vale a stately mansion rose, With arboured lawns, like visions of repose Serene in summer loveliness, and fair As if no passion e'er was dweller there Save innocence and love; for they alone Within the smiling vale of peace were known. But fairer and more lovely far than all, Like Spring's first flowers, was Helen of the Hall-- The blue-eyed daughter of the mansion's lord, And living image of a wife adored, But now no more; for, ere a lustrum shed Its smiles and sunshine o'er the infant's head, Death, like a passing spirit, touched the brow Of the young mother; and the father now Lived as a dreamer on his daughter's face, That seemed a mirror wherein he could trace The long lost past--the eyes of love and light, Which his fond soul had worshipped, ere the night Of death and sorrow sealed those eyes in gloom-- Darkened his joys, and whelmed them in the tomb. IV. Young Edmund and fair Helen, from the years Of childhood's golden joys and passing tears, Were friends and playmates; and together they Across the lawn, or through the woods, would stray. While he was wont to pull the lilies fair, And weave them, with the primrose, round her hair;-- Plait toys of rushes, or bedeck the thorn With daisies sparkling with the dews of morn; While she, these simple gifts would grateful take--- Love for their own and for the giver's sake. Or, they would chase the butterfly and bee From flower to flower, shouting in childish glee; Or hunt the cuckoo's echo through the glade, Chasing the wandering sound from shade to shade. Or, if she conned the daily task in vain, A word from Edmund made the lesson plain. V. Thus years rolled by in innocence and truth, And playful childhood melted into youth, As dies the dawn in rainbows, ray by ray In blushing beauty stealing into day. And thus too passed, unnoticed and unknown, The sports of childhood, fleeting one by one. Like broken dreams, of which we neither know From whence they come, nor mark we when they go. Yet would they stray where Tweed's fair waters glide, As we have wandered--fondly side by side; And when dun gloaming's shadows o'er it stole As silence visible--until the soul Grew tranquil as the scene--then would they trace The deep'ning shadows on the river's face-- A voiceless world, where glimmered, downward far, Inverted mountain, tree, and cloud, and star. 'Twas Edmund's choicest scene, and he would dwell On it, till he grew eloquent, and tell Its beauties o'er and o'er, until the maid Knew every gorgeous tint and mellowed shade Which evening from departed sunbeams threw, And as a painter on the waters drew. VI. Or, when brown Autumn touched the leaves with age, The heavens became the young Enthusiast's page Wherein his fancy read; and they would then, Hand locked in hand, forsake the haunts of men; Communing with the silver queen of night, Which, as a spirit, shone upon their sight, Full orbed in maiden glory; and her beams Fell on their hearts, like distant shadowed gleams Of future joy and undefinèd bliss-- Half of another world and half of this. Then, rapt in dreams, oft would he gazing stand, Grasping in his her fair and trembling hand, And thus exclaim, "Helen, when I am gone, When that bright moon shall shine on you alone, And but _one_ shadow on the river fall-- Say, wilt thou then these heavenly hours recall? Or read, upon the fair moon's smiling brow The words we've uttered--those we utter now? Or think, though seas divide us, I may be Gazing upon that glorious orb with thee At the same moment--hearing, in its rays, The hallowed whisperings of early days! For, oh, there is a language in its calm And holy light, that hath a power to balm The troubled spirit, and like memory's glass, Make bygone happiness before us pass." VII. Or, they would gaze upon the evening star, Blazing in beauteous glory from afar, Dazzling its kindred spheres, and bright o'er all, Like LOVE on the Eternal's coronal; Until their eyes its rays reflected, threw In glances eloquent--though words were few; For well I ween, it is enough to feel The power of such an hour upon us steal, As if a holy spirit filled the air, And nought but love and silence might be there-- Or whispers, which, like Philomel's soft strains, Are only heard to tell that silence reigns. Yet, he at times would break the hallowed spell, And thus in eager rhapsodies would dwell Upon the scene: "O'er us rolls world on world, Like the Almighty's regal robes unfurled;-- O'erwhelming, dread, unbounded, and sublime-- Eternity's huge arms that girdle time And roll around it, marking out the years Of this dark spot of sin amidst the spheres! For, oh, while gazing upon worlds so fair, 'Tis hard to think that sin has entered there; That those bright orbs which now in glory swim, Should e'er for man's ingratitude be dim! Bewildered, lost, I cast mine eyes abroad, And read on every star the name of GOD! The thought o'erwhelms me!--Yet, while gazing on Yon star of love, I cannot feel alone; For wheresoe'er my after lot may be, That evening star shall speak of home and thee. Fancy will view it o'er yon mountain's brow That sleeps in solitude before us now; While memory's lamp shall kindle at its rays, And light the happy scenes of other days-- Such scenes as this; and then the very breeze That with it bears the odour of the trees, And gathers up the meadow's sweet perfume, From off my clouded brow, shall chase the gloom Of sick'ning absence; for the scented air To me wafts back remembrance, as the prayer Of lisping childhood is remembered yet, Like living words, which we can ne'er forget." VIII. Till now, their life had been one thought of joy, A vision time was destined to destroy-- As dies the dewy network on the thorn, Before the sunbeams, with the mists of morn. Thus far their lives in one smooth current ran-- They loved, yet knew not when that love began, And hardly knew they loved; though it had grown A portion of their being, and had thrown Its spirit o'er them; for its shoots had sprung Up in their hearts, while yet their hearts were young; Even like the bright leaves of some wandering seed, Which Autumn's breezes bear across the mead, O'er naked wild and mountain, till the wind, Dropping its gift, a stranger flower we find. And with their years the kindling feeling grew, But grew unnoticed, and no change they knew; For it had grown, even as a bud displays Its opening beauties--one on which we gaze, Yet note no seeming change from hour to hour, But find, at length, the bud a lovely flower. IX. Thus, thrice six golden summers o'er them fled, And on their hearts their rip'ning influence shed; Till one fair eve, when from the gorgeous west, Cloud upon cloud in varied splendour pressed Around the setting sun, which blinding shone On the horizon like its Maker's throne, Till veiled in glory, and its parting ray Fell as a blessing on the closing day; Or, like the living smile of Nature's God Upon his creatures, shedding peace abroad. The early lark had ceased its evening song, And silence reigned amidst the feathered throng, Save where the chaffinch, with unvarying strain, Its short, sweet line of music trilled again; Or where the stock-dove, from the neighbouring grove, Welcomed the twilight with the voice of love: Then Edmund wandered by the trysting-tree, Where, at that hour, the maid was wont to be; But now she came not. Deepening shade on shade, The night crept round him; still he lonely strayed, Gazed on the tree till grey its foliage grew, And stars marked midnight, ere he slow withdrew. Another evening came--a third passed on-- And wondering, fearing, still he stood alone, Trembling and gazing on her father's hall, Where lights were glittering as a festival; And, as with cautious step he ventured near, Sounds of glad music burst upon his ear, And figures glided in the circling dance, While wild his love and poverty at once Flashed through his bursting heart, and smote him now As if a thunderbolt had scorched his brow, And scathed his very spirit; as he stood, Mute as despair--the ghost of solitude! X. Strange guests were revelling at the princely hall-- Proud peers and ladies fair; but, chief of all, A rich and haughty knight, from Beaumont side, Who came to woo fair Helen as his bride; Or rather from her father ask her hand, And woo no more, but deem consent command. He too was young, high-born, and bore a name Sounding with honours bought, though not with fame; And the consent he sought her father gave, Nor feared the daughter of his love would brave In aught his wishes, or oppose his will; For she had ever sought it, as the rill Seeketh the valley or the ocean's breast; And ere his very wishes were expressed, She strove to trace their meaning in his eyes, Even as a seaman readeth on the skies The coming breeze, the calm, or brooding gale, Then spreads the canvas wide, or reefs the sail. Nor did he doubt that still her heart was free As the fleet mountain deer, which as a sea The wilderness surrounds; for she had grown Up as a desert flower, that he alone Had watched and cherished; and the blinding pride Of wealth and ancestry had served to hide From him alone, what long within the vale Had been the rustic gossip's evening tale. That such presumptuous love could e'er employ The secret fancies of the cottage boy, He would have held impossible, or smiled At the bold madness of a thought so wild--- Reading his daughter's spirit by his own, Which reared an ancient name as virtue's throne, And only stooped to look on meaner things, Whose honours echoed not the breath of kings. XI. Wild were the passions, fierce the anguish now, Which tore the very soul, and clothed the brow Of the Enthusiast; while gaunt despair Its heavy, cold, and iron hand laid bare, And in its grasp of torture clenched his heart, Till, one by one, the life-drops seemed to start In agony unspeakable: within His breast its freezing shadow--dark as sin, Gloomy as death, and desolate as hell-- Like starless midnight on his spirit fell, Burying his soul in darkness; while his love, Fierce as a whirlwind, in its madness strove With stern despair, as on the field of wrath The wounded war-horse, panting, strives with death. Then as the conflict weakened, hope would dash Across his bosom, like the death-winged flash That flees before the thunder; yet its light Lived but a moment, leaving deeper night Around the strife of passions; and again The struggle maddened, and the hope was vain. XII. He heard the maidens of the valley say, How they upon their lady's wedding-day Would strew her path with flowers, and o'er the lawn Join in the dance, to eve from early dawn; While, with a smile and half deriding glance, Some sought him as their partner in the dance: And peasant railers, as he passed them by, Laughed, whispered, laughed again, and mocked a sigh. But he disdained them; and his heaving breast Had no room left to feel their vulgar jest, For it ran o'er with agony and scorn, As water dropping on a rock was borne. XIII. Twas a fair summer night, and the broad moon Sailed in calm glory through the skies of June, Pouring on earth its pale and silv'ry light, Till roughest forms were softened to the sight; And on the western hills its faintest ray Kissed the yet ruddy streaks of parted day. The stars were few, and, twinkling, dimly shone, For the bright moon in beauty reigned alone. One cloud lay sleeping 'neath the breathless sky, Bathed in the limpid light; while, as the sigh Of secret love, silent as shadows glide, The soft wind played among the leafy pride Of the green trees, and scarce the aspen shook; A babbling voice was heard from every brook, And down the vale, in murmurs low and long, Tweed poured its ancient and unwearied song. Before, behind, around, afar, and near, The wakeful landrail's watchword met the ear. Then Edmund leaned against the hallowed tree, Whose shade had been their temple, and where he Had carved their names in childhood, and they yet Upon the rind were visible. They met Beneath its branches, spreading as a bower, For months--for years; and the impassioned hour Of silent, deep deliciousness and bliss, Pure as an angel's, fervid as the kiss Of a young mother on her first-born's brow, Fled in their depth of joy they knew not how; Even as the Boreal meteor mocks the eye, Living a moment on the gilded sky, And dying in the same, ere we can trace Its golden hues, its form, or hiding-place. But now to him each moment dragged a chain, And time itself seemed weary. The fair plain, Where the broad river in its pride was seen, With stately woods and fields of loveliest green, To him was now a wilderness; and even Upon the everlasting face of heaven A change had passed--its very light was changed, And shed forth sickness; for he stood estranged From all that he had loved, and every scene Spoke of despair where love and joy had been. Thus desolate he stood, when, lo! a sound Of voices and gay laughter echoed round. Then straight a party issued from the wood, And ere he marked them all before him stood. He gazed, he startled, shook, exclaimed aloud, "Helen!" then burst away, and as a shroud The sombre trees concealed him; but a cry Of sudden anguish echoed a reply To his wild word of misery, though he Heard not its tone of heart-pierced agony. She, whom his fond soul worshipped as its bride, He saw before him by her wooer's side, 'Midst other proud ones. 'Twas a sight like death-- Death on his very heart. The balmy breath Of the calm night struck on his brow with fire; For each fierce passion, burning in its ire, Raged in his bosom as a with'ring flame, And scarce he knew he madly breathed her name; But, as a bark before the tempest tost, Rushed from the scene, exclaiming wildly, "Lost!" XIV. Two days of sorrow slowly round had crept, And Helen lonely in her chamber wept, Shunning her father's guests, and shunning, too, The glance of rage and scorn which now he threw Upon the child that e'er to him had been Dear as immortal hope, when o'er the scene Of human life, death, slow as twilight, lowers. She was the sunlight of his widowed hours-- The all he loved, the glory of his eye, His hope by day, the sole remaining tie That linked him with the world; and rudely now That link seemed broken; and upon his brow Wrath lay in gloom; while, from his very feet, He spurned the being he was wont to meet With outstretched arms of fondness and of pride, While all the father's feelings in a tide Of transport gushed. But now she wept alone, Shunning and shunned; and still the bitter tone In which she heard her Edmund breathe her name, Rang in her heaving bosom; and the flame That lit his eye with frenzy and despair, Upon her naked spirit seemed to glare With an accusing glance; yet, while her tears Were flowing silently, as hours and years Flow down the tide of time, one whom she loved, And who from childhood's days had faithful proved, Approached her weeping, and within her hand A packet placed, as Edmund's last command! Wild throbbed her heart, and tears a moment fled, While, tremblingly, she broke the seal, and read; Then wept, and sobbed aloud, and read again, These farewell words, of passion and of pain. XV. EDMUND'S LETTER. Helen!--_farewell_!--I write but could not speak That parting word of bitterness; the cheek Grows pale when the tongue utters it; the knell Which tells "the grave is ready!" and doth swell On the dull wind, tolling--"the dead--the dead!" Sounds not more desolate. It is a dread And fearful thing to be of hope bereft, As if the soul itself had died, and left The body living--feeling in its breast The death of deaths, its everlasting guest! Such is my cheerless bosom; 'tis a tomb Where Hope lies buried in eternal gloom, And Love mourns o'er it--yes, my Helen--Love-- Like the sad wailings of a widowed dove Over its rifled nest. Yet blame me not, That I, a lowly peasant's son, forgot The gulf between our stations. Could I gaze Upon the glorious sun, and see its rays Fling light and beauty round me, and remain Dead to its power, while on the lighted plain The humblest weed looked up in love, and spread Its leaves before it! The vast sea doth wed The simple brook; the bold lark soars on high, Bounds from its humble nest and woos the sky; Yea, the frail ivy seeks and loves to cling Round the proud branches of the forest's king: Then blame me not;--thou wilt not, canst not blame; Our sorrows, hopes, and joys have been the same-- Been one from childhood; but the dream is past, And stern realities at length have cast Our fates asunder. Yet, when thou shalt see Proud ones before thee bend the suppliant knee, And kiss thy garment while they woo thy hand, Spurn not the peasant boy who dared to stand Before thee, in the rapture of his heart, And woo thee as thine equal. Courtly art May find more fitting phrase to charm thine ear, But, dearest, mayst thou find them as sincere! And, oh! by every past and hallowed hour! By the lone tree that formed our trysting bower! By the fair moon, and all the stars of night, That round us threw love's holiest, dearest light! By infant passion's first and burning kiss! By every witness of departed bliss! Forget me not, loved one! forget me not! For, oh, to know that I am not forgot-- That thou wilt still retain within thy breast Some thought of him who loved you first and best-- To know but this, would in my bosom be Like one faint star seen from the pathless sea By the bewildered mariner. Once more, Maid of my heart, farewell! A distant shore Must be thy Edmund's home--though where the soul Is as a wilderness; from pole to pole The desolate in heart may ceaseless roam, Nor find on earth that spot of heaven--a home! But be thou happy!--be my Helen blessed!-- _Thou wilt be happy_! Oh! those words have pressed Thoughts on my brain on which I may not dwell! Again, farewell!--my Helen, fare-thee-well! XVI. A gallant bark was gliding o'er the seas, And, like a living mass, before the breeze, Swept on majestic, as a thing of mind Whose spirit held communion with the wind, Rearing and rising o'er the billowed tide, As a proud steed doth toss its head in pride. Upon its deck young Edmund silent stood-- A son of sadness; and his mournful mood Grew day by day, while wave on wave rolled by, And he their homeward current with a sigh Followed with fondness. Still the vessel bore The wanderer onward from his native shore, Till in a distant land he lonely stood 'Midst city crowds in more than solitude. XVII. There long he wandered, without aim or plan, Till _disappointment_ whispered, _Act as man!_ But though it cool the fever of the brain, And shake, untaught, presumption's idle reign, Bring folly to its level, and bid hope Before the threshold of attainment stop, Still--when its blastings thwart our every scheme, When humblest wishes seem an idle dream, And the bare bread of life is half denied-- Such disappointments humble not our pride; But do they change the temper of the soul, Change every word and action, and enrol The nobler mind with things of basest name-- With idleness, dishonesty, and shame! It hath its bounds, and thus far it is well To check presumption--visions wild to quell; Then 'tis the chastening of a father's hand-- All wholesome, all expedient. But to stand Writhing beneath the unsparing lash, and be Trampled on veriest earth, while misery Stems the young blood, or makes it freeze with care, And on the tearless eyeballs writes, _Despair!_ Oh! this is terrible!--and it doth throw Upon the brow such early marks of woe, That men seem old ere they have well been young; Their fond hopes perish, and their hearts are wrung With such dark feelings--misanthropic gloom, Spite of their natures, haunts them to the tomb. XVIII. Now, Edmund 'midst the bustling throng appears One old in wretchedness, though young in years; For he had struggled with an angry world, Had felt misfortune's billows o'er him hurled, And strove against its tide--where wave meets wave Like huge leviathans sporting wild, and lave Their mountain breakers round with circling sweep, Till, drawn within the vortex of their deep, The man of ruin struggleth--but in vain; Like dying swimmers who, in breathless pain Despairing, strike at random!--It would be A subject worth the schoolmen's scrutiny, To trace each simple source from whence arose The strong and mingled stream of human woes. But here we may not. It is ours alone To make the lonely wanderer's fortunes known; And now, in plain but faithful colours dressed, To paint the feelings of his hopeless breast. XIX. His withered prospects blacken--wounds await-- The grave grows sunlight to his darker fate. All now is gall and bitterness within, And thoughts, once sternly pure, half yield to sin. His sickened soul, in all its native pride, Swells 'neath the breast that tattered vestments hide Disdained, disdaining; while men flourish, he Still stands a stately though a withered tree. But, Heavens! the agony of the moment when Suspicion stamped the smiles of other men; When friends glanced _doubts_, and proudly prudent grew, His counsellors, and his accusers too! XX. Picture his pain, his misery, when first His growing wants their proud concealment burst; When the first tears start from his stubborn soul. Big, burning, solitary drops, that roll Down his pale cheek--the momentary gush Of human weakness--till the whirlwind rush Of pride, of shame, had dashed them from his eye, And his swollen heart heaved mad with agony! Then, then the pain--the infinity of feeling-- Words fail to paint its anguish. Reason, reeling, Staggered with torture through his burning brain, While his teeth gnashed with bitterness and pain; Reflection grew a scorpion, speech had fled, And all but madness and despair were dead. XXI. He slept to dream of death, or worse than death; For death were bliss, and the convulsive wrath Of living torture peace, to the dread weight That pressed upon sensation, while the light Of reason gleamed but horror, and strange hosts Of hideous phantasies, like threatening ghosts. Grotesquely mingled, preyed upon his brain: Then would he dream of yesterdays again, Or view to-morrow's terrors thick surround His fancy with forebodings. While the sound Of his own breath broke frightful on his ear, He, bathed in icy sweat, would start in fear, Trembling and pale; then did his glances seem Sad as the sun's last, conscious, farewell gleam Upon the eve of judgment. Such appear His days and nights whom hope has ceased to cheer But grov'llers know it not. The supple slave Whose worthiest record is a nameless grave, Whose truckling spirit bends and bids him kneel, And fawn and vilely kiss a patron's heel-- Even _he_ can cast the cursed suspicious eye, Inquire the _cause_ of _this_--the _reason why_? And stab the sufferer. Then, the tenfold pain To feel a gilded butterfly's disdain!-- A kicking ass, without an ass's sense, Whose only virtue is, pounds, shillings, pence; And now, while ills on ills beset him round, The scorn of such the hopeless Edmund found. XXII. But hope returned, and on the wanderer's ear Breathed its life-giving watchword, _Persevere_! And torn by want, and struggling with despair, These were his words, his fixed resolve and prayer, "Hail perseverance, rectitude of heart, Through life thy aid, thy conquering power impart; Repulsed and broken, blasted, be thou ever A portion of my spirit! Leave me never; Firm, fixed in purpose, watchful, unsubdued, Until my hand hath grasped the prize pursued." CANTO SECOND. I. Now, list thee, love, again, and I will tell Of other scenes, and changes which befell The hero of our tale. A wanderer still, Like a lost sheep upon a wintry hill-- Wild through his heart rush want and memory now, Like whirlwinds meeting on a mountain's brow; Slow in his veins the thin blood coldly creeps; He starts, he dreams, and as he walks, he sleeps! He is a stranger--houseless, fainting, poor, Without the shelter of one friendly door; The cold wind whistles through his garments bare, And shakes the night dew from his freezing hair. You weep to hear his woes, and ask me why, When sorrows gathered and no aid was nigh, He sought not then the cottage of his birth, The peace and comforts of his father's hearth? That also thou shalt hear. Scarce had he left His parents' home, ere ruthless fortune reft His friend and father of his little all. Crops failed, and friends proved false; but, worse than all, The wife of his young love, bowed down with grief For her sole child, like an autumnal leaf Nipped by the frosts of night, drooped day by day, As a fair morning cloud dissolves away. Her eyes were dimmed with tears, and o'er her cheek, Like a faint rainbow, broke a fitful streak, Coming and vanishing. She weaker grew, And scarce the half of their misfortunes knew, Until the law's stern minions, as their prey, Relentless seized the bed on which she lay. "My husband! Oh my son!" she faintly cried; Sank on her pillow, and before them died. Even they shed tears. The widowed husband, there, Stood like the stricken ghost of dumb despair; Then sobbed aloud, and, sinking on the bed, Kissed the cold forehead of his sainted dead. Then went he forth a lone and ruined man; But, ere three moons their circling journeys ran, Pride, like a burning poison in his breast, Scorched up his life, and gave the ruined rest; Yet not till he, with tottering steps and slow, Regained the vale where Tweed's fair waters flow, And there, where pines around the churchyard wave, He breathed his last upon his partner's grave! II. I may not tell what ills o'er Edmund passed; Enough to say that fortune smiled at last. In the far land where the broad Ganges rolls; Where nature's bathed in glory, and the souls Of me alone dwell in a starless night, While all around them glows and lives in light: There now we find him, honoured, trusted, loved, For from the humblest stations he had proved Faithful in all, and trust on trust obtained, Till, if not wealth, he _independence_ gained-- Earth's noblest blessing, and the dearest given To man beneath the sacred hope of heaven. And still, as time on silent pinions flew, His fortunes flourished and his honours grew; But as they grew, an anxious hope, that long Had in his bosom been but as the song Of viewless echo, indistinct, and still Receding from us, grew as doth a rill Embraced by others and increasing ever, Till distant plains confess the sweeping river. And, need I say, that hope referred alone To her who in his heart had fixed her throne, And reigned within it still, the sovereign queen. Yet darkest visions oft would flit between His fondest fancies, as the thought returned That she for whom his soul still restless burned, Would be another's now, while haply he, Lost to her heart, would to her memory be As the remembrance of a pleasing dream, Vague and forgotten half, but which we deem Worthy no waking thought. Thus years rolled by; Hope wilder glowed and brightened in his eye. Nor knew he why he hoped; but though despair The Enthusiast's heart may madly grasp, and glare Even on his soul, it may not long remain A dweller on his breast, for hope doth reign There as o'er its inheritance; and he Lives in fond visions of futurity. III. Twelve slow and chequered years had passed.--Again A stately vessel ploughed the pathless main, And waves and days together glided by, Till, as a cloud on the Enthusiast's eye, His island home rose from the ocean's breast-- A thing of strength, of glory, and of rest-- The giant of the deep!--while on his sight Burst the blue hills, and cliffs of dazzling white-- Stronger than death! and beautiful as strong! Kissed by the sea, and worshipped with its song! "Home of my fathers!" the Enthusiast cried; "Their home--ay, and their grave!" he said and sighed. But gazing still upon its glorious strand, Again he cried, "My own, my honoured land! Fair freedom's home and mine! Britannia! hail! Queen of the mighty seas; to whom each gale From every point of heaven a tribute brings, And on thy shores earth's farthest treasure flings! Land of my heart and birth! at sight of thee My spirit boundeth, like a bird set free From long captivity! Thy very air Is fragrant with remembrance! Thou dost bear, On thy Herculean cliffs, the rugged seal Of godlike Liberty! The slave might kneel Upon thy shore, bending the willing knee, To kiss the sacred earth that sets him free! Even I feel freer as I reach thy shore, And my soul mingles with the ocean's roar That hymns around thee! Birthplace of the brave! My own--my glorious home!--the very wave, Rolling in strength and beauty, leaps on high, As if rejoicing on thy beach to die! My loved--my father-land! thy faults to me Are as the specks which men at noontide see Upon the blinding sun, and dwindle pale Beneath thy virtue's and thy glory's veil. Land of my birth! where'er thy sons may roam, Their pride--their boast--their passport is their home!" IV. 'Twas early spring; and winter lingered still On the cold summit of the snow-capt hill; The day was closing, and slow darkness stole Over the earth as sleep steals on the soul, Sealing the eyelids up--unconscious, slow, Till sleep and darkness reign, and we but know, On waking, that we slept--but may not tell; Nor marked we when sleep's darkness on us fell. A lonely stranger then bent anxious o'er A rustic gate before the cottage door-- The snow-white cottage where the chestnuts grew, And o'er its roof their arching branches threw. It was young Edmund, gazing, through his tears, On the now cheerless home of early years-- While as the grave of buried joys it stood, Its white walls shadowed through the leafless wood; The once arched woodbine waving wild and bare; The parterre, erst the object of his care, With early weeds o'ergrown; and slow decay Had changed or swept all else he loved away. Upon the sacred threshold, once his own, He silent stood, unwelcomed and unknown; Gazed, sighed, and turned away; then sadly strayed To the cold, dreamless churchyard, where were laid His parents, side by side. A change had come O'er all that he had loved: his home was dumb, And through the vale no accent met his ear That he was wont in early days to hear; While childhood's scenes fell dimly on his view, As a dull picture of a spot we knew, Where we but cold and lifeless forms can trace. But no bold truth, nor one familiar face. V. Night sat upon the graves, like gloom to gloom, As silent treading o'er each lowly tomb, Thoughtful and sad, he lonely strove to trace, Amidst the graves, his father's resting-place. And well the spot he knew; yea, it alone Was all now left that he might call his own Of all that was his kindred's; and although He looked for no proud monument to show The tomb he sought, yet mem'ry marked the spot Where slept his ancestors; and had it not, He deemed--he felt--that if his feet but trode Upon his parents' dust, the voice of God, As it of old flashed through a prophet's breast, Would in his bosom whisper, "Here they rest!" 'Twas an Enthusiast's thought;--but, oh! to tread, With darkness round us, 'midst the voiceless dead, With not an eye but Heaven's upon our face-- At such a moment, and in such a place, Seeking the dead we love--who would not feel. Yea, and believe as he did then, and kneel On friend or father's grave, and kiss the sod As in the presence of our father's God! VI. He reached the spot; he startled--trembled--wept; And through his bosom wildest feelings swept. He sought a nameless grave, but o'er the place Where slept the generations of his race, A marble pillar rose. "Oh Heaven!" he cried, "Has avaricious Ruin's hand denied The parents of my heart a grave with those Of their own kindred?--have their ruthless foes Grasped this last, sacred spot we called our own? If but a weed upon that grave had grown, I would have honoured it!--have called it brother! Even for my father's sake, and thine, my mother! But that cold marble freezes up my heart, And seems to tell me that I have no part With its proud dead; while through the veil of night The name it bears yet mocks my anxious sight." Thus cried he bitterly; then, trembling, placed His finger on the marble, while he traced Its letters one by one, and o'er and o'er;-- Grew blind with eagerness, and shook the more, As with each touch, the feeling o'er him came-- The unseen letters formed his father's name! VII. While thus, with beating heart, pursuing still His anxious task, slow o'er a neighbouring hill The broad moon rose, by not a cloud concealed, Lit up the valley, and the tomb revealed!-- His parents' tomb!--and now, with wild surprise, He saw the column burst upon his eyes-- Fair, chaste, and beautiful; and on it read These lines in mem'ry of his honoured dead: "Beneath repose the virtuous and the just, Mingled in death, affection's hallowed dust. In token of their worth, this simple stone Is, as a daughter's tribute, reared by one Who loved them as such, and their name would save As virtue's record o'er their lowly grave." "Helen!" he fondly cried, "thy hand is here!" And the cold grave received his burning tear; Then knelt he o'er it--clasped his hands in prayer; But, while yet lone and fervid kneeling there, Before his eyes, upon the grave appear Primroses twain--the firstlings of the year,-- And bursting forth between the blossomed two, Twin opening buds in simple beauty grew. He gazed--he loved them as a living thing; And wondrous thoughts and strange imagining Those simple flowers spoke to his listening soul In superstition's whispers; whose control The wisest in their secret moments feel, And blush at weakness they may not reveal. VIII. He left the place of death; and, rapt in thought, The trysting-tree of love's young years he sought; And, as its branches opened on his sight, Bathing their young buds in the pale moonlight, A whispered voice, melodious, soft, and low, As if an angel mourned for mortal woe, Borne on the ev'ning breeze, came o'er his ear: He knew the voice--his heart stood still to hear! And each sense seem'd a listener; but his eye Sought the sad author of the wand'ring sigh; And 'neath the tree he loved, a form as fair As summer in its noontide, knelt in prayer. He clasped his hands--his brow, his bosom burned; He felt the past--the buried past returned! Still, still he listened, till, like words of flame, Through her low prayer he heard his whispered name! "Helen!" he wildly cried--"my own--my blest!" Then bounded forth.--I cannot tell the rest. There was a shriek of joy: heart throbbed on heart, And hands were locked as though they ne'er might part; Wild words were spoken--bliss tumultuous rolled, And all the anguish of the past was told. IX. Upon her love long had her father frowned, Till tales of Edmund's rising fortunes found Their way across the wilderness of sea, And reached the valley of his birth. But she, With truth unaltered, and with heart sincere, Through the long midnight of each hopeless year That marked his absence, shunned the proffered hand Of wealth and rank; and met her sire's command With tears and bended knees, until his breast Again a father's tenderness confessed. X. 'Twas May--bright May: bird, flower, and shrub, and tree, Rejoiced in light; while, as a waveless sea Of living music, glowed the clear blue sky, And every fleecy cloud that floated by Appeared an isle of song!--as all around And all above them echoed with the sound Of joyous birds, in concert loud and sweet, Chanting their summer hymns. Beneath their feet The daisy put its crimson liv'ry on; While from beneath each crag and mossy stone Some gentle flower looked forth; and love and life Through the Creator's glorious works were rife, As though his Spirit in the sunbeams said, "Let there be life and love!" and was obeyed. Then, in the valley danced a joyous throng, And happy voices sang a bridal song; Yea, tripping jocund on the sunny green, The old and young in one glad dance were seen; Loud o'er the plain their merry music rang, While cripple granddames, smiling, sat and sang The ballads of their youth; and need I say 'Twas Edmund's and fair Helen's wedding-day? Then, as he led her forth in joy and pride, A hundred voices blessed him and his bride. Yet scarce he heard them; for his every sense, Lost in delight and ecstasy intense, Dwelt upon her; and made their blessings seem As words breathed o'er us in a wand'ring dream. XI. Now months and years in quick succession flew, And joys increased, and still affection grew. For what is youth's first love to wedded joy? Or what the transports of the ardent boy To the fond husband's bliss, which, day by day, Lights up his spirit with affection's ray? Man knows not what love is, till all his cares The partner of his bosom soothes and shares-- Until he find her studious to please-- Watching his wishes!--Oh, 'tis acts like these That lock her love within his heart, and bind Their souls in one, and form them of one mind. Love flowed within their bosoms as a tide, While the calm rapture of their own fireside Each day grew holier, dearer; and esteem Blended its radiance with the glowing beam Of young affection, till it seemed a sun Melting their wishes and their thoughts as one. XII. Eight years passed o'er them in unclouded joy, And now by Helen's side a lovely boy, Looked up and called her, Mother; and upon The knee of Edmund climbed a little one-- A blue-eyed prattler--as her mother fair. They were their parents' joy, their hope, their care; But, while their cup with happiness ran o'er, And the long future promised joys in store, Death dropped its bitterness within the cup, And its late pleasant waters mingled up With wailing and with woe. Like early flowers, Which the slow worm with venomed tooth devours, The roses left their two fair children's cheeks, Or came and went like fitful hectic streaks, As day by day they drooped: their sunny eyes Grew lustreless and sad; and yearning cries-- Such as wring life-drops from a parent's heart-- Their lisping tongues now uttered. The keen dart Of the unerring archer, Death, had sunk Deep in their bosoms, and their young blood drunk; Yet the affection of the children grew, As its dull, wasting poison wandered through Their tender breasts; and still they ever lay With their arms round each other. On the day That ushered in the night on which they died, The boy his mother kissed, and fondly cried, "Weep not, dear mother!--mother, do not weep! You told me and my sister, death was sleep-- That the good Saviour, who from heaven came down, And who for our sake wore a thorny crown-- You often told us how He came to save Children like us, and conquered o'er the grave; And I have read in his blessed book, How in his hand a little child He took, And said that such in heaven should greatest be: Then, weep not, mother--do not weep for me; For if I be angel when I die, I'll watch you, mother--I'll be ever nigh; Where'er you go, I'll hover o'er your head; Then, though I'm buried, do not think me dead! But let my sister's grave and mine be one, And lay us by the pretty marble stone, To which our father dear was wont to go, And where, in spring, the sweet primroses blow; Then, weep not, mother!" But she wept the more; While the sad father his affliction bore Like one in whom all consciousness was dead, Save that he wrung his hands and rocked his head, And murmured oft this short and troubled prayer-- "O God! look on me, and my children spare!" XIII. Their little arms still round each other clung, When their last sleep death's shadow o'er them flung! And still they slept, and fainter grew their breath-- Faint and more faint, until their sleep was death. Deep, but unmurmured was the mother's grief, For in her FAITH she sought and found relief; Yea, while she mourned a daughter and a son, She looked to heaven, and cried, "Thy will be done!" But, oh! the father no such solace found-- Dark, cheerless anguish wrapt his spirit round; He was a stranger to the Christian's hope, And in bereavement's hour he sought a prop On which his pierced and stricken soul might lean; Yet, as he sought it, doubts would intervene-- Doubts which for years had clouded o'er his soul-- Doubts that, with prayers he struggled to control; For though a grounded faith he ne'er had known, He was no prayerless man; but he had grown To thinking manhood from his dreaming youth, A _seeker_ still--a _seeker after truth!_-- An earnest seeker, but his searching care Sought more in books and nature than by prayer; And vain he sought, nor books nor nature gave The hope of hopes that animates the grave! Though, to have felt that hope, he would have changed His station with the mendicant who ranged Homeless from door to door and begged his bread, While heaven hurled its tempest round his head. For what is hunger, pain, or piercing wind, To the eternal midnight of the mind? Or what on earth a horror can impart, Like his who feels engraven on his heart The word, _Annihilation!_ Often now The sad Enthusiast would strike his brow, And cry aloud, with deep and bitter groans, "How have I sinned, that both my little ones-- The children of my heart--should be struck down! O Thou Almighty Spirit! if thy frown Is now upon me, turn aside thy wrath, And guide me--lead, oh lead me in the path Of heaven's own truth; direct my faith aright, Teach me to hope, and lend thy Spirit's light." XIV. Thus, long his soul as a frail bark was tossed On a dark sea, with helm and compass lost, Till she who ever to his breast had been The star of hope and love, with brow serene, As if no sorrow e'er her heart had riven, But her eye calmly looked through time to heaven-- Soothed his sad spirit, and with anxious care Used much of reason, and yet more of prayer; Till bright'ning hope dawned gently o'er his soul, Like the sun's shadow at the freezing pole, Seen by the shiv'ring Greenlander, or e'er Its front of fire does his horizon cheer; While brighter still that ardent hope became, Till in his bosom glowed the living flame Of Christian faith--faith in the Saviour sent, By the eternal God, to preach, "Repent And be ye saved."---Then peace, as sunshine, fell On the Enthusiast's bosom, and the swell Of anguish died away, as o'er the deep The waves lie down when winds and tempests sleep. XV. Time glided on, and wedded joys still grew As beauty deepens on an autumn view With tinges rich as heaven! and, though less green, More holy far than summer's fairest scene. Now o'er the happy pair, at life's calm eve Age like a shadow fell, and seemed to weave So fair a twilight round each silvered brow, That they ne'er felt so young, so blest as now; Though threescore winters o'er their path had fled, And left the snow of years on either head. For age drew round them, but they knew it not-- The once bright face of youth was half forgot; But still the young, the unchanged heart was there, And still his aged Helen seemed as fair As when, with throbbing heart and giddy bliss, He from her lips first snatched the virgin kiss! XVI. Last scene of all: An old and widowed man, Whose years had reached life's farthest, frailest span, And o'er whose head, as every moment flew, Eternity its dark'ning twilight threw, Lay in his silent chamber, dull and lone, Watching the midnight stars, as one by one They as slow, voiceless spirits glided past The window of his solitude, and cast Their pale light on his brow; and thus he lay Till the bright star that ushers in the day Rose on his sight, and, with its cheering beams, Lit in his bosom youth's delicious dreams; Yea, while he gazed upon that golden star, Rolling in light, like love's celestial car, He deemed he in its radiance read the while His children's voices and his Helen's smile; And as it passed, and from his sight withdrew, His longing spirit followed it! and flew To heaven and deathless bliss--from earth and care-- To meet his Helen and his children there! THE ROMAUNT OF SIR PEREGRINE AND THE LADY ETHELINE. I. Of a maiden's beauty the world-wide praise Was a thing of duty in chivalrous days, When her envied name was a nation's fame, And raised in knights' breasts an emulous flame, Which lighted to honour and grand emprise-- Things always so lovely in ladies' eyes; For a true woman's favour will ever be won By that which is noble and nobly done. Sir Peregrine sounded his bugle horn With a note of love and a blast of scorn; Of love to the Ladye Etheline Up in yon Castle of Eaglestein, Whose beauty had passed o'er Christian land As a philter to nerve the resolute hand Of many a knight in the goodly throng Who gathered round Godfrey of Buglion, With Richard, and Raymond, and Leopold, And thousands of others as brave and bold; And a blast of scorn to every knight Who would dare to challenge his envied right. The porte yields quick to the warder's hand By the Yerl's consent, by the Yerl's command; And the ladye, who knew the winding sound, As the tra-la-la rang all around, Has opened her casement up on high, And thrown him the kiss of her courtesy. II. "I am come, fair ladye, to beg of thee, As here I crave upon bended knee, That thou wilt grant unto my prayer A single lock of thy golden hair, To wear in a lockheart over my breast, And carry with me to the balmy East-- The land where the Saviour met his death, The sacred Salem of saving faith, Which holds the sepulchre of our Lord, Defiled by a barbarous Paynim horde. Grant me the meed for which I burn, And, by our Ladye, on my return, We will wedded be in the sacred bands Of a sacrament sealed by holy hands." The ladye has, with a gesture bland, Taken her scissors into her hand, And clipt a lock of her auburn hair, And yielded it to his ardent prayer; But a pearly drop from her weeping eyes Hath fallen upon the golden prize. "Ah! blessed drop," said the knight, and smiled-- "This tear was from thine heart beguiled, And I take it to be an omen of good, For tears, my love, are purified blood, That impart a beauty to female eyes, And vouch for her kindly sympathies." "Ah! no, ah! no," the maid replied-- "An omen of ill," and she heavily sighed; Then a flood came gushing adown her cheek, Nor further word could the damoiselle speak. Then said Sir Peregrine, smiling still, "If tears, my love, are an omen of ill, The way to deprive them of evil spell Is to kiss them away, and--all is well!" And he took in his arms the yielding maid, And kissed them away, as he had said. The warder has oped the porteluse again, To let Sir Peregrine forth with his train. Loud spoke the horn o'er fell and dell, "Fare thee--fare thee--fare thee well;" But Etheline, as she waved her hand, Could not those flowing tears command, And thought the bugle in sounds did say, "Fare thee--fare thee well for aye." III. A year has passed: at Eaglestein There sat the Ladye Etheline; Her eyes were wet, and her cheek was pale, Her sweet voice dwindled into a wail; For though through the world's busy crowd The deeds of the war were sung aloud, And the name of Sir Peregrine was enrolled With Godfrey's among the brave and bold, No letter had come from her knight so dear, To belie the spell of the lock and tear. The Countess would weep, and the Yerl would say, "Alas! for the hour when he went away." But the womb of old Time is everly full, And the storm-wind bloweth after a lull. Hark! a horn has sounded both loud and clear, And echoed around both far and near; It is Sir Ronald from Palestine-- Sir Ronald, a suitor of Etheline. "I have come," said he, "through pain and peril, To tell unto thee, most noble Yerl: Woe to the sword of the fierce Soldan, Who slew our most gallant capitan! Sir Peregrine, in an unhappy hour, Fell wounded before High Salem's tower, And ere he died he commissioned me To bear to Scotland, and give to thee, This bit of the genuine haly rood Dipt in his heart's outpouring blood, That thou mightst give it to Etheline, As a relic of dead Sir Peregrine." IV. All Eaglestein vale is yellow and sere, The ancient elms seem withered and bare, The river asleep in its rushy bed, The waters are green, and the grass is red, The roses are dead in the sylvan bowers, Where oft in the dewy evening hours, Ere yet the fairies had sought the dell, And the merle was singing her day-farewell, The Lady Etheline would recline And think of her dear Sir Peregrine: All was cheerless now, forlorn, As if they missed her at early morn; At noontide and at evening fall They sorrowed for her, the spirit of all. In the solary, up in the western wing, The Countess and Yerl sat sorrowing For one so young, so gentle, and fair, Their only child, lying ailing there, Waning and waning slowly away, Yet waxing more beautiful every day, As if she were drawing from spheres above, Before she got there, the spirit of love, Which shone as a light through the silken lire, Pure as was that of the vestal fire; And ever she kissed in hysterical mood The bit of the cross all red with blood. "Oh mother dear! I wish--I fear The time of my going is drawing near: Last night, at the mirk and midnight hour, A voice seemed to come through my chamber door-- For the ear of the dying is tender and fine-- And three times it sounded Etheline; And it is true, as I've heard say, Such voices are calls to come away-- The voices of angels hovering near, Who wish us to join them in yonder sphere." "Oh! no, oh! no, my own dear child, Thine overfine ears have thee beguiled: It was the Yerl, when in a dream, Who three times called thy dear-loved name; I heard the call as awake I lay, And thou mayst believe what now I say." "Oh mother! oh mother! what do I hear? It is the nightingale singing clear; I have heard the notes in Italian clime, And remember them since that early time; And it is true, as I've heard say, That when the nightingale sings by day, The dying who hears it will pass away." "No, no, my child, the song you hear Is that of the throstle-cock singing clear: I see him upon the linden tree, And you, if you like, may also see. I know its speckled breast too well; It is not, dear child, the nightingale." When this she heard, the maiden sighed, As if she were vexed she was denied The hope of passing quickly away To yon regions bright of eternal day. "Oh mother! list, what do I hear? Sir Peregrine's horn is winding clear; Ah, I know the sound, as it seems to say In its windings, 'Hali-hali-day;' And it is true, as I've heard tell, When a dead man's horn sounds loud and shrill, It is a true sign to his earthly bride, He will wait for her spirit at evening tide." The Countess turned her face to the Yerl; It was true what was said by the dying girl; It _was_ Sir Peregrine's horn they heard, And they both sat mute, nor whispered a word, For they wondered much, and were sore afraid Of mysteries working about the maid, Who, as she lay in her ecstasie, Kept muttering slow an Ave Marie: "Oh, Lady sweet! the sign hath come, Happy the maid whom her knight calls home; It is the nightingale that I hear, The golden sun is shining clear; And I've heard tell in time past gone, Blessed is the bier that the sun shines on." And, as they listened, there came to their ear The grating of the portcullis gear, And a cry of fear from the ballion green, As if the retainers a ghost had seen: Tramp and tramp on the scalière, And along the corridor leading there; The door is opened, and lo! comes in The leal and the living Sir Peregrine. "Holy Maria!" the Countess cried, "Holy Maria!" the Yerl replied; The maid looked up, then sank her head, As an Ave Marie again she said: "Ave Marie! my sweet ladye, Ave Marie! I come to thee. Ah, soft and clear those eyes of thine, That look so kindly into mine; Oh Ladye sweet! stretch forth thy hand To welcome me to yon happy land; Oh Virgin! open thy bosom fair, That thy poor child may nestle there;" Then she laid her arms across her breast, And gently, softly, sank to rest. The throstle-cock's voice rang out more clear On the linden tree there growing near, And the sun burst forth with brighter ray On the couch where her spirit had passed away. V. Over hollow, and over height, Sir Peregrine sought that caitiff knight Who had wrought such woe to Eaglestein-- To him and the Lady Etheline. The time has come and the wish made good, The villain he met in the Calder Wood. "Hold, hold, thou basest dastard Theou, For Ceorl's a name thou'rt far below; Ten lives like thine would not suffice To be to my soul a sacrifice; There is the glaive, it is thine to try. Or with it or without it thou must die." But the caitiff laughed a laugh of scorn: "Come on, thou bastard of bastards born." Their falchions are gleaming in bright mid-day: They rushed like tigers upon their prey; Sir Peregrine's eyes flashed liquid fire, The caitiff's shone out with unholy ire; But victory goes not aye with right, Nor the race to those the quickest in flight. Sir Peregrine's fury o'ershot his aim: His sword breaks through--his arm is maim! With nothing to wield, with nothing to ward. No word of mercy or quarter heard; With a breast-wound deep as his heart he lies, A look of scorn--Sir Peregrine dies. Behind the crumbling walls of Eaglestein, The tomb of the old Yerls may still be seen, And there long mouldering lay close side by side, Sir Peregrine the bold and his fair bride; Their ashes scattered now and blown away, As thine and mine will be some coming day. This world is surely an enchanted theme, A thing of seims and shows--a wild fantastic dream. III. THE LEGEND OF ALLERLEY HALL. The tower-bell has sounded the midnight hour, Old Night has unfolded her sable pall, Darkness o'er hamlet, darkness o'er hall, Loud screams the raven on Allerley Tower;[A] A glimmering gleam from yon casement high Is all that is seen by the passer-by. [Footnote A: In Ayrshire, as I have heard, but I know of no trace of the family. The old distich may be traced to some other county: "The Allerley oak stands high, abune trees; When the raven croaks there, an Allerley dees." Such rhymes have generally something to rest upon, but I cannot associate this with any county, far less a family.] All things are neglected, time-smitten there, Crazy and cobwebbed, mildewed and worn, Moth-eaten, weeviled, dusty, forlorn, Everything owning to waning and wear; From the baron's hall to the lady's bower NEGLECT is the watchword in Allerley Tower. There is silence within old Allerley Hall, Save the raven without with her "croak, croak," And the cricket's "click, click," in the panels of oak, Behind the dim arras that hangs on the wall; So silent and sad in the midnight hour, Yet life may still linger in Allerley Tower. An old woman sits by a carved old bed-- The drape of green silk, all yellow and sere, The gold-coloured fringes dingy and drear; And she nods and nods her silvery head, And sometimes she looks with a half-drowsy air. To notice how Death may be working there. Lord William lies there, care-worn and pale, All his sunlight of spirit has passed away, And left to him only that twilight of grey Which ushers men into the long dark vale; Fast ebbing his life, yet feeling no pain, Save a memory working within his brain. He had sought the world's crowd for forty years, But only a little relief to borrow From the heartfelt pangs of that early sorrow Which had drawn him away from his gay compeers, And made him oft sigh, with a pain-begot scorn, That into this world he ever was born. But being brought in, as a victim, to tarry, With him, as with all, it is how to get out With no more of pain than you can't go without, Where all have original sin to carry; But his memory brightened, as strength waxed low, Of the grief he had borne forty years ago. There is silence and sadness in Allerley Tower; The taper is glimmering with murky snot, The raven croak-croaking with rusty throat, And the cricket click-clicking at midnight hour; And the woman mope-moping by the bed, Still nodding and nodding her drowsy head. "Now bring me, old nurse, from that escritoire, A packet tied up with a ribbon of blue;" Ah! well, though now faded, that ribbon he knew, Which his fingers had bound forty years before. He shuddered to look, yet afraid to wait, Lest Death might render his vision too late. That ribbon he drew in a calm despair: Behold now revealed to his wondering eyes A face of all beautiful harmonies, Set fair among ringlets of golden hair; With eyes so blue and a smile of heaven, Which haply some angel to her had given. Beside that miniature lay a scroll, As written by him forty years before: He read every word of it o'er and o'er, And every word of it flashed through his soul, In a flood of that bright and awakened light Which slumbers and sleeps through a long, long night. THE SCROLL. "I loved my love early, the young Lady May; I saw her bloom rarely in youth's rosy day; But her eye looked afar to some orb that was shining, As if for that sphere her spirit was pining. "Faint in the light of day seemed what was near her; Visions far, far away, clearer and clearer; Still, as flesh wears away spirits that bear it, Eyeing yon milky way, sigh to be near it. "Lady May, she is dying--she hears some one whisper, Near where she's lying, 'Come away, sister'-- Draw down each silky lid--draw them down over Eyes whose last light on earth shone on her lover. "My lost Lady May in yon vault now is sleeping; Her sisters who go to pray come away weeping; And while I yet linger here, some one elates me, Whispering into my ear, 'Yonder she waits thee.'" And thus they had waited until this last day, But the hour of their meeting was coming apace; And as he still gazed on that beautiful face, His spirit so weary passed gently away; And the nurse would unfold those fingers so cold, Which still of that picture retained the hold. There's the silence of death in Allerley Tower, The taper gone out with its murky smoke, The raven has finished her croak-croak, The cricket is silent at midnight hour; The last of the Allerley lords lies there, And Allerley goes to a distant heir. In yon tomb where was laid his young Lady May, Lord William sleeps now by the side of her bier; And the Allerley lords and ladies lie near. But nearest of neighbours they nothing can say: No "Good morrow, my lord," when the day is begun, No "My lady, good night," when the day it is done. IV. THE LEGEND OF THE LADY KATHARINE. I. 'Twas at a time now long past gone, And well gone if 'twill stay, When our good land seemed made alone For lords and ladies gay; When brown bread was the poor man's fare, For which he toiled and swet, When men were used as nowt or deer. And heads were only worth the wear When crowned with coronet. There was a right good noble knight, Sir Bullstrode was his name[A]-- A name which he acquired by fight, And with it meikle fame. Upon his burnished shield he bore A head of bull caboshed (For so they speak in herald lore), And for his crest he aptly wore Two bones of marrow crossed. [Footnote A: A knight called Bullstrode, as having got his name in the way set forth, is mentioned by Guillim; but whether he is the same as he who figures in the Scotch legend I do not know.] For he had slain in tournay set Full many a blazoned fool; Nor would he deem his praise complete Till he had slain a bull. He threw the gauntlet at the brute, Which was received with scorn, For Taurus straight the gauntlet took, Then in the air the bauble shook, And tossed it on his horn. To fight they went with might and main, And fought a good long hour; The knight's long lance was broke in twain-- Sir Bull had now the power; The ladies laughed, the barons too, As they Sir Bull admired! But where fair ladies are to view, Who may declare what knight may do, By noble emprise fired? The knight he paused amid the claque, And threw a look of scorn: Sir Bull has Bullstrode on his back, Who held by either horn; And round the ring, and round the ring, Rushed bull in wild affray, Stamping, roaring, bellowing,-- And, stumbling, gave his neck a wring, And Bullstrode won the day. This valiant knight, by love inspired, Next sued fair Katharine, The daughter of Sir Ravensbeard, A man of ancient line; And he had known the reason good Sir Bullstrode got his name, And wished--if Kate could be subdued-- To mix his blue and blazoned blood With one of such a fame. II. But when the knights are thus employeed, The lady is in yon glen, There seated by the river side With one, the flower of men-- George Allan--a rich yeoman's heir, Who leased her father's land. Yet, though beloved by all the fair, Young Allan might not surely dare To claim this envied hand. Yet hearts will work, and hearts will steal What high commands deny; And beauty is a thing to feel, Self-chosen by the eye: Nor would fair Katharine had gi'en A touch of Allan's hand For all the honours she could gain From duke or earl, lord or thane, Or knight in all the land. She knew the price she had to pay For this her secret love; But where's a will there is a way, And Kate she would it prove. The will we know, the way's obscure, Deep in her soul confined; What quick invention might secure, With love for the inspiring power, Was in that maiden's mind. "Now, Allan," she said, with a silent laugh, In eyes both quaint and keen, "Thou must not fear, for here I swear By Coz. Saint Catharine, 'Twas easier for this doughty knight To hold these horns he dared, Than take for wife by a father's right, Against the spurn of a maiden's spite, The daughter of Ravensbeard." "No, no, fair lady," George Allan said-- With tears his eyes were full-- "'Tis easier to force the will of a maid, Than hold by the horns a bull." "Yes! yes! of the maids who say a prayer, Like sisters of orders grey; But Kate admits no craven fear, And she can do what they cannot dare, For she's quicker of parts than they." III. It's up in yon chamber well bedight Of the castle of Invercloyd, A maiden sits with a grim sir knight Seated on either side. "I come to thee by a father's right, To issue my last command, That thou concede to this gallant knight, What his noble nature will requite, The guerdon of thy hand." "And here, upon my bended knee," Sir Bullstrode blandly said, "I pray thee, in knightly courtesie, The grace thy sire hath pled." "Oh yes! a guerdon let it remain, I give thee free consent; But I have a mind, and will maintain, This knight shall only my favour gain In knightly tournament." "What meaneth the wench?" the father cried, With a fire-flaught in his eye, "What other knight would'st thou invite Sir Bullstrode to defy? Is he a lover? I grant no parle, For I am resolved to know, And wish, by my sword, no better a quarrel; And be he a ceorl, or be he an earl, He goes to shades below." "No lover is he, my father dear, My champion who shall be; A stranger knight shall for me fight, And shall my fate decree." "Well done! well done!" cried Sir Bullstrode, "That goeth with my gree; May the carrion crow be then abroad, All hungry to feed upon carrion food, That day he fights with me." "But let this contract," said the maid, "Be written on parchment skin, And signed, and sealed, and witnessèd, That surety I may find." Again the father knit his brow, Yet could not he complain, Because Sir Bullstrode wished it so, That all the world might come to know His honour he could maintain. IV. It's up in yon chamber tapestried, Sits the Lady Katharine; She smiled at a woman's art applied Her own true love to win. And lo! who comes in a tearful way, But her pretty tire-woman, "Hey! hey! what now? good lack-a-day! Such cheeks so pale, and lips like clay; What ails maid Lilian?" "Oh it is, it is, young mistress mine, All about this valiant knight, Who came to me all drunk with wine, At the dead hour of the night. He seized me struggling to get free, And swore by the goat of Jove, He would me fee, if I would be, La! my lady! I fear to tell it to thee, _His left-hand lady-love_." "Ho! ho! my maid, a pretty scene! A brute of noble parts! But 'tis easier to turn a bull by each horn, Than rule two women's hearts. No harems have we in western land, Where a woman's soul is free, To rule weak man by her high command, And rouse by a wave of her wizard wand The fire of his chivalrie." V. Lo! round the lists, and round the lists, Bedecked with pennons gay, Environed there with ladies fair, Sir Bullstrode held his way. High mounted on a gallant steed, And armed a-cap-a-pie, His lance well graced by a pennon red, A white plume nodded o'er his head, With ribbons at his knee. "Why mounts not Kate the dais seat?" The father loudly cried. "She hath not finished her robing yet," A lady quick replied. And now a shout rang all about, Ho! ho! there comes apace, A Cataphract[A] of noble mien, With armour bright as silver sheen, And eke of gentle grace. [Footnote A: A knight completely equipped; a word in common use in the times of chivalry.] He bore for his escochion Dan Cupid with his dart, And for his crest there was impressed A well-skewered bleeding heart; His yellow streamer on his spear, Flew fluttering in the wind, And thrice he waved it in the air, As if to fan the ladies there, And thrice his head inclined. "Who's he, who's he?" cried Ravensbeard; But no one there could say. "Knowest thou him?" cried some who heard; But each one answered Nay. "I am Sir Peveril," said the knight, "If you my name would learn, And I will for fair Katharine fight, A lady's love, and a lady's right, And a lady's choice to earn." The gauntlet thrown upon the ground, Sir Bullstrode laughed with joy: "Short work," said he, "I'll make of thee-- Methinks a beardless boy." Nor sooner said than in he sprang And aimed a mortal blow, The crenel upon the buckler rang, And having achieved an echoing clang, It made no more ado. The stranger knight wheeled quick as light, And charging with gratitude, Gave him good thank on his left flank, And lo! a stream of blood! Shall he this knight, so dread in fight, Cede to this beardless foe, And feel in his pain, returned again, That vaunt of his so empty and vain, That vaunt of the carrion crow? Stung by the wound, not less by shame, He gathered all his force, And sprang again, with desperate aim, His enemy to unhorse; But he who watched the pointed lance A dexterous movement made, And saw his foe, as he missed the blow, Rock in his selle both to and fro, And vault o'er his horse's head. Sore fainting from the loss of blood, He lay upon the ground, Nor e'er a leech within his reach Can stop that fatal wound. And there with many an honour full, That brave and doughty knight, Sir Bullstrode, who once strode the bull, And killed (himself one) many a fool, Has closed his eyes in night. VI. And now within the ballion court There sits Sir Ravensbeard: "Who shall me say what popinjay Hath earned this proud reward?" And there stands Katharine all confessed In maiden dignity; "'Twas I, in 'fence of life sore pressed, 'Twas I, at honour's high behest, This bad man made to die. "For hear me, sire, restrain your ire, This knight you so admired, A plan had laid to ruin my maid, While he for my love aspired. I claim the contract by his hand, Whereto thou'rt guarantee, And this young Allan is the man, And he alone of all Scotland, Thy Katharine's lord shall be." V. THE BALLAD OF AILIE FAA. I. Sir Robert has left his castle ha', The castle of fair Holmylee, And gone to meet his Ailie Faa, Where no one might be there to see. He has sounded shrill his bugle horn, But not for either horse or hound; And when the echoes away were borne, He listened for a well-known sound. He hears a rustling among the leaves, Some pattering feet are drawing near; Like autumn's breathings among the sheaves, So sweet at eventide to hear: His Ailie Faa, who is sweeter far Than the white rose hanging upon the tree, Who is fairer than the fairies are That dance in moonlight on the lea. Oh! there are some flowers, as if in love, Unto the oak their arms incline; And tho' the tree may rotten prove, They still the closer around it twine: So has it been until this hour, And so in coming time 'twill be, Wherever young love may hang a flower, 'Twill think it aye ane trusty tree. He has led her into a summer bower, For he was fond and she was fain, And there with all of a lover's power He whispered that old and fatal strain, Which those who sing it and those who hear Have never sung and never heard, But they have shed the bitter tear For every soft delusive word. He pointed to yon castle ha', And all its holts so green and fair; And would not she, poor Ailie Faa, Move some day as a mistress there? As the parchèd lea receives the rains, Her ears drank up the sweet melodie; A gipsy's blood flowed in her veins, A gipsy's soul flashed in her eye. Oh! it's time will come and time will go, That which has been will be again; This strange world's ways go to and fro, This moment joy, the next is pain. A sough has thro' the hamlet spread, To Ailie's ear the tidings came, That Holmylee will shortly wed A lady fair of noble name. II. In yon lone cot adown the Lynne A widowed mother may think it long Since there were lightsome words within, Since she has heard blithe Ailie's song. A gloomy shade sits on Ailie's brow, At times her eyes flash sudden fires, The same she had noticed long ago, Deep flashing in her gipsy sire's. When the wind at even was low and loun, And the moon paced on in her majesty Thro' lazy clouds, and threw adown Her silvery light o'er turret and tree, Then Ailie sought the green alcove, That place of fond lovers' lone retreat, Where she for the boon of gentle love, Had changed the meed of a deadly hate. She sat upon "the red Lynne stone," Where she between the trees might see, By yon pale moon that shone thereon, The goodly turrets of Holmylee. And as she felt the throbbing pains, And as she heaved the bursting sigh, A gipsy's blood burned in her veins, A gipsy's soul flashed in her eye. If small the body that thus was moved, So like the form that fairies wear, It was that slenderness he loved, So tiny a thing he might not fear. But there is an insect skims the air, Bedecked with azure and green and gold, Whose sting is a deadlier thing by far Than dagger of yon baron bold. III. She sat upon the red Lynne stone, The midnight sky was overcast, The winds are out with a sullen moan, The angry Lynne is rolling past. What then? there was no lack of light, Full fifteen windows blazing shone Up on the castle on the height, While Ailie Faa sat there alone. For there is dancing and deray In the ancient castle of Holmylee, And barons bold and ladies gay Are holding high-jinks revelry. Sir Robert has that day been wed, 'Midst sounding trumpets of éclat, And one that night will grace his bed Of nobler birth than Ailie Faa. Revenge will claim its high command, And Ailie is on her feet erect, She passes nervously her hand Between her jupe and jerkinet. _There_ lies a charm for woman's wrong, Concealed where beats the bursting heart, Which, ere an hour hath come and gone, Will play somewhere a fatal part. IV. Up in the hall of Holmylee Still sound the revel, the dance, and song, And through the open doors and free There pours the gay and stately throng; But of all the knights and barons there, The bridegroom still the foremost stood, And she the fairest of the fair, The bride who was of noble blood. It was when feet were tripping The mazes of the dance, It was when lips were sipping The choicest wines of France, A wild scream rose within the hall, Which pierced the roofen tree, And in the midst was seen to fall The Baron of Holmylee. "To whom belongs this small stilette. By whom our host is slain?" Between a jupe and jerkinet That weapon long had lain. Each on his sword his hand did lay, This way and that they ran; But she who did the deed is away, Ho! catch her if you can. VI. THE LEGEND OF THE FAIR EMERGILDE I. Thou little god of meikle sway, Who rul'st from pole to pole, And up beyond yon milky way, Where wondrous planets roll: Oh! tell me how a power divine, That tames the creatures wild, Whose touch benign makes all men kin, Could slay sweet Emergilde? It's up the street, and down the street, And up the street again, And all the day, and all the way, She looks at noble men; But him she seeks she cannot find In all that moving train; No one can please that anxious gaze, And own to "Ballenden." From the high castle on the knowe, Adown the Canongate, And from the palace in the howe, Up to the castle yett, A hizzy here, a cadie there, She stops with modest mien; All she can say four words convey: "I seek for Ballenden." Nor more of our Scotch tongue she knew, For she's of foreign kin, And all her speech can only reach "I seek for Ballenden." No Ballenden she yet could find, No one aught of him knew; She sought at night dark Toddrick's Wynd, Next morn to search anew. II. And who is she, this fair ladye, To whom our land is strange? Why all alone, to all unknown, Within this city's range? Her face was of the bonnie nut-brown Our Scotch folk love to view, When 'neath it shows the red, red rose, Like sunlight shining through. Her tunic was of the mazerine, Of scarlet her roquelaire, And o'er her back, in ringlets black, Fell down her raven hair. Her eyes, so like the falling sterns, Seen on an August night, Had surely won from eastern sun Some rayons of his light. And still she tried, and still she plied, Her task so sad and vain, The words still four--they were no more-- "I seek for Ballenden." No Ballenden could she yet find, No one aught of him knew, And still at night down Toddrick's Wynd, Next morn to search anew. III. In Euphan Barnet's lowly room, Adown that darksome wynd, A ladye fair is lying there, In illness sair declined; Her cheeks now like the lily pale, The roses waned away, Her eyes so bright have lost their light, Her lips are like the clay. On her fair breast a missal rests, Illumed with various dyes, In which were given far views of heaven In old transparencies. There hangs the everlasting cross Of emerald and of gold, That cross of Christ so often kissed When she her beads had told. Those things are all forgotten now, Far other thoughts remain; And as she dreams she ever renes, "I seek for Ballenden." Oh Ballenden! oh Ballenden! Whatever, where'er thou be, That ladye fair is dying there, And all for love of thee. IV. In the old howf of the Canongate There is a little lair, And on it grows a pure white rose, By love implanted there; And o'er it hangs a youthful man, With a cloud upon his brow, And sair he moans, and sair he groans, For her who sleeps below. No noble lord nor banneret, Nor courtly knight is he, No more than a simple advocate, Who pleadeth for his fee. He holds a letter in his hand, On which bleared eyes are bent, It came afar from Almanzar, The Duke of Bonavent-- A noble duke whom he had seen In his castle by the sea, When for one night he claimed the right Of his high courtesie; And that letter said, "Kind sir, I write In sorrow, sooth to say, That my dear child, fair Emergilde, Hath from us flown away; "And all the trace that I can find Is this, and nothing more, She took to sea at Tripoli For Scotland's distant shore. It is a feat of strange conceit That fills us with alarms: Oh seek about, and find her out, And send her to our arms." V. And who is he this letter reads With tears the words atween? Yea! even he she had sought to see, The sair-sought Ballenden. Yet little little had he thought, When away in that far countrie, That a look she had got of a humble Scot Would ever remembered be. But tho' he had deemed himself forgot By one so far away, Her image had still, against his will, Him haunted night and day. And when he laid him on his bed, And sair inclined to sleep, That face would still, against his will, Its holy vigil keep. Oh gentle youth, thou little thought, When away in our north countrie, That up and down, thro' all the town, That ladye sought for thee. And little little did thou wot What in Euphan's room was seen, Where, as she died, she whispering sighed, "I die for Ballenden."[A] [Footnote A: The reader will remember the romantic story of the English A'Becket; but it would seem our Scottish advocate was even more highly favoured. Nor is the romance in such cases limited to the ladies. I may refer to the pathetic story of Geoffrey Rudel, a gentleman of Provence, and a troubadour, who, having heard from the knights returned from the Holy Land of the hospitality of a certain countess of Tripoli, whose grace and beauty equalled her virtue, fell deeply in love with her without ever having seen her. In 1162 he quitted the court of England and embarked for the Holy Land. On his voyage he was attacked by a severe illness, and had lost the power of speech when he arrived at the port of Tripoli. The countess, being informed that a celebrated poet was dying of love for her on board a vessel, visited him on shipboard, took him by the hand, and attempted to cheer him. Rudel recovered his speech sufficiently to thank the countess for her humanity, and to declare his passion, when his expressions of gratitude were silenced by the convulsions of death. He was buried at Tripoli, beneath a tomb of porphyry which the countess raised to his memory. His verses "On Distant Love" were well known. They began thus: Angry and sad shall be my way If I behold not her afar, And yet I know not when that day Shall rise, for still she dwells afar. God, who has formed this fair array Of worlds, and placed my love afar, Strengthen my heart with hope, I pray, Of seeing her I love afar. ] VII. THE ROMAUNT OF THE CASTLE OF WEIR. I. The baron has gone to the hunting green, All by the ancient Castle of Weir, With his guest, Sir Hubert, of Norman kin, And a maiden, his only daughter dear-- The Ladye Tomasine, famed around For beauty as well as for courtesie, Wherever might sensible heads be found, Or ears to listen, or eyes to see. Nor merely skin-deep was she fair: She had a spirit both true and leal, As all about the Castle of Weir Were many to know, and many to tell. Right well she knew what it was to feel Grim poverty in declining day, With a purse to ope, and a hand to deal, And tears to bless what she gave away; Yet she was blithe and she was gay. And now she has gone to the hunting green, All on this bright and sunshiny day, To fly her favourite peregrine, With her hunting coat of the baudykin, Down which there flowed her raven hair, And her kirtle of the red sendal fine, With an eagle's plume in her heading gear. II. If the knight had not a hawk on his wrist, He had kestrel eyes both cunning and keen, And the quarry of which he was in quest Was the heart of the lovely Tomasine; But the ladye thought him a kestrel kite, With a grovelling eye to the farmer's coop, And wanted the bold and daring flight That mounts to the sun to make a swoop. The Baron of Weir points to the sky, "Ho! ho! a proud heron upon the wing! Unhood, my Tomasine dear, untie! Off with the jesses--away him fling!" "Up! up! my Guy," cried the laughing maid, As with nimble fingers she him unjessed, "Up! up! and away! and earn thy bread, Then back to thy mistress to be caressed." Up sprang the bird with a joyful cry, And eyed his quarry, yet far away, Still up and up in the dark blue sky, That he might aim a swoop on his prey; Then down as the lightning bolt of Jove On the heron, who, giving a scream of fear, Shoots away from his enemy over above, And makes for the rushing Water of Weir. III. The Water of Weir is rushing down, Foaming and furious, muddy and brown, From the heights where the laughing Näiads dwell, And cascades leap from the craggy fell, Where the mountain streamlets brattle and brawl, 'Midst the mountain maidens' echoing call, Through pools where the water-kelpies wait For the rider who dares the roaring spate. Rain-fed, proud, turgid, and swollen, Now foaming wild, now sombre and sullen; Dragging the rushes from banks and braes, Tearing the drooping branches of trees, Rolling them down by scallop and scaur, Involving all in a watery war-- Turned, and whirled, and swept along, Down to the sea to be buried and gone. The peregrine, fixed on the wader's back, Is carried along in her devious track, As with a weak and a wailing scream The victim crosses the raging stream. "I will lose, I will lose my gay peregrine!" Cried shrilly the Ladye Tomasine: She will hurry across the bridge of wood, With its rail of wattle which long hath stood; Her nimble feet are upon the plank That will bear her over from bank to bank; She has crossed it times a thousandfold: Time brings youth and Time makes old; The wattles have rotted while she was growing, The wind is up and the waters rowing, And to keep her feet she must use her hand. "Come back! come back!" was the baron's command, Too late!--go wattles--a piercing scream! And the maid falls into the roaring stream! Round and round, in eddying whirl, Who shall save the perishing girl? Round and round, and down and away, Nothing to grasp, and nothing to stay. The baron stands fixed and wrings his hands, And looks to Sir Hubert, who trembling stands. Sir Hubert! one moment now is thine-- The next! and a power no less than divine Can save this maid of so many charms From the grasp of Death's enfolding arms. Spring! spring! Sir Hubert, the moment is thine To save a life, and a love to win. No! no! the dastard kestrel kite Aye hugs the earth in his stealthy flight. Hope gone! the pool at the otter's cave Will prove the Ladye Tomasine's grave. Ho! ho! see yonder comes rushing down A lithe young hind, though a simple clown-- Off bonnet and shoes, and coat and vest, A plunge! and he holds her round the waist! Three strokes of his arm, with his beautiful prize All safe, although faint, on the bank she lies! A cottager's wife came running down, "Take care of the ladye," said the clown. He has donned his clothes, and away he has gone, His name unuttered, his home unknown. IV. Up in the ancient Castle of Weir Sat the baron, the knight, and the fair Tomasine; And the baron he looked at his daughter dear, While the salt tears bleared his aged eyne; And then to the steward, with hat in hand: "Make known unto all, from Tweed to Tyne, A hundred rose nobles I'll give to the man Who saved the life of my Tomasine." Sir Hubert cried out, in an envious vein, "Who is he that will vouch for the lurdan loon? There's no one to say he would know him again, And another may claim the golden boon." Then said the ladye, "My eyes were closed, And I never did see this wondrous man; And the cottar woman she hath deposed He was gone ere his features she could scan." "Ho!" cried the baron, "I watched him then, As I stood on the opposite bank afeared; Of a hundred men I would ken him again, Though he were to doff his dun-brown beard." A year has passed at the Castle of Weir, Yet no one has claimed the golden don; Most wonderful thing to tell or to hear! Was he of flesh and blood and bone? Though golden nobles might not him wile, Was there not something more benign? Was not for him a maiden's smile? Was not that maiden Tomasine? V. The ladye sat within her summer bower Alone, deep musing, in the still greenwood; Sadly and slowly passed the evening hour, Sad and sorrowful was her weary mood, For she had seen, beneath a shadowing tree, All fast asleep a beauteous rural swain, Whom she had often sighed again to see, But never yet had chanced to see again;-- So beautiful that, if the time had been In a long mythic age now past and gone, She might have deemed that she had haply seen The all-divine Latona's fair-haired son Come down upon our earth to pass a day Among the daughters fair of earth-born men, And had put on a suit of sober grey, To appear unto them as a rural swain. With features all so sweet in harmony, You might have feigned they breathed a music mild, With lire so peachy, fit to charm the eye, And lips right sure to conquer when they smiled, All seen through locks of lustrous auburn hair, Which wanton fairies had so gaily thrown To cover o'er a face so wondrous fair, Lest Dian might reclaim him as her own. In the still moonlit hour there steals along, And falls upon her roused and listening ear The notes of some night-wandering minstrel's song, And oh! so sweet and sad it was to hear. You might have deemed it came from teylin sweet, Touched by some gentle fairy's cunning hand, To tell us of those joys that we shall meet In some far distant and far happier land; And oft at night, as time still passed away, That hopeless song throughout the greenwood came, And oft she heard repeated in the lay The well-known sound of her own maiden name; And often did she wish, and often sighed, That bashful minstrel for once more to see, To know if he were him she had espied All fast asleep beneath the greenwood tree. VI. Alace! and alace! for that false pride In the hearts of those of high degree, And that gentle love should be decried By its noblest champion, Chivalrie. If the baron shall hear a whispered word Of that fond lover's sweet minstrelsie, That love-lorn heart and his angry sword May some night better acquainted be. Woe! woe! to the viper's envenomed tongue That obeys the hest of a coward's heart, Who tries to avenge his fancied wrong By getting another to act his part. Sir Hubert has lisped in the baron's ear, When drinking wine at the evening hour, That a minstrel clown met his daughter dear At night in her lonely greenwood bower. "Hush! hush! Sir Hubert, thy words are fires; Elves are about us that hear and see, Who may tell to the ghost of my noble sires Of a damned blot on our pedigree." And the baron frowned with darkened brow, And by the bones of his fathers swore That from that night this minstrel theou, To his daughter would warble his love no more. VII. That night the minstrel sang in softer flow, Waxing and waning soft and softer still, Like autumn's night winds breathing loun and low, Or evening murmur of the wimpling rill; But there was heard that night no farewell strain, As in foretime there ever used to be-- A stop! and then no more was heard again That bashful lover's hapless minstrelsie. Next morn the maid, with purpose to enjoy The forest flowers and wild birds' early song, Unto the greenwood went; and to employ Her weary musing as she went along, Love's magic memory from its depths upbrought The notes that ever still so sweetly hung About her heart; and as she gaily thought, She sung them o'er as she had heard them sung. Onward she moved: her dreamy, listless eye Had leant upon a fragrant wild-rose bed, And, glancing farther, what does she descry? Stretched stiff and bloody, his sad spirit fled, Yea, him whom when asleep she once had seen, And had so often wished again to see, Now dead and cold 'mong the leaves so green, And all beneath the well-known greenwood tree. "Good day, my ladye," then some one said-- It was Sir Hubert there close behind; "He will sing no more, or I am belied, For the reason, I wot, that he wanteth wind." Up came the baron in angry vein; He casts his eye on the body there; He scans the features again and again With a look of doubt and shudder of fear; His hands he wrings with a groan of pain, He rolls his eyeballs with gesture wild-- "Great God! by a villain's counsel I've slain The youth who saved my darling child!" Among yon hoary elms that o'er him grow A harp is hung to catch the evening gale, That sings to him in accents soft and low, And soothes the maiden with its sorrowful wail, Who, as she sits within her greenwood bower, And listens to the teylin's solemn strain, Bethinks her, in her tears, of every hour That gentle youth had sung to her in vain. VIII. THE ROMAUNT OF ST. MARY'S WYND. I. Of Scotland's cities, still the rarest Is ancient Edinburgh town; And of her ladies, still the fairest There you see walk up and down: Be they gay, or be they gayless, There they beck and there they bow, From the Castle to the Palace, In farthingale and furbelow. Says Lady Jane to Lady Janet, "Thy gown, I vow, is stiff and grand; Though there were feint a body in it, Still I trow that it would stand." And Lady Janet makes rejoinder: "Thy boddice, madam, is sae tend, The bonny back may crack asunder, But, by my faith, it winna bend." But few knew one both fairer, kinder, The fair maid of St. Mary's Wynd; Among the great you will not find her, For she was of the humbler kind. For her minnie spinning, plodding, She wore no ribbons to her shune, No mob-cap on her head nid-nodding, But aye the linsey-woolsey gown. No Lady Jane in silks and laces, How fair soever she might be, Could match the face--the nature's graces Of this poor, humble Marjorie: Her eyes they were baith mirk and merry, Her lire was as the lily fair, Her lips were redder than the cherry, And flaxen was her glossy hair. Ye bucks who wear the coats silk-braided, With satin ribbons at your knee, And cambric ruffles starched and plaited, With cockèd bonnets all ajee, Who walk with mounted canes at even, Up and down so jauntilie, Ye would have given a blink of heaven For one sweet smile from Marjorie. But Marjory's care was aye her minnie, And day by day she sat and span; Nor did she think it aught but sin aye, To bear the stare of gentleman: She doated on her own dear Willie, For dear to her fond heart was he, Who, though his sire was poor, yet still he Was far above the low degree. It was aye said his father's father Did claim some Spanish pedigree, Which many well believed, the rather That he was not of our countrie: His skin was brown as nut of hazel, His eye was black as Scottish sloe, And all so bright that it would dazzle The eye that looked that eye into. There came into his head a notion, Which wrought and wrought within his brain, That he would cross th' Atlantic Ocean, And seek the land of Spanish Main; And there amass a routh of treasure, And then come back with bosom leal To his own Marjory, and release her From rock and reel and spinning wheel. Up spake the minnie--it did not please her That he should "gae sae far frae hame:" "Thou'lt reap less in yon Abiezer Than thou wilt glean in this Ephraim; For there's a proverb faileth never; A lintie safe within the hand, Though lean and lank, is better ever Than is a fat finch on the wand." Then Marjory, with eye so tearful, Whispered in dark Willie's ear, "Thou wilt not go and leave me careful, Friendless, lanely, starving here; My minnie God hath gien a warning, And I can do nae mair than spin, And slowly, slowly comes the earning That with my wheel I daily win." "Oh fear not, Marjory dear--content ye, Blackfriar John hath to me sworn, That man of God will kindly tent ye Until that I again return; And he has promised fair to write me Of how ye live and prosper twain, And I will faithfully requite ye With my true love to you again." II. Dark Willie took his sad departure, And left at home his Marjory dear To doubt and fear from every quarter, Weep--weeping sadly on the pier; And o'er the sea, all dangers scorning, And o'er the sea he boldly sailed, Until upon the fortieth morning The promised land at length he hailed. Now! thou one of the fateful sisters That spins for man the silver thread, Spin one of gold that glints and glisters For one who stands in meikle need; Spin it quick and spin it finely, Till Willie's golden fortune's made, And send him back to Marjory kindly, Who spins at home for daily bread. There was a rich old Spanish señor, Who bore dark Willie's Spanish name, And came to feel the kindly tenor Of plighted friendship's sacred claim: He gave his right hand to dark Willie, With shares of a great companie, Which sent forth goods far o'er the billow, In ships that sailed on every sea. Don Pedro had an only daughter, The Donna Clara, passing fair, Who, when her sire took his departure, Would be her father's only heir: Her eyes, so like two sterns of even, Shining the murky clouds among, And black her ringlets as the raven, That o'er her marble shoulders hung. Oh Willie! Willie! have thou care, man! And give unto thine heart a stay, For there are witcheries working there, man, May steal that heart of thine away. No need! to him blue eyes are glowing, To him most beautiful of all, No need! for flaxen hair is flowing To keep his loving heart in thrall. III. A year had passed, and he had written Of loving letters more than one, The while gold pieces still remitting All to holy Blackfriar John; Yet still no answer had he gotten; And as the days still passed away, He fell to musing, and deep thought on What had caused the strange delay. What now to him those golden pieces That he so fastly now could earn? Ah, love like his gives no releases, However Clara's eyes might yearn; He wandered hither, wandered thither, By sad forebodings nightly tossed; He wandered now, he wandered ever, In mournful musing sadly lost. But time would tell: there came a letter That filled his soul with dire dismay, And told him his dark fears' abettor, His Marjory's health had flown away: Even as the clay her cheek was paling, Her azure eyes were waxing dim, Her hair unkemp't, and loose, and trailing, And all for hopeless love of him. Sad harbinger of things to harrow, Another came, ah! soon a day, To tell him his dear winsome marrow From this sad world had passed away. No more for him those eyes so merry, That were to him so sweet to see! No more those lips red as the cherry, That were to him so sweet to pree! IV. Alas! there are of things--we see them Without the aid of wizard's spell; But there are other things--we dree them, No art of wizard can foretell: Strange thing the heart where love has power, So tossed with joy or racked with pain! Dark Willie from that fatal hour Seemed fated ne'er to smile again. In vain now Clara, sembling gladness, Plies the magic of her wile, To draw him off from his great sadness, And cheat him of a loving smile: The more her sympathy she tenders, The more he will by art defy All beauty which but contrast renders With his own dear lost Marjory. V. Now Time's big silent, solemn billow Rolls quietly on from year to year: Don Pedro lies on his green pillow, With love-lorn Clara sleeping near. But, ere he died, he did declare it His pleasure when his days were told, And Clara dead, with none to share it, Don William should heir all his gold. Gift vain, oh vain! would wealth restore him His long-lost Marjory to his arms? Nay, would it wake and bring before him One only of her envied charms? No, it might cause another courtship, A love he could not now control: Great Mammon lured him to his worship, And lorded in his inmost soul. What though ten years away had stolen? 'Twas not to him all weary time, Who every day was pleased to roll in The tempting Mammon's golden shrine. But when he laid him on his pillow, His fancy sought the farthest east, And conjured up some lonely willow That waved o'er her he loved the best. Change still--a passion changed to pity! No other solace would he have-- A wish to see his native city, And sit and weep o'er Marjory's grave. To see that house, yea, buy the sheiling In that old wynd of St. Marie, A hermit there to live and dwell in, Then sleep beside his Marjorie. VI. Blow soft, ye winds, and tender-hearted This hermit waft to yonder shore, From which for sordid gold he parted Ten weary years and one before. Ho! there's the pier where last he left her, That dear, loved one, to weep alone, And for that love of gold bereft her Of all the pleasures she could own. He's now within the ancient borough! He sought the well-known White Horse Inn, And there he laid him down in sorrow, Some strengthening confidence to win; Then up the street, with none to greet him, He held his sad and sorrowing way, When lo! who should be there to meet him But Friar John?--who slunk away. Strange thing! but lo! the sacred sheiling In that old wynd of St. Marie-- The window where with mirthful feeling He tap't the sign to Marjorie. He sought the lobby dark and narrow, Groped gently for the well-known door, Where he might hear of his winsome marrow, Who died there many years before. He drew the latch, and quietly entered; There some one spinning merrilie! A faltering question then he ventured: "My name, kind sir, is Marjorie." "Great God!" he cried, in voice all trembling, And sank upon a crazy chair, And tried to trace a strange resembling In her who sat beside him there. A maiden she still young and buxom, Nor change but what ten years may bring, Her hair still of the glossy flaxen, Her eyes still blue as halcyon's wing. He traced the lines, he knew each feature Of all her still unfaded charms; And now this long lost, worshipped creature Is locked fast in his loving arms. "Look up! look up! thy fear controlling, It is thy Willie's voice that calls:" She oped her eyes--now wildly rolling All o'er his face the lustrous balls-- "It is, it is---oh, powers most holy! And I had heard that thou wert dead; And here, in spite of melancholy, I still spin for my daily bread." "'Twas Friar John wrote me a letter, He said he saw thee on thy bier; And sore I mourned with tears, oh bitter! For one I ever loved so dear." "Oh, wae befa' that wicked friar, Who sairly tried my love to gain; Wae, wae befa' that wicked liar, Wha brought on us sae meikle pain." Then Willie said, with tears encumbered, "Cheer up, cheer up, dear Marjorie, For I have gold in sums unnumbered, And it shall all belong to thee." "And art thou true, and still unmarried? And is thy bodie not a seim? And is it true my ears have carried, Or is it a' a lying dream?" "All, all is true, my dearest hinny, What thou'rt to me I am to thee, Our years on earth may still be many, And quickly we shall wedded be." "Ah, weel! ah, weel!" and sighing, sobbing, She on his breast her head hath lain; And as he felt her bosom throbbing, He kissed her ower and ower again. And he has bought a noble mansion, And stocked it with all things genteel Of costly price--nor need we mention The rock and reel and spinning-wheel; And he has bought a noble carriage, With servants in gay liverie, I trow there was an unco marriage In the ancient wynd of Saint Marie. IX. THE LEGEND OF MARY LEE.[A] _(Another Version.)_ [Footnote A: See the strange song of the same name in the _Scottish Gallovidean Encyclopædia_, from which I borrow some of the maledictory epithets. Grotesque they may be, but they are justified by the vocabulary of our old witch-sibyls used in curses and incantations, as we find in books of diablerie.] Though Robert was heir to broad Kildearn, He had often with gipsies roved, And from gipsies he came a name to earn, Which was dear to the maid he loved. To ladies fair he was Robert St. Clair, When he met them in companie; To a certain one, and to her alone, He was only Robin-a-Ree.[2] [Footnote 2: Kingly, or royal, in the gipsy tongue.] Through Kildearn's woods they were wont to rove, And they knew well the trysting tree; The green sward was their bed of love, And the green leaves their canopie. But the love of the virgin heart is shy, And hangs between hope and fear; It is fed by the light of a lover's eye, And it trusts thro' the willing ear. "My Mary! I swear by yon Solway tide, Which is true to the queen of night, That thou shalt be my chosen bride When I come to my lawful right: My father is now an aged man, And but few years more can see; And when he dies, old Kildearn's land Belongs to Robin-a-Ree." "Oh Robin, oh Robin," and Mary sighed, "Aye faithfu' to you I hae been, As true as ever yon Solway tide Is true to yon silvery queen. And faithfu' and true I will ever prove Till that happy day shall be, When I will be in honoured love The wife o' Robin-a-Ree." Green be thy leaves, thou "tree of troth," And thy rowan berries red, Where he has sworn that holy oath, If he stand to what he has said. But black and blasted may thou be, And thy berries a yellow green, If he prove false to Mary Lee, Who so faithful to him has been. For a woman's art and a woman's wile A man may well often slight, At the worst they are but nature's guile To procure what is nature's right. But a woman's wrath, when once inflamed By a sense of fond love betrayed, No cunning device by cunning framed Has ever that passion laid. II. Passions will range and passions will change, And they leave no mortal in peace, There is nothing in man that to us seems strange That to passion you may not trace. The heart that will breathe the warmest love Is the first oft to cease its glow, The fairest flower in the forest grove Is often the first to dow. A woman's eye is aye quick to see The love of a lover decay: And why from the trusty trysting tree Does Robin now stay away? There are other trees in the wood as green, With as smooth a sward below, Where lovers may lie in the balmy e'en, And their love to each other show. 'Twas when the moon in an autumn night Threw shadows throughout the wood, She heard some sounds; and with footsteps light, Where no one could see, she stood. She listened, and with an anxious ear, To know who these there might be: A youth was there with his mistress dear, And the youth was Robin-a-Ree. Silent and gloomy she wandered home, And went to her bed apart, No softening tear to her eye would come, No sigh from her aching heart. The balmy milk of a woman's breast Waxed curdled green and sour, And Mary Lee was by all confessed As changed from that fatal hour. At times, when the moon gave little light, She sat by the Solway side, And thought, as she sat, of that happy night When he swore by the Solway tide. Far sweeter to her the roaring wind, Than when it was solemn and low, For the waters he swore by seemed to her mind As resenting that broken vow. Still darker and darker the cloud on her brow, Yet paler her tearless cheek; But no one her sorrow would ever know, Nor word would she ever speak. 'Tis the story old, old, so often told, To be told while time shall be, Fair Catherine, the heiress of Ravenswold, Is the wife of Robin-a-Ree. III. It was on an angry winter night, When Mary sat in her gloom, There came to her door an ill-doing wight--- Kildearn's drunken groom: He placed in her hand a gold-filled purse, And spoke of love's sacred flame; And well she knew the unholy source Whence the man and the money came. "Awa and awa, thou crawling worm, On whom thy horse will tread Awa and awa, and tell Kildearn, I accept his noble meed." She placed the purse in a cabinet old, And locked it right carefullie, "Lie there, lie there, thou ill-won gold. Till needed thou shalt be." IV. The years roll on, nor Robin-a-Ree Can their onward progress stay, The years roll on, and children three, Have blessed his bridal day. And Mary Lee is there to see, As she sat in her lonely home, Two of Kildearn's children three, Borne away to Kildearn's tomb. But none of these years work change on her: As she seeks the lone greenwood, She sees a man lying bleeding there, While his horse beside him stood. He called for help, where help there was none, Tho' Mary was standing near, Who spoke in a solemn eldritch tone, Words strange to the human ear: "The hairy adder I dinna like, When I the fell creature meet, Neither like I the moon-baying tyke. Nor the Meg-o'-moniefeet. I canna thole the yellow-wamed ask, Sae fearful a thing to see; But mair than a', and ower them a', I hate fause Robin-a-Ree." V. Time puts in the sack that behind him hangs Of things both old and new, And every hour brings stranger things Than those we have bidden adieu. The last one of those children three, Young Hector, Kildearn's pride, Has gone, in his childish mirth and glee, To play by the Solway tide. That tide by which his father swore As true to the silvery queen-- That tide is breaking with sullen roar, And Hector no more is seen. They may search, they may drag--the search is vain, No Hector they'll ever find; A lugger is yonder, away to the main, Borne on an eastern wind. And there is a woman who stands in the bay, And she holds out both her hands, As if she would wave that lugger away To some of the distant lands. And if you will trace her to her hold, Where a purse of gold was laid, You will find the drawer, but not the gold, For the purse and gold are fled. VI. Time flies, but sin breeds in-and-in, And a father's grief is stern; Robin is dead, and a distant kin Now calls himself Kildearn. The moon's pale light falls on yonder tomb, By which sits a woman grey, And sings in the blast a revengeful doom, In a woman's weird way. "Chirk! whutthroats in yon auld taff dyke, Hoot! grey owl in yon shaw, Howl out! ye auld moon-baying tyke, Ye winds mair keenly blaw, Till ye rouse to the rage o' a wintry storm The waves of the Solway sea, And wauken the brawnit connach worm On the grave o' Robin-a-Ree." VII. More years passed on. Ho! near by the cove Is a ship with a pirate crew, All bound in honour and fear and love, To their captain, Hector Drew; Who looked through his glass at old Kildearn, As thoughts through his memory ran, And fain of that house he would something learn. But he is an outlawed man. Nor venture could he to come upon land, Except under cloud of night, And he and all his pirate band Lie hidden there out of sight; That he might plunder Kildearn House Of its gold and its jewelrie, Then away, and away, again to cruise Where rovers aye love to be. But there is one who stands on the shore, Who knew that pirate hoy, Whose captain she bribed many years before To steal away Kildearn's boy. She has sent the bloodhounds to the wood, They have seized them every loon, And sent them to answer for deeds of blood, To Edwin's old castled toun. The Admiral High of old Scotland Has them tried for deeds so dark, And they are decreed by his high command To be hanged within high-water mark. On the sands of Leith, as St. Giles struck two, And within the hem of the sea, There Captain Drew and all his crew Were hanged for piracie. And so it is true that a woman's wile A man may with safety slight, At worst it may be but nature's guile To procure what is nature's right. But a woman's wrath, if once inflamed By a sense of fond love betrayed, No cunning device by cunning framed Has ever that passion laid. THE BALLAD OF AGE AND YOUTH. I left yon stately castle on the height, The ancient halls of lordly Ravenslee, Wherein was met, in grandeur all bedight, Of knights and dames a gallant companie; For I was in a misanthropic mood, And deemed that gay galaverie false and vain, And wished to lie or loiter in some wood, And give my fancy her unbridled rein. I left them all in flush of pleasure's sport, Some knights with damoiselles gone forth to woo, Some listing gleemen in the ballion court, Some deep in ombre, some at lanterloo, Some gone a-hawking with the merlyon, Some at their noon-meat sipping Spanish wine, Some conning old romances on the lawn, And all to meet in hall at hour of dine. II. Down in Dalmossie dell I sought a nook Beneath a thick and widely-spreading tree, And there I sat to con my little book, My book of old black-letter grammarie. All stillness in that deep and lonely dell Save hum of bumble-bee on nimble wing, Or zephyr sporting round the wild blue bell, While fancy feigned some tiny tinkle-ring. Lo! come from yonder sheiling by the burn An aged pair whom Time claimed as his own-- Their clothes all brown, and sere and sadly worn, But brushed and clean, and tentily put on. I noted well the signs of their great eild, Their shrunken limbs, their locks of snowy hair, The wobbling walk, the bowing, bending bield, The wrinkled cheeks, and looks of dule and care. I thought on hapless man--with changing face, Each day more furrowed as he wears along. He looks into the glass to cry Alace! Alace for that spring time that's past and gone! He looks askance, and sees young eyes that lour On him, so comely once, unsightly grown: The faded roses make a scented bower, But aged man seems spurned by man alone. Yet happy he who, changing with advance, Has bright and golden hopes beyond the sun; He can give back their saucy, pitying glance, Who set such wondrous price their youth upon. _Their_ night will come in turn, yea, comes apace, Without, mayhap, the hope of brighter day, When age-worn looks will don their native grace, And feel no more this world's despised decay. III. That aged pair sat down upon the green, While each the other helped to softest seat, I watched their ways, myself by them unseen, And heard their quivering words, so kindly sweet, As still of golden days when they were young, Of youth's green summer time they spoke and wept, And soft in wailing song there came along These words, which I in memory long have kept: THE SONG OF AGE.[A] "The trees they are high, John, the leaves they are green, The days are awa that you and I have seen; The days are awa that we have seen; And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again, Summer again, summer again, And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again. "There was joy at our marriage--a dance on the green, They a' roosed the light of my bonnie blue een, My bonnie blue een, where tears may now be seen; And oh! that we were to be married again, Married again, married again, And oh! that we were to be married again. "The grass it is wet, John, the wind it is keen, Our claes they are worn, and our shune they are thin; Our shune they are thin, and the waters come in; And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again, Summer again, summer again, And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again. "There was joy in our youth, John, at wish's command, We danced and we sang, and we ilka gate ran, But now dule and sorrow's on ilka hand; And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again, Summer again, summer again, And oh! for youth's bonnie green summer again. "There's graves in yon howf, John, and hillocks o' green, Where our bairns lie sleeping that left us alane, And they're waiting for us till we gae to creep in; And alas! for youth's bonnie green summer again, Summer again, summer again, And alas! for youth's bonnie green summer again." When _she_ had crooned her chant, I heard _him_ say, With sobbing voice and deep heart-heaving sigh, "Dry up thae tears, my Jean, for things away, Time's but a watch-tick in eternity; We darena sing of earth, but lift our prayer To Him whose promises are never vain, That we may dwell in yonder Eden fair, And see youth's summer blooming green again." Then rose a prayer to Bethel's Lord and King That He would lead them through this vale of woe, And to the promised land his children bring, Where Babel's streams in living waters flow. They left: again all silence in the dell Save hum of bumble-bee on nimble wing, Or zephyr sporting round the wild blue bell, While fancy feigned some tiny tinkle-ring. [Footnote A: Some readers may recognise in the old woman's song portions of an ancient ditty that used to be chanted in a wailing cadence in several parts of Scotland. I suspect the song as a whole is lost--the more to be regretted for its sweet simplicity and melodious wail (so far as judged in the fragments), which in a modern song would be viewed as weakness or affectation. Indeed, the modes of thought and feeling that belong to what is called advanced civilisation are impatient of these things except as rude relics of yet untutored minds; and the pleasure with which they are accepted has in it perhaps a grain of pity for those that didn't know better than produce them. Yet, as regards mere poetical feeling at least, the nearer the fountainhead the purer the water.] IV. And is not youth, thought I, a vulgar thing, When lording over WISDOM'S ancient reign? What may avail the brilliancy of spring If autumn yields no hoards of garnered grain? Experience is the daughter of old Time, Mother of Wisdom, last and noblest born, Who comes as Faith to help our waning prime, To cheer the night of age and light the morn. I sought at eve the castle on the height, The ancient halls of lordly Ravenslee, Oh! contrast great! gay scene of youth's delight-- The spinette, galliard, mirth's galaverie! I thought upon the couple in the wood, And how that singing, dancing, laughing train Would one day sigh in Time's avenging mood, "Alas! for youth's green summer time again." XI. THE LEGEND OF CRAIGULLAN.[A] [Footnote A: This legend has been referred to several Scotch families--one in Fife in particular, the name of which it would be imprudent to mention.] Yonder the halls of old Craigullan! To weird doom for ever true; The moaning winds are sad and sullen, The screech-owl hoots too-hoo! too-hoo! The lazy burn-clock drones around, The wing-mouse flaps the choking air, The croaking frog hops on the ground, For weird fate is working there. Each wing had once a goodly tower Of stately beild, both broad and high; In every tower a lady's bower, Bedecked with silken tapestry; In every bower a lovely maid, Her youth and beauty all in vain; And with each maid a keeper staid To watch the wanderings of her brain. 'Twas said that those who went that way Would hear some shrill and piercing wail Come from these towers, and die away As borne upon the passing gale; Yet none could say from whom it came, Far less divine the reason why; And Superstition, with her dream, Could only whisper mystery-- Unholy spirits haunting nigh, And screaming in the midnight hour, Presage of vengeance from on high For deeds done in Craigullan's tower. If Superstition has her dream, She also has her waking hour; Nor ever man, howe'er supreme, Can free him from her mystic power. And it was told, in whispering way, That once Craigullan led his hounds Out forth upon a Sabbath day Within the church bells' sacred sounds; And as he rode, by fury fired, A woman, pregnant, overthrown Beneath his horse's hoofs, expired, And, dying, shrieked this malison: _From this day forth, till time shall cease, May madness haunt Craigullan's race_! The words struck on a sceptic's ear: Would woman's curse his pleasure stay? He blew his horn both loud and clear, And with his hounds he hied away. He conned no more the weird reve Which all conspired to prove untrue, For he had healthy daughters five, Who up in maiden beauty grew-- Clorinda, Isobel, and Jane-- Such was the order of their birth-- And Florabel and Clementine, All lovely, gay, and full of mirth. But man is blind, with all his power, And gropes through life his darksome way; Nor ever thinks the evil hour May come within the brightest day. As custom went, a noble throng Hath filled Craigullan's ancient hall, Amidst th' inspiring dance and song, Clorinda is admired of all. The sun with his enlivening light Brings out the viper and the rose, And joy that cheers will oft excite Dark Mania from her long repose. Amidst the dance and music there-- The dance which she so proudly led-- A maniac shriek has rent the air-- Clorinda falls, her reason fled. In vain shall passing time essay To soothe the dire domestic pain; Fair Isobel becomes the prey Of that same demon of the brain. When autumn winds were sighing low, When birds were singing on the tree, Amidst their song she met the foe, And sank beneath the fell decree. Nor yet the sibyl leaf all read, Dark Nemesis is grim and sullen; She bends again her vengeful head-- Woe! woe! to old Craigullan. The next by fatal count of Time, The next by her foreboding fears--- Jane falls, like those in early prime-- She falls amidst a mother's tears. Nor finished yet the weird spell, Wrought out by some high powers divine. The victim next is Florabel, The fairest of Craigullan's line. The shadow fell upon her bloom, Grew darker as the period neared, As if the terror of her doom Wrought out the issue which it feared. If Superstition has her dreams, Proud reason has her mystic day; And who shall harmonize the themes In this world's dark and dreary way? If Clementine is yet forgot, Is the relief to her a gain? She fears the demon in each thought, In every fancy of the brain. If once a cheerful thought shall rise, The dreaded enemy is near; If once her heaving bosom sighs, The vengeful demon will appear. In vain she seeks the greenwood grove, In vain she hears the merlin sing, In vain she seeks her flower alcove, In vain for her the roses spring. If holy peace she tries to seek, She hears Clorinda's maniac song, Or Florabel's ecstatic shriek, Sounding the stilly woods among. What though Sir Walter seeks her bower, And pleads his suit on bended knee With all a lover's magic power, That she his lady-love shall be? He does not know her secret pain; She dare not whisper in his ear; She dare not trust that she is sane; She loves him, but she loves with fear. This is _her_ madness. Who shall know If she with reason, _they_ without, Which have the greater load of woe? Her sisters have not sense to doubt. This is the world's madness too: We seek for truth, and seek in vain. While madly we the false pursue, Who shall decide that he is sane? And still the halls of old Craigullan To weird doom are ever true; The moaning winds are sad and sullen, The grey owl hoots too-hoo! too-hoo! XII. THE HERMIT OF THE HILLS. "Intruder, thou shalt hear my tale," the solitary said, While far adown beneath our feet the fiery levin played; The thunder-clouds our carpet were--we gazed upon the storm, Which swept along the mountain sides in many a fearful form. I sat beside the lonely man, on Cheviot's cloudless height; Above our heads was glory, but beneath more glorious night; For the sun was shining over us, but lightnings flashed below, Like the felt and burning darkness of unutterable woe. "I love, in such a place as this," the desolate began, "To gaze upon the tempests wild that separate me from man; To muse upon the passing things that agitate the world-- View myself as by a whirlwind to hopeless ruin hurled. "My heart was avaricious once, like yours the slave of feeling-- Perish such hearts! vile dens of crime! man's selfishness concealing; For self! damned self's creation's lord!--man's idol and his god! Twas torn from me, a blasted, bruised, a cast off, worthless load. "Some say there's wildness in my eyes, and others deem me crazed, They, trembling, turn and shun my path--for which let Heaven be praised! They say my words are blasphemy--they marvel at my fate, When 'tis my happiness to know they _pity_ not, but _hate_. "My father fell from peace and wealth the day that I was born-- My mother died, and he became his fellow-gambler's scorn; I know not where he lived or died--I never heard his name-- An orphan in a workhouse, I was thought a child of shame. "Some _friend_ by blood had lodged me there, and bought my keeper too, Who pledged his oath he would conceal what of my tale he knew. Death came to him--he called on me the secret to unfold, But died while he was uttering the little I have told. "My soul was proud, nor brooked restraint--was proud, and I was young; And with an eager joyancy I heard his flattering tongue Proclaim me not of beggars born--yea, as he speaking died, I--greedy--mad to know the rest--stood cursing by his side. "I looked upon the homely garb that told my dwelling-place-- It hung upon me heavily--a token of disgrace! I fled the house--I went to sea--was by a wretch impressed, The stamp of whose brutality is printed on my breast. "Like vilest slave he fettered me, my flesh the irons tore-- Scourged, mocked, and worse than buried me upon a lifeless shore, Where human foot had never trod--upon a barren rock, Whose caves ne'er echoed to a sound save billows as they broke. "'Twas midnight; but the morning came. I looked upon the sea, And a melancholy wilderness its waters were to me; The heavens were black as yonder cloud that rolls beneath our feet, While neither land nor living thing my eager eyes could meet. "I naked sat upon the rock; I trembled--strove to pray; Thrice did I see a distant sail, and thrice they bore away. My brain with hunger maddening, as the steed the battle braves, Headlong I plunged from the bare rock and buffeted the waves. "Methought I saw a vessel near, and bitter were my screams, But they died within me echoless as voices in our dreams; For the winds were howling round me, and the suffocating gush Of briny horrors rioted, the cry of death to crush. "My senses fled. I lifelessly upon the ocean slept; And when to consciousness I woke, a form before me wept. Her face was beautiful as night; but by her side there stood A group, whose savage glances were more dismal than the flood. "They stood around exultingly; they snatched me from the wave-- Stole me from death--to torture me, to sell me as a slave. She who stood o'er me weeping was a partner of my chains. We were sold, and separation bled my heart with deeper pains. "I knew not what her birth had been, but loved her with a love Which nor our tyrant's cruelty nor mockery could move. I saw her offered to a Moor--another purchased me; But, Heavens! my arms once fetterless, ere midnight I was free! "Memory, with eager eye, had marked her master's hated door-- I grasped a sabre, reached the house, and slew the opposing Moor. I bore her rapidly away; a boat was on the beach-- We put to sea--saw morning dawn 'yond our pursuers' reach "I gazed upon her silently--I saw her sink to sleep, As darkness gathered over us upon the cheerless deep; I saw her in her slumber start--unconsciously she spoke-- Oh death!--she called upon _his_ name who left me on the rock! "Then there was madness in my breast and fury in my brain-- She never heard _that name_ from me, yet uttered it again! I started forth and grasped her hand--'Are we pursued?' she cried-- I trembled in my agony, and speechless o'er her sighed. "I ventured not to speak of love in such an awful hour, For hunger glistened in our eyes, and grated to devour The very rags that covered us! My pangs I cannot tell, But in that little hour I felt the eternity of hell. "For the transport of its tortures did in that hour surround Two beings on the bosom of a shoreless ocean found; As we gazed upon each other, with a dismal longing look, And jealousy, but not from love, our tortured bosoms shook. "I need but add that we were saved, and by a vessel borne Again toward our native land to be asunder torn. The maiden of my love was rich--was rich--and I was poor; A soulless menial shut on me her wealthy guardian's door. "She knew it not, nor would I tell--tell! by the host of heaven, My tongue became the sepulchre of sound!--my heart was riven. I fled society and hope; the prison of my mind A world of inexpressible and guilty thoughts confined. "She was not wed--my hope returned; ambition my soul, Sweeping round me like a fury, while the beacon and the goal Of desire, ever turbulent and sleepless, was to have The hand that mine had rescued from the fetters of a slave. "I was an outcast on the earth, but braved my hapless lot; And while I groaned impatiently, weak mortals heard it not. A host of drear, unholy dreams did round my pillow haunt, While my days spent in loneliness were darkened o'er with want. "At length blind fortune favoured me--my breast to joy awoke; And then he who had left me on the isolated rock, I met within a distant land; nor need I further tell, But that we _met_ as equals there, and my antag'nist fell. "Awhile I brooded on his death; and gloomily it brought A desolateness round me, stamping guilt on every thought. I trembling found how bloodily my vengeance was appeased, At what vile price my bosom was of _jealousy_ released. "For still the breathing of his name by her I lov'd had rung In remembrance, like the latest sound that falleth from the tongue Of those best loved and cherished, when upon the bed of death They bequeath to us their injuries to visit in our wrath. "But soon these griefs evanished, like a passing summer storm, And a gush of hope like sunshine flashed around me, to deform The image of repentance, while the darkness of remorse Retreated from its presence with a blacker with'ring curse. "I hurried home in eagerness---the leaden moments fled; My burning tale of love was told--was told--and we were wed. A tumult of delightfulness had rapt my soul in flame, But on that day--my wedding day--a mourning letter came. "Joy died on ev'ry countenance--she, trembling, broke the seal-- Screamed--glanced on me! and lifeless fell, unable to reveal The horrid tale of death that told her new-made husband's guilt-- The hand which she that day had wed, her brother's blood had spilt. "That brother in his mother's right another name did bear: Twas him I slew--all shrank from me in horror and in fear; They seized me in my bridal dress--my bride still senseless lay-- I spoke not while they pinioned me and hurried me away. "They lodged me in a criminal cell, by iron gratings barred, And there the third day heavily a funeral bell I heard. A sable crowd my prison passed--they gazed on it with gloom: It was my bride--my beautiful--they followed to the tomb! "I was acquitted; but what more had I with life to do? I cursed my fate--my heart--the world--and from its creatures flew. Intruder, thou hast heard my tale of wretchedness and guilt-- Go, mingle with a viler world, and tell it if thou wilt." XIII. THE BALLAD OF RUMBOLLOW. The clouds are flying, the trees are sighing, The birds are hopping from bough to bough; The winds are blowing, the snowflakes throwing O'er the green earth below, below; The storm is coming while I am roaming The thick dark forest all through, all through; The air is nipping, my clothes are dripping, All in the forest of Rumbollow.[A] On a felled tree lying a woman sits sighing, Rocking a child both to and fro; Her gown it is torn, her shoes they are worn-- She looks like a creature of woe, of woe; Her eyes are glowing, her hair is flowing, She's all over white with the snow, the snow; She rocks the child with a gesture wild, All in the forest of Rumbollow. The child is crying, and she is trying To lull it asleep--balow! balow! And while she is singing, the snowflakes are winging And whirling in eddies all through, all through. I listed the rening and wondered the meaning: Was it the tale of her woe, her woe-- A truthful crooning or a maniac mooning-- All in the forest of Rumbollow? [Footnote A: The old song called "Rumbollow Fair" is said by Pinkerton to have been lost. I have heard a refrain, "All in the Forest of Rumbollow," but whether this has any relation to the old song I do not know. I fear I am altogether responsible for this rhapsodical effusion.] THE SONG OF THE BETRAYED. "Balow! balow! my bonnie bairn-- Nae father to care for you; As your mother has sinned so shall she earn, And to her the world is hard and stern, Who has loved and lived to rue, Balow! Who has loved and lived to rue. "On Rumbollow green my love lies slain, As he cam' frae Rumbollow Fair; His bodie lies deep amang rushes green, Where corbies pike at his bonnie blue een, And taeds sleep in his hair, Balow! And taeds sleep in his hair. "The grey owl sits on yon willow tree, Whose branches o'er him weep, And sends its scream far o'er the lea, Where night winds whisper mournfullie, And through the rashes sweep, Balow! And through the rashes sweep. "When first I met wi' Hab o' the Howe I had scarce twice nine years seen, And he swore by our Ladye o' Rumbollow I had set a' his heart in a holy lowe Wi' the fire o' my twa black een, Balow! Wi' the fire o' my twa black een. "Of a' the fair maidens on Rumbollow green There was nane sae fair as me, Wi' my kilted kirtle o' mazarine, And buckles as bright as the siller sheen, And my coatie o' cramosie, Balow! And my coatie o' cramosie. "I was proud that he stood tall men abune, Sae stalwart, sae bald and free; But he cozened my heart and left me undune, Wi' tatters for claes and bachels for shune, And a sin-wean on my knee, Balow! And a sin-wean on my knee. "Last night, when the mune was in the wane, And the winds were moaning low, I wandered by his dead bodie alane, And looked at the hole in his white hause bane, And the gash on his bonnie brow, Balow! And the gash on his bonnie brow. "Did I wail to the mune, and tear my hair, And weep o'er his bodie? Na! I leugh at the fause are wha left me to care, And fought for Bess Cummock at Rumbollow Fair, And there lies dead, ha! ha! Balow! And there lies dead, ha! ha!" She is up and going, no look bestowing Through the dark forest, tra-la! tra-la! The roundelay still sounds away, The wail and the wild ha, ha, ha, ha! Some wretched maiden with grief o'erladen, Victim of man, ever so, ever so. The world needs mending and some God-sending, All in the forest of Rumbollow. The mill is yonder where she may wander; The wheels they merrily row, they row; The lade is gushing, the water's rushing On to the ocean below, below. The song is ending, or scattered and blending In the wild winds as they blow, they blow; She moves still faster with wilder gesture, All in the forest of Rumbollow. It is no seeming, hark! comes a screaming The moaning forest all through, all through; The miller is running, no danger shunning, The foaming waters down flow, down, flow: Too late his braving, there is no saving-- Down the mill lade they go, they go, Mother and child 'midst the waters wild; All in the forest of Rumbollow! XIV. THE LEGEND OF THE BURNING OF MISTRESS JAMPHRAY. I. From the dark old times that have gone before, We have got in our day some little relief; We don't think of doing what they did of yore, To saw a man through for a point of belief; We do not believe in old women's dreams, And devils and ghosts we can do without; Nor do we now set an old woman in flames, But rather endeavour to put them out. She has ta'en her lang staff in her shaky hand, And gaen up the stair of Will Mudie's land; She has looked in the face of Will Mudie's wean, And the wean it was dead that very same e'en. Next day she has gane to the Nethergate, And looked ower the top of Rob Rorison's yett, Where she and his wife having got into brangles, Rob's grey mare Bess that night took the strangles. It was clear when she went to Broughty Ferry, She sailed in an egg-shell in place of a wherry; And when she had pass'd by the tower of Claypots, John Fairweather's gelding was seized with the bots, And his black horse Billy was seized the same even, Not by the bots, but the "spanking spavin." And as she went on to Monifieth, She met an auld man with the wind in his teeth-- "Are you the witch o' Bonnie Dundee?" "You may ask the wind, and then you will see!" And, such was the wickedness of her spite, The man took the toothache that very night. With John Thow's wife she was at drawing of daggers, And twenty of John's sheep took the staggers. With old Joe Baxter she long had striven,-- Joe set his sponge, but it never would leaven; And as for Gib Jenkinson's cow that gaed yeld, It was very well known that Crummie was spelled. When Luckie Macrobie's sweet milk wouldna erne, The reason was clear--she bewitched the concern. True! no man could swear that he ever saw Her flee on a broomstick over North Berwick Law; But as for the fact, where was she that night When the heavens were blue with the levin-light? The broom wasna seen ahint the door; It had better to do than to sweep the floor. Then, sure there was something far worse than a frolic, When the half of Dundee was seized with the cholic. True! nobody knew that she gaed to the howf For dead men's fat to bring home in her loof, To brew from the mixture of henbane and savin, Her hell-broth for those who were thirsting for heaven. For the sexton, John Cant, could be prudent and still-- He knew she would send him good grist to his mill. Ere good Provost Syme was ta'en by a tremor, It was known that the provost had called her a limmer; And when Bailie Nicholson broke his heugh-bane, Had she not been seen that day in the lane? It was certain, because Cummer Gibbieson swore That the bairn she had with the whummel-bore Leapt quick in her womb one day the witch passed her, And she was the cause of the bairn's disaster. When the ferry-boat sank in crossing the Tay, She was on the Craig pier the very same day. It was vain to conceal it, and vain to deny it, She kept in her house an auld he-pyet: That bird was the devil, and she fed him each day With the brimstone she bought from Luckie Glenday. In truth, the old pyet was daintily treated, Because her black soul was impignorated. And these were the reasons--enough, I trow-- Why she should be set in a lunting lowe. II. The barrels are brought from Noraway, Well seasoned with plenty of Noraway pitch; All dried and split for that jubilee day, The day of the holocaust of a witch. The prickers are chosen--hang-daddy and brother-- And fixed were the fees of their work of love; To prick an old woman who was a mother, And felt still the yearnings of motherly love For she had a son, a noble young fellow, Who sailed in a ship of his own the sea, And who was away on the distant billow For a cargo of wine to this bonnie Dundee. Some said she was bonnie when she was a lassie, Ah! fair the young blossom upon the young tree; But winter will come, and summer will pass aye, And youth is not always to you or to me. A true loving daughter, with God to fear, A dutiful wife, and a mother dear; With a heart to feel and a bosom to sigh, She had tears to weep, she had tears to dry. III. All was joyful--all delectation, In creatures who prayed to their Maker each morn, That there was to be a grand incremation Of a poor fellow-creature, old, weary, and worn. All pity is drowned in a wild devotion, A grim savage joy within every breast; The streets are all in a buzzing commotion, Expectant of this worse than cannibal feast. From the provost down to the gaberlunzie, From fat Mess John to half-fed Bill, From hoary grand-dad to larking loonie, From silken-clad dame to scullion Nell; The oldest, the youngest, the richest, the poorest, The milky-breasted, the barren, the yeld, The hardest, the softest, the blithest, the dourest, Are all by the same wild passion impelled. If her skin it is wrinkled--ah, God forefend her! The wild lapping flame will soon make it shrink; If her eyes are dim and rheumy and tender, The adder-tongued flames will soon make her wink. If brown now her breasts--once globes of beauty! The roasting will char them into a black heap; If trembling her limbs, the prickers' loved duty Will be to compel her to dance and to leap. The harlequin Man has doffed his jacket, No pity to feel--he has none to give; The Bible has said it, and so thou must take it, "Thou shalt not allow a witch to live." IV. On the long red sands of old Dundee, Out at the hem of the ebbing sea, They have fixed a long pole deep in the sand, And around it have piled with deftly hand The rosined staves of the Noraway wood, Four feet high and four feet broad, To burn, amidst flames of burning pitch, So rare a chimera yclept a witch-- Born of a fancy wild and camstary, Like ghost or ghoul, brownie or fairy. The prickers are there, each with long-pronged fork, Yearning and yape for their hellish work, And the priests and friars, black, white, or grey, All ready to preach the black devil away. Yea, devils are there, more than they opine. Even one under every gabardine; And there is a crowd of every degree: The urchins, all laughing with mirth and glee; And pipers and jangleurs might there be seen, And cummers and mummers in red and green, All cheery and merry and void of care, As if they were going to Rumbollow Fair. V. Ho! yonder comes from the emptying town A crowd of five thousand all rushing down; They hurry, they scurry, they buzz, they brize, And all to see this witch in a blaze. Deep in the midst of the jubilant throng A harmless woman is hurried along,-- She is weary, and wheezing for lack of breath, And o'er all her face is the pallor of death; And she says, as they push her, in grim despair, "Ye needna hurry yoursel's sae sair-- Nae sport there will be till I am there."[A] [Footnote A: These words are the old tradition which has been handed down in Dundee for generations.] VI. They have doffed her clothes till all but stark; They have tied her with ropes in her cutty sark; They have torn the snood from her silvery hair, And her locks they fall on her shoulders bare, Or stream in the cold and piercing breeze Blowing muggy and moist from the eastern seas. Hush! silence is over all that crowd, Then an echoing shout both long and loud; The fagots flare up with a lurid glare-- In the middle shines bright that white figure there, Like those sad spirits of endless woe 'Midst eternal fires in the shades below! There lances and glances each long-pronged fork,[A] As through the wild flames it is quick at work, Till the red blood squirts and seethes and sings, As through the red flame each squirtlet springs, The flames lap round her like forkèd levin; The priests send up their prayers to heaven; But what these prayers are to do when there, It is likely they could not themselves declare Yet all this while, in her agony, She made no murmur, she uttered no cry, As if she would show by a silent ban Her scorn of the great wise creature Man. Lo! the pole breaks over with creaking crash, The body falls down in the flaming mass; Up a cloud of sparks with a flesh-burnt smell Rises and swirls like vomit of hell. [Footnote A: There is in the records of the town the account of the expenses attending the execution, and the sums in Scots money paid for the tar barrels, and for prickers' fees, etc.] VII. There's a ship in the Tay on the rising tide-- She has come that day from a distant land; The captain stands there the helm beside, A telescope holding in his left hand. "What, ho! my lads," he loudly exclaims, "Yonder's a fire on the hem of the sea-- It is some good ship that is there in flames: Good faith! and it blazes right merrily." And there is a boat comes from the pier, And it comes and comes still nigher and nigher-- "What is the ship that is burning there?" "No ship, sir, it is that is yonder on fire, But a pile of burning barrels of pitch, On which all, amidst a deafening cheer, They are burning an old woman for a witch; _And the woman she is thy mother dear_." Then Captain Jamphray silent stood, And a sad and sorrowful man was he; He turned the helm in a gloomy mood-- "Farewell for ever to Bonnie Dundee." And away and away to the Spanish Main, Where he turned a jolly buccaneer; And he has ta'en "Yeaman," his mother's name-- A name which he held for ever dear. VIII. When twenty long years had come and gone, He was laden with Spanish golden prey; And he yearned and sighed for his native home, Then turned his prow for the rolling Tay; And he has bought all, for a handsome fee, On its bonnie banks where the trees are tall-- The lordly lands of old Murie,[A] Where he built for himself a noble hall; And long, long down till a recent time, There dwelt the Yeaman's honoured line. [Footnote A: This tradition has always been in the Yeaman family, and very likely to be true, for the reason that an origin not gratifying to the pride of an old house would not have been accepted on the dubious authority of hearsay.] XV. THE BALLAD OF BALLOGIE'S DAUGHTERS. There were four fair maids in Ballogie Hall, Not all so sweet as honey; But Lillyfair was the flower of them all-- So gentle, so kind, and so bonnie. And why was it that Ballogie's dame Was so fond of her Lillyfair? It was not by reason she bore her name, Nor yet for her love and care. It was that she long had cherished a dream Of a face which she once held dear, Ere yet she had bent to Ballogie's claim, Whom she married through force and fear. That image unsought--all by fancy wrought-- Had been fixed upon Lillyfair, And to her had gi'en her bonnie blue een, As well as her golden hair. Yet the dame was true to her bridal vow, Though sairly she would mourn, As she wandered in moods through Ballogie woods, And down by Ballogie Burn. And why did these three sisters all Hate their kind sister so sair? When gallants came to Ballogie Hall They sought aye Lilly fair. But Ballogie swore by the heavens so hie, And eke by the Holy Rood, There was not in all Lillyfair's bodie Ane drap of Ballogie's blood. And he whispered words into Sibyl's ear, Which sweetly unto her came, That he wouldna care tho' Lillyfair Were dooked in Ballogie dam. And Sibyl she whispered to Christobel, And she into Mildred's ear; But what that was no tongue might tell, For there was none to hear. "What makes ye laugh?" cries Lillyfair, As she comes tripping ben; "Oh do come tell, dear Christobel, For I am fidging fain." "Oh this is the night, my sister dear. When the wind is low and loun, That we are to go in a merry row To see the eclipse of the moon. "And thou'lt go with us, Lillyfair, And see this goodly show-- The moon in the meer reflected clear, With the shadow upon her brow." "Oh yes, I will go," Lillyfair rejoined; And glad in her heart was she, For seldom before had her sisters deigned To give her their companie. 'Twas the hour o' twell by Ballogie's bell, When each with her mantle and hood, They all sallied out in a merry rout, Away through the still greenwood. Shine out, shine out, thou silvery maid, And light them to the place; But long ere all this play be played, In sorrow thou'lt hide thy face. No shadow of this earth ever can A murkier darkness throw, Than what from the sin of cruel man May be cast on thy silvery brow. The greenwood through, the greenwood through, Ho! there is Ballogie's meer; And deep within its breast they view The moon's face shining clear. And down they bent, and forward leant-- Loud laughed the sisters three, As Lillyfair threw back her hair, Yet could no shadow see. But is not this an old, old dream-- Some nightmare of the brain? A splash! and, oh! a wild, wild scream, And all is still again. This was the eclipse which the sisters meant When they would the maid beguile; For sin has the greater a relish in't When lurking beneath a smile. And now the pale-faced moon serene Shines down on the waters clear, Where deep, deep among the seggs so green Lies Ballogie's Lillyfair. On Ballogie's dam there sails a swan With wings of snowy white, But never is seen by the eye of man Save in the pale moonlight. And the miller he looks with upright hair Upon that weird-like thing, And as he peers he thinks he hears It sing as swans can sing. XVI. THE LEGEND OF DOWIELEE. I. There still is shown at Dowielee, Within the ancient corbeiled tower, A chamber once right fair to see, And called the Ladye Olive's bower. Right o'er the old carved mantelpiece A portrait hung in frame of gold, O'er which was spread by strange caprice A pall of crape in double fold; And it was said, as still they say, 'Twas spread by good Sir Gregory, And that when it was ta'en away, The Ladye Olive thou might'st see, With eyne of blue so softly bright, Like those we feign in fairie dreams, Where love shines like that lambent light That in the opal softly swims. But they could carry maddening fires, As when they inspired Sir Evan's breast, And roused therein those wild desires That stole from Dowielee his rest. And led to that, oh, fatal night! When, less beguiling than beguiled, She fled, and left in her maddened flight The good Sir Gregory and her child. II. The castle menials hear in bed Their master's foot-fall overhead-- All in the silent midnight hour, All under unrest's chafing power, On and on upon the floor, On and on both back and fore-- Bereaved, betrayed, disgraced, forlorn, His brain on fire, his bosom torn By fancy's images--sad lumber Of man's proud spirit--care and cumber Waxing brighter as they keep From the vexed soul the frightened sleep. III. By balustrade and corridor That lead him to his lady's bower, He stands before that crape-draped frame-- Its hidden face of _beauteous_ shame-- And holds aloft in his shaking hand The glimmering lamp, nor can withstand The fierce desire to feed his eye With that fair-painted treachery. He lifts the crape, he peers below-- The fire of wrath upon his brow; He lets it fall--he lifts again, To feed on the _pleasure_ of his _pain_, And gazes without stint or measure To gloat on the _pain_ that is his _pleasure_; He turns the picture upon its face, And reads _the curse of his broken peace_. He turns the picture round again, Then away to toss in his bed of pain. IV. Some moral thrusts can stab the heart, And love bestowed returned in hate May play with some a deadlier part Than strokes that seem of sterner fate. In yonder vault down by the aisle Thou'lt read the good Sir Gregory's name-- His death the sequel of the tale Inscribed upon that pictured frame. Yet not forgot while rustic swain Atunes his throat to melodie, And warbles forth the soft refrain, "Alace! alace I for Dowielee." V. Her father dead, Burde Olive fair-- Her mother's image--grows apace, And oft she throws in pensive care A glance upon that crape-veiled face: She wonders what may be beneath. But fears to lift the veil to know; Her father with his latest breath Forbade it, on the pain of woe, Till she to eighteen years had grown, With woman's wisdom duly fraught, When she might take that picture down And learn the lesson which it taught. Yet as she sat within the bower That bore a mother's sacred name, She felt the heart's divining power And guessed the face within the frame-- Her mother's! who they said was dead: And hence the crape--appropriate sign. But why debarred the simple meed To look upon her face divine, And as she looked revive again Those lines that had been once impressed By love upon her infant brain, And never thence to be defaced? Not ever fairest painted theme, Or triumph of the graver's art, Could match the image of her dream Enshrined within a daughter's heart-- So gently kind, so sweetly fair: They were the features she assigned To creatures of yon upper air When they look down on humankind: And oft she sighed that morn would shine When that dark crape she could remove, And she would feast those eydent eyne On those that taught her first to love; And oft she scanned her own sweet face, Reflected to her anxious view, To see if therein she could trace Those lineaments--the _first_ she knew. VI. On Time's swift wing the years have passed: The morn has come, the hour is now, When she would feast her heart at last By looking on that sacred brow! She took the picture from the nail, She held it in her trembling hands, She lifted up the envious veil,-- And there confessed the mother stands. The charm is wrought! that painted gleam Brought up the lines impressed of yore, As flash of the bright morning beam On twilight things seen long before. Her mother seemed from death returned; She kissed the lips, the cheeks, the chin; She sobbed, she sighed, she laughed--she mourned To think it was a painted sign; And then at last she turned it round, As if she feared her sire's decree, And there, in written words, she found The dreaded curse of Dowielee: THE CURSE. "Than Olive who more beautiful In all that nature could bestow? Than Olive who more dutiful When first she pledged that holy vow? What is she now, by sin entoiled? Dark spirits of yon woods declare, Where I in anguish wander wild, The victim of a dark despair. "Thank Heaven, I leave no son my heir, Who might another Olive see, And think her as his mother fair-- Fair, but yet a mystery-- With heart so like some alcove deep, Where nightingales may sing their song, And roses blow, and--serpents creep, To sting him as I have been stung. "The secrets of the living rock, Deep hid from man's divining rod, A spark may open, and the shock Bring forth an ingot or a toad: The secret that is kept for years, One stroke of fate yields to the sight; And if the toad a jewel wears, That jewel may have lost its light. "Begone ye hopes of tender ties, Of smiling home with wife and child, Of all love's tender sympathies, That once a rugged soul beguiled! In vain may Beauty deck her crown, And winning Goodness try her plan, I trust no more--the guile of ONE Hath changed me to a savage man. "If in this world I smile again, Twill be to see the charming eye Like _hers_--the smile--each effort plain, And think I can them all defy. You tell me these are Nature's ways, But Nature tells me to beware; And while each angler smiling plays, So shall I play to shun the snare. "Mocked by the glamour of the eye, I dread all things surpassing fair; The sweetest flower but makes me sigh To think there may be poison there. Were I inclined to change my part, And seek again domestic peace, I'd seek for beauties in the heart, Though seen through a _revolting_ face. "By the heart-pulses of my love, By all the things once dear to me, By every tree within the grove, By every bird upon the tree, By every tint upon its wing, By every note of melodie That close by HER I've heard it sing, _Cursed be the dame of Dowielee_." VII. Burde Olive sat at the evening hour Within her mother's painted bower: It was a ruthless winter night. When beasts and birds cowered with affright From brattling winds that, roving free, Moaned in the woods of Dowielee. A wanderer knelt beside her chair, And spoke these words of tearful prayer: THE APPEAL. "When Justice sought the skies above, She left on earth her sister, LOVE, And heaven-born MERCY staid behind On purpose to console mankind. The silly sheep that left one day The winter's beild and went astray, Did not, when weary, worn, and old, Seek all in vain the shepherd's fold! And He, the Shepherd without sin, Felt for the contrite Magdalene, And gave her hope--her sin forgiven-- That she would join the fold in heaven: And shall my Olive while on earth Forgive not her who gave her birth? Oh! turn on me a smiling face, Forgiving eyes--a look of grace." But Olive turned her face away-- Her father's spirit whispered Nay-- His hastened death, his curse forbade: She trembled and was sore afraid; Yet father's daughter, meek and mild, Was she not, too, the mother's child? Then _he_ was gone, and _she_ was here: Her eye acknowledges the tear Of brooding nature all confessed-- She falls upon the wanderer's breast! No more the veil obscures the frame-- The curse is taken from the name. XVII. THE BALLAD OF MAID MARION. Maid Marion laid her down to sleep, Maid Marion could do nought but weep, For thinking of that happy time When she was in her early prime, When in her glass she looked so fair With lily-lire and golden hair. Full many a year had rolled away, Since _he_ left her that weary day, When, poor in love and rich in gear, She cast him off without a tear; When, poor in gear, tho' rich in love, He left her o'er the sea to rove. His ship was never heard of more, And she must now his death deplore. Now, poor in gear and rich in love, She saw him looking from above, With mild reproof in his dark eyes, And still that love she dared despise. "Oh that that day had never been-- That I that day had never seen! Wae fa the gowd that took its flight, Wae fa' the love I feel this night, Wae fa' the pride that made me mad, And this regret that makes me sad." And still she turned and aye she mourned, And aye the briny tear it burned: A spendthrift father in the grave, A mother buried with the lave, And he, her Willie, also gone, And she left weeping here alone. And still she tried to fall asleep, But aye the thoughts their revels keep: Hark, "one" knurrs from the ancient clock, Long yet ere crowing of the cock-- That sound which sends to their repose The ghosts that mourn their human woes. A faint beam from the waning moon Can scarcely more than show the gloom; All is so still and silent round, The foot of ghost might raise a sound. Hush! there's a rustling near the bed-- She heard the curtain drawn aside. With trembling fear she turned to see Amid the gloom who there might be, And thought she yet could dimly trace The outlines of that well-known face Of him, now dead, who loved her dear, And she had scorned through pride of gear. "Oh Marion dear!" the words came plain: "Maid Marion, dear," it said again; "Remember you of that auld time I tried sae sair thy love to win, And for that I was lowly born Thou treated my true love with scorn?" "Ah, Willie, Willie! I do thee fear, It is thine angry ghost I hear; I saw thee looking from on high, I saw red anger in thine eye; Come thou my cruel heart to chide, Or claim me for thy heavenly bride?" "No, Marion dear!" the shade replied, "I dinna come thy heart to chide. A spendthrift father left thee poor, But Heaven has added to my store. Thou hast been punished for thy pride, And I am come to claim my bride." "Oh fearful shade! the cock will craw; It's mair than time thou wert awa. Gae back into the ocean deep Where thou and thy companions sleep." But still the angry spirit said, "I come to claim thee for my bride." Sore, sore she wept, and shook with dread, "I've meikle sin upon my head, And, oh! I am unfit to dee, And go to heaven thy bride to be. Leave me! oh leave me! flit away, And give me peace to weep and pray." Now something touched Maid Marion's arm, She felt the touch both kind and warm; The spirit took her by the hand, She felt the touch both kind and bland. The spirit kissed Maid Marion's mou', Oh! how it thrilled her body through. The spirit laughed in that odd way Which spirits do when they are gay; For there are spirits good and bad-- The good are aye a merry squad. No body-pains their hearts to vex, No worldly cares their minds perplex. "Nae ghaist am I, Maid Marion dear, My soul's well cased in fleshly gear; I have a heart still warm and free, Enough of gowd for thee and me; And if thou wilt give up thy scorn, Trow-la! I'll marry thee the morn." XVIII. THE BALLAD OF ROSEALLAN CASTLE. Yonder Roseallan's Castle old! Which time has changed to iron grey, Whose high crenelles, o'ergrown with mould, Are crumbling silently away. Soft comes the thought that, years before, Now hid by time's obscuring pall, Some tiny foot had tript the floor, Some silver voice had filled the hall. There was a time in long past years-- It seems to me an age of dreams-- My grandam filled my itching ears With all Roseallan's storied themes: Of how Sir Baldwin dearly loved The last of all Roseallan's maids; And how in moonlight nights they roved Among Roseallan's sylvan shades. But there was one with envious eyes, Deep set in visage pale and wan, Resolved, whoe'er should win the prize, Sir Baldwin should not be the man. He took his aim--too deadly straight, Yet not unseen by Annabel, Who sprang before her favoured knight, And died for him she loved so well. How she who thus so bravely died Was last of all her honoured name, The only hope that fate supplied To keep alive her house's fame. And then the screeching bird of night Would mope upon the crumbling walls, And chirking whutthroats claim the right To gambol in the ancient halls. In yonder vault, deep down below, Half choked with hoary eglantine, Sleep side by side in lengthened row The proud Roseallan's noble line. The hairy wing-mouse flutters there, The owl mopes as in days of yore, Strange eldritch sounds salute the ear, Unholy things crawl on the floor. How oft alone at midnight hour I stand within that silent tomb, What time the moon with waning power Is struggling through increasing gloom, On one sole bier _his_ tears would fall, For _her_ his groans come evermore, Whose silver voice once filled the hall, Whose feet once lightly tript the floor. XIX. THE BALLAD OF THE TOURNAY. In the castle of Kildrennie, Up in her chamber high, There sat the fair Burde Annie, And with her County Guy-- Come lately from the east, As far as Palestine, Where he had sent to his long rest Many a bold Saracen. Sir Guy his burning love hath told, And a favour he hath won, For lo! a ring of virgin gold Shines there his finger on. And they have pledged the solemn yea, Each on the bended knee, That on the coming Beltane day They two shall wedded be. Burde Annie viewed, to hide her tears, The red sun setting still, And lo! behold two cavaliers Came riding up the hill: The one he was Sir Hudibras Come of a noble clan; The other no less noble was-- The brave Sir Gallachan. The first bore on his shield outspread Two bones in cross moline, And for his crest ane bluidy head, Erased from Saracen. The other carried, nobler far, All in a field of gold, A flaming bolt of Jupiter, For crest ane tiger bold. And up they rode, and up they rode, Till they came to the lawn Which spread before the castle broad, And there they made a stand; And there they spied Burde Annie Up in her chamber high, But for the breadth of her bodie They could not see Sir Guy. Burde Annie waved her lily hand, And threw a kiss a-down-- For Hudibras or Gallachan Was meant the priceless boon? For sure it was a priceless boon, When neither could espy That when she threw that kiss a-down She winkit to Sir Guy. "That kiss divine, I trow, is mine," Cried doughty Hudibras; "I am the man," cried Gallachan, "And sure thou art ane ass." Such words to hear were ill to bear By any valiant knight; And each drew forth his sword o' weir, And stood prepared for fight. They startit, they partit, Then on each other sprang; They lungit, they plungit, Till all the welkin rang. They ogglit, they gogglit, Amidst the dread deray; They chirnit, they girnit, Like bluidy beasts of prey. They rattlit, they brattlit, Each cuirass upon; They hackit, they thwackit, Each other's morion. They reel it, they wheelit, And quick came round again; They burstit, they thrust it, With all their might and main. They smeekit, they reek it, Like to ane smouldering kiln; They peghit, they sighit, Each other's blood to spill, They trampit, they stampit, Like animals run wud; They flarit, they glarit, With eyne yred with bluid. At length, to end the bluidy deeds, They raised their falchions keen, And down upon each other's heads They clove them to the chin. But 'tis not true, as I've heard tell, And I do not believe That when these doughty lovers fell, _One laughed within her sleeve_. But I have also heard it said, And I again it say, And I would like to see the head With tongue in't to say nay-- That as these pates lay on the ground (As there they yet may lie), _One eye in each cloved head was found Fixed on that chamber high_. XX. THE BALLAD OF GOLDEN COUNSEL. Come Mary and Martha, Jeanie and Jenny, And sit down and listen, baith ane and a', To me, wha may very weel be your grannie, And aiblins may ken ae thing or twa. This world is no so sweet and so bonnie As you in your young hearts may suppose; There's aloes in it as weel as honey, And aye some prickles on ilka rose. Young lasses I think are something like fillies Let out in a field to idle and eat, To graze by the gowans and drink by the willows, And never to dream of a bridle _a bit_. It's no what ye eat, it's no what you drink, dears, It's no your bonnets, or ribbons, or skirts, The trinkets ye wear, or the siller ye clink, dears-- There's something, I wean, far nearer your hearts. Your thoughts are mair of him you will marry, What the colour may be of his hair, Whether aye cheery, or sometimes chary, What his complexion, or dark or fair. But men they are gude, and men they are ill, dears, You may get the leal or the lazy loon; A lover is aft like a gilded pill, dears, The bitter comes after it's gulpèd doon. I fear ye hae little of power to choose him, The husband is settled for you abune; But you've power in holy bands to noose him _Before ye let him tak' aff his shune_. For a maid who is silly and stoops to folly, And finds ower late that she is betrayed, I ken nae cure for her melancholy But a coffin--and let it be quickly made. A braw lover cam' to my minnie's shieling When I was as young as you now may be, Sae saft, like a loon wha's bent on stealing, And he tirled and whispered secretlie. "Oh let me in this ae night, Jenny, And I will for ever thy true love be; Oh let me in this ae night, hinny, And I will come back and marry thee!" "Gae back and awa, for this my will is, My mither lies gleg wi' half-closed ee, And bids me beware of faithless billies, Who will steal my heart and awa frae me flee." "For mercy's sake! this ae night, Jenny, Oh let me scoug frae the wind and rain, And holy vows I will plight thee, hinny, That thou wilt be for ever mine ain." I opened the door so saft and sleeky, For fear my mither should hear the din, And he has ta'en aff his shune so creaky, And I've led him into my cosy ben. Our speckled cock crew loud and early, The day was dawing o'er forest green, And I let him out as wily and warily As ever I let him in yestreen. "Now, fare thee well, my winsome Jenny, For I am a baron of high degree; Now, fare thee well for ever, my hinny, For the wife of a baron thou ne'er canst be." With a ha! ha! ha! and a tra-la-lalla,[A] He stroked the red beard on his chin, With a ha! ha! ha! and a tra-la-lalla, And I have never seen him again. [Footnote A: The reader may here recollect the fine ballad of Bürger, "Der Ritter und sein Liebchen;" and the verse-- Drauf ritt der Ritter hop sa! sa! Und strich sein Bartchen trallala; Sein Leibchen sah ihn reiten Und hörte noch von weiten Sein Lachen ha! ha! ha! ] [The maidens thought the humour gala, And, laughing, they chorused to the strain, "With a ha! ha! ha! and a tra-la-lalla, And you have never seen him again."] Now, dears! if your lovers you would not lose them, Tak' counsel--it is not an hour ower sune: Be sure that in holy bands ye noose them _Before you let them tak' aff their shune_. [The maidens thought they would amuse them, And, laughing, they chorused to the tune, "Oh yes, we in holy bands will noose them _Before we let them tak' aff their shune_."] XXI. THE BALLAD OF MATRIMONY. "Come, now tell me, Clarabella, How that wondrous thing befell, Why you took that sorry fellow, Leaving me who loved you well? It was, good faith! a sad miscarriage, And cost me many a pang of pain; Indeed, when I heard of your marriage, I vowed I ne'er would love again." "Well, I don't mind, since you're pathetic, And so the reason you shall hear: Th' affair was one of arithmetic-- A matter of so much a year. His father left five thousand good Of pounds per annum, as you know, And you possessed, I understood, Of yearly thousands only two." "Well, why did I, who knew of Cupid, Display so much stupid-ity As not to know--the thing was lucid-- From Cupid comes Cupid-ity?" "But not too late," cried Clarabella: "My husband dear has gone to heaven; He left the five to me, good fellow! And five and two, you know, make seven." I laughed and bowed to Clarabella, And quickly homewards bent my way, And there became a rustic fellow, And donned a suit of hodden-grey. And then I hired me to a farmer, Concealing every sign of pelf, One Hodge, who had a pretty charmer, Who might love me for myself. I laid bold siege to fair Lucinda, And tho' she loved another swain (I had observed them through the window), I was resolved her love to gain Then I would be a lucky fellow, Assured one loved me for my merit, And not, like widowed Clarabella, For the lucre _I_ inherit. At length I boldly purposed marriage, And found Lucinda at my call, And soon thereafter in my carriage I drove my wife to Border Hall. Well! she wondered at the mansion, And all the grandeur that was there, The servants bowing all attention To the lady of their squire. I had a call from Clarabella, Who said my choice was very good; But though her speech was calm and mellow, I thought her in an envious mood. Indeed I had some small suspicion She had avenged a woman's grudge, And had conveyed my true condition To the ears of Farmer Hodge. Sometime thence I met Bill Hedger, Who knew me spite of my changed dress. "Squoire," said he, "I think I'd wager There is a something thee doan't guess; Lucinda's father knew by letter Thee wert a squoire in low disguise, And she, altho' _she loiked me better_, Agreed to take the richer prize." XXII. THE SONG OF ROSALIE. Row on! row on! to flowing Tay, Thou Dighty, who art dear to me; For here upon thy flowery brae I parted last frae Rosalie. Her hair, so rich in gowden hue, Ilk plait was like a gowden string, Her eyne were like the bonnie blue That shines upon the halcyon's wing. There is a worm that loves the bud, And there is one that loves the bloom, And there is one that seeks its food Within the dark and silent tomb. Thou speckled thrush, with tuneful throat, Who sing'st within yon greenwood dell; Sing on, for every trembling note Brings back the voice I loved so well. Thou little pansy, raise thy head, And turn thine azure eye to me, And so remind me of the dead, My dearest, long lost Rosalie. There is a worm that loves the bud, And there is one that loves the bloom, And there is one that seeks its food Within the dark and dreary tomb. Thou lambkin on yon hillock's brow, That sportest in thy gamesome mood, Play on! for thou remind'st me now Of one as innocent and good; All emblems dear, for thoughts you bring Of her who loved you all to see, When through the woods in early spring Ilk bird seemed calling "Rosalie." But there's a worm that loves the bud, And there is one that loves the bloom, And there is one that seeks its food Within the dark and dreary tomb. Far have I roamed for years and years, As from my thoughts I fain would stray; But here once more I weep my tears O'er her now mouldering in the clay. Oh! would that happy day were come When death shall set my spirit free, And I shall rise to yonder home, And be again with Rosalie, Where is no worm to gnaw the bud, And none to blight the youthful bloom; Where spirits sing in joyful mood, "Behold our triumph o'er the tomb!" XXIII. THE BALLAD OF THE WORLD'S VANITY. I. Mournfully maundering, Life's last moments squandering, Weary, weary, wandering, Through this world of sin, Hermit-shade! I call thee; Lead me to the valley-- That mysterious alley, Where I may creep in. World of strange illusion! Fancy-born delusion! Reason-bred confusion! Phantasmagoria! Love, where shall I find thee? Faith, how shall I bind thee? Truth, who has defined thee? Changing every day. Streets of hurry scurry! Fields of fire and fury! Homes of wear and worry! Passing quickly by; Pleasure a wild snatching, Dying in the catching, Pain eternal watching With relentless eye. Sorrow, old Sin's daughter! Screams of eldritch laughter! Burning tears thereafter! I've felt the vanity; Still the hope pursuing, The pursuit ever rueing, Possession still undoing The hope's fond prophecy. II. Sun! I've seen thy grandeur, Scenes of gorgeous splendour, Visions passing wonder In ocean, sea, and sky; Thunders o'er us pealing, Earthquakes 'neath us reeling, Fiery comets wheeling Through all immensity. Virtue! man has crowned thee, For beautiful he found thee; Yet millions have disowned thee, And seek dark Vice's way, Hypocrisy, deep-hooded, Injustice still obtruded, Stern Cruelty, cold-blooded, Make brother man their prey. Kind Love's pure affection! Pity's benediction! Charity's sweet action! All blessed urbanities; Man on man still preying; Bleating lambkins slaying! Devouring blood, and saying All soft humanities. III. Dreaming, doubting, moping, Hopelessly still hoping, Dimly, darkly groping My being's mystery; This sobbing and this sighing, This laughing and this crying, This living and this dying-- Man's mortal history! Why this wild contention? This mocking, cruel invention-- What the deep intention? Who shall give replies? Demons wildly sporting, God's beautiful distorting, Or His own hand extorting Sin-born penalties? IV. Those with whom I started Oceans wide have parted: Some are broken-hearted, Some lie in the clay; Those I once heard prattle, For whom I shook the rattle, Engaged in life's vain battle, Push me off the way. The world's laugh it jeers me, Their looks they seem to fear me, I hear them whisper near me, "Old man, why linger here?" She who loved me dearly, Wandered with me cheerily, Is now a phantom merely, Seen through memory's tear. Pale ghost, flitting yonder! With drooping head you wander. Deep in thought you ponder Why I stay from thee; Cease those hands to beckon, Vain, vain, may you reckon; Alas! I cannot quicken Death's desired decree. Weary, weary wandering, Life's last moments squandering, Weary, weary wandering Through this world of sin, None can undeceive me, None but ONE relieve me, None but ONE receive me, His peace to enter in. XXIV. THE SIEGE: A DRAMATIC TALE. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.--SIR ALEXANDER SETON, Governor of Berwick; RICHARD and HENRY, his sons. PROVOST RAMSAY. HUGH ELLIOT, a traitor. KING EDWARD. EARL PERCY. MATILDA, wife of Seton; etc. SCENE I.--_A Street--the Market-place_. _Enter_ SIR ALEXANDER SETON, RICHARD _and_ HENRY (_his sons_), PROVOST RAMSAY, HUGH ELLIOT, _and others of the People_. _Provost Ramsay_.--Brither Scotchmen! it is my fixed an' solemn opinion, that the King o' England has entered into a _holy alliance_ wi' the enemy o' mankind! An' does he demand us to surrender!--to gie up our toun!--our property!--our lives!--our liberty!--to Southern pagans, that hae entered into compact wi' the powers o' the air! Surrender! No, Scotchmen! While we breathe, we will breathe the _breath o' Freedom!_ as it soughs down the Tweed, between the heathery hills o' our ain auld country! I am but provost o' Berwick, Sir Alexander, an' ye are its governor; an' in a time like this, the power o' defending or surrendering the gates is yours; but though ye gie up the keys this very hour, an' were every stane o' the walls turned are upon anither--here!--the power to defend this market-place is mine!--and _here_ will I stand, while this hand can wield a sword, or a Scotchman is left to die by my side! _Sir Alex_.--Fear not, good provost; I through life have learned To live with honour, or with honour fall. _Richard_.--And as the father dies, so shall his sons. What sayest thou, Henry? _Henry_.--I would say but this-- (If one with a smooth chin may have a voice)-- When thou dost nobly fall, I'll but survive To strike revenge--then follow thy example. _Provost Ramsay_.--Bravely said, callants! As sure as death, I wish ye were my sons! Do ye ken, Sir Alexander, the only thing that grieves me in a day like this, is, that I hae naebody to die for the glory an' honour o' auld Scotland but mysel? But, save us, neebor Elliot! ye look as douf an' as dowie-like as if ye had been forced to mak yer breakfast o' yer coat-sleeve. _Hugh Elliot_.---In truth, methinks, this is no time for smiles-- In every street, each corner of the town, Struck by some unseen hand, the dead are strewed; From every house the children's wail is heard, Screaming in vain for food; and the poor mother, Worn to a skeleton, sits groaning by! My house, 'tis known, o'erlooks the battlements; 'Tis not an hour gone that I left my couch, Hastening to speed me hither, when a sound, Fierce as the thunders, shook our firm-built walls: The casements fell in atoms, and the bed, Which I that moment left, rocked in confusion: I turned to gaze on it, and I beheld!--beheld My wife's fair bosom torn--her heart laid bare! And the red stream came oozing to my feet! _Is this a time for smiles!_ _Provost Ramsay_.--Your wife! Heaven preserve us! Weel, after a', I hae reason to be thankfu' I hae neither wife nor bairns on a day like this! _Sir Alex_.--Behold an envoy from the English camp, Sent with proposals, or some crafty truce. _Hugh Elliot_.--Let me entreat you, then, most noble sir, Give him all courtesy; and if his terms Be such as we in honour may accept, Refuse them not by saying, WE WILL DIE. _Enter_ EARL PERCY _and_ Attendants. _Percy_.--Good morrow, my Scotch cousins! My gracious sovereign, your right lawful master, Hath, in his mercy, left you these conditions-- Now to throw wide your gates, and, if ye choose, Go walk into the Tweed, and drown your treason; Or run, like scapegoats, to the wilderness, Bearing your sins, and half a week's provision; Or, should these terms not meet your approbation, Ere midnight we shall send some _fleeter messengers_. So now, old Governor, my master's answer? _Provost Ramsay_.--The mischief's in your impudence! But were I Sir Alexander, the only answer your master should hae, would be your weel-bred tongue sent back upon the end o' an arrow; an' that wad be as _fleet a messenger_, as ye talk about _fleet messengers_, as ony I ken o'. _Percy_.--Peace, thou barbarian! keep thy frog's throat closed. I say, old greybeard, hast thou found an answer? _Sir Alex_.--Had my Lord Percy found more fitting phrase To couch his haughty mandate, I perhaps Had found some meet reply. But as it is, Thou hast thine answer in this people's eyes. _Hugh Elliot_.--Since we with life and honour may depart, Send not an answer that must seal our ruin, Though it be hero-like to talk of death. [_Enter_ LADY SETON, _listening_. Bethink thee well, Sir Governor: these men Have wives with helpless infants at their breasts; What husband, think ye, would behold a child Dashed from the bosom where his head had pillowed, That his fair wife might fill a conqueror's arms! These men have parents--feeble, helpless, old; Yea, men have daughters!--they have maids that love them-- Daughters and maidens chaste as the new moon-- Will they behold them screaming on the streets, And in the broad day be despoiled by violence? Think of _these things_, my countrymen! [_Aside to_ PERCY, Now, my Lord Percy, you may read your answer. _Percy [aside]_.--So thou art disaffected, good Sir Orator: Well, ply thy wits, and Edward will reward thee-- Though, for my part, I'd knight thee with a halter! _Sir Alex_.--Is this thy counsel in the hour of peril, Milk-hearted man? To thee, and all like thee, _I_ offer terms more _generous_ still than Edward's: Depart ye by the Scotch or English gate-- Both shall be opened. Lade your beasts of burden-- Take all you have--your food, your filthy gold, Your wives, your children, parents, and yourselves! Go to our Scottish king, and prate of courage! Or go to Edward--Percy will conduct thee. [LADY SETON _advances forward_. _Lady Seton_.--Spoke like thyself, my husband! Out on thee, slave! [_To_ ELLIOT. Or shall I call thee traitor? What didst thou, On finishing thy _funeral service_, whisper In my Lord Percy's ear? _Elliot_.--I whisper, lady? _Lady Seton_.--You whisper, smooth-tongued sir! _Percy [aside]._--Zounds! by the coronet of broad Northumberland, Could I exchange it for fair England's crown, I'd have my bodyguard of woman's eyes, And make the whole sex sharpshooters! _Provost Ramsay_.--Wae's me! friend Elliot, but you have an unco dumfoundered-like look after that speech o' yours in defence o' liberty, and infants, and fair bosoms, maiden screams, and grey hairs, and what not. _Sir Alex_.--Percy, we hear no terms but death or liberty. This is our answer. _Percy_.--Well, cousins, be it so. The wilful dog-- As runs the proverb. Lady, fare-ye-well. [_Exit_. _Sir Alex_.--On with me, friends--on to the southern ramparts! There, methinks, they meditate a breach. On, Scotsmen! on-- For Freedom and for Scotland! [_Exeunt_. SCENE II.--_Town Ramparts_. _Enter_ SIR ALEXANDER, RICHARD, HENRY, PROVOST RAMSAY, HUGH ELLIOT, _and_ Populace. _Sir Alex_.--To-day, my townsmen, I shall be your leader; And though my arms may lack their wonted vigour, Here are my pledges [_pointing to his sons_] placed on either side, That seal a triumph youth could never reap. To-day, my sons, beneath a father's eye, Oh give such pride of feeling to his heart As shall outshame the ardour of his youth, And nerve his arm with power strong as his zeal! [_Exeunt all save_ HUGH ELLIOT. _Elliot_.--Thanks to my destiny!--the hour is come-- The wished-for hour of vengeance on mine enemy!-- Heavens! there is neither nobleness nor virtue. Nor any quality that beggars boast not, But he and his smooth sons have swallowed up; And all the world must mouth their bravery!--- I owe a debt to Scotland and to him, And I'll repay it--I'll repay it now! This letter will I shoot to Edward's camp; And now, ere midnight, I'm revenged--revenged! [LADY SETON _appears from the window of the castle_, as ELLIOT _is fixing a letter on an arrow_. _Lady Seton_ [_from the window_].--Hold, traitor! hold, Or, by the powers above us, this very hour Your body o'er these battlements shall hang For your fair friends to shoot at! [ELLIOT _drops the bow_. _Elliot_ [_aside_].--Now fleet destruction seize the lynx-eyed fiend-- Trapped in the moment that insured success! Thank fate--my dagger's left!--she has a son! _Lady Seton_.--Go, worthless recreant, and in thickest fight Blot out thy guilty purpose: know thy life Depends on this day's daring; and its deeds And wounds alone, won in the onset's brunt, Secures my silence. _Elliot_.--You wrong me, noble lady. _Lady Seton_.--Away! I'll hear thee not, nor let my ears List to the accents of a traitor's tongue. [_Exit_ ELLIOT. SCENE III.--_An Apartment in_ KING EDWARD'S _Tent._ _Enter_ EDWARD _and_ PERCY. _Edward_.--Well, my Lord Percy, thou hast made good speed. What say these haughty burghers to our clemency? _Percy_.--In truth, your Grace, they are right _haughty_ burghers. One wondrous civil gentleman proposed To write his answer on your servant's tongue-- Using his sword as clerks might do a quill-- Then thrust it on an arrow for a post-boy! _Edward_.--Such service he shall meet. What said their governor? _Percy_.--Marry! the old boy said I was no gentleman, And bade me read my answer in the eyes Of--Heaven defend me!--such a squalid crew! One looked like death run from his winding sheet; Another like an ague clothed in rags; A third had something of the human form, But every bone was cursing at its fellow. Now, though I vow that I could read my fate In every damsel's eyes that kissed a moonbeam, I've yet to learn the meaning of the words Wrote on the eyeballs of his vellum-spectres, But the old man is henpecked! _Edward_.--Prythee, Lord Percy, lay thy fool's tongue by, And tell thy meaning plainly. _Percy_.--Nay, pardon me, your majesty; I wot Your servant is the fool his father made him, And the most dutiful of all your subjects. _Edward_.--We know it, Percy. But what of his wife? _Percy_.--Why, if the men but possess half her spirit, You might besiege these walls till you have counted The grey hairs on the child that's born next June. _Edward_.--And was this all? _Percy_.--Nay, there was one--a smooth-tongued oily man-- A leader of the citizens; and one Who measures out dissension by the rood: He is an orator, and made a speech Against the governor: the people murmured; And one or two cried out, "Behold an Antony!" But he's a traitor; and I'd hang all traitors! _Edward_.--Ha!--then doth the devil, Disaffection, With his fair first-born, Treason, smooth our path. So we have friends within the citadel. Sent they no other answer? _Percy_.--I did expect me to have brought the whole, Like half-clothed beggars bending at my heels, To crave your Grace's succour; but, behold, Ere I could bid them home for a clean shirt, That they might meet your majesty like Christians, Out stepped her ladyship, and with a speech Roused up the whole to such a flood of feeling That I did well 'scape drowning in the shout Of Scotland and Seton!--Seton and Scotland!--Then did she turn and ask me, "Are you answered?" I said I was!--and they did raise a cry Of _Death or Liberty_! _Edward_.--They shall have it--death in its fullest meaning. Haste, ply our cannon on the opening breach. Forth!--they attack the camp! Now, drive them back, Break through their gate and guards, Till all be ours! [_Exeunt_ SCENE IV.--_The Ramparts_. _Scots driven through the gates in confusion_. _Sir Alex_.--Woe to thee, Elliot! this defeat is thine. Where was the caution ye but preached this morn, That ye should madly break our little band, And rush on certain ruin? Fie on thee, man! That such an old head is so young a soldier! Here, guard this breach, defend it to the last; Henry shall be thy comrade. On, my friends! They cross the river, and the northern gate Will be their next attack. _Elliot_ [_aside_].--"Woe to thee, Elliot! this defeat is thine!" So says our Governor! 'Tis true!--_'twas_ mine! Though I have failed me in my firm, fixed purpose, Once more he's thrown revenge within my grasp; And I will clutch it--clutch it firmly, too; I _guard_ the breach! and with his son to assist me! The Fates grow kind! The _breach!_ he said the _breach!_ And gave his son up to the power of Edward! _Henry_.--Why stand ye musing there? _Here_ lies your duty! _Elliot_ [_aside_].--'Tis true! 'tis true! _my duty_ DOES _lie there!_ _Henry_.--Follow me, Elliot. See--they scale the walls! A moment lost, and they have gained the battlement. _Shouting_.--PERCY _and_ Followers _leap upon the battlement_. _Percy_.--On! followers, on!--for Edward and for England! _Henry_.--Have at thee, Percy, and thy followers, too! For Freedom and for Scotland! On, Elliot! on! Wipe out the morning's shame. _Elliot_ [_aside_].--Have at thee, boy, for insult and revenge! [ELLIOT _strikes_ HENRY'S _sword from his hand_. _Henry_.--Shame on thee, traitor! are we thus betrayed? [Percy's Followers _make_ HENRY _prisoner_. _Elliot_.--Thank Heaven! thank Heaven!--one then is in their grasp! A truce, Lord Percy. See thy prisoner safe, Ere his mad father sound a rescue--off! Thou wouldst not draw thy sword upon a friend? [SIR ALEXANDER, RICHARD, PROVOST RAMSAY, _and others, enter hurriedly_. _Sir Alex_.--Thanks, Elliot! thanks! You have done nobly!--thanks! Where is your comrade?--speak--where is my son? _Elliot_.--Would he had been less valiant--less brave! _Sir Alex_.--What! is he dead, my good, my gallant boy? Where is his body? show me--where? oh, where? _Richard_.--Where is my brother? tell me how he fell? _Elliot_.--Could I with my best blood have saved the youth, Ye are all witnesses that I would have done it. _Provost Ramsay_.--Indeed, Mr. Elliot, if ye refer to me, I'm witness to naething o' the kind; for it is my solemn opinion, a' the execution your sword did was as feckless as a winnle-strae. _Sir Alex_.--Where is my poor boy's body? _Elliot_.--I did not say he died. _Richard_.--Not dead! _Sir Alex_.--Not say he died? _Elliot_.--See yonder group now hurrying to the camp, And shouting as they run. He is their prisoner! [_Aside_] Feed ye, friends, on that. _Sir Alex_.--Cold-blooded man! them never wert a father. The tyrant is! he knows a father's heart; And he will play the butcher's part with mine! Each day inflicting on me many deaths, Knowing right well I am his twofold prisoner; For on the son's head he'll repay, with interest, The wrongs the father did him! "He is their prisoner," saidst thou?" Is their prisoner!" Thou hast no sons!--none!--I forgive thee, Elliot! _Elliot_.--Deeply I crave your pardon, noble sir; Pity for you, and love for Scotland, made me That I was loath to speak the unwelcome tidings; Fearful that to attempt his rescue now, Had so cut off our few remaining troops, As seal immediate ruin. _Provost Ramsay_ [_aside_].--Preserve us a'! hear that. Weel, to be sure, it's a true saying, "Satan never lets _his_ saunts be at a loss for an answer!" SCENE V.--_Apartment in_ EDWARD'S _Tent._ _Enter_ EDWARD _and_ PERCY. _Edward_.--How fares it with these stubborn rebels now? Do they still talk of death as of a bridal, While we protract the ceremony? _Percy_.--I learn, my liege, we've got two glorious allies-- Two most right honourable gentlemen-- Aiding the smooth-tongued orator: _Disease_ and _Famine_ have espoused our cause, And the said traitor Elliot is their oracle. _Edward_.--Touching this man, we have advice from him, In which he speaketh much concerns the wants And murmurings of the citizens: he, too, Adds, they hold out expecting help from Douglas, And recommendeth that we should demand The other son of Seton as a hostage, In virtue of a truce for fourteen days: This is his snare. The sons once in his power, Their father yields, or both hang up before him. _Percy_.--'Tis monstrous generous of our friendly Scot; And what return expects he for his service? _Edward_.--On giving up the father's head--his place. _Percy_.--I fear the lady will have his head first. Did you but see her eyes! I'd bet my coronet 'gainst our friar's cowl, Man wink not treason in his bedchamber But she detect it. Then her ears, again; 'Sdeath! she can hear the very sound of light As it does steal, i' the morning, through her curtains. Should our _friend_ wear his head another week, His neck, I'll swear, is not as other men's are. _Edward_.--How fares it with the son, our silent prisoner? _Percy_.--Poor soul, he leans his head against the wall, And stands with his arms thus--across his breast-- Pale as a gravestone, gnashing at his teeth, And looking on his guards just as his mother would! _Edward_.--'Tis now the hour that Elliot has proposed To stir the townsmen up to mutiny. Take our conditions, and _whatever_ you please; Get but the son as hostage!--get but that! And both shall die a thief's death if he yield not; He is a father, Percy--he's a father! The town is ours, and at an easy purchase. _[Exit_ _Percy_.--And she's a mother, Edward! she's a mother! Ay! and a mother; I will pledge my earldom, And be but plain Hal Percy all my life, If she despise not gallows, death, and children, And earn for thee a crown of shame, my master! In sooth, I am ashamed to draw my sword, Lest I should see my face in its bright blade; For sure my mother would not know her son, As he goes blushing on his hangman's errand. SCENE VI.--_A Street_--_the Market-place. Enter_ ELLIOT _and_ Populace. _Elliot_--You heard, my townsmen, how our gracious governor Did talk to us of honour--! you all heard him! Can any of you tell us what is _honour? He_ drinks his wine, _he_ feeds on beeves and capons; _His_ table groans beneath a load of meats; _His_ hounds, _his_ hawks, are fed like Christian men! _He_ sleeps in a downy couch, o'erhung with purple; And these, all these are _honourable_ doings! He talks of _liberty_! Is it, then, _liberty_ to be cooped up Within these prison walls, to starve from want, That we may have the liberty--mark it, my friends!-- The wondrous _liberty_ to call him _Governor_? Had ye the hearts or hands your fathers had, You'd to the castle, take the keys by force, And ope the gates to let your children live. Here comes your provost--now appeal to him. _Enter_ PROVOST RAMSAY.--_The people demand bread_. _Provost Ramsay_.--Gie you food!--your bairns dee wi' hunger!--and ye maun hae bread! It is easy saying, Gie ye! but where am I to get it? Do you think there's naebody finds the grund o' their stamachs but yersels? I'm sure I hae been blind fastin' these four-and-twenty hours! But wad ye no suffer this, and ten times mair for liberty, and for the glory and honour of auld Scotland? _Elliot [to the people]_.--He, too, can cant of _liberty_ and _honour_! _Provost Ramsay_.--I say, Mr. Hypocrite! it is my fixed and solemn opinion that ye are at the bottom o' this murmuring. I ken ye're never at a loss for an answer; and there is anither wee bit affair I wad just thank ye to redd up. Do ye mind what a fine story ye made in this very market-place the ither week, about getting ower the bed--and your wife's bosom being torn bare--and the blood gushing to your feet, and a' the rest o't? Do ye mind o' that, sir? Do ye mind o' that? I daresay, townsmen, ye've no forgot it? Now, sir, it's no aboon ten minutes sine, that the poor creature--wha, according to your account, was dead and buried--got loose frae her confinement, and cam fleeing to me for protection, as a man and a magistrate, to save her frae the cruelty o' you, you scoundrel. Now, what say ye to that, sir? What say ye to that? What do you think o' your orator now, friends? _Elliot_.--'Tis false, my friends--'Tis but a wicked calumny devised Against the only man who is your friend. _Provost Ramsay_.--Saftly, neebor, saftly! have a care how ye gie the lee to what I say; or, it is my solemn opinion, this bit sword o' my faither's may stap you frae gien it till anither. _Enter_ SIR ALEXANDER _and_ RICHARD. Ye are weel come, Sir Alexander: here is Orator Elliot been makin' a harangue to the townsfolk; and ane cries for bread, and anither for meal--that it is my opinion I dinna ken what's to be done. _Sir Alex_.--What would you have? what is it that you wish? Would ye, for food, sweet friends, become all slaves; And for a meal, that ye might surfeit on it, Give up your wives, your homes, and all that's dear, To the brute arms of men, who hold it virtue To heap their shame upon a fallen foe? Would ye, that ye might eat, yet not be satisfied, Pick up the scanty crumbs around their camp, After their cattle and their dogs have left them; Or would ye, for this favour, be content To take up arms against your countrymen!-- For this! will fathers fight against their sons?-- Sons 'gainst their fathers?--brethren with each other? Those who would wish it may go o'er to Edward! _[Sound of French horns without_ _Provost Ramsay_.--Ay, here comes mair proposals--the sorry proposal them! I wish them and proposals an' a' were in the middle o' the Tweed. _Enter_ EARL PERCY _and_ Attendants. _Percy_.--Save ye, my band of heroes; by St. Cuthbert, Your valorous deeds have wrought a miracle, And turned my master's hatred into mercy; For, deeming it a sin that such brave fellows Should die a beggar's vulgar death from want, He doth propose to drop hostilities, And for two weeks you may command our friendship: If in that time you gain no aid from Scotland, Renounce the country, and be Edward master; But, should you gain assistance--why, then, we Will raise the siege, and wish you all good-bye. _Elliot [to the people]_.--Urge the acceptance, friends, of these conditions. _Omnes_.--We all accept these terms. _Sir Alex_.--It is the people's wish; and I agree. _Percy_.--And you, in pledge of due performance, sir, Do give up this your son into our hands, In surety for your honour------ _Sir Alex_.--What! my son! Give him up too--yield him into your power? Have ye not one already?--No! no! no! I cannot, my Lord Percy; no, I cannot Part with him too, and leave their mother childless! _Provost Ramsay_.--Wad ye no tak me as a substitute, Lord Percy? I'm a man o' property, and chief magistrate beside; now, I should think, I'm the maist likely person. _Percy_.--Good master magistrate and man of property, I like thy heart, but cannot take thy person. Give up the youth, or here must end my truce! _Richard_.--Fear not, my father. I will be their hostage, For Scotland's sake, and for my father's honour-- _Sir Alex_.--My boy, my boy, and shall I lose you thus? What surety does cruel Edward give, That, keeping faith, he will restore my sons Back to my arms in safety? Tell me, Percy; Gives he his honour as a man or king? _Percy_.--As both, I hold it. _Sir Alex_.--And wilt thou pledge thine? _Percy_.--This is my master's business, and not mine. _Sir Alex_.--'Tis an evasion, and I like it not. _Richard_.--Farewell! farewell, my father! be the first To teach these men the virtue of self-sacrifice. Commend me to my mother. I will bear Both of your best loves to our Henry. Farewell! Lead on, Lord Percy. [_Exeunt_. SCENE VII.--_Apartment in_ SETON'S _House_. _Enter_ SIR ALEXANDER, PROVOST RAMSAY, HUGH ELLIOT, _and others_. _Sir Alex_.--Would Heaven that all go well with my dear boys! But there's that within me that does tear My bosom with misgivings. The very sun To me hangs out a sign of ominous gloom! A spirit seems to haunt me, and the weight Of evil undefined, and yet unknown, Doth, like a death's-hand, press upon my heart. _Provost Ramsay_.--Hoot, I wad fain think that the warst is past, and that there is nae danger o' onything happenin' now. But do ye ken, sir, it is my fixed and solemn opinion, that, before onything really is gaun to happen to a body, or to ony o' their friends, like, there is a kind o' something comes ower ane--a sort o' sough about the heart there--an' ye dinna ken what for. _Sir Alex_.--Have ye beheld how they are raising bastions, Flanking fresh cannon, too, in front the town, Gaining new reinforcements to their camp, And watching all our outgoings? Do you think This looks as Edward meant to keep his faith? I am betrayed, my friends--I am betrayed. Fear marcheth quickly to a father's breast-- My sons are lost! are lost! _Provost Ramsay_.--It's true that King Edward's preparations, and his getting sic fearfu' additions to his army, doesna look weel. But what is a king but his word mair than a man? _Enter_ Servant. _Servant_.--Lord Percy craves an audience with your honour. _Sir Alex_.--Conduct him hither. 'Tis as I boded! [_Exit_ Servant--_enter_ PERCY. You look grave, my lord. _Percy_.--Faith, if I can look grave, to-day I should: None of my mother's children, gossips said, Were born with a sad face; but I could wish That I had never smiled, or that her maid Had been my mother, rather than that I Had been the bearer of this day's vile tidings. _Sir Alex_.--'Tis of my sons!--what! what of them, Lord Percy? What of them? _Percy_.--Yes, 'tis of your sons I'd speak!-- They live--they're well!--can you be calm to hear me? I _would_ speak of your sons. _Sir Alex_.--I feel!--I feel! I understand you, Percy! you WOULD speak of my sons!-- Go, thrust thy head into a lion's den, Murder its whelps, and say to it, _Be calm_! Be calm! and feel a dagger in thy heart! 'Twas kindly said!--kind! kind! to say, _Be calm_! I'm calm, Lord Percy! what--what of my sons? _Percy_.--If I can tell thee, and avoid being choked-- Choked with my shame and loathing--I will tell thee! But each particular word of this black mission Is like a knife thrust in between my teeth. _Sir Alex_.--Torture me not, my lord, but speak the worst; My ears can hear--my heart can hold no more! _Enter_ LADY SETON. _Percy_.--Hear them in as few words as I can tell it: Edward hath sworn, and he will keep his vow, That if to-day ye yield not up the town, Become his prisoners, break your faith with Scotland, Ye with the morning dawn shall see your sons Hung up before your windows. He hath sworn it; And, by my earldom--faith as a Christian-- Honour as a peer--he will perform it! _Lady Seton [aside]_.--Ruler of earth and heaven! a mother begs Thy counsel--Thy protection! Say I _mother_! No voice again shall call me by that name-- Both! both my boys! _Sir Alex_.--Ha! my Matilda! Thou here! Dry up thy tears, my love! dry up thy tears! I cannot sacrifice both sons and mother! Alas, my country! I must sell thee dearly! My faith--mine honour too!--take--take them, Percy! I am a father, and my sons shall live!-- Shall _live_! and I shall _die_! [_Unsheathing his sword_. _Lady Seton_.--Hold! hold, my husband--save thy life and honour! Thou art a father--am not I a mother? Knowest thou the measure of a mother's love? Think ye she yearns not for her own heart's blood? Yet I will _live_! and thou shalt live, my husband! We will not rob this Edward of his shame; Write--I will dictate as my sons had done it-- I know their nature, for 'twas I who gave it. _Sir Alex_.--Thou wait'st an answer, Percy--I will give it. _[Sits down to write_. No; I cannot, Matilda. _Lady Seton_.--Write thus: "Edward may break his faith, but Seton cannot! Edward may earn disgrace, but Seton honour! His sons are in your power! Do! do as ye list!" _[He starts up in agitation_. _Sir Alex_.--No, no! it cannot be--say not my sons! Lord Percy, let your tyrant take my life! Torture me inchmeal!--to the last I'll smile, And bless him for his mercy!--but spare, oh spare my children! _Provost Ramsay_.--Really, Sir Alexander, I dinna ken hoo to advise you. To think o' gien up the toun to sic a monster o' iniquity, is entirely out o' the question--just impossible a'thegither; and to think o' the twa dear brave bairns sufferin', is just as impossible as to flee in the air. I tell ye what, my lord--and it is my opinion it is a very fair proposal (if naething but deaths will satisfy your king)--I, for ane, will die in their stead--their faither will for anither; and is there ane amang _you_, my townsmen, that winna do the same, and let your names be handed down as heroes to your bairns' bairns, and the last generation? _Percy_.--Thou hast a noble heart, old honest Scotsman; but I cannot accept your generous offer. _Lady Seton_.--Mark this, my husband!--that we may still be parents-- That we might have two sons to _live and scorn us_-- Sell country--honour--all--and live disgraced: Think ye MY SONS would call a _traitor_ father?-- They drew their life from _me_--from _me_ they drew it; And think ye I would call a _traitor husband?_-- What! would ye have them live, that every slave, In banquet or in battle, might exclaim, "For you, ye hinds, your father sold his country?" Or, would you have them live, that no man's daughter Would stoop so low as call your sons her husband? Would you behold them hooted, hissed at, Oft, as they crossed the street, by every urchin? Would ye your sons--your _noble_ sons--met this, Eather than die for Scotland? If ye do love them, Love them as a _man_! _Sir Alex_.--'Tis done! my country, thou hast made me bankrupt! And I am childless! _[Exeunt_ SCENE VIII.--_The river, and boat. Time midnight. Enter one habited as a friar_. _Friar_.---'Tis now thick midnight. All round me sleep, And not a star looks from the curtained heaven. The very sentinels cease to pace their round, And stand in calm security. I'll brave them. What though the bridge be guarded, and the river Rush like a tiger?--love has no such fears, And Heaven is stronger than its waters! _[A bell tolls slowly_. Ha! that slow-tongued bell, that speaks of death, Falls on my ears as would a solid substance, Pressing my heart down! Oh cruel speed! Already they prepare their execution! But they shall live, or I with them shall die! THOU, who beholdest me, and lookest through The darkness of Thy heavens upon Thy suppliant, Let not a tyrant stain Thy earth with blood-- The blood of innocence! Thou, who art mercy, Spare a father's tears! Thou, who art love, Look on a mother's anguish! Thou, who art justice, Save! oh, save their children! Thou, who art power, Strengthen my hands to-night. _[Rises._ Now, may an angel's hand direct my skiff Straight to their camp, till with one blow I strike Their freedom and my country's! _[He leaps into the boat and pushes off_. SCENE IX.--_The English camp. A fire in the distance. Enter_ HENRY _and_ RICHARD, _fettered and guarded_. _Henry_.--Would it were morning, and the hour were come. For still my heart misgives me, lest our parents Do, in fond weakness, save us by dishonour! _Richard_.--Rather than purchase life at such a price, And have my father sell his faith for me, And sell his country, I would rather thou, My brother in my birth and in my death, Should be my executioner! We know them better! _Henry_.--Now I seem old and weary of this life, So joy I in our death for Scotland's sake; For this death will so wed us to our country, We shall be old in years to all posterity! And it will place a blot on Edward's name, That time may blacken, but can ne'er efface. _Richard_.--My heart, too, beats as light as if tomorrow Had been, by young love, destined for my bridal; Yet oft a tear comes stealing down my cheek, When I do think me of our _mother_, Henry! _Henry_.--Oh speak not of our parents! or my heart Will burst ere morning, and from the tyrant rob His well-earned infamy. _Richard_.--Oh! I must speak of them: They now will wander weeping in their chamber, Or from their window through the darkness gaze, And stretch their hands and sigh towards the camp; Then, when the red east breaks the night away-- Ah! what a sight will meet their eyes, my brother! _Henry_.--My brother! oh my brother! _Enter_ FRIAR. _Guard_.--Who would pass here? _Friar_.--A friend! a friend!--a messenger of mercy! _Guard_.--Nay, wert thou mercy's self, you cannot pass. _Friar_.--Refuse ye, then, your prisoners their confessor? _Guard_.--Approach not, or ye die! _Friar_.--Would ye stretch forth your hand 'gainst Heaven's anointed? _Guard_.--Ay! 'gainst the Pope himself, if he should thwart me. _Friar_.--Mercy ye have not, neither shall ye find it. _[Springs forward and stabs him_--_approaches_ RICHARD _and_ HENRY, _and unbinds their fetters_. _Friar_.--In chains as criminals! Ye are free, but speak not. _Richard_.--Here, holy father, let me kneel to thank thee. _Henry_.--And let me hear but my deliverer's name, That my first prayer may waft it to the skies. _Friar_.--Kneel not, nor thank me here. There's need of neither; But be ye silent, for the ground has ears; Nor let it hear your footsteps. _[He approaches the fire; kindles a torch and fires the camp_. _Henry_.--Behold, my brother, he has fired the camp! Already see the flames ascend around him. _Friar_.--Now! now, my country! here thou art avenged! Fly with me to the beach! pursuit is vain! Thou, Heaven, hast heard me! thou art merciful! _[Exit_. SCENE X.--_Apartment in_ SETON'S _House_. _Sir Alex_.--Oh, what is honour to a father's heart? Can it extinguish nature--soothe its feelings-- Or make the small still voice of conscience dumb? My sons! my sons! Though ye should hold me guiltless, there's a tongue Within me whispers, _I'm your murderer!_ Ah! my Matilda! hadst thou been less noble, We both had been less wretched! But do I, To hide my sin, place't on the mother's heart? Though she did hide the _mother_ from _men's_ eyes, Now, crushed by woes, she cannot look on _mine_. But, locked in secret, weeps her soul away, That it may meet her children's! I alone, Widowed and childless, like a blasted oak Reft of its root and branches, must be left For every storm to howl at! [ELLIOT _enters with a dagger_. Ah, my sons! Could anguish rend my heartstrings, I should not Behold another sun rise on my misery! _Elliot [springing upon him]_.--By Heavens, mine enemy, I swear thou shalt not! _They struggle. Shouting without. Enter_ FRIAR _and_ SETON'S SONS, PROVOST RAMSAY. FRIAR _springs forward_. _Friar_.--Down! traitor, down! [_Stabs_ ELLIOT. _Sir Alex_.--My sons! my sons! Angels of mercy, do you mock my sight! My boys! my boys! _Provost Ramsay_.--Save us a'! save us a'!--callants, come to my arms too! Here's an hour o' joy! This, in my solemn opinion, is what I ca' livin' a lifetime in the twinklin' o' an ee. And what think ye, Sir Alexander! The English camp is a' in a bleeze, and there they are fleeing awa helter-skelter, leaving everything behind them. _Sir Alex_.--What! they fly too!--thank Heaven! thank Heaven! My cup of joy o'erflows, and floods my heart More than my griefs! _Richard_.--'Tis true, my father-- To this, our unknown saviour, do we owe Our life and yours!--'twas he, too, seized the torch, And bid the bonfire blaze to Scotland's freedom. _Sir Alex_.--Forgive me, reverend stranger, if that I, In the delirium of a parent's joy, O'erlooked the hand that saved me: Kneel, my sons, And with your father, at this stranger's feet, Pour out your thanks, and beg his blessing also. _[They kneel around the supposed friar, who casts off the disguise, and is discovered to be their mother_. _Lady Seton_.--A _mother_, in her children's cause, fears nothing, And needs not _thanks_-- A _woman_, in her _country's cause_, Can dare what man dare! [_They start up._ _Sir Alex_.--What! my Matilda! _Richard_.--My mother! _Henry_.--Ha! my mother! _Lady Seton_.--Joy, joy, my sons; your mother's done her duty! And joy, my husband, we have saved our _honour_. _Sir Alex_.--Matilda, thou hast ta'en my heart anew, And with it, too, my words! _Provost Ramsay_.--The like o' this! I may weel say, what, in the universal globe, tempted me to be a bachelor! [_Exeunt._ XXV. FAREWELL TO A PLACE ON THE BORDERS. Lochmaben! I from thee must part, 'Tis destined so to be; Thy lovely lochs, dear to my heart, I never more may see. The heaven of May is mirror'd clear Within thy waters deep; So shall my soul with loving care Thine image ever keep. I've seen Edina's rocky walls, Her palaces and bowers; I've gazed on London's lofty halls, And monumental towers. In yon green isle towards the west, I've roamed without control; And many a wild, romantic coast Has charm'd my inmost soul. But aye to me the sunniest rays Have thrown their sweetest gleams Where Bruce was born, and summer days Inspired my youthful dreams. The water lilies there shall rest, And minnows round them play; The coot shall build her floating nest, When I am far away. But ah! no more thy streams and glens Shall bless my sight, Lochmaben; Farewell, farewell, lochs, woods, and fens-- Farewell, farewell, Lochmaben! GLOSSARY AND GENERAL INDEX. GLOSSARY. --A-- A', _adj._ all. ABAK, _adv._ behind. ABASIT, _part. pa._ confounded; abashed. ABBACY, _s._ an abbey. ABEE--_to let abee_, to let alone; not to meddle with. ABEECH, ABIEGH, _adv._ aloof; "at a shy distance;" keep aloof. ABLE, ABLIS, ABLINS, AIBLINS, _adv._ perhaps; peradventure. ABONE, ABOW, ABOON, ABUNE, _prep_, above. ABOOT, _prep_, about. AE, _adj._ one; only; single. AFF, _adv._ off; away. AFFCAST, _s._ a castaway. AFFCOME, s. the termination of any business. "I gied him his _affcome_," I gave him a down-setting, or offset. AFEIRD, _part. pa._ afraid. AFFHAND, _adj._ plain; honest; blunt; without premeditation. AFFLUFF, _adv._ extempore. AFORE, _prep_, before. AFFPUT, _s._ pretence for delay. AFFPUTTING, _adj._ trifling; delaying. AFFSIDE, _s._ offside. AFT, _adv._ often. AFTEN, _adv._ often. AFTERHEND, _adv._ afterwards. AGAYNE, _prep_, against. AGAIT, _adv._ on the way or road. AGEE, _adv._ to one side; ajar; a little open. AGLEY, A-GLY, _adv._ off the right line; obliquely; wrong. AHIND, AHINT, _adv._ behind. AIK, _s._ the oak. AILEN, _part. pa._ ailing. AIN, _adj._ own. AINS, _adv._ once. AIR, _adv._ early in the morning. AIR, AIRE, AYR, _s._ an heir. AIRMS, _s. pl._ arms. AIRN, _s._ iron. AIRT, AIRTH, _s._ point of the compass. AISLAIR, _adj._ a polished substance. AITS, _s. pl._ oats. AITEN, _adj._ oaten. AITH, _s._ an oath. AIZLE, _s._ a hot ember. ALANE, _adj._ alone. ALANG, _adv._ along. ALD, AULD, _adj._ old. ALMOUS, AUMES, _s. pl._ alms. AMAIST, _adv._ almost. AMANG, _prep._ among. AMBRY, _s._ a press or closet where victuals are kept for daily use. AN', _conj_. and. ANE, _adj._ one. ANENT, _prep_, over against; opposite. ANETH, _prep_, beneath. ANEUCH, _adv._ enough. ANIEST, _adv._ or _prep._ on this side of; on the nearest side. ANITHER, _adj._ another. ANKERSTOCK, _s._ a loaf made of rye, sweetened with treacle. ANSE, _adv._ once. APERT, _adj._ brisk; bold; free. APERTLY, _adv._ briskly; readily. APON, APOUN, _prep._ upon. APPARELLE, _s._ equipage; furniture for warfare. APPLERINGIE, _s._ the plant called southernwood. ARCH, _adj._ averse; reluctant. _To_ ARGLE-BARGLE, ARGIE-BARGIE, _v. a._ to contend; to bandy backwards and forwards. ARK, _s._ a large chest used for holding meal or corn. ARK _of a Mill_, _s._ the place in which the water-wheel moves. _To_ ARLE, _v. a._ to give earnest of any kind. ARLES, _s._ earnest of any kind. ARLY, _adv._ early. ARMYN, ARMYNG; _s._ armour; arms. ART _and_ PART, accessory to, or abetting. ASSE, _s._ ashes, plural _assis_ and _aiss_. ASSHOLE, _s._ place for receiving ashes under the grate. ASCHET, _s._ a large plate, on which meat is brought to table. ASK, AWSK, _s._ an eft or water newt; a lizard. ASKLENT, ASCLENT, ASKLINT, _adv._ obliquely; asquint; on one side. _To_ ASSAILYIE, _v. a._ to attack, to assail. _To_ ASSOLYIE, _v. a._ to acquit. ASTEER, _adv._ in confusion; in a bustle. A'THEGITHER, _adv._ altogether. ATHORT, _prep_, through, athwart. ATOUR, ATTOURE, _prep._ over. ATTOMIE, _s._ a skeleton. ATTELED, _part. pa._ aimed. ATTER-CAP, ATTIR-COP, _s._ 1. a spider; 2. an ill-tempered person; one of a malignant or virulent disposition. ATWEESH, _prep_, between; betwixt. AUGHT, _pret. pa._ possessed. AUCHT, _s._ property; possession; that which is exclusively one's own. _In aw my aucht_, all I am possessed of. AUKWART, AWKWART, _prep._ across; athwart. AULD-CLUITY, _s._ the devil. AULDEST, _adj._ oldest; elder. AULD, _adj._ old; aged. AULDFARRANT, AULDFARRAND, _adj._ sagacious. AULD-MOU'D, _adj._ sagacious in discourse. Sometimes used as crafty. AUMUS, _s._ an alms. AVA, _adv._ at all. AWA, _adv._ away. AWFU', _adj._ awful. AWIN, AWYN, _adj._ own. This is the common _pronoun_ in the south of Scotland; in other parts, _ain_. AWNIE, _adj._ bearded. AWNS, _s. pl._ the beards of corn or barley. AWSK, _s._ the newt or eft. AWSOME, _adj._ awful; appalling. _To_ AX, _v. a._ to ask. AX-TREE, _s._ an axle-tree. AYONT, _prep._ beyond. AY, _adv._ yes. --B-- BABIE, BAWBIE, _s._ a halfpenny. BACHLE, BAUCHLE, _s._ an old shoe or slipper. BACKLINS, _adv._ backwards. _To gae backlins_, to walk backwards, like a ropemaker. BACKSPANG, _s._ a trick, or legal quirk; advantage taken by one over another. _To_ BACK-SPEIR, _v. a._ to trace a report as far back as possible; to cross-question. BACK-SPEIRER, _s._ a cross-examiner. BADE, _pret_. of bide. BADRANS, BATHRONS, _s._ a designation for a cat. _To_ BAE, _v. n_. to bleat like sheep. _To_ BAFF, _v. a_. to beat. BAFF, _s._ a stroke or blow. BAIKIE, _s._ the stake to which a cow is fastened in the stall. BAILIE, _s._ an alderman; the deputy of a baron in a borough of barony. BAIR, BAR, _s._ a boar. BAIRD, _s._ a bard or poet. BAIRN, BARNE, _s._ a child. BAIRNHEID, _s._ childhood. BAIRNLY, _adj._ childish. BAIRNLINESS, _s._ childishness. BAIRNS-MAID, _s._ a nursery-maid. BAIS, _adj._ having a deep or hollow sound: bass. _To_ BAYT, _v. n_. to feed. BAISEE, BAIVIE, _s._ a large fire; a great blaze. BAKE, _s._ a biscuit. BAKSTER, BAXSTER, _s._ a baker. BALD, BAULD, _adj._ bold; intrepid. BALDERDASH, _s._ foolish noisy nonsense. BALK, BURRAL, _s._ an elevated ridge, raised by a plough. BALLANT, _s._ a ballad; a song. BALOW, BALOO, _s._ a lullaby; a term used by nurses when lulling children. _To_ BAN, BANN, _v. a._ to curse. BANNIN, _pr. pa_. swearing. BANDKYN, _s._ a species of cloth, the warp of which is thread of gold and the woof silk, and adorned with figures. BANDSTER, BANSTER, _s._ one who binds sheaves after the reapers in the harvest field. BANE, _s._ a bone. BANE-FYER, _s._ a bonfire. _To_ BANG, _v. a_. to change place with impetuosity-- as, _to bang up_, to start to our feet suddenly. BANNOCK, _s._ a cake of barley or pease meal baked on a girdle. BANNOCK-FLUKE, _s._ a turbot. BAP, _s._ a thick cake, baked in an oven, with yeast in it, and made of flour, oat meal, or barley meal, and sometimes a mixture of two of them. BARE, _adj._ lean; meagre; naked; uncovered. _To_ BARKEN, _v. n_. to become hard; to clot. BARLA-BREIKIS, BURLEY-BRAKS, _s._ a game played in a corn-yard, running round the stacks. BARLEY, _s._ a term used by children in games, when a truce, or a cessation for the time, is demanded. BARNE. See BAIRN. BASSIE, _s._ an old horse. BASTOUN, _s._ a heavy staff; a baton. BAITH, _adj._ both. BATIE, BAWTIE, _s._ a name applied to dogs, generally large ones, without reference to sex. BATS, _s. pl._ the bots, a disease in horses. _To_ BATTER, _v. a_. to paste. BAUCHLE, BACHEL, _s._ an old shoe. BAUGH, _adj._ ungrateful to the taste. BAUK, BAWK, _s._ a cross beam in the roof of a house. BAUK, BAWK, _s._ a strip of land, two or three feet wide, left unploughed. BAUSY, _adj._ strong; big. _To_ BAW, _v. a_. to hush; to lull in the manner of nursing a child. BAW, _s._ a ball. BAWBEE, a halfpenny. BAWDEKYN, _s._ cloth of gold. BAXTER, _s._ a baker. BEAR, BERE, _s._ barley. _To_ BECK, _v_. to curtsey. BEDRAL, _s._ a person who is bedrid. BEGRUTTEN, _part. pa._ having the face disfigured with weeping. BEIK, BIKE, _s._ a hive of bees. BEIK, BEKE, BEEK, _v. a_. to bask, as in the sun. BEILD, BIELD, _s._ shelter; refuge. BEIN, BANE, _s._ bone. BIRR, _s._ noise; cry; force. BEKE, BEIK, BEEK, _v. a._ to bask. BELD, _adj._ bald; without hair on the head. BELE, _s._ a fire; a blaze. BELYVE, _adv._ by and by. _To_ BELL THE CAT, to contend with a person of superior rank; to withstand him, either by actions or words, especially the former. BELLY-THRA, _s._ the colic. _To_ BELT, _v. a._ to gird; to flog; to scourge. BEN, _adv._ towards the inner apartments of a house. A room is generally called _ben_, and the kitchen _but_. BEN-END, _s. the ben-end of a house_, the inner end of it. BEN, BIN, _s._ a mountain. BENE, BIEN, _adj._ wealthy; having abundance. BENK, BINK, _s._ a bench; a seat. BENORTH, _prep._ to the northward of. BENSHIE, BENSHI, _s._ a fairy's wife. BENT, _s._ a coarse grass growing on sand-hills. BERE, BEAR, _s._ barley. BERN, _s._ a barn. _To_ BESEIK, _v. a._ to beseech; to entreat. BESYNE, BYSIM, _s._ a bawd. BESOUTH, _prep_, to the southward of. BEST-MAN, _s._ groomsman; _best-maid_, the bridesmaid. BETWEESH, _prep_, betwixt. BEUCH, a branch; a bough. BEVIE, _s._ a great fire. _To_ BEWRY, _v. a._ to pervert, to distort. BIB, _s._ a piece of linen used to keep the breast of a child clean when feeding it. BICK, _s._ a bitch; the female of the canine species. _To_ BICKER, _v. a._ to fight with stones as schoolboys; to run off quickly. BICKER, BIQUOUR, _s._ a small wooden dish, made in the form of a washing-tub, the staves being alternately black and white. _To_ BIDE, BYDE, _v. n._ to wait for; to abide; to endure; to suffer. _To_ BIG, _v. a._ to build. BIGGIN, BYGGYN, _s._ a building. BIGGIT, _part. pa._ built. BIKE, BEIK, BINK, _s._ a nest of wild bees or wasps. BILGET, _adj._ bulged; swelling out. BILLIE, BILLY, _s._ a companion; a comrade. BINDWOOD, _s._ ivy. BING, _s._ a heap; a pile of wood. BINK. See BIKE. BIRD, BURD, _s._ a bird; a damsel; a lady. BIRDIE, _s._ a little bird. BIRK, _s._ a birch-tree. _To_ BIRK, _v. n._ to give a tart or sharp answer. BIRKIN, _adj._ of or belonging to birch-wood. BIRKY, _s._ a lively young man; a mettlesome person. BIRL, _v. n_. to ply with drink; to club money for the purpose of purchasing drink. BIRN, _v. a._ to burn. BIRS, BIRSE, _s._ a bristle. _His birse is up_, he is in a passion. _He's a birsie man_, he is liable to be irritated easily. _To_ BIRSLE, _v. a._ to broil; to roast. BIRSSY, _adj._ having bristles; hot-tempered. _To_ BIRZE, BRIZE, _v. a._ to bruise; to drive or push. BISKET, BRISKET, _s._ the breast. _To_ BISSE, BIZZ, _v. n_. to make a hissing sound, as hot iron plunged into water. BISSOME, BYSSYM, _s._ an unworthy female. BIT, _s._ a vulgar term used for food. _He takes the bit and the buffit wi't_, he takes the food and the blow along with it. BITTILL, BEETLE, _s._ a wooden mallet for beating clothes. _To_ BLABBER, _v. n._ to babble; to speak indistinctly. BLACKAVICED, _a_. dark-complexioned. BLACK-COCK, _s._ the black grouse. BLACK-FISHING, _s._ fishing for salmon by torch light. BLACK-FOOT, _s._ a person who makes matches, or goes between a lover and his mistress. BLAD, _s._ a large piece of anything. BLADE, _s._ the leaf of a tree. BLADOCH, BLEDOCH, _s._ buttermilk. BLAE, BLA, _adj._ livid; used when the skin is discoloured with a blow, or when chilled with cold. BLAEBERRY, _s._ the bilberry. BLAIDRY, _s._ nonsense; folly; silly talk. BLAIN, _s._ a mark or blemish left by a wound. BLAIT, _adj._ bashful; sheepish. BLAIT-MOUIT, _adj._ sheepish; ashamed to open one's mouth, or speak. _ Ye'r no blait_, you are very forward or impudent--used metaphorically. BLAITIE-BUM, _s._ a stupid, simple fellow. BLASH, _s._ a heavy fall of rain. BLASHY, _adj._ deluging, sweeping away, as in a flood; thin, poor, as applied to broth or soup. _To_ BLAST, _v. n._ to smoke. _To take a blast_, to take a smoke. BLATE, BLAIT, _adj._ bashful. _To_ BLATHER, _v. n._ to talk nonsense; to talk ridiculously. BLATTER, _s_, a rattling noise, such as that made by a heavy shower of rain or hail. _To_ BLAW, _v_. to blow. BLEAR, _s._ to obscure the sight. BLEARD, _s._ dull of sight; having inflamed eyes. BLEEZE, _v. n_. milk is said to be bleezed when it has become a little sour. BLEIB, _s._ a pustule, a blister. _The_ BLEIBS, _s. pl._ the chicken-pox. _To_ BLENK, BLINK, _v. n._ to open the eyes as after slumber; to throw a glance of regard. BLENK, BLINK, _s._ a gleam of light. BLENT, _s._ a glance as in the quick motions of the eye. _To_ BLETHER, _v. n._ to stammer, or speak indistinctly, or nonsensically. BLIN, _adj._ blind. BLINK. See BLENK. _To_ BLIRT, _v. n._ to burst out a-crying or weeping. BLOB, BLAB, _s._ 1. anything circular and turned; 2. a blister. BLOBBIT, _part. pa._ bloated; blurred; blotched. BLUBBER, _s._ a bubble of air. _To_ BLUBBER, _v. a._ to cry, to weep. BLUE-GOWN, _s._ a pensioner. Formerly all pensioners received a blue gown on the king's birthday. BLUID, _s._ blood. BLUIDY, _adj._ bloody; bloodthirsty; covered with gore. BLUITER, BLUTTER, _v. n._ to make a rumbling noise. BLUNTIE, _s._ a stupid fellow; a sniveller. BOAL, BOLE, _s._ a small aperture or press in a house for the reception of small articles; a small opening in a wall for the admission of light or air. BOB, _s._ a curtsey. _To_ BOCK, _v. a._ to make a noise with the throat, as persons will frequently do before vomiting. BOD, BODDY, _s._ a person of diminutive stature. BODDUM, _s._ bottom. BODE, BOD, _s._ an offer made prior to a bargain; a proffer. BODEN, BUDDEN, _v_. offered; proffered. BODLE, _s._ an old copper coin of the value of two pennies Scots, or third part of a penny English. BOGILL, BOGLE, _s._ 1. a hobgoblin; a spectre; 2. a scarecrow; any made-up imitation of a spectre. BOMBILL, BUMBILL, _s._ buzzing noise. BOMBILL-BEE, _s._ a drone. BONIE, BONYE, BONNY, _adj._ beautiful; having a fine countenance. BONIEST, _adj._ the most beautiful. BOOL, _s._ an ironical name, as applied to an old man. BOONMOST, _adj._ uppermost. BOORDLEY, _s._ strong; large; broad; having a manly appearance. BORDEL, _s._ a brothel. BOS, BOSS, BOIS, _adj._ hollow. BOT, BUT, _conj_. but; without anything. BOTHE, BOOTHE, _s._ a shop made of boards. BOTHIE, _s. pl._ a cottage; such a one as is occupied generally for the use of servants. BOTTINGS, BUITINGS, _s._ half boots, or leathern spatterdashes. BOUCHT, BOUGHT, BUCHT, _s._ a small pen used for milking ewes. _To_ BOUCHT, BUCHT, _v. a._ to enclose. BOUK, BUIK, _s._ the trunk of the body; bulk. BOUKIT, _adj._ bulky, large. _No muckle boukit_, not of much size or dimensions. BOUN, _adj._ prepared; ready. BOUR, _s._ the private chamber of a lady in ancient times. BOURTREE, BOUNTREE, _s._ common elder-tree. BOW, _s._ a boll; eight pecks. BOW, _s._ the arch of a bridge; a gateway; a crooked path. BOWIE, _s._ a small cask or barrel; a milk pail. BOWSIE, _adj._ crooked; applied to a crooked person, who is called a _bowsie_. BRACE, _s._ the chimney-piece. BRACKEN, BRAIKEN, BROCKEN, _s._ the fern. _To_ BRACK, _v. a._ to break. BRACKIT, BRACKET, BRUCKIT, _adj._ speckled. BRAE, _s._ tho side of a hill; an acclivity. _To_ BRAG, _v. a._ 1. to defy; 2. to reproach. BRAID, BRADE, _adj._ wide; broad. BRANDNEW. See BRENTNEW. BRANDER, _s._ a gridiron. _To_ BRANDER, _v. n._ to broil. BRANG, _part. pa._ brought. BRANKS, _s._ a swelling in the glands of the neck. BRAT, _s._ a coarse apron. BRATCHET, BRATCHART, _s._ an opprobrious term, equivalent to _whelp_. BRAW, BRA, _adj._ fine; gaily-dressed. BRAWLY, BRAVELY, _adv._ very well. BRAWS, _s._ fine clothes; a person's best suit. BRAXY, BRACKS, _s._ a disease in sheep. BREADBERRY, _s._ pap, used as food for children. BREAK (_of a hill_,) _s._ a hollow cleft in a hill. BRECHAME, BRECHEM, _s._ the collar of a horse. BREE, BRIE, BREW, BROO, _s._ broth; soup. BRE, BREE, _s._ the eyebrow. BREEKS, BREIKS, _s._ breeches. BREER, BREARD, _s._ the first blades of grain which appear above ground. _To_ BREER, _v. n._ to germinate. BREID, _s._ breadth. BRENT, _adj._ high; straight; upright. BRENTNEW, quite new. BRIG, BREG, BRYG, _s._ a bridge. _To_ BRIZE, BIRSE, _v. a._ to bruise; to drive or push. BROCHAN, _s._ oatmeal boiled to a consistence thicker than gruel. BROCK, _s._ a badger. BROCKED, BROCKET, _adj._ streaked and spotted, as a _brockit cow_. BROCKLIE, _adj._ brittle. BROD, _s._ a flat piece of wood; a board. _To_ BROG, _v. a._ to pierce. BROGUE, _s._ a coarse kind of shoe made of horse leather with the hair on, used by Highlanders. BROK, _s._ refuse; fragments. BROO, _s._ broth. BROONIE, _s._ a spirit supposed to haunt farm-houses, and which, if treated well, performed the duties of the servants while they were sleeping. BROSE, _s._ a kind of food made by pouring hot water on oatmeal, and mixing them together. _Kail-brose_ is made by substituting broth for water. BROWST, _s._ the quantity of malt liquor brewed at one time. BRUGH, BURGH, _s._ a borough; a circular encampment; the hazy circle round the moon. BRUSE, BROOSE, BRUISE, _v. a._ _To ride the bruise_, to run a race on horseback at country weddings. Metaphorically-- to contend; to strive. _To_ BRUSH, _v. a._ to rush forth with speed. BU, BOO, _s._ a sound often made use of to excite terror in children. _Bu-man,_ the devil, or a goblin; an imaginary evil being; a phrase used to keep children in subjection. BUBBLY, _adj._ snotty. BUBBLYJOCK, _s._ a turkey-cock. BUCHT, _s._ a fold; a bending; the fold of a ribbon. BUCKIE, BUCKY, _s._ any spiral shell. BUCKIE-INGRAM, _s._ the soldier-crab, _Cancer bernardus_, which always inhabits the shells of other animals. _To_ BUCKLE, _v. a._ to join together, as in marriage. BUCKLE-THE-BEGGARS, _s._ a person who marries others in a clandestine manner. BUCKTOOTH, _s._ a tooth jutting out from the others. BUFF, _s._ a stroke; nonsense. BUFFER, _s._ a foolish fellow. BUFFET, _s._ a blow. BUFFETS, _s. pl._ swellings in the glands. BUFFIE, _adj._ swelled; blown up; puffed up. BUIK, _s._ the body; the chest. BUIK, BUK, BUKE, _s._ a book. BUIRDLY, BURDLY, _adj._ large and well-made; stately. _To_ BULLER, _v. n._ to make a noise like water rushing to and fro in the cavity of a rock. _To_ BULLIRAG, _v. a._ to abuse; to tease; to rally in contempt; to reproach. BULYIEMENTS, _s._ habiliments. _To_ BUM, _v. n._ to make a sound like that of bees; the sound emitted by a bagpipe. BUMBAZED, _adj._ stupified. BUMBEE, _s._ the humble bee; a wild bee; a drone. BUM-CLOCK, _s._ the common flying beetle. BUN, BUNN, _s._ a cake commonly used at New-Year time, composed of flour, dried fruits, and spices. _To_ BUNG, _v. n._ to make tipsy. BUNKER, BUNKART, _s._ a low and long chest, frequently placed in front of a bed in cottages, and used as a press, and also as a seat. BUNTLING, _s._ a bantling; a bird. BURD, _s._ a damsel; a lady. BURDALANE, _s._ used when a person is left solitary, as a child the inmate of a strange family. BURDE, BOORD, _s._ a table; a board. BURIAN, _s._ a tumulus; a mound of earth. BURLAW, BYRLAW, BIRLEY, _s._ a court consisting of country neighbours who settle local disputes, etc. BURLY, _s._ a crowd; a brawl. BURN, _s._ a small stream; a rivulet. _Burnie, burny_, is used as the diminutive of burn. BURR, BURRH, _s._ persons are said to have the burr who pronounce the letter _r_ with a whirring sound, as the Northumbrians. BURSIN, BURSTEN, _part. pa._ burst; overpowered with fatigue. _To_ BUSK, _v. a._ to dress; to attire. BUT, _prep_, without; towards the outer apartment of a house, or kitchen. BUTER, BUTTER, _s._ the bittern. BYGANES, _s._ what is past; used in quarrels, as, _Let byganes be byganes_; let what is past be past. BYRE, _s._ a cow-house. BY-RUNIS, _s. pl._ arrears; past debts. BYSPRINT, _part. pa._ besprinkled. BYSSYM, BISSOM, _s._ an unworthy female. --C-- _To_ CA, _v. a._ to call; to strike; to drive. _To_ CAB, _v. a._ to pilfer. CABBACK. See KEBBUCK. CADDIS, _s._ lint for dressing a wound. CADIE, _s._ an errand-runner; a carrier of parcels. CAFF, _s._ chaff. CAIGIE, _s._ wanton. CAIGIELY, _adv._ cheerfully; wantonly. CAIK, _s._ a flat cake made of oatmeal. _To_ CAIKLE, _v. a._ to make a noise like a hen. CAIRD, _s._ a gipsy; a travelling tinker. CAIP, CAPE, _s._ the highest part of anything. CAIRN, _s._ a conical heap of stones. CAIR-WEEDS, _s._ mourning weeds. CALD, CAULD, _s._ cold. CALLAN, CALLANT, _s._ a stripling. CALLER, _adj._ cool; refreshing. CALLOT, _s._ a cap for a woman's head. CALM-SOUGH, to say little. CALSAY, CAWSAY, _s._ a causeway street; that part of a street which is bounded by the flags. CAM, _pret_. came. CAM-NOSED, _adj._ hook-nosed. CAMPY, _adj._ bold; brave. CAMSHAUCHEL'D, _part. adj_. distorted. CAMSTERIE, CAMSTAIRIE, _adj._ unmanageable; perverse. CANE, KAIN, _s._ a duty paid by a tenant of land to the owners in kind. CANKERT, _adj._ ill-tempered; cross. CANN, CAN, _s._ skill; knowledge; acquirements. CANNA, CANNAE, cannot. CANNIE, KANNIE, _adj._ cautious; prudent. CANNILY, _adv._ prudently; cautiously. CANTY, _adj._ cheerful; lively. CANTEL, _s._ the crown of the head. CANTRAP, _s._ an incantation; a spell; mischief artfully performed. CAP, _v. n._ to crown; to surmount. CAP, KAP, _s._ a wooden bowl. CAPERCAILYE, CAPERCALYEANE, _s._ the wood-grouse or cock of the wood, _Tetrao urogallus_ (Linn.) CAPERNOITED, _adj._ peevish; irritable; crabbed; snappish. CARDINAL, _s._ a long cloak worn by women, generally those of a red colour, and commonly provided with a hood. CAR-HANDED, _adv._ left-handed. CARL, CAIRLE, CARLL, _s._ an old man. CARLIE, _s._ a diminutive man. CARLIN, _s._ an old woman. CARLINS-E'EN, _s._ the last night of the year. CARLISH, _s._ boorish; clownish. CARRITCH, CARITCH, _s._ the catechism. _To_ CARP, _v. a._ to contend. CARSE, KERSS, _s._ a low and fertile tract of land adjacent to a river. CASTOCK, CASTACK, _s._ the stalk or inner core of cabbage or greens. _To_ CAST-OUT, _v. n._ to quarrel. _To_ CAST-UP, _v. a._ to upbraid; to throw in one's teeth. CATCHY, _adj._ ready to take advantage of another. CATTLE-RAIK, _s._ a common on which cattle are fed; the feeding range of cattle. CATWITTIT, _adj._ harebrained; unsettled. CAUDRON, _s._ a chaldron. CAULD, _s._ cold. CAULDRIFE, _adj._ susceptible ofcold. CAULD-STEER, _s._ sour milk and oatmeal stirred together. CAUSE, _conj._ because. CAUSEY, CAUSAY, _s._ a street. CAUTION, _s._ surety. CAUTIONER, _s._ a surety. CAVIE, _s._ a hencoop. _To_ CA', _v. a._ to drive. _To_ CAWK, _v. a._ to chalk. CAWKER, _s._ a dram; a glass of any spirits. CERTIS. _Certis, ye're a fine ane!_ You are indeed a good one--(ironically.) CHACK, CHECK, _s._ a slight repast. CHAFTS, _s._ the chops. CHAFT-BLADE, _s._ jaw-bone. _To_ CHAK, _v. a._ to check. CHAKIL, _s._ the wrist. CHALMER, _s._ a chamber. _To_ CHAMP, _v. a._ to mash; to chop. CHANCY, _adj._ fortunate; happy. CHANNEL, _s._ gravel. CHAP, _s._ a fellow. _To_ CHAP, _v. n._ to strike with a hammer or any other instrument, or with a stone. CHAPIN, _s._ a quart. CHAPMAN, _s._ a pedlar. CHAUDMELLE', _s._ a sudden broil or quarrel. _To_ CHAW, _v. a._ to gnaw; to fret. CHEEK-BLADE, _s._ cheek-bone. CHEIP, CHEPE, _v. n._ to chirp, as young birds do. CHEK, _s._ the cheek; the side of a door. CHESS, _s._ the frame of wood for a window. CHESWELL, _s._ a cheese-vat. CHEVERON, _s._ armour for the head of a horse. CHIEL, CHIELD, _s._ a fellow; a stripling. CHILD, CHYLD, _s._ a page; a servant. CHILDER, _s. pl._ children. CHIMLEY, _s._ a grate; a chimney. CHIMLEY-BRACE, _s._ the mantelpiece. CHIMLEY-LUG, _s._ the fireside. _To_ CHIRK, CHORK, _v. n._ to grind the teeth in a noisy manner. _To_ CHIRME, _v. a._ the soft warbling of a bird. _To_ CHITTER, _v. n._ to shiver. CHOUKS, _s._ the glandular parts under the jaw-bones. CHOWS, _s._ small bits of coal. CHUCKIE, _s._ a hen. CHUCKIE-STANE, _s._ a small pebble. CLACK, _s._ the clapper of a mill. CLAES, CLAISE, _s. pl._ clothes. CLAG, CLAGG, _s._ an incumbrance. CLAGGY, _adj._ adhesive; unctuous. CLAIK, _v. n._ to make a clacking noise like a hen. CLAIRGY, _s._ clergy. CLAITH, CLAYTH, _s._ cloth. _To_ CLAIVER, CLAVER, _v. a._ to talk idly. CLAM-SHELL, _s._ a scallop shell. CLAMJAMPHRY, _s. pl._ low acquaintances; not respectable. CLAMP, _s._ a heavy footstep. CLAP, _s._ a stroke. CLAP O' THE HASS, the uvula of the throat. CLARTS, _s. pl._ dirt; smell. CLARTY, _adj._ dirty or foul. _To_ CLASH, _v. n._ to talk idly. _To_ CLAT, _v. a._ to rake anything together. CLAT, _s._ a rake or hoe. CLATCH, _s._ thick mud. _To_ CLATTER, _v. a._ to tell tales; to tittle-tattle. CLAUGHT, _pret._ laid hold of suddenly or eagerly. _To_ CLAVER, _v. a._ to talk in an idle or nonsensical manner. CLAVER, _s._ clover. _To_ CLAW, _v. a._ to scratch. CLECKIN, _s. pl._ a brood of birds. CLECKIN-BROD, _s._ a battledoor. _To_ CLEED, _v. a._ to clothe. CLEG, GLEG, _s._ a gad-fly; a horsefly. _To_ CLEIK, CLEEK, _v. a._ to catch with a hooked instrument. CLEIK, CLEEK, _s._ an iron hook. CLEIKY, _adj._ ready to take advantage. CLEUCH, CLEUGH, _s._ a precipice; a steep rocky ascent; a strait hollow between two steep banks. _To_ CLEW, _v. a._ to stop a hole by compressing. CLICK-CLACK, _s._ uninterrupted talking. CLINK, _s._ a smart blow; money. CLIPPIE, _s._ very talkative; generally applied to a female. CLISH-CLASH, _s._ idle discourse. CLISHMACLAVER, _s._ idle nonsensical talk. CLITTER-CLATTER, _s._ idle talk carried from one to another. _To_ CLOCHER _v. n._ to cough. _To_ CLOCK, CLOK, _v. n._ to chuck; to call chickens together. CLOIT, _s._ a clown; a stupid fellow. _To_ CLOIT, _v. n._ to fall heavily, or suddenly. CLOITERY, _s._ tripe; dirty work. CLOOT, CLUTE, _s._ a hoof. CLOSE, _s._ a passage; an entry. _To_ CLOUR, _v. a._ to dimple. CLOUSE, _s._ a sluice. _To_ CLOUT, _v. a._ to patch; to mend. CLOUT, _s._ cuff; a blow. CLUF, CLUIF, _s._ a hoof. CLUMP, _s._ a heavy inactive fellow. CLUTE, _s._ a hoof. COBLE, _s._ a small boat, such as is used by fishermen. COCKERNONNY, _s._ the hair of a female gathered in a knot. COCKLAIRD, _s._ a landowner who cultivates all his own estate. COD, _s._ a pillow. COFF, COFFE, _v. a._ to buy; to purchase. COFT, _pret._ and _part._ of purchased or bought. COG, COAG, COGUE, _s._ a wooden basin. _To_ COGLE, _v. a._ to move anything from side to side, as a boat in the water. COLLIE, COLLEY, _s._ a shepherd's dog; a lounger. COLLIESHANGIE, _s._ a squabble, an uproar. COMMONTIE, _s._ a common; a community. _To_ COMPEAR, _v. a._ to appear. COMPLIMENT, _s._ a present. CONYNG, _s._ knowledge. COODIE, CUDIE, _s._ a small tub. COOF, CUFE, _s._ a dastardly silly fellow. COORIN, _v. n._ crest-fallen; timid. CORBIE, CORBY, _s._ a raven. CORP, _s._ a corpse; a dead body. CORRIE, _s._ a hollow in a hill. CORS, CORSE, _s._ the market-place or cross. COSH, _s._ neat; quiet. COSIE, COZIE, _adj._ warm; snug, well-sheltered. COTTAR, COTTER, _s._ a person who inhabits a cottage. _To_ COUP, COWP, _v. a._ to exchange; to deal; to fall; to upset. COUPER, _s._ a dealer. COUPLE, _s._ a rafter. COUR, _v. n._ to stoop; to crouch. COUT, _s._ a young horse. COUTH, COUTHY, _adj._ affable; facetious; affectionate; pleasant. COVE, _s._ a cave. COW, KOW, _s._ a besom made of broom. COWE, _v. n._ to beat; to overcome. _To_ COW _v. a._ to poll the head; to cut; to prune; to damp or frighten. COWIT, _part. pr._. docked closely; cut; having short hair. COWSHOT, CUSHIT, _s._ the ringdove. _To_ CRACK, _v. a._ to talk. CRAFT, _s._ a piece of ground adjoining a house. CRAG, CRAGE, CRAIG, _s._ the neck; the throat. CRAIG, _s._ a rock; a precipice. _To_ CRAIK, _v.n_. the cry of a hen after laying. CRANCH, _v. n._ the sound made by an animal in eating bones or other hard substances. CRAP, _s._ a crop, the produce of the soil; the craw of a fowl; the highest part of anything. _To_ CRAW, _s._ to crow; to boast. CRAW, _s._ a crow. CREEK _of day_, dawn; the first appearance of morning. CREEPY, _s._ a low stool. _To_ CREEP-IN, _v. n._ to shrink. CREIL, CREEL, _s._ an osier basket. CREISH, _s._ grease. _To_ CREISH-A-LUFE, _v. a._ to give money as a bribe or recompense. CRINCH, _s._ a very small bit of anything. _To_ CRINCH, _v. a._ to grind with the teeth. _To_ CRINE, CROYNE, CRYNE, _v. n._ to shrivel; to shrink. CROK, _s._ a dwarf. CRONEY, _s._ a companion. CROUS, CROUSE, _adj._ brisk; brave; speeding courage. CROWDIE, _s._ meal and water in a cold state, or sometimes meal and milk, or cream. CRUDS, _s._ curds. CRUELS, _s._ the king's evil; scroula. CRUMMIE, CRUMMOCK, _s._ a cow. CRUNE, CROON, _s._ a moaning sound. CRUSIE, _s._ a lamp, properly one made of malleable iron, and suspended by a handle or wire. _To_ CRY, _v. a._ to proclaim the banns of marriage in church. CRYING, _s._ childbirth. CUD, _s._ a club; a strong staff. _To_ CUDDLE, _v. a._ to embrace. CUDDIE, _s._ an ass. CUFE, _s._ a simpleton. CUFF-O'-THE-NECK, the back part of the neck. CUMMAR, KIMMER, _s._ a young woman. CUNING, CUNNIE, _s._ a rabbit. _To_ CURFUFFLE, _v. a._ to discompose. _To_ CURL, a game, to throw or force a flat-bottomed stone along the surface of ice. CURLING, _s._ a game in which stones are pushed along ice. CURPLE, _s._ a crupper. CURRAN, CURN, KURN, _s._ a few; indefinite number. CURUNDDOCH, CURCUDDY, _s._ a dance among children, in which they sit down on their houghs, and hop round, in different directions. CUSCHETTE, _s._ a ringdove. CUTE, COOT, _s._ the ankle. CUTIKINS, _s. pl._ spatterdashes. CUTTY, _s._ a wanton immoral young woman. CUTTY, CUTTIE, _adj._ short. CUTTY-STOOL, _s._ a low stool; the stool of repentance. --D-- _To_ DAB, DAUB, _v. a._ to peck, as birds do with their bills. DAD, DADDIE, _s._ father. _To_ DAD, DAUD, _s._ to beat. _To_ DADDLE, DAIDLE, _v. a._ to do anything slowly. DADDLIE, _s._ a larger sort of bib. _To_ DAFF, _v. n._ to sport; to romp. DAFFIN', _s._ gaiety; sporting; diversion. DAFT, _adj._ delirious; stupid. DAFT-LIKE, _adj._ foolish-looking; silly-like. DAFT-DAYS, the Christmas holidays. DAG, _s._ a gentle shower. _To_ DAG, _v. a._ to rain gently. DAIGH, _s._ dough. DAINTITH, _s._ a dainty. DAINTY, _adj._ pleasant; good-humoured; worthy; excellent. DAIVERED, _adj._ dull; stupid; wanting apprehension. DALL, _s._ a doll. DAMBROD, _s._ a draft-board. _To_ DANCE, _his or her lane_, a phrase used to signify sudden and great rage, or joy at any news. _To_ DANDER, _v. n._ to wander slowly; to roam. DANDERS, _s. pl._ the hard refuse of a smithy fire. DANG, the _pret._ of ding. DARKLINS, _adv._ in the dark; hidden; sly. _To_ DASE, DAISE, _v. a._ to stupify; to benumb. DAW, DA, _s._ a sluggard; appropriated to a female, a drab. _To_ DAW, _v. n._ to dawn. DAWDIE, _s._ a dirty slovenly female. _To_ DAWT, DAUT, to fondle; to caress; pet; to dote upon. DAWTIE, _s._ a favourite; a darling. DAWTIT, _part. pa._ doted; fondled; caressed. DAYWERK, DAWERK, _s._ a day's work. _To_ DEE, _v. n._ to die. DEAN, DEN, _s._ hollow with sloping banks on both sides; a small valley. _To_ DEAVE, DEEVE, _v. n._ to deafen. DEDE-THRAW, _s._ in the agonies of death. DEED-DAIL, _s._ the board on which the dead are laid before being coffined. 'DEED, _adj._ indeed. DEEIN', _v. n._ dying. DEEVIL, _s._ the devil. DEIL, DEEL, _s._ the devil. DEIL'S-BUCKIE, _s._ a wicked imp. DEIS, _s._ the upper part of a hall, where the floor was raised, and a canopy erected over it, as for festivals, etc. DELIERET, _adj._ delirious. _To_ DEMENT, _v. n._ to deprive of reason. DEMENTED, _adj._ insane; unsettled in mind; crazy. DEN, _s._ a hollow in a hill or mountain. _To_ DEPONE, _v. n._ to testify on oath. _To_ DEVALL, DEVALD, _s._ to cease; to intermit. _To_ DEVE, _v. n._ to stupify with a noise. DEUCHANDORACH, DEUCHANDORIS, _s._ a drink taken at the door before departing. DICHT, DYCHT, _v._ to wipe. DIDNA, did not. DIKE, DYKE, _s._ a wall either of mud or stones. DING, _v. a._ to beat; to drive. DINNA, do not. _To_ DINLE, _v. n._ to tremble. DIRD, _s._ a stroke. DIRDUM, _s._ an uproar. DIRK, a dagger. _To_ DIRLE, _v. a._ to tingle. DIRL, _s._ a vibration. DIRT, _s._ excrement. DIRTIN, _adj._ mean; shabby; contemptible. DISNA, DOESNA, does not. DISJASKET, _part. pa._ having a dejected or downcast look. _To_ DISPARAGE, _v. n._ to despise on account of want of rank. _To_ DISPLENISH, _v. a._ to disfurnish. DIV, _v. a._ do. _I div_, I do. DIVET, DIFFAT, DIVOT, _s._ a thin oblong turf used for covering cottages and mud walls. DIZEN, _s._ dozen. DOCHTER, DOUGHTYR, _s._ daughter. DOCKEN, DOKEN, _s._ the dock; an herb. DODDY, DADDIT, _adj._ destitute of horns; bald. DOGGIT, _adj._ stubborn. DOIN, _v. n._ doing. DOITIT, DOITED, _adj._ stupid lack of mental activity. DOIT, _s._ a small copper coin, long in disuse. DOIT, _s._ a fool; a numskull. DOMINIE, _s._ a schoolmaster; a pedagogue; a contemptuous name for a clergyman. DONNARD, DONNART, _adj._ stupid. DOOCK, DUCK, _s._ a strong coarse cloth used for sails, etc. _To_ DOODLE, _v. a._ to dandle; to fondle. DOOF, _s._ a stupid silly fellow. DOOKIT, _s._ a dovecot or pigeon-house. _To_ DOOK, DOUK, _v. n._ to bathe; to duck. DOOL, _s._ grief; sorrow. DOON, DOUN, _s._ down. DOOT, _s._ doubt. DORT, _s._ pet. _To_ DORT, _v. n._ to pet. DORTY, _adj._ pettish. DOTTAR, _s._ become stupid from age. DOUCE, DOUSE, _s._ sedate; quiet. DOUF, _s._ a stupid fellow. DOUF, DOLF, _s._ destitute of courage. DOUKED, _v. n._ bathed; wetted. DOUNGEOUN, _s._ the strongest or chief tower belonging to a fortress. DOUP, _s._ the buttocks; the bottom of anything. DOUR, _adj._ stubborn; inflexible; obstinate. _To_ DOUSE, _v. a._ to beat; to maltreat. DOUSE, _adj._ solid; sedate. DOUSS, _s._ a blow; a stroke. _To_ DOVER, _v. n._ to slumber. DOW, DOO, _s._ a dove; a pigeon. _To_ DOW, _v. n._ to fade; to wither; to lose freshness. DOWCATE, DUKET, _s._ a dovecot. DOWNCOME, _adj._ the act of descending. DOWY, DOWIE, _adj._ dull; downcast; sorrowful. DOZEND, DOSEND, _s._ stupified; benumbed. _To_ DRABLE, DRAIBLE, _v. a._ to slabber; to befoul. DRAFF, _s._ the refuse of grain after being distilled or brewed. DRAGON, _s._ a paper kite. _To_ DRAIGLE, _v. a._ to bespatter. DRAMOCK, _s._ a mixture of meal and water in a raw state. DRAP, _s._ a drop. DRAVE, _s._ a drove of cattle. _To_ DREEL, _v. n._ to move quickly. DREGY, DERGY, _s._ the compotations after a funeral. DREICH, DREECH, _adj._ slow; tedious. DRIBBLE, _s._ a very small drop. _To_ DROUK, _v. a._ to drench. DROIC, _s._ a dwarf. DROUTH, _s._ drought; thirst. DRUMLY, DRUMLIE, _adj._ troubled. DRUNT, _s._ to be in a sour, pettish humour. DUB, _s._ a small pool of water, generally applied to those produced by rain. DUD, _s._ a rag; a dish-clout. DUDDY, _adj._ ragged. DUKE, _s._ a duck. DULE, _s._ grief. _To_ DULE, _v. n._ to grieve. DUMBIE, DUMMIE, _s._ a dumb person. _To_ DUMFOUNDER, _v. a._ to stupify; to confuse; to confound. DUMPY, _adj._ short and thick. DUN, _s._ a hill; an eminence. _To_ DUNCH, _v. a._ to jog; to push with the elbow or fist. DUNDERHEAD, _s._ a blockhead. _To_ DUNT, _v. a._ to strike, so as to produce a dull hollow sound. DURK, DIRK, _s._ a dagger. DUST, _s._ a tumult. DWALM, DWAUM, _s._ a swoon; a sudden fit of sickness. DWINING, _s._ a declining consumption. _To_ DWYNE, _s._ to pine. --E-- EARN, _s._ an eagle. _To_ EARN, YEARN, _v._ to coagulate. EASING, _s. pl._ the eaves of a house. EASTLIN, _adj._ easterly. EBB, _adj._ shallow. EE, _s._ an eye. EEN, _s. pl._ the eyes. EE-SWEET, _adj._ agreeable or pleasing to the sight. EERIE, _adj._ dull; lonely. EFTERHEND, _adv._ afterwards. EIDENT, _adj._ diligent; industrious. EIK, EKE, _adj._ an addition. _To_ EIK, _v. n._ to add to anything. EIZEL, _s._ a hot ember. ELBECK, ELBUCK, _s._ elbow. ELD, _adj._ old. ELEVEN-HOURS, _s._ a luncheon. ELDERS, _s. pl._ the members of the kirk-session among Presbyterians. ELS, _adv._ already. ELSYN, ELSHYN, _s._ an awl. ELVES, _s. pl._ fairies. ELWAND, ELNWAND, _s._ a rod for measuring, an ell in length. EMBRO', _s._ Edinburgh. EMERANT, _s._ emerald. ENEUCH, ENEUGH, _s._ enough. ERD, ERDE, YERD, YERTH, _s._ earth; soil or ground. _To_ ERD, YERD, _v. a._ to inter. ERDDIN, YIRDIN, _s._ an earthquake. ERLIS, EARLES, _s._ earnest. ERSE, _s._ Gaelic or Celtic, the language of the Highlanders of Scotland. ERY, EIRY, EERIE, _adj._ affected with fear. ESK, _s._ a newt or lizard. _To_ ETTIL, _v. n._ to aim at. _To_ EVEN, _v. a._ to level. EVENDOUN, _adj._ perpendicular. EVIRLY, _adv._ continually; constantly. EVINLY, _adj._ equally. _To_ EXCAMB, _v. a._ to exchange. _To_ EXPONE, _v. n._ to explain. --F-- FA, FAE, _s._ foe. FA', _s._ fall. FAIL, FALE, FEAL, _s._ a grassy turf; a sod. FAIL-DYKE, _s._ a wall built of sods. _To_ FAIRLY, FERLEY, _v. n._ to wonder. FAIRNTICKL'D, _adj._ freckled. FALD, FAULD, _s._ a sheepfold. FAME, FAIM, _s._ foam. FAND, _pret._ found; felt. FARD, _adj._ _Weel-fard_, well-favoured; well-looking. FARLE, _s._ the fourth part of a thin cake of oat or other meal. FARRAND, FARRANT, _adj._ seeming; _Auld-farrand_, sagacious; _Fair-farrand_, _Weel-farrand_, having a goodly appearance. _To_ FASCH, FASH, _v. a._ to trouble. FASCHEOUS, _adj._ troublesome; difficult. FAUCHT, _pret._ fought. _To_ FAW, FA', _v. a._ to obtain. FAY, _s._ faith. FE, FEE, _s._ wages. FEALE, _adj._ loyal; faithful; true. _To_ FECHT, _v. a._ 1. to fight; 2. to toil. FECK, FEK, _s._ 1. quantity; number; 2. the greater part. FECKLESS, _adj._ weak. _To_ FEE, _v. a._ to hire. FEENT, not any; not one. FEENICHIN, _adj._ triflingly foppish. FEEZE, _v. a._ to twist. FEIGH, FEECH, _interj._ fy! _To_ FEIKLE, FICKLE, _v. a._ to puzzle. _To_ FELL, _adj._ to kill; to murder. _To_ FEND, FEN, _v. a._ to shift. FERLIE, FAIRLIE, _s._ a wonder. FETTEL, FETTLE, _s._ power; energy. FEU, FEW, _s._ a possession held on payment of a certain yearly rent, the same as a chief-rent in England. FEYKIE, _adj._ troublesome. To FICKE, FYKE, v. n._ to be in a restless state. FIDDLING, _adj._ trifling, although apparently busy. FIDGING, _v. n._ itching. To FILE, FYLE, _v. a._ to dirty or sully. FILIBEG, _s._ a kilt or short petticoat, reaching a little way above the knee-cap (_patella_), and worn by the men in the Highlands instead of breeches. FILL, _s._ full. FILLAT, FILLET, _s._ the flank of an animal. FILLER, _s._ a funnel. To FIND, FIN, _v. a._ to feel. FIREFLAUCHT, _s._ lightning. FIRLOT, _s._ the fourth part of a boll. FIRTH, _s._ an estuary. To FISSLE, _v. n._ to rustle. FIXFAX, _s._ the tendon of the neck of cattle or sheep. To FIZZ, _v. n._ to make a hissing noise. To FLAF, _v. n._ to flap. FLAT, _s._ a floor of a house. FLEE, _s._ a fly. FLEEIN, _v. a._ flying. To FLEG, _v. n._ to affright, to frighten. To FLEISH, FLEITCH, _v. a._ to wheedle. FRENDRIS, FLINDERS, _s. pl._ splinters. FLIPE, FLYPE, _v. a._ to turn a stocking or glove inside out. To FLISK, _v. a._ to skip; to caper. FLIT, _s._ to transport. To FLIT, _v. n._ to remove from one house to another. FLOURISH, _s._ blossom. FLUNKIE, _s._ a servant in livery. FLUSTER, _s._ bustle; confusion. To FLUTHER, _v. n._ to be in a bustle. FLYTE, _v. n._ to scold. FOG, _s._ moss. FOISON, FUSHIOUN, _s._ strength, ability. FOISIONLESS, _adj._ weak in intellect; weak in body. FOK, _s. pl._ folk. FOOL, _s. a._ a fowl. FOR, _conj._ because. FORAT, _adv._ forward. FORBEARIS, _s. pl._ ancestors. FORBY, _adj._ besides. FORE, _prep_, priority; to the fore; still remaining. FOREFOUCHT, FORFOUCHTEN, _adj._ exhausted with fighting. FORGANE, FOREGAINST, _prep._ opposite. To FORGATHER, _v. n._ to meet accidentally. FORGIE, _v. a._ to forgive. FORJESKET, _p. pa._ jaded; fatigued. FORNENT, _prep._ opposite. FORPET, _s._ the fourth part of a peck. FORRAY, _s._ a predatory excursion. To FORSTA, _v. a._ to understand. FOUL, _adj._ wet, rainy. FOUMARTE, _s._ a polecat. FOURHOURS, _s._ tea; four o'clock being the old hour at which that meal was taken in early times. FOUTRE, _s._ a term expressive of the greatest contempt. FOW, FU, FOO, _s._ full; drunk. FOY, _s._ an entertainment given by or to a person before leaving home, or where he has been some time on a visit. FOZY, _adj._ spongy; porous. FRACTIOUS, _adj._ fretful; peevish. FRAE, _prep._ from. FREND, FREEN, FREEND, _s._ a relation. FRESH, _s._ a slight flood after rain. FREY, _s._ a tumult; a fray. FUD, _s._ the tail of a hare or rabbit. FUGIE, _s._ a coward. To FUNK, _v. a._ to strike or kick behind, like a horse. _In a funk,_ in a bad humour. FUR, FURE, _s._ a furrow. --G-- _To_ GA, GAE, _v. n._ to go. GAB, _s._ the mouth. GABBY, _adj._ fluency or speech. _To_ GAB, _v. n._ to prate; to mock. GABERLUNGIE, GABERLUNZIE, _s._ a wallet that hangs by the loins, such as is often used by beggars. GAED, GAID, _pret_. went. _To_ GAFFAW, _v. n._ laugh loud. GAISLINE, _s._ a gosling, a young-goose. GAIST, _s._ a ghost. GAIT, GATE, _s._ a way; a street. GAIT, _s._ a goat. GANE, _part. pa._ gone. _To_ GANG, _pret_. to go; to walk, in opposition to riding. GANGIN, _v. a._ going. _To_ GANT, GAUNT, _v. n._ to yawn. GAPUS, _s._ a fool; a silly fellow. _To_ GAR, _v. a._ to make; to cause; to force. GARRIN, _v. a._ making. GARRON, GERRON, _s._ a small horse. GART, GERT, _pret. of_ made. GART, _pret. of_ Gar. GARTEN, _s._ a garter. _To_ GASH, _v. n._ to talk much and confidently; pert, insolent talking. GASH-GABBIT, _s._ with a projecting under-jaw. GATE, _s._ road. GAUCY, GAWSY, _s._ plump; jolly. GAUCKIT, _adj._ stupid. GAVEL, GAWL, _s._ the gable of a house. _To_ GAW, _v. n._ to gall. GAWD, _s._ a goad. GAWKIE, GAWKY, _s._ a foolish gaping person. GAWKIT, _adj._ foolish; giddy. GAWN, _pret. of_ going. GEAN, GEEN, _s._ a wild cherry. GEAR, GERE, GEIR, _s._ goods. GEAT, GETT, _s._ a child. GEBBIE, _s._ the crop of a fowl. GEE, pettish. _To tak the gee_, to become unmanageable. GEY, GAY, _adj._ tolerable; pretty much. _A gey wheen_, a considerable number. GEILY, GEYLIES, _adj._ pretty well. GENTY, _adj._ neat; genteel-looking; neatly formed. GEORDIE, _s._ George. GERS, GYRS, _s._ grass. GEYEN, GEISIN, GIZZEN, _v. a._ to become leaky for want of moisture. GIBBLE-GABBLE, _s._ noisy confused talk among a party. GIBE, _v. n._ to tease; to taunt. GIE, _v. a._ to give. GIEN, _pret. of_ given. GIF, GYVE, _conj_. if. GIFF-GAFF, _s._ mutual giving. GILLIE, _s._ a page or attendant. GILLIEPAGUS, _s._ a fool; a silly fellow. GILPY, _s._ a roguish boy or frolicsome girl. GILSE, _s._ a young salmon. GIMMER, _s._ a ewe two years old. GIMP, GYMP, JIMP, _adj._ slim; delicate; scanty. GIMPLY, JIMPLY, _adv._ scarcely. GIN, _conj_. if. GIR, GIRD, GYRD, _s._ a hoop. GIRDLE, _s._ a circular plate of malleable iron with a handle, for toasting oaten bread, etc., over a fire. _To_ GIRN, _s._ to grin. GIRN, _s._ a snare for catching birds. GIRNALL, GIRNELL, _s._ a large chest for holding meal. GITE, _s._ crazy. GLAIKIT, _adj._ light; giddy. GLAMER, GLAMOUR, _s._ gipsies were formerly supposed capable of casting a charm over the eyes of persons, and thus making them see objects differently from what they really were. _Cast the glamer o'er her_, caused deception of sight. GLAR, GLAUR, _s._ mud; mire. _To_ GLAUM, _v. a._ to grasp anything greedily. GLAYMORE, _s._ a two-handed sword. GLED, _s._ the kite, a bird of the hawk kind. GLEEK, _v. a._ to gibe. GLEG, _adj._ quick of perception. _To_ GLEG, GLYE, GLEE, _v. n._ to squint. GLEN, _s._ a hollow betwixt two hills. _To_ GLENT, GLINT, _part. pa._ to glance. GLEYD, _adj._ squint-eyed. GLIB-GABBIT, _adj._ glib-tongued. GLIFF, _s._ a sudden fright or alarm. GLIMMER, _v. n._ to wink; to blink; to twinkle. GLISK, _s._ a transient view. GLOAMIN, _s._ twilight. GLOCK, _s._ a gulp. _To_ GLOUM, GLOOM, _v. n._ to frown. _To_ GLOUR, GLOWR, _v. n._ to stare. GLOUR, _s._ a broad stare. GLU, _s._ a glove. _To_ GLUDDER, _v. n._ to work in a dirty manner. _To_ GLUNSH, _v. n._ to pout. GOLACH, _s._ a beetle of any kind. GOLDSPINK, GOUDSPINK, _s._ the goldfinch. GOLK, GOWK, _s._ the cuckoo; a stupid fellow. GOMRELL, _s._ a stupid fellow; a numskull. GOOL, GULE, _adj._ yellow. GORB, GORBET, GORBIE, _s._ a young bird. GORMAND, _s._ a glutton. GOUF, _s._ a stroke; a blow. GOUD, GOULD, _s._ gold. GOUPIN, GOWPIN, _s._ the hollow of the hand. GOWAN, _s._ the wild mountain daisy. _Ewe-gowan_, the common wild daisy. GOWANY, _adj._ abounding with daisies. GOWK, _s._ the cuckoo. GOWK'S-ERRAND, _s._ a fool's errand. GOWL, _s._ a hollow between two hills. _To_ GOWL, _v. n._ to howl; to yell. GOWP, _s._ a mouthful. _To_ GOWP, _v. a._ to gulp. GRAIP, _s._ a dung-fork. _To_ GREEN, GREIN, _v. n._ to long for anything. _To_ GREIT, GREET, _v. n._ to weep. GREETING, _s._ weeping. GRIEVE, _s._ an overseer. GRILSE, _s._ a salmon not full grown. GRIPPY, _adj._ disposed to defraud; to be quick at taking advantage. GRIST, _s._ fee paid to a mill for grinding any kind of grain. GROATS, _s._ oats with the husks taken off. GROSET, GROSART, _s._ a gooseberry. _To_ GROUE, GROWE, _v. n._ to shiver. GROUSAM, GRUESOME, _adj._ frightful, uncomely. GRUMPHIE, _s._ a vulgar name for a sow. People are said to be _Grumphie_ when in a bad humour. GRUTTEN, _part. pa._ of cried. GRYCE, _s._ a pig. GUD, GUDE, GUEED, _adj._ good. Frequently used for the name of God, as _Gude forgie me_, God forgive me. GUD-BRODER, GUD-BROTHER, _s._ brother-in-law. GUD-DOCHTER, _s._ daughter-in-law. GUD-SISTER, _s._ sister-in-law. GUD-SYR, GUDSHER, _s._ a grandfather. GUD-WIFE, _s._ 1. a wife; 2. a landlady. GUDGIE, _adj._ short and stout. GUFF, _s._ a vapour; a smell. GUIDMAN, GUDEMAN, _s._ a proprietor of land; a farmer; a husband. _To_ GULLER, _v. n._ to guggle. GULLY, _s._ a large knife. GUMPTION, _s._ understanding. GUSEHORN, GUISSERN, _s._ the gizzard. GUSTY, _adj._ savoury. GUTSY, _adj._ gluttonous. _To_ GUTTER, _v. n._ to do anything in a dirty manner. GUTTERS, _s. pl._ mire; mud; dirt. GUTTY, _adj._ gross; thick--applied both to persons and things. GYISARD, GYSART, _s._ children who go from door to door singing during the Christmas time. Masks are frequently used on such occasions. GYM, _adj._ neat and spruce. _To_ GYS, _v. a._ to disguise. GYTE, _adj._ foolish. _To gang gyte_, to act extravagantly or foolishly. --H-- HA', _s._ a hall. HAAFLANG, HAFLIN, _adj._ half-grown. HAAR, _s._ a fog; a chill easterly wind. _To_ HABBER, _v. n._ to stutter. HA-BIBLE, _s._ a large family Bible. HABBLE, _s._ a scrape; a perplexity. HACK, _s._ a chop in the hands or feet. _To_ HAE, _v._ to have. HAE, _v. n._ to offer anything. HAEIN, _s._ having. HAENA, have not. HALF-MERK-MARRIAGE, a clandestine marriage. From the price paid, viz. a merk. HAFFIT, _s._ the side of the head. _To_ HAG, _v. a._ to hew wood. HAGABAG, _s._ coarse table-linen. HAGBUT, _s._ a kind of firearms used soon after the discovery of gunpowder. HAGGIES, HAGGIS, _s._ a pudding made of a lamb's maw, lungs, heart, and liver, mixed with suet, onions, salt, pepper, and oatmeal, and boiled in the stomach of a sheep. HAILSOME, _adj._ wholesome; healthful. _To_ HAIN, HANE, _v. a._ to spare; to save. HAIR-MOULD, _s._ the mould which appears on bread. _Hair-ryme_, hoar-frost. HAIRST, _s._ harvest. HAIRUMSKARUM, _adj._ harebrained. _To_ HALD, _v. a._ to hold; to cease. HALE, HAILL, _adj._ whole; unbroken. HALF-MARROW, _s._ a husband or wife. HALLACH'D, HALLAKET, _adj._ crazy, boisterous; extremely frolicsome. HALLANSHAKER, _s._ a sturdy beggar; a person of shabby appearance. HALLAN, HALLON, HALLOND, HALLIN, _s._ a mud wall in cottages, extending from the front backwards, to shelter the interior of the house from the draft of the door when open. HALLOWE'EN, _s._ the evening before Allhallows. HALLOKIT, _adj._ giddy; harebrained. HALLOCK, _s._ a thoughtless, giddy girl. HALS, HAWSE, _s._ the neck. HALY, _adj._ holy. HAME, HAIM, _s._ home. HAMELY, _adj._ familiar; friendly. HANDSEL, _s._ the first money received for goods; a gift on the first Monday after New Year's Day. HANDSEL-MONDAY, _s._ the first Monday of the new year. HANK, _s._ a coil. HANTLE, _s._ a considerable number. _To_ HAP, _v. a._ to cover; to conceal. HAP-STEP-AN'-LOUP, _v. a._ to hop, step, and leap. HARIGALDS, _s._ the pluck of an animal. HARN, _s._ coarse linen cloth made from the tow-hards. HARNES, _s._ brains. HASH, _s._ a sloven. HASSOCK, HASSICK, _s._ a besom; a large round turf used as a seat. HATE, HAIT, HAID, _s._ a whit; an atom; the smallest bit of anything. _Fient a haid hae I i' the house,_ I have not a particle of anything in the house. HATHER, HEATHER, _s._ heath. HAUGH, HAWCH, HAUCH, _s._ low-lying flat ground. _To_ HAUP, _v. n._ to turn to the right, applied to horses in the yoke. _He will neither haup nor wind,_ he will neither turn to the right nor left; a stubborn man. _To_ HAVERS, _v. n._ to talk foolishly. HAVERS, _s._. foolish, incoherent talk, or idle talk. HAVERIL, _s._ one who habitually talks idly. _To_ HAWGH, _v. n._ to force up phlegm; to hawk. HAWKIT, _adj._ having a white face--applied to cattle. HAWKEY, _s._ a cow with a white face. HAWSE, _s._ the throat. HEARTSOME, _adj._ merry; light-hearted. HEARTY, _adj._ cheerful; liberal. HEATHER-BELLS, _s._ heath-bells. HECH, _s._ an exclamation. HECK, _s._ a rack for cattle. _To_ HECKLE, _v. a._ to dress flax; to examine with severity. HEGH-HEY, HEIGH-HOW, an interjection expressive of languor or fatigue. HEIL, HEYLE, _s._ health; in health. HEIS, HEESE, _v. a._ to lift up. HEMPY, _s._ a rogue. HENDER, _adj._ past; bygone. _Henderend,_ the back end. HEREAWAY, _adv._ in this quarter. HERISON, _s._ a hedgehog. HERRIE, _v. a._ to rob; to pillage. HERRIE-WATER, _s._ a net made with meshes of a small size, such as used by poachers. HESP, _s._ a clasp; a book. HET, _adj._ hot. HETFUL, _adj._ hot; fiery. HET-PINT, _s._ a hot beverage carried by persons to the house of their friends early in the morning of New Year's Day, composed of ale, whisky, and eggs. HEUCH, HEUGH, _s._ a crag; a rugged steep. HEUCK-BANE, _s._ the hackle-bone. HIDDIL, HIDLINS, _adv._ secretly. HILLIEGELEERIE, _adv._ topsy-turvy. HILT AND HAIR, _adj._ the whole of anything. HILTER-SKILTER, _adv._ in rapid succession. HIMSEL, _part. pa._ of himself. _To_ HIRD, _v. a._ to tend cattle or sheep. HIRD, _s._ a shepherd; one who tends cattle. _To_ HIRE, _v. a._ to let; to engage. _To_ HIRPLE, _v. a._ to walk in a lame or waddling manner. HIRSELL, HIRSLE, _v. n._ to move forward resting on the hams. HISSIE, HIZZIE, _s._ a housewife. HISSIESKIP, HUSSYFSKAP, _s._ the business of housewifery. HIT, _pron_. It. HITCH, _s._ a quick motion by a jerk. HOAM'D, HUMPH'D, _part. adj_. fusty tasted. HOBBLE, _s._ a scrape, or state of perplexity. HOBBLEDEHOY, _s._ a stripling. HOCUS, _s._ a stupid dull fellow. HODDEN-GREY, _adj._ cloth made of wool in its natural condition, and worn by the peasantry. HODDIE, HOODIE, _s._ a carrion crow; also applied to the black-headed or royster crow. HOESHINS, _s._ stockings without feet. HOG, _s._ a sheep before it has been shorn of its first fleece. HOGGERS, _s._ coarse stockings without feet, generally worn over the shoes. HOGMANAY, HOGMENAY, _s._ the last day of the year. HOGRY-MOGRY, HUGGERY-MUGGERY _adj._ slovenly. HOIF, HOUFF, _s._ a haunt; a place of concealment; burying-ground. _To_ HOIST, HOST, HOAST, _v. a._ to cough. _To_ HOLK, HOUK, HOWK, _v. a._ to dig. HOLL, HOWE, _s._ a hollow or deep place; concave. HOLM, HOWN, _s._ the low level ground on the bank of a river. HOOLIE, _adj._ slowly; moderately. HOP, HAP, _s._ a dance. HORSE-COUPER, _s._ a horse-dealer. HOSTELER, _s._ an innkeeper. HOSTILAR, HOSTILLARIE, _s._ an inn. _To_ HOTCH, _v. n._ to move the body by sudden jerks. HOTCH-POTCH, _s._ broth made of lamb cut into small pieces, accompanied with greens, carrots, turnips, green-peas. HOW, a hollow. HOWDY, _s._ a midwife. HOWSOMEVER, _adv._ howsoever. HOUP, _s._ hope. HOWTOWDY, _s._ a hen that has never laid eggs. HUBBILSCHOW, _s._ a tumult; a hubbub. HUDGE-MUDGE, _adv._ clandestinely. HULLION, _s._ a sloven. HUMMEL-BEE, _s._ a drone bee. _To_ HUNKER, _v. n._ to squat down upon one's hams. HURCHEON, _s._ a hedgehog. HURDIES, _s._ the buttocks. _To_ HURDLE, _v. n._ to crouch. _To_ HURKLE, _v. n._ to draw the body together. HURRY-SCURRY, _s._ an uproar. HY, _s._ haste. HYNDER, _s._ hindrance. --I-- IDLESEST, _s._ the state of being idle. IER-OE, _s._ a great-grandchild. ILK, ILKA, ILKE, _adj._ each; every. ILKA-DAY, _s._ a week-day. ILL-AFF, _adj._ badly off. ILL-DEEDY, _adj._ mischievous. ILL-FARD, _adj._ ill-looking. ILL-SAR'D, _adj._ ill-served; badly used. ILL-WILLIE, ILL-WILLIT, _adj._ ill-natured. IMMICK, _s._ an ant. _To_ IMPLEMENT, _v. a._ to fulfil. IN-BY, _adv._ the inner part of the house. INCH, _s._ an island; a level plain. INGAN, INGIN, _s._ onion. INGLE, INGIL, _s._ fire. INGLE-NOOK, _s._ the corner of the fireside. INLYING, _s._ childbearing. INTILL, _pret_. into; denoting entrance. IRNE, AIRN, _s._ iron. ISK! ISKIE! _interj_. a word used in calling a dog. ITHER, _pron_. other. IZIE, IZBEL, _s._ Isabella. --J-- _To_ JAG, _v. a._ to job. JANET, _s._ Jess. JANTY, _adj._ cheerful. JAP, JAWP, _s._ a spot of mud. JAPIT, _adj._ bespattered with mud. JAW, JAWE, _s._ a wave; coarse raillery. JEDDART, _s._ Jedburgh, a town of Roxburghshire. JEDDART-JUSTICE, _s._ a legal trial after punishment has been inflicted on the accused. _To_ JEE, _v. n._ to move to one side. _To_ JELOUSE, _v. n._ to suspect. JENNY, _s._ Jess. JIFFIE, _s._ a moment. JILLET, _s._ a giddy girl. JIMP, _s._ neat, slender. JINK, _v. n._ the act of one eluding another. JO, JOE, _s._ a sweetheart. JOCK, JOCKIE, _s._ John. JOCKTELEG, _s._ a clasp knife; a folding knife. _To_ JOGILL, _v. n._ to jog; to move from side to side. JOG-TROT, _s._. to trot at a slow rate on horseback; anything done in a slow manner. _To_ JOUK, _v. n._ to bend down the body with a quick motion so as either to elude the sight or a blow. JOUKRY-PAWKRY, _s._ trickery; juggling. JUGGS, JOUGS, JUGGES, _s. pl._ a kind of pillory, used on the Borders, whereby criminals were fastened to a post on the wall, with their necks enveloped in an iron collar. JUPE, _s._ a kind of short mantle for a female. --K-- KAIL, KALE, _s._ common colewort. KAIL-BROSE, _s._ raw meal placed in a basin with boiling broth poured over it, and then stirred all together. KAIL-RUNT, _s._ stem of colewort. KAIM, _s._ a comb. KAR-HANDED, _adj._ left-handed. KAY, KA, KAE, _s._ a jack-daw. KAYME, KAME, _s._ honeycomb. KEBBUCK, CABBACK, _s._ a cheese. KEGIE, _adj._ cheerful. KEEK, KEIK, _v. n._ to look with a prying eye. KEEK-BO, _s._ bo-peep. KEEKING-GLASS, _s._ a mirror. KEELIVINE, _s._ a blacklead pencil. _To_ KEKKIL, KEKIL, _v. n._ to cackle; to laugh aloud. KELL, KULL, _s._ a dress for a woman's head. _A caul_, the hinder-part of a woman's cap. KELPIE, WATER-KELPIE, _s._ the spirit of the waters, who, as is vulgarly believed, gives warning of those who are to be drowned within the precincts of his beat. This is indicated by preternatural noises and lights. He is supposed to appear in the form of a horse. Many wonderful exploits are attributed to the kelpie. KELT, _s._ a salmon that has just spawned; a foul fish that has not been in salt water. KEMP, _s._ a champion. KEMPIN, _s._ the act of striving on the harvest field. _To_ KEN, _v. n._ to know. KENNED, _part. pa._ of to know. KENSPECKLE, _adj._ having so remarkable an appearance as to be easily known. KEP, KEPP, _v. a._ to intercept. KICK, _s._ a novelty. _Kickshaw_, a new piece of finery. KILL, _s._ a kiln. KILT, _s._ a short petticoat extending from the belly to the knee, used by the Highlanders of Scotland instead of breeches. _To_ KILT, _v. a._ to tuck up. KIMMER, _s._ a young woman. KIN, _s._ kindred. KINK, _s._ a violent fit of coughing, with suspension of breathing. KINKHOST, KINGCOUGH, _s._ the hooping-cough. KINSCH, _s._ a loop made on a string or rope. KIPPER, _s._ a salmon split open, salted, and dried. KIRK, _s._ church; a body of Presbyterian Christians. _To_ KIRK, _v. a._ to carry to church as a bride after being married. KIRN, _s._ a churn. _To_ KIRN, _v. a._ to make a confused mass of anything. KIRN-MILK, _s._ butter-milk. KIST, KYST, _s._ a chest; a coffin. KISTING, _s._ the act of placing a corpse in a coffin. KIT, _s._ the whole of a person's property. KITCHEN, KITCHING, _s._ anything taken to bread, as meat, cheese, or butter. KITH, _s._ acquaintances, friends. KITLING, _s._ a kitten. KITTIE, KITTOCK, _s._ an immodest female. _To_ KITTLE, _v. a._ to litter; to tickle; to puzzle; to perplex. KITTLIE, _adj._ itchy. KITTY-WREN, _s._ the common wren. KNACKETY, _adj._ self-conceited; small; trifling. KNACKY, _adj._ quick at a reply or repartee. KNAPPISH, _adj._ snappish; tart. KNOCK, _s._ a clock. KNOIT, NOYT, _s._ a sharp blow. KNOW, KNOWE, NOW, _s._ a little hill; a hillock. KNYFE, _s._ a hanger; a dagger; a cutlass. KOBIL, _s._ a small boat. KOWSCHOT, CUSHAT, _s._ the ringdove. _To_ KRUYN, _v. n._ to murmur. KY, KYE, _s. pl._ cows. KYLE, _s._ a strait of the sea; a sound. KYNRIK, _s._ a kingdom. KYTE, _s._ the belly. KYTIE, _s._ fat; big-bellied. --L-- LAB, _s._ a stroke; a blow; a lump. _To_ LABOUR, _v. a._ to plough. LACHTER, _s._ the whole eggs laid successively by a hen. _To_ LACK, _v. a._ to slight. LAD, _s._ a sweetheart LADDIE, _s._ a boy, or young man. LADE, LAID, _s._ a load. LADE, LEAD, _s._ a mill course. LAFE, LAVE, _s._ the rest. LAIF, LAEF, _s._ a loaf. LAIGH, LAYCHE, _adj._ low; flat. LAIRD, LARDE, _s._ a person of superior rank; a landholder, under the degree of a knight or squire. LAIRDSHIP, _s._ a landed estate. LAITH, _adj._ reluctant; unwilling. LAITHFOW, _adj._ bashful. _To_ LAMB, to yean. LAMMER, LAMBER, _s._ amber. _Lammer beads and red thread_, when together, were supposed to be a charm with power to repel witchery in former times. LAMPER, _s._ a tall woman. LAMPET, LEMPET, _s._ the limpet, a testaceous shellfish which adheres to rocks. LAND, _s._ a house consisting of several stories, generally including separate dwellings. LAND O' THE LEAL, state of the blessed; heaven. LAND-LOUPER, _s._ a person who shifts frequently from one place of the country to another. LANE, _adj._ alone; lone. LANELY, _adj._ lonely. LANESOME, _adj._ lonesome. _To_ LANG, _v. n._ to long; to weary; to think long. LANG-NEBIT, _adj._ long-nosed or long-billed. LANG-RIN, _adv._ at length. LANGSUM, _adj._ slow; tedious. LANGSYNE, _adv._ long ago. LANG-TONGUED, _adj._ babbling; given to tell secrets. LAP, _pret._ leaped. LAPPORED, _part. pa._ coagulated. LARE, LERE, _s._ learning. _To_ LARE, LERE, _v. a._ to teach; to learn. LARICK, LAVROCK, _s._ a lark. LASS, _s._ a sweetheart; a young woman. _To_ LAT, _v. a._ to permit; to suffer; _to lat-be_, to let alone. LAWIN, LAWING, _s._ a tavern bill; money subscribed or paid for drink. LAW, _s._ a conical hill. LEA, _s._ pasture land not ploughed. LEA-LANG, _adj._ livelong; tedious; long in passing. _To_ LEATHER, _v. a._ to lash; to flog. LEDDIE, LEDDY, _s._ lady. LEE, _adj._ lonely; fallow land. LEE, _s._ a lie. LEESOME, _adj._ pleasant. LEEZE-ME, LEESE-ME, dear is to me--expressive of strong affection or love. _To_ LEG, _v. n._ to run. LEG-BAIL, _s._ to run off. LEGLIN, LAIGLIN, _s._ a milk-pail. LEID, LEDE, LUID, _s._ a song; a lay. LEIF, _adj._ willing. LEIL, LEELE, LELE, _adj._ lawful; right. LEISCH, _s._ a lash; a thong. LEISTER, LISTER, _s._ a pronged instrument for striking fish, generally used by poachers. _To_ LEN, _v. a._ to lend. _To_ LET-BE, _v. n._ to let alone. LEUCH, LEUGH, _pret_. laughed. _To_ LEUE, LUVE, _v. n._ to court; to make love. LEVIN, s. lightning. LEW-WARME, _adj._ tepid. LIART, LYART, _adj._ having grey hairs intermixed. LICHTER, LICHTARE, _part. pa._ delivered of a child. LICHTS, _s. pl._ the lungs. _To_ LICK, _v. a._ to strike; to beat. LIFT, LYFT, _s._ the atmosphere; the sky. LIGLAD, _s._ a confused noise of tongues; a deal of idle or noisy talk. LIKAND, _part_ pleasing. LIKE-WAKE, _s._ the watching of a dead body. LILT, _s._ a cheerful air. _To_ LILT, _v. n._ to sing cheerfully and merrily; lively music. LILT-PYPE, _s._ a musical instrument, the upper part of which was in the form of a flageolet, terminating below in a kind of trumpet-shaped mouth. LIMMAR, LIMMER, _s._ a scoundrel; a woman of loose manners. LIN, LYN, _s._ a cataract; a waterfall, _To_ LINK, _v. a._ to trot or walk smartly. LINKS, _s. pl_ sandy barren ground. LINTIE, _s._ the grey linnet. _To_ LIPPEN, _v. n._ to expect; to place confidence in. LIPPIE, _s._ the fourth part of a peck. LISK, LEESK, _s._ the groin. LISTER, _s._ a fishing spear. _To_ LITHE, _v. a._ to thicken; to render mellow; to soften. LITTLEANE, _s._ a child. LOAN, LONE, LOANING, _s._ an opening between fields of corn; lane; a narrow enclosed way. LOCH, LOUCH, _s._ a lake. LOCK, LOAKE, _s._ a small quantity. LOGIE, KILLOGIE, _s._ a vacuity in a kiln for producing a draft of air. LOME, LOOM, (pronounced _Lume_,) _s._ a utensil of any kind. LOOT, LOUT, LOWT, _v. a._ to bow down the body; to make obeisance. LOSH! _n. a_. an exclamation of wonder. _To_ LOUE, LOWE, LUVE, _v. a._ to love. LOUN, LOWN, LOON, _s._ a tricky, worthless person; a boy. LOUN'S-PIECE, _s._ the first slice of a loaf of bread. LOUN, LOWNE, _adj._ sheltered; calm. _To_ LOUNDER, _v. a._ to beat severely. LOUNDIT, _part. pa._ beaten. _To_ LOUP, _v. n._ to leap; to spring. LOUPIN-AGUE, _s._ St. Vitus' dance. LOUPIN-ON-STANE, _s._ a large stone, or flight of steps, for assisting a person to leap on a horse easily. LOW, _s._ a flame. LOZEN, _s._ a pane of glass. LUCKEN, _part. pa._ shut up; contracted. LUCKIE, LUCKY, _s._ an elderly woman; a grandmother; the mistress of an alehouse. LUCK-PENNY, _s._ a sum given to a person who makes a bargain. LUESOME, _adj._ lovely; worthy of being loved; attractive in manner or appearance. LUFE, LUIF, LUFFE, LOOF, _s._ the palm of the hand. LUG, _s._ the ear. LUGGIE, _s._ a small wooden dish for holding meat or drink, made of staves in the manner of a tub, with one of them prolonged considerably above the others. LUM, LUMB, _s._ a chimney. LUM-HEAD, _s._ the chimney-top. LUNCH, _s._ a large piece of anything, particularly applied to something eatable. LURE, _s._ the udder of a cow. LUSTY, _adj._ beautiful; pleasant; of agreeable manners. LYART-HAFFETS, _s._ grey hairs on the cheeks. --M-- MA, MAY, MAE, _adj._ more in number. MAAD, MAWD, _s._ a shepherd's plaid. MADGE, _s._ Magdalene. _To_ MAE, _v. n._ to bleat. MAGGS, _s._ a perquisite. MAHOUN, _s._ Mahomet; the devil. MAIDEN, _s._ an instrument formerly used for beheading state prisoners, similar in its construction to the French guillotine. MAIK, _s._ a cant word for a halfpenny. MAIL, _s._ tribute. _Black Mail_, a tax paid to freebooters by heritors and tenants for the security of their property. MAILAN, MAILING, MALING, _s._ a farm. MAIL-FREE, _adj._ without paying rent. MAIN, _s._ moan. MAINING, _adj._ moaning. MAINS, _s._ the chief farm of an estate, generally that which is attached to the mansion. MAIST, _adj._ most. MAISTER, _s._ a landlord; a designation given to the eldest son of a baron. MALISON, _s._ a curse. MAMMIE, _s._ a childish term for mother. MAN, _s._ a vassal; a husband; a male servant. MAN, MAUN, _aux. v_. must. MANE, _s._ lamentation. MANGLE, _s._ a calender. _To_ MANGLE, _v. a._ to calender linen or other clothes. MANSE, _s._ a parsonage house, the house of a minister. _To_ MANSWEIR, MENSWEIR, _v_. to perjure. _To_ MANT, MAUNT, _v. n._ to stammer. MARCHE, _s._ a landmark. MARK, MERK, _s._ a pound of thirty-two ounces. MARK, MIRK, _adj._ dark. MARROW, _s._ a companion; a married partner. MARROWLESS, _adj._ matchless. MART, MARTE, MAIRT, _s._ a cow or ox killed for winter's use. _To_ MASK, _v. a._ to catch in a net; to infuse. MAUK, _s._ a maggot. MAUKIN, _s._ a hare. MAUMIE, _adj._ mellow. MAUCHLESS, MAUCHTLESS, _adj._ feeble; inactive. MAW, _s._ a sea-gull. MAWKISH, _adj._ spiritless; actionless; slow. MAWT, _s._ malt. MAY, _s._ a maid; a virgin. MEDE, _s._ a meadow. MEIKLE, MEKYL, MUCKLE, _adj._ great. MELL, _s._ a maul. MELT, _s._ milt. MENDS, _s._ atonement. _To_ MENE, MEANE, MEYNE, _v. a._ to bemoan. MENSK, MENSE, _s._ dignity of demeanour; discretion. MENSKFUL, _adj._ manly; moderate; discreet; mannerly. MERE, _s._ a boundary; a limit; the sea. MERK, _s._ an ancient Scottish silver coin, value thirteen shillings and fourpence Scotch money, or thirteen pence and one-third of a penny sterling. MERLE, _s._ a blackbird. MERRY-BEGOTTEN, _s._ an illegitimate child. MERRY-DANCERS, _s._ the Aurora Borealis. MES. _s._ mass. _Mes_ or _Mass John_, a name of derision for a parish minister. MESSAN, _s._ a small mongrel dog. MET, METT, _s._ measure. MEVIS, _s._ a thrush. MICHTIE, _adj._ of high rank; stately; haughty. MICK, _s._ Michael. MIDDEN, _s._ a dunghill. MILK-SYTH, _s._ a milk strainer. MILL, MULL, _s._ a snuff-box made of a horn. MILL-LADE, MILL-LEAD, _s._ a mill-course. MIM, _adj._ prim; demure; prudish. MIM-MOU'D, _adj._ soft of speech; bashful. _To_ MIND, _v. n._ to remember; to recollect. MINNIE, MINNY, _s._ mother. MIRK, MYUK, MARK, _adj._ dark. MIRLYGOES, _s. pl._ when persons see indistinctly they are said to be in the _Mirlygoes_. MISCALL, MISCA', _v. a._ to call hard uames. MISCHANTER, _s._ misfortune; mishap. _To_ MISKEN, _v. n._ not to recognise. _To_ MISTROW, _v. a._ to suspect; to mistrust. _To_ MISTRYST, _v. a._ to break an engagement. MITTENS, _s. pl._ woollen gloves. MIXTIE-MAXTIE, _adj._ in a state of confusion. _To_ MODERATE, _v. n._ to preside in an ecclesiastical court. MODERATOR, _S_. he who presides in an ecclesiastical court. MODYWART, MODEWORT, _s._ a mole. MOLLIGRANT, MOLLIGRUBS, whining, complaining. MONY, _adj._ many. _To_ MOOL, _v. a._ to crumble. MORN, MORNE, _s._ to-morrow. _The morn_, to-morrow. _To_ MORTIFY, _v. a._ to give in mortmain. MOSS-TROOPERS, _s._ banditti. MOTHERWIT, _s._ common sense. MOW, _s._ the mouth. _To_ MUCK, _v. a._ to carry out dung. _To_ MUDDLE, _v. n._ to be busy without making progress at a trifling work. _To_ MUDGE, _v. n_, to stir; to budge. MUIR, _s._ a heath. MULIN, MULOCK, _s._ a crumb. MULTURE, MOUTUR, _s._ the fee for grinding corn. MUNDS, MUNS, _s._ the mouth. MURRION, MURREON, _s._ a helmet. MUTCH, _s._ a cap for a female. MUTCHKIN, _s._ an English pint, MY-CERTE, by my faith. MYSCHANCY, _adj._ unlucky. MYSELL, _s._ myself. --N-- NA, NAE, _adv._ no; not. NA, NE, _conj_. neither; nor, NACHET, NACKET, _s._ an insignificant person. _A little nacket_, one of very diminutive size, NAIG, _s._ a stallion; a riding horse, NAIPRIE, _s._ table linen. NANCY, NANNIE, _s._ Agnes. NANE, _adj._ no; none. NATHING, NAETHING, _s._ nothing. NAYSAY, _s._ a refusal. NEAR-GAWN, NEAR-BE-GAWN, _adj._ niggardly. NEB, _s._ the bill of a fowl. NEEBORS, _s._ neighbours. NEER-DO-WEIL, _s._ a never-do-well. NEFFIT, _s._ a pigmy; a very diminutive thing. _To_ NEIFFER, NIFFER, _v. a._ to exchange. NEIPCE, _s._ a granddaughter. NEIRS, _s. pl._ the kidneys. NEIST, NIEST, _adj._ next; nearest. NEIVE, NEIF, _s._ the fist. NEVEW, NEVO, NEVOW, _s._ a nephew. NEWFANGLED, fond of new things or persons. _To_ NICHER, _v. n._ to neigh; a loud coarse laugh. NICHT, _s._ night. _The nicht_, tonight. NICHTFA, _s._ twilight. NICK-NACK, _s._ a gim-crack; small wares. NIP, _s._ a small bit of anything. _To_ NIP, _v. a._ to carry off cleverly; to pinch. NIPPIT, _adj._ niggardly NO, _adv._ not. NOB, _s._ a knob. NOCHT, _s._ nothing. NOLT, NOUT, _s._ black cattle; a stupid vulgar fellow. NOO, _s._ now; at the present. NOR, _conj_. than. NORLAN, NORLAND, _adj._ belonging to the north country. NORYSS, _s._ nurse. NOUTHER, NOWTHIR, _conj_. neither. NUIK, _s._ the corner. --O-- OE, OYE, _s._ a grandson. OERCOME, OURCOME, _s._ the overplus. OHON! _interj_. alas! OMNE-GATHERUM, _s._ a miscellaneous collection; an incongruous mass. ONCOME, _s._ a fall of rain or snow. ONGOINGS, _s. pl._ procedure. ONKEND, _part. adj_. unknown. ONSTEAD, _s._ the building on a farm. ONY, _adj._ any. OO, _s._ wool. OORIE, OURIE, OWRIE, _adj._ chill; bleak; having the sensation of cold. OR, _conj_. lest; than. OR, _adv._ before, as _Or this_, before this time; rather than, _Or than_, before then. ORROW, ORA, _adj._ unmatched; not used. ORROWS, _s. pl._ supernumerary articles. OSTLEIR, OSTLER, _s._ an innkeeper. OTHIR, OTHERE, ODYR, _adj._ other. OUER, _prep._ over. OULK, OWLK, _s._ a week. OUR, OURE, OUER, OWRE, _prep_, over, beyond; denoting excess. OURGAE, OURGANG, _v. a._ to overrun; exceed; to surpass. OUR-RAUGHT, _pret_. overtook. _To_ OURSET, _v. a._ to overcome; to overpower. OURTILL, _prep_, above; beyond. OUSEN, _s._ oxen. OUT-ABOUT, _adv._ out of doors. OUTBREAKING, OUTBREKIN, _s._ eruption of the skin. OUT-BY, _adv._ out of doors; abroad. OUTFALL, _s._ a contention. OUTGAIT, OUTGATE, _s._ a way of egress; escape from any kind of hardship. OUTGANE, _part. pa._ elapsed. OUTLAY, _s._ expenditure. OUT-OUR, OUT-OWRE, _adv._ over. OUTSHOT, _s._ a projection. OUTSPECKLE, _s._ a laughing-stock. OUTSPOKEN, _s._ free of speech; undisguised in conversation or opinion. OUTSTRIKING, s. an eruption. OUTWAILE, OUTWYLE, _s._ the refuse. _To_ OUTWAIR, _v. a._ to expend. OUTWITH, _prep_, without; on the outer side or exterior; outwards; out from. OVERLY, _adj._ careless. OWKLY, _adj._ weekly. OXTAR, OXTER, _s._ the armpit. --P-- PACKMAN, _s._ a pedlar. PADDOCK-STOOL, _s._ a toad-stool; agaricus in general. PAFFLE, _s._ a small landed estate. PAFFLER, _s._ a farmer of a small estate. _To_ PAIK, _v. a._. to beat; to drub. PAIKER, _s. a causey-paiker_, a street-walker. PAILIN, PAILING, _s._ a fence of stakes. PAINCHES, _s._ tripe. PALAVER, _s._ idle talk. _To_ PALE, _v. a._ to make an incision in cheese to try its quality. PALLACH, _s._ a porpoise; a lusty person. PAND, _s._ a pledge. PAN-KAIL, _s._ broth made of cole-worts, thickened with oatmeal. PANNEL, _s._ one brought to the bar of a court for trial. PAP-O'-THE-HASS, s. uvula. PAPE, PAIP, _s._ the pope. PAPEJAY, PAPINGAY, _s._ a parrot. PARITCH, PARRITCH, _s._ hasty-pudding; oatmeal and water boiled together. PARROT-COAL, _s._ cannel coal which burns clearly. PARTAN, _s._ the common edible crab. PARTICATE, _s._ a rood of land. PARTRICK, PATRICK, _s._ a partridge. PAT, _pret_. of put. _To_ PATTER, _s._ to mutter uninterruptedly. PATTLE, PETTLE, _s._ a stick wherewith a ploughman clears away the earth which adheres to his plough. PAUK, _s._ art; wile. PAUKY, _adj._ sly; artful. PAWMIE, _s._ a stroke on the hand with the ferula. PAWN, _s._ a narrow curtain fixed to the roof or bottom part of a bed. PAY, _s._ a drubbing. PAYS-EGGS, _s. pl._ eggs boiled in dye of various colours, and given to children to amuse themselves during Easter. PEARIE, _s._ a pegtop in the shape of a pear. PEARLIN, _s._ a species of thread lace. _To_ PECH, _v. n._. to puff; to pant. PEEL, PEIL, _s._ a place of strength; a Border tower. _To_ PEENGE, PINGE, _v. n._ to whine; to complain. PEESWEIP, PEEWEIP, _s._ the lapwing. PEG, _s._ a stroke. _To_ PEG OFF or AWAY, _v. n._ to run off quickly. PENCH, PENCHE, _s._ the belly. _Penches_, tripe. PEND, _s._ an archway. PENDICLE, _s._ a small piece of ground. PENNIE-BRYDAL, PENNY-WEDDING, _s._ a wedding at which those who attend pay money for their entertainment. PENNYSTANE, _s._ a flat stone used as a quoit. PEPE, PEEP, _s._ the chirp of a bird. PERJINK, _adj._ precise. PERNICKITIE, _adj._ precise in trifles. _To_ PETTLE, _s._ to fondle. _To_ PEW, PEU, _v. n._ the mournful sound emitted by birds. PHILIBEG, _s._ See FILIBEG. _To_ PHRASE, FRAISE, _v. n._ to boast; to wheedle. PIBROCH, _s._ a Highland air of a martial character. PICKLE, PUCKLE, _s._ a grain of seed; a small quantity. PIG, PYG, _s._ an earthen vessel. PIGS, PYGS, _s. pi._ earthenware. PIK, PICK, _s._ pitch. PILK, _v. a._ to pilfer. _To_ PINGLE, _v. a._ to labour with assiduity. _To_ PINK, _v. n._ to glimmer with the eyes half contracted. PINNER, _s._ a female head-dress, with long lappets pinned to the temples and reaching to the bosom, where they were fastened. PIRN, _s._ a reed or quill. _To wind him a pirn_, to make him repent of what he has done. PIT AND GALLOWS, _s._ an ancient baronial privilege, by which they had on their ground a pit to drown women and a gallows to hang men. PLACK, PLAK, _s._ a small copper coin formerly in use, the value of the third part of a penny sterling. PLACKLESS, _adj._ moneyless. PLAID, _s._ an outer covering, of an oblong square shape, of different coloured stripes, worn by the Highlanders. PLAIDEN, PLAIDING, _s._ coarse tweeled woollen cloth. PLAINSTONES, _s. pl._ the pavement or flags. _To_ PLASH, _v. n._ to make a noise by the dashing of water. _To_ PLAT, PLET, _v. a._ to plait. PLAYFAIR, _s._ a toy. PLEY, PLEYE, _s._ a debate; a quarrel. _To_ PLENISH, PLENYS, _v. a._ to furnish a house. PLENISHING, _s. pl._ household furniture. PLEUCH, PLEUGH, _s._ a plough. PLEUGH-GANG, _s._ as much land as can be tilled by means of a single plough. PLISKIE, s. a mischievous trick. PLOY, _s._ a harmless frolic. _To_ PLOT, _v. a._ to scald. PLOUKE, PLOUK, _s._ a pimple. PLOUKIE-FACED, _adj._ having a pimpled face. _To_ PLOUTER, _v. a._ to make a noise among water. PLUFFY, _adj._ flabby; chubby. PLUMB-DAMES, _s._ a Damascene plum. PLUMP, _adj._ a heavy shower of rain without wind. PLUNK, _v. n._ the sound made by a stone or other substance thrown into water. PLY, _s._ a plait; a fold. PODLIE, _s._ the fry of the coal fish. _To_ POIND, POYND, _v. a._ to distrain. POLICY, POLLECE, _s._ a demesne. POORTITH, _s._ poverty. PORRINGER, _s._ a small round earthenware jug with a handle. PORTIONER, _s._ a person who possesses part of a property which has been divided among co-heirs. POSE, POIS, POISE, _s._ hidden treasure. POURIN, _s._ a small quantity of anything liquid. POUT, _s._ a young fowl. _To_ POUT, POUTEN, _v. n._ to poke or stir with a long pole or stick. POW, _s._ the head. _To_ PREE, _v. a._ to taste. PREEN-COD, _s._ a pin-cushion. PREIN, PRIN, _s._ a pin. PRESERVES, _s. pl._ spectacles which magnify but little. PRETTY, _adj._ having a handsome face. PRICKMADAINTY, _s._ a person who is finical in dress or carriage, particularly a small person. PRIDEFOW, _adj._ proud; conceited. _To_ PRIG, _v. n._ to haggle; to beat down in price. _To_ PRINK, _v. a._ to deck; to prick. _To_ PRINKLE, _v. n._ to thrill; to tingle. PROCURATOR, _s._ a barrister or advocate. PROG, PROGUE, _s._ a sharp point. PROP, _s._ an object placed up to be aimed at. _To_ PROPONE, _v. a._ to propose. PROSPECT, _s._ a telescope. PROVOST, _s._ the mayor of a royal burgh. PUBLIC-HOUSE, _s._ a tavern or inn. PUDDENFILLER, _s._ a glutton. PUIR, PURE, _adj._ poor. PUIRLIE, _adj._ humbly; unwell. _To_ PUNCH, _v. a._ to jog with the elbow. PURPOSE-LIKE, _adj._ seemingly well qualified for anything; well clad. _To_ PUT-UPON, to impose upon; to take advantage of another's weakness. _To_ PUT, _v. n._ to throw a heavy stone with the hand raised over the head. PUTTING-STONE, _s._ a heavy stone used in the game of putting. PYAT, PYOT, _s._ a magpie. PYGS, _s. pl._ crockery ware; earthenware. --Q-- QUAICH, QUEYCH, QUEGH, _s._ a small shallow drinking cup, made of wood or silver, with two ears. QUEET, CUTE, _s._ the ankle. QUEINT, QUENT, _adj._ curious; wonderful. QUENT, AQUENT, _adj._ acquainted; familiar. QUEY, _s._ a two-year-old cow. QUEYN, QUEAN, QUINE, _s._ a young woman. QUHAIP, QUHAUP, WHAAP, _s._ a curlew. _To_ QUHEMLE, WHUMMIL, _v. a._ to turn upside down. _To_ QUHID, WHEED, _v. a._ move quickly. QUHILK, _pron_. which; who. QUHIRR, _v. n._ to make a sound like the wings of a partridge or grouse in the act of flying. QUHITRED, QUHITTRET, _s._ a weasel. QUHYNE, QUHENE, WHEEN, _adj._ a few. --R-- RA, RAE, _s._ a roe deer. RACHE, _s._ a lurcher, or dog that finds and pursues his prey by the scent. RACK, _s._ a shelved frame fixed to the wall for holding plates. RACKLE-HANDED, _adj._ careless; rash. RADE, RAID, _s._ an invasion; a violent attack. RAIK, _s._ a single carrying of a thing from one place to another. _To_ RAIL, _v. n._ to jest. RAIP, _s._ a rope. RAISED, _adj._ excited; maddened. RAIVEL, _s._ a rail. RAMFEEZLED, _part. adj_. exhausted, fatigued. RAMMER, _s._ a ramrod. _To_ RAMPAGE, _v. n._ to prance about in a furious manner, as exemplified in passion. RAM-STAM, _adj._ forward; rash; thoughtless. RANDY, RANDIE-BEGGAR, _s._ a beggar who endeavours to obtain alms by means of threats; a female scold. RANDY, _adj._ quarrelsome. RANTLE-TREE, _s._ a tall raw-boned person. RAPEGYRNE, _s._ the ancient name given to the little figure made of the last handful of grain in the harvest-field, now called the maiden. RAPLACH, RAPLOCH, _s._ coarse, homespun, undyed woollen cloth. RASCH, RASH, _s._ a rush. RASHY, _adj._ beset with rushes. RATH, _adj._ strange or savage in aspect. RATTAN, ROTTEN, _s._ a rat. RAUCHAN, _s._ a plaid worn by men, formerly made of grey undyed wool. RAUN, RAWN, _s._ roe of a fish. RAUCLE, _adj._ rash. _To_ RAVE, _v. a._ to plunder by violence. RAW, _adj._ damp; chill. RAW, _s._ a row or rank. _To_ RAX, _v. n._ to extend the limbs; to stretch them. RAY, REE, _adj._ mad; wild. REAM, REYME, _s._ cream. REAMING-FULL, _adj._ full to the lip or brim. REAVER, _s._ robber. REBALD, _s._ a low contemptible fellow. _To_ REBUT, _v. a._ to repulse. RED, _s._ riddance. _To_ RED, REDE, _v. a._ to counsel; to disentangle. REDDIN-STRAIK, _s._ the blow which persons frequently receive on attempting to separate those who are fighting. _To_ RED-UP, _part. adj._ to put in order. RED-WUD, _adj._ in a violent passion; furious. REEK, REIK, _s._ smoke. REEL, _s._ a Scottish dance generally performed by two males and two females. REEL-RALL, _adj._ topsy-turvy. _To_ REESE, _v. a._ to extol. REIF, REFE, _s._ the itch. REIKIE, _adj._ smoky. _To_ REIK-OUT, _v. a._ to fit out or dress out. _To_ REIST, _v. a._ to dry by exposure to the heat of the sun, or in a chimney. _To_ RENG, RING, _v. n._ to reign. _To_ RESETT, _v. a._ to harbour; to receive stolen goods. _To_ REST, _v. n._ to be indebted. _To_ RETOUR, _v. a._ to return. RIBBLE-RABBLE, _adj._ disordered. RICKLE, RICKILL, _s._ a heap. _A rickle o' banes_, a person who is very meagre. RIFE, RYFE, _adv._ plentiful. RIFF-RAFF, _s._ the rabble. _To_ RIFT, _v. n._ to belch. RIGGING, _s._ the ridge of a house. RIN, _v. n._ run. _To_ RIND, RYNDE, _v. a._ to melt fat by the heat of the fire. RINGE, _s._ a whisk made of heath. RINGLE-EE'D, RYNGIT, _adj._ having a great quantity of white seen round the irides of the eves. RINO, _s._ ready money. _To_ RIPE, RYPE, _v. a._ to search a person. _To_ RIPPLE, _v. a._ to separate the seed of flax from the stalks. RIPPLIN-CAME, _s._ a flax-comb. RISE, RYSS, _s._ a small twig. RIVE, _s._ rent; tear. ROCKLAY, ROKELY, _s._ a short cloak worn by females. RODEN, ROWEN, _s._ the fruit of the mountain ash. RODEN-TREE, ROWAN-TREE, _s._ the mountain ash. ROID, ROYD, _adj._ rude; severe. ROLLOCHIN, _adj._ lively: free-spoken. _To_ ROOSE, RUSE, _v. a._ to extol. ROSET, _s._ rosin. ROSIE, _s._ Rose--a Christian name. ROSIGNELL, _s._ a nightingale. ROUNG, RUNG, _s._ a cudgel. ROUP, ROOP, _s._ hoarseness. _To_ ROUP, to cry aloud; to shout; to sell by auction. ROUSTY, ROOSTY, _adj._ rusty. _To_ ROUT, _v. n._ to bellow. ROUTH, ROWTH, _s._ plenty. _To_ ROW, _v. a._ to roll. ROYED, _adj._ wild. ROYSTER, _s._ a freebooter. RUCK, _s._ a heap of corn. RUDE, _adj._ strong; stout. _To_ RUG, _v. a._ to tear. RULLION, _s._ a shoe made of untanned leather; a coarse masculine female. RUM, _adj._ excellent. RUMGUMPTION, RUMMILGUMPTION, _s._ common sense. _To_ RUMMIL, _v. n._ to make a noise. RUMPLE, RUMPILL, _s._ the rump; the tail. RUND, ROON, _s._ a border; a selvage. RUNT, _s._ the stalk of colewort or cabbage; term applied to an old disagreeable woman. RUSKIE, _s._ a basket made of twigs. --S-- SAB, _v. n._ to sob. SAD, _adj._ grave; heavy. SAE, _adv._ so. SAELIKE, SALIKE, _adj._ of the same kind, similar. SAFT, _adj._ soft. SAFTLY, _adv._ lightly; softly. SAILYE, _s._ assault. SAIP, _s._ soap. SAIR, _adj._ sore; a sore; a wound. _To_ SAIR, _v. a._ to satisfy; to serve. SAIRHEAD, _s._ a headache. SAIRING, _s._ as much as satisfies one. SAIRLY, _adv._ sorely. SAL, _v. defective_, shall. SAND-BLIND, _adj._ being very short-sighted, as is often the case with people with very fair hair. SANDY, _s._ Alexander. SANG, _s._ a song; also the past of sing. SAP, _s._ liquid of any kind taken to solids. SAPS, _s._ bread soaked or boiled in ale, or wine and water. SARK, _s._ a shirt, frequently applied to the shift of a female. SAUCH, SAUGH, _s._ the willow tree. _To_ SAUCH, SOAGH, _v. n._ to emit a rustling or whistling sound, like the wind in a narrow pass. SAUL, SAWL, _s._ soul. SAULLESS, _adj._ destitute of soul. SAULLIE, SAULIE, _s._ a hired mourner, such as go in front of a hearse. SAUT, _s._ salt. SAUT-FOOT, _s._ a salt-cellar. _To_ SAW, _v. a._ to sow. SCAIL, _s._ a kind of tub. SCANT, _s._ scarce. SCANTY, _s._ scarcity. SCANTLINGS, _s. pl._ small pieces of wood tying the rafters together. SCAMP, _s._ a cheat. SCAPE, _s._ a bee-hive. SCAR, SCAIR, SCAUR, _s._ a bare place on the side of a hill from which the soil has been washed off. _To_ SCART, _v. a._ to scratch. SCART, _s._ a scratch. SCHACHLED, _adj._ crooked; unseemly. SCHANK, _s._ the leg. SCHAVE, SHEAVE, SHEEVE, _s._ a slice of anything, such as bread, etc. SCHAW, _s._ a grove or thicket; a shadowy place. SCHEL, _s._ a shed for sheep. _To_ SCHERE, _v. n._ to divide. SCHILL, _adj._ shrill. SCHOAG, SHOG, _v. a._ to move backwards and forwards. SCHOGGLE, _v. a._ to shake. SCHONE, SHOONE, _s. pl._ shoes. SCHULE, SHUIL, SHOOL, _s._ a shovel. _To_ SCHUTE, _v. a._ to push. SCLAITE, SKLAIT, _s._ slate. SCLATCH, _s._ a lubberly lazy fellow. _To_ SCLENT, SKLENT, _v. n._ to slope. ASCLENT, _adv._ obliquely. SCON, _s._ a flat cake, made of barley meal or flour. SCREED, _s._ a harangue. _To_ SCREED, SKREED. _v. a._ to rend in pieces. _To_ SCREIGH, SKREIGH, _v. n._ to shriek. SCRIMP, _adj._ narrow; scanty. SCROOFF, SCRUFF, a thin crust. SCRYMMAGE, _s._ a skirmish. _To_ SCUG, _v. a._ to shelter. SCULDUDRY, has an illusion to a breach of chastity. SCULL, _s._ a shallow basket. SCUM, _s._ a mean greedy fellow. _To_ SCUNNER, _v. n._ to loathe; to shudder in disgust. _To_ SCUTLE, _v. a._ to spill from carelessness. SEAM, used in respect to any sort of needlework. SEATH, SYTHE, _s._ the coal-fish. SEGG, _s._ the yellow flower-de-luce. SEKER, SICKER, _adj._ firm. SEMPILL, SYMPILL, _adj._ low-born. SEN, _conj_. since; seeing. SENSYNE, since that time. SERD, SAIRD, _pret_. served. SERGE, _s._ a sieve. SESSION, _s._ the consistory, or parochial eldership in Scotland. SESSION-HOUSE, _s._ a vestry. _To_ SET, _v. a._ to let; to become--as, _He sets his rank well_. SHACHLED, _adj._ crooked; unseemly. SHACKLE-BANE, _s._ the wrist. SHAFT, _s._ a handle. _To_ SHAK-A-FA', _v. a._ to wrestle. SHAKE-DOWN, _s._ a temporary bed made on the floor. _To_ SHAMBLE, _v. n._ to make a wry mouth. _To_ SHANK, _v. a._ to travel on foot. SHARNE, SHERNE, _s._ the dung of cattle. SHAVER, _s._ a wag. SHAWS, _s. pl_ the foliage of esculent roots. SHEAL, SHIELLING, _s._ a hut or residence for shepherds or fishermen. _To_ SHEAL, _v. a._ to take the husks off pulse, etc. SHEELINS, _s. pl_ the husks of grain. _To_ SHEAR, _v. a._ to reap; to cut down corn. SHEARER, _s._ one employed in reaping corn. SHEARIN, _s._ the act of cutting corn. SHELTIE, _s._ a very small horse. SHEUCH, _s._ a furrow. _To_ SHEUCH, _v_. to place plants in the earth before they are planted. _To_ SHEVEL, _v. a._ to distort. SHILFA, _s._ the chaffinch. SHILPIE, SHILPIT, _adj._ weak; insipid; sickly looking: thin. SHILLINGS, SHEELINS, _s. pl_ the outermost husks of grain. _To_ SHIMMER, _v. n._ to shine. SHINTY, _s._ a stick with a crooked end, used as a club for playing a game with a ball called Shinty. _To_ SHOOT, _v. n._ to push. _To_ SHOWL, _v. n._ to distort the mouth or face. _To_ SHUE, _v. a._ to drive away any animals by making a noise. SIB, _adj._ related by blood: consanguineous. SIBMAN, _s._ a near relation. SIBNES, _s._ propinquity; nearness of relationship. SIC, SICK, SIK, _adj._ such; in the same manner. SICKER, SIKHER, _adj._ secure; cautious. SICKEN, _adj._ such kind of. SICKERLY, _adv._ firmly. SICKLIKE, _adj._ of the same kind. SIDE, SYDE, _adj._ a long low-hanging dress. SIDLINGS, SIDELINS, _adv._ placed side by side. SILDER, SILLER, _s._ silver. SILLY, weak from ill health; weak in mind. SIMMER, SYMER, _s._ summer. SIMPELL, SEMPLE, _adj._ low-born; poor in circumstances. SIND, SEIN, SYND, _v. a._ the last water used in washing clothes. _To_ SINDER, _v. a._ to sunder. SINDRY, _adj._ sundry; in a disjoined state. SINGIT-LIKE, _adj._ miserable-looking; puny. SINCESYNE, _adv._ since that time. _To_ SIPE, SEIP, _v. n._ to ooze. _To_ SIST, _v. a._ to delay or stop proceedings. _To_ SKAIL, SKALE, _v. a._ to dismiss; to spill. SKAITH, _s._ hurt; damage. _To_ SKAUDE, _v. a._ to scald. SKEELY, _adj._ skilful. SKEICH, SKEIGH, _adj._ apt to be startled; proud; shy, applied to females. SKEIL, SKEILL, _s._ a small tub for washing, with a single handle. SKELB, _s_ a splinter. SKELF, _s._ a shelf. SKELLIE, SKELLY, _s._ squint in the eye. _To_ SKELLIE, _v. n._ to squint. _To_ SKELLOCH, _v. n._ to utter a shrill cry. _To_ SKELP, _v. a._ to beat; to strike with the open hand. SKELVE, _s._ a thin slice. SCEP, SCAPE, _s._ a bee-hive. SKERRY, _s._ a sunken rock in the sea. SKIFT, _s._ a flying shower. SKILLY, SKEELY, _adj._ skilful; intelligent. SKIPPARE, SKIPPER, _s._ a master of a sailing vessel. _To_ SKIRL, _v. n._ to utter a shrill cry. _To_ SKITE, _v. a._ to eject any liquid forcibly; to squirt. SKLAIT, _s._ slate. _To_ SKLICE, _v. a._ to slice. SKRANKY, _adj._ a lean, meagre person. SKRUNTY, _adj._ raw-boned; meagre. SKUG, SCUG, _s._ a shade; shelter. SKULE, SCULE, _s._ a large collection of individuals, as a flight of crows. SKULL, _s._ a hollow basket of an oval or semicircular form. SKYNK, _v. a._ to pour out liquor. SLAE, _s._ a sloe. _To_ SLAISTER, SLOYSTER, _v. n._ to perform anything in a dirty awkward manner. SLAP, _s._ a narrow pass between two hills; a breach in a wall or hedge. SLEEKIT, _adj._ deceitful; cunning. SLOGAN, _s._ the war-cry or gathering word of a Highland clan. _To_ SLOKEN, _v. a._ to quench thirst. _To_ SLOUNGE, _v. n._ to walk about in a slovenly manner. SLUMP, _by the slump_, altogether, or in unbroken quantities. SLUMP, _adj._ taken in gross. SLUSCH, SLUSH, _s._ soft plashy ground; snow in a state of thawing. SMA, _adj._ small. SMATCHET, _s._ a term of contempt applied to a man, but more commonly to a child. SMEDDUM, _s._ quickness of apprehension. _To_ SMEEK, _v. a._ to smoke. SMIDDY, _s._ a smithery. SMIRIKIN, SMEERIKIN, _s._ a hearty kiss. _To_ SMORE, _v. a_, to smother; to choke. SMIT, SMYT, _v. a._ to stain. SNAB, _s._ a shoemaker. SNACKIE, _adj._ tricky; quirky. SNAW, _s._ snow. SNAK, SNICK, _s._ the latch of a door. SNEESHIN, _s._ snuff. SNEESHIN-MILL _s._ a snuff-box. SNEIST, _s._ a taunt. SNELL, _adj._ keen; severe. SNELLY, _adv._ sharply; quickly. SNIPPY, _adj._ tart in speech. SNISTY, _adj._ given to saucy language. _To_ SNITE, _v. a._ to snuff, applied to a candle. SNODDED, _adj._ lopped; pruned. SNOT, _s._ mucus from the nose. SNOOD, SNUDE, _s._ a fillet which binds the hair of young women. SNAW-FLAKE, _S_. the snow bunting. SOBER, _adj._ poor. SODROUN, SOTHROUN, _s._ an Englishman. SONSE, SONSY, _adj._ plump in appearance; in good condition of body. SOOCH, _s._ a copious draught. SOOTH, _adj._ true; faithful. SOSS, _s._ a mixture of different qualities of food. SOUP, SUP, _s._ a spoonful. SOUR-MILK, _s._ buttermilk. SOUROCK, SOURACK, _s._ sorrel. SOUTAR, SOUTER, a shoemaker. SOW, HAY-SOW, _s._ a stack of hay before it is ready to be removed from the field. SPAE-MAN, _s._ a soothsayer; a fortune-teller. SPAE-WIFE, _s._ a female fortune-teller. _To_ SPAIN, SPEAN, _adj._ to wean. SPAIT, SPATE, _s._ a flood. SPANG, _s._ the act of spanning. SPARE, _adj._ lean; meagre. SPEERE, _s._ a hole in the wall of houses in former times, whereby the family received and answered inquiries from strangers. _To_ SPEIR, _v. a._ to ask. _To_ SPELDER, _v. a._ to spread open. _To_ SPELL, _v. n._ to climb. SPICY, _adj._ proud; testy. SPLEUCHAN, _s._ a tobacco holder. SPRAICH, _s._ a shriek. SPRECKLED, _adj._ speckled. SPREE, _adj._ trim; gaudy; spruce. SPRING, _s._ a quick cheerful tune on a musical instrnment. SPUNK, _s._ a match; spirit; vivacity. SPUNKIE, _s._ _Ignis Fatuus_, or Will-o'-the-Wisp. SPUNKIE, _adj._ mettlesome; spirited. _To_ SPUNK-OUT, _v. n._ to be gradually discovered or brought to light. STAIG, _s._ a horse not yet broken in. STALWART, _adj._ brave; strong; powerful. STAMMACK, _s._ the stomach. _To_ STAMP, _v. n._ to go about stoutly. STAMREL, _adj._ half-witted. STANE, _s._ a stone. _To_ STANG, _v. a._ to sting. STANG, _s._ a long pole. STANK, _s._ a ditch with a slow running stream or stagnant water. _To_ STAP, _v. a._ to stop; to cram; to fill. _To_ STAW, _v. n._ to surfeit. STAY, STEY, _adj._ step. STEAD, STEADING, _s._ a farm house. _To_ STEEK, _v. a._ to shut. _To_ STEER, STIR, _v. a._ to meddle with. STEEVE, _adj._ firm, relating to a bargain made; sometimes used for obstinate. _To_ STEIK, _v. a._ to stitch. STELL-NET, _s._ a net stretching a considerable way into a river, and sometimes across it. _To_ STEND, _v. n._ to spring; rise to an elevation. _To_ STERE, STEIR, _v. a._ to stir. STERE, STEIR, _s._ commotion. STEY, _adj._ steep. _To_ STICK, _v. a._ to bungle. _To_ STILT, _v. n._ to go on crutches. _To_ STINT, _v. n._ to limit; to act shabbily. STIRK, _s._ a bullock or heifer between the age of one and two years; a stupid rude fellow. STOB, _s._ a prickle. STOCK AN' HORN, _S_. a musical instrument composed of a _stock_, which is the thigh-bone of a sheep, and the _horn_, the smaller end of a cow's horn, and a reed. STOITER, the act of staggering. STOLUM, _s._ as much ink as a pen will hold. STOOK, STOUK, _s._ a rick of corn consisting of twelve sheaves. STOOP, _s._ a post fastened in the earth; a prop; a support. STORM-STED, _adj._ stopped on a journey in consequence of a storm. STOT, _s._ a young bull. _To_ STOT, _v. n._ to rebound from the ground as a ball. _To_ STOUND, _v. n._ to ache. STOUP, _s._ a deep and narrow vessel for holding or measuring liquids. STOURIE, _adj._ dusty. _To_ STOVE, _v. a._ to stew. STOWN, STOWIN, _part pa_. stolen. STRAIK, STRAKE, _s._ a blow. STRAND, _s._ a rivulet; a gutter. STRAPPING, STRAPPAN, _part. adj_. tall and handsome. STRATH, _s._ a valley of considerable extent. STRATHSPEY, _s._ an air slower than a reel. STRAVAIG, _v. n._ to stroll about in an idle manner. STRAUCHT, _adj._ straight. STREAMERS, _s. pl._ the Aurora Borealis. _To_ STREIK, STREEK, _v. a._ to stretch; lay out a dead body. STREIN, STREEN, _s._ evening. _The_ _Strein_, yesternight. STRIDELEGS, _adv._ astride. STROUP, STROOP, _s._ the spout of a tea-kettle or pump. STUDY, STYDDY, _s._ an anvil. _To_ STUMP, _v. n._ to go about stoutly. STURDY, _s._ a vertigo; a disease to which black-cattle and sheep are liable when young. STURE, STOOR, _adj._ strong; robust; rough; hoarse. SUCH, _s._ a whistling spund. SUNKETS, _s. pl._ provisions of any description. SUTHFAST, _adj._ true. _To_ SWAY, SWEY, _v. n._ to incline to one side; to swing. _To_ SWEEL, _v. n._ to drink copiously. SWEETIES, _s. pl._ comfits; sweetmeats. SWEIR, SWEER, _v. n._ lazy; indolent. _To_ SWIDDER, SWITHER, _v. n._ to be irresolute. _To_ SWIRL, _v. n._ to whirl like a vortex. SYNE, _adv._ afterwards; late as opposed to soon. --T-- TABETLESS, TAPETLESS, TEBBITLESS, _adj._ benumbed. TACK, _s._ a slight hold, as a stitch or two; a lease. TACKET, _s._ a small nail with a head. TACKSMAN, _s._ the holder of a lease. TAE, _s._ a toe. TAID, _s._ a toad. TAILE, TAILYE, _s._ a covenant; an entail. TAIS, TASSIE, _s._ a cup. TAIVERS, TATTERS, _s. pl._ Meat which has been much overboiled is said to be boiled to _taivers_. TAIVERSUM, _adj._ tiresome. _To_ TAK THE GATE, _v. n._ to go off on a journey. _To_ TAK-ON, _v. a._ to buy on credit. TALE-PIET, _s._ a tale-bearer: a tattler. TAM, TAMMIE, TAMMAS, _s._ Thomas. TANGLE, _s._ an icicle; the large _fuci_ or sea plant. TANGS, TAINGS, _s._ tongs. TANTRUMS, _s._ high airs; exhibiting a proud and dignified aspect. _To_ TAPE, _v. a._ to use sparingly. TAPPIE-TOORIE, _s._ anything erected on a slight, tottering foundation. TAPPIT-HEN, _s._ a crested hen; a quart measure of ale or beer with a top of foam. TARRY, _s._ delay. TARRY-FINGERED, _adj._ light-fingered; a thief. TARTAN, _s._ cloth chequered of various colours, and originally worn only in the Highlands, every clan adopting its own peculiar tartan. _To_ TASH, _v. a._ to tuffle; to soil. TATE, TAIT, _s._ a very small portion of any dry substance. TATTER-WALLOPS, TAUTER-WALLOPS, _s. pl._ rags fluttering in the wind. TATTIES, _s. pl_, potatoes. TAULD, _adj._ told. TAUPIE, TAWPIE, _s._ an inactive, silly, and slovenly woman. TAWIS, TAWES, _s._ a whip; a lash; the ferula used by a schoolmaster. TEAZLE, _s._ a severe brush; an onset. _To_ TEET, _v. n._ to peer; to look with the eyes half shut. TEHEE, _s._ a loud laugh. TEINDS, _s. pl._ tithes. _To_ TEND, _v_. to guard. TENEMENT, _s._ a house, sometimes applied to one containing several separate dwellings under one roof. TENT, _s._ care; attention. _To_ TENT, _v. n._ to attend. _To_ TENT, _v. a._ to observe; to remark; to put a value upon. TENTLESS, _adj._ inattentive. TERCER, _s._ a widow living upon a terce. TEUCH, TEUGH, _adj._ tough. _To_ TEYME, TEME, TUME, _v. a._ to empty. THACK, THEIK, _s._ thatch. THAFTS, _s. pl._ the benches of a boat. THAIRANENT, _adv._ concerning that. THAIRATTOUR, _adv._ concerning. THAIRBEN, _adv._ in an inner apartment of a house. THAIRM, _s._ the belly. THAN, _adv._ then; at that time. THANE, THAYNE, _s._ an ancient Scottish title of honour, denoting presidency in a county or province. THEE, THEY, _s._ thigh. THEGITHER, _adv._ together. _To_ THEIK, _v. a._ to cover with straw; to thatch. THEIVIL, _s._ a porridge-stick, or stick for stirring broth while boiling. THEN, _conj_. than. THEWLESS, THOULESS, THIEVLESS, _adj._ unprofitable; useless; feeble. THICK, _adj._ intimate; familiar. THIR, _pron. pl_. these. THIRL, _s._ to bind; to enslave. THIRLWALL, _s._ the name given to the wall between England and Scotland thrown up by Severus. THO, _adv._ at that time. _To_ THOLE, _v. n._ to bear; to endure; to suffer. THON, _adv._ yonder; yon. THOUELL, _s._ the nitch in which the oars of a boat work. THOUGHT, THOUGHTY, _s._ a moment. _To_ THOW, _v. n._ to thaw. THOWLESS, _adj._ inactive. _To_ THRAPPLE, _v. a._ to throttle. THRAW, _s._ a pang; an agony. THRAW-CRUK, _s._ an instrument for twisting straw or hair ropes. THRAWIN, _part. adj_. distorted. _To_ THREPE, _v. n._ to aver pertinaciously; to argue; to persist. THRESUM, _adj._ three together. THRETTY, _adj._ thirty. THRIFTY, _adj._ industrious and economical. THROPILL, THRAPILL, _s._ the windpipe. THUD, _s._ a dull noise. THUMBIKINS, _s._ an instrument of torture applied as a screw to the thumbs to force the sufferer to confess or divulge a secret, etc. THUMBLICKING, _s._ an ancient mode of confirming a bargain by the parties licking their thumbs and then placing them against each other. TIBBIE, _s._ Elizabeth. TICK, TICKER, _s._ a dot. _To_ TICK, _v. n._ to click as a clock or watch. TID, _s._ humour. _To_ TID, _v. n._ To choose the proper time. TIFT, _s._ the act of quarrelling; a hasty fit of ill humour. _To_ TIG, _v. n._ to touch lightly; a game played by children. TIKE, TYKE, _s._ a cur; a dog; a rough bad-tempered fellow. TIL, TIYL, _prep._ to. TILL, _adv._ while; during the time that. TIME-ABOUT, _adj._ alternately. TIMMER, _s._ timber. TIMMER-TUNED, _adj._ unmusical; destitute of ear. TINCHELL, TINCHEL, _s._ a circle of sportsmen, who, by surrounding an extensive space, gradually closing, bring a number of deer and game within a narrow compass. _To_ TINE, TYNE, _v. a._ to lose. TINT, _pret_. of To lose. _To_ TIRL, _s._ to give a stroke. TIRLESS, TIRLASS, _s._ a lattice; a wicket. TIRLIEWIRLIE, _s._ a whirligig. _To_ TIRR, TIRLE, _v. a._ to tear; to uncover. TIRRIVEE, _s._ a fit of passion. TIRWIRR, TIRRWIRRING, _adj._ habitually growling. TITTY, _s._ a sister. TO, _adv._ shut. The door is _to_, i.e. shut. TOCHER, _s._ the dowry brought by a wife. TOCHERLESS, _adj._ destitute of portion. TOD, _s._ a fox. TODLE, TODDLE, _v. n._ to walk in a tottering manner, or with short unsteady steps. TODDY, _s._ whisky, sugar, and hot water. TODDY-LADLE, _s._ a small ladle of wood or silver used in filling a glass from a tumbler in which toddy is made. TOFALL, _s._ a building annexed to the wall of a larger one. TOIT, TOUT, _s._ a fit of illness; a fit of bad humour. TOKIE, _s._ the head-dress of an old woman, resembling a monk's cowl. TO-NAME, _s._ a surname. TOOM, TUME, _adj._ empty. TOOT, TOUT, _s._ the blast of a horn or bugle. TOOTHFU', _s._ a moderate quantity of strong drink. TOSCH, TOSH, TOSHE, _adj._ neat; trim. TOT, _s._ a term of endearment used to a child. TOUSIE, TOWSIE, _adj._ disordered; shaggy; rough. _To_ TOUSLE, _v. a._ to pull at; to put in disorder, as tearing at a girl in sport or rough dalliance. TOUT, _s._ a copious draught. TOW, _s._ a rope of any kind. TOWMONT, TOWMOND, _s._ a year. TOY, _s._ a woollen or linen headdress worn by women of the lower orders, with the lower part hanging down to the shoulders. _To_ TOYTE, TOT, _v. n._ to totter as in childhood or old age. TRAIST, TRYSTE, _s._ an appointed meeting. TRAM, _s._ the shaft of a cart or carriage. _To_ TRAMP, _v. a._ to tread with vigour; to walk, as opposed to riding. TRANCE, _s._ a passage within a house leading from one part to another. _To_ TRANSMUGRIFY, _v. a._ to transform; to transmute; to change in appearance. TRAWART, _adj._ perverse. TREWS, _s. pl._ trowsers. TRIG, _adj._ neat. _To_ TRIM, _v. a._ to drub. _To_ TROKE, _v. a._ to bargain in the way of exchange; to barter. TROTTERS, _s. pl._ sheep's feet. _To_ TROW, TREW, _v. a._ to believe. TROWTH, _s._ truth; belief. TRUE-BLUE, _s._ an epithet applied to rigid Presbyterians, in allusion to the colour of the cockad worn by the Covenanters. TRUMPH, _s._ the trump at cards. TRUNSCHEOUN, _s._ a plate; a trencher. TRYSTING-PLACE, _s._ a place of meeting previously agreed on. TUCK, _s. tuck of drum_, beat of drum. TUILYIE, TOOLYIE, _s._ a quarrel; a broil. _To_ TUME, _v. a._ to empty. TUP, _s._ a ram; a foolish, stupid fellow. TUTTIE-TUTTIE, _interj_. pshaw! TWAL, _adj._ twelve. TWA-TIIREE, _s. pl._ a few in number. _To_ TWIN, TWYNE, _v. n._ to separate. TWOPENNY, _s._ small beer. TYDY, TYDIE, _adj._ neat; clean in person or house. TYRE-CAP, _s. a hat of tyre_; part of the dress of Bruce at Bannockburn. --U-- UNCANNY, _adj._ unsafe; as having supernatural powers. UNCHANCY, _adj._ unlucky. UNCO, _adj._ strange; unknown; very much. UNCOFT, _adj._ unbought. ULIE, _s._ oil. UMAN, _pron_. woman. UMBRE, _s._ shade. UNREASON, _adj._ disorder. UNRYCHT, _s._ injustice; iniquity. UNSICKKIR, UNSICKER, _adj._ not secure. UNTILL, _prep._ unto. UPPISH, _adj._ aspiring; ambitious. UPTAK, _s._ uptaking; apprehension. --V-- _To_ VAIG, _v. n._ to wander; to roam. VALISES, _s. pl_ saddlebags. VARLOT, VERLOT, _s._ an inferior servant. VAUNTY, _adj._ boastful. VENT, _s._ a chimney. VIRLE, _s._ a ferule. VOGIE, VOKIE, _adj._ merry; cheerful. VOUT, _s._ a vault. VOW, WOU! _interj_. expressive of admiration, somewhat equivalent to Oh! --W-- WA, WAY, WAE, _s._ wo; grief. _To_ WACHLE, _v. n._ to move backwards and forwards. WADDS, _s. pl._ pledges used in youthful amusement. WADSETTER, _s._ one who holds the property of another. WAFF, _adj._ worthless in conduct; ill-dressed. WAFFIE, _s._ a vagabond. WAFT, WEFT, WOFT, _s._ the woof in a web. WAGANG, WAYGANG. _s._ a departure. _To_ WAIGLE, WEIGLE, _v. n._ to waddle; to waggle. _To_ WAIK, _v. a._ to watch. WAIR, _v. a._ to spend. WAKERIFE, _adj._ watchful. WALD, _v. aux_. would. _To_ WALE, _v. a._ to select; to pick; to choose. _To_ WALLOP, _v. n._ to move quickly. _To_ WALLOW, _v. n._ to be immersed or rolling in anything. WALY! WALLY! _inter j_. expressive of lamentation. WAMBE, WAME, _s._ the belly. _To_ WAMBLE, WAUMBLE, _v. n._ to move in an undulatory manner. WAN, _adj._ black; gloomy. WANCOUTH, _adj._ uncouth. WANTER, _s._ a widower or bachelor. _To_ WAP, _v. a._ to throw rapidly; to throw. WAPPIN, WAPPYN, _s._ a weapon. WAR, WARR, _adj._ worse. _To_ WAR, _v. a._ to overcome. WARE, _s._ sea-wced. WARK, WARKE, _s._ work. WARKMAN, _s._ a labourer. WARLD, _s._ the world. WARLOCK, _s._ a wizard. _To_ WARSELL, WERSILL, _v. n._ to wrestle; to strive. WARWOLF, WARWOUF, _s._ a person supposed to be transformed into a wolf. WASTING, _s._ a consumption. _To_ WAT, _v. n._ to know. WATERGANG, _s._ a mill-race. _To_ WAUBLE, _v. n._ to swing or reel. WATER-WRAITH, _s._ the spirit of the waters. _To_ WAUGHT, WACHT-OUT, _v. n._ to quaff; a large draught of any liquid. _To_ WAUK, _v. a._ to full cloth; to shrink in consequence of being beetled. _To_ WAW, WAWE, _v. n._ to caterwaul. WEAN, WEANE, _s._ a child. _To_ WEAR-IN, _v. a._ to gather in. WEARY, _adj._ feeble. WEBSTER, WABSTER, _s._ a weaver. WEE, _adj._ little. WEEM, _s._ a natural cavern. WEET, _s._ rain; wet. WEFT, _s._ woof. WEILL-FARAND, WEEL-FARD, _adj._ good-looking. WEIRD, WEERD, _s._ fate; prediction. WEIRDLESS, WIERDLESS, _adj._ unprosperous; worthless; not well-doing. WELCOME-HAME, _s._ repast presented to a bride on entering the door of the bridegroom. WERSH, _adj._ insipid; tasteless. WHAAP, _s._ the curlew. WHANG, _s._ a thong; a large slice. WHEEN, _s. pl._ a number; a few. WHID, _s._ a lie. WHINGE, _v. n._ to whine. WHISHT! _interj_. hush! be silent. WHISTLE, WHUSSEL, _s._ the throat. WHITTLE, _s._ a knife. WHITTRETS, WHUTTRET, _s._ a weasel. _To_ WHUMMIL, WHOMEL, _v. a._ to turn upside down. WHUTTLE, _s._ whitlow, a gathering in the fingers. WHYLES, _s._ sometimes. WIDDIE, WUDDY, _s._ the gallows. WIFE, WYFE, _s._ a woman. WIFFIE, _s._ a little woman. _To_ WILE, WYLE, _v. n._ to entice. _To_ WIMPLE, WYMPEL, WOMPLE, _v. n._ to meander as applied to a stream. _To_ WIN, WYN, _a. v_. to dry corn. WINDOCK, WINNOCK, _s._ a window. WINKERS, _s._ the eye-lashes. WINSOME, _adj._ merry; gay; cheerful. _To_ WISEN, WYSSIN, _v. n._ to wither. WISHY-WASHY, _s. pl._ shuffling; half-and-half. _To_ WIT, WITT, _v. n._ to know; _I wit na_, I know not. WITE, WYTE, _s._ blame. _To_ WITE, WYTE, _v. n._ to blame; to accuse. WITTENS, _s._ knowledge. WIZEN, _s._ the throat. WIZZEN, _adj._ dry; withered WOB, _s._ a web. WOD, WODE, _adj._ mad. _To_ WON, _v. n._ to dwell. WOO, _s._ wool. _v_. To make love; to court. WORDY, WEIRDY, _adj._ worthy. WORLIN, _s._ a feeble puny person. _To_ WORRY, _v. n._ to choke; to be suffocated. WORSET, _s._ worsted. _To_ WOUFF, _v. n._ to bark. WOW! _interj_. expressive of admiration. WRAITH, WRAITHE, _s._ the apparition of a person seen before death, or soon after it. WRAK, WREK, WRACK, _s._ anything cast upon the sea-shore. WRAT, _s._ a wort. WHITER, _s._ an attorney. WYND, _s._ a narrow lane or alley. WYSS-LIKE, _adj._ having a decent appearance. WYTELESS, _adj._ blameless. --Y-- _To_ YABBLE, _v. n._ to gabble. YAD, _s._ an old worn-out mare. YALD, YAULD, _adj._ sprightly; alert. _To_ YAMER, YAMMER, _v. n._ to complain; continued whining; to pet. _To_ YAMPH, YAMF, _v. n._ to bark. YAP, YAPE, _adj._ having a keen appetite; very hungry. YARD, _s._ a garden for flowers; pot herbs. VARE, _s._ a weir for catching fish. YAUD, _s._ an order given by a shepherd to his dog; _far-yaud_, signifying drive the sheep to a distance. _To_ YAUP, _v. n._ to yelp. YEALD, _adj._ barren. YEARN, YERNE, _adj._ eager; wishful. YELD, YELL, EILD, _adj._ a cow is said to be _eild_ when she is giving no milk. YELDRING, YELDRIN, _s._ a yellow-hammer. YERD, YERTH, YIRD, _s._ earth; soil. _To_ YERD, _v. a._ to bury. _To_ YERK, _v. a._ to beat; to strike smartly. YESTREEN, _s._ last night. YET, YETT, _s._ a gate. YHULL, YULE, _s._ Christmas. YILL, _s._ ale. _To_ YIRR, _v. n._ to snarl; to growl. _To_ YOKE, _v. n._ to engage with another in dispute or in a quarrel. YONT, _prep_, beyond. YOUDEN-DRIFT, _s._ snow driven by the wind. _To_ YOUF, YUFF, _v. n._ to bark. YOUK, YEUK, _s._ the itch. _To_ YOUK, YUKE, _v. n._ to itch; to be itchy. YOUKY,_adj._ itchy; metaphorically, eager, anxious. _To_ YOUL, YOULL, _v. n._ to howl, to yell. YOW, YOWE, _s._ a ewe. YULE, _s._ the name given to Christmas. YULE-E'EN, _s._ the night preceding Christmas. _To_ YYRNE, _v_. to coagulate; to curdle. GENERAL INDEX. Abduction, The, ix. Adopted Son, The, ii. Age and Youth, Ballad of, xxiv. Ailie Faa, Ballad of, xxiv. Allerley Hall, The Legend of, xxiv. Amateur Robbery, The, xxii. Amateur Lawyers, The, vii. Ancient Bureau, The, vii. Angler's Tale, The, xvi. Archy Armstrong, v. Artist, The, vii. Assassin, The, xviii. Avenger; or, Legend of Mary Lee, The, xix. Ballogie's Daughters, Ballad of, xxiv. Barley Bannock, The, xx. Battle of Dryffe Sands, The, xv. Beggars' Camp, The, viii. Bereaved, The, xvii. Bewildered Student, The, x. Bell Stanley; or, a Sailor's Story, v. Bell White, v. Bonny Mary Gibson, xvi. Bride, The, viii. Bride of Bell's Tower, The, xxi. Bride of Bramblehaugh, The, xviii. Broken Heart, The, vii. Brownie of the West Bow, The, xxiii. Burning of Mrs. Jamphray, Legend of the, xxiv. Cairny Cave of Gavin Muir, The, xvii. Caldermuir, Legend of, xvii. Caleb Crabbin, x. Case of Evidence, The, xv. Castle of Weir, The Romaunt of the, xxiv. Castle of Crail, The; or, David and Queen Maude, x. Cateran of Lochloy, The, vii. Chance Question, The, xxi. Charles Gordon and Christina Cunningham, Story of, xvii. Chatelard, ix. Chevalier de la Beauté, xxiii. Cherry Stone, The, viii. Christie of the Cleik, ix. Church of Abercromby, Legend of the, x. Clara Douglas, The Story of, iv. Clerical Murderer, The, xv. Condemned, The, xvii. Conscience Stricken, The, v. Contrast of Wives, The, xi. Convict, The, xxii. Convivialists, The, ii. Cottar's Daughter, The, xv. Countess of Cassilis, The, xvi. Countess of Wistonburgh, The, i. Country Quarters, iv. Covenanter's March, The, iv. Covenanting Family, The, xiv. Cradle of Logie, The, xxiii. Craigullan, Legend of, xxiv. Cripple, The; or, Ebenezer the Disowned. ix. Crooked Comyn, The, x. Curate of Govan, The, xv. Cured Ingrate, The, ii. Curlers, The, xviii. Curse of Scotland, The, xix. David Lorimer, xxii. Death of James First, The, xv. Death of James Third, The, xvi. Diamond Eyes, The, xxii. Disasters of Johnny Armstrong, The, i. Dissolved Pledge, The, xix. Diver and the Bell, The, iii. Divinity Student, The, v. Doctor Dobie, xxi. Domestic Griefs of Gustavus MacIver, The, xix. Dominie's Class, xi. Dominie's Courtship, The, xiii. Dominie of St. Fillan's, The, xx. Donald Gorm, ii. Doom of Soulis, The, viii. Double-Bedded Room, The, v. Douglas Tragedy, The, xvi. Dowielee, Legend of, xxiv. Dream, The, xiii. Droich, The, vii. Duncan M'Arthur, viii. Duncan Schulebred's Vision of Judgment, v. Dura Den, ix. Early days of a Friend of the Covenant, xxi. Early Recollections of a Son of the Hills, iv. Edmund and Helen, xxiv. Ellen Arundel, ix. Enthusiast, The, xiv. Eskdale Muir Story, The, xvi. Experimenter, The, iii. Faa's Revenge, The, i. Fair, The, iv. Fair Maid of Cellardykes, The,[*Illegible*] Fair Emergilde, Legend of the, xxiv. Fair Helen of Kirkconnel, Legend of, ix. Faithful Wife, The, xxiii. Family Incidents, vii. Fatal Mistake, The, xvi. Festival, The, xiv. First and Second Marriages, The, xix. First Foot, The, x. Floshend Inn, The, xiii. Forger, The, xii. Fortunes of William Wighton, The, ii. Foundling at Sea, The, xviii. Fugitive, The, xviii. Geordie Willison and the Heiress of Castlegower, vi. Ghost of Howdiecraigs, The, x[*Illegible*] Ghost of Gairyburn, The, xi. Girl Forger, The, xxiii. Glass Back, The, xii. Golden Counsel, Ballad of, xxiv[*Illegible*] Good Man of Dryfield, The, vii[*Illegible*] Grandmother's Narrative, The, xv[*Illegible*] Grace Cameron, xvi. Grizel Cochrane, xv. Guid Wife of Coldingham, The, vi. Guilty or Not Guilty, vi. Gustavus MacIver, The Domestic Griefs of, xix. Happy Conclusion, The, xvi. Harden's Revenge, viii. Hawick Spate, The, xix. Heir of Inshannock, The, xii. Helen Palmer, xvii. Henpecked Man, The, viii. Hen Wife, The, viii. Hermit of the Hills, xxiv. Heroine, The, a Legend of the Canongate, xx. Highland Boy, The, v. Highland Tradition, A, xvii. Hogmanay; or, the Lady of Ballochgray, xvii. Holyrood, Legend of, xiv. House in Bell's Wynd, The, xxi. Hume and the Governor of Berwick, xvii. I canna be fashed; or Willie Grant's Confessions, x. Imprudent Marriage, The, x. Irish Reaper, The, xvi. James Renwick, xviii. John Govan's Narrative, xx. John Square's Voyage to India, vii. Johnny Armstrong, Disasters of, i. Judith the Egyptian, vii. Kate Kennedy, i. Katheran, The, iv. Kinaldy, xix. Kirkyards, xiv. Lady Katharine, Legend of the, xxiv. Lady Rae, xxii. Laidley Worm of Spindelston Heugh, vi. Laird of Darnick Tower, The, vii. Laird of Hermitage, The, xix. Laird of Lucky's Howe, ix. Laird Rorieson's Will, xviii. Last of the Pedlars, The, v. Last Scrap, The, xxiii. Leaves from the Life of Alexander Hamilton, xix. Leaves from the Diary of an Aged Spinster, vi. Leein' Jamie Murdieston, viii. Leveller, The, xvi. Linton Lairds, The; or, Exclusives and Inclusives, iv. Lord Durie and Christie's Will, ii. Lord Kames's Puzzle, xxiii, Lost Heir of the House of Elphinstone, xx. Lottery Hall, xiii. Lykewake, The, vii. Maid Marion, Ballad of, xxiv. Maiden Feast of Cairnkibbie, The, iv. Man-of-Warsman, The, xvi. Mary Brown, The Story of, xxiii. Mary Lee, The Legend of, xxiv. Master Samuel Ramsay Thriven, xvi. Matrimony, Ballad of, xxiv. May Darling, x. May, The Romance of the, x. Major Weir's Coach, v. Medal, The, x. Merchant's Daughter, The, xxi. Meeting of St. Boswell's, The, x. Midside Maggie; or, The Bannock of Tollishill, i. Mike Maxwell and the Gretna Green Lovers, xii. Miser of Newabbey, The, xx. Mistake Rectified, The, ix. Mistress Humphrey Greenwood's Tea Party, ix. Monk of St. Anthony, The, iv. Monks of Dryburgh, The, iv. Monomaniac, The, xviii. Mortlake, a Legend of Merton, viii. Moss Trooper, The, xii. Mountain Storm, The, i. My Black Coat, ii. Mysie Craig, Story of, xxiii. Mysterious Disappearance, The, xvi. Natural History of Idiots, The, xiii. Old Bluntie, xx. Old Isbel Kirk, xviii. Order of the Garter, The, xiv. Orphan, The, xxiii. Packman's Journey to London, The, ix. Palantines, The, vi. Parsonage, The, vi. Peat-Casting Time, x. Peden's Farewell Sermon, xv. Pelican, Story of the, xxiii. Penny Wedding, The, vii. Persecution of the M'Michaels, The, xv. Perseverance; or, The Autobiography of Roderick Grey, xvi. Philips Grey, ii. Phoebe Fortune, iii. Physiognomist's Tale, The, viii. Polwarth on the Green, xiv. Poor Scholars, The, vii. Porter's Hole, xvii. Prescription; or, The 29th September, i. Prince of Scotland, The, xiv. Prisoner of War, The, xviii. Procrastinator, The, xxii. Prodigal Son, The, xxi. Rattling Roaring Willie, v. Recluse, The, xvii. Recluse of the Hebrides, The, ix. Recollections of Burns, ii. Recollections of Ferguson, i. Recollections of a Village Patriarch, xv. Redhall, The; or Berwick in 1296, xi. Restored Son, The, xiv. Rescue at Enterken, The, xvi. Retribution, xiv. Return, The, vii. Reuben Purves, xii. Rival Night-Caps, The, iii. Robbery at Pittenweem, The, xvii. Roger Goldie's Narrative, xvii. Romance of tho Siege of Perth, The, x. Rosalie, Song of, xxiv. Roseallan Castle, Ballad of, xxiv, Roseallan's Daughter, xiii. Rothsay Fisherman, The, vi. Royal Bridal, The, iii. Royal Raid, The, iii. Rumbollow, Ballad of, xxiv. Sabbath Wrecks, The, vi. St. Mary's Wynd, The Romaunt of, xxiv. Salmon Fisher of Udoll, iv. Sayings and Doings of Peter Paterson, xx. School Fellows, The, xi. Scottish Veteran, The, xii. Scottish Hunters of Hudson's Bay, The, xii. Sea Fight, The, xix. Sea Skirmish, The, xx. Seeker, The, xxi. Seer's Cave, The, vi. Sergeant Wilson, xvii. Seven Years' Dearth, The, xiv. Sea Storm, The, xii. Shoes Reversed, The, xx. Siege, The, xxiv. Simple Man is the Beggar's Brother, The, xvii. Sir Patrick Hume, ix. Sir Peregrine and the Lady Etheline, The Romaunt of, xxiv. Skean Dhu, The, xiv. Slave, The, iv. Smuggler, The, xi. Snow Storm of 1825, The, vi. Social Man, The, xi. Solitary of the Cave, iv. Somnambulist of Redcleugh, The, vi. Sportsman of Outfield Haugh, The, xix. Squire Ben, xv. Stone Breaker, The, xviii. Souter's Wedding, The, xiii. Suicide, The, xi. Suicide's Grave, The, iv. Surtout, The, xi. Ten of Diamonds, The, xxii. Thomas Harkness of Lockerben, xx. Thomas of Chartres, xviii. Tibbie Fowler, xxiii. Tournay, The, xxiv. Tom Duncan's Yarn, ix. Tom Bertram, Story of, xv. Three Letters, The, xii. Three Brethren, The, ix. Trees and Burns, xiv. Trials and Triumphs, xx. Trials of Menie Dempster, The, xiii. Trials of the Rev. Samuel Austin, The, xix. Twin Brothers, The, xxiii. Two Comrades, The, xi. Two Red Slippers, The, xxiii. Two Sailors, The, xiii. Unbidden Guest, The, xvii. Unknown, The, xiii. Ups and Downs; or, David Stuart's Account of His Pilgrimage, xxii. Vacant Chair, The, i. Violated Coffin, The, xviii. Wager, The, xxi. Warning, The, xv. Wedding, The, xii. We'll have Another, xii. White Woman of Taras, xii. Whitsome Tragedy, The, iii. Widow's ae Son, The, xxiii. Widow of Dunskaith, The, iii. Wife or the Wuddy, A, ii. Willie Smith, Autobiography of, iii. Willie Wastle's Account of his Wife, xviii. Woman with the White Mice, The, xxi. World's Vanity, Ballad of the, xxiv. Young Laird, The, iii. END OF VOLUME XXIV. 
12742	----	MINISTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER: CONSISTING OF HISTORICAL AND ROMANTIC BALLADS, COLLECTED IN THE SOUTHERN COUNTIES OF SCOTLAND; WITH A FEW OF MODERN DATE, FOUNDED UPON LOCAL TRADITION. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. I The songs, to savage virtue dear, That won of yore the public ear, Ere Polity, sedate and sage, Had quench'd the fires of feudal rage.--WARTON. 1806. TO HIS GRACE, HENRY, _DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH_, &c.&c.&c. THESE TALES, WHICH IN ELDER TIMES HAVE CELEBRATED THE PROWESS, AND CHEERED THE HALLS, OF _HIS GALLANT ANCESTORS_, ARE RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY HIS GRACE'S MUCH OBLIGED AND MOST HUMBLE SERVANT, WALTER SCOTT. CONTENTS TO THE FIRST VOLUME. INTRODUCTION PART FIRST. _HISTORICAL BALLADS_. Sir Patrick Spens, Auld Maitland, Battle of Otterbourne, The Sang of the Outlaw Murray, Johnie Armstrang, The Lochmaben Harper, Jamie Telfer of the Fair Dodhead, The Raid of the Reidswire, Kinmont Willie, Dick o'the Cow, Jock o'the Side, Hobbie Noble, Archie of Ca'field, Armstrong's Goodnight, The Fray of Suport, Lord Maxwell's Goodnight, The Lads of Wamphray, INTRODUCTION. From the remote period; when the Roman province was contracted by the ramparts of Severus, until the union of the kingdoms, the borders of Scotland formed the stage, upon which were presented the most memorable conflicts of two gallant nations. The inhabitants, at the commencement of this aera, formed the first wave of the torrent which assaulted, and finally overwhelmed, the barriers of the Roman power in Britain. The subsequent events, in which they were engaged, tended little to diminish their military hardihood, or to reconcile them to a more civilized state of society. We have no occasion to trace the state of the borders during the long and obscure period of Scottish history, which preceded the accession of the Stuart family. To illustrate a few ballads, the earliest of which is hardly coeval with James V. such an enquiry would be equally difficult and vain. If we may trust the Welch bards, in their account of the wars betwixt the Saxons and Danes of Deira and the Cumraig, imagination can hardly form [Sidenote: 570] any idea of conflicts more desperate, than were maintained, on the borders, between the ancient British and their Teutonic invaders. Thus, the Gododin describes the waste and devastation of mutual havoc, in colours so glowing, as strongly to recall the words of Tacitus; "_Et ubi solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant_[1]." [Footnote 1: In the spirited translation of this poem, by Jones, the following verses are highly descriptive of the exhausted state of the victor army. At Madoc's tent the clarion sounds, With rapid clangour hurried far: Each echoing dell the note resounds-- But when return the sons of war! Thou, born of stern necessity, Dull peace! the desert yields to thee, And owns thy melancholy sway. At a later period, the Saxon families, who fled from the exterminating sword of the Conqueror, with many of the Normans themselves, whom discontent and intestine feuds had driven into exile, began to rise into eminence upon the Scottish borders. They brought with them arts, both of peace and of war, unknown in Scotland; and, among their descendants, we soon number the most powerful border chiefs. Such, during the reign of the [Sidenote: 1249] last Alexander, were Patrick, earl of March, and Lord Soulis, renowned in tradition; and such were, also, the powerful Comyns, who early acquired the principal sway upon the Scottish marches. [Sidenote: 1300] In the civil wars betwixt Bruce and Baliol, all those powerful chieftains espoused the unsuccessful party. They were forfeited and exiled; and upon their ruins was founded the formidable house of Douglas. The borders, from sea to sea, were now at the devotion of a succession of mighty chiefs, whose exorbitant power threatened to place a new dynasty upon the Scottish throne. It is not my intention to trace the dazzling career of this race of heroes, whose exploits were alike formidable to the English, and to their sovereign. The sun of Douglas set in blood. The murders of the sixth earl, and his brother, in the castle of Edinburgh, were followed by that of their successor, poignarded at Stirling by the hand of his prince. His brother, Earl James, appears neither to have possessed the abilities nor the ambition of his ancestors. He drew, indeed, against his prince, the formidable sword of Douglas, but with a timid and hesitating hand. Procrastination ruined his cause; and he was deserted, at Abercorn, by the knight of Cadyow, chief of the Hamiltons, and by his most active adherents, after they had ineffectually exhorted him to commit [Sidenote: 1453] his fate to the issue of a battle. The border chiefs, who longed for independence, shewed little [Sidenote: 1455] inclination to follow the declining fortunes of Douglas. On the contrary, the most powerful clans engaged and defeated him, at Arkinholme, in Annandale, when, after a short residence in England, he again endeavoured to gain a footing in his native country[2]. The spoils of Douglas were liberally distributed among his conquerors, and royal grants of his forfeited domains effectually interested them in excluding his return. An [Sidenote: 1457] attempt, on the east borders, by "_the Percy and the Douglas, both together_," was equally unsuccessful. The earl, grown old in exile, longed once more to see his native country, and vowed, that, [Sidenote: 1483] upon Saint Magdalen's day, he would deposit his offering on the high altar at Lochmaben.--Accompanied by the banished earl of Albany, with his usual ill fortune, he entered Scotland.--The borderers assembled to oppose him, and he suffered a final defeat at Burnswark, in Dumfries-shire. The aged earl was taken in the fight, by a son of Kirkpatrick of Closeburn, one of his own vassals. A grant of lands had been offered for his person: "Carry me to the king!" said Douglas to Kirkpatrick: "thou art well entitled to profit by my misfortune; for thou wast true to me, while I was true to myself." The young man wept bitterly, and offered to fly with the earl into England. But Douglas, weary of exile, refused his proffered liberty, and only requested, that Kirkpatrick would not deliver him to the king, till he had secured his own reward[3]. Kirkpatrick did more: he stipulated for the personal safety of his old master. His generous intercession prevailed; and the last of the Douglasses was permitted to die, in monastic seclusion, in the abbey of Lindores. [Footnote 2: At the battle of Arkinholme, the Earl of Angus, a near kinsman of Douglas, commanded the royal forces; and the difference of their complexion occasioned the saying, "that the _Black Douglas_ had put down the _Red_." The Maxwells, the Johnstones, and the Scotts, composed his army. Archibald, earl of Murray, brother to Douglas, was slain in the action; and Hugh, Earl of Ormond, his second brother, was taken and executed. His captors, Lord Carlisle, and the Baron of Johnstone, were rewarded with a grant of the lands of Pittinane, upon Clyde.--_Godscroft_, Vol. I. p. 375.--_Balfour's MS. in the Advocates' Library, Edinburgh_.--_Abercrombie's Achievements_, Vol. II. p. 361. _folio Ed_.--The other chiefs were also distinguished by royal favour. By a charter, upon record, dated 25th February, 1458, the king grants to Walter Scott of Kirkurd, ancestor of the house of Buccleuch, the lands of Abingtown, Phareholm, and Glentonan craig, in Lanarkshire. "_Pro suo fideli servitio nobis impenso et pro quod interfuit in conflictu de Arkenholme in occisione et captione nostrorum rebellium quondam Archibaldi et Hugonis de Douglas olim comitum Moraviae et de Ormond et aliorum rebellium nostrorum in eorum comitiva existen: ibidem captorum et interfectorum_." Similar grants of land were made to Finnart and Arran, the two branches of the house of Hamilton; to the chiefs of the Battisons; but, above all, to the Earl of Angus who obtained from royal favour a donation of the Lordship of Douglas, and many other lands, now held by Lord Douglas, as his representative. There appears, however, to be some doubt, whether, in this division, the Earl of Angus received more than his natural right. Our historians, indeed, say, that William I. Earl of Douglas, had three sons; 1. James, the 2d Earl, who died in the field of Otterburn; 2. Archibald, the Grim, 3d Earl; and 3. George, in right of his mother, earl of Angus. Whether, however, this Archibald was actually the son of William, seems very doubtful; and Sir David Dalrymple has strenuously maintained the contrary. Now, if Archibald, the Grim, intruded into the earldom of Douglas, without being a son of that family, it follows that the house of Angus, being kept out of their just rights for more than a century, were only restored to them after the battle of Arkinholme. Perhaps, this may help to account for the eager interest taken by the earl of Angus against his kinsman.--_Remarks on History of Scotland_, Edinburgh, 1773. p. 121.] [Footnote 3: A grant of the king, dated 2d October, 1484, bestowed upon Kirkpatrick, for this acceptable service, the lands of Kirkmichael.] After the fall of the house of Douglas, no one chieftain appears to have enjoyed the same extensive supremacy over the Scottish borders. The various barons, who had partaken of the spoil, combined in resisting a succession of uncontrouled domination. The earl of Angus alone seems to have taken rapid steps in the same course of ambition which had been pursued by his kinsmen and rivals, the earls of Douglas. Archibald, sixth earl of Angus, called _Bell-the-Cat_, was, at once, warden of the east and middle marches, Lord of Liddisdale and Jedwood forest, and possessed of the strong castles of Douglas, Hermitage, and Tantallon. Highly esteemed by the ancient nobility, a faction which he headed shook the throne of the feeble James III., whose person they restrained, and whose minions they led to an ignominious death. The king failed not to shew his sense of these insults, though unable effectually to avenge them. This hastened his fate: and the field of Bannockburn, once the scene of a more glorious conflict, beheld the combined chieftains of the border counties arrayed against their sovereign, under the banners of his own son. The king was supported by almost all the barons of the north; but the tumultuous ranks of the Highlanders were ill able to endure the steady and rapid charge of the men of Annandale and Liddisdale, who bare spears, two ells longer than were used by the rest of their countrymen. The yells, with which they accompanied their onset, caused the heart of James to quail within him. He deserted his host, [Sidenote: 1488] and fled towards Stirling; but, falling from his horse, he was murdered by the pursuers. James IV., a monarch of a vigorous and energetic character, was well aware of the danger which his ancestors had experienced, from the preponderance of one overgrown family. He is supposed to have smiled internally, when the border and highland champions bled and died in the savage sports of chivalry, by which his nuptials were solemnized. Upon the waxing power of Angus he kept a wary eye; and, embracing the occasion of a casual slaughter, he compelled that earl, and his son, to exchange the lordship of Liddisdale and the castle of Hermitage, for the castle and lordship of Bothwell[4]. By this policy, he prevented the house of Angus, mighty as it was, from rising to the height, whence the elder branch of their family had been hurled. [Footnote 4: Spens of Kilspindie, a renowned cavalier, had been present in court, when the Earl of Angus was highly praised for strength and valour. "It may be," answered Spens, "if all be good that is upcome;" insinuating, that the courage of the earl might not answer the promise of his person. Shortly after, Angus, while hawking near Borthwick, with a single attendant, met Kilspindie. "What reason had ye," said the earl, "for making question of my manhood? thou art a tall fellow, and so am I; and by St. Bride of Douglas, one of us shall pay for it!"--"Since it may be no better," answered Kilspindie, "I will defend myself against the best earl in Scotland." With these words they encountered fiercely, till Angus, with one blow, severed the thigh of his antagonist, who died upon the spot. The earl then addressed the attendant of Kilspindie: "Go thy way: tell my gossip, the king, that here was nothing but fair play. I know my gossip will be offended; but I will get me into Liddisdale, and remain in my castle of the Hermitage till his anger be abated."--_Godscroft_, Vol. II. p. 59. The price of the earl's pardon seems to have been the exchange mentioned in the text. Bothwell is now the residence of Lord Douglas. The sword, with which Archibald, _Bell-the-Cat_, slew Spens, was, by his descendant, the famous Earl of Morton, presented to Lord Lindsay of the Byres, when, about to engage in single combat with Bothwell, at Carberry-hill--_Godscroft_, Vol. II. p. 175.] Nor did James fail in affording his subjects on the marches marks of his royal justice and protection. [Sidenote: 1510] The clan of Turnbull having been guilty of unbounded excesses, the king came suddenly to Jedburgh, by a night march, and executed the most rigid justice upon the astonished offenders. Their submission was made with singular solemnity. Two hundred of the tribe met the king, at the water of Rule, holding in their hands the naked swords, with which they had perpetrated their crimes, and having each around his neck the halter which he had well merited. A few were capitally punished, many imprisoned, and the rest dismissed, after they had given hostages for their future peaceable demeanour.--_Holinshed's Chronicle, Lesly_. The hopes of Scotland, excited by the prudent and spirited conduct of James, were doomed to a sudden and fatal reverse. Why should we recapitulate the painful tale of the defeat and death of a high-spirited prince? Prudence, policy, the prodigies of superstition, and the advice of his most experienced counsellors, were alike unable to subdue in James the blazing zeal of romantic chivalry. The monarch, and the flower of his nobles, [Sidenote: 1513] precipitately rushed to the fatal field of Flodden, whence they were never to return. The minority of James V. presents a melancholy scene. Scotland, through all its extent, felt the truth of the adage, "that the country is hapless, whose prince is a child." But the border counties, exposed from their situation to the incursions of the English, deprived of many of their most gallant chiefs, and harassed by the intestine struggles of the survivors, were reduced to a wilderness, inhabited only by the beasts of the field, and by a few more brutal warriors. Lord Home, the chamberlain and favourite of James IV., leagued with the Earl of Angus, who married the widow of his sovereign, held, for a time, the chief sway upon the east border. Albany, the regent of the kingdom, bred in the French court, and more accustomed to wield the pen than the sword, feebly endeavoured to controul a lawless nobility, to whom his manners appeared strange, and his person [Sidenote: 1516] despicable. It was in vain that he inveigled the Lord Home to Edinburgh, where he was tried and executed. This example of justice, or severity, only irritated the kinsmen and followers of the deceased baron: for though, in other respects, not more sanguinary than the rest of a barbarous nation, the borderers never dismissed from their memory a deadly feud, till blood for blood had been exacted, to the uttermost drachm[5]. Of this, the fate of Anthony d'Arcey, Seigneur de la Bastie, affords a melancholy example. This gallant French cavalier was appointed warden of the east marches by Albany, at his first disgraceful retreat to France. Though De la Bastie was an able statesman, and a true son of chivalry, the choice of the regent was nevertheless unhappy. The new warden was a foreigner, placed in the office of Lord Home, as [Sidenote: 1517] the delegate of the very man, who had brought that baron to the scaffold. A stratagem, contrived by Home of Wedderburn, who burned to avenge the death of his chief, drew De la Bastie towards Langton, in the Merse. Here he found himself surrounded by his enemies. In attempting, by the speed of his horse, to gain the castle of Dunbar, the warden plunged into a morass, where he was overtaken and cruelly butchered. Wedderburn himself cut off his head; and, in savage triumph, knitted it to his saddle-bow by the long flowing hair, which had been admired by the dames of France.--_Pitscottie, Edit_. 1728, p. 130. _Pinkerton's History of Scotland_, Vol. II. p. 169 [6]. [Footnote 5: The statute 1594, cap. 231, ascribes the disorders on the border in a great measure to the "counselles, directions, receipt, and partaking, of chieftains principalles of the branches, and househalders of the saides surnames, and clannes, quhilkis bears quarrel, and seeks revenge for the least hurting or slauchter of ony ane of their unhappy race, although it were ardour of justice, or in rescuing and following of trew mens geares stollen or reft."] [Footnote 6: This tragedy, or, perhaps, the preceding execution of Lord Home, must have been the subject of the song, the first two lines of which are preserved in the _Complaynt of Scotland_; God sen' the Duc hed byddin in France, And de la Bauté had never come hame. P, 100, Edin. 1801.] The Earl of Arran, head of the house of Hamilton was appointed to succeed De la Bastie in his perilous office. But the Douglasses, the Homes, and the Kerrs, proved too strong for him upon the [Sidenote: 1520] border. He was routed by these clans, at Kelso, and afterwards in a sharp skirmish, fought betwixt his faction and that of Angus, in the high-street of the metropolis[7]. [Footnote 7: The particulars of this encounter are interesting. The Hamiltons were the most numerous party, drawn chiefly from the western counties. Their leaders met in the palace of Archbishop Beaton, and resolved to apprehend Angus, who was come to the city to attend the convention of estates. Gawain Douglas, bishop of Dunkeld, a near relation of Angus, in vain endeavoured to mediate betwixt the factions. He appealed to Beaton, and invoked his assistance to prevent bloodshed. "On my conscience," answered the archbishop, "I cannot help what is to happen." As he laid his hand upon his breast, at this solemn declaration, the hauberk, concealed by his rocket, was heard to clatter: "Ah! my lord!" retorted Douglas, "your conscience sounds hollow." He then expostulated with the secular leaders, and Sir Patrick Hamilton, brother to Arran, was convinced by his remonstrances; but Sir James, the natural son of the earl, upbraided his uncle with reluctance to fight. "False bastard!" answered Sir Patrick, "I will fight to day where thou darest not be seen." With these words they rushed tumultuously towards the high-street, where Angus, with the prior of Coldinghame, and the redoubted Wedderburn, waited their assault, at the head of 400 spearmen, the flower of the east marches, who, having broke down the gate of the Netherbow, had arrived just in time to the earl's assistance. The advantage of the ground, and the disorder of the Hamiltons, soon gave the day to Angus. Sir Patrick Hamilton, and the master of Montgomery, were slain. Arran, and Sir James Hamilton, escaped with difficulty; and with no less difficulty was the military prelate of Glasgow rescued from the ferocious borderers, by the generous interposition of Gawain Douglas. The skirmish was long remembered in Edinburgh, by the name of "Cleanse the Causeway."--_Pinkerton's History_, Vol. II. p. 181.--_Pitscottie Edit._ 1728. p. 120.--_Life of Gawain Douglas, prefixed to his Virgil_.] The return of the regent was followed by the banishment of Angus, and by a desultory warfare with England, carried on with mutual incursions. Two gallant armies, levied by Albany, were dismissed without any exploit worthy notice, while Surrey, at the head of ten thousand cavalry, burned Jedburgh, and laid waste all Tiviotdale. This general pays a splendid tribute to the gallantry of the border chiefs. He terms them "the boldest [Sidenote: 1523] men, and the hottest, that ever I saw any nation[8]." [Footnote 8: A curious letter from Surrey to the king is printed in the Appendix, No. I.] Disgraced and detested, Albany bade adieu to Scotland for ever. The queen-mother, and the Earl of Arran, for some time swayed the kingdom. But their power was despised on the borders, where Angus, though banished, had many friends. Scot of Buccleuch even appropriated to himself domains, belonging to the queen, worth 4000 merks yearly; being probably the castle of Newark and her jointure lands in Ettrick forest[9].-- [Footnote 9: In a letter to the Duke of Norfolk, October 1524, Queen Margaret says, "Sen that the Lard of Sessford and the Lard of Baclw vas put in the castell of Edinbrouh, the Erl of Lenness hath past hyz vay vythout lycyens, and in despyt; and thynkyth to make the brek that he may, and to solyst other lordis to tak hyz part; for the said lard of Bavkl wvas hyz man, and dyd the gretyst ewelyz that myght be dwn, and twk part playnly vyth theasyz as is well known."--_Cot. MSS. Calig._ B.I.] This chief, with Kerr of Cessford, was committed to ward, from which they escaped, to join [Sidenote: 1525] the party of the exiled Angus. Leagued with these, and other border chiefs, Angus effected his return to Scotland, where he shortly after acquired possession of the supreme power, and of the person of the youthful king. "The ancient power of the Douglasses," says the accurate historian, whom I have so often referred to, "seemed to have revived; and, after a slumber of near a century, again to threaten destruction to the Scottish monarchy."--_Pinkerton_, Vol. 11, p. 277. In fact, the time now returned, when no one durst strive with a Douglas, or with his follower. For, although Angus used the outward pageant of conducting the king around the country, for punishing thieves and traitors, "yet," says Pitscottie, "none were found greater than were in his own company." The high spirit of the young king was galled by the ignominious restraint under which he found himself; and, in a progress to the border for repressing the Armstrongs, he probably gave such signs of dissatisfaction, as excited the [Sidenote: 1526] laird of Buccleuch to attempt his rescue. This powerful baron was the chief of a hardy clan, inhabiting Ettrick forest, Eskdale, Ewsdale, the higher part of Tiviotdale, and a portion of Liddesdale. In this warlike district he easily levied a thousand horse, comprehending a large body of Elliots, Armstrongs, and other broken clans, over whom the laird of Buccleuch exercised an extensive authority; being termed, by Lord Dacre, "chief maintainer of all misguided men on the borders of Scotland."--_Letter to Wolsey_, July 18. 1528. The Earl of Angus, with his reluctant ward, had slept at Melrose; and the clans of Home and Kerr, under the Lord Home, and the barons of Cessford, and Fairnihirst, had taken their leave of the king, when, in the gray of the morning, Buccleuch and his band of cavalry were discovered, hanging, like a thunder-cloud, upon the neighbouring hill of Haliden[10]. A herald was sent to demand his purpose, and to charge him to retire. To the first point he answered, that he came to shew his clan to the king, according to the custom of the borders; to the second, that he knew the king's mind better than Angus.--When this haughty answer was reported to the earl, "Sir," said he to the king, "yonder is Buccleuch, with the thieves of Annandale and Liddesdale, to bar your grace's passage. I vow to God they shall either fight or flee. Your grace shall tarry on this hillock, with my brother George; and I will either clear your road of yonder banditti, or die in the attempt." The earl, with these words, alighted, and hastened to the charge; while the Earl of Lennox (at whose instigation Buccleuch made the attempt), remained with the king, an inactive spectator. Buccleuch and his followers likewise dismounted, and received the assailants with a dreadful shout, and a shower of lances. The encounter was fierce and obstinate; but the Homes and Kerrs, returning at the noise of battle, bore down and dispersed the left wing of Buccleuch's little army. The hired banditti fled on all sides; but the chief himself, surrounded by his clan, fought desperately in the retreat. The laird of Cessford, chief of the Roxburgh Kerrs, pursued the chace fiercely; till, at the bottom of a steep path, Elliot of Stobs, a follower of Buccleuch, turned, and slew him with a stroke of his lance. When Cessford fell, the pursuit ceased. But his death, with those of Buccleuch's friends, who fell in the action, to the number of eighty, occasioned a deadly feud betwixt the names of Scott and Kerr, which cost much blood upon the marches[11].--See _Pitscottie_, _Lesly_, and _Godscroft_. [Footnote 10: Near Darnick. By a corruption from Skirmish field, the spot is still called the Skinnerfield. Two lines of an old ballad on the subject are still preserved: "There were sick belts and blows, The Mattous burn ran blood." [Footnote 11: Buccleuch contrived to escape forfeiture, a doom pronounced against those nobles, who assisted the Earl of Lennox, in a subsequent attempt to deliver the king, by force of arms. "The laird of Bukcleugh has a respecte, and is not forfeited; and will get his pece, and was in Leithquo, both Sondaye, Mondaye, and Tewisday last, which is grete displeasure to the Carres."--_Letter from Sir C. Dacre to Lord Dacre, 2d December_, 1526.] [Sidenote: 1528] Stratagem at length effected what force had been unable to accomplish; and the king, emancipated from the iron tutelage of Angus, made the first use of his authority, by banishing from the kingdom his late lieutenant, and the whole race of Douglas. This command was not enforced without difficulty; for the power of Angus was strongly rooted in the east border, where he possessed the castle of Tantallon, and the hearts of the Homes and Kerrs. The former, whose strength was proverbial[12], defied a royal army; and the latter, at the Pass of Pease, baffled the Earl of Argyle's attempts to enter the Merse, as lieutenant of his sovereign. On this occasion, the borderers regarded with wonder and contempt the barbarous array, and rude equipage, of their northern countrymen Godscroft has preserved the beginning of a scoffing rhyme, made upon this occasion: The Earl of Argyle is bound to ride From the border of Edgebucklin brae[13]; And all his habergeons him beside, Each man upon a sonk of strae. They made their vow that they would slay-- _Godscroft_, v. 2. p. 104. Ed. 1743. [Footnote 12: "To ding down Tantallon, and make a bridge to the Bass," was an adage expressive of impossibility. The shattered ruins of this celebrated fortress still overhang a tremendous rock on the coast of East Lothian.] [Footnote 13: Edgebucklin, near Musselburgh.] The pertinacious opposition of Angus to his doom irritated to the extreme the fiery temper of James, and he swore, in his wrath, that a Douglas should never serve him; an oath which he kept in circumstances under which the spirit of chivalry, which he worshipped[14], should have taught him other feelings. [Footnote 14: I allude to the affecting story of Douglas of Kilspindie, uncle to the Earl of Angus. This gentleman had been placed by Angus about the king's person, who, when a boy, loved him much, on account of his singular activity of body, and was wont to call him his _Graysteil_, after a champion of chivalry, in the romance of _Sir Eger and Sir Grime_. He shared, however, the fate of his chief, and, for many years, served in France. Weary, at length, of exile, the aged warrior, recollecting the king's personal attachment to him, resolved to throw himself on his clemency. As James returned from hunting in the park at Stirling, he saw a person at a distance, and, turning to his nobles, exclaimed, "Yonder is my _Graysteil_, Archibald of Kilspindie!" As he approached, Douglas threw himself on his knees, and implored permission to lead an obscure life in his native land. But the name of Douglas was an amulet, which steeled the king's heart against the influence of compassion and juvenile recollection. He passed the suppliant without an answer, and rode briskly up the steep hill, towards the castle. Kilspindie, though loaded with a hauberk under his cloaths, kept pace with the horse, in vain endeavouring to catch a glance from the implacable monarch. He sat down at the gate, weary and exhausted, and asked for a draught of water. Even this was refused by the royal attendants. The king afterwards blamed their discourtesy; but Kilspindie was obliged to return to France, where he died of a broken heart; the same disease which afterwards brought to the grave his unrelenting sovereign. Even the stern Henry VIII. blamed his nephew's conduct, quoting the generous saying "A king's face should give grace."--_Godscroft_, Vol. II. P. 107.] While these transactions, by which the fate of Scotland was influenced, were passing upon the eastern border, the Lord Maxwell seems to have exercised a most uncontrouled domination in Dumfries-shire. Even the power of the Earl of Angus was exerted in vain, against the banditti of Liddesdale, protected and bucklered by this mighty chief. Repeated complaints are made by the English residents, of the devastation occasioned by the depredations of the Elliots, Scotts, and Armstrongs, connived at, and encouraged, by Maxwell, [Sidenote: 1528] Buccleuch, and Fairnihirst. At a convention of border commissioners, it was agreed, that the king of England, in case the excesses of the Liddesdale freebooters were not duly redressed, should be at liberty to issue letters of reprisal to his injured subjects, granting "power to invade the said inhabitants of Liddesdale, to their slaughters, burning, heirships, robbing, reifing, despoiling and destruction, and so to continue the same at his grace's pleasure," till the attempts of the inhabitants were fully atoned for. This impolitic expedient, by which the Scottish prince, unable to execute justice on his turbulent subjects, committed to a rival sovereign the power of unlimited chastisement, was a principal cause of the savage state of the borders. For the inhabitants, finding that the sword of revenge was substituted for that of justice, were loosened from their attachment to Scotland, and boldly threatened to carry on their depredations, in spite of the efforts of both kingdoms. James V., however, was not backward in using more honourable expedients to quell the banditti [Sidenote: 1529] on the borders. The imprisonment of their chiefs, and a noted expedition, in which many of the principal thieves were executed (see introduction to the ballad, called _Johnie Armstrong_), produced such good effects, that, according to an ancient picturesque history, "thereafter there was great peace and rest a long time, where through the king had great profit; for he had ten thousand sheep going in the Ettrick forest, in keeping by Andrew Bell, who made the king so good count of them, as they had gone in the hounds of Fife." _Pitscottie_, p. 153. A breach with England interrupted the tranquillity [Sidenote: 1532] of the borders. The Earl of Northumberland, a formidable name to Scotland, ravaged the middle marches, and burned Branxholm, the abode of Buccleuch, the hereditary enemy of the English name. Buccleuch, with the barons of Cessford and Fairnihirst, retaliated by a raid into England, [Sidenote: 1533] where they acquired much spoil. On the east march, Fowberry was destroyed by the Scots, and Dunglass castle by D'Arcey, and the banished Angus. A short peace was quickly followed by another war, which proved fatal to Scotland, and to her king. In the battle of Haddenrig, the English, and the exiled Douglasses, were defeated by the Lords Huntly and Home; but this was a transient gleam of success. Kelso was burned, and the borders [Sidenote: 1542] ravaged, by the Duke of Norfolk; and finally, the rout of Solway moss, in which ten thousand men, the flower of the Scottish army, were dispersed and defeated by a band of five hundred English cavalry, or rather by their own dissentions, broke the proud heart of James; a death, more painful a hundred fold than was met by his father in the field of Flodden. When the strength of the Scottish army had sunk, without wounds, and without renown, the principal chiefs were led captive into England.--Among these was the Lord Maxwell, who was compelled, by the menaces of Henry, to swear allegiance to the English monarch. There is still in existence the spirited instrument of vindication, by which he renounces his connection with England, and the honours and estates which had been proffered him, as the price of treason to his infant sovereign. From various bonds of manrent, it appears, that all the western marches were swayed [Sidenote: 1543] by this powerful chieftain. With Maxwell, and the other captives, returned to Scotland the banished Earl of Angus, and his brother, Sir George Douglas, after a banishment of fifteen years. This powerful family regained at least a part of their influence upon the borders; and, grateful to the kingdom which had afforded them protection during their exile, became chiefs of the English faction in Scotland, whose object it was to urge a contract of marriage betwixt the young queen and the heir apparent of England. The impetuosity of Henry, the ancient hatred betwixt the nations, and the wavering temper of the governor, Arran, prevented the success of this measure. The wrath of the disappointed monarch discharged itself in a wide-wasting and furious invasion of the east marches, conducted by the Earl of Hertford. Seton, Home, and Buccleuch, hanging on the mountains of Lammermoor, saw, with ineffectual regret, the fertile plains of Merse and Lothian, and the metropolis itself, reduced to a smoking desert. Hertford had scarcely retreated with the main army, when Evers and Latoun laid waste the whole vale of Tiviot, with a ferocity of devastation, hitherto unheard of[15]. The same "lion mode of wooing," being pursued during the minority of Edward VI., totally alienated the affections even of those Scots who were most attached to the English interest. The Earl of Angus, in particular, united himself to the governor, and gave the English a sharp defeat at Ancram moor, [Sidenote: 1545] a particular account of which action is subjoined to the ballad, entituled, "_The Eve of St. John_." Even the fatal defeat at Pinky, which at once renewed the carnage of Flodden, and the disgrace of Solway, served to prejudice the cause of the victors. The borders saw, with dread and detestation, the ruinous fortress of Roxburgh once more receive an English garrison, and the widow of Lord Home driven from his baronial castle, to [Sidenote: 1547] make room for the "_Southern Reivers_." Many of the barons made a reluctant submission to Somerset; but those of the higher part of the marches remained among their mountains, meditating revenge. A similar incursion was made on the west borders by Lord Wharton, who, with five thousand men, ravaged and overran Annandale, Nithsdale, and Galloway, compelling the inhabitants to receive the yoke of England[16]. [Footnote 15: In Haynes' State Papers, from p. 43 to p. 64, is an account of these destructive forays. One list of the places burned and destroyed enumerates-- Monasteries and Freehouses .... 7 Castles, towres, and piles .... 16 Market townes ................. 5 Villages ...................... 243 Mylnes ........................ 13 Spytells and hospitals ........ 3 See also official accounts of these expeditions, in _Dalyell's Fragments_.] [Footnote 16: Patten gives us a list of those east border chiefs who did homage to the Duke of Somerset, on the 24th of September, 1547; namely, the lairds of Cessfoorth, Fernyherst, Grenehed, Hunthill, Hundely, Makerstone, Bymerside, Bounjedworth, Ormeston, Mellestains, Warmesay, Synton, Egerston, Merton, Mowe, Rydell, Beamerside. Of gentlemen, he enumerates George Tromboul, Jhon Haliburton, Robert Car, Robert Car of Greyden, Adam Kirton, Andrew Mether, Saunders Purvose of Erleston, Mark Car of Littledean, George Car of Faldenside, Alexander Mackdowal, Charles Rutherford, Thomas Car of the Yere, Jhon Car of Meynthorn (Nenthorn), Walter Holiburton, Richard Hangansyde, Andrew Car, James Douglas of Cavers, James Car of Mersington, George Hoppringle, William Ormeston of Edmerden, John Grymslowe.--_Patten_, in _Dalyell's Fragments_, p. 87. On the west border, the following barons and clans submitted and gave pledges to Lord Wharton, that they would serve the king of England, with the number of followers annexed to their names. ANNERDALE. NITHSDALE. Laird of Kirkmighel .......... 222 Mr Maxwell and more ........ 1000 Rose ................ 165 Laird of Closeburn ......... 403 Hempsfield .......... 163 Lag ............... 202 Home Ends ........... 162 Cransfield ........ 27 Wamfrey ............. 102 Mr Ed. Creighton ........... 10 Dunwoddy ............ 44 Laird of Cowhill ........... 91 Laird of Newby and Gratney .. 122 Maxwells of Brackenside, Tinnel (Tinwald) .... 102 and vicar of Carlaverick .. 310 Patrick Murray .............. 203 ANNERDALE AND GALWAY. Christie Urwin (Irving) of Lord Carlisle .............. 101 Coveshawe ............ 102 ANNERDALE AND CLIDSDALE Cuthbert Urwen of Robbgill .. 34 Laird of Applegirth ........ 242 Urwens of Sennersack ......... 40 LIDDESDALE AND DEBATEABLE Wat Urwen .................... 20 LAND. Jeffrey Urwen ................ 93 Armstrongs ................. 300 T. Johnston of Crackburn .... 64 Elwoods (Elliots) .......... 74 James Johnston of Coites .... 162 Nixons ..................... 32 Johnstons of Graggyland ..... 37 GALLOWAY Johnstons of Driesdell ...... 46 Laird of Dawbaylie ......... 41 Johnstons of Malinshaw ...... 65 Orcherton .................. 111 Gawen Johnston .............. 31 Carlisle ................... 206 Will Johnston, the laird's Loughenwar ................. 45 brother ................... 110 Tutor of Bumbie ............ 140 Robin Johnston of Abbot of Newabbey .......... 141 Lochmaben .................. 67 Town of Dumfries ........... 201 Lard of Gillersbie ............ 30 Town of Kircubrie .......... 36 Moffits ....................... 24 TIVIDALE. Bells of Tostints ............ 142 Laird of Drumlire .......... 364 Bells of Tindills ............ 222 Caruthers .................. 71 Sir John Lawson ............... 32 Trumbells .................. 12 Town of Annan ................ 33 ESKDALE. Roomes of Tordephe ........... 32 Battisons and Thomsons ..... 166 Total 7008 men under English assurance. _Nicolson, from Bell's MS. Introduction to History of Cumberland_, p. 65.] The arrival of French auxiliaries, and of French gold, rendered vain the splendid successes of the English. One by one, the fortresses which they occupied were recovered by force, or by stratagem; and the vindictive cruelty of the Scottish borderers made dreadful retaliation for the, injuries they had sustained. An idea may be conceived of this horrible warfare, from the memoirs of Beaugé, a French officer, serving in Scotland. The castle of Fairnihirst, situated about three miles above Jedburgh, had been taken and garrisoned by the English. The commander and his followers are accused of such excesses of lust and cruelty "as would," says Beaugé, "have made to tremble the most savage moor in Africa." A band of Frenchmen, with the laird of Fairnihirst, and [Sidenote: 1549] his borderers, assaulted this fortress. The English archers showered their arrows down the steep ascent, leading to the castle, and from the outer wall by which it was surrounded. A vigorous escalade, however, gained the base court, and the sharp fire of the French arquebusiers drove the bowmen into the square keep, or dungeon, of the fortress. Here the English defended themselves, till a breach in the wall was made by mining. Through this hole the commandant creeped forth; and, surrendering himself to De la Mothe-rouge, implored protection from the vengeance of the borderers. But a Scottish marc-hman, eyeing in the captive the ravisher of his wife, approached him ere the French officer could guess his intention, and, at one blow, carried his head four paces from the trunk. Above a hundred Scots rushed to wash their hands in the blood of their oppressor, bandied about the severed head, and expressed their joy in such shouts, as if they had stormed the city of London. The prisoners, who fell into their merciless hands, were put to death, after their eyes had been torn out; the victors contending who should display the greatest address in severing their legs and arms, before inflicting a mortal wound. When their own prisoners were slain, the Scottish, with an unextinguishable thirst for blood, purchased those of the French; parting willingly with their very arms, in exchange for an English captive. "I myself," says Beaugé, with military sang-froid, "I myself sold them a prisoner for a small horse. They laid him down upon the ground, galloped over him with their lances in rest, and wounded him as they passed. When slain, they cut his body in pieces, and bore the mangled gobbets, in triumph, on the points of their spears. I cannot greatly praise the Scottish for this practice. But the truth is, that the English tyrannized over the borders in a most barbarous manner; and I think it was but fair to repay them, according to the proverb, in their own coin."-- _Campagnes de Beaugé_. A peace, in 1551, put an end to this war; the most destructive which, for a length of time, had ravaged Scotland. Some attention was paid by the governor and queen-mother, to the administration of justice on the border; and the chieftains, who had distinguished themselves during the late troubles, received the honour of knighthood[17]. [Sidenote: 1522] At this time, also, the Debateable Land, a tract of country, situated betwixt the Esk and Sarke, claimed by both kingdoms, was divided by royal commissioners, appointed by the two crowns.--By their award, this land of contention was separated by a line, drawn from east to west, betwixt the rivers. The upper half was adjudged to Scotland, and the more eastern part to England. Yet the Debateable Land continued long after to be the residence of the thieves and banditti, to whom its dubious state had afforded a desirable refuge[18]. [Footnote 17: These were the lairds of Buccleuch, Cessford, and Fairnihirst, Littleden, Grenehed, and Coldingknows. Buccleuch, whose gallant exploits we have noticed, did not long enjoy his new honours. He was murdered, in the streets of Edinburgh, by his hereditary enemies, the Kerrs, anno 1552.] [Footnote 18: The jest of James VI. is well known, who, when a favourite cow had found her way from London, back to her native country of Fife, observed, "that nothing surprised him so much as her passing uninterrupted through the Debateable Land!"] In 1557, a new war broke out, in which rencounters on the borders were, as usual, numerous, and with varied success. In some of these, the too famous Bothwell is said to have given proofs of his courage, which was at other times very questionable[19]. About this time the Scottish borderers seem to have acquired some ascendency over their southern neighbours.--_Strype_, Vol. III. p. 437--In 1559, peace was again restored. [Footnote 19: He was lord of Liddesdale, and keeper of the Hermitage castle. But he had little effective power over that country, and was twice defeated by the Armstrongs, its lawless inhabitants.--_Border History_, p. 584. Yet the unfortunate Mary, in her famous Apology, says, "that in the weiris againis Ingland, he gaif proof of his vailyentnes, courage, and gude conduct;" and praises him especially for subjugating "the rebellious subjectis inhabiting the cuntreis lying ewest the marches of Ingland."--_Keith_, p. 388. He appears actually to have defeated Sir Henry Percy, in a skirmish, called the Raid of Haltweilswire.] The flame of reformation, long stifled in Scotland, now burst forth, with the violence of a volcanic eruption. The siege of Leith was commenced, by the combined forces of the Congregation and of England. The borderers cared little about speculative points of religion; but they shewed themselves much interested in the treasures which passed through their country, for payment of the English forces at Edinburgh. Much alarm was excited, lest the marchers should intercept these weighty protestant arguments; and it was, probably, by voluntarily imparting a share in them to Lord Home, that he became a sudden convert to the new faith[20]. [Footnote 20: This nobleman had, shortly before, threatened to spoil the English east march; "but," says the Duke of Norfolk, "we have provided such sauce for him, that I think he will not deal in such matter; but, if he do fire but one hay-goff, he shall not go to Home again without torch-light, and, peradventure, may find a lanthorn at his own house."] Upon the arrival of the ill-fated Mary in her native country, she found the borders in a state of great disorder. The exertions of her natural brother (afterwards the famous regent, Murray) were necessary to restore some degree of tranquillity. He marched to Jedburgh, executed twenty or thirty of the transgressors, burned many houses, and brought a number of prisoners to Edinburgh. The chieftains of the principal clans were also obliged to grant pledges for their future obedience. A noted convention (for the particulars of which, see _Border Laws_, p. 84.) adopted various regulations, which were attended with great advantage to the marches[21]. [Footnote 21: The commissioners on the English side were, the elder Lord Scroope of Bolton, Sir John Foster, Sir Thomas Gargrave, and Dr. Rookby. On the Scottish side appeared, Sir John Maxwell of Terreagles, and Sir John Ballenden.] The unhappy match, betwixt Henry Darnley and his sovereign, led to new dissentions on the border. The Homes, Kerrs, and other east marchers, hastened to support the queen, against Murray, Chatelherault, and other nobles, whom her marriage had offended. For the same purpose the Johnstones, Jardines, and clans of Annandale entered into bonds of confederacy. But Liddesdale was under the influence of England; in so much, that Randolph, the English minister, proposed to hire a band of _strapping Elliots_, to find Home business at home, in looking after his corn and cattle.--_Keith_, p. 265. _App_. 133. This storm was hardly overblown, when Bothwell received the commission of lieutenant upon the borders; but, as void of parts as of principle, he could not even recover to the queen's allegiance his own domains in Liddesdale.--_Keith, App_. 165. The queen herself advanced to the borders, to remedy this evil, and to hold courts at Jedburgh. Bothwell was already in Liddesdale, where he had been severely wounded, in an attempt to seize John Elliot, of the Parke, a desperate freebooter; and happy had it been for Mary, had the dagger of the moss-trooper struck more home. Bothwell being transported to his castle of Hermitage, the queen, upon hearing the tidings, hastened thither, A dangerous morass, still called the _Queen's Mire_[22], is pointed out by tradition as the spot where the lovely Mary, and her white palfrey, were in danger of perishing. The distance betwixt Hermitage and Jedburgh, by the way of Hawick, is nearly twenty-four English miles. The queen went and returned the same day. Whether she visited a wounded subject, or a lover in danger, has been warmly disputed in our latter days. [Footnote 22: The _Queen's Mire_ is still a pass of danger, exhibiting, in many places, the bones of the horses which have been entangled in it. For what reason the queen chose to enter Liddesdale by the circuitous route of Hawick, does not appear. There are two other passes from Jedburgh to Hermitage castle; the one by the _Note of the Gate_, the other over the mountain, called Winburgh. Either of these, but especially the latter, is several miles shorter than that by Hawick, and the Queen's Mire. But, by the circuitous way of Hawick, the queen could traverse the districts of more friendly clans, than by going directly into the disorderly province of Liddesdale.] To the death of Henry Darnley, it is said, some of the border lords were privy. But the subsequent marriage, betwixt the queen and Bothwell, alienated from her the affections of the chieftains of the marches, most of whom aided the association of the insurgent barons. A few gentlemen of the Merse, however, joined the army which Mary brought to Carberry-hill. But no one was willing to fight for the detested Bothwell, nor did Bothwell himself shew any inclination to put his person in jeopardy. The result to Mary was a rigorous captivity in Lochleven castle; and the name of Bothwell scarcely again pollutes the page of Scottish history. The distress of a beautiful and afflicted princess softened the hearts of her subjects; and, when she escaped from her severe captivity, the most powerful barons in Scotland crowded around her standard. Among these were many of the west border men, under the lords Maxwell and Herries[23]. But the defeat at Langside was a death-blow to her interest in Scotland. [Footnote 23: The followers of these barons are said to have stolen the horses of their friends, while they were engaged in the battle.] The death of the regent Murray, in 1569, excited the party of Mary to hope and to exertion. It seems, that the design of Bothwelhaugh, who slew him, was well known upon the borders; for, the very day on which the slaughter happened, Buccleuch and Fairnihirst, with their clans, broke into England, and spread devastation along the frontiers, with unusual ferocity. It is probable they well knew that the controuling hand of the regent was that day palsied by death. Buchanan exclaims loudly against this breach of truce with Elizabeth, charging Queen Mary's party with having "houndit furth proude and uncircumspecte young men, to hery, burne, and slay, and tak prisoneris, in her realme, and use all misordour and crueltie, not only usit in weir, but detestabil to all barbar and wild Tartaris, in slaying of prisoneris, and contrair to all humanitie and justice, keeping na promeis to miserabil catives resavit anis to thair mercy "--_Admonitioun to the trew lordis, Striveling_, 1571. He numbers, among these insurgents, highlanders as well as borderers, Buccleuch and Fairnihirst, the Johnstons and Armstrongs, the Grants, and the clan Chattan. Besides these powerful clans, Mary numbered among her adherents, the Maxwells, and almost all the west border leaders, excepting Drumlanrig, and Jardine of Applegirth. On the eastern border, the faction of the infant king was more powerful; for, although deserted by Lord Home, the greater part of his clan, under the influence of Wedderburn, remained attached to that party. The laird of Cessford wished them well, and the Earl of Angus naturally followed the steps of his uncle Morton. A sharp and bloody invasion of the middle march, under the command of the Earl of Sussex, avenged with interest the raids of Buccleuch and Fairnihirst. The domains of these chiefs were laid waste, their castles burned and destroyed. The narrow vales of Beaumont and Kale, belonging to Buccleuch, were treated with peculiar severity; and the forrays of Hertford were equalled by that of Sussex. In vain did the chiefs request assistance from the government to defend their fortresses. Through the predominating interest of Elizabeth in the Scottish councils, this was refused to all but Home, whose castle, nevertheless, again received an English garrison; while Buccleuch and Fairnihirst complained bitterly that those, who had instigated their invasion, durst not even come so far as Lauder, to shew countenance to their defence against the English. The bickerings, which followed, distracted the whole kingdom. One celebrated exploit may be selected, as an illustration of the border fashion of war. The Earl of Lennox, who had succeeded Murray in the regency, held a parliament at Stirling, in 1571. The young king was exhibited to the great council of his nation. He had been tutored to repeat a set speech, composed for the occasion; but, observing that the roof of the building was a little decayed, he interrupted his recitation, and exclaimed, with childish levity, "that there was a hole in the parliament,"--words which, in these days, were held to presage the deadly breach shortly to be made in that body, by the death of him in whose name it was convoked. Amid the most undisturbed security of confidence, the lords, who composed this parliament, were roused at day-break, by the shouts of their enemies in the heart of the town. _God and the Queen_! resounded from every quarter, and, in a few minutes, the regent, with the astonished nobles of his party, were prisoners to a band of two hundred border cavalry, led by Scott of Buccleuch, and to the Lord Claud Hamilton, at the head of three hundred infantry. These enterprising chiefs, by a rapid and well concerted manoeuvre, had reached Stirling in a night march from Edinburgh, and, without so much as being bayed at by a watch-dog had seized the principal street of the town.--The fortunate obstinacy of Morton saved his party. Stubborn and undaunted, he defended his house till the assailants set it in flames, and then yielded with reluctance to his kinsman, Buccleuch. But the time, which he had gained, effectually served his cause. The borderers had dispersed to plunder the stables of the nobility; the infantry thronged tumultuously together on the main street, when the Earl of Mar, issuing from the castle, placed one or two small pieces of ordnance in his own half-built house[24], which commands the market place. Hardly had the artillery begun to scour the street, when the assailants, surprised in their turn, fled with precipitation. Their alarm was increased by the townsmen thronging to arms. Those, who had been so lately triumphant, were now, in many instances, asking the protection of their own prisoners. In all probability, not a man would have escaped death, or captivity, but for the characteristic rapacity of Buccleuch's marauders, who, having seized and carried off all the horses in the town, left the victors no means of following the chace. The regent was slain by an officer, named Caulder, in order to prevent his being rescued. Spens of Ormeston, to whom he had surrendered, lost his life in a generous attempt to protect him[25]. Hardly does our history present another enterprise, so well planned, so happily commenced, and so strangely disconcerted. To the licence of the marchmen the failure was attributed; but the same cause ensured a safe retreat.--_Spottiswoode, Godscroft, Robertson, Melville_. [Footnote 24: This building still remains, in the unfinished state which it then presented.] [Footnote 25: Birrel says, that "the regent was shot by an unhappy fellow, while sitting on horseback behind the laird of Buccleuch."--The following curious account of the whole transaction is extracted from a journal of principal events, in the years 1570, 1571, 1572, and part of 1573, kept by Richard Bannatyne, amanuensis to John Knox. The fourt of September, they of Edinburgh, horsemen and futmen (and, as was reported, the most part of Clidisdaill, that perteinit to the Hamiltons), come to Striveling, the number of iii or iiii c men, in hors bak, guydit be ane George Bell, their hacbutteris being all horsed, enterit in Striveling, be fyve houris in the morning (whair thair was never one to mak watche), crying this slogane, 'God and the quene! ane Hamiltoun think on the bishop of St. Androis, all is owres;' and so a certaine come to everie grit manis ludgene, and apprehendit the Lordis Mortoun and Glencarne; but Mortounis hous they set on fyre, wha randerit him to the laird of Balcleuch. Wormestoun being appointed to the regentes hous, desyred him to cum furth, which he had no will to doe, yet, be perswasione of Garleys and otheris, with him, tho't it best to come in will, nor to byde the extremitie, becaus they supposed there was no resistance, and swa the regent come furth, and was randered to Wormestoun, under promeis to save his lyfe. Captane Crawfurde, being in the town, gat sum men out of the castell, and uther gentlemen being in the town, come as they my't best to the geat, chased them out of the town. The regent was schot be ane Captain Cader, wha confessed, that he did it at comande of George Bell, wha was comandit so to doe be the Lord Huntlie and Claud Hamilton. Some sayis, that Wormestoun was schot by the same schot that slew the regent, but alwayis he was slane, notwithstanding the regent cryed to save him, but it culd not be, the furie was so grit of the presewaris, who, following so fast, the lord of Mortone said to Balcleuch, 'I sall save you as ye savit me,' and so he was tane. Garleys, and sindrie otheris, war slane at the port, in the persute of thame. Thair war ten or twelve gentlemen slane of the kingis folk, and als mony of theiris, or mea, as was said, and a dosone or xvi tane. Twa especiall servantis of the Lord Argyle's were slane also. This Cader, that schot the regent, was once turned bak off the toune, and was send again (as is said), be the Lord Huntlie, to cause Wormistoun retire; but, before he come agane, he was dispatched, and had gottin deidis woundis. The regent being schot (as said is), was brought to the castell, whair he callit for ane phisitione, one for his soule, ane uther for his bodie. But all hope of life was past, for he was schot in his entreallis; and swa, after sumthingis spokin to the lordis, which I know not, he departed, in the feare of God, and made a blessed end; whilk the rest of the lordis, that tho't thame to his hiert, and lytle reguardit him, shall not mak so blised ane end, unles they mend thair maneris. This curious manuscript has been lately published, under the inspection of John Graham Dalyell, Esq.] The wily Earl of Morton, who, after the short intervening regency of Mar, succeeded to the supreme authority, contrived, by force or artifice, to render the party of the king every where superior. Even on the middle borders, he had the address to engage in his cause the powerful, though savage and licentious, clans of Rutherford and Turnbull, as well as the citizens of Jedburgh. He was thus enabled to counterpoise his powerful opponents, Buccleuch and Fairnihirst, in their own country; and, after an unsuccessful attempt to surprise Jedburgh even these warm adherents of Mary relinquished her cause in despair. While Morton swayed the state, his attachment to Elizabeth, and the humiliation which many of the border chiefs had undergone, contributed to maintain good order on the marches, till James VI. himself assumed the reigns of government.--The intervening skirmish of the Reidswire (see the ballad under that title) was but a sudden explosion of the rivalry and suppressed hatred of the borderers of both kingdoms. In truth, the stern rule of Morton, and of his delegates, men unconnected with the borders by birth, maintained in that country more strict discipline than had ever been there exercised. Perhaps this hastened his fall. The unpopularity of Morton, acquired partly by the strict administration of justice, and partly by avarice and severity, forced him from the regency. In 1578, he retired, apparently, from state affairs, to his castle of Dalkeith; which the populace, emphatically expressing their awe and dread of his person, termed the _Lion's Den_. But Morton could not live in retirement; and, early in the same year, the aged lion again rushed from his cavern. By a mixture of policy and violence, he possessed himself of the fortress of Stirling, and of the person of James. His nephew, Angus, hastened to his assistance. Against him appeared his follower Cessford, with many of the Homes, and the citizens of Edinburgh. Alluding to the restraint of the king's person, they bore his effigy on their banners, with a rude rhyme, demanding liberty or death.--_Birrel's Diary, ad annum_, 1578. The Earl of Morton marched against his foes as far as Falkirk, and a desperate action must have ensued, but for the persuasions of Bowes, the English ambassador. The only blood, then spilt, was in a duel betwixt Tait, a follower of Cessford, and Johnstone, a west border man, attending upon Angus. They fought with lances, and on horseback, according to the fashion of the borders.--The former was unhorsed and slain, the latter desperately wounded.--_Godscroft_, Vol. II. p. 261. The prudence of the late regent appears to have abandoned him, when he was decoyed into a treaty upon this occasion. It was not long before Morton the veteran warrior, and the crafty statesman, was forced bend his neck to an engine of death[26], the use of which he himself had introduced into Scotland. [Footnote 26: A rude sort of guillotine, called the _maiden_. The implement is now in possession of the Society of Scottish Antiquaries.] Released from the thraldom of Morton, the king, with more than youthful levity, threw his supreme power into the hands of Lennox and Arran. The religion of the first, and the infamous character of the second favourite, excited the hatred of the commons, while their exclusive and engrossing power awakened the jealousy of the other nobles. James, doomed to be the sport of contending factions was seized at Stirling by the nobles, confederated in what was termed the Raid of Ruthven. But the conspirators soon suffered their prize to escape, and were rewarded for their enterprize by exile or death. In 1585, an affray took place at a border meeting in which Lord Russel, the Earl of Bedford's eldest son, chanced to be slain. Queen Elizabeth imputed the guilt of this slaughter to Thomas Kerr of Fairnihirst, instigated by Arran. Upon the imperious demand of the English ambassador, both were committed to prison; but the minion, Arran, was soon restored to liberty and favour; while Fairnihirst, the dread of the English borderers and the gallant defender of Queen Mary, died in his confinement, of a broken heart.--_Spottiswoode_ p. 341. The tyranny of Arran becoming daily more insupportable the exiled lords, joined by Maxwell, Home, Bothwell, and other border chieftains, seized the town of Stirling, which was pillaged by their disorderly followers, invested the castle, which surrendered at discretion, and drove the favourite from the king's council[27]. [Footnote 27: The associated nobles seem to have owed their success chiefly to the border spearmen; for, though they had a band of mercenaries, who used fire arms, yet they were such bad masters of their craft, their captain was heard to observe, "that those, who knew his soldiers as well as he did, would hardly chuse to _march before them_."--_Godscroft_, v. ii. p. 368.] The king, perceiving the Earl of Bothwell among the armed barons, to whom he surrendered his person addressed him in these prophetic words:-- "Francis, Francis, what moved thee to come in arms against thy prince, who never wronged thee? I wish thee a more quiet spirit, else I foresee thy destruction."--_Spottiswoode_, p. 343. In fact, the extraordinary enterprizes of this nobleman disturbed the next ten years of James's reign. Francis Stuart, son to a bastard of James V., had been invested with the titles and estates belonging to his maternal uncle, James Hepburn, Earl of Bothwell, upon the forfeiture of that infamous man; and consequently became lord of Liddesdale, and of the castle of Hermitage.--This acquisition of power upon the borders, where he could easily levy followers, willing to undertake the most desperate enterprize, joined to the man's native daring and violent spirit, rendered Bothwell the most turbulent insurgent, that ever disturbed the tranquillity of a kingdom. During the king's absence in Denmark, Bothwell, swayed by the superstition of his age, had tampered with certain soothsayers and witches, by whose pretended art he hoped to atchieve the death of his monarch. In one of the courts of inquisition, which James delighted to hold upon the professors of the occult sciences, some of his cousin's proceedings were brought to light, for which he was put in ward in the castle of Edinburgh. Burning with revenge, he broke from his confinement, and lurked for some time upon the borders, where he hoped for the countenance of his son-in-law, Buccleuch. Undeterred by the absence of that chief, who, in obedience to the royal command, had prudently retired to France, Bothwell attempted the desperate enterprize of seizing the person of the king, while residing in his metropolis. At the dead of night, followed by a band of borderers, he occupied the court of the palace of Holyrood, and began to burst open the doors of the royal apartments. The nobility, distrustful of each other, and ignorant of the extent of the conspiracy, only endeavoured to make good the defence of their separate lodgings; but darkness and confusion prevented the assailants from profiting by their disunion. Melville, who was present, gives a lively picture of the scene of disorder, transiently illuminated by the glare of passing torches; while the report of fire arms, the clatter of armour, the din of hammers thundering on the gates, mingled wildly with the war-cry of the borderers, who shouted incessantly, "Justice! Justice! A Bothwell! A Bothwell!" The citizens of Edinburgh at length began to assemble for the defence of their sovereign; and Bothwell was compelled to retreat, which he did without considerable loss.--_Melville_, p. 356. A similar attempt on the person of James, while residing at Faulkland, also misgave; but the credit which Bothwell obtained on the borders, by these bold and desperate enterprizes, was incredible "All Tiviotdale," says Spottiswoode, "ran after him;" so that he finally obtained his object; and, at Edinburgh, in 1593, he stood before James, an unexpected apparition, with his naked sword in his hand. "Strike!" said James, with royal dignity--"Strike, and end thy work! I will not survive my dishonour." But Bothwell with unexpected moderation, only stipulated for remission of his forfeiture, and did not even insist on remaining at court, whence his party was shortly expelled, by the return of the Lord Home, and his other enemies. Incensed at this reverse, Bothwell levied a body of four hundred cavalry, and attacked the king's guard in broad day, upon the Borough Moor, near Edinburgh.--The ready succour of the citizens saved James from falling once more into the hands of his turbulent subject[28]. On a subsequent day, Bothwell met the laird of Cessford, riding near Edinburgh, with whom he fought a single combat, which lasted for two hours[29]. But his credit was now fallen; he retreated to England, whence he was driven by Elizabeth, and then wandered to Spain and Italy, where he subsisted, in indigence and obscurity, on the bread which he earned by apostatizing to the faith of Rome. So fell this agitator of domestic broils, whose name passed into a proverb, denoting a powerful and turbulent demagogue[30]. [Footnote 28: Spottiswoode says, the king awaited this charge with firmness; but Birrell avers, that he fled upon the gallop. The same author, instead of the firm deportment of James, when seized by Bothwell, describes "the king's majestie as flying down the back stair, with his breeches in his hand, in great fear."--_Birrell, apud Dalyell_, p. 30. Such is the difference betwixt the narrative of the courtly archbishop, and that of the presbyterian burgess of Edinburgh.] [Footnote 29: This rencounter took place at Humbie, in East Lothian. Bothwell was attended by a servant, called Gibson, and Cessford by one of the Rutherfords, who was hurt in the cheek. The combatant parted from pure fatigue.] [Footnote 30: Sir Walter Raleigh, in writing of Essex, then in prison, says, "Let the queen hold _Bothwell_ while she hath him."--_Murdin_, Vol. II. p. 812. It appears, from _Crichton's Memoirs_, that Bothwell's grandson, though so nearly related to the royal family, actually rode a private in the Scottish horse guards, in the reign of Charles II.--_Edinburgh_, 1731, p. 43.] While these scenes were passing in the metropolis the borders were furiously agitated by civil discord. The families of Cessford and Fairnihirst disputed their right to the wardenry of the middle marches, and to the provostry of Jedburgh; and William Kerr of Ancram, a follower of the latter, was murdered by the young chief of Cessford, at the instigation of his mother.--_Spottiswoode_, p. 383. But this was trifling, compared to the civil war, waged on the western frontier, between the Johnstones and Maxwells, of which there is a minute account in the introduction to the ballad, entitled, "_Maxwell's Goodnight_." Prefixed to that termed "_Kinmont Willie_" the reader will find an account of the last warden raids performed upon the border. My sketch of border history now draws to a close. The accession of James to the English crown converted the extremity into the centre of his kingdom. The east marches of Scotland were, at this momentous period, in a state of comparative civilization. The rich soil of Berwickshire soon invited the inhabitants to the arts of agriculture.--Even in the days of Lesley, the nobles and barons of the Merse differed in manners from the other borderers, administered justice with regularity, and abstained from plunder and depredation.--_De moribus Scotorum_, p. 7. But, on the middle and western marches, the inhabitants were unrestrained moss-troopers and cattle drivers, knowing no measure of law, says Camden, but the length of their swords. The sterility of the mountainous country, which they inhabited, offered little encouragement to industry; and, for the long series of centuries, which we have hastily reviewed, the hands of rapine were never there folded in inactivity, nor the sword of violence returned to the scabbard. Various proclamations were in vain issued for interdicting the use of horses and arms upon the west border of England and Scotland[31]. [Footnote 31: "Proclamation shall be made, that all inhabiting within Tynedale and Riddesdale, in Northumberland, Bewcastledale, Willgavey, the north part of Gilsland, Esk, and Leven, in Cumberland; east and west Tividale, Liddesdale, Eskdale, Ewsdale, and Annesdale, in Scotland (saving noblemen Footnote: and gentlemen unsuspected of felony and theft, and not being of broken clans, and their household servants, dwelling within those several places, before recited), shall put away all armour and weapons, as well offensive as defensive, as jacks, spears, lances, swords, daggers, steel-caps, hack-buts, pistols, plate sleeves, and such like; and shall not keep any horse, gelding, or mare, above the value of fifty shillings sterling, or thirty pounds Scots, upon the like paid of imprisonment."--_Proceedings of the Border Commissioners_, 1505.--_Introduction to History of Cumberland_, p. 127.] The evil was found to require the radical cure of extirpation. Buccleuch collected under his banners the most desperate of the border warriors, of whom he formed a legion, for the service of the states of Holland; who had as much reason to rejoice on their arrival upon the continent, as Britain to congratulate herself upon their departure. It may be presumed, that few of this corps ever returned to their native country. The clan of Graeme, a hardy and ferocious set of freebooters inhabiting chiefly the Debateable Land, by a very summary exertion of authority, was transported to Ireland, and their return prohibited under pain of death. Against other offenders, measures, equally arbitrary, were without hesitation pursued. Numbers of border riders were executed, without even the formality of a trial; and it is even said, that, in mockery of justice, assizes were held upon them after they had suffered. For these acts of tyranny, see _Johnston_, p. 374, 414, 39, 93. The memory of Dunbar's legal proceedings at Jedburgh, are preserved in the proverbial phrase, _Jeddart Justice_, which signifies, trial after execution. By this rigour though sternly and unconscientiously exercised the border marauders were, in the course of years, either reclaimed or exterminated; though nearly a century elapsed ere their manners were altogether assimilated to those of their countrymen[32]. [Footnote 32: See the acts 18 Cha. II. 6.3. and 80 Cha. II. ch. 2. against the border moss-troopers; to which we may add the following curious extracts from _Mercurius Politicus_, a newspaper, published during the usurpation. "_Thursday, November 11, 1662_. "Edinburgh.--The Scotts and moss-troopers have again revived their old custom, of robbing and murdering the English, whether soldiers or other, upon all opportunities, within these three weeks. We have had notice of several robberies and murders, committed by them. Among the rest, a lieutenant, and one other of Col. Overton's regiment, returning from England, were robbed not far from Dunbarr. A lieutenant, lately master of the customs at Kirkcudbright, was killed about twenty miles from this place; and four foot soldiers of Colonel Overton's were killed, going to their quarters, by some mossers, who, after they had given them quarter, tied their hands behind them, and then threw them down a steep hill, or rock, as it was related by a Scotchman, who was with them, but escaped." _Ibidem.--"October_ 13, 1663.--The Parliament, October 21, past an act, declaring, any person that shall discover any felon, or felons (commonly called, or known, by the name of moss-troopers), residing upon the borders of England and Scotland, shall have a reward of ten pound upon their conviction."] In these hasty sketches of border history, I have endeavoured to select, such incidents, as may introduce to the reader the character of the marchmen, more briefly and better than a formal essay upon their manners. If I have been successful in the attempt, he is already acquainted with the mixture of courage and rapacity by which they were distinguished; and has reviewed some of the scenes in which they acted a principal part. It is, therefore only necessary to notice, more minutely, some of their peculiar customs and modes of life. Their morality was of a singular kind. The ranpine, by which they subsisted, they accounted lawful and honourable. Ever liable to lose their whole substance, by an incursion of the English, on a sudden breach of truce, they cared little to waste their time in cultivating crops, to be reaped by their foes. Their cattle was, therefore, their chief property; and these were nightly exposed to the southern borderers, as rapacious and active as themselves. Hence, robbery assumed the appearance of fair reprisal. The fatal privilege of pursuing the marauders into their own country, for recovery of stolen goods, led to continual skirmishes The warden also, himself frequently the chieftain of a border horde, when redress was not instantly granted by the opposite officer, for depredations sustained by his district, was entitled to retaliate upon England by a warden raid. In such cases, the moss-troopers, who crowded to his standard, found themselves pursuing their craft under legal authority, and became the favourites and followers of the military magistrate, whose duty it was to have checked and suppressed them. See the curious history of _Geordie Bourne, App. No. II_. Equally unable and unwilling to make nice distinctions, they were not to be convinced, that what was to-day fair booty, was to-morrow a subject of theft. National animosity usually gave an additional stimulus to their rapacity; although it must be owned, that their depredations extended also to the more cultivated parts of their own country[33]. [Footnote 33: The armorial bearings, adopted by many of the border tribes, shew how little they were ashamed of their trade of rapine. Like _Falstaff_, they were "Gentlemen of the night, minions of the moon," under whose countenance they committed their depredations.--Hence, the emblematic moons and stars, so frequently charged in the arms of border families. Their mottoes, also, bear allusion to their profession.--"_Reparabit cornua Phaebe_," i.e. "We'll have moon-light again," is that of the family of Harden. "Ye shall want, ere I want," that of Cranstoun, &c.] Satchells, who lived when the old border ideas of _meum_ and _tuum_ were still in some force, endeavours to draw a very nice distinction betwixt a freebooter and a thief; and thus sings he of the Armstrongs: On that border was the Armstrongs, able men; Somewhat unruly, and very ill to tame. I would have none think that I call them thieves, For, if I did, it would be arrant lies. Near a border frontier, in the time of war, There's ne'er a man but he's a freebooter. * * * * * Because to all men it may appear, The freebooter he is a volunteer; In the muster rolls he has no desire to stay; He lives by purchase, he gets no pay. * * * * * It's most clear a freebooter doth live in hazard's train; A freebooter's a cavalier that ventures life for gain: But, since King James the Sixth to England went, Ther has been no cause of grief; And he that hath transgress'd since then, Is no _Freebooter_, but a _Thief_. _History of the name of Scott_. The inhabitants of the inland counties did not understand these subtle distinctions. Sir David Lindsay, in the curious drama, published by Mr Pinkerton, introduces, as one of his _dramatis personae, Common Thift_, a borderer, who is supposed to come to Fife to steal the Earl of Rothes' best hackney, and Lord Lindsay's brown jennet. _Oppression_ also (another personage there introduced), seems to be connected with the borders; for, finding himself in danger, he exclaims,-- War God that I were sound and haill, Now liftit into Liddesdail; The Mers sowld fynd me beiff and caill, What rack of breid? War I thair lyftit with my lyfe, The devill sowld styk me with a knyffe, An' ever I cum agane in Fyfe, Till I were deid.-- _Pinkerton's Scotish Poems_, Vol. II p. 180. Again, when _Common Thift_ is brought to condign punishment, he remembers his border friends in his dying speech: The widdefow wardanis tuik my geir, And left me nowthir horse nor meir, Nor erdly gud that me belangit; Now, walloway! I mon be hangit. * * * * * Adew! my bruthir Annan thieves, That holpit me in my mischevis: Adew! Grossars, Niksonis, and Bells, Oft have we fairne owthreuch the fells: Adew! Robsons, Howis, and Pylis, That in our craft hes mony wilis: Littlis, Trumbells, and Armestranges; Adew! all theeves, that me belangis; Baileowes, Erewynis, and Elwandis, Speedy of flicht, and slicht of handis: The Scotts of Eisdale, and the Gramis, I half na time to tell your namis. _Ib_. p. 156. When _Common Thift_ is executed (which is performed upon the stage), _Falset_ (Falsehood), who is also brought forth for punishment, pronounces over him the following eulogy: Waes me for thee, gude Common Thift! Was never man made more honest chift, His living for to win: Thair wes not, in all Liddesdail, That ky mair craftelly could steil, Whar thou hingis on that pin! _Ib_. p. 194. Sir Richard Maitland, incensed at the boldness and impunity of the thieves of Liddesdale in his time, has attacked them with keen iambicks. His satire, which, I suppose, had very little effect at the time, forms No. III, of the appendix to this introduction. The borderers had, in fact, little reason to regard the inland Scots as their fellow subjects, or to respect the power of the crown. They were frequently resigned, by express compact, to the bloody retaliation of the English, without experiencing any assistance from their prince, and his more immediate subjects. If they beheld him, it was more frequently in the character of an avenging judge, than of a protecting sovereign. They were, in truth, during the time of peace, a kind of outcasts, against whom the united powers of England and Scotland were often employed. Hence, the men of the borders had little attachment to the monarchs, whom they termed, in derision, the kings of Fife and Lothian; provinces which they were not legally entitled to inhabit[34], and which, therefore, they pillaged with as little remorse as if they had belonged to a foreign country. This strange, precarious, and adventurous mode of life, led by the borderers, was not without its pleasures, and seems, in all probability, hardly so disagreeable to us, as the monotony of regulated society must have been to those, who had been long accustomed to a state of rapine. Well has it been remarked, by the eloquent Burke, that the shifting tides of fear and hope, the flight and pursuit, the peril and escape, alternate famine and feast, of the savage and the robber, after a time render all course of slow, steady, progressive, unvaried occupation and the prospect only of a limited mediocrity at the end of long labour, to the last degree tame, languid, and insipid. The interesting nature of their exploits may be conceived from the account of Camden. [Footnote 34: By act 1587, c. 96, borderers are expelled from the inland counties, unless they can find security for their quiet deportment.] "What manner of cattle stealers they are, that inhabit these valleys in the marches of both kingdoms, John Lesley, a Scotchman himself, and bishop of Ross, will inform you. They sally out of their own borders, in the night, in troops, through unfrequented bye-ways, and many intricate windings. All the day-time, they refresh themselves and their horses in lurking holes they had pitched upon before, till they arrive in the dark at those places they have a design upon. As soon as they have seized upon the booty, they, in like manner, return home in the night, through blind ways, and fetching many a compass. The more skilful any captain is to pass through those wild deserts, crooked turnings, and deep precipices, in the thickest mists and darkness, his reputation is the greater, and he is looked upon as a man of an excellent head.--And they are so very cunning, that they seldom have their booty taken from them, unless sometimes, when, by the help of blood-hounds following them exactly upon the tract, they may chance to fall into the hands of their adversaries. When being taken, they have so much persuasive eloquence, and so many smooth insinuating words at command, that if they do not move their judges, nay, and even their adversaries (notwithstanding the severity of their natures), to have mercy, yet they incite them to admiration and compassion."--_Camden's Britannia._ The reader is requested to compare this curious account, given by Lesley, with the ballad, called _Hobble Noble_[35]. [Footnote 35: The following tradition is also illustrative of Lesley's account. Veitch of Dawyk, a man of great strength and bravery who flourished in the 16th century, was upon bad terms with a neighbouring proprietor, Tweedie of Drummelziar. By some accident, a flock of Dawyk's sheep had strayed over into Drummelziar's grounds, at the time when _Dickie of the Den_, a Liddesdale outlaw, was making his rounds in Tweeddale. Seeing this flock of sheep; he drove them off without ceremony. Next morning, Veitch, perceiving his loss, summoned his servants and retainers, laid a blood-hound upon the traces of the robber, by whom they were guided for many miles, till, on the banks of Liddel, he staid upon a very large hay-stack. The pursuers were a good deal surprised at the obstinate pause of the blood-hound, till Dawyk pulled down some of the hay, and discovered a large excavation, containing the robbers and their spoil. He instantly flew upon Dickie, and was about to poniard him, when the marauder, with the address noticed by Lesley, protested that he would never have touched a _cloot_ (hoof) of them, had he not taken them for Drummelziar's property. This dexterous appeal to Veitch's passions saved the life of the freebooter.] The inroads of the marchers, when stimulated only by the desire of plunder, were never marked with cruelty, and seldom even with bloodshed, unless in the case of opposition. They held, that property was common to all who stood in want of it; but they abhorred and avoided the crime of unnecessary homicide.--_Lesley_, p. 63. This was, perhaps, partly owing to the habits of intimacy betwixt the borderers of both kingdoms, notwithstanding their mutual hostility, and reciprocal depredations. A natural intercourse took place between the English and Scottish marchers, at border meetings, and during the short intervals of peace. They met frequently at parties of the chace and foot-ball; and it required many and strict regulations, on both sides, to prevent them from forming intermarriages, and from cultivating too close a degree of intimacy.--_Scottish Acts_, 1587, c. 105; _Wharton's Regulations, 6th Edward VI._ The custom, also, of paying black-mail, or protection-rent, introduced a connection betwixt the countries; for, a Scottish borderer, taking black-mail from an English inhabitant, was not only himself bound to abstain from injuring such person, but also to maintain his quarrel, and recover his property, if carried off by others. Hence, an union arose betwixt the parties, founded upon mutual interest, which counteracted, in many instances, the effects of national prejudice. The similarity of their manners may be inferred from that of their language. In an old mystery, imprinted at London, 1654, a mendicant borderer is introduced, soliciting alms of a citizen and his wife. To a question of the latter he replies, "Savying your honour, good maistress, I was born in Redesdale, in Northomberlande, and come of a wight riding sirname, call'd the Robsons: gude honeste men, and true, savyng a little shiftynge for theyr livyng; God help them, silly pure men." The wife answers, "What doest thou here, in this countrie? me thinke thou art a Scot by thy tongue." _Beggar_--"Trowe me never mair then, good deam; I had rather be hanged in a withie of a cow-taile, for thei are ever fare and fase."--_Appendix to Johnstone's Sad Shepherd_, 1783. p. 188. From the wife's observation, as well as from the dialect of the beggar, we may infer, that there was little difference between the Northumbrian and the border Scottish; a circumstance interesting in itself, and decisive of the occasional friendly intercourse among the marchmen. From all those combining circumstances arose the lenity of the borderers in their incursions and the equivocal moderation which they sometimes observed towards each other, in open war[36]. [Footnote 36: This practice of the marchmen was observed and reprobated by Patten. "Anoother maner have they (_the English borderers_) amoong them, of wearyng handkerchers roll'd about their armes, and letters brouder'd (_embroidered_) upon their cappes: they said themselves, the use thearof was that ech of them might knowe his fellowe, and thearbye the sooner assemble, or in nede to ayd one another, and such lyke respectes; howbeit, thear wear of the army amoong us (sum suspicious men perchaunce), that thought thei used them for collusion, and rather bycaus thei might be knowen to the enemie, as the enemies are knowen to them (for thei have their markes too), and so in conflict either ech to spare oother, or gently eche to take oother. Indede men have been mooved the rather to thinke so, bycaus sum of their crosses (_the English red cross_) were so narrowe, and so singly set on, that a puff of wynde might blowed them from their breastes, and that thei wear found right often talking with the Skottish prikkers within less than their gad's (_spears_) length asunder; and when thei perceived thei had been espied, thei have begun one to run at anoother, but so apparently perlassent (_in parley_), as the lookers on resembled their chasyng lyke the running at base in an uplondish toun, whear the match is made for a quart of good ale, or like the play in Robin Cookes scole (_a fencing school_), whear, bycaus the punies may lerne, thei strike fewe strokes but by assent and appointment. I hard sum men say, it did mooch augment their suspicion that wey, bycaus at the battail they sawe these prikkers so badly demean them, more intending the taking of prisoners, than the surety of victorye; for while oother men fought, thei fell to their prey; that as thear wear but fewe of them but brought home his prisoner, so wear thear many that had six or seven."--_Patten's Account of Somerset's Expedition, apud Dalyell's Fragments_, p. 76. It is singular that, about this very period, the same circumstances are severely animadverted upon by the strenuous Scottishman, who wrote the _Complaynt of Scotland_, as well as by the English author above quoted. "There is nothing that is occasione of your adhering to the opinion of Ingland contrair your natife cuntré, bot the grit familiarite that Inglis men and Scottes hes had on baitht the boirdours, ilk are witht utheris, in merchandeis, in selling and buying hors and nolt, and scheip, outfang and infang, ilk are amang utheris, the whilk familiarite is express contrar the lauis and consuetudis bayth of Ingland and Scotland. In auld tymis it was determit in the artiklis of the pace, be the twa wardanis of the boirdours of Ingland and Scotland, that there suld be na familiarite betwix Scottis men and Inglis men, nor marriage to be contrakit betwix them, nor conventions on holydais at gammis and plays, nor merchandres to be maid amang them, nor Scottis men till enter on Inglis grond, witht out the king of Ingland's save conduct, nor Inglis men til enter on Scottis grond witht out the King of Scotland's save conduct, howbeit that ther war sure pace betwix the twa realmes. Bot thir sevyn yeir bygane, thai statutis and artiklis of the pace are adnullit, for ther hes been as grit familiarite, and conventions, and makyng of merchandreis, on the boirdours, this lang tyme betwix Inglis men and Scottis men, baytht in pace and weir, as Scottismen usis amang theme selfis witht in the realme of Scotland: and sic familiarite has bene the cause that the kyng of Ingland gat intelligence witht divers gentlemen of Scotland." _Complaynt of Scotland_, _Edin_. 1801, p. 164.] This humanity and moderation was, on certain occasions, entirely laid aside by the borderers. In the case of deadly feud, either against an Englishman, or against any neighbouring tribe, the whole force of the offended clan was bent to avenge the death of any of their number. Their vengeance not only vented itself upon the homicide and his family, but upon all his kindred, on his whole tribe; on every one, in fine, whose death or ruin could affect him with regret.--_Lesley_, p. 63; _Border Laws_, _passim_; _Scottish Acts_, 1594, c. 231. The reader will find, in the following collection, many allusions to this infernal custom, which always overcame the marcher's general reluctance to shed human, blood, and rendered him remorselessly savage. For fidelity to their word, Lesley ascribes high praise to the inhabitants of the Scottish frontier. When an instance happened to the contrary, the injured person, at the first border meeting, rode through the field, displaying a glove (the pledge of faith) upon the point of his lance, and proclaiming the perfidy of the person, who had broken his word. So great was the indignation of the assembly against the perjured criminal, that he was often slain by his own clan, to wipe out the disgrace he had brought on them. In the same spirit of confidence, it was not unusual to behold the victors, after an engagement, dismiss their prisoners upon parole, who never failed either to transmit the stipulated ransom, or to surrender themselves to bondage, if unable to do so. But the virtues of a barbarous people, being founded not upon moral principle, but upon the dreams of superstition, or the capricious dictates of antient custom, can seldom be uniformly relied on. We must not, therefore, be surprised to find these very men, so true to their word in general, using, upon other occasions, various resources of cunning and chicane, against which the border laws were in vain directed. The immediate rulers of the borders were the chiefs of the different clans, who exercised over their respective septs a dominion, partly patriarchal, and partly feudal. The latter bond of adherence was, however, the more slender; for, in the acts regulating the borders, we find repeated mention of "Clannes having captaines and chieftaines, whom on they depend, oft-times against the willes of their landeslordes."--_Stat._ 1587, c. 95, _and the Roll thereto annexed_. Of course, these laws looked less to the feudal superior, than to the chieftain of the name, for the restraint of the disorderly tribes; and it is repeatedly enacted, that the head of the clan should be first called upon to deliver those of his sept, who should commit any trespass, and that, on his failure to do so, he should be liable to the injured party in full redress. _Ibidem_, and _Stat._ 1594, c. 231. By the same statutes, the chieftains and landlords, presiding over border clans, were obliged to find caution, and to grant hostages, that they would subject themselves to the due course of law. Such clans, as had no chieftain of sufficient note to enter bail for their quiet conduct, became broken men, outlawed to both nations. From these enactments, the power of the border chieftains may be conceived; for it had been hard and useless to have punished them for the trespasses of their tribes, unless they possessed over them unlimited authority. The abode of these petty princes by no means corresponded to the extent of their power. We do not find, on the Scottish borders, the splendid and extensive baronial castles, which graced and defended the opposite frontier. The gothic grandeur of Alnwick, of Raby, and of Naworth, marks the wealthier and more secure state of the English nobles. The Scottish chieftain, however extensive his domains, derived no advantage, save from such parts as he could himself cultivate or occupy. Payment of rent was hardly known on the borders, till after the union[37]. All that the landlord could gain, from those residing upon his estate, was their personal service in battle, their assistance in labouring the land retained in his natural possession, some petty quit-rents, of a nature resembling the feudal casualties, and perhaps a share in the spoil which they acquired by rapine[38]. This, with his herds of cattle and of sheep, and with the _black mail_, which he exacted from his neighbours, constituted the revenue of the chieftain; and, from funds so precarious, he could rarely spare sums to expend in strengthening or decorating his habitation. Another reason is found in the Scottish mode of warfare. It was early discovered, that the English surpassed their neighbours in the arts of assaulting or defending fortified places. The policy of the Scottish, therefore, deterred them from erecting upon the borders buildings of such extent and strength, as, being once taken by the foe, would have been capable of receiving a permanent garrison[39]. To themselves, the woods and hills of their country were pointed out, by the great Bruce, as their safest bulwarks; and the maxim of the Douglasses, that "it was better to hear the lark sing, than the mouse cheep," was adopted by every border chief. For these combined reasons, the residence of the chieftain was commonly a large square battlemented[40] tower, called a _keep_, or _peel_; placed on a precipice, or on the banks of a torrent, and, if the ground would permit, surrounded by a moat. In short, the situation of a border house, surrounded by woods, and rendered almost inaccessible by torrents, by rocks, or by morasses, sufficiently indicated the pursuits and apprehensions of its inhabitant.--"_Locus horroris et vastae solitudinis, aptus ad praedam, habilis ad rapinam, habitatoribus suis lapis erat offensiones et petra scandali, utpote qui stipendiis suis minime contenti totum de alieno parum de suo possidebant--totius provinciae spolium_." No wonder, therefore, that James V., on approaching the castle of Lochwood, the antient seat of the Johnstones, is said to have exclaimed, "that he who built it must have been a knave in his heart." An outer wall, with some slight fortifications, served as a protection for the cattle at night. The walls of these fortresses were of an immense thickness, and they could easily be defended against any small force; more especially, as, the rooms being vaulted, each story formed a separate lodgement, capable of being held out for a considerable time. On such occasions, the usual mode, adopted by the assailants, was to expel the defenders, by setting fire to wet straw in the lower apartments. But the border chieftains seldom chose to abide in person a siege of this nature; and I have not observed a single instance of a distinguished baron made prisoner in his own house[41].--_Patten's Expedition_, p. 35. The common people resided in paltry huts, about the safety of which they were little anxious, as they contained nothing of value. On the approach of a superior force, they unthatched them, to prevent their being burned, and then abandoned them to the foe.--_Stowe's Chronicle_, p. 665. Their only treasures were, a fleet and active horse, with the ornaments which their rapine had procured for the females of their family, of whose gay appearance the borderers were vain. [Footnote 37: Stowe, in detailing the happy consequences of the union of the crowns, observes, "that the northerne borders became as safe, and peaceable, as any part of the entire kingdome, so as in the fourth yeare of the king's raigne, as well gentlemen as others, inhabiting the places aforesayde, finding the auncient wast ground to be very good and fruitefull, began to contende in lawe about their bounds, challenging then, that for their hereditarie right, which formerly they disavowed, only to avoyde charge of common defence."] [Footnote 38: "As for the humours of the people (_i.e._ of Tiviotdale), they were both strong and warlike, as being inured to war, and daily incursions, and the most part of the heritors of the country gave out all their lands to their tenants, for military attendance upon rentals, and reserved only some few manses for their own sustenance, which were laboured by their tenants, besides their service. They paid an entry, a herauld, and a small rental-duty; for there were no rents raised here that were considerable, till King James went into England; yea, all along the border."--_Account of Roxburghshire, by Sir William Scott of Harden, and Kerr of Sunlaws, apud Macfarlane's MSS._] [Footnote 39: The royal castles of Roxburgh, Hermitage, Lochmaben, &c. form a class of exceptions to this rule, being extensive and well fortified. Perhaps we ought also to except the baronial castle of Home. Yet, in 1455, the following petty garrisons were thought sufficient for the protection of the border; two hundred spearmen, and as many archers, upon the east and middle marches; and one hundred spears, with a like number of bowmen, upon the western marches. But then the same statute provides, "They that are neare hand the bordoure, are ordained to have gud househaldes, and abuilzed men as effeiris: and to be reddie at their principal place, and to pass, with the wardanes, quhen and quhair they sail be charged."--_Acts of James II._, cap. 55, _Of garisonnes to be laid upon the borderes_.--Hence Buchanan has justly described, as an attribute of the Scottish nation, "_Nec fossis, nee muris, patriam sed Marte tueri_." [Footnote 40: I have observed a difference in architecture betwixt the English and Scottish towers. The latter usually have upon the top a projecting battlement, with interstices, anciently called _machicoules_, betwixt the parapet and the wall, through which stones or darts might be hurled upon the assailants. This kind of fortification is less common on the south border.] [Footnote 41: I ought to except the famous Dand Ker, who was made prisoner in his castle of Fairnihirst, after defending it bravely against Lord Dacres, 24th September, 1523.] Some rude monuments occur upon the borders, the memorial of ancient valour. Such is the cross at Milholm, on the banks of the Liddel, said to have been erected in memory of the chief of the Armstrongs, murdered treacherously by Lord Soulis, while feasting in Hermitage castle. Such also, a rude stone, now broken, and very much defaced, placed upon a mount on the lands of Haughhead, near the junction of the Kale and Teviot. The inscription records the defence made by Hobbie Hall, a man of great strength and courage against an attempt by the powerful family of Ker, to possess themselves of his small estate[42]. [Footnote 42: The rude strains of the inscription little correspond with the gallantry of a --village Hampden, who, with dauntless breast, The little tyrant of his fields withstood. It is in these words: Here Hobbie Hall boldly maintained his right, 'Gainst reif, plain force, armed wi' awles might. Full thirty pleughs, harnes'd in all their gear, Could not his valiant noble heart make fear: But wi' his sword, he cut the foremost's soam In two; and drove baith pleughs and pleughmen home. 1620. _Soam_ means the iron links, which fasten a yoke of oxen to the plough.] The same simplicity marked their dress and arms. Patten observes, that in battle the laird could not be distinguished from the serf: all wearing the same coat armour, called a jack, and the baron being only distinguished by his sleeves of mail, and his head-piece. The borderers, in general, acted as light cavalry; riding horses of a small size, but astonishingly nimble, and trained to move, by short bounds, through the morasses with which Scotland abounds. Their offensive weapons were, a lance of uncommon length; a sword, either two-handed, or of the modern light size; sometimes a species of battle-axe, called a Jedburgh-staff; and, latterly, dags, or pistols. Although so much accustomed to act on horseback, that they held it even mean to appear otherwise, the marchmen occasionally acted as infantry; nor were they inferior to the rest of Scotland in forming that impenetrable phalanx of spears, whereof it is said, by an English historian, that "sooner shall a bare finger pierce through the skin of an angry hedge-hog, than any one encounter the brunt of their pikes." At the battle of Melrose, for example, Buccleuch's army fought upon foot. But the habits of the borderers fitted them particularly to distinguish themselves as light cavalry; and hence the name of _prickers and hobylers_, so frequently applied to them. At the blaze of their beacon fires, they were wont to assemble ten thousand horsemen in the course of a single day. Thus rapid in their warlike preparations, they were alike ready for attack and defence. Each individual carried his own provisions, consisting of a small bag of oatmeal, and trusted to plunder, or the chace, for ekeing out his precarious meal. Beaugé remarks, that nothing surprised the Scottish cavalry so much as to see their French auxiliaries encumbered with baggage-waggons, and attended by commissaries. Before joining battle, it seems to have been the Scottish practice to set fire to the litter of their camp, while, under cover of the smoke, the _hobylers_, or border cavalry, executed their manoeuvres.--There is a curious account of the battle of Mitton, fought in the year 1319, in a valuable MS. _Chronicle of England_, in the collection of the Marquis of Douglas, from which this stratagem seems to have decided the engagement. "In meyn time, while the wer thus lastyd, the kynge went agane into Skotlonde, that hitte was wonder for to wette, and bysechyd the towne of Barwick; but the Skottes went over the water of Sold, that was iii myle from the hoste, and prively they stole awaye be nyghte, and come into England, and robbed and destroyed all that they myght, and spared no manner thing til that they come to Yorke. And, whan the Englischemen, that wer left att home, herd this tiding, all tho that myght well travell, so well monkys and priestis, and freres, and chanouns, and seculars, come and met with the Skottes at Mytone of Swale, the xii day of October. Allas, for sorow for the Englischemen! housbondmen, that could nothing in wer, ther were quelled and drenchyd in an arm of the see. And hyr chyftaines, Sir William Milton, ersch-biishop of Yorke, and the abbot of Selby, with her stedes, fled and com into Yorke; and that was her owne folye that they had that mischaunce; for the passyd the water of Swale, and the Skottes set on fiir three stalkes of hey, and the smoke thereof was so huge, that the Englischemen might nott se the Scottes; and whan the Englischemen were gon over the water, tho cam the Skottes, with hir wyng, in maner of a sheld, and come toward the Englischemen in ordour. And the Englischemen fled for unnethe they had any use of armes, for the kyng had hem al almost lost att the sege of Barwick. And the Scotsmen _hobylers_ went betwene the brigge and the Englischemen; and when the gret hoste them met, the Englischemen fled between the _hobylers_ and the gret hoste; and the Englischemen were ther quelled, and he that myght wend over the water were saved, but many were drowned. Alas! for there were slayn many men of religion, and seculars, and pristis, and clerks, and with much sorwe the erschbischope scaped from the Skottes; and, therefore, the Skottes called that battell the _White Battell_" For smaller predatory expeditions, the borderers had signals, and places of rendezvous, peculiar to each tribe. If the party set forward before all the members had joined, a mark, cut in the turf, or on the bark of a tree, pointed out to the stragglers the direction which the main body had pursued[43]. [Footnote 43: In the parish of Linton, in Roxburghshire, there is a circle of stones, surrounding a smooth plot of turf, called the _Tryst_, or place of appointment, which tradition avers to have been the rendezvous of the neighbouring warriors. The name of the leader was cut in the turf, and the arrangement of the letters announced to his followers the course which he had taken. See _Statistical Account of the Parish of Linton_.] Their warlike convocations were, also, frequently disguised, under pretence of meetings for the purpose of sport. The game of foot-ball, in particular which was anciently, and still continues to be, a favourite border sport, was the means of collecting together large bodies of moss-troopers, previous to any military exploit. When Sir Robert Carey was warden of the east marches, the knowledge that there was a great match of foot-ball at Kelso, to be frequented by the principal Scottish riders, was sufficient to excite his vigilance and his apprehension[44]. Previous also to the murder of Sir John Carmichael (see Notes on the _Raid of the Reidswire_,) it appeared at the trial of the perpetrators that they had assisted at a grand foot-ball meeting, where the crime was concerted. [Footnote 44: See Appendix.] Upon the religion of the borderers there can very little be said. We have already noticed, that they remained attached to the Roman Catholic faith rather longer than the rest of Scotland. This probably arose from a total indifference upon the subject; for, we no where find in their character the respect for the church, which is a marked feature of that religion. In 1528, Lord Dacre complains heavily to Cardinal Wolsey, that, having taken a notorious freebooter, called Dyk Irwen, the brother and friends of the outlaw had, in retaliation, seized a man of some property, and a relation of Lord Dacre, called Jeffrey Middleton, as he returned from a pilgrimage to St. Ninian's, in Galloway; and that, notwithstanding the sanctity of his character, as a _true pilgrim_, and the Scottish monarch's safe conduct, they continued to detain him in their fastnesses, until he should redeem the said arrant thief, Dyk Irwen. The abbeys, which were planted upon the border, neither seem to have been much respected by the English, nor by the Scottish barons. They were repeatedly burned by the former, in the course of the border wars, and by the latter they seem to have been regarded chiefly as the means of endowing a needy relation, or the subject of occasional plunder. Thus, Andrew Home of Fastcastle, about 1488, attempted to procure a perpetual feu of certain possessions belonging to the abbey of Coldinghame; and being baffled, by the king bestowing that opulent benefice upon the royal chapel at Stirling, the Humes and Hepburns started into rebellion; asserting, that the priory should be conferred upon some younger son of their families, according to ancient custom. After the fatal battle of Flodden, one of the Kerrs testified his contempt for clerical immunities and privileges, by expelling from his house the abbot of Kelso. These bickerings betwixt the clergy and the barons were usually excited by disputes about their temporal interest. It was common for the churchmen to grant lands in feu to the neighbouring gentlemen, who, becoming their vassals, were bound to assist and protect them[45]. But, as the possessions and revenues of the benefices became thus intermixed with those of the laity, any attempts rigidly to enforce the claims of the church were usually attended by the most scandalous disputes. A petty warfare was carried on for years, betwixt James, abbot of Dryburgh, and the family of Halliburton of Mertoun, or Newmains, who held some lands from that abbey. These possessions were, under various pretexts, seized and laid waste by both parties; and some bloodshed took place in the contest, betwixt the lay vassals and their spiritual superior. The matter was, at length, thought of sufficient importance to be terminated by a reference to his majesty; whose decree arbitral, dated at Stirling, the 8th of May, 1535, proceeds thus: "Whereas we, having been advised and knowing the said gentlemen, the Halliburtons, to be leal and true honest men, long servants unto the saide abbeye, for the saide landis, stout men at armes, and goode borderers against Ingland; and doe therefore decree and ordaine, that they sail be re-possess'd, and bruik and enjoy the landis and steedings they had of the said abbeye, paying the use and wonte: and that they sall be goode servants to the said venerabil father, like as they and their predecessours were to the said venerabil father, and his predecessours, and he a good master to them[46]." It is unnecessary to detain the reader with other instances of the discord, which prevailed anciently upon the borders, betwixt the spiritual shepherd and his untractable flock. [Footnote 45: These vassals resembled, in some degree, the Vidames in France, and the Vogten, or Vizedomen, of the German abbeys; but the system was never carried regularly into effect in Britain, and this circumstance facilitated the dissolution of the religious houses.] [Footnote 46: This decree was followed by a marriage betwixt the abbot's daughter, Elizabeth Stewart, and Walter Halliburton, one of the family of Newmains. But even this alliance did not secure peace between the venerable father and his vassals. The offspring of the marriage was an only daughter, named Elizabeth Halliburton. As this young lady was her father's heir, the Halliburtons resolved that she should marry one of her cousins, to keep her property in the clan. But as this did not suit the views of the abbot, he carried off by force the intended bride, and married her, at Stirling, to Alexander Erskine, a brother of the laird of Balgony, a relation and follower of his own. From this marriage sprung the Erskines of Shielfield. This exploit of the abbot revived the feud betwixt him and the Halliburtons, which only ended with the dissolution of the abbey.--_MS. History of Halliburton Family, penes editorem_.] The reformation was late of finding its way into the border wilds; for, while the religious and civil dissentions were at the height in 1568, Drury writes to Cecil,--"Our trusty neighbours of Teviotdale are holden occupied only to attend to the pleasure and calling of their own heads, to make some diversion in this matter." The influence of the reformed preachers, among the borders, seems also to have been but small; for, upon all occasions of dispute with the kirk, James VI. was wont to call in their assistance. _Calderwood_, p. 129. We learn from a curious passage in the life of Richard Cameron, a fanatical preacher during the time of what is called "the persecution," that some of the borderers retained to a late period their indifference about religious matters. After having been licensed at Haughhead, in Teviotdale, he was, according to his biographer, sent first to preach in Annandale. "He said, 'how can I go there? I know what sort of people they are.' 'But,' Mr. Welch said, 'go your way, Ritchie, and set the fire of hell to their tails.' He went; and, the first day, he preached upon that text, _Home shall I put thee among the children, &c_. In the application he said, 'Put you among the children! the offspring of thieves and robbers! we have all heard of Annandale thieves.' Some of them got a merciful cast that day, and told afterwards, that it was the first field meeting they ever attended, and that they went out of mere curiosity, to see a minister preach in a tent, and people sit on the ground." _Life of Richard Cameron_[47]. [Footnote 47: This man was chaplain in the family of Sir Walter Scott of Harden, who attended the meetings of the indulged presbyterians; but Cameron, considering this conduct as a compromise with the foul fiend Episcopacy, was dismissed from the family. He was slain in a skirmish at Airdsmoss, bequeathing his name to the sect of fanatics, still called Cameronians.] Cleland, an enthusiastic Cameronian, lieutenant-colonel of the regiment levied after the Revolution from among that wild and fanatical sect, claims to the wandering preachers of his tribe the merit of converting the borderers. He introduces a cavalier, haranguing the Highlanders, and ironically thus guarding them against the fanatic divines: If their doctrine there get rooting, Then, farewell theift, the best of booting, And this ye see is very clear, Dayly experience makes it appear; For instance, lately on the borders, Where there was nought but theft and murders, Rapine, cheating, and resetting, Slight of hand, fortunes getting, Their designation, as ye ken, Was all along the _Tacking Men_. Now, rebels more prevails with words, Then drawgoons does with guns and swords, So that their bare preaching now Makes the rush-bush keep the cow; Better than Scots or English kings, Could do by kilting them with strings. Yea, those that were the greatest rogues, Follows them over hills and bogues, Crying for mercy and for preaching, For they'll now hear no others teaching." _Cleland's Poems_, 1697, p. 30. The poet of the whigs might exaggerate the success of their teachers; yet, it must be owned, that their doctrine of insubordination, joined to their vagrant and lawless habits, was calculated strongly to conciliate their border hearers. But, though the church, in the border counties, attracted little veneration, no part of Scotland teemed with superstitious fears and observances more than they did. "The Dalesmen[48]," says Lesley, "never count their beads with such earnestness as when they set out upon a predatory expedition." Penances, the composition betwixt guilt and conscience, were also frequent upon the borders. Of this we have a record in many bequests to the church, and in some more lasting monuments; such as the Tower of Repentance in Dumfries-shire, and, according to vulgar tradition, the church of Linton[49], in Roxburghshire. In the appendix to this introduction. No. IV., the reader will find a curious league, or treaty of peace, betwixt two hostile clans, by which the heads of each became bound to make the four pilgrimages of Scotland, for the benefit of the souls of those of the opposite clan, who had fallen in the feud. These were superstitions, flowing immediately from the nature of the Catholic religion: but there was, upon the border, no lack of others of a more general nature. Such was the universal belief in spells, of which some traces may yet remain in the wild parts of the country. These were common in the time of the learned Bishop Nicolson, who derives them from the time of the Pagan Danes. "This conceit was the more heightened, by reflecting upon the natural superstition of our borderers at this day, who were much better acquainted with, and do more firmly believe, their old legendary stories, of fairies and witches, than the articles of their creed. And to convince me, yet farther, that they are not utter strangers to the black art of their forefathers, I met with a gentleman in the neighbourhood, who shewed me a book of spells, and magical receipts, taken, two or three days before, in the pocket of one of our moss-troopers; wherein, among many other conjuring feats, was prescribed, a certain remedy for an ague, by applying a few barbarous characters to the body of the party distempered. These, methought, were very near a-kin to Wormius's _Ram Runer_, which, he says, differed wholly in figure and shape from the common _runae_. For, though he tells us, that these _Ram Runer_ were so called, _Eo quod molestias, dolores, morbosque hisce infligere inimicis soliti sunt magi_; yet his great friend, Arng. Jonas, more to our purpose, says, that--_His etiam usi sunt ad benefaciendum, juvandum, medicandum tam animi quam corporis morbis; atque ad ipsos cacodaemones pellendos et fugandos_. I shall not trouble you with a draught of this spell, because I have not yet had an opportunity of learning whether it may not be an ordinary one, and to be met with, among others of the same nature, in Paracelsus, or Cornelius Agrippa."--_Letter from Bishop Nicolson to Mr. Walker; vide Camden's Britannia, Cumberland_. Even in the editor's younger days, he can remember the currency of certain spells, for curing sprains, burns, or dislocations, to which popular credulity ascribed unfailing efficacy[50]. Charms, however, against spiritual enemies, were yet more common than those intended to cure corporeal complaints. This is not surprising, as a fantastic remedy well suited an imaginary disease. [Footnote 48: This small church is founded upon a little hill of sand, in which no stone of the size of an egg is said to have been found, although the neighbouring soil is sharp and gravelly. Tradition accounts for this, by informing us, that the foundresses were two sisters, upon whose account much blood had been spilt in that spot; and that the penance, imposed on the fair causers of the slaughter, was an order from the pope to sift the sand of the hill, upon which their church was to be erected. This story may, perhaps, have some foundation; for, in the church-yard was discovered a single grave, containing no fewer than fifty skulls, most of which bore the marks of having been cleft by violence.] [Footnote 49: An epithet bestowed upon the borderers, from the names of their various districts; as Tiviotdale, Liddesdale, Eskdale, Ewsdale, Annandale, &c. Hence, an old ballad distinguishes the north as the country, "Where every river gives name to a dale," _Ex-ale-tation of Ale_.] [Footnote 50: Among these may be reckoned the supposed influence of Irish earth, in curing the poison of adders, or other venomous reptiles.--This virtue is extended by popular credulity to the natives, and even to the animals, of Hibernia. A gentleman, bitten by some reptile, so as to occasion a great swelling, seriously assured the editor, that he ascribed his cure to putting the affected finger into the mouth of an Irish mare!] There were, upon the borders, many consecrated wells, for resorting to which the people's credulity is severely censured, by a worthy physician of the seventeenth century; who himself believed in a shower of living herrings having fallen near Dumfries. "Many run superstitiously to other wells, and there obtain, as they imagine, health and advantage; and there they offer bread and cheese, or money, by throwing them into the well." In another part of the MS. occurs the following passage. "In the bounds of the lands of Eccles, belonging to a lyneage of the name of Maitland, there is a loch called the Dowloch, of old resorted to with much superstition, as medicinal both for men and beasts, and that with such ceremonies, as are _shrewdly_ suspected to have been begun with witchcraft, and increased afterward by magical directions: For, burying of a cloth, or somewhat that did relate to the bodies of men and women, and a shackle, or teather, belonging to cow or horse; and these being cast into the loch, if they did float, it was taken for a good omen of recovery, and a part of the water carried to the patient, though to remote places, without saluting or speaking to any they met by the way; but, if they did sink, the recovery of the party was hopeless. This custom was of late much curbed and restrained; but since the discovery of many medicinal fountains near to the place, the vulgar, holding that it may be as medicinal as these are, at this time begin to re-assume their former practice."--_Account of Presbytery of Penpont, in Macfarlane's MSS._ The idea, that the spirits of the deceased return to haunt the place, where on earth they have suffered or have rejoiced, is, as Dr. Johnson has observed, common to the popular creed of all nations The just and noble sentiment, implanted in our bosoms by the Deity, teaches us, that we shall not slumber for ever, as the beasts that perish.--Human vanity, or credulity, chequers, with its own inferior and base colours, the noble prospect, which is alike held out to us by philosophy and by religion. We feel, according to the ardent expression of the poet, that we shall not wholly die; but from hence we vainly and weakly argue, that the same scenes, the same passions, shall delight and actuate the disembodied spirit, which affected it while in its tenement of clay. Hence the popular belief, that the soul haunts the spot where the murdered body is interred; that its appearances are directed to bring down vengeance on its murderers; or that, having left its terrestrial form in a distant clime, it glides before its former friends, a pale spectre, to warn them of its decease. Such tales, the foundation of which is an argument from our present feelings to those of the spiritual world, form the broad and universal basis of the popular superstition regarding departed spirits; against which reason has striven in vain, and universal experience has offered a disregarded testimony. These legends are peculiarly acceptable to barbarous tribes; and, on the borders, they were received with most unbounded faith. It is true, that these supernatural adversaries were no longer opposed by the sword and battle-axe, as among the unconverted Scandinavians. Prayers, spells, and exorcisms, particularly in the Greek and Hebrew languages, were the weapons of the borderers, or rather of their priests and cunning men, against their aërial enemy[51]. The belief in ghosts, which has been well termed the last lingering phantom of superstition, still maintains its ground upon the borders. [Footnote 51: One of the most noted apparitions is supposed to haunt Spedlin's castle, near Lochmaben, the ancient baronial residence of the Jardines of Applegirth. It is said, that, in exercise of his territorial jurisdiction, one of the ancient lairds had imprisoned, in the _Massy More_, or dungeon of the castle, a person named Porteous. Being called suddenly to Edinburgh, the laird discovered, as he entered the West Port, that he had brought along with him the key of the dungeon. Struck with the utmost horror, he sent back his servant to relieve the prisoner; but it was too late. The wretched being was found lying upon the steps descending from the door of the vault, starved to death. In the agonies of hunger, he had gnawed the flesh from one of his arms. That his spectre should haunt the castle was a natural consequence of such a tragedy. Indeed, its visits became so frequent, that a clergyman of eminence was employed to exorcise it. After a contest of twenty-four hours, the man of art prevailed so far as to confine the goblin to the _Massy More_ of the castle, where its shrieks and cries are still heard. A part, at least, of the spell, depends upon the preservation of the ancient black-lettered bible, employed by the exorcist. It was some years ago thought necessary to have this bible re-bound; but, as soon as it was removed from the castle, the spectre commenced his nocturnal orgies, with ten-fold noise; and it is verily believed that he would have burst from his confinement, had not the sacred volume been speedily replaced. A Mass John Scott, minister of Peebles, is reported to have been the last renowned exorciser, and to have lost his life in a contest with an obstinate spirit. This was owing to the conceited rashness of a young clergyman, who commenced the ceremony of laying the ghost before the arrival of Mass John. It is the nature, it seems, of spirits disembodied, as well as embodied, to increase in strength and presumption, in proportion to the advantages which they may gain over the opponent. The young clergyman losing courage, the horrors of the scene were increased to such a degree, that, as Mass John approached the house in which it passed, he beheld the slates and tiles flying from the roof, as if dispersed by a whirlwind. At his entry, he perceived all the wax-tapers (the most essential instruments of conjuration) extinguished, except one, which already burned blue in the socket. The arrival of the experienced sage changed the scene: he brought the spirit to reason; but, unfortunately, while addressing a word of advice or censure to his rash brother, he permitted the ghost to obtain the _last word_; a circumstance which, in all colloquies of this nature, is strictly to be guarded against. This fatal oversight occasioned his falling into a lingering disorder, of which he never recovered. A curious poem, upon the laying of a ghost, forms article No. V. of the Appendix.] It is unnecessary to mention the superstitious belief in witchcraft, which gave rise to so much cruelty and persecution during the seventeenth century. There were several executions upon the borders for this imaginary crime, which was usually tried, not by the ordinary judges, but by a set of country gentlemen, acting under commission from the privy council[52]. [Footnote 52: I have seen, _penes_ Hugh Scott, Esq. of Harden, the record of the trial of a witch, who was burned at Ducove. She was tried in the manner above mentioned.] Besides these grand articles of superstitious belief, the creed of the borderers admitted the existence of sundry classes of subordinate spirits, to whom were assigned peculiar employments. The chief of these were the Fairies, concerning whom the reader will find a long dissertation, in Volume Second. The Brownie formed a class of beings, distinct in habit and disposition from the freakish and mischievous elves. He was meagre, shaggy, and wild in his appearance. Thus, Cleland, in his satire against the Highlanders, compares them to "Faunes, or _Brownies_, if ye will, Or satyres come from Atlas hill." In the day time, he lurked in remote recesses of the old houses which he delighted to haunt; and, in the night, sedulously employed himself in discharging any laborious task which he thought might be acceptable to the family, to whose service he had devoted himself. His name is probably derived from the _Portuni_, whom Gervase of Tilbury describes thus: "_Ecce enim in Anglia daemones quosdam habent, daemones, inquam, nescio dixerim, an secretae et ignotae generationis effigies, quos Galli Neptunos, Angli Portunos nominant. Istis insitum est quod simplicitatem fortunatonum_ _colonorum amplectuntur, et cum nocturnas propter domesticas operas agunt vigilias, subito clausis januis ad ignem califiunt, et ranunculus ex sinu projectas, prunis impositas concedunt, senili vultu, facie corrugata, statura pusilli, dimidium pollicis non habentes. Panniculis consertis induuntur, et si quid gestandum in domo fuerit, aut onerosi opens agendum, ad operandum se jungunt citius humana facilitate expediunt. Id illis insitum est, ut obsequi possint et obesse non possint_."--Otia. Imp. p. 980. In every respect, saving only the feeding upon frogs, which was probably an attribute of the Gallic spirits alone, the above description corresponds with that of the Scottish Brownie. But the latter, although, like Milton's lubbar fiend, he loves to stretch himself by the fire[53], does not drudge from the hope of recompence. On the contrary, so delicate is his attachment, that the offer of reward, but particularly of food, infallibly occasions his disappearance for ever[54]. We learn from Olaus Magnus, that spirits, somewhat similar in their operations to the Brownie, were supposed to haunt the Swedish mines. The passage, in the translation of 1658, runs thus: "This is collected in briefe, that in northerne kingdomes there are great armies of devils, that have their services, which they perform with the inhabitants of these countries: but they are most frequent in rocks and mines, where they break, cleave, and make them hollow: which also thrust in pitchers and buckets, and carefully fit wheels and screws, whereby they are drawn upwards; and they shew themselves to the labourers, when they list, like phantasms and ghosts." It seems no improbable conjecture, that the Brownie is a legitimate descendant of the _Lar Familiaris_ of the ancients. [Footnote 53: --how the drudging goblin swet, To earn the cream-bowl, duly set; When, in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadowy flail had thresh'd the corn, That ten day-lab'rers could not end; Then lies him down the lubbar fiend, And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength; And, crop-full, out of doors he flings, E'er the first cock his matin rings. _L'Allegro_. When the menials in a Scottish family protracted their vigils around the kitchen fire, Brownie, weary of being excluded from the midnight hearth, sometimes appeared at the door, seemed to watch their departure, and thus admonished them--"Gang a' to your beds, sirs, and dinna put out the wee _grieshoch_ (embers)."] [Footnote 54: It is told of a Brownie, who haunted a border family, now extinct, that the lady having fallen unexpectedly in labour, and the servant, who was ordered to ride to Jedburgh for the _sage femme_, shewing no great alertness in setting out, the familiar spirit slipt on the great-coat of the lingering domestic, rode to the town on the laird's best horse, and returned with the mid-wife _en croupe_. Daring the short space of his absence, the Tweed, which they must necessarily ford, rose to a dangerous height. Brownie, who transported his charge with all the rapidity of the ghostly lover of _Lenoré_, was not to be stopped by this obstacle. He plunged in with the terrified old lady, and landed her in safety where her services were wanted. Having put the horse into the stable (where it was afterwards found in a woeful plight), he proceeded to the room of the servant, whose duty he had discharged; and, finding him just in the act of drawing on his boots, he administered to him a most merciless drubbing with his own horse-whip. Such an important service excited the gratitude of the laird; who, understanding that Brownie had been heard to express a wish to have a green coat, ordered a vestment of that colour to be made, and left in his haunts. Brownie took away the green coat, but never was seen more. We may suppose, that, tired of his domestic drudgery, he went in his new livery to join the fairies.--_See Appendix_, No. VI. The last Brownie, known in Ettrick forest, resided in Bodsbeck, a wild and solitary spot, where he exercised his functions undisturbed, till the scrupulous devotion of an old lady induced her to _hire him away_, as it was termed, by placing in his haunt a porringer of milk and a piece of money. After receiving this hint to depart, he was heard the whole night to howl and cry, "Farewell to bonny Bodsbeck!" which he was compelled to abandon for ever.] A being, totally distinct from those hitherto mentioned, is the Bogle, or Goblin; a freakish spirit, who delights rather to perplex and frighten mankind; than either to serve, or seriously to hurt, them. This is the _Esprit Follet_ of the French; and _Puck_, or _Robin Goodfellow_, though enlisted by Shakespeare among the fairy band of _Oberon_, properly belongs to this class of phantoms. _Shellycoat_, a spirit, who resides in the waters, and has given his name to many a rock and stone upon the Scottish coast, belongs also to the class of bogles[55]. When he appeared, he seemed to be decked with marine productions, and, in particular with shells, whose clattering announced his approach. From this circumstance he derived his name. He may, perhaps, be identified with the goblin of the northern English, which, in the towns and cities, Durham and Newcastle for example had the name of _Barquest_; but, in the country villages, was more frequently termed _Brag_. He usually ended his mischievous frolics with a horse-laugh. [Footnote 55: One of his pranks is thus narrated: Two men, in a very dark night, approaching the banks of the Ettrick, heard a doleful voice from its waves repeatedly exclaim--"Lost! lost!"--They followed the sound, which seemed to be the voice of a drowning person, and, to their infinite astonishment, they found that it ascended the river. Still they continued, during a long and tempestuous night, to follow the cry of the malicious sprite; and arriving, before morning's dawn, at the very sources of the river, the voice was now heard descending the opposite side of the mountain in which they arise. The fatigued and deluded travellers now relinquished the pursuit; and had no sooner done so, than they heard Shellycoat applauding, in loud bursts of laughter, his successful roguery. The spirit was supposed particularly to haunt the old house of Gorrinberry, situated on the river Hermitage, in Liddesdale.] _Shellycoat_ must not be confounded with _Kelpy_, a water spirit also, but of a much more powerful and malignant nature. His attributes have been the subject of a poem in Lowland Scottish, by the learned Dr. Jamieson of Edinburgh, which adorns the third volume of this collection. Of _Kelpy_, therefore, it is unnecessary to say any thing at present. Of all these classes of spirits it may be, in general observed, that their attachment was supposed to be local, and not personal. They haunted the rock, the stream, the ruined castle, without regard to the persons or families to whom the property belonged. Hence, they differed entirely from that species of spirits, to whom, in the Highlands, is ascribed the guardianship, or superintendance of a particular clan, or family of distinction; and who, perhaps yet more than the Brownie, resemble the classic household gods. Thus, in an MS. history of Moray, we are informed, that the family of Gurlinbeg is haunted by a spirit, called _Garlin Bodacher_; that of the baron of Kinchardin, by _Lamhdearg_[56], or Red-hand, a spectre, one of whose hands is as red as blood; that of Tullochgorm, by _May Moulach_, a female figure, whose left hand and arm were covered with hair, who is also mentioned in _Aubrey's Miscellanies_, pp. 211, 212, as a familiar attendant upon the elan Grant. These superstitions were so ingrafted in the popular creed, that the clerical synods and presbyteries were wont to take cognizance of them[57]. [Footnote 56: The following notice of Lamhdearg occurs in another account of Strathspey, _apud_ Macfarlane's MSS.:--"There is much talke of a spirit called _Ly-erg_, who frequents the Glenmore. He appears with a red hand, in the habit of a souldier, and challenges men to fight with him; as lately as 1669, he fought with three brothers, one after another, who immediately died thereafter."] [Footnote 57: There is current, in some parts of Germany, a fanciful superstition concerning the _Stille Volke_, or silent people. These they suppose to be attached to houses of eminence, and to consist of a number, corresponding to that of the mortal family, each person of which has thus his representative amongst these domestic spirits. When the lady of the family has a child, the queen of the silent people is delivered in the same moment. They endeavour to give warning when danger approaches the family, assist in warding it off, and are sometimes seen to weep and wring their hands, before inevitable calamity.] Various other superstitions, regarding magicians, spells, prophecies, &c., will claim our attention in the progress of this work. For the present, therefore taking the advice of an old Scottish rhymer, let us "Leave bogles, brownies, gyre carlinges, and ghaists[58]." [Footnote 58: So generally were these tales of _diablerie_ believed, that one William Lithgow, a _bon vivant_, who appears to have been a native, or occasional inhabitant, of Melrose, is celebrated by the pot-companion who composed his elegy, because He was good company at jeists. And wanton when he came to feists, He scorn'd the converse of great beasts, O'er a sheep's head; _He laugh'd at stones about ghaists_; Blythe Willie's dead! _Watson's Scotish Poems_, Edin. 1706.] _Flyting of Polwart and Montgomery_. The domestic economy of the borderers next engages our attention. That the revenue of the chieftain should be expended in rude hospitality, was the natural result of his situation. His wealth consisted chiefly in herds of cattle, which were consumed by the kinsmen, vassals, and followers, who aided him to acquire and to protect them[59]. We learn from Lesley, that the borderers were temperate in the use of intoxicating liquors, and we are therefore left to conjecture how they occupied the time, when winter, or when accident, confined them to their habitations. The little learning, which existed in the middle ages, glimmered a dim and a dying flame in the religious houses; and even in the sixteenth century, when its beams became more widely diffused, they were far from penetrating the recesses of the border mountains. The tales of tradition, the song, with the pipe or harp of the minstrel, were probably the sole resources against _ennui_, during the short intervals of repose from military adventure. [Footnote 59: We may form some idea of the stile of life maintained by the border warriors, from the anecdotes, handed down by tradition, concerning Walter Scott of Harden, who flourished towards the middle of the sixteenth century. This ancient laird was a renowned freebooter, and used to ride with a numerous band of followers. The spoil, which they carried off from England, or from their neighbours, was concealed in a deep and impervious glen, on the brink of which the old tower of Harden was situated. From thence the cattle were brought out, one by one, as they were wanted, to supply the rude and plentiful table of the laird. When the last bullock was killed and devoured, it was the lady's custom to place on the table a dish, which, on being uncovered, was found to contain a pair of clean spurs; a hint to the riders, that they must shift for their next meal. Upon one occasion, when the village herd was driving out the cattle to pasture, the old laird heard him call loudly _to drive out Harden's cow_. "_Harden's cow!_" echoed the affronted chief--"Is it come to that pass? by my faith they shall sune say Harden's _kye_ (cows)." Accordingly, he sounded his bugle, mounted his horse, set out with his followers, and returned next day with "_a bow of kye, and a bussen'd_ (brindled) _bull_." On his return with this gallant prey, he passed a very large hay-stack. It occurred to the provident laird, that this would be extremely convenient to fodder his new stock of cattle; but as no means of transporting it occurred, he was fain to take leave of it with this apostrophe, now proverbial: "By my soul, had ye but four feet, ye should not stand lang there." In short, as Froissard says of a similar class of feudal robbers, nothing came amiss to them, that was not _too heavy, or too hot_. The same mode of house-keeping characterized most border families on both sides. An MS. quoted in _History of Cumberland_, p. 466, concerning the Graemes of Netherby, and others of that clan, runs thus: "They were all stark moss-troopers and arrant thieves: both to England and Scotland outlawed: yet sometimes connived at, because they gave intelligence forth of Scotland, and would raise 400 horse at any time, upon a raid of the English into Scotland." A saying is recorded of a mother to her son (which is now become proverbial), "_Ride Rouly_ (Rowland), _hough's i' the pot_;" that is, the last piece of beef was in the pot, and therefore it was high time for him to go and fetch more. To such men might with justice be applied the poet's description of the Cretan warrior; translated by my friend, Dr. Leyden. My sword, my spear, my shaggy shield, With these I till, with these I sow; With these I reap my harvest field, The only wealth the Gods bestow. With these I plant the purple vine, With these I press the luscious wine. My sword, my spear, my shaggy shield, They make me lord of all below; For he who dreads the lance to wield, Before my shaggy shield must bow. His lands, his vineyards, must resign; And all that cowards have is mine. _Hybrias (ap. Athenaeum)_.] This brings us to the more immediate subject of the present publication. Lesley, who dedicates to the description of border manners a chapter, which we have already often quoted, notices particularly the taste of the marchmen for music and ballad poetry. "_Placent admodum sibi sua musica, et rythmicis suis cantionibus, quas de majorum suorum gestis, aut ingeniosis predandi precandive stratagematis ipsi confingunt_. "--Leslaeus, _in capitulo de moribus eorum, qui Scotiae limites Angliam versus incolunt_. The more rude and wild the state of society, the more general and violent is the impulse received from poetry and music. The muse, whose effusions are the amusement of a very small part of a polished nation, records, in the lays of inspiration, the history the laws, the very religion, of savages.--Where the pen and the press are wanting, the low of numbers impresses upon the memory of posterity, the deeds and sentiments of their forefathers. Verse is naturally connected with music; and, among a rude people, the union is seldom broken. By this natural alliance, the lays, "steeped in the stream of harmony," are more easily retained by the reciter, and produce upon his audience a more impressive effect. Hence, there has hardly been found to exist a nation so brutishly rude, as not to listen with enthusiasm to the songs of their bards, recounting the exploits of their forefathers, recording their laws and moral precepts, or hymning the praises of their deities. But, where the feelings are frequently stretched to the highest pitch, by the vicissitudes of a life of danger and military adventure, this predisposition of a savage people, to admire their own rude poetry and music, is heightened, and its tone becomes peculiarly determined. It is not the peaceful Hindu at his loom, it is not the timid Esquimaux in his canoe, whom we must expect to glow at the war song of Tyrtaeus. The music and the poetry of each country must keep pace with their usual tone of mind, as well as with the state of society. The morality of their compositions is determined by the same circumstances. Those themes are necessarily chosen by the bard, which regard the favourite exploits of the hearers; and he celebrates only those virtues, which from infancy he has been taught to admire. Hence, as remarked by Lesley, the music and songs of the borders were of a military nature, and celebrated the valour and success of their predatory expeditions. Razing, like Shakespeare's pirate, the eighth commandment from the decalogue, the minstrels praised their chieftains for the very exploits, against which the laws of the country denounced a capital doom.--An outlawed freebooter was to them a more interesting person, than the King of Scotland exerting his power to punish his depredations; and, when the characters are contrasted, the latter is always represented as a ruthless and sanguinary tyrant.--Spenser's description of the bards of Ireland applies in some degree, to our ancient border poets. "There is, among the Irish, a certain kinde of people, called bardes, which are to them instead of poets; whose profession is to set forth the praises or dispraises of men, in their poems or rhymes; the which are had in such high regard or esteem amongst them, that none dare displease them, for fear of running into reproach through their offence, and to be made infamous in the mouths of all men; for their verses are taken up with a general applause, and usually sung at all feasts and meetings, by certain other persons, whose proper function that is, who also receive, for the same, great rewardes and reputation amongst them." Spenser, having bestowed due praise upon the poets, who sung the praises of the good and virtuous, informs us, that the bards, on the contrary, "seldom use to chuse unto themselves the doings of good men for the arguments of their poems; but whomsoever they finde to be most licentious of life, most bold and lawless in his doings, most dangerous and desperate in all parts of disobedience, and rebellious disposition, him they set up and glorify in their rhythmes; him they praise to the people, and to young men make an example to follow."--_Eudoxus_--"I marvail what kind of speeches they can find, or what faces they can put on, to praise such bad persons, as live so lawlessly and licentiously upon stealths and spoyles, as most of them do; or how they can think, that any good mind will applaud or approve the same." In answer to this question, _Irenaeus_, after remarking the giddy and restless disposition of the ill educated youth of Ireland, which made them prompt to receive evil counsel, adds, that such a person, "if he shall find any to praise him, and to give him any encouragement, as those bards and rhythmers do, for little reward, or a share of a stolen cow[60], then waxeth he most insolent, and half-mad, with the love of himself and his own lewd deeds. And as for words to set forth such lewdness, it is not hard for them to give a goodly and painted show thereunto, borrowed even from the praises which are proper to virtue itself. As of a most notorious thief, and wicked outlaw, which had lived all his life-time of spoils and robberies, one of their bardes, in his praise, will say, 'that he was none of the idle milk-sops that was brought up by the fire-side, but that most of his days he spent in arms and valiant enterprizes; that he never did eat his meat, before he had won it with his sword; that he lay not all night slugging in his cabin under his mantle, but used commonly to keep others waking to defend their lives, and did light his candle at the flames of their houses to lead him in the darkness; that the day was his night, and the night his day; that he loved not to be long wooing of wenches to yield to him; but, where he came, he took by force the spoil of other men's love, and left but lamentations to their lovers; that his music was not the harp, nor lays of love, but the cries of people, and clashing of armour; and, finally, that he died, not bewailed of many, but made many wail when he died, that dearly bought his death.' Do not you think, Eudoxus, that many of these praises might be applied to men of best deserts? Yet, are they all yielded to a most notable traitor, and amongst some of the Irish not smally accounted of."--_State of Ireland_. The same concurrence of circumstances, so well pointed out by Spenser, as dictating the topics of the Irish bards, tuned the border harps to the praise of an outlawed Armstrong, or Murray. [Footnote 60: The reward of the Welch bards, and perhaps of those upon the border, was very similar. It was enacted by Howel Dha, that if the king's bard played before a body of warriors, upon a predatory excursion, be should receive, in recompence, the best cow which the party carried off.--_Leges Walliae_, I. 1. cap. 19.] For similar reasons, flowing from the state of society, the reader must not expect to find, in the border ballads, refined sentiment, and, far less, elegant expression; although the stile of such compositions has, in modern hands, been found highly susceptible of both. But passages might be pointed out, in which the rude minstrel has melted in natural pathos, or risen into rude energy. Even where these graces are totally wanting, the interest of the stories themselves, and the curious picture of manners, which they frequently present, authorise them to claim some respect from the public. But it is not the editor's present intention to enter upon a history of border poetry; a subject of great difficulty, and which the extent of his information does not as yet permit him to engage in. He will, therefore, now lay before the reader the plan of the present publication; pointing out the authorities from which his materials are derived and slightly noticing the nature of the different classes into which he has arranged them. The MINSTRELSY of the SCOTTISH BORDER contains Three Classes of Poems: I. HISTORICAL BALLADS. II. ROMANTIC. III. IMITATIONS OF THESE COMPOSITIONS BY MODERN AUTHORS. The Historical Ballad relates events, which we either know actually to have taken place, or which, at least, making due allowance for the exaggerations of poetical tradition, we may readily conceive to have had some foundation in history. For reasons already mentioned, such ballads were early current upon the border. Barbour informs us, that he thinks it unnecessary to rehearse the account of a victory, gained in Eskdale over the English, because --Whasa liks, thai may her Young women, when thai will play, Syng it among thaim ilk day.-- _The Bruce_, Book XVI. Godscroft also, in his History of the House of Douglas, written in the reign of James VI., alludes more than once to the ballads current upon the border, in which the exploits of those heroes were celebrated. Such is the passage, relating to the death of William Douglas, Lord of Liddesdale, slain by the Earl of Douglas, his kinsman, his godson, and his chief[61]. Similar strains of lamentation were poured by the border poets over the tomb of the Hero of Otterbourne; and over the unfortunate youths, who were dragged to an ignominious death, from the very table at which they partook of the hospitality of their sovereign. The only stanza, preserved of this last ballad, is uncommonly animated-- Edinburgh castle, towne and toure, God grant thou sink for sinne! And that even for the black dinoure, Erl Douglas gat therein. Who will not regret, with the editor, that compositions of such interest and antiquity should be now irrecoverable? But it is the nature of popular poetry, as of popular applause, perpetually to shift with the objects of the time; and it is the frail chance of recovering some old manuscript, which can alone gratify our curiosity regarding the earlier efforts of the border muse. Some of her later strains, composed during the sixteenth century, have survived even to the present day; but the recollection of them has, of late years, become like that of "a tale which was told." In the sixteenth century, these northern tales appear to have been popular even in London; for the learned Mr. Ritson has obligingly pointed out to me the following passages, respecting the noted ballad of _Dick o' the Cow_ (p. 157); "Dick o' the Cow, that mad demi-lance northern borderer, who plaid his prizes with the lord Jockey so bravely."--Nashe's _Have with you to Saffren-Walden, or Gabriell Harvey's Hunt is up_.--1596, 4to. _Epistle Dedicatorie_, _sig._ A. 2. 6. And in a list of books, printed for, and sold by, P. Brocksby (1688), occurs "Dick-a-the-Cow, containing north country songs[62]." Could this collection have been found, it would probably have thrown much light on the present publication: but the editor has been obliged to draw his materials chiefly from oral tradition. [Footnote 61: "The Lord of Liddisdale being at his pastime, hunting in Ettrick forest, is beset by William, Earl of Douglas, and such as he had ordained for the purpose, and there asailed, wounded, and slain, beside Galsewood, in the year 1353, upon a jealousy that the earl had conceived of him with his lady, as the report goeth; for so sayeth the old song, "The countess of Douglas out of her bower she came, And loudly there that she did call-- It is for the Lord of Liddisdale, That I let all these tears down fall." "The song also declareth, how she did write her love-letters to Liddisdale, to dissuade him from that hunting. It tells likewise the manner of the taking of his men, and his own killing at Galsewood; and how he was carried the first night to Linden kirk, a mile from Selkirk, and was buried in the abbey of Melrose."--_Godscroft_, Vol. I. p. 144, Ed. 1743. Some fragments of this ballad are still current, and will be found in the ensuing work.] [Footnote 62: The Selkirkshire ballad of _Tamlane_ seems also to have been well known in England. Among the popular heroes of romance, enumerated in the introduction to the history of "_Tom Thumbe_," (London, 1621, bl. letter), occurs "Tom a Lin, the devil's supposed bastard." There is a parody upon the same ballad in the "_Pinder of Wakefield_" (London, 1621).] Something may be still found in the border cottages resembling the scene described by Pennycuik. On a winter's night, my grannam spinning, To mak a web of good Scots linnen; Her stool being placed next to the chimley, (For she was auld, and saw right dimly,) My lucky dad, an honest whig, Was telling tales of Bothwell-brigg; He could not miss to mind the attempt, For he was sitting pu'ing hemp; My aunt, whom' nane dare say has no grace, Was reading on the Pilgrim's Progress; The meikle tasker, Davie Dallas, Was telling blads of William Wallace; My mither bade her second son say, What he'd by heart of Davie Lindsay; Our herd, whom all folks hate that knows him, Was busy hunting in his bosom; * * * * * The bairns, and oyes, were all within doors;} The youngest of us chewing cinders,} And all the auld anes telling wonders.} _Pennycuik's Poems_, p. 7. The causes of the preservation of these songs have either entirely ceased, or are gradually decaying Whether they were originally the composition of minstrels, professing the joint arts of poetry and music; or whether they were the occasional effusions of some self-taught bard; is a question into which I do not here mean to enquire. But it is certain, that, till a very late period, the pipers, of whom there was one attached to each border town of note, and whose office was often hereditary, were the great depositaries of oral, and particularly of poetical, tradition. About spring time, and after harvest, it was the custom of these musicians to make a progress through a particular district of the country. The music and the tale repaid their lodging, and they were usually gratified with a donation of seed corn[63]. This order of minstrels is alluded to in the comic song of _Maggy Lauder_, who thus addresses a piper-- "Live ye upo' the border?" By means of these men, much traditional poetry was preserved, which must otherwise have perished. Other itinerants, not professed musicians, found their welcome to their night's quarters readily insured by their knowledge in legendary lore. John Graeme, of Sowport, in Cumberland, commonly called _The Long Quaker_[64], a person of this latter description, was very lately alive; and several of the songs, now published, have been taken down from his recitation. The shepherds also, and aged persons, in the recesses of the border mountains, frequently remember and repeat the warlike songs of their fathers. This is more especially the case in what are called the South Highlands, where, in many instances, the same families have occupied the same possessions for centuries. [Footnote 63: These town pipers, an institution of great antiquity upon the borders, were certainly the last remains of the minstrel race. Robin Hastie, town-piper of Jedburgh, perhaps the last of the order, died nine or ten years ago: his family was supposed to have held the office for about three centuries. Old age had rendered Robin a wretched performer; but he knew several old songs and tunes, which have probably died along with him. The town-pipers received a livery and salary from the community to which they belonged; and, in some burghs, they had a small allotment of land, called the Piper's Croft. For further particulars regarding them, see _Introduction to Complaynt of Scotland_, Edinburgh, 1801, p. 142.] [Footnote 64: This person, perhaps the last of our professed ballad reciters, died since the publication of the first edition of this work. He was by profession an itinerant cleaner of clocks and watches; but, a stentorian voice, and tenacious memory, qualified him eminently for remembering accurately, and reciting with energy, the border gathering songs and tales of war. His memory was latterly much impaired; yet, the number of verses which he could pour forth, and the animation of his tone and gestures, formed a most extraordinary contrast to his extreme feebleness of person, and dotage of mind.] It is chiefly from this latter source that the editor has drawn his materials, most of which were collected, many years ago, during his early youth. But he has been enabled, in many instances, to supply and correct the deficiencies of his own copies, from a collection of border songs, frequently referred to in the work, under the title of _Glenriddell's MS_. This was compiled, from various sources, by the late Mr. Riddell, of Glenriddel, a sedulous border antiquary, and, since his death, has become the property of Mr. Jollie, bookseller at Carlisle; to whose liberality the editor owes the use of it, while preparing this work for the press. No liberties have been taken, either with the recited or written copies of these ballads, farther than that, where they disagreed, which is by no means unusual, the editor, in justice to the author, has uniformly preserved what seemed to him the best, or most poetical, reading of the passage. Such discrepancies must very frequently occur, wherever poetry is preserved by oral tradition; for the reciter, making it a uniform principle to proceed at all hazards, is very often, when his memory fails him, apt to substitute large portions from some other tale, altogether distinct from that which he has commenced. Besides, the prejudices of clans and of districts have occasioned variations in the mode of telling the same story. Some arrangement was also occasionally necessary, to recover the rhyme, which was often, by the ignorance of the reciters, transposed, or thrown into the middle of the line. With these freedoms, which were essentially necessary to remove obvious corruptions, and fit the ballads for the press, the editor presents them to the public, under the complete assurance, that they carry with them the most indisputable marks of their authenticity. The same observations apply to the Second Class, here termed ROMANTIC BALLADS; intended to comprehend such legends as are current upon the border, relating to fictitious and marvellous adventures Such were the tales, with which the friends of Spenser strove to beguile his indisposition: "Some told of ladies, and their paramours; Some of brave knights, and their renowned squires; Some of the fairies, and their strange attires, And some of giants, hard to be believed." These, carrying with them a general, and not merely a local, interest, are much more extensively known among the peasantry of Scotland than the border-raid ballads, the fame of which is in general confined to the mountains where they were originally composed. Hence, it has been easy to collect these tales of romance, to a number much greater than the editor has chosen to insert in this publication[65]. With this class are now intermingled some lyric pieces, and some ballads, which, though narrating real events, have no direct reference to border history or manners. To the politeness and liberality of Mr. Herd, of Edinburgh, the editor of the first classical collection of Scottish songs and ballads (Edinburgh, 1774, 2 vols.), the editor is indebted for the use of his MSS., containing songs and ballads, published and unpublished, to the number of ninety and upwards. To this collection frequent references are made, in the course of the following pages. Two books of ballads, in MS., have also been communicated to me, by my learned and respected friend, Alexander Fraser Tytler, Esq[66]. I take the liberty of transcribing Mr. Tytler's memorandum respecting the manner in which they came into his hands. "My father[67] got the following songs from an old friend, Mr. Thomas Gordon, professor of philosophy, King's College, Aberdeen. The following extract of a letter of the professor to me, explains how he came by them:--"An aunt of my children, Mrs Farquhar, now dead, who was married to the proprietor of a small estate, near the sources of the Dee, in Braemar, a good old woman, who spent the best part of her life among flocks and herds, resided in her latter days in the town of Aberdeen. She was possest of a most tenacious memory, which retained all the songs she had heard from nurses and country-women in that sequestered part of the country. Being maternally fond of my children, when young, she had them much about her, and delighted them with her songs, and tales of chivalry. My youngest daughter, Mrs Brown, at Falkland, is blest with a memory as good as her aunt, and has almost the whole of her songs by heart. In conversation I mentioned them to your father, at whose request, my grandson, Mr Scott, wrote down a parcel of them, as his aunt sung them. Being then but a mere novice in music, he added, in the copy, such musical notes, as, he supposed, might give your father some notion of the airs, or rather lilts, to which they were sung." [Footnote 65: Mr. Jamieson of Macclesfield, a gentleman of literary and poetical accomplishment, has for some years been employed in a compilation of Scottish ballad poetry, which is now in the press, and will probably be soon given to the public. I have, therefore, as far as the nature of my work permitted, sedulously avoided anticipating any of his materials; as I am very certain he himself will do our common cause the most ample justice.] [Footnote 66: Now a senator of the College of Justice, by the title of Lord Woodhouselee.] [Footnote 67: William Tytler, Esq. the ingenious defender of Queen Mary, and author of a _Dissertation upon Scotish Music_, which does honour to his memory.] From this curious and valuable collection, the editor has procured very material assistance. At the same time, it contains many beautiful legendary poems, of which he could not avail himself, as they seemed to be the exclusive property of the bards of Angus and Aberdeenshire. But the copies of such, as were known on the borders, have furnished him with various readings, and with supplementary stanzas, which he has frequent opportunities to acknowledge. The MSS. are cited under the name of Mrs. Brown of Falkland, the ingenious lady, to whose taste and memory the world is indebted for the preservation of the tales which they contain. The other authorities, which occur during the work, are particularly referred to. Much information has been communicated to the editor, from various quarters, since the work was first published of which he has availed himself, to correct and enlarge the present edition. In publishing both classes of ancient ballads, the editor has excluded those which are to be found in the common collections of this nature, unless in one or two instances, where he conceived it possible to give some novelty, by historical or critical illustration. It would have been easy for the editor to have given these songs an appearance of more indisputable antiquity, by adopting the rude orthography of the period, to which he is inclined to refer them. But this (unless when MSS. of antiquity can be referred to) seemed too arbitrary an exertion of the privileges of a publisher, and must, besides, have unnecessarily increased the difficulties of many readers. On the other hand, the utmost care has been taken, never to reject a word or phrase, used by a reciter, however uncouth or antiquated. Such barbarisms, which stamp upon the tales their age and their nation, should be respected by an editor, as the hardy emblem of his country was venerated by the Poet of Scotland: The rough bur-thistle spreading wide Amang the bearded bear, I turn'd the weeder-clips aside, And spared the symbol dear. BURNS. The meaning of such obsolete words is usually given at the bottom of the page. For explanation of the more common peculiarities of the Scottish dialect, the English reader is referred to the excellent glossary annexed to the last edition of Burns' works. The Third Class of Ballads are announced to the public, as MODERN IMITATIONS of the Ancient Style of composition, in that department of poetry; and they are founded upon such traditions as we may suppose in the elder times would have employed the harps of the minstrels. This kind of poetry has been supposed capable of uniting the vigorous numbers and wild fiction, which occasionally charm us in the ancient ballad, with a greater equality of versification, and elegance of sentiment, than we can expect to find in the works of a rude age. But, upon my ideas of the nature and difficulty of such imitations, I ought in prudence to be silent; lest I resemble the dwarf, who brought with him a standard to measure his own stature. I may, however, hint at the difference, not always attended to, betwixt legendary poems and real imitations of the old ballad; the reader will find specimens of both in the modern part of this collection. The legendary poem, called _Glenfinlas_, and the ballad, entituled the _Eve of St. John_, were designed as examples of the difference betwixt these two kinds of composition. It would have the appearance of personal vanity, were the editor to detail the assistance and encouragement which he has received, during his undertaking, from some of the first literary characters of our age. The names of Stuart, Mackenzie, Ellis, Currie, and Ritson, with many others, are talismans too powerful to be used, for bespeaking the world's favour to a collection of old songs; even although a veteran bard has remarked, "that both the great poet of Italian rhyme, Petrarch, and our Chaucer, and other of the upper house of the muses, have thought their canzons honoured in the title of a ballad." To my ingenious friend, Dr. John Leyden, my readers will at once perceive that I lie under extensive obligations, for the poetical pieces, with which he has permitted me to decorate my compilation; but I am yet farther indebted to him for his uniform assistance, in collecting and arranging materials for the work. In the notes, and occasional dissertations, it has been my object to throw together, perhaps without sufficient attention to method, a variety of remarks, regarding popular superstitions, and legendary history, which, if not now collected, must soon have been totally forgotten. By such efforts, feeble as they are, I may contribute somewhat to the history of my native country; the peculiar features of whose manners and character are daily melting and dissolving into those of her sister and ally. And, trivial as may appear such an offering, to the manes of a kingdom, once proud and independent, I hang it upon her altar with a mixture of feelings, which I shall not attempt to describe. "--Hail, land of spearmen! seed of those who scorn'd To stoop the proud crest to Imperial Rome! Hail! dearest half of Albion, sea-wall'd! Hail! state unconquer'd by the fire of war, Red war, that twenty ages round thee blaz'd! To thee, for whom my purest raptures flow, Kneeling with filial homage, I devote My life, my strength, my first and latest song." APPENDIX. No. I. LETTER FROM THE EARL OF SURREY, TO HENRY VIII. GIVING AN ACCOUNT OF THE STORM OF JEDBURGH. _Cott. MSS. Calig_. B. III. fol. 29. * * * * * "Pleisith it your grace to be advertised, that upon Fridaye, at x a clok at nyght, I retourned to this towne, and all the garnysons to their places assigned, the bushopricke men, my Lorde of Westmoreland, and my Lord Dacre, in likewise evry man home with their companys, without los of any men, thanked be God; saving viii or x slayne, and dyvers hurt, at skyrmyshis and saults of the town of Gedwurth, and the forteressis, which towne is soo suerly brent, that no garnysons ner none other shal bee lodged there, unto the tyme it bee newe buylded; the brennyng whereof I comytted to twoo sure men, Sir William Bulmer, and Thomas Tempeste. The towne was moche bettir then I went (_i.e._ ween'd) it had been, for there was twoo tymys moo houses therein then in Berwike, and well buylded, with many honest and faire houses therein, sufficiente to have lodged M horsemen in garnyson, and six good towres therein; whiche towne and towres be clenely distroyed, brent, and throwen downe. Undoubtedly there was noo journey made into Scotland, in noo manys day leving, with soo fewe a nombre that is recownted to be soo high an enterprice as this, bothe with thies contremen, and Scottishmen, nor of truthe so moche hurt doon. But in th' ende a great mysfortune ded fall, onely by foly, that such ordre, as was commaunded by me to be kepte, was not observed, the maner whereof hereaftir shall ensue. Bifore myn entre into Scotland, I appointed Sir William Bulmer and Sir William Evers too be marshallis of th' army; Sir William Bulmer for the vangard, and Sir William Evers for the reregard. In the vangard I appointed my Lord of Westmoreland, as chief, with all the bushopricke, Sir William Bulmer, Sir William Evers, my Lord Dacre, with all his company; and with me remayned all the rest of the garnysons, and the Northumberland men. I was of counsaill with the marshallis at th' ordering of our lodgingg, and our campe was soo well envirowned with ordynance, carts, and dikes, that hard it was to entre or issue, but at certain places appointed for that purpos, and assigned the mooste commodious place of the saide campe for my Lord Dacre company, next the water, and next my Lord of Westmoreland. And at suche tyme as my Lord Dacre came into the fald, I being at the sault of th' abby, whiche contynued unto twoo houres within nyght, my seid Lord Dacre wold in nowise bee contente to ly within the campe, whiche was made right sure, but lodged himself without, wherewith, at my retourne, I was not contente, but then it was to late to remove; the next daye I sente my seid Lorde Dacre to a strong hold, called Fernherst, the lorde whereof was his mortal enemy; and with hym, Sir Arthur Darcy, Sir Marmaduke Constable, with viii c. of their men, one cortoute, and dyvers other good peces of ordynance for the feld (the seid Fernherste stode marvelous strongly, within a grete woode); the seid twoo knights with the moost parte of their men, and Strickland, your grace servaunte, with my Kendall men, went into the woode on fote, with th' ordynance, where the said Kendall men were soo handled, that they found hardy men, that went noo foote back for theym; the other two knightes were alsoo soo sharply assayled, that they were enforced to call for moo of their men; and yet could not bring the ordynance to the forteresse, unto the tyme my Lord Dacre, with part of his horsemen, lighted on fote; and marvelously hardly handled himself, and fynally, with long skirmyshing, and moche difficultie, gat forthe th' ordynance within the howse and threwe downe the same. At which skyrmyshe, my seid Lord Dacre, and his brother, Sir Cristofer, Sir Arthure, and Sir Marmaduke, and many other gentilmen, did marvellously hardly; and found the best resistence that hath been seen with my comyng to their parties, and above xxxii Scottis sleyne, and not passing iiij Englishmen, but above lx hurt. Aftir that, my seid lord retournyng to the campe, wold in nowise bee lodged in the same, but where he laye the furst nyght. And he being with me at souper, about viij a clok, the horses of his company brak lowse, and sodenly ran out of his feld, in such nombre, that it caused a marvellous alarome in our feld; and our standing watche being set, the horses cam ronnyng along the campe, at whome were shot above one hundred shief of arrowes, and dyvers gonnys, thinking they had been Scotts, that wold have saulted the campe; fynally the horses were soo madde, that they ran like wild dere into the feld; above xv c. at the leest, in dyvers companys, and, in one place, above I felle downe a gret rok, and slewe theymself, and above ij c. ran into the towne being on fire, and by the women taken, and carried awaye right evill brent, and many were taken agayne. But, fynally, by that I can esteme by the nombre of theym that I sawe goo on foote the next daye, I think thare is lost above viij c. horses, and all with foly for lak of not lying within the camp. I dare not write the wondres that my Lord Dacre, and all his company, doo saye they sawe that nyght, vj. tymys of spirits and fereful sights. And unyversally all their company saye playnly, the devill was that nyght among theym vi tymys; whiche mysfortune hath blemyshed the best journey that was made in Scotland many yeres. I assure your grace I found the Scottes, at this tyme, the boldest men, and the hotest, that ever I sawe any nation, and all the journey, upon all parts of th' army, kepte us with soo contynuall skyrmyshe, that I never sawe the like. If they myght assemble xl M as good men as I nowe sawe, xv c or ij M, it wold bee a hard encountre to mete theym. Pitie it is of my Lord Dacres losse of the horses of his company; he brought with hym above iiij M. men, and came and lodged one night in Scotland, in his moost mortal enemy's centre. There is noo herdyer, ner bettir knyght, but often tyme he doth not use the most sure order, which he hath nowe payed derely for. Written at Berwike the xxvij of September. Your most bownden, T. SURREY. APPENDIX, No. II. HISTORY OF GEORDIE BOURNE. * * * * * In the following passages, extracted from the memoirs of Sir Robert Carey, then deputy of his father, Lord Hunsdon, warden of the east marches, afterwards Earl of Monmouth, the reader will find a lively illustration of the sketch given of border manners in the preceding Introduction. "Having thus ended with my brother, I then beganne to thinke of the charge I had taken upon mee, which was the government of the east march, in my father's absence. I wrote to Sir Robert Kerr[68], who was my opposite warden, a brave active young man, and desired him that hee would appoint a day, when hee and myselfe might privately meet in some part of the border, to take some good order for the quieting the borders, till my retourne from London, which journey I was shortly of necessity to take. Hee stayed my man all night, and wrote to mee back, that hee was glad to have the happinesse to be acquainted with mee, and did not doubt but the country would be better governed by our good agreements. I wrote to him on the Monday, and the Thursday after hee appointed the place and hour of meeting. [Footnote 68: Sir Robert Kerr of Cessford, warden of the middle marches, and ancestor of the house of Roxburghe.] "After hee had filled my man with drinke, and putt him to bed, hee, and some halfe a score with him, gott to horse, and came into England to a little village. There hee broke up a house, and tooke out a poore fellow, who (hee pretended) had done him some wrong, and before the doore cruelly murthered him, and so came quietly home, and went to bed. The next morning hee delivered my man a letter in answer to mine, and retourned him to mee. It pleased mee well at the reading of his kinde letter; but when I heard what a _brave_ hee had put upon mee, I quickly resolved what to do, which was, never to have to do with him, till I was righted for the greate wrong hee had done mee. Upon this resolution, the day I should have mett with him I tooke post, and with all the haste I could, rode to London, leaving him to attend my coming to him as was appointed. There hee stayed from one till five, but heard no news of mee. Finding by this that I had neglected him, hee retourned home to his house, and so things rested (with greate dislike the one of the other) till I came back, which was with all the speede I could, my businesse being ended. The first thing I did after my retourne, was to ask justice for the wrong hee had done mee; but I could gett none. The borderers, seeing our disagreement, they thought the time wished for of them was come. The winter being beganne, their was roades made out of Scotland into the east march, and goods were taken three or foure times a weeke. I had no other meanes left to quiet them, but still sent out of the garrison horsemen of Berwick, to watch in the fittest places for them, and it was their good hap many times to light upon them, with the stolen goods driving before them. They were no sooner brought before mee, but a jury went upon them, and, being found guilty, they were frequently hanged: a course which hath been seldom used, but I had no way to keep the country quiet but to do so; for, when the Scotch theeves found what a sharp course I tooke with them, that were found with the bloody hand, I had in a short time the country more quiet. All this while wee were but in jest as it were, but now beganne the greate quarrell betweene us. "There was a favorite of his, a greate theife, called Geordie Bourne. This gallant, with some of his associates would, in a bravery, come and take goods in the east march. I had that night some of the garrison abroad. They met with this Geordie and his fellowes, driving of cattle before them. The garrison set upon them, and with a shott killed Geordie Bourne's unckle, and hee himselfe bravely resisting till he was sore hurt in the head, was taken. After hee was taken, his pride was such, as hee asked, who it was that durst avow that nightes worke? but when hee heard it was the garrison, he was then more quiet. But so powerfull and awfull was this Sir Robert Kerr, and his favourites, as there was not a gentleman in all the east march that durst offend them. Presently after hee was taken, I had most of the gentlemen of the march come to mee, and told mee, that now I had the ball at my foote, and might bring Sir Robert Kerr to what conditions I pleased; for that this man's life was so neere and deare unto him, as I should have all that my heart could desire, for the good and quiet of the country and myselfe, if upon any condition I would give him his life. I heard them and their reasons; notwithstanding, I called a jury the next morning, and hee was found guilty of MARCH TREASON. Then they feared that I would cause him to be executed that afternoone, which made them come flocking to mee, humbly entreating mee, that I would spare his life till the next day, and if Sir Robert Kerr came not himselfe to mee, and made mee not such proffers, as I could not but accept, that then I should do with him what I pleased. And further, they told mee plainly, that if I should execute him, before I had heard from Sir Robert Kerr, they must be forced to quitt their houses and fly the country; for his fury would be such, against mee and the march I commanded, as hee would use all his power and strength to the utter destruction of the east march. They were so earnest with mee, that I gave them my word hee should not dye that day. There was post upon post sent to Sir Robert Kerr, and some of them rode to him themselves, to advertise him in what danger Geordie Bourne was; how he was condemned, and should have been executed that afternoone, but, by their humble suite, I gave them my word, that he should not dye that day; and therefore besought him, that hee would send to mee, with all the speede hee could, to let mee know, that hee would be the next day with mee to offer mee good conditions for the safety of his life. When all things were quiet, and the watch set at night, after supper, about ten of the clock, I tooke one of my men's liveryes, and putt it about mee, and tooke two other of my servants with mee in their liveryes, and we three, as the warden's men, came to the provost marshall's, where Bourne was, and were lett into his chamber. Wee sate down by him, and told him, that wee were desirous to see him, because wee heard hee was stoute and valiant, and true to his friend; and that wee were sorry our master could not be moved to save his life. He voluntarily of himselfe said, that hee had lived long enough to do so many villainies as hee had done; and withal told us, that hee had layne with about forty men's wives, what in England, what in Scotland; and that hee had killed seven Englishmen with his own hands, cruelly murthering them: that hee had spent his whole time in whoreing, drinking, stealing, and taking deep revenge for slight offences. Hee seemed to be very penitent, and much desired a minister for the comfort of his soule. Wee promised him to lett our master know his desire, who, wee knew, would presently grant it. Wee tooke our leaves of him, and presently I tooke order, that Mr. Selby, a very worthy honest preacher, should go to him, and not stirre from him till his execution the next morning; for, after I had heard his own confession, I was resolved no conditions should save his life: and so tooke order, that at the gates opening the next morning, hee should be carried to execution, which accordingly was performed. The next morning I had one from Sir Robert Kerr for a parley, who was within two miles staying for mee. I sent him word, "I would meet him where hee pleased, but I would first know upon what termes and conditions." Before his man was retourned, hee had heard, that in the morning, very early, Geordie Bourne had been executed. Many vowes hee made of cruell revenge, and retourned home full of griefe and disdaine, and, from that time forward still plotted revenge. Hee knew the gentlemen of the country were altogether sacklesse, and to make open road upon the march would but shew his malice, and lay him open to the punishment due to such offences. But his practice was how to be revenged on mee, or some of mine. "It was not long after that my brother and I had intelligence, that there was a great match made at footeball and the chiefe ryders were to be there. The place they were to meet at was Kelsy, and that day, wee heard it, was the day for the meeting. Wee presently called a counsaile, and after much dispute it was concluded, that the likeliest place hee was to come to, was to kill the scoutes. And it was the more suspected, for that my brother, before my coming to the office, for the cattaile stolne out of the bounds, and as it were from under the walles of Barwicke, being refused justice (upon his complaint,) or at least delaid, sent off the garrison into Liddisdale, and killed there the chiefe offender, which had done the wrong. "Upon this conclusion, there was order taken, that both horse and foote should lye in ambush, in diverse parts of the boundes, to defend the scoutes, and to give a sound blow to Sir Robert and his company. Before the horse and foote were sett out with directions what to do, it was almost darke night, and the gates ready to be lockt. Wee parted, and as I was by myselfe comeing to my house, God put it into my mind, that it might well be, hee meant destruction to my men, that I had sent out to gather tithes for mee at Norham, and their rendezvous was every night to lye and sup at an ale-house in Norham. I presently caused my page to take horse, and to ride as fast as his horse could carry him, and to command my servants (which were in all eight) that, presently upon his coming to them, they should all change their lodging, and go streight to the castle, there to lye that night in strawe and hay. Some of them were unwilling thereto, but durst not disobey; so altogether left their ale-house, and retired to the castle. They had not well settled themeselves to sleep, but they heard in the town a great alarm; for Sir Robert and his company came streight to the ale-house, broke open the doors, and made enquiry for my servants. They were answered, that by my command they were all in the castle. After they had searched all the house, and found none, they feared they were betrayed, and, with all the speede they could, made haste homewards again. Thus God blessed me from this bloody tragedy. "All the whole march expected nightly some hurt to be done; but God so blessed mee and the government I held, as, for all his fury, hee never drew drop of blood in all my march, neither durst his theeves trouble it much with stealing, for fear of hanging, if they were taken. Thus wee continued a yeare, and then God sent a meanes to bring thinges to better quiet by this occasion. "There had been commissioners in Barwicke, chosen by the queene and king of Scottes, for the better quieting of our borders. By their industry they found a great number of malefactors guilty, both in England and Scotland; and they tooke order, that the officers of Scotland should deliver such offenders, as were found guilty in their jurisdictions, to the opposite officers in England, to be detained prisoners, till they had made satisfaction for the goods they had taken out of England. The like order was taken with the wardens of England, and days prefixed for the delivery of them all. And in case any of the officers, on either side, should omit their duties, in not delivering the prisoners at the dayes and places appointed, that then there should a course be taken by the soveraignes, that what chiefe officer soever should offend herein, he himself should be delivered and detained, till he had made good what the commissioners had agreed upon. "The English officers did punctually, at the day and place, deliver their prisoners, and so did most of the officers of Scotland; only the Lord of Bocleuch and Sir Robert Kerr were faultie. They were complained of, and new dayes appointed for the delivery of their prisoners. Bocleuch was the first, that should deliver; and hee failing entered himselfe prisoner into Barwicke, there to remaine till those officers under his charge were delivered to free him. He chose for his guardian Sir William Selby, master of the ordinance at Barwicke. When Sir Robert Kerr's day of delivery came, he failed too, and my Lord Hume, by the king's command, was to deliver him prisoner into Barwicke upon the like termes, which was performed. Sir Robert Kerr (contrary to all men's expectation) chose mee for his guardian, and home I brought him to my own house, after hee was delivered to mee. I lodged him as well as I could, and tooke order for his diet, and men to attend on him, and sent him word, that (although by his harsh carriage towards mee, ever since I had that charge, he could not expect any favour, yet) hearing so much goodness of him, that hee never broke his word, if hee should give mee his hand and credit to be a true prisoner, hee would have no guard sett upon him, but have free liberty for his friends in Scotland to have ingresse and regresse to him as oft as hee pleased. He tooke this very kindly at my handes, accepted of my offer, and sent me thankes. "Some four dayes passed; all which time his friends came into him, and hee kept his chamber. Then hee sent to mee, and desired mee, I would come and speake with him, which I did; and after long discourse, charging and re-charging one another with wrong and injuries, at last, before our parting, wee became good friends, with greate protestations, on his side, never to give mee occasion of unkindnesse again. After our reconciliation hee kept his chamber no longer, but dined and supt with mee. I tooke him abroad with mee at the least thrice a weeke, a hunting, and every day wee grew better friends. Bocleuch, in a few dayes after, had his pledges delivered, and was set at liberty. But Sir Robert Kerr could not get his, so that I was commanded to carry him to Yorke, and there to deliver him prisoner to the archbishop, which accordingly I did. At our parting, he professed greate love unto mee for the kinde usage I had shewn him, and that I would find the effects of it upon his delivery, which hee hoped would be shortly. "Thus wee parted; and, not long after, his pledges were gott, and brought to Yorke, and hee sett at liberty. After his retourne home, I found him as good as his word. Wee met oft at dayes of truce, and I had as good justice as I could desire; and so wee continued very kinde and good friends, all the time that I stayed in that march, which was not long." APPENDIX, No. III. MAITLAND'S COMPLAYNT AGANIS THE THIEVIS OF LIDDISDAIL, FROM PINKERTON'S EDITION, COLLATED WITH A MS. OF MAITLAND'S POEMS, IN THE LIBRARY OF EDINBURGH COLLEGE. * * * * * Of Liddisdail the commoun theifis Sa peartlie steillis now and reifis, That nane may keip Horse, nolt, nor scheip, Nor yett dar sleip For their mischeifis. Thay plainly throw the country rydis, I trow the mekil devil thame gydis! Quhair they onsett, Ay in thair gaitt, Thair is na yet Nor dor, thame bydis. Thay leif rich nocht, quhair ever thay ga; Thair can na thing be hid thame fra; For gif men wald Thair housis hald, Than waxe thay bald, To burne and slay. Thay thiefs have neirhand herreit hail, Ettricke forest and Lawderdaill; Now are they gane, In Lawthiane; And spairis nane That thay will waill. Thay landis ar with stouth sa socht, To extreame povertye ar broucht, Thay wicked schrowis Has laid the plowis, That nane or few is That are left oucht. Bot commoun taking of blak mail, Thay that had flesche, and breid and aill, Now are sa wrakit, Made bair and nakit, Fane to be slaikit With watter caill. Thay theifs that steillis and tursis hame, Ilk ane of them has ane to-name[69]; Will of the Lawis, Hab of the Schawis: To mak bair wawis Thay thinke na schame. Thay spuilye puir men of their pakis, Thay leif them nocht on bed nor bakis; Baith hen and cok, With reil and rok, The Lairdis Jok, All with him takis. Thay leif not spindell, spoone, nor speit; Bed, boster, blanket, sark, nor scheit; Johne of the Parke Ryps kist and ark; For all sic wark He is richt meit. He is weil kend, John of the Syde; A greater theif did never ryde. He never tyris For to brek byris: Ouir muir and myris Ouir gude ane gyde. Thair is ane, callet Clement's Hob, Fra ilk puir wyfe reifis the wob, And all the lave, Quhatever they haife, The devil recave Thairfoir his gob. To sic grit stouth quha eir wald trow it, Bot gif some great man it allowit Rycht sair I trow Thocht it be rew: Thair is sa few That dar avow it. Of sum great men they have sic gait, That redy are thame to debait, And will up weir Thair stolen geir; That nane dare steir Thame air nor late. Quhat causis theifis us ourgang, Bot want of justice us amang? Nane takis cair, Thocht all for fear; Na man will spair Now to do wrang. Of stouth thocht now thay come gude speid, That nother of men nor God has dreid; Yet, or I die, Sum sail thame sie, Hing on a trie Quhill thay be deid-- _Quo_' Sir R.M. _of_ Lethington, _knicht_. [Footnote 69: Owing to the marchmen being divided into large clans, bearing the same sirname, individuals were usually distinguished by some epithet, derived from their place of residence, personal qualities, or descent. Thus, every distinguished moss-trooper had, what is here called, a _to-name_, or _nom de guerre_, in addition to his family name.] APPENDIX, No. IV. BOND OF ALLIANCE, OR FEUD STAUNCHING, BETWIXT THE CLANS OF SCOTT AND KER. * * * * * The battle of Melrose (see Introduction, p. xvii.) occasioned a deadly feud betwixt the name of Scott and Ker. The following indenture was designed to reconcile their quarrel. But the alliance, if it ever took effect, was not of long duration; for the feud again broke out about 1553, when Sir Walter Scott was slain by the Kers, in the streets of Edinburgh. "Thir indentures, made at Ancrum the 16th of March, 1529 years, contains, proports, and bears leil and suithfast witnessing. That it is appointed, agreed, and finally accorded betwixt honourable men; that is to say, Walter Ker of Cessford, Andrew Ker of Fairnieherst, Mark Ker of Dolphinston, George Kerr, tutor of Cessford, and Andrew Ker of Primesideloch, for themselves, kin, friends, mentenants, assisters, allies, adherents, and partakers, on the one part; and Walter Scot of Branxholm, knight, Robert Scot of Allanhaugh, Robert Scot, tutor of Howpaisly, John Scot of Roberton, and Walter Scot of Stirkshaws, for themselves, their kin, friends, mentenants, servants, assisters, and adherents, on the other part; in manner, form, and effect, as after follows: For staunching all discord and variance betwixt them, and for furth-bearing of the king's authority, and punishing trespasses, and for amending all slaughters, heritages, and steedings, and all other pleas concerning thereto, either of these parties to others, and for unité, friendship, and concord, to be had in time coming 'twixt them, of our sovereign lord's special command: that is to say, either of the said parties, be the tenor hereof, remits and forgives to others the rancour, hatred, and malice of their hearts; and the said Walter Scot of Branxholm shall gang, or cause gang, at the will of the party, to the four head pilgrimages of Scotland, and shall say a mass for the souls of umquhile Andrew Ker of Cessford, and them that were slain in his company, in the field of Melrose; and, upon his expence, shall cause a chaplain say a mass daily, when he is disposed, in what place the said Walter Ker and his friends pleases, for the well of the said souls, for the space of five years next to come.--Mark Ker of Dolphinston, Andrew Kerr of Graden, shall gang, at the will of the party, to the four head pilgrimages of Scotland, and shall gar say a mass for the souls of umquhile James Scot of Eskirk, and other Scots, their friends, slain in the field of Melrose; and, upon their expence, shall gar a chaplain say a mass daily, when he is disposed, for the heal of their souls, where the said Walter Scot and his friends pleases, for the space of three years next to come: and the said Walter Scot of Branxholm shall marry his son and heir upon one of the said Walter Ker his sisters; he paying, therefor, a competent portion to the said Walter Ker and his heir, at the sight of the friends of baith parties. And also, baith the saids parties bind and oblige them, be the faith and truth of their bodies, that they abide at the decreet and deliverance of the six men chosen arbiters, anent all other matters, quarrels, actiones, and debates, whilk either of them likes to propone against others betwixt the saids parties: and also the six arbiters are bound and obliged to decreet and deliver, and give forth their deliverance thereuntil, within year and day after the date hereof.--And attour, either of the saids parties bind and oblige them, be the faith and truth of their bodies, ilk ane to others, that they shall be leil and true to others, and neither of them will another's skaith, but they shall let it at their power, and give to others their best counsel, and it be asked; and shall take leil and aeffald part ilk ane with others, with their kin, friends, servants, allies, and partakers, in all and sundry their actions, quarrels, and debates, against all that live and die (may the allegiance of our sovereign lord the king allenarly be excepted).--And for the obliging and keeping all thir premises above written, baith the saids parties are bound and obliged, ilk ane to others, be the faith and truth of their bodies, but fraud or guile, under the pain of perjury, men-swearing, defalcation, and breaking of the bond of deadly. And, in witness of the whilk, ilk ane to the procuratory of this indenture remain with the said Walter Scot and his friends, the said Walter Ker of Cessford has affixed his proper seal, with his subscription manual, and with the subscription of the said Andrew Ker of Fairnieherst, Mark Ker of Dolphinston, George Ker, tutor of Cessford, and Andrew Ker of Primesideloch, before these witnesses, Mr. Andrew Drurie, abbot of Melrose, and George Douglas of Boonjedward, John Riddel of that ilk, and William Stewart. _Sic Subscribitur_, WALTER KER of Cessford. ANDREW KER of Fairnieherst. MARK KER. GEORGE KER. ANDREW KER of Primesideloch." N.B. The four pilgrimages are Scoon, Dundee, Paisley, and Melrose. APPENDIX, No. V. ANE INTERLUDE OF THE LAYING OF A GAIST. * * * * * This burlesque poem is preserved in the Bannatyne MSS. It is in the same strain with the verses concerning the _Gyre Carline_ (Vol. II.) As the mention of _Bettokis Bowr_ occurs in both pieces, and as the scene of both is laid in East Lothian, they are perhaps composed by the same author. The humour of these fragments seems to have been directed against the superstitions of Rome; but it is now become very obscure. Nevertheless, the verses are worthy of preservation, for the sake of the ancient language and allusions. Listen lordis, I sall you tell, Off ane very grit marvell, Off Lord Fergussis gaist, How meikle Sir Andro it chest, Unto Beittokis bour, The silly sawle to succour: And he hes writtin unto me, Auld storeis for to se, Gif it appinis him to meit, How he sall conjure the spreit: And I haif red mony quars, Bath the Donet, and Dominus que pars, Ryme maid, and als redene, Baith Inglis and Latene: And ane story haif I to reid, Passes Bonitatem in the creid. To conjure the litill gaist he mon haif Of tod's tails ten thraif, And kast the grit holy water With pater noster, pitter patter; And ye man sit in a compas, And cry, Harbert tuthless, Drag thow, and ye's draw, And sit thair quhill cok craw. The compas mon hallowit be With aspergis me Domine; The haly writ schawis als Thair man be hung about your bals Pricket in ane woll poik Of neis powder ane grit loik. Thir thingis mon ye beir, Brynt in ane doggis eir, Ane pluck, ane pindill, and ane palme cors, Thre tuskis of ane awld hors, And of ane yallow wob the warp, The boddome of ane awld herp, The held of ane cuttit reill, The band of an awld quheill, The taill of ane yeild sow, And ane bait of blew wow, Ane botene, and ane brechame, And ane quhorle made of lame, To luke out at the litill boir, And cry, Crystis crosse, you befoir: And quhen ye see the litill gaist, Cumand to you in all haist, Cry loud, Cryste eleisone, And speir quhat law it levis on? And gif it sayis on Godis ley, Than to the litill gaist ye say, With braid benedicite; --"Litill gaist, I conjure the, With lierie and larie, Bayth fra God, and Sanct Marie, First with ane fischis mouth, And syne with ane sowlis towth, With ten pertane tais, And nyne knokis of windil strais, With thre heidis of curle doddy."-- And bid the gaist turn in a boddy. Then efter this conjuratioun, The litill gaist will fall in soun, And thair efter down ly, Cryand mercy petously; Than with your left heil sane, And it will nevir cum agane, As meikle as a mige amaist.[70] He had a litill we leg, And it wes cant as any cleg, It wes wynd in ane wynden schet, Baythe the handis and the feit: Suppose this gaist wes litill Yit it stal Godis quhitell; It stal fra peteous Abrahame, Ane quhorle and ane quhim quhame; It stal fra ye carle of ye mone Ane payr of awld yin schone; It rane to Pencatelane, And wirreit ane awld chaplane; This litill gaist did na mair ill Bot clok lyk a corn mill; And it wald play and hop, About the heid ane stre strop; And it wald sing and it wald dance, Oure fute, and Orliance. Quha conjurit the litill gaist say ye? Nane bot the litill Spenzie fle, That with hir wit and her ingyne, Gart the gaist leif agane; And sune mareit the gaist the fle, And croun'd him King of Kandelie; And they gat them betwene, Orpheus king, and Elpha quene.[71] To reid quha will this gentill geist, Ye hard it not at Cockilby's feist.[72] [Footnote 70: Apparently some lines are here omitted.] [Footnote 71: This seems to allude to the old romance of _Orfeo and Heurodis_, from which the reader will find some extracts, Vol. II. The wife of _Orpheus_ is here called _Elpha_, probably from her having been extracted by the elves, or fairies.] [Footnote 72: Alluding to a strange unintelligible poem in the Bannatyne MSS., called _Cockelby's sow_.] APPENDIX, No. VI. SUPPLEMENTAL STANZAS TO COLLINS'S ODE ON THE SUPERSTITIONS OF THE HIGHLANDS. BY WILLIAM ERSKINE, ESQ. ADVOCATE. * * * * * The editor embraces this opportunity of presenting the reader with the following stanzas, intended to commemorate some striking Scottish superstitions, omitted by Collins in his ode upon that subject; and which, if the editor can judge with impartiality of the production of a valued friend, will be found worthy of the sublime original. The reader must observe, that these verses form a continuation of the address, by Collins, to the author of _Douglas_, exhorting him to celebrate the traditions of Scotland. They were first published in the _Edinburgh Magazine_, for April, 1788. * * * * * Thy muse may tell, how, when at evening's close, To meet her love beneath the twilight shade, O'er many a broom-clad brae and heathy glade, In merry mood the village maiden goes; There, on a streamlet's margin as she lies, Chaunting some carol till her swain appears, With visage deadly pale, in pensive guise, Beneath a wither'd fir his form he rears![73] Shrieking and sad, she bends her irie flight, When, mid dire heaths, where flits the taper blue, The whilst the moon sheds dim a sickly light, The airy funeral meets her blasted view! When, trembling, weak, she gains her cottage low, Where magpies scatter notes of presage wide, Some one shall tell, while tears in torrents flow, That, just when twilight dimm'd the green hill's side, Far in his lonely sheil her hapless shepherd died. [Footnote 73: The _wraith_, or spectral appearance, of a person shortly to die, is a firm article in the creed of Scottish superstition. Nor is it unknown in our sister kingdom. See the story of the beautiful lady Diana Rich.--_Aubrey's Miscellanies_, p, 89.] Let these sad strains to lighter sounds give place! Bid thy brisk viol warble measures gay! For see! recall'd by thy resistless lay, Once more the Brownie shews his honest face. Hail, from thy wanderings long, my much lov'd sprite! Thou friend, thou lover of the lowly, hail! Tell, in what realms thou sport'st thy merry night, Trail'st the long mop, or whirl'st the mimic flail. Where dost thou deck the much-disordered hall, While the tired damsel in Elysium sleeps, With early voice to drowsy workman call, Or lull the dame, while mirth his vigils keeps? 'Twas thus in Caledonia's domes, 'tis said, Thou ply'dst the kindly task in years of yore: At last, in luckless hour, some erring maid Spread in thy nightly cell of viands store: Ne'er was thy form beheld among their mountains more.[74] [Footnote 74: See Introduction, p. ci.] Then wake (for well thou can'st) that wond'rous lay, How, while around the thoughtless matrons sleep, Soft o'er the floor the treacherous fairies creep, And bear the smiling infant far away: How starts the nurse, when, for her lovely child, She sees at dawn a gaping idiot stare! O snatch the innocent from demons vilde, And save the parents fond from fell despair! In a deep cave the trusty menials wait, When from their hilly dens, at midnight's hour, Forth rush the airy elves in mimic state, And o'er the moon-light heath with swiftness scour: In glittering arms the little horsemen shine; Last, on a milk-white steed, with targe of gold, A fay of might appears, whose arms entwine The lost, lamented child! the shepherds bold[75] The unconscious infant tear from his unhallowed hold. [Footnote 75: For an account of the Fairy superstition, see _Introduction to the Tale of Tamlane_.] MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER. PART FIRST. * * * * * _HISTORICAL BALLADS_. SIR PATRICK SPENS. * * * * * One edition of the present ballad is well known; having appeared in the _Reliques of Ancient Poetry_, and having been inserted in almost every subsequent collection of Scottish songs. But it seems to have occurred to no editor, that a more complete copy of the song might be procured. That, with which the public is now presented, is taken from two MS. copies,[76] collated with several verses recited by the editor's friend, Robert Hamilton, Esq. advocate, being the 16th, and the four which follow. But, even with the assistance of the common copy, the ballad seems still to be a fragment. The cause of Sir Patrick Spens' voyage is, however, pointed out distinctly; and it shews, that the song has claim to high antiquity, as referring to a very remote period in Scottish history. [Footnote 76: That the public might possess this carious fragment as entire as possible, the editor gave one of these copies, which seems the most perfect, to Mr. Robert Jamieson, to be inserted in his Collection.] Alexander III. of Scotland died in 1285; and, for the misfortune of his country, as well as his own, he had been bereaved of all his children before his decease. The crown of Scotland descended upon his grand-daughter, Margaret, termed, by our historians, the _Maid of Norway_. She was the only offspring of a marriage betwixt Eric, king of Norway, and Margaret, daughter of Alexander III. The kingdom had been secured to her by the parliament of Scotland, held at Scone, the year preceding her grandfather's death. The regency of Scotland entered into a congress with the ministers of the king of Norway and with those of England, for the establishment of good order in the kingdom of the infant princess. Shortly afterwards, Edward I. conceived the idea of matching his eldest son, Edward, Prince of Wales, with the young queen of Scotland. The plan was eagerly embraced by the Scottish nobles; for, at that time, there was little of the national animosity, which afterwards blazed betwixt the countries, and they patriotically looked forward to the important advantage, of uniting the island of Britain into one kingdom. But Eric of Norway seems to have been unwilling to deliver up his daughter; and, while the negociations were thus protracted, the death of the Maid of Norway effectually crushed a scheme, the consequences of which might have been, that the distinction betwixt England and Scotland would, in our day, have been as obscure and uninteresting as that of the realms of the heptarchy.--_Hailes' Annals. Fordun, &c._ The unfortunate voyage of Sir Patrick Spens may really have taken place, for the purpose of bringing back the Maid of Norway to her own kingdom; a purpose, which was probably defeated by the jealousy of the Norwegians, and the reluctance of King Eric. I find no traces of the disaster in Scottish history; but, when we consider the meagre materials, whence Scottish history is drawn, this is no conclusive argument against the truth of the tradition. That a Scottish vessel, sent upon such an embassy, must, as represented in the ballad, have been freighted with the noblest youth in the kingdom, is sufficiently probable; and, having been delayed in Norway, till the tempestuous season was come on, its fate can be no matter of surprise. The ambassadors, finally sent by the Scottish nation to receive their queen, were Sir David Wemyss, of Wemyss, and Sir Michael Scot of Balwearie; the same, whose knowledge, surpassing that of his age, procured him the reputation of a wizard. But, perhaps, the expedition of Sir Patrick Spens was previous to their embassy. The introduction of the king into the ballad seems a deviation from history; unless we suppose, that Alexander was, before his death, desirous to see his grand-child and heir. The Scottish monarchs were much addicted to "sit in Dumfermline town," previous to the accession of the Bruce dynasty. It was a favourite abode of Alexander himself, who was killed by a fall from his horse, in the vicinity, and was buried in the abbey of Dumfermline. There is a beautiful German translation of this ballad, as it appeared in the _Reliques_, in the Volk-Lieder of Professor Herder; an elegant work, in which it is only to be regretted, that the actual popular songs of the Germans form so trifling a proportion. The tune of Mr. Hamilton's copy of _Sir Patrick Spens_ is different from that, to which the words are commonly sung; being less plaintive, and having a bold nautical turn in the close. SIR PATRICK SPENS. * * * * * The king sits in Dumfermline town, Drinking the blude-red wine; "O[77] whare will I get a skeely skippe[78], "To sail this new ship of mine?" O up and spake an eldern knight, Sat at the king's right knee,-- "Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor, "That ever sail'd the sea." Our king has written a braid letter. And seal'd it with his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the strand. "To Noroway, to Noroway, "To Noroway o'er the faem; "The king's daughter of Noroway, "'Tis thou maun bring her hame." The first word that Sir Patrick read, Sae loud loud laughed he; The neist word that Sir Patrick read, The tear blinded his e'e. "O wha is this has done this deed, "And tauld the king o' me, "To send us out, at this time of the year, "To sail upon the sea? "Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, "Our ship must sail the faem; "The king's daughter of Noroway, "'Tis we must fetch her hame," They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn, Wi' a' the speed they may; They hae landed in Noroway, Upon a Wodensday. They hadna been a week, a week, In Noroway, but twae, When that the lords o' Noroway Began aloud to say,-- "Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's goud, "And a' our queenis fee." "Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud! "Fu' loud I hear ye lie." "For I brought as much white monie, "As gane[79] my men and me, "And I brought a half-fou[80] o' gude red goud, "Out o'er the sea wi' me." "Make ready, make ready, my merrymen a'! "Our gude ship sails the morn." "Now, ever alake, my master dear, "I fear a deadly storm! "I saw the new moon, late yestreen, "Wi' the auld moon in her arm; "And if we gang to sea, master, "I fear we'll come to harm." They hadna sailed a league, a league, A league but barely three, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, And gurly grew the sea. The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap,[81] It was sik a deadly storm; And the waves came o'er the broken ship, Till a' her sides were torn. "O where will I get a gude sailor, "To take my helm in hand, "Till I get up to the tall top-mast, "To see if I can spy land?" "O here am I, a sailor gude, "To take the helm in hand, "Till you go up to the tall top-mast; "But I fear you'll ne'er spy land." He hadna' gane a step, a step, A step, but barely ane, When a bout flew out of our goodly ship, And the salt sea it came in. "Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith, "Another o' the twine, "And wap them into our ship's side, "And let na the sea come in." They fetched a web o' the silken claith, Another of the twine, And they wapped them round that gude ship's side, But still the sea came in. O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords To weet their cork-heel'd shoon! But lang or a' the play was play'd, They wat their hats aboon. And mony was the feather-bed, That flattered[82] on the faem; And mony was the gude lord's son, That never mair cam hame. The ladyes wrang their fingers white, The maidens tore their hair, A' for the sake of their true loves; For them they'll see na mair. O lang, lang, may the ladyes sit, Wi' their fans into their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand! And lang, lang, may the maidens sit, Wi' their goud kaims in their hair, A' waiting for their ain dear loves! For them they'll see na mair. O forty miles off Aberdeen, 'Tis fifty fathom deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' the Scots lords at his feet. [Footnote 77: In singing, the interjection, O, is added to the second and fourth lines.] [Footnote 78: _Skeely skipper_--Skilful mariner.] [Footnote 79: _Gane_--Suffice.] [Footnote 80: _Half-fou_--the eighth part of a peck.] [Footnote 81: _Lap_--Sprang.] [Footnote 82: _Flattered_--Fluttered, or rather floated, on the foam.] NOTES ON SIR PATRICK SPENS. * * * * * _To send us out at this time of the year_, _To sail upon the sea_?--P. 8, v. 3. By a Scottish act of parliament, it was enacted, that no ship should be fraughted out of the kingdom, with any staple goods, betwixt the feast of St. Simon's day and Jude and Candelmas.--_James III. Parliament 2d, chap._ 15. Such was the terror entertained for navigating the north seas in winter. _When a bout flew out of our goodly ship_.--P. 10. v. 5. I believe a modern seaman would say, a plank had started, which must have been a frequent incident during the infancy of ship-building. The remedy applied seems to be that mentioned in _Cook's Voyages_, when, upon some occasion, to stop a leak, which could not be got at in the inside, a quilted sail was brought under the vessel, which, being drawn into the leak by the suction, prevented the entry of more water. Chaucer says, "There n'is no new guise that it na'as old." _O forty miles off Aberdeen_,--P. 11. v. 3. This concluding verse differs in the three copies of the ballad, which I have collated. The printed edition bears, "Have owre, have owre to Aberdour;" And one of the MSS. reads, "At the back of auld St. Johnstowne Dykes." But, in a voyage from Norway, a shipwreck on the north coast seems as probable as either in the Firth of Forth, or Tay; and the ballad states the disaster to have taken place out of sight of land. AULD MAITLAND. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. * * * * * This ballad, notwithstanding its present appearance, has a claim to very high antiquity. It has been preserved by tradition; and is, perhaps, the most authentic instance of a long and very old poem, exclusively thus preserved. It is only known to a few old people, upon the sequestered banks of the Ettrick; and is published, as written down from the recitation of the mother of Mr. James Hogg[83], who sings, or rather chaunts it, with great animation. She learned the ballad from a blind man, who died at the advanced age of ninety, and is said to have been possessed of much traditionary knowledge. Although the language of this poem is much modernised, yet many words, which the reciters have retained, without understanding them, still preserve traces of its antiquity. Such are the words _Springals_ (corruptly pronounced _Springwalls_), _sowies_, _portcullize_, and many other appropriate terms of war and chivalry, which could never have been introduced by a modern ballad-maker. The incidents are striking and well-managed; and they are in strict conformity with the manners of the age, in which they are placed. The editor has, therefore, been induced to illustrate them, at considerable length, by parallel passages from Froissard, and other historians of the period to which the events refer. [Footnote 83: This old woman is still alive, and at present resides at Craig of Douglas, in Selkirkshire.] The date of the ballad cannot be ascertained with any degree of accuracy. Sir Richard Maitland, the hero of the poem, seems to have been in possession of his estate about 1250; so that, as he survived the commencement of the wars betwixt England and Scotland, in 1296, his prowess against the English, in defence of his castle of Lauder, or Thirlestane, must have been exerted during his extreme old age. He seems to have been distinguished for devotion, as well as valour; for, A.D. 1249, Dominus Ricardus de Mautlant gave to the abbey of Dryburgh, "_Terras suas de Haubentside, in territorio suo de Thirlestane, pro salute animae suae, et sponsae suae, antecessorum suorum et successorum suorum, in perpetuum_[84]." He also gave, to the same convent, "_Omnes terras, quas Walterus de Giling tenuit in feodo suo de Thirlestane, et pastura incommuni de Thirlestane, ad quadraginta oves, sexaginta vaccas, et ad viginti equos_."--Cartulary of Dryburgh Abbey, in the Advocates' Library. [Footnote 84: There exists also an indenture, or bond, entered into by Patrick, abbot of Kelsau, and his convent, referring to an engagement betwixt them and Sir Richard Maitland, and Sir William, his eldest son, concerning the lands of Hedderwicke, and the pasturages of Thirlestane and Blythe. This Patrick was abbot of Kelso, betwixt 1258 and 1260.] From the following ballad, and from the family traditions referred to in the Maitland MSS., Auld Maitland appears to have had three sons; but we learn, from the latter authority, that only one survived him, who was thence surnamed _Burd alane_, which signifies either _unequalled_, or _solitary_. A _Consolation_, addressed to Sir Richard Maitland of Lethington, a poet and scholar who flourished about the middle of the sixteenth century, and who gives name to the Maitland MSS., draws the following parallel betwixt his domestic misfortunes and those of the first Sir Richard, his great ancestor: Sic destanie and derfe devoring deid Oft his own hous in hazard put of auld; Bot your forbeiris, frovard fortounes steid And bitter blastes, ay buir with breistis bauld; Luit wanweirdis work and walter ay they wald, Thair hardie hairtis hawtie and heroik, For fortounes feid or force wald never fauld; Bot stormis withstand with stomak stoat and stoik. Renowned Richert of your race record, Quhais prais and prowis cannot be exprest; Mair lustie lynyage nevir haid ane lord, For he begat the bauldest bairnis and best, Maist manful men, and madinis maist modest, That ever wes syn Pyramus tym of Troy, But piteouslie thai peirles perles apest. Bereft him all hot Buird-allane, a boy. Himselfe was aiget, his hous hang be a har, Duill and distres almaist to deid him draife; Yet Burd-allane, his only son and air, As wretched, vyiss, and valient, as the laive, His hous uphail'd, quhilk ye with honor haive. So nature that the lyk invyand name, [85]In kindlie cair dois kindly courage craif, To follow him in fortoune and in fame. Richerd he wes, Richerd ye are also, And Maitland als, and magnanime as he; In als great age, als wrappit are in wo, Sewin sons[86] ye haid might contravaill his thrie, Bot Burd-allane ye haive behind as he: The lord his linage so inlarge in lyne, And mony hundreith nepotis grie and grie[87] Sen Richert wes as hundreth yeiris are hyne. _An Consolator Ballad to the Richt Honorabill Sir Richert Maitland of Lethingtoune.--Maitland MSS. in Library of Edinburgh University_. [Footnote 85: _i.e._ Similar family distress demands the same family courage.] [Footnote 86: _Sewin sons_--This must include sons-in-law; for the last Sir Richard, like his predecessor, had only three sons, namely, I. William, the famous secretary of Queen Mary; II. Sir John, who alone survived him, and is the _Burd-allane_ of the consolation; III. Thomas, a youth of great hopes, who died in Italy. But he had four daughters, married to gentlemen of fortune.--_Pinkerton's List of Scottish Poets_, p. 114.] [Footnote 87: _Grie and grie_--In regular descent; from _gre_, French.] Sir William Mautlant, or Maitland, the eldest and sole surviving son of Sir Richard, ratified and confirmed, to the monks of Dryburgh, "_Omnes terras quas Dominus Ricardus de Mautlant pater suus fecit dictis monachis_ _in territorio suo de Thirlestane," Sir William is supposed to have died about 1315.--Crawford's Peerage_. Such were the heroes of the ballad. The castle of Thirlestane is situated upon the Leader, near the town of Lauder. Whether the present building, which was erected by Chancellor Maitland, and improved by the Duke of Lauderdale, occupies the site of the ancient castle, I do not know; but it still merits the epithet of a "_darksome house_." I find no notice of the siege in history; but there is nothing improbable in supposing, that the castle, during the stormy period of the Baliol wars, may have held out against the English. The creation of a nephew of Edward I., for the pleasure of slaying him by the hand of young Maitland, is a poetical licence[88]; and may induce us to place the date of the composition about the reign of David II., or of his successor, when the real exploits of Maitland, and his sons, were in some degree obscured, as well as magnified, by the lapse of time. The inveterate hatred against the English, founded upon the usurpation of Edward I., glows in every line of the ballad. [Footnote 88: Such liberties with the genealogy of monarchs were common to romancers. Henry the Minstrel makes Wallace slay more than one of King Edward's nephews; and Johnie Armstrong claims the merit of slaying a sister's son of Henry VIII.] Auld Maitland is placed, by Gawain Douglas, bishop of Dunkeld, among the popular heroes of romance, in his allegorical Palice of Honour[89]: [Footnote 89: It is impossible to pass over this curious list of Scottish romances without a note; to do any justice to the subject would require an essay.--_Raf Coilyear_ is said to have been printed by Lekprevik, in 1572; but no copy of the edition is known to exist, and the hero is forgotten, even by popular tradition. _John the Reif_, as well as the former personage, is mentioned by Dunbar, in one of his poems, where he stiles mean persons, Kyne of Rauf Colyard, and Johne the Reif. They seem to have been robbers: Lord Hailes conjectured John the Reif to be the same with Johnie Armstrong; but, surely, not with his usual accuracy; for the _Palice of Honour_ was printed twenty-eight years before Johnie's execution. John the Reif is mentioned by Lindesay, in his tragedy of _Cardinal Beatoun_. --disagysit, like John the Raif, he geid.-- _Cowkilbeis Sow_ is a strange legend in the Bannatyne MSS.--See _Complaynt of Scotland_, p. 131. _How the wren came out of Ailsay_.--The wren, I know not why, is often celebrated in Scottish song. The testament of the wren is still sung by the children, beginning, The wren she lies in care's nest, Wi' meikle dole and pyne. This may be a modification of the ballad in the text.] I Saw Raf Coilyear with his thrawin brow, Crabit John the Reif, and auld Cowkilbeis Sow; And how the wran cam out of Ailsay, And Peirs Plowman[90], that meid his workmen few; Gret Gowmacmorne, and Fyn MacCowl, and how They suld be goddis in Ireland, as they say. _Thair saw I Maitland upon auld beird gray_, Robine Hude, and Gilbert with the quhite hand, How Hay of Nauchton flew in Madin land. In this curious verse, the most noted romances, or popular histories, of the poet's day, seem to be noticed. The preceding stanza describes the sports of the field; and that, which follows, refers to the tricks of "jugailrie;" so that the three verses comprehend the whole pastimes of the middle ages, which are aptly represented as the furniture of dame Venus's chamber. The verse, referring to Maitland, is obviously corrupted; the true reading was, probably, "_with his_ auld beird gray." Indeed the whole verse is full of errors and corruptions; which is the greater pity, as it conveys information, to be found no where else. [Footnote 90: _Peirs Plowman_ is well known. Under the uncouth names of Gow Mac Morn, and of Fyn MacCowl, the admirers of Ossian are to recognise Gaul, the son of Morni, and Fingal himself; _heu quantum mutatus ab illo_! To illustrate the familiar character of _Robin Hood_, would be an insult to my readers. But they may be less acquainted with _Gilbert with the White Hand_, one of his brave followers. He is mentioned in the oldest legend of that outlaw; Ritson's _Robin Hood_, p. 52. Thryes Robin shot about, And alway he slist the wand, And so dyde good _Gylberte With the White Hand_. _Hay of Nachton_ I take to be the knight, mentioned by Wintown, whose feats of war and travel may have become the subject of a romance, or ballad. He fought, in Flanders, under Alexander, Earl of Mar, in 1408, and is thus described; Lord of the Nachtane, schire William, Ane honest knycht, and of gud fame, A travalit knycht lang before than. And again, before an engagement, The lord of Nachtane, schire William The Hay, a knycht than of gud fame, Mad schire Gilberte the Hay, knycht. _Cronykil_, B. IX. c. 27. I apprehend we should read "How Hay of Nachton _slew_ in Madin Land." Perhaps Madin is a corruption for Maylin, or Milan Land.] The descendant of Auld Maitland, Sir Richard of Lethington, seems to have been frequently complimented on the popular renown of his great ancestor. We have already seen one instance; and in an elegant copy of verses in the Maitland MSS., in praise of Sir Richard's seat of Lethingtoun, which he had built, or greatly improved, this obvious topic of flattery does not escape the poet. From the terms of his panegyric we learn, that the exploits of auld Sir Richard with the gray beard, and of his three sons, were "sung in many far countrie, albeit in rural rhyme;" from which we may infer, that they were narrated rather in the shape of a popular ballad, than in a _romance of price_. If this be the case, the song, now published, may have undergone little variation since the date of the Maitland MSS.; for, divesting the poem, in praise of Lethington, of its antique spelling, it would run as smoothly, and appear as modern, as any verse in the following ballad. The lines alluded to, are addressed to the castle of Lethington: And happie art thou sic a place, That few thy mak ar sene: But yit mair happie far that race To quhome thou dois pertene. Quha dais not knaw the Maitland bluid, The best in all this land? In quhilk sumtyme the honour stuid And worship of Scotland. Of auld Sir Richard, of that name, We have hard sing and say; Of his triumphant nobill fame, And of his auld baird gray. And of his nobill sonnis three, Quhilk that tyme had no maik; Quhilk maid Scotland renounit be, And all England to quaik. Quhais luifing praysis, maid trewlie, Efter that simple tyme, Ar sung in monie far countrie, Albeit in rural rhyme. And, gif I dar the treuth declair, And nane me fleitschour call, I can to him find a compair, And till his barnis all. It is a curious circumstance, that this interesting tale, so often referred to by ancient authors, should be now recovered in so perfect a state; and many readers may be pleased to see the following sensible observations, made by a person, born in Ettrick Forest, in the humble situation of a shepherd. "I am surprised to hear, that this song is suspected by some to be a modern forgery; the contrary will be best proved, by most of the old people, hereabouts, having a great part of it by heart. Many, indeed, are not aware of the manners of this country; till this present age, the poor illiterate people, in these glens, knew of no other entertainment, in the long winter nights, than repeating, and listening to, the feats of their ancestors, recorded in songs, which I believe to be handed down, from father to son, for many generations; although, no doubt, had a copy been taken, at the end of every fifty years, there must have been some difference, occasioned by the gradual change of language. I believe it is thus that many very ancient songs have been gradually modernised, to the common ear; while, to the connoisseur, they present marks of their genuine antiquity."--_Letter to the Editor from Mr. James Hogg_. To the observations of my ingenious correspondent I have nothing to add, but that, in this, and a thousand other instances, they accurately coincide with my personal knowledge. AULD MAITLAND. * * * * * There lived a king in southern land, King Edward hight his name; Unwordily he wore the crown, Till fifty years were gane. He had a sister's son o's ain, Was large of blood and bane; And afterward, when he came up, Young Edward hight his name. One day he came before the king, And kneel'd low on his knee-- "A boon, a boon, my good uncle, "I crave to ask of thee! "At our lang wars, in fair Scotland, "I fain hae wished to be; "If fifteen hundred waled[90] wight men "You'll grant to ride wi' me." "Thou sail hae thae, thou sail hae mae; "I say it sickerlie; "And I mysell, an auld gray man, "Array'd your host sall see." King Edward rade, King Edward ran-- I wish him dool and pyne! Till he had fifteen hundred men Assembled on the Tyne. And thrice as many at Berwicke[91] Were all for battle bound, _Who, marching forth with false Dunbar, A ready welcome found_. They lighted on the banks of Tweed, And blew their coals sae het, And fired the Merse and Teviotdale, All in an evening late. As they fared up o'er Lammermore, They burned baith up and down, Until they came to a darksome house; Some call it Leader-Town. "Wha hauds this house?" young Edward cry'd, "Or wha gies't ower to me?" A gray-hair'd knight set up his head, And crackit right crousely: "Of Scotland's king I haud my house; "He pays me meat and fee; "And I will keep my gude auld house, "While my house will keep me." They laid their sowies to the wall, Wi' mony a heavy peal; But he threw ower to them agen Baith pitch and tar barrel. With springalds, stanes, and gads of airn, Amang them fast he threw; Till mony of the Englishmen About the wall he slew. Full fifteen days that braid host lay, Sieging Auld Maitland keen, Syne they hae left him, hail and fair, Within his strength of stane. Then fifteen barks, all gaily good, Met them upon a day, Which they did lade with as much spoil As they could bear away. "England's our ain by heritage; "And what can us withstand, "Now we hae conquer'd fair Scotland, "With buckler, bow, and brand?" Then they are on to the land o' France, Where auld King Edward lay, Burning baith castle, tower, and town, That he met in his way, Untill he came unto that town, Which some call Billop-Grace; There were Auld Maitland's sons, a' three, Learning at school, alas! The eldest to the youngest said, "O see ye what I see? "Gin a' be trew yon standard says[92], "We're fatherlesse a' three. "For Scotland's conquer'd, up and down; "Landmen we'll never be: "Now, will ye go, my brethren two, "And try some jeopardy?" Then they hae saddled twa black horse, Twa black horse, and a grey; And they are on to King Edward's host, Before the dawn of day. When they arriv'd before the host, They hover'd on the lay-- "Wilt thou lend me our king's standard, "To bear a little way?" "Where was thou bred? where was thou born? "Where, or in what countrie?" "In north of England I was born: (It needed him to lie.) "A knight me gat, a lady bore, "I'm a squire of high renowne; I well may bear't to any king, "That ever yet wore crowne." "He ne'er came of an Englishman, "Had sic an e'e or bree; "But thou art the likest Auld Maitland, "That ever I did see. "But sick a gloom, on ae brow-head, "Grant I ne'er see agane! "For mony of our men he slew, "And mony put to pain." When Maitland heard his father's name, An angry man was he! Then, lifting up a gilt dagger, Hung low down by his knee, He stabb'd the knight, the standard bore, He stabb'd him cruellie; Then caught the standard by the neuk, And fast away rode he. "Now, is't na time, brothers," he cried, "Now, is't na time to flee?" "Aye, by my sooth!" they baith replied, "We'll bear you company." The youngest turn'd him in a path, And drew a burnished brand, And fifteen of the foremost slew, Till back the lave did stand. He spurr'd the gray into the path, Till baith his sides they bled-- "Gray! thou maun carry me away, "Or my life lies in wad!" The captain lookit ower the wa', About the break o' day; There he beheld the three Scots lads, Pursued along the way. "Pull up portcullize! down draw-brigg! "My nephews are at hand; And they sall lodge wi' me to-night, "In spite of all England." Whene'er they came within the yate, They thrust their horse them frae, And took three lang spears in their hands, Saying, "Here sall come nae mae!". And they shot out, and they shot in, Till it was fairly day; When mony of the Englishmen About the draw-brigg lay. Then they hae yoked carts and wains, To ca' their dead away, And shot auld dykes aboon the lave, In gutters where they lay. The king, at his pavilion door, Was heard aloud to say, "Last night, three o' the lads o' France "My standard stole away. "Wi' a fause tale, disguised, they came, "And wi' a fauser trayne; "And to regain my gaye standard, "These men were a' down slayne." "It ill befits," the youngest said, "A crowned king to lie; "But, or that I taste meat and drink, "Reproved sall he be." He went before King Edward strait, And kneel'd low on his knee; "I wad hae leave, my lord," he said, "To speak a word wi' thee." The king he turned him round about, And wistna what to say-- Quo' he, "Man, thou's hae leave to speak, Tho' thou should speak a' day." "Ye said, that three young lads o' France "Your standard stole away, "Wi' a fause tale, and fauser trayne, "And mony men did slay: "But we are nane the lads o' France, "Nor e'er pretend to be; "We are three lads o' fair Scotland, "Auld Maitland's sons are we; "Nor is there men, in a' your host, "Daur fight us, three to three." "Now, by my sooth," young Edward said, "Weel fitted ye sall be! "Piercy sall wi' the eldest fight, "And Ethert Lunn wi' thee; "William of Lancaster the third, "And bring your fourth to me!" "_Remember, Piercy, aft the Scot[93] "Has cow'rd beneath thy hand_: "For every drap of Maitland blood, "I'll gie a rigg of land." He clanked Piercy ower the head, A deep wound and a sair, Till the best blood o' his bodie Cam rinning down his hair. "Now, I've slayne ane; slay ye the twa; "And that's gude companye; "And if the twa suld slay you baith, "Ye'se get na help frae me." But Ethert Lunn, a baited bear, Had many battles seen; He set the youngest wonder sair, Till the eldest he grew keen-- "I am nae king, nor nae sic thing: "My word it shanna stand! "For Ethert sail a buffet bide, "Come he beneath my brand." He clanked Ethert ower the head, A deep wound and a sair, Till the best blood of his bodie Cam rinning ower his hair. "Now I've slayne twa; slay ye the ane; "Is na that gude companye? "And tho' the ane suld slay ye baith, "Ye'se get na help o' me." The twa-some they hae slayne the ane; They maul'd him cruellie; Then hung them over the draw-brigg, That all the host might see. They rade their horse, they ran their horse, Then hovered on the lee; "We be three lads o' fair Scotland, "That fain wad fighting see." This boasting, when young Edward heard. An angry man was he! "I'll take yon lad, I'll bind yon lad, "And bring him bound to thee!" "Now, God forbid," King Edward said, "That ever thou suld try! "Three worthy leaders we hae lost, "And thou the fourth wad lie. "If thou should'st hang on yon draw-brigg, "Blythe wad I never be!" But, wi' the poll-axe in his hand, Upon the brigg sprang he. The first stroke that young Edward gae, He struck wi' might and mayn; He clove the Maitlan's helmet stout, And bit right nigh the brayn. When Maitland saw his ain blood fa', An angry man was he! He let his weapon frae him fa', And at his throat did flee. And thrice about he did him swing, Till on the grund he light, Where he has halden young Edward, Tho' he was great in might. "Now, let him up," King Edward cried, "And let him come to me! "And, for the deed that thou hast done, "Thou shalt hae erldomes three!" "Its ne'er be said in France, nor e'er In Scotland, when I'm hame, That Edward once lay under me, And e'er gat up again!" He pierced him through and through the heart; He maul'd him cruellie; Then hung him ower the draw-brigg, Beside the other three. "Now, take frae me that feather-bed! "Mak me a bed o' strae! "I wish I had na lived this day, "To mak my heart sae wae. "If I were ance at London tower, "Where I was wont to be, "I never mair suld gang frae hame, "Till borne on a bier-tree." [Footnote 90: _Waled_--Chosen.] [Footnote 91: North-Berwick, according to some reciters.] [Footnote 92: Edward had quartered the arms of Scotland with his own.] [Footnote 93: The two first lines are modern, to supply an imperfect stanza.] NOTES ON AULD MAITLAND. * * * * * _Young Edward hight his name_.--P, 25. v. 2. Were it possible to find an authority for calling this personage _Edmund_, we should be a step nearer history; for a brother, though not a nephew of Edward I., so named, died in Gascony during an unsuccessful campaign against the French.--_Knighton_, Lib. III. cap. 8. _I wish him dool and pyne_.--P. 26. v. 3. Thus, Spenser, in _Mother Huberd's tale_-- Thus is this ape become a shepherd swain, And the false fox his dog, God give them pain! _Who, marching forth with false Dunbar, A ready welcome found_.--P. 26. v. 4. These two lines are modern, and inserted to complete the verse. Dunbar, the fortress of Patrick, Earl of March, was too often opened to the English, by the treachery of that baron, during the reign of Edward I. _They laid their sowies to the wall_, _Wi' many a heavy peal_.--P. 27. v. 4. In this and the following verse, the attack and defence of a fortress, during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, is described accurately and concisely. The sow was a military engine, resembling the Roman _testudo_. It was framed of wood, covered with hides, and mounted on wheels, so that, being rolled forwards to the foot of the besieged wall, it served as a shed, or cover, to defend the miners, or those who wrought the battering ram, from the stones and arrows of the garrison. In the course of the famous defence, made by Black Agnes, Countess of March, of her husband's castle of Dunbar, Montague, Earl of Salisbury, who commanded the besiegers, caused one of these engines to be wheeled up to the wall. The countess, who, with her damsels, kept her station on the battlements, and affected to wipe off with her handkerchief the dust raised by the stones, hurled from the English machines, awaited the approach of this new engine of assault. "Beware, Montague," she exclaimed, while the fragment of a rock was discharged from the wall--"Beware, Montague! for farrow shall thy sow!"[94] Their cover being dashed to pieces, the assailants, with great loss and difficulty, scrambled back to their trenches. "By the regard of suche a ladye," would Froissart have said, "and by her comforting, a man ought to be worth two men, at need." The sow was called by the French _Truie_.--See _Hailes' Annals_, Vol. II. p. 89. _Wintown's Cronykil_, Book VIII. _William of Malmesbury_, Lib. IV. The memory of the _sow_ is preserved in Scotland by two trifling circumstances. The name given to an oblong hay-stack, is a _hay-sow_; and this may give us a good idea of the form of the machine. Children also play at a game with cherry stones, placing a small heap on the ground, which they term a _sowie_, endeavouring to hit it, by throwing single cherry-stones, as the sow was formerly battered from the walls of the besieged fortress. My companions, at the High School of Edinburgh, will remember what was meant by _berrying a sowie_. It is strange to find traces of military antiquities in the occupation of the husbandman, and the sports of children. [Footnote 94: This sort of bravade seems to have been fashionable in those times: "Et avec drapeaux, et leurs chaperons, ils torchoient les murs à l'endroit, ou les pierres venoient frapper."--_Notice des Manuscrits de la Bibliotheque Nationale_.] The pitch and tar-barrels of Maitland were intended to consume the formidable machines of the English. Thus, at a fabulous siege of York, by Sir William Wallace, the same mode of defence is adopted: The Englishmen, that cruel were and kene, Keeped their town, and fended there full fast; Faggots of fire among the host they cast, Up _pitch and tar_ on feil _sowis_ they lent; Many were hurt ere they from the walls went; _Stones on Springalds they did cast out so fast, And goads of iron made many grome agast_. Henry the Minstrel's History of Wallace.--B. 8. c. 5. A more authentic illustration may be derived from Barbour's Account of the Siege of Berwick, by Edward II., in 1319, when a _sow_ was brought on to the attack by the English, and burned by the combustibles hurled down upon it, through the device of John Crab, a Flemish engineer, in the Scottish service. And thai, that at the sege lay, Or it was passyt the fyft day, Had made thaim syndry apparall, To gang eft sonys till assaill. Off gret gests a _sow_ thai maid, That stalwart heildyne aboyne it haid; With armyt men inew tharin, And instruments for to myne. Syndry scaffalds thai maid withall, That war wele heyar than the wall, And ordanyt als that, be the se, The town suld weill assaillyt be. Thai within, that saw thaim swa, Swa gret apparaill schap to ma, Throw Craby's cunsaill, that wes sley, A crane thai haiff gert dress up hey, Rynnand on quheills, that thai micht bryng It quhar that nede war off helping. And pyk, and ter, als haiff thai tane; And lynt, and herds, and brymstane; And dry treyis that wele wald brin, And mellyt aythir other in: And gret fagalds thairoff thai maid, Gyrdyt with irne bands braid. The fagalds weill mycht mesuryt be, Till a gret towrys quantite. The fagalds bryning in a ball, With thair cran thoucht till awaill; And giff the sow come to the wall, To lat it brynand on her fall; And with stark chenyeis hald it thar, Quhill all war brynt up that thar war. * * * * * Upon sic maner gan thai fycht, Quhill it wes ner none off the day, That thai without, on gret aray, Pryssyt thair _sow_ towart the wall; And thai within sune gert call The engynour, that takyn was, And gret manance till hym mais, And swour that he suld dey, bot he Prowyt on the sow sic sutelté That he to fruschyt ilk dele, And he, that hath persawyt wele That the dede wes wele ner hym till, Bot giff he mycht fulfil thair will Thoucht that he at hys mycht wald do. Bendyt in gret by then wes sche, That till the sow wes ewyn set. In hy he gert draw the cleket; And smertly swappyt owt a stane, Ewyn our the sow the stane is gane, And behind it a litill way It fell: and then they cryt, "Hey!" That war in hyr, "furth to the wall, For dredles it is ours all!" The gynour than deleuerly Gert bend the gyn in full gret hy; And the stane smertly swappyt out. It flaw out quethyr, and with a rout, And fell rycht ewyn befor the sow. Thair harts than begouth to grow. Bot yhet than, with thair mychts all Thai pressyt the sow towart the wall; And has hyr set tharto gentilly. The gynour than gert bend in hy The gyne, and wappyt owt the stane, That ewyn towart the lyft is gane, And with gret wycht syne duschyt doun, Rycht be the wall in a randoun; And hyt the sow in sic maner, That it that wes the maist sowar, And starkast for to stynt a strak, In sundre with that dusche it brak. The men than owt in full gret hy, And on the wallis thai gan cry, That thair sow wes feryt thar. Jhon Crab, that had hys geer all yar In hys fagalds has set the fyr, And our the wall syne gan thai wyr, And brynt the sow till brands bar. _The Bruce_, Book XVII The _springalds_, used in defence of the castle of Lauder, were _balistae_, or large cross-bows, wrought by machinery, and capable of throwing stones, beams, and huge darts. They were numbered among the heavy artillery of the age; "Than the kynge made all his navy to draw along, by the cost of the Downes, every ship well garnished with bombardes, crosbowes, archers, _springalls_, and other artillarie."--_Froissart_. Goads, or sharpened bars of iron, were an obvious and formidable missile weapon. Thus, at the assault of Rochemiglion "They within cast out great barres of iron, and pots with lyme, wherewith they hurt divers Englishmen, such as adventured themselves too far."--_Froissart_, Vol. I. cap. 108. From what has been noticed, the attack and defence of Lauder castle will be found strictly conformable to the manners of the age; a circumstance of great importance, in judging of the antiquity of the ballad. There is no mention of guns, though these became so common in the latter part of the reign of Edward III., that, at the siege of St. Maloes, "the English had well a four hondred gonnes, who shot day and night into the fortresse, and agaynst it."--_Froissart_, Vol. I. cap. 336. Barbour informs us, that guns, or "crakis of wer," as he calls them, and crests for helmets, were first seen by the Scottish, in their skirmishes with Edward the Third's host, in Northumberland A.D. 1327. _Which some call Billop-Grace_.--P. 28. v. 5. If this be a Flemish, or Scottish, corruption for Ville de Grace, in Normandy, that town was never besieged by Edward I., whose wars in France were confined to the province of Gascony. The rapid change of scene, from Scotland to France, excites a suspicion, that some verses may have been lost in this place. The retreat of the English host, however, may remind us of a passage, in Wintown, when, after mentioning that the Earl of Salisbury raised the siege of Dunbar, to join King Edward in France, he observes, "It was to Scotland a gud chance, "That thai made thaim to werray in France; "For had thai halyly thaim tane "For to werray in Scotland allane. Eftyr the gret mischeffis twa, Duplyn and Hallydowne war tha, Thai suld have skaithit it to gretly. Bot fortowne thoucht scho fald fekilly Will noucht at anis myscheffis fall; Thare-fore scho set thare hartis all, To werray Fraunce richit to be, That Scottis live in grettar lé. _Cronykil_, B. VIII. cap. 34. _Now, will ye go, my brethren two, And try some jeopardie_?--P. 29. v. 2. The romantic custom of atchieving, or attempting, some desperate and perilous adventure, without either necessity or cause, was a peculiar, and perhaps the most prominent, feature of chivalry. It was not merely the duty, but the pride and delight, of a true knight, to perform such exploits, as no one but a madman would have undertaken. I think it is in the old French romance of _Erec and Eneide_, that an adventure, the access to which lay through an avenue of stakes, garnished with the bloody heads of the knights who had attempted and failed to atchieve it, is called by the inviting title of _La joie de la Cour_. To be first in advancing, or last in retreating; to strike upon the gate of a certain fortress of the enemy; to fight blindfold, or with one arm tied up; to carry off a banner, or to defend one; were often the subjects of a particular vow, among the sons of chivalry. Until some distinguishing exploit of this nature, a young knight was not said to have _won his spurs_; and, upon some occasions, he was obliged to bear, as a mark of thraldom, a chain upon his arm, which was removed, with great ceremony, when his merit became conspicuous. These chains are noticed in the romance of _Jehan de Saintré_. In the language of German chivalry, they were called _Ketten des Gelubdes_ (fetters of duty). Lord Herbert of Cherbury informs us, that the knights of the Bath were obliged to wear certain strings, of silk and gold, upon their left arm, until they had atchieved some noble deed of arms. When Edward III. commenced his French wars, many of the young bachelors of England bound up one of their eyes with a silk ribband, and swore, before the peacock and the ladies, that they would not see with both eyes until they had accomplished certain deeds of arms in France.--_Froissart_, cap. 28. A remarkable instance of this chivalrous frenzy occurred during the expedition of Sir Robert Knowles, who, in 1370, marched through France, and laid waste the country, up to the very gates of Paris. "There was a knighte, in their companye, had made a vowe, the day before, that he wolde ryde to the walles or gates of Parys, and stryke at the barryers with his speare. And, for the fournyshing of his vowe, he departed fro his companye, his spear in his fyst, his shelde about his neck, armed at all pecesse, on a good horsse, his squyer on another, behinde him, with his bassenet. And whan he approached neare to Parys, he toke and dyde on his helme, and left his squyer behind hym, and dashed his spurres to his horsse, and came gallopynge to the barryers, the whiche as then were opyn; and the lordes, that were there, had wened he wolde have entred into the towne; but that was not his mynde; for, when he hadde stryken at the barryers, as he had before avowed, he towrned his reyne, and drue back agayne, and departed. Than the knightes of France, that sawe hym depart, sayd to hym, 'Go your waye; you have ryghte well acquitted yourself.' I can nat tell you what was thys knyghtes name, nor of what contre; but the blazure of his armes was, goules, two fusses sable, a border sable. Howbeit, in the subbarbes, he had a sore encontre; for, as he passed on the pavement, he founde before hym a bocher, a bigge man, who had well sene this knighte pass by. And he helde in his handes a sharpe hevy axe, with a longe poynt; and, as the knyght returned agayne, and toke no hede, this bocher came on his side, and gave the knyghte suche a stroke, betwene the neck and the shulders, that he reversed forwarde heedlynge, to the neck of his horsse, and yet he recovered agayne. And than the bocher strake hym agayne, so that the axe entered into his body, so that, for payne, the knyghte fell to the erthe, and his horsse ran away, and came to the squyer, who abode for his mayster at the stretes ende. And so, the squyer toke the horsse, and had gret marveyle what was become of his mayster; for he had well sene him ryde to the barryers, and stryke therat with his glayve, and retourne agayne. Thanne he rode a lytell forthe, thyderwarde, and anone he sawe where his master layn upon the erthe, bytwene foure men, layenge on him strokes, as they wolde have stryken on a stethey _(anvil)_; and than the squyer was so affreyed, that he durst go no farther; for he sawe well he could nat helpe his mayster. Therefore he retourned as fast as he myght: so there the sayd knyghte was slayne. And the knyghtes, that were at the gate, caused hym to be buried in holy ground."--_Froissart_, ch. 281. A similar instance of a military jeopardy occurs in the same author, ch. 364. It happened before the gates of Troyes. "There was an Englyshe squyre, borne in the bishopryke of Lincolne, an expert man of armes; I can nat say whyder he could se or nat; but he spurred his horse, his speare in his hande, and his targe about his necke; his horse came rushyng downe the waye, and lept clene over the barres of the baryers, and so galoped to the gate, where as the duke of Burgoyne and the other lords of France were, who reputed that dede for a great enterprise. The squyer thoughte to have returned, but he could nat; for his horse was stryken with speares, and beaten downe, and the squyer slayn; wherewith the Duke of Burgoyne was right sore displeased." _Wilt thou lend me our king's standard, To bear a little way_?--P. 29. v. 4. In all ages, and in almost all countries, the military standards have been objects of respect to the soldiery, whose duty it is to range beneath them, and, if necessary, to die in their defence. In the ages of chivalry, these ensigns were distinguished by their shape, and by the various names of banners, pennons, penoncelles, &c., according to the number of men, who were to fight under them. They were displayed, on the day of battle, with singular solemnity, and consigned to the charge only of such as were thought willing and able to defend them to the uttermost. When the army of Edward, the Black Prince, was drawn up against that of Henry the Bastard, king of Castile, "Than Sir Johan Chandos brought his baner, rolled up togyder, to the prince, and said, 'Sir, behold, here is my baner. I requyre you display it abrode, and give me leave, this daye, to raise it; for, sir, I thanke God and you, I have land and heritage suffyciente to maynteyne it withal.' Than the prince, and King Dampeter (Don Pedro), toke the baner betwene their handes, and spred it abrode, the which was of sylver, a sharp pyle gaules, and delyvered it to hym, and said, 'Sir Johan, behold here youre baner; God sende you joye and honour thereof!' Than Sir Johan Chandos bare his baner to his owne company, and sayde, 'Sirs, beholde here my baner, and yours; kepe it as your owne.' And they toke it, and were right joyful therof, and sayd, that, by the pleasure of God, and Saint George, they wold kepe and defend it to the best of their powers. And so the baner abode in the handes of a good Englishe squyer, called William Alery, who bare it that day, and acquaytted himself right nobly."--_Froissart_, Vol. I. ch. 237. The loss of a banner was not only great dishonour, but an infinite disadvantage. At the battle of Cocherel, in Normandy, the flower of the combatants, on each side, were engaged in the attack and defence of the banner of the captall of Buche, the English leader. It was planted amid a bush of thorns, and guarded by sixty men at arms, who defended it gallantly. "There were many rescues, and many a one hurt and cast to the earth, and many feats of armes done, and many gret strokes given, with good axes of steel, that it was wonder to behold." The battle did not cease until the captall's standard was taken and torn to pieces. We learn, from the following passage in _Stowe's Chronicle_, that the standard of Edward I. was a golden dragon. "The king entred Wales with an army, appointing the footmen to occupie the enemies in fight, whiles his horsemen, in a wing, set on the rere battell: himselfe, with a power, kept his place, where he pight his golden dragon, unto whiche, as to a castle, the wounded and wearied might repair." "_Where was thou bred? where was thou born? Where, or in what countrie?" "In north of England I was born: (It needed him to lie_.)--P. 29. v. 5. Stratagems, such as that of Maitland, were frequently practised with success, in consequence of the complete armour worn by the knights of the middle ages. In 1359, Edward III. entered France, to improve the success of the battle of Poictiers. Two French knights, Sir Galahaut of Rybamont, and Sir Roger of Cologne, rode forth, with their followers, to survey the English host, and, in short, to seek adventures. It chanced that they met a foraging party of Germans, retained in King Edward's service, under the command of Reynold of Boulant, a knight of that nation. By the counsel of a squire of his retinue, Sir Galahaut joined company with the German knight, under the assumed character of Bartholomew de Bonne, Reynold's countryman, and fellow soldier in the English service. The French knights "were a 70 men of armes, and Sir Renolde had not past a 30; and, whan Sir Renolde saw theym, he displayed his baner befor hym, and came softely rydynge towarde theym, wenyng to hym that they had been Englyshemen. Whan he approched, he lyft up hys vyser, saluted Sir Galahaut, in the name of Sir Bartylmewe de Bonnes. Sir Galahaut helde hymselfe styll secrete, and answered but fayntly, and sayd, 'let us ryde forth;' and so rode on, and hys men, on the one syde, and the Almaygnes on the other. Whan Sir Renolde of Boulant sawe theyr maner, and howe Sir Galahaut rode sometyme by hym, and spake no word, than he began to suspecte. And he had not so ryden, the space of a quarter of an hour, but he stode styll, under his baner, among hys men, and sayd, 'Sir, I have dout what knyght ye be. I thynke ye be nat Sir Bartylmewe, for I knowe hym well; and I see well that yt ys nat you. I woll ye telle me your name, or I ryde any farter in your company.' Therwith Sir Galahaut lyft up hys vyser, and rode towardes the knyght to have taken hym by the raygne of hys brydell, and cryed, '_Our Ladye of Rybamont_!' than Sir Roger of Coloyne sayd, '_Coloyne to the rescue_!'[95] Whan Sir Renolde of Boulant sawe what case he was in, he was nat gretly afrayed, but drewe out his sworde; and, as Sir Galahaut wolde have taken hym by the brydell, Sir Renolde put his sworde clene through hym, and drue agayne hys sworde out of hym, and toke his horse, with the spurres, and left Sir Galahaut sore hurt. And, whan Sir Galahautes men sawe theyr master in that case, they were sore dyspleased, and set on Sir Renolde's men; there were many cast to the yerth, but as sone as Sir Renolde had gyven Sir Galahaut that stroke, he strak hys horse with the spurres, and toke the feldes. Than certayne of Galahaut's squyers chasyd hym, and, whan he sawe that they folowed hym so nere, that he muste other tourne agayne, or els be shamed, lyke a hardy knyght he tourned, and abode the foremost, and gave hym such a stroke, that he had no more lyste to folwe him. And thus, as he rode on, he served three of theym, that folowed hym, and wounded theym sore: if a goode axe had been in hys hand, at every stroke he had slayne a man. He dyd so muche, that he was out of danger of the Frenchmen, and saved hymselfe withoute any hurte; the whyche hys enemyes reputed for a grete prowess, and so dyd all other that harde thereof; but hys men were nere slayne or taken, but few that were saved. And Sir Galahaut was caryed from thence sore hurt to Perone; of that hurt he was never after perfectly hole; for he was a knyght of suche courage, that, for all his hurte, he wold not spare hymselfe; wherefore he lyved not long after."--_Froissart_, Vol. I. Chap. 207. [Footnote 95: The war-cries of their family.] _The youngest turn'd him in a path, And drew a burnished brand, &c._--P. 31. v. 2. Thus, Sir Walter Mauny, retreating into the fortress of Hanyboute, after a successful sally, was pursued by the besiegers, who ranne after them, lyke madde men; than Sir Gualtier saide, "Let me never be beloved wyth my lady, without I have a course wyth one of these folowers!" and turning, with his lance in the rest, he overthrew several of his pursuers, before he condescended to continue his retreat. _Whene'er they came within the yate, They thrust their horse them frae, &c._--P. 32. v. 1. "The Lord of Hangest (pursued by the English) came so to the barryers (of Vandonne) that were open, as his happe was, and so entred in therat, and than toke his speare, and turned him to defence, right valiantly."--_Froissart_, Vol. I. Chap. 367. _They rade their horse, they ran their horse, Then hovered on the lee, &c._--P. 36. v. 1. The sieges, during the middle ages, frequently afforded opportunity for single combat, of which the scene was usually the draw-bridge, or barriers, of the town. The former, as the more desperate place of battle, was frequently chosen by knights, who chose to break a lance for honour, and their ladies' love. In 1387, Sir William Douglas, lord of Nithisdale, upon the draw-bridge of the town of Carlisle, consisting of two beams, hardly two feet in breadth, encountered and slew, first, a single champion of England, and afterwards two, who attacked him together.--_Forduni Scotichronicon_, Lib. XIV. cap. 51. He brynt the surburbys of Carlele, And at the bareris he faucht sa wele, That on thare bryg he slw a man, The wychtast that in the town wes than: Quhare, on a plank of twa feet brade, He stude, and twa gude payment made, That he feld twa stout fechteris, And but skath went till his feres. _Wintown's Cronykil_, Book IX. Chap. 8. These combats at the barriers, or palisades, which formed the outer fortification of a town, were so frequent, that the mode of attack and defence was early taught to the future knight, and continued long to be practised in the games of chivalry. The custom, therefore, of defying the inhabitants of a besieged town to this sort of contest, was highly fashionable in the middle ages; and an army could hardly appear before a place, without giving rise to a variety of combats at the barriers, which were, in general, conducted without any unfair advantage being taken on either part. The following striking example of this romantic custom occurs in Froissart. During the French wars of Edward the Black Prince, and in the year 1370, a body of English, and of adventurers retained in his service, approached the city of Noyon, then occupied by a French garrison, and arrayed themselves, with displayed banners, before the town, defying the defenders to battle. "There was a Scottysh knyghte[96] dyde there a goodly feate of armes, for he departed fro his companye, hys speare in hys hand, and mounted on a good horse, hys page behynde hyme, and so came before the barryers. Thys knyghte was called Sir Johan Assueton,[97] a hardy man and a couragyous. Whan he was before the barryers of Noyon, he lyghted a-fote, and sayd to hys page, 'Holde, kepe my horse, and departe nat hens;' and so wente to the barryers. And wythyn the barryers, there were good knyghtes; as, Sir John of Roy, Sir Lancelat of Loutys, and a x or xii other, who had grete marveyle what thys sayde knyghte wolde do. Than he sayde to them, 'Sirs, I am come hyder to se you. I se well, ye wyll nat issue out of your barryers; therefore I will entre, and I can, and wyll prove my knyghthode agaynst yours; wyn me and ye can.' And therewyth he layde on, round about hym, and they at hym. And thus, he alone fought agaynst them, more than an houre; and dyd hurte two or three of them; so that they of the towne, on the walles and garrettes, stode still, and behelde them, and had great pleasure to regarde his valyauntness, and dyd him no hurte; the whiche they myght have done, if they hadde list to have shotte, or cast stones at hym. And also the French knyghtes charged them to let hym and them alone togyder. So long they foughte, that, at last, his page came near to the barryers, and spake in his langage, and sayd, 'Sir, come awaye; it is time for you to departe, for your cumpanye is departyng hens.' The knyghte harde hym well, and than gave a two or three strokes about him, and so, armed as he was, he lepte out of the barryers, and lepte upon his horse, without any hurte, behynde his page; and sayd to the Frenchemen, 'Adue, sirs! I thank you;' and so rode forthe to his owne company. The whiche dede was moche praysed of many folkes."--_Froissart_, cap. 278. [Footnote 96: By the terms of the peace betwixt England and Scotland, the Scottish were left at liberty to take service either with France or England, at their pleasure. Sir Robert Knolles, therefore, who commanded the expedition, referred to in the text, had under his command a hundred Scottish spears.] [Footnote 97: _Assueton_ is a corruption for Swinton. Sir John Swinton, of Swinton, was a Scottish champion, noted for his courage and gigantic stature.] The barriers, so often alluded to, are described, by the same admirable historian, to be grated pallisades, the grates being about half a foot wide. In a skirmish before Honycourt, Sir Henry of Flanders ventured to thrust his sword so far through one of those spaces, that a sturdy abbot, who was within, seized his sword-arm, and drew it through the harriers, up to the shoulder. In this aukward situation he remained for some time, being unwilling to dishonour himself by quitting his weapon. He was at length rescued, but lost his sword; which Froissart afterwards saw preserved, as a relique, in the monastery of Honycourt.--Vol. I. chap. 39. For instances of single combats, at the barriers, see the same author, _passim_. _And if the twa suld slay ye baith, Ye'se get na help frae me_.--P. 34. v. 5. According to the laws of chivalry, laws, which were also for a long time observed in duels, when two or more persons were engaged on each side, he, who first conquered his immediate antagonist, was at liberty, if he pleased, to come to the assistance of his companions. The play of the "_Little French Lawyer_" turns entirely upon this circumstance; and it may be remarked throughout the poems of Boiardo and Ariosto; particularly in the combat of three Christian and three Pagan champions, in the 42d canto of _Orlando Furioso_. But doubtless a gallant knight was often unwilling, like young Maitland, to avail himself of this advantage. Something of this kind seems to have happened in the celebrated combat, fought in the presence of James II. at Stirling, in 1449, between three French, or Flemish, warriors, and three noble Scottishmen, two of whom were of the house of Douglas. The reader will find a literal translation of Olivier de la Marche's account of this celebrated tourney, in _Pinkerton's History_, Vol. I. p. 428. _I am nae king, nor nae sic thing: My word it shanna stand_!--P. 35. v. 2. Maitland's apology for retracting his promise to stand neuter, is as curious as his doing so is natural. The unfortunate John of France was wont to say, that, if truth and faith were banished from all the rest of the universe, they should still reside in the breast and the mouth of kings. _They maul'd him cruellie_.--P. 35. v. 5. This has a vulgar sound, but is actually a phrase of romance. _Tant frappent et_ maillent _lex deux vassaux l'un sur l'autre, que leurs heaumes, et leurs hauberts, sont tous cassez et rompus_.--La fleur des Battailes. _But, wi' the poll-axe in his hand, Upon the brigg sprang he_.--P. 36. v. 4. The battle-axe, of which there are many kinds, was a knightly weapon, much used in the middle ages, as well in single combat as in battle. "And also there was a younge bachelor, called Bertrande of Glesguyne, who duryng the seige, fought wyth an Englyshman, called Sir Nycholas Dagerne; and that batayle was takene thre courses wyth a speare, thre strokes wyth an axe, and thre wyth a dagger. And eche of these knyghtes bare themselves so valyantly, that they departed fro the felde wythout any damage, and they were well regarded, bothe of theyme wythyn, and they wythout." This happened at the siege of Rennes, by the Duke of Lancaster, in 1357.--_Froissart_, Vol. I. c. 175. With the same weapon Godfrey of Harcourt long defended himself, when surprised and defeated by the French. "And Sir Godfraye's men kepte no goode array, nor dyd nat as they had promysed; moost part of theyme fledde: whan Sir Godfraye sawe that, he sayde to hymselfe, howe he had rather there be slayne than be taken by the Frenchmen; there he toke hys axe in hys handes, and set fast the one legge before the other, to stonde the more surely; for hys one legge was a lytell crooked, but he was strong in the armes. Ther he fought valyantly and long: none durste well abyde hys strokes; than two Frenchmen mounted on theyr horses, and ranne both with their speares at ones at hym, and so bare hym to the yerth: than other, that were a-fote, came wyth theyr swerdes, and strake hym into the body, under his barneys, so that ther he was slayne."--_Ibid_, chap. 172. The historian throws Sir Godfrey into a striking attitude of desperation. _When Maitland saw his ain blude fa', An angry man was he_,--P. 37, v. 1. There is a saying, that a Scottishman fights best after seeing his own blood. Camerarius has contrived to hitch this foolish proverb into a national compliment; for he quotes it as an instance of the persevering gallantry of his countrymen. "_Si in pugna proprium effundi sanguinem vidissent, non statim prostrato animo concedebant, sed irato potius in hostes velut furentes omnibus viribus incurrebant_." _That Edward once lay under me, And e'er gat up again_.--P. 37. v. 4. Some reciters repeat it thus: "That _Englishman_ lay under me," which is in the true spirit of Blind Harry, who makes Wallace say, "I like better to see the southeron die, "Than gold or land, that they can gie to me." In slaying Edward, Maitland acts pitilessly, but not contrary to the laws of arms, which did not enjoin a knight to shew mercy to his antagonist, until he yielded him, "_rescue or no rescue_." Thus, the seigneur de Languerant came before the walls of an English garrison, in Gascony, and defied any of the defenders to run a course with a spear: his challenge being accepted by Bertrand Courant, the governor of the place, they couched their spears, like good knights, and dashed on their horses. Their spears were broke to pieces, and Languerant was overthrown, and lost his helmet among the horses' feet. His attendants were coming up; but Bernard drew his dagger, and said, "Sir, yield ye my prisoner, rescue or no rescue; else ye are but dead." The dismounted champion spoke not a word; on which, Bertrand, entering into fervent ire, dashed his dagger into his skull. Besides, the battle was not always finished by one warrior obtaining this advantage over the other. In the battle of Nejara, the famous Sir John Chandos was overthrown, and held down, by a gigantic Spanish cavalier, named Martino Fernandez. "Then Sir Johan Chandos remembred of a knyfe, that he had in his bosome, and drew it out, and struck this Martyne so in the backe, and in the sydes, that he wounded him to dethe, as he laye upon hym." The dagger, which the knights employed in these close and desperate struggles, was called the _poniard of mercy_. BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE. THE SCOTTISH EDITION. * * * * * The following edition of the Battle of Otterbourne, being essentially different from that which is published in the _Reliques of Ancient Poetry_, Vol. I. and being obviously of Scottish composition, claims a place in the present collection. The particulars of that noted action are related by Froissard, with the highest encomium upon the valour of the combatants on each side. James, Earl of Douglas, with his brother, the Earl of Murray, in 1387 invaded Northumberland, at the head of 3000 men; while the Earls of Fife and Strathern, sons to the king of Scotland, ravaged the western borders of England, with a still more numerous army. Douglas penetrated as far as Newcastle, where the renowned Hotspur lay in garrison. In a skirmish before the walls, Percy's lance, with the pennon, or guidon, attached to it, was taken by Douglas, as most authors affirm, in a personal encounter betwixt the two heroes. The earl shook the pennon aloft, and swore he would carry it as his spoil into Scotland, and plant it upon his castle of Dalkeith. "That," answered Percy, "shalt thou never!"--Accordingly, having collected the forces of the marches, to a number equal, or (according to the Scottish historians) much superior, to the army of Douglas, Hotspur made a night attack upon the Scottish camp, at Otterbourne, about thirty-two miles from Newcastle. An action took place, fought, by moon-light, with uncommon gallantry and desperation. At length, Douglas, armed with an iron mace, which few but he could wield, rushed into the thickest of the English battalions, followed only by his chaplain, and two squires of his body.[98] Before his followers could come up, their brave leader was stretched on the ground, with three mortal wounds: his squires lay dead by his side; the priest alone, armed with a lance, was protecting his master from farther injury. "I die like my forefathers," said the expiring hero, "in a field of battle, and not on a bed of sickness. Conceal my death, defend my standard,[99] and avenge my fall! It is an old prophecy, that a dead man shall gain a field,[100] and I hope it will be accomplished this night."--_Godscroft_.--With these words he expired; and the fight was renewed with double obstinacy around his body. When morning appeared, however, victory began to incline to the Scottish side. Ralph Percy, brother to Hotspur, was made prisoner by the earl Marischal, and, shortly after, Harry Percy[101] himself was taken by Lord Montgomery. The number of captives, according to Wyntoun, nearly equalled that of the victors. Upon this the English retired, and left the Scots masters of the dear-bought honours of the field. But the bishop of Durham approaching, at the head of a body of fresh forces, not only checked the pursuit of the victors, but made prisoners some of the stragglers, who had urged the chase too far. The battle was not, however, renewed, as the bishop of Durham did not venture to attempt the rescue of Percy. The field was fought 15th August, 1388.--_Fordun, Froissard, Hollinshed, Godscroft_. [Footnote 98: Their names were Robert Hart and Simon Glendinning. The chaplain was Richard Lundie, afterwards archdean of Aberdeen.--_Godscroft_. Hart, according to Wintown, was a knight. That historian says, no one knew how Douglas fell.] [Footnote 99: The banner of Douglas, upon this memorable occasion, was borne by his natural son, Archibald Douglas, ancestor of the family of Cavers, hereditary sheriffs of Teviotdale, amongst whose archives this glorious relique is still preserved. The earl, at his onset, is said to have charged his son to defend it to the last drop of his blood.] [Footnote 100: This prophecy occurs in the ballad as an ominous dream.] [Footnote 101: Hotspur, for his ransom, built the castle of Penoon, in Ayrshire, belonging to the family of Montgomery, now earls of Eglintoun.] The ground, on which this memorable engagement took place, is now the property of John Davidson, Esq. of Newcastle, and still retains the name of Battle Cross. A cross, erroneously termed _Percy's Cross_, has been erected upon the spot where the gallant Earl of Douglas is supposed to have fallen. These particulars were communicated to the editor, in the most obliging manner, by the present proprietor of Otterbourne. The ballad, published in the _Reliques_, is avowedly an English production; and the author, with a natural partiality, leans to the side of his countrymen; yet, that ballad, or some one similar, modified probably by national prejudice, must have been current in Scotland during the reign of James VI.: for Godscroft, in treating of this battle, mentions its having been the subject of popular song, and proceeds thus: But that, which is commonly sung of the _Hunting of Chiviot_, seemeth indeed poetical, and a mere fiction, perhaps to stir up virtue; yet a fiction whereof there is no mention, either in the Scottish or English Chronicle. Neither are the songs, that are made of them, both one; for the _Scots song made of Otterbourne_, telleth the time, about Lammas; and also the occasion, to take preys out of England; also the dividing the armies betwixt the earls of Fife and Douglas, and their several journeys, almost as in the authentic history. It beginneth thus; "It fell about the Lammas tide, "When yeomen win their hay, "The doughty Douglas 'gan to ride, "In England to take a prey."-- GODSCROFT, _ed. Edin_. 1743. Vol. I. p. 195. I cannot venture to assert, that the stanzas, here published, belong to the ballad alluded to by Godscroft; but they come much nearer to his description than the copy published in the first edition, which represented Douglas as falling by the poignard of a faithless page. Yet we learn, from the same author, that the story of the assassination was not without foundation in tradition.--"There are that say, that he (Douglas) was not slain by the enemy, but by one of his own men, a groom of his chamber, whom he had struck the day before with a truncheon, in ordering of the battle, because he saw him make somewhat slowly to. And they name this man John Bickerton of Luffness, who left a part of his armour behind, unfastened, and when he was in the greatest conflict, this servant of his came behind his back, and slew him thereat."--_Godscroft, ut supra_.--"But this narration," adds the historian, "is not so probable."[102] Indeed, it seems to have no foundation, but the common desire of assigning some remote and extraordinary cause for the death of a great man. The following ballad is also inaccurate in many other particulars, and is much shorter, and more indistinct, than that printed in the _Reliques_, although many verses are almost the same. Hotspur, for instance, is called _Earl Percy_, a title he never enjoyed; neither was Douglas buried on the field of battle, but in Melrose Abbey, where his tomb is still shown. [Footnote 102: Wintown assigns another cause for Douglas being carelessly armed. "The erle Jamys was sa besy, For til ordane his cumpany; And on his Fays for to pas, That reckles he of his armyng was; The Erle of Mwrrawys Bassenet, Thai sayd, at that tyme was feryhete." Book VIII. Chap 7. The circumstance of Douglas' omitting to put on his helmet, occurs in the ballad.] This song was first published from Mr. Herd's _Collection of Scottish Songs and Ballads_, Edin. 1774: 2 vols. octavo; but two recited copies have fortunately been obtained from the recitation of old persons residing at the head of Ettrick Forest, by which the story is brought out, and completed, in a manner much more correspondent to the true history. I cannot dismiss the subject of the Battle of Otterbourne, without stating (with all the deference due to the father of this species of literature) a doubt, which occurs to me, as to the account given of "Sir John of Agurstone," one of the Scottish warriors, in the learned and excellent notes subjoined to the ballad, in the _Reliques of Ancient Poetry_. This personage is there supposed to have been one of the Haggerstons of Haggerston, a Northumbrian family, who, according to the fate of war, were sometimes subjects of Scotland. I cannot, however, think, that at this period, while the English were in possession both of Berwick and Roxburgh, with the intermediate fortresses of Wark, Cornwall, and Norham, the Scots possessed any part of Northumberland, much less a manor which lay within that strong chain of castles. I should presume the person alluded to rather to have been one of the Rutherfords, barons of Edgerstane, or Adgerston, a warlike family, which has long flourished on the Scottish borders, and who were, at this very period, retainers of the house of Douglas. The same notes contain an account of the other Scottish warriors of distinction, who were present at the battle. These were, the earls of Monteith, Buchan, and Huntley; the barons of Maxwell and Johnston; Swinton of that ilk, an ancient family which, about that period, produced several distinguished warriors; Sir David (or rather, as the learned editor well remarks, Sir Walter) Scott of Buccleuch, Stewart of Garlies, and Murray of Cockpool. _Regibus et legibus Scotici constantes, Vos clypeis et gladiis pro patria pugnantes, Vestra est victoria, vestra est et gloria, In cantu et historia, perpes est memoria_! BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE. * * * * * It fell about the Lammas tide, When the muir-men win their hay, The doughty earl of Douglas rode Into England, to catch a prey. He chose the Gordons and the Graemes, With them the Lindesays, light and gay; But the Jardines wald not with him ride, And they rue it to this day. And he has burn'd the dales of Tyne, And part of Bambrough shire; And three good towers on Roxburgh fells, He left them all on fire. And he march'd up to Newcastle, And rode it round about; "O wha's the lord of this castle, "Or wha's the lady o't?" But up spake proud Lord Percy, then, And O but he spake hie! "I am the lord of this castle, "My wife's the lady gay." "If thou'rt the lord of this castle, "Sae weel it pleases me! "For, ere I cross the border fells, "The tane of us shall die." He took a lang spear in his hand. Shod with the metal free, And for to meet the Douglas there, He rode right furiouslie. But O how pale his lady look'd, Frae aff the castle wa', When down, before the Scottish spear, She saw proud Percy fa', "Had we twa been upon the green, "And never an eye to see, I wad hae had you, flesh and fell[103]; "But your sword sall gae wi' me." "But gae ye up to Otterbourne, "And wait there dayis three; And, if I come not ere three dayis end, "A fause knight ca' ye me." "The Otterbourne's a bonnie burn; "'Tis pleasant there to be; "But there is nought at Otterbourne, "To feed my men and me. "The deer rins wild on hill and dale, "The birds fly wild from tree to tree; "But there is neither bread nor kale, "To fend[104] my men and me. "Yet I will stay at Otterbourne, "Where you shall welcome be; "And, if ye come not at three dayis end, "A fause lord I'll ca' thee." "Thither will I come," proud Percy said, "By the might of Our Ladye!"-- "There will I bide thee," said the Douglas, "My trowth I plight to thee." They lighted high on Otterbourne, Upon the bent sae brown; They lighted high on Otterbourne, And threw their pallions down. And he that had a bonnie boy, Sent out his horse to grass; And he that had not a bonnie boy, His ain servant he was. But up then spake a little page, Before the peep of dawn-- "O waken ye, waken ye, my good lord, "For Percy's hard at hand." "Ye lie, ye lie, ye liar loud! "Sae loud I hear ye lie: For Percy had not men yestreen, "To dight my men and me." "But I hae dream'd a dreary dream, "Beyond the Isle of Sky; "I saw a dead man win a fight, "And I think that man was I." He belted on his good braid sword, And to the field he ran; But he forgot the helmet good, That should have kept his brain. When Percy wi' the Douglas met, I wat he was fu' fain! They swakked their swords, till sair they swat, And the blood ran down like rain. But Percy, with his good broad sword, That could so sharply wound, Has wounded Douglas on the brow, Till he fell to the ground. Then he call'd on his little foot-page. And said--"Run speedilie, "And fetch my ain dear sister's son, "Sir Hugh Montgomery." "My nephew good," the Douglas said, "What recks the death of ane! "Last night I dream'd a dreary dream, "And I ken the day's thy ain, "My wound is deep; I fain would sleep; "Take thou the vanguard of the three, "And hide me by the braken bush, "That grows on yonder lilye lee, "O bury me by the braken bush, "Beneath the blooming briar; "Let never living mortal ken, "That ere a kindly Scot lies here." He lifted up that noble lord, Wi' the saut tear in his e'e; He hid him in the braken bush, That his merrie men might not see. The moon was clear, the day drew near, The spears in flinders flew, But mony a gallant Englishman, Ere day the Scotsmen slew. The Gordons good, in English blood, They steep'd their hose and shoon; The Lindsays flew like fire about, Till all the fray was done. The Percy and Montgomery met, That either of other were fain; They swapped swords, and they twa swat, And aye the blude ran down between. "Yield thee, O yield thee, Percy!" he said, "Or else I vow I'll lay thee low!" "Whom to shall I yield," said Earl Percy, "Now that I see it must be so?" "Thou shalt not yield to lord nor loun, "Nor yet shalt thou yield to me; "But yield thee to the braken bush,[105] "That grows upon yon lilye lee!" "I will not yield to a braken bush, "Nor yet will I yield to a briar; But I would yield to Earl Douglas, "Or Sir Hugh the Montgomery, if he were here." As soon as he knew it was Montgomery, He stuck his sword's point in the gronde; And the Montgomery was a courteous knight, And quickly took him by the honde. This deed was done at Otterbourne, About the breaking of the day; Earl Douglas was buried at the braken bush, And the Percy led captive away. [Footnote 103: _Fell_.--Hide. Douglas insinuates, that Percy was rescued by his soldiers.] [Footnote 104: _Fend_.--Support.] [Footnote 105: _Braken_.--Fern.] * * * * * NOTES ON THE BATTLE OF OTTERBOURNE. _He chose the Gordons and the Graemes_.--P. 64. v. 2. The illustrious family of Gordon was originally settled upon the lands of Gordon and Huntly, in the shire of Berwick, and are, therefore, of border extraction. The steps, by which they removed from thence to the shires of Aberdeen and Inverness, are worthy notice. In 1300, Adam de Gordon was warden of the marches.--_Rymer_, Vol. II. p. 870. He obtained, from Robert the Bruce, a grant of the forfeited estate of David de Strathbolgie, Earl of Athol; but no possession followed, the earl having returned to his allegiance.--John de Gordon, his great-grandson, obtained, from Robert II., a new charter of the lands of Strathbolgie, which had been once more and finally forfeited, by David, Earl of Athol, slaine in the battle of Kilblene. This grant is dated 13th July, 1376. John de Gordon who was destined to transfer, from the borders of England to those of the Highlands, a powerful and martial race, was himself a redoubted warrior, and many of his exploits occur in the annals of that turbulent period. In 1371-2, the English borderers invaded and plundered the lands of Gordon, on the Scottish east march. Sir John of Gordon retaliated, by an incursion on Northumberland, where he collected much spoil. But, as he returned with his booty, he was attacked, at unawares, by Sir John Lillburne, a Northumbrian, who, with a superior force, lay near Carham in ambush, to intercept him. Gordon harangued and cheered his followers, charged the English gallantly, and, after having himself been five times in great peril, gained a complete victory; slaying many southerns, and taking their leader and his brother captive. According to the prior of Lochlevin, he was desperately wounded; but "Thare rays a welle gret renowne, "And gretly prysyd wes gud Gordown." Shortly after this exploit, Sir John of Gordon encountered and routed Sir Thomas Musgrave, a renowned English marc-hman whom he made prisoner. The lord of Johnstone had, about the same time, gained a great advantage on the west border; and hence, says Wynton, He and the Lord of Gordowne Had a soverane gud renown, Of ony that war of thare degré, For full thai war of gret bounté. Upon another occasion, John of Gordon is said to have partially succeeded in the surprisal of the town of Berwick, although the superiority of the garrison obliged him to relinquish his enterprise. The ballad is accurate, in introducing this warrior, with his clan, into the host of Douglas at Otterbourne. Perhaps, as he was in possession of his extensive northern domains, he brought to the field the northern broad-swords, as well as the lances of his eastern borderers. With his gallant leader, he lost his life in the deadly conflict. The English ballad commemorates his valour and prudence; "The Erle of Huntley, cawte and kene." But the title is a premature designation. The earldom of Huntly was first conferred on Alexander Seaton, who married the grand-daughter of the hero of Otterbourne, and assumed his title from Huntly, in the north. Besides his eldest son Adam, who carried on the line of the family, Sir John de Gordon left two sons, known, in tradition, by the familiar names of _Jock_ and _Tam_. The former was the ancestor of the Gordons of Pitlurg; the latter of those of Lesmoir, and of Craig-Gordon. This last family is now represented by James Gordon, Esq. of Craig, being the eleventh, in direct descent, from Sir John de Gordon. _The Graemes_. The clan of Graeme, always numerous and powerful upon the border, were of Scottish origin, and deduce the descent of their chieftain, Graeme of Netherby, from John _with the bright sword_, a son of Malice Graeme, Earl of Menteith, who flourished in the fourteenth century. Latterly, they _became Englishmen_, as the phrase went, and settled upon the Debateable Land, whence they were transported to Ireland, by James VI., with the exception of a very few respectable families; "because," said his majesty in a proclamation, "they do all (but especially the Graemes) confess themselves to be no meet persons to live in these countries; and also, to the intent their lands may be inhabited by others, of good and honest conversation." But, in the reign of Henry IV., the Graemes of the border still adhered to the Scottish allegiance, as appears from the tower of Graeme in Annandale, Graemes Walls in Tweeddale, and other castles within Scotland, to which they have given their name. The reader is, however, at liberty to suppose, that the Graemes of the Lennox and Menteith, always ready to shed their blood in the cause of their country, on this occasion joined Douglas. _With them the Lindsays light and gay_.--p. 64. v. 2. The chief of this ancient family, at the date of the battle of Otterbourne, was David Liudissay, lord of Glenesk, afterwards created Earl of Crawford. He was, after the manner of the times, a most accomplished knight. He survived the battle of Otterbourne, and the succeeding carnage of Homildon. In May, 1390, he went to England, to seek adventures of chivalry; and justed, upon London Bridge, against the lord of Wells, an English knight, with so much skill and success, as to excite, among the spectators, a suspicion that he was tied to his saddle; which he removed, by riding up to the royal chair, vaulting out of his saddle, and resuming his seat without assistance, although loaded with complete armour. In 1392, Lindsay was nearly slain in a strange manner. A band of Catterans, or wild Highlanders, had broken down from the Grampian Hills, and were engaged in plundering the county of Angus. Walter Ogilvy, the sheriff, with Sir Patrick Gray, marched against them, and were joined by Sir David Lindsay. Their whole retinue did not exceed sixty men, and the Highlanders were above three hundred. Nevertheless, trusting to the superiority of arms and discipline, the knights rushed on the invaders, at Gasclune, in the Stormont. The issue was unfortunate. Ogilvy, his brother, and many of his kindred, were overpowered and slain. Lindsay, armed at all points, made great slaughter among the naked Catterans; but, as he pinned one of them to the earth with his lance, the dying mountaineer writhed upwards and, collecting his force, fetched a blow with his broad-sword which cut through the knight's stirrup-leather and steel-boot and nearly severed his leg. The Highlander expired, and Lindsay was with difficulty borne out of the field by his followers--_Wyntown_. Lindsay is also noted for a retort, made to the famous Hotspur. At a march-meeting, at Haldane-Stank, he happened to observe, that Percy was sheathed in complete armour. "It is for fear of the English horsemen," said Percy, in explanation; for he was already meditating the insurrection, immortalised by Shakespeare. "Ah! Sir Harry," answered Lindsay, "I have seen you more sorely bestad by Scottish footmen than by English horse."--_Wyntown_. Such was the leader of the "_Lindsays light and guy_." According to Froissard, there were three Lindsays in the battle of Otterbourne, whom he calls Sir William, Sir James, and Sir Alexander. To Sir James Lindsay there fell "a strange chance of war," which I give in the words of the old historian. "I shall shewe you of Sir Mathewe Reedman (an English warrior, and governor of Berwick), who was on horsebacke, to save himselfe, for he alone coude nat remedy the mater. At his departynge, Sir James Limsay was nere him, and sawe Sir Mathewe departed. And this Sir James, to wyn honour, followed in chase Sir Mathewe Reedman, and came so nere him, that he myght have stryken hym with hys speare, if he had lyst. Than he said, 'Ah! Sir knyght, tourne! it is a shame thus to fly! I am James of Lindsay. If ye will nat tourne, I shall strike you on the back with my speare.' Sir Mathewe spoke no worde, but struke his hors with his spurres sorer than he did before. In this maner he chased hym more than three myles. And at last Sir Mathewe Reedman's hors foundered, and fell under hym. Than he stept forthe on the erthe, and drewe oute his swerde, and toke corage to defend himselfe. And the Scotte thoughte to have stryken hym on the brest, but Sir Mathewe Reedman swerved fro the stroke, and the speare point entred into the erthe. Than Sir Mathewe strake asonder the speare wyth his swerde. And whan Sir James Limsay sawe howe he had lost his speare, he cast away the tronchon, and lyghted a-fote, and toke a lytell battell-axe, that he carryed at his backe, and handled it with his one hand, quickly and delyverly, in the whyche feate Scottes be well experte. And than he set at Sir Mathewe, and he defended himselfe properly. Thus they journeyed toguyder, one with an axe, and the other with a swerde, a longe season, and no man to lette them. Fynally, Sir James Limsay gave the knyght such strokes, and helde him so shorte, that he was putte out of brethe in such wyse, that he yelded himselfe, and sayde,--'Sir James Limsay, I yeld me to you.'--'Well,' quod he; 'and I receyve you, rescue or no rescue.'--'I am content,' quod Reedman, 'so ye dele wyth me like a good companyon.'--'I shall not fayle that,' quod Limsay, and so put up his swerde. 'Well,' said Reedman, 'what will ye nowe that I shall do? I am your prisoner; ye have conquered me; I wolde gladly go agayn to Newcastell, and, within fiftene dayes, I shall come to you into Scotlande, where as ye shall assigne me.'--'I am content,' quod Limsay; 'ye shall promyse, by your faythe, to present yourselfe, within these foure wekes, at Edinborowe; and wheresoever ye go, to repute yourselfe my prisoner.' All this Sir Mathewe sware, and promised to fulfil." The warriors parted upon these liberal terms, and Reedman returned to Newcastle. But Lindsay had scarcely ridden a mile, when he met the bishop of Durham, with 500 horse, whom he rode towards, believing them to be Scottish, until he was too near them to escape. The bysshoppe stepte to him, and sayde, 'Limsay, ye are taken; yelde ye to me.'--'Who be you?' quod Limsay. 'I am,' quod he, 'the bysshoppe of Durham.'--'And fro whens come you, sir?' quod Limsay. 'I come fro the battell,' quod the bysshoppe, 'but I strucke never a stroke there. I go backe to Newcastell for this night, and ye shal go with me.'--'I may not chuse,' quod Limsay, 'sith ye will have it so. I have taken, and I am taken; suche is the adventures of armes.' Lindsay was accordingly conveyed to the bishop's lodgings in Newcastle, and here he was met by his prisoner, Sir Matthew Reedman; who founde hym in a studye, lying in a windowe, and sayde, 'What! Sir James Lindsay, what make you here?' Than Sir James came forth of the study to him, and saydc, 'By my fayth, Sir Mathewe, fortune hath brought me hyder; for, as soon as I was departed fro you, I mete by chaunce the bisshoppe of Durham, to whom I am prisoner, as ye be to me. I beleve ye shall not nede to come to Edenborowe to me to mak your fynaunce. I thynk, rather, we shall make an exchange one for another, if the bysshoppe be also contente.'--'Well, sir,' quod Reedman, 'we shall accord ryghte well toguyder; ye shall dine this day with me: the bysshoppe and our men be gone forth to fyght with your men. I can nat tell what we shall know at their retourne.'--'I am content to dyne with you,' quod Limsay."--_Froissart's Chronicle_, translated by Bourchier, Lord Berners, Vol. I, chap. 146. _O gran bontà de' cavalieri antiqui! Eran rivali, eran di fè diversi; E si sentian, de gli aspri colpi iniqui, Per tutta la persona anco dolersi; E pur per selve oscure, e calle inqui Insieme van senza sospetto aversi._ L'Orlando. _But the Jardines wald not with him ride_.--P. 64. v. 2. The Jardines were a clan of hardy west-border men. Their chief was Jardine of Applegirth. Their refusal to ride with Douglas was, probably, the result of one of those perpetual feuds, which usually rent to pieces a Scottish army. _And he that had a bonny boy, Sent out his horse to grass_.--P. 67. v, 4. Froissard describes a Scottish host, of the same period, as consisting of "IIII. M. men of armes, knightis, and squires, mounted on good horses; and other X.M. men of warre armed, after their gyse, right hardy and firse, mounted on lytle hackneys, the whiche were never tyed, nor kept at hard meat, but lette go to pasture in the fieldis and bushes."--_Cronykle of Froissart_, translated by Lord Berners, Chap. xvii. * * * * * THE SANG OF THE OUTLAW MURRAY. This ballad appears to have been composed about the reign of James V. It commemorates a transaction, supposed to have taken place betwixt a Scottish monarch, and an ancestor of the ancient family of Murray of Philiphaugh in Selkirkshire. The editor is unable to ascertain the historical foundation of the tale; nor is it probable that any light can be thrown upon the subject, without an accurate examination of the family charter chest. It is certain, that, during the civil wars betwixt Bruce and Baliol, the family of Philiphaugh existed, and was powerful; for their ancestor, Archibald de Moravia, subscribes the oath of fealty to Edward I.A.D. 1296. It is, therefore, not unlikely, that, residing in a wild and frontier country, they may have, at one period or other, during these commotions, refused allegiance to the feeble monarch of the day, and thus extorted from him some grant of territory or jurisdiction. It is also certain, that, by a charter from James IV., dated November 30, 1509, John Murray of Philiphaugh is vested with the dignity of heritable sheriff of Ettrick Forest, an office held by his descendants till the final abolition of such jurisdictions by 28th George II. cap. 23. But it seems difficult to believe that the circumstances, mentioned in the ballad, could occur under the reign of so vigorous a monarch as James IV. It is true, that the _Dramatis Personae_ introduced seem to refer to the end of the fifteenth, or beginning of the sixteenth, century; but from this it can only be argued, that the author himself lived soon after that period. It may, therefore, be supposed (unless farther evidence can be produced, tending to invalidate the conclusion), that the bard, willing to pay his court to the family, has connected the grant of the sheriffship by James IV. with some further dispute betwixt the Murrays of Philiphaugh and their sovereign, occurring, either while they were engaged upon the side of Baliol, or in the subsequent reigns of David II. and Robert II. and III., when the English possessed great part of the Scottish frontier, and the rest was in so lawless a state as hardly to acknowledge any superior. At the same time, this reasoning is not absolutely conclusive. James IV. had particular reasons for desiring that Ettrick Forest, which actually formed part of the jointure lands of Margaret, his queen, should be kept in a state of tranquillity.--_Rymer_, Vol. XIII. p. 66. In order to accomplish this object, it was natural for him, according to the policy of his predecessors to invest one great family with the power of keeping order among the rest. It is even probable, that the Philiphaugh family may have had claims upon part of the lordship of Ettrick Forest, which lay intermingled with their own extensive possessions; and, in the course of arranging, not indeed the feudal superiority, but the property, of these lands, a dispute may have arisen, of sufficient importance to be the ground-work of a ballad.--It is farther probable, that the Murrays, like other border clans, were in a very lawless state, and held their lands merely by occupancy, without any feudal right. Indeed, the lands of the various proprietors in Ettrick Forest (being a royal demesne) were held by the possessors, not in property, but as the kindly tenants, or rentallers, of the crown; and it is only about 150 years since they obtained charters, striking the feu-duty of each proprietor, at the rate of the quit-rent, which he formerly paid. This state of possession naturally led to a confusion of rights and claims. The kings of Scotland were often reduced to the humiliating necessity of compromising such matters with their rebellious subjects, and James himself even entered into a sort of league with Johnie Faa, the king of the gypsies.--Perhaps, therefore, the tradition, handed down in this song, may have had more foundation than it would at present be proper positively to assert. The merit of this beautiful old tale, it is thought, will be fully acknowledged. It has been, for ages, a popular song in Selkirkshire. The scene is, by the common people, supposed to have been the castle of Newark, upon Yarrow. This is highly improbable, because Newark was always a royal fortress. Indeed, the late excellent antiquarian Mr. Plummer, sheriff-depute of Selkirkshire, has assured the editor, that he remembered the _insignia_ of the unicorns, &c. so often mentioned in the ballad, in existence upon the old tower at Hangingshaw, the seat of the Philiphaugh family; although, upon first perusing a copy of the ballad, he was inclined to subscribe to the popular opinion. The tower of Hangingshaw has been demolished for many years. It stood in a romantic and solitary situation, on the classical banks of the Yarrow. When the mountains around Hangingshaw were covered with the wild copse which constituted a Scottish forest, a more secure strong-hold for an outlawed baron can hardly be imagined. The tradition of Ettrick Forest bears, that the Outlaw was a man of prodigious strength, possessing a batton or club, with which he laid _lee_ (i.e. waste) the country for many miles round; and that he was at length slain by Buccleuch, or some of his clan, at a little mount, covered with fir-trees, adjoining to Newark castle, and said to have been a part of the garden. A varying tradition bears the place of his death to have been near to the house of the Duke of Buccleuch's game-keeper, beneath the castle; and, that the fatal arrow was shot by Scot of Haining, from the ruins of a cottage on the opposite side of the Yarrow. There was extant, within these twenty years, some verses of a song on his death. The feud betwixt the Outlaw and the Scotts may serve to explain the asperity, with which the chieftain of that clan is handled in the ballad. In publishing the following ballad, the copy principally resorted to is one, apparently of considerable antiquity, which was found among the papers of the late Mrs. Cockburn, of Edinburgh, a lady whose memory will be long honoured by all who knew her. Another copy, much more imperfect, is to be found in Glenriddel's MSS. The names are in this last miserably mangled, as is always the case when ballads are taken down from the recitation of persons living at a distance from the scenes in which they are laid. Mr. Plummer also gave the editor a few additional verses, not contained in either copy, which are thrown into what seemed their proper place. There is yet another copy, in Mr. Herd's MSS., which has been occasionally made use of. Two verses are restored in the present edition, from the recitation of Mr. Mungo Park, whose toils, during his patient and intrepid travels in Africa, have not eradicated from his recollection the legendary lore of his native country. The arms of the Philiphaugh family are said by tradition to allude to their outlawed state. They are indeed those of a huntsman, and are blazoned thus; Argent, a hunting horn sable, stringed and garnished gules, on a chief azure, three stars of the first. Crest, a Demi Forester, winding his horn, proper. Motto, _Hinc usque superna venabor_. * * * * * THE SANG OF THE OUTLAW MURRAY. Ettricke Foreste is a feir foreste, In it grows manie a semelie trie; There's hart and hynd, and dae and rae, And of a' wilde beastes grete plentie. There's a feir castelle, bigged wi' lyme and stane; O! gin it stands not pleasauntlie! In the forefront o' that castelle feir, Twa unicorns are bra' to see; There's the picture of a knight, and a ladye bright, And the grene hollin abune their brie.[106] There an Outlaw keeps five hundred men; He keepis a royalle cumpanie! His merryemen are a' in ae liverye clad, O' the Liukome grene saye gaye to see; He and his ladye in purple clad, O! gin they lived not royallie! Word is gane to our nobil king, In Edinburgh, where that he lay, That there was an Outlaw in Ettricke Foreste, Counted him nought, nor a' his courtrie gay. "I make a vowe," then the gude king said, Unto the man that deir bought me, "I'se either be king of Ettricke Foreste, Or king of Scotlonde that Outlaw sail be!" Then spak the lord, hight Hamilton, And to the nobil king said he, "My sovereign prince, sum counsell take, First at your nobilis, syne at me. "I redd ye, send yon braw Outlaw till, And see gif your man cum will he: Desyre him cum and be your man, And hald of you yon Foreste frie. "Gif he refuses to do that, We'll conquess baith his landis and he! Or else, we'll throw his castell down, And make a widowe o' his gay ladye." The king then call'd a gentleman, James Boyd, (the Earl of Arran his brother was he) When James he cam befor the king, He knelit befor him on his kné. "Wellcum, James Boyd!" said our nobil king; "A message ye maun gang for me; Ye maun hye to Ettricke Foreste, To yon Outlaw, where bydeth he: "Ask him of whom he haldis his landis, Or man, wha may his master be, And desyre him cum, and be my man, And hald of me yon Foreste frie. "To Edinburgh to cum and gang, His safe warrant I sall gie; And gif he refuses to do that, We'll conquess baith his landis and he. "Thou may'st vow I'll cast his castell down, And mak a widowe o' his gay ladye; I'll hang his merryemen, payr by payr, In ony frith where I may them see." James Boyd tuik his leave o' the nobil king, To Ettricke Foreste feir cam he; Down Birkendale Brae when that he cam, He saw the feir Foreste wi' his e'e. Baithe dae and rae, and hart and hinde, And of a' wilde beastis great plentie; He heard the bows that bauldly ring, And arrows whidderan' hym near bi. Of that feir castell he got a sight; The like he neir saw wi' his e'e! On the fore front o' that castell feir, Twa unicorns were gaye to see; The picture of a knight, and a ladye bright, And the grene hollin abune their brie. Thereat he spyed five hundred men, Shuting with bows on Newark Lee; They were a' in ae livery clad, O' the Lincome grene sae gaye to see. His men were a' clad in the grene, The knight was armed capapie, With a bended bow, on a milk-white steed; And I wot they ranked right bonilie. Thereby Boyd kend he was master man, And serv'd him in his ain degré. "God mot thee save, brave Outlaw Murray! Thy ladye, and all thy chyvalrie!" "Marry, thou's wellcum, gentelman, Some king's messenger thou seemis to be." "The king of Scotlonde sent me here, And, gude Outlaw, I am sent to thee; I wad wot of whom ye hald your landis, Or man, wha may thy master be?" "Thir landis are MINE!" the Outlaw said; "I ken nae king in Christentie; Frae Soudron[107] I this Foreste wan, When the king nor his knightis were not to see." "He desyres you'l cum to Edinburgh, And hauld of him this Foreste frie; And, gif ye refuse to do this, He'll conquess baith thy landis and thee. He hath vow'd to cast thy castell down, And mak a widowe o' thy gaye ladye; "He'll hang thy merryemen, payr by payr, In ony frith where he may them finde." "Aye, by my troth!" the Outlaw said, "Than wald I think me far behinde. "E'er the king my feir countrie get, This land that's nativest to me! Mony o' his nobilis sall be cauld, Their ladyes sall be right wearie." Then spak his ladye, feir of face, She seyd, "Without consent of me, That an Outlaw suld cum befor a King; I am right rad[108] of treasonrie. Bid him be gude to his lordis at hame, For Edinburgh my lord sall nevir see." James Boyd tuik his leave o' the Outlaw kene, To Edinburgh boun is he; When James he cam befor the king, He knelit lowlie on his kné. "Wellcum, James Boyd!" seyd our nobil king; "What Foreste is Ettricke Foreste frie?" "Ettricke Foreste is the feirest foreste That evir man saw wi' his e'e. "There's the dae, the rae, the hart, the hynde, And of a' wild beastis grete plentie; There's a pretty castell of lyme and stane; O gif it stands not pleasauntlie! "There's in the forefront o' that castell, Twa unicorns, sae bra' to see; There's the picture of a knight, and a ladye bright, Wi' the grene hollin abune their brie. "There the Outlaw keepis five hundred men; He keepis a royalle cumpanie! His merrymen in ae livery clad, O' the Linkome grene sae gaye to see: "He and his ladye in purple clad; O! gin they live not royallie! "He says, yon Foreste is his awin; He wan it frae the Southronie; Sae as he wan it, sae will he keep it, Contrair all kingis in Christentie." "Gar warn me Perthshire, and Angus baith; Fife up and down, and the Louthians three, And graith my horse!" said the nobil king, "For to Ettricke Foreste hie will I me." Then word is gane the Outlaw till, In Ettricke Foreste, where dwelleth he, That the king was cuming to his cuntrie, To conquess baith his landis and he. "I mak a vow," the Outlaw said, "I mak a vow, and that trulie, Were there but three men to tak my pairt; Yon king's cuming full deir suld be!" Then messengers he called forth, And bade them hie them speedilye-- "Ane of ye gae to Halliday, The laird of the Corhead is he. "He certain is my sister's son; Bid him cum quick and succour me! The king cums on for Ettricke Foreste, And landless men we a' will be." "What news? What news?" said Halliday, "Man, frae thy master unto me?" "Not as ye wad; seeking your aide; The king's his mortal enemie." "Aye, by my troth!" said Halliday, "Even for that it repenteth me; For gif he lose feir Ettricke Foreste, He'll tak feir Moffatdale frae me. "I'll meet him wi' five hundred men, And surely mair, if mae may be; And before he gets the Foreste feir, We a' will die on Newark Lee!" The Outlaw call'd a messenger, And bid him hie him speedilye, To Andrew Murray of Cockpool-- "That man's a deir cousin to me; Desyre him cum, and mak me ayd, With a' the power that he may be." "It stands me hard," Andrew Murray said, Judge gif it stands na hard wi' me; To enter against a king wi' crown, And set my landis in jeopardie! Yet, if I cum not on the day, Surely at night he sall me see." To Sir James Murray of Traquair, A message cam right speedilye-- "What news? What news?" James Murray said, "Man, frae thy master unto me?" "What neids I tell? for weell ye ken, The king's his mortal enemie; And now he is cuming to Ettricke Foreste, And landless men ye a' will be." "And, by my trothe," James Murray said, "Wi' that Outlaw will I live and die; The king has gifted my landis lang syne-- It cannot be nae warse wi' me." The king was cuming thro' Caddon Ford[109], And full five thousand men was he; They saw the derke Foreste them before, They thought it awsome for to see. Then spak the lord, hight Hamilton, And to the nobil king said he, "My sovereign liege, sum council tak, First at your nobilis, syne at me. "Desyre him mete thee at Permanscore, And bring four in his cumpanie; Five erles sall gang yoursell befor, Gude cause that you suld honour'd be. "And, gif he refuses to do that, We'll conquess baith his landis and he; "There sall nevir a Murray, after him, Hald land in Ettricke Foreste frie." Then spak the kene laird of Buckscleuth, A stalworthye man, and sterne was he-- "For a king to gang an Outlaw till, Is beneath his state and his dignitie. "The man that wons yon Foreste intill, He lives by reif and felonie! Wherefore, brayd on, my sovereign liege! Wi' fire and sword we'll follow thee; Or, gif your courtrie lords fa' back, Our borderers sall the onset gie." Then out and spak the nobil king, And round him cast a wilie e'e-- "Now haud thy tongue, Sir Walter Scott, Nor speik of reif nor felonie: For, had everye honeste man his awin kye, A right puir clan thy name wad be!" The king then call'd a gentleman, Royal banner bearer there was he; James Hop Pringle of Torsonse, by name; He cam and knelit upon his kné. "Wellcum, James Pringle of Torsonse! A message ye maun gang for me; Ye maun gae to yon Outlaw Murray, Surely where bauldly bideth he. "Bid him mete me at Permanscore, And bring four in his cumpanie; Five erles sall cum wi' mysell Gude reason I suld honour'd be. "And, gif he refuses to do that, Bid him luke for nae good o' me! Ther sall nevir a Murray, after him, Have land in Ettricke Foreste frie." James cam befor the Outlaw kene, And serv'd him in his ain degré-- "Wellcum, James Pringle of Torsonse! What message frae the king to me?" "He bidds ye mete him at Permanscore, And bring four in your cumpanie; Five erles sall gang himsell befor, Nae mair in number will he be. "And, gif you refuse to do that, (I freely here upgive wi' thee) He'll cast yon bonny castle down, And mak a widowe o' that gaye ladye. "He'll loose yon bluidhound borderers, Wi' fire and sword to follow thee; There will nevir a Murray, after thysell, Have land in Ettricke Foreste frie." "It stands me hard," the Outlaw said; "Judge gif it stands na hard wi' me! Wha reck not losing of mysell, But a' my offspring after me. "My merryemen's lives, my widowe's teirs-- There lies the pang that pinches me! When I am straught in bluidie eard, Yon castell will be right dreirie. "Auld Halliday, young Halliday, Ye sall be twa to gang wi' me; Andrew Murray, and Sir James Murray, We'll be nae mae in cumpanie." When that they cam befor the king, They fell befor him on their kné-- "Grant mercie, mercie, nobil king! E'en for his sake that dyed on trie." "Sicken like mercie sall ye have; On gallows ye sall hangit be!" "Over God's forbode," quoth the Outlaw then, "I hope your grace will bettir be! Else, ere ye come to Edinburgh port, I trow thin guarded sall ye be: "Thir landis of Ettricke Foreste feir, I wan them from the enemie; Like as I wan them, sae will I keep them, Contrair a' kingis in Christentie." All the nobilis the king about, Said pitie it were to see him die-- "Yet graunt me mercie, sovereign prince! Extend your favour unto me! "I'll give thee the keys of my castell, Wi' the blessing o' my gaye ladye, Gin thoul't mak me sheriffe of this Foreste, And a' my offspring after me." "Wilt thou give me the keys of thy castell, Wi' the blessing of thy gaye ladye? I'se mak thee sheriffe of Ettricke Foreste, Surely while upwards grows the trie; If you be not traitour to the king, Forfaulted sall thou nevir be." "But, prince, what sall cum o' my men? When I gae back, traitour they'll ca' me. I had rather lose my life and land, E'er my merryemen rebuked me." "Will your merryemen amend their lives? And a' their pardons I graunt thee-- Now, name thy landis where'er they lie, And here I RENDER them to thee." "Fair Philiphaugh is mine by right, And Lewinshope still mine shall be; Newark, Foulshiells, and Tinnies baith, My bow and arrow purchased me. "And I have native steads to me, The Newark Lee and Hangingshaw; I have mony steads in the Foreste shaw, But them by name I dinna knaw." The keys o' the castell he gave the king, Wi' the blessing o' his feir ladye; He was made sheriffe of Ettricke Foreste, Surely while upwards grows the trie; And if he was na traitour to the king, Forfaulted he suld nevir be. Wha ever heard, in ony times, Sicken an Outlaw in his degré, Sick favour get befor a king, As did the OUTLAW MURRAY of the Foreste frie? [Footnote 106: Brow.] [Footnote 107: Southern, or English.] [Footnote 108: Afraid.] [Footnote 109: A ford on the Tweed, at the mouth of the Caddon Burn, near Yair.] NOTES ON THE SANG OF THE OUTLAW MURRAY. * * * * * _Then spak the Lord, hight Hamilton_.--P. 86. v. 4. This is, in most copies, the _earl_ hight Hamilton, which must be a mistake of the reciters, as the family did not enjoy that title till 1503. _James Boyd (the Earl of Arran his brother), &c._--P. 87. v. 2. Thomas Boyd, Earl of Arran, was forfeited, with his father and uncle, in 1469, for an attempt on the person of James III. He had a son, James, who was restored, and in favour with James IV. about 1482. If this be the person here meant, we should read "The Earl of Arran his _son_ was he." Glenriddel's copy reads, "A highland laird I'm sure was he." Reciters sometimes call the messenger, the laird of Skene. _Down Birkendale Brae when that he cam_.--P. 88, v. 2. Birkendale Brae, now commonly called _Birkendailly_, is a steep descent on the south side of Minch-Moor, which separates Tweeddale from Ettrick Forest; and from the top of which you have the first view of the woods of Hangingshaw, the castle of Newark, and the romantic dale of Yarrow. _The laird of the Corehead, &c._--P. 93. v. 1. This is a place at the head of Moffat-water, possessed of old by the family of Halliday. _To Andrew Murray of Cockpool_.--P. 94. v. 1. This family were ancestors of the Murrays, earls of Annandale; but the name of the representative, in the time of James IV. was William, not Andrew. Glenriddel's MS. reads, "the country-keeper." _To Sir James Murray of Traquair_.--P. 94. v. 3. Before the barony of Traquair became the property of the Stewarts, it belonged to a family of Murrays, afterwards Murrays of Black-barony, and ancestors of Lord Elibank. The old castle was situated on the Tweed. The lands of Traquair were forfeited by Willielmus de Moravia, previous to 1464; for, in that year, a charter, proceeding upon his forfeiture, was granted by the crown "Willielmo Douglas de Cluny." Sir James was, perhaps, the heir of William Murray. It would farther seem, that the grant in 1464 was not made effectual by Douglas; for, another charter from the crown, dated the 3d February, 1478, conveys the estate of Traquair to James Stewart, Earl of Buchan, son to the black knight of Lorne, and maternal uncle to James III., from whom is descended the present Earl of Traquair. The first royal grant not being followed by possession, it is very possible that the Murrays may have continued to occupy Traquair long after the date of that charter. Hence, Sir James might have reason to say, as in the ballad, "The king has gifted my lands lang syne." _James Hop Pringle of Torsonse_.--P. 97. v. 1. The honourable name of Pringle, or Hoppringle, is of great antiquity in Roxburghshire and Selkirkshire. The old tower of Torsonse is situated upon the banks of the Gala. I believe the Pringles of Torsonse are now represented by Sir James Pringle of Stitchell. There are three other ancient and distinguished families of this name; those of Whitebank, Clifton, and Torwoodlee. _He bids ye mete him at Permanscore_.--P. 98. v. 1. Permanscore is a hollow on the top of a high ridge of hills, dividing the vales of Tweed and Yarrow, a little to the east-ward of Minch-Moor. It is the outermost point of the lands of Broadmeadows. The Glenriddel MS., which, in this instance, is extremely inaccurate as to names, calls the place of rendezvous "_The Poor Man's house_," and hints, that the Outlaw was surprised by the treachery of the king:-- "Then he was aware of the king's coming, With hundreds three in company, I wot the muckle deel * * * * * He learned kings to lie! For to fetch me here frae amang my men, Here like a dog for to die." I believe the reader will think, with me, that the catastrophe is better, as now printed from Mrs. Cockburn's copy. The deceit supposed to be practised on the Outlaw, is unworthy of the military monarch, as he is painted in the ballad; especially if we admit him to be King James IV. _Fair Philiphaugh is mine by right_.--P. 101. v. 1. In this and the following verse, the ceremony of feudal investiture is supposed to be gone through, by the Outlaw resigning his possessions into the hands of the king, and receiving them back, to be held of him as superior. The lands of Philiphaugh are still possessed by the Outlaw's representative. Hangingshaw and Lewinshope were sold of late years. Newark, Foulshiels and Tinnies, have long belonged to the family of Buccleuch. JOHNIE ARMSTRANG. * * * * * There will be such frequent occasion, in the course of this volume, to mention the clan, or sept, of the Armstrongs, that the editor finds it necessary to prefix, to this ballad, some general account of that tribe. The Armstrongs appear to have been, at an early period, in possession of great part of Liddesdale, and of the Debateable Land. Their immediate neighbourhood to England, rendered them the most lawless of the Border depredators; and, as much of the country possessed by them was claimed by both kingdoms, the inhabitants, protected from justice by the one nation, in opposition to the other, securely preyed upon both.[110] The chief was Armstrong of Mangertoun; but, at a later period, they are declared a broken clan, i.e. one which had no lawful head, to become surety for their good behaviour. The rapacity of this clan, and of their allies, the Elliots, occasioned the popular saying, "Elliots and Armstrongs ride thieves all."--But to what Border-family of note, in former days, would not such an adage have been equally applicable? All along the river Liddel may still be discovered the ruins of towers, possessed by this numerous clan. They did not, however, entirely trust to these fastnesses; but, when attacked by a superior force, abandoned entirely their dwellings, and retired into morasses, accessible by paths known to themselves alone. One of their most noted places of refuge was the Tarras Moss, a desolate and horrible marsh, through which a small river takes its course. Upon its banks are found some dry spots, which were occupied by these outlaws, and their families, in cases of emergency. The stream runs furiously among huge rocks, which has occasioned a popular saying-- Was ne'er are drown'd in Tarras, nor yet in doubt, For e'er the head can win down, the harns (brains) are out. The morass itself is so deep, that, according to an old historian, two spears tied together would not reach the bottom. In this retreat, the Armstrongs, _anno_ 1588, baffled the Earl of Angus, when lieutenant on the Border, although he reckoned himself so skilful in winding a thief, that he declared, "he had the same pleasure in it, as others in a hunting a hare." On this occasion he was totally unsuccessful, and nearly lost his relation, Douglas of Ively, whom the freebooters made prisoner.--_Godscroft_ Vol. II. p. 411. [Footnote 110: In illustration of this position, the reader is referred to a long correspondence betwixt Lord Dacre and the Privy Council of England, in 1550, concerning one Sandye Armstrang, a partizan of England, and an inhabitant of the Debateable Land, who had threatened to become a Scottishman, if he was not protected by the English warden against the Lord Maxwell.--See _Introduction to Nicholson and Burn's History of Cumberland and Westmoreland_.] Upon another occasion the Armstrongs were less fortunate. They had, in one of their incursions, plundered the town of Haltwhistle, on the borders of Cumberland. Sir Robert Carey, warden of the west marches, demanded satisfaction from the king of Scotland, and received for answer, that the offenders were no subjects of his, and that he might take his own revenge. The English warden, accordingly entered Llddesdale, and ravaged the lands of the outlaws; on which occasion, _Sim of the Cat-hill_ (an Armstrong) was killed by one of the Ridleys of Haltwhistle. This incident procured Haltwhistle another visit from the Armstrongs, in which they burnt great part of the town, but not without losing one of their leaders, by a shot from a window. "The death of this young man (says Sir Robert Carey) wrote (wrought) so deep an impression upon them (the outlaws), as many vowes were made, that, before the end of next winter, they would lay the whole Border waste. This (the murder) was done about the end of May (1598). The chiefe of all these outlaws was _old Sim of Whittram_.[111] He had five or six sonnes, as able men as the Borders had. This old man and his sonnes had not so few as two hundred at their commands, that were ever ready to ride with them to all actions, at their beck. [Footnote 111: Whittram is a place in Liddesdale. It is mistaken by the noble editor for Whithern, in Galloway, as is Hartwesel (Haltwhistle, on the borders of Cumberland) for Twisel, a village on the English side of the Tweed, near Wark.] The high parts of the marsh (march) towards Scotland were put in a mighty fear, and the chiefe of them, for themselves and the rest, petitioned to mee, and did assure mee, that, unless I did take some course with them, by the end of that summer, there was none of the inhabitants durst, or would, stay in their dwellings the next winter, but they would fley the countrey, and leave their houses and lands to the fury of the outlawes. Upon this complaint, I called the gentlemen of the countrey together, and acquainted them with the misery that the highest parts of the marsh towards Scotland were likely to endure, if there were not timely prevention to avoid it, and desired them to give mee their best advice what course were fitt to be taken. They all showed themselves willing to give mee their best counsailles, and most of them were of opinion, that I was not well advised to refuse the hundred horse that my Lord Euers had; and that now my best way was speedily to acquaint the quene and counsaile with the necessity of having more soldiers, and that there could not be less than a hundred horse sent downe for the defence of the countrey, besides the forty I had already in pay, and that there was nothing but force of soldiers could keep them in awe: and to let the counsaile plainly understand, that the marsh, of themselves, were not able to subsist, whenever the winter and long nights came in, unlesse present cure and remedy were provided for them. I desired them to advise better of it, and to see if they could find out any other meanes to prevent their mischievous intentions, without putting the quene and countrey to any further charge. They all resolved that there was no second meanes. Then I told them my intention what I meant to do, which was, that myselfe, with my two deputies, and the forty horse that I was allowed, would, with what speede wee could, make ourselves ready to go up to the Wastes, and there wee would entrench ourselves, and lye as near as wee could to the outlawes; and, if there were any brave spirits among them, that would go with us, they should be very wellcome, and fare and lye as well as myselfe: and I did not doubte before the summer ended, to do something that should abate the pride of these outlawes. Those, that were unwilling to hazard themselves, liked not this motion. They said, that, in so doing, I might keep the countrey quiet the time I lay there; but, when the winter approached, I could stay there no longer, and that was the theeves' time to do all their mischiefe. But there were divers young gentlemen, that offered to go with mee, some with three, some with four horses, and to stay with mee as long as I would there continue. I took a list of those that offered to go with mee, and found, that, with myself, my officers, the gentlemen, and our servants, wee should be about two hundred good men and horse; a competent number, as I thought, for such a service. The day and place was appointed for our meeting in the Wastes, and, by the help of the foot of Liddisdale[112] and Risdale, wee had soone built a pretty fort, and within it wee had all cabines made to lye in, and every one brought beds or matresses to lye on. There wee stayed, from the middest of June, till almost the end of August. We were betweene fifty and sixty gentlemen, besides their servants and my horsemen; so that wee were not so few as two hundred horse. Wee wanted no provisions for ourselves nor our horses, for the countrey people were well payed for any thing they brought us; so that wee had a good market every day, before our fort, to buy what we lacked. The chiefe outlawes, at our coming, fled their houses where they dwelt, and betooke themselves to a large and great forest (with all their goodes), which was called the Tarras. It was of that strength, and so surrounded with bogges and marish grounds, and thicke bushes and shrubbes, as they feared not the force nor power of England nor Scotland, so long as they were there. They sent me word, that I was like the first puffe of a haggasse,[113] hottest at the first, and bade me stay there as long as the weather would give me leave. They would stay in the Tarras Wood till I was weary of lying in the Waste; and when I had had my time, and they no whit the worse, they would play their parts, which should keep mee waking the next winter. Those gentlemen of the countrey that came not with mee, were of the same minde; for they knew (or thought at least), that my force was not sufficient to withstand the furey of the outlawes. The time I stayed at the fort I was not idle, but cast, by all meanes I could, how to take them in the great strength they were in. I found a meanes to send a hundred and fifty horsemen into Scotland (conveighed by a muffled man,[114] not known to any of the company), thirty miles within Scotland, and the businesse was carried so, that none in the countrey tooke any alarm at this passage. They were quietly brought to the back-side of the Tarras, to Scotland-ward. There they divided themselves into three parts, and tooke up three passages which the outlawes made themselves secure of, if from England side they should at any time be put at. [Footnote 112: The foot of Liddisdale were the garrison of King James, in the castle of Hermitage, who assisted Carey on this occasion, as the Armstrongs were outlaws to both nations.] [Footnote 113: A haggis, (according to Burns, "the chieftain of the pudding-race,") is an olio, composed of the liver, heart, &c. of a sheep, minced down with oatmeal, onions, and spices, and boiled in the stomach of the animal, by way of bag. When the bag is cut, the contents, (if this savoury dish be well made) should spout out with the heated air. This will explain the allusion.] [Footnote 114: A Muffled Man means a person in disguise; a very necessary precaution for the guide's safety; for, could the outlaws have learned who played them this trick, beyond all doubt it must have cost him dear.] They had their scoutes on the tops of hills, on the English side, to give them warning if at any time any power of men should come to surprise them. The three ambushes were safely laid, without being discovered, and, about four o'clock in the morning, there were three hundred horse, and a thousand foote,[115] that came directly to the place where the scoutes lay. They gave the alarm; our men brake down as fast as they could into the wood. The outlawes thought themselves safe, assuring themselves at any time to escape; but they were so strongly set upon, on the English side, as they were forced to leave their goodes, and betake themselves to their passages towards Scotland. There was presently five taken of the principall of them. The rest, seeing themselves, as they thought, betrayed, retired into the thicke woodes and bogges,[116] that our men durst not follow them for fear of loosing themselves. The principall of the five, that were taken, were two of the eldest sonnes of _Sim of Whitram_. These five they brought to mee to the fort, and a number of goodes, both of sheep and kine, which satisfied most part of the countrey, that they had stolen them from. [Footnote 115: From this it would appear, that Carey, although his constant attendants in his fort consisted only of 200 horse, had, upon this occasion by the assistance, probably, of the English and Scottish royal garrisons, collected a much greater force.] [Footnote 116: There are now no trees in Liddesdale, except on the banks of the rivers, where they are protected from the sheep. But the stumps and fallen timber, which are every where found in the morasses, attest how well the country must have been wooded in former days.] "The five, that were taken, were of great worth and value amongst them; insomuch, that, for their liberty, I should have what conditions I should demand or desire. First, all English prisoners were set at liberty. Then had I themselves, and most part of the gentlemen of the Scottish side, so strictly bound in bondes to enter to mee, in fifteen dayes warning, any offendour, that they durst not, for their lives, break any covenant that I made with them; and so, upon these conditions, I set them at liberty, and was never after troubled with these kind of people. Thus God blessed me in bringing this great trouble to so quiet an end; wee brake up our fort, and every man retired to his owne house."--_Carey's Memoirs_, p. 151. The people of Liddesdale have retained, by tradition, the remembrance of _Carey's Raid_, as they call it. They tell, that, while he was besieging the outlaws in the Tarras they contrived, by ways known only to themselves, to send a party into England, who plundered the warden's lands. On their return, they sent Carey one of his own cows, telling him, that, fearing he might fall short of provision during his visit to Scotland, they had taken the precaution of sending him some English beef. The anecdote is too characteristic to be suppressed. From this narrative, the power and strength of the Armstrongs, at this late period, appear to have been very considerable. Even upon the death of Queen Elizabeth, this clan, associated with other banditti of the west marches to the number of two or three hundred horse, entered England in a hostile manner, and extended their ravages as far as Penrith. James VI., then at Berwick, upon his journey to his new capital, detached a large force, under Sir William Selby, captain of Berwick, to bring these depredators to order. Their raid, remarkable for being the last of any note occurring in history, was avenged in an exemplary manner. Most of the strong-holds upon the Liddel were razed to the foundation, and several of the principal leaders executed at Carlisle; after which we find little mention of the Armstrongs in history. The precautions, adopted by the Earl of Dunbar, to preserve peace on the borders, bore peculiarly hard upon a body of men, long accustomed to the most ungoverned licence. They appear, in a great measure, to have fallen victims to the strictness of the new enactments.--_Ridpath_, p. 703.--_Stow_, 819.--_Laing_, Vol. I. The lands, possessed by them in former days, have chiefly come into the hands of the Buccleuch family, and of the Elliots; so that, with one or two exceptions, we may say, that, in the country which this warlike clan once occupied, there is hardly left a land-holder of the name. One of the last border reivers was, however, of this family, and lived within the beginning of the last century. After having made himself dreaded over the whole country, he at last came to the following end: One--, a man of large property, having lost twelve cows in one night, raised the country of Tiviotdale, and traced the robbers into Liddesdale, as far as the house of this Armstrong, commonly called _Willie of Westburnflat_, from the place of his residence, on the banks of the Hermitage water. Fortunately for the pursuers he was then asleep; so that he was secured, along with nine of his friends, without much resistance. He was brought to trial at Selkirk; and, although no precise evidence was adduced to convict him of the special fact (the cattle never having been recovered), yet the jury brought him in _guilty_ on his general character, or, as it is called in our law, on habite and repute. When sentence was pronounced, Willie arose; and, seizing the oaken chair in which he was placed, broke it into pieces by main strength, and offered to his companions, who were involved in the same doom, that, if they would stand behind him, he would fight his way out of Selkirk with these weapons. But they held his hands, and besought him to let them _die like Christians_. They were accordingly executed in form of law. This was the last trial at Selkirk. The people of Liddesdale, who (perhaps not erroneously) still consider the sentence as iniquitous, remarked, that--, the prosecutor, never throve afterwards, but came to beggary and ruin, with his whole family. Johnie Armstrong, of Gilnockie, the hero of the following ballad, is a noted personage, both in history and tradition. He was, it would seem from the ballad, a brother of the laird of Mangertoun, chief of the name. His place of residence (now a roofless tower) was at the Hollows, a few miles from Langholm, where its ruins still serve to adorn a scene, which, in natural beauty, has few equals in Scotland. At the head of a desperate band of freebooters, this Armstrong is said to have spread the terror of his name almost as far as Newcastle, and to have levied _black mail_, or _protection and forbearance money_, for many miles around. James V., of whom it was long remembered by his grateful people, that he made the "rush-bush keep the cow," about 1529, undertook an expedition through the border counties, to suppress the turbulent spirit of the marchmen. But, before setting out upon his journey, he took the precaution of imprisoning the different border chieftains, who were the chief protectors of the marauders. The Earl of Bothwell was forfeited, and confined in Edinburgh castle. The lords of Home and Maxwell, the lairds of Buccleuch, Fairniherst, and Johnston, with many others, were also committed to ward. Cockburn of Henderland, and Adam Scott of Tushielaw, called the King of the Border, were publicly executed.--_Lesley_, p. 430. The king then marched rapidly forward, at the head of a flying army of ten thousand men, through Ettrick Forest, and Ewsdale. The evil genius of our Johnie Armstrong, or, as others say, the private advice of some courtiers, prompted him to present himself before James, at the head of thirty-six horse, arrayed in all the pomp of border chivalry, Pitscottie uses nearly the words of the ballad, in describing the splendour of his equipment, and his high expectations of favour from the king. "But James, looking upon him sternly, said to his attendants, 'What wants that knave that a king should have?' and ordered him and his followers to instant execution."--"But John Armstrong," continues this minute historian, "made great offers to the king. That he should sustain himself, with forty gentlemen, ever ready at his service, on their own cost, without wronging any Scottishman: Secondly, that there was not a subject in England, duke, earl, or baron, but, within a certain day, he should bring him to his majesty, either quick or dead.[117] At length he, seeing no hope of favour, said very proudly, 'It is folly to seek grace at a graceless face; but,' said he, 'had I known this, I should have lived upon the borders in despite of King Harry and you both; for I know King Harry would _down-weigh my best horse with gold_, to know that I were condemned to die this day.'--_Pitscottie's History_, p. 145. Johnie, with all his retinue, was accordingly hanged upon growing trees, at a place called Carlenrig chapel, about ten miles above Hawick, on the high road to Langholm. The country people believe, that, to manifest the injustice of the execution, the trees withered away. Armstrong and his followers were buried in a deserted church-yard, where their graves are still shewn. [Footnote 117: The borderers, from their habits of life, were capable of most extraordinary exploits of this nature. In the year 1511, Sir Robert Ker of Cessford, warden of the middle marches of Scotland, was murdered at a border-meeting, by the bastard Heron, Starhead, and Lilburn. The English monarch delivered up Lilburn to justice in Scotland, but Heron and Starhead escaped. The latter chose his residence in the very centre of England, to baffle the vengeance of Ker's clan and followers. Two dependants of the deceased, called Tait, were deputed by Andrew Ker of Cessford to revenge his father's murder. They travelled through England in various disguises till they discovered the place of Starhead's retreat, murdered him in his bed, and brought his head in triumph to Edinburgh, where Ker caused it to be exposed at the cross. The bastard Heron would have shared the same fate, had he not spread abroad a report of his having died of the plague, and caused his funeral obsequies to be performed.--_Ridpath's History_, p. 481.--_See also Metrical Account of the Battle of Flodden, published by the Rev. Mr. Lambe_.] As this border hero was a person of great note in his way, he is frequently alluded to by the writers of the time. Sir David Lindsay of the Mount, in the curious play published by Mr. Pinkerton, from the Bannatyne MS., introduces a pardoner, or knavish dealer in reliques, who produces, among his holy rarities-- --The cordis, baith grit and lang, Quhilt hangit Johnnie Armistrang, Of gude hempt, soft and sound, Gude haly pepill, I stand ford, Wha'evir beis hangit in this cord, Neidis nevir to be drowned! _Pinkerton's Scottish Poems_, Vol. II. p. 69. In _The Complaynt of Scotland_, John Armistrangis's dance, mentioned as a popular tune, has probably some reference to our hero. The common people of the high parts of Tiviotdale, Liddesdale, and the country adjacent, hold the memory of Johnie Armstrong in very high respect. They affirm also, that one of his attendants broke through the king's guard, and carried to Gilnockie Tower the news of the bloody catastrophe. This song was first published by Allan Ramsay, in his _Evergreen_, who says, he copied it from the mouth of a gentleman, called Armstrong, who was in the sixth generation from this John. The reciter assured him, that this was the genuine old ballad; the common one false. By the common one, Ramsay means an English ballad upon the same subject, but differing in various particulars, which is published in Mr. Ritson's _English Songs_, Vol. II. It is fortunate for the admirers of the old ballad, that it did not fall into Ramsay's hands, when he was equipping with new sets of words the old Scottish tunes in his _Tea-Table Miscellany_. Since his time it has been often reprinted. JOHNIE ARMSTRANG * * * * * Sum speikis of lords, sum speikis of lairds, And sick lyke men of hie degrie; Of a gentleman I sing a sang, Sum tyme called laird of Gilnockie. The king he wrytes a luving letter, With his ain hand sae tenderly, And he hath sent it to Johnie Armstrang, To cum and speik with him speedily. The Eliots and Armstrangs did convene; They were a gallant cumpanie-- "We'll ride and meit our lawful king, And bring him safe to Gilnockie." "Make kinnen[118] and capon ready then, And venison in great plentie; We'll wellcum here our royal king; I hope he'll dine at Gilnockie!" They ran their horse on the Langhome howm, And brak their speirs wi' mickle main; The ladies lukit frae their loft windows-- "God bring our men weel back agen!" When Johnie cam before the king, Wi' a' his men sae brave to see, The king he movit his bonnet to him; He ween'd he was a king as well as he. "May I find grace, my sovereign liege, Grace for my loyal men and me? For my name it is Johnie Armstrang, And subject of your's, my liege," said he. "Away, away, thou traitor strang! Out o' my sight soon may'st thou be! I grantit nevir a traitor's life, And now I'll not begin wi' thee." "Grant me my life, my liege, my king! "And a bonny gift I'll gie to thee-- "Full four and twenty milk-white steids, "Were a' foaled in ae yeir to me. "I'll gie thee a' these milk-white steids, "That prance and nicker[119] at a speir; "And as mickle gude Inglish gilt[120], "As four of their braid backs dow[121] bear." "Away, away, thou traitor strang! "Out o' my sight soon may'st thou be! "I grantit never a traitor's life, "And now I'll not begin wi' thee!" "Grant me my life, my liege, my king! "And a bonny gift I'll gie to thee-- "Gude four and twenty ganging[122] mills, "That gang thro' a' the yeir to me. "These four and twenty mills complete, "Sall gang for thee thro' a' the yeir; "And as mickle of gude reid wheit, "As a' their happers dow to bear." "Away, away, thou traitor strang! "Out o' my sight soon may'st thou be! "I grantit nevir a traitor's life, "And now I'll not begin wi' thee." "Grant me my life, my liege, my king! "And a great gift I'll gie to thee-- "Bauld four and twenty sister's sons, "Sall for thee fecht, tho' a' should flee!" "Away, away, thou traitor strang! "Out o' my sight soon may'st thou be! "I grantit nevir a traitor's life, "And now I'll not begin wi' thee." "Grant me my life, my liege, my king! "And a brave gift I'll gie to thee-- "All between heir and Newcastle town "Sall pay their yeirly rent to thee." "Away, away, thou traitor strang! "Out o' my sight soon may'st thou be! "I grantit nevir a traitor's life, "And now I'll not begin wi' thee." "Ye lied[123], ye lied, now king," he says. "Altho' a king and prince ye be! For I've luved naething in my life, "I weel dare say it, but honesty-- "Save a fat horse," and a fair woman, "Twa bonny dogs to kill a deir; "But England suld have found me meal and mault, "Gif I had lived this hundred yeir! "Sche suld have found me meal and mault, "And beif and mutton in a' plentie; "But nevir a Scots wyfe could have said, "That e'er I skaithed her a pure flee. "To seik het water beneith cauld ice, "Surely it is a greit folie-- "I have asked grace at a graceless face, "But there is mine for my men and me! "But, had I kenn'd ere I cam frae hame, "How thou unkind wadst been to me! "I wad have keepit the border side, "In spite of al thy force and thee. "Wist England's king that I was ta'en, "O gin a blythe man he wad be! "For anes I slew his sister's son, "And on his breist bane brake a trie." John wore a girdle about his middle, Imbroidered ower wi' burning gold, Bespangled wi' the same metal; Maist beautiful was to behold. There hang nine targats[124] at Johnie's hat, And ilk are worth three hundred pound-- "What wants that knave that a king suld have, But the sword of honour and the crown! "O whair got thou these targats, Johnie, "That blink[125] sae brawly abune thy brie?" "I gat them in the field fechting, "Where, cruel king, thou durst not be. "Had I my horse, and harness gude, "And riding as I wont to be, "It suld have been tald this hundred yeir, "The meeting of my king and me! "God be with thee, Kirsty,[126] my brother! "Lang live thou laird of Mangertoun! "Lang may'st thou live on the border syde, "Ere thou see thy brother ride up and down! "And God be with thee, Kirsty, my son, "Where thou sits on thy nurse's knee! "But and thou live this hundred yeir, "Thy father's better thou'lt nevir be. "Farewell! my bonny Gilnock hall, "Where on Esk side thou stand est stout! "Gif I had lived but seven yeirs mair, "I wad hae gilt thee round about." John murdered was at Carlinrigg, And all his gallant cumpanie; But Scotland's heart was ne'er sae wae, To see sae mony brave men die-- Because they saved their countrey deir, Frae Englishmen! Nane were sae bauld, Whyle Johnie lived on the border syde, Nane of them durst cum neir his hauld. [Footnote 118: _Kinnen_--Rabbits.] [Footnote 119: _Nicker_--Neigh.] [Footnote 120: _Gilt--Gold_.] [Footnote 121: _Dow_--Able to.] [Footnote 122: _Ganging_--Going.] [Footnote 123: _Lied_--Lye.] [Footnote 124: _Targats_--Tassels.] [Footnote 125: _Blink sae brawly_--Glance so bravely.] [Footnote 126: Christopher.] SUPPLEMENT TO THE BALLAD OF JOHNIE ARMSTRANG. * * * * * The editor believes, his readers will not be displeased to see a Bond of Manrent, granted by this border freebooter to the Scottish warden of the west marches, in return for the gift of a feudal casualty of certain lauds particularized. It is extracted from _Syme's Collection of Old Writings, MS. penes_ Dr. Robert Anderson, of Edinburgh. BOND OF MANRENT. Be it kend till all men, be thir present letters, me, Johne Armistrang, for to be bound and oblist, and be the tenor of thir present letters, and faith and trewth in my body, lelie and trewlie, bindis and oblissis me and myn airis, to are nobil and michtie lord, Robert Lord Maxwell, wardane of the west marches of Scotland, that, forasmikle as my said lord has given and grantit to me, and mine airis perpetuallie, the nonentries of all and hail the landis underwritten, that is to say, the landis of Dalbetht, Shield, Dalblane, Stapil-Gortown, Langholme, and--with their pertindis, lyand in the lordship of Eskdale, as his gift, maid to me, therupon beris in the self: and that for all the tyme of the nonentres of the samyn. Theirfor, I, the said Johne Armistrang, bindis and oblissis me and myne airis, in manrent and service to the said Robert Lord Maxwell, and his airis, for evermair, first and befor all uthirs, myne allegiance to our soverane lord, the king, allanerly except; and to be trewe, gude, and lele servant to my said lord, and be ready to do him service, baith in pece and weir, with all my kyn, friends, and servants, that I may and dowe to raise, and be and to my said lord's airis for evermair. And sall tak his true and plane part in all maner of actions at myn outer power, and sall nouther wit, hear, nor se my said lordis skaith, lak, nor dishonestie, but we sall stop and lett the samyn, and geif we dowe not lett the samyn, we sall warn him thereof in all possible haist; and geif it happenis me, the said Johne Armistrang, or myne airis, to fail in our said service and manrent, any maner of way, to our said lord (as God forbid we do), than, and in that caiss, the gift and nonentres maid be him to us, of the said landis of Dalbetht, Schield, Dalblane, Stapil-Gortown, Langholme, and--with the pertinentis to be of no avale, force, nor effect; but the said lord and his airis to have free regress and ingress to the nonentres of the samyn, but ony pley or impediment. To the keeping and fulfilling of all and sundry the premisses, in form above writtin, I bind and obliss me and my airis foresaids, to the said lord and his airis for evermare, be the faithis treuthis in our bodies, but fraud or gile. In witness of the whilk thing, to thir letters of manrent subscrievit, with my hand at the pen, my sele is hangin, at Drumfries, the secund day of November, the yeir of God, Jaiv and XXV. yeiris. JOHNE ARMISTRANG, with my hand at the pen. The lands, here mentioned, were the possessions of Armstrong himself, the investitures of which not having been regularly renewed, the feudal casualty of non-entry had been incurred by the vassal. The brother of Johnie Armstrang is said to have founded, or rather repaired, Langholm castle, before which, as mentioned in the ballad, verse 5th, they "ran their horse," and "brake their spears," in the exercise of border chivalry.--_Account of the Parish of Langholm, apud Macfarlane's MSS_. The lands of Langholm and Staplegorton continued in Armstrong's family; for there is, in the same MS. collection, a similar bond of manrent, granted by "Christofer Armistrang, calit _Johne's Pope_," on 24th January, 1557, to Lord Johne Lord Maxwell, and to Sir Johne Maxwell of Terreglis, knight, his tutor and governor, in return for the gift of "the males of all and haill the landis whilk are conteint in ane bond made by umquhile Johne Armistrang, my father, to umquhile Robert, Lord Maxwell, gudshore to the said Johne, now Lord Maxwell." It would therefore appear, that the bond of manrent, granted by John Armstrong, had been the price of his release from the feudal penalty arising from his having neglected to procure a regular investiture from his superior. As Johnie only touched the pen, it appears that he could not write. Christopher Armstrong, above-mentioned, is the person alluded to in the conclusion of the ballad--"God be with thee, Kirsty, my son." He was the father, or grandfather, of William Armstrong, called _Christie's Will_, a renowned freebooter, some of whose exploits the reader will find recorded in the third volume of this work. THE LOCHMABEN HARPER NOW FIRST PUBLISHED. * * * * * _The castle of Lochmaben was formerly a noble building, situated upon a peninsula, projecting into one of the four lakes which are in the neighbourhood of the royal burgh, and is said to have been the residence of Robert Bruce, while lord of Annandale. Accordingly, it was always held to be a royal fortress, the keeping of which, according to the custom of the times, was granted to some powerful lord, with an allotment of lands and fishings, for the defence and maintenance of the place. There is extant a grant, dated 16th March, 1511, to Robert Lauder of the Bass, of the office of captain and keeper of Lochmaben castle, for seven years, with many perquisites. Among others, the_ "land, stolen frae the king," _is bestowed upon the captain, as his proper lands.--What shall we say of a country, where the very ground was the subject of theft_? * * * * * O heard ye na o' the silly blind Harper, How lang he lived in Lochmaben town? And how he wad gang to fair England, To steal the Lord Warden's Wanton Brown! But first he gaed to his gude wyfe, Wi' a' the haste that he could thole-- "This wark," quo' he, "will ne'er gae weel, Without a mare that has a foal." Quo' she--"Thou hast a gude gray mare, That can baith lance o'er laigh and hie; Sae set thee on the gray mare's back, And leave the foal at hame wi' me." So he is up to England gane, And even as fast as he may drie; And when he cam to Carlisle gate, O whae was there but the Warden, he? "Come into my hall, thou silly blind Harper, And of thy harping let me hear!" "O by my sooth," quo' the silly blind Harper, I wad rather hae stabling for my mare." The Warden look'd ower his left shoulder, And said unto his stable groom-- "Gae take the silly blind Harper's mare, And tie her beside my Wanton Brown." Then aye he harped, and aye he carped[127], Till a' the lordlings footed the floor; But an' the music was sae sweet, The groom had nae mind of the stable door. And aye he harped, and aye he carped, Till a' the nobles were fast asleep; Then quickly he took aff his shoon, And saftly down the stair did creep. Syne to the stable door he hied, Wi' tread as light as light could be; And when he opened and gaed in, There he fand thirty steeds and three. He took a cowt halter[128] frae his hose, And o' his purpose he did na fail; He slipt it ower the Wanton's nose, And tied it to his gray mare's tail. He turned them loose at the castle gate, Ower muir and moss and ilka dale; And she ne'er let the Wanton bait, But kept him a-galloping hame to her foal. The mare she was right swift o' foot, She did na fail to find the way; For she was at Lochmaben gate, A lang three hours before the day. When she cam to the Harper's door, There she gave mony a nicker and sneer--[129] "Rise up," quo' the wife, "thou lazy lass; Let in thy master and his mare." Then up she rose, put on her clothes, And keekit through at the lock-hole-- "O! by my sooth," then cried the lass, Our mare has gotten a braw brown foal!" "Come, haud thy tongue, thou silly wench! The morn's but glancing in your e'e."-- I'll[130] wad my hail fee against a groat, He's bigger than e'er our foal will be." Now all this while, in merry Carlisle, The Harper harped to hie and law; And the[131] fiend thing dought they do but listen him to, Until that the day began to daw. But on the morn, at fair day light, When they had ended a' their cheer, Behold the Wanton Brown was gane, And eke the poor blind Harper's mare! "Allace! allace!" quo' the cunning auld Harper, "And ever allace that I cam here! In Scotland I lost a braw cowt foal, In England they've stown my gude gray mare!" "Come! cease thy allacing, thou silly blind Harper, And again of thy harping let us hear; And weel payd sall thy cowt-foal be, And thou sall have a far better mare." Then aye he harped, and aye he carped; Sae sweet were the harpings he let them hear! He was paid for the foal he had never lost, And three times ower for the gude GRAY MARE. [Footnote 127: _Carped_--Sung.] [Footnote 128: _Cowt halter_--Colt's halter.] [Footnote 129: _Nicker and sneer_--Neigh and snort.] [Footnote 130: _Wad my hail fee_--Bet my whole wages.] [Footnote 131: _Fiend thing dought_--Nothing could they do.] NOTES ON THE LOCHMABEN HARPER. * * * * * The only remark which offers itself on the foregoing ballad seems to be, that it is the most modern in which the harp, as a border instrument of music, is found to occur. I cannot dismiss the subject of Lochmaben, without noticing an extraordinary and anomalous class of landed proprietors, who dwell in the neighbourhood of that burgh. These are the inhabitants of four small villages, near the ancient castle, called the Four Towns of Lochmaben. They themselves are termed the King's Rentallers, or kindly tenants; under which denomination each of them has a right, of an allodial nature, to a small piece of ground. It is said, that these people are the descendants of Robert Bruce's menials, to whom he assigned, in reward of their faithful service, these portions of land, burdened only with the payment of certain quit-rents, and grassums or fines, upon the entry of a new tenant. The right of the rentallers is, in essence, a right of property, but, in form, only a right of lease; of which they appeal for the foundation on the rent-rolls of the lord of the castle and manor. This possession, by rental, or by simple entry upon the rent-roll, was anciently a common, and peculiarly sacred, species of property, granted by a chief to his faithful followers; the connection of landlord and tenant being esteemed of a nature too formal to be necessary, where there was honour upon one side, and gratitude upon the other. But, in the case of subjects granting a right of this kind, it was held to expire with the life of the granter, unless his heir chose to renew it; and also upon the death of the rentaller himself, unless especially granted to his heirs, by which term only his first heir was understood. Hence, in modern days, the _kindly tenants_ have entirely disappeared from the land. Fortunately for the inhabitants of the Four Towns of Lochmaben, the maxim, that the king can never die, prevents their right of property from reverting to the crown. The viscount of Stormonth, as royal keeper of the castle, did, indeed, about the beginning of last century, make an attempt to remove the rentallers from their possessions, or at least to procure judgment, finding them obliged to take out feudal investitures, and subject themselves to the casualties thereto annexed. But the rentallers united in their common defence; and, having stated their immemorial possession, together with some favourable clauses in certain old acts of parliament, enacting, that the king's _poor kindly tenants_ of Lochmaben should not be hurt, they finally prevailed in an action before the Court of Session. From the peculiar state of their right of property, it follows, that there is no occasion for feudal investitures, or the formal entry of an heir; and, of course, when they chuse to convey their lands, it is done by a simple deed of conveyance, without charter or sasine. The kindly tenants of Lochmaben live (or at least lived till lately) much sequestered from their neighbours, marry among themselves, and are distinguished from each other by _soubriquets_, according to the ancient border custom, repeatedly noticed You meet, among their writings, with such names as _John Out-bye, Will In-bye, White-fish, Red-fish_, &c. They are tenaciously obstinate in defence of their privileges of commonty, &c. which are numerous. Their lands are, in general, neatly inclosed, and well cultivated, and they form a contented and industrious little community. Many of these particulars are extracted from the MSS. of Mr. Syme, writer to the signet. Those, who are desirous of more information, may consult _Craig de Feudis_, Lib. II. dig. 9. sec. 24. It is hoped the reader will excuse this digression, though somewhat professional; especially as there can be little doubt, that this diminutive republic must soon share the fate of mightier states; for, in consequence of the increase of commerce, lands possessed under this singular tenure, being now often brought to sale, and purchased by the neighbouring proprietors, will, in process of time, be included in their investitures, and the right of rentallage be entirely forgotten. JAMIE TELFER OF THE FAIR DODHEAD. * * * * * _There is another ballad, under the same title as the following, in which nearly the same incidents are narrated, with little difference, except that the honour of rescuing the cattle is attributed to the Liddesdale Elliots, headed by a chief, there called Martin Elliot of the Preakin Tower, whose son, Simon, is said to have fallen in the action. It is very possible, that both the Tiviotdale Scotts, and the Elliots were engaged in the affair, and that each claimed the honour of the victory_. _The editor presumes, that the Willie Scott, here mentioned must have been a natural son of the laird of Buccleuch_. * * * * * It fell about the Martinmas tyde, When our border steeds get corn and hay, The captain, of Bewcastle hath bound him to ryde, And he's ower to Tividale to drive a prey. The first ae guide that they met wi', It was high up in Hardhaughswire; The second guide that they met wi', It was laigh down in Borthwick water. "What tidings, what tidings, my trusty guide?" "Nae tidings, nae tidings, I hae to thee; But, gin ye'll gae to the fair Dodhead, Mony a cow's cauf I'll let thee see." And whan they cam to the fair Dodhead, Right hastily they clam the peel; They loosed the kye out, are and a', And ranshackled[132] the house right weel. Now Jamie Telfer's heart was sair, The tear aye rowing in his e'e; He pled wi' the captain to hae his gear, Or else revenged he wad be. The captain turned him round, and leugh; Said--"Man, there's naething in thy house, But ae auld sword without a sheath, That hardly now wad fell a mouse!" The sun was na up, but the moon was down, It was the gryming[133] of a new fa'n snaw, Jamie Telfer has run ten myles a-foot, Between the Dodhead and the Stobs's Ha'. And whan he cam to the fair tower yate, He shouted loud, and cried weel hie, Till out bespak auld Gibby Elliot-- "Whae's this that brings the fraye to me?" "Its I, Jamie Telfer o' the fair Dodhead, And a harried man I think I be! There's naething left at the fair Dodhead, But a waefu' wife and bairnies three." "Gar seek your succour at Branksome Ha', For succour ye'se get nane frae me! Gae seek your succour where ye paid black mail, For, man! ye ne'er paid money to me." Jamie has turned him round about, I wat the tear blinded his e'e-- "I'll ne'er pay mail to Elliot again, And the fair Dodhead I'll never see! "My hounds may a' rin masterless, My hawks may fly frae tree to tree, My lord may grip my vassal lands, For there again maun I never be!" He has turned him to the Tiviot side, E'en as fast as he could drie, Till he cam to the Coultart Cleugh, And there he shouted baith loud and hie. Then up bespak him auld Jock Grieve-- "Whae's this that bring's the fray to me?" "It's I, Jamie Telfer o' the fair Dodhead, A harried man I trew I be. "There's naething left in the fair Dodhead, But a greeting wife and bairnies three, And sax poor ca's[134] stand in the sta', A' routing loud for their minnie."[135] "Alack a wae!" quo' auld Jock Grieve, "Alack! my heart is sair for thee! For I was married on the elder sister, And you on the youngest of a' the three," Then he has ta'en out a bonny black, Was right weel fed wi' corn and hay, And he's set Jamie Telfer on his back, To the Catslockhill to tak the fraye. And whan he cam to the Catslockhill, He shouted loud, and cried weel hie, Till out and spak him William's Wat-- "O whae's this brings the fraye to me?" "Its I, Jamie Telfer of the fair Dodhead, A harried man I think I be! The captain of Bewcastle has driven my gear; For God's sake rise, and succour me!" "Alas for wae!" quo' William's Wat, Alack, for thee my heart is sair! I never cam bye the fair Dodhead, That ever I fand thy basket bare." He's set his twa sons on coal-black steeds, Himsel' upon a freckled gray, And they are on wi' Jamie Telfer, To Branksome Ha' to tak the fraye. And whan they cam to Branksome Ha', They shouted a' baith loud and hie, Till up and spak him auld Buccleuch, Said--"Whae's this brings the fraye to me?" "It's I, Jamie Telfer o' the fair Dodhead, And a harried man I think I be! There's nought left in the fair Dodhead, But a greeting wife, and bairnies three." "Alack for wae!" quoth the gude auld lord, "And ever my heart is wae for thee! But fye gar cry on Willie, my son, And see that he come to me speedilie! "Gar warn the water, braid and wide, Gar warn it sune and hastilie! They that winna ride for Telfer's kye, Let them never look in the face o' me! "Warn Wat o' Harden, and his sons, Wi' them will Borthwick water ride; Warn Gaudilands, and Allanhaugh, And Gilmanscleugh, and Commonside. "Ride by the gate at Priesthaughswire, And warn the Currors o' the Lee; As ye cum down the Hermitage Slack, Warn doughty Willie o' Gorrinberry." The Scots they rade, the Scots they ran, Sae starkly and sae steadilie! And aye the ower-word o' the thrang Was--"Rise for Branksome readilie!" The gear was driven the Frostylee up, Frae the Frostylee unto the plain, Whan Willie has looked his men before, And saw the kye right fast driving. "Whae drives thir kye?" can Willie say, To mak an outspeckle[136] o' me?" "Its I, the captain o' Bewcastle, Willie; I winna layne my name for thee." "O will ye let Telfer's kye gae back? Or will ye do aught for regard o' me? Or, by the faith of my body," quo' Willie Scott, "I'se ware my dame's cauf's skin on thee!" "I winna let the kye gae back, Neither for thy love, nor yet thy fear; But I will drive Jamie Telfer's kye, In spite of every Scot that's here." "Set on them, lads!" quo' Willie than; Fye, lads, set on them cruellie! For ere they win to the Ritterford, Mony a toom[137] saddle there sall be!" Then till't they gaed, wi' heart and hand; The blows fell thick as bickering hail; And mony a horse ran masterless, And mony a comely cheek was pale! But Willie was stricken ower the head, And thro' the knapscap[138] the sword has gane; And Harden grat for very rage, Whan Willie on the grund lay slane. But he's tane aff his gude steel cap, And thrice he's wav'd it in the air-- The Dinlay[139] snaw was ne'er mair white, Nor the lyart locks of Harden's hair. "Revenge! revenge!" auld Wat can cry; "Fye, lads, lay on them cruellie! We'll ne'er see Tiviotside again, Or Willie's death revenged sall be." O mony a horse ran masterless, The splintered lances flew on hie; But or they wan to the Kershope ford, The Scots had gotten the victory. John o' Brigham there was slane, And John o' Barlow, as I hear say; And thirty mae o' the captain's men, Lay bleeding on the grund that day. The captain was run thro' the thick of the thigh, And broken was his right leg bane; If he had lived this hundred years, He had never been loved by woman again. "Hae back thy kye!" the captain said; "Dear kye, I trow, to some they be! For gin I suld live a hundred years, There will ne'er fair lady smile on me." Then word is gane to the captain's bride, Even in the bower where that she lay, That her lord was prisoner in enemy's land, Since into Tividale he had led the way. "I wad lourd[140] have had a winding-sheet, And helped to put it ower his head, Ere he had been disgraced by the _border Scot_, Whan he ower Liddel his men did lead!" There was a wild gallant amang us a', His name was Watty wi' the Wudspurs,[141] Cried--"On for his house in Stanegirthside, If ony man will ride with us!" When they cam to the Stanegirthside, They dang wi' trees, and burst the door; They loosed out a' the captain's kye, And set them forth our lads before. There was an auld wyfe ayont the fire, A wee bit o' the captain's kin-- "Whae dar loose out the captain's kye, Or answer to him and his men?" "Its I, Watty Wudspurs, loose the kye! I winna layne my name frae thee! And I will loose out the captain's kye, In scorn of a' his men and he." When they cam to the fair Dodhead, They were a wellcum sight to see! For instead of his ain ten milk kye, Jamie Telfer has gotten thirty and three. And he has paid the rescue shot, Baith wi' goud, and white monie; And at the burial o' Willie Scott, I wat was mony a weeping e'e. [Footnote 132: _Ranshackled_--Ransacked.] [Footnote 133: _Gryming_--Sprinkling.] [Footnote 134: _Ca's_--Calves.] [Footnote 135: _Minnie_--Mother.] [Footnote 136: _Outspeckle_.--Laughing-stock.] [Footnote 137: _Toom_--Empty.] [Footnote 138: _Knapscap_--Headpiece.] [Footnote 139: _The Dinlay_--is a mountain in Liddesdale.] [Footnote 140: _Lourd_--Rather.] [Footnote 141: _Wudspurs_--Hotspur, or Madspur.] NOTES ON JAMIE TELFER OF THE FAIR DODHEAD. * * * * * _It was high up in Hardhaughswire_.--P. 140. v. 1. Hardhaughswire is the pass from Liddesdale to the head of Tiviotdale. _It was laigh down in Borthwick water_.--P. 140. v. 1. Borthwick water is a stream, which falls into the Tiviot, three miles above Hawick. _But, gin ye'll gae to the fair Dodhead_.--P. 140. v. 2. The Dodhead, in Selkirkshire, near Singlee, where there are still the vestiges of an old tower. _Now Jamie Telfer's heart was sair_.--P. 140. v. 4. There is still a family of Telfers, residing near Langholm, who pretend to derive their descent from the Telfers of the Dodhead. _Between the Dodhead and the Stobs's Ha'_.--P. 141. v. 1. Stobs Hall, upon Slitterick. Jamie Telfer made his first application here because he seems to have paid the proprietor of that castle _black-mail_, or protection-money. _Gar seek your succour at Branksome Ha'_.--P. 141. v. 4. The ancient family-seat of the lairds of Buccleuch, near Hawick. _Till he cam to the Coultart Cleugh_.--P. 142. v. 2. The Coultart Cleugh is nearly opposite to Carlinrig, on the road between Hawick and Mosspaul. _Gar warn the water, braid and wide_.--P. 144. v. 4. The water, in the mountainous districts of Scotland, is often used to express the banks of the river, which are the only inhabitable parts of the country. _To raise the water_, therefore, was to alarm those who lived along its side. _Warn Wat o' Harden, and his sons_, &c.--P. 144. v. 5. The estates, mentioned in this verse, belonged to families of the name of Scott, residing upon the waters of Borthwick and Tiviot, near the castle of their chief. _Ride by the gate at Priesthaughswire_.--P. 145. v. 1. The pursuers seem to have taken the road through the hills of Liddesdale, in order to collect forces, and intercept the foragers at the passage of the Liddel, on their return to Bewcastle. The Ritterford and Kershope-ford, after mentioned, are noted fords on the river Liddel. _The gear was driven the Frostylee up_.--P. 145. v. 3. The Frostylee is a brook, which joins the Tiviot, near Mosspaul. _And Harden grat for very rage_.--P. 146. v. 4. Of this border laird, commonly called _Auld Wat of Harden_, tradition has preserved many anecdotes. He was married to Mary Scott, celebrated in song by the title of the Flower of Yarrow. By their marriage-contract, the father-in-law, Philip Scott of Dryhope, was to find Harden in horse meat, and man's meat, at his tower of Dryhope, for a year and a day; but five barons pledge themselves, that, at the expiry of that period, the son-in-law should remove, without attempting to continue in possession by force! A notary-public signed for all the parties to the deed, none of whom could write their names. The original is still in the charter-room of the present Mr. Scott of Harden. By the Flower of Yarrow the laird of Harden had six sons; five of whom survived him, and founded the families of Harden (now extinct), Highchesters (now representing Harden), Reaburn, Wool, and Synton. The sixth son was slain at a fray, in a hunting-match, by the Scotts of Gilmanscleugh. His brothers flew to arms; but the old laird secured them in the dungeon of his tower, hurried to Edinburgh, stated the crime, and obtained a gift of the lands of the offenders from the crown. He returned to Harden with equal speed, released his sons, and shewed them the charter. "To horse, lads!" cried the savage warrior, "and let us take possession! the lands of Gilmanscleuch are well worth a dead son." The property, thus obtained, continued in the family till the beginning of last century, when it was sold, by John Scott of Harden, to Anne, Duchess of Buccleuch. _John o' Brigham there was slane_.--P. 147. v. 3. Perhaps one of the ancient family of Brougham, in Cumberland. The editor has used some freedom with the original in the subsequent verse. The account of the captain's disaster _(tests laeva vulnerata_) is rather too _naive_ for literal publication. _Cried--"On for his house in Stanegirthside_.--P. 148. v. 3. A house belonging to the Foresters, situated on the English side of the Liddel. An article in the list of attempts upon England, fouled by the commissioners ar Berwick, in the year 1587, may relate to the subject of the foregoing ballad. October, 1582. Thomas Musgrave, deputy {Walter Scott, laird } 200 kine and of Bewcastle, and {of Buckluth, and his} oxen,300 gait the tenants, against {complices; for } and sheep. _Introduction, to History of Westmoreland and Cumberland_, p. 31. THE RAID OF THE REIDSWIRE. * * * * * This poem is published from a copy in the Bannatyne MS. in the hand-writing of the Hon. Mr. Carmichael, advocate. It first appeared in _Allan Ramsay's Evergreen_, but some liberties have been taken by him in transcribing it; and, what is altogether unpardonable, the MS., which is itself rather inaccurate, has been interpolated to favour his readings; of which there remain obvious marks. The skirmish of the Reidswire happened upon the 7th of June, 1575, at one of the meetings, held by the wardens of the marches, for arrangements necessary upon the border. Sir John Carmichael, ancestor of the present Earl of Hyndford, was the Scottish warden, and Sir John Forster held that office on the English middle march.--In the course of the day, which was employed, as usual, in redressing wrongs, a bill, or indictment, at the instance of a Scottish complainer, was fouled (_i.e._ found a true bill) against one Farnstein, a notorious English freebooter. Forster alleged that he had fled from justice: Carmichael considering this as a pretext to avoid making compensation for the felony, bade him "play fair!" to which the haughty English warden retorted, by some injurious expressions respecting Carmichael's family, and gave other open signs of resentment. His retinue, chiefly men of Reesdale and Tynedale, the most ferocious of the English borderers, glad of any pretext for a quarrel, discharged a flight of arrows among the Scots. A warm conflict ensued, in which, Carmichael being beat down and made prisoner, success seemed at first to incline to the English side; till the Tynedale men, throwing themselves too greedily upon the plunder, fell into disorder; and a body of Jedburgh citizens arriving at that instant, the skirmish terminated in a complete victory on the part of the Scots, who took prisoners, the English warden, James Ogle, Cuthbert Collingwood, Francis Russel, son to the Earl of Bedford, and son-in-law to Forster, some of the Fenwicks, and several other border chiefs. They were sent to the Earl of Morton, then regent, who detained them at Dalkeith for some days, till the heat of their resentment was abated; which prudent precaution prevented a war betwixt the two kingdoms. He then dismissed them with great expressions of regard; and, to satisfy Queen Elizabeth,[142] sent up Carmichael to York, whence he was soon after honourably dismissed. The field of battle, called the Reidswire, is a part of the Carter Mountain, about ten miles from Jedburgh.--See, for these particulars, _Godscroft, Spottiswoode_, and _Johnstone's History_. [Footnote 142: Her ambassador at Edinburgh refused to lie in a bed of state which had been provided for him, till this "_oudious fact_" had been enquired into.--_Murden's State Papers_, Vol. II, p. 282.] The editor has adopted the modern spelling of the word Reidswire, to prevent the mistake in pronunciation which might be occasioned by the use of the Scottish _qu_ for _w_. The MS. reads _Reidsquair. Swair_, or _Swire_, signifies the descent of a hill; and the epithet _Red_ is derived from the colour of the heath, or, perhaps, from the Reid-water, which rises at no great distance. THE RAID OF THE REIDSWIRE. * * * * * The seventh of July, the suith to say, At the Reidswire the tryst was set; Our wardens they affixed the day, And, as they promised, so they met. Alas! that day I'll ne'er forgett! Was sure sae feard, and then sae faine-- They came theare justice for to gett, Will never green[143] to come again. Carmichael was our Warden then, He caused the country to conveen; And the Laird's Wat, that worthie man, Brought in that sirname weil beseen[144]: The Armestranges, that aye hae been A hardie house, but not a hail, The Elliot's honours to maintaine, Brought down the lave[145] o' Liddesdale. Then Tividale came to wi' speid; The sheriffe brought the Douglas down, Wi' Cranstane, Gladstain, good at need, Baith Rewle water, and Hawick town. Beanjeddart bauldly made him boun, Wi' a' the Trumbills, stronge and stout; The Rutherfoords, with grit renown, Convoyed the town of Jedbrugh out. Of other clans I cannot tell, Because our warning was not wide.-- Be this our folks hae taen the fell, And planted down palliones[146] there to bide. We looked down the other side, And saw come breasting ower the brae, Wi' Sir John Forster for their guyde, Full fifteen hundred men and mae. It grieved him sair, that day, I trow, Wi' Sir George Hearoune of Schipsydehouse; Because we were not men enow, They counted us not worth a louse. Sir George was gentle, meek, and douse, But _he_ was hail and het as fire; And yet, for all his cracking crouse[147], He rewd the raid o' the Reidswire. To deal with proud men is but pain; For either must ye fight or flee, Or else no answer make again, But play the beast, and let them be. It was na wonder he was hie, Had Tindaill, Reedsdaill, at his hand, Wi' Cukdaill, Gladsdaill on the lee, And Hebsrime, and Northumberland. Yett was our meeting meek enough, Begun wi' merriement and mowes, And at the brae, aboon the heugh, The clark sate down to call the rowes.[148] And some for kyne, and some for ewes, Called in of Dandrie, Hob, and Jock-- We saw, come marching ower the knows, Five hundred Fennicks in a flock. With jack and speir, and bows all bent, And warlike weapons at their will: Although we were na weel content, Yet, be my trouth, we feard no ill. Some gaed to drink, and some stude still, And some to cairds and dice them sped; Till on ane Farnstein they fyled a bill, And he was fugitive and fled. Carmichael bade them speik out plainlie, And cloke no cause for ill nor good; The other, answering him as vainlie, Began to reckon kin and blood: He raise, and raxed[149] him where he stood, And bade him match him with his marrows, Then Tindaill heard them reasun rude, And they loot off a flight of arrows. Then was there nought but bow and speir, And every man pulled out a brand; "A Schaftan and a Fenwick" thare: Gude Symington was slain frae hand. The Scotsmen cried on other to stand, Frae time they saw John Robson slain-- What should they cry? the king's command Could cause no cowards turn again. Up rose the laird to red the cumber,[150] Which would not be for all his boast;-- What could we doe with sic a number? Fyve thousand men into a host. Then Henry Purdie proved his cost,[151] And very narrowlie had mischiefed him, And there we had our warden lost, Wert not the grit God he relieved him. Another throw the breiks him bair, Whill flatlies to the ground he fell: Than thought I weel we had lost him there, Into my stomach it struck a knell! Yet up he raise, the treuth to tell ye, And laid about him dints full dour; His horsemen they raid sturdilie, And stude about him in the stoure. Then raise[152] the slogan with ane shout-- "Fy Tindaill, to it! Jedbrugh's here!" I trow he was not half sae stout, But[153] anis his stomach was asteir. With gun and genzie,[154] bow and speir, Men might see monie a cracked crown! But up amang the merchant geir, They were as busie as we were down. The swallow taill frae tackles flew, Five hundreth flain[155] into a flight, But we had pestelets enow, And shot amang them as we might. With help of God the game gaed right, Frae time the foremost of them fell; Then ower the know without goodnight, They ran, with mony a shout and yell. But after they had turned backs, Yet Tindaill men they turned again; And had not been the merchant packs, There had been mae of Scotland slain. But, Jesu! if the folks were fain To put the bussing on their thies; And so they fled, wi' a' their main, Down ower the brae, like clogged bees. Sir Francis Russel ta'en was there, And hurt, as we hear men rehearse; Proud Wallinton was wounded sair, Albeit he be a Fennick fierce. But if ye wald a souldier search, Among them a' were ta'en that night, Was nane sae wordie to put in verse, As Collingwood, that courteous knight. Young Henry Schafton, he is hurt; A souldier shot him with a bow: Scotland has cause to mak great sturt, For laiming of the laird of Mow. The Laird's Wat did weel, indeed; His friends stood stoutlie by himsel', With little Gladstain, gude in need, For Gretein kend na gude be ill. The Sheriffe wanted not gude will, Howbeit he might not fight so fast; Beanjeddart, Hundlie, and Hunthill, Three, on they laid weel at the last. Except the horsemen of the guard, If I could put men to availe, None stoutlier stood out for their laird. For did the lads of Liddesdail. But little harness had we there; But auld Badreule had on a jack, And did right weel, I you declare, With all his Trumbills at his back. Gude Ederstane was not to lack, Nor Kirktoun, Newtoun, noble men! Thirs[156] all the specials I of speake, By[157] others that I could not ken. Who did invent that day of play, We need not fear to find him soon; For Sir John Forster, I dare well say, Made us this noisome afternoon. Not that I speak preceislie out, That he supposed it would be perril; But pride, and breaking out of feuid, Garr'd Tindaill lads begin the quarrel. [Footnote 143: _Green_--Long.] [Footnote 144: _Weil beseen_--Well appointed. The word occurs in Morte Arthur: "And when Sir Percival saw this, he hied him thither, "and found the ship covered with silke, more blacker than any beare; and therein was a gentlewoman, of great beautie, and she was richly _beseene_, that none might be better."] [Footnote 145: _Lave_--Remainder.] [Footnote 146: _Palliones_--Tents.] [Footnote 147: _Cracking crouse_--Talking big.] [Footnote 148: _Rowes_--Rolls.] [Footnote 149: _Raxed him_--Stretched himself up.] [Footnote 150: _Red the cumber_--Quell the tumult.] [Footnote 151: _Cost_--Signifies loss or risk.] [Footnote 152: _Raise_--Rose.] [Footnote 153: _But, &c_.--Till once his anger was up.] [Footnote 154: _Genzie_--Engine of war.] [Footnote 155: _Flain_--Arrows; hitherto absurdly printed _slain_.] [Footnote 156: _Thirs_--These are.] [Footnote 157: _By_--Besides.] NOTES ON THE RAID OF THE REIDSWIRE. * * * * * _Carmichael was our warden then_.--P. 157. v. 2. Sir John Carmichael was a favourite of the resent Morton, by whom he was appointed warden of the middle marches, in preference to the border chieftains. With the like policy, the regent married Archibald Carmichael, the warden's brother, to the heiress of Edrom, in the Merse, much contrary to the inclination of the lady and her friends. In like manner, he compelled another heiress, Jane Sleigh, of Cumlege, to marry Archibald, brother to Auchinleck of Auchiuleck, one of his dependants. By such arbitrary practices, Morton meant to strengthen his authority on the borders; instead of which, he hastened his fall, by giving disgust to his kinsman the Earl of Angus, and his other friends, who had been established in the country for ages.--_Godscroft_, Vol. II. Pages 238. 246. Sir John Carmichael, the warden, was murdered 16th June, 1600, by a party of borderers, at a place called Raesknows, near Lochmaben, whither he was going to hold a court of justice. Two of the ring-leaders in the slaughter, Thomas Armstrong, called _Ringan's Tarn_, and Adam Scott, called _the Pecket_, were tried at Edinburgh, at the instance of Carmichael of Edrom. They were condemned to have their right hands struck off, thereafter to be hanged, and their bodies gibbeted on the Borough Moor; which sentence was executed, 14th November, 1601. "This _Pecket_, (saith Birrel in his _Diary_), was ane of the maist notalrie thieftes that ever raid:" he calls his name Steill, which appears, from the record, to be a mistake. Four years afterwards, an Armstrong, called _Sandy of Rowanburn_, and several others of that tribe, were executed for this and other excesses.--_Books of Adjournal of these dates_. _And the Laird's Wat, that worthie man_.--P. 157. v. 2. The chief, who led out the sirname of Scott upon this occasion, was (saith Satchells) Walter Scott of Ancrum, a natural son of Walter of Buccleuch. The laird of Buccleuch was then a minor. The ballad seems to have been popular in Satchells' days, for he quotes it literally. He must, however, have been mistaken in this particular; for the family of Scott of Ancrum, in all our books of genealogy, deduce their descent from the Scotts of Balwearie in Fife, whom they represent. The first of this family, settled in Roxburghshire, is stated in _Douglas' Baronage_ to have been Patrick Scott, who purchased the lands of Ancrum, in the reign of James VI. He therefore could not be the _Laird's Wat_ of the ballad; indeed, from the list of border families in 1597, Ker appears to have been proprietor of Ancrum at the date of the ballad. It is plainly written in the MS. the _Laird's Wat_, i.e., the Laird's son Wat; notwithstanding which, it has always hitherto been printed the _Laird Wat_. If Douglas be accurate in his genealogy, the person meant must be the young laird of Buccleuch, afterwards distinguished for his surprise of Carlisle Castle.--See _Kinmont Willie_. I am the more confirmed in this opinion, because Kerr of Ancrum was at this time a fugitive, for slaying one of the Rutherfords, and the tower of Ancrum given in keeping to the Turnbulls, his hereditary enemies. His mother, however, a daughter of Home of Wedderburn, contrived to turn out the Turnbulls, and possess herself of the place by surprise.--_Godscroft_, Vol. II. p. 250. _The Armestranges, that aye hae been_.--P. 158. v. 1. This clan are here mentioned as not being hail, or whole, because they were outlawed or broken men. Indeed, many of them had become Englishmen, as the phrase then went. Accordingly, we find, from Paton, that forty of them, under the laird of Mangertoun, joined Somerset upon his expedition into Scotland.--_Paton, in Dalyell's Fragments_, p. 1. There was an old alliance betwixt the Elliots and Armstrongs, here alluded to. For the enterprises of the Armstrongs, against their native country, when under English assurance, see _Murdin's State Papers_, Vol. I. p. 43. From which it appears, that, by command of Sir Ralph Evers, this clan ravaged almost the whole west border of Scotland. _The sheriffe brought the Douglas down_.--P. 158. v. 2, Douglas of Cavers, hereditary sheriff of Teviotdale, descended from Black Archibald, who carried the standard of his father, the Earl of Douglas, at the battle of Otterbourne.--_See the Ballad of that name_. _Wi' Cranstane, Gladstain, good at need_.--P. 158. v. 2. Cranstoun of that ilk, ancestor to Lord Cranstoun; and Gladstain of Gladstains. _Wi a' the Trumbills, stronge and stout; The Rutherfoords, with grit renown_.--P. 158. v. 2. These were ancient and powerful border clans, residing chiefly upon the river Jed. Hence, they naturally convoyed the town of Jedburgh out. Although notorious freebooters, they were specially patronised by Morton, who, by their means, endeavoured to counterpoise the power of Buccleuch and Ferniherst, during the civil wars attached to the queen's faction. The following fragment of an old ballad is quoted in a letter from an aged gentleman of this name, residing at New-York, to a friend in Scotland: "Bauld Rutherfurd, he was fow stout, Wi' a' his nine sons him round about; He led the town o' Jedburgh out, All bravely fought that day." _Wi' Sir John Forster for their guyde_.--P. 158. v. 3. This gentleman is called, erroneously, in some copies of this ballad, _Sir George_. He was warden of the mid-marches of England. _Wi' Sir George Henroune of Schipsydehouse_.--P. 159. v. 1. Sir George Heron of Chipchase-house, whose character is contrasted with that of the English warden. _Had Tindaill, Reedsdaill at his hand_.--P. 159. v. 2. These are districts, or dales, on the English border. Hebsrime seems to be an error in the MS. for Hebburn upon the Till. _Five hundred Fennicks in a flock_.--P. 159. v. 3. The Fenwicks; a powerful and numerous Northumberland clan. _Then raise the slogan with ane shout_.--P. 161. v. 3. The gathering word, peculiar to a certain name, or set of people, was termed _slogan_, or _slughorn_, and was always repeated at an onset, as well as on many other occasions, as appears from the following passage of an old author, whom this custom seems much to have offended--for he complains, "That whereas alweys, both in al tounes of war, and in al campes of armies, quietnes and stilnes without nois is principally in the night, after the watch is set, observed (I need not reason why.) Yet, our northern prikkers, the borderers, notwithstanding, with great enormitie, (as thought me) and not unlyke (to be playn) unto a masterless hounde houyling in a hie wey, when he hath lost him he wayted upon, sum hoopyng, sum whistelyng, and most with crying, a _Berwyke_! a _Berwyke_! a _Fenwyke_! a _Fenwyke_! a _Bulmer_! a _Bulmer_! or so ootherwise as theyr captein's names wear, never linnde those troublous and daungerous noyses all the night long. They sayd they did it to fynd out their captein and fellowes; but if the soldiours of our oother countries and sheres had used the same maner, in that case we shoold have oftymes had the state of our campe more lyke the outrage of a dissolute huntyng, than the quiet of a wel ordred army."-- _Patten's Account of Somerset's Expedition_, p. 76.--_Apud Dalyell's Fragments_. Honest Patten proceeds, with great prolixity, to prove, that this was a custom more honoured in the breach than in the observance; and, like Fluellen, declares, "that such idle pribble prabbles were contrary to all the good customs and disciplines of war." Nevertheless, the custom of crying the _slogan_ or _ensenzie_, is often alluded to in all our ancient histories and poems. It was usually the name of the clan, or place of rendezvous, or leader. In 1335, the English, led by Thomas of Rosslyne, and William Moubray, assaulted Aberdeen. The former was mortally wounded in the onset; and, as his followers were pressing forward, shouting _Rosslyne! Rosslyne_! "Cry _Moubray_," said the expiring chieftain; "_Rosslyne_ is gone!" The Highland clans had also their appropriate slogans. The Macdonalds cried _Frich_, (heather); the Macphersons _Craig-Ubh_; the Grants _Craig-Elachie_; and the Macfarlanes _Lock-Sloy_. _The swallow taill frae tackles flew_.--P. 162. v. 2. The Scots, on this occasion, seem to have had chiefly fire-arms; the English retaining still their partiality for their ancient weapon, the long-bow. It also appears, by a letter from the Duke of Norfolk to Cecil, that the English borderers were unskilful in fire-arms, or, as he says, "our countrymen be not so commyng with shots as I woolde wishe."--See _Murdin's State Papers_, Vol. I. p. 319. _And had not been the merchant packs_.--P. 162. v. 3. The ballad-maker here ascribes the victory to the real cause; for, the English borderers, dispersing to plunder the merchandise, gave the opposite party time to recover from their surprise It seems to have been usual for travelling merchants to attend border-meetings, although one would have thought the kind of company, usually assembled there, might have deterred them. _Sir Francis Russel ta'en was there_.--P, 163. v. 1. This gentleman was son to the Earl of Bedford. He was afterwards killed in a fray of a similar nature, at a border-meeting, between the same Sir John Forster (father-in-law to Russell), and Thomas Ker of Fairnihurst, A.D. 1585. _Proud Wallinton was wounded sair_.--P. 163. v. 1. Fenwick of Wallinton, a powerful Northumbrian chief. _As Collingwood, that courteous knight_.--P. 163. v. 1. Sir Cuthbert Collingwood. Besides these gentlemen, James Ogle, and many other Northumbrians of note, were made prisoners. Sir George Heron, of Chipchase and Ford, was slain, to the great regret of both parties, being a man highly esteemed by the Scots, as well as the English. When the prisoners were brought to Morton, at Dalkeith, and, among other presents, received from him some Scottish falcons, one of his train observed, that the English were nobly treated, since they got live _hawks_ for dead _herons_.--_Godscroft_. _Young Henry Schufton_,--P. 163. v. 2. The name of this gentleman does not appear in the MS. in the Advocates' Library, but is restored from a copy in single sheet, printed early in the last century. _For laiming of the laird of Mow_.--P. 163. v. 2. An ancient family on the borders. The lands of Mowe are situated upon the river Bowmont, in Roxburghshire. The family is now represented by William Molle, Esq. of Mains, who has restored the ancient spelling of the name. The laird of Mowe, here mentioned, was the only gentleman of note killed in the skirmish on the Scottish side. _For Gretein kend net gude be ill_.--P. 163. v. 2; Graden, a family of Kerrs. _Beanjeddart, Hundlie, and Hunthill_.--P. 163. v. 3. Douglas of Beanjeddart, an ancient branch of the house of Cavers, possessing property near the junction of the Jed and Tiviot. _Hundlie_,--Rutherford of Hundlie, or Hundalee, situated on the Jed, above Jedhurgh. _Hunthill_.--The old tower of Hunthill was situated about a mile above Jedburgh. It was the patrimony of an ancient family of Rutherfords. I suppose the person, here meant, to be the same who is renowned in tradition by the name of the _Cock of Hunthill_. His sons were executed for march-treason, or border-theft, along with the lairds of Corbet, Greenhead, and Overton, A.D. 1588.--_Johnston's History_, p. 129. _But auld Badreule had on a jack_.--P. 164. v. 1. Sir Andrew Turnbull of Bedrule, upon Rule Water. This old laird was so notorious a thief, that the principal gentlemen of the clans of Hume and Kerr refused to sign a bond of alliance, to which he, with the Turnbulls and Rutherfords, was a party; alleging, that their proposed allies had stolen Hume of Wedderburn's cattle. The authority of Morton, however, compelled them to digest the affront. The debate (and a curious one it is) may be seen at length in _Godscroft_, Vol. I. p. 221. The Rutherfords became more lawless after having been deprived of the countenance of the court, for slaying the nephew of Forman, archbishop of St. Andrews, who had attempted to carry off the heiress of Rutherford. This lady was afterwards married to James Stuart of Traquair, son to James, Earl of Buchan, according to a papal bull, dated 9th November, 1504. By this lady a great estate in Tiviotdale fell to the family of Traquair, which was sold by James, Earl of Traquair, lord-high-treasurer of Scotland, in consequence of the pecuniary difficulties to which he was reduced, by his loyal exertions in favour of Charles I. _Gude Ederstane was not to lack_.--P. 164. v. 1. An ancient family of Rutherfords; I believe, indeed, the most ancient now extant. The family is represented by Major Rutherford of Edgerstane. His seat is about three miles distant from the field of battle. _Nor Kirktoun, Newtoun, noble men_!--P. 164. v. 1. The parish of Kirktoun belonged, I believe, about this time, to a branch of the Cavers family; but Kirkton of Stewartfield is mentioned in the list of border clans in 1597. _Newtoun_.--This is probably Grinyslaw of Little Newtoun, mentioned in the said roll of border clans. KINMONT WILLIE * * * * * In the following rude strains, our forefathers commemorated one of the last, and most gallant atchievements, performed upon the border. The reader will find, in the subjoined extract from Spottiswoode, a minute historical account of the exploit; which is less different from that contained in the ballad than might perhaps have been expected. _Anno, 1596_.--"The next year began with a trouble in the borders, which was like to have destroyed the peace betwixt the two realms, and arose upon this occasion. The Lord Scroop being the warden of the west marches of England, and the laird of Bacleuch having the charge of Liddesdale, they sent their deputies to keep a day of truce, for redress of some ordinary matters.--The place of meeting was at the Dayholme of Kershop, where a small brook divideth England from Scotland, and Liddesdale from Bawcastle. There met, as deputy for the laird of Bacleuch, Robert Scott of Hayninge; and for the Lord Scroop, a gentleman within the west wardenry, called Mr. Salkeld. These two, after truce taken and proclaimed, as the custom was, by sound of trumpet, met friendly, and, upon mutual redress of such wrongs as were then complained of, parted in good terms, each of them taking his way homewards. Meanwhile it happened, one William Armstrong, commonly called _Will of Kinmonth_, to be in company with the Scottish deputy, against whom the English had a quarrel, for many wrongs he had committed, as he was indeed a notorious thief. This man, having taken his leave of the Scots deputy, and riding down the river of Liddel on the Scottish side, towards his own house, was pursued by the English, who espied him from the other side of the river, and, after a chase of three or four miles, taken prisoner, and brought back to the English deputy, who carried him away to the castle of Carlisle. "The laird of Bacleuch complaining of the breach of truce (which was always taken from the time of meeting, unto the next day at sun-rising), wrote to Mr. Salkeld, and craved redress. He excused himself by the absence of the Lord Scroop. Whereupon Bacleuch sent to the Lord Scroop, and desired the prisoner might be set at liberty, without any bond or condition, seeing he was unlawfully taken. Scroop answered, that he could do nothing in the matter, it having so happened, without a direction from the queen and council of England, considering the man was such a malefactor.--Bacleuch, loth to inform the king of what was done, lest it might have bred some misliking betwixt the princes, dealt with Mr. Bowes, the resident ambassador of England, for the prisoner's liberty; who wrote very seriously to the Lord Scroop in that business, advising him to set the man free, and not to bring the matter to a farther hearing. But no answer was returned: the matter thereupon was imparted to the king, and the queen of England solicited by letters to give direction for his liberty; yet nothing was obtained; which Bacleuch perceiving, and apprehending both the king, and himself as the king's officer, to be touched in honour, he resolved to work the prisoner's relief, by the best means he could. "And, upon intelligence that the castle of Carlisle, wherein the prisoner was kept, was surprisable, he employed some trusty persons to take a view of the postern gate, and measure the height of the wall, which he meant to scale by ladders, and, if those failed, to break through the wall with some iron instruments, and force the gates. This done, so closely as he could, he drew together some two hundred horse, assigning the place of meeting at the tower of Morton, some ten miles from Carlisle, an hour before sun-set. With this company, passing the water of Esk, about the falling, two hours before day, he crossed Eden beneath Carlisle bridge (the water, through the rain that had fallen, being thick), and came to the Sacery, a plain under the castle. There making a little halt, at the side of a small bourn, which they call Cadage, he caused eighty of the company to light from their horses, and take the ladders, and other instruments which he had prepared, with them. He himself, accompanying them to the foot of the wall, caused the ladders to be set to it, which proving too short, he gave order to use the other instruments for opening the wall nigh the postern; and, finding the business likely to succeed, retired to the rest whom he had left on horseback, for assuring those that entered upon the castle against any eruption from the town. With some little labor a breach was made for single men to enter, and they who first went in, broke open the postern for the rest. The watchmen, and some few the noise awaked, made a little restraint, but they were quickly repressed, and taken captive. After which, they passed to the chamber wherein the prisoner was kept; and, having brought him forth, sounded a trumpet, which was a signal to them without that the enterprize was performed. My Lord Scroope and Mr. Salkeld were both within the house, and to them the prisoner cried "a good night!" The captives taken in the first encounter were brought to Bacleuch, who presently returned them to their master, and would not suffer any spoil, or booty, as they term it, to be carried away; he had straitly forbidden to break open any door, but that where the prisoner was kept, though he might have made prey of all the goods within the castle, and taken the warden himself captive; for he would have it seen, that he did intend nothing but the reparation of his majesty's honor. By this time, the prisoner was brought forth, the town had taken the alarm, the drums were beating, the bells ringing, and a beacon put on the top of the castle, to give warning to the country. Whereupon Bacleuch commanded those that entered the castle, and the prisoner, to horse; and marching again by the Sacery, made to the river at the Stony-bank, on the other side, whereof certain were assembled to stop his passage; but he, causing to sound the trumpet, took the river, day being then broken, and they choosing to give him way, he retired in order through the Grahams of Esk (men at that time of great power, and his un-friends), and came back into Scottish ground two hours after sun-rising, and so homewards. "This fell out the 13th of April, _1596_. The queen of England, having notice sent her of what was done, stormed not a little. One of her chief castles surprised, a prisoner taken forth of the hands of the warden, and carried away, so far within England, she esteemed a great affront. The lieger, Mr. Bowes, in a frequent convention kept at Edinburgh, the 22d of May, did, as he was charged, in a long oration, aggravate the heinousness of the fact, concluding that peace could not longer continue betwixt the two realms, unless Bacleuch were delivered in England, to be punished at the queen's pleasure. Bacleuch compearing, and charged with the fact, made answer--'That he went not into England with intention to assault any of the queen's houses, or to do wrong to any of her subjects, but only to relieve a subject of Scotland unlawfully taken, and more unlawfully detained; that, in the time of a general assurance, in a day of truce, he was taken prisoner against all order, neither did he attempt his relief till redress was refused; and that he had carried the business in such a moderate manner, as no hostility was committed, nor the least wrong offered to any within the castle; yet was he content, according to the ancient treaties observed betwixt the two realms, when as mutual injuries were alleged, to be tried by the commissioners that it should please their majesties to appoint, and submit himself to that which they should decern.'--The convention, esteeming the answer reasonable, did acquaint the ambassador therewith, and offered to send commissioners to the borders, with all diligence, to treat with such as the queen should be pleased to appoint for her part. "But she, not satisfied with the answer, refused to appoint any commissioners; whereupon the council of England did renew the complaint in July thereafter; and the business being of new agitated, it was resolved of as before, and that the same should be remitted to the trial of commissioners: the king protesting, 'that he might, with great reason, crave the delivery of Lord Scroope, for the injury committed by his deputy, it being less favourable to take a prisoner, than relieve him that is unlawfully taken; yet, for the continuing of peace, he would forbear to do it, and omit nothing, on his part, that could be desired, either in equity, or by the laws of friendship.'--The borders, in the mean time, making daily incursions one upon another, filled all their parts with trouble, the English being continually put to the worse; neither were they made quiet, till, for satisfying the queen, the laird of Bacleuch was first committed in St. Andrews, and afterwards entered in England, where he remained not long[158]."--_Spottiswood's History of the Church of Scotland_, p. 414, 416, _Ed. 1677_. Scott of Satchells, in the extraordinary poetical performance, which he has been pleased to entitle _A History of the Name of Scott_ (published 1688), dwells, with great pleasure, upon this gallant achievement, at which, it would seem, his father had been present. He also mentions, that the laird of Buccleuch employed the services of the younger sons and brothers only of his clan, lest the name should have been weakened by the landed men incurring forfeiture. But he adds, that three gentlemen of estate insisted upon attending their chief, notwithstanding this prohibition. These were, the lairds of Harden and Commonside, and Sir Gilbert Elliot of the Stobbs, a relation of the laird of Buccleuch, and ancestor to the present Sir William Elliot, Bart. In many things Satchells agrees with the ballads current in his time, from which, in all probability, he derived most of his information as to past events, and from which he sometimes pirates whole verses, as noticed in the annotations upon the _Raid of the Reidswire_. In the present instance, he mentions the prisoner's _large spurs_ (alluding to the fetters), and some other little incidents noticed in the ballad, which was, therefore, probably well known in his days. [Footnote 158: The bishop is, in this last particular, rather inaccurate. Buccleuch was indeed delivered into England, but this was done in consequence of the judgment of commissioners of both nations, who met at Berwick this same year. And his delivery took place, less on account of the raid of Carlisle, than of a second exploit of the same nature, to be noticed hereafter.] All contemporary historians unite in extolling the deed itself as the most daring and well-conducted atchievement of that age. "_Audax facinus cum modica manu, in urbe maenibus et multitudine oppidanorum munita, et callidae: audaciae, vix ullo obsisti modo potuit_."--_Johnstoni Historia, Ed. Amstael. p_. 215. Birrel, in his gossipping way, says, the exploit was performed "with shouting and crying, and sound of trumpet, puttand the said toun and countrie in sic ane fray, that the like of sic ane wassaladge wes nevir done since the memory of man, no not in Wallace dayis."--_Birrel's Diary_, April 6, 1596. This good old citizen of Edinburgh also mentions another incident which I think proper to insert here, both as relating to the personages mentioned in the following ballad, and as tending to shew the light in which the men of the border were regarded, even at this late period, by their fellow subjects. The author is talking of the king's return to Edinburgh, after the disgrace which he had sustained there, during the riot excited by the seditious ministers, on December 17, 1596. Proclamation had been made, that the Earl of Mar should keep the West Port, Lord Seton the Nether-Bow, and Buccleuch, with sundry others, the High Gate. "Upon the morn, at this time, and befoir this day, thair wes ane grate rumour and word among the tounesmen, that the kinges M. sould send in _Will Kinmond, the common thieffe_, and so many southland men as sould spulye the toun of Edinburgh. Upon the whilk, the haill merchants tuik thair haill gear out of their buiths or chops, and transportit the same to the strongest hous that wes in the toune, and remained in the said hous, thair, with thameselfis, thair servants, and luiking for nothing bot that thai sould have been all spulyeit. Sic lyke the hail craftsmen and comons convenit themselfis, thair best guides, as it wer ten or twelve householdes in are, whilk wes the strongest hous, and might be best kepit from spuilyeing or burning, with hagbut, pistolet, and other sic armour, as might best defend thameselfis. Judge, gentill reider, giff this wes playing." The fear of the borderers being thus before the eyes of the contumacious citizens of Edinburgh, James obtained a quiet hearing for one of his favourite orisones, or harangues, and was finally enabled to prescribe terms to his fanatic metropolis. Good discipline was, however, maintained by the chiefs upon this occasion; although the fears of the inhabitants were but too well grounded, considering what had happened in Stirling ten years before, when the Earl of Angus, attended by Home, Buccleuch, and other border chieftains, marched thither to remove the Earl of Arran from the king's councils: the town was miserably pillaged by the borderers, particularly by a party of Armstrongs, under this very Kinmont Willie, who not only made prey of horses and cattle, but even of the very iron grating of the windows.--_Johnstoni Historia_, p. 102. _Ed. Amstael_.--_Moyse's Memoirs_, p. 100. The renown of Kinmont Willie is not surprising, since, in 1588, the apprehending that freebooter, and Robert Maxwell, natural-brother to the Lord Maxwell, was the main, but unaccomplished, object of a royal expedition to Dumfries. "_Rex ... Robertum Maxvallium ... et Gulielmum Armstrangum Kinmonthum latrociniis intestinis externisque famosum, conquiri jubet. Missi e ministerio regio, qui per aspera loca vitabundos persequuntur, magnoque incommodo afficiunt. At illi latebris aut silvis se eripiunt."--Johnstoni Historia_, p. 138. About this time, it is possible that Kinmont Willie may have held some connection with the Maxwells, though afterwards a retainer to Buccleuch, the enemy of that tribe. At least, the editor finds, that, in a bond of manrent, granted by Simon Elliot of Whytheuch, in Liddesdale, to Lord Maxwell, styled therein Earl of Morton, dated February 28, 1599, William Armstrang, called _Will of Kinmond_, appears as a witness.--_Syme's MSS_. According to Satchells, this freebooter was descended of Johnie Armstrong of Gilnockie (See _Ballad, p. 105, of this volume_.)--_Est in juvencis, est et in equis, patrum virtus_. In fact, his rapacity made his very name proverbial. Mas James Melvine, in urging reasons against subscribing the act of supremacy, in 1584, asks ironically, "Who shall take order with vice and wickedness? The court and bishops? As well as Martine Elliot, and Will of Kinmont, with stealing upon the borders!"--_Calderwood_, p. 168. This affair of Kinmont Willie was not the only occasion upon which the undaunted keeper of Liddesdale gave offence to the haughty Elizabeth. For, even before this business was settled, certain of the English borderers having invaded Liddesdale, and wasted the country, the laird of Buccleuch retaliated the injury by a _raid_ into England, in which he not only brought off much spoil, but apprehended thirty-six of the Tynedale thieves, all of whom he put to death.--_Spottiswoode_, p. 450. How highly the Queen of England's resentment blazed on this occasion, may be judged from the preface to her letter to Bowes, then her ambassador in Scotland. "I wonder how base-minded that king thinks me, that, with patience, I can digest this dishonourable ********. Let him know, therefore, that I will have satisfaction, or else *********." These broken words of ire are inserted betwixt the subscription and the address of the letter.--_Rymer_, Vol. XVI. p. 318. Indeed, so deadly was the resentment of the English, on account of the affronts put upon them by this formidable chieftain, that there seems at one time to have been a plan formed (not, as was alleged, without Elizabeth's privity,) to assassinate Buccleuch.--_Rymer_, Vol. XVI. p. 107. The matter was at length arranged by the commissioners of both nations in Berwick, by whom it was agreed that delinquents should be delivered up on both sides, and that the chiefs themselves should enter into ward in the opposite countries, till these were given up, and pledges granted for the future maintenance of the quiet of the borders. Buccleuch, and Sir Robert Ker of Cessford (ancestor of the Duke of Roxburgh), appear to have struggled hard against complying with this regulation; so much so, that it required all James's authority to bring to order these two powerful chiefs.--_Rymer_, Vol. XVI. p. 322.--_Spottiswoode_, p. 448.--_Carey's Memoirs_, p, 131. _et sequen_.--When at length they appeared, for the purpose of delivering themselves up to be warded at Berwick, an incident took place, which nearly occasioned a revival of the deadly feud which formerly subsisted between the Scots and the Kers. Buccleuch had chosen, for his guardian, during his residence in England, Sir William Selby, master of the ordnance at Berwick, and accordingly gave himself into his hands. Sir Robert Ker was about to do the same, when a pistol was discharged by one of his retinue, and the cry of treason was raised. Had not the Earl of Home been present, with a party of Merse men, to preserve order, a dreadful tumult would probably have ensued. As it was, the English commissioners returned in dismay to Berwick, much disposed to wreak their displeasure on Buccleuch; and he, on his side, mortally offended with Cessford, by whose means, as he conceived, he had been placed in circumstances of so much danger. Sir Robert Ker, however, appeased all parties, by delivering himself up to ward in England; on which occasion, he magnanimously chose for his guardian Sir Robert Carey, deputy-warden of the east marches, notwithstanding various causes of animosity which existed betwixt them. The hospitality of Carey equalled the generous confidence of Cessford, and a firm friendship was the consequence[159]. [Footnote 159: Such traits of generosity illuminate the dark period of which we treat. Carey's conduct, on this occasion, almost atones for the cold and unfeeling policy with which he watched the closing moments of his benefactress, Elizabeth, impatient till remorse and sorrow should extort her last sigh, that he might lay the foundation of his future favour with her successor, by carrying him the first tidings of her death.--_Carey's Memoirs_, p. 172. _et sequen_. It would appear that Sir Robert Ker was soon afterwards committed to the custody of the archbishop of York; for there is extant a letter from that prelate to the lord-treasurer, desiring instructions about the mode of keeping this noble hostage. "I understand," saith he, "that the gentleman is wise and valiant, but somewhat haughty here, and resolute. I would pray your lordship, that I may have directions whether he may not go with his keeper in my company, to sermons; and whether he may not sometimes dine with the council, as the last hostages did; and, thirdly, whether he may sometimes be brought to sitting to the common-hall, where he may see how careful her majesty is that the poorest subject in her kingdom may have their right, and that her people seek remedy by law, and not by avenging themselves. Perhaps it may do him good as long as he liveth."--_Strype's Annals, ad annum, 1597_. It would appear, from this letter, that the treatment of the hostages was liberal; though one can hardly suppress a smile at the zeal of the good bishop for the conversion of the Scottish chieftain to a more christian mode of thinking than was common among the borderers of that day. The date is February 25. 1597, which is somewhat difficult to reconcile with those given by the Scottish historians--Another letter follows, stating, that Sir Robert, having been used to open air, prayed for more liberty for his health's sake, "offering his word, which it is said he doth chiefly regard, that he would be true prisoner."--_Strype, Ibid._] Buccleuch appears to have remained in England from October, 1597, till February, 1598.--_Johnstoni Historia_, p. 231,--_Spottiswoode, ut supra_. According to ancient family tradition, Buccleuch was presented to Elizabeth, who, with her usual rough and peremptory address, demanded of him, "how he dared to undertake an enterprize so desperate and presumptuous." "What is it," answered the undaunted chieftain, "What is it that a man dares not do!" Elizabeth, struck with the reply, turned to a lord in waiting; "With ten thousand such men," said she, "our brother of Scotland might shake the firmest throne of Europe." Luckily, perhaps, for the murtheress of Queen Mary, James's talents did not lie that way. The articles, settled by the commissioners at Berwick, were highly favourable to the peace of the border. They may be seen at large in the _Border Laws_, p. 103. By article sixth, all wardens and keepers are discharged from seeking reparation of injuries, in the ancient hostile mode of riding, or causing to ride, in warlike manner, against the opposite march; and that under the highest penalty, unless authorized by a warrant under the hand of their sovereign. The mention of the word _keeper_, alludes obviously to the above-mentioned reprisals, made by Buccleuch in the capacity of keeper of Liddesdale. This ballad is preserved, by tradition, on the west borders, but much mangled by reciters; so that some conjectural emendations have been absolutely necessary to render it intelligible. In particular, the _Eden_ has been substituted for the _Eske_, p. 193, the latter name being inconsistent with geography. KINMONT WILLIE. * * * * * O have ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde? O have ye na heard o' the keen Lord Scroop? How they hae ta'en bauld Kinmont Willie, On Hairibee to hang him up? Had Willie had but twenty men, But twenty men as stout as he, Fause Sakelde had never the Kinmont ta'en, Wi' eight score in his cumpanie. They band his legs beneath the steed, They tied his hands behind his back; They guarded him, fivesome on each side, And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack. They led him thro' the Liddel-rack, And also thro' the Carlisle sands; They brought him to Carlisle castell, To be at my Lord Scroop's commands. "My hands are tied, but my tongue is free! And whae will dare this deed avow? Or answer by the border law? Or answer to the bauld Buccleuch!" "Now haud thy tongue, thou rank reiver! There's never a Scot shall set ye free: Before ye cross my castle yate, I trow ye shall take farewell o' me." "Fear na ye that, my lord," quo' Willie: "By the faith o' my body, Lord Scroop," he said, "I never yet lodged in a hostelrie,[160] But I paid my lawing[161] before I gaed." Now word is gane to the bauld Keeper, In Branksome Ha', where that he lay, That Lord Scroop has ta'en the Kinmont Willie, Between the hours of night and day. He has ta'en the table wi' his hand, He garr'd the red wine spring on hie-- "Now Christ's curse on my head," he said, "But avenged of Lord Scroop I'll be! "O is my basnet[162] a widow's curc[163] Or my lance a wand of the willow tree? Or my arm a ladye's lilye hand, That an English lord should lightly[164] me! "And have they ta'en him, Kinmont Willie, Against the truce of border tide? And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch Is Keeper here on the Scottish side? "And have they e'en ta'en him, Kinmont Willie, Withouten either dread or fear? And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch Can back a steed, or shake a spear? "O were there war between the lands, As well I wot that there is none, I would slight Carlisle castell high, Tho' it were builded of marble stone. "I would set that castell in a low,[165] And sloken it with English blood! There's nevir a man in Cumberland, Should ken where Carlisle castell stood. "But since nae war's between the lands, And there is peace, and peace should be; I'll neither harm English lad or lass, And yet the Kinmont freed shall be!" He has call'd him forty marchmen bauld, I trow they were of his ain name, Except Sir Gilbert Elliot, call'd The laird of Stobs, I mean the same. He has call'd him forty marchmen bauld, Were kinsmen to the bauld Buccleuch; With spur on heel, and splent on spauld,[166] And gleuves of green, and feathers blue. There were five and five before them a', Wi' hunting horns and bugles bright; And five and five came wi' Buccleuch, Like warden's men, arrayed for fight: And five and five, like a mason gang, That carried the ladders lang and hie; And five and five, like broken men; And so they reached the Woodhouselee. And as we cross'd the Bateable Land, When to the English side we held, The first o' men that we met wi', Whae sould it be but fause Sakelde? "Where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen?" Quo' fause Sakelde; "come tell to me!" "We go to hunt an English stag, Has trespassed on the Scots countrie." "Where be ye gaun, ye marshal men?" Quo' fause Sakelde; "come tell me true!"' "We go to catch a rank reiver, Has broken faith wi' the bauld Buccleuch." "Where are ye gaun, ye mason lads, Wi' a' your ladders, lang and hie?" "We gang to herry a corbie's nest, That wons not far frae Woodhouselee." "Where be ye gaun, ye broken men?" Quo' fause Sakelde; "come tell to me!" Now Dickie of Dryhope led that band, And the never a word o' lear had he. "Why trespass ye on the English side? Row-footed outlaws, stand!" quo' he; The never a word had Dickie to say, Sae he thrust the lance thro' his fause bodie. Then on we held for Carlisle toun, And at Staneshaw-bank the Eden we cross'd; The water was great and meikle of spait, But the nevir a horse nor man we lost. And when we reached the Staneshaw-bank, The wind was rising loud and hie; And there the laird garr'd leave our steeds, For fear that they should stamp and nie. And when we left the Staneshaw-bank, The wind began full loud to blaw; But 'twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet, When we came beneath the castle wa'. We crept on knees, and held our breath, Till we placed the ladders against the wa'; And sae ready was Buccleuch himsell To mount the first, before us a'. He has ta'en the watchman by the throat, He flung him down upon the lead-- "Had there not been peace between our land, Upon the other side thou hadst gaed!-- "Now sound out, trumpets!" quo' Buccleuch; "Let's waken Lord Scroop, right merrilie!" Then loud the warden's trumpet blew-- "_O whae dare meddle wi' me_?"[167] Then speedilie to work we gaed, And raised the slogan ane and a'. And cut a hole thro' a sheet of lead, And so we wan to the castle ha'. They thought King James and a' his men Had won the house wi' bow and spear; It was but twenty Scots and ten, That put a thousand in sic a stear![168] Wi' coulters and wi' fore-hammers, We garr'd the bars bang merrilie, Untill we cam to the inner prison, Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie. And when we cam to the lower prison, Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie-- "O sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont Willie, Upon the morn that thou's to die?" "O I sleep saft,[169] and I wake aft; Its lang since sleeping was fleyed[170] frae me! Gie my service back to my wife and bairns, And a' gude fellows that speer for me." Then Red Rowan has hente him up, The starkest man in Teviotdale-- "Abide, abide now, Red Rowan, Till of my Lord Scroope I take farewell. "Farewell, farewell, my gude Lord Scroope! My gude Lord Scroope, farewell!" he cried-- "I'll pay you for my lodging maill,[171] When first we meet on the border side." Then shoulder high, with shout and cry, We bore him down the ladder lang; At every stride Red Rowan made, I wot the Kinmont's aims played clang! "O mony a time," quo' Kinmont Willie, "I have ridden horse baith wild and wood; But a rougher beast than Red Rowan, I ween my legs have ne'er bestrode. "And mony a time," quo' Kinmont Willie, "I've pricked a horse out oure the furs;[172] But since the day I backed a steed, I never wore sic cumbrous spurs!" We scarce had won the Staneshaw-bank, When a' the Carlisle bells were rung, And a thousand men, in horse and foot, Cam wi' the keen Lord Scroope along. Buccleuch has turned to Eden water, Even where it flow'd frae bank to brim, And he has plunged in wi' a' his band, And safely swam them thro' the stream. He turned him on the other side, And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he-- "If ye like na my visit in merry England, In fair Scotland come visit me!" All sore astonished stood Lord Scroope, He stood as still as rock of stane; He scarcely dared to trew his eyes, When thro' the water they had gane. "He is either himsell a devil frae hell, Or else his mother a witch maun be; I wad na have ridden that wan water, For a' the gowd in Christentie." [Footnote 160: _Hostelrie_--Inn.] [Footnote 161: _Lawing_--Reckoning.] [Footnote 162: _Basnet_--Helmet.] [Footnote 163: _Curch_--Coif.] [Footnote 164: _Lightly_--Set light by.] [Footnote 165: _Low_--Flame.] [Footnote 166: _Splent on spauld_--Armour on shoulder.] [Footnote 167: The name of a border tune.] [Footnote 168: _Stear_--Stir.] [Footnote 169: _Soft_--Light.] [Footnote 170: _Fleyed_--Frightened.] [Footnote 171: _Maill_--Rent.] [Footnote 172: _Furs_--Furrows.] NOTES ON KINMONT WILLIE. * * * * * _On Hairibee to hang him up_?--P. 188. v. 1. Hairibee is the place of execution at Carlisle. _And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack_.--P. 188. v. 3. The Liddel-rack is a ford on the Liddel. _And so they reached the Woodhouselee_.--P. 192. v. 1. Woodhouselee; a house on the border, belonging to Buccleuch. * * * * * The Salkeldes, or Sakeldes, were a powerful family in Cumberland, possessing, among other manors, that of Corby, before it came into the possession of the Howards, in the beginning of the seventeenth century. A strange stratagem was practised by an outlaw, called Jock Grame of the Peartree, upon Mr. Salkelde, sheriff of Cumberland; who is probably the person alluded to in the ballad, as the fact is stated to have happened late in Elizabeth's time. The brother of this freebooter was lying in Carlisle jail for execution, when Jock of the Peartree came riding past the gate of Corby castle. A child of the sheriff was playing before the door, to whom the outlaw gave an apple, saying, "Master, will you ride?" The boy willingly consenting, Grame took him up before him, carried him into Scotland, and would never part with him, till he had his brother safe from the gallows. There is no historical ground for supposing, either that Salkelde, or any one else, lost his life in the raid of Carlisle. In the list of border clans, 1597, Will of Kinmonth, with Kyrstie Armestrange, and John Skynbanke, are mentioned as leaders of a band of Armstrongs, called _Sandies Barnes_, inhabiting the Debateable Land. The ballad itself has never before been published. DICK O' THE COW. * * * * * This ballad, and the two which immediately follow it in the collection, were published, 1784, in the _Hawick Museum_, a provincial miscellany, to which they were communicated by John Elliot, Esq. of Reidheugh, a gentleman well skilled in the antiquities of the western border, and to whose friendly assistance the editor is indebted for many valuable communications. These ballads are connected with each other, and appear to have been composed by the same author. The actors seem to have flourished, while Thomas, Lord Scroope, of Bolton, was warden of the west marches of England, and governor of Carlisle castle; which offices he acquired upon the death of his father, about 1590; and retained it till the union of the crowns. _Dick of the Cow_, from the privileged insolence which he assumes, seems to have been Lord Scroope's jester. In the preliminary dissertation, the reader will find the border custom of assuming _noms de guerre_ particularly noticed. It is exemplified in the following ballad, where one Armstrong is called the _Laird's Jock_ (i.e. the laird's son Jock), another _Fair Johnie_, a third _Billie Willie_ (brother Willie), &c. The _Laird's Jock_, son to the laird of Mangerton, appears, as one of the men of name in Liddesdale, in the list of border clans, _1597_. _Dick of the Cow_ is erroneously supposed to have been the same with one Ricardus Coldall, de Plumpton, a knight and celebrated warrior, who died in 1462, as appears from his epitaph in the church of Penrith.--_Nicolson's History of Westmoreland and Cumberland_, Vol. II. p. 408. This ballad is very popular in Liddesdale; and the reciter always adds, at the conclusion, that poor Dickie's cautious removal to Burgh under Stanemore, did not save him from the clutches of the Armstrongs; for that, having fallen into their power several years after this exploit, he was put to an inhuman death. The ballad was well known in England, so early as 1556. An allusion to it likewise occurs in _Parrot's Laquei Ridiculosi_, or _Springes for Woodcocks_; London, 1613. Owenus wondreth, since he came to Wales, What the description of this isle should be, That nere had seen but mountains, hills, and dales. Yet would he boast, and stand on pedigree, From Rice ap Richard, sprung from Dick a Cow, Be cod, was right gud gentleman, looke ye now! _Epigr. 76_. DICK O' THE COW. * * * * * Now Liddesdale has layen lang in, There is na riding there at a'; The horses are grown sae lither fat, They downa stur out o' the sta.' Fair Johnie Armstrang to Willie did say-- "Billie, a riding we will gae; England and us have been lang at feid; Ablins we'll light on some bootie." Then they are come on to Hutton Ha'; They rade that proper place about; But the laird he was the wiser man, For he had left nae gear without. For he had left nae gear to steal, Except sax sheep upon a lee: Quo' Johnie--"I'd rather in England die, "Ere thir sax sheep gae to Liddesdale wi' me." "But how ca' they the men we last met, Billie, as we cam owre the know?" "That same he is an innocent fule, And men they call him Dick o' the Cow," "That fule has three as good kye o' his ain, As there are in a' Cumberland, billie," quo he: "Betide me life, betide me death, These kye shall go to Liddesdale wi' me." Then they have come on to the pure fule's house, And they hae broken his wa's sae wide; They have loosed out Dick o' the Cow's three ky, And ta'en three co'erlets frae his wife's bed. Then on the morn when the day was light, The shouts and cries rase loud and hie: "O haud thy tongue, my wife," he says, "And o' thy crying let me be! "O had thy tongue, my wife," he says, "And o' thy crying let me be; And ay where thou hast lost ae cow, In gude suith I shall bring thee three." Now Dickie's gane to the gude Lord Scroope, And I wat a dreirie fule was he; "Now hand thy tongue, my fule," he says, "For I may not stand to jest wi' thee." "Shame fa' your jesting, my lord!" quo' Dickie, "For nae sic jesting grees wi' me; Liddesdale's been in my house last night, And they hae awa my three kye frae me. "But I may nae langer in Cumberland dwell, To be your puir fule and your leal, Unless you gi' me leave, my lord, To gae to Liddesdale and steal." "I gie thee leave, my fule!" he says; "Thou speakest against my honour and me, Unless thou gie me thy trowth and thy hand, Thou'lt steal frae nane but whae sta' frae thee." "There is my trowth, and my right hand! My head shall hang on Hairibee; I'll ne'er cross Carlisle sands again, If I steal frae a man but whae sta' frae me." Dickie's ta'en leave o' lord and master; I wat a merry fule was he! He's bought a bridle and a pair of new spurs, And pack'd them up in his breek thie. Then Dickie's come on to Pudding-burn house, E'en as fast as he might drie; Then Dickie's come on to Pudding-burn, Where there were thirty Armstrangs and three. "O what's this come o' me now?" quo' Dickie; "What mickle wae is this?" quo' he; "For here is but ae innocent fule, And there are thirty Armstrangs and three!" Yet he has come up to the fair ha' board, Sae weil he's become his courtesie! "Weil may ye be, my gude Laird's Jock! But the deil bless a' your cumpanie. "I'm come to plain o' your man, fair Johnie Armstrang And syne o' his billie Willie," quo he; "How they've been in my house last night, And they hae ta'en my three kye frae me." "Ha!" quo' fair Johnie Armstrang, "we will him hang." "Na," quo' Willie, "we'll him slae." Then up and spak another young Armstrang, "We'll gie him his batts,[173] and let him gae." But up and spak the gude Laird's Jock, The best falla in a' the cumpanie: "Sit down thy ways a little while, Dickie, And a piece o' thy ain cow's hough I'll gie ye." But Dickie's heart it grew sae grit, That the ne'er a bit o't he dought to eat-- Then was he aware of an auld peat-house, Where a' the night he thought for to sleep. Then Dickie was aware of an auld peat-house, Where a' the night he thought for to lye-- And a' the prayers the pure fule prayed Were, "I wish I had amends for my gude three kye!" It was then the use of Pudding-burn house, And the house of Mangerton, all hail, Them that cam na at the first ca', Gat nae mair meat till the neist meal. The lads, that hungry and weary were, Abune the door-head they threw the key; Dickie he took gude notice o' that, Says--"There will be a bootie for me." Then Dickie has into the stable gane, Where there stood thirty horses and three; He has tied them a' wi' St. Mary's knot, A' these horses but barely three. He has tied them a' wi' St. Mary's knot, A' these horses but barely three; He's loupen on ane, ta'en another in hand, And away as fast as he can hie. But on the morn, when the day grew light, The shouts and cries raise loud and hie-- "Ah! whae has done this?" quo' the gude Laird's Jock, "Tell me the truth and the verity!" "Whae has done this deed?" quo' the gude Laird's Jock; "See that to me ye dinna lie!" Dickie has been in the stable last night, And has ta'en my brother's horse and mine frae me." "Ye wad ne'er be tald," quo' the gude Laird's Jock; "Have ye not found my tales fu' leil? Ye ne'er wad out o' England bide, Till crooked, and blind, and a' would steal." "But lend me thy bay," fair Johnie can say; "There's nae horse loose in the stable save he; And I'll either fetch Dick o' the Cow again, Or the day is come that he shall die." "To lend thee my bay!" the Laird's Jock can say, "He's baith worth gowd and gude monie; Dick o' the Cow has awa twa horse; I wish na thou may make him three." He has ta'en the laird's jack on his back, A twa-handed sword to hang by his thie; He has ta'en a steil cap on his head, And gallopped on to follow Dickie. Dickie was na a mile frae aff the town, I wat a mile but barely three, When he was o'erta'en by fair Johnie Armstrang, Hand for hand, on Cannobie lee. "Abide, abide, thou traitour thief! The day is come that thou maun die." Then Dickie look't owre his left shoulder, Said--"Johnie, hast thou nae mae in cumpanie? "There is a preacher in our chapell, And a' the live lang day teaches he: When day is gane, and night is come, There's ne'er ae word I mark but three. "The first and second is--Faith and Conscience; The third--Ne'er let a traitour free: But, Johnie, what faith and conscience was thine, When thou took awa my three ky frae me? "And when thou had ta'en awa my three ky, Thou thought in thy heart thou wast not weil sped, Till thou sent thy billie Willie ower the know, To take thrie coverlets off my wife's bed!" Then Johnie let a speir fa' laigh by his thie, Thought well to hae slain the innocent, I trow; But the powers above were mair than he, For he ran but the puir fule's jerkin through. Together they ran, or ever they blan; This was Dickie the fule and he! Dickie could na win at him wi' the blade o' the sword, But fell'd him wi' the plummet under the e'e. Thus Dickie has fell'd fair Johnie Armstrang, The prettiest man in the south country--- "Gramercy!" then can Dickie say, "I had but twa horse, thou hast made me thrie!" He's ta'en the steil jack aff Johnie's back, The twa-handed sword that hang low by his thie; He's ta'en the steil cap aff his head-- "Johnie, I'll tell my master I met wi' thee." When Johnie wakened out o' his dream, I wat a dreirie man was he: "And is thou gane? Now, Dickie, than The shame and dule is left wi' me. "And is thou gane? Now, Dickie, than The deil gae in thy cumpanie! For if I should live these hundred years, I ne'er shall fight wi' a fule after thee."-- Then Dickie's come hame to the gude Lord Scroope, E'en as fast as he might his; "Now, Dickie, I'll neither eat nor drink, Till hie hanged thou shalt be." "The shame speed the liars, my lord!" quo' Dickie; "This was na the promise ye made to me! For I'd ne'er gane to Liddesdale to steal, Had I not got my leave frae thee." "But what garr'd thee steal the Laird's Jock's horse? And, limmer, what garr'd ye steal him?" quo' he; "For lang thou mightst in Cumberland dwelt, Ere the Laird's Jock had stown frae thee." "Indeed I wat ye lied, my lord! And e'en sae loud as I hear ye lie! I wan the horse frae fair Johnie Armstrong, Hand to hand, on Cannobie lee. "There is the jack was on his back; This twa-handed sword hang laigh by his thie, And there's the steil cap was on his head; I brought a' these tokens to let thee see." "If that be true thou to me tells, (And I think thou dares na tell a lie,) I'll gie thee fifteen punds for the horse, Weil tald on thy cloak lap shall be. "I'll gie thee are o' my best milk ky, To maintain thy wife and children thrie; And that may be as gude, I think, As ony twa o' thine wad be." "The shame speed the liars, my lord!" quo' Dickie; "Trow ye aye to make a fule o' me? I'll either hae twenty punds for the gude horse, Or he's gae to Mortan fair wi' me." He's gien him twenty punds for the gude horse, A' in goud and gude monie; He's gien him ane o' his best milk ky, To maintain his wife and children thrie. Then Dickie's come down thro' Carlisle toun, E'en as fast as he could drie; The first o' men that he met wi' Was my lord's brother, bailiff Glozenburrie. "Weil be ye met, my gude Ralph Scroope!" "Welcome, my brother's fule!" quo' he: "Where didst thou get fair Johnie Armstrong's horse?" "Where did I get him? but steal him," quo' he. "But wilt thou sell me the bonny horse? And, billie, wilt thou sell him to me?" quo' he: "Aye; if thoul't tell me the monie on my cloak lap: "For there's never ae penny I'll trust thee." "I'll gie thee ten punds for the gude horse, Weil tald on thy cloak lap they shall be; And I'll gie thee ane o' the best milk ky, To maintain thy wife and children thrie." "The shame speid the liars, my lord!" quo' Dickie; "Trow ye ay to make a fule o' me! I'll either hae twenty punds for the gude horse, Or he's gae to Mortan fair wi' me." He's gien him twenty punds for the gude horse, Baith in goud and gude monie; He's gien him ane o' his best milk ky, To maintain his wife and children thrie. Then Dickie lap a loup fu' hie, And I wat a loud laugh laughed he-- "I wish the neck o' the third horse were broken, If ony of the twa were better than he!" Then Dickie's come hame to his wife again; Judge ye how the poor fule had sped! He has gien her twa score English punds, For the thrie auld coverlets ta'en aff her bed. "And tak thee these twa as gude ky, I trow, as a' thy thrie might be; And yet here is a white-footed nagie, I trow he'll carry baith thee and me. "But I may nae langer in Cumberland bide; The Armstrongs they would hang me hie." So Dickie's ta'en leave at lord and master, And at Burgh under Stanmuir there dwells he. [Footnote 173: _Gie him his batts_--Dismiss him with a beating.] NOTES ON DICK O' THE COW. * * * * * _Then Dickie's come on to Pudding-burn house_.--P. 205. v, 3. This was a house of strength, held by the Armstrongs. The ruins at present form a sheep-fold, on the farm of Reidsmoss, belonging to the Duke of Buccleuch. _He has tied them a' wi' St. Mary's knot_.--P. 207. v. 4. Hamstringing a horse is termed, in the border dialect, _tying him with St. Mary's Knot_. Dickie used this cruel expedient to prevent a pursuit. It appears from the narration, that the horses, left unhurt, belonged to Fair Johnie Armstrang, his brother Willie, and the Laird's Jock, of which Dickie carried off two, and left that of the Laird's Jock, probably out of gratitude for the protection he had afforded him on his arrival. _Hand for hand, on Cannobie lee_.--P. 209. v. 1. A rising-ground on Cannobie, on the borders of Liddesdale. _Ere the Laird's Jock had stown frae thee_.--P. 211. v. 4. The commendation of the Laird's Jock's honesty seems but indifferently founded; for, in July 1586, a bill was fouled against him, Dick of Dryup, and others, by the deputy of Bewcastle, at a warden-meeting, for 400 head of cattle taken in open forray from the Drysike in Bewcastle: and, in September 1587, another complaint appears at the instance of one Andrew Rutledge of the Nook, against the Laird's Jock, and his accomplices, for 50 kine and oxen, besides furniture, to the amount of 100 merks sterling. See Bell's MSS., as quoted in the _History of Cumberland and Westmoreland_. In Sir Richard Maitland's poem against the thieves of Liddesdale, he thus commemorates the Laird's Jock: They spuilye puir men of thair pakis, They leif them nocht on bed nor bakis; Baith hen and cok, With reil and rok, The _Lairdis Jock_ All with him takis. Those, who plundered Dick, had been bred up under an expert teacher. JOCK O' THE SIDE. * * * * * The subject of this ballad, being a common event in those troublesome and disorderly times, became a favourite theme of the ballad-makers. There are, in this collection, no fewer than three poems on the rescue of prisoners, the incidents in which nearly resemble each other; though the poetical description is so different, that the editor did not think himself at liberty to reject any one of them, as borrowed from the others. As, however, there are several verses, which, in recitation, are common to all these three songs, the editor, to prevent unnecessary and disagreeable repetition, has used the freedom of appropriating them to that, in which they seem to have the best poetic effect. The reality of this story rests solely upon the foundation of tradition. Jock o' the side seems to have been nephew to the laird of Mangertoun, cousin to the Laird's Jock, one of his deliverers, and probably brother to Chrystie of the Syde, mentioned in the list of border clans 1597. Like the Laird's Jock, he also is commemorated by Sir Richard Maitland.--See the _Introduction_. He is weil kend, Johne of the Syde, A greater theif did never ryde; He never tyris For to brek byris. Our muir and myris Ouir gude ane guide. The land-serjeant, mentioned in this ballad, and also in that of _Hobble Noble_, was an officer under the warden, to whom was committed the apprehending of delinquents, and the care of the public peace. JOCK O' THE SIDE. Now Liddesdale has ridden a raid, But I wat they had better hae staid at hame; For Michael o' Winfield he is dead, And Jock o' the Side is prisoner ta'en. For Mangerton house Lady Downie has gane, Her coats she has kilted up to her knee; And down the water wi' speed she rins, While tears in spaits[174] fa' fast frae her e'e. Then up and spoke our gude auld lord-- "What news, what news, sister Downie, to me?" "Bad news, bad news, my Lord Mangerton; "Michael is killed, and they hae ta'en my son Johnie." "Ne'er fear, sister Downie," quo' Mangerton; "I have yokes of ousen, eighty and three; "My barns, my byres, and my faulds a' weil fill'd, And I'll part wi' them a' ere Johnie shall die. "Three men I'll send to set him free, A' harneist wi' the best o' steil; The English louns may hear, and drie The weight o' their braid-swords to feel. "The Laird's Jock ane, the Laird's Wat twa, O Hobbie Noble, thou ane maun be! Thy coat is blue, thou hast been true, Since England banish'd thee to me." Now Hobbie was an English man, In Bewcastle dale was bred and born: But his misdeeds they were sae great, They banish'd him ne'er to return. Lord Mangerton them orders gave, "Your horses the wrang way maun be shod; Like gentlemen ye mauna seim, But look like corn-caugers[175] ga'en the road. "Your armour gude ye mauna shaw, Nor yet appear like men o' weir; As country lads be a' array'd, Wi' branks and brecham[176] on each mare." Sae now their horses are the wrang way shod. And Hobbie has mounted his grey sae fine; Jock his lively bay, Wat's on his white horse, behind, And on they rode for the water of Tyne At the Cholerford they all light down, And there, wi' the help of the light o' the moon, A tree they cut, wi' fifteen nogs on each side, To climb up the wa' of Newcastle toun. But when they cam to Newcastle toun, And were alighted at the wa', They fand their tree three ells ower laigh, They fand their stick baith short and sma'. Then up and spak the Laird's ain Jock; "There's naething for't; the gates we maun force." But when they cam the gate untill, A proud porter withstood baith men and horse. His neck in twa the Armstrangs wrang; Wi' fute or hand he ne'er play'd pa! His life and his keys at anes they hae ta'en, And cast the body ahind the wa'. Now sune they reach Newcastle jail, And to the prisoner thus they call; "Sleeps thou, wakes thou, Jock o' the Side, Or art thou weary of thy thrall?" Jock answers thus, wi' dulefu' tone; "Aft, aft, I wake--I seldom sleep: But whae's this kens my name sae well, And thus to mese[177] my waes does seik?" Then out and spak the gude Laird's Jock, "Now fear ye na, my billie," quo' he; "For here are the Laird's Jock, the Laird's Wat, And Hobbie Noble, come to set thee free." "Now hand thy tongue, my gude Laird's Jock; For ever, alas! this canna be; For if a' Liddesdale was here the night, The morn's the day that I maun die. "Full fifteen stane o' Spanish iron, They hae laid a' right sair on me; Wi' locks and keys I am fast bound Into this dungeon dark and dreirie." "Fear ye na' that," quo' the Laird's Jock; "A faint heart ne'er wan a fair ladie; Work thou within, we'll work without, And I'll be sworn we'll set thee free." The first strong door that they cam at, They loosed it without a key; The next chain'd door that they cam at, They garr'd it a' to flinders flee. The prisoner now upon his back, The Laird's Jock has gotten up fu' hie; And down the stair, him, irons and a', Wi' nae sma' speid and joy, brings he. "Now, Jock, my man," quo' Hobbie Noble, "Some o' his weight ye may lay on me." "I wat weil no!" quo' the Laird's ain Jock, "I count him lighter than a flee." Sae out at the gates they a' are gane, The prisoner's set on horseback hie; And now wi' speid they've ta'en the gate, While ilk ane jokes fu' wantonlie: "O Jock! sae winsomely's ye ride, Wi' baith your feet upon ae side; Sae weel ye're harneist, and sae trig, In troth ye sit like ony bride!" The night, tho' wat, they did na mind, But hied them on fu' merrilie, Until they cam to Cholerford brae,[178] Where the water ran like mountains hie. But when they cam to Cholerford, There they'met with an auld man; Says--"Honest man, will the water ride? Tell us in haste, if that ye can." "I wat weel no," quo' the gude auld man; "I hae lived here threty years and thrie, And I ne'er yet saw the Tyne sae big, Nor running anes sae like a sea." Then out and spak the Laird's saft Wat, The greatest coward in the cumpanie; "Now halt, now halt! we need na try't; The day is come we a' maun die!" "Puir faint-hearted thief!" cried the Laird's ain Jock, "There'l nae man die but him that's fie;[179] I'll guide ye a' right safely thro'; Lift ye the pris'ner on ahint me." Wi' that the water they hae ta'en, By ane's and twa's they a' swam thro'; "Here are we a' safe," quo' the Laird's Jock, "And, puir faint Wat, what think ye now?" They scarce the other brae had won, When twenty men they saw pursue; Frae Newcastle toun they had been sent, A' English lads baith stout and true. But when the land-serjeant the water saw, "It winna ride, my lads," says he; Then cried aloud--"The prisoner take, But leave the fetters, I pray, to me." "I wat weil no," quo' the Laird's Jock; "I'll keep them a'; shoon to my mare they'll be, My gude bay mare--for I am sure, She has bought them a' right dear frae thee." Sae now they are on to Liddesdale, E'en as fast as they could them hie; The prisoner is brought to's ain fire side, And there o's airns they mak him free. "Now, Jock, my billie," quo' a' the three, "The day is com'd thou was to die; But thou's as weil at thy ain ingle side, Now sitting, I think, 'twixt thee and me." [Footnote 174: _Spaits_--Torrents.] [Footnote 175: _Caugers_--Carriers.] [Footnote 176: _Branks and brecham_--Halter and cart-collar.] [Footnote 177: _Mese_--Soothe.] [Footnote 178: _Cholerford brae_--A ford upon the Tyne, above Hexham.] [Footnote 179: _Fie_--Predestined.] HOBBIE NOBLE. * * * * * We have seen the hero of this ballad act a distinguished part in the deliverance of Jock o' the Side, and are now to learn the ungrateful return which the Armstrongs made him for his faithful services.[180] Halbert, or Hobbie Noble, appears to have been one of those numerous English outlaws, who, being forced to fly their own country, had established themselves on the Scottish borders. As Hobbie continued his depredations upon the English, they bribed some of his hosts, the Armstrongs, to decoy him into England, under pretence of a predatory expedition. He was there delivered, by his treacherous companions, into the hands of the officers of justice, by whom he was conducted to Carlisle, and executed next morning. The laird of Mangerton, with whom Hobbie was in high favour, is said to have taken a severe revenge upon the traitors who betrayed him. The principal contriver of the scheme, called here Sim o' the Maynes, fled into England from the resentment of his chief; but experienced there the common fate of a traitor, being himself executed at Carlisle, about two months after Hobbie's death. Such is, at least, the tradition of Liddesdale. Sim o' the Maynes appears among the Armstrongs of Whitauch, in Liddesdale, in the list of clans so often alluded to. [Footnote 180: The original editor of the _Reliques of Ancient Poetry_ has noticed the perfidy of this clan in another instance; the delivery of the banished Earl of Northumberland into the hands of the Scottish regent, by Hector of Harelaw, an Armstrong, with whom he had taken refuge.--_Reliques of Ancient Poetry_, Vol. I. p. 283. This Hector of Harelaw seems to have been an Englishman, or under English assurance; for he is one of those, against whom bills were exhibited, by the Scottish commissioners, to the lord-bishop of Carlisle.--_Introduction to the History of Westmoreland and Cumberland_, p. 81. In the list of borderers, 1597, Hector of Harelaw, with the Griefs and Cuts of Harelaw, also figures as an inhabitant of the Debateable Land. It would appear, from a spirited invective in the Maitland MSS. against the regent, and those who delivered up the unfortunate earl to Elizabeth, that Hector had been guilty of this treachery, to redeem the pledge which had been exacted from him for his peaceable demeanour. The poet says, that the perfidy of Morton and Lochlevin was worse than even that of-- --the traitour Eckie of Harelaw, That says he sould him to redeem his pledge; Your deed is war, as all the world does know-- You nothing can but covatice alledge. _Pinkerton's Maitland Poems_, Vol. II. p. 290. Eckie is the contraction of Hector among the vulgar. These little memoranda may serve still farther to illustrate the beautiful ballads, upon that subject, published in the _Reliques_.] Kershope-burn, where Hobbie met his treacherous companions, falls into the Liddel, from the English side, at a place called Turnersholm, where, according to tradition, turneys and games of chivalry were often solemnized. The Mains was anciently a border-keep, near Castletoun, on the north side of the Liddel, but is now totally demolished. Askerton is an old castle, now ruinous, situated in the wilds of Cumberland, about seventeen miles north-east of Carlisle, amidst that mountainous and desolate tract of country, bordering upon Liddesdale, emphatically termed the Waste of Bewcastle. Conscouthart Green, and Rodric-haugh, and the Foulbogshiel, are the names of places in the same wilds, through which the Scottish plunderers generally made their raids upon England; as appears from the following passage in a letter from William, Lord Dacre, to Cardinal Wolsey, 18th July, 1528; _Appendix to Pinkerton's Scotland_, v. 12, No. XIX. "Like it also your grace, seeing the disordour within Scotlaund, and that all the mysguyded men, borderers of the same, inhabiting within Eskdale, Ewsdale, Walghopedale, Liddesdale, and a part of Tividale, foranempt Bewcastelldale, and a part of the middle marches of this the king's bordours, entres not this west and middle marches, to do any attemptate to the king our said soveraine's subjects: but thaye come throrow Bewcastelldale, and retornes, for the most part, the same waye agayne." Willeva and Speir Edom are small districts in Bewcastledale, through which also the Hartlie-burn takes its course. Of the castle of Mangertoun, so often mentioned in these ballads, there are very few vestiges. It was situated on the banks of the Liddel, below Castletoun. In the wall of a neighbouring mill, which has been entirely built from the ruins of the tower, there is a remarkable stone, bearing the arms of the lairds of Mangertoun, and a long broad-sword, with the figures 1583; probably the date of building, or repairing, the castle. On each side of the shield are the letters S.A. and E.E. standing probably for Simon Armstrong, and Elizabeth Elliot. Such is the only memorial of the laird of Mangertoun, except those rude ballads, which the editor now offers to the public. HOBBIE NOBLE. * * * * * Foul fa' the breast first treason bred in! That Liddesdale may safely say: For in it there was baith meat and drink, And corn unto our geldings gay. And we were a' stout-hearted men, As England she might often say; But now we may turn our backs and flee, Since brave Noble is sold away. Now Hobbie was an English man, And born into Bewcastle dale; But his misdeeds they were sae great, They banish'd him to Liddesdale. At Kershope foot the tryst was set, Kershope of the lilye lee; And there was traitor Sim o' the Mains, And with him a private companie. Then Hobbie has graithed his body fair, Baith wi' the iron and wi' the steil; And he has ta'en out his fringed grey, And there, brave Hobbie, he rade him weel. Then Hobbie is down the water gane, E'en as fast as he could his; Tho' a' should hae bursten and broken their hearts, Frae that riding tryst he wad na be. "Weel be ye met, my feres[181] five! And now, what is your will wi' me?" Then they cried a', wi ae consent, "Thou'rt welcome here, brave Noble, to me. "Wilt thou with us into England ride, And thy safe warrand we will be? If we get a horse, worth a hundred pound, Upon his back thou sune shalt be." "I dare not by day into England ride; The land-serjeant has me at feid: "And I know not what evil may betide, For Peter of Whitfield, his brother, is dead. "And Anton Shiel he loves not me, For I gat twa drifts o' his sheep; The great Earl of Whitfield[182] loves me not, For nae geer frae me he e'er could keep. "But will ye stay till the day gae down, Untill the night come o'er the grund, And I'll be a guide worth ony twa, That may in Liddesdale be found. "Tho' the night be black as pick and tar, I'll guide ye o'er yon hill sae hie; And bring ye a' in safety back, If ye'll be true, and follow me." He has guided them o'er moss and muir, O'er hill and hope, and mony a down; Until they came to the Foulbogshiel, And there, brave Noble, he lighted down. But word is gane to the land-serjeant, In Askerton where that he lay-- "The deer, that ye hae hunted sae lang, Is seen into the Waste this day." "Then Hobbie Noble is that deer! I wat he carries the style fu' hie; Aft has he driven our bluidhounds back, And set ourselves at little lee. "Gar warn the bows of Hartlie-burn; See they sharp their arrows on the wa': Warn Willeva, and Speir Edom, And see the morn they meet me a'. "Gar meet me on the Rodric-haugh, And see it be by break o' day; And we will on to Conscouthart-green, For there, I think, we'll get our prey." Then Hobbie Noble has dreimt a dreim, In the Foulbogshiel, where that he lay; He dreimt his horse was aneath him shot, And he himself got hard away. The cocks could craw, the day could daw, And I wot sae even fell down the rain; Had Hobble na wakened at that time, In the Foulbogshiel he had been ta'en or slain. "Awake, awake, my feres five! I trow here makes a fu' ill day; Yet the worst cloak o' this company, I hope, shall cross the Waste this day." Now Hobbie thought the gates were clear; But, ever alas! it was na sae: They were beset by cruel men and keen, That away brave Hobbie might na gae. "Yet follow me, my feres five, And see ye kelp of me guid ray; And the worst cloak o' this company Even yet may cross the Waste this day." But the land-serjeant's men came Hobbie before, The traitor Sim came Hobbie behin', So had Noble been wight as Wallace was, Away, alas! he might na win. Then Hobbie had but a laddie's sword; But he did mair than a laddie's deed; For that sword had clear'd Conscouthart green, Had it not broke o'er Jerswigham's head. Then they hae ta'en brave Hobbie Noble, Wi's ain bowstring they band him sae; But his gentle heart was ne'er sae sair, As when his ain five bound him on the brae. They hae ta'en him on for west Carlisle; They asked him, if he kend the way? Tho' much he thought, yet little he said; He knew the gate as weel as they. They hae ta'en him up the Ricker-gate; The wives they cast their windows wide: And every wife to another can say, "That's the man loosed Jock o' the Side!" "Fy on ye, women! why ca' ye me man? For it's nae man that I'm used like; I am but like a forfoughen[183] hound, Has been fighting in a dirty syke."[184] They hae had him up thro' Carlisle toun, And set him by the chimney fire; They gave brave Noble a loaf to eat, And that was little his desire. They gave him a wheaten loaf to eat, And after that a can of beer; And they a' cried, with one consent, "Eat, brave Noble, and make gude cheir! "Confess my lord's horse, Hobbie," they said, "And to-morrow in Carlisle thou's na die." "How can I confess them," Hobbie says, "When I never saw them with my e'e?" Then Hobbie has sworn a fu' great aith, Bi the day that he was gotten and born, He never had ony thing o' my lord's, That either eat him grass or corn. "Now fare thee weel, sweet Mangerton! For I think again I'll ne'er thee see: I wad hae betrayed nae lad alive, For a' the gowd o' Christentie. "And fare thee weel, sweet Liddesdale! Baith the hie land and the law; Keep ye weel frae the traitor Mains! For goud and gear he'll sell ye a'. "Yet wad I rather be ca'd Hobbie Noble, In Carlisle, where he suffers for his fau't, Than I'd be ca'd the traitor Mains, That eats and drinks o' the meal and maut." [Footnote 181: _Feres_--Companions.] [Footnote 182: _Earl of Whitfield_--The editor does not know who is here meant.] [Footnote 183: _Forfoughen_--Quite fatigued.] [Footnote 184: _Syke_--Ditch.] NOTES ON HOBBIE NOBLE. * * * * * _Aft has he driven our bluidhounds back_.--P. 234. v. 2. "The russet blood-hound wont, near Annand's stream, "To trace the sly thief with avenging foot, "Close as an evil conscience still at hand." Our ancient statutes inform us, that the blood-hound, or sluith-hound (so called from its quality of tracing the slot, or track, of men and animals), was early used in the pursuit and detection of marauders. _Nullus perturbet, aut impediat canem trassantem, aut homines trassantes cum ipso, ad sequendum latrones.--Regiam Majestatem_, Lib. 4tus, Cap. 32. And, so late as 1616, there was an order from the king's commissioners of the northern counties, that a certain number of slough-hounds should be maintained in every district of Cumberland, bordering upon Scotland. They were of great value, being sometimes sold for a hundred crowns. _Exposition of Bleau's Atlas, voce Nithsdale_. The breed of this sagacious animal, which could trace the human footstep with the most unerring accuracy, is now nearly extinct. ARCHIE OF CA'FIELD. * * * * * It may perhaps be thought, that, from the near resemblance which this ballad bears to Kinmont Willie, and Jock o' the Side, the editor might have dispensed with inserting it in this collection. But, although the incidents in these three ballads are almost the same, yet there is considerable variety in the language; and each contains minute particulars, highly characteristic of border manners, which it is the object of this publication to illustrate. Ca'field, or Calfield, is a place in Wauchopdale, belonging of old to the Armstrongs. In the account betwixt the English and Scottish marches, Jock and Geordie of Ca'field, there called Calfhill, are repeatedly marked as delinquents.--_History of Westmoreland and Cumberland_, Vol. I. _Introduction_, p. 33. "_Mettled John Hall, from the laigh Tiviotdale_," is perhaps John Hall of Newbigging, mentioned in the list of border clans, as one of the chief men of name residing on the middle marches in 1597. The editor has been enabled to add several stanzas to this ballad, since publication of the first edition. They were obtained from recitation; and, as they contrast the brutal indifference of the elder brother with the zeal and spirit of his associates, they add considerably to the dramatic effect of the whole. ARCHIE OF CA'FIELD. * * * * * As I was a walking mine alane, It was by the dawning of the day, I heard twa brithers make their mane, And I listened weel to what they did say. The youngest to the eldest said, "Blythe and merrie how can we be? There were three brithren of us born, And ane of us is condemned to die." "An' ye wad be merrie, an' ye wad be sad, What the better wad billie Archie be? Unless I had thirty men to mysell, And a' to ride in my cumpanie. "Ten to hald the horses' heads, And other ten the watch to be, And ten to break up the strong prison, Where billy[185] Archie he does lie." Then up and spak him mettled John Hall, (The luve of Teviotdale aye was he) "An' I had eleven men to mysell, Its aye the twalt man I wad be." Then up bespak him coarse Ca'field, (I wot and little gude worth was he) "Thirty men is few anew, And a' to ride in our cumpanie." There was horsing, horsing in haste, And there was marching on the lee; Until they cam to Murraywhate, And they lighted there right speedilie. "A smith! a smith!" Dickie he cries, "A smith, a smith, right speedilie, To turn back the caukers of our horses' shoon! For its unkensome[186] we wad be." "There lives a smith on the water side, Will shoe my little black mare for me; And I've a crown in my pocket, And every groat of it I wad gie." "The night is mirk, and its very mirk, And by candle light I canna weel see; The night is mirk, and its very pit mirk, And there will never a nail ca' right for me." "Shame fa' you and your trade baith, Canna beet[187] a gude fellow by your myster[188] But leez me on thee, my little black mare, Thou's worth thy weight in gold to me." There was horsing, horsing in haste, And there was marching upon the lee; Until they cam to Dumfries port, And they lighted there right speedilie. "There's five of us will hold the horse, And other five will watchmen be: But wha's the man, amang ye a', Will gae to the Tolbooth door wi' me?" O up then spak him mettled John Hall, (Frae the laigh Tiviotdale was he) "If it should cost my life this very night, I'll gae to the Tolbooth door wi' thee." "Be of gude cheir, now, Archie, lad! Be of gude cheir, now, dear billie! Work thou within, and we without, And the mom thou'se dine at Ca'field wi' me." O Jockie Hall stepped to the door, And he bended low back his knee; And he made the bolts, the door hang on, Loup frae the wa' right wantonlie. He took the prisoner on his back, And down the Tolbooth stair cam he; The black mare stood ready at the door, I wot a foot ne'er stirred she. They laid the links out ower her neck, And that was her gold twist to be;[189] And they cam down thro' Dumfries toun, And wow but they cam speedilie. The live long night these twelve men rade, And aye till they were right wearie, Until they cam to the Murraywhate, And they lighted there right speedilie. "A smith! a smith!" then Dickie he cries; "A smith, a smith, right speedilie, To file the irons frae my dear brither! For forward, forward we wad be," They had na filed a shackle of iron, A shackle of iron but barely thrie, When out and spak young Simon brave, "O dinna ye see what I do see? "Lo! yonder comes Lieutenant Gordon, Wi' a hundred men in his cumpanie; This night will be our lyke-wake night, The morn the day we a' maun die," O there was mounting, mounting in haste, And there was marching upon the lee; Until they cam to Annan water, And it was flowing like the sea. "My mare is young and very skeigh,[190] And in o' the weil[191] she will drown me; But ye'll take mine, and I'll take thine, And sune through the water we sall be." Then up and spak him, coarse Ca'field, (I wot and little gude worth was he) "We had better lose are than lose a' the lave; We'll lose the prisoner, we'll gae free." "Shame fa' you and your lands baith! Wad ye e'en[192] your lands to your born billy? But hey! bear up, my bonnie black mare, And yet thro' the water we sall be." Now they did swim that wan water, And wow but they swam bonilie! Until they cam to the other side, And they wrang their cloathes right drunkily. "Come thro', come thro', Lieutenant Gordon! Come thro' and drink some wine wi' me! For there is an ale-house here hard by, And it shall not cost thee ae penny." "Throw me my irons," quo' Lieutenant Gordon; "I wot they cost me dear aneugh." "The shame a ma," quo' mettled John Ha', "They'll be gude shackles to my pleugh." "Come thro', come thro', Lieutenant Gordon! Come thro' and drink some wine wi' me! Yestreen I was your prisoner, But now this morning am I free." [Footnote 185: _Billy_--Brother.] [Footnote 186: _Unkensome_--Unknown.] [Footnote 187: _Beet_--Abet, aid.] [Footnote 188: _Mystery_--Trade.--See Shakespeare.] [Footnote 189: The _Gold Twist_ means the small gilded chains drawn across the chest of a war-horse, as a part of his caparaison.] [Footnote 190: _Skeigh_--Shy.] [Footnote 191: _Weil_--Eddy.] [Footnote 192: _E'en_--Even, put into comparison.] ARMSTRONG'S GOODNIGHT. * * * * * _The followng verses are said to have been composed by one of the_ ARMSTRONGS, _executed for the murder of Sir_ JOHN CARMICHAEL _of Edrom, warden of the middle marches, (See_ p. 165.) _The tune is popular in Scotland; but whether these are the original words, will admit of a doubt_. * * * * * This night is my departing night, For here nae langer must I stay; There's neither friend nor foe o' mine, But wishes me away. What I have done thro' lack of wit, I never, never, can recall; I hope ye're a' my friends as yet; Goodnight and joy be with you all! * * * * * THE FRAY OF SUPORT. AN ANCIENT BORDER GATHERING SONG FROM TRADITION. * * * * * Of all the border ditties, which have fallen into the editor's hands, this is by far the most uncouth and savage. It is usually chaunted in a sort of wild recitative, except the burden, which swells into a long and varied howl, not unlike to a view hollo'. The words, and the very great irregularity of the stanza (if it deserves the name), sufficiently point out its intention and origin. An English woman, residing in Suport, near the foot of the Kershope, having been plundered in the night by a band of the Scottish moss-troopers, is supposed to convoke her servants and friends for the pursuit, or _Hot Trod_; upbraiding them, at the same time, in homely phrase, for their negligence and security. The _Hot Trod_ was followed by the persons who had lost goods, with blood-hounds and horns, to raise the country to help. They also used to carry a burning wisp of straw at a spear head, and to raise a cry, similar to the Indian war-whoop. It appears, from articles made by the wardens of the English marches, September 12th, in 6th of Edward VI. that all, on this cry being raised, were obliged to follow the fray, or chace, under pain of death. With these explanations, the general purport of the ballad may be easily discovered, though particular passages have become inexplicable, probably through corruptions introduced by reciters. The present copy is corrected from four copies, which differed widely from each other. THE FRAY OF SUPORT. * * * * * Sleep'ry Sim of the Lamb-hill, And snoring Jock of Suport-mill, Ye are baith right het and fou';-- But my wae wakens na you. Last night I saw a sorry sight-- Nought left me, o' four-and-twenty gude ousen and ky, My weel-ridden gelding, and a white quey, But a toom byre and a wide, And the twelve nogs[193] on ilka side. Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a' gane. Weel may ye ken, Last night I was right scarce o' men: But Toppet Hob o' the Mains had guesten'd in my house by chance; I set him to wear the fore-door wi' the speir, while I kept the back door wi' the lance; But they hae run him thro' the thick o' the thie, and broke his knee-pan, And the mergh[194] o' his shin bane has run down on his spur leather whang: He's lame while he lives, and where'er he may gang. Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a' gane. But Peenye, my gude son, is out at the Hagbut-head, His e'en glittering for anger like a fierye gleed; Crying--"Mak sure the nooks Of Maky's-muir crooks; For the wily Scot takes by nooks, hooks, and crooks. Gin we meet a' together in a head the morn, We'll be merry men." Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a' My gear's a' gane. There's doughty Cuddy in the Heugh-head, Thou was aye gude at a' need: With thy brock-skin bag at thy belt, Ay ready to mak a puir man help. Thou maun awa' out to the cauf-craigs, (Where anes ye lost your ain twa naigs) And there toom thy brock-skin bag. Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a' taen. Doughty Dan o' the Houlet Hirst, Thou was aye gude at a birst: Gude wi' a bow, and better wi' a speir, The bauldest march-man, that e'er followed gear; Come thou here. Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a' gane. Rise, ye carle coopers, frae making o' kirns and tubs, In the Nicol forest woods. Your craft has na left the value of an oak rod, But if you had had ony fear o' God, Last night ye had na slept sae sound, And let my gear be a' ta'en. Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a' ta'en. Ah! lads, we'll fang them a' in a net! For I hae a' the fords o' Liddel set; The Dunkin, and the Door-loup, The Willie-ford, and the Water-slack, The Black-rack and the Trout-dub o' Liddel; There stands John Forster wi' five men at his back, Wi' bufft coat and cap of steil: Boo! ca' at them e'en, Jock; That ford's sicker, I wat weil. Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a' ta'en. Hoo! hoo! gar raise the Reid Souter, and Ringan's Wat, Wi' a broad elshin and a wicker; I wat weil they'll mak a ford sicker. Sae whether they be Elliots or Armstrangs, Or rough riding Scots, or rude Johnstones, Or whether they be frae the Tarras or Ewsdale, They maun turn and fight, or try the deeps o' Liddel. Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a' ta'en. "Ah! but they will play ye another jigg, For they will out at the big rig, And thro' at Fargy Grame's gap." "But I hae another wile for that: For I hae little Will, and stalwart Wat, And lang Aicky, in the Souter moor, Wi' his sleuth dog sits in his watch right sure: Shou'd the dog gie a bark, He'll be out in his sark, And die or won. Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a' ta'en. Ha! boys--I see a party appearing--wha's yon! Methinks it's the captain of Bewcastle, and Jephtha's John, Coming down by the foul steps of Catlowdie's loan: They'll make a sicker, come which way they will. Ha lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a' ta'en. Captain Musgrave, and a' his band, Are coming down by the Siller-strand, And the muckle toun-bell o' Carlisle is rung: My gear was a' weel won, And before it's carried o'er the border, mony a man's gae down. Fy lads! shout a' a' a' a' a', My gear's a gane. [Footnote 193: _Nogs_--Stakes.] [Footnote 194: _Mergh_--Marrow.] NOTES ON THE FRAY OF SUPORT. * * * * * _And there, toom thy brock-skin bag_.--P. 254. v. 1. The badger-skin pouch was used for carrying ammunition. _In the Nicol forest woods_.--P. 254. v. 3. A wood in Cumberland, in which Suport is situated. _For I hae a' the fords o' Liddel set_.--P. 255. v. 1. Watching fords was a ready mode of intercepting the marauders; the names of the most noted fords upon the Liddel are recited in this verse. _And thro' at Fargy Grame's gap_.--P. 256. v. 1. Fergus Grame of Sowport, as one of the chief men of that clan, became security to Lord Scroope for the good behaviour of his friends and dependants, 8th January, 1602.--_Introduction to History of Westmoreland and Cumberland_, p. 111. _Wi' his sleuth dog sits in his watch right sure_.--P 256. v. 1. The centinels, who, by the march laws, were planted upon the border each night, had usually sleuth-dogs, or blood-hounds, along with them.--See _Nicolson's Border Laws_, and _Lord Wharton's Regulations, in the 6th of Edward VI_. Of the blood-hound we have said something in the notes on _Hobbie Noble_; but we may, in addition, refer to the following poetical description of the qualities and uses of that singular animal: --Upon the banks Of Tweed, slow winding thro' the vale, the seat Of war and rapine once, ere Britons knew The sweets of peace, or Anna's dread commands To lasting leagues the haughty rivals awed, There dwelt a pilfering race; well trained and skill'd In all the mysteries of theft, the spoil Their only substance, feuds and war their sport. Not more expert in every fraudful art The arch felon was of old, who by the tail Drew back his lowing prize: in vain his wiles, In vain the shelter of the covering rock, In vain the sooty cloud, and ruddy flames, That issued from his mouth; for soon he paid His forfeit life: a debt how justly due To wronged Alcides, and avenging Heaven! Veil'd in the shades of night, they ford the stream; Then, prowling far and near, whate'er they seize Becomes their prey; nor flocks nor herds are safe, Nor stalls protect the steer, nor strong barr'd doors Secure the favourite horse. Soon as the morn Reveals his wrongs, with ghastly visage wan The plunder'd owner stands, and from his lips A thousand thronging curses burst their way. He calls his stout allies, and in a line His faithful hound he leads; then, with a voice That utters loud his rage, attentive cheers. Soon the sagacious brute, his curling tail Flourish'd in air, low bending, plies around His busy nose, the steaming vapour snuffs Inquisitive, nor leaves one turf untried; Till, conscious of the recent stains, his heart Beats quick, his snuffling nose, his active tail, Attest his joy; then, with deep-opening mouth That makes the welkin tremble, he proclaims The audacious felon; foot by foot he marks His winding way, while all the listening crowd Applaud his reasonings. O'er the watery ford, Dry sandy heaths, and stony barren hills, O'er beaten tracks, with men and beast distain'd, Unerring he pursues; till, at the cot Arrived, and seizing by his guilty throat The caitiff vile, redeems the captive prey: So exquisitely delicate his sense! SOMERVILLE'S _Chase_. _Methinks it's the Captain of Newcastle, &c. Coming down by the foul steps of Catlowdie's loan_.--P. 256. v. 2. According to the late Glenriddell's notes on this ballad, the office of captain of Bewcastle was held by the chief of the Nixons. Catlowdie is a small village in Cumberland, near the junction of the Esk and Liddel. _Captain Musgrave and a' his band_.--P. 256. v. 3. This was probably the famous Captain Jack Musgrave, who had charge of the watch along the Cryssop, or Kershope, as appears from the order of the watches appointed by Lord Wharton, when deputy-warden-general, in 6th Edward VI. LORD MAXWELL'S GOODNIGHT. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. * * * * * This beautiful ballad is published from a copy in Glenriddel's MSS., with some slight variations from tradition. It alludes to one of the most remarkable feuds upon the west marches. A.D. 1585, John, Lord Maxwell, or, as he styled himself, Earl of Morton, having quarrelled with the Earl of Arran, reigning favourite of James VI., and fallen, of course, under the displeasure of the court, was denounced rebel. A commission was also given to the laird of Johnstone, then warden of the west-marches, to pursue and apprehend the ancient rival and enemy of his house. Two bands of mercenaries, commanded by Captains Cranstoun and Lammie, who were sent from Edinburgh to support Johnstone, were attacked and cut to pieces at Crawford-muir by Robert Maxwell, natural brother to the chieftain;[195] who, following up his advantage, burned Johnstone's castle of Lochwood, observing, with savage glee, that he would give Lady Johnstone light enough by which to "set her hood." In a subsequent conflict, Johnstone himself was defeated, and made prisoner, and is said to have died of grief at the disgrace which he sustained.--See _Spottiswoode_ and _Johnstone's Histories_, and _Moyse's Memoirs, ad annum_ 1585. By one of the revolutions, common in those days, Maxwell was soon after restored to the king's favour, in his turn, and obtained the wardenry of the west marches. A bond of alliance was subscribed by him, and by Sir James Johnstone, and for some time the two clans lived in harmony. In the year 1593, however, the hereditary feud was revived, on the following occasion: A band of marauders, of the clan Johnstone, drove a prey of cattle from the lands belonging to the lairds of Crichton, Sanquhar, and Drumlanrig; and defeated, with slaughter, the pursuers, who attempted to rescue their property.--[_See the following Ballad and Introduction_.] The injured parties, being apprehensive that Maxwell would not cordially embrace their cause, on account of his late reconciliation with the Johnstones, endeavoured to overcome his reluctance, by ottering to enter into bonds of manrent, and so to become his followers and liegemen; he, on the other hand, granting to them a bond of maintenance, or protection, by which he bound himself, in usual form, to maintain their quarrel against all mortals, saving his loyalty. Thus, the most powerful and respectable families in Dumfries-shire became, for a time, the vassals of Lord Maxwell. This secret alliance was discovered to Sir James Johnstone by the laird of Cummertrees, one of his own clan, though a retainer to Maxwell. Cummertrees even contrived to possess himself of the bonds of manrent, which he delivered to his chief. The petty warfare betwixt the rival barons was instantly renewed. Buccleuch, a near relation of Johnstone, came to his assistance with his clan, "the most renowned freebooters (says a historian), the fiercest and bravest warriors, among the border tribes"[196] With Buccleuch also came the Elliots, Armstrongs, and Graemes. Thus reinforced, Johnstone surprised and cut to pieces a party of the Maxwells, stationed at Lochmaben. On the other hand, Lord Maxwell, armed with the royal authority, and numbering among his followers all the barons of Nithesdale, displayed his banner as the king's lieutenant, and invaded Annandale, at the head of 2000 men. In those days, however, the royal auspices to have carried as little good fortune as effective strength with them. A desperate conflict, still renowned in tradition, took place at the Dryffe sands, not far from Lockerby, in which Johnstone, although inferior in numbers, partly by his own conduct, partly by the valour of his allies, gained a decisive victory. Lord Maxwell, a tall man, and heavily armed, was struck from his horse in the flight, and cruelly slain, after the hand, which he stretched out for quarter, had been severed from his body. Many of his followers were slain in the battle, and many cruelly wounded; especially by slashes in the face, which wound was thence termed a "_Lockerby lick_." The barons of Lag, Closeburn, and Drumlanrig, escaped by the fleetness of their horses; a circumstance alluded to in the following ballad. [Footnote 195: It is devoutly to be wished, that this Lammie (who was killed in the skirmish) may have been the same miscreant, who, in the day of Queen Mary's distress, "hes ensigne being of quhyt taffitae, had painted one it ye creuell murther of King Henry, and layed down before her majestie, at quhat time she presented herself as prisoner to ye lordis."--_Birrel's Diary, June_ 15, 1567. It would be some satisfaction to know, that the grey hairs of this worthy personage did not go down to the grave in peace.] [Footnote 196: _Inter accolas latrociniis famosos Scotos Buccleuchi clientes--fortissimos tributium et ferocissimos_,--JOHNSTONI _Historia, ed. Amstael_, p. 182.] This fatal battle was followed by a long feud, attended with all the circumstances of horror, proper to a barbarous age. Johnstone, in his diffuse manner, describes it thus: "_Ab eo die ultro citroque in Annandia et Nithia magnis utriusque regionis jacturis certatum. Caedes, incendia, rapinae, et nefanda facinora; liberi in maternis gremiis trucidati; mariti in conspectu conjugum suarum, incensae villae lamentabiles ubique querimoniae et horribiles armorum fremitus_." JOHNSTONI _Historia, Ed. Amstael_. p. 182. John, Lord Maxwell, with whose _Goodnight_ the reader is here presented, was son to him who fell at the battle of Dryffe Sands, and is said to have early vowed the deepest revenge for his father's death. Such, indeed, was the fiery and untameable spirit of the man, that neither the threats nor entreaties of the king himself could make him lay aside his vindictive purpose; although Johnstone, the object of his resentment, had not only reconciled himself to the court, but even obtained the wardenry of the middle-marches, in room of Sir John Carmichael, murdered by the Armstrongs. Lord Maxwell was therefore prohibited to approach the border counties; and having, in contempt of that mandate, excited new disturbances, he was confined in the castle of Edinburgh. From this fortress, however, he contrived to make his escape; and, having repaired to Dumfries-shire, he sought an amicable interview with Johnstone, under pretence of a wish to accommodate their differences. Sir Robert Maxwell, of Orchardstane (mentioned in the Ballad, verse 1.), who was married to a sister of Sir James Johnstone, persuaded his brother-in-law to accede to Maxwell's proposal. The two chieftains met, each with a single attendant, at a place called Achmanhill, 6th April, 1608. A quarrel arising betwixt the two gentlemen who attended them (Charles Maxwell, brother to the laird of Kirkhouse, and Johnstone of Lockerby), and a pistol being discharged, Sir James turned his horse to separate the combatants; at which instant Lord Maxwell shot him through the back with a brace of bullets, of which wound he died on the spot, after having for some time gallantly defended himself against Maxwell, who endeavoured to strike him with his sword. "A fact," saith Spottiswoode, "detested by all honest men, and the gentleman's misfortune severely lamented, for he was a man full of wisdom and courage."--SPOTTISWOODE, _Edition_ 1677, _pages_ 467, 504. JOHNSTONI _Historia, Ed. Amstael_. pp. 254, 283, 449. Lord Maxwell, the murderer, made his escape to France; but, having ventured to return to Scotland, he was apprehended lurking in the wilds of Caithness, and brought to trial at Edinburgh. The royal authority was now much strengthened by the union of the crowns, and James employed it in staunching the feuds of the nobility, with a firmness which was no attribute of his general character. But, in the best actions of that monarch, there seems to have been an unfortunate tincture of that meanness, so visible on the present occasion. Lord Maxwell was indicted for the murder of Johnstone; but this was combined with a charge of _fire-raising_, which, according to the ancient Scottish law, if perpetrated by a landed man, constituted a species of treason, and inferred forfeiture. Thus, the noble purpose of public justice was sullied, by being united with that of enriching some needy favourite. John, Lord Maxwell, was condemned, and beheaded, 21st May, 1613. Sir Gideon Murray, treasurer-depute, had a great share of his forfeiture; but the attainder was afterwards reversed, and the honours and estate were conferred upon the brother of the deceased.--LAING'S _History of Scotland_, Vol. I. p. 62.--JOHNSTONI _Historia_, p. 493. The lady, mentioned in the ballad, was sister to the Marquis of Hamilton, and, according to Johnstone the historian, had little reason to regret being separated from her husband, whose harsh treatment finally occasioned her death. But Johnstone appears not to be altogether untinctured with the prejudices of his clan, and is probably, in this instance, guilty of exaggeration; as the active share, taken by the Marquis of Hamilton in favour of Maxwell, is a circumstance inconsistent with such a report. Thus was finally ended, by a salutary example of severity, the "foul debate" betwixt the Maxwells and Johnstones, in the course of which each family lost two chieftains; one dying of a broken heart, one in the field of battle, one by assassination, and one by the sword of the executioner. It seems reasonable to believe, that the following ballad must have been written before the death of Lord Maxwell, in 1613; otherwise there would have been some allusion to that event. It must therefore have been composed betwixt 1608 and that period. LORD MAXWELL'S GOODNIGHT. * * * * * Adieu, madame, my mother dear, But and my sisters three! Adieu, fair Robert of Orchardstane! My heart is wae for thee. Adieu, the lily and the rose, The primrose fair to see: Adieu, my ladie, and only joy! For I may not stay with thee. "Though I hae slain the Lord Johnstone, What care I for their feid? My noble mind their wrath disdains: He was my father's deid. Both night and day I laboured oft Of him avenged to be; But now I've got what lang I sought, And I may not stay with thee. "Adieu! Drumlanrig, false wert aye, And Closeburn in a Land! The laird of Lag, frae my father that fled, When the Johnston struck aff his hand. They were three brethren in a band-- Joy may they never see! Their treacherous art, and cowardly heart, Has twin'd my love and me, Adieu! Dumfries, my proper place, But and Carlaverock fair! Adieu! my castle of the Thrieve, Wi' a my buildings there: Adieu! Lochmaben's gates sae fair, The Langholm-holm where birks there be; Adieu! my ladye, and only joy, For, trust me, I may not stay wi' thee, "Adieu! fair Eskdale up and down, Where my puir friends do dwell; The bangisters[197] will ding them down, And will them sair compell. But I'll avenge their feid mysell, When I come o'er the sea; Adieu! my ladye, and only joy, For I may not stay wi' thee." "Lord of the land!"--that ladye said, "O wad ye go wi' me, Unto my brother's stately tower, Where safest ye may be! There Hamiltons and Douglas baith, Shall rise to succour thee." "Thanks for thy kindness, fair my dame, But I may not stay wi' thee." Then he tuik aff a gay gold ring, Thereat hang signets three; "Hae, take thee that, mine ain dear thing, And still hae mind o' me; But, if thou take another lord, Ere I come ower the sea-- His life is but a three day's lease, Tho' I may not stay wi' thee." The wind was fair, the ship was clear, That good lord went away; And most part of his friends were there, To give him a fair convey. They drank the wine, they did na spair, Even in that gude lord's sight-- Sae now he's o'er the floods sae gray, And Lord Maxwell has ta'en his Goodnight. [Footnote 197: _Bangisters_--The prevailing party.] NOTES ON LORD MAXWELL'S GOODNIGHT. * * * * * _Adieu! Drumlanrig, &c_.--P. 268. v. 1. The reader will perceive, from the Introduction, what connection the bond, subscribed by Douglas of Drumlanrig, Kirkpatrick of Closeburn, and Grierson of Lagg, had with the death of Lord Maxwell's father. For the satisfaction of those, who may be curious as to the form of these bonds, I have transcribed a letter of manrent,[198] from a MS. collection of upwards of twenty deeds of that nature, copied from the originals by the late John Syme, Esq. writer to the signet; for the use of which, with many other favours of a similar nature, I am indebted to Dr. Robert Anderson of Edinburgh. The bond is granted by Thomas Kirkpatrick of Closeburn, to Robert, Lord Maxwell, father of him who was slain at the battle of the Dryffe Sands. [Footnote 198: The proper spelling is _manred_. Thus, in the romance of _Florice and Blancheflour_-- "He wil falle to thi fot, "And bicom thi man gif be mot; "His _manred_ thou schalt afonge, "and the trewthe of his honde." BOND OF MANRENT. "Be it kend till all men be thir present lettres, me Thomas Kirkpatrik of Closburn, to be bundin and oblist, and be the tenor heirof, bindis and oblissis me be the faith and treuth of my body, in manrent and service to ane nobil and mychty lord, Robert Lord Maxwell, induring all the dayis of my lyfe; and byndis and oblissis me, as said is, to be leill and trew man and servand to the said Robert Lord Maxwell, my master, and sall nowthir heir nor se his skaith, but sall lat the samyn at my uter power, an warn him therof. And I sall conceill it that the said lord schawis to me, and sall gif him agane the best leill and trew counsale that I can, quhen he ony askis at me; and that I sall ryde with my kin, freyndis, servandis, and allies, that wil do for me, or to gang with the said lord; and do to him aefauld, trew, and thankful service, and take aefauld playne part with the said lord, my maister, in all and sindry his actionis, causis, querrellis, leful and honest, movit, or to be movit be him, or aganis him, baith in peace and weir, contrair or aganis all thae that leiffes or de may (my allegeant to owr soveran ladye the quenis grace, her tutor and governor, allanerly except). And thir my lettres of manrent, for all the dayis of my life foresaid to indure, all dissimulations, fraud, or gyle, secludit and away put. In witness, &c." The deed is signed at Edinburgh, 3d February, 1542. In the collection, from which this extract is made, there are bonds of a similar nature granted to Lord Maxwell, by Douglas of Drumlanrig, ancestor of the Duke of Queensberry; by Crichton Lord Sanquhar, ancestor of the earls of Dumfries, and many of his kindred; by Stuart of Castlemilk; by Stuart of Garlies, ancestor of the earls of Galloway; by Murray of Cockpool, ancestor of the Murrays, lords Annandale; by Grierson of Lagg, Gordon of Lochmaben, and many other of the most ancient and respectable barons in the south-west of Scotland, binding themselves, in the most submissive terms, to become the liegemen and the vassals of the house of Maxwell; a circumstance which must highly excite our idea of the power of that family. Nay, even the rival chieftain, Johnstone of Johnstone, seems at one time to have come under a similar obligation to Maxwell, by a bond, dated 11th February 1528, in which reference is made to the counter-obligation of the patron, in these words: "Forasmeikle as the said lord has oblist him to supple, maintene, and defend me, in the peciabill brouking and joysing of all my landis, rentis, &c. and to take my aefald, leill and trew part, in all my good actionis, causis, and quarles, leiful and honest, aganes all deedlie, his alledgeance to our soveraigne lord the king allanerly excepted, as at mair length is contained in his lettres of maintenance maid to me therupon; therfore, &c." he proceeds to bind himself as liegeman to the Maxwell. I cannot dismiss the subject without observing, that, in the dangerous times of Queen Mary, when most of these bonds are dated, many barons, for the sake of maintaining unanimity and good order, may have chosen to enroll themselves among the clients of Lord Maxwell, then warden of the border, from which, at a less turbulent period, personal considerations would have deterred them. _Adieu! my castle of the Thrieve_.--P. 268. v. 2. This fortress is situated in the stewartry of Kirkcudbright, upon an island about two acres in extent, formed by the river Dee. The walls are very thick and strong, and bear the marks of great antiquity. It was a royal castle; but the keeping of it, agreeable to the feudal practice, was granted by charter, or sometimes by a more temporary and precarious right, to different powerful families, together with lands for their good service in maintaining and defending the place. This office of heritable keeper remained with the Nithesdale family (chief of the Maxwells) till their forfeiture, 1715. The garrison seems to have been victualled upon feudal principles; for each parish in the stewartry was burdened with the yearly payment of a _lardner mart cow_, i.e. a cow fit for being killed and salted at Martinmas, for winter provisions. The right of levying these cattle was retained by the Nithesdale family, when they sold the castle and estate, in 1704, and they did not cease to exercise it till their attainder.--_Fountainhall's Decisions_, Vol. I. p. 688. This same castle of the Thrieve was, A.D. 1451-2, the scene of an outrageous and cruel insult upon the royal authority. The fortress was then held by William VIII. Earl of Douglas, who, in fact, possessed a more unlimited authority over the southern districts of Scotland, than the reigning monarch. The earl had, on some pretence, seized and imprisoned a baron, called Maclellan, tutor of Bombie, whom he threatened to bring to trial, by his power of hereditary jurisdiction. The uncle of this gentleman, Sir Patrick Gray of Foulis, who commanded the body-guard of James II., obtained from that prince a warrant, requiring from Earl Douglas the body of the prisoner. When Gray appeared, the earl instantly suspected his errand. "You have not dined," said he, without suffering him to open his commission: "it is ill talking between a full man and a fasting." While Gray was at meat, the unfortunate prisoner was, by Douglas's command, led forth to the court-yard and beheaded. When the repast was finished, the king's letter was presented and opened. "Sir Patrick," says Douglas, leading Gray to the court, "right glad had I been to honour the king's messenger; but you have come too late. Yonder lies your sister's son, without the head: you are welcome to his dead body." Gray, having mounted his horse, turned to the earl, and expressed his wrath in a deadly oath, that he would requite the injury with Douglas's heart's blood.--"To horse!" cried the haughty baron, and the messenger of his prince was pursued till within a few miles of Edinburgh. Gray, however, had an opportunity of keeping his vow; for, being upon guard in the king's anti-chamber at Stirling, when James, incensed at the insolence of the earl, struck him with his dagger, Sir Patrick rushed in, and dispatched him with a pole-axe. The castle of Thrieve was the last of the fortresses which held out for the house of Douglas, after their grand rebellion in 1553. James II. writes an account of the exile of this potent family, to Charles VII. of France, 8th July, 1555; and adds, that all their castles had been yielded to him, _Excepto duntaxat castro de Trefe, per nostres fideles impraesentiarum obsesso; quod domino concedente in brevi obtinere speramus.--Pinkerton's History, Appendix_, Vol. I. p. 486.--See _Pitscottie's History, Godscroft, &c._ _And most part of his friends were, there_,--P. 269. v. 3. The ancestor of the present Mr. Maxwell of Broomholm is particularly mentioned in Glenriddell's MS. as having attended his chieftain in his distress, and as having received a grant of lands, in reward of this manifestation of attachment. _Sae now he's o'er the floods sae gray_.--P. 269. v. 3. This seems to have been a favourite epithet in old romances, Thus in _Hornchilde_, and _Maiden Rimuild_, Thai sayled ower the _flode so gray_, In Inglond arrived were thay, Ther him levest ware. THE LADS OF WAMPHRAY. The reader will find, prefixed to the foregoing ballad, an account of the noted feud betwixt the families of Maxwell and Johnstone. The following song celebrates the skirmish, in 1593, betwixt the Johnstones and Crichtons, which led to the revival of the ancient quarrel betwixt Johnstone and Maxwell, and finally to the battle of Dryffe Sands, in which the latter lost his life. Wamphray is the name of a parish in Annandale. Lethenhall was the abode of Johnstone of Wamphray, and continued to be so till of late years. William Johnstone of Wamphray, called the _Galliard_, was a noted freebooter. A place, near the head of Tiviotdale, retains the name of the _Galliard's Faulds_, (folds) being a valley where he used to secrete and divide his spoil, with his Liddesdale and Eskdale associates. His _nom de guerre_ seems to have been derived from the dance called _The Galliard_. The word is still used in Scotland, to express an active, gay, dissipated character.[199] Willie of the Kirkhill, nephew to the Galliard, and his avenger, was also a noted border robber. Previous to the battle of Dryffe Sands, so often mentioned, tradition reports, that Maxwell had offered a ten-pound-land to any of his party, who should bring him the head or hand of the laird of Johnstone. This being reported to his antagonist, he answered, he had not a ten-pound-land to offer, but would give a five-merk-land to the man who should that day cut off the head or hand of Lord Maxwell. Willie of the Kirkhill, mounted upon a young gray horse, rushed upon the enemy, and earned the reward, by striking down their unfortunate chieftain, and cutting off his right hand. Leverhay, Stefenbiggin, Girth-head, &c. are all situated in the parish of Wamphray. The Biddes-burn, where the skirmish took place betwixt the Johnstones and their pursuers, is a rivulet which takes its course among the mountains on the confines of Nithesdale and Annandale. The Wellpath is a pass by which the Johnstones were retreating to their fastnesses in Annandale. Ricklaw-holm is a place upon the Evan water, which falls into the Annan, below Moffat. Wamphray-gate was in these days an ale-house. With these local explanations, it is hoped the following ballad will be easily understood. From a pedigree in the appeal case of Sir James Johnstone of Westeraw, claiming the honours and titles of Annandale, it appears that the Johnstones of Wamphray were descended from James, sixth son of the sixth baron of Johnstone. The male line became extinct in 1657. [Footnote 199: Cleveland applies the phrase in a very different manner, in treating of the assembly of Divines at Westminster, 1644: And Selden is a _Galliard_ by himself. And wel might be; there's more divines in him. Than in all this their Jewish Sanhedrim. Skelton, in his railing poem against James IV., terms him _Sir Skyr Galyard_.] THE LADS OF WAMPHRAY. 'Twixt Girth-head and the Langwood end, Lived the Galliard, and the Galliard's men; But and the lads of Leverhay, That drove the Crichtons' gear away. It is the lads of Lethenha', The greatest rogues amang them a': But and the lads of Stefenbiggin, They broke the house in at the rigging. The lads of Fingland, and Hellbeck-hill, They were never for good, but aye for ill; 'Twixt the Staywood-bush and Langside-hill, They stealed the broked cow and the branded bull. It is the lads of the Girth-head, The deil's in them for pride and greed; For the Galliard, and the gay Galliard's men, They ne'er saw a horse but they made it their ain. The Galliard to Nithside is gane, To steal Sim Crichton's winsome dun; The Galliard is unto the stable gane, But instead of the dun, the blind he has ta'en. "Now Simmy, Simmy of the Side, Come out and see a Johnstone ride! Here's the bonniest horse in a' Nithside, And a gentle Johnstone aboon his hide." Simmy Crichton's mounted then, And Crichtons has raised mony a ane; The Galliard trowed his horse had been wight, But the Crichtons beat him out o' sight. As soon as the Galliard the Crichton saw, Behind the saugh-bush he did draw; And there the Crichtons the Galliard hae ta'en, And nane wi' him but Willie alane. "O Simmy, Simmy, now let me gang, And I'll nevir mair do a Crichton wrang! O Simmy, Simmy, now let me be, And a peck o' gowd I'll give to thee! O Simmy, Simmy, now let me gang, And my wife shall heap it with her hand." But the Crichtons wad na let the Galliard be, But they hanged him hie upon a tree. O think then Willie he was right wae, When he saw his uncle guided sae; "But if ever I live Wamphray to see, My uncle's death avenged shall be!" Back to Wamphray he is gane, And riders has raised mony a ane; Saying--"My lads, if ye'll be true, Ye shall a' be clad in the noble blue." Back to Nithisdale they have gane, And awa' the Crichtons' nowt hae ta'en; But when they cam to the Wellpath-head, The Crichtons bade them 'light and lead. And when they cam to the Biddes burn, The Crichtons bade them stand and turn; And when they cam to the Biddess strand, The Crichtons they were hard at hand. But when they cam to the Biddes law, The Johnstones bade them stand and draw; "We've done nae ill, we'll thole nae wrang, "But back to Wamphray we will gang," And out spoke Willy o' the Kirkhill, "Of fighting, lads, ye'se hae your fill." And from his horse Willie he lap, And a burnished brand in his hand he gat. Out through the Crichtons Willie he ran, And dang them down baith horse and man; O but the Johnstones were wondrous rude, When the Biddes burn ran three days blood. "Now, Sirs, we have done a noble deed; "We have revenged the Galliard's bleid: "For every finger of the Galliard's hand, "I vow this day I've killed a man." As they cam in at Evan-head, At Ricklaw-holm they spread abread; "Drive on, my lads! it will be late; We'll hae a pint at Wamphray gate. "For where'er I gang, or e'er I ride, The lads of Wamphray are on my side; And of a' the lads that I do ken, A Wamphray lad's the king of men." THE END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
12882	----	MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER: CONSISTING OF HISTORICAL AND ROMANTIC BALLADS, COLLECTED IN THE SOUTHERN COUNTIES OF SCOTLAND; WITH A FEW OF MODERN DATE, FOUNDED UPON LOCAL TRADITION. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. II. The songs, to savage virtue dear. That won of yore the public ear, Ere Polity, sedate and sage, Had quench'd the fires of feudal rage.--WARTON. THIRD EDITION. 1806. CONTENTS TO THE SECOND VOLUME. LESLEY'S MARCH The Battle of Philiphaugh The Gallant Grahams The Battle of Pentland Hills The Battle of Loudonhill The Battle of Bothwell-bridge PART SECOND. _ROMANTIC BALLADS._ Scottish Music, an Ode Introduction to the Tale of Tamlane The Young Tamlane Erlinton The Twa Corbies The Douglas Tragedy Young Benjie Lady Anne Lord William The Broomfield-Hill Proud Lady Margaret The Original Ballad of the Broom of Cowdenknows Lord Randal Sir Hugh Le Blond Graeme and Bewick The Duel of Wharton and Stuart, Part I. Part II. The Lament of the Border Widow Fair Helen of Kirkonnel, Part I. Part II. Hughie the Graeme Johnie of Breadislee Katherine Janfarie The Laird o' Logie A Lyke-wake Dirge The Dowie Dens of Yarrow The Gay Goss Hawk Brown Adam Jellon Grame Willie's Ladye Clerk Saunders Earl Richard The Lass of Lochroyan Rose the Red and White Lilly MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER. PART FIRST.--CONTINUED. _HISTORICAL BALLADS._ LESLY'S MARCH. "But, O my country! how shall memory trace "Thy glories, lost in either Charles's days, "When through thy fields destructive rapine spread, "Nor sparing infants' tears, nor hoary head! "In those dread days, the unprotected swain "Mourn'd, in the mountains, o'er his wasted plain; "Nor longer vocal, with the shepherd's lay, "Were Yarrow's banks, or groves of Endermay." LANGHORN--_Genius and Valour_. Such are the verses, in which a modern bard has painted the desolate state of Scotland, during a period highly unfavourable to poetical composition. Yet the civil and religious wars of the seventeenth century have afforded some subjects for traditionary poetry, and the reader is here presented with the ballads of that disastrous aera. Some prefatory history may not be unacceptable. That the Reformation was a good and a glorious work, few will be such slavish bigots as to deny. But the enemy came, by night, and sowed tares among the wheat; or rather; the foul and rank soil, upon which the seed was thrown, pushed forth, together with the rising crop, a plentiful proportion of pestilential weeds. The morals of the reformed clergy were severe; their learning was usually respectable, sometimes profound; and their eloquence, though often coarse, was vehement, animated, and popular. But they never could forget, that their rise had been achieved by the degradation, if not the fall, of the crown; and hence, a body of men, who, in most countries, have been attached to monarchy, were in Scotland, for nearly two centuries, sometimes the avowed enemies, always the ambitious rivals, of their prince. The disciples of Calvin could scarcely avoid a tendency to democracy, and the republican form of church government was sometimes hinted at, as no unfit model for the state; at least, the kirkmen laboured to impress, upon their followers and hearers, the fundamental principle, that the church should be solely governed by those, unto whom God had given the spiritual sceptre. The elder Melvine, in a conference with James VI., seized the monarch by the sleeve, and, addressing him as _God's sillie vassal_, told him, "There are two kings, and two kingdomes. There is Christ, and his kingdome, the kirke; whose subject King James the sixth is, and of whose kingdome he is not a king, nor a head, nor a lord, but a member; and they, whom Christ hath called and commanded to watch ower his kirke, and govern his spiritual kingdome, have sufficient authorise and power from him so to do; which no christian king, no prince, should controul or discharge, but fortifie and assist: otherwise they are not faithful subjects to Christ."--_Calderwood_, p. 329. The delegated theocracy, thus sternly claimed, was exercised with equal rigour. The offences in the king's household fell under their unceremonious jurisdiction, and he was formally reminded of his occasional neglect to say grace before and after meat--his repairing to hear the word more rarely than was fitting--his profane banning and swearing, and keeping of evil company--and finally, of his queen's carding, dancing, night-walking, and such like profane pastimes.--_Calderwood_, p. 313. A curse, direct or implied, was formally denounced against every man, horse, and spear, who should assist the king in his quarrel with the Earl of Gowrie; and from the pulpit, the favourites of the listening sovereign were likened to Haman, his wife to Herodias, and he himself to Ahab, to Herod, and to Jeroboam. These effusions of zeal could not be very agreeable to the temper of James: and accordingly, by a course of slow, and often crooked and cunning policy, he laboured to arrange the church-government upon a less turbulent and menacing footing. His eyes were naturally turned towards the English hierarchy, which had been modelled, by the despotic Henry VIII., into such a form, as to connect indissolubly the interest of the church with that of the regal power.[A] The Reformation, in England, had originated in the arbitrary will of the prince; in Scotland, and in all other countries of Europe, it had commenced among insurgents of the lower ranks. Hence, the deep and essential difference which separated the Huguenots, the Lutherans, the Scottish presbyterians, and, in fine, all the other reformed churches, from that of England. But James, with a timidity which sometimes supplies the place of prudence, contented himself with gradually imposing upon the Scottish nation a limited and moderate system of episcopacy, which, while it gave to a proportion of the churchmen a seat in the council of the nation, induced them to look up to the sovereign, as the power to whose influence they owed their elevation. But, in other respects, James spared the prejudices of his subjects; no ceremonial ritual was imposed upon their consciences; the pastors were reconciled by the prospect of preferment,[B] the dress and train of the bishops were plain and decent; the system of tythes was placed upon a moderate and unoppressive footing;[C] and, perhaps, on the whole, the Scottish hierarchy contained as few objectionable points as any system of church-government in Europe. Had it subsisted to the present day, although its doctrines could not have been more pure, nor its morals more exemplary, than those of the present kirk of Scotland, yet its degrees of promotion might have afforded greater encouragement to learning, and objects of laudable ambition to those, who might dedicate themselves to its service. But the precipitate bigotry of the unfortunate Charles I. was a blow to episcopacy in Scotland, from which it never perfectly recovered. [Footnote A: Of this the Covenanters were so sensible, as to trace (what they called) the Antichristian hierarchy, with its idolatry, superstition, and human inventions, "to the prelacy of England, the fountain whence all these Babylonish streams issue unto us."--See their manifesto on entering England, in 1640.] [Footnote B: Many of the preachers, who had been loudest in the cause of presbytery, were induced to accept of bishoprics. Such was, for example, William Cooper, who was created bishop of Galloway. This recreant Mass John was a hypochondriac, and conceived his lower extremities to be composed of glass; hence, on his court advancement, the following epigram was composed: _"Aureus heu! frugilem confregit malleus urnam."_] [Footnote C: This part of the system was perfected in the reign of Charles I.] It has frequently happened, that the virtues of the individual, at least their excess (if, indeed, there can be an excess in virtue), have been fatal to the prince. Never was this more fully exemplified than in the history of Charles I. His zeal for religion, his family affection, the spirit with which he defended his supposed rights, while they do honour to the man, were the fatal shelves upon which the monarchy was wrecked. Impatient to accomplish the total revolution, which his father's cautious timidity had left incomplete, Charles endeavoured at once to introduce into Scotland the church-government, and to renew, in England, the temporal domination, of his predecessor, Henry VIII. The furious temper of the Scottish nation first took fire; and the brandished footstool of a prostitute[A] gave the signal for civil dissension, which ceased not till the church was buried under the ruins of the constitution; till the nation had stooped to a military despotism; and the monarch to the block of the executioner. [Footnote A: "_Out, false loon! wilt thou say the mass at my lug (ear)_," was the well known exclamation of Margaret Geddes, as she discharged her missile tripod against the bishop of Edinburgh, who, in obedience to the orders of the privy-council, was endeavouring to rehearse the common prayer. Upon a seat more elevated, the said Margaret had shortly before done penance, before the congregation, for the sin of fornication: such, at least, is the tory tradition.] The consequence of Charles' hasty and arbitrary measures were soon evident. The united nobility, gentry, and clergy of Scotland, entered into the SOLEMN LEAGUE AND COVENANT, by which memorable deed, they subscribed and swore a national renunciation of the hierarchy. The walls of the prelatic Jericho (to use the language of the times) were thus levelled with the ground, and the curse of Hiel, the Bethelite, denounced against those who should rebuild them. While the clergy thundered, from the pulpits, against the prelatists and malignants (by which names were distinguished the scattered and heartless adherents of Charles), the nobility and gentry, in arms, hurried to oppose the march of the English army, which now advanced towards their borders. At the head of their defensive forces they placed Alexander Lesley, who, with many of his best officers, had been trained to war under the great Gustavus Adolphus. They soon assembled an army of 26,000 men, whose camp, upon Dunse-law, is thus described by an eye-witness. "Mr Baillie acknowledges, that it was an agreeable feast to his eyes, to survey the place: it is a round hill, about a Scots mile in circle, rising, with very little declivity, to the height of a bow-shot, and the head somewhat plain, and near a quarter of a mile in length and breadth; on the top it was garnished with near forty field pieces, pointed towards the east and south. The colonels, who were mostly noblemen, as Rothes, Cassilis, Eglinton, Dalhousie, Lindsay, Lowdon, Boyd, Sinclair, Balcarras, Flemyng, Kirkcudbright, Erskine, Montgomery, Yester, &c. lay in large tents at the head of their respective regiments; their captains, who generally were barons, or chief gentlemen, lay around them: next to these were the lieutenants, who were generally old veterans, and had served in that, or a higher station, over sea; and the common soldiers lay outmost, all in huts of timber, covered with divot, or straw. Every company, which, according to the first plan, did consist of two hundred men, had their colours flying at the captain's tent door, with the Scots arms upon them, and this motto, in golden letters, "FOR CHRIST'S CROWN AND COVENANT." Against this army, so well arrayed and disciplined, and whose natural hardihood was edged and exalted by a high opinion of their sacred cause, Charles marched at the head of a large force, but divided, by the emulation of the commanders, and enervated, by disuse of arms. A faintness of spirit pervaded the royal army, and the king stooped to a treaty with his Scottish subjects. The treaty was soon broken; and, in the following year, Dunse-law again presented the same edifying spectacle of a presbyterian army. But the Scots were not contented with remaining there. They passed the Tweed; and the English troops, in a skirmish at Newburn, shewed either more disaffection, or cowardice, than had at any former period disgraced their national character. This war was concluded by the treaty of Rippon; in consequence of which, and of Charles's concessions, made during his subsequent visit to his native country, the Scottish parliament congratulated him on departing "a contented king, from a contented people." If such content ever existed, it was of short duration. The storm, which had been soothed to temporary rest in Scotland, burst forth in England with treble violence. The popular clamour accused Charles, or his ministers, of fetching into Britain the religion of Rome, and the policy of Constantinople. The Scots felt most keenly the first, and the English the second, of these aggressions. Accordingly, when the civil war of England broke forth, the Scots nation, for a time, regarded it in neutrality, though not with indifference. But, when the successes of a prelatic monarch, against a presbyterian parliament, were paving the way for rebuilding the system of hierarchy, they could no longer remain inactive. Bribed by the delusive promise of Sir Henry Vane, and Marshall, the parliamentary commissioners, that the church of England should be reformed, _according to the word of God_, which, they fondly believed, amounted to an adoption of presbytery, they agreed to send succours to their brethren of England. Alexander Lesly, who ought to have ranked among the _contented_ subjects, having been raised by the king to the honours of Earl of Leven, was, nevertheless, readily induced to accept the command of this second army. Doubtless, where insurrection is not only pardoned, but rewarded, a monarch has little right to expect gratitude for benefits, which all the world, as well as the receiver, must attribute to fear. Yet something is due to decency; and the best apology for Lesly, is his zeal for propagating presbyterianism in England, the bait which had caught the whole parliament of Scotland. But, although the Earl of Leven was commander in chief, David Lesly, a yet more renowned and active soldier than himself, was major-general of the cavalry, and, in truth, bore away the laurels of the expedition. The words of the following march, which was played in the van of this presbyterian crusade, were first published by Allan Ramsay, in his _Evergreen_; and they breathe the very spirit we might expect. Mr Ritson, in his collection of Scottish songs, has favoured the public with the music, which seems to have been adapted to the bagpipes. The hatred of the old presbyterians to the organ was, apparently, invincible. It is here vilified with the name of a "_chest-full of whistles_," as the episcopal chapel at Glasgow was, by the vulgar, opprobriously termed the _Whistling Kirk_. Yet, such is the revolution of sentiment upon this, as upon more important points, that reports have lately been current, of a plan to introduce this noble instrument into presbyterian congregations. The share, which Lesly's army bore in the action of Marston Moor, has been exalted, or depressed, as writers were attached to the English or Scottish nations, to the presbyterian or independent factions. Mr Laing concludes, with laudable impartiality, that the victory was equally due to "Cromwell's iron brigade of disciplined independents, and to three regiments of Lesly's horse."--Vol I. p. 244. LESLEY'S MARCH. March! march! Why the devil do ye na march? Stand to your arms, my lads, Fight in good order; Front about, ye musketeers all, Till ye come to the English border: Stand til't, and fight like men, True gospel to maintain. The parliament's blythe to see us a' coming. When to the kirk we come, We'll purge it ilka room, Frae popish reliques, and a' sic innovation, That a' the warld may see, There's nane in the right but we, Of the auld Scottish nation. _Jenny_ shall wear the hood, _Jocky_ the sark of God; And the kist-fou of whistles, That mak sic a cleiro, Our piper's braw Shall hae them a', Whate'er come on it: Busk up your plaids, my lads! Cock up your bonnets! _Da Capo._ THE BATTLE OF PHILIPHAUGH. This ballad is so immediately connected with the former, that the editor is enabled to continue his sketch of historical transactions, from the march of Lesly. In the insurrection of 1680, all Scotland, south from the Grampians, was actively and zealously engaged. But, after the treaty of Rippon, the first fury of the revolutionary torrent may be said to have foamed off its force, and many of the nobility began to look round, with horror, upon the rocks and shelves amongst which it had hurried them. Numbers regarded the defence of Scotland as a just and necessary warfare, who did not see the same reason for interfering in the affairs of England. The visit of King Charles to the metropolis of his fathers, in all probability, produced its effect on his nobles. Some were allied to the house of Stuart by blood; all regarded it as the source of their honours, and venerated the ancient in obtaining the private objects of ambition, or selfish policy which had induced them to rise up against the crown. Amongst these late penitents, the well known marquis of Montrose was distinguished, as the first who endeavoured to recede from the paths of rude rebellion. Moved by the enthusiasm of patriotism, or perhaps of religion, but yet more by ambition, the sin of noble minds, Montrose had engaged, eagerly and deeply, upon the side of the covenanters He had been active in pressing the town of Aberdeen to take the covenant, and his success against the Gordons, at the bridge of Dee, left that royal burgh no other means of safety from pillage. At the head of his own battalion, he waded through the Tweed, in 1640, and totally routed the vanguard of the king's cavalry. But, in 1643, moved with resentment against the covenanters who preferred, to his prompt and ardent character, the caution of the wily and politic earl of Argyle, or seeing, perhaps, that the final views of that party were inconsistent with the interests of monarchy, and of the constitution, Montrose espoused the falling cause of royalty and raised the Highland clans, whom he united to a small body of Irish, commanded by Alexander Macdonald, still renowned in the north, under the title of Colkitto. With these tumultuary and uncertain forces, he rushed forth, like a torrent from the mountains, and commenced a rapid and brilliant career of victory. At Tippermoor, where he first met the covenanters, their defeat was so effectual, as to appal the presbyterian courage, even after the lapse of eighty years.[A] A second army was defeated under the walls of Aberdeen; and the pillage of the ill-fated town was doomed to expiate the principles, which Montrose himself had formerly imposed upon them. Argyleshire next experienced his arms; the domains of his rival were treated with more than military severity; and Argyle himself, advancing to Inverlochy for the defence of his country, was totally and disgracefully routed by Montrose. Pressed betwixt two armies, well appointed, and commanded by the most experienced generals of the Covenant, Mozitrose displayed more military skill in the astonishingly rapid marches, by which he avoided fighting to disadvantage, than even in the field of victory. By one of those hurried marches, from the banks of Loch Katrine to the heart of Inverness-shire, he was enabled to attack, and totally to defeat, the Covenanters, at Aulderne though he brought into the field hardly one half of their forces. Baillie, a veteran officer, was next routed by him, at the village of Alford, in Strathbogie. Encouraged by these repeated and splendid successes, Montrose now descended into the heart of Scotland, and fought a bloody and decisive battle, near Kilsyth, where four thousand covenanters fell under the Highland claymore. [Footnote A: Upon the breaking out of the insurrection, in the year 1715, the earl of Rothes, sheriff and lord-lieutenant of the county of Fife, issued out an order for "all the fencible men of the countie to meet him, at a place called Cashmoor. The gentlemen took no notice of his orders, nor did the commons, except those whom the ministers forced to goe to the place of rendezvouse, to the number of fifteen hundred men, being all that their utmost diligence could perform. But those of that countie, having been taught by their experience, that it is not good meddling with edge tools, especiallie in the hands of Highlandmen, were very averse from taking armes. No sooner they reflected on the name of the place of rendezvouse, Cashmoor, than Tippermoor was called to mind; a place not far from thence, where Montrose had routed them, when under the command of my great-grand-uncle the earl of Wemyss, then generall of God's armie. In a word, the unlucky choice of a place, called _Moo_, appeared ominous; and that, with the flying report of the Highlandmen having made themselves masters of Perth, made them throw down their armes, and run, notwithstanding the trouble that Rothes and the ministers gave themselves to stop them."--M.S. _Memoirs of Lord St Clair._] This victory opened the whole of Scotland to Montrose He occupied the capital, and marched forward to the border; not merely to complete the subjection of the southern provinces, but with the flattering hope of pouring his victorious army into England, and bringing to the support of Charles the sword of his paternal tribes. Half a century before Montrose's career, the state of the borders was such as might have enabled him easily to have accomplished his daring plan. The marquis of Douglas, the earls of Hume, Roxburgh, Traquair, and Annandale, were all descended of mighty border chiefs, whose ancestors could, each of them, have led into the field a body of their own vassals, equal in numbers, and superior in discipline, to the army of Montrose. But the military spirit of the borderers, and their attachment to their chiefs, had been much broken since the union of the crowns. The disarming acts of James had been carried rigorously into execution, and the smaller proprietors, no longer feeling the necessity of protection from their chiefs in war, had aspired to independence, and embraced the tenets of the covenant. Without imputing, with Wishart, absolute treachery to the border nobles, it may be allowed, that they looked with envy upon Montrose, and with dread and aversion upon his rapacious and disorderly forces. Hence, had it been in their power, it might not have altogether suited their inclinations, to have brought the strength of the border lances to the support of the northern clans. The once formidable name of Douglas still sufficed to raise some bands, by whom Montrose was joined, in his march down the Gala. With these reinforcements, and with the remnant of his Highlanders (for a great number had returned home with Colkitto, to deposit their plunder, and provide for their families), Montrose after traversing the border, finally encamped upon the field of Philiphaugh. The river Ettrick, immediately after its junction with the Yarrow, and previous to its falling into the Tweed, makes a large sweep to the southward, and winds almost beneath the lofty bank, on which the town of Selkirk stands; leaving, upon the northern side, a large and level plain, extending in an easterly direction, from a hill, covered with natural copse-wood, called the Harehead-wood, to the high ground which forms the banks of the Tweed, near Sunderland-hall. This plain is called Philliphaugh:[A] it is about a mile and a half in length, and a quarter of a mile broad; and, being defended, to the northward, by the high hills which separate Tweed from Yarrow, by the river in front, and by the high grounds, already mentioned on each flank, it forms, at once, a convenient and a secure field of encampment. On each flank Montrose threw up some trenches, which are still visible; and here he posted his infantry, amounting to about twelve or fifteen hundred men. He himself took up his quarters in the burgh of Selkirk, and, with him, the cavalry, in number hardly one thousand, but respectable, as being chiefly composed of gentlemen, and their immediate retainers. In this manner, by a fatal and unaccountable error, the river Ettrick was thrown betwixt the cavalry and infantry, which were to depend upon each other for intelligence and mutual support. But this might be overlooked by Montrose, in the conviction, that there was no armed enemy of Charles in the realm of Scotland; for he is said to have employed the night in writing and dispatching this agreeable intelligence to the king. Such an enemy was already within four miles of his camp. [Footnote A: The Scottish language is rich in words, expressive of local situation The single word _haugh_, conveys, to a Scotsman, almost all that I have endeavoured to explain in the text, by circumlocutory description.] Recalled by the danger of the cause of the Covenant, General David Lesly came down from England, at the head of those iron squadrons, whose force had been proved in the fatal battle of Long Marston Moor. His array consisted of from five to six thousand men, chiefly cavalry. Lesly's first plan seems to have been, to occupy the mid-land counties, so as to intercept the return of Montrose's Highlanders, and to force him to an unequal combat Accordingly, he marched along the eastern coast, from Berwick to Tranent; but there he suddenly altered his direction, and, crossing through Mid-Lothian, turned again to the southward, and, following the course of Gala water, arrived at Melrose, the evening before the engagement How it is possible that Montrose should have received no notice whatever of the march of so considerable an army, seems almost inconceivable, and proves, that the country was strongly disaffected to his cause, or person. Still more extraordinary does it appear, that, even with the advantage of a thick mist, Lesly should have, the next morning, advanced towards Montrose's encampment without being descried by a single scout. Such, however, was the case, and it was attended with all the consequences of the most complete surprisal. The first intimation that Montrose received of the march of Lesly, was the noise of the conflict, or, rather, that which attended the unresisted slaughter of his infantry, who never formed a line of battle: the right wing alone, supported by the thickets of Harehead-wood, and by the entrenchments which are there still visible, stood firm for some time. But Lesly had detached two thousand men, who, crossing the Ettrick still higher up than his main body, assaulted the rear of Montrose's right wing. At this moment, the marquis himself arrived, and beheld his army dispersed, for the first time, in irretrievable route. He had thrown himself upon a horse the instant he heard the firing, and, followed by such of his disorderly cavalry as had gathered upon the alarm, he galloped from Selkirk, crossed the Ettrick, and made a bold and desperate attempt to retrieve the fortune of the day. But all was in vain; and, after cutting his way, almost singly, through a body of Lesly's troopers, the gallant Montrose graced by his example the retreat of the fugitives. That retreat he continued up Yarrow, and over Minch-moor; nor did he stop till he arrived at Traquair, sixteen miles from the field of battle. Upon Philiphaugh he lost, in one defeat, the fruit of six splendid victories: nor was he again able effectually to make head, in Scotland, against the covenanted cause. The number slain in the field did not exceed three or four hundred; for the fugitives found refuge in the mountains, which had often been the retreat of vanquished armies, and were impervious to the pursuer's cavalry. Lesly abused his victory, and dishonoured his arms, by slaughtering, in cold blood, many of the prisoners whom he had taken; and the court-yard of Newark castle is said to have been the spot, upon which they were shot by his command. Many others are said, by Wishart, to have been precipitated from a high bridge over the Tweed. This, as Mr Laing remarks, is impossible; because there was not a bridge over the Tweed betwixt Peebles and Berwick. But there is an old bridge, over the Ettrick, only four miles from Philiphaugh, and another over the Yarrow, both of which lay in the very line of flight and pursuit; and either might have been the scene of the massacre. But if this is doubtful, it is too certain, that several of the royalists were executed by the Covenanters, as traitors to the king and parliament.[A] [Footnote A: A covenanted minister, present at the execution of these gentlemen observed, "This wark gaes bonnilie on!" an amiable exclamation equivalent to the modern _ça ira_, so often used on similar occasions.--_Wishart's Memoirs of Montrose._] I have reviewed, at some length, the details of this memorable engagement, which, at the same time, terminated the career of a hero, likened, by no mean judge of mankind[A] to those of antiquity, and decided the fate of his country. It is further remarkable, as the last field which was fought in Ettrick forest, the scene of so many bloody actions. The unaccountable neglect of patroles, and the imprudent separation betwixt the horse and foot, seem to have been the immediate causes of Montrose's defeat. But the ardent and impetuous character of this great warrior, corresponding with that of the troops which he commanded was better calculated for attack than defence; for surprising others, rather than for providing against surprise himself. Thus, he suffered loss by a sudden attack upon part of his forces, stationed at Aberdeen;[B] and, had he not extricated himself with the most singular ability, he must have lost his whole army, when surprised by Baillie, during the plunder of Dundee. Nor has it escaped an ingenious modern historian, that his final defeat at Dunbeath, so nearly resembles in its circumstances the surprise at Philiphaugh, as to throw some shade on his military talents.--LAING'S _History_. [Footnote A: Cardinal du Retz.] [Footnote B: Colonel Hurry, with a party of horse, surprised the town, while Montrose's Highlanders and cavaliers were "dispersed through the town, drinking carelessly in their lodgings; and, hearing the horse's feet, and great noise, were astonished, never dreaming of their enemy. However, Donald Farquharson happened to come to the causey, where he was cruelly slain, anent the Court de Guard; a brave gentleman, and one of the noblest captains amongst all the Highlanders of Scotland. Two or three others were killed, and some (taken prisoners) had to Edinburgh, and cast into irons in the tolbooth. Great lamentation was made for this gallant, being still the king's man for life and death."--SPALDING Vol. II. p. 281. The journalist, to whom all matters were of equal importance, proceeds to inform us, that Hurry took the marquis of Huntly's best horse, and, in his retreat through Montrose seized upon the marquis's second son. He also expresses his regret, that "the said Donald Farquharson's body was found in the street, stripped naked: for they tirr'd from off his body a rich stand of apparel, but put on the same day."--_Ibid._] The following ballad, which is preserved by tradition in Selkirkshire, coincides accurately with historical fact. This, indeed, constitutes its sole merit. The Covenanters were not, I dare say, addicted, more than their successors "to the profane and unprofitable art of poem-making."[A] Still, however, they could not refrain from some strains of exultation, over the defeat of the _truculent tyrant_, James Grahame. For, gentle reader, Montrose, who, with resources which seemed as none, gained six victories, and reconquered a kingdom; who, a poet, a scholar, a cavalier, and a general, could have graced alike a court, and governed a camp; this Montrose was numbered, by his covenanted countrymen, among "the troublers of Israel, the fire-brands of hell, the Corahs, the Balaams, the Doegs, the Rabshakahs, the Hamans, the Tobiahs, and Sanballats of the time." [Footnote A: So little was the spirit of illiberal fanaticism decayed in some parts of Scotland, that only thirty years ago, when Wilson, the ingenious author of a poem, called "_Clyde_," now republished, was inducted into the office of schoolmaster at Greenock, he was obliged formally, and in writing, to abjure _"the profane and unprofitable art of poem-making."_ It is proper to add, that such an incident is _now_ as unlikely to happen in Greenock as in London.] THE BATTLE OF PHILIPHAUGH. On Philiphaugh a fray began, At Hairhead wood it ended; The Scots out o'er the Graemes they ran, Sae merrily they bended. Sir David frae the border came, Wi' heart an' hand came he; Wi' him three thousand bonny Scotts, To bear him company. Wi' him three thousand valiant men, A noble sight to see! A cloud o' mist them weel concealed, As close as e'er might be. When they came to the Shaw burn, Said he, "Sae weel we frame, "I think it is convenient, "That we should sing a psalm."[A] When they came to the Lingly burn, As day-light did appear, They spy'd an aged father, And he did draw them near. "Come hither, aged father!" Sir David he did cry, "And tell me where Montrose lies, "With all his great army." "But, first, you must come tell to me, "If friends or foes you be; "I fear you are Montrose's men, "Come frae the north country." "No, we are nane o' Montrose's men, "Nor e'er intend to be; "I am sir David Lesly, "That's speaking unto thee." "If you're sir David Lesly, "As I think weel ye be, "I'm sorry ye hae brought so few "Into your company. "There's fifteen thousand armed men, "Encamped on yon lee; "Ye'll never be a bite to them, "For aught that I can see. "But, halve your men in equal parts, "Your purpose to fulfil; "Let ae half keep the water side, "The rest gae round the hill. "Your nether party fire must, "Then beat a flying drum; "And then they'll think the day's their ain, "And frae the trench they'll come. "Then, those that are behind them maun "Gie shot, baith grit and sma'; "And so, between your armies twa, "Ye may make them to fa'." "O were ye ever a soldier?" Sir David Lesly said; "O yes; I was at Solway flow, "Where we were all betray'd. "Again I was at curst Dunbar, "And was a pris'ner ta'en; "And many weary night and day, "In prison I hae lien." "If ye will lead these men aright, "Rewarded shall ye be; "But, if that ye a traitor prove, "I'll hang thee on a tree." "Sir, I will not a traitor prove; "Montrose has plundered me; "I'll do my best to banish him "Away frae this country." He halv'd his men in equal parts, His purpose to fulfill; The one part kept the water side, The other gaed round the hill. The nether party fired brisk, Then turn'd and seem'd to rin; And then they a' came frae the trench, And cry'd, "the day's our ain!" The rest then ran into the trench, And loos'd their cannons a': And thus, between his armies twa, He made them fast to fa'. Now, let us a' for Lesly pray, And his brave company! For they hae vanquish'd great Montrose, Our cruel enemy. [Footnote A: Various reading; "That we should take a dram."] NOTES ON THE BATTLE OF PHILIPHAUGH. _When they came to the Shaw burn._--P. 27. v. 1. A small stream, that joins the Ettrick, near Selkirk, on the south side of the river. _When they came to the Lingly burn._--P. 27. v. 2. A brook, which falls into the Ettrick, from the north, a little above the Shaw burn. _They spy'd an aged father._--P. 27. v. 2. The traditional commentary upon the ballad states this man's name to have been Brydone, ancestor to several families in the parish of Ettrick, particularly those occupying the farms of Midgehope and Redford Green. It is a strange anachronism, to make this aged father state himself at the battle of _Solway flow,_ which was fought a hundred years before Philiphaugh; and a still stranger, to mention that of Dunbar, which did not take place till five years after Montrose's defeat. A tradition, annexed to a copy of this ballad, transmitted to me by Mr James Hogg, bears, that the earl of Traquair, on the day of the battle, was advancing with a large sum of money, for the payment of Montrose's forces, attended by a blacksmith, one of his retainers. As they crossed Minch-moor, they were alarmed by firing, which the earl conceived to be Montrose exercising his forces, but which his attendant, from the constancy and irregularity of the noise, affirmed to be the tumult of an engagement. As they came below Broadmeadows, upon Yarrow, they met their fugitive friends, hotly pursued by the parliamentary troopers. The earl, of course, turned, and fled also: but his horse, jaded with the weight of dollars which he carried, refused to take the hill; so that the earl was fain to exchange with his attendant, leaving him with the breathless horse, and bag of silver, to shift for himself; which he is supposed to have done very effectually. Some of the dragoons, attracted by the appearance of the horse and trappings, gave chase to the smith, who fled up the Yarrow; but finding himself as he said, encumbered with the treasure, and unwilling that it should be taken, he flung it into a well, or pond, near the Tinnies, above Hangingshaw. Many wells were afterwards searched in vain; but it is the general belief, that the smith, if he ever hid the money, knew too well how to anticipate the scrutiny. There is, however, a pond, which some peasants began to drain, not long ago, in hopes of finding the golden prize, but were prevented, as they pretended, by supernatural interference. THE GALLANT GRAHAMS. The preceding ballad was a song of triumph over the defeat of Montrose at Philiphaugh; the verses, which follow are a lamentation for his final discomfiture and cruel death. The present edition of _"The Gallant Grahams"_ is given from tradition, enlarged and corrected by an ancient printed edition, entitled, _"The Gallant Grahams of Scotland"_ to the tune of _"I will away, and I will not tarry,"_ of which Mr Ritson favoured the editor with an accurate copy. The conclusion of Montrose's melancholy history is too well known. The Scottish army, which sold king Charles I. to his parliament, had, we may charitably hope, no idea that they were bartering his blood; although they must have been aware, that they were consigning him to perpetual bondage.[A] At least the sentiments of the kingdom at large differed widely from those of the military merchants, and the danger of king Charles drew into England a well appointed Scottish army, under the command of the duke of Hamilton. But he met with Cromwell, and to meet with Cromwell was inevitable defeat. The death of Charles, and the triumph of the independents, excited still more highly the hatred and the fears of the Scottish nation. The outwitted presbyterians, who saw, too late, that their own hands had been employed in the hateful task of erecting the power of a sect, yet more fierce and fanatical than themselves, deputed a commission to the Hague, to treat with Charles II., whom, upon certain conditions they now wished to restore to the throne of his fathers. At the court of the exiled monarch, Montrose also offered to his acceptance a splendid plan of victory and conquest, and pressed for his permission to enter Scotland; and there, collecting the remains of the royalists to claim the crown for his master, with the sword in his hand. An able statesman might perhaps have reconciled these jarring projects; a good man would certainly have made a decided choice betwixt them. Charles was neither the one not the other; and, while he treated with the presbyterians, with a view of accepting the crown from their hands, he scrupled not to authorise Montrose, the mortal enemy of the sect, to pursue his separate and inconsistent plan of conquest. [Footnote A: As Salmasius quaintly, but truly, expresses it, _Presbyterian iligaverunt independantes trucidaverunt_.] Montrose arrived in the Orkneys with six hundred Germans, was furnished with some recruits from those islands, and was joined by several royalists, as he traversed the wilds of Caithness and Sutherland: but, advancing into Ross-shire, he was surprised, and totally defeated, by colonel Strachan, an officer of the Scottish parliament, who had distinguished himself in the civil wars, and who afterwards became a decided Cromwellian. Montrose, after a fruitless resistance, at length fled from the field of defeat, and concealed himself in the grounds of Macleod of Assint to whose fidelity he entrusted his life, and by whom he was delivered up to Lesly, his most bitter enemy. He was tried for what was termed treason against the estates of the kingdom; and, despite the commission of Charles for his proceedings, he was condemned to die by a parliament, who acknowledged Charles to be their king, and whom, on that account only, Montrose acknowledged to be a parliament. "The clergy," says a late animated historian, "whose vocation it was to persecute the repose of his last moments, sought, by the terrors of his sentence, to extort repentance; but his behaviour, firm and dignified to the end, repelled their insulting advances with scorn and disdain. He was prouder, he replied, to have his head affixed to the prison-walls, than to have his picture placed in the king's bed-chamber: 'and, far from being troubled that my limbs are to be sent to your principal cities, I wish I had flesh enough to be dispersed through Christendom, to attest my dying attachment to my king.' It was the calm employment of his mind, that night, to reduce this extravagant sentiment to verse. He appeared next day, on the scaffold, in a rich habit, with the same serene and undaunted countenance, and addressed the people, to vindicate his dying unabsolved by the church, rather than to justify an invasion of the kingdom, during a treaty with the estates. The insults of his enemies were not yet exhausted. The history of his exploits was attached to his neck by the public executioner: but he smiled at their inventive malice; declared, that he wore it with more pride than he had done the garter; and, when his devotions were finished, demanding if any more indignities remained to be practised, submitted calmly to an unmerited fate."--_Laing's History of Scotland,_ Vol. I. p. 404. Such was the death of James Graham, the great marquis of Montrose, over whom some lowly bard has poured forth the following elegiac verses. To say, that they are far unworthy of the subject, is no great reproach; for a nobler poet might have failed in the attempt. Indifferent as the ballad is, we may regret its being still more degraded by many apparent corruptions. There seems an attempt to trace Montrose's career, from his first raising the royal standard, to his second expedition and death; but it is interrupted and imperfect. From the concluding stanza, I presume the song was composed upon the arrival of Charles in Scotland, which so speedily followed the execution of Montrose, that the king entered the city while the head of his most faithful and most successful adherent was still blackening in the sun. THE GALLANT GRAHAMS. Now, fare thee weel, sweet Ennerdale! Baith kith and countrie I bid adieu; For I maun away, and I may not stay, To some uncouth land which I never knew. To wear the blue I think it best, Of all the colours that I see; And I'll wear it for the gallant Grahams, That are banished from their countrie. I have no gold, I have no land, I have no pearl, nor precious stane; But I wald sell my silken snood, To see the gallant Grahams come hame. In Wallace days when they began, Sir John the Graham did bear the gree, Through all the lands of Scotland wide; He was a lord of the south countrie. And so was seen full many a time; For the summer flowers did never spring, But every Graham, in armour bright, Would then appear before the king. They all were dressed in armour sheen, Upon the pleasant banks of Tay; Before a king they might be seen, These gallant Grahams in their array. At the Goukhead our camp we set, Our leaguer down there for to lay; And, in the bonnie summer light, We rode our white horse and our gray. Our false commander sold our king Unto his deadly enemie, Who was the traitor Cromwell, then; So I care not what they do with me. They have betrayed our noble prince, And banish'd him from his royal crown; But the gallant Grahams have ta'en in hand, For to command those traitors down. In Glen-Prosen[A] we rendezvoused, March'd to Glenshie by night and day, And took the town of Aberdeen, And met the Campbells in their array. Five thousand men, in armour strong. Did meet the gallant Grahams that day At Inverlochie, where war began, And scarce two thousand men were they. Gallant Montrose, that chieftain bold, Courageous in the best degree, Did for the king fight well that day; The lord preserve his majestie! Nathaniel Gordon, stout and bold, Did for king Charles wear the blue; But the cavaliers they all were sold, And brave Harthill, a cavalier too. And Newton Gordon, burd-alone And Dalgatie, both stout and keen, And gallant Veitch upon the field, A braver face was never seen. Now, fare ye weel, sweet Ennerdale! Countrie and kin I quit ye free; Chear up your hearts, brave cavaliers, For the Grahams are gone to high Germany. Now brave Montrose he went to France, And to Germany, to gather fame; And bold Aboyne is to the sea, Young Huntly is his noble name. Montrose again, that chieftain bold, Back unto Scotland fair he came, For to redeem fair Scotland's land, The pleasant, gallant, worthy Graham! At the water of Carron he did begin, And fought the battle to the end; Where there were killed, for our noble king, Two thousand of our Danish men. Gilbert Menzies, of high degree, By whom the king's banner was borne; For a brave cavalier was he, But now to glory he is gone. Then woe to Strachan, and Hacket baith! And, Lesly, ill death may thou die! For ye have betrayed the gallant Grahams, Who aye were true to majestic. And the laird of Assint has seized Montrose, And had him into Edinburgh town; And frae his body taken the head, And quartered him upon a trone. And Huntly's gone the selfsame way, And our noble king is also gone; He suffered death for our nation, Our mourning tears can ne'er be done. But our brave young king is now come home, King Charles the second in degree; The Lord send peace into his time, And God preserve his majestie! [Footnote A: Glen-Prosen, in Angus-shire.] NOTES ON THE GALLANT GRAHAMS. _Now, fare thee weel, sweet Ennerdale._--P. 38. v. 1. A corruption of Endrickdale. The principal, and most ancient possessions of the Montrose family lie along the water of Endrick, in Dumbartonshire. _Sir John the Graham did bear the gree._--P. 39. v. 1. The faithful friend and adherent of the immortal Wallace, slain at the battle of Falkirk. _Who was the traitor Cromwell, then._--P. 39. v. 5. This extraordinary character, to whom, in crimes and in success our days only have produced a parallel, was no favourite in Scotland. There occurs the following invective against him, in a MS. in the Advocates' Library. The humour consists in the dialect of a Highlander, speaking English, and confusing _Cromwell_ with _Gramach,_ ugly: Te commonwelt, tat Gramagh ting. Gar brek hem's word, gar do hem's king; Gar pay hem's sesse, or take hem's (geers) We'l no de at, del come de leers; We'l bide a file amang te crowes, (_i.e._ in the woods) We'l scor te sword, and wiske to bowes; And fen her nen-sel se te re, (the king) Te del my care for _Gromaghee_. The following tradition, concerning Cromwell, is preserved by an uncommonly direct line of traditional evidence; being narrated (as I am informed) by the grandson of an eye-witness. When Cromwell, in 1650, entered Glasgow, he attended divine service in the High Church; but the presbyterian divine, who officiated, poured forth, with more zeal than prudence, the vial of his indignation upon the person, principles, and cause, of the independent general. One of Cromwell's officers rose, and whispered his commander; who seemed to give him a short and stern answer, and the sermon was concluded without interruption Among the crowd, who were assembled to gaze at the general, as he came out of the church, was a shoemaker, the son of one of James the sixth's Scottish footmen. This man had been born and bred in England, but, after his father's death, had settled in Glasgow. Cromwell eyed him among the crowd, and immediately called him by his name--the man fled; but, at Cromwell's command, one of his retinue followed him, and brought him to the general's lodgings. A number of the inhabitants remained at the door, waiting the end of this extraordinary scene. The shoemaker soon came out, in high spirits, and, shewing some gold, declared, he was going to drink Cromwell's health. Many attended him to hear the particulars of his interview; among others, the grandfather of the narrator. The shoemaker said, that he had been a playfellow of Cromwell when they were both boys, their parents residing in the same street; that he had fled, when the general first called to him, thinking he might owe him some ill-will, on account of his father being in the service of the royal family. He added, that Cromwell had been so very kind and familiar with him, that he ventured to ask him, what the officer had said to him in the church. "He proposed," said Cromwell, "to pull forth the "minister by the ears; and I answered, that the preacher was "one fool, and he another." In the course of the day, Cromwell held an interview with the minister, and contrived to satisfy his scruples so effectually, that the evening discourse, by the same man, was tuned to the praise and glory of the victor of Naseby. _Nathaniel Gordon, stout and bold, Did for King Charles wear the, blue._--P. 40. v. 5. This gentleman was of the ancient family of Gordon of Gight. He had served, as a soldier, upon the continent, and acquired great military skill. When his chief, the marquis of Huntly, took up arms in 1640, Nathaniel Gordon, then called Major Gordon, joined him, and was of essential service during that short insurrection. But, being checked for making prize of a Danish fishing buss, he left the service of the marquis, in some disgust. In 1644, he assisted at a sharp and dexterous _camisade_ (as it was then called), when the barons of Haddo, of Gight, of Drum, and other gentlemen, with only sixty men under their standard, galloped through the old town of Aberdeen, and, entering the burgh itself, about seven in the morning, made prisoners, and carried off, four of the covenanting magistrates and effected a safe retreat, though the town was then under the domination of the opposite party. After the death of the baron of Haddo, and the severe treatment of Sir George Gordon of Gight, his cousin-german, Major Nathaniel Gordon seems to have taken arms, in despair of finding mercy at the covenanters' hands. On the 24th of July, 1645, he came down, with a band of horsemen, upon the town of Elgin, while St James' fair was held, and pillaged the merchants of 14,000 merks of money and merchandize.[A] He seems to have joined Montrose, as soon as he raised the royal standard; and, as a bold and active partizan, rendered him great service. But, in November 1644, Gordon, now a colonel, suddenly deserted Montrose, aided the escape of Forbes of Craigievar, one of his prisoners, and reconciled himself to the kirk, by doing penance for adultery, and for the almost equally heinous crime of having scared Mr Andrew Cant,[B] the famous apostle of the covenant. This, however, seems to have been an artifice, to arrange a correspondence betwixt Montrose and Lord Gordon, a gallant young nobleman, representative of the Huntley family, and inheriting their loyal spirit, though hitherto engaged in the service of the covenant. Colonel Gordon was successful, and returned to the royal camp with his converted chief. Both followed zealously the fortunes of Montrose, until Lord Gordon fell in the battle of Alford, and Nathaniel Gordon was taken at Philiphaugh. He was one of ten loyalists, devoted upon that occasion, by the parliament, to expiate, with their blood, the crime of fidelity to their king. Nevertheless, the covenanted nobles would have probably been satisfied with the death of the gallant Rollock, sharer of Montrose's dangers and glory, of Ogilvy, a youth of eighteen, whose crime was the hereditary feud betwixt his family and Argyle, and of Sir Philip Nisbet, a cavalier of the ancient stamp, had not the pulpits resounded with the cry, that God required the blood of the malignants, to expiate the sins of the people. "What meaneth," exclaimed the ministers, in the perverted language of scripture--"What meaneth, then, this bleating of the sheep in my ears, and the lowing of the oxen?" The appeal to the judgment of Samuel was decisive, and the shambles were instantly opened. Nathaniel Gordon was brought first to execution. He lamented the sins of his youth, once more (and probably with greater sincerity) requested absolution from the sentence of excommunication pronounced on account of adultery, and was beheaded 6th January 1646. [Footnote A: Spalding, Vol. II. pp. 151, 154, 169, 181, 221. _History of the Family of Gordon,_ Edin. 1727, Vol. II. p. 299.] [Footnote B: He had sent him a letter, which nigh frightened him out of his wits.--SPALDING, Vol. II. p. 231.] _And brave Harthill, a cavalier too._--P. 40, v. 5. Leith, of Harthill, was a determined loyalist, and hated the covenanters, not without reason. His father, a haughty high-spirited baron, and chief of a clan, happened, in 1639, to sit down in the desk of provost Lesly, in the high kirk of Aberdeen He was disgracefully thrust out by the officers, and, using some threatening language to the provost, was imprisoned, like a felon, for many months, till he became furious, and nearly mad. Having got free of the shackles, with which he was loaded, he used his liberty by coming to the tolbooth window where he uttered the most violent and horrible threats against Provost Lesly, and the other covenanting magistrates, by whom he had been so severely treated. Under pretence of this new offence, he was sent to Edinburgh, and lay long in prison there; for, so fierce was his temper, that no one would give surety for his keeping the peace with his enemies, if set at liberty. At length he was delivered by Montrose, when he made himself master of Edinburgh.--SPALDING, Vol. I. pp. 201; 266. His house of Harthill was dismantled, and miserably pillaged by Forbes of Craigievar, who expelled his wife and children with the most relentless inhumanity.--_Ibid._ Vol. II. p. 225. Meanwhile, young Harthill was the companion and associate of Nathaniel Gordon, whom he accompanied at plundering the fair of Elgin, and at most of Montrose's engagements. He retaliated severely on the covenanters, by ravaging and burning their lands. _Ibid._ Vol. II. p. 301. His fate has escaped my notice. _And Dalgatie, both stout and keen._--P. 41. v. 1. Sir Francis Hay, of Dalgatie, a steady cavalier, and a gentleman of great gallantry and accomplishment. He was a faithful follower of Montrose, and was taken prisoner with him at his last fatal battle. He was condemned to death, with his illustrious general. Being a Roman catholic, he refused the assistance of the presbyterian clergy, and was not permitted, even on the scaffold, to receive ghostly comfort, in the only form in which his religion taught him to consider it as effectual. He kissed the axe, avowed his fidelity to his sovereign, and died like a soldier.--_Montrose's Memoirs,_ p. 322. _And Newton Gordon, burd-alone._--P. 41. v. 1. Newton, for obvious reasons, was a common appellation of an estate, or barony, where a new edifice had been erected. Hence, for distinction's sake, it was anciently compounded with the name of the proprietor; as, Newtown-Edmonstone, Newtown-Don, Newtown-Gordon, &c. Of Gordon of Newtown, I only observe, that he was, like all his clan, a steady loyalist, and a follower of Montrose. _And gallant Veitch, upon the field._--P. 41. v. 1. I presume this gentleman to have been David Veitch, brother to Veitch of Dawick, who, with many other of the Peebles-shire gentry, was taken at Philiphaugh. The following curious accident took place, some years afterwards, in consequence of his loyal zeal. "In the year 1653, when the loyal party did arise in arms against the English, in the North and West Highlands, some noblemen and loyal gentlemen, with others, were forward to repair to them, with such forces as they could make; which the English, with marvelouse diligence, night and day, did bestir themselves to impede; making their troops of horse and dragoons to pursue the loyal party in all places, that they might not come to such a considerable number as was designed. It happened, one night, that one Captain Masoun, commander of a troop of dragoons, that came from Carlisle, in England, marching through the town of Sanquhar, in the night, was encountered by one captain Palmer, commanding a troop of horse, that came from Ayr, marching eastward; and, meeting at the tollhouse, or tolbooth, one David Veitch, brother to the laird of Dawick, in Tweeddale, and one of the loyal party, being prisoner in irons by the English, did arise, and came to the window at their meeting, and cryed out, that they should _fight valiantly for King Charles_, Where-through, they, taking each other for the loyal party, did begin a brisk fight, which continued for a while, til the dragoons, having spent their shot, and finding the horsemen to be too strong for them, did give ground; but yet retired, in some order, towards the castle of Sanquhar, being hotly pursued by the troop, through the whole town, above a quarter of a mile, till they came to the castle; where both parties did, to their mutual grief, become sensible of their mistake. In this skirmish there were several killed on both sides, and Captain Palmer himself dangerously wounded, with many mo wounded in each troop, who did peaceably dwell together afterward for a time, untill their wounds were cured, in Sanquhar castle."--_Account of Presbytery of Penpont, in Macfarlane's MSS._ _And bold Aboyne is to the sea, Young Huntly is his noble name._--P. 41. v. 3. James, earl of Aboyne, who fled to France, and there died heart-broken. It is said, his death was accelerated by the news of King Charles' execution. He became representative of the Gordon family, or _Young Huntly_, as the ballad expresses it, in consequence of the death of his elder brother, George, who fell in the battle of Alford.--_History of Gordon Family._ _Two thousand of our Danish men._--P. 41. v. 5. Montrose's foreign auxiliaries, who, by the way, did not exceed 600 in all. _Gilbert Menzies, of high degree, By whom the king's banner was borne._--P. 42. v. 1. Gilbert Menzies, younger of Pitfoddells, carried the royal banner in Montrose's last battle. It bore the headless corpse of Charles I., with this motto, _"Judge and revenge my cause, O Lord!"_ Menzies proved himself worthy of this noble trust, and, obstinately refusing quarter, died in defence of his charge. _Montrose's Memoirs_. _Then woe to Strachan, and Hacket baith._--P. 42. v. 2. Sir Charles Hacket, an officer in the service of the estates. _And Huntly's gone, the self-same way._--P. 42. v. 4. George Gordon, second marquis of Huntley, one of the very few nobles in Scotland, who had uniformly adhered to the king from the very beginning of the troubles, was beheaded by the sentence of the parliament of Scotland (so calling themselves), upon the 22d March, 1649, one month and twenty-two days after the martyrdom of his master. He has been much blamed for not cordially co-operating with Montrose; and Bishop Wishart, in the zeal of partiality for his hero, accuses Huntley of direct treachery. But he is a true believer, who seals, with his blood, his creed, religious or political; and there are many reasons, short of this foul charge, which may have dictated the backward conduct of Huntley towards Montrose. He could not forget, that, when he first stood out for the king, Montrose, then the soldier of the covenant, had actually made him prisoner: and we cannot suppose Huntley to have been so sensible of Montrose's superior military talents, as not to think himself, as equal in rank, superior in power, and more uniform in loyalty entitled to equally high marks of royal trust and favour. This much is certain, that the gallant clan of Gordon contributed greatly to Montrose's success; for the gentlemen of that name, with the brave and loyal Ogilvies, composed the principal part of his cavalry. THE BATTLE OF PENTLAND HILLS. We have observed the early antipathy, mutually entertained by the Scottish presbyterians and the house of Stuart It seems to have glowed in the breast even of the good-natured Charles II. He might have remembered, that, in 1551, the presbyterians had fought, bled, and ruined themselves in his cause. But he rather recollected their early faults than their late repentance; and even their services were combined with the recollection of the absurd and humiliating circumstances of personal degradation,[A] to which their pride and folly had subjected him, while they professed to espouse his cause. As a man of pleasure, he hated their stern and inflexible rigour, which stigmatised follies even more deeply than crimes; and he whispered to his confidents, that "presbytery was no religion for a gentleman." It is not, therefore, wonderful, that, in the first year of his restoration, he formally reestablished prelacy in Scotland; but it is surprising, that, with his father's example before his eyes, he should not have been satisfied to leave at freedom the consciences of those who could not reconcile themselves to the new system. The religious opinions of sectaries have a tendency like the water of some springs, to become soft and mild, when freely exposed to the open day. Who can recognise in the decent and industrious quakers, and ana-baptists the wild and ferocious tenets which distinguished their sects, while they were yet honoured with the distinction of the scourge and the pillory? Had the system of coercion against the presbyterians been continued until our day, Blair and Robertson would have preached in the wilderness, and only discovered their powers of eloquence and composition, by rolling along a deeper torrent of gloomy fanaticism. [Footnote A: Among other ridiculous occurrences, it is said, that some of Charles's gallantries were discovered by a prying neighbour. A wily old minister was deputed, by his brethren, to rebuke the king for this heinous scandal. Being introduced into the royal presence he limited his commission to a serious admonition, that, upon such occasions, his majesty should always shut the windows.--The king is said to have recompensed this unexpected lenity after the Restoration. He probably remembered the joke, though he might have forgotten the service.] The western counties distinguished themselves by their opposition to the prelatic system. Three hundred and fifty ministers, ejected from their churches and livings, wandered through the mountains, sowing the seeds of covenanted doctrine, while multitudes of fanatical followers pursued them, to reap the forbidden crop. These conventicles as they were called, were denounced by the law, and their frequenters dispersed by military force. The genius of the persecuted became stubborn, obstinate, and ferocious; and, although indulgencies were tardily granted to some presbyterian ministers, few of the true covenanters or whigs, as they were called, would condescend to compound with a prelatic government, or to listen even to their own favourite doctrine under the auspices of the king. From Richard Cameron, their apostle, this rigid sect acquired the name of Cameronians. They preached and prayed against the indulgence, and against the presbyterians who availed themselves of it, because their accepting this royal boon was a tacit acknowledgment of the king's supremacy in ecclesiastical matters. Upon these bigotted and persecuted fanatics, and by no means upon the presbyterians at large, are to be charged the wild anarchical principles of anti-monarchy and assassination which polluted the period when they flourished. The insurrection, commemorated and magnified in the following ballad, as indeed it has been in some histories, was, in itself, no very important affair. It began in Dumfries-shire where Sir James Turner, a soldier of fortune, was employed to levy the arbitrary fines imposed for not attending the episcopal churches. The people rose, seized his person, disarmed his soldiers, and having continued together, resolved to march towards Edinburgh, expecting to be joined by their friends in that quarter. In this they were disappointed; and, being now diminished to half their numbers, they drew up on the Pentland Hills, at a place called Rullien Green. They were commanded by one Wallace; and here they awaited the approach of General Dalziel, of Binns; who, having marched to Calder, to meet them on the Lanark road, and finding, that, by passing through Collington, they had got to the other side of the hills, cut through the mountains, and approached them. Wallace shewed both spirit and judgment: he drew his men up in a very strong situation, and withstood two charges of Dalziel's cavalry; but, upon the third shock, the insurgents were broken, and utterly dispersed. There was very little slaughter, as the cavalry of Dalziel were chiefly gentlemen, who pitied their oppressed and misguided countrymen. There were about fifty killed, and as many made prisoners. The battle was fought on the 28th November, 1666; a day still observed by the scattered remnant of the Cameronian sect, who regularly hear a field-preaching upon the field of battle. I am obliged for a copy of the ballad to Mr Livingston of Airds, who took it down from the recitation of an old woman residing on his estate. The gallant Grahams, mentioned in the text, are Graham of Claverhouse's horse. THE BATTLE OF PENTLAND HILLS. _This Ballad is copied verbatim from the Old Woman's recitation._ The gallant Grahams cum from the west, Wi' their horses black as ony craw; The Lothian lads they marched fast, To be at the Rhyns o' Gallowa. Betwixt Dumfries town and Argyle, The lads they marched mony a mile; Souters and taylors unto them drew, Their covenants for to renew. The whigs, they, wi' their merry cracks, Gard the poor pedlars lay down their packs; But aye sinsyne they do repent The renewing o' their covenant. A the Mauchline muir, where they were reviewed, Ten thousand men in armour shewed; But, ere they cam to the Brockie's burn, The half o' them did back return. General Dalyell, as I hear tell, Was our lieutenant general; And captain Welsh, wi' his wit and skill, Was to guide them on to the Pentland hill. General Dalyell held to the hill, Asking at them what was their will; And who gave them this protestation, To rise in arms against the nation? "Although we all in armour be, It's not against his majesty; Nor yet to spill our neighbour's bluid, But wi' the country we'll conclude." "Lay down your arms, in the king's name, And ye shall all gae safely hame;" But they a' cried out, wi' ae consent, "We'll fight a broken covenant." "O well," says he, "since it is so, A willfu' man never wanted woe;" He then gave a sign unto his lads, And they drew up in their brigades. The trumpets blew, and the colours flew, And every man to his armour drew; The whigs were never so much aghast, As to see their saddles toom sae fast. The cleverest men stood in the van, The whigs they took their heels and ran; But such a raking was never seen, As the raking o' the Rullien Green. THE BATTLE OF LOUDONHILL. The whigs, now become desperate, adopted the most desperate principles; and retaliating, as far as they could, the intolerating persecution which they endured, they openly disclaimed allegiance to any monarch who should not profess presbytery, and subscribe the covenant.--These principles were not likely to conciliate the favour of government; and as we wade onward in the history of the times, the scenes become yet darker. At length, one would imagine the parties had agreed to divide the kingdom of vice betwixt them; the hunters assuming to themselves open profligacy and legalized oppression; and the hunted, the opposite attributes of hypocrisy, fanaticism, disloyalty, and midnight assassination. The troopers and cavaliers became enthusiasts in the pursuit of the covenanters If Messrs Kid, King, Cameron, Peden, &c. boasted of prophetic powers, and were often warned of the approach of the soldiers, by supernatural impulse,[A] captain John Creichton, on the other side, dreamed dreams, and saw visions (chiefly, indeed, after having drunk hard), in which the lurking holes of the rebels were discovered to his imagination.[B] Our ears are scarcely more shocked with the profane execrations of the persecutors,[C] than with the strange and insolent familiarity used towards the Deity by the persecuted fanatics. Their indecent modes of prayer, their extravagant expectations of miraculous assistance, and their supposed inspirations, might easily furnish out a tale, at which the good would sigh, and the gay would laugh. [Footnote A: In the year 1684, Peden, one of the Cameronian preachers, about ten o'clock at night, sitting at the fire-side, started up to his feet, and said, "Flee, auld Sandie (thus he designed himself), and hide yourself! for colonel----is coming to this house to apprehend you; and I advise you all to do the like, for he will be here within an hour;" which came to pass: and when they had made a very narrow search, within and without the house, and went round the thorn-bush, under which he was lying praying, they went off without their prey. He came in, and said, "And has this gentleman (designed by his name) given poor Sandie, and thir poor things, such a fright? For this night's work, God shall give him such a blow, within a few days, that all the physicians on earth shall not be able to cure;" which came to pass, for he died in great misery.--_Life of Alexander Peden._] [Footnote B: See the life of this booted apostle of prelacy, written by Swift, who had collected all his anecdotes of persecution, and appears to have enjoyed them accordingly.] [Footnote C: "They raved," says Peden's historian, "like fleshly devils, when the mist shrouded from their pursuit the wandering whigs." One gentleman closed a declaration of vengeance against the conventiclers with this strange imprecation, "Or may the devil make my ribs a gridiron to my soul!"--MS. _Account of the Presbytery of Penpont._ Our armies swore terribly in Flanders, but nothing to this!] In truth, extremes always approach each other; and the superstition of the Roman catholics was, in some degree, revived, even by their most deadly enemies. They are ridiculed by the cavaliers, as wearing the relics of their saints by way of amulet:-- "She shewed to me a box, wherein lay hid The pictures of Cargil and Mr Kid; A splinter of the tree, on which they were slain; A double inch of Major Weir's best cane; Rathillet's sword, beat down to table-knife, Which took at Magus' Muir a bishop's life; The worthy Welch's spectacles, who saw, That windle-straws would fight against the law; They, windle-straws, were stoutest of the two, They kept their ground, away the prophet flew; And lists of all the prophets' names were seen At Pentland Hills, Aird-Moss, and Rullen Green. "Don't think," she says, "these holy things are foppery; They're precious antidotes against the power of popery." _The Cameronian Tooth.--Pennycuick's Poems,_ p. 110. The militia and standing army soon became unequal to the task of enforcing conformity, and suppressing conventicles In, their aid, and to force compliance with a test proposed by government, the Highland clans were raised, and poured down into Ayrshire.[A] An armed host of undisciplined mountaineers, speaking a different language, and professing, many of them, another religion, were let loose, to ravage and plunder this unfortunate country; and it is truly astonishing to find how few acts of cruelty they perpetrated, and how seldom they added murder to pillage[B] Additional levies of horse were also raised, under the name of Independent Troops, and great part of them placed under the command of James Grahame of Claverhouse a man well known to fame, by his subsequent title of viscount Dundee, but better remembered, in the western shires, under the designation of the bloody Clavers. In truth, he appears to have combined the virtues and vices of a savage chief. Fierce, unbending, and rigorous, no emotion of compassion prevented his commanding, and witnessing, every detail of military execution against the non-conformists. Undauntedly brave, and steadily faithful to his prince, he sacrificed himself in the cause of James, when he was deserted by all the world. If we add, to these attributes, a goodly person, complete skill in martial exercises, and that ready and decisive character, so essential to a commander, we may form some idea of this extraordinary character. The whigs, whom he persecuted daunted by his ferocity and courage, conceived him to be impassive to their bullets,[C] and that he had sold himself, for temporal greatness, to the seducer of mankind. It is still believed, that a cup of wine, presented to him by his butler, changed into clotted blood; and that, when he plunged his feet into cold water, their touch caused it to boil. The steed, which bore him, was supposed to be the gift of Satan; and precipices are shewn, where a fox could hardly keep his feet, down which the infernal charger conveyed him safely, in pursuit of the wanderers. It is remembered, with terror, that Claverhouse was successful in every engagement with the whigs, except that at Drumclog, or Loudon-hill, which is the subject of the following ballad. The history of Burly, the hero of the piece, will bring us immediately to the causes and circumstances of that event. [Footnote A: Peden complained heavily, that, after a heavy struggle with the devil, he had got above him, _spur-galled_ him hard, and obtained a wind to carry him from Ireland to Scotland, when, behold! another person had set sail, and reaped the advantage of his _prayer-wind,_ before he could embark.] [Footnote B: Cleland thus describes this extraordinary army: --Those, who were their chief commanders, As sach who bore the pirnie standarts. Who led the van, and drove the rear, Were right well mounted of their gear; With brogues, and trews, and pirnie plaids, With good blue bonnets on their heads, Which, oil the one side, had a flipe, Adorn'd with a tobacco pipe, With durk, and snap-work, and snuff-mill, A bag which they with onions fill; And, as their strict observers say, A tup-born filled with usquebay; A slasht out coat beneath her plaides, A targe of timber, nails, and hides; With a long two-handed sword, As good's the country can afford. Had they not need of bulk-and bones. Who fought with all these arms at once? * * * * Of moral honestie they're clean, Nought like religion they retain; In nothing they're accounted sharp, Except in bag-pipe, and in harp; For a misobliging word, She'll durk her neighbour o'er the boord, And then she'll flee like fire from flint, She'll scarcely ward the second dint; If any ask her of her thrift. Forsooth her nainsell lives by thift. _Cleland's Poems,_ Edin. 1697, p. 12. ] [Footnote C: It was, and is believed, that the devil furnished his favourites, among the persecutors, with what is called _proof_ against leaden bullets, but against those only. During the battle of Pentland-hills Paton of Meadowhead conceived he saw the balls hop harmlessly down from General Dalziel's boots, and, to counteract the spell, loaded his pistol with a piece of silver coin. But Dalziel, having his eye on him, drew back behind his servant, who was shot dead.--_Paton's Life._ At a skirmish, in Ayrshire, some of the wanderers defended themselves in a sequestered house, by the side of a lake. They aimed repeatedly, but in vain, at the commander of the assailants, an English officer, until, their ammunition running short, one of them loaded his piece with the ball at the head of the tongs, and succeeded in shooting the hitherto impenetrable captain. To accommodate Dundee's fate to their own hypothesis, the Cameronian tradition runs, that, in the battle of Killicrankie, he fell, not by the enemy's fire, but by the pistol of one of his own servants, who, to avoid the spell, had loaded it with a silver button from his coat. One of their writers argues thus: "Perhaps, some may think this, anent proof-shot, a paradox, and be ready to object here, as formerly concerning Bishop Sharpe and Dalziel--How can the devil have, or give, power to save life? Without entering upon the thing in its reality, I shall only observe, 1. That it is neither in his power, or of his nature, to be a saviour of men's lives; he is called Apollyon, the destroyer. 2. That, even in this case, he is said only to give enchantment against one kind of metal, and this does not save life: for, though lead could not take Sharpe and Claverhouse's lives, yet steel and silver could do it; and, for Dalziel, though he died not on the field, yet he did not escape the arrows of the Almighty."--_God's Judgement against Persecutors._ If the reader be not now convinced of _the thing in its reality_, I have nothing to add to such exquisite reasoning.] John Balfour of Kinloch, commonly called Burly, was one of the fiercest of the proscribed sect. A gentleman by birth, he was, says his biographer, "zealous and honest-hearted, courageous in every enterprise, and a brave soldier, seldom any escaping that came in his hands." _Life of John Balfour._ Creichton says, that he was once chamberlain to Archbishop Sharpe, and, by negligence, or dishonesty, had incurred a large arrear, which occasioned his being active in his master's assassination. But of this I know no other evidence than Creichton's assertion, and a hint in Wodrow. Burly, for that is his most common designation, was brother-in-law to Hackston of Rathillet a wild enthusiastic character, who joined daring courage, and skill in the sword, to the fiery zeal of his sect. Burly, himself, was less eminent for religious fervour than for the active and violent share which he had in the most desperate enterprises of his party. His name does not appear among the covenanters, who were denounced for the affair of Pentland. But, in 1677, Robert Hamilton, afterwards commander of the insurgents at Loudon Hill, and Bothwell Bridge, with several other non-conformists, were assembled at this Burly's house, in Fife. There they were attacked by a party of soldiers, commanded by Captain Carstairs, whom they beat off, wounding desperately one of his party. For this resistance to authority, they were declared rebels. The next exploit, in which Burly was engaged, was of a bloodier complexion, and more dreadful celebrity. It is well known, that James Sharpe, archbishop of St Andrews, was regarded, by the rigid presbyterians, not only as a renegade, who had turned back from the spiritual plough, but as the principal author of the rigours exercised against their sect. He employed, as an agent of his oppression, one Carmichael, a decayed gentleman. The industry of this man, in procuring information, and in enforcing the severe penalties against conventiclers, having excited the resentment of the Cameronians, nine of their number, of whom Burly, and his brother-in-law, Hackston, were the leaders, assembled, with the purpose of way-laying and murdering Carmichael; but, while they searched for him in vain, they received tidings that the archbishop himself was at hand. The party resorted to prayer; after which, they agreed, unanimously, that the Lord had delivered the wicked Haman into their hand. In the execution of the supposed will of heaven, they agreed to put themselves under the command of a leader; and they requested Hackston of Rathillet to accept the office, which he declined alleging, that, should he comply with their request, the slaughter might be imputed to a private quarrel, which existed betwixt him and the archbishop. The command was then offered to Burly, who accepted it without scruple; and they galloped off in pursuit of the archbishop's carriage, which contained himself and his daughter. Being well mounted, they easily overtook and disarmed the prelate's attendants. Burly, crying out, "Judas, be taken!" rode up to the carriage, wounded the postillion and ham-strung one of the horses. He then fired into the coach a piece, charged with several bullets, so near, that the archbishop's gown was set on fire. The rest, coming up, dismounted, and dragged him out of the carriage, when, frightened and wounded, he crawled towards Hackston, who still remained on horseback, and begged for mercy. The stern enthusiast contented himself with answering, that he would not himself _lay a hand on him_. Burly and his men again fired a volley upon the kneeling old man; and were in the act of riding off, when one, who remained to girth his horse, unfortunately heard the daughter of their victim call to the servant for help, exclaiming, that his master was still alive. Burly then again dismounted, struck off the prelate's hat with his foot, and split his skull with his shable (broad sword), although one of the party (probably Rathillet) exclaimed, "_Spare these grey hairs_!"[A] The rest pierced him with repeated wounds. They plundered the carriage, and rode off, leaving, beside the mangled corpse, the daughter, who was herself wounded, in her pious endeavour to interpose betwixt her father and his murderers. The murder is accurately represented, in bas-relief, upon a beautiful monument erected to the memory of Archbishop Sharpe, in the metropolitan church of St Andrews. This memorable example of fanatic revenge was acted upon Magus Muir, near St Andrews, 3d May, 1679.[B] [Footnote A: They believed Sharpe to be proof against shot; for one of the murderers told Wodrow, that, at the sight of cold iron, his courage fell. They no longer doubted this, when they found in his pocket a small clue of silk, rolled round a bit of parchment, marked with two long words, in Hebrew or Chaldaic characters. Accordingly, it is still averred, that the balls only left blue marks on the prelate's neck and breast, although the discharge was so near as to burn his clothes.] [Footnote B: The question, whether the bishop of St Andrews' death was murder was a shibboleth, or _experimentum crucis_, frequently put to the apprehended conventiclers. Isabel Alison, executed at Edinburgh, 26th January, 1681, was interrogated, before the privy council, if she conversed with David Hackston? "I answered, I did converse with him, and I bless the Lord that ever I saw him; for I never saw ought in him but a godly pious youth. They asked, if the killing of the bishop of St Andrews was a pious act? I answered, I never heard him say he killed him; but, if God moved any, and put it upon them, to execute his righteous judgment upon him, I have nothing to say to that. They asked me, when saw ye John Balfour (Burly), that pious youth? I answered, I have seen him. They asked, when? I answered, these are frivolous questions; I am not bound to answer them." _Cloud of Witnesses_, p. 85.] Burly was, of course, obliged to leave Fife; and, upon the 25th of the same month, he arrived in Evandale, in Lanarkshire, along with Hackston, and a fellow, called Dingwall, or Daniel, one of the same bloody band. Here he joined his old friend Hamilton, already mentioned; and, as they resolved to take up arms, they were soon at the head of such a body of the "chased and tossed western men," as they thought equal to keep the field. They resolved to commence their exploits upon the 29th of May, 1679, being the anniversary of the Restoration, appointed to be kept as a holiday, by act of parliament; an institution which they esteemed a presumptuous and unholy solemnity. Accordingly, at the head of eighty horse, tolerably appointed, Hamilton, Burly, and Hackston, entered the royal burgh of Rutherglen, extinguished the bonfires, made in honour of the day; burned at the cross the acts of parliament in favour of prelacy, and for suppression of conventicles, as well as those acts of council, which regulated the indulgence granted to presbyterians. Against all these acts they entered their solemn protest, or testimony, as they called it; and, having affixed it to the cross, concluded with prayer and psalms. Being now joined by a large body of foot, so that their strength seems to have amounted to five or six hundred men, though very indifferently armed, they encamped upon Loudoun Hill. Claverhouse, who was in garrison at Glasgow, instantly marched against the insurgents, at the head of his own troop of cavalry and others, amounting to about one hundred and fifty men. He arrived at Hamilton, on the 1st of June, so unexpectedly, as to make prisoner John King, a famous preacher among the wanderers; and rapidly continued his march, carrying his captive along with him, till he came to the village of Drumclog, about a mile east of Loudoun Hill, and twelve miles south-west of Hamilton. At some distance from this place, the insurgents were skilfully posted in a boggy strait, almost inaccessible to cavalry, having a broad ditch in their front. Claverhouse's dragoons discharged their carabines, and made an attempt to charge; but the nature of the ground threw them into total disorder. Burly, who commanded the handful of horse belonging to the whigs, instantly led them down on the disordered squadrons of Claverhouse, who were, at the same time, vigorously assaulted by the foot, headed by the gallant Cleland,[A] and the enthusiastic Hackston. Claverhouse himself was forced to fly, and was in the utmost danger of being taken; his horse's belly being cut open by the stroke of a scythe, so that the poor animal trailed his bowels for more than a mile. In his flight, he passed King, the minister, lately his prisoner, but now deserted by his guard, in the general confusion. The preacher hollowed to the flying commander, "to halt, and take his prisoner with him;" or, as others say, "to stay, and take the afternoon's preaching." Claverhouse, at length remounted, continued his retreat to Glasgow. He lost, in the skirmish, about twenty of his troopers, and his own cornet and kinsman, Robert Graham, whose fate is alluded to in the ballad. Only four of the other side were killed, among whom was Dingwall, or Daniel, an associate of Burly in Sharpe's murder. "The rebels," says Creichton, "finding the cornet's body, and supposing it to be that of Clavers, because the name of Graham was wrought in the shirt-neck, treated it with the utmost inhumanity; cutting off the nose, picking out the eyes, and stabbing it through in a hundred places." The same charge is brought by Guild, in his _Bellum Bothuellianum_, in which occurs the following account of the skirmish at Drumclog:-- Mons est occiduus surgit qui celsus in oris (Nomine Loudunum) fossis puteisque profundis Quot scatet hic tellus et aprico gramine tectus: Huc collecta (ait) numeroso milite cincta; Turba ferox, matres, pueri, innuptaeque puellae; Quam parat egregia Graemus dispersere turma. Venit, et primo campo discedere cogit; Post hos et alios, caeno provolvit inerti; At numerosa cohors, campum dispersa per omnem, Circumfusa, ruit; turmasque indagine captas, Aggreditur; virtus non hic, nec profuit ensis; Corripuere fugam, viridi sed gramine tectis, Precipitata perit, fossis, pars plurima, quorum Cornipedes haesere luto, sessore rejecto: Tum rabiosa cohors, misereri nescia, stratos Invadit laceratque viros: hic signifer eheu! Trajectus globulo, Graemus quo fortior alter, Inter Scotigenas fuerat, nec justior ullus: Hunc manibus rapuere feris, faciemque virilem Faedarunt, lingua, auriculus, manibusque resectis, Aspera, diffuso, spargentes saxa, cerebro: Vix dux ipse fuga salvus, namque exta trahebat Vulnere tardatus, sonipes generosus hiante: Insequitur clamore, cohors fanatica, namque Crudelis semper timidus si vicerit unquam. _MS. Bellum Bothuellianum._ [Footnote A: William Cleland, a man of considerable genius, was author of several poems, published in 1697. His Hudibrastic verses are poor scurrilous trash, as the reader may judge from the description of the Highlanders, already quoted. But, in a wild rhapsody, entitled, "Hollo, my Fancy," he displays some imagination. His anti-monarchical principles seem to break out in the following lines:-- Fain would I know (if beasts have any reason) _If falcons killing eagles do commit a treason?_ He was a strict non-conformist, and, after the Revolution, became lieutenant colonel of the earl of Angus's regiment, called the Cameronian regiment. He was killed 21st August, 1689, in the churchyard of Dunkeld, which his corps manfully and successfully defended against a superior body of Highlanders. His son was the author of the letter prefixed to the Dunciad, and is said to have been the notorious Cleland, who, in circumstances of pecuniary embarrassment, prostituted his talents to the composition of indecent and infamous works; but this seems inconsistent with dates, and the latter personage was probably the grandson of Colonel Cleland.] Although Burly was among the most active leaders in the action, he was not the commander in chief, as one would conceive from the ballad. That honour belonged to Robert Hamilton, brother to Sir William Hamilton of Preston, a gentleman, who, like most of those at Drumclog, had imbibed the very wildest principles of fanaticism. The Cameronian account of the insurrection states, that "Mr Hamilton discovered a great deal of bravery and valour, both in the conflict with, and pursuit of the enemy; but when he and some others were pursuing the enemy, others flew too greedily upon the spoil, small as it was, instead of pursuing the victory: and some, without Mr Hamilton's knowledge, and against his strict command, gave five of these bloody enemies quarters, and then let them go: this greatly grieved Mr Hamilton, when he saw some of Babel's brats spared, after the Lord had delivered them to their hands, that they might dash them against the stones." _Psalm_ cxxxvii. 9. In his own account of this, "he reckons the sparing of these enemies, and letting them go, to be among their first stepping aside; for which, he feared that the Lord would not honour them to do much more for him; and says, that he was neither for taking favours from, nor giving favours to the Lord's enemies." Burly was not a likely man to fall into this sort of backsliding. He disarmed one of the duke of Hamilton's servants, who had been in the action, and desired him to tell his master, he would keep, till meeting, the pistols he had taken from him. The man described Burly to the duke as a little stout man, squint-eyed, and of a most ferocious aspect; from which it appears, that Burly's figure corresponded to his manners, and perhaps gave rise to his nickname, _Burly_ signifying _strong_. He was with the insurgents till the battle of Bothwell Bridge, and afterwards fled to Holland. He joined the prince of Orange, but died at sea, during the expedition. The Cameronians still believe, he had obtained liberty from the prince to be avenged of those who had persecuted the Lord's people; but through his death, the laudable design of purging the land with their blood, is supposed to have fallen to the ground.--_Life of Balfour of Kinloch._ The consequences of the battle of Loudon Hill will be detailed in the introduction to the next ballad. THE BATTLE OF LOUDONHILL. You'l marvel when I tell ye o' Our noble Burly, and his train; When last he march'd up thro' the land, Wi' sax and twenty westland men. Than they I ne'er o' braver heard, For they had a' baith wit and skill They proved right well, as I heard tell, As they cam up o'er Loudoun Hill. Weel prosper a' the gospel lads, That are into the west countrie; Ay wicked Claver'se to demean, And ay an ill dead may he die! For he's drawn up i' battle rank, An' that baith soon an' hastilie; But they wha live till simmer come, Some bludie days for this will see. But up spak cruel Claver'se then, Wi' hastie wit, an' wicked skill; "Gie fire on yon westlan' men; "I think it is my sov'reign's will." But up bespake his cornet, then, "It's be wi' nae consent o' me! "I ken I'll ne'er come back again, "An' mony mae as weel as me. "There is not ane of a' yon men, "But wha is worthy other three; "There is na ane amang them a', "That in his cause will stap to die. "An' as for Burly, him I knaw; "He's a man of honour, birth, an' fame; "Gie him a sword into his hand, "He'll fight thysel an' other ten." But up spake wicked Claver'se then, I wat his heart it raise fu' hie! And he has cry'd that a' might hear, "Man, ye hae sair deceived me. "I never ken'd the like afore, "Na, never since I came frae hame, "That you sae cowardly here suld prove, "An' yet come of a noble Graeme." But up bespake his cornet, then, "Since that it is your honour's will, "Mysel shall be the foremost man, "That shall gie fire on Loudoun Hill. "At your command I'll lead them on, "But yet wi' nae consent o' me; "For weel I ken I'll ne'er return, "And mony mae as weel as me." Then up he drew in battle rank; I wat he had a bonny train! But the first time that bullets flew, Ay he lost twenty o' his men. Then back he came the way he gael, I wat right soon an' suddenly! He gave command amang his men, And sent them back, and bade them flee. Then up came Burly, bauld an' stout, Wi's little train o' westland men; Wha mair than either aince or twice In Edinburgh confined had been. They hae been up to London sent, An' yet they're a' come safely down; Sax troop o' horsemen they hae beat, And chased them into Glasgow town. THE BATTLE OF BOTHWELL-BRIDGE. It has been often remarked, that the Scottish, notwithstanding their national courage, were always unsuccessful, when fighting for their religion. The cause lay, not in the principle, but in the mode of its application. A leader like Mahomet, who is, at the same time, the prophet of his tribe, may avail himself of religious enthusiasm, because it comes to the aid of discipline, and is a powerful means of attaining the despotic command, essential to the success of a general. But, among the insurgents, in the reigns of the last Stuarts, were mingled preachers, who taught different shades of the presbyterian doctrine; and, minute as these shades sometimes were, neither the several shepherds, nor their flocks, could cheerfully unite in a common cause. This will appear from the transactions leading to the battle of Bothwell Bridge. We have seen, that the party, which defeated Claverhouse at Loudoun Hill, were Cameronians, whose principles consisted in disowning all temporal authority, which did not flow from and through the Solemn League and Covenant. This doctrine, which is still retained by a scattered remnant of the sect in Scotland, is in theory, and would be in practice, inconsistent with the safety of any well regulated government, because the Covenanters deny to their governors that toleration, which was iniquitously refused to themselves. In many respects, therefore, we cannot be surprised at the anxiety and rigour with which the Cameronians were persecuted, although we may be of opinion, that milder means would have induced a melioration of their principles. These men, as already noticed, excepted against such presbyterians, as were contented to exercise their worship under the indulgence granted by government, or, in other words, who would have been satisfied with toleration for themselves, without insisting upon a revolution in the state, or even in the church government. When, however, the success at Loudoun Hill was spread abroad, a number of preachers, gentlemen, and common people, who had embraced the more moderate doctrine, joined the army of Hamilton, thinking, that the difference in their opinions ought not to prevent their acting in the common cause. The insurgents were repulsed in an attack upon the town of Glasgow, which, however, Claverhouse, shortly afterwards, thought it necessary to evacuate. They were now nearly in full possession of the west of Scotland, and pitched their camp at Hamilton, where, instead of modelling and disciplining their army, the Cameronians and Erastians (for so the violent insurgents chose to call the more moderate presbyterians) only debated, in council of war, the real cause of their being in arms. Hamilton, their general, was the leader of the first party; Mr John Walsh, a minister, headed the Erastians. The latter so far prevailed, as to get a declaration drawn up, in which they owned the king's government; but the publication of it gave rise to new quarrels. Each faction had its own set of leaders, all of whom aspired to be officers; and there were actually two councils of war issuing contrary orders and declarations at the same time; the one owning the king, and the other designing him a malignant, bloody, and perjured tyrant. Meanwhile, their numbers and zeal were magnified at Edinburgh, and great alarm excited lest they should march eastward. Not only was the foot militia instantly called out, but proclamations were issued, directing all the heritors, in the eastern, southern, and northern shires, to repair to the king's host, with their best horses, arms, and retainers. In Fife, and other countries, where the presbyterian doctrines prevailed, many gentlemen disobeyed this order, and were afterwards severely fined. Most of them alleged, in excuse, the apprehension of disquiet from their wives.[A] A respectable force was soon assembled; and James, duke of Buccleuch and Monmouth, was sent down, by Charles, to take the command, furnished with instructions, not unfavourable to presbyterians. The royal army now moved slowly forwards towards Hamilton, and reached Bothwell-moor on the 22d of June, 1679. The insurgents were encamped chiefly in the duke of Hamilton's park, along the Clyde, which separated the two armies. Bothwell-bridge, which is long and narrow, had then a portal in the middle, with gates, which the Covenanters shut, and barricadoed with stones and logs of timber. This important post was defended by three hundred of their best men, under Hackston of Rathillet, and Hall of Haughhead. Early in the morning, this party crossed the bridge, and skirmished with the royal van-guard, now advanced as far as the village of Bothwell. But Hackston speedily retired to his post, at the western end of Bothwell-bridge. [Footnote A: "Balcanquhall of that ilk alledged, that his horses were robbed, but shunned to take the declaration, for fear of disquiet from his wife. Young of Kirkton--his ladyes dangerous sickness, and bitter curses if he should leave her, and the appearance of abortion on his offering to go from her. And many others pled, in general terms, that their wives opposed or contradicted their going. But the justiciary court found this defence totally irrelevant."--Fountainhall's _Decisions_, Vol. I. p. 88.] While the dispositions, made by the duke of Monmouth, announced his purpose of assailing the pass, the more moderate of the insurgents resolved to offer terms. Ferguson of Kaithloch, a gentleman of landed fortune, and David Hume, a clergyman, carried to the duke of Monmouth a supplication, demanding free exercise of their religion, a free parliament, and a free general assembly of the church. The duke heard their demands with his natural mildness, and assured them, he would interpose with his majesty in their behalf, on condition of their immediately dispersing themselves, and yielding up their arms. Had the insurgents been all of the moderate opinion, this proposal would have been accepted, much bloodshed saved, and, perhaps, some permanent advantage derived to their party; or, had they been all Cameronians, their defence would have been fierce and desperate. But, while their motley and misassorted officers were debating upon the duke's proposal, his field-pieces were already planted on the eastern side of the river, to cover the attack of the foot guards, who were led on by Lord Livingstone to force the bridge. Here Hackston maintained his post with zeal and courage; nor was it until all his ammunition was expended, and every support denied him by the general, that he reluctantly abandoned the important pass.[A] When his party were drawn back, the duke's army, slowly, and with their cannon in front, defiled along the bridge, and formed in line of battle, as they came over the river; the duke commanded the foot, and Claverhouse the cavalry. It would seem, that these movements could not have been performed without at least some loss, had the enemy been serious in opposing them. But the insurgents were otherwise employed. With the strangest delusion, that ever fell upon devoted beings, they chose these precious moments to cashier their officers, and elect others in their room. In this important operation, they were at length disturbed by the duke's cannon, at the very first discharge of which, the horse of the Covenanters wheeled, and rode off, breaking and trampling down the ranks of their infantry in their flight. The Cameronian account blames Weir of Greenridge, a commander of the horse, who is termed a sad Achan in the camp. The more moderate party lay the whole blame on Hamilton, whose conduct, they say, left the world to debate, whether he was most traitor, coward, or fool. The generous Monmouth was anxious to spare the blood of his infatuated countrymen, by which he incurred much blame among the high-flying royalists. Lucky it was for the insurgents that the battle did not happen a day later, when old General Dalziel, who divided with Claverhouse the terror and hatred of the whigs, arrived in the camp, with a commission to supersede Monmouth, as commander in chief. He is said to have upbraided the duke, publicly, with his lenity, and heartily to have wished his own commission had come a day sooner, when, as he expresses himself, "These rogues should never more have troubled the king or country."[B] But, notwithstanding the merciful orders of the duke of Monmouth, the cavalry made great slaughter among the fugitives, of whom four hundred were slain. Guild thus expresses himself: Ei ni Dux validus tenuisset forte catervas, Vix quisquam profugus vitam servasset inertem: Non audita Ducis verum mandata supremi Omnibus, insequitur fugientes plurima turba, Perque agros, passim, trepida formidine captos Obtruncat, saevumque adigit per viscera ferrum. _MS. Bellum Bothuellianum._ [Footnote A: There is an accurate representation of this part of the engagement in an old painting, of which there are two copies extant; one in the collection of his grace the duke of Hamilton, the other at Dalkeith house. The whole appearance of the ground, even including a few old houses, is the same which the scene now presents: The removal of the porch, or gateway, upon the bridge, is the only perceptible difference. The duke of Monmouth, on a white charger, directs the march of the party engaged in storming the bridge, while his artillery gall the motley ranks of the Covenanters. An engraving of this painting would be acceptable to the curious; and I am satisfied an opportunity of copying it, for that purpose, would be readily granted by either of the noble proprietors.] [Footnote B: Dalziel was a man of savage manners. A prisoner having railed at him, while under examination before the privy council, calling him "a Muscovia beast, who used to roast men, the general, in a passion, struck him, with the pomel of his shabble, on the face, till the blood sprung."--FOUNTAINHALL, Vol. I. p. 159. He had sworn never to shave his beard after the death of Charles the First. This venerable appendage reached his girdle, and, as he wore always an old-fashioned buff coat, his appearance in London never failed to attract the notice of the children and of the mob. King Charles II. used to swear at him, for bringing such a rabble of boys together, to be squeezed to death, while they gaped at his long beard and antique habit, and exhorted him to shave and dress like a Christian, to keep the poor _bairns_, as Dalziel expressed it, out of danger. In compliance with this request, he once appeared at court fashionably dressed, excepting the beard; but, when the king had laughed sufficiently at the metamorphosis, he resumed his old dress, to the great joy of the boys, his usual attendants.--CREICHTON'S _Memoirs_, p. 102.] The same deplorable circumstances are more elegantly bewailed in _Clyde_, a poem, reprinted in _Scotish Descriptive Poems_, edited by Dr John Leyden, Edinburgh, 1803: "Where Bothwell's bridge connects the margins steep, And Clyde, below, runs silent, strong, and deep, The hardy peasant, by oppression driven To battle, deemed his cause the cause of heaven: Unskilled in arms, with useless courage stood, While gentle Monmouth grieved to shed his blood: But fierce Dundee, inflamed with deadly hate, In vengeance for the great Montrose's fate, Let loose the sword, and to the hero's shade A barbarous hecatomb of victims paid." The object of Claverhouse's revenge, assigned by Wilson, is grander, though more remote and less natural, than that in the ballad, which imputes the severity of the pursuit to his thirst to revenge the death of his cornet and kinsman, at Drumclog;[A] and to the quarrel betwixt Claverhouse and Monmouth, it ascribes, with great _naiveté_ the bloody fate of the latter. Local tradition is always apt to trace foreign events to the domestic causes, which are more immediately in the narrator's view. There is said to be another song upon this battle, once very popular, but I have not been able to recover it. This copy is given from recitation. [Footnote A: There is some reason to conjecture, that the revenge of the Cameronians, if successful, would have been little less sanguinary than that of the royalists. Creichton mentions, that they had erected, in their camp, a high pair of gallows, and prepared a quantity of halters, to hang such prisoners as might fall into their hands, and he admires the forbearance of the king's soldiers, who, when they returned with their prisoners, brought them to the very spot where the gallows stood, and guarded them there, without offering to hang a single individual. Guild, in the _Bellum Bothuellianum_, alludes to the same story, which is rendered probable by the character of Hamilton, the insurgent general. GUILD'S _MSS._--CREICHTON'S _Memoirs_, p. 61.] There were two Gordons of Earlstoun, father and son. They were descended of an ancient family in the west of Scotland, and their progenitors were believed to have been favourers of the reformed doctrine, and possessed of a translation of the Bible, as early as the days of Wickliffe. William Gordon, the father, was, in 1663, summoned before the privy council, for keeping conventicles in his house and woods. By another act of council, he was banished out of Scotland; but the sentence was never put into execution. In 1667, Earlstoun was turned out of his house, which was converted into a garrison for the king's soldiers. He was not in the battle of Bothwell Bridge, but was met, hastening towards it, by some English dragoons, engaged in the pursuit, already commenced. As he refused to surrender, he was instantly slain. WILSON'S _History of Bothwell Rising--Life of Gordon of Earlston, in Scottish Worthies_--WODROW'S _History,_ Vol. II. The son, Alexander Gordon of Earlstoun, I suppose to be the hero of the ballad. He was not a Cameronian, but of the more moderate class of presbyterians, whose sole object was freedom of conscience, and relief from the oppressive laws against non-conformists. He joined the insurgents, shortly after the skirmish at Loudoun-hill. He appears to have been active in forwarding the supplication sent to the duke of Monmouth. After the battle, he escaped discovery, by flying into a house at Hamilton, belonging to one of his tenants, and disguising himself in female attire. His person was proscribed, and his estate of Earlstoun was bestowed upon Colonel Theophilus Ogilthorpe, by the crown, first in security for L.5000, and afterwards in perpetuity.--FOUNTAINHALL, p. 390. The same author mentions a person tried at the circuit court, July 10, 1683, solely for holding intercourse with Earlstoun, an intercommuned (proscribed) rebel. As he had been in Holland after the battle of Bothwell, he was probably accessory to the scheme of invasion, which the unfortunate earl of Argyle was then meditating. He was apprehended upon his return to Scotland, tried, convicted of treason, and condemned to die; but his fate was postponed by a letter from the king, appointing him to be reprieved for a month, that he might, in the interim, be tortured for the discovery of his accomplices. The council had the unusual spirit to remonstrate against this illegal course of severity. On November 3, 1653, he received a farther respite, in hopes he would make some discovery. When brought to the bar, to be tortured (for the king had reiterated his commands), he, through fear or distraction, roared like a bull, and laid so stoutly about him, that the hangman and his assistant could hardly master him. At last he fell into a swoon, and, on his recovery, charged General Dalziel and Drummond (violent tories), together with the duke of Hamilton, with being the leaders of the fanatics. It was generally thought, that he affected this extravagant behaviour, to invalidate all that agony might extort from him concerning his real accomplices. He was sent, first, to Edinburgh castle, and, afterwards, to a prison upon the Bass island; although the privy council more than once deliberated upon appointing his immediate death. On 22d August, 1684, Earlstoun was sent for from the Bass, and ordered for execution, 4th November, 1684. He endeavoured to prevent his doom by escape; but was discovered and taken, after he had gained the roof of the prison. The council deliberated, whether, in consideration of this attempt, he was not liable to instant execution. Finally, however, they were satisfied to imprison him in Blackness castle, where he remained till after the Revolution, when he was set at liberty, and his doom of forfeiture reversed by act of parliament.--See FOUNTAINHALL, Vol. I. pp. 238, 240, 245, 250, 301, 302. THE BATTLE OF BOTHWELL-BRIDGE. "O Billie, billie, bonny billie, "Will ye go to the wood wi' me? "We'll ca' our horse hame masterless, "An' gar them trow slain men are we." "O no, O no!" says Earlstoun, "For that's the thing that mauna be; "For I am sworn to Bothwell Hill, "Where I maun either gae or die." So Earlstoun rose in the morning, An' mounted by the break o' day; An' he has joined our Scottish lads, As they were marching out the way. "Now, farewell father, and farewell mother, "An' fare ye weel my sisters three; "An' fare ye weel my Earlstoun, "For thee again I'll never see!" So they're awa' to Bothwell Hill, An waly[A] they rode bonnily! When the duke o' Monmouth saw them comin', He went to view their company. "Ye're welcome, lads," then Monmouth said, "Ye're welcome, brave Scots lads, to me; "And sae are ye, brave Earlstoun, "The foremost o' your company! "But yield your weapons ane an' a'; "O yield your weapons, lads, to me; "For, gin ye'll yield your weapons up, "Ye'se a' gae hame to your country." Out up then spak a Lennox lad, And waly but he spak bonnily! "I winna yield my weapons up, "To you nor nae man that I see." Then he set up the flag o' red, A' set about wi' bonny blue; "Since ye'll no cease, and be at peace, "See that ye stand by ither true." They stell'd[B] their cannons on the height, And showr'd their shot down in the how;[C] An' beat our Scots lads even down, Thick they lay slain on every know.[D] As e'er you saw the rain down fa', Or yet the arrow frae the bow,-- Sae our Scottish lads fell even down, An' they lay slain on every know. "O, hold your hand," then Monmouth cry'd, "Gie quarters to yon men for me!" But wicked Claver'se swore an oath, His cornet's death reveng'd sud be. "O hold your hand," then Monmouth cry'd, "If ony thing you'll do for me; "Hold up your hand, you cursed Graeme, "Else a rebel to our king ye'll be." Then wicked Claver'se turn'd about, I wot an angry man was he; And he has lifted up his hat, And cry'd, "God bless his majesty!" Then he's awa to London town, Ay e'en as fast as he can dree; Fause witnesses he has wi' him ta'en. An' ta'en Monmouth's head f'rae his body. Alang the brae, beyond the brig, Mony brave man lies cauld and still; But lang we'll mind, and sair we'll rue, The bloody battle of Bothwell Hill. [Footnote A: _Waly!_ an interjection.] [Footnote B: _Stell'd_--Planted.] [Footnote C: _How_--Hollow.] [Footnote D: _Know_--Knoll.] NOTES ON THE BATTLE OF BOTHWELL-BRIDGE. _Then he set up the flag of red, A' set about wi' bonnie blue._--P. 91. v. 1. Blue was the favourite colour of the Covenanters; hence the vulgar phrase of a true blue whig. Spalding informs us, that when the first army of Covenanters entered Aberdeen, few or none "wanted a blue ribband; the lord Gordon, and some others of the marquis (of Huntley's) family had a ribband, when they were dwelling in the town, of a red fresh colour, which they wore in their hats, and called it the _royal ribband_, as a sign of their love and loyalty to the king. In despite and derision thereof, this blue ribband was worn, and called the _Covenanter's ribband_, by the hail soldiers of the army, who would not hear of the royal ribband, such was their pride and malice."--Vol. I. p. 123. After the departure of this first army, the town was occupied by the barons of the royal party, till they were once more expelled by the Covenanters, who plundered the burgh and country adjacent; "no fowl, cock, or hen, left unkilled, the hail house-dogs, messens (i.e. lap-dogs), and whelps, within Aberdeen, killed upon the streets; so that neither hound, messen, nor other dog, was left alive that they could see: the reason was this,--when the first army came here, ilk captain and soldier had a blue ribband about his craig (i.e. neck); in despite and derision whereof, when they removed from Aberdeen, some women of Aberdeen, as was alleged, knit blue ribbands about their messens' craigs, whereat their soldiers took offence, and killed all their dogs for this very cause."--P. 160. I have seen one of the ancient banners of the Covenanters: it was divided into four copartments, inscribed with the words, _Christ--Covenant--King--Kingdom_. Similar standards are mentioned in Spalding's curious and minute narrative, Vol. II. pp. 182, 245. _Hold up your hand, ye cursed Graeme, Else a rebel to our king ye'll be._--P, 91. v. 5. It is very extraordinary, that, in April, 1685, Claverhouse was left out of the new commission of privy council, as being too favourable to the fanatics. The pretence was his having married into the presbyterian family of lord Dundonald. An act of council was also past, regulating the payment of quarters, which is stated by Fountainhall to have been done in _odium_ of Claverhouse, and in order to excite complaints against him. This charge, so inconsistent with the nature and conduct of Claverhouse, seems to have been the fruit of a quarrel betwixt him and the lord high treasurer. FOUNTAINHALL, Vol. I. p. 360. That Claverhouse was most unworthily accused of mitigating the persecution of the Covenanters, will appear from the following simple, but very affecting narrative, extracted from one of the little publications which appeared soon after the Revolution, while the facts were fresh in the memory of the sufferers. The imitation of the scriptural stile produces, in some passages of these works, an effect not unlike what we feel in reading the beautiful book of Ruth. It is taken from the life of Mr Alexander Peden,[A] printed about 1720. "In the beginning of May, 1685, he came to the house of John Brown and Marion Weir, whom he married before he went to Ireland, where he stayed all night; and, in the morning when he took farewell, he came out of the door, saying to himself, "Poor woman, a fearful morning," twice over. "A dark misty morning!" The next morning, between five and six hours, the said John Brown having performed the worship of God in his family, was going, with a spade in his hand, to make ready some peat ground: the mist being very dark, he knew not until cruel and bloody Claverhouse compassed him with three troops of horse, brought him to his house, and there examined him; who, though he was a man of a stammering speech, yet answered him distinctly and solidly; which made Claverhouse to examine those whom he had taken to be his guides through the muirs, if ever they heard him preach? They answered, "No, no, he was never a preacher." He said, "If he has never preached, meikle he has prayed in his time;" he said to John, "Go to your prayers, for you shall immediately die!" When he was praying, Claverhouse interrupted him three times; one time, that he stopt him, he was pleading that the Lord would spare a remnant, and not make a full end in the day of his anger. Claverhouse said, "I gave you time to pray, and ye are begun to preach;" he turned about upon his knees, and said, "Sir, you know neither the nature of preaching or praying, that calls this preaching." Then continued without confusion. When ended, Claverhouse said, "Take goodnight of your wife and children." His wife, standing by with her child in her arms that she had brought forth to him, and another child of his first wife's, he came to her, and said, "Now, Marion, the day is come, that I told you would come, when I spake first to you of marrying me." She said, "Indeed, John, I can willingly part with you."--"Then," he said, "this is all I desire, I have no more to do but die." He kissed his wife and bairns, and wished purchased and promised blessings to be multiplied upon them, and his blessing. Clavers ordered six soldiers to shoot him; the most part of the bullets came upon his head, which scattered his brains upon the ground. Claverhouse said to his wife, "What thinkest thou of thy husband now, woman?" She said, "I thought ever much of him, and now as much as ever." He said, "It were justice to lay thee beside him." She said, "If ye were permitted, I doubt not but your cruelty would go that length; but how will ye make answer for this morning's work?" He said, "To man I can be answerable; and for God, I will take him in my own hand." Claverhouse mounted his horse, and marched, and left her with the corpse of her dead husband lying there; she set the bairn on the ground, and gathered his brains, and tied up his head, and straighted his body, and covered him in her plaid, and sat down, and wept over him. It being a very desart place, where never victual grew, and far from neighbours, it was some time before any friends came to her; the first that came was a very fit hand, that old singular Christian woman, in the Cummerhead, named Elizabeth Menzies, three miles distant, who had been tried with the violent death of her husband at Pentland, afterwards of two worthy sons, Thomas Weir, who was killed at Drumclog, and David Steel, who was suddenly shot afterwards when taken. The said Marion Weir, sitting upon her husband's grave, told me, that before that, she could see no blood but she was in danger to faint; and yet she was helped to be a witness to all this, without either fainting or confusion, except when the shots were let off her eyes dazzled. His corpse were buried at the end of his house, where he was slain, with this inscription on his grave-stone:-- In earth's cold bed, the dusty part here lies, Of one who did the earth as dust despise! Here, in this place, from earth he took departure; Now, he has got the garland of the martyrs. [Footnote A: The enthusiasm of this personage, and of his followers, invested him, as has been already noticed, with prophetic powers; but hardly any of the stories told of him exceeds that sort of gloomy conjecture of misfortune, which the precarious situation of his sect so greatly fostered. The following passage relates to the battle of Bothwell-bridge:--"That dismal day, 22d of June, 1679, at Bothwell-bridge, when the Lord's people fell and fled before the enemy, he was forty miles distant, near the border, and kept himself retired until the middle of the day, when some friends said to him, 'Sir, the people are waiting for sermon,' He answered, 'Let them go to their prayers; for me, I neither can nor will preach any this day, for our friends are fallen and fled before the enemy, at Hamilton, and they are hacking and hewing them down, and their blood is running like water." The feats of Peden are thus commemorated by Fountainhall, 27th of March, 1650: "News came to the privy council, that about one hundred men, well armed and appointed, had left Ireland, because of a search there for such malcontents, and landed in the west of Scotland, and joined with the wild fanatics. The council, finding that they disappointed the forces, by skulking from hole to hole, were of opinion, it were better to let them gather into a body, and draw to a head, and so they would get them altogether in a snare. They had one Mr Peden, a minister, with them, and one Isaac, who commanded them. They had frighted most part of all the country ministers, so that they durst not stay at their churches, but retired to Edinburgh, or to garrison towns; and it was sad to see whole shires destitute of preaching, except in burghs. Wherever they came they plundered arms, and particularly at my Lord Dumfries's house."--FOUNTAINHALL, Vol. I. p. 359.] "This murder was committed betwixt six and seven in the morning: Mr Peden was about ten or eleven miles distant, having been in the fields all night: he came to the house betwixt seven and eight, and desired to call in the family, that he might pray amongst them; when praying, he said, "Lord, when wilt thou avenge Brown's blood? Oh, let Brown's blood be precious in thy sight! and hasten the day when thou wilt avenge it, with Cameron's, Cargil's, and many others of our martyrs' names; and oh! for that day, when the Lord would avenge all their bloods!" When ended, John Muirhead enquired what he meant by Brown's blood? He said twice over, "What do I mean? Claverhouse has been at the Preshil this morning, and has cruelly murdered John Brown; his corpse are lying at the end of his house, and his poor wife sitting weeping by his corpse, and not a soul to speak a word comfortably to her." While we read this dismal story, we must remember Brown's situation was that of an avowed and determined rebel, liable as such to military execution; so that the atrocity was more that of the times than of Claverhouse. That general's gallant adherence to his master, the misguided James VII., and his glorious death on the field of victory, at Killicrankie, have tended to preserve and gild his memory. He is still remembered in the Highlands as the most successful leader of their clans. An ancient gentleman, who had borne arms for the cause of Stuart, in 1715, told the editor, that, when the armies met on the field of battle, at Sheriff-muir, a veteran chief (I think he named Gordon of Glenbucket), covered with scars, came up to the earl of Mar, and earnestly pressed him to order the Highlanders to charge, before the regular army of Argyle had completely formed their line, and at a moment when the rapid and furious onset of the clans might have thrown them into total disorder. Mar repeatedly answered, it was not yet time; till the chieftain turned from him in disdain and despair, and, stamping with rage, exclaimed aloud, "O for one hour of Dundee!" Claverhouse's sword (a strait cut-and-thrust blade) is in the possession of Lord Woodhouselee. In Pennycuik-house is preserved the buff-coat, which he wore at the battle of Killicrankie. The fatal shot-hole is under the arm-pit, so that the ball must have been received while his arm was raised to direct the pursuit However he came by his charm of _proof_, he certainly had not worn the garment usually supposed to confer that privelage, and which is called _the waistcoat of proof, or of necessity_. It was thus made: "On Christmas daie, at night, a thread must be sponne of flax, by a little virgine girle, in the name of the divell: and it must be by her woven, and also wrought with the needle. In the breast, or forepart thereof, must be made with needle work, two heads; on the head, at the right side, must be a hat and a long beard; the left head must have on a crown, and it must be so horrible that it maie resemble Belzebub; and on each side of the wastcote must be made a crosse."--SCOTT'S _Discoverie of Witchcraft,_ p. 231. It would be now no difficult matter to bring down our popular poetry, connected with history, to the year 1745. But almost all the party ballads of that period have been already printed, and ably illustrated by Mr Ritson. END OF HISTORICAL BALLADS. MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER. PART SECOND. _ROMANTIC BALLADS._ SCOTTISH MUSIC, AN ODE, BY J. LEYDEN. TO IANTHE. Again, sweet syren, breathe again That deep, pathetic, powerful strain; Whose melting tones, of tender woe, Fall soft as evening's summer dew, That bathes the pinks and harebells blue, Which in the vales of Tiviot blow. Such was the song that soothed to rest. Far in the green isle of the west, The Celtic warrior's parted shade; Such are the lonely sounds that sweep O'er the blue bosom of the deep, Where ship-wrecked mariners are laid. Ah! sure, as Hindú legends tell, When music's tones the bosom swell, The scenes of former life return; Ere, sunk beneath the morning star, We left our parent climes afar, Immured in mortal forms to mourn. Or if, as ancient sages ween, Departed spirits, half-unseen, Can mingle with the mortal throng; 'Tis when from heart to heart we roll The deep-toned music of the soul, That warbles in our Scottish song. I hear, I hear, with awful dread, The plaintive music of the dead; They leave the amber fields of day: Soft as the cadence of the wave, That murmurs round the mermaid's grave, They mingle in the magic lay. Sweet syren, breathe the powerful strain! _Lochroyan's Damsel_[A] sails the main; The chrystal tower enchanted see! "Now break," she cries, "ye fairy charms!" As round she sails with fond alarms, "Now break, and set my true love free!" Lord Barnard is to greenwood gone, Where fair _Gil Morrice_ sits alone, And careless combs his yellow hair; Ah! mourn the youth, untimely slain! The meanest of Lord Barnard's train The hunter's mangled head must bear. Or, change these notes of deep despair, For love's more soothing tender air: Sing, how, beneath the greenwood tree, _Brown Adam's_[B] love maintained her truth, Nor would resign the exiled youth For any knight the fair could see. And sing _the Hawk of pinion gray_,[C] To southern climes who winged his way, For he could speak as well as fly; Her brethren how the fair beguiled, And on her Scottish lover smiled, As slow she raised her languid eye. Fair was her cheek's carnation glow, Like red blood on a wreath of snow; Like evening's dewy star her eye: White as the sea-mew's downy breast, Borne on the surge's foamy crest, Her graceful bosom heaved the sigh. In youth's first morn, alert and gay, Ere rolling years had passed away, Remembered like a morning dream, I heard these dulcet measures float, In many a liquid winding note, Along the banks of Teviot's stream. Sweet sounds! that oft have soothed to rest The sorrows of my guileless breast, And charmed away mine infant tears: Fond memory shall your strains repeat, Like distant echoes, doubly sweet, That in the wild the traveller hears. And thus, the exiled Scotian maid, By fond alluring love betrayed To visit Syria's date-crowned shore; In plaintive strains, that soothed despair, Did "Bothwell's banks that bloom so fair," And scenes of early youth, deplore. Soft syren! whose enchanting strain Floats wildly round my raptured brain, I bid your pleasing haunts adieu! Yet, fabling fancy oft shall lead My footsteps to the silver Tweed, Through scenes that I no more must view. [Footnote A: _The Lass of Lochroyan_--In this volume.] [Footnote B: See the ballad, entitled, _Brown Adam._] [Footnote C: See the _Gay Goss Hawk._] NOTES ON SCOTTISH MUSIC, AN ODE. _Far in the green isle of the west._--P. 103. v. 2. The _Flathinnis_, or Celtic paradise. _Ah! sure, as Hindú legends tell._--P. 104. v. 1. The effect of music is explained by the Hindús, as recalling to our memory the airs of paradise, heard in a state of pre-existence--_Vide_ Sacontala. _Did "Bathwell's banks that bloom so fair."_--P. 106. v. 3. "So fell it out of late years, that an English gentleman, travelling in Palestine, not far from Jerusalem, as he passed through a country town, he heard, by chance, a woman sitting at her door, dandling her child, to sing, _Bothwel bank thou blumest fair_. The gentleman hereat wondered, and forthwith, in English, saluted the woman, who joyfully answered him; and said, she was right glad there to see a gentleman of our isle: and told him, that she was a Scottish woman, and came first from Scotland to Venice, and from Venice thither, where her fortune was to be the wife of an officer under the Turk; who being at that instant absent, and very soon to return, she entreated the gentleman to stay there until his return. The which he did; and she, for country sake, to shew herself the more kind and bountiful unto him, told her husband, at his home-coming, that the gentleman was her kinsman; whereupon her husband entertained him very kindly; and, at his departure gave him divers things of good value."--_Verstigan's Restitution of Decayed Intelligence._ Chap. _Of the Sirnames of our Antient Families._ Antwerp, 1605. INTRODUCTION TO THE TALE OF TAMLANE. ON THE FAIRIES OF POPULAR SUPERSTITION. _"Of airy elves, by moon-light shadows seen, The silver token, and the circled green._--POPE. In a work, avowedly dedicated to the preservation of the poetry and tradition of the "olden time," it would be unpardonable to omit this opportunity of making some observations upon so interesting an article of the popular creed, as that concerning the Elves, or Fairies. The general idea of spirits, of a limited power, and subordinate nature, dwelling among the woods and mountains, is, perhaps common to all nations. But the intermixture of tribes, of languages, and religion, which has occurred in Europe, renders it difficult to trace the origin of the names which have been bestowed upon such spirits, and the primary ideas which were entertained concerning their manners and habits. The word _elf_, which seems to have been the original name of the beings, afterwards denominated fairies, is of Gothic origin, and probably signified, simply, a spirit of a lower order. Thus, the Saxons had not only _dun-elfen_, _berg-elfen_, and _munt-elfen_, spirits of the downs, hills, and mountains; but also _feld-elfen_, _wudu-elfen_, _sae-elfen_, and _water-elfen_; spirits of the fields, of the woods, of the sea, and of the waters. In low German, the same latitude of expression occurs; for night hags are termed _aluinnen_, and _aluen_, which is sometimes Latinized _eluoe_. But the prototype of the English elf, is to be sought chiefly in the _berg-elfen_, or _duergar_, of the Scandinavians. From the most early of the Icelandic Sagas, as well as from the Edda itself, we learn the belief of the northern nations in a race of dwarfish spirits, inhabiting the rocky mountains, and approaching, in some respects, to the human nature. Their attributes, amongst which we recognize the features of the modern Fairy, were, supernatural wisdom and prescience, and skill in the mechanical arts, especially in the fabrication of arms. They are farther described, as capricious, vindictive, and easily irritated. The story of the elfin sword, _Tyrfing_, may be the most pleasing illustration of this position. Suafurlami, a Scandinavian monarch, returning from hunting, bewildered himself among the mountains. About sun-set, he beheld a large rock, and two dwarfs, sitting before the mouth of a cavern. The king drew his sword, and intercepted their retreat, by springing betwixt them and their recess, and imposed upon them the following condition of safety:--that they should make for him a faulchion, with a baldric and scabbard of pure gold, and a blade, which should divide stones and iron as a garment, and which should render the wielder ever victorious in battle. The elves complied with the requisition, and Suafurlami pursued his way home. Returning at the time appointed, the dwarfs delivered to him the famous sword _Tyrfing_; then, standing in the entrance of their cavern, spoke thus: "This sword, O king, shall "destroy a man every time it is brandished; but it shall "perform three atrocious deeds, and it shall be thy bane." The king rushed forward with the charmed sword, and buried both its edges in the rock; but the dwarfs escaped into their recesses.[A] This enchanted sword emitted rays like the sun, dazzling all against whom it was brandished; it divided steel like water, and was never unsheathed without slaying a man--_Hervarar Saga,_ p. 9. Similar to this was the enchanted sword, _Skoffhung_, which was taken by a pirate out of the tomb of a Norwegian monarch. Many such tales are narrated in the Sagas; but the most distinct account of the _-duergar_, or elves, and their attributes, is to be found in a preface of Torfaeus to the history of Hrolf Kraka, who cites a dissertation by Einar Gudmund, a learned native of Iceland. "I am firmly of opinion," says the Icelander, "that these beings are creatures of God, consisting, like human beings, of a body and rational soul; that they are of different sexes, and capable of producing children, and subject to all human affections, as sleeping and waking, laughing and crying, poverty and wealth; and that they possess cattle, and other effects, and are obnoxious to death, like other mortals." He proceeds to state, that the females of this race are capable of procreating with mankind; and gives an account of one who bore a child to an inhabitant of Iceland, for whom she claimed the privilege of baptism; depositing the infant, for that purpose, at the gate of the church-yard, together with a goblet of gold, as an offering.--_Historia Hrolfi Krakae, a_ TORFAEO. [Footnote A: Perhaps in this, and similar tales, we may recognize something of real history. That the Fins, or ancient natives of Scandinavia, were driven into the mountains, by the invasion of Odin and his Asiatics, is sufficiently probable; and there is reason to believe, that the aboriginal inhabitants understood, better than the intruders, how to manufacture the produce of their own mines. It is therefore possible, that, in process of time, the oppressed Fins may have been transformed into the supernatural _duergar_. A similar transformation has taken place among the vulgar in Scotland, regarding the Picts, or Pechs, to whom they ascribe various supernatural attributes.] Similar to the traditions of the Icelanders, are those current among the Laplanders of Finland, concerning a subterranean people, gifted with' supernatural qualities, and inhabiting the recesses of the earth. Resembling men in their general appearance, the manner of their existence, and their habits of life, they far excel the miserable Laplanders in perfection of nature, felicity of situation, and skill in mechanical arts. From all these advantages, however, after the partial conversion of the Laplanders, the subterranean people have derived no farther credit, than to be confounded with the devils and magicians of the dark ages of Christianity; a degradation which, as will shortly be demonstrated, has been also suffered by the harmless Fairies of Albion, and indeed by the whole host of deities of learned Greece and mighty Rome. The ancient opinions are yet so firmly rooted, that the Laps of Finland, at this day, boast of an intercourse with these beings, in banquets, dances, and magical ceremonies, and even in the more intimate commerce of gallantry. They talk, with triumph, of the feasts which they have shared in the elfin caverns, where wine and tobacco, the productions of the Fairy region, went round in abundance, and whence the mortal guest, after receiving the kindest treatment and the most salutary counsel, has been conducted to his tent by an escort of his supernatural entertainers.--_Jessens, de Lapponibus._ The superstitions of the islands of Feroe, concerning their _Froddenskemen_, or under-ground people, are derived from the _duergar_ of Scandinavia. These beings are supposed to inhabit the interior recesses of mountains, which they enter by invisible passages. Like the Fairies, they are supposed to steal human beings. "It happened," says Debes, p. 354, "a good while since, when the burghers of Bergen had the commerce of Feroe, that there was a man in Servaade, called Jonas Soideman, who was kept by spirits in a mountain, during the space of seven years, and at length came out; but lived afterwards in great distress and fear, lest they should again take him away; wherefore people were obliged to watch him in the night." The same author mentions another young man, who had been carried away, and, after his return, was removed a second time upon the eve of his marriage. He returned in a short time, and narrated, that the spirit that had carried him away, was in the shape of a most beautiful woman, who pressed him to forsake his bride, and remain with her; urging her own superior beauty, and splendid appearance. He added, that he saw the men who were employed to search for him, and heard them call; but that they could not see him, nor could he answer them, till, upon his determined refusal to listen to the spirit's persuasions, the spell ceased to operate. The kidney-shaped West Indian bean, which is sometimes driven upon the shore of the Feroes, is termed, by the natives "the _Fairie's kidney_." In these traditions of the Gothic and Finnish tribes, we may recognize, with certainty, the rudiments of elfin superstition; but we must look to various other causes for the modifications which it has undergone. These are to be sought, 1st, in the traditions of the east; 2d, in the wreck and confusion of the Gothic mythology; 3d, in the tales of chivalry; 4th, in the fables of classical antiquity; 5th, in the influence of the Christian religion; 6th, and finally, in the creative imagination of the sixteenth century. It may be proper to notice the effect of these various causes, before stating the popular belief of our own time, regarding the Fairies. I. To the traditions of the east, the Fairies of Britain owe, I think, little more than the appellation, by which they have been distinguished since the days of the crusade. The term "Fairy," occurs not only in Chaucer, and in yet older English authors, but also, and more frequently, in the romance language; from which they seem to have adopted it. Ducange cites the following passage from Gul. Guiart, in _Historia Francica_, MS. Plusiers parlent de Guenart, Du Lou, de L'Asne, de Renart, De _Faëries_ et de Songes, De phantosmes et de mensonges. The _Lay le Frain_, enumerating the subjects of the Breton Lays, informs us expressly, Many ther beth _faëry_. By some etymologists of that learned class, who not only know whence words come, but also whither they are going, the term _Fairy_, or _Faërie_, is derived from _Faë_, which is again derived from _Nympha_. It is more probable the term is of oriental origin, and is derived from the Persic, through the medium of the Arabic. In Persic, the term _Peri_ expresses a species of imaginary being, which resembles the Fairy in some of its qualities, and is one of the fairest creatures of romantic fancy. This superstition must have been known to the Arabs, among whom the Persian tales, or romances, even as early as the time of Mahomet, were so popular, that it required the most terrible denunciations of that legislator to proscribe them. Now, in the enunciation of the Arabs, the term _Peri_ would sound _Fairy_, the letter _p_ not occurring in the alphabet of that nation; and, as the chief intercourse of the early crusaders was with the Arabs, or Saracens, it is probable they would adopt the term according to their pronounciation. Neither will it be considered as an objection to this opinion, that in Hesychius, the Ionian term _Phereas_, or _Pheres_, denotes the satyrs of classical antiquity, if the number of words of oriental origin in that lexicographer be recollected. Of the Persian Peris, Ouseley, in his _Persian Miscellanies_, has described some characteristic traits, with all the luxuriance of a fancy, impregnated with the oriental association of ideas. However vaguely their nature and appearance is described, they are uniformly represented as gentle, amiable females, to whose character beneficence and beauty are essential. None of them are mischievous or malignant; none of them are deformed or diminutive, like the Gothic fairy. Though they correspond in beauty with our ideas of angels, their employments are dissimilar; and, as they have no place in heaven, their abode is different. Neither do they resemble those intelligences, whom, on account of their wisdom, the Platonists denominated Daemons; nor do they correspond either to the guardian Genii of the Romans, or the celestial virgins of paradise, whom the Arabs denominate Houri. But the Peris hover in the balmy clouds, live in the colours of the rainbow, and, as the exquisite purity of their nature rejects all nourishment grosser than the odours of flowers, they subsist by inhaling the fragrance of the jessamine and rose. Though their existence is not commensurate with the bounds of human life, they are not exempted from the common fate of mortals.--With the Peris, in Persian mythology, are contrasted the Dives, a race of beings, who differ from them in sex, appearance, and disposition. These are represented as of the male sex, cruel, wicked, and of the most hideous aspect; or, as they are described by Mr Finch, "with ugly shapes, long horns, staring eyes, shaggy hair, great fangs, ugly paws, long tails, with such horrible difformity and deformity, that I wonder the poor women are not frightened therewith." Though they live very long, their lives are limited, and they are obnoxious to the blows of a human foe. From the malignancy of their nature, they not only wage war with mankind, but persecute the Peris with unremitting ferocity. Such are the brilliant and fanciful colours in which the imaginations of the Persian poets have depicted the charming race of the Peris; and, if we consider the romantic gallantry of the knights of chivalry, and of the crusaders, it will not appear improbable, that their charms might occasionally fascinate the fervid imagination of an amorous troubadour. But, further; the intercourse of France and Italy with the Moors of Spain, and the prevalence of the Arabic, as the language of science in the dark ages, facilitated the introduction of their mythology amongst the nations of the west. Hence, the romances of France, of Spain, and of Italy, unite in describing the Fairy as an inferior spirit, in a beautiful female form, possessing many of the amiable qualities of the eastern Peri. Nay, it seems sufficiently clear, that the romancers borrowed from the Arabs, not merely the general idea concerning those spirits, but even the names of individuals amongst them. The Peri, _Mergian Banou_ (see _Herbelot, ap. Peri_), celebrated in the ancient Persian poetry, figures in the European romances, under the various names of _Mourgue La Faye_, sister to _King Arthur; Urgande La Deconnue_, protectress of _Amadis de Gaul_; and the _Fata Morgana_ of Boiardo and Ariosto. The description of these nymphs, by the troubadours and minstrels, is in no respect inferior to those of the Peris. In the tale of _Sir Launfal_, in Way's _Fabliaux_, as well as in that of _Sir Gruelan_, in the same interesting collection, the reader will find the fairy of Normandy, or Bretagne, adorned with all the splendour of eastern description. The fairy _Melusina_, also, who married Guy de Lusignan, count of Poictou, under condition that he should never attempt to intrude upon her privacy, was of this latter class. She bore the count many children, and erected for him a magnificent castle by her magical art. Their harmony was uninterrupted, until the prying husband broke the conditions of their union, by concealing himself, to behold his wife make use of her enchanted bath. Hardly had _Melusina_ discovered the indiscreet intruder, than, transforming herself into a dragon, she departed with a loud yell of lamentation, and was never again visible to mortal eyes; although, even in the days of Brantome, she was supposed to be the protectress of her descendants, and was heard wailing, as she sailed upon the blast round the turrets of the castle of Lusiguan, the night before it was demolished. For the full story, the reader may consult the _Bibliotheque des Romans_.[A]--Gervase of Tilbury (pp. 895, and 989), assures us, that, in his days, the lovers of the Fadae, or Fairies, were numerous; and describes the rules of their intercourse with as much accuracy, as if he had himself been engaged in such an affair. Sir David Lindsay also informs us, that a leopard is the proper armorial bearing of those who spring from such intercourse, because that beast is generated by adultery of the pard and lioness. He adds, that Merlin, the prophet, was the first who adopted this cognizance, because he was "borne of faarie in adultre, and right sua the first duk of Guyenne, was borne of a _fee_; and, therefoir, the armes of Guyenne are a leopard."--_MS. on Heraldry, Advocates' Library,_ w. 4. 13. While, however, the Fairy of warmer climes was thus held up as an object of desire and of affection, those of Britain, and more especially those of Scotland, were far from being so fortunate; but, retaining the unamiable qualities, and diminutive size of the Gothic elves, they only exchanged that term for the more popular appellation of Fairies. [Footnote A: Upon this, or some similar tradition, was founded the notion, which the inveteracy of national prejudice, so easily diffused in Scotland, that the ancestor of the English monarchs, Geoffrey Plantagenet, had actually married a daemon. Bowmaker, in order to explain the cruelty and ambition of Edward I., dedicates a chapter to shew "how the kings of England are descended from the devil, by the mother's side."--_Fordun, Chron._ lib. 9, cap. 6. The lord of a certain castle, called Espervel, was unfortunate enough to have a wife of the same class. Having observed, for several years, that she always left the chapel before the mass was concluded, the baron, in a fit of obstinacy or curiosity, ordered his guard to detain her by force; of which the consequence was, that, unable to support the elevation of the host, she retreated through the air, carrying with her one side of the chapel, and several of the congregation.] II. Indeed, so singularly unlucky were the British Fairies that, as has already been hinted, amid the wreck of the Gothic mythology, consequent upon the introduction of Christianity, they seem to have preserved, with difficulty, their own distinct characteristics, while, at the same time, they engrossed the mischievous attributes of several other classes of subordinate spirits, acknowledged by the nations of the north. The abstraction of children, for example, the well known practice of the modern Fairy, seems, by the ancient Gothic nations, to have rather been ascribed to a species of night-mare, or hag, than to the _berg-elfen_, or _duergar_. In the ancient legend of _St Margaret_, of which there is a Saxo-Norman copy, in _Hickes' Thesaurus Linguar. Septen._ and one, more modern, in the Auchinleck MSS., that lady encounters a fiend, whose profession it was, among other malicious tricks, to injure new-born children and their mothers; a practice afterwards imputed to the Fairies. Gervase of Tilbury, in the _Otia Imperialia_, mentions certain hags, or _Lamiae_, who entered into houses in the night-time, to oppress the inhabitants, while asleep, injure their persons and property, and carry off their children. He likewise mentions the _Dracae_, a sort of water spirits, who inveigle women and children into the recesses which they inhabit, beneath lakes and rivers, by floating past them, on the surface of the water, in the shape of gold rings, or cups. The women, thus seized, are employed as nurses, and, after seven years, are permitted to revisit earth. Gervase mentions one woman, in particular, who had been allured by observing a wooden dish, or cup, float by her, while washing clothes in a river. Being seized as soon as she reached the depths, she was conducted into one of these subterranean recesses, which she described as very magnificent, and employed as nurse to one of the brood of the hag who had allured her. During her residence in this capacity, having accidentally touched one of her eyes with an ointment of serpent's grease, she perceived, at her return to the world, that she had acquired the faculty of seeing the _dracae_, when they intermingle themselves with men. Of this power she was, however, deprived by the touch of her ghostly mistress, whom she had one day incautiously addressed. It is a curious fact, that this story, in almost all its parts, is current in both the Highlands and Lowlands of Scotland, with no other variation than the substitution of Fairies for _dracae_, and the cavern of a hill for that of a river.[A] These water fiends are thus characterized by Heywood, in the _Hierarchie_-- "Spirits, that have o'er water gouvernement, Are to mankind alike malevolent; They trouble seas, flouds, rivers, brookes, and wels, Meres, lakes, and love to enhabit watry cells; Hence noisome and pestiferous vapours raise; Besides, they men encounter divers ways. At wreckes some present are; another sort, Ready to cramp their joints that swim for sport: One kind of these, the Italians _fatae_ name, _Fee_ the French, we _sybils_, and the same; Others _white nymphs_, and those that have them seen, _Night ladies_ some, of which Habundia queen. _Hierarchie of the Blessed Angels,_ p. 507. [Footnote A: Indeed, many of the vulgar account it extremely dangerous to touch any thing, which they may happen to find, without _saining_ (blessing) it, the snares of the enemy being notorious and well attested. A poor woman of Tiviotdale, having been fortunate enough, as she thought herself, to find a wooden beetle, at the very time when she needed such an implement, seized it without pronouncing the proper blessing, and, carrying it home, laid it above her bed, to be ready for employment in the morning. At midnight, the window of her cottage opened, and a loud voice was heard, calling upon some one within, by a strange and uncouth name, which I have forgotten. The terrified cottager ejaculated a prayer, which, we may suppose, insured her personal safety; while the enchanted implement of housewifery, tumbling from the bed-stead, departed by the window with no small noise and precipitation. In a humorous fugitive tract, the late Dr Johnson is introduced as disputing the authenticity of an apparition, merely because the spirit assumed the shape of a tea-pot, and of a shoulder of mutton. No doubt, a case so much in point, as that we have now quoted, would have removed his incredulity.] The following Frisian superstition, related by Schott, in his _Physica Curiosa_, p. 362, on the authority of Cornelius a Kempen, coincides more accurately with the popular opinions concerning the Fairies, than even the _dracae_ of Gervase, or the water-spirits of Thomas Heywood.--"In the time of the emperor Lotharius, in 830," says he, "many spectres infested Frieseland, particularly the white nymphs of the ancients, which the moderns denominate _witte wiven_, who inhabited a subterraneous cavern, formed in a wonderful manner, without human art, on the top of a lofty mountain. These were accustomed to surprise benighted travellers, shepherds watching their herds and flocks, and women newly delivered, with their children; and convey them into their caverns, from which subterranean murmurs, the cries of children, the groans and lamentations of men, and sometimes imperfect words, and all kinds of musical sounds, were heard to proceed." The same superstition is detailed by Bekker, in his _World Bewitch'd_, p. 196, of the English translation. As the different classes of spirits were gradually confounded, the abstraction of children seems to have been chiefly ascribed to the elves, or Fairies; yet not so entirely, as to exclude hags and witches from the occasional exertion of their ancient privilege.--In Germany, the same confusion of classes has not taken place. In the beautiful ballads of the _Erl King_, the _Water King_, and the _Mer-Maid_, we still recognize the ancient traditions of the Goths, concerning the _wald-elven_, and the _dracae_. A similar superstition, concerning abstraction by daemons, seems, in the time of Gervase of Tilbury, to have pervaded the greatest part of Europe. "In Catalonia," says that author, "there is a lofty mountain, named Cavagum, at the foot of which runs a river with golden sands, in the vicinity of which there are likewise mines of silver. This mountain is steep, and almost inaccessible. On its top, which is always covered with ice and snow, is a black and bottomless lake, into which if a stone be thrown, a tempest suddenly rises; and near this lake, though invisible to men, is the porch of the palace of daemons. In a town adjacent to this mountain, named Junchera, lived one Peter de Cabinam. Being one day teazed with the fretfulness of his young daughter, he, in his impatience, suddenly wished that the devil might take her; when she was immediately borne away by the spirits. About seven years afterwards, an inhabitant of the same city, passing by the mountain, met a man, who complained bitterly of the burthen he was constantly forced to bear. Upon enquiring the cause of his complaining, as he did not seem to carry any load, the man related, that he had been unwarily devoted to the spirits by an execration, and that they now employed him constantly as a vehicle of burthen. As a proof of his assertion, he added, that the daughter of his fellow-citizen was detained by the spirits, but that they were willing to restore her, if her father would come and demand her on the mountain. Peter de Cabinam, on being informed of this, ascended the mountain to the lake, and, in the name of God, demanded his daughter; when, a tall, thin, withered figure, with wandering eyes, and almost bereft of understanding, was wafted to him in a blast of wind. After some time, the person, who had been employed as the vehicle of the spirits, also returned, when he related where the palace of the spirits was situated; but added, that none were permitted to enter but those who devoted themselves entirely to the spirits; those, who had been rashly committed to the devil by others, being only permitted, during their probation, to enter the porch." It may be proper to observe, that the superstitious idea, concerning the lake on the top of the mountain, is common to almost every high hill in Scotland. Wells, or pits, on the top of high hills, were likewise supposed to lead to the subterranean habitations of the Fairies. Thus, Gervase relates, (p. 975), "that he was informed the swine-herd of William Peverell, an English baron, having lost a brood-sow, descended through a deep abyss, in the middle of an ancient ruinous castle, situated on the top of a hill, called Bech, in search of it. Though a violent wind commonly issued from this pit, he found it calm; and pursued his way, till he arrived at a subterraneous region, pleasant and cultivated, with reapers cutting down corn, though the snow remained on the surface of the ground above. Among the ears of corn he discovered his sow, and was permitted to ascend with her, and the pigs which she had farrowed." Though the author seems to think that the inhabitants of this cave might be Antipodes, yet, as many such stories are related of the Fairies, it is probable that this narration is of the same kind. Of a similar nature seems to be another superstition, mentioned by the same author, concerning the ringing of invisible bells, at the hour of one, in a field in the vicinity of Carleol, which, as he relates, was denominated _Laikibraine_, or _Lai ki brait_. From all these tales, we may perhaps be justified in supposing, that the faculties and habits ascribed to the Fairies, by the superstition of latter days, comprehended several, originally attributed to other classes of inferior spirits. III. The notions, arising from the spirit of chivalry, combined to add to the Fairies certain qualities, less atrocious, indeed, but equally formidable, with those which they derived from the last mentioned source, and alike inconsistent with the powers of the _duergar_, whom we may term their primitive prototype. From an early period, the daring temper of the northern tribes urged them to defy even the supernatural powers. In the days of Caesar, the Suevi were described, by their countrymen, as a people, with whom the immortal gods dared not venture to contend. At a later period, the historians of Scandinavia paint their heroes and champions, not as bending at the altar of their deities, but wandering into remote forests and caverns, descending into the recesses of the tomb, and extorting boons, alike from gods and daemons, by dint of the sword, and battle-axe. I will not detain the reader by quoting instances, in which heaven is thus described as having been literally attempted by storm. He may consult Saxo, Olaus Wormius, Olaus Magnus, Torfaeus, Bartholin, and other northern antiquaries. With such ideas of superior beings, the Normans, Saxons, and other Gothic tribes, brought their ardent courage to ferment yet more highly in the genial climes of the south, and under the blaze of romantic chivalry. Hence, during the dark ages, the invisible world was modelled after the material; and the saints, to the protection of whom the knights-errant were accustomed to recommend themselves, were accoutered like _preux chevaliers_, by the ardent imaginations of their votaries. With such ideas concerning the inhabitants of the celestial regions, we ought not to be surprised to find the inferior spirits, of a more dubious nature and origin, equipped in the same disguise. Gervase of Tilbury (_Otia Imperial, ap. Script, rer. Brunsvic,_ Vol. I. p. 797.) relates the following popular story concerning a Fairy Knight. "Osbert, a bold and powerful baron, visited a noble family in the vicinity of Wandlebury, in the bishopric of Ely. Among other stories related in the social circle of his friends, who, according to custom, amused each other by repeating ancient tales and traditions, he was informed, that if any knight, unattended, entered an adjacent plain by moon-light, and challenged an adversary to appear, he would be immediately encountered by a spirit in the form of a knight. Osbert resolved to make the experiment, and set out, attended by a single squire, whom he ordered to remain without the limits of the plain, which was surrounded by an ancient entrenchment. On repeating the challenge, he was instantly assailed by an adversary, whom he quickly unhorsed, and seized the reins of his steed. During this operation, his ghostly opponent sprung up, and, darting his spear, like a javelin, at Osbert, wounded him in the thigh. Osbert returned in triumph with the horse, which he committed to the care of his servants. The horse was of a sable colour, as well as his whole accoutrements, and apparently of great beauty and vigour. He remained with his keeper till cock-crowing, when, with eyes flashing fire, he reared, spurned the ground, and vanished. On disarming himself, Osbert perceived that he was wounded, and that one of his steel boots was full of blood. Gervase adds, that, as long as he lived, the scar of his wound opened afresh on the anniversary of the eve on which he encountered the spirit."[A] Less fortunate was the gallant Bohemian knight, who, travelling by night, with a single companion, came in sight of a fairy host, arrayed under displayed banners. Despising the remonstrances of his friend, the knight pricked forward to break a lance with a champion who advanced from the ranks, apparently in defiance. His companion beheld the Bohemian over-thrown horse and man, by his aërial adversary; and, returning to the spot next morning, he found the mangled, corpse of the knight and steed.--_Hierarchie of Blessed Angels,_ p. 554. [Footnote A: The unfortunate Chatterton was not, probably, acquainted with Gervase of Tilbury; yet he seems to allude, in the _Battle of Hastings_, to some modification of Sir Osbert's adventure: So who they be that ouphant fairies strike, Their souls shall wander to King Offa's dike. The entrenchment, which served as lists for the combatants, is said by Gervase to have been the work of the pagan invaders of Britain. In the metrical romance of _Arthour and Merlin_, we have also an account of Wandlesbury being occupied by the Sarasins, i.e. the Saxons; for all pagans were Saracens with the romancers. I presume the place to have been Wodnesbury, in Wiltshire, situated on the remarkable mound, called Wansdike, which is obviously a Saxon work.--GOUGH'S _Cambden's Britannia,_ pp. 87--95.] To the same current of warlike ideas, we may safely attribute the long train of military processions which the Fairies are supposed occasionally to exhibit. The elves, indeed, seem in this point to be identified with the aërial host, termed, during the middle ages, the _Milites Herlikini_, or _Herleurini_, celebrated by Pet. Blesensis, and termed, in the life of St Thomas of Canterbury, the _Familia Helliquinii_. The chief of this band was originally a gallant knight and warrior; but, having spent his whole possessions in the service of the emperor, and being rewarded with scorn, and abandoned to subordinate oppression, he became desperate, and, with his sons and followers, formed a band of robbers. After committing many ravages, and defeating all the forces sent against him, Hellequin, with his whole troop, fell in a bloody engagement with the Imperial host. His former good life was supposed to save him from utter reprobation; but he and his followers were condemned, after death, to a state of wandering, which should endure till the last day. Retaining their military habits, they were usually seen in the act of justing together, or in similar warlike employments. See the ancient French romance of _Richard sans Peur_. Similar to this was the _Nacht Lager_, or midnight camp, which seemed nightly to beleaguer the walls of Prague, "With ghastly faces thronged, and fiery arms," but which disappeared upon recitation of the magical words, _Vezelé, Vezelé, ho! ho! ho!_--For similar delusions, see DELRIUS, pp. 294, 295. The martial spirit of our ancestors led them to defy these aërial warriors; and it is still currently believed, that he, who has courage to rush upon a fairy festival, and snatch from them their drinking cup, or horn, shall find it prove to him a cornucopia of good fortune, if he can bear it in safety across a running stream. Such a horn is said to have been presented to Henry I. by a lord of Colchester.--GERVAS TILB. p. 980. A goblet is still carefully preserved in Edenhall, Cumberland, which is supposed to have been seized at a banquet of the elves, by one of the ancient family of Musgrave; or, as others say, by one of their domestics, in the manner above described. The Fairy train vanished, crying aloud, If this glass do break or fall, Farewell the luck of Edenhall! The goblet took a name from the prophecy, under which it is mentioned, in the burlesque ballad, commonly attributed to the duke of Wharton, but in reality composed by Lloyd, one of his jovial companions. The duke, after taking a draught, had nearly terminated the "luck of Edenhall," had not the butler caught the cup in a napkin, as it dropped from his grace's hands. I understand it is not now subjected to such risques, but the lees of wine are still apparent at the bottom. God prosper long, from being broke, The luck of Edenhall.--_Parody on Chevy Chace._ Some faint traces yet remain, on the borders, of a conflict of a mysterious and terrible nature, between mortals and the spirits of the wilds. This superstition is incidentally alluded to by Jackson, at the beginning of the 17th century. The fern seed, which is supposed to become visible only on St John's Eve,[A] and at the very moment when the Baptist was born, is held by the vulgar to be under the special protection of the queen of Faëry. But, as the seed was supposed to have the quality of rendering the possessor invisible at pleasure,[B] and to be also of sovereign use in charms and incantations, persons of courage, addicted to these mysterious arts, were wont to watch in solitude, to gather it at the moment when it should become visible. The particular charms, by which they fenced themselves during this vigil, are now unknown; but it was reckoned a feat of no small danger, as the person undertaking it was exposed to the most dreadful assaults from spirits, who dreaded the effect of this powerful herb in the hands of a cabalist. Such were the shades, which the original superstition, concerning the. Fairies, received from the chivalrous sentiments of the middle ages. [Footnote A: Ne'er be I found by thee unawed, On that thrice hallowed eve abroad, When goblins haunt, from fire and fen. And wood and lake, the steps of men. COLLINS'S _Ode to Fear._ The whole history of St John the Baptist was, by our ancestors, accounted mysterious, and connected with their own superstitions. The fairy queen was sometimes identified with Herodias.--DELRII _Disquisitiones Magicae,_ pp. 168. 807. It is amusing to observe with what gravity the learned Jesuit contends, that it is heresy to believe that this celebrated figurante (_saltatricula_) still leads choral dances upon earth!] [Footnote B: This is alluded to by Shakespeare, and other authors of his time: "We have the receipt of _fern-seed_; we walk invisible." _Henry IV. Part 1st, Act 2d, Sc. 3_.] IV. An absurd belief in the fables of classical antiquity lent an additional feature to the character of the woodland spirits of whom we treat. Greece and Rome had not only assigned tutelary deities to each province and city, but had peopled, with peculiar spirits, the Seas, the Rivers, the Woods, and the Mountains. The memory of the pagan creed was not speedily eradicated, in the extensive provinces through which it was once universally received; and, in many particulars, it continued long to mingle with, and influence, the original superstitions of the Gothic nations. Hence, we find the elves occasionally arrayed in the costume of Greece and Rome, and the Fairy Queen and her attendants transformed into Diana and her nymphs, and invested with their attributes and appropriate insignia.--DELRIUS, pp. 168, 807. According to the same author, the Fairy Queen was also called _Habundia_. Like Diana, who, in one capacity, was denominated _Hecate_, the goddess of enchantment, the Fairy Queen is identified in popular tradition, with the _Gyre-Carline, Gay Carline_, or mother witch, of the Scottish peasantry. Of this personage, as an individual, we have but few notices. She is sometimes termed _Nicneven_, and is mentioned in the _Complaynt of Scotland_, by Lindsay in his _Dreme_, p. 225, edit. 1590, and in his _Interludes_, apud PINKERTON'S _Scottish Poems_, Vol. II. p. 18. But the traditionary accounts regarding her are too obscure to admit of explanation. In the burlesque fragment subjoined, which is copied from the Bannatyne MS. the Gyre Carline is termed the _Queen of Jowis_ (Jovis, or perhaps Jews), and is, with great consistency, married to Mohammed.[A] [Footnote A: In Tyberius tyme, the trew imperatour, Quhen Tynto hills fra skraipiug of toun-henis was keipit, Thair dwelt are grit Gyre Carling in awld Betokis bour, That levit upoun Christiane menis flesche, and rewheids unleipit; Thair wynit ane hir by, on the west syde, callit Blasour, For luve of hir lanchane lippis, he walit and he weipit; He gadderit are menzie of modwartis to warp doun the tour: The Carling with are yren club, quhen yat Blasour sleipit, Behind the heil scho hat him sic ane blaw, Quhil Blasour bled ane quart Off milk pottage inwart, The Carling luche, and lut fart North Berwik Law. The king of fary than come, with elfis many ane, And sett are sege, and are salt, with grit pensallis of pryd; And all the doggis fra Dunbar wes thair to Dumblane, With all the tykis of Tervey, come to thame that tyd; Thay quelle doune with thair gonnes mony grit stane, The Carling schup hir on ane sow, and is her gaitis gane, Grunting our the Greik sie, and durst na langer byd, For bruklyng of bargane, and breikhig of browis: The Carling now for dispyte Is maieit with Mahomyte, And will the doggis interdyte, For scho is queue of Jowis. Sensyne the cockis of Crawmound crew nevir at day, For dule of that devillisch deme wes with Mahoun mareit, And the henis of Hadingtoun sensyne wald not lay, For this wild wibroun wich thame widlit sa and wareit; And the same North Berwik Law, as I heir wyvis say, This Carling, with a fals east, wald away careit; For to luck on quha sa lykis, na langer scho tareit: All this languor for love before tymes fell, Lang or Betok was born, Scho bred of ane accorne; The laif of the story to morne, To you I sall telle.] But chiefly in Italy were traced many dim characters of ancient mythology, in the creed of tradition. Thus, so lately as 1536, Vulcan, with twenty of his Cyclops, is stated to have presented himself suddenly to a Spanish merchant, travelling in the night, through the forests of Sicily; an apparition, which was followed by a dreadful eruption of Mount Aetna.--_Hierarchie of the Blessed Angels,_ p. 504 Of this singular mixture, the reader will find a curious specimen in the following tale, wherein the Venus of antiquity assumes the manners of one of the Fays, or Fatae, of romance. "In the year 1058, a young man of noble birth had been married at Rome, and, during the period of his nuptial feast, having gone with his companions to play at ball, he put his marriage ring on the finger of a broken statue of Venus in the area, to remain, while he was engaged in the recreation. Desisting from the exercise, he found the finger, on which he had put his ring, contracted firmly against the palm, and attempted in vain either to break it, or to disengage his ring. He concealed the circumstance from his companions, and returned at night with a servant, when he found the finger extended, and his ring gone. He dissembled the loss, and returned to his wife; but, whenever he attempted to embrace her, he found himself prevented by something dark and dense, which was tangible, though not visible, interposing between them; and he heard a voice saying, 'Embrace me! for I am Venus, whom this day you wedded, and I will not restore your ring.' As this was constantly repeated, he consulted his relations, who had recourse to Palumbus, a priest, skilled in necromancy. He directed the young man to go, at a certain hour of night, to a spot among the ruins of ancient Rome, where four roads met, and wait silently till he saw a company pass by, and then, without uttering a word, to deliver a letter, which he gave him, to a majestic being, who rode in a chariot, after the rest of the company. The young man did as he was directed; and saw a company of all ages, sexes, and ranks, on horse and on foot, some joyful and others sad, pass along; among whom he distinguished a woman in a meretricious dress, who, from the tenuity of her garments, seemed almost naked. She rode on a mule; her long hair, which flowed over her shoulders, was bound with a golden fillet; and in her hand was a golden rod, with which she directed her mule. In the close of the procession, a tall majestic figure appeared in a chariot, adorned with emeralds and pearls, who fiercely asked the young man, 'What he did there?' He presented the letter in silence, which the daemon dared not refuse. As soon as he had read, lifting up his hands to heaven, he exclaimed, 'Almighty God! how long wilt thou endure the iniquities of the sorcerer Palumbus!' and immediately dispatched some of his attendants, who, with much difficulty, extorted the ring from Venus, and restored it to its owner, whose infernal banns were thus dissolved."--FORDUNI _Scotichronicon,_ Vol. I. p. 407, _cura_ GOODALL. But it is rather in the classical character of an infernal deity, that the elfin queen may be considered, than as _Hecate_, the patroness of magic; for not only in the romance writers, but even in Chaucer, are the Fairies identified with the ancient inhabitants of the classical hell. Thus Chaucer, in his _Marchand's Tale_, mentions Pluto that is king of fayrie--and Proserpine and all her fayrie. In the _Golden Terge_ of Dunbar, the same phraseology is adopted: Thus, Thair was Pluto that elricke incubus In cloke of grene, his court usit in sable. Even so late as 1602, in Harsenet's _Declaration of Popish Imposture,_ p. 57, Mercury is called _Prince of the Fairies._ But Chaucer, and those poets who have adopted his phraseology, have only followed the romance writers; for the same substitution occurs in the romance of _Orfeo and Heurodis_, in which the story of Orpheus and Eurydice is transformed into a beautiful romantic tale of faëry, and the Gothic mythology engrafted on the fables of Greece. _Heurodis_ is represented as wife of _Orfeo_, and queen of Winchester, the ancient name of which city the romancer, with unparalleled ingenuity, discovers to have been Traciens, or Thrace. The monarch, her husband, had a singular genealogy: His fader was comen of King Pluto, And his moder of King Juno; That sum time were as godes y-holde, For aventours that thai dede and tolde. Reposing, unwarily, at noon, under the shade of an ymp tree,[A] _Heurodis_ dreams that she is accosted by the King of Fairies, With an hundred knights and mo, And damisels an hundred also, Al on snowe white stedes; As white as milke were her wedes; Y no seigh never yete bifore, So fair creatours y-core: The kinge hadde a croun on hed, It nas of silver, no of golde red, Ac it was of a precious ston: As bright as the sonne it schon. [Footnote A: _Ymp tree_--According to the general acceptation, this only signifies a grafted tree; whether it should he here understood to mean a tree consecrated to the imps, or fairies, is left with the reader.] The King of Fairies, who had obtained power over the queen, perhaps from her sleeping at noon in his domain, orders her, under the penalty of being torn to pieces, to await him to-morrow under the ymp tree, and accompany him to Fairy-Land. She relates her dream to her husband, who resolves to accompany her, and attempt her rescue: A morwe the under tide is come, And Orfeo hath his armes y-nome, And wele ten hundred knights with him, Ich y-armed stout and grim; And with the quen wenten he, Right upon that ympe tre. Thai made scheltrom in iche aside, And sayd thai wold there abide, And dye ther everichon, Er the qeun schuld fram hem gon: Ac yete amiddes hem ful right, The quen was oway y-twight, With Fairi forth y-nome, Men wizt never wher sche was become. After this fatal catastrophe, _Orfeo_, distracted for the loss of his queen, abandons his throne, and, with his harp, retires into a wilderness, where he subjects himself to every kind of austerity, and attracts the wild beasts by the pathetic melody of his harp. His state of desolation is poetically described: He that werd the fowe and griis, And on bed the purpur biis, Now on bard hethe he lith. With leves and gresse he him writh: He that had castells and tours, Rivers, forests, frith with flowrs. Now thei it commence to snewe and freze, This king mot make his bed in mese: He that had y-had knightes of priis, Bifore him kneland and leuedis, Now seth he no thing that him liketh, Bot wild wormes bi him striketh: He that had y-had plente Of mete and drinke, of ich deynte, Now may he al daye digge and wrote, Er he find his fille of rote. In sorner he liveth bi wild fruit, And verien hot gode lite. In winter may he no thing find, Bot rotes, grases, and the rinde. * * * * * His here of his herd blac and rowe, To his girdel stede was growe; His harp, whereon was al his gle, He hidde in are holwe tre: And, when the weder was clere and bright, He toke his harpe to him wel right, And harped at his owen will, Into al the wode the soun gan shill, That al the wild bestes that ther beth For joie abouten him thai teth; And al the foules that ther wer, Come and sete on ich a brere, To here his harping a fine, So miche melody was therein. At last he discovers, that he is not the sole inhabitant of this desart; for He might se him besides Oft in hot undertides, The king of Fairi, with his route, Come to hunt him al about, With dim cri and bloweing, And houndes also with him berking; Ac no best thai no nome, No never he nist whider thai bi come. And other while he might hem se As a gret ost bi him te, Well atourued ten hundred knightes, Ich y-armed to his rightes, Of cuntenance stout and fers, With mani desplaid baners; And ich his sword y-drawe hold, Ac never he nist whider thai wold. And otherwhile he seighe other thing; Knightis and lenedis com daunceing, In queynt atire gisely, Queyete pas and softlie: Tabours and trumpes gede hem bi, And al mauer menstraci.-- And on a day he seighe him biside, Sexti leuedis on hors ride, Gentil and jolif as brid on ris; Nought o man amonges hem ther nis; And ich a faucoun on bond bere, And riden on hauken bi o river. Of game thai found wel gode haunt, Maulardes, hayroun, and cormoraunt; The foules of the water ariseth, Ich faucoun hem wele deviseth, Ich fancoun his pray slough, That seize Orfeo and lough. "Par fay," quoth he, "there is fair game, "Hider Ichil bi Godes name, "Ich was y won swich work to se:" He aros, and thider gan te; To a leuedie hi was y-come, Bihelde, and hath wel under nome, And seth, bi al thing, that is His owen quen, dam Heurodis; Gern hi biheld her, and sche him eke, Ac nouther to other a word no speke: For messais that sche on him seighe, That had ben so riche and so heighe, The teres fel out of her eighe; The other leuedis this y seighe, And maked hir oway to ride, Sche most with him no longer obide. "Allas!" quoth he, "nowe is mi woe, "Whi nil deth now me slo; "Allas! to long last mi liif, "When y no dare nought with mi wif, "Nor hye to me o word speke; "Allas whi nil miin hert breke! "Par fay," quoth he, "tide what betide, "Whider so this leuedis ride, "The selve way Ichil streche; "Of liif, no dethe, me no reche. In consequence, therefore, of this discovery _Orfeo_ pursues the hawking damsels, among whom he has descried his lost queen. They enter a rock, the king continues the pursuit, and arrives at Fairy-Land, of which the following very poetical description is given: In at roche the leuedis rideth, And he after and nought abideth; When he was in the roche y-go, Wele thre mile other mo, He com into a fair cuntray, As bright soonne somers day, Smothe and plain and al grene, Hill no dale nas none ysene, Amiddle the loud a castel he seighe, Rich and reale and wonder heighe; Al the utmast wal Was cler and schine of cristal; An hundred tours ther were about, Degiselich and bataild stout; The butrass come out of the diche, Of rede gold y-arched riche; The bousour was anowed al, Of ich maner deuers animal; Within ther wer wide wones Al of precious stones, The werss piler onto biholde, Was al of burnist gold: Al that loud was ever light, For when it schuld be therk and night, The riche stonnes light gonne, Bright as doth at nonne the sonne No man may tel, no thenke in thought. The riche werk that ther was rought. * * * * * Than he gan biholde about al, And seighe ful liggeand with in the wal, Of folk that wer thidder y-brought, And thought dede and nere nought; Sum stode with outen hadde; And some none armes nade; And sum thurch the bodi hadde wounde; And sum lay wode y-bounde; And sum armed on hors sete; And sum astrangled as thai ete; And sum war in water adreynt; And sum with fire al for schreynt; Wives ther lay on childe bedde; Sum dede, and sum awedde; And wonder fere ther lay besides, Right as thai slepe her undertides; Eche was thus in this warld y-nome, With fairi thider y-come.[A] There he seize his owhen wiif, Dame Heurodis, his liif liif, Slepe under an ympe tree: Bi her clothes he knewe that it was he, And when he had bihold this mervalis alle, He went into the kinges halle; Then seigh he there a semly sight, A tabernacle blisseful and bright; Ther in her maister king sete, And her quen fair and swete; Her crounes, her clothes schine so bright, That unnethe bihold he hem might. _Orfeo and Heurodis, MS._ [Footnote A: It was perhaps from such a description that Ariosto adopted his idea of the Lunar Paradise, containing every thing that on earth was stolen or lost.] _Orfeo_, as a minstrel, so charms the Fairy King with the music of his harp, that he promises to grant him whatever he should ask. He immediately demands his lost _Heurodis_; and, returning safely with her to Winchester, resumes his authority; a catastrophe, less pathetic indeed, but more pleasing, than that of the classical story. The circumstances, mentioned in this romantic legend, correspond very exactly with popular tradition. Almost all the writers on daemonology mention, as a received opinion that the power of the daemons is most predominant at noon and midnight. The entrance to the Land of Faëry is placed in the wilderness; a circumstance, which coincides with a passage in Lindsay's _Complaint of the Papingo:_ Bot sen my spreit mon from my bodye go, I recommend it to the queue of Fary, Eternally into her court to tarry In _wilderness_ amang the holtis hair. LINDSAY'S _Works_, 1592, p. 222. Chaucer also agrees, in this particular, with our romancer: In his sadel he clombe anon, And priked over stile and ston, An elf quene for to espie; Til he so long had riden and gone That he fond in a privie wone The countree of Faërie. Wherein he soughte north and south, And often spired with his mouth, In many a foreste wilde; For in that countree nas ther non, That to him dorst ride or gon, Neither wif ne childe. _Rime of Sir Thopas._ V. Other two causes, deeply affecting the superstition of which we treat, remain yet to be noticed. The first is derived from the Christian religion, which admits only of two classes of spirits, exclusive of the souls of men--Angels, namely, and Devils. This doctrine had a necessary tendency to abolish the distinction among subordinate spirits, which had been introduced by the superstitions of the Scandinavians. The existence of the Fairies was readily admitted; but, as they had no pretensions to the angelic character, they were deemed to be of infernal origin. The union, also, which had been formed betwixt the elves and the Pagan deities, was probably of disservice to the former; since every one knows, that the whole synod of Olympus were accounted daemons. The fulminations of the church were, therefore, early directed against those, who consulted or consorted with the Fairies; and, according to the inquisitorial logic, the innocuous choristers of Oberon and Titania were, without remorse, confounded with the sable inhabitants of the orthodox Gehennim; while the rings, which marked their revels, were assimilated to the blasted sward on which the witches held their infernal sabbath.--_Delrii Disq. Mag._ p. 179. This transformation early took place; for, among the many crimes for which the famous Joan of Arc was called upon to answer, it was not the least heinous, that she had frequented the Tree and Fountain, near Dompré, which formed the rendezvous of the Fairies, and bore their name; that she had joined in the festive dance with the elves, who haunted this charmed spot; had accepted of their magical bouquets, and availed herself of their talismans, for the delivery of her country.--_Vide Acta Judiciaria contra Johannam D'Arceam, vulgo vocutam Johanne la Pucelle._ The Reformation swept away many of the corruptions of the church of Rome; but the purifying torrent remained itself somewhat tinctured by the superstitious impurities of the soil over which it had passed. The trials of sorcerers and witches, which disgrace our criminal records, become even more frequent after the Reformation of the church; as if human credulity, no longer amused by the miracles of Rome, had sought for food in the traditionary records of popular superstition. A Judaical observation of the precepts of the Old Testament also characterized the Presbyterian reformers. _"Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,"_ was a text, which at once (as they conceived) authorized their belief in sorcery, and sanctioned the penalty which they denounced against it. The Fairies were, therefore, in no better credit after the Reformation than before, being still regarded as actual daemons, or something very little better. A famous divine, Doctor Jasper Brokeman, teaches us, in his system of divinity, "that they inhabit in those places that are polluted with any crying sin, as effusion of blood, or where unbelief or superstitione have gotten the upper hand."--_Description of Feroe._ The Fairies being on such bad terms with the divines, those, who pretended to intercourse with them, were, without scruple, punished as sorcerers; and such absurd charges are frequently stated as exaggerations of crimes, in themselves sufficiently heinous. Such is the case in the trial of the noted Major Weir, and his sister; where the following mummery interlards a criminal indictment, too infamously flagitious to be farther detailed: "9th April, 1670. Jean Weir, indicted of sorceries, committed by her when she lived and kept a school at Dalkeith: that she took employment from a woman, to speak in her behalf to the _Queen of Fairii, meaning the Devil_; and that another woman gave her a piece of a tree, or root, the next day, and did tell her, that as long as she kept the same, she should be able to do what she pleased; and that same woman, from whom she got the tree, caused her spread a cloth before her door, and set her foot upon it, and to repeat thrice, in the posture foresaid, these words, _'All her losses and crosses go alongst to the doors,'_ which was truly a consulting with the devil, and an act of sorcery, &c. That after the spirit, in the shape of a woman, who gave her the piece of tree, had removed, she, addressing herself to spinning, and having spun but a short time, found more yarn upon the pirn than could possibly have come there by good means."[A]--_Books of Adjournal._ [Footnote A: It is observed in the record, that Major Weir, a man of the most vicious character, was at the same time ambitious of appearing eminently godly; and used to frequent the beds of sick persons, to assist them with his prayers. On such occasions, he put to his mouth a long staff, which he usually carried, and expressed himself with uncommon energy and fluency, of which he was utterly incapable when the inspiring rod was withdrawn. This circumstance, the result, probably, of a trick or habit, appearing suspicious to the judges, the staff of the sorcerer was burned along with his person. One hundred and thirty years have elapsed since his execution, yet no one has, during that space, ventured to inhabit the house of this celebrated criminal.] Neither was the judgment of the criminal court of Scotland less severe against another familiar of the Fairies, whose supposed correspondence with the court of Elfland seems to have constituted the sole crime, for which she was burned alive. Her name was Alison Pearson, and she seems to have been a very noted person. In a bitter satire against Adamson, Bishop of St Andrews, he is accused of consulting with sorcerers, particularly with this very woman; and an account is given of her travelling through Breadalbane, in the company of the Queen of Faëry, and of her descrying, in the court of Elfland, many persons, who had been supposed at rest in the peaceful grave.[A] Among these we find two remarkable personages; the secretary, young Maitland of Lethington, and one of the old lairds of Buccleuch. The cause of their being stationed in Elfland probably arose from the manner of their decease; which, being uncommon and violent, caused the vulgar to suppose that they had been abstracted by the Fairies. Lethington, as is generally supposed, died a Roman death during his imprisonment in Leith; and the Buccleuch, whom I believe to be here meant, was slain in a nocturnal scuffle by the Kerrs, his hereditary enemies. Besides, they were both attached to the cause of Queen Mary, and to the ancient religion; and were thence, probably, considered as more immediately obnoxious to the assaults of the powers of darkness.[B] The indictment of Alison Pearson notices her intercourse with the Archbishop of St Andrews, and contains some particulars, worthy of notice, regarding the court of Elfland. It runs thus: "28th May, 1586. Alison Pearson, in Byrehill, convicted of witchcraft, and of consulting with evil spirits, in the form of one Mr William Simpsone, her cosin, who she affirmed was a gritt schollar, and doctor of medicine, that healed her of her diseases when she was twelve years of age; having lost the power of her syde, and having a familiaritie with him for divers years, dealing with charms, and abuseing the common people by her arts of witchcraft, thir divers years by-past. [Footnote A: For oght the kirk culd him forbid, He sped him sone, and gat the thrid; Ane carling of the quene of Phareis, That ewill win geir to elpliyne careis; Through all Brade Abane scho has bene, On horsbak on Hallow ewin; And ay in seiking certayne nightis, As scho sayis with sur silly wychirs: And names out nybours sex or sewin, That we belevit had bene in heawin; Scho said scho saw theme weill aneugh, And speciallie gude auld Balcleuch, The secretar, and sundrie uther: Ane William Symsone, her mother brother, Whom fra scho has resavit a buike For ony herb scho likes to luke; It will instruct her how to tak it, In saws and sillubs how to mak it; With stones that meikle mair can doe, In leich craft, where scho lays them toe: A thousand maladeis scho hes mendit; Now being tane, and apprehendit, Scho being in the bischopis cure, And keipit in his castle sure, Without respect of worldlie glamer, He past into the witches chalmer. _Scottish Poems of XVI. Century,_ Edin. 1801, Vol. II, p. 320.] [Footnote B: Buccleuch was a violent enemy to the English, by whom his lands had been repeatedly plundered (See _Introduction,_ p. xxvi), and a great advocate for the marriage betwixt Mary and the dauphin, 1549. According to John Knox, he had recourse even to threats, in urging the parliament to agree to the French match. "The laird of Buccleuch," says the Reformer, "a bloody man, with many Gods wounds, swore, they that would not consent should do worse."] "_Item,_ For banting and repairing with the gude neighbours, and queene of Elfland, thir divers years by-past, as she had confest; and that she had friends in that court, which were of her own blude, who had gude acquaintance of the queene of Elfland, which might have helped her; but she was whiles well, and whiles ill, sometimes with them, a'nd other times away frae them; and that she would be in her bed haille and feire, and would not wytt where she would be the morn; and that she saw not the queene this seven years, and that she was seven years ill handled in the court of Elfland; that, however, she kad gude friends there, and that it was the gude neighbours that healed her, under God; and that she was comeing and going to St Andrews to haile folkes thir many years past. "_Item,_ Convict of the said act of witchcraft, in as far as she confest that the said Mr William Sympsoune, who was her guidsir sone, born in Stirleing, who was the king's smith, who, when about eight years of age, was taken away by ane Egyptian to Egypt; which Egyptian was a gyant, where he remained twelve years, "and then came home. "_Item,_ That she being in Grange Muir, with some other folke, she, being sick, lay downe; and, when alone, there came a man to her, clad in green, who said to her, if she would be faithful, he would do her good; but she, being feared, cried out, but naebodye came to her; so she said, if he came in God's name, and for the gude of her saule, it was well; but he gaid away: that he appeared to her another tyme like a lustie man, and many men and women with him; that, at seeing him, she signed herself and prayed, and past with them, and saw them making merrie with pypes, and gude cheir and wine, and that she was carried with them; and that when she telled any of these things, she was sairlie tormentit by them; and that the first time she gaed with them, she gat a sair straike frae one of them, which took all the _poustie_[A] of her syde frae her, and left ane ill-far'd mark on her syde. "_Item,_ That she saw the gude neighbours make their sawes[B] with panns and fyres, and that they gathered the herbs before the sun was up, and they came verie fearful sometimes to her, and flaide[C] her very sair, which made her cry, and threatened they would use her worse than before; and, at last, they took away the power of her haile syde frae her, which made her lye many weeks. Sometimes they would come and sitt by her, and promise all that she should never want if she would be faithful, but if she would speak and telle of them, they should murther her; and that Mr William Sympsoune is with them, who healed her, and telt her all things; that he is a young man not six years older than herself, and that he will appear to her before the court comes; that he told her he was taken away by them, and he bidd her sign herself that she be not taken away, for the teind of them are tane to hell everie year. [Footnote A: _Poustie_--Power.] [Footnote B: _Sawes_--Salves.] [Footnote C: _Flaide_--Scared.] "_Item,_ That the said Mr William told her what herbs were fit to cure every disease, and how to use them; and particularlie tauld, that the Bishop of St Andrews laboured under sindrie diseases, sic as the riples, trembling, feaver, flux, &c. and bade her make a sawe, and anoint several parts of his body therewith, and gave directions for making a posset, which she made and gave him." For this idle story the poor woman actually suffered death. Yet, notwithstanding the fervent arguments thus liberally used by the orthodox, the common people, though they dreaded even to think or speak about the Fairies, by no means unanimously acquiesced in the doctrine, which consigned them to eternal perdition. The inhabitants of the Isle of Man call them the "_good people_, and say they live in wilds, and forests, and on mountains, and shun great cities, because of the wickedness acted therein: all the houses are blessed where they visit, for they fly vice. A person would be thought impudently prophane who should suffer his family to go to bed, without having first set a tub, or pail, full of clean water, for those guests to bathe themselves in, which the natives aver they constantly do, as soon as ever the eyes of the family are closed, wherever they vouchsafe to come."--WALDREN's _Works_, p. 126. There are some curious, and perhaps anomalous facts, concerning the history of Fairies, in a sort of Cock-lane narrative, contained in a letter from Moses Pitt, to Dr Edward Fowler, Lord Bishop of Gloucester, printed at London in 1696, and preserved in Morgan's _Phoenix Britannicus,_ 4to, London 1732. Anne Jefferies was born in the parish of St Teath, in the county of Cornwall, in 1626. Being the daughter of a poor man, she resided as servant in the house of the narrator's father, and waited upon the narrator himself, in his childhood. As she was knitting stockings in an arbour of the garden, "six small people, all in green clothes," came suddenly over the garden wall; at the sight of whom, being much frightened, she was seized with convulsions, and continued so long sick, that she became as a changeling, and was unable to walk. During her sickness, she frequently exclaimed, "They are just gone out of the window! they are just gone out of the window! do you not see them?" These expressions, as she afterwards declared, related to their disappearing. During the harvest, when every one was employed, her mistress walked out; and dreading that Anne, who was extremely weak and silly, might injure herself, or the house, by the fire, with some difficulty persuaded her to walk in the orchard till her return. She accidentally hurt her leg, and, at her return, Anne cured it, by stroking it with her hand. She appeared to be informed of every particular, and asserted, that she had this information from the Fairies, who had caused the misfortune. After this, she performed numerous cures, but would never receive money for them. From harvest time to Christmas, she was fed by the Fairies, and eat no other victuals but theirs. The narrator affirms, that, looking one day through the key-hole of the door of her chamber, he saw her eating; and that she gave him a piece of bread, which was the most delicious he ever tasted. The Fairies always appeared to her in even numbers; never less than two, nor more than eight, at a time. She had always a sufficient stock of salves and medicines, and yet neither made, nor purchased any; nor did she ever appear to be in want of money. She, one day, gave a silver cup, containing about a quart, to the daughter of her mistress, a girl about four years old, to carry to her mother, who refused to receive it. The narrator adds, that he had seen her dancing in the orchard among the trees, and that she informed him she was then dancing with the Fairies. The report of the strange cures which she performed, soon attracted the attention of both ministers and magistrates. The ministers endeavoured to persuade her, that the Fairies by which she was haunted, were evil spirits, and that she was under the delusion of the devil. After they had left her, she was visited by the Fairies, while in great perplexity; who desired her to cause those, who termed them evil spirits, to read that place of scripture, _First Epistle of John,_, chap. iv. v. 1,--_Dearly beloved, believe not every spirit, but try the spirits, whether they are of God,_ &c. Though Anne Jefferies could not read, she produced a Bible folded down at this passage. By the magistrates she was confined three months, without food, in Bodmin jail, and afterwards for some time in the house of Justice Tregeagle. Before the constable appeared to apprehend her, she was visited by the Fairies, who informed her what was intended, and advised her to go with him. When this account was given, on May 1, 1696, she was still alive; but refused to relate any particulars of her connection with the Fairies, or the occasion on which they deserted her, lest she should again fall under the cognizance of the magistrates. Anne Jefferies' Fairies were not altogether singular in maintaining their good character, in opposition to the received opinion of the church. Aubrey and Lily, unquestionably judges in such matters, had a high opinion of these beings, if we may judge from the following succinct and business-like memorandum of a ghost-seer. "Anno 1670. Not far from Cirencester was an apparition. Being demanded whether a good spirit or a bad, returned no answer, but disappeared with a curious perfume, and most melodious twang. M.W. Lilly believes it was a Fairie. So Propertius, Omnia finierat; tenues secessit in auras, Mansit odor possis scire fuisse Deam!" AUBREY'S _Miscellanies,_ p. 80. A rustic, also, whom Jackson taxed with magical practices, about 1620, obstinately denied that the good King of the Fairies had any connection with the devil; and some of the Highland seers, even in our day, have boasted of their intimacy with the elves, as an innocent and advantageous connection. One Maccoan, in Appin, the last person eminently gifted with the second sight, professed to my learned and excellent friend, Mr Ramsay, of Ochtertyre, that he owed his prophetic visions to their intervention. VI. There remains yet another cause to be noticed, which seems to have induced a considerable alteration into the popular creed of England, respecting Fairies. Many poets of the sixteenth century, and, above all, our immortal Shakespeare, deserting the hackneyed fictions of Greece and Rome, sought for machinery in the superstitions of their native country. "The fays, which nightly dance upon the wold," were an interesting subject; and the creative imagination of the bard, improving upon the vulgar belief, assigned to them many of those fanciful attributes and occupations, which posterity have since associated with the name of Fairy. In such employments, as rearing the drooping flower, and arranging the disordered chamber, the Fairies of South Britain gradually lost the harsher character of the dwarfs, or elves. Their choral dances were enlivened by the introduction of the merry goblin _Puck_,[A] for whose freakish pranks they exchanged their original mischievous propensities. The Fairies of Shakespeare, Drayton, and Mennis, therefore, at first exquisite fancy portraits, may be considered as having finally operated a change in the original which gave them birth.[B] [Footnote A: Robin Goodfellow, or Hobgoblin, possesses the frolicksome qualities of the French _Lutin_. For his full character, the reader is referred to the _Reliques of Ancient Poetry_. The proper livery of this sylvan Momus is to be found in an old play. "Enter Robin Goodfellow, in a suit of leather, close to his body, his hands and face coloured russet colour, with a flail."--_Grim, the Collier of Croydon, Act 4, Scene 1._ At other times, however, he is presented in the vernal livery of the elves, his associates: _Tim._ "I have made "Some speeches, sir, ill verse, which have been spoke "By a _green Robin Goodfellow_, from Cheapside conduit, "To my father's company." _The City Match, Act I, Scene 6._] [Footnote B: The Fairy land, and Fairies of Spenser, have no connection with popular superstition, being only words used to denote an Utopian scene of action, and imaginary or allegorical characters; and the title of the "Fairy Queen" being probably suggested by the elfin mistress of Chaucer's _Sir Thopas_. The stealing of the Red Cross Knight, while a child, is the only incident in the poem which approaches to the popular character of the Fairy: --A Fairy thee unweeting reft; There as thou sleptst in tender swadling band, And her base elfin brood there for thee left: Such men do changelings call, so chang'd by Fairies theft. _Book I. Canto_ 10.] While the fays of South Britain received such attractive and poetical embellishments, those of Scotland, who possessed no such advantage, retained more of their ancient, and appropriate character. Perhaps, also, the persecution which these sylvan deities underwent, at the instance of the stricter presbyterian clergy, had its usual effect, in hardening their dispositions, or at least in rendering them more dreaded by those among whom they dwelt. The face of the country, too, might have some effect; as we should naturally attribute a less malicious disposition, and a less frightful appearance, to the fays who glide by moon-light through the oaks of Windsor, than to those who haunt the solitary heaths and lofty mountains of the North. The fact at least is certain; and it has not escaped a late ingenious traveller, that the character of the Scottish Fairy is more harsh and terrific than that which is ascribed to the elves of our sister kingdom.--See STODDART'S _View of Scenery and Manners in Scotland._ The Fairies of Scotland are represented as a diminutive race of beings, of a mixed, or rather dubious nature, capricious in their dispositions, and mischievous in their resentment. They inhabit the interior of green hills, chiefly those of a conical form, in Gaelic termed _Sighan_, on which they lead their dances by moon-light; impressing upon the surface the mark of circles, which sometimes appear yellow and blasted, sometimes of a deep green hue; and within which it is dangerous to sleep, or to be found after sun-set. The removal of those large portions of turf, which thunderbolts sometimes scoop out of the ground with singular regularity, is also ascribed to their agency. Cattle, which are suddenly seized with the cramp, or some similar disorder, are said to be _elf-shot_; and the approved cure is, to chafe the parts affected with a blue bonnet, which, it may be readily believed, often restores the circulation. The triangular flints, frequently found in Scotland, with which the ancient inhabitants probably barbed their shafts, are supposed to be the weapons of Fairy resentment, and are termed _elf-arrow heads_. The rude brazen battle-axes of the ancients, commonly called _celts_, are also ascribed to their manufacture. But, like the Gothic duergar, their skill is not confined to the fabrication of arms; for they are heard sedulously hammering in linns, precipices, and rocky or cavernous situations where, like the dwarfs of the mines, mentioned by Georg. Agricola, they busy themselves in imitating the actions and the various employments of men. The brook of Beaumont, for example, which passes, in its course, by numerous linns and caverns, is notorious for being haunted by the Fairies; and the perforated and rounded stones, which are formed by trituration in its channel, are termed, by the vulgar, fairy cups and dishes. A beautiful reason is assigned, by Fletcher, for the fays frequenting streams and fountains. He tells us of A virtuous well, about whose flowery banks The nimble-footed Fairies dance their rounds, By the pale moon-shine, dipping oftentimes Their stolen children, so to make them free From dying flesh, and dull mortality. _Faithful Shepherdess._ It is sometimes accounted unlucky to pass such places, without performing some ceremony to avert the displeasure of the elves. There is, upon the top of Minchmuir, a mountain in Peebles-shire, a spring, called the _Cheese Well_, because, anciently, those who passed that way were wont to throw into it a piece of cheese, as an offering to the Fairies, to whom it was consecrated. Like the _feld elfen_ of the Saxons, the usual dress of the Fairies is green; though, on the moors, they have been sometimes observed in heath-brown, or in weeds dyed with the stoneraw, or lichen.[A] They often ride in invisible procession, when their presence is discovered by the shrill ringing of their bridles. On these occasions, they sometimes borrow mortal steeds; and when such are found at morning, panting and fatigued in their stalls, with their manes and tails dishevelled and entangled, the grooms, I presume, often find this a convenient excuse for their situation; as the common belief of the elves quaffing the choicest liquors in the cellars of the rich (see the story of Lord Duffus below), might occasionally cloak the delinquencies of an unfaithful butler. [Footnote A: Hence the hero of the ballad is termed an "elfin grey."] The Fairies, beside their equestrian processions, are addicted it would seem, to the pleasures of the chace. A young sailor, travelling by night from Douglas, in the Isle of Man, to visit his sister, residing in Kirk Merlugh, heard the noise of horses, the holla of a huntsman, and the sound of a horn. Immediately afterwards, thirteen horsemen, dressed in green, and gallantly mounted, swept past him. Jack was so much delighted with the sport, that he followed them, and enjoyed the sound of the horn for some miles; and it was not till he arrived at his sister's house that he learned the danger which he had incurred. I must not omit to mention, that these little personages are expert jockeys, and scorn to ride the little Manks ponies, though apparently well suited to their size. The exercise therefore, falls heavily upon the English and Irish horses brought into the Isle of Man. Mr Waldron was assured by a gentleman of Ballafletcher, that he had lost three or four capital hunters by these nocturnal excursions.--WALDRON'S _Works_, p. 132. From the same author we learn, that the Fairies sometimes take more legitimate modes of procuring horses. A person of the utmost integrity informed him, that, having occasion to sell a horse, he was accosted among the mountains by a little gentleman plainly dressed, who priced his horse, cheapened him, and, after some chaffering, finally purchased him. No sooner had the buyer mounted, and paid the price, than, he sunk through the earth, horse and man, to the astonishment and terror of the seller; who experienced, however, no inconvenience from dealing with so extraordinary a purchaser.--_Ibid._ p. 135. It is hoped the reader will receive, with due respect, these, and similar stories, told by Mr Waldron; for he himself, a scholar and a gentleman, informs us, "as to circles in grass, and the impression of small feet among the snow, I cannot deny but I have seen them frequently, and once thought I heard a whistle, as though in my ear, when nobody that could make it was near me." In this passage there is a curious picture of the contagious effects of a superstitious atmosphere. Waldron had lived so long among the Manks, that he was almost persuaded to believe their legends. From the _History of the Irish Bards_, by Mr Walker, and from the glossary subjoined to the lively and ingenious _Tale of Castle Rackrent_, we learn, that the same ideas, concerning Fairies, are current among the vulgar in that country. The latter authority mentions their inhabiting the ancient tumuli, called _Barrows_, and their abstracting mortals. They are termed "the good people;" and when an eddy of wind raises loose dust and sand, the vulgar believe that it announces a Fairy procession, and bid God speed their journey. The Scottish Fairies, in like manner, sometimes reside in subterranean abodes, in the vicinity of human habitations or, according to the popular phrase, under the "door-stane," or threshold; in which situation, they sometimes establish an intercourse with men, by borrowing and lending, and other kindly offices. In this capacity they are termed "the good neighbours,"[A] from supplying privately the wants of their friends, and assisting them in all their transactions, while their favours are concealed. Of this the traditionary story of Sir Godfrey Macculloch forms a curious example. [Footnote A: Perhaps this epithet is only one example, among many, of the extreme civility which the vulgar in Scotland use towards spirits of a, dubious, or even a determinedly mischievous, nature. The archfiend himself is often distinguished by the softened title of the "good-man." This epithet, so applied, must sound strange to a southern ear; but, as the phrase bears various interpretations, according to the places where it is used, so, in the Scottish dialect, the _good-man of such a place_ signifies the tenant, or life-renter, in opposition to the laird, or proprietor. Hence, the devil is termed the good-man, or tenant, of the infernal regions. In the book of the Universal Kirk, 13th May, 1594, mention is made of "the horrible superstitioune usit in Garioch, and dyvers parts of the countrie, in not labouring a parcel of ground dedicated to the devil, under the title of the _Guid-man's Croft_." Lord Hailes conjectured this to have been the _tenenos_ adjoining to some ancient Pagan temple. The unavowed, but obvious, purpose of this practice, was to avert the destructive rage of Satan from the neighbouring possessions. It required various fulminations of the General Assembly of the Kirk to abolish a practice bordering so nearly upon the doctrine of the Magi.] As this Gallovidian gentleman was taking the air on horseback, near his own house, he was suddenly accosted by a little old man, arrayed in green, and mounted upon a white palfrey. After mutual salutation, the old man gave Sir Godfrey to understand, that he resided under his habitation, and that he had great reason to complain of the direction of a drain, or common sewer, which emptied itself directly into his chamber of dais, [A] Sir Godfrey Macculloch was a good deal startled at this extraordinary complaint; but, guessing the nature of the being he had to deal with, he assured the old man, with great courtesy, that the direction of the drain should be altered; and caused it be done accordingly. Many years afterwards, Sir Godfrey had the misfortune to kill, in a fray, a gentleman of the neighbourhood. He was apprehended, tried, and condemned.[B] The scaffold, upon which his head was to be struck off, was erected on the Castle-hill of Edinburgh; but hardly had he reached the fatal spot, when the old man, upon his white palfrey, pressed through the crowd, with the rapidity of lightning. Sir Godfrey, at his command, sprung on behind him; the "good neighbour" spurred his horse down the steep bank, and neither he nor the criminal were ever again seen. [Footnote A: The best chamber was thus currently denominated in Scotland, from the French _dais_, signifying that part of the ancient halls which was elevated above the rest, and covered with a canopy. The turf-seats, which occupy the sunny side of a cottage wall, is also termed the _dais_.] [Footnote B: In this particular, tradition coincides with the real fact; the trial took place in 1697.] The most formidable attribute of the elves, was their practice of carrying away, and exchanging, children; and that of stealing human souls from their bodies. "A persuasion prevails among the ignorant," says the author of a MS. history of Moray, "that, in a consumptive disease, the Fairies steal away the soul, and put the soul of a Fairy in the room of it." This belief prevails chiefly along the eastern coast of Scotland, where a practice, apparently of druidical origin, is used to avert the danger. In the increase of the March moon, withies of oak and ivy are cut, and twisted into wreaths or circles, which they preserve till next March. After that period, when persons are consumptive, or children hectic, they cause them to pass thrice through these circles. In other cases the cure was more rough, and at least as dangerous as the disease, as will appear from the following extract: "There is one thing remarkable in this parish of Suddie (in Inverness-shire), which I think proper to mention. There is a small hill N.W. from the church, commonly called Therdy Hill, or Hill of Therdie, as some term it; on the top of which there is a well, which I had the curiosity to view, because of the several reports concerning it. When children happen to be sick, and languish long in their malady, so that they almost turned skeletons, the common people imagine they are taken away (at least the substance) by spirits, called Fairies, and the shadow left with them; so, at a particular season in summer, they leave them all night themselves, watching at a distance, near this well, and this they imagine will either _end or mend them_; they say many more do recover than do not. Yea, an honest tenant who lives hard by it, and whom I had the curiosity to discourse about it, told me it has recovered some, who were about eight or nine years of age, and to his certain knowledge they bring adult persons to it; for, as he was passing one dark night, he heard groanings, and coming to the well, he found a man, who had been long sick, wrapped in a plaid, so that he could scarcely move, a stake being fixed in the earth, with a rope, or tedder, that was about the plaid; he had no sooner enquired what he was, but he conjured him to loose him, and out of sympathy he was pleased to slacken that, wherein he was, as I may so speak, swaddled; but, if I right remember, he signified, he did not recover."--_Account of the Parish of Suddie,_ apud _Macfarlane's MSS._ According to the earlier doctrine, concerning the original corruption of human nature, the power of daemons over infants had been long reckoned considerable, in the period intervening between birth and baptism. During this period, therefore, children were believed to be particularly liable to abstraction by the Fairies, and mothers chiefly dreaded the substitution of changelings in the place of their own offspring. Various monstrous charms existed in Scotland, for procuring the restoration of a child, which had been thus stolen; but the most efficacious of them was supposed to be, the roasting of the suppositious child upon the live embers, when it was believed it would vanish, and the true child appear in the place, whence it had been originally abstracted.[A] [Footnote A: Less perilous recipes were sometimes used. The editor is possessed of a small relique, termed by tradition a toad-stone, the influence of which was supposed to preserve pregnant women from the power of daemons, and other dangers incidental to their situation. It has been carefully preserved for several generations, was often pledged for considerable sums of money, and uniformly redeemed, from a belief in its efficacy.] The most minute and authenticated account of an exchanged child is to be found in Waldron's _Isle of Man_, a book from which I have derived much legendary information. "I was prevailed upon myself," says that author, "to go and see a child, who, they told me, was one of these changelings, and, indeed, must own, was not a little surprised, as well as shocked, at the sight. Nothing under heaven could have a more beautiful face; but, though between five and six years old, and seemingly healthy, he was so far from being able to walk or stand, that he could not so much as move any one joint; his limbs were vastly long for his age, but smaller than any infant's of six months; his complexion was perfectly delicate, and he had the finest hair in the world. He never spoke nor cried, ate scarce any thing, and was very seldom seen to smile; but if any one called him a _fairy-elf_, he would frown, and fix his eyes so earnestly on those who said it, as if he would look them through. His mother, or at least his supposed mother, being very poor, frequently went out a chareing, and left him a whole day together. The neighbours, out of curiosity, have often looked in at the window, to see how he behaved while alone; which, whenever they did, they were sure to find him laughing, and in the utmost delight. This made them judge that he was not without company, more pleasing to him than any mortals could be; and what made this conjecture seem the more reasonable, was, that if he were left ever so dirty, the woman, at her return, saw him with a clean face, and his hair combed with the utmost exactness and nicety." P. 128. Waldron gives another account of a poor woman, to whose offspring, it would seem, the Fairies had taken a special fancy. A few nights after she was delivered of her first child, the family were alarmed by a dreadful cry of "Fire!" All flew to the door, while the mother lay trembling in bed, unable to protect her infant, which was snatched from the bed by an invisible hand. Fortunately the return of the gossips, after the causeless alarm, disturbed the Fairies, who dropped the child, which was found sprawling and shrieking upon the threshold. At the good woman's second _accouchement_, a tumult was heard in the cow-house, which drew thither the whole assistants. They returned, when they found that all was quiet among the cattle, and lo! the second child had been carried from the bed, and dropped in the middle of the lane. But, upon the third occurrence of the same kind, the company were again decoyed out of the sick woman's chamber by a false alarm, leaving only a nurse, who was detained by the bonds of sleep. On this last occasion, the mother plainly saw her child removed, though the means were invisible. She screamed for assistance to the nurse; but the old lady had partaken too deeply of the cordials which circulate on such joyful occasions, to be easily awakened. In short, the child was this time fairly carried off, and a withered, deformed creature, left in its stead, quite naked, with the clothes of the abstracted infant, rolled in a bundle, by its side. This creature lived nine years, ate nothing but a few herbs, and neither spoke, stood, walked nor performed any other functions of mortality; resembling, in all respects, the changeling already mentioned.--WALDRON'S _Works, ibid._ But the power of the Fairies was not confined to unchristened children alone; it was supposed frequently to extend to full grown persons, especially such as, in an unlucky hour, were devoted to the devil by the execration of parents, and of masters;[A] or those who were found asleep under a rock, or on a green hill, belonging to the Fairies, after sun-set; or, finally, to those who unwarily joined their orgies. A tradition existed, during the seventeenth century, concerning an ancestor of the noble family of Duffus, who, "walking abroad in the fields, near to his own house, was suddenly carried away, and found the next day at Paris, in the French king's cellar, with a silver cup in his hand. Being brought into the king's presence, and questioned by him who he was, and how he came thither, he told his name, his country, and the place of his residence; and that, on such a day of the month, which proved to be the day immediately preceding, being in the fields, he heard the noise of a whirlwind, and of voices, crying, _'Horse and Hattock!'_ (this is the word which the Fairies are said to use when they remove from any place), whereupon he cried, _'Horse and Hattock'_ also, and was immediately caught up, and transported through the air, by the Fairies, to that place, where, after he had drunk heartily, he fell asleep, and, before he woke, the rest of the company were gone, and had left him in the posture wherein he was found. It is said the king gave him the cup, which was found in his hand, and dismissed him." The narrator affirms, "that the cup was still preserved, and known by the name of the _Fairy cup_." He adds, that Mr Steward, tutor to the then Lord Duffus, had informed him, "that, when a boy, at the school of Forres, he, and his school-fellows, were upon a time whipping their tops in the church-yard, before the door of the church, when, though the day was calm, they heard a noise of a wind, and at some distance saw the small dust begin to rise and turn round, which motion continued advancing till it came to the place where they were, whereupon they began to bless themselves; but one of their number being, it seems, a little more bold and confident than his companions, said, _'Horse and Hattock, with my top,'_ and immediately they all saw the top lifted up from the ground, but could not see which way it was carried, by reason of a cloud of dust which was raised at the same time. They sought for the top all about the place where it was taken up, but in vain; and it was found afterwards in the church-yard, on the other side of the church."--This puerile legend is contained in a letter from a learned gentleman in Scotland, to Mr Aubrey, dated 15th March, 1695, published in AUBREY'S _Miscellanies,_ p. 158. [Footnote A: This idea is not peculiar to the Gothic tribes, but extends to those of Sclavic origin. Tooke (_History of Russia,_ Vol. I. p. 100) relates, that the Russian peasants believe the nocturnal daemon, _Kikimora_, to have been a child, whom the devil stole out of the womb of its mother, because she had cursed it. They also assert, that if an execration against a child be spoken in an evil hour, the child is carried off by the devil. The beings, so stolen, are neither fiends nor men; they are invisible, and afraid of the cross and holy water; but, on the other hand, in their nature and dispositions they resemble mankind, whom they love, and rarely injure.] Notwithstanding the special example of Lord Duffus, and of the top, it is the common opinion, that persons, falling under the power of the Fairies, were only allowed to revisit the haunts of men, after seven years had expired. At the end of seven years more, they again disappeared, after which they were seldom seen among mortals. The accounts they gave of their situation, differ in some particulars. Sometimes they were represented as leading a life of constant restlessness, and wandering by moon-light. According to others, they inhabited a pleasant region, where, however, their situation was rendered horrible, by the sacrifice of one or more individuals to the devil, every seventh year. This circumstance is mentioned in Alison Pearson's indictment, and in the _Tale of the Young Tamlane,_ where it is termed, "the paying the kane to hell," or, according to some recitations, "the teind," or tenth. This is the popular reason assigned for the desire of the Fairies to abstract young children, as substitutes for themselves in this dreadful tribute. Concerning the mode of winning, or recovering, persons abstracted by the Fairies, tradition differs; but the popular opinion, contrary to what may be inferred from the following tale, supposes, that the recovery must be effected within a year and a day, to be held legal in the Fairy court. This feat, which was reckoned an enterprize of equal difficulty and danger, could only be accomplished on Hallowe'en, at the great annual procession of the Fairy court.[A] Of this procession the following description is found in Montgomery's _Flyting against Polwart,_ apud _Watson's Collection of Scots Poems,_ 1709, Part III. p. 12. In the hinder end of harvest, on All-hallowe'en, When our _good neighbours_ dois ride, if I read right. Some buckled on a bunewand, and some on a been, Ay trottand in tronps from the twilight; Some saidled a she-ape, all grathed into green, Some hobland on a hemp-stalk, hovand to the hight; The king of Pharie and his court, with the Elf queen, With many elfish incubus was ridand that night. There an elf on an ape, an unsel begat. Into a pot by Pomathorne; That bratchart in a busse was born; They fand a monster on the morn, War faced nor a cat. [Footnote A: See the inimitable poem of Hallowe'en:-- "Upon that night, when Fairies light On Cassilis Downan dance; Or o'er the leas, in splendid blaze, On stately coursers prance," &c. _Burns._] The catastrophe of _Tamlane_ terminated more successfully than that of other attempts, which tradition still records. The wife of a farmer in Lothian had been carried off by the Fairies, and, during the year of probation, repeatedly appeared on Sunday, in the midst of her children, combing their hair. On one of these occasions she was accosted by her husband; when she related to him the unfortunate event which had separated them, instructed him by what means he might win her, and exhorted him to exert all his courage, since her temporal and eternal happiness depended on the success of his attempt. The farmer, who ardently loved his wife, set out on Hallow-e'en and, in the midst of a plot of furze, waited impatiently for the procession of the Fairies. At the ringing of the Fairy bridles, and the wild unearthly sound which accompanied the cavalcade, his heart failed him, and he suffered the ghostly train to pass by without interruption. When the last had rode past, the whole troop vanished, with loud shouts of laughter and exultation; among which he plainly discovered the voice of his wife, lamenting that he had lost her for ever. A similar, but real incident, took place at the town of North Berwick, within the memory of man. The wife of a man, above the lowest class of society, being left alone in the house, a few days after delivery, was attacked and carried off by one of those convulsion fits, incident to her situation. Upon the return of the family, who had been engaged in hay-making, or harvest, they found the corpse much disfigured. This circumstance, the natural consequence of her disease, led some of the spectators to think that she had been carried off by the Fairies, and that the body before them was some elfin deception. The husband, probably, paid little attention to this opinion at the time. The body was interred, and, after a decent time had elapsed, finding his domestic affairs absolutely required female superintendence, the widower paid his addresses to a young woman in the neighbourhood. The recollection, however, of his former wife, whom he had tenderly loved, haunted his slumbers; and, one morning, he came to the clergyman of the parish in the utmost dismay, declaring, that she had appeared to him the preceding night, informed him that she was a captive in Fairy Land, and conjured him to attempt her deliverance. She directed him to bring the minister, and certain other persons, whom she named, to her grave at midnight. Her body was then to be dug up, and certain prayers recited; after which the corpse was to become animated, and fly from them. One of the assistants, the swiftest runner in the parish, was to pursue the body; and, if he was able to seize it, before it had thrice encircled the church, the rest were to come to his assistance, and detain it, in spite of the struggles it should use, and the various shapes into which it might be transformed. The redemption of the abstracted person was then to become complete. The minister, a sensible man, argued with his parishioner upon the indecency and absurdity of what was proposed, and dismissed him. Next Sunday, the banns being for the first time proclaimed betwixt the widower and his new bride, his former wife, very naturally, took the opportunity of the following night to make him another visit, yet more terrific than the former. She upbraided him with his incredulity, his fickleness, and his want of affection; and, to convince him that her appearance was no aërial illusion, she gave suck, in his presence, to her youngest child. The man, under the greatest horror of mind, had again recourse to the pastor; and his ghostly counsellor fell upon an admirable expedient to console him. This was nothing less than dispensing with the further solemnity of banns, and marrying him, without an hour's delay, to the young woman to whom he was affianced; after which no spectre again disturbed his repose. * * * * * Having concluded these general observations upon the Fairy superstition, which, although minute, may not, I hope, be deemed altogether uninteresting, I proceed to the more particular illustrations, relating to the _Tale of the Young Tamlane._ The following ballad, still popular in Ettrick Forest, where the scene is laid, is certainly of much greater antiquity than its phraseology, gradually modernized as transmitted by tradition, would seem to denote. The _Tale of the Young Tamlane_ is mentioned in the _Complaynt of Scotland;_ and the air, to which it was chaunted, seems to have been accommodated to a particular dance; for the dance of _Thorn of Lynn_, another variation of _Thomalin_, likewise occurs in the same performance. Like every popular subject, it seems to have been frequently parodied; and a burlesque ballad, beginning "Tom o' the Linn was a Scotsman born," is still well known. In a medley, contained in a curious and ancient MS. cantus, _penes_ J.G. Dalyell, Esq., there is an allusion to our ballad:-- "Sing young Thomlin, be merry, be merry, and twice so merry." In _Scottish Songs_, 1774, a part of the original tale was published, under the title of _Kerton Ha';_ a corruption of Carterhaugh; and, in the same collection, there is a fragment, containing two or three additional verses, beginning, "I'll wager, I'll wager, I'll wager with you," &c. In Johnson's _Musical Museum_, a more complete copy occurs, under the title of _Thom Linn_, which, with some alterations was reprinted in the _Tales of Wonder_. The present edition is the most perfect which has yet appeared; being prepared from a collation of the printed copies, with a very accurate one in Glenriddell's MSS., and with several recitals from tradition. Some verses are omitted in this edition, being ascertained to belong to a separate ballad, which will be found in a subsequent part of the work. In one recital only, the well known fragment of the _Wee, wee Man_, was introduced, in the same measure with the rest of the poem. It was retained in the first edition, but is now omitted; as the editor has been favoured, by the learned Mr Ritson, with a copy of the original poem, of which it is a detached fragment. The editor has been enabled to add several verses of beauty and interest to this edition of _Tamlane_, in consequence of a copy, obtained from a gentleman residing near Langholm, which is said to be very ancient, though the diction is somewhat of a modern cast. The manners of the Fairies are detailed at considerable length, and in poetry of no common merit. Carterhaugh is a plain, at the conflux of the Ettrick and Yarrow, in Selkirkshire, about a mile above Selkirk, and two miles below Newark Castle; a romantic ruin, which overhangs the Yarrow, and which is said to have been the habitation of our heroine's father, though others place his residence in the tower of Oakwood. The peasants point out, upon the plain, those electrical rings, which vulgar credulity supposes to be traces of the Fairy revels. Here, they say, were placed the stands of milk, and of water, in which _Tamlane_ was dipped, in order to effect the disenchantment; and upon these spots, according to their mode of expressing themselves, the grass will never grow. Miles Cross (perhaps a corruption of Mary's Cross), where fair Janet waited the arrival of the Fairy train, is said to have stood near the duke of Buccleuch's seat of Bowhill, about half a mile from Carterhaugh. In no part of Scotland, indeed, has the belief in Fairies maintained its ground with more pertinacity than in Selkirkshire. The most sceptical among the lower ranks only venture to assert, that their appearances, and mischievous exploits, have ceased, or at least become infrequent, since the light of the Gospel was diffused in its purity. One of their frolics is said to have happened late in the last century. The victim of elfin sport was a poor man, who, being employed in pulling heather upon Peatlaw, a hill not far from Carterhaugh, had tired of his labour, and laid him down to sleep upon a Fairy ring.--When he awakened, he was amazed to find himself in the midst of a populous city, to which, as well as to the means of his transportation, he was an utter stranger. His coat was left upon the Peatlaw; and his bonnet, which had fallen off in the course of his aërial journey, was afterwards found hanging upon the steeple of the church of Lanark. The distress of the poor man was, in some degree, relieved, by meeting a carrier, whom he had formerly known, and who conducted him back to Selkirk, by a slower conveyance than had whirled him to Glasgow.--That he had been carried off by the Fairies, was implicitly believed by all, who did not reflect, that a man may have private reasons for leaving his own country, and for disguising his having intentionally done so. THE YOUNG TAMLANE O I forbid ye, maidens a', That wear gowd on your hair, To come or gae by Carterhaugh; For young Tamlane is there. There's nane, that gaes by Carterhaugh, But maun leave him a wad; Either goud rings or green mantles, Or else their maidenheid. Now, gowd rings ye may buy, maidens, Green mantles ye may spin; But, gin ye lose your maidenheid, Ye'll ne'er get that agen. But up then spak her, fair Janet, The fairest o' a' her kin; "I'll cum and gang to Carterhaugh, "And ask nae leave o' him." Janet has kilted her green kirtle,[A] A little abune her knee; And she has braided her yellow hair, A little abune her bree. And when she cam to Carterhaugh, She gaed beside the well; And there she fand his steed standing, But away was himsell. She hadna pu'd a red red rose, A rose but barely three; Till up and starts a wee wee man, At Lady Janet's knee. Says--"Why pu' ye the rose, Janet? "What gars ye break the tree? "Or why come ye to Carterhaugh, "Withoutten leave o' me?" Says--"Carterhaugh it is mine ain; "My daddie gave it me; "I'll come and gang to Carterhaugh, "And ask nae leave o' thee." He's ta'en her by the milk-white hand, Amang the leaves sae green; And what they did I cannot tell-- The green leaves were between. He's ta'en her by the milk-white hand, Amang the roses red; And what they did I cannot say-- She ne'er returned a maid. When she cam to her father's ha', She looked pale and wan; They thought she'd dried some sair sickness, Or been wi' some leman. She didna comb her yellow hair, Nor make meikle o' her heid; And ilka thing, that lady took, Was like to be her deid. Its four and twenty ladies fair Were playing at the ba'; Janet, the wightest of them anes, Was faintest o' them a'. Four and twenty ladies fair Were playing at the chess; And out there came the fair Janet, As green as any grass. Out and spak an auld gray-headed knight, Lay o'er the castle wa'-- "And ever alas! for thee, Janet, "But we'll be blamed a'!" "Now haud your tongue, ye auld gray knight! "And an ill deid may ye die! "Father my bairn on whom I will, "I'll father nane on thee." Out then spak her father dear, And he spak meik and mild-- "And ever alas! my sweet Janet, "I fear ye gae with child." "And, if I be with child, father, "Mysell maun bear the blame; "There's ne'er a knight about your ha' "Shall hae the bairnie's name. "And if I be with child, father, "'Twill prove a wondrous birth; "For well I swear I'm not wi' bairn "To any man on earth. "If my love were an earthly knight, "As he's an elfin grey, "I wadna gie my ain true love "For nae lord that ye hae." She princked hersell and prinn'd hersell, By the ae light of the moon, And she's away to Carterhaugh, To speak wi' young Tamlane. And when she cam to Carterhaugh, She gaed beside the well; And there she saw the steed standing, But away was himsell. She hadna pu'd a double rose, A rose but only twae, When up and started young Tamlane, Says--"Lady, thou pu's nae mae! "Why pu' ye the rose, Janet, "Within this garden grene, "And a' to kill the bonny babe, "That we got us between?" "The truth ye'll tell to me, Tamlane; "A word ye mauna lie; "Gin ye're ye was in haly chapel, "Or sained[B] in Christentie." "The truth I'll tell to thee, Janet, "A word I winna lie; "A knight me got, and a lady me bore, "As well as they did thee. "Randolph, Earl Murray, was my sire, "Dunbar, Earl March, is thine; "We loved when we were children small, "Which yet you well may mind. "When I was a boy just turned of nine, "My uncle sent for me, "To hunt, and hawk, and ride with him, "And keep him cumpanie. "There came a wind out of the north, "A sharp wind and a snell; "And a dead sleep came over me, "And frae my horse I fell. "The Queen of Fairies keppit me, "In yon green hill to dwell; "And I'm a Fairy, lyth and limb; "Fair ladye, view me well. "But we, that live in Fairy-land, "No sickness know, nor pain; "I quit my body when I will, "And take to it again. "I quit my body when I please, "Or unto it repair; "We can inhabit, at our ease, "In either earth or air. "Our shapes and size we can convert, "To either large or small; "An old nut-shell's the same to us, "As is the lofty hall. "We sleep in rose-buds, soft and sweet, "We revel in the stream; "We wanton lightly on the wind, "Or glide on a sunbeam. "And all our wants are well supplied, "From every rich man's store, "Who thankless sins the gifts he gets, "And vainly grasps for more. "Then would I never tire, Janet, "In elfish land to dwell; "But aye at every seven years, "They pay the teind to hell; "And I am sae fat, and fair of flesh, "I fear 'twill be mysell. "This night is Hallowe'en, Janet, "The morn is Hallowday; "And, gin ye dare your true love win, "Ye hae na time to stay. "The night it is good Hallowe'en, "When fairy folk will ride; "And they, that wad their true love win, "At Miles Cross they maun bide." "But how shall I thee ken, Tamlane? "Or how shall I thee knaw, "Amang so many unearthly knights, "The like I never saw.?" "The first company, that passes by, "Say na, and let them gae; "The next company, that passes by, "Say na, and do right sae; "The third company, that passes by, "Than I'll be ane o' thae. "First let pass the black, Janet, "And syne let pass the brown; "But grip ye to the milk-white steed, "And pu' the rider down. "For I ride on the milk-white steed, "And ay nearest the town; "Because I was a christened knight, "They gave me that renown. "My right hand will be gloved, Janet, "My left hand will be bare; "And these the tokens I gie thee, "Nae doubt I will be there. "They'll turn me in your arms, Janet, "An adder and a snake; "But had me fast, let me not pass, "Gin ye wad be my maik. "They'll turn me in your arms, Janet, "An adder and an ask; "They'll turn me in your arms, Janet, "A bale[C] that burns fast. "They'll turn me in your arms, Janet, "A red-hot gad o' aim; "But had me fast, let me not pass, "For I'll do you no harm. "First, dip me in a stand o' milk, "And then in a stand o' water; "But had me fast, let me not pass-- "I'll be your bairn's father. "And, next, they'll shape me in your arms, "A toad, but and an eel; "But had me fast, nor let me gang, "As you do love me weel. "They'll shape me in your arms, Janet, "A dove, but and a swan; "And, last, they'll shape me in your arms, "A mother-naked man: "Cast your green mantle over me-- "I'll be mysell again." Gloomy, gloomy, was the night, And eiry[D] was the way, As fair Janet, in her green mantle, To Miles Cross she did gae. The heavens were black, the night was dark, And dreary was the place; But Janet stood, with eager wish, Her lover to embrace. Betwixt the hours of twelve and one, A north wind tore the bent; And straight she heard strange elritch sounds Upon that wind which went. About the dead hour o' the night, She heard the bridles ring; And Janet was as glad o' that, As any earthly thing! Their oaten pipes blew wondrous shrill, The hemlock small blew clear; And louder notes from hemlock large, And bog-reed struck the ear; But solemn sounds, or sober thoughts, The Fairies cannot bear. They sing, inspired with love and joy, Like sky-larks in the air; Of solid sense, or thought that's grave, You'll find no traces there. Fair Janet stood, with mind unmoved, The dreary heath upon; And louder, louder, wax'd the sound, As they came riding on. Will o' Wisp before them went, Sent forth a twinkling light; And soon she saw the Fairy bands All riding in her sight. And first gaed by the black black steed, And then gaed by the brown; But fast she gript the milk-white steed, And pu'd the rider down. She pu'd him frae the milk-white steed, And loot the bridle fa'; And up there raise an erlish[E] cry-- "He's won amang us a'!" They shaped him in fair Janet's arms, An esk[F], but and an adder; She held him fast in every shape-- To be her bairn's father. They shaped him in her arms at last, A mother-naked man; She wrapt him in her green mantle, And sae her true love wan. Up then spake the Queen o' Fairies, Out o' a bush o' broom-- "She that has borrowed young Tamlane, Has gotten a stately groom." Up then spake the Queen of Fairies, Out o' a bush of rye-- "She's ta'en awa the bonniest knight In a' my cumpanie. "But had I kenn'd, Tamlane," she says, "A lady wad borrowed thee-- "I wad ta'en out thy twa gray een, "Put in twa een o' tree. "Had I but kenn'd, Tamlane," she says, "Before ye came frae hame-- "I wad tane out your heart o' flesh, "Put in a heart o' stane. "Had I but had the wit yestreen, "That I hae coft[G] the day-- "I'd paid my kane seven times to hell, "Ere you'd been won away!" [Footnote A: The ladies are always represented, in Dunbar's Poems, with green mantles and yellow hair. _Maitland Poems,_ Vol. I. p. 45.] [Footnote B: _Sained_--Hallowed.] [Footnote C: _Bale_--A faggot.] [Footnote D: _Eiry_--Producing superstitious dread.] [Footnote E: _Erlish_--Elritch, ghastly.] [Footnote F: _Esk_--Newt.] [Footnote G: _Coft_--Bought.] NOTES ON THE YOUNG TAMLANE. _Randolph, Earl Murray, was my sire, Dunbar, Earl March, is thine,_ &c.--P. 185, v. 5. Both these mighty chiefs were connected with Ettrick Forest, and its vicinity. Their memory, therefore, lived in the traditions of the country. Randolph, earl of Murray, the renowned nephew of Robert Bruce, had a castle at Ha' Guards, in Annandale, and another in Peebles-shire, on the borders of the forest, the site of which is still called Randall's Walls. Patrick of Dunbar, earl of March, is said by Henry the Minstrel, to have retreated to Ettrick Forest, after being defeated by Wallace. _And all our wants are well supplied, From every rich man's store; Who thankless sins the gifts he gets, &c._--P. 187. v. 3. To _sin our gifts, or mercies_, means, ungratefully to hold them in slight esteem. The idea, that the possessions of the wicked are most obnoxious to the depredations of evil spirits, may be illustrated by the following tale of a _Buttery Spirit_, extracted from Thomas Heywood:-- An ancient and virtuous monk came to visit his nephew, an inn-keeper, and, after other discourse, enquired into his circumstances. Mine host confessed, that, although he practised all the unconscionable tricks of his trade, he was still miserably poor. The monk shook his head, and asked to see his buttery, or larder. As they looked into it, he rendered visible to the astonished host an immense goblin, whose paunch, and whole appearance, bespoke his being gorged with food, and who, nevertheless, was gormandizing at the innkeeper's expence, emptying whole shelves of food, and washing it down with entire hogsheads of liquor. "To the depredation of this visitor will thy viands be exposed," quoth the uncle, "until thou shalt abandon fraud, and false reckonings." The monk returned in a year. The host having turned over a new leaf, and given christian measure to his customers, was now a thriving man. When they again inspected the larder, they saw the same spirit, but woefully reduced in size, and in vain attempting to reach at the full plates and bottles, which stood around him; starving, in short, like Tantalus, in the midst of plenty. Honest Heywood sums up the tale thus: In this discourse, far be it we should mean Spirits by meat are fatted made, or lean; Yet certain 'tis, by God's permission, they May, over goods extorted, bear like sway. * * * * * All such as study fraud, and practise evil, Do only starve themselves to plumpe the devill. _Hierarchie of the Blessed Angels,_ p. 577. ERLINTON. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. This ballad is published from the collation of two copies, obtained from recitation. It seems to be the rude original, or perhaps a corrupted and imperfect copy, of _The Child of Elle_, a beautiful legendary tale, published in the _Reliques of Ancient Poetry_. It is singular, that this charming ballad should have been translated, or imitated, by the celebrated Bürger, without acknowledgment of the English original. As _The Child of Elle_ avowedly received corrections, we may ascribe its greatest beauties to the poetical taste of the ingenious editor. They are in the truest stile of Gothic embellishment. We may compare, for example, the following beautiful verse, with the same idea in an old romance: The baron stroked his dark-brown cheek, And turned his face aside, To wipe away the starting tear, He proudly strove to hide! _Child of Elle._ The heathen Soldan, or Amiral, when about to slay two lovers, relents in a similar manner: Weeping, he turned his heued awai, And his swerde hit fel to grounde. _Florice and Blauncheflour._ ERLINTON. Erlinton had a fair daughter, I wat he weird her in a great sin,[A] For he has built a bigly bower, An' a' to put that lady in. An' he has warn'd her sisters six, An' sae has he her brethren se'en, Outher to watch her a' the night, Or else to seek her morn an' e'en. She hadna been i' that bigly bower, Na not a night, but barely ane, Till there was Willie, her ain true love, Chapp'd at the door, cryin', "Peace within!" "O whae is this at my bower door, "That chaps sae late, nor kens the gin?"[B] "O it is Willie, your ain true love, "I pray you rise an' let me in!" "But in my bower there is a wake, "An' at the wake there is a wane;[C] "But I'll come to the green-wood the morn, "Whar blooms the brier by mornin' dawn." Then she's gane to her bed again, Where she has layen till the cock crew thrice, Then she said to her sisters a', "Maidens, 'tis time for us to rise." She pat on her back a silken gown, An' on her breast a siller pin, An' she's tane a sister in ilka hand, An' to the green-wood she is gane. She hadna walk'd in the green-wood, Na not a mile but barely ane, Till there was Willie, her ain true love, Whae frae her sisters has her ta'en. He took her sisters by the hand, He kiss'd them baith, an' sent them hame, An' he's ta'en his true love him behind, And through the green-wood they are gane. They hadna ridden in the bonnie green-wood, Na not a mile but barely ane, When there came fifteen o' the boldest knights. That ever bare flesh, blood, or bane. The foremost was an aged knight, He wore the grey hair on his chin, Says, "Yield to me thy lady bright, "An' thou shalt walk the woods within." "For me to yield my lady bright "To such an aged knight as thee, "People wad think I war gane mad, "Or a' the courage flown frae me." But up then spake the second knight, I wat he spake right boustouslie, "Yield me thy life, or thy lady bright, "Or here the tane of us shall die." "My lady is my warld's meed; "My life I winna yield to nane; "But if ye be men of your manhead, "Ye'll only fight me ane by ane." He lighted aff his milk-white steed, An' gae his lady him by the head, Say'n, "See ye dinna change your cheer; "Until ye see my body bleed." He set his back unto an aik, He set his feet against a stane, An' he has fought these fifteen men, An' kill'd them a' but barely ane; For he has left that aged knight, An' a' to carry the tidings hame. When he gaed to his lady fair, I wat he kiss'd her tenderlie; "Thou art mine ain love, I have thee bought; "Now we shall walk the green-wood free." [Footnote A: _Weird her in a great sin_--Placed her in danger of committing a great sin.] [Footnote B: _Gin_--The slight or trick necessary to open the door, from engine.] [Footnote C: _Wane_--A number of people.] THE TWA CORBIES. This poem was communicated to me by Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, Esq. jun. of Hoddom, as written down, from tradition, by a lady. It is a singular circumstance, that it should coincide so very nearly with the ancient dirge, called _The Three Ravens_, published by Mr Ritson, in his _Ancient Songs;_ and that, at the same time, there should exist such a difference, as to make the one appear rather a counterpart than copy of the other. In order to enable the curious reader to contrast these two singular poems, and to form a judgment which may be the original, I take the liberty of copying the English ballad from Mr Ritson's Collection, omitting only the burden and repetition of the first line. The learned editor states it to be given _"From Ravencroft's Metismata. Musical phansies, fitting the cittie and country, humours to 3, 4, and 5 voyces,_ London, 1611, 4to. It will be obvious (continues Mr Ritson) that this ballad is much older, not only than the date of the book, but most of the other pieces contained in it." The music is given with the words, and is adapted to four voices: There were three rauens sat on a tre, They were as blacke as they might be: The one of them said to his mate, "Where shall we our breakfast take?" "Downe in yonder greene field, "There lies a knight slain under his shield; "His hounds they lie downe at his feete, "So well they their master keepe; "His haukes they flie so eagerly, "There's no fowle dare come him nie. "Down there comes a fallow doe, "As great with yong as she might goe, "She lift up his bloudy hed, "And kist his wounds that were so red. "She got him up upon her backe, "And carried him to earthen lake. "She buried him before the prime, "She was dead her selfe ere euen song time. "God send euery gentleman, "Such haukes, such houndes, and such a leman. _Ancient Songs,_ 1792, p. 155. I have seen a copy of this dirge much modernized. THE TWA CORBIES. As I was walking all alane, I heard twa corbies making a mane; The tane unto the t'other say, "Where sall we gang and dine to-day?" "In behint yon auld fail[A] dyke, "I wot there lies a new slain knight; "And nae body kens that he lies there, "But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair. "His hound is to the hunting gane, "His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, "His lady's ta'en another mate, "So we may mak our dinner sweet. "Ye'll sit on his white hause bane, "And I'll pike out his bonny blue een: "Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair, "We'll theek[B] our nest when it grows bare. "Mony a one for him makes mane, "But nane sall ken whare he is gane: "O'er his white banes, when they are bare, "The wind sall blaw for evermair." [Footnote A: _Fail_--Turf.] [Footnote B: _Theek_--Thatch.] THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY. The ballad of _The Douglas Tragedy_ is one of the few, to which popular tradition has ascribed complete locality. The farm of Blackhouse, in Selkirkshire, is said to have been the scene of this melancholy event. There are the remains of a very ancient tower, adjacent to the farmhouse, in a wild and solitary glen, upon a torrent, named Douglas-burn, which joins the Yarrow, after passing a craggy rock, called the Douglas-craig. This wild scene, now a part of the Traquair estate, formed one of the most ancient possessions of the renowned family of Douglas; for Sir John Douglas, eldest son of William, the first Lord Douglas, is said to have sat, as baronial lord of Douglas-burn, during his father's lifetime, in a parliament of Malcolm Canmore, held at Forfar.--GODSCROFT, Vol. I. p. 20. The tower appears to have been square, with a circular turret at one angle, for carrying up the staircase, and for flanking the entrance. It is said to have derived its name of Blackhouse from the complexion of the lords of Douglas, whose swarthy hue was a family attribute. But, when the high mountains, by which it is inclosed, were covered with heather, which was the case till of late years, Blackhouse must have also merited its appellation from the appearance of the scenery. From this ancient tower Lady Margaret is said to have been carried by her lover. Seven large stones, erected upon the neighbouring heights of Blackhouse, are shown, as marking the spot where the seven brethren were slain; and the Douglas-burn is averred to have been the stream, at which the lovers stopped to drink: so minute is tradition in ascertaining the scene of a tragical tale, which, considering the rude state of former times, had probably foundation in some real event. Many copies of this ballad are current among the vulgar, but chiefly in a state of great corruption; especially such as have been committed to the press in the shape of penny pamphlets. One of these is now before me, which, among many others, has the ridiculous error of "_blue gilded_ horn," for "_bugelet_ horn." The copy, principally used in this edition of the ballad, was supplied by Mr Sharpe. The three last verses are given from the printed copy, and from tradition. The hackneyed verse, of the rose and the briar springing from the grave of the lovers, is common to most tragic ballads; but it is introduced into this with singular propriety, as the chapel of St Mary, whose vestiges may be still traced upon the lake, to which it has given name, is said to have been the burial place of Lord William and Fair Margaret. The wrath of the Black Douglas, which vented itself upon the brier, far surpasses the usual stanza: At length came the clerk of the parish, As you the truth shall hear, And by mischance he cut them down, Or else they had still been there. THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY. "Rise up, rise up, now, Lord Douglas," she says, "And put on your armour so bright; "Let it never be said, that a daughter of thine "Was married to a lord under night. "Rise up, rise up, my seven bold sons, "And put on your armour so bright, "And take better care of your youngest sister, "For your eldest's awa the last night." He's mounted her on a milk-white steed, And himself on a dapple grey, With a bugelet horn hung down by his side, And lightly they rode away. Lord William lookit o'er his left shoulder, To see what he could see, And there he spy'd her seven brethren bold Come riding over the lee. "Light down, light down, Lady Marg'ret," he said, "And hold my steed in your hand, "Until that against your seven brethren bold, "And your father, I mak a stand." She held his steed in her milk-white hand, And never shed one tear, Until that she saw her seven brethren fa', And her father hard fighting, who lov'd her so dear. "O hold your hand, Lord William!" she said, "For your strokes they are wond'rous sair; "True lovers I can get many a ane, "But a father I can never get mair." O she's ta'en out her handkerchief, It was o' the holland sae fine, And ay she dighted her father's bloody wounds, That ware redder than the wine. "O chuse, O chuse, Lady Marg'ret," he said, "O whether will ye gang or bide?" "I'll gang, I'll gang, Lord William," she said, "For ye have left me no other guide." He's lifted her on a milk-white steed, And himself on a dapple grey, With a bugelet horn hung down by his side, And slowly they baith rade away. O they rade on, and on they rade, And a' by the light of the moon, Until they came to yon wan water, And there they lighted down. They lighted down to tak a drink Of the spring that ran sae clear; And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood, And sair she gan to fear. "Hold up, hold up, Lord William," she says, "For I fear that you are slain!" "'Tis naething but the shadow of my scarlet cloak; "That shines in the water sae plain." O they rade on, and on they rade, And a' by the light of the moon, Until they cam' to his mother's ha' door, And there they lighted down. "Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, "Get up, and let me in!-- "Get up, get up, lady mother," he says, "For this night my fair lady I've win. "O mak my bed, lady mother," he says, "O mak it braid and deep! "And lay Lady Marg'ret close at my back, "And the sounder I will sleep." Lord William was dead lang ere midnight, Lady Marg'ret lang ere day-- And all true lovers that go thegither, May they have mair luck than they! Lord William was buried in St Marie's kirk, Lady Margaret in Mary's quire; Out o' the lady's grave grew a bonny red rose, And out o' the knight's a brier. And they twa met, and they twa plat, And fain they wad be near; And a' the warld might ken right weel, They were twa lovers dear. But bye and rade the Black Douglas, And wow but he was rough! For he pull'd up the bonny brier, And flang'd in St Mary's loch. YOUNG BENJIE. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. In this ballad the reader will find traces of a singular superstition, not yet altogether discredited in the wilder parts of Scotland. The lykewake, or watching a dead body, in itself a melancholy office, is rendered, in the idea of the assistants, more dismally awful, by the mysterious horrors of superstition. In the interval betwixt death and interment, the disembodied spirit is supposed to hover around its mortal habitation, and, if invoked by certain rites, retains the power of communicating, through its organs, the cause of its dissolution. Such enquiries, however are always dangerous, and never to be resorted to unless the deceased is suspected to have suffered _foul play_, as it is called. It is the more unsafe to tamper with this charm, in an unauthorized manner; because the inhabitants of the infernal regions are, at such periods, peculiarly active. One of the most potent ceremonies in the charm, for causing the dead body to speak, is, setting the door ajar, or half open. On this account, the peasants of Scotland sedulously avoid leaving the door ajar, while a corpse lies in the house. The door must either be left wide open, or quite shut; but the first is always preferred, on account of the exercise of hospitality usual on such occasions. The attendants must be likewise careful never to leave the corpse for a moment alone, or, if it is left alone, to avoid, with a degree of superstitious horror, the first sight of it. The following story, which is frequently related by the peasants of Scotland, will illustrate the imaginary danger of leaving the door ajar. In former times, a man and his wife lived in a solitary cottage, on one of the extensive border fells. One day, the husband died suddenly; and his wife, who was equally afraid of staying alone by the corpse, or leaving the dead body by itself, repeatedly went to the door, and looked anxiously over the lonely moor, for the sight of some person approaching. In her confusion and alarm, she accidentally left the door ajar, when the corpse suddenly started up, and sat in the bed, frowning and grinning at her frightfully. She sat alone, crying bitterly, unable to avoid the fascination of the dead man's eye, and too much terrified to break the sullen silence, till a catholic priest, passing over the wild, entered the cottage. He first set the door quite open, then put his little finger in his mouth, and said the paternoster backwards; when the horrid look of the corpse relaxed, it fell back on the bed, and behaved itself as a dead man ought to do. The ballad is given from tradition. YOUNG BENJIE. Of a' the maids o' fair Scotland, The fairest was Marjorie; And young Benjie was her ae true love, And a dear true love was he. And wow! but they were lovers dear, And loved fu' constantlie; But ay the mair when they fell out, The sairer was their plea.[A] And they hae quarrelled on a day, Till Marjorie's heart grew wae; And she said she'd chuse another luve, And let young Benjie gae. And he was stout,[B] and proud-hearted, And thought o't bitterlie; And he's ga'en by the wan moon-light, To meet his Marjorie. "O open, open, my true love, "O open, and let me in!" "I dare na open, young Benjie, "My three brothers are within." "Ye lied, ye lied, ye bonny burd, "Sae loud's I hear ye lie; "As I came by the Lowden banks, "They bade gude e'en to me. "But fare ye weel, my ae fause love, "That I hae loved sae lang! "It sets[C] ye chuse another love, "And let young Benjie gang." Then Marjorie turned her round about, The tear blinding her ee,-- "I darena, darena, let thee in, "But I'll come down to thee." Then saft she smiled, and said to him, "O what ill hae I done?" He took her in his armis twa, And threw her o'er the linn. The stream was strang, the maid was stout, And laith laith to be dang,[D] But, ere she wan the Lowden banks, Her fair colour was wan. Then up bespak her eldest brother, "O see na ye what I see?" And out then spak her second brother, "Its our sister Marjorie!" Out then spak her eldest brother, "O how shall we her ken?" And out then spak her youngest brother, "There's a honey mark on her chin." Then they've ta'en up the comely corpse, And laid it on the ground-- "O wha has killed our ae sister, "And how can he be found? "The night it is her low lykewake, "The morn her burial day, "And we maun watch at mirk midnight, "And hear what she will say." Wi' doors ajar, and candle light, And torches burning clear; The streikit corpse, till still midnight, They waked, but naething hear. About the middle o' the night. The cocks began to craw; And at the dead hour o' the night, The corpse began to thraw. "O wha has done the wrang, sister, "Or dared the deadly sin? "Wha was sae stout, and feared nae dout, "As thraw ye o'er the linn?" "Young Benjie was the first ae man "I laid my love upon; "He was sae stout and proud-hearted, "He threw me o'er the linn." "Sall we young Benjie head, sister, "Sall we young Benjie hang, "Or sall we pike out his twa gray een, "And punish him ere he gang?" "Ye mauna Benjie head, brothers, "Ye mauna Benjie hang, "But ye maun pike out his twa gray een, "And punish him ere he gang. "Tie a green gravat round his neck, "And lead him out and in, "And the best ae servant about your house "To wait young Benjie on. "And ay, at every seven year's end, "Ye'll tak him to the linn; "For that's the penance he maun drie, "To scug[E] his deadly sin." [Footnote A: _Plea_--Used obliquely for _dispute_.] [Footnote B: _Stout_--Through this whole ballad, signifies _haughty_.] [Footnote C: _Sets ye_--Becomes you--ironical.] [Footnote D: _Dang_--defeated.] [Footnote E: _Scug_--shelter or expiate.] LADY ANNE. This ballad was communicated to me by Mr Kirkpatrick Sharpe of Hoddom, who mentions having copied it from an old magazine. Although it has probably received some modern corrections, the general turn seems to be ancient, and corresponds with that of a fragment, containing the following verses, which I have often heard sung in my childhood:-- She set her back against a thorn, And there she has her young son borne; "O smile nae sae, my bonny babe! "An ye smile sae sweet, ye'll smile me dead." * * * * * An' when that lady went to the church, She spied a naked boy in the porch, "O bonnie boy, an' ye were mine, "I'd clead ye in the silks sae fine." "O mither dear, when I was thine, "To me ye were na half sae kind." * * * * * Stories of this nature are very common in the annals of popular superstition. It is, for example, currently believed in Ettrick Forest, that a libertine, who had destroyed fifty-six inhabited houses, in order to throw the possessions of the cottagers into his estate, and who added to this injury, that of seducing their daughters, was wont to commit, to a carrier in the neighbourhood, the care of his illegitimate children, shortly after they were born. His emissary regularly carried them away, but they were never again heard of. The unjust and cruel gains of the profligate laird were dissipated by his extravagance, and the ruins of his house seem to bear witness to the truth of the rhythmical prophecies denounced against it, and still current among the peasantry. He himself died an untimely death; but the agent of his amours and crimes survived to extreme old age. When on his death-bed, he seemed much oppressed in mind, and sent for a clergyman to speak peace to his departing spirit: but, before the messenger returned, the man was in his last agony; and the terrified assistants had fled from his cottage, unanimously averring, that the wailing of murdered infants had ascended from behind his couch, and mingled with the groans of the departing sinner. LADY ANNE Fair lady Anne sate in her bower, Down by the greenwood side, And the flowers did spring, and the birds did sing, 'Twas the pleasant May-day tide. But fair lady Anne on sir William call'd, With the tear grit in her e'e, "O though thou be fause, may heaven thee guard, "In the wars ayont the sea!" Out of the wood came three bonnie boys, Upon the simmer's morn, And they did sing, and play at the ba', As naked as they were born. "O seven lang year was I sit here, "Amang the frost and snaw, "A' to hae but ane o' these bonnie boys, "A playing at the ba'." Then up and spake the eldest boy, "Now listen, thou fair ladie! "And ponder well the read that I tell, "Then make ye a choice of the three. "'Tis I am Peter, and this is Paul, "And that are, sae fair to see, "But a twelve-month sinsyne to paradise came, "To join with our companie." "O I will hae the snaw-white boy, "The bonniest of the three." "And if I were thine, and in thy propine,[A] "O what wad ye do to me?" "'Tis I wad clead thee in silk and gowd, "And nourice thee on my knee." "O mither! mither! when I was thine, "Sic kindness I could na see. "Before the turf, where I now stand, "The fause nurse buried me; "Thy cruel penknife sticks still in my heart, "And I come not back to thee." [Footnote A: _Propine_--Usually gift, but here the power of giving or bestowing.] * * * * * LORD WILLIAM This ballad was communicated to me by Mr James Hogg; and, although it bears a strong resemblance to that of _Earl Richard_, so strong, indeed, as to warrant a supposition, that the one has been derived from the other, yet its intrinsic merit seems to warrant its insertion. Mr Hogg has added the following note, which, in the course of my enquiries, I have found most fully corroborated. "I am fully convinced of the antiquity of this song; for, although much of the language seems somewhat modernized, this must be attributed to its currency, being much liked, and very much sung, in this neighbourhood. I can trace it back several generations, but cannot hear of its ever having been in print. I have never heard it with any considerable variation, save that one reciter called the dwelling of the feigned sweetheart, _Castleswa_." LORD WILLIAM Lord William was the bravest knight That dwait in fair Scotland, And, though renowned in France and Spain, Fell by a ladie's hand. As she was walking maid alone, Down by yon shady wood. She heard a smit[A] o' bridle reins, She wish'd might be for good. "Come to my arms, my dear Willie, "You're welcome hame to me; "To best o' chear and charcoal red,[B] "And candle burnin' free." "I winna light, I darena light, "Nor come to your arms at a'; "A fairer maid than ten o' you, "I'll meet at Castle-law." "A fairer maid than me, Willie! "A fairer maid than me! "A fairer maid than ten o' me, "Your eyes did never see." He louted owr his saddle lap, To kiss her ere they part, And wi' a little keen bodkin, She pierced him to the heart. "Ride on, ride on, lord William, now, "As fast as ye can dree! "Your bonny lass at Castle-law "Will weary you to see." Out up then spake a bonny bird, Sat high upon a tree,-- How could you kill that noble lord? "He came to marry thee." "Come down, come down, my bonny bird, "And eat bread aff my hand! "Your cage shall be of wiry goud, "Whar now its but the wand." "Keep ye your cage o' goud, lady, "And I will keep my tree; "As ye hae done to lord William., "Sae wad ye do to me." She set her foot on her door step, A bonny marble stane; And carried him to her chamber, O'er him to make her mane. And she has kept that good lord's corpse Three quarters of a year, Until that word began to spread, Then she began to fear. Then she cried on her waiting maid, Ay ready at her ca'; "There is a knight unto my bower, "'Tis time he were awa." The ane has ta'en him by the head, The ither by the feet, And thrown him in the wan water, That ran baith wide and deep. "Look back, look back, now, lady fair, "On him that lo'ed ye weel! "A better man than that blue corpse "Ne'er drew a sword of steel." [Footnote A: _Smit_--Clashing noise, from smite--hence also _(perhaps)_ Smith and Smithy.] [Footnote B: _Charcoal red_--This circumstance marks the antiquity of the poem. While wood was plenty in Scotland, charcoal was the usual fuel in the chambers of the wealthy.] THE BROOMFIELD HILL. The concluding verses of this ballad were inserted in the copy of _Tamlane_, given to the public in the first edition of this work. They are now restored to their proper place. Considering how very apt the most accurate reciters are to patch up one ballad with verses from another, the utmost caution cannot always avoid such errors. A more sanguine antiquary than the editor might perhaps endeavour to identify this poem, which is of undoubted antiquity, with the _"Broom Broom on Hill,"_ mentioned by Lane, in his _Progress of Queen Elizabeth into Warwickshire_, as forming part of Captain's Cox's collection, so much envied by the black-letter antiquaries of the present day.--_Dugdale's Warwickshire,_ p. 166. The same ballad is quoted by one of the personages, in a "very mery and pythie comedie," called _"The longer thou livest, the more fool thou art."_ See Ritson's Dissertation, prefixed to _Ancient Songs,_ p. lx. "Brume brume on hill," is also mentioned in the _Complayat of Scotland_. See Leyden's edition, p. 100. THE BROOMFIELD HILL. There was a knight and a lady bright, Had a true tryste at the broom; The ane ga'ed early in the morning, The other in the afternoon. And ay she sat in her mother's bower door, And ay she made her mane, "Oh whether should I gang to the Broomfield hill, "Or should I stay at hame? "For if I gang to the Broomfield hill, "My maidenhead is gone; "And if I chance to stay at hame, "My love will ca' me mansworn." Up then spake a witch woman, Ay from the room aboon; "O, ye may gang to the Broomfield hill, "And yet come maiden hame. "For, when ye gang to the Broomfield hill, "Ye'll find your love asleep, "With a silver-belt about his head, "And a broom-cow at his feet. "Take ye the blossom of the broom, "The blossom it smells sweet, "And strew it at your true love's head, "And likewise at his feet. "Take ye the rings off your fingers, "Put them on his right hand, "To let him know, when he doth awake, "His love was at his command." She pu'd the broom flower on Hive-hill, And strew'd on's white hals bane, And that was to be wittering true, That maiden she had gane. "O where were ye, my milk-white steed, "That I hae coft sae dear, "That wadna watch and waken me, "When there was maiden here?" "I stamped wi' my foot, master, "And gar'd my bridle ring; "But na kin' thing wald waken ye, "Till she was past and gane." "And wae betide ye, my gay goss hawk, "That I did love sae dear, "That wadna watch and waken me, "When there was maiden here." "I clapped wi' my wings, master, "And aye my bells I rang, "And aye cry'd, waken, waken, master, "Before the ladye gang." "But haste and haste, my good white steed, "To come the maiden till, "Or a' the birds, of gude green wood, "Of your flesh shall have their fill." "Ye need na burst your good white steed, "Wi' racing o'er the howm; "Nae bird flies faster through the wood, "Than she fled through the broom." PROUD LADY MARGARET. _This Ballad was communicated to the Editor by Mr_ HAMILTON, _Music-seller, Edinburgh, with whose Mother it had been a, favourite. Two verses and one line were wanting, which are here supplied from a different Ballad, having a plot somewhat similar. These verses are the 6th and 9th._ 'Twas on a night, an evening bright, When the dew began to fa', Lady Margaret was walking up and down, Looking o'er her castle wa'. She looked east, and she looked west, To see what she could spy, When a gallant knight came in her sight, And to the gate drew nigh. "You seem to be no gentleman, "You wear your boots so wide; "But you seem to be some cunning hunter, "You wear the horn so syde."[A] "I am no cunning hunter," he said, "Nor ne'er intend to be; "But I am come to this castle "To seek the love of thee; "And if you do not grant me love, "This night for thee I'll die." "If you should die for me, sir knight, "There's few for you will mane, "For mony a better has died for me, "Whose graves are growing green. "But ye maun read my riddle," she said, "And answer my questions three; "And but ye read them right," she said, "Gae stretch ye out and die.-- "Now, what is the flower, the ae first flower, "Springs either on moor or dale? "And what is the bird, the bonnie bonnie bird, "Sings on the evening gale?" "The primrose is the ae first flower, "Springs either on moor or dale; "And the thistlecock is the bonniest bird; "Sings on the evening gale." "But what's the little coin," she said, "Wald buy my castle bound? "And what's the little boat," she said, "Can sail the world all round?" "O hey, how mony small pennies "Make thrice three thousand pound? "Or hey, how mony small fishes "Swim a' the salt sea round." "I think you maun be my match," she said, "My match, and something mair; "You are the first e'er got the grant Of love frae my father's heir. "My father was lord of nine castles, "My mother lady of three; "My father was lord of nine castles, "And there's nane to heir but me. "And round about a' thae castles, "You may baith plow and saw, "And on the fifteenth day of May, "The meadows they will maw." "O hald your tongue, lady Margaret," he said, "For loud I hear you lie! "Your father was lord of nine castles, "Your mother was lady of three; "Your father was lord of nine castles, "But ye fa' heir to but three. "And round about a' thae castles, "You may baith plow and saw, "But on the fifteenth day of May "The meadows will not maw. "I am your brother Willie," he said, "I trow ye ken na me; "I came to humble your haughty heart, "Has gar'd sae mony die." "If ye be my brother Willie," she said, "As I trow weel ye be, "This night I'll neither eat nor drink, "But gae alang wi' thee." "O hold your tongue, lady Margaret," he said. "Again I hear you lie; "For ye've unwashen hands, and ye've unwashen feet,[B] "To gae to clay wi' me. "For the wee worms are my bedfellows, "And cauld clay is my sheets; "And when the stormy winds do blow, "My body lies and sleeps." [Footnote A: _Syde_--Long or low.] [Footnote B: _Unwashen hands and unwashen feet_--Alluding to the custom of washing and dressing dead bodies.] THE ORIGINAL BALLAD OF THE BROOM OF COWDENKNOWS. _The beautiful air of Cowdenknows is well known and popular. In Ettrick Forest the following words are uniformly adapted to the tune, and seem to be the original ballad. An edition of this pastoral tale, differing considerably from the present copy, was published by Mr_ HERD, _in 1772. Cowdenknows is situated upon the river Leader, about four miles from Melrose, and is now the property of Dr_ HUME. O the broom, and the bonny bonny broom, And the broom of the Cowdenknows! And aye sae sweet as the lassie sang, I' the bought, milking the ewes. The hills were high on ilka side, An' the bought i' the lirk o' the hill, And aye, as she sang, her voice it rang Out o'er the head o' yon hill. There was a troop o' gentlemen Came riding merrilie by, And one of them has rode out o' the way, To the bought to the bonny may. "Weel may ye save an' see, bonny lass, "An' weel may ye save an' see." "An' sae wi' you, ye weel-bred knight," "And what's your will wi' me?" "The night is misty and mirk, fair may, "And I have ridden astray, "And will ye be so kind, fair may, "As come out and point my way?" "Ride out, ride out, ye ramp rider! "Your steed's baith stout and strang; "For out of the bought I dare na come, "For fear 'at ye do me wrang." "O winna ye pity me, bonny lass, "O winna ye pity me? "An' winna ye pity my poor steed, "Stands trembling at yon tree?" "I wadna pity your poor steed, "Tho' it were tied to a thorn; "For if ye wad gain my love the night, "Ye wad slight me ere the morn. "For I ken you by your weel-busked hat, "And your merrie twinkling e'e, "That ye're the laird o' the Oakland hills, "An' ye may weel seem for to be." "But I am not the laird o' the Oakland hills, "Ye're far mista'en o' me; "But I'm are o' the men about his house, "An' right aft in his companie." He's ta'en her by the middle jimp, And by the grass-green sleeve; He's lifted her over the fauld dyke, And speer'd at her sma' leave. O he's ta'en out a purse o' gowd, And streek'd her yellow hair, "Now, take ye that, my bonnie may, "Of me till you hear mair." O he's leapt on his berry-brown steed, An' soon he's o'erta'en his men; And ane and a' cried out to him, "O master, ye've tarry'd lang!" "O I hae been east, and I hae been west, "An' I hae been far o'er the know, "But the bonniest lass that ever I saw "Is i'the bought milking the ewes." She set the cog[A] upon her head, An' she's gane singing hame-- "O where hae ye been, my ae daughter? "Ye hae na been your lane." "O nae body was wi' me, father, "O nae body has been wi' me; "The night is misty and mirk, father, "Ye may gang to the door and see. "But wae be to your ewe-herd, father, "And an ill deed may he die; "He bug the bought at the back o' the know, "And a tod[B] has frighted me. "There came a tod to the bought-door, "The like I never saw; "And ere he had tane the lamb he did, "I had lourd he had ta'en them a'." O whan fifteen weeks was come and gane, Fifteen weeks and three. That lassie began to look thin and pale, An' to long for his merry twinkling e'e. It fell on a day, on a het simmer day, She was ca'ing out her father's kye, By came a troop o' gentlemen, A' merrilie riding bye. "Weel may ye save an' see, bonny may, "Weel may ye save and see! "Weel I wat, ye be a very bonny may, "But whae's aught that babe ye are wi'?" Never a word could that lassie say, For never a ane could she blame, An' never a word could the lassie say, But "I have a good man at hame." "Ye lied, ye lied, my very bonny may, "Sae loud as I hear you lie; "For dinna ye mind that misty night "I was i' the bought wi' thee? "I ken you by your middle sae jimp, "An' your merry twinkling e'e, "That ye're the bonny lass i'the Cowdenknow, "An' ye may weel seem for to be." Than he's leap'd off his berry-brown steed, An' he's set that fair may on-- "Caw out your kye, gude father, yoursell, "For she's never caw them out again. "I am the laird of the Oakland hills, "I hae thirty plows and three; "Ah' I hae gotten the bonniest lass "That's in a' the south country. [Footnote A: _Cog_--Milking-pail.] [Footnote B: _Tod_--Fox.] LORD RANDAL. There is a beautiful air to this old ballad. The hero is more generally termed _Lord Ronald;_ but I willingly follow the authority of an Ettrick Forest copy for calling him _Randal;_ because, though the circumstances are so very different, I think it not impossible, that the ballad may have originally regarded the death of Thomas Randolph, or Randal, earl of Murray, nephew to Robert Bruce, and governor of Scotland. This great warrior died at Musselburgh, 1332, at the moment when his services were most necessary to his country, already threatened by an English army. For this sole reason, perhaps, our historians obstinately impute his death to poison. See _The Bruce_, book xx. Fordun repeats, and Boece echoes, this story, both of whom charge the murder on Edward III. But it is combated successfully by Lord Hailes, in his _Remarks on the History of Scotland_. The substitution of some venomous reptile for food, or putting it into liquor, was anciently supposed to be a common mode of administering poison; as appears from the following curious account of the death of King John, extracted from a MS. Chronicle of England, _penes_ John Clerk, esq. advocate. "And, in the same tyme, the pope sente into Englond a legate, that men cald Swals, and he was prest cardinal of Rome, for to mayntene King Johnes cause agens the barons of Englond; but the barons had so much pte (_poustie_, i.e. power) through Lewys, the kinges sone of Fraunce, that King Johne wist not wher for to wend ne gone: and so hitt fell, that he wold have gone to Suchold; and as he went thedurward, he come by the abbey of Swinshed, and ther he abode II dayes. And, as he sate at meat, he askyd a monke of the house, how moche a lofe was worth, that was before hym sete at the table? and the monke sayd that loffe was worthe bot ane halfpenny. 'O!' quod the kyng, 'this is a grette cheppe of brede; now,' said the king, 'and yff I may, such a loffe shalle be worth xxd. or half a yer be gone:' and when he said the word, muche he thought, and ofte tymes sighed, and nome and ete of the bred, and said, 'By Gode, the word that I have spokyn shall be sothe.' The monke, that stode befor the kyng, was ful sory in his hert; and thought rather he wold himself suffer peteous deth; and thought yff he myght ordeyn therfore sum remedy. And anon the monke went unto his abbott, and was schryvyd of him, and told the abbott all that the kyng said, and prayed his abbott to assoyl him, for he wold gyffe the kyng such a wassayle, that all Englond shuld be glad and joyful therof. Tho went the monke into a gardene, and fond a tode therin; and toke her upp, and put hyr in a cuppe, and filled it with good ale, and pryked hyr in every place, in the cuppe, till the venome come out in every place; an brought hitt befor the kyng, and knelyd, and said, 'Sir, wassayle; for never in your lyfe drancke ye of such a cuppe,' 'Begyne, monke,' quod the king; and the monke dranke a gret draute, and toke the kyng the cuppe, and the kyng also drank a grett draute, and set downe the cuppe.--The monke anon went to the Farmarye, and ther dyed anon, on whose soule God have mercy, Amen. And v monkes syng for his soule especially, and shall while the abbey stondith. The kyng was anon ful evil at ese, and comaunded to remove the table, and askyd after the monke; and men told him that he was ded, for his wombe was broke in sondur. When the king herd this tidyng, he comaunded for to trusse; but all hit was for nought, for his bely began to swelle for the drink that he dranke, that he dyed within II dayes, the moro aftur Seynt Luke's day." A different account of the poisoning of King John is given in a MS. Chronicle of England, written in the minority of Edward III., and contained in the Auchinleck MS. of Edinburgh. Though not exactly to our present purpose, the passage is curious, and I shall quote it without apology. The author has mentioned the interdict laid on John's kingdom by the pope, and continues thus: He was ful wroth and grim, For no prest wald sing for him He made tho his parlement, And swore his _croy de verament_, That he shuld make such assaut, To fede all Inglonde with a spand. And eke with a white lof, Therefore I hope[A] he was God-loth. A monk it herd of Swines-heued, And of this wordes he was adred, He went hym to his fere, And seyd to hem in this manner; "The king has made a sori oth, That he schal with a white lof Fede al Inglonde, and with a spand, Y wis it were a sori saut; And better is that we die to, Than al Inglond be so wo. Ye schul for me belles ring, And after wordes rede and sing; So helpe you God, heven king, Granteth me alle now mill asking, And Ichim wil with puseoun slo, Ne schal he never Inglond do wo." His brethren him graunt alle his bone. He let him shrive swithe sone, To make his soule fair and cleue, To for our leuedi heven queen, That sche schuld for him be, To for her son in trinité. Dansimond zede and gadred frut, For sothe were plommes white, The steles[B] he puld out everichon, Puisoun he dede therin anon, And sett the steles al ogen, That the gile schuld nought be sen. He dede hem in a coupe of gold, And went to the kinges bord; On knes he him sett, The king full fair he grett; "Sir," he said, "by Seynt Austin, This is front of our garden, And gif that your wil be, Assayet herof after me." Dansimoud ete frut, on and on, And al tho other ete King Jon; The monke aros, and went his way, God gif his soule wel gode day; He gaf King Jon ther his puisoun, Himself had that ilk doun, He dede, it is nouther for mirthe ne ond, Bot for to save al Iuglond. The King Jon sate at mete, His wombe to wex grete; He swore his oth, _per la croyde_, His wombe wald brest a thre; He wald have risen fram the bord, Ac he spake never more word; Thus ended his time, Y wis he had an evel fine. [Footnote A: _Hope, for think._] [Footnote B: _Steles_--Stalks.] Shakespeare, from such old chronicles, has drawn his authority for the last fine scene in _King John_. But he probably had it from Caxton, who uses nearly the words of the prose chronicle. Hemingford tells the same tale with the metrical historian. It is certain, that John increased the flux, of which he died, by the intemperate use of peaches and of ale, which may have given rise to the story of the poison.--See MATTHEW PARIS. To return to the ballad: there is a very similar song, in which, apparently to excite greater interest in the nursery, the handsome young hunter is exchanged for a little child, poisoned by a false step-mother. LORD RANDAL. "O where hae ye been, Lord Randal, my son? "O where hae ye been, my handsome young man?" "I hae been to the wild wood; mother, make my bed soon, "For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down." "Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Randal, my son? "Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?" "I din'd wi' my true-love; mother, make my bed soon, "For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down." "What gat ye to your dinner, Lord Randal, my son?. "What gat ye to your dinner, my handsome young man?" "I gat eels boil'd in broo'; mother, make my bed soon, "For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down." "What became of your bloodhounds, Lord Randal, my son? "What became of your bloodhounds, my handsome young man?" "O they swell'd and they died; mother, make my bed soon, "For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down." "O I fear ye are poison'd, Lord Randal, my son! "O I fear ye are poison'd, my handsome young man!" "O yes! I am poison'd; mother, make my bed soon, "For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wald lie down." SIR HUGH LE BLOND. This ballad is a northern composition, and seems to have been the original of the legend called _Sir Aldingar_, which is printed in the _Reliques of Antient Poetry_. The incidents are nearly the same in both ballads, excepting that, in _Aldingar_, an angel combats for the queen, instead of a mortal champion. The names of _Aldingar_ and _Rodingham_ approach near to each other in sound, though not in orthography, and the one might, by reciters, be easily substituted for the other. The tradition, upon which the ballad is founded, is universally current in the Mearns; and the editor is informed, that, till very lately, the sword, with which Sir Hugh le Blond was believed to have defended the life and honour of the queen, was carefully preserved by his descendants, the viscounts of Arbuthnot. That Sir Hugh of Arbuthnot lived in the thirteenth century, is proved by his having, in 1282, bestowed the patronage of the church of Garvoch upon the monks of Aberbrothwick, for the safety of his soul.--_Register of Aberbrothwick, quoted by Crawford in Peerage._ But I find no instance in history, in which the honour of a queen of Scotland was committed to the chance of a duel. It is true, that Mary, wife of Alexander II., was, about 1242, somewhat implicated in a dark story, concerning the murder of Patrick, earl of Athole, burned in his lodging at Haddington, where he had gone to attend a great tournament. The relations of the deceased baron accused of the murder Sir William Bisat, a powerful nobleman, who appears to have been in such high favour with the young queen, that she offered her oath, as a compurgator, to prove his innocence. Bisat himself stood upon his defence, and proffered the combat to his accusers; but he was obliged to give way to the tide, and was banished from Scotland. This affair interested all the northern barons; and it is not impossible, that some share, taken in it by this Sir Hugh de Arbuthnot, may have given a slight foundation for the tradition of the country.--WINTON, B. vii. ch. 9. Or, if we suppose Sir Hugh le Blond to be a predecessor of the Sir Hugh who flourished in the thirteenth century, he may have been the victor in a duel, shortly noticed as having occurred in 1154, when one Arthur, accused of treason, was unsuccessful in his appeal to the judgment of God. _Arthurus regem Malcolm proditurus duello periit._ Chron. Sanctae Crucis ap. Anglia Sacra, Vol. I. p. 161. But, true or false, the incident, narrated in the ballad, is in the genuine style of chivalry. Romances abound with similar instances, nor are they wanting in real history. The most solemn part of a knight's oath was to defend "all widows, orphelines, and maidens of gude fame."[A]--LINDSAY'S _Heraldry, MS._ The love of arms was a real passion of itself, which blazed yet more fiercely when united with the enthusiastic admiration of the fair sex. The knight of Chaucer exclaims, with chivalrous energy, To fight for a lady! a benedicite! It were a lusty sight for to see. It was an argument, seriously urged by Sir John of Heinault, for making war upon Edward II., in behalf of his banished wife, Isabella, that knights were bound to aid, to their uttermost power, all distressed damsels, living without council or comfort. [Footnote A: Such an oath is still taken by the Knights of the Bath; but, I believe, few of that honourable brotherhood will now consider it quite so obligatory as the conscientious Lord Herbert of Cherbury, who gravely alleges it as a sufficient reason for having challenged divers cavaliers, that they had either snatched from a lady her bouquet, or ribband, or, by some discourtesy of similar importance, placed her, as his lordship conceived, in the predicament of a distressed damozell.] An apt illustration of the ballad would have been the combat, undertaken by three Spanish champions against three Moors of Granada, in defence of the honour of the queen of Granada, wife to Mohammed Chiquito, the last monarch of that kingdom. But I have not at hand _Las Guerras Civiles de Granada_, in which that atchievement is recorded. Raymond Berenger, count of Barcelona, is also said to have defended, in single combat, the life and honour of the Empress Matilda, wife of the Emperor Henry V., and mother to Henry II. of England.--See ANTONIO ULLOA, _del vero Honore Militare_, Venice, 1569. A less apocryphal example is the duel, fought in 1387, betwixt Jaques le Grys and John de Carogne, before the king of France. These warriors were retainers of the earl of Alencon, and originally sworn brothers. John de Carogne went over the sea, for the advancement of his fame, leaving in his castle a beautiful wife, where she lived soberly and sagely. But the devil entered into the heart of Jaques le Grys, and he rode, one morning, from the earl's house to the castle of his friend, where he was hospitably received by the unsuspicious lady. He requested her to show him the donjon, or keep of the castle, and in that remote and inaccessible tower forcibly violated her chastity. He then mounted his horse, and returned to the earl of Alencon within so short a space, that his absence had not been perceived. The lady abode within the donjon, weeping bitterly, and exclaiming, "Ah Jaques! it was not well done thus to shame me! but on you shall the shame rest, if God send my husband safe home!" The lady kept secret this sorrowful deed until her husband's return from his voyage. The day passed, and night came, and the knight went to bed; but the lady would not; for ever she blessed herself, and walked up and down the chamber, studying and musing, until her attendants had retired; and then, throwing herself on her knees before the knight, she shewed him all the adventure. Hardly would Carogne believe the treachery of his companion; but, when convinced, he replied, "Since it is so, lady, I pardon you; but the knight shall die for this villainous deed." Accordingly, Jaques le Grys was accused of the crime, in the court of the earl of Alencon. But, as he was greatly loved of his lord, and as the evidence was very slender, the earl gave judgment against the accusers. Hereupon John Carogne appealed to the parliament of Paris; which court, after full consideration, appointed the case to be tried by mortal combat betwixt the parties, John Carogne appearing as the champion of his lady. If he failed in his combat, then was he to be hanged, and his lady burned, as false and unjust calumniators. This combat, under circumstances so very peculiar, attracted universal attention; in so much, that the king of France and his peers, who were then in Flanders, collecting troops for an invasion of England, returned to Paris, that so notable a duel might be fought in the royal presence. "Thus the kynge, and his uncles, and the constable, came to Parys. Then the lystes were made in a place called Saynt Katheryne, behinde the Temple. There was soo moche people, that it was mervayle to beholde; and on the one side of the lystes there was made gret scaffoldes, that the lordes might the better se the batayle of the ii champion; and so they bothe came to the felde, armed at all peaces, and there eche of them was set in theyr chayre; the erle of Saynt Poule gouverned John of Carongne, and the erle of Alanson's company with Jacques le Grys; and when the knyght entred in to the felde, he came to his wyfe, who was there syttynge in a chayre, covered in blacke, and he sayd to her thus:--Dame, by your enformacyon, and in your quarrell, I do put my lyfe in adventure, as to fyght with Jacques le Grys; ye knowe, if the cause be just and true.'--'Syr,' sayd the lady, 'it is as I have sayd; wherefore ye maye fyght surely; the cause is good and true.' With those wordes, the knyghte kissed the lady, and toke her by the hande, and then blessyd hym, and soo entred into the felde. The lady sate styll in the blacke chayre, in her prayers to God, and to the vyrgyne Mary, humbly prayenge them, by theyr specyall grace, to send her husbande the victory, accordynge to the ryght. She was in gret hevynes, for she was not sure of her lyfe; for, if her husbande sholde have ben dyscomfyted, she was judged, without remedy, to be brente, and her husbande hanged. I cannot say whether she repented her or not, as the matter was so forwarde, that both she and her husbande were in grete peryll: howbeit, fynally, she must as then abyde the adventure. Then these two champyons were set one agaynst another, and so mounted on theyr horses, and behauved them nobly; for they knewe what perteyned to deades of armes. There were many lordes and knyghtes of Fraunce, that were come thyder to se that batayle. The two champyons justed at theyr fyrst metyng, but none of them dyd hurte other; and, after the justes, they lyghted on foote to periournie theyr batayle, and soo fought valyauntly.--And fyrst, John of Carongne was hurt in the thyghe, whereby al his frendes were in grete fere; but, after that, he fought so valyauntly, that he bette down his adversary to the erthe, and threst his swerde in his body, and soo slewe hyrn in the felde; and then he demaunded, if he had done his devoyse or not? and they answered, that he had valyauntly atchieved his batayle. Then Jacques le Grys was delyuered to the hangman of Parys, and he drewe hym to the gybbet of Mountfawcon, and there hanged him up. Then John of Carongne came before the kynge, and kneled downe, and the kynge made him to stand up before hym; and, the same daye, the kynge caused to be delyvred to him a thousande franks, and reteyned him to be of his chambre, with a pencyon of ii hundred pounde by yere, durynge the terme of his lyfe. Then he thanked the kynge and the lordes, and went to his wyfe, and kissed her; and then they wente togyder to the chyrche of our ladye, in Parys, and made theyr offerynge, and then retourned to their lodgynges. Then this Sir John of Carongne taryed not longe in Fraunce, but went, with Syr John Boucequant, Syr John of Bordes, and Syr Loys Grat. All these went to se Lamorabaquyn,[A] of whome, in those dayes, there was moche spekynge." [Footnote A: This odd name Froissart gives to the famous Mahomet, emperor of Turkey, called the Great.] Such was the readiness, with which, in those times, heroes put their lives in jeopardy, for honour and lady's sake. But I doubt whether the fair dames of the present day will think, that the risk of being burned, upon every suspicion of frailty, could be altogether compensated by the probability, that a husband of good faith, like John de Carogne, or a disinterested champion, like Hugh le Blond, would take up the gauntlet in their behalf. I fear they will rather accord to the sentiment of the hero of an old romance, who expostulates thus with a certain duke:-- Certes, sir duke, thou doest unright, To make a roast of your daughter bright; I wot you ben unkind. _Amis and Amelion._ I was favoured with the following copy of _Sir Hugh le Blond_, by K. Williamson Burnet, Esq. of Monboddo, who wrote it down from the recitation of an old woman, long in the service of the Arbuthnot family. Of course the diction is very much humbled, and it has, in all probability, undergone many corruptions; but its antiquity is indubitable, and the story, though indifferently told, is in itself interesting. It is believed, that there have been many more verses. SIR HUGH LE BLOND. The birds sang sweet as ony bell, The world had not their make, The queen she's gone to her chamber, With Rodingham to talk. "I love you well, my queen, my dame, "'Bove land and rents so clear "And for the love of you, my queen, "Would thole pain most severe." "If well you love me, Rodingham, "I'm sure so do I thee: "I love you well as any man, "Save the king's fair bodye." "I love you well, my queen, my dame; "'Tis truth that I do tell: "And for to lye a night with you, "The salt seas I would sail." "Away, away, O Rodingham! "You are both stark and stoor; "Would you defile the king's own bed, "And make his queen a whore? "To-morrow you'd be taken sure, "And like a traitor slain; "And I'd be burned at a stake, "Altho' I be the queen." He then stepp'd out at her room-door, All in an angry mood; Until he met a leper-man, Just by the hard way-side. He intoxicate the leper-man With liquors very sweet; And gave him more and more to drink, Until he fell asleep. He took him in his arms two, And carried him along, Till he came to the queen's own bed, And there he laid him down. He then stepp'd out of the queen's bower, As switt as any roe, Till he came to the very place Where the king himself did go. The king said unto Rodingham, "What news have you to me?" He said, "Your queen's a false woman, "As I did plainly see." He hasten'd to the queen's chamber, So costly and so fine, Untill he came to the queen's own bed, Where the leper-man was lain. He looked on the leper-man, Who lay on his queen's bed; He lifted up the snaw-white sheets, And thus he to him said: "Plooky, plooky,[A] are your cheeks, "And plooky is your chin, "And plooky are your arms two "My bonny queen's layne in. "Since she has lain into your arms, "She shall not lye in mine; "Since she has kiss'd your ugsome mouth, "She never shall kiss mine." In anger he went to the queen, Who fell upon her knee; He said, "You false, unchaste woman, "What's this you've done to me?" The queen then turn'd herself about, The tear blinded her e'e-- There's not a knight in all your court "Dare give that name to me." He said, "'Tis true that I do say; "For I a proof did make: "You shall be taken from my bower, "And burned at a stake. "Perhaps I'll take my word again, "And may repent the same, "If that you'll get a Christian man "To fight that Rodingham." "Alas! alas!" then cried our queen, "Alas, and woe to me! "There's not a man in all Scotland "Will fight with him for me." She breathed unto her messengers, Sent them south, east, and west; They could find none to fight with him, Nor enter the contest. She breathed on her messengers, She sent them to the north; And there they found Sir Hugh le Blond, To fight him he came forth. When unto him they did unfold The circumstance all right, He bade them go and tell the queen, That for her he would fight. The day came on that was to do That dreadful tragedy; Sir Hugh le Blond was not come up To fight for our lady. "Put on the fire," the monster said; "It is twelve on the bell!" "Tis scarcely ten, now," said the king; "I heard the clock mysell." Before the hour the queen is brought, The burning to proceed; In a black velvet chair she's set, A token for the dead. She saw the flames ascending high, The tears blinded her e'e: "Where is the worthy knight," she said, "Who is to fight for me?" Then up and spake the king himsel, "My dearest, have no doubt, "For yonder comes the man himsel, "As bold as ere set out." They then advanced to fight the duel With swords of temper'd steel, Till down the blood of Rodingham Came running to his heel. Sir Hugh took out a lusty sword, 'Twas of the metal clear; And he has pierced Rodingham Till's heart-blood did appear. "Confess your treachery, now," he said, "This day before you die!" "I do confess my treachery, "I shall no longer lye: "I like to wicked Haman am, "This day I shall be slain." The queen was brought to her chamber A good woman again. The queen then said unto the king, "Arbattle's near the sea; "Give it unto the northern knight, "That this day fought for me." Then said the king, "Come here, sir knight, "And drink a glass of wine; "And, if Arbattle's not enough, "To it we'll Fordoun join." [Footnote A: _Plooky_--Pimpled.] NOTES ON SIR HUGH LE BLOND. _Until he met a leper-man. &c._--P. 268. v. 4. Filth, poorness of living, and the want of linen, made this horrible disease formerly very common in Scotland. Robert Bruce died of the leprosy; and, through all Scotland, there were hospitals erected for the reception of lepers, to prevent their mingling with the rest of the community. _"It is twelve on the bell!" "Tis scarcely ten, now," said the king, &c._--P. 272. v. 2. In the romance of Doolin, called _La Fleur des Battailles_, a false accuser discovers a similar impatience to hurry over the execution, before the arrival of the lady's champion:--_"Ainsi comme Herchambaut vouloit jetter la dame dedans le feu, Sanxes de Clervaut va a lui, si lui dict; 'Sire Herchambaut, vous estes trop a blasmer; car vous ne devez mener ceste chose que par droit ainsi qu'il est ordonnè; je veux accorder que ceste dame ait un vassal qui la diffendra contre vous et Drouart, car elle n'a point de coulpe en ce que l'accusez; si la devez retarder jusque a midy, pour scavoir si un bon chevalier l'a viendra secourir centre vous et Drouart."_--Cap. 22. _"And, if Arbattle's not enough, "To it we'll Fordoun join."_--P. 274. v. 1. Arbattle is the ancient name of the barony of Arbuthnot. Fordun has long been the patrimony of the same family. GRAEME AND BEWICK. The date of this ballad, and its subject, are uncertain. From internal evidence, I am inclined to place it late in the sixteenth century. Of the Graemes enough is elsewhere said. It is not impossible, that such a clan, as they are described, may have retained the rude ignorance of ancient border manners to a later period than their more inland neighbours; and hence the taunt of old Bewick to Graeme. Bewick is an ancient name in Cumberland and Northumberland. The ballad itself was given, in the first edition, from the recitation of a gentleman, who professed to have forgotten some verses. These have, in the present edition, been partly restored, from a copy obtained by the recitation of an ostler in Carlisle, which has also furnished some slight alterations. The ballad is remarkable, as containing, probably, the very latest allusion to the institution of brotherhood in arms, which was held so sacred in the days of chivalry, and whose origin may be traced up to the Scythian ancestors of Odin. Many of the old romances turn entirely upon the sanctity of the engagement, contracted by the _freres d'armes_. In that of _Amis and Amelion_, the hero slays his two infant children, that he may compound a potent salve with their blood, to cure the leprosy of his brother in arms. The romance of _Gyron le Courtois_ has a similar subject. I think the hero, like Graeme in the ballad, kills himself, out of some high point of honour towards his friend. The quarrel of the two old chieftains, over their wine, is highly in character. Two generations have not elapsed since the custom of drinking deep, and taking deadly revenge for slight offences, produced very tragical events on the border; to which the custom of going armed to festive meetings contributed not a little. A minstrel, who flourished about 1720, and is often talked of by the old people, happened to be performing before one of these parties, when they betook themselves to their swords. The cautious musician, accustomed to such scenes, dived beneath the table. A moment after, a man's hand, struck off with a back-sword, fell beside him. The minstrel secured it carefully in his pocket, as he would have done any other loose moveable; sagely observing, the owner would miss it sorely next morning. I chuse rather to give this ludicrous example, than some graver instances of bloodshed at border orgies. I observe it is said, in a MS. account of Tweeddale, in praise of the inhabitants, that, "when they fall in the humour of good fellowship, they use it as a cement and bond of society, and not to foment revenge, quarrels, and murders, which is usual in other countries;" by which we ought, probably, to understand Selkirkshire and Teviotdale.--_Macfarlane's MSS._ GRAEME AND BEWICK. Gude lord Graeme is to Carlisle gane; Sir Robert Bewick there met he; And arm in arm to the wine they did go, And they drank till they were baith merrie. Gude lord Graeme has ta'en up the cup, "Sir Robert Bewick, and here's to thee! "And here's to our twae sons at hame! "For they like us best in our ain countrie." "O were your son a lad like mine, "And learn'd some books that he could read, "They might hae been twae brethren bauld, "And they might hae bragged the border side." "But your son's a lad, and he is but bad, "And billie to my son he canna be; * * * * * "Ye sent him to the schools, and he wadna learn; "Ye bought him books, and he wadna read." "But my blessing shall he never earn, "Till I see how his arm can defend his head." Gude lord Graeme has a reckoning call'd, A reckoning then called he; And he paid a crown, and it went roun'; It was all for the gude wine and free.[A] And he has to the stable gaen, Where there stude thirty steeds and three; He's ta'en his ain horse amang them a', And hame he' rade sae manfullie. "Wellcome, my auld father!" said Christie Graeme, "But where sae lang frae hame were ye?" "It's I hae been at Carlisle town, "And a baffled man by thee I be. "I hae been at Carlisle town, "Where Sir Robert Bewick he met me; "He says ye're a lad, and ye are but bad, "And billie to his son ye canna be. "I sent ye to the schools, and ye wadna learn; "I bought ye books, and ye wadna read; "Therefore, my blessing ye shall never earn, "Till I see with Bewick thou save thy head." "Now, God forbid, my auld father, "That ever sic a thing suld be! "Billie Bewick was my master, and I was his scholar, "And aye sae weel as he learned me." "O hald thy tongue, thou limmer lown, "And of thy talking let me be! "If thou does na end me this quarrel soon, "There is my glove I'll fight wi' thee." Then Christie Graeme he stooped low Unto the ground, you shall understand;-- "O father, put on your glove again, "The wind has blown it from your hand." "What's that thou says, thou limmer loun? "How dares thou stand to speak to me? "If thou do not end this quarrel soon, "There's my right hand thou shalt fight with me." Then Christie Graeme's to his chamber gane, To consider weel what then should be; Whether he suld fight with his auld father Or with his billie Bewick, he. "If I suld kill my billie dear, "God's blessing I sall never win; "But if I strike at my auld father, "I think 'twald be a mortal sin. "But if I kill my billie dear, "It is God's will! so let it be. "But I make a vow, ere I gang frae hame, "That I shall be the next man's die." Then he's put on's back a good ould jack, And on his head a cap of steel, And sword and buckler by his side; O gin he did not become them weel! We'll leave off talking of Christie Graeme, And talk of him again belive; And we will talk of bonnie Bewick, Where he was teaching his scholars five. When he had taught them well to fence, And handle swords without any doubt; He took his sword under his arm, And he walked his father's close about. He looked atween him and the sun, And a' to see what there might be, Till he spied a man, in armour bright, Was riding that way most hastilie. "O wha is yon, that came this way, "Sae hastilie that hither came? "I think it be my brother dear; "I think it be young Christie Graeme." "Ye're welcome here, my billie dear, "And thrice you're welcome unto me!" "But I'm wae to say, I've seen the day, "When I am come to fight with thee. "My father's gane to Carlisle town, "Wi' your father Bewick there met he; "He says I'm a lad, and I am but bad, "And a baffled man I trow I be. "He sent me to schools, and I wadna learn; "He gae me books, and I wadna read; "Sae my father's blessing I'll never earn, "Till he see how my arm can guard my head." "O God forbid, my billie dear, "That ever such a thing suld be! "We'll take three men on either side, "And see if we can our fathers agree." "O hald thy tongue, now, billie Bewick, "And of thy talking let me be! "But if thou'rt a man, as I'm sure thou art, "Come o'er the dyke, and fight wi' me." "But I hae nae harness, billie, on my back, "As weel I see there is on thine." "But as little harness as is on thy back, "As little, billie, shall be on mine." Then he's thrown aff his coat of mail, His cap of steel away flung he; He stuck his spear into the ground, And he tied his horse unto a tree. Then Bewick has thrown aff his cloak, And's psalter-book frae's hand flung he; He laid his hand upon the dyke, And ower he lap most manfullie. O they hae fought for twae lang hours; When twae lang hours were come and gane, The sweat drapped fast frae aff them baith, But a drap of blude could not be seen. Till Graeme gae Bewick an ackward[B] stroke, Ane ackward stroke, strucken sickerlie; He has hit him under the left breast, And dead-wounded to the ground fell he. "Rise up, rise up, now, hillie dear! "Arise, and speak three words to me!-- "Whether thou'se gotten thy deadly wound, "Or if God and good leaching may succour thee?" "O horse, O horse, now billie Graeme, "And get thee far from hence with speed; "And get thee out of this country, "That none may know who has done the deed." "O I have slain thee, billie Bewick, "If this be true thou tellest to me; "But I made a vow, ere I came frae hame, "That aye the next man I wad be." He has pitched his sword in a moodie-hill,[C] And he has leap'd twentie lang feet and three, And on his ain sword's point he lap, And dead upon the grund fell he. 'Twas then came up Sir Robert Bewick, And his brave son alive saw he; "Rise up, rise up, my son," he said, "For I think ye hae gotten the victorie." "O hald your tongue, my father dear! "Of your prideful talking let me be! "Ye might hae drunken your wine in peace, "And let me and my billie be. "Gae dig a grave, baith wide and deep, "A grave to hald baith him and me; "But lay Christie Graeme on the sunny side, "For I'm sure he wan the victorie." "Alack! a wae!" auld Bewick cried, "Alack! was I not much to blame! "I'm sure I've lost the liveliest lad "That e'er was born unto my name." "Alack! a wae!" quo' gude Lord Graeme, "I'm sure I hae lost the deeper lack! "I durst hae ridden the Border through, "Had Christie Graeme been at my back. "Had I been led through Liddesdale, "And thirty horsemen guarding me, "And Christie Gramme been at my back, "Sae soon as he had set me free! "I've lost my hopes, I've lost my joy, "I've lost the key but and the lock; "I durst hae ridden the world round, "Had Christie Graeme been at my back." [Footnote A: The ostler's copy reads very characteristically-- "It was all for good wine and _hay_."] [Footnote B: _Ackward_--Backward.] [Footnote C: _Moodie-hill_--Mole-hill.] THE DUEL OF WHARTON AND STUART. IN TWO PARTS. Duels, as may be seen from the two preceding ballads, are derived from the times of chivalry. They succeeded to the _combat at outrance_, about the end of the sixteenth century; and, though they were no longer countenanced by the laws, nor considered a solemn appeal to the Deity, nor honoured by the presence of applauding monarchs and multitudes, yet they were authorised by the manners of the age, and by the applause of the fair.[A] They long continued, they even yet continue, to be appealed to, as the test of truth; since, by the code of honour, every gentleman is still bound to repel a charge of falsehood with the point of his sword, and at the peril of his life. This peculiarity of manners, which would have surprised an ancient Roman, is obviously deduced from the Gothic ordeal of trial by combat. Nevertheless, the custom of duelling was considered, at its first introduction, as an innovation upon the law of arms; and a book, in two huge volumes, entituled _Le vrai Theatre d' Honneur et de la Chivalerie_, was written by a French nobleman, to support the venerable institutions of chivalry against this unceremonious mode of combat. He has chosen for his frontispiece two figures; the first represents a conquering knight, trampling his enemy under foot in the lists, crowned by Justice with laurel, and preceded by Fame, sounding his praises. The other figure presents a duellist, in his shirt, as was then the fashion (see the following ballad), with his bloody rapier in his hand: the slaughtered combatant is seen in the distance, and the victor is pursued by the Furies. Nevertheless, the wise will make some scruple, whether, if the warriors were to change equipments, they might not also exchange their emblematic attendants. The modern mode of duel, without defensive armour, began about the reign of Henry III. of France, when the gentlemen of that nation, as we learn from Davila, began to lay aside the cumbrous lance and cuirass, even in war. The increase of danger being supposed to contribute to the increase of honour, the national ardour of the french gallants led them early to distinguish themselves by neglect of every thing, that could contribute to their personal safety. Hence, duels began to be fought by the combatants in their shirts, and with the rapier only. To this custom contributed also the art of fencing, then cultivated as a new study in Italy and Spain, by which the sword became, at once, an offensive and defensive weapon. The reader will see the new "science of defence," as it was called, ridiculed by Shakespeare, in _Romeo and Juliet_, and by Don Quevedo, in some of his novels. But the more ancient customs continued for some time to maintain their ground. The sieur Colombiere mentions two gentlemen, who fought with equal advantage for a whole day, in all the panoply of chivalry, and, the next day, had recourse to the modern mode of combat. By a still more extraordinary mixture of ancient and modern fashions, two combatants on horseback ran a tilt at each other with lances, without any covering but their shirts. [Footnote A: "All things being ready for the ball, and every one being in their place, and I myself being next to the queen (of France), expecting when the dancers would come in, one knockt at the door somewhat louder than became, as I thought, a very civil person. When he came in, I remember there was a sudden whisper among the ladies, saying, 'C'est Monsieur Balagny,' or, 'tis Monsieur Balagny; whereupon, also, I saw the ladies and gentlewomen, one after another, invite him to sit near them; and, which is more, when one lady had his company a while, another would say, 'you have enjoyed him long enough; I must have him now;' at which bold civility of theirs, though I were astonished, yet it added unto my wonder, that his person could not be thought, at most, but ordinary handsome; his hair, which was cut very short, half grey, his doublet but of sackcloth, cut to his shirt, and his breeches only of plain grey cloth. Informing myself of some standers by who he was, I was told he was one of the gallantest men in the world, as having killed eight or nine men in single fight; and that, for this reason, the ladies made so much of him; it being the manner of all French women to cherish gallant men, as thinking they could not make so much of any one else, with the safety of their honour."--_Life of Lord Herbert of Cherbury,_ p. 70. How near the character of the duellist, originally, approached to that of the knight-errant, appears from a transaction, which took place at the siege of Juliers, betwixt this Balagny and Lord Herbert. As these two noted duellists stood together in the trenches, the Frenchman addressed Lord Herbert: _"Monsieur, on dit que vous etes un des plus braves de votre nation, et je suis Balagny; allons voir qui fera le mieux."_ With these words, Balagny jumped over the trench, and Herbert as speedily following, both ran sword in hand towards the defences of the besieged town, which welcomed their approach with a storm of musquetry and artillery. Balagny then observed, this was hot service; but Herbert swore, he would not turn back first; so the Frenchman was finally fain to set him the example or retreat. Notwithstanding the advantage which he had gained over Balagny, in this "jeopardy of war," Lord Herbert seems still to have grudged that gentleman's astonishing reputation; for he endeavoured to pick a quarrel with him, on the romantic score of the worth of their mistresses; and, receiving a ludicrous answer, told him, with disdain, that he spoke more like a _palliard_ than a _cavalier_. From such instances the reader may judge, whether the age of chivalry did not endure somewhat longer than is generally supposed.] When armour was laid aside, the consequence was, that the first duels were very sanguinary, terminating frequently in the death of one, and sometimes, as in the ballad, of both persons engaged. Nor was this all: The seconds, who had nothing to do with the quarrel, fought stoutly, _pour se desennuyer_, and often sealed with their blood their friendship for their principal. A desperate combat, fought between Messrs Entraguet and Caylus, is said to have been the first, in which this fashion of promiscuous fight was introduced. It proved fatal to two of Henry the Third's minions, and extracted from that sorrowing monarch an edict against duelling, which was as frequently as fruitlessly renewed by his successors. The use of rapier and poniard together,[A] was another cause of the mortal slaughter in these duels, which were supposed, in the reign of Henry IV., to have cost France at least as many of her nobles as had fallen in the civil wars. With these double weapons, frequent instances occurred, in which a duellist, mortally wounded, threw himself within his antagonist's guard, and plunged his poniard into his heart. Nay, sometimes the sword was altogether abandoned for the more sure and murderous dagger. A quarrel having arisen betwixt the vicompte d' Allemagne and the sieur de la Roque, the former, alleging the youth and dexterity of his antagonist, insisted upon fighting the duel in their shirts, and with their poniards only; a desperate mode of conflict, which proved fatal to both. Others refined even upon this horrible struggle, by chusing for the scene a small room, a large hogshead, or, finally, a hole dug in the earth, into which the duellists descended, as into a certain grave.--Must I add, that even women caught the phrenzy, and that duels were fought, not only by those whose rank and character rendered it little surprising, but by modest and well-born maidens! _Audiguier Traité de Duel. Theatre D' Honneur,_ Vol. I.[B] [Footnote A: It appears from a line in the black-letter copy of the following ballad, that Wharton and Stuart fought with rapier and dagger: With that stout Wharton was the first Took _rapier_ and _poniard_ there that day. _Ancient Songs,_ 1792, p. 204.] [Footnote B: This folly ran to such a pitch, that no one was thought worthy to be reckoned a gentleman, who had not tried his valour in at least one duel; of which Lord Herbert gives the following instance:--A young gentleman, desiring to marry a niece of Monsieur Disaucour, _ecuyer_ to the duke de Montmorenci, received this answer: "Friend, it is not yet time to marry; if you will be a brave man, you must first kill, in single combat, two or three men; then marry, and get two or three children; otherwise the world will neither have gained or lost by you." HERBERT'S _Life_, p. 64.] We learn, from every authority, that duels became nearly as common in England, after the accession of James VI., as they had ever been in France. The point of honour, so fatal to the gallants of the age, was no where carried more highly than at the court of the pacific _Solomon_ of Britain. Instead of the feudal combats, upon the _Hie-gate of Edinburgh_, which had often disturbed his repose at Holy-rood, his levees, at Theobald's, were occupied with listening to the detail of more polished, but not less sanguinary, contests. I rather suppose, that James never was himself disposed to pay particular attention to the laws of the _duello;_ but they were defined with a quaintness and pedantry, which, bating his dislike to the subject, must have deeply interested him. The point of honour was a science, which a grown gentleman might study under suitable professors, as well as dancing, or any other modish accomplishment. Nay, it would appear, that the ingenuity of the _sword-men_ (so these military casuists were termed) might often accommodate a bashful combatant with an honourable excuse for declining the combat: --Understand'st them well nice points of duel? Art born of gentle blood and pure descent? Were none of all thy lineage hang'd, or cuckold? Bastard or bastinadoed? Is thy pedigree As long, as wide as mine? For otherwise Thou wert most unworthy; and 'twere loss of honour In me to fight. More: I have drawn five teeth-- If thine stand sound, the terms are much unequal; And, by strict laws of duel, I am excused To fight on disadvantage.-- _Albumazar,_ Act IV. Sc. 7. In Beaumont and Fletcher's admirable play of _A King and no King_, there is some excellent mirth at the expence of the professors of the point of honour. But, though such shifts might occasionally be resorted to by the faint-hearted, yet the fiery cavaliers of the English court were but little apt to profit by them; though their vengeance for insulted honour sometimes vented itself through fouler channels than that of fair combat It happened, for example, that Lord Sanquhar, a Scottish nobleman, in fencing with a master of the noble science of defence, lost his eye by an unlucky thrust. The accident was provoking, but without remedy; nor did Lord Sanquhar think of it, unless with regret, until some years after, when he chanced to be in the French court. Henry the Great casually asked him, how he lost his eye? "By the thrust of a sword," answered Lord Sanquhar, not caring to enter into particulars. The king, supposing the accident the consequence of a duel, immediately enquired, "Does the man yet live?" These few words set the blood of the Scottish nobleman on fire; nor did he rest till he had taken the base vengeance of assassinating, by hired ruffians, the unfortunate fencing-master. The mutual animosity betwixt the English and Scottish nations, had already occasioned much bloodshed among the gentry, by single combat; and James now found himself under the necessity of making a striking example of one of his Scottish nobles, to avoid the imputation of the grossest partiality. Lord Sanquhar was condemned to be hanged, and suffered that ignominious punishment accordingly. By a circuitous route, we are now arrived at the subject of our ballad; for, to the tragical duel of Stuart and Wharton, and to other instances of bloody combats and brawls betwixt the two nations, is imputed James's firmness in the case of Lord Sanquhar. "For Ramsay, one of the king's servants, not long before Sanquhar's trial, had switched the earl of Montgomery, who was the king's first favourite, happily because he tooke it so. Maxwell, another of them, had bitten Hawley, a gentleman of the Temple, by the ear, which enraged the Templars (in those times riotous, and subject to tumults), and brought it allmost to a national quarrel, till the king slept in, and took it up himself.--The Lord Bruce had summoned Sir Edward Sackville (afterward earl of Dorset), into France, with a fatal compliment, to take death from his hand.[A] _And the much lamented Sir James Stuart, one of the king's blood, and Sir George Wharton, the prime branch of that noble family, for little worthless punctilios of honor (being intimate friends), took the field, and fell together by each others hand."_--WILSON'S Life of James VI. p. 60. [Footnote A: See an account of this desperate duel in the _Guardian_.] The sufferers in this melancholy affair were both men of high birth, the heirs apparent of two noble families, and youths of the most promising expectation. Sir James Stuart was a knight of the Bath, and eldest son of Walter, first lord Blantyre, by Nicolas, daughter of Sir James Somerville, of Cambusnethan. Sir George Wharton was also a knight of the Bath, and eldest son of Philip, lord Wharton, by Frances, daughter of Henry Clifford, earl of Cumberland. He married Anne, daughter of the earl of Rutland, but left no issue. The circumstances of the quarrel and combat are accurately detailed in the ballad, of which there exists a black-letter copy in the Pearson Collection, now in the library of the late John duke of Roxburghe, entitled, "A Lamentable Ballad, of a Combate, lately fought, near London, between Sir James Stewarde, and Sir George Wharton, knights, who were both slain at that time.--To the tune of, _Down Plumpton Park, &c_." A copy of this ballad has been published in Mr Ritson's _Ancient Songs_, and, upon comparison, appears very little different from that which has been preserved by tradition in Ettrick Forest. Two verses have been added, and one considerably improved, from Mr Ritson's edition. These three stanzas are the fifth and ninth of Part First, and the penult verse of Part Second. I am thus particular, that the reader may be able, if he pleases, to compare the traditional ballad with the original edition. It furnishes striking evidence, that, "without characters, fame lives long." The difference, chiefly to be remarked betwixt the copies, lies in the dialect, and in some modifications applicable to Scotland; as, using the words _"Our Scottish Knight."_ The black-letter ballad, in like manner, terms Wharton _"Our English Knight."_ My correspondent, James Hogg, adds the following note to this ballad: "I have heard this song sung by several old people; but all of them with this tradition, that Wharton bribed Stuart's second, and actually fought in armour. I acknowledge, that, from some dark hints in the song, this appears not impossible; but, that you may not judge too rashly, I must remind you, that the old people, inhabiting the head-lands (high grounds) hereabouts, although possessed of many original songs, traditions, and anecdotes, are most unreasonably partial when the valour or honour of a Scotsman is called in question." I retain this note, because it is characteristic; but I agree with my correspondent, there can be no foundation for the tradition, except in national partiality. THE DUEL OF WHARTON AND STUART. PART FIRST. It grieveth me to tell you o' Near London late what did befal, 'Twixt two young gallant gentlemen; It grieveth me, and ever shall. One of them was Sir George Wharton, My good Lord Wharton's son and heir; The other, James Stuart, a Scottish knight, One that a valiant heart did bear. When first to court these nobles came, One night, a gaining, fell to words; And in their fury grew so hot, That they did both try their keen swords. No manner of treating, nor advice, Could hold from striking in that place; For, in the height and heat of blood, James struck George Wharton on the face. "What doth this mean," George Wharton said, "To strike in such unmanly sort? "But, that I take it at thy hands, "The tongue of man shall ne'er report!" "But do thy worst, then," said Sir James, "Now do thy worst! appoint a day! "There's not a lord in England breathes "Shall gar me give an inch of way." "Ye brag right weel," George Wharton said; "Let our brave lords at large alane, "And speak of me, that am thy foe; "For you shall find enough o' ane! "I'll alterchange my glove wi' thine; "I'll show it on the bed o' death; "I mean the place where we shall fight; "There ane or both maun lose life and breath!" "We'll meet near Waltham," said Sir James; "To-morrow, that shall be the day. "We'll either take a single man, "And try who bears the bell away." Then down together hands they shook, Without any envious sign; Then went to Ludgate, where they lay, And each man drank his pint of wine. No kind of envy could be seen, No kind of malice they did betray; But a' was clear and calm as death, Whatever in their bosoms lay, Till parting time; and then, indeed, They shew'd some rancour in their heart; "Next time we meet," says George Wharton, "Not half sae soundly we shall part!" So they have parted, firmly bent Their valiant minds equal to try: The second part shall clearly show, Both how they meet, and how they dye. THE DUEL OF WHARTON AND STUART. PART SECOND. George Wharton was the first ae man, Came to the appointed place that day, Where he espyed our Scots lord coming, As fast as he could post away. They met, shook hands; their cheeks were pale; Then to George Wharton James did say, "I dinna like your doublet, George, "It stands sae weel on you this day. "Say, have you got no armour on? "Have ye no under robe of steel? "I never saw an English man "Become his doublet half sae weel." "Fy no! fy no!" George Wharton said, "For that's the thing that mauna be, "That I should come wi' armour on, "And you a naked man truly." "Our men shall search our doublets, George, "And see if one of us do lie; "Then will we prove, wi' weapons sharp, "Ourselves true gallants for to be." Then they threw off their doublets both, And stood up in their sarks o' lawn; "Now, take my counsel," said Sir James, "Wharton, to thee I'll make it knawn: "So as we stand, so will we fight; "Thus naked in our sarks," said he; "Fy no! fy no!" George Wharton says; "That is the thing that must not be. "We're neither drinkers, quarrellers, "Nor men that cares na for oursel; "Nor minds na what we're gaun about, "Or if we're gaun to heav'n or hell. "Let us to God bequeath our souls, "Our bodies to the dust and clay!" With that he drew his deadly sword, The first was drawn on field that day. Se'en bouts and turns these heroes had, Or e'er a drop o' blood was drawn; Our Scotch lord, wond'ring, quickly cry'd, "Stout Wharton! thou still hauds thy awn!" The first stroke that George Wharton gae, He struck him thro' the shoulder-bane; The neist was thro' the thick o' the thigh; He thought our Scotch lord had been slain. "Oh! ever alak!" George Wharton cry'd, "Art thou a living man, tell me? "If there's a surgeon living can, "He'se cure thy wounds right speedily." "No more of that!" James Stuart said; "Speak not of curing wounds to me! "For one of us must yield our breath, "Ere off the field one foot we flee." They looked oure their shoulders both, To see what company was there; They both had grievous marks of death, But frae the other nane wad steer. George Wharton was the first that fell; Our Scotch lord fell immediately: They both did cry to Him above, To save their souls, for they boud die. THE LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW. This fragment, obtained from recitation in the Forest of Ettrick, is said to relate to the execution of Cokburne of Henderland, a border freebooter, hanged over the gate of his own tower by James V., in the course of that memorable expedition, in 1529, which was fatal to Johnie Armstrang, Adam Scott of Tushielaw, and many other marauders. The vestiges of the castle of Henderland are still to be traced upon the farm of that name, belonging to Mr Murray of Henderland. They are situated near the mouth of the river Meggat, which falls into the lake of St Mary, in Selkirkshire. The adjacent country, which now hardly bears a single tree, is celebrated by Lesly, as, in his time, affording shelter to the largest stags in Scotland. A mountain torrent, called Henderland Burn, rushes impetuously from the hills, through a rocky chasm, named the Dow-glen, and passes near the site of the tower. To the recesses of this glen the wife of Cokburne is said to have retreated, during the execution of her husband; and a place, called the _Lady's Seat_, is still shewn, where she is said to have striven to drown, amid the roar of a foaming cataract, the tumultuous noise, which announced the close of his existence. In a deserted burial-place, which once surrounded the chapel of the castle, the monument of Cokburne and his lady is still shewn. It is a large stone, broken into three parts; but some armorial bearings may be yet traced, and the following inscription is still legible, though defaced: HERE LYES PERYS OF COKBURNE AND HIS WYFE MARJORY. Tradition says, that Cokburne was surprised by the king, while sitting at dinner. After the execution, James marched rapidly forward, to surprise Adam Scott of Tushielaw, called the King of the Border, and sometimes the King of Thieves. A path through the mountains, which separate the vale of Ettrick from the head of Yarrow, is still called the _King's Road_, and seems to have been the rout which he followed. The remains of the tower of Tushielaw are yet visible, overhanging the wild banks of the Ettrick; and are an object of terror to the benighted peasant, from an idea of their being haunted by spectres. From these heights, and through the adjacent county of Peebles, passes a wild path, called still the _Thief's Road_, from having been used chiefly by the marauders of the border. THE LAMENT OF THE BORDER WIDOW. My love he built me a bonny bower, And clad it a' wi' lilye flour; A brawer bower ye ne'er did see, Than my true love he built for me. There came a man, by middle day, He spied his sport, and went away; And brought the king that very night, Who brake my bower, and slew my knight. He slew my knight, to me sae dear; He slew my knight, and poin'd[A] his gear; My servants all for life did flee, And left me in extremitie. I sew'd his sheet, making my mane; I watched the corpse, myself alane; I watched his body, night and day; No living creature came that way. I took his body on my back, And whiles I gaed, and whiles I satte; I digg'd a grave, and laid him in, And happ'd him with the sod sae green. But think na ye my heart was sair, When I laid the moul on his yellow hair? O think na ye my heart was wae, When I turn'd about, away to gae? Nae living man I'll love again, Since that my lovely knight is slain; Wi' ae lock of his yellow hair I'll chain my heart for evermair. [Footnote A: _Poin'd_--Poinded, attached by legal distress.] FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNELL. The following very popular ballad has been handed down by tradition in its present imperfect state. The affecting incident, on which it is founded, is well known. A lady, of the name of Helen Irving, or Bell,[A] (for this is disputed by the two clans) daughter of the laird of Kirconnell, in Dumfries-shire, and celebrated for her beauty, was beloved by two gentlemen in the neighbourhood. The name of the favoured suitor was Adam Fleming, of Kirkpatrick; that of the other has escaped tradition; though it has been alleged, that he was a Bell, of Blacket House. The addresses of the latter were, however, favoured by the friends of the lady, and the lovers were therefore obliged to meet in secret, and by night, in the church-yard of Kirconnell, a romantic spot, surrounded by the river Kirtle. During one of those private interviews, the jealous and despised lover suddenly appeared on the opposite bank of the stream, and levelled his carabine at the breast of his rival. Helen threw herself before her lover, received in her bosom the bullet, and died in his arms. A desperate and mortal combat ensued between Fleming and the murderer, in which the latter was cut to pieces. Other accounts say, that Fleming pursued his enemy to Spain, and slew him in the streets of Madrid. [Footnote A: This dispute is owing to the uncertain date of the ballad; for, although the last proprietors if Kirconnell were Irvings, when deprived of their possession by Robert Maxwell in 1600, yet Kirconnell is termed in old chronicles _The Bell's Tower;_ and a stone, with the arms of that family, has been found among its ruins. Fair Helen's sirname, therefore, depends upon the period at which she lived, which it is now impossible to ascertain.] The ballad, as now published, consists of two parts. The first seems to be an address, either by Fleming or his rival, to the lady; if, indeed, it constituted any portion of the original poem. For the editor cannot help suspecting, that these verses have been the production of a different and inferior bard, and only adapted to the original measure and tune. But this suspicion, being unwarranted by any copy he has been able to procure, he does not venture to do more than intimate his own opinion. The second part, by far the most beautiful, and which is unquestionably original, forms the lament of Fleming over the grave of fair Helen. The ballad is here given, without alteration or improvement, from the most accurate copy which could be recovered. The fate of Helen has not, however, remained unsung by modern bards. A lament, of great poetical merit, by the learned historian Mr Pinkerton, with several other poems on this subject, have been printed in various forms. The grave of the lovers is yet shewn in the church-yard of Kirconnell, near Springkell. Upon the tomb-stone can still be read--_Hie jacet Adamus Fleming;_ a cross and sword are sculptured on the stone. The former is called, by the country people, the gun with which Helen was murdered; and the latter, the avenging sword of her lover. _Sit illis terra levis!_ A heap of stones is raised on the spot where the murder was committed; a token of abhorrence common to most nations.[A] [Footnote A: This practice has only very lately become obsolete in Scotland. The editor remembers, that, a few years ago, a cairn was pointed out to him in the King's Park of Edinburgh, which had been raised in detestation of a cruel murder, perpetrated by one Nicol Muschet, on the body of his wife, in that place, in the year 1720.] FAIR HELEN. PART FIRST. O! sweetest sweet, and fairest fair, Of birth and worth beyond compare, Thou art the causer of my care, Since first I loved thee. Yet God hath given to me a mind, The which to thee shall prove as kind As any one that thou shalt find, Of high or low degree. The shallowest water makes maist din, The deadest pool the deepest linn. The richest man least truth within, Though he preferred be. Yet, nevertheless, I am content, And never a whit my love repent, But think the time was a' weel spent, Though I disdained be. O! Helen sweet, and maist complete, My captive spirit's at thy feet! Thinks thou still fit thus for to treat Thy captive cruelly? O! Helen brave! but this I crave, Of thy poor slave some pity have, And do him save that's near his grave, And dies for love of thee. FAIR HELEN. PART SECOND. I wish I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries; O that I were where Helen lies, On fair Kirconnell Lee! Curst be the heart, that thought the thought, And curst the hand, that fired the shot, When in my arms burd[A] Helen dropt, And died to succour me! O think na ye my heart was sair, When my love dropt down and spak nae mair! There did she swoon wi' meikle care, On fair Kirconnell Lee. As I went down the water side, None but my foe to be my guide. None but my foe to be my guide, On fair Kirconnell Lee. I lighted down, my sword did draw, I hacked him in pieces sma, I hacked him in pieces sma, For her sake that died for me. O Helen fair, beyond compare! I'll make a garland of thy hair, Shall bind my heart for evermair, Untill the day I die. O that I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries; Out of my bed she bids me rise, Says, "haste, and come to me!" O Helen fair! O Helen chaste! If I were with thee I were blest, Where thou lies low, and takes thy rest, On fair Kirconnell Lee. I wish my grave were growing green, A winding sheet drawn ower my een, And I in Helen's arms lying, On fair Kirconnell Lee. I wish I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries; And I am weary of the skies, For her sake that died for me. [Footnote A: _Burd Helen_--Maid Helen.] HUGHIE THE GRAEME. The Graemes, as we have had frequent occasion to notice, were a powerful and numerous clan, who chiefly inhabited the Debateable Land. They were said to be of Scottish extraction, and their chief claimed his descent from Malice, earl of Stratherne. In military service, they were more attached to England than to Scotland; but, in their depredations on both countries, they appear to have been very impartial; for, in the year 1600, the gentlemen of Cumberland alleged to Lord Scroope, "that the Graemes, and their clans, with their children, tenants, and servants, were the chiefest actors in the spoil and decay of the country." Accordingly, they were, at that time, obliged to give a bond of surety for each other's peaceable demeanour; from which bond, their numbers appear to have exceeded four hundred men.--See _Introduction to_ NICOLSON'S _History of Cumberland,_ p. cviii. Richard Graeme, of the family of Netherbye, was one of the attendants upon Charles I., when prince of Wales, and accompanied him upon his romantic journey through France and Spain. The following little anecdote, which then occurred, will shew, that the memory of the Graemes' border exploits was at that time still preserved. "They were now entered into the deep time of Lent, and could get no flesh in their inns. Whereupon fell out a pleasant passage, if I may insert it, by the way, among more serious. There was, near Bayonne, a herd of goats, with their young ones; upon the sight whereof, Sir Richard Graham tells the marquis (of Buckingham), that he would snap one of the kids, and make some shift to carry him snug to their lodging. Which the prince overhearing, 'Why, Richard,' says he, 'do you think you may practise here your old tricks upon the borders?' Upon which words, they, in the first place, gave the goat-herd good contentment; and then, while the marquis and Richard, being both on foot, were chasing the kid about the stack, the prince, from horseback, killed him in the head, with a Scottish pistol.--Which circumstance, though trifling, may yet serve to shew how his Royal Highness, even in such slight and sportful damage, had a noble sense of just dealing."--_Sir_ HENRY WOTTON'S _Life of the Duke of Buckingham._ I find no traces of this particular Hughie Graeme, of the ballad; but, from the mention of the _Bishop_, I suspect he may have been one, of about four hundred borderers, against whom bills of complaint were exhibited to Robert Aldridge, lord bishop of Carlisle, about 1553, for divers incursions, burnings, murders, mutilations, and spoils, by them committed.--NICHOLSON'S _History, Introduction_, lxxxi. There appear a number of Graemes, in the specimen which we have of that list of delinquents. There occur, in particular, Ritchie Grame of Bailie, Will's Jock Grame, Fargue's Willie Grame, Muckle Willie Grame, Will Grame of Rosetrees, Ritchie Grame, younger of Netherby, Wat Grame, called Flaughtail, Will Grame, Nimble Willie, Will Grahame, Mickle Willie, with many others. In Mr Ritson's curious and valuable collection of legendary poetry, entitled _Ancient Songs_, he has published this Border ditty, from a collation of two old black-letter copies, one in the collection of the late John duke of Roxburghe, and another in the hands of John Bayne, Esq.--The learned editor mentions another copy, beginning, "Good Lord John is a hunting gone." The present edition was procured for me by my friend Mr W. Laidlaw, in Blackhouse, and has been long current in Selkirkshire. Mr Ritson's copy has occasionally been resorted to for better readings. HUGHIE THE GRAEME. Gude Lord Scroope's to the hunting gane, He has ridden o'er moss and muir; And he has grippit Hughie the Graeme, For stealing o' the Bishop's mare. "Now, good Lord Scroope, this may not be! "Here hangs a broad sword by my side; "And if that thou canst conquer me, "The matter it may soon be tryed." "I ne'er was afraid of a traitor thief; "Although thy name be Hughie the Graeme, "I'll make thee repent thee of thy deeds, "If God but grant me life and time." "Then do your worst now, good Lord Scroope, "And deal your blows as hard as you can! "It shall be tried, within an hour, "Which of us two is the better man." But as they were dealing their blows so free, And both so bloody at the time, Over the moss came ten yeomen so tall, All for to take brave Hughie the Graeme. Then they hae grippit Hughie the Graeme, And brought him up through Carlisle town; The lasses and lads stood on the walls, Crying, "Hughie the Graeme, thou'se ne'er gae down!" Then hae they chosen a jury of men, The best that were in Carlisle[A] town; And twelve of them cried out at once, "Hughie the Graeme, thou must gae down!" Then up bespake him gude Lord Hume,[B] As he sat by the judge's knee,-- "Twentie white owsen, my gude lord, "If you'll grant Hughie the Graeme to me." "O no, O no, my gude Lord Hume! "For sooth and sae it manna be; "For, were there but three Graemes of the name, "They suld be hanged a' for me." 'Twas up and spake the gude Lady Hume, As she sate by the judge's knee,-- A peck of white pennies, my gude lord judge, "If you'll grant Hughie the Graeme to me." "O no, O no, my gude Lady Hume! "Forsooth and so it mustna be; "Were he but the one Graeme of the name, "He suld be hanged high for me." "If I be guilty," said Hughie the Graeme, "Of me my friends shall hae small talk;" And he has loup'd fifteen feet and three, Though his hands they were tied behind his back. He looked over his left shoulder, And for to see what he might see; There was he aware of his auld father, Came tearing his hair most piteouslie. "O hald your tongue, my father," he says, "And see that ye dinna weep for me! "For they may ravish me o' my life, "But they canna banish me fro' heaven hie.' "Fare ye weel, fair Maggie, my wife! "The last time we came ower the muir, "'Twas thou bereft me of my life, "And wi' the Bishop thou play'd the whore. "Here, Johnie Armstrang, take thou my sword, "That is made o' the metal sae fine; "And when thou comest to the English[C] side, "Remember the death of Hughie the Graeme." [Footnote A: _Garlard_--Anc. Songs.] [Footnote B: _Boles_--Anc. Songs.] [Footnote C: _Border_--Anc, Songs.] NOTE ON HUGHIE THE GRAEME. _And wi' the Bishop thou play'd the whore._--P. 326, v. 9. Of the morality of Robert Aldridge, bishop of Carlisle, we know but little; but his political and religious faith were of a stretching and accommodating texture. Anthony a Wood observes, that there were many changes in his time, both in church and state; but that the worthy prelate retained his offices and preferments during them all. JOHNIE OF BREADISLEE. AN ANCIENT NITHESDALE BALLAD. The hero of this ballad appears to have been an outlaw and deer-stealer--probably one of the broken men residing upon the border. There are several different copies, in one of which the principal personage is called _Johnie of Cockielaw_. The stanzas of greatest merit have been selected from each copy. It is sometimes said, that this outlaw possessed the old castle of Morton, in Dumfries-shire, now ruinous:--"Near to this castle there was a park, built by Sir Thomas Randolph, on the face of a very great and high hill; so artificially, that, by the advantage of the hill, all wild beasts, such as deers, harts, and roes, and hares, did easily leap in, but could not get out again; and if any other cattle, such as cows, sheep, or goats, did voluntarily leap in, or were forced to do it, _it is doubted_ if their owners were permitted to get them out again."--_Account of Presbytery of Penpont, apud Macfarlane's MSS._ Such a park would form a convenient domain to an outlaw's castle, and the mention of Durrisdeer, a neighbouring parish, adds weight to the tradition. I have seen, on a mountain near Callendar, a sort of pinfold, composed of immense rocks, piled upon each other, which, I was told, was anciently constructed for the above-mentioned purpose. The mountain is thence called _Uah var_, or the _Cove of the Giant_. JOHNIE OF BREADISLEE. AN ANCIENT NITHISDALE BALLAD. Johnie rose up in a May morning, Called for water to wash his hands-- "Gar loose to me the gude graie dogs "That are bound wi' iron bands," When Johnie's mother gat word o' that, Her hands for dule she wrang-- "O Johnie! for my benison, "To the grenewood dinna gang! "Eneugh ye hae o' the gude wheat bread, "And eneugh o' the blude-red wine; "And, therefore, for nae venison, Johnie, "I pray ye, stir frae hame." But Johnie's busk't up his gude bend bow, His arrows, ane by ane; And he has gane to Durrisdeer To hunt the dun deer down. As he came down by Merriemass, And in by the benty line, There has he espied a deer lying Aneath a bush of ling.[A] Johnie he shot, and the dun deer lap, And he wounded her on the side; But, atween the water and the brae, His hounds they laid her pride. And Johnie has bryttled[B] the deer sae weel, That he's had out her liver and lungs; And wi' these he has feasted his bludy hounds, As if they had been erl's sons. They eat sae much o' the venison, And drank sae much o' the blude, That Johnie and a' his bludy hounds Fell asleep, as they had been dead. And by there came a silly auld carle, An ill death mote he die! For he's awa to Hislinton, Where the Seven Foresters did lie. "What news, what news, ye gray-headed carle, "What news bring ye to me?" "I bring nae news," said the gray-headed carle, "Save what these eves did see. "As I came down by Merriemass, "And down amang the scroggs,[C] "The bonniest childe that ever I saw "Lay sleeping amang his dogs. "The shirt that was upon his back "Was o' the Holland fine; "The doublet which was over that "Was o' the lincome twine. "The buttons that were on his sleeve "Were o' the goud sae gude; "The gude graie hounds he lay amang, "Their months were dyed wi' blude." Then out and spak the First Forester, The held man ower them a'-- If this be Johnie o' Breadislee, "Nae nearer will we draw." But up and spak the Sixth Forester, (His sister's son was he) "If this be Johnie o' Breadislee, "We soon snall gar him die!" The first flight of arrows the Foresters shot, They wounded him on the knee; And out and spak the Seventh Forester, "The next will gar him die." Johnie's set his back against an aik, His fute against a stane; And he has slain the Seven Foresters, He has slam them a' but ane. He has broke three ribs in that ane's side, But and his collar bane; He's laid him twa-fald ower his steed, Bade him cany the tidings hame. "O is there na a bonnie bird, "Can sing as I can say; "Could flee away to my mother's bower, "And tell to fetch Johnie away?" The starling flew to his mother's window stane, It whistled and it sang; And aye the ower word o' the tune Was--"Johnie tarries lang!" They made a rod o the hazel bush, Another o' the slae-thorn tree, And mony mony were the men At fetching our Johnie. Then out and spak his auld mother, And fast her tears did fa'-- "Ye wad nae be warned, my son Johnie, "Frae the hunting to bide awa. "Aft hae I brought to Breadislee, "The less gear[D] and the mair, "But I ne'er brought to Breadislee, "What grieved my heart sae sair! "But wae betyde that silly auld carle! "An ill death shall he die! "For the highest tree in Merriemass "Shall be his morning's fee." Now Johnie's gude bend bow is broke, And his gude graie dogs are slain; And his body lies dead in Durrisdeer, And his hunting it is done. [Footnote A: _Ling_--Heath.] [Footnote B: _Brytlled_--To cut up venison. See the ancient ballad of _Chevy Chace_, v. 8.] [Footnote C: _Scroggs_--Stunted trees.] [Footnote D: _Gear_--Usually signifies _goods_, but here _spoil_.] KATHERINE JANFARIE. _The Ballad was published in the first edition of this work, under the title of_ "The Laird of Laminton." _It is now given in a more perfect state, from several recited copies. The residence of the Lady, and the scene of the affray at her bridal, is said, by old people, to have been upon the banks of the Cadden, near to where it joins the Tweed. Others say the skirmish was fought near Traquair, and_ KATHERINE JANFARIE'S _dwelling was in the glen, about three miles above Traquair house._ There was a may, and a weel far'd may., Lived high up in yon glen; Her name was Katherine Janfarie, She was courted by mony men. Up then came Lord Lauderdale, Up frae the Lawland border; And he has come to court this may, A' mounted in good order. He told na her father, he told na her mother, And he told na ane o' her kin; But he whisper'd the bonnie lassie hersel', And has her favour won. But out then cam Lord Lochinvar, Out frae the English border, All for to court this bonnie may, Weil mounted, and in order. He told her father, he told her mother, And a' the lave o' her kin; But he told na the bonnie may hersel', Till on her wedding e'en. She sent to the Lord of Lauderdale, Gin he wad come and see; And he has sent word back again, Weel answered she suld be. And he has sent a messenger Right quickly through the land, And raised mony an armed man To be at his command. The bride looked out at a high window, Beheld baith dale and down, And she was aware of her first true love, With riders mony a one. She scoffed him, and scorned him, Upon her wedding day; And said--"It was the Fairy court "To see him in array! "O come ye here to fight, young lord, "Or come ye here to play? "Or come ye here to drink good wine "Upon the wedding day?" "I come na here to fight," he said, "I come na here to play; "I'll but lead a dance wi' the bonnie bride, "And mount and go my way." It is a glass of the blood-red wine Was filled up them between, And aye she drank to Lauderdale, Wha her true love had been. He's ta'en her by the milk-white hand, And by the grass-green sleeve; He's mounted her hie behind himsell, At her kinsmen spear'd na leave. "Now take your bride, Lord Lochinvar! "Now take her if you may! "But, if you take your bride again, "We'll call it but foul play." There were four-and-twenty bonnie boys, A' clad in the Johnstone grey;[A] They said they would take the bride again, By the strong hand, if they may. Some o' them were right willing men, But they were na willing a'; And four-and-twenty Leader lads Bid them mount and ride awa'. Then whingers flew frae gentles' sides, And swords flew frae the shea's, And red and rosy was the blood Ran down the lily braes. The blood ran down by Caddon bank, And down by Caddon brae; And, sighing, said the bonnie bride-- "O waes me for foul play!" My blessing on your heart, sweet thing! Wae to your willfu' will! There's mony a gallant gentleman Whae's blude ye have garr'd to spill. Now a' you lords of fair England, And that dwell by the English border, Come never here to seek a wife, For fear of sic disorder. They'll haik ye up, and settle ye bye, Till on your wedding day; Then gie ye frogs instead of fish, And play ye foul foul play. [Footnote A: _Johnstone grey_--The livery of the ancient family of Johnstone.] THE LAIRD O' LOGIE An edition of this ballad is current, under the title of "The Laird of Ochiltree;" but the editor, since publication of this work, has been fortunate enough to recover the following more correct and ancient copy, as recited by a gentleman residing near Biggar. It agrees more nearly, both in the name and in the circumstances, with the real fact, than the printed ballad of Ochiltree. In the year 1592, Francis Stuart, earl of Bothwell, was agitating his frantic and ill-concerted attempts against the person of James VI., whom he endeavoured to surprise in the palace of Falkland. Through the emulation and private rancour of the courtiers, he found adherents even about the king's person; among whom, it seems, was the hero of our ballad, whose history is thus narrated in that curious and valuable chronicle, of which the first part has been published under the title of "The Historie of "King James the Sext," and the second is now in the press. "In this close tyme it fortunit, that a gentelman, callit Weymis of Logye, being also in credence at court, was delatit as a traffekker with Frances Erle Bothwell; and he being examinat before king and counsall, confessit his accusation to be of veritie, that sundrie tymes he had spokin with him, expresslie aganis the king's inhibitioun proclamit in the contrare, whilk confession he subscryvit with his hand; and because the event of this mater had sik a succes, it sall also be praysit be my pen, as a worthie turne, proceiding frome honest chest loove and charitie, whilk suld on na wayis be obscurit from the posteritie for the gude example; and therefore I have thought gude to insert the same for a perpetual memorie. "Queen Anne, our noble princess, was servit with dyverss gentilwemen of hir awin cuntrie, and naymelie with are callit Mres Margaret Twynstoun,[A] to whome this gentilman, Weymes of Logye, bure great honest affection, tending to the godlie band of marriage, the whilk was honestlie requytet be the said gentilwoman, yea evin in his greatest mister; for howsone she understude the said gentilman to be in distress, and apperantlie be his confession to be puueist to the death, and she having prevelege to ly in the queynis chalmer that same verie night of his accusation, whare the king was also reposing that same night, she came forth of the dur prevelie, bayth the prencis being then at quyet rest, and past to the chalmer, whare the said gentilman was put in custodie to certayne of the garde, and commandit thayme that immediatelie he sould be broght to the king and queyne, whareunto thay geving sure credence, obeyit. Bot howsone she was cum bak to the chalmer dur, she desyrit the watches to stay till he sould cum furth agayne, and so she closit the dur, and convoyit the gentilman to a windo', whare she ministrat a long corde unto him to convoy himself doun upon; and sa, be hir gude cheritable help, he happelie escapit be the subteltie of loove." [Footnote A: Twynelace, according to Spottiswoode.] THE LAIRD O' LOGIE. I will sing, if ye will hearken, If ye will hearken unto me; The king has ta'en a poor prisoner, The wanton laird o' young Logie. Young Logie's laid in Edinburgh chapel; Carmichael's the keeper o' the key; And may Margaret's lamenting sair, A' for the love of young Logie. "Lament, lament na, may Margaret, "And of your weeping let me be; "For ye maun to the king himsell, "To seek the life of young Logie." May Margaret has kilted her green cleiding, And she has curl'd back her yellow hair-- "If I canna get young Logie's life, "Fareweel to Scotland for evermair." When she came before the king, She knelit lowly on her knee-- "O what's the matter, may Margaret? "And what needs a' this courtesie?" "A boon, a boon, my noble liege, "A boon, a boon, I beg o' thee! "And the first boon that I come to crave, "Is to grant me the life of young Logic." "O na, O na, may Margaret, "Forsooth, and so it manna be; "For a' the gowd o' fair Scotland "Shall not save the life of young Logie." But she has stown the king's redding kaim,[A] Likewise the queen her wedding knife; And sent the tokens to Carmichael, To cause young Logic get his life. She sent him a purse o' the red gowd, Another o' the white monie; She sent him a pistol for each hand, And bade him shoot when he gat free. When he came to the tolbooth stair, There he let his volley flee; It made the king in his chamber start, E'en in the bed where he might be. "Gae out, gae out, my merrymen a', "And bid Carmichael come speak to me; "For I'll lay my life the pledge o' that, "That yon's the shot o' young Logie." When Carmichael came before the king, He fell low down upon his knee; The very first word that the king spake, Was--"Where's the laird of young Logie?" Carmichael turn'd him round about, (I wot the tear blinded his eye) "There came a token frae your grace, "Has ta'en away the laird frae me." "Hast thou play'd me that, Carmichael?" "And hast thou play'd me that?" quoth he; "The morn the justice court's to stand, "And Logic's place ye maun supply." Carmichael's awa to Margaret's bower, Even as fast as he may drie-- "O if young Logie be within, "Tell him to come and speak with me!" May Margaret turned her round about, (I wot a loud laugh laughed she) "The egg is chipped, the bird is flown, "Ye'll see na mair of young Logie." The tane is shipped at the pier of Leith, The tother at the Queen's Ferrie; And she's gotten a father to her bairn, The wanton laird of young Logie. [Footnote A: _Redding kain_--Comb for the hair.] NOTE ON THE LAIRD O' LOGIE. _Carmichael's the keeper o' the key._--P. 344. v. 2. Sir John Carmichael of Carmichael, the hero of the ballad, called the Raid of the Reidswair, was appointed captain of the king's guard in 1588, and usually had the keeping of state criminals of rank. A LYKE-WAKE DIRGE. This is a sort of charm, sung by the lower ranks of Roman Catholics, in some parts of the north of England, while watching a dead body, previous to interment. The tune is doleful and monotonous, and, joined to the mysterious import of the words, has a solemn effect. The word _sleet_, in the chorus, seems to be corrupted from _selt_, or salt; a quantity of which, in compliance with a popular superstition, is frequently placed on the breast of a corpse. The mythologic ideas of the dirge are common to various creeds. The Mahometan believes, that, in advancing to the final judgment seat, he must traverse a bar of red-hot iron, stretched across a bottomless gulph. The good works of each true believer, assuming a substantial form, will then interpose betwixt his feet and this _"Bridge of Dread;"_ but the wicked, having no such protection, must fall headlong into the abyss.--D'HERBELOT, _Bibiotheque Orientale_. Passages, similar to this dirge, are also to be found in _Lady Culross's Dream_, as quoted in the second Dissertation prefixed by Mr Pinkerton to his _Select Scottish Ballads_, 2 vols. The dreamer journeys towards heaven, accompanied and assisted by a celestial guide: Through dreadful dens, which made my heart aghast, He bare me up when I began to tire. Sometimes we clamb o'er craggy mountains high. And sometimes stay'd on uglie braes of sand: They were so stay that wonder was to see; But, when I fear'd, he held me by the hand. Through great deserts we wandered on our way-- Forward we passed on narrow bridge of trie, O'er waters great, which hediously did roar. Again, she supposes herself suspended over an infernal gulph: Ere I was ware, one gripped me at the last, And held me high above a naming fire. The fire was great; the heat did pierce me sore; My faith grew weak.; my grip was very small; I trembled fast; my fear grew more and more. A horrible picture of the same kind, dictated probably by the author's unhappy state of mind, is to be found in Brooke's _Fool of Quality_. The dreamer, a ruined female, is suspended over the gulph of perdition by a single hair, which is severed by a demon, who, in the form of her seducer springs upwards from the flames. The Russian funeral service, without any allegorical imagery, expresses the sentiment of the dirge in language alike simple and noble. "Hast thou pitied the afflicted, O man? In death shalt thou be pitied. Hast thou consoled the orphan? The orphan will deliver thee. Hast thou clothed the naked? The naked will procure thee protection."--RICHARDSON'S _Anecdotes of Russia._ But the most minute description of the _Brig o' Dread_, occurs in the legend of _Sir Owain_, No. XL. in the MS. Collection of Romances, W. 4.1. Advocates' Library, Edinburgh; though its position is not the same as in the dirge, which may excite a suspicion that the order of the stanzas in the latter has been transposed. Sir Owain, a Northumbrian knight, after many frightful adventures in St Patrick's purgatory, at last arrives at the bridge, which, in the legend, is placed betwixt purgatory and paradise: The fendes han the knight ynome, To a stinkand water thai ben ycome, He no seigh never er non swiche; It stank fouler than ani hounde. And maui mile it was to the grounde. And was as swart as piche. And Owain seigh ther ouer ligge A swithe strong naru brigge: The fendes seyd tho; "Lo! sir knight, sestow this? "This is the brigge of paradis, "Here ouer thou must go. "And we the schul with stones prowe, "And the winde the schul ouer blow, "And wirche the full wo; "Thou no schalt tor all this unduerd, "Bot gif thou falle a midwerd, "To our fewes[A] mo. "And when thou art adown yfalle, "Than schal com our felawes alle, "And with her hokes the hede; "We schul the teche a newe play: "Thou hast served ous mani a day, "And into helle the lede." Owain biheld the brigge smert, The water ther under blac and swert, And sore him gan to drede: For of othing he tok yeme, Never mot, in sonne beme, Thicker than the fendes yede. The brigge was as heigh as a tour, And as scharpe as a rasour, And naru it was also; And the water that ther ran under, Brend o' lighting and of thonder, That thoght him michel wo. Ther nis no clerk may write with ynke, No no man no may bithink, No no maister deuine; That is ymade forsoth ywis. Under the brigge of paradis, Halvendel the pine. So the dominical ous telle, That is the pure entrae of helle, Seine Poule berth witnesse;[A] Whoso falleth of the brigge adown, Of him nis no redempcioun, Noîther more nor lesse. The fendes seyd to the knight tho, "Ouer this brigge might thou nowght go, "For noneskines nede; "Fle peril sorwe and wo, "And to that stede ther thou com fro, "Wel fair we schul the lede." Owain anon be gan bithenche, Fram hou mani of the fendes wrenche, God him saved hadde; He sett his fot opon the brigge, No feld he no scharpe egge, No nothing him no drad. When the fendes yseigh tho, That he was more than half ygo, Loude thai gun to crie; "Alias! alias! that he was born! "This ich night we have forlorn "Out of our baylie." [Footnote A: _Fewes_--Probably contracted for fellows.] [Footnote B: The reader will probably search St Paul in vain, for the evidence here referred to.] The author of the _Legend of Sir Owain_, though a zealous catholic, has embraced, in the fullest extent, the Talmudic doctrine of an earthly paradise, distinct from the celestial abode of the just, and serving as a place of initiation, preparatory to perfect bliss, and to the beatific vision.--See the Rabbi Menasse ben Israel, in a treatise called _Nishmath Chajim_, i.e. The Breath of Life. THE DOWIE DENS OF YARROW. NOW FIRST PUBLISHED. This ballad, which is a very great favourite among the inhabitants of Ettrick Forest, is universally believed to be founded in fact. The editor found it easy to collect a variety of copies; but very difficult, indeed, to select from them such a collated edition, as may, in any degree, suit the taste of "these more light and giddy-paced times." Tradition places the event, recorded in the song, very early; and it is probable that the ballad was composed soon afterwards, although the language has been gradually modernized, in the course of its transmission to us, through the inaccurate channel of oral tradition.--The bard does not relate particulars, but barely the striking outlines of a fact, apparently so well known when he wrote, as to render minute detail as unnecessary, as it is always tedious and unpoetical. The hero of the ballad was a knight of great bravery, called Scott, who is said to have resided at Kirkhope, or Oakwood castle, and is, in tradition, termed the Baron of Oakwood. The estate of Kirkhope belonged anciently to the Scotts of Harden: Oakwood is still their property, and has been so from time immemorial. The editor was therefore led to suppose, that the hero of the ballad might have been identified with John Scott, sixth son of the laird of Harden, murdered in Ettrick Forest by his kinsmen, the Scotts of Gilmanscleugh (see notes to _Jamie Telfer_, Vol. I. p. 152). This appeared the more probable, as the common people always affirm, that this young man was treacherously slain, and that, in evidence thereof, his body remained uncorrupted for many years; so that even the roses on his shoes seemed as fresh as when he was first laid in the family vault at Hassendean. But from a passage in Nisbet's Heraldry, he now believes the ballad refers to a duel fought at Deucharswyre, of which Annan's Treat is a part, betwixt John Scott of Tushielaw and his brother-in-law Walter Scott, third son of Robert of Thirlestane, in which the latter was slain. In ploughing Annan's Treat, a huge monumental stone, with an inscription, was discovered; but being rather scratched than engraved, and the lines being run through each other, it is only possible to read one or two Latin words. It probably records the event of the combat.--The person slain was the male ancestor of the present Lord Napier. Tradition affirms, that the hero of the song (be he who he may) was murdered by the brother, either of his wife, or betrothed bride. The alleged cause of malice was, the lady's father having proposed to endow her with half of his property, upon her marriage with a warrior of such renown. The name of the murderer is said to have been Annan, and the place of combat is still called Annan's Treat. It is a low muir, on the banks of the Yarrow, lying to the west of Yarrow Kirk. Two tall unhewn masses of stone are erected, about eighty yards distant from each other; and the least child, that can herd a cow, will tell the passenger, that there lie "the two lords, who were slain in single combat." It will be, with many readers, the greatest recommendation of these verses, that they are supposed to have suggested to Mr Hamilton, of Bangour, the modern ballad, beginning, "Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride." A fragment, apparently regarding the story of the following ballad, but in a different measure, occurs in Mr Herd's MSS., and runs thus:-- "When I look cast, my heart is sair, "But when I look west, its mair and mair; "For then I see the braes o' Yarrow, "And there, for aye, I lost my marrow." THE DOWIE DENS OF YARROW. Late at e'en, drinking the wine, And ere they paid the lawing, They set a combat them between, To fight it in the dawing. "O stay at hame, my noble lord! "O stay at hame, my marrow! "My cruel brother will you betray "On the dowie houms of Yarrow." "O fare ye weel, my ladye gaye! "O fare ye weel, my Sarah! "For I maun gae, though I ne'er return, "Frae the dowie banks o' Yarrow. She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair, As oft she had done before, O; She belted him with his noble brand, And he's awa' to Yarrow. As he gaed up the Tennies bank, I wot he gaed wi' sorrow, Till, down in a den, he spied nine arm'd men, On the dowie houms of Yarrow. "O come ye here to part your land, "The bonnie forest thorough? "Or come ye here to wield your brand, "On the dowie houms of Yarrow?" "I come not here to part my land, "And neither to beg nor borrow; "I come to wield my noble brand, "On the bonnie banks of Yarrow. "If I see all, ye're nine to ane; "And that's an unequal marrow; "Yet will I fight, while lasts my brand, "On the bonnie banks of Yarrow." Four has he hurt, and five has slain, On the bloody braes of Yarrow, Till that stubborn knight came him behind, And ran his bodie thorough. "Gae hame, gae hame, good-brother[A] John, "And tell your sister Sarah, "To come and lift her leafu' lord; "He's sleepin sound on Yarrow."---- "Yestreen I dream'd a dolefu' dream; "I fear there will be sorrow! "I dream'd, I pu'd the heather green, "Wi' my true love, on Yarrow. "O gentle wind, that bloweth south, "From where my love repaireth, "Convey a kiss from his dear mouth, "And tell me how he fareth! "But in the glen strive armed men; "They've wrought me dole and sorrow; "They've slain--the comeliest knight they've slain-- "He bleeding lies on Yarrow." As she sped down yon high high hill, She gaed wi' dole and sorrow, And in the den spyed ten slain men, On the dowie banks of Yarrow. She kissed his cheek, she kaim'd his hair, She search'd his wounds all thorough; She kiss'd them, till her lips grew red, On the dowie houms of Yarrow. "Now, haud your tongue, my daughter dear! "For a' this breeds but sorrow; "I'll wed ye to a better lord, "Than him ye lost on Yarrow." "O haud your tongue, my father dear! "Ye mind me but of sorrow; "A fairer rose did never bloom "Than now lies cropp'd on Yarrow." [Footnote A: _Good-brother_--Beau-frere, Brother-in-law.] THE GAY GOSS HAWK. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. _This Ballad is published, partly from one, under this title, in Mrs_ BROWN'S _Collection, and partly from a MS. of some antiquity,_ penes Edit.--_The stanzas appearing to possess mo st merit have been selected from each copy._ "O waly, waly, my gay goss hawk, "Gin your feathering be sheen!" "And waly, waly, my master dear, "Gin ye look pale and lean! "O have ye tint, at tournament, "Your sword, or yet your spear? "Or mourn ye for the southern lass, "Whom you may not win near?" "I have not tint, at tournament, "My sword, nor yet my spear; "But sair I mourn for my true love, "Wi' mony a bitter tear. "But weel's me on ye, my gay goss hawk, "Ye can baith speak and flee; "Ye sall carry a letter to my love, "Bring an answer back to me." "But how sall I your true love find, "Or how suld I her know? "I bear a tongue ne'er wi' her spake, "An eye that ne'er her saw." "O weel sall ye my true love ken, "Sae sune as ye her see; "For, of a' the flowers of fair England, "The fairest flower is she. "The red, that's on my true love's cheik, "Is like blood drops on the snaw; "The white, that is on her breast bare, "Like the down o' the white sea-maw. "And even at my love's bour door "There grows a flowering birk; "And ye maun sit and sing thereon "As she gangs to the kirk. "And four-and-twenty fair ladyes "Will to the mass repair; "But weel may ye my ladye ken, "The fairest ladye there." Lord William has written a love letter, Put it under his pinion gray; And he is awa' to Southern land As fast as wings can gae. And even at that ladye's bour There grew a flowering birk; And he sat down and sang thereon As she gaed to the kirk. And weel he kent that ladye fair Amang her maidens free; For the flower, that springs in May morning, Was not sae sweet as she. He lighted at the ladye's yate, And sat him on a pin; And sang fu' sweet the notes o' love, Till a' was cosh[A] within. And first he sang a low low note, And syne he sang a clear; And aye the o'erword o' the sang Was--"Your love can no win here." "Feast on, feast on, my maidens a': "The wine flows you amang: "While I gang to my shot-window, "And hear yon bonny bird's sang. "Sing on, sing on, my bonny bird, "The sang ye sung yestreen; "For weel I ken, by your sweet singing, "Ye are frae my true love sen'." O first he sang a merry sang, And syne he sang a grave; And syne he peck'd his feathers gray, To her the letter gave. "Have there a letter from Lord William; "He says he's sent ye three: "He canna wait your love langer, "But for your sake he'll die." "Gae bid him bake his bridal bread, "And brew his bridal ale; "And I sall meet him at Mary's kirk "Lang, lang ere it be stale." The ladye's gane to her chamber, And a moanfu' woman was she; As gin she had ta'en a sudden brash,[B] And were about to die. "A boon, a boon, my father deir, "A boon I beg of thee!" "Ask not that paughty Scottish lord, "For him you ne'er shall see. "But, for your honest asking else, "Wee! granted it shall be." "Then, gin I die in Southern land, "In Scotland gar bury me. "And the first kirk that ye come to, "Ye's gar the mass be sung; "And the next kirk that ye come to, "Ye's gar the bells be rung. "And, when ye come to St Mary's kirk, "Ye's tarry there till night." And so her father pledged his word, And so his promise plight. She has ta'en her to her bigly bour As fast as she could fare; And she has drank a sleepy draught, That she had mixed wi' care. And pale, pale grew her rosy cheek, That was sae bright of blee, And she seemed to be as surely dead As any one could be. Then spak her cruel step-minnie, "Take ye the burning lead, "And drap a drap on her bosome, "To try if she be dead." They took a drap o' boiling lead, They drap'd it on her breast; "Alas! alas!" her father cried, "She's dead without the priest." She neither chatter'd with her teeth, Nor shiver'd with her chin; "Alas! alas!" her father cried, "There is nae breath within." Then up arose her seven brethren, And hew'd to her a bier; They hew'd it frae the solid aik, Laid it o'er wi' silver clear. Then up and gat her seven sisters, And sewed to her a kell; And every steek that they pat in Sewed to a siller bell. The first Scots kirk that they cam to, They gar'd the bells be rung; The next Scots kirk that they cam to, They gar'd the mass be sung. But when they cam to St Mary's kirk, There stude spearmen, all on a raw; And up and started Lord William, The chieftane amang them a'. "Set down, set down the bier," he said; "Let me looke her upon:" But as soon as Lord William touched her hand, Her colour began to come. She brightened like the lily flower, Till her pale colour was gone; With rosy cheik, and ruby lip, She smiled her love upon. "A morsel of your bread, my lord, "And one glass of your wine: "For I hae fasted these three lang days, "All for your sake and mine. "Gae hame, gae hame, my seven bauld brothers! "Gae hame and blaw your horn! "I trow you wad hae gien me the skaith, "But I've gien you the scorn. "Commend me to my grey father, "That wish'd, my saul gude rest; "But wae be to my cruel step-dame, "Gar'd burn me on the breast." "Ah! woe to you, you light woman! "An ill death may you die! "For we left father and sisters at hame "Breaking their hearts for thee." [Footnote A: _Cosh_--Quiet.] [Footnote B: _Brash_--Sickness.] NOTES ON THE GAY GOSS HAWK. _The red, that's on my true love's cheik, Is like blood drops on the snaw._--P. 362. v, 5. This simile resembles a passage in a MS. translation of an Irish Fairy tale, called _The Adventures of Faravla, Princess of Scotland, and Carral O'Daly, Son of Donogho More O'Daly, Chief Bard of Ireland._ "Faravla, as she entered her bower, cast her looks upon the earth, which was tinged with the blood of a bird which a raven had newly killed; 'Like that snow,' said Faravla, 'was the complexion of my beloved, his cheeks like the sanguine traces thereon; whilst the raven recals to my memory the colour of his beautiful locks." There is also some resemblance, in the conduct of the story, betwixt the ballad and the tale just quoted. The Princess Faravla, being desperately in love with Carral O'Daly, dispatches in search of him a faithful confidant, who, by her magical art, transforms herself into a hawk, and, perching upon the windows of the bard, conveys to him information of the distress of the princess of Scotland. In the ancient romance of _Sir Tristrem_, the simile of the "blood drops upon snow" likewise occurs: A bride bright thai ches As blod open snoweing. BROWN ADAM. _There is a copy of this Ballad in Mrs_ BROWN'S _Collection. The Editor has seen one, printed on a single sheet. The epithet, "Smith," implies, probably, the sirname, not the profession, of the hero, who seems to have been an outlaw There is, however, in Mrs_ BROWN'S _copy, a verse of little merit here omitted, alluding to the implements of that occupation._ O wha wad wish the wind to blaw, Or the green leaves fa' therewith? Or wha wad, wish a lealer love Than Brown Adam the smith? But they hae banished him, Brown Adam, Frae father and frae mother; And they hae banished him, Brown Adam, Frae sister and frae brother. And they hae banished him, Brown Adam, The flower o' a' his kin; And he's bigged a hour in gude green-wood Atween his ladye and him. It fell upon a summer's day, Brown Adam he thought lang; And, for to hunt some venison, To green-wood he wald gang. He has ta'en his bow his arm o'er, His bolts and arrows lang; And he is to the gude green-wood As fast as he could gang. O he's shot up, and he's shot down, The bird upon the brier; And he's sent it hame to his ladye, Bade her be of gude cheir. O he's shot up, and he's shot down, The bird upon the thorn; And sent it hame to his ladye, Said he'd be hame the morn. When he cam to his ladye's bour door He stude a little forbye, And there he heard a fou fause knight Tempting his gay ladye. For he's ta'en out a gay goud ring, Had cost him mony a poun', "O grant me love for love, ladye, "And this shall be thy own." "I lo'e Brown Adam weel," she said; "I trew sae does he me: "I wadna gie Brown Adam's love "For nae fause knight I see." Out has he ta'en a purse o' gowd, Was a' fou to the string, "O grant me love for love, ladye, "And a' this shall be thine." "I lo'e Brown Adam weel," she says; "I wot sae does he me: "I wad na be your light leman "For mair than ye could gie." Then out he drew his lang bright brand, And flashed it in her een; "Now grant me love for love, ladye, "Or thro' ye this sall gang!" Then, sighing, says that ladye fair, "Brown Adam tarries lang!" Then in and starts him Brown Adam, Says--"I'm just at your hand." He's gar'd him leave his bonny bow, He's gar'd him leave his brand, He's gar'd him leave a dearer pledge-- Four fingers o' his right hand. JELLON GRAME. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. This ballad is published from tradition, with some conjectural emendations. It is corrected by a copy in Mrs Brown's MS., from which it differs in the concluding stanzas. Some verses are apparently modernized. _Jellon_ seems to be the same name with _Jyllian_ or _Julian_. "Jyl of Brentford's Testament" is mentioned in Warton's _History of Poetry,- Vol. II. p. 40. The name repeatedly occurs in old ballads, sometimes as that of a man, at other times as that of a woman. Of the former is an instance in the ballad of _"Knight and the Shepherd's Daughter,"--Reliques of Ancient Poetry,_ Vol. III. p. 72. Some do call me Jack, sweetheart. And some do call me _Jille_. Witton Gilbert, a village four miles west of Durham, is, throughout the bishopric, pronounced Witton Jilbert. We have also the common name of Giles, always in Scotland pronounced Jill. For Gille, or Julianna, as a female name, we have _Fair Gillian_ of Croyden, and a thousand authorities. Such being the case, the editor must enter his protest against the conversion of Gil Morrice, into child Maurice, an epithet of chivalry. All the circumstances in that ballad argue, that the unfortunate hero was an obscure and very young man, who had never received the honour of knighthood. At any rate, there can be no reason, even were internal evidence totally wanting, for altering a well known proper name, which, till of late years, has been the uniform title of the ballad. JELLON GRAME. O JELLON GRAME sat in Silverwood,[A] He sharped his broad sword lang; And he has call'd his little foot page An errand for to gang. "Win up, my bonny boy," he says, "As quickly as ye may; "For ye maun gang for Lillie Flower "Before the break of day." The boy has buckled his belt about, And thro' the green-wood ran; And he cam to the ladye's bower Before the day did dawn. "O sleep ye, wake ye, Lillie Flower? "The red sun's on the rain: "Ye're bidden come to Silverwood, "But I doubt ye'll never win hame." She hadna ridden a mile, a mile, A mile but barely three, Ere she cam to a new made grave, Beneath a green aik tree. O then up started Jellon Grame, Out of a bush thereby; "Light down, light down, now, Lillie Flower, "For its here that ye maun lye." She lighted aff her milk-white steed, And kneel'd upon her knee; "O mercy, mercy, Jellon Grame, "For I'm no prepared to die! "Your bairn, that stirs between my sides, "Maun shortly see the light; "But to see it weltering in my blood, "Would be a piteous sight." "O should I spare your life," he says, "Until that bairn were born, "Full weel I ken your auld father "Would hang me on the morn." "O spare my life, now, Jellon Grame! "My father ye need na dread: "I'll keep my babe in gude green-wood, "Or wi' it I'll beg my bread." He took no pity on Lillie Flower, Tho' she for life did pray; But pierced her thro' the fair body As at his feet she lay. He felt nae pity for Lillie Flower, Where she was lying dead; But he felt some for the bonny bairn, That lay weltering in her bluid. Up has he ta'en that bonny boy, Given him to nurses nine; Three to sleep, and three to wake, And three to go between. And he bred up that bonny boy, Called him his sister's son; And he thought no eye could ever see The deed that he had done. O so it fell, upon a day, When hunting they might be, They rested them in Silverwood, Beneath that green aik tree. And mony were the green-wood flowers Upon the grave that grew, And marvell'd much that bonny boy To see their lovely hue. "What's paler than the prymrose wan? "What's redder than the rose? "What's fairer than the lilye flower "On this wee know[B] that grows?" O out and answered Jellon Grame, And he spak hastelie-- "Your mother was a fairer flower, "And lies beneath this tree. "More pale she was, when she sought my grace, "Than prymrose pale and wan; "And redder than rose her ruddy heart's blood, "That down my broad sword ran." Wi' that the boy has bent his bow, It was baith stout and lang; And thro' and thro' him, Jellon Grame, He gar'd an arrow gang. Says--"Lie ye there, now, Jellon Grame! "My malisoun gang you wi'! "The place my mother lies buried in "Is far too good for thee." [Footnote A: Silverwood, mentioned in this ballad, occurs in a medley MS song, which seems to have been copied from the first edition of the Aberdeen caurus, _penes_ John G. Dalyell, esq. advocate. One line only is cited, apparently the beginning of some song: Silverwood, gin ye were mine.] [Footnote B: _Wee know_--Little hillock.] WILLIE'S LADYE. ANCIENT COPY. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. Mr Lewis, in his _Tales of Wonder_, has presented the public with a copy of this ballad, with additions and alterations. The editor has also seen a copy, containing some modern stanzas, intended by Mr Jamieson, of Macclesfield, for publication in his Collection of Scottish Poetry. Yet, under these disadvantages, the editor cannot relinquish his purpose of publishing the old ballad, in its native simplicity, as taken from Mrs Brown of Faulkland's MS. Those, who wish to know how an incantation, or charm, of the distressing nature here described, was performed in classic days, may consult the story of Galanthis's Metamorphosis, in Ovid, or the following passage in Apuleius: _"Eadem (Saga scilicet quaedam), amatoris uxorem, quod in sibi dicacule probrum dixerat, jam in sarcinam praegnationis, obsepto utero, et repigrato faetu, perpetua praegnatione damnavit. Et ut cuncti numerant, octo annorum onere, misella illa, velut elephantum paritura, distenditur."_--APUL. Metam. lib. 1. There is also a curious tale about a count of Westeravia, whom a deserted concubine bewitched upon his marriage, so as to preclude all hopes of his becoming a father. The spell continued to operate for three years, till one day, the count happening to meet with his former mistress, she maliciously asked him about the increase of his family. The count, conceiving some suspicion from her manner, craftily answered, that God had blessed him with three fine children; on which she exclaimed, like Willie's mother in the ballad, "May Heaven confound the old hag, by whose counsel I threw an enchanted pitcher into the draw-well of your palace!" The spell being found, and destroyed, the count became the father of a numerous family.--_Hierarchie of the Blessed Angels,_ p. 474. WILLIE'S LADYE. Willie's ta'en him o'er the faem,[A] He's wooed a wife, and brought her hame; He's wooed her for her yellow hair, But his mother wrought her meikle care; And meikle dolour gar'd her drie, For lighter she can never be; But in her bower she sits wi' pain, And Willie mourns o'er her in vain. And to his mother he has gane, That vile rank witch, o' vilest kind! He says--"My ladie has a cup, Wi' gowd and silver set about, This gudely gift sall be your ain, And let her be lighter o' her young bairn." "Of her young bairn she's never be lighter, "Nor in her bour to shine the brighter; "But she sall die, and turn to clay, "And you shall wed another may." "Another may I'll never wed, "Another may I'll never bring hame." But, sighing, said that weary wight-- "I wish my life were at an end!" "Yet gae ye to your mother again, "That vile rank witch, o' vilest kind! "And say, your ladye has a steed, "The like o' him's no in the land o' Leed.[B] "For he is silver shod before, "And he is gowden shod behind; "At every tuft of that horse mane, "There's a golden chess[C], and a bell to ring. "This gudely gift sall be her ain, "And let me be lighter o' my young bairn." "Of her young bairn she's ne'er be lighter, "Nor in her bour to shine the brighter; "But she sall die, and turn to clay, "And ye sall wed another may." "Another may I'll never wed, "Another may I'll never bring hame." But, sighing, said that weary wight-- "I wish my life were at an end!" "Yet gae ye to your mother again, "That vile rank witch, o' rankest kind! "And say, your ladye has a girdle, "It is a' red gowd to the middle; "And aye, at ilka siller hem "Hang fifty siller bells and ten; "This gudely gift sall be her ain, "And let me be lighter o' my young bairn." "Of her young bairn she's ne'er be lighter, "Nor in your bour to shine the brighter; "For she sall die, and turn to clay, "And thou sall wed another may." "Another may I'll never wed, "Another may I'll never bring hame." But, sighing, said that weary wight-- "I wish my days were at an end!" Then out and spak the Billy Blind,[D] (He spak ay in a gude time:) "Yet gae ye to the market-place, "And there do buy a loaf of wace;[E] "Do shape it bairn and bairnly like, "And in it twa glassen een you'll put; "And bid her your boy's christening to, "Then notice weel what she shall do; "And do ye stand a little away, "To notice weel what she may saye. * * * * * [_A stanza seems to be wanting. Willie is supposed to follow the advice of the spirit.--His mother speaks._] "O wha has loosed the nine witch knots, "That were amang that ladye's locks? "And wha's ta'en out the kaims o' care, "That were amang that ladye's hair? "And wha has ta'en downe that bush o' woodbine, "That hung between her bour and mine? "And wha has kill'd the master kid, "That ran beneath that ladye's bed? "And wha has loosed her left foot shee, "And let that ladye lighter be?" Syne, Willy's loosed the nine witch knots, That were amang that ladye's locks; And Willy's ta'en out the kaims o' care, That were into that ladye's hair; And he's ta'en down the bush o' woodbine, Hung atween her bour and the witch carline; And he has kill'd the master kid, That ran beneath that ladye's bed; And he has loosed her left foot shee, And latten that ladye lighter be; And now he has gotten a bonny son, And meikle grace be him upon. [Footnote A: _Faem_--The sea foam.] [Footnote B: _Land o' Leed_--Perhaps Lydia.] [Footnote C: _Chess_--Should probably be _jess_, the name of a hawk's bell.] [Footnote D: _Billy-Blind_--A familiar genius, or propitious spirit, somewhat similar to the _Brownie_. He is mentioned repeatedly in Mrs Brown's Ballads, but I have not met with him any where else, although he is alluded to in the rustic game of _Bogle_ (i.e. _goblin) Billy-Blind_. The word is, indeed, used in Sir David Lindsay's plays, but apparently in a different sense-- "Preists sall leid you like ane _Billy Blinde_." PINKERTON'S _Scottish Poems_, 1792, Vol. II. p. 232.] [Footnote E: _Wace_--Wax.] CLERK SAUNDERS. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. This romantic ballad is taken from Mr Herd's MSS., with several corrections from a shorter and more imperfect copy, in the same volume, and one or two conjectural emendations in the arrangement of the stanzas. The resemblance of the conclusion to the ballad, beginning, "There came a ghost to Margaret's door," will strike every reader.--The tale is uncommonly wild and beautiful, and apparently very ancient. The custom of the passing bell is still kept up in many villages of Scotland. The sexton goes through the town, ringing a small bell, and announcing the death of the departed, and the time of the funeral.--The three concluding verses have been recovered since the first edition of this work; and I am informed by the reciter, that it was usual to separate from the rest, that part of the ballad which follows the death of the lovers, as belonging to another story. For this, however, there seems no necessity, as other authorities give the whole as a complete tale. CLERK SAUNDERS. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. Clerk Saunders and may Margaret Walked ower yon garden green; And sad and heavy was the love That fell thir twa between. "A bed, a bed," Clerk Saunders said, "A bed for you and me!" "Fye na, fye na," said may Margaret, "Till anes we married be. "For in may come my seven bauld brothers, "Wi' torches burning bright; "They'll say--'We hae but ae sister, "And behold she's wi' a knight!' "Then take the sword frae my scabbard, "And slowly lift the pin; "And you may swear, and safe your aith, "Ye never let Clerk Saunders in. "And take a napkin in your hand, "And tie up baith your bonny een; "And you may swear, and safe your aith, "Ye saw me na since late yestreen." It was about the midnight hour, When they asleep were laid, When in and came her seven brothers, Wi' torches burning red. When in and came her seven brothers, Wi' torches shining bright; They said, "We hae but ae sister, "And behold her lying with a knight!" Then out and spake the first o' them, "I bear the sword shall gar him die!" And out and spake the second o' them, "His father has nae mair than he!" And out and spake the third o' them, "I wot that they are lovers dear!" And out and spake the fourth o' them, "They hae been in love this mony a year!" Then out and spake the fifth o' them, "It were great sin true love to twain!" And out and spake the sixth o' them, "It were shame to slay a sleeping man!" Then up and gat the seventh o' them, And never a word spake he; But he has striped[A] his bright brown brand Out through Clerk Saunders' fair bodye. Clerk Saunders he started, and Margaret she turned Into his arms as asleep she lay; And sad and silent was the night That was atween thir twae. And they lay still and sleeped sound, Until the day began to daw; And kindly to him she did say, "It is time, true love, you were awa'." But he lay still, and sleeped sound, Albeit the sun began to sheen; She looked atween her and the wa', And dull and drowsie were his een. Then in and came her father dear, Said--"Let a' your mourning be: "I'll carry the dead corpse to the clay, "And I'll come back and comfort thee." "Comfort weel your seven sons; "For comforted will I never be: "I ween 'twas neither knave nor lown "Was in the bower last night wi' me." The clinking bell gaed through the town, To carry the dead corse to the clay; And Clerk Saunders stood at may Margaret's window, I wot, an hour before the day. "Are ye sleeping, Margaret?" he says, "Or are ye waking presentlie? "Give me my faith and troth again, "I wot, true love, I gied to thee." "Your faith and troth ye sall never get, "Nor our true love sall never twin, "Until ye come within my bower, "And kiss me cheik and chin." "My mouth it is full cold, Margaret, "It has the smell, now, of the ground; "And if I kiss thy comely mouth, "Thy days of life will not be lang. "O, cocks are crowing a merry midnight, "I wot the wild fowls are boding day; "Give me my faith and troth again, "And let me fare me on my way." "Thy faith and troth thou sall na get, "And our true love sall never twin, "Until ye tell what comes of women, "I wot, who die in strong traivelling?"[B] "Their beds are made in the heavens high, "Down at the foot of our good lord's knee, "Weel set about wi' gillyflowers: "I wot sweet company for to see. "O cocks are crowing a merry mid-night, "I wot the wild fowl are boding day; "The psalms of heaven will soon be sung, "And I, ere now, will be missed away." Then she has ta'en a crystal wand, And she has stroken her troth thereon; She has given it him out at the shot-window, Wi' mony a sad sigh, and heavy groan. "I thank ye, Marg'ret; I thank ye, Marg'ret; "And aye I thank ye heartilie; "Gin ever the dead come for the quick, "Be sure, Marg'ret, I'll come for thee." Its hosen and shoon, and gown alone, She climbed the wall, and followed him, Until she came to the green forest, And there she lost the sight o' him. "Is there ony room at your head, Saunders? "Is there ony room at your feet? "Or ony room at your side, Saunders, "Where fain, fain, I wad sleep?" "There's nae room at my head, Marg'ret, "There's nae room at my feet; "My bed it is full lowly now: "Amang the hungry worms I sleep. "Cauld mould is my covering now, "But and my winding-sheet; "The dew it falls nae sooner down, "Than my resting-place is weet. "But plait a wand o' bonnie birk, "And lay it on my breast; "And shed a tear upon my grave, "And wish my saul gude rest. "And fair Marg'ret, and rare Marg'ret, "And Marg'ret o' veritie, "Gin ere ye love another man, "Ne'er love him as ye did me." Then up and crew the milk-white cock, And up and crew the gray; Her lover vanish'd in the air, And she gaed weeping away. [Footnote A: _Striped_--Thrust.] [Footnote B: _Traivelling_--Child-birth.] NOTES ON CLERK SAUNDERS. _Weel set about wi' gillyflowers._--P. 394. v. 5. From whatever source the popular ideas of heaven be derived, the mention of gillyflowers is not uncommon. Thus, in the Dead Men's Song-- The fields about this city faire Were all with roses set; _Gillyflowers_, and carnations faire, Which canker could not fret. RITSON'S _Ancient Songs_, p. 288. The description, given in the legend of _Sir Owain_, of the terrestrial paradise, at which the blessed arrive, after passing through purgatory, omits gillyflowers, though it mentions many others. As the passage is curious, and the legend has never been published, many persons may not be displeased to see it extracted-- Fair were her erbers with flowres, Rose and lili divers colours, Primrol and parvink; Mint, feverfoy, and eglenterre Colombin, and mo ther wer Than ani man mai bithenke. It berth erbes of other maner, Than ani in erth groweth here, Tho that is lest of priis; Evermore thai grene springeth, For winter no somer it no clingeth, And sweeter than licorice. _But plait a wand o' bonnie birk_, &c.--P. 396. v. 3. The custom of binding the new-laid sod of the church-yard with osiers, or other saplings, prevailed both in England and Scotland, and served to protect the turf from injury by cattle, or otherwise. It is alluded to by Gay, in the _What d'ye call it_-- Stay, let me pledge, 'tis my last earthly liquor, When I am dead you'll bind my grave with _wicker_. In the _Shepherd's Week_, the same custom is alluded to, and the cause explained:-- With _wicker rods_ we fenced her tomb around, To ward, from man and beast, the hallowed ground, Lest her new grave the parson's cattle raze, For both his horse and cow the church-yard graze. _Fifth Pastoral._ EARL RICHARD. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. _There are two Ballads in Mr_ HERD'S _MSS. upon the following Story, in one of which the unfortunate Knight is termed_ YOUNG HUNTIN. _A Fragment, containing from the sixth to the tenth verse, has been repeatedly published. The best verses are here selected from both copies, and some trivial alterations have been adopted from tradition._ "O lady, rock never your young son young, "One hour langer for me; "For I have a sweetheart in Garlioch Wells, "I love far better than thee. "The very sole o' that ladye's foot "Than thy face is far mair white."-- "But, nevertheless, now, Erl Richard, "Ye will bide in ray bower a' night?" She birled[A] him with the ale and wine, As they sat down to sup; A living man he laid him down, But I wot he ne'er rose up. Then up and spak the popinjay, That flew aboun her head; "Lady! keep weel your green cleiding "Frae gude Erl Richard's bleid." "O better I'll keep my green cleiding "Frae gude Erl Richard's bleid, "Than thou canst keep thy clattering toung, "That trattles in thy head." She has call'd upon her bower maidens, She has call'd them ane by ane; "There lies a deid man in my bour: "I wish that he were gane!" They hae booted him, and spurred him, As he was wont to ride;-- A hunting-horn tied round his waist, A sharp sword by his side; And they hae had him to the wan water, For a' men call it Clyde. Then up and spak the popinjay, That sat upon the tree-- "What hae ye done wi' Erl Richard? "Ye were his gay ladye." "Come down, come down, my bonny bird, "And sit upon my hand; "And thou sall hae a cage o' gowd, "Where thou hast but the wand." "Awa! awa! ye ill woman: "Nae cage o' gowd for me; "As ye hae dune to Erl Richard, "Sae wad ye do to me." She hadna cross'd a rigg o' land, A rigg, but barely ane; When she met wi' his auld father, Came riding all alane. "Where hae ye been, now, ladye fair, "Where hae ye been sae late?" "We hae been seeking Erl Richard, "But him we canna get." "Erl Richard kens a' the fords in Clyde, "He'll ride them ane by ane, "And though the night was ne'er sae mirk, "Erl Richard will he hame." O it fell anes, upon a day, The king was boun' to ride; And he has mist him, Erl Richard, Should hae ridden on his right side. The ladye turn'd her round about, Wi' meikle mournfu' din-- "It fears me sair o' Clyde water, "That he is drown'd therein." "Gar douk, gar douk,"[B] the king he cried, "Gar douk for gold and fee; "O wha will douk for Erl Richard's sake, "Or wha will douk for me?" They douked in at ae weil-head,[C] And out ay at the other; "We can douk nae mair for Erl Richard, "Although he were our brother." It fell that, in that ladye's castle, The king was boun' to bed; And up and spake the popinjay, That flew abune his head. "Leave off your douking on the day, "And douk upon the night; "And where that sackless[D] knight lies slain, "The candles will burn bright." "O there's a bird within this bower, "That sings baith sad and sweet; "O there's a bird within your bower, "Keeps me frae my night's sleep." They left the douking on the day, And douked upon the night; And, where that sackless knight lay slain, The candles burned bright. The deepest pot in a' the linn, They fand Erl Richard in; A grene turf tyed across his breast, To keep that gude lord down. Then up and spake the king himsell, When he saw the deadly wound-- "O wha has slain my right-hand man, "That held my hawk and hound?" Then up and spake the popinjay, Says--"What needs a' this din? "It was his light lemman took his life, "And hided him in the linn." She swore her by the grass, sae grene, Sae did she by the corn, She had na' seen him, Erl Richard, Since Moninday at morn. "Put na the wite on me," she said; "It was my may Catherine." Then they hae cut baith fern and thorn, To burn that maiden in. It wadna take upon her cheik, Nor yet upon her chin; Nor yet upon her yellow hair, To cleanse the deadly sin. The maiden touched the clay-cauld corpse, A drap it never bled; The ladye laid her hand on him, And soon the 'ground was red. Out they hae ta'en her, may Catherine, And put her mistress in: The flame tuik fast upon her cheik, Tuik fast upon her chin, Tuik fast upon her faire bodye-- She burn'd like hollins green.[E] [Footnote A: _Birled_--Plied.] [Footnote B: _Douk_--Dive.] [Footnote C: _Weil-heid_--Eddy.] [Footnote D: _Sackless_--Guiltless.] [Footnote E: _Hollins green_--Green holly.] NOTES ON EARL RICHARD. _The candles burned bright._--P. 403. v. 4. These are unquestionably the corpse lights, called in Wales _Canhwyllan Cyrph_, which are sometimes seen to illuminate the spot where a dead body is concealed. The editor is informed, that, some years ago, the corpse of a man, drowned in the Ettrick, below Selkirk, was discovered by means of these candles. Such lights are common in church-yards, and are probably of a phosphoric nature. But rustic superstition derives them from supernatural agency, and supposes, that, as soon as life has departed, a pale flame appears at the window of the house, in which the person had died, and glides towards the church-yard, tracing through every winding the route of the future funeral, and pausing where the bier is to rest. This and other opinions, relating to the "tomb-fires' livid gleam," seem to be of Runic extraction. _The deepest pot in a' the linn._--P. 403. v. 5. The deep holes, scooped in the rock by the eddies of a river, are called _pots;_ the motion of the water having there some resemblance to a boiling cauldron. _Linn_, means the pool beneath a cataract. _The maiden touched the clay-cauld corpse, A drop it never bled._--P. 405. v. I. This verse, which is restored from tradition, refers to a superstition formerly received in most parts of Europe, and even resorted to, by judicial authority, for the discovery of murder. In Germany, this experiment was called _bahr-recht_, or the law of the bier; because, the murdered body being stretched upon a bier, the suspected person was obliged to put one hand upon the wound, and the other upon the mouth of the deceased, and, in that posture, call upon heaven to attest his innocence. If, during this ceremony, the blood gushed from the mouth, nose, or wound, a circumstance not unlikely to happen in the course of shifting or stirring the body, it was held sufficient evidence of the guilt of the party. The same singular kind of evidence, although reprobated by Mathaeus and Carpzovius, was admitted in the Scottish criminal courts, at the short distance of one century. My readers may be amused by the following instances: "The laird of Auchindrane (Muir of Auchindrane, in Ayrshire) was accused of a horrid and private murder, where there were no witnesses, and which the Lord had witnessed from heaven, singularly by his own hand, and proved the deed against him. The corpse of the man being buried in Girvan church-yard, as a man cast away at sea, and cast out there, the laird of Colzean, whose servant he had been, dreaming of him in his sleep, and that he had a particular mark upon his body, came and took up the body, and found it to be the same person; and caused all that lived near by come and touch the corpse, as is usual in such cases. All round the place came but Auchindrane and his son, whom nobody suspected, till a young child of his, Mary Muir, seeing the people examined, came in among them; and, when she came near the dead body, it sprang out in bleeding; upon which they were apprehended, and put to the torture."--WODROW'S _History_, Vol. I. p. 513. The trial of Auchindrane happened in 1611. He was convicted and executed.--HUME'S _Criminal Law_, Vol. I. p. 428. A yet more dreadful case was that of Philip Standfield, tried upon the 30th November, 1687, for cursing his father (which, by the Scottish law, is a capital crime, _Act 1661, Chap_. 20), and for being accessory to his murder. Sir James Standfield, the deceased, was a person of melancholy temperament; so that, when his body was found in a pond near his own house of Newmilns, he was at first generally supposed to have drowned himself. But, the body having been hastily buried, a report arose that he had been strangled by ruffians, instigated by his son Philip, a profligate youth, whom be had disinherited on account of his gross debauchery. Upon this rumour, the Privy Council granted warrant to two surgeons of character, named Crawford and Muirhead, to dig up the body, and to report the state in which they should find it. Philip was present on this occasion, and the evidence of both surgeons bears distinctly, that he stood for some time at a distance from the body of his parent; but, being called upon to assist in stretching out the corpse, he put his hand to the head, when the mouth and nostrils instantly gushed with blood. This circumstance, with the evident symptoms of terror and remorse, exhibited by young Standfield, seem to have had considerable weight with the jury, and are thus stated in the indictment: "That his (the deceased's) nearest relations being required to lift the corpse into the coffin, after it had been inspected, upon the said Philip Standfield touching of it (_according to God's usual mode of discovering murder_), it bled afresh upon the said Philip; and that thereupon he let the body fall, and fled from it in the greatest consternation, crying, Lord have mercy upon me!" The prisoner was found guilty of being accessory to the murder of his father, although there was little more than strong presumptions against him. It is true, he was at the same time separately convicted of the distinct crimes of having cursed his father, and drank damnation to the monarchy and hierarchy. His sentence, which was to have his tongue cut out, and hand struck off, previous to his being hanged, was executed with the utmost rigour. He denied the murder with his last breath. "It is," says a contemporary judge, "a dark case of divination, to be remitted to the great day, whether he was guilty or innocent. Only it is certain he was a bad youth, and may serve as a beacon to all profligate persons."--FOUNTAINHALL'S _Decisions_, Vol. I. p. 483. While all ranks believed alike the existence of these prodigies, the vulgar were contented to refer them to the immediate interference of the Deity, or, as they termed it, God's revenge against murder. But those, who, while they had overleaped the bounds of superstition, were still entangled in the mazes of mystic philosophy, amongst whom we must reckon many of the medical practitioners, endeavoured to explain the phenomenon, by referring to the secret power of sympathy, which even Bacon did not venture to dispute. To this occult agency was imputed the cure of wounds, effected by applying salves and powders, not to the wound itself, but to the sword or dagger, by which it had been inflicted; a course of treatment, which, wonderful as it may at first seem, was certainly frequently attended with signal success.[A] This, however, was attributed to magic, and those, who submitted to such a mode of cure, were refused spiritual assistance. [Footnote A: The first part of the process was to wash the wound clean, and bind it up so as to promote adhesion, and exclude the air. Now, though the remedies, afterwards applied to the sword, could hardly promote so desirable an issue, yet it is evident the wound stood a good chance of healing by the operation of nature, which, I believe, medical gentlemen call a cure by the first intention.] The vulgar continue to believe firmly in the phenomenon of the murdered corpse bleeding at the approach of the murderer. "Many (I adopt the words of an ingenious correspondent) are the proofs advanced in confirmation of the opinion, against those who are so hardy as to doubt it; but one, in particular, as it is said to have happened in this place, I cannot help repeating. "Two young men, going a fishing in the river Yarrow, fell out; and so high ran the quarrel, that the one, in a passion, stabbed the other to the heart with a fish spear. Astonished "at the rash act, he hesitated whether to fly, give himself up to justice, or conceal the crime; and, in the end, fixed on the latter expedient, burying the body of his friend very deep in the sands. As the meeting had been accidental, he was never from gaiety to a settled melancholy. Time passed on for the space of fifty years, when a smith, fishing near the same place, discovered an uncommon and curious bone, which he put in his pocket, and afterwards showed to some people in his smithy. The murderer being present, now an old white-headed man, leaning on his staff, desired a sight of the little bone; but how horrible was the issue! no sooner had he touched it, than it streamed with purple blood. Being told where it was found, he confessed the crime, was condemned, but was prevented, by death, from suffering the punishment due to his crime. "Such opinions, though reason forbids us to believe them, a few moments reflection on the cause of their origin will teach us to revere. Under the feudal system which prevailed, the rights of humanity were too often violated, and redress very hard to be procured; thus an awful deference to one of the leading attributes of Omnipotence begat on the mind, untutored by philosophy, the first germ of these supernatural effects; which was, by superstitious zeal, assisted, perhaps, by a few instances of sudden remorse, magnified into evidence of indisputable guilt." THE LASS OF LOCHROYAN. NOW FIRST PUBLISHED IN A PERFECT STATE. Lochroyan, whence this ballad probably derives its name, lies in Galloway. The lover, who, if the story be real, may be supposed to have been detained by sickness, is represented, in the legend, as confined by Fairy charms in an enchanted castle situated in the sea. The ruins of ancient edifices are still visible on the summits of most of those small islands, or rather insulated rocks, which lie along the coast of Ayrshire and Galloway; as Ailsa and Big Scaur. This edition of the ballad obtained is composed of verses selected from three MS. copies, and two from recitation. Two of the copies are in Herd's MSS.; the third in that of Mrs Brown of Falkland. A fragment of the original song, which is sometimes denominated _Lord Gregory_, or _Love Gregory_, was published in Mr Herd's Collection, 1774, and, still more fully, in that of Laurie and Symington, 1792. The story has been celebrated both by Burns and Dr Wolcott. THE LASS OF LOCHROYAN. "O wha will shoe my bonny foot? "And wha will glove my hand? "And wha will lace my middle jimp "W' a lang lang linen band? "O wha will kame my yellow hair "With a new made silver kame? "And wha will father my young son "Till Lord Gregory come hame?" "Thy father will shoe thy bonny foot, "Thy mother will glove thy hand, "Thy sister will lace thy middle jimp, "Till Lord Gregory come to land. "Thy brother will kame thy yellow hair "With a new made silver kame, "And God will be thy bairn's father "Till Lord Gregory come hame." "But I will get a bonny boat, "And I will sail the sea; "And I will gang to Lord Gregory, "Since he canna come hame to me." Syne she's gar'd build a bonny boat, To sail the salt salt sea: The sails were o' the light-green silk, The tows[A] o' taffety. She hadna sailed but twenty leagues, But twenty leagues and three, When she met wi' a rank robber, And a' his company. "Now whether are ye the queen hersell, "(For so ye weel might be) "Or are ye the lass of Lochroyan, "Seekin' Lord Gregory?" "O I am neither the queen," she said, "Nor sic I seem to be; "But I am the lass of Lochroyan, "Seekin' Lord Gregory." "O see na thou yon bonny bower? "Its a' covered o'er wi' tiu: "When thou hast sailed it round about, "Lord Gregory is within." And when she saw the stately tower Shining sae clear and bright, Whilk stood aboon the jawing[B] wave, Built on a rock of height; Says--"Row the boat, my mariners, "And bring me to the land! "For yonder I see my love's castle "Close by the salt sea strand." She sailed it round, and sailed it round, And loud, loud, cried she-- "Now break, now break, ye Fairy charms, "And set my true love free!" She's ta'en her young son in her arms, And to the door she's gane; And long she knocked, and sair she ca'd, But answer got she nane. "O open the door, Lord Gregory! "O open, and let me in! "For the wind blaws through my yellow hair, "And the rain drops o'er my chin." "Awa, awa, ye ill woman! "Ye're no come here for good! "Ye're but some witch, or wil warlock, "Or mermaid o' the flood." "I am neither witch, nor wil warlock, "Nor mermaid o' the sea; "But I am Annie of Lochroyan; "O open the door to me!" "Gin thou be Annie of Lochroyan, "(As I trow thou binna she) "Now tell me some o' the love tokens "That past between thee and me." "O dinna ye mind, Lord Gregory, "As we sat at the wine, "We chang'd the rings frae our fingers, "And I can shew thee thine? "O your's was gude, and gude enough, "But ay the best was mine; "For your's was o' the gude red gowd, "But mine o' the diamond fine. "And has na thou mind, Lord Gregory, "As we sat on the hill, "Thou twin'd me o' my maidenheid "Right sair against my will? "Now, open the door, Lord Gregory! "Open the door, I pray! "For thy young son is in my arms, "And will be dead ere day." "If thou be the lass of Lochroyan, "(As I kenna thou be) "Tell me some mair o' the love tokens "Past between me and thee." Fair Annie turned her round about-- "Weel! since that it be sae, "May never woman, that has borne a son, "Hae a heart sae fu' o' wae! "Take down, take down, that mast o' gowd! "Set up a mast o' tree! "It disna become a forsaken lady. "To sail sae royallie." When the cock had crawn, and the day did dawn. And the sun began to peep, Then up and raise him, Lord Gregory, And sair, sair did he weep. "O I hae dreamed a dream, mother, "I wish it may prove true! "That the bonny lass of Lochroyan "Was at the yate e'en now. "O I hae dreamed a dream, mother, "The thought o't gars me greet! "That fair Annie o' Lochroyan "Lay cauld dead at my feet." "Gin it be for Annie of Lochroyan "That ye make a' this din, "She stood a' last night at your door, "But I trow she wanna in." "O wae betide ye, ill woman! "An ill deid may ye die! "That wadna open the door to her, "Nor yet wad waken me." O he's gane down to yon shore side As fast as he could fare; He saw fair Annie in the boat, But the wind it tossed her sair. "And hey Annie, and how Annie! "O Annie, winna ye bide!" But ay the mair he cried Annie, The braider grew the tide. "And hey Annie, and how Annie! "Dear Annie, speak to me!" But ay the louder he cried Annie, The louder roared the sea. The wind blew loud, the sea grew rough, And dashed the boat on shore; Fair Annie floated through the faem, But the babie raise no more. Lord Gregory tore his yellow hair, And made a heavy moan; Fair Annie's corpse lay at his feet, Her bonny young son was gone. O cherry, cherry was her cheek, And gowden was her hair; But clay-cold were her rosy lips-- Nae spark o' life was there. And first he kissed her cherry cheek, And syne he kissed her chin, And syne he kissed her rosy lips-- There was nae breath within. "O wae betide my cruel mother! "An ill death may she die! "She turned my true love frae my door, "Wha came sae far to me. "O wae betide my cruel mother! "An ill death may she die! "She turned fair Annie frae my door, "Wha died for love o' me." [Footnote A: _Tows_--Ropes.] [Footnote B: _Jawing_--Dashing.] ROSE THE RED AND WHITE LILLY. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. _This legendary Tale is given chiefly from Mrs_ BROWN'S _MS. Accordingly, many of the rhymes arise from the Northern mode of pronunciation; as_ dee _for_ do, _and the like.--Perhaps the Ballad may have originally related to the history of the celebrated_ ROBIN HOOD; _as mention is made of Barnisdale, his favourite abode._ O Rose the Red, and White Lilly, Their mother deir was dead: And their father has married an ill woman, Wished them twa little guid. But she had twa as gallant sons As ever brake man's bread; And the tane o' them lo'ed her, White Lilly, And the tother Rose the Red. O bigged hae they a bigly bour, Fast by the roaring strand; And there was mair mirth in the ladyes' bour, Nor in a' their father's land. But out and spake their step-mother, As she stood a little forebye-- "I hope to live and play the prank, "Sall gar your loud sang lie." She's call'd upon her eldest son; "Cum here, my son, to me: "It fears me sair, my bauld Arthur, "That ye maun sail the sea." "Gin sae it maun be, my deir mother, "Your bidding I maun dee; "But, be never waur to Rose the Red, "Than ye hae been to me." She's called upon her youngest son; "Cum here, my son, to me: "It fears me sair, my Brown Robin, "That ye maun sail the sea." "Gin it fear ye sair, my mother deir, "Your bidding I sall dee; But, be never waur to White Lilly, "Than ye hae been to me." "Now hand your tongues, ye foolish boys! "For small sall be their part: "They ne'er again sall see your face, "Gin their very hearts suld break." Sae Bauld Arthur's gane to our king's court, His hie chamberlain to be; But Brown Robin, he has slain a knight, And to grene-wood he did flee. When Rose the Red, and White Lilly, Saw their twa loves were gane, Sune did they drop the loud loud sang, Took up the still mourning. And out then spake her White Lilly; "My sister, we'll be gane: "Why suld we stay in Barnisdale, "To mourn our hour within?" O cutted hae they their green cloathing, A little abune their knee; And sae hae they their yellow hair, A little abune their bree. And left hae they that bonny hour, To cross the raging sea; And they hae ta'en to a holy chapel, Was christened by Our Ladye. And they hae changed their twa names, Sae far frae ony toun; And the tane o' them's hight Sweet Willie, And the tother's Rouge the Rounde. Between the twa a promise is, And they hae sworn it to fulfill; Whenever the tane blew a bugle-horn, The tother suld cum her till. Sweet Willy's gane to the king's court, Her true love for to see; And Rouge the Rounde to gude grene-wood, Brown Robin's man to be. O it fell anes, upon a time, They putted at the stane; And seven foot ayont them a', Brown Robin's gar'd it gang. She lifted the heavy putting-stane, And gave a sad "O hon!" Then out bespake him, Brown Robin, "But that's a woman's moan!" "O kent ye by my rosy lips? "Or by my yellow hair? "Or kent ye by my milk-white breast, "Ye never yet saw bare?" "I kent na by your rosy lips, "Nor by your yellow hair; "But, cum to your bour whaever likes, "They'll find a ladye there." "O gin ye come my bour within, "Through fraud, deceit, or guile, "Wi' this same brand, that's in my hand, "I vow I will thee kill." "Yet durst I cum into your bour, "And ask nae leave," quo' he; "And wi' this same brand, that's in my hand, "Wave danger back on thee." About the dead hour o' the night, The ladye's bour was broken; And, about the first hour o' the day, The fair knave bairn was gotten. When days were gane, and months were come, The ladye was sad and wan; And aye she cried for a bour woman, For to wait her upon. Then up and spake him, Brown Robin, "And what needs this?" quo' he; "Or what can woman do for you, "That canna be done by me?" "'Twas never my mother's fashion," she said, "Nor shall it e'er be mine, "That belted knights should e'er remain "While ladyes dree'd their pain. "But, gin ye take that bugle-horn, "And wind a blast sae shrill, "I hae a brother in yonder court, "Will cum me quickly till." "O gin ye hae a brother on earth, "That ye lo'e mair than me, "Ye may blaw the horn yoursell," he says, "For a blast I winna gie." She's ta'en the bugle in her hand, And blawn baith loud and shrill; Sweet William started at the sound, And cam her quickly till. O up and starts him, Brown Robin, And swore by Our Ladye, "No man shall cum into this hour, "But first maun fight wi' me." O they hae fought the wood within, Till the sun was going down; And drops o' blood, frae Rose the Red, Came pouring to the ground. She leant her back against an aik, Said--"Robin, let me be: "For it is a ladye, bred and born, "That has fought this day wi' thee." O seven foot he started back. Cried--"Alas and woe is me! "For I wished never, in all my life, "A woman's bluid to see: "And that all for the knightly vow "I swore to Our Ladye; "But mair for the sake o' ae fair maid, "Whose name was White Lilly." Then out and spake her, Rouge the Rounde, And leugh right heartilie, "She has been wi' you this year and mair, "Though ye wistna it was she." Now word has gane through all the land, Before a month was gane, That a forester's page, in gude grene-wood, Had borne a bonny son. The marvel gaed to the king's court, And to the king himsell; "Now, by my fay," the king did say, "The like was never heard tell!" Then out and spake him, Bauld Arthur, And laugh'd right loud and hie-- "I trow some may has plaid the lown,[A] "And fled her ain countrie." "Bring me my steid!" the king can say; "My bow and arrows keen; "And I'll gae hunt in yonder wood, "And see what's to be seen." "Gin it please your grace," quo' Bauld Arthur, "My liege, I'll gang you wi'; "And see gin I can meet a bonny page, "That's stray'd awa frae me." And they hae chaced in gude grene-wood, The buck but and the rae, Till they drew near Brown Robin's hour, About the close o' day. Then out and spake the king himsell, Says--"Arthur, look and see, "Gin you be not your favourite page, "That leans against yon tree." O Arthur's ta'en a bugle-horn, And blawn a blast sae shrill; Sweet Willie started to her feet, And ran him quickly till. "O wanted ye your meat, Willie, "Or wanted ye your fee? "Or gat ye e'er an angry word, "That ye ran awa frae me?" "I wanted nought, my master dear; "To me ye aye was good: "I cam to see my ae brother, "That wons in this grene-wood." Then out bespake the king again,-- "My boy, now tell to me, "Who dwells into yon bigly bour, "Beneath yon green aik tree?" "O pardon me," said Sweet Willy; "My liege I dare na tell; "And gang na near yon outlaw's bour, "For fear they suld you kill." "O hand your tongue, my bonny boy! "For I winna be said nay; "But I will gang yon hour within, "Betide me weal or wae." They have lighted frae their milk-white steids, And saftly entered in; And there they saw her, White Lilly, Nursing her bonny young son. "Now, by the mass," the king he said, "This is a comely sight; "I trow, instead of a forester's man, "This is a ladye bright!" O out and spake her, Rose the Red, And fell low on her knee:-- "O pardon us, my gracious liege, "And our story I'll tell thee. "Our father is a wealthy lord, "Lives into Barnisdale; "But we had a wicked step-mother, "That wrought us meikle bale. "Yet had she twa as fu' fair sons, "As e'er the sun did see; "And the tane o' them lo'ed my sister deir, "And the tother said he lo'ed me." Then out and cried him, Bauld Arthur, As by the king he stood,-- "Now, by the faith of my body, "This suld be Rose the Red! The king has sent for robes o' grene, And girdles o' shining gold; And sae sune have the ladyes busked themselves, Sae glorious to behold. Then in and came him, Brown Robin, Frae hunting o' the king's deer, But when he saw the king himsell, He started back for fear. The king has ta'en Robin by the hand, And bade him nothing dread, But quit for aye the gude grene wood, And cum to the court wi' speed. The king has ta'en White Lilly's son, And set him on his knee; Says--"Gin ye live to wield a brand, "My bowman thou sall be." They have ta'en them to the holy chapelle, And there had fair wedding; And when they cam to the king's court, For joy the bells did ring. [Footnote A: _Lown_--Rogue.] END OF THE SECOND VOLUME. 
26962	----	Wilson's Tales of the Borders AND OF SCOTLAND. HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE, WITH A GLOSSARY. REVISED BY ALEXANDER LEIGHTON, _One of the Original Editors and Contributors_. VOL. XVII. LONDON WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE, AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE. 1884. CONTENTS. Page ROGER GOLDIE'S NARRATIVE, (_John Mackay Wilson_), 1 HOGMANAY; OR, THE LADY OF BALOOCHGRAY, (_Alexander Leighton_), 33 GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT, (_Professor Thomas Gillespie_)-- X. SERGEANT WILSON, 65 XI. HELEN PALMER, 72 XII. THE CAIRNY CAVE OF GAVIN MUIR, 80 XIII. PORTER'S HOLE, 92 THE RECLUSE, (_Alexander Campbell_), 95 A HIGHLAND TRADITION, (_Alexander Campbell_), 125 THE SURGEON'S TALES, (_Alexander Leighton_)-- THE BEREAVED, 129 THE CONDEMNED, 145 THE UNBIDDEN GUEST, (_John Mackay Wilson_), 161 THE SIMPLE MAN IS THE BEGGAR'S BROTHER, (_John M. Wilson_), 170 TALES OF THE EAST NEUK OF FIFE, (_Matthew Forster Conolly_)-- THE ROBBERY AT PITTENWEEM AND THE PORTEOUS MOB, 194 STORY OF CHARLES GORDON AND CHRISTINA CUNNINGHAM, 220 A LEGEND OF CALDER MOOR, (_John Howell_), 237 HUME AND THE GOVERNOR OF BERWICK, (_Alexander Leighton_), 269 WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND. ROGER GOLDIE'S NARRATIVE. A TALE OF THE FALSE ALARM. Ye have heard of the false alarm, (said Roger Goldie,) which, for the space of wellnigh four and twenty hours, filled the counties upon the Border with exceeding great consternation, and at the same time called forth an example of general and devoted heroism, and love of country, such as is nowhere recorded in the annals of any nation upon the face of the globe. Good cause have I to remember it; and were I to live a thousand years, it never would be effaced from my recollection. What first gave rise to the alarm, I have not been able clearly to ascertain unto this day. There was a house-heating up beside Preston, with feasting and dancing; and a great light, like that of a flambeau, proceeded from the onstead. Now, some say that the man that kept the beacon on Hownamlaw, mistook the light for the signal on Dunselaw; and the man at Dunselaw, in his turn, seeing Hownam flare up, lighted his fires also, and speedily the red burning alphabet of war blazed on every hill top--a spirit seemed to fly from mountain to mountain, touching their summits with fire, and writing in the flame the word--_invasion!_ Others say that it arose from the individual who kept watch at Hume Castle being deceived by an accidental fire over in Northumberland; and a very general supposition is, that it arose from a feint on the part of a great sea-admiral, which he made in order to try the courage and loyalty of the nation. To the last report, however, I attach no credit. The fable informs us, that the shepherd laddie lost his sheep, because he cried, "The wolf!" when there was no wolf at hand; and it would have been policy similar to his, to have cried, "_An invasion!_" when there was no invasion. Neither nations nor individuals like such practical jokes. It is also certain that the alarm was not first given by the beacons on the sea-coast; and there can be no doubt that the mistake originated either at Hownamlaw or Hume Castle. I recollect it was in the beginning of February 1804. I occupied a house then about half a mile out of Dunse, and lived comfortably, and I will say contentedly, on the interest of sixteen hundred pounds which I had invested in the funds; and it required but little discrimination to foresee, that, if the French fairly got a footing in our country, funded property would not be worth an old song. I could at all times have risked my life in defence of my native land, for the love I bore it; though you will perceive that I had a double motive to do so; and the more particularly, as, out of the interest of my funded capital, I maintained in competence an affectionate wife and a dutiful son--our only child. The name of my wife was Agnes, and the name of my son--who, at the time of the alarm, was sixteen--was Robert. Upon their account it often caused me great uneasiness, when I read and heard of the victories and the threatenings of the terrible Corsican. I sometimes dreamed that he had marched a mighty army on a bridge of boats across the straits of Dover, and that he had not only seized my sixteen hundred pounds, but drawn my son, my only son, Robie, as a conscript, to fight against his own natural and lawful country, and, perhaps, to shoot his father! I therefore, as in duty bound, as a true and loyal subject, had enrolled myself in the Dunse volunteers. Some joined the volunteers to escape being drawn for the militia, but I could give my solemn affidavit, that I had no motive but the defence of my country--and my property, which, as I have said, was a double inducement. I did not make a distinguished figure in the corps, for my stature did not exceed five feet two inches. But although my body was small, no man was more punctual on the parade; and I will affirm, without vanity, none more active, or had a bolder heart. It always appeared to me to be the height of folly to refuse to admit a man into a regiment, because nature had not formed him a giant. The little man is not so apt to shoot over the head of an enemy, and he runs less risk of being shot himself--two things very necessary to be considered in a battle; and were I a general, I would have a regiment where five feet two should be the maximum height even for the grenadier company. But, as I was saying, it was early in the February of 1804, on the second night, if I recollect aright--I had been an hour abed, and was lying about three parts asleep, when I was started with a sort of bum, bumming, like the beating of a drum. I thought also that I heard people running along the road, past the door. I listened, and, to my horror, I distinctly heard the alarm drum beating to arms. It was a dreadful sound to arouse a man from his sleep in our peaceful land. "Robie!" cried I to my son, "rise, my man, rise, and run down to the town, and see what is the matter, that they are beating the alarm drum at this time of night. I fear that"-- "Oh, dearsake, Roger!" cried Agnes, grasping my arm, "what do ye fear?" "That--that there's a fire in the town," said I. "Weel," quoth she, "it canna reach us. But on dear me! ye have made my heart beat as if it would start from my breast--for I thought ye was gaun to say that ye was feared the French were landed!" "I hope not," said I. But, in truth, it was that which I did fear. Robie was a bold, spirited laddie; and he rushed out of the house, cold as it was, half-dressed, and without his jacket; but he had not been absent a minute, when he hurried back again, and cried breathlessly as he entered--"Faither! faither! the Law is a' in a lowe!--the French are landed!" I was then standing in the middle of the floor, putting on my clothes; and, starting as though I had seen an apparition, I exclaimed--"The French landed!--rise, Agnes! rise, and get me my accoutrements. For this day I will arm and do battle in defence of my native land." "Roger! Roger!" cried my wife, "wherefore will ye act foolishly. Stop at home, as a man ought to do, to preserve and protect his ain family and his ain property. Wherefore would ye risk life or limb withouten cause. There will be enough to fight the French without you--unmarried men, or men that have naebody to leave behint them and to mourn for them." "Agnes," said I, in a tone which manifested my authority, and at the same time shewed the courageousness of my spirit--"get me my accoutrements. I have always been the first upon the parade, and I will not be the last to shew my face upon the field of battle. I am but a little man--the least battalion man in the whole corps--but I have a heart as big as the biggest of them. Bonaparte himself is no Goliath, and a shot from my musket might reach his breast, when a taller man would be touching the cockade on his cocked hat. Therefore, quick! quick!--get me my accoutrements." "Oh, guidman!" cried she, "your poor, heart-broken wife will fall on her knees before ye--and I implore ye, for my sake, and for the sake o' our dear bairn, that ye winna fling away life, and rush upon destruction. What in the name of fortune, has a peaceable man like you to do wi' war or wi' Bonaparte either? Dinna think of leaving the house this night, and I myself will go down to the town and procure a substitute in your stead. I have fifteen pounds in the kist, that I have been scraping thegither for these twelve years past, and I will gie them to ony man that will take your place in the volunteers, and go forth to fight the French in your stead." "Guidwife," said I, angrily, "ye forget what ye are talking about. The French are landed, and every man, auld and young, must take up arms. Ye would have me to become the laughing-stock of both town and country. Therefore get me my accoutrements, and let me down to the cross." "O Robie, my bairn!--my only bairn!" cried she, weeping, and addressing our son, "try ye to prevail upon your faither to gie up his mad resolution. If he leave us, he will mak you faitherless and me a widow." "Mother," said the laddie, gallantly, "the French are landed, and my faither maun help to drive them into the sea. I will tak my pistol and gang wi' him, and if ony thing happens, I will be at hand to assist him." "Haud, haud your tongue, ye silly callant!" she exclaimed, in great tribulation, "ye are as great a fool as your faither is. He sees what he has made o' you. But as the auld cock craws the young ane learns." I felt a sort of glow of satisfaction warming my heart at the manifestation of my son's spirit; but I knew that in one of his age, and especially at such a time, and with such a prospect before us, it was not right to encourage it, and it was impossible for a fond parent to incite his only son to the performance of an act that would endanger his life. I therefore spoke to him kindly, but, at the same time, with the firmness necessary to enforce the commands of a father, and said--"Ye are too young, Robin, to become a participator in scenes of war and horror. Your young bosom, that is yet a stranger to sorrow, must not be exposed to the destroying bullet; nor your bonny cheek, where the rose-bud blooms, disfigured with the sabre or the horse's hoof. Ye must not break your mother's heart, but stay at home to comfort and defend her, when your father is absent fighting for ye both." The boy listened to me in silence, but I thought that sullenness mingled with his obedience, and I had never seen him sullen before. Agnes went around the house weeping, and finding that I was not to be gainsayed, she brought me my military apparel and my weapons of war. When, therefore, I was arrayed and ready for the field, and while the roll of the drum was still summoning us to muster, I took her hand to bid her farewell--but, in the fulness of my heart, I pressed my lips to hers, and my tears mingled with her own upon her cheek. "Farewell, Agnes," said I, "but I trust--I hope--I doubt not, but we shall soon return safe, sound, and victorious. But if I should not--if it be so ordered that it is to be my lot to fall gloriously in defence of our country, our son Robert will comfort ye and protect ye; and ye will find all the papers relating to the sixteen hundred pounds of funded property in my private drawer; although, if the French gain a footing in the country, I doubt it will be but of small benefit to ye. And, in that case, Robin, my man," added I, addressing my son, "ye will have to labour with your hands to protect your mother! Bless you, doubly bless you both." I saw my son fall upon his mother's neck, and it afforded me a consolation. With great difficulty I got out of the house, and I heard Agnes sobbing when I was a hundred yards distant. I still also heard the roll of the drum rolling and rattling through the stillness of midnight, and, on arriving at the cross, I found a number of the volunteers and a multitude of the townspeople assembled. No one could tell _where_ the French had landed, but all knew that they _had_ landed. That, I assure ye, was a never-to-be-forgotten night. Every person naturally looked anxious, but I believe I may safely say, that there was not one face in a hundred that was pale with fear, or that exhibited a trace of cowardice or terror upon it. One thought was uppermost in every bosom, and that was--to drive back the invaders, yea to drive them into, and drown them in the German ocean, even as Pharaoh and his host were encompassed by the Red Sea and drowned in it. Generally speaking, a spirit of genuine, of universal heroism was manifested. The alacrity with which the volunteers assembled under arms, was astonishing; not but that there were a few who fell into the ranks rather slowly and with apparent reluctance; but some of those, like me, had perhaps wives to cling round their necks, and to beseech them not to venture forth into the war. One of the last who appeared upon the ground, was my right-hand comrade, Jonathan Barlowman. I had to step to the left to make room for Jonathan, and, as he took his place by my side, I heard the teeth chattering in his head. Our commanding officer spoke to him rather sharply, about being so slow in turning out in an hour of such imminent peril. But I believe Jonathan was insensible to the reprimand. The drums began to beat and the fifes to play--the word "March!" was given--the townspeople gave us three cheers as we began to move--and my comrade Jonathan, in his agitation, put his wrong foot foremost, and could not keep the step. So we marched onward, armed and full of patriotism, towards Haddington, which in case of the invasion, was appointed our head-quarters or place of rendezvous. I will not pretend to say that I felt altogether comfortable during the march; indeed, to have done so was impossible, for the night was bitterly cold, and at all times there is but little shelter on the bleak and wild Lammermoors; yet the cold gave me but small concern, in comparison of the thoughts of my Agnes and my son Robin. I felt that I loved them even better than ever I had imagined I loved them before, and it caused me much silent agony of spirit when I thought that I had parted with them--perhaps for ever. Yet, even in the midst of such thoughts, I was cheered by the glorious idea of fighting in defence of one's own native country; and I thought of Wallace and of Bruce, and of all the heroes I had read about when a laddie, and my blood fired again. I found that I hated our invaders with a perfect hatred--that I feared not to meet death--and I grasped my firelock more firmly, and a thousand times fancied that I had it levelled at the breast of the Corsican. I indulged in this train of thoughts until we had reached Longformacus, and during that period not a word had my right-hand neighbour, Jonathan Barlowman, spoken, either good, bad, or indifferent; but I had frequently heard him groan audibly, as though his spirit were troubled. At length, when we had passed Longformacus, and were in the most desolate part of the hills--"O Mr Goldie! Mr Goldie!" said he, "is this no dismal?" "I always consider it," answered I, "one of the dreariest spots on the Lammermoors." "O sir!" said he, "it isna the dreariness o' the road that I am referring to. I would rather be sent across the hills from Cowdingham to Lander, blindfold, than I would be sent upon an errand like this. But is it not a dismal and a dreadfu' thought that Christian men should be roused out of their beds at the dead of night, to march owre moor and mountain, to be shot, or to cut each other's throats? It is terrible, Mr Goldie!" Now, he was a man seven inches taller than I was, and I was glad of the opportunity of proving to him that, though I had the lesser body, I had the taller spirit of the two--and the spirit makes the man. Therefore I said to him--"Why, Mr Barlowman, you surprise me to hear you talk; when our country demands our arms in its defence, we should be ready to lay down our lives, if necessary, by night or by day, on mountain or in glen, on moor or in meadow--and I cannot respond your sentiments." "Weel," said he, "that may be your opinion, and it may be a good opinion, but, for my own part, I do confess that I have no ambition for the honours of either heroism or martyrdom. Had a person been allowed a day to make a sort of decent arrangement of their worldly affairs, it wadna have been sae bad; but to be summoned out of your warm bed at midnight, and to take up an instrument of death in the dark, and go forth to be shot at!--there is, in my opinion, but a small share of either honour or glory in the transaction. This, certainly, is permanent duty now, and peremptory duty also, with a witness! But it is a duty the moral obligation of which I cannot perceive; and I think that a man's first duty is to look after himself--and family." He mentioned the word "family" with a peculiarity of emphasis which plainly indicated that he wished it to work an effect upon me, and to bring me over to his way of thinking. But, instead of its producing that effect, my spirit waxed bolder and bolder as I remained an ear-witness of his cowardice. "Comrade Jonathan--I beg your pardon, Mr Barlowman I mean to say," said I--"the first duty of every man, when his country is in danger, is to take up arms in its defence, and to be ready to lay down his life, if his body will form a barrier to the approach of an enemy." "It may be sae," said he; "but I would just as soon think of my body being eaten by cannibals, as applied to any such purpose. It will take a long time to convince me that there is any bravery in a man volunteering to 'be shot at for sixpence a-day;' and it will be as long before fighting the French prepare my land for the spring seed. If I can get a substitute when we reach Haddington, they may fight that likes for me." As we marched along, his body became the victim of one calamity after another. Now his shoes pinched his feet and crippled him, and in a while he was seized with cramp pains in his breast, which bent him together twofold. But, as it was generally suspected by the corps that Jonathan was, at best, hen-hearted, he met with little, indeed I may say no sympathy on account of his complaints, but rather with contempt; for there was not a man in our whole regiment, save himself, that did not hate cowardice with his whole heart, and despise it with his whole soul. Whether he actually was suffering from bodily pain, in addition to the pain of his spirit, or not, it is not for me to judge. The doctor came to the rear to see him, and he said that Mr Barlowman certainly was in a state of high fever, that would render him incapable of being of much service. But I thought that he made the declaration in an ironical sort of tone; and whether it was a fever of fear, of spiritual torment, or of bodily torment, he did not tell. One thing is certain, the one frequently begets the other. The words of the doctor gave a sort of license to bold Jonathan Barlowman, and his moaning and his groaning, his writhing and complaining, increased. He began to fall behind, and now stood fumbling with his pinching shoes, or bent himself double with his hands across his breast, sighing piteously, and shedding tears in abundance. At length we lost sight and hearing of him, and we imagined that he had turned back, or peradventure, lain down by the way; but there was no time for us to return to seek him, nor yet to look after one man, when, belike a hundred thousand French had landed. Well, it was about an hour after the final disappearance of Jonathan, that a stranger joined our ranks in his stead. He took his place close by my side. He carried a firelock over his shoulder, and was dressed in a greatcoat; but so far as I could judge from his appearance in the dark, I suspected him to be a very young man. I could not get a word out of him, save that in answer to a question--"Are ye Mr Barlowman's substitute?" And he answered--"Yes." Beyond that one word, I could not get him to open his mouth. However, I afterwards ascertained that the youth overtook Jonathan, while he was writhing in agony upon the road, and declaring aloud that he would give any money, from ten to a hundred guineas, for a substitute, besides his arms and accoutrements. The young man leaped at the proposal, or rather at a part of it, for he said he would take no money, but that the other should give him his arms, ammunition, and such like, and he would be his substitute. Jonathan joyfully accepted the conditions; but whether or not his pains and groanings left him, when relieved from the weight of his knapsack, I cannot tell. Our corps voted him to be no man who could find time to be ill, even in earnest, during an invasion. My attention, however, was now wholly taken up with the stranger, who, it appeared, had been dropped, as if from the clouds, in the very middle of a waste, howling wilderness, to volunteer to serve in the place of my craven comrade, Jonathan Barlowman. The youth excited my curiosity the more, because, as I have already informed ye, he was as silent as a milestone, and not half so satisfactory; for beyond the little word "Yes," which I once got out of him, not another syllable would he breathe--but he kept his head half turned away from me. I felt the consciousness and the assurance growing in me more and more that he was a French spy; therefore I kept my musket so that I could level it at him, and discharge it at half a moment's warning; and I was rejoicing to think that it would be a glorious thing if I got an opportunity of signalizing myself on the very first day of the invasion. I really began to dream of titles and rewards, the thanks of parliament, and the command of a regiment. It is a miracle that, in the delirium of my waking dream, I did not place the muzzle of my musket to my strange comrade's head. But daylight began to break just as we were about Danskin, and my curiosity to see the stranger's face--to make out who he was or what he was, or whether he was a Frenchman, or one of our own countrymen--was becoming altogether insupportable. But, just with the first peep of day, I got a glimpse of his countenance. I started back for full five yards--the musket dropped out of my hands! "Robie! Robie, ye rascal!" I exclaimed, in a voice that was heard from the one end of the line to the other, and that made the whole regiment halt--"what in the wide world has brought you here? What do ye mean to be after?" "To fight the French, faither!" said my brave laddie; "and ye ken ye always said, that in the event of an invasion, it wad be the duty of every one capable of firing a musket, or lifting a knife, to take up arms. I can do baith; and what mair me than another?" This was torturing me on the shrine of my own loyalty, and turning my own weapons upon myself, in a way that I never had expected. "Robie! ye daft, disobedient, heart-breaker ye!" continued I, "did I not command ye to remain at home with your mother, to comfort her, and, if it were necessary, and in your power, to defend her; and how, sirrah, have ye dared to desert her, and leave her sorrowing for you?" "I thought, faither," answered he, "that the best way to defend her, would be to prevent the enemy approaching near to our dwellings." My comrades round about that heard this answer, could not refrain from giving three cheers in admiration of the bravery of the laddie's spirit; and the cheering attracting the attention of the officers, one of them came forward to us, to inquire into its cause; and, on its being explained to him, he took Robin by the hand, and congratulated me upon having such a son. I confess that I did feel an emotion of pride and gratification glowing in my breast at the time; nevertheless, the fears and the anxiety of a parent predominated, and I thought what a dreadful thing it would be for me, his father, to see him shot or pierced through the body with a bayonet, at my very side; and what account, thought I, could I give of such a transaction to his bereaved and sorrowing mother? For I felt a something within my breast, which whispered, that, if evil befell him in the warfare in which we were about to engage, I would not be able to look her in the face again. I fancied that I heard her upbraiding me with having instilled into his mind a love of war, and I fancied that I heard her voice requiring his life at my hands, and crying--"Where is my son?" At length we arrived at Haddington; and there, in the course of the day, it was discovered, to the gratification of some and the disappointment of many, that our march had originated in a _false alarm_. I do confess that I was amongst those who felt gratified that the peace of the land was not to be endangered, but that we were to return every man to his own fireside, and to sit down beneath our vine and our fig tree, with the olive branches twining between them. But amongst those who were disappointed, and who shewed their chagrin by the gnashing of their teeth, was my silly laddie, my only son Robert. When he saw the people laughing in the marketplace, and heard that the whole Borders had been aroused by an accidental light upon a hill, his young brow lowered as black as midnight--his whole body trembled with a sort of smothered rage--and his eyebrows drew together until the shape of a horse-shoe was engraven between them. "Robie, my captain," said I, "wherefore are ye looking sae dour? Man, ye ought to rejoice that no invader as yet has dared to set his foot upon our coast, and that you and I will return to your mother, who, no doubt, will be distracted upon your account beyond measure. But, oh, when she meets you again, I think that I see her now springing up from the chair, where she is sitting rocking and mourning, and flinging her arms round your neck, crying--'Robie!--Robie, my son! where have ye been?--how could ye leave your mother?' Then she will sob upon your breast, and wet your cheek with her tears; and I will lift her arms from your neck, and say--'Look ye, Agnes, woman, your husband is restored to ye safe and sound, as well as your son?' And then I will tell her all about your bravery, and your following us over the moors, and the cowardice of Jonathan Barlowman, and of your coming up to him, where he groaned behind us on the road--of your becoming his substitute, and of your getting his greatcoat, his knapsack, and his gun--and of your marching an hour by your father's side without him finding out who you were. I will tell her all about my discovering you, and about your answers, and the cheering of the volunteers; and the officers coming up and taking your hand, and congratulating me upon having such a son. O Robie, man! I will tell her everything! It will be such a meeting as there has not been in the memory of man. Therefore, as the French are neither landed nor like to land, I will speak to the superior officer, and you and I Will set off for Dunse immediately." We went into a public-house, to have a bottle of ale and baps; and I think I never in my life partook of anything more refreshing or more delicious. Even Robie, notwithstanding the horse-shoe of angry disappointment on his brow, made a hearty repast; but that was natural to a growing laddie, and especially after such a tramp as we had had in the death and darkness of night, over moor and heather. "Eat well, Robie, lad," said I; "it's a long road over again between here and Dunse, and there is but little to be got on it. Take another glass of ale; ye never tasted anything from Clockmill to match that. It is as delicious as honey, and as refreshing as fountain water." That really was the case; though whether the peculiar excellence of the ale arose from anything extraordinarily grateful in its flavour, or from my long march, my thirst, and sharp appetite--added to the joy I felt in the unexpected prospect of returning home in peace and happiness with my son, instead of slaughtering at enemies, or being slaughtered by them--I cannot affirm. There might be something in both. Robin, however, drank an entire bottle to his own head--that was three parts of a choppin, and a great deal too much for a laddie of his years. But in the temper he was in, and knowing by myself that he must be both thirsty and hungry, I did not think it prudent to restrain him. It was apparent that the liquor was getting uppermost in his brain, and he began to speak and to argue in company, and to strike his hand upon the table like an angry man; in short, he seemed forgetful of my presence, and those were exhibitions which I had never observed in him before. I was exceedingly anxious to get home, upon his mother's account; for she was a woman of a tender heart and a nervous temperament; and I knew that she would be in a state bordering on distraction on account of his absence. I therefore said to him--"Robin, I am going to speak to the commanding officer; ye will sit here until I come back, but do not drink any more." "Very weel, faither," said he. So I went out and spoke to the officer, and told him my reasons for wishing to return home immediately; urging the state of anxiety and distress that Agnes would be in on account of the absence of our son. "Very well, Mr Goldie," said he; "it is all very right and proper; I have a regard to the feelings of a husband and a parent; and as this has proved but a false alarm, there is no obstacle to your returning home immediately." I thanked him very gratefully for his civility, and stepped away up to the George Inn, where I took two outside places on the heavy coach to Dunbar, intending to walk from there to Broxmouth, and to strike up there by the west to Innerwick, and away over the hills, down by Preston, and home. I am certain I was not twenty minutes or half an hour absent at the farthest. When I entered the public-house again, I looked for my son, but he was not there. "What have ye made of Robie?" said I to my comrades. "Has he no been wi' ye?" answered they; "he left the house just after ye." Mortal man cannot describe the fear, agony, and consternation that fell upon me. The sweat burst upon my brow as though it had been the warmest day in summer. A thousand apprehensions laid their hands upon me in a moment. "With me!" said I; "he's not been with me: have none of you an idea where he can have gone?" "Not the smallest," said they; "but he canna be far off--he will soon cast up. He will only be out looking at the town." "Or showing off gallant Jonathan Barlowman's gun, big-coat, and knapsack," said one. "Keep yoursel at ease, Mr Goldie," said another, laughing; "there is no danger of his passing the advanced posts, and falling into the hands of the French." It was easy for those to jest who were ignorant of a father's fears and a father's feelings. I sat down for the space of five minutes, and to me they seemed five hours; but I drank nothing, and I said nothing, but I kept my eyes fixed upon the door. Robin did not return. I thought the ale might have overcome the laddie, and that he had gone out and lain down in a state of sickness; and "That," thought I, "will be a _becoming_ state for me to take him home in to his distressed mother. Or it will cause us to stop a night upon the road." My anxiety became insupportable, and I again left my comrades, and went out to seek him. I sought him in every street, in every public-house in the town, amongst the soldiers, and amongst the townspeople; but all were too much occupied in discussing the cause of the alarm, to notice him who was to me as the apple of my eye. For three hours I wandered in search of him, east, west, north, and south, making inquiries at every one I met; but no one had seen or heard tell of him. I saw the coach drive off for Dunbar. I beheld also my comrades muster on the following morning, and prepare to return home, but I wandered up and down disconsolate, seeking my son, but finding him not. The most probable, and the fondest conjecture that I could indulge in, was, that he had returned home. I, therefore, shouldered my musket, and followed my companions to Dunse, whom I overtook upon the moors. It would be impossible for me to describe my feelings by the way--they were torture strained to its utmost extremity, and far more gloomy and dreary than the gloomiest and dreariest parts of the moors over which we had to pass. Every footstep increased my anxiety, every mile the perturbation and agony of my spirit. Never, I believe, did a poor parent endure such misery before, and I wished that I had never been one. I kept looking for him to the right and to the left every minute; and though it was but few travellers that we met upon the road, every one that we did meet I described him to them, and asked them if they had seen him. But, "No!" "No!" was their unvaried answer, and my wretchedness increased. At length we arrived at Dunse, and a great crowd was there to meet us--wives to welcome their husbands, parents to greet their children, and children their parents. The first that my eyes singled out, was a sister of my Agnes. She ran up to me. "Roger," she cried, "hae ye seen onything o' Robie?" The words went through my breast as if it had received the fire of a whole French battalion. I stood stock-still, petrified with despair. My looks told my answer to her question. "Oh, dear me! dear me!" I heard her cry; "what will his puir mother do noo--for she already is like ane clean out o' her judgment about him." I did not stop for the word "halt," or for the breaking of the lines; and I went home, I may say by instinct, for neither bird, bush, house nor tree, man nor bairn, was I capable of discerning by the road. Grief and heart-bursting anxiety were as scales upon my eyes. I remember of rushing into the house, throwing down my gun, and crying--"O Agnes! Agnes!" And as well do I remember her impatient and piteous inquiry--"Where is my Robie?--Oh, where is my son?--hae ye no seen him?" It was long before I could compose myself, so as to tell her all that I knew concerning him; and it was even longer before she was sufficiently calm to comprehend me. Never did unhappy parents before experience greater bitterness of soul. I strove to comfort her, but she would not listen to my words; for oh, they were as the blind leading the blind; we both were struggling in the slough of despair--both were in the pit of dark, bewildering misery. We sometimes sat looking at each other, like criminals whose last hour is come; and even when our grief wore itself into a "calm sough," there was something in our silence as dismal and more hopeless than the silence of the grave itself. But, every now and then, she would burst into long, loud lamentations, mourning and crying for "her son!--her son!" Often, too, did we sit, suppressing our very breath, listening to every foot that approached, and as one disappointment followed another, her despair became deeper and deeper, louder and louder, and its crushing weight sank heavier and heavier upon my spirit. Some of his young companions informed us, that Robin had long expressed a determination to be a soldier; and, on the following day, I set out for Edinburgh to seek for him there, and to buy him off at any price, if he had enlisted. There, however, I could gather no tidings concerning him; and all that I could learn was, that a regiment had left the Castle that morning at two o'clock, and embarked at Leith for Chatham, from whence they were to proceed direct abroad; and that several recruits were attached to it, some of them only sworn in an hour before they embarked; but whether my poor Robie was among them or not, no one could tell. I left Edinburgh no wiser, no happier, and in no way more comforted than I entered it, and returned to his mother a sad and sorrowing-hearted man. She wrung her hands the instant she beheld me, and, in a tone that might have touched the heart of a stone, cried aloud--"Oh, my lost! lost bairn! Ye hae made a living grave o' yer mother's breast." I would have set off immediately for London, and from thence down to Chatham, to inquire for him there; but the wind was favourable when the vessel sailed, and it was therefore certain, that, by the time I got back to Dunse, she was at the place of her destination; and moreover, I had no certainty or assurance that he was on board. Therefore, we spent another day in fruitless lamentations and tears, and in vain inquiries around our own neighbourhood, and amongst his acquaintances. But my own heart yearned continually, and his mother's moaning was unceasing in my ear, as the ticking of a spider, or the beating of a stop-watch to a person that is doomed to die. I could find no rest. I blamed myself for not proceeding direct from Edinburgh to Chatham; and, next day, I went down to Berwick, to take my place in the mail to London. By the way I met several of the yeomanry, who were only returning from Dunbar, where they had been summoned by the alarm; and I found that Berwick also had been in arms. But taking my place on the mail, I proceeded, without sleep or rest, to London, and from thence hastened to Chatham. There again I found that the regiment which I sought was already half way down the Channel; but I ascertained also that my poor thoughtless boy was one of the recruits, and even that was some consolation, although but a poor one. Again I returned to his mother, and told her of the tidings. They brought her no comfort, and, night and day, she brooded on the thought of her fair son lying dead and mangled on the field of slaughter, or of his returning helpless and wounded to his native land. And often it was wormwood to my spirit, and an augmentation of my own sorrows, to find that, in secret, she murmured against me as the author of her bereavement, and as having instilled into my son a liking for a soldier's life. She said it was all owing to my getting him, from the time that he was able to read, to take the newspaper in his hand and read it aloud to my cronies, and in which there were accounts of nothing but wars and battles, of generals and captains, and Bonaparte, of whom enough was foretold and enough could be read in the Revelations. These murmurings grieved me the more, inasmuch as my mind was in no way satisfied that they were without foundation. No man knew better than I did, how easily the twig is bent; a passing breeze, the lighting of a bird upon it, may do it; and as it is bent, so the branch or the tree will be inclined. I, therefore, almost resolved not to permit another newspaper to be brought within my door. But, somehow or other, it became more necessary than ever. Every time it came it was like a letter from Robie; and we read it from beginning to end, expecting always to hear something of him or of his regiment. Even Agnes grew fond of it, and was uneasy on the Saturdays if the postman was half-an-hour behind the time in bringing it. Full twelvemonths passed before we received a letter from him; and never will I forget the delightful sensations that gushed into my bosom at the sight of that letter. I trembled from head to foot with joy. I knew his handwriting at the first glance, and so did his mother--just as well as if he had begun "_dear parents_" on the back of it. It was only to be a penny, and his mother could hardly get her hand into her pocket to give the copper to the postman, she shook so excessively with joy and with agitation, and kept saying to me--"Read, Roger! read! Oh, let me hear what my bairn says." I could hardly keep my hand steady to open it; and, when I did break the seal, I burst into tears at the same moment, and my eyes became as though I were blind; and still his mother continued saying to me--"Oh, read! read!" Twice, thrice, did I draw my sleeve across my eyes, and at last I read as follows:-- "MY DEAR PARENTS,--I fear that my conduct has caused you many a miserable day, and many a sleepless night. But, even for my offence, cruel as it has been, I trust there is forgiveness in a parent's breast. I do not think that I ever spoke of it to you, but, from the very earliest period that I could think, the wish was formed in my mind to be a soldier. When I used to be spelling over the History of Sir William Wallace, or the lives of the Seven Champions of Christendom, I used to fancy myself Wallace or Saint George; and I resolved, that when I lived to be a man, that I would be a soldier and a hero like them; and I used to think what a grand thing it would be for you and my mother, and all my acquaintances, to be reading about me and my exploits! The continual talking about the war and the French, and of their intention to invade Britain, all strengthened my early desires. Often when I was reading the newspapers to you and your friends, and about the gallant deeds of any particular individual, though I used to read _his name_ aloud to you, I always read it in to myself as though it were my own. I had resolved to enlist before the false alarm took place; and, when you and the other volunteers marched out of Dunse to Haddington, I could not resist the temptation which it offered of seeing and being present at a battle. About half-an-hour after you left the town, I followed ye, and, as ye are already aware, overtook poor Jonathan Barlowman, who had fallen behind the corps, in great distress, apparently both of body and mind. He seemed to be in a swither whether to return home, to follow ye, or to lie down and die by the road. I knew him by the sound of the lamentation he was making, and, accosting him, I inquired--'What is the matter wi' ye, Jonathan! Has ony o' the French, concealed aboot the moors, shot ye already?' 'Oh,' he replied, 'I am ill--I am dying!--I am dying!--I will give any money for a substitute!' 'Gie me yer gun,' said I, 'and I will be yer substitute without money.' 'A thousand blessings upon yer head, Robie, lad!' said he; 'ye shall hae my gun, and ye may tak also my greatcoat and knapsack, for they only encumber me. Ye hae rescued a dying man.' I was nearly as tall as he; and, though his coat was loose about me, when I got it on, and his musket over my shoulder, and felt that I was marching like an armed knight of old against the invaders of my country, I felt as proud as an emperor; I would not have changed situations with a king. I overtook you, and you know the rest. At Haddington, the strong ale was too strong for me. I was also sorely mortified to find all my prospects of becoming a hero blasted. When, therefore, you went out to take our places in the coach to Dunbar, I slipped out of the room, and hiding Mr Barlowman's coat and gun in a closet, in the house, I took the road for Edinburgh; which city I reached within less than three hours; and before I had been in it twenty minutes I was a soldier. I was afraid to write home, lest ye would take steps to buy me off. On the fourth day after my enlisting I was landed at Chatham, where I was subjected to a perpetual drill; and within thirty hours after landing, I again embarked with my regiment; and when I wished to have written, I had not an opportunity. Since then, I have been in two general engagements and several skirmishes, in all of which I have escaped unwounded. I have found that to read of a battle, and to be engaged in a battle, are two very different things. The description is grand, but the sight dismal. I trust that my behaviour as a soldier has been unimpeachable. It has obtained for me the notice of our colonel, who has promoted me to the rank of corporal, with the promise of shortly making me a sergeant; and I am not without hopes, before the war is over, (of which there at present is no prospect), of obtaining a commission; though it certainly is not one in a thousand that has such fortune. Hoping, therefore, my dear parents, that, under the blessing of Providence, this will find you well, as it leaves me, and that I will live to return to ask your forgiveness, I remain your affectionate and dutiful son, "ROBERT GOLDIE." * * * * * Such was Robin's letter. "Read it again," said mother--and I read it again; and when I had done so, she took it in her hand and pressed it to her lips and to her breast, and wept for "her poor bairn." At last, in a tone of despondency, she said--"But, oh, he doesna once particularly mention his mother's name in't." "He surely does," said I; "I think he mentions us both." So I took the letter again into my hand, and, at the foot corner of the third page, I saw what I had not observed before, the letters and words--"_P.S. Turn over_." "P.S." said his mother; "who does that mean?" "Oh!" said I, "it means nobody. It means that we have not read all the letter." "Read it a', then--read it a'!" she cried. And I turned to the last page, on the fold above the direction, and read-- "P.S.--But how am I to ask the forgiveness of my dear mother, for all the distress and anxiety that my folly and disobedience must have occasioned her. I start in my very sleep, and think that I hear her yearning and upbraiding. If she knew how deep my repentance is, and how keen my misery for the grief which I have caused her, I would not have to ask her forgiveness twice. Dear father! dear mother!--both, both of you forgive your thoughtless son." These last lines of his letter drowned us both in tears, and, for the space of several minutes, neither of us were able to speak. I was the first to break silence, and I said--"Agnes, our dear Robin is now a soldier, and he seems to like that way of life. But I dislike the thought of his being only a corporal, and I would wish to see him an officer. We have nobody in the world but him to care for. He is our only son and heir, and I trust that all that we have will one day be his. Now, I believe that the matter of four or five hundred pounds will buy him a commission, and make him an officer, with a sword by his side, a sash round his waist, and a gold epaulette on his shoulder, with genteel pay and provision for life; besides setting him on the high road to be a general. Therefore, if ye approve of it, I will sell out stock to the amount that will buy him commission." "Oh," replied she, "ye needna ask me if I approve, for weel do ye ken that I will approve o' onything that will be for my bairn's benefit." I accordingly lifted five hundred pounds, and through the influence of a Parliament man, succeeded in procuring him a commission as an ensign. I thought the money well spent, as it tended to promote the respectability and prospects of my son. Four years afterwards, his mother and I had the satisfaction of reading in the public papers, that he had been promoted to the rank of lieutenant upon the field, for his bravery. On the following day we received a letter from himself, confirming the tidings, which gave us great joy. Nevertheless, our joy was mingled with fears; for we were always apprehensive that some day or other we would find his name among the list of killed and wounded. And always the first thing that his mother said to me, when I took up the papers, was--"Read the list of the killed and wounded." And I always did so, with a slow, hesitating, and faltering voice, fearful that the next I should mention would be that of my son, Lieutenant Goldie. There was very severe fighting at the time; and every post was bringing news concerning the war. One day, (I remember it was a King's fast-day,) several neighbours and myself were leaning upon the dike, upon the footpath opposite to my house, and waiting for the postman coming from Ayton, to hear what was the news of the day. As he approached us, I thought he looked very demure-like, which was not his usual; for he was as cheerful, active-looking a little man as you could possibly see. "Well, Hughie," said I to him, holding out my hand for the papers, "ye look dull like to-day; I hope ye have no bad news?" "I would hope not, Mr Goldie," said he; and, giving me the paper, walked on. The moment that Agnes saw that I had got it, she came running out of the house, across the road, to hear as usual, the list of the killed and wounded read, and my neighbours gathered round about me. There had been, I ought to tell ye, a severe battle, and both the French and our army claimed the victory; from which we may infer, that there was no great triumph on either side. But, agreeably to my wife's request, I first read over the list of the killed, wounded, and _missing_. I got over the two first mentioned; but, oh! at the very sight of the first name upon the missing list, I clasped my hands together, and the paper dropped upon the ground. "O Robie! my son! my son!" I cried aloud. Agnes uttered a piercing scream, and cried, "O my bairn--what has happened my bairn? Is he dead! Tell me, is my Robie dead?" Our neighbours gathered about her, and tried to comfort her; but she was insensible to all that they could say. The first name on the missing list was that of my gallant son. When the first shock was over, and I had composed myself a little, I also strove to console Agnes; but it was with great difficulty that we could convince her that Robin was not dead, and that the papers did not say he was wounded. "Oh, then!" she cried, "what do they say about him. Tell me at once. Roger Goldie! how can ye, as the faither o' my bairn, keep me in suspense." "O, dear Agnes," said I, "endeavour, if it be possible, to moderate your grief; I am sure ye know that I would not keep ye in suspense if I could avoid it. The papers only say that Robin is _amissing_." "And what mean they by that?" she cried. "Why," said I to her, "they mean that he, perhaps, pursued the enemy too far--or possibly that he may have fallen into their hands, and be a prisoner--but that he had not cast up when the accounts came away." "Yes! yes!" she exclaimed with great bitterness, "and it perhaps means that his body is lying dead upon the field, but hasna been found." And she burst out into louder lamentations, and all our endeavours to comfort her were in vain; though, in fact, my sufferings were almost as great as hers. We waited in the deepest anxiety for several days, always hoping that we would hear some tidings concerning him, but none came. I therefore wrote to the War-Office, and I wrote also to his Colonel. From the War-Office I received a letter from a clerk, saying that he was commanded to inform me, that they could give me no information relative to Lieutenant Goldie, beyond what was contained in the public prints. The whole letter did not exceed three lines. You would have said that the writer had been employed to write a certain number of letters in a day, at so much a day, and the sooner he got through his work the better. I set it down in my mind that he had never had a son amissing on the field of battle, or he never would have written an anxious and sorrowing father such a cold scrawl. He did not even say that, if they got any tidings concerning my son, they would make me acquainted with them. He was only commanded to tell me that they did not know what I was, beyond every thing on earth, desirous to ascertain. Though perhaps, I ought to admit that, in a time of war, the clerks in the War-Office had something else to do than enter particularly into the feelings of every father that had a son in the army, and to answer all his queries. From the Colonel, however, I received a long, and a very kind letter. He said many flattering things in praise of my gallant laddie, and assured me that the whole regiment deplored his being separated from them. He, however, had no doubt but that he had fallen into the hands of the enemy, and that, in some exchange of prisoners, or in the event of a peace, he would be restored to his parents and country again. This letter gave us some consolation. It encouraged us to cherish the hope of pressing our beloved son again to our breasts, and of looking on his features, weeping and wondering at the alterations which time, war, and imprisonment had wrought upon them. But more than three years passed away, and not a syllable did we hear concerning him, that could throw the least light upon where he was, or whether he was dead or living. Anxiety preyed sadly upon his mother's health as well as upon her spirits, and I could not drive away a settled melancholy. About that time a brother of mine, who was a bachelor, died in the East Indies, and left me four thousand pounds. This was a great addition to our fortune, and we hardly knew what to do with it. I may say that it made us more unhappy, for we thought that we had nobody to leave it to; and he who ought to have inherited it, and whom it would have made independent, we knew not whether he was in the land of the living, or a strange corpse in a foreign grave. Yet I resolved that, for his sake, I would not spend one farthing of it, but let it lie at interest; and I even provided in a will which I made, that unless he cast up, and claimed it, no one should derive any benefit from either principal or interest until fifty years after my death. I have said, that the health of Agnes had broken down beneath her weight of sadness, and as she had a relation, who was a gentleman of much respectability, that then resided in the neighbourhood of Kelso, it was agreed that we should spend a few weeks in the summer at his house. I entertained the hope that society, and the beautiful scenery around Kelso, with the white chalky braes[A] overhung with trees, and the bonny islands in the Tweed, with mansions, palaces, and ruins, all embosomed in a paradise as fair and fertile as ever land could boast of, would have a tendency to cheer her spirits, and ease, if not remove, the one heavy and continuing sorrow, which lay like an everlasting nightmare upon her heart, weighing her to the grave. Her relation was a well-educated man, and he had been an officer in the army in his youth, and had seen foreign parts. He was also quite independent in his worldly circumstances, and as hospitable as he was independent. There were at that period a number of French officers, prisoners, at Kelso, and several of them, who were upon their parole, were visiters at the house of my wife's relation. There was one amongst them, a fine, though stern-looking man of middle age, and who was addressed by the appellation of Count Berthé. He spoke our language almost as well as if he had been a native. He appeared to be interested when he heard that my name was Goldie, and one day after dinner, when the cloth was withdrawn, and my wife's relation had ordered the punch upon the table--"Ha! Goldie! Goldie!" said the Count, repeating my name--"I can tell one story--which concerns me much--concerning, one Monsieur Goldie. When I was governor of the castle La----, (he called it by some foreign name, which I cannot repeat to you), there was brought to me, (he added), to be placed under my charge, a young British officer, whose name was Goldie. I do not recollect the number of his regiment, for he was not in uniform when brought to me. He was a handsome man, but represented as a terrible one, who had made a violent attempt to escape after being taken prisoner, and his desperate bravery in the field was also recorded. I was requested to treat him with the respect due to a brave man, but, at the same time, to keep a strict watch over him, and to allow him even less liberty than I might do to an ordinary prisoner. His being a captive did not humble him; he treated his keepers and his guards with as much contempt as though he had been their conqueror on the field. We had confined his body, but there was no humbling of his spirit. I heard so much of him, that I took an interest in the haughty Briton. But he treated me with the same sullen disdain that he showed towards my inferiors. I had a daughter, who was as dear to me as life itself, for she had had five brothers, and they had all fallen in the cause of the great emperor, with the tricolor on their brow, and the wing of the eagle over them. She was beautiful--beautiful as her sainted mother, than whom Italy boasted not a fairer daughter, (for she was a native of Rome.) Hers was not a beauty that you may see every day amongst a thousand in the regions of the north--hers was the rare beauty amongst ten thousand of the daughters of the sunny south, with a face beaming with as bright a loveliness, and I would say divinity, as the Medici. Of all the children which that fair being bore unto me, I had but one, a daughter, left--beautiful as I have said--beautiful as her mother. I had a garden beneath the castle, and over it was a terrace, in which the British prisoner, Goldie, was allowed to walk. They saw each other. They became acquainted with each other. He had despised all who approached; he had even treated me, who had his life in my hand, as a dog. But he did not so treat my daughter. I afterwards learned, when it was too late, that they had been seen exchanging looks, words, and signs with each other. He had been eighteen months my prisoner; and one morning when I awoke, I was told that my daughter was not to be found, and that the English prisoner, Lieutenant Goldie, also had escaped. I cursed both in my heart; for they had robbed me of my happiness--he had robbed me of my child; though she only could have accomplished it. Shortly after this, (and perhaps because of it,) I was again called into active service, where, in my first engagement, it was my lot to be made a prisoner, and sent here; and since then I have heard nothing of my daughter--my one, dear child--the image of her mother; and nothing of him--the villain who seduced her from me." "Oh, sir," exclaimed I, "do not call him a villain, for if it be he that I hope it was, who escaped through the intrumentality of your daughter, and took her with him, he has not a drop of villain's blood in his whole body. Sir! sir! I have a son--a Lieutenant Goldie; and he has (as I hope) been a French prisoner from the time ye speak of. Therefore, tell me, I implore ye, what was he like. Was he six inches taller than his father, with light complexion, yellowish hair, an aqualine nose; full blue eyes, a mole upon his right cheek, and, at the time ye saw him, apparently, perhaps, from two-and-twenty to three-and-twenty years of age? Oh, sir--Count, or whatever they call ye--if it be my son that your daughter has liberated and gone away with, she has fallen upon her feet; she has married a good, a kind, and a brave lad; and, though I should be the last to say it, the son of an honest man, who will leave him from five to six thousand pounds, beside his commission." By the description which he gave me, I had no doubt but that my poor Robie, and the laddie who had run away with his daughter, (or, I might say, the laddie with whom his daughter had run away,) were one and the same person. I ran into the next room, crying, "Agnes! Agnes! hear, woman! I have got news of Robie!" "News o' my bairn!" she cried, before she saw me. "Speak, Roger! speak!" I could hardly tell her all that the French Count had told me, and I could hardly get her to believe what she heard. But I took her into the room to him, and he told her everything over again. A hundred questions were asked backward and forward upon both sides, and there was not the smallest doubt, on either of our parts, but that it was my Robie that his daughter had liberated from the prison, and run off with. "But oh, sir," said Agnes, "where are they now--baith o my bairns--as you say I have twa? Where shall I find them?" He said that he had but little doubt that they were safe, for his daughter had powerful friends in France, and that as soon as a peace took place, (which he hoped would not be long,) we should all see them again. Well, the long-wished-for peace came at last--and in both countries the captives were released from the places of their imprisonment. I have already twice mentioned the infirm state of my wife's health; and we were residing at Spittal, for the benefit of the sea air and bathing, and the Spa Well, (though it had not then gained its present fashionable popularity,) when a post-chaise drove to the door of our lodgings. An elderly gentleman stepped off from the dicky beside the driver, and out of the chaise came a young lady, a gentleman, and two bonny bairns. In a moment I discovered the elderly gentleman to be my old friend the French Count. But, oh! how--how shall I tell you the rest! I had hardly looked upon the face of the younger stranger, when I saw my own features in the countenance of my long lost Robie! The lady was his wife--the Count's bonny daughter; and the bairns were their bairns. It is in vain for me to describe to you the feelings of Agnes; she was at first speechless and senseless, and then she threw her arms round Robie, and she threw them round his wife, and she took his bairns on her knee--and, oh! but she was proud at seeing herself a grandmother! We have all lived together in happiness from that day to this; and the more I see of Robie's wife, the more I think she is like an angel; and so thinks his mother. I have only to inform you that bold Jonathan Barlowman was forced to leave the country-side shortly after his valiant display of courage, and since then nobody in Dunse has heard whether he be dead or living and nobody cares. This is all I have to tell ye respecting the _false alarm_, and I hope ye are satisfied. FOOTNOTES: [A] It is evidently from the beautiful chalk cliff near Ednam House (though now not a very prominent object) that Kelso derives its name--as is proved by the ancient spelling. HOGMANAY; OR, THE LADY OF BALLOCHGRAY. The last fifty years of mortal regeneration and improvement have effected more changes in the old fasts, and feasts, and merrymakings of Scotland, than twice and twice over that time of any other period since it became a nation. Every year we see the good old customs dying out, or strangled by the Protæan imp Fashion, who, in the grand march of improvement of which we are so proud, in the perking conceit of heirs-apparent of the millennium, seems to be the only creature that derives benefit from the eternal changes that, by-and-by, we fear, will turn our heads, and make us look _back_ for the true period of happiness and wisdom. But what enrageth us the more is, that, while all our fun of Beltane, Halloween, Hogmanay, Hanselmonday, and all our old merrymakings, are gone with our absentee lords and thanes-- "Wha will their tenants pyke and squeize, And purse up all their rent; Syne wallop it to far courts, and bleize Till riggs and schaws are spent"-- and to whose contempt of our old customs we attribute a great part of their decay--we, in the very midst of the glorious improvement that has succeeded, are still cheated, belied, robbed, and plundered on all hands by political adventurers, private jobbers, and saintly hypocrites, in an artful, clean-fingered, and beautiful style of the trade, a thousand times more provoking than the clumsy, old-fashioned, _honest_ kind of roguery that used to be in fashion, when folk were not too large for innocent mirth, and not too wise for enjoying what was liked by their ancestors. The people cry improvement--so do we; but we cherish a theory that has no charm, in these days of absolute faith in politics and parliament for the regeneration of man, that the true good of society--that is, the improvement of the heart and morals of a great country--lies in a sphere far humbler than the gorgeous recesses of Westminster--the fireside; a place that in former days, was revered, and honoured, and cherished, not only as the cradle of morals, but the abode of soul-stirring joys, and the scene of the celebration of many old and sacred amusements which humanized the young heart, and moulded and prepared it for the reception of those feelings which are interwoven with the very principle of social good. A political wrangle is a poor substitute for the old moral tales of the winter evenings of old Scotland. Even our legends of superstitious fear carried in them the boon of heartfelt obligation, which, when the subject was changed for the duties of life, still retained its strength, and wrought for good. These things are all gone; and, dissatisfied as we are with the bold substitutes of modern wisdom, let us use that which they cannot take from us, our books of "auld lear," and refresh ourselves with a peep at Leslie, in the Hogmanay of 16--. Who has not heard of "Christ's Kirk" in the kingdom of Fife, that place so celebrated by King James, in his incomparable "Christ's Kirk on the Green," for the frolics of wooers and "kittys washen clean," and "damsels bright," and "maidens mild?" That celebrated town was no other than our modern Leslie; and, though we cannot say that that once favoured haunt of the satyrs of merrymaking has escaped the dull blight that comes from the sleepy eye of the owl of modern wisdom, we have good authority for asserting that long after James celebrated the place for its unrivalled festivities, the character of the inhabitants was kept for many an after-day; and Hogmanay was a choice outlet for the exuberant spirits of the votaries of Momus. The day we find chronicled as remarkable for an exhibition of the true spirit of the Leslieans, went off as all days that precede a glorious jubilee at night generally do. The ordinary work of the "yape" expectants was, no doubt, apparently going on; but the looking of "twa ways" for gloaming was, necessarily, exclusive of much interest in the work of the day. The sober matrons, as they sat at the door on the "stane settle," little inclined to work, considered themselves entitled to a _feast_ of gossip; and even the guidman did not feel himself entitled to curb the glib tongue of his dame, or close up her ears with prudential maxims against the bad effects of darling, heart-stirring, soul-inspiring scandal. On that day there was no excise of the commodities of character. They might be bought or sold at a wanworth, or handed or banded about in any way that suited the tempers of the people. The bottle and the bicker had already, even in the forenoon, been, to a certain extent, employed as a kind of outscouts of the array that was to appear at night, and the gossipers were in that blessed state, between partial possession and full expectation, that makes every part of the body languid and lazy except the tongue. Around them the younkers, "hasty hensures" and "wanton winklots," were busy preparing the habiliments of the guysers--whose modes of masking and disguising were often regulated by the characters they were to assume, or the songs they had learned to chant for the occasion. Nor were these mimes limited to the urchin caste; for, in these days, wisdom had not got so conceited as to be ashamed of innocent mirth; and gaucy queens and stalwarth chiels exhibited their superiority only in acting a higher mask, and singing a loftier strain. The gossips did not hesitate to suspend the honeyed topic, to give sage counsel on the subject of the masking "bulziements;" and anon they turned a side look at the minor actors, the imps of devilry, who passed along with their smoking horns often made of the stem or "runt" of a winter cabbage, wherewith that night they would inevitably smoke out of "house and hauld" every devil's lamb of every gossip that did not open her hand and "deal her bread" to the guysers. Both parties, gossips and urchins, understood each other--like two belligerent powers asserting mutual rights, and contemplating each other with that look of half-concealed contention and defiance, which only tended to make the attack more inevitable. The evening set in, and the witching hour--the keystone of night's black arch, twelve o'clock--was approaching. To go to bed on such an occasion, would have been held no better than for a jolly toper to shirk his bicker, a lover to eschew the trysting thorn, or a warrior to fly the scene of his country's glory; neither would it have been safe, for no good guyser of the old school would take the excuse of being in bed in lieu of the buttered pease-bannock--the true hogmanay cake, to which he was entitled, by "the auld use and wont" of Scotland; and far better breathe the smoke of the "smeikin horn" on foot, and with the means of self-defence at command, than lie choked in bed, and "deaved" by the stock and horn, the squalling bagpipe, and the eternal-- "Hery, Hary, Hubblischow, See ye not quha is come now!" ringing in one's ears during the whole night. The young were out; the old were in; but all were equally up and doing the honours of the occasion. At auld Wat Wabster's door, one minstrel company were singing--"Great is my sorrow;" and Marion, his daughter, with "Her glitterand hair, that was sae gowden," dealt out, with leal hand, the guyser's bannock. At the very next door, Meg Johnston was in the act of being "smecked oot" by a covey of twelve devils, who had inserted into every cranny a horn, and were blowing, with puffed cheeks, a choking death in every blast. One kept watch, to give the concerted signal when Meg should appear with her stick. On which occasion they were off in an instant; but only to return when Meg had let out the smoke, and satisfied herself that she would be no more tormented that night, to blow her up and out again, with greater vigour and a denser smoke than before. Farther on, Gib Dempster's dame, Kate, is at her door, with the bottle in her hand, to give another menyie of maskers their "hogmanay," in the form of a dram; and Gib is at her back, eyeing her with a squint, to count how many interlusive applications of the cordial she will make to her own throat before she renounce her _opportunity_. In the middle of the street, Gossip Simson is hurrying along, with the necessaries in her lap, to treat her "cusin," Christy Lowrie, with a bit and a drop; and ever and anon she says, "a guid e'en" to this one, and "a guid e'en" to that; and, between the parties, her head is ever thrown back, as if she were counting the stars; and, every time the act is repeated, the bottle undergoes a perceptible diminution of its contents, till, by the time she reaches her "luving cusin's" door, it is empty; and honest John Simson, at her return, greets her with--"My feth, Jenny, ye've been at mony a hoose in Christ's Kirk this nicht, if ane may judge by yer bottle." At the same instant, "Oh, leddy, help yer prisoneer This last nicht o' the passing year," is struck up at the door; the stock and horn sounds lustily in the ears of her whose bottle is empty; and, obliged to send them away without either cake or sup, she hears sounding in her confused ears-- "The day will come when ye'll be dead. An' ye'll neither care for meal nor bread;" and, in a short time after, "Jamie the wight," an impling, with a tail of half-a-dozen minor and subordinate angels, begin blowing their smoking horns in at both door and window, till honest John is fairly smoked out, crying, as he hastens to the door--"This comes, Jenny, o' yer lavish kindness to yer cusins, that we hae naethin left in oor bottle, either to keep oot thae deevils' breath or wash't oot o' oor choking craigs." He is no sooner at the door than Geordie Jamieson accosts him in the usual style, and says he has come for his "hogmanay;" but John, knowing the state of the bottle, begins a loud cough, in the midst of the smoke, and cries, as he runs away from his house and visitor, (whom he pretends not to see for the smoke.) "It's a deevil o' a hardship to be smeeked oot o' ane's ain hoose." "Now," mutters Jenny, as she hears him run away, "I'll no see his face till mornin; an' he'll come in as blind's a bat." And out she flies to catch him; but, in her hurry, she overturns Geordie, just as his lips are manufacturing the ordinary "Guid e'en to ye, Jenny!" "The same to ye, Geordie," says she; and, with that boon, leaves him on her flight. The truth was, that John had the same instinctive antipathy against a house where there was an empty bottle as rats have against deserted granaries. But, if honest John Simson's house was deserted because Jenny had made too free with the bottle, Wat Webster's was full, from a reason precisely the very opposite; for the fair Marion--who had "Brankit fast and made her bonny"-- was, in the midst of a company, distributing the cakes and bannocks with maidenly grace; and many a swain that night was glad, while "He quhissilit and he pypit baith, To mak her blyth that meeting-- My hony heart, how says the sang, There sall be mirth at oor greeting." And among the rest might now be seen John Simson and his helpmate, and also Meg Johnston, who had been--either in reality, or, at least, with semblance sufficient to form their apology for calling where there was plenty of drink--smoked out of their own houses, amidst the cheers of the fire-imps. About this time, twelve o'clock was chimed from a rough-voiced bell of the Franciscan Monastery; and, some time after, in came Christy Lowrie, puffing and blowing, as if she too had experienced the effects of the thick breath of the fire-imps; and it might have been a fair presumption that her throat, like that of some of her predecessors, had been dried from pre-perceived gusts of Wat Webster's whisky rather than the smoke of the fire-angels, had it not been made quickly apparent, from other symptoms, that a horripilant terror had seized her heart and limbs, and inspired her tongue with the dry rattle of fearful intelligence. Never stopping till she got forward into the very heart of the company, seated round a blazing ingle, she sank upon a chair, and held up her hands to heaven, as if calling down from that quarter some supernatural agency to help in her difficulty. Every one turned and looked at her with wonder, mixed with sympathetic fear. "What, in God's name, is this, Christy? Is he come?" cried Wat Webster. "Oh! he's come again--he's come again!" she replied, in the midst of an effort to catch a spittle to wet her parched throat. "He's been at Will Pearson's, and Widow Lindsay's, and Rob Paterson's--he's gaun his auld rounds--and dootless he'll be here too. O Marion! Marion! gie me a spark to weet my throat." The door was again opened, and in came Widow Lindsay in great haste and terror, "I've seen him again!" cried she fearfully, and threw herself down in a corner of the lang settle. "Are ye sure it's him, dame?" inquired Meg Johnston, who seemed perfectly to understand these extraordinary proceedings. "Sure!" ejaculated the widow. "Hae I no tasted his _red whisky_; and has it no burned my throat till I maun ask Marion there to quench the fire wi' a spark o' human-liquor?" The fire in the two terror-struck women's throats was soon extinguished by the "spark" they demanded; and a conversation, composed of twenty voices at once, commenced, the essence of which was, that, on the occasion of the last Hogmanay, a man dressed in a peculiar manner, with a green doublet, and hose of the same colour, a cravat, and a blue bonnet, had, just as twelve o'clock pealed from the monastery clock, made his appearance in the town, and conducted himself in such a manner as to excite much wonder among the inhabitants. Everything about him was mysterious; no person in that quarter had ever seen him before; there was nobody along with him; he came exactly at twelve; his face was so much shaded by a peculiar manner of wearing his bonnet and cravat that no one could say he had ever got a proper view of his features; he carried with him a bottle of liquor, which the people, from ignorance of its character, denominated _red whisky_, and which he distributed freely to all and sundry, without his stock ever running out, or being exhausted: his manners were free, boisterous, and hilarious; and he possessed the extraordinary power of making people love him _ad libitum_. He came as he went, without any one knowing more of him than that he was the very prince of good fellows; so exquisite a tosspot, that he seemed equal to the task (perhaps no difficult one) of making the whole town of Christ's Kirk drunk by the extraordinary spirit of his example; and so spirit-stirring a conjurer of odd thoughts and unrivalled humour, that melancholy itself laughed a gaunt laugh at his jokes; and gizzened gammers and giddy hizzies were equally delighted with his devilry and his drink. Arriving in the midst of frolic as high as ordinary mortal spirits might be supposed able to sublime human exultation, he effected such an increase of the corrybantic power of the laughing and singing genius of Hogmanay, that "Never in Scotland had been seen Sic dancing nor deray; Nowther at Falkland on the green, Nor Peebles at the play." But, coming like a fire-flaught, like a fire-flaught he and his red whisky had departed; and it was not until he had gone, and one tosspot met another tosspot, and gossip another gossip, and compared notes, and exchanged shrewd guesses, eloquent winks, and pregnant vibrations of wondering noddles, that the mysterious stranger was invested with all the attributes to which he was, by virtue of his super-human powers, so clearly entitled. He was immediately elevated to the place which, in those days, was reserved in every cranium for the throne of the genius of superstition; yea he of the red cravat and red liquor was the never-ending subject of conversation, investigation, speculation, and consternation of the good folks of the town of Christ's Kirk. While the terror he had inspired was still fresh on the minds of the people, he returned at the exact hour of twelve on the subsequent Halloween. He brought again his bottle of red liquor, was dressed in the same style, wore the same red cravat, and was invested with the same sublimating powers of extravagant merriment. He went his old rounds; cracked nuts with the kittys; ducked for the apple, which never escaped his mouth; threw the weight in the barn; spaed fortunes with the Mauses; drank with the tosspots-- "If you can be blest the day, Ne'er defer it till the morn-- Peril still attends delay; As the fools will find, when they Have their happy hour forborne;" and, by means of his wild humour and exhilarating drink, set all the scene of his former exploits in an uproar of mixed terror, jollity, superstition, and amazement. Every one, not possessed of fear, scrutinized him; those (and they were many) who were stricken with terror, avoided him as if he had in reality been the gentleman in black, as indeed many at that time alleged he was; some who had heard of him, watched to catch a passing glimpse of him; but, wonderful as it may seem, the jolly stranger again disappeared, and no one, even those who had got royally drunk with him, could say aught more of him than was said on the prior occasion; viz., that he was the very prince of good fellows, if he should be the "very big-horned Deil himsel." On his second disappearance, the point was no longer a moot one, "Who the devil he could be?" for the very question, as put, decided the question before it was answered. The point was just as lucid as ever was the spring of St Anthony, and no one could be gravelled, where there was not a grain of sand to interrupt the vision. There was not in the limits of the guid toun a dame or damsel, greybeard, or no-beard, that possessed within the boundaries of their cerebral dominions a single peg on which they could hang a veritable or plausible doubt of the true character, origin, and destination of this twelve-o'clock visiter of the good old town of "Christ's Kirk on the Green." Such was the state and condition of public opinion in the town of Leslie on this most important and engrossing subject, on the breaking of the day with which our history begins--this eventful Hogmanay. As the evening approached, every one trembled; but the inspiration of incipient drams had had the effect of so far throwing off the incubus as to enable some of the inhabitants, and, in particular, those we have mentioned, to go about the forms of the festival with decent freedom; while the guysers and "reekers," after the manner of buoyant youth, had been flirting with their terrors, and singing and blowing to "keep their spirits up," in the execution of what they conceived to be a national duty, as well as very good individual fun. But there was little real sport in the case; and we would give it as a stanch, and an unflinching opinion, were it put to us, that the terror of the stranger, and not a love of the liquor she carried, was the true cause of Jenny Simson's having emptied the bottle before she arrived at the residence of Christy Lowrie. Nay, more, we might safely allege--and there is no affidavit in the case--that there might have been more than smoke in the cause of the rapid flight of John Simson and Meg Johnston from their own houses to that of Wat Webster; and more than the roses in the cheeks of the fair Marion, or Wat Webster's pith of anecdote, that produced the congregation of individuals round his "blazing ingle," at the approach of the eerie hour of twelve, when it was probable the mysterious stranger would again appear. Be all this as it may--and we have no wish to overstate a case in which it is scarcely possible to carry language too far--there cannot be a doubt that the bells of the Franciscan monastery, as they tolled, in reverberating sounds, the termination of the old year and the beginning of the new, on that eventful night, struck a panic into the boldest Heich Hutcheon that ever figured in "Christ's Kirk on the Green." The statement of Christy Lowrie was perfectly true. Just as the bell tolled, the identical personage, with the red cravat, was seen hurrying forward with his ordinary agility--taking immense strides, and, at times, laughing with the exuberance of his buoyant spirits, on the eve of being gratified by his darling fun--by the east end of the town. The moon threw a faint beam on him as he passed, and exhibited him first to a company of guysers who were chanting at the door of Will Pearson-- "O lusty Maye, with Flora queen." The song was cut by a severed breath, and, uttering a loud scream, the whole party darted off at full speed, and, as they flew, spread the dreadful intelligence, that he of the red cravat was hurrying into the town from the east. The news was just what was expected; hundreds were waiting _aperto ore_ to receive it; and the moment they did receive it, they fled to communicate the intelligence to others. Guysers, reekers, gossips, and tosspots, laid down their songs, their horns, their scandal, and their stoups, and acknowledged their Hogmanay occupation gone. The startling words--"He's come, he's come!" passed from mouth to mouth. Some shut up their houses, to prevent him from coming into them; and many who were solitary, sought refuge in the houses of their neighbours. Some went out of the town entirely, and sought protection from the abbot of the monastery; and many stood about the corners of the passages and the ends of houses, consulting what should be done in this emergency they had so long looked for, and were so poorly provided against. In every quarter, fear reigned with absolute sway; and if, in any instances, there was exhibited any portion of courage, it was either derived from the protecting power of a crucifix, or assumed in spite of the collapsing heart of real terror. But all this did not prevent the stranger from going through his wonted routine. His long strides, and extreme eagerness to get again into the heart of his former extravagant jollity, brought him very soon to the threshold of his old tosspot, Will Pearson, who, with his wife Betty, was sitting at the fire, engaged in a low-toned conversation, on the very subject of him of the red cravat. The door was burst open--the stranger entered with a loud laugh and boisterous salutation. "A good new year to thee," said he, "Will Pearson!" And he took, at the same time, out of a side-pocket, the identical bottle, with a long neck, and a thin waist, and containing the same red whisky he had been so lavish of on former occasions, and set it upon the table with a loud knock that rang throughout the small cottage. Will Pearson and his wife Betty were riveted to the langsettle on which they sat. Neither of them could move, otherwise they would have either gone out at the back window, or endeavoured to get past the stranger, and hurried out of the door. The quietness of the street told them eloquently that there was no one near to give them assistance; and such was the enchantment (they said) thrown over them by the extraordinary personage, that they were fixed to their seats as firmly as if they had been tied by cords. "A good new year to thee!" said the stranger again; and he reached forth his hand, and seized two flasks that lay on a side table, and which they had been using in the convivialities of the day. These he placed upon the table with a loud clank; and, laying hold of a three-footed creepy, he sat down right opposite the trembling pair, and proceeded to empty out the red liquor into the flasks, which he did in the most flourishing and noble style of valiant topers. "Here, my good old tosspot, Will Pearson!" said he, as he handed to him one of the flasks. "I love thee, man, and have called on thee the first of all the inhabitants of Christ's Kirk. Ha! by the holy rude, what a jolly cruise I shall have!--I have looked forward for it since the last time thou and I reduced the consistency of our corporations to the texture of souls, through which the moon might have shone, by the power of this inimitable liquor. Ho, man, had not we a jolly time of it last time we met? Drink, man!" And he emptied his flask, and flung it down upon the table, with a bold and reckless air, as if he did not care whether its continuity might be maintained against the force of the bang with which he disposed of it. Will Pearson was unable to speak a single syllable; and the flask that had been filled for him stood upon the table untouched. He sat with his eyes fixed upon the stranger, and his skin as pale as a corpse. Betty was in the same state of immovable terror. Every word that fell from his lips was a death-knell--every drop of his red drink was as much liquid fire--and every look was a flame. "Why won't drink, Will Pearson, mine good old crony?" said he again, with the same boisterous manner. "What grieves thee, man? and Betty too?--what loss hast thou sustained? Cuffed by fortune? Broken on her wheel? Ha! ha! I despise the old gammer, and will laugh out my furlough, though my lungs should crack in throwing off the burden. "'This warld does ever flight and wary, Fortune sae fast her wheel does cary, Na time but turn can ever rest; For nae false charge suld ane be sary, And to be merry, I think it best.' Pull up thy jaws, Will Pearson, and pull into them this flask, and thou shalt be again my merry tosspot." Will and his wife were still under the influence of their fear, and stared at him in amazement. "Well, and thou wilt not," he cried, rising hastily, "may the Devil take on for't! My time is counted, and I must stuff as much fun into the compass of an hour as may serve me for the coming year. Will Pearson, thou and I might have had a right jolly time of it. I warrant the gallant Rob Paterson will welcome me in a different manner. The sight of this is enough for Rob," (taking up the bottle;) "and as for this--ha! ha! what goodness getteth not the fire claims." And throwing the liquor into the ingle, which blazed up a large and fearful flame by the strength of the spirit, he sallied out, and at the same moment a loud scream--coming from some bolder investigators, who had ventured near the house, and seen the sudden conflagration, followed by the exit of the stranger--rung in echoes all around. But the stranger heeded not these trifling indications of the effect of his visit. Resuming his long strides and pushing-on activity of manner, he soon arrived at the house of Rob Paterson, who was at the very moment addressing a figure of the Virgin. "A good new year to thee, Rob Paterson!" cried the stranger, as he sat down upon a kind of chair by the side of the table, and, taking out his strange-fashioned bottle of red spirits, banged it down with a noise that made Rob start and shake all over. "Here again, thou seest, Rob Paterson," continued he. "We must have another jolly bout. Thou knowest my time is short. Let us begin, for my body feels the weight of its own clay. Before the Virgin, Rob? Ha! ha! man, art going to die? Come, man-- "When grim Death is looking for us, We are toping at our bowls; Bacchus joins us in the chorus-- Death, begone!--here's none but souls." Drink, Rob Paterson, and thou'lt pray the better to the Virgin." And he held out the bottle to Rob, after having put it bodily to his mouth, and taking a long draught as an example to the latter, who was known to despise flasks. Rob turned up his eyes to the Virgin, and got from her some confidence, if not courage. He looked at the tempting bottle, beautiful in its fulness and total freedom from the contaminating society of flasks or tankards; then he turned a fearful eye on its laughing, rioting possessor, and anon sought again the face of the saint. "Hast lost thine ancient spirit, Rob Paterson?" said the stranger. What hath that spare figure, made of dry wood, to do with the mellow fuddling of our noses? Come, man--Time flies; let us wet his wings, and keep him fluttering a while over our heads. "'With an O and an I, Now are we furder found, Drink thou to me, and I to thee, And let the cup go round.'" "But wha, in the Devil's name, are ye?" now said Rob Paterson, after many an ineffectual effort to put the question. "Ha! ha!" answered the stranger, "does Rob Paterson ask a man who is introduced by this friend of noble red-blood, who he is? Why, man, I am Rob Paterson's tosspot. Isn't that enough?" "No quite," answered Rob, drawing nearer the Virgin. "Satan himself might use the same words; and I crave the liberty to say in your presence, that I hae nae wish to be on drinking terms wi' his Majesty." And Rob eyed him fearfully as he thus alluded to the subject of the town's fears, and again sought the face of the saint. "Ah, Rob Paterson, my once cherished toper," replied the stranger, "I sorrow for thy change. Thine ancient spirit has left thee, and thou hast taken up with wooden idols, in place of the well-filled jolly bottle of thy and my former love. Well, may the Devil take on for't!--I care not. Thou mayst repent of thy folly when I am gone. "'Robene thou has hard soung and say, In gesties and stories auld-- The man that will not quhen he may, Sall haif nocht quhen he wald.'" Never mair, Rob Paterson, shalt thou have offer of spirit of wine. It shall go there first!" And, taking a mouthful of the red liquor, the stranger squirted it in the fire, and raised a mighty flame that flared out into the very middle of the street, and produced another echoing cry or scream from the terrified inhabitants. He departed in an instant, and left Rob in a state of agitation he had never felt before at the departure of a guest with a well-filled bottle of good liquor. The stranger passed out at the door with his usual bold precipitude, and again plied his long limbs in making huge strides along the street, for the house of another crony. He took no notice of the extraordinary demeanour of the inhabitants, who were seen flying away from corners and angles where they had nestled, for the purpose of seeing him come out in a flame of fire from Rob Paterson's, as he had done from Will Pearson's. He strode on, neither looking to the right nor to the left, till he came to Widow Lindsay's. "A good new year to thee, Dame Lindsay!" said he, as he entered the house by opening the door, which the widow thought she had barred when she shoved the bolt beyond the staple, and found her sitting by the fire counting her rosary, and muttering prayers, with eyes upturned to heaven. "Holy Mary, save me!" she muttered, as she heard him enter by the supposed locked door. "He's come at last." And she retreated to a corner of the room, and prayed fervently for deliverance. "Thy throat has doubtless good memory of me and mine," continued the stranger, as he placed on the table the same extraordinary bottle, the shape and dimensions of which were as vivid in the mind of Dame Lindsay as was the colour of the red cravat. "My male tosspots have forgot the taste of my red liquor," he continued; "but what wet gossip's throat ever forgot what nipped it. Come, dame, and let us have a right hearty jorum of this inimitable drink." And, for want of better measure, he seized lustily a bicker that lay near him, and dashed a quantity of the liquor into it. "Ha! I forgot. Get thee for Meg Johnston thy gossip, dame, and let us be merry together. Meg is a woman of a thousand. What a lusty hold she takes of a brimming bicker, and how her eye lightens and brightens as she surveys the swimming heaven under her nose! Come, dame--what ails?" The only reply he got was a groan, and the rustle of Dame Lindsay's quivering habiliments. "By my own saint, this town of Christ's Kirk has a change upon it!" he continued. "Last time I was here, it was as merry as King James when he sang of it. The young and the old hailed me as the prince of good fellows, and the wenches and wives--ha! ha! "'To dans thir damysells them dight, Thir lasses light of laits; They were sae skych when I them nicht, They squeild like ony gaits.'" Dame Lindsay, I perceive what thou wantest, to melt thee into thy former jollity. Thou'rt coquetting in the corner there for a kiss; and, by the holy rude, thou shalt not want it for the space of the twinkling of thine eye." He rose for the purpose of applying the emollient he had threatened; but a loud scream evinced that a woman, however much she may worship his Satanic Majesty, cares not for his familiarities. The widow fainted; and what may be supposed her feelings, when she found, on coming to herself, that that identical and terrific red liquor had had a share in her recovery! Again she screamed; but no kindly neighbour came to rescue her from her perilous situation. Those who heard her cries, had many strange thoughts as to what species of punishment she was undergoing, for her sins. The conjectures were endless. "What could he be doing to Widow Lindsay?" was the universal question. Some supposed that she was in the act of being carried off, and was struggling to get out of his talons; some looked for the passing flame, in the midst of which, the poor widow, clasped in his arms, would be seen on her luminous journey to the lower world; and there were not few who pretended to find, in the past life of the wretched victim, a very good legitimate cause for the visit of the stranger, and the severity he was clearly exercising towards her. "Thou'lt be the better for thy faint, Widow Lindsay," said the stranger, as she recovered, "seeing that what blood it has sent from thy heart, will be returned with the addition of that liquor which is truly the water of life. Dost forget, good widow, that, when I was last here, thou and Meg Johnston would have fought for a can of it, if I had not made the can two? Come now, and let us fuddle our noses till they be as red as the liquor itself, and thy spectacles shew thee two noses, before they melt with the heat of their ruby supporter. "'However this world do change and vary, Oh, let us in heart never more be sary.'" "Avaunt ye! in the name o' the five holy wounds!" muttered the widow, as she held up the Sathanifuge crow in his face. "Well, and if thou wilt not, here goes!" replied he, as he threw the contents of the bicker in the fire, which blazed up till the house seemed, to those waiting fearfully in the distance, to be in flames. Many an eye was now directed to the door and windows, to see Widow Lindsay take her pyromantic flight through the flaming fields of ether; and they continued their gaze till they saw him of the red cravat sally forth, when fear closed up the vision, and they saw no more. Meanwhile he strode on, singing all the way-- "Full oft I muse, and be's in thocht; How this false world is aye on flocht," till he came to the door of Meg Johnston's cottage. He found it deserted; and then stalked on to honest John Simson's, which was in like manner empty. "What can this mean?" he said to himself, as he bent his long steps to Wat Webster's, where fearful messengers, as we have seen, had already preceded him. "My person has lost its charm, my converse its interest, and my drink its spirit-stirring power. But we shall see what Wat Webster and his Dame Kitty, and the fair Marion, say to the residue of my authority. Ah, Marion, as I think of thee-- "'How heises and bleizes My heart wi' sic a fyre, As raises these praises That do to heaven aspire.'" "Ha! ha! I will there outdevil all my devilries. My fire-chariots have as yet flown off without a passenger; but this night I shall not go home alone." And he continued striding onwards in the deserted and silent passage, till he came to Wat Webster's, where the collected inmates were all huddled together round the fire, in that state of alarm produced by the intelligence of Christy Lowry and Widow Lindsay, and already partly set forth by us heretofore. Bang up went the door. "A good new year to ye all!" said he, as he stalked into the middle of the apartment. There was a dead silence throughout the company. Marion was the only individual that dared to look him in the face; and there was an expression in her eye that seemed to have the effect of increasing the boisterous glee of his mysterious manner. "Here we are once more, again," he continued, as he took out the eternal imp-shaped bottle, and clanged it on the table. Every eye was fixed upon him as if watching his motions and evolutions. Meg Johnston was busy in a corner, defending herself, by drawing a circle round her; Widow Lindsay was clinging close to the figure of the Virgin that was placed against the wall by her side; Jenny Wilson sought refuge in the arms of honest John; Wat Webster himself got his hand placed upon an old Latin Bible, not one word of which he could read; and some followed one mode of self-defence, and some another, against the expected efforts of the stranger, whose proceedings at his other places of call had been all related at Wat Webster's, with an exaggeration they perhaps stood little in need of. The stranger cared nothing for these indications, not a cinder; and took no notice of them. "I'll e'en begin our potations myself," said he, filling out a flaskful of his liquor, and drinking it off. "By him that brewed it, it tastes well after my long walk! Wat Webster, wilt thou pledge me, man-- "'And let us all, my friends, be merry, And set nocht by this world a cherry; Now while there is good wyne to sell, He that does on dry bread worry, I gif him to the devil of hell.'" And he trowled the flask upon the table while he sung, as a kind of bass chorus to his song. "There's for thee, Wat!" continued he, filling out a flask. Wat kept his hand upon the holy book. "Wilt thou, honest John Wilson, pledge thy old friend in this red liquor, which formerly claimed so strong an acquaintanceship with the secret power of the topers' hearts of merry Christ's Kirk?" "For the luve o' heaven," whispered Jenny, as she clung closer to him, "touch it not!--it will scald yer liver like brimstone, and may, besides, be the price o' yer soul's purchase." John looked at the liquor, and would have spoken; but his heart failed him. "Wilt thou, Meg Johnston, empty this flask to the health of thy old friend?" "Guid faith, I, lad," muttered Meg, safe as she thought within the walls of her necromantic circumvallation--"I ken ye owre weel. Ye needna think to cheat me. I'm no a spunk to be dipped in brimstone, and then set lowe to. But [aside] how can he stand the look o' the haly rude! and the haly book? The deevil o' sic a deevil I ever heard, saw, or read o'. Avaunt ye, avaunt ye, in the name o the seven churches! The deil a bane ye'll get here--yere owre weel kenned. Set aff in a flash o' yer ain fire to Falkland." "Wilt thou, Christy Lowry, pledge thine old friend?" continued the stranger, without noticing Meg's recommendation. "In guid troth na," replied Christy, to whom the cross afforded some confidence. "It's a' out, man--it's owre the hail town. There's nae use in concealin't langer. Just put a spunk to the neck o't and set aff. Wae! wae! [aside] but it's an awfu thing to look the enemy i' the very face, and hauld converse wi' lips that mak nae gobs at cinders! Ave Maria! help Christy Lowry in this her trial and temptation?" "Come from thy langsettle, jolly Kate Webster," continued he of the red cravat, "and let us, as thou wert wont to say, have a little laughing and drinking deray in this last night of the old year. I see, by the very mouths thou makest, thy throat is as dry as a dander, and, by and by, may set fire to my red liquor. Ha! I love a jolly gossip for a tosspot; for she gives more speech, and takes more liquor, than your 'breeked' steers that drink down the words, and drown them in the throat. Nothing drowns a woman's speech. It strengthens and improves in ale or whisky as if it were its natural element. Come open thy word-mill, Kate, and pour in the red grist, lass." "The soopleness o' his tongue has been long kent," whispered Kitty to Meg Johnston. "Ay, an' lang felt," replied Meg, in a suppressed tone. "Our sins are naething but a coil o't. When, in God's name, will he tak flight? I canna stand this muckle langer." "Three times have I warded off a swarf," said Kitty. "The gouch o' his breath comes owre me like the reek o' a snuffed-out candle. Will the men no interfere?" "Marion Webster," said the stranger, as if unconscious of the fear he was producing, "did I not, sweet queen, dance a jolly fandango with thee, last Halloween, to the rondeau of love-- "'Return the hamewart airt agane, And byde quhair thou wast wont to be-- Thou art ane fule to suffer paine, For love of her that loves not thee.' And wilt thou not pledge thy old friend in a half flask--the maiden's bumper?" "I hae nae objections," replied the sprightly Marion, and took up the flask. The company looked on in amazement and terror. The flame would rise on the application of the liquor to her lips, and doubtless little more of Marion Webster would be seen on the face of this lower world. While Marion still held the flask in her hand, the sound of carriage wheels was heard. The vehicle seemed to halt at Wat Webster's door. The door opened with a bang. Marion had not time to drink off her "spark," and, still holding the flask, went to the door to see who had so unceremoniously opened it; he of the red cravat, taking up his bottle, followed with a long stride. A sudden exclamation was heard from Marion; the sound of the shutting of the door of a carriage followed; then came Jehu's "hap-away," with three loud cracks of a whip, and all was ended by the rolling of rapid wheels, lost in a moment in the distance. Wat Webster, who had hitherto been chained to his seat, now started up; and, clasping his hands in his agony, ejaculated, that "Marion was off in a flame o' fire." The fact scarcely required mention--alas! too evident to all the company--that the greatest beauty of Christ's Kirk was away in the talons of the great Enemy of all good; and the evidence within the walls of the house was not greater than what was afforded by the watching crowd without. The carriage, which was entirely black, and not unlike a hearse, was seen to come in by the east end of the town, driving with a furious career, the driver (dressed also in black) impelling, with a long whip, the black horses, from whose hoofs sparks of fire were seen to fly; and neither house nor man seeming to claim his attention, until he arrived at the house of Wat Webster, where he of the red cravat was known to be. Many followed the carriage, and many remained at a distance to see who the victim was that was destined to be carried off in the strangers' vehicle; for, that the coach was brought there for no other purpose than to carry off one who could command in an instant a chariot of fire, seemed reasonably to be entirely out of the question. Marion Webster, the beloved of the village, was seen to enter, followed by the stranger; and, as the coach flew off, a loud wail burst from the stricken hearts of the villagers, expressive at once of their fear and of the intense pity they felt for the fate of one so much beloved, and whose crimes, much less than theirs, merited so dreadful a punishment as that she should be carried off to the regions of sorrow. The evidence, within and without the house, met, and, by the force of sympathetic similarity, mixed in an instant, carrying away in their course, like floating straws, the strongest doubts that remained in the mind of the most sceptical man in Christ's Kirk, of the hapless daughter of Wat Webster having been carried off by the Devil. The town was in the greatest commotion; terror and pity were painted on every face; but the feelings of the public held small proportion, indeed, to the agony which overtook Wat Webster and his wife, whose only child she was, as well as their pride, and that of every one in the whole town. Wat, who saw no use in flying after Sathan--an individual of known locomotive powers--lay extended on the floor of his cottage, cursing his fate, and bewailing the condition of his lovely daughter, whose entry into Pandemonium, and first scream produced by the burning lake, were as distinct in his eye and ear as ever was his morning porridge, when they boiled and bubbled by the heat of the fire. But Kitty was up and out, with a mighty crowd or tail in attendance, flying up and down in every direction, to see if any burning trace could be had of her beloved Marion; for she declared that, if she only got "the dander o' her body to bury in Christ's Kirk," she would be thankful to heaven for the gift, and try to moderate her grief. But no "dander" was to be seen. It was by much too evident that Marion Webster would never more be seen on earth; and, what might naturally add to the grief of her friends, they had no chance of seeing her again in the world to come, unless at the expense of a _condemnation_--a dear passport to see an old friend. Such a night was never seen in Christ's Kirk as that on which Marion Webster was carried off by his Sathanic Majesty. We have said quite enough to make it to be understood that Marion Webster did in reality go off in a coach with the stranger who has occupied so much of our attention; but we have (being of Scottish origin) prudently abstained from giving any opinion of our own upon the question of the true character of him of the red cravat. The two drove off together, apparently with much affection, and, after they had got entirely beyond the reach of any supposed followers, they became comparatively easy, and very soon commenced a conversation--an amusement never awanting when there is a woman within reach of a person's articulated breath. "What is the meaning o' a' this, Geordie, man?" said Marion, looking lovingly into the face of the stranger. "Could I no have met ye this night at the Three Sisters--the trees in the wood o' Ballochgray--without your coming to Christ's Kirk, and spreading the fear o' the deil frae town's-end to town's-end? But whar are we journeying to? and what means the carriage?" The stranger thus accosted by the familiar name by which he was known to the young woman, smiled, and told her to hold her tongue, and resign herself to the pleasure of being carried through the air at the rate of ten miles an hour. The moon was now shining beautifully "owre tower and tree;" and ever and anon the maiden glanced her blue eye on the "siller-smolt" scenes through which she passed, and then turned to the face of her companion, who seemed to enjoy silently the wonder expressed by her fair face. After rolling on for some time, they came to a road or avenue of tall beech trees, at the end of which appeared an old castle, on which the moonbeams were glancing, and exhibiting in strange forms the turrets with which it was fancifully decorated. The grey owl's scream was borne along on the breeze that met them, and struck on Marion's ear in wild and fitful sounds--inspiring a dread which the presence of her mute lover did little to remove or assuage. "Is not that Ballochgray Castle?" said Marion, at last--"that fearfu place whar the Baron of Ballochgray haulds his court with the Evil One, on every Halloween night, when the bleak muirs are rife with the bad spirits o' the earth and air. Whar drives the man, Geordie? Oh, tell him to turn awa frae thae auld turrets and skreeching owls. I canna bear the sight o' the ane, or the eerie sound o' the ither." A smile was again the answer of her companion, and the carriage still drove on to the well-known residence of the young Baron of Ballochgray--a man who, knowing the weakness of his King, James the Third of Scotland, in his love of astrology and divination, and their sister black arts, had, with much address, endeavoured to recommend himself to his sovereign, by a character pre-established in his own castle, for a successful cultivation of the occult sciences. He had long withdrawn himself from the eyes of the world, and even of his own tenants, and shut himself up in his castle, with a due assortment of death's heads, charts, owls, globes, bones, astrolobes, and vellum chronicles, with a view to the perfection of his hidden knowledge; or, as some thought, with a view to produce such a fame of his character and pursuits as might reach the ears of James, and acquire for him that sway at court for which he sighed more than for real knowledge. Some alleged that he was a cunning diplomatist, who cared no more for the nostrums of astrology than he did for the dry bones that, while they terrified his servants, had no more virtue in them than sap, and were, with the other furniture of his dark study, collected for the mere purpose of forwarding his ambitious designs upon the weak prince. His true character was supposed to be--what he possessed before he took to his new calling--that of a wild, eccentric, devil-daring man, who loved adventures for their own sake, and worshipped the fair face of the "theekit and tenanted skull" of a bouncing damsel, with far greater enthusiasm and sincerity than he ever did his mortal osteological relics that lay in so much profusion in the recesses of his old castle. But he had, doubtless, so far succeeded in his plans; for he possessed a most unenviable fame for all sort of cantrips and sorceries; and the wandering beggar would rather have solicited a bit of bread from the iron hand of misery itself, than ventured near Ballochgray to ask his awmous. "I winna gang near that fearfu place, Geordie!" again cried Marion. "What hae ye, a puir hind, to do wi' the Baron o' Ballochgray? Turn, for the sake o' heaven!--turn frae that living grave o' dry banes, an' the weary goul that sits jabbering owre them, by their ain light!" Her companion again smiled; and the man dashed up the avenue, and never stopped till he came to the gate of the castle--over which there were placed two human shank-bones of great length, that were said to have sustained the body of the Baron of Balwearie--that prince of the black art, and the most cunning necromancer that ever drew a circle. The carriage stopped; and two servants, dressed in red doublets, (like garments of fire,) slashed with black, waited at the carriage door, with flambeaux in their hands, to shew the couple into the hall. Out sprang the male first, and then Marion Webster was handed, with great state, and led into the interior of the old castle. She was led direct into the hall, which was lighted up in a very fanciful manner, by means of many skulls arranged round the room, and through the eyes and jaws of which lurid lights streamed all around. Marion was filled with terror as she cast her eyes on these shining monuments of mortality; and had, in her fear, scarcely noticed a man in black, sitting at the end of the room, poring over a black-lettered manuscript. "Marion Webster," now said her travelling companion, "behold in your old lover of the Ballochgray Wood the Baron of Ballochgray!" A scream burst from the choking throat of the terrified damsel, and rung through the old hall. "Come, love," he continued, "abate thy terrors. My fame is worse than my real character. I have wooed thee for reasons known to myself, and to be known soon to thee. Thou didst love Geordie Dempster; and thy love was weak indeed, if it is to be scared by brainless tongues or tongueless skulls. Wilt thou consent to be the lady of the Baron of Ballochgray?" "Geordie! Geordie!" cried the wondering, and yet loving maiden, "if I would willingly wed thee in the grave, wi' death himsel for oor priest, shall I refuse to be yours in a castle o' the livin, filled though it be wi' thae signs o' mortality?" "Come forth, Father Anthony!" cried the Baron, "and join us by the rules and bands of holy kirk!" The man in black lifted up his head from the black-letter page; and, having called his witnesses, went through the requisite ceremonies; and Marion Webster became, within a short space, the lady of Ballochgray. Next day the Baron took her forth to the green woods, where, as they sauntered among elms many centuries old, and as high as castles, he told her that he had more reasons than other men for having a wife _who could keep a secret_. When he first met her, he was struck with her beauty, but had no more intention than ordinary love adventurers for making her his wife; frequent intercourse had revealed to him a jewel he had never seen in such brightness in the _head gear_ of the nobles of the land--a stern and unflinching regard to the sanction of her word. He quickly resolved to test this in such a manner as would leave no doubt in his mind that a secret-keeping wife he might find in his humble maiden of Ballochgray woods. He had three times visited Christ's Kirk in such a manner as would raise an intense curiosity in the inhabitants as to who he was. Marion had the secret only of his being plain Geordie Dempster; but so firmly and determinedly had she kept it, that, in the very midst of a general belief that he was the Prince of Darkness, she had never even let it be known that she had once seen his face before. So far Marion was enlightened; and it is not improbable that, afterwards, she knew _why_ a secret-keeping wife was so much prized by the Baron of Ballochgray, and why he could serve two purposes--that of love, and fame of supernatural powers--in personating, as he had done, the Prince of Darkness in his visits to Christ's Kirk on the Green. So far, at least, it is certain that Marion never revealed the secret of his pretended astrological acquirements. For weeks after the marriage, inquiries were made in every quarter for the lost damsel; but, at last, all search and inquiry was given up, and the belief that she was in the place appointed for the wicked had settled down on the minds of the people. One evening a number of cronies were assembled at the house of the disconsolate parents, and among these were Meg Johnston, Christy Lowrie, Widow Lindsay, and others of the Leslians. "The will o' the Lord maun be done," said Meg; "but wae's me! there was mony an auld gimmer in Leslie, whose horns are weel marked wi' the lines o' her evil days, that Clootie might hae taen, afore he cam to the bonnie ewe that had only tasted the first leaves o' her simmer girse. What did Marion Webster ever do in this warld to bring upon her this warst and last o' the evils o' mortals?" "It's just the like o' her the auld villain likes best," rejoined Christy. "He doesna gie a doit for a gizzened sinner, wha will fa' into his hands at the lang run without trouble. But the young, the blooming, and the bonny are aye sair beset by temptations; and, heard ye never, Mrs Webster, o' Marion's meetings at the Three Sisters, sometimes, they say, at the dead hour, wi' some lover that naebody ever kenned." "Ay, ay, dame," said Widow Lindsay; "that's just _his_ way. He comes in the shape o' a young lover, and beguiles the hearts o' young maidens. Ye mind o' bonny Peggy Lorimer o' the town's end, wha never did mair guid after she met a stranger in the woods o' Ballochgray. Ae glance o' his ee, she said, took awa her heart; and, every day after, she pined and pined, and wandered amang the woods till she grew like a wraith, but nae mair o' him did she ever see. I stricked her wi' my ain hands, and sic a corpse I never handled. There wasna a pound o' flesh on her bones; and the carriers at the burial aye said, that there wasna a corpse ava in the coffin. But puir Marion has dreed a waur weird." "My puir bairn! my puir bairn!" cried the mother. "The folk o' Leslie aye said she wad ride in her carriage, for she was the bonniest lass that ever was seen in Christ's Kirk. But, wear-awins! little kenned they what kind o' a carriage she wad ride awa in on her marriage night." "Some folks say, the monks will pray her back again," rejoined Meg; "but, my faith, they'll hae hard work o't. He'll no let her awa without a fearfu tuilzie, Christy." "She'll never mair be seen on earth, woman," answered Christy. "And, even if she were to be prayed back again, she wad never be the creature she was again. A coal black lire, and singit ee-brees, wadna set her auld lovers in Christ's Kirk in a bleeze again." "They should watch the smoking field o' Dysart," cried Widow Lindsay. "If she come again ava, it will be through that deil's porch. But what noise is that, Kitty? Didna ye hear the sound o' carriage wheels?" The party listened attentively; and, to be sure, there was a carriage coming rattling along the street. "Get out the Latin Bible, Wat!" cried Kitty. "He's maybe coming to tak us awa next." The listening continued; and when the sounds ceased, as the carriage stopped at the door, and the postilion's whip cracked over the restless horses, a cry of terror rang through the room. Every one shrank into a corner, and muttered prayers mixed with the cries of fear. The door opened. Every eye was fixed upon it, for no one doubted that their old friend had returned. The Baron of Ballochgray and his lady, dressed in the most gorgeous style, entered the house of the old couple. The sight of the gay visiters made Wat and Kitty's eyes reel; and they screamed again from the fear that the Prince had come back, only in a new doublet, to exhibit to them their _sold_ daughter. "I beg to introduce thee," said the Baron, "to the lady of Ballochgray--my wedded wife." Marion, without waiting for an answer, fell upon the neck of her father; and then, in the same manner, she embraced her mother; but it was a long time before the fears of Wat and Kitty were removed. At last, they were persuaded to accompany them on a visit to Ballochgray Castle; and, when they rode off in the chariot, they left behind them the belief that they too were carried off by the "Old One." We cannot pretend to describe the feelings of Wat and his wife when they were introduced into the old castle; but they soon came to see that the Baron of Ballochgray was just "as guid a chiel in his ain castle as ever he was when he acted the Deevil in Christ's Kirk on the Green." GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT. X.--SERGEANT WILSON. It was early on Monday morning, in the cold month of March, Anno Domini 1683, that the farm-house of Barjarg, in the parish of Keir and county of Dumfries, was surrounded by dragoons. They were in quest of a sergeant of the name of Wilson--a Sergeant Wilson--who had all unexpectedly (for he was a steady man and a good soldier) deserted his colours, and was nowhere to be found. The reason why they had come to Barjarg, was the report which one of Sergeant Wilson's companions in arms had made, that he knew the deserter was in love with Catherine Chalmers, the farmer's fair and only child. Catherine Chalmers was indeed forthcoming in all her innocence and bloom--but William was nowhere to be found, though they searched most minutely into every hole and corner. Being compelled, at last, to retire without their object--though not without threatening Catherine with the thumbikins, if she persevered in refusing to discover her lover's retreat--the family of Barjarg was once more left to enjoy its wonted quietude and peace. Adjoining to the farm-house of Barjarg, and occupying the ground where the mansion-house now stands, there stood an old tower, containing one habitable apartment; but only occupied as a sleeping room by one of the ploughmen, and the herd boy. There were one or two lumber-garrets besides; but these were seldom entered, as they were understood to contain nothing of any value, besides being dark, and swarming with vermin. Reports of odd noises and fearful apparitions had begun to prevail about the place, and both ploughman and herd were unwilling to continue any longer in a lodgment into which it was their firm persuasion that something "no canny" had entered. Holding this exceedingly cheap, Adam Chalmers, the veteran guidman of Barjarg, agreed to take a night of the old tower, and to set the devil and all his imps at defiance; but it was observed, that he came home next morning thoughtful and out of spirits, agreeing, at once, that nobody should, in future, be compelled to sleep in the old tower. He said little of what he had seen or heard, but he shook his head, and seemed to intimate that he knew more than he was at liberty to divulge. Things went on in this manner for some time--reports of noises at unseasonable hours still prevailing, and every one shunning the place after dark--till, one morning before daylight, the whole building was observed to be on fire, surrounded at the same time, as the flames were, by a troop of Grierson's men, with their leader at their head. The scream which Catherine Chalmers uttered when she beheld the flames, but too plainly intimated the state of her mind; nor was her father less composed, but went about, wringing his hands and exclaiming--"Oh! poor Sergeant Wilson! poor Sergeant Wilson!" At this instant, the fire had made its way to the upper apartment, and had thrown light upon a human head and shoulders, which leaned over the decayed battlement. Every one was horror-struck except the inhuman soldiery, who collected around the burning pile, and shouted up their profane and insulting jests, in the face of the poor perishing being, who, from his footing immediately giving way, was precipitated into the flames, and disappeared. "There, let him go," said Grierson, "dog and traitor as he is, let him sink to the lowest pit, there to wait the arrival of his canting and Covenanting spouse, whom we shall now take the liberty of carrying to head-quarters, there to await her sentence, for decoying a king's sworn servant and a sergeant, from his duty and allegiance." No sooner said than done, was the order of these dreadful times. Catherine Chalmers was placed in one of her father's carts; and, notwithstanding every remonstrance, and an assurance that poor Catherine was now a widow, she was placed betwixt two soldiers, who rode alongside the cart on horseback, and conveyed her to Dumfries, there to stand her trial before the Sheriff, Clavers, and the inhuman Laird of Lag. When arrived at her destination, she was put under lock and key, but allowed more personal liberty than many others who were accused of crimes more heinous in the eyes of the persecutors, than those of which she was merely suspected to be guilty. It so happened, that the quarterly meeting of the court was held in a few days, and the chief witness produced against Catherine Wilson, was a servant maid of her father, who was compelled, very much against her will, to bear evidence to her having seen Sergeant Wilson and her mistress (for Catherine kept her father's house) several times together in the old tower, as well as under a particular tree at the end of the old avenue, and that her mistress had told her that Sergeant Wilson was heartily tired of the service in which he was engaged. Her own father, too, was compelled to confess, that he had had an interview with the sergeant, in the tower, who had confessed to him the marriage, had asked and with difficulty obtained his forgiveness, and that he meditated a departure along with his wife, to some distant place, beyond the reach of his enemies. There was no direct evidence, however, that Catherine had persuaded him to desert, or to vilify the service which he had left; and the court were about to dismiss her _simpliciter_ from the bar, when, to the amazement of all, Catherine rose in her place, and addressed the court to the following purpose:--"And now ye have done your utmost, and I am innocent, in as far as your evidence has gone; but I am NOT INNOCENT--I am deeply guilty, if guilt ye deem it, in this matter. 'Twas I that first awakened poor William's conscience to a sense of his danger, in serving an emissary of Satan; 'twas I that spoke to him of the blood that cries day and night under the Altar; 'twas I that made him tremble--ay, as an aspen leaf, and as some here will yet shake before the Judge of all--when I brought to his recollection the brutal scenes which he had witnessed, and in which he had taken a part; 'twas I that agreed to marry him privately, without my dear father's consent, (whose pardon I have sought on my knees, and whose blessing I have already obtained,) [hereupon her father nodded assent] provided he would desert, and retire with me, at least for a time, beyond the reach of ye all--ye messengers of evil, sent to scourge a guilty and backsliding race; 'twas I that visited him night after night in that old tower, which you inhumanly set on fire, and in which--O my God!"----Hereupon she laid hold of the desk before her, and would have dropped to the earth, had not an officer in attendance supported her, and borne her, under the authority of the court, into the open air. She was now, notwithstanding her self-accusation, declared to be at liberty: and immediately, so soon as strength was given her, retired into the house of an acquaintance and relative, where suitable restoratives and refreshments were administered. The house where her friend lived was close upon what is called the Sands of Dumfries, adjoining to the river, which up to this point is navigable, and where boats are generally to be seen. During the night, she disappeared, and, though all search was made at home and everywhere else, she was not heard of. Her father at first took her disappearance sadly to heart; but time seemed to have a remedial effect upon his spirits, and he at length rallied, even into cheerfulness. Things went on for years and years, very much in the old way at Barjarg. The old man's hairs gradually whitened and became more scanty, whilst this loss was made up for by an increase of wrinkles. The only change in his habits were not unfrequent visits which he payed to an old friend, he said, in Whitehaven, and from which he always returned in high spirits. It might have been stated formerly that, when the ashes of the old tower were searched, after they had cooled, for the body of poor Wilson, no such body was found--but the inference was made by the neighbours, that the remains had been early removed by his wife's orders, who would naturally wish to possess herself of so valued a deposit. In fact, the whole transaction melted away in the stream of time, like the snow-flake on the surface of the water; and things went on very much us usual. Six long years revolved, and still no word of Catherine Wilson. Many conjectured that she had missed her foot in the dark, and fallen into the river, and been carried out to sea by the reflux of the tide. Others again hinted at suicide, from extreme grief; and some very charitable females nodded and winked something meant to be significant, about some people's not being easily known--and that some people, provided that they got a _grip_ of a man, would not be very nice about the object or the manner! Oh, what a blessed thing it was when King William came in!--and with him came amnesty, and peace, and restoration! It was upon a fine summer evening, in the year 1689, just six years after the mysterious disappearance of Catherine Wilson, that the old guidman of Barjarg was sitting enjoying the setting sun at his own door, on the root of an old tree, which had been converted into a _dais_, or out-of-doors seat. It was about the latter end of July, that most exuberantly lovely of all months, when Adam Chalmers, with Rutherford's Letters on his knee, sat gazing upon one of the most beautiful landscapes which our own romantic country can boast of. Before him flowed the Nith, over its blue pebbles, and through a thousand windings; beyond it were the woods and hills of Closeburn, all blooming and blushing in the setting beams of the sun, and rising up, tier above tier, till they terminated in the blue sky of the east. To the left were the Louther Hills, with their smooth-green magnificence, bearing away into the distance, and placed, as it were, to shelter this happy valley from the stormy north and its wintry blasts. At present, however, all idea of storm and blast was incongruous, for they seemed to sleep in the sun's effulgence, as if cradled into repose by the hand of God. To the south, and hard at hand, were the woods and the fields of Collestown, with the echoing Linn, and the rush of many waters. O land of our nativity!--how deeply art thou impressed upon this poor brain!--go where we will--see what we may--thou art still unique to us--thou art still superior to all other lands. It was eight o'clock of the evening above referred to, when a chaise entered the old avenue, passed the ruins of the Tower and the old mansion-house, and drew up immediately opposite old Adam Chalmers. The steps were immediately let down, and out sprung, with a bound, the long lost child, the blooming and matronly looking Mrs Wilson. Behind her followed one whom the reader, I trust, has long ago considered as dead, and perhaps buried, her manly and rejoicing husband William Wilson, handing out a fine girl of five years of age, a boy about three, and an infant still at the breast! It was indeed a joyous meeting; and the old man bustled about, embracing and pressing his child, and then surveying, with silent and intense interest, his grandchildren; taking the oldest on his knee, and permitting him all manner of intercourse with his wrinkles and his grey hairs. One of Lag's troop, the intimate and attached friend of the sergeant, had conveyed to him, by means of a letter, the fact, that his haunt was discovered; and that Lag had sworn he would search him out like a fox,--in short, that he would burn the old tower about his ears. A thought struck Wilson, that even though he should now escape, the pursuit would still be continued; but that, if he could by any means persuade his enemies that he had perished in the flames, the search of course would cease. As he was occupied with these thoughts, it occurred to him, that, by placing a couple of pillows, dressed in some old clothes, which were lying about, and which belonged to the former tenant, in the topmost turret of the tower, he might impose the belief upon Lag and his party, that he had actually perished in the flames. Having communicated this plan to his friend in the troop by a secret messenger, he immediately, and without waiting even to advertise his wife of the deception, departed, and hastened on to a brother's house in the neighbourhood of Dumfries, where he lay concealed. By the management of his friend, the deception was accomplished; for he even swore to the captain, that he heard Wilson scream, and jump upwards, and then sink down into the devouring flames. The trial was not unknown to Wilson, and he had prevailed upon his brother, with a few friends sworn to secrecy, to assist him in possessing himself of the person of his wife, in going to or coming from the court-house. Matters, however, succeeded beyond his utmost hopes. His spouse was liberated, and, by means of a boat well manned, he reached Douglas in the Isle of Man in safety, in the course of eight-and-forty hours. There, at last, he was safe, being beyond immediate pursuit, and indeed being supposed to be dead; and there, by a successful speculation or two, with money which had been left him by an uncle, after whom he was named, and who had prospered in the Virginia trade, he soon became prosperous, and even wealthy. His wife having a natural desire to see her father, took means to have him apprised of the secret of their retreat. His visits, nominally to England, were in fact made to Douglas; and the Revolution now put it in the power of Sergeant Wilson to return with his young and interesting family to the farm of Barjarg, and to purchase the property on which the old house stood, it being now in the market; to refit the old burnt tower; to rebuild the old castle, and to live there along with old Adam for several years, not only in comfort, but in splendour. When engaged over a bottle, of which he became ultimately rather more fond than was good for his health, he used to amuse his friends with the above narrative, adding always at the end--"The burning o' me has been the making o' me." The property has long passed into other hands, and is now in the family of Hunter; but such was its destination for at least fifty years, during the life of the sergeant, and the greater part of the life of the son, who, being a spendthrift, spent and sold it. XI.--HELEN PALMER. Helen Palmer was originally from Cumberland; her parents were English, but her father had removed with Helen, an only daughter, whilst yet a child, to the neighbourhood of Closeburn Castle, to a small village which still goes by the name of Croalchapel. There the husband and father had been employed originally as forester on the estate of Closeburn, belonging to Sir Roger Kirkpatrick, and had afterwards become chamberlain or factor on the same property. Peter Palmer was a superior man. He had been well educated for the time in which he lived, and had been employed in Cumberland in keeping accounts for a mining establishment. The death, however, in child-birth, of his beloved and well-born wife, (she had married below her station,) had, for some time, disgusted him with life, and his intellects had nearly given way. Having committed several acts of insanity, so as to make himself spoken of in the neighbourhood, he took a moonlight flitting, with his child and a faithful nurse, and, wandering north and north, at last fixed his residence in the locality already mentioned, where he was soon noticed as a superior person by the Laird of Closeburn, and advanced as has been stated. Helen Palmer was the apple of her father's eye; he would permit no one but the nurse to approach her person, and he himself was her only instructor; he taught her to read, to write, and to calculate accounts; in short, every spare hour he had was spent with little Helen. There you might see him, after dinner, with Helen on his knee, his forest dog sleeping before him, and a tumbler of negus on a small table by his side, conversing with his child, as he would have done with her mother; holding her out at arm's length, to mark her opening features; and then again straining her to his bosom in a paroxysm of tears. "Just my Helen--my own dear Helen anew!" he would say; "oh, my child--my child!--dear, dear art thou to thy poor heart-broken father! but I will live for thee!--I will live with thee!--and when thou diest, child, thou shalt sleep on this breast--thou shalt be buried, child, in thy father's dust; and thy mother and we shall meet, and I will tell her of her babe; of that babe which cost her so much, and we will rejoin in divine love for ever and ever!" Oh, how beautiful is paternal affection!--the love of an only surviving parent for an only child--and she a female. It is beautiful as the smile of Providence on benevolence--it is strong as the bond which binds the world to a common centre--it is enduring as the affections which, being cherished on earth, are matured above! As Helen grew up, her eye kindled, her brow expanded, her cheeks freshened into the most delicious bloom, and she walked on fairy footsteps of the most delicate impression. Her feet, her hands, her arms, her bust, her whole person, spoke her at once the lady of a thousand descents--ages had modelled her into aristocratic symmetry. But with all this, there was a rustic simplicity about her, an open, frank, unaffected manner, which seemed to say, as plain as any manner could, "I am not ashamed of being my father's daughter." When Helen Palmer had attained her sixteenth year, she was quite a woman--not one of your thread-paper bulrushes, which shoot upwards merely into unfleshed gentility; but a round, firm, well-spread, and formed woman--a bonny lass, invested with all the delicacy and softness of a complete lady. Her bodily accomplishments, however, were not her only recommendation; her mind was unusually acute, and her memory was stored with much and varied information. She knew, for example, that the age in which she lived was one of cruelty and bloodshed; that the second Charles, who, at that time, filled the throne, was a sensual tyrant; that Lag, Clavers, Douglas, Johnstone, and others, were bloody persecutors; and that even Sir Roger Kirkpatrick himself, the humane and amiable in many respects, was "a friend of the castle"--of the court--and would not permit any of the poor persecuted remnant to take refuge in the linns of Creehope, or in any of the fastnesses on his estate of Closeburn. All this grieved Helen's heart; but her father had taught her that it was _her_ duty, as well as his own, to be silent on such subjects, and not to give offence to one whose bread he was eating, and whose patronage he had enjoyed to so great an extent. There were frequent visiters, in those days, at Closeburn Castle. In fact, with all the chivalric hospitality of ancient times and of an ancient family, Sir Roger kept, in a manner, open house. During dinner, the drawbridge was regularly elevated, and, for a couple of hours at least, none might enter. This state ceremony had cost the family of Kirkpatrick many broad acres; for, when the old and heirless proprietor of the fine estate of Carlaverock called at the castle of Closeburn, with the view of bequeathing his whole property to the then laird, the drawbridge was up--he was refused immediate entrance, because Sir Thomas was at dinner. "Tell Sir Thomas," said the enraged visitor, "tell your master to take his dinner, and with zest; but tell him, at the same time, that I will put a better dinner _by_ his table this day than ever was on it." So he went on to Drumlanrig, and left the whole property to Douglas of Queensberry. Such, however, was not the reception of some young gentlemen who arrived about this time at the castle of Closeburn, on a sporting expedition, with dogs and guns, and a suitable accompaniment of gamekeepers and other servants. These strangers were manifestly Englishmen, but from what quarter of England nobody knew, and, indeed, nobody inquired. They were only birds of passage, and would, in a month or so, give place to another arrival, about to disappear, in its turn, from a similar cause. As Helen Palmer was one day walking, according to her wont, amongst the Barmoor-woods, in her immediate neighbourhood, a hare crossed her path, followed closely by a greyhound, by which it was immediately killed. Poor Helen started, screamed, and dropped her book in an agony of pity. She had not been accustomed to such barbarities; and the poor dying animal cried like a child, too, as it expired! At this instant, a horseman brought up his steed in her presence, and, immediately alighting, proceeded, in the most polite and delicate manner imaginable, to administer such relief as was in his power. He begged her to be composed, for the animal was now dead, and its suffering over; and her feelings should never be lascerated again in this manner, as they would pursue their sport somewhere else, at a greater distance from her abode. Upon recovering herself, Helen felt ashamed at her position, and even at her weakness in betraying her feelings, and, begging the stranger's pardon for the interruption to his sport which she had occasioned, with a most graceful courtesy she withdrew from his sight. The stranger was exceedingly struck with her appearance. It was not that she was beautiful, for with beautiful women he had long been familiar; but there was something in the expression of her countenance which made him tremble all over--she was the very picture of his father; nay, his own features and hers bore a close resemblance. The same indefinite terror which had seized this young and exceedingly handsome sportsman had penetrated the breast of Helen. The resemblance of the stranger to herself, was what struck her with amazement. There was the same arched eyebrow--the same hazel eye--and the same dimple in the chin. Besides, there was an all-over sameness in the air, manner, and even step, which she could not, with all her efforts, drive from her recollection. She did not, however, think proper to inform her father of this little foolish incident; but, ere she went to bed that night, she surveyed herself in the glass with more than wonted attention. Still, still, she was left in surprise, by comparing what she saw with what she recollected--the image in her bosom with that in the glass. Next day, as might have been anticipated, the stranger called to see if she had recovered from her fright, and spent a considerable time in very pleasing conversation. Her father happened to be in the writing office at the time, and did not see him. These calls were repeated from time to time, till at last it became evident to all about the castle, that the young heir of Middlefield, in Cumberland, was deeply in love. He had almost entirely given up his former amusements, and even railed against the cruelty of such sports. Mr Graham, a near connection of him of Netherby, was a young person of an excellent heart, and of a large property, to which, from his father's death, by an accident, he had just succeeded. He was besides, one of the handsomest men in Cumberland; and it was reported that Sir James Graham's oldest daughter had expressed herself very favourably respecting her kinsman's pretensions to her hand, should he _presume so high_! However, his heart was not in the match, and he had made this visit to his father's intimate friend, in order to avoid all importunity on a subject which was irksome to him. It is useless to mince the matter. Helen, in spite of her father's remonstrances and representations, was deeply and irrecoverably in love with the gallant Graham, and he, in his turn, was at least equally enamoured of the face, person, manners, mind, and soul, of the lovely and fascinating Miss Palmer. There was only one subject on which there was any division of opinion betwixt the lovers--Helen was every inch a Covenanter; whilst Mr William was rather, if anything, inclined to view their opposition to government as factious and inexcusable. He did not, indeed, approve of the atrocities which were practising every day around him, and in the parish of Closeburn in particular; but he ventured to hope that a few instances of severity would put an end to the delusion of the people, and that they would again return to their allegiance and their parish churches. Helen was mighty and magnificent in the cause of non-conformity and humanity. She talked of freedom, conscience, religion, on the one hand--of tyranny, treachery, oppression, and cruelty, on the other--till Mr William, either convinced, or appearing to be so, fairly gave in, promising most willingly, and in perfect good faith, that he would never assist the Laird of Closeburn, or of Lag, in any of their unhallowed proceedings. One day when Helen and her lover (for it was now no secret) were on a walk into the Barmoor-wood, they were naturally attracted to the spot where their intercourse had begun; and, sitting down opposite to each other on the trunks of some felled trees, they gradually began a somewhat confidential conversation respecting their birth and parentage. Helen disguised nothing; she was born in Cumberland, and brought here whilst a child; her mother, whose name was Helen Graham, had died at her birth. At the mention of this name, the stranger and lover started convulsively to his feet, and running up to and embracing Helen, he exclaimed--"O God! O God! you are my own cousin!" Helen fainted, and was with difficulty recovered, by an application of water from the adjoining brook. It was indeed so. Out of delicacy, Mr William had made no particular inquiries at Helen respecting her mother; and Helen, on the other hand, knew that Graham is an almost universal name, in Cumberland in particular. This, therefore, excited no suspicion; but true it is, and of verity, these two similar and affianced beings were cousins-german. Helen Graham, the sister of the Lord of Middlefield having married beneath her rank, was abandoned by her brother and family, and her name was never mentioned in Middlefield House. An old servant, however, of the family had made the young heir master of the fact of the marriage, and of the death of his old aunt; but he could not tell what had become of the father or the child; he supposed that they had either died or gone to the plantations abroad; and there the matter rested till this sudden and unexpected discovery. Peter Palmer, the father of Helen, was altogether unacquainted with William Graham, as he was a mere child when Peter left Cumberland; and his father had used him so cruelly as to make him avoid his residence and presence as carefully as possible. Would to heaven we could stop here, and gratify the reader with a wedding, and as much matrimonial happiness as poor mortality can possibly inherit!--But it may not be. As Lockhart says beautifully of Sir Walter, we hear "the sound of the muffled drum." Sir Roger and all the friends of Mr William Graham were opposed to his union with Miss Palmer, as Graham always called her. Her own father, too, was opposed to her forming a connection with the son of one who had treated him so cruelly, and, as he thought, unjustly--and it became manifest to William, as he was in every sense of the word his own master, that had he his fair betrothed in the leas of Middlefield, he might set them all at defiance, and effect their union peaceably, according to the rules of the church. In an evil hour, Helen consented to leave her father's house by night, along with her William, and on horseback, to take their way across the Border for Cumberland. They had reached the parish of Kirkconnel about two o'clock in the morning, and were giving their horses a mouthful of water in the little stream called Kirtle, when a shot was heard in the immediate neighbourhood--it was heard, alas! by two only, for the third was dying, and in the act of falling from her seat in the saddle. She was caught by a servant, and by her lover; but she could only say--"I am gone--I am gone!" before breathing her last. Oh, curse upon the hand that fired the shot? It was, indeed, an accursed hand, but a fatal mistake. It was one of the bloody persecutors of Lag's troop, who, having been appointed to watch at this spot for some Covenanters who were expected to be passing on horseback into England, in order to escape from the savage cruelty of their persecutors, had immediately, and in drunken blindness, fired upon this inoffensive group. The ball, alas! took too fatal effect in the heart of Helen Palmer; and it was on her, and not as Allan Cunningham represents it, "on Helen Irving, the daughter of the laird of Kirkconnel," that the following most pathetic verses were written-- "I wish I were where Helen lies; Night and day on me she cries: Oh, that I were where Helen lies, On fair Kirkconnel lea! "Oh, Helen fair beyond compare, I'll make a garland of thy hair; Shall bind my heart for ever mair, Until the day I dee. "Curst be the heart that thought the thought, And curst the hand that fired the shot, When in my arms burd Helen dropped On fair Kirkconnel lea!" XII.--THE CAIRNY CAVE OF GAVIN MUIR. There is a wild, uninhabited district, which separates Nithsdale from Annandale, in Dumfriesshire. It is called Gavin Muir; and, though lonely, and covered with spret and heather, exhibits some objects which merit the attention of the traveller in the wilderness. There is the King's Loch, the King's Burn, and the King's Chair, all records of King James V.'s celebrated raid to subdue the thieves of Annandale. Tradition says, what seems extremely likely, that he spent a night in the midst of this muir; and hence the appellations of royalty which adhere to the objects which witnessed his bivouac. But, although the localities referred to possess an interest, they are exceeded, in this respect, by a number of "cairns," by which the summits of several hills, or rising grounds, are topped. These cairns, which amount to five or six, are all within sight of each other, all on eminences, and all composed of an immense mass of loose, water-worn stones. And yet the neighbourhood is free from stones, being bare, and fit for sheep-pasturage only. Tradition says nothing of these cairns in particular; or, indeed, very little of any similar collections, frequent as they are in Scotland and throughout all Scandinavia. Stone coffins, no doubt, have been discovered in them, and human bones; but, beyond this, all is surmise and uncertainty. Often, when yet a boy, and engaged in fishing in the King's Burn, have we mounted these pyramids, and felt that we were standing on holy ground. "Oh," thought we, "that some courteous cairn would blab it out what 'tis they are!" But the cairns were silent; and hence the necessity we are under of professing our ignorance of what they refused to divulge. But there is a large opening in the side of one of these cairns, respecting which tradition has preserved a pretty distinct narrative, which we shall now venture, for the first time, to put under types, for the instruction of our readers. The whole hill country, in Dumfriesshire and Galloway in particular, is riddled, as it were, with caves and hiding-places. These, no doubt, afforded refuge, during the eight-and-twenty years of inhuman persecution, to the poor Covenanter; but they were not, in general, constructed for or by him. They existed from time immemorial, and were the work of that son of night and darkness--the smuggler, who, in passing from the Brow at the mouth of the Nith, from Bombay, near Kirkcudbright, or from the estuary of the Cree, with untaxed goods from the Isle of Man--then a separate and independent kingdom--found it convenient to conceal both his goods and himself from the observation of the officers of excise. So frequent are these concealed caves in the locality to which we refer, that, in passing through the long, rank heather, we have more than once disappeared in an instant, and found ourselves several feet below the level of the upper world, and in the midst of a damp, but roomy subterraneous apartment of considerable extent. We believe that they are now, in these piping times of peace and preventive service, generally filled up and closed by the shepherds, as they were dangerous pitfalls in the way of their flocks. In the time, however, to which we refer--namely, in the year 1683--they were not only open, but kept, as it were, in a state of repair, being tenanted by the poor, persecuted remnant (as they expressed it) of God's people. That the reader may fully understand the incidents of this narrative, it will be necessary that he and we travel back some hundred and fifty years, and some miles from the farm-house of Auchincairn, that we may have ocular demonstration of the curious contrivances to which the love of life, of liberty, and of a good conscience, had compelled our forefathers to have recourse. That cairn which appears so entire and complete, of which the stones seem to have been huddled together without any reference to arrangement whatever, is, nevertheless, hollow underneath, and on occasions you may see--but only if you examine it narrowly--the blue smoke seeking its way in tiny jets through a thousand apertures. There is, in fact, room for four or five individuals. Beneath, there are a few plaids and bed-covers, with an old chair, a stool, and seats of stone. There is likewise a fire-place and some peats, extracted from the adjoining moss. But there is, in fact, no entrance in this direction. You must bend your course round by the brow of that hollow, over which the heather hangs profusely; and there, by dividing and gently lifting up the heathy cover, you will be able to insert your person into a small orifice, from which you will escape into a dark but a roomy dungeon, which will, in its turn, conduct you through a narrow passage, into the very heart or centre of this seemingly solid accumulation of stones. When there, you will have light such as Milton gives to Pandemonium--just as much as to make darkness visible, through the small, and, on the outside, invisible crevices betwixt the stones. Should you be surprised in your lighted and fire apartment--should any accident or search bring a considerable weight above you, so as to break through your slightly supported roofing--you can retreat to your ante-room or dungeon, and from thence, if necessary, make your way into the adjoining linn, along the bottom of which, you may ultimately find skulking-shelter, or a pathway into a more inhabited district. Now that you have surveyed this arrangement, as it existed a hundred and fifty years ago, we may proceed to give you the narrative which is connected with it. In the year above referred to, the persecution of the saints was at its height--Clavers, in particular, went about the country with his dragoons, whom he designated (like the infamous Kirk) his _Lambs_, literally seeking to hurt and destroy in all the hill country, in particular of Dumfriesshire and Galloway. Auchincairn was a marked spot; it had often been a city of refuge to the shelterless and the famishing; but it had so frequently been searched, that every hole and corner was as well known to Clavers and his troop as to the inhabitants themselves. There was now, therefore, no longer any refuge to the faithful at Auchincairn; in fact, to come there was to meet the enemy half-way--to rush as it were into the jaws of the lion. In these circumstances, old Walter Gibson, a man upwards of seventy years of age, who, by his prayers and his attending conventicles, had rendered himself particularly obnoxious, was obliged to prolong a green old age by taking up his abode in the cave and under the cairn which has already been described. With him were associated, in his cold and comfortless retreat, the Rev. Robert Lawson, formerly minister of the parish of Closeburn; but who, rather than conform to the English prayer-book and formula, had taken to the mountain, to preach, to baptize, and even to dispense the Sacrament of the Supper, in glens, and linns, and coverts, far from the residence of man. Their retreat was known to the shepherds of the district, and indeed to the whole family of Auchincairn; but no one ever was suspected of imitating the conduct of the infamous Baxter, who had proved false, and discovered a cave in Glencairn, where four Covenanters were immediately shot, and two left hanging upon a tree. On one occasion, a little innocent girl, a grand-daughter of old Walter, was surprised whilst carrying some provisions towards the hill-retreat, by a party of Clavers' dragoons, who devoured the provisions, and used every brutal method to make the girl disclose the secret of the retreat; but she was neither to be intimidated nor cajoled, and told them plainly that she would rather die, as her granduncle had done before her, than betray her trust. They threw her into a peat-hag filled with water, and left her to sink or swim. She did _not_ swim, however, but sank never to rise again. Her spirit had been broken, and life had been rendered a burden to her. She expressed to her murderers, again and again, a wish that they would send her to meet her uncle (as she termed it) William. Her body was only discovered some time after, when the process of decomposition had deformed one of the most pleasing countenances which ever beamed with innocence and piety. "The old hound will not be far off, when the young whelp was so near," exclaimed Clavers, upon a recital of the inhuman murder. "We must watch the muirs by night; for it is then that these creatures congregate and fatten. We must continue to spoil their feasting, and leave them to feed on cranberries and moss-water." In consequence of this resolution, a strict watch was set all along Gavin Muir; and it became almost impossible to convey any sustenance to the famishing pair; yet the thing was done, and wonderfully managed, not in the night-time, but in the open day. One shepherd would call to another, in the note of the curlew or the miresnipe, and without exciting suspicion, convey from the corner of his plaid the necessary refreshments, even down to a bottle of Nantz. The cave was never entered on such occasions; but the provisions were dropped amidst the rank heather; and a particular whistle immediately secured their disappearance. Night after night, therefore, were these prowlers disappointed of their object, till at last, despairing of success, or thinking, probably, that the birds had escaped, they betook themselves, for the time, elsewhere, and the cairn was relieved from siege. Clavers, in fact, had retired to Galloway, along with Grierson and Johnstone, and the coast was clear, at least for the present. It was about the latter end of October, when Mr Lawson was preaching and dispensing the Sacrament to upwards of a hundred followers, in the hollow where stood the King's Chair. This locality was wonderfully well suited for the purpose--it was, in fact, a kind of amphitheatre, surrounded on all sides by rising ground, and in the centre of which three large stones constituted a chair, and several seats of the same material were ranged in a circular form around. The stones remain to this hour, and the truth of this description can be verified by any one who crosses Gavin Muir. It was a moonlight night--a harvest moon--and Mr Lawson, having handed the Sacramental cup around, was in the act of concluding with prayer, when the note of a bird, seemingly a plover, was heard at a great distance. It was responded to by a similar call, somewhat nearer; and, in an instant, a messenger rushed in upon their retreat, out of breath, and exclaiming, "You are lost!--you are all dead men!--Clavers is within sight, and at full gallop, with all his troop at his back." One advantage which the poor persecuted had over their persecutors, was a superior knowledge of localities. In an instant the hollow was tenantless; for the inmates had fled in all directions, and to various coverts and outlets into the vale of Annan. The minister alone remained at his post continuing in ejaculatory prayer, and resisting all persuasion even to take advantage of the adjoining cairny cave. In vain did Walter Gibson delay till the last moment, and talk of his farther usefulness. Mr Lawson's only answer was--"I am in the hands of a merciful Master, and, if he has more service for me, he himself will provide a way for my escape. I have neither wife nor child, nor, I may say, relation, alive. I am, as it were, a stranger in the land of duty. If the Lord so will it that the man of blood shall prevail over me, he will raise up others in my stead, fitter to serve him effectually than ever I have been; but, Walter, _you_ have a bonny family of grandchildren around you, and your ain daughter the mother of them a', to bless you, and hear you speak the words of counselling and wisdom; so, make you for the cave and the cairn out by yonder--I will e'en remain where I am, and the Lord's will be done!" Seeing that all persuasion was unavailable, and that, by delaying his flight, he would only sacrifice his own life, without saving that of his friend, Walter appeared to take his departure for his place of refuge. It was neither Clavers, however, nor Lag, nor Johnstone, nor Winram, who was upon them; but only Captain Douglas, from Drumlanrig, to which place secret information of the night's _wark_, as it was termed, had been conveyed. Captain Douglas' hands were red with blood; he had shot poor Daniel M'Michan in Dalveen Glen, and had given word of command to blow out his brother's brains, as has been already recorded in the notices of these times. One of his troop had been wounded in the affair at Dalveen, and he was literally furious with rage and the thirst of blood. Down, therefore, Douglas came with about half-a-dozen men, (the rest being on duty in Galloway,) determined to kill or be killed--to put an end to these nightly conventicles, or perish in the attempt. Mr Lawson had taken his position in the King's Chair, which, as was formerly described, consisted of three large stones set on end, around one in the centre, which served as a seat; and when Douglas came in sight, nothing appeared visible in the moonshine but these solitary stones. "They are off, by G----d!" exclaimed Douglas; "the fox has broken cover--we must continue the chase; and Rob," added he, to one who rode near him, "blaw that bugle till it crack again. When you start the old fox, I should like mightily to be at the death. But--so ho!--what have we here?--why, here are bottles and a cup, by Jove! These friends of the Covenant are no enemies, I perceive, to good cheer"--putting the bottle to his mouth, and making a long pull--"by the living Jingo! most excellent wine. Here, Rob," emptying what remained into the silver goblet or cup, "here, line your weasan with a drop of the red, and then for the red heart's blood of these psalm-singing, cup-kissing gentry. So ho--so ho!--hilloa--one and all--the fox is under cover still," (advancing towards the stone chair,) "and we thought him afield, too. Stand forth, old Canticles, 5 and 8th, and let us see whether you have got one or five bottles under your belt. What! you won't, or you can't stand! Grunt again!--you are made of stone, are you?--why, then, we will try your qualities with a little burnt powder and lead. Gentlemen of the horse-brigade, do you alight, and be d----d to you, and, just by way of experiment, rattle me half-a-dozen bullets in the face of that there image of stone, which looks so mighty like the parson of Closeburn that one might easily mistake the one for the other." The men had alighted with their holster pistols, and had arranged themselves, as directed, in the front of the stone chair, and with a full view of the figure which occupied the seat, when, at this very critical juncture, a band of upwards of fifty horses, with panniers on their backs, came up at a smart trot. "Stop your hellish speed!" said a voice from the front of the band; "or, by this broadsword, and these long six-footers, you are all dead men, ere you can say, Present, fire!" Instantly, Douglas saw and comprehended his position--"To horse!" was his short exhortation, and, in an instant, his five followers and himself had cleared the brow of the glen, and were out of sight at full speed. "Shed not their blood!--shed not their blood!" continued to exclaim a well-known voice amongst the band of smugglers--for such the reader may have guessed they were. It was the voice of Walter Gibson, well known to many of the smugglers; for again and again they had supplied Auchincairn with Hollands and Nantz. "Shed not one drop of blood, I say; but leave them to Him who has said, 'Vengeance is mine, and I will repay it;'--He will find His own time of revenging the death of my poor murdered bairn, whom they drowned in the King's Moss, owre by there. But, dear me, Mr Lawson, are ye dead or living, that ye tak nae tent o' what's going on?" In fact, Mr Lawson, having given himself up as lost, had committed himself, with shut eyes, so intently to prayer, that he had but a very confused notion of what had happened. "The Lord's will be done!" he exclaimed at last; "and is this you, Walter Gibson?--fearful! fearful!--are these the Philistines around you?--and are you and I to travel, hand in hand, into Immanuel's land?--or, but do my poor eyes deceive me, and are these only our good friends, the fair traders, come to the rescue, under God and his mercy, in the time of our need?" "Indeed," responded a known voice--that, namely, at whose bidding the work of death had been staid--"indeed, Mr Lawson, we are friends and not foes; and, whilst our cattle, which are a little blawn, with the haste into which they were hurried by old Walter here--until the beasts bite, I say, and eat their corn, we will e'en thank God, and take a little whet of the creature. You know, such comforts are not forbidden in the laws of Moses, or, indeed, in any laws but those of this persecuted and oppressed land." So saying, he disengaged from a hamper a flagon of Nantz, and was about to make use of the Sacramental cup, which Douglas had dropped, to convey it around, when his arm was arrested by the still strong hand of Walter. "For the sake of God and his church--of Him who shed his blood for poor sinners--profane not, I beseech you, the consecrated, the hallowed vessel which I have so lately held in these vile hands as the emblem of my purification through the blood of sprinkling--profane not, I say, that vessel which, when all worldly goods were forfeited and relinquished as things of no value, our worthy pastor has borne along with him--being the gift of his parishioners--to the mountain and the glen--to the desert and the wilderness!" There needed no further admonition; the cup was deposited in the hands of its owner, and the whole _posse comitatus_ spread themselves out on the grass--for, though all around was heath, this little spot was green and lovely--and, by applying the vessel directly to their lips, each one took a draught so long and hearty that the captain or leader had again and again to replenish the measure. Nor were Lawson and old Walter Gibson behind in this work of refreshment. Many a day they had laid themselves down to rest in the damp and cold cave, with little of food and with nothing to cheer and support them but a mouthful, from time to time, of the _Solway waters_--viz., _smuggled brandy_. We are all the children, to a great amount, of circumstances; and the very men who, but a little ago, were engaged in the most solemn act of religion, and counted themselves as at the point of death--these very men were now so much cheered, and even exhilarated, by the reviving cordial, that they forgot, for the time, their dangers and their privations, and were not displeased to hear the smugglers sing the old song, "We are merry men all," when a figure approached, out of breath, exclaiming-- "The gaugers! the gaugers!--the excisemen from Dumfries!" In an instant the whole troop stood to arms. They had been well-disciplined; and the horses, along with the parson and Walter, were stowed away, as they called it, behind. They spoke not; but there was the click of gunlocks, and a powerful _recover_, on the ground, of heavy muskets, with barrels fully six feet long, which had been used by their forefathers in the times of the first Charles and the civil commotion. The enemy came up at the gallop; but they had plainly miscalculated the forces of their opponents--_they_ were only about fifteen strong; so, wheeling suddenly round, they took their departure with as much dispatch as they had advanced. "We must off instantly!" exclaimed the leader of this trading band. "We must gain the pass of Enterkin ere day-dawn; for these good neighbours will make common cause with the King's troops, whenever they meet them, and there will be bloody work, I trow, ere these kegs and good steeds change masters." So saying, the march immediately proceeded up Gavin Muir, and the minister and Walter took possession of their usual retreat--the Cairny Cave I have so often referred to. Douglas was not thus, by accident, to be foiled in his object; for having, in the course of a few days, obtained additional forces from Galloway, he returned to the search in Gavin Muir, where he had, again and again, been told meetings still continued to be held, and some caves of concealment existed. Old Lauderdale in council had one day said--"Why, run down the devils, like the natives of Jamaica, with blood-hounds." And the hint was not lost on bloody Clavers--he had actually a pair of hounds of this description with him in Galloway at this time; and, at his earnest request, Douglas was favoured with one of them. Down, therefore, this monster came upon Gavin Muir, not to shoot blackcocks or muirfowl, in which it abounded, but to track, and start and pistol, if necessary, poor, shivering, half-starved human beings, who had dared to think the laws of their God more binding than the empire and despotism of sinful men. The game was a merry one, and it was played by "merry men all:" forward went the hound through muirs and mosses; onward came the troop, hallooing and encouraging the animal in pursuit of its horrid instincts. As they passed the moss-hole in which the poor grand-daughter of Walter had been suffocated, the jest, and the oath, and the merriment were at their utmost. "Had we but a slice of the young pup," said one, "to flesh our hound with, he would soon scent out the old one--they are kindred blood, you know. But what do I see?--old Bloody, is it, on the top of the cairn yonder?--and scooping, nosing, and giving tongue most determinedly. By the holy poker!--and that's a sanctified oath--I will on and see what's agoing here." Thus saying, he put spurs to his horse, and, waving his sword round his head, "Here goes for old Watty!--and may the devil burn me if I do not unearth the fox at last!" Onwards they all advanced at the gallop; but Jack Johnston was greatly in front, and had dashed his horse half-way up the steep cairn, when, in an instant, horse and man rushed down, and immediately disappeared. "Why," said Douglas, "what has become of Jack?--has old Sooty smelt him, and sent for him, on a short warning, to help in roasting Covenanters?--or have the fairies, those fair dames of the green knowe and the grey cairn, seen and admired his proportions, and made a young 'Tam Lean' of poor Jack Johnston? Let us on and see." And see to be sure they did; for there was Jack, lying in the last agonies of death, under his horse, which itself was lamed and lying with feet uppermost. The horrid hound was lapping, with a growl, the blood which oozed from the nose and lips of the dying man, and with a dreadful curse, the terrible being expired, just as the party came within view. He had tumbled headlong, owing to the pressure from the horse's feet, through the slight rafter-work beneath, and had pitched head-foremost against a stone seat, in consequence of which his skull was fractured, and his immediate death ensued. Douglas looked like one bewildered, he would scarcely credit his eyes; but his companion in arms did the needful; and Jack Johnston's body was removed, his horse shot through the brain, and the whole band returned, drooping and crestfallen, to Drumlanrig. Throwing his sword down on the hall table when he arrived, he was heard to say, looking wildly and fearfully all the while, "The hand of God is in this thing, and I knew it not." It is a curious fact, but one of which my informant had no doubt, that this very Douglas became, after this, quite an altered man. Mr Lawson, who lived some years after his death, attended upon him in his last illness. "God only knows the heart," would he say; "but, to all _outward_ appearance, William Douglas was a cleansed and a sanctified vessel: the mercy of God is infinite--it even extended to the thief on the cross." XIII.--PORTER'S HOLE. In the west corner of the churchyard of Dalgarno--now a section of the parish of Closeburn--there is a small, but neat headstone, with two figures joining hands, as if in the attitude of marrying. Beneath is written, and still legible--"John Porter and Augnas Milligan. They were lovely in their lives, and in their deaths they were not divided." There is neither date nor narrative; but, as this part of the churchyard has not been used as a burial-ground since the union of the parishes, in the reign of Charles the Second, the date must have been some time betwixt 1660 and 1684. This beautiful and sequestered churchyard, all silent and cheerless as it is, lies upon the banks of the Nith, immediately upon its union with the ocean; and near to the most famous salmon-fishing pool in the whole river, called Porter's Hole. Whilst yet a boy, and attending Closeburn school, our attention was, one sunny afternoon, (when the trouts were unwilling to visit the dry land,) drawn to the little stone in the corner, of which we have just made mention, and recollecting, at the same time, that Porter was the name of the pool, as well as of the person buried, we began to speculate upon the possibility of there being some connection betwixt the two circumstances--the name of the individual, and the well-known designation of the blackest and deepest pool in the Closeburn part of the river. Near to this solitary restingplace of the ashes of our forefathers--the Harknesses, the Gibsons, and the Watsons of Closeburn from time immemorial--there stood, at that time, an old cottage, straw or rather _grass_-thatched, (for it was covered with green chicken-weed,) where dwelt, in single solitude, Janet M'Guffoch--whether any relation of the celebrated individual of that name mentioned by Sir Walter Scott, we know not--but there dwelt Janet, a discontented, old waspish body of one hundred years of age, according to general belief; and, being accompanied by a black cat and a broom besom, was marked by us _boys_ as a decided witch. We never had any doubt about it, and the thing was confirmed by the Laird of Closeburn's gamekeeper, who swore that he had often hunted hares to Janet's door; but never could start them again. Under all these circumstances, it required no common impulse to induce us to enter the den of this emissary of Satan; but our curiosity was excited by the similarity of the names "Porter's Grave" and "Porter's Hole," (as the pool was familiarly named,) and we at length mustered faith, and strength, and courage to thrust ourselves past a bundle of withered twigs, which served Janet as a door in summer, and as a door-protector in the blasts of winter. Janet was as usual at her wheel, and crooning some old Covenanting ditty, about-- "Oh, gin Lag were dead and streekit, An' that his ha' wi' mools was theekit!" when, by means of a six-inch-square skylight, our physiognomy became visible to Janet. "And what art thou, that's creeping into an old body's dark den, and leaving ahint thee the guid sunshine?" We responded by mentioning our name. "Ay, ay," said Janet, "come away and sit thee down on the creepy there, beside the heidstane[B]--thou art freely welcome, for thou art o' the seed o' the faithful, the precious salt of the earth: and the blessing of the God of the Covenant will rest upon its children, even to the third and the fourth generation!" Thus welcomed, we took our position as requested, eyeing all the while the large black cat with a somewhat suspicious regard. "The beast winna stir thee," said Janet, "it has, like its auld mistress, mair regard for the martyr's seed." Having hereupon taken advantage of a pause in Janet's discourse, we at once stated the subject of our inquiry. "Ay, ay," said Janet; "and atweel there is a connection betwixt that bonny angel stane, and the pool ca'ed Porter's Hole. Ay, is there; an an awfu' connection it is. But what comes thou here for to torment an auld body like me, wi' greeting and groaning at my time o' life? Gae awa, gae awa--I canna thole the very thochts o' the story whilk thou ettles to ken." This only increased our curiosity, and, after some flattering language about Janet's good nature, retentive memory, and Covenanting lineage, the old crone proceeded to the following purpose; and, as nearly as we can mind, (for it is a tale o' fifty years,) repeated it in the following words:-- "Thou ken's the auld ruin, bairn, the auld wa's out by there. That's the auld farm-house o' Dalgarno, ere the new one at the path-head was biggit; and there, within the wa's, was ance a warm hearth, and twa as leal hearts as ever beat against pin or button. John Porter was young, handsome, and the tenant of the best farm in the parish o' Dalgarno; but he was nae frien to the vile curate, and a marked bird, as they ca' it, by Grierson o' Lag, in particular, who had been heard to say, that he would decant his porter for him some day yet, in the shape and colour of heart's bluid. Agnes Milligan was an orphan, brought up at Dalgarno--a sister's son o' the auld Dalgarno, and a fu' cousin, ye ken, o' the young farmer. They had baith fed frae the same plate; sleeped under the same roof; played at the same sports; and dabbled in the same river--the bloody, bloody Nith!--from infancy to youth. Oh! sirs! but I canna get on ava"---- Here Janet sorted her wheel, and apparently shed a tear, for she moved her apron corner to her eye. "Aweel, this was the nicht o' the wedding, bairn--no _this_ nicht, like; but I think I just see it present, for I was there mysel, a wee bit whilking lassie. Lawson, guid godly Lawson, had tied the knot, an' we war a' merry like; but it was a fearfu' spate, and the Nith went frae bank to brae. 'They are comin!' was the cry. I kenna wha cried it, but a voice said it, an' twenty voices repeated it. Lag an' his troop's coming; they're gallopin owre the Cunning-holm at this moment. John Porter flew to his bonnet, an', in an instant, was raised six or seven feet high on his long stilts, with which he had often crossed the Nith when nae mortal could tak it on horseback. Agnes Milligan was out and after; the moon shone clear through a cloud, and she saw the brave man tak the water at the broadest. On he went--for we a' witnessed what he did--on he went, steady, firm, an' unwaverin; but, alas! it was hin' harvest, an' some sheaves o' corn had been carried off the holms by the spate. Ane o' them crossed his upper stilt, an', in a moment, his feet went frae him, an' doon he cam into the roarin flood. He was still near the Closeburn bank, an' we a' ran down the side to see if we could help him out. Again an' again he rose to his feet; but the water was mighty, it was terrible, it just whumbled him owre, an' we saw nae mair o' him. Agnes ran for Porter's Hole, (then only kent as the salmon pool,) an' stood watching the eddy, as it whirled straw an' corn, an' sic like rubbish, aboot. Her husband's head appeared floating in the whirl--she screamed, leaped into the deep, deep pool, an' next day they were found clasped in each other's arms. Oh, my bairn, my bairn!--what brocht ye here the day?" Janet was found, next morning, dead in her bed--the exertion and excitement had killed her. FOOTNOTES: [B] _Vide_ Jameson. THE RECLUSE. The situations of farm-houses, or steadings, as we call them in Scotland, are very rarely selected so much for their beauty, with reference to the surrounding scenery, as for conveniency; and hence it is that we find but few of them in positions which a view-hunter would term strikingly felicitous. When they are so, we rather presume the circumstance arises from its happening that eligibility and choice have agreed in determining the point. Yet, seriously, though the generality of farm-steadings have little to boast of as regards situation, there are many pleasing exceptions. Nay, there are some to be found occupying the most choice positions--surrounded with or overlooking all that is beautiful in nature. One of these, most certainly, is the farm-house of West Mains, in the parish of Longorton, Lanarkshire. It stands on the summit of a gentle, isolated eminence that rises in the very centre of a deep and romantic valley, formed of steep green hills, thickly wooded towards the bottom, but rising in naked verdancy from about the centre upwards. The view from the house is thus, indeed, limited; but this limitation is amply compensated by its singular beauty. About fifty years ago, this beautifully-situated farm-house was occupied by one Robert Adair, who rented also the entire valley in which it is situated. Adair's family, at this time, consisted of himself, his wife, a son, and two daughters, Martha and Rosina, or Rosy, as she was familiarly called. The former was, at the period of our story, in her twentieth year, the latter in her eighteenth. Martha was a good-looking and good-tempered girl; but, in both respects, and in several others, she was much surpassed by her younger sister, Rosy, as we, too, prefer to call her. The latter, with, personal attractions of no common order, was one of the liveliest and most cheerful creatures imaginable. Nothing could damp her buoyant spirit; nothing, be it what it might, could make her sad for longer than ten minutes together. From morning to night she continued pouring out, in a voice of the richest and most touching melody, the overflowings of a light and innocent heart. And scarcely less melodious was the joyous and gleeful laugh, in which she ever and anon gave way to the promptings of a lively and playful imagination. Let it not, however, be thought that all this apparent levity of manner was the result of an unthinking or uncalculating mind, or that it was in her case, as it frequently is in others, associated with qualities which exclude the finer and better feelings of female nature. It was by no means so. With all her gaiety and sportiveness, she had a heart filled with all the tenderest sensibilities of a woman. Her attachments were warm and ardent. In character, simple and sincere, Rosy could have died for those she loved; and so finely strung were the sympathies of her nature, that they were wrought on at will by either mirth or pathos, and with each were found equally to accord. Rosy's father, Mr Adair, although holding a considerable extent of land, and paying a very handsome rental, was yet by no means in affluent circumstances. Both his name and his credit in the country were on a fair footing, and he was not encumbered with more debt than he could very easily pay. But this was all; there was no surplus--nothing to spare; and the less, that he had been liberal in his expenditure on the education of his daughters. On this he had grudged no cost; they had both passed several winters in Glasgow, and had there possessed themselves of some of the more elegant accomplishments in female education. In character, Robert Adair was something of an original. In speech, blunt, plain, and humorous; but in disposition, kind, sincere, and generous. He was, in short, in all respects an excellent and worthy man. On the score of education, he had not much to boast of; but this deficiency was, in part at any rate, compensated by great natural shrewdness and vigour of mind. Such, then, were the inmates of the farm-house of West Mains, at the period to which our story refers, and which is somewhere about the year 1788. It was at the close of a day of incessant rain, in the month of September of that year, or it may, perhaps, have been of the year following, that a young man, of somewhere about five-and-twenty years of age, respectably dressed, with a stick in his hand, and a small leathern bundle under his arm, presented himself at the door of Robert Adair's house, and knocked for admittance. The door was opened by Robert himself; and when it was so, the person whom we have described stood before him. He was drenched with wet. It was streaming from his hat, and had soaked him all over to the skin. He was thus, altogether, in most uncomfortable plight; for, besides being wet, the night was intensely cold. "Can you, my good friend," said the stranger, in a tone and manner that bespoke a person of education at least, if it might not be ventured to call him a gentleman--"Can you give me quarters for a night?" he said, on being confronted by Mr Adair. "I am an entire stranger in this part of the country, and do not know of any inn at hand, otherwise I would not have troubled you. I will, very readily, pay for my accommodation." "A nicht's quarters, frien," replied Adair. "Oh, surely, ye'll get that, an' welcome. Walk in. Save us, man, but ye hae gotten a soakin! Ye're like a half-drooned rat. But stap in, stap in. There's a guid fire there in the kitchen and I'm sure ye're no out the need o' a blink o't." In a minute after, the stranger was comfortably seated before a roaring fire. But his host's hospitality did not end with this kindness; he insisted on his guest shifting himself; and, to enable him to do so, brought him a whole armfull of his own clothes; shirt, coat, waistcoat, trousers, and stockings. Nor with this kindness did his benevolence yet terminate; he invited the stranger to accept of some refreshment; an invitation which he followed up by desiring his daughter Rosy to cover a small table close by the fire, and to place thereon such edibles as she had at hand. Delighting as much as her father in acts of kindness, Rosy hastened to obey an order so agreeable to her. In a trice, she had the table covered with various good things, conspicuous amongst which was a jolly round of salt beef. In compliance with the request of his host, the stranger drew into the table thus kindly prepared for him; but, to the great disappointment of his entertainer, ate very sparingly. "Dear help me, man!--eat, eat, canna ye!" exclaimed Adair, every now and then, as he marked the listless manner in which the stranger pecked at the food on his plate. "Eat, man, canna ye!" he said, getting absolutely angry at his guest's want of appetite, which he construed into diffidence. "Lord, man, take a richt whang on your plate at once, and dinna be nibblin at it that way, like a mouse at a Du'lap cheese." Saying this, he seized a knife and fork, cut a slice from the cold round, an inch in thickness, and at least six in diameter, and threw it on the stranger's plate with much about the same grace which he exhibited in tossing a truss of hay with a pitchfork. "There, man, tak half-a-dizzen o' cuts like that, and then ye may say ye hae made a bit supper o't." Robert Adair was, in truth, but a rough table attendant, but he was a kind one, and in all he said and did meant well, however uncouthly it might be expressed. Of this the stranger seemed perfectly aware; and, although he could not eat, he appeared fully to appreciate the sincerity of his host's invitations to him to do so. After persevering, therefore, a little longer, as if to please his entertainer, he at length laid down his knife and fork, and declared that he was now satisfied, and could take no more. On his making this decided movement-- "My faith," said his hospitable landlord, "an' ye be na waur to water than to corn, I think I could board ye, an' no be a loser, for a very sma' matter. Rosy, bring butt the bottle." Obedient to the command, Rosy tripped out of the kitchen, and in an instant returned with the desiderated commodity--a dumpy, bluff, opaque bottle, of about a gallon contents--which she placed on the table. Adair seized it by its long neck, and, filling up a brimming bumper, tossed it off to the health of his guest. This done, he filled up another topping glass, and presented it to the stranger, with a strong recommendation on the score of excellence. "Ra-a-l guid stuff, sir," he said, "tak my word for't. Juist a cordial. Noo, dinna trifle wi' your drink as ye did wi' your meat, or I'll no ken what to think o' ye at a'." The stranger, with renewed acknowledgments for the kindness shewn him, took the proffered beverage; but, instead of taking it off as his worthy host had expected, he merely put it to his lips, and replaced it on the table. "Weel, that cowes the gowan!" said Adair. "Ye'll neither hap nor wyn--neither dance nor haud the candle. Try't again, man, try't again. Steek your een hard, gie ae gulp, an' ower wi't." The worthy man, however, pressed in vain. The stranger would not drink; but once more acknowledged the kindness and well-meant hospitality of his entertainer. During all this time, the stranger had neither said nor done any single thing which was capable of imparting the slightest idea of who or what he was--where he was from, or whence he was going. Indeed, he hardly spoke at all; and the little he did speak was almost all confined to brief expressions of thanks for the kindness shewn him. When seen as he was now, under more favourable circumstances than those in which he had first presented himself, shivering with cold and drenched with wet, he exhibited a handsome exterior. His countenance was full of expression and intelligence, but was overspread with an apparently deep-seated and settled melancholy. He appeared, in short, to be a person who was suffering severely either in body or mind; but his affliction exhibited all the symptoms of being of the latter rather than the former. Yet was not the profound gravity of his manner of an unpleasing or repulsive character; it partook of a gentleness and benevolence that rendered it rather graceful than otherwise. The tones of his voice, too, corresponded with these qualities; they were mild and impressive, and singularly agreeable. Altogether, the stranger appeared a mysterious sort of person; and greatly did it puzzle Mr Adair and all his household to conjecture who or what he could possibly be; a task to which they set themselves after he had retired to bed, which he did--pleading fatigue as an excuse--at an early hour. The first ostensible circumstance connected with their guest of the night, which the family divan, with the father of it at their head, took into consideration when discussing the knotty points of the stranger's character and calling, was his apparel. But of this they could make nothing. His habiliments were in no ways remarkable for anything; they being neither good, bad, nor indifferent, but of that indefinite description called respectable. So far as these were concerned, therefore, he might be either a peer of the realm or an English bagman. Finding they could make nothing of the clothes, the family cabinet council next proceeded to the looks and manners of the stranger; and, with regard to these, all agreed that they seemed to bespeak the gentleman; and on this conclusion from the premises, none insisted more stoutly than Rosy, who, let us observe, although she thought nobody saw her, had taken several stolen glances at the subject of discussion while he was seated at the kitchen fire; and at each glance, let us farther observe, more and more approved of his finely arched eyebrows, his well-formed mouth, dark expressive eyes, and rich black locks that clustered around his white and open forehead. But all this is a secret, good reader, and should not have been told. So far, then, had the united opinions of the family determined regarding their guest. But what should have brought him the way of West Mains, such an out-of-the-way place, seeing that he had neither gun, dog, nor fishing-rod, and could not therefore have been in pursuit of sport? It was odd, unaccountable. Where could he be from? Where could he be going to? These were questions more easily put than answered; and by all were they put, but by none were they replied to. At length, Mr Adair took speech in hand himself on the subject. "I kenna, nor, indeed, neither do I muckle care, wha the lad is; but he seems to me to be a ceevil, discreet, young man; and I rather like him a'thegither, although he's a dooms bad haun at baith cap and trencher. A', however, that we hae to do wi' him, is to treat him ceevily while he's under our roof. He's gotten a guid bed to lie in, and in the mornin we'll gie him a guid breakfast to tak the road wi', and there'll be an end o't. It's no likely we'll ever hear or see mair o' him." Having said this, Robert broke up the conclave; gave the long-drawn sonorous yawn that his family knew to be the signal of preparation for bed. In the next moment, Adair's left hand was busily employed in undoing the knee buttons of his small clothes. Another powerful yawn, and he proceeded to perform the same operation on his right leg. In two minutes after, he was snugly buried beneath the blankets; his "honest, sonsy, bawsint face," and red Kilmarnock night-cap, being all that was left visible of him; and, in five minutes more, a magnificent snore intimated to all whom it might concern, that worthy Robin Adair was fairly in the land of Nod, and oblivious of all earthly concerns. On the following morning, Mr Adair and his guest met at breakfast, when that liking for each other which had begun to manifest itself on the preceding night--although neither, perhaps, could say precisely whence it arose--gradually waxed into a somewhat stronger feeling. Adair was pleased with the gentle and unaffected manners of his guest, while the latter was equally pleased with the sincerity of character and generosity of heart of his entertainer. It appeared, however, as if their acquaintance was to be but of short duration, and as if they were now soon to part, in all probability for ever. Circumstances seemed to point to this result; yet it was by no means the one that followed--an odd incident at once threw out all such calculation. When breakfast was concluded, and the party who had sat around the table--Adair, his family, and the stranger--had risen to their feet, the latter, smiling through his natural gravity, asked his host if he would be so good as give him a private interview with him. To this Mr Adair, although not a little surprised at the request, consented, and led the way into a small back-parlour that opened from the room in which they had breakfasted. "Mr Adair," said the stranger, on their entering this apartment, and having previously secured the door, "I am greatly indebted to you for the kindness and hospitality you have shewn me." "No the least, sir--no the least," replied the farmer, with a decree of respect in his manner with which his guest's air and bearing had unconsciously inspired him, he did not know how or wherefore--"No the least. I am aye glad to shew civility to them that seek the shelter o' my rufe; it's just a pleasure to me. Ye're not only heartily welcome, sir, to a' ye hae gotten, but to a week o't, an' ye like. I dinna think that I wad be the first to weary o't." "Have you any objection to try?" said the stranger, with a gentle smile. "None whatever," replied the hospitable yeoman. "Well, Mr Adair," said the stranger, with more gravity of manner, "to convert jest into earnest, I have a proposal to make to you. I have been for some time looking out for such a quiet retirement as this is, and a family as respectable and agreeable as yours seems to me to be. Now, having found both of these things to my mind here, I will, if you have no objection, become a boarder with you, Mr Adair, paying you a hundred guineas a-year; and here," he said, drawing out a well-filled purse, and emptying its contents on the table--"here are fifty guineas in advance." And he told off from the heap that lay on the table, the sum he named, and thrust it towards his astonished host. "And let me add," went on the mysterious stranger, "that, if you agree to my proposal, and continue to put up as well together as I expect we shall, I will not limit my payment to the sum I have mentioned. What say you to this, Mr Adair?" To _this_ Mr Adair could say nothing for some time. Not a word. He was lost in perplexity and amazement--a state of mental difficulty and embarrassment, which he made manifest by scratching his head, and looking, with a bewildered sort of smile, alternately at the gold and its late owner--first at the one, then at the other. At length-- "Well," he said, still scratching his head, "this is a queer sort o' business, an' a turn o' matters I didna look for ava; but I hae seen waur things come o' better beginnins. To tell ye a truth, sir," continued the perplexed yeoman, "I'm no oot o' the need o' the siller. But, if ye'll just stop a minute, if ye please, till I speak to the guidwife on the subject." And, with this, Adair hurried out of the room; and, having done this, he hurried his wife into another, and told her of what had just taken place, concluding with a--"An', noo, guidwife, what do ye think we should do?" "Tak the siller, to be sure," replied the latter. "He seems to me to be a decent, canny lad; and, at ony rate, we canna be far wrang wi' ae six months o' him, ony way, seein that he's payin the siller afore haun. That's the grand point, Rab." "Feth, it's that, guidwife--nae doot o't," replied her husband. "Juist the pint o' pints. But whar'll ye put the lad?" "Ou, tak ye nae fash about that, guidman. I'll manage that. Isna there the wee room up the stair, wi' a bed in't that micht sair the king himself--sheets as white as the driven snaw, and guid stripped druggit curtains just oot o' the mangle?" "Weel, weel, guidwife, ony way ye like as to thae matters," replied Adair; "and I'll awa, in the meantime, and get haud o' the siller. There's gowd yonner for the liftin. Deil o' the like o't ever I saw." Saying this, he flung out of the apartment, and in the next minute was again in the presence of the mysterious stranger. On his entering--"Well, Mr Adair," said the latter, "what does your good lady say to my becoming a boarder with her?" "Feth, sir, she's very willin, and says ye may depend on her and her dochter doin everything in their power to make ye comfortable." "Of that I have no doubt," said the stranger; "and now, then, that this matter is so far settled, take up your money, Mr Adair, and reckon on punctual payments for the future." "No misdoubtin that, sir, at a'," said the latter, picking up the guineas, one after another, and chucking them into a small leathern purse which he had brought for the purpose. "No misdoubtin' at a', sir," he said. "I tak this to be guid earnest o' that." The stranger, then, whoever he was, was now fairly domiciled in the house of Mr Adair. The name he gave himself was Mowbray; and by this name he was henceforth known. For two years succeeding the period of which we have just been speaking, did Mr Mowbray continue an inmate of West Mains, without any single circumstance occurring to throw the smallest light on his history. At the end of this period, as little was known regarding him as on the day of his first arrival. On this subject he never communicated anything himself; and, as he was always punctual in his payments, and most exemplary in his general conduct, those with whom he resided did not feel themselves called upon, nor would it have been decorous, to make any further inquiry on the subject. Indeed although they had desired to do so, there was no way open to them by which to obtain such information. During the period alluded to, Mr Mowbray spent the greater part of his time in reading; having, since his settlement at West Mains, opened a communication with a bookseller in the neighbouring country town of ----; and in walking about the country, visiting the more remarkable scenery, and other interesting objects in the neighbourhood. During all this time, too, his habits were extremely retired; shunning, as much as he possibly could, all intercourse with those whom he accidentally met; and, even at home, mingling but little with the family with which he resided. Privacy and quietness, in short, seemed to be the great objects of his desire; and the members of Mr Adair's household, becoming aware of this, not only never needlessly intruded themselves on him, but studiously avoided involving him in conversation, which they observed was always annoying to him. He was thus allowed to go abroad and to return, and even to pass, when accidentally met by any members of the family, without any notice being taken of him, further, perhaps, than a slight nod of civility, which he usually returned without uttering a syllable. From all this--his retired habits, deep-seated melancholy, and immoveable taciturnity--it was evident to Mr Adair and his family that their boarder was labouring under some grievous depression of mind; and in this opinion they were confirmed by various expressions of grief, not unaccompanied by others of contrition, which they had frequently overheard, accidentally, as they passed the door of his apartment on occasions--and these were frequent--when Mr Mowbray seemed more than usually depressed by the sorrow to which he was a prey. With all this reserve and seclusion, however, there was nothing repulsive in Mr Mowbray's manners or habits. He was grave without being morose, taciturn without being churlish, and sought quietness and retirement himself, without any expression of impatience with, or sign of peevishness at, the stir and bustle around him. As a matter of course, the history and character of Mr Mowbray excited, at least for a time, much speculation in the neighbourhood; and these speculations, as a matter of course, also, as we may venture to say, were not in general of the most charitable description. One of these held forth that he was a retired highwayman, who had sought a quiet corner in which to enjoy the fruits of his industry, and to avoid the impertinences of the law; another held that he was a murderer, who had fled from justice; another that he was a bankrupt, who had swindled his creditors; a fourth, that he was a forger, who had done business in that way to a vast extent. As to the nature of the crime which Mr Mowbray had committed, it will be seen that there were various opinions; but that he had committed some enormous crimes of some sort or other, was a universal opinion--in this general sentiment all agreed. Amongst other mysteries, was that involved in the query--where did he get his money? Where did it come from? He did not, indeed, seem to have the command of very extensive resources; but always to have enough to pay punctually and promptly everything he desired, and to settle all pecuniary claims upon him. His remittances, it was also ascertained, came to him, from whatever quarter it might be, regularly twice a-year, per the English mail, which passed within a mile and a half of West Mains. The exact amount of these remittances, which were always in gold, and put up in a small, neat, tight parcel, was never exactly known; but was supposed, on pretty good grounds, to be, each, somewhere about a hundred and fifty guineas, one of which went to Mr Adair; for Mr Mowbray had, of his own accord, added fifty guineas per annum to the hundred which he had first promised. The other hundred and fifty was disposed of in various ways, or left to accumulate with their owner. Such, then, was the amount of information acquired regarding Mr Mowbray's pecuniary resources; and more, on this point, or any other regarding him, could not, by any means, be arrived at. By the end of the period, however, which we have above named--namely, two years--public opinion had, we must observe, undergone a considerable modification in Mr Mowbray's favour. He had been gradually acquitted of his various crimes; and the worst that was now believed of him was, that he was a gentleman whom troubles, of some kind or other, had driven from the world. This favourable change in public opinion regarding him was, in a great measure, if not, indeed, wholly owing to the regularity of his conduct, the gentleness of his manners, his generosity--for he was a liberal contributor to the relief of the necessitous poor in his vicinity--and to the rigid punctuality he observed in all his pecuniary transactions. In the family in which he resided, where there were, of course, better opportunities for judging of his character, and estimating his good qualities, he came to be much beloved. Adair, as he often said himself, would "gae through fire and water to serve him;" for a more honourable, or "discreet" young gentleman, as he also frequently said, "didna breathe the breath o' existence." On every other member of the family, the impression he made was equally favourable; and, on one of them, in particular, we might speak of it in yet stronger language. But of this anon. The general conviction into which the family with which Mr Mowbray resided fell, regarding the personal history of that person, was, that he was a gentleman who possessed a moderate annuity from some fixed sum, and that some disgust with the world had driven him into his present retirement; and in this conviction they had now been so long and so completely settled, that they firmly believed in its truth, and never after dreamed of again agitating the question, even in the most distant manner. Thus, then, stood matters at West Mains at the end of two years from the period at which our story opens. Hitherto, however, we have only exhibited what was passing above board. We will now give the reader a peep of certain little matters that were going on behind the scenes. A short while previous to the time of which we now speak, Rosy's sister, Martha, had gone to Edinburgh to spend the winter with a near relative of her father; partly as a friendly visit, and partly for the purpose of perfecting herself in certain branches of female education. This separation was a painful one to the two sisters, for they were much attached to each other; but they determined to compensate it by maintaining a close and regular correspondence; and huge was the budget that each soon accumulated of the other's epistolary performances. Out of these budgets we will select a couple, which will give the reader a hint of some things of which, we daresay, he little dreamed. The first is from Martha to her sister, and is dated from Edinburgh. * * * * * "MY DEAR ROSY," (runs this document,) "I received your kind letter by Mr Meiklewham, likewise the little jar of butter for Aunt, who says it is delicious, and that she would know it to be West Mains butter wherever she should have met with it. "I am delighted to hear that you are all well, and that Mr Mowbray has got better of his slight indisposition. By the by, Rosy, I have observed that you are particularly guarded in all your communications about Mr M. When you speak of him you don't do so with your usual sprightliness of manner. Ah! Rosy, Rosy, I doubt--I doubt--I have long doubted, or rather, I have been long convinced--of _what_, say you blushing! _N'importe_--nothing at all. Do you believe me, Rosy?--No, you don't. Does Mr M. fix his fine expressive eyes on you as often and as intensely as he used to do? Eh, Rosy!--Now, there's something you can't deny. "To be serious, Rosy, my dear sister, I have long been satisfied that you are loved by Mr Mowbray--deeply, sincerely, ardently loved. And, more, my dear Rosy, I am equally satisfied that Mr Mowbray is loved by _you_. I am certain of it. I have marked many symptoms of it, although I have never mentioned it to you before; and I do it now in order to induce you to unburden yourself of such feelings, as it may relieve you to discover to a sister who loves you tenderly and sincerely," &c, &c. * * * * * Our next quotation is from Martha's budget; and we shall select the letter she received in reply to the one above given. It is dated West Mains, and proceeds thus:-- * * * * * "MY DEAR MARTHA,--It is not in my nature to play a double part. I freely confess, my dear Martha, in reply to your lecture on a certain subject, that Mr Mowbray is not indifferent to me. I have long, I avow it, admired the many good qualities which we have all acknowledged him to possess--his gentlemanly bearing; his accomplishments; the elegance of his manners, and the noble generosity of his nature. These I have indeed, Martha, long admired. But what reason have you for supposing that your sister, with nothing to recommend her but some very homely advantage of person, can have made any impression on the heart of such a man as Mr Mowbray? Here, Martha, you are decidedly at fault, and have jumped to a conclusion which you have rather wished than believed. But, enough of this foolish matter."--And here the fair writer leaps off to another subject, which, as it has no reference to our story, nor any particular interest of its own, we beg to leave in the oblivion in which it reposes. And having quoted enough of the sisters' correspondence for our purpose, we will here, again, throw our narrative into its more direct and legitimate channel. By the letters above given, we have shewn pretty plainly that, on the part of the one sister, a secret attachment to the unknown lodger was in rapid progress, if it had not indeed already attained a height fatal to the peace of mind of her by whom it was entertained; and that, on the part of the other, a strong suspicion existed, not only that such love had been generated, but that this love was mutual. And was it so? It was. Mr Mowbray had not, indeed, made any very palpable advances, nor displayed any symptoms of the state of his feelings, which any one but such a close and shrewd observer as Martha could have detected. To no other eyes did this secret stand revealed. But there was now, in his general manner towards Rosy, much that such an observer could not fail to be struck with, or to attribute to its real and proper cause. Nor was this change confined to his intercourse with Rosy Adair--to the slight confusion that appeared in his countenance whenever they accidentally met each other, unseen of any one besides, and to the evident pleasure which he took in her society--to the circumstance of his seeking that pleasure as often as he could without making it subject of remark. No, the change that had now come over Mr Mowbray was not confined to what such incidents as these may be presumed to indicate; his spirit also, the whole tenor of his thoughts, the whole constitution of his mind, seemed equally under the influence of his new-born passion. His manner became more cheerful; his eye became lighted up with an unwonted fire; and he no longer indulged in the seclusion which he had so sedulously sought when he first came to West Mains. Mr Mowbray was now, in fact, a changed man, and changed for the better. He was now no longer the weeping, melancholy recluse, but a character evidently much more suitable to his natural temper and dispositions--a gay and cheerful man of the world. It was, indeed, a marvellous change; but so it was. This, however--referring to the attachment which had thus grown up between Rosy Adair and Mr Mowbray--was a state of matters which could not long remain in the position in which we have represented them; some result or conclusion was inevitable--and it arrived. Mr Mowbray gradually became more and more open in his communications with Miss Adair; gradually disclosed the state of his feelings with regard to her, and finally avowed his love. Miss Adair heard the delightful confession with an emotion she could not conceal; and, ingenuous in everything, in all she said and did, avowed that she loved in return. "Then, my Rosina, my beloved Rosina," exclaimed Mr Mowbray, in a wild transport of joy--and throwing himself, in the excitation of the moment, at the feet of her whom he addressed--"allow me to mention this matter to your father, and to seek his consent to your making me the happiest of living men." The liberty he thus sought with such grace and earnestness, was blushingly granted; not indeed, in express words, but with a silence equally intelligible and more eloquent than words. In five minutes after, Mr Mowbray was closeted, and in earnest conversation with Mr Adair. He had already announced his attachment to his daughter, and had sought his consent to their union. Mr Adair had yet made no reply. The request was one of too serious a nature to be hastily or unreflectingly acquiesced in. At length-- "Weel, Mr Mowbray," said Mr Adair, "I'll tell ye what it is: although I certainly haena a' the knowledge o' ye--that is, regarding yoursel and your affairs--that I maybe hae a richt to insist on haein before giein ye the haun o' my dochter--and this for a' the time that ye hae been under my roof--yet, as in that time--noo, I think, something owre twa year gane by--yer conduct has aye been that o' a gentleman, in a' respects--sober, discreet, and reglar; most exemplary, I maun say;--and, as I am satisfied that ye hae the means o' supportin a wife, in a decent way, no to say that there may be muckle owre either, I really think I can hae nae reasonable objections to gie ye Rosy after a'." During this speech of the worthy yeoman's, there was on Mr Mowbray's countenance a smile of peculiar meaning; evidently one under which lay something amusing, mingled with the expression of satisfaction which Mr Adair's sanction to his marriage with Rosina had elicited. Delighted with the success of his mission, Mr Mowbray now flew to the apartment in which he had left Miss Adair, and, enfolding her in his arms, in a transport of joy, informed her that he had obtained her father's consent to their union, and concluded by asking her to name the day which should make her his for ever. This, however, being rather too summary a proceeding, Rosina declined; and Mr Mowbray was obliged to be content with a promise of the matter being taken into consideration on an early day. Leaving the lovers in discussion on these very agreeable points, and others connected therewith, we will follow Mr Adair on the errand on which he went, after Mr Mowbray had left him. This was to communicate to his wife the unexpected and important proposal which had just been made to him, and to which he had just acceded. "Weel, guidwife, here's a queer business," said Mr Adair, on joining his thrifty helpmate, who was busy at the moment in scouring a set of milk dishes. "What do ye think? Mr Mowbray has just noo asked my consent to his marrying Rosy. Now, isna that a queer affair! My feth, but they maun hae managed matters unco cannily and cunningly; for deil a bit o' me ever could see the least inklin o' anything past ordinar between them." "You see onything o' that kind!" replied Mrs Adair, with an expression of the greatest contempt for her husband's penetration in _affaires de coeur_. "You see't, Robin! No--I dare say no. Although they were sitting under your very nose, wi' their arms aboot ithers' necks, I dinna believe ye wad see that there was onything in't. But, though ye didna see't, Robin, I saw't--and plainly enough, too--although I said naething about it. I saw, mony a day sin', that Mr Mowbray had a notion o' Rosy; and, if truth be tell't, I saw as weel that she had a notion o' him, and hae lang expected that it wad come to this." "Weel, weel, guidwife, ye hae a glegger ee for thae things than I hae," replied Mr Adair. "But here's the end o' the matter noo." "And hae ye gien your consent, Robin?" "'Deed hae I; for I think he's an honest, decent lad; and, no to say he's rich maybe, fair aneuch aff, I think, as to worldly matters." "As to that, I daresay, there's naething far amiss," replied Mrs Adair, "nor as regards his character either, maybe; but I'm no sure. I dinna ken, Robert, considerin a' things, if ye haena been a wee owre rash in giein your consent to this business. It's a serious affair. And, after a', we ken but little about the lad; although, I canna but say he seems to be a decent, honourable chiel, and I houp'll mak Rosy happy." Here the good woman raised the corner of her apron to her eyes, and gave way, for a second or two, to those maternal feelings which the occasion was so well calculated to excite. "Tuts, woman; what's the use o' that?" said Mr Adair, with a sort of good-natured impatience. "The thing's a' richt aneuch, and sae'll be seen in the end, nae doot." "God grant it!" replied his wife, with solemn earnestness; and here the conversation dropped for the time. We now revert to the proceedings of Mr Mowbray at this eventful crisis of his life; but in these we find only one circumstance occurring between the day on which he solicited, and that on which he obtained, the hand of Rosy Adair. This circumstance, however, was one of rather curious import. It was a letter which Mr Mowbray addressed to a friend, and ran thus:-- * * * * * "DEAR NARESBY,--The appearance of this well-known hand--well known to you, my friend--will, I daresay, startle you not a little. My letter will seem to you as a communication from the dead; for it is now upwards of two long years since you either heard from me or of me. On this subject I have much to say to you, and on some others besides, but defer it until I shall have the pleasure of seeing you at Wansted--a pleasure which I hope to have in about three weeks hence--when we shall talk over old affairs, and, mayhap, some new ones. Would you believe me, Naresby, if I was to say, that the sea had ceased to ebb and flow, that the hills had become valleys, and the valleys had risen into hills; that the moon had become constant, and that the sun had forgotten to sink in the west when his daily course was run? Would you believe any or all of these things, if I were to assert them to be true? No, you wouldn't. Yet will you as readily believe them, I daresay, as that I am to be--how can I come out with the word!--to be--to be married, Naresby! Married! Yes, married. I am to be married--I repeat it slowly and solemnly--and to one of the sweetest and fairest creatures that ever the sun of heaven shone upon. 'Oh! of course,' say you. But it's true, Naresby; and, ere another month has passed away, you will yourself confess it; for ere that period has come and gone, you will have seen her with your own eyes. "So much then for resolution, for the weakness of human nature. I thought--nay, I swore, Naresby, as you know--that I would, that I could never love again. I thought that the treachery, the heartlessness of one, one smiling deceiver, had seared my heart, and rendered it callous to all the charms and blandishments of her sex. But I have been again deceived. "I have not, however, this time, chosen the object of my affections from the class to which--I cannot pronounce her name--that fatal name--belonged; but from one which, however inferior in point of adventitious acquirement, far surpasses it--of this experience has convinced me--in all the better qualities of the heart. "The woman to whom I am to be married--my Rosina Adair!--is the daughter of a humble yeoman, and has thus neither birth nor fortune to boast of. But what in a wife are birth or fortune to me? Nothing, verily nothing, when their place is supplied--as in the case of my betrothed--by a heart that knows no guile; by a temper cheerful and complying; and by personal charms that would add lustre to a crown. Birth, Naresby, I do not value; and fortune I do not want. "Well, then, Naresby, my period of seclusion is now about over, and I return again to the world. Who would have said this two years ago? If any had, I would have told them they spoke untruly--that I had abjured the world, and all its joys, for ever; and that, henceforth, William Mowbray would not be as other men. But so it is. I state the fact, and leave others to account for and moralize on it." * * * * * Such, then, was the letter which Mr Mowbray wrote to his friend, Naresby, during the interval to which we formerly alluded. Several other letters he also wrote and despatched about the same time; but the purpose of these, and to whom written, we must leave the sequel of our story to explain. Having no further details of any interest wherewith to fill up the intervening period between the occurrence of the circumstances just related and the marriage of Rosina Adair and William Mowbray, we at once carry forward our narrative to the third day after the celebration of that event. On that day-- "Rosy, my love," said Mr Mowbray, smiling, "I have a proposal to make to you." "Indeed!--what is it, William?" "Why, I'll tell you what it is," said the latter; "I wish to go on a visit to a particular friend, and I wish you to go with me." "Oh, surely," replied Mrs Mowbray. "Is it far?" "Why, a pretty long way; a two days' journey. Will you still venture on it?" "Surely--surely, William. Anywhere with you!" "Thank you, my love," said Mr Mowbray, embracing his young wife. "Now, I have another proposal to make, Rosy," continued the former; "I wish your father and mother to accompany us." "What! my father and mother too!" exclaimed Mrs Mowbray, in great surprise. "Dear me, wouldn't that be odd, William. What would your friend say to such a cavalcade of visiters?" "Delighted to see them, I assure you, my love. It's my friend's own express wish; and, however odd it may seem, it is a point which must be conceded me." "Well, well, William, any way you please. I am content. But have you thought of the expense? That will be rather serious." "Oh, not in the least, my love," replied Mr Mowbray, laughing. "Not in the least serious, I assure you. I will manage that part of the matter." "Well, well; but my father's consent, William. There's the difficulty. To get him to leave his farm for so long a time; I doubt you will scarcely prevail upon him to do that. He would not live a week from home, I verily believe, although it were to make a lord of him." "I'll try, Rosy; I'll try this minute," said Mr Mowbray, hurrying out of the apartment, and proceeding in quest of Mr Adair, whom he soon found. "Leave hame for a week!" exclaimed the latter, on Mr Mowbray's making known to him his wishes on this subject. "Impossible! my dear sir; impossible! Wholly out o' the question. I hae a stack o' oats to thrash oot; a bit o' a fauld dyke to build; twa acres o' the holme to ploo; the new barn to theek; the lea-field to saw wi' wheat; the turnips to bring in; the taties to bing; forbye a hunner ither things that can on nae account stan owre. Impossible, my dear sir--impossible. Juist wholly oot the question. But ye may get the guidwife wi' ye an' ye like, Mr Mowbray," said Mr Adair, laughing jocosely; "and may keep her too, if ye like." "Yes--yes. All very well, Mr Adair; but I must have you too, in spite of the manifold pieces of work you have on hand. I have a particular reason for pressing this point, and really will not be denied." For a full half-hour did this sort of sparring continue between Mr Mowbray and his father-in-law; both being resolute--the one to carry his point, the other to keep his ground; but, what could hardly be expected, the former finally prevailed. His urgency carried the day; and Mr Adair was ultimately, although we need scarcely say it, reluctantly, prevailed on to promise that he would be one of the intended party. Having obtained this promise, Mr Mowbray farther secured its performance by naming the following day as that on which they should set out. On the following day, accordingly--Mrs Adair's consent having, in the meantime, been obtained, and with much less difficulty than her husband's--two chaises--unwonted sight--appeared at the door of West Mains House; they had been ordered by Mr Mowbray from the neighbouring country town; and, in a little after, out came the party by which they were to be occupied. "I wad far rather hae ridden the black mare than go into ane o' thae things," said Mr Adair, looking contemptuously at the couple of chaises that stood at the door. "I never was fond o' ridin in cotches a' my life. Nasty, rattlin, jinglin things. Ane micht as weel be shut up in a corn kist as in ane o' them." Having expressed this opinion of the conveyance he was about to enter, Mr Adair, notwithstanding of that opinion, proceeded, with the assistance of Mr Mowbray, to help his wife into one of them. This done, he followed himself. Mrs and Mr Mowbray stepped into the other chaise. The doors were shut by the coachman with a bang; and, in the next minute, both the vehicles were in rapid motion. On the forenoon of the second day after their departure--nothing, in the interval, having occurred worth relating--the party arrived at a certain noble mansion not far from the borders of England. The two chaises having drawn up before the door of this splendid residence, three or four servants in rich livery hastened to release the travellers by throwing open the doors of their carriages, and unfolding the steps, which they did with very marked deference and respect, and with smiles on their faces, (particularly in the case of one not in livery, who seemed the principal of them,) of very puzzling meaning. On the party having got out of their chaises--"Is this your freen's house, Mr Mowbray?" said Mr Adair, standing fast, and looking up with great astonishment and admiration at the splendid building before him. "It is, sir," replied Mr Mowbray. "My feth! an' he maun be nae sma' drink then--that's clear. He has a rare sittin-down here. It's a house for a lord." "The house is very respectable, certainly," said Mr Mowbray; "and, I think, you'll find the inside every way worthy of the out." "I dinna doot it--I dinna doot it," replied Mr Adair. "But whar's your freen, himsel?" "Oh! we'll see him presently. In the meantime let us walk in." And, taking his wife's arm within his, Mr Mowbray led the way into the house, conducted by the principal domestic, and followed by Mr and Mrs Adair; the latter no less overwhelmed than her husband by the grandeur with which she was surrounded. Having entered the house, the party were led up a magnificent staircase, and ushered into a room of noble dimensions, and gorgeously furnished. All but Mr Mowbray himself, and the servant who attended, were awe-stricken with the splendours around them. Even Mrs Mowbray was oppressed with this feeling; so much so as not to be able to speak a word; and on her father and mother it had a similar effect. Not one opened a mouth, but continued gazing around them in silent amazement and admiration. When the party had seated themselves--"Shall I serve up some refreshment, sir?" said the servant to Mr Mowbray, with great respect of manner, but with that perplexing smile on his face. "Yes, John, do," said Mr Mowbray; "and as quick's you like; for we are all, I fancy, pretty sharp-set; and some of us--I speak for myself at any rate--not a little thirsty." The servant bowed and retired. When he had done so--"'Od, sir, ye seem to be greatly at your ease here," said Mr Adair, who was not a little surprised, with the others, as well he might, at the free and easy manner of his son-in-law in his friend's house, "You and your freen maun surely be unco intimate." "Oh! we certainly are so," replied Mr Mowbray, laughing. "I can use any freedom here--the same as if I were in my own house." "Weel, that's pleasant and friendly like," said Mr Adair. "But isna your freen himsel lang o' makin his appearance?" "Rather, I confess; but he'll be here shortly, I daresay--something of a particular nature detaining him, I have no doubt; but, in the meantime, we'll make ourselves at home. I know it will please him if we do so." And Mr Mowbray proceeded to the bell-pull, and rung it violently. A servant instantly appeared, and received an order, fearlessly given, from Mr Mowbray, to hasten the refreshment in preparation. Mr Adair's countenance expressed increased amazement at this very unceremonious proceeding; and he felt as if he would have said that he thought it the most impertinent thing ever he had seen done in his life; but he refrained. In this feeling Mrs Adair also partook; and in this feeling Mr Mowbray's own wife shared, although not, perhaps, to the same extent. Not the least curious part, let us observe too, of this odd scene, was that Mr Mowbray seemed to delight in the perplexity of feeling which his proceedings excited in his friends, and appeared studiously to do everything he could think of to increase them. By and by, the promised repast was served up; and an exceedingly handsome one it was. The party took their seats, no host or hostess having yet appeared--Mr Mowbray placing his wife at the head of the table, and himself taking the foot--and proceeded to do justice to the good things before them. The repast over, wine was introduced. This done, Mr Mowbray--who, to the now utterly inexpressible amazement, and even confusion, of both Mr and Mrs Adair, had all this while been ordering away, right and left, as if he had been in a common inn--desired all the attendants to retire. When they had done so, he filled up a bumper of wine, lifted it, rose to his feet and, advancing with smiling countenance and extended hand towards his wife, bade her welcome to _her own house_! "What!" shouted Mr Adair, leaping from his chair. "Eh!" exclaimed his wife, doing precisely the same thing by hers. "William," said Mrs Mowbray, in a voice faint with agitation, and endeavouring to rise from her chair, into which, however, she was obliged again to sink. "True, my friends," said Mr Mowbray; "all true. This, Mr Adair, is your daughter's house; all that is within it and around it. Welcome again, my love, to your own fireside!" said Mr Mowbray, embracing his wife, "and long may you live to enjoy all the comfort and happiness which Malton House, and ten thousand a-year, are capable of affording!" Here, then, ends our story, good reader; and as we do not think you would choose to be much longer detained, especially with dry details of explanation which are all that now remains to add, we shall be brief. Mr Mowbray was a young man of large fortune, who, having been crossed in love, had imagined that he had been thereby weaned from the world and all its joys; and, under this impression, had sought to retire from the busy scenes of life, with a determination never to return to them again. How he kept to this resolution our story tells. A HIGHLAND TRADITION. On the summit of a bluff headland that projects into the Sound of Sky, there stand the grey ruins of an ancient castle, which was once the residence of a Highland chieftain of the name of M'Morrough--a man of fierce nature and desperate courage, but not without some traits of a generous disposition. When about middle age, M'Morrough married the daughter of a neighbouring chief--a lady of much sweetness of manner and gentleness of nature. On the part of the former, however, this connection was one in which love had little share: its chief purpose would have been attained by the birth of a male heir to the name and property of the feudal chieftain; and this was an event to which he looked anxiously forward. When the accouchement of his lady arrived, M'Morrough retired to an upper apartment of the castle to await the result--having desired a trusty domestic to bring him instant intelligence when the child was born, whether it was a male or a female. The interval he employed in walking up and down the chamber in a fever of impatience. At length the door of the apartment opened, and Innes M'Phail entered. The chieftain turned quickly and fiercely round, glanced at the countenance of his messenger, and there read the disappointment of his hopes without a word being uttered. "It is even so, then," roared out the infuriated chieftain. "It is a girl, Innes; a girl. My curses on her!" "Say _girls_, M'Morrough," said Innes, despondingly. "There are twins." "And both girls--both!" exclaimed the former, stamping the floor in the violence of his passion. "To the battlements with them, Innes!--to the battlements with them instantly, and toss them over into the deep sea! Let the waves of Loch Sonoran rock them to sleep, and the winds that rush against Inch Caillach sing their lullaby. Let it be done--done instantly, Innes, as you value your own life; and I will witness the fidelity with which you serve me from this window. I will, with my own eyes, see the deed done. Go--go--quick--quick!" Innes, who had been previously aware that such would be the fate of a female child, if such should unfortunately be born to his ruthless chief, and who had promised to be the instrument of that fate, now left the apartment to execute the atrocious deed. In less than ten minutes after, Innes M'Phail appeared on the battlements, carrying a large wicker basket. From this depository he took out a child, swaddled in its first apparel, and raising it aloft, tossed it over to perish in the raging sea below. The little arms of the infant extended as it fell; but the sight was momentary. It glanced white through the air like an ocean bird, and, in an instant after, disappeared in the dark waters of Loch Sonoran. The murderer followed with his eye the descent of his little victim, till the sea closed over it, when, returning to the basket, he took from it another child, and disposed of it as he had done the first. During the whole of this dreadful exhibition, M'Morrough was standing at a window several yards lower down than the battlements, but so situated in an angle of the building that he could distinctly see what passed on the former. Satisfied that his atrocious decree had been fully executed, he withdrew from the window; and, avoiding an interview with his wife, whom--stern and ruthless as he was--he dreaded to meet with the murder of her infants on his head, he left the castle on a hunting expedition, from which he did not return for three days. On his return, M'Morrough would have waited on his lady, whom he hoped now to find in some measure reconciled to her bereavement, but was told that she would see no one; that she had caused a small apartment at the top of the castle to be hung with black; and that, immuring herself in this dismal chamber, she spent both her nights and days in weeping and lamentation. On learning this, M'Morrough did not press his visit, but left it to time to heal, or, at least, to soothe the grief of his unhappy wife. In the expectation which he had formed from the silent but powerful operation of this infallible anodyne, M'Morrough was not mistaken. In about a month after the murder of her babes, the lady of M'Morrough, deeply veiled, and betraying every symptom of a profound but subdued grief, presented herself at the morning meal which was spread for her husband. It was the first time they had met since the occurrence of the tragical event recorded above. To that event, however, neither made even the slightest allusion; and, whether it was that time had weakened the impression of her late misfortune, or that she dreaded rousing the enmity of her husband towards herself by a longer estrangement, the lady of M'Morrough showed no violent disinclination to accept of the courtesies which, well-pleased with her having made her appearance of her own accord, he seemed anxious to press upon her. A footing of companionship having thus been restored between the chieftain and his lady, matters, from this day, went on at Castle Tulim much as they had done before, only that the latter long continued to wear a countenance expressive of a deeply wounded, but resigned spirit. Even this, however, gradually gave way beneath the influence of time; and, when seventeen years had passed away, as they now did, unmarked by the occurrence, at Castle Tulim, of any event of the smallest importance, the lady of M'Morrough had long been in the possession of her wonted cheerfulness. It was about the end of this period, that the haughty chieftain, now somewhat subdued by age, and no longer under the evil influence of those ungovernable passions that had run riot with him in his more vigorous years, was invited, along with his lady, to a great entertainment which was about to be given by his father-in-law. M'Morrough and his lady proceeded to the castle of their relative. The banquet hall was lighted up; it was hung with banners, crowded with gay assemblage, and filled with music. There were many fair faces in that assemblage; but the fairest of all, were those of two sisters, who sat apart by themselves. The beauty of countenance and elegance of form of these two girls, who seemed to be both about the same age--seventeen--were surpassing. M'Morrough marked them; he watched them during the dance; he could not keep his eyes off them. At length, turning to his lady, he asked who they were. "They are _your_ daughters, M'Morrough," replied the former. A deadly paleness overspread the countenance of the chief. He shook in every limb, and would have sunk on the floor had he not been supported. On recovering a little, he covered his face with his hands, burst into a flood of tears, and rushed out of the apartment. On gaining a retired and unoccupied chamber, M'Morrough sent for his daughters. When they came, they found him on his knees, fervently thanking God for this signal instance of his mercy and beneficence. He took his daughters in his arms, blessed them a thousand times over, buried his head between them, and wept like a child. THE SURGEON'S TALES. THE BEREAVED. By looking over the memorial of my professional life; and writing out the extended details of my experience, I am, in effect, living my life over again. Most of the scenes I witnessed left such an impression upon my mind, that it requires only the touch of the _caduceus_ of the witching power of memory, to call them all up again with a vividness scarcely less than that by which they were formerly presented to me. There is only this difference, that my remembered experiences, now invested with a species of borrowed light, seem like scenery which one has seen in the glance of a mid-day sun, presented again to the dreamy "evening sense" under the soft blue effulgence of the waning harvest-moon; the trees with the sere leaf rustling under the fluttering wing of the night bird; and the dead silence, which is not broken by the internal voice speaking the words that have been spoken by those who lie under the yew tree. In an early leaf of my journal, I find some broken details of a visit I paid to Mr B----, a rich manufacturer in the town where I began my practice; but which I left when I had more confidence in those humble powers of ministering to the afflicted, which have raised me to an honourable station, and supplied me with the means of passing my old age in affluence. This individual had lost his wife--a very amiable woman, with whom he had lived a period of twenty-five years--and took on grief so heavily, that he was unfit to attend the funeral. He lay in bed, and would not be comforted. Having attended his wife, I continued my attentions to the husband. Three days had passed since his wife had been buried, and during all that time, he had eaten nothing; and, what augured gloomily for his fate, he had never been heard to speak, or sigh, or even to give vent to his sufferings in a single groan. There seemed to have fallen over him a heavy load, which, pressing with deadly force upon the issues of life, defied those reacting energies of nature, which usually struggle, by sighs and groans, to throw off the incubus of extraordinary griefs. I have met with many wiseacre-sceptics who laugh at the idea of what is vulgarly called a "broken heart," as a direct consequence either of unrequited love or extraordinary grief--admitting, however, in their liberality, that death may ensue from great griefs operating merely as an inductive original cause, which destroying gradually the foundations of health, bring on a train of other ailments, that may, in the end, prove mortal. The admission cares for nothing, as a matter of every-day experience; and the original proposition to which it is objected as a qualification, remains as a truth which may humble the pride of man, and speak to the sceptic through the crushed heart of a fatal experience. I have seen many instances of the fatal effects of grief as a direct mortal agent, killing, by its own unaided energies, as certainly, though not in so short a time, as a blow or a wound in the vital organs of the human body. The common nosologies contain no name for the disease, because, in truth, it cannot properly be called a disease, any more than a stab with a sword can deserve that name; and this, combined with the fact that it is only in a very few instances that the _coup_ works by itself, without the aid of some ailment generated by it, that young practitioners often homologate the vulgar notions that prevail upon this important subject. Among all the many causes of grief to which mankind are daily exposed, I know not that there is one that strikes so deeply into the secret recesses of the vital principle as the loss of a dearly-beloved wife, who has lived with a man for a lengthened period, through early adversity and late prosperity--borne him a family which have bound closer the tie that was knitted by early affection, and who has left him to tread the last weary stages of existence alone, and without that support which almost all men derive from woman. The effects are often supposed to be proportioned to the affection; yet I doubt if this solves the curious problem of the diversity of consequences resulting from this great privation. There are many men of strong powers of mind, who are so constituted that they _cannot_ but press heavily on the support of another. They seem almost to live through the thoughts and feelings of their helpmates; and the energies they take credit for in the busy affairs of the world, have their source--unknown often to themselves--in the bosom of wedded affection. It is in proportion to the strength of the habit of this _leaning_, combined, doubtless, with the coexistent affection, that the effects of the loss of a helpmate, in the later period of life, work with such varied influence on the survivor. It may also seem a curious fact, and I have no doubt of the truth of it, that a man when advanced in years is much more apt to break suddenly down under this visitation than a woman; while, again, the consequence would seem to be reversed if the calamity has overtaken them in the more early stages of the connection. These are grounds for speculation. At present I have only to do with facts. The individual whose case has suggested these observations, presented, when I saw him first after the funeral of his wife, the symptom--present in all cases of an utterly crushed spirit--of a wish to die. I was the first to whom he had uttered a syllable since the day on which she had been carried out of the house which she had so long filled with the spirit of cheerfulness and comfort. His only daughter, Martha, a fine young woman, had contributed but little to his relief--if she had not, indeed, increased his depression by her own emotions, which she had no power to conceal; and his only son had gone off to Edinburgh, to attend his classes in the college, where he intended to graduate as a physician. He was thus, in a manner, left in a great degree alone; for his daughter sought her apartment at every opportunity, to weep over her sorrows unobserved; and she had naturally thought that her father's grief, attended by no exacerbations of groaning or weeping like her own, presented less appearance of intensity than that which convulsed her own heart, and got relief by nature's appointed modes of alleviation. When the heart is stricken with a certain force, all forms of presenting less gloomy views of the condition of the individual, will generally be found to be totally unavailing in affording relief. Nay, I am satisfied that there was genuine philosophy in the custom of the Greeks and the ancient Germans, in _forcing_ victims of great sorrows to _weep_ out the rankling barbed shaft. These had a species of licensed mourners, whose duty it was to soften the heart by melting strains of mournful melody, whereby, as by the application of a bland liniment, the rigid issues of the feelings were softened and opened, and the oppressed organ, the heart, was relieved of the load which defies the force of argument, and even the condolence of friendship. The curing of cold-nips by the appliance of snow, and of burns by the application of heat, could not have appeared more fraught with ridicule to the old women of former days, than would the custom I have here cited to the comforters of modern times. If I cannot say that, amongst some bold remedies, I have recommended it, I have, at least, avoided, on all occasions, officious endeavours to counteract the oppressing burden, by wrenching the mind from the engrossing thought--a process generally attended with no other result than making it adhere with increased force. The greatest triumph that can be effected with the truly heart-stricken victim, to whom is denied the usual bursts that indicate a bearable misfortune, or, at least, one whose intensity is partly abated, is the bringing about of that more natural condition of the heart, which, indeed, is generally most feared by the ordinary paraclete. In the case of the bereaved husband, there is no charm so powerful in its effects as the vivid portrayment of the virtues of her who has gone down to the grave; and it may well be said, that the heart that will not give out its feelings to the impassioned description of the amiable properties of the departed helpmate, is all but incurable. The sister of Mr B----, who saw the necessity of administering relief, tried to awaken him to a sense of religious consolation; but he was as yet unfit even for that sacred ministration; and all her efforts having failed to rouse him, even from the deathlike stupor in which he lay, she had recourse, by my advice, to probing the wound, to take off the stricture by which the natural humours were pent up. She discoursed pathetically on the qualities of the departed, which, she said, would be the passport of her spirit to a sphere where he would again contemplate them unclouded by the dingy vapours of earthly feelings. She kept in the same strain for a lengthened period; but declared to me, when I visited him again, that he exhibited no signs of being moved by her discourse. He, once or twice, turned his eyes on her for a moment, drew occasionally a heavy sigh, that told, by the difficulty of the operation, the load with which he was oppressed; but his eyes were dry, no groan escaped from him, or any other sign of the heart being aided in an effort to restore the current of natural feeling. The _coup de peine_ had too clearly taken the very core of the heart; the lamp of hope had been dashed out violently, and, under the cloud of his great evil, all things that remained to him upon earth were tinged with its dark hues. He presented all the appearances--except the dilation of the pupil of the eye--of one whose brain had been concussed by a deep fall, or laboured under a fracture of the bones of the _cranium_. The few words he spoke to me came slowly, with a heavy oppressive sound, as if spoken through a hollow tube; and what may, to some, be remarkable, though certainly not to me, they embraced not the slightest allusion to his bereavement--a symptom almost invariably attendant upon those deeper strokes of grief, which, being but seldom witnessed, are much less understood in their effects than the more ordinary oppressions, whose intense demonstrations and allusions to the cause of the evil, mark the victims as objects for the portrayments of poets. Two or three days passed off in this way, without the slightest amelioration of his condition. The efforts of Miss B---- had been repeated often without effect. As she expressed herself to me, he would neither eat nor speak, sleep nor weep. "He has not," she added, "even muttered her name. His heart seems utterly broken; and time and the power of Heaven alone will effect a change." Such is the common philosophy of sorrow: time is held forth as all-powerful, all-saving; and while I admit its force, I only insist for the certainty of the existence of exceptions. The eighth day had passed without any support having been taken to sustain the system. A course of maceration, that had been going on during his wife's illness, was thus continued; yet, in the few words I occasionally drew from him, there was no indication of anything like the sullen determination of the suicide; the cause lay in the total cessation of the powers of the stomach--a consequence of the cerebral pressure, whose action is felt not where it operates primarily, but in the heart and other organs, where it works merely by sympathy. It was on the evening of the eighth day after the funeral, as I have it noted, that I called to see if any change for the better had been effected by the ministrations of his sister. She sat by his bedside, with the Bible placed before her, from which she had been reading passages to him. His face was turned to the front of the bed, but he did not seem to be in any way moved by my entrance. All the efforts his sister had made to get him to enter into the spirit of the passages she had been reading had been fruitless; nor had he as yet made the slightest allusion to the cause of his illness, or mentioned the name of his deceased partner. A few words of no importance, and not related to the circumstances of his grief, were wrung from him painfully by my questions; but it seemed as if the language that represents the things of the world had lost all power of charming the ear; the deadness that had overtaken the heart like a palsy, was felt from the fountain of feelings, to the minute endings of the nerves; and the external senses, which are the ministers of the soul, had renounced their ordinary ministrations to the spirit that heeded them not. Only once his sister had observed a slight moisture rise for a moment in his eye, as she touched some tender traits of the character of the departed; but it passed away rather as an evidence of the utter powerlessness of nature, in a faint heave of the reactive energy, telling at once how little she could perform, yet how much was necessary to overcome the weight by which she was oppressed. I sat for some moments silent by the side of the bed, and meditated a recourse to some more strenuous effort directed to his sense of duty as a parent; though I was aware, that until the heart is in some degree relieved, all such appeals are too often vain, if not rather attended with unfavourable effects, but, in extreme cases, we are not entitled to rest upon the generality of theories where so various and mutable an essence as the human mind is the object to which they are to be applied. I was on the point of making a trial, by recurring to the position of his son and daughter, when I heard the sound of a horse's feet approaching, with great rapidity, the door. The sister started; and I could hear Martha open the window above, to ascertain who might be the visiter. In another moment the outer door opened with a loud clang. Some one approached along the passage, in breathless haste. He entered. It was George B----, under the excitement of some strong internal emotion; his eyes gleaming with a fearful light, and his limbs shaking violently. He stood for a moment as if he were gathering his energies to speak; but the words stuck in his throat, the sounds died away amidst the noise of an indistinct jabbering. I noticed the eye of his father fixed upon him, betraying only a very slight increase of animation; but even this extraordinary demeanour of his son did not draw from him a question; so utterly dead to all external impulses had his grief made him, that the harrowing cause of so much excitement in his son, remained unquestioned by the feelings of the parent. In another moment the youth was stretched across the bed, locking the father in his embrace, and sobbing out inarticulate words, none of which I could understand. The aunt was as much at a loss to solve the mystery of the violent paroxysm as myself; for some time neither of us could put a question; the sobbings of the youth seemed to chain up our tongues by the charm of the eloquence of nature's impassioned language. Meanwhile, Martha entered, ran forward to the bedside, lifted her brother from the position which he occupied, and seated him, by the application of some force, on the empty chair that stood by the side of the bed. "What is the matter, George?" she cried; the question was repeated by the aunt, and the eyes of the parent sought languidly the face of the youth, which was, however, now covered by his hands. The question was more than once repeated by both the aunt and myself; the father never spoke, nor could I perceive a single ray of curiosity in his eye. He seemed to await the issue of the son's explanation, heedless what it might be--whether the announcement of a great or a lesser evil--its magnitude, though transcending the bounds of ordinary bearing, comprehending every other misfortune that fate could have in store for him, being, whatever its proportions, as nothing to the death-stricken heart of one whose hope was buried. "This is scarcely a time or an occasion, George," said I, "for the manifestation of these emotions. If the cause lies in the grief, come back with increased force, for the death of your mother, you should have known that there is one lying there whose load is still greater, and who is, unfortunately, as yet, beyond the relief which, as your agitation indicates, nature in the young heart is working for you." "The death!--the death!" he muttered in a choking voice; "but there is something after the death that is worse than the death itself." "Are you distracted, George?" said the aunt. "This Bible was the hand-book and the rule of your mother's conduct in this world. A better woman never offered up her prayers at the fountain of the waters of immortal life; no one that ever lived had a better right to draw from the blessing, or better qualified for enjoying it as she now enjoys it. She is in heaven; and will you say that that is worse than death?" "You speak of her spirit, aunt," replied he, as he still covered his face with his hands. "Her spirit is there!"--and he took away one of his hands from his face and pointed to heaven--"There, where the saints rest, does my mother's soul rest; but, O God, where--where is the body?" A thought struck me on the instant. I was afraid to utter it. I looked at the father, and suspected, from the sudden light of animation that started to his eye, that the gloom of his mind had at last been penetrated by the thought which had suggested itself to me. "Where is the body!" responded the aunt. "Why, George, where should it be but in C---- churchyard, beneath the stone that has told the virtues of her ancestors, and will, in a short time, declare her own, greater than those of her kindred that have gone before?" "It is on Dr M----'s table!" cried the youth, starting to his feet, and again throwing himself violently on the chair. "I purchased it; paid the price for it; and recognised it only when the dissecting-knife was in my hand!" Every one started aghast; terror froze up the issues of speech; a deep groan issued from the bed-ridden patient; he beckoned me to his ear. "Tell the women to go out," he whispered, as he twisted his body convulsively among the bedclothes. I complied with his request; and the aunt, seizing Martha, who stood as if she had been transfixed to the floor, dragged her out of the room. In the passage, I heard a loud scream; and, in a moment, all was again silence. Mr B----, without uttering a word, raised his feeble body from the bed, and came forth, the spectre of what he was only a few weeks before. His limbs, which were reduced to bony shanks, covered with shrivelled skin, seemed totally unable to support even the decayed, emaciated frame. He staggered as he reached the floor; but, recovering himself, stood firm, and then proceeded to his wardrobe, from which he drew his vestments, and proceeded to attire himself. "An hour since," he said, in a slow, solemn voice, "I thought these clothes would never again be on my body. My only hope was the winding-sheet, and that grave which has been robbed." "George may have been deceived," said I, as he was proceeding to dress himself. "I have often thought that I saw resemblances to deceased friends in the features of subjects in the dissecting-room." "The grave will test it," answered he, with a deep groan, as he proceeded slowly, but resolutely, to put one garment after another on his skeleton body. He was at length dressed; and, proceeding to the kitchen, he appeared again, in a short time, with a lighted lantern in his hand, the light of which, as it threw its beam on his sallow face--for the candle had, meanwhile, burned down into the socket--exhibited, in its lurid glare, the deep-sunken eyes and protruding bones of his emaciated countenance. "Come, we shall proceed to the grave of my Isabella," said he. "You are unable," said I. "Your limbs will not carry you that length; and you are, besides, unfitted by the state of your mind and feelings, for an investigation of this kind. Stay here with your son, and I will go to the churchyard and satisfy myself of the deception under which George, doubtless, labours." "I feel now more than my former strength," he replied. "I am awakened from a death-stupor of the soul; and I feel that within me which will enable me to go through this trial. I will look into my Isabella's grave; will meet with those eyes again--that countenance through which I have read the workings of love in a spirit that is now far from the precincts of the clay. Deny me not; I will be satisfied of this, if I should come back from her grave to complete that which is begun, and is already visible in these shrunken members, that now obey a supernatural power." There seemed to be no gainsaying him; his manner was inspired and resolute; and I proceeded to accompany him to C---- churchyard. George, who, in the meantime, had been tossing himself in the chair, rose to make one of the party. The agitation under which he still laboured was in direct contrast to the cold stillness of his father; yet the one was a more living expression than the other; and, while my eye shrunk not from the ordinary indications of suffering, I--maugre all the experience of misery I had had--could scarcely look on the animated corpse thus preparing to visit the grave where the object of all his hopes and affections in this world had been buried, and might now be found to have been desecrated by the knife of the anatomist. We went forth together. George's horse still stood at the door, reeking and bloody. I requested Mr B---- to mount, as we had a full mile to go to the burying-ground, and I deemed it utterly impossible that he could accomplish the distance. He did not answer me, but proceeded onwards with a firm step, in the face of a cold, bleak, east wind, that moaned mournfully among a clump of trees that skirted the road. Some flakes of snow were winging through the air--driven now by the breeze, or lingering over our heads as if afraid to be soiled by the earth, which we were bent to open where the dead then lay--or some time before lay--a mass of putrefaction; yet dear to the feelings of the bereaved, and sought now with greater avidity than when the body was arrayed in the smiles of beauty, and filled with living, breathing love. The husband spoke nothing; and George was silent, save for the deep sobs that burst from him as he looked upon the woe-worn form of his father, who stalked away before us like a creature hurrying to the grave to seek the home there from which a troubled spirit had removed him in the dark hour of night. In this way we wandered on. I was not in a mood to speak. The occasion and the scene depressed me more than ever did the prospect of a deathbed, or the sight of a patient about to submit to a painful and dangerous operation. My habits of thought are little conversant with the poetry of nature, or of man's condition in this stage of suffering--the duties of an arduous profession are exclusive of those dreamy moods of the mind, which have little in common with the doings of every-day life; yet, on this occasion, I felt all the inspiration of the sad muse; and, were I to endeavour to account for it, I could only seek for the cause in the aspect of the night, and the unusual nature of the vocation, operating, at the moment, on a mind loosened from the cares of my profession. In a much less time than I could have anticipated, from the weak condition of Mr B----, we arrived at the churchyard--a solitary spot, surrounded with an old grey dyke, at the back of which rose in deep shade a wood of firs. The snow lay on the top of the walls, and on the higher branches of the firs, reminding one of streaks of white clouds in the sky, as the darkness of the night, enveloping the lower portions, kept them almost from our view. From a small house at the ridge of the fir-belt, a slight ray of light beamed forth, and, striking upon the top of a monument placed against the wall, exhibited the left all around in deeper gloom. Without uttering a word, Mr B---- made up to the house, and, knocking at the door, a young female appeared. She uttered a scream, and ran back, doubtless from the pale and death-like appearance presented by the face of the visiter. Her place was momentarily supplied by the sexton, who, the moment he saw Mr B----, shrunk back in what I conceived to be conscious fear. I was standing behind, and noticing, what I thought, the guilty expression of the man's face, concluded unfavourably for the sad hope of my friend. "I have reason to believe that there have been resurrectionists in your churchyard, James," said Mr B---- mournfully. "Impossible!" replied the sexton; "we have been guarding the ground for some time past. It is a dream, Mr B----; many relations are troubled by the same fears. It was only yesterday that I opened a grave to satisfy the wishes of Mrs G----, whose husband was buried a week ago. The body was as safe as if it had been in her own keeping. Take my advice; be satisfied there is no cause of apprehension; you forget the sacred nature of my trust." "I can only be satisfied by an examination of the grave," replied Mr B----. "I insist upon having this satisfaction. The cemetery is my property, and I have a right to examine it." The man hesitated, and said that his assistant was from home. But the bereaved husband was not to be thus diverted from his purpose. He stood resolutely with the lantern in his hand, and demanded admittance into the churchyard. The man at length reluctantly took down the key from a nail in the passage, and bringing another lantern with him, led us to the door, which, in the midst of many grumblings, he opened. He then led the way over the snowy hillocks to nearly the middle of the burying-ground, where the grave of Mrs B----, headed by an ornamented stone, was exhibited to us. Mr B---- bent down, and, moving the lantern backwards and forwards, examined it slowly and carefully, casting his eye over the snow, which presented an unbroken appearance, and examining every chink, as if he there found an evidence of the truth of George's statement. "That grave has not been touched," said the man. "The head of it is the part to judge by. You will find the turf lies whole and unbroken under the wreath." "It may be as you say," replied Mr B----, as he bent down in his examination; "but the late snow may have removed the traces of the opening. I cannot return home till I am satisfied. My own bones must mix with those of my Isabella. Proceed to open the grave; I myself will assist you." At that moment a figure was seen gliding alone amidst the tombstones. It had all the legitimate whiteness like the ideal spirit. I stood and gazed at it, and George's eyes were also fixed upon it; Mr B---- paid no attention; he was too intent upon the investigation he was engaged in; and the grave-digger, whose head was down, did not notice it. I said nothing; but George, pointing to it as it approached, cried-- "See, see! what is that?" The sexton looked up, and cried--"It is David. He has been out, and is covered with snow. He comes in good time." It was even so. The man approached, and the implements having been procured, they set about opening the grave. Mr. B---- stood motionless, his head hanging down, and deep sighs occasionally coming from his breast, mixed with the quick breathing of the men, as they plied their shovels. He still held the lantern in his hand, by the light of which the group before me is brought out in faint relief. The silence around was signally that of a churchyard; for the fir belt shrouded the scene from the night breeze, and there was only occasionally heard a low, mournful gust, as it died among the branches of the trees. On that spot only there was quick breathing action. The men had got down pretty far into the grave; and, as they brought their heads within the ray of the lantern, in their acts of throwing up the earth, their flushed faces contrasted strongly with the cadaverous countenance of the husband, who leant over them, watching every motion, and intent upon the expected stroke of the shovel upon the coffin lid. The recollection of the attributes of the German ghoul came over me; nor did the difference between the beings, the motives, and the actions, prevent me from conjuring up the similitude, so unlike a human being did he appear in his complexion, his fixed, dead-like stare into the grave, and the perfect stillness of his body, as he crouched down to be nearer to the object of his search. At length, the sound was heard, the rattle on the coffin lid. The victim's ear seemed chained to the sound, as if he could have augured from it whether or not the chest was empty. In a short time, "The heavy moil that shrouds the dead" was entirely removed. The sexton now took his own lamp down into the grave. The screw-nails were undone, the lid was raised, and the body of Mrs B----, arrayed in her winding-sheet and scalloped sere-clothes, was seen, by the sickly, yellow gleam of the lantern, lying in the stillness and placidity of death-- "For still, still she lay, With a wreath on her bosom." One of the men now came out, and Mr B---- descended into the grave. He lifted off the face-cloth, gazed on the clay-cold face, touched it, and now was opened the "Sacred source of sympathetic tears." He burst into a loud paroxysm; and, as if nature had been to take her revenge for her sufferings, under the freezing influence of his sorrow, he wept as if there had been to be no end of his weeping. It was latterly found necessary to force him out of the grave; though, as I was informed by George, he had shrunk from the view of the dead body of his wife, while it lay in the house, and before it was interred. The lid was again placed on the coffin, the screws fixed, and the grave filled up. Mr B---- slipped a guinea into the hand of the sexton, and we took our way back to the town. George informed us, as we went, that he had been for several nights haunted by the image of his mother; and could only thus account for the conviction that had seized him, that the body of the female he had seen in the dissecting-room was that of his parent. It is a remarkable fact, and the one which chiefly induced me to give this narrative, that the scene I have now described wrought so powerfully on the feelings of Mr B----, that the form of his grief was entirely changed. During the whole of the subsequent night, he wept intensely--nature was relieved--his sorrow was mollified into one of those "Moods that speak their softened woes;" and time soon wrought its accustomed amelioration. I never saw one who seemed more certainly doomed to the fate of the heart-stricken; and, however fanciful it may seem, I attribute to the mistake of his son the restoration of the father. THE CONDEMNED. I believe it was Fontenelle who said that, if he were to have been permitted to pass his life over again, he would have done everything he did in the world, and, of course, consented to suffer what he had suffered, in consideration of what he had enjoyed. I have heard the same statement from others. A very learned and ingenious professor in the north, whose lucubrations have often cast the effulgence of his rare genius over the pages of the Border Tales, has no hesitation in declaring that he would gladly consent to receive another tack of existence in this strange world, with all its pains and penalties, were it for nothing but to be allowed to witness the curious scenes, the startling occurrences, the humorous bizarrerie of cross-purposes, the conceits, the foibles, the triumphs of the creature man. Moore the poet has somewhere said, that he would not consent to live his life over again, except upon the condition that he were to be gifted with less love and more judgment--probably forgetting that in that case he would not have been the author of "Lallah Rookh;" though, mayhap, of a still drier life of Sheridan than that which came from his pen. I have often put the question to patients, and have found the answer to be regulated by the state of their disease. Upon the whole, it requires a very sharp, bitter pang, indeed, to extort the confession, that they would not accept another lease of life. If men were not Christians, they would choose, I think, to be Pythagoreans, were it for nothing but the slight chance they would enjoy of passing into some state of existence not in a remote degree different from that which they have declared themselves sick of a thousand times before they died. Sick of it as many, however, say they are, they would all live "a little and a little longer still," when the dread hour comes that calls them home. These remarks have been suggested by the following passage in my note-book:--"17th August, ----, case of Eugene D----, in the jail of ----. Extraordinary example of the _amor vitæ_." I find I had jotted a number of the details; but such was the impression the scene of that tragedy of life produced in me, that even now, though many years have passed, I recollect the minutiæ of the drama as distinctly as if I had witnessed it yesterday. I was indeed interested in the case more than professionally; for the subject of it was an early companion of my own, and was, besides, calculated, from his acquirements, and a free, open generosity of spirit, to produce a deep interest in the fate which, in an unhappy hour, he brought upon himself. It was on the forenoon of the day I have mentioned, that the under turnkey of the prison of ---- came in breathless haste, and called me to a prisoner. It was Eugene D----. I was at the moment occupied in thinking of the youth. He had forged a bill upon his father, Mr. D----, a wealthy merchant; and it was very clearly brought out, in evidence that he applied the money to extricate a friend from pecuniary embarrassments. The father had paid the bill; but the legal authorities had prosecuted the case; and he, at that moment, lay in jail a criminal, condemned to die. The gallows was standing ready to exact its victim within two hours; the post from London would arrive in an hour with or without a reprieve. His father and mother, what were they then doing, thinking, suffering? On them and him I was meditating when the words of the turnkey fell upon my ear. "What has occurred?" was my question to the messenger. "Eugene D----, the condemned criminal, has taken some poisonous drug," said he, "and the provost has sent me for you to come to his relief." I meditated a moment. It might have been as well, I thought, for all parties, that I had not been called, and that the drug, whatever it was, might be allowed to anticipate the law, but I had no alternative; I was called in my official capacity; and then a messenger might still arrive from London. I provided myself with the necessary counteracting agents, and followed the man. I passed the house of his father. The blinds were drawn, and all seemed wrapped in dead silence, as if there had been a corpse in the house. Several people were passing the door, and cast, as they went, a melancholy look at the windows. They had, in all likelihood, seen the gallows; at least, they knew the precise posture of affairs within the house. I was inclined to have entered; but I could see no benefit to be derived from my visit, and hurried forwards to the jail, from the window of which the black apparatus projected in ghastly array. The post-office in ---- Street was in the neighbourhood, and an assembly of people was beginning to collect, to wait for the incoming of the mail. There was sympathy in every face; for the fate of the youth, who had been well esteemed over the town, for a handsome, generous-minded young man, and the situation of his parents--wealthy and respectable citizens--had called forth an extraordinary feeling in his favour. Indeed, thousands had signed the petition to the King, but forgery was, at that time, a crime of frequent occurrence, and the doubts that were entertained as to the success of the application were apparently justified by the arrival of the eleventh hour. On passing through the jail, I saw the various preparations in progress for the execution; the chaplain was in attendance; and, in a small cell, at the end of the apartment from which the fatal erection projected, there sat, guarded by an officer, from a fear that he would escape, the executioner himself-- "Grim as the mighty Polypheme." My guide led me forward, and, in a few minutes, I stood beside Eugene, who, dressed in a suit of black, lay twisting his body in a chair, making the chains by which he was bound clank in a fearful manner. A small phial was on the floor. I took it up, and ascertained, in an instant, that he had betaken himself to the drug most commonly resorted to by suicides. "Laudanum!" I exclaimed. "Yes, yes--as much as would kill two men!" he cried wildly. The poison had not had time to operate; or rather, its narcotic power had been suspended by the terrors of an awakened love and hope of life, that had followed close upon the prospect of death caused by his own act. "You had a chance for life, Eugene," said I, hurriedly. "A courier may yet arrive, independently of the mail, which has not yet come." "Chance or no chance," he cried, as I proceeded with my assistant, who now entered, to apply the remedies; "I would yet live the two hours! I had no sooner swallowed the drug, than I thought I had intercepted the mercy of heaven; life seemed--and, oh, it even now seems--sweeter than ever, and death still more dreadful! Quick--quick--quick! The poison is busy with my heart. I would give a world for even these two hours of life and hope--small, small as that is!" I proceeded with the application of the usual remedies. A portion, but only a portion of the laudanum, had been taken off; and the next efficient remedy was motion, to keep off the sleepy lethargy that drinks up the fountain of life. Two men were got to drag him as violently as possible along the floor, leaving him enough of his own weight to force him to use his limbs. I noticed that he struggled with terrible energy against the onset of the subtle agent; exhibiting the most signal instance I ever beheld of the power of that hope which seems to be consistent with life itself. Already an eighth part of the apparent period of his sojourn upon earth had passed. Seven quarters more would, in all likelihood, bring him to the scaffold, and, by resisting my energies to counteract the effects of the poison, he might have eluded the grim arm of the law, by a death a thousand times less dreadful. Every now and then, as the men dragged him along, he turned his eyes to me, and asked the hour. Sometimes he repeated the question within two minutes of my answer. As often was his ear directed to the street, to try to catch the sounds of a coach, or the feet of a horse; and then he redoubled his energies to keep off the onset of the lethargy, which I told him was most to be feared. The operation was persevered in; but the men informed me they thought he was gradually getting heavier on their hands, and I noticed his eye, at times, get so dull that he seemed to be on the eve of falling asleep and sinking. Another quarter of an hour soon passed; and in a little further time, the bailies and chaplain would find it their duty to come and prepare him for his fate--alas! now indeed so certain, that no reasonable thought could suggest even the shadow of a hope; a reprieve, so near the time of execution, would not have been trusted to the mail, and a messenger would have arrived, by quick stages, long before; unless there had, indeed, been any fault in the government authorities, in tampering with a man's life within an hour of his execution. If I had not been under the strict law of professional discipline, I would certainly have allowed him to lie down and pass into death or oblivion. I had, however, my duty to perform; and, strange as it may appear, that duty quadrated with the wishes of the young man himself; who, as he struggled with the demon that threatened to overpower him, seemed to rise in hope as every minute diminished the chance of his salvation. By the increased energies of the men, he was again roused into a less dull perception of sounds, and I could perceive him start as the rattle of the wheels of a carriage was heard at the jail door. He fixed his half-dead, staring eye in my face, and muttered, with a difficult effort of his sinking jaws-- "Is that it--is that it?--I hear a carriage wheels, and they have stopped at the door." As he uttered the words, it appeared as if he again exerted himself to keep the enemy, who still threatened him, at bay. I replied nothing; for I suspected that the carriage brought only some official, or, probably, some mourner, to see him, previous to the fatal scene--that scene which, in all likelihood, I was endeavouring to render more heart-rending to his friends and spectators, by keeping alive the vital spark, that might only serve to make him conscious of pain. It appeared to be too evident that he had increased tenfold the misery of his situation; for the stern law would admit of no excuse, and if he was not able to walk to the scaffold he would be carried; yet, if I remitted my endeavours to keep in life, I might, in the event of the looked-for reprieve still arriving, be liable to be accused, by my own conscience, of having been as cruel as the law itself. The door of the jail now opened, and a turnkey told me that the usual time had arrived when the officials began their preparatory duties. I replied that it was in vain to attempt, at present, the performance of these sacred rites; the prisoner was wrestling with death; and, if the exertions of the men, who kept still dragging him backwards and forwards, were remitted, he would sink, in a few minutes, into insensibility. I noticed the eye of poor Eugene turned imploringly upon me, as if he wished to know who it was that had arrived in the carriage. I merely shook my head; and the sign was no sooner made than his chin fell down on his breast; his limbs became weaker, his knees bent, and if the supporters had not exerted themselves still farther, he would have sunk. But the men still performed their duty, and dragged him hurriedly along, scarcely now with any aid from his feet, which, obeying no impulse of the loose and flaccid muscles, were thrown about in every direction, with, a shuffling, lumbering noise, and a clanking of the chain, that must have produced an extraordinary effect on those who waited in the adjoining cells. The noise thus produced was indeed all that was heard; for the effect of the poison was such as to take away all power of groaning. I was now doubtful if all the working of the men would be able to keep off much longer the sleepy incubus, for he seemed to have lost almost all power of seconding their efforts; but the door of the jail again opened, and the sound of the grating hinges made him again lift his head. His eye seemed to indicate that he had lost all sense of the passing of the moments, and I could not discover whether he looked for the entry of one bearing his letter of salvation, or of the jailor with his hammer, to knock the chain from his feet, and lead him forth to the scaffold. He again muttered some words as the turnkey was proceeding forward to where I was. I could not make them out, so faint had his voice now become; but one of the men said he wished to know the hour. I told him it was one o'clock--that was just one hour from the appointed termination of his life. The turnkey, meanwhile, whispered in my ear that his father, mother, and sister had arrived. It was the sound of their carriage wheels that we had heard. I enjoined upon the men the necessity of continuing their labours, and went out to prevent the entry of his parents to the witnessing of a scene transcending all their powers of bearing. I found the three standing in the recess where the executioner was sitting in gloomy silence. I took the father and mother by the arms, and hurried them away to the empty cell, where the chaplain and several officials were collected. The turnkey saw his error, and excused himself, on the ground that he was confused by the extraordinary state of affairs within the prison. I ascertained that no notice had been made to his parents of his having taken the drug. They had come to take farewell of him. The mail had arrived, but had brought no intelligence--not even of the petition having been disposed of; and, having given up all hope, their intention was that the mother and daughter should, after the last act of parting, fly to the country, to be as far as possible from the scene of the impending tragedy. I was the first who communicated the tidings of the condition of their son; and the noise in the prisoner's cell, as the men still continued their operations, was a sad commentary on my words. The sister, who was veiled, uttered a shrill scream, and fell back on the floor. The father stood like "Wo's bleak, voiceless petrifaction," moving neither limb nor countenance; his eye was fixed steadfastly on the ground, and a deadly paleness was over his face. The mother, who was also veiled, staggered to a bench--recovering herself suddenly, as some thought, rising wildly, stung her to a broken utterance of some words. I approached her, while Mr H----, the chaplain, was assisting in getting Miss D---- to a chair. "Let him die!--let him die!" she exclaimed. "Is not his doom inevitable? You will torture my Eugene by keeping in his life till the law demands its victim, and he may be carried--carried! O God!--to a second death, ten times more cruel than that which he is now suffering." "No rejection of the petition has been intimated," I replied; "and there is hope to the last grain in life's ebbing glass. It is not yet two years since a reprieve came to a prisoner, in this very jail, within three hours of the appointed term of his life. You have spoken from the impulse of an agony which has overcome the truer feelings of a mother and the better dictates of prudence." "Small, small, indeed, is that hope which a mother may not see through the gloom of a despair such as mine," she replied. "But what means that dreadful noise in Eugene's cell?" "Only the efforts of the men to keep him awake," replied I. "My duty requires my efforts in behalf of a fellow-creature to the last moment. Reflect for an instant, and the proper feeling will again vindicate its place in the heart of a parent." "Dreadful alternative!" she replied. "But, sir, hear me. I am his mother, and I tell you, from the divination of a mother's heart, that there will now be no respite. I say it again; it would be a relief to me if I heard, at this moment, that he had escaped by death that tragedy which will now be rendered a thousand times more painful to him and dreadful to me." The father moved his eyes, and fixed them on the face of the mother of his boy, who, in her agony, thus called for his death in a form which bore even a shade of relief from the horror of what awaited the victim. It was, indeed, an extraordinary request; and told, as no words spoken by mortal had ever told, the pregnancy of an anguish that could seek for alleviation (if I may use so inadequate a phrase) from so fearful an alternative. All were, for a time, now silent, and there was no sound to be heard but the deep sobs of the daughter, as she recovered from her swoon; the struggle in the throat of the mother; and the shuffling and tramping in the cell of the prisoner. "There is still hope," I whispered in the ear of the mother. "None--none!" she ejaculated again. "My Eugene! my Eugene!" She reclined back, with her hands over her face, still sobbing out the name of her son. I pointed to the father to assist her, while I should go again to ascertain the state of the son; but he did not seem to understand me--retaining still his rigid position, and looking with the calmness of despair on the scene around him. Her silence continued but a few moments; and when she opened her eyes again, it was to fix them on me. "What are you doing?" she exclaimed again. "What, in the name of heaven, are you doing to my Eugene?--Saving him for second, and still more cruel death. It might have been all over. Let me see him--let me see him!" And she rose to proceed to the cell where her son was confined; but her strength failed her, and she again reclined helplessly back in her seat. The clergyman's ministrations were called for by these uttered sentiments, which seemed so little in accordance with the precepts of Holy Writ, however natural to the bursting heart of the mother, to whom the reported death of her son, in his unparalleled situation might almost have been termed a boon. Retreating from a scene so fraught with misery, I hastened back to Eugene, who was still in the arms of the men. One of them whispered to me that he had spoken when he heard the shrill cry of his sister; but, immediately after, he relapsed again into stupor. The men complained of being exhausted by their efforts to keep him moving. His weight was now almost that of a dead body; and it was only at intervals that he made any struggles to move himself by the aid of his paralysed limbs. Two other individuals were got to relieve them; and the compulsory motions were continued. The lethargy had not altogether mastered the sentient powers; and, the operation having been stopped that I might examine his condition, he lifted his head slowly, looked round him with a vacant stare, and, after a few moments, muttered again the word "hour." I pulled out my watch, and told him that it was twenty minutes past one, he understood me, as I thought; and pronouncing indistinctly "mother," he again sank into apparent listlessness. The men again resumed their work. Meanwhile, a buzz from without intimated too distinctly that the mob was collecting to witness the fate of their townsman. There was no distinct sound, save that which a mass of people, under the depressing feelings of sorrow, seem to send forth involuntarily--making the air, as it were, thick, and yet with no articulation or distinct noise which can be caught by the ear of one at a distance, or within the walls of a house. Eugene, I am satisfied, was unable to recognise the faint indication. It was well for him. I learned, from the turnkey, that the sound of the hammer in the erection of the gallows had put him almost distracted, and precipitated the execution of the purpose, which he had wished to delay till after the arrival of the mail. I had little doubt that he might now be kept from the grasp of the death-stupor for the remaining three quarters of an hour; but, alas! what would be my triumph? Every minute added to the certainty that I was only preparing for him and his relations greater pain; for, in any view, he could not walk to the fatal spot without as much aid as might have sufficed to carry him; and it was even more than probable that he would be so overcome that that latter operation would require to be resorted to, under the stern sanction of a law that behoved to be put in force within a given time, or not at all. The case I am now describing might suggest some consideration worthy of the attention of our legislators, who, arrogating to themselves a license as wide as the limits of the human mind, deny all manner of discretion to the superintendents of the last execution of the law. We profess to be abhorrent from scenes of torture, as well as, on grounds of policy, hostile to a species of punishment which, indeed, defeats its own ends; and yet I could give more than one case where the substance has been retained in all its atrocity, while the form was veiled by flimsy excuses of a false necessity. My situation was now a very painful one indeed. I was training and supporting the victim for the altar; rescuing from death only to sacrifice him with more bloody rites and a crueller spirit of immolation. The words of his mother, wrung from the agony of a parent's love, rang in my ears; the look of the father--that of imbecile despair--was imprinted on my mind; the hour was fast on the wing; all hope had perished; and before me was the unfortunate youth, handsome, elegant, and interesting, even in the writhings of the master-fiend, suffering a death which was to be, in effect, repeated in another and a crueller form. I had seen him under circumstances of friendship, and the ebullitions of his generous spirit; and I was become, as I pictured to myself, his enemy, who would not allow him to die, to escape from shame and an increased agony of dissolving nature. Will I admit it? For a moment or two I hesitated; and, indeed, had half-resolved to tell the men to stop--the time might yet have sufficed for finishing what he had begun. If he was not dead before two, he would, at least be beyond feeling; and, if the officials chose to take the last step of getting him carried to the gallows, they would in effect be immolating a corpse. My better and calmer thoughts of duty, however, prevailed; and, in the meantime, I saw the prudence of preventing any meeting between Eugene and his parents, which could tend to nothing but an increase of pain on the side of those who were still able to feel--for, as regarded the young man himself, he was beyond the impulse of the feelings that might otherwise have been called up, even by such a scene. I was not even ill pleased to hear from the under turnkey, that the magistrates had given orders for the departure of the friends; though, for my own satisfaction, I wished that the father, who had still some command of himself, might visit his son for a few minutes, and sanction my proceedings with his approbation. I was informed also by the turnkey, that the father was resisting to the utmost of his power the efforts of the mother to get into the cell. He probably saw too clearly that in the excited condition in which she still remained, the scene might prove disastrous, as affecting either life or reason; and, if I could judge from what I myself felt in spite of the blunting effects of a long acquaintanceship with misery in its various phases, there was good reason for his fears. The scene presented features "Direr than incubus's haggard train." I had just looked my watch--it wanted now only twenty minutes of the last hour. The order for the friends to quit the jail was about to be obeyed. The father sent a messenger for me. I repaired to the cell; but to avoid the appeals of the mother and daughter, I beckoned him forth to the lobby. He asked me whether he should see his son now that he was all but insensible, and could not probably recognise him. He feared that he could not stand the scene, for that the calmness he assumed was false! I replied that it certainly required no ordinary firmness; and yet the pain might in some degree be even lessened by the state of stupor and insensibility in which the youth still continued. He fixed his eyes on my face with an expression of forced and unnatural calmness, that pained me more than the death-like inanity of the still beautiful countenance of his son, or the hysterical excitement of the mother. He at last seized my hand and proceeded along to the cell hurriedly, as the turnkey was crying loudly for the friends to depart. We entered and stood for a moment. He stood and gazed at his son, as the latter was still kept moving by the men; but Eugene was apparently unconscious of the presence of his parents. A loud cry from the dense crowd who had assembled to witness the execution, struck my ear. I ran to the window, and saw a man in the act of coming off a horse, whose sides were covered with foam and blood. The cries of the crowd continued, and I could distinctly hear the word "_reprieve_" mixed with the shouts. Mr. D---- was at my back, and I felt his hands press me like a vice. The two men who were supporting Eugene, had also heard the sound, and, paralysed by the extraordinary announcement, they actually let the prisoner sink on the floor. The sound of his fall made me turn; the father had vanished, doubtless to meet the messenger, and communicate the tidings to his wife and daughter. A great bustle in the neighbouring cells succeeded. The two men stood and looked at me in silence. Eugene still lay on the floor, to all appearance insensible. By my orders he was immediately again lifted up, and dragged more violently than ever, backwards and forwards. In a few seconds, the turnkey came in, and struck off the irons, by which his ancle had been so severely torn that the blood flowed from it on the floor. He informed me that he was indeed reprieved, and that the fault of the delay was attributable to the authorities in London. I shouted in the ear of the young man the electric word; he lifted his head, looked wildly around him for a few seconds, and uttered a strange gurgling sound unlike any expression of the human voice I ever heard. I was indeed uncertain whether he understood me or not. In a few minutes more, the cell was crowded--the father, mother, and daughter, the chaplain, the messenger, and several of the officials, all bursting in, to see the condition of the criminal. To this I was not averse; because the more excitement that could be produced in the mind of the youth, the greater chance remained of our being able to keep off the deadly effects of the drug. A thousand times did the parent and mother sound into his dull ear the vocable pregnant with so much relief to him and his friends; but it was not until two hours afterwards that he was so far recovered as to understand perfectly the narrow escape he had made from death. In the evening he was conveyed home in a carriage; and, as they were leaving the jail, he looked out at the grim apparatus which had been erected for him, and which the workmen were removing in the midst of a dense crowd of citizens. Some days afterwards, Eugene D---- had almost entirely recovered from the effects of the poison. One day when I called, I found him lying on a sofa, with his mother sitting by his side. She took her eyes off her son, and bent them on me till tears filled them. "Before you entered," she said, "I was talking to Eugene about the request I made to you in the jail on that dreadful day, to let my son die. Repeatedly since, have I thought of my wild words; but they know little of human nature, at least little of the feelings of a mother in my situation, who could brand them as unnatural, or doubt the sanity that recognised fully their effect." "I am too well apprised, madam," I replied, "of the workings of that organ, whose changes often startle ourselves, to be surprised at the words you then made use of. I knew not, after all, if you did not exhibit as much heroism as Brutus, who condemned his son to death; certainly more than Zaleucus, who condemned his to the loss of an eye, having first submitted to the loss of his own, to make the love of a father quadrate with the justice of the law-giver." "And what say you to yourself, to whom I owe the safety of my Eugene?" she added. "An Acesias might have accomplished all that I accomplished, madam--for all I did was to keep off sleep; but, if the secret must needs be told, I had some doubts at least of the humanity of my proceedings, whatever I might have thought of my duty." Eugene afterwards went to the East Indies, where he made a fortune. Some pecuniary embarrassments afterwards overtook the family, on which occasion he sent them home the one half of the money he had made, whereby they were again placed in a condition of affluence. A present was also sent to me. It is not yet very many years ago since I saw Eugene. He had assumed another name in India, where he had married a very beautiful woman, and to whom he again returned. THE UNBIDDEN GUEST, OR, JEDBURGH'S REGAL FESTIVAL. "In the mid revels, the first ominous night Of their espousals, when the room shone bright With lighted tapers--the king and the queen leading The curious measures, lords and ladies treading The self-same strains--the king looks back by chance, And spies a strange intruder fill the dance; Namely, a mere anatomy, quite bare, His naked limbs both without flesh and hair, (As we decipher Death,) who stalks about Keeping true measure till the dance be out." _Heywood's Hierarchie of the Blessed Angels._ There is no river in this country which presents in its course, scenes more beautifully romantic than the little Jed. Though it exhibits not the dizzy cliffs where the eagles build their nests, the mass of waters, the magnitude and the boldness, which give the character of sublimity to a scene; yet, as it winds its course through undulating hills where the forest trees entwine their broad branches, or steals along by the foot of the red, rocky precipices, where the wild flowers and the broom blossom from every crevice of their perpendicular sides, and from whose summits the woods bend down, beautiful as rainbows, it presenteth pictures of surpassing loveliness, which the eye delights to dwell upon. It is a fair sight to look down from the tree-clad hills upon the ancient burgh, with the river half circling it, and gardens, orchards, woods, in the beauty of summer blossoming, or the magnificence of their autumnal hues, encompassing it, while the venerable Abbey riseth stately in the midst of all, as a temple in paradise. Such is the character of the scenery around Jedburgh now; and, in former ages, its beauty rendered it a favourite resort of the Scottish Kings. About the year 1270, an orphan boy, named Patrick Douglas, herded a few sheep upon the hills, which were the property of the monks of Melrose. Some of the brotherhood, discovering him to be a boy of excellent parts, instructed him to read and to write; and perceiving the readiness with which he acquired these arts, they sought also to initiate him into all the learning of the age, and to bring him up for their order. To facilitate and complete his instructions, they had him admitted amongst them, as a _convert_ or lay-brother. But, though the talents of the shepherd boy caused him to be regarded as a prodigy by all within the monastery, from the Lord Abbot down to the kitchener and his assistants; yet, with Patrick, as with many others even now, gifts were not graces. He had no desire to wear the white cassock, narrow scapulary, and plain linen hood of the Cistertian brethren; neither did he possess the devoutness necessary for performing his devotions seven times a-day; and when the bell roused him at two in the morning, to what was called the _nocturnal_ service, Patrick arose reluctantly; for, though compelled to wedge himself into a narrow bed at eight o'clock in the evening, it was his wont to lie awake, musing on what he had read or learned, until past midnight; and, when the _nocturnal_ was over, he again retired to sleep, until he was aroused at six for _matins_; but, after these came other devotions, called _tierce_, the _sexte_, the _none_, _vespers_, and the _compline_, at nine in the morning, at noon, at three in the afternoon, at six in the evening and before eight. These services broke in on his favourite studies; and, possessing more talent than devotion, while engaged in them he thought more of his studies than of them. Patrick, therefore, refused to take the monastic vow. He "had heard of war, And longed to follow to the field some warlike lord." He, however, was beloved by all; and when he left the monastery, the Abbot and the brethren gave him their benediction, and bestowed gifts upon him. He also carried with him letters from the Lord Abbot and Prior, to men who were mighty in power at the court of King Philip of France. From the testimonials which he brought with him, Patrick Douglas, the Scottish orphan, speedily obtained favour in the eyes of King Philip and his nobles, and became as distinguished on the field for his prowess and the feats of his arms, as he had been in the Abbey of Melrose for his attainments in learning. But a period of peace came; and he who was but a few years before a shepherd boy by Tweedside, now bearing honours conferred on him by a foreign monarch, was invited as a guest to the palace of the illustrious Count of Dreux. A hundred nobles were there, each exhibiting all the pageantry of the age; and there, too, were a hundred ladies, vying with each other in beauty, and in the splendour of their array. But chief of all was Jolande, the daughter of their host, the Count of Dreux, and the fame of whose charms had spread throughout Christendom. Troubadours sang of her beauty, and princes bent the knee before her. Patrick Douglas beheld her charms. He gazed on them with a mixed feeling of awe, of regret, and of admiration. His eyes followed her, and his soul followed them. He beheld the devoirs which the great and the noble paid to her, and his heart was heavy; for she was the fairest and the proudest flower among the French nobility --he an exotic weed of desert birth. And, while princes strove for her hand, he remembered, he felt, that he was an orphan of foreign and of obscure parentage--a scholar by accident, (but to be a scholar was no recommendation in those days, and it is but seldom that it is one even now.) and a soldier of fortune, to whose name royal honours were not attached, while his purse was light, and who, because his feet covered more ground than he could call his own, his heels were denied the insignia of knighthood. Yet, while he ventured not to breathe his thoughts or wishes before her, he imagined that she looked on him more kindly, and that she smiled on him more frequently than on his lordly rivals; and his heart deceived itself, and rejoiced in secret. Now, it was early in the year 1283, the evening was balmy for the season, the first spring flowers were budding forth, and the moon, as a silver crescent, was seen among the stars. The young scholar and soldier of unknown birth walked in the gardens of the Count of Dreux, and the lovely Jolande leaned upon his arm. His heart throbbed as he listened to the silver tones of her sweet voice, and felt the gentle pressure of her soft hand in his. He forgot that she was the daughter of a prince--he the son of a dead peasant. In the delirium of a moment, he had thrown himself on his knee before her, he had pressed her hand on his bosom, and gazed eagerly in her face. She was startled by his manner, and had only said--"Sir! what means?"--though in a tone neither of reproach nor of pride, when what she would have said was cut short by the sudden approach of a page, who, bowing before her, stated that four commissioners having arrived from the King of Scotland, the presence of the Princess Jolande was required at the palace. Patrick Douglas started to his feet as he heard the page approach, and as he listened to his words he trembled. The princess blushed, and turning from Patrick, proceeded in confusion towards the palace; while he followed at a distance, repenting of what he had said, and of what he had done, or, rather, wishing that he had said more, or said less. "Yet," thought he, "she did not look on me as if I had spoken presumptuously! I will hope, though it be against hope--even though it be but the shadow of despair." But an hour had not passed, although he sought to hide himself with his thoughts in his chamber, when he heard that the commissioners who had arrived from his native land, were Thomas Charteris, the High Chancellor; Patrick de Graham, William de St Clair, and John de Soulis; and that their errand was to demand the beautiful Jolande as the bride and queen of their liege sovereign, Alexander the Third, yet called good. Now, the praise of Alexander was echoed in every land. He was as a father to his people, and as a husband to his kingdom. He was wise, just, resolute, merciful. Scotland loved him--all nations honoured him. But Death, that spareth not the prince more than the peasant, and which, to short-sighted mortals, seemeth to strike alike at the righteous and the wicked, had made desolate the hearths of his palaces, and rendered their chambers solitary. Tribulation had fallen heavily on the head of a virtuous King. A granddaughter, the infant child of a foreign prince, was all that was left of his race; and his people desired that he should leave behind him, as inheritor of the crown, one who might inherit also his name and virtues. He was still in the full vigour of his manhood, and the autumn of years was invisible on his brow. No "single silverings" yet marked the raven ringlets which waved down his temples; and, though his years were forty and three, his appearance did not betoken him to be above thirty. His people, therefore, wished, and his courtiers urged, that he should marry again; and fame pointed out the lovely Jolande, the daughter of the Count of Dreux, as his bride. When Patrick Douglas, the learned and honoured, but fortuneless soldier, found that his new competitor for the hand of the gentle Jolande was none other than his sovereign, he was dumb with despair, and the last, the miserable _hope_ which it imparts, and which maketh wretched, began to leave him. He now accused himself for having been made the sacrifice of a wild and presumptuous dream, and again he thought of the kindly smile and the look of sorrow which met together on her countenance, when, in a rash, impassioned moment, he fell on his knee before her, and made known what his heart felt. But, before another sun rose, Patrick Douglas, the honoured military adventurer of King Philip, was not to be found in the palace of the Count de Dreux. Many were the conjectures concerning his sudden departure; and, amongst those conjectures, as regarding the cause, many were right. But Jolande stole to her chamber, and in secret wept for the brave stranger. More than two years passed away, and the negotiations between the Courts of Scotland and of France, respecting the marriage of King Alexander and Fair Jolande, were continued; but, during that period, even the name of Patrick Douglas, the Scottish soldier, began to be forgotten--his learning became a dead letter, and his feats of arms continued no longer the theme of tongues. It is seldom that kings are such tardy wooers; but between the union of the good Alexander and the beautiful Jolande many obstacles were thrown. When, however, their nuptials were finally agreed to, it was resolved that they should be celebrated on a scale of magnificence such as the world had not seen. Now, the loveliest spot in broad Scotland, where the Scottish King could celebrate the gay festivities, was the good town of Jedworth, or, as it is now called, Jedburgh. For it was situated, like an Eden, in the depth of an impenetrable forest; gardens circled it; wooded hills surrounded it; precipices threw their shadows over flowery glens; wooded hills embraced it, as the union of many arms; waters murmured amidst it; and it was a scene on which man could not gaze without forgetting, or regretting his fallen nature. Yea, the beholder might have said--"If the earth be yet so lovely, how glorious must it have been ere it was cursed because of man's transgression!" Thither, then, did the Scottish monarch, attended by all the well-affected nobles of his realm, repair to meet his bride. He took up his residence in the castle of his ancestors, which was situated near the Abbey, and his nobles occupied their own, or other houses, in other parts of the town; for Jedburgh was then a great and populous place, and, from the loveliness of its situation, the chosen residence of royalty. (It is a pity but that our princes and princesses saw it now, and they would hardly be again charmed with the cold, dead, and bare beach of Brighton.) An old writer (I forget whom) has stated, in describing the magnitude of Jedburgh in those days, that it was six times larger than Berwick. This, however, is a mistake, for Berwick, at that period, was the greatest maritime town in the kingdom, and surpassed London, which strove to rival it. On the same day that King Alexander and his splendid retinue reached Jedburgh, his bride, escorted by the nobles of France and their attendants, also arrived. The dresses of the congregated thousands were gorgeous as summer flowers, and variegated as gorgeous. The people looked with wonder on the glittering throng. The trees had lost the hues of their fresh and living green--for brown October threw its deep shadows o'er the landscape--but the leaves yet trembled on the boughs from which they were loath to part; and, as a rainbow that had died upon the trees, and left its hues and impression there, the embrowning forest appeared. The marriage ceremony was performed in the Abbey, before Morel, the Lord Abbot, and glad assembled thousands. The town and the surrounding hills became a scene of joy. The bale-fires blazed from every hill; music echoed in the streets; and from every house, while the light of tapers gleamed, was heard the sounds of dance and song. The Scottish maiden and the French courtier danced by the side of the Jed together. But chief of all the festive scene was the assembly in the hall of the royal castle. At the farther end of the apartment, elevated on a purpled covered dais, sat King Alexander, with the hand of his bridal queen locked in his. On each side were ranged, promiscuously, the Scottish and the French nobility, with their wives, daughters, and sisters. Music lent its influence to the scene, and the strains of a hundred instruments blended in a swell of melody. Thrice a hundred tapers burned suspended from the roof, and on each side of the hall stood twenty men with branches of blazing pine. Now came the morris dance, with the antique dress and strange attitudes of the performers, which was succeeded by a dance of warriors in their coats of mail, and with their swords drawn. After these a masque, prepared by Thomas the Rymer, who sat on the right hand of the King, followed; and the company laughed, wept, and wondered, as the actors performed their parts before them. But now came the royal dance; the music burst into a bolder strain, and lord and lady rose, treading the strange measure down the hall, after the King and his fair Queen. Louder, and yet more loud the music pealed; and, though it was midnight, the multitude without shouted at its enlivening strains. Blithely the dance went on, and the King well nigh forgot the measure as he looked enraptured in the fair face of his beauteous bride. He turned to take her hand in the dance, and in its stead the bony fingers of a skeleton were extended to him. He shrank back aghast; for royalty shuddereth at the sight of Death as doth a beggar, and, in its presence, feeleth his power to be as the power of him who vainly commanded the waves of the sea to go back. Still the skeleton kept true measure before him--still it extended to him its bony hand. He fell back, in horror, against a pillar where a torch-bearer stood. The lovely Queen shrieked aloud, and fell as dead upon the ground. The music ceased--silence fell on the multitude--they stood still--they gazed on each other. Dismay caused the cold damp of terror to burst from every brow, and timid maidens sought refuge and hid their faces on the bosom of strangers. But still, visible to all, the spectre stood before the king, its bare ribs rattling as it moved, and its finger pointed towards him. The music, the dancers, became noiseless, as if Death had whispered--"_Hush_!--_be still_!" For the figure of death stood in the midst of them, as though it mocked them, and no sound was heard save the rattling of the bones, the moving of its teeth, and the motion of its fingers before the king. The lord abbot gathered courage, he raised his crucifix from his breast, he was about to exorcise the strange spectre, when it bent its grim head before him, and vanished as it came--no man knew whither. "Let the revels cease!" gasped the terror-stricken king; and they did cease. The day had begun in joy, it was ended in terror. Fear spread over the land, and while the strange tale of the marriage spectre was yet in the mouths of all men, yea before six months had passed, the tidings spread that the good King Alexander, at whom the figure of Death had pointed its finger, was with the dead, and his young queen a widow in a strange land. The appearance of the spectre became a tale of wonder amongst all men, descending from generation to generation, and unto this day it remains a mystery. But, on the day after the royal festival at Jedburgh, Patrick Douglas, the learned soldier, took the vows, and became a monastic brother at Melrose; and, though he spoke of Jolande in his dreams, he smiled, as if in secret triumph, when the spectre that had appeared to King Alexander was mentioned in his hearing. THE SIMPLE MAN IS THE BEGGAR'S BROTHER. "Many a time," said Nicholas Middlemiss, as he turned round the skirts and the sleeve of his threadbare coat to examine them, "many a time have I heard my mother say to my faither--'Roger, Roger (for that was my faither's name,) _the simple man is the beggar's brother_.' But, notwithstanding my mother's admonitions, my faither certainly was a very simple man. He allowed people to take him in, even while they were laughing in his face at his simplicity. I dinna think that ever there was a week but that somebody or other owrereached him, in some transaction or other; for every knave, kennin' him to be a simpleton, (a nosey-wax, as my mother said,) always laid their snares to entrap Roger Middlemiss--and his family were the sufferers. He had been a manufacturer in Langholm for many a long year, and at his death he left four brothers, a sister and mysel', four hundred pounds each. Be it remembered, however, that his faither before him left him near to three thousand, and that was an uncommon fortune in those days, a fortune I may say that my faither might have made his bairns dukes by. Had he no been a simple man, his family might have said that they wouldna ca' the Duke o' Buccleuch their cousin. But he was simple--simplicity's sel'--(as my mother told him weel about it)--and he didna leave his bairns sae meikle to divide among them, as he had inherited from their grandfaither. Yet, if, notwithstanding his opportunities to make a fortune, he did not even leave us even what he had got, he at least left us his simpleness unimpaired. My brothers were honest men--owre honest, I am sorry to say, for the every-day transactions of this world--but they always followed the _obliging_ path, and kept their face in a direction, which, if they had had foresight enough to see it, was sure to land them _in_, or _on_,(just as ye like to take the expression,) their _native parish_. Now, this is a longing after the place o' one's birth for which I have no ambition; but on the parish it did land my brothers. My sister, too, was a poor simple thing, that married a man who had a wife living when he married her; and, after he had got every shilling that she had into his possession, he decamped and left her. "But it is not the history of my brothers and sisters that I would tell you about, but my own. With the four hundred pounds which my faither left me, I began business as a linen manufacturer--that is, as a maister weaver, on what might be called a respectable scale. The year after I had commenced business upon my own account, and before I was two and twenty, I was taking a walk one Sunday afternoon on the Hawick road, along by Sorbie, and there I met the bonniest lassie, I think, that I had ever seen. I was so struck wi' her appearance, that I actually turned round and followed her. She was dressed in a duffel coat or pelisse, which I think country folk call a _Joseph_; but I followed her at a distance, through fields and owre stiles, till I saw her enter a sma' farm-house. There were some bits o' bairns, apparently hinds' bairns, sitting round a sort o' duck-dub near the stackyard. "'Wha lives there, dearies?' says I to them, pointing wi' my finger to the farm-house. "'Ned Thomson,' says they. "'And wha was that bonny lassie,' asked I, 'that gaed in just the now?' "'He! he! he!' the bairns laughed, and gaed me nae answer. So I put my question to them again, and ane o' the auldest o' them, a lassie about thirteen, said--'It was the maister's daughter, sir, the laird's bonny Jenny--if ye like, I'll gang in and tell her that a gentleman wishes to speak to her.' "I certainly was very proud o' the bairn taking me to be a gentleman; but I couldna think o' meeting Miss Thompson, even if she should come out to see me, wi' such an introduction, for I was sure I would make a fool o' mysel'; and I said to the bit lassie--'No I thank ye, hinny; I'm obliged to ye'" and a' her little companions 'he! he! he'd!' and laughed the louder at my expense; which, had I not been a simple man, I never would have placed it in their power to do. "So I went away, thinking on her face as if I had been looking at it in a glass a' the time; and to make a long story short, within three months, Miss Jenny Thompson and me became particularly weel acquaint. But my mother, who had none o' the simpleness that came by my faither's side o' the house, was then living; and when Jenny and I were on the eve o' being publicly cried in the kirk, she clapped her affidavit against it. "'Nicol,' said she, 'son as ye are o' mine, ye're a poor simple goniel. There isna a bairn that I have among ye to mend another. Ye are your faither owre again, every one o' ye--each one more simple than another. Will ye marry a taupie that has nae recommendation but a doll's face, and bring shame and sorrow to your door?' "I flew into a rampaging passion wi' my mother, for levelling Jenny to either shame or sorrow: but she maintained that married we should not be, if she could prevent it; and she certainly said and did everything that lay in her power to render me jealous. She might as weel have lectured to a whinstane rock. I believed Jenny to be as pure as the dew that falleth upon a lily before sunrise in May. But on the very night before we were to be married, and when I went to fit on the gloves and the ring--to my horror and inexpressible surprise, who should I see in the farm-yard, (for it was a fine star-light night,) but my Jenny--my thrice cried bride--wi' her hand upon the shouther o' the auldest son o' her faither's laird, and his arm round her waist. My first impulse was to run into the stackyard where they were, and to knock him down; but he was a strong lad, and, thinks I, 'second thoughts are best.' I was resolved, however, that my mother should find I wasna such a simpleton as she gied me out to be--so I turned round upon my heel and went home saying to mysel, as the song says-- 'If this be the way of courting a wife, I'll never look after another; But I'll away hame and live single my lane, And I'll away hame to my mother.' When I went hame, and informed her o' what I had seen, and o' what I had dune, the auld woman clapped me upon the shouther, and says she--'Nicholas, my man, I am glad that yer ain een have been made a witness in the matter of which your mother forewarned ye. Ye was about to bring disgrace upon your family; but I trust ye have seen enough to be a warning to ye. O Nicholas! they that marry a wife merely for the sake o' a bonny face, or for being a smart dancer, or onything o' that kind, never repent it but once, and that is for ever. Marriage lad, lifts the veil from the face o' beauty, and causes it to be looked upon as an every-day thing; and even if ye were short-sighted before, marriage will make ye see through spectacles that will suit your sight, whither ye will or no. Dinna think that I am against ye taking a wife; for I ken it is the best thing that a young man can do. Had your faither not married me when he did, he would hae died a beggar, instead o' leaving ye what he did. And especially a simple creature like you, Nicholas, needs one to take care o' him. But you must not expect to meet wi' such a one in every bonny face, handsome waist, or smart ancle that ye meet wi'. Na, na, lad; ye maun look to the heart, and the disposition or temper, and the affection for you. They are the grand points that ye are to study; and not the beauty o' the face, the shape o' the waist, (which a mantua-maker has a principal hand in making,) the colour o' the een, or the texture o' the hair. Thae are things that are forgotten before ye hae been married a twalmonth; but the feelings o' the heart, and the sentiments o' the soul, aye rin pure, Nicholas, and grow stronger and stronger, just like a bit burn oozing frae a hill, and wimpling down its side, waxing larger and larger, and gathering strength on strength as it runs, until it meets the sea, like a great river; and even so it is wi' the affections o' the heart between man and wife, where they really love and understand each other; for they begin wi' the bit spring o' courtship, following the same course, gathering strength, and flowing side by side, until they fall into the ocean o' eternity, as a united river that cannot be divided! Na, son, if ye will take a wife, I hope ye hae seen enough to convince ye that she ought never to be the bonny Miss Thompson. But if I might advise ye in the matter, there is our own servant, Nancy Bowmaker, a young lass, a weel-faured lass, and as weel behaved as she is good-looking. She has lived wi' us, now, for four years, and from term to term I never have had to quarrel her. I never saw her encouraging lads about the house--I never missed the value o' a prin since she came to it--I never even saw her light a candle at the fire, or keep the cruisy burning when she had naething to do but to spin, or to knit. Now, Nicholas, if ye will be looking after a wife, I say that ye canna do better than just draw up wi' Nancy Bowmaker.' "So my mother ended her long-winded harangue; which I had hardly patience to listen to. In the course o' the week, the faither and brothers o' Miss Jenny Thompson called upon me, to see why I had not fulfilled my engagement, by taking her before the minister, and declaring her to be my wife. I stood before them like a man touched wi' a flash o' lightning--pale as death and trembling like a leaf. But, when they began to talk big owre me, and to threaten me wi' bringing the terrors o' the law upon my head--(and be it remembered I have an exceeding horror o' the law, and would rather lose a pound ony day, than spend six and eightpence, which is the least ye can spend on it)--as good luck would have it, while they were stamping their feet, and shaking their nieves in my face, my mother came forward to where we were standing, and says she to me--'Nicholas, what is a' this about? What does Mr Thompson and his sons want?' "The very sound o' her voice inspired me; I regained my strength and my courage, as the eagle renews its age. And, simple man as I was--'Sir,' said I, 'what is it that ye mean? Gae ask your daughter wha it was that had his arm round her waist on Thursday night last, and her hand upon his shouther! Go to _him_ to marry her!--but dinna hae the audacity to look me in the face.' "'Weel said, Nicol,' whispered my mother, coming behint me, and clapping me on the back; 'aye act in that manner, my man.' "And both her faithers and her brothers stood looking one to another for an answer, and slunk away without saying another word either about the law or our marriage. I found I had gotten the whip hand o' them most completely. So, there never was another word between me and bonny Jenny Thompson, who, within a month, ran away wi' the son o' her faither's laird--and, poor hizzy, I am sorry to say, her end wasna a good one. "My mother, however, always kept teasing me about Nancy Bowmaker, and saying what a notable wife she would make. Now, some folk are foolish enough to say that they couldna like onybody that was in a manner forced upon them. And, nae doubt, if either a faither or a mother, or onybody else that has power owre ye, says--'_Like_ such a one,' it is not in your power to comply, and actually love the person in obedience to a command. Yet this I will say, that my mother's sermons to me about Nancy Bowmaker, and my being always _evened_ to her upon that account, caused me to think more about her than I did concerning ony other woman under the sun. And ye canna think lang about ony lass in particular, without beginning to have a sort o' regard for her, as it were. In short, I began to find that I liked Nancy just as weel as I had done Jenny; we, therefore, were married, and a most excellent and affectionate wife she has been to me, even to this day. "It was now that I began the world in good earnest. But though my wife was an active woman, I was still the same simple, easy-imposed-upon sort o' being that I had always been. Every rogue in the country-side very soon became acquainted wi' my disposition. I had no reason to complain of my business; for orders poured in upon me faster than I was able to supply them. Only, somehow or other--and I thought it very strange--money didna come in so fast as the orders. My wife said to me--'This trade will never do, Nicholas--ye will gang on trust, trusting, until ye trust yoursel' to the door. Therefore, do as I advise ye, and look after the siller.' "'O my dear,' said I, 'they are good customers, and I canna offend them for the sake o' a few pounds. I have no doubt but they are safe enough. "'Safe or no safe,' quoth she, 'get ye your accounts settled. Their siller will do as meikle for ye as their custom. Take a woman's advice for once, and remember, that, 'short accounts make long friends.' Look ye after your money.' "I couldna but confess that there was a great deal o' truth in what Mrs Middlemiss (that is my wife) said to me. But I had not her turn for doing things. I could not be so sharp wi' folk, had it been to save my life. I never could affront onybody in my days. Yet I often wished that I could take her advice; for I saw people getting deeper and deeper into my books, without the prospect o' payment being made more manifest. Under such circumstances I began to think wi' her, that their siller would be as good as their custom--the one was not much worth without the other. "But, just to give ye a few instances o' my simplicity:--I was walking, on a summer evening, as my custom was, about a mile out o' the town, when I overtook a Mr Swanston, a very respectable sort o' man, a neighbour, and an auld acquaintance, who appeared to be in very great tribulation. I think, indeed, that I never saw a fellow-creature in such visible distress. His countenance was perfectly wofu', and he was wringing his hands like a body dementit. "'Preserve us, Mr Swanston!' says I, 'what's the matter wi' ye?--has onything happened?' "'Oh! happened!' said he; 'I'm a ruined man!--I wish that I had never been born!--that I had never drawn breath in this world o' villany! I believe I'll do some ill to mysel'.' "'Dear me, Mr Swanston!' quoth I, 'I'm sorry to hear ye talk so. It is very unchristian-like to hear a body talking o' doing harm to theirsels. There is a poet, (Dr Young, if I mistake not,) that says-- 'Self-murder! name it not, our island's shame!' Now, I dinna like to hear ye talking in such a way; and though I have no wish to be inquisitive, I would just beg to ask what it is upon your mind that is making ye unhappy?' "'Oh, Mr Middlemiss,' said he, 'it is o' no use telling ye o't, for I believe that sympathy has left this world, as weel as honesty.' "'Ye're no very sure o' that, neighbour,' says I; 'and I dinna think that ye do mysel' and other people justice.' "'Maybe not, sir,' said he; 'but is it not a hard case, that, after I have carried on business for more than twenty years, honestly and in credit wi' all the world, that I should have to stop my business to-morrow, for the want o' three hundred pounds?' "'It certainly is,' said I, 'a very hard case; but, dear me, Mr Swanston, I always thought that ye would be worth twenty shillings in the pound.' "'So I am,' said he; 'I am worth twice twenty, if my things should be put up at their real value; but at present I canna command the ready money--and there is where the rock lies that I am to be wrecked upon.' "'Assuredly,' returned I, 'three hundred pounds are no bauble. It requires a person to turn owre a number o' shillings to make them up. But I would think that, you having been so long in business, and always having borne an irreproachable character, it would be quite a possible thing for you to raise the money amongst your friends.' "'Sir,' said he, 'I wouldna require them to raise the money, nor ever to advance or pay a farthing upon my account; all that I require is, that some sponsible person, such as yourself, would put their name to a bill for six months. There would be nothing but the signing o' the name required o' them; and if you, sir, would so far oblige me, ye will save a neighbour from ruin.' "I thought there was something very reasonable in what he said, and that it would be a grand thing if by the mere signing o' my name, I could save a fellow-creature and auld acquaintance from ruin, or from raising his hand against his own life. Indeed, I always felt a particular pleasure in doing a good turn to onybody. I therefore said to him-- 'Weel, Mr Swanston, I have no objections to sign my name, if, as you say, that be all that is in it, and if my doing so will be of service to you.' "He grasped hold o' my hand wi' both o' his, and he squeezed it until I thought he would have caused the blood to start from my finger ends. "'Mr Middlemiss,' said he, 'I shall never be able to repay you for this act o' kindness. I will feel it in my heart the longest day I have to live.' "I was struck with his agitation; in fact, I was very much put about. For even a tear upon the face o' a woman distresses me beyond the power o' words to describe; but to see the salt water on the cheeks of a man indicates that there is something dreadfully ill at ease about the heart. And really the tears ran down his face as if he had been a truant school-laddie that had been chastised by his master. "'There is no occasion for thanks, Mr Swanston,' said I--'none in the world; for the man would be worse than a heathen, that wouldna be ready to do ten times more.' "Weel, he grasped my hand the harder, and he shook it more fervently, saying--'O, sir! sir!--a friend in need is a friend indeed; and such ye have proved to be--and I shall remember it.' "That very night we went to a public-house, and we had two half-mutchkins together; in the course of drinking which, he got out a stamped paper, and after writing something on it, which I was hardly in a condition to read, (for my head can stand very little,) he handed it to me, and pointed with his finger where I was to put my name upon the back o't. So I took the pen and wrote my name--after which, we had a parting gill, and were both very comfortable. "When I went home, Nancy perceiving me to be rather sprung, and my een no as they ought to be, said to me--'Where have you been, Nicholas, until this time o' nicht?' "'Touts!' said, I, 'what need ye mind? It is a hard maiter that a body canna stir out owre the door but ye maun ask--'where hae ye been?' I'm my own maister, I suppose--at least after business hours.' "'No doubt o' that, Nicholas,' said she; 'but while ye are your own maister, ye are also my husband, and the faither o' my family, and it behoves me to look after ye.' "'Look after yoursel'!' said I, quite pettedly--'for I am always very high and independent when I take a glass extra--ye wouldna tak me to be a simple man then.' "'There is no use in throwing yoursel' into a rage, added she; 'for ye ken as weel as me, Nicholas, that ye never take a glass more than ye ought to do, but ye invariably make a fool o' yoursel' by what ye say or do, and somebody or ither imposes on ye. And ye are so vexed with yoursel' the next day, that there is nae living in the house wi' ye. Ye wreak a' the shame and ill-nature that ye feel on account o' your conduct upon us.' "'Nancy!' cried I, striking my hand upon the table, as though I had been an emperor, 'what in the name o' wonder do ye mean? Who imposes upon me?--who dare?--tell me that!--I say tell me that?' And I struck my hand upon the table again. "'Owre mony impose upon ye, my man,' quoth she; 'and I hope naebody has been doing it the night, for I never saw ye come hame in this key, but that somebody had got ye to do something that ye was to repent afterwards.' "'Confound ye, Nancy!' cried I, very importantly whipping up the tails o' my coat in a passion, and turning my back to the fire, while I gied a sort o' stagger, and my head knocked against the chimley piece--'confound ye, Nancy, I say, what do ye mean? Simple man as ye ca' me, and as ye tak me to be, do ye think that I am to come home to get naething but a dish o' tongues from you! Bring me my supper.' "'Oh, certainly, ye shall have your supper,' said she, 'if ye can eat it--only I think that your bed is the fittest place for ye. O man,' added she in a lower tone, half speaking to hersel, 'but ye'll be sorry for this the morn.' "'What the mischief are ye muttering at?' cried I--'get me my supper.' "'Oh, ye shall have that,' said she very calmly, for she was, and is, a quiet woman, and one that would put up with a great deal, rather than allow her voice to be heard by her neighbours. "My head was in a queer state the next day; for ye see I had as good as five glasses, and I never could properly stand above two. I was quite ashamed to look my wife in the face, and I was so certain that I had been guilty o' some absurdity or other, that my cheeks burned just under the dread o' its being mentioned to me. Neither could I drive the idea of having put my name upon the back of the bill from my mind. I was conscious that I had done wrong. Yet, thought I, Mr Swanston is a very decent man; he is a very respectable man; he has always borne an excellent character; and is considered a good man, both amongst men o' business and in society--therefore, I have nothing to apprehend. I, according to his own confession, did him a good turn, and I could in no way implicate myself in his transactions by merely putting my name upon the back o' a bit o' paper, to oblige him. So I thought within myself, and I became perfectly satisfied that I had done a good action, without in the slightest degree injuring my family. "But just exactly six months and three days afterwards, a clerk belonging to a branch o' the Commercial Bank called upon me, and, after making his bow, said he--'Mr Middlemiss, I have a bill to present to you.' "'A bill!' said I, 'what sort o' a bill, sir? Is it an auctioneer's, for a roup o' furniture or a sale o' stock?' "He laughed quite good-natured like in my face, and pulling out the bit stamped paper that I had been madman enough to sign my name upon the back o'--'It is that, sir,' said he. "'That!' cried I; 'what in the earthly globe have I to do wi' that? It is Mr Swanston's business--not mine. I only put my name upon the back o't to _oblige_ him. Why do ye bring it to me?' "'You are responsible, sir,' said the clerk. "'Responsible! the meikle mischief!' I exclaimed; 'what am I responsible for, sir?--I only put my name doun to oblige him, I tell ye! For what am I responsible?' "'For three hundred pounds, and legal interest for six months,' said my unwelcome visiter, wi' a face that shewed as little concern for the calamity in which, through mere simplicity and goodness of heart, I was involved, as if he had ordered me to take a pipe, and blow three hundred soap-bubbles! "'Oh! lack-o'-me!' cried I, 'is that possible? Is Mr Swanston sic a villain? I am ruined--I am clean ruined. Who in all the world will tell Nancy?' "But that I found was a question that I did not need to ask; for she kenned almost as soon as I did mysel'. "I need not say that I had the three hundred pounds, ineerest and all, plack and farthing, to pay; though, by my folly and simplicity, I had brought my wife and family to the verge o' ruin, she never was the woman to fling my silly conduct in my teeth; and all that she ever did say to me upon the subject, was--'Weel, Nicholas, this is the first o' your bill transactions, or o' your being caution for onybody, and I trust it has proved such a lesson as I hope ye will never need another.' "'O Nancy, woman!' cried I, 'dinna speak to me! for I could knock my brains oot! I am the greatest simpleton upon the face o' the earth.' "Now, that was one instance o' my simple conduct and its consequences, and I will just relate to you another or two. I had bought some ninety pounds worth o' flax from a merchant in Glasgow, for which I was to receive six months' credit. Weel, he came round for his money at the appointed time, and I paid him accordingly, and got a line off his hand in acknowledgment. On that very day, and just about an hour after he had left, Nancy says to me--'Nicholas, I dinna owre and aboon like that man that ye hae been dealing wi' the day. He has owre muckle gab, and scraping, and bowing for me. I wish he may be honest. Have ye got a receipt from him?' "'Certainly,' says I; 'do ye think I would pay onybody money without one?' "'And I hope it is on a stamp,' said she. "'A stamp!' quoth I--'a stamp!--hoots, woman! I wonder to see ye so suspicious. Ye dinna tak a' the world to be rogues?' "'No,' said she, 'I do not, and I should be sorry if I did; but if ye hae taken a receipt from him without a stamp, ye are a simple man--that is all that I say.' 'A simple man!' cried I; 'gracious! what does the woman mean? Ye are for ever saying that I am simple this, and simple that! I wish that ye would explain yoursel, and say what ye wish to be after! Where, or how am I simple?' "'It's not been one lesson that you've had, Nicholas,' said she, 'nor ten, nor twenty either, but it is every week, I may say every day, wi' ye. There is perpetually some person or another showing ye that the 'simple man is the beggar's brother,' and ye canna see it, or ye winna regard it. But ye will, perhaps, be brought to think on't, when neither your bairns nor me have a stool to sit upon.' "'Woman!' exclaimed I, 'flesh and blood cannot stand your tongue! Ye would exasperate the patience o' Job! What is it that ye wish to be after?--what would ye have me to do?' "'Oh, it is o' nae use getting into a passion about it,' said she, 'for that winna mend the matter. But there is only this in it, Nicholas: I would have ye to be as sharp in your dealings in the world, as ye are wi' me when I happen to speak a word to ye for your good.' "There was so much truth in what she said, and she always spoke in such a calm, good-natured manner that it was impossible to continue to be in a passion wi' her. So I said no more about the subject; but I thought to mysel', that, as I knew very little about the man I had dealt with, it would hae been quite as safe to have had the receipt upon a stamp. "A few months afterwards, I saw his name amongst the list o' bankrupts; and to my very great astonishment, I received a letter from a writer, demanding payment from me o' the ninety pounds for the flax which I had already paid. "'The thing is unreasonable a'thegither,' said I; 'here is a man that hasna paid once himself, and he would come upon me to pay twice! But I'll see him far enough first!' "I paid no attention to the letter, and I was summoned to appear before the writer, and three men that were called the trustees to the bankrupt's estate. (Dear kens where the estate lay.) "'Sir,' said they to me, as haughtily as if I had been a criminal before them; 'wherefore do ye refuse to pay the ninety pounds?' "'For the best o' a' reasons, gentlemen,' said I, very civilly; 'and that simply is, because I have paid it already.' "'What proof can you show for that!' asked the writer. "'Proof, sir,' said I--'here is a line off the man's own hand, acknowledging the payment o' every farthing o' the money.' "'Let me look at it,' says he. "So, as honesty never needs to be feared for what it does, I handed him the bit paper. But after looking at it for a moment, he held it up between his finger and thumb, and wi' a kind o' sarcastic laugh, inquired--'Where is the stamp?' "The sweat broke ower me from head to foot. 'Sir, my wife, Nancy! Is that document, in the handwriting o' the man himsel', not proof positive that I have paid the money?' "The writer shook his head; and a gentleman that was standing near me, and who was very probably in a similar predicament to myself, said--'Unstamped receipts, sir, may do very well, where ye find a world o' purely honest men--but they winna do where ye arena sure but ye may be dealing wi' a rogue.' "'Gentlemen!' cried I, 'have ye really the cruelty and injustice to say that I am to pay that money owre again?' "'Owre again or not owre again,' said the writer, 'ye must pay it, otherwise summary proceedings will be entered against ye. If ye have already paid it in the way ye say, it is only making good the proverb, that the 'simple man is the beggar's brother.'" "'Oh, confound ye!' cried I, 'for a parcel o' unprincipled knaves--that is exactly what my wife says; and had I followed her advice, I would ne'er hae seen ane o' yer faces.' "However, the ninety pounds I had to pay again, doun upon the nail; and that was another o' the beautiful effects o' my simplicity. I didna ken how, in the universal globe, I was to muster courage to look my wife in the face again. Yet all that she said was--'O Nicholas! Nicholas!--would ye only be less simple!' "'Heigho!' said I, 'dinna talk about it, Nancy--I'm owre grieved as it is--I can stand no more!' "The loss o' the three hundred pounds, wi' the bill business, and the ninety just mentioned, made me to stagger, and those that knew about the circumstances wondered how I stood them. But I had just begun a new concern, which was the manufacture o' table-cloths upon a new principle, and with exceedingly splendid patterns. I got an extraordinary sale for them, and orders came pouring in upon me. But I had to employ more men to fulfil them, and their wages were to pay every Saturday, while the remittances did not come in by half so regular as the orders, and I found it was not easy to pay men without receiving money for their work. Had I been a man o' a great capital, the case might have been different. There was one day, however, that a gentleman that had dealt wi' me very extensively called upon me, and he gied me a very excellent order. But, although he had seen a great deal o' my goods, I never had seen the shadow o' his cash. I canna say that I exactly liked his manner o' doing business; yet I couldna, for the breath that was in my body, have the face to say an impertinent thing to ony one, and I was just telling him that his order should be attended to, when my wife, who was sitting in a room off the parlour, gave a tap upon the door, and, asking the gentleman to excuse me for a minute, I stepped ben, and I half whispered to her--'What is it, dear?' "'Has that man spoken about paying ye?' said she. "'No,' said I. "'But I think it is time he was,' quoth she, 'before ye trust him ony farther. Remember that ye have men's wages to pay, and accounts to pay, and a wife and family to support, and those things canna be done upon nothing.' "'Very true, dearie,' said I; 'but ye wouldna have me to speak abruptly to the gentleman, or to affront him?' "'It will affront no gentleman,' replied she--'at least, no honest man--to ask him for what is your own. Therefore, ask him for your money. Remember, Nicholas, that the simple man is the beggar's brother.' "'O dear, woman!' says I, 'ye ken I dinna like to hear thae words. I'll ask the gentleman to pay me--to be sure I will; and what is the use o' your keeping tease, teasing at a body, just as if I were a simpleton.' "So I slipped back to the customer, and, after a few words about his order, I said to him--'Sir, ye understand I have men's wages to pay, and accounts to pay, and a wife and family to support, and it's no little that does it; therefore, if ye could just oblige me wi' the settlement o' your account, it would be a favour.' "'My dear Mr Middlemiss,' said he, 'I am extremely sorry that you did not inform me that you were in want of cash sooner, as I have just, before I saw you, parted with all I can spare. But, if you be very much in want of it, I can give you a note, that is, a bill for the money, at three or six months. You can get it cashed, you know, and it is only minus the discount, and that is not much upon your profits, eh?' "'Begging your pardon, sir,' says I, 'but I take I would have my name to write on the back o't.' "'Certainly, sir,' said he, 'you know that follows as a matter of course.' "'Yes, sir,' continued I, 'and I have found that it sometimes follows also as a matter o' _coercion!_ I never had to do wi' what ye call a bill in my life but once, which was merely writing my name upon the back o't, and that cost me three hundred pounds--exactly sixteen pounds, two shillings and threepence, and a fraction, for every letter in the name of Nicholas Middlemiss, as my wife has often told me. Therefore, sir, I would never wish to see the _face_ o' a bill again; or, I should say, the _back_ o' one.' "'But, my good sir,' said the gentleman, 'I have told you that it is not convenient for me to give you the cash just now; and, if you won't take my bill, why, what do you wish me to do? Do you intend to affront me? Do you suppose I have nothing to attend to but your account?' "'Oh, by no means, sir,' said I; 'and it would be the last thing in my thoughts either to offend you or ony man. If ye have not the money at command, I suppose I must take the bill; for I know that cash down is a sort o' curiosity, as I sometimes say, and is very difficult to be met wi'.' "While we were conversing thegither, I heard my wife gie a tap, tap, tap, twice or thrice upon the parlour door, and I was convinced that she owreheard us; but I didna take the least notice o' it, for I felt conscious that it would only be to ring the auld sang in my ears, about the simple man. So I took the gentleman's bill at six months; and immediately after he left me, Nancy came into the parlour. "'Weel,' said she, 'ye've gotten your money.' But she said it wi' a scornful air, such as I had never seen her use before, and which caused me to feel excessively uncomfortable. "'Yes, I've got my money,' says I, 'but, dear me, Nancy, what business is it o' yours whether I have got my money or no?' "'If it isna my business, Nicholas,' said she, 'I would like to ken whase business it is? I am the wife o' your bosom--the mother o' your family--am I not? Guidman, ye may take ill what I say to ye, but it is meant for your good. Now, ye hae ta'en the bill o' the man that has just left ye, for four hundred and odd pounds! What do ye ken aboot him? Naething!--naething in the blessed world! Ye are a simple man, Nicholas!' "'Dinna say that,' said I; 'I am not simple. I told him to his face that I didna like his bills. But ye are like a' women--ye would do wonders if ye were men! But his bill prevents a' disputes about his account--do ye not see that--and I can cash it if I wish.' "'Very true,' said she, 'ye can cash it, Nicholas, but upon your own credit, and at your own risk.' "'Risk!' said I, 'the woman's a fool to talk in such a manner about an every-day transaction.' "'Weel,' answered she, 'not to say that there is the slightest risk in the matter, have ye considered, that, if ye do cash this bill, there will be a heavy discount to pay, and if ye pay it, what is to become o' your profits? Did ye tell him, that if ye took his bill ye would carry the discount to his next account?' "'O Nancy! Nancy!' cried I, 'ye would skin the wind! Just take yoursel' away, if ye please; for really ye're tormenting me--making a perfect gowk o' me, for neither end nor purpose.' "'Oh, if that be the way,' said she, 'I can leave ye--but I have seen the day when ye thought otherwise o' my company. Yet, the more I see o' your transactions, Nicholas, the more I am convinced in the truth o' the saying, that the simple man is the beggar's brother.' "'Sorrow take ye, wife!' cried I, 'will ye really come owre thae words again. Are ye not aware that I detest and abhor them? Have I not said that to ye again and again?--and yet ye will repeat them in my hearing? Do ye wish to drive me mad?' "'I would wish to see ye act,' answered she, 'so that I would ne'er need to use them again.' And, on saying that, she went out o' the room, which to me was a great deliverance. "I got the bill cashed, and, to tell ye the plain truth, I also had it to pay. This was a dreadfu' loss to me; and I found there was naething left for me but so _sit down_,(if ye understand what that means,) as mony a guid man has been compelled to do. Hooever, I paid every body seventeen shillings and sixpence half-penny in the pound. Some of my creditors said it was owre meikle--that I had been simple and wronged mysel'. "'I would wish to the utmost o' my power to be honest,' said I; 'and if I hae wronged mysel', I hae saved my conscience. If there be naething else left for me noo, as Burns says-- 'Heaven be thankit! I can beg.' "My business, hooever, had been entirely at a stand for the space o' sax weeks. I had neither journeyman nor apprentice left. My looms, and the hale apparatus connected wi' the concern, had been sold off, and I had naething in the world but a few articles o' furniture, which a freend bought back for me at the sale. I got the loan o' a loom, and in order to support my wife and family, I had to sit down to drive the shuttle again. I had wrought nane to speak o' for ten years before, and my hands were quite oot o' use. I made but a puir job o' it. The first week I didna mak aboon half-a-crown; and that was but a sma' sum for the support o' a wife and half-a-dozen hungry bairns. Hooever, I was still as simple as ever; and there wasna a wife in the countryside that was a bad payer, but brought her web to Nicholas Middlemiss. I wrought late and early; but though I did my utmost, I couldna keep my bairns' teeth gaun. Many a time it has wrung my heart, when I hae heard them crying to their mother, clinging round her, and pulling at her apron, saying--'Mother, gie's a piece!--Oh just a wee bite, mother!' "'O my darlings,' she used to say to them, 'dinna ask me for bread the noo. I haena a morsel in the house, and hae na siller to buy meal. But yer faither is aboot finished wi' the web, and ye shall hae plenty the nicht.' "Then the bits o' dear creatures would hae come runnin' ben to me, and asked--'Faither, when will the web be ready?' "'Soon, soon, hinnies!' said I, half choked wi' grief and blind wi' tears; 'haud awa' oot and play yoursels!' "For I couldna stand to see them yearning afore me, and to behold want, like a gnawing worm, eating the flesh from their lovely cheeks. Then, when I had went out wi' the web, Nancy would say to me--'Noo, Nicholas, remember the situation we're in. There's neither food o' ae description nor anither in the house, and ye see the last o' oor coals upon the fire. Therefore, afore ye leave the web, see that ye get the money for the working o't.' "Yet, scores o' times, even after such admonitions, hae I come hame without a penny in my pocket. Ane put me aff with ae excuse, and anither wi' anither. Some were to ca' and pay me on the Saturday, and others when they killed their pig. But those Saturdays seldom came; and, in my belief, the pigs are living yet. It used to put me in terror to meet my poor starving family. The consequence generally was, that Nancy had to go to where I had come frae and request payment hersel'; and, at last, she wadna trust me wi' the taking hame o' the webs. "We suffered more than I'm willing to tell aboot, at the period I mention, and a' arose oot o' my simpleness. But I was confined to my bed for ten weeks, wi' a dreadfu' attack o' rheumatism--it was what was ca'ed a rheumatic fever--it reduced me to a perfect anatomy. I was as feckless as a half-burned thread. Through fatigue, anxiety, and want o' support thegither, Nancy also took very ill; and there did we lie to a' appearance hastening to the grave. What we suffered, and what our family suffered upon this occasion, no person in a Christian country could believe. But for the kindness o' the minister, and some o' oor neebors, we must a' hae perished. As a matter of course we fell sadly back; and when the house rent became due, we had not wherewith to pay it. The landlord distrained us for it. A second time the few things I had left were put under the hammer o' the auctioneer. 'Oh!' said I, 'surely misery and I were born thegither!' For we had twa dochters, the auldest only gaun six, baith lying ill o' the scarlet fever in the same bed, and I had to suffer the agony o' beholding the bed sold out from under them. It was more than human nature could endure. The poor, dear lammies cried--'Faither! mither! dinna let them touch us!' I took the auldest up in my arms, and begged that I micht be allowed a blanket to row her in. Nancy took up the youngest one, and while the sale went on, with our dying bairns in our arms, we sat down in the street before the door, as twa beggars--but we were not begging. "Our case excited universal commiseration. A number o' respectable people began to take an interest in our weelfare; and business came so thick upon me that I had to get twa other looms, and found constant employment, not only for my auldest laddie, whom I was bringing up to the business, but also for a journeyman. "Just as I was beginning to prosper, hooever, and to get my head aboon the water, there was ane o' my auld creditors to whom I had paid the composition of seventeen and sixpence halfpenny in the pound, wha was a hard-hearted, avaricious sort o' man, and to whom I had promised, and not only promised, but given a written pledge, to pay him the remaining two and fivepence halfpenny in the pound, together with interest, in the course of six years. The time was just expiring, when he came to me, and presenting the bit paper, which was in my own handwriting, demanded payment. "'Really, sir,' said I, 'I acknowledge that I must pay ye, though everybody said at the time that I was a very simple man for entering into ony such agreement wi' ye; but it is not in my power to pay ye just now. In the course o' a twalmonth I hope to be able to do it.' "'Mr Middlemiss,' said he, as slowly as if he were spelling my name, 'my money I want, and my money I will have; and have it immediately, too.' "'Sir,' said I, 'the thing is impossible; I canna gie ye what I haena got.' "'I dinna care for that,' said he; 'if I dinna get it, I shall _get you_.' "He had the cruelty to throw me into jail, just as I was beginning to gather my feet. It knocked all my prospects in the head again. I began to say it was o' nae use for me to strive, for the stream o' fate was against me.' "'Dinna say so, Nicholas,' said Nancy, who came on foot twice every week, a' the way from Langholm, to see me--'dinna say sae. Yer ain simplicity is against ye--naething else.' "Weel, the debt was paid, and I got my liberty. But, come weel, come woe, I was still simple Nicol Middlemiss. Ne'er hae I been able to get the better o' my easy disposition. It has made me acquainted wi' misery--it has kept me constantly in the company o' poverty; and, when I'm dead, if onybody erect a gravestane for me, they may inscribe owre it-- "THE SIMPLE MAN IS THE BEGGAR'S BROTHER." TALES OF THE EAST NEUK OF FIFE. THE ROBBERY AT PITTENWEEM AND THE PORTEOUS MOB. On the 2nd of March 1736, Andrew Wilson in Pathhead, William Hall in Edinburgh, and George Robertson, stabler at Bristo Port there, were indicted and accused, at the instance of Duncan Forbes of Culloden, then Lord Advocate, before the high court of justiciary at Edinburgh, of the crimes of stouthrief housebreaking and robbery, in so far as James Stark, collector of excise in Kirkcaldy, being upon his circuit in collecting that revenue, and having along with him a considerable sum of money collected by him by virtue of his office, upon Friday the 9th day of January then last, was at the house of Margaret Ramsay, relict of Andrew Fowler, excise-office keeper at Pittenweem; and Andrew Wilson having formed a design to rob Collector Stark of the money and other effects he had along with him, and having taken William Hall and George Robertson as associates, they came together from Edinburgh that morning, and towards evening put up their horses in Anstruther-Easter, in the inn kept by James Wilson, brewer there;[C] and after having had some deliberations upon their intended robbery, leaving their horses there, they went privately on foot to Pittenweem, and about eleven o'clock that night called at the house of Widow Fowler, and under the pretence of drinking, remained there until they were informed, or might reasonably presume Collector Stark was gone to bed; and about twelve that night, or one next morning, Andrew Wilson and William Hall, or one or other of them, did impudently and in defiance of law forcibly and with violence break the door of the room where Collector Stark was lying in bed, and having knocked out the under pannel, Collector Stark suspecting an attack upon his life, for his safety jumped out at a window in his shirt; whereupon Andrew Wilson and William Hall, or one or other of them, entered the room, and did feloniously carry off bank-notes in a pocket-book belonging to Collector Stark, and gold and money in his possession to the value of L.200, less or more, and did rob and take away a pair of pistols, a seal, a penknife, a cloak bag, a pair of silver buckles, a bible, several suits of linens and other goods belonging to Collector Stark and in his possession; and when they went out of that room, did divide, disperse of, and distribute the gold, money, and other goods so robbed and taken away at their pleasure. And while the said Andrew Wilson and William Hall were committing the foresaid crimes, the said George Robertson was standing, sometimes at the door and sometimes at the foot of the stair of said house, as a sentinel and guard, with a drawn cutlass in his hand, to prevent any person from interfering and stopping the said violence and robbery, and did threaten to kill or otherwise intimidate the servants of the house when going towards the door of the collector's room; and when several of the inhabitants, alarmed by the noise, gathered together upon the street, and coming towards the door, inquired what was going on there; he, George Robertson, did treacherously endeavour to persuade them not to attempt to enter the house, falsely affirming that he had tried to go up stairs, but being in danger of being shot, he was by fear obliged to leave the house. And in order to keep them still amused with his false suggestion of danger by entering the house, having gone along with them into the house of John Hyslop in Pittenweem, he detained them there for some time, until he judged that his associates might have made their escape with their spoil; and soon afterwards William Hall was seized in the street of Anstruther-Easter, between twelve and one next morning, being Saturday the 10th January, having several of the goods and a purse of gold so robbed in his possession, which he dropped and endeavoured to conceal. And they, Andrew Wilson, and George Robertson, having met some short time afterwards in the house of said James Wilson in Anstruther-Easter, where they were informed that the house was beset, conscious of their own guilt, they, one or other of them, did deliver to said James Wilson the seal, the penknife, the pair of buckles, some money, and other things robbed, telling that if they were found in their possession they would be hanged or undone, or words to that purpose, expressing an apprehension of the utmost danger; and immediately thereafter got into bed, as if they had lain all night asleep, where both were apprehended, and upon the top of which bed were found the bank notes robbed from Collector Stark, and his pocket-book above another bed in another room of the house, &c. Wherefore, on these crimes being confessed or proven, the parties ought to be most severely and exemplarily punished with the pains of law, in terror of others committing the like in time coming. The indictment to the foregoing effect was read--the case debated, and the Lords ordered both parties to give in informations. On the 19th March 1736, the Lords found the libel relevant--but allowed George Robertson a proof, with respect to his behaviour at the time stated, for taking off the circumstances tending to infer his being accessory, or art and part of the crimes libelled. A jury was empannelled, and the trial proceeded. To give even notes of the depositions on both sides would exceed our limits. We shall therefore merely select the evidence of two or three witnesses, whose statements will serve to form a continuation of our narrative, and pass over the remainder as unnecessary for our purpose. The first we shall adduce is the collector, the individual robbed. James Stark, collector of excise, Kirkcaldy, aged forty-nine years or thereby, married, solemnly sworn, purged of malice partial, counsel examined and interrogated, depones time and place libelled--the deponent being then upon his collection as collector of excise. He went to bed about ten o'clock, and about an hour and a-half thereafter, he was waked out of sleep by a noise and some chapping at the door of the room where he lay--which door he had secured before he went to bed by screwing down the sneck of the door--which noise the deponent at first imagined was occasioned by some drunken people in the house; but afterwards, upon the strokes on the door being repeated with violence, the deponent jumped out of his bed, and heard the under part of the door of the bed-room giving way, upon which the deponent laid hold upon two bags of money, which, with the deponent's breeches, in which were about L.100 in gold, and bank notes and silver, the deponent had put below his head when he went to bed; and the deponent did then, in the confusion in which he was, put the table and some chairs to the back of the door to stap the gap, and thereafter opened the window, and returning to find the bags of money and his breeches, he could only find one of the bags of money, and being in fear of his life, he jumped out at the window with one of the bags of money, and fell at the foot of the stair, the said window being just above the entry to the house, and recovering himself a little, he went towards the corn-yard, and hearing a person call out "Hold him," the deponent apprehending the voice to be before him, he returned a few paces, and then perceiving a man standing or walking at the foot of the stair, the deponent returned again to the yard, where he hid the bag of money, and thereafter coming back towards the house to hear what was a-doing, the deponent heard a knocking in the room where he had been lodged, and thereupon retired to the yard again--lay covered with some straw till about four in the morning--and then returning to the house saw the panel, William Hall, in custody of some soldiers; and the deponent having said to him that he had given him a cold bath that night, William Hall answered that he was not to blame, being only hired, and had no hand in it, but that Andrew Wilson and George Robertson had come there of a design to rob the deponent that night, and that this design had been formed several months before by Andrew Wilson, and particularly at the preceding collection at Elie; and further depones that soon after the deponent got out of the window as aforesaid, he heard the clock strike twelve; that when the deponent was first awakened out of his sleep as aforesaid, he heard Mrs Fowler, the landlady, call to the persons who were breaking open the deponent's bed-room, "What are ye doing?" or "Why do ye this?" and the deponent heard them at the same time cursing and swearing and making a great noise; and the deponent having only carried one bag of money along with him as aforesaid, he left in said bed-room the money and goods following, viz., the deponent's breeches, in which was a purse with fifty-two and a-half guineas, betwixt six and seven pounds in silver, and a pocket-book with one and forty pounds in bank notes, which purse and pocket-book the deponent exhibits in court; that besides the bank notes, there were several bills and other papers in the pocket-book, and that there was likewise in the deponent's breeches, a seal, a pair of silver shoe-buckles, and a penknife, which the deponent likewise exhibits; the deponent likewise left in his room a cloak-bag with some linens in it, which cloak-bag the deponent likewise exhibits in court; as also a bible, a pair of pistols, which the deponent likewise exhibits; that upon the deponent returning to his room as aforesaid, he found the door of the room broken up, and saw a press in the room which had been broken up, and found his breeches empty and all the several particulars above enumerated amissing; and thereafter, about seven o'clock in the morning, the deponent having gone to Anstruther-Easter, he soon thereafter saw the three panels in custody; and the deponent did then see in the hands of the magistrates of Anstruther, the seal, the buckles, and penknife above mentioned; depones that upon Monday following, being the 12th of January last, William Hall, panel, told the deponent that he had informed Alexander Clerk, supervisor of excise, where the purse of gold was to be found, whereupon the deponent desired the supervisor to go in quest of it, which he did, and having found it, he restored it to the deponent with the whole gold in it; and that the bible was returned to the deponent by one of the soldiers who apprehended Hall; that on Saturday night the 10th of January, the deponent got back his pocket-book and bank notes, with the other papers in the said pocket-book, from Bailie Robert Brown in Anstruther-Easter. _Causa scientiæ patet. _And this is truth, as he shall answer to God. (Signed) James Stark; Andrew Fletcher. Alexander Clerk, supervisor of excise at Cupar-Fife, being solemnly sworn, and depones time and place libelled, the deponent was lodged in the room next to Collector Stark, and went to bed about ten, and was wakened about twelve by persons rapping either at his door or that of the collector's; and heard a cry of "Murder the dogs and burn the house!" upon which the deponent swore that the first man that came in he would put a pair of balls in him. The deponent then put on some of his clothes and got out at a window at the backside of the house,[D] and walked to Anstruther, about a mile, and awakened the serjeant who commanded a small party of soldiers there, and with the serjeant and two of the soldiers set out for Pittenweem, and left orders for the rest of the party to follow as soon as possible. As they passed the entry to Sir John Anstruther's house in Easter-Anstruther,[E] they met with some men who having challenged the deponent, "Who comes there?" the deponent desired them to give an account of themselves, and upon their running off, the deponent ordered the soldiers to seize them, upon which the serjeant with his halbert hooked one of them, the rest escaping, which afterwards proved to be William Hall, one of the panels, and whom the deponent carried along with him to the excise office at Pittenweem, and having brought him into the house of Mrs Fowler, Jean Finlay, servant to Mrs Fowler, upon seeing the said Hall, said, "This is the villain that broke my head a little while ago;" and Thomas Durkie, another servant in the house, said, "This is one of the persons who robbed the collector the night;" and the soldiers who brought Hall produced a bag of linen and a bible which they said they had taken up as Hall had dropped them by the way; and William Geddes, clerk to the collector, did then say, "This is the collector's bible, and there are his linens," whereupon Hall confessed that he had been guilty of robbing the collector; and the deponent thereupon telling Hall that he was now _in for it_, and that the best way for him was to discover the rest, which, if he would do, the deponent would do his endeavours to get him made an evidence, and having then asked if he promised to get him a pardon? depones that he understood it so, but does not remember that he used the word _pardon_; upon which Hall told deponent he would get these other persons whom he named; remembers particularly that he named Andrew Wilson, panel, to have been one of them. That they had come upon four horses that morning from Kinghorn, and that he would find them all in the house of James Wilson in Anstruther-Easter, or in a house twenty yards on this side of it, which the deponent understood to be Bailie Andrew Johnston's.[F] By this time the rest of the party having come up from Anstruther, the deponent made some search for the collector, but could not find him, and thereafter the deponent carried up Hall to the room where the collector had lodged, the door of which he saw broken in the under part, and left Hall prisoner there in custody of some of the soldiers and the rest of the party, and Thomas Durkie and William Geddes. The deponent then went east to Anstruther in search of the rest of the robbers, and having surrounded the house of James Wilson there, he found three men in a room there, viz., Andrew Wilson and George Robertson, panels, and one John Friar, and having shown them to the above Thomas Durkie, he declared that they were two of the persons who had robbed the collector; upon which the deponent having applied to Bailies Robert Brown and Philip Millar, both in Anstruther-Easter, he got the accused committed to prison; and further depones that as the panels were being carried prisoners to Edinburgh, and while they were halting at Kirkcaldy, the deponent asked George Robertson, panel, what was become of the collector's purse of gold, George answered that Andrew Wilson, the other panel, told him that William Hall got the purse; upon which the deponent inquired at Hall about it, and added that unless he confessed and discovered where the purse was, he could not expect that the promises made would be kept to him; when after some entreaty Hall told deponent that he had dropped it upon being seized in a wet furr near a dung-hill, and accordingly the deponent went back to Pittenweem, and upon application to Bailie Andrew Fowler, of Pittenweem, and in his presence the purse was found near to a dung-hill between Anstruther-Wester and Pittenweem, in the spot described by Hall, with fifty-two guineas and a-half in it, which purse and gold was given to the deponent, and the purse exhibited in court being shown to him, he thinks it is the very same purse. And all this is truth, as he shall answer to God. (Signed) Alexander Clerk; Andrew Fletcher. John Galloway, servant to Patrick Galloway, horse-hirer in Kinghorn, aged twenty-six, depones that at the time libelled, William Hall came to the deponent's master's house in Kinghorn, and desired him to get two horses, one for himself and one for the deponent, telling him that they were going to Anstruther to get some brandy; and that George Robertson and Andrew Wilson were to be their masters and pay their expenses; and desired him to go to the houses where they then were. The deponent having gone accordingly, and spoken to the said persons, George Robertson desired to get their horses ready, and Hall and the deponent to go before and they would overtake them; that about six o'clock at night they came to Anstruther-Easter, and set up their horses in James Wilson's house, where he found Andrew Wilson before him; and after they put up their horses they went to Andrew Johnston's there, where they found Robertson and Wilson drinking punch. Depones that the three panels and the deponent went from Anstruther to Pittenweem on foot, between ten and eleven o'clock at night. Depones that when they came to Pittenweem, he (the deponent), Hall, and Wilson went into a house, but does not know the name of the landlord, where they drank a bottle of ale, and it was agreed while they were there that Robertson and the other panel should walk on the street; that when they came out of that house, the three panels and the deponent went to Widow Fowler's house, where they drank some ale and brandy. Andrew Wilson having asked the landlady if she could lodge any casks of brandy for him, she desired him to speak low, because the collector was in the house; upon which Wilson said, Is he here? She answered, he was. Robertson, the panel, called for a reckoning, and all four went down stairs, at least went to the stair-head. Robertson, Hall, and the deponent went out to the street, and as the maid was going to shut the outer door, Andrew Wilson pushed it open and went in, upon which the deponent and William Hall went in also; and George Robertson drew his cutlass and stood at the outer door, saying that no person should go out or in of that house but upon the point of that weapon. Depones when they went in to the house they saw Andrew Wilson standing at the door of the room where the collector was lodged, and the lower part of the door broken; that upon seeing the door broken, he, the deponent, asked Wilson what it meant? or what he would be at? to which Wilson answered, that he had lost a great deal of money, and understood that there was some of it there, and was resolved to have it back again; upon which the deponent said to him, that he would have nothing to do in the matter. Depones that after the door of the collector's room was broken open as aforesaid, Andrew Wilson went into the room, and brought out a pair of breeches, and shewing them to the deponent, said, "Here is a good deal of money;" the deponent telling him that he would have nothing to do with it, the said Andrew took out several handfuls of money, and put it into the deponent's pocket; which money, except a few shillings, the deponent delivered back to the said Andrew Wilson in the house of James Wilson in Anstruther. Depones that Andrew Wilson went again into the room, and brought out a cloak-bag, which he desired the deponent to carry, which he refused to do. The said Andrew then carried the cloak-bag himself, till they came to the end of the town, together with a pair of pistols, which he then delivered to William Hall, who carried it half way to Anstruther, and then Andrew Wilson desired Hall to set it down, that they might see if there was any bank-notes in it; and Hall, having opened the cloak-bag, took out some linens and a bible, which he stowed about himself. That at the same time he saw Andrew Wilson take out of his pocket the pocket-book, out of which he took several bank-notes and put in his pocket, and then threw the pocket-book on the floor. Depones that Andrew Wilson and the deponent went out of Wilson's house, and threw one of the pistols and some linens which they had brought from Pittenweem in among some straw in a barn-yard; thereafter the deponent, Bailie Thomas Brown, Anstruther-Easter, and some soldiers, went to the place where the cloak-bag was left, and to the barn-yard where the pistols and linen were thrown, where they were all found. Being further examined, depones that as Wilson and Hall and the deponent were on the road from Pittenweem to Anstruther, a little to the west of Sir John Anstruther's house, they met Mr Clerk, the supervisor, and some soldiers, who, having challenged him who they were, one of the soldiers seized Hall with his halbert, upon which Andrew Wilson and the deponent made their escape. Depones that the cutlass now produced is the same that George Robertson had in his hand at Widow Fowler's house. _Causa scienticæ patet._ And this is truth, as he shall answer to God, and depones he cannot write. (Signed) James Mackenzie. Upon the indictment against the panels being read in court, they all pled "Not guilty," and certain defences were offered for them. And first, in opposition to what the indictment alleged with regard to Andrew Wilson having formed a design to rob Collector Stark, and having taken Hall and Robertson, his associates, from Edinburgh that morning, it was stated that they did not set out from Edinburgh in company, but met upon the water in the passage between Leith and Kinghorn, where two of them, Wilson and Hall, were passing in a yawl, and Robertson was crossing in a passage boat; that instead of leaving Edinburgh and going to the East Neuk on the criminal design libelled, they had each of them lawful business in that part of the country, viz., for buying goods in which they ordinarily dealt, and which it was neither criminal nor capital to buy and sell; and particularly George Robertson, who kept an inn near Bristo Port in Edinburgh, where the Newcastle carriers commonly put up; that having occasion to buy liquors in the east of Fife, he agreed to take share of a cargo with Andrew Wilson, and with that view got a letter of credit from Francis Russell, druggist addressed to Bailie Andrew Waddell, Cellardyke, for the value of £50 sterling; and further, he carried with him an accepted bill of John Fullerton in Causeyside, to the like extent, as a fund of credit for the goods he might buy; and William Hall, the third panel, was a poor workman in Edinburgh, commonly attending the weigh-house, who was carried along to take care of and fetch home the goods; that accordingly, as soon as they came to Anstruther, and put up their horses at James Wilson's, they went to a respectable man, Bailie Johnston, and bought goods to the value of £46 10s., and whilst making the bargain they drank some quantity of liquor; that after this, not finding at Anstruther all the sorts of liquor they wanted to purchase, they went on foot to Pittenweem, when they first went to the house of ---- Drummond, another respectable merchant, and drank some time with him, desiring to buy some brandy of him, but he told them he could not furnish them at that time; that after this the panels went into the house of Widow Fowler, where, calling for a room, they were shown into the kitchen, and inquired at the landlady if she could furnish them any place for lodging the goods they had bought, and there they drank both ale and punch, till, with what they had got before at different places, they became all very drunk; that at this place it was told by the landlady or servants, in conversation, that there was money to a considerable value in the next room, and if any part of the facts libelled were committed by the panels, Wilson and Hall, it must have been done upon occasion of this purely accidental information, when they were insane from strong drink: it was more like a drunken frolic than a preconcerted robbery. As a further evidence of this fact, it appeared by the libel itself that they acted like persons in such a condition; for they, as well as the other panel Robertson, were all seized in an hour or two thereafter, before the effects of the liquor had worn off, and before they had time to come to themselves, and without any of them taking the most rational and obvious measures to make their escape. As to the case of George Robertson, it is not said that the inhabitants gathered together upon the streets, came there to save or rescue what was contained in the room; on the contrary, it was admitted on debate that the inhabitants of small coast towns are not very ready on these occasions to lend their assistance to the officers of justice; and if George Robertson had truly said to the persons whom he met on the street that he was by fear obliged to leave the house, it might very possibly have been true, and an argument of his innocence, and therefore ought not to be turned into a circumstance of his guilt. Our space will not admit of further argument. Suffice it to say that the jury unanimously found Andrew Wilson and William Hall guilty, and George Robertson art and part on the crimes libelled; and the Lords of Justiciary passed sentence of death on all three, which sentence they appointed to be executed on Wednesday the 14th of April 1736. Leaving the criminals in the condemned cells, where they are to remain five weeks before being executed, let us, in the meanwhile, in order to the better understanding the case, and forming a clearer opinion in reference to the nature and origin of the Porteous mob--one of the most extraordinary events recorded in history, and which arose out of the trial and sentence against Andrew Wilson and the others before narrated--let us endeavour to give a brief sketch of Mr Porteous' history, from his birth till the time of which we write, namely, the recording of the sentence of death against Wilson and his associates. John Porteous, one of the captains of the Edinburgh City Guard, was son of Stephen Porteous, a tailor in Canongate. The father held a fair character, and was esteemed a good honest man in the whole conduct of his life, his greatest misfortune was his having such a son as John. The father early discovered in his son a perverseness of nature, and a proneness to commit mischievous and more than childish tricks. The mother, out of a blind affection for her child, took them all for growing proofs of spirit and manliness, and as marks of an extraordinary and sprightly genius. Thus the family were divided upon the education of the son, and from being often thwarted in his measures about him, the father lost his authority, and for the peace of his family winked at the faults which the good man saw it his duty to correct. The loss of parental authority begot want of filial regard, so that the boy, shooting up with these vicious habits and disregard of the father, advanced from reproaches and curses to blows, whenever the unfortunate old man ventured to remonstrate against the folly and madness of his son's conduct. The mother saw, when it was too late, what her misguided affection had produced, and how to her fond love in childhood the man made the base return of threatening language and the utmost disregard; for he proved too hard for both father and mother at last. The father having a good business, wanted John to learn his trade of a tailor, both because it was easiest and cheapest for the old man, and a sure source of good living for the son, whether he began business for himself or waited to succeed the father after his death; but as he grew up his evil habits increased, and at last when checked by his father in his mad career, he almost put the good old man to death by maltreatment. At last, provoked beyond all endurance, the father resolved to rid himself of him by sending him out of the country, and managed to get him engaged to serve in the army under the command of Brigadier Newton. While in Flanders, he saw, in passing along with one of his brother soldiers, a hen at a little distance covering her chickens under her wings, and out of pure wanton and malicious mischief he fired his musket and shot the hen. The poor woman to whom it belonged, startled by the shot, went out and saw her hen dead; and following the young soldier, asked him to pay the price of the hen and chickens, for both were lost to her, and they formed a great part of her means of subsistence; but the unfeeling youth would not give her a farthing--threatening if she annoyed him he would send her after her hen; upon which the injured old woman predicted, "that as many people would one day gaze in wonder on his lifeless body as that hen had feathers on hers." Young Porteous afterwards left the army and returned to London, where he wrought for some time as a journeyman tailor; but his evil habits brought him to poverty, and he was found in rags by a friend of his father's, who wrote to the old man to remit £10 to clothe him and defray his travelling charges to Edinburgh, which, moved by the compassion of a father, he did, and when John appeared, the kind-hearted old man received him with tears of joy, and embraced him with all the warmth of paternal affection. Vainly hoping that his son was a reformed man, he gave up his business to him, and agreed that he should only have a room in the house and his maintenance and clothes. Young Porteous, thus possessed of the house and trade of his father, and of all his other goods and effects, began by degrees to neglect and maltreat the old man, first, by refusing him a fire in his room in the middle of winter, and even grudging him the benefit of the fire in the kitchen. In addition to this, he disallowed him a sufficiency of victuals, so that he was in danger of being starved to death with cold and hunger. In this unhappy condition he applied for admission into the Trinity Hospital. John Porteous having been for some time in the army, and being known to be possessed of no small courage and daring, was selected by John Campbell, lord provost of Edinburgh, in the memorable year 1715, to be drill-sergeant of the city-guard, as it became necessary to have the guard well disciplined and made as effective as possible in that eventful period, for the support of the government and the protection of Edinburgh. In this office he discharged his duty remarkably well, and was often sent for by the lord provost to report what progress his men made in military discipline. This gave him an opportunity of meeting sometimes with a gentlewoman who had the charge of the lord provost's house and family, with whom he fell deeply in love; after paying his addresses for some time, and proposing to her, he was accepted, and they were married. From a grateful sense of her services, as well as from a conviction of Porteous's ability for the office, the lord provost proposed that John Porteous should be elected one of the captains of the city-guard, and it was agreed to. This was a situation of trust and respectability, and would have enabled the young couple to live in comfort and ease if the husband had conducted himself properly. The gentlewoman was a person of virtue and merit, but was unlucky in her choice of a husband--Porteous was no better a husband than he had been a son. They were not long married when he began to ill-use her. He dragged her out of bed by the hair of the head, and beat her to the effusion of blood. The whole neighbourhood were alarmed sometimes at midnight by her shrieks and cries; so much so, indeed, that a lady living above them was obliged, between terms, to take a lodging elsewhere for her own quiet. Mrs Porteous was obliged to separate from her husband, and this was her requital for having been the occasion of his advancement. His command of the city-guard gave him great opportunities of displaying his evil temper, and manifesting his ungovernable passions. Seldom a day passed but some of his men experienced his severity. The mob on all public occasions excited his naturally bad temper; and on all days of rejoicing, when there was a multitude from the country as well as from the town, the people were sure to experience offensive and tyrannical treatment from him. The hatred and terror of him increased every year, and his character as an immoral man was known to everybody, so that he was universally hated and feared by the lower orders both in town and country. This was the position in which Captain Porteous stood with the people when he was called upon to take charge of the execution of the law in reference to Andrew Wilson, whose case it has been thought proper to detail before proceeding to narrate the extraordinary events that followed, and which, indeed, partly serves to explain the cause of these events. We have stated that Andrew Wilson, George Robertson, and William Hall, were condemned by the High Court of Justiciary to die on Wednesday the 14th of April 1736. Hall was reprieved, but Wilson and Robertson were left to suffer the extreme penalty of the law. A plan was concocted to enable them to escape out of the Tolbooth, by sawing the iron bars of the window; but Wilson, who is described as a "round, squat man," stuck fast, and before he could be disentangled the guard were alarmed. It is said that Robertson wished to attempt first the escape, and there is little doubt he would have succeeded, but he was prevented by Wilson, who obstinately resolved that he himself should hazard the experiment. This circumstance seems to have operated powerfully on the mind of the criminal, who now accused himself as the more immediate cause of his companion's fate. The Tolbooth stood near to St Giles' Church; it was customary at that time for criminals to be conducted on the last Sunday they had to live to church to hear their last sermon preached, and, in accordance with this practice, Wilson and Robertson were, upon Sunday the 11th of April, carried from prison to the place of worship. They were not well settled there, when Wilson boldly attempted to break out, by wrenching himself out of the hands of the four armed soldiers. Finding himself disappointed in this, his next care was to employ the soldiers till Robertson should escape; this he effected by securing two of them in his arms, and after calling out, "_Run, Geordie, run for your life_!" snatched hold of a third with his teeth. Thereupon Robertson, after tripping up the heels of the fourth soldier, jumped out of the pew, and ran over the tops of the seats with incredible agility, the audience opening a way for him sufficient to receive them both; in hurrying out at the south gate of the church, he stumbled over the collection money. Thence he reeled and staggered through the Parliament Close, and got down the back stairs, which have now disappeared, often stumbling by the way, and thus got into the Cowgate, some of the town-guard being close after him. He crossed the Cowgate, ran up the Horse Wynd, and proceeded along the Potterrow, the crowd all the way covering his retreat, and by this time become so numerous, that it was dangerous for the guard to look after him. In the Horse Wynd there was a horse saddled, which he would have mounted, but was prevented by the owner. Passing the Crosscauseway, he got into the King's Park, and took the Duddingstone road, but seeing two soldiers walking that way, he jumped the dyke and made for Clear Burn. On coming there, hearing a noise about the house, he stopt short, and, repassing the dyke, he retook the route for Duddingstone, under the rocks. When he crossed the dyke at Duddingstone, he fainted away; but, after receiving some refreshment, the first he had tasted for three days, he passed out of town, and, soon after getting a horse, he rode off, and was not afterwards heard of, notwithstanding a diligent search. Upon Robertson's getting out of the church door, Wilson was immediately carried out without hearing sermon, and put in close confinement to prevent his escape, which the audience seemed much inclined to favour. Notwithstanding his surprising escape, Robertson came back about a fortnight afterwards, and called at a certain house in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh. Being talked to by the landlord touching the risk he ran by his imprudence, and told that, if caught, he would suffer unpitied as a madman, he answered, that as he thought himself indispensably bound to pay the last duties to his beloved friend, Andrew Wilson, he had been hitherto detained in the country, but that he was determined to steer another course soon. He was resolved, however, not to be hanged, pointing to some weapons he had about him. It was strongly surmised that plots were laid for favouring Wilson's escape. It was well known that no blood had been shed at the robbery; that all the money and effects had been recovered, except a mere trifle; that Wilson had suffered severely in the seizure of his goods on several occasions by the revenue officers; and that, however erroneous the idea, he thought himself justified in making reprisals. Besides, Wilson's conduct had excited a very great sympathy in his favour; and the crime for which he was condemned was considered very venial at that time by the populace, who hated the malt-tax, and saw no more harm in smuggling, or in robbing a collector of excise, than in any matter of trifling importance. The magistrates of Edinburgh, in order to defeat all attempts at a rescue, lodged the executioner the day previous in the Tolbooth, to prevent his being carried off; the sentinels were doubled outside the prison; the officers of the trained bands were ordered to attend the execution, likewise the city constables with their batons; the whole city-guard, having ammunition distributed to them, were marched to the place of execution with screwed bayonets, and, to make all sure, at desire of the lord provost, a battalion of the Welch Fusiliers, commanded by commissioned officers, marched up the streets of the city, and took up a position on each side of the Lawnmarket; whilst another body of that corps was placed under arms at the Canongate guard. A little before two o'clock, Porteous came to receive Wilson, the prisoner, from the captain of the city prison. He was in a terrible rage, first against Wilson, who had affronted his soldiers, and next against the mob, who were charmed with Wilson's generous action in the church, and had favoured Robertson's escape. They are always on the side of humanity and mercy, unless they are engaged themselves. Porteous was also infuriated because the Welch Fusiliers had been brought to the Canongate, as if he and his guard had not been sufficient to keep down any riot within the city. The manacles were too little for Wilson's wrists, who was a strong, powerful man; when the hangman could not make them meet, Porteous flew furiously to them, and squeezed the poor man, who cried piteously during the operation, till he got them to meet, to the exquisite torture of the miserable prisoner, who told him he could not entertain one serious thought, so necessary to one in his condition, under such intolerable pain. "No matter," said Porteous, "your torment will soon be at an end." "Well," said Wilson, "you know not how soon you may be placed in my condition; God Almighty forgive you as I do." This cruel conduct of Porteous' still more embittered the minds of the populace, who were sufficiently exasperated against him before, and the report of it was soon spread over town and country. Porteous conducted Wilson to the gallows, where he died very penitent, but expressing more sorrow on account of the common frailties of life, than the crime for which he suffered. His body was given to his friends, who carried it over to Pathhead in Fife, where it was interred; George Robertson having, as we have seen, rashly attended the funeral before going abroad. During the melancholy procession of the criminal and his guard, accompanied by the magistrates, ministers, and others from the Old Tolbooth, which stood in the Lawnmarket, to the scaffold, which was placed in the Grassmarket, there was not the slightest appearance of a riot, nor after Wilson had been suspended, until life was extinct, did the least manifestation of disturbance occur on the part of a vast crowd of people collected from town and country to witness the execution. The magistrates of Edinburgh had retired from the scaffold to a house close by--concluding, with reason, that as all was over with poor Wilson, no disturbance could then happen, and the executioner was actually on the top of the ladder, cutting Wilson down, when a few idle men and boys began to throw pebbles, stones, or garbage at him (a common practice at that time,) thinking he was treating the affair rather ludicrously; whereupon Captain Porteous, who was in very bad humour, became highly incensed, and instantly resented, by commanding the city-guard, without the slightest authority from the magistrates, and without reading the riot act or proclamation according to law, to fire their muskets, loaded with ball, and by firing his own fuzee among the crowd, by which four persons were killed on the spot, and eleven wounded, many of them dangerously, who afterwards died. The magistrates, ministers, and constables, who had retired to the first storey of a house fronting the street, were themselves in danger of being killed, a ball, as was discovered afterwards, having grazed the side of the window where they stood. The lord provost and magistrates immediately convened, and ordered Captain Porteous to be apprehended and brought before them for examination; after taking a precognition, his lordship committed Porteous to close imprisonment for trial for the crime of murder; and, next day, fifteen sentinels of the guard were also committed to prison, it clearly appearing, after a careful examination of the firelocks of the party, that they were the persons who had discharged their pieces among the crowd. On the 25th of March 1736, Captain Porteous was put on trial, at the instance of the lord-advocate of Scotland, before the High Court of Justiciary, for the murder of Charles Husband, and twelve other persons, on the 14th of April preceding, being the day of the execution of Andrew Wilson; and after sundry steps of procedure, having been found, by the unanimous voice of the jury, guilty, he was, on the 20th of July following, sentenced to suffer death in the Grassmarket of Edinburgh, on Wednesday the 8th of September in the same year--that was, about five months after Wilson's execution. On the 26th of August, the Duke of Newcastle, one of the secretaries of state, wrote a letter to the right honourable the lord justice-general, justice-clerk, and other lords of justiciary, of which the following is a copy:--"My lords, application having been made to her Majesty[G] in the behalf of John Porteous, late captain-lieutenant of the city-guard of Edinburgh, a prisoner under sentence of death in the gaol of that city, I am commanded to signify to your lordships her Majesty's pleasure, that the execution of the sentence pronounced against the said John Porteous be respited for six weeks from the time appointed for his execution. I am, my lords, your lordships' most obedient, humble servant, (Signed) Holles, Newcastle." On receipt of this letter, the lords of justiciary granted warrant to the magistrates of Edinburgh for stopping the execution of Porteous till the 20th day of October following. The effect of this respite on the minds of the people of Scotland was to induce the belief that the government did not intend to carry out the sentence of death against Porteous at all--that it was merely a preliminary step to his pardon and liberation--and that, so far from condemning him, the government had rather taken up a prejudice against the town of Edinburgh, on account of the proceedings, and in some measure against all Scotland. A number of persons, therefore, who were never discovered, resolved to take the matter into their own hands, and on the 7th of September 1736, a body of strangers, supposed to be from the counties of Fife, Stirling, Perth, and Dumfries, many of them landed gentlemen, entered the West Port of Edinburgh between nine and ten o'clock at night, and having seized the Portsburgh drummer by the way, brought along his drum with them, and his son. Some of them advancing up into the Grassmarket, commanded the drummer's son to beat to arms. They then called out, "Here! all those who dare to avenge innocent blood!" This probably was a signal for their associates to fall in. It was followed by instantly shutting up the gates of the city, posting guards at each, and flying sentinels at all places where a surprise might be expected, while a separate detachment threw themselves upon and disarmed the city-guard; and seizing the drum, beat about the High Street to notify their success so far at least. At that instant, a body of them proceeded to the Tolbooth, called for the keeper, and finding he was gone, fell a-breaking the door with fore-hammers; but making no great progress in that way, they got together a parcel of dried broom, whins, with other combustibles, and heaps of timber, and a barrel of pitch, all previously provided for the purpose, and taking the flambeaux or torches from the city officers, they set fire to the pile. When the magistrates appeared, they repulsed them with showers of stones, and threatened, if they continued in the streets and offered resistance, they would discharge platoons of fire-arms among them; and it is even reported they placed sentinels on the magistrates to watch their motions. Upon the prison door taking fire, two gentlemen made up to the rioters, and remonstrated with them on the imminent danger of setting the whole neighbourhood on fire, insinuating that this outrage was likely to be deeply resented, and might bring them to trouble; to which it was answered that they should take care no damage should be done to the city, and that as to the rest, they knew their business, and that they (the gentlemen) might go about theirs. Before the prison door was burnt down, several persons rushed through the flames, ran up stairs, demanded the keys from the keepers; and though they could scarcely see one another for the smoke, got into Captain Porteous' apartment, calling, "Where is the murdering villain?" He is said to have answered, "Gentlemen, I am here; but what are you going to do with me?" When they answered, "We are to carry you to the place where you shed so much innocent blood, and hang you." He begged for mercy, but they instantly seized and pulled him to the door in his bed-gown and cap; and as he struggled, they caught him by the legs and dragged him to the foot of the stair, while others set all the rest of the prisoners in the Tolbooth at liberty. As soon as Porteous was brought to the street, he was set on his feet, and some seized him by the breast, while others pushed behind. He was thus conducted to the Bow-head, where they stopped a moment, at the pressing solicitation of some of the citizens, on the pretence that he might die peaceably, but really that time might be gained, as they expected the Welch Fusiliers every moment from the Canongate, or that the garrison of the Castle would come to Porteous' relief. By this time some who appeared to be the leaders in the enterprise ordered him to march, and he was hurried down the Bow and to the gallows stone, where he was to kneel,--to confess his manifold sins and wickedness, particularly the destruction of human life he had committed in that place, and to offer up his petitions to Almighty God for mercy on his soul. After which, in a very few minutes, he was led to the fatal tree. A halter being wanting, they broke open a shop in the Grassmarket, and took out a coil of ropes, for which they left a guinea on the counter,[H] and threw the one end over a dyer's cross-trees close by the place of execution. On seeing the rope, Porteous made remonstrances, and caught hold of the tree, but being disengaged they set him down, and as the noose was about to be put over his head, he appeared to gather fresh spirit, struggling and wrenching his head and body. Here again some citizens appeared for him, telling that the troops being now in full march, they must all expect to be sacrificed, and that the artillery of the Castle would doubtless be discharged among them. They answered, "No man will die till his time come." About a quarter of an hour before twelve they put the rope about his neck, and ordered him to be pulled up; which being done, observing his hands loose, he was let down again; after tying his hands he was hauled up a second time, but after a short space, having wrought one of his arms loose, he was let down once more, in order to tie it up and cover his face. Stripping him of one of the shirts he had on, they wrapped it about his head, and got him up a third time with loud huzzas and a ruff of the drum. After he had hung a long time, they nailed the rope to the tree; then formally saluting one another, grounding their arms, and another ruff of the drum, they separated, retired out of town, and numbers of them were seen riding off in bodies well mounted to different quarters, leaving the body hanging till near five next morning. Neither the two gentlemen who conversed with the rioters at the Tolbooth, nor those who were sent out by the magistrates to see if they knew any of them, could say they had ever seen any one of them before, though the flames of the fire at the Tolbooth door rendered it as light as noonday; so that it was generally believed no citizen acted any principal part in the tragedy; though, indeed, it is certain that many of the burgesses and inhabitants of Edinburgh, led by curiosity, went to the streets to behold the surprising boldness and incredible extravagance of the scene. Upon the whole, it would seem that the rioters were a body of gentlemen and others in disguise, some having masons' aprons, others joiners', fleshers', shoemakers', dyers', and those of other trades, who had concerted their plot with judgment, conducted it with secresy, executed it with resolution and manly daring, and completed the whole in the short space of two hours with unparalleled success. FOOTNOTES: [C] The inn or house here referred to is now demolished. It was a back house which stood behind Mr Thomas Foggo's shop, through which there was a passage or entry to it; and from its concealed and backlying situation, it would seem to have been a very likely place for smugglers to resort to with their contraband goods. And here it may be remarked, that less than 100 years ago, smuggling was very prevalent in the east of Fife; almost every merchant and trader in the east coast burghs, and farmers from St Andrews all along the southeast coast, were less or more concerned in the importation of brandy, gin, teas, silks, and tobacco, &c. The penalties at one time were only the forfeiture of the goods seized, and if one vessel's cargo escaped out of two or three, it was a profitable trade. The measures of Government were then thought to be so stringent and despotic, that men of principle, of probity, and integrity in all other respects, manifested great obliquity of vision in viewing the traffic in smuggled goods, and felt no compunctious visitings in embarking in that trade. In the better class of houses in the district, hiding holes and places of concealment were always to be found, and some of these places are only now being discovered. It is not many years since, that an honest man in Pittenweem, while employed in his cellar, fell down into a large concealment capable of holding a great many ankers of spirits and boxes of tea, of which he previously knew nothing. [D] The window referred to is still pointed out. It is that at the back of the house on the second storey, and is near the north-east corner of the tenement. [E] Anstruther House, which stood a little west, on the opposite side of the road, to Mr Russell's printing office, was demolished in 1811. According to Miss Strickland, Queen Mary passed a night in it; and it is a well established fact that King Charles II. lodged a night there in 1651. [F] Bailie Johnston's house was that now occupied by Mr William Russell, with the brewery behind the same. It was formerly a house of one storey, and was rebuilt and heightened on the walls by the late Mr James Rodger, or Mr David Rodger his son. [G] This was Queen Caroline, who was regent of the kingdom during the absence of her husband, George the First, at Hanover. [H] The person who did this was a man of the name of Bruce, belonging to Anstruther, who returned some time after to the town, and was well known to the late Mrs Black, the mother of the late Admiral Black. THE STORY OF CHARLES GORDON AND CHRISTINA CUNNINGHAM. On the 21st of March, 1743, Captain Richard Dundas, commander of the frigate _Arethusa_, carrying forty-four guns and 250 men, sailed from Deptford with that vessel in perfect order and condition, and bound for Leith. The ship was one of the finest in the service, and the commander a man of great energy and intelligence. Mr Charles Gordon, superintendent of his Majesty's dockyard at Deptford, a young officer of distinguished ability and exemplary character, was one of the passengers. No incident worthy of notice occurred until they reached St Abb's Head, when they were overtaken with a strong adverse gale of wind and heavy snow storm, which unfortunately drove them from their course, and prevented sight of land for a considerable time. The wind continued to increase in violence, but the snow ceased falling for a little, when it was discovered that they had been driven past the mouth of the Firth of Forth and were now in St Andrews Bay. They then close-reefed their sails, and made all snug; and Captain Dundas, declaring that they should have to encounter a strong south-easter, all their efforts were directed to double the headland of Fifeness and the dreaded Carr Rock, and get into the Forth; but their utmost endeavours were unavailing, so that the best part of a day was spent in tacking and veering to, close in with the land, to no purpose. The sun set angrily, and the wind veering more adversely, to their utter dismay, brought them on a lee shore. The storm increased with the night. The snow began again to fall, and neither the stars nor the lights of Tay or of the Firth could be seen. The sea was lashed into tremendous fury. There was a fearful sullen sound of rushing waves and broken surges--"Deep called unto deep." At times the black volume of clouds overhead seemed rent asunder by flashes of lightning that quivered along the foaming billows, and made the succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The thunders bellowed over the wild waste of waters, and were echoed and prolonged by the mountain-like waves. As the ship was seen staggering and plunging among these roaring caverns, it seemed miraculous that she regained her balance, or preserved her buoyancy. Her yards dipped into the water--her bow was buried almost beneath the waves. Sometimes an impending surge appeared ready to overwhelm her, and nothing but a dexterous movement of the helm preserved her from the shock. "The impervious horrors of a leeward shore" they were doomed to experience during a moonless and starless night. They reduced their sails to a few yards of canvass, and lowered their yards on deck. The waves, that rolled the vessel with irresistible force, threatened to swallow them up; a tremendous sea carried away the boat which was hoisted up at the stern, and broke in all the bulkheads of the quarters. For safety of lives and property, all hands, after being revived with a glass of rum, began to throw overboard the guns. The long-boat was then released from her lashings; and, as they wished, the waves soon swept her from the deck. The two large anchors were cut from the bows, and the vessel, thus eased of a heavy top-load, danced more lightly over the tremendous billows, and inspired them with fresh hopes. The crew were all ordered to the after part of the deck, and again refreshed with another glass of rum and water. A little before daylight, the captain, who had been anxiously looking out, acquainted the officers, so as not to be heard by the crew, that he saw breakers nearly ahead, and had no thought of being able to weather them. Mr Gordon coincided in this opinion, to which some one said, "Well, we are all born to die; I shall go with regret, but certainly not with fear." The breakers were soon visible to all the crew, being not more than a quarter of a mile distant on the lee bow, when Captain Dundas remarked, "Our only chance is to put away a point before the wind, or we are sure to go broadside into the surf and perish at once." A heavy sea now struck the vessel, swept the deck fore and aft, and carried overboard five of the crew, who instantly sank to rise no more. The captain seeing a mighty billow approaching, and viewing nothing but death before them, exclaimed, "Lord have mercy upon us," and at that moment the vessel rose upon a mountain wave to a tremendous height, from whose summit she descended with the velocity of lightning, as if she were going to bury herself in the remorseless deep. By this rapid movement she was precipitated beyond the reach of the breakers, which now rolled behind her stern, and burst in impotence, as if incensed at the loss of their destined prey. "We are safe!" exclaimed Captain Dundas; "jump, men, from the yards, and make sail." This they did with tumultuous joy, which Mr Gordon checked, and said to them, "Whilst you are working silently, thank God for your miraculous preservation." The sea upon which the vessel rose was the means of her preservation and that of her crew. Probably there was not, if the sea had been calm, a depth of two feet water on the Carr Rock, for it was that dangerous reef she had passed; but the mighty wave carried her safe over at a moment when every hope but that of immortality was gone from the minds of the ship's company.[I] The tempest having somewhat abated, and the wind veered round to a more favourable quarter, the vessel rode more smoothly, and the hour of eight being arrived, all hands were enabled to sit up and take coffee for breakfast. For about three hours the ship had been working up the Firth, and had come off Anstruther, into which port she entered shortly afterwards, in order to undergo a survey, and get all necessary repairs completed in hull and rigging; and as the vessel had been seen from the _Windmill Tower_ and the _Brae_ all the morning to be in great distress, the eastern pier (for the west pier had not then been built) was crowded with spectators to witness her arrival. Amongst others who had gone down the pier was Captain John Cunningham, the provost or chief magistrate of the burgh, who, being a sea captain himself, deeply sympathised both as a sailor and a man with the officers and crew of the _Arethusa_, on seeing them in such a miserable plight, and proffered to afford them all the aid and assistance in his power. He got into conversation with Mr Gordon, and found him so intelligent and gentlemanly in his manners, that he invited him to his house (which stood in the Shore Street, and on the east side of the Pend Wynd, and was that which formerly belonged to the late Mr Willis, collector of customs, and is presently possessed by Mrs Rodger, Mr Imrie, and others), until the vessel was repaired and made ready for sea. Mr Gordon thanked him for his kindness, and cordially accepted his hospitable invitation. Anstruther is a small country town, pleasantly situated on the banks of the Forth. It is a favourable specimen of a good old Scottish town. There is an old town-hall, and an old burgh school, (lately rebuilt,) an old jail, and an old bridge, besides an old church, now completely renewed and repaired, and forming, with the steeple, a handsome edifice, situated on the ridge or high ground above the town. The manse, a fine old building, placed on the summit of the same ridge near the church, was built by James Melville, minister of the place in the reign of James VI. It afterwards became the property of the Anstruther family, who, it is supposed, presented it to the town, or exchanged it for a house in the _Pend Wynd_, now belonging to Mr John Darsie, which was occupied for some time as the manse. At the time of which we write, there was a fine old baronial mansion, called "Anstruther Place," which stood near the present junction of the Crail and St Andrews roads. It belonged to the above-mentioned ancient family, the Anstruthers of Anstruther, whose progenitor was a Norman warrior that came to Britain with William the Conqueror. It was a mansion as large as Balcaskie, surmounted by a tower, and surrounded by fine old ancestral trees. A magnificent hall graced its interior, large enough to contain a company of volunteers, or local militiamen at drill, within its four corners. In addition to these old buildings, which gave a peculiar character to the place, there were a good many handsome new houses in the town of Anstruther, for it was far from being in a state of decay. Many wealthy and intelligent families chose it for their residence. It was the seat of a custom-house and excise-office. There was a branch of the Paisley Bank established in the town, under the management of a Mr Henry Russell, of the customs, and the bank office was kept in that shop now belonging to Mr James Reddie, ironmonger.[J] There was also a Greenland Whale Fishing Company connected with the town, of which a Bailie Johnston was manager. The company's place of business was situated in the East Green, and is now the property of Mr Robert Todd, and it is still known to old people by the name of the Greenland Close. There is, or was lately, an old stone placed over the door at the southern entrance into the yard, indicating the nature of the manufacture formerly carried on therein.[K] And before the Reform Bill was passed, Anstruther-Easter joined with the other four burghs of the district in sending a member to Parliament. Many thriving and respectable trades-people, whose forefathers had resided there for generations, and who looked upon the old buildings of their native town with something of the same sort of feeling as the landowner surveys the oaks which encircle his paternal hall, regarded it with pride and veneration. Perhaps no town of its size in Scotland could be named where so much good feeling prevailed among all classes. An eminent physician, who came to settle in the place, expressed his astonishment at the amount of private charity distributed. If a poor man met with any accident, every kind assistance was given him by his wealthier neighbours. If a small tradesman suffered a loss, or a carter his horse, or a widow's cow died, a subscription was set on foot, and the accident often turned out a gain, rather than a loss. The old Castle of Dreel, another ancient seat of the Anstruther family, stood on the east side of the Dreel Burn, at its entrance into the sea. Several curious traditions are in circulation respecting this old baronial residence and its proprietors. The castle has entirely disappeared, and its site is now partly occupied by fish-curing premises, and partly by a large antiquated tenement called Wightman's house. Some eminent men have been born in Anstruther, among whom may be mentioned Drs Chalmers and Tennant, and Professor Goodsir. Such is a brief description of Anstruther at the time of which we write. It is unnecessary to give a particular account of it at the present day, because its trade and commerce, its fishing, farming, and shipping interests--its new buildings and projected undertakings--its Sunday schools and provident societies, and savings' banks and subscription libraries, are familiar to the most of my readers. Captain Cunningham, the chief magistrate of Anstruther, was a wealthy and respectable shipowner, and his family consisted of a son about twenty, and a daughter about seventeen years of age, besides some younger children. Mr Gordon, their guest, then in his twenty-fifth year, was a light-hearted and rising young officer. He was, at first, a little impatient of the delay occasioned by the repairs of the vessel, the superintendence of which fell to be his duty; but circumstances soon occurred which checked this impatience, and more than reconciled him to his present quarters. As Christina Cunningham is destined to occupy no unimportant position in this narrative, some description of her will therefore be necessary. Let us endeavour to draw her portrait. She was not only beautiful, but full of life and animation, her smiling face being the true index of a cheerful, happy disposition. Gentle, amiable, affectionate, good-natured, she was beloved by all who knew her; although, from a maidenly modesty and a natural reserve, she was really known by few. With the figure of a sylph, and the face of a Hebe, she had luxuriant hair of the darkest possible chestnut, wreathed generally in thick cable plaits round her beautifully-shaped head, which, owing to the fashion of that day, as well as of the present, of wearing the bonnets on the shoulders, enabled her well-formed head to be seen to the greatest advantage. In the delicate outline of her faultless features, there was a harmony that made of her whole face a concerted loveliness of form, colour, and expression, that was irresistible. Hackneyed as the simile is, her skin was literally like snow, upon which blush rose-leaves seemed to have fallen. Her long-cut oriental-looking eyes, were "deeply, darkly, beautifully blue," while their heavy, snowy lids were fringed with long black silken lashes, that seemed to be continually trying to salute her cheeks, for which no one could possibly blame them. Her nose was, to say the least, irreproachable. Then came the rich red pouting under, and the short chisselled upper lip; the beautiful pearly arched teeth within them; the little round velvety chin, and the perfectly oval peach-like cheeks. In short, so pretty a creature was seldom to be seen. But Miss Cunningham was something _more_ than beautiful, she was amiable, and gentle, and affectionate; and besides, she was a Christian in the full and true sense of the word; and, young as she was, she had learned to look upon herself as a sinner, however innocent and pure she might appear in the eyes of men. While enjoying the blessings of health, peace, and competence, that providence had poured upon her, she looked upon them all as undeserved mercies, marks and tokens of her heavenly Father's love--a love manifested in man's redemption, in a way surpassing all understanding. Where on earth can there be found a more lovely character than that in which are blended true religion and natural amiability, rectitude of conduct, and tenderness of disposition? Residing under the same roof with Miss Cunningham, who can wonder that, before many weeks had elapsed, Mr Gordon was as devoted to Captain Cunningham's daughter as any young and ardent lover could be. Miss Cunningham was not conscious of any deeper feeling than that of affectionate friendship, nor was it till some time after that her heart told her, that Charles Gordon occupied a place in her affections, which could be held by one, and by one only. Several weeks had passed away, the repairs of the _Arethusa_ had been nearly completed, and the time was fast approaching when Charles Gordon would be obliged to depart from Anstruther. It happened, however, that a day or two previously to his leaving, a party of pleasure was planned for visiting Kellie Law, near Carnbee, and Macduff's Cave, near Earlsferry. The party consisted of Mr John Cunningham, junior, and his sister, and Mr Gordon and Miss Anderson, the daughter of an opulent merchant in the town. A vehicle having been hired for the occasion, a drive of about an hour brought the excursionists to Kellie Law. Having put up the horse and equipage at Gillingshill, and partaken of the hospitality of the occupants, they ascended this beautiful conical eminence, which is 800 feet above the level of the sea, and about four miles distant from it, and rises from the ridge running eastward from Largo Law. From the summit of Kellie Law, on which there is a large cairn of stones, one of the most magnificent views in Scotland is obtained. Immediately below, to the south, is a rich and beautiful stretch of country, all enclosed and highly cultivated; an extensive range of sea-coast, studded with numerous little towns and villages; the ample bosom of the Firth of Forth, enlivened with shipping and fishing-boats; and in the extreme distance, the coast of the Lothians, from St Abb's Head to Edinburgh. Near the south base of this hill stands Kellie Castle, a fine baronial seat of the Earls of Kellie, surrounded by old trees, and containing some princely apartments. Sir Thomas Erskine of Gogar was one of those who rescued James VI. from the attempt of the Earl of Gowrie to assassinate him at Perth in 1600, and killed the earl's brother with his own hand. He was created Viscount Fenton in 1606, and Earl of Kellie in 1619. The earldom merged into that of Marr on the death of Methven, tenth Earl of Kellie, who was great-grand-uncle to Sir Thomas Erskine of Cambo, the present baronet. It is said these earldoms may, and probably will, be again disjoined, and the titles and honours of Marr and Kellie inherited by two distinct noblemen. After enjoying the splendid prospect from Kellie Law, the party set off for Elie, on their way to view the caves in Kincraig Hill. The drive between Gillingshill and Elie is delightful. The turnpike road passes in some places through a long line of tall trees, arching high overhead, and showing, at the termination, picturesque vistas. It skirts Kilconquhar Loch, and affords not very distant views of Charlton and Balcarres, Colinsburgh and Cairnie House; and passing through Kilconquhar, the beautiful church of the parish and manse (which do credit to the heritors) are close by. The noble mansions of Elie and Kilconquhar, in the immediate neighbourhood, are also seen, surrounded with fine old trees, and standing in a rich and fertile district. On arriving at Elie, the party gave the horse and vehicle in charge of the hostler, and set out on foot for Kincraig. Immediately from the beach, at the south-west end of the parish, Kincraig Hill rises to the height of about two hundred feet above the level of the sea. Its southern front presents a nearly perpendicular rugged wall of trap rock, of the most picturesque appearance, and in these rocks are several caves, called Macduff's Cave, the Hall Cave, and the Devil's Cave. There is a tradition that Macduff, the Maormar or Earl of Fife, in his flight from the vengeance of Macbeth, was concealed in the cave which still bears his name, and was afterwards ferried across the Firth to Dunbar by the fishermen of the place, from which circumstance it was called "Earlsferry;" and, besides being constituted a royal burgh by Malcolm III, about 1057, it obtained the privilege, that the persons of all, in flight, who should cross the Firth from thence, should be for a time inviolable--no boat being allowed to leave the shore in pursuit, till those who were pursued were half-seas over. The party now resolved that they should partake of luncheon on the greensward, to fortify themselves for their proposed expedition among the cliffs. While the viands were being produced, Mr Gordon set forth of himself in quest of a very rare plant, which he was informed grew in this locality. On observing a group of persons gazing anxiously upwards at the overhanging cliffs, he joined them, inquiring on what their attention was so earnestly fixed. The persons addressed spoke not, but pointed to a spot about half-way up the face of the rock. Mr Gordon looked in the direction indicated, when, to his horror, he beheld a boy, apparently of about fifteen years of age, climbing along a stony ledge, which was so narrow as to be hardly visible from the spot where the group of terrified beholders was stationed. Scarcely had there been time for Mr Gordon to fix his eye on the human form that had reached so perilous a position, when a portion of the ledge of rock on which the unhappy boy was standing gave way--a loud scream rent the air, echoing through the cliffs--and in another instant all that remained of him was a lifeless, mangled corpse. The poor fellow's story is soon told. He was an idiot, and having wandered from his mother's side, had reached the fatal spot, no one knew how, and thus met a fearful death. His poor mother witnessed the dreadful catastrophe, and agonizing was her grief as she followed the body of her child, which was borne on the shoulders of the awe-struck villagers to her home. Mr Gordon also followed the body to the house, and, feeling that at such a time any attempt at comforting the childless widow would be of no avail, he merely placed a sum of money in the hands of a respectable-looking person, a bystander, for her use, and slowly and sick at heart he was in the act of returning to his friends, when he met Christina Cunningham, who was in search of him, for the purpose of bringing him back to luncheon. She saw that he was deadly pale, and hurriedly asked if he felt ill. He told her all that had happened. "Oh!" she exclaimed, "if it had been _you_!" "Well, Miss Cunningham," he replied, carelessly, "and if it had, few would have missed me. I should probably have had fewer mourners than that poor idiot boy." "Oh, how can you say so?" she returned, and bending down her head, became visibly agitated. And yet poor Christina knew not, even now, that she loved Charles Gordon: she understood not the true cause of the beatings of her disturbed heart. He looked at her. As he looked, a momentary smile passed over his features, which was soon exchanged for an expression of deep sorrow, as he thought of the lonely widow, bending over the lifeless form of her lost son. The sad story was related to the rest of the party, and all cheerfulness for the time was at an end. This was destined to be an eventful day. Another calamity--and one that, although it was not attended with fatal results, affected Charles more than that which had occurred--was yet to take place. We have said that there were some remarkable caves at this place, which had long been objects of interest to the traveller and excursionist. One there is in particular, called the Devil's Cave, which penetrates far into the heart of the rock, on the face of which lies its entrance. From the steepness of the path which leads into this cavern, it is rarely visited by tourists. The party, however, with perhaps more curiosity than prudence, determined to explore and visit this cave. A female guide was procured, and a candle supplied to each person. All being ready, in single file they entered the mouth of the cavern, carefully groping their way, not without difficulty. Miss Anderson soon lost courage, and turned back, stating that she and Mr Cunningham would return to the inn at Elie, and prepare tea; the other two resolved to proceed along with the guide. The aperture through which they had to pass became at length so low, and so narrow, that a consultation was held, and it was agreed that it would be prudent to return. Charles now led the way as they retraced their steps. He had not proceeded far when he heard a heavy fall, and turning quickly round, beheld, to his horror, Christina stretched upon the humid soil of the cavern; her eyes were closed, and her candle had fallen from her hand. Whether bad air had struck her down or not, he could not tell. For an instant he believed her to be dead, but, bending over her, he perceived that she breathed. What was now to be done? Only one plan lay before him which he could adopt. Giving his candle to the guide, and directing her to keep in front of him, holding the light so as he could see, he raised Miss Cunningham in his arms, and with all the strength he was master of, bore her along in the direction of the entrance. The roof of the cave was so low, that it was impossible to maintain an upright position, and his strength so entirely failed him that he was obliged to stop and take a rest before he could proceed with his precious burden. On reaching the mouth or entrance of the now detested cave, signs of returning consciousness began to appear in the poor sufferer. On breathing the fresh air of heaven, she opened her eyes for a moment, then closed them again, drawing several long and apparently painful respirations. Charles placed her on a grassy bank, and seating himself beside her, supported her by placing his arm round her waist. The guide was despatched for water. By and by, Christina, looking round, said with her own sweet smile, "I am better now." Charles pressed the form of her whom he already loved so well, to himself, and then assisting her to rise, with slow and measured steps they returned to Elie. "You are very tired, I fear, and I am the cause," said Christina, as she leaned on Charles's arm, turning her face to his. For a moment their eyes met, those of Christina fell, while a shade of colour tinged her still pallid face. She had met a look in Charles's face that she had never seen there before. She again relapsed into silence. Charles, in reply to her remark, uttered something that was inaudible; the name of "Christina," however, was substituted for that of "Miss Cunningham." Any endeavour to conceal what had occurred would have been useless. The pale face of the sufferer plainly told that she had been ill, and general was the consternation of all on hearing what had happened. Charles resigned her to the care of Miss Anderson and the hostess, and, passing to the little parlour of the village inn, flung himself on the sofa in a state of complete exhaustion. Long he remained buried in thought. At length his good nature and compassion prompted him to visit once more the poor, childless widow, while preparations were being made for their return to Anstruther. She was alone with the body of her idiot son. Carefully had she cleansed away the blood and dust from his face, which now appeared to exhibit more intelligence in death than it had done in life. As Charles entered, the poor Irish widow exclaimed,--"May the blessing of the Great God, who is above us this day, be about ye, and wid ye for ever and ever, my jewel young gentleman!" She held in her hand the money that he had left for her, and added, "Sure isn't there enough here for the poor lone widow, to buy her darlint son a dacent coffin for to lay him in the could earth, in the land of the stranger, before she goes far, far away, to a land beyant the rowling say (referring to America). You've given me money when I wanted it sore, an' the blessin' of the lone widow woman will be wid you wherever ye go; but none can give me back my boy! Oh, Patrick, jewel! why did ye die? Och, my poor boy! my poor boy! my poor boy!" The tears came into Charles's eyes as he listened to this pathetic lamentation, but longer he could not remain. He succeeded, however, in learning that she had resolved to accede to a proposal of her sister's, to join her in America, which his gift had provided her with the means of accomplishing. The drive to Anstruther was speedily made out, and in few days Miss Cunningham was quite restored to her usual state of health and enjoyment. Time rolled on. The _Arethusa_ has sailed. Mr Gordon has returned to Deptford, and resumed his ordinary duties. Has all intercourse ceased between him and Miss Cunningham? Assuredly not. Many a kind letter has passed between them. She has been to England visiting his sister, at that sister's kind invitation, and is come back to Anstruther. Charles has proposed to her, and been accepted, and has obtained a special licence for their marriage. He comes back to Anstruther to claim his bride. If you, my reader, were at this moment greedily perusing a modern novel, you would here be gratified by a very romantic and touching account, three or four pages long at least, of the meeting of the two ardent lovers after a long separation; smiles and tears, sighs and sobs, broken accents, protestations of eternal love and fidelity, and all that sort of thing. Here you will find nothing of the kind. I very much doubt myself as to whether anything of the kind took place in this instance at all; I rather imagine the meeting was a calm and quietly happy one, without anything strikingly romantic or stage-like about it. But even suppose there had been, and that I had been present to see, (which, by the by, would have been an awkward enough situation for me, or any other third party, to have found himself in) ought we to have disclosed it? Certainly not; such a scene, every one knows, ought to be strictly private and confidential Suffice it then to say, that doubtless both, parties found themselves extremely comfortable and happy. Let me now convey you, in thought, backwards one hundred and fourteen years, and place you in the street of Pittenweem, opposite the Scottish Episcopal Chapel. We see a crowd; let us inquire what is the occasion of it. "What is this crowd collecting for, so early this morning?" "There's going to be a wedding, ma'am." "Do you know whose wedding it is?" "No ma'am, I don't; I'm only here to keep order--nothing else to do with it." It is some time since we have seen a wedding, suppose we go into church. Here we are. We shall have a nice view of them from that front pew in the gallery. How tastefully the chapel is decorated with foliage and flowers! Make haste! I hear the carriages coming, that will do. Wait! here they come, only fancy, it's Christina Cunningham, and--Who? Charles Gordon, I declare. How nicely he looks in his naval uniform. Then the reports were all true. Poor Christina! she's very much agitated. I suppose being married must be rather nervous work. The clergyman who is marrying them is a relation of the bridegroom's--he's rector of a large parish near Deptford--how beautifully he reads. And there is our dear old clergyman, Mr Spence, assisting him, how happy he looks. They say he has known the bride since she was an infant, and the bridegroom for some time. There!--she's no longer Christina Cunningham! I wonder where they are going to after breakfast? Blessings on them both! FOOTNOTES: [I] On account of the many accidents which happen almost yearly at the Carr Rock, some plan for marking its dangerous locality has long been an object of deep solicitude. The writer recollects of a round tower of some height having been built on the rock, on the same principle as that on the Bell Rock, but it was soon overthrown by the first winter's storm, because there was not a sufficient surface of rock at the base to admit of a strong enough building being placed upon it. But might not an erection be made of strong bars of iron, and a large bell placed on its summit, with an iron cylinder in the centre, perforated with holes to admit the sea water? Within the cylinder let a powerful floater be placed, which by the perpetual action of the tides' ebb and flow, would cause the bell to ring, and so give timeous warning of danger near. Or, another method might be adopted, viz., Let a steady officer be stationed at Fifeness, whose duty it should be to fire a gun, say a six or eight-pounder, at short intervals in snow storms, or in thick and foggy weather, when neither the land during the day, nor the stars or lights at night, can be seen. In either way the expense would be trifling, and the benefit might be great. Captains of steamers and of other vessels enveloped in the fog would then, on hearing the sound of the bell or gun, know where they were, and would take their bearings from Fifeness accordingly. [J] The principles of banking seem to have been imperfectly understood in our fathers' days, for it appears that, at the Anstruther branch, there was a certain fixed sum _per month_ allotted for bills to be discounted. When that sum was exhausted, it mattered not what further sum was wanted, there were no more discounts allowed that month. It followed, that the most _needy_ were always, at the beginning of the month, the _earliest_ customers, and, consequently, post-due bills became the rule, retired bills the exception. Under these circumstances, it is not difficult to foresee what would be the result. The bank was closed at no distant period, and the agent, it is said, lost L1500 of his own money. No other banking company attempted to establish a bank in Anstruther till May 1832, when the National Bank of Scotland opened a branch under the management of Mr F. Conolly, town-clerk, which he conducted successfully for twenty-five years. A handsome new building has lately been erected for the use of this bank. Two other branch banks have been opened in the town. [K] There were two vessels belonging to the company, one named the _Hawk_, and the other the _Rising Sun_. The _Hawk_ was lost on her first voyage, and Bailie Meldrum--some time chief magistrate of Anstruther-Wester--one of the crew, lost the toes of both his feet by frost-bite. The undertaking did not prove a successful one; the company was dissolved; and the premises, which were sold to the late John Miller, senior, shipowner in Anstruther, afterwards became, as I said, the property of Mr Todd. A LEGEND OF CALDER MOOR. It was a beautiful evening in the month of September--the air still and serene, forming a delightful change from the sultry heat of the day, which had been oppressive in the extreme. Nature seemed to have redoubled her energies; the swallows twittered cheerfully over the small pond; the bees returned laden with the rich fruits of their industry, humming their satisfaction; the heath sent its fragrance around; and the few sheep that Simon Wallace attended were nibbling earnestly the stunted grass, having spent the greater part of the day in the shade of a small knoll, listless from the heat which oppressed them. In the midst stood Simon, enjoying the scene around him, which, barren and desolate as it might be in the eyes of a stranger, was to him the loveliest spot in the universe; nor would he have bade it farewell to dwell in the most fertile vale in the Lothians. Here he had been born sixty summers before, and here he had enjoyed as much of happiness as falls to the lot of man. Humble and content, his wishes were bounded by the few acres of moss land that his fathers had reclaimed from the waste, and his knowledge of the busy world that lay beyond the hills that bounded the horizon around his humble cottage, was derived from a few books. Farther than the next market-town, Mid-Calder, he had never been, save upon one occasion--an important epoch in his life--when, upon some business of importance, concerning his lease, he had visited the capital, the wonders of which had been a never-failing subject of discourse at his humble hearth; yet, Simon was not ignorant, for he made good profit of the few books he could procure; and there was one--the fountain of all knowledge--he knew so well, that even Esdras, the holy scribe, could scarcely have found him at fault, in pointing out all the most beautiful of the inspired passages. His constant companion, he had been reading it on the hill for the last hour, and now, before retiring to his home for the night, he stood there in mental prayer, his face turned to the setting sun, which sunk beyond a sea of clouds, tinged with the most gorgeous colours, and his mind away among the bright realms of eternal felicity. A faint breeze had arisen, and the heavy clouds began to sail along, denoting rain, when he gave his orders to his faithful dog, to gather his sheep for the night, and urged him to be active, to enable him to proceed home before the shower came on. Looking along in the direction of the road that led through the moor, he thought he could perceive, at a considerable distance, three objects, urging their way forward; and, through the gloom, he with difficulty made them out to be a man and two females upon horseback. A feeling of surprise crossed his mind, as he saw travellers journeying over the moor, at a period when it was not usual, except upon urgent business, to leave Mid-Calder at a late hour, and proceed along roads almost impassable, with no other prospect than a night journey, in dangerous and troubled times. Musing on the circumstance, he had just reached the road on his way to his cottage, when the travellers came up and accosted him with an inquiry if they could find shelter for the night, as they had been overtaken by the storm, and one of the females had been taken suddenly ill since they had left the last town. With an apology for the poorness of his accommodation, Simon made them welcome to his home, and led the way homewards. Neither of the females spoke; but he thought he heard one of them utter, at intervals, a stifled groan, while the other supported her on her saddle, and the male led her horse over the rough path to prevent its stumbling. A few minutes brought them to the house, and they were soon seated by the blazing hearth, while Helen Wallace was busy preparing for them some humble refreshments; but the lady continued to become worse--she had been taken in labour, prematurely, as the female said, from the fatigue of travelling. She appeared to be of a rank far above her companions, who treated her with lowly attentions; but there was something harsh and forbidding in the manner and appearance of the man, which made Helen quail, and feel uneasy in his presence; and the female, who was above the middle age, and of a masculine appearance, had a harshness of voice and manner, that was disagreeable, even to the rustic wife of the moorland farmer. The young and beautiful female they attended--apparently not above eighteen, pale and dejected, her eyes red and swollen with weeping--had not, as yet, uttered a single word; but, apparently fearful of her attendants, especially the female, who sat close by her at the fire, had cast several stolen and imploring glances at Helen, and seemed anxious to speak, but afraid to give utterance to her thoughts. The lady rapidly grew worse, and was put into their only spare bed, while Helen requested her husband to take one of the horses and ride to the town for assistance. This the man promptly forbade--saying, that the other attendant, a skilful woman, was capable of doing all that was required at such a time, with the assistance of the farmer's wife; that they were on their way to the residence of his master when the present unfortunate illness had occurred much sooner than was expected; that he had in the _valise_ with him everything requisite; and that for any trouble the farmer or his wife might be put to, they should be amply rewarded. The cottage consisted of only one apartment, divided by a hallen or thin partition, which did not extend beyond the centre of the floor, to protect the fire-place from the blasts of winter; and Simon and the stranger retired to a small distance from the door, where they stood and saw the full moon rising in grandeur in the east. In vain the farmer endeavoured to gain any information from his companion of who the strangers were, and whither they were going. He got only an evasive answer. His position was extraordinary and uncomfortable. Three hours had passed: no person appeared from the house; his unsocial acquaintance scarcely spoke; a scowl in his eye, and a shade of ferocity in his countenance, alarmed him; his whole soul, sometimes intent upon some signal from the cottage, at other periods became absent; and he clutched at the sword that hung by his side, as if he meant to draw it and attack the farmer, endeavouring again, in a husky voice, to make an apology for the inconvenience they had put him to. At length Helen came to the door, and requested them to come into the house, for the lady was now better. "What has she got?" inquired Simon. "Two beautiful boys as ever I saw," answered the wife; "--but one of them is dead, and the mother is very weak." While this and some other conversation passed between the farmer and his wife, the man and the woman were busy whispering at the other end of the house; but they at length approached the hearth and partook of some refreshment which had been prepared for them. The farmer offered the female, for the remainder of the night, the use of their only other bed; but both the man and the woman objected to this proposition--saying, that they preferred to sit by the hearth and attend to their mistress, and requesting that their hosts should retire to it themselves. This they did, and soon both fell into a sound sleep. Helen awoke about two hours afterwards, and, to her astonishment, found that neither of the two attendants was in the cottage. She arose and went to the bed of the sick lady, who lay apparently in a deep and troubled sleep, with the babe in her bosom. She looked for the body of its brother; but it was gone. She felt alarmed, and gently awaking Simon, in a whisper told him to arise. He was soon dressed, and, on going out, found that the strangers were gone, the horses were away, and with them everything that had been brought, even to the dress the lady had worn upon her arrival. In great anxiety they approached the bed: the lady still appeared in a deep sleep; her breathing was heavy and laborious, every attempt to awaken her was in vain; her eyes were opened and closed unconsciously, and without a word of utterance. "Surely," said Helen, with clasped hands, "that woman hasna poisoned the puir young creature wi' that mixture she requested me to gie her just before I ca'ed you into the house. She said it was to compose her to sleep. She had offered it to the lady hersel, who, being afraid o' her, wadna taste it. Then she gave me the cup, and I offered it. O Simon! what a piteous look she threw upon me, as she said, 'From you I will take anything; you, I know, will not do me harm'--and she drank it from my hands. Surely, surely, I am not guilty of her blood, if death was in that cup!" Here the poor woman sank upon the side of the bed in a passion of tears, while Simon stood the image of horror, gazing alternately upon his wife and the unconscious lady in the bed. Sinking upon his knees, he prayed for counsel in this hour of distress, and his mind became more calm and collected. "Helen," said he, "you will not be afraid to stay by the poor young creature, while I go and catch Mally, and ride as fast as she can carry me to the manse, and bring the minister, who is a skilful man, and who, perhaps, may be able to do something for the sufferer; at least, he will advise us what is best for us to do in this hour of need." "I will, indeed, be eerie," answered Helen--"very eerie; but do mak all the haste ye can, and I will tent baith mother and bairn until ye return." In a very short time, the farmer was on his way to the manse, and soon, along with the minister, on his return to his cottage; but, before they arrived, the victim had breathed her last sigh. Helen was at the door, weeping and wringing her hands. She blamed herself as being the cause of the young mother's death; nor was it until after the minister had prayed, and assured her that no guilt could attach to her, that she became composed. On his way to the cottage, the farmer had informed him of every circumstance, as far as it had happened under his own eye:--That the young lady had been very ill; that the female appeared expert at her duty, and kept Helen as much at a distance from her patient as she could; that the young creature wished her much to be near her, as if she had something to communicate; but the attendant always told her, in a harsh manner, that it was improper for her to speak, and found always some excuse to send her from the bedside; that the lady appeared to be in great awe of her; and that the first boy, the one that was alive, Helen kept at the hearth until the other came; that she heard it cry once, and inquired what it was, when the assistant said it was also a boy, but dead, and she threw it from her upon the bed; that, after a time, she took a vial from her pocket, and poured it into a cup, requesting the lady to drink it, as it was a composing draught, but she put it away from her; and that the poor murdered creature was persuaded by Helen to accept it at her hands. The minister having drawn up a circumstantial detail of all the circumstances narrated, bade the sorrowing couple adieu, and departed, to send one of his maids to assist Helen, and to stay with her through the day. He vowed to make the horrid transaction as public as possible, in hopes of discovering the two wretches and their employer, and promised to call in the evening, and direct what was further to be done. He rode direct to Mid-Calder; and, on inquiry at the hostelry, if any such travellers had been there the day before, found that they had passed through the town, only stopping to bait their horses, and no particular attention had been paid to them by the landlord of the house. Here his inquiries necessarily terminated. In the meantime, Helen and her assistant had been employed laying out the corpse of the murdered woman, and tending the orphan boy. Tied by a silken cord, a curious gold ring, of massive workmanship, was suspended from her neck, and lay resting upon her bosom. "A true love-gift," ejaculated Helen, "an exchange o' plighted faiths. Dearly had you loved the giver, for, even in sore distress and death it lay upon thy bosom. Cruelly has your love been requited; but rest in peace--your sorrows are past. I will keep this for your babe, and, as soon as he can speak, I will tell him where I found it. I fear it will be a' I will ever be able to inform him of either father or mother." She then placed the ring in her own bosom, until she could shew it to her husband; renewed her offices to the dead; took the babe in her lap, and, weeping over it, resolved, as she thought of its desolate state, without a relation in the world, that, so long as she had life, she would be a parent to it--for death had been a spoiler in her own family of three sons, all of whom it had been her misfortune to bury. The minister arrived again in the evening. They shewed him the ring, and told where it had been found. He examined it closely; but there were neither armorial bearings nor cypher upon it, to lead even to a guess of the person to whom it had belonged--yet the make and chasing were peculiar, and might lead a person who had once examined it to remember it. The mother was interred; the babe baptized by the name of William, put out to nurse; and the usual routine of the cottage once more restored. The boy grew up under the roof of his kind protectors. To his education the minister paid particular attention, and was proud of his pupil--for William Wallace, as he was called, did honour to the labour bestowed upon him. He was quick to learn, yet his mind was not given to literary pursuits--for he delighted in feats of strife, and dwelt with rapture on the feats of the warrior. Sir William Wallace was the hero of his youthful imagination--and he longed to be of man's stature, only that he might be a soldier. Thus years rolled on. William was now eighteen years of age; the labour of the farm, in which he engaged, was irksome to him; yet he restrained his inclinations, and toiled on for his benefactors, who had both become so frail that they required his aid. By the time he arrived at his twentieth year, his foster parents died within a few months of each other, and left him possessor of their little wealth. When spring returned, he made known to his benefactor, the minister, his resolution of leaving the moor and going into the busy world. The stock was turned into cash, and William, bidding a long adieu to the scenes of his youth, set off for the capital, accompanied by the prayers of the good man for his success. Since the death of his protectors he had worn his mother's ring, and he had a vague hope that it might, by some way or other, lead to a discovery of his parents, and enable him to avenge her murder. All the mild lessons of his teacher upon this point had been vain. His mind dwelt with a gloomy satisfaction upon a just retribution. At times his feelings rose to agony--the idea that the guilty individual might be his own parent, often flashed across his mind and made him love his ignorance; but, nature prevailing, his wonted desire recurred again, and, musing thus, he rode on towards Edinburgh, now with the reins resting upon his horse's neck; and then, when urged by his troubled mind, urging forward his steed. He stopped at the borders of the moor, and turned towards the scenes so dear to him, where he had passed what of his life had gone by in innocence and peace. For the first time, he felt alone in the world; and a few involuntary tears fell from his eyes--a token of regret due to the memory of departed worth, and a pleasing recollection of scenes endeared to him by many tender associations. Thus in pensive meditation he rode on, undetermined as to his future mode of life. Prior to his setting out, everything had appeared to his imagination of easy execution; but now he began to encounter difficulties he had never dreamed of before; and the sight of Edinburgh, which he reached before nightfall, did not diminish them. The vastness of the city overpowered him; the stateliness of the buildings appeared to him the work of giants; and he almost shrank from entering it, through a feeling of his own littleness. In his approach, his eyes had been constantly fixed upon the buildings of the Castle, perched high above the town, and crowning the almost circular, bold, and craggy rocks on which it stands. Along the line of houses to the east, that stretched farther than his eye could trace, the setting sun threw his departing rays, and innumerable windows glanced like burnished gold; while the diadem-shaped spire of St Giles', towering above all, in the centre, seemed to proclaim her the queen of cities. With all the impatience of youth, he urged on his horse, expecting to see all the inhabitants of so fair a place themselves fair. But scarce had he entered the West-Port gate, when his feelings were shocked to witness, on every side, squalid misery and wretchedness, and every token of poverty and vice. He put up for the night at one of the many inns of the Grassmarket; and, revolving in his mind what he had already seen, retired to bed. Early next morning, he arose, dressed, and sallied forth to gratify his curiosity; but, with no one to whom he could communicate the feelings that every new object awakened, he felt solitary among the surrounding crowds. On the second day after his arrival, as he walked in the Meadows, he observed among the crowd of well-dressed pedestrians that thronged the walks, an elderly gentleman, who eyed him with marked attention. William's curiosity was excited, and he threw himself again in his way. The old gentleman bowed. "I beg pardon," said he--"may I be so bold as to request your name?--for I feel as if you and I had not now met for the first time. Yet it cannot be; for it is now above twenty years since that time, and you do not appear to be more than that time old." "My name is William Wallace," answered William, with a beating heart. "I never had the honour to see you until to-day." "Wallace? Wallace?" said the old gentleman, musing. "No---my friend's name was not Wallace; we were both of Monro's regiment--his name was Seaton; but the likeness was so strong that you must excuse me for addressing you." William's heart sank--he remained silent for a few minutes--his face was alternately flushed and pale--a new train of ideas crowded upon his mind--he wished to speak, but he could not find utterance--wiped his forehead with his handkerchief, and went through the other forms of confusion and bashfulness. His new acquaintance looked upon him, much surprised at his emotion; and, with an energy bordering on violence, seized his hand. "Young man," said he, "that ring was once the property of my friend: how came you by it? He valued it above all things, nor would he have parted with it but with life. At this moment, I almost think the last long twenty years of my life a dream, and that I am still a captain in Monro's regiment. You must come and dine with me, and explain how this came into your possession." "With pleasure," replied William. "It is a sad account, I have to give, and I am most impatient to learn something of its possessor. Alas! I fear I must feel too great an interest in him." "The early friend I allude to," replied the old man, "was an honour to his country. A braver or more generous heart, no officer in the army possessed. This you will acknowledge when I have told you all. Alas! poor Seaton! shall I ever see you again?" Thus conversing, they reached the house of Colonel Gordon, one of the principal flats of a house in the High Street. After they had dined, William gave a distinct account of his birth and the death of his mother, and a modest outline of himself. His hearer listened to him with the greatest interest, only interrupting him at the account of his mother's death by an exclamation of horror. "Henry Seaton," he cried, "had no hand in this, I could pledge my head for him. I am strongly impressed, young man, with the idea, that my friend has been cruelly injured, and his generous heart wounded past recovery by this deed of darkness. Savage monsters! worse than demons! would to God I had you in my power!" And he walked about the room in a state of violent excitement. "William," said he again, "I have no doubt you are the son of Henry Seaton, my more than brother; and, so far as is in my power, I shall assist you in the discovery of your parents, and avenge the murder of your mother. I shall now give you my story:--I was an ensign in Munro's regiment of Scots, serving in Flanders, when your father (for I have no doubt that he was such) joined us, early in the spring of the year 1706, a short time before the battle of Ramilies. We were both of the same company, and of congenial minds; so that we soon became bosom friends, and were ever as much as possible in each other's society. In battle we fought side by side, without being jealous of each other's fame. In our first battle, that of Ramilies, the Scots had more than their share of the loss, and I had the misfortune to be shot in the leg early in the action. When I fell, your father saved me from the sword of the enemy, and bore me out of the line at the hazard of his own life; for we were at the time, pressed by a strong division of the French. I soon recovered, and joined the ranks, when our friendship, if possible, was stronger than ever. At the battle of Oudenard, where we drove the French from their trenches, your father led on his men, over the works, with too much eagerness, and was not supported for a time, as the enemy sprung a mine and made the ditch impassable, killing and wounding a great many of the advancing column. Bravely did he and his handful of Scots stand their ground, surrounded and overwhelmed by numbers; but they were dropping fast, for they fought hand to hand, and they were so pressed by the enemy, and hemmed in, that they could not fire, for fear of killing their own men. I saw the perilous situation of my friend; with the greatest efforts, I and a few noble countrymen got clambered up to their rescue. At our arrival, there were not more than six of them upon their feet--all were covered with wounds and spent with fatigue. Your father still raged like a lion in the toils--all swords were aimed at him--he seemed invulnerable. I had reached his side, when a severe wound laid him insensible at my feet; but I stood over him, and backed by my brave followers, we fought till the French gave way before the numbers of our troops that had forced the works and poured in on every side. I raised him up--the blood streamed from his side--he appeared to be dead--his eyes were closed--I placed my hand upon his breast--all appeared still--then mournfully I supported his head on my knee, and saw his eyelids move, and then a faint heaving of the breast. I snatched the canteen of a dead soldier that lay by my side; there was some wine in it; I applied it to his lips--he opened his eyes." "'Edward,' said he, 'I thank you. I fear my career of glory is run. I hope we have beat the enemy. I die content. Farewell!' And he sank again into insensibility." "All this had passed in the course of a couple of minutes The enemy had made a fresh stand, and were forcing our troops back upon the intrenchments. I gently laid him down, and, rallying the men who were retreating, again forced them back. The enemy began to give way in all directions, and we followed up our advantage until the order for ceasing the pursuit was given. For a time I had forgot everything, in the impetuosity of battle; but, after rallying my company, and marching back to our camp, I took a file of men, and proceeded to the spot where I had left my friend. I looked for some time in vain. So active had been the work of the pillagers that followed the camp, that the dead and the dying had been stripped; and by the countenance alone could one discover a friend from a foe, I examined every face amidst a heap of dead bodies, and discovered my friend. Life was not yet extinct. I had him removed to my tent, and went for a surgeon, who examined and dressed his wound, but gave me no hopes of his recovery. He was carefully removed into Oudenard, where our hospitals were established, and for some days his life was despaired of; but youth and a good constitution prevailed, and he again bade fair for life and happiness. As soon as he was enabled to converse, I was at my usual place by his bedside, when, after thanking me for his preservation, he expressed the deepest sorrow for the loss of his ring, which had been torn from his finger by the pillagers. "I had, until now, scarcely paid any attention to this bauble; but remembered, when he spoke of it, of having seen at all times a ring upon his finger. I expressed my concern at his loss, but said, that it ought not to give him so much concern, at a time when a miraculously spared life called for his gratitude to God. "'I value it next to life itself,' was his reply, 'for it was the gift of my mother, and had been in our family for ages. Publish among the sutlers, my good friend, that fifty dollars will be given for the ring, upon its delivery to me; and twenty dollars to any one who will give information that will lead to its recovery.' "I promised, and left him, consoled with the hopes of again getting the jewel; yet I could not help thinking my friend too profuse in his offer. I immediately published in the camp, a reward of ten dollars for the ring, or five for any information to lead to its recovery, and next morning the ring was delivered, and the ten dollars paid to one of the fiends in human shape, that, like vultures, follow in the track of war. My fingers itched to cut the ruffian down, but I restrained myself. I paid him the promised reward with a hearty curse--the word of a soldier is sacred; and it was at this time that I examined the bauble so minutely, that I never can forget it. I never saw joy more vividly expressed than when he placed it upon his emaciated finger, and said I had given him a medicine that would quickly recover him. "'Shade of my sainted mother,' he ejaculated, 'I have still thy latest gift, and it shall be parted with only with my latest breath.' And he kissed it fervently as he spoke." "In the course of a few weeks, he was convalescent, and again joined the regiment. Each officer had received one step of promotion, and our duties went on in the usual routine, though we were principally occupied in foraging parties. It was the depth of winter, and provisions were scarce. Henry had the command of a strong foraging party; and, on one occasion, he came in his route to a large farm-house, where he hoped to obtain supplies. Approaching the house, he heard cries of distress and supplication in female voices. He put his men into rapid motion, and rushed forward alone. Passing a thick fence, he saw a party of Dutch soldiers, who had anticipated him, and some of whom were at the door, guarding it; but the greater part were within the house. The cries became more piteous and piercing. He drew his sword and rushed past the sentinels at the door, who attempted to prevent him; but the view of his men coming up unnerved them. A scene of horror met his eyes: the male inmates of the house were bound, and soldiers were standing over them, ready to plunge their bayonets into their bosoms at the least movement, while others were proceeding to acts of violence towards the females. With a voice of thunder, he commanded them to desist, and, seizing the officer, hurled him from the terrified and fainting daughter of the farmer. The Dutchman, in rage, drew and made a furious lounge at him, which he parried; and his men entering at the same time, they drove the others out of the house. My friend, in French, requested the Dutchman to follow his men; but he refused, and challenged him to single combat, for the insult he said he had received at his hands--adding some opprobrious epithets, which roused the choler of the brave Englishman. In an instant, they were engaged hand to hand; but short was the strife--the Dutchman fell dead on the scene of his violence, and his men returned to the camp, and made a complaint against Monro's regiment, which was like to have led to some serious consequences; but, after your father stating the circumstances to the colonel, the latter waited upon the Duke of Marlborough, and we heard no more of the affair. "The last action we were in together, we both escaped unhurt; yet it was the bloodiest one we had ever been in. Of all the honours of Malplaquet, the Monroes had their full share; for, although the Duke did not like the Scots, and used at times to throw a sarcasm at their country, he always gave them a situation of danger, either from dislike or a reliance on their courage. About twelve months after Malplaquet, your father left the service and retired into France. Peace was now evidently at hand, and an armistice had been agreed upon and signed by several of the allies of the English; and our gallant leader was now in disgrace. Much as Henry Seaton and I esteemed each other in all other points, we had no fellowship in politics. I was and am a Whig; he, a Tory of the first water--a devoted adherent of the exiled family; yet, high as parties ran at this time in cities, we had no differences in the camp, where each respected his neighbour's opinion, nor overvalued his own. The last letter I received from him was about twelve months after we parted. It was dated St Germain's. He said, and in a mysterious sort of way, half-earnest, half-jest, that, in a short time, we might meet, to try the force of our different opinions. I, at the time, only laughed at it, and returned, for answer, that I had no doubt we would both do our best, and leave the issue to the Disposer of events. Soon after, Mar's ill-concerted rebellion took place, in which I have no doubt your father was an active agent; but I have, since this last letter, lost all trace of him. Your being born in the year '16 would lead me to suppose that he must have married your mother about the time of the Rebellion, either in Scotland or France." That Henry Seaton was his father, William earnestly prayed; but how was he to ascertain this fact? He knew not; neither could his kind host assist him. The lapse of time was so great, that, in all probability, he was dead; and, with a mind worse at ease than it had ever been, he took leave of the Colonel, promising to call again in the forenoon of the following day, to consult what steps he should take to follow out the information he had so unexpectedly acquired. He reached the inn, and retired to rest; but sleep had fled his pillow. A thousand ideas crowded his mind; method after method was canvassed, each for a time offering assured success, but, upon more mature consideration, being rejected. Day dawned, and found him as unresolved as when he left Colonel Gordon. As soon as it was consistent with propriety, he waited upon the Colonel, by whom he was greeted heartily. "Well, tell me," said he, "the fruit of your invention for tracing out your father, and I will tell you what has occurred to me as the best mode of procedure." William, without hesitation, told the state of his mind, and his utter inability to think of any feasible plan, from his ignorance of the world and its ways. "Poor fellow! I do not wonder at what you tell me," replied the Colonel. "Before many years go over your head, you and the world will be better acquainted. My own opinion is, that you must forthwith proceed to France, where you will find many of the adherents of the Stuarts. The young Charles Edward is easy of access to Scotchmen, for he is anxious to make adherents; and I have no doubt that he, or others of his followers, will be able to give you every information about Henry Seaton. But you must beware how you acquit yourself, lest they cajole you into their party; for, if your father be alive and acknowledge you, the trial will be greater than you are aware, to resist him." "I will at once follow your wise counsel," replied William. "I trust--nay, my heart tells me I shall be successful. Of my ever being an adherent of the Stuart family, I have no fears. Before that can happen, I must first forget all I have ever learned, from my first dawn of reason up to this present moment. The first tears of sorrow I ever shed were for the woes of others, drawn forth by the tale of the sufferings of my foster parent's father, who suffered for the cause of truth, near the very spot where I now lodge. The worthy minister, to whom I am indebted for all the learning I possess, had also some share in my politics. Nay, do not smile, when I say he had political opinions. He spiritualized everything. Nebuchadnezzar was a type of the Stuart family. The Babylonish king, driven out from men, was only an emblem of their expulsion, during the time of the Commonwealth, and his being restored was only the fortune of Charles II.; but, as he continued in idolatry after his restoration, so did Charles, after his subscribing the Covenant at Scone; and, as Nebuchadnezzar's family were destroyed, so are the Stuarts cut off from the throne for ever. To the whole of this I do not subscribe; but my aversion to the family of the Stuarts, I can never overcome." "My young friend," replied the Colonel, "I am not one to quarrel with any one for his opinion; but I rejoice to find we are of one mind. I will accompany you to Leith, and we will make inquiries if there is any vessel there likely soon to sail for France." They accordingly proceeded to Leith, where they found there was a brig to sail in the course of a week or two for Bourdeaux, to bring home a cargo of wine. There were also several vessels to sail in a few days, for different ports in Holland; but the Colonel advised William to agree with the captain of the vessel for Bourdeaux--which, he did; and, having never seen the sea but at a distance, nor a vessel in his life, his friend, to oblige him, lingered on the shore, and examined them with him. In this manner the time passed. They dined in Leith, and again walked about the shore, enjoying the delightful scene. The shades of evening were beginning to approach, when they resumed their way back to the city. They had reached about half-way to the Abbey-Hill, when two men rushed from behind the fence, and, presenting pistols to their breasts, demanded their money or their lives. "Ho, my good fellows, not so fast!" exclaimed the Colonel, and drew his sword. William did the same. One of the villains fired, and wounded the Colonel in the right shoulder. William, at the same moment, plunged his sword into his side, and he fell. The other ruffian fled, pursued by William; but he escaped. He then hastened to his friend, who stood leaning against the wall, with the wounded robber beside him. William inquired if he was much injured. "No, Seaton," he said. "I believe it is only a flesh wound, for I can wield my sword yet." And he raised it up, and pointing it at the breast of the fallen wretch, who lay groaning at his feet--"We must secure him," said the Colonel; "and, at the same time, be on our guard against his cowardly associate. If he could walk, I would know how to act with him; but I am not going to carry the base carrion. Indeed, my arm bleeds, and is getting stiff; otherwise I would dispatch him where he lies, and save the hangman his labour." "For the love of God, do not despatch me!" cried the man. "I will try to walk; I would not be cut off so suddenly. In mercy, spare me, even for a few hours. I am unfit to die; yet I feel life ebbing fast." He rose to his feet, but was sinking again, when William's pity overcoming his anger, he supported him. The wretch looked in his face, uttered a scream of horror, and sank senseless in his arms. He looked to the Colonel in astonishment. The latter looked narrowly into the face of the robber, passed his hand across his forehead, and mused, as if recalling something to his memory, but spake not. Two men now came up to them, and assisted them to carry the body to the nearest house, where a surgeon was sent for, and intimation given to the authorities, who were all in a state of the greatest alacrity--stimulated, doubtless, by the Porteous mob, which had taken place only a few months before. Until the surgeon arrived, William, by the directions of the Colonel, bound up his shoulder. What the Colonel called a scratch, appeared to him a serious wound; for the ball had passed through the muscle of his arm. They proceeded to stanch the blood which flowed from the side of their prisoner, when the surgeon arrived; who, after having examined it, at once declared it mortal, and that the man had not many hours to live. After some time, he succeeded in restoring sensibility to the sufferer. He opened his eyes--fixed them on William, who was assisting the surgeon in his efforts--a fearful change came over him--he groaned, and, clasping his hands, shrieked, and closed them again. A sudden recollection had come over the Colonel. "I cannot be mistaken," said he; "I have seen him before; but when or where I cannot say, unless he was one of my company in Monro's regiment." At the mention of Monro's regiment, the wretched man shuddered--his eye fell upon the ring upon William's hand, as he held up the candle by the bedside--the sweat stood in large drops upon his forehead--he would have started up, but was restrained. "Nay, then, since I am discovered," he cried, "I will confess all to you, my injured and betrayed master. I see the Colonel recollects me; but I am surprised you do not remember your old servant, Alick Brown." "Who was your master?" exclaimed William, in surprise. "Captain Henry Seaton--yourself," said the man. "I cannot be mistaken. That ring--your height and countenance. You are, I am happy to see, much improved since I last saw you--time appears to have made no change." "Know you aught of Henry Seaton?" demanded the Colonel; while William stood mute in astonishment and surprise. "If this is not my old master whom I see," said the man, "who can he be? My mind is filled with guilt and remorse. Die I must, either of this wound, or by the law--for me there is no hope here or hereafter." And he groaned and ground his teeth in despair, while the surgeon bade him prepare for death, as he had but a few hours to live. The officers entered, and claimed him as their prisoner. The villain once more arose in his mind. "Ha!" he exclaimed, "I have bilked you yet. I have a sufficient bail in my side to rescue me out of your hands." The effort to speak now became more difficult; his voice sank into whispers; he appeared to be dying. Remorse again roused him; and, turning his head, he inquired who William was? The Colonel told him. He became more dreadfully agitated, and groaned in anguish, till the officers of justice looked upon him in horror. "I can doubt no longer," he cried. "It is too true. There is a God that governs all! Mercy, mercy! How shall I appear before Him, covered with the blood of his creatures? Let me perform the only act now in my power--to atone for the past. Young man, you are the son of my noble and injured master. After he left the army in Flanders, I accompanied him to France, where he lived on terms of great intimacy with the royal exiles and their followers for several months; at the end of which time, he and two other gentlemen, accompanied by me, set out for Scotland on a secret mission to the disaffected, preparatory to the preconcerted rising. We remained concealed for several months, in the houses of those whom we knew to be adherents to the cause we were embarked in. At the house of Lord Somerville we remained for a long time, where my master won the affections of his daughter, and proposed for her; but his Lordship objected to their union at that time, on account of the unsettled state of affairs. With the consent of Helen, they were, however, privately married; and soon after we set out for Aboyne, and joined in the unfortunate affair. He was slightly wounded at Sheriff-muir, but escaped by my assistance, and got safe to our camp. The Prince and the Earl of Mar embarked when all hopes of success were cut off, and I was sent back to the house of his wife's father, to bring her to her husband, who had remained concealed in the Highlands, during the severity of the winter. It was arranged, through me, that, as soon as he had received remittances from France, I was to conduct her to the coast of Argyle, by Glasgow and the Clyde. It was far on in the summer before he could get all the arrangements made. His wife, who expected in a few weeks to be confined, and concealed her situation with difficulty, became most urgent. Early in the month of September, she escaped unseen from her father's house, and joined me at the appointed place, accompanied by a fiend in woman's shape, the agent whom I had employed to carry on our intercourse. She had been a follower of the camp, and, by the little service for which I paid her well, had won the confidence of the simple Helen. We rode as fast as the lady's circumstances would admit, only halting twice for a short time, in secret places. It was then that the devil first assailed me in the person of this woman. She told me what a quantity of money and jewels the lady had in her valise, and how easy it would be to get all into our possession. I shuddered at the very idea, and threatened to shoot her upon the spot. She laughed, and said it was all a jest; but it took hold of my mind during the course of our journey, and she judged by my looks, I suppose, that I was now more fit for her purpose. We conversed about it; the idea became familiar; but I shuddered at blood. She said there would be none shed. Still I could not consent--neither was I sufficiently averse. The poor lady was taken ill as we passed through the moor. You know the rest. As we stood at the cottage door, the pious discourse of the farmer tortured me past endurance. I was several times on the point of rushing into the cottage, and guarding my lady from the fiend; but my evil genius prevailed. When we entered and got the unsuspecting couple to their bed, my tempter smiled, and whispered 'All is safe.' I shuddered, and inquired what she meant. "'Oh, nothing,' she replied. 'The lady cannot recover; the woman of the house has given her a composing draught. She will never awake. The money and jewels are our own.' "And cautiously she displayed before me more gold than I had ever seen. I could not think of parting with it. We carried off all that had belonged to my mistress, even her body-clothes and the body of the dead babe, resolved to shew it to my master, and impose upon him by saying that his wife had died in childbed, and that we had left her to be buried by the clergyman. Our object in this was to do away all suspicion of unfair play. Our excuse for not seeing the body interred was haste to inform him, and prevent inquiries that might lead to his discovery. On the day after we left the cabin, I found my master at the appointed place, in the utmost anxiety for the arrival of his wife. Every hour of delay was attended by the utmost danger. A government cruiser had been seen on the coast; and there were fears that the small vessel might be discovered. Oh, moment that has ever since embittered my life! The agony he endured no human tongue can describe. He was in a state of distraction. I, with a guilty officiousness, displayed her wardrobe. He turned from it in an agony. The dead body of the babe he kissed and pressed to his bosom. Low groans had as yet only escaped him; but suddenly, to my alarm, he resolved to go with me and die on her grave. I trembled and felt a faintness come over me--for I was then young in guilt. My associate, hardened and inventive, began to urge the folly of the attempt. He pushed her from him with violence, and would have set out; but at that moment word was given that the cruiser was in sight, as if bearing for the land. Two friends and some of the crew seized him, and by force hurried him on board the vessel, and set sail. I felt as if reprieved from death, and did not go on board; for I dreaded the presence of my injured master. We returned to Glasgow, where we remained for a few weeks, rioting on the fruits of our guilt. One morning when I awoke after a debauch, I found my companion fled, and all the gold and valuables gone. I arose in a state of distraction, ran to the port in quest of her; but in vain--no vessel had sailed. I proceeded to Greenock; on the way I got traces of her, and dogged her at every turn. My mind took a new direction as I followed her. I looked upon her now as a fiend that had led me to ruin, and left me, loaded with guilt, to die under the pangs of poverty and an awakened conscience. My mind was distracted. Holding up my hands to heaven, I vowed vengeance, and cursed and swore in such a manner that people on the road turned and looked at me, and thought me mad. I was mad; but it was the madness of passion that burned in my brain, and the stings of conscience that pierced my heart. I paused several times in my pursuit. I was told by one traveller that the woman I sought was not a mile from me, that she was sitting by the road-side drinking ardent spirits alone, and muttering strange words to herself. Ha! thought I, conscience is busy with her too, and she drinks to drown its dreadful voice. 'Shall I kill her?' I said to myself. My heart yearned for her blood. Why should I deny it? I felt that I required that satisfaction to enable me to live a little longer upon earth. So much was my frenzy roused, that I pictured to myself a total impossibility to live and breathe if I did not feel the satisfaction of having visited on that woman's head the evil she brought on that sweet lady who died by her hands. Then did her beautiful face beam before me in full contrast with that of the hag who had led me to ruin, to misery, to hell. Every thought inflamed me more and more, and on I flew to the relief of my burning brain. Wretch! How little did I think that, even in meditating her death, who deserved that punishment, I was only adding more and more power to my burning conscience? But all calculation of future accidents died amidst my thirst of vengeance. Breathless I hurried on. I had a dagger in my hand ready for the work of death. At a turn of a beech wood, I saw her sitting by the road-side. She was drinking spirits; and, as I approached, I heard her muttering strange words--yet she was not intoxicated. She was only under the power of the demons that ruled her. Her back was to me, and she knew not of my approach. I saw her take out the money and jewels she had stolen from me, and for which, by her advice, I had sold my soul to Satan. The sight again brought before me the horrid crime I had committed. I saw the sweet lady before me, extended in the grasp of death; and conscience, with a thousand fangs, tore at my heart. I grasped the dagger firmer and firmer as she counted the money, and wrought myself up to the pitch of a demon's fury. I advanced quietly. She burst into a loud laugh as she finished the counting of the gold. 'Ha, ha, ha!' she cried--'I have'--she would have said 'outwitted him,' but my dagger fixed the word in her death-closed jaws. I struck her to the heart through her back, and the word 'outwitted' died in her throat. She lay at my feet a corpse. I threw the body in a ditch, and took up the money and jewels for which I had sold my soul. I would have cast them away; but the devil again danced in the faces of the gold coins. I put them in my pocket. The gold again corrupted me. I drowned my conscience in drink at the next inn. I fled into England, where I have lived by rapine ever since, until the other day, when I returned to Scotland to meet the fate I so well deserve, from the hands of the son of those I had injured. Of my old master I have never heard anything. If he is alive, he is still in France." Life seemed only to have been prolonged until he had made the horrid disclosure; for he fell into convulsions and expired, soon after the Colonel, whose wound had become stiff and painful, had left the house. Next morning, William visited his friend, and was grieved to find that he was rather feverish. His wound was still painful. The occurrence of the preceding evening occupied both their minds. William had no doubt of his being the lawful son of Henry Seaton by Miss Somerville; but was as much in doubt as to whether his father was alive as ever. In a few days, the Colonel was enabled to leave his bed-room, and became convalescent. He urged the propriety of William's proceeding to France in quest of his father; and, as the vessel was not yet to sail for a few days, he resolved to pay a visit to his friend, the minister, to inform him of his intentions, and relate the history of his mother's murderers. The Colonel would have accompanied him; but he could not ride. He rode along to the manse, with feelings very different from those with which he had left it. The worthy minister rejoiced to see him, and held up his pious hands at the horrid recital. He approved of William's determination of going in quest of his father, and, after paying a visit to his mother's and foster parents' graves, he once more mounted to return to Edinburgh. As he rode slowly along, musing upon the wayward fate of his parents unconscious of all around, he was roused by the tread of horses' feet behind him. He looked back, and saw a gentleman, attended by a servant in livery, approaching. He roused himself, and put his horse off the slow pace at which he had been going. The stranger and he saluted each other, and entered into conversation upon indifferent subjects. At length they became interested in each other, and found that they were both on the eve of sailing for France in the same vessel. The stranger requested to have the pleasure of knowing the name of his fellow-traveller. "Seaton," said William, "is my name." "Seaton, Seaton," said the other--"I am surprised I did not recognise you before. I thought we had met before; but your youth made me always doubt the truth of my surmises. Colonel Henry Seaton was an intimate acquaintance of mine--have I the pleasure of seeing his son?" "I hope you have," replied William. "Pray, sir, when saw you him last? Was he in good health?" "It is some time since I left France," said the other. "At that time he was in his ordinary health; but not more cheerful than usual--always grave and sad as ever." "Thank God!" cried William; "he is, I trust, then, still alive." And he pressed the stranger's hand with a warmth that surprised him. "Where do you mean to stay," resumed William, "until the vessel sails?" "I have no relations," replied he, "in Edinburgh. I meant to stay at an inn in the Canongate, where I have lived before; but it is all one to me--I may as well tarry in the White Hart with you." When they arrived, William sent a cadie to give notice to Colonel Gordon that he was arrived in town; but was detained upon business with a stranger, to whom he would be happy to introduce him, as he was an acquaintance of his father's, and had seen him within the last few years. Soon after dinner, they were all seated at their wine, and deep in conversation. The stranger had been, from what he said, well acquainted with the exiled party in France, and, more particularly, with Colonel Seaton; but he knew nothing of his history, further than that he had lost a beloved wife and child at the time of his expatriation, and had, both by friends here and every other means, endeavoured in vain to get any information of where she was buried, or what had become of a faithful servant who had not embarked with him in the confusion of his flight--that on this account he was often oppressed by a lowness of spirits, and had many suspicions that all had not been as it ought to have been. This subject discussed, they would have had recourse to politics; but each seemed cautious of betraying his opinions, and the stranger, who did not seem to relish much some of the sentiments that occasionally escaped the Colonel, appeared to be a Tory. After the Colonel departed, the conversation of William and Mr Graham--for this was the gentleman's name--became more pointed, and it appeared that he was on business connected with the exiles. He had assumed that William was of his own way of thinking in politics, and was evidently much disappointed when he discovered that he was not. He became much more reserved, but not less attached to him; for William gave him a general outline of his misfortunes and early education, and they parted for the night with the best opinion of each other. Next morning both proceeded to Leith, where Graham expected to find a messenger from the north with a packet of letters for him. When they reached Leith, they found that the messenger had arrived on the previous day, and was waiting for Mr Graham, who, having several persons to visit in the neighbourhood, William and he parted, agreeing to meet in the Colonel's to supper. They met in the evening. "I have been making some inquiries," said Mr Graham, "about Colonel Henry Seaton, on your account, and am happy to say that he is well. I fear I shall not have the pleasure of your company to France. I have every reason to believe that he is now in Scotland, or will be very soon. Excuse me if I am not more particular. I shall, I hope, to-morrow, or at least before the vessel sails, be able to give you more particular information. I can rely, I think, upon your honour, that no harm shall come from my confidence." Both thanked him for the interest he took, and the good news he had communicated. They parted for the night, all in the best spirits--William anticipating the joy he should feel at the sight of his parent, and the Colonel anxious to see his old friend. Afterwards Mr Graham and William occasionally met. Their evenings were spent with the Colonel, and all party discussion carefully avoided. On the evening of the fourth day after Mr Graham's last information, William had begun to fear that the vessel might sail before any certainty could be obtained; and he was in doubt whether to proceed with her or remain. Upon Mr Graham's arrival, which was later than usual, he went directly up to William-- "I have good news for you," said he. "Colonel Seaton is at present in Scotland--somewhere in Inverness-shire. He is the bearer of intelligence that will render it unnecessary for me to proceed at present to France. I am, I confess, much disappointed; but you, I perceive, are not." "From my soul I thank you," said William. "Where shall I find my father?" "That is more than I can tell you," answered the other--"I cannot even tell the name he has at present assumed; all I know is, that he is the bearer of intelligence from the Prince that crushes for a time our sanguine hopes. The fickle and promise-breaking Louis has again deceived us. The Prince, and the lukewarm, timid part of his adherents, the worshippers of the ascendant, refuse to act without his powerful aid. His concurrence we have, and a prospect of future aid at a more convenient season; but, bah! for a Frenchman's promise! I am off from ever taking a leading part again. I will wait the convenient season. I may be led, but shall never lead again. He does not deserve a crown that will not dare for it; nor does he deserve the hearts of a generous people that would not dare everything to free them from the yoke of a foreign tyrant. Excuse me, gentlemen,--I go too far, and am giving you offence; but I assure you it is not meant. My heart is full of bitterness, and I forget what I say." The Colonel, whose blood had begun to inflame when Graham checked himself, cooled and felt rather gratified at the intelligence thus so unexpectedly communicated. He felt for a generous mind crossed in its favourite object, however much he thought that mind misled, from education and early prejudice, and assured him he had already forgot his expressions. A different turn was given to the conversation, by William's continued inquiries after his father. Graham meant to set off for the north in a few days, for a secret meeting of the heads of the disaffected, at which Colonel Seaton was to communicate the message he had to them from France. He offered to be William's guide. The Colonel, whose shoulder was now quite well, requested to accompany them; and on the Monday morning after, they crossed at Kinghorn, and proceeded by the most direct route, passing through Perthshire to the Highlands. They arrived at Glengarry, and found that Colonel Seaton was at the time on a visit, with the chief, to Glenelg, but would be back on the following day. There were a number of visiters at the castle, with all whom Graham was on the most intimate terms. Gordon and William were introduced, and the latter was most cordially received, from the strong resemblance he bore to his father. They got a guide to conduct them to see the beautiful scenery around the house, and they were amusing themselves admiring the grandeur of the mountain scenes, when the guide said, pointing to a bend in the road-- "Gentlemen, there is Glengarry." They looked towards the spot, and could perceive two persons on horseback, approaching in earnest conversation. William's heart beat quick--the reins almost dropped from his hand--he felt giddy, and his temples throbbed as if they would have burst. They approached--they bowed to each other--William's eyes were fixed upon the countenance of his father, who returned his gaze, but neither spoke a word. The Colonel said, in answer to the polite salutation, that he and his young friend had had the honour to accompany Mr Graham on a visit. "Has Graham come back so soon?" he said, with surprise, "I feared as much; but, gentlemen, you are kindly welcome." And he shook hands with them. "Macdonald, what is this?" he said, turning to Seaton, who was absorbed in thought. "Here is a youthful counterpart of yourself!" "My father!" exclaimed William, as he leaped from his horse, and clasped his leg, leaning his face upon it, and bedewing it with his tears. "Young man," said Seaton, coldly, "you are mistaken; I have no son." William lifted his hands in an imploring manner, and the ring met his father's eye. "Good heavens! what do I see!" he exclaimed, and sank forward, overpowered by his feelings, upon his horse's neck. The chief and the Colonel raised him up--the tears were streaming from his eyes. "A thousand painful remembrances," said he, "have quite unmanned me. Young man, you just now called me father--where, for mercy's sake tell me, did you get that ring?" "It was found on the bosom of my dead mother," faltered William. "Then you are my son!" And the next moment they were locked in each other's embrace. The chief and Gordon were moved. They passed their hands hastily across their eyes. "Dear father," said William, "have you forgot your old friend and associate in arms--my best of friends?" Seaton for the first time looked to him, and, extending his disengaged hand, grasped the Colonel's, saying-- "Excuse me, Gordon--I am now too happy. I have found a son and a brother." They walked to the castle, and William detailed to his father his mournful story. Often had he to stop, to allow his father to give vent to his anguish. "Ah, I often feared," said he, "that my Helen had been hardly dealt with; but this I never did suspect. Cursed villain! and, oh! my poor murdered Helen!" They returned to the castle. It was agreed that Seaton should still retain the name of Macdonald, until the Colonel should obtain, through the influence of his friends, a pardon for him. He also had lost all hopes of success for the Prince, and wished to enjoy the company of his son, visit the grave of his beloved wife, and, at death, be buried by her side. All was obtained; and Henry Seaton lived for many years, blessed in the society of his son, who studied the law, at the suggestion of the Colonel, and became distinguished in his profession. HUME AND THE GOVERNOR OF BERWICK. It has been asserted by at least one historian, that it has been observed, that the inhabitants of towns which have undergone a cruel siege, and experienced all the horrors of storm and pillage, have retained for ages the traces of the effects of their sufferings, in a detestation of war, indications of pusillanimity, and decline of trade. If there be any truth in this observation, what caitiffs must the inhabitants of Berwick be! No town in the world has been so often exposed to the "ills that wait on the red chariot of war;" for Picts, Romans, Danes, Saxons, English, and Scotch have, in their turn, wasted their rage and their strength upon her broken ribs. Her boasted "barre," (barrier,) from which her name, Barrewick, is derived, has never been able to save her effectually, either from her enemies of land or water. From the reign of Osbert, the king of Northumberland, down to the time when Lord Sidmouth saw treason in her big guns, she has been devoted to the harpies of foreign and intestine war and discord. Yet who shall say, that the hearts or spirits of the inhabitants of this extraordinary town lost either blood or buoyancy from their misfortunes? No sooner were her bulwarks raised than they appeared renascent; the inhabitants defended the new fortifications with a spirit that received a salient power from the depression produced by the demolition of the old; and her ships, that one day were shattered by engines of war, sailed in a state of repair with the next fair wind, to fetch from distant ports articles of merchandise, not seldom for those who were fighting or had fought against her liberties. Such was Berwick; and her sons of to-day inherit too much of the nobility and generosity of her old children, to find fault with us for telling them a tale which, while it exhibits some shades of the warlike spirit of their ancestors, shews also that war and citizen warriors have their foibles, and are not always exempt from the harmless laugh that does the heart more good than the touch of an old spear. The Lord Hume of the latter period of the seventeenth century, had a natural son, Patrick, an arch rogue, inheriting the fire of the blood of the Humes, along with that which burnt in the black eyes of the gipsies of Yetholm. He was brought up by his father; and, true to the principles of his education, would acknowledge no patrons of the heart, save the three ruling powers of love, laughter, and war--Cupid, Momus, and Mars--a trio chosen from all the gods, (the remainder being sent to Hades,) as being alone worthy of the worship of a gentleman. How Patrick got acquainted, and, far less, how he got in love with the Mayor of Berwick's daughter, Isabella, we cannot say, nor need antiquarians try to discover; for where there was a Southron to be slain or a lady to be won, Patrick Hume cared no more for bar, buttress, battlement, fire, or water, than did Jove for his own thunder-cloud, under the shade of which he courted the daughter of Inachus. Letting alone the recondite subject of "love's beginning," we shall tread safer ground in stating, that the affection had been very materially increased on both sides by the walls of Berwick; for, although Patrick was a great despiser of fortifications, he had felt, in the affair of his love for Isabella, the fair daughter of the Mayor of Berwick, that there is no getting a damsel through a _loop-hole_, though there might be poured as much sentimental and pathetic speech and sigh-breath through the invidious opening, as ever passed through the free air that fills the breeze under the trysting thorn. What we have now said requires the explanation, that at the period of our story, the town of Berwick belonged to the English; and the Mayor, being himself either an Englishman, or connected by strong ties of relationship with the English, had a strong antipathy towards the Scottish Border raiders, whom he denominated as gentlemen-robbers, headed by the noble robber Hume. But, above all, he hated young Patrick--into whose veins, he said, there had been poured the distilled raid-venom and love-poison of all the gentlemen-scaumers that ever infested the Borders. The origin of this hatred had some connection with an affair of the Newmilne, belonging to Berwick; the dam-dike of which, Patrick alleged, prevented the salmon from getting up the river, and hence destroyed all his angling sport, as well as that of all the noblemen and gentlemen that resorted to the river for the purpose of practising the "gentle art." He had therefore threatened to pull it down, to let up the fish; and sounded his threat in the ears of the indignant Mayor, in terms that were, peradventure, made stronger and bitterer by the thought that dikes and walls were his greatest bane upon earth: by the walls of Berwick the Mayor kept from his arms the fair Isabella, and by the dam-dike of Newmilne the same Mayor deprived him of the pleasure of angling. Was such power on the part of a Mayor to be borne by the high-spirited youth who had been trained to look upon mason-work as a mere stimulant to love or war--a thing that raised the value of what it enclosed by the opposition it offered to the young blood that raged for entrance? The youth thought not. He vowed that he would neither lose his Isabella nor his salmon; and, as fate would have it, the old Mayor had heard the vow, and vowed also that young Patrick should lose both. Having fished one day to no purpose, in consequence of the obstruction of "that most accursed of all dam-dikes, the Newmilne dike," as Patrick styled it, he threw down his rod, and lay down upon the bank of the river, to wait the hour when the moon should summon and lighten him to the loop-hole in the other of his hated obstructions, the walls of Berwick--where that evening he expected to meet his beloved Isabella, and commune with her in the eloquent language of their mutual passion. The bright luminary burst in the midst of his reveries from behind an autumn cloud, and flashed a long silver beam upon the rolling waters. He started to his feet. "It is beyond my time," he said, self-accusingly. "My Isabella is on Berwick Wall, and I am still lingering here by the banks of the river, three miles from where my love and honour require me to be. The loiterer in love is a laggard in war; and shame on the Hume who is either!" In a short time the young Hume was standing beneath a buttress of the old walls of the town, looking earnestly through a small opening, in which he expected to see the face of the fair daughter of the Mayor. "Art there at last, love?" said he, in a soft voice, as he saw, with palpitating heart, the pretty but arch face of the bewitching heiress of all the wealth of the old burgher lord peering through the aperture. "What, in the name of him who got his wings in the lap of Venus, and useth them to this hour as cleverly as doth our pretty messenger of Spring, hath kept thee, wench?" "Ha! ha! hush! hush, man!" responded she, whose spirit equalled that of the boldest Hume that ever headed a raid. "Thou'rt the laggard. I've waited for thee an hour, until I've sighed this little love-hole into an oven-heat, waiting thee, thou lover of broken troth! Some gipsy queen in Haugh of the Tweed hath wooed thee out of thy affection for thy Isabel; and now thou askest what hath kept me. Ha! ha! Good--for a Hume." "The moon cheated me, and went skulking under a cloud," responded Hume. "And the cloud threw thy love in the shade," added quickly the gay girl. "Methought love kept his own dial, and was independent of sun or moon. What if a rebel vapour cometh over the queen of heaven that night thou art to make me free? My hope of liberty, I fancy, would be clouded; and I would be remitted again to the care of Captain Wallace, who keepeth the town and the Mayor's daughter from the spoiling arms of the robber Humes." "Ha! ha!" replied he--"thy father wanteth not a Mayor's wits, Isabella, in offering thee as a prize to the Governor of the town. Excellent device, i'faith! The old burgher lord knew he could not keep thee, mad-cap wench as thou art, from a hated Hume's arms, unless he gave the Captain an interest as a _lover_ in guarding thee, like a piece of the old wall of Berwick." "And therein thou'rt well complimented," replied she; "for my father could not get, in all Berwick, a man that could keep me from thee, but he who guardeth town, and Mayor, and maiden together. Since the Governor, as a lover, got charge of me, I am more firmly caged than ever was the old countess, who was so long confined in the grated wing-cage of the old castle. When art thou to free me from the Governor's love and surveillance, good Patrick? If what I have now to tell thee hath no power to quicken thy wits and nerve thine arm, thou art indeed thyself no better than one of those stones, to which, in thy wit, thou hast likened me. Knowest that a day is fixed for Captain Wallace being my _legal_ governor?" "Ha!" cried Hume, in agitation. "This soundeth differently from the playful hammer of thy wit, Bell. What day is fixed? Thou hast fired me with high purposes." "How high tower they?" cried the maiden, laughing. "Do they reach thy former threat, to pull down the Newmilne dam-dike, and let _up_ the salmon, in revenge for the letting _down_ of the Mayor's daughter?" "Another time for thy wit, Bell," replied Patrick, in a more serious tone. "Thou hast put to flight my spirits. The grey owl Meditation is flapping his dingy wing over my heart. The time--the time--when is the day?" "This day se'ennight," answered Isabel. "Hush! hush! here cometh the Governor, blowing like a Tweedmouth grampus, fresh from the German Sea, in full run after a lady-fish of the queen of rivers." And now Hume heard the hoarse voice of the redoubted Governor, Captain Wallace--that fat overgrown _bellygerent_ son of Mars, so famous, in his day, for vaunting of feats of arms, at Bothwell, (where he never was,) over the Mayor's wine, and in presence of his fair daughter, whom he thus courted after the manner of the noble Moor, with a slight difference as to the truth of his feats scarce worth mentioning. It appeared to Hume, as he listened, that Wallace, and the Mayor, who was with him, had sallied out, after the fourth bottle, in search of Isabel--a suspicion verified by the speech of the warlike Captain. "Did I not tell thee, Mr Mayor," said the Governor, in a voice that reverberated among the walls, and fell distinctly on Hume's ear, "that she would be about the fortifications? Ha!--anything appertaining to war delighteth the fair creature as much as it did that rare author, Will Shakspeare's Desdemona. If I had been as black as the Moor--ay, or as the devil himself--my prowess at Bothwell would have given this person of mine, albeit somewhat enlarged, the properties of beauty in the eyes of noble-spirited women--so much do our bodies borrow from the qualities of our souls." "Where is she?" rejoined the Mayor. "I like not that love of the fortifications. It is the outside of the walls she loves. See, she flies, conscience-smitten. I like not this, my noble Captain--see, there is Patrick Hume beyond the wall, if thou hast courage, drive thy pike through that loop, and, peradventure, ye may blind a Hume for life." "I like to strike a man fair--body to body--as we did on the Bridge of Bothwell," responded the Captain. "Ha! ha! Give me the loop-hole of a good bilbo-thrust, out of which the soul wings its flight in a comfortable manner. Nevertheless, to please my noble friend the mayor, and to get quit of a rival, I may" (lowering his voice to a whisper) "as well kill him in the way thou hast propounded; but I assure thee, upon my honour, I would much rather have the fellow before me, without the intervention of these plaguey walls, that come thus in the way and march of one's valour. There goes!" On looking-up, Hume saw the Captain's bilbo thrusting manfully through the night air, as if it would pierce the night gnomes and spirits that love to hang over old battlements. Taking out his handkerchief, he wrapped it round his hand, and seizing the point of the sword, gave it a jerk, which (and the consequent terror) disengaged it from the hand of the pot-valiant hero of Bothwell. A shout of fear was heard from within. "Stop! stop! mine good Mr Mayor!" cried the Captain to the Mayor, who had begun to fly; "I do not see, as yet, any very great, that is, serious cause of apprehension; but, I forget, thou wert not at Bothwell. By my honour, I've done for him! He hath carried off my sword in his body. Was it Patrick Hume, saidst thou? Then is he dead as my grandmother, and no more shall he follow after my betrothed, or threaten thee with the downfall of the Newmilne dam-dike. All I sorrow for is my good sword, which, but for that accursed loop, I might have redrawn from his vile carcass, and thus saved my property at the same time that I gave the carrion crows of old Berwick a dinner." "Ah! but he's a devil that Hume," responded the Mayor. "Long has he hounded after my daughter Bell; and though it is now likely near an end with him, I should not like to come in the way of the dying tiger. Let us home." The sound of the retreating warriors brought back Hume to the loop-hole, to see if Isabel was still there, to whom he was anxious to propose a plan, whereby he might (with the gay romp's most cheerful good-will and hearty co-operation) carry her off from the contaminating embrace of the pot-valiant Governor, with whom she was to be wed on that day se'ennight. He waited a long time, but no Isabel came. He suspected that the Mayor, after having caught her speaking to him, (Hume,) his most inveterate foe, would, as he had often done before, lock her up, and set the noble Captain as a guard upon his lady-love. Cursing his unlucky fate, that brought them out to interrupt his converse with the mistress of his heart, and prevent the arrangement of an elopement, he bent the Captain's bilbo hilt to point till it rebounded with a loud twang, and stepping away up the Tweed, fell into a deep meditation as to the manner by which he should secure Isabel. As he went along, his eye fell upon that source of so much contention between the men of Berwick and the border barons, the dam-dike of the Newmilne, and against which the Lord Hume, as well as himself and many of the neighbouring knights and lairds, had vowed destruction. A thought flashed across his mind, and his eye sparkled in the moonbeam, as brightly as did the Captain's sword, which he still held in his hand. "I have hit it!" he cried, as he clapped his hand on his limb, and the sound echoed back from the mill-walls. "For spearing a salmon or a Southron, dissolving that old foolish tenure between a proprietor and his cattle, or cutting the tie of forced duty between a rich old Mayor and his daughter, where shall the bastard of Hume be equalled on the Borders? My fair Bell, thou wouldst spring with the elasticity of this bent blade, and dance like these moonbeams in the Tweed, if thou wert in the knowledge of this thought that now tickles the wild fancy of thy lover, whom thou equallest in all that belongest to the gay heart and the bounding spirit." Occupied with these thoughts, Patrick went home to the castle of the Humes; and, next morning, he bent his way to Foulden, where he sought Lord Ross's baillie, James Sinclair, a man who had a very hearty spite against the obstruction to the passage of the Tweed salmon. With him he communed for a considerable time, and thereafter he proceeded to Paxton and to others of the gentlemen in the vicinity. The subject of these interviews will perhaps best be explained by the following placard, which appeared in various parts of Berwick in two days thereafter:-- "On Friday last, the tenant of Newmilne, belonging to the toun of Baricke, gave information to our honourable Mayor, who has communicated the same to our gallant Governor, Captain Wallace, that the Lord Hume and other the Scotch gentlemen, our neighbours, do, on Monday next, intend to be at the Newmilne aforesaid, by tenn of the clock of the morninge; and that they had summoned their tenants to be then and there present, alsoe, to assist in the breaking downe and demolishing the dam of the said Newmilne; and that the Lord Ross his bailiffe of Foulden had given out in speeches, that he was desired to summon the said Lord Ross, his tenants, and inhabitants of Foulden barronry, to be then and there aiding and assisting them, alsoe, for better effecting the same: Whereupon, it is necessary, that, at a ringing of a belle, our tounsmen, headed by our Mayor, and directed by the warlike genius of Captain Wallace, should proceed to the said Newmilne, and give battle in defence of the said dike, which is indispensable to the existence of the toun's property. God save the Mayor!" The effect produced by this proclamation was rapid and stirring. The English, at that period, had contrived to raise a strong prejudice in the minds of the Berwick burghers against the Border Scots; and the intelligence that the daring robbers intended to demolish their property, inflamed them to the high point of resolution to fight under their valorous Captain, while one stone of the dike remained on another, and one drop of blood was left in their bodies. Hume, who had a greater part in the occasion of these preparations than had been made apparent, got secret intelligence, on all that was going on within the town; but none of his vigils at the loop-hole were rewarded with a sight of his spirited Isabel, who, he understood, had been confined in her father's house since the night on which she had been discovered upon the wall. Meanwhile, the preparations for the defence of the town's property proceeded; and, on the Monday morning, a bell, whose loud tongue spoke "war's alarums," sounded over town and walls, spreading fear among the timid, and rousing in the noble breasts of the valorous proud and swelling resolutions to give battle to the Border robbers, in the style of their ancestors. Ever since the first announcement, they had been drilled by the Captain, whose loud command of voice, proud bearing, bent back (bent in self-defence against the counterpoise of his stomach), and martial strut, filled them with great awe of his power, and great confidence in his abilities. Many hundred people, "on horse and foote," (we use the language of our old chronicle), "were gathered together, considerably armed with swordes, pistolles, firelocks, blunderbushes, foalingpieces, bowes and arrowes of the tyme of the first Edward, and uther powerful ammunition, fit to resist the ryot of the Scotch; and away they marched to the newe miln, with Mr Mayor and the Governor (a verrie terrible man of war--to be married the morn to the Mayor's dochter Isabel, if he come back with lyffe), and the sergeants with their halberts, and constables with their staves, going before them." In front, there was beat some thundering engines of warlike music, which was cut occasionally by sharp screams of small fifes, blown into by the burgher amateurs of that lively musical machine. Altogether, the cavalcade presented many appearances of a stern and warlike nature, which might well have prevented the Scotch raiders from proceeding with their felonious intention of driving down the obstruction to the salmon, and forced them to remain content with the angling of trout and parr. The "verrie sight" of the brave Wallace was deemed sufficient by those who followed him, "to put an end to the fraye before it was begunne." This extraordinary cavalcade was seen passing along the road by Patrick Hume, who had, with his companions, retired behind some brushwood, the better to enjoy the sight. The warriors passed on, and every now and then the loud voice of the captain was heard commanding and exhorting his troops to keep up their courage for the coming strife. When the last file was disappearing, Hume and his companions made the woods resound with a loud laugh, and, starting up, and crying, "For Berwick, ho!" they hurried away in the direction of the town, which the Governor, in his anxiety to form a large assemblage, had left without a guard. Meanwhile the burgher army pushed on for Newmilne; "and, when they came there," (says the chronicle), "they pitched their camp; and nae doubt butt they were well disciplined, seeing theye had the advantage of the Captain's training, with the great blessing attour of weapons suitable--viz., rusty ould swords and pistolles; and they continued about three or foure houres on the bankes and about the milne: still there was nae appearance of the Scotch coming to fecht with them." For a long time the Captain was solemn and quiet; but when it appeared that the Scots "were not to come to show fecht," he got as wordy as a blank-verse poet, and stood up in the face of a neighbouring wood, from which it was expected the enemy would emanate, and called upon the cowards (as he styled them) to come out "and dare to touche one stone of the milne dam-dike." "Did I not tell thee, Mr Mayor," he cried, "that I killed Patrick Hume? If not, where is he now, and he the Lord Ross of Foulden, and he of Paxton, and all the rest of the Border heroes? Come forth from thy wood recesses, if there be as much pluck in thee as will enable thee to meet the fire of the eye of the Governor of Berwick! Ha! ha! The rascals must have been at Bothwell, where, doubtless, they felt the pith of this arm. There goeth the disadvantage of bravery! The devil a man will encounter one whose name is terrible, and I fear I may never have the luxury of a good fight again. This day I expected to have fleshed my good sword. To-morrow is my wedding-day. How glorious would it have been to have made it also a day of victory! I could almost hack these unconscious trees for very spite, and to give my sword the exercise it lacketh." And he swung his falchion from side to side, cutting off the tops of the young firs, just as if they had been men's heads; but no Scotchman made his appearance. The whole bells of Berwick now began to swing and ring as if the town had been invaded; and messengers, breathless and panting, arrived at the camp, and communicated the intelligence that the Bastard of Hume had, with a body of men, got entrance to the Mayor's house, by shewing the guard the Governor's sword, and carried off Isabel, the Mayor's daughter, who was more willing to go than to stay. The route of the fugitives was distinctly laid down, and it was represented by the messengers that, by crossing over a couple of miles, they had every chance of overtaking them and reclaiming the disobedient maid. The recommendation was instantly seized by the distracted Mayor, and a shout of the burgher forces, and an accompanying peal from the drums and fifes, shewed the desire of the men to fulfil the wish of their master. The captain's spirit was changed. He burned to reclaim his bride; but he feared the Bastard of Hume, whose prowess was acknowledged far and wide from the Borders. Shame did what could not have been accomplished by love; and, putting himself, with a mock warlike air, at the head of the troops, away he posted as fast as sixteen stone of beef, penetrated by alternate currents of fear, shame, and valour, would permit. The musical instruments of war were hushed; and as the forces hurried on, panting and breathing, not a voice was heard but the occasional vaunts of the captain, who found it necessary to conceal his fear by these running shots of assumed valour. As fate would have it, the Berwickers came up with the Bastard's party, who, with the gay and laughing Isabel in the midst of them, were seated, as they thought securely, in the old Berwick wood, enjoying some wine, which she, with wise providence, had handed to one of the men as a refreshment when they should be beyond danger. The sounds of merriment struck on the ear of the invaders; they stopped, and thought it safer, in the first instance, to reconnoitre--a step highly eulogized by the Captain, who seemed to want breath as well from the toil of the chase as from some misgivings of his valour, which had come, like qualms of sickness, over his stout heart. "Ha! traitor!" cried the Mayor, "the device of sending us to Newmilne will not avail thee. Give me my daughter, traitor!" addressing himself to the Bastard, who stood now in the front of the party, all prepared for a tough defence. "In either of two events thou shalt have her," cried Hume--"if thou canst take her, or if she is willing to go with thee." "No, no!" cried the sprightly maid herself, coming boldly forward. "I love my father and the good citizens of Berwick, and none of them shall lose a drop of their blood for Isabel. If we are to have battle, let it be between the two lovers who claim my hand. By the honour of a Mayor's daughter, I shall be his who gaineth the day! Stand forward, Patrick Hume and Governor Wallace." "Bravo!" shouted the burghers, delighted with a scheme that smacked so sweetly of justice and safety. All eyes were now turned on the Captain; and Isabel, delighted with her scheme, was seen concealing her face with the corner of her cloak, to suppress her laughter. The Captain saw, however, neither justice nor safety in the scheme, and, edging near the Mayor, whispered into his ear his intention not to fight. Palpable indications of fear were escaping from his trembling limbs, and the hero of Bothwell was on the eve of being discovered. Hume was prepared--he stood, sword in hand, ready for the combat. "Come forward, Captain!" cried the Bastard. "Come forward!" resounded from Isabel, and a hundred voices of the burghers. "I am the Governor of Berwick," answered the hero, in a trembling voice, keeping the body of the Mayor between him and Hume. "As the servant of the King, I dare not" (panting) "run the risk of reducing my authority--by--by--engaging, I say, by committing myself in single combat, like a knight errant, for a runaway damsel. It comporteth not with my dignity--hegh--hegh--I say, I cannot come down from the height of my glory at Bothwell, by committing myself in a love brawl. But ye are my men--hegh--hegh--ye are bound to fight when I command. Do your duty--on, on, I say, to the rescue." "We want not the wench," responded many voices. "He that will not fight for his love, deserves to lose her for his cowardice." "Resign her, good Mayor," cried others. "Give the damsel her choice," added others. "Bravo, good fellows!" cried Bell, in the midst of her laughter; and a shout from Hume's men rewarded her spirit. The enthusiasm was caught by the Berwickers, some of whom, observing certain indications thrown out by Isabel, ran forward and got from her a flagon of good wine. The vessel was handed from one to another. "Hurra for Hume!" shouted the Berwickers. The tables were turned. All, to a man, were with Isabel and her partner. The Mayor had sense enough to see his position. In any way he was to lose his daughter, and he heartily despised the coward that would not fight for his love. "Hume," he cried, standing forward, "come hither; and, Isabel, approach the side of thy father." The laughing damsel ran forward, and, perceiving her absolute safety, flung herself on her father's neck, and hung there, amidst the continued shouts of the men. "Forgive me, forgive me, father!" cried she. "My choice is justified by my love, and the characters of my lovers. The one is a coward, the other a brave youth. Hume's intentions are honourable, and I may be the respected wife of one of noble blood." "I forgive thee, Bell," answered the father. And he took her hand and placed it in Hume's. "Come, Captain, forgive her too, and let us all be friends." He looked round for the Captain, and all the party looked also; but the hero was gone. He had mounted a white Rosinante, as thin as he was fat, and was busy striking her protruding bones with his sword, to propel her on to Berwick, where he thought he would be more safe than where he was. The figure he made in his retreat--his large swelled body on the lean jade, like a tun of wine on a gantress--his anxiety to get off--his receding position--his flight after such a day of vaunting--all conspired to render the sight ludicrous in the extreme. One general burst of laughter filled the air; but the Captain held on his course, and never stopped till he arrived at Berwick. That day Hume and Isabel were wed--and a happy day it was for the Berwickers; who, in place of fighting, were occupied in drinking the healths of the couple. The device of Hume, in sending them to the Newmilne, was admired for its ingenuity; and all Berwick rung with the praises of Hume and his fair spouse. Regular entries were made in the council books, of the expedition to the Newmilne, "where they braived the Scottes to come and fecht them, butte the cowardes never appeared." But it was deemed prudent to say nothing therein of Hume's trick, which, doubtless, might have reduced the amount of bravery which it was necessary should appear, for the honour of the town. END OF VOL. XVII. _Tubbs & Brook, Printers, Manchester._ +----------------------------------------------------------+ | | | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Inconsistencies and unexpected spelling, punctuation and | | hyphenation have been retained as they appear in the | | original book except: | | | | Page 31 through the intrumentality has been changed to | | through the instrumentality | | | | Page 43 and and unflinching opinion has been changed to | | and an unflinching opinion | | | +----------------------------------------------------------+ 
30711	----	Wilson's Tales of the Borders AND OF SCOTLAND. HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE. WITH A GLOSSARY. REVISED BY ALEXANDER LEIGHTON, _One of the Original Editors and Contributors._ VOL. II. LONDON: WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE, AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE. 1884. CONTENTS. A WIFE OR THE WUDDY, (_John Mackay Wilson_), 1 LORD DURIE AND CHRISTIE'S WILL, (_Alexander Leighton_), 33 RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS, (_Hugh Miller_), 65 THE PROFESSOR'S TALES (_Professor Thomas Gillespie_)-- THE CONVIVIALISTS, 122 PHILIPS GREY, 144 DONALD GORM, (_Alexander Campbell_), 155 THE SURGEON'S TALES, (_Alexander Leighton_)-- THE CURED INGRATE, 188 THE ADOPTED SON, (_John Mackay Wilson_), 220 THE FORTUNES OF WILLIAM WIGHTON, (_John Howell_), 247 MY BLACK COAT; OR, THE BREAKING OF THE BRIDE'S CHINA, (_John Mackay Wilson_), 276 WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND. THE WIFE OR THE WUDDY. "There was a criminal in a cart Agoing to be hanged-- Reprieve to him was granted; The crowd and cart did stand, To see if he would marry a wife, Or, otherwise, choose to die! 'Oh, why should I torment my life?' The victim did reply; 'The bargain's bad in every part-- But a wife's the worst!--drive on the cart.'" Honest Sir John Falstaff talketh of "minions of the moon;" and, truth to tell, two or three hundred years ago, nowhere was such an order of knighthood more prevalent than upon the Borders. Not only did the Scottish and English Borderers make their forays across the Tweed and the ideal line, but rival chieftains, though of the same nation, considered themselves at liberty to make inroads upon the property of each other. The laws of _meum_ and _tuum_ they were unable to comprehend. Theirs was the strong man's world, and with them _might_ was _right_. But to proceed with our story. About the beginning of the seventeenth century, one of the boldest knights upon the Borders was William Scott, the young laird of Harden. His favourite residence was Oakwood Tower, a place of great strength, situated on the banks of the Ettrick. The motto of his family was "_Reparabit cornua Phoebe_," which being interpreted by his countrymen, in their vernacular idiom, ran thus--"We'll hae moonlight again." Now, the young laird was one who considered it his chief honour to give effect to both the spirit and the letter of his family motto. Permitting us again to refer to honest Falstaff, it implied that they were "gentlemen of the night;" and he was not one who would loll upon his pillow when his "avocation" called him to the foray. It was drawing towards midnight, in the month of October, when the leaves in the forest had become brown and yellow, and with a hard sound rustled upon each other, that young Scott called together his retainers, and addressing them, said--"Look ye, friends, is it not a crying sin and a national shame to see things going aglee as they are doing? There seems hardly such a thing as manhood left upon the Borders. A bit scratch with a pen upon parchment is becoming of more effect than a stroke with the sword. A bairn now stands as good a chance to hold and to have, as an armed man that has a hand to take and to defend. Such a state o' things was only made for those who are ower lazy to ride by night, and ower cowardly to fight. Never shall it be said that I, William Scott of Harden, was one who either submitted or conformed to it. Give me the good, old, manly law, that 'they shall keep who can,' and wi' my honest sword will I maintain my right against every enemy. Now, there is our natural and lawful adversary, auld Sir Gideon Murray o' Elibank, carries his head as high as though he were first cousin to a king, or the sole lord o' Ettrick Forest. More than once has he slighted me in a way which it wasna for a Scott to bear; and weel do I ken that he has the will, and wants but the power, to harry us o' house and ha'. But, by my troth, he shall pay a dear reckoning for a' the insults he has offered to the Scotts o' Harden. Now, every Murray among them has a weel-stocked mailing, and their kine are weel-favoured; to-night the moon is laughing cannily through the clouds:--therefore, what say ye, neighbours--will ye ride wi' me to Elibank? and, before morning, every man o' them shall have a toom byre." "Hurra!" shouted they, "for the young laird! He is a true Scott from head to heel! Ride on, and we will follow ye! Hurra!--the moon glents ower the hills to guide us to the spoils o' Elibank! To-night we shall bring langsyne back again." There were twenty of them, stout and bold men, mounted upon light and active horses--some armed with firelocks, and others with Jeddart staves; while, in addition to such weapons, every man had a good sword by his side. At their head was the fearless young laird; and, at a brisk pace, they set off towards Elibank. Mothers and maidens ran to their cottage doors, and looked after them with foreboding hearts when they rode along; for it was a saying amongst them, that "when young Willie Scott o' Harden set his foot in the stirrup at night, there were to be swords drawn before morning." They knew, also, the feud between him and the house of Elibank, and as well did they know that the Murrays were a resolute and a sturdy race. Morn had not dawned when they arrived at the scene where their booty lay. Not a Murray was abroad; and to the extreme they carried the threat of the young laird into execution, of making "toom byres." By scores and by hundreds, they collected together, into one immense herd, horned cattle and sheep, and they drove them before them through the forest towards Oakwood Tower. The laird, in order to repel any rescue that might be attempted, brought up the rear, and, in the joy of his heart, he sang, and, at times, cried aloud, "There will be dry breakfasts in Elibank before the sun gets oot, but a merry meal at Oakwood afore he gangs doun. An entire bullock shall be roasted, and wives and bairns shall eat o' it." "I humbly beg your pardon, Maister William," said an old retainer, named Simon Scott, and who traced a distant relationship to the family; "I respectfully ask your pardon; but I have been in your faither's family for forty years, and never was backward in the hoor o' danger, or in a ploy like this; but ye will just alloo me to observe, sir, that wilfu' waste maks wofu' want, and I see nae occasion whatever for roasting a bullock. It would be as bad as oor neebors on the ither side o' the Tweed, wha are roast, roastin', or bakin' in the oven, every day o' the week, and makin' a stane weight o' meat no gang sae far as twa or three pounds wad hae dune. Therefore, sir, if ye will tak my advice, if we are to hae a feast, there will be nae roastin' in the way. There was a fine sharp frost the other nicht, and I observed the rime lying upon the kail; so that baith greens and savoys will be as tender as a weel-boiled three-month-auld chicken; and I say, therefore, let the beef be boiled, and let them hae ladlefu's o' kail, and ye will find, sir, that instead o' a hail bullock, even if ye intend to feast auld and young, male and female, upon the lands o' Oakwood, a quarter o' a bullock will be amply sufficient, and the rest can be sauted doun for winter's provisions. Ye ken, sir, that the Murrays winna let us lichtly slip for this nicht's wark; and it is aye safest, as the saying is, to lay by for a sair fit." "Well argued, good Simon," said the young laird; "but your economy is ill-timed. After a night's work such as this there is surely some licence for gilravishing. I say it--and who dare contradict me?--to-night there is not one belonging to the house of Harden, be they old or young, who shall not eat of roast meat, and drink of the best." "Weel, sir," replied Simon, "wi' reverence be it spoken, but I would beg to say that ye are wrang. Folk that ance get a liking for dainties tak ill wi' plainer fare again; and, moreover, sir, in a' my experience, I never kenned dainty bits and hardihood to go hand in hand; but, on the contrary, luxuries mak men effeminate, and discontented into the bargain." The altercation between the old retainer and his young master ran farther; but it was suddenly interrupted by the deep-mouthed baying of a sleuth-hound; and its threatening howls were followed by a loud cry, as if from fifty voices, of--"To-night for Sir Gideon and the house of Elibank!" But here we pause to say that Sir Gideon Murray of Elibank was a man whose name was a sound of terror to all who were his enemies. As a foe, he was fierce, resolute, unforgiving. He had never been known to turn his back upon a foe, or forgive an injury. He knew the meaning of justice in its severest sense, but not of compassion; he was a stranger to the attribute of mercy, and the life of the man who had injured him, he regarded as little as the life of the worm which he might tread beneath his heel upon his path. He was a man of middle age; and had three daughters, none of whom were what the world calls beautiful; but, on the contrary, they were what even the dependents upon his estates described as "very ordinary-looking young women." Such was Sir Gideon Murray of Elibank; and, although the young laird of Harden conceived that he had come upon him as "a thief in the night"--and some of my readers, from the transaction recorded, may be somewhat apt to take the scriptural quotation in a literal sense--yet I would say, as old Satchel sings of the Borderers of those days, they were men-- "Somewhat unruly, and very ill to tame. I would have none think that I call them thieves; For, if I did, it would be arrant lies." But, stealthily as the young master of Harden had made his preparations for the foray, old Sir Gideon had got timely notice of it; and hence it was, that not a Murray seemed astir when they took the cattle from the byres, and drove them towards Oakwood. But, through the moonlight, there were eyes beheld every step they took--their every movement was watched and traced; and amongst those who watched was the stern old knight, with fifty followers at his back. "Quiet! quiet!" he again and again, in deep murmurs, uttered to his dependents, throwing back his hand, and speaking in a deep and earnest whisper, that awed even the slow but ferocious sleuth-hound that accompanied them, and caused it to crouch back to his feet. In a yet deeper whisper, he added, encouragingly--"Patience, my merry men!--bide your time!--ye shall hae work before long go by." When, therefore, the young laird and his followers began to disperse in the thickest of the forest, as they drove the cattle before them, Sir Gideon suddenly exclaimed--"Now for the onset!" And, at the sound of his voice, the sleuth-hound howled loud and savagely. "We are followed!--Halt! halt!--to arms! to arms!" cried the heir of Harden. Three or four were left in charge of the now somewhat scattered herd of cattle, and to drive them to a distance; while the rest of the party spurred back their horses as rapidly as the tangled pass in the forest would permit, to the spot from whence the voice of their young leader proceeded. They arrived speedily, but they arrived too late. In a moment, and with no signal save the baying of the hound, old Sir Gideon and his armed company had burst upon young Scott and Old Simon, and ere the former could cry for assistance, they had surrounded them. "Willie Scott! ye rash laddie!" cried Sir Gideon--"yield quietly, or a thief's death shall ye die; and in the very forest through which ye have this night driven my cattle, the corbies and you shall become acquaint--or, at least, if ye see not them, they shall see you and feel you too." "Brag on, ye auld greybeard," exclaimed the youth; "but while a Scott o' Harden has a finger to wag, no power on earth shall make his tongue say 'I am conquered!' So come on!--do your best--do your worst--here is the hand and the sword to meet ye!--and were ye ten to one, ye shall find that Willie Scott isna the lad to turn his back, though ten full-grown Murrays stand before his face." "By my sooth, then, callant," cried the old knight, "and it was small mercy, after what ye hae done, that I intended to show ye; and after what ye hae said, it shall be less that I will grant ye. Sae come on lads, and now to humble the Hardens." "Arm! every Scott to arms!" again shouted the young laird; "and now, Sir Gideon, if ye will measure weapons, and leave your _weel-faured_ daughters as a legacy to the world, be it sae. But there are lads among your clan o' whom they would hae been glad, and who, belike in _pity_, might hae offered them their hands, but who will this night mak a bride o' the green sward! Sae come on, Sir Gideon, and on you and yours be the consequence!" "Before sunrise," returned Sir Gideon, "and the winsome laird o' Harden shall boast less vauntingly, and rue that he had broke his jeers upon an auld man. Touch me, sir, but not my bairns." The conflict began, and on each side the strife was bloody and desperate. Bold men grasped each other by the throat, and they held their swords to each other's breasts, scowling one upon another with the ferocity of contending tigers, ere each gave the deadly plunge which was to hurl both into eternity. The report of fire-arms, the clash of swords, the clang of shields, with the neighing of maddened horses, the lowing of affrighted cattle, the howl of the sleuth-hounds, and the angry voices of fierce men, mingled wildly together, and, in one fearful and discordant echo, rang through the forest. This wild sound was followed by the low melancholy groans of the dying. But, as I have already stated, the Scotts, and the cattle which they drove before them, were scattered, and ere those who were in advance could arrive to the rescue of their friends in the rear, the latter were slain, wounded, or overpowered. They also fought against fearful odds. The young laird himself had his sword broken in his grasp, and his horse was struck dead beneath him. He was instantly surrounded and made prisoner by the Murrays; and, at the same time, old Simon fell into their hands. The few remaining retainers of the house of Harden gave way when they found their leader a captive, and they fled, leaving the cattle behind them. Sir Gideon Murray, therefore, recovered all that had been taken from him; and though he had captured but two prisoners, the one was the chief, and the other his principal adviser and second in command. The old knight, therefore, commanded that they should be bound with cords together, and in such rueful plight led to his castle at Elibank. It was noon before they reached it, and Lady Murray came forth to welcome her husband, and congratulate him upon his success. But when she beheld the heir of Harden a captive, and thought of how little mercy was to be expected from Sir Gideon when once aroused, she remembered that she was a mother, and that one of her children might one day be situated as their prisoner then was. The young laird, with his aged kinsman and dependent, were thrust into a dark room; and he who locked them up informed them that the next day their bodies would be hung up on the nearest tree. "My life and lang fasting!" exclaimed Simon, "ye surely wouldna be speaking o' sic a thing as hanging to an auld man like me. If we were to be shot or beheaded--though I would like neither the ane nor the ither--it wouldna be a thing in particular to be complained o'; but to be hanged like a dog is so disgracefu' and unchristian-like, that I would rather die ten times in a day, than feel a hempen cravat about my neck ance. And, moreover, I must say that hanging is not treating my dear young maister and kinsman as he ocht to be treated. His birth, his rank, and the memory o' his ancestors and mine, demand mair respect; and therefore, I say, gae tell your maister, that, if he is determined that we are to die--though I have no ambition to cut my breath before my time--that I think, as a gentleman, it is his duty to see that we die the death o' gentlemen. "Silence, Simon," cried the young laird; "let Murray hang us in his bedchamber if he will. No matter what manner o' death we die, provided only that we die like men. Let him hang us if he dare, and the disgrace be his that is coward enough so to make an end of his enemy. "O sir," said Simon, "but that is poor comfort to a man that has to leave a small family behind him. "Simon! are you afraid to die?" cried the captive laird, in a tone of rebuke. "No, your honour," said Simon--"that is, I am no more afraid to die than other men are, or ought to be--but only ye'll observe, sir, that I have no ambition--not, as I may say, to draw my last breath upon a wuddy, but to have it very unnaturally stopped. Begging your pardon, but you are a young man, while I have a wife and family that would be left to mourn for me!--and O sir! the wife and the bits o' bairns press unco sairly upon a man's heart, when death tries to come in the way between him and them. In exploits like that in which we were last night engaged, and also in battles abroad, I have faced danger in every shape a hundred times--yet, sir, to be shot in a moment, as it were, or to be run through the body, and to die honourably on the field, is a very different thing from deliberately walking up a ladder to the branch o' a tree, from which we are never to come doun in life again. And mair than that, if we had been o' Johnny Faa's gang, they couldna hae treated us mair disrespectfully than to condemn us to the death that they have decreed for us." "Providing ye die bravely, Simon," said the young laird, "it is little matter what manner o' death ye die; and as for your wife and weans, fear not; my faither's house will provide for them. For, though I fall now, there will be other heirs left to the estate o' Harden." While the prisoners thus conversed in the place of their confinement, Lady Murray spoke unto her husband, saying--"And what, Sir Gideon, if it be a fair question, may ye intend to do wi' the braw young laird o' Harden, now that he is in your power?" He drew her gently by the arm towards the window, and pointing towards a tree which grew at the distance of a few yards, he said--"Do ye see yonder branch o' the elm tree that is waving in the wind? To-morrow, young Scott and his kinsman shall swing there together, or hereafter say that I am no Murray." "O guidman!" said she, "it is because I was terrified that ye would be doing the like o' that, that caused me to ask the question. Now, I must say, Sir Gideon, whatever ye may think, that ye are not only acting cruelly, but foolishly." "I care naething about the cruelty," cried he; "what mercy did ever a Scott among them show to me or to mine? Lady Murray, the ball is at my foot, and I will kick it, though I deprive Scott o' Harden o' a head. And what mean ye, dame, by saying I act foolishly?" "Only this, guidman," said she--"that ye hae three daughters to marry, whom the world doesna consider to be ower weel-faured, and it isna every day that ye hae a husband for ane o' them in your hand." "Sooth!" cried he, "and for once in your life ye are right, guidwife--there is mair wisdom in that remark than I would hae gien ye credit for. To-morrow, the birkie o' Harden shall have his choice--either upon the instant to marry our daughter, Meikle-mouthed Meg, or strap for it." "Weel, Sir Gideon," added she, "to make him marry Meg will be mair purpose-like than to cut off the head and the hope of an auld house, in the very flower o' his youth; and there is nae doubt as to the choice he will mak, for there is an unco difference between them." "Dinna be ower sure," continued the knight; "there is nae saying what his choice may be. There is both pluck and a spirit o' contradiction in the callant, and I wouldna be in the least surprised if he preferred the wuddy. I ken, had I been in his place, what my choice would hae been." "I daresay, Sir Gideon," replied the old lady, who was jocose at the idea of seeing one of her daughters wed, "I daresay I could guess what that choice would hae been." "And what, in your wisdom," said he sharply, "do ye think it would hae been--the wife or the wuddy?" "O Gideon! Gideon!" said she, good-humouredly, and shaking her head, "weel do ye ken that your choice would hae been a wife." "There ye are wrang," cried he; "I would rather die a death that was before me, than marry a wife I had never seen. But go ye and prepare Meg for becoming a bride the morn, and I shall see what the intended bridegroom says to the proposal." In obedience to his commands, she went to an apartment in which their eldest daughter Agnes, but commonly called "Meikle-mouthed Meg," then sat, twirling a distaff. The old dame sat down by her daughter's side, and, after a few observations respecting the weather, and the quality of the lint she was then torturing into threads, she said--"Weel, I'm just thinking, Meggie, that ye mak me an auld woman. Ye would be six-and-twenty past at last Lammas." "So I believe, mother!" said Meggie; and a sigh, or a very deep and long-drawn breath, followed her words. "Dear me!" continued the old lady, "young men maun be growing very scarce. I wanted four months and five days o' being nineteen when I married your faither, and I had refused at least six offers before I took him!" "Ay, mother," replied the maiden; "but ye had a weel-faured face--there lay the difference! Heigho!" "Heigho!" responded her mother, as in pleasant raillery--"what is the lassie heighoing at? Certes, if ye get a guidman before ye be six and twenty, ye may think yoursel' a very fortunate woman." "Yes," added the maiden; "but I see sma' prospect o' that. I doubt ye will see the Ettrick running through the 'dowie dells o' Yarrow,' before ye hear tell o' an offer being made to me." "Hoot, hoot!--dinna say sae, bairn," added her mother; "there is nae saying what may betide ye yet. Ye think ye winna be married before ye are six and twenty; but, truly, my dear, there has mony a mair unlikely ship come to land. Now, what wad ye think o' the young laird o' Harden?" "Mother! mother!" said Agnes, "wherefore do ye mock me? I never saw ye do that before. My faither has ta'en William Scott a prisoner; and, from what I hae heard, he will hang him in the morning. Ye ken what a man my faither is--when he says a thing he will do it; and how can you jest about the young man, when his very existence is reduced to a matter o' minutes and moments. Though, rather than my faither should tak his life, if I could save him, he should take mine." "Weel said, my bairn," replied the old woman; "but dinna ye be put about concerning what will never come to pass. I doubtna that, before morning, ye will find young Scott o' Harden at your feet, and begging o' you to save his life, by giving him your hand and troth, and becoming his wife: and then, ye ken, your faither couldna, for shame, hang or do ony harm to his ain son-in-law." "O mother! mother!" replied Agnes, "it will never be in my power to save him; for what ye hae said he will never think o'; and even if I were his wife, I question if my faither would pardon him, though I should beg it upon my knees." "Oh, your faither's no sae ill as that, Meggie, my doo," said the old lady. "Mark my words--if Willie Scott consent to marry you, ye will henceforth find him and your faither hand and glove." While this conversation between Lady Murray and her daughter took place, Sir Gideon entered the room where his prisoners were confined, and, addressing the young laird, said--"Now, ye rank marauder, though death is the very least that ye deserve or can expect from my hands, yet I will gie ye a chance for your life, and ye shall choose between a wife and the wuddy. To-morrow morning, ye shall either marry my daughter Meg, or swing from the branch o' the nearest tree, and the bauldest Scott upon the Borders shanna tak ye down, until ye drop away, bone by bone, a fleshless skeleton." "Good save us! most honourable and good Sir Gideon!" suddenly interrupted Simon, in a tone which bespoke his horror; "but ye certainly dinna intend to make an anatomy o' me too; or surely, when my honoured maister marries Miss Murray (as I hope and trust he will), ye will alloo me to dance at their wedding, instead o' dancing in the air, and keeping time to the music o' the soughing wind. And, O maister! for my sake, for your ain sake, and especially out o' regard to my sma' and helpless family, consent to marry the lassie, though she isna extraordinar' weel-faured; for I am sure that, rather than die a dog's death, swinging from a tree, I would marry twenty wives, though they were a' as auld as the hills, as ugly as a starless midnicht, and had tongues like trumpets." "Peace, Simon!" cried the young laird, impatiently; "if ye hae turned coward, keep the sound o' yer fears within yer ain teeth. And ye, Sir Gideon," added he, turning towards the old knight, "in your amazing mercy and generosity, would spare my life, upon condition that I should marry your _bonny_ daughter Meg! Look ye, sir--I am Scott o' Harden, and ye are Murray o' Elibank; there is no love lost between us; chance has placed my life in your hands--take it, for I wouldna marry your daughter though ye should gie me life, and a' the lands o' Elibank into the bargain. I fear as little to meet death as I do to tell you to your teeth that, had ye fallen into my hands, I would have hung ye wi' as little ceremony as I would bring a whip across the back o' a disobedient hound. Therefore, ye are welcome to do the same by me. Ye have taken what ye thought to be a sure mode o' getting a husband for ane o' your _winsome_ daughters; but, in the present instance, it has proved a wrong one, auld man. Do your worst, and there will be Scotts enow left to revenge the death o' the laird o' Harden." "There, then, is my thumb, young braggart," exclaimed Sir Gideon, "that I winna hinder ye in your choice; for to-morrow ye shall be exalted as Haman was; and let those revenge your death who dare." "Maister!--dear maister!" cried Simon, wringing his hands, "will ye sacrifice me also, and break the hearts o' my puir wife and family! O sir, accept o' Sir Gideon's proposal, and marry his dochter." "Silence! ye milk-livered slave!" cried the young laird. "Do ye pretend to bear the name o' Scott, and yet tremble like an ash leaf at the thought o' death!" "Ye will excuse me, sir," retorted Simon, "but I tremble at no such thing; only, as I have already remarked, I have no particular ambition for being honoured wi' the exaltation o' the halter; and, moreover, I see no cause why a man should die unnecessarily, or where death can be avoided. Sir Gideon," added he, "humble prisoner as I at this moment am, and in your power, I leave it to you if ever ye saw ony thing in my conduct in the field o' battle (and ye have seen me there) that could justify ony ane in calling me either milk-livered or a coward? But, sir, I consider it would be altogether unjustifiable to deprive ane o' life, which is always precious, merely because my maister is stubborn, and winna marry your daughter. But, oh, sir, I am not a very auld man yet, and if ye will set me at liberty, though I am now a married man, in the event o' my ever becoming a widower, I gie ye my solemn promise that I will marry ony o' your dochters that ye please!" "Audacious idiot!" exclaimed the old knight, raising his hand and striking poor Simon to the ground. "Sir Gideon Murray!" cried the young laird fiercely, "are ye such a base knave as to strike a fettered prisoner! Shame fa' ye, man! where is the pride o' the Murrays now?" Sir Gideon evidently felt the rebuke, and, withdrawing from the apartment, said, as he departed--"Remember that when the sun-dial shall to-morrow note the hour of twelve, so surely shall ye be brought forth--and a wife shall be your lot, or the wuddy your doom." "Leave me!" cried the youth impatiently, "and the gallows be it--my choice is made. Till my last hour trouble me not again." "Sir! sir!" cried Simon, "I beg, I pray that ye will alter your determination. There is surely naething so awful in the idea o' marriage, even though your wife should have a face not particularly weel-favoured. Ye dinna ken, sir, but that the young woman's looks are her worst fault; and, indeed, I hae heard her spoken o' as a lassie o' great sense and discretion, and as having an excellent temper; and, oh, sir, if ye kenned as weel what it is to be married as I do, ye would think that a good temper was a recommendation far before beauty." "Hold thy fool's tongue, Simon," cried the laird; "would ye disgrace the family wi' which ye make it your boast to be connected, when in the power and presence o' its enemies? Do as ye see me do--die and defy them." It was drawing towards midnight, when the prison-door was opened, and the sentinel who stood watch over it admitted a female dressed as a domestic. "What want ye, or whom seek ye, maiden?" inquired the laird. "I come," answered she mildly, "to speak wi' the laird o' Harden, and to ask if he has any dying commands that a poor lassie could fulfil for him." "Dying commands!" responded Simon; "oh, are those no awful words!--and can ye still be foolhardy enough to say ye winna marry?" "Who sent ye, maiden?--or who are ye?" continued the laird. "A despised lassie, sir," answered she, "and an attendant upon Sir Gideon's lady, in whom ye hae a true and steadfast friend; though I doubt that, as ye hae refused poor Meg, her intercession will avail ye little." "And wherefore has Lady Murray sent you here?" he continued. "Just, sir, because she is a mother, and has a mother's heart; and, as ye hae a mother and sisters who will now be mourning for ye at Oakwood, she thought that, belike, ye would hae something to say that ye would wish to hae communicated to them; and, if it be sae, I am come to offer to be your messenger." "Maiden!" said he, with emotion, "speak not of my poor mother, or you will unman me, and I would wish to die as becomes my father's son." "That's right, hinny," whispered Simon; "speak to him about his mother again--talk about her sorrow, poor lady, and her tears, and distraction, and mourning--and I hae little doubt but that we shall get him to marry Meg, or do onything else, and I shall get back to my family after a'." "What is it that ye whisper, Simon, in the maiden's ear?" inquired the laird, sternly. "Oh, naething, sir--naething, I assure ye," answered Simon, falteringly; "I was only saying that, if ye sent her ower to Oakwood wi' a message to your poor, honoured, wretched mother, that she would inquire for my poor widow, Janet, and my bits o' bairns, and that she would tell them that nothing troubled me upon my death-bed--no, no, not my death-bed, but--I declare I am ashamed to think o't!--I was saying that I was simply telling her to inform my wife and bairns, that nothing distracted me in the hour o' death but the thought o' being parted from them." Without noticing the evasive reply of his dependent and fellow-prisoner, the laird, addressing the intruder, said--"Ye speak as a kind and considerate lassie. I would like to send a scrape o' a pen to my poor mother, and, if ye will be its bearer, she will reward ye." "And, belike," she replied, "ye would like to hear if the good lady has an answer back, or to learn how she bore the tidings o' your unhappy fate." "Before you could return," said he, "the time appointed by my adversary for my execution will be past, and I shall feel for my mother's sorrows with the sympathy of a disembodied spirit." "But," added she, "if you would like to hear from your poor mother, or, belike, to see her--for there may be family matters that ye would wish to have arranged--I think, through the influence of my lady, Sir Gideon could be prevailed upon to grant ye a respite for three or four days; and, as he isna a man that keeps his passion long, perhaps by that time he may be disposed to save your life upon terms that would be more acceptable." "No, maiden," he replied; "he is my enemy; and from him I wish no terms--no clemency. Let him fulfil his purpose--I will die; but my death shall be revenged; and tell my mother that it was my latest injunction that she should command every follower of our house to avenge her son's death, while there is a Murray left in all Scotland to repent the deed o' the knight o' Elibank." "Oh, sweet young ma'am, or mistress!" cried Simon; "bear the lady no such message; but rather, as ye hae said, try if it be possible to get your own good lady to persuade Sir Gideon to spare our lives for a few days; and, as ye say, the edge o' the auld knight's revenge may be blunted by that time, or, perhaps, my worthy young maister may be brought to see things in a clearer light, and, perhaps, to marry Miss Margaret, by which means our lives may be spared. For it is certainly the height o' madness in him to sacrifice my life and his own, rather than marry her before he has seen her." "Simon," interrupted the laird, "the maiden has spoken kindly; let her endeavour to procure a respite--a reprieve for you. In your death my enemy can have no gratification; but for me--leave me to myself." "O sir," replied Simon, "ye wrong me--ye mistake my meaning a'thegither. If you are to die, I will die also; but do ye no think it would be as valorous, and mair rational, at least to see and hear the young leddy before ye determine to die rather than to marry her?" "And hae ye," said the maiden, addressing the laird, "preferred the gallows to poor Meg without even seeing her?" "If I haena seen her I hae heard o' her," said he; "and by all accounts her countenance isna ane that ony man would desire to see accompanying him through the world like a shadow at his oxter." "Belike," said the maiden, "she has been represented to you worse than she looks like--if ye saw her, ye might change your opinion; and, perhaps, after a', that she isna bonny is a' that any one can say against her." "Wheesht, lassie!" said he; "I winna be forced to onything. A Scott may be led, but he winna drive. I have nae wish to see the face o' your young mistress, for I winna hae her. But you speak as one that has a feeling heart, and before I trust ye wi' my last letter to my poor mother, I should like to have a glance at your face, and by your countenance I shall judge whether or not it will be safe to trust ye." "I doubt, sir," replied she, throwing back the hood that covered her head, "ye will see as little in my features as ye expect to find in my young mistress's to recommend me; but, sir, you ought to remember that jewels are often encrusted in coarser metals, and ye will often find a delicious kernel within an unsightly shell." "Ye speak sweetly, and as sensibly as sweet," said he, raising the flickering lamp, which burned before them upon a small table, and gazing upon her countenance; "and I will now tell ye, lassie, that if your features be not beautiful, there is honesty and kindliness written upon every line o' them; and though ye are a dependent in the house o' my enemy, I will trust ye. Try if I can obtain writing materials to address a few lines to my mother, and I will confide in you to deliver them." "Ye may confide in me," rejoined she, "and the writing materials which ye desire I hae brought wi' me. Write, and not only shall your letter be faithfully delivered, but, as ye hae confided in me, I will venture to say that your life shall be spared until ye receive her answer; for I may say that what I request, Lady Murray will try to see performed. And if I can find any means in my power by which ye can escape, it shall not be lang that ye will remain a prisoner." "Thank ye!--doubly thank ye!" cried Simon; "ye are a good and a kind creature; and though my maister refuses to marry your mistress, yet, had I been single, I would hae married you. But, oh, when ye go wi' the letter to his mother, my honoured lady, will ye just go away down to a bit white house which lies by the river side, about a mile and a half aboon Selkirk, and there ye will find my poor wife and bairns--or rather, I should say, my unhappy widow and my orphans--and tell them--oh, tell my wife--that I never kenned how dear she was to me till now; but that, if she marries again, my ghost will haunt her night and day; and tell also the bairns that, above everything, I charge them to be good to their mother." The young laird sat down, and, writing a letter to his mother, intrusted it to the hands of the stranger girl. He raised her hand to his lips as she withdrew, and a tear trickled down his cheeks as he thanked her. It was early on the following morning that Meikle-mouthed Meg, as she was called, requested an interview with her father, which being granted, after respectfully rendering obeisance before him, she said--"So, faither, I understand that it is your pleasure that I shall this day become the wife o' young Scott o' Harden. I think, sir, that it is due to the daughter o' a Murray o' Elibank, that she should be courted before she gies her hand. The young man has never seen me; he kens naething concerning me; an' never will yer dochter disgrace ye by gieing her hand to a man who only accepted it to save his neck from a hempen cord. Faither, if it be your command that I am to marry him, I will an' must marry him; but, before I just make a venture upon him for better for worse, an' for life, I wad like to hae some sma' acquaintance wi' him, to see what sort o' a lad he is, and what kind o' temper he has; and therefore, faither, I humbly crave that ye will put off the death or the marriage for a week at least, that I may hae an opportunity o' judging for mysel' how far it would be prudent or becoming in me to consent to be his wife." "Gie me your hand, Meg," cried the old knight; "I didna think ye had as muckle spirit and gumption in ye as to say what ye hae said. But your request is useless; for he has already, point blank, refused to hae ye; an' there is naething left for him, but, before sunset, to strike his heels against the bark o' the auld elm tree." "Say not that, faither," said she--"let me at least hae four days to become acquainted wi' him; and if in that time he doesna mak a request to you to marry me without ony dowry, then will I say that I look even waur than I get the name o' doing." "He shall have four days, Meg," cried the old knight; "for your sake he will have them; but if, at the end o' four days, he shall refuse to take ye, he shall hang before this window, and his poor half-crazed companion shall bear him company." With this assurance Agnes, or, as she was called, Meg left her father, and bethought her of how she might save the prisoners and secure a husband. The mother of the laird sat in the midst of her daughters, mourning for him, and looking from the window of the tower, as though, in every form that appeared in the distance, she expected to see him, or at least to gather tidings regarding him, when information was brought to her that he was the prisoner of Murray of Elibank. "Then," cried she, and wept, "the days o' my winsome Willie are numbered, and his death is determined on; for often has Sir Gideon declared he would gie a' the lands o' Elibank for his head. My Willie is my only son, my first-born, and my heart's hope and treasure; and, oh, if I lose him now, if I shall never again hear his kindly voice say '_mother_!' nor stroke down his yellow hair--wi' him that has made me sonless I shall hae a day o' lang and fearfu' reckoning; cauld shall be the hearth-stane in the house o' many a Murray, and loud their lamentation." Her daughters wept with her for their brother's fate; but they wist not how to comfort her; and, while they sat mingling their tears together, it was announced to them that a humble maiden, bearing a message from the captive laird, desired to speak with her. "Show her in!--take me to her!" cried the mother, impatiently. "Where is she?--what does she say?--or what does my Willie say?" And the maiden who has been mentioned as having visited the laird in his prison, was ushered into her presence. "Come to me, lassie--come and tell me a'," cried the old lady; "what message does Willie Scott send to his heart-broken mother?" "He has sent you this bit packet, ma'am," replied the bearer; "and I shall be right glad to take back to him whatever answer ye may hae to send." "And wha are ye, young woman?" inquired the lady, "that speaks sae kindly to a mother, an' takes an interest in the fate o' my Willie?" "A despised lassie," was the reply; "but ane that would risk her ain life to save either yours or his." "Bless you for the words!" replied Lady Scott, as she broke the seal of her son's letter, and read:-- "My mother, my honoured mother,--Fate has delivered me into the power of Murray of Elibank, the enemy of our house. He has doomed me to death, and I die to-morrow; but sit not down to mourn for me, and uselessly to wring the hands and tear the hair; but rouse every Scott upon the Borders to rise up and be my avenger. If ye bewail the loss o' a son, let them spare o' the Murrays neither son nor daughter. Rouse ye, and let a mother's vengeance nerve your arm! Poor Simon o' Yarrow-foot is to be my companion in death, and he whines to meet his fate with the weakness of a woman, and yearns a perpetual yearning for his wife and bairns. On that account I forgie him the want o' heart and determination which he manifests; but see ye to them, and take care that they be provided for. As for me, I shall meet my doom wi' disdain for my enemy in my eyes and on my tongue. Even in death he shall feel that I despise him; and a proof o' this I have given him already; for he has offered to save my life, providing I would marry his daughter, Meikle-mouthed Meg. But I have scorned his proposal."---- "Ye were right, Willie! ye were right, lad!" exclaimed his mother, while the letter shook in her hand; but, suddenly bursting into tears, she continued--"No, no! my bairn was wrong--very wrong. Life is precious, and at all times desirable; and, for his poor mother's sake, he ought to have married the lassie, whate'er she may be like." And, turning to the bearer of the letter, she inquired--"And what like may the leddy be, the marrying o' whom would save my Willie's life?" "Ye have nae doubt heard, my leddy," replied the stranger, "that she isna what the world considers to be a likely lass--though, take her as she is, and ye might find a hantle worse wives than poor Meg would make; and, as to her features, I may say that she looks much the same as I do; and if she doesna appear better, she at least doesna look ony waur." "Then, if she be as ye say, and look as ye say," continued the lady, "my poor headstrong Willie ought to marry her. But, oh! weel do I ken that in everything he is just his father ower again, and ye might as weel think o' moving the Eildon hills as force him to onything." She perused the concluding part o' her son's letter, in which he spoke enthusiastically of the kindness shown him by the fair messenger, and of the promise she had made to liberate him if possible. "And if she does," he added, "whatever be her parentage, on the day that I should be free, she should be my wife, though I have preferred death to the hand o' Sir Gideon's _comely_ daughter." "Lassie," said the lady, weeping as she spoke, "my poor Willie talks a deal o' the kindness ye have shown him in the hour o' his distress, and for that kindness his mother's heart thanks ye. But do you not think that it is possible that I could accompany ye to Elibank? and, if ye can devise no means for him to escape, perhaps, if ye could get me admitted into his presence, when he saw his poor distressed mother upon her knees before him, his heart would saften, and he would marry Sir Gideon's daughter, ill-featured though she may be." "My leddy," answered the stranger maiden, "it is little that I can promise, and less that I can do; but if ye desire to see yer son, I think I could answer for accomplishing yer request; an' though nae guid micht come oot o't, I could also say that I wad see ye safe back again." Within an hour, Lady Scott, disguised as a peasant, and carrying a basket on her arm, set out for Elibank, accompanied by the fair stranger. Leaving them upon their melancholy journey, we shall return to the young laird. From the windows of his prison-house, he beheld the sun rise which was to be the last on which he was to look. He heard the sentinels, who kept watch over him, relieve each other; he heard them pacing to and fro before the grated door, and as the sun rose towards the south, proclaiming the approach of noon, the agitation of Simon increased. He sat in a corner of the prison, and strove to pray; and, as the footsteps of the sentinels quickened, he groaned in the bitterness of his spirit. At length the loud booming of the gong announced that the dial-plate upon the turret marked the hour of twelve. Simon clasped his hands together. "Maister! maister!" he cried, "our hour is come, an' one word from yer lips could save us baith, an' ye winna speak it. The very holding oot o' yer hand could do it, but ye are stubborn even unto death." "Simon," said the laird, "I hae left it as an injunction upon my mother, that yer wife an' weans be provided for--she will fulfil my request. Therefore, be ye content. Die like a man, an' dinna disgrace both yourself an' me." "O sir! I winna disgrace, or in any manner dishonour ye," said Simon--"only I do not see the smallest necessity for us to die, and especially when both our lives could be saved by yer doing yerself a good turn." While he spoke, the sound of the sentinels' footsteps, pacing to and fro, ceased. The prison-door was opened; Simon fell upon his knees--the laird looked towards the intruder proudly. "Your lives are spared for another day," said a voice, "that the laird o' Harden may have time to reflect upon the proposal that has been made to him. But let him not hope that he will find mercy upon other terms; or that, refusing them for another day, his life will be prolonged." The door was again closed, and the bolts were drawn. The spirit of Sir Gideon was too proud and impatient to spare the lives of his prisoners for four days, as he had promised to his daughter to do, and he now resolved that they should die upon the following day. The sun had again set, and the dim lamp shed around its fitful and shadowy lights from the table of the prison-room, when the maiden, who had carried the letter to the laird's mother, again entered. "This is kind, very kind, gentle maiden," said he; "would that I could reward ye! An' hoo fares it with my puir mother?--what answer does she send?" "An' oh, ma'am, or mistress!" cried Simon, "hoo fares it wi' my dear wife an' bairns? I hope ye told them all that I desired ye to say. Hoo did she bear the news o' being made a widow? An' what did she say to my injunction that she was never to marry again?" "Ye talk wildly, man," said the maiden, addressing Simon; "it wasna in my power to carry yer commands to yer wife; but, I trust, it will be longer than ye expect before she will be a widow, or hae it in her power to marry again." "O ye angel! ye perfect picture!" cried Simon, "what is that which I hear ye say? Do ye really mean to tell me that I stand a chance o' being saved, an' that I shall see my wife an' bairns again?" "Even so," said she; "but whether ye do or do not, rests with yer master." "Speak not o' that, sweet maiden," said the laird; "but tell me, what says my mother? How does she bear the fate o' her son; an' hoo does she promise to avenge my death?" "She is as one whose heart-strings are torn asunder," was the reply, "and who refuses to be comforted; but she wad rather hae another dochter than lose an only son; an' her prayer is, that ye will live and mak her happy, by marrying the maiden ye despise." "What!" he cried, "has even my mother so far forgot herself as to desire me to marry the dochter o' oor enemy, whom no other man could be found to take! It shall never be. I wad obey her in onything but that." "But," said the maiden, "I still think ye are wrong to reject and despise puir Meg before that ye hae seen her. She may baith be better an' look better than ye are aware o'. There are as guid as Scott o' Harden who hae said, that were it in their power they wad mak her their wife; an' ye should remember, sir, that it will be as pleasant for you to hear the blithe laverock singing ower yer head, as for another person to hear the wind soughing and the long grass rustling ower yer grave. Ye hae another day to live, an' see her, an' speak to her, before ye decide rashly. Yours is a cruel doom, but Sir Gideon is a wrathfu' man; an' even for his ain flesh an' bluid he has but sma' compassion when his anger is provoked. Death, too, is an awfu' thing to think aboot; an', therefore, for yer ain sake, an' for the sake o' yer puir distressed mother an' sisters, dinna come to a rash determination." "Sweet lass," replied he, "I respect the sympathy which ye evince; but never shall Sir Gideon Murray say that, in order to save my life, he terrified me into a marriage wi' his daughter. An' when my puir mother's grief has subsided, she will think differently o' my decision." "Weel, sir," said the maiden, "since ye will not listen to my advice--an' I own that I hae nae richt to offer it--I will send ane to ye whose persuasion will hae mair avail." "Whom will ye send?" inquired the laird; "it isna possible that ye can hae been playing me false?" "No," she replied, "that isna possible; an' from her that I will send to you, you will see whether or not I hae kept my word, guid and truly, to fulfil yer message." So saying, she withdrew, leaving him much wondering at her words, and yet more at the interest which she took in his fate. But she had not long withdrawn when the prison-door was again opened, and Lady Scott rushed into the arms of her son. "My mother!" cried he, starting back in astonishment--"my mother!--hoo is this?" "Oh, joy an' gladness, an' every blessing be upon my honoured lady! for noo I may stand some chance o' walkin' back upon my ain feet to see my family. Oh! yer leddyship," Simon added, "join yer prayers to my prayers, an' try if ye can persuade my maister to marry Sir Gideon's dochter, an' thereby save baith his life an' mine." But she fell upon the neck of her son, and seemed not to hear the words which Simon addressed to her. "O my son! my son!" she cried; "since there is no other way by which yer life can be ransomed, yield to the demand o' the fierce Murray. Marry his daughter an' live--save yer wretched mother's life; for yer death, Willie, wad be mine also." "Mother!" answered he, vehemently, "I will never accept life upon such terms. I am in Murray's hands, but the day may come--yea, see ye that it does come--when he shall fall into the hands o' the Scotts o' Harden; an' see ye that ye do to him as he shall have done to me. But, tell me, mother, hoo are ye here? Wherefore did ye venture, or hoo got ye permission to see me? Ken ye not that if he found ye in his power, upon your life also he wad fix a ransom?" "The kind lassie," she replied, "that brought the letter from ye, at my request conducted me here, and contrived to get me permission to see ye; an' she says that my visit shall not come to the knowledge o' Sir Gideon. But, O Willie! as ye love an' respect the mother that bore ye, an' that nursed ye nicht an' day at her bosom, dinna throw awa yer life when it is in yer power to save it, but marry Miss Murray, an' ye may live, an' so may I, to see many happy days; for, from a' that I hae heard, though not weel-favoured, she is a young lady o' an excellent disposition!" "Oh! that's richt, my leddy," interrupted Simon; "urge him to marry her, for it would be a dreadfu' thing for him an' I to be gibbeted, as a pair o' perpetual spectacles for the Murrays to mak a jest o'. Ye ken if he does marry, an' if he finds he doesna like her, he can leave her; or he needna live wi' her; or, perhaps, she may soon die; an' ye will certainly agree that marriage, ony way ye tak it, is to be desired, a thousand times ower, before a violent death. Therefore, urge him again, yer leddyship, for he may listen to what ye say, though he despises my words, an' will not hearken to my advice." "Simon," said the laird, "never shall a Murray hae it in his power to boast that he struck terror into the breast o' a Scott o' Harden. My determination is fixed as fate. I shall welcome my doom, an' meet it as a man. Come, dear mother," he added, "weep not, nor cause me to appear in the presence o' my enemies with a blanched cheek. Hasten to avenge my death, an' think that in yer revenge yer son lives again. Come, though I die, there will be moonlight again." She hung upon his breast and wept, but he turned away his head and refused to listen to her entreaties. The young maiden again entered the prison, and said-- "Ye must part noo, for in a few minutes Sir Gideon will be astir, an' should he find yer leddyship here, or discover that I hae brought ye, I wad hae sma' power to gie ye protection." "Fareweel, dear mother!--fareweel!" exclaimed the youth, grasping her hand. "O Willie! Willie!" she cried, "did I bear ye to see ye come to an end like this! Bairn! bairn! live--for yer mother's sake, live!" "Fareweel, mother!--fareweel!" he again cried, and the sentinel conducted her from the apartment. It again drew towards noon. The loud gong again sounded, and Simon sank upon his knees in despair, as the voice of the warder was heard crying--"It is the hour! prepare the prisoners for execution!" Again the prison-door was opened, and Sir Gideon, with wrath upon his brow, stood before them. "Weel, youngster," said he, addressing the laird, "yer hour is come. What is yer choice--a wife or the wuddy?" "Lead me to execution, ye auld knave," answered the laird, scornfully; "an' ken, that wi' the hemp around my neck, in contempt o' you an' yours, I will spit upon the ground where ye tread." "Here, guards!" cried Sir Gideon; "lead forth William Scott o' Harden to execution. Strap him upon the nearest tree, an' there let him hang until the bauldest Scott upon the Borders dare to cut him down. As for you," added he, addressing Simon, "I seek not your life; depart, ye are free; but beware hoo ye again fall into the hands o' Gideon Murray." "No, sir!" exclaimed Simon, "though I am free to acknowledge that I hae nae ambition to die before it is the wise will an' purpose o' nature, yet I winna, I canna leave my dear young maister; an' if he be to suffer, I will share his fate. Only, Sir Gideon, there is ae thing I hae to say, an' that is, that he is young, an' he is proud an' stubborn, like yersel', an' though he will not, o' his ain free will an' accord, nor in obedience to yer commandments, marry yer dochter--is it not possible to compel him, whether he be willing or no, an' so save his life, as it were, in spite o' him?" "Away with both!" cried the knight, striking his ironed heel upon the ground, and leaving the apartment. "Then, if it is to be, it must be," said Simon, folding his arms in resignation, "an' there is no help for it! But, oh, maister! maister! ye hae acted foolishly." They were led from the prison-house, and through the court-yard, towards a tall elm-tree, round which all the retainers of Sir Gideon were assembled to witness the execution; and the old knight took his place upon an elevated seat in the midst of them. The executioners were preparing to perform their office, when Agnes, or Muckle-mouthed Meg, as she was called, came forth, with a deep veil thrown over her face, and sinking on her knee before the old knight, said, imploringly--"A boon, dear faither--yer dochter begs a simple boon." "Ye tak an ill season to ask it, Meg," said the knight, angrily; "but what may it be?" She whispered to him earnestly for a few minutes, during which his countenance exhibited indignation and surprise; and when she had finished speaking, she again knelt before him and embraced his knees. "Rise, Meg, rise!" said he, impatiently, "for yer sake, an' at yer request, he shall hae another chance to live." And, approaching the prisoner, he added--"William Scott, ye hae chosen death in preference to the hand o' my dochter. Will ye noo prefer to die rather than marry the lassie that ran wi' the letter to yer mother, an' without my consent brought her to see ye?" "Had another asked me the question," said the laird, "though I ken not who she is, yet she has a kind heart, and I should hae said 'No,' an' offered her my hand, heart, an' fortune; but to you, Sir Gideon, I only say--do yer worst." "Then, Willie, my ain Willie!" cried his mother, who at that moment rushed forward, "another does request ye to marry her, an' that is yer ain mother!" "An'," said Agnes, stepping forward, and throwing aside the veil that covered her face, "puir Meg, ower whom ye gied a preference to the gallows, also requests ye!" "What!" exclaimed the young laird, grasping her hand, "is the kind lassie that has striven, night and day, to save me--the very Meg that I hae been treating wi' disdain?" "In troth am I," she replied, "an' do ye prefer the wuddy still?" "No," answered he; and, turning to Sir Gideon, he added--"Sir, I am now willing that the ceremony end in matrimony." "Be it so," said the old knight, and the spectators burst into a shout. The day that began with preparations for death ended in a joyful bridal. The honour of knighthood was afterwards conferred upon the laird; and Meg bore unto him many sons and daughters, and was, as the reader will be ready to believe, one of the best wives in Scotland; while Simon declared that he never saw a better-looking woman in Ettrick Forest, his own wife and daughters not excepted. LORD DURIE AND CHRISTIE'S WILL. Who can journey, now-a-days, along the high parts of Selkirkshire, and hear the mire-snipe whistle in the morass, proclaiming itself, in the silence around, the unmolested occupant of the waste, or descend into the green valley, and see the lazy shepherd lying folded up in his plaid, while his flocks graze in peace around him and in the distance, and not think of the bold spirits that, in the times of Border warfare, sounded the war-horn till it rang in reverberating echoes from hill to hill? The land of the Armstrongs knows no longer their kindred. The hills, ravines, mosses, and muirs, that, only a few centuries ago, were animated by the boldest spirits that ever sounded a war-cry, and defended to the death by men whose swords were their only charters of right, have passed into other hands, and the names of the warlike holders serve now only to give a grim charm to a Border ballad. An extraordinary lesson may be read on the banks of the Liddel and the Esk--there is a strange eloquence in the silence of these quiet dales. Stand for a while among the graves of the chief of Gilnockie and his fifty followers, in the lonely churchyard of Carlenrig--cast a contemplative eye on the roofless tower of that brave riever, then glance at the gorgeous policies of Bowhill, and resist, if you can, the deep sigh that rises as a tribute to the memories of men who, having, by their sleepless spirits, kept a kingdom in commotion, died on the gallows, and left no generation to claim their lands from those who, with less bravery and no better sense of right, had the subtle policy to rise on their ruins. Poorly, indeed, now sound the names of Johnny Armstrong, Sim of Whittram, Sim of the Cathill, Kinmont Willie, or Christie's Will, besides those of Dukes of Buccleuch and Roxburgh, Scott of Harden, and Elliot of Stobbs and Wells; and yet, without wishing to take away the _merit_ or the _extent_ of their ancestors' own "reif and felonie," how much do they owe to their succession to the ill-got gear of those hardy Borderers whose names and scarcely credible achievements are all that have escaped the rapacity that, not satisfied with their lands, took also their lives! For smaller depredations, the old laws of the Border--and it would not be fair to exclude those of the present day, not confined to that locality--awarded a halter; for thefts of a larger kind, they gave a title. Old Wat of Buccleuch deserved the honour of "the neck garter" just as much as poor Johnny Armstrong; yet all he got was a reproof and a dukedom. "Then up and spake the noble king-- And an angry man, I trow, was he-- 'It ill becomes ye, bauld Bucclew, To talk o' reif or felonie; For, if every man had his ain cow, A right puir clan yer name would be.'" There is a change now. The bones of the bold Armstrongs lie in Carlenrig, and the descendants of their brother-rievers who got their lands sit in high places, and speak words of legislative command. But these things will be as they have ever been. We cannot change the world, far less remake it; but we can resuscitate a part of its moral wonders; and, while the property of Christie's Will, the last of the bold Armstrongs, is now possessed by another family, under a written title, we will do well to commit to record a part of his fame. It is well known that the chief of the family of Armstrongs had his residence[A] at Mangerton in Liddesdale. There is scarcely now any trace of his tower, though time has not exerted so cruel a hand against his brother Johnny Armstrong's residence, which lies in the Hollows near Langholme. We know no tumult of the emotions of what may be called antiquarian sentiment, so engrossing and curious as that produced by the headless skeleton of "auld Gilnockie's Tower," as it is seen in the grey gloaming, with a breeze brattling through its dry ribs, and a stray owl sitting on the top, and sending his eldritch screigh through the deserted hollows. The mind becomes busy on the instant with the former scenes of festivity, when "their stolen gear," "baith nolt and sheep," and "flesh, and bread, and ale," as Maitland says, were eaten and drunk with the _kitchen_ of a Cheviot hunger, and the sweetness of stolen things; and when the wild spirit of the daring outlaws, with Johnny at their head, made the old tower of the Armstrongs ring with their wassail shouts. This Border turret came--after the execution of Johnny Armstrong, and when the clan had become what was called a broken clan--into the possession of William Armstrong, who figured in the times of Charles I. He was called Christie's Will, though from what reason does not now seem very clear; neither is it at all evident why, after the execution of his forbear, Johnny, and his fifty followers, at Carlenrig, the Tower of Gilnockie was not forfeited to the crown, and taken from the rebellious clan altogether; but, to be sure it was in those days more easy to take a man's life than his property, insomuch as the former needed no guard, while the other would have required a small standing army to keep it and the new proprietor together. Certain, however, it is, that Christie's Will did get possession of the Tower of Gilnockie, where, according to the practice of the family, he lived "on Scottish ground and English kye;" and, when the latter could not easily be had, on the poorer land of his neighbours of Scotland. [A] In a MS. we have seen, as old as the end of the 15th century, "the Laird of Mangerton" is placed at the head of the Liddesdale chiefs--Harden, Buccleuch, and others coming after him in respectful order. This descendant of the Armstrongs was not unlike Johnny; and, indeed, it has been observed that throughout the whole branches of the family there was an extraordinary union of boldness and humour--two qualities which have more connection than may, at first view, be apparent. Law-breakers, among themselves, are seldom serious; a lightness of heart and a turn for wit being necessary for the sustenance of their outlawed spirits, as well as for a quaint justification--resorted to by all the tribe--of their calling, against the laws of the land. In the possession of these qualities, Will was not behind the most illustrious of his race; but he, perhaps, excelled them all in the art of "_conveying_"--a polite term then used for that change of ownership which the affected laws of the time denominated _theft_. This art was not confined to cattle or plenishing, though "They left not spindell, spoone, nor speit, Bed, boster, blanket, sark, nor sheet: John of the Park ryps kist and ark-- To all sic wark he is sae meet."[B] [B] See Maitland's curious satire on the Border robberies.--ED. It extended to abduction, and this was far seldomer exercised on damsels than on men, who would be well ransomed, especially of those classes, duke, earl, or baron, any of whom Johnny offered (for his life) to bring, "within a certain day, to his Majesty James V., either quick or dead." This latter part of their art was the highest to which the Borderers aspired; and there never was a riever among them all that excelled in it so much as Christie's Will. "To steal a stirk, or wear a score o' sheep _hamewards_," he used to say, "was naething; but to steal a _lord_ was the highest flicht o' a man's genius, and ought never to be lippened to a hand less than an Armstrong's;" and, certainly, if the success with which he executed one scheme of that high kind will guarantee Will's boasted abilities, he did not transcend the truth in limiting lord-stealing to the Armstrongs. Will married a distant relation of the true Border breed, named Margaret Elliot--a lass whose ideas of hussyskep were so peculiar, that she thought Gilnockie and its laird were going to ruin when she saw in the kail-pot a "heugh bane" of their _own_ cattle, a symptom of waste, extravagance, and laziness, on the part of her husband, that boded less good than the offer made by "the Laird's Jock," (Johnny Armstrong's henchman,) to give "Dick o' the Cow" a piece of his own ox, which he came to ask reparation for, and, not having got it, tied with St. Mary's knot (hamstringed) thirty good horses. To this good housewife, in fact, might be traced, if antiquaries would renounce for it less important investigations, the old saying, that stolen joys (qu. queys?) are sweetest, undoubtedly a Border aphorism, and now received into the society of legitimate moral sayings. When lazy and not inclined for "felonie," Will would not subscribe to the truth of the dictum, and often got for grace to the dinner he had not taken from the English, and yet relished, the wish of the good dame, that, for his want of spirit, it might choke him. That effect, however, was more likely to be produced by the beef got in the regular Border way; for the laws were beginning now to be more vigorously executed, and many a riever was astonished and offended by the proceedings of the Justice-Ayr at Jedburgh, where they were actually going the length of _hanging_ for the crime of _conveying_ cattle from one property to another. It was in vain that Will told his wife these proceedings of the Jedburgh court; she knew very well that many of the Armstrongs, and the famous Johnny among the rest, had been strung up, by the command of their king, for rebellion against his authority; but it was out of all question, beyond the reach of common sense, and, indeed, utterly barbarous and unjust to hang a man, as Gilderoy's lover said, "for gear," a thing that never yet was known to be stationary, but, even from the times of the Old Testament, given to taking to itself wings and flying away. It was, besides, against the oldest constitution of things, the old possessors being the _Tories_, who acted upon the comely principle already alluded to, that right was might--the new lairds, again, being the Whigs, who wished to take from the Tories (the freebooters) the good old law of nature and possession, and regulate property by the mere conceits of men's brains. To some such purpose did Margaret argue against Will's allusions to the doings at Jedburgh; but, secretly, Will cared no more for the threat of a rope, than he did for the empty bravado of a neighbour whom he had eased of a score of cattle. He merely brought in the doings of the Justice-Ayr at Jedburgh, to screen his fits of laziness; those states of the mind common to rievers, thieves, writers, and poets, and generally all people who live upon their wits, which at times incapacitate them for using sword or pen for their honest livelihood. But all Margaret's arguments and Will's courage were on one occasion overturned, by the riever's apprehension for stealing a cow, belonging to a farmer at Stobbs, of the name of Grant. He was carried to Jedburgh jail, and indicted to stand his trial before the Lord Justice-General at the next circuit. There was a determination, on the part of the crown authorities, to make an example of the most inveterate riever of the time, and Will stood a very fair chance of being hanged. The apprehension of Will Armstrong made a great noise throughout all Liddesdale, producing, to the class of victims, joy, and to the class of spoilers, great dismay; but none wondered more at the impertinence and presumption of the government authorities in attempting thus to dislocate the old Tory principle of "might makes right," than Margaret Elliot; who, as she sat in her turret of Gilnockie, alternately wept and cursed for the fate of her "winsome Will," and, no doubt, there was in the projected condemnation and execution of a man six feet five inches high, with a face like an Adonis, shoulders like a Milo, the speed of Mercury, the boldness of a lion, and more than the generosity of that noble animal, for the crime of stealing a stirk, something that was very apt to rouse, even in those who loved him not so well as did Margaret, feelings of sympathy for his fate, and indignation against his oppressors. There was no keeping, as the artists say, in the picture, no proper causality in a stolen cow, for the production of such an effect as a hanged Phaon or strangled Hercules; and though we have used some classic names to grace our idea, the very same thought, at least as good a one, though perhaps not so gaudily clothed, occupied the mind of Margaret Elliot. She sobbed and cried bitterly, till the Gilnockie ravens and owls, kindred spirits, were terrified from the riever's tower. "What is this o't?" she exclaimed, in the midst of her tears. "Shall Christie's Will, the bravest man o' the Borders, be hanged because a cow, that kenned nae better, followed him frae Stobbs to the Hollows; and shall it be said that Margaret Elliot was the death o' her braw riever? I had meat enough in Gilnockie larder that day I scorned him wi' his laziness, and forced him to do the deed that has brought him to Jedburgh jail. But I'll awa to the warden, James Stewart o' Traquair, and see if it be the king's high will that a man's life should be ta'en for a cow's." Making good her resolution, Margaret threw her plaid about her shoulders, and hied her away to Traquair House, the same that still stands on the margin of the Tweed, and raises its high white walls, perforated by numerous Flemish-shaped windows, among the dark woods of Traquair. When she came to the front of the house, and saw the two stone figures stationed at the old gate, she paused and wondered at the weakness and effeminacy of the Lord High Steward in endeavouring to defend his castle by fearful representations of animals. "My faith," muttered she to herself, as she approached to request entrance, "the warden was right in no makin' choice o' the figure o' a _quey_ to defend his castle." And she could scarcely resist a chuckle in the midst of her tears, at her reference to the cause of her visit. "Is my Lord Steward at hame?" said she to the servant who answered her call. "Yes," answered the man; "who is it that wishes to see him?" "The mistress o' Gilnockie," rejoined Margaret, "has come to seek a guid word for Christie's Will, who now lies in Jedburgh jail for stealing a tether, and I fear may hang for't." The servant heard this extraordinary message as servants who presume to judge of the sense of their messages ever do, with critical attention, and, after serious consideration, declared that he could not deliver such a message to his lord. "I dinna want ye to deliver my message, man," said Margaret. "I merely wished to be polite to ye, and show ye a little attention. God be thankit, the mistress o' Gilnockie can deliver her ain errand." And, pushing the waiting man aside by a sudden jerk of her brawnie arm, she proceeded calmly forward to a door, which she intended to open; but the servant was at her heels, and, laying hold of her plaid, was in the act of hauling her back, when the Warden himself came out, and asked the cause of the affray. "Is the house yours, my Lord, or this man's?" said Margaret. "Take my advice, my Lord," (whispering in his ear,) "turn him aff--he's a traitor; would you believe it, my Lord, that, though placed there for the purpose o' lettin' folk into yer Lordship, he actually--ay, as sure as death--tried to keep me oot! Can ye deny it, sir? Look i' my face, and deny it if ye daur!" The man smiled, and his Lordship laughed; and Margaret wondered at the easy good-nature of a Lord in forgiving such a heinous offence on the part of a servitor. "If ye're as kind to me as ye are to that rebel," continued Margaret, as she followed his Lordship into his sitting chamber, "Christie's Will winna hang yet." "What mean you, good woman?" said the Warden. "What is it that you want?" "As if your Lordship didna ken," answered Margaret, with a knowing look. "Is it likely that a Liddesdale woman frae the Hollows, should ca' upon the great Warden for aught short o' the life and safety o' the man wha's in Jedburgh jail?" (Another Scotch wink.) "I am still at a loss, good woman," said the Warden. "At a loss!" rejoined Margaret. "What! doesna a' the Forest,[C] and Teviotdale and Tweeddale to boot, ken that Christie's Will is in Jedburgh jail?" [C] Selkirkshire. "I know, I know, good dame," replied the Warden, "that that brave riever is in prison; but I thought his crime was the stealing of a cow, and not a tether, as I heard you say to my servant." "Weel, weel--the cow may have been at the end o' the tether," replied Margaret. "She is a wise woman who concealeth the _extremity_ of her husband's crime," replied Lord Traquair, with a smile, "But what wouldst thou have me to do?" "Just to save Christie's Will frae the gallows, my Lord," answered Margaret. And, going up close to his Lordship, and whispering in his ear--"And sometimes a Lord needs a lift as weel as ither folk. If there's nae buck on Traquair when your Lordship has company at the castle, you hae only to gie Christie's Will a nod, and there will be nae want o' venison here for a month. There's no a stouthriever in a' Liddesdale, be he baron or bondsman, knight or knave, but Christie's Will will bring to you at your Lordship's bidding, and a week's biding; and if there's ony want o' a braw leddie," (speaking low,) "to keep the bonny house o' Traquair in order, an' she canna be got for a carlin keeper, a wink to Christie's Will will bring her here, unscathed by sun or wind, in suner time than a priest could tie the knot, or a lawyer loose it. Is sic a man a meet burden for a fir wuddy, my Lord?" "By my faith, your husband hath good properties about him," replied Traquair. "There is not one in these parts that knoweth not Christie's Will; but I fear it is to that fame he oweth his danger. He is the last of the old Armstrongs; and there is a saying hereaway, that 'Comes Liddesdale's peace When Armstrongs cease;' and since, good dame, it would ill become the King's Warden to let slip the noose that is to catch peace and order for our march territories, yet Will is too noble a fellow for hanging. Go thy ways. I'll see him--I'll see him." "Hech na, my Lord," answered Margaret; "I'll no budge frae this house till ye say ye'll save him this ance. I'll be caution and surety for him mysel', that he'll never again dine in Gilnockie on another man's surloins. His clan has been lang a broken ane; but I am now the head o't, and it has aye been the practice in our country to make the head answer for the rest o' the body." "Well, that is the practice of the hangman at Jedburgh," replied Traquair, laughing. "But go thy ways. Will shall not hang yet. He hath a job to do for me. There's a 'lurdon'[D] of the north he must steal for me. I'll take thy bond." [D] It has been attempted to derive this word from "Lord," (paper lord); but we have no faith in the etymology; it was, however, often applied to the wigged and gowned judges, as being, in their appearance, more like women than men--for "lurdon," though applied to a male, is generally used for a lazy woman.--ED. "Gie me your hand then, my Lord," said the determined dame; "and the richest lurdon o' the land he'll bring to your Lordship, as surely as he ever took a Cumberland cow--whilk, as your Lordship kens, is nae rieving." Traquair gave the good dame his hand, and she departed, wondering, as she went, what the Lord Warden was to do with a stolen lurdon. A young damsel might have been a fair prize for the handsome baron; but an "auld wife," as she muttered to herself, was the most extraordinary object of rieving she had ever heard of, amidst all the varieties of a Borderer's prey. Next day Traquair mounted his horse, and-- "Traquair has riden up Chaplehope, An' sae has he doun by the Grey-Mare's-Tail; He never stinted the light gallop, Until he speered for Christie's Will." Having arrived at Jedburgh, he repaired direct to the jail, where Margaret had been before him, to inform her husband that the great Lord Warden was to visit him, and get him released; but upon the condition of stealing away a lurdon in the north--a performance, the singularity of which was much greater than the apparent difficulty, unless, indeed, as Will said, she was a bedridden lurdon, in which case, it would be no easy matter to get her conveyed, as horses were the only carriers of stolen goods in those days. But the wonder why Traquair should wish to steal away an old woman had perplexed the wits of Will and his wife to such an extent, that they had recourse to the most extraordinary hypotheses; supposing at one time that she was some coy heiress of seventy summers, who had determined to be carried off after the form of young damsels in the times of chivalry; at another, that she was the parent of some lord, who could only be brought to concede something to the Warden by the force of the impledgment of his mother; and, again, that she was the duenna of an heiress, who could only be got through the confinement of the old hag. Be who she might, however, Christie's Will declared, upon the faith of the long shablas of Johnny Armstrong, that he would carry her off through fire and water, as sure as ever Kinmont Willie was carried away by old Wat of Buccleuch from the Castle of Carlisle. "Oh, was it war-wolf in the wood, Or was it mermaid in the sea, Or was it maid or lurdon auld, He'd carry an' bring her bodilie." Such was the heroic determination to which Christie's Will had come, when the jailor came and whispered in his ear, that the Lord Warden was in the passage on the way to see him. Starting to his feet, the riever was prepared to meet the baron, of whom he generally stood in so much awe in his old tower of Gilnockie, but who came to him now on a visit of peace. "Thou'lt hang, Will, this time," said the Warden, with an affectation of gruffness, as he stepped forward. "It is not in the power of man to save ye!" "Begging yer Lordship's pardon," replied Will, "I believe it, however, to be in the power o' a woman. The auld lurdon will be in Gilnockie tower at yer Lordship's ain time." "And who is the 'auld lurdon?'" replied the Warden, trying to repress a laugh, which forced its way in spite of his efforts. "Margaret couldna tell me that," said Will; "but many a speculation we had on the question yer Lordship has now put to me. 'Wha can she be?' said Peggy; and 'Wha can she be?' replied I; but it's for yer Lordship to say wha she _is_, and for me to steal the auld limmer awa, as sure as ever I _conveyed_ an auld milker frae the land o' the Nevills. I'm nae sooner free than she's a prisoner." The familiarity with which Will spoke of the female personage thus destined to durance vile, produced another laugh on the part of the Warden, not altogether consistent, as Will thought, with the serious nature of the subject in hand. "Where is she, my Lord?" continued Will; "in what fortress?--wha is her keeper?--whar will I tak her, and how long retain her a prisoner?" "I fear, Will, she is beyond the power o' mortal," said his Lordship, in a serious voice; "but on condition of thy making a fair trial, I will make intercession for thy life, and take the chance of thy success. Much hangeth by the enterprise--ay, even all my barony of Coberston dependeth upon that 'lurdon' being retained three months in a quiet corner of Græme's Tower. Thou knowest the place?" "Ay, weel, weel," replied Will, who began to see the great importance of the enterprise, while his curiosity to know who the object was had considerably increased. "That tower has its 'redcap sly.' E'en Lord Soulis' Hermitage is no better guarded. Ance there, and awa wi' care, as we say o' Gilnockie as a rendezvous for _strayed_ steers. But who is she, my Lord?" "Thou hast thyself said she is a woman," replied the Warden, smiling, "and I correct thee not. Hast thou ever heard, Will, of fifteen old women--'lurdons,' as the good people call them--that reside in a large house in the Parliament close of Edinburgh?" "Brawly, brawly," answered Will, with a particular leer of fun and intelligence; "and weel may I ken the limmers--real lurdons, wi' lang gowns and curches. Ken them! Wha that has a character to lose, or a property to keep against the claims o' auld parchment, doesna ken thae fifteen auld runts? They keep the hail country side in a steer wi' their scandal. Nae man's character is safe in their keeping; and they're sae fu' o' mischief that they hae even blawn into the king's lug that my tower o' Gilnockie was escheat to the king by the death o' my ancestor, who was hanged at Carlenrig. They say a' the mischief that has come on the Borders sin' the guid auld times, has its beginning in that coterie o' weazened gimmers. Dootless, they're at the root o' the danger o' yer bonny barony o' Coberston. By the rood! I wish I had a dash at their big curches." "Ay, Will," responded Traquair; "but they're securely lodged in their strong Parliament House, and the difficulty is how to get at them." "But I fancy ane o' the lurdons will satisfy yer Lordship," said Will, "or do ye want them a' lodged in Græme's Tower? They would mak a bonny nest o' screighing hoolets, if we had them safely under the care o' the sly redcap o' that auld keep: they wad hatch something else than scandal, and leasin-makin, and reports o' the instability o' Border rights, the auld jauds." "I will be content with one of them," rejoined the Warden. "Ha! ha! I see, I see," replied Will. "Ane o' the limmers has been sapping and undermining Coberston wi' her hellish scandal. What's the lurdon's name, my Lord?" "Gibson of Durie," rejoined Traquair. "Ah! a weel-kenned scandalous runt that," replied Will. "She's the auldest o' the hail fifteen, if I'm no cheated--Leddie President o' the coterie. She spak sair against me when the King's advocate claimed for his Majesty my auld turret o' Gilnockie. I owe that quean an auld score. How lang do you want her lodged in Græme's Tower?" "Three months would maybe change her tongue," replied the Warden; "but the enterprise seems desperate, Will." "Desperate! my Lord," replied the other--"that word's no kenned on the Borders. Is it the doing o't, or the dool for the doing o't, that has the desperation in't?" "The consequences to you would be great, Will," said Traquair. "You are confined here for stealing a cow, and would be hanged for it if I did not save ye. Our laws are equal and humane. For stealing a cow one may be hanged; but there's no such law against stealing a paper-lord." "That shows the guid sense o' our lawgivers," replied Will, with a leer on his face. "The legislator has wisely weighed the merits o' the twa craturs; yet, were it no for your case, my Lord, I could wish the law reversed. I wad be in nae hurry stealing ane o' thae cummers, at least for my ain use; and, as for Peggy, she would rather see a cow at Gilnockie ony day." "Weel, Will," said his Lordship, "I do not ask thee to steal for me old Leddie Gibson. I dare not. You understand me; but I am to save your life; and I tell thee that, if that big-wigged personage be not, within ten days, safely lodged in Græme's Tower, my lands of Coberston will find a new proprietor, and your benefactor will be made a lordly beggar." "Fear not, my Lord," replied Will. "I'm nae suner out than she's in. She'll no say a word against Coberston for the next three months, I warrant ye. But, by my faith, it's as teuch a job as boilin' auld Soulis in the cauldron at the Skelfhill; and I hae nae black spae-book like Thomas to help my spell. Yet, after a', my Lord, what spell is like the wit o' man, when he has courage to act up to 't!" The Warden acknowledged the truth of Will's heroic sentiment; and, having satisfied himself that the bold riever would perform his promise, he departed, and in two days afterwards the prisoner was liberated, and on his way to his residence at the Hollows. It was apparent, from Will's part of the dialogue, that he had some knowledge of the object the Lord Warden had in view in carrying off a Lord of Session from the middle of the capital; yet it is doubtful if he troubled himself with more than the fact of its being the wish of his benefactor that the learned judge should be for a time confined in Græme's Tower; and, conforming to a private hint of his Lordship before he departed from the jail, he kept up in his wife Margaret's mind the delusion that it was truly "an auld lurdon" whom he was to steal, as a condition for getting out of prison. On the morning after his arrival at Gilnockie, Will held a consultation with two tried friends, whose assistance he required in this most extraordinary of all the rieving expeditions he had ever yet been engaged in; and the result of their long sederunt was, that, within two hours after, the three were mounted on as many prancing Galloways, and with a fourth led by a bridle, and carrying their provisions, a large cloak, and some other articles. They took the least frequented road to the metropolis of Scotland. Having arrived there, they put up their horses at a small hostelry in the Grassmarket; and, next day, Will, leaving his friends at the inn, repaired to that seat of the law and learning of Scotland, where the "hail fifteen" sat in grim array, munching, with their toothless jaws, the thousand scraps of Latin law-maxims (borrowed from the Roman and feudal systems) which then ruled the principles of judicial proceedings in Scotland. Planting himself in one of the litigants' benches--a line of seats in front of the semicircle where the fifteen Lords sat--the Liddesdale riever took a careful survey of all the wonders of that old laboratory of law. The first objects that attracted his attention, were, of course, the imposing semicircular line of judges, no fewer than fifteen (almost sufficient for a small standing army for puny Scotland in those days), who, wigged and robed, sat and nodded and grinned, and munched their chops in each other's faces, with a most extraordinary regularity of mummery, which yielded great amusement to the stalworth riever of the Borders. Their appearance in the long gowns, with sleeves down to the hands, wigs whose lappets fell on their breasts, displaying many a line of crucified curl, and white cambric cravats falling from below their gaucy double-chins on their bosoms, suggested at once the appellation of lurdons, often applied to them in those days, and now vivid in the fancy of the staring Borderer, whose wild and lawless life was so strangely contrasted with that of the drowsy, effeminate-looking individuals who sat before him. He understood very little of their movements, which had all the regularity and ceremony of a raree-show. One individual (the macer) cried out, at intervals, with a cracked voice, some words he could not understand; but the moment the sound had rung through the raftered hall, another species of wigged and robed individuals (advocates) came forward, and spoke a strange mixture of English and Latin, which Will could not follow; and, when they had finished, the whole fifteen looked at each other, and then began, one after another, but often two or three at a time, to speak, and nod, and shake their wigs, as if they had been set agoing by some winding-up process on the part of the advocates. Not one word of all this did Will understand; and, indeed, he cared nothing for such mummery, but ever and anon fixed his keen eye on the face of the middle senator, with an expression that certainly never could have conveyed the intelligence that that rough country-looking individual meditated such a thing as an abduction of the huge incorporation of law that sat there in so much state and solidity. "Ha! ha! my old lass," said Will to himself; "ye little ken that the Laird o' Gilnockie, whom ye tried to deprive of his birthright, sits afore ye; and will a' the lear 'neath that big wig tell ye that that same Laird o' Gilnockie sits here contriving a plan to run awa wi' ye? Faith, an' it's a bauld project; but the baulder the bonnier, as we say in Liddesdale. I only wish I could tak her wig and gown wi' her--for, if the lurdon were seen looking out o' Græme's Tower, wi' that lang lappet head-gear, there would be nae need o' watch or ward to keep her there." Will had scarcely finished his monologue, when he heard the macer cry out, "Maxwell against Lord Traquair;" then came forward the advocates, and shook their wigs over the bar, and at length old Durie, the President, said, in words that did not escape Will's vigilant ear-- "This case, I believe, involves the right to the large barony of Coberston. Seven of my brethren, you are aware, have given their opinions in favour of the defendant, Lord Traquair, and seven have declared for the pursuer, Maxwell. My casting vote must, therefore, decide the case, and I have been very anxious to bring my mind to a conclusion on the subject, with as little delay as possible; but there are difficulties which I have not yet been able to surmount." "Ay, and there's a new ane here, sittin' afore ye," muttered Will, "maybe the warst o' them a'." "I still require some new lights," continued the judge. "I have already, as the case proceeded, partially announced an opinion against Lord Traquair; but I wish confirmation before I pronounce a judgment that is to have the effect of turning one out of possession of a large barony. I am sorry that my learned friends at the bar have not been able to relieve me of my scruples." "Stupid fules," muttered Will; "but I'll relieve ye, my Lord Durie. It'll ne'er be said that a Lord o' Session stood in need o' relief, and a Border riever in the court, wha has a hundred times made the doubtin' stirk tak ae road (maybe Gilnockie-ways) in preference to anither." The Traquair case being the last called that day, the court broke up, and the judges, followed still by the eye of Christie's Will, retired into the robing-room to take off their wigs and gowns. The Borderer now inquired, in a very simple manner, at a macer, at what door the judges came out of the court, as he was a countryman, and was curious to see their Lordships dressed in their usual every-day clothes. The request was complied with; and Will, as a stupid gazing man from the Highlands, who wished to get an inane curiosity gratified by what had nothing curious in it, was placed in a convenient place to see the Solomons pass forth on their way to their respective dwellings. They soon came; and Will's lynx eye caught, in a moment, the face of the President, whom, to his great satisfaction, he now found to be a thin, spare, portable individual, and very far from the unwieldy personage which his judge's dress made him appear to be when sitting on the bench--a reversing of the riever's thoughts, in reference to the spareness and fatness of his object of seizure, that brought a twinkle to his eye in spite of the serious task in which he was engaged. Forth went the President with great dignity, and Christie's Will behind him, dogging him with the keen scent of a sleuth-hound. To his house in the Canongate he slowly bent his steps, ruminating as he went, in all likelihood, upon the difficulties of the Traquair case, from which his followers were so anxious to relieve him. Will saw him ascend the steps and enter, and his next object was to ascertain at what time he took his walk, and to what quarter of the suburbs he generally resorted; but on this point he could not get much satisfaction, the good judge being in his motions somewhat irregular, though (as Will learned) seldom a day passed without his having recourse to the country in some direction or other. Will, therefore, set a watch upon the house. Another of his friends held the horses at the foot of Leith Wynd, while he himself paced between the watchman and the top of the passage, so that he might have both ends of the line always in his eye. A concerted whistle was to regulate their movements. The first day passed without a single glimpse being had of the grave senator, who was probably occupied in the consultation of legal authorities, little conscious of the care that was taken about his precious person by so important an individual as the far-famed Christie's Will of Gilnockie. On the second day, about three of the afternoon, and two hours after he had left the Parliament House, a whistle from Will's friend indicated that the grave judge was on the steps of his stair. Will recognised him in an instant, and, despatching his friend to him who held the horses at the foot of the Wynd, with instructions to keep behind him at a distance, he began to follow his victim slowly, and soon saw with delight that he was wending his senatorial steps down towards Leith. The unconscious judge seemed drowned in study: his eyes were fixed on the ground; his hands placed behind his back; and, ever and anon, he twirled a gold-headed cane that hung suspended by a silken string from one of his fingers. Will was certain that he was meditating the fall of Coberston, and the ruin of his benefactor, Traquair; and, as the thought rose in his mind, the fire of his eye burned brighter, and his resolution mounted higher and higher, till he could even have seized his prey in Leith lane, and carried him off amidst the cries of the populace. But his opportunity was coming quicker than he supposed. To enable him to get deeper and deeper into his brown study, Durie was clearly bent upon avoiding the common road where passengers put to flight his ideas; and, turning to the right, went up a narrow lane, and continued to saunter on till he came to that place commonly known by the name of the Figgate Whins. In that sequestered place, where scarcely an individual was seen to pass in an hour, the deep thinking of the cogitative senator might trench the soil of the law of prescription, turn up the principle which regulated tailzies under the second part of the act 1617, and bury Traquair's right to Coberston. No sound but the flutter of a bird, or the moan of the breaking waves of the Frith of Forth, could there interfere with his train of thought. Away he sauntered, ever turning his gold-headed cane, and driving his head farther and farther into the deep hole where, like the ancient philosopher, he expected to find truth. Sometimes he struck his foot against a stone, and started and looked up, as if awakened from a dream; but he was too intent on his study to take the pains to make a complete turn of his wise head, to see if there was any one behind him. During all this time, a regular course of signals was in progress among Will and his friends who were coming up behind him, the horses being kept far back, in case the sound of their hoofs might reach the ear of the day-dreamer. He had now reached the most retired and lonely part of the common, where, at that time, there stood a small clump of trees at a little distance from the whin-road that gave the place its singular name. His study still continued, for his head was still bent, and he looked neither to the right nor to the left. In a single instant, he was muffled up in a large cloak, a hood thrown over his face, and his hands firmly bound by a cord. The operation was that of a moment--finished before the prisoner's astonishment had left him power to open his mouth. A whistle brought up the horses; he was placed on one of them with the same rapidity; a cord was passed round his loins and bound to the saddle; and, in a few minutes, the party was in rapid motion to get to the back part of the city.[E] [E] This famous abduction was reported by Lord Fountainhall. Every circumstance is literally true.--ED. During all this extraordinary operation, not a single word passed between the three rievers, to whom the proceeding was, in a great degree, perfectly familiar. Through the folds of the hood of the cloak in which the President's head was much more snugly lodged than it ever was in his senatorial wig, he contrived to send forth some muffled sounds, indicating, not unnaturally, a wish to know what was the meaning and object of so extraordinary a manoeuvre. At that time, be it understood, the belief in the power of witches was general, and Durie himself had been accessary to the condemnation of many a wise woman who was committed to the flames; but though he had, to a great extent, emancipated his strong mind from the thraldom of the prevailing prejudice, the mode in which he was now seized--in broad day, in the midst of a legal study, without seeing a single individual (his head being covered first), and without hearing the sound of man's voice--would have been sufficient to bring him back to the general belief, and force the conviction that he was now in the hands of the agents of the Devil. It is, indeed, a fact (afterwards ascertained), that the learned judge did actually conceive that he was now in the power of those he had helped to persecute; and his fears--bringing up before him the burning tar-barrels, the paid prickers, the roaring crowds, and the expiring victim--completed the delusion, and bound up his energies, till he was speechless and motionless. There was, therefore, no cause of apprehension from the terror-struck prisoner himself; and, as the party scoured along, they told every inquiring passenger on the way (for they were obliged, in some places, to ask the road) that they were carrying an auld lurdon to Dumfries, to be burnt for exercising the power of her art on the innocent inhabitants of that district. It was, therefore, no uncommon thing for Durie to hear himself saluted by all the appellations generally applied to the poor persecuted class to which he was supposed to belong. "Ay, awa wi' the auld limmer," cried one, "and see that the barrels are fresh frae Norraway, and weel-lined wi' the bleezing tar." "Be sure and prick her weel," cried another; "the foul witch may be fireproof. If she winna burn, boil her like Meg Davy at Smithfield, or Shirra Melville on the hill o' Garvock." These cries coming on the ear of the astonished judge, did not altogether agree with his preconceived notions of being committed to the power of the Evil One; but they tended still farther to confuse him, and he even fancied at times that the vengeance of the populace, which thus rung in his ears, was in the act of being realized, and that he was actually to suffer the punishment he had so often awarded to others. Some expressions wrung from him by his fear, and overheard by the quick ear of Will, gave the latter a clue to the workings of his mind, and he did not fail to see how he might take advantage of it. As night began to fall, they had got far on their way towards Moffat, and, consequently, far out of danger of a pursuit and a rescue. Durie's horse was pricked forward at a speed not inconsistent with his power of keeping the saddle. They stopped at no baiting place, but kept pushing forward, while the silence was still maintained, or, if it ever was broken, it was to introduce, by interlocutory snatches of conversation, some reference to the doom which awaited the unhappy judge. The darkness in which he was muffled, the speed of his journey, the sounds and menaces that had met his ear, all co-operating with the original sensations produced by his mysterious seizure, continued to keep alive the terrors he at first felt, to over-turn all the ordinary ideas and feelings of the living world, and to sink him deeper and deeper in the confusion that had overtaken his mind in the midst of his legal reverie at the Figgate Whins. The cavalcade kept its course all next day, and, towards the evening, they approached Græme's Tower, a dark, melancholy-looking erection, situated on Dryfe Water, not very distant from the village of Moffat. In a deep cell of this old castle the President of the Court of Session was safely lodged, with no more light than was supplied by a small grating, and with a small supply of meat, only sufficient to allay at first the pangs of hunger. Will having thus executed his commission, sat down and wrote on a scrap of paper these expressive words--"The brock's in the pock!" and sent it with one of his friends to Traquair House. The moment the Earl read the scrawl, he knew that Will had performed his promise, and took a hearty laugh at the extraordinary scheme he had resorted to for gaining his plea. It was not yet, however, his time to commence his proceedings; but, in a short while after the imprisonment of the President, he set off for Edinburgh, which town he found in a state of wonder and ferment at the mysterious disappearance of the illustrious Durie. Every individual he met had something to say on the subject; but the prevailing opinion was, that the unhappy President had ventured upon that part of the sands near Leith where the incoming tide usually encloses, with great rapidity, large sand-banks, and often overwhelms helpless strangers who are unacquainted with the manner in which the tide there flows. Numbers of people had exerted themselves in searching all the surrounding parts, and some had traversed the whole coast from Musselburgh to Cramond, in the expectation of finding the body upon the sea-shore. But all was in vain: no President was found; and a month of vain search and expectation having passed, the original opinion settled down into a conviction that he had been drowned. His wife, Lady Durie, after the first emotions of intense grief, went, with her whole family, into mourning; and young and old lamented the fate of one of the most learned judges and best men that ever sat on the judgment-seat of Scotland. There was nothing now to prevent Traquair from reaping the fruits of his enterprise. He pressed hard for a judgment in his case; and pled that the fourteen judges having been equally divided, he was entitled to a decision in his favour as _defender_. This plea was not at that time sustained; but a new president having been appointed, who was favourable to his side of the question, the case was again to be brought before the court, and the Earl expected to carry his point, and reap all the benefit of Will's courage and ingenuity. Meantime, the dead-alive President was closely confined in the old tower of Græme, and had never recovered from the feelings of superstition which held the sovereign power of his mind at the time of his confinement. He never saw the face of man, his food being handed into him by an unseen hand, through a small hole at the foot of the door. The small grating was not situated so as to yield him any prospect; and the only sounds that greeted his ears were the calls of the shepherds who tended their sheep in the neighbouring moor. Sometimes he heard men's voices calling out "Batty!" and anon a female crying "Maudge!" The former was the name of a shepherd's dog, and the latter was the name of the cat belonging to an old woman who occupied a small cottage adjoining to the tower. Both the names sounded strangely and ominously in the ears of the President, and sorely did he tax his wits as to what they implied. Every day he heard them, and every time he heard them he meditated more and more as to the species of beings they denominated. Still remaining in the belief that he was in the hands of evil powers, he imagined that these strange names, Batty and Maudge, were the earthly titles of the two demons that held the important authority of watching and tormenting the President of the Court of Session. He had heard these often, and suffered so much from their cruel tyranny, that he became nervous when the ominous sounds struck on his ear, and often (as he himself subsequently admitted) he adjured heaven, in his prayers, to take away Maudge and Batty, and torment him no longer by their infernal agency. "Relieve me, relieve me, from these conjunct and confident spirits, cruel Maudge and inexorable Batty," (he prayed,) "and any other punishment due to my crimes I will willingly bear." Exorcisms in abundance he applied to them, and used many fanciful tricks of demon-expelling agency to free him from their tyranny; but all to no purpose. The names still struck his ear in the silence of his cell, and kept alive the superstitious terror with which he was enslaved. Traquair, meanwhile, pushed hard for a decision, and, at last, after a period of about three months, the famous cause was brought before the court, and the successor of the dead-alive President having given his vote for the defender, the wily Warden carried his point, and secured to him and his heirs, in time coming, the fine barony in dispute, which, for aught we know to the contrary, is in the family to this day. It now remained for the actors in this strange drama to let free the unhappy Durie, and relieve him from the power of his enemies. The Warden accordingly despatched a messenger to Christie's Will, with the laconic and emphatic demand--"Let the brock out o' the pock"--a return of Will's own humorous message, which he well understood. Will and his associates accordingly went about the important deliverance in a manner worthy of the dexterity by which the imprisonment had been effected. Having opened the door of his cell, they muffled him up in the same black cloak in which he was enveloped at the Figgate Whins, and leading him to the door, placed him on the back of a swift steed, while they mounted others, with a view to accompany him. Setting off at a swift pace, they made a circuit of the tower in which he had been confined, and continuing the same circuitous route round and round the castle for a period of two or three hours, they stopped at the very door of his cell from which they had started. They then set him down upon the ground, and again mounting their horses, took to their heels, and never halted till they arrived at Gilnockie. On being left alone, Durie proceeded to undo the cords by which the cloak was fastened about his head; and, for the first time after three months, breathed the fresh air and saw the light of heaven. He had ridden, according to his own calculation, about twenty miles; and, looking round him, he saw alongside of him the tower of Græme, an old castle he had seen many years before, and recollected as being famous in antiquarian reminiscence. The place he had been confined in must have been some castle twenty miles distant from Græme's Tower--a circumstance that would lead him, he thought, to discover the place of his confinement, though he was free to confess that he was utterly ignorant of the direction in which he had travelled. Thankful for his deliverance, he fell on his knees, and poured out a long prayer of gratitude for being thus freed from his enemies, Batty and Maudge. The distance he had travelled must have taken him far away from the regions of their influence--the most grateful of all the thoughts that now rose in his wondering mind. No more would these hated names strike his ear with terror and dismay, and no more would he feel the tyranny of their demoniac sway. As these thoughts were passing through his mind a sound struck his ear. "Hey, Batty, lad!--far yaud, far yaud!" cried a voice by his side. "God have mercy on me! here again," ejaculated the president. "Maudge, ye jaud!" cried another voice, from the door of a poor woman's cottage. The terrified president lifted his eyes, and saw a goodly shepherd, with a long staff in his hand, crying to his dog, Batty, to drive his sheep to a distance; and, a little beyond, a poor woman sat at her door, looking for her black cat, that sat on the roof of the cottage, and would not come down for all the energies of her squeaking voice. "What could all this mean?" now ejaculated Durie. "Have I not been for three months tortured with these sounds, which I attributed to evil spirits? I have ridden from them twenty miles, and here they are again, in the form of fair honest denominations of living animals. I am in greater perplexity than ever. While I thought them evil spirits, I feared them as such; but now, God help me, they have taken on the forms of a dog and cat, and this shepherd and this old woman are kindred devils, under whose command they are. What shall I do, whither run to avoid them, since twenty miles have been to them as a flight in the air?" "It's a braw morning, sir," said the shepherd. "How far hae ye come this past night?--for I ken nae habitation near whar ye may hae rested." "It's seldom we see strangers hereawa," said the old woman, "at this early hour--will ye come in, sir, and rest ye?" Durie looked first at the one and then at the other, bewildered and speechless. The fair face of nature before him, with the forms of God's creatures, and the sounds of human voices in his ears, were as nothing to recollections and sensations which he could not shake from his mind. He had, for certain, heard these dreadful sounds for three months; he had ridden twenty miles, and now he heard them again, mixed up with the delusive accompaniments of the enticing speeches of a man and a woman. He would fly, but felt himself unable; and, standing under the influence of the charm of his own terrors, he continued to look, first at the shepherd and then at the old woman, in wonder and dismay. The people knew as little what to think of him as he did in regard to them. He looked wild and haggard, his eyes rolled about in his head, his voice was mute; and the cloak, which he had partially unloosed from his head, hung in strange guise down his back, and flapped in the wind. The old castle had its "red cap," a fact known to both the shepherd and the old woman, who had latterly heard strange sounds coming from it. Might not Durie be the spirit in another form? The question was reasonable, and was well answered by the wildly-staring president, who was still under the spell of his terrors. "Avaunt ye!--avaunt! in the name o' the haly rude o' St. Andrews!" cried the woman, now roused to a state of terror. The same words were repeated by the simple-minded shepherd, and poor Durie's fears were, if possible, increased; for it seemed that they were now performing some new incantation, whereby he would be again reduced to their power; but he was now in the open air, and why not take advantage of the opportunity of escaping from their thraldom? The moment the idea started in his mind, he threw from him the accursed cloak, and flew away over the moor as fast as his decayed limbs, inspired by terror, would carry him. As he ran, he heard the old woman clapping her hands, and crying "Shoo, shoo!" as if she had been exorcising a winged demon. After running till he was fairly out of the sights and sounds that had produced in him so much terror, he sat down, and took a retrospect of what had occurred to him during the preceding three months; but he could come to no conclusion that could reconcile all the strange things he had experienced with any supposition based on natural powers. It was certain, however, that he was still upon the earth, and it was probable he was now beyond the power of his evil genius. His best plan, therefore, under all the circumstances, was to seek home, and Lady Durie and his loving family, who would doubtless be in a terrible condition on account of his long absence; and even this idea, pleasant as it was, was qualified by the fear that he might, for aught he knew, have been away, like the laird of Comrie, for many, perhaps a hundred years, and neither Lady Durie, nor friend or acquaintance, would be alive to greet him on his return. Of all this, however, he must now take his chance; and, rising and journeying forward, he came to a house, where he asked for some refreshment by way of charity; for he had nothing in the world to pay for what he required. He was fortunate in getting some relief from the kind woman to whom he had applied, and proceeded to speak to her on various topics with great sense and propriety, as became the ex-President of the Court of Session; but when, to satisfy his scruples, he asked her the day of the month, then the month of the year, and then the year of the Lord, the good woman was satisfied he was mad; and, with a look of pity, recommended him to proceed on his way, and get home as fast as he could. So on the president went, begging his way from hamlet to hamlet, getting alms from one and news from another, but never gratified with the year of the Lord in which he lived; for, when he put that question, he was uniformly pitied, and allowed to proceed on his way for a madman. He heard, however, several times that President Durie had been drowned in the Frith of Forth, and that a new President of the Court of Session had been appointed in his place. Whether his wife was married again or not, he could not learn, and was obliged to wrestle with this and other fears as he still continued his way to the metropolis. At last Edinburgh came in view, and glad was he to see again the cat's head of old St. Arthur's, and the diadem of St. Giles rearing their heights in the distance. Nearer and nearer he approached the place of his home, happiness, and dignity; but, as he came nearer still, he began to feel all the effects of his supposed demise. Several of his old acquaintances stared wildly at him as they passed, and, though he beckoned to them to stand and speak, they hurried on, and seemed either not to recognise him, or to be terrified at him. At last he met Lord F----, the judge who had sat for many years next to him on the bench; and, running up to him, he held out his hand in kindly salutation, grinning, with his long thin jaws and pallid cheeks, a greeting which he scarcely understood himself. By this time it was about the gloaming, and such was the extraordinary effect produced by his sudden appearance and changed cadaverous look, that his old brother of the bench got alarmed, and fairly took to his heels, as if he had seen a spectre. Undaunted, however, he pushed on, and by the time he reached the Canongate it was almost dark. He went direct to his own house, and peeping through the window, saw Lady Durie sitting by the fire dressed in weeds, and several of his children around, arrayed in the same style. The sight brought the tears of joy to his eyes, and, forgetting entirely the effect his appearance would produce, he threw open the door, and rushed into the room. A loud scream from the throats of the lady and the children rang through the whole house, and brought up the servants, who screamed in their turn, and some of them fainted, while others ran away; and no one had any idea that the emaciated haggard being before them was other than the grim ghost of Lord President Durie, come from the other world to terrify the good people of this. The confusion, however, soon ceased; for Durie began to speak softly to them, and, taking his dear lady in his arms, pressed her to his bosom in a way that satisfied her that he was no ghost, but her own lord, who, by some mischance, had been spirited away by some bad angels. The children gradually recovered their confidence, and in a short time joy took the place of fear, and all the neighbourhood was filled with the news that Lord Durie had come alive again, and was in the living body in his own house. Shortly after the good lord sat down by the fire and got his supper, and, by the quantity he ate, satisfied his lady and family still more that he carried a good body, with as fair a capability of reception as he ever exhibited after a walk at the Figgate Whins. He told them all he had undergone since first he was carried away, not forgetting the two spirits, Batty and Maudge, that had tormented him so cruelly during the period of his enchantment. The lady and family stared with open mouths as they heard the dreadful recital; but a goodly potation of warm spiced wine drove off the vapours produced by the dismal story, and, by-and-by, Lord Durie and his wife retired to bed--the one weary and exhausted with his trials, and the other with her terrors and her joys. RECOLLECTIONS OF BURNS.[F] CHAPTER I. "Wear we not graven on our hearts The name of Robert Burns!"--_American Poet._ The degrees shorten as we proceed from the higher to the lower latitudes--the years seem to shorten in a much greater ratio as we pass onward through life. We are almost disposed to question whether the brief period of storms and foul weather that floats over us with such dream-like rapidity, and the transient season of flowers and sunshine that seems almost too short for enjoyment, be at all identical with the long summers and still longer winters of our boyhood, when day after day and week after week stretched away in dim perspective, till lost in the obscurity of an almost inconceivable distance. Young as I was, I had already passed the period of life when we wonder how it is that the years should be described as short and fleeting; and it seemed as if I had stood but yesterday beside the death-bed of the unfortunate Ferguson, though the flowers of four summers and the snows of four winters had now been shed over his grave. [F] Our author, Hugh Miller, never communicated to the Editor his authority for these "Recollections." Probably it was of the same kind as that possessed by Lucian, Lord Lyttleton, and Walter Savage Lander; but whether so or not, we must at least be well satisfied that the parts of the conversation sustained by the principal interlocutor are true to the genius and character of Burns, and that, however searching the thoughts or beautiful the sentiments, they do not transcend what might have been expected from the Bard himself.--ED. My prospects in life had begun to brighten. I served in the capacity of mate in a large West India trader, the master of which, an elderly man of considerable wealth, was on the eve of quitting the sea; and the owners had already determined that I should succeed him in the charge. But fate had ordered it otherwise. Our seas were infested at this period by American privateers--prime sailors, and strongly armed; and, when homeward bound from Jamaica with a valuable cargo, we were attacked and captured when within a day's sailing of Ireland, by one of the most formidable of the class. Vain as resistance might have been deemed--for the force of the American was altogether overpowering--and though our master, poor old man! and three of the crew, had fallen by the first broadside, we had yet stood stiffly by our guns, and were only overmastered when, after falling foul of the enemy, we were boarded by a party of thrice our strength and number. The Americans, irritated by our resistance, proved on this occasion no generous enemies; we were stripped and heavily ironed, and, two days after, were set ashore on the wild coast of Connaught, without a single change of dress, or a sixpence to bear us by the way. I was sitting, on the following night, beside the turf fire of a hospitable Irish peasant, when a seafaring man, whom I had sailed with about two years before, entered the cabin. The meeting was equally unexpected on either side. My acquaintance was the master of a smuggling lugger then on the coast; and on acquainting him with the details of my disaster, and the state of destitution to which it had reduced me, he kindly proposed that I should accompany him on his voyage to the west coast of Scotland, for which he was then on the eve of sailing. "You will run some little risk," he said, "as the companion of a man who has now been thrice outlawed for firing on his Majesty's flag; but I know your proud heart will prefer the danger of bad company at its worst, to the alternative of begging your way home." He judged rightly. Before daybreak we had lost sight of land, and in four days more we could discern the precipitous shores of Carrick stretching in a dark line along the horizon, and the hills of the interior rising thin and blue behind, like a volume of clouds. A considerable part of our cargo, which consisted mostly of tea and spirits, was consigned to an Ayr trader, who had several agents in the remote parish of Kirkoswald, which at this period afforded more facilities for carrying on the contraband trade than any other on the western coast of Scotland; and, in a rocky bay of the parish, we proposed unlading on the following night. It was necessary, however, that the several agents, who were yet ignorant of our arrival, should be prepared to meet with us; and, on volunteering my service for the purpose, I was landed near the ruins of the ancient castle of Turnberry, once the seat of Robert the Bruce. I had accomplished my object; it was evening, and a party of countrymen were sauntering among the cliffs, waiting for nightfall and the appearance of the lugger. There are splendid caverns on the coast of Kirkoswald; and, to while away the time, I had descended to the shore by a broken and precipitous path, with a view of exploring what are termed the Caves of Colzean, by far the finest in this part of Scotland. The evening was of great beauty; the sea spread out from the cliffs to the far horizon, like the sea of gold and crystal described by the prophet; and its warm orange hues so harmonized with those of the sky, that, passing over the dimly-defined line of demarcation, the whole upper and nether expanse seemed but one glorious firmament, with the dark Ailsa, like a thunder-cloud, sleeping in the midst. The sun was hastening to his setting, and threw his strong red light on the wall of rock which, loftier and more imposing than the walls of even the mighty Babylon, stretched onward along the beach, headland after headland, till the last sank abruptly in the far distance, and only the wide ocean stretched beyond. I passed along the insulated piles of cliff that rise thick along the basis of the precipices--now in sunshine, now in shadow--till I reached the opening of one of the largest caves. The roof rose more than fifty feet over my head--a broad stream of light, that seemed redder and more fiery from the surrounding gloom, slanted inwards, and, as I paused in the opening, my shadow, lengthened and dark, fell athwart the floor--a slim and narrow bar of black--till lost in the gloom of the inner recess. There was a wild and uncommon beauty in the scene that powerfully affected the imagination; and I stood admiring it in that delicious dreamy mood in which one can forget all but the present enjoyment, when I was roused to a recollection of the business of the evening by the sound of a footfall echoing from within. It seemed approaching by a sort of cross passage in the rock, and, in a moment after, a young man, one of the country people whom I had left among the cliffs above, stood before me. He wore a broad Lowland bonnet, and his plain homely suit of coarse russet seemed to bespeak him a peasant of perhaps the poorest class; but, as he emerged from the gloom, and the red light fell full on his countenance, I saw an indescribable something in the expression that in an instant awakened my curiosity. He was rather above the middle size, of a frame the most muscular and compact I have almost ever seen, and there was a blended mixture of elasticity and firmness in his tread, that to one accustomed, as I had been, to estimate the physical capabilities of men, gave evidence of a union of immense personal strength with great activity. My first idea regarding the stranger--and I know not how it should have struck me--was that of a very powerful frame, animated by a double portion of vitality. The red light shone full on his face, and gave a ruddy tinge to the complexion, which I afterwards found it wanted--for he was naturally of a darker hue than common; but there was no mistaking the expression of the large flashing eyes, the features that seemed so thoroughly cast in the mould of thought, and of the broad, full, perpendicular forehead. Such, at least, was the impression on my mind, that I addressed him with more of the courtesy which my earlier pursuits had rendered familiar to me, than of the bluntness of my adopted profession. "This sweet evening," I said, "is by far too fine for our lugger; I question whether, in these calms, we need expect her before midnight; but, 'tis well, since wait we must, that 'tis in a place where the hours may pass so agreeably." The stranger, good-humouredly, acquiesced in the remark, and we sat down together on the dry, water-worn pebbles, mixed with fragments of broken shells and minute pieces of wreck, that strewed the opening of the cave. "Was there ever a lovelier evening!" he exclaimed; "the waters above the firmament seem all of a piece with the waters below. And never surely was there a scene of wilder beauty. Only look inwards, and see how the stream of red light seems bounded by the extreme darkness, like a river by its banks, and how the reflection of the ripple goes waving in golden curls along the roof!" "I have been admiring the scene for the last half hour," I said; "Shakspeare speaks of a music that cannot be heard, and I have not yet seen a place where one might better learn to comment on the passage." Both the thought and the phrase seemed new to him. "A music that cannot be heard!" he repeated; and then, after a momentary pause, "you allude to the fact," he continued, "that sweet music, and forms such as these, of silent beauty and grandeur, awaken in the mind emotions of nearly the same class. There is something truly exquisite in the concert of to-night." I muttered a simple assent. "See," he continued, "how finely these insulated piles of rock, that rise in so many combinations of form along the beach, break and diversify the red light, and how the glossy leaves of the ivy glisten in the hollows of the precipices above! And then, how the sea spreads away to the far horizon, a glorious pavement of crimson and gold!--and how the dark Ailsa rises in the midst, like the little cloud seen by the prophet! The mind seems to enlarge, the heart to expand, in the contemplation of so much of beauty and grandeur. The soul asserts its due supremacy. And, oh! 'tis surely well that we can escape from those little cares of life which fetter down our thoughts, our hopes, our wishes, to the wants and the enjoyments of our animal existence; and that, amid the grand and the sublime of nature, we may learn from the spirit within us that we are better than the beasts that perish!" I looked up to the animated countenance and flashing eyes of my companion, and wondered what sort of a peasant it was I had met with. "Wild and beautiful as the scene is," I said, "you will find, even among those who arrogate to themselves the praise of wisdom and learning, men who regard such scenes as mere errors of nature. Burnet would have told you that a Dutch landscape, without hill, rock, or valley, must be the perfection of beauty, seeing that Paradise itself could have furnished nothing better." "I hold Milton as higher authority on the subject," said my companion, "than all the philosophers who ever wrote. Beauty, in a tame unvaried flat, where a man would know his country only by the milestones! A very Dutch Paradise, truly!" "But would not some of your companions above," I asked, "deem the scene as much an error of nature as Burnet himself? They could pass over these stubborn rocks neither plough nor harrow." "True," he replied; "there is a species of small wisdom in the world that often constitutes the extremest of its folly; a wisdom that would change the entire nature of _good_, had it but the power, by vainly endeavouring to render that good universal. It would convert the entire earth into one vast corn field, and then find that it had ruined the species by its improvement." "We of Scotland can hardly be ruined in that way for an age to come," I said. "But I am not sure that I understand you. Alter the very nature of good in the attempt to render it universal! How?" "I daresay you have seen a graduated scale," said my companion, "exhibiting the various powers of the different musical instruments, and observed how some of limited scope cross only a few of the divisions, and how others stretch nearly from side to side. 'Tis but a poor truism, perhaps, to say that similar differences in scope and power obtain among men--that there are minds who could not join in the concert of to-night--who could see neither beauty nor grandeur amid these wild cliffs and caverns, or in that glorious expanse of sea and sky; and that, on the other hand, there are minds so finely modulated--minds that sweep so broadly across the scale of nature, that there is no object, however minute, no breath of feeling, however faint, but that it awakens their sweet vibrations--the snow-flake falling in the stream, the daisy of the field, the conies of the rock, the hysop of the wall. Now, the vast and various frame of nature is adapted not to the lesser, but to the larger mind. It spreads on and around us in all its rich and magnificent variety, and finds the full portraiture of its Proteus-like beauty in the mirror of genius alone. Evident, however, as this may seem, we find a sort of levelling principle in the inferior order of minds, and which, in fact, constitutes one of their grand characteristics--a principle that would fain abridge the scale to their own narrow capabilities--that would cut down the vastness of nature to suit the littleness of their own conceptions and desires, and convert it into one tame, uniform, _médiocre good_, which would be _good_ but to themselves alone, and ultimately not even that." "I think I can now understand you," I said; "you describe a sort of swinish wisdom that would convert the world into one vast sty. For my own part, I have travelled far enough to know the value of a blue hill, and would not willingly lose so much as one of these landmarks of our mother land, by which kindly hearts in distant countries love to remember it." "I daresay we are getting fanciful," rejoined my companion; "but certainly, in man's schemes of improvement, both physical and moral, there is commonly a littleness and want of adaptation to the general good that almost always defeats his aims. He sees and understands but a minute portion--it is always some partial good he would introduce; and thus he but destroys the just proportions of a nicely-regulated system of things by exaggerating one of the parts. I passed of late through a richly-cultivated district of country, in which the agricultural improver had done his utmost. Never were there finer fields, more convenient steadings, crops of richer promise, a better regulated system of production. Corn and cattle had mightily improved; but what had man, the lord of the soil, become? Is not the body better than food, and life than raiment? If that decline for which all other things exist, it surely matters little that all these other things prosper. And here, though the corn, the cattle, the fields, the steadings had improved, man had sunk. There were but two classes in the district: a few cold-hearted speculators, who united what is worst in the character of the landed proprietor and the merchant--these were your gentleman farmers; and a class of degraded helots, little superior to the cattle they tended--these were your farm servants. And for two such extreme classes--necessary result of such a state of things--had this unfortunate, though highly-eulogized district, parted with a moral, intelligent, high-minded peasantry--the true boast and true riches of their country." "I have, I think, observed something like what you describe," I said. "I give," he replied, "but one instance of a thousand. But mark how the sun's lower disk has just reached the line of the horizon, and how the long level rule of light stretches to the very innermost recess of the cave! It darkens as the orb sinks. And see how the gauze-like shadows creep on from the sea, film after film!--and now they have reached the ivy that mantles round the castle of The Bruce. Are you acquainted with Barbour?" "Well," I said; "a spirited, fine old fellow, who loved his country and did much for it. I could once repeat all his chosen passages. Do you remember how he describes King Robert's rencounter with the English knight?" My companion sat up erect, and, clenching his fist, began repeating the passage, with a power and animation that seemed to double its inherent energy and force. "Glorious old Barbour!" ejaculated he, when he had finished the description; "many a heart has beat all the higher when the bale-fires were blazing, through the tutorage of thy noble verses! Blind Harry, too--what has not his country owed to him!" "Ah, they have long since been banished from our popular literature," I said; "and yet Blind Harry's 'Wallace,' as Hailes tells us, was at one time the very Bible of the Scotch. But love of country seems to be getting old-fashioned among us, and we have become philosophic enough to set up for citizens of the world." "All cold pretence," rejoined my companion; "an effect of that small wisdom we have just been decrying. Cosmopolitism, as we are accustomed to define it, can be no virtue of the present age, nor yet of the next, nor perhaps for centuries to come. Even when it shall have attained to its best, and when it may be most safely indulged in, it is according to the nature of man, that, instead of running counter to the love of country, it should exist as but a wider diffusion of the feeling, and form, as it were, a wider circle round it. It is absurdity itself to oppose the love of our country to that of our race." "Do I rightly understand you?" I said. "You look forward to a time when the patriot may safely expand into the citizen of the world; but, in the present age, he would do well, you think, to confine his energies within the inner circle of country." "Decidedly," he rejoined; "man should love his species at all times, but it is ill with him if, in times like the present, he loves not his country more. The spirit of war and aggression is yet abroad--there are laws to be established, rights to be defended, invaders to be repulsed, tyrants to be deposed. And who but the patriot is equal to these things? We are not yet done with the Bruces, the Wallaces, the Tells, the Washingtons--yes, the Washingtons, whether they fight for or against us--we are not yet done with them. The cosmopolite is but a puny abortion--a birth ere the natural time, that at once endangers the life and betrays the weakness of the country that bears him. Would that he were sleeping in his elements till his proper time! But we are getting ashamed of our country, of our language, our manners, our music, our literature; nor shall we have enough of the old spirit left us to assert our liberties or fight our battles. Oh, for some Barbour or Blind Harry of the present day, to make us, once more, proud of our country!" I quoted the famous saying of Fletcher of Salton--"Allow me to make the songs of a country, and I will allow you to make its laws." "But here," I said, "is our lugger stealing round Turnberry Head. We shall soon part, perhaps for ever, and I would fain know with whom I have spent an hour so agreeably, and have some name to remember him by. My own name is Matthew Lindsay; I am a native of Irvine." "And I," said the young man, rising and cordially grasping the proffered hand, "am a native of Ayr; my name is Robert Burns." CHAPTER II. If friendless, low, we meet together, Then, sir, your hand--my friend and brother! _Dedication to G. Hamilton._ A light breeze had risen as the sun sunk, and our lugger, with all her sails set, came sweeping along the shore. She had nearly gained the little bay in front of the cave, and the countrymen from above, to the number of perhaps twenty, had descended to the beach, when, all of a sudden, after a shrill whistle, and a brief half minute of commotion among the crew, she wore round and stood out to sea. I turned to the south, and saw a square-rigged vessel shooting out from behind one of the rocky headlands, and then bearing down in a long tack on the smuggler. "The sharks are upon us," said one of the countrymen, whose eyes had turned in the same direction--"we shall have no sport to-night." We stood lining the beach in anxious curiosity; the breeze freshened as the evening fell; and the lugger, as she lessened to our sight, went leaning against the foam in a long bright furrow, that, catching the last light of evening, shone like the milky way amid the blue. Occasionally we could see the flash, and hear the booming of a gun from the other vessel; but the night fell thick and dark; the waves too began to lash against the rocks, drowning every feebler sound in a continuous roaring; and every trace of both the chase and the chaser disappeared. The party broke up, and I was left standing alone on the beach, a little nearer home, but in every other respect in quite the same circumstances as when landed by my American friends on the wild coast of Connaught. "Another of Fortune's freaks!" I ejaculated; "but 'tis well she can no longer surprise me." A man stepped out in the darkness as I spoke, from beside one of the rocks; it was the peasant Burns, my acquaintance of the earlier part of the evening. "I have waited, Mr. Lindsay," he said, "to see whether some of the country folks here, who have homes of their own to invite you to, might not have brought you along with them. But I am afraid you must just be content to pass the night with me. I can give you a share of my bed and my supper, though both, I am aware, need many apologies." I made a suitable acknowledgment, and we ascended the cliff together. "I live, when at home with my parents," said my companion, "in the inland parish of Tarbolton; but, for the last two months, I have attended school here, and lodge with an old widow woman in the village. To-morrow, as harvest is fast approaching, I return to my father." "And I," I replied, "shall have the pleasure of accompanying you in at least the early part of your journey, on my way to Irvine, where my mother still lives." We reached the village, and entered a little cottage, that presented its gable to the street, and its side to one of the narrower lanes. "I must introduce you to my landlady," said my companion, "an excellent, kind-hearted old woman, with a fund of honest Scotch pride and shrewd good sense in her composition, and with the mother as strong in her heart as ever, though she lost the last of her children more than twenty years ago." We found the good woman sitting beside a small but very cheerful fire. The hearth was newly swept, and the floor newly sanded; and, directly fronting her, there was an empty chair, which seemed to have been drawn to its place in the expectation of some one to fill it. "You are going to leave me, Robert, my bairn," said the woman, "an' I kenna how I sall ever get on without you; I have almost forgotten, sin you came to live with me, that I have neither children nor husband." On seeing me, she stopped short. "An acquaintance," said my companion, "whom I have made bold to bring with me for the night; but you must not put yourself to any trouble, mother; he is, I daresay, as much accustomed to plain fare as myself. Only, however, we must get an additional pint of _yill_ from the _clachan;_ you know this is my last evening with you, and was to be a merry one at any rate." The woman looked me full in the face. "Matthew Lindsay!" she exclaimed--"can you have forgotten your poor old aunt Margaret!" I grasped her hand. "Dearest aunt, this is surely most unexpected! How could I have so much as dreamed you were within a hundred miles of me?" Mutual congratulation ensued. "This," she said, turning to my companion, "is the nephew I have so often told you about, and so often wished to bring you acquainted with. He is, like yourself, a great reader and a great thinker, and there is no need that your proud, kindly heart should be jealous of him; for he has been ever quite as poor, and maybe the poorer of the two." After still more of greeting and congratulation, the young man rose. "The night is dark, mother," he said, "and the road to the clachan a rough one; besides you and your kinsman will have much to say to one another. I shall just slip out to the clachan for you; and you shall both tell me on my return whether I am not a prime judge of ale." "The kindest heart, Matthew, that ever lived," said my relative, as he left the house; "ever since he came to Kirkoswald, he has been both son and daughter to me, and I shall feel twice a widow when he goes away." "I am mistaken, aunt," I said, "if he be not the strongest minded man I ever saw. Be assured he stands high among the aristocracy of nature, whatever may be thought of him in Kirkoswald. There is a robustness of intellect, joined to an overmastering force of character, about him, which I have never yet seen equalled, though I have been intimate with at least one very superior mind, and with hundreds of the class who pass for men of talent. I have been thinking ever since I met with him, of the William Tells and William Wallaces of history--men who, in those times of trouble which unfix the foundations of society, step out from their obscurity to rule the destiny of nations." "I was ill about a month ago," said my relative--"so very ill that I thought I was to have done with the world altogether; and Robert was both nurse and physician to me--he kindled my fire, too, every morning, and sat up beside me sometimes for the greater part of the night. What wonder I should love him as my own child? Had your cousin Henry been spared to me, he would now have been much about Robert's age." The conversation passed to other matters, and in about half an hour, my new friend entered the room; when we sat down to a homely, but cheerful repast. "I have been engaged in argument, for the last twenty minutes, with our parish schoolmaster," he said--"a shrewd, sensible man, and a prime scholar, but one of the most determined Calvinists I ever knew. Now, there is something, Mr. Lindsay, in abstract Calvinism, that dissatisfies and distresses me; and yet, I must confess, there is so much of good in the working of the system, that I would ill like to see it supplanted by any other. I am convinced, for instance, there is nothing so efficient in teaching the bulk of a people to think as a Calvinistic church." "Ah, Robert," said my aunt, "it does meikle mair nor that. Look round ye, my bairn, an' see if there be a kirk in which puir sinful creatures have mair comfort in their sufferings or mair hope in their deaths." "Dear mother," said my companion, "I like well enough to dispute with the schoolmaster, but I must have no dispute with you. I know the heart is everything in these matters, and yours is much wiser than mine." "There is something in abstract Calvinism," he continued, "that distresses me. In almost all our researches we arrive at an ultimate barrier, which interposes its wall of darkness between us and the last grand truth, in the series which we had trusted was to prove a master-key to the whole. We dwell in a sort of Goshen--there is light in our immediate neighbourhood, and a more than Egyptian darkness all around; and as every Hebrew must have known that the hedge of cloud which he saw resting on the landscape, was a boundary not to things themselves, but merely to his view of things--for beyond there were cities, and plains, and oceans, and continents--so we in like manner must know that the barriers of which I speak exist only in relation to the faculties which we employ, not to the objects on which we employ them. And yet, notwithstanding this consciousness that we are necessarily and irremediably the bound prisoners of ignorance, and that all the great truths lie outside our prison, we can almost be content that, in most cases, it should be so--not, however, with regard to those great unattainable truths which lie in the track of Calvinism. They seem too important to be wanted, and yet want them we must--and we beat our very heads against the cruel barrier which separates us from them." "I am afraid I hardly understand you," I said;--"do assist me by some instance of illustration." "You are acquainted," he replied, "with the Scripture doctrine of Predestination, and, in thinking over it, in connection with the destinies of man, it must have struck you that, however much it may interfere with our fixed notions of the goodness of Deity, it is thoroughly in accordance with the actual condition of our race. As far as we can know of ourselves and the things around us, there seems, through the will of Deity--for to what else can we refer it?--a fixed, invariable connection between what we term cause and effect. Nor do we demand of any class of mere effects, in the inanimate or irrational world, that they should regulate themselves otherwise than the causes which produce them have determined. The roe and the tiger pursue, unquestioned, the instincts of their several natures; the cork rises, and the stone sinks; and no one thinks of calling either to account for movements so opposite. But it is not so with the family of man; and yet our minds, our bodies, our circumstances, are but combinations of effects, over the causes of which we have no control. We did not choose a country for ourselves, nor yet a condition in life--nor did we determine our modicum of intellect, or our amount of passion--we did not impart its gravity to the weightier part of our nature, or give expansion to the lighter--nor are our instincts of our own planting. How, then, being thus as much the creatures of necessity as the denizens of the wild and forest--as thoroughly under the agency of fixed, unalterable causes, as the dead matter around us--why are we yet the subjects of a retributive system, and accountable for all our actions?" "You quarrel with Calvinism," I said; "and seem one of the most thorough-going necessitarians I ever knew." "Not so," he replied; "though my judgment cannot disprove these conclusions, my heart cannot acquiesce in them--though I see that I am as certainly the subject of laws that exist and operate independent of my will, as the dead matter around me, I feel, with a certainty quite as great, that I am a free, accountable creature. It is according to the scope of my entire reason that I should deem myself bound--it is according to the constitution of my whole nature that I should feel myself free. And in this consists the great, the fearful problem--a problem which both reason and revelation propound; but the truths which can alone solve it, seem to lie beyond the horizon of darkness--and we vex ourselves in vain. 'Tis a sort of moral asymptotes; but its lines, instead of approaching through all space without meeting, seem receding through all space, and yet meet." "Robert, my bairn," said my aunt, "I fear you are wasting your strength on these mysteries to your ain hurt. Did ye no see, in the last storm, when ye staid out among the caves till cock-crow, that the bigger and stronger the wave, the mair was it broken against the rocks?--it's just thus wi' the pride o' man's understanding, when he measures it against the dark things o' God. An' yet it's sae ordered, that the same wonderful truths which perplex and cast down the proud reason, should delight and comfort the humble heart. I am a lone, puir woman, Robert. Bairns an' husband have gone down to the grave, one by one; an' now, for twenty weary years, I have been childless an' a widow. But trow ye that the puir lone woman wanted a guard, an' a comforter, an' a provider, through a' the lang mirk nichts, an' a' the cauld scarce winters o' these twenty years? No, my bairn--I kent that Himsel' was wi' me. I kent it by the provision He made, an' the care He took, an' the joy He gave. An' how, think you, did He comfort me maist? Just by the blessed assurance that a' my trials an' a' my sorrows were nae hasty chance matters, but dispensations for my guid, an' the guid o' those He took to Himsel', that, in the perfect love and wisdom o' His nature, He had ordained frae the beginning." "Ah, mother," said my friend, after a pause, "you understand the doctrine far better than I do! There are, I find, no contradictions in the Calvinism of the heart." CHAPTER III. "Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods thick'ning green; The fragrant birch and hawthorn hoar Twined, amorous, round the raptured scene; The flowers sprang wanton to be prest, The birds sang love on every spray-- Till, too, too soon, the glowing west Proclaimed the speed of winged day." _To Mary in Heaven_. We were early on the road together; the day, though somewhat gloomy, was mild and pleasant, and we walked slowly onward, neither of us in the least disposed to hasten our parting by hastening our journey. We had discussed fifty different topics, and were prepared to enter on fifty more, when we reached the ancient burgh of Ayr, where our roads separated. "I have taken an immense liking to you, Mr. Lindsay," said my companion, as he seated himself on the parapet of the old bridge, "and have just bethought me of a scheme through which I may enjoy your company for at least one night more. The Ayr is a lovely river, and you tell me you have never explored it. We shall explore it together this evening for about ten miles, when we shall find ourselves at the farm-house of Lochlea. You may depend on a hearty welcome from my father, whom, by the way, I wish much to introduce to you, as a man worth your knowing; and, as I have set my heart on the scheme, you are surely too good-natured to disappoint me." Little risk of that, I thought; I had, in fact, become thoroughly enamoured of the warm-hearted benevolence and fascinating conversation of my companion, and acquiesced with the best good-will in the world. We had threaded the course of the river for several miles. It runs through a wild pastoral valley, roughened by thickets of copse-wood, and bounded on either hand by a line of swelling, moory hills, with here and there a few irregular patches of corn, and here and there some little nest-like cottage peeping out from among the wood. The clouds, which during the morning had obscured the entire face of the heavens, were breaking up their array, and the sun was looking down, in twenty different places, through the openings, checkering the landscape with a fantastic, though lovely carpeting of light and shadow. Before us there rose a thick wood, on a jutting promontory, that looked blue and dark in the shade, as if it wore mourning; while the sunlit stream beyond shone through the trunks and branches, like a river of fire. At length the clouds seemed to have melted in the blue--for there was not a breath of wind to speed them away--and the sun, now hastening to the west, shone in unbroken effulgence over the wide extent of the dell, lighting up stream and wood, and field and cottage, in one continuous blaze of glory. We had walked on in silence for the last half hour; but I could sometimes hear my companion muttering as he went; and when, in passing through a thicket of hawthorn and honeysuckle, we started from its perch a linnet that had been filling the air with its melody, I could hear him exclaim, in a subdued tone of voice, "Bonny, bonny birdie! why hasten frae me?--I wadna skaith a feather o' yer wing." He turned round to me, and I could see that his eyes were swimming in moisture. "Can he be other," he said, "than a good and benevolent God, who gives us moments like these to enjoy? Oh, my friend, without these sabbaths of the soul, that come to refresh and invigorate it, it would dry up within us! How exquisite," he continued, "how entire the sympathy which exists between all that is good and fair in external nature, and all of good and fair that dwells in our own! And, oh, how the heart expands and lightens! The world is as a grave to it--a closely-covered grave--and it shrinks, and deadens, and contracts all its holier and more joyous feelings under the cold, earth-like pressure. But, amid the grand and lovely of nature--amid these forms and colours of richest beauty--there is a disinterment, a resurrection of sentiment; the pressure of our earthly part seems removed, and those _senses of the mind_, if I may so speak, which serve to connect our spirits with the invisible world around us, recover their proper tone, and perform their proper office." "_Senses of the mind_," I said, repeating the phrase; "the idea is new to me; but I think I catch your meaning." "Yes; there are--there must be such," he continued, with growing enthusiasm; "man is essentially a religious creature--a looker beyond the grave, from the very constitution of his mind; and the sceptic who denies it is untrue not merely to the Being who has made and who preserves him, but to the entire scope and bent of his own nature besides. Wherever man is--whether he be a wanderer of the wild forest or still wilder desert, a dweller in some lone isle of the sea, or the tutored and full-minded denizen of some blessed land like our own--wherever man is, there is religion--hopes that look forward and upward--the belief in an unending existence, and a land of separate souls." I was carried away by the enthusiasm of my companion, and felt, for the time, as if my mind had become the mirror of his. There seems to obtain among men a species of moral gravitation, analogous, in its principles, to that which regulates and controls the movements of the planetary system. The larger and more ponderous any body, the greater its attractive force, and the more overpowering its influence over the lesser bodies which surround it. The earth we inhabit carries the moon along with it in its course, and is itself subject to the immensely more powerful influence of the sun. And it is thus with character. It is a law of our nature, as certainly as of the system we inhabit, that the inferior should yield to the superior, and the lesser owe its guidance to the greater. I had hitherto wandered on through life almost unconscious of the existence of this law, or, if occasionally rendered half aware of it, it was only through a feeling that some secret influence was operating favourably in my behalf on the common minds around me. I now felt, however, for the first time, that I had come in contact with a mind immeasurably more powerful than my own; my thoughts seemed to cast themselves into the very mould--my sentiments to modulate themselves by the very tone of his. And yet he was but a russet-clad peasant--my junior by at least eight years--who was returning from school to assist his father, an humble tacksman, in the labours of the approaching harvest. But the law of circumstance, so arbitrary in ruling the destinies of common men, exerts but a feeble control over the children of genius. The prophet went forth commissioned by Heaven to anoint a king over Israel, and the choice fell on a shepherd boy who was tending his father's flocks in the field. We had reached a lovely bend of the stream. There was a semicircular inflection in the steep bank, which waved over us, from base to summit, with hawthorn and hazle; and while one half looked blue and dark in the shade, the other was lighted up with gorgeous and fiery splendour by the sun, now fast sinking in the west. The effect seemed magical. A little grassy platform that stretched between the hanging wood and the stream, was whitened over with clothes, that looked like snow-wreathes in the hollow; and a young and beautiful girl watched beside them. "Mary Campbell!" exclaimed my companion, and in a moment he was at her side, and had grasped both her hands in his. "How fortunate, how very fortunate I am!" he said; "I could not have so much as hoped to have seen you to-night, and yet here you are! This, Mr. Lindsay, is a loved friend of mine, whom I have known and valued for years; ever, indeed, since we herded our sheep together under the cover of one plaid. Dearest Mary, I have had sad forebodings regarding you for the whole last month I was in Kirkoswald, and yet, after all my foolish fears, here you are, ruddier and bonnier than ever." She was, in truth, a beautiful, sylph-like young woman--one whom I would have looked at with complacency in any circumstances; for who that admires the fair and the lovely in nature--whether it be the wide-spread beauty of sky and earth, or beauty in its minuter modifications, as we see it in the flowers that spring up at our feet, or the butterfly that flutters over them--who, I say, that admires the fair and lovely in nature, can be indifferent to the fairest and loveliest of all her productions? As the mistress, however, of by far the strongest-minded man I ever knew, there was more of scrutiny in my glance than usual, and I felt a deeper interest in her than mere beauty could have awakened. She was, perhaps, rather below than above the middle size; but formed in such admirable proportion, that it seemed out of place to think of size in reference to her at all. Who, in looking at the _Venus de Medicis_, asks whether she be tall or short? The bust and neck were so exquisitely moulded, that they reminded me of Burke's fanciful remark, viz., that our ideas of beauty originate in our love of the sex, and that we deem every object beautiful which is described by soft-waving lines, resembling those of the female neck and bosom. Her feet and arms, which were both bare, had a statue-like symmetry and marble-like whiteness; but it was on her expressive and lovely countenance, now lighted up by the glow of joyous feeling, that nature seemed to have exhausted her utmost skill. There was a fascinating mixture in the expression of superior intelligence and child-like simplicity; a soft, modest light dwelt in the blue eye; and in the entire contour and general form of the features, there was a nearer approach to that union of the straight and the rounded, which is found in its perfection in only the Grecian face, than is at all common in our northern latitudes, among the descendants of either the Celt or the Saxon. I felt, however, as I gazed, that when lovers meet, the presence of a third person, however much the friend of either, must always be less than agreeable. "Mr. Burns," I said, "there is a beautiful eminence a few hundred yards to the right, from which I am desirous to overlook the windings of the stream. Do permit me to leave you for a short half hour, when I shall return; or, lest I weary you by my stay, 'twere better, perhaps, you should join me there." My companion greeted the proposal with a good-humoured smile of intelligence; and, plunging into the wood, I left him with his Mary. The sun had just set as he joined me. "Have you ever been in love, Mr. Lindsay?" he said. "No, never seriously," I replied. "I am, perhaps, not naturally of the coolest temperament imaginable; but the same fortune that has improved my mind in some little degree, and given me high notions of the sex, has hitherto thrown me among only its less superior specimens. I am now in my eight-and-twentieth year, and I have not yet met with a woman whom I could love." "Then you are yet a stranger," he rejoined, "to the greatest happiness of which our nature is capable. I have enjoyed more heartfelt pleasure in the company of the young woman I have just left, than from every other source that has been opened to me from my childhood till now. Love, my friend, is the fulfilling of the whole law." "Mary Campbell, did you not call her?" I said. "She is, I think, the loveliest creature I have ever seen; and I am much mistaken in the expression of her beauty, if her mind be not as lovely as her person." "It is, it is," he exclaimed--"the intelligence of an angel with the simplicity of a child. Oh, the delight of being thoroughly trusted, thoroughly beloved by one of the loveliest, best, purest-minded of all God's good creatures! To feel that heart beating against my own, and to know that it beats for me only! Never have I passed an evening with my Mary without returning to the world a better, gentler, wiser man. Love, my friend, is the fulfilling of the whole law. What are we without it?--poor, vile, selfish animals; our very virtues themselves, so exclusively virtues on our own behalf as to be well nigh as hateful as our vices. Nothing so opens and improves the heart, nothing so widens the grasp of the affections, nothing half so effectually brings us out of our crust of self, as a happy, well-regulated love for a pure-minded, affectionate-hearted woman!" "There is another kind of love, of which we sailors see somewhat," I said, "which is not so easily associated with good." "Love!" he replied--"no, Mr. Lindsay, that is not the name. Kind associates with kind in all nature; and love--humanizing, heart-softening love--cannot be the companion of whatever is low, mean, worthless, degrading--the associate of ruthless dishonour, cunning, treachery, and violent death. Even independent of its amount of evil as a crime, or the evils still greater than itself which necessarily accompany it, there is nothing that so petrifies the feeling as illicit connection." "Do you seriously think so?" I asked. "Yes, and I see clearly how it should be so. Neither sex is complete of itself--each was made for the other, that, like the two halves of a hinge, they may become an entire whole when united. Only think of the scriptural phrase, _one flesh_--it is of itself a system of philosophy. Refinement and tenderness are of the woman, strength and dignity of the man. Only observe the effects of a thorough separation, whether originating in accident or caprice. You will find the stronger sex lost in the rudenesses of partial barbarism; the gentler wrapt up in some pitiful round of trivial and unmeaning occupation--dry-nursing puppies, or making pincushions for posterity. But how much more pitiful are the effects when they meet amiss--when the humanizing friend and companion of the man is converted into the light degraded toy of an idle hour; the object of a sordid appetite that lives but for a moment, and then expires in loathing and disgust! The better feelings are iced over at their source, chilled by the freezing and deadening contact--where there is nothing to inspire confidence or solicit esteem; and, if these pass not through the first, the inner circle--that circle within which the social affections are formed, and from whence they emanate--how can they possibly flow through the circles which lie beyond? But here, Mr. Lindsay, is the farm of Lochlea, and yonder brown cottage, beside the three elms, is the dwelling of my parents." CHAPTER IV. "From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, That makes her lov'd at home, revered abroad." _Cotter's Saturday Night._ There was a wide and cheerful circle this evening round the hospitable hearth of Lochlea. The father of my friend, a patriarchal-looking old man, with a countenance the most expressive I have almost ever seen, sat beside the wall on a large oaken settle, which also served to accommodate a young man, an occasional visitor of the family, dressed in rather shabby black, whom I at once set down as a probationer of divinity. I had my own seat beside him. The brother of my friend (a lad cast in nearly the same mould of form and feature, except, perhaps, that his frame, though muscular and strongly set, seemed in the main less formidably robust, and his countenance, though expressive, less decidedly intellectual) sat at my side. My friend had drawn in his seat beside his mother, a well-formed, comely brunette, of about thirty-eight, whom I might almost have mistaken for his elder sister; and two or three younger members of the family were grouped behind her. The fire blazed cheerily within the wide and open chimney; and, throwing its strong light on the faces and limbs of the circle, sent our shadows flickering across the rafters and the wall behind. The conversation was animated and rational, and every one contributed his share. But I was chiefly interested in the remarks of the old man, for whom I already felt a growing veneration, and in those of his wonderfully-gifted son. "Unquestionably, Mr. Burns," said the man in black, addressing the farmer, "politeness is but a very shadow, as the poet hath it, if the heart be wanting. I saw, to-night, in a strictly polite family, so marked a presumption of the lack of that natural affection of which politeness is but the portraiture and semblance, that truly I have been grieved in my heart ever since." "Ah, Mr. Murdoch," said the farmer, "there is ever more hypocrisy in the world than in the church, and that, too, among the class of fine gentlemen and fine ladies who deny it most. But the instance"-- "You know the family, my worthy friend," continued Mr. Murdoch--"it is a very pretty one, as we say vernacularly, being numerous, and the sons highly genteel young men; the daughters not less so. A neighbour of the same very polite character, coming on a visit when I was among them, asked the father, in the course of a conversation to which I was privy, how he meant to dispose of his sons; when the father replied that he had not yet determined. The visitor said, that were he in his place, seeing they were all well-educated young men, he would send them abroad; to which the father objected the indubitable fact, that many young men lost their health in foreign countries, and very many their lives. 'True,' did the visitor rejoin; 'but, as you have a number of sons, it will be strange if some one of them does not live and make a fortune.' Now, Mr. Burns, what will you, who know the feelings of paternity, and the incalculable, and assuredly I may say, invaluable value of human souls, think when I add, that the father commended the hint, as showing the wisdom of a shrewd man of the world!" "Even the chief priests," said the old man, "pronounced it unlawful to cast into the treasury the thirty pieces of silver, seeing it was the price of blood; but the gentility of the present day is less scrupulous. There is a laxity of principle among us, Mr. Murdoch, that, if God restore us not, must end in the ruin of our country. I say laxity of principle; for there have ever been evil manners among us, and waifs in no inconsiderable number, broken loose from the decencies of society--more, perhaps, in my early days than there are now. But our principles at least were sound; and not only was there thus a restorative and conservative spirit among us, but, what was of not less importance, there was a broad gulf, like that in the parable, between the two grand classes, the good and the evil--a gulf which, when it secured the better class from contamination, interposed no barrier to the reformation and return of even the most vile and profligate, if repentant. But this gulf has disappeared, and we are standing unconcernedly over it, on a hollow and dangerous marsh of neutral ground, which, in the end, if God open not our eyes, must assuredly give way under our feet." "To what, father," inquired my friend, who sat listening with the deepest and most respectful attention, "do you attribute the change?" "Undoubtedly," replied the old man, "there have been many causes at work; and, though not impossible, it would certainly be no easy task to trace them all to their several effects, and give to each its due place and importance. But there is a deadly evil among us, though you will hear of it from neither press nor pulpit, which I am disposed to rank first in the number--the affectation of gentility. It has a threefold influence among us: it confounds the grand eternal distinctions of right and wrong, by erecting into a standard of conduct and opinion that heterogeneous and artificial whole which constitutes the manners and morals of the upper classes; it severs those ties of affection and good-will which should bind the middle to the lower orders, by disposing the one to regard whatever is below them with a true contemptuous indifference, and by provoking a bitter and indignant, though natural jealousy in the other for being so regarded; and, finally, by leading those who most entertain it into habits of expense, torturing their means, if I may so speak, on the rack of false opinion--disposing them to think, in their blindness, that to be genteel is a first consideration, and to be honest merely a secondary one--it has the effect of so hardening their hearts, that, like those Carthaginians of whom we have been lately reading in the volume Mr. Murdoch lent us, they offer up their very children, souls and bodies, to the unreal, phantom-like necessities of their circumstances." "Have I not heard you remark, father," said Gilbert "that the change you describe has been very marked among the ministers of our church?" "Too marked and too striking," replied the old man; "and in affecting the respectability and usefulness of so important a class, it has educed a cause of deterioration, distinctly from itself, and hardly less formidable. There is an old proverb of our country--'Better the head of the commonality than the tail of the gentry.' I have heard you quote it, Robert, oftener than once, and admire its homely wisdom. Now, it bears directly on what I have to remark--the ministers of our church have moved but one step during the last sixty years; but that step has been an all-important one--it has been from the best place in relation to the people, to the worst in relation to the aristocracy." "Undoubtedly, worthy Mr. Burns," said Mr. Murdoch, "there is great truth, according to mine own experience, in that which you affirm. I may state, I trust, without over-boasting or conceit, my respected friend, that my learning is not inferior to that of our neighbour the clergyman--it is not inferior in Latin, nor in Greek, nor yet in French literature, Mr. Burns, and probable it is he would not much court a competition, and yet, when I last waited at the manse regarding a necessary and essential certificate, Mr. Burns, he did not so much as ask me to sit down." "Ah!" said Gilbert, who seemed the wit of the family, "he is a highly respectable man, Mr. Murdoch--he has a fine house, fine furniture, fine carpets--all that constitutes respectability, you know; and his family is on visiting terms with that of the laird. But his credit is not so respectable, I hear." "Gilbert," said the old man, with much seriousness, "it is ill with a people when they can speak lightly of their clergymen. There is still much of sterling worth and serious piety in the Church of Scotland; and if the influence of its ministers be unfortunately less than it was once, we must not cast the blame too exclusively on themselves. Other causes have been in operation. The church, eighty years ago, was the sole guide of opinion, and the only source of thought among us. There was, indeed, but one way in which a man could learn to think. His mind became the subject of some serious impression:--he applied to his Bible, and, in the contemplation of the most important of all concerns, his newly awakened faculties received their first exercise. All of intelligence, all of moral good in him, all that rendered him worthy of the name of man, he owed to the ennobling influence of his church; and is it wonder that that influence should be all-powerful from this circumstance alone? But a thorough change has taken place;--new sources of intelligence have been opened up; we have our newspapers, and our magazines, and our volumes of miscellaneous reading; and it is now possible enough for the most cultivated mind in a parish to be the least moral and the least religious; and hence necessarily a diminished influence in the church, independent of the character of its ministers." I have dwelt too long, perhaps, on the conversation of the elder Burns; but I feel much pleasure in thus developing, as it were, my recollections of one whom his powerful-minded son has described--and this after an acquaintance with our Henry Mackenzies, Adam Smiths, and Dugald Stewarts--as the man most thoroughly acquainted with the world he ever knew. Never, at least, have I met with any one who exerted a more wholesome influence, through the force of moral character, on those around him. We sat down to a plain and homely supper. The slave question had, about this time, begun to draw the attention of a few of the more excellent and intelligent among the people, and the elder Burns seemed deeply interested in it. "This is but homely fare, Mr. Lindsay," he said, pointing to the simple viands before us, "and the apologists of slavery among us would tell you how inferior we are to the poor negroes, who fare so much better. But surely 'man liveth not by bread alone!' Our fathers who died for Christ on the hillside and the scaffold were noble men, and never, never shall slavery produce such, and yet they toiled as hard, and fared as meanly as we their children." I could feel, in the cottage of such a peasant, and seated beside such men as his two sons, the full force of the remark. And yet I have heard the miserable sophism of unprincipled power against which it was directed--a sophism so insulting to the dignity of honest poverty--a thousand times repeated. Supper over, the family circle widened round the hearth; and the old man, taking down a large clasped Bible, seated himself beside the iron lamp which now lighted the apartment. There was deep silence among us as he turned over the leaves. Never shall I forget his appearance. He was tall and thin, and though his frame was still vigorous, considerably bent. His features were high and massy--the complexion still retained much of the freshness of youth, and the eye all its intelligence; but the locks were waxing thin and grey round his high, thoughtful forehead, and the upper part of the head, which was elevated to an unusual height, was bald. There was an expression of the deepest seriousness on the countenance, which the strong umbery shadows of the apartment served to heighten; and when, laying his hand on the page, he half turned his face to the circle, and said, "_Let us worship God_," I was impressed by a feeling of awe and reverence to which I had, alas! been a stranger for years. I was affected too, almost to tears, as I joined in the psalm; for a thousand half-forgotten associations came rushing upon me; and my heart seemed to swell and expand as, kneeling beside him when he prayed, I listened to his solemn and fervent petition, that God might make manifest his great power and goodness in the salvation of man. Nor was the poor solitary wanderer of the deep forgotten. On rising from our devotions, the old man grasped me by the hand. "I am happy," he said, "that we should have met, Mr. Lindsay. I feel an interest in you, and must take the friend and the old man's privilege of giving you an advice. The sailor, of all men, stands most in need of religion. His life is one of continued vicissitude--of unexpected success, or unlooked-for misfortune; he is ever passing from danger to safety, and from safety to danger; his dependence is on the ever-varying winds, his abode on the unstable waters. And the mind takes a peculiar tone from what is peculiar in the circumstances. With nothing stable in the real world around it on which it may rest, it forms a resting-place for itself in some wild code of belief. It peoples the elements with strange occult powers of good and evil, and does them homage--addressing its prayers to the genius of the winds, and the spirits of the waters. And thus it begets a religion for itself;--for what else is the professional superstition of the sailor? Substitute, my friend, for this--(shall I call it unavoidable superstition?)--this natural religion of the sea, the religion of the Bible. Since you must be a believer in the supernatural, let your belief be true; let your trust be on Him who faileth not--your anchor within the vail; and all shall be well, be your destiny for this world what it may." We parted for the night, and I saw him no more. Next morning, Robert accompanied me for several miles on my way. I saw, for the last half hour, that he had something to communicate, and yet knew not how to set about it; and so I made a full stop. "You have something to tell me, Mr. Burns," I said: "need I assure you I am one you are in no danger from trusting." He blushed deeply, and I saw him, for the first time, hesitate and falter in his address. "Forgive me," he at length said--"believe me, Mr. Lindsay, I would be the last in the world to hurt the feelings of a friend--a--a--but you have been left among us penniless, and I have a very little money which I have no use for--none in the least;--will you not favour me by accepting it as a loan?" I felt the full and generous delicacy of the proposal, and, with moistened eyes and a swelling heart, availed myself of his kindness. The sum he tendered did not much exceed a guinea; but the yearly earnings of the peasant Burns fell, at this period of his life, rather below eight pounds. CHAPTER V. "Corbies an' clergy are a shot right kittle."--_Brigs of Ayr_. The years passed, and I was again a dweller on the sea; but the ill-fortune which had hitherto tracked me like a bloodhound, seemed at length as if tired in the pursuit, and I was now the master of a West India trader, and had begun to lay the foundation of that competency which has secured to my declining years the quiet and comfort which, for the latter part of my life, it has been my happiness to enjoy. My vessel had arrived at Liverpool in the latter part of the year 1784, and I had taken coach for Irvine, to visit my mother, whom I had not seen for several years. There was a change of passengers at every stage; but I saw little in any of them to interest me, till within about a score of miles of my destination, when I met with an old respectable townsman, a friend of my father's. There was but another passenger in the coach, a north country gentleman from the West Indies. I had many questions to ask my townsman, and many to answer--and the time passed lightly away. "Can you tell me aught of the Burnses of Lochlea?" I inquired, after learning that my mother and other relatives were well. "I met with the young man Robert about five years ago, and have often since asked myself what special end providence could have in view in making such a man." "I was acquainted with old William Burns," said my companion, "when he was gardener at Denholm, an' got intimate wi' his son Robert when he lived wi' us at Irvine, a twalmonth syne. The faither died shortly ago, sairly straitened in his means, I'm feared, and no very square wi' the laird--an' ill wad he hae liked that, for an honester man never breathed. Robert, puir chield, is no very easy either." "In his circumstances?" I said. "Ay, an' waur:--he got entangled wi' the kirk on an unlucky sculduddery business, an' has been writing bitter, wicked ballads on a' the guid ministers in the country ever syne. I'm vexed it's on them he suld hae fallen; an' yet they hae been to blame too." "Robert Burns so entangled, so occupied!" I exclaimed; "you grieve and astonish me." "We are puir creatures, Matthew," said the old man; "strength an' weakness are often next door neighbours in the best o' us; nay, what is our vera strength taen on the ae side, may be our vera weakness taen on the ither. Never was there a stancher, firmer fallow than Robert Burns; an' now that he has taen a wrang step, puir chield, that vera stanchness seems just a weak want o' ability to yield. He has planted his foot where it lighted by mishanter, and a' the guid an' ill in Scotland wadna budge him frae the spot." "Dear me! that so powerful a mind should be so frivolously engaged! Making ballads, you say?--with what success?" "Ah, Matthew lad, when the strong man puts out his strength," said my companion, "there's naething frivolous in the matter, be his object what it may. Robert's ballads are far, far aboon the best things ever seen in Scotland afore; we auld folk dinna ken whether maist to blame or praise them, but they keep the young people laughing frae the ae nuik o' the shire till the ither." "But how," I inquired, "have the better clergy rendered themselves obnoxious to Burns? The laws he has violated, if I rightly understand you, are indeed severe, and somewhat questionable in their tendencies; and even good men often press them too far." "And in the case of Robert," said the old man, "our clergy have been strict to the very letter. They're guid men an' faithfu' ministers; but ane o' them, at least, an' he a leader, has a harsh, ill temper, an' mistakes sometimes the corruption o' the auld man in him for the proper zeal o' the new ane. Nor is there ony o' the ithers wha kent what they had to deal wi' when Robert cam afore them. They saw but a proud, thrawart ploughman, that stood uncow'ring under the glunsh o' a hail session; and so they opened on him the artillery o' the kirk, to bear down his pride. Wha could hae told them that they were but frushing their straw an' rotten wood against the iron scales o' Leviathan? An' now that they hae dune their maist, the record o' Robert's mishanter is lying in whity-brown ink yonder in a page o' the session-buik, while the ballads hae sunk deep deep intil the very mind o' the country, and may live there for hunders and hunders o' years." "You seem to contrast, in this business," I said, "our better with what you must deem our inferior clergy. You mean, do you not, the higher and lower parties in our church? How are they getting on now?" "Never worse," replied the old man; "an', oh, it's surely ill when the ministers o' peace become the very leaders o' contention! But let the blame rest in the right place. Peace is surely a blessing frae Heaven--no a guid wark demanded frae man; an' when it grows our duty to be in war, it's an ill thing to be in peace. Our Evangelicals are stan'in', puir folk, whar their faithers stood; an' if they maun either fight or be beaten frae their post, why, it's just their duty to fight. But the Moderates are rinnin' mad a'thegither amang us: signing our auld Confession, just that they may get intil the kirk to preach against it; paring the New Testament doun to the vera standard o' heathen Plawto; and sinking ae doctrine after anither, till they leave ahint naething but deism that might scunner an infidel. Deed, Matthew, if there comena a change among them, an' that sune, they'll swamp the puir kirk a' thegither. The cauld morality that never made ony ane mair moral, taks nae hand o' the people; an' patronage, as meikle's they roose it, winna keep up either kirk or manse o' itsel. Sorry I am, sin' Robert has entered on the quarrel at a', it suld hae been on the wrang side." "One of my chief objections," I said, "to the religion of the Moderate party is, that it is of no use." "A gey serious ane," rejoined the old man; "but maybe there's a waur still. I'm unco vexed for Robert, baith on his worthy faither's account and his ain. He's a fearsome fellow when ance angered, but an honest, warm-hearted chield for a' that; an' there's mair sense in yon big head o' his, than in ony ither twa in the country." "Can you tell me aught," said the north country gentleman, addressing my companion, "of Mr. R----, the chapel minister in K----? I was once one of his pupils in the far north; but I have heard nothing of him since he left Cromarty." "Why," rejoined the old man, "he's just the man that, mair nor a' the rest, has borne the brunt o' Robert's fearsome waggery. Did ye ken him in Cromarty, say ye?" "He was parish schoolmaster there," said the gentleman, "for twelve years; and for six of these I attended his school. I cannot help respecting him; but no one ever loved him. Never surely was there a man at once so unequivocally honest and so thoroughly unamiable." "You must have found him a rigid disciplinarian," I said. "He was the most so," he replied, "from the days of Dionysius, at least, that ever taught a school. I remember there was a poor fisher boy among us named Skinner, who, as is customary in Scottish schools, as you must know, blew the horn for gathering the scholars, and kept the catalogue and the key; and who, in return, was educated by the master, and received some little gratuity from the scholars besides. On one occasion, the key dropped out of his pocket; and, when school-time came, the irascible dominie had to burst open the door with his foot. He raged at the boy with a fury so insane, and beat him so unmercifully, that the other boys, gathering heart in the extremity of the case, had to rise _en masse_ and tear him out of his hands. But the curious part of the story is yet to come: Skinner has been a fisherman for the last twelve years; but never has he been seen disengaged, for a moment, from that time to this, without mechanically thrusting his hand into the key pocket." Our companion furnished us with two or three other anecdotes of Mr. R----. He told us of a lady who was so overcome by sudden terror on unexpectedly seeing him, many years after she had quitted his school, in one of the pulpits of the south, that she fainted away; and of another of his scholars, named M'Glashan, a robust, daring fellow of six feet, who, when returning to Cromarty from some of the colonies, solaced himself by the way with thoughts of the hearty drubbing with which he was to clear off all his old scores with the dominie. "Ere his return, however," continued the gentleman, "Mr. R---- had quitted the parish; and, had it chanced otherwise, it is questionable whether M'Glashan, with all his strength and courage, would have gained anything in an encounter with one of the boldest and most powerful men in the country." Such were some of the chance glimpses which I gained, at this time, of by far the most powerful of the opponents of Burns. He was a good, conscientious man; but unfortunate in a harsh, violent temper, and in sometimes mistaking, as my old townsman remarked, the dictates of that temper for those of duty. CHAPTER VI. "It's hardly in a body's pow'r To keep at times frae being sour, To see how things are shar'd-- How best o' chiels are whiles in want, While coofs on countless thousands rant, And kenna how to wair't."--_Epistle to Davie._ I visited my friend, a few days after my arrival in Irvine, at the farm-house of Mossgiel, to which, on the death of his father, he had removed, with his brother Gilbert and his mother. I could not help observing that his manners were considerably changed: my welcome seemed less kind and hearty than I could have anticipated from the warm-hearted peasant of five years ago, and there was a stern and almost supercilious elevation in his bearing, which at first pained and offended me. I had met with him as he was returning from the fields after the labours of the day; the dusk of twilight had fallen; and, though I had calculated on passing the evening with him at the farm-house of Mossgiel, so displeased was I, that, after our first greeting, I had more than half changed my mind. The recollection of his former kindness to me, however, suspended the feeling, and I resolved on throwing myself on his hospitality for the night, however cold the welcome. "I have come all the way from Irvine to see you, Mr. Burns," I said. "For the last five years, I have thought more of my mother and you than of any other two persons in the country. May I not calculate, as of old, on my supper and a bed?" There was an instantaneous change in his expression. "Pardon me, my friend," he said, grasping my hand; "I have, unwittingly, been doing you wrong; one may surely be the master of an Indiaman and in possession of a heart too honest to be spoiled by prosperity!" The remark served to explain the haughty coldness of his manner which had so displeased me, and which was but the unwillingly assumed armour of a defensive pride. "There, brother," he said, throwing down some plough irons which he carried, "send _wee Davoc_ with these to the smithy, and bid him tell Rankin I won't be there to-night. The moon is rising, Mr. Lindsay--shall we not have a stroll together through the coppice?" "That of all things," I replied; and, parting from Gilbert, we struck into the wood. The evening, considering the lateness of the season, for winter had set in, was mild and pleasant. The moon at full was rising over the Cumnock hills, and casting its faint light on the trees that rose around us, in their winding-sheets of brown and yellow, like so many spectres, or that, in the more exposed glares and openings of the wood, stretched their long naked arms to the sky. A light breeze went rustling through the withered grass; and I could see the faint twinkling of the falling leaves, as they came showering down on every side of us. "We meet in the midst of death and desolation," said my companion--"we parted when all around us was fresh and beautiful. My father was with me then, and--and Mary Campbell--and now"---- "Mary! your Mary!" I exclaimed--"the young--the beautiful--alas! is she also gone?" "She has left me," he said--"left me. Mary is in her grave!" I felt my heart swell, as the image of that loveliest of creatures came rising to my view in all her beauty, as I had seen her by the river side; and I knew not what to reply. "Yes," continued my friend, "she's in her grave;--we parted for a few days, to re-unite, as we hoped, for ever; and, ere these few days had passed, she was in her grave. But I was unworthy of her--unworthy even then; and now---- But she is in her grave!" I grasped his hand. "It is difficult," I said, "to _bid_ the heart submit to these dispensations, and, oh, how utterly impossible to bring it to _listen_! But life--_your_ life, my friend--must not be passed in useless sorrow. I am convinced, and often have I thought of it since our last meeting, that yours is no vulgar destiny--though I know not to what it tends." "Downwards!" he exclaimed--"it tends downwards;--I see, I feel it;--the anchor of my affection is gone, and I drift shoreward on the rocks." "'Twere ruin," I exclaimed, "to think so!" "Not half an hour ere my father died," he continued, "he expressed a wish to rise and sit once more in his chair; and we indulged him. But, alas! the same feeling of uneasiness which had prompted the wish, remained with him still, and he sought to return again to his bed. 'It is not by quitting the bed or the chair,' he said, 'that I need seek for ease: it is by quitting the body.' I am oppressed, Mr. Lindsay, by a somewhat similar feeling of uneasiness, and, at times, would fain cast the blame on the circumstances in which I am placed. But I may be as far mistaken as my poor father. I would fain live at peace with all mankind--nay, more, I would fain love and do good to them all; but the villain and the oppressor come to set their feet on my very neck, and crush me into the mire--and must I not resist? And when, in some luckless hour, I yield to my passions--to those fearful passions that must one day overwhelm me--when I yield, and my whole mind is darkened by remorse, and I groan under the discipline of conscience, then comes the odious, abominable hypocrite--the devourer of widows' houses and the substance of the orphan--and demands that my repentance be as public as his own hollow, detestable prayers. And can I do other than resist and expose him? My heart tells me it was formed to bestow--why else does every misery that I cannot relieve render me wretched? It tells me, too, it was formed not to receive--why else does the proffered assistance of even a friend fill my whole soul with indignation? But ill do my circumstances agree with my feelings. I feel as if I were totally misplaced in some frolic of nature, and wander onwards in gloom and unhappiness, seeking for my proper sphere. But, alas! these efforts of uneasy misery are but the blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops round the walls of his cave." I again began to experience, as on a former occasion, the o'ermastering power of a mind larger beyond comparison than my own; but I felt it my duty to resist the influence. "Yes, you are misplaced, my friend," I said--"perhaps more decidedly so than any other man I ever knew; but is not this characteristic, in some measure, of the whole species? We are all misplaced; and it seems a part of the scheme of deity, that we should work ourselves up to our proper sphere. In what other respect does man so differ from the inferior animals as in those aspirations which lead him through all the progressions of improvement, from the lowest to the highest level of his nature?" "That may be philosophy, my friend," he replied, "but a heart ill at ease finds little of comfort in it. You knew my father: need I say he was one of the excellent of the earth--a man who held directly from God Almighty the patent of his honours? I saw that father sink broken-hearted into the grave, the victim of legalized oppression--yes, saw him overborne in the long contest which his high spirit and his indomitable love of the right had incited him to maintain--overborne by a mean, despicable scoundrel, one of the creeping things of the earth. Heaven knows I did my utmost to assist in the struggle. In my fifteenth year, Mr. Lindsay, when a thin, loose-jointed boy, I did the work of a man, and strained my unknit and overtoiled sinews as if life and death depended on the issue, till oft, in the middle of the night, I have had to fling myself from my bed to avoid instant suffocation--an effect of exertion so prolonged and so premature. Nor has the man exerted himself less heartily than the boy--in the roughest, severest labours of the field, I have never yet met a competitor. But my labours have been all in vain--I have seen the evil bewailed by Solomon--the righteous man falling down before the wicked." I could answer only with a sigh. "You are in the right," he continued, after a pause, and in a more subdued tone: "man is certainly misplaced--the present scene of things is below the dignity of both his moral and intellectual nature. Look round you--(we had reached the summit of a grassy eminence which rose over the wood, and commanded a pretty extensive view of the surrounding country)--see yonder scattered cottages, that, in the faint light, rise dim and black amid the stubble fields--my heart warms as I look on them, for I know how much of honest worth, and sound, generous feeling shelters under these roof-trees. But why so much of moral excellence united to a mere machinery for ministering to the ease and luxury of a few of, perhaps, the least worthy of our species--creatures so spoiled by prosperity that the claim of a common nature has no force to move them, and who seem as miserably misplaced as the myriads whom they oppress?" "If I'm designed yon lordling's slave-- By nature's law designed-- Why was an independent wish E'er planted in my mind? If not, why am I subject to His cruelty and scorn? Or why has man the will and power To make his fellow mourn?" "I would hardly know what to say in return, my friend," I rejoined, "did not you, yourself, furnish me with the reply. You are groping on in darkness, and it may be unhappiness, for your proper sphere; but it is in obedience to a great though occult law of our nature--a law, general as it affects the species, in its course of onward progression--particular, and infinitely more irresistible, as it operates on every truly superior intellect. There are men born to wield the destinies of nations--nay, more, to stamp the impression of their thoughts and feelings on the mind of the whole civilized world. And by what means do we often find them roused to accomplish their appointed work? At times hounded on by sorrow and suffering, and thus in the design of providence, that there may be less of sorrow and suffering in the world ever after--at times roused by cruel and maddening oppression, that the oppressor may perish in his guilt, and a whole country enjoy the blessings of freedom. If Wallace had not suffered from tyranny, Scotland would not have been free." "But how apply the remark?" said my companion. "Robert Burns," I replied, again grasping his hand, "yours, I am convinced, is no vulgar destiny. Your griefs, your sufferings, your errors even, the oppressions you have seen and felt, the thoughts which have arisen in your mind, the feelings and sentiments of which it has been the subject, are, I am convinced, of infinitely more importance in their relation to your country than to yourself. You are, wisely and benevolently, placed far below your level, that thousands and ten thousands of your countrymen may be the better enabled to attain to theirs. Assert the dignity of manhood and of genius, and there will be less of wrong and oppression in the world ever after." I spent the remainder of the evening in the farm-house of Mossgiel, and took the coach next morning for Liverpool. CHAPTER VII. "His is that language of the heart In which the answering heart would speak-- Thought, word, that bids the warm tear start, Or the smile light up the cheek; And his that music to whose tone The common pulse of man keeps time, In cot or castle's mirth or moan, In cold or sunny clime."--_American poet._ The love of literature, when once thoroughly awakened in a reflective mind, can never after cease to influence it. It first assimilates our intellectual part to those fine intellects which live in the world of books, and then renders our connection with them indispensable, by laying hold of that social principle of our nature which ever leads us to the society of our fellows as our proper sphere of enjoyment. My early habits, by heightening my tone of thought and feeling, had tended considerably to narrow my circle of companionship. My profession, too, had led me to be much alone; and now that I had been several years the master of an Indiaman, I was quite as fond of reading, and felt as deep an interest in whatever took place in the literary world, as when a student at St. Andrew's. There was much in the literature of the period to gratify my pride as a Scotchman. The despotism, both political and religious, which had overlaid the energies of our country for more than a century, had long been removed, and the national mind had swelled and expanded under a better system of things, till its influence had become co-extensive with civilized man. Hume had produced his inimitable history, and Adam Smith his wonderful work, which was to revolutionise and new-model the economy of all the governments of the earth. And there, in my little library, were the histories of Henry and Robertson, the philosophy of Kaimes and Reid, the novels of Smollett and Mackenzie, and the poetry of Beattie and Home. But, if there was no lack of Scottish intellect in the literature of the time, there was a decided lack of Scottish manners; and I knew too much of my humble countrymen not to regret it. True, I had before me the writings of Ramsay and my unfortunate friend Ferguson; but there was a radical meanness in the first that lowered the tone of his colouring far beneath the freshness of truth, and the second, whom I had seen perish--too soon, alas! for literature and his country--had given us but a few specimens of his power when his hand was arrested for ever. My vessel, after a profitable, though somewhat tedious voyage, had again arrived in Liverpool. It was late in December, 1786, and I was passing the long evening in my cabin, engaged with a whole sheaf of pamphlets and magazines which had been sent me from the shore. _The Lounger_ was, at this time, in course of publication. I had ever been an admirer of the quiet elegance and exquisite tenderness of Mackenzie; and, though I might not be quite disposed to think, with Johnson, that "the chief glory of every people arises from its authors," I certainly felt all the prouder of my country, from the circumstance that so accomplished a writer was one of my countrymen. I had read this evening some of the more recent numbers, half disposed to regret, however, amid all the pleasure they afforded me, that the Addison of Scotland had not done for the manners of his country what his illustrious prototype had done for those of England, when my eye fell on the ninety-seventh number. I read the introductory sentences, and admired their truth and elegance. I had felt, in the contemplation of supereminent genius, the pleasure which the writer describes, and my thoughts reverted to my two friends--the dead and the living. "In the view of highly superior talents, as in that of great and stupendous objects," says the essayist, "there is a sublimity which fills the soul with wonder and delight--which expands it, as it were, beyond its usual bounds, and which, investing our nature with extraordinary powers and extraordinary honours, interests our curiosity and flatters our pride." I read on with increasing interest. It was evident, from the tone of the introduction, that some new luminary had arisen in the literary horizon, and I felt somewhat like a schoolboy when, at his first play, he waits for the drawing up of the curtain. And the curtain at length rose. "The person," continues the essayist, "to whom I allude"--and he alludes to him as a genius of no ordinary class--"is Robert Burns, an Ayrshire ploughman." The effect on my nerves seemed electrical; I clapped my hands, and sprung from my seat: "Was I not certain of it! Did I not foresee it!" I exclaimed. "My noble-minded friend, Robert Burns!" I ran hastily over the warm-hearted and generous critique, so unlike the cold, timid, equivocal notices with which the professional critic has greeted, on their first appearance, so many works destined to immortality. It was Mackenzie, the discriminating, the classical, the elegant, who assured me that the productions of this "heaven-taught ploughman were fraught with the high-toned feeling and the power and energy of expression characteristic of the mind and voice of the poet"--with the solemn, the tender, the sublime; that they contained images of pastoral beauty which no other writer had ever surpassed, and strains of wild humour which only the higher masters of the lyre had ever equalled; and that the genius displayed in them seemed not less admirable in tracing the manners than in painting the passions, or in drawing the scenery of nature. I flung down the essay, ascended to the deck in three huge strides, leaped ashore, and reached my bookseller's as he was shutting up for the night. "Can you furnish me with a copy of Burns' Poems," I said, "either for love or money?" "I have but one copy left," replied the man, "and here it is." I flung down a guinea. "The change," I said, "I shall get when I am less in a hurry." 'Twas late that evening ere I remembered that 'tis customary to spend at least part of the night in bed. I read on and on with a still increasing astonishment and delight, laughing and crying by turns. I was quite in a new world; all was fresh and unsoiled--the thoughts, the descriptions, the images--as if the volume I read was the first that had ever been written; and yet all was easy and natural, and appealed, with a truth and force irresistible, to the recollections I cherished most fondly. Nature and Scotland met me at every turn. I had admired the polished compositions of Pope, and Gray, and Collins, though I could not sometimes help feeling that, with all the exquisite art they displayed, there was a little additional art wanting still. In most cases the scaffolding seemed incorporated with the structure which it had served to rear; and, though certainly no scaffolding could be raised on surer principles, I could have wished that the ingenuity which had been tasked to erect it, had been exerted a little further in taking it down. But the work before me was evidently the production of a greater artist; not a fragment of the scaffolding remained--not so much as a mark to show how it had been constructed. The whole seemed to have risen like an exhalation, and, in this respect, reminded me of the structures of Shakspeare alone. I read the inimitable "Twa Dogs." Here, I said, is the full and perfect realization of what Swift and Dryden were hardy enough to attempt, but lacked genius to accomplish. Here are dogs--_bona fide_ dogs--endowed indeed with more than human sense and observation, but true to character, as the most honest and attached of quadrupeds, in every line. And then those exquisite touches which the poor man, inured to a life of toil and poverty, can alone rightly understand! and those deeply-based remarks on character, which only the philosopher can justly appreciate! This is the true catholic poetry, which addresses itself not to any little circle, walled in from the rest of the species by some peculiarity of thought, prejudice, or condition, but to the whole human family. I read on:--"The Holy Fair," "Hallow E'en," "The Vision," the "Address to the Deil," engaged me by turns; and then the strange, uproarious, unequalled "Death and Dr. Hornbook." This, I said, is something new in the literature of the world. Shakspeare possessed above all men the power of instant and yet natural transition, from the lightly gay to the deeply pathetic--from the wild to the humorous; but the opposite states of feeling which he induces, however close the neighbourhood, are ever distinct and separate; the oil and the water, though contained in the same vessel, remain apart. Here, however, for the first time, they mix and incorporate, and yet each retains its whole nature and full effect. I need hardly remind the reader that the feat has been repeated, and even with more completeness, in the wonderful, "Tam o' Shanter." I read on. "The Cotter's Saturday Night" filled my whole soul--my heart throbbed and my eyes moistened; and never before did I feel half so proud of my country, or know half so well on what score it was I did best in feeling proud. I had perused the entire volume from beginning to end, ere I remembered I had not taken supper, and that it was more than time to go to bed. But it is no part of my plan to furnish a critique on the poems of my friend. I merely strive to recall the thoughts and feelings which my first perusal of them awakened, and thus only as a piece of mental history. Several months elapsed from this evening ere I could hold them out from me sufficiently at arms' length, as it were, to judge of their more striking characteristics. At times the amazing amount of thought, feeling, and imagery which they contained--their wonderful continuity of idea, without gap or interstice--seemed to me most to distinguish them. At times they reminded me, compared with the writings of smoother poets, of a collection of medals which, unlike the thin polished coin of the kingdom, retained all the significant and pictorial roughness of the original die. But when, after the lapse of weeks, months, years, I found them rising up in my heart on every occasion, as naturally as if they had been the original language of all my feelings and emotions--when I felt that, instead of remaining outside my mind, as it were, like the writings of other poets, they had so amalgamated themselves with my passions, my sentiments, my ideas, that they seemed to have become portions of my very self--I was led to a final conclusion regarding them. Their grand distinguishing characteristic is their unswerving and perfect truth. The poetry of Shakspeare is the mirror of life--that of Burns the expressive and richly modulated voice of human nature. CHAPTER VIII. "Burns was a poor man from his birth, and an exciseman from necessity; but--I _will say_ it!--the sterling of his honest worth, poverty could not debase; and his independent British spirit oppression might bend, but could not subdue."--_Letter to Mr. Graham_. I have been listening for the last half hour to the wild music of an Eolian harp. How exquisitely the tones rise and fall!--now sad, now solemn--now near, now distant. The nerves thrill, the heart softens, the imagination awakes as we listen. What if that delightful instrument be animated by a living soul, and these finely-modulated tones be but the expression of its feelings! What if these dying, melancholy cadences, which so melt and sink into the heart, be--what we may so naturally interpret them--the melodious sinkings of a deep-seated and hopeless unhappiness! Nay, the fancy is too wild for even a dream. But are there none of those fine analogies, which run through the whole of nature and the whole of art, to sublime it into truth? Yes, _there have_ been such living harps among us; beings, the tones of whose sentiments, the melody of whose emotions, the cadences of whose sorrows, remain to thrill, and delight, and humanize our souls. They seem born for others, not for themselves. Alas, for the hapless companion of my early youth! Alas, for him, the pride of his country, the friend of my maturer manhood!--But my narrative lags in its progress. My vessel lay in the Clyde for several weeks during the summer of 1794, and I found time to indulge myself in a brief tour along the western coasts of the kingdom, from Glasgow to the Borders. I entered Dumfries in a calm, lovely evening, and passed along one of the principal streets. The shadows of the houses on the western side were stretched half-way across the pavement, while, on the side opposite, the bright sunshine seemed sleeping on the jutting irregular fronts, and high antique gables. There seemed a world of well-dressed company this evening in town; and I learned, on inquiry, that all the aristocracy of the adjacent country, for twenty miles round, had come in to attend a county ball. They went fluttering along the sunny side of the street, gay as butterflies--group succeeding group. On the opposite side, in the shade, a solitary individual was passing slowly along the pavement. I knew him at a glance. It was the first poet, perhaps the greatest man, of his age and country. But why so solitary? It had been told me that he ranked among his friends and associates many of the highest names in the kingdom, and yet to-night not one of the hundreds who fluttered past appeared inclined to recognise him. He seemed too--but perhaps fancy misled me--as if care-worn and dejected; pained, perhaps, that not one among so many of the _great_ should have humility enough to notice a poor exciseman. I stole up to him unobserved, and tapped him on the shoulder; there was a decided fierceness in his manner as he turned abruptly round, but, as he recognised me, his expressive countenance lighted up in a moment, and I shall never forget the heartiness with which he grasped my hand. We quitted the streets together for the neighbouring fields, and, after the natural interchange of mutual congratulations--"How is it," I inquired, "that you do not seem to have a single acquaintance among all the gay and great of the country?" "I lie under quarantine," he replied; "tainted by the plague of liberalism. There is not one of the hundreds we passed to-night whom I could not once reckon among my intimates." The intelligence stunned and irritated me. "How infinitely absurd!" I said. "Do they dream of sinking you into a common man?" "Even so," he rejoined. "Do they not all know I have been a gauger for the last five years!" The fact had both grieved and incensed me long before. I knew, too, that Pye enjoyed his salary as poet laureate of the time, and Dibdin, the song writer, his pension of two hundred a-year, and I blushed for my country. "Yes," he continued--the ill-assumed coolness of his manner giving way before his highly excited feelings--"they have assigned me my place among the mean and the degraded, as their best patronage; and only yesterday, after an official threat of instant dismission, I was told it was my business to act, not to think. God help me! what have I done to provoke such bitter insult? I have ever discharged my miserable duty--discharged it, Mr. Lindsay, however repugnant to my feelings, as an honest man; and though there awaited me no promotion, I was silent. The wives or sisters of those whom they advanced over me had bastards to some of the ---- family, and so their influence was necessarily greater than mine. But now they crush me into the very dust. I take an interest in the struggles of the slave for his freedom; I express my opinions as if I myself were a free man; and they threaten to starve me and my children if I dare so much as speak or think." I expressed my indignant sympathy in a few broken sentences; and he went on with kindling animation:-- "Yes, they would fain crush me into the very dust! They cannot forgive me, that, being born a man, I should walk erect according to my nature. Mean-spirited and despicable themselves, they can tolerate only the mean-spirited and the despicable; and were I not so entirely in their power, Mr. Lindsay, I could regard them with the proper contempt. But the wretches can starve me and my children--and they _know_ it; nor does it mend the matter that I _know_ in turn, what pitiful, miserable, little creatures they are. What care I for the butterflies of to-night?--they passed me without the honour of their notice; and I, in turn, suffered them to pass without the honour of mine; and I am more than quits. Do I not know that they and I are going on to the fulfilment of our several destinies?--they to sleep, in the obscurity of their native insignificance, with the pismires and grasshoppers of all the past, and I to be whatever the millions of my unborn countrymen shall yet decide. Pitiful little insects of an hour! what is their notice to me! But I bear a heart, Mr. Lindsay, that can feel the pain of treatment so unworthy; and I must confess it moves me. One cannot always live upon the future, divorced from the sympathies of the present. One cannot always solace one's self under the grinding despotism that would fetter one's very thoughts, with the conviction, however assured, that posterity will do justice both to the oppressor and the oppressed. I am sick at heart; and were it not for the poor little things that depend so entirely on my exertions, I could as cheerfully lay me down in the grave as I ever did in bed after the fatigues of a long day's labour. Heaven help me! I am miserably unfitted to struggle with even the natural evils of existence--how much more so when these are multiplied and exaggerated by the proud, capricious inhumanity of man!" "There is a miserable lack of right principle and right feeling," I said, "among our upper classes in the present day; but, alas for poor human nature! it has ever been so, and, I am afraid, ever will. And there is quite as much of it in savage as in civilized life. I have seen the exclusive aristocratic spirit, with its one-sided injustice, as rampant in a wild isle of the Pacific as I ever saw it among ourselves." "'Tis slight comfort," said my friend, with a melancholy smile, "to be assured, when one's heart bleeds from the cruelty or injustice of our fellows, that man is naturally cruel and unjust, and not less so as a savage than when better taught. I knew you, Mr. Lindsay, when you were younger and less fortunate; but you have now reached that middle term of life when man naturally takes up the Tory and lays down the Whig; nor has there been aught in your improving circumstances to retard the change; and so you rest in the conclusion that, if the weak among us suffer from the tyranny of the strong, 'tis because human nature is so constituted, and the case therefore cannot be helped." "Pardon me, Mr. Burns," I said, "I am not quite so finished a Tory as that amounts to." "I am not one of those fanciful declaimers," he continued, "who set out on the assumption that man is free-born. I am too well assured of the contrary. Man is not free-born. The earlier period of his existence, whether as a puny child or the miserable denizen of an uninformed and barbarous state, is one of vassalage and subserviency. He is not born free, he is not born rational, he is not born virtuous; he is born to _become_ all these. And woe to the sophist who, with arguments drawn from the unconfirmed constitution of his childhood, would strive to render his imperfect, because immature, state of pupilage a permanent one! We are yet far below the level of which our nature is capable, and possess in consequence but a small portion of the liberty which it is the destiny of our species to enjoy. And 'tis time our masters should be taught so. You will deem me a wild Jacobin, Mr. Lindsay; but persecution has the effect of making a man extreme in these matters. Do help me to curse the scoundrels!--my business to act, not to think!" We were silent for several minutes. "I have not yet thanked you, Mr. Burns," I at length said, "for the most exquisite pleasure I ever enjoyed. You have been my companion for the last eight years." His countenance brightened. "Ah, here I am boring you with my miseries and my ill-nature," he replied; "but you must come along with me and see the bairns and Jean; and some of the best songs I ever wrote. It will go hard if we hold not care at the staff's end for at least one evening. You have not yet seen my stone punch-bowl, nor my Tam o'Shanter, nor a hundred other fine things beside. And yet, vile wretch that I am, I am sometimes so unconscionable as to be unhappy with them all. But come along." We spent this evening together with as much of happiness as it has ever been my lot to enjoy. Never was there a fonder father than Burns, a more attached husband, or a warmer friend. There was an exuberance of love in his large heart, that encircled in its flow, relatives, friends, associates, his country, the world; and, in his kinder moods, the sympathetic influence which he exerted over the hearts of others seemed magical. I laughed and cried this evening by turns; I was conscious of a wider and warmer expansion of feeling than I had ever experienced before; my very imagination seemed invigorated by breathing, as it were, in the same atmosphere with his. We parted early next morning--and when I again visited Dumfries, I went and wept over his grave. Forty years have now passed since his death, and in that time many poets have arisen to achieve a rapid and brilliant celebrity; but they seem the meteors of a lower sky; the flush passes hastily from the expanse, and we see but one great light looking steadily upon us from above. It is Burns who is exclusively the poet of his country. Other writers inscribe their names on the plaster which covers for the time the outside structure of society; his is engraved, like that of the Egyptian architect, on the ever-during granite within. The fame of the others rises and falls with the uncertain undulations of the mode on which they have reared it; his remains fixed and permanent, as the human nature on which it is based. Or, to borrow the figures Johnson employs in illustrating the unfluctuating celebrity of a scarcely greater poet--"The sand heaped by one flood is scattered by another, but the rock always continues in its place. The stream of time, which is continually washing the dissoluble fabrics of other poets, passes, without injury, by the adamant of Shakspeare." THE PROFESSOR'S TALES. THE CONVIVIALISTS. We must introduce our readers, with an apology for our abruptness, into a party of about half-a-dozen young gallants, who had evidently been making deep and frequent libations at the shrine of Bacchus. The loud bursts of hearty laughter which rang round the room like so many triple bobmajors, the leering eyes, the familiar diminutives with which the various parties addressed each other, and the frequent locking of hands together in a grasp the force of which was meant to express an ardour of social friendship which words were too weak to convey--all showed that the symposiasts had cleared the fences which prudence or selfishness set up in the sober intercourse of life, and were now, with loosened reins, spurring away over the free wild fields of fancy and fun. An immense quantity of walnut-shells--which the mercurial compotators had been amusing themselves by throwing at each other--lay scattered about the table and on the floor; two or three shivered wine glasses had been shoved into the centre of the table, the fragments glittering upon a pile of glorious Woodvilles, all speckled over, like Jacob's sheep; each man had one of the weeds stuck rakishly in the corner of his mouth, and was knocking off the ashes upon his deviled biscuits; and, to the right of the president's chair, a long straggling regiment of empty bottles gave dumb but eloquent proof of the bibulous capabilities of the company. Each man was talking vehemently to his neighbour, and every one for himself; in order, as a wag among them said, to get through the work quickly, and jump at once to a conclusion. They were, as Sheridan has it, "arguing in platoons." There was one exception, however, to the boisterous mirth of the convivialists, in the person of Frank Elliot, in celebration of whose obtaining his medical degree the feast had been given. He was leaning back in his chair, gazing, with a slight curl of contempt on his lip, at the rude glee of his associates. He had distinguished himself so highly among his fellow-students, that one of the professors had, in the ceremony of the morning, singled him out, before all his contemporaries, with the highest eulogiums, and had predicted, in the most flattering manner, his certain celebrity in his profession. Perhaps the natural vanity which these public honours had created, the bright prospect which lay before him, and his being less excited than his companions--caused him to turn, with disgust, from the silly ribaldry and weak witticisms which circled round his table. Amid the uproar his silence was for some time unheeded; but at length Harry Whitaker, his old college chum, now lieutenant in his Majesty's navy, and with a considerable portion of broad sailor's humour and slang, observed it, and slapping him roundly on the back, cried, "Hilloa, Frank! what are you dodging about?--quizzing the rig of your convoy, because they have too much light duck set to walk steadily through the water?" "Frank! why, isn't he asleep all this time? I haven't heard his voice this half hour," exclaimed another. "'Parce meum, quisquis tanges cava marmora somnum Rumpere; sive bibas, sive lavere, tace,'" said Elliot beseechingly. "Come, come," said Harry, "none of your heathenish lingo over the mahogany. Boys! I move that Frank be made to swallow a tumbler of port for using bad language, and to make him fit company for the rest of us honest fellows." "_Fiat experimentum in corpore vili_," squeaked a first year medical student, shoving the lighted end of his cigar, by mistake, into his mouth when he had delivered his sentence, and then springing up and sputtering out a mighty oath and a quantity of hot tobacco ashes. "Ashes to ashes," cried Harry, filling up a tumbler to the brim; "we'll let you off this time, as you're a fire-eater; but rally round, lads, and see this land shark swallow his grog." "Nay, but, my friends"----began Frank, seeing, with horror, that the party had gathered round him, and that Harry held the glass inexorably in his mouth. "Get a gag rigged," shouted the young sailor; "we'll find a way into his grog shop." "Upon my word, Whitaker," said Frank, with a ludicrous intonation of voice, between real anger and distress, "this is too hard on one who has filled fairly from the first--to punish him without an inquiry into the justice of the case." "Jeddart justice--hang first, and judge after!" roared a student from the sylvan banks of the Jed. "No freeman can, under any pretence," hiccupped a young advocate, who was unable to rise from his chair, "be condemned, except by the legal decision of his peers, or by the law of the land. So sayeth the Magna Charta--King John--(_hic_)--right of all free-born Englishmen--including thereby all inhabitants of Great Britain, incorporated at the Union--_hic_--and Ireland." Whitaker set the tumbler down in despair, finding that his companions, like the generality of raw students, were so completely wedded to their pedantry, that the fine, if insisted on, would have to go all round. "Let's have a song, Rhimeson," cried Frank, very glad to escape from his threatened bumper, and still fearful that it might be insisted upon, "a song extempore, as becomes a poet in his cups, and in thine own vein; for what says Spenser?-- 'For Bacchus' fruit is friend to Phoebus wise; And when, with wine, the brain begins to sweat, The numbers flow as fast as spring doth rise.'" "By Jove, boys! you shall have it," cried Rhimeson, filling his glass with unsteady hand, and muttering, from the same prince of poets-- "'Who can counsell a thirstie soule, With patience to forbeare the offred bowle?'" "That is the pure well of English undefiled, old fellows, and so here goes--'The Lass we Love!' TUNE--'_Duncan Davison._' "Come, fill your glass, my trusty friend, And fill it sparkling to the brim-- A flowing bumper, bright and strong-- And push the bottle back again; For what is man without his drink? An oyster prison'd in his shell; A rushlight in the vaults of death; A rattlesnake without his tail. CHORUS. This world, we know, is full of cares, And sorrow darkens every day; But wine and love shall be the stars To light us on our weary way. Beyond yon hills there lives a lass, Her name I dare not even speak; The wine that sparkles in my glass Was ne'er so rosy as her cheek. Her neck is clearer than the spring That streams the water lilies on; So, here's to her I long have loved-- The fairest flower in Albion. Let knaves and fools this world divide, As they have done since Adam's time; Let misers by their hoards abide, And poets weave their rotten rhyme; But ye, who, in an hour like this, Feel every pulse to rapture move, Fill high! each lip the goblet kiss-- The pledge shall be--'The Lass we Love!'" After a good deal of roaritorious applause, the young gentlemen began to act upon the hint contained in the song, and each to give, as a toast, the lady of his heart. When it came to Elliot's turn, he declared he was unable to fulfil the conditions of the toast, as there was not a woman in the world for whom he had the slightest predilection. "Why, thou personified snowball! thou human icicle!" cried Whitaker. "Say an avalanche," interrupted Frank; "for, when once my heart is shaken, it will be as irresistible in its course as one of these 'thunderbolts of snow.'" "Still, it's nothing but cold snow, for all that," cried Harry. "Who talks of Frank Elliot and love in the same breath?" cried Rhimeson; "why, his heart is like a rock, and love, like a torpid serpent, enclosed in it." "True," replied Frank; "but, you know, these same serpents sting as hard as ever when once they get into the open air; besides, love, as the shepherd in Virgil discovered, is an inhabitant of the rocks." "Confound the fellow! he's a walking apothegm--as consequential as a syllogism!" muttered Harry; "but come now, Frank, let us have the inexpressive she, without backing and filling any longer." "Upon my word, Harry, it is out of my power; but, in a few weeks, I hope to"----said Elliot. "Hope, Frank, hope, my good fellow, is a courtier very pleasant and agreeable in his conversation, but very much given to forget his promises. But I'll tell you, Frank, since you won't give a toast, I will, because I know it will punish you--so, gentlemen"---- The toast was only suited for the meridian of the place in which it was given, and we will, therefore, be excused from repeating it. But Whitaker had judged rightly that he had punished his friend, who, from the strictness of his education, and a certain delicacy in his opinions respecting women, could never tolerate the desecration of these opinions by the libertine ribaldry which forms so great a part of the conversation of many men after the first bottle. Frank's brow darkened, his keen eye turned with a glance of indignation to Harry; and he was prevented only by the circumstance of being in his own house, from instantly kicking him out of the room. "Look at Frank now, gentles," continued the young sailor, when the mirth had subsided; "his face is as long as a ropewalk, while every one of yours is as broad as the main hatchway. He has a reverence for women as great as I have for my own tight, clean, sprightly craft; but because a fellow kicks one of my loose spars, or puts it to a base use, I'm not to quarrel with him, as if he had called my vessel a collier, eh? Frank, my good fellow, you're too sober; you're thinking too much of yourself; you're looking at the world with convex glasses; and thus the world seems little--you yourself only great; but, recollect, everybody looks through a convex glass; and that's vanity, Frank:--there, now! the murder's out." "Nay, Harry," cried Rhimeson, good-naturedly; for he saw Elliot's nether lip grow white with suppressed passion; "don't push Frank too hard, for charity's sake." "Charity, to be sure!" interrupted Harry; "but consider what I must have suffered if I had not got that dead weight pitched overboard. I was labouring in the trough, man, and would have foundered with that spite in my hold. Charity begins at home." "'Tis a pity that the charity of many persons ends there too," said Frank drily. "Frank's wit is like the King of Prussia's regiment of death," said the young seaman--"it gives no quarter. But come now, my lads, rig me out a female craft fit for that snow-blooded youngster to go captain of in the voyage of matrimony; do it shipshape, and bear a hand. I would try it myself; but the room looks, to my eyes, as it were filled with dancing logarithms; and then he's so cold, slow, misty-hearted"---- "That if," cried Rhimeson, interrupting him, "he addresses a lady as cold, slow, and misty-hearted as himself, they may go on courting the whole course of their natural lives, like the assymptotes of a hyperbola, which approach nearer and nearer, _ad infinitum_, without the possibility of ever meeting." "Ha, ha, ha!--ay," shouted Harry; "and if he addresses one of a sanguine temperament, there will be a pretty considerable traffic of quarrels carried on between them, typified and illustrated very well by the constant commerce of heat which is maintained between the poles and the equator, by the agency of opposite currents in the atmosphere. By Jove! Frank, matrimony presents the fire of two batteries at you; one rakes you fore and aft, and the other strikes between wind and water." "And pray, Harry, what sort of a consort will you sail with yourself?" inquired Rhimeson. This was, perhaps, a question, of all others, that the young sailor would have wished to avoid answering at that time. He was the accepted lover of the sister of his friend Elliot--and, at the moment he was running Frank down, to be, as he himself might have said, brought up standing, was sufficiently disagreeable. "Come, come, Harry," cried the young poet, seeing the sailor hesitate; "let's have her from skysail-mast fid to keel--from starboard to larboard stunsails--from the tip of the flying, jib-boom to the taffrail." "They're all fireships, Rhimeson!" replied Harry, with forced gaiety--for he was indignant at Elliot's keen and suspicious glance--"and, if I do come near them, it shall always be to windward, for the Christian purpose of blowing them out of the water." "A libertine," said Frank, significantly, "reviles women just in the same way that licentious priests lay the blame of the disrespect with which parsons are treated on the irreligion of the laity." "I don't understand either your wit or your manner, Frank," replied Harry, giving a lurch in his chair; "but this I know, that I don't care a handful of shakings for either of them; and I say still, that women are all fireships--keep to windward of them--pretty things to try your young gunners at; but, if you close with them, you're gone, that's all." "I'll tell you what you're very like, just now, Harry," said Frank--who had been pouring down glass after glass of wine, as if to quench his anger--"you're just like a turkey cock after his head has been cut off, which will keep stalking on in the same gait for several yards before he drops." "Elliot! do you mean to insult me?" cried Whitaker, springing furiously from his seat. "I leave that to the decision of your own incomparable judgment, sir," replied Elliot, bowing, with a sneer just visible on his features. "If I thought so, Frank, I would----but it's impossible; you are my oldest friend." And the young sailor sat down with a moody brow. "What would you, sir?" said Elliot, in a tone of calm contempt; "bear it meekly, I presume? Nay, do not look big, and clench your hands, sir, unless, like Bob Acres, you feel your valour oozing out at your palms, and are striving to retain it!" "I'll tell you what, Elliot," cried the young sailor, again springing to his feet, and seizing a decanter of wine by the neck, "I don't know what prevents me from driving this at your head." "It would be quite in keeping with the rest of your gentlemanly conduct, sir," replied Frank, still keeping his seat, and looking at Harry with the most cool and provoking derision; "but I'll tell you why you don't--you dare not!" "But that you are Harriet Elliot's brother"----began Harry, furiously. "Scoundrel!" thundered Elliot, rising suddenly, and making a stride towards the young sailor, while the veins of his brow protruded like lines of cordage; "utter that name again, before me, with these blasphemous lips"---- Elliot had scarce, however, let fall the opprobrious epithet, ere the decanter flew, with furious force, from Whitaker's hand, and, narrowly missing Frank's head, was shivered on the wall beyond. In a moment the young sailor was in the nervous grasp of Frank, who, apparently without the slightest exertion of his vast strength, lifted up the comparatively slight form of Whitaker, and laid him on his back on the floor. "Be grateful, sir," said he, pressing the prostrate youth firmly down with one hand; "be grateful to the laws of hospitality, which, though you may think it a slight matter to violate, prevent me from striking you in my own house, or pitching you out of the window. Rise, sir, and begone." Harry rose slowly; and it was almost fearful to see the change which passion had wrought in a few moments on his features. The red flush of drunken rage was entirely gone, and the livid cheek, the pale quivering lip, and collected eye, which had usurped its place, showed that the degradation he had just undergone had completely sobered him, and given his passion a new but more malignant character. He stood for a brief period in moody silence, whilst the rest of the young men closed round him and Frank, with the intention of reconciling them. At length he moved away towards the door, pushing his friends rudely aside; but turning, before he left the room, he said, in a voice trembling with suppressed emotion-- "I hope to meet Mr. Elliot where his mere brute strength will be laid aside for more honourable and equitable weapons." "I shall be happy, at any place or time, to show my sense of Mr. Whitaker's late courtesy," replied Frank, bowing slightly, and then drawing up his magnificent figure to its utmost height. "Let it be _now_, then, sir," said the young sailor, stepping back into the centre of the room, and pointing to a brace of sharps, which, among foils and masks, hung on one of the walls. "Oh, no, no!--for God's sake, not now!" burst from every one except Frank. "It can neither be now nor here, sir," replied he, firmly, motioning Whitaker haughtily to the door. "Gentlemen," said Harry, turning round to his friends with a loud laugh of derision, "you see that vanity is stronger than valour. Pompey's troops were beaten at the battle of Pharsalia, only because they were afraid of their pretty faces. Upon my soul, I believe Mr. Elliot's handsome features stand in the way of his gallantry." "Begone, trifler!" cried Frank, relapsing into fury. "Coward!" shouted the young sailor at the top of his voice. "Ha!" exclaimed Elliot, starting, as if an adder had stung him; then, with a convulsive effort controlling his rage, he took down the swords, threw one of them upon the table, and putting his arm into Rhimeson's, beckoned the young sailor to follow him, and left the apartment. As it was in vain that the remainder of the young men attempted to restrain Whitaker, they agreed to accompany him in a body, in order, if possible, to prevent mischief; all but the young advocate whom we have before mentioned, who, having too great a respect for the law to patronise other methods of redressing grievances, ran off to secure the assistance of the city authorities. The moon, which had been wading among thick masses of clouds, emerged into the clear blue sky, and scattered her silver showers of light on the rocks and green sides of Arthur's Seat, as the young men reached a secluded part in the valley at its foot. "Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed the young poet to Frank, as they turned to wait for Whitaker and his companions, "how horrible it is to desecrate a scene and hour like this by violence--perhaps, Elliot, by _murder_!" Frank did not reply; his thoughts were at that time with his aged mother and his now unprotected sister; and he bitterly reflected that to whoever of them, in the approaching contest, wounds or death might fall, poor Harriet would have equally to suffer. But the young sailor, still boiling with rage, at that moment approached, and throwing his cloak on a rock, cried, "Now, sir!" and placed himself in attitude. Their swords crossed, and, for a brief space, nothing was heard but the hard breathing of the spectators and the clashing of the steel, as the well-practised combatants parried each other's thrusts. Elliot was, incomparably, the cooler of the two, and he threw away many chances in which his adversary placed himself open to a palpable hit, his aim being to disarm his antagonist without wounding him. An unforeseen accident prevented this. Whitaker, pressing furiously forward, struck his foot against a stone, and falling, received Elliot's sword in his body, the hilt, striking with a deep, quick, sullen sound against his breast. The young sailor fell with a sharp aspiration of anguish; and his victorious adversary, horrified by the sight, and rendered silent by the sudden revulsion of his feelings, stood, for some time, gazing at his sword, from the point of which the blood drops trickled slowly, and fell on the dewy sward. "'Tis the blood of my dearest, oldest friend--of my brother; and shed by my hand!" he muttered at length, flinging away the guilty blade. His only answer was the groans of his victim, and the shrill whistle of the weapon as it flew through the air. "Harry, my friend, my brother!" cried the young man, in a tone of unutterable anguish, kneeling down on the grass, and pressing the already cold clammy hand of his late foe. "Your voice is pleasant to me, Frank, even in death," muttered the young sailor, in a thick obstructed voice. "I have done you wrong--forgive me while I can hear you; and tell Harriet--oh!" "I do, I do forgive you; but, oh! how shall I forgive myself? Speak to me, Harry!" And Elliot, frantic at the sight of the bloody motionless heap before him, repeated the name of his friend till his voice rose into a scream of agony that curdled the very blood of his friends, and re-echoed among the rocks above, like the voices of tortured demons. Affairs were in this situation when the young advocate came running breathless up to them, and saw, at a glance, that he was too late. "Fly, for Heaven's sake! fly, Elliot; here is money; you may need it," he cried; "the officers will be here instantly, and your existence may be the forfeit of this unhappy chance. Fly! every moment lost is a stab at your life!" "Be it so," replied the wretched young man, rising and gazing with folded arms down upon his victim; "what have I to do with life?--_he_ has ceased to live. I will not leave him." His friends joined in urging Elliot to instant flight; but he only pointed to the body, and said, in the low tones of calm despair: "Do you think I can leave him now, and thus? Let those fly who are in love with life; I shall remain and meet my fate." "Frank Elliot!" muttered the wounded man, reviving from the fainting fit into which he had fallen; "come near to me, for I am very weak, and swear to grant the request I have to make, as you would have my last moments free from the bitterest agony." Elliot flung himself on the ground by the side of his friend, and, in a voice broken by anguish, swore to attend to his words. "Then leave this spot immediately," said the young sailor, speaking slowly and with extreme difficulty; "and should this be my last request--as I feel it must be--get out of the country till the present unhappy affair is forgotten; and moreover, mark, Frank--and, my friends, attend to my words:--I entreat, I _command_ you to lay the entire blame of this quarrel and its consequences on me. One of you will write to my poor father, and say it was my last request that he should consider Elliot innocent, and that I give my dying curse to any one who shall attempt to revenge my death. Ah! that was a pang! How dim your faces look in the moonlight! Your hand, dearest Frank, once more; and now away! Keep this, I charge you, from my Harriet--_my_ Harriet! O God!" And, with a shudder, that shook visibly his whole frame, the unfortunate youth relapsed into insensibility. There was a brief pause, during which the feelings of the spectators may be better imagined than described, though, assuredly, admiration of the generous anxiety of the young sailor to do justice to his friend was the prevailing sentiment of their minds. At length the stifled sound of voices, and the dimly seen forms of two or three men stealing towards them, within the shadow of the mountain, roused them from their reverie; and Rhimeson, who had not till now spoken, entreated Elliot to obey the dying request of his friend, and fly before the police reached them. "I have not before urged you to this," he said, "lest you should think it was from a selfish motive; for, as your second, I am equally implicated with you in this unhappy affair; but _now_," continued he, with melancholy emphasis, "there is nothing to be gained and everything to be hazarded by remaining." The generous argument of the poet at length overcame Elliot's resolution; he bent down quickly and kissed the cold lips of his friend, then waving a silent adieu to the others, he quitted the melancholy scene. The police--for it proved to be they--were within a hundred yards of the spot when the young men left the rest of the group, and, instantly emerging from the shadow which had till now partially concealed them, the leader of the party directed one of his attendants to remain with the body, and set off, with two or three others, in pursuit of the fugitives. "Follow me," cried Rhimeson, when he saw this movement of the pursuers; and springing as he spoke towards the entrance of a narrow defile which lay entirely in the shadow of the mountain. A deep convulsive sob burst from the pent-up bosom of Elliot ere he replied: "Leave me to my fate, my friend; I cannot fly; the weight of his blood crushes me!" "This is childish, unjust," said Rhimeson, with strong emotion; "but once more, Frank, will you control this weakness and follow me, or will you slight the last wish of one friend, and sacrifice another, by remaining? for without you I will not stir. Now, choose." "Lead on," said Elliot, rousing himself with a convulsive effort; and, striking into the gloom, the two young men sped forward with a step as fleet as that of the hunted deer. Their pursuers having seen them stand, had slackened their pace, or it is probable the fugitives would have been captured before Rhimeson had prevailed on his friend to fly; but now, separating so as to intercept them if they deviated from the direct path, the policemen raised a loud shout and instantly gave chase. But the young poet, in his solitary rambles amid the noble scenery of Arthur's Seat and the adjoining valleys, had become intimately acquainted with every path which led through their romantic recesses; and he now sped along the broken footway which skirted the mountain-side with as much confidence as if he had trod on a level sward in the light of noonday. Elliot, having his mind diverted by the necessity of looking to his immediate preservation--for the path, strewed with fragments of rock, led along what might well be termed a precipice, of two or three hundred feet in height--roused up all his energies, and followed his friend with a speed which speedily left their pursuers far behind. Thus they held on for about a quarter of an hour, gradually and obliquely ascending the mountain side, until the voices of the policemen, calling to each other far down in the valley, proved that they had escaped the immediate danger which had threatened them. Still, however, Rhimeson kept on, though he relaxed his pace in order to hold some communication with his companion. "We have distanced the bloodhounds for the nonce, Frank," he said; "these ale-swilling rascals cannot set a stout heart to a stey brae; but whither shall we go now? Edinburgh, perhaps Scotland, is too hot to hold us, and the point is how to get out of it. What do you advise?" "I am utterly careless about it, Rhimeson; do as you think best," replied Elliot, in a tone of deep despondency. "Cheer up, cheer up! my dear Frank," said the young poet, feigning a confidence of hope which his heart belied. "Whitaker may still recover; he is too gallant a fellow to be lost to us in a drunken brawl; and even if the worst should happen, it must still keep you from despair to reflect that you were forced into this rencontre, and that it was an unhappy accident, resulting from his own violence and not your intention, which deprived him of his life." Elliot stopped suddenly, and gazing down from the height which they had now reached into the valley, seemed to be searching for the spot where the fatal accident had taken place, as if to assist him in the train of thought which his friend's words had aroused. The dark group of human beings were seen dimly in the moonlight, moving with a slow pace along the hollow of the gorge towards the city, bearing along with them the body of the young sailor. "Dear, dear Frank," said Rhimeson, deeply commiserating the anguish which developed itself in the clasped uplifted hands and shuddering frame of his unhappy friend, "bear up against this cruel accident like a man--he may still recover." Elliot moved away from the ridge which overlooked the valley, muttering, as if unconsciously-- "'Action is momentary-- The motion of a muscle this way or that; Suffering is long, obscure, and infinite!'[G] How profound and awful is that sentiment!" [G] Wordsworth. The sound of a piece of rock dislodged from the mountain side, and thundering and crashing down the steep, awakened Rhimeson from his contemplation of Elliot's grief; and, springing again to the brink of the almost precipitous descent, he saw that one of their pursuers had crept up by the inequalities of the rock, and was within a few yards of the summit. "Dog!" cried the young man, heaving off a fragment of rock, and in the act of dashing it down upon the unprotected head of the policeman, "offer to stir, and I will scatter your brains upon the cliffs!" A shrill cry of terror burst from the poor fellow's lips as he gazed upwards at the frightful attitude of his enemy, and expected every moment to see the dreadful engine hurled at his head. The cry was answered by the shouts of his companions, who, by different paths, had arrived within a short distance of the fugitives. "Retire miscreant! or I will send your mangled carcass down to the foot without your help," shouted Rhimeson, swinging the huge stone up to the extent of his arms. His answer was a pistol shot, which, whistling past his cheek, struck the uplifted fragment of rock with such force as to send a stunning feeling up to his very shoulders. The stone fell from his benumbed grasp, and, striking the edge of the cliff, bounded innocuous over the head of the policeman, who, springing upwards, was within a few feet of Rhimeson before he had fully recovered himself. "Away!" he cried, taking again the path up the mountain, and closely followed by Elliot, who, during the few moments in which the foregoing scene was being enacted, had remained almost motionless--"Away! give them a flying shot at least," continued he, feeling all the romance of his nature aroused by the circumstances in which he was placed. The policeman, however, who had only fired in self-defence, refrained from using his other pistol, now that the danger was past; but grasping it firmly in his hand, he followed the steps of the young men with a speed stimulated by the desire of revenge, and a kind of professional eagerness to capture so daring an offender. But, in spite of his exertions, the superior agility of the fugitives gradually widened the distance between them; and at length, as they emerged from the rocky ground upon the smooth short grass, where a footfall could not be heard, the moon became again obscured by dark clouds, and Rhimeson, whispering his companion to observe his motions, turned short off the path they had been following, and struck eastward among the green hills towards the sea. They could hear the curse of the policeman, and the click of his pistol lock, as if he had intended to send a leaden messenger into the darkness in search of them. But the expected report did not follow; and, favoured by the continued obscurity of the night, they were, in a short time, descending the hill behind Duddingstone, which lies at the opposite extremity of the King's Park. Still continuing their route eastward, they walked forward at a rapid pace, consulting on their future movements. The sound of wheels rapidly approaching, interrupted their conversation. It was the south mail. In a short time they were flying through the country towards Newcastle, at the rate of ten miles an hour, including stoppages. Elliot was at the river side, searching for a vessel to convey them to some part of the continent, and Rhimeson was dozing over a newspaper in the Turk's Head in that town, when a policeman entered, and, mistaking him for Elliot, took him into custody. How their route had been discovered, Rhimeson knew not; but he was possessed of sufficient presence of mind to personate his friend, and offer to accompany the police officer instantly back to Edinburgh, leaving a letter and a considerable sum of money for Elliot. In a few minutes, the generous fellow leaped into the post-chaise, with a heart as light as many a bridegroom when flying on the wings of love and behind the tails of four broken-winded hacks to some wilderness, where "transport and security entwine"--the anticipated scene of a delicious honeymoon. Elliot, while in search of a vessel, had fallen in with a young man whom he had known as a medical student at Edinburgh, and who was now about to go as surgeon of a Greenland vessel, in order to earn, during the summer, the necessary sum for defraying his college expenses. He accompanied Elliot to his inn, and heard, during the way, the story of his misfortunes. It is unnecessary to describe Frank's surprise and grief at the capture of his friend, Rhimeson. At first, he determined instantly to return and relieve him from durance. But, influenced by the entreaties contained in Rhimeson's note, and by the arguments of the young Northumbrian, he at length changed this resolution, and determined on accepting the situation of surgeon in the whaling vessel for which his present companion had been about to depart. Frank presented the Northumbrian with a sum more than equal to the expected profits of the voyage, and received his thanks in tones wherein the natural roughness of his accent was increased to a fearful degree by the strength of his emotion. All things being arranged, Frank shook his acquaintance by the hand, and remarked that it would be well for him to keep out of the way for a while. So bidding the man of harsh aspirations adieu, he made his way to the coach, and, in twenty-four hours, was embarked in the _Labrador_, with a stiff westerly breeze ready to carry him away from all that he loved and dreaded. Let the reader imagine that six months have passed over--and let him imagine, also, if he can, the anguish which the mother and sister of Elliot suffered on account of his mysterious disappearance. It was now September. The broad harvest moon was shining full upon the bosom of Teviot, and glittering upon the rustling leaves of the woods that overhang her banks, and pouring a flood of more golden light upon the already golden grain that waved--ripe for the sickle--along the margin of the lovely stream, the stars, few in number, but most brilliant, had taken their places in the sky; the owl was whooping from the ivied tower; the corn-craik was calling drowsily; now and then the distant baying of a watch-dog startled the silence, otherwise undisturbed, save by the plaintive murmuring of the stream, which, as it flowed past, uttered such querulous sounds, that, as some one has happily expressed it, "one was almost tempted to ask what ailed it." A traveller was moving slowly up the side of the river, and ever and anon stopping, as if to muse over some particular object. It was Elliot. He had returned from Greenland, and, in disguise, had come to the place of his birth--to the dwelling of his mother and his sister; he had heard that his mother was ill--that anxiety, on his account, had reduced her almost to the grave--and that she was now but slowly recovering. He had been able to acquire no information respecting Whitaker; and the weight of his friend's blood lay yet heavy on his soul, for he considered himself as his murderer. It was with feelings of the most miserable anxiety that he approached the place of his birth. The stately beeches that lined the avenue which led to his mother's door were in sight; they stooped and raised their stately branches, with all the gorgeous drapery of leaves, as if they welcomed him back; the very river seemed to utter, in accents familiar to him, that he was now near the hall of his fathers. Oh! how is the home of our youth enshrined in our most sacred affections! by what multitudinous fibres is it entwined with our heart-strings!--it is part of our being--its influences remain with us for ever, though years spent in foreign lands divide us from "our early home that cradled life and love." Elliot was framed to feel keenly these sacred influences--and often, even after brief absences from home, he had experienced them in deep intensity; but now the throb of exultation was kept down by the crushing weight of remorse, and the gush of tenderness checked by bitter fears. He entered the avenue which led up to the house. Yonder were the windows of his mother's chamber--there was a light in it. He would have given worlds to have seen before him the interior. As he quickened his pace, he heard the sound of voices in the avenue. He turned aside out of the principal walk; and, standing under the branches of a venerable beech, which swept down almost to the ground, and fully concealed him, he waited the approach of the speakers, in hopes of hearing some intelligence respecting his family. Through the screen of the leaves he presently saw that it was a pair of lovers, for their arms were locked around each other, and their cheeks were pressed together as they came down the avenue--treading as slowly as though they were attempting to show how much of rest there might be in motion. "To-morrow, then, my sweet Harriet," said the young man, "I leave you; and though it is torture to me to be away from your side, yet I have resolved never again to see you until I have made the most perfect search for your brother; until I can win a dearer embrace than any I have yet received, by placing him before you." "Would to heaven it may be so!" replied the young lady; "but my mother--how will I be able to support her when you are gone, dearest Henry? She is kept up only by the happy strains of hope which your very voice creates. How shall I, myself unsupported, ever keep her from despondency? Oh! she will sink--she will die! Remain with us, Henry; and let us trust to providence to restore my brother to us--if he be yet alive!" "Ask it not, my beloved Harriet, I beseech you," said the young man, "lest I be unable to deny you. If your brother, as is likely, has sought some foreign land, and remains in ignorance of my recovery from the wounds I received from him, how shall I answer to myself--how shall I even dare to ask for this fair hand--how shall I ever hope to rest upon your bosom in peace--if I do not use every possible means to discover him? O my dear Elliot--friend of my youth--if thou couldest translate the language of my heart, as it beats at this moment--if thou couldest hear my sacred resolve!"-- "Whitaker, my friend! Harriet, my beloved sister!" cried Elliot, bursting out from beneath the overspreading beech, and snatching his sister in his arms--"I am here--I see all--I understand the whole of the events--how much too graciously brought about for me, Father of mercies! I acknowledge. Let us now go to my mother." It is in scenes such as this that we find how weak words are to describe the feelings of the actors--the rapid transition of events--the passions that chase one another over the minds and hearts of those concerned, like waves in a tempest. Nor is it necessary. The reader who can feel and comprehend such situations as those in which the actors in our little tale are placed, are able to draw, from their own hearts and imaginations, much fitter and more rapidly sketched portraitures of the passions which are awakened, the feelings that develop themselves in such situations and with such persons, than can be painted in words. The harvest moon was gone, and another young moon was in the skies, when Whitaker, and the same young lady of whom we before spoke, trode down the avenue, locked in each other's arms, and with cheek pressed to cheek. They talked of a thousand things most interesting to persons in their situation--for they were to be married on the morrow--but, perhaps, not so interesting to our readers, many of whom may have performed in the same scenes. Elliot's mother was recovered; and he himself was happy, or, at least, he put on all the trappings of happiness; for, in a huge deer-skin Esquimaux dress, which he had brought from Greenland, he danced at his sister's wedding until the great bear had set in the sea, and the autumn sun began to peer through the shutters of the drawing-room of his ancient hall. PHILIPS GREY. "Death takes a thousand shapes: Borne on the wings of sullen slow disease, Or hovering o'er the field of bloody fight, In calm, in tempest, in the dead of night, Or in the lightning of the summer moon; In all how terrible!" Among the many scenes of savage sublimity which the lowlands of Scotland display, there is none more impressive in its solitary grandeur, than that in the neighbourhood of Loch Skene, on the borders of Moffatdale. At a considerable elevation above the sea, and surrounded by the loftiest mountains in the south of Scotland, the loch has collected its dark mass of waters, astonishing the lovers of nature by its great height above the valley which he has just ascended, and, by its still and terrible beauty, overpowering his mind with sentiments of melancholy and awe. Down the cliffs which girdle in the shores of the loch, and seem to support the lofty piles of mountains above them, a hundred mountain torrents leap from rock to rock, flashing and roaring, until they reach the dark reservoir beneath. A canopy of grey mist almost continually shrouds from the sight the summits of the hills, leaving the imagination to guess at those immense heights which seem to pierce the very clouds of heaven. Occasionally, however, this veil is withdrawn, and then you may see the sovereign brow of Palmoodie encircled with his diadem of snow, and the green summits of many less lofty hills arranged round him, like courtiers uncovered before their monarch. Amid this scene, consecrated to solitude and the most sombre melancholy, no sound comes upon the mountain breeze, save the wail of the plover, or the whir of the heathcock's wing, or, haply, the sullen plunge of a trout leaping up in the loch. At times, indeed, the solitary wanderer may be startled by the scream of the grey eagle, as dropping with the rapidity of light from his solitary cliff, he shoots past, enraged that his retreat is polluted by the presence of man, and then darts aloft into the loftiest chambers of the sky; or, dallying with the piercing sunbeams, is lost amid their glory.[H] At the eastern extremity of the loch, the superfluous waters are discharged by a stream of no great size, but which, after heavy showers, pours along its deep and turbid torrent with frightful impetuosity. [H] Round about the shores of Loch Skene the Ettrick Shepherd herded the flocks of his master, and fed his boyish fancies with the romance and beauty which breathes from every feature of the scene. One day, when we were at Loch Skene on a fishing excursion with him, he pointed up to the black crag overhanging the water, and said--"You see the edge o' that cliff; I ance as near dropped frae it intil eternity as I dinna care to think o'. I was herdin' aboot here, and lang and lang I thocht o' speelin' up to the eyry, frae which I could hear the young eagles screamin' as plain as my ain bonny Mary Gray (his youngest daughter) when she's no pleased wi' the colley; but the fear o' the auld anes aye keepit me frae the attempt. At last, ae day, when I was at the head o' the cliff, and the auld eagle away frae the nest, I took heart o' grace, and clambered down (for there was nae gettin' up). Weel, sir, I was at the maist kittle bit o' the craig, wi' my foot on a bit ledge just wide enough to bear me, and sair bothered wi' my plaid and stick, when, guid saf's! I heard the boom o' the auld eagle's wings come whaff, whaffing through the air, and in a moment o' time she brought me sic a whang wi' her wing, as she rushed enraged by, and then turning short again and fetching me anither, I thought I was gane for ever; but providence gave me presence o' mind to regain my former resting-place, and there flinging off my plaid, I keepit aye nobbing the bird wi' my stick till I was out o' danger. It was a fearsome time!" It would have been dreadful had the pleasure which "Kilmeny," "Queen Hynde," and the hundred other beautiful creations which the glorious old bard has given us, been all thus destroyed "at one fell swoop." After running along the mountain for about half a mile, it suddenly precipitates itself over the edge of a rocky ridge which traverses its course, and, falling sheer down a height of three hundred feet, leaps and bounds over some smaller precipices, until, at length, far down in Moffatdale, it entirely changes its character, and pursues a calm and peaceful course through a fine pastoral country. Standing on the brow of a mountain which overlooks the fall, the eye takes in at once the whole of the course which we have described; and, to a poetical mind, which recognises in mountain scenery the cradle of liberty and the favourite dwelling-place of imagination, the character of the stream seems a type of the human mind: stormy, bounding, and impetuous, when wrapped up in the glorious feelings which belong to romantic countries; peaceful, dull, and monotonous, amid the less interesting lowlands. Yet, after indulging in such a fancy for a time, another reflection arises, which, if it be less pleasing and poetical, is, perhaps, more useful--that the impetuous course of the mountain torrent, though gratifying to the lover of nature, is unaccompanied with any other benefit to man, while the stream that pursues its unpretending path through the plains, bestows fertility on a thousand fields. Such thoughts as these, however, only arise in the mind when it has become somewhat familiar with the surrounding scenes. The roar of the cataract, the savage appearance of the dark rocks that border the falling waters, and that painful feeling which the sweeping and inevitable course of the stream produces, at first paralyze the mind, and, for some time after it has recovered its tone, occupy it to the exclusion of every other sentiment. And now, gentle reader, let us walk toward the simple stone seat, which some shepherd boy has erected under yon silvery-stemmed birch tree, where the sound of the waterfall comes only in a pleasant monotone, and where the most romantic part of old Scotland is spread beneath our feet. There you see the eternal foam of the torrent, without being distracted with its roar; and you can trace the course of the stream till it terminates in yon clear and pellucid pool at the foot of the hill, which seems too pure for aught but-- "A mirror and a bath for beauty's youngest daughters;" yet, beautiful in its purity as it seems, it is indeed the scene of the following true and terrible tale:-- Philips Grey was one of the most active young shepherds in the parish of Traquair. For two or three years he had carried off the medal given at the St. Ronan's border games to him who made the best high leap; and, at the last meeting of the games, he had been first at the running hop-step-and-jump; had beat all competitors in running; and, though but slightly formed, had gained the second prize for throwing the hammer--a favourite old Scottish exercise, but almost unknown in England. Athletic sports were, indeed, his favourite pursuit, and he cultivated them with an ardour which very few of our readers will be able to imagine. But among the shepherds, and, indeed, all inhabitants of pastoral districts, he who excels in these sports possesses a superiority over his contemporaries, which cannot but be gratifying in the highest degree to its possessor. His name is known far and wide; his friendship is courted by the men; and his hand, either as a partner in a country dance, or in a longer "minuet of the heart," marriage, is coquetted for by the maidens: he, in fact, possesses all the power which superiority of intellect bestows in more populous and polished societies. But it is by no means the case, as is often said, that ardour in the pursuit of violent sports is connected with ignorance or mediocrity of intellect. On the contrary, by far the greater number of victors at games of agility and strength, will be found to possess a degree of mental energy, which is, in fact, the power that impels them to corporeal excitement, and is often the secret of their success over more muscular antagonists. Philips Grey, in particular, was a striking instance of this fact. Notwithstanding his passion for athletic sports, he had found time, while on the hillside tending his flock, or in the long winter nights, to make himself well acquainted with the Latin classics. This is by no means uncommon among the Scottish peasantry. Smith, and Black, and Murray, are not singular instances of self-taught scholars; for there is scarce a valley in Scotland in which you will not hear of one or more young men of this stamp. Philips also played exquisitely on the violin, and had that true taste for the simple Scottish melody which can, perhaps, be nowhere cultivated so well as among the mountains and streams which have frequently inspired them. Many a time, when you ask the name of the author of some sweet ballad which the country girl is breathing amongst these hills, the tear will start into her eye as she answers--"Poor Philips Grey, that met a dreadful death at the Grey Mare's Tail." With these admirable qualities, Philips unfortunately possessed a mood of mind which is often an attendant on genius--he was subject to attacks of the deepest melancholy. Gay, cheerful, humorous, active, and violent in his sports as he was, there were periods when the darkest gloom overshadowed his mind, and when his friends even trembled for his reason. It is said that he frequently stated his belief that he should die a dreadful death. Alas! that this strange presentiment should have indeed been prophetic! It is not surprising that Philips Grey, with his accomplishments, should have won the heart of a maiden somewhat above his own degree, and even gained the consent of her father to his early marriage. The old man dwelt in Moffatdale; and the night before Philips' wedding-day, he and his younger brother walked over to his intended father-in-law's house, in order to be nearer the church. That night the young shepherd was in his gayest humour; his bonny bride was by his side, and looking more beautiful than ever; he sang his finest songs, played his favourite tunes, and completely bewitched his companions. All on a sudden, while he was relating some extraordinary feat of strength which had been performed by one of his acquaintances, he stopped in the middle of the story, and exchanged the animation with which he was speaking for silence and a look of the deepest despair. His friends were horror-struck; but as he insisted that nothing was the matter with him, and as his younger brother said that he had not been in bed for two nights, the old man dismissed the family, saying--"Gang awa to bed, Philips, my man, and get a sound sleep; or if you do lie wauken a wee bittie, it's nae great matter: odd! it's the last nicht my bonny Marion 'll keep ye lying wauken for her sake. Will't no, my bonnie doo?" "Deed, faither, I dinna ken," quoth Marion, simply, yet archly; and the party separated. Philips, however, walked down the burn side, in order to try if the cool air would dissipate his unaccountable anxiety. But, in spite of his efforts, a presentiment of some fatal event gathered strength in his mind, and he involuntarily found himself revolving the occurrences of his past life. Here he found little to condemn, for he had never received an unkind word from his father, who was now in the grave; and his mother was wearing out a green and comfortable old age beneath his own roof. He had brought up his younger brothers, and they were now in a fair way to succeed in life. He could not help feeling satisfied at this, yet why peculiarly at this time he knew not. Then came the thought of his lovely Marion, and the very agony which at once rushed on his heart had well nigh choked him. Immediately, however, the fear which had hung about him seemed to vanish; for, strange and mysterious as it was, it was not sufficiently powerful to withstand the force of that other horrible imagination. So he returned to the house, and was surprised to find himself considering how his little property should be distributed after his death. When he reached the door, he stopped for a moment, overcome with this pertinacity in the supernatural influence which seemed exercised over him; and at length, with gloomy resolution, entered the house. His brother was asleep, and a candle was burning on the table. He sank down into a chair, and went on with his little calculations respecting his will. At length, having decided upon all these things, and having fixed upon the churchyard of St. Mary's for his burial place, he arose from his chair, took up the candle and crossed the room towards his brother, intending to convey his wishes to him. The boy lay on the front side of one of those beds with sliding doors, so common in Scotland; and beyond him there was room for Philips to lie down. Something bright seemed gleaming in the dark recess of the bed. He advanced the candle, and beheld--oh, sight of horror!--a plate upon what bore the shape of a coffin, bearing the words--"Philips Grey, aged 23." For a moment he gazed steadily upon it, and was about to stretch out his hand towards it, when the lid slowly rose, and he beheld a mutilated and bloody corpse, the features of which were utterly undistinguishable, but which, by some unearthly impulse, he instantly knew to be his own. Still he kept a calm and unmoved gaze at it, though the big drops of sweat stood on his brow with the agony of his feelings; and, while he was thus contemplating the dreadful revelation, it gradually faded away, and at length totally vanished. The power which had upheld him seemed to depart along with the phantom; his sight failed him, and he fell on the floor. Presently he recovered, and found himself in bed, with his brother by his side chafing his temples. He explained everything that had occurred, seemed calm and collected, shook his head when his brother attempted to explain away the vision, and finally sank into a tranquil sleep. Whether the horrible resemblance of his own coffin and mutilated corpse was in reality revealed to him by the agency of some supernatural power, or whether it was (as sceptics will say) the natural effect of his hypochondriac state of mind, producing an optical deception, we will not take upon us to determine; certain, however, it is, that with a calm voice and collected manner he described to his brother James, a scene the dreadful reality of which was soon to be displayed. In the morning Philips awoke, cheerful and calm, the memory of last night's occurrences seeming but a dreadful dream. On the grass before the door he met his beloved Marion, who, on that blessed Sabbath, was to become his wife. The sight of her perfect loveliness, arrayed in a white dress, emblem of purity and innocence, filled his heart with rapture; and as he clasped her in his arms, every sombre feeling vanished away. It is not our intention to describe the simplicity of the marriage ceremony, or the happiness which filled Philips Grey's heart during that Sabbath morning, while sitting in the church by the side of his lovely bride. They returned home, and, in the afternoon, the young couple, together with James Grey and the bride's-maid, walked out among the glades of Craigieburn wood, a spot rendered classic by the immortal Burns. Philips had gathered some of the wild flowers that sprang among their feet--the pale primrose, the fair anemone, and the drooping blue bells of Scotland--and wove them into a garland. As he was placing them on Marion's brow, and shading back the long flaxen tresses that hung across her cheek, he said, gaily--"There wants but a broad water lily to place in the centre of thy forehead, my sweet Marion; for where should the fairest flower of the valley be, but on the brow of its queen? Come with me, Jamie, and in half an hour we will bring the fairest that floats on Loch Skene." So, kissing the cheek of his bride, Philips and his brother set off up the hill with the speed of the mountain deer. They arrived at the foot of the waterfall, panting, and excited with their exertions. By climbing up the rocks close to the stream, the distance to the loch is considerably shortened; and Philips, who had often clambered to the top of the Bitch Craig, a high cliff on the Manor Water, proposed to his brother that they should "speel the height." The other, a supple agile lad, instantly consented. "Gie me your plaid then, Jamie, my man--it will maybe fash ye," said Philips; "and gang ye first, and keep weel to the hill side." Accordingly the boy gave his brother the plaid and began the ascent. While Philips was knotting his brother's plaid round his body above his own, a fox peeped out of his hole half way up the cliff, and thinking flight advisable, dropped down the precipice. Laughing till the very echoes rang, Philips followed his brother. Confident in his agility, he ascended with a firm step till he was within a few yards of the summit. James was now on the top of the precipice, and looking down on his brother, and not knowing the cause of his mirth, exclaimed--"Daursay, callant, ye're fey."[I] In a moment the memory of his last night's vision rushed on Philips Grey's mind, his eyes became dim, his limbs powerless, he dropped off the very edge of the giddy precipice, and his form was lost in the black gulf below. For a few minutes, James felt a sickness of heart which rendered him almost insensible, and sank down on the grass lest he should fall over the cliff. At length, gathering strength from very terror, he advanced to the edge of the cataract and gazed downwards. There, about two-thirds down the fall, he could perceive the remains of his brother, mangled and mutilated; the body being firmly wedged between two projecting points of rock, whereon the descending water streamed, while the bleeding head hung dangling, and almost separated from the body--and, turned upwards, discovered to the horrified boy the starting eye-balls of his brother, already fixed in death, and the teeth clenched in the bitter agony which had tortured his passing spirit. [I] "Fey," a Scottish word, expressive of that unaccountable and violent mirth which is supposed frequently to portend sudden death.--ED. It is scarcely necessary to detail the consequences of this cruel accident. Assistance was procured, and the mangled body conveyed to the house of Marion's father, whence, a few short hours ago, the young shepherd had issued in vigour and happiness. When the widowed bride saw James Grey return to them with horror painted on his features, she seemed instantly to divine the full extent of her misfortune; she sank down on the grass, with the unfinished garland of her dead lover in her hand, and in this state was carried home. For two days she passed from one fit to another; but on the night of the second day she sank into a deep sleep. That night, James Grey was watching the corpse of his brother; the coffin was placed on the very bed where they had slept two nights ago. The plate gleamed from the shadowy recess, and the words--"Philips Grey, aged 23," were distinctly visible. While James was reflecting on the prophetic vision of his brother, a figure, arrayed in white garments, entered the room and moved towards the dead body. It was poor Marion. She slowly lifted the lid of the coffin, and gazed long and intently on the features of her dead husband. Then, turning round to James, she uttered a short shrill shriek, and fell backwards on the corpse. She hovered between life and death for a few days, and at length expired. She now lies by the side of her lover, in the solitary burial ground of St. Mary's. Such is the event which combines, with others not less dark and terrible, to throw a wild interest around those gloomy rocks. Many a time you will hear the story from the inhabitants of those hills; and, until fretted away by the wind and rain, the plaid and the bonnet of the unfortunate Philips Grey hung upon the splintered precipice to attest the truth of the tale. DONALD GORM. In a remote corner of Assynt, one of the most remote and savage districts in the Highlands of Scotland, there is a certain wild and romantic glen, called Eddernahulish. In the picturesqueness of this glen, however, neither wood nor rock has any share; and, although it may be difficult to conceive of any place possessing that character without these ordinary adjuncts, it is, nevertheless, true, that Eddernahulish, with neither tree nor precipice, is yet strikingly picturesque. The wide sweep of the heath-clad hills whose gradual descents form the spacious glen, and the broad and brawling stream careering through its centre, give the place an air of solitude and of quiet repose that, notwithstanding its monotony, is exceedingly impressive. On gaining any of the many points of elevation that command a view of this desolate strath, you may descry, towards its western extremity, a small, rude, but massive stone bridge, grey with age; for it was erected in the time of that laird of Assynt who rendered himself for ever infamous by betraying the Duke of Montrose, who had sought and obtained the promise of his protection, to his enemies. Close by this bridge stands a little highland cottage, of, however, a considerably better order than the common run of such domiciles in this quarter of the world; and bespeaking a condition, as to circumstances, on the part of its occupants, which is by no means general in the Highlands. "Well what of this cottage?" says the impatient reader. "What of it?" say we, with the proud consciousness of having something worth hearing to tell of it. "Why, was it not the birthplace of Donald Gorm?" "And, pray, who or what was Donald Gorm?" "We were just going to tell you when you interrupted us; and we will now proceed to the fulfilment of that intention." Donald Gorm was a rough, rattling, outspoken, hot-headed, and warm-hearted highlander, of about two-and-thirty years of age. Bold as a lion, and strong as a rhinoceros, with great bodily activity, he feared nobody; and having all the irascibility of his race, would fight with anybody at a moment's notice. Possessing naturally a great flow of animal spirits and much ready wit, Donald was the life and soul of every merry-making in which he bore a part. In the dance, his joyous whoop and haloo might be heard a mile off; and the hilarious crack of his finger and thumb, nearly a third of that distance. Donald, in short, was one of those choice spirits that are always ready for anything, and who, by the force of their individual energies, can keep a whole country-side in a stir. As to his occupations, Donald's were various--sometimes farming, (assisting his father, with whom he lived,) sometimes herring fishing, and sometimes taking a turn at harvest work in the Lowlands--by which industry he had scraped a few pounds together; and, being unmarried, with no one to care for but himself, he was thus comparatively independent--a circumstance which kept Donald's head at its highest elevation, and his voice, when he spoke, at the top of its bent. The tenor of our story requires that we should now advert to another member of Donald's family. This is a brother of the latter's, who bore the euphonious and high-flavoured patronymic of Duncan Dhu M'Tavish Gorm, or, simply, Duncan Gorm, as he was, for shortness, called, although certainly baptized by the formidable list of names just given. This Duncan Gorm was a man of totally different character from his brother Donald. He was of a quiet and peaceable disposition and demeanour--steady, sober, and conscientious; qualities which were thought to adapt him well for the line of life in which he was placed. This was as a domestic servant in the family of an extensive highland proprietor, of the name of Grant. In this capacity Duncan had, about a year or so previous to the precise period when our story commences--which, by the way, we beg the reader to observe, is now some ninety years past--gone to the continent, as a personal attendant on the elder son of his master, whose physicians had recommended his going abroad for the benefit of his health. It was, then, about a year after the departure of Duncan and his master, that Donald's father received a letter from his son, intimating the death of his young master, which had taken place at Madrid, and, what was much more surprising intelligence, that the writer had determined on settling in the city just named, as keeper of a tavern or wine-house, in which calling he said he had no doubt he would do well. And he was not mistaken; in about six months after, his family received another letter from him, informing them that he was succeeding beyond his most sanguine expectations--and hereby hangs our tale. On Donald these letters of his brother's made a very strong impression; and, finally, had the effect of inducing him to adopt a very strange and very bold resolution. This was neither more nor less than to join his brother in Madrid--a resolution from which it was found impossible to dissuade him, especially after the receipt of Duncan's second letter, giving intimation of his success. With most confused and utterly inadequate notions, therefore, of either the nature, or distance, or position of the country to which he was going, Donald made preparations for his journey. But they were merely such preparations as he would have made for a descent on the Lowlands, at harvest time. He put up some night-caps, stockings, and shirts in a bundle, with a quantity of bread and cheese, and a small flask of his native mountain dew. This bundle he proposed to suspend, in the usual way, over his shoulder on the end of a huge oak stick, which he had carefully selected for the purpose. And it was thus prepared--with, however, an extra supply of his earnings in his pocket, of which he had a vague notion he would stand in need--that Donald contemplated commencing his journey to Madrid from the heart of the Highlands of Scotland. In one important particular, however, did Donald's outfit on this occasion, differ from that adopted on ordinary occasions. On the present, he equipped himself in the full costume of his country--kilt, plaid, bonnet and feather, sword, dirk, and pistols; and thus arrayed, his appearance was altogether very striking, as he was both a stout and exceedingly handsome man. Before starting on his extraordinary expedition, Donald had learned which was the fittest seaport whereat to embark on his progress to Spain; and it was nearly all he had learned, or indeed cared to inquire about, as to the place of his destination. For this port, then, he finally set out; but over his proceedings, for somewhere about three weeks after this, there is a veil which our want of knowledge of facts and circumstances will not enable us to withdraw. Of all subsequent to this, however, we are amply informed; and shall now proceed to give the reader the full benefit of that information. Heaven knows how Donald had fought his way to Madrid, or what particular route he had taken to attain this consummation; but certain it is, that, about the end of the three weeks mentioned, the identical Donald Gorm of whom we speak, kilted and hosed as he left Eddernahulish, with a huge stick over his shoulder bearing a bundle suspended on its farthest extremity, was seen, early in the afternoon, approaching the gate of Alcala, one of the principal and most splendid entrances into the Spanish capital. Donald was staring about him, and at everything he saw, with a look of the greatest wonder and amazement; and strange were the impressions that the peculiar dresses of those he met, and the odd appearance of the buildings within his view, made upon his unsophisticated mind and bewildered sensorium. He, in truth, felt very much as if he had by some accident got into the moon, or some other planet than that of which he was a born inhabitant, and as if the beings around him were human only in form and feature. The perplexity and confusion of his ideas were, indeed, great--so great that he found it impossible to reduce them to such order as to give them one single distinct impression. There were, however, two points in Donald's character, which remained wholly unaffected by the novelty of his position. These were his courage and bold bearing. Not all Spain, nor all that was in Spain, could have deprived Donald of these for a moment. He was amazed, but not in the least awed. He was, in truth, looking rather fiercer than usual, at this particular juncture, in consequence of a certain feeling of irritation, caused by what he deemed the impertinent curiosity of the passers-by, who, no less struck with his strange appearance than he with theirs, were gazing and tittering at him from all sides--treatment this, at which Donald thought fit to take mortal offence. Having arrived, however, at the gate of Alcala, Donald thought it full time to make some inquiries as to where his relative resided. Feeling impressed with the propriety of this step, he made up to a group of idle, equivocal-looking fellows, who, wrapped up in long buttoned dilapidated cloaks, were lounging about the gate; and, plunging boldly into the middle of them, he delivered himself thus, in his best English:-- "I say, freens, did you'll know, any of you, where my broder stops?" The men, as might be expected, first stared at the speaker, and then burst out a-laughing in his face. They, of course, could not comprehend a word of what he said; a circumstance on the possibility of which it had never struck Donald to calculate, and to which he did not now advert. Great, therefore, was his wrath, at this, apparently, contemptuous treatment by the Spaniards. His highland blood mounted to his face, and with the same rapidity rose his highland choler. Donald, in truth, already contemplated doing battle in defence of his insulted consequence, and at once hung out his flag of defiance. "You tam scarecrow-lookin rascals!" he sputtered out, in great fury, at the same time shaking his huge clenched brown fist in the faces of the whole group, their numbers not in the least checking his impetuosity--"You cowartly, starvation-like togs! I've a goot mind to make smashed potatoes o' the whole boilin o' ye. Tam your Spanish noses and whiskers!" The fierce and determined air of Donald had the effect of instantly restoring the gravity of the Spaniards, who, totally at a loss to comprehend what class of the human species he represented, looked at him with a mingled expression of astonishment and respect. At length, one of their number discharged a volley of his native language at Donald; but it was, apparently, of civil and good-natured import, for it was delivered in a mild tone, and accompanied by a conciliatory smile. On Donald, the language was, of course, utterly lost--he did not comprehend a word of it; but not so the indications of a friendly disposition to which we have alluded; these he at once appreciated, and they had the effect of allaying his wrath a little, and inducing him to make another attempt at a little civil colloquy. "Well," said Donald, now somewhat more calmly, "I was shust ask you a ceevil question, an' you laugh in my face, which is not ceevil. In my country we don't do that to anybody, far less a stranger. Noo, may pe, you'll not know my broder, and there's no harm in that--none at all; but you should shust have say so at once, an' there would be no more apout it. Can none of you speak Gaelic?" To this inquiry, which was understood to be such, there was a general shaking of heads amongst the Spaniards. "Oich, oich, it must be a tam strange country where there's no Gaelic. But, never mind--you cannot help your misfortunes. I say, lads, will ye teuk a tram. Hooch, hurra! prof, prof! Let's get a dram." And Donald flung up one of his legs hilariously, while he gave utterance to these uncouth expletives, which he did in short joyous shouts. "Where will we go, lads? Did you'll know any decen' public-house, where we'll can depend on a goot tram?" To this invitation, and to the string of queries by which it was accompanied, Donald got in reply only a repetition of that shake of the head which intimated non-comprehension. But it was an instance of the latter that surprised him more than all the others. "Well, to be surely," he said, "if a man'll not understand the offer of a tram, he'll understand nothing, and it's no use saying more. Put maybe you'll understand the sign, if not the word." And, saying this, he raised his closed hand to his lips and threw back his head, as if taking off a _caulker_ of his own mountain dew; pointing, at the same time, to a house which seemed to him to have the appearance of one of public entertainment. To Donald's great satisfaction, he found that he had now made himself perfectly intelligible; a fact which he recognised in the smiles and nods of his auditory, and, still more unequivocally, in the general movement which they made after him to the "public-house," to which he immediately directed his steps. At the head, then, of this troop of tatterdemallions, and walking with as stately a step as a drum-major, Donald may be said to have made his entrance into Madrid; and rather an odd first appearance of that worthy there, it certainly was. On entering the tavern or inn which he had destined for the scene of his hospitalities, he strode in much in the same style that he would have entered a public-house in Lochaber--namely, slapping the first person he met on the shoulder, and shouting some merry greeting or other appropriate to the occasion. This precisely Donald did in the present instance, to the great amazement and alarm of a very pretty Spanish girl, who was performing the duty of ushering in customers, inclusive of that of subsequently supplying their wants. On feeling the enormous paw of Donald on her shoulder, and looking at the strange attire in which he was arrayed, the girl uttered a scream of terror, and fled into the interior of the house. Unaccustomed to have his rude but hearty greetings received in this way, or to find them producing an effect so contrary to that which, in his honest warm-heartedness, he intended them to produce, Donald was rather taken aback by the alarm expressed by the girl; but soon recovering his presence of mind-- "Oich, oich!" he said, laughing, and turning to his ragged crew behind him, "ta lassie's frightened for Shon Heelanman. Puir thing! It's weel seen she's no peen procht up in Lochaber, or maype's no been lang in the way o' keepin a public. It's-- "'Haut awa, bite awa, Haut awa frae me, Tonal; What care I for a' your wealth, An' a' that ye can gie, Tonal?'" And, chanting this stanza of a well-known Scottish ditty, at the top of his voice, Donald bounced into the first open door he could find, still followed by his tail. These having taken their seats around a table which stood in the centre of the apartment, he next commenced a series of thundering raps on the board with the hilt of his dirk, accompanied by stentorian shouts of, "Hoy, lassie! House, here! Hoy, hoy, hoy!" a summons which was eventually answered by the landlord in person, the girl's report of Donald's appearance and salutation to herself having deterred any other of the household from obeying the call of so wild and noisy a customer. "Well, honest man," said Donald, on the entrance of his host, "will you pe bringing us two half mutchkins of your pest whisky. Here's some honest lads I want to treat to a tram." The landlord, as might be expected, stared at this strange guest, in utter unconsciousness of the purport of his demand. Recollecting himself, however, after a moment, his professional politeness returned, and he began bowing and simpering his inability to comprehend what had been addressed to him. "What for you'll boo, boo, and scrape, scrape there, you tam ass!" exclaimed Donald, furiously. "Co and pring us the whisky. Two half mutchkins, I say." Again the polite landlord of the Golden Eagle, which was the name of the inn, bowed his non-comprehension of what was said to him. "Cot's mercy! can you'll not spoke English, either?" shouted Donald, despairingly, on his second rebuff, and at the same time striking the table impatiently with his clenched fist. "Can you'll spoke Gaelic, then?" he added; and, without waiting for a reply, he repeated his demand in that language. The experiment was unsuccessful. Mine host of the Golden Eagle understood neither Gaelic nor English. Finding this, Donald had once more recourse to the dumb show of raising his hand to his mouth, as if in the act of drinking; and once more he found the sign perfectly intelligible. On its being made, the landlord instantly retired, and in a minute after returned with a couple of bottles in hand, and two very large-sized glasses, which he placed on the table. Eyeing the bottles contemptuously:--"It's no porter; it's whisky I'll order," exclaimed Donald, angrily, conceiving that it was the former beverage that had been brought him. "Porter's drink for hocs, and not for human podies." Finding it wholly impossible, however, to make this sentiment understood, Donald was compelled to content himself with the liquor which had been brought him. Under this conviction, he seized one of the bottles, filled up a glass to the brim, muttering the while "that it was tam white, strange-looking porter," started to his feet, and, holding the glass extended in his hand, shouted the health of his ragged company, in Gaelic, and bolted the contents. But the effect of this proceeding was curious. The moment the liquor, which was some of the common wine of Spain, was over Donald's throat, he stared wildly, as if he had just done some desperate deed--swallowed an adder by mistake, or committed some such awkward oversight. This expression of horror was followed by the most violent sputterings and hideous grimaces, accompanied by a prodigious assemblage of curses of all sorts, in Gaelic and English, and sometimes of an equal proportion of both. "Oich, oich! poisoned, by Cot!--vinekar, horrid vinekar! Lanlort, I say, what cursed stuffs is this you kive us?" And again Donald sputtered with an energy and perseverance that nothing but a sense of the utmost disgust and loathing could have inspired. Both the landlord and Donald's own guests, at once comprehending his feelings regarding the wine, hastened, by every act and sign they could think of, to assure him that he was wrong in entertaining so unfavourable an opinion of its character and qualities. Mine host, filling up a glass, raised it to his mouth, and, sipping a little of the liquor, smacked his lips, in token of high relish of its excellences. He then handed the glass round the company, all of whom tasted and approved, after the same expressive fashion; and thus, without a word being said, a collective opinion, hollow against Donald, was obtained. "Well, well, trink the apominations, and be curst to you!" said Donald, who perfectly understood that judgment had gone against him, "and much goot may't do you! but mysel would sooner trink the dirty bog water of Sleevrechkin. Oich, oich! the dirts! But I say, lanlort, maype you'll have got some prandies in the house? I can make shift wi' that when there's no whisky to be cot." Fortunately for Donald, mine host of the Golden Eagle at once understood the word brandy, and, understanding it, lost no time in placing a measure of that liquor before him; and as little time did Donald lose in swallowing an immense bumper of the inspiring alcohol. "Ay," said Donald, with a look of great satisfaction, on performing this feat, "that's something like a human Christian's trink. No your tam vinekar, as would colic a horse." Saying this, he filled up and discussed another modicum of the brandy; his followers, in the meantime, having done the same duty by the two bottles of wine, which were subsequently replaced by another two, by the order of their hospitable entertainer. On Donald, however, his libations were now beginning to produce, in a very marked manner, their usual effects. He was first getting into a state of high excitation; thumping the table violently with his fist, and sputtering out furious discharges of Gaelic and English, mingled in one strange and unintelligible mess of words, and seemingly oblivious of the fact that not a syllable of what he said could be comprehended by his auditory. This, then, was a circumstance which did not hinder him from entertaining his friends with a graphic description of Eddernahulish, and a very animated account of a particular deer-chase in which he had once been engaged. In short, in the inspiration of the hour, Donald seemed to have entirely forgotten every circumstance connected with his present position. He appeared to have forgotten that he was in a foreign land; forgotten the purpose that brought him there; forgotten his brother; forgotten those associated with him were Spaniards, not Atholemen; in truth, forgotten everything he should have recollected. In this happy state of obfuscation, Donald continued to roar, to drink, and to talk away precisely as he was wont to do in Rory M'Fadyen's "public" in Kilnichrochokan. From being oratorical, Donald became musical, and insisted on having a song from some of his friends; but failing to make his request intelligible, he volunteered one himself, and immediately struck up, in a strong nasal twang, and with a voice that made the whole house ring:-- "Ta Heelan hills are high, high, high, An' ta Heelan miles are long; But, then, my freens, rememper you, Ta Heelan whisky's strong, strong, strong! Ta Heelan whisky's strong, "And who shall care for ta length o' ta mile, Or who shall care for ta hill, If he shall have, 'fore he teukit ta way, In him's cheek one Heelan shill? In him's cheek one Heelan shill? "An' maype he'll pe teukit twa; I'll no say is no pe tree; And what although it should pe four? Is no pussiness you or me, me, me-- Is no pussiness you or me." Suiting the action to, at least, the spirit of the song, Donald tossed off another bumper of the alcohol, which had the rather odd effect of recalling him to some sense of his situation, instead of destroying, as might have been expected, any little glimmering of light on that subject which he might have previously possessed. On discussing the last glass of brandy-- "Now, lads," said Donald, "I must pe going. It's gettin late, and I must find oot my brother Tuncan Gorm, as decen' a lad as between this and Eddernahulish." Having said this, and paid his reckoning, Donald began shaking hands with his friends, one after the other, previous to leaving them; but his friends had no intention whatever of parting with him in this way. Donald had incautiously exposed his wealth when settling with the landlord; and of his wealth, as well as his wine, they determined on having a share. The ruffians, in short, having communicated with each other, by nods and winks, resolved to dog him; and, when fitting place and opportunity should present themselves, to rob and murder him. Fortunately for Donald, however, they had not exchanged intelligence so cautiously as to escape his notice altogether. He had seen and taken note of two or three equivocal acts and motions of his friends; but had had sufficient prudence, not only to avoid all remark on them, but to seem as if he had not observed them. Donald, indeed, could not well conceive what these secret signals meant; but he felt convinced that they meant "no goot;" and he therefore determined on keeping a sharp look-out, not only while he was in the presence of his boon companions, but after he should have left them; for he had a vague notion that they might possibly follow him for some evil purpose. Under this latter impression--which had occurred to him only at the close of their orgie, no suspicion unfavourable to the characters of his guests having before struck him--Donald, on parting from the latter at the door of the inn in which they had been regaling, might have been heard muttering to himself, after he had got to some little distance:-- "Tam rogues, after all, I pelieve." Having thus distinctly expressed his sentiments regarding his late companions, Donald pursued his way, although he was very far from knowing what that way should be. Street after street he traversed, making frequent vain inquiries for his "broder, Tuncan Gorm," until midnight, when he suddenly found himself in a large, open space, intersected by alleys formed by magnificent trees, and adorned by playing fountains of great beauty and elegance. Donald had got into the Prado, or public promenade of Madrid; but of the Prado Donald knew nothing; and much, therefore, did he marvel at what sort of a place he had got into. The fountains, in particular, perplexed and amazed him; and it was while contemplating one of these, with a sort of bewildered curiosity, that he saw a human figure glide from one side to the other of the avenue in which the object of his contemplation was situated, and at the distance of about twenty yards. Donald was startled by the apparition; and, recollecting his former associates, clapped his right hand instinctively on the hilt of his broadsword, and his left on the butt of a pistol--one of those stuck in his belt--and in this attitude awaited the re-appearance of the skulker; but he did not make himself again visible. Donald, however, felt convinced that there was danger at hand, and he determined to keep himself prepared to encounter it. "Some o' ta vinekar-drinking rascals," muttered Donald. "It was no honest man's drink; nor no goot can come o' a country where they swallow such apominable liquors." Thus reasoned Donald with himself, as he stood vigilantly scanning the localities around him, to prevent a sudden surprise. While thus engaged, four different persons, all at once, and as if they had acted by concert, started each from behind a tree, and approached Donald from four different points, with the purpose, evidently, of distracting his attention. At once perceiving their intention, and not doubting that their purposes were hostile, the intrepid Celt, to prevent himself being surrounded, hastily retreated to a wall which formed part of the structure of the fountain on which he had been gazing, and, placing his back against it, awaited, with his drawn sword in one hand and a pistol in the other, the approach of his enemies, as he had no doubt they were. "Well, my friends," said Donald, as they drew near him, and discovered to him four tall fellows, swathed up to the eyes in their cloaks, and each with a drawn sword in his hand, "what you'll want with me?" No answer having been returned to this query, and the fellows continuing to press on, although now more cautiously, as they had perceived that their intended victim was armed, and stood on the defensive: "Py Shoseph!" said Donald, "you had petter keep your distance, lads, or my name's no Tonal Gorm if I don't gif some of you a dish of crowdy." And, as good as his word, he almost instantly after fired at the foremost of his assailants, and brought him down. This feat performed, instead of waiting for the attack of the other three, he instantly rushed on them sword in hand, and, by the impetuosity of his attack, and fury of his blows, rendered all their skill of fence useless. With his huge weapon and powerful arm, both of which he plied with a rapidity and force which there was no resisting, he broke through their guards as easily as he would have beat down so many osier wands, and wounded severely at every blow. It was in vain that Donald's assailants kept retiring before him, in the hope of getting him at a disadvantage--of finding an opportunity of having a cut or a thrust at him. No time was allowed them for any such exploit. Donald kept pressing on, and showering his tremendous blows on them so thickly, that not an instant was left them for aggression in turn. They were, besides, rapidly losing relish for the contest, from the ugly blows they were getting, without a possibility of returning them. Finding, at length, that the contest was a perfectly hopeless one, Donald's assailants fairly took to their heels, and ran for it; but there was one of their number who did not run far--a few yards, when he fell down and expired. His hurts had been mortal. "Oich, oich, lad!" said Donald, peering into the face of the dead man, "you'll no pe shust that very weel, I'm thinkin. The heelan claymore 'll not acree with your Spanish stomach. But it's goot medicine for rogues, for all that." Having thus apostrophized the slain man, Donald sheathed his weapon, muttering as he did so: "Ta cowartly togs can fight no more's a turkey hens." And, cocking his bonnet proudly, he commenced the task of finding his way back to the city; a task which, after a good many unnecessary, but, from his ignorance of the localities, unavoidable deviations, he at length accomplished. Donald's most anxious desire now was to find a "public" in which to quarter for the night; but, the hour being late, this was no easy matter. Every door was shut, and the streets lonely and deserted. At length, however, our hero stumbled on what appeared to him to be something of the kind he wanted, although he could have wished it to have been on a fully smaller and humbler scale. This was a large hotel, in which every window was blazing with light, and the rooms were filled with mirthful music. Donald's first impression was that it was a penny wedding upon a great scale. It was, in truth, a masquerade; and as the brandy which he had drunk in the earlier part of the evening was still in his head, he proposed to himself taking a very active part in the proceedings. On entering the hotel, however, which he did boldly, he was rather surprised at the splendours of various kinds which greeted his eyes--marble stairs, gorgeous lamps, gilt cornices, &c., &c., and sundry other indications of grandeur which he had never seen equalled even in Tain or Dingwall, to say nothing of his native parish of Macharuarich, and he had been in his time in every public-house of any repute in all of them. These circumstances did not disabuse Donald of his original idea of its being a penny-wedding. He only thought that they conducted these things in greater style in Spain than in Scotland, and with this solution of the difficulty, suggested by the said splendours, Donald mounted the broad marble staircase, and stalked into the midst of a large apartment filled with dancers. The variety and elegance of the dresses of these last again staggered Donald's belief in the nature of the merry-making, and made him doubt whether he had conjectured aright. These doubts, however, did not for an instant shake his determination to have a share in the fun. It was a joyous dancing party, and that was quite enough for him. In the meantime he contented himself with staring at the strange but splendid figures by whom he was surrounded, and who were, in various corners of the apartment, gliding through the "mazy dance." But if Donald's surprise was great at the costumes which he was now so intently marking, those who displayed them were no less surprised at that which he exhibited. Donald's strange, but striking attire, in truth, had attracted all eyes; and much did those who beheld it wonder in all the earth to what country it belonged. But simple wonder and admiration were not the only sensations which Donald's garb produced on the masquers. His kilt had other effects. It drove half the ladies screaming out of the apartment, to its wearer's great surprise and no small displeasure. The guise which Donald wore, however, and which all believed to have been donned for the occasion, was, on the whole, much approved of, and the wearer, in more than one instance, complimented for his taste in having selected so novel and striking a garb. But even his warmest applauders objected to the scantiness of the kilt, and hinted that, for decorum's sake, this part of his dress should have been carried down to his heels. This improvement on his kilt was suggested, in the most polite terms, to Donald himself, by a Spanish gentleman, who spoke a little English, and who had ascertained that our hero was a native of Great Britain, and whom he believed to be a man of note. To this suggestion Donald made no other reply than by a look of the utmost indignation and contempt. The Spanish gentleman, whose name was Don Sebastanio, seeing that his remark had given offence, hastened to apologise for the liberty he had taken--assuring Donald that he meant nothing disrespectful or insulting. This apology was just made in time, as the irritable Celt had begun to entertain the idea of challenging the Spaniard to mortal combat. As it was, however, his good nature at once gave way to the pacific overture that was made him. Seizing the apologist by the hand, with a gripe that produced some dismal contortions of countenance on the part of him on whom it was inflicted-- "Is no harm done at all, my friend. You'll not know no petter, having never peen, I dare say, in our country, or seen a heelanman pefore." The Spaniard declared he never had had either of these happinesses, and concluded by inviting Donald to an adjoining apartment to have some refreshment--an invitation which Donald at once obeyed. "Now, my good sir," said his companion, on their entering a sort of refectory where were a variety of tables spread with abundance of the good things of this life and of Madrid, "what shall you prefer?" "Herself's not fery hungry, but a little thirsty," said Donald, flinging himself down on a seat in a free-and-easy way, with his legs astride, so as to allow free suspension to his huge goat-skin purse, and doffing his bonnet, and wiping the perspiration from his forehead--"Herself's no fery hungry, but a little thirsty; and she'll teukit, if you please, a fery small drop of whisky and water." The Spaniard was nonplussed. He had never even heard of whisky in his life, and was therefore greatly at a loss to understand what sort of liquor his friend meant. Donald, perceiving his difficulty, and guessing that it was of the same nature with the one which he had already experienced, hastily transmuted his demand for whisky into one for brandy, which was immediately supplied him, when Donald, pouring into a rummer a quantity equal to at least six glasses, filled up with water, and drank the whole off, to the inexpressible amazement of his companion, who, however, although he looked unutterable things at the enormous draught, was much too polite to say anything. Thus primed a second time, Donald, seeing his new friend engaged with some ladies who had unexpectedly joined him, returned alone to the dancing apartment, which he entered with a whoop of encouragement to the performers that startled every one present, and for an instant arrested the motions of the dancers, who could not comprehend the meaning of his uncouth cries. Regardless of this effect of his interference in the proceedings of the evening, Donald, with a countenance beaming with hilarity, and eyes sparkling with wild and reckless glee, took up a conspicuous position in the room, and from thence commenced edifying the dancers by a series of short abrupt shouts or yells, accompanied by a vigorous clapping of his hands, at once to intimate his satisfaction with the performances, and to encourage the performers themselves to further exertions. Getting gradually, however, too much into the spirit of the thing to be content with being merely an onlooker, Donald all at once capered into the middle of the floor, snapping his fingers and thumbs, and calling out to the musicians to strike up "Caber Feigh;" and, without waiting to hear whether his call was obeyed, he commenced a vigorous exhibition of the highland fling, to the great amazement of the bystanders, who, instantly abandoning their own pursuits, crowded around him to witness this to them most extraordinary performance. Thus occupied, and thus situated--the centre of a "glittering ring"--Donald continued to execute with unabated energy the various strongly-marked movements of his national dance, amidst the loud applauses of the surrounding spectators. On concluding-- "Oich, oich!" exclaimed Donald, out of breath with his exertion, and looking laughingly round on the circle of bystanders. "Did ever I think to dance ta heelan fling in Madrid! Och, no, no! Never, by Shoseph! But, I dare say, it'll pe the first time that it was ever danced here." From this moment Donald became a universal favourite in the room, and the established lion of the night. Where-ever he went he was surrounded with an admiring group, and was overloaded with civilities of all kinds, including frequent offers of refreshment; so that he speedily found himself in most excellent quarters. There was, however, one drawback in his happiness. He could get no share in the dancing excepting what he chose to perform solus, as there was nothing in that way to be seen in the room in the shape of a reel, nor was there a single tune played of which he could make either head or tail--nothing but "your foreign trash, with neither spunk nor music in them." Determined, however, since his highland fling had been so much approved of, to give a specimen of the highland reel, if he could possibly make it out, Donald, as a first step, looked around him for a partner; and seeing a very handsome girl seated in one of the corners of the apartment, and apparently disengaged, he made up to her, and, making one of his best bows, solicited the honour of her joining him in a reel. Without understanding the language in which she was addressed, but guessing that it conveyed an invitation to the floor, the young lady at once arose and curtsied an acquiescence, when Donald, taking her gallantly by the hand, led her up to the front of the orchestra, in order that he might bespeak the appropriate music for the particular species of dance he contemplated. On approaching sufficiently near to the musicians-- "Fittlers," he shouted, at the top of his voice, "I say, can you'll kive us 'Rothiemurchus' Rant,' or the 'Trucken Wives of Fochabers?'" Then turning to his partner, and flinging his arms about her neck in an ecstasy of Highland excitation, capering at the same time hilariously in anticipation of the coming strain-- "Them's the tunes, my lass, for putting mettle in your heels." A scream from the lady with whom Donald was using these unwarrantable personal liberties, and a violent attempt on her part to escape from them, suddenly arrested Donald's hilarity, and excited his utmost surprise. In the next instant he was surrounded by at least half-a-dozen angry cavaliers, amongst whom there was a brandishing of swords and much violent denunciation, all directed against Donald, and excited by his unmannerly rudeness to a lady. It was some seconds before Donald could comprehend the meaning of all this wrath, or believe that he was at once the cause and the object of it. But on this becoming plain-- "Well, shentlemen," he said, "I did not mean anything wrong. No offence at all to the girl. It was just the fashion of my country; and I'm sorry for it." To this apology of Donald's, of which, of course, not a word was understood, the only reply was a more fierce flourishing of brands, and a greater volubility and vehemence of abuse; the effect of which was at once to arouse Donald's choler, and to urge him headlong on extremities. "Well, well," he said, "if you'll not have satisfaction any other way than py the sword, py the sword you shall have it." And instantly drawing, he stood ready to encounter at once the whole host of his enemies. What might have been the result of so unequal a contest, had it taken place, we cannot tell--and this simply because no encounter did take place. At the moment that Donald was awaiting the onset of the foe--a proceeding, by the way, which they were now marvellously slow in adopting, notwithstanding the fury with which they had opened the assault, a party of the king's guard, with fixed bayonets, rushed into the apartment, and bore Donald forcibly out into the street, where they left him, with angry signs that if he attempted to return, he would meet with still worse treatment. Donald had prudence enough to perceive that any attempt to resent the insult that had been offered him--seeing that it was perpetrated by a dozen men armed with musket and bayonet--would be madness, and therefore contented himself with muttering in Gaelic some expressions of high indignation and contempt. Having delivered himself to this effect, he proudly adjusted his plaid, and stalked majestically away. It was now so far advanced in the morning that Donald abandoned all idea of seeking for a bed, and resolved on prosecuting an assiduous search for his brother. This he accordingly commenced, and numerous were the calls at shops, and frequent the inquiries he made for Tuncan Gorm; but unavailing were they all. No one understood a word of what he addressed to them; and thus, of course, no one could give him the information he desired. It was in vain, too, that Donald carefully scanned every sign that he passed, to see that it did not bear the anxiously looked for name. On none of them did it appear. They were all, as Donald himself said, Fouros, and Beuros, and Lebranos, and Dranos, and other outlandish and unchristian-like names. Not a heeland or lowland shopkeeper amongst them. No such a decent and civilized name to be met with as Gorm, or Brolachan, or M'Fadyen, or Macharuarich, or M'Cuallisky. Tired and disappointed, Donald, after wandering up and down the streets for several hours, bethought him of adjourning to a tavern to have something to eat, and probably something to drink also. Seeing such a house as he wanted, he entered, and desired the landlord to furnish him with some dinner. In a few seconds two dishes were placed before him; but what these dishes were, Donald could not at all make out. They resembled nothing in the edible way he had ever seen before, and the flavour was most alarming. Nevertheless, being pretty sharp-set, he resolved to try them, and for this purpose drew one of the dishes towards him, when, having peered as curiously and cautiously into it for a few seconds as if he feared it would leap up in his face and bite him, and curling his nose the while into strong disapprobation of its odour, he lifted several spoonfuls of the black greasy mess on his plate. At this point Donald found his courage failing him; but, as his host stood behind his chair and was witness to all his proceedings, he did not like either to express the excessive disgust he was beginning to feel, nor to refuse tasting of what was set before him. Mustering all his remaining courage, therefore, he plunged his spoon with desperate violence into the nauseous mess, which seemed to Donald to be some villanous compound of garlic, rancid oil, and dough; and raising it to his lips, shut his eyes, and boldly thrust it into his mouth. Donald's resolution, however, could carry him no farther. To swallow it he found utterly impossible, now that the horrors of both taste and smell were full upon him. In this predicament, Donald had no other way for it but to give back what he had taken; and this course he instantly followed, adding a large interest, and exclaiming-- "My Cot! what sort of a country is this? Your drinks is poison, and your meats is poison, and everything is apominations apout you. Oich, oich! I wish to Cot I was back to Eddernahulish again; for I'll pe either poisoned or murdered amongst you if I remain much longer here. That's peyond all doubt." And having thus expressed himself, Donald started to his feet, and was about to leave the house without any farther ceremony, when the landlord adroitly planted himself between him and the door, and demanded the reckoning. Donald did not know precisely what was asked of him, but he guessed that it was a demand for payment, and this demand he was determined to resist, on the ground that what he could not eat he ought not to be called on to pay for. Full of this resolution, and having no doubt that he was right in his conjecture as to the landlord's purpose in preventing his exit-- "Pay for ta apominations!" said Donald, wrathfully. "Pay for ta poison! It's myself will see you at Jericho first. Not a farthing, not one tam farthing, will I pay you for ta trash. So stand out of the way, my friend, pefore worse comes of it." Saying this, Donald advanced to the door, and seizing its guardian by the breast, laid him gently on his back on the floor, and stepping over his prostrate body, walked deliberately out of the house, without further interruption, mine host not thinking it advisable to excite further the choler of so dangerous a customer, and one who had just given him so satisfactory a specimen of his personal prowess. Another day had now nearly passed away, and Donald was still as far, to all appearance, from finding the object of his search as ever he had been. He was, moreover, now both hungry and thirsty; but these were evils which he soon after succeeded in obviating for the time, by a more successful foray than the last. Going into another house of entertainment, he contrived to make a demand for bread and cheese intelligible--articles which he had specially condescended on, that there might be "no mistake;" and with these and a pretty capacious measure of brandy, he managed to effect a very tolerable passover. Before leaving this house, Donald made once more the already oft but vainly-repeated inquiry, whether he knew (he was addressing his landlord) where one Duncan Gorm stopped. It did not now surprise Donald to find that his inquiry was not understood; but it did both surprise and delight him when his host, who had abruptly left the room for an instant, returned with a person who spoke very tolerable English. This man was a muleteer, and had resided for some years in London, in the service of the Spanish ambassador. His name--a most convenient one for Donald to pronounce--was Mendoza Ambrosius. On being introduced to this personage, Donald expressed the utmost delight at finding in him one who spoke a Christian language, as he called it; and, in the joy of his heart with his good fortune, ordered in a jorum of brandy for the entertainment of himself and Mr. Ambrosius. The liquor being brought, and several horns of it discussed, Donald and his new friend got as thick as "ben' leather." And on this happy understanding being established, the former began to detail, at all the length it would admit of, the purpose of his visit to Madrid, and the occurrences that had befallen him since his arrival; prefacing these particulars with a sketch of his history, and some account of the place of his nativity; and concluding the whole by asking his companion if he could in any way assist him to find his brother, Duncan Gorm. The muleteer replied, in the best English he could command, that he did not know the particular person inquired after, but that he knew the residences of two or three natives of Britain, some of whom, he thought it probable, might be acquainted with his brother; and that he would have much pleasure in conducting him to these persons, for the purpose of ascertaining this. Donald thanked his friend for his civility; and, in a short time thereafter, the brandy having been finished in the interim, the two set out together on their expedition of inquiry. It was a clear, moonlight night; but, although it was so, and the hour what would be considered in this country early, the streets were nearly deserted, and as lonely and quiet as if Madrid were a city of the dead. This stillness had the effect of making the smallest sound audible even at a great distance, and to this stillness it was owing that Donald and his friend suddenly heard, soon after they had set out, the clashing of swords, intermingled with occasional shouts, at a remote part of the street they were traversing. "What's tat?" exclaimed Donald, stopping abruptly, and cocking his ears at the well-known sound of clashing steel. His companion, accustomed to such occurrences, replied, with an air of indifference, that it was merely some street brawl. "It'll pe these tam vinekar drinkers again," said Donald, with a lively recollection of the assault that had been made upon himself; "maybe some poor shentleman's in distress. Let us go and see, my tear sir." To this proposal, the muleteer, with a proper sense of the folly of throwing himself in the way of mischief unnecessarily, would at first by no means accede; but, on being urged by Donald, agreed to move on a little with him towards the scene of conflict. This proceeding soon brought them near enough to the combatants to perceive that Donald's random conjecture had not been far wrong, by discovering to them one person, who, with his back to the wall, was bravely defending himself against no fewer than four assailants, all being armed with swords. "Did not I tell you so!" exclaimed Donald, in great excitation, on seeing how matters stood. "Noo, Maister Tozy Brozy, shoulder to shoulder, my tear, and we'll assist this poor shentleman." Saying this, Donald drew his claymore, and rushed headlong on to the rescue, calling on Tozy Brozy to follow him; but Tozy Brozy's feelings and impulses carried him in a totally different direction. Fearing that his friend's interference in the squabble might have the effect of directing some of the blows his way, he fairly took to his heels, leaving Donald to do by himself what to himself seemed needful in the case. In the meantime, too much engrossed by the duty before him to mind much whether his friend followed him or not, Donald struck boldly in, in aid of the "shentleman in distress," exclaiming, as he did so-- "Fair play, my tears! Fair play's a shewel everywhere, and I suppose here too." And, saying this, with one thundering blow that fairly split the skull of the unfortunate wight on whom it fell in twain, Donald lessened the number of the combatants by one. The person to whose aid he had thus so unexpectedly and opportunely come, seeing what an effectual ally he had got, gave a shout of triumphant joy, and, although much exhausted by the violence and length of his exertions in defending himself, instantly became the assailant in his turn. Inspired with new life and vigour, he pressed on his enemies with a fury that compelled them to give way; and, being splendidly seconded by Donald, whose tremendous blows were falling with powerful effect on those against whom they were directed, the result was, in a few seconds, the flight of the enemy; who, in rapid succession, one after the other, took to their heels, although not without carrying along with them several authentic certificates of the efficiency of Donald's claymore. On the retreat of the bravos--for such they were--the person whom Donald had so efficiently served in his hour of need, flew towards him, and, taking him in his arms, poured out a torrent of thanks for the prompt and gallant aid he had afforded him. But, as these thanks were expressed in Spanish, they were lost on him to whom they were addressed. Not so, however, the indications of gratitude evinced in the acts by which they were accompanied. These Donald perfectly understood, and replied to them as if their sense had been conveyed to him in a language which he comprehended. "No thanks at all, my tear sir. A Heelantman will always assist a freend where a few plows will do him goot. You would shust do the same to me, I'm sure. But," added Donald, as he sheathed his most serviceable weapon, "this is the tam place for fechtin' I have ever seen. I thocht our own Heelants pad enough, but this is ten times worse, py Shoseph! I have no peen more than four-and-twenty hours in Ma-a-treed, and I'll have peen in tree fecht already." More of this speech was understood by the person to whom it was addressed, than might have been expected under all these circumstances. This person was a Spanish gentleman of rank and great wealth, of the name of Don Antonio Nunnez, whose acquirements included a very competent knowledge of the English language, which, although he spoke it but indifferently, he understood very well. Yet it certainly did require all his knowledge of it, to recognise it in the shape in which Donald presented it to him. This, however, to a certain extent, he did, and, in English, now repeated his sense of the important obligation Donald had conferred on him. But it was not to words alone that the grateful and generous Spaniard meant to confine his acknowledgments of the service that had been rendered him. Having ascertained that Donald was a perfect stranger in the city, he insisted on his going home with him, and remaining with him during his stay in Madrid, and further requesting that he would seek at his hands, and no other's, any service or obligation, of whatever nature it might be, of which he should stand in need during his stay. To these generous proffers, Donald replied, that the greatest service that could be done him was to inform him where he could find his brother, Duncan Gorm. Don Antonio first expressed surprise to learn that Donald had a brother in Madrid, and then his sorrow that he did not know, nor had ever heard of such a person. "He'll keep a public," said Donald. "What is that, my friend?" inquired Don Antonio. "Sell a shill, to be sure--I'll thocht everybody know that," said Donald, a good deal surprised at the other's ignorance. "Shill? shill?" repeated the Spaniard--"and pray, my friend, what is a shill?" "Cot pless me! don't you'll know what a shill is?" rejoined Donald, with increased amazement. "If you'll come with me to Eddernahulish, I'll show you what a shill is, and help you to drink it too." "Well, well, my friend," said Don Antonio. "I'll get an explanation of what a 'shill' is from you afterwards; but, in the meantime, you'll come with me, if you please, as I am anxious to introduce you to some friends at home!" Saying this, he took Donald's arm, in order to act as his conductor, and, after leading him through two or three streets, brought him to the door of a very large and handsome house. Don Antonio having knocked at this door, it was immediately opened by a servant in splendid livery, who, on recognising his master--for such was Donald's friend--instantly stepped aside, and respectfully admitted the pair. In the vestibule, or passage, which was exceedingly magnificent, were a number of other serving men in rich liveries, who drew themselves up on either side, in order to allow their master and his friend to pass; and much did they marvel at the strange garb in which that friend appeared. Don Antonio now conducted Donald up the broad marbled staircase, splendidly illuminated with a variety of elegant lamps, in which the vestibule terminated; and, on reaching the top of the first flight, ushered him into a large and gorgeously-furnished apartment, in which were two ladies dressed in deep mourning. To these ladies, one of whom was the mother, the other the sister of Don Antonio, the latter introduced his amazed and awe-stricken companion, as a person to whom he was indebted for his life. He then explained to his relations what had occurred, and did not fail to give Donald's promptitude and courage a due share of his laudations. With a gratitude not less earnest than his own had been, the mother and sister of Don Antonio took Donald by the hand; the one taking the right, and the other the left, and, looking in his face, with an expression of the utmost kindness, thanked him for the great obligation he had conferred on them. These thanks were expressed in Spanish; but, on Don Antonio's mentioning that Donald was a native of Britain, and that he did not, as he rather thought, understand the Spanish language, his sister, a beautiful girl of one or two-and-twenty, repeated them, in somewhat minced, but perfectly intelligible English. Great as Donald's perturbation was at finding himself so suddenly and unexpectedly placed in a situation so much at variance with anything he had been accustomed to, it did not prevent him marking, in a very special manner, the dark sparkling eyes and rich sable tresses of Donna Nunnez, the name of Don Antonio's sister. Nor, we must add, did the former look with utter indifference on the manly form, so advantageously set off as it was by his native dress, of Donald Gorm. But of this anon. In a short time after, a supper, corresponding in elegance and splendour to all the other elegances and splendours of this lordly mansion, was served up; and, on its conclusion, Donald was conducted, by Don Antonio himself, to a sleeping apartment, furnished with the same magnificence that prevailed throughout the whole house. Having ushered him into his apartment, Donald's host bade him a kind good-night, and left him to his repose. What Donald's feelings were on finding himself thus so superbly quartered, now that he had time to think on the subject, and could do so unrestrained by the presence of any one, we do not precisely know; but, if one might have judged by the under-breath exclamations in which he indulged, and by the looks of amazement and inquiry which he cast around him, from time to time, on the splendours by which he was surrounded, especially on the gorgeous bed, with its gilt canopy and curtains of crimson silk, which was destined for his night's resting-place, these feelings would appear to have been, after all, fully more perplexing than pleasing. It was, in truth, just too much of a good thing; and Donald felt it to be so. But still the whole had a smack of good fortune about it that was very far from being disagreeable, and that certainly had the effect of reconciling Donald to the little discordance between former habits and present circumstances, which his position for the time excited. While at breakfast on the following morning with Don Antonio and his mother and sister, the first asked Donald if he had any particular ties in his own country that would imperatively demand his return home; and on Donald's replying that there were none, Don Antonio immediately inquired whether he would accept a commission in the King of Spain's body-guards:--"Because," said he, "if you will, I have, I believe, influence enough to procure it for you." Donald said he had no objection in the world to try it for a year or two, at any rate--only he would like to consult his "broder Tuncan" first. "True, true," said Don Antonio; "I promised to assist you in finding out your relative--and I shall do so." As good as his word in this particular, and a great deal better in many others in which Donald was interested, Don Antonio instantly set an inquiry on foot, which, in less than two hours, brought the brothers together. The sequel of our story, although containing the very essence of Donald's good fortune, is soon told. His brother, highly approving of his accepting the commission offered to him, Don Antonio lost no time in procuring him that appointment; and in less than three weeks from his arrival in Madrid, Donald Gorm figured as a captain in the King of Spain's body-guards, in which service he ultimately attained the rank of colonel, together with a title of honour, which enabled him to ask, without fear of giving offence, and to obtain, the hand of Donna Nunnez, with a dowry second to that of no fair damsel in Spain. Donald never again returned to Eddernahulish, but continued in the country of his adoption till his death; and in that country some of his descendants to this hour bear amongst the proudest names of which it can boast. THE SURGEON'S TALES. THE CURED INGRATE. Every person who has studied, even in the most cursory manner, the checkered page of human life, must have observed that there are in continual operation through mankind some great secret moral agents, the powers of which are exerted within the heart, and beyond the reach of the consciousness or observation of the individual himself who is subject to their influence. There is a steadfastness of virtue in some high-minded men, which enables them to resist the insidious temptations of the bad demon; there is also a stern stability of vice often found in the unfortunate outlaw, which disregards, for a time, the voice of conscience, and spurns the whispered wooing of the good principle, "charm it never so wisely;" yet the real confessions of the hearts of those individuals would show traces enough of the agency of the unseen power to prove their want of title to an exception from the general rule which includes all the sons of Adam. We find, also, that extraordinary moral effects are often produced, in a dark and mysterious manner, from physical causes: every medical man has the power of recording, if he has had the faculty of observing, changes in the minds, principles, and feelings of patients who have come through the fiery ordeal of a terrible disease, altogether unaccountable on any rules of philosophy yet discovered. Not many years ago, a well-dressed young woman called one evening upon me, and stated that her lady, whose name, she said, would be communicated by herself, had been ill for some days, and wished me to visit her privately. I asked her when she required my attendance; and got for answer, that she, the messenger, would conduct me to the residence of the patient, if it was convenient for me to go at that time. I was disengaged, and agreed to accompany the young woman as soon as I had given directions to my assistant regarding the preparation of some medicines which required the application of chemical rules. To be ingenuous, I was a little curious to know the secret of this private call; for that there was a secret about it was plain, from the words, and especially the manner, of the young woman, who spoke mysteriously, and did not seem to wish any questions put to her on the subject of her mission. The night was dark, but the considerate messenger had provided a lantern; and, to anticipate my scruples, she said that the distance we had to go would not render it necessary for me to take my carriage--a five-minutes' walk being sufficient to take us to our destination. Resigning myself to the guidance of my conductress, I requested her to lead the way, and we proceeded along two neighbouring streets of considerable length, and then turned up to ---- Square--a place where the rich and fashionable part of the inhabitants of the town have their residences. At the mouth of a coach entry, which ran along the gable of a large house, and apparently led to the back offices connected with the residence, the young woman stopped, and whispered to me to take care of my feet, as she was to use the liberty of leading me along a meuse lane to a back entrance, through which I was to be conducted into the chamber of the sick lady. I obeyed her directions; and, keeping close behind her, was led along the lane, and through several turns and windings which I feared I might not again be able to trace without a guide, until we came to a back door, when the young woman--begging my pardon for her forwardness--took hold of my hand, and led me along a dark passage, then up a stair, then along another passage, which was lighted by some wax tapers placed in recesses in the wall; at the end of which, she softly opened a door, and ushered me into a very large bedroom, the magnificence of which was only partly revealed to me by a small lamp filled with aromatic oil, whose fragrance filled the apartment. The young woman walked quickly forward to a bed, hung with light green silk damask curtains fringed with yellow, and luxuriously ornamented with a superfluity of gilding; and, drawing aside the curtains, she whispered a few words into the ear of some one lying there, apparently in distress; then hurried out of the room, leaving me standing on the floor, without introduction or explanation. The novelty of my position deprived me for a moment of my self-possession, and I stood stationary in the middle of the room, deliberating upon whether I should call back my conductress, and ask from her some explanation, or proceed forward to the couch, where, no doubt, my services were required; but my hesitation was soon resolved, by the extraordinary appearance of an Indian-coloured female countenance, much emaciated, and lighted up with two bright orbs, occupying the interstice between the curtains, and beckoning on me, apparently with a painful effort, forward. I obeyed, and, throwing open the large folds of damask, had as full a view of my extraordinary patient as the light that emanated from the perfumed lamp, and shone feebly on her dark countenance, would permit. She beckoned to me to take a chair, which stood by the side of the bed; and, having complied with her mute request, I begged to know what was the complaint under which she laboured, that I might endeavour to yield her such relief as was in the power of our professional art. I thus limited my question to the nature of her disease, in the expectation that she herself would clear up the mystery which hung around the manner in which I was called, and introduced to so extraordinary a scene as that which was now before me. Her great weakness seemed to require some composure, and a collecting of her scattered and reduced energies, before she could answer my simple question. I now observed more perfectly than I had yet done the character and style of the room into which I had been introduced--its furniture, ornaments, and luxuries; and, above all, the extraordinary, foreign-looking invalid who seemed to be the mistress of so much grandeur. Though a bedroom, the apartment seemed to have had lavished upon its fitting-up as much money as is often expended on a lord's drawing-room--the bed itself, the wardrobes, pier-glasses, toilets, and dressing-cases, being of the most elaborate workmanship and costly character--the pictures numerous, and magnificently framed; while on all sides were to be seen foreign ornaments, chiefly Chinese and Indian, of brilliant appearance, and devoted to purposes and uses of refined luxury of which I could form no adequate conception. On a small table, near the bed, there was a multiplicity of boxes, vials, trinkets, and bijouterie of all kinds; and fragrant mixtures, intended to perfume the apartment, were exposed in various quarters, and even scattered exuberantly on spread covers of satin, with a view to their yielding their sweets more freely, and filling all the corners of the room. In full contrast with all this array of grandeur and luxury, lay the strange-looking individual already mentioned, on the gorgeous bed. She was apparently an East Indian; and, though possessed of comely features, she was even darker than the fair Hindoos we often see in this country. The sickness under which she laboured, and which appeared to be very severe, had rendered her thin and cadaverous-looking--making the balls of her brilliant eyes assume the appearance of being protruded, and imparting to all her features a sharp, prominent aspect, the very reverse of the natural Indian type; yet, true to her sex and the manners of her country, she was splendidly decorated, even in this state of dishabille and distress; the coverlet being of rich Indian manufacture, and resplendent with the dyes of the East--her gown and cap decorated with costly needlework--her fingers covered with a profusion of rings, while a cambric handkerchief, richly embroidered, in her right hand, had partly enveloped in its folds a large golden vinegarette, set profusely with glittering gems. The rapid survey which enabled me to gather this general estimate of what was presented to me, was nearly completed before the invalid had collected strength enough to answer my question; and she was just beginning to speak--having as yet pronounced only a few inarticulate syllables--when she was interrupted by the entrance of the same young woman who had acted as my conductress, and who now exhibited a manner the very opposite of the soft, quiet, slipping nature of her former carriage. The suddenness, and even impetuosity of her entry, was inconsistent with the character of nurse to a lady in so distressed a condition as that of her apparent mistress; but her subsequent conduct was much more incomprehensible and extraordinary; for, without speaking and without stopping, she rushed forward, and, taking me by the arm, hurried me away through the door by which I had entered, along the lighted passage, down the stair, and never stopped until she landed me on the threshold of the back-door by which I entered the house. At this time I heard the bell of, as I thought, the fore or street door of the house ringing violently; and my conductress, without saying a word, ran away as fast as the darkness would permit, leaving me, perplexed and confounded at what I had seen and heard, to find my way home in the best way I could. In my professional capacity I had not been accustomed to any mysterious or secret practice of our art, which, being exercised ostensibly and in reality for the benefit of mankind, requires no cloak to cover its operations; and, though I was curious to know the secret of such incomprehensible proceedings, I felt no admiration of, or relish for adventures so unsuited to the life and manners of a sober, practical man. One thing, however, was clear, and seemed sufficient to reconcile my practical, every-day notions of life with this mysterious negotiation, and even to solve the doubt I entertained whether I should again trust myself as a party to the devices of secrecy--and that was, that the individual I had been thus called to see professionally was in such a condition of body as required urgently the administrations of a medical practitioner. On the following day, I resolved upon making some inquiries, with a view to ascertain who and what the individual was that occupied the house to which I had been introduced, and which, upon a survey in daylight, I could have no difficulty in tracing; but I happened to be too much occupied to be able to put my purpose into execution; and was thus obliged to remain, during the day, in a state of suspense and ignorance of the secret involved in my previous night's professional adventure. In the evening, however, and about the same hour at which the messenger called for me on the previous occasion, the same individual waited on me, with an apology for the apparently unceremonious treatment I had received, and which, she said, would be explained to my satisfaction; and a renewed request that I would again accompany her to the same house, and on the same errand. I told the messenger that I bore no great love to these secret adventures, but that I would consent, on this occasion, to make a sacrifice of my principles and feelings to the hope of being able to be of some use, in a professional way, to the distressed lady I had seen on the previous occasion, whose situation, so far as I could judge from appearances, was not far removed from the extremity of danger. I again, accordingly, committed myself to the guidance of the young woman; and, after a repetition of the windings and evolutions of the previous visit, soon found myself again seated in the chair that stood by the gorgeous bed of the strange invalid. Everything seemed to be in the same situation as before: the lamp gave out its weak light, the perfumes exhaled their sweets, and the distressed lady exhibited the same strange contrast between her reduced sickly condition and the superb finery of her dishabille. I had not been long seated, when she struggled to inform me, in a very weak voice, that she was much beholden to me for my attention, and grieved for the unceremonious treatment I had received on my last visit. I replied, that I laid my account with much greater personal inconvenience, in the pursuit of my profession, than any to which she had subjected or could subject me--all such considerations being, in my apprehension, of small importance in comparison with the good we had often the power of administering to individuals in distress; and begged to know the nature of the complaint under which she too evidently laboured, that I might endeavour to ameliorate her sufferings, and restore her to that health without which the riches she apparently was mistress of, could be of small avail in rendering her happy. She appeared grateful for the sentiments I expressed; and proceeded to tell me, still with the same struggling difficulty of utterance, arising from her extreme weakness, that she was the wife of Colonel P----, the proprietor of the mansion into which I had been thus secretly introduced, for reasons she would explain in the course of her narrative. She had been married to her husband, she proceeded, in the East Indies, of which country she was a native; and, having succeeded to a large fortune on the death of her father, had given it all freely without bond, contract, or settlement, to her husband, whom she loved, honoured, and worshipped, beyond all earthly beings, and with an ardour which had never abated from the first moment she had become his wife. Nor was the affection limited to one side of the house; for she was more than satisfied that her lord and master--grateful, no doubt, for the rank, honour, riches, and independence to which she had raised him--loved her with an affection at least equal to her own. But all these advantages (and she sighed deeply as she proceeded) were of little consequence to the production of happiness, if the greatest of all blessings, health, were denied to the possessor; and that too she had enjoyed, uninterruptedly, until about a month previously, when she was seized with an illness, the nature of which she could not comprehend; and which, notwithstanding all the anxious efforts of her husband, had continued unabated to that hour. She paused, and seemed much exhausted by the struggle she made to let me thus far into her history. The concluding part of her statement, combined with the still unexplained secrecy of my call, surprised me, and defied my powers of penetration. This lady had been dangerously ill for a month, during all which time no medical man had been called to her aid; and even now, when her body was attenuated, and her strength exhausted to the uttermost, professional assistance had been introduced into the house by stealth, as if it were against the laws to ameliorate human sufferings by curing diseases. This apparent anomaly in human conduct struck me so forcibly that I could not refrain from asking the patient, even before she recovered strength enough to answer me, what was her or her husband's reason for not calling assistance; and why that assistance was at last requested under the cloud of secrecy and apprehension. "That I intended to explain to you," she said, after a pause. "When I felt myself ill (and my complaint commenced by excruciating pains in my stomach, accompanied with vomiting), I told my husband that I feared it would be necessary to call a doctor; but, ah, sir! the very thought of the necessity of medical aid to the object of so much love and tenderness, put him almost frantic. He confessed that it was a weakness; but declared his inability to conquer it. Yet, alas! his unremitting kindness has not diminished my disease. Though I have taken everything his solicitude has suggested and offered to me, my pains still continue, my appetite is entirely gone, and the weakness of my body has approached that of the helpless infant. Three days ago I thought I would have breathed my last; and parting thoughts of my native country, and the dear friends I left there to follow the fortunes of a dearer stranger, passed through my mind with the feeling of a long and everlasting farewell. My husband wept over me, and prayed for my recovery; but he could not think me so ill as to make the call of the doctor imperative; and I did not press a subject which I saw was painful to him. No, sir, I would rather have died than have produced in him the slightest uneasiness; and my object in calling you in the secret manner you have witnessed, was simply to avoid causing to him the pain of thinking that my illness was so great as to render your services absolutely necessary." The communication I now heard, which was spoken in broken sentences and after considerable pauses, in place of clearing up my difficulty, increased it, and added to my surprise. Some light was, no doubt, thrown on the cause which produced the secret manner of my visitation; but every other circumstance attending the unfortunate lady's case was merged in deeper gloom and mystery. The circumstance of a husband who loved his wife refusing to call professional assistance, appeared to be not less extraordinary than the reason assigned for it--even with all the allowances, justified by a very prevailing prejudice, in some weak minds, against the extremity of calling a doctor. I had heard something of Colonel P----; that he was considered to be immensely rich, and known to be a deep gambler, but I never understood that he was a victim of weak or imaginary fears, and I was therefore inclined to doubt the truth of the reason assigned by the unsuspecting invalid, for the scrupulous delicacy of her husband's affection and solicitude. I pondered for a moment, and soon perceived that the nature of her complaint, and the kind of restoratives or medicines she might have been receiving, would, in all likelihood, yield me more information on the subject of my difficulty than I could procure from her broken sentences, which, at the best, only expressed the sentiments of a mind clouded with the prejudice of a devoted love and unbounded credulity. I proceeded, therefore, to ascertain the nature of her complaint; and soon discovered that the seat of it was, as she had said, in the region of the stomach, which not only produced to her great pain internally, but felt sore on the application of external pressure on the _præcordia_. Other symptoms of a disease in this principal organ were present: such as fits of painful vomiting after attempting to eat, her great emaciation, anxiety of countenance, thirst, restlessness, and debility; and, in ordinary circumstances, I would have been inclined to conclude that she laboured under some species of what we denominate _gastritis_, or inflammation of the stomach, though I could not account for such a disease not having been resolved and ended in much shorter time than the period which embraced her sufferings. I next proceeded to ascertain what she had been taking in the form of medicaments; and discovered that her husband, proceeding on the idea that her stomach laboured under weakness and required some tonic medicine, had administered to her, on several occasions, what we term _limatura ferri_ (iron filings)--a remedy for cases of dyspepsia and bad stomachs, but not suited to the inflammatory disorders of the kind under which she was suffering. I asked her if she had any of the medicine lying by her, and she replied, with simplicity, that her husband generally took charge of it himself; but that he had that evening laid a small paper, containing a portion of it, on the top of a side-table, until he administered to her the dose she was in the habit of receiving, and had gone away without laying it past, according to his custom. I took up the paper, examined it, and found, according to the rapid investigation I bestowed on it, without the aid of any tests, that it possessed all the appearances of the genuine medicine. I, however, took the precaution of emptying a small portion of it into another paper, and slipping it into my pocket unobserved by the patient. I then told her that I thought she should discontinue the use of the powder, which was entirely unsuited to her ailment. "That is a cruel advice, sir," she cried, in a tone of great excitement. "How can I discontinue a medicine offered to me by the hands of a husband, without being able to give any reason for rejecting his kindness? I tremble to think of repaying all the attentions of that dear man with ingratitude, and wounding his sensibility by rejecting this testimony of his solicitude and affection. I cannot--I feel I cannot. The grief I would thereby produce to him would be reflected, by sympathy, on this weak frame, which is unable to struggle much longer with the pains of flesh alone, far less with the additional anguish of a wounded mind, grieved to death at causing sorrow to the man I so dearly love. Do not, oh! do not, sir, make me an ingrate." I was struck with the devotion of this gentle being, who actually trembled at the idea of producing uneasiness to the man whom she had raised to affluence, and who yet would not allow her the benefit of a doctor in her distress; but, while I was pleased with this exhibition of a feature in the female character I had never before seen so strongly developed, though I had read and heard much of the fidelity and affection of the women of the east, I was much chagrined at the idea that so fair and beautiful a virtue would probably prevent me from doing anything effectual for a creature who, independently of her distance from her country, had so many other claims on my sympathy. I told her that I feared I could be of little service to her if she could not resolve upon discontinuing her husband's medicine; and tried to impress upon her the necessity of conforming to my advice, if she wished to make herself well--the best mode, assuredly, of making her husband happy; but she replied that she expected I would have been able to give her something to restore her to health independently of what she got from her husband--a result she wished above all things, as she sighed for the opportunity of delighting him, by attributing to his medicines and care her restoration and happiness. I replied that that was impossible--a statement that stung her with disappointment and pain. "Then I will take my beloved's medicines, and die!" she cried, with a low struggling voice--resigning herself to the power of her weakness. This extraordinary resolution of a female devotee put me in mind of the immolating custom of her countrywomen, called the _suttee_. It was a complete _ultima ratio_, and put all my remedial plans at fault in an instant. Her extreme weakness, or her devoted resolution, prevented her from speaking, and I sat by her bedside totally at a loss what to do, whether to persevere in my attempt to get her to renounce her husband's medicine and to conform to my prescriptions, or to leave her to the fate she seemed to court. I put several more questions to her, but received no other answer than a wave of the hand--a plain token of her wish that I should leave her to the tender mercies of her husband. I had now no alternative; and, rising, I bowed to her, and took my leave. I had some difficulty in finding my way out of the house; but, after several ineffectual turns through wrong passages, I reached the door through which I had entered, and returned home. The extraordinary scene I had witnessed engaged my attention during the evening, but all my efforts at clearing up the mystery that enveloped the proceedings of these individuals were met by difficulties which for a time seemed insuperable. I sat cogitating and recogitating various theories and probabilities, and had several times examined the iron powder, which, for better observation, I had scattered on a sheet of white paper that lay on my table. My intention was to test it, and I waited the incoming of my assistant to aid me in my experiment. As I looked at it at intervals between my trains of thought, I was struck with a kind of glittering appearance it exhibited, and which was more observable when it caught my eye obliquely and collaterally, during the partial suspension of my perception by my cogitations. Roused by this circumstance, I proceeded instantly to a more minute investigation; and having, by means of a magnet, removed all the particles of iron, what was my surprise to find a residuum of triturated glass--one of the most searching and insidious poisons known in toxicology. Good God! what were my thoughts and feelings when the first flash of this discovery flared upon my mind--solving, in an instant, by the intensity of its painful light, all my doubts, and realizing all my suspicions. Every circumstance of this mysterious affair stood now revealed in clear relief--a dark scheme of murder, more revolting in its features than any recorded in the malefactor's journal, was illumined and exposed by a light which exhibited not only the workings of the design itself, but the reason which led to its perpetration. This man had married the confiding and devoted foreigner for the sake of her immense wealth, which raised him in an instant from mediocrity to magnificence; and, having attained the object of his ambition, he had resolved--with a view to the concealment of the means whereby he effected his purpose, and regardless of the sacred obligation of gratitude he owed to her who had left her country, her relations, and friends, to trust herself to his protection and love--to immolate the faithful, kind-hearted, and affectionate creature, by a cruel and protracted murder. In her own country the cowardly wretch could not have braved the vengeance of her countrymen; but, in a distant land, where few might be expected to stand up for the rights of the injured foreigner, he had thought he might execute his scheme with secrecy and success. But now it was discovered! By one of those extraordinary detached traces of the finger of the Almighty, exposed to the convicting power of divine intellect, it was discovered! The great excitement produced in my mind by this miraculous discovery prevented me for some time from calmly deliberating on the steps I ought to pursue, with the view of saving the poor foreigner from the designs of her murderer. The picture of the devoted being lying, like a queen, in the midst of the wealth she had brought to her husband, and trembling at the very thought of rejecting his poison, for fear of giving him the slightest pain--yet on the very point of being sacrificed; her wealth, love, confidence, and gentleness, repaid by death, and her body consigned, unlamented by friends--who might never hear of her fate--to foreign dust, rose continually on my imagination, and interested my feelings to a degree incompatible with the exercise of a calm judgment. In proportion as my emotion subsided, the difficulty of my situation appeared to increase. I was, apparently, the only person who knew anything of this extraordinary purpose, and I saw the imprudence of taking upon myself the total responsibility of a report to the public authorities in a case where the chances of conviction would be diminished to nothing by the determination of the victim to save her destroyer, whom she never would believe guilty, and by the want of evidence of a direct nature that the powder I had tested was truly destined for her reception; while, in the event of an impeachment and acquittal of the culprit, I would be exposed to his vengeance, and his poor wife would be for ever subjected to his tyranny and oppression. On the other hand, I was at a loss to know how I could again get access to the sick victim, whom I had left without being requested to repeat my visit; and, even if that could be accomplished, I had many doubts whether she would pay the slightest attention or regard to my statement, that her husband, whom she seemed to prefer to her own divine Brama, designed to poison her. Yet it was clear that the poor victim behoved to be saved, in some way, from the dreadful fate which impended over her; and the necessity of some steps being taken with rapidity and efficacy, behoved to resolve scruples and doubts which otherwise might have been considered worthy of longer time and consideration. Next day I found I had made little progress in coming to a resolution what step to pursue, yet every hour and minute that passed reproached me with cruelty, and my imagination brought continually before my eyes the poor victim swallowing the stated periodical quota of her death-drug. I could have no rest or peace of mind till something was done, at least to the extent of putting her on her guard against the schemes of her cruel destroyer; and, after all my cogitations, resolutions, and schemes, I found myself compelled to rest satisfied with seeing her, laying before her the true nature of her danger, and leaving to the operation of the instinctive principle of self-preservation the working out of her ultimate safety. At the same hour of the evening at which my former visit was made, I repaired to the back entrance of the large mansion, and, upon rapping at the door, was fortunate enough to be answered by the young woman who acted formerly as my guide. She led me, at my request, instantly to the sickroom of her lady, who, having immediately before been seized with an attack of vomiting, was lying in a state of exhaustion approaching to the inanity of death. I spoke to her, and she languidly opened her eyes. I saw no prospect of being able to impress upon her comatose mind the awful truth I had come to communicate; yet I had no alternative but to make the attempt; and I accordingly proceeded, with as few words as possible, and in a tone of voice suited to the lethargic state of her mind and senses, to inform her that the medicines she was getting from the hands of her husband were fraught with deadly poison, which was alone the cause of all her sufferings and agonies, and would soon be the means of a painful death. These words I spoke slowly and impressively, and watched the effect of them with anxiety and solicitude. A convulsive shudder passed over her, and shook her violently. She opened her eyes, which I saw fill with tears, and fixed a steady look on my countenance. "_It is impossible_," she said, with a low, guttural tone, but with much emphasis; "and if it _were_ possible, I would still take his medicine, and die, rather than outlive the consciousness of love and fidelity." These words she accompanied with a wave of her hand, as if she wished me to depart. I could not get her to utter another syllable. I had discharged a painful duty; and, casting a look upon her, which I verily believed would be the last I would have it in my power to bestow on this personification of fidelity and gentleness, I took my departure. I felt myself placed in a very painful position for two or three days after this interview, arising from a conviction that I had not done enough for the salvation of this poor victim, and yet without being able to fix upon any other means of rendering her any assistance, unless I put into execution a resolution that floated in my mind, to admonish her husband, by an anonymous communication, and threaten to divulge the secret of his guilt, unless he instantly desisted from his nefarious purpose--a plan that did not receive the entire sanction of my honour, however much it enlisted the approbation of my feelings. Some further time passed, and added, with its passing minutes, to my mental disquietude. One evening, when I was sitting meditating painfully on this sombre subject, a lackey, superbly dressed, was introduced to me by my servant, and stated that he had been commanded by his master Colonel P----, to request my attendance at his house without delay. I started at the mention of the name, and the nature of the message; and the man stared at me, as I exhibited the irresolution of doubt and the perturbation of surprise, in place of returning him a direct answer. Recovering myself, I replied, that I would attend upon the instant; and, indeed, I felt a greater anxiety to fly to that house on which my thoughts were painfully fixed, than I ever did to visit the most valued friend I ever attended in distress. As I hurried along, I took little time to think of the object of my call; but I suspected, either that Colonel P---- had got some notice of my having secretly visited, in my professional capacity, his wife, and being therefore privy to his design--a state of opposing circumstances, which he was now to endeavour in some way to counteract--or that, finding, from the extremity to which his wife was reduced, that he was necessitated to call a doctor, as a kind of cloak or cover to his cruel act, he had thus made a virtue of necessity, when, alas! it would be too late for my rendering the unfortunate creature any service. "He shall not, however, escape," muttered I, vehemently, through my teeth, as I proceeded. "He little knows that he is now calling to his assistance the man that shall hang him." I soon arrived at the house, and rung the front door bell. The same powdered lackey who had preceded me, opened the door. I was led up two pair of stairs, and found myself in the same lobby with which I had already become somewhat familiar. I proceeded forward, thinking I was destined for the sick chamber of the lady; but the servant opened a door immediately next to that of her room, and ushered me into an apartment furnished in an elegant style, but much inferior to that occupied by his wife. In a bed lay a man of a genteel, yet sinister cast of countenance, with a large aquiline nose, and piercing black eyes. He appeared very pale and feverish, and threw upon me that anxious eye which we often find in patients who are under the first access of a serious disease; as if nature, while she kept her secret from the understanding, communicated it to the feelings, whose eloquence, expressed through the senses, we can often read with great facility. I knew, in an instant, that he was committed, by a relentless hand, to suffering, in all likelihood, in the form of a fever. He told me he was Colonel P----, and that, having been very suddenly taken ill, he had become alarmed for himself, and sent for me to administer to him my professional services. I looked at him intently; but he construed my stare into the eagerness of professional investigation. At that instant, a piercing scream rang through the house, and made my ears tingle. I asked him who had uttered that scream, which must have come from some creature in the very extremity of agony, and made an indication as if I would hasten to administer relief to the victim. In an instant, I was close and firm in the trembling clutch of the sick man, who, with a wild and confused look, begged me not to sacrifice him to any attention to the cause of this disturbance, which was produced by a servant in the house habitually given, through fits of hysterics, to the utterance of these screams. I put on an appearance of being satisfied with this statement; but I fixed my eye relentlessly on him, as he still shook, from the combined effects of his incipient disease, and his fear of my investigating the cause of the scream. I proceeded to examine into the nature of his complaint. The symptoms described by him, and detected by my observation, satisfied me that he had been seized with an attack of virulent typhus; and from the intensity of some of the indications--particularly his languor and small pulse, his loss of muscular strength, violent pains in the head, the inflammation of his eyes, the strong throbbing of his temporal arteries, his laborious respiration, parched tongue, and hot breath--I was convinced he had before him the long sands of a rough and rapid race with death. At the close of my investigation he looked anxiously and wistfully in my face, and asked me what I conceived to be the nature of his complaint. I told him at once, and with greater openness and readiness than I usually practise, that I was very much afraid he was committed for a severe course of virulent typhus. He felt the full force of an announcement which, to those who have had any experience of this king of fevers, cannot fail to carry terror in every syllable; and falling back on his pillow, turned up his eye to heaven. At this moment, a succession of screams, or rather yells, sounded through the house; but as I now saw that I had a chance of saving the innocent sufferer, I pretended not to regard the dreadful sounds, and purposely averted my eyes to escape the inquiring, nervous look of the sick man. I gave him some directions, promised to send some medicines, and took my leave. As I shut the door, the waiting-maid, whom I had seen before, was standing in the door of her mistress's apartment, and beckoned me in, with a look of terror and secrecy. I was as anxious to visit her gentle mistress as she was to call me. On entering, which I did slowly and silently, to escape the ear of her husband, I found the unfortunate creature in the most intense state of agony. The ground glass she had swallowed, and a great part of which, doubtless, adhered to the stomach, was too clearly the cause of her screams; but, to my surprise, I discovered, from her broken ejaculations, that the grief of her husband's illness had been able, in its strength, to fight its way to her heart, through all her bodily agonies produced by his poison. My questions regarding her own condition were answered by hysterical sobs, mixed with ejaculations of pity, and requests to know how he was, and what was the nature of the complaint by which he had been attacked--hinting, in dubious terms, that she had been the cause of his illness, by entailing upon him the necessity of attending her, and wounding his sensitive heart by her distress. My former communications to her concerning the poison, and my caution against her acceptance of it from the hands of her intended murderer, had produced no effect upon a mind predetermined to believe nothing against the man she loved and trusted beyond all mortals. She had received it again from him after my communication; the effects of it were now exhibited in her tortured, burning viscera; and yet, in the very midst of her agonies, her faith, confidence, and love stood unshaken; a noble yet melancholy emblem of the most elevated, yet often least valued and most abused virtues of her sex. I endeavoured to answer her fevered inquiries about her husband, by telling her that he stood in great _need of her attendance_; and that, if she would agree to follow my precepts, and put herself entirely under my advice and direction, she might, in a very short time, be enabled to perform her duty of a faithful wife and a kind nurse to her distressed partner. The first perception she caught of the meaning of my communication, lighted up her eye, even in the midst of her wringing pains; and, starting up, she cried, that she would be the most abject slave to my will, and obey me in all things, if I could assure her of the blessing of being able to act as nurse and comforter to her husband. Now I saw my opportunity. On the instant I called up and despatched the waiting-maid to my home, with directions to my assistant, to send me instantly an oleaginous mixture, and some powerful emetics, which I described in a _recipe_. I waited the return of the messenger, administered the medicines, and watched for a time their operation and effects. Notwithstanding the continued attacks that had been made on her system by the doses of an active poison, I was satisfied that, if my energies were not, in some unforeseen way, thwarted and opposed, I would be able to bring this deserving wife and pattern of her sex from the brink of the grave that had been dug for her by the hand of her husband. After leaving with the waiting-maid some directions, I proceeded home, for the purpose of preparing the necessary medicines for my other patient. I now commenced a series of regular visits to my two patients--the illness of the husband affording me the most ample scope for saving his wife. As he gradually descended into the unavoidable depths of his inexorable disease, she, by the elastic force of youth and a good constitution, operating in unison with my medicines, which were administered with the greatest regularity, gradually threw off the lurking poison, and advanced to a state of comparative safety and strength. I was much pleased to observe the salutary effects of my professional interference in behalf of my interesting patient; but could scarcely credit my own perceptions, as I had exhibited to me the most undoubted proofs, that the desire to minister to the wants and comforts of her sick husband, engrossed so completely every other feeling that might have been supposed consequent upon a restoration to health, that she seemed to disregard all other considerations. Her questions about the period when she might be able to attend him were unremitting; and every hour she was essaying to walk, though her efforts often ended in weak falls, or sinkings on the ground, when some one was required to assist her in getting up and returning to bed. She entreated me to allow her to be _carried_ to his bedside; where, she said, they might mix their tears and console each other; and all my arguments against the impropriety of such an obvious mode of increasing her husband's illness, and augmenting those sufferings she was so solicitous to ameliorate, were scarcely sufficient to prevent her from putting her design into execution. The husband's disease, which often runs a course of two months, though the crisis occurs generally between the third and fourth week, progressed steadily and relentlessly, mocking, as the fevers of that type generally do, all the boasted art of our profession. His pulse rose to the alarming height of 120; he exhibited the oppression at the chest, increased thirst, blackfurred tongue, and inarticulate, muttering speech, which are considered to be unfavourable indications; and there was, besides, a clear tendency to delirium--a common, yet critical symptom--leaving, even after the patient has recovered, and often for years, its marks in the weakened intellect. One evening I was standing by his bedside, studying his symptoms; witnessing the excess of his sufferings, and listening to the bursts of incoherent speech which, from time to time, came from him, as if expelled from his sick spirit by some internal power. He spoke often of his wife, whom he called by the name of Espras; and, in the midst of his broken ejaculations, gushes of intense feeling came on him, filling his yellow sunken eyes with rheumy tears, and producing heavy sobs, which, repressed by his loaded chest, assumed sounds unlike anything I ever heard, and beyond my power of description. I could not well understand these indications of the working of his spirit; but I fancied that, when he felt his own agonies, became conscious of what it is to suffer a certain extremity of pain, and learned, for the first time in his life, the sad experience of an inexorable disease, which presented to him the prospect of a lingering death, his mind recurred to the situation of his wife, who, as he thought, was, or might be, enduring tortures produced by his hand, transcending even his sufferings. There seemed to be less of conscience in his mental operations, than a new-born sorrow or sympathy, wrung out of a heart naturally obdurate, by the anguish of a personal experience of the pain he himself had produced in another, who had the strongest claims on his protection and love. His mind, though volatile and wandering, and not far from verging on delirium, was not yet deranged; and I was about to put a question to him concerning his wife, whom he had not directly mentioned to me, when the door opened, and the still pale and emaciated figure of Mrs. P----, dressed in a white morning gown, entered the apartment, struggling with her weakness to get forward, and clutching, in her breathless efforts, at whatever presented itself to her nerveless arms, to support her, and aid her in her progress to the sick-bed of her husband. The bed being in the middle of a large room, she was necessitated to trust partly to the weak powers of her limbs, which having failed her, she, in an attempt to spring forward and reach it before sinking, came short of her aim, and fell with a crash on the floor, uttering, as she stumbled, a scream of sorrow, wrung from her by the sight of her husband lying extended on a bed of sickness. The noise started the invalid, who turned his eyes wildly in the direction of the disturbance; and I rushed forwards to raise in my arms the exhausted victim. I had scarcely got her placed on her feet, when she again struggled to reach the bed; and having, by my assistance, got far enough forward, she threw herself on the body of the fever-ridden patient, ejaculating, as she seized him in her arms, and bedewed his pale face with tears-- "Frederick! my honoured husband, whom I am bound to cherish and nurse as becomes the fondest of wives, why is it that I have been deprived of this luxury of the grief-stricken heart--to watch your looks, and anticipate your wants? Thanks to the blessed powers of your faith and of mine, I have you now in my arms, and no mortal shall come between me and my love! Night and day I will watch and tend you, till the assiduities of my affection weary out the effects of your cruel disease brought on you--O God!--by your grief for me, your worthless Espras." And she buried her head in the bosom of the sick man, and sobbed intensely. This scene, from the antithesis of its circumstances, appeared to me the most striking I had ever beheld; and, though it was my duty to prevent so exciting a cause of disturbance to the patient, I felt I had no power to stop this burst of true affection. I watched narrowly the eye of the patient; but it was too much clouded by the effects of the fever, and too nervous and fugacious, to enable me to distinguish between the effects of disease and the working of the natural affections. But that his mind and feelings were working, and were responding to this powerful moral impulse, was proved fearfully by his rapid indistinct muttering and jabbering, mixed with deep sighs, and the peculiar sound of the repressed sobs which I have already mentioned, but cannot assimilate to any sound I ever heard. All my efforts to remove the devoted wife by entreaty were vain; she still clung to him, as if he had been on the eve of being taken from her by death. Her sobbing continued unabated, and her tears fell on his cheek. These intense expressions of love and sorrow awoke the sympathy which I thought had previously been partially excited, for I now observed that he turned away his head, while a stream of tears flowed down his face. It was now, I found, necessary, for the sake of the patient, to remove the excited lady; and I was obliged to apply a gentle force before I could accomplish my purpose. She insisted, however, upon remaining in the room, and beseeched me so piteously for this privilege, that I consented to a couch being made up for her at a little distance from the bed of her husband, whom it was her determination to tend and nurse, to the exclusion of all others. I was not, indeed, ill pleased at this resolution, for I anticipated, from her unexampled love and devotedness, an effect on the heart of her husband which might cure its vices and regenerate its affections. On the next occasion of my stated visit, I found my patient had at last fallen into a state of absolute delirium. On a soft arm-chair, situated by his bedside, sat his wife, the picture of despair, wringing her hands, and indulging in the most extravagant demonstrations of grief and affection. The wretched man exhibited the ordinary symptoms of that unnatural excitement of the brain under which he laboured--relapsing at times into silence, then uttering a multiplicity of confused words--jabbering wildly--looking about him with that extraordinary expression of the eye, as if every individual present was viewed as a murderer--then starting up, and, with an overstrained and choking voice, vociferating his frenzied thoughts, and then again relapsing into silence. It is but little we can do for patients in this extreme condition; but the faith his wife reposed in professional powers that had already saved her, suggested supplications and entreaties which I told her she had better direct to a higher Dispensator of hope and relief. The tumultuous thoughts of the raving victim were still at intervals rolling forth; and, all of a sudden, I was startled by a great increase of the intensity and connectedness of his speech. He had struck the chord that sounded most fearfully in his own ears. His attempt to murder the creature who now sat and heard his wild confession, was described by himself in intelligible, though broken sentences:-- "The fortune brought me by Espras," he vociferated, "is loaded by the burden of herself--that glass is not well ground--you are not so ill, my dear Espras, as to require a doctor--I cannot bear the thought of you labouring under that necessity--who can cure you so well as your devoted husband? Take this--fear not--why should love have suspicions? When she is gone, I shall have a wife of whom I may not be ashamed--yet, is she not a stranger in a foreign land? Has she not left her country, her relations, her friends, her gods, for me, whom she has raised to opulence? Cease, cease--I cannot stand these thoughts--there is a strife in this heart between the powers of hell and heaven--when will it terminate, and who shall rule my destiny?" These words, which he accompanied with wild gestures, were followed by his usual indistinct muttering and jabbering. I directed my gaze upon his wife. She sat in the chair, motionless, with her eyes fixed on the ground as if she had been struck with death in that position, and been stiffened into a rigidity which retained her in her place. The issues of her tenderness and affection seemed to have been sent back upon the heart, whose pulses they stopped. The killing pain of an ingratitude, ingeniously heightened to the highest grade of that hell-king of all human crimes, operating upon a mind rendered so sensitively susceptible of its influences, paralyzed the whole moral constitution of the devoted creature, and realized the poetical creation of despair. I felt inclined to soften the sternness of her grief, by quickening her disbelief of the raving thoughts of a fever-maniac; but I paused as I thought of the probable necessity of her suspicion for her future safety from the schemes of a murderer, whose evil desires might be resuscitated by the return of health. I could do nothing more at that time for the dreadful condition of the wretched husband, and less for the more dreadful state of the miserable wife; and the personal pain I experienced in witnessing this high-wrought scene of terror, forced me to depart, leaving the one still raving in his madness, and the other bound in the stern grasp of the most awful of all moral visitations. I expected that on my next visit I would find such a change on my patient as would enable me to decide whether he would live or die; but he was still delirious, with the crowded thoughts of the events of his past life careering through his fevered brain, as if their restlessness and agitation were produced by the burning fires that chased them from their legitimate territory of the mind. There was, however, a change in one quarter. His wife's confidence and affection had withstood and triumphed over the attack of the previous day, and she was again occupied in hanging over her raving husband, shedding on his unconscious face the tear of pity, and supplying, by anticipation, every want that could be supposed incident to his miserable condition. This new and additional proof of the strength of this woman's steadfastness, in her unparalleled fidelity and love, struck me even more forcibly than the previous indications she had given of this extraordinary feature in her character. But I was uncertain yet whether to construe her conduct as salutary or dangerous to her own personal interests--a circumstance depending on the further development of the sentiments of her husband. On that same evening the change suspected took place: the delirium abated, and consciousness, that had been driven forcibly from her throne, hastened to assume the sceptre of her authority. The crisis was past, and the patient began to be sensible of those attentions on the part of his devoted wife, which had not only the merit of being unremitting, but that of being sweetened by the tears of solicitude and the blandness of love. I marked attentively the first impressions made by her devotedness on the returning sense. I saw his look following her eye, which was continually inflamed and bedewed by the effects of her grief; and, after he had for a period of time fixed his half-conscious, half-wondering gaze on her, he turned it suddenly away, but not before he gave sufficient indications of sympathy and sorrow in a gush of tears. These manifestations were afterwards often repeated; but I thought I sometimes could perceive an abruptness in his manner, and a painful impatience of the minute, refined, and ingenious attentions of a highly-impassioned affection, which left me in doubt whether, after his disease was removed, sufficient reliance could be placed on the stability of his regeneration. In my subsequent visits I kept up my study of the operations of his mind as well as the changes of his disease. His wife's attentions seemed rather to increase with the improvement of his health and her increased ability to discharge the duties of affection. He had improved so far as to be in a condition to receive medicines for the recovery of the tone of his stomach. I seized the opportunity of his wife leaving for a short time his sick room, and, as I seated myself on her chair by the bedside, I took from my pocket the powder of iron-filings and triturated glass he had prepared for the poisoning of her who had latterly been contributing all the energies of love to the saving of his life. "A chalybeate mixture," said I, while I fixed my eyes on his countenance, "has been recommended for patients in your condition, for improving the power of the stomach weakened by the continued nausea of a protracted fever. Here is a powder composed of iron-filings, a good chalybeate, which I found lying in your wife's apartment. I have none better in my laboratory, and would recommend to you a full dose of it before I depart." The electric effect of this statement was instantaneous and remarkable. He seemed like one who had felt the sharp sting of a musket bullet sent into his body by a hand unseen--uncertain of the nature of the wound, or of the aim by which it is produced. A sudden suspicion relieved his still fevered eye, which threw upon me the full blaze of staring wonder and terror, while an accompanying uncertainty of my intention sealed his mouth and added curiosity to his look. But I followed up my intention resolutely and determinedly. "Here is on the table," continued I, "a mucilaginous vehicle for its conveyance into the stomach. I shall prepare it instantly. To seize quickly the handle of an auspicious occasion is the soul of our art."--(Approaching the bed with the medicine in my hand.) "I cannot, I cannot take that medicine," he cried, wildly. "What means this? Help me, Heaven, in this emergency! I cannot, I dare not take that medicine." "Why?" said I, still eyeing him intently. "Is it because there is ground glass in it? That cannot be; because I understand it was intended for Espras, your loving, faithful wife; and who would administer so dreadful a poison to a creature so gentle and interesting? She is, besides, a foreigner in our land; and who would treat the poor unprotected stranger with the dainty that has concealed in it a lurking death? Is this the hospitality of Britain?" Every word was a thunderstroke to his heart. All uncertainty fled before these flaming sarcasms, which carried, on the bolt of truth, the keenness of his own poison. His pain became intense, and exhibited the peculiarity of a mixture of extreme terror, directed towards me as one that had the power of hanging him, and of intense sorrow for the injury he had produced to the wife of his bosom, whose emaciated figure, hanging over him in his distress, must have been deeply imprinted on his soul. Yet it was plain that his sorrow overcame his fear; for I saw his bosom heaving with an accumulation of hysterical emotions, which convulsed his frame in the intense manner of the aerial ball that chokes the female victim of excited nerves. The struggle lasted for several minutes, and at last a burst of dissolving tenderness, removing all the obstructions of prudence or terror, and stunning my ear with its loud sound, afforded him a temporary relief. Tears gushed down his cheeks, and groans of sorrow filled the room, and might have been heard in the apartment of his wife, whose entry, I feared, might have interrupted the extraordinary scene. Looking at me wistfully, he held out his hands, and sobbed out, in a tone of despair-- "Are you my friend, or are you my enemy?" I answered him that I was the friend of his wife--one of the brightest patterns of female fidelity I had ever seen; and if by declaring myself his friend I would save her from the designs of the poisoner, and him from the pains of the law and the fire of hell, I would instantly sign the bond of amity. "You have knocked from my soul the bonds of terror," he cried out, still sobbing; "and if I knew and were satisfied of one thing more, I would resign myself to God and my own breaking heart. Did Espras--yet why should I suspect one who rejects suspicion as others do the poison she would swallow from my hand, though labelled by the apothecary?--did Espras tell you what you have so darkly and fearfully hinted to me?" I replied to him that, in place of telling me, the faithful unsuspecting creature had to that hour rejected and spurned the suspicion, as unworthy of her pure, confiding spirit. "It is over!--it is over!" cried the changed man. "O God! How powerful is virtue! How strong is the force of those qualities of the heart which we men often treat as weak baubles to toy with, and throw away in our fits of proud spleen--the softness, the gentleness, the fidelity and devotedness of woman! How strangely, how wonderfully formed is the heart of man, which, disdaining the terrors of the rope of the executioner, breaks and succumbs at the touch of the thistle-down of a woman's love! This creature, sir, gave me my fortune, made me what I am, left for me her country and her friends, adhered to me through good and evil report--and I prepared for her a cruel death! Dreadful contrast! Who shall describe the shame, the sorrow, the humiliation, of the ingrate whose crime has risen to the fearful altitude of this enormity; and who, by the tenderness and love of his devoted victim, is forced to turn his eye on the grim reward of death for love, riches, and life? Gentle, beloved, injured Espras! that emaciated form, these trembling limbs, these sunken eyes, and these weak and whispering sounds of pity and affection have touched my heart with a power that never was vouchsafed to the tongue of eloquence. Transcending the rod of Moses, they have brought from the rock streams of blood; and every pulse is filled with tenderness and pity. Wretched fool! I was ashamed of your nativity, and of the colour you inherited from nature, and never estimated the qualities of your heart; but when shall the red-and-white beauty of England transcend my Espras in her fidelity and love, as she does in the skin-deep tints of a beguiling, treacherous face? God! what a change has come over this heart! Thanks, and prayers, and tears of blood, never can express the gratitude it owes to the great Author of our being for this miraculous return to virtue, effected by the simple means of a woman's confidence and love." As he finished this impassioned speech, which I have repeated as correctly as my memory enabled me to commit to my note-book, he turned his eyes upwards, and remained for at least five minutes in silent prayer. As he was about finishing his wife entered. Her appearance called forth from his excited mind a burst of affection, and seizing her in his arms, he wept over her like a child. He was met as fervently by the gentle and affectionate creature, who, grateful to God for this renewed expression of her husband's love, turned up her eyes to heaven, and wept aloud. I never witnessed a scene like this. I left them to their enjoyment, and returned home. I was subsequently a constant visitor at the house of Colonel P----; and, about eighteen months after his recovery, I officiated as accoucheur to his wife on the occasion of the birth of a son. Other children followed afterwards, and bound closer the bonds of that conjugal love which I had some hand in producing, and which I saw increase daily through a long course of years. THE ADOPTED SON. A TALE OF THE TIMES OF THE COVENANTERS. "Oh, for the sword of Gideon, to rid the land of tyrants, to bring down the pride of apostates, and to smite the ungodly with confusion!" muttered John Brydone to himself, as he went into the fields in the September of 1645, and beheld that the greater part of a crop of oats, which had been cut down a few days before, was carried off. John was the proprietor of about sixty acres on the south bank of the Ettrick, a little above its junction with the Tweed. At the period we speak of, the talented and ambitious Marquis of Montrose, who had long been an apostate to the cause of the Covenant--and not only an apostate, but its most powerful enemy--having, as he thought, completely crushed its adherents in Scotland, in the pride of his heart led his followers towards England, to support the tottering cause of Charles in the south, and was now with his cavalry quartered at Selkirk, while his infantry were encamped at Philiphaugh, on the opposite side of the river. Every reader has heard of Melrose Abbey--which is still venerated in its decay, majestic in its ruins--and they have read, too, of the abode of the northern wizard, who shed the halo of his genius over the surrounding scenery. But many have heard of Melrose, of Scott, and of Abbotsford, to whom the existence of Philiphaugh is unknown. It, however, is one of those places where our forefathers laid the foundation of our freedom with the bones of its enemies, and cemented it with their own blood. If the stranger who visits Melrose and Abbotsford pursue his journey a few miles farther, he may imagine that he is still following the source of the Tweed, until he arrive at Selkirk, when he finds that for some miles he has been upon the banks of the Ettrick, and that the Tweed is lost among the wooded hills to the north. Immediately below Selkirk, and where the forked river forms a sort of island, on the opposite side of the stream, he will see a spacious haugh, surrounded by wooded hills, and forming, if we may so speak, an amphitheatre bounded by the Ettrick, between the Yarrow and the Tweed. Such is Philiphaugh; where the arms of the Covenant triumphed, and where the sword of Montrose was blunted for ever. Now, the sun had not yet risen, and a thick, dark mist covered the face of the earth, when, as we have said, John Brydone went out into his fields, and found that a quantity of his oats had been carried away. He doubted not but they had been taken for the use of Montrose's cavalry; and it was not for the loss of his substance that he grieved, and that his spirit was wroth, but because it was taken to assist the enemies of his country, and the persecutors of the truth; for than John Brydone, humble as he was, there was not a more dauntless or a more determined supporter of the Covenant in all Scotland. While he yet stood by the side of his field, and, from the thickness of the morning, was unable to discern objects at a few yards' distance, a party of horsemen rode up to where he stood. "Countryman," said one who appeared to be their leader, "can you inform us where the army of Montrose is encamped?" John, taking them to be a party of the Royalists, sullenly replied--"There's mony ane asks the road they ken," and was proceeding into the field. "Answer me!" demanded the horseman angrily, and raising a pistol in his hand--"Sir David Lesly commands you." "Sir David Lesly!" cried John--"the champion of the truth!--the defender of the good cause! If ye be Sir David Lesly, as I trow ye be, get yer troops in readiness, and, before the mist vanish on the river, I will deliver the host o' the Philistines into your hand." "See that ye play not the traitor," said Lesly, "or the nearest tree shall be unto thee as the gallows was to Haman which he prepared for Mordecai." "Do even so to me, and more also," replied John, "if ye find me false. But think ye that I look as though I bore the mark of the beast upon my forehead?" he continued, taking off his Lowland bonnet, and gazing General Lesly full in the face. "I will trust you," said the General; and, as he spoke, the van of his army appeared in sight. John having described the situation of the enemy to Sir David, acted as their guide until they came to the Shaw Burn, when the General called a halt. Each man having partaken of a hurried repast, by order of Sir David, the word was given along the line that they should return thanks for being conducted to the place where the enemy of the Kirk and his army slept in imaginary security. The preachers at the head of the different divisions of the army gave out a psalm, and the entire host of the Covenanters, uncovering their heads, joined at the same moment in thanksgiving and praise. John Brydone was not a man of tears, but, as he joined in the psalm, they rolled down his cheeks, for his heart felt, while his tongue uttered praise, that a day of deliverance for the people of Scotland was at hand. The psalm being concluded, each preacher offered up a short but earnest prayer; and each man, grasping his weapon, was ready to lay down his life for his religion and his liberty. John Brydone, with his bonnet in hand, approaching Sir David, said--"Now, sir, I that ken the ground, and the situation o' the enemy, would advise ye, as a man who has seen some service mysel', to halve your men; let the one party proceed by the river to attack them on the one side, and the other go round the hills to cut off their retreat."[J] [J] "But halve your men in equal parts, Your purpose to fulfil; Let ae half keep the water-side, The rest gae round the hill." _Battle of Philiphaugh--Border Ballad._ "Ye speak skilfully," said Sir David, and he gave orders as John Brydone had advised. The Marquis of Montrose had been disappointed in reinforcements from his sovereign. Of two parties which had been sent to assist him in his raid into England, one had been routed in Yorkshire, and the other defeated on Carlisle sands, and only a few individuals from both parties joined him at Selkirk. A great part of his Highlanders had returned home to enjoy their plunder; but his army was still formidable, and he imagined that he had Scotland at his feet, and that he had nothing to fear from anything the Covenanters could bring against him. He had been writing despatches throughout the night; and he was sitting in the best house in Selkirk, penning a letter to his sovereign, when he was startled by the sounds of cannon and of musketry. He rushed to the street. The inhabitants were hurrying from their houses--many of his cavalry were mingling, half-dressed, with the crowd. "To horse!--to horse!" shouted Montrose. His command was promptly obeyed; and, in a few minutes, at the head of his cavalry, he rushed down the street leading to the river towards Philiphaugh. The mist was breaking away, and he beheld his army fleeing in every direction. The Covenanters had burst upon them as a thunderbolt. A thousand of his best troops lay dead upon the field.[K] He endeavoured to rally them, but in vain; and, cutting his way through the Covenanters, he fled at his utmost speed, and halted not until he had arrived within a short distance of where the delightful watering town of Innerleithen now stands, when he sought a temporary resting-place in the house of Lord Traquair. [K] Sir Walter Scott says that "the number of slain in the field did not exceed three or four hundred." All the authorities I have seen state the number at a thousand. He also accuses Lesly of abusing his victory by slaughtering many of his prisoners in cold blood. Now, it is true that a hundred of the Irish adventurers were shot; but this was in pursuance of an act of both Parliaments, and not from any private revenge on the part of General Lesly. John Brydone, having been furnished with a sword, had not been idle during the engagement; but, as he had fought upon foot, and the greater part of Lesly's army were cavalry, he had not joined in the pursuit; and, when the battle was over, he conceived it to be as much his duty to act the part of the Samaritan, as it had been to perform that of a soldier. He was busied, therefore, on the field in administering, as he could, to the wounded; and whether they were Cavalier or Covenanter, it was all one to John; for he was not one who could trample on a fallen foe, and in their hour of need he considered all men as brothers. He was passing within about twenty yards of a tent upon the Haugh, which had a superior appearance to the others--it was larger, and the cloth which covered it was of a finer quality; when his attention was arrested by a sound unlike all that belonged to a battle-field--the wailing and the cries of an infant! He looked around, and near him lay the dead body of a lady, and on her breast, locked in her cold arms, a child of a few months old was struggling. He ran towards them--he perceived that the lady was dead--he took the child in his arms--he held it to his bosom--he kissed its cheek--"Puir thing!--puir thing!" said John; "the innocent hae been left to perish amang the unrighteous." He was bearing away the child, patting its cheek, and caressing it as he went, and forgetting the soldier in the nurse, when he said unto himself--"Puir innocent!--an' belike yer wrang-headed faither is fleeing for his life, an' thinking aboot ye an' yer mother as he flees! Weel, ye may be claimed some day, an' I maun do a' in my power to gie an account o' ye." So John turned back towards the lifeless body of the child's mother; and he perceived that she wore a costly ring upon her finger, and bracelets on her arms; she also held a small parcel, resembling a book, in her hands, as though she had fled with it, without being able to conceal it, and almost at the door of her tent she had fallen with her child in her arms, and her treasure in her hand. John stooped upon the ground, and took the ring from her finger, and the bracelets from her arms; he took also the packet from her hands, and in it he found other jewels, and a purse of gold pieces. "These may find thee a faither, puir thing," said he; "or if they do not, they may befriend thee when John Brydone cannot." He carried home the child to his own house, and his wife having at that time an infant daughter at her breast, she took the foundling from her husband's arms, and became unto it as a mother, nursing it with her own child. But John told not his wife of the purse, nor the ring, nor the rich jewels. The child had been in their keeping for several weeks, but no one appeared to claim him. "The bairn may hae been baptized," said John; "but it wud be after the fashion o' the sons o' Belial; but he is a brand plucked from the burning--he is my bairn noo, and I shall be unto him as a faither--I'll tak upon me the vows--and, as though he were flesh o' my ain flesh, I will fulfil them." So the child was baptized. In consequence of his having been found on Philiphaugh, and of the victory there gained, he was called Philip; and as John had adopted him as his son, he bore also the name of Brydone. It is unnecessary for us to follow the foundling through his years of boyhood. John had two children--a son named Daniel, and Mary, who was nursed at his mother's breast with the orphan Philip. As the boy grew up, he called his protectors by the name of father and mother; but he knew they were not such, for John had shown him the spot upon the Haugh where he had found him wailing on the bosom of his dead mother. Frequently, too, when he quarrelled with his playfellows, they would call him the "Philiphaugh foundling," and "the Cavalier's brat;" and on such occasions Mary was wont to take his part, and, weeping, say "he was her brother." As he grew up, however, it grieved his protector to observe that he manifested but little of the piety, and less of the sedateness of his own children. "What is born i' the bane, isna easily rooted oot o' the flesh," said John; and in secret he prayed and wept that his adopted son might be brought to a knowledge of the truth. The days of the Commonwealth had come, and John and his son Daniel rejoiced in the triumphs of the Parliamentary armies, and the success of its fleets; but, while they spoke, Philip would mutter between his teeth--"It is the triumph of murderers!" He believed that but for the ascendancy of the Commonwealth, he might have obtained some tidings of his family; and this led him to hate a cause which the activity of his spirit might have tempted him to embrace. Mary Brydone had always been dear to him; and, as he grew towards manhood, he gazed on her beautiful features with delight; but it was not the calm delight of a brother contemplating the fair face of a sister; for Philip's heart glowed as he gazed, and the blush gathered on his cheek. One summer evening they were returning from the fields together, the sun was sinking in the west, the Ettrick murmured along by their side, and the voice of the wood-dove was heard from the copse-wood which covered the hills. "Why are you so sad, brother Philip?" said Mary; "would you hide anything from your own sister?" "Do not call me _brother_, Mary," said he earnestly--"do not call me _brother_!" "Who would call you brother, Philip, if I did not?" returned she affectionately. "Let Daniel call me brother," said he, eagerly; "but not you--not you!" She burst into tears. "When did I offend you, Philip," she added, "that I may not call you brother?" "Never, Mary!--never!" he exclaimed; "call me Philip--_your_ Philip!--anything but brother!" He took her hand within his--he pressed it to his bosom. "Mary," he added, "I have neither father, mother, brother, nor kindred--I am alone in the world--let there be something that I can call _mine_--something that will love me in return! Do you understand me, Mary?" "You are cruel, Philip," said she, sobbing as she spoke; "you know I love you--I have always loved you!" "Yes! as you love Daniel--as you love your father; but not as"---- "You love Mr. Duncan," he would have said; but his heart upbraided him for the suspicion, and he was silent. It is here necessary to inform the reader that Mr. Duncan was a preacher of the Covenant, and John Brydone revered him much. He was much older than Mary, but his heart cleaved to her, and he had asked her father's consent to become his son-in-law. John, though a stern man, was not one who would force the inclination of his daughter; but Mr. Duncan was, as he expressed it, "one of the faithful in Israel," and his proposal was pleasing to him. Mary, however, regarded the preacher with awe, but not with affection. Mary felt that she understood Philip--that she loved him, and not as a brother. She hid her face upon his shoulder, and her hand returned the pressure of his. They entered the house together, and her father perceived that his daughter's face was troubled. The manner of both was changed. He was a shrewd man as well as a stern man, and he also suspected the cause. "Philip," said he calmly, "for twenty years hae I protected ye, an' watched ower ye wi' a faither's care, an' I fear that, in return for my care, ye hae brought sorrow into the bosom o' my family, an' instilled disobedience into the flesh o' my ain flesh. But though ye hae cleaved--as it maun hae been inherent in your bluid--into the principles o' the sons o' this warld, yet, as I ne'er found ye guilty o' a falsehood, an' as I believe ye incapable o' are, tell me truly, why is your countenance an' that o' Mary changed--and why are ye baith troubled to look me straight in the face? Answer me--hae ye taught her to forget that she is your sister?" "Yes!" answered Philip; "and can it offend the man who saved me, who has watched over me, and sheltered me from infancy till now, that I should wish to be his son in more than in name?" "It does offend me, Philip," said the Covenanter; "even unto death it offends me! I hae consented that my dochter shall gie her hand to a guid an' a godly man, who will look after her weelfare baith here and hereafter. And ye kenned this--she kenned it, and she didna refuse; but ye hae come like the son o' darkness, an' sawn tares amang the wheat." "Father," said Philip, "if you will still allow me to call you by that name--foundling though I am--unknown as I am--in what am I worse than him to whom you would sacrifice your daughter's happiness?" "Sacrifice her happiness!" interrupted the old man; "hoo daur ye speak o' happiness, wha kens nae meanin' for the word but the vain pleasures o' this sinfu' warld! Think ye that, as a faither, an' as ane that has my offspring to answer for, that I daur sacrifice the eternal happiness o' my bairn, for the gratification o' a temporary feelin' which ye encourage the day and may extinguish the morn? Na, sir; they wha wad ken what true happiness is, maun first learn to crucify human passions. Mary," added he, sternly, turning to his daughter, "repeat the fifth commandment." She had been weeping before, and she now wept aloud. "Repeat it!" replied her father yet more sternly. "Honour thy father and thy mother," added she, sobbing as she spoke. "See, then, bairn," replied her father, "that ye remember that commandment in yer heart, as weel as on yer tongue. Remember, too, that o' a' the commands, it's the only ane to which a promise is attached; and, noo, mark what I say, an', as ye wadna disobey me, see, at yer peril, that ye ne'er permit this young man to speak to ye again, save only as a brither." "Sir," said Philip, "we have grown up together like twin tendrils on the same vine, and can ye wonder that our hearts have become entwined round each other, or that they can tear asunder because ye command it! Or, could I look on the face of an angel"---- "Out on ye, blasphemer!" interrupted the Covenanter--"wad ye apply siccan epithets to a bairn o' mine? Once for all, hear me, Philip; there are but twa ways o't, and ye can tak yer choice. It's the first time I hae spoken to ye roughly, but it isna the first time my spirit has mourned ower ye. I hae tried to lead ye in the right path; ye hae had baith precept and example afore ye; but the leaven o' this warld--the leaven o' the persecutors o' the Kirk and the Covenant--was in yer very bluid; an' I believe, if opportunity had offered, ye wad hae drawn yer sword in the unholy cause. A' that I could say, an' a' that I could do, religion has ne'er had ony place in yer heart; but ye hae yearned aboot yer faither, and ye hae mourned aboot yer mother--an' that was natural aneugh--but oh! ye hae also desired to cling to the cauld formality o' Episcopacy, as they nae doot did: an' should ye e'er discover that yer parents hae been Papists, I believe that ye wad become ane too! An' aften, when the conversation turned upon the apostate Montrose, or the gallant Lesly, I hae seen ye manifest the spirit an' the very look o' a persecutor. Were I to gie up my dochter to such a man, I should be worse than the heathen wha sacrifice their offspring to the abomination o' idols. Noo, Philip, as I hae tauld ye, there are but twa ways o't. Either this very hour gie me your solemn promise that ye will think o' Mary as to be yer wife nae mair, or, wi' the risin' o' to-morrow's sun, leave this house for ever!" "Sir," said Philip bitterly, "your last command I can obey, though it would be with a sad heart--though it would be in despair--your first I cannot--I will not!" "You must--you _shall_!" replied the Covenanter. "Never," answered Philip. "Then," replied the old man, "leave the roof that has sheltered ye frae yer cradle!" "I will!" said Philip, and the tears ran down his cheeks. He walked towards Mary, and, with a faltering voice, said--"Farewell, Mary!--Farewell! I did not expect this; but do not forget me--do not give your hand to another--and we shall meet again!" "You shall not!" interrupted the inexorable old man. Mary implored her father, for her sake, and for the sake of her departed mother, who had loved Philip as her own son, that he would not drive him from the house, and Daniel, too, entreated; but their supplications were vain. "Farewell, then!" said Philip; "and, though I depart in misery, let it not be with thy curse, but let the blessing of him who has been to me a father until now, go with me." "The blessin' o' Heaven be wi' ye and around ye, Philip!" groaned the Covenanter, struggling to conceal a tear: "but, if ye will follow the dictates o' yer rebellious heart and leave us, tak wi' ye yer property." "My property!" replied Philip. "Yer property," returned the old man. "Twenty years has it lain in that drawer, an' during that time eyes hae not seen it, nor fingers touched it. It will assist ye noo; an' when ye enter the warld, may throw some light upon yer parentage." He went to a small drawer, and, unlocking it, took out the jewels, the bracelet, the ring, and the purse of gold, and, placing them in Philip's hands, exclaimed--"Fareweel!--fareweel!--but it maun be!" and he turned away his head. "O Mary!" cried Philip, "keep--keep this in remembrance of me," as he attempted to place the ring in her hand. "Awa, sir!" exclaimed the old man, vehemently, "wad ye bribe my bairn into disobedience, by the ornaments o' folly an' iniquity! Awa, ye son o' Belial, an' provoke me not to wrath!" Philip groaned, he dashed his hand upon his brow, and rushed from the house. Mary wept long and bitterly, and Daniel walked to and fro across the room, mourning for one whom he loved as a brother. The old man went out into the fields to conceal the agony of his spirit; and, when he had wandered for a while, he communed with himself, saying, "I hae dune foolishly, an' an ungodly action hae I performed this nicht; I hae driven oot a young man upon a wicked warld, wi' a' his sins an' his follies on his head; an', if evil come upon him, or he plunge into the paths o' wickedness, his bluid an' his guilt will be laid at my hands! Puir Philip!" he added; "after a', he had a kind heart!" And the stern old man drew the sleeve of his coat across his eyes. In this frame of mind he returned to the house. "Has Philip not come back?" said he, as he entered. His son shook his head sorrowfully, and Mary sobbed more bitterly. "Rin ye awa doun to Melrose, Daniel," said he, "an' I'll awa up to Selkirk, an' inquire for him, an' bring him back. Yer faither has allowed passion to get the better o' him, an' to owercome baith the man an' the Christian." "Run, Daniel, run!" cried Mary eagerly. And the old man and his son went out in search of him. Their inquiries were fruitless. Days, weeks, and months rolled on, but nothing more was heard of poor Philip. Mary refused to be comforted; and the exhortations, the kindness, and the tenderness shown towards her by the Rev. Mr. Duncan, if not hateful, were disagreeable. Dark thoughts, too, had taken possession of her father's mind, and he frequently sank into melancholy; for the thought haunted him that his adopted son, on being driven from his house, had laid violent hands upon his own life; and this idea embittered every day of his existence. More than ten years had passed since Philip had left the house of John Brydone. The Commonwealth was at an end, and the second Charles had been recalled; but exile had not taught him wisdom, nor the fate of his father discretion. He madly attempted to be the lord and ruler of the people's conscience, as well as King of Britain. He was a libertine with some virtues--a bigot without religion. In the pride, or rather folly of his heart, he attempted to force Prelacy upon the people of Scotland; and he let his bloodhounds loose, to hunt the followers of the Covenant from hill to hill, to murder them on their own hearths, and, with the blood of his victims, to blot out the word _conscience_ from the vocabulary of Scotchmen. The Covenanters sought their God in the desert and on the mountains which He had reared; they worshipped him in the temples which His own hands had framed; and there the persecutor sought them, the destroyer found them, and the sword of the tyrant was bathed in the blood of the worshipper! Even the family altar was profaned; and to raise the voice of prayer and praise in the cottage to the King of kings, was held to be as treason against him who professed to represent Him on earth. At this period, too, Graham of Claverhouse--whom some have painted as an angel, but whose actions were worthy of a fiend--at the head of his troopers, who were called by the profane, _the ruling elders of the kirk_, was carrying death and cold-blooded cruelty throughout the land. Now, it was on a winter night in the year 1677, a party of troopers were passing near the house of old John Brydone, and he was known to them not only as being one who was a defender of the Covenant, but also as one who harboured the preachers, and whose house was regarded as a conventicle. "Let us rouse the old psalm-singing heretic who lives here from his knees," said one of the troopers. "Ay, let us stir him up," said the sergeant who had the command of the party; "he is an old offender, and I don't see we can make a better night's work than drag him along, bag and baggage, to the captain. I have heard as how it was he that betrayed our commander's kinsman, the gallant Montrose." "Hark! hark!--softly! softly!" said another, "let us dismount--hear how the nasal drawl of the conventicle moans through the air! My horse pricks his ears at the sound already. We shall catch them in the act." Eight of the party dismounted, and, having given their horses in charge to four of their comrades, who remained behind, walked on tiptoe to the door of the cottage. They heard the words given and sung-- "When cruel men against us rose To make of us their prey!" "Why, they are singing treason," said one of the troopers. "What more do we need?" The sergeant placed his forefinger on his lips, and for about ten minutes they continued to listen. The song of praise ceased, and a person commenced to read a chapter. They heard him also expound to his hearers as he read. "It is enough," said the sergeant; and, placing their shoulders against the door, it was burst open. "You are our prisoners!" exclaimed the troopers, each man grasping a sword in his right hand, and a pistol in the left. "It is the will of Heaven!" said the Rev. Mr. Duncan; for it was he who had been reading and expounding the Scriptures; "but, if ye stretch forth your hands against a hair o' our heads, HE, without whom a sparrow cannot fall to the ground, shall remember it against ye at the great day o' reckoning, when the trooper will be stripped of his armour, and his right hand shall be a witness against him!" The soldiers burst into a laugh of derision. "No more of your homily, reverend oracle," said the sergeant; "I have an excellent recipe for short sermons here; utter another word and you shall have it!" The troopers laughed again, and the sergeant, as he spoke, held his pistol in the face of the preacher. Besides the clergyman, there were in the room old John Brydone, his son Daniel, and Mary. "Well, old greybeard," said the sergeant, addressing John, "you have been reported as a dangerous and disaffected Presbyterian knave, as we find you to be; you are also accused of being a harbourer and an accomplice of the preachers of sedition; and, lo! we have found also that your house is used as a conventicle. We have caught you in the act, and we shall take every soul of you as evidence against yourselves. So come along, old boy--I should only be doing my duty by blowing your brains against the wall; but that is a ceremony which our commander may wish to see performed in his own presence!" "Sir," said John, "I neither fear ye nor your armed men. Tak me to the bloody Claverhouse, if you will, and at the day o' judgment it shall be said--'_Let the murderers o' John Brydone stand forth!_'" "Let us despatch them at once," said one of the troopers. "Nay," said the sergeant; "bind them together, and drive them before us to the captain: I don't know but he may wish to _do justice_ to them with his own hand." "The tender mercies of the wicked are cruel," groaned Mr. Duncan. Mary wrung her hands--"Oh, spare my father!" she cried. "Wheesht, Mary!" said the old man; "as soon wad a camel pass through the eye o' a needle, as ye wad find compassion in the hands o' these men!" "Bind the girl and the preacher together," said the sergeant. "Nay, by your leave, sergeant," interrupted one of the troopers, "I wouldn't be the man to lift a hand against a pretty girl like that, if you would give me a regiment for it." "Ay, ay, Macdonald," replied the sergeant--"this comes of your serving under that canting fellow, Lieutenant Mowbray--he has no love for the service; and confound me if I don't believe he is half a Roundhead in his heart. Tie the hands of the girl, I command you." "I will not!" returned Macdonald; "and hang me if any one else shall!" And, with his sword in his hand, he placed himself between Mary and his comrades. "If you do not bind her hands, I shall cause others to bind yours," said the sergeant. "They may try that who dare!" returned the soldier, who was the most powerful man of the party; "but what I've said I'll stand to." "You shall answer for this to-morrow," said the sergeant, sullenly, who feared to provoke a quarrel with the trooper. "I will answer it," replied the other. John Brydone, his son Daniel, and the Rev. Mr. Duncan, were bound together with strong cords, and driven from the house. They were fastened, also, to the horses of the troopers. As they were dragged along, the cries and the lamentations of Mary followed them; and the troopers laughed at her wailing, or answered her cries with mockery, till the sound of her grief became inaudible in the distance, when again they imitated her cries, to harrow up the feelings of her father. Claverhouse, and a party of his troops, were then in the neighbourhood of Traquair; and before that man, who knew not what mercy was, John Brydone, and his son, and the preacher were brought. It was on the afternoon of the day following that on which they had been made prisoners, that Claverhouse ordered them to be brought forth. He was sitting, with wine before him, in the midst of his officers; and amongst them was Lieutenant Mowbray, whose name was alluded to by the sergeant. "Well, knaves!" began Claverhouse, "ye have been singing, praying, preaching, and holding conventicles.--Do ye know how Grahame of Claverhouse rewards such rebels?" As the prisoners entered, Lieutenant Mowbray turned away his head, and placed his hand upon his brow. "Sir," said John, addressing Claverhouse, "I'm neither knave nor rebel--I hae lifted up my voice to the God o' my faithers, according to my conscience; and, unworthy as I am o' the least o' His benefits, for threescore years and ten he has been my shepherd and deliverer, and, if it be good in His sight, He will deliver me now. My trust is in Him, and I fear neither the frown nor the sword o' the persecutor." "Have done, grey-headed babbler!" cried Claverhouse. Lieutenant Mowbray, who still sat with his face from the prisoners, raised his handkerchief to his eyes. "Captain," said Mr. Duncan, "there's a day coming when ye shall stand before the great Judge, as we now stand before you; and when the remembrance o' this day, and the blood o' the righteous which ye hae shed, shall be written with letters o' fire on yer ain conscience, and recorded against ye; and ye shall call upon the rocks and mountains to cover ye"---- "Silence!" exclaimed Claverhouse. "Away with them!" he added, waving his hand to his troopers--"shoot them before sunrise!" Shortly after the prisoners had been conveyed from the presence of Claverhouse, Lieutenant Mowbray withdrew; and having sent for the soldier who had interfered on behalf of Mary--"Macdonald," he began, "you were present yesterday when the prisoners, who are to die to-morrow, were taken. Where did you find them?" "In the old man's house," replied the soldier; and he related all that he had seen, and how he had interfered to save the daughter. The heart of the officer was touched, and he walked across his room, as one whose spirit was troubled. "You did well, Macdonald!" said he, at length--"you did well!" He was again silent, and again he added--"And you found the preacher in the old man's house--_you found_ HIM _there_!" There was an anxious wildness in the tone of the lieutenant. "We found him there," replied the soldier. The officer was again silent--again he thoughtfully paced across the floor of his apartment. At length, turning to the soldier, he added--"I can trust you, Macdonald. When night has set in, take your horse and ride to the house of the elder prisoner, and tell his daughter--the maiden whom you saved--to have horses in readiness for her father, her brother, and--and her--her _husband!_" said the lieutenant, faltering as he spoke; and when he had pronounced the word _husband_, he again paused, as though his heart were full. The soldier was retiring--"Stay," added the officer, "tell her, her father, her brother, and--the preacher, shall not die; before daybreak she shall see them again; and give her this ring as a token that ye speak truly." He took a ring from his finger, and gave it into the hands of the soldier. It was drawing towards midnight. The troops of Claverhouse were quartered around the country, and his three prisoners, still bound to each other, were confined in a small farm-house, from which the inhabitants had been expelled. They could hear the heavy and measured tread of the sentinel pacing backward and forward in front of the house; the sound of his footsteps seemed to measure out the moments between them and eternity. After they had sung a psalm and prayed together--"I am auld," said John Brydone, "and I fear not to die, but rather glory to lay down my life for the great cause; but, oh, Daniel! my heart yearns that yer bluid also should be shed--had they only spared ye, to hae been a protector to our puir Mary!--or had I no driven Philip frae the house"---- "Mention not the name of the cast-away," said the minister. "Dinna mourn, faither," answered Daniel, "an arm mair powerful than that of man will be her supporter and protector." "Amen!" responded Mr. Duncan. "She has aye been cauld to me, and has turned the ear o' the deaf adder to the voice o' my affection; but even noo, when my thochts should be elsewhere, the thocht o' her burns in my heart like a coal." While they yet spoke, a soldier, wrapt up in a cloak, approached the sentinel, and said-- "It is a cold night, brother." "Piercing," replied the other, striking his feet upon the ground. "You are welcome to a mouthful of my spirit-warmer," added the first, taking a bottle from beneath his cloak. "Thank ye!" rejoined the sentinel; "but I don't know your voice. You don't belong to our corps, I think." "No," answered the other; "but it matters not for that--brother soldiers should give and take." The sentinel took the bottle and raised it to his lips; he drank, and swore the liquor was excellent. "Drink again," said the other; "you are welcome; it is as good as a double cloak around you." And the sentinel drank again. "Good night, comrade," said the trooper. "Good night," replied the sentinel; and the stranger passed on. Within half an hour, the same soldier, still muffled up in his cloak, returned. The sentinel had fallen against the door of the house, and was fast asleep. The stranger proceeded to the window--he raised it--he entered. "Fear nothing," he whispered to the prisoners, who were bound to staples that had been driven into the opposite wall of the room. He cut the cords with which their hands and their feet were fastened. "Heaven reward ye for the mercy o' yer heart, and the courage o' this deed," said John. "Say nothing," whispered their deliverer, "but follow me." Each man crept from the window, and the stranger again closed it behind them. "Follow me, and speak not," whispered he again; and, walking at his utmost speed, he conducted them for several miles across the hills; but still he spoke not. Old John marvelled at the manner of their deliverer; and he marvelled yet more when he led them to Philiphaugh, and to the very spot where, more than thirty years before, he had found the child on the bosom of its dead mother; and there the stranger stood still, and, turning round to those he had delivered--"Here we part," said he; "hasten to your own house, but tarry not. You will find horses in readiness, and flee into Westmoreland; inquire there for the person to whom this letter is addressed; he will protect you." And he put a sealed letter into the hands of the old man, and, at the same time, placed a purse in the hands of Daniel, saying, "This will bear your expenses by the way--Farewell!--farewell!" They would have detained him, but he burst away, again exclaiming, as he ran--"Farewell!" "This is a marvellous deliverance," said John; "it is a mystery, an' for him to leave us on this spot--on _this very spot_--where puir Philip"---- And here the heart of the old man failed him. We need not describe the rage of Claverhouse, when he found, on the following day, that the prisoners had escaped; and how he examined and threatened the sentinels with death, and cast suspicious glances upon Lieutenant Mowbray; but he feared to accuse him, or quarrel with him openly. As John, with the preacher and his son, approached the house, Mary heard their footsteps, rushed out to meet them, and fell weeping upon her father's neck. "My bairn!" cried the old man; "we are restored to ye as from the dead! Providence has dealt wi' us in mercy an' in mystery." His four farm-horses were in readiness for their flight; and Mary told him how the same soldier who had saved her from sharing their fate, had come to their house at midnight, and assured her that they should not die, and to prepare for their flight; "and," added she, "in token that he who had sent him would keep his promise towards you, he gave me this ring, requesting me to wear it for your deliverer's sake." "It is Philip's ring!" cried the old man, striking his hand before his eyes--"it is Philip's ring!" "_My_ Philip's!" exclaimed Mary; "oh, then, he lives!--he lives!" The preacher leaned his brow against the walls of the cottage and groaned. "It is still a mystery," said the old man, yet pressing his hands before his eyes in agony; "but it is--it maun be him. It was Philip that saved us--that conducted us to the very spot where I found him! But, oh," he added, "I wad rather I had died, than lived to ken that he has drawn his sword in the ranks o' the oppressor, and to murder the followers after the truth." "Oh, dinna think that o' him, father!" exclaimed Mary; "Philip wadna--he couldna draw his sword but to defend the helpless!" Knowing that they had been pursued and sought after, they hastened their flight to England, to seek the refuge to which their deliverer had directed them. But as they drew near to the Borders, the Rev. Mr. Duncan suddenly exclaimed--"Now, here we must part--part for ever! It is not meet that I should follow ye farther. When the sheep are pursued by the wolves, the shepherd should not flee from them. Farewell, dear friends--and, oh! farewell to you, Mary! Had it been sinful to hae loved you, I would hae been a guilty man this day--for, oh! beyond a' that is under the sun, ye hae been dear to my heart, and your remembrance has mingled wi' my very devotions. But I maun root it up, though, in so doing, I tear my very heart-strings. Fareweel!--fareweel! Peace be wi' you--and may ye be a' happier than will ever be the earthly lot o' Andrew Duncan!" The tears fell upon Mary's cheeks; for, though she could not love, she respected the preacher, and she esteemed him for his worth. Her father and brother entreated him to accompany them. "No! no!" he answered; "I see how this flight will end. Go--there is happiness in store for you; but my portion is with the dispersed and the persecuted." And he turned and left them. Lieutenant Mowbray was disgusted with the cold-blooded butchery of the service in which he was engaged; and, a few days after the escape of John Brydone and his son, he threw up his commission, and proceeded to Dumfriesshire. It was a Sabbath evening, and near nightfall; he had wandered into the fields alone, for his spirit was heavy. Sounds of rude laughter broke upon his ear; and, mingled with the sound of mirth, was a voice as if in earnest prayer. He hurried to a small wood from whence the sounds proceeded, and there he beheld four troopers, with their pistols in their hands, and before them was a man, who appeared to be a preacher, bound to a tree. "Come, old Psalmody!" cried one of the troopers, raising his pistol, and addressing their intended victim, who was engaged in prayer; "make ready--we have other jobs on hand--and we gave you time to speak a prayer, but not to preach." Mowbray rushed forward. He sprang between the troopers and their victim. "Hold! ye murderers, hold!" he exclaimed. "Is it thus that ye disgrace the name of soldiers by washing your hands in the blood of the innocent?" They knew Mowbray, and they muttered, "You are no officer of ours now; he is our prisoner, and our orders ere to shoot every conventicle knave who falls into our hands." "Shame on him who would give such orders!" said Mowbray; "and shame on those who would execute them! There," added he, "there is money! I will ransom him." With an imprecation, they took the money that was offered them, and left their prisoner to Mowbray. He approached the tree where they had bound him--he started back--it was the Rev. Andrew Duncan! "Rash man!" exclaimed Mowbray, as he again stepped forward to unloose the cords that bound him. "Why have ye again cast yourself into the hands of the men who seek your blood? Do you hold your life so cheap, that, in one week, ye would risk to sell it twice? Why did not ye, with your father, your brother, and your _wife_, flee into England, where protection was promised!" "My father!--my brother!--my wife!--mine!--mine!" repeated the preacher wildly. "There are no such names for my tongue to utter!--none!--none to drop their love as morning dew upon the solitary soul o' Andrew Duncan!" "Are they murdered?" exclaimed Mowbray, suddenly, in a voice of agony. "Murdered!" said the preacher, with increased bewilderment. "What do you mean?--or wha' do you mean?" "Tell me," cried Mowbray, eagerly; "are not you the husband of Mary Brydone?" "Me!--me!" cried the preacher. "No!--no!--I loved her as the laverock loves the blue lift in spring, and her shadow cam between me and my ain soul--but she wadna hearken unto my voice--she is nae wife o' mine!" "Thank Heaven!" exclaimed Mowbray; and he clasped his hands together. It is necessary, however, that we now accompany John Brydone and his family in their flight into Westmoreland. The letter which their deliverer had put into their hands was addressed to a Sir Frederic Mowbray; and, when they arrived at the house of the old knight, the heart of the aged Covenanter almost failed him for a moment; for it was a proud-looking mansion, and those whom he saw around wore the dress of the Cavaliers. "Who are ye?" inquired the servant who admitted them to the house. "Deliver this letter into the hands of your master," said the Covenanter; "our business is with him." "It is the handwriting of Master Edward," said the servant, as he took the letter into his hand; and, having conducted them to a room, he delivered it to Sir Frederic. In a few minutes the old knight hurried into the room, where the Covenanter, and his son and his daughter, stood. "Welcome, thrice welcome!" he cried, grasping the hand of the old man; "here you shall find a resting-place and a home, with no one to make you afraid." He ordered wine and food to be placed before them, and he sat down with them. Now John marvelled at the kindness of his host, and his heart burned within him; and, in the midst of all, he thought of the long-lost Philip, and how he had driven him from his house--and his cheek glowed and his heart throbbed with anxiety. His son marvelled also, and Mary's bosom swelled with strange thoughts--tears gathered in her eyes, and she raised the ring that had been the token of her father's deliverance to her lips. "Oh, sir," said the Covenanter, "pardon the freedom o' a plain blunt man, and o' ane whose bosom is burning wi' anxiety; but there is a mystery, there is _something_ attending my deliverance, an' the letter, and your kindness, that I canna see through--and I hope, and I fear--and I canna--I _daurna_ comprehend how it is!--but, as it were, the past--the lang bygane past, and the present, appear to hae met thegither! It is makin' my head dizzy wi' wonder, for there seems in a' this a something that concerns you, and that concerns me, and _one_ that I mayna name." "Your perplexity," said Sir Frederic, "may be best relieved, by stating to you, in a few words, one or two circumstances of my history. Having, from family affliction, left this country, until within these four years, I held a commission in the army of the Prince of Orange. I was present at the battle of Seneff; it was my last engagement; and in the regiment which I commanded, there was a young Scottish volunteer, to whose bravery, during the battle, I owed my life. In admiration and gratitude for his conduct, I sent for him after the victory, to present him to the prince. He came. I questioned him respecting his birth and his family. He was silent--he burst into tears. I urged him to speak. He said, of his real name he knew nothing--of his family he knew nothing--all that he knew was, that he had been the adopted son of a good and a Christian man, who had found him on Philiphaugh, on the lifeless bosom of his mother!" "Merciful Heaven! my puir, injured Philip!" exclaimed the aged Covenanter, wringing his hands. "My brother!" cried Daniel eagerly. Mary wept. "Oh, sir!" continued Sir Frederic, "words cannot paint my feelings as he spoke! I had been at the battle of Philiphaugh! and, not dreaming that a conflict was at hand, my beloved wife, with our infant boy, my little Edward, had joined me but the day before. At the first noise of Lesly's onset, I rushed from our tent--I left my loved ones there! Our army was stricken with confusion--I never beheld them again! I grasped the hand of the youth--I gazed in his face as though my soul would have leaped from my eyelids. 'Do not deceive me!' I cried; and he drew from his bosom the ring and the bracelets of my Elizabeth!" Here the old knight paused and wept, and tears ran down the cheeks of John Brydone, and the cheeks of his children. They had not been many days in Westmoreland, and they were seated around the hospitable hearth of the good knight in peace, when two horsemen arrived at the door. "It is our friend, Mr. Duncan, and a stranger!" said the Covenanter, as he beheld them from the window. "They are welcome--for your sake, they are welcome," said Sir Frederic; and while he yet spoke, the strangers entered. "My son, my son!" he continued, and hurried forward to meet him. "Say also your _daughter_!" said Edward Mowbray, as he approached towards Mary, and pressed her to his breast. "Philip!--my own Philip!" exclaimed Mary, and speech failed her. "My brother!" said Daniel. "He was dead, and is alive again--he was lost, and is found," exclaimed John. "O, Philip, man! do ye forgi'e me?" The adopted son pressed the hand of his foster-father. "It is enough," replied the Covenanter. "Yes, he forgives you!" exclaimed Mr. Duncan; "and he has forgiven me. When we were in prison and in bonds waiting for death, he risked his life to deliver us, and he did deliver us; and a second time he has rescued me from the sword of the destroyer, and from the power of the men who thirsted for my blood. He is no enemy o' the Covenant--he is the defender o' the persecuted; and the blessing o' Andrew Duncan is all he can bequeath, for a life twice saved, upon his deliverer, and Mary Brydone." Need we say that Mary bestowed her hand upon Edward Mowbray? but, in the fondness of her heart, she still called him "her Philip!" THE FORTUNES OF WILLIAM WIGHTON. My departure from Edinburgh was sudden and mysterious; and it was high time that I was away, for I was but a reckless boy at the best. My uncle was both sore vexed and weary of me, for I was never out of one mishap until I was into another; but one illumination night in the city put them all into the rear--I had, by it, got far ahead of all my former exploits. Very early next morning, I got notice from a friend that the bailies were very desirous of an interview with me; and, to do me more honour, I was to be escorted into their presence. I had no inclination for such honour, particularly at this time. I saw that our discourse could not be equally agreeable to both parties; besides they, I knew, would put questions to me I could not well answer to their satisfaction--though, after all, there was more of devilry than roguery in anything I had been engaged in. I was not long in making up my mind; for I saw Archibald Campbell and two of the town-guard at the head of the close as I stepped out at the stair-foot. I had no doubt that I was the person they wished to honour with their accompaniment to the civic authorities. I was out at the bottom of the close like thought. I believe they never got sight of me. I kept in hiding all day--neither my uncle nor any of my friends knew where I was to be found. After it was dark, I ventured into town; but no farther than the Low Calton, where dwelt an old servant of my father's, who had been my nurse after the death of my mother. She was a widow, and lived in one of the ground flats, where she kept a small retail shop. Poor creature! she loved me as if I had been her own child, and wept when I told her the dilemma I was in. She promised to conceal me until the storm blew over, and to make my peace once more with my uncle, if I would promise to be a good boy in future. She made ready for me a comfortable supper, and a bed in her small back room. Weary sitting alone, I went to rest, and soon fell into a sound sleep. I had lain thus, I know not how long, when I was roused by a loud noise, as if some person or persons had fallen on the floor above; and voices in angry altercation struck my ear. The weather being cold, my nurse had put on a fire in the grate, which still burned bright, and gave the room a cheerful appearance. I looked up--the angry voices continued, and there was a continued beating upon the floor at intervals, and, apparently, a great struggling, as if two people were engaged in wrestling. I attempted to fall asleep again, but in vain. For half an hour there had been little intermission of the noise. The ceiling of the room was composed only of the flooring of the story above; so that the thumping and scuffling were most annoying, reminding one of the sound of a drum overhead. I rose in anger from my bed, and, seizing the poker, beat up upon the ceiling pretty smartly. The sound ceased for a short space, and I crept into bed again. I was just on the point of falling asleep when the beating and struggling were renewed, and with them my anger. I rose from bed in great fury, resolved at least to make those who annoyed me rise from the floor. I looked round for something sharp, to prick them through the joinings of the flooring-deals. By bad luck, I found upon the mantel-piece an old worn knife, with a thin and sharp point. I mounted upon the table, and thus reached the ceiling with my hand. The irritating noise seemed to increase. I placed the point in one of the joints, and gave a push up--it would not enter. I exerted my strength, when--I shall never forget that moment--it ran up to the hilt!--a heavy groan followed; I drew it back covered with blood! I stood upon the table stupified with horror, gazing upon the ensanguined blade; two or three heavy drops of blood fell upon my face and went into my eyes. I leaped from the table, and placed the knife where I had found it. The noise ceased; but heavy drops of blood continued to fall and coagulate upon the floor at my feet. I felt stupified with fear and anguish--my eyes were riveted upon the blood which--drop, drop, drop--fell upon the floor. I had stood thus for some time before the danger I was in occurred to me. I started, hastily put on my clothes, and, opening the window, leapt out, fled by the back of the houses, past the Methodist chapel, up the back stairs into Shakspeare square, and along Princes' street; nor did I slacken my pace until I was a considerable way out of town. I was now miserable. The night was dark as a dungeon; but not half so dark as my own thoughts. I had deprived a fellow-creature of life! In vain did I say to myself that it was done with no evil intention on my part. I had been too rash in using the knife; and my conscience was against me. I was at this very time, also, in hiding for my rashness and folly in other respects. I trembled at the first appearance of day, lest I should be apprehended as a murderer. Dawn found me in the neighbourhood of Bathgate. Cold and weary as I was, I dared not approach a house or the public road, but lay concealed in a wood all day, under sensations of the utmost horror. Towards evening, I cautiously emerged from my hiding-place. Compelled by hunger, I entered a lonely house at a distance from the public road, and, for payment, obtained some refreshment, and got my benumbed limbs warmed. During my stay, I avoided all unnecessary conversation. I trembled lest they would speak of the murder in Edinburgh; for, had they done so, my agitation must have betrayed me. After being refreshed, I left the hospitable people, and pursued, under cover of the night, my route to Glasgow, which I reached a short time after daybreak. Avoiding the public streets, I entered the first change-house I found open at this early hour, where I obtained a warm breakfast and a bed, of both which I stood greatly in need. I soon fell asleep, in spite of the agitation of my mind; but my dreams were far more horrifying than my waking thoughts, dreadful as they were. I awoke early in the afternoon, feverish and unrefreshed. After some time spent in summoning up resolution, I requested my landlady to procure for me a sight of any of the Edinburgh newspapers of the day before. She brought one to me. My agitation was so great that I dared not trust myself to take it out of her hand, lest she had perceived the tremor I was in; but requested her to lay it down, while I appeared to be busy adjusting my dress--carefully, all the time, keeping my back to her. I had two objects in view: I wished to see the shipping-list, as it was my aim to leave the country for America by the first opportunity; and, secondly, to see what account the public had got of my untoward adventure. I felt conscious that all the city was in commotion about it, and the authorities despatched for my apprehension; for I had no doubt that my nurse would at once declare her innocence, and tell who had done the deed. With an anxiety I want words to express, I grasped the paper as soon as the landlady retired, and hurried over its columns until I reached the last. During the interval, I believe I scarcely breathed; I looked it over once more with care; I felt as if a load had been lifted from my breast--there was not in the whole paper a single word of a death by violence or accident. I thought it strange, but rejoiced. I felt that I was not in such imminent danger of being apprehended; but my mind was still racked almost to distraction. I remained in my lodging for several days, very ill, both from a severe cold I had caught and distress of mind. I had seen every paper during the time. Still there was nothing in them applicable to my case. I was bewildered, and knew not what to think. Had the occurrences of that fearful night, I thought, been only a delusion--some horrid dream or nightmare? Alas! the large drops of blood that still stained my shirt, which, in my confusion, I had not changed, drove from my mind the consoling hope; they were damning evidence of a terrible reality. My mind reverted back to its former agony, which became so aggravated by the silence of the public prints that I was rendered desperate. The silence gave a mystery to the whole occurrence, more unendurable than if I had found it narrated in the most aggravated language, and my person described, with a reward for my apprehension. As soon as my sickness had a little abated, and I was able to go out, I went in the evening, a little before ten o'clock, to the neighbourhood of where the coach from Edinburgh stopped. I walked about until its arrival, shunning observation as much as possible. At length it came. No one descended from it whom I recollected ever to have seen. Rendered desperate, I followed two travellers into a public-house which they entered, along with the guard. For some time, I sat an attentive listener to their conversation. It was on indifferent subjects; and I watched an opportunity to join in their talk. Speaking with an air of indifference, I turned the conversation to the subject I had so much at heart--the local news of the city. They gave me what little they had; but not one word of it concerned my situation. I inquired at the guard if he would, next morning, be so kind as take a letter to Edinburgh, for Widow Neil, in the Low Calton. "With pleasure," he said--"I know her well, as I live close by her shop; but, poor woman, she has been very unwell for these two or three days past. There has been some strange talk of a young lad who vanished from her house, no one can tell how; she is likely to get into trouble from the circumstance, for it is surmised he has been murdered in her house, and his body carried off, as there was a quantity of blood upon the floor. No one suspects her of it; but still it is considered strange that she should have heard no noise, and can give no account of the affair." This statement of the guard surprised me exceedingly. Why was the affair mentioned in so partial and unsatisfactory a manner? Why was I, a murderer, suspected of being myself murdered? Why did not this lead to an investigation, which must have exposed the whole horrid mystery of the death of the individual up stairs? I could not understand it. My mind became the more perplexed, the more I thought of it. Yet, so far, I had no reason to complain. Nothing had been said in any respect implicating me. Perhaps I had killed nobody; perhaps I had only wounded some one who did not know whence the stab came; or perhaps the person killed or wounded was an outlaw, and no discovery could be made of his situation. All these thoughts rushed through my mind as I sat beside the men. I at last left them, being afraid to put further questions. I went to my lodgings and considered what I should do. I conceived it safest to write no letters to my friends, or say anything further on the subject. I meditated upon the propriety of going to America, and had nearly made up my mind to that step. Every day, the mysterious affair became more and more disagreeable and painful to me. I gave up making further inquiries, and even carefully avoided, for a time, associating with any person or reading any newspaper. I gradually became easier, as time, which brought no explanation to me, passed over; but the thought still lay at the bottom of my heart, that I was a murderer. I went one day to a merchant's counting-house, to take my passage for America. The man looked at me attentively. I shook with fear, but he soon relieved me by asking--"Why I intended to leave so good a country for so bad a one?" I replied, that I could get no employment here. My appearance had pleased him. He offered me a situation in his office. I accepted it. I continued in Glasgow, happy and respected, for several years, and, to all likelihood, was to have settled there for life. I was on the point of marriage with a young woman, as I thought, every way worthy of the love I had for her. Her parents were satisfied; the day of our nuptials was fixed--the house was taken and furnished wherein we were to reside, and everything prepared. In the delirium of love, I thought myself the happiest of men, and even forgot the affair of the murder. It was on the Monday preceding our union--which was to take place in her father's house on the Friday evening--that business of the utmost importance called me to the town of Ayr. I took a hasty farewell of my bride, and set off, resolved to be back upon the Thursday at farthest. Early in the forenoon of Tuesday, I got everything arranged to my satisfaction; but was too late for the first coach. To amuse myself in the best manner I could, until the coach should set off again, I wandered down to the harbour; and, while there, it was my misfortune to meet an old acquaintance, Alexander Cameron, the son of a barber in the Luckenbooths. Glad to see each other, we shook hands most cordially; and, after chatting about "auld langsyne" until we were weary wandering upon the pier, I proposed to adjourn to my inn. To this proposal he at once acceded, on condition that I should go on board of his vessel afterwards, when he would return the visit in the evening. To this I had no objection to make. The time passed on until the dusk. We left the inn; but, instead of proceeding to the harbour, we struck off into the country for some time, and then made the coast at a small bay, where I could just discern, through the twilight, a small lugger-rigged vessel at anchor. I felt rather uneasy, and began to hesitate; when my friend, turning round, said-- "That is my vessel, and as fine a crew mans her as ever walked a deck;--we will be on board in a minute." I wished, yet knew not how, to refuse. He made a loud call; a boat with two men pushed from under a point, and we were rowing towards the vessel ere I could summon resolution to refuse. I remained on board not above an hour. I was treated in the most kindly manner. When I was coming away, Cameron said-- "I have requested this visit from the confidence I feel in your honour. I ask you not, to promise not to deceive me--I am sure you will not. My time is very uncertain upon this coast, and I have papers of the utmost importance, which I wish to leave in safe hands. We are too late to arrange them to-night; but be so kind as promise to be at the same spot where we embarked to-morrow morning, at what hour you please, and I will deliver them to you. Should it ever be in my power to serve you, I will not flinch from the duty of gratitude, cost what it may." There was a something so sincere and earnest in his manner, that I could not refuse. I said, that as I left Ayr on the morrow, I would make it an early hour--say, six o'clock; which pleased him. We shook hands and parted, when I was put on shore, and returned to my inn, where I ruminated upon what the charge could be I was going to receive from my old friend in so unexpected a manner. I was up betimes, and at the spot by the appointed hour. The boat was in waiting; but Cameron was not with her. I was disappointed, and told one of the men so; he replied that the captain expected me on board to breakfast. With a reluctance much stronger than I had felt the preceding night, I consented to go on board. I found him in the cabin, and the breakfast ready for me. We sat down, and began to converse about the papers. Scarce was the second cup filled out, when a voice called down the companion, "Captain, the cutter!" Cameron leaped from the table, and ran on deck. I heard a loud noise of cordage and bustle; but could not conceive what it was, until the motion of the vessel too plainly told that she was under way. I rose in haste to get upon deck; but the cover was secured. I knocked and called; but no one paid any attention to my efforts. I stood thus knocking, and calling at the stretch of my voice, for half an hour, in vain. I returned to my seat, and sat down, overcome with anger and chagrin. Here was I again placed in a disagreeable dilemma--evidently going far out to sea, when I ought to be on my way to Glasgow to my wedding. In the middle of my ravings, I heard first one shot, then another; but still the ripple of the water and the noise overhead continued. I was now convinced that I was on board of a smuggling lugger, and that Cameron was either sole proprietor or captain. I wished with all my heart that the cutter might overtake and capture us, that I might be set ashore; but all my wishes were vain--we still held on our way at a furious rate. As I heard no more shots, I knew that we had left the cutter at a greater distance. Again, therefore, I strove to gain a hearing, but in vain: I then strove to force the hatch, but it resisted all my efforts. I yielded myself at length to my fate; for the way of the vessel was not in the least abated. Towards night, I could find, by the pitching of the vessel and the increased noise above, that the wind had increased fearfully, and that it blew a storm. It was with difficulty that I could keep my seat, so much did she pitch. During the whole night and following day, I was so sick that I thought I would have died. I had no light; there was no human creature to give me a mouthful of water; and I could not help myself even to rise from the floor of the cabin, on which I had sunk. The agony of my mind was extreme: the day following was to have been that of my marriage; I was at sea, and knew not where I was. I blamed myself for my easy, complying temper; my misery increased; and, could I have stood on my feet, I know not what I might have done in my desperate situation. Thus I spent a second night; and the day which I had thought was to shine on my happiness, dawned on my misery. Towards the afternoon, the motion of the vessel ceased, and I heard the anchor drop. Immediately the hatch was opened, and Cameron came to me. I rose in anger, so great that I could not give it utterance. Had I not been so weak from sickness, I would have flown and strangled him. He made a thousand apologies for what had happened. I saw that his concern was real; my anger subsided into melancholy, and my first utterance was employed to inquire where we were. "I am sorry to say," replied he, "that I cannot but feel really grieved to inform you that we are at present a few leagues off Flushing." "Good God!" I exclaimed, as I buried my face in my hands, while I actually wept for shame--"I am utterly undone! What will my beloved Eliza say? How shall I ever appear again before her and her friends? Even now, perhaps, she is dressing to be my wife, or weeping in the arms of her bridesmaid. The thought will drive me mad. For Godsake, Cameron, get under way, and land me again either at Greenock or where you first took me up, or I am utterly undone. Do this, and I will forget all I have suffered and am suffering." "I would, upon my soul," he said, "were it in my power, though I should die in a jail; but, while this gale lasts, it were folly to attempt it. Besides, I am not sole proprietor of the lugger--I am only captain. My crew are sharers in the cargo. I would not get their consent. The thought of the evil I was unintentionally doing you, gave me more concern than the fear of capture. Had the storm not come on, I would have risked all to have landed you somewhere in Scotland; but it was so severe, and blowing from the land, that there was no use to attempt it. I hope, however, the weather will now moderate, and the wind shift, when I will run you back, or procure you a passage in the first craft that leaves for Scotland." I made no answer to him, I was so absorbed in my own reflections. I walked the deck like one distracted, praying for a change in the weather. For another three days it blew, with less or more violence, from the same point--during which time I scarcely ever ate or drank, and never went to bed. On the forenoon of Monday, the wind shifted. I went immediately ashore in the boat, and found a brig getting under way for Leith. I stepped on board, and took farewell of Captain Cameron, whom I never saw again, and wish I had never seen him in my life. After a tedious passage of nine days, during which we had baffling winds and calms, we reached Leith Roads about seven in the evening. It was low water, and the brig could not enter the harbour for several hours. I was put ashore in the boat, and hastened up to the Black Bull Inn, in order to secure a seat in the mail for Glasgow, which was to start in a few minutes. As I came up Leith Walk, my feelings became of a mixed nature. I thought of Widow Niel and the murder, as I looked over at the Calton; then my mind reverted to my bride. I got into the coach, and was soon on the way to Glasgow. I laid myself back in a corner, and kept a stubborn silence. I could not endure to enter into conversation with my fellow-travellers: I scarce heard them speak--my mind was so distracted by what had befallen me, and what might be the result. Pale, weary, and exhausted, I reached my lodgings between three and four o'clock of the morning of the seventeenth day from that in which I had left it in joy and hope. After I had knocked, and was answered, my landlady almost fainted at the sight of me. She had believed me dead; and my appearance was not calculated to do away the impression, I looked so ghastly from anxiety and the want of sleep. Her joy was extreme when she found her mistake. I undressed and threw myself on my bed, where I soon fell into a sound sleep, the first I had enjoyed since my involuntary voyage. I did not awake until about eight o'clock, when I arose and dressed. I did not haste to Eliza, as my heart urged me, lest my sudden appearance should have been fatal to her. I wrote her a note, informing her I was in health, and would call and explain all after breakfast. I sent off my card, and immediately waited upon my employers. They were more surprised than pleased at my return. Another had been placed in my situation, and they did not choose to pay him off when I might think proper to return after my unaccountable absence. My soul fired at the base insinuation; my voice rose, as I demanded to know if they doubted my veracity. With an expression of countenance that spoke daggers, one of them said--"We doubt, at least, your prudence in going on board an unknown vessel; but let us proceed to business--we have found all your books correct to a farthing, and here is an order for your salary up to your leaving. Good morning!" I received it indignantly; and, bowing stiffly, left them. I was not much cast down at this turn my affairs had taken so unexpectedly. I had no doubt of finding a warm reception from Eliza, hurried to her parent's house, and rung the bell for admittance. Judge my astonishment when her brother opened the door, with a look as if we had never met, and inquired what I wanted. The blood mounted to my face--I essayed to speak; but my tongue refused its office; I felt bewildered, and stood more like a statue than a man. In the most insulting manner, he said--"There is no one here who wishes any intercourse with you." And he shut the door upon me. Of everything that befell me for a length of time, from this moment, I am utterly unconscious; when I again awoke to consciousness, I was in bed at my lodgings, with my kind landlady seated at my bedside. I was so weak and reduced I could scarce turn myself; the agitation I had undergone, and the cruel receptions I had met on my return, had been too much for my mind to bear; a brain fever had been the consequence, and my life had been despaired of for several days. I would have questioned my landlady; but she urged silence upon me, and refused to answer my inquiries. I soon after learned all. I had been utterly neglected by those to whom I might have looked for aid or consolation; but the bitterest thought of all was, that Eliza should cast me off without inquiry or explanation. I could not bring my mind to believe she did so of her own accord. She must, I thought, be either cruelly deceived or under restraint; for she and her friends could not but know the situation I was in. I vainly strove to call my wounded pride to my aid, and drive her from my thoughts; but the more I strove, the firmer hold she took of me. As soon as I could hold my pen, I wrote to her in the most moving terms; and, after stating the whole truth and what I had suffered, begged an interview, were it to be our last--for my life or death, I said, appeared to depend upon her answer. In the afternoon I received one: it was my own letter, which had been opened, and enclosed in an envelope. The writing was in her own hand. Cruel woman! all it contained was, that she had read, and now returned my letter as of her own accord, and by the approbation of her friends; for she was firmly resolved to have no communication with one who had used her so cruelly, and exposed her to the ridicule of her friends and acquaintances. This unjust answer had quite an opposite effect from what I could have conceived a few hours before; pity and contempt for the fickle creature took the place of love; my mind became once more tranquil; I recovered rapidly, and soon began to walk about and enjoy the sweets of summer. I met my fickle fair by accident more than once in my walks, and found I could pass her as if we had never met. Her brother I had often a mind to have horsewhipped; but the thought that I would only give greater publicity to my unfortunate adventure, and be looked upon as the guilty aggressor, prevented me from gratifying my wish. Glasgow had now become hateful to me, otherwise I would have commenced manufacturer upon my own account, as was my intention had I married Eliza. In as short a period as convenient, I sold off the furniture of the house I had taken, at little or no loss, and found that I still was master of a considerable sum. Having made a present to my landlady for her care of me, I bade a long adieu to Glasgow, and proceeded by the coach to Leeds, where I procured a situation in a house with which our Glasgow house had had many transactions. As I fear I am getting prolix, I shall hurry over the next few years I remained in Leeds. I became a partner of the house; our transactions were very extensive, more particularly in the United States of America, where we were deeply engaged in the cotton trade. It was judged necessary that one of the firm should be on the spot, to extend the business as much as possible. The others being married men, I at once volunteered to take this department upon myself, and made arrangements accordingly. I proceeded towards Liverpool by easy stages on horseback, as the coaches at that period were not so regular as they are at present. On the second day after my leaving Leeds, the afternoon became extremely wet towards evening; so that I resolved to remain all night in the first respectable inn I came to. I dismounted, and found it completely filled with travellers, who had arrived a short time before. It was with considerable difficulty I prevailed upon the hostess to allow me to remain. She had not a spare bed; all had been already engaged; the weather continued still wet and boisterous, and I resolved to proceed no farther that night, whether I could obtain a bed or not. I, at length, arranged with her that I should pass the night by the fireside, seated in an arm-chair. Matters were thus all set to rights, and supper over, when a loud knocking was heard at the door. An additional stranger entered the kitchen where I sat, drenched with rain and benumbed with cold; and, after many difficulties upon the side of the hostess, the same arrangements were made for him. As our situations were so similar, we soon became very intimate. I felt much interest in him. He was of a frank and lively turn in conversation, and exceedingly well informed on every subject we started. A shrewd eccentricity in the style and matter of his remarks, forced the conviction upon his hearers, that he was a man of no mean capacity; there was also a restless inquietude in his manner, which gave him the appearance of having a slight shade of insanity. At one time his bright black eye was lighted up with joy and hilarity, as he chanted a few lines of some convivial song. In a few minutes, a change came over him, and furtive, timid glances stole from under his long dark eyelashes. Then would follow a glance so fierce, that it required a firm mind to endure it unmoved. These looks became more frequent as his libations continued; for he had consumed a great quantity of liquor, and seemed to me to be in that frame of mind when one strives in vain to forget his identity. The other inmates of the house had long retired, and all was hushed save the voice of my companion. I felt no inclination to sleep; the various scenes of my life were floating over my mind, as I gazed into the bright fire that glowed before me, while the storm raged without. My companion had at length sunk into a troubled slumber; his head resting upon his hand, which was supported by the table, and his intelligent face half turned from me. While I sat thus, my attention was roused by a low, indistinct murmuring from the sleeper: he was evidently dreaming--for, although there were a few disjointed words here and there pronounced, he still slept soundly. Gradually his articulation became more distinct and his countenance animated; but his eyes were closed. I became much interested; for this was the first instance of a dreamer talking in his sleep I had ever witnessed. I watched him. A gleam of joy and pleasure played around his well-formed mouth, while the few inarticulate sounds he uttered resembled distant shouts of youthful glee. Gradually the tones became connected sentences; care and anxiety, at times, came over his countenance; in heart-touching language, he bade farewell to his parent and the beloved scenes of his youth; large drops of moisture stole from under his closed eyelids. The transitions of his mind were so quick, that it required my utmost attention to follow them; but I never heard such true eloquence as came from this dreamer. I had seen most of the performers of our modern stage, and appreciated their talents; but what I at this time witnessed, in the actings of genuine nature, surpassed all their efforts. Gradually the shades of innocence departed from his countenance; his language became adulterated by slang phrases, and his features assumed a fiendish cast that made me shudder. He showed that he was familiar with the worst of company; care and anxiety gradually crept over his countenance; he had, it seemed, commenced a system of fraud upon his employers and been detected; grief and despair threw over him their frightful shadows; pale and dejected, he pleaded for mercy, for the sake of his father, in the most abject terms. He now spoke with energy and connection--it was to his companions in jail; but hope had fled, and a shameful death seemed to him inevitable. His trial came on. He proceeded to court--his lips appeared pale and parched--a convulsive quiver agitated the lower muscles of his face and neck--he seemed to breathe with difficulty--his head sank lower upon the hand that supported it--he had been condemned--he was now in his solitary cell--his murmurs breathed repentance and devotion--his sufferings appeared to be so intense that large drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead--he was engaged with the clergyman, preparing for death. Remembering what I had suffered in my own dreams, I resolved to awake him, and, to do so, gave the arm that lay upon the table a gentle shake. A shudder passed over his frame, and he sank upon the floor. All that I have narrated had occurred in a space of time remarkably short. I rose to lift him to his seat, and make an apology for the surprise I had given him; but he was quite unconscious. The noise of his fall had alarmed the landlady, who, with several of the guests, entered as I was stooping with him in my arms, attempting to raise him. I was so much shocked when I found the state he was in, that I let him drop, and recoiled back in horror, exclaiming, "Good God! have I killed him! Send for a surgeon." The idea that I had endeavoured to awake him in an improper time came with strong conviction upon me, and forced the words out of my mouth. They raised him up and placed him on his seat. I could not offer the smallest assistance. Every effort was used to restore him in vain, and a surgeon sent for, but life had fled. During all this time I had remained in a stupor of mind; suspicion fell upon me that I had murdered him; I had been alone with him, and seen stooping over the body when they entered; and my exclamation at the time, and my confusion, were all construed as sure tokens of my guilt. I was strictly guarded until a coroner's inquest could be held upon the body. I told the whole circumstances as they had occurred; but my narrative made not the smallest impression. I was not believed--an incredulous smile, or a dubious shake of the head, was all that I obtained from my auditors. I then kept silence, and refused to enter into any further explanation, conscious that my innocence would be made manifest at the inquest, which must meet as soon as the necessary steps could be taken. I was already tried and condemned by those around me--every circumstance was turned against me, and the most prominent was that I was Scotch. Many remarks were made, all to the prejudice of my country, but aimed at me. My heart burned to retort their unjust abuse; but I was too indignant to trust myself to utter the thoughts that swelled my heart almost to bursting. The surgeon had come, and was busy examining the body of the unfortunate individual, when a new traveller arrived. He appeared to be about sixty years of age, of a pleasing countenance, which was, however, shaded by anxiety and grief. Sick and weary of those around me, I had ceased to regard them, but I raised my eyes as the new comer entered; and was at once struck by a strong resemblance, as I thought, between him and the deceased. The stranger appeared to take no interest in what was going on, but urged the landlady to make haste and procure him some refreshment, while his horse was being fed. He was in the utmost hurry to depart, as important business required his immediate attendance in London. The loquacious landlady forced him to listen to a most exaggerated account of the horrid murder which the Scotchman had committed in her house. The story was so much distorted by her inventions, that I could not have recognised the event, if the time and place, and her often pointing to me and the bed on which the body was laid, had not identified it. I could perceive a faint shudder come over his frame, as she finished her romance. The surgeon came from his examination of the body. He was a man well advanced in years, of an intelligent and benevolent cast of countenance. She inquired with what instrument the murder had been perpetrated. "My good lady," said the surgeon, "I can find no marks of violence upon the body, and I cannot say whether the individual met his death by violence or the visitation of God." "Oh, sir," cried the hostess, "I am certain he was murdered; for I saw them struggling on the floor as I entered the room; and he said himself that he had murdered him." "Peace, good woman," said the surgeon, who turned to me, and requested to know the particulars from myself; "for I am persuaded," he continued, "that no outward violence has been sustained by the deceased." I once more began to narrate to him the whole circumstance. As I proceeded with the dream, the stranger suddenly became riveted in his attention; his eyes were fixed upon me; the muscles of his face were strangely agitated, as if he was restraining some strong emotion; wonder and anxiety were strongly expressed by turns, until I mentioned one of the names I had heard in the dream. Uttering a heart-rending groan, or rather scream, he rose from his seat and staggered to the bed, where he fell upon the inanimate body, and sobbed audibly as he kissed the cold forehead, and parted the long brown hair that covered it. "Oh, Charles," he cried, "my son, my dear lost son! have I found you thus, who was once the stay and hope of my heart!" There was not a dry eye in the room after this burst of agonized nature. He rose from the bed and approached me. Looking mildly in my face, he said-- "Stranger, be so good as to continue your account of this sad accident; for both our sakes, I hope you are innocent of any violence upon my son." Overcome by his manner, in kindness to him I suggested that it would be better were only the surgeon and himself present at the recital. Several of those present protested loudly against my proposal, saying I would make my escape if I was not guarded. My anger now rose--I could restrain myself no longer--I cast an indignant glance around, and, in a voice at its utmost pitch, dared any one present to say I had used violence against the unfortunate young man. All remained silent. In a calmer manner, I declared I had no wish to depart, urgent as my business was, until the inquest was over; and, if they doubted my word, they were welcome to keep strict watch at the door and windows. The old man perceived the kindness of my motive for withdrawing with him, and his looks spoke his gratitude as we retired. I once more stated every circumstance as it had occurred, from the time of his son's arrival until he fell from the chair. As I repeated the words I could make out in the early part of the dream, his father wept like a child, and said--"Would to God he had never left me!" When I came to the London part, he groaned aloud and wrung his hands. I was inclined more than once to stop; but he motioned me to proceed, while tears choked his utterance. When I had made an end, he clasped his hands, and, raising his face to heaven, said--"I thank Thee, Father of mercies! Thy will be done. He was the last of five of Thy gifts. I am now childless, and have nothing more worth living for but to obey Thy will. I thank Thee that in his last moments it can be said of him as it was of thy apostle--'Behold, he prayeth!'" For some time we remained silent, reverencing the old man's grief. The surgeon first broke silence:--"Stranger," he said, "I have not a doubt of your innocence of any intention to injure the person of the deceased, but your humane intention to awaken him was certainly the immediate cause of his death; for, had you tried to rouse him from sleep, either sooner or later in his dream, all might have been well. The gentle shake you gave his arm, in all likelihood, was felt as the fatal fall of the platform or push of the executioner, which caused, from fright, a sudden collapse of the heart, that put a final stop to the circulation and caused immediate death. We regret it; but cannot say there was any bad intention on your part." I thanked the surgeon for the justice he had done me in his remarks; and then addressing the bereaved father, I begged his forgiveness for my unfortunate interference with his son; I only did so to put a period to his dream, as his sufferings appeared to me to be of the most acute description. He stretched out his hand, and grasping mine, which he held for some time, while he strove to overcome his emotions, he at length said-- "Young man, from my heart I acquit you of every evil intention, and believe you from evidence that cannot be called in question. What you have told coincides with facts I already possess. For some time back the conduct of Charles gave me serious cause of uneasiness; but I knew not half the extent of his excesses, although his requests for money were incessant. I supplied them as far as was in my power; for he accompanied them with dutiful acknowledgments and plausible reasons. Until of late I had fulfilled his every wish; but I found I could no longer comply with prudence. Alas! you have let me at length understand that the gaming-table was the gulf that swallowed up all. I had for some time resolved to go personally and reason with him upon the folly of his extravagances; but, unfortunately, delayed it from day to day and week to week. I felt it to be my duty as a parent; but my heart shrunk from it. Fatal delay! Oh, that I had done as my duty urged me!" (Here his feelings overpowered him for a few minutes.) "Had I only gone even a few days before I received that fatal letter that at once roused me from my guilty supineness," (here he drew a letter from his pocket and gave it me,) "he might have been saved! Read it." I complied. It was as follows:-- "WORTHY FRIEND,--I scarce know how to communicate the information; but, I fear, no one here will do so in so gentle a manner. Your son Charles, I am grieved to say, has not been acting as I could have wished for this some time back. One of the partners called here this morning to inquire after him, as he had absconded from their service on account of some irregularity that had been discovered in his cash entries, and made me afraid, by his manner, that there might be something worse. Do, for your own and his sake, come to town as quickly as possible. In the meantime, I shall do all in my power to avert any evil that may threaten.--Adieu! "JOHN WALKER." "I was on my way," he proceeded, "to save my poor Charles from shame, had even the workhouse been my only refuge at the close of my days. Alas! as he told in his dream, I fear he had forfeited his life by that fatal act, forgery, for which there is no pardon with man. If so, the present dispensation is one of mercy, for which I bless His name, who in all things doeth right." My heart ached for the pious old man. We left the room, he leaning upon my arm. The surgeon and parent both pronounced me innocent of the young man's death. Those who still remained in the house, more particularly the hostess, appeared disappointed, and did not scruple to hint their doubts. Until the coroner's inquest sat, which was in the afternoon, the father of the stranger never left my side, but seemed to take a melancholy pleasure in conversing about his son. The jury, after a patient investigation, returned their verdict, "Died by the visitation of God." I immediately bade farewell to the surgeon and the parent of the young man, and proceeded for Liverpool, musing upon my strange destiny. It appeared to me that I was haunted by some fatality, which plunged me constantly into misfortune. I rejoiced that I was on the point of leaving Britain, and hoped that in America I should be freed from my bad fortune. When I arrived in Liverpool I found the packet on the eve of sailing; and, with all expedition, I made everything ready and went on board. We were to sail with the morning tide. There were a good many passengers; but all of them appeared to be every-day personages--all less or more studious about their own comforts. After an agreeable voyage of five weeks, we arrived safe, and all in good health, in Charleston. In a few months I completed our arrangement satisfactorily, and began to make preparations for my return to England again. A circumstance, however, occurred, which overturned all my plans for a time, and gave a new turn to my thoughts. Was it possible that, after the way in which I had been cast off before by one of the bewitching sex, I could ever do more than look upon them again with indifference? I did not hate or shun their company, but a feeling pretty much akin to contempt, often stole over me as I recollected my old injury. I could feel the sensation at times give way for a few hours in the company of some females, and again return with redoubled force upon the slightest occasion, such as a single word or look. I was prejudiced, and resolved not again to submit to the power of the sex. But vain are the resolves of man. This continued struggle, I really believe, was the reason of my again falling more violently in love than ever, and that, too, against my own will. When I strove to discover faults, I only found perfections. I had boarded in the house of a widow lady who had three daughters, none of them exceeding twelve years of age. A governess, one of the sweetest creatures that I had ever seen, or shall ever see again, had the charge of them. On the second evening after my arrival, I retired to my apartment, overcome by heat and fatigue. I lay listlessly thinking of Auld Reekie, the mysterious murder, and all the strange occurrences of my past life. My attention was awakened by a voice the sweetest I had ever heard. I listened in rapture. It was only a few notes, as the singer was trying the pitch of her voice, and soon ceased. I was wondering which of the family it could be who sang so well, when I heard one of the daughters say, "Do, governess, sing me one song, and I will be a good girl all to-morrow. Pray do!" I became all attention--again the voice fell upon my ear. It was low and plaintive--the air was familiar to me--my whole soul became entranced--the tear-drop swam in my eyes--it was one of Scotland's sweetest ditties--"The Broom o' the Cowdenknowes." No one who has not heard, unexpected, in a foreign land the songs he loved in his youth, can appreciate the thrill of pleasing ecstasy that carries the mind, as it were, out of the body, when the ears catch the well-known sounds. Next day I was all anxiety to see the individual who had so fascinated me the evening before. I found her all that my imagination had pictured her. A new feeling possessed me. In vain I called pride to my aid--I could not drive her from my thoughts. Sleeping or waking, her voice and form were ever present. I left the town for a time to free myself from these unwelcome feelings, pleasing as they were. I felt angry at myself for harbouring them; but all my endeavours were vain--go where I would, I was with my Mary on the Cowdenknowes. I know not how it was. I had loved with more ardour in my first passion, and been more the victim of impulse; a dreamy sensation occupied my mind, and my whole existence seemed concentrated in her alone; now, my mind felt cool and collected--I weighed every fault and excellence; still I was hurried on, and felt like one placed in a boat in the current of a river, pulling hard to get out of the stream in vain. I at length laid down my oars, and yielded to the impulse. In short, I made up my mind to win the esteem and love of Mary; nor did I strive in vain. My humble attentions were kindly received, and dear to my heart is the remembrance of the timid glances I first detected in her full black eyes. For some weeks I sought an opportunity to declare my love. She evidently shunned being alone with me; and I often could discern, when I came upon her by surprise, that she had been weeping. Some secret sorrow evidently oppressed her mind, and, at times, I have seen her beautiful face suffused with scarlet and her eyes become wet with tears, when my pompous landlady spoke of the ladies of Europe and "the _true_ white-blooded females of America." I dreamed not at this time of the cause; but the truth dawned upon me afterwards. It was on a delightful evening, after one of the most sultry days in this climate, I had wandered into the garden to enjoy the evening breeze, with which nothing in these northern climes will bear comparison; the fire-flies sported in myriads around, and gave animation to the scene; the fragrance of plants and the melody of birds filled the senses to repletion. I wanted only the presence of Mary to be completely happy. I heard a low warbling at a short distance, from a bower covered with clustering vines. It was Mary's voice! I stood overpowered with pleasure--she sung again one of our Scottish tunes. As the last faint cadence died away, I entered the arbour; the noise of my approach made her start from her seat; she was hurrying away in confusion, when I gently seized her hand, and requested her to remain, if it were only for a few moments, as I had something to impart of the utmost importance to us both. She stood; her face was averted from my gaze; I felt her hand tremble in mine. Now that the opportunity I so much desired had been obtained, my resolution began to fail me. We had stood thus for sometime. "Sir, I must not stay here longer," she said. "Good evening!" "Mary," said I, "I love you. May I hope to gain your regard by any length of service? Allow me to hope, and I shall be content." "I must not listen to this language," she replied. "Do not hope. There is a barrier between us that cannot be removed. I cannot be yours. I am unworthy of your regard. Alas! I am a child of misfortune." "Then," said I, "my hopes of happiness are fled for ever. So young, so beautiful, with a soul so elevated as I know yours to be, you can have done nothing to render you unworthy of me. For heaven's sake, tell me what that fatal barrier is. Is it love?" "I thank you," she replied. "You do me but justice. A thought has never dwelt upon my mind for which I have cause to blush; but Nature has placed a gulf between you and me, you will not pass." She paused, and the tears swam in her eyes. "For mercy's sake, proceed!" I said. "_There is black blood in these veins_," she cried, in agony. A load was at once removed from my mind. I raised her hand to my lips:--"Mary, my love, this is no bar. I come from a country where the aristocracy of blood is unknown, where nothing degrades man in the eyes of his fellow-man but vice." Why more? Mary consented to be mine, and we were shortly after wed. I was blessed in the possession of one of the most gentle of beings. We had been married about six or seven weeks, when business called me from Charleston to one of the northern States. I resolved to take Mary with me, as I was to go by sea; and our arrangements were completed. The vessel was to sail on the following day. I was seated with her, enjoying the cool of the evening, when a stranger called and requested to see me on business of importance. I immediately went to him, and was struck with the coarseness of his manners, and his vulgar importance. I bowed, and asked his business. "You have a woman in this house," said he, "called Mary De Lyle, I guess." "I do not understand the purport of your question," said I. "What do you mean?" "My meaning is pretty clear," said he. "Mary De Lyle is in this house, and she is my property. If you offer to carry her out of the State, I will have her sent to jail, and you fined. That is right ahead, I guess." "Wretch," said I, in a voice hoarse with rage, "get out of my house, or I will crush you to death. Begone!" I believe I would have done him some fearful injury, had he not precipitately made his escape. In a frame of mind I want words to express, I hurried to Mary, and sank upon a seat, with my face buried in my hands. She, poor thing, came trembling to my side, and implored me to tell her what was the matter. I could only answer by my groans. At length, I looked imploringly in her face:-- "Mary, is it possible that you are a slave?" said I. She uttered a piercing shriek, and sank inanimate at my feet. I lifted her upon the sofa; but it was long before she gave symptoms of returning life. As soon as I could leave her, I went to a friend to ask his advice and assistance. Through him, I learned that what I feared was but too true. By the usages and laws of the State, she was still a slave, and liable to be hurried from me and sold to the highest bidder, or doomed to any drudgery her master might put her to, and even flogged at will. There was only one remedy that could be applied; and the specific was dollars. My friend was so kind as to negotiate with the ruffian. One thousand was demanded, and cheerfully paid. I carried the manumission home to my sorrowing Mary. From her I learned, as she lay in bed--her beautiful face buried in the clothes, and her voice choked by sobs--that the wretch who had called on me was her own father, whose avarice could not let slip this opportunity of extorting money. With an inconsistency often found in man, he had given Mary one of the best of educations, and for long treated her as a favoured child, during the life of her mother, who was one of his slaves, a woman of colour, and with some accomplishments, which she had acquired in a genteel family. At her death, Mary had gone as governess to my landlady; but, until the day of her father's claim, she had never dreamed of being a slave. I allowed the vessel to sail without me, wound up my affairs, and bade adieu for ever to the slave States. 'Tis now twenty years since I purchased a wife, after I had won her love, and I bless the day she was made mine; for I have had uninterrupted happiness in her and her offspring. The slave is now the happy wife and mother of five lovely children, who rejoice in their mother. After remaining some years in Leeds, I returned to Edinburgh. Widow Neil was dead; but one day I discovered, by mere chance, that the murder I committed in her house was on a _sheep_. MY BLACK COAT; OR, THE BREAKING OF THE BRIDE'S CHINA. Gentle reader, the simple circumstances I am about to relate to you, hang upon what is termed--a bad omen. There are few amongst the uneducated who have not a degree of faith in omens; and even amongst the better educated and well informed there are many who, while they profess to disbelieve them, and, indeed, do disbelieve them, yet feel them in their hours of solitude. I have known individuals who, in the hour of danger, would have braved the cannon's mouth, or defied death to his teeth, who, nevertheless, would have buried their heads in the bedclothes at the howling of a dog at midnight, or spent a sleepless night from hearing the tick, tick, of the spider, or the untiring song of the kitchen-fire musician--the jolly little cricket. The age of omens, however, is drawing to a close; for truth in its progress is trampling delusion of every kind under its feet; yet, after all, though a belief in omens is a superstition, it is one that carries with it a portion of the poetry of our nature. But to proceed with our story. Several years ago I was on my way from B---- to Edinburgh; and being as familiar with every cottage, tree, shrub, and whin-bush on the Dunbar and Lauder roads as with the face of an acquaintance, I made choice of the less-frequented path by Longformacus. I always took a secret pleasure in contemplating the dreariness of wild spreading desolation; and, next to looking on the sea when its waves dance to the music of a hurricane, I loved to gaze on the heath-covered wilderness, where the blue horizon only girded its purple bosom. It was no season to look upon the heath in the beauty of barrenness, yet I purposely diverged from the main road. About an hour, therefore, after I had descended from the region on the Lammermoors, and entered the Lothians, I became sensible I was pursuing a path which was not forwarding my footsteps to Edinburgh. It was December; the sun had just gone down; I was not very partial to travelling in darkness, neither did I wish to trust to chance for finding a comfortable resting-place for the night. Perceiving a farm-steading and water-mill about a quarter of a mile from the road, I resolved to turn towards them, and make inquiry respecting the right path, or, at least, to request to be directed to the nearest inn. The "town," as the three or four houses and mill were called, was all bustle and confusion. The female inhabitants were cleaning and scouring, and running to and fro. I quickly learned that all this note of preparation arose from the "maister" being to be married within three days. Seeing me a stranger, he came from his house towards me. He was a tall, stout, good-looking, jolly-faced farmer and miller. His manner of accosting me partook more of kindness than civility; and his inquiries were not free from the familiar, prying curiosity which prevails in every corner of our island, and, I must say, in the north in particular. "Where do you come fra, na--if it be a fair question?" inquired he. "From B----," was the brief and merely civil reply. "An' hae ye come frae there the day?" he continued. "Yes," was the answer. "Ay, man, an' ye come frae B----, do ye?" added he; "then, nae doot, ye'll ken a person they ca' Mr. ----?" "Did he come originally from Dunse?" returned I, mentioning also the occupation of the person referred to. "The vera same," rejoined the miller; "are ye acquainted wi' him, sir?" "I ought to be," replied I; "the person you speak of is merely my father." "Your faither!" exclaimed he, opening his mouth and eyes to their full width, and standing for a moment the picture of surprise--"Gude gracious! ye dinna say sae!--is he really your faither? Losh, man, do you no ken, then, that I'm your cousin! Ye've heard o' your cousin, Willie Stewart." "Fifty times," replied I. "Weel, I'm the vera man," said he--"Gie's your hand; for, 'odsake, man, I'm as glad as glad can be. This is real extraordinar'. I've often heard o' you--it will be you that writes the buiks--faith ye'll be able to mak something o' this. But come awa' into the house--ye dinna stir a mile far'er for a week, at ony rate." So saying, and still grasping my hand, he led me to the farm-house. On crossing the threshold-- "Here, lassie," he cried, in a voice that made roof and rafters ring, "bring ben the speerits, and get on the kettle--here's a cousin that I ne'er saw in my life afore." A few minutes served mutually to confirm and explain our newly-discovered relationship. "Man," said he, as we were filling a second glass, "ye've just come in the very nick o' time; an' I'll tell ye how. Ye see I'm gaun to be married the day after the morn; an' no haein' a friend o' ony kin-kind in this quarter, I had to ask an acquaintance to be the best man. Now, this was vexin' me mair than ye can think, particularly, ye see, because the sweetheart has aye been hinting to me that it wadna be lucky for me no to hae a bluid relation for a best man. For that matter, indeed, luck here, luck there, I no care the toss up o' a ha'penny about omens mysel'; but now that ye've fortunately come, I'm a great deal easier, an' it will be ae craik out o' the way, for it will please her; an' ye may guess, between you an' me, that she's worth the pleasin', or I wadna had her; so I'll just step ower an' tell the ither lad that I hae a cousin come to be my best man, an' he'll think naething o't." On the morning of the third day, the bride and her friends arrived. She was the only child of a Lammermoor farmer, and was in truth a real mountain flower--a heath blossom; for the rude health that laughed upon her cheeks approached nearer the hue of the heather-bell, than the rose and vermillion of which poets speak. She was comely withal, possessing an appearance of considerable strength, and was rather above the middle size--in short, she was the very belle ideal of a miller's wife! But to go on. Twelve couples accompanied the happy miller and his bride to the manse, independent of the married, middle-aged, and grey-haired visitors, who followed behind and by our side. We were thus proceeding onward to the house of the minister, whose blessing was to make a couple happy, and the arm of the blooming bride was through mine, when I heard a voice, or rather let me say a sound, like the croak of a raven, exclaim-- "Mercy on us! saw ye e'er the like o' that!--the best man, I'll declare, has a black coat on!" "An' that's no lucky!" replied another. "Lucky!" responded the raven voice--"just perfectly awfu'! I wadna it had happened at the weddin' o' a bairn o' mine for the king's dominions." I observed the bride steal a glance at my shoulder; I felt, or thought I felt, as if she shrunk from my arm; and when I spoke to her, her speech faltered. I found that my cousin, in avoiding one omen, had stumbled upon another, in my black coat. I was wroth with the rural prophetess, and turned round to behold her. Her little grey eyes, twinkling through spectacles, were wink, winking upon my ill-fated coat. She was a crooked (forgive me for saying an ugly), little, old woman; she was "bearded like a pard," and walked with a crooked stick mounted with silver. (On the very spot[L] where she then was, the last witch in Scotland was burned.) I turned from the grinning sibyl with disgust. [L] The last person burned for witchcraft in Scotland was at Spot--the scene of our present story. On the previous day, and during part of the night, the rain had fallen heavily, and the Broxburn was swollen to the magnitude of a little river. The manse lay on the opposite side of the burn, which was generally crossed by the aid of stepping-stones, but on the day in question the tops of the stones were barely visible. On crossing the burn the foot of the bride slipped, and the bridegroom, in his eagerness to assist her, slipped also--knee-deep in the water. The raven voice was again heard--it was another omen. The kitchen was the only room in the manse large enough to contain the spectators assembled to witness the ceremony, which passed over smoothly enough, save that, when the clergyman was about to join the hands of the parties, I drew off the glove of the bride a second or two before the bridesmaid performed a similar operation on the hand of the bridegroom. I heard the whisper of the crooked old woman, and saw that the eyes of the other women were upon me. I felt that I had committed another omen, and almost resolved to renounce wearing "blacks" for the future. The ceremony, however, was concluded; we returned from the manse, and everything was forgotten, save mirth and music, till the hour arrived for tea. The bride's mother had boasted of her "daughter's double set o' real china" during the afternoon; and the female part of the company evidently felt anxious to examine the costly crockery. A young woman was entering with a tray and the tea equipage--another, similarly laden, followed behind her. The "sneck" of the door caught the handle of the tray, and down went china, waiting-maid, and all! The fall startled her companion--their feet became entangled--both embraced the floor, and the china from both trays lay scattered around them in a thousand shapes and sizes! This was an omen with a vengeance! I could not avoid stealing a look at the sleeve of my black coat. The bearded old woman seemed inspired. She declared the luck of the house was broken! Of the double set of real china not a cup was left--not an odd saucer. The bridegroom bore the misfortune as a man; and, gently drawing the head of his young partner towards him, said-- "Never mind them, hinny--let them gang--we'll get mair." The bride, poor thing, shed a tear; but the miller threw his arm round her neck, stole a kiss, and she blushed and smiled. It was evident, however, that every one of the company regarded this as a real omen. The mill-loft was prepared for the joyous dance; but scarce had the fantastic toes (some of them were not light ones) begun to move through the mazy rounds, when the loft-floor broke down beneath the bounding feet of the happy-hearted miller; for, unfortunately, he considered not that his goodly body was heavier than his spirits. It was omen upon omen--the work of breaking had begun--the "luck" of the young couple was departed. Three days after the wedding, one of the miller's carts was got in readiness to carry home the bride's mother. On crossing the unlucky burn, to which we have already alluded, the horse stumbled, fell, and broke its knee, and had to be taken back, and another put in its place. "Mair breakings!" exclaimed the now almost heart-broken old woman. "Oh, dear sake! how will a' this end for my puir bairn!" I remained with my new-found relatives about a week; and while there the miller sent his boy for payment of an account of thirty pounds, he having to make up money to pay a corn-factor at the Haddington market on the following day. In the evening the boy returned. "Weel, callant," inquired the miller, "hae ye gotten the siller?" "No," replied the youth. "Mercy me!" exclaimed my cousin, hastily, "hae ye no gotten the siller? Wha did ye see, or what did they say?" "I saw the wife," returned the boy; "an' she said--'Siller! laddie, what's brought ye here for siller?--I daresay your maister's daft! Do ye no ken we're broken! I'm sure a'body kens that we broke yesterday!'" "The mischief break them!" exclaimed the miller, rising and walking hurriedly across the room--"this is breaking in earnest." I may not here particularize the breakings that followed. One misfortune succeeded another, till the miller broke also. All that he had was put under the hammer, and he wandered forth with his young wife a broken man. Some years afterwards, I met with him in a different part of the country. He had the management of extensive flour mills. He was again doing well, and had money in his master's hands. At last there seemed to be an end of the breakings. We were sitting together when a third person entered, with a rueful countenance. "Willie," said he, with the tone of a speaking sepulchre, "hae ye heard the news?" "What news, now?" inquired the miller, seriously. "The maister's broken!" rejoined the other. "An' my fifty pounds?" responded my cousin, in a voice of horror. "Are broken wi' him," returned the stranger. "Oh, gude gracious!" cried the young wife, wringing her hands, "I'm sure I wish I were out o' this world!--will ever thir breakings be done!--what tempted my mother to buy me the cheena?" "Or me to wear a black coat at your wedding," thought I. A few weeks afterwards a letter arrived, announcing that death had suddenly broken the thread of life of her aged father, and her mother requested them to come and take charge of the farm which was now theirs. They went. The old man had made money on the hills. They got the better of the broken china and of my black coat. Fortune broke in upon them. My cousin declared that omens were nonsense, and his wife added that she "really thought there was naething in them. But it was lang an' mony a day," she added, "or I could get your black coat and my mother's cheena out o' my mind." They began to prosper and they prosper still. END OF VOLUME II. _Tubbs, Brook, & Chrystal, Printers, Manchester._ 
29030	----	Transcriber's note: In the THE ROTHESAY FISHERMAN, Charles' brother is referred to both as Harry and Henry on numerous occasions. WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND. Historical, Traditionary, & Imaginative. With a Glossary. Revised by ALEXANDER LEIGHTON, One of the Original Editors and Contributors. VOL. VI. London: Walter Scott, 14 Paternoster Square. and Newcastle-upon-Tyne. 1885. CONTENTS. Page THE GUIDWIFE OF COLDINGHAM, (_John Mackay Wilson_), 1 THE SURGEON'S TALES, (_Alex. Leighton_)-- THE SOMNAMBULIST OF REDCLEUGH, 22 THE ROTHESAY FISHERMAN, (_Oliver Richardson_), 47 LEAVES FROM THE DIARY OF AN AGED SPINSTER, (_John Mackay Wilson_), 80 GEORDIE WILLISON, AND THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE GOWER, (_Alexander Leighton_), 93 THE SNOW STORM OF 1825, (_Alexander Campbell_), 117 GUILTY, OR NOT GUILTY, (_Anon._), 149 THE SERGEANT'S TALES, (_John Howell_)-- THE PALANTINES, 181 THE PARSONAGE: MY FATHER'S FIRESIDE, (_Alexander Peterkin_), 213 THE SEERS' CAVE, (_William Hethrington, D.D._), 245 THE LAIDLEY WORM OF SPINDLESTON HEUGH, (_John Mackay Wilson_), 260 THE SABBATH WRECKS, (_John Mackay Wilson_), 276 WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND. THE GUIDWIFE OF COLDINGHAM; OR, THE SURPRISE OF FAST CASTLE. Near where St. Abb stretches, in massive strength, into the sea, still terrible, even in ruins, may be seen the remains of Fast Castle, one of the most interesting in its history--as it is the most fearfully romantic in its situation--of all the mouldering strongholds which are still to be traced among the Borders, like monuments of war, crumbling into nothingness beneath the silent but destroying touch of time. After the death of the bluff Harry the Eighth of England, who had long kept many of the corruptible amongst the Scottish nobility and gentry in his pay, the ambitious Somerset, succeeding to the office of guardian of the young king, speedily, under the name of Protector, acquired an authority nothing inferior to the power of an absolute monarch. He had not long held the reins of government when he rendered it evident, that it was a part of his ambition to subdue Scotland, or the better portion of it, into a mere province of England. The then governor of Scotland, Hamilton, Earl of Arran, (for Queen Mary was but a child,) was not ignorant of the designs of Somerset, and every preparation was made to repel him on his crossing the Borders. It was drawing towards evening on the first of September, 1547, when the Protector, at the head of an army of eighteen thousand men, arrived at Berwick; and nearly at the same instant, while the gloaming yet lay light and thin upon the sea, a fleet, consisting of thirty-four vessels of war, thirty transports, and a galley, were observed sailing round Emmanuel's head--the most eastern point of Holy Island. On the moment that the fleet was perceived, St. Abb's lighted up its fires, throwing a long line of light along the darkening sea, from the black shore to the far horizon: and scarce had the first flame of its alarm-fire waved in the wind, till the Dow Hill repeated the fiery signal; and, in a few minutes, Domilaw, Dumprender, and Arthur's Seat, exhibited tops of fire as the night fell down on them, bearing the tidings, as if lightnings flying on different courses revealed them, through Berwickshire and the Lothians, and enabling Roxburghshire and Fife to read the tale; while Binning's Craig, repeating the telegraphic fire, startled the burghers of Linlithgow on the one hand, and on the other aroused the men of Lanarkshire. Before, therefore, the vessels had arrived in the bay, or the Protector's army had encamped in the Magdalen Fields around Berwick--Berwickshire, Roxburgh, the Lothians, Fife, and Lanark were in arms. The cry from the hills and in the glens was, "The enemy is come--the English--to arms!" The shepherd drove his flocks to the inaccessible places in the mountains; he threw down his crook and grasped his spear. At the same time that Somerset crossed the Borders on the east, the Earl of Lennox, who, from disappointed ambition, had proved false to his country, entered it at the head of another English army to the west. But I mean not to write a history of Somerset's invasion--of the plausible proposals which he made, and which were rejected--nor of the advantages which the Scots, through recklessness or want of discipline, flung away, and of the disasters which followed. All the places of strength upon the Borders fell into his hands, and he garrisoned them from his army and set governors over them. The first place of his attack was Fast Castle; in which, after taking possession of it, he left a governor and strong garrison, composed of English troops and foreign mercenaries, causing also the people around, for their own safety, to take to him an oath of fealty, renouncing their allegiance to the young queen. But while there were many who obeyed his command with reluctance, there were others who chose rather to endanger or forfeit their lives and property than comply with it. It had not, however, been two years in the hands of the English, when, by a daring and desperate act of courage, it was wrested from them. A decree went forth from the English governor of the castle, commanding them to bring into it, from time to time, all necessary provisions for the use of the garrison, for which they should receive broad money in return; for Somerset and his chief officers--the Lord Grey and others--had caused it to be published, that they considered the inhabitants of that part of Scotland as the subjects of young Edward, in common with themselves, and not as a people with whom they were at war, or from whom their soldiers might collect provisions and pay them with the sword. The English, indeed, paid liberally for whatsoever they received; and there was policy in their so doing, for there were not a few who preferred lucre to their country, and the effigy of a prince upon a coin to allegiance to their lawful monarch. But, while such obeyed with alacrity the command of the governor of Fast Castle, to bring provisions to his garrison, there were many others who acquiesced in it reluctantly, and only obeyed from the consciousness that disobedience would be the price of their lives. At this period there dwelt in Coldingham a widow, named Madge Gordon. She was a tall and powerful woman, and her years might be a little below fifty. Daily she indulged in invectives against the English, and spoke contemptuously of the spirit of her countrymen in submitting to the mandate of the governor of Fast Castle. She had two cows and more than a score of poultry; but she declared that she would spill the milk of the one upon the ground every day, and throw the eggs of the other over the cliffs, rather than that either the one or the other should be taken through the gates of the castle while an English garrison held it. Often, therefore, as Madge beheld her neighbours carrying their baskets on their arms, their creels or sacks upon their backs, or driving their horses, laden with provisions, towards the castle, her wrath would rise against them, and she was wont to exclaim-- "O ye slaves!--ye base loun-hearted beasts o' burden! hoo lang will ye boo before the hand that strikes ye, or kiss the foot that tramples on ye? Throw doun the provisions, and gang hame and bring what they better deserve; for, if ye will gie them bread, feed them on the point o' yer faithers' spears." Some laughed as Madge spoke; but her words sank deep into the hearts of others; and a few answered-- "Ye are as daft as ever, Madge; but a haveral woman's tongue is nae scandal, and ye ken that the governor winna tak cognizance o' ye." "Me ken or care for him, ye spiritless coofs, ye!" she replied; "gae tell him that Madge Gordon defies him and a' his men, as she despises you, and wad shake the dirt frae her shoon at baith the ane and the other o' ye. Shame fa' ye, ye degenerate, mongrel race! for, if ye had ae drap o' the bluid o' the men in yer veins wha bled wi' Wallace and wi' Bruce, before the sun gaed doun, the flag o' bonny Scotland wad wave frae the castle towers." "Mother! mother!" said an interesting-looking girl of nineteen, who had come to the door as the voice of Madge waxed louder and more bitter--"dinna talk foolishly--ye will bring us a' into trouble." "Trouble! ye silly lassie, ye!" rejoined Madge; "these are times indeed to talk o' the like o' us being brought into trouble, when our puir bluiding country is groaning beneath the yoke o' an enemy, and we see them harrying us not only oot o' hoose and ha', but even those that should be our protectors oot o' their manhood! See," added she, "do ye see wha yon is, skulking as far as he can get frae our door wi' the weel-filled sack upon his shouthers? It is yer ain dearie, Florence Wilson! O the betrayer o' his country!--He's a coward, Janet, like the rest o' them, and shall ne'er ca' ye his wife while I live to ca' ye daughter." "O mother!" added the maiden, in a low and agitated voice--"what could poor Florence do? It isna wi' a man body as it is wi' the like o' us. If he didna do as the lave do, he wad be informed against, and he maun obey or die!" "Let him die, then, as a man, as a Scotchman!" said the stern guidwife of Coldingham. Florence Wilson, of whom Madge had spoken, was a young man of three or four and twenty, and who then held, as his fathers had done before him, sheep lands under the house of Home. He was one of those who obeyed reluctantly the command of the governor to bring provisions to the garrison; and, until the day on which Madge beheld him with the sack upon his shoulders, he had resisted doing so. But traitors had whispered the tale of his stubbornness and discontent in the castle; and, in order to save himself and his flocks, he that day took a part of his substance to the garrison. He had long been the accepted of Janet Gordon; and the troubles of the times alone prevented them, as the phrase went, from "commencing house together." He well knew the fierce and daring patriotism of his intended mother-in-law, and he took a circuitous route, in order to avoid passing her door, laden with a burden of provisions for the enemy. But, as has been told, she perceived him. In the evening, Florence paid his nightly visit to Janet. "Out! out! ye traitor!" cried Madge, as she beheld him crossing her threshold; "the shadow of a coward shall ne'er fall on my floor while I hae a hand to prevent it." "I'm nae coward, guidwife," retorted Florence indignantly. "Nae coward!" she rejoined; "what are ye, then? Did not I, this very day, wi' my ain een, behold ye skulking, and carrying provisions to the enemy!" "Ye might," said Florence; "but ae man canna tak a castle, nor drive frae it five hundred enemies. Bide ye yet. Foolhardy courage isna manhood; and, had mair prudence and caution, and less confidence, been exercised by our army last year, we wouldna hae this day to mourn owre the battle o' Pinkie. I tell ye, therefore, again, just bide ye yet." "Come in, Florence," said Madge; "draw in a seat and sit doun, and tell me what ye mean." "Hoots, Florence," said Janet, in a tone partaking of reproach and alarm, "are ye gaun to be as daft as my mother? What matters it to us wha's king or wha's queen?--it will be lang or either the ane or the ither o' them do onything for us. When ye see lords and gentry in the pay o' England, and takin its part, what can the like o' you or my mother do?" "Do! ye chicken-hearted trembler at yer ain shadow!" interrupted Madge; "though somewhat past its best, I hae an arm as strong and healthy as the best o' them, and the blood that runs in it is as guid as the proudest o' them." Now, the maiden name of Madge was Home; and when her pride was touched, it was her habit to run over the genealogical tree of her father's family, which she could illustrate upon her fingers, beginning on all occasions--"I am, and so is every Home in Berwickshire, descended frae the Saxon kings o' England and the first Earls o' Northumberland." Thus did she run on, tracing their descent from Crinan, chief of the Saxons in the north of England, to Maldredus, his son, who married Algatha, daughter of Uthred, prince of Northumberland, and grand-daughter of Ethelrid, king of England; and from Maldredus to his son Cospatrick, of whose power William the Conqueror became jealous, and who was, therefore, forced to fly into Scotland in the year 1071, where Malcolm Canmore bestowed on him the manor of Dunbar, and many baronies in Berwickshire. Thus did she notice three other Cospatricks, famous and mighty men in their day, each succeeding Cospatrick the son of his predecessor; and after them a Waldreve, and a Patrick, whose son, William, marrying his cousin, he obtained with her the lands of Home, and, assuming the name, they became the founders of the clan. From the offspring of the cousin, the male of whom took the name of Sir William Home, and from him through eleven other successors, down to George, the fourth Lord Home, who had fallen while repelling the invasion of Somerset a few months before, did Madge trace the roots, shoots, and branches of her family, carrying it back through a period of more than six hundred years; and she glowed, therefore, with true aristocratic indignation at the remark of her daughter to Florence--"What can the like o' you or my mother do?" And she concluded her description of her genealogical tree by saying--"Talk noo the like o' yer mother, hizzy!" "Aweel, mother," said Janet, mildly--"that may a' be; but there is nae cause for you fleeing into a tift upon the matter, for nae harm was meant. I only dinna wish Florence to be putting his life in jeopardy for neither end nor purpose. I'm sure I wish that oor nobility would keep to their bargain, and allow the queen, though she is but a lassie yet, to be married to young king Edward, and then we might hae peace in the land, and ither folk would be married as weel as them." "We shall be married, Janet, my doo," said Florence, gazing on her tenderly--"only ye bide a wee." Now, it must not be thought that Janet loved her country less than did her mother or her betrothed husband; but, while the land of blue mountains was dear to her heart, Florence Wilson was yet more dear; and it was only because they were associated with thoughts of him that they became as a living thing, as a voice and as music in her bosom. For, whence comes our fondness for the woods, the mountains, the rivers of nativity, but from the fond remembrances which their associations conjure up, and the visions which they recall to the memory of those who were dear to us, but who are now far from us, or with the dead? We may have seen more stupendous mountains, nobler rivers, and more stately woods--but they were not _ours_! They were not the mountains, the rivers, and the woods, by which we played in childhood, formed first friendships, or breathed love's tender tale in the ear of her who was beautiful as the young moon or the evening star, which hung over us like smiles of heaven; nor were they the fountains, the woods, and the rivers, near which our kindred, the flesh of our flesh, and the bone of our bone, SLEEP! But I digress. "Tell me, Florence," said Madge, "what mean ye by 'bide a wee?' Is there a concerted project amongst ony o' ye, an' are ye waiting for an opportunity to carry it into effect?" "No," answered he, "I canna say as how we hae devised ony practicable scheme o' owrecoming our oppressors as yet; but there are hundreds o' us ready to draw our swords an' strike, on the slightest chance o' success offering--and the chance may come." "An' amongst the hundreds o' hands ye speak o'," returned Madge, "is there no a single head that can plot an' devise a plan to owrecome an' drive our persecutors frae the castle?" "I doot it--at least I hae ne'er heard ony feasible-like plan proposed," said Florence, sorrowfully. Madge sat thoughtful for a few minutes, her chin resting on her hand. At length she inquired--"When go ye back to sell provisions to them again?" "This day week," was the reply. "Then I shall tak my basket wi' eggs an' butter, an' gae wi' ye," answered Madge. "O mother! what are ye sayin?" cried Janet. "Ye maun gang nae sic gate. I ken yer temper would flare up the moment ye heard a word spoken against Scotland, or a jibe broken on it; an' there is nae tellin' what might be the consequence." "Leave baith the action an' the consequence to me, Janet, my woman," said the patriotic mother; "as I brew, I will drink. But ye hae naething to fear; I will be as mim in the castle as ye wad be if gieing Florence yer hand in the kirk." The day on which the people were again to carry provisions to the garrison in Fast Castle arrived; and to the surprize of every one, Madge, with a laden basket on each arm, mingled amongst them. Many marvelled, and the more mercenary said-- "Ay, ay!--Madge likes to turn the penny as weel as ither folk. The English will hae guid luck if ony o' them get a bargain oot o' her baskets." She, therefore, went to the castle, bearing provisions with the rest of the peasantry; but, under pretence of disposing of her goods to the best advantage, she went through and around the castle, and quitted it not until she had ascertained where were its strongest, where its weakest points of defence, and in what manner it was guarded. When, therefore, Florence Wilson again visited her dwelling, she addressed him, saying-- "Noo, I hae seen oor enemies i' the heart o' their strength; an' I hae a word to say to ye that will try yer courage, and the courage o' the hunders o' guid men an' true that ye hae spoken o' as only bidin' their time to strike. Noo, is it yer opinion that, between Dunglass an' Eyemouth, ye could gather a hundred men willing an' ready to draw the sword for Scotland's right, an' to drive the invaders frae Fast Castle, if a feasible plan were laid before them?" "I hae nae doot o't," replied he. "Doots winna do," said she; "will ye try it?" "Yes," said he. "Florence, ye _shall_ be my son," added she, taking his hand--"I see there is spirit in ye yet." "Mother," said Janet earnestly, "what dangerous errand is this ye wad set him upon?--what do ye think it could matter to me wha was governor o' Fast Castle, if Florence should meet his death in the attempt?" "Wheesht! ye silly lassie, ye," replied her mother; "had I no borne ye, I wad hae said that ye hadna a drap o' my bluid i' yer veins. What is't that ye fear? If they'll abide by my counsel, though it may try their courage, oor purpose shall be accomplished wi' but little scaith." "Neither fret nor fear, dear," said Florence, addressing Janet; "I hae a hand to defend my head, an' a guid sword to guard baith." Then turning to her mother, he added--"An' what may be yer plan, that I may communicate it to them that I ken to be zealous in oor country's cause?" "Were I to tell ye noo," said she, "that ye might communicate it to them, before we were ready to put it into execution, the story wad spread frae the Tweed to John o' Groat's, and frae St. Abb's to the Solway, and our designs be prevented. Na, lad, my scheme maun be laid before a' the true men that can be gathered together at the same moment, an' within a few hours o' its being put in execution. Do ye ken the dark copse aboon Houndwood, where there is a narrow and crooked opening through the tangled trees, but leading to a bit o' bonny green sward, where a thousand men might encamp unobserved?" "I do," answered Florence. "And think ye that ye could assemble the hundred men ye speak o' there, on this night fortnight?" "I will try," replied he. "Try, then," added she, "and I will meet ye there before the new moon sink behind the Lammermoors." It was a few days after this that Madge was summoned to the village of Home, to attend the funeral of a relative; and while she was yet there, the castle of her ancestors was daringly wrested from the hands of the Protector's troops, by an aged kinsman of her own, and a handful of armed men. The gallant deed fired her zeal more keenly, and strengthened her resolution to wrest Fast Castle from the hands of the invaders. She had been detained at Home until the day on which Florence Wilson was to assemble the stout-hearted and trust-worthy in the copse above Houndwood. Her kindred would have detained her longer; but she resisted their entreaties, and took leave of them saying, that "her bit lassie, Janet, would be growing irksome wi' being left alane, an' that, at ony rate, she had business on hand that couldna be delayed." She proceeded direct to the place of rendezvous, without going onwards to her own house; and, as she drew near the narrow opening which led to the green space in the centre of the dark copse, the young moon was sinking behind the hills. As she drew cautiously forward she heard the sound of voices, which gradually became audible. "Well, Florence," said one, "what are ye waiting for? Where is the grand project that ye was to lay before us?" "Florence," said others, "let us proceed to business. It is gaun to be very dark, and ye will remember we have to gang as far as the Peaths[A] the night yet." [A] The Pease Bridge. Florence answered as one perplexed, but in his wonted words--"Hae patience--bide a wee;" and added, in a sort of soliloquy, but loud enough to be overheard by his companions--"She promised to be here before the moon gaed down upon the Lammermoors." "Wha did?--wha promised to be here?" inquired half a dozen voices. "I did!" cried Madge, proudly, as she issued from the narrow aperture in the copse, and her tall figure was revealed by the fading moonbeams. With a stately step, she walked into the midst of them, and gazed round as though the blood and dignity of all the Homes had been centred in her own person. "Weel, Madge," inquired they, "and, since ye are come, for what hae ye brought us here?" "To try," added she, "whether, inheriting, as ye do, yer faithers' bluid, ye also inherit their spirit--to see whether ye hae the manhood to break the yoke o' yer oppressors, or if ye hae the courage to follow the example which the men o' Home set ye the other nicht." "What have they done?" inquired Florence. "Hearken," said she, "ane and a' o' ye, and I will tell ye; for, wi' my ain een, I beheld a sicht that was as joyfu' to me as the sight o' a sealed pardon to a condemned criminal. Ye weel ken that, for near twa years, the English have held Home Castle, just as they still hold Fast Castle, beside us. Now, it was the other nicht, and just as the grey gloam was darkening the towers, that an auld kinsman o' mine, o' the name o' Home, scaled the walls where they were highest, strongest, and least guarded; thirty gallant countrymen had accompanied him to their foot, but before they could follow his example, he was perceived by a sentinel, wha shouted out--'To arms!--to arms!' 'Cower, lads, cower!' said my auld kinsman, in a sort o' half whisper, to his followers; and he again descended the wall, and they lay down, with their swords in their hands, behind some whin bushes at the foot o' the battlements. There was running, clanking, and shouting through the castle for a time; but, as naething like the presence o' an enemy was either seen or heard, the sentry that had raised the alarm was laughed at, and some gaed back to their beds, and others to their wine. But, after about two hours, and when a'thing was again quiet, my kinsman and his followers climbed the walls, and, rushing frae sentinel to sentinel, they owrecam ane after anither before they could gie the alarm to the garrison in the castle; and, bursting into it, shouted--'Hurra!--Scotland and Home for ever!' Panic seized the garrison; some started frae their sleep--others reeled frae their cups--some grasped their arms--others ran, they knew not where--but terror struck the hearts o' ane and a'; and still, as the cry, 'Scotland and Home for ever!' rang frae room to room, and was echoed through the lang high galleries, it seemed like the shouting o' a thousand men; and, within ten minutes, every man in the garrison was made prisoner or put to the sword! And noo, neebors, what my kinsman and a handfu' o' countrymen did for the deliverance o' the Castle o' Home, can ye not do for Fast Castle, or will ye not--and so drive every invader oot o' Berwickshire?" "I dinna mean to say, Madge," answered one, who appeared to be the most influential personage amongst her auditors--"I dinna mean to say but that your relation and his comrades hae performed a most noble and gallant exploit--one that renders them worthy o' being held in everlasting remembrance by their countrymen--and glad would I be if we could this night do the same for Fast Castle. But, woman, the thing is impossible; the cases are not parallel. It mightna be a difficult matter to scale the highest part o' the walls o' Home Castle, and ladders could easily be got for that purpose; but, at Fast Castle, wi' the draw-brig up, and the dark, deep, terrible chasm between you and the walls, like the bottomless gulf between time and eternity!--I say, again, for my part, the thing is impossible. Wha has strength o' head, even for a moment, to look doun frae the dark and dizzy height o' the Wolf's Crag?--and wha could think o' scaling it? Even if it had been possible, the stoutest heart that ever beat in a bosom would, wi' the sickening horror o' its owner's situation, before he was half-way up, be dead as the rocks that would dash him to pieces as he fell! Na, na, I should hae been glad to lend a helping and a willing hand to ony practicable plan, but it would be madness to throw away our lives where there couldna be the slightest possibility o' success." "Listen," said Madge; "I ken what is possible, and what is impossible, as weel as ony o' ye. I meant that ye should tak for example the dauntless spirit o' my kinsman and the men o' Home, and no their manner o' entering the castle. But, if yer hearts beat as their hearts did, before this hour the morn's nicht, the invaders will be driven frae Fast Castle. In the morning we are ordered to take provisions to the garrison. I shall be wi' ye, and in the front o' ye. But, though my left arm carries a basket, beneath my cloak shall be hidden the bit sword which my guidman wore in the wars against King Harry; and, as I reach the last sentinel--'Now, lads! now for Scotland and our Queen!' I shall cry; and wha dare follow my example?" "I dare! I will!" said Florence Wilson, "and be at yer side to strike doun the sentinel; and sure am I that there isna a man here that winna do or die, and drive oor enemies frae the castle, or leave his body within its wa's for them to cast into the sea. Every man o' us, the morn, will enter the castle wi' arms concealed about him, and hae them ready to draw and strike at a moment's warning. Ye canny say, freends, but that this is a feasible plan, and ye winna be outdone in bravery by a woman. Do ye agree to it?" There were cries of--"Yes, Florence, yes!--every man o' us!"--and "It is an excellent plan--it is only a pity that it hadna been thocht o' suner," resounded on all sides; but "Better late than never," said others. "Come round me, then," said Madge; and they formed a circle around her. "Ye swear now," she continued, "in the presence o' Him who see'th through the darkness o' night and searcheth the heart, that nane o' ye will betray to oor enemies what we hae this nicht determined on; but that every man o' ye will, the morn, though at the price o' his life, do yer utmost to deliver oor groaning country frae the yoke o' its invaders and oppressors! This ye swear?" And they bowed their heads around her. "Awa, then," added she, "ilka man to his ain hoose, and get his weapons in readiness." And, leaving the copse, they proceeded in various directions across the desolate moor. But Florence Wilson accompanied Madge to her dwelling; and, as they went, she said-- "Florence, if ye act as weel the morn as ye hae spoken this nicht, the morn shall my dochter, Janet, be yer wife, wi' a fu' purse for her portion that neither o' ye kens aboot." He pressed her hand in the fulness of his heart; but she added-- "Na, na, Florence, I'm no a person that cares aboot a fuss being made for the sake o' gratitude--thank me wi' deeds. Remember I have said--a' depends on yer conduct the morn." When they entered the house, poor Janet was weeping, because of her mother's absence, for she had expected her for two days; and her apprehensions were not removed when she saw her in the company of Florence, who, although her destined husband, and who, though he had long been in the habit of visiting her daily, had called but once during her mother's absence, and then he was sad and spoke little. She saw that her parent had prevailed on him to undertake some desperate project, and she wept for his sake. When he arose to depart, she rose also and accompanied him to the door. "Florence," said she, tenderly, "you and my mother hae some secret between ye, which ye winna communicate to me." "A' that is a secret between us," said he, "is, that she consents that the morn ye shall be my winsome bride, if ye be willing, as I'm sure ye are; and that is nae secret that I wad keep frae ye; but I didna wish to put ye aboot by mentioning it before her." Janet blushed, and again added-- "But there is something mair between ye than that, Florence, and why should ye hide it frae me?" "Dear me, hinny!" said he, "I wonder that ye should be sae apprehensive. There is nae secret between yer mother an' me that isna weel-kenned to every ane in the country-side. But just ye hae patience--bide a wee--wait only till the morn; and, when I come to lead ye afore the minister, I'll tell ye a'thing then." "An' wherefore no tell me the noo, Florence?" said she. "I am sure that there is something brewing, an' a dangerous something too. Daur ye no trust me? Ye may think me a weak an' silly creature; but, if I am not just so rash and outspoken as my mother, try me if I haena as stout a heart when there is a necessity for showing it." "Weel, Janet, dear," said Florence, "I winna conceal frae ye that there is something brewing--but what that something is I am not at liberty to tell. I am bound by an oath not to speak o't, and so are a hunder others, as weel as me. But the morn it will be in my power to tell ye a'. Noo, just be ye contented, and get ready for our wedding." "And my mother kens," Janet was proceeding to say, when her mother's voice was heard, crying from the house-- "Come in, Janet--what are ye doing oot there in the cauld?--ye hae been lang enough wi' Florence the nicht--but the morn's nicht ye may speak to him as lang as ye like. Sae come in, lassie." As the reader may suppose, Madge was not one whose commands required to be uttered twice; and, with a troubled heart, Janet bade Florence "good-night," and returned to the cottage. It was a little after sunrise on the following day, when a body of more than a hundred peasantry, agreeably to the command of the governor, appeared before the castle, laden with provisions. Some of them had the stores which they had brought upon the backs of horses, but which they placed upon their own shoulders as they approached the bridge. Amongst them were fishermen from Eyemouth and Coldingham, shepherds from the hills with slaughtered sheep, millers, and the cultivators of the patches of arable ground beyond the moor. With them, also, were a few women carrying eggs, butter, cheese, and poultry; and at the head of the procession (for the narrowness of the drawbridge over the frightful chasm, beyond which the castle stood, caused the company to assume the form of a procession as they entered the walls) was Madge Gordon, and her intended son-in-law, Florence Wilson. The drawbridge had been let down to them; the last of the burden-bearers had crossed it; and Madge had reached the farthest sentinel, when suddenly dropping her basket, out from beneath her grey cloak gleamed the sword of her dead husband! "Now, lads!--now for Scotland and our Queen!" she exclaimed, and as she spoke, the sword in her hand pierced the body of the sentinel. At the same instant every man cast his burden to the ground, a hundred hidden swords were revealed, and every sentinel was overpowered. "Forward, lads! forward!" shouted Madge. "Forward!" cried Florence Wilson, with his sword in his hand, leading the way. They rushed into the interior of the castle; they divided into bands. Some placed themselves before the arsenal where arms were kept, while others rushed from room to room, making prisoners of those of the garrison who yielded willingly, and showing no quarter to those who resisted. Many sought safety in flight, some flying half-naked, aroused from morning dreams after a night's carouse, and almost all fled without weapons of defence. The effect upon the garrison was as if a thunderbolt had burst in the midst of them. Within half an hour, Fast Castle was in the hands of the peasantry, and the entire soldiery who had defended it had either fled, were slain, or made prisoners. Besides striking the first blow, Madge had not permitted the sword of her late husband to remain idle in her hands during the conflict. And, as the conquerors gathered round Florence Wilson, to acknowledge to him that to his counsel, presence of mind, and courage, as their leader, in the midst of the confusion that prevailed, they owed their victory, and the deliverance of the east of Berwickshire from its invaders, Madge pressed forward, and, presenting him her husband's sword, said-- "Tak this, my son, and keep it--it was the sword o' a brave man, and to a brave man I gie it--and this night shall ye be my son indeed." "Thank ye, mother--mother!" said Florence. And as he spoke a faint smile crossed his features. But scarce had he taken the sword in his hand, ere a voice was heard, crying-- "Where is he?--where shall I find him?--does he live?--where is my mother?" "Here, love!--here! It is my Janet!" cried Florence; but his voice seemed to fail him as he spoke. "Come here, my bairn," cried her mother, "and in the presence of these witnesses receive a hand that ye may be proud o'." As part of the garrison fled through Coldingham, Janet had heard of the surprise by which the castle had been taken, and ran towards it to gather tidings of her mother and affianced husband; for she now knew the secret which they would not reveal to her. As she rushed forward, the crowd that surrounded Florence gave way, and, as he moved forward to meet her, it was observed that he shook or staggered as he went; but it was thought no more of; and when she fell upon his bosom, and her mother took their hands and pressed them together, the multitude burst into a shout and blessed them. He strove to speak--he muttered the word "Janet!" but his arms fell from her neck, and he sank as lifeless on the ground. "Florence! my Florence!--he is wounded--murdered!" cried the maiden, and she flung herself beside him on the ground. Madge and the spectators endeavoured to raise him; but his eyes were closed; and, as he gasped, they with difficulty could understand the words he strove to utter--"Water--water!" He had, indeed, been wounded--mortally wounded--but he spoke not of it. They raised him in their arms and carried him to an apartment in the castle; but, ere they reached it, the spirit of Florence Wilson had fled. Poor Janet clung to his lifeless body. She now cried--"Florence!--Florence!--we shall be married to-night?--yes!--yes!--I have everything ready!" And again she spoke bitter words to her mother, and said that she had murdered her Florence. The spectators lifted her from his body, and Madge stood as one on whom affliction, in the midst of her triumph, had fallen as a palsy, depriving her of speech and action. "My poor bereaved bairn!" she at length exclaimed; and she took her daughter in her arms and kissed her--"ye hae indeed cause to mourn, for Florence was a noble lad!--but, oh, dinna say it was my doing, hinny!--dinna wyte yer mother!--will ye no, Janet? It is a great comfort that Florence has died like a hero." But Janet never was herself again. She became, as their neighbours said, a poor, melancholy, maundering creature, going about talking of her Florence and the surprise of Fast Castle, and ever ending her story--"But I maun awa hame and get ready, for Florence and I are to be married the nicht." Madge followed her, mourning, wheresoever she went, bearing with and soothing all her humours. But she had not long to bear them; for, within two years, Janet was laid by the side of Florence Wilson, in Coldingham kirkyard; and, before another winter howled over their peaceful graves, Madge lay at rest beside them. THE SURGEON'S TALES. THE SOMNAMBULIST OF REDCLEUGH. It is now many years since I visited a patient, at the distance of some sixty miles from the proper circuit of my practice. On one occasion, when with him, I received a letter from a gentleman, who subscribed himself as one of the trustees of Mr. Bernard[B] of Redcleugh, requesting me to visit, on my return home, the widow of that gentleman, who still resided in the old mansion, and whose mind had received a shock from some domestic affliction, any allusion to which was, for some reason, very specially reserved. I may remark, that I believe I owed this application to some opinions I was known to entertain on the subject of that species of insanity produced by moral causes, and which is to be carefully distinguished from the diathetic mania, so often accompanied by pathological changes in the brain. It is scarcely necessary to inform the reader, that we have always a better chance for a cure in the one case than in the other, insomuch indeed as, in the first, we have merely functional derangement; in the second, organic change. I always maintain there is no interest about insane people, except to the man of science; and even he very soon gets to that "ass's bridge," on the other side of which Nature, as the genius of occult things, stands with a satirical smile on her face, as she sees the proud savans toppling over into the Lethe of sheer ignorance, and getting drowned for their insane curiosity. In the asylum in France, mentioned by De Vayer, the inmates enjoyed exceedingly the imputed madness of the visiting physician. The same play is acted in the world all throughout. Our insanity has only a little more method in it--and while I avoid any description of the madness of Mrs. Bernard, I will have to set forth a story, which, leading to that madness, has in it apparently as much of insanity as may be found in the ravings of a maniac. [B] I find it more convenient, in this tale, to give names to my personages, in place of initials. I obeyed the call to Redcleugh, where I found the _res domi_ in a peculiar position. There were few inmates in the large old house. Besides the invalid herself, there was an old cook and a butler, by name Francis, who had been in the family for many years, and whose garrulity was supplied from an inexhaustible fountain--the fate and fortunes of the Bernards. My patient was a lovely woman in body--a maniac in mind. Her affliction had suddenly shot up into her brain, and left untouched the lineaments of her beauty, excepting the expression of the eye, which had become nervous and furtive, oscillating between the extreme of softness and the intensity of ferocity. Having been cautioned by Francis to make no allusion to her husband or to certain children, whom he named, or to the word "book," and many other things, I contented myself, in the first instance, with a general examination of her symptoms; and, as it was late before I arrived, I resolved upon remaining all night, which would enable me to see her again in the morning. I had supper served up to me by Francis, who brought me some wine which had been in the house for fifty years, and told me stories of the family, extending back twice that period. Sometimes these old legends would be interrupted for a moment by a shrill cry, coming from a source which we both knew. All else in this house was under the spell of Angerana, the genius of silence. There is something peculiar in the sound of a common voice in a large house, filled with memorials of those who had lived in it, and yet with no living sounds to break the dull heavy air, which seems to thicken by not being moved. It appeared as if I had been suddenly thrown into a region of romance, but my experiences were not pleasant. I wished to escape to my own professional thoughts again, and desired to go to bed. I was accordingly, not without some efforts on the part of my entertainer to prolong his stories, ushered into my bed-room--a large apartment, hung with pictures, some very old, and some very new. Francis put the candle down, and left me. It was not long before I was undressed and under the bed-clothes; but not being sure about sleeping, I left the candle burning, intending to rise and extinguish it when I found myself more inclined to fall over into the rest I required. The old legends began to pass through my mind, and I was engrossed with the spirit of the past. Time makes poetry out of very common things, and then we are to remember, what we do not often think of, that the most ordinary life cannot be passed without encountering some incidents which smack of the romantic. Nay, every man's life, as a bright gleam thrown on the dark abyss which separates him from eternity, is all through a romance, in the midst of that greater one, seen by us only as shadows--the negatives of some positives, perhaps, witnessed by eyes on the other side. I have always been tinged by something of the spirit of old Bruno, that dreamer, whose most real realities were no other than umbery forms--flakes of shadow--cast off by a central light from the real objects, of which we are the mere shadowy representatives. All the breathing, throbbing, active beings, who for two hundred years had run along these narrow passages of the old house, and peered into half-open doors, or out of the small skew-topped windows--danced, sang, laughed and wept--died, and been carried out--were to each other as such umbery things; and I, the present subsisting shadow, received them all into my living microcosm, where, as in a mirror, they existed again, scarcely less shadowy than before. Somehow or another I could not get to sleep; not that I had any fears: these were out of the question with me. My vigils were attributable to a fancy, wrought upon by the recitals of the old butler, illustrated by the very concrete things which had been used by the personages he described. There were the chairs they sat on, the beds they slept on, the piano they played on, all as they had been left. It was impossible for me to conceive that there was yet no connection between these things and the old family. The pictures, too, were still there, in the various rooms, some of them in my bed-room. The light of my eyes seemed to have disenchanted these silent staring personages. They came forth and occupied themselves as they had been wont before they became pictures. The chair of the first of the late Mr. Bernard's two wives--that "angel whose look was an eternal smile," as Francis poetically described her--appeared to have the power of drawing her down into it; but then the attraction was not less for the second wife, "whose fate was a terrible mystery;" and thus would I get confused. Then, to which of these did the little dark fellow on the south wall belong--he who seemed to have been scorched by too strong a sun--and the girl beside them, who looked as if she had been blanched by too bright a moon--which of the two was her mother? At last I got out of bed, and rummaged for some stray volume to disenchant me out of the imaginary world of these Bernards. I drew out one or two drawers, which had been so long shut that they had lost their allegiance to the hand. I peered into an escritoire, and another old cabinet, which creaked and groaned at being disturbed by a hand not a Bernard's. All was empty. There was one drawer which refused to come out to the full extent. Something seemed to be jammed between it and the back of the escritoire. Man is an enterprising animal; a little resistance sets his energies a-spring. I would not be baulked. I would know what the impediment was and work out the solution of the difficulty. By pulling hard the obstacle gave way. The drawer followed my hand, while my body fell back on the floor. Psha! some stray leaves of an old pamphlet fluttered about. I had dismembered the obstacle, and would now collect the fragments. I had got for my pains an old brochure, embellished by dreadful woodcuts, of the old Newgate calender style, and entitled, "The true and genuine history of the murderer, Jane Grierson, who poisoned her mistress, and thereby became the wife of her master, Josiah Temple;" the date 1742. I was no fancier of awful histories of murderers, yet I would read myself asleep amidst horrors rather than lie with my imagination in wakeful subjugation to the images of these eternal Bernards. Bernard still! on the top of the title page was written "Amelia Bernard." The charm was here too. Which of these fair creatures on the wall was the proprietor of this brochure? She had read it surely with care. She must have cherished it, or why identify it as her own? Perhaps she was a lover of old books; it could not be that she was a lover of cruel stories. Those eyes were made for throwing forth the lambent light of affection and love; how unlike to the staring blood-shot orbs of that Jane Grierson on that terrific woodcut! Yet, true to the nature of my species, at least my sex, I found in the grim pamphlet that inexpressible something which recommends coarse recitals of human depravity even to cultivated minds, and which consists probably in the conformity between the thing itself and the description of it; the rugged words, semblances of the rugged implements, and the savage actions of cruelty, address themselves to the latent barbarism which lies as the lowest stratum of our many piled nature, and receive the savage response at the moment we blush for humanity. These dire images of the murderer's story were stronger than those of the Bernards--even of those lovely faces on the wall--and as the candle burned down, and the red wick grew up, I read and read on, how the cruel fiend did destroy while she fawned upon her victim; how that victim, overcome by the kindness of her enemy, praised her to her husband, who loved his wife to distraction; and how she, even in her devoted gratitude, recommended her murderer as her successor to the bed she lay on, and to those arms where she so often had enjoyed the pressure of his love. Nor was the recommendation ineffectual, for the said wicked Jane did become the wife of her victim's husband. The old horrid savagery of our criminal literature!--not yet abated--never to be abated--only glossed with tropes and figures more hideous than the plain narrative of blood. It was a vain thought that I should read myself asleep among the terrible images suggested by my brochure. I was even more vigilant than before. Then, that Francis seemed never at rest; I heard him clambering up stairs, tramping along passages, shutting doors, speaking to himself, just as if all the actions of his prior life were being gone over again. I would have another visit, and another long narrative of some Bernard, whose picture was somewhere in a red or blue room, and who had been, as usual, with all those bearded individuals who hung on walls, either at the crusades under Peter the hermit, or at Flodden under James, or at Culloden under Charles. The clock struck, with a sound of grating rust, two; and--tramp, tramp--he trudged along the passage. The door opened, and in came my chronicler. "Doctor, I saw your light," said he, "and you know it was always my duty, when the family were in their old home here, to see that all the lights were out o' nights; aye ever after the east wing was burned down, through aunt Marjory's love of reading old romances. I hope I did not disturb you." "No," replied I; "pray, Francis, I need not ask which of these two pictured beauties is Amelia, my patient? The likeness is good." "Yes, there she is," said he, with a return of his old enthusiasm. "See her light locks and her blue eyes. She was the mother of that fair child. Don't you see the daughter in the mother and the mother in the daughter? But I cannot look long on these pictures. My heart fails and my head runs round. Look at the dark one. It was a terrible night that when she came to Redcleugh. My wife, who now lies in Deathscroft, down among the elms yonder, could not sleep for the screeching of the owls, as if every horned devil of them shouted woe! woe!--to the house of Redcleugh." "Nonsense, Francis, omens--all nonsense," I said, interrupting him. "So said I to Christy, just as you say, doctor. So say we all, every one of us, here and everywhere, always, just until we are pulled up at a jerk by some one of God's acts, when we see His finger pointed to the sign. You are not so old as I am, and have something to learn. Signs are made only when there are to be judgments, and judgments are not according to the common ways of heaven." "What did Mr. Bernard do," asked I, "to bring upon him this judgment which appears to you to have been so fearful?" "I am not in the secrets of God's ways with erring man," replied he. "But who can tell how my master got Lillah--that's her there with these dark eyes--his first wife? He had been away for years in the eastern countries, and he never wrote to any one that he was to bring a wife with him. He brought her, amidst the storm of that fearful night, as if she had been a bird which he had rescued from the blast, so cowering and timid did she appear, always clinging to the laird, and looking at him with such beseeching eyes, and so unlike the women of our land--aye, for it was no northern sun lighted up these eyes; and as for a heathen faith imparting such gentleness, we could understand it no way. 'Twas all a hurry in Redcleugh as well as a sort of fright among us in the hall, every one whispering and wondering and questioning all to no end; for from that night we never knew more of her home or kindred, save that it was suspected she was a Circassian, and had left a noble home for the love she bore to master. Nor was she ever inquired after by her friends, except once, when a great eastern lord, as they said, came in a strange equipage to see her; but her change to a Christian shocked and angered him, so that high words rose and even reached our ears. He spoke of the faith she had forsworn, of Allah, and Mahomet, and the Koran, and she with tears responded Christ, the Saviour of all mankind, and his holy mother, and the cross of Calvary, so that he was made more angry; and then he spoke of Euphrosyne, her mother, as we thought, and again the tears rolled down these cheeks, as she clung to master and lay upon his neck, sobbing as if her heart would burst in the battle between the daughter and the wife. The stranger departed in anger, nor did he break his fast at Redcleugh, and many a day afterwards my young lady was in tears. 'Twas not long till she had that boy, whom she bore after many days of labour, with such pain that there was not a servant in the household did not look as if her own salvation depended upon the issue of that protracted struggle, so beloved was she, sir; so respected, so adored, so pitied; and as for Mr. Bernard, he was not himself--scarcely a man--and little wonder either, for his face was ever the attraction of her eyes, and every look seemed to be watched by her as if all her happiness hung upon one of his smiles. Such doings were the wonder of us all in these parts; for you know we are rougher lovers in our cold land, and neither Christy, nor I, nor any of us, could understand how, on the face of this earth, there could be such affection--not a single drop of bitterness, not a ruffle on the smooth surface. Why, sir! did we not all, to satisfy our self-love, and our country's custom, call it very idolatry; but it was only a little envy which we, as it were, stole to ourselves, as a sweet unction to our sores, and when these were mended we loved her the more--nay, we could do nothing less; for even the devil's spleen couldn't detect an unevenness to hang upon it a suspicion against her." "You are even more partial, Francis, than the painter," said I, "whom I have been charging with the fault of drawing upon his fancy to enable him to draw upon our credulity. She looks scarcely earthly." "It's no use my description, sir. There are certain perfections we cannot attribute to God's creatures, because we suffer by the comparison. They say if there's not now and then a little anger there's a want. Oh! they will say God's image is not perfect if it have not a dash of our own evil in it. But experience is the mother of wonders as well as wisdom. Aye, sir, years of intercourse, even at a servant's distance, are worth more than your theories in these days." "I suspect you have been in the library, Francis," said I; "you have opened books as well as bottles." "Aye, sir, and _the book_ of all books," replied he seriously; "but I hope I am not irreverend when I say that God may lead us to understand the first image in Eden by showing us sometimes something better here than what we can feel within our own hearts." "Oh, I am not sceptical," said I; for I thought he was pained by my remark, as if I doubted the qualities of his idol. "I believe all you have said of poor Lillah; and I love for the sake of my own matrimonial hopes to believe it, and more. But this idol died!" "And died young, sir; perhaps because she was an idol," replied he. "They don't live long, sir, these creatures. They're like some of those bright winged things of the East, of which I have read, that exist only so long as the rose blooms on which they hang and live. But my lady Lillah never dwined--only there came a sadness over her, and master noticed that she began to cherish more than usual a miniature which she carried about with her in her bosom--the figure of a lady--I have seen it often--so like herself you'd have said they were of the same family--'twas her mother, whom she called Euphrosyne. Even now I think I see her sitting in the rose arbour in the garden, with little Caleb by her side, gazing at that picture, so long, so thoughtfully, so pitifully that she seemed ready to weep; then she would, as if recalled by remorse, hug the child, and bid him run for his father; then Mr. Bernard would no sooner come than she would be so much more loving than was even her wont, that he seemed oppressed by the very fervour of her affection. Master was a quiet man, sir, and full of thought; and he soon saw that it would be good for my lady that she should have a companion. So the next thing we heard was that Amelia Temple, who had been governess over the muir at Abbey Field, and had been several times at Redcleugh with Mr. Orchardstoun's daughters, was engaged to come to us at the term. And she came. The wind did not whistle that night, nor the owl sound his horn; there was no omen, sir, and this will please you, though it does not shake me in my faith in heaven's warnings. You see Amelia there (holding up the candle, now nearly in the socket), I need not describe what the painter has copied so faithfully. But master did not look kindly on that face, beautiful as it is, with that flashing eye and joyful expression. No, 'twas not till my lady grew distractedly fond of her that he looked sweetly on her (in the right way) for the love she gave to and got from her he loved the best of all the world. Oh! 'twas a beautiful sight, sir, those women. The rose of the west was a match for the lily of the east; then the pensive sweetness of the one, and the innocent light-heartedness of the other, met and mingled in a friendship without guile--a love without envy." "Your last visit, Francis," I said, with a smile which I could not conceal, "must have been to the poets of the library." "'Tis only truth, sir," resumed he. "When one sees a beautiful thing and feels the beauty--a privilege which is probably never denied at all times to any of God's creatures, and does not belong exclusively to the high born or the learned--he is a poet, be he a gauger or a butler. Aye, sir, a man may be a poet when his nose is right over the mouth of a bottle of burgundy, vintage '81." "And not very poetical when he reflects that there is not a bottle left in the house," said I. "He has still 'the pleasures of hope,'" rejoined Francis, with a little newborn moisture on his dry lips. "Well," rejoined I, as I began to yawn from pure want of sleep, "there is at least little of either poetry or pleasure in 'hope deferred.' We will moisten these dry legends of the Bernards by a little of that burgundy of theirs now." And this chronicler of the Bernards, as well as of something better than small beer, soon handed me a large glassful of this prince of wines. "You will require all the benefit of that, sir," said he, "if I am to go on with my story." "I'm not afraid," said I, listlessly, "after what I have read of the Grierson horrors." The old man turned upon me a strange, wild look, rendered grotesque, if not ludicrous, by the effect of the glassful he had at that moment taken at my request. "Ah! you have heard--yet surely it is impossible. Was it not all between me and master? Who other could know of it? And the book! Oh, it was never found." "I know nothing of these mysteries," replied I, not really understanding him, yet amazed at his appearance, as with long grey locks, shaking by his excitement, he kept staring at me in the dim light--for the candle was now out, and the fire burned red and dull. A little more conjuring would have brought all these pictures out into the room, and even as it was, I was beginning to transform my companion's shadow, as it lay on the arm chair behind him, into the very person itself of Lillah Bernard. "Doctor," he said, gravely, "you must know the dark secret of this apartment." "Nothing," replied I. "Go on; you have roused my curiosity. I know nothing of the Bernard's but what you have told me, and I request to know more. Go on, Francis." He was not satisfied; continued to search, so far as he could, my face; but I wore him out. "It's no use denying it, sir," he at length said, "but take your own way now;" then heaving a deep sigh, which might have been heard at the farthest end of the large room, so silent was all, he went on: "'Twas not to last, sir, all that happiness among those three, and little Caleb was the centre by which they were all joined. There's an enemy abroad to such heart-unions--unseen by all but God, who views him with the eye of anger, but lets him have his way for a season, and why we know it. Such little Edens grow up here and there among roses, as if to remind us of the one paradise which has gone, and to make us hope for the other which is to come; the old tragedy is wrought within a circuit of a few feet and the reach of a few hearts. Oh! the old fiend triumphs with the old laugh on his dark cheek. Yes, sir, it is even so; there is nothing new with the devil, nor nothing old, nor will there be till his neck is fastened; but in this meanwhile of days and years of time, oh! how the soul pants as it looks through the clouds of sorrow which rise under his dark wing, and can see no light, save through the deep grave where lie those once beautiful things in corruption. 'Twas the beauty did it all, sir; the enemy cannot stand that loveliness; it makes him wild; he raves to get between the hearts and tear them so that the sanctified temples shall have no incense in them--nothing save the heavy odours of carrion. My lady Lillah one day felt a drowsiness come over her; it seemed, as Christy said, she felt only as if she had been inclined to sleep at an unusual time; she made no complaint, but Mr. Bernard observed something in her eye, and his watchfulness took alarm at every turn of her quiet manner. The drowsiness increased, and then it was observed that her pulse was slow and languid; it seemed to beat with fewer pulses every hour, and then master became more alarmed, and Amelia could not be away from her an instant. 'Twas strange the change which all of a sudden took place in Miss Temple; the gay laugh which Mr. Bernard used to encourage as a welcome light thrown on the soul of his wife was no more heard; a pitiful sympathy took its place, and, as Christy described it, looked like the light which we see so beautiful in the thin haze when the sun seems to melt all through it; it was the spirit of love, sir, dissolved in the shadows of grief. She hung over our dear lady as if she would have poured her own spirit into her to raise the still ebbing pulses. Nothing would stop that ebbing; the pulse would beat a little stronger after something given to her, but never quicker. Then these long silken eyelashes fell farther and farther down, and the voice which had ever been all meekness, fell and fell into half whispers. At length she said something into master's ear; and he motioned to Miss Temple to go out for a little, but Christy remained. It was an awful moment, sir, when she made a sign that she would speak. 'Dear Edward,' she said, as she seemed to try to lift higher the drooping lids, 'I will never more see the beautiful valley of the Kabarda, where stands my father's castle, with its gardens and roses of Shiraz. Oh, strange it seems to me, as all the things about me grow dim, the vision of those beloved scenes of my childhood wax brighter and brighter. I hear my father's voice crying Euphrosyne, and my mother's Lillah; my brothers and sisters take up the cry, and the mountaineers salute the favourite daughter of their chief. But she is here in this far land, and you, my best beloved, are there before her. Edward, I am going to die--soon--soon. I wished the dear Amelia away for a little--only a little--to be here again, and never to go more. She is faithful and loving and true. Edward; listen, my love: when I am gone, and you can forget me, take that dear girl into that place where you treasured me--into your affections, as your wife, Edward. The thought pleases me, for I think you will in her marry happiness, and my life seems to ebb away in the hope that you may be with her as you have been with me. Farewell; bring Caleb to kiss me before I go. There is a voice in my ears; it is Allah! Allah! but it is not listened to by the heart which whispers Jesus! the Mediator! the Saviour!' "And with these words in her lips she died. O, sir, had you seen master--it was pitiful; and as for Amelia, who knew nothing of Lillah's words, she kept weeping till her eyes were inflamed. But the grief was everywhere throughout Redcleugh. It seemed as if some dreadful fate had befallen the whole household; gloom--gloom and sadness all about--in every face--in every heart; for never was a daughter of Scotland beloved as was this dear lady of the far east; and I think somehow it was her having died so far away from the land of her kindred that softened the hearts of the people, and made them take on as I never saw servants take on for a mistress. 'Twould be a sharp eye, sir, that could distinguish now, in the vault of death's croft, the grey ashes of the beautiful Circassian from the dust of the Bernards--ay, or that of my poor Christian Dempster! It was now a long dark night to the house of Redcleugh, but the longest night is at last awakened by a sun in the morning. Mr. Bernard--always a moody man--scarcely opened his mouth for months and months. He was like a tree, that stands erect after being blasted--it may move by the winds, but the sun has no warmth for it, and there is nothing inside or at the root to give it life. They say that when a beloved wife dies, it is to the husband like the sun going away out of the firmament, and that by-and-by she appears as a pale moon. Ay, sir; everything here is full of change. Mr. Bernard's moon had no waning in it, till he began to catch the echoes of Miss Amelia's voice as he wandered among the woods. It was the grey dawn of another sun, and the sun rose and rose, promising to gild the east again with its glory. The long burden was taken off Amelia. Her laugh began again to enliven Redcleugh, when she saw that Mr. Bernard was able to bear it. Then, sir, to bear it was to begin to love it, for it was the most infectious joyfulness that ever gladdened man's ears. The change, once begun, went on; he hung upon her voice as if it had been music. Every laugh shook him out of his long misery--it appeared to be to him like new life running along the nerves of the old dead tabernacle. So might one think of a man in the desert, as he looks down into the well, with the reflection of the sun in it; the water is drunk in living light; he shakes off all the horrors of his long-borne thirst, and rises renewed and glad. It was pitiful--yea, it was pleasant too--to see how he followed her, gazed at her, listened to her, just as if he were always praying her, for mercy's sake, to give him some more of that medicine of his spirit. But, perhaps, he never would have thought of marrying Amelia, but for the parting words of Lillah. Christy, in her curious way, said that it was Lillah's moon that lighted him on to the rising of the new sun of Amelia; and as Christy wanted this new match, for the sake of saving, as she thought, the life of our master--it was strange enough that she saw no omens now save good ones; for was it not a good one, that every living thing about Redcleugh looked as joyful as Amelia herself? A wonderful work this world, sir! No magician could have worked a greater wonder than the scene of that marriage after the scene of that deathbed; yet it delighted me to see old Redcleugh all in a blaze again, and to go down into the old catacombs for the old-crusted vintages. Bless your heart!--it was just like the beginning of a new term of life to me. Then the memory of Lillah threw no shade over the scene of enjoyment, for we all knew that if her spirit were not hovering over her beloved Circassia, it would be here looking down on the fulfilment of her dying wish." Here Francis drew breath, as if to prepare himself for something much more wonderful. It may easily be conceived that he had enlisted my sympathy, as well by the facts of his story, as his manner of telling it; and as one turns to the woodcut of a tale to get his impressions enlivened or verified, I felt a desire to see again, by the light of a candle, the face of the second wife. Francis gratified me by getting another candle, lighting it, and holding it up full in the face of Amelia. "'Twas all well for Redcleugh for a time," he resumed, "save for me, who lost my dear Christy shortly after Mira was born. That's she there, sir, as I have told you, alongside of my lady Amelia. When the grief was still heavy upon me, I was surprised by an almost sudden change in Mr. Bernard. I had gone up in the morning, expecting to find him in his dressing-room, which, as you see, enters as well from the lobby as by a door from the parlour, where breakfast was served. As I proceeded along the passage, I saw my lady hurrying away, with her handkerchief over her eyes, and her right hand held up, as if she were addressing Heaven; then deep sobs came from her, and a groan, which burst from the heart as she turned away into the west angle, sounded through the long lobbies and corridors. Master was not in his dressing-room. I heard his voice calling me from his bed-room, and I started at the sound, so unlike his utterance--so deep, heart-ridden, and agonized. On entering, I found him in his morning gown, sitting in that chair; his head thrown back, and his eyes fixed on my lady Lillah's portrait. It seemed, also, as if Amelia could not rest in the room in the west angle, where I thought I had seen her hurrying. Her foot was distinctly heard as she passed again along the lobby, which stretches along to the east tower, and passes this room, where my master and I were. A succession of groans followed, and died away as she receded. Mr. Bernard was too much occupied by some heart-stupefying thought to heed these sounds, and I stood before him not knowing what to say, far less what to do. At length he held up his hands, and placing one on my arm, said, in a voice which seemed the sound of one choking:-- "'Francis, you are an old friend, not a servant--not now at least. I trust you. The house of Redcleugh is doomed, nor shall a Bernard be ever again happy within its walls.' "'What is wrong, master?' I inquired. "'The core,' said he; 'the master's heart. I must go to the East again. There may be peace there for me; here, in my father's house, there is none. But what shall become of Caleb and Mira?' "My heart was too full to answer, and still Amelia's groans came from the passages, changing and changing, like the voice of a restless spirit. My master rose, and, folding his arms, paced along the room. His brow was knit tight as the muscles would draw. He seemed to contract his arms, as if to compress his heart--nor did a word escape from him. A thought seized me, that, like the older Bernards, he was under a fit of alienation. I made for the door, to seek my lady Amelia, and even in her agonies to consult her what was to be done. My master seized me sharply by the arm. "'Whither going?' he said. "'For my lady,' replied I. "'For Amelia?' he said--'for the murderer of my Lillah, my first love, my angel?' "I stood petrified, the word 'murderer' twittering on my shaking lips in fragments. "'Yes,' he said, 'come in, come in--bolt that door; the other is already cared for. Francis, you know how my Lillah died; there was no disease--she slept away as a drugged victim. Now, listen. During this last night I was awoke by the restlessness of Amelia. I heard her leave my side, and rise from the bed'--that on which you are now lying.--'The rush-light burned on the mantelpiece, and I could see my wife, as she rose and began to pace the floor. I called out gently, "Amelia;" but got no answer. Her eyes, I saw, were fixed; and she moved her arms, as if she were addressing some imaginary being. I concluded she was sleep-walking, and immediately she began to speak, as she paced backwards and forwards. Part of what she said I lost, but I could join together enough for conviction. "'"She stood between me and my love," she said, as she stopped for a moment, laying one hand upon another, "and it was necessary she should be put out of the way. A Grierson was never a waverer when a deed of blood was to be done." "How did you do it?" "How did I do it? Poison! I made her sleep the long sleep, which the sun never breaks, nor the moon, nor time." "What poison did you say?" "The sleepy poison. I made for her a draught, that I might draw the sweet life away; and"-- "'She stopped and laughed, as a sleep-walker laughs--hollow and distant. "'"And get into the _Temple_ she occupied. Was you still kind to her while you watched the effect of your draught?" "Was I, did you say? Yes, very kind. Oh! I nursed her dying spirit, that he might think me a ministering angel to his wife, whom I wanted to succeed. He was deceived. Yes, yes; simple fool, he was deceived. Ay, and not deceived, for I loved him." "'She began to walk again to and fro, sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly, then of a sudden turned and stood--"She was fair," she continued, as she kept looking at the wall; "but so am I. He got as good a bargain in me as in her." Then she made devious movements, turning and returning, muttering to herself, but so thickly that I only caught words much disjointed--"Remorse!--yes, yes!--no, no!--not till I am to be hanged; but that cannot be; no one saw me. Say nothing, nothing!--mix the draught--away to bed. 'Tis late, late! and I am cold." "'She came to bed, Francis, cold and shivering. My mind began to regain some form of thinking, after having been tossed about by the effect of her horrible monologue, or rather part of a dialogue. The conviction was instant, unavoidable, and certain. I never thought of awakening her to question her, but lay distant from her as from a reptile. I slept none. In the morning she turned to kiss me. I drew back my head in horror, and saw that she too was horrified at my manner. I bade her begone for a murderer, and, committed thus by my agony, told her she had confessed the whole story in a fit of somnambulism. Then she flew from me, crying she was innocent, tearing her hair in good acting--and there she walks by the passages under the sting of her guilt. Oh! she dare not face me, even were I to allow a meeting, which I wont. Francis, I am convinced.' "My master," continued Francis, addressing me as I lay listening and thinking of the old brochure, "was always moody, as I have said--ay, and crotchety; no one had any power to drive from him a settled opinion or resolution. After I had listened to him I said-- "'Master, permit me, your poor servant, to say that this is not evidence on which I would beat a dog.' "'I am convinced,' he replied sternly and unkindly, and he moved his hand as a sign that I should leave him. I retreated, grieved to the heart, for I knew master's nature. When I got to the top of the stair, I saw my lady beckoning me from the door of the library. I went to her. "'Francis,' she said, as she shut the door, 'what is this? Has my husband told you anything?' "'All,' I replied. 'He has recounted to me some strange words uttered by you in your sleep, from which he infers that you poisoned my lady Lillah.' "'Repeat them--repeat them,' she said hurriedly. "I did so, and when I mentioned the name Grierson, she seemed to brighten a little. O how she hung upon my words! "'Francis,' she said, 'I may be saved. You may help me. Some nights ago I was occupied in reading the history of Jane Grierson--a little pamphlet which you will find in the drawer of the escritoire, in the dressing-room. There is the key. That story is the story I had recounted in my sleep. Go get the book, and bring it to me. That will save me, and nothing but that will save me.' "'God be praised,' I ejaculated, and then hurried with all speed to get the book. I searched the escritoire; it was not there. I examined other drawers with no better success. At length I returned to my lady, and reported my failure. Without saying a word she hurried away from me, rushed along the lobby, and entered the parlour opening into the dressing-room. Not doubting her word, and agitated by the hope of all being thus satisfactorily explained when the book should be got, I flew to my master's room through the door from the passage. "'It is all explainable,' I cried, as I entered. "'Indeed!' answered Mr. Bernard satirically. "'My lady was some nights ago reading the story of Jane Grierson,' said I, 'and her sleep-walking conversation was only a repetition of the story.' "'Grierson, Grierson!' cried my master, as he rose frantically, and placed his hand on his forehead. 'Yes, yes! she mentioned the word. I have never thought of that. Yes! yes! show me that book, and I shall be satisfied.' "I ran immediately to the door leading to the dressing-room, where I heard my lady searching. Master had shut it. He opened it for me by the key which he held in his hand, and locked it as I passed out. It seemed he wanted no interview till the book should be got. Amelia was there, searching and searching, trembling and sighing. "'What means this?' she ejaculated, as she proceeded--then paused. 'I must have placed it in the trunk, from whence I took it;' and she rushed away to the room where the trunks lay, which she had brought with her to Redcleugh. "'Twas all in vain. That book could not be got, sir. That book was never found. No copy of it could be procured. The loss of that book was the ruin of the house of Redcleugh." "There it is," said I, holding up the tattered brochure to the wondering eyes of the old butler. "Gracious Heaven!" cried the old man. "Yet not gracious--too late, too late!" and he staggered, like one who is drunk. "Mr. Bernard is dead." "And Amelia is mad," said I, sorrowfully. "Yes, mad," said he, as he still gazed on the brochure, and turned it over and over with trembling hands. "But how did you come to get this," he inquired. I told him, and he rose and hastened to the escritoire to examine it, and satisfy himself of the truth of my statement. "When that book could not be found, sir," he resumed when he came back, "my master put his resolution into effect. He placed his children with Mr. Gordon, one of his trustees, executed a settlement, and went to the East. My lady Amelia never saw him from that morning, but he left word with me, that if the pamphlet was found in the house, he should be made acquainted with it through his trustee, Mr. Gordon. But, ah! sir, that never happened, in God's mysterious providence; and now my poor Lady Amelia could receive no advantage from this proof of her innocence. I have heard from her own lips, before her reason gave way, that she was the grand-daughter of Jane Grierson and Mr. Temple, and that was the reason why she came to have this little book. The story haunted her, yet she read it; while, at the same time, she concealed her possession of it, and her connection with the parties." Francis now left me, and if I had little inclination to sleep before, I had less now. All the strange incidents of the story seemed to revolve round myself; though my part in it seemed merely the result of chance, I appeared to myself somehow as a directly-appointed agent for working out some design of Providence. Yet what I was required to do I did not know. I cogitated and recogitated, and came to no conclusion as to how I should act; only I saw no great benefit in the meantime in endeavouring to make any use of the pamphlet for the purpose of recovering the aberrant reason of the poor lady. At length I fell asleep, and next morning awoke to the strange recollections of what had occurred so shortly before. I saw Amelia again; she was depressed and moody; the fiend within her was dormant, but its weight pressed on the issues of thought, and her vacant stare told unutterable woe. I left Redcleugh without much hope, intending to pay another visit shortly afterwards. About three or four days after reaching home, a letter came to me from Francis, inclosing one from Mr. Gordon, the latter of which contained the intelligence that there had been some mistake as to the report of Mr. Bernard's death. A gentleman of the same name had died at Aleppo, but the master of Redcleugh was still alive. A gleam of the sunshine of hope darted through my mind. The dark images of the story were illumined--even the figure of that poor lady enshrined in the gloom of sorrow became bright with lustrous, meaning, intelligent eyes. Within an hour I had a letter posted for Mr. Gordon, informing him of the finding of the pamphlet, and requesting him to send for Mr. Bernard by an express messenger. In the meanwhile I visited Mrs. Bernard regularly, though the distance was much beyond my usual journeys. Some parts of the intelligence were broken to her through the medium of Francis, but without any marked result, if exacerbations were not more frequent, ending in deeper depression; as if a wild hope had risen and died away in the absence of anything visible or tangible to justify it to the erring but suspicious judgment of the victim of despair. Other preparations were made; the old servants recalled; and Francis was glorying in the prospect of a restoration of the old ways, if not the very continuation of that broken happiness of which he was so full. At length Mr. Bernard arrived, along with Caleb and Mira. Mr. Gordon was along with them, and I was sent for. We were all assembled without Mrs. Bernard being aware of our presence in the house. I counselled caution, and Mira was introduced to the mother alone; but the child retreated under the fear of a scream which might betoken either joy or despair; nor did her mother ask for her again--a strange circumstance, and not of good omen; but we behoved to persevere, and Mr. Bernard himself, accompanied by Mr. Gordon and me, presented ourselves before her. Was there ever a meeting under such circumstances? The husband clasped the unconscious wife to his bosom. I stood to watch the effect of an act which I considered precipitate, if not imprudent. The moment she felt herself in the arms of her husband she struggled to release herself, uttered the loudest scream I ever heard from her, and fell in a swoon upon the floor. That swoon gave me hopes, for in confirmed madness we do not often find that moral causes working on the mind show any power over the body. When she recovered, and was placed in a chair, she panted for breath, like one choking; and waving her hands and grasping convulsively the clothes of those next to her, seemed as if she were testing the reality of all these appearances, as things new and wonderful and incredible. I then held out to her the pamphlet, in all its tattered condition. The effect was extraordinary. She clutched it with such an intensity of grasp that she crumpled it all up, and then tried with trembling hands to undo the crushed leaves, some of which fell at her feet. I watched the rise of the natural expression of wonder struggling through the look of insanity; but I could discover no joy, only something like fear. I still augured favourably. She was laid upon her bed, and in about an hour afterwards fell into a troubled sleep. A day passed, yet amid my hopes I could see nothing on which I could absolutely rely as an undoubted sign of a favourable change, till on the evening of the second day, when she burst into a flood of tears. I had Mr. Bernard at her side at the end of this paroxysm, and in a very short time she was hanging upon his neck, sobbing like a child who is reconciled to its mother. Under a date some six months after these indications of Amelia's convalescence, I find a note in my diary, "Dined at Redcleugh with Mr. and Mrs. Bernard; the invalid restored, and again the object of her husband's affection; the butler once more the pride of his major-domoship; the old Burgundy produced and declared better than ever; heard that musical laugh which once charmed Mr. Bernard from the depth of his sorrow, as it now mingled, like a fluid, with the glory of a summer sun shining through the green blinds, and spread joy throughout the old house of Redcleugh." THE ROTHESAY FISHERMAN. When I was a boy, I used to pass the summer vacation in the Isle of Bute, where my father had a small cottage, for the convenience of sea-bathing. I enjoyed my sea-side visits greatly, for I was passionately fond of boating and fishing and, before I was sixteen, had become a fearless and excellent swimmer. From morning till night, I was rambling about the beach, or either sailing upon or swimming in the beautiful Frith. I was a prime favourite among the fishermen, with most of whom I was on familiar terms, and knew them all by name. Among their number was one man who particularly attracted my attention, and excited my curiosity. He was civil and obliging, though distant and reserved in his manners, with a shade of habitual melancholy on his countenance, which awakened my sympathy, at the same time that his "bearing," which was much above his station, commanded my respect. He _appeared_ to be about sixty years of age; particularly prepossessing in his appearance; and his language and demeanour would have done honour to any rank of society. I felt involuntarily attracted towards him, and took every opportunity of showing my wish to please and become better acquainted with him; but in vain. He seemed gratified by my attentions; but I made no nearer approach to his confidence. He went, among his companions, by the name of "Gentleman Douglas;" but they appeared to be as ignorant of the particulars of his history as myself. All they knew of him was, that he had come among them a perfect stranger, some years before, no one knew from whence; that he seemed to have some means of support independent of his boat; and that he was melancholy, silent, and reserved--as much as possible avoiding all communication with his neighbours. These particulars only served to whet my boyish curiosity, and I determined to leave no means untried to penetrate to the bottom of Douglas' mystery. Let me do myself justice, however: my eagerness to know his history proceeded from an earnest desire to soothe his sorrow, whatever it might be, and to benefit him in any way in my power. Day after day I used to stroll down to the beach, when he was preparing to get his boat under way, and volunteer to pull an oar on board. At first he seemed annoyed by my officiousness; and, though he always behaved with civility, showed, by his impatient manner, that he would rather dispense with my company; but the constant dripping of water will wear away a stone, and hard indeed must be the heart that will not be softened by unremitting kindness. My persevering wish to please him gradually produced the desired effect--he _was_ pleased, and evinced it by his increasing cordiality of manner, and by the greater interest he seemed to take in all my movements. In a short time we became inseparables, and his boat hardly ever left the shore without me. My father was not at all adverse to my intimacy with Douglas; he knew him to be a sober, industrious man, and one who bore an irreproachable moral character; and as he was anxious that I should strengthen my constitution as much as possible in the sea-breeze, he thought I could not roam about under safer or less objectionable protection. On a further acquaintance with Douglas, I found him a most agreeable companion; for, when his reserve wore off, his conversation was amusing and instructive; and he had tales to tell of foreign lands and of distant seas, which he described with that minuteness and closeness which only a personal acquaintance with them could have produced. Often, in the course of his narration, his eye would brighten and his cheek glow with an emotion foreign to his usual calm and melancholy manner; and then he would suddenly stop, as if some sound he had uttered had awakened dark memories of the past, and the gloom clouded his brow again, his voice trembled, and his cheek grew pale. These sudden transitions alarmed and surprised me; my suspicions were excited, and I began to imagine that the man must have been guilty of some unknown and dreadful crime, and that conscience was at such times busy within him. Douglas must have observed my changing manner; but it made little alteration in his demeanour towards myself. "What is the matter, Douglas?" said I, one day, when I observed him start and turn pale at some casual observation of mine. "Do not indulge a vain and idle curiosity, Master Charles, at the expense of another's feelings," replied he, gravely and mournfully, "nor endeavour to rake up the ashes of the past. The heart knows its own bitterness: long may yours be a stranger to sorrow! I have observed, with pain, that you, as others have done, begin to look upon me with suspicion. Be satisfied with the assurance, that I have no crimes needing concealment, to reproach myself with; and the sorrows of age should be sacred in the eyes of youth." I was humbled by the old man's reproof, and hastened to express my concern for having hurt his feelings. "Enough said, enough said, Mr. Charles," said he; "curiosity is natural at your age, and I am not surprised at your wishing, like some of your elders, to learn the cause of the melancholy which hangs over me like a cloud darkening the path of life, and embittering all its pleasures. At some future time I will tell you the reason why you see me what I am; but I cannot now--the very thought of it unmans me." Time wore on; every year I returned to the sea-side during the summer, and was always welcomed with unaffected cordiality by my old ally, Douglas. I was now a strapping youth of nineteen, tall and powerful of my age--thanks to the bracing sea-air and constant exercise. One day Douglas told me he was going over to Largs, and asked if I would accompany him. "With all my heart," said I; and in ten minutes we were standing across the Frith with a fine steady breeze. We were close over to the Ayrshire coast, when a sudden puff of wind capsized the boat, and we were both thrown into the water. When I rose to the surface again, after my plunge, I looked around in vain for Douglas, who had disappeared. He had on a heavy pea-jacket, and I was at first afraid the weight and encumbrance of it must have sunk him; but, on second thoughts, I dived under the boat, and found him floundering about beneath the sail, from whence I succeeded with great difficulty in extricating him. He was quite exhausted, and it required all my strength to support him to the gunnel of the boat. After hanging on there some time, to recover breath, we swam together to the beach, which was not far distant. When we landed, he seated himself on a large stone, and remained silent for some time, with his face buried in his hands. "Douglas," said I, wondering at his long silence, "are you hurt?" To my great surprise I heard low sobs, and saw the tears trickling between his fingers. Thinking that he was grieved at the loss of his boat, I said-- "Cheer up, man! If the boat be lost, we will manage among us to get another for you." "'Tisn't the boat, sir, 'tisn't the boat; we can soon raise _her_ again: it is your kindness that has made a fool of me." He then looked up in my face, and, drying his glistening cheek with one hand, he shook mine long and heartily with the other. "Mr. Charles, before I met you, I thought I was alone in the world; shunned by most around me as a man of mystery. Because I could not join in their rude sports and boisterous merriment, they attributed my reserve and visible dejection to sinister causes--possibly to some horrible and undiscovered crime." A blush here flitted across my countenance; but Douglas did not remark it. "Young, and warm, and enthusiastic, _you_ sought me out with different feelings; you were attracted towards me by pity, and by a generous desire to relieve my distress. It was not the mere impulse of a moment; your kindness has been constant and unwavering--and now you have crowned all by saving my life. I hardly know whether or not to thank you for what was so worthless to myself; but I _do_ thank you from the bottom of my heart for the friendly and generous feeling which actuated you. You shall know the cause of the sorrow that weighs upon my heart; I would not that one to whom I owe so much should look upon me with the slightest shade of suspicion. I think, when you know my story, you will pity and sympathize with me; but you will judge less harshly, I doubt not, than I do of myself." "Do not call up unnecessary remembrances, which harrow your feelings, Douglas. That I have often thought there is mystery about you, I will not deny; but only once did the possibility of a cause of guilt flash across my mind. That unworthy suspicion has long past, and I am now heartily ashamed of myself for having harboured it for a moment. But we are forgetting the boat; we must try to get assistance to right her." We soon fell in with one of the fishermen on the coast, with whose assistance she was speedily righted and baled out; and, after having done what we came for at Largs we returned homewards. "Meet me to-morrow at ten o'clock, Mr. Charles," said Douglas, as he grasped my hand at parting, "and you shall then hear my story, and judge whether or not I have cause to grieve." At the appointed hour next morning I hastened to the rendezvous. The fisherman was already there, waiting for me. "I daresay you are surprised to see me here so soon," said he; "but now that I have determined to make you my confidant, I feel eager to disburden my mind, and to seek relief from my sorrows in the sympathy of one whom I am so proud to call my friend. "I was not always in the humble station in which you now see me, Mr. Stewart; but, thank Heaven! it was no misconduct of my own that occasioned the change. My father was an English clergyman, whose moderate stipend denied to his family the luxuries of life; but we had reason to acknowledge the truth of the wise man's saying, that 'a dinner of herbs, where love is, is better than more sumptuous fare where that love is not'. We were a united and a happy family, contented with the competence with which Providence had blessed us, and pitying, not envying, those who, endowed with greater wealth, were exposed to greater temptations. Oh! those happy, happy days! It sometimes almost maddens me, Mr. Stewart, to compare myself, as I am now, with what I was then. Every morning I rose with a light and happy heart, exulting in the sunbeam that awakened me with its smile, and blessing, in the gladfulness of youthful gratitude, the gracious Giver of light and life. My heart overflowed with love to all created beings. I could look back without regret, and the future was bright with hope. And now, what am I? A broken-hearted man, but still, after all my sufferings, grateful to the hand which has chastened me. I can picture the whole family grouped on a summer evening, now, Mr. Stewart, as vividly as a sight of yesterday, though fifty years have cast their dark shadows between. My mother, seated beside her work-table under the neat verandah in front of our cottage, encouraging my sisters, with her sweet smile and gentle voice, in the working of their first sampler; my father, seated with his book, under the shade of his favourite laburnum tree; while my brother and I were trundling our hoops round the garden, shouting with boyish glee; and my little fair-haired cousin, Julia, tottering along with her little hands extended, to catch the butterfly that tempted her on from flower to flower. My brother Henry was two years younger than myself, and was at the time I speak of a remarkably handsome, active boy, of ten years of age--full of fun and mischief, unsteady and volatile. My father found considerable difficulty in confining Henry's attention to his studies; for, though uncommonly quick and intelligent, he wanted patience and application. He could not bear the drudgery of poring over musty books. He used to say to me--'How I should like to be an officer, a gallant naval officer, to lead on my men through fire and smoke to victory!' And then the little fellow would wave his hand, while the colour flushed his cheeks, and shout--'Come on! come on!' He had, somehow or other, got possession of an old naval chronicle; and from that moment his whole thoughts were of ships and battles, and his principal amusement was to launch little fleets of ships upon the pond at the bottom of the garden. My father, though mild and indulgent in other matters, was a strict disciplinarian in education; and often did I save Henry from punishment by helping him with his exercises and other lessons. Dearly did I love my gallant, high-spirited little brother; and he looked up to me with equal fondness. "I will not weary you with details, but at once jump over the next twelve years of my life. The scene was now greatly changed at the parsonage. Death had been busy among its inmates; a contagious disorder had carried off my mother and sisters, and my poor father was left alone in his old age--not alone, for Julia was still with him. I forgot to say before, that she was the orphan daughter of his elder brother. Julia, at sixteen, was beautiful. I will not attempt to describe her, although every feature, every expression of her lovely countenance, is vividly pictured in my heart. She was its light, its pride, its hope. Alas! alas! she had grown up like a sweet flower beside me, and, from her infancy, had clung to me with a sister's confidence, and more than a sister's affection. Was it wonderful that I loved her? Yes, I loved her fondly and devotedly; and I soon had the bliss of knowing that my affection was returned. I had been for some time at college, studying for the church, when a distant relation died, and left me a comfortable competency. My father now consented with pleasure to my union with Julia; and a distant day was fixed for the marriage, to enable my brother Henry to be present. He had been abroad for some time in the merchant service, and his constant employment had prevented his visiting home for many years; but he had written to say that he expected now to have a long holiday with us. At length he returned, and great was my joy at meeting my beloved brother once more. He was a fine, handsome, manly-looking fellow--frank and boisterous in his manner, kind and generous in his disposition, but the slave of passion and impulse. In a week after his return, he became dull and reserved, and every one remarked the extraordinary change that had come over him. My father and I both thought that our quiet and monotonous life wearied and disgusted him, and that he longed for the more bustling scenes to which he had been accustomed. "Come, Harry!" said I to him one day, "cheer up, my boy! we shall be merry enough soon: you must lay in a fresh stock of spirits; Julia will quarrel with you if you show such a melancholy phiz at our wedding." He turned from me with impatience, and, rushing out into the garden, I saw no more of him that day. I was hurt and surprised by his manner, and hastened to express my annoyance to Julia. She received me with less than her usual warmth, blushed when I talked of my brother, and soon left me on some trifling pretext. My father had gone to visit a neighbouring clergyman, at whose house he was taken suddenly and alarmingly ill. I hastened to his bedside, and found him in such a precarious state, that I determined upon remaining near him. I therefore despatched a messenger to Julia, informing her of my intention, and intimating that it would be necessary to postpone our marriage, which was to have taken place in the course of a week, until my father's recovery. In answer to my letter, I received a short and hurried reply, merely acquiescing in the propriety of my movements, and without any expression of regret at my lengthened absence. Surprised at the infrequency and too apparent indifference of Julia's answers to the long and impassioned letters which I almost daily wrote to her, alarmed at the long interval which had elapsed since I last heard from her, and fearing that illness might have occasioned her silence, I left my father, who was rapidly recovering, and hastened home. When I arrived at the parsonage, I walked into the drawing-room; but as neither Julia nor my brother was there, I concluded they were out walking, and, taking a book, I sat down, impatiently waiting their return. Some time having elapsed, however, without their making their appearance, I rang the bell; and our aged servant, on entering, started at seeing me there. "La, sir!" said she, "I did'nt expect to see _you_!" "Where are Miss Julia and my brother?" "Why, la, sir! I was just agoing to ask _you_. Miss Julia had a letter from you about a week ago, and she and Mr. Henry went off in a poshay together next day. They said they would be back to-day." I said not a word in reply, but buried my face in my folded arms on the table, while the cold perspiration flowed over my brow, and my heart sickened within me, as the fatal truth by degrees broke upon me. "Fool, fond fool, that I was, to have been so long blind!" muttered I; "but it cannot be!--Julia!--_my_ Julia!--no, no!" And I almost cursed myself for the unworthy suspicion. But why dwell longer upon these moments of agony? My first surmise was a correct one. In a week's time all was known. My brother, my brother Harry, for whom I would have sacrificed fortune, life itself, had betrayed my dearest trust, and had become the husband of her I had fondly thought my own. The blow was too sudden and overpowering; I sunk beneath it. My reason became unsettled, and for several months I was unconscious of my own misery. I awoke to sense, an altered man. My heart was crushed, my very blood seemed to be turned into gall; I hated my kind, and resolved to seclude myself for ever from a world of falsehood and ingratitude. The only tie which could have reconciled me to life had been wrenched away from me during my unconsciousness: my brother's misconduct had broken my father's heart, and I was left alone in the world. I paid one sad visit to my father's grave, shed over it bitter tears of sorrow and disappointment, and from that hour to this I have never seen the home in which I passed so many happy days. Some months afterwards, I received a letter from a friend residing in Wales, of a very extraordinary nature, requiring me instantly to visit him, and stating that he had something of importance to communicate to me. I knew the writer, and confided in him; he had known my misfortune, and wept with me over the loss of my Julia and of my father. I hastened to him on the wings of expectation, and, when I arrived, was taken by him into an inner apartment of his house, with an air of secrecy and mystery. "Have you yet recovered from the effects of your misfortunes?" said he. "I have often reflected on your extraordinary fate, and pitied you from the innermost recesses of my soul. Would you believe it? I have in store for you an antidote against the grief of your ruined affections; but I will not say a medicine for your pain, or a balm for your sorrow." "For a broken heart," said I, "there is no cure in this world." He looked at me, and wept. "Dress yourself in this suit of my mournings," he said, "and accompany me whither I will lead you." I gazed at him in amazement; but he left me to put on the weeds, and to torture myself with vain thoughts. He returned and called me out. I followed him. We went some little distance, and joined a funeral that was slowly proceeding to the burying-ground. My confusion prevented me from looking at the time to see who was chief mourner. I proceeded with the mourners, and soon stood on the brink of the grave. When the pall was taken off, and the coffin lowered down into the earth, my eye caught the inscription on the plate; it was--"J. M., aged 20." "So young!" muttered I; and at the same moment I glanced at the chief mourner. He had withdrawn his handkerchief from his face. Our eyes met--he turned deadly pale, and made a motion as if to leave the ground; but I sprang forward, almost _shrieking_ "Henry!" and detained him. I looked in his face. Oh, what a change was there! His eye quailed beneath the cold, steady, withering glance of mine. I felt that he read the meaning of that glance, for he absolutely writhed beneath it. "Do not revile me, brother," murmured he; "the hand of Heaven has been heavy upon me; my crime has already met with its punishment. Oh, my poor, poor Julia!" "Where, where is she?" wildly exclaimed I. He pointed to the new-made grave? Oh, the bitterness of that hour! We wept--the betrayer and the betrayed wept together over the grave of their buried hopes. I arose calm and collected. "Brother," said I, giving him my hand, "my animosity shall be buried with her; may your own heart forgive you as freely as I do the injury you have done me! But we must never meet more." And, with slow steps and aching heart, I turned and left the spot. I received a letter from Henry some time afterwards, from one of the outports, telling me that he was just on the point of leaving England for ever, and imploring my forgiveness in the most touching terms, "for the sake of our early days, the happy years of our boyhood." Those early days--those happy days!--my heart softened towards him as I thought of them. Sorely as he had wronged me, he was my brother still, and I felt that I could, if permitted, clasp him to my heart once more. Weary of life, and tired of the world, I dragged on a miserable existence for some time, in a secluded situation on the shores of Cornwall; but, by degrees, the monotony of my sedentary and recluse life wearied me. I began to associate with the poor fishermen around me, and, in a short time, became enthusiastically fond of their perilous and exciting mode of life. The sea became to me quite a 'passion'--my mind had found a new channel for its energies; and when, a short time afterwards, I lost my little fortune through the mismanagement or villany of my agent, I took staff in hand, and, hastening to Liverpool, boldly launched into life again as a common seaman, on board a merchant vessel bound to the West Indies. I had toiled on for several years as a common seaman, during which time I attracted the notice of my captain, by my indefatigable attention to the duties of my station, and by the reckless indifference with which I lavished my strength, and often risked my life, in the performance of them. "Douglas" (for that was the name which I had assumed), "Douglas," said the captain to me one day, after I had been particularly active during a heavy gale we encountered, "I must try if I cannot do something for you; your activity and energy entitle you to promotion. I will speak to the owners when we return, and endeavour to procure you a mate's berth." I thanked him, and went forward again to my duty. A few days afterwards, we were going along with a strong beaming wind; there was a high sea running, every now and then throwing a thick spray over the weather bulwarks; the hands were at dinner, and I was just coming up to relieve the man at the wheel; there was no one on deck but the mate of the watch, and the captain, who was standing on the weather bulwark, shaking the backstays, to feel if they bore an equal strain: all at once the ship gave a heavy weather lurch, the captain lost his footing, and was overboard in a moment. I instantly sprang aft, cut away the life-buoy, and knowing that he was but an indifferent swimmer, jumped overboard after him. As I said before, the sea was running high, and a few minutes elapsed before I caught sight of him, rising on the crest of a wave, at some distance from me. I saw he could not hold out long; for he was over-exerting himself, shouting and raising his hand for assistance, and his face was pale as death. I struck out desperately towards him, and shouted, when I got near him, "Keep up your heart, sir; be cool; don't attempt to lay hold of me, and, please God, I will save you yet." My advice had the desired effect, and restored his self-possession; he became more cool and collected, and with occasional support from me, contrived to reach the life-buoy. In the meantime, all was confusion on board the ship; the second mate of the watch, a young hand, in the hurry of the moment, threw the ship too suddenly up to the wind, a squall struck her at the moment, and the foretopmast and topgallantmast went over the side, dragging the maintopgallantmast with them. The cry of "A man overboard!" had hurried the crew on deck, and the crash of the falling spars, and the contradictory orders from the quarter-deck, at first puzzled and confused them; but the _chief_ mate was a cool, active seaman, and the moment he made his appearance order and silence were restored; the quarter-boat was instantly lowered, numbers of the men springing forward to volunteer to man her, for the captain was deservedly beloved by his crew; and the rest of the hands were immediately set to work to clear away the wreck. In a few minutes the boat reached us, and we were safely seated in the stern sheets. "Douglas, my gallant fellow," said the captain, shaking me cordially by the hand, "I may thank _you_ that I am not food for the fishes by this time. I had just resigned myself to my fate, when your voice came over the water to me, like a messenger of hope and safety. How can I ever repay you?" "I am sufficiently repaid, Captain Rose, by seeing you beside me; the only way in which you can serve me, is by giving me a lift in the way of promotion, when we return home." "I will, you may depend upon it," replied he; "and as long as I live, you may apply to me as a firm and faithful friend." I was highly gratified by this promise; for the great object of my ambition for some time past had been to raise myself again from obscurity into something like my former station in life. Next voyage, through the captain's interest with the owners, I was appointed chief mate of the Albion, Captain Rose's ship, for which I was found duly qualified, having employed all my spare hours at sea in acquiring a knowledge of the theory of navigation. Captain Rose was like a brother to me, introducing me to his family and friends as the saver of his life, and making quite a _lion_ of me in Liverpool. We sailed in company with a large fleet, under convoy of three frigates and two sloops of war, and had been some time at sea when a heavy gale of wind came on one afternoon, which completely dispersed the convoy. When it commenced there were nearly two hundred sail in sight; at the end of two days, we were alone. The Albion was a beautiful vessel of her class, about four hundred tons burden; an excellent sea-boat. We had a smart active crew, besides a number of passengers, and were well furnished for defence, if required; but we were now so near our port that we dreaded little danger. However, it was necessary to be constantly on the alert, for there were many piratical vessels in those seas, which, in spite of the vigilance and activity of H.M. cruisers, were constantly on the watch to pounce upon any stray merchantmen. Capt. Rose was, on the whole, rather pleased at his separation from the convoy, as there were only one or two other vessels, besides himself, bound to the Havannah, and he would have been obliged to accompany the body of the fleet to Barbadoes. After we had parted from the convoy, we made the best of our way towards Cuba. One night, it was almost calm, but with every appearance of a coming breeze; the moon was nearly at her full, but dark, heavy clouds were drifting quickly over her, which almost entirely hid her from our view, except when, at intervals, she threw from between them a broad flash over the waters, as bright and almost as momentary as lightning gleams. We were crawling slowly along, with all our small canvas set; the breeze was blowing off the shore, the dark shadow of which lay like a shroud upon the water; it was nearly eight bells in the first watch; the captain and several of the passengers were still on deck, enjoying the cool, delightful breeze; but their suspicious and anxious glances into the dark shadow to windward, seemed to intimate that their conversation over their grog that evening, which had been of the pirates that infested those islands, and Cuba in particular, had awakened their fears and aroused their watchfulness. "Hark! Captain Rose," said I, "what noise is that?" Every face was instantly turned over the weather gunwale, and in breathless silence they all listened in the direction to which I pointed. A low, murmuring, rippling sound was heard, and a kind of dull, smothered, creaking noise repeated at short intervals; nothing was to be seen, however, for all was in deep shadow in that quarter. "Talk of the devil, and he'll show his horns, Douglas!" said the captain. "I have not been so long at sea without being able to distinguish the whispering of the smooth water when a sharp keel is slipping through it, or the sound of muffled sweeps. There may be mischief there, or there may not; but we'll be prepared for the worst. Get the men quietly to their quarters, put an extra dose of grape into the guns, and have all our tools ready." Just at this moment the moonlight broke brightly through the clouds, and showed us a small, black-looking schooner, slowly crawling out from the shadow of the land. Her decks were apparently crowded with people, and she had a boat towing astern. The men were soon at their quarters--and a fine, active, spirited set of fellows they were--each armed with a cutlass and a brace of pistols, while tomahawks and boarding pikes lay at hand for use if required. The passengers were all likewise provided with muskets, pistols, and cutlasses, and the servants were ready to load spare fire-arms. We mustered about fifty in all; but there was not a flincher among us. "Now, my lads;" said Captain Rose to his crew, "we must have a brush for it. I have no doubt those fellows are pirates; and if once they get footing on this deck, I would not give a farthing for any man's life on board. Be cool and quiet. Don't throw away a shot; remember that you are fighting for your lives; I do not doubt your courage, but be cool and steady!" In the meantime, the dark hull of the schooner was gradually nearing us. "Schooner ahoy!" shouted Captain Rose. No answer; but the sweeps dipped faster into the water, which rippled up beneath her bow. "Schooner, ahoy!--answer, or I'll fire!" Still no reply; but, almost immediately, a bright sudden flash burst from her bow, and a shot came whizzing through the mizen-rigging. "I thought so," calmly said the captain; "be cool, my lads; we must not throw away a shot; he's hardly within our range yet." The moon broke out for a moment. "Now, my lads, take time, and a steady aim. Give it him!" And flash, flash--bang, bang, went all our six carronades. The captain's advice had not been thrown away; the aim had been cool and deliberate; we heard the loud crashing of the sweeps as the grape-shot rattled among them, and fell pattering into the water; and at the same time a yell arose from the schooner, as if all the devils in hell were broke loose. The next glimpse of moonlight showed us her foretopmast hanging over the side. "Well done, my fine fellows!" shouted Captain Rose, "bear a hand, and give them another dose. We must keep them at arms' length as long as we can." The schooner had by this time, braced up on the larboard tack, and was standing the same way as ourselves, so as to bring her broadside to bear upon us; and seemed to be trying to edge out of the range of our guns. "Oh, oh," said our gallant captain, "is that your play, old boy? You want to pepper us at a distance: that'll never do. Starboard, my boy!--So! steady! Now, my lads, fire way!"--And again our little bark shook with the explosion. The schooner was not slow in returning the compliment. One of her shot lodged in our hull and another sent the splinters flying out of the boat on the booms. Immediately after she fired, she stood away before the wind, and, rounding our stern at a respectful distance, she crawled up on the other side of us, as fast almost as if we had been at anchor, with a wish apparently to cut off our escape in that direction. But he was playing a deeper game. A long, dark, unbroken cloud was passing over the moon, which threw its black shadow over the water, and partially concealed the movements of the pirate. When it cleared away again, he was braced sharp up on the larboard tack, standing across our bows, with the intention of raking us. "Starboard the helm!--Brace sharp up!--Bear a hand, my fine fellows!"--And, before she had time to take advantage of her position, the Albion again presented her broadside. The flash from the pirate's guns was quickly followed by the report of ours, and we heard immediately the loud clattering of blocks on board of her, as if some sail had come down by the run. At this moment, I thought I heard some strange noise astern, and, running aft, I plainly distinguished the sound of muffled oars, and, immediately after, saw a small dark line upon the water. "Aft, here, small-arm men!" shouted I. "Boat, ahoy!--Boat, ahoy!"--A loud and wild cheer rose from the boat; and the men in her, finding that caution would no longer avail them, evidently redoubled their efforts at their oars. "Fire!" shouted the captain, while a blue light he had just ignited threw a pale unearthly glare over the ship's tafferel, and showed us our new and unexpected enemy It was the pirate's boat, which she had dropped during the partial obscurity I spoke of, intending to board us a-head herself, while the boat's crew attacked us astern. It was fortunate that we happened to hear them--three minutes more and nothing could have saved us. There was a set of the most ferocious-looking desperadoes I had ever seen, armed to the teeth; and the boat (a large one) was crowded with them. Deadly was the effect of our fire. Four or five of the men at the oars were tumbled over on their faces; but their places were instantly supplied by others, who, with loud yells for revenge, bent desperately to their oars. In a few minutes the boat shot up under the mizen-chains, while the bullets that were raining down upon them from above only rendered them more desperate. The living trampled upon the dying and the dead, in their eagerness to board; and, in a thick swarm, the blood-thirsty scoundrels came yelling over the bulwarks. A sharp and well-directed fire staggered them for a moment, and sent several of them to their last account. We now threw aside the muskets, for cutlasses and tomahawks. Hand to hand, foot to foot, desperate and deadly was the struggle. "Down with them, my lads!" shouted Rose. "Hew the blood-thirsty villains to pieces. No quarter! no quarter!--show them such mercy as they would show you!" Short and bloody was the conflict; several of the pirates had been killed, the deck was slippery with blood, and the rest were keeping their ground with difficulty. I had a long and severe hand-to-hand fight with one of them. We had each received desperate wounds, when his foot slipped on the bloody deck. I gave him a severe stroke on the head with a tomahawk, and, after a deadly struggle on the gangway, tumbled him backwards overboard. The moon shone bright out at the moment, and fell full upon his face. Merciful heaven!--my brain reeled, I staggered against a gun, and became insensible--that face, Mr. Stewart, haunts my dreams to this hour with its ghastly, despairing expression. It was the long-lost Henry's--I was my brother's murderer! (Here the poor fellow hid his face in his hands, and groaned with agony. I pitied him from my heart; but I knew that sorrow such as his "will not be comforted" in the moment of its strength; so I sat in silence beside him, till his first burst of grief was over, and then I endeavoured calmly and coolly to reason with him on the subject, and to persuade him, by all the arguments I could think of, that he had no cause to reproach himself with what had happened). "It is kindly meant of you, Mr. Stewart (said he, mournfully shaking his head), kindly meant, but in vain! I know that I was only acting in self-defence--that it was life against life--that I was perfectly justified, in the eyes of men, in taking the life of him who would have taken mine--but I cannot drive that last despairing look from my memory. I feel as if my brother's blood were crying out against my soul. O my poor Harry! would that the blow had fallen on my head instead of thine!--would that I had had time to tell thee how fondly I loved thee, how freely I forgave thee! But I beg pardon, Mr. Stewart;--I must go on with my tale. Ten of the pirates were lying dead on the deck, and five of our poor fellows; the bodies of the former were immediately thrown overboard, and the others were laid side by side amidships, till we could find time to give them Christian burial. Our last lucky shot had prevented the pirate from carrying the other part of his scheme into effect: the moon was now shining out full and clear, and by her light we saw that her throat halyards had been shot away, and her main-sail was flapping over the quarter; there were hands aloft, reaving new halyards, and busily employed about the mast-head, as if it were crippled. "We have had fighting enough for one bout," said Captain Rose; "we must run for it now." Our main-top-gallant mast was hanging over the side, and our sails were riddled with the schooner's shot; she had evidently been firing high, to disable us, that she might carry us by boarding. We clapped on all the sail we could, served out grog to the men, and lay down at our quarters. We were not suffered to remain at peace long: the moment the schooner perceived our intention, she edged away after us, and having repaired her damage, set her main-sail again; and, as the wind was still light, with the assistance of her remaining sweeps, came crawling up again in-shore of us. "Scoundrels!" muttered the captain, "they will stick to us like leeches as long as there is a drop of blood left on board." Again we saw the flash of her gun, and the smoke curling white in the moonbeam. The shot told with fatal effect; our main-top-sail-yard creaked, bent, and snapped in the slings, falling forward in two pieces. The loud cheers of the pirate crew came faintly over the water; but our brave fellows, nothing daunted, responded to them heartily. "They have winged us, my lads!" said our gallant captain; "but we will die game at all events." The men answered him with another cheer, and swore they would go to the bottom rather than yield. We blazed away at the schooner, but in vain; she had been severely taught to respect us; our shot fell far short, while she, with her long metal, kept dropping shot after shot into us with deadly precision. We tried to close with her; but she saw her advantage, and kept it; all that we could do was to stand steadily on, the men lying down under the shelter of the bulwarks. A faint dull sound now fell upon our ears, like the report of a distant gun. "Thank heaven!" said I, "our guns have spoken to some purpose; some of the cruisers have taken the alarm." We immediately burnt a blue light, and threw up a couple of rockets. In a few minutes a shout of joy burst from the crew, a small glimmering star appeared in the distance, which flickered for a moment, and then increased to a strong, steady, glaring, light; at the same time, we heard a second report, much nearer and clearer than before. Alarmed at the near approach of the stranger, which was now distinctly visible, standing towards us under a press of sail, the pirate, determined to have another brush with us, bore up, and closed with us. But we were prepared for him; he was evidently staggered by our warm reception; and, giving us a parting broadside, hove round, stood in under the dark shadow of the land, and we soon lost sight of him. The stranger proved to be H.M. sloop Porcupine. She hove to when she neared us, and sent a boat on board. She had heard the report of our guns, and hastened to the scene of action, just in the very nick of time to save us. The lieutenant complimented the captain and crew on their gallant defence, and hastened on board the sloop again, to make his report. The boat soon returned, with a gang of hands to assist in repairing our damages; and on the evening of the next day, we were safely at anchor. When the excitement of the action was over, the pain of my wounds and the agitation of my mind brought on a violent attack of fever. During my delirium, the vision of my dying brother was ever before me; and in my madness I twice made an attempt upon my own life. At length the goodness of my constitution triumphed over the violence of my disorder; but my peace of mind was gone for ever. My worthy friend, the captain, to whom I confided my story, did everything in his power to rouse me from my sorrow, and to reconcile me to myself; but in vain. The sight of my brother had recalled the vivid recollection of by-gone scenes, which I had been for years steeling my heart to forget; my spirit was broken, I became listless and indifferent, and no longer felt any interest in my profession. I did my duty, to be sure; but it was mechanically--from the force of habit. Captain Rose was ceaseless in his kindness. When, on our return home, I expressed my determination not to go to sea again, he represented my conduct during the action, and on other occasions, in such glowing terms, to the owners, that they settled a small annuity upon me, in consideration of the wounds I had received in their service. It was with the deepest regret I took leave of my worthy friend and captain. "I can never forget," said he, "that, but for you, my children would have been fatherless, my wife a widow; whenever you need the assistance of a friend, Douglas, apply to me with as much confidence as to a brother." He then offered to evince his regard in a more substantial manner, which I firmly but gratefully declined. I wrote to him afterwards, telling him that I had settled in this neighbourhood, and requesting him to make arrangements that my annuity might be made payable to a certain firm in Glasgow. In reply, he wrote me a long and affectionate letter. It was the first and last I ever had from him; he died soon afterwards. It is now five years since I took up my abode here, and I feel the weakness and infirmities of age creeping fast upon me. Oh! how happily will I lay down the weary load of life! "Douglas," said I, when he had finished his story, "you certainly have had grievous sorrows and trials; but you have borne them nobly, except in wilfully attaching the odium of crime to the unfortunate circumstances of your brother's death." "Would that I could think as you do!" said he. We parted: and four years elapsed before we met again. I had, in the meantime, commenced practice as a surgeon in Glasgow, and my professional avocations kept me too constantly employed to allow of my leaving the town. At last, after a severe attack of illness, I was recommended to go to the sea-side for a few months; and my thoughts immediately recurred to my old friend. I took a lodging in Rothesay, and next morning went down to the beach, where I saw the old man just preparing to put off. "Here I am again, Douglas," said I. "Sir!" replied he, looking at me at first doubtingly, for illness had greatly reduced me. "Ah! Mr. Stewart, is that you? I thought you had forgotten me." "Then you did me injustice, Douglas; I have often and often regretted that the pressure of business prevented my visiting you again. By the by, I was reminded of you in rather an extraordinary way lately." "How was that, sir?" "On my way down here, a few days since, the steamer touched at Greenock. I was standing on the quay when a poor fellow, a passenger in a vessel just arrived, fell from the gangway, and was taken up insensible. I immediately bled him; and, seeing that he appeared to be seriously injured, I determined, as I had no other particular call upon my time, to remain beside him till he recovered. I had him carried to a small lodging in the neighbourhood, where he soon partially recovered; and, having prescribed for him, I left him, desiring that I might be sent for if any change took place. During the night he had a violent attack of fever. I was sent for; when I arrived, I found him delirious; he was raving about Cuba, and ships, and pirates, and fifty other things that immediately recalled you to my remembrance. When he came to his senses again-- "'Doctor! tell me the truth,' said he: 'am I not dying?' "'No,' replied I; 'your present symptoms are favourable; everything depends upon your keeping your mind and body quiet.' "'Quiet mind!' muttered he, with a bitter smile on his countenance. 'It is not that I fear death, doctor; I think I could willingly depart in peace, if I had but been allowed time to find the person whom I came to Scotland in search of.' "'And who is that?' "'A fisherman at Rothesay.' "He mentioned the name; but at this moment I forget it. Let me see--it was--ay, it was Ponsonby--Charles Ponsonby." Douglas started, and turned pale. "Ponsonby!" exclaimed he; "that was _my_ name, my father's name! Who can he be? Perhaps some old shipmate of poor Harry's. I will go directly and see him." And he turned as if to depart. "Gently, gently, my friend," said I, detaining him; "I must go with you. When I left the poor fellow under the charge of a medical man at Greenock, he was greatly better; but he had received some severe internal injury, and he cannot live long. A sudden surprise might hasten his death. I must go with you to prevent accidents." We went on board the next steamer that started, and in two hours we landed at Greenock. I led the way to the small lodging in which I had left my patient; and leaving Douglas at the door, went in to inquire into the state of the sufferer's health, and to prepare him for his visitor. I found him asleep; but his was not the slumber that refreshes--the restless and unquiet spirit within was disturbing the rest of the fevered and fatigued body. His flushed cheek lay upon one arm, while his other was every now and then convulsively raised above his head, and his lips moved with indistinct mutterings. "He is asleep," said I to Douglas; "we must wait till he awakens." "Oh, let me look at him," said he; "it can do no harm. He must be an old shipmate of poor Harry's; perhaps he has some memento of him for me." "Very well," said I; "you may come in; but make as little noise as possible." We walked up gently to the bed; Douglas looked earnestly at the sleeper, and, suddenly raising his clasped hands, he exclaimed-- "Merciful heaven! it is Henry himself!" The poor patient started with a wild and fevered look. "Who called me? I thought I heard Charles' voice! Where am I? Give way in the boat!--oh, spare me, spare me, Charles!--Fire!--Down with them! Hurra!"--And, waving his hands above his head, he sunk down again on has bed, exhausted. He soon fell into a deep slumber, which lasted for some hours. I was sitting by his bedside when he awoke. "How do you feel now?" said I. "O doctor! I am dying. I have been dreaming: I thought I heard the voice of one I have deeply injured--nay, I dreamt I _saw_ him; but changed, how changed!--and I--I have been the cause of it." Here he was interrupted by the smothered sobs of poor Douglas, or Charles, as I now must call him. "Who is that? there is somebody else in the room," said he; and, drawing the curtain aside, he saw his brother. "Then it was no dream! O Charles!" and, turning round, he buried his face in the pillow. Douglas sprang forward, and, throwing himself on the bed, gave way to a violent burst of emotion. "Henry! dear Henry! look at me--it _is_ your brother, Henry!" The dying man groaned. "I cannot look you in the face, Charles," said he, "till you say you have forgiven me." "Forgiven you!" replied the other; "bless you! bless you, Henry! if you did but know the load of remorse that the sight of you has relieved me from! Thank heaven I was _not_ your murderer!" "And can you forget the past, Charles?" said Henry. "Do not my ears deceive me? Do you really forgive me?" "Freely, fully, from my heart!" was the reply; "the joy of meeting you again, even thus, repays me for all I have suffered." "O Charles!" again ejaculated Henry, "you were always generous and forgiving; but this is more than I expected from you." I was now going to leave the room; but my patient, noticing my intention, begged me to remain. "Stay, doctor, and listen to my confession; concealment is no longer necessary, for I feel that the hand of death is upon me, and that, in a few short hours, my career of sin, and shame, and sorrow, will be at an end." "My poor fellow," said I, "I have heard the first part of your story from your brother; you had better defer the remainder till you have recovered from your present agitation; I will come again to-morrow." "To-morrow, sir!" said he; "where may I be before to-morrow? Oh, let me speak now, while time and strength are allowed. It will do me good, sir; it will relieve my mind, and be a comfort to my troubled spirit." Feeling that he was right, I seated myself, while he thus commenced his tale:-- "You remember, Charles, our last sad parting--when we stood"---- "Mention it not, Harry!" groaned his brother--"there is agony in the recollection. Poor Julia!" "When I left you, I was maddened with sorrow and remorse; all night long I wandered about in a state of distraction, and, when morning dawned, I fell down by the roadside, overcome with fatigue and misery. How long I lay I know not; when I awoke, the sun was high in the heaven; and, during one brief moment of forgetfulness, I rejoiced in his brightness. Alas! it was but for a moment; my guilty love, my treachery, my loss, all flashed upon my mind at once, and I started to my feet, and hurried madly onwards, as if I hoped, by the rapidity of my movements, to escape from my own thoughts. Hunger at last compelled me to enter a small public-house, where I fell in with a poor sailor, who was on his way to Liverpool in search of a ship. The sight of this man turned my thoughts into another channel. 'Double-dyed traitor that I am,' muttered I, 'England is no longer a home for me. She for whose love I broke a father's heart and betrayed a brother's confidence, has been torn from me; and what more have I to live for here?' My mind was made up. "'My lad,' said I to the sailor, 'if you have no objection, we will travel together; I am bound to Liverpool myself.' "'With all my heart,' said he; 'I like to sail in company.' "I engaged to work my passage out before the mast, in a ship bound to Jamaica, intending to turn my education to some account there if possible, or, at all events, to remain there as long as my money lasted. When I saw the shores of my native land sink in the distance, I felt that I was a forlorn and miserable outcast--that the last link was severed that bound me to existence. A dark change came over me; a spirit of desperation and reckless indifference; a longing wish to end my miseries at once. I strove against the evil spirit; and for a while succeeded. On our arrival at Kingston, I endeavoured in vain to obtain employment; my stock of money was fast decreasing; and when that was gone, where was I to turn for more? Poverty and wretchedness threatened me from without; remorse was busy within. 'Why should I bear this weary load of life?' said I, as I madly paced the shore, 'when one bold plunge would bury it for ever?' "I threw myself headlong into the water; and, though an excellent swimmer, I resolutely kept my face beneath the surface; yes, with desperate determination, I strove to _force_ myself into the presence of that dread Being whom I had so grievously offended. When I came to my senses again, I was lying on a part of the beach I was unacquainted with; a tall, handsome, dark-featured young man, was bending over me, and, within a few yards of where I lay, a small light boat was drawn up on the shore. "'So you have opened your eyes at last, my friend,' said the man; 'you have had a narrow squeak for it. When I dragged you out of the water, like a drowned rat, I thought all was over with you. Have you as many lives as a cat that you can afford to throw away _one_ in such a foolish manner?' "'Life! I am sick of it,' answered I. "'Well,' said he, 'if that is the case, why not throw it away like a man, among men? Come with me, and I will furnish you with active employment to drive the devil out of your mind. But here, before we start, take some of the cordial to cheer you.' "I was chilled and exhausted, and took a hearty draught. I felt its warmth steal through my frame--it mounted to my brain--I laughed aloud; I felt that I was equal to any act of desperation. Alas! I little knew the snare I was falling into. We launched the boat and sprang into it; and my companion, seizing the oars, pulled rapidly along the beach. After rowing some distance, we saw a light glimmering amid the bushes; it was now nearly dusk; my companion lay on his oars, and gave a long, low, peculiar whistle, which was immediately answered. He then ran the boat ashore; two men sprang in, who relieved him at the oars; and we again held on our way. There was a great deal of conversation carried on in a low tone; and from what I heard of it, half tipsy as I was, I inferred that my companion, whom the other men addressed with great respect, was a naval officer on some secret duty. Just as we were crossing the mouth of a narrow creek, a light four-oared gig dashed out after us, a voice hailed us in English to lie on our oars, and, when we still held on our course, a musket ball whizzed over us, to enforce obedience. "'The piratical rascals!' exclaimed the young man; 'if they lay hold of us, we are all dead men.' 'Here!' continued he, seizing a musket, which lay in the stern sheets, and giving me another, 'fire for your life!' "I was half mad with fever, and the effects of my late draught; and, under the persuasion that our lives were in danger, I fired. The bowman of the gig fell, and we rapidly left her. We came at last to a narrow lagune, close to the low shore of which lay a small schooner at anchor, with sails bent, and every preparation for a start. "'Welcome on board the little Spitfire, my man!' said the young stranger; 'we want hands--will you ship?' "'What colours do you sail under,' replied I. "'Oh, not particular to a shade,' said he; 'any that happens to suit us for the time being: black is rather a favourite.' "'Black!' exclaimed I; 'I thought you were king's men. I won't go with you.' "'It is too late, my lad--go you must! Besides, there is no safety for you on shore now; you shot one of the crew of the cruiser's gig, and they will have life for life, depend upon it.' "The whole horror of my situation now burst upon me. I was in a fearful strait; but I made up my mind at once, to deceive the pirates, by appearing to be contented with my situation, and to take advantage of the first opportunity that presented itself to escape. "'Well,' said I, 'if that's the case, I had better die fighting bravely like a man, than hang like a dog from the yard-arm of a man-of-war.' "'Bravely said, my hearty!' replied the young leader; 'but we must be moving--the blue jackets will be after us; that shot of yours will bring the whole hornet's nest about our ears.' "We got under way; and, after rounding the east end of Jamaica, we stood away for the Cuba shore. The very first time we came to an anchor, I made an attempt to escape; I had saved part of my provisions for some days before, and concealed it, in readiness to take with me. We were lying close to the shore, and the darkness of the night would, I thought, conceal my movements; I was just slipping over the schooner's side, to swim ashore, when I felt a touch upon my shoulder, and, turning round, a dark lantern flashed in my face, and I saw the young pirate standing beside me. He held a cocked pistol to my head. 'One touch of this trigger,' said he, 'and you would require no more looking after. My eye has been upon you all along; you cannot escape me; do not attempt it again--the consequences may be fatal.' "From that hour I was aware that I was constantly and narrowly watched. Except in the one instance of the gig's man, whom I had fired at under a delusion, it was my good fortune as yet to have escaped imbruing my hands in blood. During the action with the Albion, I was sent in the boat, under the particular charge of the mate. 'Keep your eye on this fellow,' said the captain; 'If he flinches for a moment, blow his brains out instantly; we must _glue him_ to us with blood. I will keep her in play till you creep alongside; and, once on board, cut every one down before you--give no quarter.' "My blood ran cold at this horrible order, and I determined upon doing all in my power to counteract its execution. I was delighted when you discovered our approach and the blue light flashed from your stern; for I dreaded the scene of massacre that must have ensued, if we had boarded you unawares. I sprang on deck with the rest, in hopes that I might be able to prevent some bloodshed; but, when I was violently attacked, my passions were aroused, and I fought desperately for my life. Just as you tumbled me over the gangway, the gleam of moonshine showed me your face. I recognised you immediately; and, when I rose to the surface of the water again after my plunge, I blessed heaven that I had been spared the guilt of murder. I reached the boat which was still hanging under your quarter, cut the painter, and in the confusion, escaped unnoticed. I immediately made for the shore; and after many hair-breadth escapes from my old associates, I volunteered on board one of the cruisers on the Jamaica station. At length she returned home, the crew were paid off, and I determined to seek you out. On inquiring at the office of the owners of the Albion, in Liverpool, they told me that the late chief mate had settled, some years before, in the neighbourhood of Rothesay, in the Isle of Bute, and was still alive. Thank heaven! I have found you at last! I should like to live, Charles, to prove to you my sorrow and repentance for the past; but, as heaven has willed it otherwise, the blessed assurance of your forgiveness will lighten death of half its terrors." The poor fellow breathed his last a few days afterwards. Douglas mourned long and deeply for his brother's death; but after time had soothed his grief, he became quite an altered man. His mind and spirits recovered their elasticity, after the load which had so long weighed them down was removed. He did not resume his own name; but lived many years afterwards, contented and happy, in the humble station of a fisherman; and it was not till after his death that his old companions discovered how justly the name of "Gentleman Douglas" had been applied to him. His tombstone bore the simple inscription, "Charles Douglas Ponsonby, eldest son of the late Reverend T. Ponsonby." I often wander, in the calm summer evenings, to the quiet churchyard, and return a sadder, but, I hope, a better man, after meditating upon the troublous and adventurous life, and peaceful and Christian death of the ROTHESAY FISHERMAN. LEAVES FROM THE DIARY OF AN AGED SPINSTER. The poet of THE ELEGY _par excellence_, hath written two lines, which run thus-- "Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air." Now, I never can think of these lines but they remind me of the tender, delicate, living, breathing, and neglected flowers that bud, blossom, shed their leaves, and die, in cold unsunned obscurity--flowers that were formed to shed their fragrance around a man's heart, and to charm his eye--but which, though wandering melancholy and alone in the wilderness where they grow, he passeth by with neglect, making a companion of his loneliness. But, to drop all metaphor--where will you find a flower more interesting than a spinster of threescore and ten, of sixty, of fifty, or of forty? They have, indeed, "wasted their sweetness on the desert air." Some call them "old maids;" but it is a malicious appellation, unless it can be proved that they have refused to be wives. I would always take the part of a spinster; they are a peculiar people, far more "sinned against than sinning." Every blockhead thinks himself at liberty to crack a joke upon them; and when he says something, that he conceives to be wondrous smart, about Miss Such-an-One and her cat or poodle dog, he conceives himself a marvellous clever fellow; yea, even those of her own sex who are below what is called a "certain age" (what that age is, I cannot tell), think themselves privileged to giggle at the expense of their elder sister. Now, though there may be a degree of peevishness (and it is not to be wondered at) amongst the sisterhood, yet with them you will find the most sensitive tenderness of heart, a delicacy that quivers, like the aspen leaf, at a breath, and a kindliness of soul that a mother might envy--or rather, for envy, shall I not write _imitate_? But ah! if their history were told, what a chronicle would it exhibit of blighted affections, withered hearts, secret tears, and midnight sighs! The first spinster of whom I have a particular remembrance, as belonging to her caste, was Diana Darling. It is now six and twenty years since Diana paid the debt of nature, up to which period, and for a few years before, she rented a room in Chirnside. It was only a year or two before her death that I became acquainted with her; and I was then very young. But I never shall forget her kindness towards me. She treated me as though I had been her own child, or rather her grandchild, for she was then very little under seventy years of age. She had always an air of gentility about her; people called her "a betterish sort o' body." And, although _Miss_ and _Mistress_ are becoming general appellations now, twenty or thirty years ago, upon the Borders, those titles were only applied to particular persons or on particular occasions; and whether their more frequent use now is to be attributed to the schoolmaster being abroad or the dancing-master being abroad, I cannot tell, but Diana Darling, although acknowledged to be a "betterish sort o' body," never was spoken of by any other term but "auld Diana," or "auld Die." Well do I remember her flowing chintz gown, with short sleeves, her snow-white apron, her whiter cap, and old kid gloves, reaching to her elbows; and as well do I remember how she took one of the common _blue cakes_ which washer-women use, and tying it up in a piece of woollen cloth, dipped it in water, and daubed it round and round the walls of her room, to give them the appearance of being papered. I have often heard of and seen _stenciling_ since; but, rude as the attempt was, I am almost persuaded that Diana was the first who put it in practice. To keep up gentility putteth people to strange shifts, and often to ridiculous ones--and to both of these extremities she was driven. But I have hinted that she was a kind-hearted creature; and, above all, do I remember her for the fine old ballads which she sang to me. But there was one that was an especial favourite with her, and a verse of which, if I remember correctly, ran thus-- "Fie, Lizzy Lindsay! Sae lang in the mornins ye lie, Mair fit ye was helping yer minny To milk a' the ewes and the kye." Diana, however, was a woman of some education; and to a relative she left a sort of history of her life, from which the following is an extract:-- "My father died before I was eighteen (so began Diana's narrative), and he left five of us--that is, my mother, two sisters, a brother, and myself--five hundred pounds a-piece. My sisters were both younger than me; but, within six years after our father's death, they both got married; and my brother, who was only a year older than myself, left the house also, and took a wife, so that there was nobody but me and my mother left. Everybody thought there was something very singular in this; for it was not natural that the youngest should be taken and the auldest left; and, besides, it was acknowledged that I was the best faured,[C] and the best tempered in the family; and there could be no dispute but that my siller was as good as theirs. [C] Best-looking, or most beautiful. I must confess, however, that, when I was but a lassie o' sixteen, I had drawn up wi' one James Laidlaw--but I should score out the word _one_, and just say that I had drawn up wi' _James Laidlaw_. He was a year, or maybe three, aulder than me, and I kenned him when he was just a laddie, at Mr. Wh----'s school in Dunse; but I took no notice o' him then in particular, and, indeed, I never did, until one day that I was an errand down by Kimmerghame, and I met James just coming out frae the gardens. It was the summer season, and he had a posie in his hand, and a very bonny posie it was. 'Here's a fine day, Diana,' says he. 'Yes, it is,' says I. So we said nae mair for some time; but he keepit walking by my side, and at last he said--'What do ye think o' this posie?' 'It is very bonny, James,' said I. 'I think sae,' quoth he; 'and if ye will accept it, there should naebody be mair welcome to it.' 'Ou, I thank ye,' said I, and I blushed in a way--'why should ye gie me it?' 'Never mind,' says he, 'tak it for auld acquaintance sake--we were at the school together.' So I took the flowers, and James keepit by my side, and cracked to me a' the way to my mother's door, and I cracked to him--and I really wondered that the road between Kimmerghame and Dunse had turned sae short. It wasna half the length that it used to be, or what I thought it ought to be. But I often saw James Laidlaw after this; and somehow or other I aye met him just as I was coming out o' the kirk, and weel do I recollect that, one Sabbath in particular, he said to me--'Diana, will ye no come out and tak a walk after ye get your dinner?' 'I dinna ken, James,' says I; 'I doubt I daurna, for our folk are very particular, and baith my faither and my mother are terribly against onything like gaun about stravaigin on the Sundays.' 'Oh, they need never ken where ye're gaun,' says he. 'Weel, I'll try,' says I, for by this time I had a sort o' liking for James. 'Then,' said he, 'I'll be at the Penny Stane at four o'clock.' 'Very weel,' quoth I. And, although baith my faither and mother said to me, as I was gaun out--'Where are ye gaun, lassie?'--'Oh, no very far,' said I; and, at four o'clock, I met James at the Penny Stane. I shall never forget the grip that he gied my hand when he took it in his, and said-- 'Ye hae been as good as your word, Diana.' We wandered awa doun by Wedderburn dyke, till we came to the Blackadder, and then we sauntered down by the river side, till we were opposite Kelloe--and, oh, it was a pleasant afternoon. Everything round about us, aboon us, and among our feet, seemed to ken it was Sunday--everything but James and me. The laverock was singing in the blue lift--the blackbirds were whistling in the hedges--the mavis chaunted its loud sang frae the bushes on the braes--the lennerts[D] were singing and chirming among the whins--and the shelfa[E] absolutely seemed to follow ye wi' its three notes over again, in order that ye might learn them. [D] Linnets [E] Chaffinch It was the happiest afternoon I ever spent. James grat, and I grat. I got a scolding frae my faither and my mother when I gaed hame, and they demanded to ken where I had been; but the words that James had spoken to me bore me up against their reproaches. Weel, it was very shortly (I daresay not six months after my faither's death), that James called at my mother's, and as he said, to bid us _farewell!_ He took my mother's hand--I mind I saw him raise it to his lips, while the tears were on his cheeks; and he was also greatly put about to part wi' my sisters; but to me he said-- 'Ye'll set me down a bit, Diana.' He was to take the coach for Liverpool--or at least, a coach to take him on the road to that town, the next day; and from there he was to proceed to the West Indies, to meet an uncle who was to make him his heir. I went out wi' him, and we wandered away down by our auld walks; but, oh, he said little, and he sighed often, and his heart was sad. But mine was as sad as his, and I could say as little as him. I winna, I canna write a' the words and the vows that passed. He took the chain frae his watch, and it was o' the best gold, and he also took a pair o' Bibles frae his pocket, and he put the watch chain and the Bibles into my hand, and--'Diana,' said he, 'take these, dear--keep them for the sake o' your poor James, and, as often as ye see them, think on him.' I took them, and wi' the tears running down my cheeks--'O James,' cried I, 'this is hard!--hard!' Twice, ay thrice, we bade each other '_farewell_,' and thrice, after he had parted frae me, he cam running back again, and, throwing his arms round my neck, cried-- 'Diana! I canna leave ye!--promise me that ye will never marry onybody else!' And thrice I promised him that I wouldna. But he gaed awa, and my only consolation was looking at the Bibles, on one o' the white leaves o' the first volume o' which I found written, by his own hand, '_James Laidlaw and Diana Darling vowed, that, if they were spared, they would become man and wife; and that neither time, distance, nor circumstances, should dissolve their plighted troth. Dated, May 25th, 17--_.' These were cheering words to me; and I lived on them for years, even after my younger sisters were married, and I had ceased to hear from him. And, during that time, for his sake, I had declined offers which my friends said I was waur than foolish to reject. At least half a dozen good matches I let slip through my hands, and a' for the love o' James Laidlaw who was far awa, and the vows he had plighted to me by the side o' the Blackadder. And, although he hadna written to me for some years, I couldna think that ony man could be so wicked as to write words o' falsehood and bind them up in the volume o' everlasting truth. But, about ten years after he had gane awa, James Laidlaw came back to our neighbourhood; but he wasna the same lad he left--for he was now a dark-complexioned man, and he had wi' him a mulatto woman, and three bairns that called him _faither!_ He was no longer my James! My mother was by this time dead, and I expected naething but that the knowledge o' his faithlessness would kill me too--for I had clung to hope till the last straw was broken. I met him once during his stay in the country, and, strange to tell, it was within a hundred yards o' the very spot where I first foregathered wi' him, when he offered me the posie. 'Ha! Die!' said he, 'my old girl, are you still alive? I'm glad to see you. Is the old woman, your mother, living yet?' I was ready to faint, my heart throbbed as though it would have burst. A' the trials I had ever had were naething to this; and he continued--'Why, if I remember right, there was once something like an old flame between you and me.' 'O James! James!' said I, 'do you remember the words ye wrote in the Bible, and the vows that ye made me by the side of the Blackadder?' 'Ha! ha!' said he, and he laughed, 'you are there, are you? I do mind something of it. But, Die, I did not think that a girl like you would have been such a fool as to remember what a boy said to her.' I would have spoken to him again; but I remembered he was the husband of another woman--though she was a mulatto--an' I hurried away as fast as my fainting heart would permit. I had but one consolation, and that was, that, though he had married another, naebody could compare her face wi' mine. But it was lang before I got the better o' this sair slight--ay, I may say it was ten years and mair; and I had to try to pingle and find a living upon the interest o' my five hundred pounds, wi' ony other thing that I could turn my hand to in a genteel sort o' way. I was now getting on the wrang side o' eight and thirty; and that is an age when it isna prudent in a spinister to be throwing the pouty side o' her lip to any decent lad that hauds out his hand, and says--'Jenny, will ye tak me?' Often and often, baith by day and by night, did I think o' the good bargains I had lost, for the sake o' my fause James Laidlaw; and often, when I saw some o' them that had come praying to me, pass me on a Sunday, having their wives wi' their hands half round their waist on the horse behint them--'O James! fause James!' I have said, 'but for trusting to you, and it would hae been me that would this day been riding behint Mr. ----.' But I had still five hundred pounds, and sic fend as I could make, to help what they brought to me. And, about this time, there was one that had the character of being a very respectable sort o' a lad, one Walter Sanderson; he was a farmer, very near about my own age, and altogether a most prepossessing and intelligent young man. I first met wi' him at my youngest sister's goodman's kirn,[F] and I must say, a better or a more gracefu' dancer I never saw upon a floor. He had neither the jumping o' a mountebank, nor the sliding o' a play-actor, but there was an ease in his carriage which I never saw equalled. I was particularly struck wi' him, and especially his dancing; and it so happened that he was no less struck wi' me. I thought he looked even better than James Laidlaw used to do--but at times I had doubts about it. However, he had stopped all the night at my brother-in-law's as weel as mysel; and when I got up to gang hame the next day, he said he would bear me company. I thanked him, and said I was obliged to him, never thinking that he would attempt such a thing. But, just as the pony was brought out for me to ride on (and the callant was to come up to Dunse for it at night), Mr. Walter Sanderson mounted his horse, and says he-- 'Now, wi' your permission, Miss Darling, I will see you hame.' [F] Harvest Home. It would hae been very rude o' me to hae said--'No, I thank you, sir,' and especially at my time o' life, wi' twa younger sisters married that had families; so I blushed, as it were, and giein my powny a twitch, he sprang on to his saddle, and came trotting along by my side. He was very agreeable company; and, when he said, 'I shall be most happy to pay you a visit, Miss Darling,' I didna think o' what I had said, until after that I had answered him, 'I shall be very happy to see ye, sir.' And when I thought o' it my very cheek bones burned wi' shame. But, howsoever, Mr. Sanderson was not long in calling again--and often he did call, and my sisters and their guid-men began to jeer me about him. Weel, he called and called, for I daresay as good as three quarters of a year; and he was sae backward and modest a' the time that I thought him a very remarkable man; indeed, I began to think him every way superior to James Laidlaw. But at last he made proposals--I consented--the wedding-day was set, and we had been cried in the kirk. It was the fair day, just two days before we were to be married, and he came into the house, and, after he had been seated a while, and cracked in his usual kind way-- 'Oh,' says he, 'what a bargain I hae missed the day! There are four lots o' cattle in the market, and I might hae cleared four hundred pounds, cent. per cent., by them.' 'Losh me! Walter, then,' says I, 'why didna ye do it? How did ye let sic a bargain slip through your fingers?' 'Woman,' said he, 'I dinna ken; but a man that is to be married within eight and forty hours is excusable. I came to the Fair without any thought o' either buying or selling--but just to see you, Diana--and I kenned there wasna meikle siller necessary for that.' 'Losh, Walter, man,' said I, 'but that is a pity--and ye say ye could mak cent. per cent. by the beasts?' ''Deed could I,' quoth he--'I am sure o' that.' 'Then, Walter,' says I, 'what is mine the day is to be yours the morn, I may say; and it would be a pity to lose sic a bargain.' Therefore I put into his hands an order on a branch bank, that had been established in Dunse, for every farthing that I was worth in the world, and Walter kissed me, and went out to get the money frae the bank and buy the cattle. But he hadna been out an hour, when ane o' my brothers-in-law called, and I thought he looked unco dowie. So I began to tell him about the excellent bargain that Walter had made, and what I had done. But the man started frae his seat as if he were crazed, and, without asking me ony questions, he only cried--'Gracious! Diana! hae ye been sic an idiot?' and, rushing out o' the house, ran to the bank. He left me in a state that I canna describe; I neither kenned what to do nor what to think. But within half an hour he returned, and he cried out as he entered--'Diana, ye are ruined! He has taken in you and everybody else. The villain broke yesterday. He is off! Ye may bid fare weel to your siller!' 'Wha is off?' cried I, and I was in sic a state I was hardly able to speak. 'Walter Sanderson!' answered my brother-in-law. I believe I went into hysterics; for the first thing I mind o' after his saying so, was a dozen people standing round about me--some slapping at the palms o' my hands, and others laving water on my breast and temples, until they had me as wet as if they had douked me in Pollock's Well. I canna tell how I stood up against this clap o' misery. It was near getting the better o' me. For a time I really hated the very name and the sight o' man, and I said, as the song says, that 'Men are a' deceivers.' But this was not the worst o' it--I had lost my all, and I was now forced into the acquaintanceship of poverty and dependence. I first went to live under the roof o' my youngest sister, who had always been my favourite; but, before six months went round, I found that she began to treat me just as though I had been a servant, ordering me to do this and do the other; and sometimes my dinner was sent ben to me into the kitchen; and the servant lassies, seeing how their mistress treated me, considered that they should be justified in doing the same--and they did the same. Many a weary time have I lain down upon my bed and wished never to rise again, for my spirit was weary o' this world. But I put up wi' insult after insult, until flesh and blood could endure it no longer. Then did I go to my other sister, and she hardly opened her mouth to me as I entered her house. I saw that I might gang where I liked--I wasna welcome there. Before I had been a week under her roof, I found that the herd's dog led a lady's life to mine. I was forced to leave her too. And, as a sort o' last alternative, just to keep me in existence, I began a bit shop in a neighbouring town, and took in sewing and washing; and, after I had tried them awhile, and found that they would hardly do, I commenced a bit school, at the advice of the minister's wife, and learned bairns their letters and the catechism, and knitting and sewing. I also taught them (for they were a' girls) how to work their samplers, and to write, and to cast accounts. But what vexed and humbled me more than all I had suffered, was, that one night, just after I had let my scholars away, an auld hedger and ditcher body, almost sixty years o' age, came into the house, and 'How's a' wi' ye the nicht?' says he, though I had never spoken to the man before. But he took off his bonnet, and, pulling in a chair, drew a seat to the fire. I was thunderstruck! But I was yet mair astonished and ashamed, when the auld body, sleeking down his hair and his chin, had the assurance to make love to me! 'There is the door, sir!' cried I. And when he didna seem willing to understand me, I gripped him by the shouthers, and showed him what I meant. Yet quite composedly he turned round to me and said, 'I dinna see what is the use o' the like o' this--it is true I am aulder than you, but you are at a time o' life now that ye canna expect ony young man to look at ye. Therefore, ye had better think twice before ye turn me to the door. Ye will find it just as easy a life being the wife o' a hedger as keeping a school--rather mair sae I apprehend, and mair profitable too.' I had nae patience wi' the man. I thought my sisters had insulted me; but this offer o' the hedger's wounded me mair than a' that they had done. 'O James Laidlaw!' cried I, when I was left to mysel, 'what hae ye brought me to! My sisters dinna look after me. My parting wi' them has gien them an excuse to forget that I exist. My brother is far frae me, and he is ruled by a wife; and I hae been robbed by another o' the little that I had. I am like a withered tree in a wilderness, standing its lane--I will fa' and naebody will miss me. I am sick, and there are none to haud my head. My throat is parched and my lips dry, and there are none to bring me a cup o' water. There is nae _living thing_ that I can ca' mine. And some day I shall be found a stiffened corpse in my bed, with no one near me to close my eyes in death or perform the last office of humanity! For I am alone--I am by myself--I am forgotten in the world; and my latter years, if I have a long life, will be a burden to strangers.'" But Diana Darling did not so die. Her gentleness, her kindness, caused her to be beloved by many who knew not her history; and, when the last stern messenger came to call her hence, many watched with tears around her bed of death, and many more in sorrow followed her to the grave. So ran the few leaves in the diary of a spinster--and the reader will forgive our interpolations. GEORDIE WILLISON, AND THE HEIRESS OF CASTLE GOWER. Antiquaries know very well that one of the oldest of the Nova Scotia knights, belonging to Scotland, was Sir Marmaduke Maitland of Castle Gower, situated in one of the southern counties of the kingdom; but they may not know so well that Sir Marmaduke held his property under a strict entail to heirs male, whom failing, to heirs female, under the condition of bearing the arms and name of the Castle Gower family; or that he was married to Catherine Maxwell, a near relative of the family of Herries, in the Stewartry of Kirkcudbright--a person of no very great beauty, but sprightly, and of good manners. This woman had been brought up in France, and was deeply tinged with French feelings. She had French cooks and French milliners about her in abundance; and a French lackey was considered by her as indispensable as meat and drink. Then she was represented as being a proud, imperious woman, with a bad temper; which was rendered worse by her continued fretting, in consequence of not having any children to her husband; whereby the property would go away to a son of her husband's brother. Sir Marmaduke and his lady had a town-house in Edinburgh, in which they lived for the greater part of the year, situated so as to look to the North Back of the Canongate, and with an entry to it from that street, but the principal gate was from the north side. A garden was attached to the house; and the stables and coach-houses were situated at the foot of the garden. All these premises are now removed; but Sir Marmaduke Maitland's house--or, as it was styled, the Duke's house--at the period of this story, was a very showy house, and very well known to the inhabitants of Edinburgh. Now, at the foot of Leith Wynd, there lived, about the same time, a poor widow woman, called Widow Willison, who had a son and a daughter. She was the widow of a William Willison, who earned a livelihood by the humble means of serving the inhabitants of Edinburgh with water, which he conveyed to their doors by the means of an ass; and was, in consequence, called Water Willie--a good, simple, honest creature; much liked by his customers, from whom he never wanted a good diet; and had no fault, but that of disliking the element in which he dealt. He liked he said very well to drive water to the great folks, and he wished them "meikle guid o't; but, for his ain pairt, he preferred whisky, which, he thocht, was o' a warmer and mair congenial nature, and better suited to the inside o' a rational animal, like man." Strange enough, it was to William Willison's dislike to water that people attributed his death. It would have been more logical--but scandal is a bad logician--to have debited that event to the water; for, though it will not conceal that Willie was drunk when he died, it was as notorious that it was not because he was drunk that he died--but that he died because his water-cart went over him when he was drunk. However that may be, and there is no use in wasting much reasoning on the point, William left, at his death, a widow and two children, with nothing to support them. Widow Willison was a good, religious woman, of the old school, believing in the transcendent influence of mere faith, as carrying along with it all the minor points of justification by works, election, and others, in the same way that a river takes with it the drops of rain that fall from the heavens, and carries all down to the ocean. She was an excellent example of the influence of a pure religion--kind and generous in her sentiments; and, though left with two children, and no food to satisfy their hunger, patient and hopeful--placing implicit trust and confidence in the Author of all good, and viewing murmuring as a sin against His providence. Let us introduce, now, George Willison, her son, an extraordinary individual, apparently destined to be more notorious than his father, in so much as his character was composed of that mixture of simplicity, bordering on silliness, and shrewd sagacity in the ordinary affairs of life, which is often observed in people of Scotland. Though common, the character is nearly inexplicable to the analyst; for the individual seems conscious of the weaker part of his character, but he appears to love it, and often makes it subservient to the stronger elements of his mind, by using it at once as a cloak and a foil to them. George, like the other individuals of his peculiar species, followed no trade. Sometimes he acted as a cadie, a letter-carrier, a messenger, a porter, a water-carrier--in any capacity, in short, in which he could, with no continuous labour, earn a little money. To work at any given thing for longer time than a day, was a task which he generally condemned, as being wearisome and monotonous, and more suited to the inferior animals than to man. His clothes, like his avocations, were many-coloured, and suited the silly half of his character, without altogether depriving him of the rights of a citizen, or making him the property and sport of school-boys. Like his employments, his earnings were chancy and various, ranging between a shilling to five shillings a-week, including gratuities, which his conceit prompted him to call "helps," with a view to avoid the imputation of living upon alms--a name, in the Scotch language "awmous," which did not sound agreeably in the ears of Geordie Willison. The very reverse of George was his sister--a black-eyed beauty, of great intelligence, who earned a little money, to support the family, by means of her needle. She was a great comfort to her mother, seldom going out, and felt much annoyed by the strange character of her brother, whom she often endeavoured to improve, with a view to his following some trade. He was twenty years of age, and if he did not "tak' himself up" now, she said, "he would be a vagrant a' his days." Geordie, on the other hand, quietly heard his sister, but he never saw--at least, he pretended not to see, which was the same thing--the force of her argument. The weak half of his constitution was always presented to any attack of logic; and the adroitness with which he met his opponent by this soft buckler--which, like a feather-bed presented to a canon bullet, swallowed the force and the noise at the same time--was worthy of Aristotle, or Thomas Scotus, or any other logical warrior. Take an example:-- "Whar hae ye been the day, Geordie?" said his mother to him one day. "I hae been convoying Sir Marmaduke Maitland a wee bit on his way to France," said Geordie. "He asked me to bear him company and carry his luggage to Leith, and I couldna refuse sic a favour to the braw knight." "An' what got ye frae him?" said his mother; "for I hae naething i' the house for supper." "Twa or three placks," said Geordie, throwing down some coppers on the table. "This is the 21st day o' April--your birthday, Geordie," said the mother; "an' as it has aye been our practice to hae something by common on that occasion, I'll gang down to Widow Johnston's an' get a pint o' the best, to drink yer health wi'." And Widow Willison did as she said. "Is Lady Maitland no awa wi' Sir Marmaduke, Geordie?" resumed his mother, when they were taking their meagre supper. "Na! na!" said Geordie; "they dinna like ane anither sae weel; an' I dinna wonder at Sir Marmaduke no likin' her, for I dinna like her mysel." "For what reason, Geordie?" asked his mother. "Because she doesna like me," answered the casuist. Now it happened that on the 19th day of February, after the conversation here detailed, that George Willison was wandering over the grounds of Warriston, on the north side of Edinburgh. He had been with a letter to the Laird of Warriston, and, in coming back, as was not uncommon with him, was musing, in a half dreaming, listless kind of state, as he sauntered through the planted grounds in the neighbourhood. His attention was in an instant arrested by the sounds of voices, and he stood, or rather sat down, behind a hedge and listened. The speakers were very near to him; for it was so very dark that they could not observe him. "I will stand at a little distance, Louise," said a voice, "and thou canst do the thing thyself. I could despatch thine, but I cannot do that good work to myself; for the mother rises in me, and unnerves me quite. Besides, thou didst promise to do me this service for the ten gold pieces I gave thee, and the many more I will yet give thee." "_Oui! oui!_ my lady; but de infant is so _fort_, so trong, dat it will be difficult for me to trottle her. Death, _la mort_, does not come ever when required; but I vill do my endeavour to trangle de leetle jade, vit as much activity as I can. Ha! ha! de leetle baggage tinks she is already _perdir_--she tombles so--be quiet, you _petite_ leetle deevil. It vill be de best vay, I tink, to do it on de ground. Hark! is dere not some person near?--my heart goes _en palpitant_." "It is nobody, thou fool," answered the lady; "it is only a rustling produced by a breath of wind among the trees." "Very vell, very vell, my Lady Maitland; dat is right. Now for de vork." "Stop until I am at a little distance; and, when thou hearest me cry 'Now,' finish the thing cleverly." The rustling of the lady's gown betokened that she had done as she said. The rustling ceased; and the word "Now," came from the mouth of the mother. All was silent for a minute; a quick breath, indicating the application of a strong effort, was now heard, mixed with the sound of a convulsed suspiration, something like that of a child labouring under hooping-cough, though weaker. The rustling of clothes indicated a struggle of some violence; and several ejaculations escaped at intervals:--"_Mon dieu!_ dis is de _triste_ vork; how trong de leetle she velp is!--now, now--not yet--how trange!--_diable!_ she still breats!" "Hast thou finished, Louise?" asked the lady, impatiently. "Not yet, my lady," said Louise; "give me your hair necklace; de leetle she velp vont die vitout tronger force dan my veak hands can apply." "I cannot go to thee," said the lady; "thou must come to me. Lay the babe on the ground, and come for the necklace." Louise did as she was desired. The sounds of a struggle again commenced, mixed with Louise's ejaculations:--"Now, now--dis vill do for you--_une fois_--vonce, twice, trice round--dat vill do--quite sufficient to kill de giant, or Sir Marmaduke himself. Now, my lady, I tink de ting is pretty vell done; I vill trow her into de hedge--dere--now, let us go." The two ladies went away, and Geordie rushed forward to the place where they had thrown the child. It was still convulsed. He loosened the necklace, which had been left by mistake, and blew strongly into the child's mouth. He heard it sigh, and in a little time breathe; and, carrying it with the greatest care, he took it home with him to his mother's house. "Whar hae ye been, man, and what is this ye hae in your airms?" said Widow Willison to Geordie, when he went in. "It's a wee bit birdie I fand in a nest amang the hedges o' Warriston," said Geordie. "Its mither didna seem to care aboot it, and I hae brought it hame wi' me. Gie't a pickle crowdie, puir thing." Astonished, and partly displeased, Widow Willison took the child out of her son's arms, and seeing its face swoln and blue, and marks of strangulation on its neck, her maternal sympathies arose, and she applied all the articles of a mother's pharmacopoeia with a view to restore it. "But whar got ye the bairn, man?" she again inquired. "Gie us nane o' yer nonsense about birds and hedges. Tell us the story sae as plain folk can understand it." "I hae already tauld ye," said Geordie, dryly and slowly; "and it's no my intention at present to tell ye ony mair aboot it. Ye didna ask whar _I_ came frae when ye got me first." "An' wha's to bring up the bairn?" asked the mother, who knew it was in vain to put the same question twice to Geordie. "Ye didna ask that question at my faither when _I_ cam hame," replied the stoic, with one of his peculiar looks; "but, if ye had, maybe ye wadna hae got sae kind an answer as I'll gie ye: Geordie Willison will pay for bringing up the bairn; and I'll no answer ony mair o' yer questions." Strictly did Geordie keep his word with his mother. He would tell neither her nor his sister anything about the child. They knew his temper and disposition, and gradually resigned an importunity which had the effect of making him more obstinate. At night, when the child's clothes were taken off, with a view to putting it to bed, Geordie got hold of them and carried them off, unknown to his mother. He locked them up in his chest, and, in the morning, when his mother asked him if he had seen them, he said he knew nothing about them. Annoyed by this conduct on the part of her son, his mother threatened to throw the child upon the parish as a foundling; and yet, when she reflected on the extreme sagacity which was mixed up with her son's peculiarities, and read in his looks, which she well understood, a more than ordinary confidence of power to do what he had said, as to bringing up the child, she hesitated in her purpose, and at last resolved to go in with the humour and inclinations of her son, and do the duty of a mother to the babe. We now change the scene. "It's a braw day this, my Leddy Maitland," said Geordie, bowing to the very ground, and holding in his hand a clean sheet of paper, which he had folded up like a letter, as a passport to her ladyship's presence. Lady Maitland, who was sitting at her work-table, stared at the person thus saluting her, and seeing it was Geordie Willison, who had offended her at the time of his carrying down Sir Marmaduke's luggage, by asking, jocularly, if "ony o' the bairns were gaun wi' their father," she asked him sternly what he wanted, and, thinking he had the letter in his hand to deliver to her, snatched it in a petted manner and opened it. On finding it a clean sheet of paper, with her address on the back of it, she got into a great rage, and ran to the bell to call up a lackey to kick Geordie down stairs. "Canny, my braw leddy--canny," said Geordie, seizing her hand; "ye are hasty--maybe no quite recovered yet--the wet dews o' Warriston are no for the tender health o' the bonny Leddy Maitland; for even Geordie Willison, wha can ban a' bield i' the cauldest nicht o' winter, felt them chill and gruesome as he passed through them yestreen." On hearing this speech, Lady Maitland changed, in an instant, from a state of violent passion to the rigidity and appearance of a marble statue. Eyeing her with one of his peculiar looks, as much as to say, "I know all," Geordie proceeded. "I dinna want to put your leddyship to ony trouble by this veesit; but, being in want o' some siller in thir hard times, I thocht I would tak the liberty o' ca'in upon yer leddyship, as weel for the sake o' being better acquainted wi' a leddy o' yer station and presence, as for the sake o' gettin' the little I require on my first introduction to high life." "How much money dost thou require?" asked the lady, with a tremulous voice. "Twunty pund, my leddy, twenty pund at the present time," answered Geordie, with the same simple look; "ye ken the folk haud me for a natural, and ower fu' a cup is no easy carried, even by the wise. Sae, I wadna like to trust mysel' wi' mair than twenty pund at a time." Without saying a word, Lady Maitland went, with trembling steps, and a hurried and confused manner, to her bureau: she took out her keys--tried one, then another, and, with some difficulty, at last got it opened. She counted out twenty pounds, and handed it over to Geordie, who counted it again with all the precision of a modern banker. "Thank ye, my leddy," said Geordie; "an' whan I need mair, I'll just tak the liberty o' makin yer leddyship my banker. Guid day, my leddy." And, with a low bow, reaching nearly to the ground, he departed. The result of this interview satisfied Geordie that what he had suspected was true. Sir Marmaduke had not yet returned, and his lady, having been unfaithful to him, and given birth to a child, had resolved upon putting it out of the way, in the manner already detailed. He had no doubt that the lady thought the child was dead; and he did not wish, in the meantime, to disturb that notion; for, although he knew that the circumstance of the child being alive would give him greater power over her, in the event of her becoming refractory, he was apprehensive that she would not have allowed the child to remain in his keeping; and might, in all likelihood, resort to some desperate scheme to destroy it. On returning home, Geordie drew his seat to the fire, and sat silent. His mother, who was sitting opposite to him, asked him if he had earned any money that day, wherewith he could buy some clothes for the child he had undertaken to bring up. With becoming gravity, and without appearing to feel that any remarkable change had taken place upon his finances, Geordie slowly put his hand into his pocket, drew out the twenty pounds, and gave his mother one for interim expenditure. As he returned the money into his pocket, he said, with an air of the most supreme nonchalance, "If ye want ony mair, ye can let me ken." The mother and daughter looked at each other with surprise and astonishment, mixed with some pleasure, and, perhaps, some apprehension. Neither of them put any question as to where the money had been got; for Geordie's look had already informed them that any such question would not be answered. Meanwhile, no great change seemed to have been produced in Geordie Willison's manner of living, in consequence of his having become comparatively rich. He lounged about the streets, joking with his acquaintances--went his messages--sometimes appeared with a crowd of boys after him--dressed in the same style--and, altogether, was just the same kind of person he used to be. Time passed, and precisely on the same day next year he went to Lady Maitland's. In the passage, he was met by the housekeeper, Louise Grecourt, who asked him what he wanted. He looked at her intently, and recognised in this person's voice the same tones which had arrested his ears so forcibly on the night of the attempted murder of the child. To make himself more certain of this, Geordie led her into conversation. "I want my Leddy Maitland," answered Geordie--"are ye her leddyship?" "No," answered the housekeeper, with a kick of her head, which Geordie took as a sign that his bait had been swallowed; "I am not Lady Maitland--I am in de charge of her ladyship's house. Vat you vant vit her ladyship? Can Louise Grecourt not satisfy a fellow like you?" "No exactly at present," answered Geordie; "tell her leddyship that Geordie Willison wants to speak to her." Louise started when he mentioned his name, certifying Geordie that she was in the secret of his knowledge. Her manner changed. She became all condescension; and, leading him up stairs, opened a door, and showed him into a room where Lady Maitland was sitting. "I houp yer leddyship," began Geordie, with a low bow, "has been quite weel sin' I had the honour o' yer acquaintanceship, whilk is now a year, come twa o'clock o' this day. Ye micht maybe be thinking we were gaun to fa' out o' acquaintanceship; but I'm no ane o' yer conceited creatures wha despise auld freends, and rin after new anes, merely because they may think them brawer--sae ye may keep yer mind easy on that score; and I wad farther tak the liberty to assure yer leddyship that, if ye hae ony siller by ye at present, I winna hesitate to gie ye a proof o' the continuance o' my freendship, by offerin' to tak frae ye as meikle as I may need." "How much is that?" asked Lady Maitland. "Twunty pund, my leddy, twunty pund," answered Geordie. The money was handed to him by the lady, without saying a word; and, having again made a low bow, he departed. Next year, Geordie Willison went and paid a visit to Lady Maitland, got from her the same sum of money, and nothing passed to indicate what it was paid for. The lady clearly remained under the impression that the child was not in existence. It happened that, some time after the last payment, Geordie was on the pier of Leith, with a view to fall in with some chance message or carriage to Edinburgh. A vessel had newly arrived from the Continent, and one of the passengers was Sir Marmaduke Maitland. Geordie was employed to assist in getting his luggage removed to Edinburgh. On arriving at the house, Lady Maitland, with Louise behind her, was standing on the landing-place to receive her husband. They saw Geordie walking alongside of him, and talking to him in the familiar manner which his alleged silliness in many cases entitled him to do; but whatever they may have felt or expressed, by looks or otherwise, Geordie seemed not to be any way out of his ordinary manner, and they soon observed, from the conduct of Sir Marmaduke, that Geordie had said nothing to him. Geordie bustled about, assisting to take out the luggage, while Sir Marmaduke was standing in the lobby with his lady alongside of him. "Is there any news stirring in these parts, Geordie, worth telling to one who has been from his own country so long as I have been." "Naething worth mentioning, Sir Marmaduke," answered Geordie; "a'thing quiet, decent, and orderly i' the toun and i' the country--no excepting your ain house here, whar I hae missed mony a gude luck-penny sin' your honour departed." "Has Lady Maitland not been in the habit of employing you, then, Geordie?" asked Sir Marmaduke. "No exactly, Sir Marmaduke," answered Geordie; "the last time I ca'ed on her leddyship, she asked me what I wanted. I didna think it quite ceevil, and I haena gane back; but I canna deny that she paid me handsomely for the last thing I carried for her. She's a fine leddy, Sir Marmaduke, and meikle credit to ye." At any subsequent period, when Geordie's yearly pension was due, he generally contrived to call for Lady Maitland when Sir Marmaduke was out of the way. He took always the same amount of money. The only departure he made from this custom was in the year of his sister's marriage, when he asked and got a sum of forty pounds, twenty of which he gave to her. Her husband, George Dempster, had at one time been a butler in Lady Maitland's family; but her ladyship did not know either that he was acquainted with George Willison, or that he was now married to his sister. We may explain that George Dempster was in the family at the time when Geordie brought home the child; and, in some of his conversations with his wife, he did not hesitate to say that he suspected that Lady Maitland bore a child to a French lackey, who was then about the house; but the child never made its appearance, and strong grounds existed for believing that it was made away with. Geordie himself sometimes heard these stories; but he affected to be altogether indifferent to them, putting a silly question to Dempster, as if he had just awakened from sleep, and had forgot the thread of the discourse, and, when he got his answer, pretending to fall asleep again. In the meantime the young foundling, who had been christened Jessie Warriston, by Geordie's desire, grew up to womanhood. She became, in every respect, the picture of her mother--tall and noble in her appearance. Her hair was jet black, and her eye partook of the same colour, with a lustre that dazzled the beholder. Her manners were cheerful and kind; and she was grateful for the most ordinary attentions paid to her by Widow Willison, or her daughter--the latter of whom often took her out with her to the house of Ludovic Brodie, commonly called Birkiehaugh, a nephew of Sir Marmaduke Maitland, with whom George Dempster was serving as butler, in his temporary house, about a mile south from Edinburgh. This young laird had seen Jessie Warriston, and been struck with her noble appearance. He asked Dempster who she was, and was told that she was a young person who lived with one of his wife's friends. Brodie, whose character was that of a most unprincipled rake, often endeavoured to make up to Jessie, as she went backwards and forwards between his house and Widow Willison's. In all endeavours he had been unsuccessful; for Jessie--independently of being aware, from the admonitions of the pious Widow Willison, that an acquaintanceship with a person above her degree was improper and dangerous--had a lover of her own, a young man of the name of William Forbes, a clerk to Mr. Carstairs, an advocate, at that time in great practice at the Scotch bar. Forbes generally accompanied Jessie when she went out at night, after she told him that Brodie had insulted her; and she discontinued her visits to George Dempster. Foiled by the precautions which Jessie took to avoid him, Brodie only became more determined to get his object gratified. He meditated various schemes for this purpose. He turned off Dempster, who might have been a spy upon his conduct; and it was remarked, by the people living near to Widow Willison's, that a woman, rolled up in a cloak, had been seen watching about the door. Geordie, though apparently not listening to any of these transactions, was all alive to the interests of his foundling. He kept a constant eye upon the neighbourhood, and did not fail to observe, that a woman, of the description stated, came always, at a certain hour, near his mother's door, about the time that Jessie generally went out. Now, Geordie was determined to know, by some means, who this woman was; and, as the day was drawing in, he thought he might disguise himself in such a way as to get into conversation with her. Having equipped himself in the garb of a cadie, of more respectable appearance than he himself exhibited, and put a black patch over his eye, and a broad slouched hat over his head, Geordie took his station to watch the woman in the cloak. "Wha may ye be waitin' for?" said Geordie, in a feigned voice, to the woman, whom he at last found. "Are you von of de cadies?" asked the woman. "Yes," answered Geordie. "Do you live in de neighbourhood?" asked again the woman. "I wadna live in ony ither place war ye to pay me for't," answered Geordie. "Very good--dat is a very good answer," said the woman; "dere is a little money for you." "I dinna tak siller for tellin' folk whar I live," said Geordie; "but, if there's onything else I can, in my capacity o' cadie, do for ye, maybe I may then condescend to tak yer siller." "_Mon Dieu!_ vat a trange fellow!" ejaculated the woman. "Vell, can you tell me if a young woman, carrying the name of Jessie Varriston, lives up dat stair?" pointing with her hand. "I ken the lassie as weel as I ken mysel," answered Geordie; "she lives just whar ye hae said." "Very goot--very goot--dat is just vat I vant--_un sage homme_ dis--excellent goot chap. Now, tell me if de girl lives vit an imbecile that is von idiot, called George Villison, and how long she has lived vit him, vere she comes from, and vat is her history." "Ye hae asked four questions a' in ae breath," said Geordie, who wanted a prologue, to give him time to consider how much he could say, so as to serve the two purposes of safety and drawing out the woman at the same time. "It's no quite fair, to an ignorant man like me, to put sae mony questions at a time; but it's my wish to serve ye, an' I'll do my best to answer them. Jessie Warriston lives wi' the idiot cratur Geordie Willison's mither, and she has lived wi' her for seventeen years, that is, since she was a bit bairn. I'm thinking she'll be a granddochter o' Widow Willison's--dinna ye think sae yersel'?" "De brute!" muttered the woman to herself--"de brute is begun, like all de rest of his countrymen, to put de interrogation ven he should give de respond. You do not know den de girl's history, do you not?" "No, but maybe I may be able to get it for ye," answered Geordie, unwilling to be dismissed _simpliciter_. "Very vell, anoter time--I vish you, in de meantime, to carry dis letter to Ludovic Brodie, Esq. of Birkiehaugh. Do you know vere he lives?" "I will carry it wi' the greatest o' pleasure, madam," answered Geordie. The woman handed him the letter, with some more money, and departed. Geordie got the letter speedily read to him by a person in his confidence. It was in these terms:-- "Mon cher Ludovic,--Jessie Varriston lives vit de idiot, Geordie Villison, in Leit Vynd. De bearer of dis knows her very vell, and vill assist you in de abduction. My Lady Maitland and I both tink we know her too; bot we do not vish at present to let any von know dis, for certain reasons, vich we cannot explain to you. Ven you arrange vit de bearer to carry her off, let me know, and I vill do every ting in my power to assist you, as my lady has a grand vish for de abduction of de vench vithout procrastination. My lady does not know of my having given you intelligence of her being up to de affair.--Yours till death. "LOUISE GRECOURT." From this letter, Geordie saw plainly that Lady Maitland and Louise had, at last, got some information regarding Jessie, which had led them to suspect that she was the child they had supposed to be dead. It was clear, however, that Brodie knew nothing of their suspicions, and the two parties were, undoubtedly, after the same game, with different objects and for different reasons. Having folded the letter and sealed it, so as to avoid suspicion, Geordie went out and delivered it into the hands of Birkiehaugh. Brodie, having read the letter, examined Geordie from head to heel--"Canst thou be trusted, man, in an affair requiring secrecy and ability to execute it?" asked he. "Do you see ony thing aboot me to produce ony doubt o' my ability or my secrecy?" answered Geordie. "Nae man will coup wi' Peter Finlayson in ony expedition whar death, danger, or exposure are to be avoided, or whar ability to plan, an' quickness to execute, and cunnin' to conceal, are things o' consideration or importance." "Well, Peter, I believe thou art the man. I wish to carry off the girl, Jessie Warriston, to-morrow night--canst thou assist me in that enterprise?" "It's just in the like o' thae bits o' ploys that the genius o' Peter Finlayson lies," answered Geordie. "I ken the lassie maist intimately, and can bring her to ony appointed spot at ony hour ye please to name." "To-morrow night, then," said Brodie, "at eight o'clock, at the resting-stone at the top of the Leith Lone; knowest thou the place?" "I do," answered Geordie; "and shall attend; but ye ken, I suppose, the difference that lies atween the ordinary jobs o' us cadies, and the like o' thae michty emprises, whar life and limb, and honour and reputation, are concerned. In the first case, the pay comes after the wark--in the ither, the wark comes after the pay; an' it's richt natural, whan ye think o't; because I hae often seen the city guard kick the wark and the warkmen to the deevil in an instant, and the puir cadie gets only broken banes for his pains." "There, then," said Brodie, "there is half of thy fee; the other shall be given when thou bringest the girl." "Vera weel," said Geordie, counting the gold pieces; "and thank ye. I wunna fail in my duty, I warrant ye." Next night, at the time and place appointed, Geordie attended with his charge. He found Brodie in waiting with a carriage, in which was seated Louise. Jessie was told to enter, and complied. Brodie jumped in, and Geordie held out his hand for the other half of the fee, which he received. He now slipped a piece of twine round the handle of the carriage, so as to prevent it from being opened; and, in a moment vaulted up beside the coachman, whose hat, as if by mere accident, he knocked off. "Gie me up my bannet, ye whelp," said the coachman, angrily. "Cadies are no cadies to coachmen," answered Geordie, dryly; "your brains maun be far spent, man, when they canna keep a house ower their head." The coachman jumped down for his hat, and Geordie, applying the whip to the horses, was off in an instant. The coachman cried, "Stop the coach!" Brodie, thinking it was a chase, cried to drive like the devil. Geordie obeyed to the letter, and dashed on like lightning. The coach stopped, and was instantly surrounded by a number of people, who opened the door, and pulling the three inmates out, led them into a large building, the door of which was double-bolted, and made a tremendous noise as it revolved on its hinges. The party were taken up stairs, and introduced (Geordie leading the way with his hat in his hand) into a large room, where several people were present, apparently waiting for them. "I beg leave to introduce," said Geordie, bowing low, "to yer lordship, the sheriff--wha has dune us the honour to receive us at this time in sae safe a place as the jail, whar we are perfectly free frae a' interruption--his honour, Ludovic Brodie, Esq. o' Birkiehaugh, and her highness, Louise Grecourt, a French leddy o' repute. They are anxious to receive yer opinion on a point o' law, in whilk they are personally concerned, a favour, I doutna, yer honour will condescend to grant." The sheriff immediately set about taking a precognition, for which he had been, by Geordie, previously prepared. Brodie was committed on a charge of abduction; but Louise, on the intercession of Geordie and his ward, was allowed to get off. Some time afterwards, Brodie was tried, and sentenced to six months' imprisonment. Geordie had now occasion to call upon Lady Maitland for his yearly allowance. Louise having been liberated without trial, it had not yet reached the ears of her or Lady Maitland that Peter Finlayson was, in fact, Geordie Willison. Brodie had made no communication of that fact as yet, and neither Louise nor Lady Maitland could have any idea that Geordie knew of the hand they had in the attempted abduction, or of their knowledge or suspicion that Jessie Warriston was the intended victim of their cruelty. "My leddy," began Geordie, with his accustomed bow, but with more than his usual significancy of look, "this is the first time for these seventeen years that I hae been awantin' in my attention and duty as yer leddyship's freend; for I am ae day ahint the usual time o' my veesit to yer leddyship, for whilk mark o' disrespect I beg leave to solicit yer leddyship's pardon, upon the condition that I offer, that I shall promise, as I here most solemnly do, that I shall not be again wantin' in my duty to yer leddyship. Can I say I hae yer leddyship's pardon?" Crucified by Geordie's cruel humour, but compelled to be silent, Lady Maitland signified her favour. "Yer leddyship's condescension is a great relief to me," resumed Geordie. "They say Sir Marmaduke's nevey, Brodie o' Birkiehaugh, is in jail for attempting to rin awa' wi' a young lassie. What he was to do wi' her, God only kens, but there can be nae doubt that he would get sma' favour and grace frae yer leddyship to ony attempt on the puir cratur's life. Na, na--a nobility sae michtie as yer leddyship's, an' a saftness o' heart whilk far excels that o' the bleatin' ewe for the puir lambie that lies deein' by its side, couldna patroneeze onything like the takin' awa o' God's breath frae the nostrils o' innocence." Geordie, whose cruelty was refined, paused, and fixed his eyes on the lady, who appeared to be in agony. She rose quickly, and went, as usual, to her bureau to give him money. "Stop," said Geordie; "I haena asked ye for't yet. I dinna like awmous. It's only when I want to favour yer leddyship that I tak siller fra ye, and naething I hae yet said could warrant yer leddyship in supposing that I was to confer sic a favour on ye, at least at the particular time when ye rose to open yer kist; and I dinna need to say, that favours quickly conferred are sune repented o'. Weel, the bit lassie wham Birkiehaugh was after, is a young creature, ca'ed Jessie Warriston, wha lives wi' my mither. Few folk on earth ken meikle about her; but my mither swears that her mither maun hae been hanged, for she has a ring round her bonny white craig, like that on the neck o' the turtle doo. I laugh, an' say to the bonny bairn, that it will stan' in place o' a coral or cornelian necklace to her.--Ha! ha! I see your leddyship's inclined to laugh too--eh?" And Geordie again eyed the lady, who was as far from laughing as the criminal at the stake. "Weel," resumed the crucifier, "Birkiehaugh didna succeed--thanks to Peter Finlayson, honest fallow--and the lassie is safe again; but I hae made a vow, and I hope sae gude a ane will be regularly recorded whar it should be, that the first person wha tries to lay sae meikle as a finger on that bonny bairn's head, or blaw a single breath o' suspicion against her reputation, will meet wi' the just indignation o' Geordie Willison. An' noo, my leddy, I will favour ye by accepting, at yer hands, twenty pund." Geordie received, and counted the money, as usual, and, with a bow, retired. The six months of Birkiehaugh's confinement expired, and, about the same time, Sir Marmaduke Maitland died. Having had no children by his wife, the title and fine property of Castle Gower fell to Brodie, who was his brother's son--Brodie being the name of the family who had succeeded to the title. No time was lost by Brodie's man of business to take out a brief from Chancery, for getting him served heir male of taillie to the estate and honours. The brief was published, and no doubt anywhere prevailed of the verdict which would be pronounced under it. About this time it was observed that Geordie Willison had long interviews with Advocate Carstairs; but neither his mother, nor his sister, nor, indeed, any person, could get him to say a word on the subject. His manner, in regard to the story of Jessie, had been all along quite uniform, and many years had passed since his mother had given up in despair all attempts to get him to divulge it. He was, at present, apparently very absent, as if something of great importance occupied his mind. One day, on leaving the advocate, he went direct for the house of Lady Maitland. He was admitted as usual. He said he wished to see her ladyship and Louise together. "I hae heard," began Geordie, "that my worthy freend, Sir Marmaduke, is dead. He was a gude man, and may the Lord deal mercifully wi' him! Ludovic Brodie, they say, is the heir, an' I dinna say he has nae richt to that title--though, maybe, it may cost some wigs a pickle flour to mak that oot. Noo, ye see, my Leddy Maitland, I hae dune ye some favours, and I'm just to take the liberty to ask ane in return. You an' yer freend, Louise, maun admit, in open court, that yer leddyship bore, upon the 19th day of February o' the year 16--, a dochter, and that that dochter is Jessie Warriston." Geordie waited for an answer, fixing his eyes on Lady Maitland. Louise immediately began to make indications of a spirit of opposition; and Lady Maitland herself, gathering up any traces of dignity, which the presence of Geordie generally dispersed, replied-- "Thou hast no proof, sir, of the extraordinary charge, thou hast now, for the first time, brought against me; and I cannot convict myself of a crime." Louise blustered and supported her lady. "Vat, in the name of God, is de meaning of dis fellow's demand? _Parbleu!_ He is mad--_de fou_--bad--vicked--mechant. Vere I your ladyship, I would trust him out, and give him de grand kick, and tomble him down de marche de stairs. Vy, sir, could you have de grand impudence to tell my lady she be de bad woman." Geordie heard all this with calmness and silence. "It's o' sma importance to me," he resumed, "whether yer leddyship comply wi' my request or no; for, indeed, though politeness made me ca' it a favour conferred upon me, the favour is a' the ither way. Let yer leddyship be silent, an' I'll prove that yer leddyship bore the bairn; but ye maun ken that Geordie Willison has nae power ower the law--when the seals are broken, the judgment will come; and I canna prove the birth o' the bairn without, at the same time, and by the same prufe, proving that ye attempted to strangle it, and left it for dead in the hedges o' Warriston. Here is yer leddyship's necklace, whilk I took fra the craig o' the struggling cratur, and here are the claes it had on, marked wi' draps o' blude that cam frae its little mouth. I show thae things no as proofs on whilk I mean a'thegither to rest, but only to testify to ye what ye sae weel ken, that what I say is true. Speak, noo, my leddies--your lives are i' the hands o' the idiot cratur Geordie Willison. If ye gang to the court, ye are saved--if ye winna, ye are lost. Will ye gang, or will ye hang?" The women were both terrified by the statement of Geordie. Reluctant to make any such admission, they struggled with the various emotions of indignation, pride, and fear, which took, by turns, possession of their bosoms. Lady Maitland fainted, and Louise was totally unable to render her assistance; for she lay in a hysterical state of excitement on the floor. Geordie locked the door, and kept his eyes fixed on the females. He yielded them no aid; but stood like a destroying angel, witnessing the effects of his desolation. Lady Maitland at last opened her eyes, and having collected her senses, resolved to comply with Geordie's request. She said to him, that, provided nothing was asked beyond the questions, whether she bore the child on the day mentioned, and whether Jessie Maitland, whom she had secretly seen, was that child--she would answer them in the affirmative. This satisfied Geordie, and he departed. On the day of the service of Ludovic Brodie, a brief was taken out in name of Jessie Warriston or Maitland, as heir female of taillie to the estate and title of Maitland of Castle Gower. Brodie and his agents had no notice of the brief until they came into court. The briefs being read, Brodie's propinquity was proved, and no person had any idea that the existence of a nearer heir could be established. But the door of the court opened, and Lady Maitland and Louise Grecourt stood before the inquest. They swore to the birth of the child on the day mentioned, and that Jessie Maitland, who was presented to them in court by Geordie Willison himself, was that child. An objection was taken by Brodie's agents, that the child was illegitimate, because it was born ten months, minus two days, after Sir Marmaduke went to the continent; but the judge overruled the objection, stating that it was the law of Scotland, that every child born within ten months of the husband's departure, is a legal child. Jessie Warriston was, therefore, served heir, according to the terms of her brief. She went in her own carriage, in which sat Geordie Willison, to take possession of her estates and titles. She was now Lady Jessie Maitland of Castle Gower, and was soon afterwards united to William Forbes, her old lover. THE SNOW STORM OF 1825. Our readers will recollect the dreadful snow storm that occurred in the year 1825. Indeed, it is impossible that any one, who was above the years of childhood at the time, can have forgot it, or can ever forget it. It was the most tremendous with which this country has been visited for a century. For nearly six weeks, and in some places for a much longer period, every road, excepting those in the immediate vicinity of large towns, was blocked up, and rendered impassable, by either horse or foot; and one consequence was, that scores of travellers, of all descriptions, were suddenly arrested in their several places of temporary sojournment on the road, and held in durance during the whole period of the storm, without the possibility of communicating with their friends, or, in the case of mercantile travellers, with their employers. It was a weary time, on the whole, to those who were thus laid under embargo; but not without its pleasures either; for each house thus situated, having perhaps a dozen strangers in it, from and going to all parts of the kingdom, became a distinct and independent little community, from which its local exclusion from the busy world had shut out, also, for the time at any rate, much of its cares and troubles--a philosophic spirit soon prevailing, after the first day or two's confinement, to make the most of what could not be helped. The writer of this sheet happened to be one of nine who were shut up in the way alluded to, in an inn in the south of Scotland; and although, as already said, it was rather a weary thing on the whole, yet was it not without its enjoyments. Our _ennui_ was often delightfully relieved by the diversity of character as developed in our little community; for we had, if we may so speak, the salt, the pepper, and the vinegar of human dispositions, sprinkled throughout the party, which not only took from the cold insipidity of our confinement, but gave to it a rich and pleasant relish. Our host's cellar and larder happened to be well stored, while the house was, in all other respects, an excellent one; so, what with the produce of the former, and the roaring fires kept up by Jamie, the waiter, we had really nothing to complain of on the score of creature comforts--and it is amazing how far the possession of these will go to reconcile men to otherwise very unpleasant situations. In this case, they were enhanced by the dreary prospect from without--the howling storm, the drifting snow, and the wide, dismal, monotonous waste of dazzling white that lay all around us. The consciousness of the comforts we enjoyed, in short, put us all in good humour with one another; while a fellowship in misfortune, and a community of feeling, as well as of persons, introduced a degree of friendliness and intimacy, to which few other circumstances, perhaps, would have given rise. We had our small round of standard jokes, peculiar to our situation, which few else could have understood, and fewer still have appreciated, though they did understand them. We had, too, a small round of harmless tricks, which we regularly played off every day on some one or other of the corps. But, notwithstanding all this--the larder, the cellar, the fire, the jokes, and the tricks--time did occasionally hang rather heavily upon our hands, especially in the evenings. To lessen this weight, we latterly fell upon the contrivance of telling stories, one or two of us each night, by turns. The idea is a borrowed one, as the reader will at once perceive, but we humbly think not a pin the worse on that account. There was no limitation, of course, as to the subject. Each was allowed to tell what story he liked; but it was the general understanding that these stories should be personal, if possible--that is, that each should relate the most remarkable circumstances in his own life. Those who had nothing of the kind to communicate, were, of course, allowed to get off with anything else they chose to substitute. The first to whose lot it fell to entertain us in this way, was a fat, good-humoured, good-natured, little, hunch-backed gentleman, with a short leg, and a bright yellow waistcoat. He was a mercantile traveller, and, if I recollect right, a native of Newcastle. When the little man was asked to open his budget, "Why, gentlemen," said he, "I do not see that I can do better than comply with the understood wish of the company, by giving you a sketch of my own life, which you will find to present, I think, as curious a race, or struggle, or whatever else you may choose to call it, between luck and misfortune, as perhaps you have heard of:-- You must know, then, my friends (went on the little gentleman in the bright yellow waistcoat), that the indications of my future good fortune began to exhibit themselves as early as they well could. I was born with a caul upon my head, gentlemen, which all of you know is an indubitable token that the little personage to whom it belongs will be singularly fortunate in life. Well, gentleman, I was favoured, as I have already said, with one of those desirable headpieces; and great was the joy the circumstance gave rise to amongst the female friends and gossips who were assembled on the occasion. The midwife said that everything I should put my hand to would prosper, and that I would be, to a certainty, at the very least, a general, a bishop, or a judge; the nurse to whom I was subsequently consigned, on the same ground, dubbed me a duke, and would never call me by any other title; whilst my poor mother saw me, in perspective, sitting amongst the great ones of the earth, surrounded with power, wealth, and glory. Such were the bright visions of my future prosperity, to which my caul gave rise; and probably they might have been realized, had it not been for an unlucky counteracting or thwarting power that always stepped in, seemingly for no other purpose but to disappoint my own hopes and those of my friends; sometimes baulking my expectations altogether, when on the point of fruition--sometimes converting that to evil in me which would assuredly have produced good to any other person. But to proceed with my history. I grew up a fine, stout, well-made child. Ay, you may laugh, gentlemen (said the little man, good-humouredly, seeing a titter go round at this personal allusion, which so ill accorded with his present deformed appearance), but it was the case, I assure you, until I met with the accidents that altered my shape to what you now see it. Well, I repeat, that I grew a fine promising child, and, to the inexpressible amazement and delight of my parents, showed symptoms of taking unusually early to my legs. Nor were these symptoms unfaithful. I took to my pins, on my own account, before I was ten months old; but, unfortunately, my first walk was into a draw-well, where I would infallibly have been drowned, if it had not been for a large Newfoundland dog which my father kept, and which was close by me at the time of the accident. The faithful creature leapt in after me, and kept me afloat, until my father came and extricated me. After this, I was never trusted a moment out of sight; and thus, instead of this precocious developement of my physical powers proving a blessing to me, it proved a curse; for it deprived me of all liberty. As I grew up, however, this restraint became less rigorous, and I was permitted to ramble in the garden; and one of my first feats, after obtaining this freedom, was, to climb a high wall, to come at an uncommonly fine apple that had long tempted me with its rosy cheeks, and I had just succeeded in getting near enough to the prize to grasp it, when, in making this effort, down I came; and this leg, gentlemen (said the little man, holding out his deformed limb), was the consequence. I fell and broke my leg, just as I was about to grasp the apple. Fatal type of all my subsequent misfortunes! I have now, gentlemen (went on the little man), to account for the other deformity that disfigures me, viz.,--my hump-back. This befell me in the following manner. Playing one day with a number of boys, of about my own age, which was then six or seven, a big fellow, of double the size of any of us, came in amongst us, and began to plunder us of our playthings; and he was in the very act of robbing me of a hoop, when another lad, still stronger and bigger, who saw the attempted robbery, generously ran to my assistance, and aimed a tremendous blow with a stick at my assailant. The blow, however, missed him at whom it was aimed, and took me exactly on the small of the back, which it broke in two as if it had been a pipe shank; and the consequence was, as you see, gentlemen (said the little man in the bright yellow waistcoat, edging round, at the same time, to indicate his hump). Well, then, gentlemen (he went on), up to my ninth year, this was all the good fortune that my caul brought me--that is, being first half-drowned, then breaking my leg, and lastly my back. To compensate, however, in some measure, for these mischances, I turned out an excellent scholar; and, especially, became a very expert Latinist--a circumstance which my father, who had a great veneration for the language, thought sufficient alone to make my fortune; and it certainly procured me--that is, very nearly procured me--in the meantime, some of the chief honours of the school. I say very nearly--for I did not actually obtain them; but it was only by the merest accident in the world that I did not. The misapprehension of a single word deprived me of a prize which was about to be awarded to me, and gave it to one of my competitors. This was reckoned a very hard case; but there was no help for it. Still there was luck in the caul, gentlemen (continued the little man in the bright yellow waistcoat), as you shall hear. Going home from school one day, a distance of about a mile and a half, I found a very handsome gold watch, with valuable appendages, lying upon the road. I was at first afraid to lift the glittering treasure, hardly believing it possible that so rich and splendid a thing could be without an owner; but, gradually picking up courage, I seized on the watch, hurried it into my pocket, and ran onwards like a madman. I had not run far, however, when a man, respectably dressed, but who seemed the worse of liquor, or rather like one just recovering from a debauch, met me, and, seizing me by the breast, fiercely asked me if I had seen anything of a gold watch. I instantly confessed that I had found such a thing; and, trembling with apprehension, for the fellow continued to look furiously at me, produced the watch. "Very well," said he, taking it from me. "Now, you little villain you, confess. You did not find the watch, but stole it from me whilst I slept on the roadside." I protested that it was not so--that I had found it as I had said. To this protest the fellow replied by striking me a violent blow on the side of the head, which stretched me on the road; where, after administering two or three parting kicks, to teach me honesty, as he said, he left me in a state of insensibility. I was shortly afterwards picked up and carried home; but so severe had been the drubbing I got, that I was obliged to keep my bed for three weeks after. And this was all I gained by finding a gold watch. Had any other person found it, they would have been allowed to keep it, or, at the worst, have got a handsome reward for giving it up; but such things were to be not in any case in which I should be concerned. Still I say, gentlemen (continued the little man in the bright yellow waistcoat), there _was_ luck in the caul; for, soon after, a distant relation of my mother's, who had been long in the West Indies, and had there realized a large fortune, having come to England on some business, paid us a visit, and was so well pleased with the attention shown him, and with the society he got introduced to, that he spent the whole subsequent period of his temporary residence in this country with us. During this time, he became remarkably fond of me--so fond that he could never be without me. I was obliged to accompany him in all his walks, and even to sleep with him. In short, he became so attached to me, that it was evident to every one that some good would come out of it; for he was immensely rich, and had no family of his own, never having been married. Indeed, that I would be the better for the old boy's love was not matter of conjecture, for he frequently hinted it very broadly. He would often take me on his knee, and, while fondling me, would say, in presence of my father and mother--"Well, my little fellow, who knows but you may ride in your carriage yet? As odd things have happened." Then, "Would you like to be a rich man, Bobby?" he would inquire, looking archly at me. "If you continue as good a boy as you are just now, I'll undertake to promise that you will." In short, before leaving us, our wealthy friend, whose name was Jeremiah Hairsplitter, held out certain hopes to my parents of my being handsomely provided for in his will. This so affected us all, that we wept bitterly when the good old man left us to return to the West Indies; where, however, he told us, he now intended remaining only a short time, having made up his mind to come home and spend the remainder of his days with us. Well, gentlemen (said the little hump-backed man in the bright yellow waistcoat), here was a very agreeable prospect, you'll all allow; and it was one in which there appeared so much certainty, that it cost my father--who had been led to believe he should get a handsome slice too--many serious thoughts as to how we should dispose of the money--how lay it out to the best advantage. My father, who was a very pious man, determined, for one thing, to build a church; and, as to me and my fortune, he thought the best thing I could do, seeing, from my deformities, that I was not very well adapted for undergoing the fatigues of a professional life, was, when I should become a little older, to turn country gentleman; and with this idea he was himself so well pleased, that he began, thinking it best to take time by the forelock, to look around for a suitable seat for me when I should come of age and be ready to act on my own account; and he fortunately succeeded in finding one that seemed a very eligible investment. It was a very handsome country house, about the distance of three miles from where we lived, and to which there was attached an estate of 1000 acres of land, all in a high state of cultivation. The upset price of the whole--for the property was at that moment on sale--was £20,000; a dead bargain, as the lawyer who had the management of the property assured us. It was worth at least double the money, he said; and in this Mr. Longshanks, the land-measurer, whom my father also consulted on the subject, perfectly agreed; but was good enough to give my father a quiet hint to hold off a bit, and, as the proprietor was in great distress for money, he might probably get the estate for £18,000, or something, at any rate, considerably below the price named. Grateful for this hint, my father invited Mr. Longshanks to dine with him, and gave him a bottle of his best wine. Now, gentlemen, please to observe (said the little hunch-backed gentleman in the bright yellow waistcoat) that while we were thus treating about an estate worth £20,000, we had not a sixpence wherewith to buy it; so that Mr. Longshanks' hint about holding off was rather a superfluous one. But then our prospects were good--nay, certain; there was, therefore, no harm--nay, it was proper and prudent to anticipate matters a little in the way we did; so that we might at once have the advantage of sufficient time to do things deliberately, and be prepared to make a good use of our fortune the moment we got possession of it. That our prospects were excellent, I think you will all allow, gentlemen, when you take into account what I have already told regarding our worthy relative; but that they really were so, you will still more readily admit, when I tell you that we received many letters from Mr. Hairsplitter, after his arrival in Jamaica (for he now opened a regular correspondence with us), in all of which he continued not only to keep our hopes alive, as to the destination of his wealth, but to increase them; so that I--for the bulk of his fortune, there was no doubt, was intended for me--was already looked upon as a singularly lucky young dog; and of this opinion, in the most unqualified sense, and in a most especial manner, was my mother, my nurse, and the lady who ushered me into the world--all of whom exultingly referred to my caul, and to their own oft-expressed sentiments regarding the luck that was to befall me. But, to return to my story. After a lapse of about two or three years, during which, as I have said, we received many letters from our worthy relative, one came, in which he informed us that it was the last we should have from him from Jamaica, as he had wound up all his affairs, and was about to leave the island, to return home and spend the remainder of his days with us, or in our immediate neighbourhood. Well, gentlemen, you see matters were gradually approaching to a very delightful crisis; and we, as you may believe, saw it with no small satisfaction. We indulged in the most delicious dreams; indeed, our whole life was now one continued reverie of the most soothing and balmy kind. From this dreamy state, however, we were very soon awakened by the following paragraph in a newspaper, which my father accidentally stumbled on, one morning as we were at breakfast. It was headed "Dreadful Shipwreck," and went on thus:--"It is with feelings of the most sincere regret we inform our readers, that the Isabella, from Jamaica to London, has foundered at sea, and every one on board perished, together with the whole of a most valuable cargo. Amongst the unfortunate passengers in this ill-fated vessel was a Mr. Jeremiah Hairsplitter, a well-known Jamaica planter, who was on his return, for good and all, to his native land. The whole of this gentleman's wealth, which was enormous, will now go, it is said (he having died intestate), to a poor man in this neighbourhood [Liverpool], who is nearest of kin." Well, gentlemen (continued the little hump-backed man in the bright yellow waistcoat), here was a pretty finish to all our bright anticipations! For some time, indeed, we entertained hopes that the reports, especially the last, might be false; but, alas! they turned out too true. True, true were they, to the letter. My father, unwilling to believe that all was lost, called upon a lawyer in the town where we resided, who had a good deal to do with our late relative's affairs; and, after mentioning to him the footing we were on with the deceased, and the expectations he had led us to indulge in, inquired if _nothing_ would arise to us from Mr. Hairsplitter's effects. "Not a rap!" was the laconic and dignified reply--"not a cross, not a cowrie! You haven't a shadow of claim to anything. All that Mr. Hairsplitter may have said goes for nothing, as it is not down in black and white, in legal phrase." So, my friends (said the narrator, with a sigh) here was an end to this fortune and to my luck, at that bout, at any rate. Still, gentlemen (went on the little hump-backed man in the bright yellow waistcoat), I maintain there was luck in the caul. I was now, you must know, my friends, getting up in years--that is to say, I was now somewhere about one-and-twenty. Well, my father, thinking it full time that I should be put in a way of doing something for myself, applied, in my behalf, to a certain nobleman who resided in our neighbourhood, and who was under obligations to my father for some election services. When my father called on the peer alluded to, and informed him of his object--"Why, sir," said his lordship, "this is rather a fortunate circumstance for both of us. I am just now in want of precisely such a young man as you describe your son to be, to act as my secretary and amanuensis, and will therefore be very glad to employ him." His lordship then mentioned his terms. They were liberal, and, of course, instantly accepted. This settled, my father was desired to send me to Cram Hall, his lordship's residence, next day, to enter on my new duties. Here, then, you see, was luck at last, gentlemen (said the little hump-backed gentleman in the bright yellow waistcoat); for the nobleman was powerful, and there was no saying what he might do for me. Next day, accordingly, I repaired to Cram Hall with a beating, but exulting heart; for I was at once proud of my employment, and terrified for my employer, who was, I knew, a dignified, pompous, vain, conceited personage. "Show off your Latin to him, Dick, my boy," said my father, before I set out: "it will give him a good opinion of your talents and erudition." I promised that I would. Well, on being introduced to his lordship, he received me with the most affable condescension; but there was something about his affability, I thought, which made it look extremely like as if it had been assumed for the purpose of showing how a great man could descend. "Glad to see you, young man," he said. "I hope you and I shall get on well together. But there was just one single question regarding you, which I quite forgot to put to your father. Do you understand Latin thoroughly?--that is, can you translate it readily?" Feeling my own strength on this point, and delighted that he had afforded me so early an opportunity of declaring it, I replied, with a degree of exultation which I had some difficulty in repressing--"I flatter myself, my lord, that you will not find me deficient in that particular. I understand Latin very well, and will readily undertake to translate anything in that language which may be presented to me." "In that case," replied his lordship, gravely, "I am sorry to say, young man, you will not suit me." "How, my lord!" said I, with a look of mingled amazement and disappointment--"because I understand Latin? I should have thought that a recommendation to your lordship's service." "Quite otherwise, sir," replied his lordship, coolly. "It may appear to you, indeed, sir, rather an odd ground of disqualification. But the thing is easily explained. I have often occasion, sir," he went on, with increasing dignity, "to write on matters of importance to my friends in the cabinet; and, when I have anything of a very particular nature to say, I always write my sentiments in Latin. It would therefore, sir, be imprudent of me to employ any one in transcribing such letters, who is conversant with the language alluded to; or, indeed, otherwise exposing them to the eye of such a person. You will, therefore, young man," continued the peer--now rising from his seat, as if with a desire that I should take the movement as a hint that he wished the interview to terminate--"present my respects to your father, and say that I am very sorry for this affair--very sorry, indeed." Saying this, he edged me towards the door; and, long before I reached it, bowed me a good morning, which there was no evading. I acknowledged it the best way I could, left the house, and returned home--I leave you, gentlemen, to conceive with what feelings. My Latin, you see, of which I was so vain, and which, with anybody else, would have been a help to success in the world in many situations, and in none could have been against it, was the very reverse to me. That there was luck in the caul, gentlemen, nevertheless, I still maintain (said the little hump-backed man in the bright yellow waistcoat, laughing); and you will acknowledge it when I tell you that, soon after the occurrence just related, I bought a ticket in the lottery, which turned out a prize of £20,000." "Ha, ha! at last!" here shouted out, with one voice, all the little man's auditors. "So you caught it at last!" "Not so fast, gentlemen, if you please--not so fast," said the little man, gravely. "The facts certainly were as I have stated. I did buy a ticket in the lottery. I recollect the number well, and will as long as I live. I chose it for its oddity. It was 9999, and it did turn out a £20,000 prize. But there is a trifling particular or two regarding it which I have yet to explain. A gentleman, an acquaintance of mine, to whom I had expressed some regret at having ventured so much money on a lottery ticket, offered not only to relieve me of it, but to give me a premium of five pounds, subject to a deduction of the price of a bowl of punch. "A bird in hand's worth two in the bush," thought I, and at once closed with his offer. Nay, so well pleased was I with my bargain, that I insisted on giving an additional bowl, and actually did so. Next day, my ticket was drawn a twenty thousand pound prize! and I had the happiness (added the little man, with a rueful expression of countenance) of communicating to my friend his good luck, as the letter of advice on the subject came, in the first instance, to me. However, gentlemen, luck there was in the caul still, say I (continued the little hump-backed gentleman in the bright yellow waistcoat). Love, gentlemen--sweet, dear, delightful love!--(here the little man looked extremely sentimental)--came to soothe my woes and banish my regrets. Yes, my friends he said (observing a slight smile of surprise and incredulity on the countenance of his auditors, proceeding, we need hardly say, from certain impressions regarding his personal appearance), I say that love--dear, delightful love--came now to my aid, to reconcile me to my misfortunes, and to restore my equanimity. The objects of my affections--for there were two----" "Oh, unconscionable man!" we here all exclaimed in one breath. "Two! Ah! too bad that." "Yes, I repeat, two," said the little man composedly--"the objects of my passion were two. The one was a beautiful girl of three-and-twenty--the other, a beautiful little fortune of £10,000, of which she was in full and uncontrolled possession. Well, gentlemen, to make a long story short, we loved each other most devotedly; for she was a girl of singular judgment and penetration, and placed little store by mere personal appearance in those she loved: the mind, gentlemen--the mind was what this amiable girl looked to. Well, as I was saying, we loved each other with the fondest affection, and at length I succeeded in prevailing upon her to name the happy day when we should become one. Need I describe to you, gentleman, what were my transports--what the intoxicating feelings of delight with which my whole soul was absorbed by the contemplation of the delicious prospect that lay before me! A beautiful woman and a fortune of £10,000 within my grasp! No. I'm sure I need not describe the sensations I allude to, gentlemen--you will at once conceive and appreciate them. Well, my friends, all went smoothly on with me this time. The happy day arrived--we proceeded to church. The clergyman began the service. In three minutes more, gentleman, I would have been indissolubly united to my beloved and her £10,000, when, at this critical moment, a person rushed breathless into the church, forced his way through the crowd of friends by whom we were surrounded, and caught my betrothed in his arms, exclaiming--"Jessie, Jessie! would you forsake me? Have you forgot your vows?" Jessie replied by a loud shriek, and immediately fainted. Here, then, you see, gentlemen (continued the little hump-backed man in the bright yellow waistcoat), was a pretty kick-up all in a moment. In a twinkling, the bevy of friends by whom we were accompanied scattered in all directions--some running for water, some for brandy, some for one thing and some for another, till there was scarcely one left in the church. The service was, of course, instantly stopped; and my beloved was, in the meantime, very tenderly supported by the arms of the stranger; for such he was to me at any rate, although by no means so either to the lady herself or to her friends. I was, as you may well believe, all astonishment and amazement at this extraordinary scene, and could not at all conceive what it meant; but it was not long before I was very fully informed on this head. To return, however, in the meantime, to the lady. On recovering from her fainting fit, the stranger, who had been all along contemplating her with a look of the most tender affection, asked her, in a gentle voice, "If she would still continue true to him." And, gentlemen, she answered, though in a voice scarcely audible, "Yes;" and, immediately after, the two walked out of the church arm in arm, in spite of the remonstrances and even threats of myself and my friends--leaving us, and me in particular, to such reflections on the uncertainty of all human events as the circumstance which had just occurred was calculated to excite. In three weeks after, the stranger and Jessie were married. Who he was is soon explained. He had been a favoured lover of Jessie's some seven years before, and had gone abroad, where it was believed he had died, there having been no word from him during the greater part of that period. How this was explained I never knew; but that he was not dead, you will allow was now pretty clearly established. Now, gentlemen (added our little friend), I have brought my mishaps up to the present date. What may be still in store for me, I know not; but I have now brought myself to the peaceful and most comfortable condition of having no hopes of succeeding in anything, and therefore am freed, at least, from all liability to the pains of disappointment." And here ended the story of the little hump-backed gentleman in the bright yellow waistcoat. We all felt for his disappointments, and wished him better luck. The person to whose turn it came next to entertain us, was a quiet, demure looking personage, of grave demeanour, but of mild and pleasant countenance. His gravity, we thought, partook a little of melancholy; and he was, in consequence, recognised generally in the house by the title of the melancholy gentleman. He was, however, very far from being morose; indeed, on the contrary, he was exceedingly kind and gentle in his manner, and would not, I am convinced, have harmed the meanest insect that crawls, let alone his own species. "Well, gentlemen," said this person, on being informed that it was his turn to divert us with some story or other, "I will do the best I can to entertain you, and will follow the example of my unfortunate predecessor of the evening, by choosing a subject of something of a personal nature." "To begin, then, my friends," went on the melancholy gentleman--"I do not, I think, arrogate too much when I say that I am as peaceable and peace-loving a man as ever existed. I have always abhorred strife and wrangling; and never knowingly or willingly interfere in any way with the affairs of my neighbours or of others. I would, in short, at any time, rather sacrifice my interests than quarrel with any one; while I reckon it the greatest happiness to be let alone, and to be allowed to get through the world quietly and noiselessly. From my very infancy, my friends (said the melancholy gentleman), I loved quiet above all things; and there is a tradition in our family, strikingly corroborative of this. The tradition alluded to bears that I never cried while an infant, and that I never could endure my rattle. Well, gentlemen, such were and such still are my dispositions. But, offending no one, and interfering with no one, how have I been treated in my turn? You shall hear. At school, I was thrashed by the master for not interfering to prevent my companions fighting; and I was thrashed by my companions for not taking part in their quarrels: so that, between them, I had, I assure you, a very miserable life of it. However, these were but small matters, compared to what befell me after I had fairly embarked in the world. My first experience after this, of how little my peaceful and inoffensive disposition would avail me, was with an evening club which I joined. For some time I got on very well with the persons who composed this association, and seemed--at least I thought so--to be rather a favourite with them, on account of my quiet and peaceable demeanour; and, under ordinary circumstances, perhaps I might have continued so. But the demon of discord got amongst them, and I became, in consequence of my non-resisting qualities, the scapegoat of their spleen; or rather, I became the safety-valve by which their passions found a harmless egress. But, to drop metaphor, my friends (said the melancholy gentleman), the club got to loggerheads on a certain political question--I forget now what it was--and for some nights there was a great deal of angry discussion and violent altercation on the subject. In these debates, however, in accordance with my natural disposition, I took no part whatever, except by making some fruitless attempts to abate the resentment of the parties, by thrusting in a jocular remark or so, when anything particularly severe was said. Well, gentlemen, how was I rewarded for this charitable conduct, think you? Why, I'll tell you. On the third or fourth night, I think it was, of the discussion alluded to, a member got up and said, addressing the club--"My friends, a good deal of vituperation and opprobrious language has been used in this here room, regarding the question we have been discussing these three or four nights back; but we have all spoke our minds freely, and stood to it like men who isn't afeard to speak their sentiments anywhere. Now, I says that's what I likes. I likes a man to stand to his tackle. But I hates, as I do the devil, your snakes in the grass, your smooth-chopped fellows, who hears all and never says nothing, so as how you can't tell whether he is fish or flesh. I say, I hate such dastardly, sneaking fellows, who won't speak out; and I says that such are unfit for this company;" (here the speaker looked hard at me); "and I move that he be turned out directly, neck and heel." Well, this speech, my friends (went on the melancholy gentleman), which you will perceive was levelled at me, was received with a shout of applause by both parties. The ruffing and cheering was immense; and most laudably prompt was the execution of the proposal that excited it. Before I had time to evacuate the premises quietly and of my own accord, which I was about to do, I was seized by the breast by a tall ferocious-looking fellow, who sat next me, and who was immediately aided by three or four others, and dragged over every obstacle that stood in the way to the door, out of which I was finally kicked with particular emphasis. Such, then, my friends (said the melancholy gentleman), was the first most remarkable instance of the benefits I was likely to derive from my inoffensive non-meddling disposition. However, it was my nature; and neither this unmerited treatment, nor any other usage which I afterwards experienced, could alter it. Some time after this, I connected myself with a certain congregation in our town, and it unfortunately happened that, soon after I joined them, they came all to sixes and sevens about a minister. One party was for a Mr. Triterite, the other a Mr. White. These were distinguished, as usual, in such and similar cases, by the adjunct _ite_, which had, as you may perceive, a most unhappy effect in the case of the name of the first gentleman, whose followers were called Triteriteites, and those of the other Whiteites. However, this was but a small matter. To proceed. In the squabbles alluded to, gentlemen, I took no part; it being a matter of perfect indifference to me which of the candidates had the appointment. All that I desired was, that I might be let alone, and not be called upon to interfere in any way in the dispute. But would they allow me this indulgence, think you? No, not they. They resolved, seemingly, that my unobtrusive conduct should be no protection to me. Two or three days after the commencement of the contest, I was waited upon by a deputation from a committee of the Triteriteites, and requested to join them in opposing the Whiteites. This I civilly declined; telling them, at the same time, that it was my intention and my earnest wish to avoid all interference in the pending controversy; that I was perfectly indifferent to which of the candidates the church was given, and would be very glad to become a hearer of either of them; that, in short, I wished to make myself no enemies on account of any such contest. "Oh, very well, Mr. B----," said the spokesman, reddening with anger, "we understand all this perfectly, and think very little, I assure you, of such mean evasive conduct. Had you said boldly and at once that you favoured the other party, we would at least have given you credit for honesty. But you may depend upon it, sir," he added, "White never will get the church. That you may rely upon." "Scurvy conduct," muttered another of the committee, as he was retiring after the speaker. "Shabby, sniveling, _drivelling_ conduct," muttered a third. "Low, mean, _sneaking_ conduct," said a fourth. "Dirty subterfuge," exclaimed a fifth. And off the gentlemen went. But they had not yet done with me. One of the number was a person with whom I had some acquaintance, and the next day I received from him the following note:--"Sir, your unmanly (I will not mince the matter with you), your unmanly and disingenuous conduct yesterday, when called upon by Mr. Triterite's committee, has so disgusted me that I beg you to understand that we are friends no longer. A candid and open avowal of opposite sentiments from those which I entertain, I trust, I shall be always liberal enough to tolerate in any one, without prejudice to previous intimacy; but I cannot remain on terms of friendship with a man who has the meanness to seek to conciliate the party he opposes, by concealing his adherence to that which he has espoused.--I am, sir," &c. Well, my friends (said the melancholy gentleman), was not this an extremely hard case? To be thus abused, and reviled, and scouted, for merely desiring to be allowed to live in peace, and to have nothing to do with a squabble in which I did not feel in any way interested. But this was not all. I was lampooned, caricatured, and paragraphed in the newspapers, in a thousand different ways. In the first, I was satirized as the _fair_ dealer; in the second, I was represented as a wolf in sheep's clothing; and in the last, I was hinted at as "a certain quiet double-faced gentleman, not a hundred miles from hence." But still this was not all. Two or three days after I had been waited on by the Triteriteites, the same honour was done me by the Whiteites, and with similar views. To the gentlemen of this party, I said precisely what I had said to those of the opposite faction, and begged of them, in heaven's name, to let me alone, and settle the matter amongst them as they best could. "Well," replied one of the gentlemen, when I had done, "I must say, I did not expect this of you, Mr. B. I thought I could have reckoned on your support; but it doesn't signify. We can secure Mr. White's appointment without you. But I must say, if you had been the candid man I took you for, you would have told me, ere this, that you meant to have supported the other party. I really cannot think very highly, Mr. B., of your conduct in this matter; but it doesn't signify, sir--it doesn't signify. We now know who are our friends and who are not. Mr. Triterite, you may depend upon it, will never get the church, even though he has you to support him." Saying this, he turned on his heel and left me, followed by his train, who, precisely as the others had done, muttered as they went, "shabby fellow," "mean scamp," "shuffling conduct," "snake in the grass" (favourite phrase this), &c. &c. Well, my friends, here you see (said the melancholy gentleman), without giving any one the smallest offence, and desiring nothing so much as peace and the good will of my neighbours--here was I, I say, become obnoxious to heaven knows how many people; for my reputation naturally extended from the committees to the other members of the congregation, and from them again to their friends and acquaintances; so that I had, in the end, a pretty formidable array of enemies. The consequence of this affair was, that I soon found myself compelled, from the petty persecutions and annoyances of all sorts, to which I was subsequently exposed, to leave the congregation altogether. However, to compensate for all these troubles and vexations, I had the good fortune, about this time, to become acquainted with a very amiable young lady, as peaceably inclined and as great a lover of quiet as myself. This lady I married, having previously secured a house in one of the quietest and most retired places in the town, so as to be out of the way of all noise and din. Immediately beneath this house, however, there was an empty unlet shop, which I could not help regarding with a suspicious eye, from an apprehension that it might be taken by a person of some noisy calling or other; and so much at last did this fear alarm me, that I determined on taking the shop into my own hands, and running myself the risk of its letting--thus securing the choice of a tenant. Having come to this resolution, then, I called upon the landlord and inquired the rent. "O sir," said he, "the shop is let." "Let, sir!" replied I; "I saw a ticket on it yesterday." "That might well be, sir, for it was only let this morning." "And to whom, sir, is it let, may I ask? I mean, sir, what is his business?" "A tinsmith, sir," said the landlord, coolly. "A tinsmith!" replied I, turning pale. "Then my worse fears are realized!" The landlord looked surprised, and inquired what I meant. I told him, and had a laugh from him for my pains. Yes, my friends (said the melancholy gentleman), a tinsmith had taken the shop--a working tinsmith--and a most industrious and hard-working one he was, to my cost. But this was not the worst of it. The tinsmith was not a week in his new shop, when he received a large West India order; and when I mention that this piece of good fortune, as I have no doubt he reckoned it, compelled him to engage about a score of additional hands, I may safely leave it to yourselves, gentlemen, to conceive what sort of a neighbourhood I soon found myself in. On this subject, then, I need only say, that, in less than a week thereafter, I was fairly hammered out of the house, and compelled to look out for other quarters. But this, after all, was merely a personal matter--one which did not involve the inimical feelings of others towards me; and, therefore, though an inconvenience at the time, it did not disturb my quiet beyond the moment of suffering, as those unhappy occurrences did in which I had, however unwittingly, provoked the enmity of others; and, therefore, after I had been fairly settled in my new house, I thought very little more about the matter, and was beginning to enjoy the calm, quiet life which I so much loved, as nobody had meddled with me for upwards of three weeks. But, alas! this felicity was to be but of short duration. The election of a member of Parliament came on, and I had a vote--but I had determined to make no use of it; for, being but little of a politician, and, above all things, desiring to be on good terms with everybody, whatever might be their religious or political persuasions, I thought the best way for me was to take no share whatever in the impending contest; it being a mere matter of moonshine to me whether Whig or Tory was uppermost. In adopting this neutral course, I expected, and I think not unreasonably, to get quietly through with the matter, and that I should avoid giving offence to any one. I will further confess, that, besides this feeling, I was guided to a certain extent by interest. I had many customers of opposite political tenets--Whig, Tory, and Radical--and I was desirous of retaining the custom and good will of them all, by taking part with none. Grievous error--dreadful mistake! Soon after, the candidates started, and there happened to be one of each of the three classes just mentioned--that is, Whig, Tory, and Radical. I received a card from one of my best customers, a Whig, containing a larger order than usual for tea, wine, spirits, &c.--such being the articles in which I deal, gentlemen (said our melancholy friend); but, at the bottom of the slip, there was the following note:--"Mr. S---- hopes he may count on Mr. B.'s supporting the Liberal interest in the ensuing election, by giving his vote to Lord Botherem. Mr. S---- is perfectly aware of Mr. B.'s indifference to political matters; but it is on this very account that Mr. S---- reckons on his support, as it can be a matter of no moment to him to whom he gives his vote." Well, gentleman, here you see was the first attack upon me; and the second soon followed. I saw the storm that was gathering. In the course of the very same day, I was waited on by another customer, an inveterate Tory. "Well, Mr. B.," he said, on entering my shop, "I am come to solicit a very important favour from you; but still one which I am sure you will not refuse an old friend and a tolerably good customer. In short, Mr. B.," he went on, "knowing it is a matter of moonshine to you who is member for this burgh--for I've heard you say so--I have come to ask your vote for Mr. Blatheringham, the Tory candidate." "My dear sir," I replied, "you are quite right in saying that it is a matter of moonshine to me what may be the political tenets of our member; but I have resolved--and I have done so for that very reason--not to interfere in the matter at all. I do not mean to vote on any side." And I laughed; but my friend looked grave. "Oh! you don't, Mr. B.!" he said. "Then am I to understand that you won't oblige me in this matter, although it is on a point which is of no consequence to you, on your own confession, and, therefore, requiring no sacrifice of political principle." "My dear sir," replied I, in the mildest and most conciliating manner possible, anxious to turn away wrath--"I have already said"---- "Oh! I know very well, sir, what you have said, and I'll recollect it, too, you may depend upon it, and not much to your profit. My account's closed with you, sir. Good morning!" And out of the shop he went in a furious passion. On the day following this, I received a note from the Whig canvasser, in reply to one from me on the subject of _his_ solicitation, in which I had expressed nearly the same sentiments which I delivered verbally to my Tory friend: and in this note I was served with almost precisely the same terms which the Tory had used in return, only he carried the matter a little farther--telling me plainly that he would not only withdraw his own custom from me, but do his endeavour to deprive me of the custom of those of his friends who dealt with me, who were of the same political opinions with himself. This I thought barefaced enough; and I daresay you will agree with me, my friends (said the melancholy gentleman), that it was so. Here then, were two of my best customers lost to me for ever. Nay, not only their own custom, but that of all their political partisans who happened to deal with me; for the one was fully as good as his word, and the other a great deal better: that is to say, the one who threatened to deprive me of the custom of his friends, as well as his own, did so most effectually; while the other, who held out no such threat, did precisely the same thing by his friends, and with at least equal success. In truth, I wanted now but to be asked to support the Radical interest to be fairly ruined; and this was a piece of good fortune that was not long denied me. "My dear Bob,"--thus commenced a note, which I had, on this unhappy occasion, from an intimate friend, a rattling, rough, outspoken fellow--"As I know your political creed to be couched in the phrase--'Let who likes be king, I'll be subject'--that is, you don't care one of your own figs what faction is uppermost--I request, as a personal favour, your support for Mr. Sweepthedecks; and this I do the more readily, that I know there is no chance of your being pre-engaged. Now, you musn't refuse me, Bob, else you and I will positively quarrel; for I have promised to secure you." Here then, you see, my friends (said the melancholy gentleman), was a climax. The unities in the system of persecution adopted against me were strictly observed. There was beginning, middle, and end complete--nothing wanting. Well--still determined to maintain my neutrality--I wrote a note to my friend, expressing precisely the same sentiments to which I have so often alluded. To this note I received no answer; and can only conjecture the effect it had upon him by the circumstance of his withdrawing his custom from me, and never again entering my shop. Observe, however, my friends (here said the melancholy gentleman), that, in speaking of the persecutions I underwent on this occasion, I have merely selected instances--you are by no means to understand that the cases just mentioned included all the annoyance I met with on the subject of my vote. Not at all. I have, as already said, merely instanced these cases. I was assailed by scores of others in the same way. Indeed, there was not a day, for upwards of three weeks, that I was not badgered and abused by somebody or other--ay, and that too, in my own shop. But my shop was now not worth keeping; for Whig, Tory, and Radical had deserted me, and left me to the full enjoyment of my reflections on the course I had pursued. In short, I found that, in endeavouring to offend no one, I had offended everybody; and that, in place of securing my own peace, I had taken the most effectual way I possibly could to make myself unhappy. Well, in the meantime, you see, my friends (continued the melancholy gentleman), the election came on, and was gained by the Whig candidate. The streets were on the occasion paraded by the partisans of each of the parties; and, as is not unusual in such cases, there was a great deal of mischief done, and of which, as a sufferer, I came in for a very liberal share. The Whig mob attacked my shop, and demolished everything in it, to celebrate their triumph, as they said, by plucking a _hen_--in other words, one who would not support them. The Tory mob, again, attacked my house, and smashed every one of my windows, alleging that, as I was not a Tory, I must be a Whig; and, finally, the third estate came in, and finished what the other two had left undone, because I was not a Radical. Here, then, gentlemen, was I, I repeat, who had offended no one, or, at least, had given no one any reasonable grounds of offence, but who, on the contrary, was most anxious to remain on friendly terms with everybody--here, I say, then, was I, surrounded with enemies, persecuted at all hands, my business dwindled away to nothing, and, lastly, my effects destroyed, to the extent of nearly all I possessed in the world. There was still, however, a small residue left; and with this I now determined to retire to the country, and to take a small house in some sequestered place, at a distance from all other human habitations, with the view of ascertaining if I could not there secure the peace and quietness which I found the most harmless and inoffensive conduct could not procure me in society. I determined, in short, to fly the face of man. Well, such a house as I wished, I, after some time, found; and to it I immediately retired. It was situated in a remote part of the country, in a romantic little glen, and several miles distant, on all hands, from any other residence--just the thing I wanted. Here at last, thought I, as I gazed on the solitude around me, I will find that peace and quiet that are so dear to me; here is no one to quarrel with me because I do not choose to think as he does--none to disturb me because I seek to disturb no one. Fatal error again! There was a small trouting stream at a short distance from the house. I was fond of angling. I went to the river with rod and line, threw in (it was the very next day after I had taken possession of my new residence), and in the next instant found myself seized by the cuff of the neck. I had trespassed; and an immediate prosecution, notwithstanding all the concession I could make, was the consequence. The proprietor, at whose instance this proceeding took place, was a brute--a tyrant. To all my overtures, his only reply was, that he was determined to make an example of me; and this he did, to the tune of about a score of pounds. This occurrence, of course, put an immediate stop to my fishing recreations; and, at the same time, excited some suspicion in my mind as to the perfect felicity which I was likely to enjoy in my retirement. Having given up all thoughts of angling, I now took to walking, and determined to make a general inspection of the country in my neighbourhood; taking one direction one day, and another the next, and so on, till I should have seen all around me to the extent of some miles--"And surely this," thought I to myself, "will give offence to nobody." Well, in pursuance of this resolution, I started on my first voyage of discovery; but had not proceeded far, when a beautiful shady avenue, with its gate flung invitingly open, tempted me to diverge. I entered it, and was sauntering luxuriously along, with my hat in my hand, enjoying the cool shade of the lofty umbrageous trees by which it was skirted, and admiring the beauties around me--for it was, indeed, a most lovely place. I was, in short, in a kind of delightful reverie, when all of a sudden I found myself again seized by the cuff of the neck, by a ferocious-looking fellow with a gun in his hand. "What do you want here, sir?" said the savage, looking at me as if he would have torn me to pieces. "Nothing, my good fellow," replied I, mildly. "I want nothing. I came here merely to enjoy a walk in this beautiful avenue." "Then, you'll pay for your walk, I warrant you. Curse me, if you don't! You have no right here, sir. Didn't you see the ticket at the entrance, forbidding all strangers to come here?" I declared I did not; which was true. "Then I'll teach you to look sharper next time. Your name, sir?" I gave it; and, in three days after, was served with a summons for another trespass, and was again severely fined. "Strange land of liberty this!" thought I on this occasion--as, indeed, I had done on some others before--"where one dare not think as they please without making a host of enemies, and where you can neither turn to the right or the left without being taken by the neck." I now, in short, found, gentlemen (said our melancholy friend), that I had only exchanged one scene of troubles for another; and that even my remote and sequestered situation was no protection to me whatever from annoyance and persecution; and I therefore resolved to quit and return once more to the town, to make another trial of the justice of mankind; and in this resolution I was confirmed by a letter which I shortly after this received from the proprietor whose lands adjoined the small patch of ground that was attached to the house I resided in. "Sir," began this new correspondent, "you must be aware that it is the business of the tenant of the house you occupy to keep the drain which passes your garden in an efficient state, throughout the length of its passage by your ground. Now, sir, it is, at present, far from being in such a condition; and the consequence is, that a large portion of my land in your neighbourhood is laid under water, to my serious loss. I therefore request that you will instantly see to this, to prevent further trouble. I am, sir," &c. Well, gentlemen (continued our melancholy friend), to prevent this further trouble, and to keep, if possible, on goods terms with my neighbour, I went, immediately on receipt of his letter, and examined the drain in question; resolving, at the same time, to do what he requested, or rather commanded, if it could be done at a reasonable cost, although I conceived that it was a matter with which I had nothing to do. It was an affair of my landlord's altogether, I thought, especially as nothing had been said to me about the drain when I took the house--at least nothing that I recollected. However, as I have said, I determined, for peace's sake, to repair it in the meantime, and to take my landlord in my own hand for restitution. On looking at the drain, I found it indeed in a very bad state, and immediately sent for a person skilled in such matters to give me an idea of what might be the cost of putting it in a proper order; and was informed that it might be put in very good condition, in such a state as my neighbour could not object to, for about fifty pounds. Now, gentlemen, this was precisely equal to two years' rent of my house, and, I thought, rather too large a price to pay for the good will of my neighbour; and I resisted, at the same time referring him to my landlord. My landlord said he had nothing to do with it, and that I must settle the affair with Mr. T---- the best way I could. Well, I took advice in the matter, for I thought it looked very like a conspiracy against my simplicity and good nature; and was advised by all means to resist. The result was, that my neighbour, Mr. T----, immediately commenced a suit against me; and, in my own defence, I was compelled to raise an action of relief against my landlord; so that, when I returned to town, I brought with me from my sweet, calm, peaceable retirement, a couple of full blown law pleas of the most promising dimensions. Who would have thought it--who would have dreamt it--that, in this seclusion, this desert, as I may call it, I should have got involved in such a world of troubles? Well, gentlemen, what do you think was the result? Why, both cases were given against me. In the one, I had to pay costs--and in the other, to pay costs and repair the drain too; and (added the melancholy gentleman with a sigh) I am at this moment on my way to Edinburgh to pay the last instalment of these ruinous and iniquitous claims." And, with this, the melancholy gentleman ended the sad story of his sufferings. We all pitied him from our hearts, and each in his own way offered him the condolence that his case demanded. He thanked us for the sympathy we expressed, and said that he felt encouraged by it to ask our advice as to how he should conduct himself in future, so as to obtain the peace and quiet he so earnestly desired. "What would you recommend me to do, gentlemen--where would you advise me to go," he said, in an imploring and despairing tone--nay, we thought half crying--"to escape this merciless and unprovoked persecution?" We were all much affected by this piteous appeal, and felt every desire to afford such counsel to our ill-used friend as might be of service to him; but, while we did so, we felt also the extreme difficulty of the case; for we did not see by what possible line of conduct he could escape persecution, if the very harmless and inoffensive one which he had hitherto, of his own accord, adopted, had been found ineffectual for his protection. Indeed, it was the very, nay, the only one, which, _a priori_, we would have recommended to him; but, as he had clearly shown us that it was an ineffectual one, we really felt greatly at a loss what to say; and, under this difficulty, we all remained for some time thoughtful and silent. At length, however, it was agreed amongst us, as the case was a poser, that we should sleep on the matter, and in the morning come prepared with such advice as our intervening cogitations should suggest. The melancholy gentleman again thanked us for the kind interest we took in his unhappy case; adding, that he was now so disheartened, so depressed in spirits, by the usage he had met with, that he almost felt it an obligation to be allowed to live. As it was now wearing late, and our landlord had just come in to announce that supper was ready, and would be served up when ordered, we agreed to rest satisfied for the night with the extempore autobiographies, as I may call them, of our two worthy companions--the little hunch-backed personage in the bright yellow waistcoat, and the melancholy gentleman; but we, at the same time, resolved that we would resume the same mode of entertainment on the following evening, and continue it till every one had contributed his quota. GUILTY, OR NOT GUILTY. On the 15th of September, 17--, an unusual stir was observable in our village. The people were gathered in little groups in the streets, with earnest and awe-stricken countenances; and even the little children had ceased their play, and, clinging to their mothers, looked up as if wondering what strange thing had happened. In some parts of the town the crowds were larger, but the remarks less audible; at times, two or three individuals were seen passing along, in grave conversation, while the women stood in groups at their own or their neighbour's doors, many of them with tears in their eyes, and giving utterance occasionally to sounds of lamentation. It was evident, to the most casual observer, that something unusual had occurred--something that had stricken a feeling approaching to alarm into all hearts--and that all were engaged in the discussion of one common topic. There was that gathering together, as if for mutual support, or for the purposes of sympathy and consultation, which usually attends the appearance of public danger, the extent of which is unknown. It seemed, indeed, as if the occurrence of an earthquake, however much it might have increased the alarm, could not have deepened the gloom. The night at length gradually thickened, and, one by one, the villagers crept into their dwellings. Many a fearful tale was told by the firesides that night; and not a door but was more carefully barred than it had been perhaps for years before. Our village was like many other villages in Scotland; it was long, dirty, and irregular, and wholly wanting in those qualities of neatness and taste which give a character of comfort and rustic beauty to the generality of English hamlets. The odour that rose from the fronts of the cottages was not from flowers, and was certainly much less agreeable to the senses. The situation, however, was romantic; and there was a character of rusticity about the place which harmonised well with the surrounding scenery. On one side it was skirted by a water, which, in rainy seasons, struggled into some importance, and turned two or three respectable mills. On the other, the country undulated gracefully, and rose at one point into a wooded hill, which formed no inconsiderable feature in the landscape. Striking off the main road, at a point about half-a-mile distant, was a rough by-road, which crossed near the summit of the hill, and wound upwards till it disappeared in a ridge of still loftier mountains. This road formed a favourite walk with the young people of the village. It was rough, and shaded, and retired, and led to many a green spot and glorious upland. On very dark nights, however, it was usually avoided. A considerable part of it was over-arched with thick foliage; and however pleasant at noonday, when the hot breezes came panting thither for relief, it needed rather a stout heart to pass whistling through it, when not even a gleam of starlight was visible, and when every sound of the rustling branches came to the ear of the listener, as a groan, a shriek, or a wailing. It was towards this road, on the morning succeeding the ominous appearances we have described, that many of the villagers directed their steps. A good number were hastening thither soon after daybreak, and one and all seemed bent on the same errand. They entered the road, now chequered with the wakening glints of the sun, and proceeded onwards till they came to a break in the rough wall, which bounded it on either side. They here struck off, and followed the windings of a narrow footpath, till they reached an open place which looked into the fields beyond. There was a bush of underwood a good deal dashed and torn; and those who had a better eyesight, or a more active fancy than the rest, declared they could trace the sprinklings of blood upon the grass. On that spot, not many hours before, a murder had been committed. A young woman, one of the loveliest and liveliest of the village, had been desperately and cruelly murdered. The affair was involved in mystery. Jessie Renton, the deceased, was the daughter of respectable parents in the village, and a favourite with young and old. She was warm-hearted and playful; and, pass her when you might, she always greeted you with a kind glance or a merry word. On the evening which closed on her for ever, she had gone out alone, as she had done a thousand times before, with a laughing eye and a light step. Her father had not returned from his daily toil, and her mother had not ceased from hers. The latter was busy at her wheel when Jessie left, and not a parting word was exchanged between them. They knew not that they were never to see each other alive again in this world, and they parted without thought or word. It was not known where the unfortunate girl had gone. She had passed the doctor's shop while his apprentice boy was squirting water from a syringe; and, joking, she had told him she would "tell his maister o' his tricks." She had chatted with two girls who were fetching water from the well, and hinted something about an approaching wedding. An old man had seen her at the outskirts of the village; and a cow-herd urchin thought--but "wasna sure"--that he had seen her entering the road leading through the wood; and that was all. Some hours after she had been thus traced, a couple of strolling pedlars had been making for the village, and were startled by a shriek and a cry of murder in the thicket. They rushed in; but had some difficulty in finding the spot whence the cry proceeded. The figure of a man dashed by them at some yards distance. They hallooed to him; but he passed on, and was out of sight in a moment. A few stifled cries led them to the fatal spot, where they found the wretched girl stretched upon the ground, faint from the loss of blood, and unable to articulate. One of the men supported her, while the other ran for help. The latter had scarcely reached the main road, when he met some labourers plodding homewards, and with them he returned to the dying girl; but what assistance could they render? Life was fast ebbing away; and, in a few moments afterwards, they bent in dumb horror and amazement, over a mangled corpse. After some consultation, they carried the body towards the village; and one of them hastened before and procured a vehicle to relieve them of their burthen. The news of what had occurred spread in all directions; and, by the time the mournful procession entered the village, the inhabitants were all astir. The body was soon recognised; tears and wailings followed; and dark suspicions and dismal regrets mingled with the hurried inquiries of every new comer. Old James Renton and his wife, as decent a couple as lived in the village, were seated by the fire, enjoying their quiet evening chat, when the awful intelligence reached them. Some considered it strange that they had been talking but a few minutes before of their daughter, and her prospects. But it was not strange: they had no other child: they had had no other theme so interesting. It was not a new thing with them. For themselves they had but little to hope, but little to dream over: their own ambition had long since died out, but it revived in their child. She was a link which bound them anew to this world, and seemed to open up to them, once more, bright prospects on this side of the grave. Often and often had they conversed upon her hopes, as they had aforetime done of their own; and with an interest only heightened from having become less selfish. Was it remarkable that they should do so on that evening? Jessie was growing to a most interesting age. She had arrived at that point in life from which many roads diverge, and where the path is often difficult to choose. For her sake, more than one homely hind had become a poet in his feelings. Indeed, she had many admirers, and was even what some might call a flirt. But, although her smiles were shed like the free and glad sunshine on all, there was one who, to appearance, was more favoured than the rest. This young man had known her from her childhood, and his attachment was of the most ardent kind. At school, he had been her champion, and certainly showed himself a true knight--ready to encounter, nay, courting danger for her sake, and conceiving himself sufficiently rewarded by her smile. She had recently been solicited in marriage by another, a man of retired and somewhat gloomy habits, who dwelt near; but it was understood that she had refused his offer, and that George Merrideth was the chosen one of her heart. It was on these things that the unconscious parents were conversing, when one of their neighbours entered with the frightful intelligence. Both started up and rushed to the door. The crowd were hastening on, bearing with them the melancholy evidence of the truth of what they had just heard. It came on still--it stopt--it was at their own door it stopt. The old man could not speak, but his wife rushed forward with a distressful shriek. The truth was soon all known. They had no child. They had only a dead body to weep over--to lay in the grave. Is it necessary to say more? A few days passed. They were the bitterest days the bereaved parents had ever known; but they passed, and their minds became comparatively calm. Neither the efforts of their own minds, nor the commiseration of their friends and neighbours, could subdue their grief: but it took free vent, and subsided from very exhaustion. They evinced but little anxiety to discover who had destroyed their child: it was enough to them that she was gone; and revenge, they said, would not bring her back. Their chief solace was to visit and linger in the church-yard--their chief hope to abide there. To discover the murderer, and drag him to justice, soon occupied the attention, not only of the authorities, but of many active men in the village. Rigorous inquiries were instituted, every scrap of evidence was collected, and suspicion fell at length upon one man. This individual was, to appearance, about thirty years of age, of a thoughtful disposition, and retired mode of life. He had been settled in the village for several years; and no sooner was the suspicion raised, than many circumstances were bruited to confirm it. His general conduct and bearing were remarked to have been mysterious. He had rarely associated with his neighbours; and had often been observed, in lonely places and at silent hours, muttering and musing, by himself. For some time back, he had been noticed watching the deceased, and following her whenever she had any distance to go; and the general belief was, that she had crossed his affections, and that he had taken this cowardly revenge. On the evening of the murder, he had been seen returning home only a few minutes after the time when the deed must have been perpetrated, and his air and manner were said to have been wild and agitated. The consequence was, that he was apprehended and thrown into prison. In a few months afterwards, he was tried. In his defence, he stated that the unfortunate girl had rather encouraged his suit than otherwise; and mentioned, in proof of this, that Merrideth, whose grief for her loss had excited general commiseration, had on the very afternoon of the day on which the murder took place, quarrelled him on the subject, and accused him of seeking him to supplant him in her affections. Ultimately, a verdict of not proven was returned, and he was dismissed from the court. Jones--for such was his name--returned to the village; but the suspicion still clung to him. As he went through the streets, the people avoided him, or gazed at him as a world's wonder. Wherever he passed, they spoke to each other in whispers. These whispers he seldom heard, but the thought of their import haunted him. He was restless and unhappy, and sought relief in motion. No sooner was the sun risen, than he was up and away to the fields. He wandered about alone for hours, and then came back to the village. He felt as if a curse rested on him; a stain on his name, which he could not wipe off. So unhappy did he seem, that some men began to take compassion on him, and even to converse with him. He felt grateful; the tears rushed to his eyes; and they left him with their suspicions confirmed. Night came, and he felt that he could not sleep. He sometimes tried to read, but in vain: and would suddenly dash down the book and hurry into the street. In one of his rambles, an incident occurred, which, although trifling in itself, may yet be related as showing the kind of feeling with which he was regarded. Miss Manners, the daughter of the village clergyman, accompanied by another young lady, was coming along in a direction in which they could not avoid meeting him. Jones observed the latter hesitate, on beholding him, and apparently refuse to go on, till encouraged by her companion. They met, however, and passed each other; but Jones had not proceeded many yards, when he observed a silk bag which one of them had dropped. He picked it up and hastened after them. The young lady, on hearing his footsteps, glanced round and screamed outright. Jones paused. When the affrighted damsel had somewhat recovered herself, he said in a soft voice-- "Young lady! I am sorry if my politeness has alarmed you. I thought this might be your bag, which I found lying on the road." Miss Manners stepped towards him, and received it, saying--"Thank you, sir. My companion is foolish." "I cannot blame her," he replied, "for she does not know me. I have rather to thank you, than wonder at her." His voice was rather tremulous as he spoke; and Miss Manners regarded him with a look of the tenderest compassion. Nothing more, however, was said. They simply bowed to each other and parted. Jones walked on for a short distance, then, leaning over a rustic gate by the roadside, mused till his eyes filled. The violent emotion exhibited by the unhappy man was not allowed to pass unnoticed by the villagers. It was looked upon only as the writhing of a tortured spirit; and whatever doubts existed as to his guilt, they were soon all removed. There was hardly a soul in the village but shunned and feared him. Sometimes Jones would drop into one or two shops where he had been accustomed to visit, and talk freely on matters of common interest. But those who formerly saw nothing odd in his manner, now discovered a thousand peculiarities. They imagined they detected an unnatural wildness in his eye, and set him down as a deep and dangerous man. At one time the villagers would stand gazing after him, at others they would pass him with a scowl. Little children, whom he used sometimes to pat on the head were taught to fear and avoid him; and often, when he approached, would run away screaming to their homes. The unhappy man, at length, resolved to leave the place. He pursued his journey to Edinburgh, and took lodgings in a street in the Old Town. The reflection, however, that he had not succeeded in vindicating his character--that he had left behind him a blasted reputation--poisoned all his enjoyments. He walked backward and forward in Princes Street, crossed the North Bridge, and wandered about the Canongate and High Street, and tried to lose himself in the crowd. Again he returned to his lodging, and felt that his loneliness and misery were increased. He next set off for Glasgow, and pursued there the same course. He traversed the Trongate and Argyle Street for hours, and strode down to the Broomielaw, and stared vacantly at the bustle going on on the river. But in nothing could he take any interest. Change of scene could bring no change to his mind. Weeks and months were spent in this rambling and unsatisfactory life, and again he resolved to retrace his steps to the village. The coach in which he took his seat set him down within about a mile and a half of the place; and he finished the journey on foot. It was on a Saturday afternoon that he entered, and with feelings which can hardly be described. Many of the villagers were sitting at their doors, enjoying the cool air of the evening, when the mysterious man walked up the main street. His appearance attracted general attention. One rumour had stated that he had fled to America; another, that he had taken away his own life. At all events, the people had congratulated themselves on his sudden departure; and felt irritated, as well as surprised, at his return. As he walked quietly along, he was followed by a number of boys, some of whom threw pieces of turf at him; and, by the time he reached the centre of the town a considerable crowd was collected. A disposition to riot was soon exhibited, and stones began to be thrown. Jones turned coolly round and folded his arms, as if in defiance of his persecutors. At that moment, a stone of a pretty large size struck him on the forehead, and some blood trickled from the wound. He was a man of a quick eye and muscular frame. He singled out the person who threw it, and dashed through the crowd--never once losing sight of him until he had him firmly in his grasp. A struggle ensued, and Jones threw his opponent with great force on the ground. Loud threats, and angry imprecations followed; and "Villain!--Murderer!" burst from a hundred tongues. Ten or a dozen men sprang forward upon him at once; but he started back and eluded their grasp. "Stand back!" he cried in a loud voice. "I shall strike the first man to the earth who dares to lay a finger on me!" For a moment his pursuers were awed; but only for a moment. Two or three hands were in an instant at his throat, and a violent struggle and altercation ensued. "Villain!--villain!" cried one man, older than the rest, "ye hae killed ane o' the sweetest bairns that ever drew breath. It was an evil hour when ye took up your abode in this village!" "Hold off, old man!" exclaimed Jones; "why do you persecute me so?" Groans and yells followed. "I swear before God," he continued, shaking himself free, "that I am innocent of this crime!" The crowd, however, were not to be deterred from giving vent to their rage; and matters might have proceeded to an alarming height, had not Mr. Manners, the parish minister, who chanced to be passing at the time, interfered in his behalf. The old man pushed his way through the crowd, and taking Jones by the arm, succeeded in dragging him away. They proceeded in the direction of the manse; but, as the mob still followed, Mr. Manners did not think it safe to leave him. He accordingly took him in along with him; and, closing the garden gate, exhorted the crowd to return peaceably to their homes. For a few moments, some shouting and noise were heard; but they died away by degrees, and Jones and his protector stood alone in the quiet and secluded garden. The former grasped Mr. Manners by the hand, and thanked him cordially. "Sir," he said, "I have been sorely abused. An unhappy suspicion has clung to my name; but innocent I declare I am, although suffering the worst consequences of guilt. All men have some sins to weep for; but, as I shall answer to my Maker, I swear that I am as innocent of the great crime laid to my charge as the unborn child is." Mr. Manners was a kind-hearted man. He was struck with the earnestness--the quiet and subdued fervour with which Jones addressed him--and, taking him kindly by the hand-- "Young man," he said, "I am bound to believe what I cannot disprove, and what you so solemnly affirm. If there be no truth in your words, you may yet repent having so solemnly sworn; but whether true or false, I can never repent doing you an act of kindness." Jones was invited into the house to rest--an invitation which he gladly accepted. On entering the lobby, they were met by Miss Manners, who started involuntarily on beholding the stranger; but instantly recovered herself, and opened the door of the parlour for him to enter. The latter bowed politely to her; and, blushing, she returned the salutation. Her father desired her to walk in and set some wine upon the table, which she did with alacrity and grace. Miss Manners was a young lady of rather an eccentric disposition. She was high-minded, and high-spirited, and not without a dash of romance. She was, of course, familiar with the story of the murder, and knew Jones well by sight. His appearance, which others regarded as at least mysterious-looking, seemed, in her eyes, rather prepossessing than otherwise; and when she heard the old women in the village imprecating curses on his head, she had uniformly reproved them for judging without adequate proof. On the present occasion, there was something in Jones' looks and manner peculiarly calculated to confirm her good impression, and engage her sympathy. His collar was loosened, and his dress a good deal dashed by the rough treatment he had experienced; but the expression of his countenance seemed to plead for compassion, and spoke eloquently to her heart. She addressed him in a kindly tone of voice; inquired what was the matter, and hoped that no accident had occurred. The stranger put his hand to his brow, from which the blood had been previously wiped, and turned towards the window; while her father briefly explained the circumstances of their meeting, of the harsh treatment to which Jones had been subjected, and of his own interference. "You did well father!" said the girl; "the people may be mistaken!" "They _are_ mistaken!" said Jones, turning round with moist eyes. "I know not why suspicion should have settled upon me. I led a quiet life in the village, harming no one, offending no one; neither had I exhibited any of those vices in which great crimes usually originate. I was not cruel, revengeful, or choleric: least of all had I shown unkindness to her whom they accuse me of having murdered. Lady, I cannot expect that you will believe the word of an accused, I may almost say a condemned, man; but I shall live in hope that something may yet arise to convince you that I am innocent!" A reply rushed to her lips, but she checked it, and pressed the stranger to take some refreshment. Mr. Manners expressed a hope that the people would not annoy him farther; and his daughter ventured to question him as to his returning to a place where he was exposed to such insult and persecution. "Madam," he replied, "where else could I be happy, with such a stigma on my character? A man's evil deeds are always more widely trumpeted than his good ones; and go where I would, I know that the slander would follow me. I have taken a solemn vow, never again to leave this place till I can do so with an unsullied character. The feeling that makes a man eager to trace a calumny to its source, and exculpate himself in the eyes of the world, deters me from flying from reproach. No! I will meet my accusers boldly. I have done nothing to cause me to leave the place; and what others may say or do, will not drive me from it." Both Mr. Manners and his daughter pressed him to stay to supper, but he declined. He expressed, as well as words could express, how grateful he felt for their kindness, and was about to depart, when the old gentleman laid one hand on his shoulder, and, grasping his hand frankly with the other, said-- "Till it has been proved that you are undeserving of my hospitality, my door shall always be open to you; and the more readily, that others are closed!" Jones was a good deal affected, but struggled to conceal his emotion. "No," he articulated, with a slightly faltering voice, but a steady eye, "I will not trouble you with a friendship which might bring odium on you. I need not say how delightful it would be to me; but"---- "My father," interrupted Miss Manners, "can easily bear a little burden to lighten another's great one. Can you not, father?" "My good child," he replied, "you know me, and can speak for me. Sir," he added, "my good wishes and prayers attend you." Jones took his leave, with many expressions of gratitude, when Mr. Manners came running after him, with his hat on, to see whether the crowd had wholly dispersed, and resolved to accompany him if necessary. On reaching the road, however, it was discovered that everything was perfectly quiet; and the good man, having escorted him only a short distance on his way, left him to his reflections. It would be difficult to describe the train of thought which passed through Jones' mind, as he directed his steps towards the centre of the village. Buoyant feelings and hopes, such as he had not experienced for years before, suddenly filled his breast: glimmerings of bright thought flashed on his mind; were speedily checked, and again burst forth. Some of the people were lounging about their doors as he passed; but he heeded not--he cared not. He felt happy. Visions of mild grey eyes and chesnut ringlets engrossed his senses. They were Miss Manners'. A low but sweet voice filled his ears. It was hers. His memory recalled certain kindly expressions; and it was her lips that had uttered them. On arriving at his lodging, he thought the way had been short; he entered, and was welcomed by his old landlady, with whom he had lived for years, and who was one of the few who would listen to nothing to his discredit. That night, Jones sat up long, and thought much. The window of his room looked down upon the glen, the stream, the corn-mill, and across to the high and wooded banks, and upwards to where, on this particular night, the full round moon climbed, and threw a glittering bar of light upon the water; and never, to the eye of our lonely muser, looked so lonely, or shone upon so fair a scene. If, at that moment, he harboured an evil thought or an angry feeling, it soon melted in the rising tide of holier emotions. The quiet and softness of the night became, for the time, a portion of his own being; and the pale light, resting on his features, communicated to them much of its gentleness and beauty. For several hours he continued in deep reverie. At length he began to feel chilly, as the thin watery light, which precedes the dawn, made its appearance; and he reluctantly withdrew to rest; but only to dream over the images of beauty with which his mind was surcharged. Next morning broke forth--a benign and balmy Sabbath. He was the earliest at church, and lingered the latest in the church-yard. The subject of Mr. Manners' discourse was charity; but when the people came out, they passed by Jones with a scowl, and went on their several ways, talking mysteriously together. Jones, however, had again seen Miss Manners. It is uncertain whether or not he threw himself in her way; but, whether from design or accident, their eyes met. She bowed gracefully to him; but he was not prepared for this public recognition. For the moment he felt confused, his heart fluttered, and he passed on with two or three hurried steps. This incident, trifling as it was, deprived him of a whole night's sleep. He feared he had betrayed some awkwardness on the occasion; and yet, somehow or other, he had no fear of obtaining her forgiveness. Often and often he walked in the neighbourhood of the manse, avoiding being seen by her, but still seeing her; or, if not, indulging the delight of being near her. He had no heart to walk in any other direction. If he strolled out in the morning, or in the quiet of the evening, he proceeded almost instinctively towards the manse; and if he passed any distance beyond it, an irresistible impulse caused him to retrace his steps. These lonely walks, often at unseasonable hours, and without any apparent object, were not unobserved by the villagers, and gave rise to much speculation. Many weeks passed, and still the mystery continued; and Jones found, ere long, that he was regarded not only with suspicion, but terror. All the petty crimes, too, which occurred in the neighbourhood, were set down to his charge; and time, which he thought would clear his name, seemed only to blacken it the more. Every means, too, were taken to persecute him, and drive him from the place; but absence to him was now despair. He was chained to the spot by an uncontrollable destiny; and felt that, although pressed to the uttermost, he was yet wholly incapable of retreat. Jones was proprietor of a small property in the village, which had been left him by an uncle, and which first induced him to take up his residence in that quarter; he had also a small sum of money laid out at interest; and, both together, had hitherto yielded him a sufficient competency. One by one, however, the houses on which he chiefly relied became tenantless, and nothing seemed to await him but poverty and wretchedness. But then Miss Manners! Like a star in the heavens, she became brighter as his prospects darkened; and yet he feared that, like a star, he could only admire her at a distance. He had told his love to the listening winds; he had whispered it to his pillow; he had mingled his plaint with that of the running brooks. But, to human ear, he had breathed it neither in sighs nor words. Him, a wanderer and an outcast, what maid could ever love? Could he have asked Miss Manners to share happiness with him, the case might have been otherwise; but what must be his fate when he had only wretchedness to offer? He thought of her till she became purely a being of his imagination; and, being all that his imagination could paint her, she became too much for him to hope ever to possess. It is difficult to say what, at this early stage of their acquaintance, were Miss Manners' feelings towards Jones. Certain it is, however, that she had conceived for him a kind of romantic interest. She was eccentric in her disposition, but fervent in her attachments; and, without knowing much about him, she had, partly from compassion and partly, perhaps, from a secret love of being regarded singular, uniformly advocated his cause whenever occasion offered. One evening, two or three young girls were assembled at the manse. They were the daughters of a person of some consideration in the place, and Miss Manners' occasional associates. After tea, Mr. Manners withdrew to his studies; and, as the evening had set in rather cold, the ladies drew near the fire to converse. "Come, now," said Miss Manners, as she stirred the fire till it blazed and crackled right merrily, "let us make ourselves comfortable and happy. Emily, here"--sitting down beside the dullest of her guests--"looks as sad as if she had just lost her sweetheart." "Oh, she'll be thinking of Willie Green!" said another of the girls. A third giggled. Emily looked sad; and Miss Manners cheered her by remarking that Willie was a very decent fellow. "He's no sweetheart of mine," said Emily, indifferently, at the same time glancing up to the ceiling. An enormous "Good gracious!" or some such expression, rushed to the eyes of another of the girls; but, as Miss Manners had checked her, she did not get telling how often she had seen her and Willie together, and how well known it was that the day was all but fixed. "Now, don't tease her," said Miss Manners. "I see we must change the subject." Accordingly, Willie Green was dismissed, and William Jones introduced. Every one, except Miss Manners, had something to say against him--some frightful story to relate in which he had acted a principal part. One told how, on one evening--darker than all other evenings--he had been seen lounging in the neighbourhood of such and such a farm; and how, next morning, one of the farmer's children died. Another related how he had been heard to rave to himself when he thought no one was near; and many were the extraordinary casualties in which he was declared to have been concerned. "Pshaw! idle tales," said Miss Manners, who had sat for some time silent. "I have seen the man, and do not think him one-half so bad as he is represented. Never yet have I met any one who had seen him do a wrong action; and yet every one will swell the cry against him. O world! world!" The young ladies were somewhat surprised at the serious tone in which Miss Manners spoke, but laughed it off, without attempting to argue the matter. How little did they know--how little did Miss Manners know--that, at that very time, the man they spoke of was wandering in the darkness, not far off, with his eyes fixed on the lighted window of the room in which they sat! And, O, what feelings would have filled the breast of poor Jones, if he had known that the light on which he gazed so intently was rendered still brighter by those eyes which he loved best in the world being kindled in his defence. However, the conversation soon took a lighter turn; and was only interrupted, at length, by the appearance of Willie Green, who was ushered in "by accident," and seemed very desirous to impress upon all present that he had no particular errand. Sly looks were interchanged, which no one, of course, saw; and Willie was speedily inducted as one of the party. Supper followed, at which Mr. Manners was present; and, when the hour of departure came, Miss Manners threw on her bonnet, to trot them, as she expressed it, to the garden gate. On going down the walk, Mr. Green, who was the pink of politeness, offered Miss Manners his arm; but the latter knew she would not offend him by refusing. One by one, he applied to the other girls; till, as a last resource, he made an appeal to Emily, who, after some feeble show of following their example, relented; and, while Miss Manners and the rest proceeded onwards, Green and Emily lagged gradually behind. Miss Manners escorted the party a considerable distance on their way, and then bade them good night. Mr. Green offered to accompany her back; but she broke off, saying she was not afraid. The night was rather dark; but, in truth, it was not late; and she tripped on her way homewards without fear of molestation. As she approached the garden, however, she saw the figure of a man walking on before her, with that slow and apparently lounging step which indicates the absence of any pressing or definite object. It was Jones. Her heart failed her for a moment; but, instantly recovering herself, she proceeded on her way, and passed him. It was dark. There was no one else near. A rush of frightful thoughts came upon her mind; her step faltered; and she felt as if about to faint. This was a moment, with Jones, of intense--of overwhelming emotion. He had heard her light step behind him, but knew not that it was hers. No sooner, however, had her graceful form caught his eye, than a strange wildness of thought and feeling seized him, approaching almost to delirium. She was alone. He had long wished for such an opportunity to declare his passion; and yet, now that it had arrived, he trembled to embrace it. To allow it to pass was, in all probability, to entail upon himself many more weeks or months of racking anxiety, uncertainty, and suspense; and yet to embrace it was, perhaps, to set the last seal to his despair. On such a subject he could have debated for weeks; but now, the least hesitation, and the opportunity was lost. While these contending thoughts distracted his mind, Miss Manners started, and almost paused, as if seized with a sudden panic. This fixed his resolution. "Dear lady!" he said, in a bland and tremulous voice, "you seem frightened. I trust it is not of me you are afraid. Believe me, you are near one who would protect, not harm you." "Who are you?" she inquired, faintly. "Who am I?" he replied. "In truth, I can hardly tell you who I am. I am one, madam, lost both to himself and the world--an outcast--a wanderer in solitary places--a madman--a dreamer! O, sweet lady!--but I am wrong to speak thus." "I know you now," she said, gaining courage; "your name is Jones, is it not?" "Ay, madam," he answered, "that is my unfortunate name; but, if the world knew all--or if you knew all, I would not care for the world." "Tell me," she said, but with some hesitation, as if in doubt whether it was proper to stay. "I will, if you'll forgive me," he said; "but my story is, perhaps, long. Will you walk on?" Miss Manners proceeded slowly along, with Jones at her side. "I have now," resumed the latter, "resided for nearly six years in this village. In my intercourse with the world I had been unfortunate, and retirement was what I sought. I found it here; and, between the study of books and nature, I felt myself happy, and associated but little with my neighbours. I do not weary you?" "No," said Miss Manners; "go on." "At length," he continued, "I began to feel that marriage would be an addition to my happiness; and, accordingly, I cast my eyes round among the fair maidens of the village. They fell upon the unfortunate Jessie Renton. She lived within a few doors of me, and I had often seen and admired her in my walks. I thought I loved her--for, at that time, I had not learned what true love was--and offered to make her my wife. I dealt candidly and openly with her. In education, I need not say that I knew she was much beneath me; but she seemed warm-hearted and docile, and I thought it would be a loving pastime for me to make her my pupil. I was not ignorant, however, that she had other lovers; and, although she certainly encouraged my addresses, I saw reason to discontinue my suit. About this time, the awful event took place, the particulars of which are already known to you; and, simply because I had been abroad on the evening of the murder, and near the fatal spot, and partly, no doubt, from the circumstance of my attachment, which I had taken no pains to conceal, suspicion fastened upon me. I will not--indeed I cannot--tell you what laceration of feeling--what distraction of mind--I have since suffered. But you--you, O lady! is it wonderful that I should love you?--you who, when all the world was against me, spoke kindly to me?--you----forgive me, but I love--I adore you; day and night you have been my dream--my idol! But I rave; and yet, do not think me quite mad; for I know I am partly so, and madness knows not itself. O lady!--pardon me! but my heart will not let my tongue speak, lest it should wrong it--could my _heart_ speak, could"---- "Sir--sir!" interrupted Miss Manners; "this is frenzy! I beg, sir, you will desist. So sudden--so"---- "Sudden!" exclaimed Jones. "My love may have been sudden; but, for weeks, for months, it has taken possession of me. But, pardon me, madam," he added, in a calmer tone. "Do not mistake me. I know too well that I dare not hope; but an humble offering may be laid upon a lofty shrine. All I ask is your compassion; say only you pity me, and I shall embalm the words in my memory for ever!" Miss Manners _did_ pity him; but begged him, as he valued his own happiness, to banish from his mind all such thoughts as he had expressed. "Ah, madam," said he, "ask me to part with life, and I may obey you; but, while life remains, I never can cease to love you." They had now reached the entrance to the garden; and Miss Manners held out her hand, saying-- "Good night." Jones took the hand. There was no glove on it; and, gently raising it, he pressed it to his lips. "Madam," he articulated, "good night; farewell. While you are asleep, I shall be thinking of you. On this road, gazing on the window of the room in which I think you are, I shall enjoy more rest than anywhere else I can go." He was about to add something more; but his utterance became choked; and, again pressing her hand to his lips, while a tear fell on it, he turned abruptly away. Miss Manners said not a word--her heart was too full--but closed the gate behind her and disappeared. Jones listened. He heard her step as she went up the gravel walk, and he heard nothing more. The night was, by this time, fearfully dark, and everything around him was silent. He walked on a short distance, returned, and again walked on. His mind was whirling and confused. He tried to recollect every word which Miss Manners had said, and by this means to get at the real state of her feelings; but he was too much agitated for reflection. On gaining his lodging, he felt faint, and put himself immediately to bed. All night long he tossed about in sleepless excitement; and, in the morning, fell into a feverish doze, broken by unintelligible dreams. When he awoke, he rose up, and felt so giddy as to be unable to stand, and again went to bed. During the day, he felt shivering and unwell; and, the next day, the same symptoms continued, and with increased violence. Another day arrived--another, and another--and all consciousness left him. Several weeks elapsed, and found him still bedridden, but convalescent; and it was nearly three months before he was enabled to venture out, and then only when the sun was warm. "You have been long out, Marion," said Mr. Manners to his daughter, as she returned from her accidental interview with Jones. "I was afraid some accident had befallen you." "No," said Miss Manners, whose eyes were slightly inflamed; for, somehow or other, she had wept before entering the house: "no accident." "Child," said her father, "what has happened--you look ill!" Miss Manners told all--her meeting with Jones, and his passionate declaration; but, notwithstanding that her father conjured her not to think of him, she thought of him all night long. The news of Jones' illness spread rapidly through the village; but, as might be expected, excited little sympathy. With the exception of Mr. Manners and the surgeon of the village, no one looked near his abode; and many were the remarks made by the gossips, that few tears would be shed for him, and that he might bless heaven he was allowed to die in bed. From the manse, however, he received much attention. Anxious inquiries concerning the state of his health were made almost daily, accompanied, occasionally, with presents of wine and jellies. This afforded Jones delightful materials for reflection; and, while his health continued to improve, he occupied his mind with dreams of the future, which his better judgment told him were too bright ever to be realised. It was on a mild spring morning that the poor invalid sallied forth, for the first time, since his illness. He was still rather pale and feeble; but the air was warm for the season, and he felt happy on being released from his confinement. His appearance, as he walked through the village, brought the people to their doors as before; and the old remarks about "the man that was tried for murder," were made from mouth to mouth. Nevertheless, he was allowed to pass unmolested, and was soon clear of the houses. The effect of natural scenery, and more particularly, perhaps, of the weather, on the animal spirits, has often been remarked, and the pleasing train of thought which now passed through the mind of our hero, might partly have arisen from this cause. The sun was unshaded, and the road warm and dry. On either side, the leaves were budding from the hedges, and the cheerful warbling of birds infused a delicious and summer-like feeling into his heart. He had gone out without any precise object, and merely to enjoy a walk in the fresh air--so delightful after long confinement to a sick chamber; but his steps had led him almost involuntarily in the direction of the manse. On reaching the gate, he stopped, loitered on for a few yards, and again stopped. He then turned back and hesitated, and at last made bold to enter. As he wound his way slowly up the walk, which was neatly laid off on either side with flowers and shrubbery, he felt more collected than, under the circumstances, he could have imagined possible; and, in a few moments, he was seated in the neat drawing-room of the manse, pouring out his gratitude to Miss Manners for the kindness and attention he had experienced during his illness. While the two sat conversing together, Mr. Manners entered. He congratulated Jones on his recovery; but the latter did not fail to observe that his manner towards him was less frank than formerly. The truth is, that the old man was a good deal alarmed for his daughter, whom he had warned to discourage his addresses; and, although desirous to treat him with kindness, endeavoured to avoid everything which might seem an approval of his suit. Jones had the good sense not to prolong his visit; and, after cordially repeating his thanks for the various acts of kindness he had experienced, rose up and took his leave. To her poor lover, Miss Manners had never appeared so lovely as on this occasion. He left the house with the intention of never beholding her more; but scarcely had he quitted her presence, than he felt that to remain long away were impossible. Her beauty; her goodness; her kind words; her kinder looks; all--all rushed to his mind; and his feelings, which had been somewhat calmed by his illness, acquired even more than their wonted fire. Day after day, as he continued to gather strength, he revisited all his old haunts, and felt as if he had just returned from a sojourn in a distant land. Everything was new and fresh; but, with every scene, old feelings were associated. To him Miss Manners was still the presiding genius of the place, from whom it derived all its beauty, and to whom the worship of his heart was involuntarily offered. Meanwhile, Miss Manners had received strict injunctions from her father not to receive his visits except when he himself was at home. To this course he had been urged, not so much by his own feelings towards him, as by the advice of his friends. Indeed, Jones was rather a favourite with him. He would willingly have done much to serve him; and yet, when the happiness of his daughter was at stake, he often reflected on the awful consequences which might ensue, if he were really the guilty wretch whom so many suspected he was. About this time a circumstance occurred, which put an end to his doubts. Among those who mourned the unhappy fate of the poor village maiden, the grief of her lover, George Merrideth, had been observed to be the wildest. For some days, he had wandered about like one demented; and all who witnessed, respected and commiserated his anguish. Latterly, however, he had disappeared entirely from the public view; and it was hinted by some, that his mind had been seriously affected by the occurrence. One morning, Mr. Manners was suddenly sent for to attend at his deathbed. When he entered, the patient had fallen into a kind of dozing sleep; and he was motioned to a seat near the bed. The light was almost entirely excluded from the chamber; and the only other person present was the mother of the dying lad, who was a widow. She was wasted with grief and watching, and seemed just such a figure as a painter would have chosen to heighten the melancholy of such a scene. As she came round and whispered some scarcely articulate words into the clergyman's ear, her son murmured in his sleep, became restless, and woke as in terror. Mr. Manners spoke to him in soothing words, and referred to a state of happiness hereafter. "Aha!" cried he, "can I enter heaven with my hand bloody? Her spirit is sainted. I could not go near it. Oh no--no--never--never." "Of what is it he speaks?" inquired Mr. Manners. "Oh, sir!" answered his mother, "his thoughts are wandering. I canna think he killed the lassie he loved." "Ay, mother," said the youth, with an effort, "this hand did it. O fool!--cut it off--off with it--it is not my hand--my hand never would have done it. Oh--oh--mother--Jessie." Mr. Manners was dumb with amazement. It was but too evident from whence the agony of the youth flowed, and he sat regarding him with looks of awe and terror. "It grows dark," continued the patient; "but, softly. You know I loved you when you were a child; but now you love another!--ay, that's it--you will not be mine! It grows still darker!--ha, ha, ha!--fly--fly!--it is done! O God! if I could draw back!" The dying man waxed wilder in his ravings. After a time, however, he became comparatively calm; and, on Mr. Manners addressing him, recognised his voice. "Ah, that voice!" he said. "I have often heard it. I have not attended to its counsel; but if it could console--oh, no, I cannot be consoled. Your hand, sir!--forgive--forgive." "Do not ask forgiveness of me," said Mr. Manners. "May God in his mercy pardon you!" The wretched youth muttered a kind of incoherent prayer, while his mother dropped on her knees by the bed-side. All afterwards was wildness and despair, only relieved by intervals of exhaustion. Mr. Manners continued to administer such consolation as the circumstances of the case admitted of, and did not leave the house till the voice of the guilty man had become hushed in death, and nothing broke the silence but the moanings of the afflicted mother. Several days had now passed since Jones visited the manse; and he could hold out no longer. On the very day on which Mr. Manners was engaged in the melancholy duty we have described, the unhappy lover bent his steps thither, with an anxious and fluttering heart. As he walked up the garden, he observed Miss Manners watering a small bed, in which she had planted some favourite flowers. The young lady was a good deal embarrassed on beholding him. Her father's injunctions against receiving his visits had made a deep impression on her mind, and she had directed the servant, the next time he called, to say that she could not be seen. Now, however, there was no escape. Jones walked towards her with a smile of mingled fear and admiration; and, if not with cordiality, she received him at least with politeness. Their conversation, as they strolled through the garden, was at first embarrassed, but became more free by degrees, and assumed at length an almost confidential tone. To a person of a romantic disposition, Jones' conversation was in a high degree fascinating; and his companion in this delightful walk did not conceal the pleasure with which she listened to it. His candour and unreserve she admired; his misfortunes she commiserated; and, with much that he said she could not fail to be both interested and flattered. Nevertheless, she avoided any word by which she thought she might give encouragement to his hopes; while he, on the other hand, although freely expressing his passion, was careful to avoid a syllable which might lead her to believe that, in his present disgrace and poverty, he presumed to the honour of her hand. After wandering about for some time, their souls melting into each other, Miss Manners could not resist inviting him into the house to rest. Scarcely, however, had they seated themselves in the parlour, when Mr. Manners appeared. He entered with rather a hasty step, and his manner was a good deal agitated. On perceiving Jones, he bowed to him, then turning to his daughter-- "My child!" he said. "What is it?" inquired Miss Manners, in a tone of alarm. "Have you," he continued, "forgotten my injunctions?" Miss Manners cast her eyes on the ground, and seemed displeased at being taken to task before a stranger. Jones, observing her embarrassment, said-- "Sir, I shall be sorry if my presence here should occasion you any uneasiness. Believe me, I am the last person in the world to intrude where I am not welcome. It will, no doubt, cost me a pang, sir; but if it be your wish that I should not see your daughter more, I shall try to tear my heart from her--I shall go and hide myself in obscurity, and endeavour to forget all I have most loved in this world!" Mr. Manners raised his hand, as if commanding silence, and gazed stedfastly on his daughter. The latter looked up to him with tears in her eyes, and exclaimed-- "I think Mr. Jones is innocent!" "He _is_ innocent," said the old man, emphatically. "Come to my arms, both!" Both moved forward and took the hand he offered, but with amazement depicted on their countenances. "Oh, my children!" he said, "I have witnessed such a scene!" The old man sat down on the sofa, and, for a few moments, covered his eyes with his hands. "I have been," he, at length, proceeded, "by the dying bed of the poor village maiden's murderer--I have heard the fearful confession from his own lips. O God! may I never behold such another deathbed!" Jones dropped on his knee, and Miss Manners clasped her hands as in mute prayer. "Thank God!" at length exclaimed the latter; "the innocent will no longer suffer for the guilty!" "No!" said the old man. "Mr. Jones, you have been deeply wronged." "Ay," said Jones; "but not by you. From you only have I received kindness--kindness often better deserved, but never more needed--often, perhaps, bestowed, but never received with deeper gratitude. While every door was barred against me, yours was open--while every heart"---- His utterance became choked, and he was altogether unable to proceed. Mr. Manners shook him warmly by the hand; and, with many expressions of thankfulness, Jones withdrew, leaving Miss Manners in tears. On returning homewards, it was obvious that the news of Merrideth's death, together with its fearful revelations, had spread like wildfire through the village. How different was Jones' reception!--nods, recognitions, congratulations, cheers, wherever he passed! Of these, however, he thought not: he thought only of the girl he had left behind him weeping. That very night he again repaired to the manse. He went often; and every succeeding time seemed to be made more welcome. A pleasant--a delightful change had now taken place in his feelings. The consciousness of having outlived the slander which had so long sullied his name, filled his bosom with a sensation of honest pride, and inspired him with a degree of ease and confidence which he had not previously experienced. Miss Manners was scarcely less gratified by the mystery having been at length cleared up, and the public mind disabused. From her first interview with Jones, she had entertained a strong impression of his innocence; and the fact of her good opinion of him being confirmed, she regarded with feelings almost of triumph. Accordingly, their meetings were mutually delightful. If, at any time, the latter doubted the propriety of encouraging his visits, the reflection that she had done right, in the first instance, in following the dictates of her heart, caused her to continue in the same course. The truth is, she pitied Jones; and pity, it is well known, is akin to a still tenderer emotion. Two or three weeks after the scene we have described, there was a small evening party at the manse. It was given in honour of Mr. and Mrs. Green, who had just been a few days married. The young couple were ushered into the drawing-room in gay attire, and with their faces wreathed into still gayer smiles; and, in the fair bride, Jones, who was, of course, present, recognized the lady who had, on one occasion, betrayed so much alarm on his doing her a trifling act of kindness. The affair, in the absence of more important topic of conversation, was talked and laughed over; and the bride acknowledged herself to have been a very silly girl. All the company were soon in high spirits, and the merriment was kept up till it was near midnight. On separating, the company could not help expressing their admiration of the serenity of the night. It was a clear, lovely moonlight; and the exquisite stillness and beauty of the scene caused some of the younger individuals of the party to regret that they had spent so much time within doors. When they reached the gate, Miss Manners, who had accompanied them through the garden, bade them "good night." "Good night," said they, and parted; but Jones, who was the last to shake hands with her, could not part. He lingered, pressed her hand, wished her "good night," and still lingered. "I must escort you a little way back," he at length said; and, accordingly, the two strolled up the garden, hand in hand--she speaking of the lateness of the hour, and he of the loveliness of the moon and stars, until night, moon, and stars, were all forgotten. After a few moments' silence, Jones suddenly paused, and, pressing her hand in both of his, said-- "Marion, I would we might never part. I never leave you without pain." "I know not why it should be so," she said; "but you must just come back the oftener." "Ay," said he; "but even to be absent from you a little while, is torture." "I fear," she said, "you are but a poor philosopher." "Ah," he replied, "philosophy can do many things, but it cannot cure the heartache. O Marion! I love to call you by that name! It is in your power to end all my anxieties: a word--a word will do it! How say you? May I hope? Nay, I do hope; but, may I call you by that name?" "What name?" interrupted Miss Manners, tremulously. "That name, dear heart, which is the tenderest man can bestow on woman?" Her reply was inaudible. Jones, however, kissed her lips, and she forbade him not. On parting, he again kissed her, and returned to his lodgings with feelings of unmixed ecstacy. A few weeks passed--they were weeks of delicious expectancy, of unrestrained intercourse, of active preparation; and the event which was to crown their happiness was duly solemnized. It was a day of great rejoicing in the village; and, as they dashed off on their marriage jaunt, they were honoured with the blessings and cheers of a large crowd of people who had assembled to wish them joy. On returning, a few days afterwards, similar demonstrations of respect awaited them; and they continued to live in the neighbourhood, greatly esteemed and beloved by all who knew them--esteemed for their many virtues, and beloved for their simple and unostentatious manners. One little incident, which happened many years afterwards, is perhaps worth relating. An old man, who had been long unable to work, and to whom Jones had shown much kindness, grasped him one day by the hand, and said-- "Sir, I once struck you on the head with a stone; do you forgive me?" "I do," was the reply; "but you must not do so again." THE SERGEANT'S TALES. THE PALANTINES.[G] Of all the countless numbers that take their pleasure walks upon the Calton Hill of Edinburgh, none that do not remember it an isolated spot, of awkward access, can have any recollection of Sergeant Square's tall and gaunt figure, his cue, cocked hat, gaiters, and military appearance, as he took his daily promenade around the airy and delightful walks, or sat upon its highest point, where Nelson's Monument now stands, in stately solitude, as if he had been the genius of the hill, resting his square and bony chin on the top of his gold-headed cane, with his immense hands serving as a cushion between. Thus would he sit for hours, gazing on the busy scene beneath, as if he knew what occupied the bustling crowds, and directed their labours according to the impulse of his will. We had passed and repassed each other in our walks for weeks, before any approach to recognition took place between us. I was the first to make an advance, by giving him a slight bow, as we passed; this he returned, and an acquaintance soon ripened into intimacy. Under his stiff and formal air, I found one of the most kind and communicative hearts I ever communed with. It is long since I laid his head in the grave; and I never visit the hill, but memory conjures up his remarkable figure, as vividly as if we stood face to face, till I almost think I may meet him at each turn, while I saunter along, lost in musing on days that are gone. I may meet with new piles of stone and mortar profaning the sacred spot; but, Sergeant Square I shall never meet there again! But to proceed. It was on that day the 42d regiment marched into Edinburgh, after their return from Egypt, that we were enjoying our usual walk. It was a spirit-stirring time, and our talk was of war, and the gallant exploits of our countrymen. His eye flashed; his gold-headed cane rested on his shoulder as if it had been a musket; his walk became a march; he was evidently thinking of the battles he had been in; when, embracing the opportunity, I requested a short account of his adventures. It was some time before he took any notice of my request, so completely was his mind absorbed in his own recollections. We had reached the north-east angle of the hill before he spoke. At length he seated himself on the smooth green turf--I by his side; and, after a pause-- "If you have the patience to listen to me," he said, "I do not care if I do give you some account of what I have seen, suffered, and enjoyed in this strange world." [G] Palantine--a name given by the Americans and seamen, to kidnapped individuals, or those who went out voluntarily to be indented, for a time agreed upon, with any person in America willing to pay the sum of money required by the captain for their passage out. The famous Williamson, who first invented the penny-post and directories, obtained damages from the magistrates of Aberdeen for suppressing his narrative, in which he exposed them for this traffic.--ED. "It is of small importance," he began, "where a man was born, or who was his father--his own actions must bring him fame or shame. The first sounds that ever attracted my particular attention, were those of the music bells of old St. Giles', and the firing of the guns in Edinburgh Castle. I had reached my twelfth year, when my father, who was a Jacobite, joined the Highland army at Duddingstone, while Prince Charles was in Holyrood House, and I never saw him again. My mother, who was weakly at the time, and our circumstances very poor--for my father was only a day-labourer--took it so much to heart that she survived only a few months, and I was thrown destitute upon my own resources, which, God knows, were scant enough. I was tall and stout for my age, and roughed it out, ragged, hungry, and cold, about the city, for three years and some months--running messages, or doing any little thing I could get to do for a piece of bread or a mouthful of victuals; and choosing the warmest stair, or any other convenient place, for a bedroom. Rough as this training was, I was far from being unhappy; for I had my enjoyments, humble as they were--as yet innocent, and as keenly relished as if they had been those of luxury. These few years of hardships were soon to be of eminent service to me--perhaps the means of saving my life. It was the spring of the year. The winter had been very severe, and I was rejoicing in the thought of summer, which, for the poor, has fewer wants and less of suffering. Loitering, as usual, upon the High Street, hungry enough, and looking for some little job to earn a breakfast, I was accosted by a rough-looking man, rather genteelly dressed, who inquired if I would carry a parcel for him to Leith, and he would give me a sixpence. My heart bounding with joy at the rich reward, I said I would. Whereupon he inquired if my parents would not be angry at my going, or my master, if I had one. I told him I had neither parent nor master, not even a friend in the world to find fault with me how I spent my time. A grim smile of satisfaction came over his countenance; he put the offered sixpence again into his pocket, and gave me a small paper parcel, with the direction where I was to carry it; adding, as I stood waiting for my reward--'Run quick, like a good boy. Tell them to give you some breakfast, and wait until I come and give you the sixpence.' Away I ran, like a greyhound from the slip, to get a breakfast and earn my sixpence. Swift as was my flight, never did the Canongate or the Easter Road--the only one to Leith from Edinburgh at this time--appear so long to me. When I arrived at the house to which I had been directed, in one of the dark alleys near the shore, I was ushered into a small, darkened room. A stout, thick-set man, in a seaman's dress, heard my message, received my parcel, without once opening his lips, and locked the door. Hungry, disappointed, and alarmed at this unlooked-for reception, I stood for some time lost in amazement. At length I looked around; there was no furniture in the room, not even so much as a seat of any kind. My fears became excessive. I screamed to be set at liberty, and beat upon the door with my hands and feet, until I sank upon the floor from fatigue, and burst out into a fit of weeping. No answer was made, nor any notice taken of my efforts. I looked through my tears at the window; but it was high, small, and strongly secured with iron stanchels. I had lain thus on the floor for an hour or two, when I heard the key turn in the lock. I sprung to my feet as the door opened; and the same person entered, bearing a pewter tankard of beer, some bread, and salt beef. A thick stick under his arm caught my eye, and excited new terrors. He set the victuals upon the floor, and then, brandishing the bludgeon over my head, threatened to beat my brains out if I made such a noise again--giving, in pure cruelty and wantonness of power, a few blows across the shoulders, to teach me, as he said, what I might expect if I did not attend to his orders. Pointing to the food, he surlily ordered me to eat, and immediately again locked the door. Hungry as I had been a short time before, my heart was too full for me to eat; and the blows I had received pained me very much. I sat down and wept more bitterly than I had done; but the hunger of a boy is keener than his grief--so I at length made a hearty meal, moistened by my tears, and wept myself asleep. How long I had lain thus I had no means of ascertaining. I was roused by the voice of mirth and singing in another apartment. All was dark; so much so, I could not even distinguish the small grated window from the dead walls. I listened for some time in surprise, and would fain have persuaded myself I had been in an unpleasant dream; but my shoulders were still sore, and the small basket and tankard, I felt, were still at my side. For some time I revolved in my mind what step to take--whether to remain quiet, or knock upon the door, and implore my liberty--at least to be made acquainted with the cause of my being detained. At length my suspense became so unbearable that I resolved to brave every danger, and began to knock at the door, for which I had groped, tapping gently at first, and gradually knocking louder and louder. The voice of my jailor, evidently in extreme anger, again sounded fearfully through the key-hole--'Be quiet, or I will come in and beat your noisy body to a mummy.' I shrunk from the door, and leaned upon the wall, as far from him as the small dimensions of the room would admit, trembling, in fearful expectation of his entrance. While I stood thus, a prey to the keenest anguish, the mirth and jollity for a time increased, and at length grew fainter and fainter, until it ceased. All was still for a little; then I heard the noise of footsteps approaching the door of my prison-room, and a sound as if something was in the act of being dragged along the passage. The key was placed in the door, and it opened. My heart beat as if it would have burst my bosom, when I saw the ruffian who had locked me up, and another like himself, dragging what appeared to me to be the dead body of a man. I uttered a suppressed scream, and must have fallen to the ground, had I not been pent up in the corner. My eyes were as if they would have started from their sockets, and I could not withdraw them from the horrid sight. One of the men held a lanthorn in his left hand, which threw a feeble light upon the group; while, with his right hand, he grasped the left arm of the body; and, his companion exerting all his strength, they dragged it to the side of the room, and dropped it upon the floor. A stifled groan issued from it, which thrilled through my ears like an order for my execution; and I would have darted from the spot, wild with despair, although I saw the eyes of both watching me, as they deposited the body, with a malignant grin of satisfaction; but my limbs refused to obey my will, and I stood the image of despair. The men spoke not a word, but, retiring, locked the door upon me, and left me with a thing my nature revolted from. Scarce were they gone when similar sounds fell upon my ear, and they again entered with a second victim. This was more than I could endure: a wild energy came over me; I sank upon my knees, and implored them not to murder me, or leave me alone with the bodies, for mercy's sake! I sank upon the floor, and grasped their legs in the fervency of my supplications. With a fiendish laugh, they spurned me from them; and, as they locked the door, growled-- 'What does the fool mean?--beware, the cudgel!' As the sound of the closing and locking of the door died away, I was roused from my stupor of fear to an agony of terror, that drove me almost to madness. A movement in one of the bodies, accompanied by deep guttural sounds, indicated that the objects of my terror were coming to life again, or were not yet quite dead. This produced new terrors, and I dashed myself upon the door, uttering the most piercing cries. The ruffians again entered, and beat me without mercy; but I was now beyond the fear of personal suffering; and I really believe, so intense was my feeling of fear and horror, that I would have leaped into a furnace to avoid or free myself from my situation. Their threats and blows were vain. I reiterated my cries more intensely; for I saw both the bodies become apparently animated, and turn their dull, stupid gaze on me, as I struggled to wrench myself from the grasp of the ruffians. Our struggle was short; for one of them set down the lanthorn, forced down my arms behind me, and held me fast, while the other dropped the cudgel with which he had been beating me, and, taking a piece of rope-yarn from his jacket pocket, bound my wrists behind my back; he then deliberately took the large key out of the lock of the door, placed it in my mouth, across between my teeth, tied it firm behind my head, and so effectively gagged me, that I could not utter a sound. How I retained my reason at this fearful period I know not, for I expected death every moment; and there was a misty vagueness about my fate that had even greater terror than death itself. As soon as I was thus silenced, they stood grinning at my agony for a minute before either spoke. At length-- 'This is a troublesome customer enough, for noise part,' said the first ruffian to the other; 'but he will now be quiet enough, I think. I wish the boat were come, or we shall have plenty on our hands soon, when these two have slept it off. It is full tide now, and they were to have been here an hour ere flow. What can detain the lubbers, think you?' 'Can't say,' replied the other; 'perhaps something is in their way. There they are.' At this moment a low whistle sounded faintly into the room, as if coming from under the window. One of the men answered by a similar whistle, and both left the room; and in a few minutes four sailors entered, and, taking up one of the objects of my dread, carried it out. One of the ruffians then assisted me to rise, and, holding me by the collar, dragged me out of the house after them, down to the Ferry-boat Stairs at the quay, more dead than alive. The four seamen had placed their burden in a boat that lay there. I was placed beside it. It lay inanimate; and I, seated on one of the thwarts, was guarded by two seamen, who kept watch, while the four were away for the other victim. At length they came, deposited their burden beside the other, pushed off from the pier, and rowed out of the harbour's mouth. As they pulled along, I felt my spirits revive, the fear of immediate death passed from my mind; and, besides, I was in company with living beings like myself, however cruel they might be. Before we reached the beacon, the ruffian who had first locked me up, and who was now in the boat with us, loosened the key from my mouth, and undid the cord from my hands, which had begun to swell, from the tight manner in which they were tied. This act almost relieved me of my fears; still all was silence in the boat, not a word had as yet been spoken by any one; but afterwards, as we gained distance from the shore, they began to converse. 'So the Betsy sails to-morrow, without fail,' said the first ruffian. 'She does,' was the answer of the seaman. 'Why has her stay been so short this trip?' again asked the man. 'We will make but a poor job of it. We have only nabbed five.' 'Why, I think you have done pretty well,' answered the sailor; 'twenty-five pounds for two days' work is good pay. Old Satan, you are never content.' 'None of your slack, mate,' rejoined the other; 'I won't stand it. Two days more would have made it fifty or better; and no man, more than I, would be content with one half of what he might and ought to have.' 'I believe we are full, old Grumbler,' said the tar; 'others are more active than you; but here, we are just alongside of the Betsy. Ship, ahoy! Throw us a rope! Are you all asleep?' In a few minutes, a rope was thrown; it was made fast by the fore thwarts, when the ruffians and mate went on board, and remained for some time. At length the mate returned, and, holding the end of the rope from the vessel, ordered me to ascend, which I did with difficulty. My two companions were then hoisted on board, being fastened to a rope, and dragged up by the crew of the vessel. As soon as they were on deck, the ruffians descended into a boat without speaking a word, and put off for the harbour. When it was gone, I was conducted to the hold of the vessel; and the two companions of my adventure were carried, and placed beside me. My terror of them had now entirely fled; for, from their contortions and half-muttered expressions, I had perceived they were not dead, but in a beastly state of intoxication. Even to be from under the same roof with the cause of my sufferings was to me a change much for the better. With a mind comparatively at ease, I fell asleep upon the hard deck, where I had at first taken my station, and remained in happy unconsciousness until I was awoke after sunrise, in consequence of the bustle and noise around me. For a few minutes I revolved the events of the preceding day and night in my mind, and shuddered as the recollection dawned upon me. Raising myself upon my elbow, I gazed around as well as the obscurity would permit (for the main hatch was closed), and saw the two young men who had caused me so much alarm, lying close beside me, in a profound sleep, and breathing very heavily. I attempted to rise; but felt so sick and giddy that I could not keep my feet, from the motion of the vessel. I longed for the presence of some of the crew; but none of them came near us. The two lads at length awoke from their sleep, bewildered and sick almost to death; they gazed around them with a vacant stare, as if they had just passed into a new state of existence. They spoke not a word; their minds were occupied in examining all around them, and, as I thought, ascertaining their own identity. Young as I was, had I been at ease, I could have enjoyed the extraordinary scene before me; but, alas! I was a partaker of all the feelings that were passing in their minds. At length they broke silence-- 'Willie, Willie, what's come owre us now?' cried Peter. 'Indeed I do not know, Peter,' replied he; 'but I fear it is no good.' 'What good can be expected from such company as we were in last night?' continued the first, 'and such drinking as we had. O Willie, had you come away when I wanted--but I am as bad as you, or I would have left you when I threatened.' 'There is no use to reflect upon what is done, when it cannot be undone,' said his friend. 'I fear the deceitful scoundrels drugged our liquor; for I have no recollection of anything that occurred after your proposing to leave them.' Then, addressing me, he asked if I knew where they were, or in what ship. I answered that I did not, further than that, from what I had seen and heard, I thought we were on board of a vessel they called the Betsy; and then gave them an account of all I had witnessed the evening before. The younger of the two began to weep like a child; while the other, whose rage knew no bounds, swore fearfully at the two ruffians who had betrayed them into their present situation. When he became more calm, I requested him to explain himself; and learned from him his own history and that of his companion. They were schoolfellows, cousins, and fellow-apprentices; had served their time as joiners; and then left their native village, to pursue their calling in the capital, with some views, though not matured, of emigrating to America. Having been unsuccessful in obtaining work in the city, they had come down to Leith to make inquiries about a passage to America; and were so unfortunate as to fall into the hands of one of the notorious plantation-crimps, who, pretending to be intimate with the captain of a trading vessel about to sail, enticed them to his den, that they might obtain all the information they required. They were plied with liquor; robbed of all the money they had; and placed in the situation in which I now saw them. From the inquiries they had made in Leith, and our mutual explanations, it was too evident to us all three that we had been kidnapped and sold to a palantine vessel, to be carried out to Virginia, and there sold as slaves, to the highest bidder. The young men were inconsolable; as for me, I cared little about it, now that I was assured there was no immediate personal violence to be feared: hard fare and hard living were my lot--I knew no other. While others, bred to better things, were in misery, I was comparatively in happiness. Such is the influence of habit. To have my provisions regularly served, with nothing to do but lie upon the floor of the hold, or walk about in its narrow limits, was to me sufficient recompense for an evil, which to others would have appeared irremediable. The next tide after we were put on board, the Betsy left Leith Roads, and sailed for Aberdeen, on her progress north. Our number was there augmented to eighteen--the recruits being all boys about my own age, who, not being kidnapped, but trepanned with false promises, came on board in great spirits, and full of hope. I could notice the various operations going forward, in consequence of my cheerful and contented manner having obtained for me permission to come on deck and range over the vessel. My slight sickness went off as soon as we were under way; and, pleased with my new mode of life, I began to make myself as useful to the crew as I could; but the two lads were not so fortunate; for they were continually abusing the captain, or importuning him to put them on shore. In the forenoon of the day before we sailed from Aberdeen, a boat, containing a quantity of luggage, came alongside, and a genteelly-dressed couple came on board, and were ushered into the cabin. The female appeared very dejected; and, hanging upon the male with anxious fondness, expressed through her silent tears, bent her gaze, alternately looking towards the shore with an expression of regret, and then in his face with a languid smile. He was as well-made and good-looking a man as I have ever seen in all my wanderings; but there was a marble-like rigidity in his features, only enlivened by a peculiar cast of his piercing black eyes, that created a peculiar feeling of uneasiness in me as I looked at him. He left the vessel; but when I know not; for we sailed before sunset; and I never again saw the female he left until we had passed Cape Wrath, some few days after. As for myself, I was quite happy, and felt myself more at home than I had done since my mother's death. The ship was a home to me. I had my allowance with the other palantines; slept in the hold with them at night; and enjoyed, along with many of them, the pleasure of building castles in the air--anticipations of the wealth and comforts we were to enjoy in the land of promise. It was, indeed, by delusive accounts of America, that most of them had been induced to embark. We were now careering over the blue waves of the vast Atlantic, as if we were far above the earth. Nothing was there for the weary eye to rest upon but a dreary expanse of ocean and sky. All was still as death, save the hissing at the bows of the vessel, as she parted the unfathomable deep. The crew loitered upon the decks listlessly; and we, as palantines, huddled together around the mainmast, were whiling away the time in songs, or talking of the homes we had left behind, and future hopes in a foreign land. We were suddenly interrupted by the female I have already mentioned, who came rushing up the companion, from the cabin, and crouched amongst us like a frightened hare. I could not have believed that so short a period of time could have wrought so great a change upon a human being. She was thin, pale; her eyes red, and sunk in her head; her hair dishevelled; and her whole appearance exhibiting the extreme of neglect. We all looked upon her in astonishment; for, indeed, we were not aware that there was a female on board. Her sobs and distracted looks moved our young hearts almost to tears. She spoke nothing; fear had chained up her tongue; her eyes were either bent imploringly upon us, or turned, in aversion and terror, towards the quarter from whence she had come. All on deck was dumb show; the sailors looked on, apparently as much surprised as we were; and, in the midst of the silent scene, the captain came on deck, apparently in great agitation. He was coming towards us, when the female sank on her knees, and, raising her clasped hands, called on God to save her from that bad man; then, looking around to us, implored us, in the most thrilling accents, not to deliver her up to him. We were ourselves slaves; yet, such is the force of a woman's appeal, that we placed ourselves between her and him, while the crew stood apart, and looked silently on. The captain affected to laugh. 'Lady, what are you afraid of, that you have left the cabin?' he said. 'It was all in jest, upon my honour! You are as safe there as in your father's house. Come, madam, I shall have the pleasure to lead you back.' 'Oh, never!' screamed the female. 'Leave me! leave me! if you would not drive me mad, or into this boundless ocean. What on earth have I now to care for? I know I am your slave, by the basest and cruellest means, but worse I shall never be. A favour from your hands would be hateful to me. With these, my fellow-sufferers, I can alone feel myself secure from insult. Your cabin I shall never enter. Foolish--oh, how foolishly confiding I have been!--but criminal I shall never be. So, leave me, for mercy sake!' While she spoke, my eyes were fixed upon him. I saw the working of passion deeply depicted on his countenance; pity had no place there. A faint shade of shame passed over him; but disappointment settled into fierce rage. Stamping upon the deck, and in a voice hoarse from emotion-- 'It is well, madam,' he cried. 'You have made your choice, and shall abide by it; and those who, by their looks, indicate their resolution to abet your folly, shall not fare the better for their interference. Mate, call the crew! force the palantines below; and batten them down, as base mutineers.' Not one of us had as yet spoken one word; the whole was the affair of a few minutes. The mate ordered us below; and we were obeying the order as fast as we could--the distressed female huddling in the midst of us, fearful to be on the deck alone--when William, in his undaunted manner, stepped up to the captain, and began to upbraid him, both for his conduct in having kidnapped us, and for his present conduct towards an unprotected female. He even threatened him with exposure as soon as we reached the shores of America. Peter, his friend, in vain urged him to refrain from irritating the captain; but the hot-headed youth heeded not the advice, and stood by his point, till the captain, who uttered not one word, bit his lip, and, hurrying to his cabin, returned with a cocked pistol in each hand. The mate, who was a good-hearted kind of lad, was, at the moment, persuading William to go below quietly; but his blood was up; and, even at sight of the pistols, he quailed not. I looked on with fear, for the captain's stern silence looked ominous. He levelled one of the pistols, and fired; the ball passed close by his intended victim, and went right through the fore-sail. The second he was in the act of raising, when William struck his hand down, and it went off, sending the ball through the deck. The furious man now called to the mate and crew to place poor William in irons. The youth stood still resolute, and would have rushed upon the captain and hurled him to the deck, or perhaps overboard (for he was a powerful lad), had not Peter held him back. The irons were now produced from the cabin--William and the captain eyeing each other meanwhile like two tigers; and three of the crew and the mate, set on by the captain, who kept blaspheming in a fearful manner, rushed to secure the young man. Peter at once loosed his hold of William, and stood in his defence; whereupon the captain, starting to give personal aid, uttered a shrill cry of pain, and fell upon the deck, which was stained with his blood. The ball had passed through his foot before it entered the wood. As many of us as the hatchway would admit, witnessed the scene; but none of us had any mind to be partakers in it. William and Peter were secured and put in irons before the vindictive villain would allow himself to be removed from the deck. It was no matter, in his anger, that his foot bled. He even stood, while the deck was streaming, till we were also battened down into the dark hold--the two companions remaining in irons above. As soon as we were all settled below, in which there was not even proper accommodation for us poor palantines, the female retired to one corner; and, seating herself on the bare boards, leaned her head to the side of the vessel, and wept bitterly. We were deeply affected by her situation and distress; but had nothing in our power whereby to alleviate her sorrow, save, indeed, our sympathy; and that we only gave in secret; for her ladylike appearance, in a great measure, overawed us, and made us retire from her. The greater part of us composed ourselves to sleep. Before morning, it blew a dreadful gale, as we could perceive by the pitching of the vessel and the noise of the rigging, which sounded fearfully in our ears. All of us became very sick. The poor lady I thought would have died; her weakness was extreme; and her suffering apparently beyond any present remeid. Two days and nights we remained in this dreadful situation, without a mouthful of food or a drop of water. Our sufferings increased hourly, and were almost more than we could endure. We shouted for help, or to be liberated from our noisome prison. Our cries were either unheeded or drowned by the noise and tumult of the storm. I and a few more had recovered from the sickness only to feel, in greater horror, our painful situation. The heat of the hold was intense, and aggravated our thirst tenfold. The air even became offensive; our breathing a kind of painful spasm of the windpipe. We crept to the foot of the ladder under the main hatch and, holding by it, sucked in some fresh air. I had been here for some time, and felt my sufferings alleviated; and the poor female's situation in the distant corner, selfish as we had all become, moved us so much to pity, that two of us agreed to relinquish our envied post, to ascertain whether she still survived. We found her extended upon the hard boards, to all appearance dead; I placed my hand upon her heart, to ascertain if life was extinct. She opened her eyes, and made a motion with her hand as if she wished me to retire. Humanity forbade compliance; and, in the best manner we could, we conveyed her to the foot of the ladder, where she gradually began to recover and breathe more freely. This was now the third day of our confinement. The storm had almost subsided, as we could feel from the vessel lying more steady in the water; and, to our unspeakable joy, the hatch was opened, and a supply of water and biscuit given to us. Next to the water, the pure air of heaven was most welcome to us. I wet the parched lips of the pale sufferer, then held the beverage to them. She swallowed a few mouthfuls, blessed me for my kindness, then sank into her usual melancholy. We were now told by the mate that we were not to come on deck; but he would leave the hatch open. We obeyed this command, which came from the captain. William and Peter, who had witnessed and endured the whole storm, in irons, lashed at the foot of the mainmast to a ring bolt, were also liberated, and came down amongst us. We learned from them that we had been in great danger, and that the mate and crew had been alarmed for the safety of the vessel. The captain was still unable to leave his cabin; and, from all accounts, he was very bad of the wound. This was so far fortunate; for the mate, who was of a humane disposition, brought some coffee for the female, which William, with great difficulty, prevailed upon her to take. She gradually began to recover; and the more passionate bursts of her grief having subsided, we were anxious to learn how she had been reduced to her present situation, and thought of making a delicate inquiry into her history. At length the frank and generous William put the question to her in the most gentle manner; a burst of tears followed the request. 'Much as it will pain me,' she said, 'I am so indebted to you all for your kindness and humanity, that I cannot refuse your desire. I almost feel it a duty to myself; for appearances are strongly against me. So low as I must appear at present to you all, I was born in affluence, though not of an ancient family. My father was a wealthy merchant, and the best of parents. My sainted mother died before I had reached my tenth year, leaving us both inconsolable for her loss. My father, who could scarce endure to have me out of his sight--for I was an only child--engaged a governess to complete my education. She was a young woman of engaging manners, and possessed of every accomplishment; yet under these she concealed a selfish disposition and hardness of heart, which neither my father nor myself suspected could have existed in one so young and bland in her speech. To me she was most kind and unremitting in her duties--more, indeed, like a mother than a hireling; and I loved her as if she had stood in that relation to me. This won my father's esteem for her, which, unfortunately, soon ripened into love. One day, I recollect, as I was walking in the garden, accompanied by him, he led me to an arbour, and, placing me beside him, said-- 'Eliza, do you love Marian?' I artlessly threw my arms around his neck, and exclaiming-- 'Oh, yes, papa; how much I thank you for getting me so good a governess!' I had pleased him; for he smiled and said-- 'My dear Eliza, I mean to bind her to you by a stronger tie. I have watched her maternal care and affection for you, and mean to give her the right to call you daughter.' I was delighted. The marriage was solemnised, and we lived in harmony and mutual love, so far as I could perceive, for six years. At this period my father fell into a bad state of health, which threatened to terminate fatally. Our attentions to him, unremitting and anxious, were repaid by a gratitude and love which seemed equally divided between his young wife and the child of his first love. Marian showed no jealousy; and my heart was incapable of any feelings but those of affection. Meanwhile, my dear parent, to prepare for the worst, settled his affairs. We were both in the room with him along with the lawyer. He was dissolved in tears, and asked us if we were satisfied with the manner in which he dictated the disposal of his wealth. I could only answer by my sobs. My grief was excessive. The making of a will, to my young and inexperienced mind, had all the appearance of the last act of a living person. Death soon closed the scene. By the settlement, it was provided that we were to be treated as sisters, only a greater share of power (as if she had been the elder sister) was given to his wife. It ran thus:--If neither married, we were to live together, and the survivor was to enjoy and have the disposal of all. If Marian married, she was, during her life, to enjoy one-half, which was to revert to me or my children at her death. If I married during her life, without her consent, I was to be cut off from any part of my father's property, except what she might choose to give me. This was a hard condition. I was to have no claim at law; and, in the event of me or my husband instituting an action, I was to be cut off with a shilling. This fatal clause, which I heard read to me at the time with indifference, has been the cause of all my misfortunes, and since then I have had every reason to believe my confiding father was prompted to insert it, at the suggestion of my artful stepmother. For some time, she had, at every opportunity, been speaking of foolish marriages made by young women, and their fatal consequences, illustrating them by numerous anecdotes and examples, whereby she invidiously prepared him for her selfish purpose, and at last compassed her object without the appearance of a dictation which he would have spurned. I was thus left at the mercy of this designing woman, who, when she put on her widow's robes, put off her hypocrisy towards me, and began to appear in her true colours. Alas! I have every reason to think that her acting had all along been irksome to her. She became harsh and cruel, doing all she could to make the house and her presence disagreeable to me. She became gay, and frequented company, of which I was forced to partake; and when I could scarce refrain from tears at the remembrance of some cutting speech she had used to me only a few hours before, I was forced to smile to hide my chagrin. Before strangers, there was no change towards me, neither was there anything I could complain of to my acquaintance; for so artfully did she manage to make me miserable, that every fault was imputable to my own apparent bad temper. It was when alone that I experienced her bitter manner. All was wrong I said or did, and her admonitions for my amendment were more cutting than her reproofs and abuse. I had several eligible offers for my hand; all of which she refused, under one pretence or another--covering her designs against me by the mask of an anxiety for my happiness; so that she was looked upon by all who were acquainted with her as the best of stepmothers--the kindest protector of youth. At length, her wishes were accomplished. A nephew of her own, by her invitation, came to reside with us for a short time, upon a visit. As if my good genius warned me of my fate, I disliked him so much at first, that I felt unhappy in his presence; but his assiduities gradually won upon me. I contrasted him with his aunt; love succeeded to aversion; and I was ruined.' Here a burst of tears for a time choked her utterance. After some time, she resumed-- 'I was now, for a time, happy in the delirium of youthful love. His tender attentions had completely won my heart. With a thrill of pleasure, covered by maiden modesty, I heard his first declaration of unalterable love for me. He saw too plainly the power he had over me. His aunt refused, as usual, her consent to our union; and, after upbraiding me for seducing the affections of her nephew, locked me up in my room, while she retained him in the house. Stolen interviews were the natural consequence. He was all indignation at his aunt for her unkindness to me; and, if possible, more tender and respectful than ever. To escape the tyranny I had so long suffered, I unfortunately agreed to elope with him, and be privately married. I explained to him the situation in which I was placed, by my father's will--he declared he loved me for myself alone. I was now completely in the toils; gave my consent; on the third night left my late father's house in his company, and set off in a postchaise, which was drawn up at a short distance from the gate. Next forenoon, we were lawfully married--his aunt taking no steps to prevent it by following us, but contenting herself by putting on the appearance of grief for my folly and ingratitude to her, for all the care and attention she had bestowed upon my education, and the base return I had made for all her kindness. Can there be a doubt she was the cause of all? Nay--she was the first to make known to me the prior history of my husband--the man whom she had first introduced to me, and to whom she gave every facility to win my unsuspecting heart. She herself now blushed not to say that he was a reprobate, without principle, addicted to every vice, and one whom his friends had found it out of their power to reclaim. With well-feigned tears of regret, she upbraided herself for having ever allowed him to enter her house--ascribing her motive to humanity, and a desire to reclaim him from his errors; and hinting, when she could, that I had defeated her good intentions, and ruined myself. Alas! how true the latter part has proved to me! I and my husband wrote to her letter after letter, in vain. She refused, in the most insulting manner, to allow me a shilling of my father's fortune. All I obtained was my own personal effects, and a few of the jewels that had belonged to my mother. Poverty came fast upon us, and debts increased. My husband had become unkind, and often absent from me for days--excusing himself by fears for his creditors. In our extremity, he spoke of emigration to America, describing the country in glowing colours, and dwelling on the happy prospects he anticipated from the assistance of some relations he had there. I offered no objection; for I had now no partiality for one country more than another--where my husband was, there was my heart and home; and, with a severe pang, not for their value, but for the sake of her who now was unconscious of my situation, I parted with the last of my mother's jewels, to defray the expense of our voyage. My own jewels had been long since disposed of, to supply our urgent wants. We left Edinburgh, like guilty creatures, under the cloud of night, for fear of his being arrested, and proceeded to join the vessel at Aberdeen. I can proceed no further, lest my heart should burst. My heartless husband had sold me to the captain, to be disposed of in America--trepanned me north for his wicked purpose. The rest you know.' Here her tears could no longer be suppressed; nor could we restrain ours; yet no one spoke to interrupt her grief. William alone uttered a few execrations against the aunt and nephew. The weather continued rough, and the wind contrary, and we suffered much for a few days from the pitching of the vessel. We were still confined to the hold by the captain's orders; yet we had no other cause of complaint, for the mate supplied all our wants in abundance. The captain, who had continued very ill from the wound in his foot, at length fevered, and his life was in danger; at his request, the lady left the hold and waited upon him. He begged forgiveness for the insult he had offered her; we were all allowed the freedom of the vessel; and she continued to nurse and watch over him with all that care and assiduity that belong to women. After a tedious passage of nine weeks, we arrived off Baltimore, in the State of Maryland; the captain, who recovered, being still very lame, though able to come upon deck. As soon as we cast anchor off the mouth of the harbour (for we did not enter) a message was sent to the town by the captain; and, on the following day, a regular market was held upon our deck, when we were put up to sale, and knocked down by an auctioneer to the highest bidder. William and Peter brought large sums, being expert tradesmen, and their time of service was short, compared with the rest. The others, like myself, were fit only for field work, and our time, to make up the sum of forty pounds, which we averaged, was three years. We all thought the captain would have given the injured lady her liberty, and a present, for her care of him; but avarice was his ruling passion, and stifled gratitude. He had paid her unprincipled husband a large sum for his victim, and was determined to reimburse himself. All the favour he conferred upon her was, that he did not dispose of her with the same regardlessness as to who was the purchaser, but kept her on board several days, while he made inquiries as to an eligible situation. Those who knew him gave him little credit for his endeavours, and did not scruple to say that he was as anxious to drive a good bargain for himself as to find a good master for her. Whatever was his motive, it turned out very fortunate for her, as I heard afterwards; for a rich shipowner of the city, whose wife had died a few months before, satisfied the captain's cupidity, and took her to his house as a governess to his children, three of whom were daughters. Before I left Maryland, I heard that she had learned, through the English papers, which her master regularly got, by one or other of the many vessels that traded to this port, that her unprincipled husband had been condemned and executed for robbing his aunt of a large sum of money, and forging an order upon her banker, not many weeks after we had left Scotland. Many years afterwards, I learned, in Edinburgh, from William, who had returned, after a long stay in Baltimore, with a considerable sum of money, and had commenced builder, that before he left the city, she had married her master, and was as wealthy and happy as any lady in the province. But what struck me most forcibly was, the just retribution that had taken place in her singular fortunes. Her stepmother was, when he left, actually living an humble dependent upon her bounty, in Baltimore. It appeared that, after she had succeeded in forcing her stepdaughter into the fatal marriage with her nephew, and obtained the object she plotted for--possession of the whole property--she herself fell a victim to a husband nearly as bad--a gambler and adventurer, of a most prepossessing figure and address; the consequence was, that all she possessed was lost by him at play, or squandered in dissipation. Both had been living in London in extreme want, when he was detected in swindling transactions to a considerable amount. Whether guilty or innocent of the fraudulent acts of her husband, there were many suspicious circumstances which she could not explain to the satisfaction of a jury, and both were convicted and banished to the plantations. By good fortune for them, the vessel that brought them out, bound for Norfolk, in Virginia, had suffered much in a storm, put into Baltimore in a leaky state, and there landed the convicts, handing them over to the governor of Maryland. Eliza's husband, who was in the magistracy of the city, got the list of their names when they were transferred from the ship to the prison. Several of them had died on the voyage, from bad fare, confinement, and harsh treatment; mostly all were sickly, more or less; and Marian was very ill. From her manners and appearance, Eliza's husband became interested in her; and, to save her life, had her removed from the hospital in the jail, to his own house. You may form your own conjectures of the astonishment of both when they met. Eliza was the most forgiving and gentle of creatures, as she had shown in her attention to the captain after his bad usage of her; and, at her request, her husband got from the governor a grant of their services, during the term the law had condemned them to serve. The husband ran from the country a few months after his arrival, and had not been heard of when William came away; but the wife remained under the protection of her she had attempted to ruin. To return to myself after this long digression, I and other two of the young Aberdeen lads were purchased by a farmer, and removed that afternoon to his home, about twelve miles from Baltimore. A more pitiable figure, as regards dress, never landed on any shore. I had still the same remnant of clothes with which I had left Edinburgh; but now they scarcely held together, and were besmeared with tar; my feet and legs were clean, but shoes or stockings were a luxury I had been long unused to. My long yellow hair hung down my back, but covering I had none for my head. My heart was light and joyous, as was that of my companions. Our three years of bondage, we thought, would soon pass away, and the golden period commence. During our ride over the rough and ill-made road, in a waggon in which our master had brought a load of tobacco to town, our whole conversation was of our future golden prospects; but, alas! we were soon awakened from our pleasant dreams--for, upon our arrival at the farm, which was not until some time after nightfall, we were placed in a dark out-house, and the door barred upon us. Our master was a sour-looking, taciturn man, who had scarcely spoken to us all the way, save to inquire our ages, and what kind of work we could best perform. For some time we stood close by the door, unable to speak from surprise and fear. So dark was the place where we were confined, that we could not see our own hands, even when they touched our faces. After standing thus, melancholy and terrified, the bars were withdrawn, and our master entered with a lanthorn and a basket, in which was abundance of pork and Indian corn, boiled whole, and still warm, to be eaten as bread. In a surly manner, he ordered us to take our supper quickly, that we might be ready to turn out in the morning to work. Young and hungry, we were not long in dispatching our meal, when, pointing to a quantity of dry grass at one end of our prison (for I can call it by no other name), he lifted his lanthorn, and left us to ruminate upon our melancholy situation and dreary prospects under such a taskmaster. None of us felt inclined to speak; yet it was some time ere any of us could close our eyes, in consequence of the noise made by the bull-frogs in a swamp near the farm. If we had not heard them as we approached the place, and inquired what caused the, to us, strange sounds, we would have been terribly alarmed. Tired nature at length prevailed, and I sank asleep. Before sunrise next morning, the harsh voice of our master, whip in hand, roused us from repose. We started up, and followed him into the enclosure in front of his barn and house. This was an oblong square, enclosed with stout wooden paling, very thickly set, on the banks of a beautiful stream. At one side were the buildings, composed entirely of wood--the forest, which extended as far as the eye could reach, was at no great distance in the rear--everything around indicated the greatest plenty of all that was necessary for the enjoyment of life, as far as food could administer to it; there were several cows and horses, sleek and fat, feeding under a shed; brood sows, with numerous progenies; and fowls actually swarming around. The morning was beautiful; the air, filled with a thousand grateful odours from the fields, imparting to our young minds a buoyancy we had been strangers to since we had left our own native shores. Our hasty survey was made in a few minutes, while we stood waiting further orders. Our master, who had entered another part of the building, returned, accompanied by two of the most miserable-looking men I had ever seen--as wretchedly clad as I was myself, with the exception that they had broad straw-hats upon their heads. Misery and they seemed to have been long intimates; my heart sank within me at their appearance; both had wooden clogs, consisting of a cut of about a foot long from the branch of a tree, chained to their right leg at the ancle; and this they carried over their arm. In addition, one of them had a stout collar round his neck, from which projected three iron hooks, about a foot from his head. We burst into tears, thinking we were to be similarly equipped, and would have fled, had flight been possible; all the riches in the world we would have counted a mean reward to the person who would have transported us from the tyrant's farm-yard to the beautiful hills and valleys of Scotland. As they came to where we stood gazing through our tears, three tall, bony, sallow-looking lads, sons of the proprietor, issued from the principal building, with implements upon their shoulders, one of which was given to each of us, and we were now to begin our work. Before we proceeded, our master said to us, in his harsh manner-- 'Mind ye, lads, you are my bound servants for three years, to do my will--mayhap for more. If you offer to run away, I will catch you again; and, besides punishment, dress you so--and he pointed with malicious triumph to his victims--to prevent your running; and, mark me, for every day you are absent, you serve me two.' In spite of his threat, I believe there was not one of us who did not resolve to make his escape from him the first opportunity. Had he treated us kindly, we would have obeyed him with pleasure, nor thought of anything but completing our period of service; but humanity was foreign to his nature, and short-sighted avarice alone possessed all his thoughts. He had himself been a convict in his youth; but had for many years been free, and had purchased, when it was yet part of the forest, the lot of land he now cultivated. All had been the creation of his own labour, and he was proud of it to excess. When in good humour, which was seldom the case, his feats against, and escapes from, the Indians, and praises of his lands, were the only things upon which he was loquacious. We soon learned that our two companions in misery were government convicts, and very bad characters; both had been guilty of many crimes, and were so hardened that nothing but the strictest surveillance and coercion could keep them in subjection. They were like tigers in chains, and threatened the most fearful revenge, as soon as the period of their servitude expired. This they did openly to his face; and not a day passed without an altercation, or without some punishment being inflicted upon them, when they would threaten again until they were tired, and wish that the Indians might give us a hot wakening before morning, and yield them an opportunity of making tobacco pouches of the scalps of the master and his sons. I often wondered how he kept his temper; he seemed to treat them with scorn--for his cool, calculating mind had so long been familiar with the perils of his situation, that he heeded them not so long as he conceived himself secure. To us three youths, who trembled at his voice, he was not excessively cruel, further than working us almost beyond our strength. From sunrise to sunset, we were allowed no intervals but a few minutes to swallow our food, of which we had abundance and to spare. 'Eat well, work well,' he used to say, 'is American fashion.' I had been with him about six months, and was literally naked; my skin had become hard and brown as an Indian's; all my clothing consisted of some pieces of sheep skin I had contrived for winter wear, and a straw hat of coarse enough manufacture, which I had plaited and made for myself on the Sabbath-days, to screen me from the intolerable glare and heat of the sun. Our appearance gave us no concern, for we were completely excluded from all intercourse with human beings, except those upon the plantation; and strangers were seldom seen in our neighbourhood. At the time I speak of, our master had been down to Baltimore, with a waggon load of produce, consisting of pork and salted beef, &c. He had made an excellent market, and returned in a fit of good humour; at our return from labour, he called us three into the house, as we were passing to our prison, to be locked up for the night. We were surprised at the invitation, for we had never been within the walls of the dwelling-house. As soon as we entered, he inquired if we would purchase any clothing from him, seeing we were so much in want of them. Scarcely could we believe our ears and eyes, when, opening a box, he displayed canvas jackets, trousers, and check shirts. 'You surely mean to make sport with us,' said I; 'for you know well that we have not one farthing among us three to purchase the smallest necessary.' 'That, I guess, is not of much matter,' he replied, in his quiet, husky manner, 'if I choose to give you a long credit.' We at once agreed to his own terms, and I signed a bond for one hundred dollars, for a pair of coarse canvas trousers, a jacket of the same, two check shirts, and a good straw hat. My heart misgave me when I saw his peculiar smile, as he placed my bond in his pocket-book. Pleased as I was with my finery, I feared I had done wrong, but did not know to what extent until next morning, when we joined the convicts at labour. As soon as they saw us in our new dresses, they burst out into a loud laugh. 'Oh!' said they, 'has the old villain limed his birds already? Poor greenhorns, you have sold yourselves for years to come. How are you to redeem the debts you have incurred, and others you must yet incur, but by new engagements? He has you in his toils.' And they again laughed aloud. We resumed our labour with heavy hearts; despondency came upon us, and we began to droop and pine. At night, when we retired to rest, and, until overpowered by fatigue and sleep, we talked of nothing but plans of escape. Numbers were formed and abandoned; to fly to the forests, we must perish through hunger and fatigue, or wander on, unknowing where to go; in the direction of the coast, was still more impracticable, for all the planters were in league with each other, to prevent the escape of the convicts and palantines, and no one could travel unmolested, without a certificate of his freedom. Our situation appeared to us truly without remeid, and bitterly did we lament our cruel fate. Fortunately for us, we had--more to have something to keep a lingering hope of escape awake, than with any prospect of success--for several Sundays employed ourselves in undermining a part of the clay floor under the dried grass upon which we slept. The hole passed under the logs; and we had ascertained that it would be opened behind a wild vine that spread its luxuriance over a great part of the side and roof of our prison. We did not open it at the outside, but contented ourselves by pushing a thin piece of a branch through, lest we had been discovered by the lynx eyes of our master and his sons. For weeks, things had remained in this state, we resolving to run for it, and again our hearts failing us, when one night we were aroused out of our sleep by fearful cries, mixed with the firing of rifles. It was the war-whoop of the Indians, who had come down on a plundering expedition, and to avenge some old aggression our master had perpetrated upon them. So well had they concerted their plans, that the house was surrounded before any one knew of their being in the neighbourhood. We lay still and trembled, nor knew what was passing without. Rifle after rifle cracked, amidst the whooping of the Indians; no one came to release us from our confined place, and we were afraid to venture out by our hole, lest we should be perceived by the savages, and murdered; for we had been informed that, in a case like the present, they gave no quarter to man, woman, or child. At length, we could both smell and hear the crackling of fire raging without. In agony we dashed upon the door; it resisted our utmost effort; even death by the Indians, was preferable to death by fire in our present situation--it was horrible and astounding--the noise, too, was dreadful--animals and men, all the inmates of the enclosure, were uttering their wildest cries, and rushing round it in distraction. The fire had caught the place we were in. I entered our mine, and, by convulsive efforts, forced off the little turf and earth we had left. I crawled out, never rising from my belly, for I could perceive the Indians, like fiends, running about in all directions, anxiously gazing upon every object. The glare of the burning buildings cast a deep red ray of light around, rendering all fearfully distinct--my companions followed me--fortunately some tall bushes concealed us from the Indians as we crawled along the ground like serpents. The building we had left we saw was now burning most furiously; and the yelling continued. Thus we lay along upon the ground, trembling lest we would be discovered every moment. The Indians were passing and repassing where we lay, with their piercing eyes bent upon the smouldering ruins. The roof fell in, and no one appearing to issue out, they retired towards the dwelling-house, where the fire of rifles was still kept up, and the flames making fearful progress. I have been in several battles, both by sea and land; but no sound ever met my ears so appalling as the shout that arose when the unfortunate inmates burst forth to force their way through their foes, or sell their lives as dearly as they could. The firing almost immediately ceased, and a fearful stillness ensued, almost as unbearable in our present situation as the former tumult. The ruins still continued to smoulder, and we feared even to breathe, lest we should betray ourselves to the Indians. At length the sun shone forth in all his glory upon the smoking ruins--our drooping spirits were partly revived, and we crept to the edge of the bushes, and timidly looked around--no human being was to be seen, and, after some time, we ventured to rise to our feet. The Indians appeared to have retired to the forest with their booty, and we ventured forth. A sight the most appalling soon met our eyes--there, close by each other, the old man and two of his sons lay mangled and scalped; the other had been consumed in the house, having doubtless been shot from without, and unable to leave it with the others. Soon the nearest proprietors began to ride up to the scene of murder and desolation, armed to the teeth, but too late to give any assistance. The bodies of the two convicts were not found; many believed they had either gone off or been carried off by the Indians. Being heartily sick of America, I returned to Baltimore, where I did labouring work for a few months, until I had got myself well clothed; then agreed with the captain of a Greenock vessel to work my passage to Scotland, where I arrived, after an absence of two years and three months. Such is an instance of the nefarious system of which I was a victim." THE PARSONAGE: MY FATHER'S FIRESIDE. After the lapse of about thirty years, I lately paid a visit to what had once been my father's fireside. It was in the month of October that I visited the manse of Kirkhall. My father had been minister of that parish; and I received a kindly welcome from his worthy successor--one of the warmest-hearted and most learned men in the Church of Scotland, whom I have long known and esteemed as a brother. I found myself again seated beside the hearth in the little parlour which was once gladdened with a mother's smile--which was once cheered with the childish sports of brothers and sisters--which was hallowed by the prayers and presiding virtues of an affectionate father. They are all departed to the land of spirits! Yet, on looking round me, every object seemed to assure me that they were still near--for almost everything else was unchanged. On looking through the window from the elbow-chair in which I sat, the old and magnificent lime tree, which, in the days of my youth, spread its branches and foliage in wide luxuriance over the court, and gave assurance of shade and shelter, was still unscathed. Its sweet-scented flowers were indeed faded--for the breath of approaching winter had touched its verdure; but its variegated green and yellow leaves were the same as when I had seen them, and attempted, with boyish hands, to imitate, nearly half a century ago. A little farther off, the "decent church" peered from among the majestic ash, elm, and chestnut trees, with which it was surrounded--the growth of centuries--casting a deep and solemn shadow over the place of graves. The humble offices, and the corn-yard in which I had rejoiced to mingle in rural occupations and frolic, were near; and nothing was wanted to realize the scenes of my youth, save the presence of the venerable patriarch and my mother, and their little ones grouping around their knees, or at the frugal board. But the illusion was short-lived. A holly tree, in the adjoining parterre, caught my eye. When I knew it of old, it was a little bush, in which the goldfinch and the linnet nestled, and were protected under my juvenile guardianship; but, now it had grown up to a stately tree. I saw, in the mirror over the mantelpiece, the image of my own visage, in which there were lines that time and the world's cares imprint on the smoothest brow and the most blooming cheek. The yellow locks of my forehead were fled, and the few remaining hairs were beginning to be silvered with grey. My son, too, rising almost to manhood, stood up before me, unconscious of the recollections and visions which flitted through my mind. These things dispelled my reverie; and my wandering thoughts were recalled to the realities of the passing hour. It was on a Saturday evening that I thus revisited Kirkhall; and my melancholy meditations were soon partially dissipated by the cheerful, but moderate hospitalities of my host; which were truly such as to make me feel that I was, as it were, among mine own kindred, and at my _father's fireside_. What a flood of emotions and remembrances spring forth at the mental utterance of these words! On retiring from the parlour, I was ushered into what was, of old, denominated, in the quaint colloquial language of Scotland, "The Prophet's Cham'er"--that is, the apartment for study, which was to be found thus distinguished in all the old manses of our clergy. It was now a bedroom, the library being established in another apartment; and I laid my head upon the pillow in a chamber which was consecrated, in my memory, by the recollection that within its walls good men had often thought of "the ways of God to man," and prepared their spirits, in the depths of silence and seclusion, for proclaiming in the sanctuary the glad tidings of salvation. It was a tempestuous night; and, though the blast was completely excluded from the manse by the dense masses of trees with which it was surrounded, the wind howled and moaned through their branches and on their summits, and, like the thunder, gave forth a solemn music to the soul. I did not sleep, but listened to the sounds of the tempest with that pleasure which philosophy cannot explain. Ere long, the current of thought reverted to my own former relations, to the dwelling in which I reposed; and busy memory, in the watches of the night, supplied, with all the freshness of a recent event, the circumstances which chequered the life and marked the character of my father. Though, perhaps, in the estimation of many, these were commonplace, yet, to me, they were still full of interest; and, as they seem to afford a true and undistorted picture of a Scottish clergyman's real character and fortunes, I have written them down to fill a spare corner in the _Tales of the Borders_. William Douglas was the eldest son of a farmer in one of the northern counties of Scotland. The family had been tenants of the farm of Mains for five successive generations; and, so far as tradition and the humble annals of the parish could be relied on, had borne an unspotted name, and acquired that hereditary character for worth, which, in their humble station, maybe regarded as constituting the moral nobility of human nature. Just and devout in their lives--sincere, unpretending, and unaffected in their manners--they were never spoken of but with respect and goodwill by their neighbours; and were often, in the domestic and rural affairs of the vicinity, the counsellors and umpires, in whose good sense, and integrity, and kindness of heart, their humble friends trusted with confidence. Such characters and families are to be found in almost every rural district of this country; for, "though grace gangs no' by generation, yet there is sic a thing as a hawk o' a guid nest." I believe in the homely proverb, though some metaphysicians may dispute it, but whether debatable or not in the abstract, William Douglas had the good fortune, as he deemed it, to grow up in the bosom of a family in which the characteristic of worth was cherished and transmitted as an heirloom. The eldest son of the guidman of Mains showed an early fondness for his school exercises, and acquired, under the tuition of _Roaring Jock_, the dominie of the parish, a tolerable proficiency in the rudiments of literature. The guidman, being an elder of the kirk, was often at the minister's manse, and the bairns from Mains were occasionally invited to tea on the Saturdays and play-days; and Paplay, the minister, (was so denominated, from the name of a small estate of which he was the laird), showed great favour to the "auldest callant," and often conversed with him about the subject of his reading. In these circumstances, and considering the religious character of the Mains family, it was almost a matter of course that Willie should be destined by his parents, and prompted by his own predilections, to "the ministry." And, by the advice of Paplay and Roaring Jock, Willie was sent to the Marischal College at Aberdeen, where he gained a bursary at the competition, and prosecuted his studies with assiduity, until, at length, in the fulness of time, he became a licentiate of the church. The only thing I remember to have heard connected with this period of my father's life, was his anecdotes of Paplay's eccentricities, which were numerous--some of them personal, and some of them the peculiarities of the old school of clergy in Scotland. He was a pious and orthodox man; but withal had a tincture of the Covenanter about him, blended with the aristocratic and chivalrous feeling of a country gentleman of old family. In the troubled times, about the years 1745-6, he was a staunch Whig; and so very decided in his politics, that, when "Prince Charlie's men" had the ascendancy in Scotland, he was either in arms or in hiding; and when he ventured to preach, he wore his sword in the pulpit, and a blue coat, girt with a belt, in which a pair of pistols were hung--more like a man of war than a preacher of peace! Even after the defeat at Culloden, the Jacobitism of the north was so strong, and Paplay was so obnoxious, by reason of his vehement preaching against popery, and prelacy, and the Pretender, that he continued long after to wear his sword (in the pulpit and elsewhere), which was rather a formidable concern to the nonjurors about him, in the hand of a brave and athletic champion of true Whiggery. He assigned three reasons for wearing his sword after it seemed to some of his friends to be unnecessary:--"First, because I am a gentleman; secondly, because I can use it; and, thirdly, because, if you doubt, you may try." Among some of his oddities, he had a great admiration of a well-spring, a white calf, and a bonny lass; and he never passed any of them in his way without doing them homage. Though travelling on horseback, he would dismount to bathe his feet in a limpid stream, as it gushed from the earth, or to caress a white calf, or to salute a female--all which fantasies were united with the most primitive innocence. And he never ate a meal, even in his own house, or when he was a refugee in a hay stack or kiln barn, without exacting from his wife and friends the most urgent _pressing_. It was under the auspices of this warlike and singular apostle that my father was ushered into the sacred office of a minister of the gospel. He preached his first sermon in the church of his native parish; and, according to the fashion of the times, at the close of the service, the parish minister publicly criticised the discourses of the day. The young preacher, in this instance, found favour in Paplay's eyes; and his testimony in favour of the _plant_ which had sprung up among them was so emphatic, and rendered so piquant by his odd figures of speech, that William Douglas was long distinguished among his friends and neighbours by the familiar designation of _Paplay's Plant_. But there was another _plant_ that graced the manse, which was not unobserved or unadmired by the young preacher--Jane Malcolm (the daughter of a clergyman in a more remote parish, and niece of Paplay's lady), a sweet flower, that had grown up in the wilderness, like "a daisy on the mountain's side." It was in the nature of things that "the loves of the plants" should be illustrated by the juxtaposition of the two favourite flowers of the chivalrous parson. An affectionate but secret attachment naturally grew out of the frequent visits which "Paplay's Plant" paid to the manse; and these were multiplied in consequence of William Douglas being appointed assistant to his spiritual patron, whose decline into the vale of years had begun to abate the energy of his character, and to render assistance necessary. The attachment between the young people might be suspected, but was not formally made known to Paplay and "the lady," as she was called, according to the courtesy of the olden time. Indeed, such a promulgation would have been idle; for the "half-reverend" assistant (as Paplay was wont to address the young probationers of the church) had no immediate prospect of a benefice, although he was an acceptable preacher, throughout the bounds of the presbytery. But an incident occurred which facilitated the union, of which the preliminaries were thus established. The Earl of Bellersdale,[H] a nobleman in the neighbouring county, who affected to be descended from an ancient family that flourished in the days of good King Duncan, but who had really no more connection with it than with Hercules or the Man in the Moon, reared a village or sea-port at a short but convenient distance from his magnificent castle. Among the other items in the arrangements which were destined to immortalise the munificence of the Earl in the establishment of Bellerstown, a church was deemed necessary for political, to say nothing of moral considerations; and the earl, being a man of taste, thought that a church, placed in a particular position, would make a fine vista from various points in the noble park which surrounded the Castle of Bellersdale. A picturesque chapel was accordingly built on a rising knoll, separated from the pleasure grounds and the castle by a river, over which a handsome bridge made no mean addition to the lordly scene. [H] A little reflection will enable the reader to see what true name this fictitious one is intended to cover.--ED. The chapel being built, and endowed with a stipend of "forty pounds a-year" (the hint, I suppose, was taken from Oliver Goldsmith), it was necessary to provide a clergyman to officiate in it; and William Douglas being one of the most approved young men in the district, had the honour to be preferred by the patron. The period to which I now refer was long before the church, in its wisdom, enacted a law for regulating chapels of ease; and not only the amount of stipend, but the continuance of clergymen who officiated in such chapels, depended on the arbitrary and sovereign will of their pious founders. Bellerstown, though a step in William Douglas' professional progress, yielded too scanty a revenue to admit of matrimony; but the talents, respectability, and prepossessing manners of the chaplain made him a favourite at the castle, and rendered it practicable to eke out the slender living by the addition of a small farm, at what was called a moderate rent. But this appendage, too, was held by the same precarious tenure--Lord Bellersdale's will. The probationer was inducted as pastor of the Bellerstown chapel, according to the rules of the church; and, after the lapse of a few months, he and Miss Jane Malcolm thought--although no other person thought--that they might venture to enter into the holy bands of wedlock, and, with frugality and mutual love in their household, look forward to happiness in their humble and unambitious sphere of life. This thought ended in deed--and they were married. The tenor of a clergyman's life is, in general, even and unvaried, consisting of a faithful and regular discharge of his peculiar duties. Such, for some years, was the fate of William Douglas. He acquired the confidence and affections of his humble flock--the esteem of his brethren--the countenance of the neighbouring gentry--and even the patronage of the great man, at whose table he was a frequent and welcomed guest. Mrs. Douglas had presented him with two sons: and his parents, advanced in years, were gathered to their fathers. This bereavement was not unlooked for; but the first trial of life which wrung his heart to the core, was a fatal illness which, in a few days, snatched the object of his most tender affection from him. Time passed on, and "brought healing on its wings." After the lapse of several years, my father felt that it was not meet for man to be alone; and, whilst he cherished the fondest remembrance of his first domestic companion, he had too much good sense to go into the affectation of continuing single during the rest of his life "for her sake;" more especially as he had no female relative to whom he could confide the maternal charge of his boys in their nursery days. He accordingly discerned, in the daughter of one of his flock, a respectable farmer in the neighbourhood, those personal attractions and amiable dispositions which awakened his manly sympathies; and, too high-minded to stoop to mercenary considerations, he married a second time, without hunting for a _tocher_, as is sometimes imputed sarcastically to the Scottish clergy. Isobel Wilson was lovely and virtuous. About the time the American war ended, I came into this earthly part of the universe; but nothing occurred for several years of my father's life to diversify the peaceful enjoyments of his domestic life, or to interrupt the conscientious and zealous discharge of his pastoral duties. At length, however, a cloud gathered in the firmament, which ere long burst on his head, in the wrath of his patron, the Earl of Bellersdale. Local, rather than general politics agitated the district in which his humble life was cast; and there was a vehement struggle betwixt his lordship and a neighbouring nobleman for ascendancy in the county. The ranks of either party were swelled by the multiplication of freehold qualifications, for the purpose of acquiring votes. One of the expedients, as is well known, for the attainment of such objects, is the creation of nominal and fictitious voters, by conferring on the _friends_ of a political party an apparent, but not a real interest in a landed estate; and this is practised and justified by a legal fiction, and a little casuistry, with which political agents are quite familiar. The ordinary mode in these cases, is to confer such _parchment_ franchises on dependents and personal connections of the great man who needs their support--and the Earl of Bellersdale, who had the patronage of many churches of greater or less value, found, even among the clergy who had hopes of preferment from his hand, several individuals sufficiently unscrupulous to accept of such discreditable titles to a political franchise as freeholders.[I] Amongst others, my father, who was in good odour at the castle, was deemed a _likely_ person to be intrusted with so precious a privilege as a right to vote for any tool of the earl who might be brought forward as a candidate for representing the shire in Parliament. The factor was despatched to Bellerstown to offer this high behest to the poor parson, whose ready compliance was expected, _as a matter of course_. But he calmly and peremptorily refused the proffered vote, and intimated that he held it derogatory to the sacred nature of his office to pollute himself with such politics, and inconsistent with every principle of honour, morality, and religion, to take an oath, as required by law, that he was possessed of a landed estate, while, in truth, he had no earthly title to an inch of it. This scrupulosity gave mortal offence at the castle; and the recusant parson was doomed to ridicule as a pious fool, and to ruin. And as, in such cases, when an offending individual is completely dependent on the offended party, pretexts are never wanting for cloaking the lurking purpose of mischief: these were soon and easily discovered. If the minister of Bellerstown discoursed on integrity and truth as Christian virtues, or on the sacredness of an oath, the earl's underlings bore the tidings to the castle, where such doctrine was deemed high treason against the electioneering morality; and the faithful and fearless minister of religion having rebuked, from the pulpit, some gross and public enormities and violations of the Sabbath by the canvassers for the earl's candidate, within the precincts of his pastoral charge, this was a sad and unpardonable aggravation of his rebellion. Nay, having published a little tract on the duty of attending public worship, of which he was the known author, this was regarded as a direct personal insult to the lord of the manor--because his lordship was so much engrossed with politics and his other affairs, that he had, for some time, ceased entirely to go to church. These little incidents were aggravated by the perfidy of the parson of the parish within which Mr. Douglas' chapel was situated. That gentleman had formed a scheme for transferring his residence from the ancient manse, in a remote part of the parish, to the more populous and flourishing burgh of barony of Bellerstown--intending to officiate himself in the chapel (receiving, of course, the additional accommodation applicable to that cure), and consigning the care of the souls in the parish church to the schoolmaster--a preacher whom he satisfied with a bonus of £10 or £12 a-year. And for the accomplishment of this object, it was no difficult thing, as matters stood, to ingratiate himself into the patron's favour, and to accomplish his own personal objects, by whispering into the earl's greedy ear every remark that would suit his purpose, made by Mr. Douglas, in the most unbounded confidence of private intercourse and seeming friendship. [I] This was written in 1829, before the Reform Act was dreamt of.--ED. When the wrath which had accumulated in the heart of the earl was fanned to its height, he issued his orders to the factor in the following decree:--"Rackrent--_Us_"--(a grammatical singularity which his lordship always used, surpassing even the royal or editorial majesty, indicated by the first person plural)--"_Us_ is determined to root out that rebellious fellow Douglas, and to banish him from our grounds. Rackrent, order Spulzie, the scribe, instantly to serve the fellow with a summons of removing from Stablebarns; and, do you hear, go to Bellerstown, lock and nail up the chapel door, and tell the fellow that he shall never preach there again against _us_. Tell him to go to the devil, as _us_ will not suffer rebels against our will." This mandate was instantly obeyed. Mr. Douglas received the intimation from Rackrent with surprise, but undismayed; and, his "courage swelling as the danger swells," he accepted the intimation as a testimony to his fidelity, and pitied the tyrant who had thus abused his authority. The earl had the uncontrolled power--there was no appeal from his heartless decree. Rackrent speedily promulgated in the burgh the purport of his mission, and ostentatiously performed his task of shutting up the chapel--putting the key in his pocket. Consternation, and sympathy with their "ain guid minister and his wife and bairns," spread from house to house; and it was not till the shadow of night afforded shelter from observation, that even a few true friends mustered courage to venture into the house of a proscribed man, and to cheer him with their condolence. Mr. Douglas had an instinctive courage, which prompted him to bear Rackrent's message without a quiver on his countenance, save perhaps a momentary expression of scorn on his lip, and a sparkle of indignation in his keen blue eye. But, after the minion of power had retired, and he felt himself alone, a cold and chilling emotion gathered round his heart. He went immediately to the nursery, where his wife was busied in tending and amusing her children; and having desired Grace Grant (our attached and only servant, who never was in any other service) to look after her matters in the kitchen, he communicated to his dear Isobel, that she and her little ones were thrown destitute. I was too young (being only four or five years of age at the time) to understand the import of what he said. But my mother and the elder children knew it well; and I need not describe the scene. The tears which a brave man sheds are only those of tenderness and affection--but these are, indeed, tears of bitterness. Such scenes of love and agony are too sacred to be disclosed to an unfeeling world; and all I remember of the one now alluded to, was, that my heart was like to break when I saw those around me embracing and embraced, in tears and in silence, save the sounds of sobs which burst from every bosom. It was a day of sorrow. Even the youngsters forgot, for a time, that they required their wonted frugal dinner; and it was not until twilight succeeded the last blaze of the setting sun, that Grace Grant called her mistress from the nursery (having heard from a neighbour the adversity which had befallen), to remind her that tea was ready. My mother was now much composed, and invited the minister to go to the parlour. It was a silent procession. My eldest brother carried me in his arms; and my father led his wife in one hand, while he bore their younger babe on his other arm. On reaching the parlour, we found tea prepared by the careful hands of Grace Grant; but, before sitting down to partake of that comforting refreshment, the minister proposed to offer up a prayer of resignation to the will of God, and of hope and trust in his providence. "Then kneeling down to Heaven's eternal King, The saint, the father, and the husband prays: Hope 'springs exulting on triumphant wing,' That thus they all shall meet in future days; There, ever bask in uncreated rays, No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear; Together hymning their Creator's praise-- In such society yet still more dear, While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere." These devout aspirations being ended, an air of calm composure reigned around my "Father's Fireside." He seated himself in his arm-chair, while my mother busied herself in preparing tea, and each little one took his appointed place around the oval wainscot table. The turf fire burned cheerily on the hearth. The tea-kettle gave out its hissing sounds, indicative of comfort; and the solitary candle diffused light on the fair young faces which brightened as the oat-cake and the "buttered pieces" began to disappear. But the minister's wonted playfulness was gone; and the decent silence of a Sabbath afternoon was observed even by the younger boys. The visits of their friends were a solace in the first hour of their unlooked-for adversity. But, after their retirement the vague, undefined, and gloomy shadows which rose to the contemplation of my parents, with respect to their future prospects, yielded only a troubled and unutterable anxiety. Repining and supineness, however, were not suited to my father's character; for, with mildness, he united decision and even boldness of spirit. He had, for several years previous to this explosion of lordly despotism in the patron of his chapel, corresponded with some of his college friends in the new Republic of America; and had been encouraged by them, and through them, by one of the most distinguished of the American patriots, to leave his meagre benefice and cross the Atlantic. These invitations he had declined; being warmly attached to his flock, to the Established Church of Scotland, to his friends at home, and to his country. In his altered circumstances, however--severed as he was by an arbitrary act over which there was no moral or legal control, cast destitute from the altar at which he had ministered with usefulness and acceptance, and having no claims to immediate patronage in the church--he resolved, with a heavy heart, to betake himself to that field of exertion in a foreign land to which he had been so courteously invited. Having adopted this resolution, he did not waste time in idle whining, but prepared to encounter all the inconveniences and perils of a long voyage across the deep; aggravated, unspeakably, by the accompaniments of a wife and six young children, and hampered by the scanty means which remained to him amidst this wreck of his hopes of happiness at home. But before his final departure from the cold and rocky shore of Scotland for ever, he wished to take a public leave of his flock. His own chapel had been shut up; but a reverend friend, in a closely adjoining burgh, acceded at once to his request, that he might have the use of his pulpit on the Sunday after the act of ejection which I have already mentioned. The villagers of Bellerstown were speedily apprised of their minister's intention; and they and many others attended to hear his farewell sermon. The church was crowded with an affectionate and even somewhat exasperated multitude, and the service of the day was characterised by a more than usual solemnity. All the energy of the preacher's spirit was called up to sustain him on so trying an occasion; and the unaffected, earnest, and native eloquence of his pulpit appearances, were heightened by the emotions which struggled within his bosom. His brief but christianlike and dignified address, in which the tremulous voice of deep emotion was occasionally mingled with the manly tones of bolder elocution, was listened to in silence deep as death; and when he descended from the pulpit, Mr. Douglas was surrounded by a throng of elders, and young men, and humble matrons, who were eager to manifest their heartfelt reverence for their beloved pastor. It were tedious and profitless to detail all the painful circumstances which intervened betwixt the time now referred to and that of the minister's embarkation. He experienced, on the one hand, all the petty vexations which the earl's sycophants could devise for his annoyance--and, on the other, much of that comfort which springs from spontaneous tokens of disinterested goodwill and of gratitude, even from the poor and humble; but the _mens conscia sibi recti_ enabled him to bear the former with composure, and the latter without vain presumption. The day of departure at length arrived--and, young as I was, I still remember as well as yesterday some of the circumstances. The family proceeded from the only home I had ever known, towards the harbour, accompanied by some of the most respectable inhabitants of the village. After passing by the chapel, which stood conspicuously on a rising ground, the party descended a steep road--like a patriarch of old going on a pilgrimage through the world, with his children around him--to the quay at which the vessel that was to bear us away was moored. The sea beach and quays were crowded. The entire population of the burgh seemed assembled. There were no shouts; but uncovered heads, and outstretched hands, and old visages glistening with tears of kindness, spoke a language more eloquent than words can utter. I was carried with my mother on board the ship. The sails were unfurled, while we were grouped on the quarter-deck. Most of the family went into the cabin; but my father sat on a coil of ropes, and I stood between his knees, encircled by his arm, and looking up in his face, which was occasionally convulsed with marks of strong but suppressed feeling. The vessel bounded over the waves of the German Ocean. My father spake not. His eye was still bent on the rocky cliffs (near which stood his church and dwelling of peace), after it could not discern the people that clustered on their summits. He wrapped me in his cloak, and held me to his bosom; and, for the first time, I felt a sad consciousness that I was without a home in the world. My first voyage in life was a rough one. The "Good Intent" of Bellerstown, in which my father and his family had embarked, as already stated, was a coasting trader, and was bound on this occasion for Leith, whence the patriarch of this intended emigration, and his partner, and little ones, were meant to be transferred to Greenock, as the port of final embarkation for the United States. To those who have had occasion to sojourn in such bottoms as the "Good Intent," ere yet the Berwick smacks and other vessels of a superior class had been established in the coasting trade of Scotland, it is needless to offer any description of such a vehicle for the conveyance of human beings--and those who have never experienced such a transit, can form no adequate conception of the misery which it exhibits. Let them, however, imagine a small and dirty cabin, into which no one is admitted save by the companion-door and a small sky-light that cannot be opened in rough weather--let them imagine, if they can, the "villanous compound of smells," produced by confined air, the flavour of bilge water, agitated in the hold of the ship, and diffused through every creaking crevice, and pitch, and effluvia of rancid salt meat and broth, and the products of universal sea-sickness, altogether inevitable in such circumstances--let them figure such a confined hole filled with human beings, crammed into smaller holes all around, called beds, or laid on shakedowns upon the floor, or stretched upon the lockers, in that state of despondency which overwhelming sickness induces;--and they have a picture of the Good Intent's cabin and _state-room_ during the voyage to which I refer. Nor was this all. The weather was boisterous, being the vernal equinox; the winds cross and tempestuous; and the waves of the sea so tremendous that the little vessel sunk, and rose, and rolled, as if each succeeding shock were the last ere she sank for ever into the roaring abyss; while each convulsion of the bark called forth involuntary moans and shrieks of distress, which were heard commingled with the whistling of the tempest, and the dash of the waves, that ever and anon burst on and swept over the deck. And thus, for the space of fourteen days went the Good Intent and her inmates, tossed to and fro on the German Ocean, with no comfort to mitigate the extreme of such unwonted sufferings, save the rough but hearty kindness of the skipper and crew, when their cares on deck left them a moment to go below, and offer any attention in their power. I have made many rough voyages since the time alluded to; but this one dwells on my memory like the visions in a wild and troubled dream, surpassing all I have since weathered in intensity of horror and dismay. At length, the expected haven came in sight; and we entered it--safe but sad enough, the Good Intent entered the Water of Leith at morning tide, and my childish wonderment was strangely excited by what seemed to my inexperienced eye a forest of masts and "leviathans afloat," as we were towed through among the vessels in harbour, until, amidst bawling and swearing on board and ashore, the Good Intent got a berth at the Coalhill of Leith. The emigrant party were all speedily taken on shore, and conveyed to a small inn, where soap and water, and clean clothes, and breakfast, revived, in no inconsiderable degree, the spirits of the whole party, after the exhaustion of such a voyage: and the youngsters, especially, were very speedily interested in the rude bustle which the shore of Leith usually exhibits. Leaving the little colony at Mrs. Monro's ship tavern, on the Coalhill, my father proceeded to the dwelling of his cousin, Mr. Pearson, who resided in one of the western suburbs of Edinburgh (where he and his were expected), in order to announce the advent to a temporary home. It was after noon ere he returned with his cousin to conduct the rest of the family; and the whole party proceeded on foot up Leith Walk, and through a part of Edinburgh, towards Mr. Pearson's hospitable abode, astonished and bewildered in a scene so new. There we all received a warm welcome from the good old man and his daughters, and experienced every attention and kindness which good hearts and the ties of kindred could suggest. Before proceeding to Greenock, to make the necessary arrangements for the final emigration, Mr. Douglas, while his family were refreshing with their relatives for a longer voyage than they had already encountered, paid a visit to an old friend, a clergyman in the country, in whose parish was situated the noble mansion of Earl H----. The countess of H---- was a relative of Lady B----, to whom Mr. Douglas had long been known as an exemplary clergyman, and who, in the day of his adversity and unmerited persecution, had taken a lively interest in his fate. Amongst other acts of kindness, she had not only given him an introductory letter to the countess of H----, but had written previously, recommending him earnestly to her good offices with the earl (who was, in all respects, a complete contrast to Lord Bellersdale), and soliciting some one of the numerous benefices in the church of which the earl was patron, when a vacancy might occur. Mr. Douglas visited his friend before delivering his introduction at the great house, and preached on the Sabbath which intervened during his stay: and the services of the day having been conducted with that simple and unfeigned devoutness which lends its highest power to pulpit eloquence, the noble family, who regularly attended on religious ordinances in their parish church, were much affected and gratified with the ministration of the stranger on this occasion; and this effect was not marred to "ears polite," even by the slight "accents of the northern tongue." Next morning, the pastor of the parish received an invitation to dine at H---- House that day, and was requested to bring along with him the friend who had officiated for him on the preceding Sunday. The invitation was, of course, accepted; and, on being introduced to the earl and countess of H----, and his name being announced, Lady H---- inquired if he were of the north country, when he took the opportunity of delivering Lady B.'s introductory letter, which showed that Mr. Douglas was the same person of whom Lady B. had previously written. His reception by both the noble personages of the mansion was more than polite; it was kind in the highest degree, and every way worthy of a generous and high-minded race, whose good qualities have, in various periods of our history, given lustre to the nobility of Scotland. The day was spent with mutual satisfaction; and the earl, before parting, gave Mr. Douglas a cordial shake by the hand, and assured him that the first benefice that should fall in his gift, should be conferred on him. Thus they parted; but Mr. Douglas returned to Mr. Pearson's, with the unaltered purpose of pursuing his voyage to America--the hopes inspired by the earl's spontaneous promise being too faint and remote, in their possible accomplishment, to induce procrastination in his proceedings. The love of his native country yearned in his bosom, and all the perils and privations to which his little fireside-flock might be exposed, passed through his thoughts as he drove along the southern shore of the Forth, on his return; but he could see no immediate alternative, save to go onward in the path which he had previously chalked out for himself in his present circumstances. Accordingly, after a few days' repose, he set out to Greenock, to make arrangements for the passage to New York of himself and family. He applied to an eminent merchant there on the subject, in whose service, as a clerk, a favourite brother had lived and died. From that gentleman he received every courtesy and counsel suited to the occasion, and was offered the passage contemplated gratuitously. He had spent a day or two only in Greenock, making preparations for the voyage, when, having gone into the vessel in which he was destined to embark, to hold some necessary consultation with the master, a packet was brought to him which had been forwarded by Mr. Pearson to the care of Mr. B. the merchant. On unsealing it, Mr. Douglas found inclosed a presentation in his favour, by the Earl of H., to a living in one of the southern counties of Scotland! It were idle in any one who has never experienced a sudden and unexpected transition in the endless vicissitudes of human life--from a position encompassed with doubts and darkness, into scenes and prospects of brighter omen--to attempt any delineation of Mr. Douglas' emotions on this occasion; for, who can express in language the throb of gratitude to benefactors, which, in such circumstances, swells the heart beyond the power of utterance?--or who can convey any adequate notion of the devout and silent thankfulness which exalts the soul of a good man, when he sees and feels, in such an event, the manifestation of that overruling Providence which it is his habitual principle to acknowledge and adore? The American expedition was now abandoned, and Mr. Douglas returned from Greenock to Edinburgh, with all the despatch which the _Flies_ of those days rendered practicable. The tidings were soon told, not with proud exultation, but with the chastened gladness which these were calculated to impress on his own spirit and all around him; and, instead of packing up for Greenock, and preparing for crossing the wide Atlantic, nothing was now talked of in Pearson's kind circle but _plenishing_ for the manse. The day of departure at length arrived, ere yet the young folks had recovered from the astonishment which everything in the northern metropolis presented to them as wonders, and before they had become familiar with the splendours of long rows of lamps, and dazzling scattered lights over the dusky horizon of the "Auld Toun" in an evening. One of the most startling of these marvels, I well remember, was the Cowgate, with its rows of lamps extending beneath the South Bridge, and seen through the iron balustrades! This was perfect enchantment to some of us; and I don't believe I have ever seen any scene of artificial magnificence, since I first looked down on the Cowgate, that made so strong an impression on me, as a specimen of city grandeur! The vehicle for our conveyance was not, as in these latter days, a dashing stage-coach and four--for there was nothing of the kind on the public roads of Scotland fifty years ago--but a caravan or wagon, having a sort of rail round three sides of it, and covered overhead with a canvas cloth on strong hoops, with an aperture behind to let in the travellers, and the fresh air, and the light. Under this primitive pavilion sat ensconced the parson and spouse on trusses of straw, and with blankets to keep warmth, if necessary--the bairns being all packed in and about them, according to their dimensions; and in this fashion on jogged the cavalcade, consisting of the caravan, and another long cart with furniture. Two or three days were required for the journey--the carriers stopping each night at convenient distances in country inns for the "entertainment of men and horses," where slight and rough accommodation only was to be had. At length, on the third day, the caravansary reached the promised land--not like that in the Orient, flowing with milk and honey, and glowing in all the richness of natural beauty; but a long straggling village of heath-thatched cottages, with about half-a-dozen slated houses, including the kirk; and, though placed in a valley, on the banks of a rivulet, yet surrounded on all sides for many miles with the wildest moorlands in one of the most elevated situations inhabited in Scotland by human beings. But, what of all this? It afforded a _home_ in our native land--and we soon learnt by experience that its inhabitants were among the most kind-hearted and intelligent of the sons of Caledonia. The humble parsonage of Muirden was but a chapel of ease, yielding an income under one hundred pounds per annum. Yet, with this limited benefice, the Rev. William Douglas was enabled, by the frugal housewifery of the mistress, to maintain a decent, and, in his sphere, even a hospitable household, and to discharge the petty obligations to friends which he had incurred while "out of bread," and preparing to cross the deep to a foreign land. Until this last, and, in his estimation, sacred duty was accomplished, the strictest economy was observed. The "muckle wheel" and the "little wheel" were heard humming incessantly in the kitchen; and the bairns were clad in the good home-made cloths of the domicile; while they were early taught practically that plain and wholesome, though humble fare at the board, was all that they ought to desire, and that luxuries and delicacies, such as load "the rich man's table," were truly a matter of small moment, and utterly despicable when compared with those luxuries of the mind, and that superiority of character, which are derived from moral and intellectual culture. These latter, accordingly, were day by day pressed on their attention as the proper business of their early life--and all were habituated to regular and constant attention to their "lessons," at home as well as in school. Nor was this remote parsonage destitute of some strong and interesting attractions to a generous mind. Muirden was situated in a region which is consecrated by many events and traditions of "the persecuted times." There are hill-sides and moss-hags in its vicinity, still known to the peasant as the places of worship and of refuge to the Covenanters in days of peril and alarm; and some of Scotland's martyrs were immolated at the doors of their own huts, the foundation of which may still be traced, overgrown with the green turf or the heather-bell. To a Scottish pastor such scenes are classic, grand even in a higher sense than those of Marathon or Thermopylæ--for it was the immutable and holy spirit which was there kindled, and formed into a flame, that finally won for Scotland not only the blessings of civil liberty, but the triumphs of religious truth. It was an inspiriting task to serve at the altar among a people who, though humble, cherished with fondness the memory of their godly forefathers; and was, indeed, a labour of love, in which the teacher and the taught found mutual comfort and advantage. Nor were the exercises of the pulpit the only parts of pastoral duty to which Mr. Douglas directed his attention and his heart. He visited and soon became acquainted with all his flock--not formally and pompously, but frankly and in unaffected kindness; and ere long became the friend and trusted counsellor of his parishioners, not merely in spiritual, but in their temporal concerns. And, as a proof of the impression which such a truly evangelical course of conduct made among his people, I may state that, within these few years, after the lapse of nearly fifty, I had a call from a respectable old man, who, having heard I was in Edinburgh, had found me out, and announced himself to be Mr. ----, who had taught me the alphabet, and first guided my hand to wield the pen which now records this incident. I have rarely met with an occurrence more gratifying to my feelings, than when the old gentleman (for he was a gentleman in the best sense of the term, though a country schoolmaster) told me that years had not effaced from his heart and his memory the kindly affection which he bore to my father and all his children, who were the objects of his careful tuition, and that he had sought and found me to give utterance to that feeling. I need not say he got a warm welcome. He had then retired from the laborious duties of his office, with a moderate competency, and in a green old age. He has since paid the debt of nature. Peace to his ashes! It would be well if our parochial clergy would thus cultivate, not the vulgar arts of wordly popularity, but, by acts of real kindness, the confidence and the respect of their flocks. It is thus that the human heart is to be won; and it is thus that a Christian pastor most effectually "Allures to brighter realms, and leads the way." There was a peculiarity in the village of Muirden which I must not omit to notice. It was, perhaps, the first locality in Scotland, so entirely rural, that had a library established in it. I do not know precisely the history of that institution; but its supporters were the general community of the place, who were, in different grades, employed chiefly in the working of some mines in the vicinity, who devoted a small portion of their wages, periodically, for the purchase of books for the library. The fruits of this establishment were visible in the decent and orderly habits, and in the superior information of the whole population; presenting a moral picture exactly the reverse of that which too often characterises the now liberated _ascripti glebæ_ who are usually engaged in such occupations, and who are proverbially the most barbarous and ignorant class of the community of Scotland--thus furnishing an example, which is now become pretty general, of supplying an interesting and improving employment of the hours of relaxation from labour, instead of misspending the precious intervals at the alehouse or other houses of debauchery. The village of Muirden, too, had the advantage of a resident country gentleman in its immediate neighbourhood--Mr. Sterling. Such an auxiliary to the clergyman and schoolmaster in a rural district, is generally of unspeakable advantage to the moral condition of the locality, more especially when, as in this instance, he was a man everyway worthy of his rank and position in society. He possessed an estate of his own in one of the most beautiful provinces in Scotland; but, being a man distinguished in science, he had a general supervision of the works to which I have alluded; and, being thus clothed with authority, as well as a magistrate in the county, he was ever ready to co-operate in every measure which was beneficial, and in the repression of whatever was pernicious, in this little colony. The society and friendly intercourse which naturally arose betwixt such a country gentleman and the pastor, formed no slight addition to the enjoyments of the latter, in a sphere shut out by its position from much personal intercourse with well-educated men; and, in short, amid mountain and moor all around, Muirden presented one of the most pleasing pictures that this country affords of a rural parsonage. Mr. Douglas' zealous and faithful discharge of his pastoral duties did not remain unknown to his noble patron. From the time, indeed, of his induction at Muirden, the moral movements of that hamlet were occasionally reported by its guardian, Mr. Sterling, to the family that was interested in its prosperity; and the unremitting but unobtrusive ministrations of the village pastor were not of course overlooked. These were duly appreciated; and, after the lapse of only two or three years, the Earl of H---- spontaneously, and without any previous communication, presented Mr. Douglas to the benefice of Eccleshall, which had fallen vacant by the demise of its minister. This change had the double advantage of being on the regular establishment of the church, beyond the risk of any such casualty as had formerly befallen the presentee, and of having a stipend nearly double the salary at Muirden--a consideration of no slight moment to a man with a family, however moderate in his views with regard to temporalities; and it possessed the further superiority over Muirden, that it was situated on the southern shore of the Firth of Forth, in a district of country highly cultivated, and within a few hours' ride of the metropolis. It had the charm of the most perfect seclusion from the great and bustling world--the church and manse being situated in a sheltered valley, embosomed amidst a cluster of ancient trees, which probably were planted ere the Reformation dawned in Scotland. The tidings of this promotion, as it may be deemed, produced, in the humble dwelling of the pastor of Muirden, that measure of gladness which is inspired by the smiles of fortune--varying in degree among the different members of the family according to their intelligence and their years. To the heads of it, the promised improvement in their condition afforded the calm, yet exquisite satisfaction which the prospect of a competence for their little ones, and the means of educating and preparing them to act their part in life, naturally awakens; and in the younger members of it, the reported beauties of the new parish, and the approach of a new journey, excited that joyousness and vivacity of hope which even invests what is unknown with the attribute of magnificence. After a little while devoted to necessary arrangements--after many visits paid to all the dwellings of the humble flock of Muirden--after the interchange of kindly hospitalities among the superior classes of his neighbours--and after a public and affectionate farewell to all--Mr. Douglas once more set out with his family on this, his last migration; and, with the aid of caravan and cart, the family party went on their way from Muirden to Edinburgh, retracing thus far their steps, on their journey to Eccleshall; and, in a few days, they were set down in the court before the manse of Eccleshall, over which two stately lime trees formed a cooling shade from the fervours of a summer sun. Whether the reality corresponded with the several anticipations of the new comers or not, I will not pretend to affirm; but the arrival had scarcely been accomplished, ere every room and recess of the manse was explored, and the neat and beautiful gardens were traversed, and the glebe surveyed, and the "bonny burnside" visited, and the water laved from its channel. It was, in truth, a new world to its young visitants--and appeared, in the superior house accommodation and rural amenity around, a terrestrial paradise, contrasted with the circumscribed dwelling on the rocky shore of the German Ocean in the north, or in the hamlet of Muirden amid the wilderness on the southern border of Scotland. The sensations and sympathies of that day, and of seven years which followed it, are yet fresh in my recollection, and still swell in my heart, as marking the brightest and the happiest period of my existence. Everything connected with that season of my life, is still invested in my memory with charms which I have never since tasted; and my young imagination clothed the vale of Eccleshall with a brighter verdure and gayer flowers than ever to me bloomed elsewhere on earth; and the heaven glowed in more resplendent sunshine than has ever since poured its golden radiance on my vision--for it was the sunshine of the young spirit still unclouded by a speck on its moral horizon, and undimmed by a tear of real suffering and sorrow. Are such youthful enchantments realities in the condition of man? or are they visions of fancy, which are kindled by a gracious dispensation of Providence, as a solace to the heart in riper years, when the cares, and toils, and anxieties of manhood are strewed thick in our path, and frown heavily in clouds over every stage of our progress? In a few days after the house was put in order, the induction of Mr. Douglas took place; and, although not so impressive as a Presbyterian ordination, it was to all, his own family at least, an interesting scene. A numerous assemblage of the parishioners and the reverend brethren was convened; and the arrival of the latter, successively or in groups--their friendly greetings in the parlour, their progress to the church, and their solemn devoir during the service of the day--bore a character of dignity and impressiveness which does not now generally belong to such ceremonials. It may, perhaps, be unphilosophical, and not in accordance with more modern sentiment, to ascribe any efficacy to mere externals of costume. But it is a principle deeply implanted in human nature, and not to be stifled by any cold reasoning in the matter, that external decorum and suitable habiliments in any of the solemnities of religion and the administration of justice, have a powerful effect on the great mass of mankind, which it is not wise to cast aside or contemn. It were an easy, and would be a pleasant task, to paint some of the scenes and characters which presented themselves to my observation even at that early period of life; but it would be foreign to the object I had in view, and would swell this humble narrative beyond the limits assigned to it. That object was merely to delineate some of the features in the character of a faithful Scottish clergyman, and to exhibit some of the "lights and shadows" which cheer or cloud his existence, like that of other men. I have traced his progress through various alternations of adversity and prosperity, and have placed him in circumstances such as usually fill up the measure of a Christian's ambition--a position of usefulness to those within the sphere of his influence, and of comfort in his temporal condition. During the space of seven years, it was the lot of the individual who, in real life, was the prototype of our story, to enjoy health, and strength, and domestic felicity, and to discharge his duties with zeal and advantage in the parish of Eccleshall; but, returning home after nightfall, from attending a meeting of synod in Edinburgh, he caught a severe cold in riding during a stormy night, which affected his lungs; and, ere long, his indisposition assumed all the symptoms of pulmonary consumption. Our tale of humble life now draws to a close. In the course of a few months, the indisposition of Mr. Douglas assumed all the symptoms of a settled consumption, which continued to present to his family and friends the alternations of hope and of fear, that are the unfailing companions of that subtle visitation. A sea voyage, native air, and all other expedients suggested by skill or affection, were tried in vain; and, in the fiftieth year of his age, the minister of Eccleshall returned to the bosom of his family, with a full anticipation that the distemper under which he lingered would, ere long, prove fatal. His eyes sparkled with more than wonted lustre--his benevolent and intelligent countenance glowed with the delicate hectic flush which so often marks the progress of consumption--and the healthy, but not robust frame of its victim, became emaciated and feeble. The fall of the year 179-, brought the chilling blasts of November to quench the flickering spark of life in his bosom. I was despatched one cold morning on the pony for Mr. Blythe, a neighbouring clergyman and friend, to pay my father a visit. We rode together from his manse to Eccleshall; and, on his arrival, he remained alone with my father, engaged in those hallowed communings betwixt a dying man and his spiritual comforter which it is unseemly and sacrilegious in any case to disclose to mortal eyes. After a considerable space thus spent, the whole family, including the servants, were, by my father's directions, summoned to the side of his couch, in the Red Room, where he reposed. When all were assembled, he intimated, with composure and resignation, that he was conscious of the near approach of death, and addressed a few sentences of admonition and affection to them all; and, having done so, he requested Mr. Blythe to unite with his household in prayer and praise--requesting that the last hymn in the beautiful collection of sacred lyrics attached to our national psalmody, might be sung. My father's pulpit psalm-book was brought to Mr. Blythe. It is now before me, and I transcribe, from its page, with a vivid recollection of the scene now referred to, one of the solemn stanzas of that touching anthem:-- "The hour of my departure's come, I hear the voice that calls me home; At last, O Lord! let troubles cease, And let thy servant die in peace!" Mr. Blythe breathed, rather than sung the hymn, in the notes of Luther's hundredth psalm; and he did it with the accompaniment of tremulous and broken accents from all around the couch. The tears of unutterable sorrow were shed by all, save my mother, whose grief could not find a vent in tears. The voice of psalms was quenched amid the sobs which burst from every heart; and, during the singing of the last portion of it, the pious man who guided these orisons, sympathized so deeply in the passion of lamentation which encompassed him, that his accents were scarcely audible. The overpowering scene was closed by a brief and pathetic prayer to the Most High, that to His dying servant he would "stretch out His everlasting arms," and "to the friendless prove a friend." A few hours more, and the scene of life had passed away from the mortal vision of William Douglas. I saw him die. It was the first deathbed I had ever seen. There are many occurrences in life which fill the mind with awe; but I have never been conscious of any emotion so profound and solemn as that which possessed me during the last day of my father's life. I witnessed the expiring flame in those dread moments when time is blent with eternity, and when the last sigh seems to waft the immortal spirit into a state of existence of which no adequate conception can be formed. After all was over, and the breath of life had fled, I could not believe my senses, that the prop of my affections was gone from my love and my embrace, and that all which remained on earth of my father, protector, and gentle monitor, was a lifeless wreck on the shore of time. The world appeared to my young eye and heart as a wide scene of mere darkness and desolation. I will not dwell on subsequent events. The funeral obsequies performed, the family councils were of a melancholy description. As to worldly matters, it was ascertained that there was very little debt--not more than could be fully paid by the current stipend and other limited means; but, beyond this, all was a dreary blank. The only means of subsistence to which my widowed mother could look with certainty, was her small annuity of £25 a-year; while one only of the family (the eldest boy, who had been educated as a surgeon, and had got an appointment in the East India Company's service) could do ought to eke out the means of life for the family. In the depth of her affliction, she would say, with pious confidence, in the language of scripture, "I have never seen the righteous man forsaken, or his seed begging their bread." But, leaving these painful retrospects, it may not be inappropriate to note briefly the career of the earl of Bellersdale, whom I had occasion to advert to in the earlier part of this story. He survived my father many years, and spent his life devoid of domestic happiness or public respect, in the accumulation of wealth and the pursuits of sordid ambition. He lived detested and despised of mankind; and, dying unlamented by any one human being, he destined the vast treasures which he had amassed, to constant accumulation, not to be enjoyed fully by his heirs, but for the creation of a princedom of indefinite extent and wealth. But the honours of the Bellersdale family were speedily tarnished. A spendthrift successor squandered all the revenues which he could touch; and the last time I visited that part of the country, the splendid mansion of Bellersdale Castle was stripped of all its movables; the collections of many years of aristocratic pride--the pictures, the statues, the very board destined for baronial hospitality--were all brought to the hammer for payment of a tailor's bill for gewgaws to grace a court pageant; and the nominal inheritor of the wide domains and honours of his lordship's house, is an obscure and useless, though good-natured dependent upon Hebrew usurers and Gentile pettifoggers--a mere cumberer of the ground--a sycophant of the vulgar! I need not point the moral of my tale. THE SEERS' CAVE. "The desert gave him visions wild-- The midnight wind came wild and dread, Swell'd with the voices of the dead; Far on the future battle-heath His eye beheld the ranks of death: Thus the lone seer, from mankind hurl'd, Shap'd forth a disembodied world." SCOTT. In a certain wild and romantic glen in the Highlands of Scotland, there is a cave opening beneath the brow of a huge overhanging cliff, and half concealed by wreathed roots and wild festoons of brier and woodbine. Several indistinct traditions remain of this cave's having been, in former days, the abode of more than one holy hermit and gifted seer. From these it derived the name which it commonly received, Coir-nan-Taischatrin, or, The Cave of the Seers. At a little distance within the glen, upon its sunny side, stood Castle Feracht. The elevation on which it was built, gave it a prospect of the whole glen, without detaching it from the hills and woods around; and a space had been cleared of trees, so that, though completely surrounded, their leafy screen only curtained, not obscured it. Castle Feracht had long been the residence of a powerful branch of the Macphersons. In that far retirement repeated generations of that daring family had grown up and rushed forth, like young eagles from their mountain-eyrie, to the field of strife; and not unfrequently never to return. Such had been the fate of Angus Macpherson, in consequence of an accidental encounter with the Gordons, between whom and the Macphersons there had long subsisted a deadly feud. The death of his father had the effect of fixing upon the mind of his son Ewan Macpherson a feeling of stern and deadly resentment against all who had ever been the foes of his turbulent clan. The stripling seemed to fret at the slow pace of time, and to long for those years in which his arm might have sufficient force to wield his father's broadsword, that he might rush to vengeance. Such had often been his secret thoughts, when he at length reached a period of life which made him able to put the suggestions of his vindictive mind into execution; but a strong and arousing spirit, to which we need not farther allude, passed over the land, and he forgot for a time his personal animosities, in feelings and purposes of a more general and absorbing nature. The powerful sympathy of thousands, lending all their united energies towards one point, and laying aside their individual pursuits, in order to contribute to the advancement of that all-engrossing aim, laid its influence upon his soul, and he joined the company, and aided in the general plans of those whom he would have joyed to have met in deadly combat. Those against whom his hostility had been less violent, he had learned to meet almost on terms of friendship, though dashed at times with looks of coldness. Among those half-forgiven foes, was Allan Cameron, a younger son of that family of the Camerons which stood next in hereditary dignity to the chief. The feud between the Macphersons and Camerons had never been very deadly, and might, perhaps, have been forgotten, had Macpherson been less accustomed to "rake up the ashes of his fathers." Cameron, though still a very young man, had been obliged early to mingle with the world, and had acquired that habit of ready decision which gives its possessor an ascendancy over almost all with whom he has any intercourse. Notwithstanding his youth, therefore, he was of considerable influence, and being brought repeatedly into contact with Macpherson, there was something of a shy and distant friendship between them. Cameron soon perceived the coldness of Macpherson; but, as his own generous and cultivated mind was far superior to the influence of prejudices, such as had thrown a gloom over the whole being of Macpherson, he knew not, never dreamt, that he was an object of secret dislike to him; and, with his usual frank kind-heartedness, exerted himself to win the favour of a man so distinguished for personal daring as the dark-browed lord of Glen Feracht. During the course of the operations in which they were engaged, the decisive resolution and activity of Cameron had repeatedly attracted the notice of Macpherson. Several times had he said to himself, "Were he not a Cameron, he would be a gallant fellow!" At length, one day Macpherson was severely wounded, and rescued from immediate death by the fearless intrepidity and fiery promptness of Cameron. Macpherson's stern sullenness was subdued. Ere yet recovered from his wounds, he clasped Cameron's hand in token of cordial friendship; and so far laid aside his distant coldness, as to invite Allan Cameron to accompany him to Glen Feracht, when their present enterprise should have come to a termination. That termination came sooner than had been expected; and Cameron found it not only convenient but prudent to accompany his fellow soldier to the secret retreat of Castle Feracht. Cameron, an ardent admirer of nature's beauties, yielded all his soul to the emotions inspired by the wild and rugged entrance to Glen Feracht; nor could he suppress repeated exclamations of delight when all the softer beauties of the quiet glen opened upon his sight. Macpherson observed his admiration, and paced over the daisied sward of his own valley with a more lofty step. Nor was there less proud satisfaction in his heart and eye as he conducted his guest to the hall of his fathers, and presented to him his only sister, bidding her, at the same time, know in Allan Cameron the preserver of her brother's life. Elizabeth Macpherson rose and stepped blushing forward to receive her young and gallant guest. She was just on the verge of womanhood--that most fascinating period, when the tender and deep sensibilities of the woman begin to give a timid dignity to the liveliness of the girl. The open and rather ardent expression of her happy countenance was sweetly repressed and tempered by the pure veil of maidenly modesty; yet her graceful and commanding stature, the fire of her bright blue eye, and her free and stately step and gesture, told that the spirit of her fathers dwelt strong in the bosom of their lovely daughter. The heart of Allan Cameron bounded and fluttered in his breast, as he advanced to salute this beautiful mountain-nymph. He had braved, undaunted, the brow of man when darkened with the frown of deadly hostility, but he shrank with a new and undefinable tremor before the blushing smile of a youthful maiden's cheek and eye. His self-possession seemed for once to have forsaken him; and had Macpherson been acquainted with the human heart, he must have seen that a new and irresistible feeling was rapidly taking possession of his generous preserver's bosom. He saw in it, however, but the awkwardness of a first interview between two strangers of different sexes; and, in order to relieve Cameron, led him away to see all the beautiful and romantic scenery of the glen, particularly Coir-nan-Taischatrin. But it was not long ere the graceful person and fascinating manners of Cameron made an impression upon the artless and warm-hearted maiden. At first, her brother's intimate friend, the preserver of his life, had, in her view, just claims to her attention and grateful kindness; but she soon felt that she esteemed, not to say loved him for himself. The preserver of her brother would at all times have been dear to her; but Allan Cameron woke in her heart a feeling inexpressibly more deep, more tender, more intense. Art had little influence in directing the conduct of the youthful lovers; and it was not long till they experienced all that heaven of delight which arises in the heart upon being assured of the mutual return of affection. They had, however, kept their love hid from Ewan Macpherson; both because his dark and gloomy manner forbade all approaches to familiar confidence, and because, from the peculiar nature of love, mystery and concealment are necessary to give it its highest zest. Whatever might be the cause, certain it was that Allan Cameron and Elizabeth Macpherson planned the little excursions, which they now frequently made together, in such a manner that they might, as much as possible, avoid being seen by Ewan. At length, however, the suspicions of the proud chieftain were aroused. It had never entered into his mind that Cameron might, by any possibility, raise his presumptuous hopes so high as to dream of loving the sister of Ewan Macpherson; and no sooner did he suspect the truth, than he dashed from his mind every friendly and grateful feeling towards the man who had saved his life; and saw in Allan Cameron only the hereditary foe of his clan, whose daring insolence had attempted to disgrace the name of Macpherson, by seeking to win the heart of its most loftily descended maiden. Full of resentment at what he deemed so deep an insult, he was ranging the groves and thickets of Glen Feracht in quest of Cameron, like a wolf prowling for his unconscious victim. The evening sun was at that time throwing his long lines of slanting glory across the summits of the mountains, and lighting the clouds of the west with a radiance too dazzling to be gazed upon, yet too magnificent to permit the eye and the excited soul to wander for a moment from the contemplation of its celestial splendour. Upon a gentle eminence, whence the castle and the greater part of the glen might be distinctly viewed, stood the lovers. They gazed with silent delight on the beauty and magnificence of the scene around them; yet, amidst their engrossing raptures, they had still enough of individual feeling remaining to be sensible of that warm palpitation of the heart, which, in the presence of a beloved object, so greatly enhances every feeling of delight. On a sudden, they were startled by a rustling noise in the adjoining thicket; and immediately forth bounded Bran, Macpherson's staghound, his master's constant attendant. "My brother must be near," said Elizabeth, in an anxious whisper; "and we shall be discovered. Good Heavens! what shall we do?" "Perhaps he may not have seen us," replied Cameron: "you can hasten to the castle, and I shall attempt to detain him here till you shall have reached it." She gave no answer; but, casting around a glance of great alarm, and fixing one tender, anxious look for one moment upon Cameron, she hastened away through secret but well-known paths. She did not, however, escape the eye of Ewan Macpherson, who had thus unseasonably approached the lovers in their retirement. At this discovery, madness swelled in his heart and boiled along his veins; but, suppressing his passion, he approached with haughty stateliness the spot where Cameron stood, apparently fixed in deep and all-engrossing admiration of the glowing beauties of earth and heaven. "The beauties of animated nature appear to have charms in the tasteful eyes of Allan Cameron," said Macpherson, as he advanced. "They have," replied Cameron; "and who could stand on this lovely spot and witness so much beauty and magnificence, without feeling a glow of rapture pervade his whole frame, and chain him to the place in delighted admiration! How happy ought the man to be who can call a place of such loveliness and grandeur his own!" "Stay! hold! Allan Cameron; let us understand each other. Does Allan Cameron mean to say that these woods and streams of Glen Feracht, the lofty mountains around him, the tints of the evening sky over his head, and these alone, have stirred up his soul to this pitch of enthusiasm? Or must Ewan Macpherson flatter himself that his sister's charms have also had some slight influence in producing these rapturous emotions?" Uncertain whether Macpherson was in earnest or in jest, Cameron hesitated to answer; and continued gazing on the mountain top, bright, and crimson, and airy, as if it terminated in an edge of flame. "Dishonour blast the name of Macpherson, if I endure this!" exclaimed the fierce Ewan, bursting into a tumult of fury. "Proud Cameron! dost thou disdain to answer the chief of the Macphersons? Are we fallen so low that a Cameron shall despise us? Speak! answer me! else I strike thee to my foot like a base hound! Hast thou dared to mention love--even to think of love for the sister of Macpherson?" "And where were the mighty offence, though a Cameron should aspire so high as to love the sister of Macpherson?" "Where were the offence?--I tell thee, boy, he had better never have seen the light. But I will not trifle with thee. Hast _thou_ so dared?" "I am little used to answer such interrogations. But I would not willingly quarrel with Ewan Macpherson. My heart must have been colder than it is, could I have enjoyed the company of Elizabeth Macpherson without yielding me to that influence of witching beauty which softens and subdues the soul." "Thou hast not said--thou dost not dare to say--thou lovest her! Cameron, I have felt friendship for thee. Thou hast resided in the hall of my fathers. My hand is withheld from thee. But, if thou dost not renounce, at once and for ever, all pretensions to the love of Elizabeth Macpherson, thou hast looked thy last on this green earth and those glorious heavens." "Renounce all pretensions to the love of Elizabeth Macpherson! I tell thee, proud man, that the daughter of the highest Macpherson might think herself honoured by an alliance with a Cameron." "Insolent serf! unsay thy words, or maintain them with thy sword!--Crouch, like a low-born slave as thou art, and beg Macpherson's pardon, if thou darest not bare thy coward blade." "Macpherson, thou didst not call me slave or coward, when, side by side, we two stemmed the stream of battle in its wildest rage;--nor was it a coward blade that hewed out a safe retreat for thee, when thine own arm waxed weak and thy steps were unequal on the field of the slain." "Thou dost well to speak of what thou knowest will prevent me from chastising thy base treachery. 'Tis what I might have expected;--'tis done like a cowardly Cameron!" "But that thou hast a sister, Macpherson, that taunt had cost thee dear. Thou knowest that thou speakest falsely." "Falsely!--defend thee, villain, or die like a slave! The feud of our fathers is but renewed--their spirits behold our strife!" cried Macpherson, and, drawing his claymore, rushed upon Cameron almost before his blade was bared for the combat. Macpherson, transported to a pitch of frenzy, thought not of artful skill, dreamt not of personal danger. He showered blow on blow with the intemperate fury of a maniac; all his aim, every effort, being directed to destroy his foe. Cameron, with less bodily strength, was possessed of calm and dauntless courage, superior skill in the use of his weapon, and unmatched personal activity. Unwilling to harm the brother of the object of his affection, he only defended himself, retiring and warding off the furious but aimless blows of Macpherson. The frowning cheek and brow of the baffled chief waxed grimmer with disappointed hate; and, changing his mode of attack, he swept circling round his young and agile antagonist, endeavouring thus to throw him off his guard. Cameron, turning dexterously on his heel, held him still at the sword's point, and allowed him to expend his strength in desperate efforts of fierce but ineffectual violence. During their combat, however, some of Macpherson's _gillies_ approached the spot; and Cameron perceived them nearing him with kindling eyes, and holding in their impatient hands the _skean dhu_ half unsheathed. He knew that Macpherson was as honourable as brave; and he knew that he might with perfect safety trust his life to the honour of any highlander, under any circumstance where the peculiar honour of his clan was not concerned. But he also knew that no clansman would esteem any deed a crime which should preserve the life or the reputation of his chief. There was, he saw, but one means of saving his life. Collecting all his strength, he beat aside one of Macpherson's furious blows, and bounding upon him as a crouching tiger springs upon his prey, he wrenched his claymore from his hand, dashed him to the earth with the mere violence of the assault; wielding a weapon in either hand, he struck to the ground two of the opposing clansmen, plunged into the thickets as a mountain stag bursts through his covert when the opening pack is near, and disappeared in an instant among the crashing and closing boughs of the underwood. Foaming with disappointed rage, Macpherson sprung from the ground, snatched a _skean dhu_ from one of his prostrated followers, and shouting, "Revenge!" rushed into the thickets in headlong pursuit. In vain. A fleeter foot than that of Allan Cameron never pressed the mountain heath, and, in a short time, he was far beyond all danger from his enraged pursuer; who, after ranging every dell and nook in vain, returned to Castle Feracht, chafing and foaming with impotent rage, and uttering dire but unavailing threats of vengeance. What would it avail to relate the chieftain's wrath, when he found himself compelled to forego his hopes of sweet revenge, and to endure what he esteemed a new and a more daring insult? Fret and chafe as he might, he knew that his high-souled sister would not be deterred, by threats of personal injury, from following the bent of her own inclination. He therefore assembled his followers in her presence, and caused them all to bind themselves, by a deep oath, to avenge the quarrel of their chief upon Allan Cameron, should he ever dare to set foot within Glen Feracht; enforcing his commands by threats of deadliest vengeance, should any clansman show him favour, hold intelligence with him, or meet him in terms of peace. Elizabeth Macpherson saw his purpose; but she scorned to display her emotion. A flush indeed mantled her brow, and her eye shed one sparkle of indignation--but she remained silent. Fraternal affection was banished the halls of Castle Feracht. An increasing gloom and moodiness of heart began to sink upon the rugged chief; and, at length, to prevent his dark soul's loneliness from becoming altogether insupportable, he began to take an interest in the affairs, first of his own clan, next of the neighbouring clans, and finally of the nation. He thus became acquainted with many a wild and many a wondrous legend, which might otherwise never have reached his observation; and his rather uncultivated mind was not able to resist the encroachments of superstition. Among others, a firm belief in the reality of the _taisch_, or second-sight, took possession of his mind; and he listened to the many almost incredible relations concerning it, with a wild excitement of spirit. These changes in the manners and pursuits of Macpherson, were, from time to time, reported to Allan Cameron, in spite of the stern threats which had been denounced against all who should hold intercourse with him. A youth, the cho-alt (foster brother) of Allan Cameron, had repeatedly, under the assumed character of a wandering hunter, entered within the precincts of Glen Feracht, where he was unknown; and, picking up all the information that could be obtained, without awakening suspicion, returned with it to his youthful chief. Ewan Macpherson was one day informed, by his aged _henchman_, Ranald Glas, that a second-sighted man had arrived in the glen, conducted, according to his own account, by the power of the taisch: that he was extremely old, and his visions were appallingly vivid: his thoughts were terror, and his words were fire. The revelations of things to come passed frequent and powerful across his soul, bright and living as realities; and his language was that of one who constantly held strange communication with scenes and beings not of this world. Though his foot had never before trod the heath of Glen Feracht, he described, with the most perfect accuracy, its castle, stream, and cave; saying that he was come to lay his bones beside those of the ancient seers and holy men who had inhabited Coir-nan-Taischatrin. This was enough to rouse the curiosity of Macpherson. Pursuing his inquiries, he learned that the seer had taken up his abode in the cave, and that he had already foretold to some of the clan things, part of which were accomplished, and the rest expected with the utmost confidence. In order to satisfy his curiosity, Macpherson determined to visit the hoary seer, and learn from himself the nature of his visions. The shadows of the pine and oak were stretching far across the ravine in the slant evening sunshine, when Ewan Macpherson appeared in front of the cave. His eye could not penetrate the deep darkness within it; and, yielding to a feeling of indescribable awe which crept over his soul, he remained for some time silent and motionless before its entrance. At length he ordered one of his gillies to acquaint the wondrous inmate that Ewan Macpherson wished to hold some converse with him. Forward came the venerable man; and his appearance, in the dimming twilight, had no tendency to diminish the strange delirium of superstitious feelings which had absorbed the whole mind of the bewildered chief. The sage bent one searching glance upon his visitor; and, seeming to have penetrated the state of his mind, advanced into more open view. A long and squared rod seemed to support his shaking frame as he came forward, tottering and halting at every step. The shaggy hide of an enormous wolf, thrown loosely over his shoulders, served partly to clothe him, partly to disguise his form by the air of savage wildness which a garment so uncouth gave its wearer. From his belt depended some instruments, with the use of which Macpherson was entirely unacquainted; together with a _skean dhu_ of exquisite and uncommon workmanship. His bonnet alone was like that of other men; for what could a true highlander substitute for the blue bonnet? but he neither doffed it, nor made any motions of obeisance as he approached. A long white beard flowed half down his bosom, waving heavily and solemnly as he moved. The fire of an intensely bright eye was half hid by his deep, grey, shaggy eyebrows; yet, from beneath that grim penthouse, they emitted occasional sparklings like diamonds in the dark. "Chief of Macpherson!" said he, in a deep hollow voice, "man of the dark brow and ruthless hand! what seekest thou with Moran of the Wild?" But, ere Macpherson could reply, the sage cast the wolf hide back from his right shoulder--extended the long square rod in his firmly clenched hand--raised himself up to his full height, while his eyes seemed starting from their sockets, and gleaming like two balls of living fire, and his whole frame agitated, and as if it were dilating with the internal workings of his wild visionary spirit. Macpherson shook and shrunk in his presence. "They come! they come!" exclaimed the seer--"the wild, the dreadful, the undefinable, the unutterable, the shadowy forms and seemings of things and actions to be! They crowd upon me in powers and numbers unendurable, inconceivable! Words never formed by human breath sound within my heart, and tell of things that mortal tongue may never utter. Eyes, clear, cold, dead, bright, and chill as winter moonshine, look into my soul, and fill it with all their lucid meanings! Oh, scene of blood and woe! when wilt thou end? Thou bright-haired angel, must the doom be thine! Fair lady of the stately brow! oh! let me see no more!" His lips quivered, but he uttered not another word. He remained fixed, rigid, statue-like, as if chilled into stone, bereft of life and motion, by the terrible vision. At length his extended arm dropped by his side; and, heaving a long, shuddering sigh, he leaned his drooping frame upon his rod, trembling and exhausted. After a considerable pause, Macpherson ventured to address him, with the intention of inquiring into the nature of his vision. "Speak not to me, Ewan Macpherson," said he. "Seek not to know the fate thou wilt and must know all too soon. Thy path through life has been blood-stained and devious. No warnings may now avail thee. But that lady--might she be rescued from misery and horror! Chief! if the safety and happiness of thy father's daughter be dear to thee, bid her assume the spirit of her race, and come alone to Coir-nan-Taischatrin. Tell her that Moran of the Wild has that to reveal to her which concerns her, and thee, too, deeply. And mark me, Chief! unless thou ceasest to pursue the feuds of thy fathers, thy course will be brief, and bloody will be its close." Thus saying, he turned and feebly dragged his spent and tottering form into the dark and awe-inspiring cave. Stunned and bewildered, incapable of thought or reflection, and staggering like one who walks in his sleep, Macpherson wandered back towards Castle Feracht. With a strange expression of vague astonishment and hesitation he gazed upon his sister. At length he found words: "Elizabeth Macpherson, if the honour of thy name, if thy own safety and happiness can move thee; if thy brother's life--but that is a trifle--assume the spirit of thy fathers, and go alone to Coir-nan-Taischatrin. Moran of the Wild has that to tell thee which deeply concerns thy safety and happiness. Canst thou execute his desire? He is a fearful man!" At his first words the blood forsook her cheek, and her heart sank within her; but, ere he ceased speaking, a wild surmise flashed gleaming across her soul. "Brother!" replied she, "the daughter of Angus Macpherson dare go alone to Coir-nan-Taischatrin, and hear whatever the sage may have to tell. Fear not for me. Do not, by impatience or needless anxiety for my safety, rashly interrupt our interview. Ere long, you shall know what warnings or what information the seer has to impart." Then, with a stately and determined step, and an eye kindled with an ambiguous expression of ardent hope or daring resolution, she bent her way to the dreaded cave. The fearless maiden approached the cave. She spoke; but the voice that answered was that of Allan Cameron. The wolf's hide was soon thrown aside, and he stood before her in the graceful garb of a mountain warrior; his noble countenance beaming with courage and triumphant love. Taking advantage of the time which Macpherson would delay at the castle, awaiting the expiration of their interview, they hastily fled from the hostile glen, and soon reached a concealment where the faithful cho-alt had horses prepared for their escape. Words would be feeble to express the fury of Ewan Macpherson when, after waiting till his patience was exhausted, he explored the cave, and found that he had been deceived, and that by the man whom he had begun to consider as his deadliest foe. He determined to take fearful vengeance upon Cameron, and all of his clan whom he might be able to overpower. Before he could get his purpose put in execution, he chanced to meet a small party of the Gordons; when, forgetting every other thought but that of his burning desire of vengeance on those who slew his father, he rushed upon them; and, bursting into the midst of them, was assailed on all sides, and wounded so severely that, though he was rescued by his own followers, and was completely victorious, he died ere he could be brought back to Castle Feracht. Dying unmarried, his estate and power passed to his sister, and from her to one of her younger sons, upon his dropping the name of Cameron, and retaining that of Macpherson alone. An amicable termination was thus put to the feud between the two families. A descendant from this auspicious union still resides in Castle Feracht, and occasionally relates, with considerable pleasure, the tradition of Coir-nan-Taischatrin. THE LAIDLEY WORM OF SPINDLESTON HEUGH. A TALE OF THE ANGLO-SAXONS. "Word went east, and word went west, And word is gone over the sea, That a Laidley Worm in Spindleston Heugh Would ruin the north countrie. "All folks believe within the shire This story to be true, And they all run to Spindleston The cave and trough to view. "This fact now Duncan Frazier, Of Cheviot, sings in rhyme, Lest Bamboroughshire-men should forget Some part of it in time."--_Ancient Ballad._[J] [J] The popular Ballad of the Laidley (or loathly) Worm of Spindleston Heugh, was composed by Duncan Frazier, the Cheviot bard, more than five hundred years ago, and had rendered the legend familiar far beyond the Borders. The tradition has doubtless been commemorated by the ancient Saxon bards, when old Duncan turned it into rhyme; and it is under this supposition that the present tale is told, the narrator being understood to be a wandering bard of the Saxon race. "Tell me, old man," said a Northumbrian chief to a Saxon bard who claimed his hospitality, "tell me a tale of the olden time--a legend of the race of Woden." The bard bowed his head and began:--Great was Ida, the flame-bearer, above all the kings of the isles. His ships covered the sea in shoals, and his warriors that launched them on the deep were stronger than its waves. He built the towers of Bamborough on the mighty rock whose shadow darkens the waters. He reared it as a habitation for his queen, and he called it by her name.[K] Wheresoever he went, strong places were consumed, kings were overthrown and became his servants, and nations became one. But Ida, in the midst of his conquests, fell in battle, by the red sword of Owen, the avenging Briton. Then followed six kings who reigned over Bernicia, from the southern Tyne even to the Frith of Dun Edin. But the duration of their sovereignty was as a summer cloud or morning dew. Their reigns were as six spans from an infant's hand, and peaceful as an infant's slumber. [K] According to the venerable Bede, the name of Ida's queen was Bidda, and the original name of Bamborough, Biddaburgh. But to them succeeded Ethelfrith the Fierce--the grandson of Ida--the descendant of the immortal Woden. His voice, when his ire was kindled, was like the sound of deep thunder, and his vengeance fleeter than the lightning. He overthrew princes as reeds, and he swept armies before him as stubble. His conquests extended from where clouds sleep on the brow of Cheviot, to where the heights of terrific Snowdon pierce heaven. Men trembled at his name; for he was as a wolf in the fold, as an eagle among the lesser birds of heaven. Now, the wife of Ethelfrith's bosom died; she departed to the place of spirits--to the company of her fathers. She left behind her a daughter, Agitha,[L] with the tresses of the raven's wing; and she was beautiful as sunbeams sparkling from morning dew amongst the flowers of spring. Her eyes were bright as the falcon's, but with their brightness was mingled the meekness of the dove's. The breath of sixteen summers had fanned her cheeks. Her bosom was white as the snow that lay in winter on the hills, and soft as the plumage of the sea-fowl that soared over the rocks of her lofty dwelling. [L] In the old ballad she is called Margaret. A hundred princes sighed for the hand of the bright-haired Agitha; but their tales of love had no music for her ear, and they jarred upon her soul as the sounds of a broken instrument. She bent her ear only to listen to the song of affection from the lips of the Chylde Wynde--even to Chylde Wynde of the sharp sword and the unerring bow, who was her own kinsman, the son of her father's brother. His voice was to her as the music of water brooks to the weary and fainting traveller--dear as the shout of triumph to a conquering king. Great was the Chylde Wynde among the heroes of Bernicia. He had honoured the shield of his father. He had rendered his sword terrible. Where the battle raged fiercest, there was his voice heard, there was his sword seen; war-horses and their riders fell before it--it arrested the fury of the chariots of war. Bards recorded his deeds in immortal strains, and Agitha sang them in secret. Yet would not Ethelfrith listen to the prayer of his kinsman, but his anger was kindled against him. The fierce king loved his daughter, but he loved dominion more. It was dearer to him than the light of heaven, than the face of the blessed sun. He waded through blood as water, even the blood of his victims, to set his feet upon thrones. He said unto himself--"Agitha is beautiful--she is fairer than her mother was. She is stately as a pine, lifting its head above the sacred oaks. She is lovely as the moon when it blesseth the harvest fields. A king only shall possess her hand, and give a kingdom in exchange for it." Thus spoke her father, the mighty Ethelfrith, whose word was power, and whose purpose was fixed as the everlasting rocks on which the foundations of the earth are built. He said, therefore, unto the Chylde Wynde--"Strong art thou in battle, son of my brother; the mighty bend before thy spear, and thy javelins pierce through the shields of our enemies. As an eagle descendeth on its prey, so rusheth my kinsman to the onset. But thou hast no nation to serve thee--no throne to offer for my daughter's hand. Whoso calleth himself her husband, shall for that title exchange the name of king, and become tributary unto me--even as my sword, before which thrones shake and nations tremble, has caused others to do homage. Go, therefore, son of my brother, take with thee ships and warriors, and seek thee a people to conquer. Go, find a land to possess; and when with thy sword and with thy bow thou hast done this, return ye to me, bringing a crown in thy left hand, and in thy right will I place the hand of Agitha with the bright hair, whose eyes are as stars." "O king!" answered the Chylde--"thou who holdest the fate of princes in thy hands, and the shadow of whose sceptre stretcheth over many nations--the uplifting of whose arm turneth the tide of battle--swear unto me, by the spirit of mighty Woden, that while I am doing that which thou requirest, and ere I can return to lay a crown at thy feet, swear that thou will not bless another king, for an offered kingdom, with the hand of Agitha, in whom my soul liveth!" Then did the wrath of the king wax terrible; his eyes were as consuming fires, even as the fire of heaven when it darteth from the dark clouds of midnight. His countenance was fierce as the sea, when its waves boil and are lifted up with the tempest. In his wrath he dashed his heel upon the floor; and the armour of conquered kings, the spoils of a hundred battles, rang round the halls of Ida. "Shall the blood of my brother," he cried "stain the floor of his father? Boy! ask ye an oath from a king, the descendant of Woden?[M] Away! do as I command thee, lest ye perish!" [M] It may be necessary to mention, that the imaginary deities of the Saxons were named Woden, Tuisco, Thor, Frea, and Seator. They also worshipped the sun and moon. Woden was their god of war; and from him Ida and his descendants professed to spring. We need hardly add that it is after these objects of pagan worship that we still name the days of the week; as Woden's day (Wednesday), Thor's day (Thursday), Frea's day (Friday), &c. &c. Then did the Chylde Wynde withdraw from before the anger of the great king, in the presence of whom, in his wrath, the life even of his kindred was as a spider's thread. He sought Agitha with the rainbow smile, where she sat with her maidens, in the groves of Budle, ornamenting a robe of skins for her father, the mighty Ethelfrith. The sea sang its anthem of power along the shore, and the caves of the rocks resounded with the chorus of the eternal hymn. The farthest branches of the grove bent over the cliff that overhung the sounding sea. The birds of heaven sang over her head, and before her the sea-birds wheeled in myriads, countless as the sand upon the shore, like burnished clouds over the adjacent isles. Their bright wings flashed in the sun, like the fitful fires that light the northern heavens. The warrior Chylde drew near where the princess sat. There was gloom and sorrow on his brow. The echoes of the grove answered to his sighs. Agitha heard them. She beheld the cloud of anguish that was before his countenance. The robe of skins dropped from her hand. Her eyes, that were as the morning light, became dim. She arose and went forward to meet him. "Wherefore," she inquired, "does my hero sigh, and why sits heaviness on the brightness of his face? Art not thou renowned in song as the warrior of the dauntless heart and the resistless sword? Art not thou the envy of princes--the beloved of the people--the admired by the daughters of kings? And can sadness dwell upon thy soul? Oh! thou who art as the plume of my father's warriors, and as the pride of his host, if grief hath entered into thy bosom, let it be buried in mine." Then thus replied the warrior Chylde:--"Agitha--thou that art fairer, milder than the light that plays around the brows of the summer moon, and dearer to me than a mother's milk to the lips of her babe--it is for thee that my countenance is sad, and my soul troubled. For thy father has pierced my spirit with many arrows; yea, even with the poisoned arrows of a deadly foe. He hath wrung my soul for thee, Agitha. Thou didst give me thy heart when the sacred moon rose over the rocky Ferns and beheld us; and while the ministering spirits that dwell in its beams descended as a shower of burning gold upon the sea, and, stretching to the shore, heard us. We exchanged our vows beneath the light of the hallowed orb, while the stars of heaven hid their faces before it. Then, Agitha, while its beams glowed on my father's sword, upon that sword I swore to love thee. But our vows are vain. Daughter of kings! our love is sorrow. Thy father hath vowed, by the mighty Woden, that thou shalt be the wife of a king, and that a kingdom shall be the price of thy hand. Yet will I gather my warriors together. They number a thousand spears; they have a thousand bows. The charge of their spears is as the rushing of the whirlwind. The flight of their arrows hides the face of the sun. Foes perish at their approach. Victory goeth before their face. Therefore will I go forth into a far country. I will make war upon a strange people, that I may take the kingdom from their ruler, and present his crown unto thy father for the hand of my Agitha." The maiden wept. Her head sank on her bosom like a fair flower weighed down with dew. Tears stood in the eyes of the warrior. "Weep not, daughter of heroes!" he said; "the tide of battle is in the hands of Woden. He will not turn it against a descendant of his race. I will return to thee in triumph. I will throw a crown at thy father's feet, and rush to the arms of Agitha. Thou wilt greet me again with thy smile of love--with thy voice that is sweeter than the music of spring. Thy heart, which is dearer than life, shall be my kingdom; and thy bosom, that is whiter than the breast of the wild swan, my throne. I will fly to thee as the hunted deer to its covert--as a bird to its nest where its young await it." Thus departed the warrior, and Agitha returned to her maidens; she sat down amongst them and mourned. Gormack, the weird, a thane of the Pictish race, had his dwelling near the giddy cliffs where the young eagles scream to the roar of the dark waters of the Forth. He had a daughter whose beauty was the theme of all tongues. Her fame went over the land like the sound of shells--yea, like the sound of shells when the wind is hushed, and the moon is bright in the heavens. Fair was the daughter of Gormack as the lily that groweth by the brook. Her hair was as the finest fleece when it is purified. It fell down her back in ringlets. It was bright as the golden clouds that encircle the throne of the rising sun--as the golden clouds when they are dipped in silver. Her father held counsel with spirits of evil. They were obedient to his will. He invoked them to endue his daughter with more than mortal beauty, that she might inflame the soul of princes, and sit upon their throne. Such was the tale of men. Her beauty was the burden of the song of bards. In their chorus to swell the praise of others, they said that they were "lovely as the fair daughter of Gormack." The tale of her charms was heard by Ethelfrith. It was heard by the fierce in war--the impetuous in love--the victor in battle--yea, even by Ethelfrith, king of Bernicia. "I will see the fair daughter of the thane," said the proud king, to whose will even war and the mighty in war did homage. Moreover, Gormack the thane was his vassal. He had sworn to his obedience. The king went forth to the dwelling of Gormack, among the cliffs. Ealdormen,[N] comites,[O] and thanes,[P] attended him. The weird thane came forth to meet him; he bowed his head and made obeisance. [N] Earls. [O] Companions. [P] Thanes signified men high in power, of various degrees of rank. Ethelfrith beheld Bethoc the Beautiful; and the songs that he had heard in her praise were as an idle tale, for her loveliness exceeded the power of song. The soul of the fierce king melted within him. It was subdued by the sorcery of her charms. "Give me," said he unto her father--and commandments ever fell from his lips--"give me Bethoc to be my wife; for she is more lovely than the morning star. She is fit for a warrior's bride; she shall be THE LADY[Q] of Bernicia." [Q] THE LADY was the appellation given to a queen amongst the Anglo-Saxons. Again the weird bowed his head. He knelt upon his knee. He presented his daughter to the king. Then did Ethelfrith take her by the hand. He led her forth to his chariot of war, through the midst of his ealdormen, his comites, and his thanes, who were in great power and resistless in war, and they made obeisance to her as she passed through the midst of them. They saluted her as their queen. Her breast swelled with exultation. Pride flashed from her eyes, as the sun bursting from a cloud dazzleth the eye of the gazer. The king gazed upon her beauty as a dreamer upon a fair vision. Now, the beauty of Bethoc was sin made lovely. Her bosom was as a hill where the vine and the cedar grew, and where flowers shed forth perfume; but beneath which a volcano slept. To the eye was beauty, beyond were desolation and death. Pride, hatred, and envy, encircled her soul. She was sold unto evil, even as her father was. The spirit of destruction, in answer to her father's prayer, had formed her a beautiful destroyer. Whatsoever was lovely that she looked upon in envy, withered as though an east wind passed over it--the destroying wind which blighteth the hopes of the husbandman. At the going down of the sun, the king, and his fair queen, Bethoc, with his mighty men, drew near to the tower which Ida had built on the mountain-rock, and all the people of the city came forth to meet him, and to greet their queen. The bards lifted up their voice; they styled her the fairest of women. "Fair is the wife of the king," replied an aged thane, "but fairer is Agitha, his daughter! Bethoc, the queen, is a bright star, but Agitha is the star of the morning--fairest of the heavens!" Queen Bethoc heard the words of the aged thane, and she hated Agitha because of them. The spirit of evil spread his darkness over her soul. He filled her breast with the poison of asps, her eyes with the venom of the adder that lures to destruction. At the entrance of the tower of kings stood Agitha, lovely as the spirits that dwell among the stars, and give beauty to the beings of earth. She knelt before the queen. She offered her a daughter's homage. "Rise, beautiful one! inspirer of song!" said the queen; "kneel not to me, for I am but a star--thou art the star of the morning. Hide not thy face from before men. Let them serve and worship thee." Cold were her words as water which droppeth from the everlasting icicles in the caves of the north. As is the mercy of the tears of the crocodile, so was the kindness of her looks. Envy and hatred gleamed in her eyes, like lightnings round the sides of a dark cloud. The countenance of Agitha fell; for she knew that her father in his wrath was fiercer than the wild boar of the forest when at bay; and she feared to reply to the sneer of the wife in whom his eyes delighted. Queen Bethoc, the daughter of Gormack, knew that men said she was less beautiful than Agitha, the daughter of the king. When they walked by the clear fountains or the crystal brooks together, the fountains and the brooks whispered to her the words which men spoke--"Agitha is the most lovely." Therefore did the queen hate Agitha with a great and deadly hatred. As the sleuth-hound seeketh its prey, so did she seek her destruction. As the fowler lureth the bird into his net, so did she lie in wait for her. Yet she feared to destroy her openly, because that she was afraid of the fierce anger of her husband Ethelfrith, and his love for his daughter was great. Sleep fled from her eyes, and colour forsook her cheeks, because of her envy of the beauty of Agitha, and the hatred which she bore her. She spoke unto her father Gormack, the weird thane, that he would aid her with his sorceries against her. Then did they practise their unclean spells, and perform their dark incantations to destroy her; but their spells and incantations prevailed not, for the spirit of Woden protected Agitha. Now, there resided at that time in a dark cave, in the heugh which is called Spindleston, an enchantress of great power, named Elgiva--the worker of wonders. Men said that she could weave ropes of sand, and threads from the motes of the sunbeams. She could call down fire from the clouds, and transform all things by the waving of her magic wand. Around her hung a loose robe, composed of the skins of many beasts. Her feet and her arms were bare, and they were painted with strange figures. On her face, also, was the likeness of the spirits that ministered to her will. She was fearful to look upon. Men fled at her approach. The beasts of the field were scared by her shadow. Round her head was wreathed a crown of fantastic hemlock--round her neck a corslet of deadly nightshade. On her left arm coiled a living snake, and it rested its head upon her bosom. In her right hand she held a wand dipped in the poison of all things venomous. Whatsoever it touched died--whatsoever it waved over was transformed. No human foot approached her cave--no mortal dared. The warrior, who feared not a hundred foes, quailed at the sight of Elgiva, the enchantress, the worker of wonders. Unclean reptiles crawled around her cave--the asp, the loathsome toad, and the hissing adder. Two owls sat in the farthest corner of the cave, and their eyes were as lamps in its darkness. They sat upon skulls of the dead. A tame raven croaked in the midst of it. It was told that the reptiles, the owls, and the raven, were objects of her enchantment--warriors, and the daughters of warriors, transformed by the waving of her wand. Now, when Bethoc could find no rest because of the greatness of her hatred for Agitha, and, moreover, as she herself had communed with impure spirits, she overcame the terror which the name of Elgiva spread. She sought her aid. In the dead of night, when the moon had gone to rest, yea, when clouds and darkness had blotted out the stars that were left to watch in the heavens, she went forth from the tower of kings. She stood before the cave of the enchantress. She lifted up her voice and cried--"Elgiva--worker of wonders! the feared of mortals--come forth!" The owls clapped their wings and screamed; the ravens croaked, and the adders hissed. From the darkness of her cave the voice of the enchantress came forth--it came forth as a voice from the grave, saying--"Who amongst the children of mortals dareth to call upon the name of Elgiva?--or, what deed of sin bringeth thee hither?" "The queen," answered Bethoc, "the wife of the mighty Ethelfrith, she calleth thee, she invoketh thine aid. The strongest spirits obey thee--the spirits of the earth, of the air, and of the sea. Then help me, thou that art more powerful than the kings of the earth, that art stronger than the fate of the stars; help--rid me of mine enemy whom I hate, even of Agitha, the daughter of the king. Make her as one of the poisoned worms that crawl within thy cave. Or, if thou wilt not do this thing to serve me, when my right hand hath shed her blood, turn from me the fierce wrath of her father the king." Again the voice of the enchantress came forth from the cave, saying--"In seven days come unto me again--bring with thee the Princess Agitha; and Elgiva, the enchantress, will do towards her as Bethoc, the daughter of the weird thane, hath requested." Thus did the queen, while Ethelfrith, her lord, was making war against a strange king in a far country. Darkness lay heavy on the hills, it concealed the objects on the plains. The seven days, of which the enchantress had spoken, were expired. "Maiden," said the queen unto Agitha, "rise and follow me." Agitha obeyed; for the fear and the commandment of her father were upon her. Two servants, men of the Pictish race, also followed the queen. She went towards the cave of the enchantress. Agitha would have shrunk back, but the queen grasped her hand. The swords of the men of the Pictish race waved over her. They dragged her forward. They stood before the cave of the potent Elgiva. "Elgiva! worker of wonders!" exclaimed the queen; "Bethoc, thy servant, is come. The victim also is here--Agitha, the morning-star. By thy power, which is stronger than the lightning, and invisible as the wind, render loathsome her beauty; yea, make her as a vile worm which crawleth on the ground, with venom in its mouth." Again was heard the deep voice of the enchantress, mingled with the croaking of the raven, and the screeching of the owls, as she rushed from her cave, crying--"It shall be as thou hast said." Terror had entranced the soul of the fair Agitha--it had brought a sleep over her senses. The enchantress grasped her hand. She threw her arm around her. "Away, accursed!" she exclaimed unto Bethoc the queen; "fly! lest the power of the enchantment fall upon thee also. Fly! lest it overtake thee as darkness overtaketh the benighted traveller. Fly! ere the wand of the worker of wonders is uplifted, and destruction come upon thee." The followers of Bethoc quaked with dismay. They turned with her and fled to the tower of Ida. Of their outgoing and their incoming none knew. The maidens of Bernicia wept when the loss of Agitha was known. "Beauty," said they, "hath perished. Agitha, whose face was as the face of heaven when its glories appear--as the face of the earth when its flowers give forth their fragrance--Agitha is not!" And because she was not, the people mourned. Queen Bethoc alone rejoiced, and was silent. Dismay and wonder spread over the land--for a tale was told of a serpent-worm, fearful in magnitude and of monstrous form, which was seen at Spindleston, by the cave of Elgiva--the worker of wonders--the woman of power. The people trembled. They said of the monster--"It is Agitha, the beloved!--the daughter of our king, of conquering Ethelfrith. Elgiva, the daughter of destruction, who communeth with the spirits of the air, and defeateth armies by the waving of her wand, hath done this. She hath cast her enchantments over Agitha, the fairest of women--the meekest among the daughters of princes." The bards raised songs of lamentation for her fate. "Surely," said they, "when the Chylde Wynde cometh, his sword, which maketh the brave to fall and bringeth down the mighty, will break the enchantment." And the burden of the songs was--"Return, O valiant Chylde, conqueror of nations--thou who makest kings captives, return! Free the enchanted! Deliver the beautiful!" Now, the people of the land where the Chylde and his warriors landed, were stricken with terror at their approach. They fled before them, as sheep fly upon the hills when the howl of the hungry wolf is heard. He overthrew their king, he took possession of his kingdom. He took his crown, and he brought it to Ethelfrith, whose ambition was boundless as the sea. He brought it as the price of Agitha's hand. It was morn. The sun rose with his robes of glory over the sea. Bethoc, the daughter of Gormack the weird, stood upon the turrets of Ida's tower. She was performing incantations to the four winds of heaven. She called upon them to lift up the sea on their invisible wings, to raise its waves as mountains, and whelm the ships upon its bosom. But the winds obeyed not her voice, and the sea was still. In the bay of Budle lay the vessels of the Chylde Wynde, and the weapons of his warriors flashed in the sunbeams and upon the sea. Therefore was the spirit of Queen Bethoc troubled. It was troubled lest the enchantment should be broken--Agitha delivered from the spell, and her wrongs avenged. As a great wave rolleth in majesty to the shore, so advanced the warrior ships of Chylde Wynde, the subduer of heroes. The people came forth to meet him with a shout of joy. "He is come," they cried; "the favoured of the stars, the Chylde of the sharp sword, is come to deliver Agitha the beautiful, to break the spell of her enchantment." He heard the dark tale. His bosom heaved. He rent the robe that covered him. His grief was as the howling of the winter wind, in a deep glen between great mountains. He threw himself upon the earth and wept. But again the spirit of Woden came upon him. It burned within his bosom as a fierce flame. He started to his feet. To his lips he pressed the sword of his father. He vowed to break the enchantment that entombed his betrothed. He rushed towards the cave of Elgiva, the worker of wonders. His warriors feared to follow him. The people stood back in dismay. For by the waving of Elgiva's wand she turned the swords of warriors upon themselves, she caused them to melt in their hands. At the mouth of her cave stood the enchantress. By her side lay the serpent-worm. "Daughter of wickedness!" shouted the Chylde, "break thy accursed spell; restore the fair form of my Agitha, else the blood of thy heart shall dissolve the charm." "Hearken, O Chylde," cried the enchantress; "thou subduer of kings, thou vanquisher of the strong--sharp is thy sword, but against me it hath no power. Would it pierce the breast that suckled thee?--the breast of her that bore thee?" From the hand of the warrior dropped his uplifted sword. "Mother!" he exclaimed. He fell on his knees before her. "Yea, thy mother," answered the enchantress; "who, when her warrior husband fell, fled to the desert, to the cave, and to the forest, for protection--even for protection from the love and from the wrath of Ethelfrith the fierce, the brother of thy warrior father, whose eyes were as the eagle's, and his arm great of strength. Uncouth is the habit, wild is the figure, and idle the art of thy mother. Broken is her wand which the vulgar feared. That mine eyes might behold my son, this cave became my abode. Superstition walled it round with fire." "And Agitha?" gasped the warrior. "Behold!" answered she, "the loathly worm at the feet of thy mother." The skins of fish of the deep sea were sewed together with cords--they were fashioned into the form of a great serpent. "Come forth, my daughter!" cried the enchantress. Agitha sprang from her disguise of skins. She sank on the breast of her hero. The people beheld her from afar. Their shout of joy rang across the sea. It was echoed among the hills. A scream rose from the tower of Ida. From the highest turret Bethoc the queen had sprung. In pieces was her body scattered at the foot of the great cliff. They were gathered together--they were buried in the cave of Elgiva. From her grave crawled an unclean beast, and it crawleth around it for ever. Ethelfrith died in battle. Woden shut his eyes and saw him not, and he fell. And Elgiva, the enchantress, the worker of wonders, was hailed as Rowena, the mother of Wynde, the subduer of princes; yea, even of Chylde Wynde, the beloved, and the lord of Agitha the Beautiful. Such was the tale of the Saxon bard. THE SABBATH WRECKS. A LEGEND OF DUNBAR. It was a beautiful Sabbath morning in the autumn of 1577: a few small clouds, tinged with red, sailed slowly through the blue heavens; the sun shone brightly, as if conscious of the glory and goodness of its Maker, diffusing around a holy stillness and tranquillity, characteristic of the day of rest; the majestic Frith flashed back the sunbeams, while, on its bosom, slowly glided the winged granaries of commerce; there, too, lay its islands, glorying in their strength--the May, shrouded in light, appeared as a leviathan sunning in its rays--and the giant Bass, covered with sea-fowl, rose as a proud mountain of alabaster in the midst of the waters. A thousand boats lay along the shores of Dunbar. It was the herring season--and there were many boats from the south and from the north, and also from the coast of Holland. Now, tidings were brought to the fishermen that an immense shoal was upon the coast; and, regardless of its being Sabbath morning, they began to prepare their thousand boats, and to go out to set their nets. The Rev. Andrew Simpson, a man possessed of the piety and boldness of an apostle, was then minister of Dunbar; and, as he went forth to the kirk to preach to his people, he beheld the unhallowed preparations of the fishermen on the beach; and he turned and went amongst them, and reproved them sternly for their great wickedness. But the men were obdurate--the prospect of great gain was before them, and they mocked the words of the preacher. Yea, some of them said unto him, in the words of the children to the prophet--"Go up, thou bald head." He went from boat to boat, counselling, entreating, expostulating with them, and praying for them. "Surely," said he, "the Lord of the Sabbath will not hold ye guiltless for this profanation of his holy day." But, at that period, vital religion was but little felt or understood upon the Borders, and they regarded not his words. He went to one boat, which was the property of members of his own congregation, and there he found Agnes Crawford, the daughter of one of his elders, hanging upon the neck of her husband, and their three children also clung around him, and they entreated him not to be guilty of breaking the Sabbath for the sake of perishing gain. But he regarded not their voice; and he kissed his wife and his children, while he laughed at their idle fears. Mr. Simpson beheld the scene with emotion, and approaching the group--"John Crawford," he exclaimed, addressing the husband, "you may profess to mock, to laugh to scorn the words of a feeble woman; but see that they return not like a consuming fire into your bosom when hope has departed. Is not the Lord of the Sabbath the Creator of the sea as well as of the dry land? Know ye not that ye are now braving the wrath of him before whom the mighty ocean is a drop, and all space but a span? Will ye, then, glory in insulting his ordinances, and delight in profaning the day of holiness? Will ye draw down everlasting darkness on the Sabbath of your soul? When ye were but a youth, ye have listened to the words of John Knox--the great apostle of our country--ye have trembled beneath their power, and the conviction that they carried with them; and when ye think of those convictions, and contrast them with your conduct this day, does not the word _apostate_ burn in your heart? John Crawford, some of your blood have embraced the stake for the sake of the truth, and will ye profane the Sabbath which they sanctified? The Scotsman who openly glories in such a sin, forfeits his claim to the name of one, and publishes to the world that he has no part nor communion with the land that gave him birth. John Crawford, hearken unto my voice, to the voice of your wife, and that of your bairns (whose bringing up is a credit to their mother), and be not guilty of this gross sin." But the fisherman, while he regarded not the supplications of his wife, became sullen at the words of the preacher; and, springing into the boat, seized an oar, and, with his comrades, began to pull from the shore. The thousand boats put to sea, and Mr. Simpson returned sorrowful from the beach to the kirk, while Agnes Crawford and her children followed him. That day he took for his text, "Remember the Sabbath day to keep it holy;" and, as he fearlessly and fervidly denounced the crime of Sabbath-breaking, and alluded to the impious proceedings of the day, his hearers trembled, but poor Agnes wept aloud, and her children clung around her, and they wept also, because she wept. But, ere the service had concluded, the heavens began to lower. Darkness fell over the congregation--and first came the murmur of the storm, which suddenly burst into the wild howl of the tempest. They gazed upon each other in silent terror, like guilty spirits stricken in their first rebellion by the searching glance of the Omniscient. The loud voice of psalms was abruptly hushed, and its echo mingled with the dreadful music of the elements, like the bleating of a tender lamb, in the wind that sweepeth howling on the mountains. For a moment, their features, convulsed and immovable, were still distended with the song of praise; but every tongue was silent, every eye fixed. There was no voice, save heaven's. The church seemed to rock to its foundations, but none fled--none moved. Pale, powerless as marble statues, horror transfixed them in the house of prayer. The steeple rocked in the blast, and, as it bent, a knell, untolled by human hands, pealed on the ears of the breathless multitude. A crash followed. The spire that glittered in the morning sun lay scattered in fragments, and the full voice of the whirlwind roared through the aisles. The trees crouched, and were stripped leafless; and the sturdy oak, whose roots had embraced the earth for centuries, torn from the deep darkness of its foundations, was uplifted on the wings of the tempest. Darkness was spread over the earth. Lightnings gathered together their terrors, and, clothed in the fury of their fearful majesty, flashed through the air. The fierce hail was poured down as clouds of ice. At the awful voice of the deep thunder, the whirlwind quailed, and the rage of the tempest seemed spent. Nothing was now heard save the rage of the troubled sea, which, lashed into foam by the angry storm, still bellowed forth its white billows to the clouds, and shouted its defiance loud as the war-cry of embattled worlds. The congregation still sat mute, horrified, death-like, as if waiting for the preacher to break the spell of the elements. He rose to return thanks for their preservation, and he had given out the lines-- "Lord, in thy wrath rebuke me not, Nor in thy hot rage chasten me," when the screams and the howling of women and children rushing wildly along the streets, rendered his voice inaudible. The congregation rose, and hurrying one upon another, they rushed from the church. The exhortations of the preacher to depart calmly were unheard and unheeded. Every seat was deserted, all rushed to the shore, and Agnes Crawford and her children ran, also, in terror, with the multitude. The wrecks of nearly two hundred boats were drifting among the rocks. The dead were strewed along the beach, and amongst them, wailing widows sought their husbands, children their fathers, mothers their sons, and all their kindred; and ever and anon an additional scream of grief arose, as the lifeless body of one or other such relation was found. A few of the lifeless bodies of the hardy crews were seen tossing to and fro; but the cry for help was hushed, and the yell of death was heard no more. It was, in truth, a fearful day--a day of lamentation, of warning, and of judgment. In one hour, and within sight of the beach, a hundred and ninety boats and their crews were whelmed in the mighty deep; and, dwelling on the shore between Spittal and North Berwick, two hundred and eighty widows wept their husbands lost. The spectators were busied carrying the dead, as they were driven on shore, beyond the reach of tide-mark. They had continued their melancholy task for near an hour, when a voice exclaimed--"See! see!--one still lives, and struggles to make the shore!" All rushed to the spot from whence the voice proceeded, and a young man was perceived, with more than mortal strength, yet labouring in the whirling waves. His countenance was black with despair. His heart panted with suffocating pangs. His limbs buffeted the billows in the strong agony of death, and he strained, with desperate eagerness, towards the projecting point of a black rock. It was now within his grasp, but, in its stead, he clutched the deceitful wave that laughed at his deliverance. He was whirled around it, dashed on it with violence, and again swept back by the relentless surge. He threw out his arms at random, and his deep groans and panting breath were heard through the sea's hoarse voice. He again reached the rock--he grasped, he clung to its tangled sides. A murmur moaned through the multitude. They gazed one upon another. His glazed eyes frowned darkly upon them. Supplication and scorn were mingled in his look. His lips moved, but his tongue uttered no sound. He only gasped to speak--to implore assistance. His strength gave way--the waters rushed around the rock as a whirlpool. He was again uplifted upon the white bosom of the foam, and tossed within a few yards of the wailing but unavailing crowd. "It is John Crawford!" exclaimed those who were enabled to recognise his features. A loud shriek followed the mention of his name--a female rushed through the crowd, and the next moment the delicate form of Agnes Crawford was seen floating on the wild sea. In an instant, a hundred plunged to her rescue; but, before the scream of horror and surprise raised by the spectators when they beheld her devoted but desperate purpose, had subsided, she was beyond the reach of all who feared death. Although no feminine amusement, Agnes, from a child, had delighted in buffeting the waters as though she felt at home upon their bosom; and now the strength of inspiration seemed to thrill through her frame. She was hidden from the gaze of the marvelling spectators, and a deep groan crept along the shore. She again appeared, and her fair hand grasped the shoulder of the drowning man! A shout of wild joy rang back on the deserted town. Her father, who was amongst the multitude, fell upon his knees. He clasped his hands together--"Merciful Heaven!" he exclaimed, "Thou who stillest the tempest, and holdest the waters in the hollow of thy hand, protect--protect my child!" The waters rioted with redoubled fury. Her strength seemed failing, but a smile of hope still lighted up her features, and her hand yet grasped her apparently lifeless burden. Despair again brooded on the countenances of her friends. For a moment, she disappeared amongst the waves; but the next, Agnes Crawford lay senseless on the beach, her arm resting on the bosom of him she had snatched from a watery grave--on the bosom of her husband. They were borne to their own house, where, in a few minutes, she recovered; but her husband manifested no sign of vitality. All the means within their power, and that they knew, were resorted to, in order to effect his resuscitation. Long and anxiously she wept over him, rubbing his temples and his bosom, and, at length, beneath her hand his breast first began to heave with the returning pulsation of his heart. "He lives!--he breathes!" she exclaimed; and she sank back in a state of unconsciousness, and was carried from the room. The preacher attended by the bedside, where the unconscious fisherman lay, directing and assisting in the operations necessary for restoring animation. In a few hours the fisherman awoke from his troubled sleep, which many expected would have been the sleep of death. He raised himself in the bed--he looked around wistfully. Agnes, who had recovered, and returned to the room, fell upon his bosom. "My Agnes!--my poor Agnes!" he cried, gazing wistfully in her face--"but, where--where am I?--and my bairnies, where are they?" "Here, faither, here!" cried the children, stretching out their little arms to embrace him. Again he looked anxiously around. A recollection of the past, and a consciousness of the present, fell upon his mind. "Thank God!" he exclaimed, and burst into tears; and when his troubled soul and his agitated bosom had found in them relief, he inquired, eagerly--"But, oh, tell me, how was I saved?" "John," said the aged elder, the father of Agnes, "ye was saved by the merciful and sustaining power o' that Providence which ye this morning set at nought. But I rejoice to find that your heart is not hardened, and that the awful visitation which has this day filled our coast with widows and with orphans, has not fallen upon you in vain; for ye acknowledge your guilt, and are grateful for your deliverance. Your being saved is naething short o' a miracle. We a' beheld how long and how desperately ye struggled wi' the raging waves. A scream burst upon my ear--a woman rushed through the crowd--and then, John!--oh, then!"---- But here the feelings of the old man overpowered him. He sobbed aloud, and pausing for a few moments, added--"Tell him, some o' ye." The preacher took up the tale. "Hearken unto me, John Crawford," said he. "Ye have reason, this day, to sorrow, and to rejoice, and to be grateful beyond measure. In the morning, ye mocked my counsel and set at nought my reproof; and as ye sowed so have ye reaped. But, as your faither-in-law has told ye, when your face was recognised from the shore, and your name mentioned, a woman screamed--she rushed through the multitude--she plunged into the boiling sea, and in an instant she was beyond the reach of help!" "Speak!--speak on!" cried the fisherman eagerly; and he placed his hands on his heaving bosom, and gazed anxiously, now towards the preacher, and again towards his Agnes, who wept upon his shoulder. "The Providence that had till then sustained you, while your fellow creatures perished around you," added the clergyman, "supported her. She reached you--she grasped your arm. After long struggling, she brought you within a few yards of the shore; a wave overwhelmed you both and cast you upon the beach, with her arm--the arm of your wife that saved you--upon your bosom!" "Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed the fisherman, pressing his wife to his bosom--"my ain Agnes!--was it you?--was it you?--my wife!--my saviour!" And he wept aloud, and his children wept also. But the feelings of the wife and the mother were too strong for words. I will not dwell upon the joy and gratitude of the family to whom the husband and the father had been restored as from the dead. It found a sorrowful contrast in the voice of lamentation and of mourning, which echoed along the coast like the peal of an alarm-bell. The dead were laid in heaps upon the beach, and, on the following day, widows, orphans, parents, and brothers, came from all the fishing towns along the coast, to seek their dead amongst the drowned that had been gathered together; or, if they found them not, they wandered along the shore to seek for them where the sea might have cast them forth. Such is the tale of the Sabbath wrecks--of the lost drave of Dunbar. END OF VOL. VI. 
31593	----	WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND. Historical, Traditionary, & Imaginative. With a Glossary. Revised by ALEXANDER LEIGHTON, One of the Original Editors and Contributors. VOL. III. London: Walter Scott, 14 Paternoster Square And Newcastle-Upon-Tyne. 1885. CONTENTS. WIDOW OF DUNSKAITH, (_Hugh Miller_), 1 THE WHITSOME TRAGEDY, (_John Mackay Wilson_), 20 THE SURGEON'S TALES, (_Alexander Leighton_)-- THE DIVER AND THE BELL, 53 AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF WILLIE SMITH, (_Alexander Campbell_), 85 THE PROFESSOR'S TALES, (_Professor Thomas Gillespie_)-- PHEBE FORTUNE, 117 THE ROYAL BRIDAL, (_John Mackay Wilson_), 134 THE ROYAL RAID, (_Alexander Leighton_), 166 THE EXPERIMENTER, (_John Howell_), 198 THE YOUNG LAIRD, (_Alexander Bethune_), 230 THE RIVAL NIGHTCAPS, (_Alexander Campbell_), 263 WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND. THE WIDOW OF DUNSKAITH. "Oh, mony a shriek, that waefu' night, Rose frae the stormy main; An' mony a bootless vow was made, An' mony a prayer vain; An' mithers wept, an' widows mourned For mony a weary day; An' maidens, ance o' blithest mood, Grew sad, and pined away." The northern Sutor of Cromarty is of a bolder character than even the southern one--abrupt, and stern, and precipitous as that is. It presents a loftier and more unbroken wall of rock; and, where it bounds on the Moray Frith, there is a savage magnificence in its cliffs and caves, and in the wild solitude of its beach, which we find nowhere equalled on the shores of the other. It is more exposed, too, in the time of tempest: the waves often rise, during the storms of winter, more than a hundred feet against its precipices, festooning them, even at that height, with wreaths of kelp and tangle; and, for miles within the bay, we may hear, at such seasons, the savage uproar that maddens amid its cliffs and caverns, coming booming over the lashings of the nearer waves, like the roar of artillery. There is a sublimity of desolation on its shores, the effects of a conflict maintained for ages, and on a scale so gigantic. The isolated, spire-like crags that rise along its base, are so drilled and bored by the incessant lashings of the surf, and are ground down into shapes so fantastic, that they seem but the wasted skeletons of their former selves; and we find almost every natural fissure in the solid rock hollowed into an immense cavern, whose very ceiling, though the head turns as we look up to it, owes evidently its comparative smoothness to the action of the waves. One of the most remarkable of these recesses occupies what we may term the apex of a lofty promontory. The entrance, unlike that of most of the others, is narrow and rugged, though of great height; but it widens within into a shadowy chamber, perplexed, like the nave of a cathedral, by uncertain cross lights, that come glimmering into it through two lesser openings, which perforate the opposite sides of the promontory. It is a strange, ghostly-looking place; there is a sort of moonlight greenness in the twilight which forms its noon, and the denser shadows which rest along its sides; a blackness, so profound that it mocks the eye, hangs over a lofty passage which leads from it, like a corridor, still deeper into the bowels of the hill; the light falls on a sprinkling of half-buried bones, the remains of animals that, in the depth of winter, have creeped into it for shelter, and to die; and, when the winds are up, and the hoarse roar of the waves comes reverberated from its inner recesses, or creeps howling along its roof, it needs no over-active fancy to people its avenues with the shapes of beings long since departed from every gayer and softer scene, but which still rise uncalled to the imagination in those by-corners of nature which seem dedicated, like this cavern, to the wild, the desolate, and the solitary. There is a little rocky bay a few hundred yards to the west, which has been known for ages, to all the seafaring men of the place, as the Cova Green. It is such a place as we are sometimes made acquainted with in the narratives of disastrous shipwrecks. First, there is a broad semicircular strip of beach, with a wilderness of insulated piles of rock in front; and so steep and continuous is the wall of precipices which rises behind, that, though we may see directly over head the grassy slopes of the hill, with here and there a few straggling firs, no human foot ever gained the nearer edge. The bay of the Cova Green is a prison to which the sea presents the only outlet; and the numerous caves which open along its sides, like the arches of an amphitheatre, seem but its darker cells. It is, in truth, a wild impressive place, full of beauty and terror, and with none of the squalidness of the mere dungeon about it. There is a puny littleness in our brick and lime receptacles of misery and languor which speaks as audibly of the feebleness of man, as of his crimes or his inhumanity; but here all is great and magnificent--and there is much, too, that is pleasing. Many of the higher cliffs, which rise beyond the influence of the spray, are tapestried with ivy; we may see the heron watching on the ledges beside her bundle of withered twigs, or the blue hawk darting from her cell; there is life on every side of us--life in even the wild tumbling of the waves, and in the stream of pure water which, rushing from the higher edge of the precipice in a long white cord, gradually untwists itself by the way, and spatters ceaselessly among the stones over the entrance of one of the caves. Nor does the scene want its old story to strengthen its hold on the imagination. I am wretchedly uncertain in my dates, but it must have been some time late in the reign of Queen Anne, that a fishing yawl, after vainly labouring for hours to enter the bay of Cromarty, during a strong gale from the west, was forced, at nightfall, to relinquish the attempt, and take shelter in the Cova Green. The crew consisted of but two persons--an old fisherman and his son. Both had been thoroughly drenched by the spray, and chilled by the piercing wind, which, accompanied by thick snow showers, had blown all day through the opening, from off the snowy top of Ben Wyvis; and it was with no ordinary satisfaction that, as they opened the little bay on their last tack, they saw the red gleam of a fire flickering from one of the caves, and a boat drawn upon the beach. "It must be some of the Tarbet fishermen," said the old man, "wind-bound like ourselves; but wiser than us, in having made provision for it. I shall feel willing enough to share their fire with them for the night." "But see," remarked the younger, "that there be no unwillingness on the other side. I am much mistaken if that be not the boat of my cousins the Macinlas, who would so fain have broken my head last Rhorichie Tryst. But, hap what may, father, the night is getting worse, and we have no choice of quarters. Hard up your helm, or we shall barely clear the Skerries; there now, every nail an anchor." He leaped ashore, carrying with him the small hawser attached to the stern, which he wound securely round a jutting crag, and then stood for a few seconds until the old man, who moved but heavily along the thwarts, had come up to him. All was comparatively calm under the lee of the precipices; but the wind was roaring fearfully in the woods above, and whistling amid the furze and ivy of the higher cliff; and the two boatmen, as they entered the cave, could see the flakes of a thick snow shower, that had just begun to descend, circling round and round in the eddy. The place was occupied by three men, who were sitting beside the fire, on blocks of stone which had been rolled from the beach. Two of them were young, and comparatively commonplace-looking persons; the third was a grey-headed old man, apparently of great muscular strength though long past his prime, and of a peculiarly sinister cast of countenance. A keg of spirits, which was placed end up in front of them, served as a table; there were little drinking measures of tin on it, and the mask-like, stolid expressions of the two younger men showed that they had been indulging freely. The elder was apparently sober. They all started to their feet on the entrance of the fishermen, and one of the younger, laying hold of the little cask, pitched it hurriedly into a dark corner of the cave. "HIS peace be here!" was the simple greeting of the elder fisherman, as he came forward. "Eachen Macinla," he continued, addressing the old man, "we have not met for years before--not, I believe, since the death o' my puir sister, when we parted such ill friends; but we are short-lived creatures ourselves, Eachen--surely our anger should be short-lived too; and I have come to crave from you a seat by your fire." "William Beth," replied Eachen, "it was no wish of mine we should ever meet; but to a seat by the fire you are welcome." Old Macinla and his sons resumed their seats, the two fishermen took their places fronting them, and for some time neither party exchanged a word. A fire, composed mostly of fragments of wreck and driftwood, threw up its broad cheerful flame towards the roof; but so spacious was the cavern that, except where here and there a whiter mass of stalactites, or bolder projection of cliff stood out from the darkness, the light seemed lost in it. A dense body of smoke, which stretched its blue level surface from side to side, and concealed the roof, went rolling outwards like an inverted river. "This is but a gousty lodging-place," remarked the old fisherman, as he looked round him; "but I have seen a worse. I wish the folk at home kent we were half sae snug; and then the fire, too--I have always felt something companionable in a fire, something consolable, as it were; it appears, somehow, as if it were a creature like ourselves, and had life in it." The remark seemed directed to no one in particular, and there was no reply. In a second attempt at conversation, the fisherman addressed himself to the old man. "It has vexed me," he said, "that our young folk shouldna, for my sister's sake, be on more friendly terms, Eachen. They hae been quarrelling, an' I wish to see the quarrel made up." The old man, without deigning a reply, knit his grey shaggy brows, and looked doggedly at the fire. "Nay, now," continued the fisherman, "we are getting auld men, Eachen, an' wauld better bury our hard thoughts o' ane anither afore we come to be buried ourselves. What if we were sent to the Cova Green the night, just that we might part friends!" Eachen fixed his keen scrutinizing glance on the speaker--it was but for a moment; there was a tremulous motion of the under lip as he withdrew it, and a setting of the teeth--the expression of mingled hatred and anger; but the tone of his reply savoured more of sullen indifference than of passion. "William Beth," he said, "ye hae tricked my boys out o' the bit property that suld hae come to them by their mother; it's no lang since they barely escaped being murdered by your son. What more want you? But ye perhaps think it better that the time should be passed in making hollow lip professions o' good will, than that it suld be employed in clearing off an old score." "Ay," hiccuped out the elder of the two sons, "the houses might come my way, then; an', besides, gin Helen Henry were to lose her ae joe, the ither might hae a better chance. Rise, brither--rise, man, an' fight for me an' your sweetheart." The younger lad, who seemed verging towards the last stage of intoxication, struck his clenched fist against his palm, and attempted to rise. "Look ye, uncle," exclaimed the younger fisherman, a powerful-looking and very handsome stripling, as he sprang to his feet, "your threat might be spared. Our little property was my grandfather's, and naturally descended to his only son; and, as for the affair at Rhorichie, I dare either of my cousins to say the quarrel was of my seeking. I have no wish to raise my hand against the sons or the husband of my aunt; but, if forced to it, you will find that neither my father nor myself are wholly at your mercy." "Whisht, Earnest," said the old fisherman, laying his hand on the hand of the young man; "sit down--your uncle maun hae ither thoughts. It is now fifteen years, Eachen," he continued, "since I was called to my sister's deathbed. You yourself canna forget what passed there. There had been grief, an' cauld, an' hunger, beside that bed. I'll no say you were willingly unkind--few folk are that but when they hae some purpose to serve by it, an' you could have none; but you laid no restraint on a harsh temper, and none on a craving habit that forgets everything but itsel; and so my puir sister perished in the middle o' her days--a wasted, heart-broken thing. It's no that I wish to hurt you. I mind how we passed our youth thegither, among the wild Buccaneers; it was a bad school, Eachen; an' I owre often feel I havena unlearned a' my ain lessons, to wonder that you shouldna hae unlearned a' yours. But we're getting old men, Eachen, an' we have now what we hadna in our young days, the advantage o' the light. Dinna let us die fools in the sight o' Him who is so willing to give us wisdom--dinna let us die enemies. We have been early friends, though maybe no for good; we have fought afore now at the same gun; we have been united by the luve o' her that's now in the dust; an' there are our boys--the nearest o' kin to ane anither that death has spared. But, what I feel as strongly as a' the rest, Eachen--we hae done meikle ill thegither. I can hardly think o' a past sin without thinking o' you, an' thinking too, that, if a creature like me may hope he has found pardon, you shouldna despair. Eachen, we maun be friends." The features of the stern old man relaxed. "You are perhaps right, William," he at length replied; "but ye were aye a luckier man than me--luckier for this world, I'm sure, an' maybe for the next. I had aye to seek, an' aften without finding, the good that came in your gate o' itsel. Now that age is coming upon us, ye get a snug rental frae the little houses, an' I hae naething; an' ye hae character an' credit, but wha would trust me, or cares for me? Ye hae been made an elder o' the kirk, too, I hear, an' I am still a reprobate; but we were a' born to be just what we are, an' sae maun submit. An' your son, too, shares in your luck; he has heart an' hand, an' my whelps hae neither; an' the girl Henry, that scouts that sot there, likes him--but what wonder o' that? But you are right, William--we maun be friends. Pledge me." The little cask was produced; and, filling the measures, he nodded to Earnest and his father. They pledged him; when, as if seized by a sudden frenzy, he filled his measure thrice in hasty succession, draining it each time to the bottom, and then flung it down with a short hoarse laugh. His sons, who would fain have joined with him, he repulsed with a firmness of manner which he had not before exhibited. "No, whelps," he said--"get sober as fast as ye can." "We had better," whispered Earnest to his father, "not sleep in the cave to-night." "Let me hear now o' your quarrel, Earnest," said Eachen--"your father was a more prudent man than you; and, however much he wronged me, did it without quarrelling." "The quarrel was none of my seeking," replied Earnest. "I was insulted by your sons, and would have borne it for the sake of what they seemed to forget; but there was another whom they also insulted, and that I could not bear." "The girl Henry--and what then?" "Why, my cousins may tell the rest. They were mean enough to take odds against me; and I just beat the two spiritless fellows that did so." But why record the quarrels of this unfortunate evening? An hour or two passed away in disagreeable bickerings, during which the patience of even the old fisherman was worn out, and that of Earnest had failed him altogether. They both quitted the cave, boisterous as the night was, and it was now stormier than ever; and, heaving off their boat, till she rode at the full length of her swing from the shore, sheltered themselves under the sail. The Macinlas returned next evening to Tarbet; but, though the wind moderated during the day, the yawl of William Beth did not enter the bay of Cromarty. Weeks passed away, during which the clergyman of the place corresponded, regarding the missing fishermen, with all the lower parts of the Frith; but they had disappeared, as it seemed, for ever. Where the northern Sutor sinks into the low sandy tract that nearly fronts the town of Cromarty, there is a narrow grassy terrace raised but a few yards over the level of the beach. It is sheltered behind by a steep undulating bank; for, though the rock here and there juts out, it is too rich in vegetation to be termed a precipice. To the east, the coast retires into a semicircular rocky recess, terminating seawards in a lofty, dark-browed precipice, and bristling, throughout all its extent, with a countless multitude of crags, that, at every heave of the wave, break the surface into a thousand eddies. Towards the west, there is a broken and somewhat dreary waste of sand. The terrace itself, however, is a sweet little spot, with its grassy slopes, that recline towards the sun, partially covered with thickets of wild-rose and honeysuckle, and studded, in their season, with violets, and daisies, and the delicate rock geranium. Towards its eastern extremity, with the bank rising immediately behind, and an open space in front, which seemed to have been cultivated at one time as a garden, there stood a picturesque little cottage. It was that of the widow of William Beth. Five years had now elapsed since the disappearance of her son and husband, and the cottage bore the marks of neglect and decay. The door and window, bleached white by the sea winds, shook loosely to every breeze; clusters of chickweed luxuriated in the hollows of the thatch, or mantled over the eaves; and a honeysuckle that had twisted itself round the chimney, lay withering in a tangled mass at the foot of the wall. But the progress of decay was more marked in the widow herself than in her dwelling. She had had to contend with grief and penury: a grief not the less undermining in its effects, from the circumstance of its being sometimes suspended by hope--a penury so extreme that every succeeding day seemed as if won by some providential interference from absolute want. And she was now, to all appearance, fast sinking in the struggle. The autumn was well nigh over: she had been weak and ailing for months before, and had now become so feeble as to be confined for days together to her bed. But, happily, the poor solitary woman had, at least, one attached friend in the daughter of a farmer of the parish, a young and beautiful girl, who, though naturally of no melancholy temperament, seemed to derive almost all she enjoyed of pleasure from the society of the widow. Helen Henry was in her twenty-third year; but she seemed older in spirit than in years. She was thin and pale, though exquisitely formed; there was a drooping heaviness in her fine eyes, and a cast of pensive thought on her forehead, that spoke of a longer experience of grief than so brief a portion of life might be supposed to have furnished. She had once lovers; but they had gradually dropped away in the despair of moving her, and awed by a deep and settled pensiveness which, in the gayest season of youth, her character had suddenly but permanently assumed. Besides, they all knew her affections were already engaged, and had come to learn, though late and unwillingly, that there are cases in which no rival can be more formidable than a dead one. Autumn, I have said, was near its close. The weather had given indications of an early and severe winter; and the widow, whose worn-out and delicate frame was affected by every change of atmosphere, had for a few days been more than usually indisposed. It was now long past noon, and she had but just risen. The apartment, however, bore witness that her young friend had paid her the accustomed morning visit; the fire was blazing on a clean comfortable-looking hearth, and every little piece of furniture it contained was arranged with the most scrupulous care. Her devotions were hardly over, when the well-known tap was again heard at the door. "Come in, my lassie," said the widow, and then lowering her voice, as the light foot of her friend was heard on the threshold--"God," she said, "has been ever kind to me--far, very far aboon my best deservings; and, oh, may He bless and reward her who has done so meikle, meikle for me!" The young girl entered and took her seat beside her. "You told me, mother," she said, "that to-morrow is Earnest's birthday. I have been thinking of it all last night, and feel as if my heart were turning into stone. But when I am alone, it is always so. There is a cold death-like weight at my breast that makes me unhappy, though, when I come to you, and we speak together, the feeling passes away, and I become cheerful." "Ah, my bairn," replied the old woman; "I fear I'm no your friend, meikle as I love you. We speak owre, owre often o' the lost; for our foolish hearts find mair pleasure in that than in anything else; but ill does it fit us for being alone. Weel do I ken your feeling--a stone deadness o' the heart, a feeling there are no words to express, but that seems as it were insensibility itself turning into pain; an' I ken, too, my lassie, that it is nursed by the very means ye take to flee from it. Ye maun learn to think mair o' the living and less o' the dead. Little, little does it matter, how a puir worn-out creature like me passes the few broken days o' life that remains to her; but ye are young, my Helen, an' the world is a' before you; an' ye maun just try an' live for it." "To-morrow," rejoined Helen, "is Earnest's birthday. Is it no strange that, when our minds make pictures o' the dead, it is always as they looked best, an' kindest, an' maist life-like. I have been seeing Earnest all night long, as when I saw him on his _last_ birthday; an', oh, the sharpness o' the pang, when, every now an' then, the back o' the picture is turned to me, an' I see him as he is--dust!" The widow grasped her young friend by the hand. "Helen," she said, "you will get better when I am taken from you; but, so long as we continue to meet, our thoughts will aye be running the one way. I had a strange dream last night, an' must tell it you. You see yon rock to the east, in the middle o' the little bay, that now rises through the back draught o' the sea, like the hull o' a ship, an' is now buried in a mountain o' foam. I dreamed I was sitting on that rock, in what seemed a bonny summer's morning; the sun was glancin' on the water; an' I could see the white sand far down at the bottom, wi' the reflection o' the little wavies running o'er it in long curls o' gowd. But there was no way o' leaving the rock, for the deep waters were round an' round me; an' I saw the tide covering one wee bittie after another, till at last the whole was covered. An' yet I had but little fear; for I remembered that baith Earnest an' William were in the sea afore me; an' I had the feeling that I could hae rest nowhere but wi' them. The water at last closed o'er me, an' I sank frae aff the rock to the sand at the bottom. But death seemed to have no power given him to hurt me; an' I walked as light as ever I hae done on a gowany brae, through the green depths o' the sea. I saw the silvery glitter o' the trout an' the salmon, shining to the sun, far far aboon me, like white pigeons in the lift; an' around me there were crimson starfish, an' sea-flowers, an' long trailing plants that waved in the tide like streamers; an' at length I came to a steep rock wi' a little cave like a tomb in it. 'Here,' I said, 'is the end o' my journey--William is here, an' Earnest.' An', as I looked into the cave, I saw there were bones in it, an' I prepared to take my place beside them. But, as I stooped to enter, some one called me, an' on looking up, there was William. 'Lillias,' he said, 'it is not night yet, nor is that your bed; you are to sleep, not with me, but with Earnest--haste you home, for he is waiting you.' 'Oh, take me to him! I said; an' then all at once I found myself on the shore, dizzied an' blinded wi' the bright sunshine; for, at the cave, there was a darkness like that o' a simmer's gloamin; an', when I looked up for William, it was Earnest that stood before me, life-like an' handsome as ever; an' you were beside him.'" The day had been gloomy and lowering, and, though there was little wind, a tremendous sea, that, as the evening advanced, rose higher and higher against the neighbouring precipice, had been rolling ashore since morning. The wind now began to blow in long hollow gusts among the cliffs, and the rain to patter against the widow's casement. "It will be a storm from the sea," she said; "the scarts an' gulls hae been flying landward sin' daybreak, an' I hae never seen the ground swell come home heavier against the rocks. Wae's me for the puir sailors!" "In the lang stormy nights," said Helen, "I canna sleep for thinking o' them, though I have no one to bind me to them now. Only look how the sea rages among the rocks, as if it were a thing o' life an' passion!--that last wave rose to the crane's nest. An', look, yonder is a boat rounding the rock wi' only one man in it. It dances on the surf as if it were a cork, an' the wee bittie o' sail, sae black an' weet, seems scarcely bigger than a napkin. Is it no bearing in for the boat haven below?" "My poor old eyes," replied the widow, "are growing dim, an' surely no wonder; but yet I think I should ken that boatman. Is it no Eachen Macinla o' Tarbet?" "Hard-hearted, cruel old man," exclaimed the maiden, "what can be taking him here? Look how his skiff shoots in like an arrow on the long roll o' the surf!--an' now she is high on the beach. How unfeeling it was o' him to rob you o' your little property in the very first o' your grief! But, see, he is so worn out that he can hardly walk over the rough stones. Ah, me, he is down! wretched old man. I must run to his assistance--but no, he has risen again. See he is coming straight to the house; an' now he is at the door." In a moment after, Eachen entered the cottage. "I am perishing, Lillias," he said, "with cold an' hunger, an' can gang nae farther; surely ye'll no shut your door on me in a night like this." The poor widow had been taught in a far different school. She relinquished to the worn-out fisherman her seat by the fire, now hurriedly heaped with fresh fuel, and hastened to set before him the simple viands which her cottage afforded. As the night darkened, the storm increased. The wind roared among the rocks like the rattling of a thousand carriages over a paved street; and there were times when, after a sudden pause, the blast struck the cottage, as if it were a huge missile flung against it, and pressed on its roof and walls till the very floor rocked, and the rafters strained and shivered like the beams of a stranded vessel. There was a ceaseless patter of mingled rain and snow--now lower, now louder; and the fearful thunderings of the waves, as they raged among the pointed crags, was mingled with the hoarse roll of the storm along the beach. The old man sat beside the fire, fronting the widow and her companion, with his head reclined nearly as low as his knee, and his hands covering his face. There was no attempt at conversation. He seemed to shudder every time the blast yelled along the roof; and, as a fiercer gust burst open the door, there was a half-muttered ejaculation. "Heaven itsel hae mercy on them! for what can man do in a night like this?" "It is black as pitch," exclaimed Helen, who had risen to draw the bolt; "an' the drift flies sae thick that it feels to the hand like a solid snaw wreath. An', oh, how it lightens?" "Heaven itsel hae mercy on them!" again ejaculated the old man. "My two boys," said he, addressing the widow, "are at the far Frith; an' how can an open boat live in a night like this?" There seemed something magical in the communication--something that awakened all the sympathies of the poor bereaved woman; and she felt she could forgive him every unkindness. "Wae's me!" she exclaimed, "it was in such a night as this, an' scarcely sae wild, that my Earnest perished." The old man groaned and wrung his hands. In one of the pauses of the hurricane, there was a gun heard from the sea, and shortly after a second. "Some puir vessel in distress," said the widow; "but, alas! where can succour come frae in sae terrible a night? There is help only in Ane. Wae's me! would we no better light up a blaze on the floor, an', dearest Helen, draw off the cover frae the window. My puir Earnest has told me that my light has aften shewed him his bearing frae the deadly bed o' Dunskaith. That last gun"--for a third was now heard booming over the mingled roar of the sea and the wind--"that last gun came frae the very rock edge. Wae's me, wae's me! maun they perish, an' sae near!" Helen hastily lighted a bundle of more fir, that threw up its red, sputtering blaze half-way to the roof, and, dropping the covering, continued to wave it opposite the window. Guns were still heard at measured intervals, but apparently from a safer offing; and the last, as it sounded faintly against the wind, came evidently from the interior of the bay. "She has escaped," said the old man; "it's a feeble hand that canna do good when the heart is willing--but what has mine been doing a' life long?" He looked at the widow and shuddered. Towards morning, the wind fell, and the moon, in her last quarter, rose red and glaring out of the Frith, lighting the melancholy roll of the waves, that still came like mountains, and the broad white belt of surf that skirted the shores. The old fisherman left the cottage, and sauntered along the beach. It was heaped with huge wreaths of kelp and tangle uprooted by the storm, and in the hollow of the rocky bay lay the scattered fragments of a boat. Eachen stooped to pick up a piece of the wreck, in the fearful expectation of finding some known mark by which to recognise it, when the light fell full on the swollen face of a corpse that seemed staring at him from out a wreath of weed. It was that of his eldest son. The body of the younger, fearfully gashed and mangled by the rocks, lay a few yards farther to the east. The morning was as pleasant as the night had been boisterous; and, except that the distant hills were covered with snow, and that a heavy swell still continued to roll in from the sea, there remained scarce any trace of the recent tempest. Every hollow of the neighbouring hill had its little runnel, formed by the rains of the previous night, that now splashed and glistened to the sun. The bushes round the cottage were well nigh divested of their leaves; but their red berries--hips and haws, and the juicy fruit of the honeysuckle--gleamed cheerfully to the light; and a warm steam of vapour, like that of a May morning, rose from the roof and the little mossy platform in front. But the scene seemed to have something more than merely its beauty to recommend it to a young man, drawn apparently to the spot, with many others, by the fate of the two unfortunate fishermen, and who now stood gazing on the rocks, and the hills, and the cottage, as a lover on the features of his mistress. The bodies had been carried to an old storehouse, which may still be seen a short mile to the west, and the crowds that, during the early part of the morning, had been perambulating the beach, gazing at the wreck, and discussing the various probabilities of the accident, had gradually dispersed. But this solitary individual, whom no one knew, remained behind. He was a tall and swarthy, though very handsome man, of about five-and-twenty, with a slight scar on his left cheek; his dress, which was plain and neat, was distinguished from that of the common seaman by three narrow stripes of gold lace on the upper part of one of the sleeves. He had twice stepped towards the cottage door, and twice drawn back, as if influenced by some unaccountable feeling--timidity, perhaps, or bashfulness; and yet the bearing of the man gave little indication of either. But, at length, as if he had gathered heart, he raised the latch and went in. The widow, who had had many visitors that morning, seemed to be scarcely aware of his entrance; she was sitting on a low seat beside the fire, her face covered with her hands, while the tremulous rocking motion of her body showed that she was still brooding over the distresses of the previous night. Her companion, who had thrown herself across the bed, was fast asleep. The stranger seated himself beside the fire, which seemed dying amid its ashes, and, turning sedulously from the light of the window, laid his hand gently on the widow's shoulder. She started, and looked up. "I have strange news for you," he said. "You have long mourned for your husband and your son; but, though the old man has been dead for years, your son, Earnest, is still alive, and is now in the harbour of Cromarty. He is lieutenant of the vessel whose guns you must have heard during the night." The poor woman seemed to have lost all power of reply. "I am a friend of Earnest's," continued the stranger; "and have come to prepare you for meeting with him. It is now five years since his father and he were blown off to sea by a strong gale from the land. They drove before it for four days, when they were picked up by an armed vessel then cruising in the North Sea, and which soon after sailed for the coast of Spanish America. The poor old man sank under the fatigues he had undergone; though Earnest, better able from his youth to endure hardship, was little affected by them. He accompanied us on our Spanish expedition--indeed, he had no choice, for we touched at no British port after meeting with him; and, through good fortune, and what his companions call merit, he has risen to be the second man aboard; and has now brought home with him gold enough, from the Spaniards, to make his old mother comfortable. He saw your light yesterevening, and steered by it to the roadstead, blessing you all the way. Tell me, for he anxiously wished me to inquire of you, whether Helen Henry is yet unmarried." "It is Earnest--it is Earnest himself!" exclaimed the maiden, as she started from the widow's bed. In a moment after she was locked in his arms. But why dwell on a scene which I feel myself unfitted to describe? It was ill, before evening, with old Eachen Macinla. The fatigues of the previous day, the grief and horror of the following night, had prostrated his energies, bodily and mental, and he now lay tossing, in a waste apartment of the storehouse, in the delirium of a fever. The bodies of his two sons occupied the floor below. He muttered, unceasingly, in his ravings, of William and Earnest Beth. They were standing beside him, he said, and every time he attempted to pray for his poor boys and himself, the stern old man laid his cold swollen hand on his lips. "Why trouble me?" he exclaimed. "Why stare with your white dead eyes on me? Away, old man! the little black shells are sticking in your gray hairs; away to your place! Was it I who raised the wind on the sea?--was it I?--was it I? Uh, u!--no--no, you were asleep--you were fast asleep, and could not see me cut the swing; and, besides, it was only a piece of rope. Keep away--touch me not; I am a free man, and will plead for my life. Please your honour, I did not murder these two men; I only cut the rope that fastened their boat to the land. Ha! ha! ha! he has ordered them away, and they have both left me unskaithed." At this moment Earnest Beth entered the apartment, and approached the bed. The miserable old man raised himself on his elbow, and, regarding him with a horrid stare, shrieked out--"Here is Earnest Beth come for me a second time!" and, sinking back on the pillow, instantly expired. THE WHITSOME TRAGEDY. When our forefathers were compelled to give up the ancient practice of crossing the Borders, and of seizing and driving home whatever cattle they could lay their hands upon, without caring or inquiring who might be their owner--in order to supply their necessities, both as regarded providing themselves with cattle and with articles of wearing apparel, they were forced to become buyers or sellers at the annual and other fairs on both sides of the Border. Hence they had, as we still have, the fairs of Stagshawbank, Whitsunbank, St. Ninian's, St. James's, and St. Boswell's; with the fairs of Wooler, Dunse, Chirnside, Swinton, and of many other towns and villages. Of the latter, several fell into disuse; and that of Whitsome was discontinued. Whitsome, or White's home, is the name of a village and small agricultural parish in the Merse, which is bounded by the parishes of Swinton, Ladykirk, Edrom, and Hutton. Now, as has been stated, Whitsome, in common with many other villages, enjoyed the privilege of having held at it an annual fair. But, though the old practice of lifting cattle, and of every man taking what he could, had been suppressed, the laws were not able to extinguish the ancient Border spirit which produced such doings; and, at the annual fairs, it often broke forth in riot, and terminated in blood. It was in consequence of one of those scenes, and in order to suppress them, that the people of Whitsome were deprived of a fair being held there; the particulars whereof, in the following story, will be unfolded. About the middle of the seventeenth century, there resided on the banks of the Till, and a few miles above its junction with the Tweed, a widow of the name of Barbara Moor. She had had seven sons; but they and her husband had all fallen in the troubles of the period, and she was left bereaved, desolate, and without a comforter. Many said that affliction had turned her brain; but even before she was acquainted with days of sorrow or with nights of lamentation, there was often a burning wildness in her words, and her manners were not as those of other women. There was a tinge of extravagance, and a character of vehemence, in all her actions. Some of her neighbours sympathised with her, because of the affliction that rendered her hearth desolate; but the greater part beheld her with reverential respect, or looked upon her with fear and trembling, believing her to be leagued with the inhabitants of the invisible world, and familiar with the moon and stars, reading in their courses the destinies of nations and of individuals as in a book. The character of a being who could read the decrees of fate, and even in some instances control the purposes of men, was certainly that which she seemed most pleased to assume; and its wildness soothed her troubled thoughts, or directed them into other channels. In her youth, and before her father had been compelled to bow his head to the authority of the wardens of the marches, she had resided in a castellated building, of greater strength than magnitude, one of the minor strongholds on the Border, and which might have been termed towers for the protection of stolen cattle. But, when the two nations came beneath the sovereignty of one monarch, and the spear of war was transformed into a pruning-hook, there went forth a decree that the strongholds, great and small, along the Borders should be destroyed; and amongst those that were rendered defenceless and uninhabitable was the turret which, for many generations, had been occupied by the ancestors of Barbara Moor. During the life-time of her husband, she had resided in a comfortable-looking farm-house, the appearance of which indicated that its inhabitants were of a more peaceful character than were those who, a few years before, had occupied the prison-like houses of strength. She now resided in a small mud-built and turf-covered hovel, which in winter afforded but a sorry shelter from the "pelting of the pitiless storm." But Barbara was used to bear the scorching sun of summer and the cold and storms of winter. She walked in the midst of the tempest, and bowed not her head; and she held converse with the wild lightning and the fierce hail, speaking of them as the ministers of her will. For nearly nine months every year she was absent from her clay-built hovel, and none knew whither she wandered. It is necessary, however, for the development of our story, that we here make further mention of her husband and her sons. The elder Moor had been a daring freebooter in his youth; and often in the morning, and even at dead of night, the "fray of support," the cry for help, and the sudden summons for neighbours and kinsmen to rise and ride, were raised wheresoever he trode; and the sleuth-hounds were let loose upon his track. It was his boast that he dared to ride farther to humble an enemy than any other reiver on either side of the Border. If he saw, or if he heard, of a herd of cattle or a flock of sheep to his liking, he immediately "marked it for his own," and seldom failed in securing it; and though the property so obtained was not purchased with money, it was often procured with a part of his own blood--and with the blood, and not unfrequently the lives, of his friends, followers, and relatives. And when law and justice became stronger than the reiver's right, they by no means tamed his spirit. Though necessity, then, compelled him to be a buyer and seller of cattle, he looked upon the occupation and the necessity as a disgrace, and he sighed for the honoured and happier days of his youth, when the freebooter's might was the freebooter's right. His sons were young men deeply imbued with his spirit; and it was their chiefest pleasure, during the long winter evenings, to sit and listen to him, while he recorded the exploits and the hairbreadth escapes of his early days. He frequently related to them strange adventures and contests which he had in his youth with one Walter Cunningham, who resided near Simprin, in Berwickshire, and who was not only regarded as a wealthy man, but as one of the boldest on the Borders. He had often boasted of the number of his herds, and defied the stoutest heart in Northumberland to lay hand upon their horns. The elder Moor had heard this defiance, and being resolved to prove that he had both a hand and a heart to put the defiance to the test, the following is one of the adventures which he related to his sons in connection therewith:-- "It was about the Martinmas," he said, "when the leaves were becoming few and blighted on the trees; I was courting your mother at the time, and her faither had consented to our marriage; but, at the same time, he half cast up to me, that I had but an ill-plenished house to take home a wife to--that I had neither meal in the press, kye in the byre, nor oxen in the court-yard. His own mailing was but poorly provided at the time; and had he looked at hame, he hardly would have ventured to throw a reflection at me. "'Weel, sir, said I to him, 'I dinna deny but what you say is true; but I have supple heels, a ready hand, a good sword, and a stout heart, and I ken a canny byre where there are threescore o' sleak beasties, weel worth the harrying.' "'Now ye speak like a lad of sense and mettle,' said the old man; 'and on the first night that ye bring them hame, the plumpest and the fattest o' them shall be slaughtered for the marriage-feast of you and Barbara.' "Then up spoke your mother's brother, and a winsome young man he was as ye would have found between Tweed and Tyne; and 'Jonathan,' says he to me, 'when ye gang to drive hame the herd, I shall go wi' thee, for the sake of a bout with the bold, bragging Cunningham, of Simprin--for I will lay thee my sword 'gainst a tailor's bodkin, it is him ye mean.' "'It is him, Duncan,' said I--for your uncle's name was Duncan--'though weel do I ken that he keeps them strongly guarded, and blood will flow, and weapons be broken, before we get them into our possession. But gie me your hand, my lad--we two shall be a match for him and a' his backing. What ye take shall be your own, and what I take, your sister's; and your faither shanna cast up my toom bink and my ill-stocked mailing.' "'Weel spoken, bairns!' cried your grandfaither, who had been a first hand at such ploys in his young days; 'weel spoken! I'm glad to see that the spirits of the young generation arena gaun backward; though, since King Jamie gaed to be King in London, as weel as at Edinburgh, our laws are only fit for a few women, and everything is done that can be done to banish manhood, and make it a crime.' "'Go upon no such an errand,' said your mother to both of us; 'for there is blood upon baith your brows, and there is death in your path.' "'Havers, lassie!' cried her faither angrily; 'are ye at your randering again?--what blood do ye see on their brows mair than I do, or what death can ye perceive in their path? All your mother's Highland kinsfolk were never able to throw their second-sighted glamour into my een, and my own bairn shanna. "'Call it randers, or what ye will,' answered she; 'but I see it plain as I see the grey hairs upon your head, that death and lamentation are gathering round my father's hearth, and are hovering and screaming owre it, like vultures round a desolate place.' "Her words made my flesh to creep upon my bones; for, both before that, and a hundred times since, I have heard her say dark and strange things, which sooner or later have owre truly come to pass. However, the foray across to Simprin was delayed till after our marriage; and your mother almost persuaded me to give up all thoughts of it, and instead of my former habits of life, to cultivate the bit ground which my forefaithers had held for two hundred years, for the consideration of an armed man's service. But her brother taunted me, and said I was no better than Samson lying wi' his head on the lap of Dalilah, and that I had not only given his sister my heart to keep, but my courage also. A taunt was a thing that I never could endure, and that I never would put up wi' from any man that ever was born--and I hope none of ye ever will, or, as I am your faither! ye should be no longer my sons! "'Weel, this night be it,' said I to your uncle, 'The Tweed will be fordable at Norham--I will have my shelty and weapons ready precisely at eleven, and get two friends to accompany us that I can trust. Do ye the like, and we shall see whose courage will stand firmest before morning.' "We gave each other our hands upon it, and said it was a bargain, and immediately set about making preparations for the excursion. Before the appointed hour, he rode up to my door, accompanied by two of his faither's servants; and I with my two friends were in readiness waiting for him. Your mother was very bitter against our purpose, and her words and her warnings made my very heart to shake within my breast. Her eyes flashed, as if they had been balls of fire, and her very bosom heaved up and down wi' agitation. "'Husband!--brother!' she cried, 'listen to me, and give up the mad errand on which ye are bent; for the bloodhound is snuffing the air and gnashing its teeth, and the hooded crow clapping its wings for a feast, and the owl has looked east, west, north, and south, from the auld turret--it has screamed wi' joy, and its eyes are fixed on Simprin! Be wise--be warned--or the moon will set and the sun rise upon unburied bones. Cunningham of Simprin is strong and powerful; he is strong wi' men, he is strong wi' money; and his herds and his hirsels are strongly guarded. Again I say to ye, be wise--be warned--desist!--or auld men will tear their grey hairs, and wives mourn; and those only that live by the gibbet, rejoice wi' the bloodhound and bird of prey!' "Her words made us both uncomfortable; but we had often been engaged in such exploits before the expedition was determined on; and we couldna, in the presence of the four men that we had engaged to accompany us, abandon it. They were fearless and experienced hands at the trade; but the new laws on the Borders had reduced them to great privations, and their teeth were watering for the flesh-pots of bygone days, no matter at what risk they were to be obtained. "It was a delightful moonlight night--almost as bright as day; the moon's brightness put out the stars, and not aboon a dozen were visible, though there wasna half that number of clouds in the whole heavens, and they were just like white sheets, that spirits might be sleeping on in the air! We proceeded by way of Twisel to Norham, where we crossed the Tweed to Ladykirk; and as at midnight we passed by the auld kirkyard, I believe I actually put my hands to my ears, lest I should hear the howlets flapping their wings and screaming in the belfry, and turned my face away from it in a sort of apprehension of seeing a spirit, or something waur, upon every grave; for your mother's prophecies were uppermost in my mind, in spite of all that I could say or strive to think. And I believe that your uncle's mind was troubled wi' the same sort of fears or fancies; for we were both silent the greater part of the road, and spoke very little to each other. "However, just about one o'clock, and when the moon was beginning to edge down upon the Lammermuirs, we arrived at an enclosure, in which Cunningham had sixty head of cattle penned. The six of us had but little difficulty in breaking down the gate that opened to the enclosure; and just as we were beginning to drive out the cattle, a man started up on a sort of tower place that was built upon the wall that surrounded them, and hurled a kind of instrument round his head, that made a noise like a thousand corn-craiks crying together in concert, and trying which would craik loudest and fastest. At the unearthly sound, the cattle also commenced a louting that might easily have been heard at two or three miles off. "It at once struck me, as the best and wisest step for us to take, that we should put spurs into our horses, and gallop back to Tweedside; for I kenned it would be impossible for us to secure a single cow, surrounded, as we were sure to be in a few minutes, by sixty or a hundred men; and though I was no coward, I was aware that there could be but little bravery in six men attempting to give battle to sixty. But, before I had time to come to a determination, or even to speak, I saw your uncle's pistol flash; and even, I may say, before I heard the report, I perceived the man tumble down headlong from the turret on the wall, among the horns of the cattle. "'Ye have done wrong in shooting the lad,' said I; 'ye have raised the whole country side; and presently Cunningham and all his host will be at our heels.' "'No fear,' said he; 'there is small danger of that--a dead tongue tells no tales. And Cunningham and his host, as you term them, may be at our face, but never shall they be at our heels, unless it be marching or fighting against a common enemy.' "We began, therefore, to drive out the cattle; but scarce had we driven them from the enclosure, and turned their heads towards the Tweed, when we heard the baying of Cunningham's blood-hounds, and the shouts of his people. "The sounds of their horses' feet became audible, and every moment they gained ground upon us. It was apparent that, if we persisted in keeping possession of the cattle, and attempting to drive them before us, within two minutes, and we would be within swords' length of each other. "'Brother,' said I to your uncle, as I turned and perceived that the number of our pursuers could not be under thirty, and was conscious that that number would soon be doubled--'Brother,' said I, 'let us spur on our horses, and leave the cattle to cover our retreat. It is no disgrace for six men to flee before sixty.' "'Be it so,' he said; but it was too late. The cattle, scared by the shouting of our pursuers, the howling of their blood-hounds, and the flashing of their torches (for they had lighted fir branches to pursue us, as the moon was setting), tossed their horns in the air, and ran wildly to and fro; so that the horses, in their turn, were scared to pass through them, and we were so hemmed in between thick woods, that there was no riding round them. "The followers of Cunningham surrounded us with a wild shout, and a cry for revenge. But we drew close together--we formed ourselves into a little circle--and waiting the attack of our antagonists, we contended with them hand to hand. Ten of them lay writhing on the earth, or had retired, wounded, from the contest; while our little band remained unwounded, unbroken. For more than a quarter of an hour, we maintained the unequal fight. But victory, on our side, was impossible, and escape all but hopeless. Your uncle was the first of our number that fell. The sword of an enemy had pierced his bosom, and I heard him shout to me, in a voice rendered dismal with agony, never to yield!--to fight to the last! as he lay bleeding on the ground. "I was then contending, hand to hand, with Cunningham. In our rage, we had closed by the side of each other, and each grasped the other by the throat. He shortened his sword, and, with a triumphant laugh, was lunging it at my side, when, with a sudden and violent effort, I hurled him from the saddle. As he rose, he thrust his sword into the breast of the horse on which I rode, which reared, sprang forward, and fell, and I was thrown upon the ground, in the midst of enemies. "Two of the four who accompanied us were also wounded, and disabled from continuing the fight; and the other two, upon seeing your uncle and myself upon the ground, surrendered. In my fall, my hand quitted not my sword. I sprang to my feet, and smote around me to the right and to the left, with the fury of a wild beast. My object was to cut my way through my adversaries to the woods. I at length succeeded; but not until I had been thrice wounded. I rushed forward among the trees, until the sound of my pursuers died away; but the moon had gone down, and I knew not in what direction I ran, but pressed onward and onward, until exhausted, through loss of blood, I fell upon the ground. A sleep that was nae sleep came owre me, and a dream that was nae dream stealed owre my senses; while the blood continued oozing from my wounds, and my soul was creeping away. Something was growing owre my faculties, just like the opening of a starry night, as the gloaming dies away, and star after star peeps out. I at first felt happy; just steeped, as it were, in a sensation of pleasantness; and there were sounds like sweet music in my ears. But the feeling of happiness was changed, I kenned not how, for one of pain--the feeling of pleasantness for one of horror--and the sweet sounds into dismal howls. I started up--I grasped my sword firmer in my hand; but the howls departed not wi' the disturbed sleep from which I had been startled; but they broke upon my ear, louder and nearer--the howls of the savage sleuth-hound, that had been sent to track me. I heard the horrid beast snuff the air, and break into short, hurried, and savage howls of delight, within a few yards of me. I had not strength to fly; and if I had had strength, flight would have been impossible. My pursuers seemed to have lost trace of the animal; for I could neither hear their footsteps nor the sound of their voices. I made no attempt at flight, but stood waiting its approach, with my sword uplifted to smite it. Loss of blood had brought a dimness over my eyes, which, added to the darkness of the wood, made me that I had rather to grope and listen for the animal, than perceive it, as it might attempt to spring upon me. I would rather have met ten enemies than, in darkness, and in my then fainting state, have waited the attack of that savage beast. It sprang upon me--I struck towards it with my sword, and wounded it; but the weapon came in contact with the tangled branches of the underwood, and the force of the blow was broken. In another moment and I felt the paws of the monster upon my breast. I grasped it by the throat, and we fell upon the ground together--my enemy uppermost. Its teeth were in my shoulder. After several vain attempts, I drove my sword through its body. The howls of the fierce beast were terrible. It withdrew its teeth from my shoulder, and struggled to escape; but I still held it by the throat--with the grip of death I held it--and still, still strove to pierce it again and again. I held it till it was stiff, cold, and dead! "Wounded, faint, and weary as I was, I ventured from the woods before morning broke, and crossed the Tweed at Kersfield. The sun rose at the very moment that I turned the corner of the hill which conceals our house from the public road, and revealed to me your mother, sitting on the blue stone at the door, as cold and frozen-like to appearance as if she had sat there the livelong night (as I afterwards understood she had.) Her hands were clasped together, her eyes were raised upward, and her lips were moving, as if she were repeating a prayer, or muttering a charm. When she saw me approaching the door, she rose from the stone, and, striking her hand upon her brow, cried--'Jonathan Moor! ye cruel man! ye disregarder of the warnings of her whose life is as the shadow of your life! said I not that the hound was howling, and the raven was flapping its wings for a feast?--yet ye would not listen to my voice! And my brother!--where is my brother?--the son of my mother--more headstrong and foolish than yoursel'! Ye daurna answer, and ye needna answer. He is dead! The horse of Cunningham have trampled on his body, and he lies unburied.' "I didna ken how to find words to speak to her, and, indeed, I was hardly able to speak; for the pain and stiffness of my wounds were terrible to endure, and there was a sickness about my heart that made me that I could have been willing to have lain down and died; and even welcomed death, as a weary man would welcome sleep. "I was almost recovered from my wounds before we were exactly certain as to your uncle's fate; and that was when three out of the four that had accompanied us were permitted by Cunningham to return home, the other having died of his wounds a few days after the unlucky foray. From their account, it appeared that the person shot by your uncle, while watching the cattle against the inroads of an enemy, was none other than the only brother of Cunningham. He was not aware of his brother's death until after the affray, when he was found lying in the enclosure, into which the cattle were again driven. He was offering a free pardon to all his prisoners, save him by whose hand his brother fell, upon condition that they would betray him, when your uncle, starting up from the uncouth litter of branches, rudely torn from the trees, and upon which he was carried, cried out--'I did it!--my hand brought him down from his watch-box, like a crow from its roost!' "'To the turret wi' him!' exclaimed Cunningham wildly; 'and fling him from its pinnacle to the yard below.' "The fierce command was fiercely and willingly obeyed. Your uncle was borne to the top of the tower over the wall, and hurled headlong to the ground; and he lay there, with the cattle trampling upon him, and the dogs licking his sores, until he was dead. "Your mother heard the tidings in silence; but, from that day until this, she has never been as she used to be. Her anger is awful in a woman; and she vows and says the day will come when she will have revenge upon the name of Cunningham. She has spoken little of her gift of second-sight since ye were born; but she is often subject to long and gloomy fits of silent melancholy, as ye have all been witnesses; and I attribute it all to our foray to Simprin. But" (the old man would add in conclusion), "would that the good old times were come back again, when I could meet Cunningham in the field; and he should find the hand that unhorsed him five and twenty years syne has lost but little of its strength." Now, the eldest sons of Jonathan and Barbara Moor were twins, and the youngest were also twins, and they had no daughters living. The two eldest were seven and twenty, and the two youngest seventeen, when the civil war between the King and the Parliament took place. Walter Cunningham and three sons, with several of his dependants, joined the royal army, and he had but another son, who was then but an infant of a few months old, and whose mother had died ere his infant lips drew from her breast the nourishment of life. That infant he regarded as the Benjamin of his age, and loved him with a double love for his mother's sake. But, deeming that his duty to his King called him to arms, he, with his three eldest sons and followers, took the field, leaving the infant in the charge of a tried nurse. Now, when Jonathan Moor heard that his old enemy had joined the King's standard, although he was too much of an ancient Borderer to care aught for either one party or another, or for any cause save his own hand; yet, to know that Cunningham had joined the King's party, was enough to induce him to join the army of the Parliament. He knew nothing about the quarrel--and he cared nothing; neither did he understand anything of the religious disputes of the period; for, generally speaking, religion upon the Borders in those days was at a very low ebb. In Berwick, and other places, John Knox, the dauntless apostle of the north, with others of his followers, had laboured some years before; but their success was not great; the Borderers could not be made to understand why they should not "take who had the power," even though kings and wardens issued laws, and clergymen denounced judgments against the practice. It was of no use to tell them "Thou shalt not steal;" the difficulty was to convince them what was theft. It was, therefore, merely because his former adversary and his sons were in the King's army, that Jonathan Moor, with his sons, joined the army of the Parliament. Barbara protested bitterly against the departure of her husband and her sons to take part in the wars. "Wherefore, Jonathan," she cried, "wherefore will ye sacrifice yourself, and why will ye gie up my winsome sons to the jaws of death? Is there not enough provided for the eagles' and the ravens' banquet, without their bonny blue een to peck at? Bide at hame, and, with my bairns, plough up the green fields, that the earth may provide us with food, as a fond mother, from its bosom. But go ye to the wars, and your destiny is written--your doom is sealed. The blackness of lonely midnight hangs owre me as my widow's hood, and, like Rachel, I shall be left to weep for my children, for they will not be! Turn again, my husband, and my sons lay down your weapons of war. Hearken unto my voice, and remember that ye never knew one of my words fall to the ground. If ye go now, ye rush upon the swords that are sharpened for your destruction, and ye hasten to fatten the raven and the worm; for the winds shall sing your dirge, as your bonny yellow hair waves to the blast, and the gloaming and the night fling a shroud owre your uncoffined limbs. Ye go, but ye winna return. Ye will see the sun rise, but not set--and these are hard words for a mother to say." But her husband and her sons were men of war. They loved its tumult and its strife, as a hound loveth the sound that calls it to the chase, or a war-horse the echoes of the bugle; and, though they at times trembled at her wild words, they regarded them not. Taking their route by way of Coldstream, Greenlaw, and Soutra Hill, in order to avoid the army of General Leslie, which then occupied the eastern part of Lammermuir, they descended towards Dunbar, where they enrolled themselves as volunteers in the army of Cromwell. A few days after their arrival, they joined a skirmishing party, and, in a wild glen, near to Spot, they encountered a similar company that had been sent out by General Leslie. In the latter party, were Walter Cunningham and his three sons, and he, indeed, was their commander. It was with a look of ruthless delight that Jonathan Moor descried his old enemy at the head of the opposite party; and he said unto his sons--"Yonder is the murderer of your uncle--Cunningham of Simprin, with his three young birkies brawly mounted, and riding sprucely at his back. But, before night, the braw plumes in their beavers shall be trampled on the earth, and the horse will be lame that carries one of them back. Stick ye by my side, and ride ye where I ride; for it will be music to your mother's soul to ken that her brother's death is avenged, and by the hands of her own flesh and blood." The two parties rode forward and met each other. The Cunninghams and the Moors were face to face. The two fathers sat as if fixed upon their saddles for a few seconds, eyeing each other with looks of deadly hatred and ferocity, and recalling the days and the strife of other years. Though neither party mustered fifty, the onset was fierce and furious--the struggle long and desperate; and, on each side, more than half their original number lay dead or wounded on the ground. Amongst the former were the seven sons of Jonathan Moor, and the three sons of Walter Cunningham. The old men maintained a desperate combat with each other, apart from the rest, until breathless and exhausted, both for a few minutes paused, each holding the point of his sword towards the other's breast; and they now looked once more in each other's face, and again upon the ground, where they beheld the dead bodies of their sons. Grief seemed to seek expression in redoubled rage--again their swords clashed against each other, and gleamed in the sunbeams, rapid as the fitful lightning. After a long and sore contention, in which both had given and received wounds, they fell upon the ground together; but Moor received his death-wound on the ground, and he fell to rise no more. "I die!" he gasped, still grasping his antagonist by the breast--"I die, Cunningham--with my children, whom I have led to death, I die! But, remember, there is one left to avenge our deaths, and she will avenge them seven-fold!" Thus saying, his head fell back upon the ground, and he spoke not again. Cunningham, disengaging himself from the dead man's grasp, went towards the bodies of his children, and throwing himself upon the earth by their side, he kissed their lifeless eyeballs, and mourned over them. His grief was too intense, and his wounds too severe, to permit him continuing with the army, and he returned to his estate near Simprin, to watch over and protect his infant and only surviving son. When the tidings were brought to Barbara Moor, that she, in one day, had been bereaved of her husband and seven sons, and that the former had fallen by the hand of Cunningham, the destroyer of her brother, she sat and listened to the bearer of the evil tidings as one deprived of the power of speech and motion. Her cheeks, her eyes, manifested no change; but she sat calm, fixed, and entranced in the apathy of death. Her hands remained folded upon her bosom, and her head moved not. The messenger stood wondering and horror-struck, and twice he repeated his melancholy tale; but the listener took no outward note either of his words or his presence, and he departed, marvelling at the silent sorrow of the widow. "I knew it, man," she exclaimed, starting from her death-like trance after the messenger had departed--"I knew they would not return to me. I told them, but they believed me not--they would not hearken to my words. Miserable, deserted being that I am! wherefore should I live to mourn with the winter winds, or make a companion of the fearsome echoes that howl in the dark glens? Has not my husband, and have not my seven winsome sons, than whom there were not in Northumberland seven comelier lads--not to say brothers--oh, have not they, in one day, been snatched away, and swallowed up from me, as a jewel that is flung into the deep sea! But I will live to be avenged of their deaths, and my brother's death; and their destroyer shall not dandle a bairn upon his knee, or kiss its cheek, while mine are _all, all_ dead, and in a strange grave, and even wi' no one near to pull up the noxious nettle that may be waving ower their once bonny and snow-white bosoms!" Thus raved the wretched and childless mother; and from that day she was as one who had no fixed abode or resting-place; but, throughout the greater part of the year, wandered to and fro, no one could tell whither; and when she was found near the scenes of happier years, it was as a lonely dweller in the clay-built hovel of which mention has been made. She was a woman of a strong, perhaps it might be said a strange mind; but her imagination was stronger--it was fevered, and early tinctured with gloomy superstitions, until they became like a portion of her creed and her existence; and her afflictions tended to increase its morbidness. The life of Walter Cunningham now became wrapt up in that of his only son--the child was ever before his eyes, and he watched over his growth as over a tender plant. His sole "care was to increase his store," and lay up treasure for the child of his age, the youngest and the only survivor of his flock. The number of his flocks and of his herds increased greatly, and he was in the habit of attending the fairs upon the Borders, to dispose of them. It was Whitsome fair; and he sent there many of his cattle and his sheep for sale. He also attended it, and he took with him his son, who was then a boy of from three to four years of age. It was drawing towards evening, and Mr. Cunningham, in concluding a bargain with a person who had bought a number of his cattle, was separated from his child. He had not been absent from the spot where he had left him for ten minutes; but the child had disappeared; and search was made for him throughout the fair, but he was nowhere to be found, neither could any one give tidings of him. The anxious father sought his lost child from booth to booth; and, with his friends, he also searched the adjoining woods. He called his son by name, till, from far amidst the trees, it was echoed back; but that cheerless echo, or the scream of a startled bird, was the only reply. The disappearance of the child was a mystery which no one could unriddle. His father, during the few minutes that he was to be absent, had left him in charge of a servant, who confessed having entered a drinking booth, and as the liquor went round, he perceived not that the child had left his side. For many days his father sought him sorrowing; but all search proved vain. Mr. Cunningham returned to his house, a heart-broken and miserable man. The last, the only being that he loved on earth, had disappeared from his fond gaze, even as a beautiful vapour of strange shapes and gorgeous colours, which we gaze upon in the heavens, and turning from it but for a moment, we look for it again--but it is not. He refused to listen to words of consolation, or even of hope; and for several years he left not his house, but sat in loneliness, making a companion of his sorrow. Now, it was on a dark and dismal winter night, seven years after the disappearance of his son, when the hail rattled fiercely against the narrow casements of his habitation, and the wind howled wildly over the earth, tearing the branches from the naked trees, and causing the cattle to crowd together for shelter--that a wild voice was heard singing a wilder dirge, as if to the measure and music of the storm. The sound came from an open shed adjoining the house, where the cattle had been placed for shelter. The servants informed their master that a strange woman, whose wits seemed disordered, had crept into the shed, where, before morning, from the fury of the storm, she would doubtless perish. They took a light, and he accompanied them to the shed. Before them a wretched being sat upon the straw, and the hail dashed bitterly against her unshrinking, but time-worn and storm-beaten features. Her grey hairs waved loose and wildly in the wind. Her hands were clasped together upon her breast; and, as she sat, she sang the wild and melancholy dirge that has been mentioned. The burden of the strain was "Childless!--childless!--childless!" And again it waxed louder, and a prayer for vengeance was wildly sung. She sat and continued her dirge, regardless of their presence, and appeared as though she saw them not. The tears gathered in the eyes of Mr. Cunningham, as he listened to her dark words, and his limbs shook with a trembling motion. "Take her into the house," said he, "and give her food and shelter for the night. If my poor boy yet live, he may be now perishing, with none to shelter him." At his mention of his lost son, her wild strain suddenly ceased. She started to her feet; and, as she fixed upon him her haggard features, while her grey hairs and the many-coloured rags that covered her waved in the stormy wind, she seemed as though she were not an inhabitant of the earth, but rather the demon of the storm. "Ha! ha! ha!" she cried, with a hideous laugh, that made the beholders and the hearers shudder; "shelter from you!--the murderer of my brother!--of my husband!--of my children!--of my seven fair sons!--you that have made me childless! Back to thy dwelling, dog; and, if it will add another drop of torturing anxiety to your soul, to know that your son lives, and that you shall see him, but never know him--learn that he does live! He lives!" "Where, woman?--where?" exclaimed the wretched father. She hastily dashed a sort of lantern from the hand of the servant who held it, and, rushing from the shed towards the open fields, again laughed more dismally than before, and cried, "Where? She whom you have made childless, leaves that _where_ to torture you for ever!" The wretched father rushed after her; but, in the darkness, the noise, and tempest of the night, it was impossible to trace in what direction she had fled. As every reader must be already aware, the strange and fearful-looking woman was Barbara Moor, the widowed and childless mother. The words which she had spoken, regarding his son being yet alive, increased the anxious misery of Walter Cunningham. It caused his wounds, the anguish of which time had in some degree abated, to bleed afresh. At one time he doubted, and at another he believed, the words which the seeming maniac had uttered; and he made journeys to many places, in the hope of again meeting her, and of extorting from her a confession where he should find his son, or of obtaining some information that might throw light upon his fate. But his journeys then were as fruitless as his former inquiries. We must here introduce another character to our readers, in the person of Sandy Reed. At the period at which we introduce him, he was a widower, between forty and fifty years of age, with an only daughter, named Anne, a child of five years old; and his house was kept by a maiden aunt, who was on the aged side of sixty. Sandy was a farmer near the Reed water, in Northumberland, and as fine a specimen of the ancient Northumbrian farmer as could be met with--a distinct race, a few samples of whom were here and there to be found within the last thirty years--free, careless, hospitable, happy, boisterous, unlettered, and half-civilized. Sandy was one of these in their primitive state. He was in truth-- "A fine old English farmer, One of the olden time." He was as hardy as the hills on which his sheep fed. He was ready at all times either to shake hands or to break a head--to give or to take. No one ever entered his house and went out hungry. He had a bed, a bite, and a bottle for every one; and he was wont to say that he would rather treat a beggar than lose good company. He was no respecter of rank, nor did he understand much concerning it. He judged of the respect due to every one by what he called the "rule of good fellows." Burns makes the wife of Tam o' Shanter say-- "Ilka horse ye ca'ed a shoe on, The smith and you gat roarin' fu' on." But Tam had been but the degenerated shadow of Sandy Reed; for every time he had to pay a visit to the smith with his nag, they would have "Been fu' for weeks thegither!" When he had business at Morpeth market, his journey home never occupied less than a fortnight, though the distance was not quite thirty miles; for the worthy farmer had to stop three or four days at every hostelry by the way, for the sake of company, as he affirmed, and the good of the road; but he cared not much for going half-a-dozen miles out of his way to add another house of entertainment to the number; and it mattered not to him whether the company he met with were Roundheads or Cavaliers, provided they could show the heel-taps of their bottle, and in the intervals of bringing in a new one, wrestle, run, leap, or put, or quarrel in a friendly way, if they preferred it. But we shall record a portion of Sandy's adventures, so far as they are connected with our story, in his own words. The following was one of his favourite anecdotes of himself:-- "It was about three years after my wife's death, poor body," (he began) "that I had been owre at Morpeth market, wi' four score o' ewes and six score o' hogs. I was at least comfortable when I left Morpeth, but noughts aboon comfortable; for I had only had twenty queghs[1] o' English gin (which, thou must understand, in our part o' the country, means Cheviot-made whisky), and seven o' them were public-house ones, which wouldna count aboon three or four guid ones--so thou seest that I had had noughts in the world to make me onything but sober. Hoos'ever, I just thought to mysel', thinks I--drat! I'll away round by Elsdon, and see what a' my cronies there are about. So, 'To the right, Dobbin, my canny fellow,' said I to my nag--and it was as wise an animal as ever man had to speak to; it knawed every word I said, and understud me whether I was drunk or sober, mony a time, when ne'er a one else could make out what I said. But the poor beast had had sae meikle experience wi' me, that it knawed what I meant by a wink as weel as a nod. So I said to it--'To the right, Dobbin, my canny fellow; thou shalt be foddered at awd Betty Bell's t'night, and if a' be as it shud be, thou shalt hae a rest t'morrow tee, into the bargain.' So Dobbin took away across the moor to Elsdon, just as natural as a Christian could hae done. Weel, when I reached Elsdon, and went into Betty Bell's, there were five o' my cronies sitting. They were a' trumps, and they gied me three cheers when I went in, for they knawed that I was out and out a gud 'un. "'Ha! Sandy!' said they, 'thou'rt welcome, my canny lad--we just wanted you to make the half dozen. Hast thou been at Morpeth?' "'Yea,' said I, 'and hae just come round by Elsdon to hae a boot wi' thee.' "'So be it,' said they; and we sat down in gud earnest, and three glorious days we had, and would have had mair, but that we drank Betty Bell's cupboards dry. The stars were just beginning to wink out as I got my feet in the stirrups, and to confess the truth, I was winking far worse than the stars. However, Dobbin took across the moors, and I was in the high road for my home. How it was I dinna knaw; but I rather think that I had fallen asleep, and that something or other had scared the nag, and I had slipped out o' the saddle. I mind o' lying very cauld and uncomfortable, half-dreaming, half-waking, and I daresay, more than three parts the worse o' drink. I mind, tee, o' calling to my aunt as I thought, 'Auntie!--do thou hear?--bring another blanket to throw owre me, and put out that light--I canna get a wink o' sleep for it.' Then I thought I found something upon my breast, that was like my little Anne's head, and I put my hand out, and I said, 'Is that thee, Anne love?' But there was no answer; and I gied the head a shake, when, my conscience! there was such a frightened squall got up, that I sprang right upon my feet, and, to my astonishment, there had I been lying upon the moor, wi' Dobbin at my side, and the light which I wished to have put out was neither more nor less than the moon! But what surprised me most of all, and put me about what to dow, was, that what I had taken for my little Anne that had creeped to my side, as she often did when I came home, was nowther more nor less than a wee, ragged infant laddie, that had been lying fast asleep, wi' his head upon my bosom! There wasna a living creature in human shape upon the moor but our two sells; and how he came there was a miracle to me! 'Laddie,' says I, where dost thou come frae? What be thy faither, eh?--or thy mother? Be they alive?--or who brought thee here? Come, tell me, and I will gie thee a penny.' "But the poor bairn seemed more bewildered to find itsel' where it was than I did, and the more I offered to speak to it, it cried the louder. "'Why, thou needna cry,' said I, 'I winna eat thee; but how came thou here?--and where be thy faither and mother?' "However, I could get nought but screams and cries o' terror out o' the little innocent; so I cried all round the moor at the very pitch o' my voice,--'Holloa!--be there any one within hearing that has lost a bairn?' But I am thinking that I might have cried till now, and nobody would have answered, for it is my belief the bairn came there by magic! I canna say that I have seen the fairy folk mysel', though I have heard them often enough, but I am inclined to believe that they had a hand in stealing away the infant laddie frae his parents, and laying his head upon my breast on the moor. I declare to thee, though I couldna stand steady, I was at a stand still what to do. I couldna leave the infant to perish upon the moor, or I shud never hae been able to sleep in my bed again wi' the thoughts on't; and whenever I had to go to Morpeth, why, I should hae been afeared that its little ghost would hae haunted me in the home-coming; and, if I would hae been afeard o' it, it is mair than I would hae been o' meeting the biggest man in a' Northumberland. But if I took it hame, why I thought again there would be sic talking and laughing amang a' wur neighbours, who would be saying that the bairn was a son o' my awn, and my awd aunt would lecture me dead about it. However, finding I could mak naething out o' the infant, I lifted him up on saddle before me, and took him home wi' me. "'Why, what be that thou hast brought, Sandy lad?' asked my awd aunt, as she came to the door to meet me. "'Why, it be a bairn, aunt, that I found on the moor, poor thing,' said I. "'A bairn!' quoth she--'I hope thou be na the faither o't, Sandy?' "'I'll gie thee my hand and word on't, aunt,' said I, 'that I knaw nowther the faither nor mother o't; and from the way in which I found it upon the moor, I doubt whether ever it had owther the one or the other.' "My aunt was easier satisfied than I expected, and, by degrees, I let out the whole secret o' the story o' finding him, both to her and to my neighbours. Nobody ever came to own him, and he soon grew to be a credit to the manner in which I had brought him up. Before he could be more than seventeen, he was a match for ony man on Reed water or Coquet side, at ony thing they dared to take him up at. I was proud o' the laddie, for he did honour to the education I had gien him; and, before he was eighteen, he was as tall as mysel'. He isna nineteen yet; and my daughter Anne and him are bonnier than ony twa pictures that ever were hung up in the Duke o' Northumberland's castle. Ay, and they be as fond o' each other as two wood pigeons. It wud do thy heart gud to see them walking by Reed water side together, wi' such looks o' happiness in their eyes that ye wud say sorrow could never dim them wi' a tear. Anne will be a year, or maybe two, awder than him; but, as soon as I think he will be one-and-twenty, they shall be a wedded pair. Ay, and at my death, the farm shall be his tee--for a better lad ye winna meet in a' Northumberland, nor yet in a' the counties round about it. He has a kind heart and a ready hand; and his marrow, where strength, courage, or a determined spirit are wanted, I haena met wi'. There is, to be sure, a half-dementit, wild awd wife, they ca' Babby Moor, that gangs fleeing about wur hills, for a' the world like an evil speerit, and she puts strange notions into his head, and makes a cloud o' uneasiness, as it were, sit upon his brow. When I saw that I would have to keep him, I didna ken what name to gie him; but after consulting wi' my friends and the clergyman o' the parish, it was agreed that he should bear the surname o' wur family, and my faither's Christian name; so we called him Patrick Reed. But the daft awd wife came upon him one day amang the hills, and she pretended to look on his brow, and read the lines on his hand, and tald him, frae them, that Patrick Reed wasna his real name, but he would find it out some day--that he was born to be rich, though he might never be rich--and that he had an awd grey-haired faither that was mourning for him night and day, and that he had adopted the son of a relation to be his heir. When he came home he was greatly troubled, but he was too open-hearted to conceal from me, or from Anne, the cause of his uneasiness; and when he had tould us a' that the mad awd wife had said, I tried to laugh him out o' thinking about it, and bade him bring the bottle and take a glass like a man, and never mind it. But Patrick was nae drinker; and he gravely said to me, that the face o' the half-daft woman came owre his brain like a confused dream--that he had something like a remembrance of what she had said; and he also thought that he remembered having seen her. I wish the witch had been in the bottom o' the sea ere she met wi' him; for ever syne then--though Anne and he are as kind and as loving as ever--he isna half the lad that he used to be; and there is nae getting him now to take a game at onything--though he could beat everybody--for either love or money." Such was one of the stories which rough, honest, fear-nothing Sandy Reed told, in relating his adventures. Now, it came to pass, when Patrick, the foundling of whom he has spoken, had been sheltered beneath his roof for the space of seventeen years, that Sandy, having introduced the cultivation of turnips upon the lowlands of his farm, proposed to go to Whitsome fair, to purchase cattle to fatten with them, and also sheep from the Lammermuirs to eat them on the ground. He was now more than threescore, and he was less capable of long journeys than he had been; and he requested that his adopted son Patrick, who was also to be his son-in-law, should accompany him; and it was agreed that they should set out for Whitsome together. But, on the evening before their departure, as the maiden Anne was returning from a visit to the wife of a neighbouring farmer, she was intercepted within a mile of her father's house. The sibyl-like figure of Barbara Moor stood before her, and exclaimed--"Stand, maiden! Ye love the young man whom ye call Patrick--whom your father has so called--and who resides beneath his roof. He loves you; and ye shall be wed, if I, who have his destiny in my hand, have strength to direct it! And yet there must be more blood!--more!--for I am childless!--childless!--childless! We are not even yet!" She paused, and pressed her hand upon her brow; while the maiden, startled at her manner, trembled before her. But she again added--"Yes! yes!--ye shall be wed--the bauble wealth shall be yours, and ye deserve happiness. But hearken, ye maiden, for on the obeying of my words depends your fate. When your faither and Patrick set out for Whitsome fair, request ye to accompany them--insist that ye do, and ye shall return here a wealthy and a wedded wife; for she says it whose words were never wasted on the wind. Swear, maiden, that ye will perform what I have commanded ye." "Woman!" said Anne, quaking as she spoke, "I never swore, and I winna swear; but I give thee my hand that I will obey thee. I will go to Whitsome fair wi' my faither and Patrick." "Go! go!" cried the sibyl, "lest the dark spirit come upon me; and he whom ye call Patrick shall die by his father's hand, or his father by his. But speak not of whom ye have seen, nor of what ye have heard--but go and do as ye have been commanded. Be silent till we meet again." Anne bent her head in terror, and promised to obey; and the weird woman, again exclaiming--"Go!--be silent!--obey!" hastened from her sight. When Anne entered the house, her father, and her adopted brother, or lover, were making ready for their journey. She sat down silently and thoughtfully in a corner of the apartment, and her half-suppressed sighs reached their ears. "Why, what in the globe, daughter Anne," said her father, "can make thee sigh? Art thou sad because Patrick is to leave thee to go to a fair for a day or two? I suppose thou wouldn't hae troubled thy head, had thy father been to be absent as many months. But I don't blame thee; I mind I was tender-hearted at thy age, too--but Patrick knaws better what to say to thee than I do." "Dear Anne," whispered the youth, taking her hand, "what ails thee?" "Ask my father," she rejoined, hesitatingly, "that I may accompany you to Whitsome fair to-morrow." "Nay, thou canst not go, dear," returned Patrick; "it is a long ride and a rough one; and the society thou wilt meet with will afford thee no pleasure, and but small amusement." "I must go," she replied--"a strange being has laid a terrible command on me!" "A grey-haired, wild-looking woman?" ejaculated Patrick, and his voice trembled as he spoke. "Ask me no more," was her reply, "I must--I will accompany you." "A dead dream," said the youth, "seems bursting into life within my brain. There are once familiar words ready to leap to my tongue that I cannot utter; and long forgotten memories haunting my mind, and flinging their shadows over it as though the substance again were approaching. But the woman that ye speak of!--yes! yes!--there is something more than a dream, dear Anne, that links my fate with her! I remember--I am sure it is no fancy--I do remember having been at a fair when I was a child--a mere child--and the woman ye allude to was there! Yes! yes!--you must accompany us! I feel, I am certain, that woman hath, indeed, my destiny in her hands!" "Gudeness me!" exclaimed Sandy, "what is it that ye twasome are saying between ye? Is there ony light thrown upon the awd story; or, is it only the half-crazed randy--(forgie me for ca'ing the poor afflicted creature by ony sic name)--but, I say, is it only some o' the same nonsense that Babby Moor has been cramming into Anne's ear wi' which she has filled thine, lad? Upon my word, if I had my will o' the awd witch, I would douk her in the Reed till she confessed that every story she has tould to thee was a lie from end to end." "Well, father," said Patrick--for he always called Sandy father--"let Anne accompany us to the fair--she requests it, and I will also request it for her." "Ou, ye knaw," said Sandy, "if ye hae made up yer minds between yourselves that ye are determined to gang, I suppose it would be o' no use for me to offer opposition to owther o' the two o' ye. So, if thou wilt go, get thee ready, Anne, my dear, for it will take us to be off frae here by twelve o'clock t'night, for it is a lang ride, and a rugged ride, as thou wilt find it to thy cost, ere ye be back again. I was never there for my own part; but I hear that the sale o' feeding cattle is expected to be gud--and there I maun be. So, get thee ready, daughter, if ye will go, and hap thysel' weel up." At midnight, Sandy Reed, his daughter, and his adopted son, with three or four farm-servants, all mounted on light, but strong and active horses, accustomed to the character of the country, set out for Whitsome fair. They arrived at Whitsome before noon on the following day, having crossed the Tweed at Coldstream. There was one individual in the fair who had some hundred head of cattle exhibited for sale, and that was old Cunningham of Simprin. He himself was present; but he took but small interest in the transactions, for he was becoming old, and was in general melancholy; and a nephew, whom he intended to make his heir, accompanied him, and in most matters made bargains for him and in his name. Now, Sandy Reed, after walking through the market, said the only lot that would suit him was that of Cunningham of Simprin. We may here observe that, throughout the day, young Patrick became thoughtful and more thoughtful. Even the presence of Anne, who leaned upon his arm, could hardly summon up a passing smile into his features. After much disputing and sore bargain-making, Sandy Reed, at a good round sum, became the purchaser of all the stock that old Walter Cunningham exhibited in the fair. And when the bargain had been completed, the seller, the buyer, and their servants, retired to a booth together; the former to treat his customer with a bottle, and the latter to spend the "luck-penny," which, on such occasions, he was wont to say, would burn a hole in his pocket before he got home. Both were men who were accustomed to drink deep--for old Cunningham had sought to drown his sorrows in the bottle; and what would have been death to another man took no effect upon him. Sandy saw him swallow glass after glass, without his countenance betraying any symptom of change, with vexation; for he had never before met with a superior, either at the bacchanalian board, or at aught else. But, as the liquor went round, the old men began to forget their age (and for a time, for the first time, Walter Cunningham forgot his sorrows), and they boasted of what they had done; and forgetful that each was above threescore, they were ever and anon about to profess what they could still do; but on such occasions, Anne Reed, who sat by her father's elbow, gently and unobserved, admonished him. Now, when Sandy found that he might not speak of what he could do, he thought there could be no harm in saying what his adopted son Patrick could do. He offered to match him at anything against any man in Berwickshire, yea in all Scotland. The blood of old Cunningham boiled at the bravado. He said he had had three sons--yea, he hoped to have said four--any of whom would have stopped the boasting, and taken up the challenge of his Northumbrian friend. But he said he had still a nephew, and he would risk him against Sandy's champion. "A bargain be it," cried Sandy, and the young men proceeded to various trials of strength; but the nephew of Cunningham, though apparently a strong man, was as a weaned child in the hands of young Patrick. Their countrymen, on both sides, became enraged, and it soon became a national quarrel. Scores were engaged on either side--knives were drawn and blood spilt: and headmost in the fray, but unarmed, was Sandy Reed, striking to the ground every one on whom his hand fell. But at length he fell, pierced by a knife, by the edge of a pool of water; and his last words were--"Revenge me, Patrick--protect my Anne--mine is yours!" When weapons were exhibited, young Patrick drew one also, and he dealt a wound at every blow. Just as he heard the voice of his foster-father, he held the aged Cunningham by the throat, and his hand was uplifted to avenge his protector's death by the sacrifice of the old man's--when a loud, a hurried, and a wild voice cried aloud--"Hold, parricide! hold!--he against whom your hand is raised is your father!" It was the voice of Barbara Moor. The young man's arms fell by his side as if a palsy had smitten them. He remembered the voice of the sibyl. "What say ye!" cried the agonised old man--"who is my son?--how shall I know him?" For he, too, remembered her and well. "He whose hand has been raised against your life," she cried, "and on whose bosom ye will remember and find the mark of a berry! Farewell!--farewell!" she added--"I am childless--ye are not." She had been wounded in the conflict as she rushed forward, and she sank down and died. We might lengthen our story with details; but it would be fruitless. In young Patrick old Cunningham found his long lost son; with her last breath Barbara Moor acknowledged how she had decoyed him from the tent, at the fair, where his father had left him; and how, when she saw Sandy Reed asleep upon the moor, she had administered to the child a sleeping draught, and laid him upon his breast. Vain would it be to describe the joy of the old man, and as vain would it be to speak of the double chagrin of the nephew, who lost not only his laurels during the day, but also his hope of riches. Anne sorrowed many days for her father; but gave her hand to him who, in compliance with her request, his father continued to call Patrick; the fountain by the side of which her father fell is still known in the village of Whitsome by the name of _Reed's Well_; and, on account of the life lost, and the blood shed on that occasion, Whitsome fair has been prohibited unto this day. FOOTNOTES: [1] The wooden quegh, used as a drinking vessel in those days, contained rather more than would fill a wine glass. THE SURGEON'S TALES. THE DIVER AND THE BELL. I have witnessed various states of the mind and body of the wonderfully constructed creature, man; and have written down those cases where the two mutually operate upon each other, in such a manner as to bring out startling characteristics, which, by many, are scarcely believed to belong to our nature. I am now to exhibit a case, where an extreme love of mental excitement produced by extraordinary sights and positions, gave rise to a species of disease, which we have no name for in our nosology. The individual was a Mr. Y----, a gentleman of fortune, who came to reside in the town where I practise. When I first visited him, I found him a poor emaciated creature, sick of the world, dying of _ennui_, thirsting after morbid excitements, yet shuddering at the recollection of what he had witnessed. I saw at once that he was a victim of some engrossing master passion, that had fed upon the natural feelings and sentiments, till his whole soul was under the power and operation of the presiding demon; and got him to give me an account of the manner in which he became enthralled. Even now, he began--and he trembled as the thoughts he was to evolve recurred to him, even now, though it is fully two years since I was placed in one of the most extraordinary situations in which man was ever doomed to be, I cannot call up again the ideas and sensations which then occupied my mind, without trembling, and endeavouring to fly, as it were, from myself, and, by seeking for natural thoughts among natural appearances and converse, rear up again the belief that I am a regularly organized being, capable of again becoming happy among the sons of men. But the thought still haunts me as a spectre, that I may be once more, by some other cause not less fortuitous than that which then took me out of the region of experience, precipitated, in spite of all my care, into some new position, where the feelings which we are led to consider as a part of our nature, may be so entirely changed that no new world we are capable of conceiving any notion of, could possibly produce a more extraordinary disruption of all the old workings of the brain. Oh! it is a fearful thought, but one seldom entertained by the slaves of experience. Changes occur daily to all men; but, in the general case, each mere worldly position of ever-changing circumstances, possesses so much of the form and character of some prior one, that we are very soon reconciled to the idea of a variety composed of a mere mutation of the mixture of old elements. The mind, looked upon as a microcosm peopled by the representations of things that be--of the past and possible, of the future and probable--is held to be our own little world, with which, and all its inhabitants, we are or may be familiar; we forget that there are recesses in it, or capabilities within it, that may contain or produce things as new as striking, as horrible as if they were the creations of an unknown power, out of elements we never saw or heard of. A sane person, living and acting in the world, may be for a time mad, but with the difference, that, while ordinary maniacs know not their condition, he may be conscious of a thinking identity, while all his thoughts seem to be imposed upon him by other powers than those that regulate this sphere, and he is himself, what he was, but placed in a new world, and acted on by new impulses at which he shudders, but which he is sternly bound to receive and feel. What a view does this open up to the state of man in this lower world!--how much is there in it of a cause of humiliation and trembling. I am myself, from what I suffered, altogether a changed being; having no faith in the stability of things; conceiving myself placed among dangerous rocks and precipices, from which, in the next moment, I may fall, I know not where; and eyeing with doubt and dismay even the most composed and settled of all the circumstances of life. He is a happy man who is doomed to pass from the cradle to the grave, without having cause to _experience_ the faithlessness of experience, who has only read of those dreadful disruptions of the mind and feelings, that scatter the old elements, in order that some new consolidating power may throw them into forms and combinations a thousand times more horrible than all the creation of dark brooding incubus. Like most other men of an ardent and imaginative temperament, I was dissatisfied with the dull routine of ordinary things. I used to feed my fancy with creatures of the possible, and, without the aid of artificial stimulants of the brain, often conjured up imaginary beings and predicaments which had a charm for me, I cannot very well explain or account for. I cared little for dreams, or the artificial combinations produced by narcotics; they had too little of reality for me: I never was satisfied with a mere effort of the fancy, where the judgment was entirely in abeyance, or at least mocked by what it had no control over. In the world around me, I found food for my appetite; whatever I saw or heard of the _real_, I wrought upon in my solitary moments, till I produced creations, that, being actually within the limits of the possible, I could survey with the satisfaction that I was contemplating what might or would be actually experienced in some future stage of the world. Yet it is a fact--and no one who knows anything of morbid indulgences of this kind can doubt it--that it is questionable, even to myself, whether, upon the whole, I ever derived any real pleasure from these moods of the mind. The imaginary positions I loved most, were generally of the painful kind: the greater the sufferings of the personages concerned in my various plots of combined circumstances, the more was my propensity gratified. From this morbid state of excitement, I was, of course, often precipitated, by the mere decay of the cerebral energy that fed it; and when I was forced again to contemplate and mix with the common affairs of life, I felt the contrast operate to the disadvantage of even the most stirring incidents that are daily befalling mankind. I was, indeed, much in the position of those who stimulate the fancy by extraneous applications; all the boasted efforts of judgment I tried to mix up with and control the workings of my fancy, I found were but a species of delusive energies, to take myself out of a class of dreamers I heartily despised. I was, in fact, just as complete a visionary as they--with this difference,--I thought I required to satisfy the condition of a waking judgment, which, after all, had very little to do in the matter. There was, however, one peculiarity of my character not found among my class of visionaries. I was always anxious to throw myself into situations that, being new and wonderful, might supply my mind with a species of experience, from which, in my after moods, I might draw, as from a real source, all the _substrata_ of my creations. I visited asylums, executions, and dissecting-rooms; accompanied Mr ----, the aeronaut, in his ascent from Manchester; when on the Continent, I stood below the falls of Terne, and descended into that hell upon earth, the mines of Presburg; yet I must avow that I was a coward; the very experiences I courted, I often trembled at, not only at the time when the objects were busy with my senses, and sending their influences through my nerves to my brain, but afterwards, when I called up the images to my mind, and threw them into the forms that obeyed the creative power of my fancy. I was also, in some degree, peculiar in caring little for the works of fictioneers; if I were to try to account for this, I would trace the cause to the same disposition of mind that led me to despise all artificial modes of stimulus. The fancies of other men roused my scepticism; my own, founded always on experience, and never going beyond the province of the possible, seemed to me to possess a reality sufficient to satisfy the conditions of my deluded judgment. It had been fortunate for me had I been less exclusive in my resources of gratification; and oh, how dearly I paid for these my imaginative flights, may too soon be made apparent to those who follow me in my narrative, to be benefited, I trust, from my errors. I had nearly exhausted all my stock of real perceptions, and was beginning to be forced to recombine my old thoughts, so as to produce new associations of the strange and wonderful, when I accidentally met with Mr W----, a gentleman well known in the world of experimental science by the improvements he made on the diving-bell, in addition to the contributions of Rennie and Spalding. I was then living at E----, and he was on his way to Portsmouth, to superintend the workings of a bell that had been sent thither for the purpose of recovering the specie contained in the ship A----, which had been sunk on her return from South America. He described to me the construction of the bell, the manner in which it was worked, and the many extraordinary sights that the divers saw in the course of their submarine operations. I told him that I had accompanied Mr ----, the aeronaut, in his ascent from Manchester, and had often felt a strong desire to reverse my former flight, and descend into the great deep, to see its wonders, and compare my sensations with those I had already experienced in the air. He told me that my wish might easily be gratified; adding that, although he had never been beyond the top of a steeple, he could take it upon him to assure me, that the feeling of vastness and sublimity induced by an aerial ascent, was almost in direct contrast to the sensations of the diver--the one being comparable to the effects produced by the enlarged views of generalization, indulged in by speculative ontologists--the other, to those that result from the inductive process of searching into the physical arcana of nature. He was not aware of the bent of my mind, or his comparison might have been made more suitable to the feelings of one who cared far less for science than the monstrous things of thaumatology; but he had said enough, or rather the mere mention of the subject was sufficient to fire my fancy; and, after he left me, I brooded continually on the subject of the bed of the great deep--that world unexplored by man, where strange creatures obey laws unknown to us, and feed on the dead bodies of those who relentlessly pursue them; where the bones of the men of distant nations meet and cross each other--those of the sons of science and those of the unlettered negro, bound together by tangled sea-weed--orbless skulls, the receptacles of unclassified reptiles, lying on the treasures that the living man sighed to bring home, as the reward of his toils in foreign lands; and where the very mystery of the unexplored recesses throws a green shadow over the strange inhabitants and things of the earth, buried there for countless ages, that makes the whole watery world like a vision of enchantment. I had found a new source of unthought of reveries, that would supply my enraptured hours with aliment according to my wishes. The objects to be seen within the short space circumscribed by the bell, or comprehended within the range of its lights, could not be many; but there was the new mode, as it were, of existence--the breathing under water, the living in the element of the creatures of the deep, all the multifarious sensations that would spring up in the mind and body, as if some new power of life and feeling penetrated to the very well-springs of existence. A letter from Mr W---- soon afterwards invited me to Portsmouth, from which I was then not far distant. The divers had been for some time busy; a great part of the wreck had been laid open, and some curious discoveries been made, and treasures recovered, which inspired the workmen with ardour. On the following day, I was at the scene of operation. When I went on board of the lighter, from which the bell was suspended, I examined the apparatus. The bell was then down, the men stood holding the crane, and listening attentively to hear the signals that were, every now and then, coming from the divers. At a little distance was the apparatus of the air-pump, which several other workmen were busily engaged working. The whole scene was calculated to produce an extraordinary impression on a beholder. The sky was hazy; the air thick and oppressive, from the heat of the sun acting upon the dense medium of a mist that hung on the water; there was not a breath of wind to ruffle the surface of the calm deep; the only sound heard was the whizzing of the air-pump, and the clang of the apparatus by which it was worked. There was nothing seen of the bell; it was far down in the bosom of the deep. The chain, by which it was suspended, dipped into the sea and disappeared, carrying the mind with it down to the grim recesses where living, breathing men were buried. Clear as the waters were, the eye could not reach the depth to which the huge living cemetery had descended; a recoiling feeling, which made the heart leap, followed the effort to trace the chain down, down through the translucent sea. The red sun, struggling through the mist, was reflected in a lurid glow from the surface of the deep. As the air-pump ceased for short intervals, and absolute silence reigned around, a clang, unlike any sounds of earth, came upon the ear-- "As if the ocean's heart were stirred With inward life, a sound is heard." It was a signal from those in the bell; it seemed as if the sea trembled, and old Ocean spoke from the deeper recesses of his soul. The sound struck the ear as something unnatural, or what might be conceived to issue from a sepulchre when the spirits of the dead hold converse in the still night. The signal was answered; and, in a short time afterwards, there were heard three successive strokes quickly repeated--clang, clang, clang. The quickness of the strokes, and the strangeness of the sound, coming whence such sounds are never heard, seemed the doom-peal of these men. "The sea around me, in that sickly light, Shewed like the upturning of a mighty grave." But the sound told other things to the workmen: the wheel began to revolve; after many revolutions, the waters began to boil as if moved by a ground swell, and the large black engine appeared rising up like a mighty monster of the deep. When the bell was fairly suspended above the water, the crane was pulled round, and the heavy appendage was wheeled over the deck of the lighter. There were three individuals in it, seated high and dry upon the _vis-à-vis_ seats. There were instruments of various kinds hung round the inside, the uses of which were explained to me. The men told me that a storm, a few days before, had so broken up and removed the wreck, that it would be necessary to pull the lighter a little farther to the eastward. It came out, too, with some indications of terror which they attempted to conceal, that the dead bodies of those who had perished in the cabin were beginning to make their appearance, now that the hull was broken. Mr W---- looked at me askance, as if to ascertain whether that circumstance would have any effect in making me forego my purpose in descending; and, doubtless, he observed me shudder. But he knew me not: the expedition possessed greater, perhaps grimmer charms to me on that account: the horror that passed over me, as I heard the statement of the men, was only an indication that my zeal was stirred by the expectation of food for my depraved appetite. "Dead men are not the most dangerous enemies of divers," said Mr W----, with a grim smile. "We have sometimes greater reason to be alarmed from inroads of the living inhabitants of the waters. It is not a week yet since the fearful _tenth_ signal rung from the deep; and, upon the machine being raised in great alarm by the workers of the crane, it was ascertained that a shoal of finners (some of them fourteen feet long) had passed close by the mouth of the bell, with a noise like the rushing of a mighty army. But the alarm was greater on the side of the creatures themselves: on observing the bell with the men in it, they lashed their tails with fearful fury, till the waters seemed to boil in the midst of them, and the whole host were enshrined in a thick muddy medium that prevented the divers from seeing an inch before them. The sound, meanwhile, was like that of thunder--snorting, lashing, and shrill cries, produced by some action of their breathing organs, were mixed together; and the confusion into which they were thrown precipitated many of them on the sides of the bell, which being at the time suspended from within five feet of the ground, swung from side to side in such a manner as to rouse the fears of the workmen above before the signal reached their ears. In a short time afterwards, when the bell was raised, we saw the shoal making with great speed to the westward, blowing, as they careered onwards, with a loud noise. I never knew of a circumstance of the same kind before; and to-day you will not, I trust, be alarmed by such visitors." This statement roused my fears, already excited by what I had heard of the dead bodies that lay on the wreck; but I adhered to my purpose. The lighter was moved about twenty feet eastward, and the bell was again swung round to be let down, it being resolved that I should accompany the divers in their next descent. I watched the operations with an interest derived from my expected position in the same circumstances with these fearless men. The huge mass hung in the air, dangling over the smooth surface of the sea; and the signal being given, was plunged down. In a moment it had disappeared, and a heavy mass of waters rushed on, swelling and boiling in the abyss, that seemed to have entombed the daring adventurers. The rolling off of the chain in a long succession of coils, and the disappearance of link after link, filled the mind with a shuddering impression of the depth to which they were attaining. The signal was again given; the air-pump began to play and whiz, and my thoughts, burdened with the superstitious fear produced by the narratives I had heard, took a new direction, picturing the men among the floating bodies of the dead mariners, which, among the green lights of the sea, would appear invested with additional horrors--the monsters of the deep playing round them, or feasting upon the decayed limbs--numberless crabs, sea urchins, and centipedes, crawling on members once consecrated to beauty. The silence on board the lighter aided my fancy in its gloomy revels; and when the clang of the hammer on the bell announced the wish of the divers to rise again, I started from a seat on a coil of ropes which I had in my musings taken possession of--having been oblivious of the intervening half hour, during which I had been shadowing forth the secrets of the green charnel-house, with its surface lying smiling before me in the lurid glare of the still enshrouded sun. At last, I was called to take my seat in the bell. One of the men came out to make room for me; but, before I entered, the crane was swung round to the west side of the lighter, as the men reported that a more likely field of investigation lay in that direction, where they had observed a bright body which they took for a mass of glittering specie, probably rolled out of the packages, and lying there from its greater specific gravity. On mounting up into the bell, where the two remaining workmen were refreshing themselves with brandy to recover the play of the lungs, which, in the last descent, had suffered from a deficiency of oxygen, I felt a creeping sensation pass over me, in spite of my efforts to be calm and firm. This I attributed to the already excited state of my fancy, from the long train of musings I had indulged in over the green deep. In my ascent with the aeronaut, I experienced a sensation in some degree similar to that feeling of lofty awe which accompanies the expectation of the grand impulse of sublimity--[Greek: ton sphodron kai enthousiastikon pathos]; but now the action of the heart seemed tending towards a collapse rather than a swell: I felt already the chilling effect of the cold element before I had descended into its womb. I looked round me with a nervous eye, and threw the colours of my fancy on even common objects. The dull yolks of glass placed round the sides to give light, pale and lustreless--the iron tools, wet and brown with rust--the black leather flasks of spirits--the big hammer used for signals of distress--were all strange and invested with new characters; and the two men, Jenkins, an Englishman, and Vanderhoek, a German, with sallow countenances, rendered paler than usual by the effects of the confined air, seemed rather to belong to the watery element from which they had emerged, than to the fair and smiling earth. I attempted to look unconcernedly; but the German, as he was lifting his flask to his head, scanned me with a ludicrous gaze, and, whether it was that the brandy had, in some degree, inclined him to a merriment that in my eyes seemed like the grin of a demon, or that he wished to let me hear the _ringing_ sound of the bell when the human voice echoed within it, I know not; but he accompanied his potations with a stanza of Burger's famous Zechlied:-- "Ich will einst, bei ja und nein Vor dem Zapfen sterben Alles, meinen Wein nur nicht Lass' Ich frohen erben." And, finishing the verse, he looked again at me, to notice the effect produced on me by the reverberation of the tones, which, reflected from all sides, mixed as it were in the middle, and loaded the ear with a confused ringing noise, similar to what I once heard when nearly drowned in the Thames. If the man had had any intention to increase my alarm, he could not have taken a more effectual way of compassing his intention; for his language--the true and natural diction of spirits--responded to by the confused ringing echoes of the bell, and acting upon a mind already enervated by the weight of the genius of superstition, appeared to be all that was necessary to complete the alarm which I in vain attempted to conceal. "All ready, Vanderhoek?" cried Mr W----. "Ja, ja, herr," responded Vanderhoek. "Pull away, Crane-meistern." And as the men began to work, he dashed carelessly into another stanza of his favourite ballad. I know not if you are acquainted with German; but I cannot resist the desire of gratifying my own ears with a repetition of the sounds of the thrilling consonants which produced so great an effect on me on that occasion. His voice was rough and guttural:-- "Wann der Wein in Himmelsclang, Wandelt mein Geklimper, Sind Homer, and Ossian, Gegen mich nur Stumper." I would have called out to the man to cease his singing, had I not been afraid of being set down for a coward. The continued sound within prevented me from observing the motion of the bell, as it gradually swung off the deck; but the increasing novelty of my situation, as I saw myself suspended over the calm sea into which I was immediately to be plunged, fixed my attention, while it increased my nervousness. I would now have retreated, had it been in my power. The calculated knowledge of the process of submersion, and of my absolute safety under the laws of hydraulics, lost so much of its power under the reigning influence of the natural instinctive horror of being plunged into the womb of the ocean, that I thought myself on the eve of being drowned; and the same feeling I had experienced when struggling half-dead with the waters of the Thames took hold of me by anticipation. Meanwhile, the German started broken snatches of his song; the bell was gradually descending; the space of pure light between the rim and the green surface of the sea was growing every minute less and less. It was upon that decreasing circle of air that my eye was most intensely fixed; it grew brighter as the inside of the bell grew darker, till in a moment it appeared like a bright line of gold-coloured light. "There," said Jenkins to me, in a loud tone. "That is the last glimpse. This is the most trying moment for inexperienced divers, when the last beam of day is extinguished." I could not reply to him. The circle had disappeared; the water was below our feet; we were partially submerged. I looked up to the yolks of glass, but the light that struggled through them was so pale and sickly that I turned my eyes to the sea below me as a relief to my confined vision. We were now fast descending--one by one the gas lights were changed from their dim paleness to a green hue, the same as that of the sea below us, and, in an instant after, I heard a loud whizzing, which was produced by the displaced body of waters rushing impetuously into the void made by the descending bell. The sound made me instinctively turn my head upwards, as if I had been in the attitude of addressing the King of the heavens, whom I had left in the regions of upper air. I grew dizzy, and thought I would have fallen from the bench, down into the bottom of the sea. My nervousness made me grasp firmly the plank, as my only means of safety from what I conceived to be impending destruction. Whether that sound then ceased, or my hearing became more obtuse, I know not; but the first thing, after a few minutes, that I was conscious of was the grasp of the hand of Jenkins, who held me firm by the arm, and the guttural sounds of the German, as he still carelessly sung detached lines of his ballad. On looking up, the green lights swam in my eyes; but the whizzing sound had greatly ceased; and I directed again my gaze to the apparently bottomless element below, which was as calm as glass, and through which I saw, flying past the mouth of the bell, innumerable fishes, reflecting, as they darted off, a thousand varied hues, in the midst of the green medium through which they hurried. The continued descent was made apparent to the eye by the progress of the rim of the bell through the water, and indicated, in another form, by the creaking sound of the crane on the lighter, which, rendered indistinct by the medium of the water, seemed to come from miles distant. Though partially recovered from the first effects of the submersion, I had no proper idea of time, and there was no mode of measuring the depth. It seemed to me as if we had descended many furlongs, though we had not got beyond ten fathoms: I could not get quit of the idea, though I arranged my thoughts in the process of calculation. Jenkins had now let go my arm, as he saw that I was able to sit without danger of falling; and the German was busy peering through his bushy eyebrows down into the deep, as if he expected soon "to see the land." I almost instinctively gazed down for the same object, and it was not without an effort at discrimination by the power of my judgment that I discovered myself seeking a vision of the bottom of the sea, as if it had been a haven for a shipwrecked mariner in distress. While my eyes were thus fixed on the waters--in which I could see nothing but the swarms of fishes flying past, or reeling in the confusion of terror--I was startled, almost to falling off the bench, by a loud reverberating clang on the side of the bell. My first impression was, that the bell had struck on a rock; and I turned fearfully to seek the eye of Jenkins. He held the large hammer in his hand with which he had given the stroke. He told me that he wanted more air, and that this was the signal to the workers of the air-pump. His eye was fixed on the air holes, with which the pipes communicated. I thought he appeared alarmed; he exchanged a look with Vanderhoek, and the eye of the latter was soon also fixed on the same spot. We were yet still descending, and the German, turning round, pointed down. I followed his finger, and saw a thick, hazy-like appearance, as if the waters were troubled, and masses of long sea-weed brushed against the rim of the bell. Vanderhoek immediately seized the hammer, rang two loud peals, and the motion downwards ceased. We hung suspended in the sea, I know not how many fathoms down. A loud hissing sound came from the air-valves; but it was every moment interrupted, as if some part of the apparatus failed in its continuous working. The eyes of both Jenkins and Vanderhoek were again intensely fixed upon the holes; it was too manifest to me that they both saw something wrong in the working of the air pumps, though they said nothing to me; and, indeed, I was so much affected by their ominous looks that I could put no question to them. "Is there not an under current here, Karl?" said Jenkins, attempting to appear composed. "Ja," replied Vanderhoek; "see, there is von gut sign. The meer-weeds are drifting to the east; and see, there is von piece of the wreck moving from the west." I looked down, and saw the edge of a piece of black timber making its appearance within the verge of the rim of the bell; but, in consequence of the small angle afforded by our pent-up position, we could not observe more than two inches of it. Large bushes of confusedly entangled sea-weed were brushing past, and, as they stuck about the rim, darkened the interior so much that we could scarcely see each other. These seemed of but small importance to Jenkins, who was evidently still unsatisfied with the working of the pumps, and got upon his feet to examine into the cause of their irregular and interrupted action. It struck me, at this time, that Jenkins' question about the current had more meaning in it than was made apparent to me: I suspected that he entertained fears that the air tubes had got entangled in some way with the bell chain. His efforts did not seem to produce any greater regularity of action in the tubes; the whizzing noise continued every now and then to be interrupted; at one time, it stopped altogether for about a minute. The machinery was working reluctantly, and with a struggling difficulty that was apparent to the eye and ear; but other proofs of a more decided and fearful kind were awaiting us. I felt a painful load at my breast, as if I wanted air; my respiration became quick and unsatisfactory; a swimming of the head came over me; I could scarcely see my companions without great effort to fix my wavering vision. The darkness at the mouth of the bell continued to increase; the piece of the wreck was moving slowly under us; the weeds were increasing. I could perceive that Vanderhoek was also labouring for breath; Jenkins, relinquishing his efforts at the air tube mouths, turned, looked wildly at his neighbour, and, staggering down upon the bench, struggled to get hold of the hammer, which, when he grasped it tremblingly, fell out of his hands down into the bottom of the sea. "In the name of God! what is the meaning of all this, Jenkins?" I cried, in a voice that was choked for want of air. He lay upon the bench, and gasped, apparently unable to speak; he looked to Vanderhoek, and pointed to an instrument in the shape of a mattock--shaking his hand, and muttering indistinctly, "Haste! haste!" The sign and words were perfectly understood by Vanderhoek as well as by myself. I looked on, with the intense agony of fear and impeded lungs, and added some irregular and confused signs (for my voice died in my choking throat) to the German to obey the request of his neighbour--but these were unnecessary: the man himself saw the fearful position in which we were placed, with as keen a perception of the danger, and as anxious a wish to remove it, as either of us. He was, however, struggling for want of air to a greater extent than either Jenkins or myself. His face was swollen and blue, his mouth open, his eyes protruding from his head, his breast heaving like one under the weight of the angel of death. Yet he tried to combat the antagonist powers of cruel fate; and, raising his body from the bench, he bent forward to clutch the mattock, with which to give the clangs that formed the signal to raise us from our water-bound prison. He had to reach over the body of Jenkins, who lay coiled up, almost lifeless from suffocation; then, in his efforts to get at the instrument, he fell down through the mouth of the bell, and stuck fast among the tangled weed. At this very instant, I heard again the sound of the air-pump whizzing in my ears: it came like the music of angels; and, while Vanderhoek hung fast by a rope that was attached to the bench, I felt the inspiring power of the oxygen coming through the air tubes: my breast rose--my lungs inhaled the sweet aliment--I felt strength infused into my blood and nerves--and, raising myself, laid hold of Vanderhoek; but my energy failed in the effort that exceeded my powers; he fell from my grasp, and plunged overhead among the waters and loose weeds by the side of the dark piece of the wreck, that still seemed to move, though almost imperceptibly, to the east. It was a little time before he came to the surface again, which satisfied me that we were still a considerable way from the bottom, notwithstanding of the accumulation of algæ that had deceived us into a contrary opinion. When his head again appeared within the bell, I was struck fearfully by the horrid expression of his face, which, pale before, now looked green and hideous through the wreaths of weed that hung round his hair. The influx of atmospheric air partially revived his energies for self-preservation; then laying hold of the rope, he got a clutch of the bench, and clambered up. He seemed shocked by some cause of terror, even greater than the danger to which we were yet exposed. "Shrecken! shrecken!" he muttered, with difficulty. "There is von corpse of a woman there--there--down in the wreck!" And he pointed to the black fragment of the broken ship that lay below us. "That is nothing, man," said I. "Give the signal, if you can. See, the air-pump has stopped again. The men in the lighter know not our peril." He attempted again to seize the mattock, and succeeded in grasping it; but the small supply of air that had been sent us by the temporary opening of the impeded tube, had been only sufficient to revive us slightly; and the suddenness with which his powers were again prostrated, by the recurring weakness that succeeded the cessation of the supply of the natural aliment of the lungs, prevented him from imparting strength to the signal. He gave one weak blow on the side of the bell, and the instrument fell out of his nerveless hands upon the bench. In a few moments more he was stretched beside Jenkins. I myself now tried to lift my arms to seize the instrument. I succeeded only in placing my hands upon it--I was unable to grasp it, and fell, with my back on the side of the bell, powerless, and struggling, with open mouth and heaving sternum, for what came not--a breath of living air. We must, at this time, have been fully twenty minutes under water; and, as it was our intention to have been an hour, there seemed to be no chance of our being drawn up until we had all expired. I saw plainly, by the noises that came from the tubes, that the men conceived they were working regularly; and, so long as no signal was heard, they would work on, ignorant of the dreadful situation in which we lay. I cast my eyes on my companions. They lay like dead men; my only wonder, now that I can calmly think of the subject, is, that they still kept upon the seats, and did not tumble into the deep. I had scarcely any power of thinking. I sat, writhing under the spasmodic action of suffocation, my eyes fixed in the sockets, my brain swimming, and a burning sensation, like that which attends a paroxysm of brain fever, shooting through the recesses of thought. The recollection of that moment is even yet madness. The bell was almost dark, and the green light that came through the yolks of glass, fell faintly on the blue swollen faces of my companions, who I thought were dead. I had still power to observe that there was a new feature rising in that unprecedented situation of man's sufferings. Was it possible, it may fairly be asked, that fate had it in store to add to these agonies? While thus I sat fixed immovably by weakness and despair, I observed that the waters were rising visibly upon us, probably from the absorption of the small quantity of oxygen that remained in the tainted air around us. It had risen up half way between the rim and the seats, and was gradually gaining upon me. A foot more would bring it to the level of where I sat. My feet were already immersed, and the coldness produced by the water operated in combination with the spasms in my labouring chest to destroy vitality. The black fragment of the wreck rose with the waters, and raised obliquely the side of the bell, which may have been an additional cause for the rising of the sea within. Through my glazed eye I saw, lying in a hollow of the broken raft, a white figure--probably that seen by Vanderhoek when he fell into the sea. By and by, it became more visible as the waters rose, and I saw that it was the body of a female who had perished in the vessel. The image of the apparition has haunted me to this hour, and shall do till I die. A part of the dress which she had worn when she perished, still clung to her--about the half of the skirt of a silk gown that had been of some light colour, but had changed to a greenish hue. It was bound to the waist by a sash or belt of a darker shade. Her bosom was bare, and bore the same sickly hue of pale green; her face was placid; the eyes were open; but one of the balls had been extracted by some reptile of the deep; her long hair flowed among the weeds; and, hanging from the lobe of the left ear, I saw a clear gem that shone with the brightness of the stone called _aqua marina_. One of the arms had been taken off a little above the elbow; the flesh at the end of the stump appeared bloodless, and bleached to the colour of the skin; and limpets and other kinds of small shell-fish lay on or adhered to the cuticle. My feelings recoil from the recollections of the horrors of that apparition; and I fear I may incur the charge of endeavouring to produce an effect by the vulgar mode of harassing the mind with a minute description, too easily effected, of what, for the sake of humanity, should be concealed. There the body lay in all its green horror. It was rising gradually to my side, within the bell, through the gloom of which the pale skin and light robes sent a sickly gleam. I had no power to move myself away from it. My body was bent so that my face was within a few inches of it; and a slight undulation of the waters that were rising into the bell inch by inch, imparted to the corpse a motion that made it dodge upwards and downwards, as if it made efforts to touch my countenance. All was as silent as death; for the slight agitation of the sea produced no noise. I was gasping for breath; a short period would have put an end to my sufferings, had not the air tubes again begun to send forth slight hissing sounds, and a small portion of the food of the lungs came to afford me sufficient power to contemplate, with greater distinctness and increased agony, all the circumstances of my situation. I felt the small boon instinctively as a relief: my breast again opened; I was able to raise my head so as to be more beyond the touch of the floating corpse; and as I lifted it, my eye fell on the flask of spirits that hung within reach on the side of the bell. I now struggled to seize it, and succeeded; but it was with many painful efforts that I got a portion of the liquor poured into my mouth. The half-dead physical powers of my system were, by this application, stimulated into something like vitality, and I listened attentively, while my eye was still riveted on the corpse that lay at my side, to the sound of the tubes. A motion of the right limb of Vanderhoek attracted my attention, and raised a hope that, if the air still continued to be supplied, he would recover; I knew, too, that as the bell filled again with the atmospheric supply, the waters would recede. But all my hopes were again prostrated; the valve ceased; the entrance of the air was again stopped; I applied the flask hastily again to my lips before the spasms of suffocation came again upon me, but the power of the spirits seemed to have fled, having no more influence over my system than a draught of water. Thus was I again precipitated into my former condition of weakness and helplessness--the choking symptoms of suffocation increased again in intensity, and I was under the necessity to lie down on the seat, with my head again on a level with the corpse of the female, that still kept moving and dodging by my side. I was now as powerless to push it away as I was before to remove myself from it. I felt it touch my skin. Its face was close to mine--the pale cold cheek rubbed upon my chin and lips. The glazed eye seemed fixed upon me, and the stump of the torn arm struck upon me as the body moved. A higher undulation sometimes threw her flowing hair over my eyes, where it lay till another movement of the corpse took it off. I would have shut the lids of the protruding orbs that stood fixed in my head, if I had had any power; but I could not--my whole face being swollen, and the muscles as rigid as if in death. I was thus compelled to receive the vision into my mind; and the touch seemed to cling to the decaying sensibilities, as if it formed a part of them. It is impossible that my sufferings could have lasted many minutes longer if the air tubes had been entirely closed; but, as if it had been determined by the stern fates that I should be suspended for a length of time between life and death, there were kept up, at almost regular intervals, two or three whizzing sounds of the entangled and obstructed apparatus--an indication that small supplies of air were at these moments thrown in upon me. It was only these sounds, the dodging of the pale-green corpse, the touches of its cold skin, the light of its glazed eye, the dark figures of my two companions, and the general gloom of the bell, relieved slightly by the greenish-hued yolks of glass, that I was sensible of perceiving. The internal workings of my mind seemed to have ceased. I had scarcely any consciousness of a conception--the whole cerebral functions concerned in thought and feeling being limited to undefined sensation, that had only some connection with the power of external perception. Even this partial state of consciousness had died gradually away, for, during a short period, I was totally beyond the reach of the power of any external object. There is a blank in my recollection of these touches and visions, which, though scarcely at the time coming within the province of mind, have since been the most vivid perceptions ever treasured up in my memory. Yet that period of all but total death was no relief to me. The dim hazy vision of all around me dawned again, like the shadowy renovations of a fearful dream that has sunk in sleep, and risen again as the troubled fancy regained a portion of its activity. These indistinct shadows of consciousness, as they came in the wake of the physical power that felt the quickening influence of another draft of air, carried more insufferable sensations in their dark forms than had accompanied my more distinct perceptions. They were mere filmy traces, broken and unconnected--exhibiting to me sometimes only the darkness of the bell, sometimes the mere face; occasionally limited to the eye alone, the stump of the arm alone, the ear-ring alone; sometimes merely the two stretched-out forms of the men; sometimes the green deep and the tangled sea-weed. Then the array of all the things around me would suddenly flash upon me with a unity and a vividness that produced one gleam of almost entire consciousness--in another moment extinguished--and succeeded by another period of all but death--to be again followed by a succession of the broken fragments of vision, when the living powers were in a slight degree revived. I leave it to physiologists and psychologists to account for these sudden exertions of the reluming powers of the mind in the very lowest state of the dying faculties. We see something of the same kind in the physical economy--moments of strength in the most exhausted weakness--bright glows of the taper of life in the socket of death--a collected unity of power in moments of dissolution, as if the spirit made a last struggle to assert its lost authority over the great archangel. I can speak at least to their effects--a wretched boon of nature to miserable man, where he can say no more than that he feels--that the boasted energies of the soul seem to be all rolled up in one sensation of undescribable pain. I was awakened from this state of stupor by a loud clanking of chains upon the top of the bell; and I heard the sound at the very moment when I felt myself drawing a long breath. I had been unconscious of the working of the air-pump, which must have been going on for some time, though I cannot tell how long. The bell was replenished. I breathed again freely, and became sensible. I looked round me, and saw all things in the same position as formerly. The corpse was still by my side, and my newly awakened horror made me struggle to rise. I succeeded so far as to lean upon my arm, whereby I removed myself some space from the dead body. The rattling of the chains still continued, and I had the power of thinking so far, as to conjecture that efforts were being made to draw up the bell. But new incidents were now in progress. The air had revived Vanderhoek. I saw him stretching out his arms, as if to relieve his chest, which was heaving violently. He drew long inspirations, and struggled to turn himself on the seat. He succeeded, and I saw his face, which was dreadfully swollen, and of a dark livid colour. His eyes were wide open, and the light of life and returning vision seemed to be illumining them. The first perception he was conscious of was the vision of the corpse. His eye-balls turned, fixed upon it, and recoiled from it; and strange guttural sounds, with half-articulated words--"Shrecklich--shrecken!"--were wrung from him. He looked wildly around him, shuddered, and grasped convulsively the bench. Meanwhile, the rattling of the chains on the bell continued, and a sudden jerk almost precipitated me into the sea. The bell had clearly moved; the next moment it shook violently, from another effort to raise it; it appeared to me to revolve; another sudden jerk followed; it rose perceptibly; the water rushed in to fill up the void; the corpse of the woman whirled round in the eddy; and I saw Jenkins' body fall from the bench into the sea, and disappear. Vanderhoek, who had now recovered his consciousness, uttered a loud cry as he saw his companion sink. The continued fresh air seemed to strengthen him far more rapidly than it did me, and I perceived that he now made violent struggles to lay hold of the mattock. He succeeded beyond my expectation; despair nerved his arm; he clutched the instrument, and rung three successive clangs on the side of the bell. These were probably unnecessary, as it was manifest now that those on the lighter were doing everything in their power to rescue us from our perilous situation. The chains still clanked, and we had ascended perceptibly, though how far I had no means of ascertaining. There was another stoppage, the German sat with the instrument still in his hand, and his eye fixed on the body of the woman, which, from the continued whirling of the water, span round and round, as if it had been placed upon a pivot. After looking thus for a few moments, he started suddenly, then reaching up his hand, seized wildly another flask that hung near him, drained it to the bottom, and flung away the empty vessel. Some time passed before I felt any further motion upwards; and the large quantity of strong liquor that Vanderhoek had thrown into his still weak body, operated upon him with a quickness that surprised me. He began to get furious, talked incoherently, swung the iron mattock backwards and forwards, and sung stanzas of the "Zechlied." This was a new source of terror to me. He looked wildly at me as if he did not know who I was; swore the oaths of his country, in which the words "teufel, donner, blitzen," rang pre-eminently; used threats against me, as the cause of all that had occurred to him and his companion. Then he looked at the corpse, and, in a paroxysm of madness, struck the mattock into its white bosom, accompanying his action with wild oaths. I expected every moment that the next stroke would be on my own head, and sat in readiness to seize the weapon, and, if possible, debilitated as I was, to wrench it from his hands. My efforts to calm and pacify him were unavailing. I pointed to the side of the bell, and, in broken accents, for I could yet scarcely speak, told him to ring again; but he did not seem to understand; giving me wild looks, showering broken oaths upon me, and holding up the mattock in a threatening attitude, as if he would cleave my head in twain. During all this painful period the air was regularly supplied; but the efforts of those on the lighter had not been able to raise us further. In the midst of Vanderhoek's ravings, I thought I heard a sound above, unlike that of the apparatus by which the bell was wrought. It was a creaking, crashing sound, as if the bell were forcing up some heavy piece of wood with which it was encumbered. The thought struck me instantly that the cause of all our misfortunes lay in the drifting of some large piece of the wreck over the top of the bell, which had got entangled with the air-tubes and chain, and defied all the efforts of the workmen to raise us. The creaking sound continued, and, mixing with the whizzing of the air-tubes, the grating of the chain, and the roarings and yells of Vanderhoek, made the scene more dismal than it had yet been. I was in danger of my life--but momentarily redeemed, as it were, from the precincts of eternity--every minute, from the fierceness of the raving being beside me; and I could scarcely hope that all those protracted efforts of the workmen would ever raise us from the immense depth at which we were thus fixed by some great cause. I looked in the placid face of the corpse, and wished that I were as far removed as her spirit was from these complicated evils of the lower deep, and the scarcely less remediable ills of the upper world. But I was soon roused from my dark reverie: a louder crash than I had yet heard sounded over the bell, and produced such an effect upon the excited mind of Vanderhoek, that he roused his body suddenly, and struck a fierce blow at me with the iron instrument he still held in his hand. He had over-calculated his partially-recovered strength, and tumbled into the sea alongside of the corpse. I hesitated whether I should aid him in getting up. I saw him struggling and clinging by the garments of the body, which he tore--so tender was the material--into shreds. As his hold gave way, he clutched the body itself, which, sinking with his weight, disappeared, leaving him to clamber for support round the lower part of the benches. I could not see him drown, though I shuddered at the danger which awaited me when he might recover his position. At that very moment I distinctly felt the bell ascending; and a fierce whirling and boiling of the waters rushing into the void, would in an instant have sucked him down to rise no more, if I had not seized him by the bushy hair of the head. In that position I held him as firmly as my impaired strength would permit. The bell still ascended, and the buoying power of the water kept him swimming, and made him obey my slightest impulse. The submersion and the contact into which he had come with the corpse had manifestly removed the effects of the liquor, and his imploring eye was eloquent in its appeal to me to continue my grasp. This I did while the bell continued to ascend; the light began to increase in the yolks of glass; and the voices of the men in the lighter greeted my ear. In a moment afterwards, I saw the light of the sun shining red through the windows; in another moment the circle of bright effulgence between the bell and the sea met my enraptured eye. A loud cry of terror came from the workmen as they saw the body of Vanderhoek swimming in the sea. They ceased their process of raising; and swinging the bell to a side, some one got hold of the German, and I let go the grasp of his hair. Two or three more turns of the crane brought the bell on a level with the lighter. I sprung down upon the deck, and fell back in a swoon. When I recovered, I saw several people standing round me, among whom there was an individual who claimed, for a time, my undivided gaze. He was a tall, handsome individual, dressed in deep mournings. He had a white pocket handkerchief in his hands, which he applied frequently to his eyes; and he looked at me anxiously as he saw me recovering from the effects of the syncope into which I had fallen. He was proceeding to put some questions to me, when Mr. W---- interfered, and stated that I ought to be allowed time to collect my energies before my mind was led again into the subject of what I had suffered during the time we were in the deep. I was, accordingly, assisted on shore; and, having been put to bed, slept for several hours so soundly that I do not think a single image of what I had seen and heard during that dismal scene occurred to my fancy; but, when in the act of wakening, a confused influx of ideas, all derived from the source of my sufferings, rushed into my mind, and for a few minutes I conceived that I was still in the bell, that I heard the sound of the air tubes, saw Jenkins fall, the corpse lying beside me, Vanderhoek hanging by my grasp of his hair, and all the minutiæ of horrors that then encompassed me; a commotion which comes over me often yet, like a species of monomania, when I will start up, and cling to the bedposts, and scream for terror. It being known that I was awake, Mr. W---- and the stranger came to me. It was their object to get an account of all that had occurred during my descent. I gave it as nearly as I could recollect, and, when I came to describe the appearance and figure of the corpse of the female, I saw the stranger change colour, his frame trembled, his lips turned pale, and he rose and walked through the room as if afraid to listen to my narrative. "What means this?" said I to Mr. W----, in a low tone. "The female whose body you saw in the bell," he replied, "was the wife of Mr. G----. He stands before you. He was saved from the wreck, and she perished." "Good God! and I have already given a part of the shocking detail," I responded. The stranger heard me, as he paced the room, returned, and sat down by my bedside. "I am not satisfied that it was my Agnes," he exclaimed, in broken accents, while the tears flowed over his cheeks. "There was a waiting-maid along with us--describe her more particularly. _I can listen._" As he uttered these words, I could perceive that he contracted his nerves, his hands were clenched, and over his frame there passed a shiver that seemed to mock the resolution to confirm the mind by a mere physical action. I proceeded to give a fuller account of her dress and ear-ring, the character of her face and figure, so far as I could discover them. Every word seemed to enter his very soul. He turned round again. There was something he wished to say, but he hesitated, trembled, and stammered. "Was that fair form mutilated?" he asked, at length, "O God! I picture my Agnes torn by monsters of the deep, and hideous urchins resting on her bosom. Yet, why do I ask knowledge that must sit for ever on my heart, and engender visions that in the hours of night must torture my soul, to the end of my pilgrimage in this dark world?" I hesitated to say more; the orbless socket--the torn stump of the arm--the limpets that clung to her skin--the bosom pierced by Vanderhoek's mattock, were all before me, and shook my soul. But why should I have added an artificial misery to wretchedness like his? I would not dwell on the subject. The stranger imputed my disinclination to satisfy his morbid desire for information to its true cause. A paroxysm of sorrow seized him. He rose suddenly, took his hat, and, covering his pallid face with his handkerchief, rushed out of the room. How often have I thought of that individual! I never saw him again; but his image is for ever associated with the vision of that corpse, shining in the sickly green hue of the medium in which it lay. The body was never found; he never saw it. And was it not well for him? What would have been his agony, to have seen the beloved of his bosom as I saw her, to have treasured up in his mind the lineaments of that face, the harrowing minutiæ of her mutilated form? I got an account from Mr. W---- of what took place on board of the lighter while the bell was down. It was a long time, he said, before anything was suspected to be wrong, as the men often remain down for an hour without a single signal coming from them. The difficulty of working the air-pumps first roused their suspicions; and when they found that the bell would not respond to the action of the crane, they knew at once that it had got fixed among some part of the wreck. I need not detail their efforts to relieve us; they are possessed of no interest; the result is known; but who shall know, as I experienced, the horrors of that period? My patient, when he had finished his narrative, put his hand over his eyes, and shuddered. I could do little for an individual thus situated; but I visited him often, more with a view to the benefit of science, than from any hope of rescuing him from the dominion of the power he had, like Frankenstein, created, to satisfy a diseased craving of the mind, and trembled at after it was formed, as he found himself helpless and weak in his energies to exorcise it. The continued brooding of his sick fancy over all the strange forms he had seen, produced, in a still greater degree, a weakness of the mind itself, that is, a weakness as regards the sane condition of the mind; for his imagination, drawing a morbid _pabulum_ from his disease, grew stronger and stronger in its capacity to invest the images he gloated over with more fearful characteristics, till often, as I was informed, he started up in the middle of the night and screamed out that he was in the present act of suffering again all he had already experienced. But what struck me as still more remarkable in this victim, was, that any change that took place upon him for the better, in respect of his physical economy, was, while accompanied by a partial release from the domination of his old fancies, generally attended by a kind of new-born desire for another and a new supply of his stimulant visions. This discovery I made one day, when, as I felicitated myself on having effected a confirmation of his nerves, by the application of a course of tonics, I told him that I myself was on the eve of encountering all the unpleasant feelings attendant upon the performance of a painful operation on a very beautiful patient, whose life might too likely fall a sacrifice to her desire to get quit of a mortal disease. His eye brightened, he held out his hands, and supplicated me to allow him to be present, under the assumed character of a surgeon. My refusal produced disappointment and chagrin; and he often afterwards harped on the cruelty of my resolution to discomfit him. He afterwards went to another part of the country to reside with his relations; and the last notice I had of him was, that he was seen bending his skeleton body over the blackened corpses of several individuals who had been burnt to death in the conflagration of a large dwelling-house in the town where he resided. AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF WILLIE SMITH. If I thocht the world would tak the least interest in the matter, I wad tell it the where an' the when o' my birth, in conformity wi' auld use an' wont in the case o' biographical sketches; but, takin it for granted that the world cares as little about me as I care about it--an', Gude kens, that's little aneuch, thanks to the industry o' my faither, that made me independent o't!--I shall merely say, wi' regard to the particulars above alluded to, that I was born in a certain thrivin, populous bit touny in the south, an' that I am, at this present writin, somewhat aulder than I was yesterday. I dinna choose to be mair particular on the point, because I dinna see that my age has onything mair to do wi' my story, than the ages o' witnesses hae wi' their evidence. Bein born in the usual way, in the usual way was I christened--(_Anglice_, baptised); but hereon hangs a tale, or rather a dizzen o' them. My faither's name was Willie Smith, my paternal grandfather's name was Willie Smith, I had an uncle whase name was Willie Smith, an' twa cousins whase names were Willie Smith; an' it was determined that I should be a Willie Smith too, in order, I suppose, to mak sure o' perpetuatin that very rare an' euphonious family name. But, oh, that they had ca'ed me Nebuchadnezzar, or Fynmackowl, or Chrononhotonthologos, or ony name in the sma'est degree distinctive, an' no that confounded ane, that seems to me to belang to every third man I meet. It wad hae saved me a world o' misery, an' disappointment, an' suffering o' a' sorts. It's just incredible the mischief that simple circumstance has wrought me--I mean, the ca'in me Willie Smith. It may appear, I dare say, a harmless aneuch thing to you, guid reader, but, my feth, ca' ye yersel Willie Smith just for ae twelvemonth, an' ye'll find it's nae such joke as ye may think, especially if there be half-a-dizzen o' Willie Smiths leevin in the same street wi' ye; whilk is a' but certain to be the case, gang to where ye like. I ken I could never get oot o' their neighbourhood, an' mony a shift an' change I hae made for that express purpose. I maun confess, however, that the name's no a'thegither without its advantages. Mony a scrape I hae got skaithless oot o', when I was a boy, in consequence o' its frequency. In the first schule I was at, there war three Willie Smiths, besides me, an' it was thus almost impossible, in many cases, to ascertain which was the real delinquent when mischief had been perpetrated; an' the result was, that the wrang Willie Smith was as often punished as the right ane; but as I, of course, was frequently in the former predicament, I am no sure that, if the account were fairly balanced, I wad be found to hae been a great gainer after a'. Latterly, however, I certainly was not; for the maister, finding the difficulty o' distinguishing between the Smiths, an' that the course o' justice was thus interrupted, at last adopted the sure plan o' whippin a' the Willie Smiths thegither, whenever any one o' the unfortunate name was charged wi' ony transgression. We were thus incorporated, as it were, rolled into one, and dealt wi' accordingly, in a' cases o' punishment. My schule days owre, I began the world in the capacity o' shopman to my faither, wha was a hosier to business, and carried on a sma', but canny trade in that line. He wasna to ca' wealthy, but he was in easy aneuch circumstances, an' had laid by a trifle, which was intended for me, his only son an' heir. I was now in my twentieth year, the heyday of youth; an', why should I hesitate to say it, a sensible, judicious, well-meanin, an' good-lookin lad, but (I hesitate to say this, though) wi' a great deal mair sentiment in my nature than was at a' necessary for a hosier. How I had come by it, Heaven knows; but so it was. I was fu' o' romance, an' fine feelin, an' a' that sort o' thing, an' wi' a heart most annoyingly susceptible o' the tender passion. It was just like tinder, as somebody has said--I think it was Burns--catched fire in an instant. For some time, however, as is the case with most youths, I dare say, my love was general, and was pretty equally divided amongst _all_ the young and good-lookin o' the other sex whom I happened to see or meet wi'; but it at length concentrated, an' dwelt on one object alone--(this was a case o' love at first sicht)--a beautiful an' amiable girl, wha attended the same kirk in which I sat. I hadna the slightest personal acquaintance wi' her, nor ony access to her society; but this didna hinder me adorin her in my secret heart, nor prevent me puttin doon stockins to customers when they asked for nightcaps. In short, before I kent whar I was, I was plump owre head an' ears in love, distractin love, wi' my fair enslaver, an' rendered useless baith to mysel an' every ither body. Never did the tender passion so engross, so absorb the feelins an' faculties o' a human bein, as it did those o' me, Willie Smith the hosier, on this occasion. I was absolutely beside mysel, an' felt as if livin and breathin in a world o' my ain. This continued for several months; an' yet, durin all that time, I had remained content wi' worshippin the object o' my adoration at a distance, an' that only on Sundays, for I rarely saw her through the week. Whan I said, however, that I was content wi' this state o' matters, I am no sure that I hae said precisely what was true. Had I said that I lacked courage to mak ony nearer advances, I wad, perhaps, hae expressed mysel fully mair correctly. This was, in fact, the case; I couldna muster fortitude aneuch to break the ice, an' yet I didna want encouragement either. My fair captivator soon discovered the state o' my feelins regardin her, as she couldna but do, for my een war never aff her, an' my looks war charged wi' an expression that was easily aneuch interpreted. She therefore--at least I thocht sae--kent perfectly weel how the laun lay; an' if I didna mak a guid use o' the impression I had made in my turn--for this I thocht I saw too in sundry little nameless things--the faut was my ain, as I didna want such encouragement as a modest and virtuous girl could, under the circumstances, haud oot to a lover. She looked wi' an interest on me, which she couldna conceal whanever we met, an' I frequently detected the corner o' her bright blue eye turned towards me in the kirk. Often, also, have I seen her sittin in melancholy abstraction when she should hae been listenin to the minister; but could _I_ blame her, whan she was thinkin o' me? Of _that_, from all I could see an' mark, I was satisfied. At length, unable to endure the distraction o' my feelins langer, and encouraged by the wee symptoms o' reciprocal affection which I had marked in my enslaver, assurin me o' my bein on pretty safe ground, I cam to the desperate resolution o' makin a decisive move in the business. I resolved to _write_ my beloved; to confess my passion, and to beg that she would allow me to introduce myself to her. This resolution, however, I fand it much easier to adopt than to execute. There was a faint-heartedness aboot me that I couldna get the better o'; and a score o' sheets o' paper perished in the attempts I made to concoct something suitable to the occasion. At length, I succeeded; that is, I accomplished such a letter as I felt convinced I couldna surpass, although I wrought at it for a twelvemonth. Havin faulded this letter, which I did wi' a tremblin hand and palpitatin heart, I clapt it into my pocket-book, whar it lay for three days, for want o' courage to dispatch it, and, in some sort, for want o' opportunity too; for if I sent it by the post, there was a danger o't fa'in into the hands o' Lizzy's faither--Lizzy Barton bein the name o' my enthraller; and there was naebody else that I could think o' employin in the business. At length, however, I determined to dispatch it at a' hazards. There was a wee bit ragged, smart, intelligent laddie, that used to be constantly playing at bools aboot oor shop-door, and whom we sometimes sent on bits o' sma' messages through the toun; and on him I determined to devolve the important mission of deliverin my letter. Accordingly, ae day when my faither was oot, and naebody in the shop but mysel-- "Jock," cried I, waggin the boy in, "come here a minnit." Jock instantly leaped to his feet--for he was on his knees, most earnestly engaged in plunkin, at the moment--and, crammin a handfu o' bools into his pocket, was, in a twinklin, before me; when, wipin his nose wi' the sleeve o' his jacket, and looking up in my face as he spoke-- "What's yer wull, sir?" said Jock. "Do ye ken Mr. Barton's, Jock?" said I. "Brawly, sir," replied Jock. "Weel, Jock, my man," continued I, but wi' a degree o' trepidation that I had great difficulty in concealin frae the boy, "tak this letter, and go to Mr. Barton's wi't, and rap canny at the door, and ask if Miss Barton's in. If she's in, ask a word o' her; and, when she comes, slip this letter into her haun. If she's no in, bring back the letter to me, and let naebody see't. Mind it's for _Miss Barton_, Jock, and nae ane else. Sae ye maunna be paveein't aboot, but keep it carefully hidden under yer jacket, till ye see Miss Barton hersel; then whup it oot, and slip it into her hand that way;"--and here I fugled the proper motion to Jock. "Noo, Jock," I continued, "if ye go through this job correctly and cleverly, I'll gie ye a saxpence." Jock's eyes glistened wi' delight at the magnificence o' the promised reward, so far transcendin what he had been accustomed to receive. He wad hae thocht himsel handsomely paid wi' a ha'penny, and wad hae run sax miles ony day for a penny. Having dispatched Jock, after seein the letter carefully buttoned up inside his jacket, I waited his return wi' a painfulness o' suspense, and intensity o' feelin, that I wad rather leave to the reader's imagination, than attempt to describe. It was most distressin--most agitatin. At length, Jock appeared--I mean in the distance. My heart began to beat violently. He bounced into the shop; my trepidation became excessive; my knees trembled; my lips grew as white as paper; I could hardly speak. At last-- "Jock," said I, wi' a great effort, "did ye see her?" "Yes," said Jock, "and I gied her the letter." "And what did she say?" "She asked wha it was frae." "And ye tell't her?" "Ay." "And what did she say then?" "She just leugh, pleased-like; and her face grew red, and she stappit it in her bosom, and said, 'Vera weel, my man:' and syne shut the door." Oh, what pen could describe the feelins o' joy, o' transport, that were mine at this ecstatic moment! She had smiled wi' delight on hearin my name; she had blushed when my letter was put into her hands; and she had put that letter--oh, delicious thought!--into her bosom. The proof o' her love was conclusive. There was nae mistakin what were her feelins towards me. Jock's artless tale had put that beyond a' doot. I was noo put nearly distracted wi' joy. But, if the merely gracious reception of my letter was capable o' inspirin me wi' this feelin, what degree o' happiness could be imparted by a reply to it, and that o' the most favourable kind? (It could be ascertained by the Rule o' Three.) That degree o' happiness, whatever it is, was bestowed on me. In the course of the ensuing day, I received the following sweet billet by the postman, written by Lizzy's own dear hand:-- "Miss Barton presents her compliments to Mr. Smith, and will be happy of his company to tea, to-morrow evening, at six o'clock." Oh, hoo I noo langed for the "to-morrow evenin at six o'clock!" And yet I trembled at its approach, wi' an undefined, but overwhelmin feelin o' mingled love and shame, and hope and fear. It was just what I may ca' a delightfully painfu' predicament. Regardless, however, o' my feelins, the appointed hour cam round, and whan it did, it saw me dressed in my best, and, wi' a flutterin heart, stan'in at Lizzy's faither's door, wi' the knocker in my hand. I knocked. I heard a movement o' the sneck behind. The door opened, and my angel stood before me. I smiled and blushed intensely, without sayin a word. Miss Barton stared at me wi' a look o' cauld composed surprise. At length-- "Miss Barton," I stammered oot, "I am come, according to your invitation, to"---- "My invitation, sir!" said Miss Barton, noo a little confused, an' blushin in her turn. "What invitation? I haena the pleasure o' ony acquaintance wi' ye, sir. Ye're a perfect stranger to me." "I houp no a'thegither, Miss Barton," replied I, makin an abortive attempt at a captivatin smile. "I took the liberty o' addressin a letter to ye yesterday; an' here's yer invitation on the back o't," continued I, an' noo puttin her ain card into her hands. The puir lassie looked confounded, an', in great agitation, said-- "Oh, sir, it's a mistak! I'm so sorry. It's an entire mistak on my part. Yer'e no the person at a' I meant. I thocht the letter was frae anither gentleman--a different person a'thegither. It's the name has misled me. I am really so sorry." An' she curtsied politely to me, an' shut the door. Ay, here, then, was a pretty dooncome to a' my air-built castles o' luve an' happiness! It was a mistak, was it?--a mistak? I wasna the person at a'! She thocht the letter was frae anither gentleman a'thegither! An', pray, wha was this gentleman? A' that, an' a deal mair, I subsequently fand oot. The gentleman was a certain Willie Smith--a young, guid-lookin fallow, who sat in the same kirk wi' us, an' between whom an' Lizzy there had lang existed the telegraphic correspondence o' looks an' smiles, an' sighs, an' blushes--in fact, just such a correspondence as I had carried on mysel, wi' this important difference, however, that it wasna a' on ae side, as it noo appeared it had been in my case. The other Willie Smith's returns were real, while mine were only imaginary. I needna enlarge on the subject o' my feelins under this grievous an' heart-rendin disappointment. It will be aneuch to say that it pat me nearly beside mysel, an' that it was amaist a hale week before I tasted a morsel o' food o' ony kind. I was in a sad state; but time, that cures a' ills, at length cured mine, too, although it didna remove my regret that a name so unhappily frequent as Willie Smith had ever been bestowed on me. Havin already described mysel as bein o' a susceptible nature, and bein at this time in the prime o' youth, it winna surprise the reader to learn that I soon after this fell in love a second time. The object o' my affections, on this occasion, was a pretty girl, whom I met wi' at the house o' a mutual freen. She was a stranger in oor toun, an' had come frae Glasgow--o' which city she was a native--on a short visit to a relation. The acquaintance which I formed wi' this amiable creature soon ripened into the most ardent affection, an' I had every reason, very early, to believe that my love was returned. The subsequent progress of our intimacy established the delightful fact. We eventually stood on the footin o' avowed, an' all but absolutely betrothed lovers. Soon after this, Lucy Craig, which was the name of my beloved, returned to Glasgow, but not before we had settled to maintain a close and regular correspondence. The correspondence wi' Lucy, to which I hae alluded, subsequently took place; an', for several months--durin which I had made, besides, twa or three runs to Glasgow, to see her--mony a sweet epistle passed between us--epistles fu' o' lowin love, an' sparklin hopes, an' joy. I may as weel here remark, too, that, on the occasions o' my visits to Lucy, I was maist cordially an' kindly received by her mother--a fine, decent, motherly body, an' a widow--Lucy's father havin died several years before. Aweel, as I said, our correspondence went on closely an' uninterruptedly; but I maun noo add, wi' a restriction as to time, an' say for aboot five months, at the end o' which time it suddenly ceased, on the pairt o' Lucy, a'thegither. She was due me a letter at the time; for I had written three close on the back o' each other, which were yet unanswered. In the greatest impatience an' uneasiness, I first waited ae week, an' then anither, an' anither, an' anither, till they ran up to aboot six, whan, unable langer to thole the misery which her seemin negligence, or it micht be something waur, had created, I determined on puttin my fit in the coach, an' gaun slap richt through mysel, to ascertain the cause o' her extraordinary silence. To this proceedin--that is, my gaun to Glasgow--I was further induced by anither circumstance. There was a mercantile hoose there, wi' which my faither had dealt for twenty years, an' which had gotten, frae first to last, mony a thoosan pounds o' his money--a' weel an' punctually paid. Noo, it happened that, twa or three days before this, my faither had dispatched an order to this house for a fresh supply o' guids, whan, to oor inexpressible amazement, we received, instead o' the guids, a letter plumply refusin ony further credit, an' demandin, under a threat o' immediate prosecution, payment o' oor current account--amountin to aboot £150. To us this was a most extraordinary affair, an' wholly inexplicable, an' we resolved to know what it meant, by personal application to the firm. This, then, was anither purpose I had to serve in gaun to Glasgow, to which I accordingly set out, wi' the folks hunner-an'-fifty pounds in my pocket. On arrivin in the city just named, my first ca', of course, was on Lucy. But this wasna accomplished withoot a great deal o' previous painfu feelin. It was twa or three minutes before I could rap. At length I raised the knocker, an' struck. Lucy opened the door. She stared wildly at me, for a second, an' then, utterin a scream, ran into the house, exclaimin, distractedly--"O James, James! mother, mother! here's Mr. Smith's ghost!" And she screamed again more loudly than ever, an' flung herself on the sofa, in a violent fit o' hysterics. Here, then, was a pretty reception. I was confounded, but stepped leisurely into the hoose, after Lucy, whom I found extended on the sofa, an' her mother an' a strange gentleman beside her--a stranger to me at least--endeavouring to soothe her, and calm her violence. On the mother, my presence seemed to hae nearly as extraordinary an effect as on the dochter. Whan I entered the room, she, too, set up a skirl, and fled as far back frae me as the apartment wad admit, exclaimin-- "Lord be aboot us, Mr. Smith! is that you? Can it be possible? Are ye in the body, or are ye but a wanderin spirit? Lord hae a care o' us, are ye really an' truly leevin, Mr. Smith?" "Guid folks," said I, as calmly as I could, in reply to this strange rhapsody, "will ye be sae kind as tell me what a' this means?" An' first I looked at the dochter, wha was still lyin on the sofa, wi' her face buried wi' fricht in the cushions, and then at the mother, wha was sittin in a chair, starin at me, an' gaspin for breath, but noo evidently satisfied that I was at least nae ghaist. "Means, Mr. Smith!" said she, at intervals, as she could get breath to speak; "oh, man, didna we hear that ye were dead! Haena we thocht that ye were in yer grave for this month past! Dear me, but this is extraordinar! But will ye just step this way wi' me a minnit." An' she led the way into another room, whither I followed her, in the hope o' getting an explanation o' the singular scene which had just taken place; an' this explanation I did get. On our entering the apartment, my conductress shut the door, an', desirin me to tak a seat, thus began--"Dear me, Mr. Smith, but this is a most extraordinar, an' I maun say, a most unlucky affair. Werena we tell't, a month ago, that ye were dead an' buried, an' that by mair than ane--ay an' by the carrier frae yer ain place, too, at whom Lucy made inquiry the moment we heard it? An', mair than a' that," continued Mrs. Craig, "here's yer death mentioned in ane o' the newspapers o' yer ain place." Saying this, she took an auld newspaper frae a shelf, an', after lookin for the place to which she wanted to direct my attention, put it into my hands, wi' her thoom on the following piece o' intelligence:--"Died, on the 16th current, at his father's house, ----, Mr. William Smith, in the 23d year of his age." "Noo, Mr. Smith," said Mrs. Craig, triumphantly, "what were we to think o' a' this, but that ye were really an' truly buried? The place, yer name, yer age, a' richt to a tittle. What else could we think?" "Indeed, Mrs. Craig," said I, smilin, "it is an odd business, an' I dinna wunnur at yer bein deceived; but it's a' easily aneuch explained. It's this confounded name o' mine that's at the bottom o' a' the mischief. The Willie Smith here mentioned, I need hardly say, I suppose, is no me; but I kent him weel aneuch, an' a decent lad he was--he just lived twa or three doors frae us; an', as to the carrier misleadin ye, I dinna wunnur at that either--for he wad naturally think ye were inquirin after the deceased. But there's nae harm dune, Mrs. Craig," continued I. "I'm no sure o' that," interrupted my hostess, wi' a look an' expression o' voice that rather took me aback, as indeed, had also the _triumphant_ manner in which she had appealed to me if they could be blamed for havin believed me dead. This she was aye pressin on me, an' I was rather surprised at it; but it was to be fully accounted for. "No!" said I, whan Mrs. Craig expressed her uncertainty as to there bein ony mischief dune; "isna there Lucy to the fore, lookin as weel an' as healthy as ever I saw her, an'"---- "Lucy's married!" interposed Mrs. Craig, firmly and solemnly. "Married!" exclaimed I, starting frae my seat, in horror an' amazement--"Lucy married!" "'Deed is she, Mr. Smith, an' yon was her husband ye saw; an' ye canna blame her, puir thing! I'm sure mony a sair heart she had after ye. I thocht she wad hae gratten her een oot; but, bein sure ye were dead, an' a guid offer comin in the way, ye ken, she couldna refuse't. It wad hae been the heicht o' imprudence. Sae she juist dried her een, puir thing, an' buckled to." "Exactly, Mrs. Craig--exactly," said I, here interruptin her; "I understan ye--ye need sae nae mair." An' I rushed oot o' the door like a madman, an' through the streets, withoot kennin either what I was doin or whar I was gaun. On recovering my composure a little, I fand mysel in the Green o' Glasgow, an' close by the river side. The clear, calm, deep water tempted me, in the desperation o' my thochts. Ae plunge, an' a' this distractin turmoil that was rackin my soul, an' tearin my bosom asunder, wad be stilled. In this frame o' mind, I gazed gloomily on the glidin stream; but, as I gazed, better thochts gradually presented themsels, an' finally, resentment took the place o' despondency, whan I reflected on the heartless haste o' Lucy to wed anither, thereby convincin me that, in losin her, my loss was by nae means great. So then, to mak a lang story short, in place o' jumpin into the Clyde, I hied me to a tavern, ate as hearty a supper as ever I ate in my life, drank a guid, steeve tumbler o' toddy, tumbled into bed, sleepit as sound as a caterpillar in winter, an' awoke next mornin as fresh as a daisy an' as licht as a lark, free frae a' concern aboot Lucy, an' perfectly satisfied that I had acted quite richt in no droonin mysel on the previous nicht. Havin noo got quit o' my love affairs, my first business, next day, was to ca' on the mercantile firm alluded to in another part o' the narrative; and to their countin-hoose I accordingly directed my steps--and thae steps, when I entered their premises, were a wee haughty, for I felt at once the strength o' the money in my pouch, and a sense o' havin been ill-used by them. On enterin the countin-hoose, I fand the principal there alane, seated at a desk. This gentleman I knew personally, and he kent me too; for I had frequently ca'ed at his office in the way o' business, and on these occasions he had aye come forrit to me wi' extended hand and a smilin countenance. On the present, however, he did naething o' the kind. He sat still, and, lookin sternly at me as I approached him-- "Well, Mr. Smith," he said, "are ye come to settle that account? Short accounts make long friends, you know," he added, but wi' a sort o' ferocious smile, if there be such a thing. "I wad like first to ken, sir," I replied, "what was the meanin o' yer writin us sic a letter as we had frae ye the ither day?" "Why, Mr. Smith," said Mr. Drysdale, which was the gentleman's name, "under the peculiar circumstances of the case, I don't see there was anything in that letter that ought to have surprised you. It was a perfectly natural and reasonable effort on our part to recover our own." "A reasonable effort, sir, to recover your own!" said I indignantly. "What do you mean? My faither has dealt wi' ye these twenty years, and I don't suppose ye ever fand it necessary to mak ony effort to recover your money oot o' his hands. I rather think ye were aye paid withoot askin." "Oh, yes, yes," replied Mr. Drysdale, doggedly; "but I repeat that recent circumstances have altered the case materially." "What circumstances do ye allude to, sir?" said I, wi' increasin passion. "What circumstances, sir, do I allude to?" replied Mr. Drysdale, fiercely. "I don't suppose you required to come here for that information; but you shall have it nevertheless, since you ask it." And, proceeding to a file of newspapers, he detached one, and, throwing it on the desk before me, placed his finger, as Mrs. Craig had done on another occasion, on the bankrupt list, and desired me to look at _that_. I did so, and read, in this catalogue of unfortunates, the name of "William Smith, merchant, ----. Creditors to meet," &c. &c. "Now, sir," said Mr. Drysdale, with a triumphant sneer, "are you satisfied?" "Perfectly, sir," I replied; "but you will please to observe that that William Smith is not my father. He's a totally different person." "What!" exclaimed Mr. Drysdale, "not your father! Who is he, then? I didn't know there was any other William Smith, of any note in trade, in your town. I did not, indeed, look particularly at the designation; but took it for granted it was your father, as, to my certain knowledge, many others have also done." "Indeed!" replied I; "why, that is mair serious. Some steps maun be taen to remedy that mischief." "Without a moment's delay," said Mr. Drysdale, who was already a changed man. "Your father must advertise directly, saying he's not the William Smith whose name appears in the bankrupt list of such a date. Lose not a moment in doing this, or your credit'll be cracked throughout the three kingdoms. It has already suffered seriously here, I can assure you." Having paid Mr. Drysdale his account, which he wasna noo for acceptin--sayin that, if we had the sma'est occasion for the money, to use it freely, without regardin them--and havin thanked him for his advice as to counteracting the evil report that had gane abroad respectin us, I hurried awa to put it in execution; and thinkin it very hard to be subjected to a' this trouble sae innocently, and to hae, at ane and the same time, a pair o' such calamities sae oddly thrust upon me, as my ain death, and the bankruptcy o' my faither. However, sae it was. But my business noo was to remedy, as far as possible, the mischief that had been done by the unfounded rumour o' oor insolvency. Wi' this view I hastened awa to a newspaper office, to begin the cure by an advertisement; and, in doin this, I had occasion to pass the coach-office whar I had landed the day before. Observin the place, I thocht I micht as weel step in and secure my ticket for the following day, when it was my intention to return hame. Accordingly, into the office I gaed; and, whan I did sae, I fand the clerk in earnest conversation wi' twa men, ane o' whom was busily employed in lookin owre the way-book or register o' passengers' names. They didna at first observe me enter; but, whan they did, there was an instant pause in their conversation; and I observed the clerk, after he had glanced at me, tippin a significant wink to ane, and gently punchin the other wi' his elbow. Then a' three glanced at me. I couldna understand it. However, I said nothing; thinkin they were settlin some private business thegither, and, oot o' guid nature, wad rather wait a minute or twa than interrupt them. But my waiting wasna lang. Before I had been an instant in the office, ane o' the men cam roun to whar I was stan'in, and, lookin me fiercely in the face, said-- "What's your name, sir, if you please?" "My name, sir!" replied I, as angrily--for I thocht the fellow put the question in a very impertinent sort o' way--"what business hae ye wi' my name?" "Oh, mair than ye're aware o', p'raps," says he. "An' it's a bad sign o' a man whan he'll no tell his name," says he. This touched me to the quick, an' I dare say the vagabond kent it wad, an' did it on purpose. It was a wipe at my character which I could by nae means submit to. So says I to him, says I-- "Freen, ye'll observe that I'm no denyin my name--I'm only disputin yer richt to demand it. I'm no ashamed o' my name, sir, although it certainly has cost me some trouble in my day. My name, sir, is William Smith--sae mak o't what ye like." "I should mak a couple o' guineas o't, at the very least," said the fellow, wi' a smile; and at the same time catchin me by the breast o' my coat, and sayin that I was his prisoner. "Prisoner!" exclaimed I, in amazement, "prisoner! what do you mean?" "I mean just exactly what I say," said the fellow, quite coolly; and, thinkin he saw in me some show o' a spirit o' resistance, whilk there really was, he touched me wi' a bit thing like a wean's whistle, and winked to his neebor to come to his assistance, which the latter immediately did, and catched me by the ither breast o' my coat. "Come along," said baith, now beginnin to drag me wi' them. "No a fit," said I, resistin, "till I ken what for I'm used this way." "Oh! ye don't know, Mr. Innocence!" said the fellow wha first took hand o' me; "not you--you're amazed, an't you? You can't suppose there's such a thing as fugæ warrants out against you! And you can't believe I should have such a thing in my pocket," added the scoonril, takin' a piece o' paper oot o' his pouch, and haudin't up before my een, but oot o' my reach. "There, my lad, are you satisfied now? That's the thing I walks by." Then, havin replaced the paper in his pouch, he went on, but now, apparently, more for the information of the bystanders (of whom there was, by this time, a considerable number gathered together), than for mine. "You're apprehended, Mr. Smith, by virtue of a fugæ warrant, obtained at the instance of Messrs. Hodgson, Brothers, & Co., on the evidence of two credible witnesses--namely, Robert Smart and Henry Allan--who have deponed that you were going beyond seas; you being indebted to the said Hodgson, Brothers, & Co., in the sum of £74. 15s. 9d. sterling money. There's cause and ground for yer apprehension, Mr. Smith," continued the fellow; "so, no more about it, but come along quietly, and at once, or it may be worse for you." "I'll see you shot first," said I. "I ken naething aboot your Hodgson, Brothers--never heard o' them before. I owe them nae money, nor onybody else, but what I can pay; and I haena, nor ever had, ony intention whatever o' leavin my ain country." "A' quite natural statement'; these, Mr. Smith," said the man wha first took haud o' me; "but ye'll observe we're no bound to believe them. All that we have to do, is to execute our duty. If you are wronged, you may have your redress by legal process. In the meantime, ye go with us." And again the two commenced draggin me oot o' the office. "May I be hanged if I do, then!" said I, passionately; for my blood was noo gettin up. It wad hae been far better for me, in the end, if I had taen things calmly--for I could easily hae proven my identity, and, of course, the messengers' error in apprehendin me; but my prudence and patience baith gave way before the strong feelin o' resentment, which a sense o' the injustice I was sufferin had excited. "May I be hanged if I do, then!" said I; and wi' that I hit ane o' the fellows a wap on the face that sent him staggerin to the other side o' the office. Havin done this, I turned roun', quick as thocht, and collared the ane that still held by me, a proceedin which was immediately followed by a wrestle o' the most ferocious and determined character. I was the stouter man o' the twa, however, and wad sune hae laid my antagonist on the breadth o' his back, but for his neebor, who, now rendered furious by the blow which I had gien him, sprang on me like a tiger; and, between them I was borne to the groun', the twa fa'in on the tap o' me. Here, again, however, the battle was renewed. I continued to kick and box richt and left, wi' a vigour that made me still formidable to my enemies; while they, to do them justice, lent me kicks and blows in return, that nearly ca'ed the life out o' me. There, then, were we a' three rowin on the floor, sometimes ane uppermost an' sometimes anither, wi' oor faces streamin o' blude, and oor coats a' torn in the most ruinous manner. It was an awfu' scene, and such a ane as hadna been seen often in that office before, I dare say. As micht be expected, we had a numerous audience, too The office was filled wi' folk, the door was choked up wi' them, and there was an immense crowd in the street, and clusters at the window, a' tryin to get a sicht or a knowledge o' what was proceedin within. Baith the commotion and the concourse, in fact, was tremendous--just appallin to look at. But this was a state o' matters that couldna last lang. My assailants havin ca'ed in the assistance o' a couple o' great, big, stout fallows o' porters, I was finally pinned to the floor, whan my hauns bein secured by a pair o' handcuffs, I was raised to my feet, again collared by the twa officers, and a cry havin been made to clear the road, I was led oot o' the office in procession; a messenger on each side o' me, the twa porters ahint, and ane before, openin a passage through the crowd, whose remarks, as I gaed alang, were highly flatterin to me:-- "What an awfu'-like ruffian!" said ane. "What a murderous-lookin scoonril!" said anither. "What's he been doin?" inquired a third. "Robbin the mail-coach," answered a fourth; "and they say he has murdered the guard an' twa passengers." "Oh! the monster!" exclaimed an auld wife, whom this piece of accurate information had reached; "the savage, bloody monster! Was ever the like heard tell o'! The gallows is owre guid for him." In short, I heard mysel, as I was led alang, charged wi' every crime that human wickedness is capable o', although I perceived that the robbery o' the mail, and the murders o' the guard and passengers, was the favourite and prevailing notion; a notion which, I presumed, had arisen frae the circumstance o' the row's havin had its origin in a coach office. Some reports hae been waur founded. As to the reflections on my appearance, I couldna reasonably quarrel wi' them: for, really, it was far frae bein prepossessin; and o' this I was quite sensible. My coat was hingin in tatters aboot me; my hat was crushed oot o' a' shape; and my face was hideously disfigured wi' blude, and wi' unnatural swellins frae the blows I had gotten. Wi' the reflections on my appearance, then, as I hae said, greatly improved as it was by the display o' my handcuffs, I couldna justly fin' faut. By-and-by, however, we reached the jail; and into ane o' its strongest and best secured apartments was I immediately conducted. Havin seen me fairly lodged here, my captors took their leave o' me; ane o' them sayin, as he quitted the cell, and shakin his head as he spoke-- "If ye don't rue this job, friend, my name's not what it is--that's all." The door bein noo closed on me, an' a fine opportunity bein thus presented me for indulgin in a little reflection on my present circumstances an' situation, I accordingly began to do so; but I fand it by nae means a very agreeable employment. Amang ither things, it struck me that I had exposed mysel' sadly, and very unnecessarily, since I could easily, as I believe I hae before remarked, hae shown that they had put the saddle on the wrong horse; but I had allowed my passion to get the better o' me, an' instead o' takin the richt and prudent course o' establishin this by a quiet procedure, had resisted, an' foucht like a thief taen in the fact. However, the business was noo hoo to mend the matter, an' it was some time before I could discover precisely hoo this was to be done--at least wi' a' that expedition I wad hae liked. At last it struck me that I couldna do better than intimate my situation to Mr. Drysdale, an' request o' him to come an' see me. This, then, I immediately did--the jailor furnishin me wi' paper, pen, an' ink, an' undertakin to have my letter delivered as directed, which was faithfully executed; for, in less than half-an-hour, Mr. Drysdale, laughin' like to split his sides, entered my cell. "What's this, Mr. Smith?--what's this has happened ye, man?" said he, when the laughing would let him speak. "Ye see what it is to hae a bad name. I tell't ye there was mair than me mistaen aboot this affair. It's a most unlucky name yours." "Confound the name, sir!" said I. "It's like to be baith the ruin an' the death o' me. But what can I do? I canna get quit o't, an' maun just fecht oot wi't the best way I can." I wasna at first a'thegither in such a laughin humour as my visitor, yet I couldna help joinin him in the lang run, whan we took twa or three guid roun's o't, an' then proceeded to business. Mr. Drysdale said he wad bail me to ony amount, if that were necessary to my immediate liberation; but proposed that he should, in the first place, call on Hodgson, Brothers, whom he knew intimately, an' state the case to them. This he accordingly did; an', in aboot a quarter o' an hour, returned to me in the jail, wi' ane o' thae gentlemen alang wi' him. Mr. Hodgson expressed the utmost concern for what had happened, an' offered me ony reasonable recompense I might name for the injury an' detention to which I had been subjected. This, however, I declined, but expressed a wish that the messengers wha had apprehended me micht be keel-hauled a bit for the rashness o' their proceedins. "As to that, Mr. Smith," said Mr. Hodgson, smilin, "I think you had as well 'let a-be for let a-be' there. They have been sadly mauled by you, I understand, and it strikes me to be a drawn battle between you." "Weel, weel," said I, laughin, "e'en let it be sae, then; but the scoonrils ocht to be mair carefu' wha they lay their hands on." "They ought, no doubt," said Mr. Hodgson; "but, in this case there was really some excuse for them. Our debtor, whom I dare say you know very well, is a young man of the name of William Smith--a grocer in your own town, who began business there some months ago. Now, he has failed, as I dare say you know, also--has shut shop--swindled his creditors--and fled the country. This was the fellow we wanted to catch; and, you being from the same place, of the same name, and of, as I take it, about the same age, it is really no great wonder that the men were deceived." I allowed that it was not; but said it was rather hard that the sins o' a' the Willie Smiths in the country should be visited on my shouthers. "There's no a piece o' villany done by, nor a misfortune happens to a Willie Smith," said I, "but it's fastened on me. It's really hard." My twa visitors laughingly admitted the hardship o' the case, but advised me to be as patient under't as I could--a wishy-washy aneuch sort o' advice; but it was a', I dare say, they had to offer. I need hardly say that the jail doors were noo instantly thrown open to me, nor that I lost nae time in availin mysel' o' the liberty to which they invited. The first thing I did on gettin oot was to provide mysel wi' a new coat and hat; for, until this was done, I wasna in a fit state to be seen, an' couldna think o' walkin the streets in the torn-down and blackguard lookin condition in which my captors had left me. Havin, however, improved my outward man a little, and brushed up my face a bit--but on which, notwithstandin a' I could do, there continued to remain some ugly traces o' my late adventure--I thocht I couldna do better, as I had noo a lang idle evenin before me, than ca' on twa or three auld and intimate acquaintances o' our family that resided in Glasgow. In pursuance o' this resolution, I began wi' some decent folks o' the name o' Robertson, distant relations o' our ain, and from whom I had, on the occasion o' former visits, o' which I had made twa or three, met wi' the most kind an' cordial welcome; and o' this I naturally expected a repetition in the present instance. What was my surprise and mortification, then, whan I fand it quite the reverse--most markedly sae! "Oh, William, is that you!" said Mrs. Robertson, drily, and wi' a degree o' stiffness and cauldness in her manner which I couldna understan'. "_Will_ ye stap in a bit?" she added, hesitatingly and evidently wi' reluctance. Weel, she used to fling her arms aboot me, and pu' me in. But it was noo, "_Will_ ye step in?" I did, but sune saw there was something wrang; but what it was I couldna conjecture. I overheard her husband and dochters _refusin_ Mrs. Robertson's request to them to come ben and see me. They used to a' rush aboot me, like a torrent. In short, I perceived that I was a very unwelcome visitor, and that a speedy retreat on my part wad be highly approved of. Amongst other hints o' this, was Mrs. Robertson's scarcely speakin three words to me a' the time I sat wi' her, and no makin ony offer o' the sma'est refreshment. Her behaviour to me was a'thegither exceedinly strange and mysterious; but what struck me as maist singular, was her aye speakin o' my faither wi' a compassionatin air. "Puir, puir man!" she wad say; "Gude help us! it's a weary warl' this! Ane canna tell what their weans are to come to. Muckle grief and sorrow, I'm sure, do they bring to parents' hearts." These truths bein obvious and general, I couldna deny them, although I was greatly at a loss to see ony particular occasion for advertin to them at the time. Wearied oot at length wi' Mrs. Robertson's truisms, and disgusted wi' her incivility and uncourteous manner to me, I took up my hat, and decamped, wi' as little ceremony as I had been received. I was, in truth, baith provoked and perplexed by her extraordinary treatment o' me, and couldna at a' conjecture to what it could be owin. But let the reader fancy, if he can, what was my surprise when I fand mysel' treated in almost precisely the same way in every ither hoose at which I ca'ed subsequently to this. There was, in every instance, the same astonishment expressed at seein me, the same cauldness exhibited, and the same mysterious silence maintained durin my visit. I was perfectly confounded at it; but couldna, of course, ask ony explanation, as there was naething sae palpably oot o' joint as to admit o't. Havin made my roun' o' ca's wi' the success and comfort I hae mentioned, I returned to my quarters, and, orderin a tumbler o' toddy, sat down amongst a heap o' newspapers, to amuse mysel' the best way I could till bedtime. The first paper I took up was a Glasgow one, published that day. I skimmed it ower till I cam to a paragraph wi' the followin takin title--"Desperate Ruffian." This catched my e'e at ance; for I was aye fond o' readin aboot desperate ruffians, and horrible accidents, and atrocious murders, &c. &c. "So," says I to mysel', "here's a feast." And I threw up my legs on the firm on which I was seated, drew the candle nearer me, took a mouthfu' oot o' my tumbler, and made every preparation, in short, for a quiet, deliberate, comfortable read; and this I got, to my heart's content. The paragraph, which began wi' "Desperate Ruffian," went on thus:-- "This morning, a scene, at once one of the most disgraceful and ludicrous which we have witnessed for some time, took place in one of the coach-offices of this city. A fellow of the name of William Smith, a young man of about twenty-three or twenty-four years of age, from ----, who is charged with various acts of swindling, and is well known as a person of infamous character, was apprehended on a fugæ warrant, by our two active criminal officers, Messrs. Rob and Ramage, in the ---- coach-office, just as he was about to take out a ticket for Greenock, whither he intended to proceed for the purpose of embarking for America with his ill-got gains. The ruffian, on being first apprehended, denied his name; but, finding this not avail him, he violently assaulted the officers in the execution of their duty, and, being a powerful man, it was not until those very deserving men had suffered severely in their persons, and obtained the aid of the bystanders, that he was finally secured. This, however, was ultimately accomplished, when the fellow being securely handcuffed, was conducted to jail, and lodged in one of the strongest cells, where he will, of course, remain until brought to trial. There is a rumour that Smith has been concerned in some late coach robbery; but we have heard no particulars, and cannot vouch for its truth, although, from his appearance, we should suppose him to be perfectly capable of anything." Weel, guid reader, what do ye think o' that? Wasna that a pretty morsel for me to swallow? It is true that I needna hae felt very uneasy aboot the description o' a character that didna belang to me; but it maun be observed that there was here that mixture o' fact and fiction which, in cases o' rumour, it is sae difficult to separate. Moreover, I was certainly the person spoken o', however erroneously represented; there was nae denyin that. I was mingled up wi' the business, and the very process o' establishin my innocence was certain to gie me a most unpleasant notoriety; and was likely, besides, no to be in every case successful. In short, I fand, tak it ony way I liked, that it couldna be reckoned otherwise than as a most unlucky affair. It was noo, too, that I began to smell a rat regardin the treatment I had met wi' frae the different acquaintances I had ca'ed upon. They had either seen the paragraph which I hae just quoted, or had heard o't. The same belief explained to me the cause o' Mrs. Robertson's reflections on the risin generation o' mankind, and her extraordinary sympathy for my father. There could be nae doot o't--and thus was the mystery solved. Of this I was still further satisfied, when, on takin up anither Glasgow paper o' the same day, I fand that it also contained an account o' the mornin's affair. The twa paragraphs were, on the whole, pretty much alike in substance; but, in the second ane, there were twa or three incidental circumstances mentioned that added to the interest o' the story considerably. Such, then, was the readin wi' which I beguiled the time on the evenin o' which I am speakin; an' I leave it to the reader o' thae pages to judge hoo far it was calculated to soothe my previously harassed feelins, an' to afford me the relaxation an' amusement I sought, an' o' which I had sae much need. At first, I resolved on takin every possible public an' private measure that could be commanded to counteract the evil reports, o' ae kind an' anither, under which baith mysel personally an' my family were labourin. I thocht on gaun roun to a' the acquaintances on whom I had just been ca'in, an' explainin to them the real state o' the case; an' then followin up this proceedin wi' ca'in on the editors o' the twa papers in which the injurious statements had appeared, an' requestin, nay, insistin, on their puttin in a true version o' the story, at the same time carefully markin my identity, an' separatin me frae a' discreditable transactions, of every kind, degree, an' character whatsoever. A' this I thocht o' doin, I say; but, on reflection, I changed my mind, an' determined no to gie mysel ony such trouble, but just to let things tak their course, an' trust to my ain conduct, an' the weel-kent respectability o' my faither, for the guid opinion o' the warld. Anent the rumour o' oor bankruptcy, however, I thocht there could be nae harm in puttin in an advertisement or twa, contradictory o't; an' this was accordingly done, in the following brief terms:-- "William Smith, hosier, ----, begs to inform his friends and the public, that he is not the same person whose name appears in the bankrupt list published in the ---- newspaper of the 15th inst. All claims on the advertiser will be paid, on demand, at his shop." This advertisement I handed into the offices o' twa Glasgow papers that same nicht, an' next mornin saw me safely perched on the tap o' the coach for oor ain place, glad that a' my misadventures were owre, an' that I was soon to be at hame again; for I was sick o' Glasgow--an' the reader will allow no withoot some reason. The coach on which I was mounted was just aboot to start, the driver had taen the reins in his hand, an' the guard was strugglin to get up the last trunk, whan the waiter o' the inn in which I had been stoppin, an' which was at the head o' a prodigiously lang close, just at the startin-place, cam rinnin up, an' cried, lookin at the same time at the passengers-- "Is there a Mr. Smith here?" I expected that half-a-dozen at least wad hae owned the name; but, to my surprise, there was no Mr. Smith amang them, but mysel. "They ca' me Smith, my man--what is it?" said I, wi' a suspicious look; for I noo stood greatly in awe o' my ain name--no bein sure what mischief it micht lead me into. "There's a gentleman up in the hoose wants to see you directly," said the lad. "But I canna go till him, man--ye see the coach is just gaun to start," said I. "Ay, but he says that's o' nae consequence. Ye maun come till him. He has something o' importance to say to ye." Thinkin it wasna advisable to slight a message o' sae pressin a nature, an' curious to ken wha it was that could be wantin me, an' what he could be wantin me for, I leaped down, resolvin to mak my legs, which were gay an' lang an' souple anes, save my distance, an' havin nae doubt they wad, critical as the case was. I up the close like a shot, an' into the hoose; but, though _I_ was in a hurry, the waiter wha had come for me was in nane. He didna appear for five minutes after; an', as he was the only person wha kent onything aboot a message bein sent after me, I had to wait his return, before I could find oot the person wha wanted me. This, however, he noo effected for me; but not before a good deal mair time was lost. The gentleman who wished to see me was dressin; so I was shewn into a room, while the waiter went to inform him o' my arrival. In a minute or twa after--durin which I was dancin aboot in a fever of impatience, for fear o' losin the coach--the door o' the apartment flew open, an' a laughin, joyous-lookin fellow, with a loud "Aha, Bob!" an' extended hand, rushed in; but he didna rush far. The instant he got his ee fairly on me, he stopped short, an', lookin as grave's a rat, bowed politely, an' said he was exceedingly sorry to perceive that he had committed a gross mistake. "The fact is, my dear sir," he said, becomin again affable, to reconcile me, I suppose, to the unfortunate blunder, an' speakin wi' great volubility, "my name is Smith, which, I suppose, is yours too, sir. I'm from London. Now, you see, my dear sir, my brother Bob, who lives in Ireland, and whom I haven't seen for some years, was to have met me here last night, agreeably to arrangements made by letter, and we were to have gone this morning, as it were, by the same coach in which you were going, to visit some friends in that part of the country to which it runs. Well, you see, I arrived here only this morning early; but the first thing I did was to inquire if there was a Mr. Smith in the house, and I was distinctly told by the rascal of a waiter that there was no person of that name. Well, what does the fellow do, but come running to my bedside, a little ago, and tells me that there _had been_ a Mr. Smith in the house over night, and that he was at that moment on the top of the ---- coach. Well, my dear sir, did not I immediately and very naturally conclude that this Mr. Smith must be my brother! And thus has this unlucky mistake happened. 'Pon my honour, I am most sorry for it--exceedingly sorry, indeed." Bein naturally o' a very placable disposition, I didna say much in reply to this harangue; but, mutterin something aboot there bein nae help for't, rushed oot o' the hoose, an' down the confounded lang close, as fast as my legs could carry me, and that was pretty fast; but no fast aneuch to catch the coach. It was aff an' awa, mony a lang minute afore. "Aweel," said I, on discoverin this, "but this does beat cock-fechtin! What, in heaven's name, am I to do wi' this unfortunate patronymic o' mine? It's crossin me wi' mischief o' ae kind or anither at every step. I suppose I'll be hanged in a mistake next. That'll be the end o't. I'll change't, if I leeve to get hame--I'll change't, let what like be the consequence, or I'll hae an _alias_ added till't, before waur comes o't; for this'll never do." In such reflections as thae did I expend the impatient feelin that the loss o' the coach, an' the recollection o' certain ither sma' incidents, with which the reader is acquainted, had gien rise to. But little guid they did me; an' this I at length fand oot. Sae I just gied a bit smile to mysel, an' made up my mind to wait patiently for the next coach, which started the same nicht, though at a pretty late hour. Late as that hour was, however, it cam roun, an', whan it did, it fand me, withoot havin met wi' ony ither misfortune in the interim, mounted again on the tap o' a coach. This time I was allowed to keep my seat in peace. The coach drove awa, an' me alang wi't; an', in twal hours thereafter, I fand mysel in my faither's hoose, safe and soun', after a' that had happened me. Shortly after the occurrences which I have just related, my puir faither departed this life, and I, as his only son and heir, succeeded to a' his possessions--stock, lock, and barrel; and I now only wanted a wife to complete my establishment, and fix my position in society. This, however, didna remain lang a desideratum wi' me. A wife I got, and as guid a ane as ever man was blessed wi'; but it was rather a curious sort o' way that I got her. Ae nicht, pretty late, in the summer o' the year 1796, a rather smart rap comes to our door. We were a' in bed--mother, servant lass, and a'; but, on hearin't, I bangs up, on wi' my claes, lichts a cannle, and opens the door. On doing this, then, I sees a porter loaded wi' trunks and bandboxes, and behint him a very pretty, genteel-lookin young woman. "Here's a frien o' yours come to see you, frae Edinburgh," says the porter, whom I kent weel aneuch; and wi' this the young leddy comes forward, wi' a licht step, and ane o' the prettiest smiles I ever saw; and, says she, haudin oot her haun to me-- "Ye'll no ken me, Mr. Smith, I dare say?" "No, indeed, mem," says I--"I do not." "I'm a cousin o' yours," said she--"Margaret Smith, and a dochter o' your uncle William's." "Frae Edinburgh," said I, takin her cordially by the haun, and leadin her into the parlour. "The same," said she smilin again; "and I'm just come doun to spend a day or twa wi' ye, if ye hae room for me, and winna think me owre troublesome." "Room!" said I--"plenty o' room; and, as for trouble, dinna mention that." And I assisted my fair cousin to remove her shawl and other haps. This cousin, I may mention by the way, I had never seen before; and neither had she ever seen ony o' us, although we knew perfectly weel o' each other's existence. But this within parentheses. Havin seen my pretty cousin--for she was really a bonny-lookin and modest creature--made so far comfortable, I ran joyfully to my mother, to inform her o' oor acquisition. My mother, who had never seen her either, was delighted wi' the intelligence, and instantly rose to welcome her. The servant was roused oot o' her bed, a little supper prepared, and some delightful hours we spent together. I was charmed wi' my fair cousin; so intelligent, so lively, so sensible, so accomplished--so much o' everything, in short, that was captivatin in a young and beautifu' woman. Nor was my mother less delighted wi' her than I was. There were, indeed, some things spoken o' in the course o' conversation between my mother, and oor guest, and I, relatin to family affairs, in which we couldna somehow or other come to a distinct understandin. There was something like cross-purposes between us; and I observed that my fair cousin was extraordinary ignorant o' a' matters concerning us, and o' the circumstances o' a number o' oor mutual relations. But this neither my mother nor I thought much o', either. It was just sae like a bit lively thochtless lassie, wha couldna be expected to hae either the genealogy of a' her friends, or their particular callins or residences, at her finger ends. However, as I said before, we spent a pleasant evening thegither; and this followed by eight as pleasant days, durin which time our fair guest continued to make rapid progress in the affections o' baith my mother and me; although, of course, the regard she excited was somewhat different in its nature in the twa cases. In mine it was love--in my mother's esteem. But a' this was to hae a sudden and curious termination. At the end o' the eight days above alluded to, happenin to tak up a newspaper, I was attracted by an advertisement bearing the following highly interesting title--"Young Lady Missing." I read on, and found, to my amazement, that the young lady was no other than my fair cousin. The notice stated, that she had gone down to ----, to visit some relations; had left Edinburgh, by the ---- coach, on the mornin of the 10th, and had been safely set down at ----; but that her relations there had seen nothing of her, and that no trace of her could since be found. The advertisement concluded by offering a handsome reward to any one who could give any such information as might lead to a discovery of the young lady, either to Mr. William Smith, haberdasher, ----, or to Mr. William Smith, No. 19, Lavender Street, Edinburgh. Here, then, was a queer business. But, bein now somewhat accustomed to thae things, I was at nae loss to discover the meanin o't. The young lady wasna my cousin at a'--she had come to the wrang shop. She was a niece o' Willie Smith the haberdasher's--and there was the mystery solved at ance. It turned oot precisely sae. There was an awfu kick-up, and an awfu rejoicin, and shakin o' hands, and writin o' letters, and sae forth, after I had announced to the different parties how the matter stood, and brocht them thegither. But I wasna gaun to lose my fair cousin this way. I followed her to Willie Smith's, whar I was a welcome aneuch guest, and availed mysel to the full o' the advantages which a curious chance had thrown in my way, by eventually makin her my wife; and, as I said before, a most admirable one she made, and still maks, as she is sittin by my elbow at this present writin. Noo, guid reader, sae far hae I brocht the story o' my life, or perhaps, rather o' my unfortunate name, (no a'thegither so unfortunate either, since it helped me to sic a wife,) and I maun stop; but it's for want o' room, and, I assure you, no for want o' matter. What I hae tell't ye is no a tithe o' the sufferings I hae endured through this unhappy patronymic o' mine. In truth, it was but the beginnin o' them. The rest I may relate to ye on some future day. In the meantime, guid reader, I bid ye fareweel, wi' a sincere houp that yer name's no Willie Smith. THE PROFESSOR'S TALES. PHEBE FORTUNE. I have now been upwards of forty years minister of the parish of C----. Soon after I became minister, I stumbled one morning upon a small parcel lying in a turnip field adjoining the manse. It appeared to me at first to be a large hedgehog; but, upon further investigation, I found that it was a seemingly new-born infant, wrapt carefully up in warm flannel, and dressed in clothes which indicated anything but extreme poverty. There was a kirk-road through the turnip field--my wonted passage to my glebe land every morning; and the infant had manifestly been deposited with a reference to my habits. I could not possibly miss seeing it--it lay completely across my path--a road almost untrod by anybody save myself. As I happened to have a young, and a pretty large--or, in other phrase, small--family of my own, I hesitated at first how to proceed; but a moment's reflection taught me the necessity of acting rather than of thinking; and I gathered up the little innocent in my arms, and hastened back, with all possible speed, to the manse. The little hands of the helpless existence were moving backwards and forwards, up and down; and its lips plainly indicated a desire for its natural beverage. "Bless me!" said my dear wife, as I entered; "bless me, my dear, what's that you are bringing us?" "It's a child," said I; "an infant--beautiful as day--only look at it." "None of your nonsense," said spousie, looking somewhat archly in my face. "I'm sure, ye ken, we hae mae weans than we hae meat for already. But where in all the world did you pick up this sweet little darling?"--for, by this time, my wife had opened the flannel coverings, and examined the features of the young stranger carefully. My second youngest girl, about four years of age, had joined us, and, falling down on her knees, kissed the foundling's cheeks all over. In fact, the news spread all over the manse in less than no time; and I had my two eldest boys--then preparing for school--my eldest daughter, and the two maid-servants, all tumbling into the parlour in a world of amazement. My wife, however, having recovered from her first surprise and burst of natural affection, began, very naturally, to speculate about the parentage of the uninvited visitant. She examined its dress; and, amongst other discoveries, found a piece of paper attached to the body of the frock, inscribed with these words, in a plain printed hand--"I am not what I seem. My name is Phebe." On searching a little more particularly, a hundred-pound note was found stitched into a small purse or bag, suspended from the infant's neck. We were all amazement. My wife was all at once persuaded that the infant must be the offspring of some lady of high quality, and that, by keeping her in our family, we should be absolutely enriched by presents of hundred-pound notes every other morning. She seemed to look upon poor Phebe as the philosopher's stone, and thought that gold would, in future, be as plentiful in our house as brass coinage had hitherto been. But who could be the mother of this pretty, sweet, dear, darling, lovely child? Could it be--and she whispered me knowingly in the ear; but I shook my head, and looked equally knowing. Could it be Lady M----? I looked incredulity, and my wife pushed her speculations no further. By this time my oldest daughter had arranged Phebe's dress, and made all snug; and the poor little infant gave audible intimation of a desire for food. What was to be done? This question occupied us for about a quarter of an hour, when we at last recollected that Lord C----'s gardener's wife had yesterday buried her infant. She was immediately sent for, and, having no children of her own, agreed, after some persuasion and the promise of a handsome reward, to suckle poor Phebe. It was, indeed, beautifully interesting to observe how Phebe's little hands wandered over the source of her sustenance, and seemed to say, as plainly as hands could speak it, "I have you now, and will not part with you again." Phebe grew--opened her sweet blue eyes--smiled--and won all hearts in the course of a month. But she was still a heathen, or, in other words, unbaptised; and, after consulting the session, whom I advertised of all the circumstances, it was agreed that the gardener's wife should take the vows, and name the child. We all wept at the christening; there was something so unusual and overpowering, so mysterious and exciting, in the whole transaction. My wife suggested that she should be called "Phebe Monday," that being the day on which she was found; but, somehow or other, I disliked the combination of sounds exceedingly; and at last, at the suggestion of the nurse-mother, we affixed Fortune to her Christian designation; and, after the ceremony, which was performed in the gardener's house, we drank a glass of ginger wine to the health and long life of little Phebe Fortune, the foundling. Through the kindness of Lord C----, I had the privilege of walking when I chose in his extensive gardens and pleasure-grounds, which were in my parish, and adjoining to the manse; and it was on one of the smooth-rolled grass walks of this garden that I conducted little Phebe's first steps, when she put down her little foot for the first time, and stood almost erect on the grass. Oh, how the little doll screamed and chuckled as she tumbled over and rolled about; ever and anon stretching out her little hand, and asking, as it were, my assistance in aiding her inexperience and weakness. However, "_Tentando fimus fabri_," by effort, frequently repeated, success is at last secured; and Phebe at last flew off from me like an arrow, and, like an arrow, too, alighted head foremost on the soft sward. Phebe won all hearts when she began to syllable people's names. Me she called "minny-man;" my wife, "minny-man-minny;" and her own nurse, "mother, ma, ma, bonny ma! guid ma!" Year rolled on after year, and little Phebe was the talk of all the country round. People passing on the highroad stopped and spoke to her. Phebe used often to visit the manse, and to play with my youngest daughter, only a few months younger than herself, whilst I have often sat in my elbow chair, called in the family "Snug," and said to myself, "I am sure I cannot tell which of these children I am most attached to." All the features and properties of little Phebe were aristocratic: beautiful feet and anckles; small, little plump hands, and finely-tapered fingers; an eye of the purest water and the most noble expression, beaming through a curtain of deep blue, under a canopy of the finest auburn; a brow, nose, lips, and chin, all exquisitely formed and proportioned. No child in the neighbourhood could be compared with Phebe. Even my wife, prejudiced as she naturally was in favour of her own offspring, used sometimes to say--"Our Jessie looks well enough; but that child Phebe is a pear of another tree." To this I readily assented, as I had no inclination to hint either the identity of the tree or the affinity of the fruit. One day I was walking with little Phebe (who had now attained her seventh year, and exhausted the last penny of the hundred pounds) in my own little garden--we were quite alone, when the girl all at once stopped her playfulness (for she was now a very lark), and, taking a hold of my hand, pulled me gently, nothing loath, into an adjoining little arbour: after I was seated, and Phebe had taken her wonted station betwixt my knees, reserving either knee for future convenience, the little angel looked up in my face so innocently and so sweetly, saying-- "You are Jessie's pa, are not you?" "Yes," I replied, "my dear child, I am." "But where is my pa? have I no pa? Gardener says you know all about it." I regretted exceedingly that anything should have passed betwixt the foster-parents and their charge upon the subject; but, since it was so, I judged it best at once to tell the child the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Phebe looked me most intently in the face as I proceeded; and when I had finished by kissing her, and assuring her that whilst I lived she should never want a pa, the poor dear burst into tears, exclaiming, in an accent of complete misery-- "No pa! no ma! Everybody has pa's and ma's but Phebe. Dear, dear minny"--a term by which she still addressed me--"can you not tell me anything about my own ma?" I assured her that I could not, having not the least information on the subject. "Maybe she's dead"--and here again her feelings overcame her, and she laid her head on my knee, with all its luxuriant tresses; and I felt the tears warm on my person. From this day Phebe Fortune became a different child. Even at an early age she had learned to think; but had been hitherto very averse to learning, or school education. She was henceforth diligent and attentive, making rapid progress in reading, writing, and accounts. Her foster-mother taught her sewing; and little Phebe, by the time she was eleven years old, was quite accomplished in all the necessary and useful parts of a female education. But, alas! the instability of human affairs!--poor Phebe caught a fever, which she communicated to her foster-mother, and which occasioned _her_ death in a few weeks, whilst Phebe slowly recovered. The gardener's heart was broken--he had long been subject to occasional fits of low spirits. Whether from accident or not was never fully ascertained, nor even closely investigated; but he was found one morning drowned, in a pond of water which ornamented the east corner of the garden ground. As my own family was numerous, and my stipend limited, I behoved to endeavour to place Phebe in some way of doing for herself--still hoping, however, that time ere long would withdraw the veil, and discover the sunny side of Phebe Fortune's history. Seldom did a carriage pass the manse by the king's highway, that my wife did not conjecture that it might perhaps stop at the bottom of the avenue, and emit a fine lady, with fine manners and a genteel tongue, to claim our now highly interesting ward. But the perverse carriages persevered in rolling rapidly along, till at last, one fine sunny afternoon, one did actually stop, and out stepped the lady, middle-aged, splendidly attired, and advanced towards our habitation. My wife's heart was at her mouth--she ran through the house in a few seconds, from bottom to top, had Phebe put into her best attire, and all diligence served upon the dusting and cleaning of carpets and chairs. The lady appeared; but, to my wife's great disappointment, proved to be no other than an old pupil of my own, who, in passing, had heard of my residence, and wished kindly to renew an acquaintance interrupted by, perhaps, not less than thirty years. Still my wife would not give up the notion that Phebe resembled Lady D---- exceedingly, and that Lady D---- seemed to eye her with more complacency than any of the rest of the children. In the course of conversation, I had occasion to acknowledge that the beautiful being whom Lady D---- admired above all the rest of my fine family was a foundling. This led to a detail of the whole matter; and Lady D----, having conversed for a little with Phebe, took such a liking to the girl that she proposed having her continually about her person, as a kind of superior waiting-maid, half menial and half companion, and to remove her from under our roof on the instant. Although this was an offer too good and too opportune to be negatived, yet we could not think of parting with our darling Phebe on so short a warning; and, after some remonstrances on both sides, it was agreed that the carriage should be sent for Phebe and me on a future day, which was named, and that I should spend a few days with my old pupil, in her recently acquired and lately inhabited mansion-house of Rosehall, little more than thirty miles distant. The interval which took place betwixt this proposal and its accomplishment was spent in needlework and other little feminine preparations; and, as the day approached, we all felt as if we could have wished that we had rejected the proposal with disdain. Phebe was often seen in tears--but she was all resignation, and rejoiced that I was to accompany her, and see her fairly entered. At last the dreadful carriage, with its four horses, came into view at the foot of our avenue (which, though possessed of a sufficiently imposing appellation, was nothing more nor less than a very bad and nearly impassable cart road), and we all began our march to meet the vehicle. Promises of future visits were spoken of, and made, and solemnly sworn to--a home, house, or manse was declared to Phebe at all times; but, particularly, should she find herself unhappy in her new position; and it was with difficulty that I got the now truly lovely, and all but woman, Phebe, torn from the grasp and cling of my daughters, and handed into the splendid and richly-lined chariot. In the family of Lady D----, Phebe's duties were at once easy and agreeable. She waited upon her mistress's bell in the morning, and was soon taught how to assist at the toilet. During the day, she either read aloud, whilst her Ladyship reposed after her forenoon's walk or drive, or looked after the health and comfort of two favourite lap-dogs. At night, again, she renewed her closet assistance, reading aloud some paragraph which she had marked in a newspaper, and detailing such little domestic incidents as came within the range of her somewhat limited sphere of observation. Lord D---- was much engaged in public business (being lord-lieutenant of the county), and in carrying on some agricultural speculations by which he was much engrossed. There were two young Honourables of the fair sex, and an only son--then attending his studies at Oxford--children of the family. Phebe Fortune was now fifteen, and seemed to increase in loveliness, and the most kindly, intelligent expression of countenance, daily. Her eyes were heaven's own _blue_-- "The little halcyon's azure plume Was never half so blue." And then, when she spoke or smiled, her countenance was altogether overpowering; as well might you have attempted to look steadfastly upon the sun in his midday radiance. Of _her_ far more truly and forcibly might it have been said or sung, than of the "Lassie wi' the Lint-white Locks"-- "She talked, she smiled, my heart she wiled, She charmed my soul, I wat na hoo; But aye the stound, the deadly wound, Cam frae her een sae bonny blue." Phebe, by my own arrangement with Lady D----, was not exposed to any intimacy with the servants, male or female. She had her own apartment and table; and all the menial duties were performed to her as regularly as to any branch of the family. It was soon after my return from a three weeks' visit at Rosehall, that I received the following letter from Phebe. I got it at the post-office, unknown to any of my family; and I kept it, as was my custom when I had anything agreeable to communicate, till after dinner. The board having been cleared, and a tumbler of warm toddy made, my wife's single glass having been filled out, and my daughters having turned them all ear, I proceeded to read the following maiden epistle of Phebe Fortune:-- "Dear, dear Papa, and ever dear Mamma, and all my own Sisters dear--I am happy here; Lady D---- is so kind to me; and Lord D---- looks very kind too, though he has not spoken to me yet--but then you see he is always engaged; and the honourable young ladies--but I do not think they are quite so kind; and they are so pretty too, and so happy looking! Oh, I wish they would like me! If they would only speak to me now and then as they pass me on the stair; but they only stop and laugh to one another, and then they toss their heads; and I can hear them say something about 'upsetting,' and 'mamma's whim, and papa's absurdity.' I'm sure--I'm sure, my dear parents--(for, alas! I have none other, though I dream sometimes that I have, and I feel so happy and delighted, that I always awake crying)--but what was I going to say?--you know I never wrote any letters before, and you will excuse this I know--I could not, I am sure, speak of whim or absurdity in regard to you, my dear benefactors. But I will try never to mind it. Lady D---- is so very kind. I sometimes go out with the little dogs, Poodle and Clara; they are such dear pets, I could take them, and do often take them to my bosom. And then, the other day, when I was sitting playing with Clara and Poodle, beneath the elm tree, the gardener's son passed me, and--no he did not pass, that is to say not all at once--but he stopped, and asked me to take a flower, which he had pulled for me, which I did, and then he offered to show me through the hot houses, but I did not go. My dear mamma, do you think I should have gone? And then he left me; but yesterday a little boy gave me the following letter. And all that the letter contains is this-- "If you love me as I love thee, What a loving couple we shall be!" Love him!--oh, no--no--no--I will never, never walk that way again--I will never, never speak to him more. I love you, my own dear papa, and mamma, and my sisters, and Lady D----, and the two little dear doggies; but I never could love Donald M'Naughton; not but that he is good-looking, too, and young, and respected in the family; but he never can be a father or mother to me you know, as you have been. Oh! do write me soon, soon--and tell me all about the garden, and the ash-tree, and the arbour, and the flowers, and old Neptune, your favourite, and everything. I remain, most affectionately, yours, PHEBE FORTUNE. "P.S.--But Fortune is not my name. Oh, that I had a name worth writing!--such a name as Lindsay, Crawford, Hamilton, Douglas. Oh! how beautifully Phebe Douglas would look on paper, and sound in one's ear!" Such was the state of Phebe's mind and feelings at that interesting period of life when the female is in the transition from the mere girl to the real woman; and it was about this very period, when all the feelings are peculiarly alive to each fine impulse, that it fell to Phebe's lot to be severely tried. Day after day, and week after week, Lady D---- missed some valuable article of dress, some Flanders lace, some costly trinket, a ring it might be, or a bracelet. At last Lady D---- thought it proper to inform her lord of the fact, who, upon obtaining a search warrant unknown to any one save his lady, had the trunks of the whole household establishment strictly searched. Poor Phebe's little chest, "wi' her a' int," discovered, to the amazement of all, the whole lot of the missing articles. Lady D----looked as if she had been suddenly struck with lightning; whilst poor Phebe regarded the whole as a jest, a method adopted by her lady, or his lordship, to try her character and firmness. She absolutely laughed at the denouement, and seemed altogether unconcerned about the matter. This, to his lordship in particular, appeared to be a confirmation of guilt; and he immediately ordered her person to be secured, evidence of her guilt to be made out, and a criminal trial to be instituted. When the full truth dawned upon poor Phebe, she sat as one would do who is vainly endeavouring to recollect something which has escaped his memory. Her colour left her; she was pale as Parian marble; her eyes became dim, and her ears sang; she fainted; and it was not till after great and repeated exertion that she was recovered, through the usual painful steps, to a perception of the outward world. She looked wildly around her. Lady D---- was standing with her handkerchief at her eyes--she had wept aloud. "O Phebe," said her ladyship, "are you guilty of this?" Phebe repeated the word "guilty" twice, looked wildly on Lady D----'s eyes, and then, in an unsettled and alarmed manner, all round the room. "Guilty!" she repeated--"Guilty of what? Who is guilty? It is not he. I am sure he could not be guilty. Oh, no--no--no--he is my father, my friend, my protector, my minny, my dear, dear minny--he could not do it! he never did it! You are all wrong!--and my poor, poor, head, is odd--odd--odd." Thus saying, she clasped her forehead in a frenzied manner, and nature again came to her relief in a second pause of insensibility, from which she only recovered to indicate that her remaining faculties had seemingly left her. Time, however, gradually awakened her to a perception of the sad reality; and it was from a chamber in the castle, to which she was confined, that she wrote the following letter to her original and kind protector:-- "OH, MY EVER DEAR FRIEND--Your Phebe is accused of--I cannot write it, I cannot bear to look at the horrid word--of stealing. Oh, that you had let me lie where the wickedness of an unknown parent exposed my helplessness to the random tread of the passenger! Oh, come and see me; I grow positively confused; your Phebe is imprisoned in her own chamber; but my poor head is swimming again--there--there--I see everybody whirling about on the chimney tops--there they go--there they go! I can only see to write PHEBE." There was no date to this sad scrawl; but it needed none; for in twenty-four hours after it had arrived at the manse, I had set out on my way to Rosehall. The meeting betwixt the foster-father and the child was, of course, exceedingly affecting. Investigations into the whole matter were renewed, but no other way could be thought of for accounting for the presence of the missing property in Phebe's locked trunk, than the supposition which implied her guilt. "I could stake my life, my salvation," said I, "on Phebe's innocence." But Lord D---- doubted; his Lady could not have believed it possible; but still there were, she said, similar cases on record--one, quite in point, had just occurred in her neighbourhood, where the guilty party had, up to the dishonest act, borne a very high character. The circuit trial came on in about ten days, and Phebe, accompanied by the minister, and the best legal advice, was seated at the bar on her trial. Witnesses were examined, who swore that they saw the trunk opened, and Lady D----'s property discovered; others, particularly the lady's maid, swore that she all along suspected Phebe, from seeing her always shutting, and often locking her door inside. She once looked through the key-hole, and saw Phebe busied with her trunk; she saw something in her hand that sparkled. Phebe had no exculpatory evidence but her simple averment that she knew not how the articles came there--she never brought them. The king's advocate having restricted the sentence, and the jury having brought in unanimously a verdict of guilty, the judge was on the point of pronouncing a sentence of banishment, when the poor pannel fainted. It was a most affecting scene to hear the sentence of banishment pronounced over a piece of insensate clay. All wept--even the judge; and Phebe was carried out of court, apparently quite dead. Next morning I was found sitting with a cheerful countenance by Phebe's couch, in the prison-house. I had good news I said to impart to her:-- "The girl who has been the principal witness against you, has been suddenly seized, during the night, with an excruciating and evidently fatal disease; in the agonies of death she has confessed to me, and in the presence of Lady D---- too, that she had sworn to a lie; that she herself with her own hand, and by means of a false key, placed the articles--which she had originally stolen with the view of retaining them--in your chest. This she had done from jealousy, having observed that her lover, the gardener's son, had fixed his affections upon you." All this was solemnly attested in the presence of witnesses, and all this was conveyed in a suitable manner to the judge; in consequence of which, and through the usual preliminary steps, Phebe was set free, and again admitted into the full confidence and the friendship of the family. It so happened, that a young nobleman had witnessed the whole trial from the bench, and had taken an exceeding interest in Phebe, whose beautiful and modest demeanour and countenance not even despair could entirely disfigure. Having made some inquiries respecting her history, he was led to make more, and discovered considerable emotion when I unfolded the whole truth to him. Still he said nothing, but took his departure, with many thanks for the information given. In a few days, this same young nobleman, of remarkably fine features, and pleasing expression, returned to the Manse of C----, having an elderly gentleman in the carriage along with him. He requested a private interview with me; and, in the presence of his friend, I travelled over again the whole particulars of the foundling's story, comparing dates, and investigating seeming inconsistencies. At last, he declared, at once, and in tears of amazement and joy--"Phebe Fortune is my own--my only _sister_!" I looked incredulous, and almost hinted at insanity; but the young nobleman still persevered in his averment. His father, a nobleman of high rank, far south of the Tweed, in order to gratify a passion which had driven him almost mad, had consented to _pretend_ to marry privately (his own father being still alive, and set upon his son's marrying his cousin the Honourable Miss D----), a most beautiful girl, the daughter of a Chester yeoman of high respectability. The lady was removed from her native home, and lodged in a remote quarter of the town of Liverpool. A report was fabricated, and spread abroad by means of the newspapers, that a lady, who was minutely described, had jumped one evening into a boat, and, being rowed, at her request, to some distance, had plunged into the sea, and perished. Phebe's parents investigated the matter, as far as the boatman's evidence was concerned, and were satisfied from his description of her person, that their dear Phebe, who, for some time past, had appeared troubled and even dispirited, had adopted suicide as a refuge from all her earthly cares. Phebe and the Honourable Mr. L---- met frequently in secret, and a daughter was the fruit of their interviews. This daughter the young nobleman proposed to put out to nurse; but, in reality, to put beyond the reach of being ever recognised as his. A confidential person was obtained, herself a Scotchwoman, to carry the child into Fife, and there to expose it, under the circumstances and with the provision already mentioned. This person chanced to be a parishioner of mine, and the consequences were as already described. Having executed her task, she married a soldier, with whom she soon after sailed for our West India settlements. Phebe's second birth proved to be a male; and the boy was about to be removed in a similar manner from the mother, when she absconded from her now tyrannical husband, and her concealed home, refusing to be again separated from her own offspring. Her parents, who had regarded her as dead, were sufficiently surprised, but by no means gratified, when Phebe appeared again with the child in her arms. In the meantime, Lord L----died, and the Honourable youth became Baron L---- of Houston-hope. Poor Phebe's averment respecting her previous marriage was regarded, even by her parents, as somewhat suspicious; and not being able to command the testimony of the person who married them, she was compelled to remain silent. The effort, however, soon cost her her life; and the boy, by his acknowledged father's interest, was placed in the army, and sent out to the West Indies. There he accidentally met with the woman his mother had often mentioned to him, who had carried off his sister. She confessed the whole truth to him; and, after a year or two, they both returned in the same ship to England. By this time, the noble husband being free to dispose of his hand in matrimony, proposed, not for his cousin, as his father had contemplated, but for the daughter of an exceedingly wealthy Liverpool merchant. This person happened to be the near relative of him who had called what was deemed only a pretended priest to perform the marriage ceremony; and, seeing the danger which his relative would run, should he give away his daughter, in hopes of her offspring heiring the title and property, when a legitimate heir probably existed, he divulged the secret to his relations. This naturally led to a denouement; and Lord L---- being thus frustrated in his object, and being at the same time a person governed more by passion than reason, shot the person who had deceived him through the arm; and then, thinking that he had committed murder, he blew out his own brains. The brother of Phebe, after a long and complicated legal investigation, was declared and served heir to the title and vast property. Taking the clergyman who had married his mother along with him, he had gone into Scotland, partly to visit his uncle, Lord D----, and partly, by the assistance of the priest and the Scotchwoman, to discover what had become of his sister. Her likeness to himself and his mother had struck him forcibly in court, and the investigation and discovery followed. To describe the interview betwixt the brother and sister is far beyond my power. Every heart will appreciate it more than ink and paper can possibly express. It was a pure--a long--a terrible embrace; but it spoke volumes, heart met heart, and lips were glued to lips, till breathing became inconvenient. All parties rejoiced. Phebe, on her way south along with her brother, spent a whole day at the Manse. I was absolutely insane with joy; and my wife told me privately--"My dear, our fortune is made; we'll get all our boys out to India now." My daughters, too, kissed and fondled their sister, "and all went merry as a marriage bell." "How sweet is pleasure after pain!" The contrast of Phebe's fortune greatly enhanced the enjoyment; and, in the space of a few short months, Phebe Fortune was married to her own cousin, the son of Lord and Lady D----, her kind protectors. The old couple are still alive; but their children, with a numerous offspring, live upon one of their estates in Ayrshire, and exhibit to all around them the blessings which a humane and generous aristocracy may disseminate amidst neighbours and dependents. The brother of Phebe, Lord L----, still remains a bachelor; but has proved to his mother's relatives, as well as to the parties who befriended her by deceiving his dishonourable parent, that he feels the obligation, and rewards it, by making them one way or another entirely independent. I go my weekly rounds amongst those now happy families, and have experienced the truth of my wife's prophecy; for both my boys are advantageously disposed of, and, on the marriage of my eldest daughter, Phebe Fortune made her a present of one thousand pounds. THE ROYAL BRIDAL; OR, THE KING MAY COME IN THE CADGER'S WAY. Early in July, in the year of grace 1503, Lamberton Moor presented a proud and right noble spectacle. Upon it was outspread a city of pavilions, some of them covered with cloth of the gorgeous purple and glowing crimson, and decorated with ornaments of gold and silver. To and fro, upon brave steeds, richly caparisoned, rode a hundred lords and their followers, with many a score of gay and gallant knights and their attendant gentlemen. Fair ladies, too, the loveliest and the noblest in the land, were there. The sounds of music from many instruments rolled over the heath. The lance gleamed, and the claymore flashed, and war-steeds neighed, as the notes of the bugle rang loud for the tournament. It seemed as if the genius of chivalry had fixed its court upon the heath. It may be meet, however, that we say a word or two concerning Lamberton, for though, now-a-days, it may lack the notoriety of Gretna in the annals of matrimony, and though its "_run of business_" may be of a humbler character, there was a time when it could boast of prouder visitors than ever graced the Gretna blacksmith's temple. To the reader, therefore, who is unacquainted with our eastern Borders, it may be necessary to say, that, at the northern boundary of the lands appertaining to the town of Berwick-upon-Tweed, and about three miles, a furlong, and few odd yards from that oft-recorded good town, a dry stone wall, some thirty inches in height, runs from the lofty and perpendicular sea-banks, over a portion of what may be termed the fag-end of Lammermoor, and now forming a separation between the laws of Scotland and the jurisdiction of the said good town; and on crossing to the northern side of this humble but important stone wall, you stand on the lands of Lamberton. Rather more than a stone-throw from the sea, the great north road between London and Edinburgh forms a gap in the wall aforesaid, or rather "dyke;" and there, on either side of the road, stands a low house, in which Hymen's high priests are ever ready to make one flesh of their worshippers. About a quarter of a mile north of these, may still be traced something of the ruins of the kirk, where the princess of England became the bride of the Scottish king, and the first link of the golden chain of UNION, which eventually clasped the two nations in one, may be said to have been formed. The gay and gallant company were assembled on Lamberton, for within the walls of its kirk, the young, ardent, and chivalrous James IV. of Scotland was to receive the hand of his fair bride, Margaret of England, whom Dunbar describes as a "Fresche rose, of cullor reid and white." The wild heath presented all the splendour of a court, and the amusements of a crowded city. Upon it were thousands of spectators, who had come to witness the royal exhibitions, and the first durable bond of amity between two rival nations. Some crowded to behold the tourneyings of the knights with sword, spear, and battle-axe; others to witness the representation of plays, written "expressly for the occasion;" while a third party were delighted with the grotesque figures and positions of the morris-dancers; and a fourth joined in, or were spectators of, the humbler athletic exercises of wrestling, leaping, putting the stone, and throwing the hammer. All, too, were anxious to see the young king, whose courage and generosity were the theme of minstrels, and of whom one sayeth-- "And ye Christian princes, whosoever ye be, If ye be destitute of a noble captayne, Take James of Scotland for his audacitie And proved manhood, if ye will laud attayne." But the young monarch was as remarkable for his gallantry and eccentricity, as for his generosity and courage; and no one seemed able to tell whether or not he lodged in the magnificent pavilion over which the royal standard of Scotland waved, or whether he intended to welcome his royal bride by proxy. But our story requires that, for a time, we leave princes, knights, and tournaments, and notice humbler personages, and more homely amusements. At a distance from the pavilion, the tourneyings, the music, the plays, and other exhibitions, was a crowd composed of some seven or eight hundred peasantry engaged in and witnessing the athletic games of the Borders. Near these were a number of humbler booths, in which the spectators and competitors might regale themselves with the spirits and tippeny then in use. Amongst the competitors was one called Meikle Robin, or Robin Meikle. He was strength personified. His stature exceeded six feet; his shoulders were broad, his chest round, his limbs well and strongly put together. He was a man of prodigious bone and sinews. At throwing the hammer, at putting the stone, no man could stand before him. He distanced all who came against him, and, while he did so, he seemed to put forth not half his strength, while his skill appeared equal to the power of his arm. Now, amongst the spectators of the sports, there stood one who was known for many miles around by the appellation of _Strong Andrew_. He was not so tall, by three inches, as the conqueror of the day; nor could he measure with him either across the shoulders or around the chest; and, in fact, he was rather a thin man than otherwise, nor did he appear a powerful one--but his bones were well set. His sinews were all strength--they were not encumbered with flesh. He was as much a model of activity and suppleness, as Meikle Robin was of bodily power. Now, Andrew was a native of Eyemouth; he was about three and thirty years of age, and he united in his person the callings of a fisherman and cadger; or, in other words, Andrew, being without mother, sister, wife, or servant, sold himself the fish which he had caught. His domestic establishment consisted of a very large and a very wise water-dog, and a small pony; and with the last-mentioned animal he carried his fish around the country. For several days, and on the day in question, he had brought his store for sale to the camps or pavilions at Lamberton, where he had found a ready and an excellent market. There, as Andrew stood and witnessed the championship of Meikle Robin, his blood boiled within him; and, "Oh," thought he, "but if I had onybody that I could trust to take care o' the Galloway and my jacket, _and the siller_, but I wad take the conceit oot o' ye, big as ye are." Andrew possessed his country's courage and its caution in equal proportions; and, like a wise man, he did not choose to trust his money by risking it to strangers. In such a motley company it would not be safe to do so now a-days; but it would have been much less so then. For, at that time, and especially on the Borders, the law of _mine_ and _thine_ was still imperfectly understood. But Andrew's determination to humble the champion was well-nigh overcoming his caution, when the former again stepped into the ring, and cast off his jacket for a wrestling bout. He stood looking round him for a minute; and it was evident that every one was afraid to enter the lists against him. Andrew could endure it no longer; and he was saying--"Will ony person tak charge o' my Gallow-way?"---- When a young man of middle stature, and whose dress bespoke him to be a domestic of one of the noblemen who had come to witness the royal festival, and grace it with their presence, entered the lists. Without even throwing off his bonnet, he stretched out his arms to encounter the champion, who met him--somewhat after the fashion that Goliath met David--with contempt. But the first grasp of the stranger, as he seized his arms above the elbows, instead of throwing them round his waist (as was, and is the unscientific practice of the Borders), informed Robin that he had no common customer to deal with. Robin, as a wrestler, in a great measure trusted to mere strength and tripping. He knew nothing of turning an antagonist from his centre of gravity by a well-timed and well-directed touch. He therefore threw his arms around the back of his opponent (so far as the grasp which the other had got of them would permit), with the intention of giving him a "Hawick hug," but he found he could not join his hands together so as to effect his purpose, and his strength could not accomplish it. Ignorant of his antagonist's mode of attack, he had allowed him an advantage over him; and when he endeavoured to gain it by tripping his heels, the other suddenly changed his feet, favoured Robin with a "Devonian kick," and suddenly dashing his bended knee against his person, Robin lost his footing, and fell upon his back, with the stranger above him. The spectators shouted; and Andrew, mounting his pony, exclaimed aloud-- "Weel dune, stranger--I'm as glad as though I had gotten a gowden coin." Now, it is but justice to Andrew to say that he had repeatedly defeated Meikle Robin, both at wresting, cudgel-playing, and every athletic exercise; but I shall give the reader an account of his having done so on one occasion in his own words, as it is necessary for the forwarding of our narrative. Andrew went to Lamberton with his fish on the following day, and again he found a profitable market; and some words had again passed between him and Meikle Robin; but, as he was returning home, he overtook the stranger by whom Robin had been defeated. "Losh, man!" said Andrew, pulling up his pony, "is this ye? I canna tell ye hoo glad I am to see ye, for I've dune naething but thocht o' ye ever since yesterday, when I saw ye tak the brag oot o' Meikle Robin, just as easily as I would bend a willy-wand. Now, I hope, sir, although ye are a stranger, ye no think ill o' my familiarity?" "Think ill, comrade," said the other, "why should I do so?" "Why, I watna," said Andrew, "but there seems to be sae mony kind o' butterflies getting about the court now, wi' their frills and their gold-laced jackets, from what I can judge o' their appearance for some days past on the Moor, that I wasna sure but it might be like-master like-man wi' ye, and I was uncertain how to speak to ye. I didna ken but that, in some things, ye might imitate your superiors, and treat a cadger body as though they hadna been o' the same flesh an blood wi' yoursel." The stranger laughed, and repeated the adage-- "Why--the king may come in the cadger's way." "Very true, sir," said Andrew, "and may find him a man mair like himsel than he imagines. But, sir, what I was gaun to say to you--and it is connected wi' your defeating o' Meikle Robin yesterday--(at least I wish to make it connected wi' it). Weel, just five days syne, I was at Lamberton--it was the very day after the royal party arrived--and Robin was there. Perhaps you was there yoursel; but the tents were there, and the games, and the shows, and everything was going on just the same as ye saw them yesterday. But, as I was telling ye, Meikle Robin was there. Now, he gets the brag o' being the best cudgel-player, putter, and wrestler, in a' Berwickshire--and, between you and I, that is a character that I didna like to hear gaun past mysel. However, as I was saying, on the day after the royal party had come to the Moor, and the games were begun, he had the ball fairly at his foot, and fient a ane durst tak him up ava. He was terribly insulting in the pride o' his victoriousness, and, in order to humble him, some were running frae tent to tent to look for Strong Andrew--(that is me, ye observe; for they ca' me that as a sort o' nickname--though for what reason I know not). At last they got me. I had had a quegh or twa, and I was gay weel on--(for I never in my born days had had such a market for my fish; indeed, I got whatever I asked, and I was wishing in my heart that the king's marriage party would stop at Lammerton Moor for a twelvemonth)--but, though I had a drappie ower the score, Robin was as sober as a judge; for, plague tak him! he kenned what he was doing--he was ower cunnin to drink, and laid himsel out for a quarrel. It was his aim to carry the 'gree' ower a' upon the Moor at everything, that the king, who is said to be as fond o' thae sort o' sports as onybody, might tak notice o' him, and do something for him. There was a cowardliness in the very idea o' such conduct--it showed a fox's heart in the carcase o' a bullock. Weel, those that were seeking me got me, and clean off hand I awa to the tent where he was making a' his great braggadocio, and, says I to him, 'Robin,' says I, 'I'm your man at onything ye like, and for whatever ye like. I'll run ye--or, I'll jump ye--I'll putt the stone wi' ye--or, _I'll fight ye_--and, if ye like it better, I'll wrestle ye--or try ye at the cudgels--and dinna be cutting your capers there ower a wheen callants.' Weel, up he got, and a ring was made aback o' the tent. He had an oak stick as thick as your wrist, and I had naething but the bit half switch that I hae in my hand the now, for driving up the Galloway. Mine was a mere bog-reed to his, independent o' its being fully six inches shorter--and, if ye ken onything about cudgelling, that was a material point. 'Od, sir, I found I couldna cope wi' him. My stick, or rather switch, was nae better than half a dozen o' rashes plaited together. 'Will ony o' ye lend me a stick, gentlemen?' cried I to the bystanders, while I keepit guarding him off the best way I could. Aboon a dozen were offered in an instant. I gript at the nearest. Now 'Heaven hae mercy on ye!' said I, and gied him a whissel beneath the elbow, and, before ye could say Jock Robison! cam clink across his knee. I declare to ye, sir, he cam spinning down like a totum. He talked nae mair o' wrestling, or cudgelling, or onything else that day. I settled him for four-and-twenty hours at ony rate. Weel, sir, I was perfectly delighted when I saw you lay him on the broad o' his back yesterday; and I had nae mair words wi' him, frae the day that I humbled him, until about four hours syne, when I met in wi' him on the Moor, amang three or four o' his cronies, at his auld trade o' boasting again. I had nae patience wi' him. But he had a drop ower meikle, and, at ony rate, I thought there could be nae honour in beating the same man twice. But, says I to him 'Ye needna craw sae loud, for, independent o' me bringing ye to the ground at cudgelling, and making ye no worth a doit, I saw a youngster that wrestled wi' ye yesterday, twist ye like a barley-strae.' And, to do him justice, sir, he didna attempt to deny it, but said that ye wud do the same by me, if I would try ye, and offered to back ye against ony man in the twa kingdoms. Now, sir, I looked about all the day in the crowd, just to see if I could clap my een on ye, and to ask ye, in a friendly way, if ye would let me try what sort o' stuff ye are made o', but I couldna fall in wi' ye; and now I'm really glad that I hae met wi' ye--and as this is a gay level place here, and the ground is not very hard, what do ye say if we try a thraw, in a neighbourly way; and after that, we can cut a bit branch frae ane o' the allers, for a cudgelling bout. Ye will really very particularly oblige me, sir, if ye will." The stranger readily replied, "With all my heart, friend--be it so." Andrew cast off his jacket and bonnet, and, throwing them on the ground, his large water-dog, which was called Cæsar, placed himself beside them. "Dinna thraw till I get a grip," cried Andrew, as the stranger had him already lifted from his feet--"that's no fair--it's no our country way o' thrawing." The request was granted, and only granted, when Andrew measured his length upon the ground, and his dog sprang forward to attack the victor. "Get back, Cæsar!" shouted its master--"It was a fair fa', I canna deny it! Sorrow tak me if I thought there was a man in ten parishes could hae done the like! Gie's yer hand," said he, as he rose to his feet; "I'll thraw nor cudgel nae mair wi' you; but, as sure as my name's Andrew, I would bite my last coin through the middle, to gie ye the half o't, should ye want it. I like to meet wi' a good man, even though he should be better than mysel--and, in the particular o' wrestling, I allow that ye do bang me--though I dinna say how we might stand in other respects, for they've no been tried. But it was a fair fa'. 'Od, ye gied me a jirk as though I had been touched by lightning." Before reaching Eyemouth, they came to a change-house by the wayside, which was kept by a widow, called Nancy Hewitt; and who was not only noted on account of the excellence of the liquor with which she supplied her customers, but who also had a daughter, named Janet, whose beauty rendered her the toast of the countryside. "I am always in the habit," said Andrew, "o' stopping here for refreshment, and, if ye hae nae objections, we'll toom a stoup together." "Cheerily, cheerily," answered his companion. The fair daughter of the hostess was from home when they entered, and Andrew inquired after her with a solicitude that bespoke something more between them than mere acquaintanceship. The stranger slightly intimated that he had heard of her, and, after a few seemingly indifferent questions respecting her, for a few minutes became silent and thoughtful. "Hoot, man," said Andrew, "I am vexed to see ye sae dowie--gie cauld care a kick like a foot-ba'. This is nae time to be sad when the king is merry, and the country's merry, an' we're a' happy thegither. Cheer up, I say, man--what's the matter wi' ye?--care has a strange look on a body's shouthers at seven or eight and twenty; and I dinna think ye can be mair. I am on the wrang side o' three and thirty, and I would snap my fingers at it, were it blawing its breath in my face as snell as a drift on an open moor! Losh man! what ails ye? Ye would say I had met wi' a friar in orders grey, lamenting owre the sins o' the world, and the poverty o' his pocket, instead o' a young bang fellow like you, that's a match for onybody. Come, here's to the health o' bonny Jenny Hewitt." "With all my heart," said the stranger; and, pronouncing the name of the fair maiden, quaffed off his liquor. "Now, that's wiselike; there's some spirit in that," said Andrew, following his example; "let's be merry while we can; that's aye my creed. The ne'er a grain o' guid, as I used to say to my mother, comes out o' melancholy. Let's hae a sang--I see you hae a singing face--or I'll gie ye ane mysel, to mak a beginning." So saying, with a voice like thunder broken into music, he sang as follows:-- In our young, young days, When the gowany braes Were our temple o' joy and glee, Some dour auld body would shake his head, And tell us our gladness away would flee, And our hearts beat as heavy as lead. Stupid auld body--silly auld body-- His mother spained him wi' a canker-worm. In our auld, auld days, the gowany braes Are memory's rainbows owre time and storm. In our proud young days, When the gowany braes Kenn'd the feet o' my love and me, Some ill-matched carle would girn and say-- "Puir things! wi' a twalmonth's marriage, and ye Will find love like a snaw-ba' decay." Stupid auld carle--leein' auld carle-- His mother spained him wi' a canker-worm. In our auld, auld days, like gowany braes, Our love unchang'd, has its youthfu' form. In our grey-haired days, When the gowany braes Are owre steep for our feet to climb-- When her back is bowed, and her lovely e'e, Once bricht as a beam frae the sun, is dim-- She'll be still my bit lassie to me. Stupid auld body--wicked auld body-- Love, like the gowan's a winter liver. The smile o' a wife is the sun o' its life, An' her bosom a brae where it blooms for ever. A few minutes after Andrew had concluded his song, the fair daughter of their hostess entered the house. Andrew's first glance bespoke the lover, and the smile with which she returned it showed that the young fisherman and cadger was not an unaccepted wooer. "By my sooth, fair maiden," said the stranger, "and thy sweet face doesna belie its fame; admiration fails in painting the loveliness of thy glowing cheeks, and thine een might make a moonbeam blush!" He seemed practised in the art of gallantry, and poured into her ear other compliments in a similar strain. She hung her head, and turned it aside from him, as a woman will when flattered, or when she wishes to be flattered, but she did not rise to depart; and he felt that the incense which he offered to her beauty was not unacceptable. But the words and the attentions of the stranger were as daggers in the ears, and as wormwood in the heart of Andrew. "The mischief rive his smooth tongue out o' his head!" thought Andrew; "but though I hae nae chance in speaking balderdash wi' him, and though he did thraw me (and it was maybe by an unmanly quirk after a'), I'll let her see, if he has the glibest tongue, wha has the manliest arm!" Neither love nor liquor, however, can allay the cravings of a hungry stomach, and the stranger (who evidently beguiled Andrew to drink more than the portion that ought to have fallen to him) called for something to eat, by way of a relish. "O sir," said Nancy Hewitt, their hostess, "I'm verra sorry an' vexed that I hae naething in the house that I could gie ye--naething o' kitchen kind but the haddocks which Andrew left this forenoon; an' I hae been sae thrang wi' folk gaun back an' forret to Lamberton, that they're no gutted yet. But if ye could tak them, ye are welcome to them." "Gut two, then, good dame, and prepare them," said the stranger. "I doubt, sir, twa winna do," said she, "for they're but sma'--I had better gut thrie." "Certainly, _gut thrie_," said Andrew; "I brought the stranger in--and what is a haddie, or what are they worth?" for Andrew was anxious that the attention of his companion should be turned to anything, were it only withdrawn from Janet's face. "You are a generous-hearted fellow," said the stranger, "and _gut thrie_ shall I call you, if we meet again." Having therefore partaken of his repast, he proposed that they should again fill the stoup to friendship's growth; and although Andrew was wroth and jealous because of the words which he had spoken, and the attention he had shewn to fair Janet, he was not made of materials to resist the proposition to have another cup. But while they were yet drinking it, Andrew's pony, which had repeatedly raised its fore foot and struck it heavily on the ground, as if calling on its master to "come," being either scared, or its patience being utterly exhausted, set off at a canter from the door. He had rushed out without his bonnet, but, before he reached the road, it was fully forty yards a-head of him, and the louder he called on it, the nearer did the pony increase its pace to a gallop. Andrew had scarce reached the door, when the stranger drew out a well-lined purse, and, after jerking it in his hand, he again replaced it in his pocket, and more boldly than before renewed his gallantries to fair Janet. Emboldened, however, by what he conceived to have been his recent success, he now overshot the mark; and, as Andrew again reached the house, he was aroused by the cries of-- "Mother! Mother!--O Andrew! Andrew!" Old Nancy's voice, too, broke upon his ears at its highest scolding pitch; but he could only distinguish the word "Scoundrel!" He rushed into the room, and there he beheld his own Janet struggling in the embrace of the stranger. "Villain!" cried Andrew, and the other started round--but with our fisherman at all times it was but a word and a blow--and his blood, which before had been heated and fermenting, now boiled--he raised his hand and dealt a blow at his companion, which, before he could parry it, laid him prostrate on the floor. "Base loon!" cried the stranger, starting to his feet, "ye shall rue that blow." And he flung off his bonnet as if to return it. "Hooly, billy," said Andrew, "there is as little manliness in fighting afore women as there was in your conduct to my bit Janet. But naething will gie me mair satisfaction than a round wi' ye--so wi' a' my heart--come to the door, and the best man for it." Blood was issuing from the lips of the stranger, but he seemed nothing loath to accompany his quondam friend to the door. Janet, however, flung her arms around Andrew, and the old woman stood between them, and implored them, for her sake, to keep the peace towards each other. "O sir!" cried she, "let there be nae such carryings on in my house. My dochter and me are twa lone women, and the disgrace o' such an on-carrying, and at such a time, too, when the king an a' the gentry are in the neighbourhood, might be attended by there's nae saying what consequences to me and mine. Andrew, man, I wonder that ye haena mair sense." "Sense!" returned Andrew, "I hae baith sense and feeling; and had it been the king himsel that I saw layin a hand upon my Janet, I would hae served him in the same way that I did that man." "Ye brag largely and freely, neighbour," said the stranger; throwing down a noble upon the table to pay for his entertainment; "but we shall meet again, where there are no women to interfere." "Tak up your gowd, sir," replied Andrew, "for though I can boast o' nae sic siller, coppers will pay for a' that we have had. I brought you in here to treat ye, and our quarrel shall make nae difference as to that. Sae put up your gowd again; and as to meeting ye--I will meet ye the night, the morn, at ony place, or at ony time." "I shall ask ye to meet me before ye dare," said the stranger; and leaving the coin upon the table as he left the house, "the gowd," added he, "will buy a gown and a bodice for the bosom of bonny Janet." "I insist, sir, that you tak back the siller," cried Andrew. "Dearsake, Andrew," said old Nancy, "he's no offering it to you! It's no you that has ony richt to refuse it." And taking up the piece, she examined it with a look of satisfaction, turning it round and round in her fingers--wrapped it in a small piece of linen rag, which lay in a corner of the room, and mechanically slipped it into her pocket. But it was neither every day, every week, nor every year, that Nancy Hewitt saw a coin of gold. On the third day after the encounter between Strong Andrew and the stranger, the last and great day of the festivities on Lamberton took place; for on that day the royal bride was to arrive. The summer sun ushered in a glorious morning--its beams fell as a sheet of gold on the broad ocean, melting down and chaining its waves in repose. To the south lay Lindisferne, where St. Cuthbert had wrought miracles, with the Ferne Isles where he lived, prayed, and died, and the proud rock on which King Ida reigned.[2] They seemed to sleep in the morning sunbeams--smiling in sleep. To the north was gigantic St. Abb's, stretching out into the sea, as if reposing on its breast; amidst their feet and behind them, stretched the Moor and its purple heather; while, from the distance, the Cheviots looked down on them; and Hallidon, manured by the bones of slaughtered thousands, lay at their hand. Yet, before sunrise, thousands were crowding to the gay scene, from every corner of Berwickshire, and from Roxburgh and the Eastern Lothian. The pavilions exhibited more costly decorations. Fair ladies, in their gayest attire, hung upon the arms of brave knights. An immense amphitheatre, where the great tourneyings and combats of the day were to take place, was seated round; and at one part of it was a richly canopied dais, where the young king, with his blooming queen, and the chief peers and ladies of both countries, were to sit, and witness the spectacle. Merry music reverbed in every direction, and the rocks and the glens re-echoed it; and ever and anon, as it pealed around, the assembled thousands shouted--"Long live our guid king James, and his bonny bride." Around the pavilions, too, strutted the courtiers with the huge ruffles of their shirts reaching over their shoulders--their scented gloves--flat bonnets, set on the one side of their heads like the cap of a modern dandy--spangled slippers, and a bunch of ribbons at their knees. Amongst the more humble followers of the court, the immortal Dunbar, who was neglected in his own day, and who has been scarce less neglected and overlooked by posterity, was conspicuous. The poet-priest appeared to be a director of the intellectual amusements of the day. But although they delighted the multitude, and he afterwards immortalised the marriage of his royal master, by his exquisite poem of "The Thistle and the Rose," he was doomed to experience that genius could neither procure the patronage of kings nor church preferment; and, in truth, it was small preferment with which Dunbar would have been satisfied, for, after dancing the courtier in vain (and they were then a race of beings of new-birth in Scotland), we find him saying-- "Greit abbais graith I nill to gather But _ane kirk scant coverit with hadder, For I of lytil wald be fane_." But, in the days of poor Dunbar, church patronage seems to have been conferred somewhat after the fashion of our own times, if not worse, for he again says-- "I knaw nocht how the kirk is gydit, But benefices are nocht leil divydit; Sum men hes sevin, and I nocht ane!" All around wore a glad and a sunny look, and, while the morning was yet young, the sound of the salute from the cannon on the ramparts of Berwick, announced that the royal bride was approaching. The pavilions occupied a commanding situation on the heath, and the noble retinue of the princes could be observed moving along, their gay colours flashing in the sun, a few minutes after they issued from the walls of the town. A loud, a long, and a glad shout burst from the Scottish host, as they observed them approach, and hundreds of knights and nobles, dashing their glittering spurs into the sides of their proudly caparisoned steeds, rode forth to meet them, and to give their welcome, and offer their first homage to their future queen. There was a movement and a buzz of joy throughout the multitude; and they moved towards the ancient kirk. The procession that accompanied the young princess of England into Scotland drew near; at its head rode the proud Earl of Surrey, the Earl of Northumberland, warden of the eastern marches, with many hundreds more, the flower of England's nobility and gentry, in their costliest array. In the procession, also, were thousands of the inhabitants of Northumberland; and the good citizens of Berwick-upon-Tweed, headed by their captain, Lord Thomas Darcy, and the porter of their gates, Mr. Christopher Clapham, who was appointed one of the trustees on the part of the king of England, to see that the terms of his daughter's jointure were duly fulfilled. There, however, was less eagerness on the part of the young monarch to behold his bride than on that of his subjects. We will not say that he had exactly imbibed the principles of a libertine, but it is well known that he was a _gallant_ in the most _liberal_ signification of the term, and that his amours extended to all ranks. He had, therefore, until he had well nigh reached his thirtieth year, evaded the curb of matrimony; and it was not until the necessity of his marriage, for the welfare of his country, was urged upon him by his nobles, that he agreed to take the hand of young Margaret of England. And of her it might have been truly said, that his "Peggy was a young thing, Just entering in her teens," for she had hardly completed her fourteenth year. But she was a well-grown girl, one on whom was opening the dawn of loveliest womanhood--she was beautiful, and the gentleness of her temper exceeded her beauty. Young James was the most chivalrous prince of his age: he worshipped beauty, and he could not appear coldly before one of the sex. And having come to the determination (though unwillingly) to give up his bachelorism, or, as he called it, liberty, he at length resolved to meet his bride as became one whose name was chronicled on the page of chivalry. He accordingly arrayed himself in a jacket of black velvet, edged with crimson, and the edgings bordered with a white fur. His doublet was of the finest satin, and of a violet colour; his spurs were of gold, his hose crimson, and precious stones bespangled his shirt-collar. The reiterated shouts of the multitude announced the approach of the queen, and, thus arrayed, the young king rode forth to greet her. He entered the kirk, at the further end of which stood his fair bride between the Earls of Surrey and Northumberland. He started, he seemed to pause as his eyes fell upon her, but in a moment they were again lighted up with more than their wonted lustre. He had heard of her loveliness, but report had failed in doing justice to the picture. He approached to where she stood--he sank upon his knee--he raised her hand to his lips. The English nobility were struck with admiration at the delicate gallantry of the Scottish king. I need not enter into the particulars of the ceremony. The youthful monarch conducted his yet more youthful bride and her attendants to his pavilion, while the heralds summoned the knights to the tournament, and prepared the other sports of the day. He took his lute and performed before her, and he sang words of his own composition, which related to her--for, like others of his family that had gone before, and that came after him, James had a spark of poetry in his soul. "And dost thou understand this instrument, my own love?" said he, handing her the lute. She blushed, and, taking it in her hand, began to "discourse most eloquent music," and James, filled with admiration, again sinking on his knee, and clasping his hands together, remained in this attitude before her, until the trumpets of the heralds announced that the knights were in readiness for the tournament. Thousands were crowded around the circle in which the knights were to exhibit their skill and prowess. The royal party took their seats on the dais prepared for them. Several trials of skill, with sword, spear, and battle-axe, had taken place, and the spectators had awarded to the successful competitors their shouts of approbation, when the young king, who sat beside his queen, surrounded by the Lords Surrey and Northumberland, and the nobles of his kindred, together with the ladies of high degree, said-- "Troth, my lords, and whatever ye may think, they play it but coldly. Excuse me, your Majesty, for a few minutes," continued he, addressing his young bride; "I must put spirit into the spectacle." Thus saying, the young monarch left the side of his bride, and, for a time, the same breaking of swords, spears, and battle-axes continued, when the chief herald of the tournament announced the SAVAGE KNIGHT. He entered the lists on foot, a visor concealing his face, arrayed as an Indian chief. He was clothed in a skin fitting tightly to his body, which gave half of it the appearance of nudity. In his left hand he held a javelin, in his right hand he brandished a spear. "Who is he?" was the murmur that rang through the crowd; but no one could tell, and the knights in the area knew not. He walked towards the centre of the circle--he raised his spear--he shook it in defiance towards every knight that stood around--and they were there from England as well as from Scotland. But they seemed to demur amongst themselves who should first measure their strength with him. Not that they either feared his strength or skill, but that, knowing the eccentricity of the king, they apprehended that the individual whom he had sent against them, in such an uncouth garb, and who was to hold combat with them at such extravagant odds, they being on horseback, while he was on foot, might be no true knight, but some base-born man whom the monarch had sent against them for a jest's sake. But, while they communed together, the _Savage Knight_ approached near where they stood, and, crying to them, said-- "What is it ye fear, Sir Knights, that ye hold consultation together. Is it my mailed body, or panoplied steed?--or fear ye that my blood is base enough to rust your swords? Come on, ye are welcome to a trial of its colour." Provoked by his taunt, several sprang from their horses, and appeared emulous who should encounter him. But, at the very onset, the Savage Knight wrested the sword of the first who opposed him from his hand. In a few minutes the second was in like manner discomfited, and, after a long and desperate encounter, the third was hurled to the ground, and the weapon of the wild knight was pointed to his throat. The spectators rent the air with acclamations. Again the unknown stood in the midst of the circle, and brandished his spear in defiance. But enough had been seen of his strength and his skill, and no man dared to encounter him. Again the multitude shouted more loudly, and he walked around the amphitheatre, bowing lowly towards the spectators, and receiving their congratulations. Now, in the midst of the motley congregation, and almost at the point farthest removed from the dais of royalty, stood none other than Strong Andrew, with bonny Janet under his arm; and it so happened, that when the Savage Knight was within view of where Andrew stood, his visor fell, and, though it was instantly replaced, it enabled our sturdy fisherman to obtain a glance of his countenance, and he exclaimed-- "'Od save us, Janet, woman, look, look look!--do ye see wha it is! Confound me, if it isna the very chield that I gied the clout in the lug to in your mother's the other night for his good behaviour. Weel, as sure as death, I gie him credit for what he has done--he's ta'en the measure o' their feet, onyway! A knight!--he's nae mair a knight than I'm ane--but it shows that knights are nae better than other folk." There was a pause for a short space--again the monarch sat upon the dais by the side of his blooming bride. The great spectacle of the day was about to be exhibited. This spectacle was a battle in earnest between an equal number of Borderers and Highlanders. The heralds and the marshals of the combat rode round the amphitheatre, and proclaimed that rewards would be bestowed on all who signalized themselves by their courage, and to the most distinguished a purse of gold would be given by the hands of the king himself. Numbers of armed clansmen and Borderers entered the area. Andrew's fingers began to move, and his fists were suddenly clenched, relaxed, and clenched again. He began to move his shoulders also. His whole body became restless, and his soul manifested the same symptoms, and he half involuntarily exclaimed-- "Now, here's a chance!" "Chance for what, Andrew dear?" inquired Janet, tremulously--for she knew his nature. "To mak a fortune in a moment," returned he, eagerly--"to be married the morn! The king is to gie a purse o' gold!" Now, the only obstacle that stood between the immediate union of Andrew and Janet was his poverty. "Oh, come awa, Andrew, love," said she, imploringly, and pulling his arm as she spoke; "I see your drift!--come awa--come awa--we have seen enough. Dinna be after ony sic nonsense, or thrawing awa your life on sic an errand." "Wheesht, Janet, hinny--wheesht," said he; "dinna be talking havers. Just stand you here--there's not the smallest danger--I'll be back to ye in ten minutes or a quarter of an hour at the utmost--ye may tak my word upon that." "Andrew!" cried she, "are ye out o' yer mind a'thegither--or do ye want to put me out o' mine! I really think it looks like it! O man, would ye be guilty o' murdering yoursel, I may say!--come awa--come awa, dear--for I'll no stand to see it." "Hoot, Janet, hinny," returned he, "come, dear, dinna be silly." Now, the number of the Highland party was completed, and they stood, a band of hardy, determined, and desperate-looking men; but the party of the Borderers was one deficient. "Is there not another," cried the herald, "to stand forth, and maintain with his sword the honour and courage of the Borders?" "Yes! here am I!" shouted Andrew, and drawing Janet's arm from his; "now, dearest," added he, hastily, "just hae patience--just stand here for ten minutes--and I'll let ye see what I can do." She would have detained him; but in a moment he sprang into the amphitheatre, and exclaimed-- "Now, Sir Knights, ye that hae been trying yer hands at the tourneyings, will ony o' ye hae the guidness to obleege me wi' the loan o' yer sword for a wee while, and I'll be bond for ye I'll no disgrace it--I'll try the temper o' it in earnest." Andrew instantly had a dozen to choose upon; and he took his place amongst the Borderers. When he joined them, those who knew him, said--"The day is ours--Andrew is a host in himsel." The marshals gave the signal for the onset; and a deadly, a savage onset it was. Swords were shivered to the hilt. Men, who had done each other no wrong, who had never met before, grasped each other by the throat--the Highland dirk and the Border knife were drawn. Men plunged them into each other--they fell together--they rolled, the one over the other, in the struggles and the agonies of death. The wounded strewed the ground--they strove to crawl from the strife of their comrades. The dead lay upon the dying, and the dying on the dead. Death had reaped a harvest from both parties; and no man could tell on which side would lie the victory. Yet no man could stand before the sword-arm of Andrew--antagonist after antagonist fell before him. He rushed to every part of the combat; and wheresoever he went, the advantage was in favour of the Borderers. He was the champion of the field--the hero of the fight. The king gave a signal (perhaps because his young queen was horrified with the game of butchery), and at the command of the marshals the combatants on both sides laid down their arms. Reiterated shouts again rang from the spectators. Some clapped their hands and cried--"Eyemouth yet!"--"Wha's like Andrew!"--"We'll carry him hame shouther high!" cried some of his townsmen. During the combat, poor Janet had been blind with anxiety, and was supported in the arms of the spectators who saw him rush from her side. But as the shouts of his name burst on her ear, consciousness returned; and she beheld him, with the sword in his hand, hastening towards her. Yet ere he had reached where she stood, he was summoned, by the men-at-arms, who had kept the multitude from pressing into the amphitheatre, to appear before the king, to receive from his hands the promised reward. Anxious as he had been to obtain the prize, poor Andrew, notwithstanding his heroism, trembled at the thought of appearing in the presence of a monarch. His idea of the king was composed of imaginings of power, and greatness, and wisdom, and splendour--he knew him to be a man, but he did not think of him as such. And he said to those who summoned him to the royal presence-- "Oh, save us a', sirs! what shall I say to him? or what will he say to me? How shall I behave? I would rather want the siller than gang wi' ye!" In this state of tremor and anxiety, Andrew was conducted towards the canopied dais before the Majesty of Scotland. He was led to the foot of the steps which ascended to the seat where the monarch and his bride sat. His eyes were riveted to the ground, and he needed not to doff his bonnet, for he had lost it in the conflict. "Look up, brave cock o' the Borders," said the monarch; "certes, man, ye would hae an ill-faured face if ye needed to hide it, after exhibiting sic a heart and arm." Andrew raised his head in confusion; but scarce had his eyes fallen on the countenance of the king, when he started back, as though he beheld the face of a spirit. "Ha! traitor!" exclaimed the monarch, and a frown gathered on his brow. In a moment, Andrew perceived that his victor-wrestler--his crony in Lucky Hewitt's--the tempter of his Janet--the man whom he had felled with a blow, and whose blood he had drawn--and the King of Scotland, was one and the same person. "Guid gracious!" exclaimed Andrew, "I'm a done man!" "Seize him!" said the king. But ere he had said it, Andrew recollected that if he had a good right hand, he had a pair of as good heels; and if he had trusted to the one a few minutes before, he would trust to the latter now, and away he bounded like a startled deer, carrying his sword in his hand. A few seconds elapsed before the astonished servants of the king recovered presence of mind to pursue him. As he fled, the dense crowd that encircled the amphitheatre surrounded him; but many of them knew him--none had forgotten his terrible courage--and, although they heard the cry re-echoed by the attendants of the monarch to seize him, they opened an avenue when he approached, and permitted him to rush through them. Though, perhaps, the fear of the sword which he brandished in his hand, and the terrible effects of which they had all witnessed, contributed not less than admiration of his courage, to procure him his ready egress from amongst them. He rushed towards the sea-banks, and suddenly disappeared where they seemed precipitous, and was lost to his pursuers; and after an hour's search, they returned to the king, stating that they had lost trace of him, and could not find him. "Go back, ye bull-dogs!" exclaimed our monarch, angrily; "seek him--find him--nor again enter our presence until ye again bring him bound before us at Holyrood." They therefore again proceeded in quest of the unfortunate fugitive; and the monarch having conducted his royal bride to the pavilion, cast off his jacket of black velvet, and arrayed himself in one of cloth of gold, with edgings of purple and of sable fur. His favourite steed, caparisoned to carry two, and with its panoply embroidered with jewels, was brought before his pavilion. The monarch approached the door, leading his queen in his hand. He lightly vaulted into the saddle--he again took the hand of his bride, and placed her behind him; and in this manner, a hundred peers and nobles following in his train, the King of Scotland conducted his young queen through the land, and to the palace of his fathers. The people shouted as the royal cavalcade departed, and Scotch and English voices joined in the cry of--"Long live Scotland's king and queen." Yet there were some who were silent, and who thought that poor Andrew the fisherman, the champion of the day, had been cruelly treated, though they knew not his offence. Those who knew him, said-- "It bangs a'! we're sure Andrew never saw the king in his life before. He never was ten miles out o' Eyemouth in his days. We ha'e kenned him since a callant, and never heard a word laid against his character. The king must hae taken him for somebody else--and he was foolish to run for it." But, while the multitude shouted, and joined in the festivities of the day, there was one that hurried through the midst of them, wringing her hands, and weeping as she went--even poor Janet. At the moment when she was roused from the stupefaction of feeling produced by the horrors of the conflict, and when her arms were outstretched to welcome her hero, as he was flying to them in triumph, she had seen him led before his prince, to receive his praise and his royal gifts; but, instead of these, she heard him denounced as a _traitor_, as the king's words were echoed round. She beheld him fly for safety, and armed men pursuing him. She was bewildered--wildly bewildered. But every motion gave place to anguish; and she returned to her mother's house alone, and sank upon her bed, and wept. She could scarce relate to her parent the cause of her grief; but others, who had been witnesses of the regal festival, called at Widow Hewitt's for refreshment, as they returned home, and from them she gathered that her intended son-in-law had been the champion of the day; but that, when he had been led forward to receive the purse from the hands of the king, the monarch, instead of bestowing it, denounced him as a traitor; "and when he fled," added they, "his majesty ordered him to be brought to him dead or alive!"--for, in the days of our fathers, men used the _license_ that is exemplified in the fable of the Black Crows, quite as much as it is used now. The king certainly had commanded that Andrew should be brought to him; but he had said nothing of his being brought _dead_. Nancy lifted her hands in astonishment as high as her ceiling (and it was not a high one, and was formed of rushes)--"Preserve us, sirs!" said she, "ye perfectly astonish me athegither! Poor chield! I'm sure Andrew wadna harm a dog! A _traitor!_ say ye, the king ca'ed him? That's something very bad, isn't it? An' surely--na, na, Andrew couldna be guilty o't--the king maun be a strange sort o' man." But, about midnight, a gentle knocking was heard at the window, and a well-known voice said, in an undertone-- "Janet! Janet! it is me!" "It is _him_ mother! it is Andrew! they haena gotten him yet!" And she ran to the door and admitted him; and, when he had entered, she continued, "O Andrew! what, in the name o' wonder, is the meaning o' the king's being in a passion at ye? What did ye say or do to him?--or what can be the meaning o't?" "It is really very singular, Andrew," interrupted the old woman; "what _hae_ ye done?--what _is really the meaning o't_?" "Meaning!" said Andrew, "ye may weel ask that! I maun get awa' into England this very night, or my life's no worth a straw; and it's ten chances to ane that it may be safe there. Wha is the king, think ye?--now, just think wha?" "Wha _is_ the king!" said Nancy, with a look, and in a tone of astonishment--"I dinna comprehend ye, Andrew--what do ye mean? Wha can the king be, but just the king." "Oh!" said Andrew, "ye mind the chield that cam here wi' me the other night, that left the gowd noble for the three haddies that him and I had atween us, and that I gied a clout in the haffets to, and brought the blood ower his lips, for his behaviour to Jenny!--_yon was the king!_" "Yon the king!" cried Janet. "Yon the king?" exclaimed her mother; "and hae I really had the king o' Scotland in my house, sitting at my fireside, and cooked a supper for him! Weel, I think, yon the king! Aha! he's a bonny man!" "O mother!" exclaimed Janet; "bonny here, bonny there, dinna talk sae--he is threatening the life o' poor Andrew, who has got into trouble and sorrow on my account. Oh, dear me! what shall I do, Andrew!--Andrew!" she continued, and wrung her hands. "There's just ae thing, hinny," said he; "I must endeavour to get to the other side o' the Tweed, before folk are astir in the morning; so I maun leave ye directly, but I just ventured to come and bid ye fareweel. And there's just ae thing that I hae to say and to request, and that is, that, if I darena come back to Scotland to marry ye, that ye will come owre to England to me, as soon as I can get into some way o' providing for ye. Will ye promise, Jenny?" "Oh yes! yes, Andrew!" she cried, "I'll come to ye--for it is entirely on my account that ye've to flee. But I'll do mair than that; for this very week I will go to Edinburgh, and I will watch in the way o' the king and the queen, and on my knees I'll implore him to pardon ye; and if he refuses, I ken what I ken." "Na, na, Jenny dear," said he, "dinna think o' that--I wad rather suffer banishment, and live in jeopardy for ever, than that ye should place yoursel in his power or in his presence. But what do ye ken, dear?" "Ken!" replied she; "if he refuses to pardon ye, I'll threaten to tell the queen what he said to me, and what offers he made to me when ye was running out after the powny." Andrew was about to answer her, when he started at a heavy sound of footsteps approaching the cottage. "They are in search o' me!" he exclaimed. Instantly a dozen of armed men entered the cottage. "We have found him," cried they to their companions without; "the traitor is here." Andrew, finding that resistance would be hopeless, gave up the sword which he still carried, and suffered them to bind his arms. Jenny clung round his neck and wept. Her mother sat speechless with terror. "Fareweel, Jenny, dear!" said Andrew--"fareweel!--Dinna distress yoursel sae--things mayna turn out sae ill as we apprehend. I can hardly think that the king will be sae cruel and sae unjust as to tak my life. Is that no your opinion, sirs?" added he, addressing the armed men. "We are not to be your judges," said he who appeared to be their leader; "ye are our prisoner, by his Majesty's command, and that is a' we ken about the matter. But ye are denounced as a traitor, and the king spares nane such." Poor Janet shrieked as she heard the hopeless and cruel words, and again cried-- "But the queen shall ken a'!" Jenny's arms were rudely torn from around his neck, and he was dragged from the house; and his arms, as I have stated, being bound, he was placed behind a horseman, and his body was fastened to that of the trooper. In this manner he was conducted to Edinburgh, where he was cast into prison to await his doom. Within two days, Janet and her mother were seized also, at the very moment when the former was preparing to set out to implore his pardon--and accused of harbouring and concealing in their house one whom the king had denounced as guilty of treason. Janet submitted to her fate without a murmur, and only said--"Weel, if Andrew be to suffer upon my account, I am willing to do the same for his. But surely neither you nor the king can be sae cruel as to harm my poor auld mother!" "Oh, dear! dear!" cried the old woman to those who came to apprehend her--"Was there ever the like o' this seen or heard tell o'! Before I kenned wha the king was, I took him to be a kind lad and a canny lad, and he canna say but I showed him every attention, and even prevented Andrew from striking him again; and what gratification can it be to him to tak awa the life o' a lone widow, and a bit helpless lassie?" But, notwithstanding her remonstrances, Nancy Hewitt and her beautiful daughter were conducted as prisoners to the metropolis. On the fourth day of his confinement, Andrew was summoned before King James and his nobles, to receive his sentence and undergo its punishment. The monarch, in the midst of his lords, sat in a large apartment in the castle; armed men, with naked swords in their hands, stood around, and the frown gathered on his face as the prisoner was led into his presence. Andrew bowed before the monarch, then raised his head and looked around, with an expression on his countenance which showed that, although he expected death, he feared it not. "How now, ye traitor knave!" said the king, sternly; "do ye deny that ye raised your hand against our royal person?" "No!" was the brief and bold reply of the dauntless fisherman. "Ye have heard, kinsmen," continued the monarch, "his confession of his guiltiness from his own lips--what punishment do ye award him?" "Death! the traitor's doom!" replied the nobles. "Nay, troth," said James, "we shall be less just than merciful; and because of his brave bearing at Lamberton, his life shall be spared--but, certes, the hand that was raised against our person shall be struck off.--Prepare the block!" Now, the block was brought into the midst of the floor, and Andrew was made to kneel, and his arm was bared and placed upon it--and the executioner stood by with his drawn sword, waiting the signal from the king to strike off the hand, when the fair young queen, with her attendants, entered the apartment. The king rose to meet her, saying-- "What would my fair queen?" "A boon! a boon! my liege," playfully replied the blooming princess; "that ye strike not off the hand of this audacious man, but that ye chain it for his life." "Be it so, my fair one," said the king; and, taking the sword of the executioner in his hand, he touched the kneeling culprit on the shoulder with it, saying--"Rise up SIR ANDREW GUT-THRIE, and thus do we chain your offending hand!"--the young queen at the same moment raised a veil with which she had concealed the features of bonny Janet, and the king taking her hand, placed it in Andrew's. "My conscience!" exclaimed Andrew, "am I in existence!--do I dream, or what?--O Jenny, woman!--O your Majesty!--what shall I say?" "Nothing," replied the monarch, "but the king cam' in the cadger's way--and Sir Andrew Gut-thrie and his bonny bride shall be provided for." FOOTNOTES: [2] Bamborough. THE ROYAL RAID. Among the promoters of the wars and disturbances which so long ravaged the Border counties, authors have been anxious to class prominently the tender sex; not, however, in the way in which it was imputed to these fair assuagers of man's misfortunes, that they shed the blood of knights, in the times of Froissart. A whole book has been penned--and another might follow it--on the wars and dissensions produced by beautiful women; and, without mounting upwards to Eve, it has been thought very well to begin with the maiden of Troy, who produced the most spirited piece of knight-errantry that ever was acted on the stage of the world. But, in almost every case on record, it was the beauty of the fair disturbers, that, inflaming the spirit of rivalship, set men a-fighting with so much zeal; and true it seems to be, that, when beauty went into disrepute, and gunpowder came into fashion--both much about the same time--we have never had what may be called a _bona fide_ heroic battle. But the part which the Border fair ones had in the bloody scenes of that distracted section of the country, is represented to have been very different. The housewife, in those times, served up to her hungry lord, under an imposing dish, a pair of spurs; and this is represented as having been the gentle mode by which the dame intimated that it was necessary for her lord to supply the larder. The Flower of Yarrow herself did not disdain to stimulate, in this way, the foraying spirit of old Harden. But we have good authority that there were beautiful exceptions from this barbarous practice; and, among these, we may safely place the unfortunate lady of Cockburn of Henderland, the fair subject of the pathetic ballad of "The Border Widow"--a strain which, so long as poetry shall hold any influence over the heart of man, will continue to draw "soft pity's tear." If every Border chieftain's wife had been like this lady, we would have heard and read less of raids and robberies: the dish of spurs, that sent their lords to the foray, would have been exchanged for the soft embracing arms of affection, applied to keep them at home; and the blessings of domestic peace would have harmonized with and softened the spirits which a love of riot and rapine inflamed into excesses so often ending in death. We have wept over her grave; and who that has seen the old stone in Henderland churchyard--now broken in three pieces, but bearing still that epitaph which Longinus would have pronounced sublime, "Here lies Parys of Cockburn, and his wife Marjory"--and looked on the old ruins of their castle, now scarcely sufficient for a resting place for the grey owl--could resist the rising emotion, or quell the heaving breast of pity? There lie Parys of Cockburn, and his wife Marjory! How little does that simple chronicle tell! and yet how much. The eloquence of that pregnant negative of ultra-simplicity, is felt by those who know their fate; but how many have trod on the three parts of the broken tombstone, deciphered the divided syllables, and walked on, and never inquired who was Parys of Cockburn, or Marjory his wife! Their bones have long mouldered into the dust that now feeds a few wild alpine plants; their tombstone is a broken ruin, and will soon pass away; their castle, at a few paces' distance, is also a ruin of a few black weathered stones; and the land they were proud to call their own, dignifies another name. The sculptor has failed, but the poet has succeeded; and time may flap his dark pinion in vain over the deserted churchyard of Henderland. The Cockburns of Henderland were an old family of Selkirkshire. Long before the estate passed into the hands of strangers, we find the name and title holding a respectable place among the lists of chieftains that held a divided rule on the Borders. Those who have gratified themselves, as we have done, by a view of St. Mary's Loch, and the classic streams of the Ettrick and Yarrow, cannot fail to have seen the old property of Henderland, situated on the Megget, a small stream that runs into the loch. That was once the seat of the Cockburns; but there is a sad change there now. In the time of Lesly the historian, the whole of the country round Henderland, and the property itself, were covered with wood, that afforded shelter to the largest stags in Scotland; and now, there is scarcely a single tree that rears its head for miles around. Not distant from the mansion-house of the present proprietor, the ruins of the old castellated residence of the Cockburns may be seen; and, in the deserted burying-ground that surrounded the chapel, there is the broken tombstone, recording the deaths of the last members of the family, in the simple terms we have already mentioned. These are the appearances presented now; but, in the beginning of the sixteenth century, Henderland was a close retreat, surrounded by wood and water. The family castle stood in the midst of a dense wood of firs, mixed, in those parts where the soil supported the king of the forest, with large oaks. The Megget, rolling along its brattling stream, to St. Mary's, was, when in its calm moods, made available for the ends of picturesque beauty; and, when swollen by the mountain rills, served as a defence to the grounds and residence. In building their strengths, all the Border chiefs had particular reference to the natural advantages of the situation: the middle of a morass, the edge of a precipice rising from a mountain torrent, or a small island in the midst of a lake or river, were held to be favoured localities; and Selkirkshire, in curious accordance with the habits of the people, had and has no want of these natural strongholds. Henderland had, perhaps, less to boast of, in point of natural strength, than Tushielaw, Mangerton, and some other of the Border residences; but, in the beauty of its wooded scenery, and the picturesque effect of sleeping lochs and roaring torrents, it might not be excelled in all the Borders. In the minority of James V., Henderland Tower was occupied by Parys (supposed to be a corrupted orthography of Paris) Cockburn. He was then comparatively a young man, and inherited, with the property of a Border chief, all the usual characteristics of that class of lairds--a natural, inborn valour being looked upon as the principal of all the qualities of the heart; and yet, unfortunately, applied, by a habit that had assumed the strength of an instinct, to the strife of contending families, the enterprises of pillage, and the contentions of a circumscribed ambition. There was no peculiarity of the Borderers more remarkable than the union of a high valour that would have immortalized many a knight within the palisades, and the habit of overturning the rights of property--descending even to the grade of petty larceny. Now-a-days, theft and cowardice are generally supposed to be nearly allied; but, in those days, the chief of a large clan, inhabiting a stately castle, and famous for a noble courage throughout the land, could pause, in the progress homewards, with half-a-dozen of his neighbour's kine; look, with a furacious eye, on a bundle of hay, and regret, in his heart, that it had not four legs like a cow, by which he could make it steal itself home to his semi-baronial residence.[3] These apparently inconsistent and opposite qualities were possessed by the laird of Henderland. There was not in all Liddesdale a nobler champion of the rights of war; and few there were that entered more keenly into the spirit of enterprise, to take from his neighbour a fat steer, and then fight, as nobly as ever did King Robert for a lost kingdom, in defence of his horned prey. The riever in Cockburn was, however, a character of mere habit; for he possessed qualities of heart and mind which raised him far above the Border chiefs with whom he was usually ranked. He could fight to the effusion of blood that came from within an inch of the coronary veins of his heart, for the property of a cow, that, next day, he would divide among the poor; and he was often heard to say, that, if Henderland had been among "the Lowdens," he would have been a gay courtier, a supporter of the throne, and a friend of the poor, if not the king's almoner himself. In addition to these qualities, he carried a noble figure, and an open, intelligent countenance, that expressed the feelings of a heart as susceptible of the social affections as it was of the emotions that produced his lawless enterprises. The interior of Henderland Castle, at this time, was graced by the presence of one of the fairest of women, and the most dutiful and affectionate of wives. The lot of Marjory Scott, the wife of Cockburn, was, indeed, in all respects, save in the possession of a husband she loved devotedly, unfortunately cast; because, in person, mind, and heart, she was formed for gracing the polished drawing-room of refined and civilized life, and imparting to the nursery the charm of a soft, kind, and doting mother, whose love of strict moral discipline was only one phase of her maternal affection. Become the wife of a Border chief from the force of an irresistible early passion, she was as much the domesticated lover of in-door enjoyments, the cultivator of the social affections, and the admirer of love and tranquillity, as if she had occupied a retreat in Arcadia. She had brought her husband three children, all as fair as herself, one girl and two boys, whom she, in playful kindness, declared she would rear in the fear of God, the love of man, and the hearty hatred of Border rieving in all its gradations, from the laird's enforcing of blackmail, to the prowess of the laird's Jock, whose depredations extended to the minutiæ of Laverna's sacrifices:-- "Baith hen and cock, And reel and rock, The laird's Jock All with him takes." She had early entertained the expectation that she would cure her husband of his Border practices; and, though she had not as yet succeeded in that hope, she had placed before him such a picture of domestic bliss, in the working influences of all the finer and higher sentiments, seen and heard in the acts and speech of every member of his little family, that he became daily more reconciled to her views of the happiness of life, at the same time that he could not resist the heart-stirring stimulus of a raid, to give him, as he said with a smile, a higher relish for his domestic enjoyments. A fine family picture, preserved as a legend of the house of Henderland, represents Cockburn and Marjory sitting beneath an immense elm, the only tree of that kind near the castle, and rendered curious on another account, with their three children beside them, engaged in swinging from its branches, and other gambols of innocent childhood. The anxious wife had, for a time, succeeded in her endeavours to keep her husband at home; but, latterly, some indications, on the part of the chief's retainers, having been caught by her vigilant eye, she dreaded another outbreak of that daring spirit which she had not yet been able effectually to quell. "It will not conceal, Parys," said she, "that there are yet in this bosom, where your Marjory's head has sought the refuge of love, frightened by war, some embers of your old spirit ready to flame again. Is it not so? Love hath sharp eyes. It is not for stag hunting that your followers are stringing their bows. The love of your old pastime, like that of an old concealed passion, will act in such a manner as defieth all the art of concealment. I noticed, last night, as you spoke to Scott's John, who was booming his bow to show the power of the cord, that the sound went to your heart. Tushielaw oweth you a debt of vengeance. Is it not so? Come, now, confess that it is not for nothing that the old sword points have been risped on the sharping-stone on the ballium?" "Tush, Marjory!" replied Cockburn, "you alarm the ear of the watchful Helen, who suspendeth her play to listen to her mother's fears. Such is thy training, that our young Hector will lose Henderland before the sods have grown together over his father's grave, in that small burying ground around our chapel. And you have unmanned me too, Maudge. You have much to answer for to the manes of the old Cockburns, who lie sleeping in their quiet beds there, after a jolly life of sturdy stouthrieving from Yarrow to the Esk. What would the laird of Gilnockie say if he heard that Cockburn's bairns were taught to read--ay, and to play on harpsichords, and teylins, and dulcimers. By my faith, Maudge, but he would laugh a good laugh." "And yet," answered she, "I have seen the clear drop shining in her father's eye as Helen touched the strings to the soft melodies of Auld Scotland. Come, now, Parys, was not that sweet dream dearer to ye than the fever of the strife of Border foray?" "Ay, Maudge," responded he, "I confess that you have taught me that there is more in man's heart than he himself dreams of. I once thought that the highest of human enjoyments was a victory lost and won, with a hundred head of cattle driven before the returning host, in triumph, to Henderland; but, in yon withdrawing-room in the west wing, in which your cunning hands have placed the seductive couch, where one may lie and see roses blooming so near that he may smell their odours, and hear witching strains stealing from these musical things of wood and wire, the charm of the foray is broken, and the riever's spirit overcome. I wish I saw old Mangerton twisting his leathern cheeks under these arts of domestic peace. Every tear would have its avenging oath. He would trow old Henderland turret bewitched." "But you have cunningly led me away from my subject, Parys. Is it not true that you are to cut through my silken bands with the restless sword? Are you not again to turn the fearless eye of the eagle on the cliff where Tushielaw hangs like a beetling crag? Is Helen's song to be changed for the raven war-cry; and the blessings of our peaceful household, for the curses of revengeful war?" "How high mounteth Hector on my grandfather's elm!" responded Cockburn, playfully, evading her question. "The fearless rogue will hang himself, and realize the prophecy of Merlin the wild, regarding our house-- 'On Cockburn's elm, on Henderland lee, A Cockburn laird shall hangit be.'" "God forfend!" ejaculated Marjory. "Hector, undo that cord, and descend. My ears ring with old Lailoken's prophetic rhyme, when I look on that swing. I shall have it removed." "Ha ha!" cried Cockburn, laughing, and glad to get rid of the original topic. "Don't you know, Maudge, that my grandsire was a dabbler in prophetic visions; and, think ye, he would have been fool enough to plant and water, as he is said to have done, his descendant's wuddy? But I have a good mind to cut down the tree, and make Lailoken's prophecy a physical impossibility." As Cockburn spoke, he cast his eye wistfully to the sky, as if he felt an anxiety as to the state of the weather, an act which did not escape the observation of his wife, on whom the allusion to Merlin's prophecy, generally current at that time, had produced an effect not remarkable at a period when this species of soothsaying still retained the credit it had acquired by the success of the poet of Ercildoun. At another time, her strong mind would not have acknowledged the power of the rhythmic ravings of a wandering maniac; but she had got some obscure hints of the wrath of the young King James V. against the Border chiefs; and the tender solicitude of a doting wife traced, by a process perhaps unknown to herself, some connection between Merlin's saying and the proof she now had of a concealed intention, on the part of Cockburn, to disregard all her efforts to reclaim him, by imbuing his mind with a perception of the pleasures of domestic happiness, from his old habits of rieving and fighting with his neighbours. "It is--it is, Parys," she exclaimed, with a trembling voice--"It is too true that you are bent on the execution of your old threat against Tushielaw. I have an accumulation of proofs against you, and can read it even in your countenance. Do you love me, Parys?--say if you have any love for your Marjory--say if your affection is changed towards those dear pledges of our happiness, who, enjoying the sports of their age, are unconscious that their father is meditating that which may, ere the morn's sun gild those woods, render them fatherless, and bring sorrow o'er the house of Henderland? There are two dangers awaiting you: Tushielaw's arm, that has incarnadined the waters of Ettrick with the blood of many a proud foe; and the vengeance of King James, whose youthful fire his nobles, they say, cannot quell." "This is not the cry of 'houghs in the pot,' Marjory," replied he, still laughing--"the hint of the Border chieftains' wives, when they want more beef for the larder. But calm ye, love. Young James will not travel hither to fulfil old Lailoken's rhyme, and Tushielaw's arm hath no power over Cockburn. Truly, I do intend to weed thy pretty arbours, Maudge; and, peradventure, I may even essay to sing a bass to thy sweet ballad of "Lustye May, with Flora Queen;" and such a domesticated creature shall I be that, like Hercules, you may see me, ere long, ply the distaff--a pretty sight for Adam Scott's warlike eye." Cockburn's merriment fell with a lurid glare over the heart of his wife, who, seeing him determined to cover his designs by light raillery, replied nothing; but, calling to her her three children, kissed them, and bade them set aside their sports, and return with her to the Castle. As they passed along, Cockburn still cast a wistful eye to the skies, which wore a threatening aspect--the sun having been surrounded in his setting with large folds of clouds, whose bellying forms came dipping near the mountains; while the pale form of the moon, scarcely distinguishable in the falling gloaming, seemed to be sailing through broken masses of vapour, like a labouring bark in a stormy sea; and, now and then, a deep hollow moan among the woods came on the ear, like the far echo of dying thunder. About the Castle, the followers of Cockburn were observed, by the anxious eye of Marjory, to be all secretly employed in repairing their arms or habiliments--an occupation they threw aside, stealthily, when they saw their mistress; but not until she had observed what they had thus endeavoured to conceal. Their countenances exhibited that mixture of repressed joy and affected seriousness which the expectation of being gratified by a luxury from which the heart has long been debarred by some external power, produces in the presence of one hostile to the gratification. So strong was the desire of marauding and spoliation in that distracted part of the country, that an expedition was then looked upon in nearly the light in which a fair, or maiden-feast, or penny-wedding, would be contemplated by more civilized revellers. These indications Marjory noticed; and, turning up her eyes in the face of her husband, she sighed heavily, and sought her apartment. Soon afterwards she proceeded to put her children to rest, making them offer up to heaven a prayer to avert from the head of their father a danger they did not understand, but enough to them, if they saw it in the face of their mother, whose looks were their laws, and whose smiles were the sunlight of their young hearts. "This is a prettier sight," muttered she, in soft accents, as she looked upon the faces of the beautiful and innocent supplicants--"this is surely a fairer sight, and better calculated to fill and delight the heart of mortal, than what my Parys is now, I fear, preparing to behold. How different is the expression of the faces of these innocents, upturned to heaven in supplication and thankfulness, from the torch-flared countenances of blood and revenge which these retainers will turn on the heights of Tushielaw, in the presence of their master! Nor is my Parys insensible to this difference; but, wo for the force of education and habit over good hearts! Ask, my little Hector, of your Father in heaven that, if you live to be a Border chief, you may be loyal to your king, and a promoter of peace in the castle, and contentedness and happiness in the cottage." The little embryo chieftain obeyed the words of his mother; and all looked up in her face anxiously, as they saw the tears stealing down her cheeks. Each asked the cause of her grief, and volunteered an assuagement, as if their little swelling hearts contained the power of the instant amelioration of her sorrow. She looked upon them in silence; and in a little time they were consigned to rest and sleep, and utter oblivion of all the cares of this world. After these maternal cares, Marjory sat and listened to the proceedings in the ballium of the Castle. Cockburn did not come up, being either occupied in preparations for his expedition against Adam Scott, or unwilling to expose his designs again to the danger of defeat, by the expostulations or entreaties of his anxious wife. Meanwhile, as she listened, every whisper or accidental sound of sword or spear went to her heart, and stirred up, in confused array, the fears of love. One hope remained to her, that the moon would hide her head, and leave the world to the empire of darkness--so unfavourable to the designs of the riever, that the moon's minions would not fight under another power. There were clear indications in the heavens of a coming storm; for the moon still toiled on through the clouds, and the booming of the low, sullen wind in the woods was getting higher and higher. These sounds she hailed with hope; but, the next moment, the clang of a falling spear consigned her to her fears. At a late hour, Cockburn came up to his sleeping-room, and silently retired to pretended rest; while she, with her solicitude increased, retired also to her couch, but with no disposition to become oblivious of the fatal operations of her husband, though her tender nature forbade further efforts in a cause that seemed hopeless. Resigning herself to the powers of fear, and the other disquieting influences of the solemn hour of midnight, she lay quiet, and submitted to the current of inauspicious thoughts that flowed through her mind. A disturbed slumber fell over her, sufficient only to make a slight division between the world of dreams and that of reality, and to allow her waking thoughts to pass in new and changing forms before the eye of the dreaming fancy, which again, in its turn, invested them with attributes suitable to the complexion of her waking sorrows. During this interval, Cockburn rose; and, dressing himself, went quietly out of the chamber--his movements having only tended to give some new impulse to her half-dreamy sensations, ineffectual as they were to recall her to the cares of a night vigil. A loud crash was the first sound that awoke her; and opening her eyes, and becoming collected, she recognised, in the sharp sound, the grating fall of the portcullis. A shrill horn now winded among the woods, though its sound was scarcely distinguishable among the repressed bellowings of the night winds that seemed to have risen considerably since she had been overcome by her slumber. She was satisfied that the whole retinue, with her husband at their head, were off to the beetling Castle of Tushielaw, from whose heights so many a riever had been precipitated into the Ettrick. This conviction, coming, as it did, on the back of a disturbed slumber, in which her dreams had partaken of the dire nature of a nightmare, increased her fears. She could rest no longer, and rising and dressing herself, she sat down at the casement, and listened to ascertain if any of the sounds of the cavalcade could be distinguished. She could satisfy herself of enough to indicate the route they had taken--away over the hills that separate the vales of Ettrick and Yarrow, and by the path that has since got the name of the King's Road, leading directly to the Tower of Tushielaw. But a quick and threatening change in the weather soon attracted her attention. The booming of the wind seemed to cease, and, shortly after, the clouds, through the openings of which the moon had been seen labouring during the previous part of the night, appeared to run rapidly together, so as to conceal the face of the night queen, and to present a homogenous mass of dark vapour over all the heavens. A flash of vivid lightning now flared in her eyes, and left her for a moment in suspense whether she had not been blinded by the bright fluid; then on came the peal of thunder, which reverberating among the mountains like discharges of artillery, filled her with that peculiar awe which the speaking clouds throw over the hearts of mortals. The rain came down in torrents, and had scarcely begun to pour, when the speat-rills of the high lands were heard dashing down like angry spirits to swell the Henderland Burn and the Megget, and raise the fury of these mountain streams. The sound of the thunder had awoke the children, who, leaving in terror their beds, came running to their mother, to seek that protection which could alone allay their fears. Circling round her knees, they hid their heads among the folds of her clothes, or clambered to her bosom, and twined their arms round her neck. It was in vain she asked them to return to bed; they conceived themselves safer on the breast of their mother, though she still sat at the casement, and the lightning glanced in their eyes, than they could be in their beds, muffled up in the bedclothes, and listening to the successive peals of thunder. As she sat in this attitude, with the children cowering into her bosom, like little chickens under the wing of their mother, she observed that the thunder approached nearer and nearer, as the period between the flash and the peal diminished gradually to a second; and a sudden flash among the trees, accompanied with a crackling noise, connected with some destructive operation of the bolt, indicated that mischief had been done in that quarter of the wood. It was where the elm stood, the subject of Merlin's rhyme; and this circumstance sent the current of her thoughts in that direction, where there was so much aliment for her excited fancy. She silently prayed that the tree might be destroyed; and its towering top, above all others of the wood, held out some hope that her strange wish might be realized. The sound of a man's voice--that of Dick of the Muir, as he was styled--the individual who kept the gate of the Tower--was heard shouting to some one without, in reply to some request made by the latter. It was now about two in the morning, and Marjory could not conceive what could be the purpose of the stranger's visit at that dreary hour. "What want ye wi' my Leddie at this time, man?" said Dick. "My master's frae hame, and my commission doesna extend to opening the gate to strangers on night visits." "But I'm nae stranger, Dick," replied the other. "I served the Cockburns before ye was born, and hae wandered many a weary step, in the midst o' this storm, to speak a word to the ear o' my Leddie. The time o' my visit is a good sign o' the importance o' my counsel. For God's sake, open, man! or ye may rue this hour to that o' your deein struggle, when Laird and Leddie may be in the moil there, ahint the auld chapel, and a' through the laziness o' their warder." "Raff i' the mire!" cried the warder--saluting him after the custom of the times, when every man had a distinctive appellation, in the absence of sirnames. "I took ye, man, for ane o' Tushielaw's scouts." The creaking of the hinges of the gate was now heard. "What brings ye frae Peebles, man?" continued the warder, "in sic a night as this, when a witch wouldna venture on the Skelf Hill, far less owre North Berwick Law." "It's no to tell ye that Merlin's elm has fa'en," rejoined Ralph; "but three oaks on three sides o't are lying on the earth, and that stately tree may be a gallows still. You say, Henderland's frae hame. I'm glad o' the news. It's his leddie I want to see: an' she maun be roused frae her couch to speak to her auld servitor. Time bides nae man; neither does King James." Another peal of thunder drowned the conversation of the man: and Marjory, rousing her little refugees, urged them to return to their beds, that she might be left to hear the intelligence of this midnight messenger, whose words already, so far as she had heard them, carried tokens of evil. His reference to the king struck a chord that prior solitude had made sensitive; and even the remark as to the tree that had escaped the bolt, had in it a peculiar power over her shattered nerves. Her fears operated upon the children, who, even to the youngest, put strange questions to her. "Why are you here, mother, in the lightning?" cried Hector.--"And where is my father?" inquired Helen.--"See that flash again!" said Margaret, as she buried her head in her mother's bosom. "Poor, helpless, little ones!" ejaculated she. "How little know ye that that which fears ye most, is to me the smallest of my terrors! If man's wrath were quenched, heaven's would be easily averted. This messenger's intelligence may seal your fates, and be felt in its consequences to the last term of your lives. Come, loves, to bed. Hear ye that foot in the stair?" The allusion to a mysterious visitor accomplished what the lightning of heaven could not effect--such is the secret power of mystery over the young heart. Rising from her lap, they hurried away to their beds, and left the not less terrified mother to hear the intelligence of the night messenger. The door opened, and Ralph stood before her. "God be thanked, my Leddie Cockburn," said he, in a repressed voice, and with fearful looks--"God be thanked, for Henderland's absence! The king, wi' his nobles, are at Peebles, on their way to Liddesdale, to tak vengeance on the chiefs o' the Borders, wha hae been foremost in the foray and the rieving raid. They whisper yonder that there's a hangman in the train, wi' ropes, to hang the ring-leaders on their castle buttresses; and Henderland is to be their first victim. O my Leddie! dispatch, quick as thae flashes o' levin, a messenger to the master, and tell him to flee to England, till the king's wrath has blawn owre. I hae braved this awful storm, auld as I am, to save my master; and, if I but saw him safe frae the king's ire, I could lay my banes at the foot o' the grave o' the Cockburns." "I have been looking for this Ralph," answered Marjory, as she lifted her hands to seize her hair, in her distress. "Even now, God be merciful! my husband is in the very act of rieving and rebellion. But what said ye of Merlin's Elm, man? Is it not skaithed? Speak, no secrets now; are the trees beside it blasted, and does it stand?" "I hae heard yer Leddieship laugh at that auld rhyme," replied the servitor. "Fear naething for a madman's freak. But it's true that three oaks by its side are blasted, riven and laid on the earth, and yet it stands." "Strange, strange are the ways of heaven," cried she, wringing her hands. "Ralph, you must be the messenger to my husband. Haste and saddle my grey jennet, and flee by the Riever's Road, to Tushielaw. Tell Henderland and Adam Scott, that King James comes, with a halter, to avenge the rights of royalty and peace. Cry it forth in the midst of their battle. If he will not flee, take his horse's head, and lead him to England. Away, away, for mercy and Henderland's sake, good Ralph, and whisper in his ear--hark ye, man, 'tis no woman's dream--whisper the fate of Lailoken's tree. The thunder may drown his laugh." The faithful servant obeyed the command of his former mistress; and, hastening as fast as his old limbs would enable him, mounted Marjory's grey jennet, and was soon out in the midst of the storm. The only remaining servant left in the tower, besides the warder, was, at the same time, despatched, by his half-frantic mistress, to proceed on the road to Peebles, and reconnoitre the king's company, and convey to her what intelligence he could learn in regard to its movements. By this time it was now about three o'clock; but the morning was still dark, the storm had not abated, the rain still poured, the lightning flashed, and the neighbouring streams rolled over their rugged channels with a noise that equalled the thunder which yet shook the heavens. Marjory again took her seat on the casement; and her fancy, stimulated by her fears, became again busy in the conjuration of images which, however fearful, unhappily stood too great a chance of being realized. The substratum of indisputable facts was itself a good foundation of fear:--The king, angry, and breathing revenge against his rebellious subjects of the Border, was at hand--even within a few miles of her husband's residence; and the ensign of his authority and punishment was borne by the common executioner; then he would detect her husband in the very commission of that rebellious act against which the royal vengeance was to be directed; and, above all, she feared--nay, she was certain, from her knowledge of Henderland's free, bold spirit, that he would disdain to fly, and would at once commit himself into the hands of a young incensed monarch, who had travelled forty miles for his blood. These were fearful, incontrovertible facts, and they were contemplated by a solitary female in the dark hour of night, in the midst of one of the fiercest storms that had ever visited that part of the country, and under the blue lights of a fancy that, in spite of the appeals of judgment, reverted to an old prophecy of a wonderful being, which seemed to have been respected even by the lightning of heaven: the elm still stood; its brethren of the forest had fallen; and the rope to be attached to it was on its way to Henderland. Fearful forebodings took possession of her mind; and, as her fears rose higher and higher, she looked out in the dark, while the gleams of lightning played round her couch, and every sound that differed from the roaring of the storm arrested her ear, and kept her on the rack of painful anxiety. Her little children, meanwhile, who had caught sympathetically her fears, and could not divine the cause of their mother's vigil by the window in a thunder storm, had renounced sleep; and, disregarding her efforts to restrain them, must see her at intervals, and question her again and again; and even from their sleeping apartment they sent their exclamations of fear, and aggravated, by their sorrows and terror, the misery of their mother. In this condition Marjory remained for another hour. There was no stir in the tower, where a female domestic or two lay, or slipped about, under the weight of a fear, the cause of which had not been explained to them. The silence internally, broken at times by the cries of the restless children, formed a strange and awe-inspiring contrast to the turmoil without, where darkness and the storm still held sway over the earth. Oppressed by the sight of the black heavens, she yet trembled to look for the first glimpse of dawn, which might be soon expected to be seen struggling through the vapours of the storm. Light would bring the king and the executioner; and she prayed that she might have an opportunity of seeing her husband before the arrival of the royal cavalcade, that she might fall on her knees, and implore his instant flight into England; but her ears caught no sounds in the direction of Tushielaw, save the thunder and the rain, and, at intervals, the scream of the drenched owl or frightened hawk, or the wheep of the restless lapwing, driven from the morass by the overwhelming torrent. Then came the cry again, of "Mother, mother!" from her sleepless children, responded to by her own, "Hush, hush, my darlings! your father cometh!" when her pained ear sought again the direction of Peebles, and she trembled as her fancy suggested the sound of hoof or horn. Thus another hour passed, and her racked feelings were still uncheered by a glimpse of hope. The strength of her soul seemed to have passed into the physical organs of the eye and ear; and every change, from darkness or silence, produced exacerbations of her fear, and painful apprehension. The faint shade of light in the eastern heavens, which gave tokens of the approaching dawn, might be a precursor of the king and his retinue; and as her eye fell upon it, she listened again for the coming tread. A very faint sound was now heard, and it was too evident that it came not from Tushielaw; it was from the direction of Peebles, and it sounded as if it were the tread of a horse. It must be, she instantly thought, the scout of the king's cavalcade; for, in her painful anxiety, she had forgotten her own messenger. The step approached nearer and nearer; and more intense, in the same degree, grew her apprehension, till the sound of her messenger's voice, calling the warder, struck her ear--and she imagined she never heard a voice so hollow and ominous of death. The man was admitted, and his heavy step up the spiral stair, flustering in the toil of a vain precipitude in the dark entrance, declared the impatience of his intelligence. "Ah! my Leddie," said he, as he ran forward, breathlessly and fearfully, "Ralph spoke truth. The king's party will be at the castle in less time than an eagle may flee frae Dunyon to Ruberslaw. I hae seen them. They carry torches to shew them the hill-paths, and keep them oot o' the saft bogs. The light shone fearfully on the hill-sides, and the clatter o' their horses' hoofs rang in my ears. I had seen enough, and made the greatest speed to bring the ill news." "Cockburn, Cockburn," ejaculated the disconsolate wife, "what power may now save ye from thy fate? His proud spirit will disdain flight--ay, and prompt a meeting with his executioner. What has become of Ralph? Everything conspires toward the ruin of my hopes. You must to Tushielaw, Thomas, and give a second warning to your master. Tell him of this torch-light progress of the royal executioner, and warn him again to fly for his life, and the life of one who lives through him. Yet, stay--shall I not go myself? One messenger hath failed already--shall a wife fail in the cause of her husband's life?" "The mountain torrents are swelled, my Leddie," replied Thomas of the Woodburn, "an' will be noo sweepin owre the Riever's Road, carryin baith man an' horse to the howes; an' nane but an auld hill-roadster may ken the richt tract frae that to ruin in the midst o' the darkness. Ye micht as weel try to pass the Brig o' Dread, my Leddie. Yer bonnie body wad be fund a corpse wi' the mornin's licht, an' Cockburn, pardoned by the king maybe, micht greet owre't. Besides, ye should be here. A woman's voice turns awa meikle wrath." "Away, then, yourself, good Thomas!--I believe your counsel is good. Heaven speed the message! Cockburn's delay gives me a glimmer of hope, that Ralph hath already turned his head to England. If so be it, you will report to me privately, and away from the ear of the king's followers. If not, and if he cometh to meet the king, heaven look down in mercy on these poor children, who still cry for their mother, and will not rest!" Thomas obeyed; and, as she turned to comfort her children, before she again betook herself to her weary station, she heard the clatter of the horse's heels over the gateway. The restlessness of her little ones pained her: she imagined she saw, in their instinctive anxiety and fear, some presage of coming evil, whereby, before another night, they might be orphans; and all her efforts to remove the impression only tended to confirm it--thus strangely and fantastically prophetic, is the apprehensive heart. After again assuring them that their father was coming, she sought her seat at the casement; and saw, now, the grey dawn, throwing a stronger light over the bleak hills, and exhibiting the white, foaming cataracts, dashing from brae to brae! Any hope of seeing Cockburn, now, before the coming of the king, had gradually dwindled away, and was extinct; and she as much feared to hear a sound from the direction of Tushielaw, as she, an hour before, was anxious for that indication of her husband's approach. Every instant she might expect to hear the tramp of the king's horses; nothing could avert that sound from her ear, or prevent it beating upon her heart. It came at last; she heard it audibly, mixed with the discordant jingle of armour, and striking her ear at the same time that a horrid glare of torch-light pierced the deep wood, and arrested her eye. In a few minutes more, a trumpet sounded a shrill blast; the feet of many restless horses raised a confused noise, that was mixed with broken, under-toned ejaculations, and clanking of swords and bucklers, and, after a minute or two of comparative silence, came the high tones of a herald's voice, demanding admittance in the name of King James. The warder repaired to his mistress, and got his answer. The gate was opened, and Marjory saw the cavalcade enter the base court surrounding the castle; while two large bodies of soldiers, coming up about the same time, took their stations on each side of the entrance. A circle was now formed by those who were within the court; and the grim faces of the nobles, as they reflected the glare of the torches, were revealed clearly to her gaze. In the middle stood the young king, in close and secret counsel with his confidential advisers, and, at last, the warder was called before his Majesty, to account for the absence of his master, tell where he had gone, and record his proceedings. The man reluctantly obeyed the call. "Where is thy master, sirrah?" inquired the king. The warder was silent, and the question was repeated in sterner tones. "I keep only this castle, your Highness," replied the warder; "my master is his ain keeper--an' a better there's no between the twa Tynes." "Thou art a good keeper of thine own tongue, at least," said James, angrily; "but we come not from court unprepared with remedies for opening the mouths of close-hearted seneschals. Let Lithcraig attend." An opening was now made in the circle of nobles, and a man, dressed in a long black doublet, came forward, holding in his hands a rope, ready to be suspended, and to suspend, in its turn, the disobedient warder. "Throw thy cord over the buttress, there," cried one of the nobles; "give the noose mouth enough to tell its own tale, and I will answer for it bringing out his." The man proceeded forward to a buttress of the castle completely exposed to the eyes of Marjory, by the gleams that flared from the torches; and she saw him deliberately go through the operation of making the projection available for the purpose of a gallows, by binding the cord to it, and suspending a running noose, which seemed to gape in grim gesture for its victim. The moment the rope was suspended, James pointed to it, and asked the warder to proceed and answer his questions. The terrified man cast a wild eye on the relentless crowd around him, and then on the engine of death that dangled before him, and, with faltering tongue, told the king that Cockburn had gone on a midnight raid against Adam Scott of Tushielaw, who, some time before, had made an assault on Henderland, and carried off twenty head of cattle, besides wounding several of Cockburn's men; he stated, farther, that there had been many raids of late in Liddesdale; but that his master had had, until Tushielaw roused him, scarcely any share in these struggles, preferring the society of his lady, the fairest and the kindest woman of the Borders, to the pleasures of rieving. This statement was received as evidence against Cockburn. All these transactions had been narrowly watched by Marjory, who was now more and more satisfied that the doom of her husband was sealed, if he made his appearance before the king in the humour he now exhibited. She saw them bind the warder with ropes until their trial was over, that he might remain in pledge for the truth of his statements; and the heads again held counsel on the next step they should take in the unexpected event of the "traitor," as they called him, not being found at home, notwithstanding of their attempted surprise by a night visit. These doings had occupied as much time as allowed the glimmer of early dawn to pass into a grey light, that, while it did not render the torches unnecessary, exhibited in strange and grotesque shades the group of dark figures, their changing faces, moving heads, and inauspicious gestures, on which the gleams of the torches flickered faintly, in struggles with the rising morn. Above them, the dangling noose claimed her averted eye, and sent through her nerves shivers that seemed to make the blood run back in the veins, and stagnate about the heart. In any other position but that in which she was placed, she would have made the castle ring with involuntary screams; and it was only the intense anxiety with which she watched every sound in the distance, in the struggling hope that Cockburn would not make his appearance, that bound her down in the silent, breathless mood which she now exhibited. Neither could she have borne the extraordinary spectacle below her casement, had it not been that her wish to watch every indication in the direction of Tushielaw, overcame the feelings inspired by the moving tumult of fierce men that waited there for the blood of her husband. Sometimes the thought found its way through her anxiety--why did they not call for or visit her? But the solution was not difficult; for she knew that men bent on purposes of cruelty, do not court the mediation of women. And then again she meditated, for a moment, a descent to them, and an attempt, by throwing herself at the feet of the king, to secure, by anticipation, mercy to her husband, when he might, if ever he should, be found. This last thought was passing through her mind, and she had intuitively drawn her clothes around her bosom, as a preparation for her rising resolution, when her husband's horn, in all its well-known windings, struck her ear. That sound had hitherto inspired the pulses of a living heart, and sent through her veins the delightful tumult of a gratified hope; it had been the prelude to the close embrace of affection; the flourish of joy on the meeting again of separated hearts. It was now the death-knell of both. She would have sunk to the ground as the sound fell on her ear, but that the recess of the casement sustained her powerless frame. After a few moments of insensibility, she again opened her eyes; and the first vision that presented itself to her, was her husband marching into the castle between two rows of the king's troops. He came nobly forward, with a free, erect carriage, and a look undaunted by the scowls that fell on him from every side. On coming up to the king, who stood in a haughty, indignant attitude, he was prepared to throw himself at his feet, when his eye caught the rope, with the noose at the end of it, hanging from the buttress. He started, and threw a hurried look up to the casement, where Marjory sat watching his every movement; but his fortitude returned again, and making a step forward, he threw himself at the feet of the king. "Here doth an humble subject," he said, "deposit the loyalty he oweth to his lawful king." "On the eve, or in the midst of rebellion," cried James, in ironical anger. "Seize the rebel! One caught in the act, maketh a good beginning. Four reigns of Jameses have been merely borne or suffered, by beggarly tolerance, by these Border sovereigns, and the best part of a kingdom made an arena for the strife of the contention of petty kings, who rob, and steal, and kill on all hands, heedless whether the victim be king or knave. This shall be ended--by the faith of Scotland's king it shall! 'Habit and repute,' is good evidence by our old law against common thieves; and I ask my nobles, too good a jury for such caitiffs, what a common thief deserves?" "To be strung up to the buttress," replied several voices, in deep hollow sounds, that rung fearfully round the recesses of the ballium, and reached the ear of Marjory. "Parys Cockburn of Henderland," cried James, "hath, by a jury of our nobles, been deemed worthy to die the death of a thief, and a rebel against our authority. Let him be forthwith hanged till he be dead, on the buttress of his own tower, as an example to evil doers in time to come." A quick movement of simultaneous, and, in many cases, intuitive agitation, followed this order. Two men seized the unfortunate gentleman, and proceeded to bind his hands behind his back, while the executioner proceeded to let go the end of the rope, so as to bring within his reach the noose, which had previously been purposely elevated, so as to be more exposed to the eyes of the beholders. Every step of these proceedings was observed by Marjory from her seat at the window; and it was not till she saw the men lay hold of her husband, and the executioner proceed to adjust the rope, that she ceased to be able to watch the details of this extraordinary mock trial and real condemnation. At that moment she uttered a loud scream, and fell on the floor in a state of insensibility, from which she was roused by her little daughter, Helen, who had come from her bed to ascertain her mother's illness. Rising in a state of frenzy, she sought the door of the apartment, with a view to throw herself between the king and her husband; but the door was locked in the outside--a precaution, doubtless, taken by the king's orders, to prevent a scene of a woman's unavailing grief. The prospect, now, of being forced to remain in a chamber a few feet above the gallows on which her husband, and the object of her strongest and softest affections, was to be suspended, and hanged like a common malefactor, rose on her bewildered view. Though she might place her hands over her eyes, the _sound_ of his death would reach her ear--the jerk of the fatal cord, the struggle of the choking breath, the last sigh of her beloved Parys, would come to her, and reason might remain to bear it. If she could close up both eyes and ears, her fancy would exaggerate the acts performing around her, and fill her mind with shapes and forms, if possible more hideous than the dread spectres of the waking sense. Breaking loose from Helen, and also from Hector--who had joined his sister, and had from the window got some glimpse of the dire operations in progress in the court, and thus ascertained the cause of his mother's scream--she ran round the apartment, in the way of unfortunate maniacs, till her brain became dizzy with the quick circumgyrations, and then stood ready to fall, staring wildly at her children, who had followed her in her progress with loud screams. Meanwhile, the buzz of the preparations for the execution fell on her ear, and, running to the window, she held forth her extended arms, and implored the king, in wildly pathetic words and moans, to spare her husband. The king never moved his head; but many of the men turned up their grim, embrowned faces, fixed their eyes on her beautiful countenance, and saw her white arms wildly sawing the air, without showing any indications of being moved. Cockburn himself, who stood with his arms bound behind his back, his armour off, and the neck of his doublet rolled down on his shoulders, could not trust his eye in the direction of his wife and children, but stood with a look fixed on the grey walls of his tower. The voice of the king was now heard, crying, "Is everything prepared?" and, "Yes, my liege," rolled forth from the mouth of the rough-toned executioner. The unfortunate Marjory, in this extremity, turned from the window, and rushed into a neighbouring room, from which a few steps of descent led to a window not so far removed from a broken part of the wall as to prevent her getting to the ground. In this, by a mighty effort, she succeeded, hearing, as she hastened away, the shrill cries of her children following her, and imploring her to return. Her brain was fired beyond the capability of sane thought. The soldiers, who saw her fall on the ground, lifted her up, and then pushed her rudely away from the ground they were ordered to guard, confronting her otherwise impossible efforts to get forward by their swords, and threatening to do her bodily injury if she dared to resist their authority. At this moment she heard a voice commanding some one to seize and confine the wife of the culprit; and, getting more confused by the occurrence of new and more harrowing incidents--the cries of her children sounding from the window--the noise of those forwarding the execution, if not at that very time, binding her husband to the gallows, filling all the air with a confused buzz--and the coming of the men to seize and secure her--she sprang forward out of a postern, and, with the rapid step of flying despair, endeavoured to get beyond the dreadful sounds which haunted her ear. In her flight--the consequence of the spur of frenzy, as much as of a wish to lessen pain which was insufferable--she came to the Henderland Linn, a mountain stream, that falls rolling down the heights with a loud noise. It was much swelled, and the waters were gushing and roaring over a ledge of rock that crosses its course, and forms in that quarter a cascade--beautiful in certain states of the river, but frightful when the spirit of the storms has sent down the red stream to dash over the height. The noise was welcome to her; and, exhausted, she threw herself down on a seat by the side of the linn;[4] yet, so quick is the ear to catch, through other sounds, that of the cause of a pregnant grief, that she heard the increased noise of the crowd at the Castle, consequent on the execution of the sentence of condemnation of her husband--a swelling shout, as of a completed triumph, came on the wind; and, unable to bear this consummation of all her woes, she ran forward, and threw herself down with her head in the line of the cascade, that the roar of the waters might drown the dreadful sound. How long she lay in that extraordinary predicament, she was never able to tell; but the sound of the roaring waters rang in her ear for many an after day. When she ventured to raise her head, everything seemed quiet at Henderland Tower; and the silence now appeared to her more dreadful than the former excitement. The storm, which had been gradually ceasing, was lulled, and the morn had now attained to a grey daylight. She knew not what step to pursue. She would remain, and she would not remain; she would return to the Tower, and she trembled at the thought. Starting up, she began to retrace her steps slowly back through the wood, stopping at every interval of a few moments, to listen if she could hear any sound. Looking around, she saw, disappearing from an old road that led away to Tushielaw, the last of the king's troops; and she omened sadly that they had completed their work. She hesitated again, whether she should proceed to a place where she would inevitably behold a sight that might unsettle her reason. But whether could she fly? What could she do? Her little children were there; it was still her home, and the dead body of her beloved husband was also there. But judgment might vacillate according to its laws; her feet had an impulse forward, which philosophy might not explain. She was hastening towards the Castle, and she scarcely knew that she was occupied in that act, in the absence of distinct volition. Looking up, she saw an old domestic running towards her; who, on coming up, wished her to relinquish her determination to go towards the Castle, and requested her to sojourn for a time in the woods, or wait till she sent for a jennet, to carry her to some house. She would give no explanation of her reasons for this advice; but looked terrified and confused when Marjory put to her some broken words of interrogation. Marjory could abide no parley, and, gently pushing the old attendant aside, hurried forward to the Castle, and entered the postern. The ballium was empty; the retainers of her husband had been marched off before the forces of the king; and any domestics that were left had fled to the woods in terror. She lifted her eye to the buttress, and saw suspended there the dead body of her husband. At the window of her apartment were her children, looking on the dreadful spectacle. The two elder had cried till their throats were dried and paralysed; and the youngest, who understood nothing of these proceedings, laughed when it saw its mother, and clapped its little hands for joy. A knife, that lay alongside the place of execution, was seized by the unhappy wife; and, through a loophole that was opposite to the rope, she stretched her hand, and severed the fatal cord. The body fell with a crash upon the ground. Life was extinct; but who would convince the frantic wife that her beloved Parys was gone for ever? She hung upon the dead body till, as the day advanced, the terrified domestics came in, and took her away from the harrowing spectacle. Force had to be applied to effect the humane purpose; and, for many a night, the screams that came from the west wing of Henderland spoke eloquently the misery of this child of misfortune. Cockburn was buried in the chapel ground near the Tower. Some time afterwards, when her grief could bear the recital, she wished to know what took place between her husband and the two messengers on that dreadful night--and she was gratified by the intelligence. Scott of Tushielaw had got intelligence of Cockburn's intentions, and was upon the watch to defend his property. A severe conflict ensued, in which several men on both sides were severely wounded. In the very midst of the fray, Ralph rode up to Cockburn, and delivered his message; but the proud chief replied, that he would face King James if he were the Prince of Evil himself; but that he could not pay his respects to his king till he first humbled the proud Tushielaw. A like effort was made by Thomas, and with a similar result. In fact, it appeared that Cockburn entertained no fear of danger from the visit of the king, and treated the story of the gallows' rope as a mere vision of some terrified mind; at least, if he had any doubts on that subject--and reports of the fiery temper of the king might have roused his suspicions--he conceived that a bold bearing would do him more good than a pusillanimous demeanour; and, as for flight, he despised it, as well as disapproved of it, on grounds of fancied prudence, seeing that he would thereby admit his guilt, and prove his pusillanimity, while it might ultimately turn out that the king's intentions were not hostile, whereby he would be exposed to the ridicule and scorn of both king and subjects. Having beat off Scott's retainers, and secured in this way, as he thought, a fancied victory, he marched direct on to his own Tower; and, as he approached, sounded his horn in his usual way, to tell his wife that he entertained no fear, and to impress upon the mind of the king the boldness of the innocence of a man who had only been performing an act of self defence, in teaching an old enemy that he would not commit an assault upon him again with impunity. In the course of time, Marjory Cockburn recovered slightly from the effects of these terrible visitations, and often she expressed her surprise that Lailoken's prophecy about the elm tree had not been proved by the events of that night; but some people thought that King James, who knew the prophecy well, wished to reduce the credit of soothsaying, and therefore hanged Cockburn on the buttress of the Tower, instead of the tree. Her little children played, as usual, round her; and, if a relenting fate had had in reserve any means for alleviating her grief, surely they might have been found in the prattle of innocence, and the hopes of a mother; but it was not ordained that she should be thus relieved. Every day saw a change on her; she gradually declined, till she took on the appearance of a skeleton. About three years after the death of Cockburn, Marjory died, doubtless, of that disease which (though discredited by many altogether) kills more mortals than typhus itself--a broken heart. The property had previously been escheated to the king, and the name of the Cockburns of Henderland never flourished again. She was buried in the grave of her beloved Parys; and some relation, who knew the loves and misfortunes of the pair, caused the foresaid stone to be erected, with the inscription we have copied, and shall copy again--"Here lie Parys of Cockburn and his wife Marjory." FOOTNOTES: [3] The old story of Scott of Harden and the hay sow, is well known. [4] Few travellers on the Borders have passed unnoticed the "lady's seat."--ED. THE EXPERIMENTER. No one who has escaped an imminent danger can resist the impulse that compels him to look back upon it, although the recollection harrows up his soul. It is now nearly thirty years since the events of which I write occurred; still they are as indelibly impressed upon my memory as the felon's brand upon his brow. It has rarely been the fortune of those miserable beings to whose number I had a narrow escape from adding one, to retain so lively a recollection of a long train of mental anguish. Even at this lengthened period from the occurrence of the events referred to, in my solitary walks, or when sleep forsakes my pillow, they will embody themselves, and pass in vivid succession over my mind; tears unbidden fill my eyes, and my heart melts in gratitude for my deliverance from so sad a fate--carried out under the cloud of night, buried like a dog, within sea-mark, or in the boundary of two proprietors' lands--entailing disgrace upon my family, and a horror of my memory, even scaring the simple husbandman from the neighbourhood of the spot where my ashes lay. I was the only child of an aged father, the last of a family who had, in former days, been of no small consequence in that part of the country where he resided; but before his day, the numerous acres of land his forefathers had possessed owned other lords. All he inherited was the respect of the old people, and the tradition of former grandeur. His elder brother, of a more enterprising turn of mind, at their father's death had sold off the wrecks of a long train of mismanaged property, divided the proceeds between himself and my father, and, after an affectionate adieu, set off for the West Indies. My father, less enterprising, remained where all his affections were fixed, and farmed a few acres from one of the new proprietors--void of ambition, content to glide down the stream of life unknowing and unknown by the busy world, all his cares concentrated on me, whom he intended for the church, and educated accordingly. For several years, and until misfortunes pressed so heavily upon him, he maintained me at college. When his means failed, I returned to my disconsolate parents, to consult how I should now proceed--whether to go out to Jamaica to my uncle, or commence teacher. My father had applied to his brother for aid in his difficulties, and been refused. The fears of my mother, and the wounded pride of my father determined my fate--I commenced teacher, and succeeded equal to my ambition. My income was small; but my habits were simple and temperate, and my means supplied my wants abundantly. From the first dawnings of reason, my mind was of a studious, inquisitive turn; I thirsted after knowledge of every kind; and, while ardent in all my pursuits, I was of a joyous and hoping disposition. All was sunshine to me; even the blighting of my prospects at college affected not a mind which felt a consciousness of being able to soar to any height; a thousand projects floated through it, each of which, for a season, seemed sufficient to rear me to the pinnacle of fortune and fame. Thus had I dreamed on for three years. One of my many objects of study engrossed the greater portion of my thoughts--the mysterious tie that united soul and body. Could I untie this Gordian knot--and I was vain enough to hope I might--then would I rank amongst earth's brightest ornaments, and fill a niche with Newton and Bacon. This extraordinary subject had even when at school, engaged the greater part of my thoughts. Often have I left my fellows at play, and stolen to some distant part of the churchyard, to muse and commune with myself, not without a boyish hope that some kind tenant of the tomb would reveal to me his mighty secret. Void of fear, I have implored the presence of spirits under the cloud of night. The feeling that filled my mind was an enthusiasm, which, though years and changes have rolled over my head, is still remembered with a sensation of pleasure. I had kept my school for three years, to the satisfaction of the parents of my pupils and my own. My cup of enjoyment was full to overflowing. I had proceeded so far with several works of science; every one of which, ere I began, was to establish my fame, but each was quickly abandoned for some new idea. I had resumed again the first object of my inquiry, and was busily arranging materials for effecting the glorious discovery, when I was seized by an epidemic fever that was committing fearful ravages in the parish. All after this, for several weeks, is a blank in my memory, a hiatus in my consciousness. Contrary to the expectations of all that attended, I became convalescent. My strength slowly returned; but my mind had undergone a complete change: its buoyancy had fled, and no longer, like a butterfly, fluttering from one flower of fancy to another, it was fixed on the one engrossing object; yet I was conscious that the faculties of which I had once felt so proud, were now weak as those of an infant; and, dreamy and listless, I began to wander into the fields. My school had broken up. The greater part of my pupils were with a successful competitor who now supplied my place. This deepened my gloom; and I often returned with a feeling that my task on earth was accomplished--that all that remained for me was to die--that I was a cumberer of the earth. I never complained, but bore all in silence. I cared not for myself; but when I looked to my parents, I resolved to struggle on, and did struggle manfully. I felt as a drowning man, who sees an object almost within his reach, that, were he enabled to grasp it, would secure his safety. He struggles and plunges towards it in vain, every succeeding effort only serving to diminish his hopes of escape, while, by allowing himself to sink in the stream, he would cease to suffer in a moment. To the eye of a casual observer, I had regained my wonted health, neither was there any strong indication of the change that had come over my feelings; yet to speak or act was painful to me, and I could not endure to be looked at with more than a passing glance--shrinking like a criminal, and fearing lest the thoughts that were passing in my mind might be discovered. A strange sensation had, for some time, taken possession of me. I felt as if in a false position, by some means or other, to me inscrutable--that I had, at some former period of existence, either on this earth or some other planet, lived, acted, and witnessed, as I was now doing. Nothing appeared new to me: every incident of unwonted occurrence produced a dreamy effect of memory, as if I had experienced it before. This frame of mind was more annoying than painful, for I even at times felt a faint pleasure in it, and strove to anticipate events that were lodged in the womb of futurity: but my efforts were vain; I could not penetrate the mist; I could only recognise the objects as it cleared away. At this time I was so fortunate as to procure the situation of amanuensis to a literary gentleman, who was employed upon a work of great extent, but of little interest. My labour was entirely mechanical. The confinement and the sedentary nature of my employment wrought still greater change on me; for hours I have sat, like an automaton, copying passages I felt no interest in, held only to my task by the consciousness of being no longer burthensome to my parents. An entire new train of ideas began to pass through my mind in rapid succession; some of them so fearful and horrid that I trembled for myself. I felt as if impelled to crime by some power almost irresistible, and a strange pleasure in meditating upon deeds of blood took possession of me. My favourite subject, the mysterious connection between soul and body, was again strong upon me, and I longed to witness the last agonies of a person dying by violence. It was necessary to elucidate my theory, and the desire to obtain the knowledge, increased. The crime and all its horrors never occurred to me as any thing but a great, a magnanimous action, a sacrifice of my own feelings for the benefit of mankind. One evening my employer detained me much later than he was wont. We sat as usual--he at one side of the table, I at the other. I had, all the afternoon, been much stronger than I had for some time before, and felt more confidence in myself than I had done for several weeks. No sensation gave indication of the misery that was to fill my heart. All at once my mind was hurled, as if by a whirlwind, from its calm. My employer stooped over a book, in which he was deeply engaged--his head was towards me. I was mending my pen with a stout, ivory-handled desk-knife. The temptation came upon me, with hideous force, to plunge the knife into his head, and obtain the great object I so long had desired. In this fearful moment I even reasoned--if I dare use the often-abused term--that the wound would be small, and hidden by the hair, so that no man could ever know, far less blame me for the act. I grasped the knife firmly in my hand, changing it to the best position to strike with effect. My mind felt pleased and happy. I actually exulted in the opportunity. My arm was raised to strike the unconscious victim of my madness, when he raised his head, and looked me in the face. I sank into my seat, with a faint scream, and wept like a babe. The impulse had passed away, like a hideous nightmare. I shook in every limb, and raised my eyes to heaven, imploring pardon, and sighed forth a mental prayer of thanks; while the intended victim of my madness, unconscious of the danger he had escaped, did his utmost to soothe the agitation and distress which I could not conceal. I could no longer look upon his benign and placid countenance without a shudder of horror, such as the wretch must feel who is dragged to the spot where the body of his murdered victim lies witnessing against him. I felt that he was a victim snatched from me by a merciful God--a victim I had murdered in my heart. That same night I gave up my situation, much against the desire of my kind employer, and returned to my parents' roof, the most to be pitied of living men. For several days I never left my bed, and scarcely took any food. My mind felt, at times, quite confused; at other times, strange ideas shot transitorily through it, with the vividness of lightning; but they were only coruscations, and left no impressions. I forgot them as quickly as they arose, and sank again into gloom. My malady began gradually to assume a new turn. Phantoms began to visit me; the sages of antiquity were my guests. I hailed them, at first, with pleasure, and enjoyed their presence, but soon grew weary of the voiceless, fleeting communion. In vain I spoke to them, or put questions in the most impassioned tones. No sound ever met my ear save my own. Yet there was a strange community of sentiment--an intercourse of soul between us; for they would shoot their ideas in through my eyes--smile, or look grave--and nod, assent, or shake the head, as various thoughts passed through my mind. After the first visits, I ceased to use articulated language; it was a joyless communion, a languid inanity, and I felt as if my own soul was no longer a dweller in its earthly tabernacle, but held a mysterious middle state between life and death. In vain I endeavoured to exert my energies. I left my bed, and began to move about; still this new torment clung to me. I possessed a strange power. I had only to think of any event in history, and the whole was present before me, even the scenes around becoming changed to the places where the circumstances happened. I wished my memory annihilated; I strove not to think. My very endeavours called up more vividly new and strange ideas; wherever I was, the place seemed peopled by phantoms. Wherever I turned my eyes, a moving pageant of gorgeous or hideous figures, strangely real, were before me. Oh, how I loathed my situation! Yet I complained to no one--not even to my parents; enduring all in secret, and hearing the bitter taunts of friends and acquaintances, who passed their heart-cutting remarks upon my indolence, and strange way of passing my time. To the eye of a casual observer, I was in good health, and shrunk from making known my painful and unheard-of state, lest I should be considered insane, and treated as such, by being placed in confinement--an idea that made me shudder. I often doubted my own sanity; yet I felt not like ordinary madmen. I had a consciousness that I was under some strong delusion, and what I saw could not be real; still, my visions were not the less annoying and painful. The only intervals of rest I enjoyed, was when the desire to witness the last expiring throb of a person dying by violence haunted me, which it did at times, if possible, with more overwhelming force than ever. This was the more unaccountable to me, for I am naturally of a humane and benevolent disposition; and, when not overpowered by a gust of passion, timid and averse to acts of strife and violence of any kind--shuddering and becoming faint at the sight of blood. My mental sufferings, from these conflicts between my natural turn of mind and its morbid state, became so great, that life grew a burden more than I could long endure. Still, I shrunk from self-destruction; or, more properly speaking, the thought never occurred to me; for, had it come with half the force of the others by which I was enslaved, I would have, in a moment, obeyed the impulse. I had no idea of any crime, or a wish to witness the sufferings of the individual. I felt as a patriot might feel who sacrifices all for the good of his country--immolating my own feelings at the altar of science, and deeming the realization of my dreams of vital importance to mankind, who had hitherto been unable to discover the mysterious link that bound soul and body together. At length, the thought came into my distracted mind that I might be able to try the great experiment upon myself; and a sensation near akin to joy came over me, as I turned over the various ways in which this might be accomplished. My whole invention was at work, contriving the safest mode in which I could approach nearest, without crossing "that bourne from whence there is no return;" and I felt, for days, all the pleasures and disappointments of a projector, adapting or rejecting the various schemes by turns. Bred at a short distance from the beach, I swam well. To fasten a weight to my body, sufficient to sink me, with a knife in my hand, to cut the cord as the last pang came upon me, and then rise to the surface, often presented itself, and was as often rejected. I might be so weak, as not to rise, or, in my confusion, I might stab myself in my effort to cut the cord, and the secret would be lost. At length, I fixed upon the following mode. Unknown to my parents or any one, I prepared the little room I had occupied from childhood, and, with a feeling of pride, called my study, by carefully securing from it all access of air, as far as was in my power; then, attaching a cord to the door and window, so contrived that the slightest pull would throw them wide open, I placed a chair in the centre of the room, and a chaffer of burning charcoal by its side. With a feeling of exultation, I sat down to complete my experiment. The cords were fixed to my arms, so that, when I fell from my seat unconscious, the door and window would open, and restore animation by the access of vital air. I would thus attain my object, without exposing myself, or becoming the subject of public remark, which at all times was most hateful to me. I watched every mutation of feeling. For the first few minutes, I felt no change, except that the room became warmer and more agreeable. Gradually my breathing became more quick; but not in the least laboured. A gentle perspiration came upon me, accompanied by a luxurious languor, such as if I had ate a plentiful dinner, and stretched myself upon a sunny bank; an irresistible desire to sleep was stealing over me. My feelings were highly pleasing; but a stupor gradually came over me, and banished thought. My next sensation was a thrill of agony, which no words can express. It was more intense than if thousands of pointed instruments had been thrust into every muscle of my body--plucked out, and again thrust in, with the rapidity of lightning. Thrilling coruscations of vivid light flashed across my eyes. I attempted to shriek--only a faint groan escaped; my organs of voice refused to obey their office. Human nature could not continue to suffer as I suffered. Again I sank into unconsciousness, and again my agony came on me, though not so intense as before. Faint glimmerings of thought began to visit me. The first was that the agonies of death were upon me; that I was in danger of sitting too long; and, with a convulsive effort I attempted to throw myself from the chair, but felt I was restrained. Opening my eyes, I found them dim and visionless; a dull and benumbing sensation made me feel as if my brain was bursting my head; whether it was day or night I could not distinguish; my ears were filled with confused sounds, mixed with a hissing and booming that distracted me; I felt faint and sick, so as I never felt before or since. That I was dying, I firmly believed; and again I attempted to sink from off the chair. As consciousness returned, I found myself stretched upon my bed. Still, all was darkness and confusion, I fell into a lethargy or sleep, which lasted for hours. When I awoke, my mother sat weeping by the side of my bed; her suppressed sob was the first sound that fell upon my ear. Never can I forget that moment!--her melting woe, as she sat stooping towards me; the anguish expressed in my father's countenance, as he stood supporting himself upon the back of her chair, his eyes bent on my face. I turned myself upon my pillow, and gave vent to a flood of tears. Before a word had been exchanged, the surgeon, to whose exertions I was indebted for my restoration to life, entered. To his inquiries after me, my mother answered, that, for the last few hours, I had been in a quiet sleep, and had just moved and turned as if I had awakened; but that, agreeable to his desire, she had not spoken to me. Without answering her, he stooped over the bed to feel my pulse. I turned to him, and inquired what had happened. A mutual explanation took place. That I had attempted suicide, both he and my parents believed, until, to vindicate myself, I gave them a minute account of the object I had in view in what I had done. He listened with intense interest, not unmixed with astonishment, as he gradually drew from me an account of my long train of mental anguish. I could at once perceive that he did not ridicule me, but rather sympathised with me, and blamed me much for not making my case known long before, as it was not, he hoped, beyond the reach of medicine. He told me of several cases in which he had been successful, nearly similar to my own, although not to the extent of duration and variety of change. The following, which had nearly been as fatal, and would have been as inexplicable, made the greatest impression on me. The subject of his narrative was the wife of a near neighbour of ours, who had been dead for some years. At the time both were well stricken in age, and remarkable both for their piety and walk in life. Their family, the greater part of whom were alive, had all reached manhood, and were engaged in active duties in different parts of the country. The old couple themselves were living on the fruits of their early industry and economy, in a small solitary cottage, calmly closing the evening of a well-spent life. The first attack of the malady was sudden and severe, its approach being unperceived by any one, even by the sufferer. Both had spent the day at church, and returned, conversing with their neighbours, until they reached their own cottage, where they sat reading their Bible, or conversing on subjects derived from it, until the herd-boy brought home the cow from the common pasture. On looking up, the woman saw the cow standing and lowing at the byre door. She rose from her seat, and went to admit and attend to the welcome guest. She did not return to the house after an unusually protracted stay; and her husband, beginning to be uneasy, and fearful lest the cow might have kicked or hurt her, went to ascertain the cause of her tarrying. Struck with horror, he found her talking in a fearful strain to an imaginary second person, the cow still uncared for, and the milking-pail upside down, she standing upon the bottom, busy adjusting a halter to one of the beams, and imploring the ideal person not to go until she could get all ready to accompany him to that happy land of which he spoke, and to which he showed her the way. Her distressed husband, rushing forward, clasped her in his arms as she was putting the noose over her head. She screamed and resisted with all her energies, calling upon the phantom to rescue her from her cruel husband. For several weeks she remained in this state, confined and strictly watched. The surgeon succeeded in subduing the disease; and when reason returned, she had no consciousness of anything that had happened during the interval; but, with a grateful heart, returned thanks to God for preservation and recovery. My pride was wounded to observe that the surgeon thought I was insane, for he quoted the above case as a parallel to mine. This I remonstrated against; and, although I could perceive a credulous smile upon his features, I at once cheerfully agreed to put myself under his care. When he retired for the evening, I found that I was indebted for my escape from death to a strange circumstance--the death of my uncle, my father's brother, who had returned from the West Indies some years before with considerable wealth and a broken constitution. We had never seen him since his return. Prosperity had brought to him no pleasure, riches no enjoyment. From being one of the most joyous and liberal of lads before he left home, he had returned to his country sullen and avaricious; with all his wealth, a poorer man, in mind, than when he left it--suffering from a continued dread of poverty, and the victim of hypochondria. "Poor John!" my father would say, "how I pity you! Your money is not your own; you are only the gatherer for some other person. You dare not enjoy a shilling; neither can you take it with you when you die." My father had just received an intimation from a lawyer, requesting his immediate attendance in Edinburgh, where his brother had died suddenly the evening before, to make arrangements for his funeral, and look after his effects, as he believed he had died intestate. My mother had hastened up stairs with the intelligence, and to request me to come down, when she found me seated upon the chair, with my head sunk upon my breast, as if I had been in a profound sleep. Overcome by the vapour, she sank upon the floor; the noise of her fall brought up my father, whose first task was to rush to me, give me a gentle shake, and then look in agony at me and at his wife. When he took his hand from me, I fell to the floor by the side of my mother, and the window opened as I had contrived. Uttering a cry of anguish, he seized the wife of his bosom in his arms, hurried out of the fatal room, sent the servant girl for the surgeon, and returned for me, who was lying as if dead, my eyes open and fixed, dull and void of expression. My mother soon recovered; a few neighbours came to her aid; and the surgeon was, fortunately, soon found. Their utmost efforts were for long, to all appearance, of little avail. The surgeon had almost despaired of success; at length his patience and skill were rewarded by my returning animation. The rest is already known. So violent was the shock my constitution had sustained, from the action of the noxious gas, that it was several weeks before I was enabled to leave my room. The skill of my surgeon was evidently operating a beneficial change upon my mind. The languor and heaviness, mixed with restless anxiety, which had so long oppressed me, began to yield to the powers of his prescriptions; my hallucinations became less annoying and more distant in their attacks, until they entirely ceased, and I was restored to the full enjoyment of existence. Change of scene was his final medicine; and this I most cheerfully agreed to take, for my circumstances were now affluent, and enabled me to live or wander where I might choose. My restless mind would at times dwell with peculiar pleasure upon some one favoured project or other; and, fearful lest I should fall again into some new philosophical dream, I resolved to travel. With a stout horse and a heavy purse, I bade adieu to my parents for a short time, and rode out of my native valley, accompanied by Malcolm Dow, a stout lad who had been reared in the family, as my servant. I would have gone to the Continent, and visited the banks of the Rhine, Switzerland, and Italy; but I bethought me of the delightful and romantic scenery of our own dear land, with its infinitely varied beauties; the endless pleasure I would have in viewing them, in all their bearings, from the dark frowning passes in the Highlands, where rock rises piled upon rock, and the impetuous cataract makes the stoutest eye reel in looking on it, to the wimpling stream that glides through some bosky dell, where wild flowers spangle the banks, driving some village mill, whose distant clack, mingling with the murmur of the stream and the song of birds from the woods, forms a concert so sweet to the lover of nature. Without an object further than amusement, Malcolm and I jogged on for the Falls of the Clyde. Early in the afternoon, we arrived in Lanark, where I resolved to stop for a few days; and leaving Malcolm at the inn, looking after the horses, I walked out by the West Port, to visit the Falls of Stonebyres. I descended the steep brae to the old bridge, where I sat for some time, enjoying the sweep of the river, which was considerably swollen at the time, and the falls were in great magnificence. I could hear the roar of the waters as they dashed over from fall to fall, and perceive the grey mist that rose from the abyss. As I sat absorbed in the scene, a venerable personage, evidently of the class of farmers in the neighbourhood, came to me, and, after the salutation of strangers, he seated himself upon the parapet by my side, and joined in conversation and anecdote of the scenes around. He agreed with me that Clyde was a lovely stream; but added, it was a bloody one. I felt shocked at such an epithet being applied to the object of my present admiration, and requested his reason for it. "O sir," he said, "my reason is too good for giving it that name; it has been the grave of thousands, and will yet swallow more in its greedy bosom. My only son, the hope of my declining years, perished in its waves; and even here where we sit, before this bridge was built, a scene of heroic fortitude and resignation was exhibited to sorrowing numbers, who could render no aid--a scene indeed not surpassed in ancient or modern history." Struck by his manner, I requested him to give me the account as he had heard it. "You shall hear it," said he, "as I had it when a boy, from my grandfather, who was one of the sorrowing witnesses of the event. There lived, in a cottage on the banks, some distance up the stream from where we are at present, a pious and industrious man, who had a very small farm attached to the ferry, which he rented; the boat that plied across the river for the accommodation of passengers was his principal support. He was very poor, and had a numerous family--very young--to provide for by his exertions. The river was much swollen by heavy rains which had fallen for some days. It was the day of the fair at Lanark, and he rejoiced in the gains he should acquire. He was resolute and athletic, and, from long practice, knew the ferry well. The labours of the day had passed off with cheerfulness; the river had continued to rise rapidly, the evening was coming on, and the last boat-load, among whom was my grandfather, were embarked. He pushed out into the stream, and, skilfully as he manoeuvred his boat, the river carried them down considerably below the usual landing place. The steady boatman, of all that were in danger, was alone collected, and free from alarm. His wife, who stood on the side with an infant in her arms, mingled cries and prayers with the roaring of the swollen river. At length he neared the side at an eddy, and the passengers waded to the green banks. His wife and all called to him to step out also, and haul the boat out of the stream; but they implored him in vain, for he relied too much upon his own skill and strength, and heeded them not. Two or three passengers stood on the opposite bank, wishing to cross also; and the temptation of a few more pence induced him to push again into the angry stream, after a kind assurance to his wife, and those with her, that there was no danger. Scarce had he spoke, when it was evident that he and the boat were as much the sport of the swollen Clyde, as a withered leaf. The skiff shot along like an arrow towards the fall. A wild scream arose from both sides of the river; all aid was out of human power, yet no cry for help escaped him; he sat down with calm resignation, pulled his bonnet over his eyes, and, muffling his face in his plaid, cried--'Jesus have mercy!' and, ere the sounds died away, he was swept over the tremendous fall, and perished." The scene seemed to pass before me, as I listened to him, and gazed upon the stream. We parted, and I proceeded to view the fearfully majestic spot, where the river on my right, increasing its angry roarings, gushed over the awful rock. Descending the footpath on my right, the whole scene of terror and grandeur burst upon me. The evening was approaching apace, and slowly and reluctantly I began to ascend, after having scrambled to almost every accessible spot on the side where I was. So much did the noise and sublimity affect me, that I felt one of my unsettled fits stealing over my mind. Strange thoughts began to arise. I quickened my pace until I reached the top of the height; and the glorious view--the beautiful sloping braes of Nemplar, and the village gilded by the beams of the setting sun--burst upon me. I again longed for a view of the magnificent fan-looking cascade from a new point; and so imperative was my desire that I never thought of the danger. Stepping to the brink of the chasm, where the fearful tumult raged many feet below, I could only catch an angular glance; and, to extend it, I caught a bush, and leaned forward upon one hand and my knees. Dreadful moment! horrid recollection!--I felt the bank giving way. A convulsive effort to regain my equilibrium, and a stifled cry for mercy, are all I recollect--my heart collapsed, and all consciousness ceased. How long I continued in this state I have no means of ascertaining; my first sensation was a sickness that almost made me again relapse into insensibility, accompanied by a feeling of pain in all my limbs. Languidly I opened my eyes; all was dark as midnight. The roar of the waters stupified every sense. The horrors of my situation chilled my soul, and annihilated all my courage. How I retained, by the energies of despair, unaided by reason, my half pendulous position, I cannot explain. I was, for a time after consciousness returned, incapable of reflection; my mind, a chaos of fear and horror. I felt wet to the skin, from the thin spray, which fell upon and enveloped me like a cloud; a profuse sweat stood upon my forehead, and rolling down in large drops, made my eyes smart. I grasped something that sustained me, yet I scarcely knew how. Gradually the sickness left me, and cool thoughts of my perilous situation began to occupy my mind; my energies and native desire of preservation began to strengthen. My first care was to ascertain if any of my bones were broken. My legs hung over a ledge of the rock, upon which the rest of my body lay supported by my hands, which still clung to the small object I had grasped; cautiously I moved my legs, the one after the other: no bone was broken; but I found them painful in many places. Still clinging to my hold, on which I felt my whole chance of escape from being plunged into the gulf below depended, I, for some time, and by many useless efforts, attempted to get my knees upon the ledge of rock; my position was becoming every minute more painful, and I less able to retain it; my arms were benumbed, and my hands powerless, from being so long above my head. I dared not pull myself up, for the falling of stones and earth, when I first made the attempt, gave fearful note of the feeble tenure by which I was sustained. My left hand began to cramp; the fear of instant annihilation seized me; I could hold by it no longer. I grasped still more firmly by my right, and, stretching my left, found relief, by moving it gently about, to restore the circulation. I dared not bring it down, lest the other had failed; and, stretching farther than I had yet done, it touched something hard and erect; it was the stem of a stoutish bush, that grew out of a crevice in the rock. A ray of hope darted through my mind. I grasped it, still keeping my first hold, and got my knees on the ledge. To stand on my feet was now an easy effort. The joy of that movement, in the midst of my sufferings and despair, I shall never forget. I felt as if snatched from the roaring abyss. My nearly exhausted strength began to be renewed; I felt comparative comfort; yet I would have given all I possessed for my deliverance; my escape was not yet more certain, or my situation much less perilous. I found that I still held clutched in my right hand the bush that had given way, and been the cause of my disaster; but how far I had fallen, or at what part of the hideous chasm I had been mercifully arrested, I had no means to ascertain; for I stood, like a Russian peasant ready to receive the knout, with my face to the wall of rocks. I looked to the right side and to the left; all was the most impenetrable darkness. My arms, now that the weight of my body was taken from them, felt if possible more benumbed. I groped with my feet as far as I could, and found my standing very narrow, but inclining rather into than from the rock. I loosened one hand, and with an effort, that I thought would have dislocated my shoulder, brought it to my side. The tingling sensation I felt from the returning circulation, almost made me cry aloud. As I found that I still stood firm, I undid the grasp of my left hand, but not before I had turned my face from the rock. I now stood facing the raging flood; but its roaring was all I could distinguish. I now looked towards the Heavens, and thought I could perceive the stars dimly, through the thick cloud of spray in which I was involved. I leaned against the rocks, but my legs began to fail me, and trembled under the weight of my body. I was imperatively compelled, while strength remained, again to change my posture, and at length succeeded, and seated myself upon the ledge, my legs dangling over the edge. Now, for the first time, I felt as if I were at ease, and began to calculate on the chances of my escape--feeling that my situation was so much improved that there was every reason to hope I should be able to sit out the fearful night, be once more snatched from death, and witness the dawn usher in the glorious orb of day, when I felt assured every effort would be made for my rescue. I gazed intensely down the roaring void, in hopes to see some indication that I was sought after. Malcolm I knew would strain every nerve, nay, peril his own life, to save mine. I thought I now could perceive first one dark red ball or light upon the edge of the stream, quickly moving, followed by others. The blood-red glare, as they approached, gradually became more bright, surrounded by a lighter halo; but they threw no ray where I sat, anxiously watching them. Their bearers were invisible from where I was. At length they came nearer the whirling pool, and cast a red shade on the water, where it shot over the last shelf. I could look no longer--my brain whirled, I closed my eyes, I felt as if I would have fallen, even after they were shut with all my force. I shouted with all my might, in hopes they might hear my voice. Vain effort!--no sound less loud than the thunders of Heaven could be distinguished amid the turmoil of waters. Again I ventured to open my eyes. The lights had disappeared. I felt, if possible, more forlorn than I had yet done; my heart began to sink; I laid myself along upon the hard rock, and, commending myself to God, became more calm and resigned to my fate. If ever there was a prayer in which true sorrow for sin, and humble confidence in the goodness and mercy of God, were poured from the human breast, it was from that fearful place. After my devotions, a calm feeling stole over my mind. I laid my head down, and, strange as it may appear, fell sound asleep as a cradled babe, and awoke refreshed. The horrors of the earlier part of the night came upon me like a fearful dream. The waters thundered in my ears. I opened my eyes, and looked up. The first rays of the sun, glancing upon the mists raised by the falls, formed numerous rainbows. I dared not to look down to the abyss, or forward to the rushing stream. With a feeling of utter helplessness, I turned my face again to the rock, and looked up. A cry of hope and thanksgiving escaped my lips--the top of the bank was only a few feet from where I lay! Rising to my knees, and holding by the bushes, I poured forth my morning prayers of thanksgiving and supplication for deliverance. I rose to my feet; the edge was only a little above my reach--my situation was still fearfully critical. Whether to risk all, and, by my own efforts, free myself, or wait until aid came, I turned over in my mind for a few minutes, as I examined the space above me. The noise of the waters, and agitation of my mind, were again beginning to render my situation more and more perilous, and I felt there was no time to lose. It was far more appalling in the glare of day than the cloud of night, and, with a desperate energy, I made the attempt, clinging to what I could grasp. I know not how I succeeded, until I lay stretched upon the verge of the gulf, secure from danger. I dared not rise to my feet--I crept upon my hands and knees for several yards, then sprang up, nor looked behind. Unheeding the path I took, I ran until I sank exhausted, the roar of the waters no longer sounding in my ears. The sight of the place was now hateful to me. I resolved not to visit it again, or see the other falls--indeed, I was very ill, from the night's exposure to damp, and the sufferings of my mind. Without hat or shoes, I entered the inn of the village. On raising the people from their beds, my appearance was so suspicious, that it was with difficulty they allowed me to enter; but a seven-shilling piece, which I tendered to the landlady, acted as a charm in raising her good opinion of me. I obtained a warm bed, and a cordial, while she prepared breakfast, and dried my clothes, which were soiled and wet. I evaded all her artful inquiries to learn how I had come into my present situation. It looked so improbable, even to myself, that I thought no one would give credit to my relation; and the rumours upon my former escape made me resolve to keep it secret from every one, even Malcolm, to whom I wrote to come over to me with the horses. I remained in my room until his arrival, which was not until late in the forenoon. When he arrived, I thought he would have gone distracted with joy--he wept and laughed by turns--gazing at times with a vacant stare, then touching me to prove my identity. After he became more composed, I learned that it was currently reported and believed in Lanark, that I had perished in the river. Malcolm had waited for me with extreme impatience, after nightfall, until about ten o'clock, when he could be induced by the landlord of the inn to remain no longer, and even the landlord had become uneasy. After some delay, several men were engaged to accompany Malcolm in his search for me, and, having procured torches and a lantern, they proceeded to the side of the river, beneath the fall, and, after searching every spot they could reach in the darkness of the night, for more than a mile on each side, they again, on Malcolm's importunities, and his offer of a handsome reward, renewed their search the second time. In an eddy not far below the fall, one of them discovered my hat, sunk near the margin, and filled with water and mud. That I had been drowned none of the party had the smallest doubt. The search had continued for upwards of three hours, their torches were burned out, and the men refused to remain longer; but no persuasion could induce Malcolm to leave the side of the swollen river, where he had remained during the short interval till day; the landlord promising to return early, with drags, and men, to search for my body. In this manner they had been employed, until all hope had fled, and they, accompanied by Malcolm, had returned to the inn, where he found my letter. Confused by hope and doubt, he had hurried on foot, and run to me. Moved by his affection, I gave him a sum of money, to reward the landlord and his assistants, telling him I was extremely sorry for the alarm and trouble I had put them all to; but that my hat having fallen in, and my not returning, were caused by a circumstance I did not choose to explain. As I felt no serious inconvenience from my adventure, I rose and dressed, and left the village for Glasgow, after dinner. As we passed the Cartland Bridge, I shut my eyes, to prevent my seeing the river, and put spurs to my horse, to quit the scene where I had suffered so much in so short a time. After wandering over the greater part of Scotland for several weeks, I became weary of enjoyment, and turned our horses' heads homewards by the coast of Ayrshire, with a view to visit the Island of Arran, and then cross the country to Stirling, by Loch Lomond. We had reached Largs, on the coast of Ayrshire, and saw the Isle of Bute, the Cumbraes, and the lofty summits of Arran, rise out of the Firth of Clyde, in beautiful succession. At this time steamboats were unknown. I agreed with the landlord of the inn to have our horses carefully sent round by Glasgow, to wait us at Dumbarton, and set out for the beach, to enjoy the scene, and agree for a boat to carry us on our aquatic excursion; but the time passed on, and evening approached when we were at a considerable distance from the town. We had been sometimes upon the beach, at others among the rocks, as fancy led. I said to Malcolm that I would now return to our inn, and cause our landlord to make arrangements for a boat. As we hurried away from the shore towards the town, four men, in seamen's apparel, rushed from behind a rock, and pinioned our arms before we were aware. Two of them held pistols in their hands, threatening to fire if we uttered a sound, and pushed us before them to the spot whence they had issued. Here we found two other similar characters; the whole were stout, athletic men, of different ages, bronzed by the weather. The place where we were was close by the beach, under a rock which beetled out for a few feet--the sea, at full, coming almost up to the base--but protruding sufficiently to conceal, except in front, a number of people. Still pointing the pistols to our breasts, and almost touching our vests, they bound our hands together behind our backs, and, taking our handkerchiefs from our pockets, covered our faces. We were silent and passive in their hands; yet in agony of fear. They placed us upon the hard rock, and we dared not ask one question, to ascertain the cause of our detention. From the few words that we could pick up out of their conversation, which was carried on in whispers, I could learn that the disposal of our persons engaged them. Malcolm could contain his fears no longer, and began to plead for mercy for his master and himself. One of the fellows snapped his pistol; I could hear the click and smell the powder. "You are in luck this bout," said a voice; "but don't make me try it again; she never flashed in the pan before. We don't threaten for naught; so bless your luck, and take warning." A long period of fearful suspense ensued, in which my imagination conjured up a thousand objects of horror and suffering. The sea-breeze gently sighed among the rocks, and we heard the soft cadence of the gentle waves that fell near our feet, as the tide advanced. That we had become objects of alarm to a band of lawless men, whose lives were spent in violating the laws of their country, I was fully aware, but in what manner I knew not, unless that, by our sauntering about the rocks, they had suspected us to belong to the excise. In such cases I had heard that they were apt to do deeds of violence; but Malcolm's escape prevented me from speaking a word, or requesting an explanation. At length the sound of oars pulled steadily and with caution, fell upon my ears; and a confused suppressed sound of many voices soon followed; then there was the trampling of feet through the water and upon the rock, with the noise as if numerous articles were placed close to where we sat. Shivering from cold, we sat in anxious suspense. That I had been right in my conjecture, I felt now assured; and, at this moment, I thought they were delivering their cargo. Soon the movements ceased; we were grasped by powerful hands, again threatened with death if we uttered a word, and placed in a boat, which, by the motion, seemed to glide through the water for a considerable time. No word was spoken by those in the boat, except in whispers. Again I found it touch the beach. We were lifted out, and placed upon the edge of the water, the cords cut from our wrists, and, in one moment after, the sound of the departing boat fell upon our gratified ears. We were alone, and the first use we made of our regained liberty, was to take the mufflings from our faces. All was dark around, nor could we discern any object except the faint phosphoric light that marked the margin of the waves here and there, like golden threads, as they broke at our feet. We now breathed more freely; our situation, though far from comfortable, was free from the dread of immediate violence; for we stood alone and solitary upon an unknown beach--but whether in Ayrshire, Bute, or Argyle, we had no means to ascertain. From our painful position while in the boat, the time had hung so heavy on us that it appeared we had sailed a great distance. Not so much as to the value of a farthing had been taken from our persons, nor any violence used, more than was necessary to keep us silent and prevent our escape. I now, indeed, think, that the pistol which was snapped at Malcolm, had only powder in the pan, to intimidate. After consulting for some time on the best means of extricating ourselves from the necessity of passing the night on the exposed beach, we agreed to proceed inland, at any risk, whether of falls or a ducking, in quest of a roof to cover us. Before we left, I groped the face of my watch--to see it was impossible, the night was so dark. I found the hands to indicate half-past ten; so we had thus been four hours in the hands of our captors. Stumbling or falling at every few steps, we now proceeded slowly on. Malcolm, who preceded me, once or twice plunged into quagmires, through which I followed, until I was almost spent. At length a faint light, at some distance, caught our eyes. Onwards we urged, until we could distinguish a cottage, from whose small window the light proceeded. After scrambling over a low, loose stone wall, we found ourselves in the cottage garden. I looked in at the window, and could perceive a man and two women--one old, the other young--seated by the fire. There was no other light of any kind burning; and the dull ray of the fire gave to the interior a gloomy appearance, save where it fell on the three individuals who sat crouching before it. There being no door on the side we were on, we walked to the front, and knocked for admittance. This side of the cottage gave no indication of any light being within--the window being carefully closed. For some time we knocked in vain--no answer was made. At length, our knockings were answered by a female voice-- "What want ye here at this time o' nicht, disturbing a lone woman?" "My good woman," I replied, "we are strangers, who know not where we are. Be so kind as open the door to us." "Gae 'wa--gae 'wa; I will do nae sic thing; I hae nae uppitting for ye." "My good woman," said I, in the most soothing manner I could, "do, for charity, open the door. We are like to perish from fatigue, and can proceed no further. You shall be paid whatever you ask for any accommodation you can afford, were it only to sit by your fire until daybreak." After some time spent in entreaties, the door was cautiously opened by a female, who held a small lamp in her hand, and we were ushered into a small apartment--not the same we had seen, but a dark and uncomfortable place. She appeared to be greatly alarmed, and requested us not to make any noise, or to speak loud, whatever we heard, or we might bring her into danger for her humanity, and ourselves into greater hazard. We would, she added, have ourselves alone to blame for any evil that might follow. Taking the lamp with her, she retired, saying she would bring us refreshments in a few minutes. We now regretted being admitted into this mysterious shelter; yet the looks of the woman--the younger of the two we had seen from the back of the house--were soft and sweet, rather inclining to melancholy. We had no time to communicate our suspicions before her return. She set before us a bottle containing some brandy, a jug of water, and a sufficient quantity of bread and cheese; and urged us to make haste and retire to bed. Having filled a glass of the liquor, she gave it to Malcolm. He drank it off at once, with great pleasure. My eyes were upon her. I saw a shade of anxiety on her countenance, succeeded by a look of satisfaction, when he returned the empty glass. I cannot account for it, but a suspicion came upon me that there was more in the giving of the liquor than courtesy; and I resolved not to taste it. She filled out the same quantity for me; but I declined it. Her look changed--she became embarrassed--and she requested me to take it, as it was to do me good. There was a something in the tone of her voice, and a benignity in her manner, that almost did away with my suspicions. I took the glass in my hand, and, requesting her to fill a cup of water for me, lifted the glass to my head. While she poured the water, I emptied the liquor into the bosom of my vest, placed, by the same movement, the glass to my mouth, and, returning it to her, drank off the water. She immediately retired; saying, with a smile, in which there was much of good nature-- "I am sorry for your poor accommodation. Good night!" I now began to reflect upon my situation. Fear predominated. I had been led into it I scarce knew how. I blamed myself for entering; yet I was not aware of what was to take place in it. We were, unarmed and fatigued, on a part of the coast I knew not where. I looked to my watch; it wanted a few minutes of twelve; we had not been one quarter of an hour under the roof. I looked at Malcolm, by the feeble light of the lamp, wondering why he neither moved nor spoke. He was in a dead sleep, leaning upon his high-backed wooden chair. I attempted to rouse him, in vain, by shaking him. That the brandy had been drugged, I was now convinced. My heart sank within me. I glanced round, for means to escape, and procure help to rescue my faithful servant; but there was neither window nor fireplace in the small room in which we were. I placed my hand upon the door, to rush into the other apartment; but the recollection of the man I had seen, the suspicion that there might be more in the house, and the girl's warning, detained me. As I stood, sweating with agony, I heard voices in conversation in the other apartment. "Mary," said the old woman, "ye are owre softhearted for the trade we are engaged in. Ye will, some time or ither, rue yer failing." "Mither," was the reply, "I may rue it, but ne'er repent it. I couldna, for the life o' me, keep twa human creatures pleading for shelter, wha kendna whar to gang in a mirk nicht like this. Did I do wrang, Jamie?" "I fear you have, Mary," said the man. "If Captain Bately finds them here when he arrives--he is such a devil!--I know not what he may do to them; he is so jealous and fearful of informers; and, this trip, he has a rich cargo for the Glasgow merchants." "I'm no feared, if ye dinna inform yersel," said the daughter; "for I hae given them baith a dram o' the Dutchman's bottle, that will keep them quiet aneugh, or I'm sair cheated; for it's nae weaker for me." At this period of the conversation, I heard the tramp of horses' feet and the voices of several men approaching the house. The door was opened without knocking, and several men entered. One of them demanded if all was right. "Sae far as I hae heard, captain," said the old woman. "So far good, old mother," replied he. "James, have you seen our agent from Glasgow?--how goes it there?" "All right, captain," said James. "I will then make a good run of it," rejoined the other. "But I was nearly making a bad one. Two of these land-sharks were watching our motions under the rocks; fortunately, they were observed, and put out of the way in time. All had been up with me this trip, had they got back to Largs before we were cleared. Come, lads, bait your horses quickly; we have a long way through the muirs ere dawn." He was interrupted by the scraping and furious barking of a dog at the door where I stood listening. My heart leaped as if it would burst, my temples throbbed, and my ears rung; yet my presence of mind did not forsake me. Imitating Malcolm, I placed myself in my chair, and feigned myself dead asleep. So many voices spoke at once that I could not make out a word that was said, except imprecations and entreaties. The lamp still burned upon the table before me. The door opened, and the captain entered, accompanied by several others. "Dear captain," said Mary, "they are not informers--they are strangers, and fast asleep. Harm them not, for mercy's sake!" "Silly wench!" replied the captain. "Peace!--I say, peace! These are the same rascals who were watching us this whole afternoon. How the devil came they here, if they have not some knowledge of our proceedings? Look to your arms, my lads! We will shew them they have caught a Tartar." I heard one pistol cocked, then another. How I restrained myself from shewing my agitation I know not; I was nearly fainting. "Captain," cried Mary, "you shall not harm them, or you must do to me as you do to them. You are as safe as ye were before I let them in. Do ye no see they are dead asleep?--try them, and believe me for aince, like a good fellow." "I don't wish to do more than is necessary for my own safety," said he; "perhaps they are not what I take them for; but fellows will talk of what they see." Taking Malcolm by the shoulder, he gave him a shake, as I saw through between my eyelids, nearly closed. "Fellow," he cried, "who are you?" Malcolm neither heard nor felt him; so powerful had the opiate been. He passed the lamp before his eyes, and made a blow at his head with the but-end of his pistol. Malcolm moved not a muscle of his face. He was satisfied. After passing the lamp so close before my eyes that one of my eyebrows was nearly singed by the flame, he set it slowly upon the table, and I felt the muzzle of the pistol touch my temple. I moved not a muscle of my face. It was withdrawn, and I heard him pace the room for a moment, muttering curses at the young woman, who endeavoured to soothe his rage. No other person spoke. He paused at length, and, lifting the lamp, held it again to my face. "I am satisfied--all is right," said he; "but, if you dare again, Mary, to do the same, you and your mother may go hang for me--that's all. Come, boys, be moving--we lose time." In a few minutes afterwards, I heard the sound of their horses' feet leaving the house. My lungs recovered their elasticity; I breathed more freely. Mary entered, and, lifting the lamp to remove it, looked upon us in tears. I would have spoken, but refrained, lest I had given farther alarm and uneasiness to one so kind and humane. She looked upon us, smiling through her tears. "Poor men!" she said, "yer hearts were at ease when mine, for your sake and my ain, was like to break; yet, I dinna think he wad killed ye, devil as he is, if ye didna fight wi' him; but he wad carried ye awa to Holland, or France; and then what wad yer puir wives, if ye hae them, hae suffered, no kenning what had come owre ye? Oh, that I could but get free o' them, and Jamie gie up this way o' life!" (A heavy sigh followed.) "But ye are sleeping sound and sweet, when I am sleepless. O Jamie, will ye no leave thae night adventures, and be content wi what ye can earn through the day?" She gently shut the door as she retired, and all became still as death. With a feeling of security I laid myself upon the bed, and soon fell into a profound sleep. It was late in the morning ere I awoke. Malcolm was awake; his movements had roused me. He was still confused from the effects of the opiate, and was gazing wildly around the apartment. After taking a heavy draught of the water, he became quite collected. I rose, and we entered the larger part of the cottage, where the mother and daughter were busy preparing breakfast. After the usual salutations, and an apology for the badness of our lodging, I inquired how far we were from Largs, and was informed it was about three miles from where we were. Feeling myself much indisposed, and threatened with a severe cold, I resolved to return home as direct as I could, not choosing to run the risk of any more such adventures. I despatched Malcolm to the inn, to prevent the horses being sent off to Dumbarton, and to bring them as quick as possible to where I now was. During his stay, I became more and more interested in the gentle Mary. She was not in the least embarrassed, as she thought that I was unconscious of what had passed through the night. I felt it would be a cruel return for her kindness to mention it, and alarm her fears for her lover, for such I supposed him to be. I could have gained no object by doing so. I already knew, from what I had heard, that she was connected with a band of smugglers, whose calling she loathed. There was a firmness of purpose, mixed with her gentleness, displayed during the time the band and their captain were in the house, which shewed I could gain no information as to them, from her; neither did I feel any anxiety to know more than I did, or ever to be in their company again. Had I had the wish to give information of the lawless band, I could only inform as to the females; the others had managed so well I could not have identified one of them. At length my horses arrived, and I prepared to depart. As I took my leave, I put five guineas into the hand of Mary. She looked at the sum, then at me, and refused to accept any remuneration for our shelter. "Keep it," said I, "to enable you to induce James to quit his dangerous trade." She blushed, trembled, and then became pale as death. My heart smote me for what I had said. She gave me such an anxious, imploring look, as her trembling lips murmured-- "Oh, what shall I do?" "Fear nothing, Mary, from me; I owe you much more for your goodness of heart. If you and James will come to reside near Allan Gow, he shall do all in his power to assist you." Amidst blessings from the mother, and the silent gratitude of the daughter, I rode off, on my way to Glasgow, and on the following day was under my parents' roof. It is now many years since then. James and Mary are settled in the neighbourhood, and prosperous. Malcolm is still with me; but whether servant or companion, I can scarce tell at times. When my strange imaginations come upon me--for I have never been, for any length of time free from them--he is almost master of my small establishment. THE YOUNG LAIRD.[5] In one of the midland counties of Scotland lies the estate of Sir Patrick Felspar. On this estate, and on the southern declivity of a moderately-high hill, stood, about thirty years ago, two old-fashioned farmsteads, called Nettlebank and Sunnybraes, of which, as we have a long story to tell, we can only say that the former--being the largest--was tenanted by Mr. Black, and the latter by William Chrighton; that the family of the one consisted of a boy and a girl called _Gilbert_ and _Nancy_; and that the other was the father of an only son, named _George_. The harvest had been concluded, and preparations were making for lifting the potato crop, when Mrs. Black was taken ill of a fever; and her husband, on discovering that she was seriously indisposed, after sending the servant girl to "tell Elspeth Roger that her mistress wished to speak with her," left the house, to which he did not return for several days. Elspeth, who was the wife of one of the farm servants, being thus sent for, hastened to her mistress's presence. On entering the room, and seeing the state of the sufferer, she saw at once that a sick nurse was indispensable; and, though she had herself a husband and two children to attend to, and, consequently, could be but ill spared from her own house, she readily offered her services, and was accepted. By her advice, medical assistance was immediately procured; and the kind-hearted matron continued to attend the sick-bed of her mistress, night and day, for three weeks, during which period Mr. Black was seldom at home. Hitherto, the doctor had entertained hopes of his patient's recovery; but, on the eighteenth day, to Elspeth's anxious inquiries, he only shook his head, and bade her "not be surprised whatever should happen." His words were deemed ominous: a messenger was despatched to bring Mr. Black home; and, on the following day, his wife died. Upon this sad occasion, Nancy seemed to be the only real mourner; for, though her father and brother hung their heads, and looked demure for a day or two, even the semblance of sorrow vanished before the exciting potations which they swallowed at the _dregy_.[6] Nancy, however, did feel the loss of her mother, and mourned it as deeply as her young heart could. And, as she had been oftener than once rebuked with great severity by her remaining parent, for what he called her _blubbering_, when grief overcame her she frequently sought a hiding place for her tears in the house of Elspeth, who, with the heart and the feelings of her sex, shared the sorrows of the poor girl while she strove to alleviate them. But she was soon deprived of this refuge; for, in a few days after the funeral, Elspeth, who had probably caught the infection while attending the deathbed of her mistress, found herself in the grasp of the same terrible disease which had carried her mistress off; and Nancy, to avoid the same fate, was debarred from entering the door of her humble friend and only comforter. On such occasions, to have one who will listen patiently to a recital of our sorrows, and respond to them with a sigh, a look of sympathy, a tear, or a word, in which the tone of the voice bespeaks a reciprocity of feeling, is comfort, and almost the only comfort of which the case admits; for the lengthened speech and the studied harangue, containing, as they are supposed to do, "the words of consolation," often fall upon the ear without reaching the heart. Such a comforter Nancy Black found in George Chrighton, or, as he was universally termed, _the laddie Geordie_. This boy, who was one of her schoolfellows, and nearly of her own age, attracted by her sorrowful looks and the tears which sometimes stole down her cheeks, left the boisterous sports of the other boys, and devoted his hours of play to walking with her, or sitting in some retired corner, and listening to her little "tale of wo." Hitherto, the roads by which they came and went had been different; but now he discovered a new one, by following which he could accompany her till within a short distance of Nettlebank; and, at the place where they had separated in the evening, he always waited for her appearance on the next morning. Youthful friendships are soon formed. Ere disappointment has done its work, and experience taught its salutary, though painful lesson, there is little room for suspicion on either side, and the hearts of the parties amalgamate, like meeting waters. Thus, the two became _friends_, almost before they could understand the meaning of the word. While Nancy Black and her boyish companion were thus forming an affection for each other, as pure, and certainly as deep, as any which ever subsisted between persons of their years, Elspeth Roger was lying dangerously ill. But her sickness was not "unto death:" and, after being confined for twenty-four days, during which her life had been several times despaired of by all who saw her, she began to recover. Scarcely, however, was she able to move about, and bestow some attention on their household concerns, when her husband began to complain; and, in a few hours, he was laid upon that bed from which she had arisen, with all the symptoms of a most malignant case of the same disease. Elspeth, who, in the midst of many struggles, and without the outward show of more than ordinary affection, was attached to her husband, now became fixed to his bedside. Forgetting the weakness consequent on her own imperfect recovery, and fearful of allowing hands less careful than her own to approach him, she attended him, night and day, with a solicitude which none save those who have all they value in the world at stake, can comprehend. Medical advice was promptly procured. But, in spite of medical skill, tender nursing, and tears shed apart, David Roger died. Of Elspeth's grief upon this occasion, it were superfluous to speak. Suffice it that, after many years had passed by, the general expression of her countenance, and the tear which occasionally stole down her cheek at the mention of his name, showed that she had not forgotten the husband of her youth. Though this event must have been distressing to the widow, her distress was aggravated when, on the second day from that on which her husband had been interred, Mr. Black told her that, "as he had engaged another servant, and required his house, she must remove at the term." The first week of November was now past; the term was on the 22d of that month; every house in the neighbourhood was either occupied, or already let for the coming year; and this information came to the heart of Elspeth like a thunder-shock. It was what she had never dreamed of, and never thought of providing for. For herself, she might have been careless; but when she reflected on her children, the feelings of the mother awoke in her bosom, and made her, for the time, superior to despair. Day after day, she went in quest of a hovel to shelter them from the rigour of the coming winter, and night after night she returned without having found one. It seemed as if Heaven had determined to make her a houseless wanderer; for not a single untenanted habitation could she hear of. But we must leave her to pursue her fruitless search, and attend, for a little, to what was going on elsewhere. One evening, after George Chrighton had returned from school, without taking time to snatch his accustomed morsel of bread from the _aumry_, he inquired for his father, and hurried off in quest of him. Having discovered the object of his search in the stack-yard--"Father," cried the boy, as soon as he was within ear-shot, "hae ye heard that Mr. Black intends to make Elspeth Roger flit at the term; an' she canna get a house for hersel an' her bairns in a' the country?" "I did hear she was gaun to flit," said the old man, composedly; "but whatfor canna she get a house?" "I dinna ken," was the boy's eager reply; "but she's been seekin ane this aught days, an mair; an' Nan Black says, if somebody doesna help her, she maun tak her twa bairns, an' gang an' beg.--Noo, faither, could we no do something? There's our auld barn: I would mak the clay-cats,[7] an' we might pit up a lum; an' I would help Jock to howk a hole i' the wa', an' it wouldna tak muckle to get a _windock_; an'--an'--I've forgotten what I was gaun to say; but I'm sure we can pit up the lum; an' the woman canna lie out by." "I daresay ye're richt, laddie," said his father, after raising his hat, and scratching the hinder part of his head for a few seconds. "The auld barn micht do. There's some bits o' sticks lyin at the end o' the byre, an' some auld nails i' the stable--as mony o' baith as would be required, I believe. Jock could bring a cartfu o' clay the nicht yet--he could mak the cats the morn; ye micht bide at hame a day frae the school, an' carry them in; an' I could pit up the lum mysel." "But it would need a hallan too, faither," rejoined George. "Hoot ay," said his father, "it would need a hallan, an' a hantle things forby; an', after a' has been done that we can do, the place will be but little, an' unco inconvenient; but it'll aye be a hole to shelter her an' her bairnies frae the drift, afore they can get a better. An', e'en though the scheme had been less feasible than it is, it maks my heart glad to see that--laddie as ye are--ye hae a thought for ither folk's distress." "Na," interrupted George, "na, faither; it wasna me--it was Nan Black spoke about it first, an' I only promised to tell ye." "Weel, weel, laddie," rejoined the other, "I'm glad to hear that Nan Black, as ye ca' her, is likely to turn out a better _woman_, if she be spared, than ever her faither was a _man_--but, as he has a' his actions to account for, of him I would say naething." With these words, the worthy farmer was about to resume his labours, when his son, flushed with the success of his plan, exclaimed-- "But will we no tell her, faither? Her mind canna be at ease afore she ken about some place." "That's weel minded too," said the father--"she's maybe gotten a house already; but, in case she hasna, gang ye owre to your mither, an' tell her I bade ye get a piece; an', when ye've gotten it, ye can rin yont, some time afore it be dark, an' see a' about it. An' ye can tell her that, if she likes, she's welcome to our auld barn, for a year; an', if she taks it, we's no fa' oot about the rent." Though George obeyed his father so far as to go the length of the house door, he could not find time to go in for his promised _piece_; and, without opening it, he turned, and set off at the top of his speed in the direction of Nettlebank. Return we now to the widow's cottage. The poor woman was far from having recovered, when she was called upon to attend the deathbed of her husband. The fatigue, terror, anxiety, and want of rest, from which she had suffered during that period, might have been sufficient to break down even the strongest constitution. When to these are added weeks of wandering in quest of a habitation, the reader will hardly be surprised when he is told that her animal strength was gone--her spirits sunk, and despair seemed to be closing around her. With a frame completely worn out, a head which ached, blistered feet, and, we might almost add, a "bleeding heart," she sat by her fire one evening--her head resting on her hand, and her eyes fixed upon her children, while sighs convulsed her bosom. She wished to commit her little ones to the care of their Maker; but such was the state of her mind, that she fancied she could not perform even this duty, and the thought called forth another and a deeper sigh. While she was thus employed, Nancy Black opened the door unperceived, and, standing at her side, awoke her from her dream of despondency by saying, in a half whispering, half faltering voice--"Elspeth, dinna break your heart. I think I ken where you'll get a house, noo. I was speaking about you, the day, to Geordie Chrighton, at the school, an' he says they could soon mak a house o' their auld barn; and that his faither will never hesitate"---- To this the mother was listening, and almost thinking the news too good for being true, when the speaker was interrupted by some one coming against the inner door of the apartment with such force as nearly to break it. On hearing the noise, the widow rose to give the stranger admittance; but he waited not for her services. Putting one hand to his nose--the part which had produced the noise--and the other to the latch, before another second had elapsed, George Chrighton stood in the middle of the floor, panting from the rapidity of his march; and, without taking time to recover breath, he began to deliver his message by saying--"Elspeth, my father sent me owre to tell ye that, if ye want a house, ye may get our auld barn. Jock's to bring a cartful o' clay--he's to mak the cats the morn; I'm to bide at hame frae the school, an' carry them in; an' my faither's to put up the lum. An'--what is't I was gaun to say?--ou ay--tak it--tak it, Elspeth; an', if he'll no gie ye it for naething, I'll keep a' the bawbees I get, to help ye to pay for't." Here he paused, fairly out of breath. The substance of his message, however, was delivered, and he now stood silent, and almost fearful of hearing that she had already got a house. The widow, bewildered by her own feelings, the excited manner of the boy, and the intelligence which he brought, was also silent. Nor was it till Nancy Black had whispered, "It's true enough--Geordie never tells lies," that she recollected it was her part to make a reply. Hitherto the boy had not been aware of the presence of his schoolfellow; but no sooner had he heard her voice, than his eye brightened, and he turned as if to seek the reward of his labours from her; and--girl as she was--he found it in her approving smile. But that smile was of short duration; for as soon as she had a full view of his face, it passed away, and, hurrying toward him, she exclaimed, in an anxious tone--"What ails you, Geordie? What's that on your upper lip, an' your chin?" "What is't?" repeated the youngster, drawing the back of his hand across the place alluded to, as if to ascertain if anything was wrong in that quarter; and then, examining the hand so employed, he continued--"What is't? It's bluid; but where it comes frae I canna tell." After a short pause, during which he recollected the opposition he had met from the door--"It's my nose--it's just my nose," he added, laughing as he spoke, to free the heart of Nancy from those apprehensions, the shade of which he saw gathering on her countenance. "I didna ken the door was steekit afore my nose played crack on the sneck--and noo it's bluidin." Sure enough, his nose was bleeding, and had been so ever since he came in, though unobserved. The attention of the widow and Nancy was instantly directed to staunch the bleeding: the latter brought the key from the outer door, and the former placed it between his shoulders, bathing his temples at the same time with cold water. In a few minutes the blood ceased to flow, and, after his face had been washed, Nancy's smile returned. When they were about to depart, the widow, taking one in each hand, and drawing them close together, said--"May God bless ye baith, my bonny bairns! An', in his ain way an' time, He _will_ bless ye; for, when men and women had forsaken me, an' my heart was sinking in despair, ye have provided a hame for the widow and the faitherless. May His blessing rest on ye, an' may He be your friend when ither friends forsake you!" The _clay-cats_ were made, and carried in, in the manner proposed; the lum was constructed, and the old barn made as commodious as possible; and, in a few days after, Elspeth and her two children came to inhabit it. But though it was only intended for a temporary residence, when a twelvemonth had passed, she did not leave it. She had made herself useful in many ways to the farmer, by assisting him with his farm-work; and, as both felt loath to part, she became a sort of fixture on the farm of Sunnybraes. There is still one circumstance connected with her removal, which must be noticed. Mr. Black, in general, did little to deserve commendation; but he could not endure the idea of any one becoming more popular than himself; and, as William Chrighton was warmly praised for his conduct in this affair, he soon began to regard him with a feeling which was more akin to deep-rooted hatred than ill-will. We now pass over a period of six years, during which nothing of importance occurred--save that those who, at the commencement of this period, had been mere infants, were now boys and girls; those who had been boys and girls, were now men and women; and of those who had then been men and women, many were now in their graves. Nor of those who remained had a single individual escaped, without having undergone some change. In some, the gaiety of youth had been exchanged for the thoughtful expression of maturer years; upon the foreheads of others, grey hairs were seen where glossy ringlets were wont to wave; the rosy hue which had once adorned the cheek, was now broken into streaks; and on brows formerly smooth, the handwriting of care was now visible. About this time, Sir Patrick Felspar, after being absent for a number of years, paid a short visit to his tenants. On coming to Sunnybraes, and expressing himself highly satisfied with William Chrighton's manner of farming and general management, that individual thought it a favourable opportunity for introducing Elspeth and her two children to his notice. The story seemed to affect him, and he immediately proposed taking the boy into his own service. This proposal was agreed to; and, at his departure, Sandy Roger accompanied him to London, where we must leave him. George Chrighton, though only a schoolboy when we last noticed him, was now a stout-looking, well-built young man, rather above the middle size, and, for some time past, he had been his father's only assistant at Sunnybraes. Nor was the change which had been produced on Nancy Black less conspicuous. From being a mere girl, in the course of six years she had become a beautiful maiden, in the last of her teens, and with a natural modesty, which, though it added greatly to her other charms, almost unfitted her for the situation she occupied in her father's household. Of this youthful pair, it was generally surmised in the neighbourhood, that the attachment which had begun in their school days, had "grown with their growth, and strengthened with their strength," till it had ripened into love. Such surmises have often been made before, upon occasions where there was not even the shadow of a foundation for them. But, in the present instance, the gossips and tattlers were not so far wrong; for the two were really lovers, though, from the implacable temper of Mr. Black, they found it necessary to conceal their affection; and, for two years more, in as far as an open confession is concerned, they did conceal it. They were not, however, wholly without their "stolen interviews," which, though "few and far between," with the additional disadvantage of being _short_, were, in this case, sufficient to keep the flame alive. They also found means of occasionally exchanging notices of each other upon _paper_--that _dernier resort_ of all unfortunate lovers. Catherine Roger, who had hitherto been thought and spoken of as the _lassie Kate_, was now beginning to expand into the young woman, and--smitten with her charms, as wise people began to suppose--Andrew Sharp, one of Mr. Black's farm-servants, had, of late, become rather a regular visitor at her mother's. At first, he came with a quantity of worsted, "to see if she would knit a pair of stockings for him;" next, he "came to see if she would darn the heels of a pair of stockings;" and, by and by, he sometimes ventured to "come owre, just to speer for her." While his business was thus, to all appearance, exclusively with the mother, he frequently found an opportunity of stealing a look at the daughter, or, more fortunate still, of exchanging a word with her, as if by the by. It is probable, however, that the former-- "Wi' a woman's wyles, could spy What made the youth sae bashfu an' sae grave;" and, whatever her fears might be, there is no reason to doubt that she was "Weel pleased to see her bairn respected like the lave." Andrew, though young, was by no means deficient in shrewdness; he was naturally of an obliging turn--a quiet conscientious lad--a great favourite with his young mistress, and he was sometimes made the bearer of those paper messengers which went between the lovers. The leases of both farms were now within a year of being out, and both the farmers had begun to use what interest they could to have them renewed. As to the success of William Chrighton, those who pretended to see farther than their neighbours, shook their heads, and seemed uncertain; but of Mr. Black being successful, no one seemed to entertain the smallest doubt. Sir Patrick, of late, had left the management of those matters wholly to his factor, Mr. Goosequill; and, in the esteem of this individual, Mr. Black now stood deservedly high. Scarcely a month had been allowed to pass, for the last two years, without a present of poultry, eggs, butter, or cheese being sent from Nettlebank to the factor. Upon these occasions, Gilbert was commonly the bearer, and he always stayed over night, and either drank toddy with the representative of the laird, or poured flatteries into the ear of Miss Grizzy, his daughter. At these doings, far-sighted people shook their heads again, and said that Mr. Black's hens were never sold in a rainy day, except to serve some purpose, and darkly hinted at the possibility of his taking both farms. Shortly after these matters began to be agitated, the old knight died, and was succeeded by his son, who had always been spoken of on the estate as the _young laird_. It was further understood that the young Sir Patrick had been abroad for the last nine months; and, according to the accounts which were circulated, he was not expected home for several months to come. This circumstance afforded an excuse to Mr. Goosequill for declining to renew the lease of Sunnybraes, as he alleged that he could not do so till he had positive instructions from the young laird to that effect. At the end of four months, a letter from Sandy Roger informed his mother that Sir Patrick had returned to London shortly after his father's death; and, since his return, that he had treated him with a degree of kindness such as he had never expected to experience from a master. The game was now up; and the factor, finding that it was so, despatched the following letter to the laird:-- "SIR,--As you have been graciously pleased to continue that trust which your much-lamented father was pleased to repose in me--a trust which, from my knowledge of local affairs, I hope I shall be able to discharge with honour to myself and advantage to you--and as the leases of your farms of Nettlebank and Sunnybraes expire at Martinmas ensuing, I should hold myself wanting in that interest which I have ever felt for the prosperity of the family, if I did not acquaint you of the following particulars. William Chrighton, the present tenant of Sunnybraes, has now made application to have the lease of that farm renewed; but, as he is a man of no substance, belongs to the old school, is incapable of conducting improvements upon an extensive scale, and merely struggles on from year to year, I have declined to give him any answer till I should know what was your pleasure thereanent. I have also received an offer for the said farm from Mr. Black, bearing an advance of rent. This gentleman is in a thriving way; he has a turn for business, and everything prospers with him; he has extensive connections, and, what is of more importance to the present purpose, he has a son of age to take the management of a farm, who is an excellent agriculturist. Mr. Black proposes to take both farms--Nettlebank at the old rent, and the other at an advance; and, if his offers are accepted, I have no hesitation in saying that he will soon improve this portion of your estate to a great extent. I would therefore recommend him to your notice. Hoping that _that_ knowledge of local affairs which I have acquired from long experience, may still be of some service to you, I am, Sir, your very humble servant, "GAVIN GOOSEQUILL." To this communication, the factor, in due time, received the following laconic reply:-- "Sir,--I thank you for your friendly advice, and the attention to my concerns which you manifest; but, as it is my wish that the old tenants should remain, you may let Messrs. Chrighton and Henderson have their farms at the old rent, if they choose.--Yours, "P. FELSPAR." This entirely disconcerted the schemes of these friends. Mr. Henderson was the tenant who had been in Nettlebank before Mr. Black; and the young laird, who had not been in Scotland since he was four years of age, as yet knew nothing of his having left it. Gavin Goosequill felt rather at a loss how to proceed; but, recollecting that "in the multitude of counsellers there is safety," he determined to consult Mr. Black, and, for this purpose, paid a visit to Nettlebank. What was the result of this consultation is not exactly known; but, as Mr. Black shook hands with the factor, and was about to bid him "good night," Andrew Sharp, who stood waiting with the horse, heard the latter say--"Well, I think we have it after all. I shall delay matters as long as I can, and then write, recommending farther delay; this will give us time to do something, and, if I am not deceived, both will be yours in the end." The oracular words "do something," and "both will be yours," made an impression on Andrew's mind. When he reflected on the expiration of the leases, the character of his master, and the surmises which he had heard, he felt convinced that the first part of the factor's speech had a reference to the farms, while the last part of it implied some plot, which was hatching, to forward their schemes. This conviction suggested the probability that William Chrighton would not be allowed to remain in Sunnybraes; and, as his removal must be attended with the removal of Catherine Roger, to he knew not how great a distance, he felt somewhat spiritless and disconcerted. Time seemed to stand still; and, after ruminating for a season on the means of averting such a misfortune, he took a pair of stockings, and, having placed them on the hearthstone of his bothie--no one being present--he proceeded to pound that part of them called the _heels_ with the head of the poker. By this means, he soon produced something very like a worn hole in each; and then, taking them under his arm, and putting a quantity of worsted into his pocket, he set off to Sunnybraes to get them darned. When there, as his "dulness" did not leave him so quickly as he had anticipated, and as he was, moreover, loath to sit silent in the presence of one whose good opinion he was so anxious to procure, while Elspeth was darning the stockings, he told Catherine the whole story--what he had heard the factor say, and the conclusions and inferences which he had drawn therefrom--taking care, however, neither to mention his "dulness," nor the manner in which he had produced the holes in the heels of his stockings. "Weel, lassie," said Elspeth when he was gone, "frae what we ken aboot Mr. Black, the thing's clear enough. He's lookin after Sunnybraes for his muckle gomeril o' a son; an', if Gavin Goosequill can get it for him, by hook or by crook, by lies or by true tales, he'll no want it lang. The hens, an' the jucks, an' the geese, an' the turkeys, that gaed frae Nettlebank, hae done their _errand_ weel enough, I warrant them; an' noo we maun try to do oors--at least, we maun _try_--to help them that hae been helpers to baith you an' me." "But hoo can we help them, mither?" inquired Catherine, with a look of surprise--"what can we do?" "I'll tell ye what we can do, lassie," rejoined her mother; "the young laird will never hear a word o' truth aboot either his farmers or his farms. It's easy for Gavin Goosequill to stap his head as fu' o' lies as it can haud; an', when this is done, it's but saying that the laird wants Mr. Black to get baith the farms; an' syne, Mr. Chrighton, an' you an' me too, maun flit. Noo, as your brither, Sandy, is the young laird's servant, ye maun e'en try if ye can write a letter to him, an' tell him o' a' this ongaun. Though it's no very weel written, he'll maybe mak oot to read it; an', if he's no sair changed since he left his mother an' his hame, _he'll_ tell the laird the truth." Catherine was ready to comply with her mother's proposal. A letter was accordingly written; and, after being closed with a piece of shoemakers' rosin, instead of wax, and supplied with an address by George Chrighton, it was, on the following day, put in the post-office. In about three weeks from the date of this letter, though no answer was returned to it, Mr. Goosequill received the following note from the laird, which appears to have been an answer to another communication of his. "DEAR SIR,--I have received yours of the 1st August; and I am now convinced that the affair requires delay and serious consideration. I shall endeavour to turn your advice to some account; and, in the meantime, you need give yourself no farther trouble about the letting of the farms.--Yours, P. FELSPAR. "P.S.--You may assure the tenants that neither of them will suffer injustice at my hands." Things now appeared favourable; but, as Mr. Goosequill seldom trusted more to appearances than was necessary, he took an early opportunity of calling upon William Chrighton, to say that "he believed any farther application on his part for the farm would be useless, and must only tend to irritate the laird." He hinted, farther, that, if Sir Patrick should raise an action against him, he might get heavy damages for the bad repair in which the steading then was. After having expended a good deal of learning and law-Latin in illustrating this subject, Mr. Goosequill concluded, by saying, that, so far as he could judge from his last communication, and as Sir Patrick was a proud man, and could not endure to be thwarted in his plans, the best course he could adopt was, simply, to pay his rent, and quit the farm at Martinmas. To these proposals the old farmer demurred. "I have always paid my rent on rent-day," said he; "I have made many improvements upon the farm to enable me to pay that rent; and for the steading, though I am not bound to keep it in repair, by building a new barn and cart-sheds, at my own expense, I have made it worth at least sixty pounds more than it was at the beginning of the tack. Now," continued he, "I can see no reason the laird can have for being _irritated_ at me for endeavouring to keep possession of the farm on which I was born, and on which I have lived till I am growing an old man." "You may do as you please," said Mr. Goosequill, gravely--"only I have warned you; and, if you are determined to persist, you may save yourself the trouble of writing; for I have Sir Patrick's authority for saying that he is coming down to Scotland to settle these matters himself." Having thus counselled, he adjourned to Nettlebank, where he no doubt counselled more; but through this labyrinth we shall not follow him. Only Andrew Sharp, who again brought out his horse, heard him say, as he was about to depart, "Well, I think I have the old scrub for the new barn, and, in the meantime, Mr. Gilbert, who is really a smart lad, must try to do a little." "Fear not for him," rejoined the other; "he knows what he is working for--Miss Grizzy's fair face is worth wanting an hour's sleep for ony time." Many of our readers will still recollect the disastrous harvest of 1817: October was begun before harvest-work commenced at all; and, after it did commence, day after day the rain poured down as if the sky had been an ocean supported by a sieve. It was after an evening of storm and darkness had succeeded to one of these distressing days, that a stranger arrived at Nettlebank, and requested lodgings for the night. The servant girl, who opened the door, said, "She wouldna let him in, but she would tell her master." Her master accordingly came, and, without ceremony, told him to begone, for he harboured no wandering vagabonds about his _town_. The stranger attempted to plead his ignorance of the country and the darkness of the night, as excuses for being allowed to remain; but Mr. Black cut him short, by telling him, in a tone which was distinctly heard at the farthest corner of the house, to march off, or he would instantly unchain the house-dog and set loose the terriers, and let them make a supper of him. Oaths and abusive language followed; but the stranger did not wait to hear more. He had proceeded as far as the corner of the garden wall, where a wicket gate communicated with the front door, and was muttering vengeance to himself, when he was accosted by Nancy. "I am sorry," said she, "we cannot give you lodgings for the night--my father is so passionate; but here is something to help you on your journey." The stranger seemed unwilling to take the shilling, which she was attempting to put into his hand. "It is hardly worth your acceptance," said she; "but it is all I have at present. I cannot tell how much I feel on your account--exposed as you have been to the rain. But, as this is no night for a stranger to be abroad in, only come with me a few steps, till I can procure a guide to conduct you to the next farm, where you will find shelter." "The farmer of the next farm may perhaps treat me like the farmer of this--and what then?" inquired the stranger, whose wrath had not yet altogether subsided. "God forbid!" was Nancy's reply; "but he will not--I know he will not." She then led the way to a low door, through the seams of which light was visible, and, tapping gently, pronounced the word "Andrew." As soon as the door was opened--"Here is a stranger," said she, addressing the young man who acted as porter; "and when I grow richer I will endeavour to reward you, if you would get your greatcoat and shew him the road; or rather go with him to Sunnybraes, and tell them he wants lodgings for the night"--then, lowering her voice almost to a whisper, and drawing closer as she spoke, she added--"and, if they seem to hesitate, draw George aside, and tell him I sent you." The lad was hastening to obey his mistress's orders, when she called after him, "Stay--I had forgot--bring a greatcoat for him also." The stranger, who had now caught a full view of her in the light which issued from the open door, thought he had seldom seen a fairer face or a finer form, and, wet as he was, he felt a wish to cultivate her acquaintance by farther conversation; but she gave him no time; for, almost before the last word was spoken, she disappeared.--"Tell George!" muttered he, as he listened to her retiring footsteps--"this is something, however." At Sunnybraes, Andrew found his young mistress's provisionary clause altogether unnecessary; for, no sooner had he announced his errand, than the old farmer rose to make way for the stranger: "Get up, George," said he to his son; "an' you, Meg," turning to his wife, "lift out owre your wheel, an' let the poor lad in by to the fire. An' d'ye hear?--if ever whisky did mortal creature guid, it maun be on a night like this; sae, though I drink nane mysel, gang ye and gie him a glass." The stranger was accordingly placed by the fire, and a glass was brought; but still it was considered that, as he must be drenched to the skin, a shift of clothes would be necessary. On this proposal being made, Mrs. Chrighton cast a significant look, first at her son, and then at her husband:-- "Hoot, woman," cried the latter, interpreting her look, "bring the duds, an', if ye hae ony fear about them, the lassie Kate can gie ye a help to wash them, some weety day. An' weety days are like to be owre rife noo, for ony guid they're doin.--Our guidewife," he continued, addressing their guest, "has aye been fear'd for infectious diseases since a beggar-wife brought the fever to the town mair than fourteen years back. But, though ye had five-and-twenty fevers--ay, fifty o' them--that's no enough to let you get your death o' cauld wi thae weet claes on; sae ye maun e'en consent to shift yoursel." The stranger's language was a strange mixture of the best English and the broadest Scotch; and this circumstance, after exciting a degree of surprise in the minds of all, induced the guidwife to make some indirect inquiries concerning his profession and station in society. "I've been thinkin ye're no just a here-a-wa man, by your tongue," said she; "an', if I'm no mista'en, ye've seen better days; for, when I was bringin butt your wet claes to get them dried, though your bit jacket an' your breeks were just corduroy, I couldna help noticin that there is no a bit bonnier linen inowre our door than the sark ye had on." To these observations it seemed as if the stranger scarce knew how to reply--he passed his hand across his brow, and was silent for some seconds. But, on recovering himself, he told them that his name was Duncan Cowpet--that he had been born in Scotland, but his parents had removed to England when he was very young--that he had lately been a traveller for a house in London, but his master being now dead, and himself out of employment, he had thought of visiting his native country; he added that, though his dress was rather plain, he was not destitute of money, and concluded by offering to pay them for the trouble they had already been at on his account, and also for his night's lodging. "Na, na," said the old farmer, his eyes brightening as he spoke, "we never took payment for sheltering the head of a houseless stranger, nor will we noo. But ye were sayin that ye're out o' employment; as this is a backward season, an' we have a hantle to do, an' mair than a', as I'm turned frail and feckless mysel, an' unco sair fashed wi' rheumatisms, I've been thinkin if ye could consent to stay an' help us for a owk or twa, maybe ye would be nae waur, an' we could gie you as guid wages as ony ither body." To this proposal Duncan offered no objection, only he wished to stipulate for a bed in the house, as, he said, he had never been accustomed to lie in barns; and, as a guarantee that he would neither injure their property, nor run off without giving them notice, he offered to place five guineas in the hands of the guidman--remarking, that it was all the ready money he had about him. "And as to wages," he continued, "I _wull_ ask no more than what you _wull_ think I work for." The five guineas were accepted, not as a guarantee for his good behaviour, but that they might be in safe keeping. He was given to understand that he might have them at any time; and, when the family retired to rest, he was accommodated with a bed in the house. On the following morning, which happened to be fair, he was employed in the labours of the season; and, though he manifested an uncommon degree of awkwardness, George Chrighton, who was his fellow _bandster_, did everything in his power to instruct and assist him in his new profession; so that he succeeded in performing his part of the labour till breakfast time. After this meal had been despatched, as each youngster drew closer to his favourite lass, Duncan, following the example thus set before him, began to attach himself to Catherine Roger, who, though the youngest, and perhaps the fairest, seemed to have no sweetheart present. But Catherine, though thus left alone, was far from encouraging his attentions; and, with great dexterity, she contrived, during what remained of the breakfast hour, always to keep her mother's person between her and him--thus defeating his strong inclination to imitate the conduct of some of his fellow-labourers, by placing his arm around her neck. On rising to recommence the labours of the day, Duncan found that his hands were blistered, and that it would be extremely difficult for him to resume his work; but George again assisted him, by inquiring if any of the lasses would be so kind as come and dress the injured parts. Catherine, notwithstanding her former coyness, was the first to obey. Bounding, with a light step, to her small repository of bandages and thread, she was back in a moment; and, spreading a small quantity of a very healing ointment, which her mother had previously prepared, upon a piece of linen cloth, she applied it to the part where the skin was beginning to peel off, with the dexterity of an experienced surgeon, and, having fastened it with a bandage drawn sufficiently tight, she was at her work again before Duncan could move his lips to thank her. He was now offered a pair of gloves, and with them, and the soothing nature of the ointment, his labour was less painful than he had anticipated, till their operations were interrupted by the rain. Frosty mornings and rainy days, with short intervals of fair weather, succeeded each other. When in the field, Duncan had always an opportunity of seeing Catherine; but, though he really did endeavour to ingratiate himself in her favour, she still dexterously contrived to eschew all his attentions. He was not in love with her; but he felt attached to her by the same sort of feeling with which one regards a beautiful picture, or any other object which delights the senses. The symmetry of her form, the brilliancy of her complexion, and the lustre of her eyes, excited his admiration; and, in the absence of other objects, drew his attention. In this state of mind, he frequently puzzled his brains to account for the strangeness of her manners; and, one evening, shortly after his arrival, he resolved to introduce himself to her mother; if, peradventure, his so doing might throw some light upon the subject. With this intention, he had passed the little window, and was approaching the door, when he heard a chair overturned and a noise within, as if some one had fled to the farther end of the house in great confusion. This induced him to listen for a moment; and, while thus listening, he heard Elspeth exclaim-- "What i' the warld's come owre the lassie noo!--whaur hae ye run till, Kate? Na, I never saw the like o' that! The sark ye was mendin at, lyin i' the aise-hole, an' a red cinder aboon't!--if I hadna grippit it, it might hae been a' in a lowe lang afore ye cam to look for't; an' Andrew would only gotten a pouchfu o' aise to tak hame wi' him on Saturday nicht, instead of a sark." Duncan was no eavesdropper; but his curiosity was strongly excited by what he had heard, and he could neither go in nor drag himself with sufficient speed from the door. As Elspeth was concluding her ejaculations, the frightened damsel returned, and was heard to say, in a suppressed tone--"O mither, dinna be angry--I thought I saw Duncan Cowpet come past the window, an' I ran to be out o' his gait. I canna bide him; his een's never off me the hail day, an' mony a time I dinna ken whar to look." "Hoot, lassie," rejoined her mother; "ye aye mak bogles o' windlestraes. Duncan is an honest lad, I'll warrant him, an' willin to work, too, though he's no very guid o't. But, for a' that, dinna think that I want ye to draw up wi' him; for I wouldna hae ye to gie ony encouragement to anither man on earth, as lang as Andrew Sharp pays mair respect to you than the lave. But only tak my advice--neither rin awa when ye see Duncan coming, nor seem to notice his attentions when he comes, and he'll soon bestow them on some ither body." "I'll rather cut my finger for an excuse to bide at hame, though, afore I gang to the field when he's there," was Catherine's half-pettish reply. "Confound ye if ye do ony sic thing!" cried her mother: "though Sandy pays the house-rent, noo, recollect the guidman can ill spare ony o' his shearers when the weather is fair." Duncan stood to hear no more; if he had formerly admired Catherine for her beauty, he now respected her for the principles upon which she acted, and he wished for an opportunity to convince her that he too could act a disinterested part. On the following day, his conduct was such as to free her mind from most of those disagreeable feelings which hitherto she had entertained; and, when he repeated his visit in the evening, though she again saw him pass the window, she did not run away. After he was seated, he spoke of Andrew Sharp, and gratefully adverted to his kindness in conducting him to Sunnybraes on an evening when few would have cared for venturing abroad. Catherine's fears were now gone; she felt as if she could have died to serve the man who spoke favourably of her lover; and the conversation was kept up with the greatest cordiality upon all sides. Local affairs came to be discussed; and, as Duncan seemed curious to gain information concerning the farms, and the character of the farmers in the neighbourhood, Elspeth, in her endeavours to satisfy his curiosity, told him all she knew of Mr. Black and Mr. Goosequill, with their supposed schemes for the ejectment of William Chrighton. It was now the latter end of October, and still the harvest was far from being completed. The watch-dog had died, and the horses began to exhibit symptoms of lameness, which were the more distressing, that the securing of the crop depended entirely upon their ability to labour. Two of the cattle were brought home, by the boy who herded them, in a diseased state, and the same evening one of them died. On the following morning, one of the horses was found unable to rise; and, before noon, he was dead also. It seemed as if the fates had conspired to ruin the old farmer and his family; day after day, horses, cattle, and other live stock, sickened and died; and, in a short time, he found himself without the means of prosecuting the labours of so precarious a season, with any prospect of success. To add to his distress, a summons was now served against him for fifty pounds, "which," as that document affirmed, "he still owed, and had refused to pay to the creditors of Mr. Rickledyke, for the building of his barn, &c." Mr. Rickledyke was the contractor who had been employed on this occasion; the whole of the money had not been paid when he became bankrupt; and, though the old farmer was perfectly certain that he had paid it, when he recollected that the bankrupt was a friend of Mr. Goosequill's, and that the money had been paid in his office, he felt convinced that the whole was a trick, intended to embarrass if not to ruin him. He recollected farther, that, as a _stamp_ could not, at the time, be obtained, for giving him a discharge, he had left the place without any voucher for the payment of the debt, beyond the testimony of two witnesses who were now dead; and thus he had no alternative but to pay it again. The appearance of the law officers, at Sunnybraes, gave rise to a report, which was industriously spread, that William Chrighton was either a bankrupt or about to become one; and every individual who had the slightest claim upon him, came hurrying in with distraints and summonses; and, to complete the catastrophe, on Saturday, about noon, Mr. Goosequill made his appearance, with the proper assistants, and placed the whole of the crop, stocking, &c., on the farm of Sunnybraes, under sequestration for the rent. All hope of continuing in the farm was now at an end, and it only remained to make the most of the wreck which was still left. On Sabbath morning, the sky had cleared; the wind shifted about to the north, and, on the afternoon of the same day, a strong frost set in. The frost, accompanied by a sharp breeze, continued throughout the evening, and, as soon as midnight was past, the old man and his son prepared to embrace so favourable an opportunity for securing a portion of the victual which was still exposed. While they were engaged in these preparations, Duncan was left to the care of Mrs. Chrighton, who had been instructed to furnish him with some _warm meat_, and a greatcoat. After these injunctions had been obeyed, as he sat by the fire, while she stood over him with anxiety and distress depicted in her countenance--"O Duncan," said she, "it's a terrible thing for honest folk to be sae sair harassed. If lairds would only look after their affairs themselves, instead of trusting them to factors, I'm sure it would be better for a' parties. But it's a' owre with us, and there's naething noo but to tak some cothouse, and the guidman maun e'en work in a ditch, and I maun spin for the morsel that supports our lives. George, too, is so disgusted with the usage we have received, that he speaks of going off to America. And Nancy Black--poor lassie! my heart is aye sair when I think about her--they've had a likin for ane anither since they were bairns at the school, and, if things had gane richt, they might been happy, and we might been comfortable; but that, like the rest of our prospects, is at an end." Mrs. Chrighton's disjointed observations--particularly what related to Nancy Black, were a mystery to Duncan; and, though he wished to have an explanation, as the cart was now ready and he was called, he was obliged to console himself with the expectation that time might enable him to discover their meaning. When they reached the field, the moon was shining clear, the wind was blowing a stiff gale from the north, and the sheaves of corn, where any moisture had attached to them, were frozen as hard as iron. There was only one of the working horses now serviceable: to supply the place of another, a colt had been that morning pressed into the service; but, owing to the awkwardness of this animal, the cart was overturned and broken in such a manner as to render the assistance of the smith necessary before it could be again used. Duncan Cowpet, who, notwithstanding his unlucky name, had escaped unhurt, volunteered his services for this expedition, and went off, with the cart and one of the horses, to the smithy. When he reached Nettlebank, on his return from the smithy, he had nearly driven his cart over Nancy Black, who, whitened by the falling snow, was leaning against the garden wall, and appeared to have been shedding tears. On discovering him, she endeavoured to assume an air of cheerfulness, and asked if he would stop for a short time, as she would have a message for him. Being answered in the affirmative, she hurried into the house, and in a few minutes returned with a piece of folded paper, which she requested him to give to his master's son. "But stay," said she, as he was putting it into his pocket--"it is not closed--I had forgot;" and then, after a short pause, she added--"but perhaps you do not read _write_?" "Na," said Duncan, speaking in an accent much broader than the provincial dialect--"na, my faither was owre puir for giein me ony buke lear." This seemed to satisfy the damsel, and she intrusted him with the letter in its unclosed state, only enjoining him to show it to nobody, and give it into the hands of George Chrighton. After nightfall, George said that "he must go to the smithy for some things which had been forgotten in the forenoon," and wished to see Duncan, to give him some orders about foddering the remaining horses. But Duncan was nowhere to be found; and, after performing the task himself--the evening being now well advanced--he took the road for the smithy. It seemed, however, that he had business elsewhere; for, on reaching Nettlebank, he climbed over the garden wall, and, tapping gently at a low window, he was answered by a sigh from within. The door was immediately opened without noise, and a female form stood by his side. He placed her arm in his, and they passed silently to the barn, where they both stood without speaking for some time, and both sighed deeply. At last-- "George," said Nancy Black--for it was she--"I have done wrong in requesting you to meet me to-night; but I have been so much agitated with what I have heard of late that I could not do otherwise." "What have you heard, my love?" inquired the other, in a tone of the deepest tenderness--"only tell me, and, whatever your feelings may be, there is at least one heart ready to share them." "I thought I could tell you all," said Nancy, "before you were here; but now, when you are beside me, I cannot, and yet I must; for, though my father and brother are from home, they may soon be back, and I may be missed from the house. Did you ever hear," she continued, evidently placing her feelings under a strong restraint as she spoke--"did you ever hear that your dog was poisoned?" "I was never told so," said George; "but, perhaps, I have suspected that the dog, and the horses and the cattle likewise, were poisoned; and, perhaps, I have suspected who did it. But, if that were the worst, we might get over it still; and you must not distress yourself, my love, for dogs and horses." "But I have other causes of distress," said she, still keeping her feelings under the same control. "We had Mr. Goosequill here last night and this forenoon; and, from parts of the conversation which passed when they were more than half drunk, I learned that Gilbert and Miss Goosequill are to be married, and Sunnybraes is to be their residence, which the factor says he is certain he can now get at my father's offer. Oh, how my heart burns to think a daughter must thus reveal a parent's disgrace!" "Nay, my dearest, do not distress yourself for this," rejoined the other. "Though my father cannot resign Sunnybraes to you and me, as he had intended, to mourn over it will not mend the matter. Let Gilbert and Grizzy enjoy the farm; but, before they can establish themselves on it, I will be on my passage to America; and, in a few years, with the blessing of God, I may be able to return--a better man than the farmer of Sunnybraes; and then, Nancy--but, first, promise that you will love me till"-- Here he was interrupted by the sobs of her whom he addressed. It was long before she could speak; and, when she could speak, long and earnestly did she try to dissuade him from his purpose. But the youth, perceiving no prospect of their union, except by the plan which he proposed to adopt, was inflexible. Finding all her entreaties were vain-- "Then it is as my heart foreboded," said she. "To-day I heard from Andrew Sharp of your intention of going to America. I walked out to conceal my feelings; and, while leaning on the garden wall, forgetful of everything else, your servant passed, and then the wish rose in my heart to see you once more. After I had made my foolish request, I had still another wish ungratified, and that was, in case my arguments should fail, as they have done, that you would carry along with you some remembrance of her whom you once professed to love. This is woman's weakness, but perhaps you will pardon it; and perhaps you will keep the gift, though no better than a child's bauble, for the sake of the giver." "I will--I will!" interrupted George, eagerly, whilst he took her hand. "I am half ashamed of it," she continued; "it is only a small sampler, on which, shortly after leaving school, I sewed your father and mother's names at full length, and yours, and--and mine--I may tell you this now, when we are about to part, perhaps for ever. No one ever saw me put a stitch in it. Will you keep it for my sake?" "While life remains," said the lover; "run, my love, and bring it, that I may place it in my bosom." "It is here already," said she, "and that is the reason why I wished our meeting to be in this place. Fearing lest my father should come home, and prevent me getting it from the house, I brought it out and concealed it here." With these words, she made a few steps aside; and, as she stooped down to bring her little keepsake from under the empty sacks which covered it, instead of returning with it, she started and screamed. George flew to her assistance. Something seemed stirring among the sacks, as if an animal had been attempting to rise; he laid hold of it, and dragged a heavy body after him to the door. The moon, which was now up, showed his burden to be a man; and, grasping him by the collar--"Scoundrel!" he said, "what business had you there?" then, turning him round to have a better view of his face--"Duncan!" he added--his anger in some measure yielding to surprise--"I had nearly given you a thrashing; but you have been our guest, and assisted us in our difficulties, and I must hear from your own lips that you are guilty, before I pass sentence upon you." With these words he quitted his grasp. The blood flushed Duncan's cheek, and for some seconds he seemed uncertain whether to offer resistance or sue for peace. At last he said--holding out his hand, which the other as frankly took--"If you had _thrashed_ me, it would have been no more than I deserved. But perhaps you shall have no reason afterwards to repent of having spared yourself this labour; for, though I had my own reasons for doing as I have done"-- These words were spoken in good English, with an accent and a dignity altogether different from the speaker's former mode of speaking; but, before he could proceed, he was saluted, by a rough voice from behind, with the words--"I shall _thrash you_, you skulking vagabond!" And, at the same moment, he was grasped roughly by the collar by Mr. Black, who raised a heavy oaken cudgel to strike him on the head. Had that blow descended, the probability is that Duncan Cowpet would have slept with his fathers; but George Chrighton wrenched the stick from the hand of the infuriated man. "Unchain the dog!" bawled Mr. Black, in a voice of thunder. "I'll s-et loose Cae-sar," hickuped his son. But, instead of doing as he said, he lay down beside the animal, and began, in good earnest, to that operation which the "dog" must perform before he can "turn to his vomit." Mr. Black still continued to keep a hold of Duncan with one hand, and to strike him with the other, till George, stepping behind him, threw him quietly down upon a quantity of straw; and he, too, began to discharge the contents of his over-loaded stomach. Nancy, who, up to this moment had stood in speechless terror, now stepped from the barn. "Fly, fly," she whispered. "My father is drunk. I know it. He has never seen me; and you may escape. I will find some means of sending it. Fly, I conjure you!" And she pushed him gently from her. On the following morning, Duncan was amissing; and, like a fool, he had run off and left his five guineas behind him. But the mystery was about to be cleared up. A little after daybreak, letters were delivered to the whole of the parties concerned, summoning them to meet the _laird_ at an inn in the neighbourhood; and the surprise of all may be easily imagined when they discovered that Sir Patrick Felspar was no other than Duncan Cowpet in a different dress. The result was such as might have been expected from a laird who had learned the truth from observation and experience. We have only room to add, that shortly thereafter two marriages were celebrated--two individuals who had been accustomed to hold their heads high were effectually humbled; and, to this day, whenever any farmer, or other individual, is supposed to be dealing unfairly with his neighbours, it is a common saying in the district--"Send Duncan Cowpet, to see what he is about." FOOTNOTES: [5] We may claim for this tale the peculiarity of its having been the first essay of its author, Alexander Bethune, the self-educated "Fifeshire labourer." This excellent and ingenious man became subsequently well known by his volume of "Tales and Sketches of the Scottish Peasantry," published by Mr. Adam Black, and designated at the time a literary phenomenon. It was truly said of him by the Spectator: "Alexander Bethune, if he had written anonymously, might have passed for a regular litterateur." Along with his brother John "the Fifeshire forester," he published, in 1889, "Practical Economy"--a work which deserves to be reprinted and spread among the people, as containing the true secret of domestic happiness, so well exemplified in the contented and virtuous lives of its humble authors.--ED. [6] Repast, so called, to which, in some parts of the country, the friends of the deceased are invited after the funeral. [7] The materials of which a mud-wall is constructed in many parts of Scotland. THE RIVAL NIGHTCAPS. One little sentence gave rise to all the disputes of the old philosophers, from Parmenides down to Aristotle, and that was composed of three words, _ex nihilo nihil_--nothing can come out of nothing--upon which were raised the doctrines of the atomists, incorporealists, epicureans, theists, and atheists, and all the other races of dreamers that have disturbed the common sense, lethargy, or comfort of the world for thousands of years; so that nothing could have better proved the absolute nothingness of their favourite maxim, that nothing could come from nothing, than the effects of that very dogma itself, for nothing ever made such a stir in the moral world, since it deserved to be called something. But a more extraordinary circumstance is, that, though we every day see the most gigantic consequences result from what may be termed, paradoxically, _less than nothing_, there are certain metaphysical wiseacres who still stick to the old maxim, in spite of their own senses, even that of feeling, and declare it to be true gospel. Let them read the tale of real every-day life we are now to lay before them, and then say, if they dare, that it is impossible that anything can come out of inanity. But, to proceed:-- In the neighbourhood of the suburban village of Bridgeton, near Glasgow, there lived, a good many years ago, a worthy man, and an excellent weaver, of the name of Thomas Callender, and his wife, a bustling, active woman, but, if anything, a little of what is called the randy. We have said that Thomas's occupation was the loom. It was so; but, be it known, that he was not a mere journeyman weaver--one who is obliged to toil for the subsistence of the day that is passing over him, and whose sole dependence is on the labour of his hands. By no means. Thomas had been all his days a careful, thrifty man, and had made his hay while the sun shone;--when wages were good, he had saved money--as much as could keep him in a small way, independent of labour, should sickness, or any other casualty, render it necessary for him to fall back on his secret resources. Being, at the time we speak of, however, suffering under no bodily affliction of any kind, but, on the contrary, being hale and hearty, and not much past the meridian of life, he continued at his loom, although, perhaps, not altogether with the perseverance and assiduity which had distinguished the earlier part of his brilliant career. The consciousness of independence, and, probably, some slight preliminary touches from approaching eild, had rather abated the energy of his exertions; yet Thomas still made a fair week's wage of it, as matters went. Now, with a portion of the honest wealth which he had acquired, Mr. Callender had built himself a good substantial tenement--the first floor of which was occupied by looms, which were let on hire; the second was his own place of residence; and the third was divided into small domiciles, and let to various tenants. To the house was attached a small garden, a kail-yard, in which he was wont, occasionally, to recreate himself with certain botanical and horticultural pursuits, the latter being specially directed to the cultivation of greens, cabbages, leeks, and other savoury and useful pot herbs. Of his house and garden altogether, Mr. Callender was, and reasonably enough, not a little proud; for it was, certainly, a snug little property; and, moreover, it was entirely the creation of his own industry. But Thomas's mansion stood not alone in its glory. A rival stood near. This was the dwelling of Mr. John Anderson, in almost every respect the perfect counterpart of that of Mr. Thomas Callender--a similarity which is in part accounted for by the facts, that John was also a weaver, that he too had made a little money by a life of industry and economy, and that the house was built by himself. By what we have just said, then, we have shown, we presume, that Thomas and John were near neighbours; and, having done so, it follows, of course, that their wives were near neighbours also; but we beg to remark, regarding the latter, that it by no means follows that they were friends, or that they had any liking for each other. The fact, indeed, was quite otherwise. They hated each other with great cordiality--a hatred in which a feeling of jealousy of each other's manifestations of wealth, whether in matters relating to their respective houses or persons, or those of their husbands, was the principal feature. Any new article of dress which the one was seen to display, was sure to be immediately repeated, or, if possible, surpassed by the other; and the same spirit of retaliation was carried throughout every department of their domestic economy. Between the husbands, too, there was no great good-will; for, besides being influenced, to a certain extent, in their feelings towards each other by their wives, they had had a serious difference on their own account. John Anderson, on evil purpose intent, had once stoned some ducks of Thomas Callender's out of a dub, situated in the rear of, and midway between the two houses; claiming said dub for the especial use of _his_ ducks alone; and, on that occasion, had maimed and otherwise severely injured a very fine drake, the property of his neighbour, Thomas Callender. Now, Thomas very naturally resented this unneighbourly proceeding on the part of John; and, further, insisted that his ducks had as good a right to the dub as Anderson's. Anderson denied the justice of this claim; Callender maintained it; and the consequence was a series of law proceedings, which mulcted each of them of somewhere about fifty pounds sterling money, and finally ended in the decision, that they should divide the dub between them in equal portions, which was accordingly done. The good-will, then, towards each other, between the husbands, was thus not much greater than between their wives; but, in their case, of course, it was not marked by any of those outbreaks and overt acts which distinguished the enmity of their better halves. The dislike of the former was passive, that of the latter active--most indefatigably active; for Mrs. Anderson was every bit as spirited a woman as her neighbour, Mrs. Callender, and was a dead match for her in any way she might try. Thus stood matters between these two rival houses of York and Lancaster, when Mrs. Callender, on looking from one of her windows one day, observed that the head of her rival's husband, who was at the moment recreating himself in his garden, was comfortably set off with a splendid new striped Kilmarnock nightcap. Now, when Mrs. Callender saw this, and recollected the very shabby, faded article of the same denomination--"mair like a dish-cloot," as she muttered to herself, "than onything else"--which her Thomas wore, she determined on instantly providing him with a new one; resolved, as she also remarked to herself, not to let the Anderson's beat her, even in the matter of a nightcap. But Mrs. Callender not only resolved on rivalling her neighbour, in the matter of having a new nightcap for her husband, but in surpassing her in the quality of the said nightcap. She determined that her "man's" should be a red one; "a far mair genteeler thing," as she said to herself, "than John Anderson's vulgar striped Kilmarnock." Having settled this matter to her own satisfaction, and having dexterously prepared her husband for the vision of a new nightcap--which she did by urging sundry reasons, totally different from those under whose influence she really acted, as she knew that he would never give into such an absurdity as a rivalship with his neighbour in the matter of a nightcap--this matter settled then, we say, the following day saw Mrs. Callender sailing into Glasgow, to purchase a red nightcap for her husband--a mission which, we need not say, she very easily accomplished. Her choice was one of the brightest hue she could find--a flaming article, that absolutely dazzled Thomas with the intensity of its glare, when it was triumphantly unrolled before him. "Jenny," said the latter, in perfect simplicity of heart, and utter ignorance of the true cause of his wife's care of his comfort in the present instance--"Jenny, but that _is_ a bonny thing," he said, looking admiringly at the gaudy commodity, into which he had now thrust his hand and part of his arm, in order to give it all possible extension, and thus holding it up before him as he spoke. "Really it _is_ a bonny thing," he repeated, "and, I warrant, a comfortable." "Isna't?" replied his wife, triumphantly. And she would have added, "How far prettier and mair genteeler a thing than John Anderson's!" But, as this would have betrayed secrets, she refrained, and merely added, "Now, my man, Tammas, ye'll just wear't when ye gang about the doors and the yard. It'll mak ye look decent and respectable--what ye wasna in that creeshy cloot ye're wearin, that made ye look mair like a tauty bogle than a Christian man." Thomas merely smiled at these remarks, and made no reply in words. Thus far, then, Mrs. Callender's plot had gone on swimmingly. There only wanted now her husband's appearance in the garden in his new red nightcap; where the latter could not but be seen by her rival, to complete her triumph--and this satisfaction she was not long denied. Thomas, at her suggestion, warily and cautiously urged however, instantly took the field in his new nightcap; and the result was as complete and decisive as the heart of a woman, in Mrs. Callender's circumstances, could desire. Mrs. Anderson saw the nightcap, guessed the cause of its appearance, and resolved to be avenged. In that moment, when her sight was blasted, her pride humbled, and her spirits roused, which they were all at one and the same time by the vision of Thomas Callender's new red nightcap, she resolved on getting her husband to strike the striped cap, and mount one of precisely the same description--better if possible, but she was not sure if this could be had. Now, on prevailing on _her_ husband to submit to the acquisition of another new nightcap, Mrs. Anderson had a much more difficult task to perform than her rival; for the cap that John was already provided with, unlike Thomas's, was not a week out of the shop, and no earthly good reason, one would think, could therefore be urged, why he should so soon get another. But what will not woman's wit accomplish? Anything! As proof of this, if proof were wanted, we need only mention that Mrs. Anderson _did_ succeed in this delicate and difficult negotiation, and prevailed upon John, first, to allow her to go into Glasgow to buy him a new red nightcap, and to promise to wear it when it should be bought. How she accomplished this--what sort of reasoning she employed--we know not; but certain it is that it was done. Thus fully warranted, eagerly and cleverly did Mrs. Anderson, on the instant, prepare to execute the mission to which this warrant referred. In ten minutes she was dressed, and, in one more was on her way to Glasgow to make the desiderated purchase. Experiencing, of course, as little difficulty in effecting this matter as her rival had done, Mrs. Anderson soon found herself in possession of a red nightcap, as bright, every bit, as Mr. Callender's; and this cap she had the happiness of drawing on the head of her unconscious husband, who, we need scarcely add, knew as little of the real cause of his being fitted out with this new piece of head-gear as his neighbour, Callender. Thus far, then, with Mrs. Anderson too, went the plot of the nightcaps smoothly; and all that she also now wanted to attain the end she aimed at, was her husband's appearance in _his_ garden, with his new acquisition on. This consummation she also quickly brought round. John sallied out with his red nightcap; and, oh, joy of joys! Mrs. Callender saw it. Ay, Mrs. Callender saw it--at once recognised in it the spirit which had dictated its display; and deep and deadly was the revenge that she vowed. "Becky, Becky," she exclaimed, in a tone of lofty indignation--and thus summoning to her presence, from an adjoining apartment, her daughter, a little girl of about ten years of age--"rin owre dereckly to Lucky Anderson's and tell her to give me my jeely can immediately." And Mrs. Callender stamped her foot, grew red in the face, and exhibited sundry other symptoms of towering passion. Becky instantly obeyed the order so peremptorily given; and, while she is doing so, we may throw in a digressive word or two, by the way of more fully enlightening the reader regarding the turn which matters seemed now about to take. Be it known to him, then, that the demand for the jelly pot, which was now about to be made on Mrs. Anderson, was not a _bona fide_ proceeding. It was not made in good faith; for Mrs. Callender knew well, and had been told so fifty times, that the said jelly pot was no longer in existence as a jelly pot; and moreover, she had been, as often as she was told this, offered full compensation, which might be about three farthings sterling money of this realm, for the demolished commodity. Moreover, again, it was three years since it had been borrowed. From all this, the reader will at once perceive, what was the fact, that the sending for the said jelly pot, on the present occasion, and in the way described, was a mere breaking of ground previous to the performance of some other contemplated operations. It was, in truth, entirely a tactical proceeding--a dexterously and ingeniously laid pretext for a certain intended measure which could not decently have stood on its own simple merits. In proof of this, we need only state, that it is beyond all question that nothing could have disappointed Mrs. Callender more than the return of the desiderated jelly pot. But this, she knew, she had not to fear, and the result showed that she was right. The girl shortly came back with the usual reply--that the pot was broken; but that Mrs. Anderson would cheerfully pay the value of it, if Mrs. Callender would say what that was. To the inexpressible satisfaction of the latter, however, the message, on this occasion, was accompanied by some impertinences which no woman of spirit could tamely submit to. She was told, for instance, that "she made mair noise aboot her paltry, dirty jelly mug, a thousand times, than it was a' worth," and was ironically, and, we may add, insultingly entreated, "for ony sake to mak nae mair wark aboot it, and a dizzen wad be sent her for't." "My troth, and there's a stock o' impidence for ye!" said Mrs. Callender, on her little daughter having delivered herself of all the small provocatives with which she had been charged. "There's impidence for ye!" she said, planting her hands in her sides, and looking the very personification of injured innocence. "Was the like o't ever heard? First to borrow, and then to break my jeely mug, and noo to tell me, whan I'm seekin my ain, that I'm makin mair noise aboot it than it's a' worth! My certy, but she _has_ a brazen face. The auld wizzened, upsettin limmer that she is. Set _them_ up, indeed wi' red nicht-caps." Now, this was the last member of Mrs. Callender's philippic, but it was by no means the least. In fact, it was the whole gist of the matter--the sum and substance, and, we need not add, the real and true cause of her present amiable feeling towards her worthy neighbours, John Anderson and his wife. Adjusting her _mutch_ now on her head, and spreading her apron decorously before her, Mrs. Callender intimated her intention of proceeding instantly to Mrs. Anderson's to demand her jelly pot in person, and to seek, at the same time, satisfaction for the insulting message that had been sent her. Acting on this resolution, she forthwith commenced her march towards the domicile of John Anderson, nursing, the while, her wrath to keep it warm. On reaching the door, she announced her presence by a series of sharp, open-the-door-instantly knocks, which were promptly attended to, and the visitor courteously admitted. "Mrs. Anderson," said Mrs. Callender, on entering, and assuming a calmness and composure of demeanour that was sadly belied by the suppressed agitation, or rather fury, which she could not conceal, "I'm just come to ask ye if ye'll be sae guid, _Mem_, as gie me my jeely mug." "Yer jeely mug, Mrs. Callender!" exclaimed Mrs. Anderson, raising herself to her utmost height, and already beginning to exhibit symptoms of incipient indignation. "Yer jeely mug, Mrs. Callender!" she repeated, with a provokingly ironical emphasis. "Dear help me, woman, but ye _do_ mak an awfu wark about that jeely mug o' yours. I'm sure it wasna sae muckle worth; and ye hae been often tell't that it was broken, but that we wad willingly pay ye for't." "It's no payment I want, Mrs. Anderson," replied Mrs. Callender, with a high-spirited toss of the head. "I want my mug, and my mug I'll hae. Do ye hear that?" And here Mrs. Callender struck her clenched fist on the open side of her left hand, in the impressive way peculiar to some ladies when under the influence of passion. "And, since ye come to that o't, let me tell ye ye're a very insultin, ill-bred woman, to tell me that it wasna muckle worth, after ye hae broken't." "My word, lass," replied Mrs. Anderson, bridling up, with flushed countenance, and head erect, to the calumniator, "but ye're no blate to ca' me thae names i' my ain house." "Ay, I'll ca' ye thae names, and waur too, in yer ain house, or onywhar else," replied the other belligerent, clenching her teeth fiercely together, and thrusting her face with most intense ferocity into the countenance of her antagonist. "Ay, here or onywhar else," she replied, "I'll ca' ye a mean-spirited, impident woman--an upsettin impident woman! Set your man up, indeed, wi' a red nichtkep!" "An' what for no?" replied Mrs. Anderson with a look of triumphant inquiry. "He's as weel able to pay for't as you, and maybe, if a' was kent, a hantle better. A red nichtkep, indeed, ye impertinent hizzy!" "'Od, an' ye hizzy me, I'll te-e-e-eer the liver out o' ye!" exclaimed the now infuriated Mrs. Callender, at the same instant seizing her antagonist by the hair of the head and _mutch_ together, and, in a twinkling, tearing the latter into a thousand shreds. Active hostilities being now fairly commenced, a series of brilliant operations, both offensive and defensive, immediately ensued. The first act of aggression on the part of Mrs. Callender--namely, demolishing her opponent's head-gear--was returned by the latter by a precisely similar proceeding; that is, by tearing _her_ mutch into fragments. This preliminary operation performed, the combatants resorted to certain various other demonstrative acts of love and friendship; but now with such accompaniments of screams and exclamations as quickly filled the apartment which was the scene of strife, with neighbours, who instantly began to attempt to effect a separation of the combatants. While they were thus employed, in came John Anderson, who had been out of the way when the tug of war began, and close upon his heels came Mr. Callender, whose ears an alarming report of the contest in which his gallant spouse was engaged, had reached. Both gentlemen were, at the moment, in their red nightcaps, and might thus be considerd as the standard bearers of the combatants. "Whats' a' this o't?" exclaimed Mr. Anderson, pushing into the centre of the crowd by which the two women were surrounded. "O, the hizzy!" exclaimed his wife, who had, at the instant, about a yard of her antagonist's hair rolled about her hand. "It's a' aboot your nichtkep, John, and her curst jeely mug. A' aboot your nichtkep, and the jeely mug." Now, this allusion to the jelly pot, John perfectly understood, but that to the nightcap he did not, nor did he attend to it; but, as became a dutiful and loving husband to do in such circumstances, immediately took the part of his wife, and was in the act of thrusting her antagonist aside, which operation he was performing somewhat rudely, when he was collared from behind by his neighbour, Thomas Callender, who naturally enough enrolled himself at once on the side of his better half. "Hauns aff, John!" exclaimed Mr. Callender--their old grudge fanning the flame of that hostility which was at this moment rapidly increasing in the bosoms of both the gentlemen, as he gave Mr. Anderson sundry energetic tugs and twists, with a view of putting him _hors de combat_. "Hauns aff, neebor!" he said. "Hauns aff, if ye please, till we ken wha has the richt o' this bisness, and what it's a' about." "Pu' doon their pride, Tam!--pu' doon their pride!" exclaimed Mrs. Callender, who, although intently engaged at the moment in tearing out a handful of her opponent's hair, was yet aware of the reinforcement that had come to her aid. "Pu' doon their pride, Tam. Tack a claut o' John's nichtkep. The limmer says they're better able to afford ane than we are." While Mrs. Callender was thus expressing the particular sentiments which occupied her mind at the moment, John Anderson had turned round to resent the liberty which the former had taken of collaring him; and this resentment he expressed by collaring his assailant in turn. The consequence of this proceeding was a violent struggle, which finally ended in a close stand-up fight between the male combatants, who shewed great spirit, although, perhaps, not a great deal of science. John Anderson, in particular, struck out manfully, and, in a twinkling, tapped the claret of his antagonist, Tom Callender. Tom, in return, made some fair attempts at closing up the day-lights of John Anderson, but, truth compels us to say, without success. The fight now became general--the wives having quitted their holds of each other, and flown to the rescue of their respective husbands. They were thus all bundled together in one indiscriminate and unintelligible melée. One leading object or purpose, however, was discernible on the part of the female combatants. This was to get hold of the red nightcaps--each that of her husband's antagonist; and, after a good deal of scrambling, and clutching, and punching, they both succeeded in tearing off the obnoxious head-dress, with each a handful of the unfortunate wearer's hair along with it. While this was going on, the conflicting, but firmly united mass of combatants, who were all bundled, or rather locked together in close and deadly strife, was rolling heavily, sometimes one way, and sometimes another, sometimes ending with a thud against a partition, that made the whole house shake, sometimes with a ponderous lodgment against a door, which, unable to resist the shock, flew open, and landed the belligerents at their full length on the floor, where they rolled over one another in a very edifying and picturesque manner. But this could not continue very long, and neither did it. A consummation or catastrophe occurred, which suddenly, and at once, put an end to the affray. In one of those heavy lee-lurches which the closely united combatants made, they came thundering against the frail legs of a dresser, which was ingeniously contrived to support two or three tiers of shelves, which, again, were laden with stoneware, the pride of Mrs. Anderson's heart, built up with nice and dexterous contrivance, so as to shew to the greatest advantage. Need we say what was the consequence of this rude assault on the legs of the aforementioned dresser, supporting, as it did, this huge superstructure of shelves and crockery? Scarcely. But we will. Down, then, came the dresser; and down, as a necessary corollary, came also the shelves, depositing their contents with an astounding crash upon the floor, not a jug out of some eight or ten, of various shapes and sizes, not a plate out of some scores, not a bowl out of a dozen, not a cup or saucer out of an entire set, escaping total demolition. The destruction was frightful--unprecedented in the annals of domestic mishaps. On the combatants the effect of the thundering crash of the crockery, or smashables, as they have been sometimes characteristically designated, was somewhat like that which has been known to be produced in a sea-fight by the blowing up of a ship. Hostilities were instantly suspended; all looking with silent horror on the dreadful scene of ruin around them. Nor did any disposition to renew the contest return. On the contrary, there was an evident inclination, on the part of two of the combatants--namely, Mr. Callender and his wife--to evacuate the premises. Appalled at the extent of the mischief done, and visited with an awkward feeling of probable responsibility, they gradually edged towards the door, and, finally, sneaked out of the house without saying a word. "If there's law or justice in the land," exclaimed Mrs. Anderson, in high excitation, as she swept together the fragments of her demolished crockery, "I'll hae't on Tam Callender and his wife. May I niver see the morn, if I haena them afore the Shirra before a week gangs owre my head! I hae a set aff, noo, against her jeely mug, I think." "It's been a bonny business," replied her husband; "but what on earth was't a' aboot?" "What was't a' aboot!" repeated his wife, with some asperity of manner, but now possessed of presence of mind enough to shift the ground of quarrel, which she felt would comprise her with her husband. "Didna I tell ye that already? What should it be a' aboot, but her confounded jeely mug! But I'll mak her pay for this day's wark, or I'm sair cheated. It'll be as bad a job this for them as the duck-dub, I'm thinkin." "We hadna muckle to brag o' there oursels, guidwife," interposed her husband, calmly. "See, there," said Mrs. Anderson, either not heeding, or not hearing John's remark. "See, there," she said, holding up a fragment of one of the broken vessels, "there's the end o' my bonny cheeny jug, that I was sae vogie o', and that hadna its neebor in braid Scotland." And a tear glistened in the eye of the susceptible mourner, as she contemplated the melancholy remains, and recalled to memory the departed splendours of the ill-fated tankard. Quietly dashing, however, the tear of sorrow aside, both her person and spirit assumed the lofty attitude of determined vengeance; and, "_she'll_ rue this," she now went on, "if there be ony law or justice in the kingdom. It'll be a dear jug to _her_, or my name's no what it is." Equally indignant with his wife at the assault and battery committed by the Callenders, but less talkative, John sat quietly ruminating on the events of the evening, and, anon, still continuing to raise his hand, at intervals, to his mangled countenance. With the same taciturnity, he subsequently assisted Mrs. Anderson to throw the collected fragments of the broken dishes into a hamper, and to carry and deposit said hamper in an adjoining closet, where, it was determined, they should be carefully kept as evidence of the extent of the damage which had been sustained. In the meantime, neither Mrs. Thomas Callender nor Mr. Thomas Callender felt by any means at ease respecting the crockery catastrophe. Although feeling that it was a mere casualty of war, and an unforeseen and unpremeditated result of a fair and equal contest, they yet could not help entertaining some vague apprehension for the consequences. They felt, in short, that it might be made a question whether they were not liable for the damage done, seeing that they had intruded themselves into their neighbour's house, where they had no right to go. It was under some such awkward fear as this that Mr. Callender, who had also obtained an evasive account of the cause of quarrel, said, with an unusually long and grave face, to his wife, on their gaining their own house, and holding, at the same time, a handkerchief to his still bleeding and now greatly swollen proboscis-- "Yon was a deevil o' a stramash, Mirran. I never heard the like o't. It was awfu'. I think I hear the noise o' the crashing plates and bowls in my lugs yet." "Deil may care! Let them tak it!" replied Mrs. Callender, endeavouring to assume a disregard of consequences, which she was evidently very far from feeling. "She was aye owre vain o' her crockery; so that better couldna happen her." "Ay," replied her husband; "but yon smashing o't was rather a serious business." "It was just music to my lugs, then," said Mrs. Callender, boldly. "Maybe," rejoined her husband, "but I doot we'll hae to pay the piper. They'll try't ony way, I'm jalousin." "Let them. There'll be nae law or justice in the country if they mak that oot," responded Mrs. Callender, and exhibiting, in this sentiment, the very striking difference of opinion between the two ladies, of the law and justice of the land. The fears, however, which Mr. Callender openly expressed, as above recorded, and which his wife felt but concealed, were not groundless. On the evening of the very next day after the battle of the nightcaps, as Thomas Callender was sitting in his elbow-chair by the fire, luxuriously enjoying its grateful warmth, and the ease and comfort of his slippers and red nightcap, which he had drawn well down over his ears, he was suddenly startled by a sharp, loud rap at the door. Mrs. Callender hastened to open it, when two papers were thrust into her hands by an equivocal-looking personage, who, without saying a word, wheeled round on his heel the instant he had placed the mysterious documents in her possession, and hastened away. With some misgivings as to the contents of these papers, Mrs. Callender placed them before her husband. "What's this?" said the latter, with a look of great alarm, and placing his spectacles on his nose, preparatory to a deliberate perusal of the suspicious documents. His glasses wiped and adjusted, Thomas unfolded the papers, held them up close to the candle, and found them to be a couple of summonses, one for himself and one for his wife. These summonses, we need hardly say, were at the instance of their neighbour, John Anderson, and exhibited a charge of assault and battery, and claim for damages, to the extent of two pounds fourteen shillings sterling, for demolition of certain articles of stoneware, &c. &c. &c. "Ay," said Thomas, laying down the fatal papers. "Faith, here it is, then! We're gaun to get it ruch an roun', noo, Mirran. I was dootin this. But we'll defen', we'll defen'," added Thomas, who was, or, we rather suspect, imagined himself to be, a bit of a lawyer, ever since the affair of the duck-dub, during which he had picked up some law terms, but without any accompanying knowledge whatever of their import or applicability. "We'll defen', we'll defen'," he said, with great confidence of manner, "and gie them a revised condescendence for't that they'll fin gayan teuch to chow. But we maun obey the ceetation, in the first place, to prevent decreet in absence, whilk wad gie the pursuer, in this case, everything his ain way." "Defen'!" exclaimed Mrs. Callender, with high indignation; "my faith, that we wull, I warrant them, and maybe a hantle mair. We'll maybe no be content wi' defendin, but strike oot, and gar _them_ staun aboot." "Noo, there ye show yer ignorance o' the law, Mirran," said her husband, with judicial gravity; "for ye see"---- "Tuts, law or no law," replied Mrs. Callender, impatiently--"I ken what's justice and common sense; an' that's aneuch for me. An' justice I'll hae, Tam," she continued, with such an increase of excitement as brought on the usual climax in such cases, of striking one of her clenched hands on her open palm--"An' justice I will hae, Tam, on thae Andersons, if it's to be had for love or money." "We'll try't, ony way," said her husband, folding up the summonses, and putting them carefully into his breeches pocket. "Since it has come to this, we'll gie them law for't." In the spirit and temper of bold defiance expressed in the preceding colloquy, Mr. Callender and his wife awaited the day and hour appointed for their appearance in the Sheriff Court at Glasgow. This day and hour in due time came, and, when it did, it found both parties, pursuers and defenders, in the awful presence of the judge. Both the ladies were decked out in their best and grandest attire, while each of their husbands rejoiced in his Sunday's suit. It was a great occasion for both parties. On first recognising each other, the ladies exchanged looks which were truly edifying to behold. Mrs. Anderson's was that of calm, dignified triumph; and which, if translated into her own vernacular, would have said, "My word, lass, but ye'll fin whar ye are noo." Mrs. Callender's, again, was that of bold defiance, and told of a spirit that was unconquerable--game to the last being the most strongly marked and leading expression, at this interesting moment, of her majestic countenance. Close beside where Mrs. Anderson sat, and evidently under her charge, there stood an object which, from the oddness of its appearing in its present situation, attracted a good deal of notice, and excited some speculation amongst those present in the court, and which particularly interested Mrs. Callender and her worthy spouse. This was a hamper--a very large one. People wondered what could be in it, and for what purpose it was there. They could solve neither of these problems; but the reader can, we dare say. He will at once conjecture--and, if he does so, he will conjecture rightly--that the hamper in question contained the remains of the smashables spoken of formerly at some length, and that it was to be produced in court by the pursuers, as evidence of the nature and extent of the damage done. The original idea of bringing forward this article, for the purpose mentioned, was Mrs. Anderson's; and, having been approved of by her husband, it had been that morning carted to the court-house, and thereafter carried to and deposited in its present situation by the united exertions of the pursuers, who relied greatly on the effect it would produce when its lid should be thrown open, and the melancholy spectacle of demolished crockery it concealed exhibited. The case of Mr. and Mrs. Anderson _versus_ Mr. and Mrs. Callender being pretty far down in the roll, it was nearly two hours before it was called. This event, however, at length took place. The names of the pursuers and defenders resounded through the court room, in the slow, drawling, nasal-toned voice of the crier. Mrs. Anderson, escorted by her loving spouse, sailed up the middle of the apartment, and placed herself before the judge. With no less dignity of manner, and with, at least, an equal stateliness of step, Mrs. Callender, accompanied by her lord and master, sailed up after her, and took her place a little to one side. The parties being thus arranged, proceedings commenced. Mrs. Anderson was asked to state her case; Mrs. Anderson was not slow to accept the invitation. She at once began:-- "Ye see, my lord, sir, the matter was just this--and I daur _her_ there" (a look of intense defiance at Mrs. Callender) "to deny a word, my lord, sir, o' what I'm gaun to say; although I daur say she wad do't if she could." "My good woman," here interposed the judge, who had a nervous apprehension of the forensic eloquence of such female pleaders as the one now before him, "will you have the goodness to confine yourself strictly to a simple statement of your case?" "Weel, my lord, sir, I will. Ye see, then, the matter is just this." And Mrs. Anderson forthwith proceeded to detail the particulars of the quarrel and subsequent encounter, with a minuteness and circumstantiality which, we fear, the reader would think rather tedious were we here to repeat. In this statement of her case, Mrs. Anderson, having the fear of her husband's presence before her eyes, made no allusion whatever to the nightcaps, but rested the whole quarrel on the jelly pot. Now, this was a circumstance which Mrs. Callender noted, and of which she, on the instant, determined to take a desperate advantage. Regardless of all consequences, and, amongst the rest, of discovering to her husband the underhand part she had been playing in regard to the affair of the nightcap, she resolved on publicly exposing, as she imagined, the falsehood and pride of her hated rival, by stating the facts of the case as to the celebrated nightcaps. To this revenge she determined on sacrificing every other consideration. To return, however, in the meantime, to the proceedings in court. The statements of the pursuers being now exhausted, the defenders were called upon to give their version of the story. On this summons, both Mrs. Callender and her husband pressed themselves into a central position, with the apparent intention of both entering on the defences at the same time. And this proved to be the fact. On being specially and directly invited by the judge to open the case-- "Ye see, my lord," began Mr. Thomas Callender; and-- "My lord, sir, ye see," began, at the same instant, _Mrs._ Thomas Callender. "Now, now," here interposed the judge, waving his hand impatiently, "one at a time, if you please. One at a time." "Surely," replied Mr. Callender. "Staun aside, guidwife, staun aside," he said; at the same time gently pushing his wife back with his left hand as he spoke. _"I'll_ lay doon the case to his lordship." "Ye'll do nae sic a thing, Thomas; _I'll_ do't," exclaimed Mrs. Callender, not only resisting her husband's attempt to thrust her into the rear, but forcibly placing _him_ in that relative position; while she herself advanced a pace or two nearer to the bench. On gaining this vantage ground, Mrs. Callender at once began, and with great emphasis and circumstantiality detailed the whole story of the nightcaps; carefully modelling it so, however, as to show that her own part in the transaction was a _bona fide_ proceeding; on the part of her rival, the reverse; and that the whole quarrel, with its consequent demolition of crockery, was entirely the result of Mrs. Anderson's "upsettin' pride, and vanity, and jealousy." During the delivery of these details, the court was convulsed with laughter, in which the sheriff himself had much difficulty to refrain from joining. On the husbands of the two women, however, they had a very different effect. Amazed, confounded, and grievously affronted at this unexpected disclosure of the ridiculous part they had been made to perform by their respective wives, they both sneaked out of court, amidst renewed peals of laughter, leaving the latter to finish the case the best way they could. How this was effected we know not, as at this point ends our story of the rival nightcaps. END OF VOL III +-----------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's note: | | | | Inconsistent spelling and punctuation were | | not changed. | | | | TOC: Changed Pheebe to Phebe | | Page 3 Changed throroughly to thoroughly | | Page 34 Changed gripe to grip | | Page 42 Changed Engglish to English | | Page 90 Changes transsport to transport | | Page 161 Changed Nanny to Nancy | | Page 173 Changed Mause to Maudge | | Page 173 Changed phrophetic to prophetic | | Page 174 Changed rythmic to rhythmic | | Page 206 Changed unconcious to unconscious | +-----------------------------------------------+ 
31761	----	Wilson's Tales of the Borders AND OF SCOTLAND. HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE. WITH A GLOSSARY. REVISED BY ALEXANDER LEIGHTON, ONE OF THE ORIGINAL EDITORS AND CONTRIBUTORS. VOL. XI. LONDON: WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE, AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE. 1884. CONTENTS. Page THE DOMINIE'S CLASS (_John Mackay Wilson_) 1 THE CONTRAST OF WIVES (_Alexander Leighton_) 33 THE PROFESSOR'S TALES (_Professor Thomas Gillespie_) THE SOCIAL MAN 65 THE TWO COMRADES (_Alexander Campbell_) 90 THE SURTOUT (_Alexander Campbell_) 106 THE SURGEON'S TALES THE SUICIDE (_Alexander Leighton_) 121 THE GHOST OF HOWDYCRAIGS (_Alexander Bethune_) 153 THE GHOST OF GAIRYBURN (_Alexander Bethune_) 185 THE SMUGGLER (_John Mackay Wilson_) 217 THE SCHOOLFELLOWS (_Oliver Richardson_) 250 THE RED HALL; OR, BERWICK IN 1296 (_John Mackay Wilson_) 281 WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND. THE DOMINIE'S CLASS.[A] "Their ends as various as the roads they take In journeying through life." There is no class of men to whom the memory turns with more complacency, or more frequently, than to those who "taught the young idea how to shoot." There may be a few tyrants of the birch, who never inspired a feeling save fear or hatred; yet their number is but few, and I would say that the schoolmaster _is abroad_ in more senses than that in which it is popularly applied. He is abroad in the memory and in the affections of his pupils; and his remembrance is cherished wheresoever they may be. For my own part, I never met with a teacher whom I did not love when a boy, and reverence when a man; from him before whom I used to stand and endeavour to read my task in his eyes, as he held the book before his face, and the page was reflected in his spectacles--and from his spectacles I spelled my _qu_--to him who, as an elder friend, bestowed on me my last lesson. When a man has been absent from the place of his nativity for years, and when he returns and grasps the hands of his surviving kindred, one of his first questions to them (after family questions are settled) is--"Is Mr ----, my old schoolmaster, yet alive?" And if the answer be in the affirmative, one of the first on whom he calls is the dominie of his boyhood; and he enters the well-remembered school--and his first glance is to the seat he last occupied--as an urchin opens the door and admits him, as he gently taps at it, and cries to the master (who is engaged with a class), when the stranger enters-- "Sir, here's one wants you." Then steps forward the man of letters, looking anxiously--gazing as though he had a right to gaze in the stranger's face; and, throwing out his head, and particularly his chin, while he utters the hesitating interrogative--"Sir?" And the stranger replies--"You don't know me, I suppose? I am such-an-one, who was at your school at such a time." The instiller of knowledge starts-- "What!" cries he, shifting his spectacles, "you Johnnie (Thomas, or Peter, as the case may be) So-and-so?--it's not possible! O man, I'm glad to see ye! Ye'll mak me an auld man, whether I will or no. And how hae ye been, and where hae ye been?"--And, as he speaks, he flings his tawse over to the corner where his desk stands. The young stranger still cordially shakes his hand, a few kindly words pass between them, and the teacher, turning to his scholars, says--"You may put by your books and slates, and go for the day;" when an instantaneous movement takes place through the school; there is a closing of books, a clanking of slates, a pocketing of pencils, a clutching for hats, caps, and bonnets, a springing over seats, and a falling off seats, a rushing to the door, and a shouting when at the door a "_hurra for play!_"--and the stranger seems to have made a hundred happy, while the teacher and he retire, to "Drink a cup o' kindness, For auld langsyne." But to proceed with our story of stories. There was a Dr Montgomery, a native of Annan, who, after he had been for more than twenty years a physician in India, where he had become rich, visited his early home, which was also the grave of his fathers. There were but few of his relatives in life when he returned (for death makes sad havoc in families in twenty years); but, after he had seen them, he inquired if his old teacher, Mr Grierson, yet lived; and being answered in the affirmative, the doctor proceeded to the residence of his first instructor. He found him occupying the same apartments in which he resided thirty years before, and which were situated on the south side of the main street, near the bridge. When the first congratulations--the shaking of hands and the expressions of surprise--had been got over, the doctor invited the dominie to dinner; and, after the cloth was withdrawn, and the better part of a bottle of port had vanished between them, the man of medicine thus addressed his ancient preceptor:-- "Can you inform me, sir, what has become of my old class-fellows?--who of them are yet in the land of the living?--who have caught the face of fortune as she smiled, or been rendered the 'sport o' her slippery ba'?' Of the fate of one of them I know something, and to me their history would be more interesting than a romance." "Do ye remember the names that ye used to gie ane anither?" inquired the man of letters, with a look of importance, which showed that the history of the whole class was forthcoming. "I remember them well," replied the doctor; "there were seven of us: Solitary Sandy--Glaikit Willie--Venturesome Jamie--Cautious Watty--Leein' Peter--Jock the dunce--and myself." "And hae ye forgot the lounderings that I used to gie ye, for ca'in ane anither such names?" inquired Mr Grierson, with a smile. "I remember you were displeased at it," replied the other. "Weel, doctor," continued the teacher, "I believe I can gratify your curiosity, and I am not sure but you'll find that the history of your class-fellows is not without interest. The career of some of them has been to me as a recompense for a' the pains I bestowed on them, and that o' others has been a source o' grief. Wi' some I hae been disappointed, wi' ithers, surprised; but you'll allow that I did my utmost to fleech and to thrash your besetting sins out o' ye a'. I will first inform ye what I know respecting the history of Alexander Rutherford, whom all o' ye used to ca' Solitary Sandy, because he wasna a hempy like yoursels. Now, sir, harken to the history of SOLITARY SANDY. I remarked that Sandy was an extraordinary callant, and that he would turn out a character that would be heard tell o' in the world; though that he would ever rise in it, as some term it, or become rich in it I did not believe. I dinna think that e'er I had to raise the tawse to Sandy in my life. He had always his task as ready by heart as he could count his fingers. Ye ne'er saw Sandy looking over his book, or nodding wi' it before his face. He and his lessons were like twa acquaintances--fond o' each other's company. I hae observed fra the window, when the rest o' ye would hae been driving at the hand-ba', cleeshin your peerie-taps, or endangerin' your legs wi' the duck-stane, Sandy wad been sitting on his hunkers in the garden, looking as earnestly on a daisy or ony bit flower, as if the twa creatures could hae held a crack wi' ane anither, and the bonny leaves o' the wee silent things whispered to Sandy how they got their colours, how they peeped forth to meet the kiss o' spring, and how the same power that created the lowly daisy called man into existence, and fashioned the bright sun and the glorious firmament. He was ance dux and aye dux. From the first moment he got to the head o' the class, there he remained as immoveable as a mountain. There was nae trapping him; for his memory was like clockwark. I canna say that he had a great turn for mathematics; but ye will remember, as weel as me, that he was a great Grecian; and he had screeds o' Virgil as ready aff by heart as the twenty-third psalm. Mony a time hae I said concerning him, in the words o' Butler-- "Latin to him's no more difficil, Than for a blackbird 'tis to whistle." The classics, indeed, were his particular hobby; and, though I was proud o' Sandy, I often wished that I could direct his bent to studies o' greater practical utility. His exercises showed that he had an evident genius for poetry, and that o' a very high order; but his parents were poor, and I didna see what poetry was to put in his pocket. I therefore by no means encouraged him to follow out what I conceived to be a profitless, though a pleasing, propensity; but, on the contrary, when I had an opportunity o' speakin' to him by himsel, I used to say to him-- "Alexander, ye have a happy turn for versification, and there is both boldness and originality about your ideas--though no doubt they would require a great deal of pruning before they could appear in a respectable shape before the world. But you must not indulge in verse-writing. When you do it, let it only be for an exercise, or for amusement, when you have nothing better to do. It may make rhyme jingle in your ears, but it will never make sterling coin jink in your pockets. Even the immortal Homer had to sing his own verses about the streets; and ye have heard the epigram-- 'Seven cities now contend for _Homer dead_, Through which the _living Homer_ begg'd his bread.' Boethius, like Savage in our own days, died in a prison; Terence was a slave, and Plautus did the work of a horse. Cervantes perished for lack of food, on the same day that our great Shakspere died; but Shakspere had worldly wisdom as well as heavenly genius. Camoens died in an almshouse. The magical Spenser was a supplicant at court for years, for a paltry pension, till hope deferred made his heart sick, and he vented his disappointment in these words-- 'I was promised, on a time, To have reason for my rhyme: From that time unto this season, I received not rhyme nor reason.' Butler asked for bread, and they gave him a stone. Dryden lived between the hand and the mouth. Poor Otway perished through penury; and Chatterton, the inspired boy, terminated his wretchedness with a pennyworth of poison. But there is a more striking example than these, Sandy. It was but the other day that our immortal countryman, Robbie Burns--the glory o' our age--sank, at our very door, neglected and in poverty, wi' a broken heart, into the grave. Sandy,' added I, 'never think o' being a poet. If ye attempt it, ye will embark upon an ocean where, for every one that reaches their desired haven, ninety-and-nine become a wreck.' On such occasions, Sandy used to listen most attentively, and crack to me very auld-farrantly. Well, sir, it was just after ye went to learn to be a doctor, that I resolved to try and do something to push him forward mysel, as his parents were not in ability; and I had made application to a gentleman on his behalf, to use his influence to procure him a bursary in ane o' the universities, when Sandy's faither died, and, puir man, left hardly as muckle behind him as would pay the expenses o' the funeral. This was a death-blow to Sandy's prospects and my hopes. He wasna seventeen at the time, and his widowed mother had five bairns younger. He was the only ane in the family that she could look up to as a bread-winner. It was about harvest; and, when the shearing commenced, he went out wi' ithers and took his place on the rig. As it was his first year, and he was but a learner, his wages were but sma'; but, sma' as they were, at the end o' the season he brought them hame, and my puir blighted scholar laddie thought himsel a man, when he placed his earnings, to a farthing, in his mother's hand. I was sorry for Sandy. It pained me to see one by whom I had had so much credit, and who, I was conscious, would make ane o' the brightest ornaments o' the pu'pit that ever entered it, throwing his learning and his talents awa', and doomed to be a labouring man. I lost mony a night's sleep on his account; but I was determined to serve him if I could, and I at last succeeded in getting him appointed tutor in a gentleman's family o' the name o' Crompton, owre in Cumberland. He was to teach twa bits o' laddies English and arithmetic, Latin and Greek. He wasna out eighteen when he entered upon the duties o' his office; and great cause had I to be proud o' my scholar, and satisfied wi' my recommendation; for, before he had been six months in his situation, I received a letter from the gentleman himsel, intimating his esteem for Sandy, the great progress his sons had made under his tuition, and expressing his gratitude to me for recommending such a tutor. He was, in consequence, kind and generous to my auld scholar, and he doubled his wages, and made him presents beside; so that Sandy was enabled to assist his mother and his brethren. But we ne'er hae a sunny day, though it be the langest day in summer, but sooner or later, a rainy ane follows it. Now, Mr Crompton had a daughter about a year younger than Sandy. She wasna what people would ca' a pretty girl, for I hae seen her; but she had a sonsy face and intelligent een. She also, forsooth, wrote sonnets to the moon, and hymns to the rising sun. She, of a' women, was the maist likely to bewitch puir Sandy; and she did bewitch him. A strong liking sprang up between them. They couldna conceal their partiality for ane anither. He was everything that was perfect in her een, and she was an angel in his. Her name was Ann; and he had celebrated it in every measure, from the hop-and-step line of four syllables to that o' fourteen, which rolleth like the echoing o' the trumpet. Now her faither, though a ceevil and a kind man, was also a shrewd, sharp-sighted, and determined man; and he saw the flutter that had risen up in the breasts o' his daughter and the young tutor. So he sent for Sandy, and without seeming to be angry wi' him, or even hinting at the cause-- "Mr Rutherford," said he, "you are aware that I am highly gratified with the manner in which you have discharged the duties of tutor to my boys; but I have been thinking that it will be more to their advantage that their education, for the future, be a public one, and to-morrow I intend sending them to a boarding-school in Yorkshire." "To-morrow!" said Sandy, mechanically, scarce knowing what he said, or where he stood. "To-morrow," added Mr. Crompton; "and I have sent for you, sir, in order to settle with you respecting your salary." This was bringing the matter home to the business and the bosom o' the scholar somewhat suddenly. Little as he was versed in the ways o' the world, something like the real cause for the hasty removal o' his pupils to Yorkshire began to dawn upon his mind. He was stricken with dismay and with great agony, and he longed to pour out his soul upon the gentle bosom o' Ann. But she had gone on a visit with her mother to a friend in a different part of the country, and Mr Crompton was to set out with his sons for Yorkshire on the following day. Then, also, would Sandy have to return to the humble roof o' his mother. When he retired to pack up his books and his few things, he wrung his hands--yea, there were tears upon his cheeks--and, in the bitterness of the spirit, he said-- "My own sweet Ann! and shall I never see thee again--never hear thee--never hope!" And he laid his hand upon his forehead, and pressed it there, repeating as he did so--"never! oh, never!" I was surprised beyond measure when Sandy came back to Annan, and, wi' a wobegone countenance, called upon me. I thought that Mr. Crompton was not a man of the discernment and sagacity that I had given him credit to be, and I desired Sandy not to lay it so sair to heart, for that something else would cast up. But, in a day or two, I received a letter from the gentleman himsel, showing me how matters stood, and giving me to understand the _why_ and the _wherefore_. "O the gowk!" said I, "what business had he to fa' in love, when he had the bairns and his books to mind?" So I determined to rally him a wee thought on the subject, in order to bring him back to his senses; for, when a haflins laddie is labouring under the first dizziness o' a bonnie lassie's influence, I dinna consider that he is capable o' either seeing, feeling, hearing, or acting wi' the common-sense discretion o' a reasonable being. It is a pleasant heating and wandering o' the brain. Therefore, the next time I saw him-- "Sandy," says I, "wha was't laid Troy in ashes?" He at first started and stared at me, rather vexed like, but at last he answered, wi' a sort o' forced laugh, "A woman." "A woman, was it?" says I; "and wha was the cause o' Sandy Rutherford losing his situation as tutor, and being sent back to Annan?" "Sir!" said he, and he scowled down his eyebrows, and gied a look at me that wad hae spained a ewe's lamb. I saw that he was too far gone, and that his mind was in a state that it would not be safe to trifle wi'; so I tried him no more upon the subject. Weel, as his mother, puir woman, had enough to do, and couldna keep him in idleness, and as there was naething for him in Annan, he went to Edinburgh to see what would cast up, and what his talents and education would do for him there. He had recommendations from several gentlemen, and also from myself. But month after month passed on, and he was like to hear of nothing. His mother was becoming extremely unhappy on his account, and the more so because he had given up writing, which astonished me a great deal, for I could not divine the cause of such conduct as not to write to his own mother, to say that he was well or what he was doing; and I was the more surprised at it, because of the excellent opinion I had entertained of his character and disposition. However, I think it would be about six months after he had left, I received a letter from him; and, as that letter is of importance in giving you an account of his history, I shall just step along to the school for it, where I have it carefully placed in my desk, and shall bring it and any other papers that I think may be necessary in giving you an account of your other schoolfellows. Thus saying, Dominie Grierson, taking up his three-cornered hat and silver-mounted walking-stick, stalked out of the room. And, as people generally like to have some idea of the sort of person who is telling them a story, I shall here describe to them the appearance of Mr Grierson. He was a fine-looking old man, about five feet nine inches high; his age might be about threescore and fifteen, and he was a bachelor. His hair was as white as the driven snow, yet as fresh and as thick as though he had been but thirty. His face was pale. He could not properly be called corpulent, but his person had an inclination that way. His shoes were fastened with large silver buckles; he wore a pair of the finest black lamb's-wool stockings; breeches of the same colour, fastened at the knees by buckles similar to those in his shoes. His coat and waistcoat were also black, and both were exceedingly capacious; for the former, with its broad skirts, which descended almost to his heels, would have made a greatcoat now-a-days; and in the kingly flaps of the latter, which defended his loins, was cloth enough and to spare to have made a modern vest. This, with the broad-brimmed, round-crowned, three-cornered hat, already referred to, a pair of spectacles, and the silver-mounted cane, completed the outward appearance of Dominie Grierson, with the exception of his cambric handkerchief, which was whiter than his own locks, and did credit to the cleanliness of his housekeeper, and her skill as a laundress. In a few moments he returned, with Sandy's letter and other papers in his hand, and, helping himself to another glass of wine, he rubbed the glass of his spectacles with his handkerchief, and said-- "Now, doctor, here is poor Sandy's letter; listen, and ye shall hear it."-- "_Edinburgh, June 10, 17--_ "HONOURED SIR,--I fear that, on account of my not having written to you, you will ere now have accused me of ingratitude; and when I tell you that, until the other day, I have not for months even written to my mother, you may think me undutiful, as well as ungrateful. But my own breast holds me guiltless of both. When I arrived here, I met with nothing but disappointments, and those I found at every hand. For many weeks I walked the streets of this city in despair, hopeless as a fallen angel. I was hungry, and no one gave me to eat; but they knew not that I was in want. Keen misery held me in its grasp--ruin caressed me, and laughed at its plaything. I will not pain you by detailing a catalogue of the privations I endured, and which none but those who have felt and fathomed the depths of misery can imagine. Through your letter of recommendation, I was engaged to give private lessons to two pupils; but the salary was small, and that was only to be paid quarterly. While I was teaching them, I was starving, living on a penny a day. But this was not all. I was frequently without a lodging; and, being expelled from one for lack of the means of paying for it, it was many days before I could venture to inquire for another. My lodging was on a common-stair, or on the bare sides of the Calton; and my clothes, from exposure to the weather, became unsightly. They were no longer fitting garments for one who gave lessons in a fashionable family. For several days I observed the eyes of the lady of the house where I taught fixed with a most supercilious and scrutinising expression upon my shabby and unfortunate coat. I saw and felt that she was weighing the shabbiness of my garments against my qualifications, and I trembled for the consequence. In a short time my worst fears were realised; for, one day, calling as usual, instead of being shown into a small parlour, where I gave my lessons, the man-servant, who opened the door, permitted me to stand in the lobby, and in two minutes returned with two guineas upon a small silver plate, intimating, as he held them before me, that 'the services of Mr Rutherford were no longer required.' The sight of the two guineas took away the bitterness and mortification of the abrupt dismissal. I pocketed them, and engaged a lodging; and never, until that night, did I know or feel the exquisite luxury of a deep, dreamless sleep. It was bathing in Lethe, and rising refreshed, having no consciousness, save the grateful feeling of the cooling waters of forgetfulness around me. Having some weeks ago translated an old deed, which was written in Latin, for a gentleman who is what is called an in-door advocate, and who has an extensive practice, he has been pleased to take me into his office, and has fixed on me a liberal salary. He advises me to push my way to the bar, and kindly promises his assistance. I shall follow his advice, and I despair not but I may one day solicit the hand of the only woman I ever have loved, or can love, from her father, as his equal. I am, sir, yours, indebtedly, "ALEX. RUTHERFORD." Now, sir (continued the dominie), about three years after I had received this letter, my old scholar was called to the bar, and a brilliant first appearance he made. Bench, bar, and jury were lost in wonder at the power o' his eloquence. A Demosthenes had risen up amongst them. The half o' Edinburgh spoke o' naething but the young advocate. But it was on the very day that he made his first appearance as a pleader, that I received a letter from Mr. Crompton, begging to know if I could gie him ony information respecting the old tutor o' his family, and stating, in the language o' a broken-hearted man, that his only daughter was then upon her death-bed, and that, before she died, she begged she might be permitted to see and to speak with Alexander Rutherford. I enclosed the letter, and sent it off to the young advocate. He was sitting at a dinner-party, receiving the homage of beauty and the congratulations of learned men, when the fatal letter was put into his hands. He broke the seal--his hand shook as he read--his cheeks grew pale--and large drops of sweat burst upon his brow. He rose from the table. He scarce knew what he did. But within half-an-hour he was posting on his way to Cumberland. He reached the house, her parents received him with tears, and he was conducted into the room where the dying maiden lay. She knew his voice, as he approached. "He is come!--he is come! He loves me still!" cried the poor thing, endeavouring to raise herself upon her elbow. Sandy approached the bedside--he burst into tears--he bent down, and kissed her pale and wasted cheeks, over which death seemed already to have cast its shadow. "Ann! my beloved Ann!" said he; and he took her hand in his, and pressed it to his lips; "do not leave me--we shall yet be happy!" Her eyes brightened for a moment--in them joy struggled with death, and the contest was unequal. From the day that he had been sent from her father's house, she had withered away, as a tender flower that is transplanted to an unkindly soil. She desired that they would lift her up, and she placed her hand upon his shoulder, and, gazing anxiously in his face, said-- "And Alexander still loves me--even in death!" "Yes, dearest--yes!" he replied. But she had scarce heard his answer, and returned it with a smile of happiness, when her head sank upon his bosom, and a deep sigh escaped from hers. It was her last. Her soul seemed only to have lingered till her eyes might look on him. She was removed a corpse from his breast; but on that breast the weight of death was still left. He became melancholy--his ambition died--she seemed to have been the only object that stimulated him to pursue fame and to seek for fortune. In intense study he sought to forget his grief--or rather he made them companions--till his health broke under them; and in the thirtieth year of his age died one who possessed talents and learning that would have adorned his country, and rendered his name immortal. Such, sir, is the brief history o' yer auld class-fellow, Solitary Sandy. In the history o' GLAIKIT WILLIE (continued Mr Grierson), the only thing remarkable is, that he has been as fortunate a man as he was a thochtless laddie. After leaving the school, he flung his Greek and Latin aside, and that was easily done, for it was but little that he ever learned, and less that he remembered, for he paid so little attention to onything he did, that what he got by heart one day, he forgot the next. In spite o' the remonstrances o' his friends, naething would haud Willie but he would be a sailor. Weel, he was put on board o' an American trader, and for several years there was naething heard o' concerning him, but accidents that had happened him, and all through his glaikitness. Sometimes he was fa'ing owre a boat, and was mostly drowned; and at ither times, we heard o' him fa'ing headlong into the ship's hold; ance o' his tumbling overboard in the middle o' the great Atlantic; and at last, o' his fa'ing from the mast upon the deck, and having his legs broken. It was the luckiest thing that ever happened him. It brought him to think, and gied him leisure to do it; he was laid up for twelve weeks, and, during part o' the time, he applied himself to navigation, in the elements o' which science I had instructed him. Soon after his recovery, he got the command o' a vessel, and was very fortunate, and, for several years, he has been sole owner of a number of vessels, and is reputed to be very rich. He also married weel, as the phrase runs, for the woman had a vast o' money, only she was--a mulatto. That, sir, is a' I ken concerning William Armstrong, or, as ye ca'ed him, Glaikit Willie; for he was a callant that was so thochtless when under my care, that he never interested me a great deal. And noo, sir, I shall gie ye a' the particulars I know concerning the fate o' VENTURESOME JAMIE. Ye will remember him best o' ony o' them, I reckon; for even when ye were baith bits o' callants, there was a sort o' rivalship between ye for the affections o' bonny Katie Alison, the loveliest lassie that ever I had at my school. I hae frequently observed the looks o' jealousy that used to pass between ye when she seemed to show mair kindness to ane than anither; and, when ye little thocht I saw ye, I hae noticed ane o' ye pushing oranges into her hand, and anither sweeties. When she got a bit comb, too, to fasten up her gowden hair, I weel divined whose pennies had purchased it--for they were yours, doctor. I remember, also, hoo ye was aye a greater favourite wi' her than Jamie, and hoo he challenged ye to fecht him for her affections, and o'ercam' ye in the battle, and sent ye to the school next day wi' yer face a' disfigured--and I, as in duty bound, gied each o' ye a heartier thrashin than ye had gien ane anither. Katie hung her head a' the time, and when she looked up, a tear was rowin in her bonny blue een. But ye left the school and the country-side when ye was little mair than seventeen; and the next thing that we heard o' ye was that ye had gane oot to India about three years afterwards. Yer departure evidently removed a load from Jamie's breast. He followed Katie like her shadow, though with but little success, as far as I could perceive, and as it was generally given out. But, ye must remember, in his case the name o' Venturesome Jamie was well applied. Never in my born days did I know such a callant. He would have climbed the highest trees as though he had been speeling owre a common yett, and swung himsel by the heels frae their topmost branches. Oh, he was a terrible laddie! When I hae seen ye a' bathing in the river, sometimes I used to tremble for him. He was a perfect amphibious animal. I have seen him dive from a height of twenty or thirty feet, and remain under the water till I almost lost my breath wi' anxiety for his uprising; and then he would have risen at as many yards distant from the place where he had dived. I recollect o' hearing o' his permitting himsel to be suspended owre a precipice aboon a hundred feet high, wi' a rope fastened round his oxters, and three laddies like himsel hauding on by the ither end o't--and this was dune merely to harry the nest o' a waterwagtail. Had the screams o' the callants, who found him owre heavy for them, and that they were unable to draw him up again, not brought some ploughmen to their assistance, he must have been precipitated into eternity. However, as I intended to say, it was shortly after the news arrived o' your having sailed for India, that a fire broke out in the dead o' nicht in a house occupied by Katie Alison's father. Never shall I forget the uproar and consternation o' that terrible nicht. There was not a countenance in the town but was pale wi' terror. The flames roared and raged from every window, and were visible through some parts in the roof. The great black clouds o' smoke seemed rushing from the crater of a volcano. The floors o' the second storey were falling, and crashing, and crackling, and great burning sparks, some o' them as big as a man's hand, were rising in thousands and tens o' thousands from the flaming ruins, and were driven by the wind, like a shower o' fire, across the heavens. It was the most fearsome sight I had ever beheld. But this was not the worst o't; for, at a window in the third storey, which was the only one in the house from which the flames were not bursting, stood bonny Katie Alison, wringing her hands and screaming for assistance, while her gowden hair fell upon her shouthers, and her cries were heard aboon the raging o' the conflagration. I heard her cry distinctly, "My father!--my father!--will nobody save my father?" for he lay ill of a fever in the room where she was, and was unconscious of his situation. But there was none to render them assistance. At times, the flames and the smoke, issuing from the windows below, concealed her from the eyes of the multitude. Several had attempted her rescue, but all of them had been forced to retreat, and some of them scorched fearfully; for in many places the stairs had given way, and the flames were bursting on every side. They were attempting to throw up a rope to her assistance--for the flames issued so fiercely from the lower window, that, though a ladder had been raised, no man could have ascended it--when at that moment, my old scholar, James Johnstone (Venturesome Jamie, indeed!), arrived. He heard the cries o' Katie--he beheld her hands outstretched for help--"Let me past!--let me past!--ye cowards! ye cowards!" cried he, as he eagerly forced his way through the crowd. He rushed into the door, from which the dense smoke and the sparks were issuing as from a great furnace. There was a thrill o' horror through the crowd, for they kenned his character, and they kenned also his fondness for Katie--and no one expected to see him in life again. But, in less than ten seconds from his rushing in at the door, he was seen to spring forward to the window where Katie stood--he flung his arm round her waist, and, in an instant, both disappeared--but, within a quarter of a minute, he rushed out at the street-door, through the black smoke and the thick sparks, wi' the bonny creature that he adored in his arms. O doctor, had ye heard the shout that burst frae the multitude!--there was not one amongst them at that moment that couldna have hugged Jamie to his heart. His hands were sore burned, and on several places his clothes were on fire. Katie was but little hurt; but, on finding herself on the street, she cast an anxious and despairing look towards the window from which she had been snatched, and again wringing her hands, exclaimed, in accents of bitterness that go through my heart to this day-- "My father! oh, my father! Is there no help for him?--shall my father perish?" "The rope!--gie me the rope!" cried Jamie. He snatched it from the hand of a bystander, and again rushed into the smoking ruins. The consternation of the crowd became greater, and their anxiety more intense than before. Full three minutes passed, and nothing was seen of him. The crowded street became as silent as death; even those who were running backward and forward, carrying water, for a time stood still. The suspense was agonising. At length he appeared at the window, with the sick man wrapped up in the bedclothes, and holding him to his side with his right arm around him. The hope and fear of the people became indescribable. Never did I witness such a scene--never may I witness such again! Having fastened one end of the rope to the bed, he flung the other from the window to the street; and, grasping it with his left hand, he drew himself out of the window, with Katie's father in his arm, and, crossing his feet around the rope, he slid down to the street, bearing his burden with him! Then, sir, the congratulations o' the multitude were unbounded. Every one was anxious to shake him by the hand; but what with the burning his right hand had sustained, and the worse than burning his left had suffered wi' the sliding down a rope frae a third storey, wi' a man under his arm, I may say that my venturesome and gallant auld scholar hadna a hand to shake. Ye canna be surprised to hear--and, at the time o' life ye've arrived at, ye'll be no longer jealous; besides, during dinner, I think ye spoke o' having a wife and family--I say, therefore, doctor, that ye'll neither be jealous nor surprised to hear, that from that day Katie's dryness to Jamie melted down. Moreover, as ye had gane out to India, where ye would be mair likely to look after siller than think o' a wife, and as I understand ye had dropped correspondence for some length o' time, ye couldna think yoursel in ony way slighted. Now, folk say that "nineteen _nay-says_ are half a _yes_." For my part (and my age is approaching the heels o' the patriarchs), I never put it in the power o' woman born to say _No_ to me. But, as I have heard and believe, Katie had said _No_ to Jamie before the fire, not only nineteen times, but thirty-eight times twice told, and he found seventy-six (which is about my age) nae nearer a _yea_ than the first _nay_. And folk said it was a' on account o' a foolish passion for the doctor laddie that had gane abroad. But Katie was a kind, gratefu lassie. She couldna look wi' cauldness upon the man that had not only saved her life, but her father's also; and I ought to have informed you that, within two minutes from the time of her father's being snatched from the room where he lay, the floor fell in, and the flames burst from the window where Katie had been standing a few minutes before. Her father recovered from the fever, but he died within six months after the fire, and left her a portionless orphan, or what was next door to it. Jamie urged her to make him happy, and at last she consented, and they were married. But ye remember that his parents were in affluent circumstances; they thought he had demeaned himself by his marriage, and they shut their door upon him, and disowned him athegither. As he was his father's heir, he was brought up to no calling or business whatsoever; and, when the auld man not only vowed to cut him off wi' a shilling, on account of his marriage, but absolutely got his will altered accordingly, what did the silly lad do, but, in desperation, list into a regiment that was gaun abroad. "The laddie has done it in a fit o' passion," said I, "and what will become o' poor Katie?" Weel, although it was said that the lassie never had ony particular affection for him, but just married him out o' gratitude, and although several genteel families in the neighbourhood offered her respectable and comfortable situations (for she was universally liked), yet the strange creature preferred to follow the hard fortunes o' Jamie, who had been disowned on her account, and she implored the officers of the regiment to be allowed to accompany him. It is possible that they were interested with her appearance, and what they had heard of his connection, and the manner in which he had been treated, for they granted her request; and about a month after he enlisted, the regiment marched from Carlisle, and Katie accompanied her husband. They went abroad somewhere--to the East or West Indies, I believe; but from that day to this I have never heard a word concerning either the one or the other, or whether they be living or not. All I know is, that the auld man died within two years after his son had become a soldier, and, keeping his resentment to his last breath, actually left his property to a brother's son. And that, sir, is all that I know of Venturesome Jamie and your old sweetheart, Katie. The doctor looked thoughtful, exceedingly thoughtful; and the old dominie, acquiring additional loquacity as he went on, poured out another glass, and added-- "But come, doctor, we will drink a bumper, 'for auld langsyne,' to the lassie wi' the gowden locks, be she dead or living." "With my whole heart and soul," replied the doctor, impassionedly; and, pouring out a glass, he drained it to the dregs. "The auld feeling is not quenched yet, doctor," said the venerable teacher, "and I am sorry for it; for, had I known, I would have spoken more guardedly. But I will proceed to gie ye an account o' the rest o' your class-fellows, and I will do it briefly. There was Walter Fairbairn, who went amongst ye by the name o' CAUTIOUS WATTY. He was the queerest laddie that ever I had at my school. He had neither talent nor cleverness; but he made up for both, and, I may say, more than made up for both, by method and application. Ye would have said that nature had been in a miserly humour when it made his brains; but, if it had been niggardly in the quantity, it certainly had spared no pains in placing them properly. He was the very reverse o' Solitary Sandy. I never could get Watty to scan a line or construe a sentence richt in my days. He did not seem to understand the nature o' words, or, at least, in so far as applied to sentiment, idea, or fine writing. Figures were Watty's alphabet; and, from his earliest years, pounds, shillings, and pence were the syllables by which he joined them together. The abstruser points of mathematics were beyond his intellect; but he seemed to have a liking for the _certainty_ of the science, and he manifested a wish to master it. My housekeeper that then was has informed me that, when a' the rest o' ye wad hae been selling your copies as waste-paper, for _taffy_, or what some ca' _treacle-candy_, Watty would only part wi' his to the paper purchaser for money down; and when ony o' ye took a greenin for the sweet things o' the shopkeeper, without a halfpenny to purchase one, Watty would volunteer to lend ye the money until a certain day, upon condition that ye would then pay him a penny for the loan o' his halfpenny. But he exhibited a grand trait o' this disposition when he cam to learn the rule o' _Compound Interest_. Indeed, I need not say he _learned_, it, for he literally _devoured_ it. He wrought every question in Dilworth's Rule within two days; and, when he had finished it (for he seldom had his slate away from my face, and I was half tired wi' saying to him, "That will do, sir"), he came up to my desk, and, says he, wi' a face as earnest as a judge-- "May I go through this rule again, sir?" "I think ye understand it, Watty," said I, rather significantly. "But I would like to be perfect in it, sir," answered he. "Then go through it again, Watty," said I, "and I have nae doubt but ye will be _perfect_ in it very quickly." I said this wi' a degree o' irony which I was not then, and which I am not now, in the habit of exhibiting before my scholars; but, from what I had observed and heard o' him, it betrayed to me a trait in human nature that literally disgusted me. But I have no pleasure in dwelling upon his history. Shortly after leaving the school, he was sent up to London to an uncle; and, as his parents had the means o' setting him up in the world, he was there to make choice o' a profession. After looking about the great city for a time, it was the choice and pleasure o' Cautious Watty to be bound as an apprentice to a pawnbroker. He afterwards commenced business for himself, and every day in his life indulging in his favourite study, compound interest, and, as far as he durst, putting it in practice, he in a short time became rich. But, as his substance increased, he did not confine himself to portable articles, or such things as are usually taken in pledge by the members of his profession; but he took estates in pledge, receiving the title-deeds as his security; and in such cases he did exact his compound interest to the last farthing to which he could stretch it. He neither knew the meaning of generosity nor mercy. Shakspere's beautiful apostrophe to the latter god-like attribute in the "Merchant of Venice," would have been flat nonsense in the estimation of Watty. He had but one answer to every argument and to every case, and which he laid to his conscience in all his transactions (if he had a conscience), and that was--"A bargain's a bargain!" This was his ten times repeated phrase every day. It was the doctrine by which he swore; and Shylock would have died wi' envy to have seen Watty exacting his "_pound o' flesh_." I have only to tell ye that he has been twice married. The first time was to a widow four years older than his mother, wi' whom he got ten thousand. The second time was to a maiden lady, who had been a coquette and a flirt in her day, but who, when the deep crow-feet upon her brow began to reflect sermons from her looking-glass, became a patroniser of piety and religious institutions. Watty heard o' her fortune, and o' her disposition and habits. He turned an Episcopalian, because she was one. He became a sitter and a regular attender in the same pew in the church. He began his courtship by opening the pew-door to her when he saw her coming, before the sexton reached it. He next sought her out the services for the day in the prayer-book--he had it always open, and ready to put in her hand. He dusted the cushion on which she was to sit with his handkerchief, as she entered the pew. He, in short, showed her a hundred little pious attentions. The sensibility of the converted flirt was affected by them. At length he offered her his arm from the pew to the hackney-coach or sedan-chair which waited for her at the church-door; and, eventually, he led her to the altar in the seventy-third year of her age; when, to use his own words, he married her thirty thousand pounds, and took the old woman before the minister as a witness. Such, sir, is all I know concerning Cautious Watty. The next o' your auld class-mates that I have to notice (continued Mr. Grierson) is LEEIN PETER. Peter Murray was the cause o' mair grief to me than ony scholar that ever was at my school. He could not tell a story the same way in which he heard it, or give you a direct answer to a positive question, had it been to save his life. I sometimes was at a loss whether to attribute his grievous propensity to a defect o' memory, a preponderance o' imagination over baith memory and judgment, or to the natural depravity o' his heart, and the force o' abominable habits early acquired. Certain it is, that, all the thrashing that I could thrash, I couldna get the laddie to speak the truth. His parents were perpetually coming to me to lick him soundly for this lie and the other lie; and I did lick him, until I saw that bodily punishment was of no effect. Moral means were to be tried, and I did try them. I tried to shame him out o't. I reasoned wi' him. I showed him the folly and the enormity o' his offence, and also pointed out its consequences--but I might as weel hae spoken to the stane in the wa'. He was Leein Peter still. After he left me, he was a while wi' a grocer, and a while wi' a haberdasher, and then he went to a painter, and after that he was admitted into a writer's office; but one after another, they had to turn him away, and a' on account o' his unconquerable habit o' uttering falsehoods. His character became so well known, that nobody about the place would take him to be anything. He was a sad heartbreak to his parents, and they were as decent people as ye could meet wi'. But, as they had respectable connections, they got him into some situation about Edinburgh, where his character and his failings were unknown. But it was altogether useless. He was turned out of one situation after another, and a' on account o' his incurable and dangerous habit, until his friends could do no more for him. Noo, doctor, I daresay ye may have observed, that a confirmed drunkard, rather than want drink, will steal to procure it--and, as sure as that is the case, tak my word for it, that, in nine cases out o' ten, he who begins by being a habitual liar, will end in being a thief. Such was the case wi' Leein Peter. After being disgraced and turned from one situation after anither, he at last was caught in the act of purloining his master's property, and cast into prison. He broke his mother's heart, and covered his father's grey hairs wi' shame; and he sank from one state o' degradation to another, till now, I believe, he is ane o' those prowlers and pests o' society who are to be found in every large town, and who live naebody can tell how, but every one can tell that it cannot be honestly. Such, sir, has been the fate o' Leein Peter. There is only another o' your book-mates that I have to make mention o', and that is John Mathewson or JOCK THE DUNCE. Many a score o' times hae I said that Jock's head was as impervious to learning as a nether-millstane. It would hae been as easy to hae driven mensuration into the head o' an ox, as instruction into the brain o' Jock Mathewson. He was born a dunce. I fleeched him, and I coaxed him, and I endeavoured to divert him, to get him to learn, and I kicked him, and I cuffed him; but I might as weel hae kicked my heel upon the floor, or fleeched the fireplace. Jock was knowledge-proof. All my efforts were o' no avail. I could get him to learn nothing, and to comprehend nothing. Often I had half made up my mind to turn him awa from the school, for I saw that I never would have any credit by the blockhead. But what was most annoying was, that here was his mother at me, every hand-awhile, saying-- "Mr Grierson, I'm really surprised at ye. My son John is not coming on ava. I really wush ye wad tak mair pains wi' him. It is an unco thing to be paying you guid money, and the laddie to be getting nae guid for it. I wad hae ye to understand that his faither doesna make his money sae easily--no by sitting on a seat, or walking up and down a room--as ye do. There's such-a-ane's son awa into the Latin, nae less, I understand, and my John no out o' the Testament. But, depend upon it, Mr Grierson, if ye dinna try to do something wi' him, I maun tak him awa frae your school, and that is the short and the lang o't." "Do sae, ma'am," said I, "and I'll thank ye. Mercy me! it's a bonny thing, indeed--do ye suppose that I had the makin o' your son? If Nature has formed his head out o' a whinstane, can I transform it into marble? Your son would try the patience o' Job--his head is thicker than a door-post. I can mak naething o' him. I would sooner teach a hundred than be troubled wi' him." "Hundred here, hundred there!" said she, in a tift; "but it's a hard matter, Mr Grierson, for his faither and me to be payin ye money for naething; and if ye dinna try to mak something o' him, I'll tak him frae your school, and that will be baith seen and heard tell o'!" So saying, away she would drive, tossing her head wi' the airs o' my lady. Ye canna conceive, sir, what a teacher has to put up wi'. Thomson says-- "Delightful task, To teach the young idea how to shoot!" I wish to goodness he had tried it, and a month's specimen o' its _delights_ would have surfeited him, and instead o' what he has written, he would have said-- "Degrading thought, To be each snivelling blockhead's parent's slave!" Now, ye'll remember that Jock was perpetually sniftering and gaping wi' his mouth, or even sucking his thumb like an idiot. There was nae keeping the animal cleanly, much less instructing him; and then, if he had the book in his hand, there he sat staring owre it, wi' a look as vacant and stupid as a tortoise. Or, if he had the slate before him, there was he drawing scores on't, or amusing himsel wi' twirling and twisting the pencil in the string through the frame. Never had I such a lump o' stupidity within the walls o' my school. After his leaving me, he was put as an apprentice to a bookseller. I thought, of all the callings under the sun, that which had been chosen for him was the least suited to a person o' his capacity. But--would ye believe it, sir?--Jock surprised us a'. He fairly turned the corner on a' my calculations. When he began to look after the lassies, he also began to "smart up." He came to my night-school when he would be about eighteen, and I was perfectly astonished at the change that had taken place, even in the appearance o' the callant. His very nose, which had always been so stuffed and thick like, was now an ornament to his face. He had become altogether a lively, fine-looking lad; and, more marvellous still, his whole heart's desire seemed to be to learn; and he did learn with a rapidity that both astonished and delighted me. I actually thought the instructions which I had endeavoured to instil into him for years, and apparently without effect, had been lying dormant, as it were, in the chambers o' his brain, like a cuckoo in winter--that they had been sealed up as fast as I imparted them, by some cause that I did not comprehend, and that now they had got vent, and were issuing out in rapid and vigorous strength, like a person refreshed after a sleep. After he had been two years at the night-school, so far from considering him a dunce, I regarded him as an amazingly clever lad. From the instance I had had in him, I began to perceive that precocity o' intellect was nae proof o' its power. Well, shortly after the time I am speaking o', he left Annan for Glasgow, and after being a year or twa there, he commenced business upon his own account. I may safely say, that never man was more fortunate. But, as his means increased, he did not confine himself to the business in which he had been brought up, but he became an extensive shipowner; he also became a partner in a cotton-mill concern. He was elected a member of the town council, and was distinguished as a leading member and orator of the guild. Eventually, he rose to be one of the city magistrates. He is now also an extensive landed proprietor; and I even hear it affirmed, that it is in contemplation to put him in nomination for some place or other at the next election. Such things happen, doctor--and wha would hae thocht it o' Jack the dunse? Now, sir (added the dominie), so far as I have been able, I have given you the history o' your schoolfellows. Concerning you, doctor, I have known less and heard less than o' ony o' them. You being so far awa, and so long awa, and your immediate relations about here being dead, so that ye have dropped correspondence, I have heard nothing concerning ye; and I have often been sorry on that account; for, believe me, doctor (here the doctor pushed the bottle to him, and the old man, helping himself to another glass, and drinking it, again continued)--I say, believe me, doctor, that I never had twa scholars under my care, o' whose talents I had greater opinion than o' Solitary Sandy and yoursel; and it has often vexed me that I could hear naething concerning ye, or whether ye were dead or living. Now, sir, if ye'll favour me wi' an account o' your history, from the time o' your going out to India, your auld dominie will be obliged to ye; for I like to hear concerning ye a', as though ye had been my ain bairns. "There is little of interest in my history, sir," said the doctor; "but, as far as there is any, your wish shall be gratified." And he proceeded as is hereafter written. THE DOCTOR'S STORY. "In your history, sir, of Venturesome Jamie, which you are unable to finish, you mentioned the rivalry that existed between him and me, for the affections o' bonny Katie Alison. James was a noble fellow. I am not ashamed that I had such a rival. In our youth I esteemed him while I hated him. But, sir, I do not remember the time when Katie Alison was not as a dream in my heart--when I did not tremble at her touch. Even when we pulled the gowans and cowslips together, though there had been twenty present, it was for Katie that I pulled mine. When we plaited the rushes, I did it for her. She preferred me to Jamie, and I knew it. When I left your school, and when I proceeded to India, I did not forget her. But, as you said, men go there to make money--so did I. My friends laughed at my boyish fancy--they endeavoured to make me ashamed of it. I became smitten with the eastern disease of fortune-making, and, though I did not forget her, I neglected her. But, sir, to drop this: I was not twenty-one when I arrived in Bombay; nor had I been long there till I was appointed physician to several Parsee families of great wealth. With but little effort, fortune opened before me. I performed a few surgical operations of considerable difficulty, with success. In several desperate cases I effected cures, and my name was spread not only through the city, but throughout the island. The riches I went to seek I found. But even then, sir, my heart would turn to your school, and to the happy hours I had spent by the side of bonny Katie Alison. However, it would be of no interest to enter into the details of my monotonous life. I shall dwell only upon one incident, which is, of all others, the most remarkable that ever occurred to me, and which took place about six years after my arrival in India. I was in my carriage, and accompanying the remains of a patient to the burial ground--for you know that doctors cannot cure, when death is determined to have its way. The burial ground lies about three miles from Bombay, across an extensive and beautiful plain, and the road to it is by a sort of avenue, lined and shaded on each side by cocoa-nut-trees, which spread their branches over the path, and distil their cooling juice into the cups which the Hindoos have placed around them to receive it. You can form but a faint conception of the clear azure of an Indian sky, and never had I seen it more beautiful than on the day to which I refer, though some of the weather-prophets about Bombay were predicting a storm. We were about the middle of the avenue I have described, when we overtook the funeral of an officer who had held a commission in a corps of Sepoys. The coffin was carried upon the shoulders of four soldiers; before it marched the Sepoys, and behind it, seated in a palanquin, borne by four Hindoos, came the widow of the deceased. A large black veil thrown over her head, almost enveloped her person. Her head was bent upon her bosom, and she seemed to weep bitterly. We followed behind them to the burial-place; but, before the service was half concluded, the heavens overcast, and a storm, such as I had never witnessed, burst over our heads, and hurled its fury upon the graves. The rain poured down in a fierce and impetuous torrent--but you know not, in this country, what a torrent of rain is. The thunder seemed tearing heaven in twain. It rolled, reverbed, and pealed, and rattled with its tremendous voice over the graves of the dead, as though it were the outbursting of eternity--the first blast of the archangel's trumpet announcing the coming judgment! The incessant lightnings flashed through the air, like spirits winged with flame, and awakening the dead. The Sepoys fled in terror, and hastened to the city, to escape the terrible fury of the storm. Even those who had accompanied my friend's body fled with them, before the earth was covered over the dead that they had followed to the grave. But still, by the side of the officer's grave, and unmindful of the storm, stood his poor widow. She refused to leave the spot till the last sod was placed upon her husband's bosom. My heart bled for her. Within three yards from her stood a veteran English serjeant, who, with the Hindoos that bore her palanquin, were all that remained in the burial-place. Common humanity prompted me to offer her a place in my carriage back to the city. I inquired of the serjeant who the deceased was. He informed me that he was a young Scotch officer--that his marriage had offended his friends--that they had denounced him in consequence--that he had enlisted--and that the officers of the regiment which he had first joined, had procured him an ensigncy in a corps of Sepoys, but that he had died, leaving the young widow who wept over his grave, a stranger in a strange land. And, added the serjeant, "a braver fellow never set foot upon the ground." When the last sod had been placed upon the grave, I approached the young widow. I respectfully offered to convey her and the serjeant to the city in my carriage, as the violence of the storm increased. At my voice she started--she uttered a suppressed scream--she raised her head--she withdrew her handkerchief from her eyes!--I beheld her features!--and, gracious Heaven!--whom, sir!--whom--whom did I see, but my own Katie Alison! "Doctor!--doctor!" exclaimed the old dominie, starting from his seat, "what do I hear?" "I cannot describe to you," continued the other, "the tumultuous joy, combined with agony, the indescribable feelings of that moment. We stood--we gasped--we gazed upon each other; neither of us spoke. I took her hand--I led her to the carriage--I conveyed her to the city." "And, oh doctor, what then?" inquired the dominie. "Why, sir," said the doctor, "many days passed--many words were spoken--mutual tears were shed for Jamie Johnstone--and bonny Katie Alison, the lassie of my first love, became my wife, and is the mother of my children. She will be here in a few days, and will see her old dominie." THE CONTRAST OF WIVES.[B] In the absence of that finely-adjusted balance of power which ought to be found in the state of marriage, it becomes a nice question, whether less evil results from an overstretched domination on the part of the husband, or from his due submission or subjugation to an authority exercised by her, and carried farther than is generally deemed consistent with the delicacy of her sex, or the situation in which she is placed. Connected with this question is that which comprises the comparative evil arising from a superabundance or deficiency of the intellectual powers of the wife. We are too well aware of the uselessness, as well as the impracticability, of solving such speculative questions, to say a single word on either side of the vexed argument to which they have given rise; but we will be within our province, and probably not beyond the wishes of our readers, if we lay before them a _case of real life_, involving a solution of the question in one exemplary instance, where the "grey mare" is not only found to be the "better horse," but where, by her powers of judicious leading, she saves not only herself but her partner from the dangers of a rough road and a precipitous course. In those good days of old Scotland, when the corporation hall formed the theatre wherein was enacted the great play (comedy, if you please) of "Burgh Ambition," the influence of petticoat power extended its secret workings behind the green curtain, and often regulated all the actions of the performers in a manner which was not only totally concealed from the spectators, but even from the moving puppets themselves. In one instance--that to which we have referred--this secret authority transpired, and in a manner so ludicrous that it deserves to be recorded. The incorporation of Dyers and Scourers of P---- (at the time of which we speak a considerable fraternity) had a deacon and boxmaster; the former named Murdoch Waldie, and the latter Andrew Todd. Their names still figure in the old books of the corporation, if these are not gone astray; and there is, or was, an entry in these same books, connected with the reign of the two worthies, which, illustrative and probative as it is of our story, we shall have occasion to lay before our readers. Well, to proceed in historical order, the worthy boxmaster had been married for a number of years. He might be about fifty years of age, was of small stature, very bland and affable in his manners, of an easy disposition, but, withal, as ambitious of fame as any of the aspirants for office in his corporation. Endowed by nature with very inadequate powers of judgment, he experienced no want of the powers of speech, which was as fluent as a shallow mind could make it; and he had, besides, a species of humour about him, which owed its existence rather to the simplicity and _bonhommie_ of his nature, than to the more ordinary source of a perception of the ludicrous. As almost every want is remedied by some equipollent surrogation which strangely often supplies its place, Andrew Todd was _sensible_ of his want of mental powers; and thus he exhibited that sense of a _want of sense_, which is often more valuable than sense itself, in so far as the modesty with which it is accompanied leads the individual to seek the assistance of good advisers, by which he sometimes surpasses, in the race of life, conceited wiseacres. We do not say that he married Mrs Jean Todd merely because he saw she was endowed with greater powers than himself; but it is certain that, after he came to appreciate the extent of her understanding, he had the prudence to take every advantage of her excellent sense and judgment, as well in the private affairs of his business, as in the public concerns of the corporation treasurership, with which he came, by her means, to be invested. This was not only advantageous to his pecuniary interests, but congenial to his feelings, as, getting quit, in this way, of the trouble of thinking--a most laborious operation to him, and generally very ill executed, if not altogether bungled--he was left at liberty to indulge his speech and humour; two powers which had nothing more to do with judgment or even common sense, than with the sublimated spirit of genius itself. His wife, Mrs Jean, was, as partly hinted, the very opposite of her husband. She was a large, stout, gaucy woman, at least twice as big as her mate. She had been, early in life, considerably pitted with the small-pox, enough of the traces of which were still left to give her that sturdy, hardy aspect they generally impart; while a strong and somewhat rough voice, agreeing well with her other attributes, gave her ideas and sentiments an apparent breadth and weight, which, added to their own sterling qualities, could not fail to produce a considerable effect even on men of strong minds, and to give her a decided advantage over her sex. Her original powers of mind were strengthened by reading--an occupation in which, as it required silence, her husband very seldom engaged; and, what few women are able to accomplish, she never allowed this favourite habit to interfere with the regulation of her domestic economy, or of the actions of her husband. Bold and masculine, however, as she was, she was a kind-hearted woman; and, having no family to her husband, she was a warm friend, a ready adviser to all her female acquaintances, and a charitable giver to those who, after a strict and very stern investigation, she thought worthy of her assistance. The deacon of the incorporation again, Murdoch Waldie, was a man of a very different cast from the boxmaster. He was a person of considerable parts; but his conceit, which led him to conceive himself cleverer than nature had made him, produced often all the consequences which result from a deficiency of mental parts. Proud and domineering, he loved to rule his corporation with dignity and authority; while his love of official show and domestic parade rendered him extravagant, and made him poor, notwithstanding of a good trade, which he carried on with great success. In his choice of a wife, there might have been perceived the tendency of his peculiar disposition; for he married a beauty, who qualified his love of authority by an affected softness, gentleness, and meekness, and his self-conceit, by showing herself inferior to him in understanding, as indeed she was, though she excelled him in another quality, which more than supplied its place. What with his business, his deaconship, his chain, his gold-headed cane, and his fair wife, dressed in the gaudy colours of his own dyeing, Deacon Waldie was an important personage in those times, when to be high in a corporation was to be in the enjoyment of the truest elevation to which human nature, in this world, could aspire. Vain, showy, gaudy, and frivolous, Mrs Deacon Waldie held the same position to Mrs Todd that the boxmaster did to her husband. She had no sense or power to rule her lord, who, indeed, would not have submitted to female authority; but she had what Mrs Todd wanted, and what served her purpose equally well, and that was cunning--the signal quality of small, weak minds, and the very curse of the whole race of man and woman. This insidious power enabled her to detect her husband's failings, as well as to profit by them--and hence her affectation of total subjugation to his high will and authority, and her tame system of according and assenting to everything he said or did, whether right or wrong. But in all this her selfish cunning had a part; because, while she pretended to love him, and dote on him and prize him beyond all mortals, her adulation, her blandishments, and submission were accompanied or followed always by _petitions_. She contrived to have hardihood enough to make the most unreasonable requests, and to show that she was too sensitive, too fragile, and too weak, to bear a refusal. If her suit was rejected, she flung herself upon the haughty deacon's bosom, and sobbed; and what deacon could withstand the appeal of beauty in tears? The sight was the very personification of the triumph of his pride and dignity. The chain of his official authority, and the arms of a praying, supplicating, weeping wife, hanging at the same time around his proud neck, were the very counterparts of each other. His love of subjugation bent, as it often does, his own head; and cunning enjoyed its greatest triumph in overcoming one, by turning his own weapons against himself. The contrast which we have thus exhibited between these two couples, is that of real everyday life. The characters of too many married parties partake, more or less, of the qualities possessed by those we have now mentioned; but how strangely do apparent contrasts often meet in grotesque resemblances? Mrs Todd ruled her husband, and he knew it; but Mrs Waldie ruled her husband, and he was ignorant of it: while the one followed her occupation for her own and her husband's good, the other was bent (unconsciously, it may be) on her own and her husband's ruin. These two couples were on the most intimate terms--the circumstance of the two husbands being office-bearers of the same corporation having increased an intimacy which had been of considerable duration. But there was little respect felt for her showy friends on the part of the wife of the minor official, who probably saw that their extravagance was fast driving them to ruin. This foresight was soon verified. The demands of Mrs Deacon Waldie were not limited to her own wants and wishes--they were extended to those of her friends. Her father, trusting to the reputation of her husband's deaconship, had occasion for his security to the extent of £200; and she was fixed upon as the instrument to wring, by her usual artifice, out of her proud lord and master, not only his own name to the bond, but also that of some of his friends, to be procured through his means and intercession. She had, for a considerable time, been occupied zealously in endeavouring to accomplish her object--bringing into contrast her husband's proud domination, and her innocent and interesting weakness and timidity, and showing, as she hung round his neck, her helplessness and insignificance, at the very moment when she was exercising more power than ever was arrogated by the boxmaster's wife in all her female tyranny. She succeeded in her scheme, and Waldie consented--but only as a king grants the prayer of a petition--not only to give his own name to the bill, but to endeavour to get that of Mr Andrew Todd. Tears of thankfulness, and a full acknowledgment of his great power over her, was the reward offered and granted for this great condescension and unparalleled favour. But it was more easy for Mrs Waldie to ask, and give thanks and tears, and for her husband to vouchsafe his own name as cautioner, than for him to get out of the clutches of Mrs Jean Todd the consent of her husband. The deacon knew how his brother-official was ruled by his wife, and lustily despised the white-livered caitiff for his pusillanimity. "I canna promise, Mrs Deacon Waldie," said he to his wife, according to the fashion of address that suited his dignity--"I canna promise to get the boxmaster to gie his name to yer faither's bond. He's sae completely, puir cratur! under the power and direction o' a woman, that he daurna tak sae muckle liberty wi' his ain. The woman brocht him naething when he married her, but the iron rod o' authority by which she rules him; and yet, strange to say, he seems to like her the better for a' the stern dominion she exercises owre him." "That's a fault, I'm sure, ye canna charge me wi'," replied his wife. "No, Margaret," said the deacon; "you dare not presume to dictate to me; and, to do you justice, you never attempted it; but I began ye fair. I showed you at first the proper conduct o' a husband towards his wife--firm but kind; and the duty o' a wife towards a husband--obedient and loving; and it was weel that you had the sense to understand me, and the good-nature to comply wi' my wishes; for, if I had seen the least glimpse o' an inclination to rule me or force me into yer measures, there wad sune hae been rebellion in the house o' Deacon Waldie. The consequences o' a wife's domination are weel exemplified in the case o' that contemptible man whase assistance we now require. He daurna assist a freend. His wife is cash-keeper, conscience-keeper, housekeeper, and, by and by, she may be box-keeper, to the entire disgrace o' oor trade, wha, though they live by women (for men never employ dyers), wouldna relish to acknowledge the authority o' a female boxmaster. When a man resigns himsel to the authority o' a wife, he is dune for a' guid to himsel as weel as his neebors." "Ye canna, my dear Murdoch," said the soft wife, "look upon a tame husband, wha submits to the rule o' a wife, wi' mair contemp and ill favour than I do upon the virago wha presumes to reverse the order o' nature, and wrest the authority frae the lord o' the creation." "You gie a fine turn to the sentiment, Margaret," replied the gratified deacon. "I am anxious (but it is my ain free will) to do yer faither this service; and I will try, for ance, if I canna fecht Mrs Jean Todd wi' her ain weapons. The boxmaster's no dead to shame; and surety, if there's ony power on earth whereby the blush can be brought to the face o' man, it's the power o' being in a condition to tell him to that very face he is _henpecked_. The very word has a spur and a neb in't to rouse him to the vindication o' the rights o' man. I was aye afraid o't; and, God be thanked! I hae escaped even the very chance o' its application to me." "You forgot, my love, that you hae also _me_ to thank for that happiness," said the wife. "No, it is mysel, it is mysel," cried the proud lord of his own household. "It lies in my native sense o' the rights o' our superior sex, and my firmness o' purpose in keepin the reins ticht upon ye. You hae only the merit o' no rebellin; but even your rebellion I would hae sune laid." "I fancy, then," said Mrs Waldie, gently, "it will be your intention and pleasure to see the boxmaster immediately." "No, Mrs Waldie," replied the deacon, a little touched; "not _immediately_, but by and by." The deacon, however, did almost immediately wait upon the boxmaster, and got him to adjourn to a tavern in the Lawnmarket, at that time much frequented by the members of the incorporation. They had scarcely seated themselves when the superior official opened his subject. "I am a frank man, Mr Todd," began he, "and I winna hesitate to tell ye at ance that I want a favour frae ye. Will ye join me in security for my father-in-law to the extent o' twa hunder pounds?" The boxmaster paused, and thought of the stern chamberlain at home. He was inclined to assist his deacon, who was a person of great importance in his eyes, but he saw the danger which might result from his going out of his province, and acting upon what he conceived to be right. His pause was at once understood by the deacon, whose keenness to make a dash at the supposed obstacle to his suit arose from his contempt of his friend's pusillanimous conduct, and his desire to attain the object of his request. "I can read your thoughts, Mr Todd," said he, as the boxmaster still paused, and seemed irresolute and confused. "You _wish_ to serve, but you daurna. Mrs Todd winna let ye follow the counsel o' yer ain heart. This is a delicate subject; but I am your freend, and would wish to redeem ye frae the slavery o' a woman's (and otherwise, I grant, a guid and sensible woman's) domination in matters wherein she has nae legitimate authority." He waited the effect of this speech, which was a kind of touchstone. "I see nae delicacy in a subject," replied the boxmaster, "whar there's nae secresy. How does it come to be known that my wife is my counsellor and adviser?--Because I mak nae secret o' what I hae nae reason to be ashamed o'. I dinna ken how you feel, Mr Waldie, but I think it's the pleasantest thing on earth to be, as it were, compelled to alloo yersel to be taen care o', and defended, and nursed, and petted, and ruled, by a guid wife. In my opinion, to be loved by a wife is only the half o' oor right. Ony woman may love a man--it's a woman's _trade_ to love; but when you see a dear cratur takin the pains and trouble o' governin a' yer actions--ay, and as it were, even yer very thoughts--lookin wi' a keen and carefu ee after yer maist minute affairs, regulatin yer conduct, keepin yer siller, directin yer financial, domestic, personal, private, and public operations; and, in short, _thinkin_ for ye--how is it possible for a man to see sae muckle care taen wi' him and his concerns, without bein filled wi' gratitude and affection to her wha labours sae officiously for his guid?" "Mr Andrew Todd," said the deacon, impatiently, "you are describin ane o' the maist pitifu and contemptible spirits that ever warmed the scaly body o' a reptile that has nae sting. What man wi' a spark o' independence in his breast would think o' resignin his judgment into the hands o' a woman? They are guid craturs in their ain place, and baith interestin and usefu when they are occupied in conductin the affairs o' their houses, obeyin the commands o' their husbands, and ministerin to his slichtest wishes, as if every look were an act of parliament; but, to stoop to mak a woman a counsellor, to gie her a vote in the great council o' the noble thoughts o' man's divine mind! Unheard o' humiliation! Why, man, a woman is only the twenty-fourth part o' a man, seein we hae, as the doctors say, twenty-four ribs; and we hae the authority o' Scripture for sayin that, at the very best, she is only a help to man. She was, besides, the beginnin o' a' evil. And yet this fractional thing, this help, this unlucky author o' the waes o' mortals, ye dignify and raise up into the very place and power o' yer inheritance frae Adam; reversin the order o' nature, degradin our noble sex and makin laughinstocks o' a' married men." "I'm no sure if there's muckle practical truth in a' this, deacon," said Andrew, smiling good-naturedly. "Suppose, for an instant, that, besides the satisfaction and pleasure I derive frae nestlin safely in the arms o' my wife's judgment, and courin aneath her protectin wing--whilk gies me, sometimes, a flap I like as weel as her kindest embrace--I hae discovered that her thoughts and reflections are a thousand times better than the boxmaster's--what say ye to that, deacon? I hae seen an oaken tree twenty-four times bigger than its parent, and yet a' it ever had to thank the auld stock for was an acorn. Sae, in place o' only bein a twenty-fourth part, as you say, o' man, I am satisfied I hae scarcely a twenty-fourth part o' my wife's mind; and will onybody tell me that a wise counsellor should be rejected, because she happens to be dressed in petticoats?" "Yes, Mr Todd, I will tell you that," replied the deacon. "The private sodger has dootless often a mind superior to the general's; but he maun still keep the ranks. Mind is naething in this affair--station is everything. Look at Mrs Margaret Waldie--a cleverer cratur doesna exist--that is, in her ain way; but did she ever dare to counsel me? Did she ever presume to sway or alter, in the slightest degree, the decrees o' my judgment? Na; she has owre muckle respect for the status and respectability o' her lord and maister. Rouse yersel, Andrew; tak example by me, man; act as your kind heart prompts in this freendly affair; and join me in the bond, whereby you'll incur nae danger." "I am anxious to oblige ye, deacon," said Andrew; "but I scarcely think it wad be a gratefu part in me to repay a' Mrs Jean Todd's care o' me for twenty years, by actin, in this affair, upon my ain individual and responsible judgment. I micht anger her, and she micht withdraw frae me her countenance and protection: I micht as weel lose the licht o' the sun. Ye dinna understand me, deacon; ye are made to command--I to obey. Pressure brings out the power o' the spring; and a' my happiness in life is produced and brocht out by the weight o' the judgment and authority o' Mrs Jean Todd. Her very mind seems to hae passed into mine; and I feel, when I'm thinking her thoughts, a satisfaction I never feel when my ain are passin, like unbidden ghaists, through my mind. But surely I hae some excuse: is she no a noble cratur? How she maks a body shake wi' the sound o' her voice, and the solidity o' her thoughts! and how beautifully she softens doun the impression o' her authority, by restorin, wi' a half-severe, half-kind sort o' a smile, peculiar to hersel, the confidence she frightened awa by the mere force o' her superior intellect!" "How beautifully, in short, Andrew," said the deacon, "are you _henpecked_! That is the very soul and marrow o' a' ye hae uttered." "Ay; and I glory to be pecked by _such_ a hen!" cried Andrew, with sparkling eyes, and a real and unsophisticated appearance of triumph. The deacon, notwithstanding of his anxiety to get the bond signed, laughed outright at this tremendous sally of the boxmaster's enthusiasm of servitude; but it was a laugh of derision, and he forgot that he was himself daily losing more feathers, by a silent process of peculation going on under his wing, than were taken from Andrew by the conservative operation of his wife's billing and cooing. "Then I suppose you will not refuse my request?" said the deacon, "seein you glory in the _henpeckin_ it may produce. Seriously, will ye comply wi' my request?" "Seriously, deacon, I am inclined to oblige ye," replied Andrew, "if I could get Mrs Jean to agree to it. I'll try her this very nicht. I can say nae mair." The deacon could make no more of him. He went home, and reported the result of the negotiation to his wife, who despaired of success, but overpowered her husband with thanks for what he had done. She had a secret wish that he should do more--viz., call upon Mrs Jean Todd herself, and solicit her. The difficulty of accomplishing this was to herself apparent; but she was determined to carry her point in some way or another; so she straightway began to weep bitterly, crying that her father would be ruined; but never hinting any remedy for her distress. This paroxysm of affected grief produced its usual effect upon the proud husband; who, hard as a rock when attempted to be dictated to, was as weak as a child when attacked with tears, and an apparent helpless subjugation to his high will. He took the weeping wife in his arms, and asked her what more he could do to assist her father in this emergency. "There's only ae way," said she, wiping her eyes; "there's just ae remedy for our case." "What is it, my love?" said the deacon. "I canna mention't," said the cunning wife. "It's against a' the high and proud feelins o' yer noble natur." "But we are sometimes obliged to sacrifice our feelins," said the gratified deacon. "Speak, my dear Margaret; ye ken wha ye're speakin to. What is your remedy?" "It's to ca' upon Mrs Jean Todd yersel," said she, holding away her head, while another burst of tears overtook her voluntarily. The deacon started back in amazement. The request _was_ against all the feelings of his nature. The proud stickler for marital rule was in an extraordinary position: first, his wife was governing him at that moment, unknown to himself; and, secondly, he was requested to sue, at the feet of a woman, for liberty to her husband to act as he chose. "Margaret," said the deacon, "_you_, I am sure, dinna ask me to overturn, at ae blow, a' the principles o' my life, conversation, and conduct?" "Na, Murdoch," said she, throwing her arms round his neck, and weeping again--"na, na; _I_ dinna _ask_ ye." "But ye maybe wish it, my dear Peggy," replied he, whimpering. "Necessity is a great power: maybe ye feel _compelled_ to wish it." "Maybe I do," said the wife, with another burst. "Weel, Peggy, dry up yer tears, my love," said the conquered lord; "I'll awa to Mrs Jean Todd." And he was as good as his word. Away he went, to recognise that authority in a wife which he so heartily despised, and to which he was himself, at the very moment, bowing his head. He took the bill with him, with the view of taking advantage of a compliance upon the instant, as he feared the effects of a night's reconsideration. He found the couple in a curious position. They were sitting, one on each side of the fire. Mrs Jean Todd had on her spectacles; but her book was lying on the table. Mr Todd was apparently doing nothing; but he was thinking more deeply, and with more difficulty, than was his partner, who was occupied doubtless in digesting what she had been reading. Mr Todd was, in truth, at that very moment in the very act of endeavouring to call up courage to tell his wife the import of the deacon's request, and to make some attempt at supporting his petition. A few words had passed previous to the entry of the deacon. "I had a lang sederunt wi' our worthy deacon the day," said Andrew. "He's no an ill body, the deacon. I canna forget the trouble he took on my appointment to the honourable office o' boxmaster." "It was _I_ that made ye boxmaster, Andrew," said Mrs Jean Todd. "I commanded the suffrages o' the hail corporation. Deacon Waldie couldna hae opposed me. I was at the blind side o' the electors, through their wives; and what man could hae dared to compete wi' the electors' wives, when they were determined to vote for me? The deacon professes to laugh at _our_ authority. Puir man! he forgets, or doesna see, that there's no a man in the hail corporation wha is mair ruled, and mair dangerously ruled, by his wife than he is! She'll ruin him; and that ye'll sune see. Nae tradesman could stand her extravagance; and, I understand, she cunningly contrives to get him to assist _her_ friends, and to despise and disregard his ain. How different is my conduct! Your friends, Andrew, I hae assisted; and the only thing I ever left to your unassisted judgment was the benefiting o' mine." This sensible speech had, as the sun does the fire, extinguished Andrew's mental cogitations, and put out his courage. A silence had reigned for several minutes, when Mr Deacon Waldie entered. Drawing in a chair, he commenced-- "The boxmaster would doubtless be tellin ye, madam," said he, "that I wanted a sma' favour aff him. My wife's father requires a bill for intromissions the noo to the extent o' twa hunder pounds, and the employers insist upon twa securities. They micht hae been content wi' mysel; but, seein they hae refused my single name, I hae asked Andrew to gie his, as a mere matter o' form, alang wi' my ain. I dinna doot" (looking into Mrs Jean Todd's face, and attempting to laugh) "that ye may hae _some_ influence wi' the boxmaster. He's quite _against_ it" (looking at Andrew, and winking--a device observed by the quick-eyed dame), "though there's nae danger; and I hae, therefore, come at ance to the fountain-head o' a' authority. Just say to the boxmaster that he ought sae far to oblige a freend, and the bill, which I hae here in my hand, will be signed in an instant." This speech was understood in a moment by Mrs Jean Todd. The manner of her husband previous to the entry of the deacon--the deacon's visit so soon after the meeting, his speech, his wink, and all together--satisfied her that her husband was inclined to sign the bill, and that they had laid their heads together to accomplish their object by the manoeuvre to which they had thus resorted. Her pride and honesty made her despise these underhand and crooked schemes; but her prudence prevented her from showing either her penetration or her feelings. There was one thing, however, which she was determined not to countenance. She knew that Deacon Waldie despised, and, indeed, openly, and at all times, and often in her own presence, denounced the husband who allowed himself to be dictated to by his wife; and now he was in the very act of proving that her husband was worthy of that denouncement, and that she herself was the individual who, by exercising authority over her husband, had degraded him, and rendered him the subject of the deacon's scorn. This hurt her beyond bearing; but she was determined that she should not recognise this imputed authority. At the same time, she could not allow her husband to be ruined; and the question was, how she should act in these trying circumstances? Her quick mind was soon at work. For some time she contrived to prevent an awkward silence from sitting down upon them and producing embarrassment; and this she accomplished by putting a few insignificant questions to the deacon regarding his father-in-law, while she was deliberating with herself what she was to do, and how she was to escape from the dilemma in which she was situated. In the first place, she caught her husband's eye, through which the charm of her authority could generally be very easily sent. She endeavoured to retain his glance, and to show that she was decidedly opposed to this scheme, and saw through all its bearings. Without altogether losing this hold of Andrew, she directed a prudent and cautious speech to the ears of the deacon. "I winna affect, Mr Deacon Waldie," said she, "notwithstanding I hae often heard yer sentiments on the subject o' the authority o' wives--I winna affect either to be ignorant o' my husband's affairs, or to be careless o' what concerns baith him and me. I will say further, that I dinna hesitate to gie him a guid advice when I think he requires it; for out o' many counsellors comes wisdom; and, as Solomon says, 'every purpose is established by counsel.' Though 'a good wife,' says the same wise man, 'layeth her hands to the spindle, and her hands holdeth the distaff,' her business doesna finish there; for he adds, that 'the heart o' her husband doth safely trust in her, so that he shall have no fear o' spoil.' But there's a limit to a wife's interference. You say my husband has already declared his opinion" (looking at Andrew)--"why then should I be asked to overturn the resolution o' his ain mind and judgment? If my advice had been asked in time, it would hae been given; but I canna think o' endeavourin to overrule my master, when ance his mind is made up and his resolution fixed." She rose as she finished this judicious speech, and left the room, kindly bidding the deacon good-night. Both the men were surprised. The deacon was chagrined. The boxmaster was left in great doubt and perplexity. Both had great cause; for the first was caught in his own snare, and the latter had had thrown upon him a superabundance of power and authority in forming his own judgments that he never got awarded to him before. The deacon was determined not to lose his ground. _The dame had left the matter in the hands of the boxmaster_. That was a great point gained; and he set about to convince Andrew that he was left at liberty to do as he chose. But the worthy boxmaster had very great doubts and scruples upon the subject, and wished to follow Mrs Jean, to consult her in private. To this again the deacon could not give his consent; but continued to pour into the ears of the irresolute boxmaster all the arguments he could muster, to satisfy him that the construction he had put upon Mrs Jean Todd's speech was favourable to the exercise of his liberty, at least in this case. The position was scarcely denied by Andrew; but he could not get out of his mind the expression of his wife's eye. He had read in it a denial and a reproof. At the same time, he could not reconcile it with her speech, which was entirely different from anything of the kind he had ever witnessed. Her opinions were always ready and decided; and he never saw her shrink from declaring a difference of sentiment, when she entertained an opinion different from his. Why, then, did she in this instance depart from her ordinary course? The question was difficult to answer. It seemed that she _did actually_ in a manner leave it to himself. The deacon seemed to be right in his construction; and his arguments were almost unanswerable. "If," said he, "Mrs Jean Todd had been hostile to this measure, would she not have declared it _manfully_, as is her uniform practice in similar cases?" The boxmaster could not answer the question satisfactorily; and the deacon, continuing his arguments, persuasions, promises, and flatteries, at last got the victim to put his name to the bill. Upon the instant the door opened, and Mrs Jean Todd appeared before them. She went forward to the table, and laid her hand upon the document. "Is that your signature, sir?" said she, looking calmly at her husband. "Ou ay--I believe, yes--I did put my name to that paper," replied Andrew, in great agitation; "but I thocht ye left me to do as I chose when ye gaed oot. If ye didna want me to sign it, ye shouldna hae left the room." "A bill is no a bindin document," continued she, without seeming to attend to what the boxmaster said, "until it be delivered. It's no delivered sae lang as it is in my hands; and never will be delivered by me sae lang as I recollect the words o' the wise man o' the east, wha said--'If thou be surety for thy friend, thou art snared with the words o' thy mouth.' Yet this paper is no my property. The stamp is yours, though my husband's name is still his." Turning to the boxmaster, who was shaking and retaining his breath with pure fear--"Do you stand by this, sir," said she, in a commanding voice, which increased his fear, "or do ye repent o't?" "I repent o't," replied Andrew, with dry lips, and a gurgling of the throat, as if he had been on the eve of choking. "Then, I fancy," continued Mrs Jean Todd, "ye would like yer name back again?" "Ou ay--surely," replied Andrew. "Well, then," said she, as she with the greatest coolness took up her scissors that hung by her side, and with affected precision cut away his name; "there it is"--handing it to him. And turning to the deacon--"The rest is yours, sir--I hae nae richt to meddle wi' your name--there's yer paper"--returning to him the mutilated bill. At this operation the deacon stared with a stupified look of wonder and contempt. He had never before seen so cool an example of female rule and marital weakness; and his pride, his selfishness, and his spite were all roused and interested by the extraordinary sight. He was too much affected for indulging in a vulgar expression of feelings which could not adequately be expressed by mere language. Taking up his hat, and casting upon the boxmaster a look of sovereign contempt, and upon Mrs Jean Todd one of anger, he bowed as low as a deacon ought to do, and left the room. The circumstance produced no very unpleasant consequences to either the boxmaster or his wife. She, no doubt, reproved him for his stupidity; but the point of her wrath was turned away by the repentance and soft words of her husband, who promised never to do the like again. He had, besides, some defence, arising out of her dubious conduct, which, though quite easily understood, he could not well comprehend. The naïvete of his statement, that "she shouldna hae left him unprotected," was quite enough to have mollified a much sterner woman than Mrs Jean Todd, and during that same night they were a far happier couple than Deacon Waldie and his fair spouse. When the deacon went home, and reported the extraordinary proceeding to his obedient wife, the grief it occasioned was in some degree overcome, on the part of the husband, by the favourable contrast it enabled him to form between the boxmaster and his wife, and him and his obedient spouse. Mrs Waldie did all in her power to aid the operation; but she did not forget the bill, which her father was pressing hard to procure. "Surely every man's no under the rule o' his wife," said she, with the view to leading to another cautioner. "No, God be thanked!" said the deacon, "there are some independent men i' the world besides mysel. Every husband's no _henpecked_. Every man that has a wife doesna 'glory' in being 'pecked by _such_ a hen.'" "There's William M'Gillavry," said the sly wife, in a soft and unassuming tone; "_he_ is independent o' his wife." "Do ye mean, Peggy, that I should get him to sign the bill?" "Na," replied she, "I dinna say that; I merely meant that he was an independent man like you, wha, if _ye asked_ him to do it, wouldna refuse on such a ground as the want o' consent o' his wife. Oh, what will my puir faither do? I canna live if he is in sorrow and perplexity." (Weeping.) "I saw William M'Gillavry yesterday. He asked kindly for ye. Ye haena visited him for a lang time. Twa husbands sae like each other might meet oftener, and twa wives, wha agree in the ae grand point o' submittin to the authority o' their lords and masters, might, wi' advantage, be greater gossips than we hae been." "Might I try William, think ye, Margaret?" said he. "My puir advice canna be o' muckle avail to ye," said she; "ye ken best yersel; but I think, _if_ he were asked, he wadna refuse the sma' favour." "I see you wish me to try him, Peggy," said he; "and I _will_ try him." Away hastened the deacon to William M'Gillavry. He found him at home; and, as a deacon, was well received. Having opened the subject to him, he found that M'Gillavry was not inclined to become cautioner, unless he got put into his hands some security, that, in the event of his being called upon to pay the money, he might, in the end, be safe. This proposition was not expected by the deacon, who did not possess any portable security that he could give. He endeavoured to get his friend to be satisfied with his own obligation, to keep him scatheless against all the effects of his obligation; but the other would not agree to this, and, pretending to be called away by some one, left the room for a little, promising to be back instantly. In the meantime, the deacon heard a conflict of words in an adjoining apartment, in the course of which several half-sentences met his ear. The wordy war was between William M'Gillavry and his wife. Her notes were shrill and high, and repeatedly she said--"Get my brither John's bill frae him"--"that will do"--"he, puir fallow! canna pay't, at ony rate, and I want to save him frae the hands o' the law." The deacon did not understand this broken conversation; but he could easily perceive that his friend was taking the advice of his wife. The words of old Fleming's ballad of evil wives came into his mind:-- "An evil wyfe is the werst aught That ony man can haif, For he may never sit in saught Onless he be her sklaif." As he muttered the last words, forgetful of his own case, his friend entered. "My wife's brither," said he, "has a bill in your corporation's box for £250. You can impledge that in my hands, and I'll sign yer father-in-law's security." "The corporation's property's no mine," answered the deacon; "I hae, besides, nae power owre't; the bill's i' the box, and Mr Andrew Todd has the key." "I ken that," replied the other (who was a dishonest man), with a knowing wink; "but ye can easily get haud o' the paper, and I'll gie ye a back letter that I winna use't unless I'm obliged to pay yer father-in-law's debt. Naebody will ever hear o't." The proposition did not altogether please the deacon, who, though very far from being an upright man, did not care about his frailty being known to another. He said he would think of what had passed between them, and came away. His wife, when he came home, was waiting in the greatest anxiety. Her father had called in the meantime, and told her, that, if he did not get the bill immediately, with two good names upon it, he would be put in jail. This alarmed his daughter, who, if she could save her father, cared little for the ruin of her husband. She heard with deep anguish the announcement of another disappointment. Having been weeping before he came in, her eyes were red and swollen, and the bad intelligence again struck the fountain of her tears, and made her weep and moan bitterly. The deacon was moved at the picture of distress. He had not told her William M'Gillavry's proposition, but only simply that he had refused, unless adequate security were put into his hands. His wife's grief wrung from him every satisfaction he could bestow; for he could not stand and witness the sorrow of his tender and obedient partner, while there remained any chance of ameliorating her anguish. "There is ae way, Peggy, o' gettin this affair managed," said he, at last. "What is that?" said she, looking up, and throwing back her curls, which, amidst all her grief, were never forgot. "William M'Gillavry's wife's brother," said he, "is awin our corporation £250; and his bill for that sum is in our corporation box. He says he would sign the bill to your father, if I gave him his brother-in-law's bill to hauld in security; but I'm no quite sure if that wad be honest." "Thae things lie far out o' a weak woman's way," said she. "We haena the power o' mind possessed by you men; but, if I were entitled to speak a word on the subject, I would say there was nae dishonesty whar there was nae wrang. Ye ken the signin o' my faither's bill's a mere form; and, if William M'Gillavry's brither-in-law's bill were taen out the box, it would just be put back again. Correct me, my dear Murdoch, if ye think me wrang." "I dinna think ye're far wrang, Peggy," said the deacon; "but how is William M'Gillavry's brither-in-law's bill to be got out o' our corporation box? There's the difficulty--and I needna ask a woman how that's to be got owre." "Na, Murdoch--ye needna ask me that question," replied the wife. "It's far beyond the reach o' my puir brain; but, if it's in the power o' ony mortal man to say how a difficulty o' that kind's to be mastered, it is in that o' Murdoch Waldie. Maybe ye may gie't a cast through yer powerfu mind. Oh! if ye saw my distractit faither! He left me just as you cam in, wi' the tears o' sorrow rinnin doun his auld cheeks. Will ye think o't, my dear Murdoch?" (embracing him) "What's weel intended canna be wrang; and what's planned by a mind like yours canna fail." "I couldna get the key frae Andrew Todd," said the gratified deacon, "unless I told him an untruth." "A lee for guid has been justified," said the wife. "Rahab was approved for hiding the spies, and denyin their presence; but I couldna ask ye to imitate Rahab. I hae nae richt to dictate to my husband." "But wouldna ye _wish_ me, my dear Peggy, to stretch a point to get yer faither's tears dried up, and yer ain stopped? Dinna hesitate, Peggy--speak yer mind bauldly--I'll forgie ye." "Ou ay," whimpered the gentle dame. "If Rahab was justified, sae will Murdoch Waldie be forgiven." "Weel--I'll try the boxmaster again," said the deacon. Next day, accordingly, he threw himself in the way of Mr Andrew Todd. The boxmaster had been in the corporation hall, and was returning home to deposit the key of the box in the place where he kept it. The deacon got him inveigled into a public-house, where, when they had seated themselves, he saw that Mr Todd was blushing scarlet, doubtless at the recollection of the scene that had taken place the day before. "Ye needna be ashamed, Andrew," said the deacon, "at the conduct of Mrs Jean Todd. _Ye_ werena to blame--I assoilzie ye. Think nae mair o't. You can just sign a fresh bill. I'll buy the stamp round the corner at Dickson's, and we can draw it out here." "I beg yer pardon," replied Andrew; "I maunna get into that scrape again. I'll never resist the authority o' Mrs Jean Todd mair on earth. To her I owe my boxmastership--my trade--my status--my health--my happiness--and a' that's worth livin for in this evil warld; and she will never hae it to say again, that I'm no gratefu for the care she taks o' me, and the love she bears to me. Let the warld say, if they like, that I am henpecked--I dinna care." "Weel, weel," replied the deacon; "we were speakin o' bills. Are ye quite sure that ye haena allowed the days o' grace in Templeton's bill to expire? There's indorsers there; and if it is as I suspect, ye've lost recourse, and may be liable for the debt." "Mercy on us!" cried the terrified Andrew. "It's impossible. Dinna say't. Let me count." (Using his fingers). "Count, deacon--count, man." "I think we had better see the bill itsel," cried the deacon. "Where's the key?" "Here it is," replied the simple boxmaster, taking it out. "Give it to me," said the deacon, taking it out of Andrew's hand; "we'll sune see if the bill's past due." Waldie hurried out of the room, telling Andrew, as he went out, that he would come back, and inform him how the fact stood. The mind of the boxmaster was now too much occupied about the danger of having allowed the days of grace to pass without intimation to the indorsers on the bill, to have any space left for doubting the honesty of the deacon. The suspicion of having been cajoled never approached him; he sat and sipped the liquor that lay before him, occupied all the time in a brown study, with the thought continually rising--"What will Mrs Jean Todd say to my stupidity, in making myself responsible for the amount of Templeton's bill? It will ruin me; and a' her care and prudence will in an instant be scattered to the winds." He still sat, expecting the deacon to return with the required information. Half-an-hour passed, and no deacon came; but a messenger came with a note, stating that all was quite safe, and that, as something had occurred to prevent the writer from returning to the tavern, he had sent that intelligence, to ease his mind, and that he would return the key in the course of the day. Andrew's mind was relieved by this statement; he paid the tavern-keeper for the liquor, and went away, to resume his ordinary occupations. At dinner-time he went home; and, during the meal, he began talking again about Deacon Waldie. "After a'," said he, "he is a guid cratur, the deacon. After the usage he got here last nicht, wha could hae thocht he wad hae taen ony interest in my affairs?" "Ye dinna require an assistant," replied Mrs Jean Todd, "sae lang as I live." "That's true," replied Andrew; "but the deacon has dune for me what ye couldna hae dune." "What is that?" inquired the wife. "He apprised me o' the danger I stood in," replied the boxmaster, "anent Templeton's bill, that's in the corporation box. I had forgotten the date o' its becomin due, and he brocht it to my mind. A's safe yet." The very word "bill" made Mrs Todd prick up her ears. "I hae lang thocht," replied she, "that yer corporation papers, at least yer bills, which require greater care than the rest, should be placed here, under my protection. The circumstance that has occurred this day proves that I am richt. Let us awa to the hall this instant, and bring hame a' the papers that are valuable, and for which you may be responsible. Is the key on the hook?" "No; but I'm on the hook," muttered Andrew to himself, as he began for the first time to suspect he had been duped. "No," said he aloud. "Give it to me, then," said she. "It will be in yer pocket, dootless." Andrew began to exhibit symptoms of fear, which were in an instant perceived and understood by the quick-eyed dame, who was accustomed to _look_ for indications of that kind. She saw that something was wrong. He remained silent, and his agitation increased as she fixed upon him her piercing, relentless eye. "Give me the key, man," said she, in an angry tone. He still remained silent; his agitation increased, and he trembled in every limb. "There's something wrang, Andrew," said she. "Tell me what it is. I'm no angry. By tryin to conceal it, ye may ruin us baith; by tellin me, we may hae a chance o' bein saved. Come, now, has Deacon Waldie the key?" "Ay," said Andrew, in a low tone. "He asked me for't, to see if the bill was past due, and said he would come back wi't; but he never made his appearance." The good dame said not a word. She saw the necessity for promptitude, and, running to her bedroom, hurriedly dressed herself. In a few minutes she was on her way to the corporation hall. In a few minutes more she arrived; and, having got admittance, placed herself in a recess, where the incorporation box was deposited, and so disposed herself as that she might see whether any person interfered with the treasury. In a short time Deacon Waldie entered the hall, and, with secret furtive steps, approached the box. He looked about him, but did not perceive the dame, who, as she saw him approach, retired back farther into the recess. He took out the key, and applied it to the lock. It was now time for Mrs Todd to save her husband. Starting quickly out of the recess, she walked solemnly and dignifiedly up to the official, before whom she presented herself with a low curtsey. "How are you, Mr Deacon Waldie?" said she, repeating her curtsey, and looking at him with an eye that pierced him to the heart. The deacon, who was a great stickler for etiquette, felt himself, as he saw the dame curtseying before him, compelled to return the compliment; but the consciousness of guilt, the cutting satire of the dame's courteous demeanour, the surprise at seeing her there, and his fear of being exposed, all operated so strongly, that his bow was checked, and transformed into a low cringe, making him appear only half his natural size; while the consciousness of rectitude, and the superiority of virtue, swelled out the breast of his silent accuser, and added apparently to her physical proportions. Recovering himself in some degree-- "I was just about to examine our corporation papers," said he, irresolutely. "I like to assist Mr Todd in his _official_ capacity, while _you_ keep him right in his _private_ affairs." "Between the twa," replied the dame, without changing her countenance, "he maun be weel taen care o'." As she said this, she quietly and deliberately took the key out of the lock; and into a large red cloth pocket, which hung alongside of a pair of scissors, with which the deacon was already well acquainted (having tested their sharpness), she deposited the important instrument. She then made another low curtsey. "Guid-day to ye, Mr Deacon Waldie!" she said, as she departed; "mak my best respects to Mrs Deacon Waldie, and to her worthy father." The deacon stood stiff with amazement, looking after the erect, dignified figure of Mrs Jean Todd, as she walked slowly along the hall of the incorporation to the door. He skulked off in the best way he could; but she, with erect body and noble carriage, directed her steps homeward, where she found her husband in a state of intense fear and anxiety, both on account of the danger he was exposed to, and of the meeting that was about to take place with his wife. On the latter account, there might apparently have been little reason for apprehension; for their meetings were very unlike those mentioned in the old song-- "Then up scho gate ane mekle rung, And the gudeman he made to the door; Quoth he, 'Dame, I sall hald my tung, For an we fecht, I'll get the woir.'" Her mode of conducting her rule was different _toto cælo_. She walked into the house with the same erect carriage she usually exhibited, especially when upon duty, and closing the door after her, without using any such jealous precaution as turning the key in the lock--a mode of enforcing the conjugal authority she despised--she went up to the table where her husband sat, with his hand upon his brow. That flag of distress she paid little attention to; for she had often before seen Andrew endeavour to make her own pity plead the cause of his imprudence. "Here is the key of the treasury-box, Mr Todd," said she. Andrew was greatly relieved; but wonder took the place of his fear, for he could not conceive how his wife could so soon have got the key out of the hands of the deacon--and yet for certain the key was before his eyes. "See you that ring?" continued the dame, holding out a steel key-hoop, on which were hung a score of keys, shining as bright as silver, from the eternal motion to which they were exposed in the red pocket of their mistress. "Ay, weel do I see it," replied Andrew, "and weel do I ken't. It is by that magic ring that a' my guids and gear are girded and prevented frae fa'in into the staves o' that bankruptcy and ruin I threatened this day to bring upon them." The dame replied nothing to the remark of her husband, though she was inwardly well pleased to see him penitent; but, opening the spring-clasp, she deliberately placed the treasury-box key upon the ring, along with the score of others that had hung there for a score of years. She did not deign to accompany this act by a single word of objurgation. Her faith rested altogether upon the ring, and to have tried to add to the security it afforded her, by impressing her husband with a deeper sense of his imprudence, appeared to her to be sheer supererogation. Opening the entrance to her red "pouch," she consigned, with a suitable admonitory jingle, the whole bunch to the keeping of that huge conservatory of the virtues of "hussyskep." She then resumed her ordinary duties, and Andrew was delighted to have "got off," as he inwardly termed his relief, with so easily-borne a reproof of his weakness and imprudence. The circumstances we have here narrated became, some time after, known to the public, through what channel it would be difficult to say, although it is not improbable that the boxmaster, vain of the protecting care of his wife, had given some hint of it, which, having been taken advantage of by Deacon Waldie's enemies, gave rise to reports, and latterly to a true exposition of the whole affair. The effect of such a transaction upon the credit of any man could not fail to be ruinous. In a very short time Deacon Waldie became suspected and shunned--no one would trust him, few would deal with him; and, before the termination of the period of his deaconship, he failed--falling thus a victim to that female domination he so much dreaded, and for submitting to which he so much despised his friend the boxmaster. The fate of Mr Todd was signally different. At the end of the period of his office, there was a special meeting called of the trade, for the purpose of making a vote of thanks to their official, for saving the incorporation-box from spoliation, and presenting him with a small piece of plate, in commemoration of his services. This was a delicate matter. The members knew well to whom they owed the obligation; but they could not, in a public hall, declare that their boxmaster was assisted in his official capacity by his wife, and, therefore, they resolved upon taking no notice of the _real boxmaster_; who, however, like all good wives, would be gratified by the notice that was taken of her husband. The vote of thanks was accordingly moved by the chairman, and supported by a very good speech. Mr Todd rose to reply:-- "Gentlemen," he said, "ye maunna think that I am sae blind as no to see what is yer true meanin, concealed though it be under this thick veil o' courtesy and delicate regard to my feelins. Ye want to try to conceal frae me that ye ken how muckle baith you and I are obliged to a sensible and discreet woman; and ye hae twa reasons for this: _first_, ye dinna like to acknowledge that ye are indebted to a woman for savin frae the hands o' the spoiler the incorporation-box; and, _secondly_, ye dinna like to say that yer boxmaster is under the kindly care and protection o' his guidwife. Now, as to the first, I leave it in yer ain hands; but as to the second, I will free ye frae a' delicacy and difficulty, for I here acknowledge and declare, wi' pride and pleasure, that Mrs Jean Todd is my counsellor and adviser in a' my affairs, baith public and private; and mony a time she has kept me frae that ruin whilk my ain wit and wisdom never could hae saved me frae. I dinna need to say that it was that admirable woman wha saved the incorporation-box: the thing is already owre the town, and dootless kenned to ye a', and, I warrant ye, also to yer wives. Why, then, should I accept o' honour I never wrocht for, and couldna hae merited by a' the power and skill o' my puir abilities? 'The labourer is worthy o' his hire.' 'Honour to him to whom honour is due.' I therefore move that the thanks ye intended for me should be offered to Mrs Jean Todd--to whom also, wi' your permission, I would suggest that the piece o' silver-plate should be presented." This speech produced much laughter throughout the hall. Some humorous member relished the idea, and, standing up, seconded the boxmaster's motion. "A' our difficulty has vanished," he began; "and glad am I to see that the honour we intended for the _real_ conservator o' our corporation-box may be, through the noble spirit o' our _nominal_ boxmaster, communicated without the intervention o' a deputy. I second Mr Todd's motion, because I admire his spirit, and because I rejoice in an opportunity of doing justice to thae great conservators o' our sex--the strong-minded, gaucy, thrifty, and loving wives o' Scotland, to whom our very nation (if it were kenned) awes the character it has acquired owre the face o' the earth, for its prudence, its honesty, and its trustworthiness. Weel do I ken that the dear craturs hae suffered for their exertions in the cause o' our sex, and their authority has been attempted to be put an end to by drunken caitiffs, wha, wantin the nobility o' mind to admire and _serve_ wham they canna equal, blaw up their pot-companions against petticoat authority, by dubbin them _henpecked_, forgettin, the wretched craturs, that that very hen supplies often the egg, at least clocks to preserve it for future increase. The very men the dear craturs feed, and clothe, and protect, and cherish, sing in the pot-houses that they want their liberty-- 'Becaus their wifis hes maistery, That they dar nawayis cheip; Bot gif it be in privity, Quhan thair wifis are in sleip.' And, while the sang is birrin through the fumes o' the ale, thae very wives are busy toilin to hae the singers weel fed, cled, and cared for, in a' their concerns. What a noble example, on the other side o' the question, has Mr Todd this day exhibited! Wives are generally honoured through their husbands. He shall be honoured through his wife. What I hae said, I believe will meet wi' the approbation o' this meetin; but I'm no sae sure o' the success o' what comes--because I propose to tak a sma' liberty wi' the English language, and, by a kind o' a trope or figure o' speech, to keep the name, while we boldly change the thing. I'm weel aware that our minutes bear that _Mr_ Todd is our boxmaster; but we ken better than that, and we, whase trade it is to change colours, can hae nae difficulty in reconcilin the tints. I therefore move, as an amendment, that the piece o' plate be presented at once to Mrs Jean Todd, _our boxmaster_." The suggestion took; the humour was relished; the minutes were altered; the name of Mrs Jean Todd was substituted for Mr Andrew Todd; and the books of the incorporation bore, and bear to this day, that the plate had been presented to Mrs Jean Todd, "_their boxmaster_," as a memorial of the gratitude of the trade for her exertions in saving the incorporation's treasury. THE PROFESSOR'S TALES. THE SOCIAL MAN. As we look upon the title of our tale, now that we have written it, we cannot suppress a shudder of horror. Like the handwriting on the wall, it seems typical of misery, revolution, and death. Revolution and death, do we say? What revolution, in the common sense of the word--we mean in a political one--was ever productive of such deplorable effects, as that moral revolution to which the bottle bears the social man?--what death, viewed merely as a physical evil, can be compared to that moral and intellectual destruction to which the good fellow so often subjects himself? It is no palliation of the evil to say that the social man is led by the best qualities of his heart, by the noblest faculties of his intellect, into the path which leads to utter wretchedness--to remorse, disease, and premature death in this world; and, if the combined testimony of reason and revelation be sufficient to establish any fact--to punishment in the next. Our faculties are good or bad only according as they are cultivated or controlled; and we cannot see that the unregulated social feelings which lead a man to plunge into dissipation, and to drag his friends along with him into the gulf of vice, are a whit less dangerous or fearful than the universally execrated disposition which impels him to plunge a dagger into his own heart, or to bury it in the bosom of his fellow-creature. On the contrary, they seem calculated to produce even greater mischief, and, therefore, are more worthy of general deprecation, in the same degree that a secret enemy is more deserving of universal abhorrence than an avowed one: the one stands forth with an open defiance, and a weapon drawn before the eyes of his victim, who may save himself by flight or conflict--the other "smiles, and smiles, and murders while he smiles." How many noble beings have we known, destroyed utterly by the disposition to what is vulgarly called good-fellowship!--in how many instances have we known splendid talents, high love of moral rectitude, nay, even strong religious principles, strangled by the social feelings! At first, doubtless, there was but a slight dereliction of duty, mourned for sincerely, and punished by severe remorse; but, gradually, and with insidious motion, the victim revolved in a wider sphere, and more remote from the orbit of virtue, until, at length, escaping entirely from the attraction which had held him in the just path, he fell, with headlong and irresistible velocity, into the shapeless void of vice--the dark chaos of crime. Our heart sickens as we pass in review before us the numbers of our early friends who have run this terrific career, who now fill timeless graves, or are yet in the land of existence, bearing about in their bosoms a living hell--whose hearts are already sepulchres. And, but that we thought the relation we are about to deliver may be of service to some who, already standing on the brink, are not fully aware of their danger--but that we conceived the tale of talent, generosity, and worth, miserably destroyed by the unregulated social feelings, may arrest some kindred spirit in its path to unanticipated misery--we should yield to the impulse which urges us to fling down our pen, and give ourselves up to sorrow for the departed. William Riddell was the only son of a shepherd, who dwelt upon the moorlands that overhang one of the tributaries of the Tweed. The old man was one of those characters which have been so often and so well described--a stern, grave, intelligent, religious Scottish shepherd. The broad Lowland bonnet did not cover a shrewder head than old David Riddell's; nor did the hodden grey coat, throughout wide Scotland, wrap a warmer or more honest heart. His honesty was manifest to all--the warmth of his feelings was latent, and required to be struck by strong emotion, ere it was developed externally. The solitary influences of nature, when habitually contemplated in her more wild and solemn aspects, seem calculated to mould minds of good natural capabilities, but which are shut out from the social acquisition of knowledge, into forms like that of David Riddell's. If they all, like the nature which has breathed its spirit into them, seem somewhat rugged and stern, they all, like her also, bear the sterling stamp of sincerity. The elements, which "are not flatterers, but counsellors that feelingly persuade him what he is," are his familiar companions--among the remote valleys, and along the precipitous mountain-sides, and upon the wide moorlands, their irresistible power leads him to look with awe up to their Creator and Controller, and humility also is impressed upon him; but with these a confident reliance on the mercy and benevolence of the Being who regulates them is naturally produced: and thus it is, that, with this awe and humility, a slavish fear is no portion of his character; for he has been in the heart of a thousand mists, and has yet returned safely to his cottage ingle--he has braved the storms of many winters, and still looks, with a prophetic eye, upon the fresh green of approaching springs, and the purple heath-blooms of coming summers. In a mind thus constituted, duplicity can never dwell. There are millions who, shut up in cities, and shrinking from the inclemency of the seasons, look on the shepherd of the mountains as one worthy only of commiseration--who paint him as a wretch whose soul is as barren as his moorlands, and think of him as a slave, wandering, with vacant mind and wearied frame, over gloomy solitudes, earning with misery to-day the food which enables his body to bear the toil of to-morrow. How wide is this of the truth!--The sweet and tranquil joys of home are his, enhanced a thousand-fold by previous privation--the delights of connubial and filial love are more keenly felt by him, in the simplicity of nature, than by the luxurious citizen or the ermined noble; and though he has never heard the chant of the cathedral choir, or listened to the consecrated melody of an organ peal, the sublime transports of religion have thrilled his bosom beneath the solitary sky, amid the wild, or by the margin of the cataract that rolls its unvisited torrent over nameless cliffs. It is a mistaken belief that poverty and toil shut the shepherd's eyes from the loveliness of nature--nor is it true, that, because he is rude in speech, and possessed of little book-learning, he does not feel keenly, and translate faithfully, the beautiful language which she utters to the heart of man. Wordsworth has so exquisitely described what we are wishing to express, that we shall, without apology for the length of the quotation, repeat his words:-- "Grossly that man errs, who should suppose That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks, Are things indifferent to the shepherd's thoughts: Fields, where with cheerful spirits he has breathed The common air--the hills, which he so oft Has climb'd with vigorous steps--which have impress'd So many incidents upon his mind, Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear, Which, like a book, preserves the memory Of the dumb animals whom he has saved, Has fed or shelter'd; linking to such acts, So grateful in themselves, the certainty Of honourable gain;--these fields, these hills, Which are his living being, even more Than his own blood--what could they less?--have laid Strong hold on his affections, are to him A pleasurable feeling of blind love-- The pleasure which there is in life itself." It was with this well-spring of quiet happiness in his breast, that David Riddell had gone from day to day among his flock, and returned to his cottage fireside. His wife Rachel was one of those women of whom, notwithstanding the habitual discontent and sneers of men, there are thousands in this world, in this kingdom--nay, among our own Border hills--who, like the stars of heaven during the daylight, hold on their course noiselessly and unseen, but are, nevertheless, shining with a sweet and steady radiance, every one in its place, in the firmament. Placid, pious, and cheerful, with a quiet but kind heart, that ever and anon displayed its workings in the sweet light of her eyes, or in the "heartsome" smile that arranged her still lovely features into the symmetry of benevolence; in adversity--for she had lost children, and had known sickness--in adversity, patient and resigned; in prosperity--for their flocks had flourished, and many of their harvests had been abundant--in prosperity, not too much elated, but happy with a calm and grateful joy; finally, possessed of a gentle and forbearing nature, which rendered innocuous the occasional sternness or irritability of her husband, and turned insensibly aside the shafts which might have otherwise struck deadly at their domestic peace:--such was the partner of the joys and the sharer of the sorrows of David Riddell for above a quarter-of-a-century. Thus situated, it could not be but that he had been a happy man. For, though care and trouble had not unfrequently entered his dwelling, they had never long remained; nor do they ever continue to haunt a house in which good-nature and true piety are inmates. Four sweet children had been taken from them, each at an age which seemed more interesting than the other, and sorrow had, for a time, darkened their dwelling; but the tears of those griefs were now dried, and, save an occasional sigh from the bereaved parents, as some casual circumstance recalled their lost little ones to their recollections, the only traces of their former afflictions were to be found in the prodigality of affection which they lavished on their only remaining child. David Riddell was verging towards threescore, when William, the subject of the following narrative, was born. The old man's heart was entirely bound up in this child of his age. Frequently, not from necessity, but impelled by love, had he performed the ministrations of a mother to him; often, on a sunny day, had he carried him, like a lamb, in the corner of his plaid, up to the hills; and often, laying the unconscious infant on the purple heath upon the mountain-side, had he knelt down before him, beneath the solitary sky, and poured out his heart in gratitude to the God who had bestowed on him this precious gift. When little William was able to follow his father among the flocks, they became inseparable; and it was beautiful to behold the old man laying aside the gravity and sternness of his nature, and renewing, with his little boy, the sports which the lapse of half-a-century had well-nigh swept from his memory. They sought out together the nest of the lapwing and the moorfowl; they chased the humble-bee over the heath in company; or, loitering down the mountain streams, assisted each other in the pursuit of the speckled trout. The old man taught his boy, amid the secluded glens, or upon the naked hill-tops, to modulate his voice to the hymns consecrated to religion throughout Scotland; the rich melody of the "Old Hundred," or the "Martyrs," rose in concert from their lips; or, perhaps the aged shepherd played on the simple Scottish flageolet, on which he had been, in his youth, a skilful performer, some of the touching airs of his mother-land, and then, placing the pipe in William's hands, assisted him, by kind encouragement or skilful rebuke, to follow out the beautiful strain. Thus they lived together-- "A pair of friends, though one was young, And Matthew seventy-two." Linked closer and closer together by these sweet natural ties, they were happy, and their affection was the grateful theme of all the inhabitants of the valley. A little incident which occurred in William's childhood had determined his father to rear him for the ministry. While yet only five years of age, he was found one day by his father, with an old family Bible upon his knee, some of the leaves of which he had torn out, and was arranging after a fashion of his own. On being asked by his father what he was doing, he replied, "That he thought the evangelists differed in some portions of their history, and that he was trying to discover wherein the difference lay."[C] The old man retired with streaming eyes; and from that moment William Riddell was, like Samuel of old, vowed to the service of God. As he grew in years, he displayed proofs of talent which astonished the shepherd, and filled old David's heart with exultation. Before he was fifteen, there was not a stream nor a legend that belonged to his native hills which he had not celebrated in song. His pen was always ready to assist the shepherd lads in their rustic loves; and the crabbed and grasping little tyrants of the valley had, more than once, winced under his satire or his ridicule. The old man, as we have said, rejoiced in the genius of his son, and had always, in his ample pockets, good store of the young poet's productions, wherewith to regale such of his companions as chose to listen. Rachel, however, with a more prophetic eye, saw, in the vivacity of her boy's nature, the germs of as much grief as joy to himself, and used commonly to shake her head and sigh, while her husband and his friends were convulsed with laughter at some of William's sallies. At length the period arrived when he was to be sent to college. I need not attempt to describe the feelings of the family when this little revolution in their domestic life occurred; the quiet but deep anxiety of Rachel--the restless and troubled looks and actions of the old shepherd--and the exulting anticipation of the bright world into which he was about to enter, which William displayed, tempered or repressed, every now and then, by natural sorrow, at leaving the hills and streams where his boyhood had been spent pleasantly, and the dear parents to whom he owed so deep a debt of love. The last words of David to his son, as he stood grasping his hand, at the foot of the glen where the path turns off to the next market town--while big tears stood heavily on his eyelashes, visitants unknown for twenty years--were almost those of Michael to Luke, in Wordsworth's exquisite poem-- "Amid all fear And all temptation, Luke, I pray that thou Mayest bear in mind the life thy fathers lived, Who, being innocent, did for that cause Bestir them in good deeds." The old shepherd and his son had never been separated for a single night--now they parted knowing that many months must elapse before they could behold one another again. It was a bitter moment, though full of the germs of joyful anticipation. William had taken his farewell embrace, and, with convulsive sobs, had walked hastily away to a little distance; he turned, and beheld his aged father still standing on the spot, with clasped hands uplifted, and eyes fixed intently on his own receding form. He was unable to withstand the sight--he rushed back again, and threw himself, in an agony of affection, upon the old man's neck, weeping--though a manlier heart throbbed not--weeping like a child. But at length they parted; a sadder heart never entered into the solitudes of nature than old David Riddell bore into the mountains on that evening--a purer never left the innocence of the country for the crowded city, than his son carried with him to the metropolis of Scotland. For four years William attended college during the winter, and remained with his father during the summer months. It was not that his labour was required by the old man: for he had now amassed a sufficient sum, with his moderate habits, to make him independent; but the sight of William was pleasant to the aged shepherd, among the hills where they had played together, and which were consecrated to their affections. The young student had distinguished himself highly at college, and had gained the esteem, both publicly and privately expressed, of many of his preceptors. His heart was still uncontaminated, his morals pure, and his habits simple, as when he was a boy. It was at this time that Rachel died. As her life had been peaceful, and, upon the whole, happy, so her death-bed was tranquil and resigned. She had rejoiced, with her husband, in the promising career of their son, and, as her dim eyes descried his manly form bent over her in an attitude of deepest grief, she could scarcely but feel her natural sorrow at leaving him quenched in the glad anticipations of his future prospects in life. Yet the misery which his ardent and imaginative nature _might_ inflict upon him was still not shut out from her mind, and almost her last words were to warn him against indulging it too far. She died, and the old shepherd and his son were left to attempt to comfort each other. William was again about to depart to college, and he would fain have had his father to give up his duties, and accompany him to Edinburgh. He dwelt upon his increasing feebleness, his age, already beyond the common lot of man, the solitude to which he would be left, the comfort they would be to each other, if together. To all this the old man replied-- "Comfort, my boy, there is none for me in this world, except in thee. Gradually the circle of my love has been narrowed: first, my own parents, then my children, last, my beloved Rachel, have been swept away; and now thou only art left for my earthly affections to embrace. Gladly for thy sake would I go to the city; but I think these hills could not bear to look on another while I lived--this cottage to shelter another shepherd while I am able to fling my plaid around me. It is a foolish fancy for an old man to cherish, yet I cannot bid it depart. Go, then, alone, my dearest lad, and leave me in these scenes, which have become part of my being, to perform the duties in which my life has been spent. And still remember, William, when temptations assail thee, or bad men would lead thee by the cords of vanity or friendship into vice, that there is a grey-haired man among these hills, whom the tale would send in sorrow to the grave--a heart that for twenty years has been fed by its love for thee, which would break to know thou hadst become unworthy of that love. Farewell! and may that good Being who has brought me in safety out of the heart of a thousand storms preserve thee from the deadlier tempests of the world of vice!" William returned to college, with a heart softened both by grief and love. Strange, that out of this wholesome state of mind should have sprung the elements of wretchedness and vice! Yet so it was. He had written a poem on the subject of his late affliction, and had breathed into it the very soul of sorrow. The wild and beautiful scenery amid which he dwelt, and which he loved and knew so well, had also given its hues to the language and the thoughts of his muse: his rich and now cultivated taste imparted elegance and harmony to his numbers; the poem was at once original, chaste, and imaginative; it gained him the esteem of the highest literary circles in Edinburgh, and he became a cherished guest in the houses of many distinguished men for whom he had never hoped to indulge any feelings save those of distant and respectful admiration. He emerged into a new world, too beautiful and dazzling for him at first to see his way clearly through its mazes. His undoubted genius commanded the respect of the men--his manly feeling, and the ingenious eloquence of his address, presently made him a distinguished favourite with the female portion of his acquaintance. The tone of his thoughts and feelings underwent a perfect revolution. Once introduced into the society of the polite and the learned, the bashfulness and awkwardness of the shepherd-lad seemed to fall off from him, without effort of his own, but naturally, like the crustaceous envelope in the metamorphosis of insects. He felt as if he were a denizen of the clime in which he now luxuriated, and as if, till now, he had been living in a foreign land. He discovered, to his amazement, that those great men, whose very names he had been wont to utter with reverence, and before whose glance his eye had been accustomed to fall abashed, were the most easy, familiar, and communicative companions possible--that scarcely one of them was so severe in their morality as his old father--that they listened to his opinions with attention, and replied to them with respect. Then, again, among the satellites of these literary luminaries--those whom, till now, in the reflected light of their primaries, he had been wont to behold with respect, and almost with envy--he presently perceived weakness, dimness, and aberration; and he perceived, also, how capable he was of outshining them all; or, to speak in less metaphorical phrase, he found among the less distinguished literary persons who haunted the tables of the great, a degree of ignorance on subjects of general science, a slavishness of demeanour, and a petty jealousy, which he could not but despise, and which it required very little penetration to perceive that the great man despised also. He soon acquired, therefore, a confidence in his own powers, and a conscious respect for, I had almost said pride in, the rectitude of his feelings, to which, till now, he had been an entire stranger. And if such was his success with the men, his conquest over his own timidity, in the presence of women, struck him with yet greater surprise. He who had been accustomed to blush and look down before a peasant girl, presently found himself able to gaze steadily into the eyes of a noble matron or maiden, undazzled by the jewelled coronet upon her head, or yet more brilliant charms in which nature and art had arrayed her brow, and neck, and bosom. The witchery of woman in all her loveliness, instead of, as he had often imagined, causing his heart to sink, and his cheek to burn, and his tongue to be dumb in his mouth, awoke the latent powers of his nature--it thrilled his heart with exulting admiration, and filled his eyes with a bold, steady radiance, and poured from his lips the eloquence which female loveliness can alone call forth. His nature was changed--that is, the external development of his nature, for his heart remained the same; and often, amid crowded assemblies and rich peals of concerted music, it called on his imagination to portray the old solitary shepherd, amid the hills of his boyhood, or to recall the simple strains which his father had taught him to play upon the rude Scottish pipe. At the period to which we refer, the literary society of Edinburgh was by no means distinguished for its abstemiousness. A "good" fellow, and a clever one, were almost synonymous terms. Sir Walter Scott, in his novel of "Guy Mannering," has matchlessly described the convivial habits of the Scottish advocates: the habits of the whole literary society of Edinburgh were pretty similar. Why should I detail the circumstances of William's seduction from sobriety? The example of those whom he had been accustomed to admire, respect, and love; the gay sallies of his younger associates; the witchery of the society of genius; the flowing feeling which followed the circulation of the bowl; the song, the speech, the story, the flash of wit, the jocose roll of humour, and, above all, the forgiving approval (for how else should we designate it?) of the ladies--all assailed him at once, and, beneath their attacks, his reason and resolve, "That column of true majesty in man," fell. Age, wisdom, youth, wit, humour, friendship, love, and beauty--what could a raw shepherd lad oppose to all these? "The request of his aged father, the injunction of the moral law, the direct command of God!" some stern, _perhaps_ good man may reply. William tried to control his career by means of these; but the attacks were unceasing, various, distracting--the defence was in the hands of one, and he, alas! too often disposed to admit the enemy. We will pass rapidly over this part of our departed friend's career. He mingled, at first sparingly, at length more freely, in the convivial habits of his new friends; he felt the thrill of friendship; he was keenly alive to the social glow which the bowl awakens; his heart also was elated by the love of men of genius, and his vanity gratified by their loudly-expressed admiration. Unfortunately, he engaged to write for a new periodical which some of his friends were then attempting to establish. Amid the solitude of his native hills he had experienced the grateful and rapid awakening of noble ideas; he was surprised to find that, in the city, amid the distractions of ambition, music, love, and wine, he could only now and then call up his natural powers to his aid. He had pledged himself to support the new periodical to a certain extent; and, in order to fulfil his promise, at the instigation of an acquaintance, he stimulated himself to its accomplishment by means of brandy. This was the first time he had ever drank ardent spirits for the sake of the effects which they produce. The paper which he had written was universally admired, the sale of the periodical was very much increased by its influence, and he was plied by the proprietors with new and lucrative engagements. On the very morning on which he had received these proposals, he also received a letter from his aged father, informing him, that the brother of the old man, who was engaged in commerce, and for whom he had some time ago become surety, had failed, and that the whole of the little earnings of his past life would be required to liquidate the debt. William closed with the proposal of the proprietors of the magazine, and wrote to the old man a letter, partly of condolence, but more of triumph. He was almost glad that the resources of his father were destroyed, now that he himself had the means of supporting him; and it was with a joyous heart that he sat down to write his paper for the new periodical. But alas! he felt what all who have so occupied themselves have felt, how the mind becomes weak, and the fancy flags, when compelled to action. He rushed into society, to escape from the dreadful depression which follows high mental excitement; the warmth of friendship with which he was met fell gratefully on his spirit; the glee and glory of social intercourse first relieved his wearied faculties, and then pleasantly excited them; the titillation of gratified vanity, and the exercise of intellectual power, combined to make the scene fascinating; he went more and more into society; it became more and more necessary to him--he was a _social man_. His father was a strange, I had almost said a stubborn man in some respects, and he might in some measure be blamed for this gradual sliding from sobriety of his son. To the affectionate letter of William, which beseeched him, now that his little hoard had been carried away, and now that his years were above fourscore, to come to Edinburgh, and dwell with his son, the old man answered, that God had yet left him vigour to mount the hills, and thread the valleys; and that, so long as this was the case, he would consider it unjust to become a burden to others. There was a stern independence and lofty resolve in the determination of the aged shepherd which harmonised well with his character; but it fell like lead upon the bright dreams of William--it strangled many of his best resolutions of future virtue and industry. He did not know that his father had already heard of his relaxed habits, and had even had reported to him, in exaggerated phrase, the detail of some of his midnight carousals. William went on, gaining fame, but losing virtue. In the popular use of the word, it was _impossible_ for him to resist the importunities of those who pressed him to partake of their bottle or their bowl. They grasped his hand cordially; they sang the songs which he loved, or perhaps had written; they drank his health with cheers of enthusiasm. It was _impossible_ for him to resist the entreaties of those persons--it was _impossible_ for him not to believe them sincere. Nor were they otherwise; but the value of the sincerity of the intemperate and the immoral, what is it? "Ashes within beautiful fruit." William Riddell passed the whole of his examinations, and was, as the students say, "ready for a church." Nor was he long in procuring one. Among the friends to whom his genius and character had recommended him was a nobleman, who had the gift of the very kirk to which William and his father had been accustomed to resort. The incumbent died; the nobleman presented the living to William. With the new duties which now devolved upon him, came a crowd of new feelings and springs of action. He gave up his engagement with the literary periodical, he retired from his social companions, and he devoted himself to grave and worthy study and contemplation. The struggle was severe; but he bore up against it under the excitement of the new responsibility which had fallen upon him. He went down to the country with some of the most distinguished members of the Scottish Church, who officiated at his ordination. A proud, a tumultuously happy day was it for old David Riddell, who, with wonder and awe, felt his horny hand grasped by the great men whose very names he had considered subservient to his happiness of old time, and beheld his son, little William, the boy whom he had taught the alphabet upon Scaurhope Hill, with the pebbles that lie there--beheld him holding high discourse with these same dignitaries, saw that his opinions were listened to with respect, and that his thoughts, according as they were solemn or ludicrous, were responded to by these great men with gravity or broad grins. A delightful day was it to the old shepherd, as he beheld the first man in the General Assembly--the greatest man in the Scottish Kirk--lay his hand upon the youthful head of his beloved son, and consecrate him to the care of the souls who dwelt in the very valley where he had been born and reared, in which his genius was known, and his family, though humble, respected. There was another, and an equally strong reason, for William's giving up his convivial habits and boisterous companions. He was in love. It was at that least romantic of all places for a lover, a ball in Edinburgh, that William Riddell, the new pastor of Mosskirk, had first met Ellen Ogilvie, the daughter of the principal heritor of his parish, the owner of the hills on which his father had watched the sheep for above threescore years. Ellen had beheld him moving, a gay and welcome visitant, in noble halls; her hand had met his in the dance, in exchange with those of countesses and duchesses; she had heard his praise echoed from house to house, and from mouth to mouth; she was now alone in the country, with nothing but ignorant or coarse men around her: let it not seem wonderful that she, though the only daughter of a wealthy landholder, should bestow her love on the poor, handsome, manly, eloquent pastor of Mosskirk. And if this does not seem wonderful, it will surely not appear singular that the proud, haughty, bigoted, and ignorant father of Ellen should forbid the match, and should threaten with his vengeance the usurper of his daughter's love. His vengeance! How weak a word to such a being as William! Not that he would not have rejoiced, for Ellen's sake, and for the sake of decorum, to have had the old gentleman's approval; not that he would not have used every possible means, consistent with honour and the dignity of his own character, to have gained the good opinion of the father of his beloved; but the laird was a man of the world, of acres, and of hundreds; his litany lay in pounds, shillings, and pence; his affections were wrapped up in rents and lordships; and that a poor parson, however God had chosen to ennoble him by genius and generous sentiments--that a poor parson should have dared to look upon a child of his with the eyes of affection, upon the child who was the natural heir of all those riches which he had laboured for half-a-century to amass, smote him as a personal insult, as an indignity which nothing but blood could wipe out. The mother of Ellen had all along thought differently; and from the first moment in which she had perceived the affection that existed between them (and oh, how much quicker women are than men in discovering these things!) she had encouraged their intimacy. William Riddell, the minister of Mosskirk, was out of the canons of the duello, and the laird, therefore, instead of calling him out, was compelled to be satisfied with disinheriting Ellen, who, under circumstances which fully exonerated her from her father's tyrannical wishes, became William's wife. My friend William had always been one of those persons who abhorred the usual terms on which wives are sought and husbands achieved. "Keeping a wife," was a phrase of blasphemy to him, or at least it seemed desecrating women to the level of a dog, a horse, or a cow--the "keeping" of which appeared, according to their phraseology, a matter of the same general import as the cherishing a beloved partner of all in which the human heart takes an interest. Nor, although he was a shepherd's son, could he perceive much inequality in a minister who earned four hundred pounds a-year, by looking after the spiritual interests of some hundreds of individuals, and who was to become the confidant of their griefs, and the sharer of their joys, their supporter in sickness, and their guide in the common path of life--he could not perceive much presumption in such a man matching himself with the daughter of an ignorant and coarse person, whose worth lay only in his wealth, whose character was not esteemed by his neighbours, and whose sympathy for suffering human nature only developed itself now and then in his bestowal of a basin of hot soup upon a starving beggar at Christmas. On the contrary, if William thought about the matter in this relation at all, he considered, and justly, that he was rather conferring an honour than receiving one from the father of Ellen. But the old gentleman thought, as the world thinks, differently; and accordingly, in his wrath, he disinherited her. It was unfortunate for the full gratification of his malice, that William was impassible to this mode of punishment, and that he beheld the whole of the old gentleman's possessions conveyed over to a charitable institution, with as much pleasure as if he had signed them away of his own accord. In the parish of Mosskirk, as in most of the country parishes in Scotland, there were a number of intelligent men who associated frequently together for the sake of cultivating scientific knowledge, and conversing on various subjects of interest in literature and philosophy. At the time when William was inducted into Mosskirk, all the ministers of the neighbouring parishes were members of this society, and it was generally held on a convivial footing. Some of the members came from a distance, others were jolly fellows naturally; and thus it happened that their discussions frequently dipped deep into the night, and sometimes were not settled until cock-crow. Into this society William Riddell was welcomed with enthusiastic honours, and was at once made perpetual president. His fame as a poet had gone before him, and his genial warmth as a man followed up with general applause the sensation which he had created. He had natural powers capable of supporting him in the sphere to which his reputation had raised him. He had wit, humour, pathos, and fluency; and, eager to earn the opinion of his parishioners, he exerted himself to gain it, and he succeeded. Throughout the whole of his parish, he was admired as a man of genius and eloquence, he was respected as a man of irreproachable moral worth, and beloved as a friend, who shared sincerely in the gladness, and sympathised in the sorrows, of his flock. Unfortunately, the habits of many of his parishioners, as well as of those of the literary club to which I have alluded, were the very reverse of temperate. For a time the attraction of his young wife, and presently that of his infant son, kept him from indulging in nocturnal potations. But afterwards these attractions lost their force; the glory and the glee of the musical and literary conclave overcame all his resolves; and, night after night, it happened that he returned to his manse at unseasonable hours, and greeted his wife with the leer of intoxication, instead of the steady glance of affection. We should have said that, before this, old David Riddell, moved by his son's entreaties, had given up his duties among the hills, and had come to live with him at Mosskirk Manse. A weekly delight was it to the old man to behold his son arrayed in his black gown, and with the smooth white bands drooping decently upon his bosom, delivering from the pulpit of his native parish the words of eternal truth; and pleasant was it to the old shepherd ever and anon to recognise, in the elegant but simple language of the pastor, some of those sentiments which he himself had instilled into his mind, while he was yet a shepherd lad upon the moorlands. But it could not long be concealed from him that William was irregular in his habits. When the fact first struck him, he almost swooned away; for the forebodings of Rachel rushed into his mind, and he saw, as it seemed, for the first time, that his son's destruction was sealed. It was long, however, before he could bring himself to speak on the subject to William; he felt the shame which his son appeared to have abandoned; and his own temperate blood sent a blush into his withered cheek at the idea of addressing the child of his heart, the minister of God, on the subject of his intemperance. The miserable struggles of the old man before he gave utterance to his sentiments to William, we are utterly unable to describe--we leave them to our reader's imagination. At length, however, on a morning after the minister of Mosskirk had shamefully been supported home by two of his parishioners, in a state of deplorable intoxication, the old shepherd gathered up resolution to speak to his son. He did not denounce, insult, or even upbraid him; but, with tears in his eyes, delicately alluding to his misconduct, assured him that such another occurrence would cause him to leave the manse for ever; for that, though he might not be able to prevent, he was resolved never to sanction, the fearful immorality which drunkenness carries in its train, more hideous still when attached to a minister of the Gospel. William, already disgusted with himself, and humbled before his own heart, was crushed to the earth by his old father's appeal. He threw himself upon his aged parent's neck, and entreated his forgiveness. "My forgiveness, my boy!" replied the shepherd; "you cannot offend me, and therefore it is vain to ask for my forgiveness. My heart is so utterly bound up in thee, that, though it may deplore, it cannot denounce any conduct of thine. It is as it were but a servant of thine, and in good or in evil report, will follow in its train. But, if my sufferings, and the sneers of men, have no influence over thee, think, oh, my dear boy! think on death, the judgment, eternity!" Will it be believed, that, after this appeal, the remorse which he suffered, and the resolutions of reformation which he made, a single week saw the minister of Mosskirk reel into his manse, assisted by the pastor of the Methodist Chapel, at two o'clock in the morning? Such was the distressing reality; and the next morning, without speaking to his son, but giving, amid heart-broken sobs and sighs, his blessing to his daughter-in-law and her children, old David Riddell removed from his son's roof: nor could all his entreaties induce him to return. Let me hasten to conclude. The conduct of William became presently so notoriously shameful, that it could no longer be overlooked by his parishioners, and he was more than once called upon by some of them with remonstrances, which increased gradually in severity. Still the infatuated man proceeded, until at length his behaviour became a public slander to his own parishioners and to the whole church. He was yet, however, so much beloved for his generous warmth of heart, and admired for his talents, that a last effort was made to prevent the sentence of expulsion, which had been passed against him, from being carried into effect; and his punishment was commuted, if so it could be called, into making a public apology, from his own pulpit, to his people, for his shameful irregularities. On the day of this heartrending exhibition, not more than one-fourth of the congregation were present; the remainder being absent that they might not behold the spectacle of their pastor's humiliation. But old David Riddell was there, supported, for the first, and alas! for the last time, into church by a friend. Until now, the aged man had always walked unsupported, and with a firm, nay, with something of an elastic step, up to his pew; but during the past week, since he had heard the news of his son's public disgrace, and the public penance which he was to perform, his vital powers had sunk with fearful rapidity. To those even who had seen him, on the preceding Sabbath, move decently into his accustomed spot, and depositing the broad-brimmed hat, which, on the Lord's-day, he exchanged for the broad Lowland bonnet, smooth backwards his thin light-grey locks, he appeared scarcely like the same man. His form was now bent nearly double; he shuffled his feet painfully over the ground; his head shook from weakness, not from age; his eyes were red and dim; he looked like a man who was only three or four steps from the open grave. When, after the service was concluded, William began to read the humiliating apology which he had written, the aged shepherd crept painfully down upon his knees, and, burying his face in his clasped hands, remained absorbed in prayer. The last words had fallen from the minister's lips; there was a dead stillness throughout the church, for all were penetrated with sorrow and shame at their pastor's disgrace, when a deep groan broke from the old shepherd, and startled the congregation from the silence in which they were indulging. All eyes, and those of the minister among the rest, were instantly directed towards the old man; his frame remained for a moment in the attitude which we have described, and the next instant it fell heavily upon the floor--a corpse! We shall not give pain to our readers, nor harrow up our own feelings, by attempting to describe the misery which this event caused William Riddell. It seemed to be one of those griefs which cannot, and ought not to be outlived--a punishment greater than man is able to bear. So thought William--if the flash of this conviction across the settled gloom of his spirit could be called thought. Yet days, weeks, months, passed away, and he lived on, nay, performed his duties; and, at length, by the caresses of his wife and child, became even, as it were, sullenly reconciled to life. He found, however, that it was impossible for him ever to regain his former station in society. His brother ministers avoided him; and one or two of them, more harsh or orthodox than the rest, took occasion to allude to his misconduct in a public manner. The most respectable portion of his parishioners pitied, but, in general, kept aloof from him. Degraded and sunk as he was, William had a nature formed to feel, in all their most exquisite torture, these indignities and slights. The persons who came to comfort and sympathise with him, were unhappily those whose sympathy was more dangerous than their contempt. How shall we go on? William again, after severe struggles, gave way to the entreaties of some of those mistaken friends, and to the treacherous wishes of his own heart. He became a confirmed drunkard! He seemed to have at length cast behind him every thought of reverence for God and his holy vocation--every particle of respect for himself or his fellow-men. He had two or three attacks of brain fever, brought on by his excesses; and he no sooner recovered from them than he went on as before. His poor young wife exhausted every argument which reason could afford--every blandishment with which affection and beauty could supply her, to reclaim him, but in vain. He retained, or seemed to retain, even, all the warmth of his first love for her; and, in his hours of intoxication, he seemed most strongly to acknowledge her worth and loveliness; but the necessity for the violent excitement of ardent spirits had overcome all other considerations; she wept long and bitterly: then, as despair began to close in upon her, she (dreadful that we should have it to relate!) sought, in the example of her husband to escape from her sorrow! Ellen Ogilvie, the young, the graceful, the beautiful, the accomplished, the gentle, feminine creature, whose very frame seemed to shrink from the slightest coarseness in speech or action, became a drunkard! Many years had passed away between the time when the old shepherd had perished in the church and the time to which we now refer, and William had a family of two sons and three daughters. If Ellen's father was unfavourable to her marriage at first, it will be easily imagined that he never now acknowledged them. His young family, therefore, had nothing to depend upon except their father's exertions, and they were about to be closed for ever. The time arrived when it was impossible for William to be suffered any longer to remain in his charge. He was thrust out of his church, and expelled from the ministry. The messenger who delivered this message to him, delivered it to one more dead than alive. His excesses had at length brought on a fit of apoplexy; he was but partially recovered from it, and could only, in a dim manner, comprehend the purport of the message, when, with his wife and children, he was removed from the manse. A friend sheltered him for a time--afterwards he was conveyed over to Edinburgh. Within a twelvemonth he died, having been chained down to bed by his disease, one-half of his frame being dead, with mind enough to see poverty and inevitable misery ready to crush his helpless family, but without the power to use the slightest exertion in order to avert the impending calamity. It was in a garret in the High Street, upon rotten straw, the spectacle of an emaciated and shattered wife before his eyes, and the cries of his starving children sounding in his ears, that William Riddell breathed his last! What availed it then that he had been good and pure, full of generous sentiments, endowed with a graceful person, a noble genius, and a manly eloquence? These otherwise invaluable qualities had been all sunk or scattered by the spendthrift extravagances of the Social Man. It is now about five years ago, since, as we were hurrying past Cassels Place, at the foot of Leith Walk, we were attracted by a crowd who had gathered round a poor intoxicated woman. She had fallen beneath the wheel of a waggon, and both her legs were crushed in a terrible manner. As two or three assistants carried her past a gas-light towards the nearest house, we were struck by the resemblance--hideous, indeed, and bloated--which her features wore to some one whom we had known. We inquired her history, and, to our horror, discovered that this was indeed Ellen Ogilvie--the widow of our poor friend, William Riddell. It was useless attempting to save her; her vital energies were sinking rapidly beneath the injuries which she had received. She revived a little from the effect of some wine which we gave her, and began incoherently to speak of her past life. "You see me here, sir," said she, "a poor, wretched, degraded creature:--I was not always thus. There was not a happier heart in wide Scotland than mine was, ten years ago. But my husband, sir, was a Social Man!" A convulsive sob checked her words--her head sank back on the pillow--her lower jaw fell--the death-rattle sounded in her throat--and in a few moments the unfortunate woman expired. THE TWO COMRADES. Still and calm lay the sleeping waters of Loch Ard, as they reposed in their beauty on the morning of the 17th of August, 17--. The hour was early, and the rays of the rising sun had not yet dispersed the thick mists that hung on the bosoms of the surrounding hills. The scenery around, although of the most romantic character, and composed of the choicest materials for the picturesque, had an air of gloominess and rawness about it, that did but little justice to the thousand beauties which its simple elements of wood and water, rock and hill, were capable, by their various combinations, of producing. That scene yet wanted the life and soul, the cheering, spirit-stirring influence of the blessed sunlight, to bring out its loveliness, and to exhibit its details in all their fairy brightness. This want was not long of being supplied. The sun rose in all his splendour; the mist rolled away from the face of the hill; the calm, placid surface of the lake, like a mighty mirror, embedded in its rude and gigantic, but gorgeous framework of wooded mountains, shone with dazzling effulgence; and the hills and forests displayed themselves in their robes of brightest green. As every one who has visited these romantic regions knows, the road that conducts to Aberfoyle from the west end of Loch Ard runs, for a considerable space, close by the margin of the lake on its northern side--and a most beautiful locality this is. The road is low and level; on one hand is the bright, smooth, sandy shore of the loch, with its clear, shallow water; and, on the other, steep mountains, shaggy with primeval woods. We have directed the attention of the reader to this particular point of the landscape, for the purpose of saying, that, at the moment at which our story opens (namely, on the morning of the 17th of August, 17--), two persons were seen, at the early hour which our description would indicate, trudging silently along by the margin of the lake. They were two young men, and evidently prosecuting a journey of some length. Over the shoulder of each projected a stout oak stick, on whose extremity a small bundle was suspended; probably, small as they were, containing all the earthly possessions of their bearers. Yet, however poor the lads might be in world's wealth--for they were, as was sufficiently evident from their dress, of the humblest class--they were rich in the gifts of nature; for a couple of handsomer-looking young men than they were the Highlands of Scotland could not have produced. Strongly built, and exhibiting in their erect and springy gait the peculiar muscular energy of their mountain education, they appeared men capable of any fatigue, and, to judge by the air of calm determination and mild resolution expressed in their bold and manly countenances, of any deed of honourable daring. Such was the personal appearance--for, although differing in individual features, they resembled each other in their general characteristics--of James M'Intyre and Roderick M'Leod, which were the names of the two young men whom we have just introduced to the reader. The ages of the two seemed to be about equal--somewhere about five or six-and-twenty; in stature they were also nearly the same; but, if there was any difference between them in this particular, it was in favour of M'Intyre, who stood nearly six feet in height. M'Leod might be an inch shorter. They had been brought up together from their infancy; had a thousand times together climbed the heights of Cruagh Moran, and as often swam across the deep, dark waters of Loch Uisk, which lay just before their doors. Their parents were next door neighbours in the little village of Ardvortan, situated in one of the most beautiful straths in the West of Scotland. James and Roderick had not only been companions from their earliest years, but earned their scanty subsistence; and they were now, together, about to try their fortunes in a world to which they had hitherto been strangers. Stories of the warlike renown of their ancestors, with more recent tales of the achievements of their countrymen who had enlisted in the 42nd and other Highland regiments, had roused the martial spirit which they inherited from their fathers, and determined them to leave their peaceful glen and native hills, to seek, in "the ranks of death," for that which they had been taught to believe was the proudest gift of fortune--a soldier's fame. It was a sad, and yet a proud day, for the mothers of the young men, that on which they left their native village. Natural affection deplored their departure, while maternal pride gloried in visions of the honours that awaited them on the fields of war. The plumed bonnet, the belted plaid, and all the other gallant array of the Highland soldier, presented themselves to the fond mothers; and they thought, as they gazed on the stately forms of their sons for the last time, how well they would look in the martial garb which they were about to assume. The young men, then, whom we have represented as wending their way by the margin of Loch Ard, and prosecuting a southward journey, were proceeding to Glasgow, one of the recruiting stations of the --th Highland regiment, to enrol themselves in that gallant corps, which was already filled with their friends and countrymen. On arriving at Glasgow, which, although a distance of nearly forty miles from the spot where we first introduced them to the reader, they made out with perfect ease on the evening of the same day on which they left their native village, the young men repaired to a well-known resort of the privates of Highland regiments which were from time to time quartered in Glasgow. This was a low, dark public-house in the High Street of that city, kept by a Serjeant M'Nab, an old veteran, who had seen service in his day; and who, although he had now retired into private life, continued to maintain all his military connections with as much zeal as if he was still in the discharge of his military duties; and, indeed, this he was to some extent, having still an authority to enlist. The house of M'Nab was thus filled from morning to night with soldiers of various grades of rank--serjeants, corporals, and privates--and of various degrees of standing, from the raw, newly-enrolled recruit, with his stiff black stock--the only article of his military equipment with which he had been yet provided--to the veteran serjeant, who had literally fought his way to his present rank. In every corner of every room in this favourite resort of the Celtic warriors, lay heaps of muskets resting against the wall; and on every table lay piles of Highland bonnets--their owners being engaged in discussing the contents of the oft-replenished _half-mutchkin stoup_. Occasionally, too, the scream of a bagpipe might be suddenly heard in some apartment, where the party by which it was occupied had attained the point of musical excitement, while, over all, except the sounds of the aforenamed instrument, prevailed the din of noisy, but good-humoured colloquy, in sonorous Gaelic; for no other language was ever heard in the warlike domicile of Serjeant M'Nab. Such, then, was the house--further distinguished, we forgot to say, by the sign of the Ram's Head--to which James M'Intyre and Roderick M'Leod now repaired. They were met at the door by M'Nab, then in the act of bidding good-by to a batch of serjeants, who, adjusting their bonnets as they stepped, one after the other, from beneath the low doorway of the Ram's Head, were about to form a recruiting party to beat up through the streets for young aspirants after military glory--a single drummer and fifer being in attendance for this purpose. "Ah, Shames! Ou Rory!" exclaimed M'Nab, taking each of the young men, who were both well known to him (he being from the same part of the country), by the hand; "what has brought you" (we translate, for this was spoken in Gaelic) "to this quarter of the world?" The lads smiled, and said they would inform him of that presently. Accustomed to such visits, for such a purpose as M'Intyre and M'Leod now made, M'Nab at once guessed their object, and, without any further remark, conducted them into his own private apartment, where, the tact of the recruiting serjeant and the natural hospitality of the man combining, he entertained them liberally with the best his house afforded. During this refection, the young men made known the object of their visit. The serjeant highly approved of their spirit, descanted on the glories of a soldier's life, stirred up their ambition of military fame by recounting various exploits performed by relations and acquaintances of their own with whom he had served, and concluded by tendering them the ominous shilling. It was accepted, and James M'Intyre and Roderick M'Leod became soldiers in His Majesty's --th regiment of foot. Desirous, however, as the young men were of enlisting, there was a condition which they insisted on being conceded them, before they finally committed themselves. This was, that they should continue comrades after they became soldiers; that is, as is well known to every one in the least conversant with these matters, that they should occupy the same bed, and be placed in a position to render each other the little services of domestic intercourse in quarters. M'Nab at once promised that their wishes in this respect should be complied with; and the promise was faithfully kept. The two lads were allowed to continue as comrades after they had joined the regiment; and in this situation maintained that feeling of tender friendship for each other, which had distinguished the previous part of their lives. Two handsomer or finer-looking soldiers than James M'Intyre and Roderick M'Leod, after they had donned the full costume of the corps to which they belonged, and had acquired the military air of their new profession, could not have been found, not only in their own regiment, but perhaps in the whole British army. Modest in their manners, quiet and civil in their deportment, cleanly, sober and attentive to their duties, they were beloved by their equals, and looked upon with especial favour by their superiors; they were, in short, the pride and boast of the regiment--no small honour in a corps where there was an unusual proportion of stout and steady men. For some years, the military life of M'Intyre and M'Leod was unmarked by any striking vicissitude. The usual movements of the corps from place to place occurred; but hitherto they had not been called on to take any share in active service. Their turn, however, was to come--and it did come. They were ordered to America, shortly after the commencement of the first war with that country and Great Britain. Previous to their embarking for the seat of war, the two comrades obtained three days' leave of absence--it was all that could be allowed them--to visit their friends in the Highlands. The time was short--too short for the distance they had to travel; but, as the point of embarkation was Greenock, they thought they could make it out; and, by travelling night and day, they did so. They presented themselves in their native glen in the full costume of their corps, and gratified their mothers' hearts by this display of their military appointments. A few short hours of enjoyment succeeded; another bitter parting followed; and the two comrades were again on their way to rejoin their regiment. On the second day after, they were crossing the ocean with their regiment, to the seat of war in the new world. In this new scene of experience, the two friends distinguished themselves as much by their bravery as they had before by their exemplary and soldierly conduct. In all the actions in which they were engaged, they made themselves conspicuous by their gallantry, and by several instances of individual heroism. But they rendered themselves still more remarkable by the tenderness of their friendship, made manifest in a thousand little acts of brotherly love. They stood together foremost in the fight, and attended each other with unremitting kindness and assiduity, when wounds and sickness had alternately stretched them on the couch of suffering. Their affection for each other soon became, in short, a subject of general remark, exciting a singular degree of interest, from the romantic character with which the bravery of the two friends had invested it. About this time--that is, about the middle of the war--the regiment to which M'Intyre and M'Leod belonged had the misfortune to lose their commanding officer, who was killed in action. To the regiment this was a misfortune, and one of the most serious kind; for the gallant soldier who had fallen was the friend as well as the commander of his men. He studied and adapted himself to their peculiarities; knew and appreciated their character; and was beloved by them in return, for the kind consideration which he always evinced for their best interests. He was, moreover, their countryman--a circumstance which formed an additional tie between him and the brave men whom he commanded. But the death of Colonel Campbell was a double mischance to the regiment; inasmuch as to his loss was added the misfortune of his place being supplied by a man of totally opposite character. His successor, stern, and unforgiving, endeavoured to procure that efficiency in his corps through fear, which his predecessor had commanded through love. He was an Englishman; and was a perfect stranger to the feelings and national peculiarities of the men over whom he was thus so suddenly placed; neither was he at any pains to acquire so necessary a piece of information, nor in any way to conform his system of discipline to the peculiar spirit of the mountain band which was now under his harsh and undiscriminating control. Unfortunate, however, as was the circumstance of this officer's being put in command of the --th regiment to every soldier in that gallant corps generally, there were two individuals to whom it was indeed a misfortune of the most melancholy and deplorable kind, and these two the most meritorious and deserving men in the regiment. Need we say that these were James M'Intyre and Roderick M'Leod? But we must detail the circumstances as they occurred. To do this, then, let us mention that, after a weary night-march of many miles over a mountainous road covered with snow, the --th regiment, with several others, found itself within cannon-shot of one of the enemy's positions. The ground destined for the British troops having been gained, the whole were ordered silently to bivouac, till the morning light should enable them to advance to the attack, which was the particular object of the movement. It was yet, however, some hours till morning; and it was thus necessary, in case of sudden surprisal, to establish a chain of outposts around the position occupied by the troops. Amongst those selected for this duty was Roderick M'Leod, who was placed alone in a solitary post at one of the most remote points of the circle formed by the British sentinels. It was a perilous and important position; and for these reasons was it that M'Leod was chosen to occupy it--every reliance being placed on his courage, vigilance, and well-known steadiness. Aware of the importance of his trust, Roderick, with his shouldered firelock, commenced pacing smartly--for the night was intensely cold--in the limits of his appointed place, and keeping a sharp look-out in the direction of the enemy. This position he had occupied about half-an-hour, when he thought he heard footsteps approaching. Roderick brought down and cocked his piece, and stood ready to fire. The sounds became more audible. He raised his musket to his shoulder, and placed his finger on the trigger. He saw some persons approaching, apparently with confident step. He challenged, and was answered. It was a picket of his own regiment, commanded by a serjeant, a particular acquaintance and friend, the son of one of his father's neighbours. He was making a round of the outposts, to see that all were on the alert, and to inquire if anything had been stirring. "All quiet, Roderick?" said Serjeant More M'Alister, on approaching the former. "All quiet, serjeant," replied M'Leod. "Cold work this, Rory," rejoined the serjeant, at the same time drawing a flask from his bosom, and handing it to the former; "here, take a mouthful of that, to keep the frost out." M'Leod, perishing of cold, gratefully acknowledged the very timous kindness, placed the flask to his mouth, and unguardedly took a hearty pull of the brandy it contained. Shortly after, the visiting party moved off on their rounds, and, for a little time subsequently, M'Leod felt himself renovated by the spirits he had taken. The excitement, however, was but temporary; reaction took place; a degree of lassitude came over him, which, aided as it was by the fatigue of his previous march and the severity of the cold, he found himself unable to shake off. In this state of feeling, he leaned against a tree which stood close by his post, and, ere he was aware, fell into a profound sleep. At this unfortunate moment, his commanding officer, accompanied by a small party, rode up to M'Leod. He was found asleep; and, still more heinous offence, when awakened, he was found to be the worse of drink--a momentary incoherence, and the smell of his breath, which betrayed the presence of ardent spirits, being held as conclusive proof by his superior that he was drunk. "I am not drunk, sir," replied M'Leod, calmly, on being harshly charged with that offence by Colonel Maberly. "You _are_, sir," was the peremptory rejoinder. "Besides, you have been asleep at your post. Men, disarm that fellow, and make him your prisoner." The order was instantly obeyed. M'Leod's musket and bayonet were taken from him; another man was placed on his post; and he was marched away, to abide the consequence of his dereliction of military duty. As the intended attack on the enemy took place on the following morning, no proceedings were instituted in M'Leod's case for some days after; but all dreaded the most fatal result from these, when they should occur, from the ferocious and unforgiving nature of Colonel Maberly. We fear we would but weaken the effect of the reader's more impressive conceptions, were we to attempt to describe the feelings of M'Intyre during the days of agonising suspense between the period of his comrade's arrestment and the judgment which followed. He refused all sustenance; and, from being one of the most active and cheerful men in the regiment, became careless in his duties and morose in his temper, and seemed as if he courted, or would willingly have done something calculated to expose him to the same fate which he had no doubt awaited his unhappy comrade. The two unfortunate men--for the one was scarcely less an object of compassion than the other--had frequent interviews previous to M'Leod's receiving the sentence which was thought due to his offence; and these were of the most heartrending description. These men, of stout frame and lion heart, who side by side had often marched unappalled up to the cannon's mouth, wept in each other's arms like women. Words they had none, or they were but few. At length the fatal judgment was passed. M'Leod was condemned to be shot; and the sentence was ordered to be carried into execution on the afternoon of the same day on which it was awarded. The unhappy victim of military law shrunk not at the contemplation of the miserable fate that awaited him. He heard it announced with unmoved countenance and unshrinking nerve; his only remark, simply expressed in his native language, being, "that, as to being shot, he minded it not; but he could have wished that it had been on the field of battle." Although prepared for the dreadful intelligence which was to inform him of the doom of his comrade--for he had no doubt from the first that it would be so--M'Intyre knew not yet the one-half of the misery that awaited him in connection with the impending death of his friend. It was possible to aggravate to him the horrors of that event tenfold, and to increase inconceivably the torture of his already agonised mind--and poor M'Intyre found it was so. We leave it to the reader to conceive what were his feelings, when he was informed that he was to be one of the firing-party--one of his comrade's executioners! This was a refinement in cruelty which had been reserved for Colonel Maberly. It was unparalleled. But his order had gone forth. He had willed it so, and it was known that he never yielded a point on which he had once determined. It was believed also, that his usual obstinacy and hard-heartedness would be increased in this case, from an idea that he was adding to the terror of the example, by the savage proceeding just alluded to. The idea, however, of compelling one comrade to assist in putting another to death, was so revolting to every feeling of humanity, so wantonly cruel, that the men of the regiment determined on sending a deputation to the colonel, to entreat of him to rescind his order, and to relieve M'Intyre of the horrible duty to which he had appointed him. This deputation accordingly waited on the commanding officer, and, in the most respectful language, preferred their petition. They did not seek a remission of the unfortunate man's sentence; for they felt and acknowledged that, however stern and cruelly severe it was, it was yet according to military law; but they implored that his comrade might not be compelled to share in its execution. The petition was preferred in vain. Colonel Maberly was inexorable. "He had given his orders," he said, briefly and impatiently, "and they must be obeyed." Finding it in vain to urge their request farther, the deputation sadly withdrew, to communicate to M'Intyre, who was awaiting their return in a state of mind bordering on distraction, the result of their mission. When it was told him, he said nothing, made no reply, but seemed lost in thought for some moments. At length-- "I will go to the colonel myself," he said; "and, if there be any portion of our common nature in him, he will not refuse to hear me. If he does not----" Here he clenched his teeth fiercely together, but left the sentence unfinished. Acting on the resolution which he had thus formed, M'Intyre sought out Colonel Maberly. When he found him-- "Colonel," he said, touching his bonnet with a military salute, "you have ordered me to be of the party who are to shoot"--here his voice faltered, and it was some seconds before he could add--"my comrade, M'Leod." "I have, sir--and what of that?" replied the colonel, fiercely; but he quailed when he marked the deadly scowl that now gleamed in the eye of M'Intyre. "It was cruel, sir," replied the latter, with a desperate calmness and determination of manner; "and I implore you, as you hope for mercy from the God that made you, to release me from this horrible duty." "Sir," exclaimed Colonel Maberly, furiously, "do you mean to mutiny?--do you mean to disobey orders?" "No, sir, I do not. I merely ask you to relieve me from the dreadful task of being my comrade's executioner." "Then I'll be d--d if I do!" said the military tyrant. "You had better, sir, _for your own sake_," replied M'Intyre. "What, sir! Do you threaten me?" exclaimed Colonel Maberly, in an outrageous passion. "Oh no, sir," replied M'Intyre, with an air of affected respect; but it was one in which some deep mysterious meaning might have been discovered. "Will you absolve me from this duty?" "No, sir; I will not," replied Colonel Maberly, turning on his heel, and cutting the conference short by walking away. "Your blood be upon your own head, you cruel, merciless man!" muttered M'Intyre, as he looked after Colonel Maberly, himself continuing to stand the while in the spot where the latter had left him. M'Intyre soon after returned to his quarters, and was seen calmly and silently preparing his arms for the dreadful duty which they were about to be called on to perform. In making these preparations, he was observed to be particularly careful that everything should be in the most serviceable condition. He fitted several flints to his piece, snapping each repeatedly, before being satisfied with its efficiency, and was even at the pains to dry and pulverise a small quantity of powder for priming, to insure a more certain explosion than could be counted on in its original state of grittiness. In the meantime, the hour of execution approached, and at length arrived. The entire regiment was drawn out to witness the example which was about to be made of the consequences that attended such departures from duty as M'Leod's misconduct involved. Being formed in military order, and the prisoner placed in a conspicuous yet secure position, the whole were marched off, to the music of fife and muffled drum, to a level piece of ground at the distance of about a quarter of a mile from the quarters occupied by the regiment. M'Leod's conduct on this trying occasion was in perfect keeping with his general character. It was calm, firm, and manly. His step was steady and dignified; and his whole bearing bespoke at once a resigned and undaunted spirit. Yet it might not, nay, it certainly would not, have been so, had he known that the comrade of his bosom was to be one of his executioners. This, however, had been mercifully concealed from him. It was all his fellow-soldiers could do for him; but, to a man, had they all anxiously and carefully kept from him the appalling secret; for they knew it would have unnerved him in the hour of trial--in the hour of death. All unconscious, therefore, of the additional misery with which the cruel order of his commanding officer was yet to visit him, M'Leod marched undauntedly on to his doom. His mien was erect, his eye calm and composed, and a slight paleness of countenance alone bore testimony to his consciousness of the awful situation in which he was placed. On reaching the locality intended for the scene of execution, the corps was formed into three sides of a square. In the centre of that which was vacant, the prisoner was placed; and, at the distance of about twenty yards further in the square, stood the firing party. On the left of these, and between them and the prisoner, stood Colonel Maberly, who, in consequence of having seen some very marked symptoms of disgust with his severity in the corps, had determined on presiding at the execution in person. It was now, for the first time, that M'Leod became aware that his comrade was to be of the number of his executioners. He saw him amongst the firing-party. Unknowing the fact, and never dreaming of the possibility of such an atrocity as that which M'Intyre's position involved, M'Leod calmly asked a serjeant who stood near him--"What does James do there?" The serjeant evaded a reply, or rather affected not to hear him. At this moment the chaplain of the regiment came up to the unfortunate man, to administer the comfort and consolation of religious aid to the doomed soldier. But, ere he could enter on his sacred duties, M'Leod, on whose mind some approximation to the horrid truth as regarded the part assigned his comrade had now flashed, put the same question to the chaplain as he had done to the serjeant. "Mr Fraser," he said, "I guess the truth; but I would fain be assured of it. Why is my comrade, James M'Intyre, amongst the firing-party?" The chaplain, as the serjeant had done, endeavoured to evade a reply, by directing the unhappy man to matters of spiritual concernment; but he would not be evaded, and again repeated the question. Thus pressed, the chaplain could no longer avoid the explanation he sought. He told him M'Intyre was one of the firing-party by order of the commanding officer. "I guessed as much," said M'Leod, calmly. "It is a piece of dreadful cruelty; but may God forgive him, as I freely do!" He then, without making any further remark, entered solemnly and composedly into the devotional exercises prescribed by his spiritual comforter. These concluded, and everything being ready for the last fatal act of the tragedy, the firing-party were ordered to advance nearer, when M'Intyre, stepping out from his place amongst them, advanced towards the colonel, and again implored him to release him from the dreadful duty imposed on him. The colonel's reply was as determined and peremptory as before. "Do your duty, sir!" he said, waving his hand impatiently as a signal to M'Intyre to return to his place, and stepping a pace or two away from him as he spoke. "Do your duty, sir, or I'll compel you; I'll have you in the same situation with your friend." M'Intyre obeyed the ruthless order without saying another word. He returned to his place. The prisoner's eyes were now bandaged. The firing-party had levelled their muskets, and were waiting the fatal sign. It was made. Colonel Maberly himself made it. The volley was discharged, and M'Leod fell; but he fell not alone. In the same instant, the commanding officer of the --th regiment was also stretched lifeless on the plain. The well-aimed musket of M'Intyre had sent its ball through the heart of the ruthless tyrant. On perpetrating the deed, the former threw his piece on the ground, exclaiming, "Roderick is avenged, and the mercy the tyrant showed to others has been meted out to himself!" and offered himself up, an unresisting prisoner, to whoever might choose to execute that duty. It was some minutes--so sudden and unexpected had been the catastrophe--before any one made the slightest movement; all looking on in silent and fixed amazement, but we cannot add with much regret; till at length a serjeant stepped out of the ranks, and seized M'Intyre by the breast. "Right, Serjeant Thompson, right," said the latter, calmly; "you are doing your duty. I know what awaits me, and I am prepared for it. I did not do what I have done without making up my mind to the consequences." These were indeed inevitable. On the third day thereafter, the roll of the muffled drum announced that M'Intyre's hour was come; and he fell, but not unpitied, beneath the bullets of a party of his fellow-soldiers, on the identical spot where, three days before, his unfortunate comrade had met a similar doom. THE SURTOUT. "The decreet's oot the morn, Mr Fairly, against that man Simmins," quoth an equivocal-looking gentleman, with a stick under his arm, a marvellously shabby hat, a rusty black coat, waistcoat pinned up to the throat, and followed out by a battered stock, glazed and greasy, with its edges worn to the bone; and thus making an unseemly exhibition of the internal composition of said article of wearing apparel. No shirt, or at least none visible; countenance bearing strong marks of dissipation; voice loud and ferocious; look equivocal. Such was the personage who conveyed the information above recorded to Mr Fairly; and, considering the very particular nature of that information, together with certain other little circumstances thereafter following, the reader will be at no great loss, we should suppose, to guess both the nature of his profession and the purpose of his call. In case, however, he should not, we beg to inform him that the speaker was one of those meritorious enforcers of the law, called, in Scotland, messengers--in England, bailiffs. Mr Fairly, again--the person spoken to--was a fashionable tailor in a certain city not a hundred miles from Arthur's Seat. He was a little, active man, sharp and keen as a razor; and altogether a dangerous-looking customer to those who found it inconvenient to settle his demands in due time; he was, in short, the dread and terror of dilatory payers. In such cases, he hung out the black flag, and gave no quarter. He was, in truth, just as merciless a tailor as ever cut cloth, and well were his savage propensities known to, and much were they respected by, a certain class of his customers--meaning those who stuck too long on the left-hand side of his ledger--the fatal ledger. Such, then, was our other interlocutor, Mr Fairly. We have only to add, that the scene which we have opened was in a certain parlour in that gentleman's house, and then to proceed with the conference which this necessary digression has interrupted. "The decreet's oot the morn, Mr Fairly, against that man Simmins," said his visiter, Mr John Howison; "what do ye mean to do? Are we to incarcerate?" It was a needless question; for Fairly incarcerated everybody, right and left, in such circumstances, sparing neither sex nor age. "Incarcerate!" he repeated, with a ferocious emphasis. "Surely, surely. Nab the scoundrel. Don't give him a minute beyond his time. Let me see what were the articles again." And he proceeded to turn over the leaves of his ominous ledger. "Ay, a surtout, extra superfine Saxony blue, richly braided, &c. &c., £4:15s., due 21st December, and this is the 19th January. A month past date! Nab him, Howison. Nab the villain, and we'll give him six months of the cage, at any rate, and that'll be some satisfaction." Howison grinned a grin, partly of satisfaction at the prospect of a job, and partly of approval of his employer's wit. "But I don't know the chap exactly," said the former. "I only saw him once." "Oh, that's easily sorted," replied Fairly. "Although you don't know him, you may know my surtout, which he constantly wears--having no other coat, I verily believe, to his back. Here, see, here is the neighbour of it." And he ran into a back apartment, whence he shortly returned with a very flashy article of the description he referred to, and, expanding it before Howison, bade him mark its peculiarities. "Sir," he said, "it's one of a thousand. The only one of the same cut and fashion in the whole city. _That_ I know. I would pick it out, blind, from amongst a million." Howison having carefully scanned the garment, declared that he was ready to take his chance of recognising his man--other circumstances corroborating--by its particular cut and adornments; and, in truth, he needed have little hesitation about the matter; for, indeed, the surtout was, as Fairly had said, one of a thousand. It was altogether a very marked sort of article, especially in the department of braiding, that being singularly rich and voluminous; and if, as its maker had also said, it had not its fellow in the town (barring, of course, the duplicate which he was now exhibiting), there could be no difficulty whatever in identifying the devoted debtor. Matters being thus arranged, the messenger, after having obtained Simmins' address, took leave of his employer, with full authority to visit the unhappy owner of the surtout with the utmost vengeance of the law, and with a promise on his own part that he would duly inform the latter of his subsequent proceedings in the case--meaning thereby, that, so soon as the bird was caged, he would give due intimation thereof. Leaving the process just detailed at the point to which we have brought it, we beg to introduce the reader to another personage who figures in our little drama: this is Mr Jacob Merrilees, a student of medicine, a gentlemanly young man, of limited means, but fair prospects, and, withal, talented and promising. He was at this moment pursuing his studies at the college of ----, and was making a progress in professional learning that augured well for his future success in the world. But, with this part of his history we have little or nothing to do--our interest in him being on a totally different account. Talented, however, as our young friend was, he had, like other men, his little weaknesses; one in particular--but it was a natural and a harmless one--this was a rather excessive fastidiousness on the score of dress. He loved, of all things, to be smartly attired; and was thus, upon the whole, something of a dandy in his way. Unfortunately for poor Jacob, however, this was a taste which he was not always able to indulge in to the extent he could have wished. His circumstances, or rather his father's penuriousness, prevented it; and the consequence was, that he frequently found himself considerably below his own standard of perfection in the article toggery. It is true, that one less particular in this matter would hardly have agreed with him; but such were his own feelings on the subject, and that was enough. Having mentioned the little weakness above alluded to--if, indeed, it can be called a weakness--it becomes our duty to show cause for having called the reader's attention to it. This duty, then, we will forthwith discharge; but we must be allowed to do so in our own way. We have said that our friend Merrilees was making rapid progress in his professional education; he was so, but he was advancing with no less celerity in another and fully more congenial study--namely, the study of love. What fair maiden, in the eyes of Jacob Merrilees, could compete with Miss Julia Willoughby? None. She was peerless! She was the fairest of the fair! Miss Julia Willoughby, then, was the chosen of Jacob's heart; but he had yet no assurance that his tender feelings towards her were reciprocated. Little else than the ordinary courtesies of society had yet passed between them, although these were certainly rapidly melting into more familiar intercourse. Still, as we said before, Jacob could not positively fix on the precise position which he held in the affections of Miss Julia Willoughby. He was still in a state of uncertainty; for no particular mark of favour had yet been bestowed upon him by the coy fair one. Judge, then, good reader, of the joyous feelings of the enamoured Jacob Merrilees, when he received the following note, written on glazed pink paper, sealed with the impression of a heart pierced by an arrow--said heart being supported by two pigeons--and folded into something of the fashion of a love-knot. Judge, then, good reader, we say, of his feelings on receiving this precious billet, the first palpable hint of his acceptability with which he had ever been favoured by his fair inamorato:-- "DEAR MR MERRILEES,--Would you make one of a party to visit the wax-work to-morrow? I should be happy if you could. There will be several young ladies of my acquaintance with us, and one or two gentlemen. We propose meeting at our house. Hour, twelve of the clock precisely. It _will particularly gratify me_, if you can make it convenient to be one of the party," &c. &c. "JULIA WILLOUGHBY." "Dear, delightful creature!" exclaimed Jacob, in an ecstasy of rapture, and kissing the delicious document with the fervour and enthusiasm of a rapt and devoted love. "Make it convenient?" he exclaimed, with expressive energy. "Ay, that I will, adored and beloved Julia! although ten thousand difficulties were in my way. All engagements, all considerations, all duties, light of my life, idol of my adoration, must give way to thy slightest wish. It will particularly gratify thee!" he exclaimed, with a laugh of wild ecstasy. "Will it, will it?--oh! will it? Then am I a happy man indeed!" and he began to pace the room with the light rapid step of sudden and excessive joy. In this process Jacob had indulged for several minutes, without adverting, as he usually did, in similar circumstances, to the representation of his own handsome person in a large mirror, which hung on one side of the apartment. As his fervour, however, began to abate, he threw glances at the glass _en passant_, and, with every turn, these glances became more earnest, and of longer duration, until he at length fairly planted himself before the faithful reflector, in order to submit his person to a thorough and deliberate inspection. The survey was perfectly satisfactory to Jacob; and he was turning away, highly gratified by its results, when his eye fell on the sleeve of his coat. "Ha," said Jacob, "getting scuffy, by all that's annoying. Had no idea. Won't do, won't do--that's clear. Can never go through the streets with Julia and her fair bevy of acquaintances in such a coat as this--never, never, never." And, in great perplexity at the discovery he had made, Jacob flung himself down in a chair, and, with his hand placed on his forehead, began to think profoundly on the means of remedying the evil of a shabby coat. The time was too short to admit of his providing a new one; and, indeed, although it had been longer, this was an experiment on his tailor on which he could hardly have ventured, that gentleman having lately shown symptoms of restiveness which were by no means encouraging. What was to be done then? "I have it!" said Jacob, starting up: "I will borrow a coat for the nonce from my friend, Bob Simmins. He will supply me with the desiderated garment." No sooner conceived than executed. Down Jacob immediately sat, and forthwith indited the following billet to his friend Bob:-- "DEAR BOB,--Being invited for to-morrow to a party, at which there is to be a large infusion of the fair sex, and finding after a careful inspection, that my coat is not in the most healthy condition, might I request the favour of your lending me a corresponding piece of toggery for the occasion, if you have such an article to spare, and said article be of a kind creditable to the wearer. "We are about a size, I think, and can therefore calculate on a fit. Yours truly, JACOB MERRILEES." Having written this note, Jacob forthwith sealed it, and put it into the hands of the maid-servant, with a request that she would see to its immediate delivery. The request was complied with. In ten minutes after, the girl was in the presence of the redoubted Bob Simmins; for redoubted he was, Bob being one of the most dashing fellows of his time, nevertheless of a rigid adherence to the praiseworthy rule of never paying a copper to anybody for anything. Having opened his friend's note, and scanned it over-- "Ah yes, let me see"--and he stroked his chin, threw himself back in the chair, gazed on the roof, and thought for a moment. At length--"My compliments to Mr Merrilees," he said; "I will send him what he wants to-morrow morning." In due course of time, to-morrow morning made its appearance, and with it came to Jacob's lodgings the promised article of dress. A bundle neatly put up, and whose outward covering was a yellow silk handkerchief, was handed in to Mr Merrilees, as he sat at breakfast. At once guessing at the contents of the package, Jacob started up, undid the knots by which it was secured, with an eager and impatient hand, took up the article it contained, shook out its folds, and gazed with ecstasy on a splendid surtout. It was Simmins'. Jacob knew it again. He had seen it a thousand times on his friend, and as often had praised and admired it. The cut, the braiding, the elegant fur neck--all had been marked, and cordially approved of. How good of Simmins, poor fellow! to send him his best coat! It was an obligation he would never forget. Having unfolded the surtout, Jacob's next proceeding was to try it on. It was a beautiful fit. Not the hundredth part of an inch too short, too long, or too wide. It was, in fact, just the thing. Couldn't have been better, although it had been cut for him by Stultz's foreman. Convinced of this pleasing truth, Jacob stood before the glass for fully a quarter-of-an-hour, throwing himself into various attitudes, in order to bring out all the beauties of the much-admired garment; and every change of position increasing the favourable opinion which he entertained of his own appearance. Satisfied with the contemplation of himself in the mirror, Jacob now commenced a series of turns up and down the apartment; sometimes throwing his arms akimbo, sometimes folding them across his breast, and anon glancing down with a smile of ineffable admiration on the flowing skirts of his surtout. This new test of the merits of the borrowed garment having also been found satisfactory, and every other ordeal to which it could be subjected having also been had recourse to, and it having stood them all, Jacob put the last finishing touch to his person, gave a last look at the glass, and, with mincing step, went forth to conquer and to captivate. And never did man or woman either take the field for such a purpose with greater confidence in their own powers, or with greater certainty of success. Before proceeding, however, to the place of meeting, Jacob bethought him of making a run the length of his friend Bob's, just to thank him for his kindness, and to show him how the surtout fitted. Obeying this impulse, he was, in a few minutes after, in the presence of the obliging Simmins. A lively chat ensued between the two friends, and continued with unabated energy, until Jacob, suddenly pulling out his watch, found that his appointed hour had passed. On making this discovery, he started from his chair, seized his hat, rushed out of the house, and, at the top of his speed, made for the residence of his beloved Julia Willoughby. Notwithstanding his speed, however, he was a little late. The party were already assembled. This was a trifle awkward; but it had its advantages, as we shall presently show. The approach to Miss Willoughby's residence was through a garden of considerable length, and thus all visiters might be fully, fairly, and minutely scanned as they advanced. Now, Jacob being a little late, as we have already said, the party, particularly the ladies, in their impatience for his arrival, had clustered around the windows, and were anxiously looking for his advent; so that the moment he opened the gate, both himself and his surtout were in full view of some half-dozen or more admiring spinsters. It was a complete triumph to Jacob, and he felt it to be so. He saw that all eyes were bent on him as he approached the house; that his surtout had attracted particular notice, and had become a subject of general remark and general approbation. He felt, in short, conscious that he had excited a sensation amongst the fair spectators of his approach. He saw the flutter of agitation. He marked the blush, the averted eye. He was delighted, elated. His surtout was triumphant. It had produced all the effects, so far as others are concerned, for which a surtout can be coveted. Conscious of the impression he had made, through the medium of his surtout, Jacob's step became more buoyant, his head more erect, and his whole mien more elevated and dignified. Thus he entered the parlour, where the waiting party were assembled; and here, again, he had the satisfaction of finding his surtout an object of general observation. But let us ask, while Jacob is thus enjoying the favouring smiles of the fair, and thus revelling in his own delightful feelings, who and what are they, these two fellows who are skulking about Mr Willoughby's garden gate, as if waiting the egress of some one? Why, it is Howison--no other; and another professional gentleman, a concurrent. They are upon business. They have got scent of prey, and are following it out, with noses as keen and purpose as fell as those of a sleuth-hound. There can be no doubt of it. Hear them; listen to the gentle small talk that is passing between them. Howison loquitur, and wiping his perspiring forehead with his handkerchief: "Feth, Davy, that was a rin; and no to mak him oot after a'. But we'll nail him yet." Concurrent respondent: "But are ye sure it was him after a'?" "Oh, perfectly! I canna be mistaen. It's the surtout, beyond a' manner o' doubt; and of course it's the man, too, seein he cam oot o' the house we were directed to." The reasoning being quite satisfactory to the concurrent, he ventured no further remark on the subject of identity; and we avail ourselves of the temporary pause which now took place between the speakers, to explain, that they had seen Jacob emerging from Simmins'. They were just approaching at the moment; but the rapid rate at which the former was going prevented the closer intimacy which they intended, and hence the chase. "Will we pin him in this house, then?" inquired Davy, again resuming the conversation. "No; they might deny him. We'll wait whar we are a bit, till he comes oot. Dog him, if he taks the direction o' the jail, and nab him at a convenient opportunity." "He may bilk us." "We'll tak care o' that. We'll gie him heels for't, Davy, if that's his gemm." A pause in the conversation, which was not for some time interrupted, here ensued. After a short while, however, it was again broken in upon. "Whisht! whisht! Back, Davy, back!" (The two professional gentlemen were ensconced in a close or entry directly opposite Mr Willoughby's garden-gate.) "Back, Davy, back!" said Howison. "There's somebody comin. I hear folk speakin and lauchin in the garden." Davy listened an instant, then acknowledged there were good grounds for the assertion, and immediately drew himself farther into his hiding-place, like an alarmed snail into its shell. Howison, as the principal, now placed himself in front of his assistant, squeezed himself as close as he could to the wall, until he stuck as close to, and as flat on it, as a bat. He then, by a dexterous movement, thrust his head in a lateral direction, till his nose just cleared the corner of the close, when, closing his left eye, and concentrating his whole powers of vision in his right, he planted the solitary optic with eager vigilance on the garden gate, to watch the coming forth of those who were on its opposite side. For this he had not long to wait. In a few moments the gate flew open, and out sallied, with frequent bursts of merriment, one of the gayest and most joyous parties that a bright summer day ever brought forth; and gayest and most joyous of the whole was Jacob Merrilees. Of the whole squad his laugh was the loudest, his motions the liveliest, his looks the most cheerful. Jacob was in his element. He was in the midst of a bevy of ladies. One hung on each arm; while others, to whom fortune had not been so propitious in allowing them to get nearer his person, contented themselves with taking the arms again of their more favoured sisters--of those two enviable spinsters who had secured the posts of honour, the immediate vicinity of the admired Jacob Merrilees. Jacob was thus in the very centre of the gay band of fair spinsters; and a proud man was he of his enviable position. He talked!--ye gods, how he talked!--and chattered away in a manner most delightful to hear; at least so it seemed, from the frequent bursts of laughter which he elicited from his lively protegées. He smirked, and he smiled, and he bowed, first to one side and then to another, after his most captivating manner, and, in short, did all that a man who was pleased with himself, and desired to please others, could possibly do to maintain these agreeable feelings. He was the king of the roost--that was evident; the very centre of attraction; the delight, the glory, the leading star in the galaxy of beauty of which he formed a part. The party having cleared the gate, took the road with a circular sweep round, and a burst of merriment that sufficiently betokened the lightness of heart and of heel of those of whom it was composed. "Deek yon, Davy," exclaimed Howison, at this interesting moment, and now addressing the worthy just named, who had by this time come up alongside of him, and was also indulging himself in a bird's-eye view of the party round the corner of the close. "Deek yon, Davy. He's aff like a paitrik: but we'll bring him up wi' a short turn, I'm thinkin. We'll pit a slug through his wing. Little does he ken wha's watchin him." "Wull we gie chase?" said the concurrent, who stood at this instant like a dog in the slip, with his neck on the stretch, and every nerve braced for the run. "No, no; gie him the start a bit till he gathers confidence, and then we'll pounce on him. Wary, Davy, wary! keep in a bit. Dinna shute oot your head so far. If he gets a glisk o' ye, he'll tak to his trotters in a minnit, and gie us an infernal rin for't. See what lang legs the sinner has." "I think I could rin him ony day," replied Howison's concurrent, "and gie him a start o' a hunner yards to the bargain." "I'm no sure o' that," rejoined Howison, shaking his head doubtingly; "ye dinna ken hoo a man can rin wi' a caption at his heels. It maks them go at a deevil o' a rate. I've seen great, fat, auld chaps, that ye wadna hae thocht could rin a yard an't were to save their lives, flee like the win before a 'Whereas.'" "Noo, noo, Davy," continued Howison, and now recalling his neighbour's attention to business, "let us be joggin. He's takin the richt road, so we'll just pin him at our leisure." Saying this, the pair started, and in a short time were hovering on the skirts of the heedless party, and their heedless and unwary leader, the devoted Jacob Merrilees. Wholly unconscious, as the reader will readily believe, of the plot that was thickening over his head, or, rather, at his heels, Jacob was continuing the career of banter, and lively small talk, and smart repartee, which distinguished his first appearance at the garden gate, when he suddenly felt himself gently touched from behind on the left shoulder. He turned round, but without quitting the arms of the fair ladies who hung upon him, and looked frowningly on Howison. "What do you mean, sir?" inquired Jacob, indignantly, and now glancing also at Howison's companion, who stood close by, with his stick tucked under his arm. To this query the only reply was a knowing wink, and a significant wag of the forefinger, which, when translated, meant--"Come here, friend, and I'll tell you." "Get along with you, sir!" said Jacob, contemptuously. "Thank you, but I won't," replied Howison, saucily. "No! Then what the devil do you want?" "You," said the former, emphatically. "But you had better conduct yourself quietly, for your own sake." "Now, my good fellow," replied Jacob, in a satirically calm tone, "_do_ tell me what you mean?" "Do ye ken such a man as Fairly the tailor?" inquired Howison, who always affected a degree of playfulness in the execution of this department of his duties. "Do ye ken Fairly the tailor?" he said, with an intelligent smile. "I know no such man, sir; never heard his name before," replied Jacob, angrily, and now urging his fair protegées onwards--the whole party having been stopped by the incident just detailed. "Not so fast, friend," exclaimed Howison, making after his prey, and again slapping him on the shoulder, but now less ceremoniously. "You are my prisoner, and here's my authority," he added, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper. It was the decreet against Simmins. "Although _you_ don't know Fairly, _I_ happen to know Fairly's surtout. The short and the long of the matter is, sir," continued Howison, "that I arrest you at the instance of John Fairly, tailor and clothier, for a debt of £4:15s., with interest and expenses, said debt being the price of the identical surtout which you have just now on your back. So come along quietly, or it may be worse for you." We do not suppose it is necessary that we should describe the amazement of the unhappy wearer of the surtout in question, on so very extraordinary and incomprehensible a statement being made to him, nor that of his party, from the same cause. The reader will at once conceive what it was, without any such proceeding on our part. Confounded, however, and amazed as he was, Jacob's presence of mind instantly showed him that he was in a dilemma, a regular scrape. That he must either acknowledge--and, in the presence of all his fair friends, there was death in the idea--that the surtout he wore, and which had procured for him so much admiration, was a borrowed one, or quietly submit to be dragged to jail as the true debtor. Jacob further saw exactly how the case stood. He saw that his friend Simmins had never paid for the very flashy article in which he was now arrayed (a discovery this, however, which did not in the least surprise him), and that _he_ was the person for whom the honours of Howison were intended. Having, however, no fancy for incarceration, Jacob finally determined on avowing the distressing fact, that his surtout was a borrowed one, and that, not being its true owner, he was, of course, free of the attentions of Mr Howison. With a face, then, red as scarlet, and a voice expressive of great tribulation, Jacob made a public acknowledement of this humiliating truth, and was about to avail himself of the advantage which he calculated on deriving from it--namely, that of proceeding on his way--when, to his great horror and further confusion, he found that Howison determined on still sticking to him. In great agitation, Jacob again repeated that he was not Simmins, and that he had merely borrowed the surtout from that gentleman. To these earnest asseverations, Howison at first merely replied by an incredulous smile, then added--"It may be sae, sir; but that's a matter that maun be cleared up afterwards. In the meantime ye'll go wi' me, if you please; and, if no o' your ain accord, as I wad advise ye, by force, as I'll compel ye." Saying this, he plunged his hand into one of his pockets, and produced a pair of handcuffs, like a rat-trap. The exhibition of these ornaments, and the dread of getting up a scene on the public street, at once decided the unfortunate surtout-borrower to submit to his fate, and to walk quietly off with his new friends, Mr Howison and concurrent. In ten minutes after, Jacob found himself snugly quartered in an airy chamber, with grated windows, commanding a pleasant view of a tread-mill in full operation; and here he remained, until the following morning brought such evidence of his identity as procured his liberation. On once more snuffing the fresh air, Jacob swore he would take care again whose coat he borrowed, when he should have occasion to ask such a favour from a friend; and we would advise the reader to exercise the like caution, should he ever find himself in similar circumstances. THE SURGEON'S TALES. THE SUICIDE. It is a vain question, that which has been often stirred among men of our profession and metaphysicians, whether insanity--including under that word all the modes of derangement of the mental powers--is strictly a _disease_, the definition of which, according to the best authorities, is "an alternation from a perfect state of bodily health." Both parties may, to a certain extent, be right; for the one, including chiefly the metaphysicians, can successfully exhibit a gradation in the scale of derangement: beginning at the slightest peculiarity; passing on to an eccentricity; from that to idiosyncrasy; from that to a decay or an extraordinary increase of strength in a particular faculty--say memory; from that to a decay or an increase in the intensity of a feeling, an emotion, or a passion; from that to false perception--such as monomania, progressing to derangement as to one point or subject, often called madness, _quoad hoc_; and so on, through many other changes, almost imperceptible in their differences, to perfect madness--all without the slightest indication of a pathological nature being to be discovered or detected by the finest dissecting-knife. On the other hand, again, it is indisputable--for we medical men have demonstrated the fact--that a certain _degree_ of madness is almost always accompanied with derangement in the cerebral organs--the most ordinary appearance being the existence of a fluid of a certain kind in the chambers of the brain. The best and the cleverest of us must let these questions alone; for, so long as we remain--and that may be, as it likely will be, for ever--ignorant of the subtle principle of organic life--the nature of the mysterious union of mind and matter--we will never be able to tell (notwithstanding all our mental achievements) whether madness has its primary beginning in the body or in the mind. We must remain contented with a knowledge of exciting causes, and with that melancholy lore which treasures up--alas! for how little good!--the dreadful symptoms which distinguish this miserable state of proud man from all other conditions of his earthly sorrow; exhibiting him conscious of being still a human creature impressed with the image of God, yet incapable of using the proudest gift of Heaven--his reason; susceptible of and suffering the most excruciating of all pains--imaginary evils, torments, agonies--yet placed beyond the pale of human sympathy; bent upon--following with cunning and assiduity the cruellest modes of self-immolation; and sometimes calmly _reasoning_ on the nature of the mysterious power that impels to a horrible and revolting suicide. I have been led into this train of thought by the circumstances of the case I am now about to relate. It is one of a calm, reasoning, determined self-destroyer, in whom, with the single exception of wishing to die by violent and bloody means, I could discover no mental derangement. The case occurs every day; but there are circumstances in this of a peculiar nature, which set it apart from others I have witnessed, and seen described; and, as it bears the invaluable stamp of truth, my description of it may be held to be a chapter, and a melancholy one, in the wonderful history of human life, wherein, perhaps, the succeeding capital division may consist of an account of our own tragic fate, not less lamentable or less awful. Such creatures are we lords of the creation!--so completely veiled are the destinies of man! It was, I think, in the month of December in the winter of 18--, that a man in the garb of a farmer called upon me, and requested me to visit George B----, a person, he said, of his own craft, who held a small sheep-farm back among the hills about three miles distant. I asked the messenger if the man was in danger, and if he wished me to proceed instantly to his residence, or if a call the first time that I passed that way, which might be next day, would suffice. He replied that his friend was not in immediate danger, and did not wish me to travel three miles for the special purpose of seeing him, but would be contented with, and grateful for, a visit from me on any early day that suited my convenience. On the following day, I happened to be in that quarter of the country, and called at the house to which I had been directed. The day was cloudy, raw, and cold, and a stern north wind whistled among the brackens of the hills. I was struck with the situation and appearance of the house. It had formerly been a mansion-house, and was much larger than the ordinary residences of small sheep-farmers among the hills. The situation was peculiarly bleak, sequestered, and even dismal: no trees could be discovered in any direction; there was no outhouses attached to the dwelling; and no neighbouring residence was to be seen. The house stood alone, big, gaunt, cold, and comfortless, in the midst of bare hills, exposed to the bitter wind that careered through the valleys and ravines. Nor, as I approached, did I discover any signs of domestic stir or comfort. Several of the windows were closed up--the under part of the house apparently being only inhabited by the inmates, who showed no anxiety to ascertain by looking out who it was that had accomplished the task of getting to this barren and sequestered place. On knocking at the door, it was opened by a young woman about eighteen years of age. She appeared to be delicate--being thin in her person, pale in her complexion, and of an irritable temperament, for she started when she saw me. An expression of melancholy pervaded features not unhandsome, and attracted particularly my attention, by almost instantly exciting my sympathy. I asked her if George B---- was in the house. She answered that her father, for such he was, had just gone to bed, having been for some time ailing. I told her that it was upon that account I had come to see him. She seemed then to know who I was, and thanked me for my attention. I stepped in; and, as I followed the young woman through a long passage to the room occupied by her father, she told me that her mother had died about a year before, and that there was no other individual living in the house but her and her remaining parent. A gloomy, unhappy pair! thought I, as I looked on her sombre face, and heard the wind moaning through the big, open house. On entering the room, which was cold and poorly furnished, I observed George B---- sitting up in his bed reading a book, which I discovered to be a large Bible. He had a napkin bound round his temples. His face exhibited the true melancholic hue, being of a swarthy yellow; his eyes wore the heaviness generally found in people of that temperament; the muscles were firmly bound down by the rigid, severe, and desponding expression of dejection, generally found associated with these other characteristics; and throughout his face and manner there was exhibited an indifference to surrounding objects, which was only very partially relaxed by his recognition of me as I entered. There was, however, nothing of the look of a diseased man about him; for his face was full and fleshy, his nerves firm and well strung, his eye steady and unclouded, and his voice, as he welcomed me in, strong, and even rough and burly. His face resembled very much the _ideal_ of that of the old Covenanters; and the large Bible he held in his hands aided the conception, and increased the picturesque effect of the whole aspect of the man. He knew, or took it for granted, that I was the surgeon he had sent for, pointed to a chair, that I might sit down, and beckoned to his daughter Margaret, as he called her, to leave the room. The young woman retired slowly, and I observed, as she proceeded towards the door, she threw back two or three nervous looks, which I thought indicated a strong feeling of apprehension, mixed with her filial sympathy. As the door shut, it sounded as if it had lost the catch; the father caught the sound, appeared angry, and requested me to rise and shut it effectually, and, as he added, carefully. I complied, and he seemed to listen for some time, as if to try to ascertain whether his daughter had proceeded along the passage to the kitchen. He was uncertain, and listened again, but was still unresolved; at last, he said he was sorry to give me so much trouble, but he felt he could not enter upon the subject about which he wished to consult me until he was satisfied, beyond the possibility of doubt, that Margaret was not listening. I rose and went to the door. On opening it, I saw the young woman standing behind it. On perceiving me, she retreated precipitately and fearfully along the dark passage. I shut the door; and, being unwilling, in my ignorance of the cause of all this mysterious secrecy and suspicion, to betray the poor girl, who had perhaps some good legitimate object in solicitude, I said simply that there was now nobody there. He was satisfied; and I again sat down. I then asked him what was the particular complaint about which he wished to consult me. "That is precisely what I wish to know," he replied. "I hae nae complaint aboot _my body_, which, God be thanked! is just as strong as it used to be. But there is a change in my mind, different frae the healthy griefs, and sorrows, and pains o' mortals. My wife, the best o' women, died a year ago. In a short time after, I lost the greater number o' my sheep in a storm, which prevented me frae payin my Candlemas rent. But mony a man loses his wife, and mony a shepherd his sheep, without tellin a doctor o' their loss. I laid my account wi' sufferin grief as heavy as mortal ever suffered; and in this house, in this bed, on these hills, in the kirk, and at our cattle trysts, I hae struggled wi' my sorrow. But, sir," leaning his head towards me, and speaking low, "_it winna a' do_." He paused, and, as he fixed his eye upon me, drew a deep sigh, as if he had already, as it were, broached a subject that was fearful to himself. "What mean you?" said I. "I mean, that _I canna live_!" he replied, energetically, seizing the Bible with a spasmodic grasp--closing it--throwing it to the back of the bed--then falling in an instant into a state of real dejection, with his arms folded over his breast, and his eyes cast down. "Grief often produces these gloomy thoughts," said I; "but they are the mere fancies of a sick mind--generated in sorrow, and dying with the time-subdued cause that produces them. There is not a bereaved husband, wife, parent, or child in the land, that does not, in the first struggle with a new grief, entertain and cherish, for passing moments of agony, such sick fancies of rebelling nature. You have not yet given time and your energies a fair trial. You must have patience." "There is some consolation in that," he replied. "I am glad when I think that the thought that haunts and alarms me is no sae dangerous as it sometimes appears to me. This book (sweet comforter!) tells me that Tobit prayed to be dissolved, and become earth, because o' his sorrow. It tells me, also, that Job, in his agonies, cried, 'My soul chooseth strangling and death rather than life.' My experience o' the ills o' life (and a man o' sixty-five must have some portion o' that) informs me o' the truth o' what you have told me, that an extraordinary burden o' grief often wrings frae the sick soul a wish to dee and be at rest. But oh! I fear my situation is different. I hae _mair_ than a wish to be dissolved; for sure none o' my brethren in sorrow"--here his voice fell almost to a whisper, and tears rolled down his cheek--"ever lay wi' the like o' that"--holding up a razor--"under his sick pillow." I was alarmed, being utterly unprepared for this exhibition. "You need be under nae alarm," he continued, wiping the tears from his eyes. "My courage is not yet strong enough. God be praised for it! Moments o' fearfu fortitude sometimes come owre me, and I have held that instrument in my clenched hand--ay, within an inch o' my bared throat; but the resolution passes as quickly as it comes, and terror, cowardice, and a shiverin cauld--dreadfu to suffer--come in their place. Lay it past, sir--lay it past." I obeyed; and, as I proceeded to place the instrument on the top of a chest of drawers, I heard the noise of some one in the passage, with suppressed ejaculations of--"O God! O God!" "I wadna hae shown you that," he continued, as I sat down, "but that it is my wish to tell you the warst; for nae man can expect assistance, if he is ashamed or afraid to show his necessities and his danger. I didna send for you to cure my body, but to examine my mind, and tell me if it is sound and healthy, or weak and diseased, and therefore I will conceal naething frae ye that may show you its state and condition." I was pleased to find I had so tractable a patient. I paused for a moment, to consider in what way I should draw him out, and on what side I should attack him--whether I should argue calmly with him, and endeavour to stimulate his feelings of duty to his Maker, to himself and his poor daughter; or shake him roughly as a vain and sinful dreamer who had voluntarily swallowed a pernicious soporific, and try to awaken him, and keep him awake, after the manner of our remedial endeavours to save those who have attempted to poison themselves by laudanum. I saw, in an instant, that he was by far too strong-minded a man to be operated upon effectually by the mere charm of the imputed reach and strength of our cabalistic lore--an agent, if well employed, of great good in our profession--and too determined (for such resolutions are always, in some degree, a false result of reasoning powers) to be put from his purpose either by a firm pressure of logical authority, or the subtle and more dangerous means of good-humoured or severe satire. My course was clearly to endeavour to affect the form of his own reasoning, and, if possible, to invest it with a character which might be recognised as true by the peculiar, and, no doubt, morbid perceptions he possessed of moral truth. I began by securing his eye, which I saw was, at times, inclined to wander, or take on that unmeaning, dull, glazed aspect which people in the act of brooding over intense sorrows--as if the optic nerves were thereby paralysed--so often exhibit. "What train of mind are you in generally," said I, "when the wish to die, accompanied with the fortitude you have mentioned, comes upon you in its strongest form?" "I first fall into a state of low spirits," said he, "and then nae effort I can use will tak my mind aff my dead wife. I think for whole hours--sometimes on the hills, sometimes in the house, and sometimes in my bed--of our courtship, our marriage, our happy life, and her miserable, painful, untimely death. This feeds my sorrow, which grows stronger, and descends deeper and deeper, till it reaches my brain, and I am sunk in the darkness o' despair. To escape frae thoughts o' past sorrows that are owre strong to be borne, I try to look forward to the future; but, alas! I see naething there but the pain o' livin for a number o' comfortless years o' auld age, draggin after me, a memory clogged wi' past ills, and naething afore me but a jail, and want, and lingerin death." "These are false views of life," said I--"overstrained and morbid. I must teach you to think better. You have a daughter who will comfort you, and whom you are bound to support and protect." "True, true," he cried; "I hae a dochter, and a better never sacrificed her ain thochts and feelins to the comforts o' a faither. The idea o' leavin her, young, faitherless, poor, and full o' sorrow, in the midst o' a bad world, has before this" (lowering his voice) "brought down that rebellious hand from this throat. But, alas for the inconsistency and mutability o' man's fancies!--dearly as I love that creature, and she is now my only comfort, my very affection for her sometimes sinks me deeper into that sorrow which produces the dreadfu purpose o' takin awa my ain life; for I think--oh! how weak is man's proud reason, when the heart is broken wi' grief!--that an auld parent under the ban o' poverty is a burden to a child. His death (so in these unhappy moments do I think) relieves the unhappy bairn o' twa evils--that o' toilin maybe in vain to support him, and that o' witnessin age, decrepitude, pain, misery, and want, wringin frae his shrivelled and diseased body groans o' agony, strikin the heart o' his child wi' mair pain than would be caused by the knell o' his death." He now sank his face in the bedclothes, which he grasped with a spasmodic hand, and groaned so deep and loud that the sounds might have reached the passage. I again heard a noise from that quarter, as if of stifled sighs and hysterical sobs. I was placed between the groans of a father bent against his own judgment on self-destruction, and the terrors and griefs of a daughter listening to the horrible recital of her parent's designs against his life. The loneliness of the house, and the solitude of the unhappy pair--with no one to aid the young woman, in the event of any appalling extremity to which the unnatural purpose of her father might drive him--struck me forcibly. I had no recollection of ever experiencing a scene of grief so peculiar, with such fearful and uncertain issues, so irremediable and heart-stirring. The groans of the one and the sobs of the other seemed to vie with each other in the effect they produced upon me; but, great as the pain of the father was, the sufferings of the daughter, perhaps as peculiar and touching as any that could be conceived, engaged to the greatest extent my sympathy. It was my duty and wish to try to remove the fundamental cause of all this suffering; and I waited the end of the paroxysm of the father's sorrow in order to resume the conversation. "These views," said I, as he calmed, "which you take of life, and its duties and affections, are all false and distorted. It is our duty to try to regulate our thoughts as well as our actions by some steady supporting principle, which mankind have agreed in considering as true, whether it be derived from the direct Word of God or from the written tablets of the heart. The taking away of our life--originally given to us as a trust, or imposed on us by the Author of all good, for certain ends and purposes which are veiled from our view--is undoubtedly in many respects, as regards God himself, ourselves, our children, and our neighbours, a great, flagrant, horrible crime. It is against the law of God, the law of our country, the organic law of our physical constitution, and the moral law of our minds. It is indeed the only act that can be mentioned that is against _all_ these. It does not require me to tell you that suicide, with other murders, was denounced by God himself, speaking in words that all mankind have heard, from the 'thick cloud' that hung over Mount Sinai. You are, I presume, a Christian, and the Sacred Book containing that denunciation lies at your side; and yet you have made the dreadful confession to me, that you have dared to meditate on the breaking, the despising, the contemning of the command of Him who by less than a command--ay, than even a word, by the lifting up of his finger--may consign you to an eternity of agony, in comparison of which all the sorrow you now suffer is less than a grain of sand to the sandbanks of the sea." "It is true, it is true!" replied the unhappy man. "I know, I _feel_ that every word you have uttered is true, maist true and undeniable as are the sentiments o' this holy book," grasping again the Bible; "but can ye--wha, by the command o' books and education, can dive farther into the nature o' the mind than ane like me--explain this mystery, that, when my soul is filled wi' the darkness o' sorrow, and my rebellious purpose o' self-murder whispers in my mind treachery and war against God, thae truths ye hae uttered, for they hae occurred to me before, tak flight like guid angels, and leave me to warsle wi' a power that subdues me? It is then that I am in danger, and the hand that has held up to my throat that fatal instrument I had under my pillow, has the moment before been lifted up vainly in prayer to God, to throw owre my mind the light o' thae grand truths. What avails it, then, that there are times when I love them, and am guided by them, and thank Heaven for the precious gift o' knowin, feelin, and appreciatin them, if there are other moments when they flee frae me, and I am left powerless in the grasp o' my enemy?" Pausing, and falling again into a fit of dejection. "I fear, I fear the best o' us are only the slaves o' some mysterious power. But"--starting up, as if recollecting himself--"I put a question to you--answer me in the name o' Heaven; for if I gie mysel up to the belief o' an all-powerful necessity, I am a lost man and a self-murderer." He was now clearly approaching a rock whereon many a gallant bark has been shivered to atoms. Even healthy-minded men cannot look at the question of the necessity of the will without staggering and reeling; and hypochondriacs love to get drunk by inhaling the vapours of mysticism that rise from it, destroying as they do all moral responsibility, and concealing the vengeance of heaven and the terrors of hell. It was necessary to lead him from this dangerous subject, which it was clear he had been studying and dreaming about, with all that love of subtlety and mysticism which melancholy generates. "No sensible man," said I, "believes in the absolute necessity of the will. After the will is fixed, the liberty is already exercised, and there is indeed _no will_ in the mind at all, until it takes the form of an active, moving, propelling principle. But these are abstruse fancies, which you must fly, if you wish to possess a healthy mind. Sorrow, or any other feeling of pain, will extinguish while it lasts the burning lights of principle or sentiment. The pain of the amputation of a limb prevents, while it lasts, the natural working of the mind; but _grief may be averted_, and the great healing secret of that is, that the mind _must_ be occupied. Renounce all abstruse thinking, all day-dreaming, all sorrowful remembering, all sentimental musing--look upon application, exercise, work, as a duty and a medicine, and I will answer for your expelling from your mind that dreadful purpose that entails upon you misery, and disgraces the nature of man." "Your advice is excellent," replied he, somewhat roused; "but, unfortunately, I hae got the same frae my ain mind; and, what is mair, I hae tried it--I hae tried it again and again;--the medicine is worth nae mair to me than a bread pill. My efforts to exercise my mind, when a fit o' sorrow presses upon it, only mak the sorrow the heavier, by makin the mind less able to bear it. My soul is for ever bent on that question o' the necessity o' the will which you despise and avoid. I will, God is my witness, argue it with you, calmly and reasonably." "Unless you agree to renounce that question," said I, "I can do you no good." "Then," replied he, with a groan, "I am left to Heaven and my unavoidable fate. May God have mercy on my soul!" And he again relapsed into a fit of dejection, his head leaning on his breast, and his eyes fixed on the bed. I could, I found, make no more of him that day, and my other avocations required my departure. I told him I would call again, and bring or send him some medicine. "It is an unnecessary waste o' your valuable time," he said, lifting up his head, "to call again upon a wretch like me. I am much obliged to you for advice; but the only medicine for me is--_death_." He pronounced the fearful word with an emphatic guttural tone, which gave it a terrific effect. I opened the door to depart, and was surprised to find that it would not go back sufficiently to allow me to pass freely. The probable cause of the interruption flashed upon my mind in an instant. Without speaking a word, I edged myself through, and saw, lying at the back of the door, the body of the unfortunate young woman, in a state of insensibility. I had presence of mind enough not to carry her into the room where her father lay; but, seeing the light of the kitchen at the further end of the long gloomy passage, I snatched her up in my arms, and hastened with her thither. Having laid her on a small truckle bed, whereon, I presume, she usually slept, I found she was in a deep swoon; and, notwithstanding that it was getting dark, and my time was expired, I waited her recovery. As she lay before me, pale as a corpse, and as I thought of the cause of her illness, and looked round in vain for any one to give her assistance or consolation (the groans of her father, which I indistinctly heard, being the only answer that would have been given to a call for aid in a house more like a haunt for ghosts and spectres than a residence for human beings), I felt the impression of her peculiar misery pass over me, making me shudder as if I had been seized with a fit of the ague. The frail, brittle creature lying there, a victim of hysterics, fit only to be cherished and guarded by a doting mother--placed in a large, empty, gousty mansion--doomed to guard alone a suicide and a father, and, perhaps, to wrestle with him through blood--her parent's blood!--for the preservation of a remaining spark of a self-taken life! She at length recovered, exhibiting the ordinary precursors of returning consciousness--convulsive shiverings, rolling of the eyes, and beating about with the hands. On perceiving me indistinctly, she articulated-- "Death! death!--that was the word he spoke sae wildly.--Ah! I know it now!--James H---- has lang tried to conceal it frae me; but I hae discovered it at last. Can you save him, sir?--can you save the faither o' her wha has scarcely anither freend on earth?" A flood of tears followed this ejaculation. She tore her hair like a maniac. I tried everything in my power to pacify her; but terror had completely mastered her weak nerves, and she shook as the successive frightful images suggested by her situation passed through her excited and still confused mind. "Is there no one in those parts," said I, "that can attend your father, and assist you? Who is the James H---- you just now mentioned?" "He is my cousin," replied she. "He lived with us for some time; but my father and he quarrelled about a _razor_, which he said James wanted to steal from him. But I see it now. There was nae theft. James, poor James, was innocent, and wanted to save him; but they concealed it frae me, and my cousin was turned away." The mention of the word razor made me start. I had left the instrument on the head of the drawers, and I had even now heard the wretched man's groans. I hurried to the room, and entered softly. He was in a fit of dejection, groaning, at intervals, deeply, like a man in bodily pain. I took up the instrument without being noticed, and returned to the kitchen. It was now almost dark. I had three miles to ride through wild hill paths, and I heard some threatening indications of a night-storm. The young woman was still lying on the couch, with her terrors undiminished; but I could do nothing more for her, and to have impressed her with the necessity of watching her parent would have created additional alarm, without increasing her zeal in a cause that concerned too nearly her own heart. I told her, therefore, that I required to depart, and was in the act of leaving to go to the door, when, in a paroxysm of terror, she started up, and seized me, clutching me firmly, and crying loudly-- "Will you leave me alone wi' him in this house, and throughout the dark night! He will do it when you are gone. Heaven preserve me frae the sight o' a father's blood!" I tried to calm her, and to reason with her; but it was in vain. She still clung to me; and I found myself necessitated either to use some gentle force to detach myself from her grasp, or remain all night. I adopted the former expedient, and rushing out, shut the door after me, mounted my horse, and proceeded home. She had come out after me; for I heard her cries for some time as I rode forward in the dark. Though soon out of sight of the house, I felt myself unconsciously turning my head once or twice in the direction of the deserted mansion. With all my efforts to think of some other subject--and my own safety among these wild hills might have been sufficient to occupy my attention--I could not, for some time, take my mind off the scene I had witnessed, and the prospective misery that, in such different forms, waited these two individuals. When I had gone about a mile and a-half on my journey, I was accosted by a man, who asked me familiarly how George B---- was. I recognised in him at once the individual who had asked me to call for him. I told him that he was well enough in his body, but had taken some wild and distorted views of life, which might place him in danger of his own hands, while there was nobody in the house to watch him but his daughter, who did not seem to me to be well fitted for the task, seeing she was weakly, hysterical, and timid. He told me he knew all I had stated; that his name was James H----; that he was a cousin of the young woman's, George B---- having been married on his mother's sister; that he had resided in the house, and had discovered the tendency of his uncle's mind; and that, on one occasion, he had snatched out of his hands a razor with which he intended to destroy himself--an act for which he was expelled the house, though he was the acknowledged suitor of the young woman, whom he intended to wed. I told him he should marry her, protect her, and save the father; but he replied that the old man would neither allow him to live in the house, nor take his daughter from him; so that she was compelled to remain in the dreadful condition in which I had found her. I told him to call upon me next day, and proceeded homewards. Before James H---- called, which he did about two o'clock, I revolved in my mind what should be done for the unfortunate man. I recollected that, in a conversation I had with Dr D---- of Edinburgh, he told me of a case of melancholy, and accompanying determination to commit self-murder, which he had successfully treated by presenting to the mind of the patient such horrific stories and narratives of men who had taken their own lives, and suffered in their death inexpressible agonies, and such shocking pictures of murders where the wretched victims were brought back, by the hand of their offended Maker, from the gates of death, with their consciences seared by the burning iron of his vengeance, that the man got alarmed, was cured of his thirst for his own blood, and never again spoke of self-destruction. I resolved upon trying this expedient, and could not think of a better book for my purpose than that extraordinary record of human vice and suffering, the "Newgate Calendar." I fortunately possessed a copy, with those fearfully graphic pictures, that suit so well, in their coarse, half-caricatured, grotesque delineations, with the dreadful narratives they are intended to illustrate. I picked out the most fearful volume, that contained, at the same time, the greatest number of attempted self-murders, where the victims were snatched from their own chosen death, and, after their wounds were healed, devoted to that pointed out by the law as due to their crimes. When James H---- called in the afternoon, I gave him the volume, and requested him to hand it to the patient's daughter, with directions to put it into the hands of her father, as having been sent to him by me. He said he would take the first opportunity of complying with my request. I had no visits to make that required my presence in that part of the country for two or three days. On the second day after I had sent the book, I had another call from James H----, who said that he had been requested by the patient's daughter to return the volume, and to request another one, which the patient desired, above all things, to be sent to him that day. I accordingly sent him another volume, although I did not know whether to augur well or ill from this anxiety; but I was inclined to be of opinion that the symptom was an auspicious one. Two days afterwards, the messenger called again, with a repetition of his former request for another volume as soon as it could be sent. I complied with it instantly; sending, however, on this occasion, two--for I thought my medicine was operating beneficially, and it was of that kind that could be of no use unless administered in large doses, so, as it were, to surfeit and sicken the disease, and force it, by paralysing its energies, to relinquish its grasp of the patient's mind and body. Two days more having elapsed, I felt anxious to ascertain the effect of my moral _emetocathartics_, and set out on the special errand of visiting my patient. The house, as I approached, exhibited the same still, dead-like aspect it possessed on my first visit. On knocking at the door, it was opened timidly and slowly by the daughter, who appeared to be paler, more sorrow-stricken, more weak and irritable, than on the occasion of my former visit. Her eye exhibited that terrorstruck look which nervous people, kept on the rack of a fearful apprehension, so often exhibit. Her voice was low, monotonous, and weak, as if she had been exhausted by mental anxiety, watching, and care. There was still no one in the house but her and her father; the same stillness reigned everywhere--the same air of dejection--the same goustiness in the large empty dwelling. On asking her how her father was, she replied, mournfully, that he had scarcely ever been out of his bed since my last visit; that he lay, night and day, reading the books I had sent him; that he had eaten very little meat, and had fallen several times into dreadful fits of groaning, and talking to himself. She added that he felt, at times, disinclined to see her; but at others, his affection for her rose to such a height, that he flung his arms about her neck, and wept like a child on her bosom. She had proposed to him, she said, to bring some person into the house; but he got into a violent rage when she mentioned it, and said he would expel the first intruder, whether man or woman. She had therefore been compelled to remain alone. She had lain at the back of his room-door every night, watching his motions, whereby, in addition to her grief, she had caught a violent rheumatism, which had stricken into her bones. When, for a short time, she had gone to sleep, she was awakened by terrific dreams and nightmares, which made her cry aloud for help, and exposed the situation she had taken, for the purpose of watching her parent, and defeating his purpose of self-murder. I proceeded to the patient's room. When I entered, which I did softly, I found him lying in bed, with his head, as formerly, bound up in a handkerchief; a volume of the "Newgate Calendar" lying on his breast. So occupied was he with his enjoyment of this _morceau_ of horrors, that he did not notice my entry or approach to his bedside. I stood and gazed at him. He had finished the page that was open before him--exhibiting John Torrance, the blacksmith of Hockley. His eye rested at least five minutes on this horrific picture; and, as he continued his rapt gaze, he drew deep sighs--his breast heaving with great force, as if to throw off an unbearable load. He turned the page, and noticed me. "You are very intent upon that book," said I. "I hope it _interests_ you." "Yes," replied he. "My mind has been dead or entranced for a year. This is the only thing in the world I have met wi' during my sorrow capable o' putting life into my soul. It seems as if all the energies that have been lying useless for that period had risen at the magic power o' this wonderfu book, to pour their collected strength upon its pages." "Then it has served its end," said I, doubting greatly the truth of my own statement. "I sent it for the purpose of entertaining you--that is--interesting you." "Entertaining me!" he ejaculated. "You mean, binding my soul wi' iron bands: my heart now loves the misery it formerly loathed. But, sir, I am not _fed_ with this food. I devour it wi' a false and ravenous appetite; and were there a thousand volumes, I think I could read them a' before I broke bread or closed an ee." He rolled out these words with a volubility and an enthusiasm that surprised me. It was clear that I had poisoned the mind of this poor man. I had stimulated and partly fed his appetite for horrors. Familiarity with fearful objects kills the terror, and sometimes raises in its place a morbid affection--a fact established in France at the end of the last century by an empirical test of a horrific character, but which no knowledge of man's mind could have dreamed of _à priori_. Why had I forgotten this matter of history, and allowed myself to be led astray by vain theories and partial experiments? What was I now to do? The man's appetite for the bloody narratives was so strong, that, even while I was thus cogitating, his greedy eye had again sought the page. It was necessary that I should conceal from him my apprehensions, and take up his words on a feigned construction. "This kind of reading," said I, "interests you, I presume, because it fills your mind with a salutary disgust and terror--makes you loathe the act of the suicide--and mans your soul against the hateful purpose you entertained against your own life." He looked to the door, and beckoned to me to see if it was shut. I went and satisfied him that it was, while I was myself assured that she whom he was so anxious to deceive was again at her post behind it. "You ask me," he continued, "if this book has disgusted or terrified me against my purpose o' deein. Are we disgusted and terrified at what we love? I hae seen the day when thae stories had sma' attraction for me. But, alas! alas! I am a changed--a fearfully changed man. My soul now gloats owre tales o' crime and scenes o' blood. To me there is an interest, an indescribable, mysterious interest in this book, beyond the charm o' the miser's wealth, or the bridegroom's bride--ay, sir, or what I ance thocht was in life to the deein sinner. It is a medicine; but"--pausing, and eyeing me sorrowfully--"do you mean it to _kill_ or _cure_?" "To save you from self-destruction," said I--"the most fearful and the most cowardly of all the terminations of human life." "If you could keep me readin this _for ever_," he said, "yer object would be served." "I can give you no more of it," said I, conscious that, by indulging his morbid appetite for blood, I had been leading him to his ruin. "Then I must read thae volumes owre, and owre, and owre again," said he; "and when I hae dune, I hae naething mair to interest me in this dark, bleak warld." He fell now into one of his fits of dejection, assuming his accustomed attitude of folding his hands over his breast, and fixing his eyes on the bed, while deep sighs and groans were thrown from his heaving breast. It was necessary, I now saw, to take from him the book which had produced an effect the very opposite of what I had intended and expected. I took it up and placed it beside the other volume that was lying on a side-table, with a view to take them away with me--blaming myself sorely and deservedly for the injury I had done by experimenting so rashly on the life and eternal interests of a human being. As I moved away the volume, he observed me, and followed it wistfully and sorrowfully with his eye. "Ye hae dune weel," he said--"ye hae whetted my appetite for my ain life; and it matters naething that the whetter and the whet-stane are taen awa when they're nae mair needed!" I felt keenly the reproach, for it was just. I might have taken credit for a good intention; but my sympathy for the wretched being restrained any wish I had to defend myself I endeavoured to change the subject of our conversation, and turn his mind to a subject which I knew engaged his interests and feelings more than anything else on earth. "Your daughter," said I, "is unwell. She seems to be miserable. I know a change upon her both in mind and body, since I called here only a few days ago. Her body is thin and emaciated, her cheek is blanched, and her eye dimmed. These signs do not visit the young frame for nothing. I fear she has heard of the deadly intention you still persist in entertaining--to take away your own life. It is clear to me that her sickly constitution cannot long stand against a terror and an apprehension which even the aged and the strong cannot endure without grievous injury to all the faculties of the body and mind. Sir, take heed"--pausing and looking at him seriously and impressively--"you may become _a daughter's murderer_ before your _cowardly_ courage enables you to become _your own_!" "Hold, sir!--hold!" cried the roused man. "You now speak daggers to me! I could hae borne this when you were here last; but ye hae unmanned me--ye hae made me familiar wi' him, the king o' terrors, wha waits for me. I know him in his worst shapes. He is nae langer hideous to me; and, being his friend, I canna be my dochter's faither and guardian! Why cam you here to revive a struggle that was past? My mind was made up. Owre the pages o' that book, my resolution was fixed; now you wad re-resolve me back to my doubt, my pain, my insufferable agony, by bringin up into my mind the tender image o' a sufferin, sorrowin, starvin dochter. My Margaret--my Margaret!--her mother's image--the pledge o' a love dearer than life----" The door opened, and the young woman, who had been listening at the back of it, rushed in and flung herself on the bosom of the agonised man. "O father!" she cried, "I ken everything. Yer dreadfu purpose has been revealed to me. Ye intend to tak awa yer ain life, which my mother, yer beloved Agnes, on her death-bed, bade ye preserve for my sake. But ye canna do that without takin also mine. Yer death will be my death. I hae already seen yer bleedin body in my dreams--the image haunts me like a spirit, and leaves me nae rest. The doctor says true--ye will kill me before yer dreadfu purpose is fulfilled; but if, in God's will, I should be left when ye are awa, wha is to guard me, wha is to comfort me--without freends, without means, and without health?" The scene now presented to me transcended anything I had ever seen during my long intercourse with suffering humanity. The excited girl clung with a firm grasp to the neck of her parent, and sobbed intensely; while he, struggling to be liberated, and holding away his face to the back of the bed, groaned and appealed for relief in broken, guttural, half-choked aspirations to Heaven. I saw his eyes turned to the throne of mercy, and big tears rolled down his rugged cheeks. In my anxiety to aid this struggle, and assist him to the return to his natural love of life and duty to his God, I was afraid to interfere with the sacred service of a bursting heart, turned in its agony to the only source of consolation and healing virtue; while, if I allowed this opportunity to escape, I might not have another for adding a mortal's means and energies (sometimes God's instruments) to the workings of nature, and the silent but powerful voice of religion speaking from the innermost recesses of his moral constitution. "This is nature and truth," said I, after a pause--"powers a thousand times stronger than the brain-sick fancies of a diseased mind. It is the voice of God himself, sounding through the heart, and, like the electric energy, heaving it with convulsive throes, as if to cast forth from it the impious daring and unnatural purpose you have cherished in it so long that no lesser power will expel it. I rejoice in these throes; cherish them and aid them, for they are the expulsers of poison that, having got into your blood, and reached the heart, the seat of life, madly stimulates it to self-destruction. This is the time--here is the vantage-ground of a return to all that is right, true, and good, from cowardice, cruelty, irreligion, and even rebellion against God!" "Listen to him--listen to him!" cried the young woman, still sobbing. "Hear thae words o' truth, for they are sent from Heaven. Receive them into your heart, and it will be changed, and I will live to see my father enjoy life and be happy." "_When?_" groaned the miserable man, satirically, as if roused by the sound of the distasteful word "happy." "When I am sittin at the window o' a prison, thinkin o' my dead Agnes, and lookin at the red settin o' my sixty-fifth sun?" These words showed that the struggle had been ineffectual. Released from the grasp of his daughter, who sat at the side of the bed, he doggedly and sternly folded his arms, and relapsed into a silent fit of dejection. No effort would make him open his lips. There seemed to be no principle of reaction in his moral economy; all was penetrated by a fatal lethargy, which closed up every issue, broke every spring of living thought, feeling, or motion. My professional knowledge was entirely useless, my personal services unavailing. I called to him loudly to answer me, and got no reply but deep groans. I even shook him roughly, and tried to bend his head to his weeping daughter. My efforts were quickened by a sense that bore in upon me with fearful strength and importunity, that I had, by experimenting on his mind, and filling it with images of horror, increased the disease I intended to cure. Pained beyond measure, I was anxious to redeem my fault and correct my error by getting him again engaged in conversation, whereby I might have a last opportunity of drawing him into a train of thought which might lead to a sense of his awful condition, and a prospect of escaping from its present misery, and its horrible consequences. But my medicine had operated too powerfully. There he sat, unmoved, immoveable--a sad and melancholy victim of the worst species of hypochondria--that which exhibits as one of its pathognomonic symptoms, the desire, the determination, persevered in through all difficulties, all oppositions, all wiles and schemes, to commit self-murder. I waited for a considerable period, standing at the side of his bed, to see if he would exhibit any signs of returning moral vitality: but in vain. My other pressing avocations demanded imperiously my presence in quarters where I could be of more service. The daughter was herself buried in despondency, her face being hid in her hands, and broken ejaculations escaping from her lips. I took up the book which had produced so much harm, and whispered lowly in her ear, to request James H---- to call for me next day. At the sound of this name she started, and looked up wildly. I was afraid I might have to encounter another scene like that I had witnessed on the occasion of my last departure. I therefore hurried away, giving her no time to reply, where conversation was apparently useless. My intention was to try and devise some means of introducing a person into the house--though against the determined will of the father--to guard him and assist the daughter; but that could only be done through the medium of the messenger who went between me and the young woman. When I had got some distance from the house, I could not resist the feeling that on the occasion of my prior visit compelled me to look back upon this miserable dwelling. I had seen diseases of all kinds grinding the feelings of unhappy man; but in the worst of them there is some principle, either of resistance or resignation, that comes to the aid of the sufferer, and enables him to pass the ordeal, whether for life or death. The duty he is called upon to perform is to _bear_; for no man I ever yet saw on a sick-bed can get quit of the thought--however much he may try to philosophise about physical causes, or to conceal his sense of a divine influence--that he is placed there by a superior Hand _for the very purpose of suffering_, with a view to some end that is veiled from his eye. Every pang, therefore, that is borne carries with it, or leaves after it, some feeling of necessity to _bear_, and a satisfaction of having endured, and to a certain extent obeyed, the behest of Him that sent it. In many, this feeling is strong and decided, yielding comfort and consolation when no other power could have any effect; and though in others it may be less discernible--being often denied by the patients themselves, and attempted to be laughed at and scorned--it is, I assert, still there, silently working its progress in the heart, and spreading its balm even against the sufferer's own rebellious will. But the case of the suicide is left purposely by Him against whose law and authority the unholy purpose is directed, in a solitary condition of unmitigated horror; for the desire to get quit of pain--the inheritance of mortals--is itself the very exclusion of that resignation which is its legitimate antidote, while the devoted victim, obeying a necessity that forces him to eschew a misery he is not noble-minded enough to bear, not only has _no good_ in view, but is conscious that he is flying _from_ evil, _through_ evil, _to_ evil; so that from behind, around him, within him, before him--wherever he casts his eye--there is nothing but darkness, pain, and utter desolation. To complete the scene--there is, perhaps, no living _natural_ evil more peculiar and acute, and less capable of generating resistance or resignation, than the rack of apprehension and terror of an only daughter watching, alone and unaided, the issues of a purpose that is, in all likelihood, to force her through the energies of the strongest instinct--filial affection--to stop, with her trembling hands, the flow of a father's life-blood. Yet all this evil, this misery, was to be found in that house, standing alone in the midst of these bleak hills, like a temple dedicated to sorrow. Next day James H---- called upon me, having seen the young woman, unknown to the father, on the previous night, and received from her the instructions I left for him. He saw himself the necessity of something being done towards the amelioration of the condition of the two unhappy individuals; but he acknowledged the difficulty of effecting it. He perceived (what was true) that, if any watch were set over his uncle, it might only make certain that which at present was doubtful; that the watchman could only proceed on the principle that he was mad, and bind him, or confine him, or otherwise treat him as insane; and that, besides, he knew no one who, without pay (and there was no money), would undertake so unpleasant a duty, which might last for weeks, or months, or even years. No concealed surveillance could be kept over him; for he suspected in an instant the object of any one visiting him, and had ordered one or two individuals, who had come from a distance to call for him, out of the house, suspecting (such is the way of all his unhappy tribe) that they came for the purpose of observing his motions. The difficulty was greatly owing to the lonely position of the house: the cloak of friendly intercourse might have covered the frequent visits of near neighbours; but there were none such--for the nearest house was two miles off; and as for relations, they were in another part of the country, distant in locality as well as blood. The case was hedged with difficulties. Violent diseases require strong remedies. I recollected that James H---- said, on a former occasion, that he was the suitor of the young woman, and wished to wed her. I came to a resolution on the instant--firm, decided, and sound. I told him that, if he wished to save the father and the daughter, he must accelerate his intended marriage with the latter, even in the midst of the unfortunate circumstances in which she was placed, and under the unfavourable auspices of an event of joy being shadowed with a cloud of sorrow. This would give him a claim on the daughter; and if the old man would not permit his son-in-law to remain in the house, and assist him as formerly with the labours of his land, he could threaten to take her from him altogether--a threat that would not, in all likelihood, fail to make him consent to his becoming an inmate in the house. The young man was pleased with an advice that quadrated with his wishes, and left me, to consult with some other friends on the propriety of instantly following it. I heard the banns proclaimed next Sunday in the parish church, and was somewhat surprised at the rapidity with which my advice had been adopted, and the plan put into execution. The intelligence was promptly communicated to me by the bridegroom himself, who informed me also that the fact of the proclamation of the banns had been communicated to his uncle, who had expressed himself strongly against the match. He had, in fact, taken up a strong prejudice against his nephew, in consequence of the latter's interference with his purpose of self-immolation. He had never allowed the young man to come near him since the day on which he had taken the razor out of his hands by force; and the intelligence that he was to marry his daughter, and deprive him of her society, roused him to fury. He denounced the union, and said that it added another drop of bitterness to the cup of his misery, which was already overflowing. I told the young man that the anger into which his uncle had been thrown would, in all likelihood, do him more good than harm: it might stimulate a mind, dead or dormant, from the effects of brooding over imaginary evils, which produced ten times more self-murders than the real misfortunes of life. He told me the marriage would not, on account of his uncle's anger, be put off; that it was fixed for the 15th of the month, and would be celebrated in private. I informed him that I required to go to a distant part of the country, and could not, for some time, see his uncle, and that he must endeavour, by all means, to support and comfort the unhappy bride in her watchful care over her unfortunate father, who, according to his account, was still under the cloud from which he threatened every instant to draw down the lightning that was to strike him to death. When I returned from my journey, I called again upon the unfortunate man, in the hope of finding some amelioration in his condition, as well as that of his daughter. I found him still in bed, though he had been up and out on several occasions since I visited him. I saw no signs of improvement. I endeavoured to get him engaged in a conversation about his own condition; but I saw that, in place of being fond of dwelling on the state of his mind, talking of his sorrows, and contemplating the purpose he entertained against his existence, he showed an utter repugnance to the subject, having become perfectly taciturn, sullen, and morose, giving me monosyllables for answers, and sometimes not deigning even to show that he attended to me, or understood me. The only thing that seemed to interest him was his daughter's marriage--looking dark and gloomy when the subject was broached, and muttering indistinct words of reproach and anger. The condition of his daughter was changed; but it was only a new form of anguish. Some days previous, she had observed him with another razor in his hand; but he had secreted it somewhere, and all her efforts had as yet been ineffectual to get it. Her watch had therefore been more unremitting--her apprehensions were increased, while her strength was greatly diminished. She was reduced to a shadow; the pale skin that covered her face seemed to be in contact with the bones; while her eyes burned with fever and excitement. Yet _her marriage_ was fixed to take place two or three days after! She could not avoid it; she had pledged her word, and her father's safety depended in a great degree upon it. She could bear her condition no longer--all her powers of suffering were worn out; and if her father would not permit her husband to remain in the house, she would, she said, allow the latter to exercise what authority he pleased, in endeavouring, by force, to save his father-in-law and his wife from the ruin that seemed to await them. The gloom that enveloped her mind was deepened by the contrast of the light of a happiness she had long sighed for, now changed into a refinement of peculiar pain. She shuddered when she thought of her marriage with the man she loved, and feared that the power of Heaven would fall on her, for presuming to bring joy into the chamber of mourning, if not death. As she spoke, tears moistened her burning eye, and ran down her thin, pallid cheeks. She wished the ceremony over, as an evil to be endured, and then fate must take its course, though she feared the termination would be miserable, as well for her father as for her. His life was hanging by a thread; hers was worn out by watching, fainting, and suffering, till it was on the very eve of leaving the body, which was no longer able to support or contain it. These were the misfortunes in the inside of the house; but there were others without-doors. The landlord had sequestrated the stock belonging to her father--a circumstance that had plunged him deeper in his despondency and misery, and explained the very altered state in which I had found him. The attorney, a hard man, _laughed_ at the _device_ of threatened self-murder, resorted to for the purpose of exciting his sympathy, and robbing his client's pocket. "Yes," she concluded, "he _laughed_"--and she repeated the word "laughed" with a hysterical action of the throat, as if it choked her, and next moment burst into tears. Two days afterwards, a man on horseback arrived at my door, and rapped with great violence; his horse was heated, and foaming at the mouth, as if it had been hard pressed, and he himself was flushed and excited. He told me, in a hurried manner, that I was wanted instantly at George B----'s; he had been sent to me by another man, and could tell me nothing beyond the fact that something very alarming had taken place, and that, if I did not hasten thither on the instant, and with my very greatest speed, I could be of no use. I took with me what I conceived might be wanted, for my suspicions were more communicative than the messenger, and proceeded, with all the expedition in my power, to the house where I had lately seen so much suffering. On my entering the house, a most extraordinary spectacle presented itself. On the small truckle-bed that stood opposite the door in the kitchen lay a female figure, dressed in white, with both her hands wrapped up in cloth, from which issues of blood rolled on the bed; and her face, not less pale than her dress, was spotted and besmeared with the same element. It was Margaret B---- in her _marriage dress_. A young woman, her bridesmaid, was beside her, looking in her face as if to see whether life was still in her body. A young man, also dressed as if for the marriage, hurried me to the apartment of George B----, where a scene not less awful was presented to me. The unhappy man was lying in the middle of the floor, on his back, with his throat cut, and James H----, in his bridegroom clothes, was bending over him, with his hands busily occupied in stanching a wound that would have let out ten lives, if he had had as many to destroy; the floor was literally swimming in blood, and on a chair in the corner of the room lay the fatal instrument, still open. My services were useless: the man was dead; his attendants were engaged in stopping blood already curdled with death. I hurried to the patient that was still living. She had lost almost the whole blood of her body, and it was difficult to detect in her any symptoms of life. I unloosed the cloths from her hands; they were cut in a fearful manner--the blade of the razor, which she had, in her struggles with her parent, endeavoured to wrest from him, having been _whisked_ through them when hard clenched. No one had been in the house; her marriage-dress was still incomplete--her bosom bare, and her head uncovered; a proof that she had been called from the mirror wherein she saw a half-dressed bride, to see a father kill himself by his own hand against her efforts to save him. Her screams were heard by the bridesmaid and bridegroom, as they approached the house; but, before they entered, the struggle was nearly over; they found her bending over the body of her father, which lay on the floor, grasping the open wound with her hands. So spoke the attendants as I dressed the wounds. I took up several arteries; but there was one in the left wrist which, for a long period, defied my efforts, unassisted as I was with professional aid, to stem its torrent. I succeeded at last--so, at least, I thought--in my endeavours to stop all the issues. Vain thought! _Death_ had stopped them! This was the first time I had seen a _dead bride_. THE GHOST OF HOWDYCRAIGS. "_They_ gather round, and wonder at the tale Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly."--BLAIR. After all that has been written, printed, and circulated, in the way of "Statistical Accounts," "Topographical Descriptions," "Guides to Picturesque Scenery," &c., there are still large tracts of country in Scotland of which comparatively little is known. While certain districts have risen, all at once, into notoriety, and occupied for a time the efforts of the press and the attention of the public, there are others, perhaps little inferior to them in point of scenery, through which no traveller has passed, no writer drawn his pen, and upon which no printer has inked his types. Among other neglected regions, the Ochil Hills may be mentioned--at least the eastern part of them. These, so far as we know, have not been fruitful of battles, and consequently the historian has had nothing to say concerning them. They are traversed by few roads; the few that do exist are nearly impassable, except to pedestrians of a daring disposition; and the novelist, never having seen them, has not thought of making them the home of his imaginary heroes. They have given birth to no poet of eminence--none such has condescended to celebrate them in his songs; and, except to the few scattered inhabitants who nestle in their hollows, they are nearly unknown. This, however, is not the fault of the hills themselves, but of the circumstances just alluded to; for here heroes might have found a field on which to spill whole seas of blood; novelists might have found all the variation of hill, valley, rock, and stream, with which they usually ornament their pages; and Ossian himself, had it been his fortune to travel in the district, might have found "grey mist" and "brown heath" to his heart's content, and, in the proper season, as much snow as would have served to deck out at least half-a-dozen "Morvens" in their winter coat. These hills, on the east and south, rise from the adjoining country by a gradual slope, surmounted, in some instances, by thriving plantations, while, in others, the plough and harrow have reached what appears to be their summit. On the north, they are terminated by a rocky front, which runs nearly parallel to the river Tay, and afterwards to the Earn, thus forming the southern boundary of Strathearn, which is perhaps one of the most fertile districts in Scotland. The elevation on this side is partly composed of the rocky front just mentioned; partly of a cultivated slope at its base; and partly of a green acclivity above, which, when seen from the plain below, seems to crown the whole, while it conceals from the eye those barren altitudes and dreary regions which lie behind. But, after having surmounted this barrier, the prospect which then opens may be regarded as a miniature picture of those more lofty mountain-ranges which are to be found in other parts of the island. Here the ground again declines a little, forming a sort of shoulder upon the ascent, as if the Great Architect of nature had intended thereby to secure the foundation of the superstructure which he was about to rear above. It then rises into frowning eminences, on which nothing seems to vegetate except coarse heath, a few stunted whin-bushes, and, here and there, an _astrogalus_, a _lotus carniculatus_; or a white _orchus_. Those, however, with the exception of the first, are too scanty to produce any effect upon the colouring of the landscape; and the whole looks withered, brown, and, in some instances, even black, in the distance. But, on passing these barren altitudes, or on penetrating one of the gorges by which the central district communicates with the country around, and of which there are several, the eye is saluted with extensive tracts of plantation--some composed of the light-green larch, others of the sombre-looking Scottish pine; and, where the soil is more favourable to the growth of corn, portions of cultivated land, interspersed with streams, giving a fresher green to their banks, clumps of trees standing in sheltered positions, and the isolated habitations of men. The last of these may be said to constitute a sort of _little world_, enclosed by a mountain rampart of its own--holding little or no communication with the great world without; and consequently escaping all the contamination which such intercourse is supposed to imply. But, if its inhabitants had escaped the contamination, it were reasonable to infer that they had missed that stimulus which mind derives from mind, when brought into close contact; and also many of those improvements and more correct modes of thinking which almost every passing year brings forth. In such a region, children must travel far for education; and men, not unfrequently, live and die in the prejudices in which they were nursed. To conclude this imperfect sketch, it may be observed that the scenery of these hills is bleak, rather than bold; barren, rather than wild; and though some parts of them possess a sort of dreary interest, in general they can lay no claim to that quality which has been denominated the _sublime_. The particular district of Fifeshire in which the following incidents occurred lies between the villages of Strathmiglo and Auchtermuchty on the south, and those of Newburgh and Abernethy on the north. From the last of these places, which is still known as the metropolis of the ancient Pictish empire, a deep and narrow gorge, called _Abernethy Glen_, stretches southward amongst the Ochils for more than a mile. On leaving the open fertile country below, and getting into this pass, the contrast is striking. In some places the footpath winds along the face of a bank so steep, that, but for the circumstance of its being composed of earth, it might have almost been termed a precipice; and here, if the passenger should miss his footing, it would be nearly impossible for him to stop himself till he reached the bottom, in which a turbulent stream brawls and foams over rocks and stones, disturbing the silence and the solitude of the place with sounds which have a tendency to inspire feelings of superstitious fears. The scene, from its nature and situation, appears to be well suited for those transactions which, according to popular brief, "surpass Nature's law;" and it has been regarded as the favourite haunt of _witches_, _fairies_, _ghosts_, and other mysterious beings, from time immemorial. Numbers of the inhabitants of the village below had been scared, in their nocturnal rambles, by the orgies of these uncouth neighbours; many a belated traveller had seen strange sights, and heard stranger sounds, in this haunted dell; many a luckless lad, in journeying through it, to see the mistress of his heart, had met such adventures as to drive love nearly out of his head for whole weeks to come; and even maids, upon whom the sun went down in the dangerous pass, had seen things at the mention of which they shook their heads, and seemed unable to speak. Nor were there awanting instances of individuals who, in returning at the "witching time of night" from a delightful interview, in the course of which the marriage-day was settled, had been so terrified that they forgot every word of what had been said; and, when the minister and the marriage-guests arrived, behold they were found in the barn or in the field, or, what was worse, they had gone upon a journey, and were not to be found at all. Those of the villagers who had not seen and heard of these unearthly doings for themselves, had been told of them by their mothers and grandmothers; and thus one generation after another went forth into the world completely armed against sceptics and unbelievers of all sorts. If any one ventured to doubt the veracity of these statements, or to call in question the cogency of the arguments by which they supported them, they had only to appeal to the testimony of their fathers and grandfathers, their mothers and grandmothers, and the most sceptical were convinced at once. No man durst venture to cast the shadow of a doubt upon such incontrovertible evidence, because to have done so would have been to implicate their relations in the charge of speaking beside the truth, and these, they said, "were decent, respectable folk, and never kenned for lee'rs in their lives." In this metropolis, and near the scene of these memorable events, Nelly Kilgour was born--the exact date of her birth we do not pretend to determine, though it must have been some time in the eighteenth century--and had lived, running about, going to school, and serving sundry of the lieges who were indwellers thereof, till she had arrived at years of discretion--in other words, till she had seen three-and-thirty "summers," as a poet would say, and nearly the same number of winters, as our reader may guess. It has been said that there are three distinct questions which a woman naturally puts to herself at three different periods of her life. The first is--"Who will I take?"--a most important question, no doubt; and we may reasonably suppose that it occurs about the time when the attentions of the other sex first awaken her to a sense of her own charms, and she is thus ready to look upon every one who smiles on her as a lover, and every young fellow who contemplates her face while talking to her as anxious to become her husband. The second question, which is scarcely less important, is--"Who will I get?" and this, we may again suppose, begins to be repeated seriously, after she has seen the same individual smile upon half-a-dozen damsels on the same day, and after she has learned that it is possible for an unmarried man to contemplate her own fair face with the deepest interest, and converse with her on the most interesting subjects on Monday morning, and then go and do the same to another on Tuesday evening. But the last, and perhaps the most important, as it certainly is the most perplexing of these questions, is--"_Will I get onybody ava?_" and this, there can be little doubt, begins to force itself upon her attention, after the smiles of her admirers have become so faint that they are no longer able to climb over the nose; when, instead of talking of love, they begin to yawn, and speak about the weather; in short, after she becomes conscious that her charms are at a discount, and that those who are coming up behind her are every day stealing away her sweethearts. Through the whole of the previous stages Nelly Kilgour had passed; and she had now arrived at this important question, which, as has been just said, is the last a woman can put to herself. She had seen her admirers, one after another, come and look in her face, and continue their visits, their smiles, and their conversation for a season, and then go away and leave her, as if they had got nothing else to do. She had spent a considerable portion of her life, as has been already observed, in serving the lieges in and about the place of her nativity--to no purpose, as it appeared; at least, in so far as the getting of the husband was concerned, nothing had been effected. The proper season for securing this desideratum of the female world was fast wearing away; something, she saw, must of necessity be done; and, thinking that women, like some other commodities, might sell better at a distance than at home, she engaged herself as a servant on the little farm of _Howdycraigs_--a place situated among that portion of the Ochils already noticed. When she entered upon this engagement, which was to last for a year, she was spoken of as "a weel _reikit_ lass"--the meaning of which phrase is, that she had already provided what was considered a woman's part of the furnishing of a house; and some of the sober matrons "wondered what had come owre a' the lads noo," and said, "they were sure Nelly Kilgour wad mak a better wife than ony o' thae young glaikit hizzies wha carried a' their reikin to the kirk on their back ilka Sabbath." But, of Nelly's being made a wife, there was no prospect; she was _three-and-thirty_; so far as was known, no lover had ever ventured to throw himself upon his knees before her, begging to be permitted to kiss her _foot_, and threatening, at the same time, to _hang himself_, if she did not consent to be his better half; still there was no appearance of any one doing so; and those who delighted in tracing effects back to their proper causes, began to recollect that her mother, "when she was a thoughtless lassie," had once given some offence to one of the witches, who were accused of holding nightly revels in the glen; and the witch, by way of retaliation, had said, that "the bairn unborn would maybe hae cause to rue its mother's impudence." Nelly had been born after this oracular saying was uttered; and the aged dames who remembered it doubted not that this was the true cause of her celibacy. And when they heard that she was engaged to go to Howdycraigs at Martinmas, and that Jock Jervis was engaged to go there also, they said that, "if it hadna been for the witch's ill _wisses_, they were sure Nelly would mak baith a better sweetheart and a better wife to Jock, than that licht-headed limmer, Lizzy Gimmerton." From this the reader will perceive that Jock and Nelly were to be fellow-servants; he was the only man, and she was the only woman--the master and mistress excepted--about the place; and much of their time was necessarily spent together. During the stormy days of winter, when he was thrashing in the barn, she was employed in _shakin the strae_ and _riddlin the corn_, which he had separated from the husks; and in the long evenings, while she was washing the dishes, or engaged in spinning, he sat by the fire telling stories about lads and lasses, markets and tent-preachings, and sometimes he even sung a verse or two of a song, to keep her from wearying. On these occasions, she would tuck up the sleeves of her short-gown an inch or two beyond the ordinary extent, or allow her neckerchief to sink a little lower than usual, for the purpose, as is supposed, of showing him that she was not destitute of charms, and that her arms and neck, where not exposed to the weather, were as white as those of any lady in the land. In such circumstances, Jock, who was really a lad of some spirit, could not refrain from throwing his arms about her waist, and toozling her for a kiss. This was, no doubt, the very reverse of what she had anticipated; and to these unmannerly efforts on the part of the youth, she never failed to offer a becoming resistance, by turning away her head, to have the place threatened as far from the danger as possible--raising her hand, and holding it between their faces, so as to retard the progress of the enemy, at least for a time; and, lest these defensive operations should be misunderstood, uttering some such deprecatory sentence as the following:--"Hoot! haud awa, Jock! If ye want a kiss, gang and kiss Lizzy Gimmerton, and let me mind my wark." But it has been ascertained by the ablest engineers that the most skilfully-constructed and most bravely-defended fortifications must ultimately fall into the hands of a besieging army, if it be only properly provided, and persevere in the attack. This theory is no longer disputed, and the present case is one among a number of instances in which its truth has been experimentally proved. Jock was provided with a certain degree of strength, and a most laudable portion of perseverance in these matters, and, in spite of all the resistance which Nelly could offer, he was in general triumphant; after which she could only sigh and look down, as she threatened him with some terrible vengeance, such as--"makin his parritch without saut," or "giving him sour milk to his sowans at supper-time," or doing something else which would seriously annoy him. At these threatenings the victor only laughed, and not unfrequently, too, he renewed the battle and repeated the offence, by robbing her of another kiss. To reclaim him from these wicked ways, she could only repeat her former threatenings--adding, perhaps, to their number anything new which happened to come into her head; but then, like those mothers who think threatening is enough, and who, by sparing the rod, sometimes spoil the child, she always forgot to inflict the punishment when the opportunity for doing so occurred; and Jock, as a natural consequence of this remissness on the part of the _executive_, became hardened in his transgressions. But, when not engaged in these battles, Jock was rather kind to Nelly than otherwise; sometimes he assisted her with such parts of her work as a man could perform; and sometimes, too, when the evening was wet or stormy, to save her from going out, he would take her pitchers of his own accord, and "bring in a raik o' water." This kindness Nelly was careful to repay by mending his coat, darning his stockings, and performing various other little services for him. When the faculty of observation has few objects upon which to exercise itself, little things become interesting; this interchange of good offices was soon noticed by the wise women of the neighbourhood, and, as they knew of only one cause from which such things could proceed, to that cause they attributed them, making certain in their own minds that the whole secret would, some day or other, be brought before the parish by the session-clerk. Such was the general belief; and whether it was "the birds of the air," as Solomon saith, or whether it was the beggars and _chapmen_, occasionally quartered at Howdycraigs, who "carried the matter," is of little importance; but in time the whole of the facts, with the inferences drawn therefrom, reached Nelly's former acquaintances, and then, for some reason which has never been satisfactorily explained, they saw occasion entirely to alter their previous opinion. Instead of saying, as they had done before, that "Nelly _wud_ mak a guid wife to Jock--'_at she wud_," they now said, that "Jock, wha was scarcely outgane nineteen, was owre young ever to think o' marryin an auld hizzie o' three-and-thirty like her;" that "the carryin o' the water, and the darnin o' the stockins, _wud_ a' end in naething;" that "Jock _wud_ be far better without her;" and when they recollected the implied malediction of the witch, they considered that it was as impossible for her to be his wife, as it is for potatoes to grow above ground; and concluded the discussion with a pious wish "that she micht aye be keepit in the richt road." In the course of the winter, Jock had been absent for several nights, during which he was understood to have braved the terrors of witch, ghost, and fairy, in going to see Lizzie Gimmerton; but Nelly took no further notice of the circumstance than by asking "if he had seen naething about the glen." On these occasions he promptly denied having been "near the glen;" and Nelly, whether she believed him or not, was obliged to be satisfied. But this gave her an opportunity, of which she never failed to avail herself, to give him a friendly caution to "tak care o' himsel when he gaed that airt after it was dark;" nor did she forget to assign a proper reason for her care over him, by reminding him of as many of the supernatural sights which had been seen in this region as she could remember. These hints were not without their effect; for, as the spring, which was said to be a particularly dangerous season, advanced, Jock's nocturnal wanderings were nearly discontinued. But Abernethy Market, which, time out of mind, had been held between the 20th and the 30th of May, was now approaching, and to this important period the parties in question looked forward with very different feelings. _Markets_ have frequently changed the destinies of lads and lasses in the same manner as _revolutions_ have sometimes changed the dynasties of kings--the latter always aiming at subverting an established government; the former is often the means of overthrowing an empire in the heart; and, for these reasons, both should be avoided by all who would wish to live at peace. Jock looked forward to the pleasure which he should have in spending a whole day with the peerless Lizzie Gimmerton--stuffing her pockets with _sweeties_ and gingerbread, and paying innumerable compliments to her beauty the while; and poor Nelly apprehended nothing less than the loss of every particle of that influence which she had some reason for supposing she now possessed over him. In this dilemma, she resolved to accompany him to the scene of action, and there to watch the revolutions of the wheel of fortune, if peradventure anything in her favour might turn up. "Jock," said she, on the evening previous to the important day, "I'm gaun wi' ye to the market, and ye maun gie me my market-fare." At this announcement Jock scratched his head, looked demure for a little, and appeared as though he would have preferred solitude to society in the proposed expedition. But he could find no excuse for declining the honour thus intended him. He recollected, moreover, that, as he had been the better for Nelly's care in time past, so her future favour was essential to his future comfort, and that it would be prejudicial in the last degree to his interest to offend her. After having thought of these things, in a time infinitely shorter than that in which they can be spoken of, Jock sagely determined to yield to "necessity," which, according to the common proverb, "has no law." He also determined to watch the revolutions of the wheel of fortune, in the hope that his own case might come uppermost. But, for the present putting on as good a grace as he could, "Aweel, aweel, Nelly," said he, "I'll be unco glad o' your company; for to say, the truth, I dinna like very weel to gang through the glen my lane. If it hadna been for you, the feint a _fit_ would have been at my stockings langsyne; and as ye aye darned them, and mendit the knees o' my breeks, and the elbows o' my coat forby, it would be ill o' my pairt no to gie you your market-fare. Sae we can e'en gang thegither; and if we dinna lose ither i' the thrang, I'll maybe get you to come owre the hill wi' at nicht." "Mind noo ye've promised," said Nelly, highly pleased with the reception her proposal had met;--"mind ye've promised to come hame wi' me; and there's no ane in a' the warld I would like sae weel to come hame wi' as our ain Jock." "I'll mind that," said Jock. But, notwithstanding what he said, he had no intention of coming home with Nelly; his thoughts ran in another direction; he had merely spoken of the thing because he fancied it would _please_; the idea of her presence, as matters now stood, was anything but agreeable to him; and he trusted to the chapter of accidents for "losing her i' the thrang," as himself would have said, and thus regaining his freedom. On the following day they journeyed together to the scene of popular confusion--whiling away the time with such conversation as their knowledge of courtships, marriages, births, baptisms, and burials, could supply. Nelly frequently looked in Jock's face, to try if she could read his thoughts; but somehow, in the present instance, his eyes were either turned upon the ground, or seized with an unwonted wandering. At one time he kept carefully examining the road, as though he had lost a shilling; at another he surveyed the tops of the distant hills with as much care as if he had been speculating upon their heights and distances. And while these intelligencers were thus employed, she could read but little; yet, nevertheless, his manner was courteous; and in their conduct and conversation they exhibited a fine specimen of that harmony which, in most instances, results from a wish to please and to be pleased on the part of the female. On arriving at the market, Jock soon discovered the mistress of his affections in the person of Lizzie Gimmerton. But, in the plenitude of her power, and the extent of her dominion, she had become capricious, as despotic sovereigns are very apt to do; and nettled, as it appeared, at the long intervals which had lately occurred between the times of his making obeisance at her throne, she had chosen another sweetheart, whom she now dignified with the honour of leading her from place to place, and showing her off to the admiring multitude. Supported by this new minister, she seemed to pay no attention to the smiles and sly winks with which Jock greeted her; but still he did not despair of being the successful candidate, if he were only left at liberty to offer the full amount of his devotion; and to this object he now began to direct his thoughts. A certain chapman had displayed a number of necklaces, and other showy trinkets of little value, upon his stand, which was thus the most brilliantly-decorated of any in the market. This had drawn together a crowd of purchasers, and other people, who were anxious to see the sparkling wares. Men civilly pushed aside men, and maidens pushed aside maidens, while each appeared eager to have a peep at some particular article, or to learn the price thereof; and to this place Jock drew Nelly, under pretence of giving her her market-fare from among the gewgaws which it afforded. But, while she was looking about for something which "she might wear for his sake," as she said, and which, at the same time, would be an easy purchase, he contrived to jostle rather rudely the people on both sides of him, making them jostle those who stood next them, and those again perform the same operation on others at a greater distance. This, as he had anticipated, soon produced a universal hubbub; every one, to be avenged for the insult or injury he had sustained, thrust his elbows into the sides of such as he supposed were the aggressors. These were not slow to retaliate. In a short time the innocent and the guilty were involved in the same confusion; and, while the precious wares of the packman, and the persons of his customers, were both in imminent danger, Jock started off, leaving Nelly to make the best of her way out of a bad bargain. He had now obtained his freedom; and in a twinkling he was by the side of Lizzie Gimmerton, whom he found at another stand, receiving the benediction of her new jo in the form of a "pennyworth of _peppermint-drops_." "How are ye the day, Lizzie?" said he, in tones so tender, that he had supposed they would melt any heart which was less hard than Clatchert Craig. "No that ill, Jock," was the reply; "how are ye yersel? and how's Nelly?" And therewith the damsel put her arm in that of her companion, whom she now permitted, or rather urged, to lead her away; and, as he did so, she turned on Jock a side-long look, accompanied by a sort of smile, which told him, in terms not to be mistaken, that he was not her only sweetheart, and that, at present, he was not likely to be a successful one. If we could form such a thing as a proper conception of one who, in attempting to ascend a throne, stumbled, fell below it, and, in looking up from thence, saw another seated in his place, perhaps we should have some idea of Jock's feelings on this occasion. Like a true hero, he, no doubt, thought of thrashing his rival's skin for him; but then this was by no means doing the whole of the work, for it was Lizzie Gimmerton who had led away the man, and not the man who had led away Lizzie Gimmerton; and, though the man were thrashed into chaff, Lizzie Gimmerton might very probably find as many more as she pleased, willing to be led away in the same manner, which, in the end, might entail upon Jock the labour of thrashing half the people in the market, not to mention the risk which he would run of being thrashed himself. Finding that this plan would not do, it were difficult to say if he did not entertain serious thoughts of making a pilgrimage to the River Earn, for the purpose of drowning himself, or of taking signal vengeance upon the hard-hearted maiden in some other way; but, as farther speculations upon the subject, in the existing state of our information, must be purely conjectural, it were absurd to follow them. In the beginning of his despair, he looked down, as men very naturally do; but, in the middle of it, he looked up, to see what was to be done, and there he saw Nelly, who was not so easily "lost i' the thrang" as he had imagined, standing close beside him, and regarding him with a look of real compassion, which contrasted strongly with the malicious smile of the other damsel. "Dinna vex yersel owre sair, Jock," said she, "though Lizzie's awa wi' anither lad; when he leaves her, I'll warrant she'll be glad to see ye again." "The deil confound her and her lads baith!" said Jock, his despair beginning to pass off in a passion. "If ever I gae near her again, may I fa' and brak my leg i' the first burn I cross! Ye're worth at least five dozen o' her yersel, Nelly; and, if ye can let byganes be byganes, and gang wi' me through the market, I'll let her see, afore lang, that I can get anither sweetheart, though she should gang and hang hersel!" This sudden change in Jock's sentiments must have been produced by what is commonly called a _reaction_. But Nelly, who had no inclination for being thus shown off, tried to persuade him to desist from his present purpose. "Na, na, Jock," said she, "we'll no gang trailin through the market like twa _pointers_ tethered thegither wi' a string, for fear the youngest ane should rin aff. But, if ye like, Ise try to keep sicht o' ye; and, if ye like too, we'll gang hame afore it's late, for it wad vex me sair to see you spendin your siller _unwordily_, and still sairer to hear tell o' ye gettin ony fricht about the glen. Sae, if ye think me worth your while, we can gang hame thegither, and I'll tak your arm after we're on the road. If a lad hae ony wark wi' a lass, or a lass ony wark wi' a lad, it's no the best way to be lettin a' the warld ken about it." With her care, and the wisdom of her counsel upon this occasion, Jock felt sensibly touched. "Aweel, Nelly," said he, "I'll e'en tak your advice; ye never counselled me to do a wrang thing in your life, and I'll gang hame wi' ye ony time ye like. But come away," he continued, "and look out some grand thing for your market-fare. I've ten shillings i' my pouch--no ae bawbee o't spent yet; and, be what it like, if that'll buy't, yese no want it." In compliance with his wishes, they began to look about for the article in question; but Nelly, who had lived long enough to know the value of money, would suffer him to purchase nothing of an expensive nature; and, after some friendly expostulation, a pair of scissors was agreed upon, for which he paid sixpence, and she put them in her pocket, observing, at the same time, that "they would be o' mair use to her than twenty ells o' riband, or a hale pouchfu o' _sweeties_." "I've often wondered," said she, "if a lass could hae ony _real_ likin for a lad, when she was temptin him to fling awa his siller, buyin whigmaleeries, to gar her look like an _antic_ amang ither folk, or how she thought a lad wha would let his siller gang that gate, could ever provide for the wants o' a house, if they should come to hae ane o' their ain." Jock readily acknowledged the good sense of all this; he also acknowledged to himself that young women with such sentiments were not over and above being rife; and, though Nelly was not very young, he thought her a more discerning lass than he had ever done before. They therefore kept together during what remained of their stay; and, as Jock's greatest fault was a propensity to spend his money on trifles, Nelly easily persuaded him to accompany her home before the afternoon was far advanced. They accordingly journeyed up the glen together; and, without encountering either ghost, witch, or fairy, they had reached a part of the road from which a house, a barn, and a byre, were to be seen. The husband and wife were already home from the market, whither they had gone to buy a cow, and standing at the end of the house with their three children, the oldest of whom appeared to be a stout girl, beside them. Such scenes seem to have a peculiar charm for women, and Nelly was the first to notice it. "Look, Jock," said she, "yonder's Andrew Braikens and his wife hame frae the market already. Dinna ye see them standing at the end o' their house there, and their three bairns beside them, and baith lookin as happy as the day's lang? Noo, Jock," she continued, looking in his face as she spoke, "tak an example by them, and when ye get a wife, if she's a guid ane, aye tak her advice afore ony ither body's, and ye'll never hae cause to rue it. Afore Andrew was married, he ran to a' the markets i' the round; he could never win hame that day he gaed awa; his pouches were aye toom, and his duds were aften like to bid him guid-day. Folk ca'd him a _weirdless cratur_ and a _ne'er-do-weel_; and when he fell in wi' Tibby Crawford, some o' them said, if they were her, they wouldna tak him, and ithers leugh at him for drawin up wi' an auld hizzie like her; but Tibby took Andrew, and Andrew took Tibby's advice; and noo they've a haudin o' their ain, wi' plenty o' baith meat and claes, and three bonny bairns into the bargain." Jock seemed to listen more attentively to this harangue than he had ever done to a sermon in his life. During the latter part of it he appeared thoughtful; and, when it was concluded--"I've been thinkin," said he, "that, as Andrew and Tibby hae come sae weel on----" Here he seemed to have forgotten what he was about to say, and was silent. "Weel, Jock," said the other, "as I was gaun to say, there's Betsy Braikens, a stout lassie already; she's Sandy Crawford's cousin, as ye ken brawly, and troth I wouldna wonder muckle at seein her----" "Ou ay, Nelly," interrupted Jock; "but, as I was gaun to tell ye, I've been thinkin----" Here, however, he again halted, and seemed to have nothing farther to say. "I dinna ken what ye've been thinkin," said Nelly, after a considerable pause; "but I think they would need to hae a hantle patience that listen to your thoughts, for ye're unco lang o' coming out wi' them. But, whatever they are, ye needna hesitate sae muckle in tellin them to me, for I never telled a tale o' yours owre again in my life." "It's no for that either," said Jock, laughing; "but I just thought shame to speak about it, and yet there's nae ill in't, after a'. I've been thinkin, aye since ye wouldna let me gie half-a-crown for yon _strowl_ o' lace i' the market, that you and me micht do waur than make a bargain oorsels. I wad just need somebody like you to look after me; and noo, Nelly, if you would promise to be my wife, I would never seek anither." Nelly's countenance brightened up with a glow of satisfaction, such as it had not exhibited for years, at hearing these words. But, striving to suppress those unwonted feelings which were rising in her bosom, and endeavouring to appear as unconcerned as before--"Hoot, Jock," was her reply, "what need I promise?--though I were to mak twenty promises, ye ken brawly that ye would just rin awa and leave me, to follow the first bonny lass ye saw, at the next market or the next tent-preachin; and then, _guid-day to ye, Nelly_." These words, though apparently intended to discourage Jock in his suit, were spoken in such a manner as to produce a quite contrary effect. We need not, however, repeat his vows and promises, and the solemn oaths with which he confirmed them: they were such as have been a thousand times made, and, sad to say, nearly as often broken, upon similar occasions. But when they were concluded, though Nelly did not speak, she _looked_ a promise which, to Jock, was satisfactory! She also allowed him to have a kiss without the customary battle, or, at least, without a battle of the customary length; and for what remained of that and the two following days, though she was three-and-thirty, she looked almost as young as if she had been only two-and-twenty. But "pleasures," which everybody now likens to "poppies spread," are, in most instances, short-lived. On the third day from Abernethy Market, Betsy Braikens, in returning from Auchtermuchty, whither she had been on some errand, called at Howdycraigs, "to speer for her cousin, Sandy Crawford, who was the herd laddie, and to tell Nelly Kilgour, of whom she had also some acquaintance, that Grizzy Glaiket had haen a bairn to Geordy Gowkshanks. No ane kenned a single thing about it afore it cam hame," continued the girl; "and, as he has naething to enable him to pay for it, and her father is determined no to let him gang, the folk say that he'll just hae to marry her." Geordy Gowkshanks was no other than the beau who had been seen gallanting Lizzie Gimmerton through the market; and Nelly felt a strange misgiving when she heard his name mentioned in the present affair, for she doubted not, when matters stood thus, that some attempt would be forthwith made to recall Jock to his former allegiance. Nor was she long left in suspense; for Jock himself soon came in for his dinner, and the girl exclaimed--"Losh, Jock, I'm glad I've seen ye, for, if ye hadna come in, I would forgotten to tell ye that I saw Lizzie last nicht, and when I telled her that I was comin owre here on the morn, and that I would maybe see you, she bade me be sure to speer if ye had gotten ony fricht wi' the witches about the glen, or if ye was feared for the _croupie craws_ fleein awa wi' ye after it was dark, that ye never cam owre to see your auld acquaintances about Abernethy noo!" These questions, and the new light which they threw upon an old subject, made both Jock and Nelly look thoughtful, though it is reasonable to suppose their thoughts ran in very different channels. The effects of _reaction_ have been already noticed; but, after _reaction_ has _acted_, there are such things as the _actions_ themselves beginning to _react_. Jock was now under the influence of the last-mentioned principle. Its exact operations need not be particularised; but, from that hour, his kindness to Nelly began to abate, and she began to feel less comfortable under the change than might have been expected from a discreet damsel of her years. On the following night she slept but little; and next morning she rose earlier than was her usual, and was just beginning to kindle up the fire, when she heard Jock engaged in a low but earnest conversation with the _herd laddie_. She was separated from them only by a thin partition, or _clay hallan_, as it was called in those days, so that she could easily hear what was passing; and, reprehensible as her conduct in this respect may seem, she could not refrain from listening. "I need a new bannet," said Jock; "and I'm gaun owre to Abernethy for ane the morn's nicht--but mind, Sandy, ye maunna tell Nell whar I am; and, if she happens to speer, ye can just say that I'm awa down to Auchtermuchty for a pickle snuff." "Aweel, aweel," said the other, "I can haud my tongue. But what need can there be for makin lees aboot it? I'll warrant Nell winna care how aften ye gang to Abernethy." "I hae nae time to tell ye aboot it enow," said Jock; "but I'll maybe tell ye afterhend--and mind, as your name's Sandy Crawford, dinna ye speak aboot it; and I'll gie ye as muckle market-fare as ye can devour, _gin_ mid-simmer." As this conversation concluded, Nelly contrived to get into her bed again without noise; and, covering herself up with the bedclothes, and pretending to sleep, Jock passed through the kitchen without in the least suspecting that she had become a party to his supposed secret. From what she had heard, however, she saw plainly what was _brewing_, and whither fate was tending. She saw that Lizzy Gimmerton's scheme for once more attaching Jock to her interest had already succeeded; and that, if he should "break both his leg and his neck in the first burn he crossed," he had determined to go again and see her. But what could she do to prevent things from taking their course? Like other disconsolate maidens, she might lament in secret, and shed tears of disappointment and sorrow without number--but this would by no means mend the matter. Jock, she thought, would make a good husband, if he had only a wife who knew how to manage him; but, unless something extraordinary interposed, he was likely to get one who was a still greater fool than himself; and, at this distance of time, it were difficult to say how far _benevolence_, and a wish to prevent him from making himself a mis-sworn man, might have a place in her cogitations. She thought, also, that she would make a good wife, if it were only her good fortune to get a husband; but, then, something or other had always come to thwart her wishes in this respect; and even now, when the prize seemed almost won, without a miracle, or something, at least, out of the ordinary course of events, she stood a fair chance for being again left in the lurch. She felt that it was a sore matter to have hope from time to time deferred in this manner; but what to do she could not exactly determine. She, however, determined to leave nothing undone; and, after her, let none despair! Whether upon that morning the cows had given an extraordinary quantity of milk, or whether Nelly had forgotten to empty the milking-pail of water before she began to milk them, is not known; but, on coming in from the byre, she could not, by any means, get the cogs to hold the milk. Her mistress was called; and, after some consultation, Nelly recollected that "Margaret Crawford"--who was the _herd laddie's_ mother--"had plenty o' milk-dishes; and she would maybe lend them a cog or twa." "The drap milk that the cogs winna haud may stand i' the water-pitcher afore supper-time," she continued; "and Sandy may rin owre to Gairyburn, after he comes in, and stay a' nicht wi' his mither, and get the cog, and be back next morning in time to tak oot the kye." This plan seemed at least feasible; and the farther prosecution of it was left to Nelly. "What's the matter wi' the milk the nicht?" inquired Sandy, as Nelly was hastening him with his supper. "I ken o' naething that can be the matter," was her reply--"but what's the matter wi't, say ye?" "I dinna ken either," said the boy; "but it's turned terrible blue-like, isn't it? I can compare it to naething but the syndins o' my mither's sye-dish." "Hoot! never mind the milk," rejoined Nelly; "but sup ye up yer supper as fast as ye're able, and rin owre to yer mither, and tell her the mistress sent ye to see if she could gie ye a len o' ane o' her milk-cogs, for a fortnicht or sae, till the _first flush_ gang aff Hawky. Ye can stay a' nicht at Gairyburn," she added; "and ye'll be back in braw time next morning to gang _out_." The boy seemed glad of an opportunity to spend a night in his paternal home. His supper was soon despatched, and away he went. The shortsightedness of mortals has been a theme for the moralists of all ages to descant upon; and Nelly, had her history been sooner known, might have afforded them as good a subject as any which they have hitherto discussed. Attached as she evidently was to Jock, had her foresight extended so far as to show her what was to follow, she would certainly have strained every nerve to prevent him from being left alone on that momentous night. Alone, however, he was left; and--as he lay dreaming of Lizzy Gimmerton, and the happiness he should experience from finding himself again reinstated in her favour--exactly at the solitary hour of midnight a most terrible apparition entered his apartment. How it entered was never known; for the _outer_ door was securely locked; and the good people of the house being, one and all, fast asleep, saw it not; but, as doors, windows, walls, and roofs, afford no obstruction to an immaterial essence, its entrance need not be matter of surprise. It was, in all respects save one, a most legitimate ghost. A winding-sheet was wrapped round what appeared to be its body; its head was tied up in a white handkerchief; and its face and hands, where they were visible, were as white as the drapery in which it was attired; but, then, in its right hand it carried _a candle_--a thing which ghosts are not accustomed to do. But, as there are exigencies among mortals which sometimes oblige them to deviate from the common rules of conduct, the same things may, perhaps, occur among ghosts. In the present instance, indeed, something of the kind seemed to be indispensable; for, without such aid, more than half its terrors would have been invisible. The candle, moreover, was evidently the candle of a ghost; for it showed only a small point of white flame in the middle, while around the edges it burned as blue as _brimstone_ itself. In short, the light which it gave must have been a thousand times more appalling than that of those flames which Milton emphatically calls "darkness visible." Jock, however, still continued to sleep, till it uttered a hollow groan, which awakened him; and then, rubbing his eyes, to make certain that he was not still dreaming, he stared at it in inexpressible terror. It returned his stare with a steady look of defiance and a horrible grin, which seemed to make the blood curdle at the remotest extremity of his body. It, however, appeared willing to abide by the law of ghosts, and to wait in silence till it should be spoken to. But Jock had already lost the power of speech. His erected hair had nearly thrown off his nightcap; his tongue seemed to have fallen back into his throat; not even a scream of terror could he utter, far less an articulate sound; and it might have waited till morning, or till the end of time, before an accent of his had set it at liberty to deliver its message. But here it showed itself possessed of something like "business habits," or at least of ten times more sense than the majority of those ghosts who, "at the crowing of the cock," have been obliged to run off without having effected anything except perhaps frightening some rustic nearly out of his wits. When _it_ saw no prospect of being spoken to, it spoke; and in this its example should be imitated by all future ghosts. "Jock Jervis," it said, in tones so hollow and so sepulchral, that no further doubts could be entertained of its authority--"Jock Jervis, ye ken the promises and the solemn oaths ye've made already to Nelly Kilgour; and if ye dinna fulfil thae promises, and mak her yer married wife afore a fortnicht is at an end, ye maun gang to hell-fire, to be burned for a mis-sworn loon. And mair than a' that, if ye prove fause-hearted, I'll choke ye wi' this windin-sheet, and fling ye owre my shouther, and carry ye to Arangask kirkyard, and gie ye to the witches, to pick your banes ahint the aisle, afore ye get leave to gang aff the earth." Having uttered this terrible malediction, it shook its winding-sheet, and then waved the candle round its head. The _white_ part of the flame immediately disappeared; the _blue_ parted into a thousand fragments, and flew through the apartment in as many directions, like infernal meteors. While these appalling phenomena were passing before the eyes of the terrified spectator, the ghost had disappeared, he could scarcely tell how, and in a moment more all was dark--awfully dark. But of those terrific sparkles which the candle had emitted in going out, one had fallen on Jock's hand, which happened to be lying out of the bedclothes, and there it continued to sputter and to burn most distressingly blue, till the pain, which, in this case, amounted to torment, and the absence of the ghost, restored his speech; or, at least, restored him the use of his tongue. He roared out most lustily for comfort in his distress, and for assistance against his spiritual enemies, in case they should reappear; and the noise which he thus made soon alarmed Nelly, who, with her under-petticoat hastily thrown on, and wanting the whole of her upper garments, came into the apartment, holding a half-trimmed lamp in her hand, rubbing her eyes, and alternately speaking to herself and him. "Sic a noise I never heard i' my life; and yet I dinna like to gae near him afore I get my claes on; but that's awfu--Jock, man, what's the matter wi' ye? Na, no ae word will he speak, but roar and cry as if somebody were stickin him. Jock, man, it's me--it's your auld acquaintance, Nelly, but tell me, Jock, hae ye gane clean out o' yer judgment?" "O Nelly, Nelly!" said Jock, "is't you--is't you?--gie's a haud o' yer hand, woman--oh, gie's a haud o' yer hand, for I canna speak." "Atweel no," said Nelly; "if ye had on yer claes, and were butt at the kitchen fire, I micht maybe gie ye my hand, if it were to do ye guid; but, as lang as ye lie there, and roar and squall that gate, ye needna look for a hand o' mine." "Aweel, Nelly, I canna help it," said the other. "I'll never be at the kitchen fire again, I fear; and if ye dinna gie me your hand, ye'll maybe repent it when it's owre late; for I canna stand this lang, and I'll no be lang to the fore. My hand's burnin as if it were in a smiddy fire; but that's naething. Oh, if I could only touch somebody, to let me ken it's flesh and blood that I'm speakin till." On hearing that he was really in pain, Nelly could no longer stand back. "Dear me," said she, "what can be the matter wi' ye?" and, as she spoke, she took his hand in hers to examine it with the lamp. "It's burned, I declare!" she continued, in a tone of sympathy, which appeared somewhat to comfort him; "how did that happen? But I maun rin for some _sour 'ream_ to rub it wi'." "No, no, Nelly," said Jock, grasping her hand firmly in his, to detain her, and now considerably relieved by the consciousness that he was in the presence of one who had hands and arms, and a body of flesh and blood like his own; "dinna leave me," he continued, "and I'll tell ye a' about it. It's no five minutes yet since I saw a ghaist--oh dear, oh dear! it gars my very blood rin cauld o' thinkin on't--and it said, if I dinna marry you in less than a fortnicht, I maun gang to hell-fire to be burned, for the promises I made i' the glen. O Nelly, Nelly, tak pity on me, and let the marriage be on Monanday, or Tysday at farrest." "You're surely wrang, Jock," was the reply; "if the ghaist kenned onything ava, it would ken brawly that ye had nae wark wi' me. It had been Lizzie Gimmerton it bade ye tak, and ye had just taen up the tale wrang." "Na, na," rejoined the other; "it was you--it was Nelly Kilgour. Oh, I'll never forget its words!--and if ye winna tak pity on me, what am I to do?" "Ye needna speer what ye're to do at me," said Nelly; "but it seems the ghaist and you maun think that ye can get me to _marry_ ony time ye like, just as ye would get a pickle strae to gather up ahint your horse on a mornin. But I daresay, after a', the ghaist would ken brawly that it needna sent you to Lizzie upon sic an errand, for the first lad that would gang awa wi' her, she would gang awa wi' him, and leave you to whistle on your thumb or your forefinger, if it answered you better; and yet ye micht gang owre _the morn's nicht_, and gie her a trial." The awful words, "hell-fire," and "pick your banes at the back o' the aisle," were still ringing in Jock's ears. Nelly's observation seemed to preclude all hope of escape from the terrible doom which they plainly denounced, and he groaned deeply, but did not speak: this was what the other could not endure, and she now tried to comfort him in the best manner she could. "I'm no sayin," she resumed, "but I would tak ye, rather than see ony ill come owre ye, if ye would only promise to gie up your glaikit gates, and to do your best to keep yoursel and me comfortable." Here she was interrupted by the guidman, who, like herself, had been awakened by the first alarm; but, in coming into the kitchen, and hearing only Jock and her conversing together, he had thought it best to dress himself before he entered upon an investigation of the matter. He was now at the bedside, however, and anxious to learn what had occasioned such an uproar. And Jock, who had been partly recovered from his terror by Nelly's presence, and partly by her assurance that she would become his wife rather than see him carried away by his spiritual foe, began to give them a most sublime account of the ghost. "I canna tell ye hoo it cam in," said he, "for it was i' the middle o' the floor afore I was waukin. But when I first opened my een, there it stood wi' three or four windin-sheets about it, and its head rowed up in a white clout, and its face and its hands a hantle whiter than either the windin-sheet or the clout--only I thought I saw some earth stickin on that side o' its nose that was farrest frae the licht. But what was a thousand times waur than a' that, it had a cannel in its hand that micht weel hae terrified a hale army o' sodgers; and I aye think yet, it had been the deevil himsel, and nae ghaist, for the cannel had just a wee _peek_ o' white low i' the middle, and a' round the edges it burned as blue as a blawort, and bizzed and spitted, and threw out sparks like blue starns. And after it had telled me what I've telled you, it gae the cannel a wave round its head, and then the hale hoose, wa's, roof, and riggin, gaed a' in a blue low; and I saw the ghaist flee up through the couple bauks as clear as ever I saw the owsen afore me when the sun was shinin! But I could stand nae mair, for I steekit my een, and I'm sure I lay dead for near an hour. But when I cam to life again, the hale house was filled wi' a smell o' brimstane that would putten down a' the bees'-skeps i' the yard; and my richt hand was burning just as if ye had dippit it in a tar-kettle, and then set a lunt till't; but it was ten times waur than tar, for it had the smell o' brimstane, and it would scarcely gang out. The pain garred me roar as I never roared in a' my life afore; and I'm sure I'll never forget the relief I felt when Nelly cam to see what had happened." As an evidence of the truth of this account, Jock showed them his hand, upon which a portion of the skin was really burned as black as a cinder. The goodman and the goodwife, both of whom were now present, stood astonished at this circumstance; but Nelly, who had evinced a considerable degree of composure in this trying scene, now appeared less dismayed. "Hoot, man!" said she, addressing Jock, "dinna gang out o' your wits though ye've gotten a fear; mony a ane has seen a ghaist, and lived to see their bairns' bairns after a'--sae may ye, if ye would only tak heart again." "O Nelly, Nelly," said Jock, "I micht maybe tak heart, if ye would only promise faithfully, afore witnesses, to let yoursel be married next week." "What need I promise," rejoined Nelly, "when, for onything I ken, ye may be gaun to see Lizzie Gimmerton _the morn's nicht_?" "Oh dear! oh dear!" ejaculated Jock. Again the terrible denunciation of the ghost rang in his ears, and again he groaned in an agony of despair. But here the master and mistress interposed in his behalf, and, by their mediation, Nelly was at last brought to consent to that important change in her condition which alone would save him from perdition. She still insisted, however, on making conditions; and these were, _first_, that he should not go to a market except when he had some business to transact; _second_, that, upon these occasions, he should always take her along with him, if she was willing to go; _third_, that he should never enter upon any important concern without first apprising her of it; and, _fourth_, that he should always come home to his own fireside when his day's work was done. These conditions were readily subscribed by Jock, or, which is the same thing, they were agreed to before witnesses, after which Nelly frankly consented to be his wife. When this had been settled, she would have made out another set of conditions, specifying what her own conduct was to be, and what he might expect of her in certain situations; but Jock had determined on making an unconditional surrender of himself and his effects into her hands; and all she was permitted to say was, that "she would do her best to mak a guid wife to him." Matters were thus far satisfactorily adjusted; but still Jock could not rest till his promised bride was _contracket_, as he phrased it; and, to free his mind from those remains of terror under which he still laboured, the master of the house went in quest of the dominie as soon as daylight began to appear. Dominies are seldom slow in these matters; a contract of marriage was forthwith drawn up in the usual form; due proclamation of their intentions was made in the church next Sabbath; and, as the case was an urgent one, they were cried out in the same day. On Monday the marriage was solemnised in a becoming manner; and, when the parties were put to bed, Jock, who had up to that moment been rather feverish on the subject of the ghost, declared that "he wasna feared noo." Had this marriage been brought about by ordinary means, it might have staggered some of the lieges in their faith--at least it must have taxed their ingenuity to reconcile the event, happening as it had done, in the face of a plain prediction, with the unlimited power which the witches certainly possessed; but, as it was, the matter needed no comment. The decision of the witch had evidently been reversed in the court of the ghosts, who, from being a superior order, had power to do such things; and thus Nelly Kilgour had got a husband, even after she had been predestined, by the former of these authorities, to a life of single blessedness. Jock had also good reason to congratulate himself on the intervention of his spiritual _friend_--the ghost being no longer regarded as an enemy; for, in less than six months from the date of his marriage, Lizzie Gimmerton was discovered to be in a condition which would have been rather derogatory to his fame, had she been his yoke-fellow. It was acknowledged upon all hands, however, that he had got a better bargain. In a few weeks after the marriage, his appearance was so much improved, that people, of their own accord, began to call him _John_; and, in another month, his wife was the only individual who still persisted in calling him _Jock_. But this, in her case, was, as it appeared, "habit and repute," and could not be easily altered. Whoever had an empty snuff-box, Jock's was always full; whoever might be seen at church with coarse or ill-washed linen, Jock was not among the number; whoever went to the public-house, or to the houses of their neighbours, for amusement, Jock came always home "to his ain fireside;" and, when others were heard to complain of the thriftlessness of their wives, he only said that "he had aye been a hantle better since he got Nelly than ever he was afore." In conclusion, it may be remarked, that, though Nelly was evidently the _managing partner_, she gave herself no airs of superiority. She seldom did anything without taking her husband's advice; but, while she sought, she tried to direct his opinion into the proper channel, by pointing out what was likely to be results of the affair, if it were conducted in such a manner; and thus his advice was, in general, only an echo of her own sentiments. If Jock, in the presence of others, directed her to do anything, she, in general, did it, without questioning its propriety; but, if she thought it was wrong, she represented the case to him when they were by themselves--telling him, at the same time, that "she just did it to please him, though she thought it was wrang." Upon these occasions, his common reply was-- "Deed ay, Nelly, I daresay ye're richt. I dinna aye see sae far afore me as ye do; but I'm sure, wi' a' my fauts, ye canna say but I like ye as weel yet as ever I did." "Deed do ye," was frequently Nelly's rejoinder; "and proud am I to think that my ain Jock aye likes his ain wife better than ither folk." Within a year after their marriage, Nelly made her husband the father of a female child, who was christened Jenny Jervis. In a few years, their united industry enabled them to stock the little farm of Rummledykes--of which they were so fortunate as to obtain a _tack_. The place consisted, for the most part, of pasture ground; but Jock laboured assiduously to improve and cultivate it. Nelly, by her management of the dairy, contributed materially to increase their possessions; and here we must leave them, contented and happy, for the present--promising, however, to give the reader some glimpses of their subsequent history--and perhaps some hints, too, which may enable him to form his own conjectures as to those supernatural appearances which brought about their union--in a future story. THE GHOST OF GAIRYBURN. In the fulfilment of our promise of "a future story," which we made at the termination of "The Ghost of Howdycraigs," we may premise thus:-- It would be both trite and bombastic to say, as some orators have done, that "time rolls on;" and yet it is wholly owing to their having been so often repeated, that such sayings excite no interest, and the subjects to which they refer pass unnoticed; for, however we may forget the truth, or however the regular recurrence of evening and morning, summer and winter, seed-time and harvest, may make us callous to the result which these revolutions are destined to produce, nothing can be more certain than that Time never pauses in his career. His progress may be observed, not only in those great events which give birth to new eras in the history of the world--in the overthrow of ancient empires, the extinction of ancient dynasties, and the discovery of new countries: it may be traced in the occurrences of every year, every month, and almost of every day. The connections of families, the numbers of which they are composed, their relative position in society, and their prospects in life, are undergoing perpetual changes. Changeable as are the fortunes, so are the minds and the emotions of men: one hour they laugh, another they weep; and, perhaps, the very next hour they laugh again; while events the most important and the most trifling, the most solemn and the most ludicrous, mingle together, and follow each other by a law which fools our powers of investigation, and baffles our understanding. Eighteen years had nearly elapsed since the period at which the former part of this history concludes; and _the Ghost of Howdycraigs_ was nearly forgotten. Betsy Braikens, who was then only a girl, was now a full-grown woman, who, for the last eight or nine of the above-mentioned years, would not have been irreconcilably offended with a well-looking sweetheart for proposing to make her his wife. Her brother James, who, in the same interval, had arrived at man's estate, had been endeavouring, not very successfully, for some time past to establish himself as a merchant in Perth; and his cousin, Sandy Crawford, whom the reader will recollect as the herd laddie at Howdycraigs, had, by the death of his father, been promoted to be tacksman of Gairyburn; upon which place he resided with his mother. Jenny Jervis, too, with whose birth the preceding story concludes, was by this time a lass upon whom those who were neither too young nor too old might have looked with as much interest at least as it is common to bestow on a maiden in her eighteenth year. It is also probable that she herself had begun to steal an occasional glance at the young men of the district, as she saw them passing on the road, or assembled at their rustic sports; and to recollect, when her mind was otherwise unoccupied, that one was tall, that another had dark eyes, that a third had a smiling countenance; and, perhaps, that a fourth united all these charms in his proper person. It was the middle of winter, or what is commonly called "the daft days," which has long been a season of festivity to the rich, and, in so far as circumstances will permit, to the poor also. The cottagers were invited to each other's houses, to spend an evening in forgetfulness of care. Cakes, cheese, and ale, supplied them with a cheap, and, at the same time, a cheery repast. The old people talked of bygone times, and the feats of dexterity or strength which they had performed in their youth, with all the enthusiasm of heroes when "fighting their battles over again;" while the young ones looked in each other's faces, and laughed heartily at little jests. Unpremeditated compliments were paid in off-handed profusion; old and incredible stories were revived; and, in the words of Goldsmith, "news much older than their ale went round;" but, whatever might be their age, at such seasons they were certain to produce as much merriment as upon the occasion when they were first produced. To conclude the picture-- "The nappy reek'd wi' mantling 'ream, And shed a heart-inspiring stream; And luntin pipe and sneeshin mill Were handed round wi' richt guid-will." Sandy Crawford and his mother had been invited to "get their cakes," and spend the evening with John Jervis and his wife. They came, according to custom; and, after the cheese, the oaten bread, and the ale had been sent round in the usual manner-- "Troth, Nelly," said Margaret Crawford, addressing her hostess, "your Jenny's turned a perfect woman, I declare. Sic an odds there's on her within the last twalmonth! Mony a time I look at her when she's gaun past; and, to say the truth, ye may weel be proud o' yer dochter, for I dinna see a bonnier lassie i' the hale country-side than she is." "Beauty is only skin-deep," said Nelly, with a smile of satisfaction, which showed how highly she appreciated the quality in her daughter which she pretended to undervalue. "But the lassie's weel aneugh, though she were nae freend o' mine. And noo, Sandy," she continued, in a jesting tone, and turning from the mother to the son as she spoke, "what think ye o' her for a wife? Yer mither seems to be unco weel pleased wi' her; I'm sure I would like weel to see ye gang thegither, and I dinna think our Jock would say onything against sic a marriage." "Hoot, woman," interrupted her husband, "were I to haver like you, I would say that, if I thought she would only turn out half as guid a wife to him as you've dune to me, I would maist advise him to tak her; but she's our ain bairn, and we should haud our tongues." "That's as true as ye hae said it," rejoined Nelly; "fathers and mithers should say little on sic a subject; but as this is a nicht on which a'body haver, ye maun just allow me to haver too: when folk only haver for diversion, it can do little ill. And sae, as I was gaun to say," she continued, again addressing Sandy, "yer mither seems to be pleased; I'm weel pleased; Jock's no that sair set against the match, and noo there's naebody's consent awantin but your ain." "Ay," said Sandy, "there's anither yet, though you've forgotten about it; ye maun get her consent too afore it can be a bargain. Jenny has a heart as weel as her neebors, I'll warrant her," he continued, stealing a look at the object of whom he spoke, "and I'm maybe no amang the folk she likes best." "Weel, Jenny, it's a' at your door noo, I declare," said her mother, laughing outright. "What say ye to this affair?" "Oh, if ye would only haud your tongue!" said Jenny, blushing, and still keeping her eyes fixed upon a rather profitless occupation in which she had been engaged for some time past--namely, that of folding and unfolding the corners of her apron with great assiduity; but the rest of the company, if we except Sandy, perhaps, were so deeply engaged in their own nonsensical conversation, that they took no notice of this circumstance. "That's just the way wi' a' young folk," said Nelly, still laughing; "the lad thinks the lass has some ither body that she likes better than him, and the lass thinks the lad pays mair attention to anither than he does to her; she daurna say a word unless she maybe tak the dorts and misca him; he hesitates to speak for fear he should be refused; and between them they aften contrive to torment ane anither for years, when twa words micht settle the matter, and mak them baith happy. But I'm sure, Margaret, if they would only leave the thing to you and me, we could mak a bargain for them the nicht yet." "It's likely, at least, that we would mak a bargain sooner than they would do," said the other. But the sigh with which she concluded bespoke some emotion which accorded ill with the lightness of the previous conversation. There was a something, too, in her manner, which seemed to say that, while she was not averse to the proposed match, she did not altogether relish the jest in which its immediate consummation had been spoken of. Mothers have frequently thrown serious obstacles in the path of young people when they supposed themselves travelling on the highway to happiness; but sometimes, too, they seem inclined to give them an opportunity of forming that liking for each other, without which, according to the popular creed, no happiness can exist. Nelly now proposed that, while the guidman was suppering the horse, Margaret should go with her to the byre and see the cow, the yearling, and the calf, which, she said, "were in wonderfu guid order, considerin how little they had to gie them." Sandy and Jenny were thus left to themselves; but upon this occasion they seemed to have the greatest difficulty in keeping up a sort of intermitting conversation upon the weather, the state of the roads, and some other subjects of the same kind. Each wished to appear witty and amiable in the eyes of the other; but somehow their wits seemed to have forsaken them, and they appeared to be perfectly ignorant of the means by which their wishes could be accomplished. Perhaps the former conversation had awakened, or rather called into a state of activity, some feelings which they knew not how to express; and it might be that, while these feelings predominated, they could not think of anything else in such a manner as to talk of it to the purpose; or perhaps it was only the mere awkwardness of finding themselves, for the first time since they were children, thus left to each other, which in a great measure locked up their conversational powers. Be the matter as it may, with the "eldern dames" it was otherwise. When they got to the byre, Margaret appeared more willing to resume the former subject than to look at her neighbour's chattels. "Ye would maybe think," said she, "that I didna seem sae frank as I micht hae done when ye spoke about Jenny and Sandy; but, for a' that, I've aften thought, if ever it were the laddie's luck to get a wife, Jenny would mak a better ane than ony ither young woman I ken. But after him that's now awa began to tak death till himsel," she continued, lowering her voice to a confidential whisper, "when he made owre the tack to Sandy, he left me as a burden upon Gairyburn. Noo, the place is but sma, as ye ken, and there's but ae house on't, and, if he were to marry, I dinna ken how a'thing would answer." "Hoot, woman," rejoined the other, "ye've a _butt and a ben_; the house would haud ye a' brawly. And, though our lassie's owre young to be a wife to onybody, and I was only passin a joke about her and Sandy, if she were a year or twa aulder, and if a'thing were agreeable, I canna say but I would like weel to see them gang thegither. For it's just the gate o' a' mithers--they would aye like to see their ain bairns gettin guid bargains. No that I would care a snuff for the lassie gettin a man wi' a hantle riches; but I would like to see her get ane that would ken how to guide her, and how to guide the warld too. Noo, Sandy is baith a canny and a carefu chield; and, if they dinna thrive, I'm sure it wouldna be his faut." "It's a' true ye say," responded Margaret; "and weel it pleases me to hear your guid opinion o' my son. He has a wark wi' the lassie already, if I'm no far deceived; for ony time when she comes owre to our house, I've remarkit that he's aye kinder to her than to ony ither body. But there's a proverb that says, 'young wives seldom like auld guidmithers'--and that's what troubles me." "But that needna trouble ye owre muckle either," was the reply; "for--what's this I was gaun to say, again?--ou ay--wi' respect to Jenny, puir thing, if it were her guid fortune to draw his affection, I'm sure she would strive, as far as lay in her power, to mak ye comfortable." "I dinna doubt a single word o' what ye say," rejoined the other. "Jenny is a dutiful and a kind-hearted lassie; I ken that weel. But, as the auld sayin is, ilka body kens their ain sair best; and, though it's nae doubt a weakness, I maun e'en tell ye a'. When I was married--I mind as weel as yesterday--baith David and me thought we could live happy wi' his mither; and we did live happy, for aught days or sae; but, after that, I could do naethin to please her. If I tried to 'earn the milk, it was either owre het or owre cauld when I put in the 'earning; if I began to wash the dishes, she aye milkit the kye first, and then she wondered how some folk had sae little sense. I could neither mak the parritch, nor wash, nor spin, nor mak up a hasp o' yarn--no, nor soop in the very house, to please her; and, though I tried, as far as was in my power, to do a'thing her way, it gae me mony a sleepless nicht, and cost him that's awa nae little vexation. And weel do I mind mony a time I wondered what pleasure she could tak in distressin me; but I think noo it was just a frailty o' our nature--a something that auld folk canna help. And I think, too, I've discovered the cause o' her grumlin since I began to see the prospect o' Sandy takin a wife. Now, ye'll nae doubt think it strange," she continued, in a hesitating tone--"ye'll nae doubt think it strange, Nelly; but, dearly as I like my ain son--and weel as I would like to see him happy wi' a woman wha loved him better than a' the warld beside--still there's a something in the idea o' anither comin in to be the mistress o' the hoose whaur I've had the management sae lang, that aye distresses me when I think on't." "I dinna wonder ava at what ye say," responded Nelly. "If I were in your place, a' that troubles you would trouble me. But there's naebody without something to distress them; and we maun just look upon things o' that kind as a _crook in our lot_, a something that maun be borne. But, after a', woman, if the twa were to gang thegither, could ye no come owre here? Ye have only him, and we have only her; the little gear we hae maun a' gang to him at last; and, if the young folk could live thegither in ane o' the places, the auld folk micht surely do the same in the tither." "Thank ye, Nelly--thank ye!" said Margaret; "ye're aye the same guid-hearted creature yet. But a body's ain hame's aye kindly. And yet, if sic a thing were to happen, I would rather come here, than gang to ony freend I hae." As she uttered these words, she made an involuntary motion forward, and would have fallen, had she not supported herself by the wall. "Dear me, Margaret, what's the matter wi' ye?" said Nelly, in a tone of evident alarm. "It's a dizziness i' my head, woman," was the reply. "I've never been mysel since that illness I had afore the term. Thae curious turns come owre me aye, noo and then," she continued, her voice sinking and saddening as she spoke; "and, for the last six weeks, it's been borne in upon me, that I'm no to be lang to the fore. Now, if I was taen awa, Sandy would be sair to mean wi' naebody about the house but a servant; and that gars me sometimes think I would maist like to see him married to some carefu lass like your Jenny afore my head be laid down." "Wheesht, Margaret!" said the other; "never let thae thoughts come owre ye, for there's an auld proverb that says, _thought can kill and thought can cure_. And I doubt I've driven the joke owre far already. But, though it's natural aneugh for young lasses to like to get husbands, and natural aneugh, too, for their mithers to like to see them weel married, I would ten times owre see our Jenny live and dee without a man a'thegither, rather than see her married to the best man on earth, if her marriage were to gie you real vexation, or be the means o' shortenin your days." "It's no that," said Margaret, in the same low solemn tone in which she had before spoken--"it's no onything ye have said that has hurt me, for I've thought about a' thae things afore. When I had that ill turn afore Martinmas, when folk thought I was deein, I began to consider wha would be maist likely to keep a comfortable hame to my ain bairn; and then, I confess, my thoughts turned upon your Jenny. This made me look mair attentively at baith him and her than I had ever done before; and twa or three times, when she cam owre to see how I was, I thought I saw something like the first symptoms of affection in his manner as weel as hers; and I felt glad at the sicht. But, as I began to get a little better, and to be able to gang about again, the things that had happened wi' my ain guidmither came fresh to my memory, and I thought I would like to manage the house mysel, and do for the best as lang as I was able. But I fear," she added, with a deep sigh, "this complaint, whatever it is, will weather me afore it's lang." "Na, Margaret; I hope better things," said the other; "and ye maun strive to hope for better things too. Though ye mayna be sae stout through the winter, when the warm weather comes in ye'll gather strength again; and, if ance ye had yer fit on a May gowan, ye'll be as hale and hearty as the best o' us." "It's lang to the month o' May," said Margaret, in a voice unwontedly solemn; "and, afore that time come round, hundreds that are laughin and makin muckle sport the nicht may be cauld in their graves. But promise, if I'm taen awa, that ye'll do yer best to supply my place, and to bring the twa thegither if ye can." Nelly was really distressed to think that this gloomy presentiment had taken such firm hold of her neighbour's mind; but, fancying that it had been in some measure suggested by their former conversation, and hoping that it would soon pass off, she promised to comply with her wishes, and then urged her to rejoin the company within. They accordingly went into the house, where they found the little party--which, in their absence, consisted of only three--engaged in a cheerful conversation. Freed at length from that embarrassment which they had experienced while alone, the others soon recovered their spirits and their freedom of speech. Margaret, however, could not so easily recover her former cheerfulness. She strove, indeed, to appear as merry as the rest; but her late indisposition, though only of a momentary nature, seemed to have left an effect upon her spirits which did not immediately pass away. There was also a something in the fitfulness of her manner, and the expression of deep solemnity into which her countenance frequently relapsed after a laugh, which told too plainly that her merriment came not from the heart. These symptoms were soon observed, and by degrees her sadness appeared to communicate itself to the rest of the company. In this state of things, they seemed to feel as if an early separation would have been a relief, and almost the only relief of which the case would admit. When the propriety of a measure is felt by a whole company, some one or other of their number in general stammers upon the wishes of the rest; and here, shortly after the above-mentioned feeling had begun to prevail, Margaret Crawford said that--"As the nicht was dark and micht end in rain, she thought it would be best for her and Sandy to gang hame afore it was late." To this proposal Nelly and her husband made a friendly show of resistance such as is common on these occasions, and urged, as reasons for delaying their guests, that "it was not late yet," and that "they would be hame in braw time, though they staid anither hour." But this resistance, though reiterated, was so faint, that it was at once felt to be formal; and Margaret, who had no very great temptation to do otherwise, seemed inclined to adhere to her first intention. She therefore repeated her reasons for going home; and, at the same time expressed a hope, "if _naething extrordinar_ cam i' the way, that she would see John and Nelly, and Jenny too, at Gairyburn, some nicht neist week, to spend the e'enin wi' her"--after which, the little company broke up. The night was far advanced before Jenny could close her eyes; and when at last she did sink into the arms of the "leaden god," it was only to dream of having lost her way, along with Sandy Crawford, in some wide and wildering desert which she had never seen before. At first the scene seemed solitary, shaded with lofty yews, and tangled with trailing shrubs; dark clouds spread a gloom over it; mists rested on the top of every rock; and the night-dews hung heavily from every branch and every blade of grass. Then the prospect appeared to brighten: the landscape assumed a variety of charms; every hour disclosed some new beauty, or opened up some glowing vista which she had not before seen. The sun gradually dissipated the clouds which hitherto had concealed him, and, bursting through, dried up the superfluous moisture from the earth; the air became pure, and the day delightfully warm; and, though as yet she had discovered no road by which she could return, she did not feel greatly perplexed. But the pleasing prospect was soon overcast: clouds appeared to gather round them; anon she was separated from her companion by rocks and unfathomable gulfs, the nature and extent of which she could not distinctly see. At times she fancied he was lost, and felt inclined to weep at the thought that she should never see him more; then she obtained a glimpse of him, as if he still waited for her, and then her heart panted to come up with him; then he disappeared, and she knew not which way to turn. At last she thought Betsy Braikens came up to her, and offered to conduct her to where he was; but at that moment the sky grew dark, and the storm raged so terribly, that she could not stir a step to follow her. It soon ceased, however; the day again cleared; she seemed to see him advancing to meet her, with a smile of welcome upon his countenance; and, just as he was about to throw his arms around her waist, she started aside to avoid his embrace, struck her arm upon the post of the bed, and the pain which the circumstance occasioned, aided by an importunate knocking at the door, awakened her. On being thus made aware that some one wanted admittance, she started up, threw on a part of her clothes, snatched up the poker, broke the _gathering-coal_, and stirred the fire, which instantly burst forth in a blaze; and then she hastened to open the door. The present visiter was Sandy Crawford, in most respects the very same as she had seen him in her dream; but the _smile_ with which that illusion had presented her was wanting, and in its stead she thought she could discover, by the light of the fire, marks of anxiety, perturbation, and fear, upon his countenance. The contrast was so striking, that she almost forgot one part of it was only a dream. At the very first glance, she felt certain that something was wrong; and she would have inquired what it was, but, before she could speak, he told her, in terms which betrayed his own agitation, that his mother, without having previously complained of being worse than her ordinary, had been struck with what appeared to be _palsy_ in the course of the night, that she was now wholly deprived of speech, and nearly deprived of motion in one side, and that he had hastened thither as soon as she could be left, to beg either her or her mother to come over and watch her till he could procure further assistance. He would have said something more--he would have hinted the probability of the fatal termination of his mother's disease, and the further probability that this termination might occur in a few hours, both of which were painfully impressed upon his heart; but he shrank from the idea of speaking on such a subject, as though he apprehended some mysterious connection between his own words and the fate of his mother, and that what he was about to say might hurry on the crisis which he wished to avert. He was therefore silent; while Jenny, between the effects of her dream, and the alarming intelligence which she had just heard, knew not what to answer, or what she should do. In general, she possessed activity, and all that was necessary to enable her to render assistance in any case with which she was acquainted; but she was susceptible of strong impressions--those who are so seldom act with ease in an untried situation--and she was now placed in one which was perfectly new to her. In her agitation, she would have stood where she was, like a statue, or she would have accompanied him without taking time to put on what remained of her clothes, had he repeated his request; but her mother, who had been awakened by the opening of the door, on overhearing the conversation which followed, had dressed herself with characteristic despatch, now came to her daughter's relief. "Dinna forget to milk the cow, lassie," said she, "nor to mak yer father's parritch about eight o'clock, and I'll rin owre mysel, and see what's the matter wi' puir Margaret Crawford. But, if I'm no back afore dinner-time, mind ye to come and see how she is." With these brief orders, Nelly wrapped herself up in her cloak, and hastened to carry her services where they were most wanted. On reaching Gairyburn, they found Margaret, as she had been represented, very ill. The shock, however, did not, as there was at first some reason to fear, prove immediately mortal; and about noon, when Jenny arrived, her mother proposed that she herself should go home, leaving her in constant attendance, and promising, at the same time, to return as often as possible, and give them all the assistance in her power. This arrangement appeared satisfactory to all parties; but, at the end of three weeks, a second shock brought rest to the sufferer, and mourning to the house of Gairyburn. This mournful event, as is common in such cases, brought together the whole of the friends and relations of the deceased; and among the rest came Betsy Braikens and her brother. Betsy had been for some time past residing with that brother in Perth; but, as soon as it was known that she had arrived, those who pretended to take an interest in the affairs of her cousin hastened to represent to her in the strongest terms the necessity of her coming "to _keep his house_;" and, yielding to their representations, she did offer her services. These were declined, however, from the consideration that it would be inconvenient for her brother to want her assistance. But, as soon as it was understood that she had made such an offer, the very individuals who had advised her to make it began to search for other motives than their own advice, and they soon discovered what they considered a sufficient reason for her doing so, in the embarrassed circumstances of her brother. It was generally believed that his trade had never been very flourishing, and some surmises had lately reached them of the failure of a merchant in Glasgow, with whom he was understood to be connected, which would involve him in very considerable pecuniary difficulties. Putting these things together, they deemed them a sufficient warrant for supposing that Betsy had her cousin's _hand_ as well as his house in view, and that, if she did not succeed in securing one of them at least, she might soon have no house to keep. This supposition was not altogether without a foundation; for all his endeavours had been so unsuccessful of late, that her brother had now come to the determination of dropping business, as soon as he could sell off his stock, and wind up his affairs; but, as it would be several months before this could be done with any prospect of advantage, he still continued to keep his intentions a perfect secret. And this being the case, it was agreed on the evening of the funeral that he and his sister should set off, early next morning, for Perth. The weather, however, did not appear to favour their intentions. For the last eight days it had been fair, and uncommonly mild, with slight frosts during the night, so that, in the estimation of the country people, "the earth was prepared for a storm." But, on the day alluded to, the atmosphere had become loaded with stagnant vapours; a continuous mass of dark, leaden-coloured cloud, which seemed to rest upon the nearest hills, arched the concave; not a single speck of blue sky had been visible since morning; and in the evening, one of those dense and wildering falls of snow, which have frequently misled the traveller, came on. The night was one which, in most respects, seemed to accord with the sorrowful feelings of the little party at Gairyburn. It was gloomy and silent; while the snow continued to accumulate around the house, as if to exclude everything which might have a tendency to disturb their recollections of the solemn scene in which they had been so lately engaged. At times, a sort of conversation, carried on in subdued tones, prevailed for a season; and then it was followed by considerable intervals of silence, broken only by an occasional sigh, a casual observation on the stillness of the night, or an injunction to stir the fire. Anon, the colloquial powers of the party seemed to gather strength from the repose which they had been permitted to enjoy; and the discourse was again renewed, to continue for a season, and then to flag, as it had done before. In most respects, this conversation bore a striking resemblance to the evening fire of the poor widow, which is only kept alive by an occasional handful of brushwood thrown upon the expiring embers; after which it emits a flickering flame for a short while, and then gradually decays, till the last spark is scarcely perceptible, and it is only prevented from utter extinction by a repetition of the same process. In one of these intervals of silence, Betsy Braikens had gone to the door--partly to pass the time which hung so heavily, and partly to see if there was any prospect of being able to travel in the morning. While thus reconnoitring, her attention was attracted by a whistle, followed by a faint cry for assistance, which, though evidently at a distance, was, owing to the stillness of the night, distinctly heard. This made her listen more attentively. The whistle and the cry were repeated, which satisfied her that they proceeded from some one in distress; and she now thought it time to give notice of what she had heard to those within. On hearing the circumstance, her brother and cousin immediately set off in the direction which she had pointed out; and in a short time they returned, bringing along with them a stranger, who had lost his way when it grew dark; and, after having wandered for several hours among the hills, without knowing where he was going, had at last stumbled over a bank into a miry slough, where, as he was unable to extricate himself from the mud, he would in all probability have perished, but for the assistance which he had received. The care of ministering to the new guest devolved principally upon Betsy Braikens, who had been the first to give notice of his previous distress; and for such an office she was better qualified than any other female who, at the time, could have been found, within several miles--both from that knowledge of the conventionalities of society which she had acquired during her residence in Perth, and from a disposition which was naturally kind. With that alacrity which is common to her sex, she made the necessary preparations for enabling him to shift such parts of his clothes as were wet. A repast calculated to refresh him, after the fatigues of his journey, was next provided; and, as there was no inn or other place of accommodation within reach, and the night was one in which no stranger could find his way, she represented the necessity of his remaining where he was till morning; and then he might travel with her and her brother, if he chanced to be journeying in that direction; and, if his road was different, he would at least have the advantage of daylight to direct his steps. To this proposal the stranger did not seem to be averse. In such circumstances, men are often more grateful for a mere trifle than, in others, they would be for the greatest favours. He seemed highly sensible of the kindness with which he was treated, and soon began to regard his entertainers with a feeling of respect. Upon further conversation, it was discovered that his name was Robert Walker--that he was the son of the Glasgow merchant whoso failure has been already noticed as having been prejudicial to the interests of James Braikens; and, on learning that he was in the society of one who had been in the habit of dealing with his father, he proceeded to give them a brief sketch of his story. After his prospects had been obscured by the bankruptcy of his father, he had succeeded in procuring for himself a situation in Aberdeen; and, as he was a good pedestrian--and had, moreover, a liking for rural scenery, rural manners, and unfrequented roads--these considerations, backed by motives of economy, had induced him to undertake the journey on foot. He had accordingly proceeded by Kinross, intending to make his line as straight as possible, without paying much attention to the highways; and, on reaching the village of Strathmiglo, he had been directed across a part of the Ochils as the nearest road to Newburgh--at which part he intended to cross the Tay. He had taken these directions, and pushed forward, in the expectation that he would reach the last-mentioned place before it was late; but the snow coming on, he soon lost all traces of the road, and, what was worse, he soon after lost everything like an idea of what direction he was travelling in. He had, however, no alternative but to proceed. Exertion was indispensable to prevent his limbs from being benumbed with cold; but the dense fall of snow prevented him from seeing any distant object upon which he might direct his course, and thus arrive at some place of shelter. In this state of uncertainty, he had wandered he neither knew where nor how long, when--stumbling over the bank, as already noticed, and being unable to extricate himself--he was beginning to fear that he had reached the end of his journey before his deliverers reached him. On the following morning, which was fair, though the clouds still appeared to be far from having discharged the whole of their contents, the stranger was easily induced to accompany Betsy Braikens and her brother to Perth--alleging, as his reason for doing so, a wish to see the town, and the possibility of his being there able to procure some mode of conveying himself to Aberdeen less laborious than travelling had now become. They accordingly set forward together; but before they had reached the head of Abernethy Glen, the snow again began to fall, accompanied by gusts of wind, which whirled whole wreaths into the air at once, and drove the dazzling particles before them with such violence, that suffocation seemed to be the inevitable consequence of being long exposed to the fury of the storm. In a short time the snow had accumulated to such a depth in the hollows as to render travelling a most laborious operation; and it was with some difficulty that the party reached the domicile of Andrew Braikens, where they thought it best to take shelter for the present, and postpone their further journey till the weather should be more favourable. The storm continued for nearly forty-eight hours without intermission, so that, dating from the time at which they set out, it was not till the evening of the third day that they reached Perth. Whatever loss in the way of business this delay might have occasioned, the merchant found, on his arrival, that it was only his absence which had saved him from being declared bankrupt, and, in all probability, imprisoned for debt at the same time. But, on the previous day, one of his most clamorous creditors had been suddenly taken ill. A temporary respite was thus obtained; and, with the assistance of Robert Walker, who exerted all his oratorical powers in his behalf, matters were again patched up, and he was allowed to go on with the concerns of his shop as before. These things being settled, this new friend strenuously advised him to retain his business if possible, assuring him, at the same time, that there was nothing like perseverance, and then went on his way, whither we follow him not. At Gairyburn things went on much in the same way as they had done before, except that the management of the house was now committed to the care of a servant-girl. But some circumstances soon transpired which led the people around to suppose that the girl might, in due time, be promoted to be mistress of what at present she only managed for another. Sandy Crawford had bought rather a better suit of mournings for Jenny Jervis than it was common to give to a servant; and this, along with a number of other incidents and occurrences, too minute to be enumerated here, but not so minute as to escape the notice of a country population, was made the subject of discussion at the firesides of the neighbouring cottages. But as neither men nor women, since the world began, were ever known to agree about either religion or politics, or any other important matter whatever, so here there was a difference of opinion; and many were the conferences and disputes which ensued. With one party, the buying of the gown, and the other corroborating circumstances, were deemed incontestable evidence; and they affirmed that Sandy and Jenny only waited till the proper season for laying aside their mournings, to be married. In this marriage they saw, or at least fancied they could see, such a number of advantages as would render it most desirable. "Jenny," they said, "was a thrifty lassie, and wad mak a guid wife. She kenned a' about the management o' the kye, and she wad aye hae her mither at hand to apply to in ony strait." Another party differed from them entirely, both as to the conclusiveness of the evidence, and the advantages to be derived from the marriage. "The buyin o' the gown," they maintained, "was naething. Jenny Jervis was a young, thoughtless lassie, wha wad be soon aneugh married four or five years hence; and they were sure Sandy wad be far better wi' his cousin Betsy, wha was baith a weel-faured and a weel-conditioned cummer, and had some experience in the management o' a house." They said, further, that "Betsy, they were sure, wad be the woman; for Sandy was a thoughtfu callant; and though he might be led awa, for a time, wi' twa blue een, a slender waist, and the red and white on a lassie's face, he wad soon come to see that ither things were needfu to a man fechtin for his bread, and strugglin for the rent o' a farm." A third party presumed to differ from both of these in every particular save one. They admitted, indeed, that Sandy "was a thoughtfu callant;" but from that very admission they drew a quite contrary conclusion. "Baith Betsy and Jenny," they averred, "might remain _single_ lang aneugh for him; and if he ever took a wife ava, they were sure it wadna be in ony hurry." They also pointed out several advantages which were likely to accrue to him from adopting this theory, and several disadvantages which would infallibly result from his adoption of any other. "The place," they said, "was but sma', and the rent high; and as lang as he had only a servant, he had naething but her bit year's wage to pay at the term. But, were he to tak a wife, he wad hae to get new beds, and new chairs, and a hantle whigmaleeries forby, that wad cost him nae little siller; he wad hae to buy _fykes_ to her in ilka market, and in ilka shop he cam past--not to mention bairns' meat and bairns' claes--mair o' baith, maybe, than the place wad afford." Thus, as the great political world is at present divided into Tories, Whigs, and Radicals, this little sequestered district was divided into parties, which, for the sake of distinction, we shall denominate _Jervisines_, _Braikenites_, and _Malthusians_. Though Betsy Braikens had not been at Gairyburn for several years before the death of her aunt, after that occurrence she continued to pay occasional visits there; and it was observed, by those who knew and could interpret the signs of the times, that her cousin always looked more thoughtful for a day or two after she went away, than was his usual. This seemed to favour the theory of the _Jervisines_, who said that he was pestered with her visits, and did not know how to get quit of her. The _Braikenites_, on the other hand, maintained, that, if he did not give her some encouragement, she would not return so often; and that his thoughtful looks were occasioned by regret at her absence. Several months after the death of Margaret Crawford, and just as the first party were beginning to be certain that their theory was the correct one, and that they would, ere long, obtain a notable victory over their opponents, both Betsy and her brother paid a visit to Gairyburn. They stayed a night and a day with their cousin; and, after they had taken their departure, it was observed that he looked more thoughtful than he had done on any former occasion, with the additional aggravation of his thoughtfulness not passing away in a day or two, as it had done before. At the end of a fortnight, the neighbours said to each other--"Preserve us a'! saw ye ever sic an alteration as has come owre Sandy Crawford! He's surely seen something that's no canny, and daurna speak aboot it." At the end of a month, they might have made the same observation; but by that time they had become accustomed to the change, and they only said--"Puir fellow! he's as sair altered as though that cummer frae Perth had ta'en awa his last penny." He was indeed changed, though not to the extent which they seemed to suppose. He managed the whole of his concerns as he had done before; in company or conversation there was little perceptible difference; but, when silent or alone, there was frequently an expression of resignation on his countenance, as if some misfortune were impending which he could not avert, and which, if it should fall, he had determined to endure with patience. Strict observations were now made on his conduct towards Jenny; and here, too, an alteration was discovered, though that alteration did not seem to admit of being explicitly expressed in words. It was agreed, however, by the wise women who had made the observations, that he appeared like one who had determined never again to urge his suit, and that he had certainly made up his mind to see her give her hand to another. This conclusion was favourable to the Malthusians: they repeated their assertion, that "he was a thoughtfu callant, and that he had determined not to marry at all;" while the others, if they did not "hide their diminished heads," were at least compelled to hold their peace. But of all who were puzzled by the mysterious change in the manners of the should-be bridegroom, none were more so than poor Jenny herself, who really loved him, and who had been led to suppose that he loved her in return, though hitherto he had never directly declared his intention of marrying her. Her mother was equally puzzled to assign a satisfactory reason for the change; but she was not equally affected by it. In her younger years, she had learned, from experience, that there is nothing more mutable than the heart of a lover; and she fancied, even in ordinary cases, that it was only by practising a great deal of art and finesse that a husband could be secured. This, in her estimation, being the case, she determined that--if the experience which she had acquired in these matters could be rendered available--her daughter should not remain so long unmarried as she had done herself; and she immediately set her head to work to contrive the means of bringing about a marriage as speedily as possible. Nelly recollected some years ago having had a young _pig_, which could not be prevailed upon to take its victuals. She had tried to feed it, or, in other words, to thrust meat into its mouth, in the hope that it would then swallow it; but this only served to make it more obdurate in its resistance. It seemed determined to starve itself to death, and she knew not what to make of it. Her husband, however, bethought him of a scheme which proved successful: on the following day, he brought home another, which was put in beside its refractory kinsman, and afterwards, when she came with the victuals, they immediately commenced fighting about their respective shares. It was then _who should get most_; and each would have eaten up the whole, if its skin would have contained as much. The bee is said to gather honey from every flower; and there are some people who will learn something from every incident. Nelly instantly discovered a strong analogy between the case of the single _pig_ and its victuals, and the case of a young woman with a single sweetheart; and, having discovered an analogy in the cases, she felt certain that there must also be an analogy in the cures. The present emergency seemed to be a most favourable opportunity for trying the correctness of this theory by that best of all possible tests--an experiment; and she forthwith resolved, were the thing practicable, that Jenny should have a new sweetheart, if peradventure his presence would produce a favourable revolution in the sentiments of the old one. Measures were accordingly adopted, and the most feasible schemes were laid--schemes which, with proper management, could hardly have failed of success. Jenny also received such hints and instructions as were deemed necessary to enable her to act her part. But Jenny was, as her mother phrased it, "an even-forrit, silly, simple lassie;" and in her hands nothing succeeded. It was with the utmost difficulty that she could be brought to give the slightest encouragement to a new lover, and if at any time she did muster sufficient resolution to smile upon a rival in the presence of Sandy Crawford, her eye immediately turned upon the latter, to see if he approved of what she had done; and when, in his guarded look, she could read neither approbation nor disapprobation, a deep sigh commonly revealed her apprehensions for having done wrong. The preposterousness of such conduct needs no remark; its evident tendency was, to keep him free from the slightest suspicions of having a competitor for her hand, and the most distant idea that he was in any danger of losing her--and all this in the midst of schemes intended to produce a contrary effect! It is probable that other schemes might have been devised, or the same ones might have been prosecuted to a still greater extent; but what had been already done, aided by his own observation, had opened his eyes to some things of which he was not before fully aware. Hitherto, he seemed to have supposed that he was himself the only sufferer; but he now discovered that there was another whom he was making unhappy, and her unhappiness evidently pained him, adding, at the same time, to his other causes of anxiety, whatever they were, and consequently to the thoughtfulness of his looks. But still he seemed to fear coming to an explanation, as much as if he had been certain that such a step would destroy his last remains of hope. He could not, however, long endure such an idea; and adopting what had become the least painful alternative, he seemed to have made up his mind to the unfolding of that secret which, hitherto, he had kept to himself. "Jenny," said he, one day, after a long and thoughtful silence, "for some months I have scarcely known what it was to be happy for a single hour; and, strange as ye may think it, _love_ has been one of the principal causes of my misery. Had it not been for _that_, I could have thought lightly of poverty and everything else. I have acted foolishly, perhaps, and made myself altogether unworthy of the woman whom I love; but, yet, I would fain hope that she will not despise me, and I am now resolved----" At hearing these words, Jenny's heart had begun to palpitate violently. But, just as he uttered the word "_resolved_," a rap was heard at the door; and, on its being opened, Betsy Braikens came in, and saluted her cousin with a profusion of smiles; while poor Jenny, to conceal her own agitation, was glad to make an excuse for leaving the house. As soon as Betsy's coming was known, people were on the alert. On Sabbath she accompanied her cousin to the church, and, on the road thither, it was observed that the thoughtful expression of his countenance had passed away--that, after making the proper allowance for the solemnity of the day, he was to all appearance as cheerful as ever he had been in his life; and that he behaved to his relation with the greatest kindness, accompanied by an easiness of manner for which the wise women could only account by supposing that a still nearer relationship was in contemplation, or, in other words, that the marriage-day was already set. The star of the _Braikenites_ was now in the ascendant; they began to feel certain that their opinions had all along been correct; and they upbraided their opponents for their slowness of belief, and their backwardness to place implicit confidence in the understanding of those who were evidently wiser than themselves. The Tuesday following was that on which _Auchtermuchty Market_ occurred. Betsy remained until that important day; went to the market with her cousin like a betrothed damsel; while Jenny, who had also been invited to accompany him, preferred staying at home; and, to place the matter beyond further dispute, he bought and presented the former with a gown, so fine and so costly, that those who had seen it declared "there wasna anither like it selled that day i' the town." No man, it was affirmed, would thus throw away money in buying gowns, unless he expected to be benefited by the wearer--and the triumph of the Braikenites was now almost complete. While these important events were passing, it was not to be expected that Jenny should remain an unconcerned spectator. She had been the first to notice that remarkable change for the better which his cousin's presence had produced in the looks and manners of Sandy Crawford. She saw his cheerfulness restored--she saw his kindness to Betsy; and, for the first time in her life, she believed that he _really_ loved her. On the day after the market, Betsy Braikens was to go home, and her cousin gallantly offered to accompany her as far as her father's. Shortly after they were gone, Jenny hastened to tell her mother what she had seen and heard. Nelly now considered that her own character for prudence and management was at stake; and Jenny was prevailed upon to adopt her views, and to promise to be directed by her advice. In the evening, when Sandy Crawford returned from escorting his cousin, he was in high spirits; it was also evident that he had drunk a _glass_ or two more than was his usual, though not so much as to injure his understanding; and he now appeared most anxious to obtain a private conference with Jenny. Between her and the _herd laddie_ a sort of tacit understanding appeared now to exist, for he did not leave the house to follow his pastime, as was his wont; and, when his master bade him "gang and clean out his byre," the boy told him that he had done so already. He next desired him to "bring some water from the well for a drink, as he was thirsty." But Jenny, who answered for him, said that, "as the cow had been _tigging_ in the afternoon, he would be tired with chasing her;" and she took the pitcher and went to obey the order herself. The individual who had given it followed her out; but she was at the well, and had filled her pitcher, before he could come near enough to speak. When he had almost come up with her, he repeated her name, in that low, earnest tone, which people sometimes use when they wish to draw the attention of a listener; but she either did not hear, or did not _wish_ to hear him. He made certain of meeting her, however, as she returned; but here also he was deceived, for she went round by the other side of the _kailyard_, for the purpose, as it appeared, of taking with her a handful of sticks, with which to kindle up the fire next morning. On seeing this manoeuvre, he jumped over the dike, repeating her name as he had done before; but, on the present, as on the former occasion, she either heard him not, or pretended not to hear him; and, by hastening her pace, she had reached the house-door before he could intercept her. As a _dernier_ resource, the last-mentioned personage was now ordered to "gang and water the horse." And he rose to obey; but here again Jenny seemed to sympathise with him in his labours. "As the cow had _tiggit_ i' the afternoon," she said, "it was like aneugh the horse micht rin awa i' the e'enin; and, as the laddie, puir thing, had chased the cow till he was ready to fa' down, it couldna be expeckit that he would be able to chase the horse, and sae she would gang and help him." If ever Jenny Jervis had been puzzled to account for the conduct of Sandy Crawford, he was now as much puzzled to account for the change which had come over her. He thought of the subject without being able to come to any conclusion, and then thought of it again to as little purpose as he had done before, till at last, wearied out with vain conjectures, he flung himself upon his bed in a state of mind not easy to be described; and when Jenny, who was in no great haste to return, came in, his heavy breathing told that he was already asleep. On stealing a glance into the apartment where he was, she saw that he was still lying with his clothes on, and that his sleep was of that profound sort which commonly lasts for the night. Sandy Crawford had fallen asleep, little dreaming of either alarm or danger; but, about midnight, he was disturbed by an indistinct and inarticulate sound, which, though it conveyed no meaning to his ear, was loud enough to awake him. Slowly and heavily he opened his eyes; but it was not dark, as he expected it to be. On the contrary, a strange light glimmered around him, and, on turning his head to see whence it proceeded, he saw in the middle of the floor a spectre, which might have well appalled the heart of a hero. The ghost of Howdycraigs, to which his present visiter bore a striking resemblance, rushed back upon his memory, and he would have trembled, but that he did not recollect any bad consequences which followed that memorable event. Thus, in time, even ghosts might fail to terrify, were they to repeat their visits too often. In the present instance, it were difficult to say if Sandy was not strengthened for the sight by some faint hope that this might be a second marriage-making expedition of the same benevolent spirit, and that it might eventually help him to a _wife_, the getting of which thing he had begun to regard as no easy matter. The ghost of Gairyburn, however, at first bade fair for being as famous in its day and generation as the ghost of Howdycraigs had been; and doubtless it had succeeded in a less hazardous enterprise. Like the other, its head was tied up in a white handkerchief, its body was carefully wrapped in the folds of an ample winding-sheet. On its feet it wore white stockings, but no shoes--the absence of which exhibited a finely-turned ankle to such advantage, that any male onlooker might have been excused for wishing it a substantial woman. But then its face and hands were as white as the finest flour or the whitest chalk could have made them--thus setting every earthly feeling, except fear, at defiance. In one hand it carried a candle, which burned as blue as any spiritual light ever burned, while with the other it managed its apparel, which was scrupulously clean--thus making it appear that it had been washed since it left its subterranean abode, from which circumstance it were reasonable to infer that it was either a female ghost, or had got a wife to do these things for it. Though we have thus detained the reader, by describing it, _it_ detained not its auditor; for, as soon as he appeared to be fully awake--"Sandy Crawford," it said. But it was evidently an apprentice in the task it had undertaken, and knew but little of the manner in which a message should be delivered; for here its voice faltered, and its hands trembled in a most curious manner--thus making it evident that ghosts have feelings as well as mortals, and that they may sometimes be sent upon errands they dislike. The shaking of its hands caused the blue flame to fall from the candle, which immediately burned out with a clear and natural light; while that which had fallen hissed and sputtered on the floor. In attempting to remedy this mistake, by restoring the blue flame to its proper place, it seemed to burn its fingers--at least it drew back its hand with the appearance of pain, drawing in its breath, and starting up rather hurriedly at the same time. While performing the last mentioned of these operations, it unfortunately struck its head against the back of a chair, which chanced to be standing near, and ruffled its head-dress, from under which a most enchanting ringlet of fair hair escaped, and began to play about its white temples. One mistake followed another: in attempting to replace the hair, it passed a portion of the winding-sheet, in which it was muffled up, over its face; and when it was removed, its lips were no longer pale, but provokingly red--one cheek was of the same hue, and the deep blush of the other was now beginning to shine through its treacherous covering. As a further proof of its inexperience, it heaved a deep sigh, and was about to retire in apparent confusion, when Sandy, who had overcome his fear so far as to look at it steadily for the last minute or two, started up, with a heroism which has seldom been equalled, and, endeavouring to catch it in his arms, he exclaimed-- "Jenny, ye daft limmer, what set ye to playin thae mad pranks at this time o' nicht?" In this emergency the ghost, confused as it was, contrived to make its escape; but not before it had thrown the winding-sheet which it wore around the very woman for whom he had mistaken it. By some "cantrip slight," it had no doubt brought her there to be ready in case of accidents, and it now left her to be caught in its stead. Jenny, not being a ghost, could not escape so easily; and, though she struggled a little when she found herself in the arms of a man, she did not appear extremely anxious to get away, while Sandy was so much pleased at having got her by herself at last, that he soon forgot the terrors of the ghost. "Jenny," he continued, still mistaking her for his spiritual visiter, "if I hadna _liket_ ye better than every ither living cratur, since ye was a lassie, I declare I would never kenned ye dressed up as ye are in a' that trumpery. But now that I've gotten ye, I maun keep ye, for I've been wishing to tell ye something this lang time; but ye aye ran frae me as if I had been a _ghost_, though ye see I've catched you when ye was tryin to act ane." The candle which the ghost had left was now placed in a candlestick; and as Jenny appeared perfectly willing to listen to whatever he might have to say, he proceeded to give her such information as served in a great measure to clear up the whole of the mystery. Though he had been long attached to her, and had felt a growing inclination to call her his wife, his mother's death had prevented him from speaking of the subject for a time. During this interval, Betsy Braikens had come oftener than once, soliciting assistance for her brother; upon these occasions, he had always given her what ready-money he could command, and, at last, to save him from bankruptcy, he had become security for a hundred pounds, which was considerably more than his whole effects were worth. No sooner had he done this than he began to doubt the possibility of his cousin ever being able to redeem his debts; in which case his own prospects were ruined. The idea that it would be criminal to involve an unsuspecting female in misery and poverty made him resolve to say nothing of his affections, till he should see what was to be the issue; and for a time he had kept his resolution. But he had determined to make a candid confession of his circumstances, and run any risk which she might be willing to share, when he was interrupted by Betsy Braikens, who had come expressly for the purpose of telling him that her brother had redeemed the whole of his debts, and was now in prosperous circumstances. In a few days thereafter Jenny went to reside with her mother for a short time; and one evening, as Sandy bade her good-night, he gave her a clap on the shoulder, and called her his "spectre bride." On the following week they went to Perth; and Jenny Jervis and Betsy Braikens were married on the same day--the former to Sandy Crawford, and the latter to Robert Walker, who had kept up a regular correspondence with her ever since the night on which he lost his way among the snow. THE SMUGGLER. The golden days of the smuggler are gone by; his hiding-places are empty; and, like Othello, he finds his "occupation gone." Our neighbours on the other side of the herring-pond now bring us _dry bones_, according to the law, instead of _spirits_, contrary to the law. Cutters, preventive-boats, and border-rangers, have destroyed the _trade_--it is becoming as a tale that was told. From Spittal to Blyth--yea, from the Firth of Forth to the Tyne--brandy is no longer to be purchased for a trifle; the kilderkin of Holland gin is no longer placed at the door in the dead of night; nor is a yard of tobacco to be purchased for a penny. The smuggler's phrase, that the "_cow has calved_,"[D] is becoming obsolete. Now, smuggling is almost confined to crossing "the river," here and there, the "ideal line by fancy drawn;" to Scotland saying unto England, "Will you taste?" and to England replying, "Cheerfully, sister." There was a time, however, when the clincher-built lugger plied her trade as boldly, and almost as regularly, as the regular coaster; and that period is within the memory of those who are yet young. It was an evil and a dangerous trade; and it gave a character to the villagers on the sea-coasts which, even unto this day, is not wholly effaced. But in the character of the smuggler there was much that was interesting--there were many bold and redeeming points. I have known many; but I prefer, at present, giving a few passages from the history of one who lived before my time, and who was noted in his day as an extraordinary character. Harry Teasdale was a native of Embleton, near Bamborough. He was the sole owner of a herring-boat and a fishing-cobble; he was also the proprietor of the house in which he lived, and was reputed to be worth money--nor was it any secret that he had obtained his property by other means than those of the haddock hand-line and the herring-net. Harry, at the period we take up his history, was between forty and fifty years of age. He was a tall thin man, with long sandy hair falling over his shoulders, and the colour of his countenance was nearly as rosy as the brandy in which he dealt. But, if there was the secrecy of midnight in his calling, his heart and his hand were open as mid-day. It is too true that money always begets the outward show of respect for him who possesses it, though in conduct he may be a tyrant, and in capacity a fool; but Harry Teasdale was respected, not because he was reputed to be rich, but because of the boldness and warmness of his heart, the readiness of his hand, and the clearness of his head. He was the king of fishermen, and the prince of smugglers, from Holy Island to Hartlepool. Nevertheless, there was nothing unusual in his appearance. Harry looked like his occupation. His dress (save where disguise was necessary) consisted in a rudely-glazed sou'-wester, the flap of which came over his shoulders, half covering his long sandy hair. Around him was a coarse and open _monkey_ or _pea_-jacket, with a Guernsey frock beneath, and a sort of canvas kilt descending below the knee; and his feet were cased in a pair of sea-boots. When not dressing his hand-lines or sorting his nets, he might generally be seen upon the beach, with a long telescope under his arm. As Harry was possessed of more of this world's substance than his brother fishermen, so also was there a character of greater comfort and neatness about his house. It consisted of three rooms; but it also bore the distinguishing marks of a smuggler's habitation. At the door hung the hand-line, the hooks, and the creel; and in a corner of Harry's sleeping-room a "_keg_" was occasionally visible; while over the chimneypiece hung a cutlass and four horse-pistols; and in a cupboard there were more packages of powder and pistol-bullets than it became a man of peace to have in his possession. But the third room, which he called his daughter's, contained emblems of peace and happiness. Around the walls were specimens of curious needlework, the basket of fruit and of flowers, and the landscape--the "_sampler_," setting forth the genealogy of the family for three generations, and the age of her whose fair hands wrought it. Around the window, also, carefully trained, were varieties of the geranium, and the rose, the bigonia, and cressula, the aloe, and the ice-plant, with others of strange leaf and lovely covering. This Harry called his daughter's room--and he was proud of her: she was his sole thought, his only boast. His weatherbeaten countenance always glowed, and there was something like a tear in his eyes, when he spoke of "my Fanny." She had little in common with the daughter of a fisherman; for his neighbours said that her mother had made her unfit for anything, and that Harry was worse than her mother had been. But that mother was no more, and she had left their only child to her widowed husband's care; and, rough as he appeared, never was there a more tender or a more anxious parent--never had there been a more affectionate husband. But I may here briefly notice the wife of Harry Teasdale, and his first acquaintance with her. When Harry was a youth of one-and-twenty, and as he and others of his comrades were one day preparing their nets upon the sea-banks for the north herring-fishing, a bitter hurricane came suddenly away, and they observed that the mast of a Scotch smack, which was then near the Ferne Isles, was carried overboard. The sea was breaking over her, and the vessel was unmanageable; but the wind being from the north-east, she was driving towards the shore. Harry and his friends ran to get their boats in readiness, to render assistance if possible. The smack struck the ground between Embleton and North Sunderland, and being driven side-on by the force of the billows, which were dashing over her, formed a sort of break-water, which rendered it less dangerous for a boat to put off to the assistance of the passengers and crew, who were seen clinging in despair to the flapping ropes and sides of the vessel. Harry's cobble was launched along the beach to where the vessel was stranded, and he and six others attempted to reach her. After many ineffectual efforts, and much danger, they gained her side, and a rope was thrown on board. Amongst the smack's passengers was a Scottish gentleman, with his family, and their governess. She was a beautiful creature, apparently not exceeding nineteen; and as she stood upon the deck, with one hand clinging to a rope, and in the other clasping a child to her side, her countenance alone, of all on board, did not betoken terror. In the midst of the storm, and through the raging of the sea, Harry was struck with her appearance. She was one of the last to leave the vessel; and when she had handed the child into the arms of a fisherman, and was herself in the act of stepping into the boat, it lurched, the vessel rocked, a sea broke over it, she missed her footing, and was carried away upon the wave. Assistance appeared impossible. The spectators on the shore and the people in the boat uttered a scream. Harry dropped the helm, he sprung from the boat, he buffeted the boiling surge, and, after a hopeless struggle, he clutched the hand of the sinking girl. He bore her to the boat; they were lifted into it. "Keep the helm, Ned," said he, addressing one of his comrades who had taken his place; "I must look after this poor girl--one of the seamen will take your oar." And she lay insensible, with her head upon his bosom, and his arm around her waist. Consciousness returned before they reached the shore, and Harry had her conveyed to his mother's house. It is difficult for a sensitive girl of nineteen to look with indifference upon a man who has saved her life, and who risked his in doing so; and Eleanor Macdonald (for such was the name of the young governess) did not look with indifference upon Harry Teasdale. I might tell you how the shipwrecked party remained for five days at Embleton, and how, during that period, love rose in the heart of the young fisherman, and gratitude warmed into affection in the breast of Eleanor--how he discovered that she was an orphan, with no friend, save the education which her parents had conferred on her, and how he loved her the more, when he heard that she was friendless and alone in the world--how the tear was on his hardy cheek when they parted--how more than once he went many miles to visit her--and how Eleanor Macdonald, forsaking the refinements of the society of which she was a dependant, became the wife of the Northumbrian fisherman. But it is not of Harry's younger days that I am now about to write. Throughout sixteen happy years they lived together; and though, when the tempests blew and the storms raged, while his skiff was on the waves, she often shed tears for his sake, yet, though her education was superior to his, his conduct and conversation never raised a blush to her cheeks. Harry was also proud of his wife, and he showed his pride, by spending every moment he could command at her side, by listening to her words, and gazing on her face with delight. But she died, leaving him an only daughter as the remembrancer of their loves; and to that daughter she had imparted all that she herself knew. Besides his calling as a fisherman, and his adventures as a smuggler on sea, Harry also made frequent inland excursions. These were generally performed by night, across the wild muir, and by the most unfrequented paths. A strong black horse, remarkable for its swiftness of foot, was the constant companion of his midnight journeys. A canvas bag, fastened at both ends, and resembling a wallet, was invariably placed across the back of the animal, and at each end of the bag was a keg of brandy or Hollands, while the rider sat over these; and behind him was a large and rude portmanteau, containing packages of tea and tobacco. In his hand he carried a strong riding-whip, and in the breast-pocket of his greatcoat two horse-pistols, always loaded and ready for extremities. These journeys frequently required several days, or rather nights, for their performance; for he carried his contraband goods to towns fifty miles distant, and on both sides of the Border. The darker the night was, and the more tempestuous, the more welcome it was to Harry. He saw none of the beauties in the moon on which poets dwell with admiration. Its light may have charms for the lover, but it has none for the smuggler. For twenty years he had carried on this mode of traffic with uninterrupted success. He had been frequently pursued; but his good steed, aided by his knowledge of localities, had ever carried him beyond the reach of danger; and his _stow-holes_ had been so secretly and so cunningly designed, that no one but himself was able to discover them, and informations against him always fell to the ground. Emboldened by long success, he had ceased to be a mere purchaser of contraband goods upon the sea, and the story became current that he had bought a share of a lugger, in conjunction with an Englishman then resident at Cuxhaven. His brother-fishermen were not all men of honour; for you will find black sheep in every society, and amongst all ranks of life. Some of them had looked with an envious eye upon Harry's run of good fortune, and they bore it with impatience; but now, when he fairly, boldly, and proudly stepped out of their walk, and seemed to rise head and shoulders above them, it was more than they could stand. It was the lugger's first trip, and they, having managed to obtain intelligence of the day on which she was to sail with a rich cargo, gave information of the fact to the commander of a revenue-cutter then cruising upon the coast. I have mentioned that Harry was in the habit of wandering along the coast with a telescope under his arm. From the period of his wife's death, he had not gone regularly to sea, but let others have a share of his boats for a stipulated portion of the fish they caught. Now, it was about daybreak, on a morning in the middle of September, that he was on the beach as I have described him, and perceiving the figure of the cutter on the water, he raised his glass to his eye, to examine it more minutely. He expected the lugger on the following night, and the cutter was an object of interest to Harry. As day began to brighten, he knelt down behind a sand-bank, in order that he might take his observations, without the chance of being discovered; and while he yet knelt, he perceived a boat pulled from the side of the cutter towards the shore. At the first glance, he descried it to be an Embleton cobble, and before it proceeded far, he discovered to whom it belonged. He knew that the owner was his enemy, though he had not the courage openly to acknowledge it, and in a moment the nature of his errand to the cutter flashed through Harry's brain. "I see it! I see it all!" said the smuggler, dashing the telescope back into its case; "the low, the skulking coward, to go blab upon a neighbour! But Ise have the weather-gauge o' both o' them, or my name's not Harry Teasdale." So saying, he hastened home to his house--he examined his cutlass, his pistols, the bullets, and the powder. "All's right," said the smuggler, and he entered the room where his daughter slept. He laid his rough hand gently upon hers. "Fanny, love," said he, "thou knowest that I expect the lugger to-night, and I don't think I shall be at home, and I mayn't be all to-morrow; but you won't fret, like a good girl, I know you won't. Keep all right, love, till I be back; and say nothing." "Dear father," returned Fanny, who was now a lovely girl of eighteen, "I tremble for this life which we lead--as my poor mother said, it adds the punishment of the law to the dangers of the sea." "Oh, don't mention thy mother, dearest!" said the smuggler, "or thou wilt make a child of thy father, when he should be thinking of other things. Ah, Fanny! when I lost thy mother, I lost everything that gave delight to my heart. Since then, the fairest fields are to me no better than a bare muir, and I have only thee, my love--only my Fanny, to comfort me. So, thou wilt not cry now--thou wilt not distress thy father, wilt thou? No, no! I know thou wilt not. I shall be back to thee to-morrow, love." More passed between the smuggler and his daughter--words of remonstrance, of tenderness, and assurance; and when he had left her, he again went to the beach, to where his boat had just landed from the night's fishing. None of the other boats had yet arrived. As he approached, the crew said they "saw by his face there was something unpleasant in the wind," and others added-- "Something's vexed Skipper Harry this morning, and that's a shame, for a better soul never lived." "Well, mates," said he, as he approached them, "have you seen a shark cruising off the coast this morning?" "No," was the reply. "But I have," said Harry, "though she is making off to keep out of sight now; and, more than that, I have seen a cut-throat lubber that I would not set my foot upon--I mean the old Beelzebub imp, with the white and yellow stripe on his yawl, pull from her side. And what was he doing there? Was it not telling them to look out for the lugger?" Some of the boat's crew uttered sudden and bitter imprecations. "Let us go and sink the old rascal before he reach the shore," said one. "With all my heart," cried another; for they were all interested in the landing of the lugger, and in the excitement of the moment they wist not what they said. "Softly, softly, my lads," returned Harry; "we must think now what we can do for the cargo and ourselves, and not of him." "Right, master," replied another; "that is what I am thinking." "Now, look ye," continued Harry, "I believe we shall have a squall before night, and a pretty sharp one, too; but we mustn't mind that when our fortunes are at stake. Hang all black-hearted knaves that would peach on a neighbour, say I; but it is done in our case, and we must only do our best to make the rascal's story stick in his throat, or be the same as if it had; and I think it may be done yet. I know, but the peachers can't, that the lugger is to deliver a few score kegs at Blyth before she run down here. We must off and meet her, and give warning." "Ay, ay, Master Teasdale, thou'rt right; but, now that the thing has got wind, the sharks will keep a hawk's eye on us, and how we are to do it, I can't see." "Why, because thou'rt blind," said Harry. "No, hang it, and if I be, master," replied the other; "I can see as far as most o' folks, as ye can testify; and I dow see plain enough, that if we put to sea now, we shall hae the cutter after us; and that would be what I call only leading the shark to where the salmon lay." "Man, I wonder to hear thee," said Harry; "folk wad say thou hadst nae mair gumption than a born fool. Do ye think I wad be such an ass as to send out spies in the face o' the enemy? Hae I had a run o' gud luck for twenty years, and yet ye think me nae better general than that comes to? I said, nae doubt, that we should gang to sea to meet the lugger, though there will be a squall, and a heavy one, too, before night, as sure as I'm telling ye; but I didna say that we should dow sae under the bows o' the cutter, in our awn boat, or out o' Embleton." "Right, right, master," said another, "no more you did. Ned isn't half awake." The name of the fisherman alluded to was Ned Thomson. "Well, Ned, my lad," continued Harry, "I tell thee what must be done: I shall go saddle my old nag, get thou a horse from thy wife's father--he has two, and can spare one--and let us jog on as fast as we can for Blyth; but we mustn't keep by the coast, lest the king's folk get their eyes upon us. So away, get ready, lad, set out as quick as thee can--few are astir yet. I won't wait on thee, and thou won't wait on me; but whoever comes first to Felton Brig shall just place two bits o' stones about the middle--on the parapet I think they ca' it; but it is the dyke on each side o' the brig I mean, ye knaw. Put them on the left-hand side in gaun alang, down the water; or if they're there when ye come up, ye'll ken that I'm afore ye. So get ready, lad--quick as ever ye can. Tell the awd man naething about what ye want wi' the horse--the fewer that knaw onything about thir things the better. And ye, lads, will be upon the look-out; and, if we can get the lugger run in here, have a'thing in readiness." "No fear o' that, master," said they. "Well, sir," said Ned, "I'll be ready in a trap-stick, but I knaw the awd chap will kick up a sang about lendin his horse." "Tell him I'll pay for it, if ye break its legs," said Harry. The crew of the boat laughed, and some of them said--"Nobody will doubt that, master--you are able enough to do it." It must be observed that, since Harry had ceased to go regularly to sea, and when he was really considered to be a rich man, the crew of his boat began to call him _master_, notwithstanding his sou'-wester and canvas kilt. And now that it was known to them, and currently rumoured in Embleton, that he was part proprietor of a lugger, many of the villagers began to call Fanny Miss Teasdale; and it must be said, that in her dress and conversation she much nearer approximated to one that might be styled _Miss_, than to a fisherman's daughter. But, when the character and education of her mother are taken into account, this will not be wondered at. It would be uninteresting to the reader to describe the journey of Harry and Ned Thomson to Blyth; before they arrived at Felton, Harry had overtaken Ned, and they rode on together. On arriving at Blyth, they stopped at the door of an individual who was to receive forty kilderkins of Hollands from the lugger, and a quantity of tobacco. It is well known to be the first duty of an equestrian traveller to look after his horse, and to see that it is fed; but, in this instance, Harry forgot the established rule--the horses were given in charge of a girl to take them to a stable, to see them fed, or otherwise, and Harry hastened into the house, and breathlessly inquired of its owner--"I hope to heaven, sir, ye have heard nothing of the Swallow?" [The lugger was called the "Swallow," from the carpenter in Cuxhaven, who built her, having warranted that she "would _fly_ through the water."] "Why, nothing," replied Harry's brother smuggler; "but we shall be on the look-out for her to-night." "So far well," said Harry; "but I hope you have no fear of any king's lobsters being upon the coast, or rats ashore?" "I don't think we have anything to fear from the cutters," said the other; "but I won't answer for the spies on shore; there are folk wi' us here, as weel as wi' ye, that canna see their neighbours thrive and haud their tongue; and I think some o' them hae been gaun owre aften about wi' the spy-glass this day or two." "Then," said Harry, "the lugger doesna break bulk here, nor at Embleton outher--that's flat. Get ye a boat ready, neighbour, and we maun off and meet her, or ye may drink sma' yill to your venture and mine." "It is growing too stormy for a boat to venture out," answered the other. "Smash, man!" rejoined Harry; "wad you sit here on your hunkers, while your capital is in danger o' being robbed frae ye as simply as ye would snuff out a candle, and a' to escape a night's doukin! Get up, man--get a boat--we maun to sea--we maun meet the lugger, or you and I are done men--clean ruined a'thegither. I hae risked the better part o' my bit Fanny's fortune upon this venture, and, Heaven! I'll suffer death ten thousand-fold afore I see her brought to poverty; sae get a boat--get it--and if ye daurna gang out, and if nane o' your folk daur gang, Ned and me will gang our tow sels." "Surely ye wad be mad, Harry, to attempt such a thing in an open boat to-night," said the Blyth merchant. "Mad or no mad," answered Harry, "I hae said it, and I am determined. There is nae danger yet wi' a man that knaws how to manage a boat. If ye gang pullin through thick and thin, through main strength and for bare life, as many of the folk upon our coast dee, then there is danger--but there is nae use for the like o' that. It isna enough to manage an oar; you must knaw how to humour the sea, and to manage a wave. Dinna think I've been at sea mair than thirty years without knawing something about the matter. But I tell you what it is, friend--ye knaw what the Bible says--'The race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong;' now, the way to face breakers, or a storm at sea, is not to pull through desperation, as if your life depended on the pulling; but when you see a wave coming, ye must backwater and backwater, and not pull again until ye see an opportunity of gauin forward. It is the trusting to mere pulling, sir, that makes our life-boats useless. The rowers in a life-boat should study the sea as well as their oars. They should consider that they save life by watching the wave that breaks over the vessel, as well as by straining every nerve to reach her. Now, this is a stormy night, nae doubt, but we maun just consider ourselves gaun off to the lugger in the situation o' folk gaun off in a life-boat. We maun work cannily and warily, and I'll tak the management o' the boat mysel." "If ye dow that, master," said Ned Thomson, "then I gang wi' ye to a dead certainty." "Well, Harry," replied the merchant, "if it maun be sae, it just maun be sae; but I think it a rash and a dangerous undertaking. I wad sooner risk a' that I have on board." "Why, man, I really wonder to hear ye," said Harry; "folk wad say that ye had been swaddled in lambs' wool a' your life, and nursed on your mother's knee. Get a boat, and let us off to the lugger, and nae mair about it." His orders were obeyed; and, about an hour after sunset, himself, with Ned Thomson, the merchant, and four others, put off to sea. They had indeed embarked upon a perilous voyage--before they were a mile from the shore, the wind blew a perfect hurricane, and the waves chased each other in circles, like monsters at play. Still Harry guided the boat with unerring skill. He ordered them to draw back from the bursting wave--they rose over it--he rendered it subservient to his purpose. Within two hours he descried the lights of the lugger. He knew them, for he had given directions for their use, and similar lights were hoisted from the cobble which he steered. "All's well!" said Harry, and in his momentary joy he forgot the tempestuous sea in which they laboured. They reached the lugger--they gained the deck. "Put back, friend--put back," was the first salutation of Harry to the skipper; "the camp is blown, and there are sharks along shore." "The devil!" replied the captain, who was an Englishman; "and what shall we do?" "Back, back," answered Harry; "that is all in the meantime." But the storm now raged with more fierceness--it was impossible for the boat to return to the shore, and Harry and his comrades were compelled to put to sea with the lugger. Even she became in danger, and it required the exertions of all hands to manage her. The storm continued until near daybreak, and the vessel had plied many miles from the shore; but as day began to dawn, and the storm abated, an enemy that they feared more appeared within a quarter-of-a-mile from them, in the shape of a cutter-brig. A gun was fired from the latter, as a signal for the lugger to lie to. Consternation seized the crew, and they hurried to and fro upon the deck in confusion. "Clear the decks!" cried the skipper; "they shan't get all without paying for it. Look to the guns, my hearties." "Avast! Master Skipper," said Harry; "though my property be in danger, I see no cause why I should put my neck in danger too. It will be time enough to fight when we canna better dow; and if we can keep them in play a' day there will be sma' danger in wur gi'en them the slip at night." "As you like, Mr Teasdale," said the skipper; "all's one to me. Helm about, my lad," added he, addressing the steersman, and away went the lugger, as an arrow, scudding before the wind. The cutter made all sail, and gave chase, firing shot after shot. She was considered one of the fastest vessels in the service; and though, on the part of Harry and his friends, every nerve was strained, every sail hoisted, and every manoeuvre used, they could not keep the lugger out of harm's way. Every half-hour he looked at his watch, and wished for night, and his friend, the skipper, followed his example. There was a hot chase for several hours; and, though tubs of brandy were thrown overboard by the dozen, still the whizzing bullets from the cutter passed over the heads of the smugglers. It ought to be mentioned, also, that the rigging of the lugger had early sustained damage, and her speed was checked. About sunset a shot injured her rudder, and she became for a time, as Harry described her, "as helpless as a child." The cutter instantly bore down upon her. "Now for it, my lads!" cried the skipper; "there is nothing for it but fighting now--I suppose that is what you mean, Master Teasdale?" Harry nodded his head, and quietly drew his pistols from the breast-pocket of his greatcoat; and then added-- "Now, lads, this is a bad job, but we must try to make the best on't, and, as we hae gone thus far" (and he discharged a pistol at the cutter as he spoke), "ye knaw it is o' nae use to think o' yielding--it is better to be shot than hanged." In a few minutes the firing of the cutter was returned by the lugger, from two large guns and a number of small-arms. Harry, in the midst of the smoke and flame of the action, and the havoc of the bullets, was as cool and collected as if smoking his pipe upon the beach at Embleton. "See to get the helm repaired, lad, as fast as ye can," said he to the carpenter, while in the act of reloading his pistols. "Let us fight away, but mind ye your awn wark." Harry's was the philosophy of courage, mingled with the calculations of worldly wisdom. The firing had been kept up on both sides for the space of half-an-hour, and the decks of both were stained with the blood of the wounded, when a party from the brig, headed by her first mate, succeeded in boarding the lugger. Harry seized a cutlass which lay unsheathed by the side of the companion, and was the first who rushed forward to repel them. "Out o' my ship, ye thieves!" cried he, while, with his long arm, he brandished the deadly weapon, and for a moment forgot his habitual discretion. Others of the crew instantly sprang to the assistance of Harry; and, after a short but desperate encounter, the invaders were driven from the deck, leaving their chief mate, insensible from wounds, behind them. The rudder being repaired so as to render her manageable, the lugger kept up a sort of retreating fight until night set in, when, as Harry said, "she gave the cutter the slip like a knotless thread." But now a disagreeable question arose amongst them, and that was, what they should do with the wounded officer, who had been left as a prize in their hands--though a prize that they would much rather have been without. Some wished that he might die of his wounds, and so they would get rid of him; for they were puzzled how to dispose of him in such a way as not to lead to their detection, and place their lives in jeopardy. Harry was on his knees by the side of the officer, washing his wounds with Riga balsam, of which they had a store on board, and binding them up, when one desperate fellow cut short the perplexity and discussion of the crew, by proposing to fling their _prize_ overboard. On hearing the brutal proposal, Harry sprang to his feet, and hurling out his long bony arm, he exclaimed, "Ye savage!" and, dashing his fist in the face of the ruffian, felled him to the deck. The man (if we may call one who could entertain so inhuman an idea by the name of man) rose, bleeding, growling, and muttering threats of revenge. "Ye'll blab, will ye?" said Harry, eyeing him fiercely; "threaten to dow it again, and there's the portion that's waiting for yur neck!" and, as he spoke, he pointed with his finger to the cross-tree of the lugger, and added, "and ye knaw that the same reward awaits ye if ye set yur weel-faur'd face ashore! Out o' my sight, ye 'scape-the-gallows!" For three days and nights, after her encounter with the brig, the lugger kept out to sea; and on the fourth night, which was thick, dark, and starless, Harry resolved to risk all; and, desiring the skipper to stand for the shore, all but run her aground on Embleton beach. No light was hoisted, no signal given. Harry held up his finger, and every soul in the lugger was mute as death. A boat was lowered in silence, and four of the crew being placed under the command of Ned Thomson, pulled ashore. The boat flew quickly, but the oars seemed only to kiss the water, and no sound audible at the distance of five yards proceeded from their stroke. "Now, pull back quietly, mates," said Ned, "and I'll be aboard wi' some o' wur awn folks in a twinkling." It was between one and two in the morning, and there was no outward sign amongst the fishermen of Embleton that they were on the alert for the arrival of a smuggler. The party who gave information to the cutter having missed Harry for a few days, justly imagined that he had obtained notice of what they had done; and also believed that he had ordered the cargo to be delivered on some other part of the coast, and they therefore were off their guard. Ned, therefore, proceeded to the village; and, at the houses of certain friends, merely gave three distinct and peculiar taps with his fingers upon their shutterless windows, from none of which, if I may use the expression, proceeded even the _shadow_ of light; but no sooner was the last tap given upon each, than it was responded to by a low cough from within. No words passed; and at one window only was Ned detained for a space exceeding ten seconds, and that was at the house of his master, Harry Teasdale. Fanny had slept but little since her father left; when she sought rest for an hour, it was during the day, and she now sat anxiously watching every sound. On hearing the understood signal, she sprang to the door. "Edward!" she whispered, eagerly, "is it you?--where is my father?--what has detained him?" "Don't be asking questions now, Miss Fanny--sure it is very foolish," replied Ned, in the same tone; "Master will be here by and by; but ye knaw we have bonny wark to dow afore daylight yet. Gud-nicht, hinny." So saying, Ned stole softly along the village; and, within half-an-hour, half-a-dozen boats were alongside the lugger; and, an hour before daybreak, every tub and every bale on board was safely landed and stowed away. Yet, after she was a clean ship, there was one awkward business that still remained to be settled, and that was how they were to dispose of the wounded officer of the cutter-brig. A consultation was held--many opinions were given. "At ony rate we must act like Christians," said Harry. Some proposed that he should be taken over to Holland and landed there; but this the skipper positively refused to do, swearing that the sooner he could get rid of such a customer the better. "Why, I canna tell," said Ned Thomson; "but what dow ye say, if we just take him ashore, and lay him at the door o' the awd rascal that gied information on us?" "Capital!" cried two or three of the conclave; "that's just the ticket, Ned!" "Nonsense!" interrupted Harry, "it's nae such thing. Man, Ned, I wonder that sic a clever chap as ye aye talks like a fool. Why, ye might as weel go and ask them to tak you and me off to Morpeth before dinner-time, as to lay him at their door this morning." "Well, Master Teasdale," said the skipper, who was becoming impatient, "what would you have us to do with him?" "Why, I see there's naething for it," answered Harry, "but I maun tak the burden o' him upon my awn shouthers. Get the boat ready." So saying, and while it was yet dark, he entered the cabin where the wounded officer lay, but who was now conscious of his situation. "I say, my canny lad," said Harry, approaching his bedside, and addressing him, "ye maun allow me to tie a bit handkerchur owre yur een for a quarter-of-an-hour or sae.--Ye needna be feared, for there's naething shall happen ye--but only, in looking after yur gud, I maunna lose sight o' my awn. You shall be ta'en ashore as gently as we can." The wounded man was too feeble to offer any resistance, and Harry, binding up his eyes, wrapped the clothes on the bed around him, and carried him in his arms upon deck. In the same manner he placed him in the boat, supporting him with his arm, and, on reaching the shore, he bore him on his shoulders to his house. "Now, sir," said he, as he set him down from his shoulders on an arm-chair, "ye needna be under the smallest apprehension, for every attention shall be paid ye here; and, as soon as ye are better, ye shall be at liberty to return, safe and sound, to your friends, your ship, or wherever ye like." Harry then turned to his daughter, and continued--"Now, my bird, come awa in by wi' me, and I will let ye knaw what ye have to dow." Fanny wondered at the unusual burden which her father had brought upon his shoulders into the house; and at his request she anxiously accompanied him into her own apartment. When they had entered, and he had shut the door behind them, he took her hand affectionately, and, addressing her in a sort of whisper, said-- "Now, Fanny, love, ye maun be very cautious--as I knaw ye will be--and mind what I am telling ye to dow." He then made her acquainted with the rank of their inmate, and the manner in which he had fallen into their hands, and added--"Now, darling, ye see we maun be very circumspect, and keep his being here a secret frae everybody: he maun remain ignorant o' his awn situation, nowther knawing where he is, nor in whose hands he is; for if it were found out, it wad be as much as your father's life is worth. Now he maun stop in this room, as it looks into the garden, and he can see naething frae it, nor will onybody be able to see him. Ye maun sleep wi' the lass in the kitchen, and yur '_sampler_,' and every book, or onything that has a name on't, maun be taken out o' the room. It winna dow for onybody but you and me ever to see him, or to wait on him; and, when we dow, he maunna be allowed to see either yur face or mine; but I will put my awd mask on, that I used to wear at night sometimes when there was onything particular to dow, and I thought there wad be danger in the way; and," continued he, as the doating parent rose in his bosom, "it wadna be _chancy_ for him to see my Fanny's face at ony rate; and when ye dow see him, ye maun have your features so concealed, that, if he met you again, he wadna knaw ye. Now, hinny, ye'll attend to a' that I've said--for ye remember your father's life depends on it--and we maun be as kind to the lad as we can, and try to bring him about as soon as possible, to get clear on him." Fanny promised to obey her father's injunctions; but fears for his safety, and the danger in which he was placed, banished every other thought. The books, the "_sampler_," everything that could lead the stranger to a knowledge of the name of his keepers, or of the place where he was, was taken out of the room. Harry, muffling up his face, returned to the apartment where the wounded man was, and, supporting him on his arm, he led him to that which he was to occupy. He then took the bandage from his eyes, and, placing him on the bed, again desired him to keep himself easy, and wished him "good-morning," for day was now beginning to dawn. The name of our smuggler's wounded prisoner was Augustus Hartley. He was about twenty-four years of age, and the son of a gentleman of considerable property in Devonshire; and, at the period we speak of, he was in expectation of being removed from his situation as second officer of the brig, and promoted to the command of a revenue-cutter. The wounds which he had received on the deck of the lugger were severe, and had reduced him to a state of extreme feebleness; but they were not dangerous. He knew not where he was, and he marvelled at the treatment he experienced; for it was kind, yea, even roughly courteous, and unlike what he might have expected from the hands of such men as those into whose power he had fallen. Anxiety banished sleep; and when the risen sun lighted up the chamber where he lay, he stretched forth his hand and drew aside the curtains, to ascertain whether the appearance of the apartment would in any way reveal the mystery which surrounded his situation. But it rather increased it. In the window were the flowers--around the walls the curious needlework; the furniture was neatly arranged--there was an elegance over all; and, to increase his wonder, in a corner by the window was a small harp, and a few pages of music lay on a table near him. "Surely," thought Augustus, "this cannot be the habitation of a half-uncivilised smuggler; and yet the man who brought me here seemed such." He drew back his head upon his pillow, to seek the explanation in conjectures which he could not otherwise obtain; and while he lay conjuring up strange fancies, Harry, with the mask upon his face, his hair tied up and concealed, and his body wrapped in a greatcoat, entered the room. "Well, how art thou now, lad?" said the smuggler, approaching the bed; "dost think ye could take breakfast yet?" Augustus thanked him; but the appearance of Harry in his strange disguise increased his curiosity and anxiety. Harry withdrew, and again returned with the breakfast; and though an awkward waiter, he was an attentive one. Few words passed between them, for the questions which Augustus felt desirous to ask were checked by the smuggler saying--"Now, my canny lad, while ye are here I maun lay an embargo on your asking ony questions, either at me or onybody else. Ye shall be taken gud care on--if ye want onything, just tak that bit stick at your bedside, and gie a rap on the floor, and I'll come to ye. Ye shall want for naething; and, as soon as ye are better, ye shall be at liberty to gang where ye like. But I maun caution ye again, that ye are to ask nae questions." Augustus again thanked him, and was silent. At the end of eight days, he was able to rise from his bed, and to sit up for a few hours. Harry now said to him-- "As thou wilt be dull, belike thou wilt have nae objections to a little music to cheer thee." Thus saying, he left the room, and, in a few minutes, returned with Fanny. He was disguised as before, and her features were concealed by several folds of black crape, which covered her head and face, after the fashion of a nun. She curtsied with a modest grace to the stranger as she entered. "That cannot be the daughter of a rude and ignorant smuggler," thought Augustus; "and how should such a creature be connected with them?" He noted the elegance of her form, and his imagination again began to dream. The mystery of his situation deepened around him, and he gazed anxiously on the thick and folded veil that concealed her features. "Wilt thou amuse the poor gentleman with a song, love," said Harry, "for I fear he has but a dull time on't?" Fanny took the harp which stood in the corner--she touched the trembling cords--she commenced a Scottish melody; and, as Augustus listened to the music of her clear and silvery voice, blending with the tones of the instrument, it "Came o'er the ear like the sweet south Breathing upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour." It seemed the sweetest strain to which he had ever listened; and romance and mystery lent it their magic. His eyes kindled at the sounds; and when Harry saw the change that was produced on him, he was well pleased to observe it, and he was proud also of his daughter's performance, and in the simplicity and fulness of his heart he said-- "Thou mayest amuse the gentleman with thy music every day, child, or thou mayest read to him, to mak him as comfortable as we can; only he must ask thee no questions, and thou must answer him none. But I can trust to thee." From that moment Augustus no longer wearied for the days of his captivity to pass away; and he retired to rest, or rather to dream of the veiled songstress, and to conjure up a thousand faces of youth and beauty which might be like her face--for he doubted not but her countenance was lovely as her form was handsome; and he pictured dark eyes where the soul beamed, and the raven hair waved on the snowy temples, with the soft blue eyes where affection smiled, and the flaxen tresses were parted on the brow; but he knew not which might be like hers on whom his imagination dwelt. Many days passed; and, during a part of each, Fanny sat beside him to beguile his solitude. She read to him; they conversed together; and the words which fell from her lips surprised and delighted him. She also taught him the use of the harp, and he was enabled to play a few tunes. He regarded her as a veiled angel, and his desire to look upon her features each day became more difficult to control. He argued that it was impossible to love one whose face he had never seen--yet, when she was absent from his side, he was unhappy until her return; she had become the one idea of his thoughts--the spirit of his fancies; he watched her fair fingers as they glided on the harp--his hand shook when he touched them, and more than once he half raised it to untie the thick veil which hid her features from him. But, while such feelings passed through his mind, others of a kindred character had crept into the bosom of Fanny, and she sighed when she thought that, in a few weeks, she would see him no more, that even her face he might not see, and that her name he must never know; and fears for her father's safety mingled with the feelings which the stranger had awakened in her bosom. She had beheld the anxiety that glowed in his dark eyes--she had listened to his impassioned words--she felt their influence: but duty forbade her to acknowledge that she felt it. Eight weeks had passed; the wounds of Augustus were nearly healed; his health was restored, and his strength returned, and Harry said that in another week he might depart; but the announcement gave no joy to him to whom it was addressed. His confinement had been robbed of its solitariness, it had become as a dream in which he delighted, and he could have asked but permission to gaze upon the face of his companion, to endure it for ever. About an hour after he received this intelligence, Fanny entered the apartment. He rose to meet her--he took her hand, and they sat down together. But her harp lay untouched--she spoke little--he thought she sighed, and he, too, was silent. "Lady," said he, anxiously, still holding her hand in his, "I know not where I am, nor by whom I am surrounded--this only I know, that you, with an angel's care, have watched over me, that you have restored me to health, and rendered confinement more grateful than liberty; but, in a few days, we must part--part, perhaps, for ever; then, before I go, grant me but one request--let me look upon the face of her whose remembrance will dwell in my heart as its dearest thought, while the pulse of life throbs within it." "I must not, I dare not," said Fanny, and she paused and sighed; "'tis not worth looking on," she added. "Nay, dearest," continued he, "deny me not--it is a small request. Fear nothing--never shall danger fall upon any connected with you through me. I will swear to you----" "Swear not!" interrupted Fanny--"I dare not!--no!--no!" and she again sighed. He pressed her hand more closely within his. A breathless silence followed, and a tear glistened in his eyes. Her bosom heaved--her countenance bespoke the struggle that warred in her breast. "Do I look as one who would betray your friends--if they be your friends?" said he, with emotion. "No," she faltered, and her head fell on her bosom. He placed his hand across her shoulders--it touched the riband by which the deep folds of the veil were fastened over her head--it was the impulse of a moment--he unloosed it, the veil fell upon the floor, and the flaxen locks and the lovely features of Fanny Teasdale were revealed. Augustus started in admiration; for weeks he had conjured up phantoms of ideal beauty, but the fair face before him exceeded them all. She blushed--her countenance bespoke anxiety rather than anger--tears fell down her cheeks, and he kissed them away. He sat, silently gazing on her features, drawing happiness from her eyes. Again ten days had passed, and, during each of them, Fanny, in the absence of her father, sat unveiled by his side. Still he knew not her name, and, when he entreated her to pronounce it, she wept, and replied, "I dare not." He had told her his. "Call me _your_ Augustus," said he, "and tell me by what name I shall call _you_, my own. Come, dearest, do you doubt me still? Do you still think me capable of the part of an informer?" But she wept the more, for she knew that to tell her name was to make known her father's also--to betray him, and to place his life in jeopardy. He urged her yet more earnestly, and he had sunk upon his knee, and was pressing her hand to his lips, when Harry, in the disguise in which he had always seen him, entered the room. The smuggler started back. "What!" cried he, sternly, "what hast thou done, girl?--shown thy face and betrayed me?--and told thy name, and mine, too, I suppose?" "Oh no! no! dear father!" she exclaimed, flinging her arms around him; "I have not--indeed I have not. Do not be angry with your Fanny." "Fanny!" hastily exclaimed Augustus--"Fanny! Bless thee for that word!" "That thou mayest make it the clue to destroy her father!" returned the smuggler. "No, sir," answered Augustus, proudly, "but that I may treasure it up in my heart, as the name of one who is dearer to me than the life which thou hast preserved." "Ay! ay!" replied Harry, "thou talkest like every hot-headed youth; but it was an ungrateful return in thee, for preserving thy life, to destroy my peace. Get thee ben to the other room, Fanny, for thou'st been a silly girl." She rose weeping, and withdrew. "Now, sir," continued Harry, "thou must remain nae langer under this roof. This very hour will I get a horse ready, and conduct thee to where ye can go to your friends, or wherever ye like; and as ye were brought blindfolded here, ye maun consent to be taken blindfolded away." "Nay, trust to my honour, sir," said Augustus--"I am incapable of betraying you." "I'm no sae sure about that," returned the smuggler, "and it's best to be sure. I trusted to your honour that ye wad ask no questions while here--and how have you kept your honour? Na, lad, na!--what ye dinna see ye winna be able to swear to. So make ready." Thus saying, Harry left the apartment, locking the door behind him. It was about an hour after nightfall, and within ten minutes the smuggler again entered the room. He carried a pistol in one hand, and a silk handkerchief in the other. He placed the pistol upon the table, and said, "I have no time to argue--allow me to tie thy eyes up, lest worse follow." Augustus requested that he might see Fanny but for a few minutes, and he would comply without a murmur. "No," said Harry, sternly; "wouldst tamper with my child's heart, when her trusting in thee would place my life in thy power? Say no more--I won't hear thee," he continued, again raising the pistol in his hand. Augustus, finding expostulation vain, submitted to have his eyes bound up; and as the smuggler was leading him from the house, the bitter sobs of Fanny reached his ear: he was almost tempted to burst from the grasp of his conductor, and rush towards her; but, endeavouring to suppress the tumult of his feelings, he exclaimed aloud-- "Forget me not, dear Fanny!--we shall meet again." "Never!" whispered Harry in his ear. The smuggler's horse stood ready at the door. In a moment he sprang upon the saddle (if saddle it could be called), and, taking Augustus by the hand, placed him behind him; and at a word spoken the well-trained animal started off, as though spurs had been dashed into its sides. For several hours they galloped on, but in what direction Augustus knew not, nor wist he from whence he had been brought. At length the smuggler suddenly drew up his horse, and exclaimed, "Dismount!" Augustus obeyed, but scarce had his feet touched the ground, when Harry, crying "Farewell!" dashed away as an arrow shot from a bow; and before the other could unfasten the handkerchief with which his eyes were bound up, the horse and its rider were invisible. It was drawing towards grey dawn, and he knew neither where he was nor in what direction to proceed. He remembered, also, that he was without money; but there was something heavy tied in a corner of the handkerchief, which he yet held in his hand. He examined it, and found ten guineas, wrapped in a scrap of paper, on which some words seemed to be written. He longed for day, that he might be enabled to read them, and, as the light increased, he deciphered, written with a trembling hand-- "You may need money.--Think sometimes of me!" "Heaven bless thee, my unknown Fanny!" cried he, "whoever thou art; never will I think of any but thee." I need not tell about his discovering in what part of the country the smuggler had left him; of his journey to his father's house in Devonshire, or his relation of what had befallen him; nor how he dwelt upon the remembrance of Fanny, and vainly endeavoured to trace where her residence was, or to discover what was her name beyond Fanny. He was appointed to the command of a cutter, and four years passed from the period of the scenes that had been described, when, following in pursuit of a smuggling vessel, he again arrived upon the coast of Northumberland. Some of his crew, who had been on shore, brought him information that the vessel was delivering her cargo near Embleton; and, ordering two boats to be manned, he instantly proceeded to the land. They came upon the smuggler; a scuffle ensued, and one of Captain Hartley's men was stabbed by his side with a clasp-knife, and fell dead at his feet; and he wrenched the knife from the hand of the murderer, who with his companions, effected his escape without being discovered. But day had not yet broken when two constables knocked at the door of Harry Teasdale, and demanded admission. The servant-girl opened the door--they rushed into the house, and to the side of the bed where he slept. They grasped him by the shoulder, and exclaimed-- "You are our prisoner." "Your prisoner!" replied Harry; "for what, neighbours?" "Weel dow ye knaw for what," was the answer. Harry sprang upon the floor, and, in the excitement of the moment, he raised his hand to strike the officers of the law. "You are only making things worse," said one of them; and he submitted to have handcuffs placed upon his wrists. Fanny sprang into the room, exclaiming-- "My father--my father!" and flinging her arms around his neck; "oh, what is it?--what is it?" she continued, breathless, and her voice choked with sobbing--"what do they say that you have done?" "Nothing, love--nothing," said he endeavouring to be calm; "it is some mistake, but some one shall answer for it." His daughter's arms were forcibly torn from around his neck; and he was taken before a neighbouring magistrate, by whom the deposition of Captain Hartley had been received. Harry was that morning committed to the county prison on a charge of murder. I shall neither attempt to describe his feelings, nor will I dwell upon the agony which was worse than death to his poor daughter. She knew her father innocent; but she knew not his accusers, nor the nature of the evidence which they would bring forward to prove him guilty of the crime which they imputed to him. But the fearful day of trial came. Harry Teasdale was placed at the bar. The principal witness against him was Captain Hartley. The colour came and went upon the prisoner's cheeks, as his eye fell upon the face of his accuser. He seemed struggling with sudden emotion; and many who observed it took it as a testimony of guilt. In his evidence Captain Hartley deposed, that he and a part of his crew came upon the smugglers on the beach, while in the act of concealing their goods; that he, and the seaman who was murdered by his side, having attacked three of the smugglers, the tallest of the three, whom he believed to be the prisoner, with a knife gave the mortal stab to the deceased; that he raised the weapon also against him, and that he only escaped the fate of his companion by striking down the arm of the smuggler, and wrenching the knife from his hands, who then escaped. He also stated that, on examining the knife, which was of great length, he read the words, "HARRY TEASDALE," which were deeply burned into its bone handle, and which led to the apprehension of the prisoner. The knife was then produced in court, and a murmur of horror ran through the multitude. Other witnesses were examined, who proved that, on the day of the murder, they had seen the knife in the hands of the prisoner; and the counsel for the prosecution, in remarking on the evidence, pronounced it to be "Confirmation strong as holy writ." The judge inquired of the prisoner if he had anything to say, or aught to bring forward in his defence. "I have only this to say, my lord," said Harry, firmly, "that I am as innocent o' the crime laid to my charge as the child unborn. My poor daughter and my servant can prove that, on the night when the deed was committed, I never was across my own door. And," added he, firmly, and in a louder tone, and pointing to Captain Hartley as he spoke, "I can only say that he whose life I saved at the peril o' my own has, through some mistake, endeavoured to take away mine; and his conscience will carry its punishment when he discovers his error." Captain Hartley started to his feet, his cheeks became pale; he inquired, in an eager tone, "Have you seen me before?" The prisoner returned no answer; and at that moment the officer of the court called the name of "_Fanny Teasdale!_" "Ha!" exclaimed the captain, convulsively, and suddenly striking his hand upon his breast--"is it so?" The prisoner bowed his head and wept. The court were stricken with astonishment. Fanny was led towards the witness-box; there was a buzz of admiration and of pity as she passed along. Captain Hartley beheld her--he clasped his hands together. "Gracious heavens! my own Fanny!" he exclaimed aloud. He sprang forward--he stood by her side--her head fell on his bosom. "My lord!--O my lord!" he cried, wildly, addressing the judge, "I doubt--I disbelieve, my own evidence. There must be some mistake. I cannot be the murderer of the man who saved me--of my Fanny's father!" The most anxious excitement prevailed through the court: every individual was moved, and, on the bench, faces were turned aside to conceal a tear. The judge endeavoured to restore order. The shock of meeting with Augustus, in such a place and in such an hour, though she knew not that he was her father's accuser, added to her agony, was too much for Fanny, and, in a state of insensibility, she was carried out of the court. Harry's servant-girl was examined; and, although she swore that, on the night on which the murder was committed, he had not been out of his own house, yet, in her cross-examination, she admitted that he frequently was out during the night without her knowledge, and that he _might_ have been so on the night in question. Other witnesses were called, who spoke to the excellent character of the prisoner, and to his often-proved courage and humanity; but they could not prove that he had not been engaged in the affray in which the murder had been committed. Captain Hartley strove anxiously to undo the impression which his evidence had already produced; but it was too late. The judge addressed the jury, and began to sum up the evidence. He remarked upon the knife with which the deed was perpetrated, being proved and acknowledged to be the property of the prisoner--of its being seen in his hand on the same day, and of his admitting the fact--on the resemblance of the figure to that of the individual who was seen to strike the blow, and on his inability to prove that he was not that individual. He was proceeding to notice the singular scene that had occurred, with regard to the principal witness and the prisoner, when a shout was heard from the court-door, and a gentleman, dressed as a clergyman, pressed through the crowd, and reaching the side of the prisoner, he exclaimed, "My lord, and gentlemen of the jury, _the prisoner, Harry Teasdale, is innocent_!" "Thank Heaven!" exclaimed Captain Hartley. The spectators burst into a shout, which the judge instantly suppressed, and desired the clergyman to be sworn, and to produce his evidence. "We are here to give it," said two others, who had followed behind them. The clergyman briefly stated that he had been sent for on the previous evening to attend the death-bed of an individual whom he named, and who had been wounded in the affray with Captain Hartley's crew, and that, in his presence, and in the presence of the other witnesses who then stood by his side, a deposition had been taken down from his lips an hour before his death. The deposition, or confession, was handed into court; and it set forth that his hand struck the fatal blow, and with Harry Teasdale's knife, which he had found lying upon the stern of his boat on the afternoon of the day on which the deed was committed--and, farther, that Harry was not upon the beach that night. The jury looked for a moment at each other--they instantly rose, and their foreman pronounced the prisoner "_Not Guilty!_" A loud and spontaneous shout burst from the multitude. Captain Hartley sprang forward--he grasped his hand. "I forgive thee, lad," said Harry. Hartley led him from the dock--he conducted him to Fanny, whom he had taken to an adjoining inn. "Here is your father!--he is safe!--he is safe, my love!" cried Augustus, as he entered the room where she was. Fanny wept on her father's bosom, and he kissed her brow, and said, "Bless thee." "And canst thou bless me, too," said Augustus, "after all that I have done?" "Well, well, I see how it is to be," said Harry; and he took their hands and placed them in each other. I need only add, that Fanny Teasdale became the happy wife of Augustus Hartley; and Harry, having acquired a competency, gave up the trade of a smuggler. THE SCHOOLFELLOWS. A few years ago, I happened to pass through the main street of Carlisle, just as the south mail had "pulled up" at the door of "The Bush." The night was very cold; the horses were tossing their heads, and pawing the ground, impatient to escape from the restraint of their harness; and the steam, which rose in clouds from their bodies, gave evidence that they had just "come off" a rapid and fatiguing stage. At the coach-door stood a middle-aged, gentlemanly-looking man, whose blue nose, muffled throat, and frozen body, pointed him out as one of the new arrivals. As I loitered slowly past, the stranger, who had just settled the claims of the guard, turned round, and observed me. His keen eye rested for a moment on my features--he started, looked again, and then said-- "No; I cannot be mistaken. I surely ought to know that face. Is not your name Lorrimer?" "It is," replied I, surprised at being thus accosted by a perfect stranger. "You seem to be better acquainted with my name, sir, than I am with yours; for I am not conscious of ever having seen you before." "Look at me again, Frank; try if you cannot recollect me," said he, as we entered the travellers' room, and the gas-light shone full on his face. I looked; but in vain. "I am ashamed to say, I do not know who you can be, though I have a kind of consciousness that your features are those of an old friend." "Do you remember Richard Musgrave?" "What! Dick Muzzy? To be sure I do--the kindest-hearted fellow that ever dog's-eared a Latin grammar. What news of my old schoolmate?" "He is speaking to you now." "Is it possible? You Richard Musgrave? Why, Richard was younger, I rather think, than myself; and you, begging your pardon, look almost old enough to be my father." "So it is, notwithstanding. I am Richard Musgrave. Time and climate must have altered me even more sadly than I conceived, since Frank Lorrimer fails to recognise me." He was indeed changed. Some alteration might have been expected, for several years had elapsed since we had met; but time alone could not have thus metamorphosed him. We had been schoolfellows and intimate friends; and, when he left home, ten years before, he was a handsome, vigorous young fellow, with hair dark as a raven's wing, and a brow clear as alabaster. Now, his hair was iron-grey, his features were dark and sunburned, and the scar, of a sabre-wound apparently, disfigured his forehead. Even with my knowledge of his identity, some minutes elapsed ere I could persuade myself that the friend of my early years stood before me; but my recollection slowly revived as I gazed upon him, and I wondered at my own stupidity in not having sooner recognised him. "Musgrave, my dear fellow," said I, shaking him cordially by the hand, "I rejoice to see you. Time has altered us both outwardly; but, I trust, it has left our hearts unchanged. The recollection of youthful joys and sorrows is the last to leave us. Amid all the changes and chances of life, our thoughts fondly dwell upon the days of our innocent and happy childhood; and all the friendships we form in after years can never efface the remembrance of those who were dear to us in early youth. I have often thought of you, Musgrave, and often, though in vain, I have made anxious inquiries after the fate of my old friend and schoolfellow; and, now that you _have_ returned, I should have passed you by as a common stranger, had your memory been as treacherous as my own." "You forget, my dear fellow," replied he, "that _you_ are but little changed; your florid cheek, and smooth, unwrinkled brow, prove that time has been flowing on in a smooth, unruffled current with _you_; that you have been leading a life of ease and comfort. But look at me; on my sunburned features you may read a tale of hardship and exposure. Look at my brow! these premature wrinkles are mementos of care and anxiety. But, come, I have much to ask and to tell you; if you have leisure, let us retire to a private room, and talk over the past. I cannot, I find, proceed on my journey till the morning, and I could not employ my time more agreeably than in conversation with an old friend." I willingly complied with his request, and we were soon seated beside a comfortable fire, with "all appliances and means to boot," for making the evening pass with _spirit_. "Now, Frank," said Musgrave, "before we commence, set my mind at rest about my family. Do you know anything of them?" "It is some time since I saw them; but I heard a few days ago that they were all well." "Thank you, thank you, my dear fellow; you have removed a load of anxiety from my mind. Fill your glass to 'auld langsyne,' and then we will talk over old scenes and old friends." Long and confidential was our conversation, and varied were the feelings which it excited. There can be few more interesting events in a man's life than the unexpected meeting with a long-absent friend. There is a mournful pleasure in recalling the past, in contrasting the sad experience of maturer years with the sanguine and glowing anticipations of our youth. For a few passing moments we forget the march of time, we look back through the long vista of years, and once more the warm, and joyous, and fresh feelings of youth seem to gush forth, and to soften and revive our world-seared and hardened hearts. So it was with _us_. The present was for awhile forgotten by us; we were living in the past; and loud and joyful were our bursts of merriment when we talked of old jokes and adventures; and then again the thought came over us, like a chilling blight, suffusing our eyes with tears, that the curtain of death had fallen over most of our young and cheerful fellow-actors on the early stage of life. It was with saddened and subdued hearts we dwelt upon the brief career of some of our early companions; and we sat for some minutes in silence, musing upon the vicissitudes of human life. At last, with a forced attempt at merriment, Musgrave exclaimed, in the words of an old sea ditty-- "'Come, grieving's a folly; So let us be jolly: If we've troubles at sea, boys, we've pleasures on shore.'" "Replenish your tumbler, Frank," continued he; "we'll talk no more of the past; that's gone beyond recall; but let us make the most of the present. We have not many hours before us; and I have heard nothing of your adventures since we parted, nor you of mine. Set a good example, and begin." "My story is soon told," replied I; "for, as you remarked before, time has been flowing on, for me, quiet and undisturbed. I have no adventures to relate--no stirring accidents by field or flood; mine has been a humdrum, peaceful life, unmarked by variety, except those common ones which would be uninteresting to a man of travel and adventure like yourself." "Nothing connected with my old friend can prove uninteresting," said Musgrave; "so pray commence your tale." Thus urged, I began as follows:--I continued at school two years after you so suddenly left it, and was then bound apprentice to a lawyer in this town. I did not much like the profession which had been chosen for me; but there was no help for it. I knew that my father had no interest, and that I must trust entirely to my own exertions for a provision for my future life. I therefore applied myself diligently to my duties, and soon had the good fortune to gain the confidence of my employer. I had been with him about three years, when he sent me to a neighbouring village to wait upon a client of his. This gentleman was a retired post-captain, a man who had seen much service, and had been often and severely wounded. He was, as I had been before informed, as smart an officer as ever trod a ship's deck; his whole heart was in his profession; and his long residence on shore had not broken him of his habit of interlarding his conversation with sea-phrases; and he delighted in talking over the adventures of his past life to all who would listen to him. Notwithstanding his little peculiarities, he was universally loved and respected. He was a hospitable, kind-hearted man, and a "gentleman of Nature's own making;" for, though he was a little wanting in external polish, his actions proved him worthy of the title. I had often heard of him before, but had never chanced to meet him. I was much pleased with him at first sight: there was so much warmth and frankness in his reception of me; and I felt at home with him in a minute. He was a man of short stature, upright as a dart, with iron-grey hair, and a keen, quick eye; and had on, when I met him in the avenue to his house, an old rusty hat, pinched up in the rims, and placed transversely on his head, so as to look like a "fore and after," as he called it, or, as we would say, a cocked hat. "Oh," interrupted Musgrave, "you need not take the trouble of explaining sea terms to _me_; they are as natural to me as my native tongue almost." "I forgot," replied I, "that you are a chip of the same block; so I will continue my _yarn_--you see I have picked up a little sea-lingo too. After I had transacted my business with Captain Trimmer, he pressed me to stay and partake of family fare." "We pipe to dinner at six-bells," said he; "three o'clock, I mean. You will have plain fare and a sailor's welcome; which, you know, is a warm one either to friend or foe." I accepted his frank invitation with pleasure; and, as it still wanted an hour to dinner-time, he proposed that we should "take a cruise" through the grounds till "the grub" was ready. During the walk, he amused me greatly with his tales of the sea; but I was often obliged to request him to interpret terms which were as unintelligible to me as Hebrew or Sanscrit. He laughed heartily at my ignorance, but did all in his power to enlighten me. "You have not had the benefit of a sea education, so what can we expect from you? I'll tell you what, my young friend--I would as soon come athwart the hawse of a shark as a lawyer (no offence to _you_), but, somehow or other, I like the cut of your jib, and think we shall be good friends nevertheless." "Oh," said I, laughing, alluding to my professional visit, "I am not the lawyer, but the lawyer's _avant courier_--the pilot-fish, not the shark." He laughed heartily, and kept bantering me on the sharking propensities of my tribe in such an amusing manner that I could not restrain my mirth. At last, the dinner-bell rang. "Ah! there's pipe to dinner at last! Come along, youngster; let's see if you can take your grub as well as you can take a joke." We dined alone; for his only daughter, he told me, had gone to visit a neighbour, and would not return till evening. The dinner was substantial and good; the wines excellent; but, though the old gentleman pressed me much to drink, he was very moderate himself. When the cloth was removed, he said-- "Now I will pipe to grog; if you like to join my mess, do so, unless you prefer your wine." "Why, if you have no objection," said I, "I will not desert this capital claret; you may have all the grog to yourself." "Well, tastes differ; of course, as a landsman you prefer wine; but you know the old song says-- 'A sailor's sheet-anchor is grog.'" He told me a number of his old adventures; and hours passed away like minutes in listening to them; but I am free to admit that none of his yarns were half so pleasant to me as some of the silken thread-ends he let fall about his daughter Emmeline. There was something in the rough manner in which he gave vent to the feelings of a father, that possessed a tenderness which never could have been expressed by the soft vocables of sentimentality. It is thus (excuse my poetry) that we often admire the fragrance of a flower the more for the rough petals from which it emanates. I was captivated, and twitched the old gentleman on the string which yielded me the best music, till I thought he suspected some love-larking in my sly attempts to get him to praise the absent fair one. "Come, come," he said, "mind your grog; although _I_ say it, who shouldn't say it, she's as pretty a little craft as ever sailed the ocean of life; but we're not to take her in tow throughout all our voyages--so we'll drop her." "Not till I drink to her, with your leave, sir," said I. "Oh, as to that, there's no harm," said he. "All I say is, it's a pity you belong to the land sharks. If you'd been a seaman, I might have fancied you for a son-in-law." The words startled me; and, if he had had the keen perception of a refined man of the world, he might have augured something from the sound of my voice, though my words belied my thoughts. "Well, here's to her!" said I; "and may her fortune yield her a better cast up than a limb of the----" Law I would have said, but he roared out devil, with a laugh, and I joined him. But, as I had a long walk before me, I was obliged to take my leave of the old gentleman rather early in the night. His daughter had not yet returned; but he was not uneasy on her account, as it was a fine moonlight night, and she was well acquainted with the road. "Let me see you often, my young friend," said the captain; "I should like to become better acquainted with you. We always pipe to breakfast at nine o'clock, and to dinner at three. I hate your late shore hours. Come whenever you are inclined to do so. I shall be happy to see you." We shook hands, and parted; and I was really quite sorry to leave my new and agreeable friend. I was walking quietly along the road homewards; the moon was shining brightly, and the shadow of the high hedge darkened half the road, when I thought I heard the sound of suppressed voices some short distance ahead of me. I stopped and listened, and, almost immediately afterwards, I saw two men creep out from the light side of the road, and, looking cautiously around, dart over into the shade. The stealthy motions of the men, and their evident wish for concealment, impressed me with a conviction that mischief of some kind was intended, and I was determined to watch their movements. I got through the hedge, and crept silently along the back of it, till I came to a kind of recess for holding stones, where I paused and listened. I again heard the murmur of voices near me, and, crawling quietly on, I came close behind the speakers, so near to them that I could distinctly hear every word they said, though I could not see them. "She'll be here soon, Jem," said one of them; "we couldn't have had a better night for such a job." "Too much light, for my taste," replied the other; "however, we must make the best on't. Our own mothers wouldn't know us in this disguise, and, without it, she would be too frightened to take particular notice of us. But are you sure she has the swag?" "Certain, Smooth-faced Jess told me that her mistress was going to receive the rent for her father this evening." "Oh, that's all right; we'll save her the trouble of carrying it all the way home. It will be rather awkward, though, if she has any one with her." "No fear of that. I was in the shrubbery when she was leaving the house; and I heard her refuse to have a servant with her. I took the short cut across the fields to join you; and I'm surprised she has not come up yet. She can't be long, however." This was a pleasant conversation for me to overhear; it was evident that robbery, if not murder, was about to be perpetrated, and I was as evidently destined to be a witness of the act. I might, to be sure, have sneaked out of the scrape, as the men were quite unconscious of my vicinity; but I could not bear the thought of deserting a fellow-creature in the hour of danger, without some attempt for her rescue--and yet what could I do? I was unarmed, except with a small walking cane, which would be of little avail against two ruffians, who were, of course, well provided with the means of offence. I was just meditating to crawl onwards, and endeavour to warn the expected female of her danger, when I was arrested by hearing one of the rascals murmur--"Here she is at last, Jem." A light step was now heard; and, peeping through a gap in the hedge close beside me, I saw a female form fast approaching. The lady--for such she seemed by her dress--was walking along the illuminated part of the road, apparently unconscious of danger or fear; for she was humming a tune, and every now and then glancing up at the moon. The critical moment had arrived. I could almost _hear_ the throbbing of my heart, I felt such a feverish impatience to put an end to my suspense; my nerves were strung to a pitch of desperation. I felt as if the strength of a dozen men were in my arm. I seized a large stone, and, crouching in the gap of the hedge, I waited with breathless impatience for the expected attack. The lady was nearly opposite me, when the ruffians rushed out upon her. There was a faint scream, a momentary struggle, and she lay on the ground at their feet. Their backs were turned towards me. During the noise of the scuffle, my footsteps were unheard, and I was close to them before they were aware. "Silence! or I'll settle you!" said one of the robbers to his almost unconscious victim; whom, with all the coolness of fancied security, he was beginning to plunder. I dashed the stone I held in my hand into his face, and he fell senseless to the ground, with a heavy groan, while I shouted at the same time, as if addressing some one behind me, "Now, Harry, blow the other rascal's brains out." The other _rascal_, however, did not wait to see the result. He was over the hedge in a moment, and running for bare life. I pretended to follow him, shouting aloud till he disappeared into the next enclosure. I then returned to the road, where I found the man still lying senseless, though breathing heavily. I took the handkerchief from his neck and bound his hands together; and tearing the crape from his face, I took a long and steady look at his features, that I might be able to swear to his identity, if necessary. The lady, who was fortunately unhurt, and had by this time recovered from her alarm, overwhelmed me with acknowledgments, which I parried as well as I was able; and I endeavoured to turn her thoughts into another channel, by requesting her to look at the face of the senseless man. After a little hesitation, she did so, and immediately recognised him as an old servant of her father's--a worthless vagabond, who had been discharged for theft, and had vowed revenge. Hitherto I had had little time to take any particular notice of the appearance of the lady I had been so fortunate as to rescue. I had merely remarked the grace of her form, and the soft, sweet tone of her voice; but now that I had leisure to look at her features, as the moonbeam rested brightly upon them, I was struck with their beauty: I felt, as Byron has it, "My sinking heart confess The might, the majesty of loveliness." I gladly offered to escort her to her home, which, she said, was only about half-a-mile distant, and where we could procure assistance to remove the still insensible footpad. Before we set off, however, I took the liberty of securing his pistols, which could be of no service to him in his present state, but might materially benefit us. After a sharp walk of ten minutes, the lady stopped at a gate, which I immediately knew to be the one I had so lately left. "Now, sir, I am at home. Allow me to welcome to it my brave deliverer, and to introduce him to my father." "I require no introduction," replied I, "if you are, as I surmise, the daughter of Captain Trimmer." "Do you know him?--he is my father." "I only left him about an hour ago; and fortunate it was that I did not yield to his urgent wish for me to remain longer." Captain Trimmer listened in breathless anxiety as his daughter told the tale of her danger and deliverance; and drawing a long breath when it was ended, he muttered "Heaven be praised!" He then rang the bell violently, and gave the servants orders, and directions where to find the wounded footpad. "And now, my dear young friend," said he, "what can I say to _you_? I can't say anything just now, my heart is too full! but there's my hand, and you shall find me, as long as I live, a firm and warm friend." I could only press _his_ affectionately in reply. He insisted upon my remaining where I was for the night, and despatched a man on horseback to explain to my friends the reason of my absence. From this time my intercourse with the worthy captain became daily more intimate--almost every spare hour of my time was devoted to his society. As his character opened out upon me, I saw in his conduct so many proofs of genuine goodness of heart and rectitude of principle, that I felt as much affection and respect for him as for a dear and honoured parent. His daughter Emmeline, too, was one of those gentle, retiring characters, who may require to be known to be admired, and whose virtues, like those of the sweet and modest violet, require to be sought after to be properly appreciated. I was always fond of music. We all know its influence over the feelings--its power to awaken the hidden sympathies of the heart--to recall the joys and sorrows of the past, and to stir up glowing anticipations and high resolves for the future. Her voice was clear and sweet as a bird's; and when she warbled over the melodies of her native land, I felt so much absorbed in the beauty of the strain, as almost to forget the singer. You smile, and anticipate the result. How could it be otherwise? How could I live in close and constant communion with one so fascinating, and escape the fascination? It is not amid the factitious glare and excitement of society that such characters as hers can be appreciated: there the tinsel too often glitters more brightly than the pure gold; but in the calm and peaceful intercourse of domestic life, their pure and gentle influence is felt and valued. I was becoming daily more and more an admirer of the gentle Emmeline, when the sudden death of my father awakened me from my dream of love, and startled me into serious consideration. He died as he had lived--poor; for it was found, on examining his affairs, that, though maintaining an appearance of wealth and comfort, his life must have been a constant struggle with difficulties; and there was barely sufficient left behind to satisfy the claims of his creditors. Deeply as I was grieved by his loss, I must say that feeling was not a little heightened by the disappointment of finding myself unprovided for. I had always been led to hope, that, though my father, from a wish to give me a spirit of independence, had left me, during my early life, to the exertions of my own energies for support, yet that at his death, he would leave me a handsome competency. But this hope was now disappointed, and with it vanished my bright dreams of Emmeline and happiness. I could not bear the thoughts of exposing the woman of my heart to the risk of poverty and privation. She knew not of my love, and now she must remain for ever in ignorance of it; for what had I to offer her?--a heart, and nothing more; and you know, Musgrave, that though _loving_ hearts are very pretty things in _poetry_, _smoking_ ones would better furnish forth a poor man's table. I gradually withdrew myself from the society of my good old friend, though it cost me many a severe pang to do so; and whenever I did meet him, I had always some faltering excuse to make about press of business, ill health, or bad weather. I was talking to him one day, when Emmeline, whom I had not seen for some time, unexpectedly joined us. The conscious blood rushed to my face immediately, and I stammered out some incoherent apology in reply to her expression of surprise at my long absence. The old man noticed my embarrassment, and became silent and thoughtful. At last, turning to his daughter, he said, "Emmeline, my love, see what we are to have for dinner; Mr. Lorimer will take family fare with us. Not a word, youngster" (to me, as I was beginning to remonstrate), "I am commanding officer here." We walked on together for some time in silence; at last he stopped, and taking my hand, while he looked full in my face he said--- "I am not so blind, Mr. Lorimer, but I can see which way the land lies. I like to be fair and above-board with every one; and you are not the man I shall break through the rule with. I like you, Frank Lorimer; and I would do much to serve you. Emmeline--(ah, there go the red colours again!)--you love her Frank!--win her and wear her if you can; you have my free and full consent. I have heard of your father's death, and its results; and I understand and honour the motives that have induced you to absent yourself from us. I am not a rich man, but I have enough to make two young people happy; and I know no one to whom I would more joyfully confide my daughter's happiness than to yourself." Kind, generous old man! I had not a word to say. I merely pressed his hand in silence and tears. Yes, tears; for joy can weep as well as grief. I was soon again a constant visiter at Oak Lodge; and in a few months I had the happiness of calling Emmeline my own. I have been now married three years, and have every day greater cause to bless the happy chance which first led me to Oak Lodge. My excellent father-in-law lives with us, and delights in spending his day in nursing his little grandchildren. Long may he be spared to us! "What! married and a father! O Frank, what a fortunate fellow you have been! Here have I been buffeting about the world for years, the shuttlecock of fate, hunting fortune in every corner of the world, and I return home, poor and penniless as the day I left it. I, whose early dreams were all of the happiness of a married life, shall sink into my grave a solitary bachelor, without one loved hand to tend my pillow, and to smooth my passage to the tomb." "Oh, nonsense. Cheer up, Musgrave," said I; "I shall dance at your wedding yet. But why need you care now about the scurvy tricks of fortune abroad, since you have returned to enjoy her favours at home?" "Favours! What do you mean, Frank?" "Have you not heard of the death of your poor brother George, and that the lawsuit in which your father was so long engaged has terminated favourably for him. He is now in possession of a rental of three thousand per annum, to which, of course, you will be heir?" "Heavens! you don't say so!" exclaimed Musgrave; "but I am sure you would not deceive me. I have not heard from home for upwards of a twelvemonth. Frank, you are a fine fellow; shake hands with me." "Ay, that I will," said I; "and I congratulate you with all my heart. I am glad I have been the first to communicate such pleasing intelligence; and now, the least you can do in return is to give me an account of yourself since we parted." "Why, I'm not in the best mood in the world for storytelling," replied Musgrave; "this unexpected good fortune has rather destroyed my equilibrium; however, I will brush up my memory for your gratification, though the retrospect will be anything but agreeable to myself. You remember, I daresay, the day when I left school; on my memory, at least, the recollection of it is as vivid as if it were yesterday. When I drove away in my uncle's carriage, I thought I was going home on a temporary visit, and little imagined I was never to return. When I arrived at home, I found in the drawing-room with my father a little, active, dark-looking man, with a stern, prompt manner, who was introduced to me as Captain Fleetwood." "Richard, my boy," said my father, "you have often expressed a wish to go to sea, and I have now an opportunity of gratifying you. My friend Captain Fleetwood has volunteered to take you out with him as midshipman; and, as I know I could not intrust you to better hands, I am glad to avail myself of his offer. The warning is rather a short one, as you must be on board your ship within a fortnight; you have no time to lose; and I will accompany you to town to prepare your equipment. We will leave this to-morrow morning at nine o'clock." I was rather staggered by this sudden announcement; for, though it had always been the dearest wish of my heart to go to sea, yet there was something so unexpected in the accomplishment of it, that I repented of my choice. My heart sank at the thought of such a sudden parting from home and all that was dear to me; besides, as I had just left school, I would have preferred having a few days' holiday, and an opportunity of strutting in my sailor's dress before the eyes of my admiring schoolfellows. However, there was no help for it now--my lot was cast for life; and, in a fortnight's time, I was fairly shipped on board the Anne, a snug free-trader, bound to the East Indies. I pass over the various details of my early career; you may find an accurate description of my first feelings and impressions, and those of five hundred others, on first joining a ship, in any circulating library in the kingdom. I encountered the usual hardships, and was exposed to the usual privations, incidental to the life of a sailor; but, as there was nothing particularly worthy of notice in the first seven or eight years of my sailor's life, I shall pass at once to the most interesting event in a career of no trifling variety. It is now upwards of two years since I went out chief mate of my old ship, under the command of my first friend, Captain Fleetwood, who was a clever, active seaman himself, and well qualified to make those under him the same. We had a crew of twenty-five young and able fellows, with, as usual, a sprinkling of black sheep among them. Our passengers were four in number--a gentleman and his wife, and two young ladies, going out to Bombay under their protection; all agreeable and well-informed people, and the young ladies blessed with a tolerable share of beauty. Time passed very pleasantly with us, for we were uncommonly favoured in wind and weather; and our captain, who was as kind and benevolent as a man, as he was strict and unflinching as an officer, delighted in promoting to the utmost every plan for the comfort and amusement of the crew. "Och, isn't he a broth of a boy, now, that captain of ours?" I heard one of our men say to another, on one of the quiet tropical evenings, when the crew were enjoying themselves in the "waist," and the captain was whirling one of the ladies round in a waltz on the quarterdeck. "He's as full of fun as a monkey." "Take care you don't shave the monkey too close, though, Mike, or perhaps the _cat_ will shave _you_." "Is it the cat you mane?" replied Mike; "then, by the powers, it's myself that's not afeered for the 'cat,' for she never wags her tail here but when a man's either an ass or a skulk, and no man can say black's the white of the eye of Mike Delaney. But I say, Tom, hasn't this been an out-and-out passage? Why, we've never had nothing to do but to spin yarns and knot them; we might have stowed away the reef-points in the hold, we've never had no 'casion for them, and as for salt water, we haven't had a breeze to wash our faces for us since we left home. Blowed if we shan't get too fine for our work by and by--reg'lar gentlemen afloat. I think I'll sport a pair of them overalls that the long-shore beggars call gloves, to keep my flippers white," said Mike--at the same time spreading out a pair as dirty as the back of a chimney and as broad as the back of a skate. "Gloves and delicate flippers like that!" answered his companion; "no, no, Mike--'twould be a sin and a shame to _hide_ it; that's a regular dare-devil hand--it cares neither for soap nor water. But, Mike, the voyage is not half over yet. We've had a fair weather passage so far; but I'm always afeerd of those unkimmon fine beginnings; ev'rything goes by contraries in this here world, and a good beginning often brings in its wake a bad ending. It's not in the coorse of nature to see such a long spell of fine weather; it's quite unnatural; it'll break out, by and by, in a fresh place--see if it don't. That 'ere butcher, the sea, lies there a-smiling at us as if we were so many hinnocent lambs; but he'll maybe have his hand on our throats yet." "Well, Tom, it's never no use smelling mischief afore it comes; time enough when it does show its ugly mug, to grin in its face. I'm not the man to turn my back on it--nor you neither, for that matter, I'll be bound." We had run nearly thirty-four degrees to the south of the equator, when the weather became very variable, and the wind at last settled into a strong breeze from the northward. One evening, we were spanking along with the wind in that quarter, with a heavy confused sea, when a thick gloom gradually overspread the sky, and the mercury, falling in the barometer, gave warning of approaching bad weather. All our small sails were taken in, and every necessary precaution adopted to prepare for a change. Our topsails were reefed, and the mainsail was hauled up and handled. About 6 P.M. Captain Fleetwood came on deck, and asked what I thought of the weather. "Bad enough, sir; it does not seem to have made up its mind what to do; however, we are tolerably well prepared for a change, whichever way it may be." "You must keep a sharp look-out, Musgrave; if it should begin to rain, depend upon it, the wind will chop suddenly round to southward. You must not let it take you unawares." "I'll look for it in time, sir." He had scarcely left the deck, when a light, drizzling rain came on, a partial lull succeeded, and the wind veered suddenly round to the south-westward. We were prepared for it, however, and our yards were soon trimmed to the wind; but our troubles were only beginning. The breeze freshened up so rapidly, that we had barely time to take in sail fast enough; no sooner was one reef in, than it became necessary to take in another. The sea was running, as landsmen say, mountains high; the winds howled through our rigging; and the giant albatrosses hovered round us, seen indistinctly for a moment through the gloom, and then soaring away on the gale, as if they were floating down a stream--their enormous wings extended, but motionless. But men were aloft, close-reefing, and preparing to furl the foretopsail, when a heavy sea struck the ship, and a sudden squall laid her over on her beam-ends almost. The sudden jerk carried away the topmast backstays. There was no rolling tackle on the topsailyard, which jerked violently as the ship fell over, and the mast snapped just above the parrell. Five of the poor fellows were thrown off the topsailyard to leeward; we heard their cries dying away on the breeze; we could not see them, the weather was so thick, and darkness was coming on; and as for saving them, the attempt to do so would have been madness, although several men sprung forward to volunteer. It was with heavy hearts the men set to work to clear away the wreck; the cries of their poor shipmates were still ringing in their ears, and an hour or two elapsed before it was accomplished. All night long we were hard at work, furling sails, and sending down yards and masts; and when the morning appeared, the ship was hove to, with her head to the south-eastward, under a storm staysail. The decks were lumbered with wet sails, the main and mizen-topgallantmast and yards, and the remnants of canvas and rigging saved from the wreck of the topmast. We spliced the mainbrace, or, as you would say, served out drams; and the helm being lashed a-lee, the ship's company were sent below, to obtain the rest they stood so much in need of. Poor fellows! they were not allowed to enjoy it long. "Where is the captain?" said the carpenter, rushing up the quarter-hatch with a face like a ghost--"where is the captain?" "Well, Soundings," said Captain Fleetwood, "what do you want with me?" "It's just about the soundings, sir, I want to speak to you." Then, drawing close to his side, he muttered, "There are four feet water in the well, sir." The captain started, but recovered himself immediately. "Very well. Rig the pumps directly. Mr. Musgrave, call the hands out; the ship has taken a little too much water in, over all. Heaven grant it's nothing worse!" murmured he. The scene around us was now dreary and desolate in the extreme: the sky was dark, gloomy, and threatening; light, angry-looking, discoloured clouds flitted over it, like spirits disturbed, while overhead the scud careered with lightning-like rapidity; the sea was covered, as far as the eye could reach, with white foam, and the spray was blown over the ship in a constant heavy shower; the little "Mother Carey's chickens" were dipping their tiny wings in the waves under our stern, and the stormy petrel and albatross swept in wide circles round our storm-tossed vessel. The gale howled mournfully through our rigging, and every now and then a giant sea dashed against our side, and threw torrents of water over our decks. The hatches were battened down fore and aft, and the monotonous clanking of the pumps was heard, mingled with the loud cheers of the men, as they spirited each other up to renewed exertions, and the loud "spell oh!" when the different gangs relieved each other at the pump brakes. The whole of that day was one of incessant labour; for, when, after some hours of hard work, we had gained considerably upon the water, and relaxed a little from our exertions, we found that renewed efforts were required to keep the enemy at bay. Next morning the wind had greatly decreased, and was gradually dying away; but a high sea was still running, and the ship laboured tremendously. More sail was made to steady her; but, in spite of all our efforts, the leak increased; and at last it became evident, after everything had been done which seamanship could propose, or perseverance carry into effect, that the ship was in a foundering state. The captain, who had shewn himself active and energetic during the excitement of the storm, now proved that he possessed that true courage which can face unflinchingly the slow but sure approach of danger and of death. Calm and collected, nay, even cheerful, at least in appearance, his example encouraged and animated the crew, now almost exhausted with their constant exertions. He ordered one watch below to their hammocks, while the other was busied in fitting out the boats, and preparing provisions to put into them, and in keeping the pumps steadily but slowly at work. At last the hands were called out--"Out boats!" and when they were all assembled, Captain Fleetwood addressed them as follows:-- "My lads, the ship is sinking under us, and we must take to the boats. You have been active, patient, and obedient hitherto--be so still, and you may yet all be saved. Remember, that, as long as _one_ of your officers is above the water with you, to that officer you owe obedience. For my part, I am determined--and you know I am no flincher--to maintain my authority with my life; but I hope you will not put me to the proof. My intention is to steer for the Island of Tristan d'Acunha, which, if Providence favours us, we may reach in a week or ten days; but much depends upon your own exertions. Now, go below, and take the last meal you will ever eat on board your old ship. Heaven grant that we may all meet once more on shore!" The men listened in silence, and uncovered while he spoke; and when he ended, they burst into a loud cheer, and one of them shouted out-- "We will stand by you to the last, sir!" "Ay, that we will," was responded by all. The captain took off his hat, and bowed, evidently much affected, and dismissed them. In about twenty minutes they were again called up, and the boats were hoisted out. We had two quarter-boats, a launch, and a jolly-boat, which were amply sufficient to hold our whole number, reduced as it was by the loss of the five poor fellows in the gale; one of the quarter-boats, however, proved to be so leaky when lowered into the water, that we were obliged to abandon her. The other boats were furnished with masts, sails, a fortnight's short provision and water, arms--everything, in fact, that could be thought of as likely to be necessary. The captain took charge of the launch, and the second mate and I cast lots for the cutter; the chance was against me, and I took command of the jolly-boat. We were eight-and-twenty in number: twelve men, the captain, and two of the passengers, in the launch; myself, one of the ladies, and four men, in the jolly-boat; and the remainder in the cutter. When we had shoved off from the ship, we lay on our oars at some little distance, as if by mutual consent, to see the last of her; but the captain shouted out-- "Come, my lads, we have no time to spare; give the old craft one parting cheer, and let us make the best of our way." The men stood up, and, taking off their hats, gave three loud and lengthened cheers. The deserted ship seemed as if she heard and wished to acknowledge the compliment; her head turned gradually towards us; she rose slowly and heavily before the swell, then dipped her bows deep into the water, gave a heavy roll, and sank to rise no more. A stifled groan broke from the men at this sad sight, which cast an evident damp over their spirits. "Come, cheer up, my lads," said the captain; "we've seen the last of as good a craft as ever floated; but it's of no use being downhearted. Let us have a cheer for good success!" The men caught his tone immediately, and their spirits rose when they saw how cheerfully he bore his loss. Tristan d'Acunha bore about S. 10° W., about 200 miles distant; and, as the wind had again drawn to the northward, we had every prospect of reaching it in the course of five or six days. For the first two days we went along merrily enough with a fine steady breeze, and tolerably smooth water, but, on the afternoon of the third, the sky again became overcast, and there was every appearance of another "round turn" in the wind. As night closed in around us, the captain hailed us from the launch, and desired us to keep as near together as possible, for fear of separation. This order was obeyed as long as we were able; but, in the darkness, we soon lost sight of each other, and the sound of our voices was drowned in the increasing noise of wind and sea. About ten o'clock, the wind suddenly shifted in a sharp squall; the sail was taken aback, and the little boat lay over for a moment as if never to rise again. Fortunately the haulyards gave way, and the sail went overboard, or she must have been capsized; as it was, she was nearly half-full of water. I immediately jumped forward to drag the sail in again, when, to my horror, I heard the sound of voices crying for help, to leeward: the sail had knocked two of the men overboard, and it was their dying cry we heard. We pulled round the boat, and shouted out to them; there was no answer--they were gone; they must have been half-drowned before they could get clear of the sail, which had fallen on the top of them. Our grief for their loss was soon absorbed by our fears for our own safety. There were now only three of us remaining--for the lady could be of no assistance--in a small boat, half-full of water; the wind and sea rising, darkness all around, and the nearest land upwards of one hundred miles distant; our prospects were dismal indeed. Fortunately for us, however, we had no time to brood over our misfortunes; the necessity for active exertion drove all thoughts but those of present danger from our minds. We baled the boat out as fast as possible, got the broken mast in-board, and made all as snug as we could. The wind had shifted, as I said before, to the southward, and came on to blow fresh; and the sea was again rapidly rising. We had nothing for it but to keep the boat right before the wind, although it carried us almost in a contrary direction to the course we wished to steer. At daylight, we looked anxiously around for the other boats; but in vain did we strain our eyes--nothing was visible. Sad were our forebodings as to the fate of our shipmates, and gloomy our anticipations of the future for ourselves. The wind had moderated considerably, but we were still obliged to run before it; and it was not till late in the afternoon that we considered it safe to turn the boat's head again to the southward. By this time it was almost calm, but our two oars could do little against the head sea; and after tugging away at them for some time, we were obliged to lay them in from sheer exhaustion, merely keeping the boat's head to the sea. A light breeze springing up at last from the northward, we got the stump of the mast up, and set the reefed sail upon it, and began slowly to make headway in the wished-for direction. During the whole of our perilous voyage, the young lady, who had been committed to my charge, behaved with the greatest courage and resignation; not a complaint escaped her lips, though she was drenched to the skin by the spray and rain; not a scream did she utter when the dark sea rose under our stern, threatening to engulf our little bark. We did all we could to make her as comfortable as circumstances would allow; for rough indeed must be the nature that does not feel kindly towards youth and beauty in distress. She received all our attentions with such heartfelt expressions of gratitude, and bore her discomforts with such cheerful resignation, that the men could not help audibly expressing their admiration, and vowing to spend their life's-blood in her service. The sun was again smiling over our heads, and the water rippled under the bows of the boat, as she danced before the breeze; and our spirits were revived by the change. On examining our stock of provisions, we found that most of our biscuit was completely saturated with salt water, and that, with the most sparing economy, we had barely sufficient rum and meat left to last us for a week longer. We immediately spread the wet bread on the boat's thwarts to dry, and cut the meat into small equal portions. "Now, Miss Neville," said I, laughing--though, Heaven knows, there was little joy in my heart--"I, as commander of this vessel, constitute you acting-purser; you shall serve out our rations to us equally and fairly, and, if any one of my ship's company shall dare to question the justness of your division, or to attempt to help himself without your permission, he shall feel the weight of my anger." There was _faint_ laugh at this _faint_ attempt at pleasantry on my part; and Miss Neville replied-- "I think, _Captain_ Musgrave, you might have appointed a more sufficient purser than myself; however, I will do my best to justify your choice." Another day, and another, we kept crawling slowly on; there was little or no wind, and our two oars made but little way. I said before that the boat's crew was reduced to two men and myself. One of these men, a Scotchman, named M'Farlane, had only lately recovered from a severe attack of illness, before we left the ship. The fatigue incurred during the gale, and the danger and excitement of our situation since, had a fatal effect upon the poor fellow's already shattered constitution; he suffered in silence, never uttering a word of complaint; but it was evident to us all that he was sinking fast. On this day he had been taking his turn at the oar, in spite of my remonstrances. "You will kill yourself, M'Farlane," said I. "You are not strong enough to pull; take the helm, and give Riley the oar again." "No, sir," replied he; "Riley has had his spell, and I will take mine, though I die for it. I feel that I am going; but let me die in harness. No man shall have it to say that Tom M'Farlane was not game to the last." Miss Neville joined her entreaties to mine, that he would give over rowing; but in vain. "Heaven bless you, ma'am," said he--"and it will bless you, and bring you in safety out of your dangers. You are just beginning the voyage of life--and a rough beginning it has been; but never fear. You'll make a happy port at last. As for me, my voyage is just over. I have had both rough and smooth in my time. I've had no cause to complain; and I shall die happy, if I die doing my duty." The words were scarcely uttered, when he ceased rowing. I turned round, and saw him, with his face deadly pale, bending over the oar, which he was in vain endeavouring to dip in the water. He made two or three convulsive movements, as if in the act of rowing, muttered "Hurrah, my lads!" and, with a heavy groan, fell backward. Riley and I raised him immediately, blood was gushing from his nose and mouth, which we in vain attempted to staunch. He opened his eyes once, shuddered, and expired. I will not attempt to describe the feelings with which we gazed upon the body of our unfortunate shipmate, and thought how soon a still more dreadful doom might be ours. Death, with all its horrid accompaniments of starvation, drowning, &c., came before us. All the horrible stories we had heard of deaths at sea, of misery, hunger, and cannibalism, came crowding upon our memories. At last the silence was broken by Riley, who growled out-- "Well, there's one more going to feed the fishes! It'll be our turn soon. However, its some comfort he has left his share of the grub behind: there'll be more for those who remain." I could hardly restrain my anger at this cold-blooded speech; but a look from Emily Neville checked me. Riley, however, observed the impression his words had made upon me, and, with a diabolical sneer, said-- "You need not look so black about it. I don't care a button about your looks or your anger either. One man's as good as another now, and I won't obey you any longer." "Riley," said I, starting forward, and seizing him by the collar, while my voice trembled with suppressed passion, "mark my words! As long as one plank of this boat hangs to another, I am your officer; and while I have life in my body, you _shall_ obey me." The scoundrel was staggered by my firmness, and sat gloomily down upon the "thwart." Riley had been one of our _black sheep_ on board the Anne. I never liked the fellow. He was always a skulking, discontented, vagabond; ever foremost in mischief, and striving to make his shipmates as mutinous as himself. I saw, by his louring looks, and his sullen, dogged manner, that we must, before long, come into collision again, and I determined to prepare for the worst. I threw all the fire-arms overboard, except a single musket and a brace of pistols, the latter of which I loaded deliberately before his eyes. "Come," said I, "the sun is long past the meridian, we must pipe to dinner. Miss Neville, serve out our allowance, if you please." While Riley received his modicum of spirits, he growled out, "Here's a pretty allowance for a hard-working man. Not a stroke more will I put till I get more rum." "Not a drop more shall you have till the regular time; you must be contented with just enough to keep soul and body together, like your neighbours; we must not all be sacrificed to gratify your greediness." "Better die at once," said he, "than starve by inches; a short life and a merry one for me!--so hand out the stuff at once, for have it I _will_." And he made a rush to snatch the spirits from Miss Neville. "Back, scoundrel!" said I, cocking one of my pistols, "or I'll blow your brains out." The words were scarcely out of my mouth, when the rascal stooped, and snatching up a cutlass which he had concealed in the bottom of the boat, made a cut at me with it, which, but for the tough rim of my leather hat, would have laid my skull open. As it was, I shall carry the scar to my grave. One touch of my trigger, and Miss Neville and I were left in the boat alone. The ball went through his head; he staggered against the gunwale, toppled overboard, and sank at once, tinging the water with his blood. Miss Neville was now obliged to act as doctor as well as purser. She washed my wound, and bound it up as well as she was able. We neither of us spoke; but fearful were the thoughts that passed through my mind. The boat lay becalmed upon the water; my strength, wounded as it was, could do little towards forcing her onwards. Unless a breeze sprung up, we must lie in utter helplessness, and die a lingering death by starvation! Miss Neville read my thoughts, and, stifling her own fears, exerted herself to inspire me with confidence. "Fear not, Mr. Musgrave," said she; "the merciful Providence which has watched over us hitherto, will protect us till the end. Utterly helpless and hopeless as our situation appears at present, He _can_ save us, and He _will_." Her words inspired me with renewed energy; and, with a good deal of difficulty, I stepped the mast, which we had unshipped for greater convenience in rowing. Next day we made the land, and, before evening, after a little danger in passing the surf, I landed my precious charge in safety. But I must hurry to the conclusion of my tale, for I see Lorrimer, you are beginning to yawn, and I am tired of it myself. My first care was to seek a snug shelter among the rocks where I quickly lighted a fire, and shared with my fair fellow prisoner the last remains of our slender sea stock. For the next day's subsistence we were obliged to rely upon my skill as a fowler. I spread the remainder of the powder to dry, and contrived to make up a rude bed for Miss Neville, on which, worn out with fatigue and excitement, she soon enjoyed that rest which she so much required. I retired to a little distance to watch her slumbers; but very soon followed her example. In the morning, invigorated and refreshed, I sallied out with my gun, and soon succeeded in procuring some birds for our morning meal; I then climbed the highest part of the island, and set up the boat's mast with a handkerchief flying from it, in hopes of attracting the attention of some passing South Sea whaler. Weeks passed in dreary monotony; we wanted for none of the absolute necessaries of life; but we were prisoners, and that consciousness alone was enough to make _me_ discontented and restless. My fair companion bore all her inconveniences unrepiningly, and did all in her power to soothe and comfort me; her sweet disposition, and gentle, silent attentions, insensibly withdrew my thoughts from the discomforts of the present, and hope pictured a bright future of happiness with her whom fate had thrown upon my protection. One morning at daybreak, I climbed as usual to my signal-post, and there, about three miles to windward of the island, a ship was standing under easy sail to the westward. The ship was hove to, and a boat lowered. I rushed down to apprise Miss Neville of the joyful event, and we both hurried to the beach, to receive our welcome visiters. After considerable difficulty, on account of the surf, they effected a landing, and were greeted by us with the warmest gratitude. The vessel, we were told, was the Medusa, South Seaman, and had been out from England nearly two years; they had observed my flag some time before they hove to, and at first thought it had been left there by some former ship, as there were no settlers on the island at the time; but they fortunately saw me through their glasses, and determined upon landing. The evening was closing in cloudy and threatening, the surf was beginning to run high, and everything indicated bad weather. "Come, be quick!" said the captain of the Medusa, who was in the boat; "jump in, we've no time to lose; there's a gale coming on, and I wouldn't wait two minutes longer for the world." As we were struggling through the heavy surf, a sudden roll of the boat threw me overboard, and in a moment I was swept some distance towards the beach. I swam for the shore immediately, as I knew it was in vain to attempt reaching the boat again, or to hope that they would risk their own lives, or the safety of the ship, by longer delay. I was an excellent swimmer, and reached shore in safety, where I had the mortification of seeing the Medusa make sail, and haul off the land. I comforted myself, however, with the reflection, that Emily Neville was in safety, and that, if the captain of the Medusa was a _Christian_, he would return to take me off the island. That night a heavy gale of wind came on from the north-west and a constant succession of stormy changes of wind and calm followed for some time. In about a month, a sail hove in sight; it was the Medusa! Oh, how delighted I was, once more to feel a solid plank under my foot! I felt myself at home once more when I touched her deck, and asked for Emily Neville. She was gone! The Medusa had fallen in with a Cape trader, and Miss Neville had taken a passage on board of her to the Cape, from whence she meant to proceed to England. Imagine my disappointment! For two months longer we beat about in these latitudes in the Medusa, and then, our cargo being completed, we shaped our course homewards. On my arrival in England, I went to my old friend, Darcy, who provided me with the needful, and I am now so far on my way home. You tell me I have gained a fortune; but I have lost the only girl I ever loved, and without her fortune is valueless. I did what I could to comfort Musgrave, but he would not be comforted. Next morning he proceeded on his journey. A short time afterwards, there appeared in the papers the following announcement--"Arrival in the river, the Proserpine, from the Cape. The vessel has on board one of the survivors of the wreck of the ship Anne, which foundered at sea some months since, the lady was saved in one of the ship's boat, and taken off the island of Tristan d'Acunha by the Medusa whaler." I immediately wrote to Musgrave, congratulating him on this happy event; and received an answer in the course of a few weeks, telling me that he was now amply repaid for his past dangers and disappointment; for Emily Neville had consented to become his wife, and to share with him the bounties, as she had before partaken with him of the harsher dispensations, of Providence. THE RED HALL; OR, BERWICK IN 1296. Somewhat more than five hundred years ago, and Berwick-upon-Tweed was the most wealthy and flourishing city in Great Britain. Its commerce was the most extensive, its merchants the most enterprising and successful. London in some measure strove to be its rival, but it possessed not a tenth of the natural advantages, and Berwick continued to bear the palm alone--being styled the Alexandria of the nations, the emporium of commerce, and one of the first commercial cities of the world. This state of prosperity it owed almost solely to Alexander III., who did more for Berwick than any sovereign that has since claimed its allegiance. He brought over a colony of wealthy Flemings, for whom he erected an immense building, called the Red Hall (situated where the wool market now stands), and which at once served as dwelling-houses, factories, and a fortress. The terms upon which he granted a charter to this company of merchants were, that they should defend, even unto death, their Red Hall against every attack of an enemy, and of the English in particular. Wool was the staple commodity of their commerce, but they also traded extensively in silks and in foreign manufactures. The people of Berwick understood FREE TRADE in those days. In this state of peace and enviable prosperity it continued till the spring of 1296. The bold, the crafty, and revengeful Edward I. meditated an invasion of Scotland; and Berwick, from its wealth, situation, and importance, was naturally anticipated to be the first object of his attack. To defeat this, Baliol--whom we can sometimes almost admire, though generally we despise and pity him--sent the chief men of Fife and their retainers to the assistance of the town. Easter week arrived, but no tidings were heard of Edward's movements, and business went on with its wonted bustle. Amongst the merchants of the Red Hall was one known by the appellation of William the Fleming, and he had a daughter, an heiress and an only child, whose beauty was the theme of Berwick's minstrels, when rhyme was beginning to begin. Many a knee was bent to the rich and beautiful Isabella; but she preferred the humble and half-told passion of Francis Scott, who was one of the clerks in the Red Hall, to all the chivalrous declarations of prouder lovers. Francis possessed industry and perseverance; and these, in the eyes of her father, were qualifications precious as rubies. These, with love for his daughter, overcome other mercenary objections, and the day for their marriage had arrived. Francis and Isabella were kneeling before the altar, and the priest was pronouncing the service, the merchant was gazing fondly over his child, when a sudden and hurried peal from the Bell Tower broke upon the ceremony, and cries of "The English! to arms!" were heard from the street. The voice of the priest faltered--he stopped; William the Fleming placed his hand upon his sword; the bridegroom started to his feet, and the fair Isabella clung to his side. "Come, children," said the merchant, "let us to the Hall--a happier hour may bless your nuptials--this is no moment for bridal ceremony." And in silence, each man grasping his sword, they departed from the chapel, where the performance of the marriage rites was broken by the sounds of invasion. The ramparts were crowded with armed citizens, and a large English fleet was seen bearing round Lindisfarne. In a few hours the hostile vessels entered the river, and commenced a furious attack upon the town. Their assault was returned by the inhabitants as men who were resolved to die for liberty. For hours the battle raged, and the Tweed became as a sheet of blood. But while the conflict rose fiercest, again the Bell Tower sent forth its sounds of death. Edward, at the head of thirty-five thousand chosen troops, had crossed the river at Coldstream, and was now seen encamping at the foot of Halidon Hill. Part of his army immediately descended upon the town, to the assistance of his fleet. They commenced a resolute attack from the north, while the greater part of the garrison held bloody combat with the ships in the river. Though thus attacked upon both sides, the besieged fought with the courage of surrounded lions, and the proud fleet was defeated and driven from the river. The attacks of the army were desperate, but without success, for desperate were the men who opposed them. Treachery, however, that to this day remains undiscovered, existed in the town; and, at an hour when the garrison thought not, the gates were deceitfully opened, and the English army rushed like a torrent upon the streets. Wildly the work of slaughter began. With the sword and with the knife, the inhabitants defended every house, every foot of ground. Mild mothers and gentle maidens fought for their thresholds with the fury of hungry wolves--and delicate hands did deeds of carnage. The war of blood raged from street to street, while the English army poured on like a ceaseless stream. Shouts, groans, the clang of swords, and the shrieks of women mingled together. Fiercer grew the close and the deadly warfare; but the numbers of the besieged became few. Heaps of dead men lay at every door, each with his sword glued to his hands by the blood of an enemy. Of the warriors from Fife, every man perished; but their price was a costly sacrifice of the boldest lives in England. The streets ran deep with blood; and, independent of slaughtered enemies, the mangled and lifeless bodies of seventeen thousand of the inhabitants paved the streets. The war of death ceased only from lack of lives to prey upon. With the exception of the Red Hall, the town was an awful and a silent charnel-house. Within it were the thirty brave Flemings, pouring their arrows upon the triumphant besiegers, and resolved to defend it to death. Amongst them was the father of Isabella, and by his side his intended son-in-law, his hands, which lately held a bride's dripping with blood. The entire strength of the English army pressed around the Hall; and fearful were the doings which the band of devoted merchants, like death's own marksmen, made in the midst of them. What the besiegers, however, failed to effect by force, they effected by fire; and the Red Hall became enveloped in flames--its wool, its silk, and rich merchandise blazing together, and causing the fierce element to ascend like a pyramid. Still the brave men stood in the midst of the conflagration, unquailed, hurling death upon their enemies; and, as the fire raged from room to room, they rushed to the roof of their hall, discharging their last arrow on their besiegers, and waving their swords around their heads, with a shout of triumph. There also stood the father, his daughter, and her lover, smiling and embracing each other in death. Crash succeeded crash--the flames ascended higher and higher--and the proud building was falling to pieces. A louder crash followed, the fierce element surrounded the brave victims--the gentle Isabella, leaning on her bridegroom, was seen waving her slender hand in triumph round her head--the hardy band waved their swords, and shouted, "_Liberty!_" and in one moment more the building fell to the earth; and the heroes, the bridegroom, and his bride, were buried in the ruins of their fortress and their factory. Thus fell the Red Hall, and with it the commercial glory of Berwick. END OF VOL. XI. FOOTNOTES: [A] This tale was written by Mr Wilson from the circumstance of "The Tales of the Borders" having been adopted as a lesson-book in several schools--ED. [B] The contrast here shown may be extended by a reference to "The Henpecked Man," and thus three specimens of the _uxori emancipatus_ will be brought into comparison.--ED. [C] The same anecdote is related of Dr Thomas Brown, the philosopher. [D] A phrase signifying that a smuggling vessel had delivered her cargo. Transcriber's note: Obvious punctuation errors were corrected. The following printers errors were addressed. Page 13 'new' to 'knew' (He scarce knew what he did) Page 13 'is' to 'his' (took her hand in his) Page 16 'fund' to 'found' (who found him owre heavy for them) Page 20 'mannner' to 'manner' (and the manner in which) Page 21 'certainly' to certainty' (a liking for the certainty of the science) Page 21 ''ve' to 'ye' (the rest of ye wad hae been selling) Page 24 'duplicate 'as' removed. (people as ye could, meet) Page 38 'uparalleled' to 'unparalleled' (condescension and unparalleled favour) Page 120 'indentity' to 'identity' (evidence of his identity) Page 125 'secresy' to 'secrecy' (this mysterious secrecy and suspicion) Page 129 'father' to 'faither' (to the comforts o' a faither) Changed to maintain consistency of dialect. Page 151 'bridemaid' to 'bridesmaid' (her bridesmaid was beside her) Page 152 'succeded' to 'succeeded' (I succeeded at last) Page 171 'she' to She' (She also allowed him) Page 177 'pike' to 'pick' (to pick your banes ahint) Page 210 'thse' to 'these' (While these important events) Page 217 'Frith' to 'Firth' (the Firth of Forth to the Tyne) Page 218 'secresy' to 'secrecy' (there was the secrecy of midnight) Page 257 'though' to 'thought' (when I thought I heard) Page 266 'uncomonly' to 'uncommonly' (we were uncommonly favoured) Page 280 'of' to 'off' (and taken off the island) Page 282 'buisness' to 'business' (and business went on) Page 282 'Lindisferne' to 'Lindisfarne' (was seen bearing round Lindisfarne) visiter/visiters These words are spelt thus throughout the book with the exception of two places which have been standardised with the above. 
32005	----	produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive.) BORDER RAIDS AND REIVERS. BORDER RAIDS AND REIVERS BY ROBERT BORLAND _MINISTER OF YARROW_ DALBEATTIE: THOMAS FRASER. MDCCCXCVIII. PRINTED AT THE COURIER AND HERALD OFFICES, DUMFRIES, FOR THOMAS FRASER, DALBEATTIE. CONTENTS. PREFACE xv. I. THE AULD ENEMY. PAGE. Extent of Border reiving--Plunder and reprisal--All classes implicated--Double dose of original sin--Victims of an evil fate--Invasions--Threatened annexation of Scotland--Edward's twofold policy--Sacking of Berwick--Feeling of hostility produced--Edward visits Scone and carries off Scottish Sceptre and Crown--Douglas and Edward Bruce-- Borderers animated by a spirit of revenge 1-14 II. PERCY'S PENNON. Battle of Otterburn--Chief combatants--How the encounter was brought about--Destruction of the Abbeys--Meeting of the Scots at Aberdeen--Scottish army assembles at Yetholm-- Method of attack determined upon--Earl Douglas marches through Northumberland--Ravages Durham--Returns to Newcastle--Hotspur and Douglas--Otterburn--Preparations for battle--The English assault--The Douglas slain--Hotspur taken prisoner--Humanity of Borderers 15-32 III. POOR AND LAWLESS. Condition of Scotland--Ancient monasteries--Description of country by Æneas Sylvius--Ignorance of the people--Laws cannot be enforced--The Barons supreme--Law against harbouring thieves--Every man's hand against his neighbour-- Pledges demanded--Banished north of the Forth--Scottish Borderers forbidden to marry daughters of "broken men" in England--No respect paid to the law--Execrable murders committed--Without religion--Hand-fasting 33-54 IV. RAIDS AND FORAYS. Invasions constantly occurring--Many lives sacrificed--How the reivers conducted their expeditions--Leslie's account-- Tracked by bloodhounds--Froissart's description of Borderers--Invasion by Earl of Hertford--Raid by Sir Ralph Eure--Battle of Ancrum Moor--Lord Dacre's devastations-- Borderers retaliate--Horrid cruelties practised--Raid of the Reidswire--Indignation of English Queen--Morton's concessions 55-80 V. WARDENS OF THE MARCHES. Generally officers of high rank--Scottish King limited in his choice--Wardens invested with arbitrary powers--Bonds of alliance--Of little or no value--Ignored when convenient--Wardens well remunerated--Duties pertaining to the office 81-96 VI. THE DAY OF TRUCE. Arrangements for dealing with offenders--Of a primitive character--Prisoners could not be detained in custody--Often took "leg-bail"--Day of Truce every month--Date and place made known by proclamation--The meeting of the Wardens-- Regulations for conduct of business--Administering the oath--Three ways of trying cases--Bogus bills--Value of goods--Bills "fouled" or "cleared"--The hot-trod-- Baughling--Lord Russell shot--Foster's explanations 97-115 VII. THE DEADLY FEUD. Origin of the expression--Feuds of everyday occurrence-- Occasioned by trifling circumstances--Inherited--Made the administration of the law difficult--Feud betwixt the Kers and Scotts--How occasioned--The Maxwells and Johnstones--A disastrous feud--Battle of Dryfe Sands--Murder of Johnstone-- Lord Maxwell imprisoned--Returns to the Borders--Betrayed by Earl of Caithness--Beheaded in Edinburgh--Ker of Cessford slain--Pursuit of his murderers--How feuds staunched--Bonds of Assurance--Marriage--Pilgrimage--Assythment 116-135 VIII. THE THIEVES DAUNTONED. The "Family Tree"--Man's first right--The King connives at Border reiving--The Wardens often indifferent--The King's visit to Dumfries--Tytler's account of what transpired--The Turnbulls of Rule Water punished--The Earl of Mar in Hawick--Lack of trees and halters--Queen Mary at Jedburgh-- The Earl of Bothwell--John Elliot of Park--The Queen visits Hermitage--Struck down with fever--The suppression of Liddesdale--Buccleuch and Ferniherst--Mangerton destroyed-- The whole district given to the flames--Geordie Bourne-- Found guilty of March treason--Executed--Milder measures-- The Tower of Netherby--Cary's success 136-154 IX. LIDDESDALE LIMMERS. Border keeps and peels--Description of them--Hermitage-- Lord Soulis--Nine-stane-rig--Black Knight of Liddesdale-- Ramsay of Dalhousie starved to death--Armstrongs and Elliots--Maitland's "Complaynt"--Took everything that came to hand--The clan system--Names of Border clans-- To-names--Debateable land--The Scotch dyke--Cary's raid-- Driven to bay 155-180 X. AFTER THE HUNTING. James V.--Border barons put in ward--Sets out for the Borders--Hunts in Meggat--Eighteen score of deer slain-- Cockburn of Henderland--Border Widow's Lament--Adam Scott, "King of Thieves"--Johnie Armstrong--The loving letter-- Basely betrayed--Pitscottie's account--Maxwell's complicity--Ballad--_Blackmeal_--Increase of Border lawlessness 181-200 XI. THE CORBIE'S NEST. General characteristics of Border reivers--Kinmount Willie--Descendant of laird of Gilnockie--Encouraged to commit depredations on English border--Present at March meeting at Dayholm--Captured by Salkeld on his way home--Imprisoned in Carlisle--Violation of Border law--The bold Buccleuch determines to effect his rescue-- Arrangements made at a horse race at Langholm--Meeting at Tower of Morton--Marches on Carlisle--Breaks into the Castle--Carries off the prisoner--Relieves him of his irons--Names of principal assistants--Scrope indignant-- Addresses the Privy Council--Buccleuch on his defence-- Elizabeth demands his surrender--James complies 201-219 XII. FLAGELLUM DEI. International complications--The Queen difficult to pacify--Her letter to James--Scrope invades Liddesdale-- His conduct defended--Buccleuch retaliates--Invades Tynedale--Account of his depredations--_Flagellum Dei_-- Supported by King and Council--Elizabeth peremptorily demands his surrender--Places himself as a prisoner in the hands of Sir William Bowes--The Governor of Berwick afraid to undertake his safe custody--Surrender of Sir Robert Ker--Lives with Sir Robert Cary on terms of intimacy and friendship--Buccleuch returns to Liddesdale-- Adopts a new policy--Incurs the displeasure of the reivers--Inaugurates a new era in Border history--Appears before the Queen 220-236 XIII. MINIONS OF THE MOON. The kindly feeling with which the more famous reivers regarded--Auld Wat of Harden--At the "Raid of Falkland"-- The consequences of this episode--Carries off 300 oxen and kye, a horse and a nag, from Gilsland--Large demands on his hospitality--"Wat o' Harden's coo!"--The sow-backed hay stack--Destroys the town of Bellinghame--Marries Mary Scott of Dryhope--His son slain by one of the Scotts of Gilmanscleuch--The feast of spurs--Goes in pursuit of the Captain of Bewcastle--Revenge!--Willie Scott--His raid on Elibank--Taken prisoner--"Muckle-mou'd Meg"--Priest or hangman--A wise choice. "Jock o' the Syde"--Prisoner in Newcastle--Rescued by his friends--Pursued by the English-- Make good their escape.--"Christie's Will"--Two delicate colts--Lord Traquair--Lord Durie kidnapped--Scott's account of the incident--Description of balladist--Christie's Will carries important papers to Charles I.--Entrapped at Carlisle on his return--Spurs his horse over parapet of bridge.--Willie of Westburnflat--Tried at Selkirk--Breaks in pieces the oaken chair--Threatens to clear the court-- Dissuaded by his friends--Executed in due form of law-- Armstrong's good-night 237-266 XIV. UNDER THE BAN. State of the Borders--Decadence of Romanism--A strong hand needed--The Celtic Church--Its influence permanent--The Scots indifferent to fulminations of their spiritual superiors--Excommunicatio major--Excommunicatio minor-- Monition of Cursing by Archbishop of Glasgow 267-279 XV. THE TRIUMPH OF LAW. "Broken men" drafted off to Belgic wars--Græmes banished to Ireland--Buccleuch invested with arbitrary powers--Thieves executed without ceremony--The Union of the Crowns--The effect highly beneficial--Firm hand laid on the ring-leaders of Border strife--New spirit infused into the administration--The name _Middleshires_ substituted for _Borders_--The law impartially administered--A happy era-- Parochial system of education--Schools before the Reformation--Educational condition of the Borders--John Knox's scheme--Beneficial results--Teaching and influence of the Church--Religious state of the Borders--Decision of the Commission--Difficulties in the way--Thomas Boston--The unploughed field--Victory achieved 280-298 XVI. THE HARVEST OF PEACE. Great changes effected in habits and character of the people--Easily explained--"Broken men" expatriated--How reiving was regarded--Border ethics--Right to rob the English--Statistics of crime--The Tweed Act--A hard school--Grim and dour--Services rendered by Borderers-- Great feature of Border life--Birthplace of poetry--The old ballads--A priceless inheritance--James Thomson, the author of "The Seasons"--Sir Walter Scott--Hogg--Leyden-- Burns probably sprung from a Border stock--The name "Burness"--A Western Mecca--Rural population decreasing-- Conclusion 299-310 PREFACE. The object we have had in view in the following pages has been (1) to indicate briefly the causes which produced Border reiving; (2) to show the extent to which the system was ultimately developed; (3) to describe the means adopted by both Governments for its suppression; (4) to illustrate the way in which the _rugging and riving_--to use a well-known phrase--was carried on; (5) to explain how these abnormal conditions were in the end effectually removed; and (6) to set forth in brief outline some of the more prominent traits in the lives and characters of the men who were most closely identified with this extraordinary phase of Border life. We have to acknowledge our indebtedness for much of the information conveyed in the following pages to Scott's "Border Antiquities" and "Border Minstrelsy," Nicolson's "Leges Marchiarum," Pitcairn's "Criminal Trials," "Calendar of Border Papers" (recently published), "Cary's Memoirs"--Froissart, Godscroft, Pitscottie, Pinkerton--and host of other writers on Border themes. It is in no spirit of mock-modesty we acknowledge how inadequately the object we have had in view has been realised. The subject is so large and many-sided that we have found it difficult to compress within the compass of a single volume anything like an adequate outline of a theme which is at once so varied and interesting. In coming to the consideration of this subject, there is one fact which it is well the reader should carefully bear in mind, and that is, that from the peculiar circumstances in which Borderers were placed in early times, the only alternative they had was either to _starve or steal_. The recognition of this fact will at least awaken our sympathy, if it does not always command our approval, when we come to consider the lives and characters of the Border Reivers. I. THE AULD ENEMY. "Near a Border frontier, in the time of war, There's ne'er a man, but he's a freebooter."--SATCHELLS. There are few more remarkable phenomena in the political or social life of Scotland than what is familiarly known as "Border Reiving." In olden times it prevailed along the whole line of the Borders from Berwick to the Solway, embracing the counties of Berwick, Roxburgh, Selkirk, Peebles, and Dumfries. During a period of some three or four hundred years these districts were chiefly inhabited by hordes of moss-troopers, who made it the chief business of their lives to harry and despoil their English neighbours. On every convenient opportunity the Scottish reivers crossed the Border, and carried off whatever came readiest to hand--horses, cows, sheep, "insight and outsight," nothing coming amiss to them unless it was either too heavy or too hot. Those on the English side who were thus despoiled were not slow to retaliate, and generally succeeded, to some extent, in making good the losses they sustained. This system of plunder and reprisal ultimately attained an extraordinary development. All classes, from the Chief of the clan to the meanest serf over whom he ruled, were engaged in it. Indeed it must be frankly admitted that the most notorious thieves were often those who had least excuse for indulging in such nefarious practices--gentlemen in high position like the Scotts, Kers, Johnstones, and Maxwells, and who in many cases had been chosen by the Government to repress the reiving propensities of their clans and followers. Some who have made a superficial acquaintance with this remarkable phase of Border life have rushed to the conclusion that the great Border Chiefs, and those over whom they exercised a kind of patriarchal authority, must have been dowered with a "double dose of original sin." In proof of this it is pointed out that a widely different state of affairs prevailed in other parts of the country, for example in Fife, and the Lothians, and generally speaking, throughout the whole of the west of Scotland, and consequently the only way in which they can account for the singular condition of the Borders is by predicating an essentially lower moral type. We do not believe that this theory, plausible though it may appear, will bear a moment's serious consideration. No doubt among the "broken men" of the Debateable land, and in some parts of Liddesdale, you will find a considerable number of disreputable characters whose only law was the length of their own swords. But it is a mistake to suppose that such individuals represent the general type of the inhabitants of the Borderland. The very fact that these men had no Chief to represent them shows that they had, so to speak, fallen out of the ranks. The solution of this problem must be sought in another direction. It will be found by a careful study of the history of the country that Border reiving was, to a considerable extent, the result of a concatenation of circumstances over which the inhabitants of these districts had little or no control. They were the victims of an evil fate. It was not merely their proximity to the English Border which occasioned their misdeeds. It is an interesting and significant fact that, till near the close of the 13th century, the Border Counties were as law-abiding as any other part of the realm. Petty skirmishes were, no doubt, of frequent occurrence, as might be expected; but the deep rooted aversion to the English which characterises the subsequent period of Scottish history had hardly at that time any real existence. How the change was brought about will become apparent as we bring under review some salient facts in Scottish history which have a direct and immediate bearing on the question before us. It must be borne in mind that for a period of more than three hundred years Scotland was kept in a condition of political distraction by the insane desire on the part of the English Government to reduce it to a state of vassalage. When this policy was first determined on everything seemed favourable to its speedy realisation. When Alexander III., a wise and gracious King, under whose reign the country had greatly prospered, was accidentally killed when hunting in the neighbourhood of Kinghorn, the Crown reverted to his grand-daughter, the Maid of Norway, who was then a child of tender years. At this unfortunate juncture Edward I. of England resolved that the two countries should be united under one Sovereign; at least this was the object of his ambition. He was fully convinced that so long as Scotland maintained her political independence, England would have to reckon with a powerful adversary. If he could only succeed, by fair means or foul, in gaining Scotland over as a fief of England, then the country as a whole would enjoy the immunities and benefits naturally accruing to its position as an island. England would thus be in an immensely more advantageous position to resist foreign invasion, and its influence and power as an aggressive force would be indefinitely increased. The object aimed at was an exceedingly desirable one. Unfortunately it was a sane policy insanely pursued. Had the English King only been gifted with more self-restraint, had he but been prepared to wait patiently the natural development of events, and not to have struck the iron _before_ it was hot, he might have succeeded in gaining his end, a result which would have changed the whole complexion and current of Scottish history. Whether this would have been better or worse, more to our own advantage and the advantage of Great Britain, as a whole, is one of those points about which there may be considerable difference of opinion. Many have regretted that the Union of the Crowns was not effected in the 14th century rather than in the 17th, as such a consummation would have saved the country much, both of bloodshed and treasure. It may be so. It cannot be denied that from a purely material point of view it might have been better had Scotland gracefully complied with the wishes of Edward. But man cannot live by bread alone. There are higher and better things in the life of a people than mere material well-being, and in view of these it was well that Scotland maintained her independence. The record of her achievements, when contending against the most overwhelming odds, and the example of those heroic personalities, which mark the progress of her history, have been a perennial fountain of inspiration to the Scottish people, have made them what they are. While, therefore, there may be some cause for regret, on the ground of political expediency, that the union of the two countries was so late in being effected, yet on other and higher grounds there is just reason for thankfulness that things took the course they did. What would Scotland have been without its Wallace or Bruce? or what would it have been apart from the long and arduous struggle through which it was destined to pass ere it gained an assured and thoroughly independent political position? The long years of struggle and desolating warfare constitute an important factor in the social and intellectual evolution of the nation. The best qualities of the Scottish character and intellect were developed in the seething maelstrom of political strife and internecine war. It may be that "the course of Providence is also the orbit of wisdom." Edward in trying to bring Scotland under his sway pursued a two-fold policy. He endeavoured to prevent as far as possible all union among the most powerful Scottish barons. He arrayed their private and selfish ambition against the love of their country. He sowed dissension in their councils, and richly rewarded their treachery. Those who dared to oppose his well-laid schemes were treated with unmitigated severity. His success in this respect was complete. He had the satisfaction of seeing the country torn to pieces by contending factions. His way was now open for applying more drastic measures. He raised a powerful army and invaded Scotland. The town of Berwick was then an important centre of commerce, and he was determined at all hazards to make himself master of the city. "He despatched a large division, with orders to assault the town, choosing a line of march which concealed them from the citizens; and he commanded his fleet to enter the river at the same moment that the great body of the army, led by himself, were ready to storm. The Scottish army fiercely assaulted the ships, burnt three of them, and compelled the rest to retire; but they in their turn were driven back by the fury of the land attack. Edward himself, mounted on horseback, was the first who leaped the dyke; and the soldiers, animated by the example and presence of their King, carried everything before them. All the horrors of a rich and populous city, sacked by an inflamed soldiery, and a commander thirsting for vengeance, now succeeded. _Seventeen thousand persons_, without distinction of age or sex, were put to the sword; and for two days the city ran with blood like a river. The churches, to which the miserable inhabitants fled for sanctuary, were violated and defiled with blood, spoiled of their sacred ornaments, and turned into stables for the English cavalry."[1] This ruthless massacre produced a profound sensation all over the country, but more especially on the Borders, and had much to do in creating that bitter feeling of hostility with which the English were ever afterwards regarded. To harass and despoil them was looked upon almost as a sacred duty. This miserable butchery of the inoffensive lieges instantly led to reprisals. Under the Earls of Ross, Menteith, and Athole, the Scottish army crossed the English Border, and ravaged with merciless severity the districts of Redesdale and Tynedale. The monasteries of Lanercost and Hexham were given to the flames, towns and villages destroyed, and the surrounding country laid waste. The Scots returned laden with booty. But the success which had crowned their arms was of doubtful utility. It only served to fan the flame of vengeful ire in the breast of the English King, who now resolved on the complete subjugation of the country. He marched against Dunbar with an army of ten thousand foot, and a thousand heavy armed horse. The Scots opposed his progress with an army much superior in point of numbers, and occupying a position of great strategic importance on the heights above Spot. As the English army had necessarily to deploy in passing along the valley it was supposed that the ranks had somehow fallen into confusion. The Scots precipitately rushed upon the enemy, only to find, to their dismay, that the English army was under the most perfect discipline, and ready for the attack. After a short resistance the Scottish columns were thrown into inextricable confusion, and were routed with great slaughter, leaving ten thousand brave soldiers dead in the field. History has a strange knack of repeating itself. Three hundred and fifty years after, the Scottish covenanters committed a similar blunder at the same place when opposing the progress of Oliver Cromwell, and with an equally disastrous result. The progress of Edward now partook of the nature of a triumphal march. He threw his army upon Edinburgh, and in the course of eight days made himself master of the Castle. He then proceeded to Perth, where he received the submission of Baliol, who seemed anxious to rid himself of an office the duties of which he was constitutionally unfit to discharge. The King continued his march to Aberdeen, and from thence to Elgin, without resistance. The nobles hurried into his presence to tender their submission. With indecent haste they renounced the alliance with Bruce, and took the oath of fealty to the destroyer of their country's liberties. It was a dark and tragic hour in Scottish history. As Edward returned on his way to Berwick, where he proposed holding a Parliament, he visited Scone, and took with him the "famous and fatal stone" upon which for many ages the Scottish Kings had been crowned and anointed. "This, considered by the Scots as the national Palladium, along with the Scottish Sceptre and Crown, the English monarch placed in the Cathedral of Westminster as an offering to Edward the Confessor, and as a memorial of what he deemed his absolute conquest of Scotland, a conquest which, before a single year elapsed, was entirely wrested from him."[2] We must now pass rapidly over one of the most eventful and stirring periods of Scottish history, during which Wallace and Bruce, by almost superhuman efforts, succeeded in delivering the country from the domination and control of England. The battle of Bannockburn gave the final blow to the lofty pretensions of the English monarch. He began to realise that the conquest of Scotland was not to be effected so easily as he had at one time vainly thought. But unfortunately this splendid victory did not result in inaugurating a reign of peace and goodwill between the two countries. After all that the Scottish people had suffered at the hands of their enemies, it was impossible for them to remain quiescent. They were determined on revenge. Hence we find that in the early autumn of 1314 Douglas and Edward Bruce were despatched across the eastern march, and ravaged with fire and sword the counties of Northumberland and Durham. They even penetrated into Yorkshire, plundered the town of Richmond, and drove away a large booty of cattle, and made many prisoners. The inhabitants of the north of England were paralysed with fear. Walsingham declares that a hundred Englishmen would not hesitate to fly from two or three Scottish soldiers, so grievously had their wonted courage deserted them. Another army of Scottish soldiers marched through Redesdale and Tynedale, "marking their progress by the black ashes of the towns and villages." In the spring of the following year this predatory mode of warfare was again resumed, and Northumberland and the principality of Durham ravaged. A great quantity of plunder was collected, and the inhabitants compelled to redeem their property by paying a high tribute. The army of Bruce seemed invincible, and the northern counties of England were made to pay dearly for the temerity of the king in venturing to challenge the patriotism and prowess of the Scottish people. These events produced a profound impression on the people as a whole, especially on the dwellers on the Scottish Border. The sacking of Berwick, and the indiscriminate slaughter of its inhabitants, whose only offence was that they refused to open their gates to the usurper, were not soon forgotten, and engendered in the Border mind an undying hatred of England. It is not to be wondered at that the inhabitants of the Scottish Border should seldom either think or speak of the English except as their "auld enemies." To despoil them became, if not a religious, at least a patriotic duty. These circumstances to which reference has been made, and others of a kindred nature, may account, in some degree at least, for the extraordinary fact that the Border mosstrooper never seems to have been ashamed of his calling. On the contrary he gloried in it. In his eyes it was honourable and worthy. The undaunted bearing of the Bold Buccleuch, for example, and his cavalier manner in dealing with the English wardens, showed how thoroughly he enjoyed the work in which he was engaged. Eure tells how, on one occasion, he sent his cousin, Henry Bowes, to confer with this famous freebooter on some question in dispute, but Buccleuch "scorned to speak with him, and gathered his forces; and if my said cousin had not wisely foreseen and taken time to have come away he had been stayed himself. Two several messages were sent from Buccleuch from out his company that were in the field, part to have stayed with him and those that were with him. Not long since some of his men having stolen in my March, my men following their trade were stayed of his officer of Hermitage, their horses taken and themselves escaped on foot."[3] The English warden had evidently considerable difficulty in accounting for Buccleuch's attitude, for we find in a letter written to Burghley a few days after this happened that he is disposed to attribute his enmity to England to his zeal for Romanism. "His secret friends," he says, "say he is a papist; his surest friends in court are papists about the Queen, and labour his grace with the King. He strengthened himself much of late, and secretly says he will not stir till some certainty of the Spaniards arrive. To England he is a secret enemy, mighty proud, publishing his descent to be from Angus, and laboureth to be created Earl, and claimeth his blood to be partly royal. His poverty is great, all which concurring with his pride and Spanish religion, I leave to your honourable wisdom to censure." This picture is certainly painted in strong colours. The one point in it which is really significant, however, is that Buccleuch was "a secret enemy to England." This may be said of nine-tenths of the Border reivers. It was not the mere love of plunder or mischief which impelled them to prosecute their calling. They were animated by a spirit of revenge. Times almost without number the armies of England had crossed the Border, burning villages and homesteads, destroying the crops, carrying off goods and cattle, leaving those whom they had thus ruthlessly despoiled to the tender mercies of an uncertain climate and an impoverished soil, from which even at the best they had difficulty in extracting a bare subsistence. The English were, comparatively speaking, rich and powerful. They could command great forces, against which it was in vain, in most cases, for the Scottish Borderers to contend. Hence when they were assailed they drove their cattle into the recesses of mountain or forest, burned or otherwise destroyed what they could not remove--so that the enemy might be enriched as little as possible--and betook themselves to some distant shelter, where they awaited the course of events. As soon as the enemy had withdrawn, they returned to their places of abode, which, though destroyed, were easily reconstructed--the work of rebuilding being done in a day or two--and then they set about recouping themselves for the losses they had sustained by making incursions on the English Border, and carrying off every thing they could lay their hands on. This system of plunder and reprisal went on merrily along the whole line of the Borders for many generations. All the great Border families were involved in it, and devoted themselves to the work with a zeal and enthusiasm which left nothing to be desired. They doubtless felt that in plundering the English they were not only enriching themselves, but promoting the interests of their country, and paying back a long standing and heavily accumulating debt. II. PERCY'S PENNON. "It fell about the Lammas time When Yeomen wonne their hay, The doughty DOUGLAS 'gan to ride In England to take a prey." BATTLE OF OTTERBURN. The Battle of Otterburn, which took place in the autumn of 1388, is without question one of the most interesting episodes in Border history, and is especially significant as an illustration of the prowess and chivalry of the Border Chiefs. The chief combatants on the Scottish side were the Earls of Douglas, Moray, March, and Crawford, the Lord Montgomery, and Patrick Hepburn of Hales, and his son. On the English side were Sir Henry (Hotspur) and Sir Ralph Percy, sons of the Earl of Northumberland; the Seneschal of York, Sir Ralph Langley, Sir Matthew Redman, governor of Berwick, Sir Robert Ogle, Sir Thomas Grey, Sir Thomas Hatton, Sir John Felton, Sir John Lillburne, Sir William Walsingham, and many others, all good men and true. The circumstances which brought about this famous encounter are worth recalling, as they shed an interesting light on the history of the period, as well as on the manners and customs of the age. The Scots, with the aid of their French allies, under the command of Sir John de Vienne, had made frequent successful incursions upon the English Borders, ravaging with fire and sword considerable districts of the country, both to the east and west of the frontier. This naturally led to retaliating expeditions. At last the state of affairs became so desperate that the young King, Richard II., determined to invade Scotland, and mete out summary punishment on the depredators. An army of extraordinary power and splendour was assembled; and the King, attended by his uncles and all the principal nobles of the kingdom, set out for the Scottish Border. If he expected to reap a rich harvest of booty by this invasion of the Scottish kingdom he was doomed to bitter disappointment. As he passed through Liddesdale and Teviotdale at the head of his army he found that the country had been cleared of everything that could be conveniently carried off. The cattle had been driven into the forest and mountain fastnesses; all the goods and chattels had been secured in places of safety; nothing was left but the green crops, and these being trampled upon were rendered practically worthless. But most wonderful of all--he never could come within sight of the enemy! The whole region through which he passed was lonely and desolate as a wilderness. The reason of this was that the French and Scots forces had fallen back upon Berwick, the commander of the Scots army being unwilling to hazard the fate of the country by an encounter with such an overwhelmingly superior force. The French commander, De Vienne, was impatient, and bitterly disappointed at not being permitted to attack the invaders. The Earl of Douglas, in order to demonstrate the hopelessness of an encounter, conveyed him to a lofty eminence, commanding a mountain pass through which the English army was at that moment defiling, and where unseen themselves, they could see its imposing array. The Scottish leader pointed out the number and discipline of the men-at-arms, and the superiority of the equipments of the archers, and then asked the French Knight whether he could recommend the Scots to encounter such a numerous and completely accoutred army with a few ill-trained Highland bowmen, and their light-armed prickers mounted on little hackneys. He could not but admit the risk was too great. "But yet," said he, "if you do not give the English battle they will destroy your country." "Let them do their worst," replied Douglas, "they will find but little to destroy. Our people have all retired into the mountains and forests, and have carried off their flocks and herds and household stuff along with them. We will surround them with a desert, and while they never see an enemy they shall never stir a bow-shot from their standards without being overpowered with an ambush. Let them come on at their pleasure, and when it comes to burning and spoiling you shall see which has the worst of it." "But what will you do with your army if you do not fight," said De Vienne; "and how will your people endure the distress and famine and plunder which must be the consequences of the invasion?" "You shall see that our army shall not be idle," was the reply; "and as for our Scottish people, they will endure pillage, and they will endure famine, and every other extremity of war, but they will not endure English masters." The wisdom of this course was proved by subsequent results. The English army by the time it reached Edinburgh had got into the most desperate straits owing to the scarcity of provisions. Multitudes perished from want, and to escape total destruction a retreat was ordered through those very districts "which their own merciless and short-sighted policy had rendered a blackened desert." There is one important fact brought before us in this connection which demands a passing notice. The Reformers have often been severely censured for the wholesale destruction of the ancient Abbeys so intimately associated with the "fair humanities" of the ritual and worship of the Church of Rome. The saying attributed to Knox, about pulling down the rookeries to prevent the crows building, has served as a convenient text for many a philippic on the iconoclastic spirit and tendency of Protestantism. But the truth is that Knox had as little sympathy with what he calls the "rascal multitude," which sometimes engaged in this kind of work, as any of those opposed to him. Our Abbeys for the most part owe their destruction not to Reforming zeal, but to Catholic England's cupidity and revenge. The beautiful Abbeys of Melrose, Dryburgh, and Newbattle were given to the flames by the English soldiers at this time, and the wanton destruction of these noble edifices created in the Scottish mind a feeling of deep and bitter hostility. Jedburgh, too, owes its destruction not to Scottish iconoclasm, but to English invasion. It was pillaged and partly burned by the Earl of Surrey in the year 1523, and its destruction was practically completed by the Earl of Hereford twenty-two years afterwards; so that, so far at least as the Border Abbeys are concerned, the charge so often preferred against the Reformers is a base and stupid calumny. It was this invasion of the English army which led the Scottish nobles to organise the expedition which may be said to have terminated so gloriously at Otterburn. "The Scots," says Godscroft, "irritated herewith boyled with desire and revenge, being at that time very flourishing with strong youth, and never better furnished with commanders." The barons did not think it politic, for various reasons, to take the King into their confidence. He was of an essentially pacific disposition, and moreover was well stricken in years, and it is almost certain, had the matter been laid before him, he would have opposed the movement to the utmost of his power. His sons, however, were prepared to give every encouragement and assistance, and the barons in order to allay suspicion, and especially to prevent the English getting to know their purposes and plans, assembled at a great feast in Aberdeen and took counsel together. But, as Froissart says, "Everything is known to them who are diligent in their inquiries." The English nobles sent spies to Aberdeen, who, appearing in the guise of heralds and minstrels, became familiar with the plans of the Scottish barons, and speedily carried the information back to their own country. When the Scottish army ultimately assembled at Yetholm, close to the English Border, the English lords were well informed on nearly every point on which information could be desired. Such a muster had not been seen, so it was said, for sixty years. "There were twelve hundred spears, and forty thousand other men and archers. These lords were well pleased on meeting with each other, and declared they would never return to their homes without making an inroad on England, and to such an effect as would be remembered for twenty years."[4] The English had arranged that, if the Scots entered the country through Cumberland and Carlisle, they would ride into Scotland by Berwick and Dunbar, for they said, theirs is an open country that can be entered anywhere, but ours is a country with strong and well fortified towns and castles. It was therefore important they should know what route the Scots had determined upon. To ascertain this they sent a spy to the Scots' camp that he might report to them not only their intentions, but their speeches and actions. The English squire who came on this errand had a singular and exciting experience. He tied his horse to a tree in the neighbourhood of the church, where the barons were assembled, and entered into the church, as a servant following his master. When he came out he went to get his horse, but to his consternation the animal had disappeared, "for a Scotsman (for they are all thieves) had stolen him."[5] He went away, saying nothing about his loss, a circumstance which at once excited suspicion. One who saw him remarked, "I have witnessed many wonderful things, but what I now see is equal to any; that man yonder has, I believe, lost his horse, and yet he makes no inquiries after it. On my troth, I doubt much if he belongs to us; let us go after him, and see whether I am right or not." He was immediately apprehended, brought back, and examined. He was told that if he tried to deceive them he would lose his head, but if he told the truth he would be kindly treated. Being in dread of his life, he divulged all he knew, and especially explained with minuteness of detail the plans which had been concocted by his compatriots for the invasion of Scotland. "When the Scottish lords heard what was said they were silent; but looked at each other." It was now resolved to divide the army into two sections; one section, and that much the larger of the two, to go into England through Cumberland, the other to proceed along the valley of the Tyne to Durham. The latter company, under the command of the Earl of Douglas, made a rapid march through Northumberland, keeping a "calm sough" all the way, but as soon as they got into the neighbourhood of Durham the fiends of war were let loose. The first intimation the garrison in Newcastle had that the enemy was within their gates, was the dense volumes of smoke which ascended from burning towns and homesteads. Having gathered together an immense quantity of booty, the Scots set out on their return journey, and crossing the Tyne assaulted Newcastle, filling the ditches with hay and faggots, hoping thereby to have drawn out the enemy to the open fields. But the English, being in doubt as to the real strength of the Scots' army, were afraid to challenge an encounter. But Sir Henry Percy, better known as _Hotspur_, being desirous to try his valour, offered to fight the Douglas in single combat. "They mounted on two faire steeds, and ran together with sharp ground spears at outrance; in which encounter the Earl Douglas bore Percie out of his saddle. But the English that were by did rescue him so that he could not come at himself, but he snatched away his spear with his guidon or wither; and waving it aloft, and shaking it, he cried aloud that he would carry it into Scotland as his spoil."[6] The account which Froissart gives of this notable encounter differs in some particulars from the foregoing. He says:--"The sons of the Earl of Northumberland, from their great courage, were always the first barriers, when many valiant deeds were done with lances hand to hand. The Earl of Douglas had a long conflict with Sir Henry Percy, and in it, by gallantry of arms, won his pennon, to the great vexation of Sir Henry and the other English." The Earl of Douglas said, "I will carry this token of your prowess with me to Scotland, and place it on the tower of my castle at Dalkeith that it may be seen from far." "By God, Earl of Douglas," replied Sir Henry, "you shall not even carry it out of Northumberland; be assured you shall never have the pennon to brag of." "You must come then," answered Earl Douglas, "this night and seek for it. I will fix your pennon before my tent, and shall see if you venture to take it away." As the balladist has vigorously put it-- He took a long spear in his hand, Shod with the metal free, And for to meet the Douglas there, He rode right furiouslie. But O how pale his lady look'd, Frae aff the castle wa', When down before the Scottish spear She saw proud Percy fa'. "Had we twa been upon the green, And never an eye to see, I wad hae had you, flesh and fell;[7] But your sword sall gie wi' me." "But gae ye up to Otterbourne, And wait there dayis three; And, if I come not ere three dayis end, A fause knight ca' ye me." "The Otterbourne's a bonnie burn; 'Tis pleasant there to be; But there is nought at Otterbourne, To feed my men and me. "The deer rins wild on hill and dale, The birds fly wild from tree to tree; But there is neither bread nor kail, To fend[8] my men and me. "Yet I will stay at Otterbourne, Where you shall welcome be; And, if ye come not at three dayis end, A fause lord I'll ca' thee." "Thither will I come," proud Percy said, "By the might of our Ladye!" "There will I bide thee," said the Douglass, "My troth I plight to thee." They lighted high on Otterbourne, Upon the bent sae brown; They lighted high on Otterbourne, And threw their pallions down. And he that had a bonnie boy, Sent out his horse to grass; And he that had not a bonnie boy, His ain servant he was. The Earl of Douglas having withdrawn his gallant troops to Otterburn, in the parish of Elsdon, some thirty-two miles from Newcastle, and within easy reach of the Scottish Border, was strongly urged to proceed towards Carlisle, in order to join the main body of the army; but he thought it best to stay there some three or four days at least, to "repell the Percy's bragging." To keep his soldiers from wearying, he set them to take some gentlemen's castles and houses that lay near, a work which was carried out with the greatest alacrity and goodwill. They also strengthened and fortified the camp where it was weak, and built huts of trees and branches. Their baggage and servants they placed at the entrance of a marsh, which lay near the Newcastle road; and driving their cattle into the marsh land, where they were comparatively safe, they waited the development of events. Nor were they long kept in suspense. The English having discovered that the Scottish army was comparatively small, resolved at once to risk an encounter. Sir Henry Percy, when he heard that the Scottish army did not consist of more than three thousand men, including all sorts, became frantically excited, and cried out--"To horse! to horse! for by the faith I owe to my God, and to my lord and father, I will seek to recover my pennon, and to beat up their quarters this night." He set out at once, accompanied by six hundred spears, of knights and squires, and upwards of eight thousand infantry, which he said would be more than enough to fight the Scots. If Providence is always on the side of the heaviest battalion, as Napoleon was wont to affirm, then the Scots on this occasion are in imminent danger of having "short shrift." But it has been found that the fortunes of war depend on a variety of circumstances that are frequently of more importance than the number of troops, either on the one side or the other. Discipline and valour, when combined with patriotism and pride-of-arms, have accomplished feats which the heaviest battalions are sometimes impotent to achieve. We by no means wish to imply that the English were deficient in these desirable qualities; far from it. They were splendidly led, and in the encounter displayed the most heroic qualities; but they were matched by a small body of men, of the most dauntless courage and invincible determination who were thoroughly inured to battle, and ever ready at the call of duty, to encounter the most powerful foes. The Scots were taken by surprise. Some were at supper, and others had gone to rest when the alarm was given that the English were approaching. But up then spake a little page, Before the peep of dawn-- "O waken ye, waken ye, my good lord, For Percy's hard at hand." "Ye lie, ye lie, ye liar loud! Sae loud I hear ye lie; For Percy had not men yestreen, To dight my men and me. "But I have dream'd a dreary dream, Beyond the Isle of Sky; I saw a dead man win a fight, And I think that man was I." He belted on his guid braid sword, And to the field he ran; But he forgot the helmit good, That should have kept his brain. The battle now raged in earnest. A bright warm day had been followed by a clear still moonlight night. "The fight," says Godscroft, "was continued very hard as among noble men on both sides, who did esteem more of glory than life. Percy strove to repair the foil he got at Newcastle, and the Earl Douglas did as much labour to keep the honour he had won. So in unequal numbers, but both eager in mind, they continued fighting a great part of the night. At last a cloud covering the face of the moon, not being able to discern friend from foe, they took some respite for a while; but so soon as the cloud was gone, the English gave so hard a charge, that the Scots were put back in such sort, that the Douglas standard was in great peril to have been lost. This did so irritate him, that he himself in the one wing, and the two Hepburns (father and son) in the other, pressing through the ranks of their own men, and advancing to the place where the greatest peril appeared, renewed a hard conflict, and by giving and receiving many wounds, they restored their men into the place from whence they had been beaten, and continued the fight till the next day at noon."[9] Foremost, in the thick of the fray, was the dauntless Douglas, laying about him on every side with a mace of iron, which two ordinary men were not able to lift, "and making a lane round about wheresoever he went." When Percy wi' the Douglas met I wat he was fu' fain! They swakked their swords till sair they swat, And the blood ran down like rain. "Thus he advanced like another Hector, thinking to recover and conquer the field, from his own prowess, until he was met by three spears that were pointed at him: one struck him on the shoulder, another on the stomach, near the belly, and the third entered his thigh. He could never disengage himself from these spears, but was borne to the ground fighting desperately. From that moment he never rose again. Some of his knights and squires had followed him, but not all; for though the moon shone it was rather dark. The three English lances knew they had struck down some person of considerable rank, but never thought it was Earl Douglas: had they known it they would have been so rejoiced that their courage would have been redoubled, and the fortune of the day had consequently been determined to their side. The Scots were ignorant also of their loss till the battle was over, otherwise they would certainly, from despair, have been discomfited."[10] When at last the dying Douglas was discovered by his kinsman, James Lindsay and John and Walter Sinclair, and was asked how he fared, he replied, "I do well dying as my predecessors have done before; not on a bed of lingering sickness, but in the field. These things I require you as my last petitions; First, that ye keep my death close both from my own folk, and from the enemy; then that ye suffer not my standard to be lost, or cast down; and last that ye avenge my death, and bury me at Melrose with my father. If I could hope for these things, I should die with the greater contentment, for long since I heard a prophecy that a dead man should win a field, and I hope in God it shall be I."[11] "My wound is deep; I fain would sleep, Take thou the vanguard of the three, And hide me by the bracken bush, That grows on yonder lilye lee. "O bury me by the bracken bush, Beneath the blooming brier, Let never living mortal ken, A kindly Scot lies here."[12] Throwing a shroud over the prostrate body of the wounded and dying soldier, that the enemy might not discover who it was that had fallen, they raised the standard and shouted lustily "a Douglas! a Douglas!" and rushed with might and main upon the English host. Soon the English ranks began to waver, and when at last it was known that Hotspur had been taken prisoner by the Earl of Montgomery, "The enemy fled and turned their backs." According to Godscroft there were 1840 of the English slain, 1040 taken prisoners, and 1000 wounded. The losses on the Scottish, according to the same historian, were comparatively trifling, amounting only to 100 slain and 200 taken prisoners. This deed was done at Otterbourne About the breaking of the day, Earl Douglas was buried at the bracken bush, And the Percy led captive away. There are several incidents connected with this famous battle that are worthy of special notice, but one in particular demands a passing word. The Bishop of Durham, at the head of ten thousand men, appeared on the field almost immediately after the battle had ended. The Scots were greatly alarmed, and scarcely knew how, in the circumstances,--having so many prisoners and wounded to attend to,--they were to meet this formidable host. They fortified their camp, having only one pass by which it could be entered; made their prisoners swear that, whether rescued or not, they would remain their prisoners; and then they ordered their minstrels to play as merrily as possible. The Bishop of Durham had scarcely approached within a league of the Scots when they began to play such a concert that "it seemed as if all the devils in hell had come thither to join in the noise," so that those of the English who had never before heard such were much frightened. As he drew nearer, the noise became more terrific--"the hills redoubling the sound." The Bishop being impressed with the apparent strength of the camp, and not a little alarmed at the discordant piercing sounds which proceeded from it, thought it desirable to retreat as speedily as possible, as it appeared to him that there were greater chances of loss than gain. "He was affrighted with the sound of the horns." Thus ended one of the most notable battles on record. The flower of the chivalry of both nations took part in it, and never did men acquit themselves with greater credit. Indeed it is generally admitted that the valour displayed on both sides has rarely, if ever, been surpassed. But perhaps most notable of all was the kindness and consideration displayed towards those who had been wounded or taken prisoner. The former were tended with the greatest care; and as for the latter, the most of them were permitted to go back to their homes, after having given their word of honour that they would return when called upon. Not more than four hundred prisoners were carried into Scotland, and some of these were allowed to regain their liberty by naming their own ransom. Many severe accusations have been brought against Scotsmen, and especially Borderers, for their cruelty and inhumanity in time of war. It is perhaps possible to make good this indictment; but we do not believe that in regard to such matters the Scots were worse than their neighbours. And if they had great vices, they had also splendid virtues. They were brave, truthful, courteous, too ready perhaps to draw the sword on the slightest provocation, but as has been shown in the present instance, they were incapable of taking a mean advantage of a fallen foe. They loved fighting for its own sake, as well as for the sake of the "booty," but when the battle was over they cherished few resentments. The splendid qualities, physical and moral, so conspicuously brought to view in the battle of Otterburn cannot fail to suggest what a magnificent country Scotland might have become many centuries ago had she only been blessed with wise Kings and a strong Government. III. POOR AND LAWLESS. "Mountainous and strange is the country, And the people rough and savage." We have seen that the feeling of hatred to the English which prevailed on the Scottish Borders was due to some extent to the memory of the wrongs which the Borderers had suffered at the hands of their hereditary enemies. That this feeling had something to do with the existence and development of the reiving system, must be apparent to every student of history and of human nature. It was the most natural thing in the world that the dwellers on the Scottish Border should seek to retaliate; and as the forces at their command were seldom powerful enough to justify their engaging in open warfare, they resorted to the only other method of revenge which held out to them any hope of success. But while this aspect of the situation ought to be kept prominently in view, there are other factors of the problem which must not be overlooked. In the Middle Ages the district of country known as the Borders must have presented a very different appearance from what it does at the close of the 19th century. The Merse, which is now, for the most part, in a high state of cultivation, and capable of bearing the finest crops, was then in a comparatively poor condition, looked at from an agricultural point of view. The soil in many places was thin, poor, and marshy. Drainage was unknown, and the benefits accruing from the rotation of crops, and the system of feeding the soil with artificial manures, so familiar in these days of high farming, were then very inadequately appreciated. Perhaps an exception to this statement ought to be made in favour of the land held and cultivated by the great religious houses, such as Melrose, Jedburgh, and Kelso. The tenants on these lands enjoyed special privileges and immunities, and were thus able to prosecute their labour not only with more skill, but with a greater certainty of success. It is sometimes said that the monks knew where to pitch their camps; that they appropriated to their own use and benefit the fairest and richest parts of the country; but, as Lord Hailes very pertinently remarks, "When we examine the sites of ancient Monasteries, we are sometimes inclined to say with the vulgar, that the clergy in former times always chose the best of the land, and the most commodious habitations, but we do not advert, that religious houses were frequently erected on waste grounds, afterwards improved by the art and industry of the clergy, who alone had art and industry."[13] The land held by these houses was cultivated on more or less scientific principles. "Within the precincts of the wealthier abbeys," says Skelton, "an active industrial community was housed. The prescribed offices of the church were of course scrupulously observed: but the energies of the society were not exclusively occupied with, nor indeed mainly directed to, the performance of religious duties. The occupants of the monasteries wore the religious garb; but they were road-makers, farmers, merchants, lawyers, as well as priests.... The earliest roads in Scotland that deserved the name were made by the Monks and their dependents; and were intended to connect the religious houses as trading societies with the capital or nearest seaport. A decent public road is indispensable to an industrial community: and a considerable portion of the trade of the country was in the hands of the religious orders. The Monks of Melrose sent wool to the Netherlands; others trafficked in corn, in timber, in salmon.... Each community, each order, as was natural, had its characteristic likings and dislikings. One house turned out the best scholars and lawyers, another the finest wool and the sweetest mutton; one was famed for poetry and history, another for divinity or medicine."[14] It would therefore be nearer the truth to say that the monks made the districts in which they lived rich and fertile; than that they found them so, and took possession of them in consequence. But beyond the sphere of these monastic institutions, the state of matters from an agricultural point of view could hardly have been worse. This was mainly due to the fact that, so far as Berwickshire and some parts of Dumfriesshire are concerned, the tiller of the soil was never sure that he would have the privilege of reaping his harvest. By the time the grain was ready for the sickle an English army might invade the country and give the crops to the flames. This happened so frequently, and the feeling of insecurity thus became so great, that husbandry at times was all but abandoned. There can be no doubt that this was one prime factor in creating the poverty which was so long a marked and painful feature of the life of the Scottish Borders. On the other hand, there was a considerable extent of country, extending from Jedburgh to Canobie, which was practically unfit for cultivation. The Royal Forest of Ettrick was of great extent, and was reserved as a happy hunting ground for the Court and its minions. Along the banks of the Teviot and the Liddle, embracing a considerable portion of Roxburgh and Dumfries, the extent of land capable of cultivation was by no means great, even though it had been found practical, or politic, to put it under the ploughshare. This region is one of the most mountainous in the South of Scotland, and in ancient times abounded in quaking bogs and inaccessible morasses. This district naturally became the favourite haunt of the Border reiver. Here he could find ways and means either of securing his own cattle, or those he had "lifted," from the search of the enemy by driving them into some inaccessible retreat, the entrance to which it was difficult, if not impossible, for strangers to discover. Of the general condition of the country at this time a vivid picture has been given by Æneas Sylvius, one of the Piccolomini, afterwards Pius II., who visited Scotland in the year 1413. He thus writes:--"Concerning Scotland he found these things worthy of repetition. It is an _island joined_ to England, stretching two hundred miles to the North, and about fifty broad: a cold country, fertile of few sorts of grain, and generally void of trees, but there is a sulphureous stone dug up which is used for firing. The towns are unwalled, the houses commonly built without lime, and in villages roofed with turf, while a cow's hide supplies the place of a door. The commonalty are poor and uneducated, have abundance of flesh and fish, but eat bread as a dainty. The men are small in stature, but bold; the women fair and comely, and prone to the pleasures of love, kisses being esteemed of less consequence than pressing the hand is in Italy. The wine is all imported; the horses are mostly small ambling nags, only a few being preserved entire for propagation; and neither curry-combs nor reins are used. From Scotland are imported into Flanders hides, wool, salt, fish, and pearls. _Nothing gives the Scots more pleasure than to hear the English dispraised._ The country is divided into two parts, the cultivated lowlands, and the region where agriculture is not used. The wild Scots have a different language, and sometimes eat the bark of trees. There are no wolves. Crows are new inhabitants, and therefore the tree in which they build becomes royal property. At the winter, when the author was there, the day did not exceed four hours." That there are several inaccuracies in this account goes without saying, but they are just such mistakes as a person making a hurried run through the country would very naturally commit. Wolves and crows were much more plentiful at that period than the inhabitants wished, as may be seen from various Acts of Parliament which were passed in order to promote their destruction. But the general description of the country here given agrees, in its main details, with other contemporary records, and presents a truly dismal picture of the poverty of the people. Even as late as the 16th century there were few well-formed roads, other than those already mentioned. There were no posts, either for letters or for travelling. Education was confined to the library of the Convent, where the sons of the barons were taught dialectic and grammar. Society consisted mainly of the agricultural class, who were half enslaved to the lords of the soil, and obliged to follow them in war. The people were fearfully rude and ignorant, much more so than the English--in this respect, indeed, contrasting unfavourably with almost any other European State. Few of them could either read or write; even the most powerful barons were often unable to sign their names. As might be expected in such a condition of society, the nobles exercised great oppression on the poor. The Government of the country was a mere faction of the nobility as against all the rest. It is said that when a man had a suit at law he felt he had no chance without using "influence." Was he to be tried for an offence, his friends considered themselves bound to muster in arms around the court to see that he got justice; that is, to get him off unpunished if they could. Men were accustomed to violence in all forms as to their daily bread. "The hail realm of Scotland was sae divided in factions that it was hard to get any peaceable man as he rode out the hie way, to profess himself openly, either to be a favourer to the King or Queen. All the people were castin sae lowss, and were become of sic dissolute minds and actions, that nane was in account but he that could either kill or reive his neighbours."[15] Such facts as these indicate in a remarkable way the extraordinary weakness of the executive government. It is abundantly evident that the Scottish Parliament was most exemplary in passing measures for the protection and amelioration of the people, but as Buchanan naively remarks, "There was ane Act of Parliament needed in Scotland, a decree to enforce the observance of the others." The King's writ did not run in many districts of the country. The unfortunate element in the situation was that it did not always coincide with the interests of the nobles to see that the decrees of the Estates were carried into effect; and as a general rule what did not happen to accord with their humour was set aside as of no moment. The consequence was that many Acts of Parliament, relating especially to the abnormal condition of the Borders, were no sooner passed than they were treated as practically obsolete. This accounts for the curious fact that we find the legislature returning again and again, at brief intervals, to the consideration of the same questions, and issuing orders which might as well never have been recorded. When the counsels of a nation are thus divided, and especially when those who are charged with the administration of the law pay no regard to it, in their own persons, it would be a marvel if lawlessness in its multifarious forms did not become the dominant characteristic of the great body of the people. That this was the result produced is painfully evident. The great barons were practically supreme within their own domains, for while the execution of the laws might nominally pertain to the Sovereign, the soldiers belonged to their Chiefs, and were absolutely at their command. Laws which cannot be enforced at the point of the sword must in the nature of the case remain practically inoperative. This unfortunate condition of affairs was a fruitful source of misery and mischief, especially on the Borders, where the prevalence of the clan-system conferred on the Chiefs the most arbitrary and far-reaching powers. Had there been any possibility of bringing the Border barons under effective governmental control "the thefts, herschips, and slaughters," for which this district was so long notorious, would have been in great part prevented. These men not only incited to crime, but standing as they did between the ruler and the ruled, they threw the ægis of their protection over the lawless and disobedient. If only that nation is to be reckoned happy which has few laws, but is accustomed to obey them, then Scotland, and the Borders in particular, must have been in a most unfortunate condition during a lengthened period of its history. The laws passed were numerous; the obedience rendered most difficult to discover. But while these enactments rarely succeeded in producing the results aimed at, they are, notwithstanding, exceedingly valuable to the historian because of the interesting light they cast on the conditions and habits of the people. In the year 1567, in the first Parliament of James VI., an important Act was passed, entitled "Anent Theft and Receipt of Theft, Taking of Prisoners by Thieves, or Bands for Ransoms, and Punishment of the same." It relates especially to the Sheriffdoms of Selkirk, Roxburgh, Peebles, Dumfries, and Edinburgh, "and other inhabitants of the remanent Shires of the Realm," bearing that it is not unknown of the continual theft, reif, and oppression committed within the bounds of the said Sheriffdoms, by thieves, traitors, and other ungodly persons, having neither fear of God nor man, which is the chief cause of the said thefts. And that the said thieves and "broken men" commit daily "thefts, reifs, herschips, murders, and fire raisings" upon the peaceable subjects of the country, "besides also takes sundrie of them," detains them in captivity as prisoners, ransoms them, "or lettis them to borrowis for their entrie again." In like manner, it is said, divers subjects of the inland, take and sit under their assurance paying them blackmail, and permitting them to "reif, herrie, and oppress their nichtbouris" with their knowledge and in their sight, without resistance or contradiction. To remove these inconveniences it was statute and ordained that whoever receipted, fortified, maintained, or gave meat, harbourage, or assistance to any thieves in their theftuous stealing or deeds, either coming thereto, or passing therefrom, or intercommunes or trysts with them, without licence of the keeper of the country, where the thief remains shall be called therefore at particular diets "criminally other airt and pairt in their theftuous deeds," or proceeded against civilly, after fifteen days warning, "without diet or tabill." It was further ordained under pain of lese majesty, that no true and faithful lieges taken by these men should be holden to enter to them, all bonds to the contrary notwithstanding. And if anyone should happen to take and apprehend any of the said thieves, either in passing to commit said theft, or in the actual doing thereof, or in their returning thencefrom, he was in no case to set them at liberty; but to present them before the Justice, and his deputies in the tolbooth of Edinburgh, within fifteen days, "gif their takeris justifye them not to the death them selfis." Further, it was ordained that none take assurance, or sit under assurance of said thieves, or pay them blackmail, or give them meat or drink, under pain of death. In like manner when thieves repaired to steal or reive within the incountry the lieges were commanded to rise, cry, and raise the fray and follow them, coming or going, on horse and foot, for recovery of the goods stolen, and apprehending of their persons, under pain of being held partakers in the said theft. It was also added that if any open and notorious thief came to a house, the owner of the house might apprehend him without reproach.[16] These enactments are at once minute and comprehensive, and had the power to enforce them corresponded in any degree with the good intentions of those who framed them, there would have been a considerable change produced in the affairs of the Border. But the truth is these so-called statutes were but little better than mere "pious opinions," reflecting credit on those responsible for them, but producing no impression, or next to none, on the country. Not many years after the passing of these Acts we find the Estates busy at work again passing measure after measure for the quieting of the disordered subjects on the Borders, for the staunching of theft and slaughter, and the punishment of "wicked thieves and limmers." Things had gone from bad to worse. Every man's hand was against his neighbour. Clan rose against clan; the Scotts and the Kerrs, the Maxwells and Johnstones, were constantly embroiled in petty warfare, the results of which, however, were sometimes most disastrous. "The broken men"--Græmes, Armstrongs, Bells, and other inhabitants of the Debateable land--finding it either unsafe or inconvenient to commit such frequent "herschips" on the English border, betook themselves with all their accustomed enthusiasm to the plundering of their Scottish neighbours. They are described as "delighting in all mischief, and maist unnaturally and cruelly wasting and destroying, harrying and slaying, their own neighbours." The Privy Council at last determined to deal with these matters, and arranged to sit on the first day of every month in the year for this purpose. Trial and injunction was to be taken of the diligence done in the execution of things directed the month preceding, and of things necessary and expedient to be put in execution during the next month to come, and that a special register be kept of all that shall happen to be done and directed in matters concerning the quietness and good rule of the Borders. But to make assurance doubly sure it was also ordained at the same time that all landlords and bailies of the lands, should find sufficient caution and surety, under pain of rebellion, to bring all persons guilty of "reife, theft, receipt of theft, depredations, open and avowed fire-raisings, upon deadly feud, protected and maintained by their masters," before "our sovereign lord's Justice," to underlie the law for the same. Failing their doing so, the landlords and bailies were bound to satisfy the party skaithed, and to refund, content, and pay to them their "herschips and skaithes." And further, the chief of the clan, in the bounds where "broken men" dwell, and to which "broken men" repair in their passing to steal and reive, or returning therefrom, shall be bound to make the like stay and arrestment, and publication as the landlords or bailies, and be subject to the like redress, criminal and civil, in case of their failure and negligence. In addition to the foregoing ordinances, it was resolved that all Captains, Chiefs, and Chieftains of the clans, dwelling on the lands of divers landlords, shall enter pledges for those over whom they exercise authority, upon fifteen days' notice, before his Highness and his secret Council, said pledges to be placed as his Highness shall deem convenient--"for the good rule in time coming, according to the conditions above written whereunto the landlords and bailies are subject; under the pain of the execution of the said pledges to the death, and no redress made by the persons offended for whom the pledges lie." We also learn from another Act of Parliament, passed at the same time, that all pledges received for the good rule and quietness of the Border shall be placed on the north side of the water of Forth, without exception or dispensation; and the pledges for the good rule of the Highlands and Isles, to be placed on the south side of the same water of Forth. But one of the most extraordinary Acts passed by this Parliament was an Act forbidding the Scottish Borderers to marry the daughters of the "broken men" or thieves of England, as it was declared this was "not only a hindrance to his Majesty's service and obedience, but also to the common peace and quietness betwixt both the Realms." It was therefore statute and ordained "that nane of the subjects presume to take upon hand to marrie with onie English woman, dwelling in the opposite Marches, without his Highness' express licence, had and obtained to that effect, under the great Seal; under the paine of death, and confiscation of all his goods moveable; and this be a special point of dittay in time cumming." These enactments were doubtless well meant, and under ordinary circumstances might have been expected to bring about beneficial results; but unfortunately they were treated with callous indifference. No improvement was effected. The "broken men" were not to be intimidated by such measures. They laughed at Parliament, and scorned the laws. This is brought out in the most conclusive manner in the records of the State Paper Office, as we shall have occasion to point out in succeeding chapters. But proof of another kind lies ready to hand. An Act of Parliament was passed in 1593, just six years after those already noticed, in which complaint is made of the rebellious contempt of his Highness' subjects who, without regard of their dutiful obedience, pass daily to the horn, "for not finding of law surety;" and "for not subscribing of assurances in matter of feud," and for "dinging and stricking his Majesty's messengers," in execution of their offices. Notice is also taken of some who nightly and daily reive, foray, and commit open theft and oppression: "for remead whereof, our said Sovereign Lord, ordains the Acts and laws made before to be put to execution, and ratifies and approves the same in all points." It was further ordained that no respite or remission was to be granted at any time hereafter to any person or persons that pass to the horn for "theft, reif, slauchter, burning or heir-shippe, while the party skaithed be first satisfied; and gif ony respite or remission shall happen to be granted, before the partie grieved be first satisfied, the samin shall be null and of nane avail, be way of exception or reply, without any further declaritour; except the saidis remissiones and respittes be granted, for pacifying of the broken Countries and Borders."[17] These may be regarded as fair samples of the long list of measures passed at different times by the Scottish Parliament for the regulation of Border affairs during the reign of the Jameses. In reading them one is forcibly reminded of a remark made by one of the English wardens, that "things were very tickle on the Scottish Border." No respect was paid to the law, either by the Chiefs or their clansmen. In the preface to Cary's Memoirs, these Scottish Borderers are described as "equalling the Caffirs in the trade of stealing, and the Hottentots in ignorance and brutality." This savage indictment is borne out by Sir William Bowes who, in a letter to Burghley in the year 1593--nearly forty years after the Reformation--thus writes:--"The opposite wardens and officers being always Borderers bred and dwelling there, also cherish favourites and strengthen themselves by the worst disposed, to support their factions. And as they are often changed by the King for their misdemeanours, the new man always refuses to answer for attempts before his time. Cessford the warden cannot answer for the whole Middle March, but must seek to Fernihirst for one part, and Buccleuch for Teviotdale. "_Execrable murders are constantly committed_, whereof 4 new complaints were made to the lords in the few days they were here, and 3 others this month in Atholstonmoor. The gentlemen of the Middle March recount out of their memories nearly 200 Englishmen, miserably murdered by the Scots, since the tenth year of her Majesty's reign, for which no redress hath at all been made.... I have presumed to testify this much to your lordship more tediously than I should; yet will be ready to do more particularly, if you direct me. Praying you to receive from some other, equally heedful of truth--and in meantime trusting you will cover my name from undeserved offence--I pray God to make you an instrument under our gracious sovereign to cure the aforesaid gangrene thus noisomely molesting the foot of this kingdom."[18] This "gangrene" was of long standing, and as we shall find was not to be easily eradicated. But while poverty,--largely due to circumstances over which the people had no control,--and lawlessness,--the result of the inherent weakness of the central government,--had much to do in creating that condition of affairs on the Borders which we have briefly described, there were other and perhaps more potent causes which demand consideration. Foremost among these was the almost entire absence of the restraints and sanctions of religion. In one of the Acts of Parliament already noticed it is significantly declared that one of the principal causes of the lawlessness of the Borders was that "they had neither the fear of God nor man." To those familiar with certain phases of Border history this may appear somewhat anomalous. At an early period in the religious life of Scotland this district was brought under the influence of the Evangel by St. Aidan and St. Cuthbert. That the work of these missionaries was signally successful, is shown in the large number of churches planted all over the Borderland. After the time of Queen Margaret, whose influence in certain directions was almost marvellously potent, the great religious houses of the Borders rose in rapid succession, such as Melrose, Kelso, and Jedburgh, each a centre and source of religious and social wellbeing. The moral life of the people, notwithstanding the existence of such beneficent institutions, may have been of an indifferent character; but what the state of matters might have been, had those places, and what they represented, never been in existence at all, it is impossible to conceive. It was a true instinct which led the people to regard the Abbey of Haddington as the "Lamp of the Lothians." And the same designation might have been applied with equal appropriateness to every Abbey in the country. Those places for many generations represented all that was highest and best in the thought and life of Mediævalism. Here law and order were supreme. Round those religious houses industrial, orderly communities sprang up, whose influence was felt throughout the length and breadth of the land. The Monasteries may deserve all that was said of them in later times, but, throughout a considerable period of their history, their influence was almost wholly beneficial. Scotland owes much to them, and there is no reason why the fact should not be generously recognised. It is no doubt true that, for some considerable time before the Reformation, those great institutions had sadly degenerated. "Jeshurun waxed fat and kicked." The time came when they had, perforce, to yield to those disintegrating processes which usually herald the advent of reform. The old order changeth. The new wine of a democratic Protestantism, in which the claims of the individual, his right to think for himself, and form his own judgments, are prominent ingredients, agreed but indifferently with the old bottles of an earlier Faith and Polity. And so the Monasteries disappeared. But it was long ere the new light of the Reformation made itself practically felt on the Borders. When the influences which had hitherto been so potent ceased to operate, a condition of religious and moral chaos supervened. Hundreds of churches were left without ministers. Whole districts practically lapsed into barbarism. For at least fifty years after the Reformation, the Scottish Borders were to all intents and purposes out-with the influence of the Church. Even as late as the Covenanting period their condition had not greatly improved. "We learn," says Sir Walter Scott, "from a curious passage in the life of Richard Cameron, a fanatical preacher during what is called the time of 'persecution,' that some of the Borderers retained till a late period their indifference about religious matters. After having been licensed at Haughead, in Teviotdale, he was, according to his biographer, sent first to preach in Annandale. 'He said, How can I go there? I know what sort of people they are.' But Mr Welch said, 'Go your way, Ritchie, and set the fire of hell to their tails.' He went, and the first day he preached on the text--_How shall I put thee among the children, &c._ In the application he said, 'Put you among the children! the offspring of thieves and robbers! we have all heard of Annandale thieves.' Some of them got a merciful cast that day, and told afterwards that it was the first field meeting they had ever attended, and that they went out of mere curiosity, to see a minister preach in a tent, and people sit on the ground."[19] During the period of religious decadence, prior to the Reformation, a remarkable custom, not unknown elsewhere, prevailed on the Borders. Owing to the scarcity of clergymen, especially in the Vales of Ewes, Esk, and Liddle, the rites of the church were only intermittently celebrated, a circumstance which gave rise to what was known as _Hand-fasting_. Loving couples who met at fairs and other places of public resort agreed to live together for a certain period, and if, when the _book-a-bosom_ man, as the itinerant clergyman was called, came to pay his yearly visit to the district, they were still disposed to remain in wedlock they received the blessing of the church; but if it should happen that either party was dissatisfied, then the union might be terminated, on the express condition, however, that the one desiring to withdraw should become responsible for the maintenance of the child, or children, which may have been born to them. "The connection so formed was binding for one year only, at the expiration of which time either party was at liberty to withdraw from the engagement, or in the event of both being satisfied the 'hand-fasting' was renewed for life. The custom is mentioned by several authors, and was by no means confined to the lower classes, John Lord Maxwell and a sister of the Earl of Angus being thus contracted in January 1577."[20] IV. RAIDS AND FORAYS. "Then forward bound both horse and hound, And rattle o'er the vale; As the wintry breeze through leafless trees Drives on the pattering hail. "Behind their course the English fells In deepening blue retire; Till soon before them boldly swells The muir of dun Redswire." LEYDEN. To give anything like an adequate account of the various raids and forays, on the one side of the Border and the other, would fill many volumes. These raids, as we have already noticed, began at an early period, and were carried on almost without intermission for at least three hundred years. The Armstrongs and Elliots in Liddesdale, and many of the other noted clans in Merse and Teviotdale, were "always riding." As an English warden remarks in one of his despatches to the Government:--"They lie still never a night"--a statement which may be accepted as literally true. At some point or other along the Border line, invasions either on the part of the Scots or English were constantly occurring. In this respect, more especially during the reign of Queen Elizabeth, the Scots were perhaps the principal offenders. But as a general rule their invasions, though frequent, were on a comparatively small scale, partaking rather of the nature of forays than of raids. They would hurriedly cross the Border of an evening, drive together as many cattle or sheep as they could find, and then hasten back with all possible speed to their own country. Sometimes, if they were compelled to go a considerable distance inland, they would hide during the day in some quiet glen, within the enemy's territory, and then sally forth as soon as the moon lent her kindly aid, and accomplish with the utmost expedition the task which had brought them thither. It is said that these incursions were marked with the desire of spoil rather than of slaughter, a statement which may be true so far as forays generally are concerned, but which certainly does not apply to the more important raids. These latter incursions were marked with every element of ferocity and bloodshed. In some of the raids conducted by Cessford and Buccleuch, in the 15th century, in Redesdale and Tynedale, many lives were sacrificed, and all who offered resistance were put to the sword. Hertford, Wharton, and others, in their raids upon the Scottish Border seemed often more intent on shedding blood than securing booty. The statement that these incursions were marked with a desire of spoil rather than bloodshed must therefore be accepted _cum grano salis_. It would seem that the season of year most favourable to reiving was between Michaelmas and Martinmas. The reason of this is not difficult to discover. The reivers in their expeditions hardly ever went on foot. They rode small hackneys--hardy, well-built animals--on which they cantered over hill and dale, moor and meadow, a circumstance which gained for them the name of _hobylers_. In the late autumn the moors and mosses were drier than at any other season of the year, which made riding, in certain districts especially, a much more easy and expeditious undertaking. Then the winter supply had to be secured. The beef tub required replenishing, and as the "mart" was rarely ever fed at home it had to be sought for elsewhere. It was a case of all hands to work, and every available horse or rider was brought into requisition. Leslie has given a graphic description of the methods adopted by the Border reivers to secure their booty. Everything was gone about in the most orderly and deliberate manner. He says that the reivers never told their beads with so much devotion as when they were setting out on a marauding expedition, and expected a good booty as a recompense of their devotion! "They sally out of their own borders in troops, through unfrequented ways and many intricate windings. In the day time they refresh themselves and their horses in lurking places they had pitched on before, till they arrive in the dark at those places they have a design upon. As soon as they have seized upon their booty, they, in like manner, return home in the night; through blind ways and fetching many a compass. The more skilful any captain is to pass through these wild deserts, crooked turnings, and deep precipices, in the thickest mists and darkness, his reputation is the greater, and he is looked upon as a man of an excellent head, and they are so very cunning, that they seldom have their booty taken from them, unless sometimes, when by the help of bloodhounds, following them exactly upon the track, they may chance to fall into the hands of their adversaries. When being taken they have so much persuasive eloquence, and so many smooth and insinuating words at command, that if they do not move their judges, nay and even their adversaries, to have mercy, yet they incite them to admiration and compassion." Such a skilful "Captain," as is here referred to, was the famous Hobbie Noble, who terminated his adventurous career in "Merrie Carlisle," where so many famous freebooters, at one time or other, have paid the last penalty of the law. Speaking of himself, he says:-- "But will ye stay till the day gae down, Until the night come o'er the ground, And I'll be a guide worth ony twa That may in Liddisdale be found! "Though the night be dark as pick and tar, I'll guide ye o'er yon hill sae hie; And bring ye a' in safety back, If ye'll be true and follow me." But the skill of the leader of the foray was not always sufficient to bring his followers safely back to their homes and families. When the bloodhounds were put on the track it was often a matter of the greatest difficulty for the thieves to elude their pursuers. "The russet bloodhound wont, near Annand's stream, To trace the sly thief with avenging foot Close as an evil conscience." These useful animals were kept at different points along the Border, and as they rendered most important services, we are not surprised to learn that a good sleuth-hound often sold as high as a hundred crowns. It may be interesting, before proceeding to give an account of some of the more famous raids, to glance briefly at the manner in which the raiders were armed and accoutred for the fray. Froissart has given the following account of the Scottish Borderers, and Scottish soldiers generally, as they appeared towards the close of the fourteenth century. "The Scots," he says, "are bold, hardy, and much inured to war. When they make their invasions into England, they march from twenty to four-and-twenty leagues without halting, as well by night as by day; for they are all on horseback, except the camp followers, who are on foot. The knights and esquires are mounted on large bay horses, the common people on little Galloways. They bring no carriages with them, on account of the mountains they have to pass in Northumberland; neither do they carry with them any provisions of bread and wine, for the habits of sobriety are such in time of war that they will live a long time on flesh half sodden, without bread, and drink the river water without wine. They have therefore no occasion for pots or pans, for they dress the flesh of their cattle in the skins after they have taken them off; and being sure to find plenty of them in the country which they invade, they carry none with them. Under the flaps of his saddle each man carries a broad plate of metal, behind the saddle a little bag of oatmeal. When they have eaten too much of the sodden flesh, and their stomach appears weak and empty, they place this plate over the fire, mix with water their oatmeal, and when the plate is heated they put a little of the paste upon it and make a thin cake like a cracknel or biscuit, which they eat to warm their stomachs; it is therefore no wonder they perform a longer day's march than other soldiers. In this manner the Scots entered England, destroying and burning everything as they passed. They seized more cattle than they knew what to do with. Their army consisted of four thousand men at arms, knights, and esquires, well mounted, besides twenty thousand men, bold and hardy, armed after the manner of their country, and mounted upon little hackneys that are never tied up or dressed, but are turned immediately after the day's march to pasture on the heath or in the field."[21] It may be said that this description--which, it may be remarked, is as graphic in outline as it is minute in detail--applies rather to the regular army than to those undisciplined marauding bands which infested the Borders, and to which the name "reivers" or "mosstroopers" is usually assigned. This is no doubt true. At the same time, it must not be forgotten that many of the more important raids were undertaken by large bodies of troops, numbering sometimes three or four thousand men. This much at least is certain that the Border reiver was always well mounted, and well armed with lance or spear, which, on occasion, he could use with much dexterity and skill. With a steel cap on his head, a jack slung over his shoulders, a pistol or hagbut at his belt, he was ever ready for the fray, and prepared to give or take the hardest blows. He was naturally fond of fighting. Like Dandie Dinmont's terriers he never could get enough of it, and must have found life peculiarly irksome when he was compelled to desist from his favourite pastime. He lived in the saddle, and was as unaccustomed to the ordinary occupations of the world as the wild Arab of the desert. Even to enumerate the raids and forays on the one side or the other, of which some record has been left either in the Histories of the two Kingdoms, or in the archives of the State Paper Office, would be an almost endless task, and moreover would serve no really useful purpose. The details of the "burnings," "herschips," and "slaughters," which were the necessary concomitants of these invasions, are much the same in all cases. It is a dreary tale of theft and oppression, bloodshed and murder. The following incidents may be taken as fairly illustrative examples. During the reign of Henry VIII. the relations between the two kingdoms were often of a most unsatisfactory and unsettled character. This was due to a variety of causes, partly political and partly religious. The same difficulties cropped up in the subsequent reigns of Edward, Mary, and Elizabeth, and the consequence was that war clouds were ever hanging, dark and threatening, on the horizon. The mutual antagonism between the two countries fostered the raiding tendencies of both kingdoms. The Scots were intent on despoiling their more wealthy neighbours, and the English never missed an opportunity of humiliating and crippling their ancient foes. Two of the most destructive invasions, or raids, on the part of the English were conducted by the Earl of Hertford and Sir Ralph Eure. The former invaded the country both by sea and land. Edinburgh and Leith suffered severely. The Abbey and Palace of Holyrood were given to the flames. All along the east coast, and southwards as far as Merse and Teviotdale, marked the steps of the retreating and relentless invaders. Henry's savage instructions were faithfully carried out. When Hertford set out on this expedition he was commanded "to put all to fire and sword, to burn Edinburgh town, and to raze and deface it; when you have sacked it, and gotten what you can out of it, as that it may remain for ever a perpetual memory of the vengeance of God lighted upon it, for their falsehood and disloyalty. Do what you can out of hand, and without long tarrying, to beat down and overthrow the Castle, sack Holyrood-house, and as many towns and villages about Edinburgh as ye conveniently can; sack Leith and burn and subvert it, and all the rest, putting man, woman, and child to fire and sword, without exception, where any resistance shall be made against you; and this done, pass over to the Fife land, and extend the extremities and destructions in all towns and villages whereunto you may reach conveniently, and not forgetting amongst all the rest so to spoil and turn upside down the Cardinal's town of St. Andrews, as the upper stone may be the nether, and not one stick stand by another, sparing no creature alive within the same, specially such as in friendship or blood be allied to the Cardinal."[22] This hideous policy on the part of the English King was fruitful mainly of bitter memories. He did not accomplish the object he had in view, but he certainly succeeded in engendering in the Scottish mind a feeling of the most bitter hostility. It produced, however, one good result. It alienated from the English monarch some of those nobles who had for some time been wavering in their allegiance to the Scottish throne, and had been, either secretly or openly, lending their aid to further the machinations of the English government. But destructive as Hertford's invasion proved (which has been well described as only a foray on a large scale), it was totally eclipsed by the raid undertaken by Sir Ralph Eure in the following year, 1544. He crossed the Scottish Border with a considerable army, and laid waste nearly the whole of Merse and Teviotdale, reducing that large and important district to a blackened desert. Jedburgh and Kelso were burnt to the ground, and the surrounding country plundered and destroyed. "The whole number of towns, towers, stedes, barnekins, parish churches, bastel-houses, seized, destroyed, and burnt, in all the Border country, was an hundred and ninety-two, Scots slain four hundred, prisoners taken eight hundred and sixteen, nolt ten thousand three hundred and eighty-six, sheep twelve thousand four hundred and ninety-six, gayts (goats) two hundred, bolls of corn eight hundred and fifty, insight gear--an indefinite quantity. "The great part of these devastations were committed in the Mers and Teviotdale.... The other commanders of chief note, besides Sir Ralph Eure, were Sir Brian Laiton and Sir George Bowes. On the 17th July, Bowes, Laiton, and others burnt Dunse, the chief town of the Mers, and John Carr's son with his garrison entered Greenlaw, and carried off a booty of cattle, sheep, and horses. On the 19th of the same month, the men of Tyndale and Ridsdale, returning from a road into Tiviotdale, fought with the laird of Ferniherst and his company, and took himself and his son John prisoners. On July 24th the Wark garrison, the Captain of Norham Castle, and H. Eure, burnt long Ednim, made many prisoners, took a bastel-house strongly kept, and got a booty of forty nolt and thirty horses, besides those on which their prisoners were mounted, each on a horse. August 2d, the captain of Norham burnt the town of Home, hard to the castle gates, with the surrounding stedes. September 6th, Sir Ralph Eure burnt Eikford church and town, the barnekyn of Ormiston, and won by assault the Moss Tower, burnt it, and slew thirty-four people within it; he likewise burnt several other places in that neighbourhood, and carried off more than five hundred nolt and six hundred sheep, with a hundred horseload of spoils got in the tower. September 27th, the men of the east and part of the middle march won the church of Eccles by assault, and slew eight men in the abbey and town, most part gentlemen of head sirnames; they also took several prisoners, and burnt and spoiled the said abbey and town. On the same day the garrison of Berwick brought out of the east end of the Mers six hundred bolls of corn, and took prisoner Patrick Home, brother's son to the laird of Ayton. November 5th, the men of the middle march burnt Lessudden, in which were sixteen strong bastel-houses, slew several of the owners, and burnt much corn. November 9th, Sir George Bowes and Sir Brian Laiton burnt Dryburgh, a market town, all except the church, with much corn, and brought away a hundred nolt, sixty nags, an hundred sheep, and much other booty, spoilage, and insight-gear."[23] This record is an instructive one. It shows how these merciless raiders were dominated by the spirit of destruction and revenge. Nothing was spared which it was possible for them to destroy. This invasion must have proved peculiarly vexatious and disheartening to the Scottish Borderers. Flodden had left them terribly crippled. The damage they had sustained was not only of a material kind--the loss of men and resources--it was also, to a certain extent, moral and intellectual. They had become utterly disheartened, and it was some considerable time before they regained their wonted confidence and intrepidity: "Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day: The flowers of the forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay. "We'll hear nae mair lilting, at the ewe milking; Women and bairns are heartless and wae: Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning-- The flowers of the forest are a' wede awae." The darkest part of the night precedes the dawn. Help was forthcoming from an unexpected quarter. Henry had promised to give Eure a grant of all the land he could conquer in Merse, Teviotdale, and Lauderdale, and it so happened that the greater part of the district named belonged to Angus, who was then in disgrace at the Scottish Court, and for some time had been currying favour with the English King. When he learned what had taken place, his indignation was unbounded. He swore that "if Ralph Eure dared to act upon the grant, he would write his sasine, or instrument of possession, on his skin with sharp pens and bloody ink." Scotland has not unfrequently been deserted by her nobles at the most critical periods of her history, but just as often has she been saved by their valour and patriotism. On the present occasion, Angus was not moved to action, perhaps, by any really patriotic feeling. Had his own interests not been imperilled, he would in all probability have remained an idle spectator of the ruin and devastation which, like a flood, was rushing over the land. Be this as it may, he acted with promptitude and effect. Having been joined by the Regent, who brought with him a small and hastily-gathered force, Angus challenged the English army at Melrose; and, though at first he was compelled to retreat, he hung upon the rear of the enemy until, joined by Sir Walter Scott of Buccleuch and the redoubtable Norman Leslie, he gave them battle on Ancrum Moor. The English, flushed with confidence by their former successes, rushed precipitately upon the Scottish army, believing that their ranks had fallen into confusion, and were preparing for flight. It was not long ere they were undeceived. The Scots were ready for the encounter, and in a short time completely routed the formidable host by which they were assailed. The battle speedily became a slaughter. Sir Ralph Eure and Sir Brian Layton both lay dead on the field, a thousand prisoners were taken, among them being many persons of rank, for whom high ransoms were exacted. It is said that the peasantry of the neighbourhood, hitherto only spectators of the short conflict, drew near to intercept and cut down the English; and women, whose hearts had been steeled against the fugitives by their atrocious barbarities, joined in the pursuit, and spurred on the conquerors by calling upon them to "remember Broomhouse." One of these heroines has been immortalized. Her monument may still be seen in the neighbourhood of Ancrum. On it were inscribed the following lines:-- "Fair maiden Lilliard lies under this stane, Little was her stature, but great was her fame; Upon the English loons she laid many thumps, And when they cutted off her legs she fought upon her stumps." Some may be disposed to think that the devastations caused by Hertford and Sir Ralph Eure must be exceptional; that the raiding and reiving must have gone on much more quietly than such accounts would lead us to suppose. But this is not so. The Borders were kept in a constant state of turmoil. They had no sooner recovered from one invasion than they were subjected to another. Long before Hertford's time, for example, Lord Dacre, one of the English wardens, made a succession of the most disastrous raids on the Scottish Border, and carried off immense quantities of booty. He was exultant over his good fortune. Writing under date October 29, 1513, he says:--"On Tewsday at night last past, I sent diverse of my tennents of Gillislande to the nombre of lx. personnes in Eskdalemoor upon the Middill Merches, and there brynt vii. howses, tooke and brougth away xxxvj. head of cattle and much insight. On weddinsday at thre of the clok efter noon, my broder Sir Christopher assembled diverse of the kings subjects beyng under my reull, and roode all night into Scotland, and on Thurisday, in the mornynge, they began upon the said Middill Merchies and brynt Stakeheugh, with the hamletts belonging to them, down, Irewyn bwrne, being the chambrelain of Scotland owne lands and undre his reull, continewally birnyng from the Breke of day to oone of the clok after noon, and there wan, tooke and brought awey cccc. hede of cattell, ccc. shepe, certaine horses and verey miche insight, and slew two men, hurte and wounded diverse other persones and horses, and then entered Ingland ground again at vij. of the clok that night."[24] Such a record as this ought to have given great satisfaction to the Government. Lord Dacre had evidently done his utmost to impoverish and ruin the unfortunate Scottish Borderers. But the English appetite at this time was not easily satisfied. Naturally enough Dacre's invasion led to reprisals, and so successful had the Scots been in their forays on the opposite Border that the English Government blamed their representative for not having prevented these raids. In reply to these rather unjust complaints, Dacre wrote saying that "for oone cattell taken by the Scotts we have takyn, won and brought awey out of Scotland a hundreth; and for oone shepe two hundreth of a surity. And has for townships and housis, burnt in any of the said Est, Middill, and West Marches within my reull, fro the begynnyng of this warr unto this daye,... I assure your lordships for truthe that I have and hes caused to be burnt and distroyed sex times moo townys and howsys within the West and Middill Marches of Scotland, in the same season then is done to us, as I may be trusted, and as I shall evidently prove. For the watter of Liddall being xij. myles of length,... whereupon was a hundreth pleughs;... the watter of Ewse being viij. myles of length in the said Marches, whereupon was vii. pleughs,... lyes all and every of them waist now, noo corn sawn upon the said ground.... Upon the West marches I have burnt and distroyed the townships of Annand (together with thirty-three others mentioned in detail), and the Water of Esk from Stabulgorton down to Cannonby, being vi. myles in lenth, whereas there was in all tymes passed four hundreth ploughes and above, which are now clearly waisted and noo man duelling in any of them in this daye, save oonly in the towrys of Annand Steepel and Walghapp (Wauchope)."[25] As might be expected these inroads were not allowed to pass unredressed, as the Scots never missed an opportunity of retaliating. During the latter half of the fifteenth century they were considerably weakened by the successive wars in which they were compelled to engage in their own defence; but we find that a century later, during the reign of Elizabeth, they had completely recovered, and made their power felt in no uncertain manner. They raided upon the opposite Border without intermission, plundering all and sundry, sparing only those who were prepared to pay them blackmail, "that they might be free from their cumber." The English wardens were comparatively helpless, owing to their lack of men and horses to defend the Marches. The Scottish reivers were not easily captured; and when it came to an encounter, unless matched against a greatly superior force, they almost invariably gave a good account of themselves. We find Eure affirming, in a letter to Cecil, under date May, 1596, that the spoils of his March amounted to the sum of £120,000, "the redress for which is so cunningly delayed that the Queen's service is ruined."[26] Sir Robert Cary, who was warden of the East March, has a still more doleful tale to relate. He says that when he applied to the opposite warden for redress he "got nothing but fair words." He furnished his Government with a note of the "slaughters, stouthes, and reafes," committed within his wardenry, which shows that the Scottish reivers were ever ready to make the most of their opportunities. The following is the suggestive list:-- "Nicolos Bolton of Mindrum slain in daylight at his own plough by Sir Robert Kerre of the Spielaw and his servants. "Thomas Storie of Killam slain there by night by Sir Robert Kerre and his servants. "John Selby of Pawston slain by the Burnes defending his own goods in his own house there. "John Ewart of Corham slain on English ground at the rescue of Englishmen bringing their own goods. "'Reafes.'--In Hethpoole in daylight by the Davisons, Yonges, and Burnes of 40 kyen and oxen, and hurting Thomas and Peter Storye, &c., in peril of their lives. Another there by daylight by the Kerres, Yonges, and Taites, of 46 head of neate, shooting John Gray with a 'peice' in peril of death, and hurting one of the Brewhouses following, and taking his horse. In West Newton in daylight by James Davidson of the Burnyrigge, &c., of 5 horse and mares; another there at night taking up 2 horses, 20 neate, and insight worth 20 nobles. "On Thomas Routledge of Killam, at night, by the Yonges, of 30 kyen and oxen. On Adam Smith of Brigge mylle at night by the Kerres, Yonges, Burnes, &c., of 20 neate, and 5 horse and mares. In Cowpland, by the Yonges, Burnes, and Kerres on Gilbert Wright, 'by cutting up his doores with axes,' of 30 neate, 4 horses and mares, and insight worth £10. In Haggeston by the Yonges, Halles, Pyles, and Amysleyes, 'by cutting up their doores with axes,' of 30 neate, 5 naegs, and hunting 4 men in peril of death. On Ralph Selby, of West wood, by the Yonges, &c., 'by breaking his tower,' and taking 3 geldings worth £60 sterling 'and better.'"[27] Then follows a long list of "Stouthes," which it would only be a weariness to repeat. These incidents had all occurred in this March within a brief period, and may be accepted as an illustration of what was going on almost every day in the year within the respective wardenries. This game, it may be said, was indulged in with equal spirit and pertinacity on both sides. We read of two men in the Middle March in England coming into Liddesdale and carrying off 30 score kye and oxen, 31 score sheep and "gait," 24 horse and mares, and all their insight--"the people being at their schellis, lipning for no harme, and wounded twa puir men to their deid." At the same time, Captain Carvell, with 2000 "waigit" men, by Lord Scrope's special command, burnt "six myle of boundis in Liddisdale, tuik sindrie puir men and band them twa and twa in leisches and cordis, and that 'naikit,' taking awa a 1000 kye and oxen, 2000 sheep and 'sex scoir of hors and merris,' to the great wrak of the puir subjects."[28] These forays, it must be admitted, were sometimes conducted in the most relentless and cruel spirit. We read, for example, of one "Sowerby," near Coldbeck, having his house broken into, and himself most cruelly used. "They set him on his bare buttocks upon an hote iron, and then they burned him with an hote girdle about his bellie, and sundry other parts of his body, to make him give up his money, which they took, under £4."[29] Some of the most interesting episodes in Border history were not the outcome of any deep laid scheme, but the result of some sudden and unexpected emergency. It was difficult for the inhabitants of the opposite Marches to come into close contact without the greatest danger of an outbreak of hostilities. Individual families were often on friendly terms, and were ready even to assist each other on occasion. The Scots sometimes brought the English to help them to rob those who lived in their own neighbourhood; and the English, on the other hand, were equally ready to avail themselves of the assistance of those on the opposite Border when they had a similar object in view. But when they came together in their hundreds or thousands, as they sometimes did on a "Day of Truce," then it was a matter of supreme difficulty to keep them from flying at each other's throats. Feeling ran high, and a word, a look, was sometimes sufficient to change an otherwise peaceful meeting into one of turmoil and bloodshed. One notable instance of this kind is known as the "Raid of the Reidswire." Sir John Foster, the English warden, and Sir John Carmichael, the warden on the opposite March, had a meeting for the regulation of Border affairs, on the 7th July, 1575. Each warden was attended by his retinue, and by the armed clans inhabiting the district. As the balladist describes it: "Carmichael was our warden then, He caused the country to convene; And the Laird's Wat, that worthy man, Brought in that sirname weil beseen: The Armestranges, that aye ha'e been A hardy house, but not a hail, The Elliots' honours to maintaine, Brought down the lave o' Liddisdale. "Then Tividale came to wi' spied; The Sheriffe brought the Douglas down, Wi' Cranstane, Gladstain, good at need, Baith Rewle water and Hawick town, Beanjeddart bauldly made him boun, Wi' a' the Trumbills, strong and stout; The Rutherfoords with grit renown, Convoy'd the town of Jedbrugh out." The two parties had apparently met on the best of terms. Mirth and good fellowship prevailed. The pedlars erected their temporary booths, and sold their wares. The gathering presented the appearance of a rural fair. No one could have suspected that so much bad feeling was hidden under such a fair exterior, and ready to burst forth in a moment with volcanic fury. Yet such was the case. A dispute arose betwixt the two wardens about one Farnsteen, a notorious English freebooter, against whom a bill had been "filed" by a Scottish complainer. Foster declared that he had fled from justice, and could not be found. Carmichael regarded this statement as a pretext to avoid making compensation for the felony. He bade Foster "play fair." The English warden was indignant. Raising himself in the saddle, and stretching his arm in the direction of Carmichael, he told him to match himself with his equals! "Carmichael bade them speik out plainlie, And cloke no cause for ill nor good; The other, answering him as vainlie, Began to reckon kin and blood: He raise, and raxed him where he stood, And bade him match with him his marrows; Then Tindaill heard them reason rude, And they loot off a flight of arrows." The cry was raised, "To it, Tynedale," and immediately the merry meeting was turned into a Donnybrook fair, where hard blows were given and received. The Scots at first had the worst of the encounter, and would have been completely routed had it not been for two circumstances. The men of Tynedale, conscious of their superior strength, began to rifle the "merchant packs," and thus fell into disorder. At this juncture a band of citizens of Jedburgh, armed with fire-arms, unexpectedly, but most opportunely, appeared on the scene, and in a short time the skirmish ended in a complete victory for the Scots. Sir John Heron was slain, and Sir John Foster and many other Englishmen of rank taken prisoner. "But after they had turned backs, Yet Tindaill men they turn'd again, And had not been the merchant packs, There had been mae of Scotland slain. But, Jesu! if the folks were fain To put the bussing on their thies; And so they fled, wi' a' their main, Down ower the brae, like clogged bees." The prisoners were sent to Dalkeith, where for a short time they were detained in custody by the Earl of Morton. He ultimately dismissed them with presents of falcons, which gave rise to a saying on the Borders that for once the Regent had lost by his bargain, as he had given live hawks for dead herons,--alluding to the death of Sir John Heron. "Who did invent that day of play, We need not fear to find him soon; For Sir John Forster, I dare well say, Made us this noisome afternoon. Not that I speak preceislie out, That he supposed it would be perril; But pride, and breaking out of feuid Garr'd Tindaill lads begin the quarrel." "The Queen of England," says Ridpath, "when informed of these proceedings, was very much incensed, and sent orders to her Ambassador, Killigrew, who had a little before gone to Scotland, to demand immediate satisfaction for so great an outrage. Killigrew was also directed to inform the Regent that the Queen had ordered the Earl of Huntingdon, who was then president of the Council at York and lieutenant of the northern counties, to repair to the Borders for the trial and ordering of the matter; and that she expected that Morton would meet him in person for that effect. Morton, ever studious to gratify Elizabeth, readily agreed to the proposal. The two Earls accordingly met at Fouldean, near the Berwick boundary, and continued their conferences there for some days, in the course of which Morton made such concessions, and agreed to such conditions of redress, as entirely healed the offence. Carmichael, who was considered as the principal offender, was sent as a prisoner into England, and detained a few weeks at York; but the English Court being now convinced that Forrester had been in the wrong in the beginning of the fray, the Scottish warden was dismissed with honour, and gratified with a present to effectuate the restitution of goods which Morton had engaged should be made by the subjects of Scotland, he summoned all on this side of the Forth to attend him with twenty days' provision of victuals in an expedition to the Borders, but this summons sufficed to awe the offenders to make of themselves the restitution required."[30] V. THE WARDENS OF THE MARCHES. "The widdefow wardanis tuik my geir, And left me nowthir horse nor meir, Nor erdly guid that me belangit; Now, walloway! I mon be hangit." PINKERTON. Owing to the peculiar circumstances in which the Borders were placed, it was found necessary, for the preservation of order, and the detection and punishment of crime, to appoint special officers, or wardens, armed with the most extensive powers. On either side of the Border there were three Marches, lying opposite each other, called the East, West, and Middle Marches. The wardens were, as a general rule, officers of high rank, holding special commissions from the Crown. The English government had little difficulty in finding gentlemen of high station and proved ability to undertake the duties of such an office; but in Scotland the King was considerably circumscribed in his choice, as the Border Chiefs were accustomed to carry things with a high hand, and in any arrangements relating to the management of affairs in their own districts, their wishes and interests had, perforce, to be respected. The office of warden was regarded as belonging, by a kind of prescriptive or hereditary right, to one or other of the more prominent and powerful Border families. This policy was fraught with many disadvantages, and, it must be frankly admitted, produced the very evils it was designed to suppress. The Scottish wardens had other objects in view besides the maintenance of a certain semblance of law and order in the districts over which they ruled. They seldom lost sight of their own pecuniary interests, and frequently prostituted their high office to secure their own ends. The wardens themselves were often the principal offenders. In the East March the warden was most generally either an Earl of Home or a Ker of Cessford. The Middle March was long under the supervision of the Earls of Bothwell and the Lords of Buccleuch. The West March was usually represented either by a Johnstone or a Maxwell. The Scottish wardens, though invested with the most arbitrary powers, found it politic to enter into bonds of alliance with the neighbouring Chiefs, in order not only to increase their influence and power within their own wardenries, but to add to their authority when called upon to deal with questions of a more general nature. This fact reveals unmistakably the weakness of the central government of the country at this period, and indicates the important part which was played by the nobility in the administration of the affairs of the nation. Several of these "Bonds" have been preserved. Some of them are too lengthy for quotation, but the following one--which is comparatively brief--may be taken as a fair sample of the whole. It is subscribed by the Lairds of Buccleuch, Hunthill, Bon-Jeddart, Greenhead, Cavers, and Redheugh, in favour of Sir Thomas Ker of Fernihirst, and runs as follows:--"We undersigned, inhabitants of the Middle March of this realm opposite England, understanding how it has pleased the King's majesty our sovereign lord to make and constitute Sir Thomas Ker of Fernihirst Knight his Highness warden and justice over all the Middle March, and acknowledging how far we are in duty bound to the service by our counsel and forces to be employed in the assistance of his said warden in all things tending to the good rule and quietness of the said Middle March, and setting forth of his Highness authority against these traitors, rebels, and other malefactors to their due punishment, and defence and safety of true men. Therefore we be bound and obliged, and by the tenor hereof binds and obliges us, and every one of us, that we should truly serve the King's Majesty our sovereign lord, and obey and assist his said warden, in the premiss, and shall concur with others in giving of our advice and counsel, or with our forces in pursuit or defence of the said thieves, traitors, rebels, and other malefactors disobedient to our sovereign lord's authority, or disturbers of the public peace and quietness of the realm, as we shall be charged or warned by open proclamations, missives, bailies, or other the like accustomed forms as we will answer to his Highness upon our obedience at our highest charge and peril, if we shall be found remiss or negligent, we are content to be repute held and esteemed as favourers and partakers with the said thieves, traitors, rebels, and malefactors in their treasonable and wicked deeds, and to be called, pursued, and punished therefor, according to these laws in example of others."[31] There can be no doubt that these "Bonds" were often contracted in good faith; that is to say, those who subscribed them were honestly desirous to fulfil, both in the spirit and letter, the obligations thus undertaken. It is, however, worthy of remark that those who had thus sworn allegiance to the warden had not infrequently ends of their own to serve, which conflicted with their duty to the representatives of law and order. Thieves were harboured, or at least allowed to remain unmolested, on the estates, or within the jurisdiction, of those who had thus professedly banded themselves together for their detection and punishment. The result was that the subscribers to the "Bond" were occasionally reported to the government for their delinquencies, and prosecuted and punished for their breach of faith. Thus we find that on one occasion Walter Ker of Cessford, James Douglas of Cavers, George Rutherford of Hunthill, and Ker of Dolphingstone were convicted of art and part of the favour and assistance afforded to Robert Rutherford, called Cokburn, and John Rutherford, called Jok of the Green, and their accomplices, rebels and at the horn; permitting them to pass within their bounds continually for divers years past; for not using their utmost endeavour to hinder them from committing sundry slaughters, stouth-reifs, thefts and oppressions on the King's poor lieges, nor ejecting the said rebels, their wives and their children, from their bounds and bailiaries, but knowingly suffering them to pass within their limits and to remain therein beyond the space of twelve hours, to commit sundry crimes during the time of their passing and reset within the shire in which they dwelt, thereby breaking, transgressing, and violating their obligation and "Bond" to the King, and incurring the pains contained in the said "Bond."[32] It is remarkable, considering the reputation enjoyed by the Borderers for being true to their word, that such occurrences should have to be so frequently complained of. Unfortunately, the wardens were as little animated by a high sense of honour as those who had solemnly pledged themselves to support them in the discharge of the duties of their office. They frequently, and in some cases almost systematically, exercised the powers conferred on them, not in trying to preserve the public peace, but in wreaking vengeance on their enemies. A striking instance of this is to be seen in the conflict which was so long waged between the Johnstones and the Maxwells, and which produced endless misery and mischief throughout a wide area. All things considered, the wardens were well remunerated for such services as they were able to render. The usual fee appears to have been £100 per annum. In 1527 the Earl of Angus had £100 for the East and a similar sum for the Middle March. In 1553 the Warden's fee was £500, but he had to surrender the one half of the "escheats" to the authorities. When William Ker of Cessford was appointed warden of the Middle March and keeper of Liddesdale, his salary for the former office was £100, and for the latter £500. But these sums represented but a small part of the actual income. They were also allowed forage and provision for their retinue, which consisted of a guard of horsemen. They had in addition a portion of the "unlaws" or fines imposed in the warden courts, and at certain periods these must have amounted to a large sum. The law ordained that "the escheat of all thieves and trespassers that are convict of their movable goods, ought and should pertain to the warden for his travail and labours, to be used and disposed by him at his pleasure in time coming. The warden ought and should take and apprehend all and sundry our sovereign Lord's lieges turning and carrying nolt, sheep, horses, or victuals furth of this realm into England, and bring their persons to the King's justice, to be punished therefor; and all their goods may he escheat: the one half thereof to be applied to the King's use, and the other half to the warden for his pains." In addition to this, the wardens had a large share of the plunder of the various forays upon the English Border, which they either conducted in person, or winked at when undertaken by their retainers or dependants. In the "Border Papers" we are informed that on Sunday, the 17th April, 1597, the Lord Buccleuch, Keeper of Liddesdale, accompanied by twenty horse and a hundred foot, burned at noonday three onsets and dwelling-houses, barns, stables, oxhouses, &c., to the number of twenty, in the head of Tyne, cruelly burning in their houses seven innocent men, and "murdered with the sword" fourteen which had been in Scotland, and brought away the booty, the head officer with trumpet being there in person.[33] This was a frequent occurrence, especially with Buccleuch, who was never quite happy when not plundering and oppressing "the auld enemy." From a pecuniary point of view, not to speak of other advantages, the office of warden was a highly desirable one, and was consequently eagerly sought after by the Border Chiefs. The duties pertaining to this office may be described as of a twofold nature--the maintenance of law and order, and the protection of the districts against the encroachments and inroads of the enemy. "In the first capacity," as has been remarked, "besides their power of control and ministerial administration, both as head stewards of all the crown tenements and manors within their jurisdiction, and as intromitting with all fines and penalties, their judicial authority was very extensive. They held courts for punishment of high treason and felony, which the English Border laws classed under the following heads:-- I. The aiding and abetting of any Scottishman, by communing, appointment, or otherwise, to rob, burn, or steal, within the realm of England. II. The accompanying personally, of any Scottishman, while perpetrating any such offences. III. The harbouring, concealing, or affording guidance and protection to him after the fact. IV. The supplying Scottishmen with arms and artillery, as jacks, splents, brigantines, coats of plate, bills, halberds, battle-axes, bows and arrows, spears, darts, guns, as serpentines, half-haggs, harquibusses, currys, cullivers, hand-guns, or daggers, without special licence of the Lord-warden. V. The selling of bread and corn of any kind, or of dressed leather, iron, or other appurtenances belonging to armour, without special licence. VI. The selling of horses, mares, nags, or geldings to Scottish men, without licence as aforesaid. VII. The breach of truce, by killing or assaulting subjects and liege-men of Scotland. VIII. The assaulting of any Scottishman having a regular pass or safe-conduct. IX. In time of war the giving tidings to the Scottish of any exploit intended against them by the warden or his officers. X. The conveying coined money, silver or gold, also plate or bullion, into Scotland, above the value of forty shillings at one time. XI. The betraying (in time of war) the counsel of any other Englishman tending to the annoyance of Scotland, in malice to the party, and for his own private advantage. XII. The forging the coin of the realm. XIII. The making appointment and holding communication with Scotchmen, or intermarrying with a Scottish woman, without licence of the wardens, and the raising of no fray against them as in duty bound. XIV. The receiving of Scottish pilgrims with their property without licence of the wardens. XV. The failing to keep the watches appointed for the defence of the country. XVI. The neglecting to raise in arms to the fray, or alarm raised by the wardens or watches upon the approach of public danger. XVII. The receiving or harbouring Scottish fugitives exiled from their own country for misdemeanours. XVIII. The having falsely and unjustly _fould_ (_i.e._, found true and relevant) the bill of any Scotchman against an Englishman, or having borne false witness on such matters. XIX. The having interrupted or stopped any Englishman pursuing for recovering of his stolen goods. XX. The dismissing any Scottish offender taken red-hand (_i.e._, in the manner) without special license of the Lord-warden. XXI. The paying of black-mail, or protection money, whether to English or Scottish man."[34] The significance of these provisions cannot be mistaken. They reveal the anxiety of the English government to prevent, as far as possible, all intercourse with Scottish Borderers. The offences referred to in the foregoing list amounted to what is known as March Treason. Those who were accused of this crime were tried by a jury, and if found guilty were put to death without ceremony. "This was a very ordinary consummation," says Sir Walter Scott, "if we can believe a story told of Lord William Howard of Naworth. While busied deeply with his studies, he was suddenly disturbed by an officer who came to ask his commands concerning the disposal of several moss-troopers who had just been made prisoners. Displeased at the interruption, the warden answered heedlessly and angerly, 'hang them in the devil's name;' but when he laid aside his book, his surprise was not little, and his regret considerable, to find that his orders had been literally fulfilled."[35] The duties devolving upon the Scottish wardens were not, in all respects, the same as those which the English wardens were called upon to discharge. This was due to some extent to the fact that the jurisdiction of the Scottish wardens was circumscribed by the hereditary rights and privileges of the great families who, within their own territories, exercised supreme control. In addition to this, the hereditary judges had the power of repledging; that is to say, they could reclaim any accused person from courts of co-ordinate jurisdiction, and try him by their feudal authority. But while the power of the wardens was thus considerably circumscribed, they never hesitated, when they had the chance, to mete out summary punishment to all offenders. If a thief was caught red-handed, or if the evidence against him appeared at all conclusive, he was at once, and without ceremony, strung up on the nearest tree, or thrown into the "murder" pit. Indeed, the execution not unfrequently preceded the trial--a circumstance which seems to have given rise to the well-know proverb about "Jeddart Justice." On both sides of the Border, the same haste to get rid of offenders was a noted feature of the times. This is evident from the well-known English proverb which runs thus-- "I oft have heard of Lydford law, Where in the morn men hang and draw, And sit in judgment after." The sitting in judgment, either before or after, was a formality that might often have been dispensed with, as the evidence submitted was seldom carefully sifted, or weighed. To be suspected, or accused, was regarded as almost tantamount to a plea of guilty. Such a method as this would hardly pass muster in our modern and more finical age; still it is probable that substantial justice was usually done. If those who were condemned were not always guilty of the particular crimes laid to their charge, their general record was sufficiently bad to warrant their being thus summarily dealt with. There was, moreover, a practical difficulty in the way of minute investigation being made into each individual case. The number of those accused of various offences under the Border laws was often so great as to render an investigation of this kind all but impossible. There were few places of strength where prisoners could be retained in order to await their trial, and so it became necessary to deal with them as expeditiously as possible. "The Borderers," it has been said, "were accustomed to part with life with as little form as civilized men change their garments." The mode of punishment was either by hanging or drowning. "Drowning," says Sir Walter Scott, "is a very old mode of punishment in Scotland, and in Galloway there were pits of great depth appropriated to that punishment still called murder-holes, out of which human bones have occasionally been taken in great quantities. This points out the proper interpretation of the right of 'pit and gallows' (in law Latin, _fossa et furca_), which has, less probably, been supposed the right of imprisoning in the pit or dungeon, and that of hanging. But the meanest baron possessed the right of imprisonment. The real meaning is, the right of inflicting death either by hanging or drowning."[36] But the warden had other duties to discharge of a still more important nature than those already described. In time of war he was captain-general within his own wardenry, and was invested with the power of calling musters of all the able-bodied men between the age of sixteen and sixty. These men were suitably armed and mounted according to their rank and condition, and were expected to be ready either to defend their territory against invasion, or, if necessary, to invade the enemy's country. The ancient rights and customs which the warden was expected to observe on such occasion have been thus summarised:-- "I. All intercourse with the enemy was prohibited. II. Any one leaving the company during the time of the expedition was liable to be punished as a traitor. III. It was appointed that all should alight and fight on foot, except those commanded by the general to act as cavalry. IV. No man was to disturb those appointed to array the host. V. If a soldier followed the chase on a horse belonging to his comrade, the owner of the horse enjoyed half the booty; and if he fled upon such a horse, it was to be delivered to the sheriff as a waif on his return home, under pain of treason. VI. He that left the host after victory, though for the purpose of securing his prisoner, lost his ransom. VII. Any one seizing his comrade's prisoner was obliged to find security in the hands of the warden-serjeant. Disputed prisoners were to be placed in the hands of the warden, and the party found ultimately wrong to be amerced in a fine of ten pounds. VIII. Relates to the evidence in case of such dispute. He who could bring his own countrymen in evidence, of whatsoever quality, was preferred as the true captor; failing this mode of proof, recourse was had to the prisoner's oath. IX. If the prisoner was of such a rank as to lead a hundred men, he was either to be dismissed upon security or ransomed, for the space of fifteen days, without leave of the warden. X. He who dismounted a prisoner was entitled to half of his ransom. XI. Whosoever detected a traitor was entitled to a reward of one hundred shillings; whoever aided his escape, suffered the pain of death. XII. Relates to the firing of beacons in Scotland: the stewards of Annandale and Kirkcudbright were liable in the fine of one merk for each default in the matter. XIII. He who did not join the army of the country upon the signal of the beacon lights, or who left it during the English invasion without lawful excuse, his goods were forfeited, and his person placed at the warden's will. XIV. In the case of any Englishman being taken in Scotland, he was not suffered to depart under any safe conduct save that of the King or warden; and a similar protection was necessary to enable him to return and treat of his ransom. XV. Any Scottishman dismissing his prisoner, when a host was collected either to enter England or defend against invasion, was punished as a traitor. XVI. In the partition of spoil, two portions were allowed to each bowman. XVII. Whoever deserted his commander and comrades, and abode not in the field to the uttermost, his goods were forfeited, and his person liable to punishment as a traitor. XVIII. Whoever bereft his comrade of horse, spoil, or prisoner, was liable in the pains of treason, if he did not make restitution after the right of property became known to him."[37] These military regulations, at once minute and comprehensive, were drawn up by William, Earl of Douglas, with the assistance of some of the most experienced Marchmen; and, with the necessary alterations, were adopted by the English--thus indicating that they were thoroughly in harmony with the military spirit of the age on both sides of the Border. VI. THE DAY OF TRUCE. "Our wardens they affixed the day, And as they promised so they met. Alas! that day I'll ne'er forget!" OLD BALLAD. The arrangements made for dealing with offences against Border law, though of a primitive, were by no means of an ineffective, character. All things considered, they were perhaps as good as could have been devised in the circumstances. During the period when Border reiving was most rampant, though the population was by no means sparse, little or no provision had been made for detaining prisoners in custody. The jails were few and far between, and such as were available were generally in such an insecure and ruinous state that, unless strongly guarded, they were almost useless for the purpose for which they existed. But imprisonment had other inconveniences which militated against its being resorted to with much frequency. Prisoners had to be provided for when under "lock and key," and, as provisions were difficult to procure, it was generally found more advantageous to leave those who had broken the laws to "fend" for themselves until such times as they were wanted. As might be expected in such circumstances, the accused person not unfrequently took "leg-bail," and passed into another district, or, perhaps, crossed the Border, and sought refuge among the enemies of his country and his clan. This expedient, in those lawless and disordered times, was no doubt occasionally successful--for the nonce--but sooner or later the evil-doer was either betrayed by the enemy, or, resuming his old habits--which was almost a necessity--brought himself under the special notice of the warden of the district to which he had fled. He thus placed himself, as it were, between two fires, and made further immunity from prosecution practically impossible. When it came to the knowledge of the warden that an accused person had passed into another wardenry, he at once certified the warden opposite, requiring him to apprehend and deliver the prisoner with all possible speed; and he was bound, after receiving this notice, to make proclamation throughout his wardenry "by the space of six days after of the said fugitive," and also to certify the other two wardens of the realm "to proclaim the fugitive throughout all the bounds of their wardenries, so that none could proclaim ignorance, or excuse themselves when charged with the wilful receipt of the aforesaid fugitive so proclaimed." The duty thus laid upon the wardens of searching for fugitives was one which was generally undertaken _con amore_, not merely on account of the fact that it was naturally agreeable to these officers to detect and punish crime, but also because in such circumstances it was greatly to their advantage to do so. A law was passed ordaining that when a fugitive entered with his goods into the opposite realm, the warden who captured him, and handed him over to be punished for his offence, _was entitled to retain the goods for his labour_. Should he not succeed in apprehending the fugitive, then the goods had to be returned to the warden of the realm from which they came. This was a wise arrangement, and on the whole proved fairly effective. As offences against the law were numerous and frequent, it was statute and ordained that a "Day of Truce" should be held every month, or oftener, when the wardens of the Marches opposite each other should meet for the discussion and adjustment of their respective claims, and the punishment of evil-doers. The date and place of this meeting was made known to the inhabitants of the Marches by proclamation being made in all the market towns. Notice was also sent to the lords, knights, esquires, and gentlemen, commanding them, along with a sufficient number of their tenants and servants, well mounted and fully armed, to repair the night before and attend upon the warden at the day of truce.[38] Early on the morning of the following day this imposing cavalcade might be seen wending its way towards the place of rendezvous. This was generally some convenient spot near the Border, most frequently on the Scottish side. When the wardens and their friends came within hailing distance of each other, a halt was called, and the English warden sent forward four or five gentlemen of good repute to demand from the Scottish warden "that assurance might be kept" until the sunrise of the following day. According to a statement made on the authority of Sir Robert Bowes, the reason of this particular form of procedure was "because the Scots did always send their ambassadors first into England to seek for peace after a war. Therefore both the particular days of truce are usually kept either at places even on the confines of the Marches, or else at places within the realm of Scotland, and also the English warden and other officers were always used to send first for the assurance as aforesaid." When assurance had been given by the Scottish warden, a number of Scottish gentlemen passed over to the other side to demand from the English warden assurance on his part. These preliminary precautions having been duly observed, the two parties met, and the business which had brought them together was at once entered upon. The wardens did not always attend these meetings in person, their duties occasionally necessitating their remaining at home, but when unable to be present themselves they were represented by deputies--men of influence and good social position--who were thoroughly qualified to deal with any important question that might arise. The regulations for the conduct of business at these meetings were carefully drawn out, and, as a general rule, strictly observed. The English warden named six Scottish gentlemen to act on his side, and the Scottish warden the same number of Englishmen to act as the English assize. These men, who thus constituted the jury, were carefully chosen. No murderer, traitor, fugitive, infamous person, or betrayer of one party to another could bear office, or give evidence, but only good and lawful men deserving of credit and unsuspected. Each warden, in the presence of the opposite warden and the inhabitants of both the Marches, "Swore by the High God that reigneth above all Kings and Realms, and to whom all Christians owe obedience, that he shall (in the name of God) do, exercise and use his office without respect of person, Malice, Favour, or Affection, diligently or undelayedly, according to his Vocation or Charge that he beareth under God and his Prince, and he shall do justice upon all Complaints presented unto him, upon every Person complained upon under this Rule. And that, when any complaint is referred unto him, to swear, fyle, and deliver upon his Honour, he shall search, enquire, and redress the same at his uttermost power: And that, if it shall happen in so doing to quit and absolve the persons complained upon as Clean and Innocent: Yet if he shall any ways get sure Knowledge of the very Offender, he shall declare him foul of the Offence, and make lawful Redress and Delivery thereof, albeit the very Offender be not named in the Complaint: And this Oath of the Wardens not only to be made at the first Meeting hereafter to ensue, but also to be made every Year once solemnly, as aforesaid, at the first Meeting after _Mid-summer_, to put them in the better Remembrance of their Duties, and to place the fear of God in their Hearts."[39] The following oath was also administered to the jury:--"Ye shall truly enquire, and true deliverance make between the Queen's Majesty, and the prisoners at the Bar, according to the evidence that shall be given in this Court. As God keep you and Holydome."[40] These formalities having been duly observed, the trial of the prisoners was then proceeded with. Bills were presented on the one side, and on the other, setting forth with considerable fulness of detail the nature and extent of the damages that had been sustained. The prisoners against whom these indictments had been made were then called to answer the charges preferred against them. There were at least three ways in which these cases could be tried. In the first place, the bill might be acquitted _on the honour of the warden_. But should it afterwards be found that the warden in acquitting the bill had proceeded on imperfect information, and had acquitted upon his honour a bill that was in reality "foul," then the complainant was at liberty to prosecute a new bill, and demand that justice should be done. The case was then tried by a jury who "fyled" or "cleared" the bill at their discretion. When a bill was "fyled," that is to say declared true, the word "foul" was written on the margin, and when it was "cleared," the word "clear" was inserted. But further, bills might be _tried by inquest or assize_, which was the method most frequently adopted, such cases being decided by the juries on their own knowledge, and on the evidence sworn to in open court. The third way of dealing with bills was by a "_Vower_." The significance of this method is fully explained by Sir Robert Bowes, who says:--"The inquest or assise of Scotlande, notwithstanding their othe, would in no wyse fynde a bill to be true, nor fyll any Scottis man upon an Englishman's complaynte unles the Englishman could fynde an inhabitant of Scotlande, that would avow openly to the inquest, or secretlye to the warden, or some of the inquest, that the complaynte was treue, and the partie complayned upon culpable thereof, otherwise althoughe the matter was ever so notoryously knowne by the Englishman, their evydence would not serve to secure a conviction." It frequently happened, on the occasion of these meetings, that "bogus" bills were presented, a custom which gave the officials a great deal of unnecessary labour. The commissioners, in referring to this reprehensible practice, remark that "it hath been perceived of late that, since the order was begun by the Warden to speire, fyle, and deliver, upon their Honour, that some ungodly Persons have made complaint, and billed for Goods lost where none was taken from them, and so troubled the Wardens, causing them to speire and search for the Thing that was never done."[41] It was therefore statute and ordained that all persons guilty of this offence should be delivered to the opposite warden to be punished, imprisoned, and fined at the discretion of the same warden whom he had troubled. Another formidable difficulty with which the wardens had to contend on these occasions, was in estimating the value of the goods for which redress was claimed. In making up a bill the complainant was strongly tempted to put an absurd value on the gear, or cattle, which had been stolen from him. Had he always got as much as he claimed he would soon have been enormously enriched by the loss of his property! The commissioners were therefore under the necessity of drawing out a scale of charges for the guidance of the warden courts. The following are the prices fixed by this tribunal:--"Every Ox, above Four Year old, Fourty Shillings Sterling; every Cow, above Four Year old, Thirty Shillings Sterling; and every Young Cow, above Two Years old, Twenty Shillings Sterling; every other Beast, under Two Years old, Ten Shillings Sterling; every old Sheep, Six Shillings Sterling; and every Sheephogge, Three Shillings Sterling; every old Swine, above One Year old, Six Shillings Sterling; every young Swine, Two Shillings Sterling; every Goat, above One Year old, Five Shillings Sterling; every young Goat, Two Shillings Sterling; and every Double Toope to be valued after the rate of the Single."[42] These prices, judged by the standard of the present day, seem absurdly low, but they may be accepted as representing the average rate of prices obtainable, three hundred years ago, for the various classes of stock mentioned. It was the duty of the wardens to have the offenders in custody, against whom bills had been presented, in readiness to answer, and in case the bills were "fouled" he was bound to deliver them up to the opposite warden, by whom they were imprisoned until they had paid a _single and two doubles_, that is to say, treble the value of the estimated goods in the bill. To produce these men was generally the most difficult part of the warden's duty. He could not keep them in confinement until the day of truce, for, independently they were sometimes persons of power and rank, their numbers were too great to be retained in custody. The wardens, therefore, usually took bonds from the Chief, kinsmen, or allies of the accused party, binding him or them to enter him prisoner within the iron gate of the warden's castle, or else to make him forthcoming when called for. He against whom a bill was twice fouled, was liable to the penalty of death. If the offender endeavoured to rescue himself after being lawfully delivered over to the opposite warden, he was liable to the punishment of death, or otherwise at the warden's pleasure, as being guilty of a breach of the assurance.[43] It would seem to have been customary on a day of truce to enumerate the various bills "fouled" on either side, and then to strike a balance, showing on which side most depredations had been committed. It occasionally happened that the claims of both parties were so numerous and complicated, the same person frequently appearing both as plaintiff and defendant, that it was deemed prudent to draw a veil over the whole proceedings, and give satisfaction to neither party, thus wiping out, as it were, with a stroke of the pen, and without further parleying, all the claims which had been lodged. This mode of procedure, arbitrary though it may appear, did not, as a rule, result in serious injustice being done to either party. The offences dealt with were of a varied character. Reiving was only one of the many ways in which the Borderers sought to enrich themselves at the expense of their neighbours in the opposite March. They had an eye to the land as well as to the cattle. It was customary for them not only to pasture their stock on the enemy's territory, but to sow corn, cut down wood, and go hunting and hawking for pleasure as well as profit. Sir Robert Cary, one of the most vigorous of the English wardens, was determined that hunting without leave should not be carried on in his wardenry. He wrote to the laird of Ferniherst, the warden opposite, explaining his views, but, "notwithstanding this letter," he says, "within a month after they came and hunted as they used to do without leave, and cut down wood and carried it away. I wrote to the warden, and told him I would not suffer one other affront, but if they came again without leave they would dearly aby[44] it. For all this they would not be warned; but towards the end of the summer they came again to their wonted sports. I sent my two deputies with all speed they could make, and they took along with them such gentlemen as were in their way, with my forty horse, and about one of the clock they came to them, and set upon them; some hurt was done, but I gave special order they should do as little hurt, and shed as little blood, as they possibly could. They observed my command, only they broke all their carts, and took a dozen of the principal gentlemen that were there, and brought them to me to Witherington, where I lay. I made them welcome, and gave them the best entertainment I could. They lay in the castle two or three days, and so I sent them home--they assuring me that they would never again hunt without leave, which they did truly perform all the time."[45] This firm, but kindly method, was entirely satisfactory; and, had the Borders only been blessed with a succession of Carys in the various wardenries, the probability is that Border reiving would never have attained such portentous dimensions. But despite the masterful management of men like Cary, such questions as those we have mentioned continued to occupy the time and attention of the warden courts. The freebooters on the Border never considered too closely the minute shades of difference between _meum_ and _tuum_, and were difficult to persuade that depasturing, or cutting wood in a neighbour's plantation, was a matter of any real importance. They were at all times disposed to put a liberal construction on the words--"The earth is the Lord's and the fulness thereof." Their somewhat loose interpretation of this ancient Hebrew maxim occasioned them no end of vexation and trouble. But the settlement of Border affairs on the day of truce did not interfere with the ancient custom which entitled the person who was robbed to follow his goods on what was called the _hot-trod_, and mete out summary punishment to the offender--provided he could overtake him. The warden also was enjoined, in the Act of 1563, to pursue and chase in hot-trod, unto such time or place as the fugitives or offender be apprehended, to bring him again within his own jurisdiction to be punished for the offence, "as appertaineth;" "and that without let, trouble, or impediment to be made or done to him by any of the inhabitants of that realm wherein he pursueth." And if any person should make resistance to the said warden in the foresaid pursuit he was to be billed for, and delivered to the warden. In the following of the said chase, in the manner aforesaid, it was thought convenient, and ordained, that the pursuer shall, at the first town he cometh by of the opposite realm, or the first person he meeteth with, give knowledge of the occasion of his chase, and require him to go with him in the said pursuit. If the offender was caught red-handed he was executed; but if the desire for gain was stronger than the thirst for blood, then he was held at ransom. The prey was followed with hound and horn, hue and cry, the pursuers carrying on the point of their spears a lighted piece of turf. The business of the warden courts was conducted with despatch. When all the bills had been either "fouled" or "cleared," those who had been found guilty of "March Treason" were brought up for sentence. The lord warden called on him whose office it was to see the prisoners suffer, and thus addressed him:--"I command you in the Queen's Majesty's name that ye see execution done upon these prisoners, according to the Law of the Marches, at your peril." Then addressing the prisoners he said:--"Ye that are adjudged by the Law of the Realm to die, remember that ye have but a short time to live in this world; therefore earnestly call to God, with penitent hearts, for mercy and forgiveness of your sinful lives; repent ye have broken God's commandments, and be sorry therefor, and for that ye did not fear the breach and dangers of the Law, therefore your bodies must suffer the pain of death, provided to satisfy the reward of your Fact in this world; yet the salvation of your soul's health for the world to come, stands in the great mercy of Almighty God: Wherefore do ye earnestly repent and ask mercy for your sins, now when ye are living, put your Trust to be saved by the merits of Christ's passion; and think in your hearts if ye were able to recompence them ye have offended, ye would do it; and where you are not able, ask Forgiveness. Have such faith in God's Mercy as Dismas the Thief and Man-Murderer had that hang at Christ's Right hand, when he suffered his Passion for the Redemption of Mankind: Whose Faith was so great he should be saved, his Sins were remitted, tho' he had but short time of Repentance, and he enjoyed Heaven. Therefore despair not in God's Mercy, though your sins be great, for God's Mercy exceedeth all his Works. Set apart all Vanities of this World, and comfort you in Heavenly things; and doubt not but, if ye so do, ye shall inherit Everlasting Joy in the Kingdom of Heaven. And thus I commit you to the Mercy of God, wishing your Deaths may be an Example to all Parents to bring up their Children in the Fear of God, and Obedience of the Laws of this Realm."[46] With these suitable admonitions ringing in their ears, the condemned prisoners were led forth to execution. The business of the court having been finished, the wardens retired after taking a courteous leave of each other. These meetings, attended as they were by a large number of people, who came either on business or pleasure, were frequently broken up by sudden outbursts of tumult and disorder. _Baughling_, or brawling, was a common occurrence, and loud words and angry looks naturally led to more serious encounters. We have already noticed the incident of the Reidswire, but this was by no means an isolated case. In the month of July, 1585, at a day of truce between Sir John Foster and Ker of Ferniherst, Lord Russell, a young man of great promise, and of the most amiable disposition, was suddenly shot dead by an unknown hand. This lamentable incident gave rise to much bitterness of feeling on both sides of the Border. Foster wrote to Walsingham, saying, that he and the opposite warden had met for the redress of attempts committed on both sides, Russell being present to attend to particular causes of his own, "where it chanced a sudden accident and tumult to arise among the rascals of Scotland and England about a little pyckery among themselves, and we meaning no harm did sit the most of the day calling bills, and my Lord Russell among us. The said Lord Russell rose and went aside from us, with his own men, and there being in talk with a gentleman, was suddenly shot with a gun and slain in the midst of his own men, to the great discomfort of me and his poor friends in this country, and never a man either of England or Scotland but he. Alas! that the mischievous chance should happen for him to be killed with a shot, and none but him, which is the greatest discomfort that ever came upon me."[47] No hint is here given of any suspicion that Ker of Ferniherst was implicated in the death of this young man. Hence we are surprised to find that, on the day after this letter was written, Sir John Foster drew up a statement in which he gives an entirely different complexion to the incident. He asserts that it was not an accident. "Had it been an accident," he says, "or sudden breaking by rascals, as there was no such matter, the gentlemen of Scotland with their drums, fife, shot, and such as carried the 'ensigne' and 'penseller,' would have tarried with the warden; so that it appeareth plainly it was a 'pretended matter' beforehand, for the wardens sitting quietly calling their bills, the warden of England thinking no harm, the party of Scotland seeing the time serve for their 'former desire,' suddenly broke, striking up an alarm with sound of drum and fife, and gave the charge upon us--in which charge the Lord Russell was cruelly slain with shot, and so divers gentlemen of Scotland with their footmen and horsemen and whole force, followed and maintained their chase four miles within the Realm of England, and took sundry prisoners and horses, and carried them into Scotland, which they deny to deliver again."[48] This statement contradicts, in almost every particular, the asseverations deliberately made in the letter written the day before, and shows that even a gentleman in Sir John Foster's high position, with a deservedly great reputation for fair dealing, was capable, when occasion demanded, of twisting facts, or even inventing them, to suit his own ends, or the interest of the government he represented. It has been suggested that the English secretary, knowing that Ferniherst was an intimate friend of Arran, saw that by laying the blame of Lord Russell's death on the shoulders of the former, he might thereby procure the disgrace of this hated minister. Be this as it may, such conflicting assertions, made by the same person almost at the same time, should lead us to accept with a modified confidence other statements of a similar kind, as the spirit of party is no friend to the love of truth. But despite the drawbacks and dangers attaching to such gatherings for the settlement of Border affairs, the day of truce was an institution of great public utility. It is difficult to see how, apart from such an arrangement, even the semblance of civilized life could have been maintained. The Borders really constituted an _imperium in imperio_, and the wardens, when presiding over their monthly convention, were to all intents and purposes absolute rulers within their own prescribed domain. It was generally found that when warden courts, or days of truce, were regularly held, good rule and order, at least judged by the ordinary Border standard, were well maintained throughout the entire district. VII. THE DEADLY FEUD. "At the sacred font, the priest Through ages left the master hand unblest To urge with keener aim the blood incrusted spear." LEYDEN. The difficulties with which the Borderers had to contend were of a varied character. They had to be constantly on the watch against the aggressions and incursions of their enemies on the opposite Marches. But it frequently happened that their most dangerous and inveterate foes were to be found amongst their own countrymen. This was the case more especially when blood-feuds arose, setting family against family, and clan against clan. An interesting, if not very luminous, account of the origin of the "Feud" is given by Burghley in a report submitted by him to the English government, in which he deals with what he calls the "Decays of the Borders." He says:--"Deadly Foed, the word of enmytie on the Borders, implacable without the blood and whole family destroyed, whose etymologie I know not where better to fetch than from Spiegelius in his _Lexicon Juris, in Verbo_ 'feydum:' he saith it is an old Teutch word whereof is derived by Hermanus Nivoranus (?) _faydosum Hostis publicus_; 'foed' _enim, Bellum significat_." He further points out that the Scottish wardens, being native Borderers, are "extraordinarilye adicted to parcialities, favour of their blood, tenantes and followers," and consequently he holds they should be disqualified for office.[49] The evils resulting from these deadly-feuds would have been comparatively trifling had it been possible to limit the consequences to the persons more immediately concerned. Owing, however, to the system of clanship which prevailed on the Borders, the whole sept became involved in the feud. "If one of the clan," says Sir Walter Scott, "chanced either to slay a man, or commit any similar aggression, the chief was expected to defend him by all means, legal or illegal. The most obvious and pacific was to pay such fine or _amende_, or assythement, as it was called, as might pacify the surviving relations, or make up the feud. This practice of receiving an atonement for slaughter seems also to have been part of the ancient Celtic usages; for it occurs in the Welch laws of Howell Dha, and was the very foundation of the Irish Brehon customs. The vestiges of it may be found in the common law of Scotland to this day. But poor as we have described the Border chief, and fierce as he certainly was by education and office, it was not often that he was either able or disposed to settle the quarrels of his clansmen in a manner so amicable and expensive. War was then resorted to; and it was the duty of the chief and clan who had sustained the injury to seek revenge by every means in their power, not only against the party who had given the offence, but, in the phrase of the time and country, against all his name, kindred, maintainers, and upholders. On the other hand, the chief and clan to whom the individual belonged who had done the offence, were equally bound in honour, by every means in their power, to protect their clansman, and to retaliate whatever injury the opposite party might inflict in their thirst of vengeance. When two clans were involved in this species of private warfare, which was usually carried on with the most ferocious animosity on both sides, they were said to be at deadly feud, and the custom is justly termed by the Scottish parliament most heathenish and barbarous.... In these deadly feuds, the chiefs of clans made war, or truce, or final peace with each other, with as much formality, and as little sincerity, as actual monarchs."[50] Feuds of the most bitter and hostile character were an every-day occurrence. The Herons, Fenwicks, Shafftownes, Charletons, and Milbornes, on the English side of the Border, were all at feud at the same time. And on the Scottish side the Elwoods (Elliots), Armstrongs, Nixons, Crosiers, Trumbles, and Olivers were, during the same period, at "daggers drawn," and thirsting for each other's blood. The misery which such feuds created can hardly be over-estimated. The sense of personal security was completely destroyed. Mutual trust, the primary condition of social life, was rendered practically impossible. And, as might be expected, the most trivial circumstances often gave rise to the most implacable hostility. A singular instance of this is referred to by John Cary in one of his communications to Burghley. He says:--"Your honour remembers hearing long since of the great road by the Scotts 'as Will Haskottes and his fellowes' made in Tynedale and Redesdale, taking up the whole country and nearly beggaring them for ever. On complaint to the Queen and Council, there was some redress made with much ado and many meetings. Buccleuch and the Scotts made some 'bragges and crackes' as that the country durst not take its own; but the Charletons being the 'sufficientest and ablest' men on the borders, not only took their own goods again, but encouraged their neighbours to do the like and not be afraid--'which hath ever since stuck in Buccleuch's stomack.'... Mary! he makes another quarrell, that long since in a war tyme, the Tynedale men should goe into his countrey, and there they took his grandfather and killed divers of his countrye, _and that they took away his grandfather's shworde_, and never let him have it yet synce. This sayeth he is the quarrell."[51] Nor did lapse of time tend to soften the animosities. The feud was inherited along with the rest of the family property. It was handed down from generation to generation. The son and grandson maintained it with a bitterness which, in some cases, seemed year by year to grow more intense. It affected more or less a man's whole social relationships, and gave rise to endless animosities and heart-burnings. Feuds were not unknown in other districts of the country, but owing to the feeble and ineffective manner in which the law was generally administered, they prevailed to a greater extent on the Borders,--and were characterised by a more vengeful spirit,--than in any other part of the kingdom. Hence it was found that the existence of such feuds made the administration of the law, such as it was, a matter of supreme difficulty. It is said that it was hardly possible for any gentleman of the country to be of a jury of life and death if any of those at feud were indicted, "as they were grown so to seek blood that they would make a quarrel about the death of their grandfather, and kill any of the name." It was, therefore, found necessary to appoint special nobles and barons belonging to some distant part of the country, to sit in judgment in those cases in which the accused was at feud with the warden. On two occasions when courts were being held at Jedburgh, it was found expedient to issue proclamations in the King's name,--"That na maner of persons tak upon hand to invaid ane an uther for ald feid or new, now cumand to this present air or passand tharfra, and induring the tyme thairof under the pane of dede; and that na maner of persone or persons beir wapins except kniffis at their beltis, bot alanerlie our soverane lordis household, the justice, constable, merschell, compositouris, thair men and houshald, schireff, crounaris and thair deputis, under the pane of escheting of the wapins and punishing of the persons beraris therof."[52] Owing to the disturbed condition of the country, such precautions were much needed, although it must be admitted that they did not always secure the end desired. Many of the Border feuds present features of great interest alike to the sociologist and the historian. They afford interesting glimpses of the condition of society in this part of the realm, and disclose the dominant passions by which the lives and characters of those more immediately concerned were shaped and determined. Throughout the greater part of the 16th century a fierce feud raged between two of the most noted and powerful Border families--the Scotts and the Kers. The circumstances which gave rise to this deadly feud form an interesting chapter in the history of the Borders. During the minority of James V. the Earl of Angus controlled the government of the country, and in his own interests, and for the furtherance of his own ends, kept a watchful eye on the movements of the young King. In the year 1525, James, accompanied by Angus, and other members of the court, came south to Jedburgh, "and held justice aires quhair manie plaintes cam to him of reiff, slauchter and oppression, bot little justice was used bot the purse, for thir was manie in that countrie war the Earl of Angus' kin and friendis, that got favourable justice, quhairof the king was not content, nor non of the rest of the lordis that war about him, for they wold have justice equally used to all men; bot the Earl of Angus and the rest of the Douglass' rulled yitt still as they pleased, and no man durst find fault with their proceidingis; quhairat the king was heartilie displeased, and would fain have been out of their handis, and for that effect he writt are secreitt letter to the laird of Buccleugh, desiring him effectuouslie that he wold come with all his forces, kin and freindis, and all that he might ax, and meit him at Melrose, at his home coming, and thair to tak him out of the Douglas' handis, and put him at libertie, to use himself among the rest of the lordis as he thought expedient."[53] Buccleuch at once convened his "kin and freindis," and all who were prepared to take part with him, to the number of six hundred spears, and set out for Melrose to await the coming of the King. Home, Cessford, and Fernieherst, who were of the King's company, had returned home. Buccleuch and his followers made their appearance, arranged in order of battle, on Halidon Hill, overlooking the Tweed, near Melrose bridge. When Angus saw them he wondered what the hostile array portended. But when he discovered that Buccleuch was supported only by numbers of Annandale thieves, he took heart of grace, and said to the King--"Sir, yonder is the laird of Buccleuch, and the thieves of Annerdaill with him, to unbesett your grace in the way, bot I avow to God, Sir, they sall aither fight or flie. Thairfor, Sir, ye sall tarrie here, and my brither George with yow, and any other quhom yeu pleas, and I sall pas and put yon thieves aff the ground, and red the gaitt to your grace, or else die thairfor."[54] The conflict now began in earnest. Buccleuch and his men stoutly resisted the onslaught of Angus, and for a time the issue seemed uncertain. But Home, Cessford, and Fernieherst, having got wind of the affair, returned, supported by four score spears, "and sett on freschlie on the utmost wing, on the laird of Buccleughis field, and shortly bare them to the ground, quhilk caused the laird of Buccleugh to flie; on whom thair followed ane chaise be the lairdis of Sesfoord and Pherniherst, in the quhilk chaise the laird of Sesfoord was slain with ane cassin spear, be ane called Evan, servand of the laird of Buccleughis."[55] There seems nothing remarkable about such an incident as this. That Cessford should have been accidentally slain by one of Buccleuch's servants was no doubt a regrettable incident, but those who play bowls must be prepared for rubbers. This, unfortunately, was not the view entertained by the Kers, who henceforth were at deadly feud with Buccleuch. All efforts to bring about a reconciliation were in vain. The Kers thirsted for vengeance, and were determined to "bide their time." Twenty-six long years had come and gone, and one day as the laird of Buccleuch was passing along one of the streets of Edinburgh, little suspecting the fate which awaited him, he was fatally stabbed by the descendant of Cessford. The Borderers had many faults, but certainly they cannot be charged with having had short memories! But a still more striking illustration of the disastrous consequences of the deadly feud is to be found in the case of the Johnstones and Maxwells, two of the most prominent and powerful families in Dumfriesshire. These two families were strong enough, had they been united, to have kept the whole district in good order; but unfortunately they were often at feud, with the result that not only their own interests, but the interests of the community as a whole, were ruthlessly sacrificed. It is worthy of note that one of the principal causes of the frequent and disastrous feuds between the representatives of the two families, was the frequency with which the office of warden was conferred, first on the one, and then on the other, without any good reason being assigned by the King for the adoption of this shuttle-cock policy. This office was naturally much coveted, as it was not only a source of revenue, which in those days was a most important consideration, but a condition of influence and power. It must, therefore, have been peculiarly irritating for the warden to be summarily called upon to resign his office almost before he had begun to reap the rewards pertaining to it. And when he saw his rival basking in the sunshine of the royal favour, from which he had been suddenly and capriciously excluded, his feelings may be more easily imagined than described. Nor did it greatly tend to soothe his wounded feelings to reflect that the person by whom he had been superseded would be certain before long to be hurled from his proud eminence and another put in his place. The whole system was pernicious, and was the source of no end of mischief and bad blood. The origin of this famous feud may be briefly related. John, seventh Lord Maxwell, has been well described as one of those men whom a daring and restless temperament and their crimes "have damned to eternal fame." After the death of the Regent Morton, he succeeded in securing a charter to the Earldom of Morton--his mother, Lady Beatrix Douglas, being the Regent's second daughter. It was not his good fortune, however, to enjoy for a lengthened period either the title, or the domains attached to it. In January, 1585, four years after he had come into possession, Parliament rescinded the Attainder, and declared that the title and the estates were to be conferred on the Regent Morton's lawful heir. Maxwell was declared a rebel, mainly owing to his religious views--he being a warm adherent of the Romish Church--and Johnstone was commissioned to apprehend him. Though he had the assistance of two bands of hired soldiers, Maxwell proved more than a match for him, took him prisoner, and set fire to Lochwood Castle, as it was savagely remarked, "that Lady Johnstone might have light to put on her hood." This unexpected blow fell on the laird of Johnstone with crushing effect. In the following year he died of a broken heart. It is to these circumstances that we must attribute the origin of the deadly feud between the two clans, and especially between their chiefs. But Maxwell, though gaining this important victory, was not allowed to escape. He was ultimately taken prisoner, but afterwards regained his liberty, on condition that he left the country. He went to Spain, and offered his services to "His Catholic Majesty," who was then busily engaged in fitting out the _Invincible Armada_, by which he hoped to overwhelm both England and Scotland. Lord Maxwell--so little was he animated by the spirit of patriotism--entered into the scheme _con amore_. Being furnished with ample means, he returned to Scotland in 1588 to levy men on the Borders to assist his new sovereign. His prefidious designs were fortunately discovered, and ere he could make good his escape, he was surprised by the King in Dumfries, taken prisoner, and his wardenship of the West Marches bestowed on his powerful rival, the laird of Johnstone. Everything might have gone on smoothly at this juncture had the King only been gifted with a little firmness and foresight. He was anxious, however, to conciliate his Roman Catholic subjects, and he seems to have come to the conclusion that, reasonable conditions being imposed, he might accomplish this end by restoring Maxwell to favour and office. This was a fatal blunder, and produced disastrous results. Though the two rival chiefs were induced to enter into a bond of alliance to support each other in their lawful quarrels, as might have been expected, it was not long before circumstances arose which brought them again into deadly conflict. The Johnstones seemed to have concluded that they were at liberty to harry and despoil at their pleasure, so long as they left unmolested any of the name of Maxwell. Acting upon this principle, they made a raid upon Nithsdale, and committed sundry depredations on Lord Sanquhar, the lairds of Drumlanrig, Closeburn, and Lagg, and killed eighteen persons who had "followed their own goods." Such a fierce and unprovoked assault could not well be allowed to go unpunished, and so a commission was given to Lord Maxwell to pursue the Johnstones with all hostilities. Johnstone hearing of this, at once adopted measures for his protection. He summoned to his aid the Scotts of Teviotdale, and the Grahams and Elliots of Eskdale, as well as "divers Englishmen, treasonably brought within the realm, armed in plain hostility." Maxwell, however, determined not to be beat, entered into "Bonds of Manrent" with Sanquhar, Drumlanrig, and several others, who had suffered at the hands of Johnstone, to maintain each other's quarrels. Acting upon his commission, Maxwell summoned Johnstone to surrender, but this he refused to do, on the ground that the warden had acted illegally in entering into "Bonds" with the persons above-mentioned. As it was clearly impossible to settle the question by diplomatic means, the warden despatched Captain Oliphant with some troops to Lochmaben, to await his arrival in Annandale. The Johnstones, who were on the alert, coming suddenly upon them, killed the captain, and a number of his soldiers, and burned the Kirk of Lochmaben, where some of Oliphant's men had fled for refuge. Lord Maxwell now entered the field in person. He expected to raise the different towns in his aid; but Johnstone, acting on the principle that "a 'steek' in time saves nine," attacked him at once, scattered his forces, and slew Lord Maxwell, "and sundry gentlemen of his name." This affair took place December, 1593, and is well known as the Battle of Dryfe Sands. "Lord Maxwell," it is said, "a tall man, and heavy in armour, was in the chase overtaken and stricken from his horse. The report went that he called to Johnstone, and desired to be taken (prisoner), as he had formerly taken his (Johnstone's) father: but was unmercifully used; and the hand that reached forth cut off; but of this I can affirm nothing. There, at all events, the Lord Maxwell fell, having received many wounds. He was a nobleman of great spirit, humane, courteous, and more learned than noblemen commonly are; but aspiring and ambitious of rule." In this contest the Maxwells suffered severely. They were cut down in scores in the streets of Lockerbie. It is said that those who escaped bore on them to their dying hour marks of the fatal day, which occasioned the proverbial phrase of "a Lockerby lick," to denote a frightful gash over the face or skull. So dreadful was the carnage in this disastrous "bout of arms" that it is alleged by numerous historians that at least 700 of the Maxwells and their adherents were slain. Two aged thorns long marked the spot where Maxwell met his fate, known in the district as "Maxwell's Thorns." They were carried away by a flood some fifty years ago, but have been replaced by two others, now enclosed in a railing. "It is evident, then," remarks Pitcairn, "according to the sentiments of those times, inherited from their earliest years, which 'grew with their growth and strengthened with their strength,' that natural duty and filial piety required such a feud should become hereditary, and behoved should be handed down from one generation to another. The attempts by the King and his Council to procure an effectual reconciliation, although strenuously made and often repeated, at length proved abortive. The re-appointment of the Laird of Johnstone to be warden of the West Marches, in 1596, appears to have served as a signal for the resumption of mutual aggressions."[56] It would seem that Johnstone held the office at this time for a period of three years, but as his wardenry had got into a most unsatisfactory condition, he was superseded by Sir John Carmichael, his appointment being notified to Lord Scrope, by James VI., on the 26th December, 1599. Carmichael was murdered by Thomas Armstrong, "son of Sandies Ringan," in the following year, and Johnstone was again appointed to this ill-fated office. All this time the feud raged as fiercely as ever. Various attempts were made to bring about an agreement, but nothing came of them. At length through the influence of mutual friends, a private meeting was arranged. Solemn pledges were given and exchanged, and Lord Maxwell and Sir James Johnstone met on the 6th of April, 1608, each accompanied only by a single attendant. The principals having removed some distance to discuss their affairs, a quarrel arose between the two attendants, and when Sir James Johnstone turned round to admonish them to keep the peace, Lord Maxwell suddenly drew his pistol, and fired at him, and shot him through the back with two bullets. This cold-blooded murder, made all the more heinous by the circumstances in which it was perpetrated, was amply revenged. Lord Maxwell was apprehended, and put in ward in the Castle of Edinburgh. He contrived, however, to escape, and went abroad, where he remained for four years. He returned to the Borders, but finding that his crime was remembered against him, had instantly to prepare for embarkation to Sweden. Unfortunately for himself, he was persuaded by his kinsman, the Earl of Caithness, to abandon this project. He was lured to Castle Sinclair, where he was promised shelter and secrecy. He was not long there before he was betrayed by his friend, taken prisoner, and brought to Edinburgh and beheaded. "It may be gratifying to know that the Earl of Caithness obtained no reward for his traitorous conduct; but, on the contrary, his treachery served as a source of constant reproach to him and his family."[57] "Thus was finally ended, by a salutary example of severity, 'the foul debate' betwixt the Maxwells and the Johnstones, in course of which each family lost two chieftains; one by dying of a broken heart, one in the field of battle, one by assassination, and one by the sword of the executioner."[58] The history of the Borders unfortunately affords too many examples of the deplorable consequences arising from the prevalency and frequency of such feuds. Many were compelled to live in constant terror of the dagger of the assassin, never knowing the moment when they might be stricken down by an unseen hand. At the same time it may be remarked that those who were guilty of the crime of murder found it a matter of extreme difficulty to escape punishment. The "avenger of blood" was ever on the track, and though for a time, by means of various disguises, the culprit might elude pursuit, he had sooner or later to pay the penalty of his misdeeds. In the year 1511 Sir Robert Ker of Cessford was slain at a Border meeting by three Englishmen--Heron, Starhead, and Lillburn. The English monarch delivered up Lillburn to justice, but the other two made good their escape. Starhead fled for refuge to the very centre of England, and there lived in secrecy and upon his guard. Two dependants of the murdered warden were deputed by Andrew Ker of Cessford to revenge his father's death. They travelled through England in various disguises till they discovered the place of Starhead's retreat, murdered him in his bed, and brought his head to their master, by whom, in memorial of their vengeance, it was exposed on the cross of Edinburgh. Heron would have shared the same fate had he not spread abroad a report of his having died of the plague, and caused his funeral obsequies to be performed. Various expedients were resorted to in order to terminate the feuds which prevailed. A common method was to get the Chiefs and Chieftains of the opposing clans to subscribe what were called "bonds of assurance." There can be no doubt that this might often have proved a most effective measure, had the parties concerned only been willing to let bygones be bygones. But it was found that the old sores were not easily healed. Despite the utmost precautions, animosities which had been suppressed for a time--kept as it were in abeyance--would assert themselves in a most unexpected manner, and with redoubled force, and create a still more distracting condition of affairs. Prior to the Reformation, feuds were sometimes terminated by an appeal to the religious sensibilities of the persons more immediately concerned. They were induced to make pilgrimages to noted shrines--the shrine of St. Ninian being a favourite resort--where, under the influence of religious thoughts and feelings, they might be induced to take a more kindly view of those with whom they were at feud, and make some reparation for the injury they had inflicted. How far this method succeeded it is difficult to determine, but the likelihood is that it was quite as effective as any other. Among the Chiefs, or clans, feuds were sometimes brought to an end by a contract of marriage between a leading gentleman of one clan and a daughter of the principal house of the other. This was the plan adopted by the Scotts and Kers, and which, after some vexatious delays, proved entirely successful. But if it was found that none of the above methods of terminating the feud could be conveniently applied, then resort was had, as has already been hinted, to still simpler means. An atonement was made by the payment of a sum of money called "assythment," which was sometimes found sufficient to restore good feeling, and bring together in a spirit of amity families that had been at feud with each other. But these and other means of putting an end to the feud proved, perhaps, in the majority of cases, of little or no avail. The parties concerned preferred, generally, to fight it out to the bitter end, utterly indifferent to consequences. VIII. THE THIEVES DAUNTONED. "Revenge! revenge! auld Wat 'gan cry; Fye, lads, lay on them cruellie! We'll ne'er see Teviotside again, Or Willie's death revenged sall be." The intermittent and ineffective manner in which the law was generally administered on the Borders was the occasion, if not the cause, of much of the turbulence and lawlessness which prevailed. The Border thieves were now and then placed under the most rigid surveillance, and their misdeeds visited with condign punishment; but for the most part they were left to work out their own sweet will, none daring to make them afraid. This method of treatment could not be expected to produce beneficial results. It had exactly the opposite effect. Respect for the law was completely destroyed. Those who were called upon, as the phrase goes, "to underlie the law," had no sense of shame when their wrongdoing was brought home to them. They no doubt felt the inconvenience of being punished, by fine or imprisonment, for their misdeeds; but there was no moral stigma attaching to imprisonment, or to almost any other form of punishment. That a man's father had been hanged for cattle-stealing, or for the slaughter of those who had dared to resist him when he went on a foraging expedition, might engender a feeling of resentment, but it was not in the least likely to create a feeling of shame. Such incidents as these were regarded with philosophical indifference. We remember once hearing a distinguished Borderer remark that the ancient history of nearly all the great Border families had been faithfully chronicled in "Pitcairn's Criminal Trials!" A careful study of that interesting and valuable compilation will go far to corroborate the remark. The "Family Tree" is a phrase which has an altogether peculiar significance on the Borders. It suggests ideas and reflections which are not usually associated with genealogy. But when all has been said on this phase of the question which either envy or malice can suggest, every sympathetic and well-informed student of Border history will readily admit that the Borderers, bad as they were, were really more sinned against than sinning. Carlyle has somewhere remarked that a man's first _right_ is to be well governed. It is, perhaps, unusual to regard our rights from this point of view, yet there can be no doubt that good government is an essential requisite of society, and one of the greatest blessings of the individual life. This boon was one which, for many generations, the Borderers did not enjoy. They were encouraged to commit crime one day, and punished for it the next. This is doubtless a strong assertion, but we think it is one that can be amply proved. It was the policy of James VI., for example, to keep on the best possible terms with Queen Elizabeth, in order not to endanger his chance of succession, and consequently he was naturally anxious to keep his turbulent subjects on the Borders as well in hand as possible. But that he secretly sympathised with them, and encouraged them in their predatory incursions on the English Border, hardly admits of serious doubt. Sir John Foster, writing in 1586, says: "The King doth write to the Laird of Cessford to do justice, and yet in the meantime he appointeth others to ride and break the Border, and doth wink thereat."[59] We find Hunsdon writing in the same strain. "I am at this present credibly advertised," he says, "from one of good intelligence that what fair weather soever the King makes, he means no good towards her Majesty, nor her subjects, and that at this present, there is some practice in hand, whatsoever it is--and he doth assure me that those of Liddesdale, Ewesdale, Eskdale, and Annandale, being 400 horse that came to Hawden brigges where they took away the goods and burnt 4 houses, was not without the King's knowledge, but not meant to be done in that place."[60] In another communication, in which he alludes to the coming of the King to the Borders with a large army, ostensibly to punish the thieves, he remarks, that he thought it very strange that the King should come with so great a company for the suppressing of a few thieves, when there was not one of them, either in Liddesdale or Teviotdale, that he might not have had brought to him, had he so wished it. He hints that these great outrages would never have been attempted without the King's "privitie"--"for it was given forth," he says, "that the Earl Bothwell's riding to Branksome and Hawick, where he holds as many of Liddesdale before him as it pleased him to send for, that it was to cause them of Liddesdale to be answerable to justice to England for such outrages as they had sundry times committed; but the sequel did manifest the cause of his going thither. For presently after, his said son-in-law, the Laird of Buccleuch, made a 'roade' with 300 horse into the West March at two of the clock in the after-noon, with a trumpet and gydon, and spoiled the country about Bewcastle in warlike manner till sun-set. The trumpet was my Lord Bothwell's, and the goods was carried to Armitage at my Lord Bothwell's officers' commandment. So as I have just cause to think that this 'roade' was done by my Lord Bothwell's appointment, and I am sure he durst not have done it without the King's privity, I will not say commandment."[61] These are only a few of many illustrations of a similar kind which may be found scattered through the pages of the "State Papers," and while we must be careful not to accept such statements as in every instance worthy of absolute credence, yet the circumstances would seem to warrant our regarding them, in many cases at least, as well founded. When the King and his lieutenants thus secretly connived at, and encouraged, the depredations of the reivers, we need hardly wonder that they engaged in the work of plundering with an almost total absence of compunction. Had the sphere of their operations been always strictly confined to the English Border, the likelihood is that neither King, nor Regent, would have sought to "daunton" them. But there were times when it was difficult for the Scottish reivers to earn a decent livelihood by harassing and spoiling "the auld enemy," owing to the watchfulness and strength of those dwelling within the opposite Marches; and as there was a danger of their talents becoming feeble through disuse, they naturally turned their attention to their own more wealthy neighbours and friends. That there is "honour among thieves" is a proposition that is sometimes called in question; but we find that the spirit of a really helpful friendship occasionally manifested itself in curious ways. When a family, or clan, contemplated a raid upon a neighbour's property, it was customary to secure the assistance of the thieves on the opposite Border. In "Pitcairn's Criminal Trials" there are numerous allusions to the prosecutions of famous Scottish reivers for the inbringing of Englishmen to assist them in the work of plunder. This was one of the offences charged against Cockburn of Henderland, and which, no doubt, weighed heavily with his judges in consigning him to the gallows. When the reivers thus turned their attention to their own countrymen, and with the assistance of English allies began to despoil them, it was felt that strong measures must be adopted for their suppression and punishment. The Border reivers regarded the law with a feeling akin to contempt. They were disposed to look upon the statutes of the realm as so many old wives' fables; and, truth to speak, they were often of not much more account. The policy of the wardens was too frequently one of mere self-aggrandizement, and so long as their individual interests were not imperilled they looked on with a kind of placid indifference at the misdoings of those whom it was their duty, if not their interest, to control. When James VI. came to Dumfries, to "daunton the thieves" in that district of the country, his time was mainly occupied in meting out summary punishment to men of high social position, whose "thefts, herschips, and slaughters" had become notorious, and cried aloud for vengeance. There were, no doubt, many of the commonality as well, who at this time were made to suffer for their crimes, but as these cases were generally dealt with by subordinate officials, they do not come so prominently before us. "Nothing is more remarkable," says Sir Herbert Maxwell, "than the light thrown on the social state of Scotland at this time by the justiciary records. By far the larger part of the criminals dealt with at the King's 'justice aires' were men of good position, barons and landowners, burgesses or provosts of burghs. The humbler offenders were dealt with by the sheriff or at the baron's courts, and do not appear; but the following extracts from the records of the short reign of James IV., in which the culprits are all landowners, or members of their families, in Dumfriesshire or Galloway, illustrate the difficulty of maintaining order when the upper classes were so unruly." Here a list of names is appended, in which such well-known personages as Murray, Jardine, Herries, Bell, Dinwoodie, Lindsay, Douglas, &c., appear. These men stand charged with high treason, forethought--felony, slaughter, horse-stealing, and other heinous offences. Some were pardoned, others respited, the horse-stealer was called upon to make restitution,--a severe sentence,--and Lindsay of Wauchope, who had slain a messenger-at-arms, was condemned to death, and his estates forfeited. In the accounts of expenditure incurred by the King during this visit to Dumfries some curious items appear. Here are a few samples. _Item_, to the man that hangit the thieves at the Hallirlaws,--xiiijs. _Item_, for ane raip to hang them in ...--viijd. _Item_, to the man that hangit the thieves in Canonby, be the King's command ...--xiiijs. But all the details are not of this gruesome character. The work of hanging, needful as it was, could give but "sma' pleasure" even to a King, and so we find that entertainment of another kind was plentifully provided for the youthful monarch. "He was attended in his progress," says Tytler, "by his huntsmen, falconers, morris dancers, and all the motley and various minions of his pleasure, as well as by his judges and ministers of the law; and whilst troops of the unfortunate marauders were seized and brought in irons to the encampment, executions and entertainments appear to have succeeded each other with extraordinary rapidity."[62] Not long after the King made another visit to the Borders, coming on this occasion also with a considerable following, to the Water of Rule, to "daunton" the Turnbulls, whose excesses had filled the minds of the more peaceful inhabitants with a feeling of terror. Leslie, in his own quaint and picturesque style, thus describes the incident:--"The King raid furth of Edinburgh, the viij. of November one the nycht, weill accumpaneit to the watter of Roulle, quhair he tuik divers brokin men and brocht thame to Jeduart; of quhom sum was justifyeit, and the principallis of the trubillis [Turnbulls] come in lyning claythis, with nakitt sordis in thair handis and wyddyis [ropes] about thair neckis, and pat thame in the Kingis will; quha wes send to divers castells in ward, with sindrie utheris of that cuntrey men also, quhair throchout the bordouris wes in greiter quietnes thairefter."[63] We find that the Regents, when occasion demanded, were no less severe in their treatment of the unfortunate marauders. It would seem that about the middle of the sixteenth century the Borders had attained to an almost unexampled degree of lawlessness. Murder, robbery, and offences of all kinds prevailed to an intolerable extent. It is said that men who had been publicly outlawed walked abroad, deriding the terrors of justice. Hawick, a burgh of ancient renown, was the centre of these crimes. The Earl of Mar made a sudden and rapid march upon the town, encompassed it with his soldiers, and made a proclamation in the market place forbidding any one, on pain of death, to receive or shelter a thief. He apprehended fifty-three of the most noted outlaws, eighteen of whom, strange to state, he was under the necessity of drowning for "lack of trees and halters." Six were hanged in Edinburgh, and the rest either acquitted or put in prison. This sharp and salutary lesson was evidently laid to heart, as we learn that, for some time after, extraordinary quietness prevailed. In a few years, however, the state of matters on the Borders seems to have gone from bad to worse. The Scotts and the Ellwoods (Elliots) were at deadly feud, and as the result of their frequent and violent quarrels the whole district was thrown into confusion and disorder. Queen Mary had recently returned from France; and, hearing how things were going in this distracted part of her realm, came to Jedburgh to hold court in person. For more than a week she was busily engaged in hearing a great variety of cases that were brought before her, and imposing various modes and degrees of punishment on the offenders. It was on this occasion she made her famous visit to Hermitage Castle, in Liddesdale. The Earl of Bothwell had been stationed there for some time, in order if possible to "daunton" the "wicked limmers" by whom the district had long been infested. One day when in pursuit of a party of Elliots, having got considerably ahead of his company, he encountered a famous mosstrooper, John Elliot of Park, the "little Jock Elliot" of Border song (?), and drawing a "dag" or pistol fired at him, wounding him severely in the thigh. The gallant marauder turned upon his assailant, and, with a two-handed sword, which he wielded with amazing dexterity, bore him to the ground, leaving him to all appearance dead. Some have been wicked enough to wish that this _coup d'epée_ had been more effective, as both Queen and country would have been spared much trouble and many heart burnings had Elliot's well-aimed blow fallen with more deadly effect. Mary, hearing that her favourite courtier lay ill at Hermitage, resolved to pay him a friendly visit. Leaving Jedburgh early in the morning, in the company of her brother Murray, and other officers, she rode by way of Hawick over the hills to Liddesdale--a distance of twenty miles. The road was rough, and not without its hazards, especially to one unacquainted with the district--the ground near the watershed being full of quaking bogs and treacherous morasses. There is a place still known as the "Queen's Mire," near the head of the Braidlie burn, where the palfrey on which her Majesty was riding came to grief. Not long ago a bit of a silver spur was found at this spot, which is not unreasonably regarded as a relic of the Queen's disaster. After watching by the bed of the sufferer for the space of two hours, the Queen resumed her journey, reaching Jedburgh the same night. This long and exciting ride, which has exposed the memory of the fair Queen to many severe animadversions, was followed by a violent fever, which brought her to the gates of death. She herself did not expect to recover. Calling her nobles around her couch she enjoined them to live in unity and peace with each other, and to employ their utmost diligence in the government of the country, and the education of her son. But the end was not yet. Fotheringay, with its tragic memories, and not the quiet Border town where she then lay, was to witness the close of her sublimely pathetic career. The unsettled condition of the country after the battle of Langside, and the Queen's flight into England, made the Border reivers more than ever bold and lawless. They seemed to think that their opportunity had come, and that they might shake themselves free from the embarrassing restraints of constituted authority. But they were speedily made to feel that the hand of the Regent was even heavier than that of the King. The Earl of Murray, realizing that repressive measures were urgently needed, mustered a force of 4000 horse and foot and marched into Teviotdale, where he was speedily joined by Scott of Buccleuch, Home, Ker of Cessford, Ker of Ferniherst, and other gentlemen. After consulting together it was resolved to burn and destroy Liddesdale; and Buccleuch and Ferniherst were deputed to undertake the work. This resolution, as might have been expected, created consternation and dismay amongst the leaders of the clans, who came to the Regent entreating him to stay his hand, and graciously pardon their offences. Murray was not unwilling to do so, provided they would give assurances and pledges of their future conduct. It was found impossible, however, to come to terms. The sureties offered did not satisfy the Regent, and he at once set about the wholesale work of destruction which he had formerly planned. He was determined to do the work thoroughly when he had begun. Everything that would burn was given to the flames. Not a single house was left standing. He spent a Sunday night in the castle of Mangerton, and when he left next morning he had the satisfaction of seeing it reduced to a heap of ruins. This destructive invasion must have taxed the energies of his large army, as it is said that the Armstrongs and Elliots had fifty keeps and castles on the banks of the Liddle. It is one thing, however, to destroy the rookeries; it is another and totally different thing to exterminate the crows. The Border thieves were not difficult to accommodate. They were inured to hardship. It was a necessity of their mode of life. Their "peels" and "towers" might be in ruins, but it never seemed to have occurred to them to go elsewhere, at least for any length of time. As soon as the avenging army had withdrawn, they were back to their old haunts, and in a short time had them as comfortable as ever. When a community has been demoralized by long continued misgovernment, the mere application of brute force does not go far in the way of restraining them, or helping them toward a better mode of life--a lesson which governments are often slow to learn. But this work of "dauntoning the thieves" was also occasionally undertaken by the wardens with considerable heartiness, more especially when dealing with unfortunate culprits from the opposite wardenry. Sir Robert Cary frequently distinguished himself in this way. In his chatty and interesting "Memoirs," he tells a story of one _Geordie Bourne_, whom he caused to be hanged on account of his villainies. It is to be hoped that the picture he has drawn of this man is not representative of the reivers as a whole, as it is hardly possible to conceive of a more consummate scoundrel. We shall let the warden tell the story in his own words. He says:--"This gallant with some of his associates, would, in a bravery, come and take goods in the East March. I had that night some of the garrison abroad. They met with this Geordie and his fellows driving off cattle before them. The garrison set upon them, and with a shot killed Geordie Bourne's uncle, and he himself bravely resisting, till he was sore hurt in the head, was taken. After he was taken, his pride was such as he asked who it was that durst avow that night's work? But when he heard it was the garrison, he was then more quiet. But so powerful and awful was this Sir Robert Car and his favourites, as there was not a gentleman in the East March that durst offend them. Presently, after he was taken, I had most of the gentlemen of the March come to me, and told me that now I had the ball at my foot, and might bring Sir Robert Car to what condition I pleased; for this man's life was so near and dear to him, as I should have all that heart could desire for the good and quiet of the country and myself, if upon any condition I would give him his life. I heard them and their reasons; notwithstanding, I called a jury the next morning, and he was found guilty of March treason. Then they feared that I would cause him to be executed that afternoon, which made them come flocking to me that I should spare his life till the next day; and if Sir Robert Car came not himself to me, and made me not such proffers as I could not but accept, then I should do with him what I pleased. And, further, they told me plainly that if I should execute him before I heard from Sir Robert Car, they must be forced to quit their houses and fly the country; for his fury would be such against me and the March I commanded, as he would use all his power and strength to the utter destruction of the East March. They were so earnest with me, that I gave them my word he should not die that day. There was post upon post sent to Sir Robert Car; and some of them rode to him themselves to advertise him in what danger Geordie Bourne was; how he was condemned, and should have been executed that afternoon, but, by their humble suit, I gave them my word that he should not die that day; and therefore besought him that he would send to me with all speed he could, to let me know that he would be next day with me to offer good conditions for the safety of his life. When all things were quiet and the watch set at night, after supper, about ten of the clock, I took one of my men's liveries and put it about me, and took two other of my servants with me in their liveries, and we three, as the warden's men, came to the Provost Marshal's, where Bourne was, and were let into his chamber. We sat down by him, and told him that we were desirous to see him, because we heard he was stout and valiant and true to his friend; and that we were sorry our master could not be moved to spare his life. He voluntarily of himself said that he had lived long enough to do so many villainies as he had done, and withal told us that he had lain with above forty men's wives, what in England, what in Scotland; and that he had killed seven Englishmen with his own hand, cruelly murdering them; that he had spent his whole time in whoring, drinking, stealing, and taking deep revenge for slight offences. He seemed to be very penitent, and much desired a minister for the comfort of his soul. We promised him to let our master know his desire, who, we knew, would presently grant it. We took our leave of him, and presently I took order that Mr Selby, a very worthy honest preacher, should go to him, and not stir from him till his execution the next morning; for after I had heard his own confession, I was resolved no conditions should save his life; and so took order that, at the gate's opening next morning, he should be carried to execution, which accordingly was performed."[64] Milder measures were sometimes adopted, and proved surprisingly efficacious--in certain circumstances. Before Sir Robert Cary was warden of the East March he was deputy to Lord Scrope, his brother-in-law, who was warden of the West March, with his headquarters in Carlisle. On one occasion, when occupying this subordinate position, intelligence was brought to him that two Scotsmen had killed a churchman in Scotland, and that they had been relieved or sheltered by one of the Græmes of Netherby. Cary determined to surprise the fugitive Scots, and about two o'clock one morning surrounded the Tower of Netherby with twenty-five horsemen. As he approached he saw a boy riding from the house as fast as his horse could carry him. Thomas Carelton came to him and said, "Do you see that boy that rideth away as fast? He will be in Scotland within this half hour, and he is gone to let them know that you are here, and the small number you have with you; and that if they make haste, on a sudden they may surprise us, and do with us what they please." But Cary was not to be frightened. He soon gathered together three or four hundred horse from the surrounding district and as many foot, and presently set to work to get to the top of the strong tower into which the Scots had fled for refuge. The Scots, seeing how things were going, pled for mercy. "They had no sooner opened the iron gate," says Cary, "and yielded themselves my prisoners, but we might see four hundred horse within a quarter of a mile coming to their rescue, and to surprise me and my small company; but of a sudden they stayed, and stood at gaze. Then had I more to do than ever, for all our Borderers came crying with full mouths, 'Sir, give us leave to set upon them, for these are they that have killed our fathers, our brothers, our uncles, and our cousins; and they are come, thinking to surprise you, upon weak grass nags,[65] such as they could get on a sudden; and God will put them into your hands, that we may take revenge of them for much blood that they have spilled of ours.' I desired that they would be patient and wise, and bethought myself, if I should give them their wills, there should be few or none of them (the Scots) that would escape unkilled (there were so many deadly feuds among them), and therefore I resolved with myself to give a fair answer, but not to give them their desire. So I told them that if I were not there myself, they might do what pleased themselves; but being present, if I should give them leave, the blood that had been spilt that day would lie very heavy on my conscience, and therefore I desired them, for my sake, to forbear; and if the Scots did not presently make away with all the speed they could upon my sending to them, they should then have their wills to do what they pleased. They were ill satisfied with my answer, but durst not disobey. I sent with speed to the Scots, and bade them pack away with all the speed they could, for if they stayed the messengers' return, there should few of them return to their own home. They made no stay, but they were turned homewards before the messenger had made an end of his message. Thus, by God's mercy and by my means, there were a great many lives spared that day."[66] Thus ended happily what might otherwise have proved a disastrous encounter. Such incidents tend to prove that the Borderers might have been governed with comparative ease had they only been dealt with in a firm but kindly spirit. The rough usage to which they were frequently subjected at the hands of the government made them reckless, and not unnaturally led them to regard the law not as a friend, but as an enemy. IX. LIDDESDALE LIMMERS. "_Wicked thieves and limmers._" ACT OF PARLIAMENT. "Thir limmer thieves, they have good hearts, They nevir think to be o'erthrown; Three banners against Weardale men they bare, As if the world had been their own." ROOKHOPE RYDE. Though reiving may be said to have been a characteristic of the inhabitants along the whole Border line from Berwick to the Solway, yet it was only in the district known as Liddesdale where it attained, what we might designate, its complete development as a thoroughly organized system. This part of Roxburghshire is, to a certain extent, detached from the rest of the county by reason of the fact that it lies south of the range of hills which form the watershed between the Solway and the German Ocean. This picturesque and interesting district, so famous in Border song and story, is of a somewhat triangular shape, and at present forms one of the largest parishes in the south of Scotland, measuring some twenty miles by fourteen. It is bounded by England on the south, by Dumfriesshire on the west, and by the parishes of Teviothead, Hobkirk, and Southdean on the north. The upper, or northern, portion is mountainous and bleak. Some of the hills along its boundaries are high and precipitous, the lofty peaks of Millenwood Fell and Windhead attaining an elevation of close on 2000 feet. Tudhope hill, which forms a landmark for ships at sea, is 1830 feet high. The lower end of the district is less mountainous, but the whole country is wild and bare, except in the valleys, which are clothed in the richest green, and are sunny and sheltered. Along the banks of the Hermitage and the Liddle--the latter stream giving its name to the district--the keeps and peels of the Border reivers were thickly and picturesquely planted. These towers, many of which have been happily preserved, form one of the most striking features of the Border landscape. As a general rule they were built in some situation of great natural strength, on a precipice, or close to the banks of a stream, or surrounded by woods and morasses, which made them difficult of access. The position in which they were generally placed indicated at a glance the pursuits and apprehensions of their inhabitants. It is said that when James VI. approached the castle of Lochwood, the ancient seat of the Johnstones, he exclaimed that "the man who built it must have been a knave in his heart." The principal part of these strongholds consisted of a large square tower, called a "keep," having walls of immense thickness, which could be easily defended against any sudden or desultory assault. The residencies of the inferior Chiefs, called "peels" or "bastel-houses," were generally built on a much smaller scale, and consisted merely of a high square tower, surrounded by an outer wall, which served as a protection for cattle at night. In these places the rooms were placed, one above the other, and connected by a narrow stair, which was easily blocked up or defended, so that it was possible for the garrison to hold out for a considerable period, even after the lower storey had been taken possession of by the enemy. In such circumstances the usual device was for the assailants to heap together quantities of wetted straw, and set fire to it in order to drive the defenders from storey to storey, and thus compel them to surrender. "In each village or town," says Sir Walter Scott, "were several small towers having battlements projecting over the side walls, and usually an advanced angle or two, with shot-holes for flanking the doorway, which was always defended by a strong door of oak, studded with nails, and often by an interior door of iron. These small peel-houses were ordinarily inhabited by the principal feuars and their families. Upon the alarm of approaching danger, the whole inhabitants thronged from their miserable cottages, which were situated around, to garrison these places of defence. It was then no easy matter for an hostile party to penetrate into the village, for the men were habituated to the use of bow and fire-arms; and the towers being generally so placed that the discharge from one crossed that from another, it was impossible to assault any of them individually." In the middle of the sixteenth century there were no fewer than sixteen of these bastel-houses in the village of Lessudden, a fact which shows that the inhabitants of the Border were compelled to live under somewhat peculiar conditions. To follow the ordinary occupations of life was, in most cases, all but impossible. One of the most important strongholds on the Borders was Hermitage, a well-built castle, placed near the watershed, on the banks of a swift-flowing mountain stream--the Hermitage water, which joins the Liddle a little above the village of Newcastleton. This famous Border tower was built and fortified by Walter, Earl of Menteith, in the beginning of the thirteenth century. It was a royal fortress, built and maintained for the defence of the Kingdom. Numerous interesting associations cluster around its mouldering walls. It has, unhappily, been the scene of many a blood-curdling tragedy. Could its massive walls only recount the deeds which have been done under their shadow, they would many a strange tale unfold. Hermitage was long associated with the name of Lord Soulis, a fiend in human form, whose crimes have been painted in blackest hues, and to whom tradition has ascribed almost every conceivable kind and degree of wickedness. He seems, at least, to have been utterly destitute of the divine quality of mercy. "The axe he bears, it hacks and tears; 'Tis form'd of an earth-fast flint; No armour of knight, tho' ever so wight, Can bear its deadly dint. No danger he fears, for a charm'd sword he wears, Of adderstone the hilt; No Tynedale knight had ever such might, But his heart-blood was spilt." He invited the young laird of Mangerton to a feast, and treacherously murdered him. The "Cout of Keeldar," also, was drowned by the retainers of Lord Soulis in a pool near the castle, being held down in the water by the spears of his murderers. "And now young Keeldar reach'd the stream, Above the foamy linn; The Border lances round him gleam, And force the warrior in. The holly floated to the side, And the leaf on the rowan pale; Alas! no spell could charm the tide, Nor the lance of Liddesdale. Swift was the Cout o' Keeldar's course Along the lily lee; But home came never hound nor horse, And never home came he. Where weeps the birch with branches green, Without the holy ground, Between two old gray stones is seen The warrior's ridgy mound. And the hunters bold, of Keeldar's train, Within yon castle's wall, In a deadly sleep must aye remain, Till the ruin'd towers down fall. Each in his hunter's garb array'd, Each holds his bugle horn; Their keen hounds at their feet are laid That ne'er shall wake the morn." Tradition says that, when the people complained to the King of the atrocities committed by Lord Soulis, he said to them in a fit of irritation--"Go, boil Lord Soulis and ye list, but let me hear no more of him." No sooner said than done-- "On a circle of stones they placed the pot, On a circle of stones but barely nine; They heated it red and fiery hot, Till the burnish'd brass did glimmer and shine. They roll'd him up in a sheet of lead, A sheet of lead for a funeral pall; They plunged him in the cauldron red, And melted him, lead, and bones and all. At the Skelfhill, the cauldron still The men of Liddesdale can show; And on the spot where they boil'd the pot The spreat and the deer-hair ne'er shall grow." At a place called the "Nine Stane Rig" there may still be seen a circle of stones where it is supposed this gruesome tragedy was enacted. The "cauldron red," in which Lord Soulis was boiled, is now in the possession of the Duke of Buccleuch. The Nine Stane Rig derived its name from an old Druidical circle of upright stones, nine of which remained to a late period. Two of these are particularly pointed out as those that supported the iron bar upon which the fatal cauldron was suspended. The castle of Hermitage ultimately passed into the possession of the Douglasses, and became the principal stronghold of the "Black Knight of Liddisdale," a natural son of the good Lord James Douglas, the trusted friend and companion of Bruce. In the year 1342 it was the scene of the following terrible tragedy: Sir Alexander Ramsay of Dalhousie, a brave and patriotic Scottish baron, who had specially distinguished himself in the wars with England, was appointed governor of the castle of Roxburgh and Sheriff of Teviotdale. Douglas, who had formerly held the office of Sheriff, was enraged when he heard what had occurred, and vowed revenge against Ramsay, his old companion in arms. He came suddenly upon him with a strong party of his vassals while he was holding his court in the church of Hawick. Ramsay, suspecting no harm, invited Douglas to take a seat beside him. The ferocious warrior, drawing his sword, rushed upon his victim, wounded him, threw him across his horse, and carried him off to the remote and inaccessible castle of Hermitage. There he was thrown into a dungeon, and left to perish of hunger. It is said that his miserable existence was prolonged for seventeen days by some particles of corn which fell from a granary above his prison. Tytler, in commenting on this abominable crime, justly remarks:--"It is a melancholy reflection that a fate so horrid befell one of the bravest and most popular leaders of the Scottish nation, and that the deed not only passed unrevenged, but that its perpetrator received a speedy pardon, and was rewarded by the office which led to the murder." In later times Hermitage is chiefly associated with the names of Bothwell and Buccleuch. It is still in the possession of the latter noble family, and is one of the most interesting of all the old Border castles. In the olden time Liddesdale was chiefly inhabited by two numerous and powerful families--the Armstrongs and the Elliots. The laird of Mangerton was the head of the former, and the laird of Redheugh of the latter. Both families were, almost without exception, notorious freebooters. Reiving was the business of their lives. They were inspired, if not with a noble, at least with an overmastering enthusiasm for their nefarious calling. They were strongly of opinion that all property was common by the law of nature, and that the greatest thief was the man who had the presumption to call anything his own! Might was right. "They may take who have the power, And they may keep who can." It was, no doubt, a simple rule, but the consequences resulting from its application were not always of an agreeable description. It is said that the original name of the Armstrongs was _Fairbairn_, and that the change of name was brought about by a curious incident. The King on one occasion asked a Fairbairn to help him to mount his horse. Stretching out his arm, he caught the King by the thigh, and lifted him into his saddle. From henceforth he was known by the name of _Armstrong_. The name "Elliot" has undergone considerable changes. It is spelled in some of the older documents in at least seventy or eighty different ways, the most common being Ellwood, Elwald, Elwand, Hellwodd, Halliot, Allat, Elliot. It is remarkable that in many districts in the south of Scotland the name is still pronounced "Allat," though this is one of the older forms in which it appears. The Elliots and Armstrongs and other inhabitants of Liddesdale attained an unenviable notoriety. The picture which Maitland has drawn of these "Liddesdale Limmers" may be here and there too highly coloured; yet those who are most familiar with the facts of Border history will be the first to admit that it is, on the whole, a fairly accurate description. It is entitled, "A Complaynt against the Thieves of Liddesdale"-- "Of Liddesdale the common thieves, Sae pertly steals now and reives, That nane may keep Horse, nolt, nor sheep For their mischieves. They plainly through the country rides, I trow the mickle devil them guides, Where they onset Ay in their gait, There is no yett, Nor door them bides. They leave richt nocht wherever they gae; There can nae thing be hid them frae; For gif men wald Their houses hald, Then wax they bald To burn and slay. They thieves hae near hand herrit hail, Ettrick Forest and Lauderdale; Now are they gane To Lothiane, And spares nane That they will wail. Bot common taking of blackmail, They that had flesh, and bread, and ale, Now are sae wrackit, Made bare and naikit, Fain to be slaikit, With water caill. They thieves that steals and turses[67] hame, Ilk ane o' them has ane to-name, Will i' the Laws, Hab o' the Shaws, To mak bare wa's They think nae shame. They spulyie puir men o' their packs, They leave them nocht on bed or balks,[68] Baith hen and cock, With reel and rock, The Laird's jock, All with him taks. They leave not spindle, spoon, nor speit, Bed, blanket, bolster, sark, nor sheet, John o' the Park Rypes kist and ark; For all sic wark He is richt meet. He is weel kenned, Jock o' the Syde-- A greater thief did never ride; He never tires For to break byres; O'er muir and mires, Ower guid ane guid. Of stouth though now they come guid speed, That nother of God or man has dread; Yet or I dee, Some shall them see Hing on a tree, While they be dead." It is evident from this graphic account that these "Liddesdale limmers" were not particular as to their booty. They carried off everything that came to hand, on the principle, perhaps, that if they had no particular use for some of the things they appropriated, they were at least leaving their enemies poorer than when they found them. We read of one John Foster of Heathpool, servant to Sir John Foster, complaining of John Elliot of the Heughehouse, Clement Croser, "Martin's Clemye," John Croser, "Eddie's John," Gib Foster of Fowlesheiles, &c., to the number of thirty, "who stole six oxen, 6 kye, 4 young nowte, ane horse, a nag, a sword, a steil cap, a dagger and knives, 2 spears, 2 dublets, 2 pair of breeches, a cloke, a jerkyne, a woman's kertle and a pair of sleaves, 9 kerchers, 7 railes, 7 partlettes, 5 pair of line(n) sheitis, 2 coverlettes; 2 lynne sheits; a purs and 6/- in monie; a woman's purs and 2 silke rybbons; a windinge clothe; a feather bed; a cawdron, a panne, 4 bond of hempe, a pair of wool cards, 4 children's coates, &c., &c."[69] The list of goods here "appropriated" by John Elliot and his friends is an interesting one, as it shows "that all was fish that came to their net"--not even the "winding cloth" being discarded when ransacking the house. We also find an account of one Robert Rutherford of Todlaw producing a "remission for art and part of the theft of certain cuschies of silk, sheits, fustiane, linen cloths, scarfs, fustiane, scarfs, and other clothes, furth of the Kirk of Jedworthe--Robert Turnbull of Blindhalche becoming surety to satisfy parties."[70] Sacrilege was of frequent occurrence. We also find the following entry in Pitcairn:--"Remission to Edward Tayt, for the thiftwise breking of the Kirk of Hendirland, and takin away of certaine guids, gold and silver, fra Sir Wilzeame Jurdane." This happened in the year 1493, which points to the fact that at that date the church of Henderland, which stood on the rounded eminence near Henderland farm house, where "Perys and Marjorie Cockburn" have found their last resting place, was then in existence. This place of worship must have disappeared about the time of the Reformation. These items of information, curious though they may appear, must not be regarded as abnormal instances of the rapacity of the Liddesdale thieves, or "limmers"--to use the designation of an old Act of the Scottish Parliament. They simply denote ordinary incidents of Border reiving. "Kist" and "ark" were made to yield up their treasures. "Insight gear" included everything to be found within the four walls of the house. The very children were sometimes carried off! When the thieves had completed their task those whom they had plundered were occasionally left in a state of absolute destitution. They might congratulate themselves when they were able to keep their clothes on their backs! Some, indeed, were not so fortunate; and, after an encounter with the thieves, were compelled to face the rigour of a severe climate with an exceedingly primitive outfit. It is interesting to find that the clan system prevailed on the Borders, especially in the south-west portion of the district. In Liddesdale, in the district known as the Debateable land, and along the shores of the Solway, the inhabitants were grouped into clans, many of them numerous and powerful. According to Skene, "the word clan signifies children or descendants, and the clan name thus implies that the members of it are, or were supposed to be, descended from a common ancestor or eponymus, and they were distinguished from each other by their patronymics, the use of surnames in the proper sense of the term being unknown among them. These patronymics, in the case of the _Caenncine_, or chief, and the _Ceanntighs_, or heads of the smaller septs, indicated their descent from the founder of the race or sept; those of the members of it who were of the kin of the Chief or Chieftain showed the personal relation; while the commonality of the clan simply used a derivative form of the name of the clan, implying merely that they belonged to it."[71] This form of government, so essentially patriarchal in its nature, is at once the most simple and universal. It is derived from the most primitive idea of authority exercised by a father over his family. Among nations of a Celtic origin this system was universal. Indeed, it is generally held that it is a system peculiar to Celtic tribes. How it came to be established on the Borders is a question which is not easily solved. Sir Walter Scott is of opinion that the system was originally derived from the inhabitants of the western portion of Valentia, who remained unsubdued by the Saxons, and by those of Reged, and the modern Cumberland. He says that the system was not so universal on the eastern part of the Marches, or on the opposite Borders of England. There were many families of distinction who exercised the same feudal and territorial authority that was possessed by other landlords throughout England. But in the dales of Rede and Tyne, as well as in the neighbouring county of Cumberland, the ancient custom of clanship prevailed, and consequently the inhabitants of those districts acted less under the direction of their landlords than under that of the principal men of their name.[72] It is important that this fact should be kept steadily in mind, as the mode of government, of living, and of making war, adopted by the Borderers on both sides, seems to have been in great measure the consequence of the prevailing system of clanship. It is the simplest of all possible systems of government. The Chief was not only the legislator and captain and father of the tribe, but it was to him that each individual of the name looked up for advice, subsistance, protection, and revenge. In "Skene's Acts of Parliament" a Roll of the Border clans is given, from which it would appear that there were SEVENTEEN distinct septs, or families, mostly in the south-western portion of the Scottish Borders. The _Middle March_ was inhabited by Elliots, Armstrongs, Nicksons, and Crosiers. The _West March_ by Scotts, Beatisons, Littles, Thomsones, Glendinnings, Irvinges, Belles, Carrutherses, Grahams, Johnstones, Jardines, Moffettes, and Latimers. These clans are described as having "Captaines, Chieftaines, quhome on they depend, oft-times against the willes of their Landislordes." "Ilk ane o' them," according to Maitland, had a to-name, or _nickname_, as it is commonly called now-a-days. This was a matter of necessity, as otherwise it would have been exceedingly difficult to distinguish the different members of the sept. These to-names are often suggestive and amusing, as most of them are based on some physical or moral peculiarity. In the year 1583 Thomas Musgrave sent an interesting letter to Burghley, Chancellor to Queen Elizabeth, in which he gives a list of the Armstrongs and Elliots. "I understand," he says, "that your lordship is not well acquainted with the names of the waters, and the dwelling places of the riders and ill-doers both of England and Scotland.... May it please, therefore, your lordship to understand, that the ryver Lyddal is a fayre ryver, and hath her course doun by Lyddisdall, so as the dale hath the name of the ryver.... I shall therefore set downe the Ellottes of the head of Lyddall as my skyll will afforde, that your lordship may know the better when their deeds shall come in question. The Ellotes of Lyddisdall:--Robin Ellot of the Redheugh, Chiefe of the Ellottes; Will Ellot of Harskarth his brother; Gebbe Ellot his brother; Adam Ellot of the Shaws; Arche Ellot called Fyre the brayes; Gybbe Ellot of the Shawes; Gorth Simson; Martin Ellot called Rytchis Martin. All these are Robin Ellotes brethren, or his men that are daly at his commandement. The grayne of the Ellotes called the Barneheedes:--Joke Ellot called Halfe loges. The grayne of the Ellottes of the Bark:--Sims Johne Ellot of the Park; Will Ellot, gray Willie; Hobbe Ellot called Scotes Hobbe; Johne Ellot of the Park; Jem Ellote called gray Wills Jeme; Hobbe Ellot called Hobbs Hobbe. The grayne of Martin Ellot of Bradley:--Gowan Ellot called the Clarke; Hobbe Ellot his brother; Arche Ellot his brother; Joke Ellot called Copshawe; John Ellot of Thornesope; Will Ellot of the Steele; Dand Ellot of the Brandley; John Ellot of the same; Seme Ellot of Hardin. All theise Ellots and manie more of them are at Robin Ellot's commandment and dwell betwixt the Armstrongs in Lyddisdall and Whethough town--fewe of them marryed with Englishe women." Then follows a long list of the "Armstrongs of Mangerton," and of the "Howse of Whetaughe Towre." Some of the names in the list are amusingly suggestive--"Seme Armestronge lord of Mangerton marryed John Foster's daughter of Kyrshopefoot; Joke Armestronge called the "lord's Joke" dwelleth under Dennyshill besides Kyrsope in Denisborne, and married Anton Armestrong's daughter of Wylyare in Gilsland; Johne Armestronge called "the lordes Johne," marryet Rytche Grayme's sister.... Thomas Armestrong called "the lordes Tome."... Runyon Armestrong called "the lordes Runyon."... Thom Armestronge Sims Thom, marryed Wat Storyes daughter of Eske, called Wat of the Hare ends."[73] We also read of "Thomas Abye," "Gawins Will," "Red Andrew," "Bangtale," "Ould Hector of Harlaw," "Stowlugs," "Cokespoole," "Skinabake," "Carhand," "Hob the Tailor," "Redneb," &c. Among the Elliots we find such to-names as "Long John," "John the Child," "John Cull the spade," "Bessie's Wife's Riche," "Robin the Bastard of Glenvoren," &c. One of the family of Nixon was known as "Ill Drooned Geordie," a name which seems to indicate that the person who bore it had had at one time or another a narrow escape from what perhaps was his righteous doom. "Wynking Will,"[74] "Wry-Crag," "David the Leddy," and "Hob the King," are sufficiently explicit. These are a fair sample of the _to-names_ by which the thieves of Liddesdale were distinguished. It must be admitted, however, that many of them are not quite so respectable as those given, and would hardly admit of reproduction in a modern book. The men to whom they were assigned must have been regarded, one would naturally suppose, as utterly disreputable characters, even by those who associated with them in the invidious calling to which they were devoted. It is probable that the men of Liddesdale were to a certain extent corrupted by their propinquity to the lawless hordes which inhabited the Debateable land. This was a tract of country lying between the Esk and the Sark, of some fifty or sixty square miles in extent, which was regarded as belonging neither to the one kingdom nor the other. Here the "Genius of Misrule," for many generations, held all but undisputed sway. The Græmes, Littles, and Bells, and other "broken men" of equally unenviable reputation, found in this district a convenient centre for conducting their marauding exploits. It was a matter of no moment to them whether their victims belonged to the one country or the other. They were as destitute of patriotism as of the other virtues. When they were hard driven by the English, they claimed the protection of the Scottish warden; and when he in his turn had accounts to settle with them, they appealed to his English rival in office to shield them from vengeance. In this way they often succeeded in escaping the punishment due to their misdeeds, where others, less happily circumstanced, would have been speedily compelled to "underlie the law." In course of time this state of matters became intolerable, and it was resolved by the Scottish Council in the year 1552 that this district should be divided, the one part to be placed under the jurisdiction of England, the other under that of Scotland. Accordingly, a Commission, on which were representatives of both nations, was appointed to settle, if possible, this long-standing difficulty. These commissioners were allowed the utmost freedom of judgment in fixing upon a proper boundary line, as both governments were agreed that minor difficulties, as to the extent of territory to be allocated to the one country or the other, should not be allowed to stand in the way. The final decision was not so easily arrived at as might, in the circumstances, have been expected. The Scots drew the line considerably to the south, the English to the north, of the boundary finally agreed upon. After considerable discussion, a line was ultimately fixed which satisfied both parties, and a turf dyke was built, stretching from the Sark to the Esk, which is still known as the Scots Dyke. This was an important step. The boundary was finally settled. The wardens knew the precise limits to which their power and authority extended, and were thus in a position to discharge the duties of their office with more assured certainty of success. But, as might have been anticipated, the fixing of a boundary line did not eradicate, or even to any great extent restrain, the thieving propensities of the lawless inhabitants of this district. The Debateable land continued to nourish "ane great company of thieves and traitores, to the great hurt and skaith of the honest lieges" as in times by-past. But a good beginning had been made in fixing the boundaries, and in course of time more favourable results ensued. It would be unwarrantable to assert that the Liddesdale thieves attained their unenviable notoriety entirely owing to their intimate association with the fierce banditti to whom reference has been made. The Armstrongs and Elliotts needed no encouragement in the carrying on of their nefarious business of plunder. They were evidently heartily in love with their calling, and were never happier than when engaged in a marauding expedition. But apart from the fact that "evil communications corrupt good manners," the near neighbourhood of the Debateable land constituted an indirect incentive to crime. In the great deer forests of the Highlands there are what are called "sanctuaries," or places to which the deer may resort to escape the huntsman. We are told that when they are disturbed on the mountains, they at once make for the protected area, where they know they are safe from pursuit. The Debateable land constituted for generations just such a "sanctuary," or place of refuge for Border thieves. Here they were comparatively safe. The district formed a little kingdom by itself. Within this region the law was comparatively powerless. But we find that the "Liddesdale limmers" were occasionally driven to bay in the most effectual manner. Sir Robert Cary on one occasion gave them a salutary lesson, which they did not soon forget. The Armstrongs especially, a powerful and turbulent clan, had long carried things with a high hand on the English Border, burning, despoiling, and slaying to their hearts' content. This state of matters had at last become intolerable, and Cary determined to have it out with them. He called the gentlemen of the neighbourhood together, and acquainted them with the miseries which had been brought upon the people by the rapacity and cruelty of the Liddesdale thieves. They advised him to apply to the Queen and Council for assistance, but this he was unwilling to do, as he thought he was quite able, with the resources at his command, to effectually suppress the lawless horde which had wrought such havoc within his wardenry. He says:--"I told them my intention what I meant to do, which was, 'that myself, with my two deputies, and the forty horse that I was allowed, would, with what speed we could, make ourselves ready to go up to the wastes, and there we would entrench ourselves, and lie as near as we could to the outlaws; and, if there were any brave spirits among them, that would go with us, they should be very welcome, and fare and lie as well as myself: and I did not doubt before the summer ended to do something that should abate the pride of these outlaws.'" With this comparatively small force he set out for Liddesdale. He built a fort on a hill in the immediate vicinity of Tarras moss, into which the thieves, when they learned of his approach, had fled for refuge. Here Cary and his men stayed from the middle of June till near the end of August. The country people supplied him with provisions, being well paid for anything they brought to him. "The chief outlaws," he says, "at our coming, fled their houses where they dwelt, and betook themselves to a large and great forest, (with all their goods,) which was called the Tarras. It was of that strength, and so surrounded with bog and marsh grounds, and thick bushes and shrubs, as they feared not the force nor power of England or Scotland, so long as they were there. They sent me word, that I was like the first puff of a haggis, hottest at the first, and bade me stay there as long as the weather would give me leave. They would stay in the Tarras-wood, till I was weary of lying in the waste; and when I had had my time, and they no whit the worse, they would play their parts, which should keep me waking next winter. Those gentlemen of the country that came not with me, were of the same mind; for they knew, (or thought at least,) that my force was not sufficient to withstand the fury of the outlaws. The time I stayed at the fort I was not idle, but cast, by all means I could, how to take them in the great strength they were in. I found a means to send a hundred and fifty horsemen into Scotland, (conveighed by a muffled man, not known to any of the company,) thirty miles within Scotland; and the business was so carried, that none in the country took any alarm at this passage. They were quietly brought to the backside of the Tarras, to Scotland-ward. There they divided themselves into three parts, and took up three passages which the outlaws made themselves secure of, if from England side they should at any time be put at. They had their scouts on the tops of hills, on the English side, to give them warning if at any time any power of men should come to surprise them. The three ambushes were safely laid, without being discovered, and, about four o'clock in the morning, there were three hundred horse, and a thousand foot, that came directly to the place where the scouts lay. They gave the alarm; our men broke down as fast as they could into the wood. The outlaws thought themselves safe, assuring themselves at any time to escape; but they were so strongly set upon on the English side, as they were forced to leave their goods, and to betake themselves to their passages towards Scotland. There was presently five taken of the principal of them. The rest, seeing themselves, as they thought, betrayed, retired into the thick woods and bogs, that our men durst not follow them, for fear of losing themselves. The principal of the five, that were taken, were two of the eldest sons of Sim of Whittram. These five they brought me to the fort, and a number of goods, both of sheep and kine, which satisfied most part of the country, that they had stolen them from.... Thus God blessed me in bringing this great trouble to so quiet an end; we broke up our fort, and every man retired to his own house."[75] Judging from this account, one is led to suppose that the force which Cary had at his command was comparatively small. He tells us that he took a list of those that offered to go with him, and found that with his officers, gentlemen, and servants there would be about two hundred good men and horse; a competent number he thought for such a service. But we find in a letter which he sent to Cecil that he speaks of having "a 1000 horse and foot."[76] But whatever may have been the strength of the forces at his command, it is quite certain that, on this occasion at least, he proved himself more than a match for the "Lewd Liddesdales." The tradition of this famous raid, which was long preserved in the district, differs considerably from the account here given. "The people of Liddesdale have retained," says the editor of the "Border Minstrelsy," "the remembrance of _Cary's raid_," as they call it. "They tell that, while he was besieging the outlaws in the Tarras, they contrived, by ways known only to themselves, to send a party into England, who plundered the warden's lands. On their return, they sent Cary one of his own cows, telling him that, fearing he might fall short of provisions during his visit to Scotland, they had taken the precaution of sending him some English beef." The anecdote is worth preserving, as it indicates how anxious the Liddesdale reivers were to forget one of the most unpleasant episodes in their history, or at least to make their discomfiture appear in as favourable a light as possible. X. AFTER THE HUNTING. "_Efter the hunting the King hanged Johnie Armstrong._" PITSCOTTIE. "Here is ane cord baith grit and lang, Quhilk hangit Johne Armstrang, Of gude hempt soft and sound, Gude haly pepil, I stand ford, Whaevir beis hangit wi' this cord, Neidis never to be drowned!" SIR DAVID LINDSAY. We have already seen that the Armstrongs were a numerous and powerful clan, and that for a considerable period they had been known on the Borders as "notour thieves and limmers." They levied blackmail over a wide district, and appropriated whatever came readiest to hand with a sublime indifference either to neighbourhood or nationality. "They stole the beeves that made them broth From Scotland and from England both." King James V. having succeeded in shaking himself free from the tyranny of the Douglasses, resolved that he would "daunton" the Border thieves, by making them feel the weight of his sword. He made an excellent beginning. He imprisoned the Earls of Bothwell and Home, Lord Maxwell Scott, Ker of Ferniherst, Scott of Buccleuch, Polworth, Johnston, and Mark Ker.[77] It must have been quite evident to the young King, and his counsellors, that so long as these Chiefs were at liberty it would be a bootless errand to proceed against those who owned them allegiance. The ringleaders must first of all be disposed of, and so they were put in ward, there to await his Majesty's pleasure. This measure was not devised, as some suppose, for the purpose of crushing the nobility. It is absurd to infer that James, a youth of seventeen, had projected a deep political plan of this nature. The outrages which these men had committed during his minority had excited his lively resentment, and he was determined that they should no longer maintain bands of lawless followers at the public expense. This necessary measure for the pacification of the Borders was wisely devised, and promptly executed, and must have produced a deep impression, if not a wholesome fear, in the minds of those whom it was intended to influence. It was in the month of June, 1529, that James set out for Meggatdale, accompanied by eight thousand men, lords, barons, freeholders, and gentlemen, all well armed, and carrying with them a month's provisions. The King commanded all gentlemen that had "doggis that were guid" to bring them with them to hunt "in the said bounds." The Earls of Huntley, Argyle, and Athol, brought their deerhounds with them, and hunted with his Majesty. They came to Meggat, near St. Mary's Loch, and, during their short stay in this district, eighteen score of deer were slain. The tradition is that on this occasion the King captured William Cockburn of Henderland, a famous freebooter, and hanged him over his own gate. It is quite certain, however, that in regard to this matter the tradition is unreliable. In "Pitcairn's Criminal Trials" we find it stated, under date May 26th--nearly a month before the King left Edinburgh--that "William Cockburne of Henderland was convicted (in presence of the King) of High Treason committed by him, in bringing Alexander Forrestare and his son, Englishmen, to the plundering of Archibald Somervile: And for treasonably bringing certain Englishmen to the lands of Glenquhome: And for Common Theft, Common Reset of Theft, outputting and inputting thereof.--Sentence. For which causes and crimes he has forfeited his life, lands, and goods, moveable and immoveable, which shall be escheated to the King.--Beheaded."[78] Such is the brief but authentic record. It establishes beyond controversy the fact that Cockburn was apprehended, and tried, before the King had left Edinburgh on his famous expedition. The tradition that he was hanged over his own gate, must therefore be set aside. The Cockburns were an old and well-known family. One of the Scotts of Buccleuch married a daughter of the house, which, on the principle of heredity, may help to explain the well-known reiving propensities of some branches of this famous clan. In "Pitcairn's Criminal Trials," where so much of the ancient history of the great Border families may be read, if not with pleasure, at least not without profit, mention is made of various Cockburns who distinguished themselves as daring and successful freebooters. In the old churchyard of Henderland there is still to be seen a large slab bearing the inscription--"Here lyis Perys of Cockburne and Hys wife Marjory." There is no date on the tombstone, but the likelihood is that this "Perys of Cockburne" was a descendant of the William Cockburn whose fate we have just mentioned. But the most interesting tradition in connection with this family relates to the well-known ballad, "The Border Widow's Lament," one of the most beautiful, and certainly the most pathetic, of all the Border ballads. It has been supposed to describe the feelings of Cockburn's widow when her husband was put to death by the King. "My love he built me a bonnie bower, And clad it a' wi' lilye flour, A brawer bower ye ne'er did see, Than my true love he built for me. There came a man, by middle day, He spied his sport, and went away; And brought the King that very night, Who brake my bower, and slew my knight. He slew my knight, to me sae dear; He slew my knight, and poin'd his gear; My servants all for life did flee, And left me in extremitie. I sew'd his sheet, making my mane; I watch'd the corpse, myself alane; I watch'd his body, night and day; No living creature came that way. I took his body on my back, And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat; I digg'd a grave, and laid him in, And happ'd him with the sod sae green. But think na ye my heart was sair, When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair; O think na ye my heart was wae, When I turned about, awa' to gae? Nae living man I'll love again, Since that my lovely knight is slain; Wi' yae lock o' his yellow hair, I'll chain my heart for evermair." This exquisite ballad has probably no connection with Cockburn of Henderland,--we feel strongly convinced it has not,--but it is none the less interesting, as it is a composition which can well afford to be regarded apart altogether from its traditional associations. There is another tradition which it may be as well to notice in passing. It is said that, after hanging Cockburn, the King proceeded to Tushielaw to deal in like manner with Adam Scott, well known on the Borders as "The King of Thieves." His castle stood on the spur of a hill opposite the Rankleburn, on the west side of the river Ettrick, commanding a wide out-look in almost every direction. Near it was the famous "Hanging Tree," which was accidentally destroyed by fire only a few years ago, where the unlucky captives of this noted outlaw were unceremoniously suspended in order to prevent their giving further annoyance. It is said that, on one of the branches, a deep groove was worn by the swaying to and fro of the fatal rope. It would have been most fitting had this cruel marauder been put to death where so many of his victims ended their career. But in this instance the tradition, that this actually happened, has been proved to be without any foundation in fact. We find in "Pitcairn" an account of Adam Scott's trial and execution in Edinburgh. On the 18th May, 1529--just two days after Cockburn had "justified the law"--"Adam Scott of Tuschilaw was Convicted of art and part of theftuously taking _Black-maill_, from the time of his entry within the Castle of Edinburgh, in Ward, from John Brown, Hoprow: And of art and part of theftuously taking _Black-maill_ from Andrew Thorbrand and William, his brother: And of art and part of theftuously taking of _Black-maill_ from the poor Tenants of Hopcailzow: And of art and part of theftuously taking _Blackmaill_, from the poor Tenants of Eschescheill." Then follows the significant word--"Beheaded."[79] The King, therefore, when he passed the castle of Tushielaw with his retinue, on his way to Teviotdale to meet Johnie Armstrong, must have had the satisfaction of knowing that Adam Scott had gone "where the wicked cease from troubling." He had sent a loving letter, written with "his ain hand sae tenderly," to the laird of Gilnockie, requesting him to meet his "liege lord" at a place called Carlenrig on the Teviot, some nine miles above Hawick. Various accounts have been given by historians, both ancient and modern, as to the means adopted by the King to bring about Armstrong's capture and execution. Leslie, for example, informs us that "all this summer the King took great care to pacify the Borders with a great army, and caused forty-eight of the most noble thieves, with Johnie Armstrong, their captain, to be taken and hanged on growing trees." He says that "George Armstrong, brother of the said Johnie, was pardoned and reserved alive, _to tell on the rest_, which he did, and in course of time they were apprehended by the King, and punished according to their deserts."[80] Pinkerton, who evidently bases his account largely on the information supplied by Leslie, enters more fully into particulars. He alleges that "by the assistance of George, his brother, who was pardoned on condition of betraying the others, John Armstrong, the chief of the name, whose robberies had elevated him to opulence and power, was captured and suffered the fate of a felon."[81] These statements, definite though they are, ought not to be lightly accepted, as the strongest reasons may be advanced against this supposition. In the first place, we ought to remember that, however many sins and shortcomings the Border reivers may be accused of, breach of faith can hardly be reckoned one of them. "Hector's Cloak" was a phrase of peculiar opprobrium. It was regarded as the symbol of meanness and perfidy. That this one instance of betrayal should have been so long remembered, and so thoroughly detested, is an unmistakable indication that the Border thieves, bad as they were in many respects, were not without a high sense of honour in matters of this kind. It is hardly conceivable, therefore, that Armstrong's brother could have been guilty of his betrayal. Strong proof would require to be forthcoming in support of such a statement; and this is precisely what the historians do not give us. But there are other and more cogent arguments against this view. George Armstrong was under no necessity of betraying his brother in order to save himself. He could easily have escaped had he been minded to do so. The King's authority did not extend beyond the Scottish Border. It is morally certain, had Armstrong and his friends ever suspected that James would have treated them as he did, they would either have taken refuge in their own strongholds and defied him, or crossed the Border into England, where they would have been comparatively safe from pursuit. That they did neither, but voluntarily came before the King, is strong evidence in favour of the supposition that they were enticed by fair promises to place themselves within his power. The very fact that Armstrong neither sought nor obtained a safe conduct goes to prove that he had the most implicit confidence in the clemency, if not the goodwill, of his sovereign. There was no betrayal on the part of anyone, save the King himself. This is clearly brought to view in the peculiarly graphic and fascinating account which "Pitscottie" has given of this memorable incident. He says:--"Efter this hunting the King hanged Johnie Armstrong, laird of Gilnockie, quhilk monie Scottis man heavilie lamented, for he was ane doubtit man, and als guid are chiftane as ever was upon the borderis, aither of Scotland or of England. And albeit he was ane lous leivand man, and sustained the number of xxiiij. weill horsed able gentlemen with him, yitt he nevir molested no Scottis man. Bot it is said, from the Scottis border to Newcastle of England, thair was not ane of quhatsoevir estate bot payed to this John Armstrong ane tribut to be frie of his cumber, he was sae doubtit in England. So when he entred in befoir the King, he cam verie reverentlie, with his foresaid number verie richlie apparrelled, trusting, that in respect he had cum to the Kingis grace willinglie and voluntarilie, not being tain nor apprehendit be the King, he sould obtaine the mair favour. Bot when the King saw him and his men so gorgeous in their apparrell, and so many braw men under ane tirrantis commandement, throwardlie, he turned about his face, and bad tak that tirrant out of his sight, saying, 'Quhat wantis yon knave that a King should have.' But when Johnie Armstronge perceaved that the King kindled in ane furie againes him, and had no hope of his lyff, notwithstanding of many great and fair offeris, quhilk he offerred to the King, that is, that he sould sustene himself with fourtie gentlemen, ever readie to awaitt upon his majestie's service, and never tak a pennie of Scotland, nor Scottis man. Secondlie, that there was not ane subject in England, duik, earle, lorde, or barrun, bot within ane certane day he sould bring ony of them to his majesty, either quick or dead. He seing no hope of the Kingis favour towards him, said verrie proudlie, 'I am bot ane fooll to seik grace at ane graceles face. But had I knawin, sir, that ye wad have taken my lyff this day, I sould have leved upon the borderis in disphyte of King Harie and yow baith; for I knaw King Harie wold doun weigh my best hors with gold to knaw that I were condemned to die this day.' So he was led to the scaffold, and he and his men hanged. This being done, the King returned to Edinburgh, the xxiiij. day of July, and remained meikle of that winter in Edinburgh."[82] This interesting and picturesque account is corroborated by another historian, who says: "On the eighth of June the principalls of all the surnames of the clannes on the Borders came to the King upon hope of a proclamation proclaimed in the King's name that they sould all get their lyves, if they would come in and submit themselves to the King's will, and so upon this hope Johnie Armstrang, who keipit the castle of Langhame (a brother of the laird of Mangerton's, a great thieff and oppressor, and one that keiped still with him four-and-twenty well-horsed men), came to the King, and another called Ill Will Armstrong, another stark thieff, with sundrie of the Scotts and Elliotts, came all forward to the campe where the King was in hopes to get their pardons. But no sooner did the King persave them, an that they were cum afarre off, when direction was given presentlie to enclose them round about, the which was done accordinglie, and were all apprehendit, to the number of threttie fyve persons, and at a place called Carlaverocke[83] Cheapell, were all committed to the gallowes. One Sandy Scot, a prowd thieff, was brunt because it was provin that he haid brunt a pure widowes house, together with sum of her children. The English people were exceeding glade when they understood that John Armstrang was executed, for he did great robberies and stealing in England, menteaning 24 men in houshold evorie day upon rieff and oppression. The rest delyvered pledges for their good demeanare in tymes to cum."[84] There can be little doubt that Armstrong was cruelly betrayed, not by his brother, but by the King--a circumstance which seriously reflects on his honour and good name. The suggestion has been made that this expedition against the laird of Gilnockie was undertaken by James at the instigation of Lord Maxwell, who was then a ward in Edinburgh. It is certainly a somewhat suspicious circumstance that three days after Armstrong's execution Maxwell received from the King the gift of all the property, moveable and immoveable, which pertained to "umquhill Johne Armstrang, bruther to Thomas Armstrang of Mayngerton, and now perteining to our souverane lord be reason of eschete throw justefying of the said umquhill Johnie to the deid for thift committed be him."[85] As might be expected, when all the circumstances were taken into consideration, the execution of Armstrong and his followers produced a profound sensation, and a deep and bitter feeling of resentment. It was long believed by the peasantry of the district that, to mark the injustice of the deed, the trees on which they were hanged, withered away. On purely abstract grounds it may be argued that Armstrong and his men richly deserved the punishment meted out to them, but this fact does not exonerate the King from the charge of treachery and deceit which has justly been brought against him. The measures he adopted to capture the quarry were unworthy of a puissant monarch with eight thousand well armed men under his command. He might well have paid more respect to the principles of honour and fair play. It is interesting to find that the version of Armstrong's capture and execution given in the famous ballad agrees substantially with the accounts of Pitscottie and Anderson. There, we are told, that the King sent a "loving letter" to Armstrong, inviting him to a conference. The King he wrytes a luving letter, With his ain hand sae tenderly, And he hath sent it to Johnie Armstrang, To cum and speik with him speedily. This communication evidently excited no suspicion, and extensive preparations were at once made to extend to his Majesty a kind and hearty welcome. It was even hoped that he might be induced to dine at Gilnockie! The Eliots and Armstrangs did convene; They were a gallant cumpanie-- "We'll ride and meet our lawful King, And bring him safe to Gilnockie. "Make kinnen[86] and capon ready, then, And venison in great plentie; We'll welcum here our royal King; I hope he'll dine at Gilnockie!" They ran their horse on the Langholme howm, And brak their spears wi' mickle main; The ladies lukit frae their lofty windows-- "God bring our men weel hame again!" When Johnie cam before the King, Wi' a' his men sae brave to see, The King he movit his bonnet to him; He ween'd he was a King as well as he. According to the balladist, it would seem that Armstrong's ruin was brought about by the princely style in which he appeared before his sovereign. The King, highly displeased, turned away his head, and exclaimed-- "Away, away, thou traitor strang! Out o' my sight soon mayst thou be! I grantit never a traitor's life, And now I'll not begin wi' thee." This unexpected outburst of indignation led Armstrong at once to realise the perilous position in which he found himself placed. He now felt that, if his life was to be spared, he must use every means in his power to move the King to clemency. Consequently he promised to give him "four-and-twenty milk white steeds," with as much good English gold "as four of their braid backs dow[87] bear;" "four-and-twenty ganging mills," and "four-and-twenty sisters' sons" to fight for him; but all these tempting offers were refused with disdain. As a last resource, he said-- "Grant me my life, my liege, my King! And a brave gift I'll gie to thee-- All between here and Newcastle town Sall pay their yeirly rent to thee." This was no idle boast. So powerful had Armstrong become that, it is said, he levied black-mail--(which is only another form of the word "_black-meal_," so-called from the conditions under which it was exacted)--over the greater part of Northumberland. But even the prospect of increasing his revenue by accepting this tribute was not sufficient to turn the King aside from his purpose. He was bent on Armstrong's destruction, a fact which now became painfully evident to the eloquent and generous suppliant. Enraged at the baseness of the King, he turned upon him and gave vent to the pent up feelings of his heart-- "Ye lied, ye lied, now King," he says, "Altho' a King and Prince ye be! For I've luved naething in my life, I weel dare say it, but honesty-- "Save a fat horse, and fair woman, Twa bonny dogs to kill a deir, But England suld have found me meal and mault, Gif I had lived this hundred yeir! "She suld have found me meal and mault, And beef and mutton in a' plentie; But never a Scots wyfe could have said, That e'er I skaith'd her a puir flee. "To seik het water beneith cauld ice, Surely it is a greit folie-- I have asked grace at a graceless face, But there is nane for my men and me![88] "But had I kenn'd ere I cam frae hame, How thou unkind wadst been to me! I wad have keepit the Border side, In spite of all thy force and thee. "Wist England's King that I was ta'en, O gin a blythe man he wad be! For anes I slew his sister's son, And on his briest bane brak a trie." The balladist then proceeds to give a minute description of the dress worn by the redoubtable freebooter on this occasion--of his girdle, embroidered and bespangled with gold, and his hat, with its nine targets or tassels, each worth three hundred pounds. All that he needed to make him a king was "the sword of honour and the crown." But nothing can now avail. "Farewell! my bonny Gilnock hall, Where on Esk side thou standest stout! Gif I had lived but seven yeirs mair, I wad hae gilt thee round about." John murdered was at Carlinrigg, And all his gallant companie; But Scotland's heart was ne'er sae wae, To see sae mony brave men die. It was a foul deed, foully done. The King was no doubt determined, as it is said, to "make the rush bush keep the cow," and perhaps to a certain extent he succeeded, as some time after this, Andrew Bell kept ten thousand sheep in Ettrick Forest, and they were as safe as if they had been pasturing in Fife or the Lothians. But the murder of Armstrong in no way daunted the other members of that notable clan. Many of them took refuge on the English side of the Border, and for years waged a successful predatory warfare against their _quondam_ Scottish neighbours. In 1535, for example, we find that "Christopher Armstrong, Archibald his son, Ingram Armstrong, Railtoun, Robert and Archibald Armstrong there, John Elwald, called _Lewis John_, William, son of Alexander Elwald, and Robert Carutheris, servants to the laird of Mangerton; John Forrestare, called _Schaikbuklar_, Ninian Gray his servant, Thomas Armstrong in Greneschelis, _Lang Penman_, servant of one called _Dikkis Will_. Thomas Armstrong of Mangerton, and Symeon Armstrong, called _Sim the Larde_" and several others, were denounced rebels, and their whole goods escheated for not underlying the law for having stolen from John Cockburn of Ormiston seventy "drawand oxen" and thirty cows; and for art and part of traitorously taking and carrying off three men-servants of the said John, being the keepers of the said castle, and "detaining them against their will for a certain space;" and further "for art and part of the Stouthreif from them of their clothes, whingars, purses and certain money therein."[89] Indeed the depredations of the clan after the execution of Gilnockie were on the most extensive scale. On the 21st February, 1536, Symon Armstrong was "convicted of art and part of the theft and concealment of two oxen from the laird of Ormistone, furth of the lands of Craik, and a black mare from Robert Scott of Howpaslot, furth of the lands of Wolcleuche; committed during the time he was in the King's ward, about Lammas 1535. _Item_, of art and part of the theft and concealment of five score of cows and oxen from the said laird of Ormistone, stolen furth of the said lands of Craik; committed by _Evil-willit Sandie_, and his accomplices, in company with Thomas Armstrong, _alias Greneschelis_, and Robert Carutheris, servants of the said Symon, and certain Englishmen, at his command, common Thieves and Traitors, on July 27, 1535. _Item_, of art and part of the traitorous _Fire-raising_ and _Burning of the Town of Howpaslot_; And of art and part of the Theft and Concealment the same time of sixty cows and oxen belonging to Robert Scott of Howpaslot and his servants; committed by Alexander Armstrong, in company with Robert Henderson, _alias Cheyswame_,[90] Thomas Armstrong, _alias_ Grenescheles, his servants, and their accomplices, common Thieves and Traitors, of his causing and assistance, during the time he was within the King's ward, upon October 28, 1535. _Item_, of art and part of the theft and concealment of certain sheep from John Hope and John Hall, the King's shepherds, furth of the lands of Braidlee in the Forest; committed during the time he was within the said ward. _Item_, for art and part of the treasonable assistance given to Alexander Armestrang, called _Evil-willit Sandy_, a sworn Englishman, and sundry other Englishmen his accomplices, of the names of Armestrangis, Niksounis, and Crosaris, in their treasonable acts. SENTENCE--To be drawn to the gallows and HANGED thereupon: And that he shall forfeit his life, lands, possessions, and all his goods, moveable and immoveable, to the King, to be disposed of at his pleasure."[91] In the following month John Armstrong, _alias Jony of Gutterholes_, and Christopher Henderson were hanged for "Common Herschip and Stouthreif, Murder and Fire-raising." These items give but a faint idea of the extent to which the Armstrongs carried on their depredations. But, perhaps, a still more serious result of the unwise policy adopted by James in his treatment of the Armstrongs, was the destruction of that feeling of loyalty to the Scottish Crown, which had hitherto been, in some measure at least, a characteristic of the Borderers. Henceforth not only the Armstrongs, but many others besides, were ready to place their arms and their lives at the service of the English government, and to take part with their ancient foes in oppressing and despoiling their own countrymen. In the battle of Ancrum Moor in 1546, there was a considerable contingent of Scottish Borderers fighting under the standard of Lord Eure, and it was only after the tide of war had turned in favour of the Scots that they threw away the badge of foreign servitude and helped to complete the victory. It maybe said that in acting thus they were moved simply by considerations of personal advantage. Be this as it may, the incident clearly shows that their attachment to King and country had been all but completely destroyed. Had James acted with ordinary discretion and foresight he might at once have secured the end he had in view, and at the same time have won over to his side, and to the side of law and order, a body of men whose crimes were due rather to the peculiarity of their circumstances than to their own inherently evil dispositions. He had a great opportunity, but he failed conspicuously to take advantage of it. He learned, when it was too late, that force, when not wisely applied, may produce greater evils than those it seeks to remedy. XI. THE CORBIE'S NEST. "Where are ye gaun, ye mason lads, Wi' a' your ladders, lang and hie?" "We gang to berry a corbie's nest That wons not far frae Woodhouselee." KINMONT WILLIE. The incidents in the predatory warfare so long carried on by the dwellers on both sides of the Border were not all of a painful or tragic character. The spirit of fun sometimes predominated over the more selfish and aggressive instincts. There was a grim kind of humour characteristic of the Border reiver. He certainly was not disposed to laugh on the slightest provocation,--his calling was much too serious for that,--but when he once relaxed, his mirth was not easily controlled. And, however degrading his occupation may have been in its general tendency, there was often displayed among the Border thieves, even among the very worst of them, a spirit of the most splendid heroism, which helps to redeem the system from the general contempt in which it is regarded by the moralist of modern times. Many of the leaders were not only men of undaunted courage, but of considerable military genius. In a later age, under other and happier conditions, they would have won renown on many a well-fought battlefield. They possessed the qualities, physical and moral, of which great soldiers are made. The Bold Buccleuch, Little Jock Elliot, Johnie Armstrong of Gilnockie, and his kinsman, Willie of Kinmont--not to mention other names which readily occur to the mind in this connection--were men dowered by nature with great courage and resource. They were strong of arm and dauntless of heart. We do not seek to justify their deeds. These were reprehensible enough, judged by almost any standard you may apply to them. But just as some people find it impossible to smother a certain sneaking kind of admiration of the Devil, so magnificently delineated in Milton's "Paradise Lost"--a being who seems possessed of almost every quality save that of consecrating his varied endowment to worthy ends--so in like manner it is difficult to withhold a certain meed of admiration for some of the "nobil thieves" whose names stand out prominently in, if they cannot always be said to adorn, this long chapter of Border history. They were undoubtedly men of ability, energy, and force of character, who would have won their spurs in almost any contest into which they had chosen to enter. One of the most notable of this band was the famous Kinmont Willie, renowned in Border song and story. He was an Armstrong, a descendant of the laird of Gilnockie, whom James VI. put to death at Carlinrig in such graceless fashion. He, like all his race, was a notorious freebooter. The English Border, more especially the West and Middle Marches, suffered much at his hands. He had a large and well armed following, and conducted his marauding expeditions with an intrepidity and skill which created a feeling of dismay among the subjects of his oppression. Nor did it matter much to him where, or on whom, he raided. The King's treachery at Carlinrig had destroyed--at least so far as the Armstrongs and their friends were concerned--the last lingering spark of patriotism. Their hand was now turned against every man, English and Scottish alike. They had become pariahs, outcasts, whose only ambition was revenge. But bad as Kinmont was, and his record is of the worst, it might be said of him, as it was said of one of the greatest and best men Scotland has ever produced, that "he never feared the face of man." He was always to the front, dealing out hard blows; courting danger, but never dreaming of defeat. He cared as little for the warden as for the meanest and most defenceless subject of the realm. Scrope tells us, for example, that on one occasion "certain goods were stolen by Scottish men from one of the Johnstones, a kinsman of the laird Johnstone being warden, whereupon the fray arose, and the warden himself, with his company and friends, pursued the same. But Kinmont and his complices being in the way to resist them, the warden and his company returned again to Annand, the which he taketh in very yll parts."[92] It was no doubt a sore point with the warden that he should be thus interfered with in this masterful fashion, and one can readily sympathise with him in his chagrin. Such an incident shows that Kinmont and his friends were in a position to set the constituted authorities at defiance, and conduct their reiving "without let or hindrance." The warden, however, was not altogether free from blame for this state of matters. He seems to have given the thieves every encouragement as long as they confined their depredations to the English Border. Scrope, in a letter to Walsingham, informs him that "as well in the tyme of my being with you, as also synce my return home, manye and almost nightlie attemptates have been committed in Bewcastle and elsewhere within this wardenrie, as well by the Liddesdales as also by the West Wardenrie of Scotland, specially Kinmont, his sonnes and complices; who ... are nevertheless at their pleasure conversaunte and in company with the warden, and no part reprehended for their doynges." Hunsdon, another English warden, even goes the length of suggesting that the King himself (James VI.) privately encouraged Kinmont in his evil doing. He says that four hundred horse came to "Hawden brigges," and took up the town and burned divers houses, whereat the King was very angry, "because it was done there--for he would have had it to be done in some part of my wardenry. Since the taking up of Hawden brigg, Will of Kinmont, who was the principal man who was at it, hath been with the King in his cabinet above an hour, and at his departure the King gave him 100 crowns, as littell as he hath. What justis wee are to looke for att the King's hands lett her Majestie judge!"[93] Thus encouraged by the warden and the King, it is not to be wondered at that Kinmont should have thrown himself with great enthusiasm into the work of harassing and plundering all who came within his power. But his name might have remained in comparative obscurity, notwithstanding his depredations, had it not been for an extraordinary incident which occurred, and for which he was in no way directly responsible. The dramatist has said that some men are born great, and that others have greatness thrust upon them. We are not prepared to say that only the latter part of the statement applies to the subject of our sketch, for, despite his evil-doing, Kinmont was a man of much natural ability--ability amounting almost to genius. But that he had "greatness thrust upon him" will be readily conceded. His name will always remain associated with one of the most thrilling incidents in Border history. The circumstance which made him famous was this. He had been present at Dayholm, near Kershopefoot, on the occasion of a day of truce, in the month of March, in the year 1596. The business which called them together having been finished, he was returning home, accompanied by a few of his friends, along the banks of the Liddle, when he was suddenly attacked by a body of two hundred English Borderers, led by Salkeld, the deputy of Lord Scrope, the warden of the East March, chased for some miles, captured, tied to the body of his horse and thus carried in triumph to Carlisle castle. They band his legs beneath the steed, They tied his hands behind his back; They guarded him, fivesome on each side, And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack. They led him thro' the Liddel-rack, And also through the Carlisle sands; They brought him to Carlisle castell, To be at my Lord Scrope's commands. This proceeding was clearly in direct violation of Border law, which guaranteed freedom from molestation to all who might be present at a warden court, or day of truce, betwixt sunrise on the one day and sunrise on the next. We can easily understand the overmastering desire of the warden's deputy to lay Kinmont "by the heels," as he had long been notorious for his depredations on the English Border, but it is incumbent on the representatives of the law that they should honour it in their own persons, and, however many crimes might be laid to the charge of the famous freebooter, he was justly entitled to enjoy the freedom, which a wise legal provision had secured, even to the greatest offenders. The excuse given by Scrope for this manifest breach of Border law is an exceedingly lame one. He says:--"How Kinmont was taken will appear by the attestations of his takers, which, if true, 'it is held that Kinmont did thereby break the assurance that daye taken, and for his offences ought to be delivered to the officer against whom he offended, to be punished according to discretion.' Another reason for detaining him is his notorious enmity to this office, and the many outrages lately done by his followers. He appertains not to Buccleuch, but dwells out of his office, and was also taken beyond the limits of his charge, so Buccleuch makes the matter a mere pretext to defer justice, 'and do further indignities.'"[94] That Kinmont had broken the assurance taken at the warden court is an assertion in support of which neither has "takers," nor Scrope give a scintilla of proof. Had such a thing really happened, there surely would have been no difficulty in establishing the fact; but this is not done, or even attempted to be done, by those whose interest it was to prove the accusation up to the hilt. The other reasons adduced for this unwarrantable proceeding will not bear serious consideration. That Kinmont bore no goodwill to Scrope or those associated with him in his office, may be taken for granted; and that he and his friends and associates had been guilty of many outrages on the English Border, goes without saying. But a slight examination of the excuses will be sufficient to show that they are mere subterfuges. The point in dispute is carefully left out of view by the English warden. No doubt Kinmont richly deserved to suffer the utmost penalty of the law on the ground of his misdemeanours; but he had been present at the warden court, where he would never have gone had he not felt sure that he was amply protected from arrest by the law to which we have referred. It may be said that nearly every man present on that occasion, irrespective of nationality, might have been apprehended on the same general grounds. To use an expressive Scottish phrase--"they were all tarred with the same stick." It was therefore a direct violation, not only of the spirit, but of the letter of Border law, for Salkeld to take Kinmont prisoner. Scrope was clearly in the wrong--a fact of which he himself seems dimly conscious--as he displayed an amount of temper and irritability in dealing with the case which seemed to indicate that he felt the weakness of his position. On the other hand, the "rank reiver," who had been thus suddenly and unceremoniously "clapped in jail," accepted the situation with a singular amount of philosophical indifference. He felt sure that the deed would not go unavenged, that his friends, and he had many of them, would leave no stone unturned in order to effect his release. The balladist finely represents him as saying-- My hands are tied, but my tongue is free, And whae will dare this deed avow? Or answer by the Border law? Or answer to the bold Buccleuch? "Now haud thy tongue, thou rank reiver! There's never a Scot shall set thee free; Before ye cross my castle yate, I vow ye shall take farewell o' me." "Fear na ye that, my lord," quo' Willie; "By the faith o' my body, Lord Scroope," he said, "I never yet lodged in hostelrie, But I paid my lawing before I gaed." An account of what had happened was speedily conveyed to Branxholme, where the Bold Buccleuch was residing. When he heard what had occurred he was highly indignant. The picture drawn by the balladist is graphic in the extreme. For intense realism it has rarely ever been surpassed-- He has ta'en the table wi' his hand, He garr'd the red wine spring on hie-- "Now Christ's curse on my head," he said, But avenged on Lord Scroope I'll be! "O is my basnet a widow's curch? Or my lance a wand o' the willow-tree? Or my arm a ladye's lilye hand, That an English lord should lightly me! "And have they ta'en him, Kinmont Willie, Against the truce of Border tide? And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch Is Keeper here on the Scottish side? "And have they e'en ta'en him, Kinmont Willie, Withouten either dread or fear? And forgotten that the bold Buccleuch Can back a steed, or shake a spear? "O were there war between the lands, As well I wot that there is none, I would slight Carlisle castell high, Though it were builded of marble stone. "I would set that castell in a low, And sloken it with English blood! There's never a man in Cumberland, Should ken where Carlisle castell stood. "But since nae war's between the lands, And there is peace, and peace should be; I'll neither harm English lad or lass, And yet the Kinmont freed shall be!" Before resorting to extreme measures Buccleuch did everything in his power to bring about an amicable settlement of the case. He first of all applied to Salkeld for redress; but Salkeld could only refer him to Lord Scrope, who declared that Kinmont was such a notorious malefactor that he could not release him without the express command of Queen Elizabeth. Buccleuch then brought the matter under the consideration of James, who made an application through an ambassador, for Kinmont's release; but this also proved unavailing. It looked as if the imprisoned freebooter was likely to pay his "lodging mail" in a very unpleasant fashion. The English government seemed determined to detain him until such times as they could conveniently put a period to his career by hanging him on Haribee hill. But Buccleuch, while anxious to effect his purpose, if possible by constitutional means, was determined that Kinmont should be rescued, whatever might be the method he was under the necessity of adopting. To accomplish his purpose he was prepared to "set the castle in a low, and sloken it with English blood." This threat was regarded as a mere piece of bravado. The castle was strongly garrisoned and well fortified. It was in the centre of a populous and hostile city, and under the command of Scrope, who was regarded as one of the bravest soldiers in England. The Bold Buccleuch, however, was not easily daunted. He had a strong arm and a brave heart, and he knew that he could summon to his aid a small band of followers as brave and resolute as himself. On a dark tempestuous night, two hundred of his bravest followers met him at the tower of Morton, a fortalice in the Debatable land, on the water of Sark, some ten miles or so from Carlisle. Their plans had been carefully considered and determined upon a day or two before, when they had met at a horse race near Langholm. The Armstrongs, of course, were ready to adventure their lives in such a laudable undertaking, and the Græmes, to whom Will of Kinmont was related by marriage, were also forward with promises of assistance. They were all well mounted-- With spur on heel, and splent on spauld, And gleuves of green, and feathers blue-- and carried with them scaling ladders and crowbars, hand-picks and axes, prepared to take the castle by storm. The rain had been falling heavily, and the Esk and the Eden were in roaring flood, but boldly plunging through their turbid waters they soon came within sight of the "Corbie's Nest" which they had come to "herry," and-- The first o' men that we met wi', Whae sould it be but fause Sakelde? "Where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen?" Quo' fause Sakelde; "Come tell to me?" "We go to hunt an English stag, Has trespass'd on the Scots countrie." "Where be ye gaun, ye marshall men?" Quo' fause Sakelde; "Come tell me true!" "We go to catch a rank reiver, Has broken faith wi' the bauld Buccleuch." But the troublesome questions of the "fause Sakelde" were speedily cut short by the lance of Dickie of Dryhope, who led the band-- Then nevir a word had Dickie to say, Sae he thrust the lance through his fause bodie. The way was now clear for the advance upon the castle. Everything seemed favourable to the success of their hazardous undertaking. The heavens were black as pitch, the thunder rolled loud and long, and the rain descended in torrents-- "But 'twas wind and weet, and fire and sleet, When we came beneath the castle wa'." When Buccleuch and his men reached the castle they were dismayed to find that the ladders they had brought with them were too short; but finding a postern they undermined it, and soon made a breach big enough for a soldier to pass through. "In this way a dozen stout fellows passed into the outer court (Buccleuch himself being fifth man who entered,) disarmed and bound the watch, wrenched open the postern from the inside, and thus admitting their companions, were masters of the place. Twenty-four troopers now rushed to the castle jail, Buccleuch meantime keeping the postern, forced the door of the chamber where Kinmont was confined, carried him off in his irons, and sounding their trumpet, the signal agreed on, were answered by loud shouts and the trumpet of Buccleuch, whose troopers filled the base court. All was now terror and confusion, both in town and castle. The alarum-bell rang and was answered by his brazen brethren of the cathedral and the town house; the beacon blazed upon the top of the great tower; and its red, uncertain glare on the black sky and the shadowy forms and glancing armour of the Borderers, rather increased the terror and their numbers. None could see their enemy to tell their real strength."[95] The suddenness of the attack and the terrific noise made by Buccleuch and his troopers as they laid siege to the castle, created confusion and dismay amongst the defenders of the stronghold. Lord Scrope, with commendable prudence, kept close within his chamber. He was convinced, as he afterwards declared, that there were at least five hundred Scots in possession of the castle. Kinmont, as he was borne triumphantly forth on the broad shoulders of Red Rowan, shouted a lusty "good night," to his bewildered lordship. Then Red Rowan has hente him up The starkest man in Teviotdale-- "Abide, abide now, Red Rowan, Till of my Lord Scroope I take farewell." "Farewell, farewell, my gude Lord Scroope! My gude Lord Scroope, farewell he cried-- I'll pay you for my lodging maill, When first we meet on the Border side." Then shoulder high, with shout and cry, We bore him down the ladder lang; At every stride Red Rowan made, I wot the Kinmont aims play'd clang! "O mony a time" quo' Kinmont Willie, "I've prick'd a horse out oure the furs; But since the day I back'd a steed, I never wore sic cumbrous spurs!" Having now successfully accomplished their purpose, Buccleuch and his men moved off towards the place where they had left their horses, and in a short time they were safely back on Scottish soil-- Buccleuch has turn'd to Eden Water, Even where it flow'd frae bank to brim, And he has plunged in wi' a' his band, And safely swam them through the stream. He turn'd them on the other side, And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he-- "If ye like na my visit in merry England, In fair Scotland come visit me." A cottage on the roadside between Longtown and Langholm, which stands close to the Scotch Dyke, is still pointed out as the residence of the smith who was employed, on this occasion, to knock off Kinmont Willie's irons. It is said that when Buccleuch arrived he found the door locked, the family in bed, and the knight of the hammer so sound a sleeper, that he was only wakened by the Lord Warden thrusting his long spear through the window, and nearly spitting both Vulcan and his lady. The rescue of Kinmont Willie--a most notable feat from whatever point of view it may be regarded--made Buccleuch one of the most popular heroes of the age. It was declared on all hands that nothing like it had been accomplished since the days of Sir William Wallace. According to a statement made in the "Border Papers," Buccleuch was assisted in effecting Kinmont's rescue by Walter Scott of Goldielands; Walter Scott of Harden; Will Elliot of Gorronbye; John Elliot of Copeshawe; the laird of Mangerton; the young laird of Whithaugh and his son; three of the Calfhills, Jock, Bighames, and one Ally, a bastard; Sandy Armstrong, son to Hebbye; Kinmont's Jock, Francie, Geordie, and Sandy, all brethern, the sons of Kinmont; Willie Bell, "Redcloak," and two of his brethren; Walter Bell of Goddesby; three brethren of Tweda, Armstrongs; young John of the Hollows, and one of his brethren; Christie of Barngleish and Roby of Langholm; the Chingles; Willie Kange and his brethren with their "complices." The breaking of the castle, and the rescue of Kinmont, completely upset the equanimity of my Lord Scrope. His indignation almost unmanned him. He wrote a long letter to the Privy Council describing the circumstances, and denouncing Buccleuch and his accomplices, in no measured terms. He entreated the Council to induce her Majesty to call upon the King of Scotland to deliver up Buccleuch "that he might receive such punishment as her Majesty might find that the quality of his offence merited." He assured their lordships that "if her Majesty shall give me leave it shall cost me both life and living, rather than such an indignity to her Highness, and contempt to myself, shall be tolerated." From the subsequent correspondence on this subject, which was of a voluminous nature, one can easily see that Scrope was more concerned about the indignity to himself than the contempt which had been offered to her Majesty. He seems to have found it more difficult than he at first anticipated to move the government to take prompt and effective action. Buccleuch, as may be readily supposed, had a good deal to say in his own defence. He argued, and with considerable cogency, that Kinmont's capture and imprisonment constituted a gross violation of Border law, and that he had not made any attempt at his rescue until he had exhausted every other means of accomplishing his purpose. He also pointed out that the representations which he had made had been received with scant courtesy, and that even the remonstrance of the King had been treated with contempt. Further, he showed that his Borderers had committed no outrage either on life or property, although they might have made Scrope and his garrison prisoners, and sacked the city. These considerations ought to have weighed heavily in Buccleuch's favour, but Elizabeth would listen to no excuses. She demanded his immediate surrender. For a time James refused to comply, and was warmly supported by the whole body of his council and barons, even the ministers of the Kirk were strongly opposed to surrender. Had the King been able to act with as much freedom as some of his predecessors, it is morally certain that this demand would have been indignantly repelled, but in the circumstances he had to proceed with caution, as he was afraid that resistance might lead to unpleasant results. And so, bowing to the inevitable, Buccleuch was surrendered--at least he was for a time put in ward in Blackness. The letter which Elizabeth addressed to James on this occasion is written throughout in the most passionate language. It is evident that Her Majesty had great difficulty in controlling her feelings. After soundly rating her "Dear brother" on the attitude he had assumed, she says:--"Wherefore, for fine, let this suffice you, that I am as evil treated by my named _friend_ as I could be by my known _foe_. Shall any castle or habytacle of mine be assailed by a night larcin, and shall not my confederate send the offender to his due punishment? Shall a friend stick at that demand that he ought rather to prevent? The law of kingly love would have said, nay: and not for persuasion of such as never can or will stead you, but dishonour you to keep their own rule, lay behind you such due regard of me, and in it of yourself, who, as long as you use this trade, will be thought not of yourself ought, but of conventions what they will. For, commissioners I will never grant, for an act that he cannot deny that made; for what so the cause be made, no cause should have done that. And when you with a better weighed judgment shall consider, I am assured my answer shall be more honourable and just; which I expect with more speed, as well for you as for myself. For other doubtful and litigious causes in our Border, I will be ready to point commissioners, if I shall find you needful; but for this matter of so villainous a usage, assure you I will never be so answered, as hearers shall need. In this and many other matters, I require your trust to our ambassador, which faithfully will return them to me. Praying God for your safe keeping. Your faithful and loving sister, E. R." Such plain speaking might not be relished by the Scottish King, but the interests at stake were too great to enable him to disregard it. He was in thorough sympathy with Buccleuch, but he dare not resist further, and so pacified the angry Queen by yielding her demands. XII. FLAGELLUM DEI. "Then out and spak the nobil King, And round him cast a wilie ee-- Now, had they tongue, Sir Walter Scott, Nor speak of reif nor felonie: For, had every honest man his awin kye, A right puir clan thy name wad be!" BALLAD OF THE OUTLAW MURRAY. While reflecting great credit on the prowess of the Bold Buccleuch, the rescue of Kinmont Willie gave rise to many serious local as well as international complications. As we have seen, the English Queen was deeply offended. She resented the high-handed and arbitrary manner in which the release of this famous prisoner had been effected. It constituted a gross insult to the Crown, and she was determined that those responsible for the deed should suffer for their temerity. The anger of Elizabeth was no trifling matter under any circumstances, but to James, whose courage was never a conspicuous quality, it was dreaded in the last degree. He simply quailed before the storm, and hastened to tender his humble submission. The Queen received his assurances of contrition with commendable graciousness. Yet it would seem she was not quite satisfied. Buccleuch had been put in ward, but he had not been, as was demanded, surrendered to the English government, and satisfaction was apparently out of the question until this condition had been complied with. She expostulated with James on the impropriety of the course he had seen fit to adopt, and gave him an interesting lecture on the manner in which he ought to discharge the duties of his high office. "For the punishment given to the offender," she says, "I render you many thanks; though I must confess, that without he be rendered to ourself, or to our warden, we have not that we ought. And, therefore, I beseech you, consider the greatness of my dishonour, and measure his just delivery accordingly. Deal in this case like a king, that will have all this realm and others adjoining see how justly and kindly you both will and can use a prince of my quality; and let not any dare persuade more for him than you shall think fit, whom it becomes to be echoes to your actions, no judgers of what beseems you. For Border matters, they are so shameful and inhuman as it would loathe a king's heart to think of them. I have borne for your quiet too long, even murders committed by the hands of your own wardens, which, if they be true, as I fear they be, I hope they shall well pay for such demerits, and you will never endure such barbarous acts to be unrevenged. I will not molest you with other particularities; but will assure myself that you will not easily be persuaded to overslip such enormities, and will give both favourable ear to our ambassador, and speedy redress, with due correction for such demeanour. Never think them mete to rule, that guides without rule. Of me make this account, that in your world shall never be found a more sincere affection, nor purer from guile, nor fuller fraught with truer sincerity than mine; which will not harbour in my breast a wicked conceit of you, without such great cause were given, as you yourself could hardly deny; of which we may speed, I hope, _ad calendas Græcas_. I render millions of thanks for such advertisements as this bearer brought from you; and see by that, you both weigh me and yourself in a right balance; for who seeks to supplant one, looks next for the other." These wise and weighty admonitions were no doubt received in a becoming spirit. But James was not prepared at once to comply with the demand that Buccleuch should be handed over to the tender mercies of his enemies. Buccleuch was a special favourite. He was disposed, therefore, to shield him as long as he could conveniently do so, with any degree of safety to himself and his own interests. Negotiations were carried on between the two governments for a period of eighteen months, and everything might have been amicably settled had the wardens, and others in authority, only conducted themselves with a reasonable amount of discretion. Scrope, especially was dying to be revenged on those who had subjected him to such great indignity; and consequently, a few months after the castle of Carlisle had been broken into by Buccleuch, he gathered together two thousand men and marched into Liddesdale, where he and his followers created great devastation. They burned, so the Scottish commissioners allege, "24 onsettes of houses, and carried off all the goods within four miles of bounds. They coupled the men their prisoners 'tua and tua togeather in leashe like doggis. Of barnis and wemen, three or four scoore, they stripped off their clothis and sarkis, leaving them naked in that sort, exposit to the injurie of wind and weather, whereby nyne or tenne infantes perished within eight daies thereafter.'" The answer of the English commissioners to this indictment indicates, at least, the grounds on which Scrope regarded himself as justified in undertaking this invasion of Liddesdale. The reasons adduced are plausible, if not always convincing. "It is no novelty," they say, "but an ancient custom, for the English warden to assist his opposite, and the keeper of Liddesdale, to ride on and 'herrie' such thieves, and on occasion to do so at his own hand.... Buccleuch, besides (1) surprising the second fortress of the Queen's Border; (2) slaying 24 of her subjects, including 16 of her soldiers; (3) has bound himself with all the notorious riders in Liddesdale, Eskdale, and Ewesdale, and after asserting that he paid 'out of his own purse' half of the sworn bill of Tyndale of £800, which the King commanded him to answer, joined himself with the Ellotts and Armstrongs, to plunder Tyndale for demanding the balance, slaying in their own houses 7 of the Charletons and Dodds the chief claimants. And being imprisoned by the King, he made a sporting time of it, hunting and hawking, and on his release did worse than ever, maintaining his 'coosens' Will of Hardskarth, Watt of Harden, &c., to murder, burn, and spoile as before. The people under his charge, Ellotts, Armstrongs, Nicksons, &c., have of late years murdered above 50 of the Queen's good subjects, many in their own houses, on their lawful business at daytime--as 6 honest Allandale men going to Hexham market, cut in pieces. For each of the last 10 years they have spoiled the West and Middle Marches of £5000. In short, they are intolerable, and redress being unattainable, though repeatedly demanded by the Queen and warden, the justifiable reprisal ordered by her Majesty in necessary defence of her own Border, cannot in equity be called an invasion, but rather 'honourable and neighbourlike assistance,' to maintain the inviolable amitie between the princes and realms, against the proud violaters thereof in eyther nation.... To conclude--this action of the Lord Scrope's is to be reputed and judged a 'pune,' an ancient Border tearme, intending no other than a reprisall, which albeit of late years her Majesty's peacable justice hath restrained." There is much in a name. This invasion of Liddesdale, resulting in the burning of numerous homesteads, the slaughter of many women and children, accompanied by barbarities of the most revolting description, is euphoniously described by the commissioners as "honourable and neighbourlike assistance." The women and bairns, who were led in leashes like so many dogs, were no doubt duly grateful to my Lord Scrope and his minions for their kindly attentions! The absurdity of such a verdict is surely unique. It would appear that Buccleuch's enforced absence from the Borders, after the taking of Carlisle castle, was of brief duration. He was soon back in his old haunts, and at his old trade. What had happened in the interim was not likely to enhance his feeling of regard for Scrope, and those who were aiding and abetting him in this matter. He was determined to avenge the cruel raid which had been made upon Liddesdale. Along with Sir Robert Ker of Cessford, another renowned freebooter, he marched into Tynedale with fifty horse and a hundred foot, burned at noonday three hundred onsteads and dwelling houses; also barns, stables, ox houses, &c., to the number of twenty; and murdered "with the sworde" fourteen who had been to Scotland, and brought away their booty. The English warden was utterly helpless. He dare not lift a finger to stay the progress of the invaders. He gave vent to his feelings in a letter to Burghley, in which he says--"To defend such like incursions, or rather invasions, with sorrow as formerly I declare to your lordship the weak state of Tindale, for there was not 6 able horse to follow the fray 'upon the shoute,' though in daytime, and where as reported to me, there were 300 able foot, 'or better,' there was not a hundred of this following, 'and those naked.' This piteous state increases since my coming, and I cannot see how to amend it, leaving this to your wisdom, 'wishing to God' I had never lived to serve where neither her Majesty nor her officer is obeyed; fearing unless assisted by her Majesty's forces, Tyndale will be laid waste as other parts of the March are."[96] One cannot restrain a certain feeling of commiseration for the English warden, who was so shamefully neglected by his government, and so miserably supported in the discharge of his duties by those dwelling within his wardenry. The complaint which Eure here makes is one which was often made by the wardens on the English Border. They were frequently left in a comparatively helpless condition, having neither men, horses, nor money sufficient for their purposes. The knowledge of this fact no doubt encouraged the Scots to pursue their nefarious calling with a boldness and persistency, which, at first sight, appear somewhat extraordinary. Buccleuch, when charged with the atrocities here so minutely described, had a good deal to say in his own defence. He avowed that his inroad on Tynedale was fully justified. He says--"60 English entered Liddesdale by night, slew 2 men, and drove many sheep and cattle, when the fray arising, he with neighbouring gentlemen 'followed the chace with the dog,' and put the first men he met making resistance, to the sword. The rest of the spoil, taken to sundry houses in Tindale, was therein held against him by the stealers, and though he offered them life and goods, if the cattle were delivered, he had to force entry by the firing of doors, when the houses were burned 'besides his purpose,' with the obstinate people who refused to yield on trust."[97] This plausible story, the main facts of which, however, are admitted by the English warden, did not go far to pacify the Queen of England. She threatened the utmost penalties unless Buccleuch and Ker were delivered up to her. The time had gone past for further "excuses, deferrings, and lingerings." It is said her resentment had reached such a pitch that, with her concurrence, a plan was formed to _assassinate_ Buccleuch. Though the Queen had at first been opposed to the appointment of a Commission for the consideration of some of the more important questions which had arisen between the two kingdoms, owing mainly to Buccleuch's exploits, she ultimately yielded the point, and it is an interesting and significant fact that during the time of the sitting of the Commission Buccleuch was busily engaged in ravaging with fire and sword some of the fairest districts within the English Border. The magnitude of his offences had evidently impressed them. They hardly knew what to say about him. In the first paragraph of the report which they issued we read:--"We have accomplished the treaty of the Border causes with all the diligence possible, though not to so great advantage to the realm as we desired. Yet we have revived articles of the former treaties discontinued, supplied many old defects, and made new ordinances. Slaughters we were forced to leave as they were (the Scots protesting that they could not, under their instructions, deal with them); but we trust as the punishment is left to the princes, her Majesty will so consider the same, that it shall be found far better that we have left that article at large, than if we had condiscended to any meane degree of correccion for so barbarous acts ... specially by Baklugh, who is _flagellum Dei_ to his miserably distressed and oppressed neighbours."[98] But, however distressing Buccleuch's conduct may have been to the English members of the Commission, it is evident that neither King nor Council in Scotland was disposed to regard him as a "scourge of God." He went up to Edinburgh at this time, when things seemed to be going so much against him in the Commission, and had an interview with James, and so obtained his favourable countenance, that "they laughed a long time on the purpose." The Council took an equally favourable view of the situation, affirming that "it was found that his last invasion of England was just, for 'repetition' of goods stolen a short time before, and the slaughter was but of special malefactors, enemies to the public weal and quiet of both countries." Elizabeth, however, took a different view of the matter, and put her foot down with such purpose and determination that James speedily became convinced that he must either surrender his favourite, or involve the country in a war with England. The latter alternative was out of the question, as it might have imperilled his claim to the succession, and so Buccleuch was compelled to place himself as a prisoner in the hands of Sir William Bowes, who conducted him to Berwick, and put him in ward, there to await the Queen's pleasure. Sir John Cary was then governor of the town, and it was with much perturbation and many misgivings that he undertook the safe custody of such a notorious and masterful captive. In a pathetic letter which he addressed to Lord Hunsdon, he says--"I entreat your lordship that I may not become the jailor of so dangerous a prisoner, or, at least, that I may know whether I shall keep him like a prisoner or no? for there is not a worse or more dangerous place in England to keep him in than this; it is so near his friends, and besides, so many in this town willing to pleasure him, and his escape may be so easily made; and once out of the town he is past recovery. Wherefore I humbly beseech your honor let him be removed from hence to a more secure place, 'for I protest to the Almighty God, before I will take the charge to keep him here, I will desire to be put in prison myself, and to have a keeper of me!' For what care soever be had of him here, 'he shall want no furtherance whatsoever wit of man can devise, if he himself list to make an escape.' So I pray your lordship, 'even for God's sake and for the love of a brother,' to relieve me from this danger."[99] This passionate appeal, to be relieved from the responsibility of taking charge of Buccleuch, does not seem to have received much attention. Buccleuch remained under Cary's guardianship, and, needless to say, proved himself one of the most tractable of prisoners. He could not well have acted otherwise, for he must by this time have become fully convinced that Elizabeth was determined to have her way, and that, in the peculiar circumstances in which the Scottish King was placed, he could ill afford to thwart her wishes. Sir Robert Ker was also induced to place himself in the hands of the English authorities. Strange to relate, he was placed in charge of Sir Robert Cary, with whom he lived for a considerable time on the most intimate and friendly terms. "Contrary to all men's expectations," says Cary, "Sir Robert Car chose me for his guardian, and home I brought him to my own house after he was delivered to me. I lodged him as well as I could, and took order for his diet, and men to attend on him; and sent him word, that (although by his harsh carriage towards me, ever since I had that charge, he could not expect any favours, yet) hearing so much goodness of him, that he never broke his word; if he would give me his hand and credit to be a true prisoner, he would have no guard set upon him, but would have free liberty for his friends in Scotland, to have ingress and regress to him as often as he pleased. He took this very kindly at my hands, accepted of my offer, and sent me thanks. Some four days passed; all which time his friends came unto him, and he kept his chamber. Then he sent to me, and desired me I should come and speak with him, which I did; and after long discourse, charging and recharging one another with wrongs and injuries, at last, before our parting, we became good friends, with great protestations on his side, never to give me occasion of unkindness again. After our reconciliation, he kept his chamber no longer, but dined and supped with me. I took him abroad with me, at least thrice a-week, a-hunting, and every day we grew better friends. Bocleugh, in a few days after, had his pledges delivered, and was set at liberty. But Sir Robert Car could not get his, so that I was commanded to carry him to York, and there to deliver him prisoner to the archbishop, which accordingly I did. At our parting he professed great love unto me for the kind usage I had shown him, and that I would find the effects of it upon his delivery, which he hoped would be shortly."[100] Sir Robert Ker was as good as his word. After he had regained his freedom, by the delivery of the pledges demanded, he returned to his duties as warden of the East March, and seems to have conducted himself to the entire satisfaction of his generous opponent. Cary says that they often met afterwards at days of truce, and that he had as good justice as he could have desired--their friendship remaining unbroken to the end. The fortunes of the "Bold Buccleuch," after his imprisonment in Berwick, were of a varied, but by no means of an unpleasant character. He returned to his duties as Keeper of Liddesdale, and applied himself with energy and ability to the arduous task of keeping his unruly charge, as far as possible, within due bounds of law. This was an almost impossible undertaking, as the Armstrongs and Elliots and other "broken men" of the district had been so long accustomed to a lawless life that they quickly resented any interference with their liberty. The change which had come over the spirit of Buccleuch's dream was not at all to their liking, and consequently they turned against him, and assailed him with much bitterness. He was "in contempt with them" because of his just dealing with Cary. They would gladly have shaken off his yoke, and were privately working for his overthrow, that they might have the "raynes louse" again. But difficult as the task was, Buccleuch was not easily turned aside from his purpose. He had evidently become convinced that a change of policy was desirable in the interests of the country, and he was determined to carry it out, however formidable might be the opposition with which he had to contend. The fact is significant, and ought to be carefully borne in mind. Buccleuch's indiscretions during the earlier part of his official life were manifold, and severely reprehensible. The only defence which can be offered in his behalf is, that he was placed in a position of great responsibility before he was old enough to appreciate to the full extent the consequences of his actions. His extreme youth, fiery temperament, and fervid patriotism, account for many things in his life which otherwise would be difficult either to explain or justify. But if he sinned greatly, he also repented sincerely. It is really to him we owe the first impulse in the social regeneration of the Borders. From 1597 onwards, he contributed more towards the establishment of good order in the district over which he presided--and it was infinitely the worst district in the country--than any other man of his time. It may be said, indeed, that in him many of the finest qualities of the Scottish Borderer came to full fruition. He was brave, resolute, independent, quick to resent injuries, but withal, warm-hearted and generous. We do not greatly wonder at the large place he has filled in the traditional story of the country. His was a powerful and fascinating personality, and though, from a national point of view, the sphere of his activities was comparatively limited, his name is not unworthy of being associated with some of the greatest names in Scottish history. Towards the close of the year 1599 he went to London to make his peace with the Queen. In a letter to Cecil, written by Sir Robert Cary, we have striking testimony given of the change which had taken place in Buccleuch's attitude towards the English government. "He will be desirous," Cary says, "to kiss the Queen's hand: which favour of late he hath very well deserved, for since my coming into these parts, I do assure your honour he is the only man that hath run a direct course with me for the maintenance of justice, and his performance hath been such as we have great quietness with those under his charge. Nor have I wanted present satisfaction for anything by his people: and he has had the like from me. There is not an unsatisfied bill on either side between us."[101] Considering the terms of this letter, we are not surprised to learn that the "Bold Buccleuch" was received at Court with considerable favour. If it be true that Elizabeth at one time was privy to a plot to assassinate him, she must surely have had some qualms of conscience when at last this "stark reiver" stood before her. The scene is a memorable one. The Queen demanded of him, with one of those lion-like glances which used to throw the proudest nobles on their knees, how he dared to storm her castle, to which the Border baron replied--"What, madam, is there that a brave man may not dare?" The rejoinder pleased her; and, turning to her courtiers, she exclaimed--"Give me a thousand such leaders, and I'll shake any throne in Europe!" XIII. MINIONS OF THE MOON. "Diana's Foresters, Gentlemen of the shade, Minions of the Moon."--FALSTAFF. "_Reparabit Cornua Phoebe._"--MOTTO: HARDEN FAMILY. "The siller moon now glimmers pale; But ere we've crossed fair Liddesdale, She'll shine as brightlie as the bale That warns the water hastilie. "O leeze me on her bonny light! There's nought sae dear to Harden's sight: Troth, gin she shone but ilka night, Our clan might live right royallie." FEAST OF SPURS. The more famous reivers whose names have been handed down in the traditions, poetry, and history of the Scottish Border, are seldom regarded with any very pronounced feelings of aversion. The Armstrongs, Elliots, Græmes, Stories, Burneses, and Bells; the Scotts, Kers, Maxwells, and Johnstones--whose depredations have been recorded with much fulness of detail in the annals of the country, were no doubt quite as bad as they have been described. They cannot be acquitted of grave moral delinquencies, judged even by the standard of the age in which they lived. But at this distance of time many are disposed to regard their depredations and lawless life, if not with a kindly, at least with an indulgent eye. It must be frankly admitted that there was an element of genuine heroism in their lives, which goes far to redeem them from the contempt with which, under other conditions, we would have been compelled to regard them. What they did was, as a general rule, done openly, and evidently with a certain sub-conscious feeling that their actions, if rightly understood, were not altogether blame-worthy. Their reiving was carried on under conditions which developed some of the best as well as worst elements of their nature and manhood. The Border reiver, whatever he was, can certainly not be described as cowardly. He carried his life in his hands. He never knew when he went on a foraging expedition, whether he might return. The enemy with which he had to contend was vigilant and powerful. Before he could drive away the cattle, he had, first of all, to settle accounts with the owner. He might be worsted in the encounter, and instead of securing his booty, he might find himself a captive, with the certainty of being strung up on the nearest tree, or drowned in some convenient pool. Such incidents were of almost every day occurrence. Reiving was therefore one of the most exciting and hazardous of occupations, demanding on the part of those engaged in it, a strong arm and a dauntless spirit. The burglar who sneaks up to a house while the inmates are asleep, and plies his nefarious calling in silence and under shade of night, and is ready to start off, leaving everything behind him, the moment the alarm is raised, is a contemptible miscreant, for whom the gallows is almost too mild a form of punishment. But the Border reiver was made of different metal; was, indeed, a man of an essentially higher type. He was prepared to fight for every hoof or horn he wished to secure. It was a trial of skill, of strength, of resource, with the enemy. No doubt he had occasionally to ride during the night, aided only by the mild rays of the moon. The way was often long, the paths intricate, and the dangers manifold; but he was also prepared, under the full blaze of the noonday sun, to challenge those he had come to despoil, to protect and retain their property if they could. It was open and undisguised warfare on a miniature scale. This, of course, was not true of _all_ the reivers on the Borders. Some of them were hardly worthy of their profession. There are black sheep in every trade--men who represent the baser qualities of their kind, and who bring discredit on their associates. In looking back over the long list of famous reivers there are many names which, somehow or other, we are disposed to regard with a more or less kindly feeling. This may be difficult to explain, but the fact is undeniable. Perhaps the feeling is due, to a certain extent at least, to the fact that, despite the mode of life adopted by these men, they represented many really admirable qualities, both of intellect and heart. Johnie Armstrong of Gilnockie, for example, was one of the most notorious of the clan to which he belonged, and yet he was evidently regarded as a great hero, who had been most shamefully treated by the King. It is also interesting to find that he had a high opinion of himself. He prided himself on his _honesty_. However much injury he had inflicted on the unfortunate Englishmen, who had to bear the brunt of his onslaughts, it gives him infinite pleasure and satisfaction to affirm that "he had never skaithed a Scots wife a puir flee." It is possible, too, that his tragic end may have something to do with the kindly feeling with which his memory is cherished, though this in itself is not sufficient to account for the place he occupies in the Valhalla of Border heroes. In the same way a halo of romance has gathered round the name of the "Bold Buccleuch," whose spirit of chivalry has gone far to redeem his memory from opprobrium. The penetrating eye of the English Queen was quick to discern in him qualities of a high order which only required the proper sphere for their development. He may well be regarded as a truly great man who was compelled by the circumstances in which he found himself placed, to devote his time and talents to tasks which were quite unworthy of his genius. Hence, when the opportunity occurred, he speedily proved himself not only a great leader of men, but a most potent factor in the social and moral regeneration of the district with which he was so intimately associated. But of all the Border reivers whose names have been handed down in song and story, none is regarded with more kindly, we might almost say affectionate interest, than that of "Auld Wat of Harden." For many years he played an important part in Border affairs, and was always to the front in harassing and despoiling the English. We have already noticed the assistance he gave his near kinsman, the "Bold Buccleuch," in the assault on Carlisle castle, when Kinmont Willie was so gallantly rescued from imprisonment. But, four years prior to this event, in the year 1592, he took part, under the leadership of Bothwell, in the famous "Raid of Falkland," when the King was surprised in his Palace, and would have had short shrift from the Borderers, had not timely warning been given him of his danger. This escapade entailed on the laird of Harden somewhat serious consequences. An order was issued by the King, with the consent of the Lords of his Council, to demolish the _places, houses, and fortalices_ of Harden and Dryhoip, pertaining to the said Walter Scott. The order runs thus--"Apud Peiblis, xiij die mensis Julij, anno lxxxxij (1592)--The Kingis Majestie, with aduise of the Lordis of his Secreit Counsale, Gevis and grantis full pouer and Commission, expres bidding and charge, be thir presentis, to his weil-belouitt Williame Stewart of Tracquair, to DIMOLEIS and cause to be dimoleist and cassin doun to the ground, _the place and houssis of_ TYNNEIS, quhilkis pertenit to James Stewart sumtyme of Tynneis; as alswa, the lyke pouer and commissioun, expres bidding and charge, to Walter Scott of Gouldielandis and Mr Iedeon Murray, conjunctlie and seuerallie, to dimoleis and caus be dimoleist and cassin doun to the ground, _the placeis, houssis, and fortalices of_ HARDEN _and_ DRYHOIP, pertening to Walter Scott of Harden, quha, with the said James Steuart, wes arte and parte of the lait tresonabill fact, perpetrat aganis his hienes awin persone at Falkland: And that the foirsaidis personis caus the premisses be putt in execution with all convenient expeditioun in signne and taikin of the foirsaidis uthiris personis tressounable and unnaturall defection and attemptat, committit be thame in manner foirsaid. As thay will ansuer to his hienes upon thair obedience."[102] This was a severe blow to the laird of Harden, but he doubtless bore it with that fine philosophical indifference for which he was distinguished. The motto of the Harden family, "We'll hae moonlight again," breathes the spirit of optimism, and indicates that the reverses of fortune were never regarded as irreparable. Hope sprang eternal in the Harden breast! But Auld Wat was never disposed to linger unduly, even when courting the smile of the capricious Goddess. He believed in himself, and relied mainly for his good fortune on his own energy and skill. He was a man of the world--keen, subtle, far-seeing, energetic--never allowing the grass to grow under his feet. He believed in taking time by the forelock--in making hay while the sun shone. Rarely did he ever miss a favourable opportunity of increasing "his goods and gear." And his reiving was carried on in no paltry or insignificant fashion. He was a man of large ideas, and he carried them out on a splendid scale. For example, we find that in 1596 he ran a day foray into Gilsland, and carried off "300 oxen and kye, a horse and a nag." This was a large addition to make to his stock, and one cannot help thinking that the "dell" in front of Harden castle, where he kept his captured nowte, must have often been unduly crowded. But then it ought be remembered that the demands on his hospitality were numerous and not always easily met. He had a numerous body of retainers, as was befitting a man of his position, who had to be kept in "horse meat and man's meat," and having so many to provide for, his large herds often disappeared with great rapidity. The result was that he was constantly under the necessity of crossing the Border in order to replenish his stock. It is related that on one occasion he overheard the town herd calling out to some one, as he was passing, to "send out Wat o' Harden's coo." "Wat o' Harden's coo!" the old reiver indignantly exclaimed, "My sang, I'll soon mak ye speak of Wat o' Harden's kye," and so he at once gathered his forces, marched into Northumberland, and before long he was seen on his way back driving before him a big herd of cows and a basson'd bull. On his way he passed a large sow-backed haystack. Turning round in his saddle and looking at it wistfully, he said, in a regretful tone of voice, "If ye had four feet, ye wadna stand long there!" It is perhaps to this successful foray that Lord Eure refers in a letter addressed to Cecil under date July 15, 1596, in which he says:--"Watt Ellatt, _alias_ Watt of Harden, with other East Tividale lairds had 300 or 400 able horsemen, laying an ambush of 300 or 400 foote, brake a day forray a myle beneathe Bellinghame, spoiled the townes men in Bellinghame, brake the crosse, toke all the cattell upp the water to the number thre or fower hundred beastes at the leaste, hath slaine three men of name and wounded one allmoste to deathe, fired noe houses. The fray rose and being brought to me at Hexhame about ixº or xº houers in the morning, I rose myself with my household servuantes, caused the beacons to be fired and sent the fray eche way rounde aboute me, and yet could not make the force of the countrie iiij{xx} horsemen and some six score footmen. I followed with the horsemen within twoe or three myles of Scotland, and except Mr Fenwick of Wellington, together with the Keaper of Tindale, Mr Henry Bowes, ther was not one gentleman of the Marche to accompanie me, or mett me at all; and when all our forces were togeither, we could not make twoe hundredth horsse, nor above twoe hundredth footmen.... With shame and greife I speake it' the Scottes went away unfought withall."[103] It will thus be seen that within a few months this famous freebooter had transferred from English soil some six or seven hundred head of cattle. No doubt like his neighbours, who were engaged in the same precarious line of business, he had many unsuccessful raids to recount, but he was certainly one of the most wary and successful of the reivers on the Scottish side of the Border. Sir Walter Scott, who was a descendant of Wat of Harden, has an interesting note in his "Border Minstrelsy" regarding the family. "Of this Border laird," he says, "commonly called _Auld Wat of Harden_, tradition has preserved many anecdotes. He was married to Mary Scott, celebrated in song by the title of 'The Flower of Yarrow.' By their marriage contract, the father-in-law, Philip Scott of Dryhope, was to find Harden in horse meat and man's meat at his Tower of Dryhope for a year and a day; but five barons pledge themselves, that, at the expiry of that period, the son-in-law should remove without attempting to continue in possession by force! A notary-public signed for all the parties to the deed, none of whom could write their names. The original is still in the charter-room of the present Mr Scott of Harden. By 'The Flower of Yarrow' the Laird of Harden had six sons; five of whom survived him, and founded the families of Harden (now extinct), Highchesters (now representing Harden), Reaburn, Wool, and Synton. The sixth son was slain at a fray, in a hunting match, by the Scotts of Gilmanscleuch. His brothers flew to arms; but the old laird secured them in the dungeon of his tower, hurried to Edinburgh, stated the crime, and obtained a gift of the land of the offenders from the Crown. He returned to Harden with equal speed, released his sons, and showed them the charter. 'To horse, lads!' cried the savage warrior, 'and let us take possession! The lands of Gilmanscleuch are well worth a dead son.'" Hogg's description of "Auld Wat" as he set out for Edinburgh on this occasion is humourously realistic: And he's awa' to Holyrood, Amang our nobles a', With bonnet lyke a girdle braid, And hayre lyke Craighope snaw. His coat was of the forest green, Wi' buttons lyke the moon; His breeks were o' the guid buckskyne, Wi' a' the hayre aboon. His twa hand sword hang round his back, An' rattled at his heel; The rowels of his silver spurs Were of the Rippon steel; His hose were braced wi' chains o' airn, An' round wi' tassels hung: At ilka tramp o' Harden's heel, The royal arches rung. * * * * Ane grant of all our lands sae fayre The King to him has gien; An' a' the Scotts o' Gilmanscleuch Were outlawed ilka ane. But Harden's best fortune came to him with his wife--the far-famed "Flower of Yarrow." This beautous flower, this rose of Yarrow, In nature's garden has no marrow. So sang Allan Ramsay. And since his day the charms of "Yarrow's Rose" have inspired many a more or less tuneful ode. But Mary Scott's beauty was, after all, not her greatest gift. She was wise beyond most of her sex, and skilful to a degree in the management of her husband. We find, for example, that instead of remonstrating with him on his culpable negligence in allowing the larder to become depleted, she quietly set before him when he came to dinner a pair of clean spurs! The hint thus indirectly conveyed was quite sufficient. Immediately her worthy spouse was in the saddle and riding as fast as his nag could carry him towards the English fells. It is interesting to know that the spurs that were thus suggestively served up for dinner are still in the possession of the family, being carefully preserved among Lord Polwarth's treasures at Mertoun House. But while Wat of Harden could look after his own interests, he was never unmindful of the interests of others. When the Captain of Bewcastle came over to Ettrick "to drive a prey," and carried off Jamie Telfer's kye, he rendered splendid service in rescuing the herd from the hand of the spoiler. Though Telfer, with "the tear rowing in his ee," pled with the Captain to restore his property, he was only laughed at for his pains-- "The Captain turned him round and leugh, Said--"Man, there's naething in thy house, But ae auld sword without a sheath That hardly now would fell a mouse." Telfer first of all applied for assistance at Stobs Ha', evidently thinking that he had some special claim on "Gibby Elliot," but he was unceremoniously turned from the door, and told to go to "Branksome" and "seek his succour where he paid blackmail." When Buccleuch heard what had taken place, he cried-- "Gar warn the water, braid and wide, Gar warn it sune and hastilie! They that winna ride for Telfer's kye, Let them never look in the face o' me!" Auld Wat and his sons having also been informed of the Captain's raid, lost no time in getting out their steeds and hurrying after the English reiver. Over the hills, down near the Ritterford on the Liddel, the melee began. The Captain was determined to drive Jamie Telfer's kye into England despite the opposition of the Scotts, but he was made to pay dearly for his temerity.-- Then til't they gaed, wi' heart and hand, The blows fell thick as bickering hail; And mony a horse ran masterless, And mony a comely cheek was pale. Willie Scott, the son of Buccleuch, was left dead on the field. When Harden saw him stretched on the ground "he grat for very rage."-- "But he's ta'en aff his gude steel cap, And thrice he's waved it in the air-- The Dinlay snaw was ne'er mair white Nor the lyart locks of Harden's hair. "Revenge! revenge!" Auld Wat 'gan cry; "Fye, lads, lay on them cruellie! We'll ne'er see Teviotside again, Or Willie's death revenged sall be." The conflict was speedily ended. The Captain of Bewcastle was badly wounded, and taken prisoner; his house was ransacked, his cattle driven off, and Jamie Telfer returned to the "Fair Dodhead" with thirty-three cows instead of ten.-- "When they cam' to the fair Dodhead, They were a wellcum sight to see! For instead of his ain ten milk kye, Jamie Telfer has gotten thirty and three. And he has paid the rescue shot, Baith wi' goud and white monie: And at the burial o' Willie Scott, I wat was mony a weeping ee." The eldest son of Wat of Harden was destined to become as famous as his father, though in a different way. He had evidently, from what we learn of him, inherited all the reiving tendencies of his race. But the difficulty of crossing the Border had been considerably increased. Buccleuch, the Keeper of Liddesdale, had changed his tactics. He had now begun to use his utmost endeavour to bring about a better understanding, and a better state of feeling, between the two countries. Willie Scott no doubt realised that a raid on the English Border, though successful, might now get the whole family into serious trouble. But the kye "were rowting on the loan and the lea," and something had to be done to augment the quickly vanishing herd. He took into his confidence a farmer, who lived on the banks of the Ettrick--William Hogg--well known as the "Wild Boar of Fauldshope." This redoubtable reiver was a progenitor of the Ettrick Shepherd, whose family, it is said, possessed the lands of Fauldshope, under the Scotts of Harden, for a period of 400 years. He was a man of prodigious strength, courage, and ferocity, and ever ready for the fray. For some reason or other he had a strong antipathy to Sir Gideon Murray of Elibank, the picturesque ruins of whose Castle may still be seen on the banks of the Tweed, a mile or two above Ashiesteel. That young Harden could have no particular liking for him is easily understood, as he was one of the men who had been commissioned by the government to destroy Harden castle as a punishment for the part taken by his father in the Raid of Falkland. Sir Gideon had a splendid herd of cattle pasturing on the green slopes above the Tweed, and so Willie Scott resolved, with the assistance of his powerful coadjutor, to transfer as many of them as possible to his own pastures. The night was set, the expedition was carefully planned, and fortune seemed to smile upon the project. But-- The best laid schemes o' mice and men Gang aft a glee. Some one was good enough to convey to Sir Gideon a hint of what was on foot, and he at once took measures to give the thieves, when they came, a warm reception. After a sharp encounter, Willie Scott was taken prisoner, and thrown into the dungeon of the Castle, with his hands and feet securely bound. He knew quite well the fate which awaited him on the morrow. He would be led forth to the gallows, and there made to pay the forfeit of his life. A better lot, however, was in store for him. A good angel, in the person of Lady Murray, interfered on his behalf. She had been anxiously considering how she could save his life. Her plans were speedily formed, and in the morning she ventured to lay them before her irate husband. As Hogg has humorously described the scene-- The lady o' Elibank raise wi' the dawn, An' she waukened Auld Juden, an' to him did say,-- "Pray, what will ye do wi' this gallant young man?" "We'll hang him," quo Juden, "this very same day." "Wad ye hang sic a brisk an' gallant young heir, An' has three hamely daughters aye suffering neglect? Though laird o' the best of the forest sae fair, He'll marry the warst for the sake o' his neck. "Despise not the lad for a perilous feat; He's a friend will bestead you, and stand by you still; The laird maun hae men, an' the men maun hae meat, An' the meat maun be had be the danger what will." The plan thus suggested seemed feasable. It might really be the wisest course to pursue, at least so Sir Gideon was disposed to think, and no time was lost in bringing the matter to an issue. Young Scott was at once brought into the hall, the terms on which his life was to be spared were briefly stated, and he was afforded an opportunity of seeing the young lady whom fortune had thus strangely thrown in his way. One glance sufficed. The features of Sir Gideon's daughter, known to fame as "Muckle-mou'd Meg," were not attractive. The condemned culprit felt that even the gallows was preferable to such an objectionable matrimonial alliance. "Lead on to the gallows, then," Willie replied, "I'm now in your power, and ye carry it high; Nae daughter of yours shall e'er lie by my side; A Scott, ye maun mind, counts it naething to die." These were brave words, bravely spoken. Sir Gideon, however, had made up his mind as to the course he meant to pursue, and Willie Scott was at once led forth to make his acquaintance with the "Hanging Tree." But when he drew near and saw the fatal rope dangling in the wind, his courage began to fail him. The prospect was far from inviting, and he pled for a few days respite to think on his sins, "and balance the offer of freedom so kind." But the old laird was inexorable. He simply said to him, "There is the hangman, and there is the priest, make your choice." Thus driven to bay, Willie saw that further parleying would not avail, and so he thought he had better make the best of a bad business. As he thought over the matter, he began to discover certain traits in the young lady's person and character of a more or less pleasing description. He concluded that, after all, he might do worse than wed with the daughter of Elibank.-- "What matter," quo' he, "though her nose it be lang, For noses bring luck an' it's welcome that brings. There's something weel-faur'd in her soncy gray een, But they're better than nane, and ane's life is sae sweet; An' what though her mou' be the maist I hae seen, Faith muckle-mou'd fok hae a luck for their meat." Thus everything ended happily, and young Harden had cause to bless the day he found himself at the mercy of Sir Gideon Murray of Elibank. Seldom, indeed, has Border reiver been so beneficently punished! An' muckle guid bluid frae that union has flowed, An' mony a brave fellow, an' mony a brave feat; I darena just say they are a' muckle mou'd, But they rather have still a guid luck for their meat. Such is the tradition, as Hogg has given it in his humourous poem. It goes without saying that the poet has embellished and enlarged the story to suit his own purposes. But the tradition has generally been regarded as having some considerable basis of fact. Satchells, in his History of the Scotts, thus refers to Auld Wat of Harden and his famous son-- "The stout and valiant Walter Scott Of Harden who can never die, But live by fame to the tenth degree; He became both able, strong, and stout, Married Philip's daughter, squire of Dryhope, Which was an ancient family, And many broad lands enjoyed he; Betwixt these Scotts was procreat, That much renowned Sir William Scott, I need not to explain his name, Because he ever lives by fame; He was a man of port and rank, He married Sir Gideon Murray's daughter of Elibank." The fortunes of other famous reivers have formed the theme of many a stirring ballad. The so-called historical data on which many of these ballads are professedly based, may often, no doubt, be truthfully described as more imaginary than real, nevertheless the picture which the balladist has drawn is often deeply interesting, and subserves an important end by indicating the feeling with which these men and their deeds were usually regarded. In a history of Border reiving such side-lights as the ballads afford may be profitably utilized. Maitland, in his celebrated poem on the Thieves of Liddesdale, makes allusion to a well known character who is known to fame as "Jock o' the Syde." He was nephew to the "Laird of Mangerton," and cousin to the "Laird's Ain Jock," and had all the enthusiasm of his race for the calling to which the members of his clan seem to have devoted their somewhat remarkable talents.-- He never tyris For to brek byris Our muir and myris Ouir gude ane guide. It is said that he assisted the Earl of Westmoreland in his escape, after his unfortunate insurrection with the Earl of Northumberland, in the twelfth year of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. But according to the balladist his career, on one occasion, had well nigh terminated disastrously. In the company of some of his friends he had made a raid into Northumberland. Here he was taken prisoner by the warden, and thrown into jail at Newcastle, there to "bide his doom." He knew that he would not have long to wait. Not much time was wasted in considering the various items of the indictment, more especially when the accused was a well-known thief. "Jeddart justice" was not confined to the small burgh on the Scottish Border. It was as popular, at that time, in England as anywhere else, as many a Scottish reiver has known to his cost. The friends of the prisoner were fully aware that if he was to be saved from the gallows, not one moment must be lost. A rescue party was speedily organized. The laird of Mangerton, accompanied by a few friends--the Laird's Jock, the Laird's Wat, and the famous Hobbie Noble (an Englishman who had been banished from Bewcastle)--started off for Newcastle with all speed, determined to bring the prisoner back with them, quick or dead. To allay suspicion and avoid detection, they shod their horses "the wrang way"--putting the tip of the shoe behind the frog--and arrayed themselves like country lads, or "corn caugers[104] ga'en the road." When they reached Cholerford, near Hexham, they alighted and cut a tree--"wi' the help o' the light o' the moon"--on which were fifteen nogs or notches, by which they hoped "to scale the wa' o' Newcastle toun." But, as so often happened in like circumstances, this improvised ladder was "three ells too laigh." Such trifles, however, rarely ever proved disconcerting. The bold reivers at once determined to force the gate. A stout porter endeavoured to drive them back, but-- "His neck in twa the Armstrongs wrang; Wi' fute or hand he ne'er played pa! His life and his keys at once they hae ta'en, And cast his body ahint the wa'." The path being now clear they speedily made their way to the prison, where they found their friend groaning under fifteen stones of Spanish iron (nothing short of this would have availed to keep a stark Scottish reiver, fed on oatmeal, within the confines of a prison cell), carried him off, irons and all, set him on a horse, with both feet on one side, and rode off with the fleetness of the wind in the direction of Liddesdale: "The night tho' wat, they didna mind, But hied them on fu' merrilie, Until they cam' to Cholerford brae, Where the water ran like mountains hie." Dashing into the stream they soon reached the opposite bank. The English, who were in hot pursuit, when they reached the Tyne, which was rolling along in glorious flood, durst not venture further. They were filled with chagrin when they saw the prisoner, loaded as he was with fifteen stones of good Spanish iron, safe on the other side. They had sustained a double loss. The prisoner was gone, and he had taken his valuable iron chains with him. The land-sergeant, or warden's officer, taking in the situation at a glance, cried aloud-- "The prisoner take, But leave the fetters, I pray, to me." To which polite request the Laird's ain Jock replied-- "I wat weel no, I'll keep them a'; shoon to my mare they'll be, My gude bay mare--for I am sure, She bought them a' right dear frae thee." No Liddesdale reiver was ever likely to part with anything in a hurry, least of all to give it up to an Englishman. The Armstrongs, almost without exception, were noted thieves. They seem to have possessed a rare genius for reiving. Their plans were generally so well formed, and carried out with such a fine combination of daring and cunning, that the "enemy" almost invariably came off "second best." One of the last, and most noted of this reiving clan, was _William Armstrong_, a lineal descendant of the famous Johnie of Gilnockie, who was known on the Borders by the name of _Christie's Will_, to distinguish him from the other members of his family and clan. He flourished during the reign of Charles I., a circumstance which shows that moss-trooping did not altogether cease at the union of the Crowns. It is related that, on one occasion, Christie's Will had got into trouble, and was imprisoned in the Tolbooth of Jedburgh. The Lord High Treasurer, the Earl of Traquair, who was visiting in the district, was led to enquire as to the cause of his confinement. The prisoner told him, with a pitiful expression of countenance, that he had got into grief for stealing two _tethers_ (halters). The eminent statesman was astonished to hear that such a trivial offence had been so severely punished, and pressed him to say if this was the only crime he had committed. He ultimately reluctantly acknowledged that there were two _delicate colts_ at the end of them! This bit of pleasantry pleased his lordship, and through his intercession the culprit was released from his imprisonment. It was a fortunate thing for Lord Traquair that he acted as he did. A short time afterwards he was glad to avail himself of the services of the man whom he had thus been the means of setting at liberty. The story is one of the most romantic on record, and amply justifies the adage that "truth is stranger than fiction." A case, in which the Earl was deeply interested, was pending in the Court of Session. It was believed that the judgment would turn on the decision of the presiding judge, who has a casting vote in the case of an equal division among his brethren. It was known that the opinion of the president was unfavourable to Traquair; and the point was, therefore, to keep him out of the way when the question should be tried. In this dilemma the Earl had recourse to Christie's Will, who at once offered his services to _kidnap_ the president. He discovered that it was the judge's usual practice to take the air on horseback, on the sands of Leith, without an attendant. One day he accosted the president, and engaged him in conversation. His talk was so interesting and amusing that he succeeded in decoying him into an unfrequented and furzy common, called the Frigate Whins, where, riding suddenly up to him, he pulled him from his horse, muffled him in a large cloak which he had provided, and rode off with the luckless judge trussed up behind him. Hurrying across country as fast as his horse could carry him, by paths known only to persons of his description, he at last deposited his heavy and terrified burden in an old castle in Annandale, called the Tower of Graham. The judge's horse being found, it was concluded he had thrown his rider into the sea; his friends went into mourning, and a successor was appointed to his office. Meanwhile the disconsolate president had a sad time of it in the vault of the castle. His food was handed to him through an aperture in the wall, and never hearing the sound of human voice, save when a shepherd called his dog, by the name of _Batty_, and when a female domestic called upon _Maudge_, the cat. These, he concluded, were invocations of spirits, for he held himself to be in the dungeon of a sorcerer. The law suit having been decided in favour of Lord Traquair, Christie's Will was directed to set the president at liberty, three months having elapsed since he was so mysteriously spirited away from the sands at Leith. Without speaking a single word, Will entered the vault in the dead of night, again muffled up in the president's cloak, set him on a horse, and rode off with him to the place where he had found him. The joy of his friends, and the less agreeable surprise of his successor, may be more easily imagined than described, when the judge appeared in court to reclaim his office and honours. All embraced his own persuasion that he had been spirited away by witchcraft; nor could he himself be convinced to the contrary, until, many years afterwards, happening to travel in Annandale, his ears were saluted once more with the sounds of _Maudge_ and _Batty_--the only notes which had reached him during his long confinement. This led to the discovery of the whole story, but in those disorderly times it was only laughed at as a fair _ruse de guerre_.[105] The victim of this extraordinary stratagem was Sir Alexander Gibson, better known as Lord Durie. He became a Lord of Session in 1621, and died in 1646, so that the incident here related must have taken place betwixt these periods. The version of this incident, given in the well, known ballad "Christie's Will," if not so romantic as the foregoing, is certainly more amusing. The balladist represents Lord Traquair as "sitting mournfullie," afraid lest the vote of the Court of Session would make him bare at once of land and living-- "But if auld Durie to heaven were flown, Or if auld Durie to hell were gane, Or ... if he could be but ten days stoun ... My bonnie braid lands would still be my ain. At this juncture Christie's Will offers his services-- "O, mony a time, my Lord," he said, "I've stown the horse frae the sleeping loun; But for you I'll steal a beast as braid, For I'll steal Lord Durie frae Edinburgh toun." "O, mony a time, my Lord," he said, "I've stown a kiss frae a sleeping wench; But for you I'll do as kittle a deed, For I'll steal an auld lurdane off the bench." He lighted at Lord Durie's door, And there he knocked maist manfullie; And up and spake Lord Durie sae stour, "What tidings, thou stalwart groom, to me?" "The fairest lady in Teviotdale, Has sent, maist reverent sir, for thee. She pleas at the Session for her land a' hail, And fain she would plead her cause to thee." "But how can I to that lady ride With saving of my dignitie?" "O a curch and mantle ye may wear, And in my cloak ye sall muffled be." Wi' curch on head, and cloak ower face, He mounted the judge on a palfrey fyne; He rode away, a right round pace, And Christie's Will held the bridle reyne. The Lothian Edge they were not o'er, When they heard bugles bauldly ring, And, hunting over Middleton Moor, They met, I ween, our noble king. When Willie looked upon our king, I wot a frightened man was he! But ever auld Durie was startled more, For tyning of his dignitie. The king he crossed himself, I wis, When as the pair came riding bye-- "An uglier croon, and a sturdier loon, I think, were never seen with eye." Willie has hied to the tower of Græme, He took auld Durie on his back, He shot him down to the dungeon deep, Which garr'd his auld banes gae mony a crack. * * * * * The king has caused a bill be wrote, And he has set it on the Tron-- "He that will bring Lord Durie back Shall have five hundred merks and one." Traquair has written a braid letter, And he has seal'd it wi' his seal, "Ye may let the auld Brock out o' the poke; The land's my ain, and a's gane weel." O Will has mounted his bony black, And to the tower of Græme did trudge, And once again, on his sturdy back, Has he hente up the weary judge. He brought him to the Council stairs, And there full loudly shouted he, "Gie me my guerdon, my sovereign liege, And take ye back your auld Durie!" Important as this service was, it was not the only one that Christie's Willie rendered to the Earl of Traquair. He was sent, on one occasion, with important papers to Charles I., and received an answer to deliver, which he was strictly charged to place in the hands of his patron. "But in the meantime," says Sir Walter Scott, "his embassy had taken air, and Cromwell had despatched orders to entrap him at Carlisle. Christie's Will, unconscious of his danger, halted in the town to refresh his horse, and then pursued his journey. But as soon as he began to pass the long, high, and narrow bridge that crosses the Eden at Carlisle, either end of the pass was occupied by parliamentary soldiers, who were lying in wait for him. The Borderer disdained to resign his enterprise, even in these desperate circumstances; and at once forming his resolution, spurred his horse over the parapet. The river was in high flood. Will sunk--the soldiers shouted--he emerged again, and, guiding his horse to a steep bank, called the Stanners, or Stanhouse, endeavoured to land, but ineffectually, owing to his heavy horseman's cloak, now drenched in water. Will cut the loop, and the horse, feeling himself disembarrassed, made a desperate exertion, and succeeded in gaining the bank. Our hero set off, at full speed, pursued by the troopers, who had for a time stood motionless in astonishment, at his temerity. Will, however, was well mounted; and, having got the start, he kept it, menacing with his pistols, any pursuer who seemed likely to gain on him--an artifice which succeeded, although the arms were wet and useless. He was chased to the river Esk, which he swam without hesitation, and, finding himself on Scottish ground, and in the neighbourhood of friends, he turned on the northern bank, and with the true spirit of the Borderer, invited his followers to come through and drink with him. After this taunt he proceeded on his journey, and faithfully accomplished his mission."[106] If Christie's Will may be regarded as the last Border freebooter of any note, it is evident that the peculiar genius of the family to which he belonged survived in full vigour to the end. But the last of the Armstrongs who paid the penalty of death for his misdeeds was _Willie of Westburnflat_. It is said that a gentleman of property, having lost twelve cows in one night, raised the country of Teviotdale, and traced the robbers into Liddesdale, as far as the house of Westburnflat. Fortunately, perhaps, for his pursuers, Willie was asleep when they came, and consequently without much difficulty they secured him, and nine of his friends. They were tried in Selkirk, and though the jury did not discover any direct evidence against them to convict them of the special fact, they did not hesitate to bring in a verdict of guilty, on the ground of their general character as "notour thieves and limmers." When sentence was pronounced, Willie sprang to his feet, and laying hold of the oaken chair on which he had been sitting, broke it in pieces, and called on his companions who were involved in the same doom, to stand behind him and he would fight his way out of Selkirk with these weapons. But, strange to relate, they held his hands, and besought him to let them _die like Christians_. They were accordingly executed in due form of law. This incident is said to have happened at the last circuit court held in Selkirk.[107] Willie Armstrong, as he stood under the gallows-tree, might appropriately have sung the lines composed by _Ringan's Sandi_, a relative of his own, who was executed for the murder of Sir John Carmichael, the warden of the Middle Marches-- This night is my departing night, For here nae langer must I stay; There's neither friend nor foe o' mine, But wishes me away. What I have done through lack of wit, I never, never can recall; I hope ye're a' my friends as yet; Good night, and joy be with you all! XIV. UNDER THE BAN. The Cardinal rose with a dignified look, He called for his candle, his bell, and his book! In holy anger, and pious grief, He solemnly cursed that rascally thief! He cursed him at board, he cursed him in bed; From the sole of his foot to the crown of his head; He cursed him in sleeping, that every night He should dream of the devil, and wake in a fright; He cursed him in eating, he cursed him in drinking, He cursed him in coughing, in sneezing, in winking; He cursed him in sitting, in standing, in lying; He cursed him in walking, in riding, in flying; He cursed him in living, he cursed him in dying! Never was heard such a terrible curse! But what gave rise to no little surprise, Nobody seemed one penny the worse. THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS. As might be expected, the existence of such an extraordinary phenomenon as Border reiving did not escape the attention of the Church. Such a peculiar state of affairs could not be regarded with favour, or treated with indifference. It may be said, no doubt, that the continued existence of such an abnormally lawless and chaotic condition of society on the Borders indicated that the ecclesiastical authorities were either singularly inept, or reprehensibly careless. Why was some attempt not made long before to curb the lawless spirit of the Border reivers? With the exception of the "monition of cursing" by Gavin Dunbar, Archbishop of Glasgow, little or nothing seems to have been done by the Church to stem the tide of Border lawlessness. In dealing, however, with this phase of the question, there are several considerations which ought to be borne in mind. First of all, it ought to be remembered that while Border reiving was carried on with more or less persistence for some hundreds of years it did not attain really portentous dimensions till well on towards the close of the fifteenth century. Prior to the time of the Jameses, the two countries may be said to have been almost constantly at war. Invasion followed invasion, on the one side and on the other, with a kind of periodic regularity. From the time of James I., onwards to the union of the Crowns in 1603, such invasions, at least on the same large and destructive scale, became less frequent; though, in the intervals of peace, the Borderers kept themselves busy harassing and despoiling each other. This period of comparative calm, it may be remarked, is also synchronous with the decadence of Romanism. From the time of Queen Margaret, of pious memory, to the death of Robert III., the Romish Church enjoyed a period of signal prosperity. Abbeys and monasteries, many of them buildings of great architectural beauty, were erected in different parts of the country, and became important centres of moral and religious authority and influence. Whatever opinion may be entertained regarding Romanism, whether regarded from an ecclesiastical or theological standpoint, the majority of fairly unprejudiced students will be ready to admit that the system was, in many respects, admirably adapted to the circumstances of the country at that particular stage of its development. A strong hand was needed to curb and guide the lawless and turbulent factions of which the nation was composed. It is more than doubtful if, under any other ecclesiastical system--bad as things were--the same beneficent results would have been attained. But powerful as the Romish Church was in the country, in the heyday of its prosperity, it never attained the same undisputed sway in Scotland which marked its history in other countries, especially on the Continent. The reason of this is not difficult to discover, though it must be sought for far back in the religious history of the people. The Celtic Church, founded by St. Columba, was neither in doctrine nor polity exactly on Roman Catholic lines. It sought in the East rather than in the West, in Ephesus rather than Rome, its ideals of worship and doctrine. Romanism succeeded in establishing itself only after a long and arduous struggle. And when at last victory had been achieved, and the Church in Scotland had been Romanized, it was discovered that while the form had changed, the spirit of the older Church still survived, and when occasion arose, made itself felt in no uncertain manner. There can be no question that the influence of the Celtic Church continued long after the Church itself had passed away. It is a noteworthy fact that neither the rulers of the people, nor those over whom they exercised authority, were prepared to submit implicitly to the dictation of the Romish see. Their obedience to the great temporal head of the Catholic religion was never either servile or unlimited. They were prepared to take their own way in many things, treating often with much indifference the fulminations of their spiritual superiors. Many illustrations of this tendency may be found in the history of the country. On one occasion, for example, William the Lion appointed his chaplain to the Bishopric of St. Andrews. An English monk was chosen by the Chapter to the same office, and thus a complete deadlock was brought about. What was to be done? The ecclesiastical authorities appealed to the Pope, who was indignant when he learned that the authority of the Church was being thus rudely trampled upon. He conferred legatine powers on the Archbishop of York, and the Bishop of Durham, to "direct the thunder of excommunication" against the King in the event of contumacy. But notwithstanding the extreme gravity of the situation the King stubbornly refused to yield. He not only set the papal authority at defiance, but he banished from the country those who dared to yield to the papal favourite. This is not, by any means, an isolated instance of stubborn and successful resistance to the authority of the Church. The same thing, in other circumstances, occurred again and again, with the result that the terrors of excommunication ceased to be dreaded. This, of course, was especially the case during the decadent period of the Catholic _regime_. There are numerous indications in the literature of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries of this weakening of the ecclesiastical authority. The picture which Sir David Lindsay has drawn of the condition of the Church at this period is no mere spiteful exaggeration, but may be accepted as substantially accurate. Nothing could well more clearly indicate how thoroughly the Church had failed to keep in touch with the intellectual life of the nation, or guide and control its moral and spiritual activities. It was during this period of weakness, almost of total moral collapse, that the Archbishop of Glasgow took it upon him to excommunicate the Border thieves. Had the same vigorous measure been adopted at an earlier period, the result might have been more favourable. As it was, the launching of this ecclesiastical thunderbolt really created more amusement than consternation. It was regarded simply as the growl of a toothless lion. In no circumstances were the Border reivers easily intimidated. Their calling had made them more or less indifferent to the claims alike of Church and State. They had never had much affection for the king, and they had, perhaps, still less for the priest. Having shaken themselves free, to a large extent at least, from the control of the State, they were not prepared to put their neck under the yoke of an ecclesiastical authority which even the best men of the age had ceased to venerate. But the Archbishop felt that he had a duty to discharge, and he applied himself to the task with commendable vigour. It may be well to explain that there are two forms of excommunication--_excommunicatio major_ and _excommunicatio minor_. The former mode of excommunication is one of which we in these days happily know nothing, as it can only be effectively carried out with the approval and assistance of the State, which in modern times would never be granted. But the latter form is still common. It has been retained in the Church as a point of discipline, or, to use a well known and significant theological phrase, as a _poena medicinalis_. The major excommunication was a frightful weapon, and might well be dreaded. Those who suffered the greater excommunication were excluded from the Mass, from burial in consecrated ground, from ecclesiastical jurisdiction, and practically from all intercourse with their fellow Christians. They were, in short, handed over body and soul to the devil. The "Monition of Cursing," issued by the Archbishop of Glasgow against the Border thieves, was ordered to be read from every pulpit in the diocese, and circulated throughout the length and breadth of the Borders. It is a curious document, and will, doubtless, be read with interest, if not with profit. It was expressed in the following terms:-- "GUDE FOLKS, heir at my Lord Archibischop of Glasgwis letters under his round sele, direct to me or any uther chapellane, makand mensioun, with greit regrait, how hevy he beris the pietous, lamentabill, and dolorous complaint that pass our all realme and cummis to his eris, be oppin voce and fame, how our souverane lordis trew liegis, men, wiffis and barnys, bocht and redemit be the precious blude of our Salviour Jhesu Crist, and levand in his lawis, ar saikleslie[108] part murdrist, part slayne, brynt, heryit, spulzeit and reft, oppinly on day licht and under silens of the nicht, and thair takis[109] and landis laid waist, and thair self banyst therfra, als wele kirklandis as utheris, be commoun tratouris, revaris,[110] theiffis, duelland in the south part of this realme, sic as Tevidale, Esdale, Liddisdale, Ewisdale, Nedisdale, and Annanderdaill; quhilkis hes bene diverse ways persewit and punist be the temperale swerd and our Soverane Lordis auctorite, and dredis nocht the samyn. "And thairfoir my said Lord Archibischop of Glasgw hes thocht expedient to strike thame with the terribill swerd of halykirk, quhilk thai may nocht lang endur and resist; and hes chargeit me, or any uther chapellane, to denounce, declair and proclame thaim oppinly and generalie cursit, at this marketcroce, and all utheris public places. "Heirfor throw the auctorite of Almichty God, the Fader of hevin, his Son, our Salviour, Jhesu Crist, and of the Halygaist; throw the auctorite of the Blissit Virgin Sanct Mary, Sanct Michael, Sanct Gabriell, and all the angellis; Sanct John the Baptist, and all the haly patriarkis and prophets; Sanct Peter, Sanct Paull, Sanct Andro, and all haly appostillis; Sanct Stephin, Sanct Laurence, and all haly mertheris[111]; Sanct Gile, Sanct Martyn, and all haly confessouris; Sanct Anne, Sanct Katherin, and all haly virginis and matronis; and of all the sanctis and haly cumpany of hevin; be the auctorite of our Haly Fader the Paip and his cardinalis, and of my said Lord Archibischop of Glasgw, be the avise and assistance of my lordis, archibischop, bischopis, abbotis, priouris, and utheris prelatis and ministeris of halykirk, I DENOUNCE, PROCLAMIS, and DECLARIS all and sindry the committaris of the said saikles murthris, slauchteris, brinying, heirschippes, reiffis, thiftis, and spulezeis, oppinly apon day licht and under silence of nicht, alswele within temporale landis as kirklandis; togither with thair part takaris, assistaris, supplearis, wittandlie resettaris of thair personis, the gudes reft and stollen be thaim, art or part thereof, and their counsalouris and defendouris, of thair evil dedis generalie cursit, waryit,[112] aggregeite, and reaggregeite, with the greit cursing. "I CURSE thair heid and all the haris of thair heid; I CURSE thair face, thair ene, thair mouth, thair neise, thair toung, thair teith, thair crag, thair schulderis, thair breist, thair hert, thair stomok, thair bak, thair wame, thair armes, thair leggis, thair handis, thair feit, and everilk part of thair body, frae the top of thair heid to the soill of thair feit, befoir and behind, within and without. I CURSE thaim gangand, and I CURSE thaim rydand; I CURSE thaim standand, and I CURSE thaim sittand; I CURSE thaim etand, I CURSE thaim drinkand; I CURSE thaim walkand,[113] I CURSE thaim sleepand; I CURSE thaim rysand, I CURSE thaim lyand; I CURSE thaim at hame, I CURSE thaim fra hame; I CURSE thaim within the house, I CURSE thaim without the house; I CURSE thair wiffis, thair banris, and thair servandis participand with thaim in thair deides. I WARY[114] thair cornys, thair catales, thair woll, thair scheip, thair horse, thair swyne, thair geise, thair hennys, and all thair quyk gude.[115] I WARY thair hallis, thair chalmeris, thair kechingis, thair stabillis, thair barnys, thair biris, thair bernyardis, thair cailyardis, thair plewis, thair harrowis, and the gudis and housis that is necessair for thair sustentatioun and weilfair. All the malesouns and waresouns[116] that ever gat warldlie creatur sen the begynnyng of the warlde to this hour mot licht apon thaim. The maledictioun of God, that lichtit apon Lucifer and all his fallowis, that strak thaim frae the hie hevin to the deip hell, mot licht apon thaim. The fire and the swerd that stoppit Adam fra the yettis of Paradise, mot stop thaim frae the gloir of Hevin, quhill[117] thai forbere and mak amendis. The malesoun that lichtit on cursit Cayein, quhen he slew his bruther just Abell saiklessly, mot licht on thaim for the saikles slauchter that thai commit dailie. The maledictioun that lichtit apon all the warlde, man and beist, and all that ever tuk life, quhen all wes drownit be the flude of Noye, except Noye and his ark, mot licht apon thame and droune thame, man and beist, and mak this realm cummirles[118] of thame for thair wicket synnys. The thunnour and fireflauchtis[119] that [Greek: x]et doun as rane apon the cities of Zodoma and Gomora, with all the landis about, and brynt thame for thair vile synnys, mot rane apon thame, and birne thaim for oppin synnys. The malesoun and confusioun that lichtit on the Gigantis for thair oppressioun and pride, biggand the tour of Babiloun, mot confound thaim and all thair werkis, for thair oppin reiffs and oppressioun. All the plagis that fell apon Pharao and his pepill of Egipt, thair landis, corne and cataill, mot fall apon thaim, thair takkis, rowmys[120] and stedingis, cornys and beistis. The watter of Tweid and utheris watteris quhair thai ride mot droun thaim, as the Reid Sey drownit King Pharao and his pepil of Egipt, persewing Godis pepill of Israell. The erd mot oppin, riffe and cleiff,[121] and swelly thaim quyk[122] to hell, as it swellyit cursit Dathan and Abiron, that ganestude Moeses and the command of God. The wyld fyre that byrnt Thore and his fallowis to the nowmer of twa hundreth and fyty, and utheris 14,000 and 700 at anys, usurpand aganis Moyses and Araon, servandis of God, mot suddanely birne and consume thaim dailie ganestandand the commandis of God and halykirk. The maledictioun that lichtit suddanely upon fair Absolon, rydand contrair his fader, King David, servand of God, throw the wod, quhen the branchis of ane tre fred[123] him of his horse and hangit him be the hair, mot licht apon thaim, rydand agane trewe Scottis men, and hang thaim siclike that all the warld may se. The maledictioun that lichtit apon Olifernus, lieutenant to Nabogodonoser, makand weir and heirschippis apon trew cristin [_sic_] men; the maledictioun that lichtit apon Judas, Pylot, Herod, and the Jowis that crucifyit Our Lord, and all the plagis and trublis that lichtit on the citte of Jherusalem thairfor, and upon Symon Magus for his symony, bludy Nero, cursit Ditius Makcensius, Olibruis, Julianus, Apostita and the laiff of the cruell tirrannis that slew and murthirit Cristis haly servandis, mot licht apon thame for thair cruell tiranny and murthirdome of cristin pepill. And all the vengeance that ever wes takin sen the warlde began for oppin synnys, and all the plagis and pestilence that ever fell on man or beist, mot fall on thaim for thair oppin reiff, saiklesse slauchter and schedding of innocent blude. I DISSEVER and PAIRTIS thaim fra the kirk of God, and deliveris thaim quyk to the devill of hell, as the Apostill Sanct Paull deliverit Corinthion. I INTERDITE the places thay cum in fra divine service, ministracioun of the sacramentis of halykirk, except the sacrament of baptissing allanerllie;[124] and forbiddis all kirkmen to schriffe or absolve thaim of thaire synnys, quhill[125] they be first absolyeit of this cursing. I FORBID all cristin man or woman till have ony cumpany with thaime, etand, drynkand, spekand, prayand, lyand, gangand, standand, or in any uther deid doand, under the paine of deidly syn. I DISCHARGE all bandis, actis, contractis, athis, and obligatiounis made to thaim be ony persounis, outher of lawte,[126] kyndenes or manrent, salang as thai susteine this cursing; sua that na man be bundin to thaim, and that thai be bundin till all men. I TAK fra thame and cryis doune all the gude dedis that ever thai did or sall do, quhill thai ryse frae this cursing. I DECLARE thaim partles[127] of all matynys, messis, evinsangis, dirigeis or utheris prayeris, on buke or beid; of all pilgrimagis and almouse dedis done or to be done in halykirk or be cristin pepill, enduring this cursing. "And, finally, I CONDEMN thaim perpetualie to the deip pit of hell, to remain with Lucifeir and all his fallowis, and thair bodeis to the gallowis of the Burrow Mure, first to be hangit, syne revin and ruggit with doggis, swyne and utheris wyld beists, abhominable to all the warld. And thir candillis gangis frae your sicht, as mot[128] thair saulis gang fra the visage of God, and thair gude fame fra the warld, quhill thai forbeir thair oppin synnys foirsaidis and ryse frae this terribill cursing, and mak satisfaction and pennance."[129] XV. THE TRIUMPH OF LAW. 'Tis clear a freebooter doth live in hazard's train, A freebooter's a cavalier that ventures life for gain, But since King James the Sixth to England went, There's been no cause of grief or discontent, And he that hath transgressed the law since then, Is no freebooter but a thief from men. SATCHELL. When we turn our attention to the study of the causes which ultimately resulted in the abolition of Border reiving, we find that this desirable end was brought about, to a considerable extent at least, by a change of environment. Conditions were gradually created which made the old system not only undesirable, but unnecessary, both from a political and economic point of view. An important step was taken when Buccleuch, at the instigation of "the powers that be," drafted off large numbers of the "broken men" to the Belgic wars. In the campaigns which were then being conducted in the Low Countries, these hardy, valiant Borderers no doubt gave a good account of themselves; but, so far as can be ascertained, few of them ever returned to "tell the tale." Still more drastic measures were adopted in order to get rid of the Græmes, who inhabited the Debateable land, and whose depredations had provoked a bitter feeling of resentment on both sides of the Border. It seemed hopeless to expect any improvement in their habits so long as they were allowed to remain where they were, and so they were banished from the country, shipped across the channel to the Emerald Isle, where it is to be hoped they found a congenial sphere, and sufficient scope for their abilities. Perhaps in course of time they settled down to a more orderly, if less exciting, mode of life than that to which they had hitherto been accustomed. But, notwithstanding the removal of these lawless men from the Borders, it was found that those who had been left at home were either unwilling or unable to abandon their reiving habits. The disease had long been chronic, and those responsible for the government of the country began to realise that the cure was not to be effected in any instantaneous fashion. Time and patience were alike necessary in order to the successful accomplishment of the end desiderated. The task of restoring order, more especially in the Liddesdale district, was committed to the able hands of the "Bold Buccleuch." When he returned from abroad he was invested with the most arbitrary powers to execute justice on the malefactors, and he went about his work in the most resolute and business-like manner. Well known thieves were apprehended and immediately put to death. There were no prisons to lodge them in, and as it would have been, in most cases, a sheer waste of time to subject them to any form of trial--most of them being well known depredators who gloried in their crimes--they were executed without ceremony. In this way large numbers of the worst characters were disposed of, and a wholesome fear created in the minds of those who were fortunate enough to escape the gallows. If Buccleuch, in his rash and impetuous youth, was responsible for much of the mischief done on the Borders, he amply atoned for his indiscretions by the splendid services he now rendered to the State in suppressing lawlessness, and inaugurating, in this distracted region, the reign of law and order. His name will remain indissolubly associated with one of the most eventful and stirring periods in Border history, and we feel certain that the fame of his prowess will not suffer from a more minute acquaintance with the varied incidents of his remarkable career. But the main factors in the social and moral regeneration of the Borders were-- (1) The Union of the Crowns. (2) The Planting of Schools. (3) The Restoration of the Church. This order may not represent, and we do not think it does represent, the relative value of the influences which produced the radical and significant change which now took place in the habits and life of the people on both sides of the Border. But it will best suit our purpose to consider these agencies in the order stated. For a period of wellnigh four hundred years it had been the ambition of successive English monarchs to reduce Scotland to a state of vassalage. From the time of Edward this object was never altogether lost sight of. Again and again the project seemed on the eve of accomplishment, but some untoward event always occurred to render the scheme abortive. Doubtless, had the union of the Crowns taken place at an earlier period, both countries would have escaped some unpleasant and regrettable experiences. There can be no doubt that the hostility which marked the relationships of the two nations, had--at least from an economic point of view--an injurious effect on the people of Scotland. Industry in all its branches was crippled by the constant turmoil which prevailed. The Scottish kings, moreover, were "cribb'd, cabin'd, confin'd" by the ambitions and jealousies of a turbulent and factious nobility, who, in their relations to the State, were too frequently dominated by unpatriotic and selfish motives. Had it been possible for the sovereign to lay a strong hand on his nobles, and compel them to pay more regard to imperial interests than to their own private ends and petty jealousies, all might have been well. But such a course was often practically impossible. The barons were all powerful within their own domain, and when it served their purposes they seldom hesitated even to usurp the authority of the king. This abnormal condition of affairs made the government of the country a matter of extreme difficulty, and gave rise to endless trouble and vexation. No doubt it may legitimately be argued that, painful as this state of matters undoubtedly was, it was after all better that the Scottish nation should have retained its independence, with all the drawbacks attaching thereto, than that it should have conceded the demand of England for annexation. The difficulties of the situation were the making of the people. This may be frankly admitted. But, at the same time, it was a good thing for the country when at last the Scottish king ascended the English throne, and became the ruler of both nations. A new era was thus inaugurated, an era of progressive wellbeing in nearly every department of national life. It is worthy of note that, for a few years before James succeeded to the throne of England, his feeling towards the Scottish Borderers had become considerably modified. Whether this was due to the influence of the reproachful letters on the state of the Borders addressed to him by Elizabeth, or to the additional subsidy of £2000 per annum, now guaranteed to him out of the English exchequer, is a question about which there may, legitimately, be difference of opinion. In any case he now saw that it would be advantageous, from a personal as well as from a national point of view, to curb as far as he possibly could the lawless propensities of the reiving fraternity. In so doing he was wisely anticipating the time when he would be responsible for good rule on both sides of the Border. It may thus be said that even the prospect of the union of the Crowns under James had a beneficial effect. Coming events cast their shadows before. It led to the adoption of a wiser policy in regard to this particular part of the realm, with the result that for some years prior to 1603, a noticeable improvement had taken place in Border affairs. The wardens had become more anxious than before to discharge the duties of their high office with impartiality, and to use their utmost endeavour to restrain the more lawless spirits among the clansmen over whom they exercised authority. Crime was at once more expeditiously and severely punished. A firm hand was laid on the ringleaders in Border strife; and though these men were not easily daunted, and chafed bitterly under the restraints laid upon them by those in authority, yet they were soon made to realise that a new spirit was being infused into the administration, and that in consequence reiving was becoming an increasingly difficult and perilous business. But great social revolutions are not brought about in a day; and, as we shall see, it was long ere the Borders settled down into their present normal condition. When James ascended the throne of England, the change which had been silently taking place in the management of Border affairs became at once more marked and widespread. The effect of this event was unmistakable in every department of the national life. It created, no doubt, considerable bitterness and jealousy in certain sections of society in England, as it was believed that the King was unduly partial to his own countrymen in the bestowment of his favours. This was certainly not the case, as James was far more anxious to conciliate his English subjects than to favour his native land. It would have been well for him, and his successors in office, had he discharged his duty to Scotland with less regard to English prejudices. He was determined, however, at all hazards to suppress Border reiving. Ten days after his arrival in London he issued a proclamation requiring all those guilty of _the foul and insolent outrages_ lately committed on the Borders, to submit themselves to his mercy before the twentieth of June, under penalty of being excluded from it for ever. Two days after this proclamation had been made he emitted another, declaring his fixed resolution to accomplish the union of the two realms; in consequence of which, the bounds possessed by the rebellious Borderers should no more be the _extremities_ but the _middle_, and the inhabitants thereof reduced to a perfect obedience. He said that he had found in the hearts of his best disposed subjects of both realms, a most earnest desire for this union; and he undertook, with the advice and consent of the Estates of both Parliaments, to bring it about. In the meantime he declared that he considered the two kingdoms _as presently united_; and required his subjects to view them in the same light, and in consequence thereof, to abstain from mutual outrages and injuries of whatever kind, under the penalty of his highest displeasure and of suffering the strictest rigour of justice.[130] In pursuance of this policy, and in order to extinguish all past hostilities between his kingdoms, the King prohibited the name of _Borders_ any longer to be used, substituting in its place the name _Middleshires_. He also ordered all the places of strength, with the exception of the habitations of noblemen and barons, to be demolished; their iron gates to be converted into ploughshares; and the inhabitants were enjoined to betake themselves to agriculture and other works of peace. But these severe measures, accompanied as they were by the summary execution of large numbers of the worst characters on the Borders, who, as we have seen, were sent to the gallows without ceremony, would not have been sufficient of themselves to eradicate the evil. More potent influences, however, were brought into operation. The law was now administered, not spasmodically as before, but with a continuity and impartiality hitherto unknown and unattainable. It was the interest of the King and of the Government to repress disorder, to punish the lawless and disobedient, and to establish order and good rule throughout both kingdoms; and the consequence was that, in course of time, the Border reivers were made to realise that they must, perforce, abandon their old habits and betake themselves to a new mode of life. This desirable end was not attained without difficulty. Border reiving did not altogether cease for nearly a hundred years after the union of the Crowns; but the beginning of the seventeenth century inaugurated the period of its decline. "The succession of James to the Crown of England," Ridpath remarks, "and both kingdoms thus devolving on one sovereign, was an event fruitful of blessing to each nation. The Borders, which for many ages had been almost a constant scene of rapine and devastation, enjoyed, from this happy era, a quiet and order which they had never before experienced; and the island of Britain derived from the union of the two Crowns, a tranquility and serenity hitherto unknown, and was enabled to exert its whole native force. National prejudices, and a mutual resentment, owing to a series of wars betwixt the kingdoms, carried on for centuries, still however subsisted, and disappointed James' favourite scheme of an entire and indissoluble union. From the same source also arose frequent disputes and feuds upon the Marches, which by the attention of the sovereign were soon and easily composed; and are not of moment enough to merit a particular relation. But it required almost a hundred years, though England and Scotland were governed all the time by a succession of the same princes, to wear off the jealousies and prepossessions of the formerly hostile nations, and to work such a change in their tempers and views, as to admit of an incorporating and an effectual union."[131] But another and most important agent in the pacification and social regeneration of the Borders was the development, under the fostering care of the Church, of what is known as the Parochial system of education. The Roman Catholic Church in earlier times was not, as has sometimes been erroneously supposed, inimical to the intellectual culture of the nation. In its palmy days it undertook the work of educating the people with an enthusiasm which commands the respect of most unbiased students of our national history. In this respect the monasteries, especially, rendered important services to the community. Long before the Reformation there were at least three classes of schools in Scotland--the "Sang Schools," connected with the Cathedrals or more important Churches--the "Grammar Schools," which were founded in the principal burghs in the country--and the "Monastic Schools," which were, as the name implies, connected with the monasteries. "The interest in education," says Prof. Story, "which had distinguished the Columban Church, was not seriously impaired by its amalgamation with the Church of Rome. It survived in active force, and before the foundation of any of the existing public schools of England (the oldest of which is Winchester, founded in 1387), we find the charge of the schools of Roxburghshire intrusted in 1241 to the monks of Kelso, over whom was an official called 'The Rector of the Schools.'"[132] But for a considerable period prior to the Reformation, the interest of the Roman Catholic Church in education, as well as in regard to the moral and spiritual well-being of the people, had become enfeebled. The monasteries had ceased to be, what they were in earlier times, centres of gracious intellectual and spiritual influence. And nowhere was this more conspicuously the case than on the Borders. The lawlessness of the clans reacted on the life of the Church, and instead of the Church overcoming the malign and disintegrating influences by which it was assailed, it was unhappily overcome by them. Education in all its branches was shamefully neglected. The most eminent barons in the land were often unable even to write their own names. When they were under the necessity of adhibiting their signatures to deed or charter, the pen had to be guided by the hand of the notary. In these circumstances it is not difficult to imagine how densely ignorant the great body of the people must have been. Whatever may be said for or against the Reformation, there will be a general consensus of opinion, among educationists especially, that the scheme propounded by John Knox for the education of the people is in many respects an ideal one. It is thus outlined in the Book of Discipline:--"Of necessitie therefore we judge it, that every several kirk have one schoolmaister appointed, such a one at least as is able to teach grammar and the Latin tongue, if the town be of any reputation. If it be upland where the people convene to the doctrine but once in the week, then must either the reader or the minister there appointed take care of the children and youth of the parish, to instruct them in the first rudiments, especially in the Catechism [Calvin's Catechism] as we have it now translated in the Book of Common Order, called the Order of Geneva. And furder, we think it expedient, that in every notable town, and specially in the town of the superintendent, there be erected a Colledge, in which the arts, at least logick and rhetorick, together with the tongues, be read by sufficient masters, for whom honest stipends must be appointed. As also that provision be made for those that be poore, and not able by themselves nor by their friends to be sustained at letters, and in special these that come from landward."[133] Unfortunately, owing to the rapacity of the nobles, this splendid scheme of national education was not carried out in its entirety. But though the enlightened views which the Reformers thus endeavoured to impress both upon the Parliament and the country were not so heartily and widely adopted as they should have been, a beginning was made in the establishment of parochial schools, and by this means the benefits of education were brought within the reach of the great body of the people. It has been justly remarked that if the counsel of the Reformers had been followed, no country in the world would have been so well supplied as Scotland with the means of extending the benefits of a liberal education to every man capable of intellectual improvement. The state of the Borders, however, for at least fifty years after the Reformation, was such as to make it difficult in some places, and all but impossible in others, to establish and maintain parochial schools. But in course of time, as things began to improve, owing to the more systematic and impartial administration of the law, the work of training the youth of the district was entered upon with energy and enthusiasm. The beneficial results of the new regime in matters educational soon became apparent. Crime steadily decreased. The old reiving habits were gradually, if with difficulty, abandoned, and increased attention was given to the peaceful pursuits of agriculture and other industries; and out of the social chaos which had so long been a notorious feature of Border life, a healthy, vigorous, law-abiding community was evolved. But the most potent factor in the pacification and moral regeneration of the Borders was the influence and teaching of the Church. The religious condition of the people in this part of the country, both before and after the Reformation, can only be described as utterly deplorable. The fierce fighting Border clans had practically broken with institutional religion in all its forms. It is frequently said of them, and not without good reason, that they feared neither God nor man. They delighted in robbing and burning churches, and held both priest and presbyter in high disdain. Johnie Armstrong of Gilnockie is credited with having destroyed, during the course of his career, no fewer than fifty-two parish churches. The picture of the religious condition of the Borders, as reflected in the State Papers, is well fitted to awaken painful reflections. Eure, for example, in a letter addressed to Queen Elizabeth, in the year 1596, says:--"Another most grievous decay is the 'want of knowledge of God,' whereby the better sort forget oath and duty, let malefactors go without evidence, and favour a partie belonging to them or their friends. The churches mostly ruined to the ground, ministers and preachers 'comfortless to come and remain where such heathenish people are,' so there are neither teachers nor taught."[134] In a still more doleful strain the Bishop of Durham describes the irreligious condition of the Borders. "Diverse persons," he says, "under pretext of danger to their persons, and some through a careless regard of their conscience toward their flocks, besides also other out of a continual corruption of their patrons, turn residence into absence, whereby the people are almost totally negligent and ignorant of the truth professed by us, and so the more subject to every subtile seducer."[135] So completely, indeed, had religious teaching fallen into abeyance that one writer even goes the length of affirming that "many die, and cannot say the Lord's Prayer."[136] The Commission appointed to inquire into the state of affairs on the Borders, after the breaking of Carlisle castle by Buccleuch, and to discover, if possible, some remedy for the clamant evils which prevailed, suggested in the first paragraph of their report "that ministers be planted at every Border Church to inform the lawless people of their duty, and watch over their manners--the principals of each parish giving their prime surety for due reverence to the pastor in his office; the said churches to be timely repaired."[137] The propriety and wisdom of this deliverance will not be seriously questioned by those who have some knowledge of the motives and principles by which human life is moulded and governed. Religion is the bulwark of society and the State--the necessary condition alike of their existence and wellbeing. It was therefore clearly perceived by those responsible for the social and moral wellbeing of this much distracted region that some effective measures must be adopted to revive the religious life of the people. The task was none of the easiest. Ruined churches had to be restored; ministers had to be found, and "honest stipends" provided; and the community from an ecclesiastical point of view reorganized. And, as might be expected, the changes contemplated were not easily or quickly effected. Old habits are not readily abandoned, and consequently it took many years to raise the general religious life of the Borders to the level of that of other districts of the country where the conditions, to begin with, were more favourable. Even in the beginning of the eighteenth century, when that renowned minister, the Rev. Thomas Boston, began his pastorate in Ettrick, the state of matters from a religious point of view was such as might well have appalled the stoutest heart. His parishioners were rude and lawless to a degree. We are told that on Sundays some of them went, not to church, but to the churchyard, and tried to drown the voice of the preacher by producing all sorts of discordant sounds; and even those who ventured within the walls ostensibly to worship, would rise up during the service with "rude noise and seeming impatience," and leave the building. The condition of this parish--and others in the district were probably not much better--has been not inaptly described as "an unploughed field covered with tangled weeds and thorns, and sheltering many foul creatures." But the morals of the people, under the influence of the faithful ministrations of Boston, were gradually reformed, and the desert was made to bud and blossom like the rose. And what was effected in this particular district may be taken as a fair sample of the good work accomplished by the Church throughout the whole length of the Borders. Its influence was potent and far-reaching, and mighty to the pulling down of the strongholds of evil. "How did it happen," says a modern writer, "that the raiding and reiving race which inhabited the Borders became so peaceful and law-abiding? That were a long tale to tell, but the credit of it belongs to those preachers Sir Walter was too superfine and cavalier to understand. In this work his own great-grandfather, for nineteen years the faithful and diligent minister of Yarrow, bore his own part, and, though the great-grandson owed his genius to his mother, the minister's grand-daughter, he failed to appreciate the most characteristic treasure of his inheritance. He remembered that Richard Cameron--founder of the Cameronians, sternest of Presbyterian sects--was once chaplain to the Harden Scotts, but he could see no heroism in the uncompromising preacher, who had dared to rebuke Harden's too compliant faith and indulgent temper. Yet over Annandale, throughout Moffatdale, thence flowing over into the Forest, the name of Cameron was one of power. The heroic strain in him suited the mood of the ancient reivers, who loved strength and iron in the blood. But the Scotts had ridden and lorded it over the Marches too long to love iron in any blood save their own. Their feud with the preachers began early, for John Welsh, Knox's son-in-law, was persecuted out of Selkirk, whither he had gone to convert the souters and reform the freebooters of the Forest, by a Scott of Headshaw. But the man who ought here to be placed foremost is a man who became minister of Ettrick three years before John Rutherford, Scott's ancestor, died--Thomas Boston. Cotter Morrison quoted some of his fierce sayings with the horror of a son of light suddenly confronting an altogether incredible darkness. But no man ignorant of the deeds of Boston can judge his speech. In some of his words there is a wonderful tenderness, in his acts a marvellous integrity, and in his thought a rare power to move the hearts, stir the consciences, and awaken the intellects of his people. It was a brave thing to make the stern Presbyterian discipline a reality among these men of the Forest, in whom the old reiving instinct was still strong, at once kept alive and glorified by the ballads which were known in every cottage, and recited at every hearth. But the man was patient and strong enough to do it; nothing was too minute to escape his eye; nothing was too inveterate to silence or too ancient to overcome his religion."[138] It is undoubtedly to the influence of such preachers, men of faith and character, scholarship and genius, that Borderers owe many of the best qualities, both of intellect and heart, for which, in later times, they have become distinguished. XVI. THE HARVEST OF PEACE. When this loose behaviour I throw off, And pay the debt I never promised, By how much better than my word I am, By so much shall I falsify men's hope; And, like bright metal on a sullen ground, My reformation, glittering o'er my fault, Shall show more goodly, and attract more eyes, Than that which hath no foil to set it off. SHAKESPEARE. To those familiar with the history of Border reiving it may appear, on the first glance, somewhat inexplicable that in those districts where the system was most deeply rooted there should now be found one of the most orderly and law-abiding communities in the country. The old leaven, it would seem, has worked itself out, and that, too, with a rapidity and thoroughness which some may find difficult to reconcile with the modern doctrine of heredity. The laws of evolution, whether in the physical or social sphere, may operate with the precision and certainty of destiny, but the changes effected are brought about slowly, and with well-graded regularity. No doubt fifty or a hundred years is a considerable period measured by the standard of the individual life, but it is a brief term in the history of a nation or people. While considerable changes may take place in the course of a century, yet these are often of a more or less superficial character, affecting only to a limited extent the thoughts, habits, and customs of a community. In the present instance, however, the changes which took place in the life of the Border clans seem to have been as thorough as they were rapid. In a comparatively short time the Borders, from being one of the most lawless and disorderly districts in the country, became an example to both kingdoms in honesty, sobriety, and true patriotism. Such epithets as "brutal Borderers" and "lewd Liddesdales," so freely banded about in earlier times, especially by the English wardens, speedily lost their significance. Those lawless reivers, whom neither warden nor king could effectively control, were not difficult to induce, when the proper time came, to turn their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning hooks, and to settle down to a well-ordered, industrious, and peaceful mode of life. This phenomenon may doubtless be accounted for on purely natural principles. The explanation, indeed, is not difficult to discover. As we have already seen, the worst characters, the "broken men"--those who had no chiefs who could be made responsible for their good behaviour--were expatriated--sent to Holland and elsewhere--and consequently ceased to give further trouble. And it may be said in regard to those who remained that while they had spent the best part of their lives in appropriating the goods and chattels of their English neighbours, they were not by any means the depraved and degraded wretches they have so often been described. Far from it. These men for the most part believed, rightly or wrongly, that in despoiling and harassing their English neighbours they were rendering an important service to their country. They looked upon their reiving as being of the nature of reprisal. Time and again they had been hunted and harried by their "auld enemies," and they thought it no sin, whenever they found an opportunity, to carry the war into the enemies' camp. Moreover, it seems to have been an article of their creed--one of the "fundamentals"--that all property was common by the laws of nature, a doctrine which, even at the present day, is sometimes propounded with considerable show of logic by budding Border politicians. Their ethical system was simplicity itself. Might was right. The spoil belonged by natural law to the man who could either take or keep it. Of course it may be said that such notions are opposed to the foundation principles of all social and moral life. This may be conceded. But the fact that the Border reivers looked at things from a different point of view--while it may not mitigate the offence abstractly considered--had an important bearing and influence on their own moral life and character. There can be no doubt that it saved them from utter demoralization. He that doubteth is damned. But the Borderers were fully convinced that their action in plundering and despoiling those who lived in the opposite Marches was commendable and right. Johnie Armstrong may be taken as a faithful exponent of Border ethics when he says:-- For I've loved naething in my life, I weel dare say it, but _honesty_. He leaves us in no doubt as to what he means by the assertion. He does not deny that he took everything he could lay his hands on from the unfortunate English. He glories in the fact. It never occurs to him that he ought to feel ashamed of his conduct. But he avers that though he had lived for a hundred years never a Scot's wife could have said that "ere he had skaithed her a puir flee." It was right to rob the English; it was disgraceful to turn your hand against anyone belonging to your own country. Here we have the ethical system of the Border reiver in a nutshell. But lawless as the Borders may have been in the olden time, they certainly do not at the present day bear many traces of their evil past. The Border counties, judging from the statistics of the Police and Sheriff Courts, have an excellent record, whether we consider the number or the nature of the cases dealt with. The following statistics speak for themselves:-- Average Number of Convictions County. Population. for the last five years. M. F. Total. Selkirk 10,101 315 37 352 Roxburgh 34,537 589 105 694 Berwick 32,406 287 56 343 Dumfries 61,274 539 74 613 Peebles 14,761 284 41 325 But these statistics would appear still more favourable were it not for the existence of what is known as the "Tweed Act," which is responsible for a considerable proportion of the crime charged against the Border counties. In the county of Peebles, for example, fully 17 per cent. of the convictions recorded are under this exceptional statute. It is a law which is often fiercely denounced both by poachers and politicians, and of which few others have much that is kindly to say, with the exception perhaps of the riparian proprietors; but no really serious attempt has as yet been made to have the Tweed and its tributaries brought under the general law of the land. But notwithstanding the existence of this fruitful source of crime, the Borders compare not unfavourably with other districts. The population of Caithness, for instance, is only a little over 4000 higher than that of Berwick, and we find that the average number of convictions in that county for the past five years is 419, a fact which shows that the inhabitants of the south are quite as well conducted as those in the far north. It is also worthy of note that the offences dealt with are for the most part of a petty nature. There are comparatively few cases of theft, or offences against the person. It may therefore be said that the Borders have emerged from the evil conditions of the past, bearing few traces, if any, of their former lawlessness. It was no doubt a hard school in which Borderers were trained, and, perhaps, as has been remarked, some of them are a trifle grim, and dour, and unsociable, deficient to some extent in the softer and kindlier virtues characteristic of the inhabitants of the western seaboard; but, considering the experiences through which they have passed, they have no reason to be ashamed of themselves. And if Borderers have deficiencies arising out of the adverse circumstances with which they had so long to contend, they have also outstanding excellencies which have brought them well to the front in the race of life. They are brave, outspoken, independent. They think and act with energy and decision. They believe in themselves, rely upon their own resources, and where the struggle is most severe they almost invariably give a good account of themselves. Their contributions in modern times to the social and intellectual life of the nation have been considerable, and of a high quality. In agriculture, in commerce, in statesmanship, in warfare, and in many other departments, they have rendered important services. The Scotts and Kers and Elliots--names intimately associated with Border reiving in all its phases--have long held a foremost place in the political and social life of the country. But the great feature of Border life in more modern times has been the almost marvellous efflorescence of the spirit of poesy, which has conferred on the district a unique distinction and an imperishable charm. It may seem strange that the home of the reiver should have become the birthplace of poetry and song; yet a moment's reflection will suffice to show that here are to be found all the conditions which make life a tragedy and beget the feeling for it. The rough adventurous life of the Border reiver, with its constant peril and hairbreadth escapes, formed, as it were, a fitting compost for the cultivation of the tragic muse. And what ballads have sprung from this soil watered by the very heart's blood of its people! "The Dowie Dens of Yarrow," "The Douglas Tragedy," "Johnie Armstrong," "Jamie Telfer of the Fair Dodhead," "The Border Widow's Lament," "The Flowers of the Forest"--not to mention many others of almost equal merit--have taken possession of the imaginative and emotional life of the nation, and become part and parcel of its very being. Indeed, the influence of this varied body of balladic lore on the thought and life and character of the Scottish people can hardly be over-estimated. Spenser, to whose sublime genius we are indebted for the "Faery Queen," is known to fame as "the poet's poet." It is a high distinction, and not unworthily bestowed. But in a still higher sense it may be said that the Border ballads have been a perennial fountain of poetic inspiration to all lovers of the Muse. Rough and rugged though many of them are, yet they are dowered with that potent spell which at once captivates the heart and awakens within it the deepest and tenderest emotions of which it is capable. Here, if anywhere, we find the Helicon of Scotland. We may regret, with R. L. Stevenson, that the names of the old balladists have disappeared from the roll of fame. It would have been interesting to know who the singers were; but we may be thankful that the songs they sung have come down to our later age. They are a priceless inheritance, a glorious legacy. In these ballads the rugged cactus of Border life has burst into the most gorgeous blossom. But this is not all. The ballad period, rich as it is in all the higher elements of dramatic and poetic suggestiveness, was but the beginning of an era of song, which has secured for the Borderland an unique distinction. In the beginning of the eighteenth century there was born in the manse of Ednam, in the neighbourhood of Kelso, one of the most renowned of Border poets, James Thomson, the author of "The Seasons," "The Castle of Indolence," "Rule Britannia," and other pieces. His early youth was spent in the parish of Southdean, and here among the green rolling hills, and by the quiet streams, he stored his mind and imagination with those images of natural beauty which in later times, in a far-off city, he embodied in immortal verse. His services to the poetic literature of his age and country have been tardily, and often very inadequately, appreciated. To him mainly belongs the credit of bringing the minds of men back to nature and reality as the only genuine sources of poetic inspiration. He was the forerunner of Cowper, and Burns, and Wordsworth--the pioneer in a new and profoundly significant movement. After a considerable interval, Scott, Hogg, and Leyden appear on the scene--names that will for ever remain enshrined in Border song and story. Scott was a Borderer of Borderers, a descendant of Auld Wat of Harden and Mary Scott, the Flower of Yarrow. His grandfather, on the maternal side, was Professor Rutherford, a famous man in his day, the scion of an old Border stock, renowned, like the Harden family, in the annals of reiving. Hogg and Leyden occupy a place of honourable distinction in the life and literature of the Borders. "Kilmeny" is a masterpiece of imaginative genius, and has won for its author a fame which the lapse of time will not seriously impair. John Leyden, more renowned as a scholar and antiquary than a poet, gave evidence of the possession of powers which, had he been spared, would have secured for him a foremost place among the most brilliant men of his age. These services which the Borders have thus rendered to the literature of the country have been valuable and important in a high degree. And--if we dare suggest it--it is not altogether improbable that even Burns himself was sprung of a Border stock. We find in the "Border Papers," from which much of our information regarding Border reiving has been drawn, that the name "Burness" frequently occurs. The family bearing this patronymic was well known in Liddesdale and the Debateable land, and the various branches of the family, like the Armstrongs and Elliots, were distinguished for their reiving propensities. The grandfather of the poet found a home in Argyleshire, and Burns' father, as is well known, hailed from Kincardineshire. The removal from the Borders of a representative of the family may be easily accounted for. Reference has already been made to a law which was passed by the Scottish Parliament enacting that the various families and clans on the Borders should find pledges for their good behaviour. These "pledges" were sent north of the Forth, and were strictly prohibited from returning to their former haunts. It is just possible that in this way an ancestor of Burns may have been called to leave the Border district in the interests of his family or clan. This much at least is certain, the name is one which was common on the Borders in those times of which we write. But whatever truth there may be in the suggestion we have made (it would be foolish to dogmatise in the absence of authentic information), Burns furnishes many points of resemblance to the distinctive traits of Border character in the olden time. His disregard of conventionality in all its forms, combined with his aggressive sense of independence, mark him out as of the true Border type. This district, once so famous as the favourite haunt of the reiver, may now be described as one of the most peaceful in the country. Every year it attracts an increasing number of tourists, who come from almost every part of the world to visit its numerous shrines. To the literary and professional classes it has become a kind of Mecca, to which they feel constrained to resort once and again for intellectual refreshment and inspiration. The glamour which Scott, Wordsworth, and Hogg--and many other tuneful poets--have thrown around its green hills and bosky glens has given it an air of enchantment to which the poetic temperament especially is keenly sensitive. The pity is that in modern times, owing to a variety of causes, the population in the rural districts has been steadily decreasing. The fine hardy, thrifty, yeomen race is disappearing. Small holdings have been consolidated, and the big farm--in too many cases--is held by a non-resident tenant, who interests himself little, or not at all, in the social and moral well-being of those whom he is under the necessity of employing. This evil is one of long standing. In the Statistical Account of Yarrow, published in 1833, Dr Russell remarks that--"out of forty-five farms in the parish, twenty are _led_ farms. On many of these were formerly large families, with servants and cottagers, and there are five such lying adjacent,--a state of things the more to be regretted, when its only advantage is a trifling addition of rent, and the saving of outlay on farm buildings." Well may it be said-- "Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay: Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade, A breath can make them, as a breath has made: But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroyed, can never be supplied." Footnotes: [1] Tytler's History, vol. I., page 43. [2] Tytler's History, vol. I., page 46. [3] Border Papers, vol. II., page 130. [4] Froissart, vol. II., p. 362. [5] Ib. [6] Godscroft, p. 98. [7] Hide. [8] Fend--Support. [9] Godscroft, pp. 99-100. [10] Froissart, Vol. II., p. 369. [11] Godscroft, p. 100. [12] Douglas was buried at Melrose beside his father. [13] Hailes' Annals, p. 111. [14] Maitland of Lethington, vol. I., pp. 69-71. [15] History of James VI. [16] Skene's Acts of Parliament. [17] Skene's Acts of Parliament. [18] Border Papers, vol. II., pp. 80-81. [19] Intro. Border Minstrelsy, pp. cxc.-cxci. [20] Armstrong's Liddisdale, p. 81. [21] Froissart, vol. I., p. 18. [22] Taylor's History, vol. I., p. 583. [23] Ridpath's Border History, p. 550. [24] Quoted by Sir Herbert Maxwell, Hist. Dumfries and Galloway, p. 958-9. [25] Quoted by Sir Herbert Maxwell, Hist. Dumfries and Galloway, p. 159-60. [26] Border Papers, vol. I., p. 131. [27] Border Papers, vol. II., pp. 147-8. [28] Border Papers, vol. II., p. 181. [29] Ib., vol. I., p. 143. [30] Ridpath's Border History, p. 651. [31] _Vide_ Border Antiquities, vol. II., App. p. xlvii. [32] Pitcairn's Crim. Tr., vol. I., p. 288. [33] Border Papers, vol. II., p. 299. [34] Scott's Border Antiquities, Intro. pp. xcii.-xciii. _Vide_ also Nicholson's Border Laws, where these particulars are given more in detail, pp. 127-129, also pp. 143-144. [35] Border Antiquities, p. 104. [36] Border Antiquities, Intro. p. xcvii. [37] Border Antiquities, Intro, pp. xcviii.-c. [38] Armstrong's Liddisdale, p. 18. [39] Leges Marchiarum, p. 88. [40] Ib., p. 122. [41] Leges Marchiarum, p. 88. [42] Leges Marchiarum, p. 94. [43] _Vide_ Introduction Border Antiquities, p. cviii. [44] Suffer for it. [45] Cary's Memoirs, p. 112. [46] Leges Marchiarum, p. 124. [47] Border Papers, vol. I., p. 188. [48] Border Papers, vol. I., p. 189. [49] Border Papers, vol. II., p. 163. [50] Border Antiquities, Intro. pp. xlvi.-xlviii. [51] Border Papers, vol. II., pp. 37-38. [52] Armstrong's Liddesdale, p. 70. [53] Pitscottie, p. 319. [54] Ib., p. 319. [55] Piscottie, p. 321. [56] Pitcairn's Criminal Trials, vol. iii., p. 31. [57] _Vide_ Pitcairn's Criminal Trials, vol. iii., p. 31. [58] Scott's Border Minstrelsy. [59] Border Papers, vol. i., p. 252. [60] Border Papers, vol. i., p. 284. [61] Border Papers, vol. i., p. 285. [62] Tytler, vol. ii., p. 275. [63] Leslie, p. 82. [64] Cary's Memoirs, pp. 72-74. [65] Horse newly taken from the grass. [66] Cary's Memoirs, pp. 45-51. [67] Carries. [68] Rafters. [69] Border Papers, vol. I., p. 348. [70] Pitcairn's Crim. Tr., vol. I., p. 37. [71] Celtic Scotland, vol. III. p. [72] _Vide_ Intro. Border Antiquities. [73] Border Papers, vol. I., p. 121. [74] Border Papers, vol. I., p. 121. [75] Cary's Memoirs, pp. 103-110. [76] Border Papers, vol. II., p. 763. [77] Pinkerton. [78] Pitcairn's Crim. Tr., vol. I., p. 154. [79] Pitcairn's Criminal Trials, vol. I., p. 145. [80] Leslie's History, p. 143. [81] Pinkerton's History, vol. II., p. 307. [82] Pitscottie, p. 342-3. [83] Carlenrig. [84] Anderson MS. Adv. Lib. f. 154. [85] Reg. Sec. Big., vol. 8f., 195. [86] Rabbits. [87] Are able to bear. [88] It is said that this and the three preceding stanzas were among those Sir Walter Scott most delighted to quote. [89] Pitcairn's Criminal Trials, vol. i., p. 171. [90] Cheese belly. [91] Pitcairn's Criminal Trials, vol. i., pp. 172-3. [92] Border Papers, vol. I., p. 97. [93] Border Papers, vol. I., p. 282. [94] Border Papers, vol. II., p. 115. [95] Tytler, vol. iv. p. 244. [96] Border Papers, vol. ii., p. 299. [97] Border Papers, vol. ii., p. 313. [98] Border Papers, vol. ii., p. 319. [99] Border Papers, vol. ii. 420. [100] Cary's Memoirs, pp. 82-3. [101] Border Papers, vol. ii., p. 631. [102] Pitcairn's Crim. Tr., vol. i., p. 276. [103] Border Papers, vol. II., p. 359. [104] Carriers. [105] Border Minstrelsy, vol. iv. pp. 91-94. [106] Border Minstrelsy, vol. iv. pp. 95-96. [107] Border Minstrelsy, vol. i. p. 402. [108] Innocently. [109] Farms. [110] Rievers, robbers. [111] Martyrs. [112] Execrated. [113] Waking. [114] Execrate. [115] Live stock. [116] Curses and execreations. [117] Uunti. [118] Disencumbered. [119] Lightning. [120] Places. [121] May the earth open, split and cleave. [122] Swallow them alive. [123] Freed. [124] Only. [125] Until. [126] Loyalty. [127] Without part in. [128] So may. [129] Mr Armstrong has printed the above in his 'History of Liddesdale, &c.,' from the 'State Papers of Henry VIII.,' vol. iv., note, pp. 417-419. [130] Ridpath's Border History, p. 704. [131] Ridpath's Border History, p. 706. [132] Apostolic Ministry of the Scottish Church, p. 211. [133] Book of Discipline, chap. vii. [134] Border Papers, vol. i. p. 125. [135] Border Papers, vol. ii. p. 323. [136] Border Papers, vol. i. p. 494. [137] Border Papers, vol. ii. p. 316. [138] Principal Fairbairn. Transcriber's Notes: Passages in italics are indicated by _underscore_. Superscripted letters are shown in {brackets}. Additional spacing after some of the quotes is intentional to indicate both the end of a quotation and the beginning of a new paragraph as presented in the original text. Footnote 71 does not contain a page number in the orignal. Footnote 117 reads "Uunti" in the text, although it most likely should be "Until." Some quotes are opened with marks but are not closed. Obvious errors have been silently closed, while those requiring interpretation have been left open. The following misprints have been corrected: "neigbourhood" corrected to "neighbourhood" (page 21) "my my" corrected to "my" (page 29) "neigbours corrected to "neighbours" (page 40) "lord s" corrected to "lord's" (page 45) "fourand" corrected to "four-and" (page 195) "the the" corrected to "the" (page 209) "philosopical" corrected to "philosophical" (page 243) "implicity" corrected to "implicitly" (page 270) "fiercly" corrected to "fiercely" (page 303) "deficiences" corrected to "deficiencies" (page 304) "Dnmfries" corrected to "Dumfries" (footnote 25) Other than the corrections listed above, printer's inconsistencies in spelling and hyphenation usage have been retained. 
32862	----	Wilson's Tales of the Borders AND OF SCOTLAND. HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE. WITH A GLOSSARY. REVISED BY ALEXANDER LEIGHTON, ONE OF THE ORIGINAL EDITORS AND CONTRIBUTORS LONDON: WALTER SCOTT, 24 WARWICK LANE, AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE. 1887. CONTENTS. PAGE THE VACANT CHAIR (_John Mackay Wilson_) 1 THE FAA'S REVENGE (_John Mackay Wilson_) 18 KATE KENNEDY (_Alexander Leighton_) 50 RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON (_Hugh Miller_) 83 THE DISASTERS OF JOHNNY ARMSTRONG (_Alexander Campbell_) 128 THE PROFESSOR'S TALES--(_Professor Thomas Gillespie_):-- THE MOUNTAIN STORM 160 THE FAIR MAID OF CELLARDYKES 172 PRESCRIPTION; OR, THE 29TH OF SEPTEMBER (_Alex. Leighton_) 193 THE COUNTESS OF WISTONBURY (_Alexander Campbell_) 225 MIDSIDE MAGGIE; OR, THE BANNOCK O' TOLLISHILL-- (_John Mackay Wilson_) 257 PREFACE. This series of Tales, now so well known in this country and also in America, was begun by JOHN MACKAY WILSON, originally a printer, and who subsequently betook himself to literature. In the beginning of the undertaking he was inspired by a success probably greater than he had ever anticipated, and a sudden and wide-spread reputation induced him to overtask his energies, in a manner inconsistent with the care due to a delicate constitution. After having carried on the work, almost single-handed, for a period of more than a year--furnishing a tale every week--he took ill, and died. Subsequently, the charge of conducting the work devolved upon the present Editor, who was fortunate enough to secure the assistance of certain writers well qualified to sustain the reputation which the first part of the series had acquired. Among these were the late Hugh Miller, the late Professor Thomas Gillespie of St. Andrew's, Alexander Campbell, Alexander and John Bethune, and John Howell, all of whom possessed those natural gifts, enabling them to succeed in a species of literature which, while in one sense it may be called the most easy, is, in another, perhaps among the most difficult of any. The only condition by which the natural promptings of their genius might have been restrained was, that the contributions should be genuine stories, not the ordinary mixture of narrative, didactic essay, and fanciful prolusion, but tales in the proper every-day sense, with such an objectiveness as would portray, graphically and naturally, the men and women of the times, acting on the stage where they were destined to perform their strange parts, and would exclude all false colourings of a sentimental fiction, belonging to mere subjective moods of the writer's fancy or feeling. The greatest care was also taken with the moral aspect of the Tales, with the view that parents and guardians might feel a confidence that, in committing them into the hands of their children and wards, they would be imparting the means of instruction, and at the same time securing a guarantee for the growth of moral convictions. By such means, the Tales were kept true to history, legend, morality, and man's nature, and, at the same time, made acceptable to the great class of readers who had declared their predilection in favour of the manner of the early examples. The Tales in this series have been carefully selected and revised; and the reader will be pleased to be informed that, in the course of the publication, there will, for the purpose of imparting to it a fresh interest, be inserted New Tales, written by authors deemed capable of attaining the mark of the Original Series. YORK LODGE, TRINITY, _March_, 1857. WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND. THE VACANT CHAIR.[1] [1] Our commencement with "The Vacant Chair"--the first written of the Tales of the Borders--is not inconsistent with our principle of selection in this edition, which is to distribute the contributions of the authors, so as to secure variety without any view to an early exhaustion of the best of the Tales.--_Ed._ You have all heard of the Cheviot mountains. They are a rough, rugged, majestic chain of hills, which a poet might term the Roman wall of nature; crowned with snow, belted with storms, surrounded by pastures and fruitful fields, and still dividing the northern portion of Great Britain from the southern. With their proud summits piercing the clouds, and their dark rocky declivities frowning upon the glens below, they appear symbolical of the wild and untamable spirits of the Borderers who once inhabited their sides. We say, you have all heard of the Cheviots, and know them to be very high hills, like a huge clasp riveting England and Scotland together; but we are not aware that you may have heard of Marchlaw, an old, gray-looking farm-house, substantial as a modern fortress, recently, and, for aught we know to the contrary, still inhabited by Peter Elliot, the proprietor of some five hundred surrounding acres. The boundaries of Peter's farm, indeed, were defined neither by fields, hedges, nor stone walls. A wooden stake here, and a stone there, at considerable distances from each other, were the general landmarks; but neither Peter nor his neighbours considered a few acres worth quarrelling about; and their sheep frequently visited each other's pastures in a friendly way, harmoniously sharing a family dinner, in the same spirit as their masters made themselves free at each other's tables. Peter was placed in very unpleasant circumstances, owing to the situation of Marchlaw House, which, unfortunately, was built immediately across the "ideal line," dividing the two kingdoms; and his misfortune was, that, being born within it, he knew not whether he was an Englishman or a Scotchman. He could trace his ancestral line no farther back than his great-grandfather, who, it appeared from the family Bible, had, together with his grandfather and father, claimed Marchlaw as their birth-place. They, however, were not involved in the same perplexities as their descendant. The parlour was distinctly acknowledged to be in Scotland, and two-thirds of the kitchen were as certainly allowed to be in England: his three ancestors were born in the room over the parlour, and, therefore, were Scotchmen beyond question; but Peter, unluckily, being brought into the world before the death of his grandfather, his parents occupied a room immediately over the debatable boundary line which crossed the kitchen. The room, though scarcely eight feet square, was evidently situated between the two countries; but, no one being able to ascertain what portion belonged to each, Peter, after many arguments and altercations upon the subject, was driven to the disagreeable alternative of confessing he knew not what countryman he was. What rendered the confession the more painful was, that it was Peter's highest ambition to be thought a Scotchman. All his arable land lay on the Scotch side; his mother was collaterally related to the Stuarts; and few families were more ancient or respectable than the Elliots. Peter's speech, indeed, betrayed him to be a walking partition between the two kingdoms, a living representation of the Union; for in one word he pronounced the letter _r_ with the broad, masculine sound of the North Briton, and in the next with the liquid _burr_ of the Northumbrians. Peter, or, if you prefer it, Peter Elliot, Esquire of Marchlaw, in the counties of Northumberland and Roxburgh, was, for many years, the best runner, leaper, and wrestler between Wooler and Jedburgh. Whirled from his hand, the ponderous bullet whizzed through the air like a pigeon on the wing; and the best putter on the Borders quailed from competition. As a feather in his grasp, he seized the unwieldy hammer, swept it round and round his head, accompanying with agile limb its evolutions, swiftly as swallows play around a circle, and hurled it from his hands like a shot from a rifle, till antagonists shrunk back, and the spectators burst into a shout. "Well done, Squire! the Squire for ever!" once exclaimed a servile observer of titles. "Squire! wha are ye squiring at?" returned Peter. "Confound ye! where was ye when I was christened Squire? My name's Peter Elliot--your man, or onybody's man, at whatever they like!" Peter's soul was free, bounding, and buoyant, as the wind that carolled in a zephyr, or shouted in a hurricane, upon his native hills; and his body was thirteen stone of healthy substantial flesh, steeped in the spirits of life. He had been long married, but marriage had wrought no change upon him. They who suppose that wedlock transforms the lark into an owl, offer an insult to the lovely beings who, brightening our darkest hours with the smiles of affection, teach us that that only is unbecoming in the husband which is disgraceful in the man. Nearly twenty years had passed over them; but Janet was still as kind, and, in his eyes, as beautiful as when, bestowing on him her hand, she blushed her vows at the altar; and he was still as happy, as generous, and as free. Nine fair children sat around their domestic hearth, and one, the youngling of the flock, smiled upon its mother's knee. Peter had never known sorrow; he was blest in his wife, in his children, in his flocks. He had become richer than his fathers. He was beloved by his neighbours, the tillers of his ground, and his herdsmen; yea, no man envied his prosperity. But a blight passed over the harvest of his joys, and gall was rained into the cup of his felicity. It was Christmas-day, and a more melancholy-looking sun never rose on the 25th of December. One vast, sable cloud, like a universal pall, overspread the heavens. For weeks, the ground had been covered with clear, dazzling snow; and as, throughout the day, the rain continued its unwearied and monotonous drizzle, the earth assumed a character and appearance melancholy and troubled as the heavens. Like a mastiff that has lost its owner, the wind howled dolefully down the glens, and was re-echoed from the caves of the mountains, as the lamentations of a legion of invisible spirits. The frowning, snow-clad precipices were instinct with motion, as avalanche upon avalanche, the larger burying the less, crowded downward in their tremendous journey to the plain. The simple mountain rills had assumed the majesty of rivers; the broader streams were swollen into the wild torrent, and, gushing forth as cataracts, in fury and in foam, enveloped the valleys in an angry flood. But, at Marchlaw, the fire blazed blithely; the kitchen groaned beneath the load of preparations for a joyful feast; and glad faces glided from room to room. Peter Elliot kept Christmas, not so much because it was Christmas, as in honour of its being the birthday of Thomas, his first-born, who, that day, entered his nineteenth year. With a father's love, his heart yearned for all his children; but Thomas was the pride of his eyes. Cards of apology had not then found their way among our Border hills; and as all knew that, although Peter admitted no spirits within his threshold, nor a drunkard at his table, he was, nevertheless, no niggard in his hospitality, his invitations were accepted without ceremony. The guests were assembled; and the kitchen being the only apartment in the building large enough to contain them, the cloth was spread upon a long, clear, oaken table, stretching from England into Scotland. On the English end of the board were placed a ponderous plum-pudding, studded with temptation, and a smoking sirloin; on Scotland, a savoury and well-seasoned haggis, with a sheep's-head and trotters; while the intermediate space was filled with the good things of this life, common to both kingdoms and to the season. The guests from the north and from the south were arranged promiscuously. Every seat was filled--save one. The chair by Peter's right hand remained unoccupied. He had raised his hands before his eyes, and besought a blessing on what was placed before them, and was preparing to carve for his visitors, when his eyes fell upon the vacant chair. The knife dropped upon the table. Anxiety flashed across his countenance, like an arrow from an unseen hand. "Janet, where is Thomas?" he inquired; "hae nane o' ye seen him?" and, without waiting an answer, he continued--"How is it possible he can be absent at a time like this? And on such a day, too? Excuse me a minute, friends, till I just step out and see if I can find him. Since ever I kept this day, as mony o' ye ken, he has always been at my right hand, in that very chair; and I canna think o' beginning our dinner while I see it empty." "If the filling of the chair be all," said a pert young sheep-farmer, named Johnson, "I will step into it till Master Thomas arrive." "Ye're not a faither, young man," said Peter, and walked out of the room. Minute succeeded minute, but Peter returned not. The guests became hungry, peevish, and gloomy, while an excellent dinner continued spoiling before them. Mrs. Elliot, whose good-nature was the most prominent feature in her character, strove, by every possible effort, to beguile the unpleasant impressions she perceived gathering upon their countenances. "Peter is just as bad as him," she remarked, "to hae gane to seek him when he kenned the dinner wouldna keep. And I'm sure Thomas kenned it would be ready at one o'clock to a minute. It's sae unthinking and unfriendly like to keep folk waiting." And, endeavouring to smile upon a beautiful black-haired girl of seventeen, who sat by her elbow, she continued in an anxious whisper--"Did ye see naething o' him, Elizabeth, hinny?" The maiden blushed deeply; the question evidently gave freedom to a tear, which had, for some time, been an unwilling prisoner in the brightest eyes in the room; and the monosyllable, "No," that trembled from her lips, was audible only to the ear of the inquirer. In vain Mrs. Elliot despatched one of her children after another, in quest of their father and brother; they came and went, but brought no tidings more cheering than the moaning of the hollow wind. Minutes rolled into hours, yet neither came. She perceived the prouder of her guests preparing to withdraw, and, observing that "Thomas's absence was so singular and unaccountable, and so unlike either him or his father, she didna ken what apology to make to her friends for such treatment; but it was needless waiting, and begged they would use no ceremony, but just begin." No second invitation was necessary. Good humour appeared to be restored, and sirloins, pies, pasties, and moor-fowl began to disappear like the lost son. For a moment, Mrs. Elliot apparently partook in the restoration of cheerfulness; but a low sigh at her elbow again drove the colour from her rosy cheeks. Her eye wandered to the farther end of the table, and rested on the unoccupied seat of her husband, and the vacant chair of her first-born. Her heart fell heavily within her; all the mother gushed into her bosom; and, rising from the table, "What in the world can be the meaning o' this?" said she, as she hurried, with a troubled countenance, towards the door. Her husband met her on the threshold. "Where hae ye been, Peter?" said she, eagerly; "hae ye seen naething o' him?" "Naething! naething!" replied he; "is he no cast up yet?" And, with a melancholy glance, his eyes sought an answer in the deserted chair. His lips quivered, his tongue faltered. "Gude forgie me!" said he; "and such a day for even an enemy to be out in! I've been up and doun every way that I can think on, but not a living creature has seen or heard tell o' him. Ye'll excuse me, neebors," he added, leaving the house; "I must awa again, for I canna rest." "I ken by mysel', friends," said Adam Bell, a decent-looking Northumbrian, "that a faither's heart is as sensitive as the apple o' his e'e; and I think we would show a want o' natural sympathy and respect for our worthy neighbour, if we didna every one get his foot into the stirrup without loss o' time, and assist him in his search. For, in my rough, country way o' thinking, it must be something particularly out o' the common that would tempt Thomas to be amissing. Indeed, I needna say _tempt_, for there could be no inclination in the way. And our hills," he concluded, in a lower tone, "are not ower chancy in other respects, besides the breaking up o' the storm." "Oh!" said Mrs. Elliot, wringing her hands, "I have had the coming o' this about me for days and days. My head was growing dizzy with happiness, but thoughts came stealing upon me like ghosts, and I felt a lonely soughing about my heart, without being able to tell the cause; but the cause is come at last! And my dear Thomas--the very pride and staff o' my life--is lost!--lost to me for ever!" "I ken, Mrs. Elliot," replied the Northumbrian, "it is an easy matter to say compose yourself, for them that dinna ken what it is to feel. But, at the same time, in our plain, country way o' thinking, we are always ready to believe the worst. I've often heard my father say, and I've as often remarked it myself, that, before anything happens to a body, there is _a something_ comes ower them, like a cloud before the face o' the sun; a sort o' dumb whispering about the breast from the other world. And though I trust there is naething o' the kind in your case, yet, as you observe, when I find myself growing dizzy, as it were, with happiness, it makes good a saying o' my mother's, poor body! 'Bairns, bairns,' she used to say, 'there is ower muckle singing in your heads to-night; we will have a shower before bedtime.' And I never, in my born days, saw it fail." At any other period, Mr. Bell's dissertation on presentiments would have been found a fitting text on which to hang all the dreams, wraiths, warnings, and marvellous circumstances, that had been handed down to the company from the days of their grandfathers; but, in the present instance, they were too much occupied in consultation regarding the different routes to be taken in their search. Twelve horsemen, and some half-dozen pedestrians, were seen hurrying in divers directions from Marchlaw, as the last faint lights of a melancholy day were yielding to the heavy darkness which appeared pressing in solid masses down the sides of the mountains. The wives and daughters of the party were alone left with the disconsolate mother, who alternately pressed her weeping children to her heart, and told them to weep not, for their brother would soon return; while the tears stole down her own cheeks, and the infant in her arms wept because its mother wept. Her friends strove with each other to inspire hope, and poured upon her ear their mingled and loquacious consolation. But one remained silent. The daughter of Adam Bell, who sat by Mrs. Elliot's elbow at table, had shrunk into an obscure corner of the room. Before her face she held a handkerchief wet with tears. Her bosom throbbed convulsively; and, as occasionally her broken sighs burst from their prison-house, a significant whisper passed among the younger part of the company. Mrs. Elliot approached her, and taking her hand tenderly within both of hers--"O hinny! hinny!" said she, "yer sighs gae through my heart like a knife! An' what can I do to comfort ye? Come, Elizabeth, my bonny love, let us hope for the best. Ye see before ye a sorrowin' mother!--a mother that fondly hoped to see you an'--I canna say it!--an' am ill qualified to gie comfort, when my own heart is like a furnace! But, oh! let us try and remember the blessed portion, 'Whom the LORD loveth HE chasteneth,' an' inwardly pray for strength to say, 'His will be done!'" Time stole on towards midnight, and one by one the unsuccessful party returned. As foot after foot approached, every breath was held to listen. "No, no, no!" cried the mother again and again, with increasing anguish, "it's no the foot o' my ain bairn;" while her keen gaze still remained riveted upon the door, and was not withdrawn, nor the hope of despair relinquished, till the individual entered, and, with a silent and ominous shake of his head, betokened his fruitless efforts. The clock had struck twelve; all were returned save the father. The wind howled more wildly; the rain poured upon the windows in ceaseless torrents; and the roaring of the mountain rivers gave a character of deeper ghostliness to their sepulchral silence; for they sat, each wrapt in forebodings, listening to the storm; and no sounds were heard, save the groans of the mother, the weeping of her children, and the bitter and broken sobs of the bereaved maiden, who leaned her head upon her father's bosom, refusing to be comforted. At length the barking of the farm-dog announced footsteps at a distance. Every ear was raised to listen, every eye turned to the door; but, before the tread was yet audible to the listeners--"Oh! it is only Peter's foot!" said the miserable mother, and, weeping, rose to meet him. "Janet, Janet!" he exclaimed, as he entered, and threw his arms around her neck, "what's this come upon us at last?" He cast an inquisitive glance around his dwelling, and a convulsive shiver passed over his manly frame, as his eye again fell on the vacant chair, which no one had ventured to occupy. Hour succeeded hour, but the company separated not; and low, sorrowful whispers mingled with the lamentations of the parents. "Neighbours," said Adam Bell, "the morn is a new day, and we will wait to see what it may bring forth; but, in the meantime, let us read a portion o' the Divine word, an' kneel together in prayer, that, whether or not the day-dawn cause light to shine upon this singular bereavement, the Sun o' Righteousness may arise wi' healing on his wings, upon the hearts o' this afflicted family, an' upon the hearts o' all present." "Amen!" responded Peter, wringing his hands; and his friend, taking down the Ha' Bible, read the chapter wherein it is written--"It is better to be in the house of mourning than in the house of feasting;" and again the portion which sayeth--"It is well for me that I have been afflicted, for before I was afflicted I went astray." The morning came, but brought no tidings of the lost son. After a solemn farewell, all the visitants, save Adam Bell and his daughter, returned every one to their own house; and the disconsolate father, with his servants, again renewed their search among the hills and surrounding villages. Days, weeks, months, and years rolled on. Time had subdued the anguish of the parents into a holy calm; but their lost first-born was not forgotten, although no trace of his fate had been discovered. The general belief was, that he had perished on the breaking up of the snow; and the few in whose remembrance he still lived, merely spoke of his death as a "very extraordinary circumstance," remarking that "he was a wild, venturesome sort o' lad." Christmas had succeeded Christmas, and Peter Elliot still kept it in commemoration of the birthday of him who was not. For the first few years after the loss of their son, sadness and silence characterized the party who sat down to dinner at Marchlaw, and still at Peter's right hand was placed the vacant chair. But, as the younger branches of the family advanced in years, the remembrance of their brother became less poignant. Christmas was, with all around them, a day of rejoicing, and they began to make merry with their friends; while their parents partook in their enjoyment, with a smile, half of approval and half of sorrow. Twelve years had passed away; Christmas had again come. It was the counterpart of its fatal predecessor. The hills had not yet cast off their summer verdure; the sun, although shorn of its heat, had lost none of its brightness or glory, and looked down upon the earth as though participating in its gladness; and the clear blue sky was tranquil as the sea sleeping beneath the moon. Many visitors had again assembled at Marchlaw. The sons of Mr. Elliot, and the young men of the party, were assembled upon a level green near the house, amusing themselves with throwing the hammer, and other Border games, while himself and the elder guests stood by as spectators, recounting the deeds of their youth. Johnson, the sheep-farmer, whom we have already mentioned, now a brawny and gigantic fellow of two-and-thirty, bore away in every game the palm from all competitors. More than once, as Peter beheld his sons defeated, he felt the spirit of youth glowing in his veins, and, "Oh!" muttered he, in bitterness, "had my Thomas been spared to me, he would hae thrown his heart's bluid after the hammer, before he would hae been beat by e'er a Johnson in the country!" While he thus soliloquized, and with difficulty restrained an impulse to compete with the victor himself, a dark, foreign-looking, strong-built seaman, unceremoniously approached, and, with his arms folded, cast a look of contempt upon the boasting conqueror. Every eye was turned with a scrutinizing glance upon the stranger. In height he could not exceed five feet nine, but his whole frame was the model of muscular strength; his features open and manly, but deeply sunburnt and weather-beaten; his long, glossy, black hair, curled into ringlets by the breeze and the billow, fell thickly over his temples and forehead; and whiskers of a similar hue, more conspicuous for size than elegance, gave a character of fierceness to a countenance otherwise possessing a striking impress of manly beauty. Without asking permission, he stepped forward, lifted the hammer, and, swinging it around his head, hurled it upwards of five yards beyond Johnson's most successful throw. "Well done!" shouted the astonished spectators. The heart of Peter Elliot warmed within him, and he was hurrying forward to grasp the stranger by the hand, when the words groaned in his throat, "It was just such a throw as my Thomas would have made!--my own lost Thomas!" The tears burst into his eyes, and, without speaking, he turned back, and hurried towards the house to conceal his emotion. Successively, at every game, the stranger had defeated all who ventured to oppose him, when a messenger announced that dinner waited their arrival. Some of the guests were already seated, others entering; and, as heretofore, placed beside Mrs. Elliot was Elizabeth Bell, still in the noontide of her beauty; but sorrow had passed over her features, like a veil before the countenance of an angel. Johnson, crest-fallen and out of humour at his defeat, seated himself by her side. In early life he had regarded Thomas Elliot as a rival for her affections; and, stimulated by the knowledge that Adam Bell would be able to bestow several thousands upon his daughter for a dowry, he yet prosecuted his attentions with unabated assiduity, in despite of the daughter's aversion and the coldness of her father. Peter had taken his place at the table; and still by his side, unoccupied and sacred, appeared the vacant chair, the chair of his first-born, whereon none had sat since his mysterious death or disappearance. "Bairns," said he, "did nane o' ye ask the sailor to come up and tak a bit o' dinner wi' us?" "We were afraid it might lead to a quarrel with Mr. Johnson," whispered one of the sons. "He is come without asking," replied the stranger, entering; "and the wind shall blow from a new point if I destroy the mirth or happiness of the company." "Ye're a stranger, young man," said Peter, "or ye would ken this is no a meeting o' mirth-makers. But, I assure ye, ye are welcome, heartily welcome. Haste ye, lasses," he added to the servants; "some o' ye get a chair for the gentleman." "Gentleman, indeed!" muttered Johnson between his teeth. "Never mind about a chair, my hearties," said the seaman; "this will do!" And, before Peter could speak to withhold him, he had thrown himself carelessly into the hallowed, the venerated, the twelve-years-unoccupied chair! The spirit of sacrilege uttering blasphemies from a pulpit could not have smitten a congregation of pious worshippers with deeper horror and consternation, than did this filling of the vacant chair the inhabitants of Marchlaw. "Excuse me, sir! excuse me, sir!" said Peter, the words trembling upon his tongue; "but ye cannot--ye cannot sit there!" "O man! man!" cried Mrs. Elliot, "get out o' that! get out o' that!--take my chair!--take ony chair i' the house!--but dinna, dinna sit there! It has never been sat in by mortal being since the death o' my dear bairn!--and to see it filled by another is a thing I canna endure!" "Sir! sir!" continued the father, "ye have done it through ignorance, and we excuse ye. But that was my Thomas's seat! Twelve years this very day--his birthday--he perished, Heaven kens how! He went out from our sight, like the cloud that passes over the hills--never--never to return. And, O sir, spare a father's feelings! for to see it filled wrings the blood from my heart!" "Give me your hand, my worthy soul!" exclaimed the seaman; "I revere--nay, hang it! I would die for your feelings! But Tom Elliot was my friend, and I cast anchor in this chair by special commission. I know that a sudden broadside of joy is a bad thing; but, as I don't know how to preach a sermon before telling you, all I have to say is--that Tom an't dead." "Not dead!" said Peter, grasping the hand of the stranger, and speaking with an eagerness that almost choked his utterance: "O sir! sir! tell me how!--how!--Did ye say, living?--Is my ain Thomas living?" "Not dead, do ye say?" cried Mrs. Elliot, hurrying towards him and grasping his other hand--"not dead! And shall I see my bairn again? Oh! may the blessing o' Heaven, and the blessing o' a broken-hearted mother be upon the bearer o' the gracious tidings! But tell me--tell me, how is it possible! As ye would expect happiness here or hereafter, dinna, dinna deceive me!" "Deceive you!" returned the stranger, grasping, with impassioned earnestness, their hands in his--"Never!--never! and all I can say is--Tom Elliot is alive and hearty." "No, no!" said Elizabeth, rising from her seat, "he does not deceive us; there is that in his countenance which bespeaks a falsehood impossible." And she also endeavoured to move towards him, when Johnson threw his arm around her to withhold her. "Hands off, you land-lubber!" exclaimed the seaman, springing towards them, "or, shiver me! I'll show daylight through your timbers in the turning of a hand-spike!" And, clasping the lovely girl in his arms, "Betty! Betty, my love!" he cried, "don't you know your own Tom? Father, mother, don't you know me? Have you really forgot your own son? If twelve years have made some change on his face, his heart is sound as ever." His father, his mother, and his brothers, clung around him, weeping, smiling, and mingling a hundred questions together. He threw his arms around the neck of each, and in answer to their inquiries, replied--"Well! well! there is time enough to answer questions, but not to-day--not to-day!" "No, my bairn," said his mother, "we'll ask you no questions--nobody shall ask you any! But how--how were ye torn away from us, my love? And, O hinny! where--where hae you been?" "It's a long story, mother," said he, "and would take a week to tell it. But, howsoever, to make a long story short, you remember when the smugglers were pursued, and wished to conceal their brandy in our house, my father prevented them; they left muttering revenge--and they have been revenged. This day twelve years, I went out with the intention of meeting Elizabeth and her father, when I came upon a party of the gang concealed in Hell's Hole. In a moment half a dozen pistols were held to my breast, and, tying my hands to my sides, they dragged me into the cavern. Here I had not been long their prisoner, when the snow, rolling down the mountains, almost totally blocked up its mouth. On the second night they cut through the snow, and, hurrying me along with them, I was bound to a horse between two, and, before daylight, found myself stowed, like a piece of old junk, in the hold of a smuggling lugger. Within a week I was shipped on board a Dutch man-of-war, and for six years was kept dodging about on different stations, till our old yawning hulk received orders to join the fleet, which was to fight against the gallant Duncan at Camperdown. To think of fighting against my own countrymen, my own flesh and blood, was worse than to be cut to pieces by a cat-o'-nine tails; and, under cover of the smoke of the first broadside, I sprang upon the gunwale, plunged into the sea, and swam for the English fleet. Never, never shall I forget the moment that my feet first trode upon the deck of a British frigate! My nerves felt as firm as her oak, and my heart, free as the pennant that waved defiance from her masthead! I was as active as any one during the battle; and when it was over, and I found myself again among my own countrymen, and all speaking my own language, I fancied--nay, hang it! I almost believed--I should meet my father, my mother, or my dear Bess, on board of the British frigate. I expected to see you all again in a few weeks at farthest; but, instead of returning to Old England, before I was aware, I found it was helm about with us. As to writing, I never had an opportunity but once. We were anchored before a French fort; a packet was lying alongside ready to sail; I had half a side written, and was scratching my head to think how I should come over writing about you, Bess, my love, when, as bad luck would have it, our lieutenant comes to me, and says he, 'Elliot,' says he,' I know you like a little smart service; come, my lad, take the head oar, while we board some of those French bumb-boats under the batteries!' I couldn't say no. We pulled ashore, made a bonfire of one of their craft, and were setting fire to a second, when a deadly shower of small shot from the garrison scuttled our boat, killed our commanding officer with half of the crew, and the few who were left of us were made prisoners. It is of no use bothering you by telling how we escaped from French prison. We did escape; and Tom will once more fill his vacant chair." Should any of our readers wish farther acquaintance with our friends, all we can say is, the new year was still young when Adam Bell bestowed his daughter's hand upon the heir of Marchlaw, and Peter beheld the once vacant chair again occupied, and a namesake of the third generation prattling on his knee! THE FAA'S REVENGE. A TALE OF THE BORDER GIPSIES. Brown October was drawing to a close--the breeze had acquired a degree of sharpness too strong to be merely termed bracing--and the fire, as the saying is, was becoming the best flower in the garden--for the hardiest and the latest plants had either shed their leaves, or their flowers had shrivelled at the breath of approaching winter--when a stranger drew his seat towards the parlour fire of the Three-Half-Moons inn, in Rothbury. He had sat for the space of half an hour when a party entered, who, like himself (as appeared from their conversation), were strangers, or rather visitors of the scenery, curiosities, and antiquities in the vicinity. One of them having ordered the waiter to bring each of them a glass of brandy and warm water, without appearing to notice the presence of the first mentioned stranger, after a few remarks on the objects of interest in the neighbourhood, the following conversation took place amongst them:-- "Why," said one, "but even Rothbury here, secluded as it is from the world, and shut out from the daily intercourse of men, is a noted place. It was here that the ancient and famous northern bard and unrivalled ballad writer, Bernard Rumney, was born, bred, and died. Here, too, was born Dr. Brown, who, like Young and Home, united the characters of divine and dramatist, and was the author of '_Barbarossa_,' '_The Cure of Saul_,' and other works, of which posterity and his country are proud. The immediate neighbourhood, also, was the birth-place of the inspired boy, the heaven-taught mathematician, George Coughran, who knew no rival, and who bade fair to eclipse the glory of Newton, but whom death struck down ere he had reached the years of manhood." "Why, I can't tell," said another; "I don't know much about what you've been talking of; but I know, for one thing, that Rothbury was a famous place for every sort of games; and, at Fastren's E'en times, the rule was, every male inhabitant above eight years of age to pay a shilling, or out to the foot-ball. It was noted for its game-cocks, too--they were the best breed on the Borders." "May be so," said the first speaker; "but though I should be loath to see the foot-ball, or any other innocent game which keeps up a manly spirit, put down, yet I do trust that the brutal practice of cock-fighting will be abolished, not only on the Borders, but throughout every country which professes the name of Christian; and I rejoice that the practice is falling into disrepute. But, although my hairs are not yet honoured with the silver tints of age, I am old enough to remember, that, when a boy at school on the Scottish side of the Border, at every Fastren's E'en which you have spoken of, every schoolboy was expected to provide a cock for the battle, or main, and the teacher or his deputy presided as umpire. The same practice prevailed on the southern Border. It is a very old, savage amusement, even in this country; and perhaps the preceptors of youth, in former days, considered it _classical_, and that it would instil into their pupils sentiments of emulation; inasmuch as the practice is said to have taken rise from Themistocles perceiving two cocks tearing at and fighting with each other, while marching his army against the Persians, when he called upon his soldiers to observe them, and remarked that they neither fought for territory, defence of country, nor for glory, but they fought because the one would not yield to, or be defeated by the other; and he desired his soldiers to take a _moral_ lesson from the barn-door fowls. Cock-fighting thus became among the heathen Greeks a political precept and a religious observance--and the _Christian_ inhabitants of Britain, disregarding the _religious and political moral_, kept up the practice, adding to it more disgusting barbarity, for _their amusement_." "Coom," said a third, who, from his tongue, appeared to be a thorough Northumbrian, "we wur talking about Rothbury, but you are goin' to give us a regular sarmin on cock-fighting. Let's hae none o' that. You was saying what clever chaps had been born here--but none o' ye mentioned Jamie Allan, the gipsy and Northumberland piper, who was born here as weel as the best o' them. But I hae heard that Rothbury, as weel as Yetholm and Tweedmouth Moor, was a great resort for the Faa or gipsy gangs in former times. Now, I understand that thae folk were a sort o' bastard Egyptians; and though I am nae scholar, it strikes me forcibly that the meaning o' the word _gipsies_, is just _Egypts_, or _Gypties_--a contraction and corruption o' _Gyptian_!" "Gipsies," said he who spoke of Rumney and Brown, and abused the practice of cock-fighting, "still do in some degree, and formerly did in great numbers, infest this county; and I will tell you a story concerning them." "Do so," said the thorough Northumbrian; "I like a story when it's weel put thegither. The gipsies were queer folk. I've heard my faither tell many a funny thing about them, when he used to whistle 'Felton Loanin,' which was made by awd piper Allan--Jamie's faither." And here the speaker struck up a lively air, which, to the stranger by the fire, seemed a sort of parody on the well-known tune of "Johnny Cope." The other then proceeded with his tale, thus:-- You have all heard of the celebrated Johnny Faa, the Lord and Earl of Little Egypt, who penetrated into Scotland in the reign of James IV., and with whom that gallant monarch was glad to conclude a treaty. Johnny was not only the king, but the first of the Faa gang of whom we have mention. I am not aware that gipsies get the name of Faas anywhere but upon the Borders; and though it is difficult to account for the name satisfactorily, it is said to have had its origin from a family of the name of _Fall_ or _Fa'_, who resided here (in Rothbury), and that their superiority in their cunning and desperate profession, gave the same cognomen to all and sundry who followed the same mode of life upon the Borders. One thing is certain, that the name _Faa_ not only was given to individuals whose surname might be _Fall_, but to the _Winters_ and _Clarkes_--_id genus omne_--gipsy families well known on the Borders. Since waste lands, which were their hiding-places and resorts, began to be cultivated, and especially since the sun of knowledge snuffed out the taper of superstition and credulity, most of them are beginning to form a part of society, to learn trades of industry, and live with men. Those who still prefer their fathers' vagabond mode of life--finding that, in the northern counties, their old trade of fortune-telling is at a discount, and that thieving has thinned their tribe and is dangerous--now follow the more useful and respectable callings of muggers, besom-makers, and tinkers. I do not know whether, in etiquette, I ought to give precedence to the besom-maker or tinker; though, as compared with them, I should certainly suppose that the "muggers" of the present day belong to the Faa aristocracy; if it be not that they, like others, derive their nobility from descent of blood rather than weight of pocket--and that, after all, the mugger with his encampment, his caravans, horses, crystal, and crockery, is but a mere wealthy plebeian or _bourgeois_ in the vagrant community.--But to my tale. On a dark and tempestuous night in the December of 1628, a Faa gang requested shelter in the out-houses of the laird of Clennel. The laird himself had retired to rest; and his domestics being fewer in number than the Faas, feared to refuse them their request. "Ye shall have up-putting for the night, good neighbours," said Andrew Smith, who was a sort of major-domo in the laird's household, and he spoke in a tone of mingled authority and terror. "But, sir," added he, addressing the chief of the tribe--"I will trust to your honour that ye will allow none o' your folk to be making free with the kye, or the sheep, or the poultry--that is, that ye will not allow them to mistake ony o' them for your own, lest it bring me into trouble. For the laird has been in a fearful rage at some o' your people lately; and if onything were to be amissing in the morning, or he kenned that ye had been here, it might be as meikle as my life is worth." "Tush, man!" said Willie Faa, the king of the tribe, "ye dree the death ye'll never die. Willie Faa and his folk maun live as weel as the laird o' Clennel. But, there's my thumb, not a four-footed thing, nor the feather o' a bird, shall be touched by me or mine. But I see the light is out in the laird's chamber window--he is asleep and high up amang the turrets--and wherefore should ye set human bodies in byres and stables in a night like this, when your Ha' fire is bleezing bonnily, and there is room eneugh around it for us a'? Gie us a seat by the cheek o' your hearth, and ye shall be nae loser; and I promise ye that we shall be off, bag and baggage, before the skreigh o' day, or the laird kens where his head lies." Andrew would fain have refused this request, but he knew that it amounted to a command; and, moreover, while he had been speaking with the chief of the tribe, the maid-servants of the household, who had followed him and the other men-servants to the door, had divers of them been solicited by the females of the gang to have futurity revealed to them. And whether it indeed be that curiosity is more powerful in woman than in man (as it is generally said to be), I do not profess to determine; but certain it is, that the laird of Clennel's maid-servants, immediately on the hint being given by the gipsies, felt a very ardent desire to have a page or two from the sybilline leaves read to them--at least that part of them which related to their future husbands, and the time when they should obtain them. Therefore, they backed the petition or command of King Willie, and said to Andrew-- "Really, Mr. Smith, it would be very unchristian-like to put poor wandering folk into cauld out-houses on a night like this; and, as Willie says, there is room enough in the Ha'." "That may be a' very true, lasses," returned Andrew, "but only ye think what a dirdum there would be if the laird were to waken or get wit o't!" "Fearna the laird," said Elspeth, the wife of King Willie--"I will lay a spell on him that he canna be roused frae sleep, till I, at sunrise, wash my hands in Darden Lough." The sybil then raised her arms and waved them fantastically in the air, uttering, as she waved them, the following uncouth rhymes by way of incantation-- "Bonny Queen Mab, bonny Queen Mab, Wave ye your wee bits o' poppy wings Ower Clennel's laird, that he may sleep Till I hae washed where Darden springs." Thus assured, Andrew yielded to his fears and the wishes of his fellow-servants, and ushered the Faas into his master's hall for the night. But scarce had they taken their seats upon the oaken forms around the fire, when-- "Come," said the Faa king, "the night is cold, pinching cold, Mr. Smith: and, while the fire warms without, is there naething in the cellar that will warm within? See to it, Andrew, man--thou art no churl, or they face is fause." "Really, sir," replied Andrew--and, in spite of all his efforts to appear at ease, his tongue faultered as he spoke--"I'm not altogether certain what to say upon that subject; for ye observe that our laird is really a very singular man; ye might as weel put your head in the fire there as displease him in the smallest; and though Heaven kens that I would gie to you just as freely as I would tak to mysel, yet ye'll observe that the liquor in the cellars is not mine, but his--and they are never sae weel plenished but I believe he would miss a thimblefu'. But there is some excellent cold beef in the pantry, if ye could put up wi' the like o' it, and the home-brewed which we servants use." "Andrew," returned the Faa king, proudly--"castle have I none, flocks and herds have I none, neither have I haughs where the wheat, and the oats, and the barley grow--but, like Ishmael, my great forefather, every man's hand is against me, and mine against them--yet, when I am hungry, I never lack the flesh-pots o' my native land, where the moorfowl and the venison make brown broo together. Cauld meat agrees nae wi' my stomach, and servants' drink was never brewed for the lord o' Little Egypt. Ye comprehend me, Andrew?" "Oh, I daresay I do, sir," said the chief domestic of the house of Clennel; "but only, as I have said, ye will recollect that the drink is not mine to give; and if I venture upon a jug, I hope ye winna think o' asking for another." "We shall try it," said the royal vagrant. Andrew, with trembling and reluctance, proceeded to the cellar, and returned with a large earthen vessel filled with the choicest home-brewed, which he placed upon a table in the midst of them. "Then each took a smack Of the old black jack, While the fire burned in the hall." The Faa king pronounced the liquor to be palatable, and drank to his better acquaintance with the cellars of the laird of Clennel; and his gang followed his example. Now, I should remark that Willie Faa, the chief of his tribe, was a man of gigantic stature; the colour of his skin was the dingy brown peculiar to his race; his arms were of remarkable length, and his limbs a union of strength and lightness; his raven hair was mingled with grey; while, in his dark eyes, the impetuosity of youth and the cunning of age seemed blended together. It is in vain to speak of his dress, for it was changed daily as his circumstances or avocations directed. He was ever ready to assume all characters, from the courtier down to the mendicant. Like his wife, he was skilled in the reading of no book but the book of fate. Now, Elspeth was a less agreeable personage to look upon than even her husband. The hue of her skin was as dark as his. She was also of his age--a woman of full fifty. She was the tallest female in her tribe; but her stoutness took away from her stature. Her eyes were small and piercing, her nose aquiline, and her upper lip was "bearded like the pard." While her husband sat at his carousals, and handing the beverage to his followers and the domestics of the house, Elspeth sat examining the lines upon the palms of the hands of the maid-servants--pursuing her calling as a spaewife. And ever as she traced the lines of matrimony, the sybil would pause and exclaim-- "Ha!--money!--money!--cross my loof again, hinny. There is fortune before ye! Let me see! A spur!--a sword!--a shield!--a gowden purse! Heaven bless ye! They are there!--there, as plain as a pikestaff; they are a' in your path. But cross my loof again, hinny, for until siller again cross it, I canna see whether they are to be yours or no." Thus did Elspeth go on until her "loof had been crossed" by the last coin amongst the domestics of the house of Clennel; and when these were exhausted, their trinkets were demanded and given to assist the spell of the prophetess. Good fortune was prognosticated to the most of them, and especially to those who crossed the loof of the reader of futurity most freely; but to others, perils, and sudden deaths, and disappointments in love, and grief in wedlock, were hinted, though to all and each of these forebodings, a something like hope--an undefined way of escape--was pended. Now, as the voice of Elspeth rose in solemn tones, and as the mystery of her manner increased, not only were the maid-servants stricken with awe and reverence for the wondrous woman, but the men-servants also began to inquire into their fate. And as they extended their hands, and Elspeth traced the lines of the past upon them, ever and anon she spoke strange words, which intimated secret facts; and she spoke also of love-makings and likings; and ever, as she spoke, she would raise her head and grin a ghastly smile, now at the individual whose hand she was examining, and again at a maid-servant whose fortune she had read; while the former would smile and the latter blush, and their fellow domestics exclaim-- "That's wonderfu'!--that dings a'!--ye are queer folk! hoo in the world do ye ken?" Even the curiosity of Mr. Andrew Smith was raised, and his wonder excited; and, after he had quaffed his third cup with the gipsy king, he, too, reverentially approached the bearded princess, extending his hand, and begging to know what futurity had in store for him. She raised it before her eyes, she rubbed hers over it. "It is a dark and a difficult hand," muttered she: "here are ships and the sea, and crossing the sea, and great danger, and a way to avoid it--but the gowd!--the gowd that's there! And yet ye may lose it a'! Cross my loof, sir--yours is an ill hand to spae--for it's set wi' fortune, and danger and adventure." Andrew gave her all the money in his possession. Now it was understood that she was to return the money and the trinkets with which her loof had been crossed; and Andrew's curiosity overcoming his fears, he ventured to intrust his property in her keeping; for, as he thought, it was not every day that people could have everything that was to happen unto them revealed. But when she had again looked upon his hand-- "It winna do," said she--"I canna see ower the danger ye hae to encounter, the seas ye hae to cross, and the mountains o' gowd that lie before ye yet--ye maun cross my loof again." And when, with a woful countenance, he stated that he had crossed it with his last coin-- "Ye hae a chronometer, man," said she--"it tells you the minutes now, it may enable me to show ye those that are to come!" Andrew hesitated, and, with doubt and unwillingness, placed the chronometer in her hand. Elspeth wore a short cloak of faded crimson; and in a sort of pouch in it, every coin, trinket, and other article of value which was put into her hands were deposited, in order, as she stated, to forward her mystic operations. Now, the chronometer had just disappeared in the general receptacle of offerings to the oracle, when heavy footsteps were heard descending the staircase leading to the hall. Poor Andrew, the ruler of the household, gasped--the blood forsook his cheeks, his knees involuntarily knocked one against another, and he stammered out-- "For Heaven's sake, gie me my chronometer!--Oh, gie me it!--we are a' ruined!" "It canna be returned till the spell's completed," rejoined Elspeth, in a solemn and determined tone--and her countenance betrayed nothing of her dupe's uneasiness; while her husband deliberately placed his right hand upon a sort of dagger which he wore beneath a large coarse jacket that was loosely flung over his shoulders. The males in his retinue, who were eight in number, followed his example. In another moment, the laird, with wrath upon his countenance, burst into the hall. "Andrew Smith," cried he, sternly, and stamping his foot fiercely on the floor, "what scene is this I see? Answer me, ye robber, answer me;--ye shall hang for it!" "O sir! sir!" groaned Andrew, "mercy!--mercy!--O sir!" and he wrung his hands together and shook exceedingly. "Ye fause knave!" continued the laird, grasping him by the neck--and dashing him from him, Andrew fell flat upon the floor, and his terror had almost shook him from his feet before--"Speak, ye fause knave!" resumed the laird; "what means your carousin' wi' sic a gang? Ye robber, speak!" And he kicked him with his foot as he lay upon the ground. "O sir!--mercy, sir!" vociferated Andrew, in the stupor and wildness of terror; "I canna speak!--ye hae killed me outright! I am dead--stone dead! But it wasna my blame--they'll a' say that, if they speak the truth." "Out! out, ye thieves!--ye gang o' plunderers, born to the gallows!--out o' my house!" added the laird, addressing Willie Faa and his followers. "Thieves! ye acred loon!" exclaimed the Faa king, starting to his feet, and drawing himself up to his full height--"wha does the worm that burrows in the lands o' Clennel ca' thieves? Thieves, say ye!--speak such words to your equals, but no to me. Your forebears came ower wi' the Norman, invaded the nation, and seized upon land--mine invaded it also, and only laid a tax upon the flocks, the cattle, and the poultry--and wha ca' ye thieves?--or wi' what grace do ye speak the word?" "Away, ye audacious vagrant!" continued the laird; "ken ye not that the king's authority is in my hands?--and for your former plunderings, if I again find you setting foot upon ground o' mine, on the nearest tree ye shall find a gibbet." "Boast awa--boast awa, man," said Willie; "ye are safe here, for me and mine winna harm ye; and it is a fougie cock indeed that darena craw in its ain barn-yard. But wait until the day when we may meet upon the wide moor, wi' only twa bits o' steel between us, and see wha shall brag then." "Away!--instantly away!" exclaimed Clennel, drawing his sword, and waving it threateningly over the head of the gipsy. "Proud, cauld-hearted, and unfeeling mortal," said Elspeth, "will ye turn fellow-beings from beneath your roof in a night like this, when the fox darena creep frae its hole, and the raven trembles on the tree?" "Out! out! ye witch!" rejoined the laird. "Farewell, Clennel," said the Faa king; "we will leave your roof, and seek the shelter o' the hill-side. But ye shall rue! As I speak, man, ye shall rue it!" "Rue it!" screamed Elspeth, rising--and her small dark eyes flashed with indignation--"he shall rue it--the bairn unborn shall rue it--and the bann o' Elspeth Faa shall be on Clennel and his kin, until his hearth be desolate and his spirit howl within him like the tempest which this night rages in the heavens!" The servants shrank together into a corner of the hall, to avoid the rage of their master; and they shook the more at the threatening words of the weird woman, lest she should involve them in his doom; but he laughed with scorn at her words. "Proud, pitiless fool," resumed Elspeth, more bitterly than before, "repress your scorn. Whom, think ye, ye treat wi' contempt? Ken ye not that the humble adder which ye tread upon can destroy ye--that the very wasp can sting ye, and there is poison in its sting? Ye laugh, but for your want of humanity this night, sorrow shall turn your head grey, lang before age sit down upon your brow." "Off! off! ye wretches!" added the laird; "vent your threats on the wind, if it will hear ye, for I regard them as little as it will. But keep out o' my way for the future, as ye would escape the honours o' a hempen cravat, and the hereditary exaltation o' your race." Willie Faa made a sign to his followers, and without speaking they instantly rose and departed; but, as he himself reached the door, he turned round, and significantly striking the hilt of his dagger, exclaimed-- "Clennel! ye shall rue it!" And the hoarse voice of Elspeth without, as the sound was borne away on the storm, was heard crying--"He shall rue it!" and repeating her imprecations. Until now, poor Andrew Smith had lain groaning upon the floor more dead than alive, though not exactly "stone dead" as he expressed it; and ever, as he heard his master's angry voice, he groaned the more, until in his agony he doubted his existence. When, therefore, on the departure of the Faas, the laird dragged him to his feet, and feeling some pity for his terror, spoke to him more mildly, Andrew gazed vacantly around him, his teeth chattering together, and he first placed his hands upon his sides, to feel whether he was still indeed the identical flesh, blood, and bones of Andrew Smith, or his disembodied spirit; and being assured that he was still a man, he put down his hand to feel for his chronometer, and again he groaned bitterly--and although he now knew he was not dead, he almost wished he were so. The other servants thought also of their money and their trinkets, which, as well as poor Andrew's chronometer, Elspeth, in the hurry in which she was rudely driven from the house, had, by a slip of memory, neglected to return to their lawful owners. It is unnecessary to dwell upon the laird's anger at his domestics, or farther to describe Andrew's agitation; but I may say that the laird was not wroth against the Faa gang without reason. They had committed ravages on his flocks--they had carried off the choicest of his oxen--they destroyed his deer--they plundered him of his poultry--and they even made free with the grain that he reared, and which he could spare least of all. But Willie Faa considered every landed proprietor as his enemy, and thought it his duty to quarter on them. Moreover, it was his boisterous laugh, as he pushed round the tankard, which aroused the laird from his slumbers, and broke Elspeth's spell. And the destruction of the charm, by the appearance of their master, before she had washed her hands in Darden Lough, caused those who had parted with their money and trinkets to grieve for them the more, and to doubt the promises of the prophetess, or to "Take all for gospel that the spaefolk say." Many weeks, however, had not passed until the laird of Clennel found that Elspeth the gipsy's threat, that he should "_rue it_," meant more than idle words. His cattle sickened and died in their stalls, or the choicest of them disappeared; his favourite horses were found maimed in the mornings, wounded and bleeding in the fields; and, notwithstanding the vigilance of his shepherds, the depredations on his flocks augmented tenfold. He doubted not but that Willie Faa and his tribe were the authors of all the evils which were besetting him: but he knew also their power and their matchless craft, which rendered it almost impossible either to detect or punish them. He had a favourite steed, which had borne him in boyhood, and in battle when he served in foreign wars, and one morning when he went into his park, he found it lying bleeding upon the ground. Grief and indignation strove together in arousing revenge within his bosom. He ordered his sluthhound to be brought, and his dependants to be summoned together, and to bring arms with them. He had previously observed foot-prints on the ground, and he exclaimed-- "Now the fiend take the Faas, they shall find whose turn it is to rue before the sun gae down." The gong was pealed on the turrets of Clennel Hall, and the kempers with their poles bounded in every direction, with the fleetness of mountain stags, to summon all capable of bearing arms to the presence of the laird. The mandate was readily obeyed; and within two hours thirty armed men appeared in the park. The sluthhound was led to the footprint; and after following it for many a weary mile over moss, moor, and mountain, it stood and howled, and lashed its lips with its tongue, and again ran as though its prey were at hand, as it approached what might be called a gap in the wilderness between Keyheugh and Clovencrag. Now, in the space between these desolate crags stood some score of peels, or rather half hovels, half encampments--and this primitive city in the wilderness was the capital of the Faa king's people. "Now for vengeance!" exclaimed Clennel; and his desire of revenge was excited the more from perceiving several of the choicest of his cattle, which had disappeared, grazing before the doors or holes of the gipsy village. "Bring whins and heather," he continued--"pile them around it, and burn the den of thieves to the ground." His order was speedily obeyed, and when he commanded the trumpet to be sounded, that the inmates might defend themselves if they dared, only two or three men and women of extreme age, and some half-dozen children, crawled upon their hands and knees from the huts--for it was impossible to stand upright in them. The aged men and women howled when they beheld the work of destruction that was in preparation, and the children screamed when they heard them howl. But the laird of Clennel had been injured, and he turned a deaf ear to their misery. A light was struck, and a dozen torches applied at once. The whins crackled, the heather blazed, and the flames overtopped the hovels which they surrounded, and which within an hour became a heap of smouldering ashes. Clennel and his dependants returned home, driving the cattle which had been stolen from him before them, and rejoicing in what they had done. On the following day, Willie Faa and a part of his tribe returned to the place of rendezvous--their city and home in the mountains--and they found it a heap of smoking ruins, and the old men and the old women of the tribe--their fathers and their mothers--sitting wailing upon the ruins, and warming over them their shivering limbs, while the children wept around them for food. "Whose work is this?" inquired Willie, while anxiety and anger flashed in his eyes. "The Laird o' Clennel!--the Laird o' Clennel!" answered every voice at the same instant. "By this I swear!" exclaimed the king of the Faas, drawing his dagger from beneath his coat, "from this night henceforth he is laird nor man nae langer." And he turned hastily from the ruins, as if to put his threat in execution. "Stay, ye madcap!" cried Elspeth, following him, "would ye fling away revenge for half a minute's satisfaction?" "No, wife," cried he, "nae mair than I would sacrifice living a free and a fu' life for half an hour's hangin'." "Stop, then," returned she, "and let our vengeance fa' upon him, so that it may wring his life away, drap by drap, until his heart be dry; and grief, shame, and sorrow burn him up, as he has here burned house and home o' Elspeth Faa and her kindred." "What mean ye, woman?" said Willie, hastily; "if I thought ye would come between me and my revenge, I would drive this bit steel through you wi' as goodwill as I shall drive it through him." "And ye shall be welcome," said Elspeth. She drew him aside, and whispered a few minutes in his ear. He listened attentively. At times he seemed to start, and at length, sheathing his dagger and grasping her hand, he exclaimed--"Excellent, Elspeth!--ye have it!--ye have it!" At this period, the laird of Clennel was about thirty years of age, and two years before he had been married to Eleanor de Vere, a lady alike distinguished for her beauty and accomplishments. They had an infant son, who was the delight of his mother, and his father's pride. Now, for two years after the conflagration of their little town, Clennel heard nothing of his old enemies the Faas, neither did they molest him, nor had they been seen in the neighbourhood, and he rejoiced in having cleared his estate of such dangerous visitors. But the Faa king, listening to the advice of his wife, only "nursed his wrath to keep it warm," and retired from the neighbourhood, that he might accomplish, in its proper season, his design of vengeance more effectually, and with greater cruelty. The infant heir of the house of Clennel had been named Henry, and he was about completing his third year--an age at which children are, perhaps, most interesting, and when their fondling and their prattling sink deepest into a parent's heart--for all is then beheld on childhood's sunny side, and all is innocence and love. Now, it was in a lovely day in April, when every bird had begun its annual song, and flowers were bursting into beauty, buds into leaves, and the earth resuming its green mantle, when Lady Clennel and her infant son, who then, as I have said, was about three years of age, went forth to enjoy the loveliness and the luxuries of nature, in the woods which surrounded their mansion, and Andrew Smith accompanied them as their guide and protector. They had proceeded somewhat more than a mile from the house, and the child, at intervals breaking away from them, sometimes ran before his mother, and at others sauntered behind her, pulling the wild flowers that strewed their path, when a man, springing from a dark thicket, seized the child in his arms, and again darted into the wood. Lady Clennel screamed aloud, and rushed after him. Andrew, who was coming dreaming behind, got but a glance of the ruffian stranger--but that glance was enough to reveal to him the tall, terrible figure of Willie Faa, the Gipsy king. There are moments when, and circumstances under which even cowards become courageous, and this was one of those moments and circumstances which suddenly inspired Andrew (who was naturally no hero) with courage. He, indeed, loved the child as though he had been his own; and following the example of Lady Clennel, he drew his sword and rushed into the wood. He possessed considerable speed of foot, and he soon passed the wretched mother, and came in sight of the pursued. The unhappy lady, who ran panting and screaming as she rushed along, unable to keep pace with them, lost all trace of where the robber of her child had fled, and her cries of agony and bereavement rang through the woods. Andrew, however, though he did not gain ground upon the gipsy, still kept within sight of him, and shouted to him as he ran, saying that all the dependants of Clennel would soon be on horseback at his heels, and trusting that every moment he would drop the child upon the ground. Still Faa flew forward, bearing the boy in his arm, and disregarding the cries and threats of his pursuer. He knew that Andrew's was not what could be called a heart of steel, but he was aware that he had a powerful arm, and could use a sword as well as a better man; and he knew also that cowards will fight as desperately, when their life is at stake, as the brave. The desperate chase continued for four hours, and till after the sun had set, and the gloaming was falling thick on the hills. Andrew, being younger and unencumbered, had at length gained ground upon the gipsy, and was within ten yards of him when he reached the Coquet side, about a mile below this town, at the hideous Thrumb, where the deep river, for many yards, rushes through a mere chasm in the rock. The Faa, with the child beneath his arm, leaped across the fearful gulf, and the dark flood gushed between him and his pursuer. He turned round, and, with a horrid laugh, looked towards Andrew and unsheathed his dagger. But even at this moment the unwonted courage of the chief servant of Clennel did not fail him, and as he rushed up and down upon one side of the gulf, that he might spring across and avoid the dagger of the gipsy, the other ran in like manner on the other side; and when Andrew stood as if ready to leap, the Faa king, pointing with his dagger to the dark flood that rolled between them, cried-- "See, fool! eternity divides us!" "And for that bairn's sake, ye wretch, I'll brave it!" exclaimed Andrew, while his teeth gnashed together; and he stepped back, in order that he might spring across with the greater force and safety. "Hold man!" cried the Faa; "attempt to cross to me, and I will plunge this bonny heir o' Clennel into the flood below." "Oh, gracious! gracious!" cried Andrew, and his resolution and courage forsook him; "ye monster!--ye barbarian!--oh, what shall I do now!" "Go back whence you came," said the gipsy, "or follow me another step and the child dies." "Oh, ye butcher!--ye murderer!" continued the other--and he tore his hair in agony--"hae ye nae mercy?" "Sic mercy as your maister had," returned the Faa, "when he burned our dwellings about the ears o' the aged and infirm, and o' my helpless bairns! Ye shall find in me the mercy o' the fasting wolf, o' the tiger when it laps blood!" Andrew perceived that to rescue the child was now impossible, and with a heavy heart he returned to his master's house, in which there was no sound save that of lamentation. For many weeks, yea months, the laird of Clennel, his friends and his servants, sought anxiously throughout every part of the country to obtain tidings of his child, but their search was vain. It was long ere his lady was expected to recover the shock, and the affliction sat heavy on his soul, while in his misery he vowed revenge upon all of the gipsy race. But neither Willie Faa nor any of his tribe were again seen upon his estates, or heard of in their neighbourhood. Four years were passed from the time that their son was stolen from them, and an infant daughter smiled upon the knee of Lady Clennel; and oft as it smiled in her face, and stretched its little hands towards her, she would burst into tears, as the smile and the infantine fondness of her little daughter reminded her of her lost Henry. They had had other children, but they had died while but a few weeks old. For two years there had been a maiden in the household named Susan, and to her care, when the child was not in her own arms, Lady Clennel intrusted her infant daughter; for every one loved Susan, because of her affectionate nature and docile manners--she was, moreover, an orphan, and they pitied while they loved her. But one evening, when Lady Clennel desired that her daughter might be brought her in order that she might present her to a company who had come to visit them (an excusable, though not always a pleasant vanity in mothers), neither Susan nor the child were to be found. Wild fears seized the bosom of the already bereaved mother, and her husband felt his heart throb within him. They sought the woods, the hills, the cottages around; they wandered by the sides of the rivers and the mountain burns, but no one had seen, no trace could be discovered of either the girl or the child. I will not, because I cannot, describe the overwhelming misery of the afflicted parents. Lady Clennel spent her days in tears and her nights in dreams of her children, and her husband sank into a settled melancholy, while his hatred of the Faa race became more implacable, and he burst into frequent exclamations of vengeance against them. More than fifteen years had passed, and though the poignancy of their grief had abated, yet their sadness was not removed, for they had been able to hear nothing that could throw light upon the fate of their children. About this period, sheep were again missed from the flocks, and, in one night, the hen-roosts were emptied. There needed no other proof that a Faa gang was again in the neighbourhood. Now, Northumberland at that period was still thickly covered with wood, and abounded with places where thieves might conceal themselves in security. Partly from a desire of vengeance, and partly from the hope of being able to extort from some of the tribe information respecting his children, Clennel armed his servants, and taking his hounds with him, set out in quest of the plunderers. For two days their search was unsuccessful, but on the third the dogs raised their savage cry, and rushed into a thicket in a deep glen amongst the mountains. Clennel and his followers hurried forward, and in a few minutes perceived the fires of the Faa encampment. The hounds had already alarmed the vagrant colony, they had sprung upon many of them and torn their flesh with their tusks; but the Faas defended themselves against them with their poniards, and, before Clennel's approach, more than half his hounds lay dead upon the ground, and his enemies fled. Yet there was one poor girl amongst them, who had been attacked by a fierce hound, and whom no one attempted to rescue, as she strove to defend herself against it with her bare hands. Her screams for assistance rose louder and more loud; and as Clennel and his followers drew near, and her companions fled, they turned round, and, with a fiendish laugh, cried-- "Rue it now!" Maddened more keenly by the words, he was following on in pursuit, without rescuing the screaming girl from the teeth of the hound, or seeming to perceive her, when a woman, suddenly turning round from amongst the flying gypsies, exclaimed-- "For your sake!--for Heaven's sake! Laird Clennel! save my bairn!" He turned hastily aside, and, seizing the hound by the throat, tore it from the lacerated girl, who sank, bleeding, terrified, and exhausted, upon the ground. Her features were beautiful, and her yellow hair contrasted ill with the tawny hue of her countenance and the snowy whiteness of her bosom, which in the struggle had been revealed. The elder gipsy woman approached. She knelt by the side of the wounded girl. "O my bairn!" she exclaimed, "what has this day brought upon me!--they have murdered you! This is rueing, indeed; and I rue too!" "Susan!" exclaimed Clennel, as he listened to her words, and his eyes had been for several seconds fixed upon her countenance. "Yes!--Susan!--guilty Susan!" cried the gipsy. "Wretch!" he exclaimed, "my child!--where is my child?--is _this_"----and he gazed on the poor girl, his voice failed him, and he burst into tears. "Yes!--yes!" replied she bitterly, "it is her--there lies your daughter--look upon her face." He needed, indeed, but to look upon her countenance--disfigured as it was, and dyed with weeds to give it a sallow hue--to behold in it every lineament of her mother's, lovely as when they first met his eye and entered his heart. He flung himself on the ground by her side, he raised her head, he kissed her cheek, he exclaimed, "My child!--my child!--my lost one! I have destroyed thee!" He bound up her lacerated arms, and applied a flask of wine, which he carried with him, to her lips, and he supported her on his knee, and again kissing her cheek, sobbed, "My child!--my own!" Andrew Smith also bent over her and said, "Oh, it is her! there isna the smallest doubt o' that. I could swear to her among a thousand. She's her mother's very picture." And, turning to Susan, he added, "O Susan, woman, but ye hae been a terrible hypocrite!" Clennel having placed his daughter on horseback before him, supporting her with his arm, Susan was set between two of his followers, and conducted to the Hall. Before the tidings were made known to Lady Clennel, the wounds of her daughter were carefully dressed, the dye that changed the colour of her countenance was removed, and her gipsy garb was exchanged for more seemly apparel. Clennel anxiously entered the apartment of his lady, to reveal to her the tale of joy; but when he entered, he wist not how to introduce it. He knew that excess of sudden joy was not less dangerous than excess of grief, and his countenance was troubled, though its expression was less sad than it had been for many years. "Eleanor," he at length began, "cheer up." "Why, I am not sadder than usual, dear," replied she, in her wonted gentle manner; "and to be more cheerful would ill become one who has endured my sorrows." "True, true," said he, "but our affliction may not be so severe as we have thought--there may be hope--there may be joy for us yet." "What mean ye, husband?" inquired she, eagerly; "have ye heard aught--aught of my children?--you have!--you have!--your countenance speaks it." "Yes, dear Eleanor," returned he, "I have heard of our daughter." "And she lives?--she lives?--tell me that she lives!" "Yes, she lives." "And I shall see her--I shall embrace my child again?" "Yes, love, yes," replied he, and burst into tears. "When--oh, when?" she exclaimed, "can you take me to her now?" "Be calm, my sweet one. You shall see our child--our long-lost child. You shall see her now--she is here." "Here!--my child!" she exclaimed, and sank back upon her seat. Words would fail to paint the tender interview--the mother's joy--the daughter's wonder--the long, the passionate embrace--the tears of all--the looks--the words--the moments of unutterable feeling. I shall next notice the confession of Susan. Clennel promised her forgiveness if she would confess the whole truth; and he doubted not, that from her he would also obtain tidings of his son, and learn where he might find him, if he yet lived. I shall give her story in her own words. "When I came amongst you," she began, "I said that I was an orphan, and I told ye truly, so far as I knew myself. I have been reared amongst the people ye call gipsies from infancy. They fed me before I could provide for myself. I have wandered with them through many lands. They taught me many things; and, while young, sent me as a servant into families, that I might gather information to assist them in upholding their mysteries of fortune-telling, I dared not to disobey them--they kept me as their slave--and I knew that they would destroy my life for an act of disobedience. I was in London when ye cruelly burned down the bit town between the Keyheugh and Clovencrag. That night would have been your last, but Elspeth Faa vowed more cruel vengeance than death on you and yours. After our king had carried away your son, I was ordered from London to assist in the plot o' revenge. I at length succeeded in getting into your family, and the rest ye know. When ye were a' busy wi' your company, I slipped into the woods wi' the bairn in my arms, where others were ready to meet us; and long before ye missed us, we were miles across the hills, and frae that day to this your daughter has passed as mine." "But tell me all, woman," cried Clennel, "as you hope for either pardon or protection--where is my son, my little Harry? Does he live?--where shall I find him?" "As I live," replied Susan, "I cannot tell. There are but two know concerning him--and that is the king and his wife Elspeth; and there is but one way of discovering anything respecting him, which is by crossing Elspeth's loof, that she may betray her husband: and she would do it for revenge's sake, for an ill husband has he been to her, and in her old days he has discarded her for another." "And where may she be found?" inquired Clennel, earnestly. "That," added Susan, "is a question I cannot answer. She was with the people in the glen to-day, and was first to raise the laugh when your dog fastened its teeth in the flesh of your ain bairn. But she may be far to seek and ill to find now--for she is wi' those that travel fast and far, and that will not see her hindmost." Deep was the disappointment of the laird when he found he could obtain no tidings of his son. But, at the intercession of his daughter (whose untutored mind her fond mother had begun to instruct), Susan was freely pardoned, promised protection from her tribe, and again admitted as one of the household. I might describe the anxious care of the fond mother, as, day by day, she sat by her new-found and lovely daughter's side, teaching her, and telling her of a hundred things of which she had never heard before, while her father sat gazing and listening near them, rejoicing over both. But the ray of sunshine which had penetrated the house of Clennel was not destined to be of long duration. At that period a fearful cloud overhung the whole land, and the fury of civil war seemed about to burst forth. The threatening storm did explode; a bigoted king overstepped his prerogative, set at nought the rights and the liberties of the subject, and an indignant people stained their hands with blood. A political convulsion shook the empire to its centre. Families and individuals became involved in the general catastrophe; and the house of Clennel did not escape. In common with the majority of the English gentry of that period, Clennel was a stanch loyalist, and if not exactly a lover of the king, or an ardent admirer of his acts, yet one who would fight for the crown though it should (as it was expressed about the time) "hang by a bush." When, therefore, the parliament declared war against the king, and the name of Cromwell spread awe throughout the country, and when some said that a prophet and deliverer had risen amongst them, and others an ambitious hypocrite and a tyrant, Clennel armed a body of his dependants, and hastened to the assistance of his sovereign, leaving his wife and his newly-found daughter with the promise of a speedy return. It is unnecessary to describe all that he did or encountered during the civil wars. He had been a zealous partizan of the first Charles, and he fought for the fortunes of his son to the last. He was present at the battle of Worcester, which Cromwell calls his "crowning mercy," in the September of 1651, where the already dispirited royalists were finally routed; and he fought by the side of the king until the streets were heaped with dead; and when Charles fled, he, with others, accompanied him to the borders of Staffordshire. Having bid the young prince an affectionate farewell, Clennel turned back, with the intention of proceeding on his journey, on the following day, to Northumberland, though he was aware, that, from the part which he had taken in the royal cause, even his person was in danger. Yet the desire again to behold his wife and daughter overcame his fears, and the thought of meeting them in some degree consoled him for the fate of his prince, and the result of the struggle in which he had been engaged. But he had not proceeded far when he was met by two men dressed as soldiers of the Parliamentary army--the one a veteran with grey hairs, and the other a youth. The shades of night had set in; but the latter he instantly recognized as a young soldier whom he had that day wounded in the streets of Worcester. "Stand!" said the old man, as they met him; and the younger drew his sword. "If I stand!" exclaimed Clennel, "it shall not be when an old man and a boy command me." And, following their example, he unsheathed his sword. "Boy!" exclaimed the youth; "whom call ye boy?--think ye, because ye wounded me this morn, that fortune shall aye sit on your arm?--yield or try." They made several thrusts at each other, and the old man, as an indifferent spectator, stood looking on. But the youth, by a dexterous blow, shivered the sword in Clennel's hand, and left him at his mercy. "Now yield ye," he exclaimed; "the chance is mine now--in the morning it was thine." "Ye seem a fair foe," replied Clennel, "and loath am I to yield, but that I am weaponless." "Despatch him at once!" growled the old man. "If he spilled your blood in the morning, there can be no harm in spilling his the night--and especially after giein' him a fair chance." "Father," returned the youth, "would ye have me to kill a man in cold blood?" "Let him submit to be bound then, hands and eyes, or I will," cried the senior. The younger obeyed, and Clennel, finding himself disarmed, submitted to his fate; and his hands were bound, and his eyes tied up, so that he knew not where they led him. After wandering many miles, and having lain upon what appeared the cold earth for a lodging, he was aroused from a comfortless and troubled sleep, by a person tearing the bandage from his eyes, and ordering him to prepare for his trial. He started to his feet. He looked around, and beheld that he stood in the midst of a gipsy encampment. He was not a man given to fear, but a sickness came over his heart when he thought of his wife and daughter, and that, knowing the character of the people in whose power he was, he should never behold them again. The males of the Faa tribe began to assemble in a sort of half circle in the area of the encampment, and in the midst of them, towering over the heads of all, he immediately distinguished the tall figure of Willie Faa, in whom he also discovered the grey-haired Parliamentary soldier of the previous night. But the youth with whom he had twice contended and once wounded, and by whom he had been made prisoner, he was unable to single out amongst them. He was rudely dragged before them, and Willie Faa cried--"Ken ye the culprit?" "Clennel o' Northumberland!--our enemy!" exclaimed twenty voices. "Yes," continued Willie, "Clennel our enemy--the burner o' our humble habitations--that left the auld, the sick, the infirm, and the helpless, and the infants o' our kindred, to perish in the flaming ruins. Had we burned his house, the punishment would have been death; and shall we do less to him than he would do to us?" "No! no!" they exclaimed with one voice. "But," added Willie, "though he would have disgraced us wi' a gallows, as he has been a soldier, I propose that he hae the honour o' a soldier's death, and that Harry Faa be appointed to shoot him." "All! all! all!" was the cry. "He shall die with the setting sun," said Willie, and again they cried, "Agreed!" Such was the form of trial which Clennel underwent, when he was again rudely dragged away, and placed in a tent round which four strong Faas kept guard. He had not been alone an hour, when his judge, the Faa king, entered, and addressed him-- "Now, Laird Clennel, say ye that I haena lived to see day about wi' ye? When ye turned me frae beneath your roof, when the drift was fierce and the wind howled in the moors, was it not tauld to ye that _ye would rue it_!--but ye mocked the admonition and the threat, and, after that, cruelly burned us out o' house and ha'. When I came hame, I saw my auld mother, that was within three years o' a hunder, couring ower the reeking ruins, without a wa' to shelter her, and crooning curses on the doer o' the black deed. There were my youngest bairns, too, crouching by their granny's side, starving wi' hunger as weel as wi' cauld, for ye had burned a', and haudin' their bits o' hands before the burnin' ruins o' the house that they were born in, to warm them! That night I vowed vengeance on you; and even on that night I would have executed it, but I was prevented; and glad am I now that I was prevented, for my vengeance has been complete--or a' but complete. Wi' my ain hand I snatched your son and heir from his mother's side, and a terrible chase I had for it; but revenge lent me baith strength and speed. And when ye had anither bairn that was like to live, I forced a lassie, that some o' our folk had stolen when an infant, to bring it to us. Ye have got your daughter back again, but no before she has cost ye mony a sad heart and mony a saut tear; and that was some revenge. But the substance o' my satisfaction and revenge lies in what I hae to tell ye. Ye die this night as the sun gaes down; and, hearken to me now--the young soldier whom ye wounded on the streets o' Worcester, and who last night made you prisoner, was your son--your heir--your lost son! Ha! ha!--Clennel, am I revenged?" "My son!" screamed the prisoner--"monster, what is it that ye say? Strike me dead, now I am in your power--but torment me not!" "Ha! ha! ha!" again laughed the grey-haired savage--"man, ye are about to die, and ye know not ye are born. Ye have not heard half I have to tell. I heard that ye had joined the standard o' King Charles. I, a king in my ain right, care for neither your king nor parliament; but I resolved to wear, for a time, the cloth o' old Noll, and to make your son do the same, that I might hae an opportunity o' meeting you as an enemy, and seeing _him_ strike you to the heart. That satisfaction I had not; but I had its equivalent. Yesterday, I saw you shed his blood on the streets o' Worcester, and in the evening he gave you a prisoner into my hands that desired you." "Grey-haired monster!" exclaimed Clennel. "Have ye no feeling--no heart? Speak ye to torment me, or tell me truly, have I seen my son?" "Patience, man!" said the Faa, with a smile of sardonic triumph--"my story is but half finished. It was the blood o' your son ye shed yesterday at Worcester--it was your son who disarmed ye, and gave ye into my power; and, best o' a'!--now, hear me! hear me! lose not a word!--it is the hand o' your son that this night, at sunset, shall send you to eternity! Now, tell me, Clennel, am I no revenged? Do ye no rue it?" "Wretch! wretch!" cried the miserable parent, "in mercy strike me dead. If I have raised my sword against my son, let that suffice ye!--but spare, oh, spare my child from being an involuntary parricide!" "Hush, fool!" said the Faa; "I have waited for this consummation o' my revenge for twenty years, and think ye that I will be deprived o' it now by a few whining words? Remember, sunset!" he added, and left the tent. Evening came, and the disk of the sun began to disappear behind the western hills. Men and women, the old and the young, amongst the Faas, came out from their encampment to behold the death of their enemy. Clennel was brought forth between two, his hands fastened to his sides, and a bandage round his mouth, to prevent him making himself known to his executioner. A rope was also brought round his body, and he was tied to the trunk of an old ash tree. The women of the tribe began a sort of yell or coronach; and their king, stepping forward, and smiling savagely in the face of his victim, cried aloud-- "Harry Faa! stand forth and perform the duty your tribe have imposed on you." A young man, reluctantly, and with a slow and trembling step, issued from one of the tents. He carried a musket in his hand, and placed himself in front of the prisoner, at about twenty yards from him. "Make ready!" cried Willie Faa, in a voice like thunder. And the youth, though his hands shook, levelled the musket at his victim. But, at that moment, one who, to appearance, seemed a maniac, sprang from a clump of whins behind the ash tree where the prisoner was bound, and, throwing herself before him, she cried--"Hold!--would you murder your own father? Harry Clennel!--would you murder your father? Mind ye not when ye was stolen frae your mother's side, as ye gathered wild flowers in the wood?" It was Elspeth Faa. The musket dropped from the hands of the intended executioner--a thousand recollections, that he had often fancied dreams, rushed across his memory. He again seized the musket, he rushed forward to his father, but, ere he reached, Elspeth had cut the cords that bound the laird, and placed a dagger in his hand for his defence, and, with extended arms, he flew to meet the youth, crying--"My son!--my son!" The old Faa king shook with rage and disappointment, and his first impulse was to poniard his wife--but he feared to do so; for although he had injured her, and had not seen her for years, her influence was greater with the tribe than his. "Now, Willie," cried she, addressing him, "wha rues it now? Fareweel for ance and a'--and the bairn I brought up will find a shelter for my auld head." It were vain to tell how Clennel and his son wept on each other's neck, and how they exchanged forgiveness. But such was the influence of Elspeth, that they departed from the midst of the Faas unmolested, and she accompanied them. Imagination must picture the scene when the long-lost son flung himself upon the bosom of his mother, and pressed his sister's hand in his. Clennel Hall rang with the sounds of joy for many days; and, ere they were ended, Andrew Smith placed a ring upon the finger of Susan, and they became one flesh--she a respectable woman. And old Elspeth lived to the age of ninety and seven years beneath its roof. KATE KENNEDY; OR, THE MAID OF INNERKEPPLE. Innerkepple was, some three hundred years ago, as complete a fortification as could be seen along the Borders--presenting its bastions, its turrets and donjon, and all the appurtenances of a military strength, in the face of a Border riever, with that solemn air of defiance that belongs to the style of the old castles. Many a blow of a mangonel it had received; and Scotch and English engines of war had, with equal force and address, poured into its old grey ribs their destructive bolts; every wound was an acquisition of glory; and, unless where a breach demanded a repair for the sake of security, the scars on the old warrior were allowed to remain as a proof of his prowess. Indeed, these very wounds appearing on the walls had their names--being christened after the leaders of the sieges that had been in vain directed against it; and, among the number, the kings of England might have been seen indicated by the futile instruments of vengeance they had flung into the rough ribs of old Innerkepple. But let us proceed. The proprietor, good Walter Kennedy, better known by the appellative of Innerkepple, was not unlike the old strength which he inhabited; being an old, rough, burly baron, on whose face Time had succeeded in making many impressions, notwithstanding of all the opposing energies of a soul that gloried, in all manner of ways, of cheating the old greybeard of his rights and clearing off _his scores_. As a good spirit is said to be like good old wine, getting softer and more balmy as it increases in age, old Innerkepple proved, by his good humour and jovial manners, the sterling qualities of his heart, which seemed, as he progressed in years, to swell in proportion as that organ in others shrivelled and decreased. He saw nothing in age but the necessity it imposes of having more frequent recourse to its great enemy, the grape; and that power he delighted to bow to, as he bent his head to empty the flagon which his forebear, Kenneth, got from the first King James, as a reward for his services against the house of Albany. Yet the good humour of the old baron was not that of the toper, which, produced by the bowl, would not exist but for its inspiring draught; the feeling of happiness and universal good-will lay at the bottom of the heart itself, and was only swelled into a state of glorious ebullition by the charm of the magic of the vine branch--the true Mercurial _caduceus_, the only true magic wand upon earth. Though the spirit of antiquarianism is seldom associated with the swelling affections of the heart that is dedicated to Momus, old Innerkepple had, notwithstanding, been able to combine the two qualities or powers. Sitting in his old wainscotted hall, over a goblet of spiced Tokay, there were three old subjects he loved to speculate upon; and these were--his old castle, with its chronicled wounds, where the Genius of War sat alongside of the "auld carle" Time, in grim companionship; secondly, the family tree of the Innerkepples--with himself, a good old branch, kept green by good humour and Tokay, at the further verge; and a small green twig, as slender as a lily stalk, issuing from the old branch--no other than the daughter of Innerkepple, the fair Kate Kennedy, a buxom damsel, of goodly proportions, and as merry, with the aid of health and young sparkling blood, as the old baron was with the spiced wine of Tokay; and, in the third place, there was the true legitimate study of the antiquary, the ancient wine itself, the mortal years of which he counted with an eye as bright as Cocker's over a triumphant solution. As this last subject grew upon him, he became inspired, like the old poet of Teos, and the rafters of Innerkepple rang to the sound of his voice, tuned to the air of "The Guidwife o' Tullybody," and fraught with the deeds, active and passive, of the barons of Innerkepple and their castle. The fair Katherine Kennedy inherited her father's good humour, and, maugre all the polishing and freezing influences of high birth, retained her inborn freedom of thought and action, heedless whether the contortion of the _buccæ_ in a broad laugh were consistent with the placidity of beauty, or the scream of the heart-excited risibility were in accordance with the formula of high breeding. Buxom in her person, and gay in her manners, she formed the most enchanting baggage of all the care-killing damsels of her day--the most exquisite ronion that ever chased Melancholy from her yellow throne on the face of Hypochondria, or threw the cracker of her persiflage into the midst of the crew of blue devils that bind down care-worn mortals by the bonds of _ennui_. She was no antiquary, even in the limited sense of her father's study of the science of cobwebs; being rather given to _neoterics_, or the science which teaches the qualities of things of to-day or yesterday. Age in all things she hated with a very good feminine spirit of detestation; and, following up her principles, she arrived at the conclusion that youth and beauty were two of the very best qualities that could be possessed by a lover. Her father's impassioned praises of the old branches of the tree of the Innerkepples--comprehending the brave Ludovick, who fell at Homildon, and the memorable Walter, who sold his life at the price of a score of fat Englishmen at the red Flodden--produced only her best and loudest laugh, as she figured to herself the folly of preferring the rugged trunk to the green branches that suspend at their points the red-cheeked apple full of sweetness and juice. Neither cared the hilarious damsel much for the reverend turrets of Innerkepple. Her father's description, full of good humour as it was, of the various perils they had passed, and the service they had done their country, seemed to her, as she stood on the old walls, listening to the narrative, like the croak of the old corbies that sat on the pinnacles; and her laugh came again full of glee through the loopholes, or echoed from the battered curtain or recesses of the ballium. That such a person as merry old Innerkepple should have a bitter and relentless foe in the proprietor of the old strength called Otterstone, in the neighbourhood, is one of the most instructive facts connected with the system of war and pillage that prevailed on the Borders, principally during the reign of Henry VIII. of England and James V. of Scotland, when the spirit of religion furnished a cause of aggression that could not have been afforded by the pugnacious temperaments of the victims of attack. Magnus Fotheringham of Otterstone had had a deadly feud with Kenneth Kennedy, the father of the good old Innerkepple, and ever since had nourished against his neighbour a deadly spite, which he had taken many means of gratifying. His opponent had acted merely on the defensive; but his plea had been so well vindicated by his retainers, who loved him with the affection of children, that the splenetic aggressor had been twice repulsed with great slaughter. Most readily would the jovial baron, who had never given any cause of offence, have seized upon the demon of Enmity, and, _obtorto collo_, forced the fiend into the smoking flagon of spiced wine, while he held out the hand of friendship to his hereditary foe; but such was Otterstone's inveteracy, that he would not meet him but with arms in his hands, so that all the endeavours of the warm-hearted and jolly Innerkepple to overcome the hostility of his neighbour, were looked upon as secret modes of wishing to entrap him, and take vengeance on him for his repeated attacks upon the old castle. Some short time previous to the period about which we shall become more interested, Innerkepple, with twenty rangers, was riding the marches of his property, when he was set upon by his enemy, who had nearly twice that number of retainers. Taking up with great spirit the plea of their lord, the men who were attacked rallied round the old chief, and fought for him like lions, drowning (perhaps purposely) in the noise of the battle the cries of Innerkepple, who roared, at the top of his voice-- "Otterstone, man--hear me!--A pint o' my auld Canary will do baith you and me mair guid than a' that bluid o' your men and mine. Stop the fecht, man. I hae nae feud against you, an' I'm no answerable for the wrangs o' thy father Kenneth." These peaceful words were lost amidst the sounds of the battle, and Otterstone construed the contortions of the peacemaker into indications of revenge, and his bawling was set down as his mode of inspiriting his followers. The fight accordingly progressed, old Innerkepple at intervals holding up a white handkerchief as a sign of peace; but which, having been used by him in stopping the wounds of one of his men, was received with its blood-marks as a signal of revenge, both by his men and those of the aggressor. The strife accordingly increased, and all was soon mixed up in the confusion of the melée. "Has feud ran awa wi' yer senses, Otterstone?" again roared the good old baron. "I'll gie yer son, wha's at St. Omers, the hand o' my dochter Kate. Do you hear me, man? If you will mix the bluids o' oor twa houses, let it be dune by Haly Kirk." His words never reached Otterstone; but his own men who adored and idolized their beautiful young mistress, whose unvaried cheerfulness and kindness had won their hearts, heard the proposition of their master with astonishment and dissatisfaction. They were still sorely pressed by their enemy, who, seeing the stained handkerchief in the hands of Innerkepple, were roused to stronger efforts. At this moment an extraordinary vision met their eyes. A detachment of retainers from the castle came forward in the most regular warlike array, having at their head their young mistress, armed with a helmet and a light jerkin, and bearing in her hand a sword of suitable proportions. A loud shout from the worsted combatants expressed their satisfaction and surprise, and in a moment the assistant corps joined their friends, and commenced to fight. The unusual vision relaxed for a moment the energies of Otterstone's men; but a cry from their chief, that they would that day be ten times vanquished if they were defeated by a female leader, again inspired them, and instigated them to the fight. "Press forward, brave vassals of Innerkepple!" cried Katherine. "Your foes have no fair damsel to inspire them; and who shall resist those whose arms are nerved in defence of an old chief and a young mistress? He who kills the greatest number of Otterstone's men shall have the privilege of demanding a woman's guerdon from Katherine Kennedy. If this be not enough to make ye fight like lions, ye deserve to be hung in chains on the towers of Otterstone." Smiling as she uttered her strange speech, she hurried to her father, who was still making all the efforts in his power to bring about a parley. He had got within a few yards of Otterstone, and it required all the energies of Katherine to keep him back and defend him from insidious blows--an office she executed with great agility, by keeping her light sword whirling round her head, and inflicting wounds--not perhaps of great depth--on those who were ungallant and temerarious enough to approach her parent. "See, Otterstone, man," cried the laird, still intent on peace, and sorry for the deadly work that was going on around him. "Is she no fit to mak heirs to Otterstone? Up wi' yer helm, Kate, and show him yer fair face. Ha! man, stop this bluidy work, and let us mend a' by a carousal. Deil's in the heart and stamack o' the man that prefers warring to wassailing!" "He does not hear you, father," cried Kate. "We must defend ourselves. On, brave followers! Ye know your guerdon. Gallant knights have kneeled for it and been refused it. You are to fight for it, and to receive it. Hurrah for Innerkepple!" And she swung her light falchion round her head, while the war-cry of the family, "_Festina lente!_" arose in answer to her inspiriting appeal, and the men rushed forward with new ardour on their foes. "You are as bluid-thirsty as he is, Kate," cried the baron. "What mean ye, woman? Haste ye up to Otterstone, and fling yer arms round his neck, and greet a guid greet, according to the fashion o' womankind. Awa! haste ye, and say, mairower, that ye'll be the wife o' his son, and join the twa baronies that are gaping for ane anither. Quick, woman; tears are mere water--thin aneuch, Gude kens!--but thae men's bluid is thicker than my vintage o' the year '90." "Katherine Kennedy never yet wept either to friend or foe, unless in the wild glee of her frolics," replied the maiden. "By the bones of Camilla! I thought I was only fit for sewing battle scenes on satin, and laughing as I killed a knight with my needle; but I find I have the Innerkepple blood in my veins, and my cheek is glowing like a blood-red rose. Take care of yourself, good father, and leave the affair to me. A single glance of my eye has more power in it than the command of the proudest baron of the Borders. On, good hearts!" And she again rode among the men, and inspired them with her voice and looks. The effect of the silvery tones of the voice of Katherine on the hearts of her father's retainers was electric; they fought like lions, and it soon became apparent to Otterstone that a woman is a more dangerous enemy than a man. The cry, "For the fair maid of Innerkepple!" resounded among the combatants, and soon exhibited greater virtue than the war-cry of the house. Against men actuated by the chivalrous feelings that naturally arose out of the defence of a beautiful woman, all resistance was vain; the ranks of Otterstone's men were broken, and this advantage having been seized by their opponents, whose energies were rising every moment, as the sound of Katherine's voice saluted their ears, a route ensued, and the usual consequences of that last resource of the vanquished--flight--were soon apparent in the wounded victims, who fell ingloriously with wounds on their backs. The pursuers were inclined to continue the pursuit even to the walls of Otterstone, but Katherine called them back. "To slay the flying," said she, with a laugh, as the usual hilarity of her spirits returned upon her, "is what I call effeminate warfare. When men flee, women pursue; and what get they for their pains more than the wench got from Theseus, whom she hunted for his heart, and got, as our hunters do, the kick of his heel? Away, and carry in our disabled, that I may, with woman's art, cure the wounds that have been received in defence of a woman." The men obeyed with alacrity, and Innerkepple himself stared in amazement at his daughter, who had always before appeared to him as a wild romp, fit only for killing men with her beauty, or tormenting them with the elfin tricks or bewitching waggeries of her restless salient spirit. "I'll hae ye in the wainscotted ha', Kate," said the father, as he entered his private chamber, leaning on the arm of his daughter, "painted wi' helm, habergeon, and halberd, and placed alongside o' Lewie o' Homildon and Watt o' Flodden." "I care not, father," replied Katherine, "if you give the painter instructions to paint me laughing at those famous progenitors of our house, who were foolish enough to give their lives for that glory I can purchase for nothing, and get the lives of my enemies to boot; but I must go and minister to the gallant men who have been wounded." "Minister first to your father, Kate," replied Innerkepple, with a knowing look. "And to your father's daughter, you would add," replied she, with a smile. "A bridal and a battle lack wine." And, hastening to a cupboard, she took out and placed on the table a flagon and two cups, the latter of which she filled. "Rest to the souls of the men I have slain!" said she, laughing, as she lifted the wine cup to her head, while her father was performing the same act. "What! did ye kill ony o' Otterstone's men?" said Innerkepple. "Every time I lifted up my visor," replied she, "I scattered death around me. Ha! ha! what fools men are! Their bodies are tenantless; we women are the souls that live outside of them, and take up our residence within their clayey precincts only when we have an object to serve. The tourney has taught me the power of our sex; and there I have thrown my spirit into the man I hated, to gratify my humour by seeing him, poor caitiff! as he caught my hazel eye, writhe and wring, and contort himself into all the attitudes of Proteus." "Wicked imp!" said Innerkepple, laughing. "And when he had sufficiently twisted himself," continued she, "I have, with a grave face given the same hazel eye to his opponent, and set his body in motion in the same way. The serpent-charmer is nothing to a woman. By this art, I to-day gained the victory; and I'll stake my auburn toupée against thy grey wig, that I beat, in the same way, the boldest baron of the Borders." "By the faith o' Innerkepple, ye're no blate, Kate!" said the old baron, still laughing; "but come, let us see our wounded men"--taking his daughter's arm. "Leave their wounds to me, father," said she. "The sting of the tarantula is cured by an old song. We women are the true leeches; doctors are quacks and medicasters to us. We kill and cure like the Delphic sword, which makes wounds and heals them by alternate strokes." "Ever at your quips, roisterer," said Innerkepple, as they arrived at the court. The wounded men had been brought in, and were consigned to the care of one of the retainers, skilled in medicine, Katherine's medicaments--her looks and tones--being reserved for a balsamic application, after the wounds were cicatrized. The other retainers were, meanwhile, busy in consultation, as might have been seen by their congregating into parties, talking low, and throwing looks at Innerkepple and his fair daughter, as they stood on the steps of the inner door of the castle. "The guerdon! the guerdon!" at last said one of the vassals, advancing and throwing himself at the feet of Kate. "Ha! ha! I forgot," replied she laughing; "but turn up thy face--art thou the man?" "So say my companions, fair leddy," replied he. "I brocht doon wi' this arm five o' Otterstone's men." "With that arm!" replied she, "and what spirit nerved the dead lumber, thinkest thou?" "Dootless yours, fair leddy," answered he, smiling knowingly; "but, though the spirit was borrowed, I'm no the less entitled to my reward." "A good stickler for the rights of your sex," answered she, keeping up the humour; "but what guerdon demandest thou?" "That whilk knights hae sued in vain for at your fair feet," answered the man, smiling, as he uttered nearly the words she had used at the battle. "Caught in my own snare," replied she, laughing loudly. "Ah, Kate, Kate!" said the baron, joining in the humour, "hoo mony gallant barons, and knights, and gentlemen hae ye tormented by thae fair lips o' yours, which carry in their cunnin' words a defence o' themsels sae weel contrived that nane daur approach them! Ye're caught at last. Stand to yer richts, man. A kiss was promised ye, and by the honour o' Innerkepple, a kiss ye'll hae, if I should haud her head by a grip o' her bonny auburn locks." "Hold! hold!" cried Katherine; "this matter dependeth on the answer to a question. Art thou married, sirrah?" The man hesitated, fearful of being caught by his clever adversary. "Have a care o' yoursel, Gregory," said Innerkepple, "ye're on dangerous ground." "What if I am or am not?" said the man, cautiously, turning up his eye into the face of the wicked querist. "If thou art not," said she, "then would a kiss of so fair a damsel be to thee beyond the value of a croft of the best land o' the barony o' Innerkepple; but if thou art, then would the guerdon be as nothing to the kiss of thy wife, and as the weight of a feather in the scale against an oxengate of good land." "I'm no married," replied the man; "but, an't please yer leddyship, I'll take the oxengate." "Audacious varlet!" cried Kate, rejoicing in the adroitness she exhibited; "wouldst thou prefer a piece of earth to a kiss of Kate Kennedy--a boon which the gayest knights of the Borders have sued for in vain! But 'tis well--thou hast refused the guerdon. Ha! ha! Men of Innerkepple, ye are witnesses to the fact. This man hath spurned my guerdon, and sought dull earth for my rosy lips." "We are witnesses," cried the retainers; and the court-yard rang with the laugh which the cleverness of their fair mistress had elicited from those who envied Gregory of his privilege. "Kate, Kate!" said the old baron, joining in the laugh, "will ever mortal be able to seize what are sae weel guarded? I believe ye will be able to argue yer husband oot o' his richts o' proving whether thae little traitors be made of mortal flesh or ripe cherries. But wine is better than women's lips; and since Kate has sae cleverly got quit o' her obligation, I'll mak amends by gieing ye a _surrogatum_." Several measures of good old wine were served out to the men by the hands of Katherine, who rejoiced in the contradiction of refusing one thing to give a better. Her health, and that of Innerkepple, were drunk with loud shouts of approbation; and the wassail was kept up till a late hour of the night. Meanwhile, Otterstone was struggling with his disappointment, and nourishing a deep spirit of revenge. The shame of his defeat, accomplished by a girl, was insufferable; and the gnawing pain of the loss of honour and men, in a cause where he had calculated securely on crushing his supposed enemy, affected him so severely, that he sent, it was reported, for his son, who had lived from his infancy at St. Omers, to come over to administer to him consolation. When Innerkepple heard of these things, he marvelled greatly at the stubbornness of his neighbour, whom he wished, above all things, to drag, _nolente volente_, into a deep wassail in the old wainscotted hall of his castle, whereby he might drown, with reason itself, all their hereditary grudges, and transform a foe into a friend. These feelings were also participated in by the warlike Kate, who acknowledged that she did not, on that memorable day, fight for anything on earth that she knew of, but the safety of her father, and the sheer glory of victory. She entertained the best possible feelings towards Otterstone, though she admitted, with a laugh, that if his men had not that day run for their lives, she would have fought till they and their lord lay all dead upon the field, and the glory of Otterstone was extinguished for ever. A considerable period that passed in quietness, seemed to indicate that the anger of the vanquished baron had escaped by the valves appointed by nature for freeing the liver of its redundant bile. Meanwhile, Innerkepple's universal love of mankind increased, as his friendship for the juice of the grape grew stronger and stronger, and his potations waxed deeper and deeper; so that he was represented, all over the Borders, as being the most jovial baron of his time. The fame of Kate also went abroad like fire-flaughts; but no one knew what to make of her--whether to set her down as a beautiful virago, or as a merry imp of sportive devilry, who fought her father's enemy with the same good-will she felt towards the lovers whom she delighted with her beauty and gaiety, and tormented by her cruel waggeries and wiles. This apparent quietness, and the consequent freedom from all danger, induced the old baron to comply with a request made to him by King James, to lend him forty of his followers, to aid in suppressing some disturbances caused by a number of outlawed reivers at that time ravaging the Borders. Katherine gave her consent to the measure; but she wisely exacted the condition that the men should not be removed to a greater distance from the castle than ten miles. When James' emissary asked her why she adjected this condition to her father's agreement, she answered, with that waggish mystery in which she often loved to indulge, that she had such a universal love for his--the emissary's--sex, that she could not suffer the idea of her gallant men being further removed from her than the distance on which she had condescended. A question for explanation only produced another wicked _quodlibet_; so that the royal messenger was obliged to be contented with a reason that sounded in his ears very like a contempt of royal authority--a circumstance for which she cared no more than she did for the mute expression of admiration of her beauty, that her quick eye detected on the face of the deputy. The men having been detached from the castle for the service of the king, there remained only a small number, not more than sufficient for occupying the more important stations on the walls of the strength. There was, however, no cause for alarm; and old Innerkepple continued to speculate over his spiced Tokay, on his three grand subjects of antiquarian research; while Katherine followed her various occupations of listening to and laughing at his reveries, sewing battle scenes on satin, and killing her knights with her needle, in as many grotesque ways as her inventive fancy could devise. One day the sound of a horn cut right through the middle a long pull of Canary in the act of being perfected by the old baron's powers of swallow; and, in a short time, the warder came in and said that a wine merchant, with sumpter mules and panniers, was at the end of the drawbridge, and had expressed a strong desire to submit his commodity to the test of such a famous judge of the spirit of the grape as the baron of Innerkepple, whose name had gone forth as transcending that of all modern wine-drinkers. "A wine merchant!" ejaculated Innerkepple, smacking his lips after his interrupted draught of vintage '90. "What species o' sma' potation does he deal in? Ha! ha! It suits my humour to see the quack's een reel, as he finds his tongue and palate glued thegither wi' what I ca' wine, and gets them loosed again by his ain coloured water. Show him in, George." "Whar is my leddy, yer Honour?" said the seneschal, looking bluntly. "Will she consent to the drawbridge bein' raised at a time when the castle's nearly empty?" "She has just gane into the green parlour in the west tower," said the baron. "But I'll tak Kate in my ain hands. She likes fun as weel as her auld father, and will laugh to see this quack beaten wi' his ain bowls." The seneschal withdrew, though reluctantly, and casting his eyes about for the indispensable Katherine; but she was not within his reach, and he felt himself compelled, by the impatience of the old baron, to admit the merchant. The creaking hinges of the bridge resounded through the castle and the merchant and his mules were seen by Katherine, looking through a loophole, slowly making their way into the castle. It was too late for her now to consider of the propriety of the permission to enter; so she leant her chin on her hand, and quietly scanned the stranger, as he crossed the bridge, driving his mules before him with a large stick, which he brought down with a loud thwack on their backs--accompanying his act with a loud "Whoop, ho!" and occasionally throwing his eyes over the walls as he proceeded. "Whom have we here?" said she, as she communed with herself, and nodded her head, still apparent through the loophole. "By'r Lady! neither Gascon nor Fleming, or my eyes are no better than my father's, when he looks at _antiques_ through the red medium of his vintage of '90. Perchance, a lover come to run away with Kate Kennedy. Hey! the thought tickles my wild wits, and sends me on the wings of fancy into the regions of romance. Yet I have not read that the catching and carrying off of _Tartars_ hath anything to do with the themes of romantic love-errantry. I'm witty at the expense of this poor packman; but, seriously, Katherine Kennedy must carry off her lover. True to the difference that opposes me to the rest of my sex, I could not love a man whom I did not vanquish and abduct, as a riever does the chattels of the farmer." Continuing her gaze, as she laughed at her own strange thoughts, she saw the merchant bind his mules to a ring fixed in the inside of the wall, and take out of his panniers a vessel, with which he proceeded in the direction of the door that led to the hall. When the merchant had disappeared, she saw one of the retainers of the castle examining intently the mules and their panniers. He looked up and caught her eye; and placing his finger on his forehead, made a sign for her to come down. She obeyed with her usual alacrity, and in a moment was at the side of the retainer, who, slipping gently under the shade of the castle, so as to be out of the view of those within the hall, communicated to the ear of Katherine some intelligence of an important nature. The man looked grave; Kate snapped her fingers; the fire of her eyes glanced from the balls like the sparks of struck flint, and the expression of her countenance indicated that she had formed a purpose which she gloried in executing. "Hark ye, Gregory," said she; "I am still your debtor, but I require again your services." And, looking carefully around her, she whispered some words into the ear of the man; and, upon receiving his nod of intelligence and assent, sprung up the steps that led to the hall. The wine merchant was, as she entered, sitting at the oaken table, opposite to the old baron, who was holding up in his hand a species of glass jug, and looking through it with that peculiar expression which is only to be found in the face of a luxurious wine-toper in the act of passing sentence. "Wha, in God's name, are ye, man?" cried the baron, under the cover of whose speech Kate slipped cleverly up to the window, and sat down, with her cheek resting on her hand, in apparent listlessness, but eyeing intently the stranger. "I could have wad the picture o' my ancestor, Watt o' Flodden, or King Henry's turret, in the east wing o' Innerkepple, wi' its twenty wounds, mair precious than goold, that there wasna a cup o' vintage '90 in Scotland except what I had mysel. Whar got ye't, man? Are ye the Devil? Hae ye brocht it frae my ain cellars? Speak, Satan!" "Vy, _mon cher_ Innerkepple," replied the merchant, "did I not know that you were one grand biberon--I mean drinker of vin? It is known all over the marches--I mean the Bordures. Aha! no one Frenchman could cheat the famous Innerkepple; so I brought the best that was in all my celliers. Is it not grand and magnifique?" "Grand an' magnifique, man!" replied Innerkepple, as he sipped the wine with the gravity of a judge. "It's mair than a' that, man, if my tongue could coin a word to express its ain sense o' what it is at this moment enjoying. But the organ's stupified wi' sheer delight, and forgets its very mither's tongue; an' nae wonder, for my very een, that didna taste it, reel and get drunk wi' the sight." And the delighted baron took another pull of the goblet. "Aha! Innerkepple, you are von of the grandest biberons I have ever seen in all this contrée," said the merchant. "It is one great pleasir to trafique vit von so learned in the science of _bon gout_. That grand smack of your lips would tempt me to ruin myself, and drink mine own commodity." "Hae ye a stock o' the treasure?" said the baron; "I canna suppose it." "Just five barrils in my celliers at Berwick," answered the merchant, "containing quatre hundred pints de Paris in each one of them." "I could walk on my bare feet to Berwick to see it and taste it," said the baron; "but what clatter o' a horse's feet is that in the court, Kate?" "Ha! sure it is my mules," said the Frenchman, starting to his feet in alarm. "Oh! keep your seat, Monsieur Merchant," cried Kate, laughing and looking out of the window. "Can a lady not despatch her servitor to Selkirk for a pair of sandals, that should this day have been on my feet in place of in Gilbert Skinner's hands, without raising folks from their wine?" The Frenchman was satisfied, and retook his seat; but the baron looked at Kate, as if at a loss to know what freak had now come into her inventive head. The letting down of the drawbridge, and the sound of the horse's feet passing along the sounding wood, verified her statement, but carried no conviction to the mind of Innerkepple. He had long ceased, however, the vain effort to understand the workings of his daughter's mind, and on the present occasion he was occupied about too important a subject to be interested in the vagaries of a madcap wench. "By the Virgin!" she said again, "my jennet will lose her own sandals in going for mine, if Gregory thus strikes the rowels into her sides." Covering, by these words, the rapid departure of the messenger, she turned her eyes to continue the study of the merchant, whom she watched with feline assiduity. The conversation was again resumed. "Five barrels, said ye, Monsieur?" resumed Innerkepple. "Let me see--that, wi' what I hae mysel, may see me out; but it will be a guid heir-loom to Kate's husband. What is the price?" "One merk the gallon of four pints de Paris," answered the merchant. ("Yet I see no marks of Otterstone about him," muttered Kate to herself. "How beautiful he is, maugre his disguise! Had he come on a message of love, in place of war, I would have taken him prisoner, and bound him with the rays of light that come from my languishing eyes.") "That's dear, man," said Innerkepple. "But ye're a cunning rogue; if I keep drinking at this rate, the price will sink as the flavour rises, and ye'll catch me, as men do gudgeons, by the tongue." "Aha! _mon cher_ Innerkepple," said the merchant, "you have von excellent humour of fun about ye. If I vere not _un pauvre merchand_, I would have one grand plaisir in getting _mouillé_--I mean drunk--vit you." ("Ha! my treacherous Adonis, art on that tack, with a foul wind in thy fair face?" was Kate's mental ejaculation. "If thou nearest thy haven, I am a worse pilot than Palinurus.") "Wi' wine like that before ane," responded the baron, "the topers alongside o' ye may be Frenchmen or Dutchmen, warriors or warlocks, wraiths or wassailers, merchants or mahouns--a's alike. It will put a soul into a ghaist, a yearning heart into a gowl, and a spirit o' nobility in the breast o' ane wha never quartered arms but wi' the fair anes o' flesh an' bluid that belang to his wife. I'll be oblivious o' a' warldly things before Kate's sandals come frae Selkirk; but yer price, man, I fear, will stick to me to the end." "I cannot make one deduction," said the merchant, "but I vill give to the men in the base-court one jolly debauch of very good vin, vich is in my hampers." ("The kaim of chanticleer is in the wind's eye," muttered Katherine. "Thou pointest nobly for the direction of treachery; but my sandals will be back from Selkirk long before I am obliged to march with thee to the prison of Otterstone.") "Weel, mak it a merk," said Innerkepple, "for five pints, an' a bouse to my retainers, wha are as muckle beloved by me as if they were my bairns; an' I will close wi' ye." "Vell, that is one covenant _inter nous_," said the merchant; "but I cannot return to Berwick until _demain_--I mean the morrow; and we vill have the long night for one jolly carousal. I vill go _sans delai_, and give the poor fellows, in the meantime, one leetle tasting of the grand cheer." ("Then I am too long here," muttered Kate. "Alexander told his men that the Persian stream was poisonous, to prevent them from stopping to drink, whereby they would have fallen into the hands of the enemy. One not less than he--ha! ha!--will save her men, by telling them there is treachery in the cup.") She descended instantly to the base-court, and, passing from one guard to another, she whispered in their ears certain instructions, which, by the nodding of their heads, they seemed to understand, while those she had not time to visit received from their neighbours the communication at second-hand, and thus, in a short space of time, she prepared the whole retainers for the part they were destined to play. She had scarcely finished this part of her operations, and got out of the court, when the wine merchant made his appearance on the steps leading to the hall. He nodded pleasantly to the men, and, proceeding to his mules, took out of one of the panniers a large vessel filled with wine. This he laid on the flagstones of the base-court, and alongside of it he placed a large cup. He then called out to the retainers to approach, and seemed pleased with the readiness with which they complied with his request. "Mine very good fellows," said he, "I have sold your master, Innerkepple, one grand quantity of vine; and he says I am under one obligation to treat you vit a hamper, for the sake of the grand affection he bears to you. You may drink as much as ever you vill please; and ven this is brought to one termination, I will supply you vit more." "We're a' under a suitable obligation to ye, sir," replied the oldest of the retainers, a sly, pawky Scotchman--"and winna fail to do credit to the present ye've sae nobly presented to us; but do ye no hear Innerkepple callin' for ye frae the ha'? Awa, sir, to the guid baron, and leave us to our carouse." "Ay," said another; "we'll inform ye when this is finished." "Finished!" said a third; "we'll be a' on oor backs before we see the end o't." "Aha! excellent jolly troup!" cried the merchant, delighted with this company. The voice of Katherine, who appeared on the steps leading to the hall, now arrested their attention. "My father is impatient for thee, good merchant," said she. "_Ma chere_ leddy," replied he, "I will be there _a present_." And, looking up to see that she had again disappeared--"Drink, my jolly mates," he continued. "It is the grand matiere, the _bon_ stuff, the excellent good liqueur. Aha! you will be so merry, and you know you have the consent of Innerkepple." "We'll be a' as drunk as bats," said he who spoke first, with a sly leer. "The Deil tak him wha has the beddin' o' us!" said another. "So say I," added half-a-dozen of voices. "Then I am the Deil's property," said the warder, "unless I am saved by the power o' the wine; and, by my faith, I'll no spare't." "Aha! very good! excellent joke!" cried the delighted merchant. "Drink, and shame the Diable, as we say in France. Wine comes from the gods, and is the grand poison of Beelzebub." And, after enjoying deep potations, the merchant returned to the hall, amidst the laughter and pretended applause of the men. The moment he had disappeared, Katherine got carried to the spot a measure filled with wine and water; and, having emptied in another vessel the contents of the merchant's hamper, the thin and innocuous potation was poured in to supply its place. The men assisted in the operation; and, all being finished, they began to carouse with great glee and jollity. "I said, my leddy, to the merchant, that we would be a' as drunk as bats," said one of the humorists; "and sure this is a fair beginning; for wha could stand drink o' this fearfu' strength?" "The Deil tak him wha has the beddin' o' us!" said the other, laughing, as he drank off a glass of the thin mixture. "Then I am the Deil's property," said the warder, "unless I am saved by the power o' this strong drink." And thus the men, encouraged by the smiles of Kate, who was, with great activity, conducting the ceremonies, seemed to be getting boisterous on the strength of the merchant's wine. Their jokes raised real laughter; and the noise of their mirth went up and entered into the hall, falling like incense on the heart of the merchant. Katherine, meanwhile, again betook herself to her station at the hall window, using assiduously both her eyes and ears; the former being directed to a dark fir plantation that stood to the left of the castle, and the latter occupied by the conversations of her father and the merchant. "My men," said Innerkepple, "seem to be following the example o' their master. They are gettin' noisy. I hope, Monsieur, ye were moderate in yer present. A castle-fu' o' drunk men is as bad as a headfu' o' intoxicated notions." ("Hurrah for the French merchant! Long life to him! May he continue as strong as his liquor!") "Aha! the jolly good fellows are feeling the sting of the spirit," said the merchant, with sparkling eyes. "Ungratefu' dogs!" rejoined Innerkepple; "I treat them as if they were my sons, and hear hoo they praise a stranger for a bellyfu' o' wine! My beer never produced sae muckle froth o' flattery. But this wine o' yours, Monsieur, drowns a' my indignation." ("Long life to Innerkepple and the fair Katherine!") "Now you are getting the grand adulation," said the Frenchman. "Ha! they are a jovial troup of good chaps, and deserve one grand potation; but I gave them only one leetle hamper, for fear they should get _mouillé_." "Very considerate, Monsieur, very prudent and kind," said the baron; "for twa-thirds o' my men are fechtin fer Jamie, and we hae a kittle neebor in Otterstone, whase son I hear has come hame frae St. Omers. By-the-by, saw ye the callant in France? They say he's sair ashamed o' the defeat o' his father by the generalship o' my dochter Kate." "Ha! did _ma chere_ leddy combattre Otterstone?" ejaculated the Frenchman, laughing. "Very good! ha! ha! ha! I did not know that, ven I sold him one quantity of vin yesterday; but I assure you, _mon cher_ Innerkepple, he is not at all your enemy, and his son did praise _ma chere_ leddy as the most magnificent vench in all the contrée." ("Excellently sustained," muttered Katherine to herself. "How I do love the roll of that dark eye, and the curl of that lip covered with the black moustache! Can so much beauty conceal a deadly purpose? But the 'magnificent vench' shall earn yet a better title to the soubriquet out of thy discomfiture, fair, deceitful, sweet devil.") "I only wish I had Otterstone whar you are, man," said Innerkepple, "wi' the liquor as sweet an' my bile nae bitterer. I would conquer him in better style than did my dochter, though, I confess, she man[oe]uvred him beautifully." ("Perdition to the faes o' Innerkepple! and, chief o' them, the fause Otterstone, the leddy-licked loon!") "Helas! The master and the men have the very different creeds," said the Frenchman, shrugging his shoulders; "but my vin is making the _bon_ companions choleric. Ha! ha!" ("It is--it is!" muttered Katherine, as she strained her eyes to catch the signal of a white handkerchief, that floated on the top of one of the trees in the fir-wood.) She now abruptly left the hall, and proceeded to the place in the court occupied by those who were wassailing on the coloured water she had brewed for them with her fair hands. They were busily occupied by the manifestations of their mirth, which was not altogether simulated. A cessation of the noise evinced the effect of her presence among those who deified her. "Up with the merry strain, my jolly revellers!" said she, smiling, and immediately "Bertram the Archer," in loud notes, rung in the ballium:-- "And Bertram held aloft the horn, Filled wi' the bluid-red wyne, And three times has he loudly sworn His luve he winna tyne. "My Anne sits on yon eastern tower, An' greets baith day and night, An' sorrows for her luver lost, An' right turned into might. "'Then hie ye all, my merry men, To yonder lordly ha'! An if they winna ope the gate, We'll scale the burly wa'. "'Hurra!' then shouted Bertram's men, And loudly they hae sworn, That they will right their gallant knigh Before the opening morn."[2] [2] Pinkerton gives only one verse of "Bertram the Archer," but Innerkepple's men did not require to be antiquaries. Under the cover of the noise of the song, which was sung with bacchanalian glee, Katherine communicated her farther instructions to the man who had assumed the principal direction; and, retreating quickly, lest the wine merchant should come out and surprise her, she left the revellers to continue their work. She was soon again at her post at the window. The boon companions within the hall were still busy with their conversation and their wine; and by this time the shades of evening had begun to darken the view from the castle, and envelop the towers in gloom; the rooks had retired to rest, the owls had taken up the screech note which pains the sensitive ear of night, and the bats were beginning to flap their leathern wings on the rough sides of the old walls. The sounds of the revellers in the court-yard began gradually to die away, and the strains of "Bertram the Archer" were limited to a weak repetition of the last lines, somewhat curtailed of their legitimate syllables:-- "And we will right our gallant knight Before the opening morn." These indications of the effect of the wine increased, till, by-and-by, all seemed to be muffled up in silence. The circumstance seemed to be noticed at once by the wine merchant; but he took no notice of it to Innerkepple whom he still continued to ply with the rich vintage. Kate's senses were all on the alert, and she watched every scene of the acting drama, set agoing by her own master mind. A noise was now heard at the door of the hall, as if some one wished to get in, but could not effect an opening. "Who's there?" cried Kate, as she proceeded to open the door. "It's me, your Leddyship's Honour," answered George, the seneschal, as he staggered, apparently in the last stage of drunkenness, into the hall. "What means this?" cried Innerkepple, rising up, and not very well able to stand himself. "The warder o' my castle in that condition, an' a' our lives dependin' on his prudence!" "Your Honour's maist forgiving pardon," said the warder. "I am come here, maist lordly Innerkepple"--hiccup--"to inform your Highness that a' the men o' the castle are lying in the base-court like swine. I am the only sober man in the hale menyie"--hic--hic. "But whar's the ferly? The strength o' the Frenchman's wine would have floored the strongest hensure o' the Borders"--hiccup--"an' I would hae been like the rest, if I hadna been the keeper o' the keys o' Innerkepple." ("As well as Roscius, George," muttered Kate, as she, with a smile, contemplated the actor.) "George, George, man," said the baron, "ye're just as bad as the rest. You've been ower guid to them, Monsieur; but this _mooliness_, as ye ca' it, has a' its dangers in thae times, when castles are surprised an' taen like sleepin' mawkins in bushes o' broom. Awa to yer bed ahint the gratin', man, an' sleep aff the wine, as fast as it is possible for a drunk man to do." George bowed, and staggered out of the hall, to betake himself to his couch. "Aha! this is one sad misadventure," said the merchant. "I did not know there vas half so much strength in this vin. Let us see the jolly topers, mon noble Innerkepple. It is one grand vision to a vendeur of good vin to see the biberons lying on the ground, all _mouillé_. Helas! I was very wrong; but mon noble baron will forgive the grand fault of liberality." The merchant rose, and, giving his arm to Innerkepple, who had some difficulty in steadying himself, proceeded towards the court, where they saw verified the report of the warder. The men were lying about the yard, apparently in a state of perfect insensibility. The wine measure was empty and overturned; several drinking horns lay scattered around; and everything betokened a deep debauch. "This maun hae been potent liquor," said the baron, taking up one of the cups, in which a few drops remained, and drinking it. "Ha! man, puir gear after a'. A man micht drink three gallons o't, and dance to the tune o' Gilquhisker after he has finished. What's the meaning o' this?" "Aha! your tongue is _mouillé_, mon noble Innerkepple," said the merchant. "It may be sae," replied the baron; "but it wasna made mooly, as ye denominate it, by drink like that. I canna understand it, Monsieur." As he stood musing on the strange circumstance, he caught, by the light of a torch, the eye of Kate at the window, and felt his bewilderment increased by a leer in that dark bewitching orb, whose language appeared to him often--and never more so than at present--like Greek. His attention was next claimed by the merchant, who proposed that the men should be allowed to sleep out their inebriety where they lay. This proposition was reasonable; and it would, besides, operate as a proper punishment for their exceeding the limits of that prudence which their duty to their master required them to observe. The baron agreed to it, and, seeking again the support of the Frenchman's arm, he returned to the hall. The night was now fast closing in. An old female domestic had placed lamps in the hall, and some supper was served up to the baron and the merchant. Kate retired, as she said, to her couch; but it may be surmised that an antechamber received her fair person, where she had something else to do than to sleep. The loud snoring of the men in the court-yard was heard distinctly, mixing with the screams of the owls that perched on the turrets. The two biberons sat down to partake of the supper, and prepare their stomachs, as Innerkepple said, for another bouse of the grand liquor. The conduct of the two carousers now assumed aspects very different from each other. The baron was gradually getting more easy and comfortable, while the merchant displayed an extreme restlessness and anxiety. The praises of his wine fell dead upon his ear, and the jokes of the good Innerkepple seemed to have become vapid and tiresome to him. "That's a grand chorus in the court-yard, Monsieur," said the baron. "Singing, snoring, groaning, are the three successive acts o' the wassailers. They would have been better engaged eating their supper. Yah! I'm gettin' sleepy, Monsieur." "Helas! helas!" ejaculated the merchant. "You prick my memory, mon noble Innerkepple. My poor mules! They have got no souper. Ah! cruel master that I am to forget the _pauvre_ animals that have got no language to tell their wants." ("So, so--the time approaches," ejaculated Kate, mentally, as she watched behind the door.) "Pardon me, _mon cher_ baron," he continued, "I vill go and give them one leetle feed, and return to you _a present_. I have got beans in my hampers." "Humanity needs nae pardon, man," replied the baron, nodding with sleep. "Awa and feed the puir creatures; but tak care an' no tramp on an' kill ony o' my brave men in yer effort to save the lives o' yer mules." "Never fear," said the other, taking from his pocket a small lantern, which he lighted. "Travellers stand in grand need of this machine," he continued. "I will return on the instant." He now left the baron to his sleep, and crept stealthily along the passage to the door leading to the court. He was followed, unseen, by Katherine, who watched every motion. He felt some difficulty in avoiding the men, who still lay on the ground; but with careful steps he reached the wall, and suddenly sprung on the parapet. "Prepare!" whispered Katherine into the ears of the prostrate retainers; "the time approaches." While thus engaged, she kept her eye upon the dark shadow of the merchant, and saw with surprise a blue light flash up from the top of the wall, and throw its ominous glare on the surrounding objects. A scream of the birds on the castle walls announced their wonder at the strange vision, and Katherine concluded that the merchant had thus produced his signal from some phosphorescent mixture, which he had ignited by the aid of the lantern. The light was followed instantly by a shrill blast of a horn. With a bound he reached the floor of the court, and, hastening to the warder's post, threw off the guard of the wheel, and, with all the art and rapidity of a seneschal, prepared for letting down the bridge. All was still as death; there seemed to be no interruption to his proceedings; but he started as he saw the rays of a lamp thrown from a loophole over his head, upon that part of the moat which the bridge covered. He had gone too far to recede, the creaking of the hinges grated, and down came the bridge with a hollow sound. A rush was now heard as of a body of men pressing forward to take possession of the passage; and tramp, tramp came the sounds of the marching invaders over the hollow-sounding wood. All was still silent within the castle, and the sound of the procession continued. In an instant, a dense, dark body issued from the fir-wood, and rushed with heavy impetuous force on the rear of the corps that were passing into the castle; and, simultaneously with that movement, the whole body of the men within the castle pressed forward to the end of the bridge, and met the front of the intruders, who were thus hedged in by two forces that had taken them by surprise, in both front and rear. "Caught in our own snare!" cried the voice of old Otterstone. "Disarm them," sounded shrilly from the lips of Katherine Kennedy. And a scuffle of wrestling men sent its fearful, deathlike sound through the dark ballium. The strife was short and comparatively silent. The men who had rushed from the wood, and who were no other than the absent retainers of Innerkepple, coming from behind, and those within the strength meeting them in front, produced such an alarm in the enclosed troops, that the arms were taken from their hands as if they had been struck with palsy. Every two men seized their prisoner, while some holding burning torches came running forward, to show the revengeful baron the full extent of his shame. Ranged along the court, the spectacle presented by the prisoners was striking and grotesque. Their eyes sought in surprise the form of a female, who, with a sword in one hand and a torch in the other, stood in front of them, as the genius of their misfortune. The hall door was now opened, where the old baron still sat sound asleep in his chair, unconscious of all these proceedings. The prisoners were led into the spacious apartment, and ranged along the sides in long ranks. Innerkepple rubbed his eyes, stared, rubbed them again, and seemed lost in perfect bewilderment. All was conducted in dumb show. The proud and revengeful Otterstone was placed alongside of the good baron, his enemy; and Kate smiled as she contemplated the strange looks which the two rivals threw upon each other. "Right happy am I," said Katherine, coming forward in the midst of the assembly, "to meet my good friends, the noble Otterstone and his men, in my father's hall, under the auspices of a healing friendship. Father, I offer thee the hand of Otterstone. Otterstone, I offer thee the hand of Innerkepple. Ye have long been separated by strife and war, though, on the one side, there was always a good feeling of generous kindliness, opposed to a bitterness that had no cause, and a revenge that knew no excuse. Born nobles and neighbours, educated civilized men, and baptized Christians, why should ye be foes? but, above all, why should the one strike with the sword of war the hand that has held out to him the wine-cup? My father has ever been thy friend, noble Otterstone, and thou hast ever been his foe. How is this? Ah! I know it. Thou wert ignorant, noble guest, of my good father's generous and friendly feelings, and I have taken this opportunity of introducing you to each other, that ye may mutually come to the knowledge of each other's better qualities and intentions." "What, in the name o' heaven, means a' this, Kate?" ejaculated Innerkepple, in still unsubdued amazement. "Am I dreamin', or am I betrayed? Whar is the wine merchant? Hoo cam ye here, Otterstone? Am I a prisoner in my ain castle, and my ain men and dochter laughing at my misfortune? But ye spoke o' friendship, Kate. Is it possible, Otterstone, ye hae repented o' yer ill will, and come to mak amends for past grievances?" "Thou hast heard him, Otterstone," said Kate. "Wilt thou still refuse the hand?" The chief hesitated; but the good-humoured looks of Innerkepple melted him, and he held out the right hand of good-fellowship to the old baron, who seized it cordially, and shook it heartily. "Now," said Kate, "we must seal this friendship with a cup of wine. Bring in the wine merchant." The Frenchman was produced by the warder, along with the remaining hampers of the wine that had been left in the court-yard. As may have been already surmised, he was no other than the son of old Otterstone. Surprised and confounded by all these proceedings, he stood in the midst of the company, looking first at his father, and then at Innerkepple, without forgetting Kate, who stood like a majestic queen, enjoying the triumph of her spirit and ingenuity. Above all things, he wondered at the smile of good humour in the face of his father; and his surprise knew no bounds when he saw every one around as well pleased as if they had been convened for the ends of friendship. "Hector," said old Otterstone, looking at his son, "the game is up. This maiden has outwitted us, and we are caught in our own snare. Off with thy disguise, and show this noble damsel that thou art worthy of her best smiles." Hector obeyed, and took off his wig, and the clumsy habiliments that covered his armour, and stood in the midst of the assembly, a young man of exquisite beauty. "The wine merchant, Hector Fotheringham!" cried Innerkepple. "Ah, Kate, Kate! is this the way ye bring yer lovers to Innerkepple ha'?--in the shape o' a wine merchant--the only form o' the Deevil I wad like to see on this earth? Ha! ye baggage, weel do ye ken hoo to get at the heart o' your faither. But whar was the use o' secresy, woman? And you, Hector, man, I needed nae bribe o' Tokay to be friendly to the lover o' my dochter. A fine youth--a fine youth. Surely, surely, this man was made for my dochter Kate." "And thy daughter Kate was made for him," cried Otterstone. The retainers of both houses shouted applause, and the hall rang with the noise. The wine, which was intended for deception and treachery, was circulated freely, and opened the hearts of the company. Innerkepple was ready again for his Tokay, and, lifting a large goblet to his head-- "To the union o' the twa hooses!" cried he. "And I wish I had twenty dochters, and Otterstone as mony sons, that they micht a' be married thegither; but, on this condition, that the bridegrooms should a' come in the shape o' wine merchants." "Hurra, hurra!" shouted the retainers. The night was spent in good humour and revelry. All was restored; and, in a short time, the two houses were united by the marriage of Hector Fotheringham and Katherine Kennedy. RECOLLECTIONS OF FERGUSON.[3] CHAPTER I. "Of Ferguson, the bauld and slee."--BURNS. [3] The perusal of this paper, written at an early period by the lamented Hugh Miller, cannot fail to suggest some reflections on the fate of the author himself and that of the poet he describes. It would be simply fanciful to draw from his choice of subject, and the sympathy he manifests for the victim of insanity, any conclusion of a felt affinity of mental type on his part. We would presently get into the obscure subject of presentiments. It is true that Hugh Miller wrote poetry, and was thus subject to the Nemesis; but we insist for no more than a case of coincidence, leaving to psychologists to settle the question of the alleged connection between certain poetical types of mind and eventual madness--cases of which are so plentifully recorded in Germany.--_Ed._ I have, I believe, as little of the egotist in my composition as most men; nor would I deem the story of my life, though by no means unvaried by incident, of interest enough to repay the trouble of either writing or perusing it, were it the story of my own life only; but, though an obscure man myself, I have been singularly fortunate in my friends. The party-coloured tissue of my recollections is strangely interwoven, if I may so speak, with pieces of the domestic history of men whose names have become as familiar to our ears as that of our country itself; and I have been induced to struggle with the delicacy which renders one unwilling to speak much of one's self, and to overcome the dread of exertion natural to a period of life greatly advanced, through a desire of preserving to my countrymen a few notices, which would otherwise be lost to them, of two of their greatest favourites. I could once reckon among my dearest and most familiar friends, Robert Burns and Robert Ferguson. It is now rather more than sixty years since I studied for a few weeks at the University of St. Andrew's. I was the son of very poor parents, who resided in a seaport town on the western coast of Scotland. My father was a house-carpenter, a quiet, serious man, of industrious habits and great simplicity of character, but miserably depressed in his circumstances, through a sickly habit of body: my mother was a warm-hearted, excellent woman, endowed with no ordinary share of shrewd good sense and sound feeling, and indefatigable in her exertions for my father and the family. I was taught to read at a very early age, by an old woman in the neighbourhood--such a person as Shenstone describes in his "Schoolmistress;" and, being naturally of a reflective turn, I had begun, long ere I had attained my tenth year, to derive almost my sole amusement from books. I read incessantly; and after exhausting the shelves of all the neighbours, and reading every variety of work that fell in my way--from "The Pilgrim's Progress" of Bunyan, and the Gospel Sonnets of Erskine, to a treatise on fortification by Vauban, and the "History of the Heavens" by the Abbé Pluche--I would have pined away for lack of my accustomed exercise, had not a benevolent baronet in the neighbourhood, for whom my father occasionally wrought, taken a fancy to me, and thrown open to my perusal a large and well-selected library. Nor did his kindness terminate until, after having secured to me all of learning that the parish school afforded, he had settled me, now in my seventeenth year, at the University. Youth is the season of warm friendships and romantic wishes and hopes. We say of the child, in its first attempts to totter along the wall, or when it has first learned to rise beside its mother's knee, that it is yet too weak to stand alone; and we may employ the same language in describing a young and ardent mind. It is, like the child, too weak to stand alone, and anxiously seeks out some kindred mind on which to lean. I had had my intimates at school, who, though of no very superior cast, had served me, if I may so speak, as resting-places, when wearied with my studies, or when I had exhausted my lighter reading; and now, at St. Andrew's, where I knew no one, I began to experience the unhappiness of an unsatisfied sociality. My schoolfellows were mostly stiff, illiterate lads, who, with a little bad Latin and worse Greek, plumed themselves mightily on their scholarship; and I had little inducement to form any intimacies among them; for, of all men, the ignorant scholar is the least amusing. Among the students of the upper classes, however, there was at least one individual with whom I longed to be acquainted. He was apparently much about my own age, rather below than above the middle size, and rather delicately than robustly formed; but I have rarely seen a more elegant figure or more interesting face. His features were small, and there was what might perhaps be deemed a too feminine delicacy in the whole contour; but there was a broad and very high expansion of forehead, which, even in those days, when we were acquainted with only the phrenology taught by Plato, might be regarded as the index of a capacious and powerful mind; and the brilliant light of his large black eyes, seemed to give earnest of its activity. "Who, in the name of wonder, is that?" I inquired of a class-fellow, as this interesting-looking young man passed me for the first time. "A clever, but very unsettled fellow from Edinburgh," replied the lad; "a capital linguist, for he gained our first bursary three years ago; but our Professor says he is certain he will never do any good. He cares nothing for the company of scholars like himself; and employs himself--though he excels, I believe, in English composition--in writing vulgar Scotch rhymes, like Allan Ramsay. His name is Robert Ferguson." I felt, from this moment, a strong desire to rank among the friends of one who cared nothing for the company of such men as my class-fellow, and who, though acquainted with the literature of England and Rome, could dwell with interest on the simple poetry of his native country. There is no place in the neighbourhood of St. Andrew's where a leisure hour may be spent more agreeably than among the ruins of the Cathedral. I was not slow in discovering the eligibilities of the spot; and it soon became one of my favourite haunts. One evening, a few weeks after I had entered on my course at college, I had seated myself among the ruins in a little ivied nook fronting the setting sun, and was deeply engaged with the melancholy Jaques in the forest of Ardennes, when, on hearing a light footstep, I looked up, and saw the Edinburgh student whose appearance had so interested me, not four yards away. He was busied with his pencil and his tablets, and muttering, as he went, in a half audible voice, what, from the inflection of the tones, seemed to be verse. On seeing me, he started, and apologizing, in a few hurried but courteous words, for what he termed the involuntary intrusion, would have passed; but, on my rising and stepping up to him, he stood. "I am afraid, Mr. Ferguson," I said, "'tis I who owe _you_ an apology; the ruins have long been yours, and I am but an intruder. But you must pardon me; I have often heard of them in the west, where they are hallowed, even more than they are here, from their connection with the history of some of our noblest Reformers; and, besides, I see no place in the neighbourhood where Shakspeare can be read to more advantage." "Ah," said he, taking the volume out of my hand, "a reader of Shakspeare and an admirer of Knox. I question whether the heresiarch and the poet had much in common." "Nay, now, Mr. Ferguson," I replied, "you are too true a Scot to question that. They had much, very much in common. Knox was no rude Jack Cade, but a great and powerful-minded man; decidedly as much so as any of the nobler conceptions of the dramatist--his Cæsars, Brutuses, or Othellos. Buchanan could have told you that he had even much of the spirit of the poet in him, and wanted only the art; and just remember how Milton speaks of him in his "Areopagitica." Had the poet of "Paradise Lost" thought regarding him as it has become fashionable to think and speak now, he would hardly have apostrophized him as--_Knox, the reformer of a nation--a great man animated by the spirit of God_." "Pardon me," said the young man, "I am little acquainted with the prose writings of Milton; and have, indeed, picked up most of my opinions of Knox at second-hand. But I have read his _merry_ account of the murder of Beaton, and found nothing to alter my preconceived notions of him, from either the matter or manner of the narrative. Now that I think of it, however, my opinion of Bacon would be no very adequate one, were it formed solely from the extract of his history of Henry VII., given by Kaimes in his late publication.--Will you not extend your walk?" We quitted the ruins together, and went sauntering along the shore. There was a rich sunset glow on the water, and the hills that rise on the opposite side of the Frith stretched their undulating line of azure under a gorgeous canopy of crimson and gold. My companion pointed to the scene:--"These glorious clouds," he said, "are but wreaths of vapour; and these lovely hills, accumulations of earth and stone. And it is thus with all the past--with the past of our own little histories, that borrows so much of its golden beauty from the medium through which we survey it--with the past, too, of all history. There is poetry in the remote--the bleak hill seems a darker firmament, and the chill wreath of vapour a river of fire. And you, sir, seem to have contemplated the history of our stern Reformers through this poetical medium, till you forget that the poetry was not in them, but in that through which you surveyed them." "Ah, Mr. Ferguson," I replied, "you must permit me to make a distinction. I acquiesce fully in the justice of your remark; the analogy, too, is nice and striking, but I would fain carry it a little further. Every eye can see the beauty of the remote; but there is a beauty in the near--an interest, at least--which every eye cannot see. Each of the thousand little plants that spring up at our feet, has an interest and beauty to the botanist; the mineralogist would find something to engage him in every little stone. And it is thus with the poetry of life--all have a sense of it in the remote and the distant; but it is only the men who stand high in the art--its men of profound science--that can discover it in the near. The _mediocre_ poet shares but the commoner gift, and so he seeks his themes in ages or countries far removed from his own; while the man of nobler powers, knowing that all nature is instinct with poetry, seeks and finds it in the men and scenes in his immediate neighbourhood. As to our Reformers"---- "Pardon me," said the young poet; "the remark strikes me, and, ere we lose it in something else, I must furnish you with an illustration. There is an acquaintance of mine, a lad much about my own age, greatly addicted to the study of poetry. He has been making verses all his life-long; he began ere he had learned to write them even; and his judgment has been gradually overgrowing his earlier compositions, as you see the advancing tide rising on the beach and obliterating the prints on the sand. Now, I have observed, that, in all his earlier compositions, he went far from home; he could not attempt a pastoral without first transporting himself to the vales of Arcady; or an ode to Pity or Hope, without losing the warm living sentiment in the dead, cold, personifications of the Greek. The Hope and Pity he addressed were, not the undying attendants of human nature, but the shadowy spectres of a remote age. Now, however, I feel that a change has come over me. I seek for poetry among the fields and cottages of my own land. I--a--a--the friend of whom I speak----But I interrupted your remark on the Reformers." "Nay," I replied, "if you go on so, I would much rather listen than speak. I only meant to say that the Knoxes and Melvilles of our country have been robbed of the admiration and sympathy of many a kindred spirit, by the strangely erroneous notions that have been abroad regarding them for at least the last two ages. Knox, I am convinced, would have been as great as Jeremy Taylor, had he not been greater." We sauntered along the shore till the evening had darkened into night, lost in an agreeable interchange of thought, "Ah!" at length exclaimed my companion, "I had almost forgotten my engagement, Mr. Lindsay; but it must not part us. You are a stranger here, and I must introduce you to some of my acquaintance. There are a few of us--choice spirits, of course--who meet every Saturday evening at John Hogg's; and I must just bring you to see them. There may be much less wit than mirth among us; but you will find us all sober when at the gayest; and old John will be quite a study for you." CHAPTER II. "Say, ye red gowns that aften here, Hae toasted cakes to Katie's beer, Gin e'er thir days hae had their peer, Sae blythe, sae daft! Ye'll ne'er again in life's career, Sit half sae saft." _Elegy on John Hogg._ We returned to town; and, after threading a few of the narrower lanes, entered by a low door into a long dark room, dimly lighted by a fire. A tall thin woman was employed in skinning a bundle of dried fish at a table in a corner. "Where's the guidman, Kate?" said my companion, changing the sweet pure English in which he had hitherto spoken for his mother tongue. "John's ben in the spence," replied the woman. "Little Andrew, the wratch, has been makin' a totum wi' his faither's ae razor, an' the puir man's trying to shave himsel yonder, an' girnan like a sheep's head on the tangs." "Oh, the wratch! the ill-deedie wratch!" said John, stalking into the room in a towering passion, his face covered with suds and scratches--"I might as weel shave mysel wi' a mussel shillet. Rob Ferguson, man, is that you!" "Wearie warld, John," said the poet, "for a' oor philosophy." "Philosophy!--it's but a snare, Rob--just vanity an' vexation o' speerit, as Solomon says. An' isna it clear heterodox besides? Ye study an' study till your brains gang about like a whirligig; an' then, like bairns in a boat that see the land sailin', ye think it's the solid yearth that's turnin' roun'. An' this ye ca' philosophy; as if David hadna tauld us that the warld sits coshly on the waters, an' canna be moved." "Hoot, John," rejoined my companion, "it's no me, but Jamie Brown, that differs wi' you on these matters. I'm a Hoggonian, ye ken. The auld Jews were, doubtless, gran' Christians, an' wherefore no guid philosophers too? But it was cruel o' you to unkennel me this mornin' afore six, an' I up sae lang at my studies the nicht afore." "Ah, Rob, Rob!" said John--"studying in _Tam Dun's_ kirk. Ye'll be a minister, like a' the lave." "Mendin' fast, John," rejoined the poet. "I was in your kirk on Sabbath last, hearing worthy Mr. Corkindale; whatever else he may hae to fear, he's in nae danger o' '_thinking his ain thoughts_,' honest man." "In oor kirk!" said John; "ye're dune, then, wi' precentin' in yer ain--an' troth nae wonder. What could hae possessed ye to gie up the puir chield's name i' the prayer, an' him sittin' at yer lug?" I was unacquainted with the circumstance to which he alluded, and requested an explanation. "Oh, ye see," said John, "Rob, amang a' the ither gifts that he misguides, has the gift o' a sweet voice; an' naething else would ser' some o' oor Professors than to hae him for their precentor. They micht as weel hae thocht o' an organ--it wad be just as devout; but the soun's everything now, laddie, ye ken, an' the heart naething. Weel, Rob, as ye may think, was less than pleased wi' the job, an' tauld them he could whistle better than sing; but it wasna that they wanted, and sae it behoved him to tak his seat in the box. An' lest the folk should no be pleased wi' ae key to ae tune, he gied them, for the first twa or three days, a hale bunch to each; an' there was never sic singing in St. Andrew's afore. Weel, but for a' that it behoved him still to precent, though he has got rid o' it at last--for what did he do twa Sabbaths agone, but put up drucken Tarn Moffat's name in the prayer--the very chield that was sittin' at his elbow, though the minister couldna see him. An' when the puir stibbler was prayin' for the reprobate as weel's he could, ae half o' the kirk was needcessitated to come oot, that they micht keep decent, an' the ither half to swallow their pocket napkins. But what think ye"---- "Hoot, John, now, leave oot the moral," said the poet. "Here's a' the lads." Half a dozen young students entered as he spoke; and, after a hearty greeting, and when he had introduced me to them one by one, as a choice fellow of immense reading, the door was barred, and we sat down to half a dozen of home brewed, and a huge platter of dried fish. There was much mirth and no little humour. Ferguson sat at the head of the table, and old John Hogg at the foot. I thought of Eastcheap, and the revels of Prince Henry; but our Falstaff was an old Scotch Seceder, and our Prince a gifted young fellow, who owed all his influence over his fellows to the force of his genius alone. "Prithee, Hal," I said, "let us drink to Sir John." "Why, yes," said the poet, "with all my heart. Not quite so fine a fellow, though, 'bating his Scotch honesty. Half Sir John's genius would have served for an epic poet--half his courage for a hero." "His courage!" exclaimed one of the lads. "Yes, Willie, his courage, man. Do you think a coward could have run away with half the coolness? With a tithe of the courage necessary for such a retreat, a man would have stood and fought till he died. Sir John must have been a fine fellow in his youth." "In mony a droll way may a man fa' on the drap drink," remarked John; "an' meikle ill, dootless, does it do in takin' aff the edge o' the speerit--the mair if the edge be a fine razor edge, an' no the edge o' a whittle. I mind about fifty years ago, when I was a slip o' a callant,"---- "Losh, John!" exclaimed one of the lads, "hae ye been fechtin wi' the cats? sic a scrapit face!" "Wheesht," said Ferguson; "we owe the illustration to that, but dinna interrupt the story." "Fifty years ago, when I was a slip o' a callant," continued John, "unco curious, an' fond o' kennin everything, as callants will be,"---- "Hoot, John," said one of the students, interrupting him, "can ye no cut short, man? Rob promised last Saturday to gie us, 'Fie, let us a' to the bridal,' an' ye see the ale an' the nicht's baith wearin' dune." "The song, Rob, the song!" exclaimed half a dozen voices at once; and John's story was lost in the clamour. "Nay, now," said the good-natured poet, "that's less than kind; the auld man's stories are aye worth the hearing, an' he can relish the auld-warld fisher-sang wi' the best o' ye. But we maun hae the story yet." He struck up the old Scotch ditty, "Fie let us a' to the bridal," which he sung with great power and brilliancy; for his voice was a richly modulated one, and there was a fulness of meaning imparted to the words which wonderfully heightened the effect. "How strange it is," he remarked to me when he had finished, "that our English neighbours deny us humour! The songs of no country equal our Scotch ones in that quality. Are you acquainted with 'The Guidwife of Auchtermuchty?'" "Well," I replied; "but so are not the English. It strikes me that, with the exception of Smollet's novels, all our Scotch humour is locked up in our native tongue. No man can employ in works of humour any language of which he is not a thorough master; and few of our Scotch writers, with all their elegance, have attained the necessary command of that colloquial English which Addison and Swift employed when they were merry." "A braw redd delivery," said John, addressing me. "Are ye gaun to be a minister tae?" "Not quite sure yet," I replied. "Ah," rejoined the old man, "'twas better for the Kirk when the minister just made himsel ready for it, an' then waited till he kent whether it wanted him. There's young Rob Ferguson beside you,"-- "Setting oot for the Kirk," said the young poet, interrupting him, "an' yet drinkin' ale on Saturday at e'en wi' old John Hogg." "Weel, weel, laddie, it's easier for the best o' us to find fault wi' ithers than to mend oorsels. Ye have the head, onyhow; but Jamie Brown tells me it's a doctor ye're gaun to be, after a'." "Nonsense, John Hogg--I wonder how a man o' your standing"---- "Nonsense, I grant you," said one of the students; "but true enough for a' that, Bob. Ye see, John, Bob an' I were at the King's Muirs last Saturday, an ca'ed at the _pendicle_, in the passing, for a cup o' whey; when the guidwife tellt us there was ane o' the callants, who had broken into the milk-house twa nichts afore, lyin' ill o' a surfeit. 'Dangerous case,' said Bob; 'but let me see him; I have studied to small purpose if I know nothing o' medicine, my good woman.' Weel, the woman was just glad enough to bring him to the bedside; an' no wonder--ye never saw a wiser phiz in your lives--Dr. Dumpie's was naething till't; an', after he had sucked the head o' his stick for ten minutes, an' fand the loon's pulse, an' asked mair questions than the guidwife liked to answer, he prescribed. But, losh! sic a prescription! A day's fasting an' twa ladles o' nettle kail was the gist o't; but then there went mair Latin to the tail o' that, than oor neebor the Doctor ever had to lose." But I dwell too long on the conversation of this evening. I feel, however, a deep interest in recalling it to memory. The education of Ferguson was of a twofold character--he studied in the schools and among the people; but it was in the latter tract alone that he acquired the materials of all his better poetry; and I feel as if, for at least one brief evening, I was admitted to the privileges of a class-fellow, and sat with him on the same form. The company broke up a little after ten; and I did not again hear of John Hogg till I read his elegy, about four years after, among the poems of my friend. It is by no means one of the happiest pieces in the volume, nor, it strikes me, highly characteristic; but I have often perused it with an interest very independent of its merits. CHAPTER III. "But he is weak--both man and boy Has been an idler in the land."--WORDSWORTH. I was attempting to listen, on the evening of the following Sunday, to a dull, listless discourse--one of the discourses so common at this period, in which there was fine writing without genius, and fine religion without Christianity--when a person who had just taken his place beside me, tapped me on the shoulder, and thrust a letter into my hand. It was my newly-acquired friend of the previous evening; and we shook hands heartily under the pew. "That letter has just been handed me by an acquaintance from your part of the country," he whispered; "I trust it contains nothing unpleasant." I raised it to the light, and on ascertaining that it was sealed and edged with black, rose and quitted the church, followed by my friend. It intimated, in two brief lines that my patron, the baronet, had been killed by a fall from his horse a few evenings before; and that, dying intestate the allowance which had hitherto enabled me to prosecute my studies necessarily dropped. I crumpled up the paper in my hand. "You have learned something very unpleasant," said Ferguson. "Pardon me--I have no wish to intrude; but, if at all agreeable, I would fain spend the evening with you." My heart filled, and grasping his hand, I briefly intimated the purport of the communication, and we walked out together in the direction of the ruins. "It is, perhaps, as hard, Mr. Ferguson," I said, "to fall from one's hopes as from the place to which they pointed. I was ambitious--too ambitious, it may be--to rise from that level on which man acts the part of a machine, and tasks merely his body, to that higher level on which he performs the proper part of a rational creature, and employs only his mind. But that ambition need influence me no longer. My poor mother, too--I had trusted to be of use to her." "Ah, my friend," said Ferguson, "I can tell you of a case quite as hopeless as your own--perhaps more so. But it will make you deem my sympathy the result of mere selfishness. In scarce any respect do our circumstances differ." We had reached the ruins: the evening was calm and mild as when I had walked out on the preceding one; but the hour was earlier, and the sun hung higher over the hill. A newly-formed grave occupied the level spot in front of the little ivied corner. "Let us seat ourselves here," said my companion, "and I will tell you a story--I am afraid a rather tame one; for there is nothing of adventure in it, and nothing of incident; but it may at least show you that I am not unfitted to be your friend. It is now nearly two years since I lost my father. He was no common man--common neither in intellect nor in sentiment; but though he once fondly hoped it should be otherwise--for in early youth he indulged in all the dreams of the poet--he now fills a grave as nameless as the one before us. He was a native of Aberdeenshire; but held, latterly, an inferior situation in the office of the British Linen Company in Edinburgh, where I was born. Ever since I remember him, he had awakened too fully to the realities of life, and they pressed too hard on his spirits, to leave him space for the indulgence of his earlier fancies; but he could dream for his children, though not for himself; or, as I should perhaps rather say, his children fell heir to all his more juvenile hopes of fortune, and influence, and space in the world's eye;--and, for himself, he indulged in hopes of a later growth and firmer texture, which pointed from the present scene of things to the future. I have an only brother, my senior by several years, a lad of much energy, both physical and mental; in brief, one of those mixtures of reflection and activity which seem best formed for rising in the world. My father deemed him most fitted for commerce, and had influence enough to get him introduced into the counting-house of a respectable Edinburgh merchant. I was always of a graver turn--in part, perhaps, the effect of less robust health--and me he intended for the Church. I have been a dreamer, Mr. Lindsay, from my earliest years--prone to melancholy, and fond of books and of solitude; and the peculiarities of this temperament the sanguine old man, though no mean judge of character, had mistaken for a serious and reflective disposition. You are acquainted with literature, and know something, from books at least, of the lives of literary men. Judge, then, of his prospect of usefulness in any profession, who has lived, ever since he knew himself, among the poets. My hopes, from my earliest years, have been hopes of celebrity as a writer--not of wealth, or of influence, or of accomplishing any of the thousand aims which furnish the great bulk of mankind with motives. You will laugh at me. There is something so emphatically shadowy and unreal in the object of this ambition, that even the full attainment of it provokes a smile. For who does not know 'How vain that second life in others' breath, The estate which wits inherit after death!' And what can be more fraught with the ludicrous than a union of this shadowy ambition with _mediocre_ parts and attainments! But I digress. "It is now rather more than three years since I entered the classes here. I competed for a bursary, and was fortunate enough to secure one. Believe me, Mr. Lindsay, I am little ambitious of the fame of mere scholarship, and yet I cannot express to you the triumph of that day. I had seen my poor father labouring, far, far beyond his strength, for my brother and myself--closely engaged during the day with his duties in the bank, and copying at night in a lawyer's office. I had seen, with a throbbing heart, his tall wasted frame becoming tremulous and bent, and the grey hair thinning on his temples; and I now felt that I could ease him of at least part of the burden. In the excitement of the moment, I could hope that I was destined to rise in the world--to gain a name in it, and something more. You know how a slight success grows in importance when we can deem it the earnest of future good fortune. I met, too, with a kind and influential friend in one of the professors, the late Dr. Wilkie. Alas! good, benevolent man! you may see his tomb yonder beside the wall; and, on my return from St. Andrew's, at the close of the session, I found my father on his deathbed. My brother Henry--who had been unfortunate, and, I am afraid, something worse--had quitted the counting-house and entered aboard of a man-of-war as a common sailor; and the poor old man, whose heart had been bound up in him, never held up his head after. "On the evening of my father's funeral, I could have lain down and died. I never before felt how thoroughly I am unfitted for the world--how totally I want strength. My father, I have said, had intended me for the Church; and, in my progress onward from class to class, and from school to college, I had thought but little of each particular step, as it engaged me for the time, and nothing of the ultimate objects to which it led. All my more vigorous aspirations were directed to a remote future and an unsubstantial shadow. But I had witnessed, beside my father's bed, what had led me seriously to reflect on the ostensible aim for which I lived and studied; and the more carefully I weighed myself in the balance, the more did I find myself awanting. You have heard of Mr. Brown of the Secession, the author of the "Dictionary of the Bible." He was an old acquaintance of my father's; and, on hearing of his illness, had come all the way from Haddington to see him. I felt, for the first time, as kneeling beside his bed, I heard my father's breathings becoming every moment shorter and more difficult, and listened to the prayers of the clergyman, that I had no business in the Church. And thus I still continue to feel. 'Twere an easy matter to produce such things as pass for sermons among us, and to go respectably enough through the mere routine of the profession; but I cannot help feeling that, though I might do all this and more, my duty, as a clergyman, would be still left undone. I want singleness of aim--I want earnestness of heart. I cannot teach men effectually how to live well; I cannot show them, with aught of confidence, how they may die safe. I cannot enter the Church without acting the part of a hypocrite; and the miserable part of the hypocrite it shall never be mine to act. Heaven help me! I am too little a practical moralist myself to attempt teaching morals to others. "But I must conclude my story, if story it may be called:--I saw my poor mother and my little sister deprived, by my father's death, of their sole stay, and strove to exert myself in their behalf. In the daytime I copied in a lawyer's office; my nights were spent among the poets. You will deem it the very madness of vanity, Mr. Lindsay; but I could not live without my dreams of literary eminence. I felt that life would be a blank waste without them; and I feel so still. Do not laugh at my weakness, when I say I would rather live in the memory of my country than enjoy her fairest lands--that I dread a nameless grave many times more than the grave itself. But, I am afraid, the life of the literary aspirant is rarely a happy one; and I, alas! am one of the weakest of the class. It is of importance that the means of living be not disjoined from the end for which we live; and I feel that, in my case, the disunion is complete. The wants and evils of life are around me; but the energies through which those should be provided for, and these warded off, are otherwise employed. I am like a man pressing onward through a hot and bloody fight, his breast open to every blow, and tremblingly alive to the sense of injury and the feeling of pain, but totally unprepared either to attack or defend. And then those miserable depressions of spirits to which all men who draw largely on their imagination are so subject; and that wavering irregularity of effort which seems so unavoidably the effect of pursuing a distant and doubtful aim, and which proves so hostile to the formation of every better habit--alas! to a steady morality itself. But I weary you, Mr. Lindsay; besides, my story is told. I am groping onward, I know not whither; and, in a few months hence, when my last session shall have closed, I shall be exactly where you are at present." He ceased speaking, and there was a pause of several minutes. I felt soothed and gratified. There was a sweet melancholy music in the tones of his voice, that sunk to my very heart; and the confidence he reposed in me flattered my pride. "How was it," I at length said, "that you were the gayest in the party of last night?" "I do not know that I can better answer you," he replied, "than by telling you a singular dream which I had about the time of my father's death. I dreamed that I had suddenly quitted the world, and was journeying, by a long and dreary passage, to the place of final punishment. A blue, dismal light glimmered along the lower wall of the vault; and, from the darkness above, where there flickered a thousand undefined shapes--things without form or outline--I could hear deeply-drawn sighs, and long hollow groans and convulsive sobbings, and the prolonged moanings of an unceasing anguish. I was aware, however, though I knew not how, that these were but the expressions of a lesser misery, and that the seats of severer torment were still before me. I went on and on, and the vault widened, and the light increased, and the sounds changed. There were loud laughters and low mutterings, in the tone of ridicule; and shouts of triumph and exultation; and, in brief, all the thousand mingled tones of a gay and joyous revel. Can these, I exclaimed, be the sounds of misery when at the deepest? 'Bethink thee,' said a shadowy form beside me--'bethink thee if it be not so on earth.' And as I remembered that it was so, and bethought me of the mad revels of shipwrecked seamen and of plague-stricken cities, I awoke. But on this subject you must spare me." "Forgive me," I said; "to-morrow I leave college, and not with the less reluctance that I must part from you. But I shall yet find you occupying a place among the _literati_ of our country, and shall remember, with pride, that you were my friend." He sighed deeply. "My hopes rise and fall with my spirits," he said; "and to-night I am melancholy. Do you ever go to buffets with yourself, Mr. Lindsay? Do you ever mock, in your sadder moods, the hopes which render you happiest when you are gay? Ah! 'tis bitter warfare when a man contends with Hope!--when he sees her, with little aid from the personifying influence, as a thing distinct from himself--a lying spirit that comes to flatter and deceive him. It is thus I see her to-night. "See'st thou that grave?--does mortal know Aught of the dust that lies below? 'Tis foul, 'tis damp, 'tis void of form-- A bed where winds the loathsome worm; A little heap, mouldering and brown, Like that on flowerless meadow thrown By mossy stream, when winter reigns O'er leafless woods and wasted plains: And yet that brown, damp, formless heap Once glowed with feelings keen and deep; Once eyed the light, once heard each sound Of earth, air, wave, that murmurs round. But now, ah! now, the name it bore, Sex, age, or form, is known no more. This, this alone, O Hope! I know, That once the dust that lies below, Was, like myself, of human race, And made this world its dwelling-place. Ah! this, when death has swept away The myriads of life's present day, Though bright the visions raised by thee, Will all my fame, my history be!" We quitted the ruins and returned to town. "Have you yet formed," inquired my companion, "any plan for the future?" "I quit St. Andrew's," I replied, "to-morrow morning. I have an uncle, the master of a West Indiaman, now in the Clyde. Some years ago I had a fancy for the life of a sailor, which has evaporated, however, with many of my other boyish fancies and predilections; but I am strong and active, and it strikes me there is less competition on sea at present than on land. A man of tolerable steadiness and intelligence has a better chance of rising as a sailor than as a mechanic. I shall set out, therefore, with my uncle on his first voyage." CHAPTER IV. "At first, I thought the swankie didna ill-- Again I glowr'd, to hear him better still; Bauld, slee, an' sweet, his lines mair glorious grew, Glow'd round the heart, an' glanc'd the soul out through." ALEXANDER WILSON. I had seen both the Indies and traversed the wide Pacific, ere I again set foot on the Eastern coast of Scotland. My uncle, the shipmaster, was dead, and I was still a common sailor; but I was light-hearted and skilful in my profession, and as much inclined to hope as ever. Besides, I had begun to doubt, and there cannot be a more consoling doubt when one is unfortunate, whether a man may not enjoy as much happiness in the lower walks of life as in the upper. In one of my later voyages, the vessel in which I sailed had lain for several weeks at Boston in North America--then a scene of those fierce and angry contentions which eventually separated the colonies from the mother country; and when in this place, I had become acquainted, by the merest accident in the world, with the brother of my friend the poet. I was passing through one of the meaner lanes, when I saw my old college friend, as I thought, looking out at me from the window of a crazy wooden building--a sort of fencing academy, much frequented, I was told, by the Federalists of Boston. I crossed the lane in two huge strides. "Mr. Ferguson," I said--"Mr. Ferguson," for he was withdrawing his head, "do you not remember me?" "Not quite sure," he replied; "I have met with many sailors in my time; but I must just see." He had stepped down to the door ere I had discovered my mistake. He was a taller and stronger-looking man than my friend, and his senior apparently by six or eight years; but nothing could be more striking than the resemblance which he bore to him, both in face and figure. I apologized. "But have you not a brother, a native of Edinburgh," I inquired, "who studied at St. Andrew's about four years ago?--never before, certainly, did I see so remarkable a likeness." --"As that which I bear to Robert?" he said. "Happy to hear it. Robert is a brother of whom a man may well be proud, and I am glad to resemble him in any way. But you must go in with me, and tell me all you know regarding him. He was a thin pale slip of a boy when I left Scotland--a mighty reader, and fond of sauntering into by-holes and corners; I scarcely knew what to make of him; but he has made much of himself. His name has been blown far and wide within the last two years." He showed me through a large waste apartment, furnished with a few deal seats, and with here and there a fencing foil leaning against the wall, into a sort of closet at the upper end, separated from the main room by a partition of undressed slabs. There was a charcoal stove in the one corner, and a truckle bed in the other; a few shelves laden with books ran along the wall; there was a small chest raised on a stool immediately below the window, to serve as a writing desk, and another stool standing beside it. A few cooking utensils scattered round the room, and a corner cupboard, completed the entire furniture of the place. "There is a certain limited number born to be rich, Jack," said my new companion, "and I just don't happen to be among them; but I have one stool for myself, you see, and, now that I have unshipped my desk, another for a visitor, and so get on well enough." I related briefly the story of my intimacy with his brother; and we were soon on such terms as to be in a fair way of emptying a bottle of rum together. "You remind me of old times," said my new acquaintance. "I am weary of these illiterate, boisterous, longsided Americans, who talk only of politics and dollars. And yet there are first-rate men among them too. I met, some years since, with a Philadelphia printer, whom I cannot help regarding as one of the ablest, best-informed men I ever conversed with. But there is nothing like general knowledge among the average class; a mighty privilege of conceit, however." "They are just in that stage," I remarked, "in which it needs all the vigour of an able man to bring his mind into anything like cultivation. There must be many more facilities of improvement ere the mediocritist can develop himself. He is in the egg still in America, and must sleep there till the next age.--But when last heard you of your brother?" "Why," he replied, "when all the world heard of him--with the last number of _Ruddiman's Magazine_. Where can you have been bottled up from literature of late? Why, man, Robert stands first among our Scotch poets." "Ah! 'tis long since I have anticipated something like that for him," I said; "but, for the last two years, I have seen only two books, Shakspeare and 'The Spectator.' Pray, do show me some of the magazines." The magazines were produced; and I heard, for the first time, in a foreign land and from the recitation of the poet's brother, some of the most national and most highly-finished of his productions. My eyes filled and my heart wandered to Scotland and her cottage homes, as, shutting the book, he repeated to me, in a voice faltering with emotion, stanza after stanza of the "Farmer's Ingle." "Do you not see it?--do you not see it all?" exclaimed my companion; "the wide smoky room, with the bright turf fire, the blackened rafters shining above, the straw-wrought settle below, the farmer and the farmer's wife, and auld grannie and the bairns. Never was there truer painting; and, oh, how it works on a Scotch heart! But hear this other piece." He read "Sandy and Willie." "Far, far ahead of Ramsay," I exclaimed. "More imagination, more spirit, more intellect, and as much truth and nature. Robert has gained his end already. Hurra for poor old Scotland!--these pieces must live for ever. But do repeat to me the 'Farmer's Ingle' once more." We read, one by one, all the poems in the magazine, dwelling on each stanza, and expatiating on every recollection of home which the images awakened. My companion was, like his brother, a kind, open-hearted man, of superior intellect; much less prone to despondency, however, and of a more equal temperament. Ere we parted, which was not until next morning, he had communicated to me all his plans for the future, and all his fondly cherished hopes of returning to Scotland with wealth enough to be of use to his friends. He seemed to be one of those universal geniuses who do a thousand things well, but want steadiness enough to turn any of them to good account. He showed me a treatise on the use of the sword, which he had just prepared for the press; and a series of letters on the stamp act, which had appeared, from time to time, in one of the Boston newspapers, and in which he had taken part with the Americans. "I make a good many dollars in these stirring times," he said. "All the Yankees seem to be of opinion that they will be best heard across the water when they have got arms in their hands, and have learned how to use them; and I know a little of both the sword and the musket. But the warlike spirit is frightfully thirsty, somehow, and consumes a world of rum; and so I have not yet begun to make rich." He shared with me his supper and bed for the night; and, after rising in the morning ere I awoke, and writing a long letter for Robert, which he gave me in the hope I might soon meet with him, he accompanied me to the vessel, then on the eve of sailing, and we parted, as it proved, for ever. I know nothing of his after life, or how or where it terminated; but I have learned that, shortly before the death of his gifted brother, his circumstances enabled him to send his mother a small remittance for the use of the family. He was evidently one of the kind-hearted, improvident few, who can share a very little, and whose destiny it is to have only a very little to share. CHAPTER V. "O Ferguson! thy glorious parts Ill suited law's dry, musty arts! My curse upon your whunstane hearts, Ye Embrugh gentry! The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes Wad stow'd his pantry!" BURNS. I visited Edinburgh, for the first time, in the latter part of the autumn of 1773, about two months after I had sailed from Boston. It was on a fine calm morning--one of those clear sunshiny mornings of October, when the gossamer goes sailing about in long cottony threads, so light and fleecy that they seem the skeleton remains of extinct cloudlets; and when the distant hills, with their covering of grey frost rime, seem, through the clear cold atmosphere, as if chiselled in marble. The sun was rising over the town through a deep blood-coloured haze--the smoke of a thousand fires; and the huge fantastic piles of masonry that stretched along the ridge, looked dim and spectral through the cloud, like the ghosts of an army of giants. I felt half a foot taller as I strode on towards the town. It was Edinburgh I was approaching--the scene of so many proud associations to a lover of Scotland; and I was going to meet as an early friend one of the first of Scottish poets. I entered the town. There was a book stall in a corner of the street; and I turned aside for half a minute to glance my eye over the books. "Ferguson's Poems!" I exclaimed, taking up a little volume. "I was not aware they had appeared in a separate form. How do you sell this?" "Just like a' the ither booksellers," said the man who kept the stall--"that's nane o' the buiks that come doun in a hurry--just for the marked selling price." I threw down the money. "Could you tell me anything of the writer?" I said. "I have a letter for him from America." "Oh, that'll be frae his brither Henry, I'll wad; a clever cheild too, but ower fond o' the drap drink, maybe, like Rob himsel'. Baith o' them fine humane chields, though, without a grain o' pride. Rob takes a stan' wi' me sometimes o' half an hour at a time, an' we clatter ower the buiks; an', if I'm no mista'en, yon's him just yonder--the thin, pale slip o' a lad wi' the broad brow. Ay, an' he's just comin' this way." "Anything new to-day, Thomas?" said the young man, coming up to the stall. "I want a cheap second-hand copy of Ramsay's 'Evergreen;' and, like a good man as you are, you must just try and find it for me." Though considerably altered--for he was taller and thinner than when at college, and his complexion had assumed a deep sallow hue--I recognised him at once, and presented him with the letter. "Ah! from brother Henry," said he, breaking it open, and glancing his eye over the contents. "What--_old college chum, Mr. Lindsay_!" he exclaimed, turning to me. "Yes, sure enough; how happy I am we should have met! Come this way--let us get out of the streets." We passed hurriedly through the Canongate and along the front of Holyrood-house, and were soon in the King's Park, which seemed this morning as if left to ourselves. "Dear me, and this is you yourself!--and we have again met, Mr. Lindsay!" said Ferguson; "I thought we were never to meet more. Nothing, for a long time, has made me half so glad. And so you have been a sailor for the last four years. Do let us sit down here in the warm sunshine, beside St. Anthony's Well, and tell me all your story, and how you happened to meet with brother Henry." We sat down, and I briefly related, at his bidding, all that had befallen me since we had parted at St. Andrew's, and how I was still a common sailor, but, in the main, perhaps, not less happy than many who commanded a fleet. "Ah, you have been a fortunate fellow," he said; "you have seen much and enjoyed much; and I have been rusting in unhappiness at home. Would that I had gone to sea along with you!" "Nay, now, that won't do," I replied. "But you are merely taking Bacon's method of blunting the edge of envy. You have scarcely yet attained the years of mature manhood, and yet your name has gone abroad over the whole length and breadth of the land, and over many other lands besides. I have cried over your poems three thousand miles away, and felt all the prouder of my country for the sake of my friend. And yet you would fain persuade me that you wish the charm reversed, and that you were just such an obscure salt-water man as myself!" "You remember," said my companion, "the story of the half-man, half-marble prince of the Arabian tale. One part was a living creature, one part a stone; but the parts were incorporated, and the mixture was misery. I am just such a poor unhappy creature as the enchanted prince of the story." "You surprise and distress me," I rejoined. "Have you not accomplished all you so fondly purposed--realized even your warmest wishes? And this, too, in early life. Your most sanguine hopes pointed but to a name, which you yourself perhaps was never to hear, but which was to dwell on men's tongues when the grave had closed over you. And now the name is gained, and you live to enjoy it. I see the _living_ part of your lot, and it seems instinct with happiness; but in what does the _dead_, the stony part, consist?" He shook his head, and looked up mournfully in my face; there was a pause of a few seconds. "You, Mr. Lindsay," he at length replied, "you who are of an equable steady temperament, can know little, from experience, of the unhappiness of the man who lives only in extremes, who is either madly gay or miserably depressed. Try and realize the feelings of one whose mind is like a broken harp--all the medium tones gone, and only the higher and lower left; of one, too, whose circumstances seem of a piece with his mind, who can enjoy the exercise of his better powers, and yet can only live by the monotonous drudgery of copying page after page in a clerk's office; of one who is continually either groping his way amid a chill melancholy fog of nervous depression, or carried headlong, by a wild gaiety, to all which his better judgment would instruct him to avoid; of one who, when he indulges most in the pride of superior intellect, cannot away with the thought that that intellect is on the eve of breaking up, and that he must yet rate infinitely lower in the scale of rationality than any of the nameless thousands who carry on the ordinary concerns of life around him." I was grieved and astonished, and knew not what to answer. "You are in a gloomy mood to-day," I at length said; "you are immersed in one of the fogs you describe; and all the surrounding objects take a tinge of darkness from the medium through which you survey them. Come, now, you must make an exertion, and shake off your melancholy. I have told you all my story, as I best could, and you must tell me all yours in return." "Well," he replied, "I shall, though it mayn't be the best way in the world of dissipating my melancholy. I think I must have told you, when at college, that I had a maternal uncle of considerable wealth, and, as the world goes, respectability, who resided in Aberdeenshire. He was placed on what one may term the table-land of society; and my poor mother, whose recollections of him were limited to a period when there is warmth in the feelings of the most ordinary minds, had hoped that he would willingly exert his influence in my behalf. Much, doubtless, depends on one's setting out in life; and it would have been something to have been enabled to step into it from a level like that occupied by my relative. I paid him a visit shortly after leaving college, and met with apparent kindness. But I can see beyond the surface, Mr. Lindsay, and I soon saw that my uncle was entirely a different man from the brother whom my mother remembered. He had risen, by a course of slow industry, from comparative poverty, and his feelings had worn out in the process. The character was case-hardened all over; and the polish it bore--for I have rarely met a smoother man--seemed no improvement. He was, in brief, one of the class content to dwell for ever in mere decencies, with consciences made up of the conventional moralities, who think by precedent, bow to public opinion as their god, and estimate merit by its weight in guineas." "And so your visit," I said, "was a very brief one?" "You distress me," he replied. "It should have been so; but it was not. But what could I do? Ever since my father's death I had been taught to consider this man as my natural guardian, and I was now unwilling to part with my last hope. But this is not all. Under much apparent activity, my friend, there is a substratum of apathetical indolence in my disposition: I move rapidly when in motion, but when at rest there is a dull inertness in the character, which the will, when unassisted by passion, is too feeble to overcome. Poor, weak creature that I am! I had sitten down by my uncle's fireside, and felt unwilling to rise. Pity me, my friend--I deserve your pity--but, oh, do not despise me!" "Forgive me, Mr. Ferguson," I said; "I have given you pain--but surely most unwittingly." "I am ever a fool," he continued; "but my story lags; and, surely, there is little in it on which it were pleasure to dwell. I sat at this man's table for six months, and saw, day after day, his manner towards me becoming more constrained and his politeness more cold; and yet I staid on, till at last my clothes were worn threadbare, and he began to feel that the shabbiness of the nephew affected the respectability of the uncle. His friend the soap-boiler, and his friend the oil-merchant, and his friend the manager of the hemp manufactory, with their wives and daughters--all people of high standing in the world--occasionally honoured his table with their presence, and how could he be other than ashamed of mine? It vexes me that I cannot even yet be cool on the subject--it vexes me that a creature so sordid should have so much the power to move me--but I cannot, I cannot master my feelings. He--he told me--and with whom should the blame rest, but with the weak, spiritless thing who lingered on in mean, bitter dependence, to hear what he had to tell?--he told me that all his friends were respectable, and that my appearance was no longer that of a person whom he could wish to see at his table, or introduce to any one as his nephew. And I had staid to hear all this! "I can hardly tell you how I got home. I travelled, stage after stage, along the rough dusty roads, with a weak and feverish body, and almost despairing mind. On meeting with my mother, I could have laid my head on her bosom and cried like a child. I took to my bed in a high fever, and trusted that all my troubles were soon to terminate; but, when the die was cast, it turned up life. I resumed my old miserable employments--for what could I else?--and, that I might be less unhappy in the prosecution of them, my old amusements too. I copied during the day in a clerk's office that I might live, and wrote during the night that I might be known. And I have in part, perhaps, attained my object. I have pursued and caught hold of the shadow on which my heart had been so long set; and if it prove empty, and untangible, and unsatisfactory, like every other shadow, the blame surely must rest with the pursuer, not with the thing pursued. I weary you, Mr. Lindsay; but one word more. There are hours when the mind, weakened by exertion, or by the teazing monotony of an employment which tasks without exercising it, can no longer exert its powers, and when, feeling that sociality is a law of our nature, we seek the society of our fellow-men. With a creature so much the sport of impulse as I am, it is of these hours of weakness that conscience takes most note. God help me! I have been told that life is short; but it stretches on, and on, and on before me; and I know not how it is to be passed through." My spirits had so sunk during this singular conversation, that I had no heart to reply. "You are silent, Mr. Lindsay," said the poet; "I have made you as melancholy as myself; but look around you, and say if ever you have seen a lovelier spot. See how richly the yellow sunshine slants along the green sides of Arthur's Seat, and how the thin blue smoke, that has come floating from the town, fills the bottom of yonder grassy dell, as if it were a little lake. Mark, too, how boldly the cliffs stand out along its sides, each with its little patch of shadow. And here, beside us, is St. Anthony's Well, so famous in song, coming gushing out to the sunshine, and then gliding away through the grass like a snake. Had the Deity purposed that man should be miserable, he would surely never have placed him in so fair a world. Perhaps much of our unhappiness originates in our mistaking our proper scope, and thus setting out from the first with a false aim." "Unquestionably," I replied, "there is no man who has not some part to perform; and, if it be a great and uncommon part, and the powers which fit him for it proportionably great and uncommon, nature would be in error could he slight it with impunity. See, there is a wild bee bending the flower beside you. Even that little creature has a capacity of happiness and misery; it derives its sense of pleasure from whatever runs in the line of its instincts, its experience of unhappiness from whatever thwarts and opposes them; and can it be supposed that so wise a law should regulate the instincts of only inferior creatures? No, my friend, it is surely a law of our nature also." "And have you not something else to infer?" said the poet. "Yes," I replied, "that you are occupied differently from what the scope and constitution of your mind demand; differently both in your hours of employment and of relaxation. But do take heart, you will yet find your proper place, and all shall be well." "Alas! no, my friend," said he, rising from the sward. "I could once entertain such a hope; but I cannot now. My mind is no longer what it was to me in my happier days, a sort of _terra incognita_, without bounds or limits. I can see over and beyond it, and have fallen from all my hopes regarding it. It is not so much the gloom of present circumstances that disheartens me, as a depressing knowledge of myself, an abiding conviction that I am a weak dreamer, unfitted for every occupation of life, and not less so for the greater employments of literature than for any of the others. I feel that I am a little man and a little poet, with barely vigour enough to make one half effort at a time, but wholly devoid of the sustaining will, that highest faculty of the highest order of minds, which can direct a thousand vigorous efforts to the accomplishment of one important object. Would that I could exchange my half celebrity--and it can never be other than a half celebrity--for a temper as equable and a fortitude as unshrinking as yours! But I weary you with my complaints; I am a very coward; and you will deem me as selfish as I am weak." We parted. The poet, sadly and unwillingly, went to copy deeds in the office of the commissary clerk, and I, almost reconciled to obscurity and hard labour, to assist in unloading a Baltic trader in the harbour of Leith. CHAPTER VI. "Speech without aim and without end employ."--CRABBE. After the lapse of nine months, I again returned to Edinburgh. During that period, I had been so shut out from literature and the world, that I had heard nothing of my friend the poet; and it was with a beating heart I left the vessel, on my first leisure evening, to pay him a visit. It was about the middle of July; the day had been close and sultry, and the heavens overcharged with grey ponderous clouds; and, as I passed hurriedly along the walk which leads from Leith to Edinburgh, I could hear the newly awakened thunder, bellowing far in the south, peal after peal, like the artillery of two hostile armies. I reached the door of the poet's humble domicile, and had raised my hand to the knocker, when I heard some one singing from within, in a voice by far the most touchingly mournful I had ever listened to. The tones struck on my heart; and a frightful suspicion crossed my mind, as I set down the knocker, that the singer was no other than my friend. But in what wretched circumstances! what fearful state of mind! I shuddered as I listened, and heard the strain waxing louder and yet more mournful, and could distinguish that the words were those of a simple old ballad:-- "O Marti'mas wind, when wilt thou blaw, An' shake the green leaves aff the tree? O gentle death, when wilt thou come, An' tak a life that wearies me?" I could listen no longer, but raised the latch and went in. The evening was gloomy, and the apartment ill lighted; but I could see the singer, a spectral-looking figure, sitting on a bed in the corner, with the bedclothes wrapped round his shoulders, and a napkin deeply stained with blood on his head. An elderly female, who stood beside him, was striving to soothe him, and busied from time to time in adjusting the clothes, which were ever and anon falling off, as he nodded his head in time to the music. A young girl of great beauty sat weeping at the bedfoot. "O dearest Robert," said the woman, "you will destroy your poor head; and Margaret your sister, whom you used to love so much, will break her heart. Do lie down, dearest, and take a little rest. Your head is fearfully gashed, and if the bandages loose a second time, you will bleed to death. Do, dearest Robert, for your poor old mother, to whom you were always so kind and dutiful a son till now--for your poor old mother's sake, do lie down." The song ceased for a moment, and the tears came bursting from my eyes as the tune changed, and he again sang:-- "O mither dear, make ye my bed, For my heart it's flichterin' sair; An' oh, gin I've vexed ye, mither dear, I'll never vex ye mair. I've staid ar'out the lang dark nicht, I' the sleet an' the plashy rain; But, mither dear, make ye my bed, An' I'll ne'er gang out again." "Dearest, dearest Robert," continued the poor, heart-broken woman, "do lie down; for your poor old mother's sake, do lie down." "No, no," he exclaimed, in a hurried voice, "not just now, mother, not just now. Here is my friend, Mr. Lindsay, come to see me--my true friend, Mr. Lindsay, the sailor, who has sailed all round and round the world; and I have much, much to ask him. A chair, Margaret, for Mr. Lindsay. I must be a preacher like John Knox, you know--like the great John Knox, the reformer of a nation--and Mr. Lindsay knows all about him. A chair, Margaret, for Mr. Lindsay." I am not ashamed to say it was with tears, and in a voice faltering with emotion, that I apologized to the poor woman for my intrusion at such a time. Were it otherwise, I might well conclude my heart had grown hard as a piece of the nether millstone. "I had known Robert at College," I said--"had loved and respected him; and had now come to pay him a visit, after an absence of several months, wholly unprepared for finding him in his present condition." And it would seem that my tears pled for me, and proved to the poor afflicted woman and her daughter, by far the most efficient part of my apology. "All my friends have left me now, Mr. Lindsay," said the unfortunate poet--"they have all left me now; they love this present world. We were all going down, down, down; there was the roll of a river behind us; it came bursting over the high rocks, roaring, rolling, foaming down upon us; and though the fog was thick and dark below--far below, in the place to which we were going--I could see the red fire shining through--the red, hot, unquenchable fire; and we were all going down, down, down. Mother, mother, tell Mr. Lindsay I am going to be put on my trials to-morrow. Careless creature that I am--life is short, and I have lost much time; but I am going to be put on my trials to-morrow, and shall come forth a preacher of the word." The thunder which had hitherto been muttering at a distance--each peal, however, nearer and louder than the preceding one--now began to roll overhead, and the lightning, as it passed the window, to illumine every object within. The hapless poet stretched out his thin wasted arm, as if addressing a congregation from the pulpit:-- "There were the flashings of lightning," he said, "and the roll of thunder; and the trumpet waxed louder and louder. And around the summit of the mountain were the foldings of thick clouds, and the shadow fell brown and dark over the wide expanse of the desert. And the wild beasts lay trembling in their dens. But, lo! where the sun breaks through the opening of the cloud, there is the glitter of tents--the glitter of ten thousand tents that rise over the sandy waste, thick as waves of the sea. And there, there is the voice of the dance and of the revel, and the winding of horns and the clash of cymbals. Oh, sit nearer me, dearest mother, for the room is growing dark, dark; and, oh, my poor head! 'The lady sat on the castle wa', Look'd ower baith dale and down, And then she spied Gil-Morice head Come steering through the town.' Do, dearest mother, put your cool hand on my brow, and do hold it fast ere it part. How fearfully--oh, how fearfully it aches!--and oh, how it thunders!" He sunk backward on the pillow, apparently exhausted. "Gone, gone, gone," he muttered; "my mind gone for ever. But God's will be done." I rose to leave the room; for I could restrain my feelings no longer. "Stay, Mr. Lindsay," said the poet, in a feeble voice; "I hear the rain dashing on the pavement; you must not go till it abates. Would that you could pray beside me!--but, no--you are not like the dissolute companions who have now all left me, but you are not yet fitted for that; and, alas! I cannot pray for myself. Mother, mother, see that there be prayers at my lykewake; for-- 'Her lykewake, it was piously spent In social prayer and praise, Performed by judicious men, Who stricken were in days. 'And many a heavy, heavy heart Was in that mournful place; And many a weary, weary thought On her who slept in peace.' They will come all to my lykewake, mother, won't they?--yes, all, though they have left me now. Yes, and they will come far to see my grave. I was poor, very poor, you know, and they looked down upon me; and I was no son or cousin of theirs, and so they could do nothing for me. Oh, but they might have looked less coldly! But they will all come to my grave, mother; they will come all to my grave; and they will say--'Would he were living now to know how kind we are!' But they will look as coldly as ever on the living poet beside them--yes, till they have broken his heart; and then they will go to his grave too. O dearest mother, do lay your cool hand on my brow." He lay silent and exhausted, and, in a few minutes, I could hope, from the hardness of his breathing, that he had fallen asleep. "How long," I inquired of his sister, in a low whisper, "has Mr. Ferguson been so unwell, and what has injured his head?" "Alas!" said the girl, "my brother has been unsettled in mind for nearly the last six months. We first knew it one evening on his coming home from the country, where he had been for a few days with a friend. He burnt a large heap of papers that he had been employed on for weeks before--songs and poems that his friends say were the finest things he ever wrote; but he burnt them all, for he was going to be a preacher of the word, he said, and it did not become a preacher of the word to be a writer of light rhymes. And, O sir! his mind has been carried ever since; but he has been always gentle and affectionate, and his sole delight has lain in reading the Bible. Good Dr. Erskine, of the Greyfriars, often comes to our house, and sits with him for hours together; for there are times when his mind seems stronger than ever, and he says wonderful things, that seem to hover, the minister says, between the extravagance natural to his present sad condition, and the higher flights of a philosophic genius. And we had hoped that he was getting better; but, O sir, our hopes have had a sad ending. He went out, a few evenings ago, to call on an old acquaintance; and, in descending a stair, missed footing, and fell to the bottom; and his head has been fearfully injured by the stones. He has been just as you have seen him ever since; and, oh! I much fear he cannot now recover. Alas! my poor brother!--never, never was there a more affectionate heart." CHAPTER VII. "A lowly muse! She sings of reptiles yet in song unknown." I returned to the vessel with a heavy heart; and it was nearly three months from this time ere I again set foot in Edinburgh. Alas! for my unfortunate friend! He was now an inmate of the asylum, and on the verge of dissolution. I was thrown, by accident, shortly after my arrival at this time, into the company of one of his boon companions. I had gone into a tavern with a brother sailor--a shrewd, honest skipper, from the north country; and, finding the place occupied by half a dozen young fellows, who were growing noisy over their liquor, I would have immediately gone out again, had I not caught, in the passing, a few words regarding my friend. And so, drawing to a side-table, I sat down. "Believe me," said one of the topers, a dissolute-looking young man, "it's all over with Bob Ferguson--all over; and I knew it from the moment he grew religious. Had old Brown tried to convert me, I would have broken his face." "What Brown?" inquired one of his companions. "Is that all you know?" rejoined the other. "Why, John Brown of Haddington, the Seceder. Bob was at Haddington last year, at the election; and, one morning, when in the horrors, after holding a rum night of it, who should he meet in the churchyard but old John Brown?--he writes, you know, a big book on the Bible. Well, he lectured Bob at a pretty rate, about election and the call, I suppose; and the poor fellow has been mad ever since. Your health, Jamie. For my own part, I'm a freewill man, and detest all cant and humbug." "And what has come of Ferguson now?" asked one of the others. "Oh, mad, sir, mad," rejoined the toper--"reading the Bible all day, and cooped up in the asylum yonder. 'Twas I who brought him to it.--But, lads, the glass has been standing for the last half-hour.--'Twas I and Jack Robinson who brought him to it, as I say. He was getting wild; and so we got a sedan for him, and trumped up a story of an invitation for tea from a lady, and he came with us as quietly as a lamb. But, if you could have heard the shriek he gave when the chair stopped, and he saw where we had brought him! I never heard anything half so horrible--it rang in my ears for a week after; and then, how the mad people in the upper rooms howled and gibbered in reply, till the very roof echoed! People say he is getting better; but, when I last saw him, he was as religious as ever, and spoke so much about heaven, that it was uncomfortable to hear him. Great loss to his friends, after all the expense they have been at with his education." "You seem to have been intimate with Mr. Ferguson," I said. "Oh, intimate with Bob!" he rejoined; "we were hand and glove, man. I have sat with him in Lucky Middlemass's, almost every evening, for two years; and I have given him hints for some of the best things in his book. 'Twas I who tumbled down the cage in the Meadows, and began breaking the lamps. 'Ye who oft finish care in Lethe's cup, Who love to swear and roar, and _keep it up_, List to a brother's voice, whose sole delight Is sleep all day, and riot all the night.' There's spirit for you! But Bob was never sound at bottom; and I have told him so. 'Bob,' I have said, 'Bob, you're but a hypocrite after all, man--without half the spunk you pretend to. Why don't you take a pattern by me, who fear nothing, and believe only the agreeable? But, poor fellow, he had weak nerves, and a church-going propensity that did him no good; and you see the effects. 'Twas all nonsense, Tom, of his throwing the squib into the Glassite meeting-house. Between you and I, that was a cut far beyond him in his best days, poet as he was. 'Twas I who did it, man, and never was there a cleaner row in auld Reekie." "Heartless, contemptible puppy!" said my comrade, the sailor, as we left the room. "Your poor friend must be ill, indeed, if he be but half as insane as his quondam companion. But he cannot: there is no madness like that of the heart. What could have induced a man of genius to associate with a thing so thoroughly despicable?" "The same misery, Miller," I said, "that brings a man _acquainted with strange bedfellows_." CHAPTER VIII. "O thou, my elder brother in misfortune, By far my elder brother in the muses, With tears I pity thy unhappy fate!"--BURNS. The asylum in which my unfortunate friend was confined, at this time the only one in Edinburgh, was situated in an angle of the city wall. It was a dismal-looking mansion, shut in on every side, by the neighbouring houses, from the view of the surrounding country; and so effectually covered up from the nearer street, by a large building in front, that it seemed possible enough to pass a lifetime in Edinburgh without coming to the knowledge of its existence. I shuddered as I looked up to its blackened walls, thinly sprinkled with miserable-looking windows, barred with iron, and thought of it as a sort of burial-place of dead minds. But it was a Golgotha, which, with more than the horrors of the grave, had neither its rest nor its silence. I was startled, as I entered the cell of the hapless poet, by a shout of laughter from a neighbouring room, which was answered from a dark recess behind me, by a fearfully prolonged shriek, and the clanking of chains. The mother and sister of Ferguson were sitting beside his pallet, on a sort of stone settle which stood out from the wall; and the poet himself, weak and exhausted, and worn to a shadow, but apparently in his right mind, lay extended on the straw. He made an attempt to rise as I entered; but the effort was above his strength, and, again lying down, he extended his hand. "This is kind, Mr. Lindsay," he said; "it is ill for me to be alone in these days; and yet I have few visitors, save my poor old mother and Margaret. But who cares for the unhappy?" I sat down on the settle beside him, still retaining his hand. "I have been at sea, and in foreign countries," I said, "since I last saw you, Mr. Ferguson, and it was only this morning I returned; but believe me there are many, many of your countrymen who sympathize sincerely in your affliction, and take a warm interest in your recovery." He sighed deeply. "Ah," he replied, "I know too well the nature of that sympathy. You never find it at the bedside of the sufferer--it evaporates in a few barren expressions of idle pity; and yet, after all, it is but a paying the poet in kind. He calls so often on the world to sympathize over fictitious misfortune, that the feeling wears out, and becomes a mere mood of the imagination; and, with this light, attenuated pity of his own weaving, it regards his own real sorrows. Dearest mother, the evening is damp and chill--do gather the bedclothes round me, and sit on my feet; they are so very cold and so dead, that they cannot be colder a week hence." "O Robert, why do you speak so?" said the poor woman, as she gathered the clothes round him, and sat on his feet. "You know you are coming home to-morrow." "To-morrow!" he said--"if I see to-morrow, I shall have completed my twenty-fourth year--a small part, surely, of the threescore and ten; but what matters it when 'tis past?" "You were ever, my friend, of a melancholy temperament," I said, "and too little disposed to hope. Indulge in brighter views of the future, and all shall yet be well." "I can now hope that it shall," he said. "Yes, all shall be well with me--and that very soon. But, oh, how this nature of ours shrinks from dissolution!--yes, and all the lower natures too. You remember, mother, the poor starling that was killed in the room beside us? Oh, how it struggled with its ruthless enemy, and filled the whole place with its shrieks of terror and agony. And yet, poor little thing! it had been true, all life long, to the laws of its nature, and had no sins to account for, and no judge to meet. There is a shrinking of heart as I look before me, and yet I can hope that all shall yet be well with me--and that very soon. Would that I had been wise in time! Would that I had thought more and earlier of the things which pertain to my eternal peace! more of a living soul, and less of a dying name! But, oh, 'tis a glorious provision, through which a way of return is opened up even at the eleventh hour!" We sat round him in silence; an indescribable feeling of awe pervaded my whole mind, and his sister was affected to tears. "Margaret," he said, in a feeble voice--"Margaret, you will find my Bible in yonder little recess; 'tis all I have to leave you; but keep it, dearest sister, and use it, and, in times of sorrow and suffering that come to all, you will know how to prize the legacy of your poor brother. Many, many books do well enough for life; but there is only one of any value when we come to die. "You have been a voyager of late, Mr. Lindsay," he continued, "and I have been a voyager too. I have been journeying in darkness and discomfort, amid strange unearthly shapes of dread and horror, with no reason to direct and no will to govern. Oh, the unspeakable unhappiness of these wanderings!--these dreams of suspicion, and fear, and hatred, in which shadow and substance, the true and the false, were so wrought up and mingled together, that they formed but one fantastic and miserable whole. And, oh! the unutterable horror of every momentary return to a recollection of what I had been once, and a sense of what I had become! Oh, when I awoke amid the terrors of the night--when I turned me on the rustling straw, and heard the wild wail and yet wilder laugh--when I heard and shuddered, and then felt the demon in all his might coming over me, till I laughed and wailed with the others--oh the misery! the utter misery!--But 'tis over, my friend--'tis all over; a few, few tedious days, a few, few weary nights, and all my sufferings shall be over." I had covered my face with my hands, but the tears came bursting through my fingers; the mother and sister of the poet sobbed aloud. "Why sorrow for me, sirs?" he said; "why grieve for me? I am well, quite well, and want for nothing. But 'tis cold; oh, 'tis very cold, and the blood seems freezing at my heart. Ah, but there is neither pain nor cold where I am going, and I trust it shall be well with my soul. Dearest, dearest mother, I always told you it would come to this at last." The keeper had entered to intimate to us that the hour for locking up the cells was already past, and we now rose to leave the place. I stretched out my hand to my unfortunate friend; he took it in silence, and his thin attenuated fingers felt cold within my grasp, like those of a corpse. His mother stooped down to embrace him. "Oh, do not go yet, mother," he said--"do not go yet--do not leave me; but it must be so, and I only distress you. Pray for me, dearest mother, and, oh, forgive me; I have been a grief and a burden to you all life-long; but I ever loved you, mother; and, oh, you have been kind, kind and forgiving--and now your task is over. May God bless and reward you! Margaret, dearest Margaret, farewell!" We parted, and, as it proved, for ever. Robert Ferguson expired during the night; and when the keeper entered the cell next morning, to prepare him for quitting the asylum, all that remained of this most hapless of the children of genius, was a pallid and wasted corpse, that lay stiffening on the straw. I am now a very old man, and the feelings wear out; but I find that my heart is even yet susceptible of emotion, and that the source of tears is not yet dried up. THE DISASTERS OF JOHNNY ARMSTRONG. Johnny Armstrong, the hero of our tale, was, and, for aught we know to the contrary, still is, an inhabitant of the town of Carlisle. He was a stout, thickset, little man, with a round, good-humoured, ruddy countenance, and somewhere about fifty years of age at the period to which our story refers. Although possessed of a good deal of natural shrewdness, Johnny was, on the whole, rather a simple sort of person. His character, in short, was that of an honest, well-meaning, inoffensive man, but with parts that certainly did not shine with a very dazzling lustre. Johnny was, to business, an ironmonger, and had, by patient industry and upright dealing, acquired a small independency. He had stuck to the counter of his little dingy shop for upwards of twenty years, and used to boast that, during all that time, he had opened and shut his shop with his own hands every day, not even excepting one. The result of this steadiness and attention to business was, as has been already said, a competency. Fortunately for Johnny, this propensity to stick fast--which he did like a limpet--was natural to him. It was a part of his constitution. He had no desire whatever to travel, or, rather, he had a positive dislike to it--a dislike, indeed, which was so great that, for an entire quarter of a century, he had never been three miles out of Carlisle. But when Johnny had waxed pretty rich, somewhat corpulent, and rather oldish, he was suddenly struck, one fine summer afternoon, as he stood at the door of his shop with his hands in his breeches pockets, (a favourite attitude,) with an amiable and ardent desire to see certain of his relations who lived at Brechin, in the north of Scotland; and--there is no accounting for these things--on that afternoon Johnny came to the extraordinary resolution of paying them a visit--of performing a journey of upwards of a hundred miles, even as the crow flies. It was a strange and a desperate resolution for a man of Johnny's peculiar temperament and habits; but so it was. Travel he would, and travel he did. On the third day after the doughty determination just alluded to had been formed, Johnny, swathed in an ample brown greatcoat, with a red comforter about his neck, appeared in the stable yard of the inn where most of the stage coaches that passed through Carlisle put up. Of these there were three: one for Dumfries, one for Glasgow, and one for Edinburgh--the latter being Johnny's coach; for his route was by the metropolis. We had almost forgotten to say that Johnny, who was a widower, was accompanied on this occasion by his son, Johnny junior, an only child, whom it was his intention to take along with him. The boy was about fourteen years of age, and though, upon the whole, a shrewd enough lad for his time of life, did not promise to be a much brighter genius than his father. In fact he was rather lumpish. On arriving at the inn yard--it was about eight o'clock at night, and pretty dark, being the latter end of September--Johnny Armstrong found the coach apparently about to start, the horses being all yoked; but the vehicle happened, at the moment he entered the yard, to be in charge of an ostler--not of either the guard or driver, who had both gone out of the way for an instant. Desirous of securing a good seat for his son, Johnny Armstrong opened the coach door, thrust the lad in, and was about to follow himself, when he discovered that he had forgotten his watch. On making this discovery, he banged too the coach door without saying a word, and hurried home as fast as his little, thick, short legs would allow him, to recover his time-piece. On his return, which was in less than five minutes, Johnny himself stepped into the vehicle, which was now crowded with passengers, and, in a few seconds, was rattling away at a rapid rate towards Edinburgh. The night was pitch dark, not a star twinkled; and it was not until Johnny arrived at his journey's end--that is, at Edinburgh--that he discovered his son was not in the coach, and had never been there at all. We will not attempt to describe Johnny's amazement and distress of mind on making this most extraordinary and most alarming discovery. They were dreadful. In great agitation, he inquired at every one of the passengers if they had not seen his son, and one and all denied they ever had. The thing was mysterious and perfectly inexplicable. "I put the boy into the coach with my own hands," said Johnny Armstrong, in great perturbation, to the guard and half crying as he spoke. "Very odd," said the guard. "Very odd, indeed," said Johnny. "Are you sure it was _our_ coach, Mr. Armstrong?" inquired the guard. The emphasis on the word _our_ was startling. It evidently meant more than met the ear; and Johnny felt that it did so, and he was startled accordingly. "_Your_ coach?" he replied, but now with some hesitation of manner. "It surely was. What other coach could it be?" "Why, it may have been the Glasgow coach," said the guard; "and I rather think it _must_ have been. You have made a mistake, sir, be assured, and put the boy into the wrong coach. We start from the same place, and at the same hour, five minutes or so in or over." The mention of this possibility, nay certainty--for Johnny had actually dispatched the boy to Glasgow--instantly struck him dumb. It relieved him, indeed, from the misery arising from a dread of some terrible accident having happened the lad, but threw him into great tribulation as to his fate in Glasgow, without money or friends. But this being, after all, comparatively but a small affair, Johnny was now, what he had not been before, able to pay attention to minor things. "Be sae guid," said Johnny to the guard, who was on the top of the coach, busy unloosing packages, "as haun me doun my trunk." "No trunk of yours here, sir," said the guard. "You'll have sent it away to Glasgow with the boy." "No, no," replied Johnny, sadly perplexed by this new misfortune. "I sent it wi' the lass to the inn half an hour before I gaed mysel." "Oh, then, in that case," said the guard, "ten to one it's away to Dumfries, and not to Glasgow." And truly such was the fact. The girl, a fresh-caught country lass, had thrown it on the first coach she found, saying her master would immediately follow--and that happened to be the Dumfries one. Here, then, was Johnny safely arrived himself, indeed, at Edinburgh; but his son was gone to Glasgow, and his trunk to Dumfries--all with the greatest precision imaginable. Next day, Johnny Armstrong, being extremely uneasy about his boy, started for Glasgow on board of one of the canal passage boats; while the lad, being equally uneasy about his father, and, moreover, ill at ease on sundry other accounts, did precisely the same thing with the difference of direction--that is, he started for Edinburgh by a similar conveyance; and so well timed had each of their respective departures been, that, without knowing it, they passed each other exactly halfway between the two cities. On arriving at Glasgow, Johnny Armstrong could not, for a long while, discover any trace of his son; but at length succeeded in tracking him to the canal boat--which led him rightly to conclude that he had proceeded to Edinburgh. On coming to this conclusion, Johnny again started for the metropolis, where he safely arrived about two hours after his son had left it for home, whither, finding no trace of his father in Edinburgh, he had wisely directed his steps. Johnny Armstrong, now greatly distressed about the object of his paternal solicitude, whom he vainly sought up and down the city, at last also bent his way homewards, thinking, what was true, that the boy might have gone home; and there indeed he found him. Thus nearly a week had been spent, and that in almost constant travel, and Johnny found himself precisely at the point from which he had set out. However, in three days, after having, in the meantime, recovered his trunk, he again set out on his travels to Brechin; for his courage was not in the least abated by what had happened; but on this occasion unaccompanied by his son, as he would not again run the risk of losing him, or of exposing himself to that distress of mind on his account, of which he had been before a victim. In the case of Johnny's second progress, there was "no mistake" whatever, of any kind--at least at starting. Both himself and his trunk arrived in perfect safety, and in due time, at Edinburgh. Johnny's next route was to steam it to Kirkaldy from Newhaven. The boat started at six a.m.; and, having informed himself of this particular, he determined to be at the point of embarkation in good time. But he was rather late, and, on finding this, he ran every foot of the way from Edinburgh to the steam-boat, and was in a dreadful state of exhaustion when he reached it; but, by his exertions, he saved his distance, thereby exhibiting another proof that all is not lost that's in danger. An instant longer, however, and he would have been too late, for the vessel was just on the eve of starting. Johnny leapt on board, or rather was bundled on board; for Johnny, as already hinted, was in what is called good bodily condition--rather extra, indeed--and was, moreover, waxing a little stiff about the joints; so that he could not get over the side of the boat so cleverly as he would have done some twenty years before. Over and above all this, he was quite exhausted with the race against time which he had just run. Seeing his distressed condition, and that the boat was on the point of sailing, two of the hands leapt on the pier, when the one seizing him by the waistband of the breeches, and the other by the breast, they fairly pitched him into the vessel, throwing his trunk after him. As it was pouring rain, Johnny, on recovering his perpendicular, immediately descended into the cabin, and, in the next instant, the boat was ploughing her way through the deep. For two hours after he had embarked, it continued to rain without intermission; and for these two hours he remained snug below without stirring. At the end of this period, however, it cleared up a little, and, in a short while thereafter, became perfectly fair. Having discovered this he ascended to the deck, to see what was going on. The captain of the vessel was himself at the helm; he, therefore, sidled towards him, and, after making some remarks on the weather and the scenery, asked the captain, in the blandest and civilest tones imaginable, when he expected they would be at Kirkaldy. The man stared at Johnny with a look of astonishment, not unmingled with displeasure; but at length said-- "Kirkaldy, sir! What do you mean by asking me that question? I don't know when _you_ expect to be at Kirkaldy, but _I_ don't expect to be there for a twelvemonth at least." "No!--od, that's queer!" quoth Johnny, amazed in his turn; but thinking, after a moment, that the captain meant to be facetious, he merely added--"I wad think, captain, that we wad be there much about the same time." "Ay, ay, may be; but, I say, none of your gammon, friend," said the latter, gruffly, and now getting really angry at what he conceived to be some attempt to play upon him, though he could not see the drift of the joke. "Mind your own business, friend, and I'll mind mine." This he said with an air that conveyed very plainly a hint that Johnny should take himself off, which, without saying any more, he accordingly did. Much perplexed by the captain's conduct, he now sauntered towards the fore part of the vessel, where he caught the engineer just as he was about to descend into the engine-room. Johnny tapped him gently on the shoulder, and the man, wiping his dripping face with a handful of tow, looked up to him, while Johnny, afraid to put the question, but anxious to know when he really would be at Kirkaldy, lowered himself down, by placing his hands on his knees, so as to bring his face on a level with the person he was addressing, and, in the mildest accents, and with a countenance beaming with gentleness, he popped the question in a low, soft whisper, as if to deprecate the man's wrath. On the fatal inquiry being made at him, the engineer, as the captain had done before him, stared at Johnny Armstrong, in amazement, for a second or two, then burst into a hoarse laugh, and, without vouchsafing any other reply, plunged down into his den. "What in a' the earth can be the meanin' o' this?" quoth Johnny to himself, now ten times more perplexed than ever. "What can there be in my simple, natural, and reasonable question, to astonish folk sae muckle?" This was an inquiry which Johnny might put to himself, but it was one which he could by no means answer. Being, however, an easy, good-natured man, and seeing how much offence in one instance, and subject for mirth in another, he had unwittingly given, by putting it, he resolved to make no further inquiries into the matter, but to await in patience the arrival of the boat at her destination--an event which he had the sense to perceive would be neither forwarded nor retarded by his obtaining or being refused the information he had desired to be possessed of. The boat arrived in due time at the wished-for haven, and Johnny landed with the other passengers; the captain giving him a wipe, as he stepped on the plank that was to convey him ashore, about his Kirkaldy inquiries, by asking him, though now in perfect good humour, if he knew the precise length of that celebrated town; but Johnny merely smiled and passed on. On landing, Johnny Armstrong proceeded to what had the appearance of, and really was, a respectable inn. Here, as it was now pretty far in the day, he had some dinner, and afterwards treated himself to a tumbler of toddy and a peep at the papers. While thus comfortably enjoying himself, the waiter having chanced to pop into the room, Johnny raised his eye from the paper he was reading, and, looking the lad in the face-- "Can ye tell me, friend," he said, "when the coach for Dundee starts?" "There's no coach at all from this to Dundee, sir," replied the waiter. "No!" said Johnny, a little nonplused by this information. "That's odd." The waiter saw nothing odd in it. "I was told," continued Johnny, "that there were twa or three coaches daily from this to Dundee." "Oh, no, sir," said the lad, coolly, "you have been misinformed; but if you wish to go to Dundee, sir," he added--desirous of being as obliging as possible--"your best way is to go by steam from this to Newhaven, and from that cross over to Kirkaldy!!!" At this fatal word, which seemed doomed to work Johnny much wo, the glass which he was about to raise to his lips fell on the floor, and went into a thousand pieces. "Kirkaldy, laddie!" exclaimed Johnny Armstrong, with an expression of consternation in his face which it would require Cruikshank's art and skill to do justice to--"Gude hae a care o' me, is _this_ no Kirkaldy?" "Kirkaldy, sir!" replied the waiter, no less amazed than Johnny, though in his case it was at the absurdity of the inquiry--"oh, no, sir," with a smile--"this is Alloa!!!" Alloa it was, to be sure; for Johnny had taken the wrong boat, and that was all. On embarking, he had made no inquiries at those belonging to the vessel, and, of course, those in the vessel had put none to him--and this was the result. He was comfortably planted at Alloa, instead of Kirkaldy, which all our readers know lies in a very different direction; and this denouement also explains the captain's displeasure with his passenger, and the engineer's mirth. At the moment this extraordinary _eclaircissement_ took place between Johnny Armstrong and the waiter of the King's Arms, there happened to be a ship captain in the room--for it was the public one; and this person, who was a good-natured fellow, at once amused by, and pitying Johnny's dilemma, turned towards him, and inquired if it was his intention to go any further than Dundee. Johnny said that it was--he intended going to Brechin. "Oh, in that case," said the captain, "you had better just go with me. In an hour after this I sail for Montrose, which is within eight miles of Brechin, and I'll be very glad to give you a cast so far, and we shan't differ about the terms. Fine, smart little vessel mine, and, with a spanking breeze from the west or sou'-west, which we'll very likely catch about Queensferry, I'll land you in a jiffey within a trifle of your journey's end--a devilish sight cleverer, I warrant you, than your round-about way of steaming and coaching it, and at half the money too." Johnny Armstrong was all gratitude for this very opportune piece of kindness, and gladly closed with the offer--the captain and he taking a couple of additional tumblers each, on the head of it, to begin with. We say to begin with; for it by no means ended with the quantity named. The captain was a jolly dog, and loved his liquor, and was, withal, so facetious a companion, that he prevailed on his new friend to swallow a great deal more than did him any good. To tell a truth, which, however, we would not have known at Carlisle, Johnny Armstrong, who had the character of a sober man, got, on this occasion, into a rather discreditable condition, and, in this state, he was escorted by the captain--who stood liquor like a water-cask--to the vessel, and was once more embarked; but it was now on board the _Fifteen Sisters_ of Skatehaven. On getting him on board, the captain, seeing the state he was in, prudently bundled him down into the cabin, and thrust him into his own bed, where he immediately fell into a profound sleep that extended over twelve mortal hours. At the end of this period, however, Johnny awoke; but it was not by any means of his own accord, for he was awakened by a variety of stimulants, or _rousers_, if we may be allowed to coin a word for the occasion, all operating at once. These were, a tremendous uproar on the deck, a fearful rolling of the vessel, the roaring of wind, and the splashing, dashing, and gurling of waves; and, to crown all, a feeling of deadly sickness. When he first opened his eyes, he could not conceive where he was, or what was the meaning of the furious motion that he felt, and of the tremendous sounds that he heard. A few minutes' cogitation with himself, however, solved the mystery, and exposed to him his true position. In great alarm--for he thought the vessel was on the eve of going down--Johnny Armstrong rolled himself out of his bed, and crawled in his shirt up the cabin ladder. On gaining the summit, he found himself confronted by the captain, who, with a very serious face, was standing by the helm. "Are--are--are--we--near--Mon--trose, captain?" inquired Johnny, in a voice rendered so feeble by sickness and terror, that it was impossible to hear him a yard off, amidst the roaring of the winds and waves; for we suppose we need not more explicitly state, that he was in the midst of a storm, and as pretty a one it was as the most devoted admirer of the picturesque could desire to see. "What?" roared the captain, in a voice of thunder, at the same time stooping down to catch his feeble interrogatory. Johnny repeated it; but, ere he could obtain an answer, a raking wave, which came in at the stern, took him full on the breast as he stood on the companion ladder, with his bust just above the level of the deck, sent him down, heels over head, into the cabin, and, in a twinkling, buried him in a foot and a half of water on the floor, where he lay for some time at full length, sprawling and floundering amidst the wreck which the sudden and violent influx of water had occasioned. On recovering from the stunning effects of his descent--for he had, amongst other small matters, received a violent contusion on the head--Johnny for an instant imagined that he had somehow or other got to the bottom of the sea. Finding, however, at length, that this was not precisely the case, he arose, though dripping with wet, yet not very like a sea god, and having denuded himself of his only garment, his shirt, crawled into his bed, where he now determined to await quietly and patiently the fate that might be intended for him; and this fate, he had no doubt, was suffocation by drowning. "Very extraordinar this," said Johnny Armstrong to himself, as he lay musing in bed on the perilous situation into which he had so simply and innocently got--"very extraordinar, that I couldna get the length o' Brechin without a' this uproar, and confusion, and difficulty, and danger; this knocking about frae place to place, half drooned and half murdered. Here have I been now for mair than a week at it, and it's my opinion I'm no twenty mile nearer't yet than I was, for a' this kick up. Dear me," he went on soliloquizing, "I'm sure Brechin's no sic an out o' the way place. The road's straught, and the distance no great. Then, how, in the name o' wonder, is it that I canna mak' it out like ither folk, let me do as I like?" Thus cogitated Johnny Armstrong as he lay on his bed of sickness, sorrow, and danger. But his cogitations could in no way mend the matter, nor, though they could, was he long permitted to indulge in them; for that mortal sickness under which he had been before suffering, but which the little incident of the visit from the wave, with its consequences, had temporarily banished, again returned with tenfold vigour, making him regardless of all sublunary things--even of life itself. In this state of supineness and suffering did Johnny lie for three entire days and nights--for so long did the storm continue with unabated fury--the vessel having, for some four-and-twenty hours previously, been quite unmanageable, and driving at the mercy of the winds and waves. A dreadful crash, however, at length announced that some horrible crisis was at hand. The vessel had struck, and, in a few seconds more, she was in a thousand pieces, and her unfortunate crew, including Johnny Armstrong, were struggling in the waves. From this instant he lost all consciousness; and, when he again awoke to life, he found himself lying on the sea-beach; but how he had come there he never could tell, nor could he at all conjecture by what accident his life had been saved, when all the rest in the ill-fated vessel had perished; for Johnny was indeed the only person that had escaped. On coming to himself he started to his feet, and gazed around him, with a bewildered look, to see if any object would present itself that might help him to guess where he was. But his survey affording him no such aid to recognition, he began to move inland, in the hope of meeting with somebody who could give him the information desired; and in this he was not disappointed, that is, he did meet somebody; but the appearance of that somebody surprised Johnny "pretty considerably." He had a high-crowned hat on, such as Johnny had never seen in his life before; an enormous pair of breeches; and a pipe a yard long in his mouth. His _tout ensemble_, in short, was exceeding strange in Johnny Armstrong's eyes. Nevertheless, he accosted him. "Can ye tell me, freen, how far I may be frae Brechin?" he inquired. The stranger shook his head, but made no reply. "I'm sayin', freen," repeated Johnny, in a louder tone, thinking that his friend, as he called him, might possibly be dull of hearing, "can ye tell me if I'm onything near Brechin?" The stranger again shook his head, but still said nothing. Johnny was confounded. At length, however, after puffing away for some seconds with a suddenly-increased energy, he slowly withdrew his pipe from his mouth, and delivered himself of what sounded to Johnny's ears very much like this, spoken with great rapidity. "Futra butara rap a ruara dutera muttera purra murra footra den, Preekin, humph." Of this Johnny of course could make nothing, no more than the reader can, further than recognising in the word "Preekin" a resemblance to the name of the town he so anxiously inquired after; and he was sorely perplexed thereat. Neither could he at all comprehend what sort of a being he had fallen in with. "I dinna understan' a word o' what ye say, freen," at length said Johnny, staring hard at the stranger with open mouth. "Umph!" said the latter; and he again withdrew his pipe from his mouth, and again sent a volley of his "dutera mutteras" about Johnny's ears, to precisely the same purpose as before. Finding that it was of no use making any further attempt at conversation, Johnny passed on, not doubting that he had met either with a _dummy_ or a madman. But what was Johnny's amazement when, shortly afterwards, meeting a woman, whose dress, in its own way, was equally odd and strange with that of the person he had just left, he was answered (that is, to his queries again about Brechin), in the same gibberish in which the former had responded to him. "What can be the meanin' o' this?" said Johnny to himself, in great perplexity of mind, as he jogged on, after leaving the lady in the same unsatisfactory way as he had left the gentleman. "Whar in a' the earth can I hae gotten to, that naebody I meet wi' can understan' a word o' plain English, or can speak themsels onything like an intelligible language?" He now began to think that he had probably got into the Highlands; but, although this supposition might account for the strangeness of the language he had heard, it would not, he perceived, tally very well with the enormous breeches which the gentleman he had met with wore, and which he had seen from a distance others wearing, knowing, as he did very well, that the national dress of the Highlanders was the kilt, of which the trousers in question were the very antipodes. There was another circumstance, too, that appeared to Johnny at variance with his first conjecture, namely, that he might have got into the Highlands. Where he was there were no high lands, not an eminence the height of a mole-hill. On the contrary, the whole country, as far as his eye could reach, seemed one vast plain. Though greatly puzzled by these reflections, Johnny jogged on, and his progress at length brought him to a respectable-looking farm-house. "'Od," said Johnny, "I'll surely get a mouthfu' o' sense frae somebody here, an' fin' out whar I am." In this Johnny certainly did succeed; but not much to his comfort, as the sequel will show. The first person he addressed, on approaching the house, was a little girl, who, when he spoke, stared at him in the greatest amazement, then rushed screaming into the house. This proceeding brought out several young men and women, to whom Johnny now addressed himself; but the only answer he obtained was a stare of astonishment similar to the child's, and then a general burst of laughter. At length one of the girls went into the house and brought out a jolly-looking elderly man, who, from certain parts of his dress, seemed to be in the seafaring way. "Vell, mine freend, vat you vant?" said this person, who spoke broken English--"vere you come from?" "I cam last frae Alloa," said Johnny, "and I want to ken, sir, if I'm onything near to Brechin?" "Preekin! Vere dat?" "'Od, I thocht everbody in Scotland kent that," said Johnny, smiling. "Ah! maybe Scotlan', mine freend, but no Hollands," replied he of the broken English. "I dinna ken whether they ken't it in Holland or no," said Johnny, "that's a country I'm no in the least acquaint wi'; but I'm sure it's weel aneuch kent in Scotland." "Ah! maybe Scotlan', but no Hollands, my freend," repeated the man, smiling in his turn; "but you vas in Hollands." "Never in my life," said Johnny, earnestly. "No, no," replied the man, impatiently, "you vas no in Hollands--but you vas in Hollands." Johnny could make nothing of this; but it was soon cleared up by the person adding, "You vas in Hollands _now_--dis moment." We will not even attempt to describe Johnny's amazement, horror, and consternation, on this announcement being made to him, for we feel how vain it would be, and how far short any idea we could convey would be of the reality. "Holland!" said Johnny. "Heaven hae a care o' me! Ye surely dinna mean to say that I'm in Holland the noo?" "To be sure I vas," said the Dutchman, smiling at Johnny's ludicrous perturbation. "Mine Got, did you not know you vas in Hollands? Vere you come from, in all de vorlds, you not know dat?" "I tell't ye already," replied Johnny, with a most rueful countenance, "that I cam last frae Alloa. But ye're surely no in earnest, freen," he added, in a desperate hope that it might, after all, be but a joke, "when ye say that I'm in Holland?" "Ah! sure earneest--no doubt--true," said the Dutchman, now laughing outright at Johnny's perplexity. As in the former case, we presume we need not be more explicit in saying that Johnny had actually been wrecked on the coast of Holland. "Weel, weel," said the Brechin voyager, with an air expressive of more calmness and resignation than might have been expected, "this does cowe the gowan! How, in Heaven's name, am I ever to fin' my way hame again? Little did I think I was ever to be landed this way amang savages." Johnny Armstrong, it will be here observed, could have been no great reader--otherwise, he never would have applied the term savages to so decent, industrious, and civilized a people as the Dutch. The Dutchman, who was a kind, good-natured fellow--taking no offence whatever at Johnny's unbecoming expression, because probably he did not understand it, and compassionating his situation--now invited him into the house, where Johnny, having succeeded in conveying to the whole household, through the medium of the speaker of broken English, the story of his misfortunes, was treated with much hospitality. With these kind people Johnny Armstrong remained for about a week--for they would not allow him to go sooner--when, having entirely recovered from the effects of his sea voyage and shipwreck, he proceeded to Rotterdam; being accompanied and assisted in all his movements by his benevolent host, Dunder Vander Dunder, of Slootzsloykin. On arriving at Rotterdam, a passage was engaged for Johnny on board one of the Leith packets, or regular traders, in which he was next day snugly deposited; and, in an hour after, he was again braving the dangers of the ocean. For some time all went on well on this occasion with him, and he was beginning to feel comfortable, and even happy, from the prospect of being soon again in his native land, and from the superior accommodations of the vessel in which he was embarked--far surpassing, as they did, those of the unfortunate _Sisters_ of Skatehaven. His present ship was, in truth, a remarkably fine one, and altogether seemed well adapted for encountering the elements. The weather, too, was moderate, and the wind fair; so that a quick and pleasant passage was confidently anticipated by all on board, including Johnny Armstrong. All these agreeable circumstances combined, made him feel extremely comfortable and happy; and, in the exuberance of his feelings, and from the exciting sense of having at length triumphed over his misfortunes--it might almost be said his fate--Johnny even began to joke and laugh with those whom he found willing to joke and laugh with him. It was while in this happy frame of mind, and as he stood luxuriously leaning over the bulwark of the vessel, that the captain suddenly espied a little, smart, cutter-looking craft, sailing exactly in the same course with themselves, and evidently endeavouring to make up with them. "What can the folk be wantin'?" quoth Johnny Armstrong, taking an interest in the approaching barge. His question was one which nobody could answer. In the meantime, the little vessel, moving with great velocity, was fast nearing them, when the captain, now convinced that those in her desired to have some communication with him, arrested his own vessel's way, and awaited their coming. In a very few minutes, the little cutter was alongside, and two men leapt from her to the deck of the packet, when one of them, approaching the captain, told him that they were messengers, that they had a warrant against John Jones, a native of Britain, for debt, and that they had reason to believe he was in the vessel. The captain said he did not believe he had any such passenger on board, but informed them that they were perfectly at liberty to search the ship. During this conversation, the other officer kept his eye fixed on Johnny Armstrong, and when rejoined by his comrade, seemed to inform him--for their language was not understood--that there was something about that person well worthy of his attention. They now both looked at Johnny, and appeared both convinced that he was a fit subject for further inquiry. Accordingly one of them addressed him:-- "Your name vas John Jones, mynheer?" "No, sir," said Johnny; "my name's John Armstrong." "Ah, a small shange--dat is all. You vas John, and he vas John, and you be both John togidder; so, you must come to de shore wid us." "Catch me there, lads," quoth Johnny. "The deil a shore I'll gang to, please Providence, but Leith shore. Na, na; I've had aneuch o' this wark, and I'm determined to bring't till an' end noo." "Donner and blitzen!" shouted out one of the men, passionately, "but you must go!"--at the same time seizing Johnny by the collar, and drawing a pistol from his bosom. In utter amazement at this extraordinary treatment, Johnny Armstrong imploringly called on the captain and the other passengers for protection; but, as none of them were in the least acquainted with him, and therefore did not know whether he was John Jones or not, they all declined interfering--the captain saying that it would be more than his ship and situation were worth to aid any one in resisting the laws of the country--that he could not, dare not do it. His appeals, therefore, to those around him being vain, he was eventually bundled into the cutter and conveyed on shore, placed in a temporary place of confinement for the night, and next day carried before a magistrate to be identified. To effect this, several witnesses were called, when one and all of them, after examining Johnny pretty narrowly, pronounced, to the great disappointment of the officers who had apprehended him, that he was _not_ the man! They, however, asserted that the resemblance between the real and supposed John Jones was very remarkable. On the discovery being made that the prisoner was not Jones, the magistrate apologized to Johnny in the most polite terms for the trouble he had been put to, and expressed great regret for the mistake of the officers; but said that, as the witnesses had stated there was a strong resemblance--an unfortunate one, he must call it--between him and the real defaulter, and seeing, moreover, that they were both natives of Britain, the officers were perfectly justified in doing what they had done, however much the hardship of the case might be matter of regret. The magistrate having thus delivered himself, Johnny Armstrong was dismissed with great civility, and wished, by all present, safe home to his own country--a wish in which he most heartily concurred, but which seemed to him more easily entertained than gratified. On regaining his liberty, the first thing he did was to endeavour to find out when the next ship sailed for Scotland; he having, of course, lost that in which he had first embarked, and, to his great consternation and dismay, learned that there would be no vessel for a fortnight. This was sad intelligence to Johnny; for, to add to his other distresses, his funds were now waxing low, and he felt that it would require the utmost economy to enable him to spin out the time and leave sufficient to pay his passage to his native land. This economy he could very easily have practised at home, for he had a natural tendency that way; but he did not know how to set about it in a foreign country. His unhappiness and anxiety, therefore, on this point were very great. In this dilemma, he bethought him of again seeking out and quartering on his friend Vander Dunder, of Slootzsloykin, till the vessel should sail; but not having, of course, a word of Dutch, he could make no inquiries on the subject of his route, or indeed of anything regarding his friend at all. This idea, therefore, he ultimately abandoned, principally through a fear that he should, by some mistake, be despatched upon a wrong scent, a species of disaster to which he was now so sensitively alive, that he would neither turn to the right nor to the left without having made himself perfectly sure that he was about to take the right course; and, as to conveyances of all kinds, of which he now entertained an especial suspicion, he had prudently determined that he would know every particular about them and their destinations before he would put a foot in one of them, for he had found, from dear-bought experience, that if he did not take this precaution, the chance was that he would never reach the place he desired to get at, and might be whisked away to some unknown country, where he would never more be heard of. Under this wholesome terror, Johnny made no attempt to find out his friend Vander Dunder; but chance effected, in part at least, what his limited knowledge of Dutch put it out of his power, with set purpose, to accomplish. On turning the corner of a street, who should he have the good fortune to meet with but Vander Dunder. The astonishment of the good Dutchman on seeing Johnny was great, so great, indeed, as to overcome the natural phlegm of his constitution. Holding up his hands in amazement-- "Mine Got, my freend! are you shipwrack agen?" he exclaimed. "No, no," quoth Johnny--"bad aneuch, but no just sae bad as that." And he proceeded to inform his friend of the real state of the case. The good-natured Dutchman was shocked at the recital, and felt ten times more than ever for Johnny's unhappy situation and complicated misfortunes. When he had concluded his affecting story-- "I tell you what you do, mine goot freend," said Vander Dunder--"you go vith me to Slootzsloykin, and you remain vith me dere till your ship sail. You do dat, mine goot freend." "Wi' a' my heart," said Johnny, "and muckle obleeged to ye for yer kindness." "No, no--no obleege at all," replied the kind-hearted Dutchman, impatiently. "Yo do the same to me in your coontry if I was shipwrack and in misfortune, and put to trooble for an innocent thief." "Aweel, maybe I wad; but, nevertheless, its kind o' you to offer me the shelter o' yer roof," replied Johnny. Dunder Vander Dunder now took his friend into a tavern, and treated him to a glass of schnaps. Shortly thereafter the two embarked in a canal boat for Slootzsloykin, where they finally arrived in safety. Here Johnny met with the same kind treatment as before; and of that kindness there was no abatement during the whole fortnight of his sojourn. At the end of this period, Johnny Armstrong once more set out for Rotterdam, on the day previous to the sailing of the vessel in which he now hoped to reach his native land, without further molestation or interruption. And, certainly, everything had the appearance of going right on this occasion. The vessel, with Johnny on board, sailed at the appointed time, and, before embarking, he had read distinctly on the ticket--a large black board, with yellow letters, which was fastened to the shrouds--that she was bound for Leith, and was the identical vessel he had had in his eye. So far as this went, there could be no mistake whatever. There was, indeed, one little circumstance that startled Johnny, but which he had not discovered till the vessel had been some time at sea. This was, that all the crew were Dutchmen, there not being a Scotchman amongst them. The circumstance did not, indeed, greatly alarm Johnny, but he certainly did think it a little odd; for he naturally expected that, as she was a Leith vessel, her crew would be, for the most part, at any rate, natives of Britain. However, he made no remarks on the subject, thinking it, as it really was, a matter of perfect indifference whether they were Scotchmen or Dutchmen. There were two or three passengers in the vessel besides himself; but they were all foreigners too, so that he could hold no converse with any of them; and thus debarred from intercourse with his fellow voyagers, he sat by himself, gazing from the deck of the vessel on the waste of waters with which he was surrounded, and musing on the strange series of mishaps of which he had so simply and innocently become the victim. It was while thus employed--the vessel having been now a good many hours at sea, and at the moment scudding away before a fine fresh breeze--that the captain approached Johnny, and in very polite and civil terms, demanded his passage money. As he spoke in Dutch, however, the latter did not understand him. The captain observing this, and now guessing what countryman he was, addressed him in very good English, and in that language repeated his demand. With this demand, Johnny instantly complied; and, finding that he was a civil, good-natured fellow, began to open up a little conversation with him. His first remark was, that he hoped they would have good weather. The captain hoped so too. His second remark was, that they had a fine breeze. The captain agreed with him--said it was a delightful breeze--and added that, if it continued to blow as it then blew for four-and-twenty hours, he expected they would be all safe at _Rouen_! "At whar?" shouted out Johnny, looking aghast at the speaker. "At Rouen, to be sure," repeated the captain, wondering at Johnny's amazement. "Gude's mercy!" exclaimed Johnny, with dreadful energy, "are ye no gaun to Leith?--is this no a Leith boat?" "Oh, no," said the captain smiling; "this is the Rouen packet. Were ye not aware of that, sir? You have got into a sad scrape, my friend, if you were not," he added, and now laughing outright at the dismal expression of Johnny's countenance. "Heaven hae a care o' me!" said Johnny despairingly. "Did I no read distinctly on the ticket that was fastened to yer shroods, that ye were bound for Leith?" "Yes, yes," replied the captain, "you may have seen such a ticket as you speak of, and there was certainly such a ticket on our shrouds as you say, but it did not refer to this ship, but to the vessel outside of us. We allowed the board to be exhibited on our shrouds merely to accommodate our neighbour, as it could not be read from his--he being on the outside, and we next the quay. That, my friend, is a piece of civility very commonly practised at seaports by one vessel to another, when similarly situated as we and they were. You will see it at all quays and wharfs." Johnny Armstrong groaned, but said nothing. At length, however, he muttered, in a tone of Christian-like resignation-- "The Lord's will be dune! I see it's settled that I am never to get hame again; but to be keepit gaun frae place to place ower the face o' the earth, like anither wanderin' Jew. Gude hae a care o' me, but this is awfu'! Its judgment like." It certainly was very remarkable, but not in the least mysterious. This new mistake of Johnny, like all the rest, was a perfectly simple occurrence; and, like them, too, arose as plainly and naturally out of circumstances as it was possible for any effect to do from a cause. But, however, this may be, the captain--although he could not help laughing at the awkward predicament of his passenger--really felt for him, seeing the distress he was in, and was so much influenced by this feeling as to offer to convey him back to Rotterdam, to which, he said, he would return in two days, free of any charge; adding, with a smile, and with the kind intention of reconciling Johnny to what could not now be helped, that it was nothing, after all--that it would make a difference of only a few days--and that it would be always showing him a little more of the world. "Mony thanks to ye," said Johnny, perceiving and appreciating the friendly purpose of the captain; "and I'll e'en tak advantage o' yer kind offer; but as to seein' the world, by my faith, I've seen now about just as muckle o't as I want to see, and maybe a trifle mair--a hantle mair, at ony rate, than I ever expected to see." Then, in a soliloquizing tone and manner--"God keep me, whar's Brechin noo! A' that I wanted, and a' that I intended, was to get to that bit paltry place; and, instead o' that, here am I within a stane-cast o' the north pole, for aught I ken to the contrar, and, to a' appearances, no half dune wi't yet. Heaven kens whar I'll be sent niest!--maybe be landed on Owhyhee, or on some desert island, like another Robinson Crusoe. Na, it's certain, if things gang on muckle langer this way." Of the drift or scope of these remarks, or, at any rate, of the feelings that dictated them, the captain could make nothing, not knowing Johnny's precise circumstances; nor did he seek to have them explained, but contented himself with repeating his offer of conveying Johnny back to Rotterdam, and renewing his well-meant efforts to reconcile him to his fate, in so far as his present voyage was concerned. In the meantime, the wind continued to blow in a manner perfectly satisfactory in every respect to all on board the _Jungfrau_ of Rotterdam and Rouen; and, in about the space of time mentioned by the captain, the vessel reached her destination in safety. Johnny Armstrong, whose whole mind was absorbed by anxiety to reach that home which he yet seemed destined never again to see, took no interest whatever in the scenes presented to him in the part of the world he was now in. Indeed, he never left the vessel at all, for fear she would slip through his fingers; for, if he was afraid of accidents of this kind before, he was ten times more so now; and, with this fear upon him, that the packet might, by some chance or other, escape him, he determined to stick by her--never to lose sight of her for a moment, till she had conveyed him back to Rotterdam; and his vigilance ultimately secured the end he had in view. The _Jungfrau_ sailed from Rouen with Johnny on board, and, in due time, deposited him once more at Rotterdam. But what was Johnny's surprise, what Dunder Vander Dunder's amazement, when they again encountered one another, and that within ten minutes of the former's landing! The amazement of the latter, however, was, on this occasion, evidently mingled with a degree of suspicion of the perfect uprightness of Johnny's character. He began now to think, in short, that there had been more in the circumstance of Johnny's apprehension than he had been informed of. He did not like these frequent reappearances; he thought them very odd--and he did not hesitate to say so. "Mine Got! vat you here again for, man? Vat is de meaning of all dis, mine goot freend?" he exclaimed, with a somewhat dry and doubtful manner, quite at variance with the cordial tone of his former greetings. Johnny Armstrong explained to him, but seemingly without obtaining implicit credence for all he said. When he had done-- "'Tis veree odd," said Vander Dunder, coldly; "veree straunge. But, you really vant to go to Scotlan, dere is vessel going to sail for Leet now, and I vill see you on board mineself." It was very questionable whether Vander's civility, in this case, proceeded from a desire really to serve Johnny, or from a wish to get fairly rid of him. However this might be, Johnny readily accepted his offer, and at once accompanied him to the vessel he alluded to, which was, indeed, on the point of sailing. Vander, taking care that there should be no mistake in this case, conducted him down into the cabin, and waited on the quay till he saw the vessel fairly under weigh. Having brought the disasters of Johnny Armstrong to this point, we proceed now to finish what we assure our readers, is an "ower true tale." As we were strolling down the pier of Leith, with a friend, one afternoon in the year 18--, we saw a vessel making for the harbour. It was high water, and the scene altogether was a very pleasing and a very stirring one. But, amongst the various objects of interest that presented themselves, there was none that attracted so much of our attention as the stately vessel that, with outspread canvas, was rapidly nearing the pier. We asked a seaman who stood beside us, where she was from. He replied--"Rotterdam." On approaching the pier, the vessel shortened sail, and, by this process, enabled us deliberately to scan her decks from our elevated position, as she glided gently along with us. During this scrutiny, we observed amongst the passengers a stout little man in a brown greatcoat, with a large red comforter about his neck, and his hat secured on his head--for it was blowing pretty hard--by a blue pocket-handkerchief, which was passed beneath his chin, and gave him, in a very particular manner, the peculiar air of a traveller or _vóyageur_. There was nothing whatever in the appearance of the little man in the brown greatcoat which would have led any one to suppose, _à priori_, that there possibly could be anything remarkable or extraordinary in his history; but I was induced suddenly to change my opinion, or at least to take some interest in him, by my friend's exclaiming, in the utmost amazement, and, at the same time, pointing to him with the red comforter-- "Gracious Heaven, if there is not Johnny Armstrong! Or it is his ghost!" "No ghost at all, we warrant you," said we; "ghosts do not generally wear greatcoats and red comforters. But who in all the world is Johnny Armstrong?" "Johnny Armstrong," replied our friend, greatly excited, "is a person, a particular acquaintance of mine, who has been missing these six weeks; and who was supposed, by everybody who knew him, to have perished by some accident or other, but of what nature could never be ascertained, on his way to Brechin, where he had gone to visit some relations." We felt interested in Johnny, by this brief sketch of his mysterious story; and, not a little curious to know where on earth he could possibly have been all the time, we readily closed with our friend's proposal to run round to the berth for which we saw the vessel was making, and to await his coming on shore. "But how, in all the world," said our friend, communing with himself during this interval, "has he got into a vessel from Rotterdam? He could not have been there, surely? It's impossible." As to this we could say nothing, not knowing at the time anything at all of Johnny's adventures; but of these we were not now long kept in ignorance. On his stepping on shore, our friend seized him joyously by the hand, and expressed great satisfaction at seeing him again. This satisfaction appeared to be mutual; for Johnny returned his friend's grasp with great cordiality and warmth. The first salutations over-- "But where on all the earth, Mr. Armstrong," said our friend, "have you been for these three months back?" Johnny smiled, and said it was "ower lang a tale" to tell where we then were; but, as he meant to stop either in Leith or Edinburgh for the night, it being now pretty far in the evening, if my friend and I would adjourn with him to some respectable house, where he could get a night's quarters, he would give us the whole story of his adventures. With this proposal we readily closed; and on Johnny asking if we could point out such a house as he alluded to, we at once named the New Ship Tavern. Thither we accordingly repaired; and, in less than two hours thereafter, we were put, good reader, in possession, by Johnny himself, of that part of his story to which the preceding pages have been devoted. What follows--for Johnny's misfortunes had not yet terminated--we learned afterwards from another quarter. On the next day--we mean the day succeeding the evening we spent with Johnny--the latter proceeded to Edinburgh, with the view of taking coach there for Carlisle. But, in making his way up Catherine Street, and when precisely opposite No. 12, Calton Street--we like to be particular--Johnny found himself suddenly accosted by one of his oldest and most intimate friends. This was a Mr. James Stevenson, a fellow-townsman and fellow-shopkeeper of his own. The astonishment of the latter, on meeting with Johnny, and, indeed, of finding him at all in the land of the living, was very great; and he sufficiently expressed this feeling by the lively and highly excited manner in which he addressed him. Having put the usual queries, with that air of intense interest which they naturally excited, as to where Johnny had been, what he had been about, &c. &c., and having obtained a brief sketch of his adventures, with the promise of a fuller one afterwards, Mr. Stevenson, in reply, asked Johnny what course he was now steering. "Hame, to be sure," said Johnny, with a smile. "It's time noo, I think--I'm just sae far on my way to tak' oot a ticket for the coach." "Ye needna do that unless ye like," replied Johnny's friend. "Ye may save your siller, and no be abune an hour langer tarried, by takin' a seat wi' me in the gig I hae in wi' me. I'm sure ye're welcome, and I'll be blythe o' your company." "Hae ye a gig in wi' ye?" said Johnny, looking pleased by the intelligence. "'Deed hae I, Mr. Armstrong, and ye'll just clink down beside me in't." "I'll do that wi' great thankfu'ness," replied Johnny, "and muckle obleeged by the offer." The friends now walked away, arm in arm together; and in about two hours afterwards--Mr. Stevenson having, in the meantime, despatched what business he had to do in the city--they were both, seated in the gig, and birring it on merrily towards Carlisle. Neither Mr. Stevenson nor Johnny, however, were great whips--a deficiency which was by no means compensated for by the circumstance of their having a rather spirited horse, although blind of an eye. He was, in truth, a very troublesome animal; boggling and shying at everything that presented itself to his solitary optic. Notwithstanding this, the travellers got on very well for a time, and were whirling over the ground at a rapid rate, when an unlucky cart of hay came in their way at a narrow turn of the road. How this simple occurrence should have operated so unfavourably as it did for them, we shall explain. A cart of hay is not a very alarming object to rational creatures like ourselves, but to the one-eyed horse of the travellers it appeared a very serious affair; for it had no sooner presented itself to his solitary organ of vision than he pricked up his ears, snorted furiously, and began to exhibit sundry other symptoms of disquietude. By dint, however, of some well-directed punishment from Jamie Stevenson's whip, which Johnny increased by an energetic application of his stick, the restive animal was brought _up_ to the waggon of hay; but, for some time, the inducements just mentioned failed to prevail on him to _pass_ it. At length, however, Johnny having added greatly to the vigour of his blows with his stick, and his neighbour to that of his strokes with the whip, the horse _did_ pass the waggon, and that with a vengeance. Taking heart, or rather becoming desperate, he bolted past it with the rapidity of a cannon shot; and not only this, but when he had cleared it, continued the velocity of his movements with unabated energy, to the great discomfort and no small terror of both Johnny and his companion, who now found themselves going at a rate which they had neither anticipated nor desired. Indeed, this was so very great that both directly saw that something was wrong. Both saw, in short, what was, indeed, too true, that the horse had fairly run away with them; for he was now going like the wind, with fury and distraction in his looks. It was a shocking and most dreadfully alarming affair; and so Johnny and his friend felt it to be, as might be distinctly seen by their horror-stricken faces. On discovering the predicament they were in, both the travellers--the one dropping his whip, and the other his stick--seized on the reins, and began pulling with all their might, in the desperate hope of checking the animal's speed by main force; Johnny, in his terror, exclaiming the while, distractedly-- "Mair o't yet, mair o't yet! Lord have a care o' me, but this is awfu'! This is waur than onything I hae met wi' yet. Waur than the _Fifteen Sisters_, Dutchmen, and a'. God be wi' us! are my misfortunes never to hae an end, till they hae finished me outricht? Am I never to get safe to either ae place or anither?--either to hame or to Brechin? Surely ane o' them might be permitted to me. O, Jamie, see hoo he's gaun! He doesna seem to fin' us at his hurdies, nae mair than if we war a pair o' preencushions." This was true enough. The horse in his fury did not indeed seem to feel either them or the vehicle they were seated in, but pushed madly onwards, till he came to where the road divided itself into two distinct roads--the one being the right one, and the other, of course, the wrong--when, as if inspired by Johnny's evil genius, he at once took the latter, and in little more than twenty minutes, had him and his friend fully half as many miles out of their way. Now, however, the catastrophe was to be wound up. A milestone caught one of the wheels of the gig, canted it over, and threw Johnny sprawling on the road with a broken leg; his friend, although also thrown, escaping wholly unhurt. "Aweel, here it's at last," said Johnny, sitting up in the mud amongst which he had been planted, and fully believing that his injuries were fatal. "Here it's at last. I'm clean dune for noo, after a' my escapes. It may be noo plainly seen, I think," he went on, "that some evil spirit has had me in its power, for these six weeks past at ony rate, and has been gowfin' me about the world like a fitba', to kill me wi' a gig at last." Luckily, Johnny's injuries did not prove so serious as he had feared they would do; and no less fortunate was it that the accident to which they were owing happened not far from a small country town in which there was a resident surgeon. To the latter place Johnny was immediately removed on a temporary bier, hastily constructed for the purpose by some labouring men who chanced to be near the spot where the accident happened, and there he lay for six entire weeks, when the surgeon above alluded to, and who had attended him all that time, intimated to him that he might now venture to return home. Delighted with the intelligence, Johnny instantly acted on it, and next day entered Carlisle triumphantly in a post-chaise--not looking, nor really being, after all, much the worse for his unprecedented adventures, save and except a lameness in the injured limb, which ever after imparted to his movements the graceful up-and-down motion produced by that peculiar longitudinal proportion of the nether limbs, designated by the descriptive definition of "a short leg and a shorter." Having, with this last occurrence, concluded the story of Johnny's disasters, we have only to add that Johnny has never, to this good hour, got the length of Brechin--nor will, he says, ever again make the attempt. THE PROFESSOR'S TALES.[4] THE MOUNTAIN STORM. [4] The author of these stories (to be continued), the well-known Professor Thomas Gillespie, was one of the principal writers in _Blackwood_ during the "storm and stress" period of that magazine. As an author, his peculiarity consisted in vivid descriptions of scenery and incidents coming within the range of a very eccentric experience, all given with a versatility and _abandon_ which he could not restrain, and which, being the reflex of a poetical enthusiasm, formed the charm of his writings.--_Ed._ Packman _loquitur_.--For several days the wind had been easterly, with an intense frost. At last, however, the weather subsided into a calm and dense fog, under which, at mid-day, it was difficult to find one's way amidst those mountain tracks along which, in general, my route lay. The grass and heath were absolutely loaded with hoar-frost. My cheeks became encompassed by a powdered covering; my breath was intensely visible, and floated and lingered about my face with an oppressive and almost suffocating density. No sun, moon, or star had appeared for upwards of forty-eight hours; when, according to my preconcerted plan, I reached the farm town of Burnfoot. I was now in the centre of Queensberry Hills, the most notable sheep-pasturage in the south of Scotland. It was about three o'clock of the fifteenth day of January, when, under a cheerful welcome from the guidwife, I rested my pack (for, be it known, I belong to this class of peripatetic merchants) upon the meal ark, disengaged my arms from the leather straps by which the pack was suspended from my shoulders, and proceeded to light my pipe at the blazing peat-fire. Refreshments, such as are best suited to the _packman's drouth_, were soon and amply supplied, and I had the happiness of seeing my old acquaintances (for I visited Burnfoot twice a year, on my going and coming from Glasgow to Manchester) drop _in_ from their several avocations, one after another, and all truly rejoiced to behold my face, and still more delighted to inspect the treasure and the wonders of "the pack." At last the guidman himself suspended his plaid from the mid-door head, put off his shoes and leggings, assumed his slippers, along with his prescriptive seat at the head or upper end of the lang-settle. The guidwife, returning _butt_ from bedding the youngest of some half-score of children, welcomed her husband with a look of the most genuine affection. She put a little creepie stool under his feet, felt that his clothes were not wet, scolded the dogs to a respectful distance, and inspired the peats into a double blaze. The oldest daughter, now "woman grown," sat combing the hoar-frost from her raven locks, and looking out from beneath beautifully arched and bushy eyebrows upon the interesting addition which had been made to the meal-ark. Some half-a-score of healthy lads and lasses occupied the bench ayont the fire, o'er-canopied by sheep-skins, aprons, stockings, and footless hose. The dogs, after various and somewhat noisy differences had been adjusted, fell into order and position around the hearth, enjoying the warmth, and licking, peacefully and carefully, the wet from their sides. The cat, by this time, had made a returning motion from the cupboard head, from which she had been watching the arrangements and movements beneath. As this appeared to "Help" to be an infringement of the terms of armistice and of the frontier laws, he sprang with eagerness over the hearth. Pussy, finding it dangerous, under this sudden and somewhat unexpected movement, "_dare terga_," instantly drew up her whole body into an attitude not only of defence, but defiance; curving herself into a bristling crescent, with the head of a dragon attached to it, and, with one horrid hiss and sputter, compelled Help first to hesitate and then to retreat. "Three paces back the youth retired, And saved himself from harm." The guidwife, however,--who seemed not unaccustomed to such demonstrations, and who manifestly acted on the humane principle of assisting the weaker by assailing the stronger combatant--gave Help such demonstrations of her intentions, as at once reduced matters to the _status quo ante bellum_. (I have as good a right to scholarship as my brother packman, Plato, who carried oil to Egypt.) Thus peace and good order being restored, the treasures of my burden became an immediate and a universal subject of inquiry. I was compelled, nothing loath, to unstrap my various packages, and disclose to view all the varied treasures of the spindle and loom. Shawls were spread out into enormous display, with central, and corner, and border ornaments, the most amazing and the most fashionable; waistcoat pieces of every stripe and figure, from the straight line to the circle, of every hue and colouring which the rainbow exhibits, were unfolded in the presence and under the scrutinizing thumb of many purchasers. The guidwife herself half coaxed and half scolded a fine remnant of Flanders lace, of most tempting aspect, out of the guidman's reluctant pocket. The very dogs seemed anxious to be accommodated, and applied their noses to some unopened bales, with a knowing look of inquiry. Things were proceeding in this manner, when the door opened, and there entered a young man of the most prepossessing appearance; in fact, what Burns terms a "strapping youth." I could observe that, at his entrance, the daughter's eye (of whom I have formerly made mention) immediately kindled into an expression of the most universal kindness and benevolence. Hitherto she had taken but a limited interest in what was going on; but now she became the most prominent figure in the group--whilst the mother dusted a chair for the welcome stranger with her apron, and the guidman welcomed him with a-- "Come awa, Willie Wilson, an' tak a seat. The nicht's gay dark an' dreary. I wonder how ye cleared the Whitstane Cleugh and the Side Scaur, man, on sic an eerie nicht." "Indeed," responded the stranger, casting a look, in the meantime, towards the guidman's buxom, and, indeed, lovely daughter--"indeed, it's an unco fearfu' nicht--sic a mist and sic a cauld I hae seldom if ever encountered; but I dinna ken hoo it was--I coulda rest at hame till I had tellt ye a' the news o' the last Langhom market." "Ay, ay," interrupted the guidwife; "the last Langhom market, man, is an auld tale noo, I trow. Na, na, yer mither's son camna here on sic a nicht, and at sic an hour, on sic an unmeaning errand"--finishing her sentence, however, by a whisper into Willie's ear, which brought a deeper red into his cheek, and seemed to operate in a similar manner on the apparently deeply engaged daughter. "But, Watty," continued my fair purchaser, "you _must_ give me this Bible a little cheaper--it's ower dear, man--heard ever onybody o' five white shillings gien for a Bible, and it only a New Testament, after a'?--it's baith a sin an' a shame, Watty." After some suitable reluctance, I was on the point of reducing the price by a single sixpence, when Willie Wilson advanced towards the pack, and at once taking up the book and the conversation-- "Ower dear, Jessie, my dear!--it's the word o' God, ye ken--his ain precious word; and I'll e'en mak ye a present o' the book at Watty's ain price. Ye ken he maun live, as we a' do, by his trade." The money was instantly paid down from a purse pretty will filled; for William Wilson was the son of a wealthy and much respected sheep-farmer in the neighbourhood, and had had his name _once_ called in the kirk, along with that of "Janet Harkness of Burnfoot, both in this parish." "Hoot noo, bairns," rejoined the mother; "ye're baith wrang--that Bible winna do ava. Ye maun hae a big ha' Bible to take the buik wi', and worship the God o' yer fathers nicht and morning, as they hae dune afore ye; and Watty will bring ye ane frae Glasgow the next time he comes roun'; and it will, maybe, be usefu', ye ken, in _anither way_." "Tout, mither, wi' yer nonsense," interrupted the conscious bride; "I never liked to see my name and age marked and pointed out to onybody on oor muckle Bible; sae just haud yer tongue, mither, and tak a present frae William and _me_," added she, blushing deeply, "o' that big printed Testament. The minister, ye ken, seldom meddles wi' the auld Bible, unless it be a bit o' the Psalms; and yer een noo are no sae gleg as they were whan ye were married to my father there." The father, overcome by this well-timed and well-directed evidence of goodness, piety, and filial affection, rose from his seat on the long-settle, and, with tears in his eyes, pronounced a most fervent benediction over the shoulders of his child. "O God in heaven, bless and preserve my dear Jessie!" said he--his child's tears now falling fast and faster. "Oh, may the God of thy fathers make thee happy--thee and thine--him there and his!--and when thy mother's grey hairs and mine are laid and hid in the dust, mayest thou have children, such as thy fond and dutiful self, to bless and comfort, to rejoice and support thy heart!" There was not, by this time, a dry eye in the family; and, as a painful silence was on the point of succeeding to this outbreaking of nature, the venerable parent slowly and deliberately took down the big ha' Bible from its bole in the wall, and, placing it on the lang-settle table, he proceeded to family worship with the usual solemn prefatory annunciation--"Let us worship God." Love, filial affection, and piety--what a noble, what a beautiful triumvirate! By means of these, Scotland has rendered herself comparatively great, independent, and happy. These are the graces which, in beautiful union, have protected her liberties, sweetened her enjoyments, and exalted her head amongst the nations, and which, over all, have cast an expression and a feature irresistibly winning and nationally characteristic. It is over such scenes as the kitchen fireside of Burnfoot now presented, that the soul hovers with ever-awakening and ever-intenser delight; that even amidst the coldness, and unconcern, and irreligion of an iron age, the mind, at least at intervals, is redeemed into ecstasy, and feels, in spite of habit, and example, and deadened apprehensions, that there is a beauty in pure and virgin love, a depth in genuine and spontaneous filial regard, and an impulse in communion with Him that is most high, which, even when taken separately, are hallowing, sacred, and elevating; but which, when blended and softened down into one great and leading feature, prove incontestably that man is, in his origin and unalloyed nature, but a little lower than the angels. Such was the aspect of matters in this sequestered and sanctified dwelling, when the house seemed, all at once, to be smitten, like Job's, at the four corners. The soot fell in showers into the grate; the rafters creaked; the dust descended; every door in the house rattled on its sneck and hinges; and the very dogs sprung at once from their slumbers and barked. There was something so awful in the suddenness and violence of the commotion, that the prayer was abruptly and suddenly brought to a conclusion. "Ay, fearfu', sirs!" were John Harkness' first words when springing to his feet; "but there's an awfu' nicht. Open the outer door, Jamie, and let us see what it is like." The outer door was opened; but the drift burst in with such a suffocating swirl, that a strong lad who encountered it, reeled and gasped for breath. "The hogs!" exclaimed the guidman, "and the gimmers!--where did ye leave them, Jamie?" "In Capleslacks," was the answer, "by east the Dod. The wind has set in frae the nor'-east, and fifty score o' sheep, if this continue, will never see the mornin'." But what was to be done? "The wind blew as 'twould blawn its last," and the whole atmosphere was one almost solid wreath of penetrating snow; when you thrust forth your hand into the open air, it was as if you had perforated an iceberg. Burnfoot stands at the convergence of two mountain glens, adown one of which the tempest came as from a funnel--collected, compressed, irresistible. There was a momentary look of suspense--every one eying the rest with an expression of indecision and utter helplessness. The young couple, by some law of affinity, stood together in a corner. The shepherd lads, with Jamie Hogg at their head, were employed in adjusting plaids to their persons. The guidman had already resumed his leggings, and the dogs were all exceedingly excited--amazed at this unexpected movement, but perfectly resolved to do their duty. "Jamie," said the guidman, "you and I will try to mak oor way by the Head Scaur to Capleyetts, where the main hirsel was left; and Will, Tam, and Geordie will see after the hogs and gimmers ayont the Dod." "I, too," exclaimed a voice from the corner, over which, however, a fair hand was pressed, and which was therefore but indistinctly heard--"I will--(canna ye let me speak, Jessie!)--I will not, I shall not be left behind--I will accompany the guidman, and do what I can to seek and to save." "Indeed and indeed, my dear William, ye can do nae guid--ye dinna ken the grun' like my faither; and there's mony a kittle step forbye the Head Scaur; and, the Lord be wi' us! on sic a nicht too." So saying, she clasped her betrothed firmly around the neck, and absolutely compelled him to relinquish his purpose. Having gained this one object, the fair and affectionate bride rushed across the room to her father, and falling down on her knees, grasped him by the legs, and exclaimed-- "O mither, mither! come and help me--come and help me! faither, my dear faither, let Jamie Hogg gang, and the rest; they are young, ye ken, and as weel acquant as yersel' wi' the ly o' the glens! but this is no a nicht for the faither o' a family to risk his life to save his substance. O faither, faither! I am soon, ye ken, to leave you and bonny Burnfoot--grant me, oh, grant me this one, this last request!" The mother sat all this while wringing her hands and exclaiming-- "Ay, ay, Jenny, get him to stay, get him to stay!" The father answered not a word, but, making a sign to Hogg, and whistling on Help, and at the same time kissing his _now_ all but fainting child, he rushed out of the door (as Mrs. Harkness said) "like a fey man," and he and his companion, with a suitable accompaniment of dogs, were almost instantly invisible. The three other lads, suitably armed and accompanied, followed the example set to them, and the guidwife, the two lovers, five or six younger branches, and the female servants of the family, with myself, remained at home in a state of anxiety and suspense which can be better conceived than expressed. "The varnished clock that clicked behind the door," with a force and a stroke loud and painful in the extreme, struck first ten, then eleven, then twelve; but there was no return. Again and again were voices heard commingling with the tempest's rush; again and again did the outer door seem to move backwards on its hinges; but nothing entered save the shrill pipe of the blast, accompanied by the comminuted drift, which penetrated through every seam and cranny. This state of uncertainty was awful; even the ascertained reality of death, partial or universal, had perhaps less of soul-benumbing cold in it than this inconceivable suspense. It required Willie Wilson's utmost efforts and mine to keep the frantic woman from madly rushing into the drift; and the voice of lamentation was sad and loud amongst the children and the servant lasses--each of the latter class lamented, indeed, the fate of all, but there was always an under prayer offered up for the safety of Geordie, or Will, or Jamie, in particular. At last the three lads who had encompassed the Dod arrived--alive, indeed, but almost breathless and frozen to death. They had, however, surmounted incredible difficulties, and had succeeded in placing their hirsel in a position of comparative security; but where were Jamie Hogg and the guidman? The violence of the storm had nothing abated, the snow was every moment accumulating, and the danger and difficulty increasing tenfold. Spirits, heat, and friction gradually restored the three lads to their senses, and to the kind attentions of their several favourites of the female order; but _there_ sat the mother and the daughter, whilst the father was either, in all probability, dead or dying. The very thought was distracting; and, accordingly, the young bride, now turning to her lover with a look of inexpressible anguish, exclaimed-- "O Willie! my ain dear Willie, ye maun gang, after a', ye maun gang this instant," (Willie was on his feet and plaided whilst yet the sentence was unfinished,) "and try to rescue my dear, dear faither from this awfu' and untimely end; but tak care, oh tak care o' the big Scaur, and keep far west by Caplecleuch, and maybe ye'll meet them coming back that way." These last words were lost in the drift, whilst Willie Wilson, with his faithful follower, Rover, were penetrating, and flouncing, and floundering their way towards the place pointed out. In about half an hour after this, the howl and scratch of a dog were heard at the door-back, and Help immediately rushed in, the welcome forerunner of his master and Hogg. They had, indeed, had a fearful struggle, and fearful wanderings; but, in endeavouring to avoid the dangerous, because precipitous, Head Scaur, they had wandered from the track, and from the object of their travel; and, after having been inclined once or twice to lie down and take a rest (the deceitful messenger of death), they had at last got upon the track of Caple Water; and, by keeping to its windings--which they had often traced at the risk of being drowned--they had at last weathered the old cham'er, the byre, and peat-stack, and were now, thank God! within "bigget wa's." But where, alas! was Willie Wilson? Him, in consequence of their deviations, they had missed; and over him, thus exposed, the tempest was still renewing at intervals its hurricane gusts. There was one scream heard, such as would have penetrated the heart of a tiger, and all was still. There she lay, the beauteous, but now marble bride; her head reposing on her mother's lap, her lips pale as the snowdrop, her eyes fixed and soulless, her cheek without a tint, and her mouth half-open and breathless. Long, long was the withdrawment--again and again was the dram-glass applied to the mouth, to catch the first expiration of returning breath--ere the frame began to quiver, the hands to move, the lips and cheeks to colour, and the eyes to indicate the approaching return to reason and perception. "I have killed him! I have killed him!" were the first frantic accents. "I have murdered, murdered my dear Willie! It was me that sent him--forced him--compelled him out--out into the drift--the cold, cold drift. Away!" added the maniac--"away! I'll go after him--I'll perish with him--where he lies, there will I lie, and there will I be buried. What! is there none of ye that will make an effort to save a perishing--a choking--oh, my God! a suffocating man?" Hereupon she again sank backwards, and was prevented from falling by the arms of a father. "O my child!" said parental love and affection--"O my dear wean!--oh, be patient!--God is guid--He has preserved _us_ all--He will not desert _him_ in the hour of his need--He neither slumbers nor sleeps--His hand is not shortened that He cannot save--and what He can, He will--He never deserted any that trusted in Him. O my child! my bairn!--my first-born!--be patient--be patient. There--there--there is a scratch at the door-back--it is Rover." And to be sure Rover it was--but Rover in despair. His faithful companion and friend only entered the house to solicit immediate aid--he ran round and round, looking up into the face of every one with an expression of the most imploring anxiety. The poor frantic girl sprung from her father's embrace, and clung to the neck of the well-known cur--she absolutely kissed him--(oh, to what will not love, omnipotent, virtuous love, descend!)--then rising, in renewed recollection, she sat herself down on the long-settle beside her father, and burst into loud and passionate grief. It was now manifest to all that something must be attempted, else the young farmer must perish. Hogg, though awfully exhausted, was the first to volunteer a new excursion. The whole band were at once on their feet; but Jessie now clung to her father, as she had formerly done to her lover, and would not let him go--indeed, the guidman was in no danger of putting his purpose into effect, for he could scarcely stand on his feet. He sat, or rather fell down, consequently, beside his daughter, and continued in constant prayer and supplication at the throne of grace. The daughter listened, and said she was comforted--the voyagers were again on their way--the tempest had somewhat abated--the moon had once or twice shone out--and there was now a greater chance of success in their undertaking. How we all contrived to exist during an interval of about two hours, I cannot say; but this I know, that the endurance of this second trial was worse than the first, to all but the sweet bride herself. Her mind had now taken a more calm and religious view of the case. She repeated, at intervals and pauses in her father's ejaculatory prayer-- "Yes--oh, yes--_His_ will--His holy will be done! The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away--blessed be the name of the Lord for ever! We shall meet again--oh, yes--where the weary are at rest. 'A few short years of evil past, We reach the happy shore Where death-divided friends at last Shall meet, to part no more.' O father, is not that a gracious saying, and worthy of all acceptation!" At length the door opened, and in walked William Wilson. The reader need scarcely to be told that the sagacious dog had left his master floundered, and unable to extricate himself in a snow wreath; that the same faithful guide had taken the searchers to the spot, where they found Wilson just in the act of falling into a sleep--from which, indeed, but for the providential sagacity of his dog, he had never wakened; and that, by means of some spirits which they had taken in a bottle, they completely restored and conducted him home. "Lives there one with soul so dead" as not now to image the happy meeting betwixt bride and bridegroom, and, above all, the influence which this trial had upon the happiness and religious character of their future married and prosperous lot? It is, indeed, long since I have laid aside the pack--to which, after a good education, I had taken, from a wandering propensity--and taken up my residence in the flourishing village of Thornhill, Dumfriesshire; living, at first, on the profits of my shop, and now retired on my little, but, to me, ample competency; but I still have great pleasure in paying a yearly visit to my friends of Mitchelslacks, and in recalling with them, over a comfortable meal, the interesting incidents of the snow storm 1794. THE FAIR MAID OF CELLARDYKES. I did not like the idea of having all the specimens of the fine arts in Europe collected into one "bonne bouche" at the Louvre. It was like collecting, while a boy, a handful of strawberries, and devouring them at one indiscriminating gulp. I do not like floral exhibitions, for the same reason. I had rather a thousand times meet my old and my new friends in my solitary walks, or in my country rambles. All museums in this way confound and bewilder me; and had the Turk not been master of Greece, I should have preferred a view of the Elgin marbles in the land of their nativity. And it is for a similar reason that my mind still reverts, with a kind of dreamy delight, to the time when I viewed mankind in detail, and in all their individual and natural peculiarities, rather than _en masse_, and in one regimental uniform. Educate up! Educate up! Invent machinery--discover agencies--saddle nature with the panniers of labour--and, at last, stand alongside of her, clothed, from the peasant to the prince, in the wonders of her manufacture, and merrily whistling, in idle unconcern, to the tune of her unerring despatch! But what have we gained? One mass of similarities: the housemaid, the housekeeper, the lady, and the princess, speaking the same language, clothed in the same habiliments, and enjoying the same immunities from corporeal labour--the colours of the rainbow whirled and blended into one glare of white! Towards this _ultimatum_ we are now fast hastening. Where is the shepherd stocking-weaver, with his wires and his fingers moving invisibly? Where the "wee and the muckle wheel," with the aged dames, in pletted toys, singing "Tarry woo?" Where the hodden-grey clad patriarch, sitting in the midst of his family, and mixing familiarly, and in perfect equality with all the household--servant and child? My heart constantly warms to these recollections; and I feel as if wandering over a landscape variegated by pleasant and contrasting colouring, and overshadowed with associations which have long been a part of myself. One exception to the general progression and assimilation still happily remains to gratify, I must confess, my liking for things as they were. The fisher population of Newhaven, Buckhaven, and Cellardykes--(my observation extends no farther, and I limit my remarks accordingly)--are, in fact, the Scottish highlanders, the Irish, the Welsh, and the Manks of Fisherdom. Differing each somewhat from the other, they are united by one common bond of character--they are varieties of the same animal--the different species under one genus. I like this. I am always in high spirits when I pass through a fishing village or a fisher street. No accumulation of filth in every hue--of shell, and gill, and fish-tail--can disgust me. I even smell a sweet savour from their empty baskets, as they exhale themselves dry in the sunbeam. And then there is a hue of robust health over all. No mincing of matters. Female arms and legs of the true Tuscan order--cheeks and chins where neither the rose nor the bone has been stinted. Children of the dub and the mire--all agog in demi-nudity, and following nature most vociferously. Snug, comfortable cabins, where garish day makes no unhandsome inquiries, and where rousing fires and plentiful meals abide from June to January. They have a language, too, of their own--the true Mucklebacket dialect; and freely and firmly do they throw from them censure, praise, or ribaldry. The men are here but men; mere human machines--useful, but not ornamental--necessary incumbrances rather than valuable protectors. "Poor creature!" says Meg of the Mucklebacket, "she canna maintain a man." Sir Walter saw through the character I am labouring to describe; and, in one sentence, put life and identity into it. I know he was exceedingly fond of conversing with fisherwomen in particular. But, whilst such are the general features, each locality I have mentioned has its distinctive lineaments. The Newhaven fisherwoman (for the man is unknown) is a bundle of snug comfort. Her body, her dress, her countenance, her basket, her voice, all partake of the same character of _enbonpointness_. Yet there is nothing at all untidy about her. She may ensconce her large limbs in more plaiden coverings than the gravedigger in "Hamlet" had waistcoats, but still she moves without constraint; and under a burden which would press my lady's waiting-maid to the carpet, she moves free, firm, elastic. Her tongue is not labour-logged, her feet are not creel-retarded; but, altogether unconscious of the presence of hundreds, she holds on her way and her discourse as if she were a caravan in the desert. She is to be found in every street and alley of Auld Reekie, till her work is accomplished. Her voice of call is exceedingly musical, and sounds sweetly in the ears of the infirm and bedrid. All night long she holds her stand close by the theatre, with her broad knife and her opened oyster. In vain does the young spark endeavour to engage her in licentious talk. He soon discovers that, wherever her feelings or affections tend, they do not point in his favour. Thus, loaded with pence, and primed with gin, she returns by midnight to her home--there to share a supper-pint with her man and her neighbours, and to prepare, by deep repose, for the duties of a new day. Far happier and far more useful she, in her day and generation, than that thing of fashion which men call a beau or a belle--in whose labours no one rejoices, and in whose bosom no sentiment but self finds a place. In Buckhaven, again, the Salique law prevails. There men are men, and women mere appendages. The sea department is here all in all. The women, indeed, crawl a little way, and through a few deserted fields, into the surrounding country; but the man drives the cart, and the cart carries the fish; and the fish are found in all the larger inland towns eastward. Cellardykes is a mixture of the two--a kind of William and Mary government, where, side by side, at the same cart, and not unfrequently in the same boat, are to be found man and woman, lad and lass. Oh, it is a pretty sight to see the Cellardyke fishers leaving the coast for the herring-fishing in the north! I witnessed it some years ago, as I passed to Edinburgh; and this year I witnessed it again. Meeting and conversing with my old friend the minister of the parish of Kilrenny, we laid us down on the sunny slope of the brae facing the east and the Isle of May, whilst he gave me the following narrative:-- Thomas Laing and Sarah Black were born and brought up under the same roof--namely, that double-storied tenement which stands somewhat by itself, overlooking the harbour. They entered by the same outer door, but occupied each a separate story. Thomas Laing was always a stout, hardy, fearless boy, better acquainted with every boat on the station than with his single questions, and far fonder of little Sarah's company than of the schoolmaster's. Sarah was likewise a healthy, stirring child, extremely sensitive and easily offended, but capable, at the same time, of the deepest feelings of gratitude and attachment. Thomas Laing was, in fact, her champion, her Don Quixote, from the time when he could square his arms and manage his fists; and much mischief and obloquy did he suffer among his companions on account of his chivalrous defence of little Sally. One day whilst the fisher boys and girls were playing on the pier, whilst the tide was at the full, a mischievous boy, wishing to annoy Thomas, pushed little Sall into the harbour, where, but for Thomas's timely and skilful aid (for he was an excellent swimmer,) she would probably have been drowned. Having placed his favourite in a condition and place of safety, Tom felled the offender, with a terrible fister, to the earth. The blow had taken place on the pit of the stomach, and was mortal. Tom was taken up, imprisoned, and tried for manslaughter; but, on account of his youth--being then only thirteen--he was merely imprisoned for a certain number of months. Poor Sally, on whose account Tom had incurred the punishment of the law, visited him, as did many good-natured fishermen, whilst in prison, where he always expressed extreme contrition for his rashness. After the expiry of his imprisonment, Tom returned to Cellardykes, only to take farewell of his parents, and his now more than ever dear Sally. He could not bear, he said, to face the parents of the boy whose death he had occasioned. The parting was momentary. He promised to spend one night at home; but he had no such intention--and, for several years, nobody knew what had become of Thomas Laing. The subject was at first a speculation, then a wonder, next an occasional recollection; and, in a few months, the place which once knew bold Tom Laing, knew him no more. Even his parents, engaged as they were in the active pursuits of fishing, and surrounded as they were by a large and dependent family, soon learned to forget him. One bosom alone retained the image of Tom, more faithfully and indelibly than ever did coin the impression of royalty. Meanwhile, Sarah grew--for she was a year older than Tom--into womanhood, and fairly took her share in all the more laborious parts of a fisher's life. She could row a boat, carry a creel, or drive a cart with the best of them; and, whilst her frame was thus hardened, her limbs acquired a consistency and proportion which bespoke the buxom woman rather than the bonny lass. Her eye, however, was large and brown, and her lips had that variety of expression which lips only can exhibit. Many a jolly fisher wished and attempted to press these lips to his; but was always repulsed. She neither spoke of her Thomas, nor did she grieve for him much in secret; but her heart revolted from a union with any other person whilst Thomas might still be alive. Upon a person differently situated, the passion (for passion assuredly it was) which she entertained for her absent lover, might and would have produced very different effects. Had Sarah been a young boarding-school miss, she would assuredly either have eloped with another, or have died in a madhouse; had she been a sentimental sprig of gentility, consumption must have followed: but Sarah was neither of these. She had a heart to feel, and deeply too; but she knew that labour was her destiny, and that when "want came in at the door, love escapes by the window." So she just laboured, laughed, ate, drank, and slept, very much like other people. Yet few sailors came to the place whom she did not question about Thomas; and many a time and oft did she retire to the rocks of a Sabbath eve, to think of and pray for Thomas Laing. People imagine, from the free and open mariner, and talk of the fisherwomen, that they are all or generally people of doubtful morality. Never was there a greater mistake. To the public in general they are inaccessible; they almost universally intermarry with one another; and there are fewer cases (said my reverend informant) of public or sessional reproof in Cellardykes, than in any other district of my parish. But, from the precarious and somewhat solitary nature of their employment, they are exceedingly superstitious; and I had access to know, that many a sly sixpence passed from Sally's pocket into old Effie the wise woman's, with the view of having the cards cut and cups read for poor Thomas. Time, however, passed on--with time came, but did not pass misfortune. Sally's father, who had long been addicted, at intervals, to hard drinking, was found one morning dead at the bottom of a cliff, over which, in returning home inebriated, he had tumbled. There were now three sisters, all below twelve, to provide for, and Sally's mother had long been almost bedrid with severe and chronic rheumatism; consequently, the burden of supporting this helpless family devolved upon Sarah, who was now in the bloom and in the strength of her womanhood. Instead of sitting down, however, to lament what could not be helped, Sarah immediately redoubled her diligence. She even learned to row a boat as well as a man, and contrived, by the help of the men her father used to employ, to keep his boat still going. Things prospered with her for a while; but, in a sudden storm, wherein five boats perished with all on board, she lost her whole resources. They are a high-minded people those Cellardyke fishers. The Blacks scorned to come upon the session. The young girls salted herrings, and cried haddocks in small baskets through the village and the adjoining burghs, and Sarah contrived still to keep up a cart for country service. Meanwhile, Sarah became the object of attention through the whole neighbourhood. Though somewhat larger in feature and limb than the Venus de Medicis, she was, notwithstanding, tight, clean, and sunny--her skin white as snow, and her frame a well-proportioned Doric--just such a help-mate as a husband who has to rough it through life might be disposed to select. Captain William M'Guffock, or, as he was commonly called, Big Bill, was the commander of a coasting craft, and a man of considerable substance. True, he was considerably older than Sally, and a widower, but he had no family, and a "bien house to bide in." You see that manse-looking tenement there, on the broad head towards the east--that was Captain M'Guffock's residence when his seafaring avocations did not demand his presence elsewhere. Well, Bill came acourting to Sally; but Sally "looked asclent and unco skeich." Someway or other, whenever she thought of matrimony--which she did occasionally--she at the same time thought of Thomas Laing, and, as she expressed it, her heart _scunnered_ at the thought. Consequently, Bill made little progress in his courtship; which was likewise liable to be interrupted, for weeks at a time, by his professional voyages. At last a letter arrived from on board a king's vessel, then lying in Leith Roads, apprising Thomas Laing's relatives that he had died of fever on the West India station. This news affected Sally more than anything which had hitherto happened to her. She shut herself up for two hours in her mother's bedroom, weeping aloud and bitterly, exclaiming, from time to time--"Oh! my Thomas!--my own dearest Thomas! I shall never love man again. I am thine in life and in death--in time and in eternity!" In vain did the poor bedrid woman try to comfort her daughter. Nature had her way; and, in less than three hours, Sarah Black was again in the streets, following, with a confused but a cheerful look, her ordinary occupation. This grief of Sarah's, had it been well nursed, might well have lasted a twelvemonth; but, luckily for Sarah, and for the labouring classes in general, she had not time to nurse her grief to keep it warm. "Give us this day our daily bread," said a poor helpless mother and three somewhat dependent sisters--and Sarah's exertions were redoubled. "Oh, what a feelingless woman!" said Mrs. Paterson to me, as Sarah passed her door one day in my presence, absolutely singing--"Oh, what a feelingless woman!--and her father dead, and her mother bedrid, and poor Thomas Laing, whom she made such a fuss about, gone too--and there is she, absolutely singing after all!" Mrs. Paterson is now Mrs. Robson, having married her second husband just six weeks after the death of the first, whom her improper conduct and unhappy temper contributed first to render miserable here, and at last to convey to the churchyard! Verily (added the worthy clergyman), the heart is deceitful above all things. But what, after all, could poor Sarah do, but marry Will M'Guffock, and thus amply provide, not only for herself, but for her mother and sister? Had Thomas (and her heart heaved at the thought) still been alive, she thought, she never would have brought herself to think of it in earnest; but now that Thomas had long ceased to think of her or of anything earthly, why should she not make a man happy who seemed distractedly in love with her, and at the same time honourably provide for her poor and dependent relatives? In the meantime, the sacramental occasion came round, and I had a private meeting previous to the first communion with Sarah Black. To me, in secret, she laid open her whole heart as if in the presence of her God; and I found her, though not a well-informed Christian by any means on doctrinal points, yet well disposed and exceedingly humble; in short, I had great pleasure in putting a token into her hand, at which she continued to look for an instant, and then returned it to me. I expressed surprise, at least by my looks. "I fear," said she, "that I am _unworthy_; for I have not told you that I am thinking of marrying a man whom I cannot love, merely to provide for our family. Is not this a sin?--and can I, with an intention of doing what I know to be wrong, safely communicate?" I assured her that, instead of thinking it a sin, I thought her resolution commendable, particularly as the object of her real affection was beyond its reach; and I mention the circumstance to show that there is often much honour, and even delicacy of feeling, natural as well as religious, under very uncongenial circumstances and appearances. Having satisfied her mind on this subject, I had the pleasure to see her at the communion table, conducting herself with much seeming seriousness of spirit. I could see her shed tears, and formed the very best opinion of her from her conduct throughout. In a few days or weeks after this, the proclamation lines were put into my hands, and I had the pleasure of uniting her to Captain M'Guffock in due course. They had, however, only been married a few weeks, when an occurrence of a very awkward character threw her and her husband, who was, in fact, an ill-tempered, passionate man, into much perplexity. The captain was absent on a coasting voyage, as usual; and his wife was superintending the washing of some clothes, whilst the sun was setting. It was a lovely evening in the month of July, and the fishing boats were spread out all over the mouth of the Firth, from the East Neuk to the Isle of May, in the same manner in which you see them at present. Mrs. M'Guffock's mind assumed, notwithstanding the glorious scenery around her, a serious cast, for she could not help recalling many such evenings in which she had rejoiced in company and in unison with her beloved Thomas. She felt and knew that it was wrong to indulge such emotions; but she could not help it. At last, altogether overcome, she threw herself forward on the green turf, and prayed audibly--"O my God, give me strength and grace to forget my own truly beloved Thomas! Alas! he knows not the struggles which I have to exclude him from my sinful meditations. Even suppose he were again to arise from the dead, and appear in all the reality of his youthful being, I must, and would fly from him as from my most dangerous foe." She lifted up her eyes in the twilight, and in the next instant felt herself in the arms of a powerful person, who pressed her in silence to his breast. Amazed and bewildered, she neither screamed nor fainted, but, putting his eager kisses aside, calmly inquired who he was who dared thus to insult her. She had no sooner pronounced the inquiry, than she heard the words, "Thomas--your own Thomas!" pronounced in tones which could not be mistaken. This, indeed, overpowered her; and, with a scream of agony, she sank down dead on the earth. This brought immediate assistance; but she was found lying by herself, and talking wildly about her Thomas Laing. Everybody who heard her concluded that she had either actually seen her lover's ghost, or that her mind had given way under the pressure of regret for her marriage, and that she was now actually a lunatic. For twelve hours she continued to evince the most manifest marks of insanity; but sleep at last soothed and restored her, and she immediately sent for me. I endeavoured to persuade her that it must be all a delusion, and that the imagination oftentimes created such fancies. I gave instances from books which I had read, as well as from a particular friend of my own who had long been subject to such delusive impressions, and at last she became actually persuaded that there had been no reality in what she had so vividly perceived, and still most distinctly and fearfully recollected. I took occasion then to urge upon her the exceeding sinfulness of allowing any image to come betwixt her and her lawful married husband; and left her restored, if not to her usual serenity, at least to a conviction that she had only been disturbed by a vision. When her husband returned, I took him aside, and explained my views of the case, and stated my most decided apprehension that some similar impression might return upon her nerves, and that her sisters (her mother being now removed by death) should dwell in the same house with her. To this, however, the captain objected, on the score that, though he was willing to pay a person to take care of them in their own house, he did not deem them proper company, in short, for a _captain's wife_. I disliked the reasoning, and told him so; but he became passionate, and I saw it was useless to contend further. From that day, however, Bill M'Guffock seemed to have become an altered man. Jealousy, or something nearly resembling it, took possession of his heart; and he even ventured to affirm that his wife had a paramour somewhere concealed, with whom, in his long and necessary absences, she associated. He alleged, too, that in her sleep she would repeat the name of her favourite, and in terms of present love and fondness. I now saw that I had not known the depth of "a first love," otherwise I should not have advised this unhappy marriage, all advantageous as it was in a worldly point of view. A sailor's life, however, is one of manifest risk, and in less than a twelvemonth Sarah M'Guffock was a young widow, without incumbrance, and with her rights to her just share of the captain's effects. Her sorrow for the death of her husband was, I believe, sincere; but I observed that she took an early opportunity of joining her sisters in her old habitation, immediately beneath that still tenanted by the friends of Laing. Matters were in this situation, when I was surprised one evening, whilst sitting meditating in the manse of Kilrenny, about dusk, with a visit from a tall and well-dressed stranger. He asked me at once if I could give him a private interview for a few minutes, as he had something of importance to communicate. Having taken him into my study, and shut the door, I reached him a chair, and desired him to proceed. "I had left the parish," said the stranger, "before you were minister of Kilrenny, in the time of worthy Mr. Brown, and therefore you will probably not know even my name. I am Thomas Laing!" "I did not indeed," said I, "know you, but I have heard much about you; and I know one who has taken but too deep an interest in your fate. But how comes it," added I, beginning to think that I was conversing either with a vision or an impostor--"how comes it that you are here, seemingly alive and well, whilst we have all been assured of your death some years ago?" The stranger started, and immediately exclaimed--"Dead!--dead!--who said I was dead?" "Why," said I, "there was a letter came, I think, to your own father, mentioning your death by fever in the West Indies." "Do I look like a dead man?" said the stranger; but, immediately becoming absent and embarrassed, he sat for a while silent, and then resumed:--"Some one," said he, "has imposed upon my dear Sarah, and for the basest of purposes. I now see it all. My dear girl has been sadly used." "This is, indeed, strange," said I; "but let me hear how it is that I have the honour of a visit from you at this time and in this place?" "Oh," replied Thomas Laing (for it was he in verity), "I will soon give you the whole story:-- "When I left this, fourteen years ago come the time, I embarked at Greenock, working my way out to New York. As I was an excellent hand at a rope and an oar, I early attracted the captain's notice, who made some inquiries respecting my place of birth and my views in life. I told him that I was literally "at sea," having nothing particularly in view--that I had been bred a fisher, and understood sailing and rowing as well as any one on board. The captain seemed to have something in his head, for he nodded to me, saying, 'Very well, we will see what can be done for you when we arrive at New York.' When we were off Newfoundland, we were overtaken by a terrible storm, which drove us completely out of our latitude, till, at last, we struck on a sandbank--the sea making for several hours a complete breach over the deck. Many were swept away into the devouring flood; whilst some of us--amongst several others the captain and myself--clung to what remained of the ship's masts till the storm somewhat abated. We then got the boat launched, and made for land, which we could see looming at some distance ahead. We got, however, entangled amongst currents and breakers; and, within sight of a boat which was making towards us from the shore, we fairly upset--and I remember nothing more till I awoke, in dreadful torment, in some fishermen's boat. Beside me lay the captain, the rest had perished. When we arrived at the land, we were placed in one of the fishermen's huts, where we were most kindly treated--assisting, as we did occasionally, in the daily labours of the cod fishery. I displayed so much alertness and skill in this employment, that the factor on the station made me an advantageous offer, if I would remain with them and assist in their labours. With this offer, having no other object distinctly in view, I complied. But my kind and good-hearted captain, possessing less dexterity in this employment, was early shipped at his own request for England. The most of the hands, about two hundred in all, on the station where I remained, were Scotch and Irish, and a merry, jovial set we were. The men had wives and families; and the governor or factor lived in a large slated house, very like your manse, upon a gentle eminence, a little inland. Towards the coast the land is sandy and flat; but in the interior there is much wood, a very rich soil, and excellent fresh water. Where we remained the water was brackish, and constituted the chief inconvenience of our station. The factor or agent, commonly called by the men the governor, used to visit us almost every day, and remained much on board when ships were loading for Europe. One fine summer's day we were all enjoying the luxury of bathing, when, all on a sudden, the shout was raised--'A shark! a shark!' I had just taken my place in the boat, and was still undressed, when I observed one man disappear, being dragged under the water by the sea monster. The factor, who was swimming about in the neighbourhood, seemed to be paralyzed by terror, for he made for the boat, plashing like a dog, with his hands and arms frequently stretched out of the water. I saw his danger, and immediately plunged in to his rescue, which, with some difficulty, I at last effected. "Poor Pat Moonie was seen no more; nor did the devouring monster reappear. The factor immediately acknowledged his obligations to me, by carrying me home with him, and introducing me to his lady and an only daughter--I think I never beheld a more beautiful creature; but I looked upon her as a being of a different order from myself, and I still thought of my own dear Sally and sweet home at Cellardykes. Through the factor's kindness, I got the management of a boat's crew, with considerable emolument which belonged to the situation. I then behoved to dress better, at least while on land, than I used to do, and I was an almost daily visitor at Codfield House, the name of the captain's residence. My affairs prospered; I made, and had no way of spending money. The factor was my banker, and his fair daughter wrote out the acknowledgments for her father to sign. One beautiful Sabbath-day, after the factor--who officiated at our small station as clergyman--had read us prayers and a sermon, I took a walk into the interior of the country, where, with a book in her hand, and an accompaniment of Newfoundland dogs, I chanced to meet with Miss Woodburn, the factor's beautiful child. She was only fourteen, but quite grown, and as blooming a piece of womanhood as ever wore kid gloves or black leather. She seemed somewhat embarrassed at my presence, and blushed scarlet, entreating me to prevent one of her dogs from running away with her glove, which he was playfully tossing about in his mouth. The dog would not surrender his charge to any one but to his mistress; and, in the struggle, he bit my hand somewhat severely. You may see the marks of his teeth there still" (holding out his hand while he spoke). "Poor Miss Woodburn knew not what to do first; she immediately dropped the book which she was reading--scolded the offending dog to a distance--took up the glove, which the dog at her bidding had dropped, and wrapped it close and firmly around my bleeding hand; a band of long grass served for thread to make all secure, and in a few days my hand was in a fair way of recovery--but not so my heart; I felt as if I had been all at once transformed into a gentleman--the soft touch of Miss Eliza's fair fingers seemed to have transformed me, skin, flesh, and bones, into another species of being. I shook like an aspen leaf whenever I thought of our interesting interview; and I could observe that Eliza changed colour, and looked out of the window whenever I entered the room. But, sir, I am too particular, and I will now hasten to a close." I entreated him (said the parson) to go on in his own way, and without any reference to my leisure. He then proceeded:--"Well, sir, from year to year I prospered, and from year to year got more deeply in love with the angel which moved about in my presence. At last our attachment became manifest to the young lady's parent; and, to my great surprise, it was proposed that we should make a voyage to New York, and there be united in matrimony. All this while, sir, I thought of my own dear Sally, and the thought not unfrequently made me miserable; but what was Sally to me now?--perhaps she was dead--perhaps she was married--perhaps--but I could scarcely think it--she had forgot me; and then the blooming rosebud was ever in my presence, and hallowed me, by its superior purity and beauty, into a complete gentleman. Well, married we were at New York, and for several months I was the happiest of men, and my dear wife (I know it) the happiest of women; but the time of her labour approached--and child and mother lie buried in the cemetery at New York, where we had now fixed our residence." (Here poor Thomas wept plentifully, and, after a pause proceeded.)--"I could not reside longer in a place which was so dismally associated in my mind; so, having wound up my worldly affairs, and placed my little fortune--about one thousand pounds--in the bank, I embarked for Europe, along with my father and mother-in-law, who were going home to end their days in the place of their nativity, Belfast, in Ireland. I determined upon landing at the Cove of Cork, to visit once more my native village, and to have at least one interview with Sally. I learned, on my arrival at Largo, that Sally was married to the old captain. I resolved, however, ere I went finally to settle in Belfast, to have one stolen peep at my first love--my own dear Sally. I came upon her whilst repeating my name in her prayers--I embraced her convulsively--repeated her name twice in her hearing--heard her scream--saw her faint--kissed her fondly again and again--and, strangers appearing, I immediately absconded." "This," said the minister, "explains all;--but go on--I am anxious to hear the conclusion of your somewhat eventful history." "Why, I was off immediately for Belfast, where I at present reside with my father-in-law, whose temper, since the loss of his child, has been much altered for the worse. But I am here on a particular errand, in which your kind offices, sir--for I have heard of your goodness of heart--may be of service to me. I observed the death of the old captain in the newspaper, and I am here once more to enjoy an interview with his widow. I wish you, sir, to break the business to her; meanwhile, I will lodge at the Old Inn, Mrs. Laing's, at Anstruther, and await your return." I agreed (continued the parson of Kilrenny) to wait upon the widow; and to see, in fact, how the wind set, in regard to "first love." I found her, as I expected, neatly clad in her habiliments of widowhood, and employed in making some dresses for a sister's marriage. I asked and obtained a private interview, when I detailed, as cautiously as I could, the particulars of Thomas Laing's history. I could observe that her whole frame shook occasionally, and that tears came, again and again, into her eyes. I was present, but a fortnight ago, at their first interview at the inn; and I never saw two human beings evince more real attachment for each other. On their bended knees, and with faces turned towards heaven, did they unite in thanking God that he had permitted them, to have another interview with each other in this world of uncertainty and death. It has been since discovered that the letter announcing Laing's death was a forgery of the old captain, which has reconciled his widow very much to the idea of shortening her days of mourning. In a word, this evening, and in a few hours, I am going to unite the widower and the widowed, together with a younger sister and a fine young sailor, in the holy bonds of matrimony; and, as a punishment for your giving me all this trouble in narrating this story, I shall insist upon your eating fresh herring, with the fresh-herring Presbytery of St. Andrew's, which meets here at Mrs. Laing's to-day, and afterwards witnessing the double ceremony. To this I assented, and certainly never spent an evening more agreeably than that which I divided betwixt the merry lads of St. Andrew's Presbytery, and the fair dames and maidens of Cellardykes, who graced the marriage ceremony. Such dancing as there was, and such screaming, and such music, and such laughing; yet, amidst it all, Mr. and Mrs. Laing preserved that decent decorum, which plainly said, "We will not mar the happiness of the young; but we feel the goodness and providence of our God too deeply, to permit us to join in the noisy part of the festivity." "The fair maid of Cellardykes," with her kind-hearted husband--I may mention, for the satisfaction of my fair readers in particular--may now be seen daily at their own door, and in their own garden, on the face of the steep which overlooks the village. They have already lived three years in complete happiness, and have been blessed with two as fine healthy children as a Cellardykes sun ever rose upon. Mr. Laing has become an elder in the church, and both husband and wife are most exemplary in the discharge of their religious, as well as relative duties. God has blessed them with an ample competence; and sure is the writer of this narrative, that no poor fisherman or woman ever applied to this worthy couple without obtaining relief. One circumstance more, and my narrative closes. As Mr. Laing was one evening taking a walk along the seashore, viewing the boats as they mustered for the herring fishing, he was shot at from behind one of the rocks, and severely wounded in the shoulder--the ball or slug-shot having lodged in the clavicle, and refusing, for some days, to be extracted. The hue-and-cry was immediately raised; but the guilty person was nowhere to be seen. He had escaped in a boat, or had hid himself in a crevice of the rock, or in some private and friendly house in the village. Poor Thomas Laing was carried home to his distracted wife more dead than alive; and Dr. Goodsir being called, disclosed that, in his present state, the lead could not be extracted. Poor Sarah was never a moment from her husband's side, who fevered, and became occasionally delirious--talking incoherently of murder and shipwreck, and Woodburn, and love, and marriage, and Sarah Black. All within his brain was one mad wheel of mixed and confused colours, such as children make when they wheel a stick, dyed white, black, and red, rapidly around. Suspicion, from the first, fell upon the brother of the boy Rob Paterson, whom Laing had killed many years before. Revenge is the most enduring, perhaps, of all the passions, and rather feeds upon itself than decays. Like fame, "it acquires strength by time;" and it was suspected that Dan Paterson, a reckless and a dissipated man, had done the deed. In confirmation of this supposition, Dan was nowhere to be found, and it was strongly suspected that his wife and his son, who returned at midnight with the boat, had set Dan on shore somewhere on the coast, and that he had effected his escape. Death, for some time, seemed every day and hour nearer at hand; but at last the symptoms softened, the fever mitigated, the swelling subsided, and, after much careful and skilful surgery, most admirably conducted by Dr. Goodsir's son, the ball was extracted. The wound closed without mortification; and, in a week or two, Mr. Laing was not only out of danger, but out of bed, and walking about, as he does to this hour, with his arm in a sling. It was about the period of his recovery, that Dan Paterson was taken as he was skulking about in the west country, apparently looking out for a ship in which to sail to America. He was immediately brought back to Cellardykes, and lodged in Anstruther prison. Mr. Laing would willingly have forborne the prosecution; but the law behoved to have its course. Dan was tried for "maiming with the intention of murder," and was condemned to fourteen years' transportation. This happened in the year 1822, the year of the King's visit to Scotland. Mr. and Mrs. Laing actually waited upon his Majesty King George the Fourth, at the palace of Dalkeith, and, backed by the learned judge and counsel, obtained a commutation of the punishment, from banishment to imprisonment for a limited period. The great argument in his favour was the provocation he had received. Dan Paterson now inhabits a neat cottage in the village, and Mr. Laing has quite set him up with a boat of his own, ready rigged and fitted for use. He has entirely reformed, has become a member of a temperance society, and his wife and family are as happy as the day is long. Mr. and Mrs. Laing are supplied with the very best of fish, and stockings and mittens are manufactured by the Patersons for the little Laings, particularly during boisterous weather, when fishing is out of the question. Thus has a wise Providence made even the wrath of man to praise him. The truth of the above narrative may be tested any day, by waiting upon the Rev. Mr. Dickson, or upon the parties themselves at Braehead of Cellardykes. PRESCRIPTION; OR, THE 29TH OF SEPTEMBER. The serene calmness and holy inspiration of some of our cottage retreats in Scotland are often the envy of the town-poet or philosopher, who looks upon the sequestered spots as possessing all the beauty and repose of the beatific Beulah, where the feet of the pilgrim found repose, and his spirit rest. The desire arises out of that discontent which, less or more, is the inheritance of man in this sphere; it is the residuum of the worldly feelings which, like the clay that, in inspired hands, gave the power of sight to the blind, opens the eyes to immortality. The wish for retirement belongs to good, if it is not a part of the great principle that inclines us to look far away to purer regions for the rest which is never disturbed, and the joy that knows no abatement. Yet how vain are often our thoughts as we survey the white-washed hut in the valley, covered with honeysuckle and white roses; the plot before the door; the croonin dame on her tripod; the lass with the lint-white locks, singing, in snatches of Nature's own language, her purest feelings, like the swelling of a mountain spring! The heart is not still there, any more than in the crowded mart. The birds whistle, but they die too; the rose blooms, but it is eaten in the heart by the palmer worm; the sun shines, but there is a shade at his back. Alas for mortal aspirations--there is nothing here of one side. Like the two parties who fought for the truth of the two pleas--that the statue was white, or that it was black--we find, after all our labour lost, that one side is of the one colour, and the other of the opposite. These thoughts arise in us at this moment, as we recollect the little cottage of Homestead, situated in a collateral valley on the Borders. We were born at a stone-cast from it; and, even in the dream of age, see issuing from it, or entering it, a creature who might have stood for Wordsworth's Highland Girl--a slender, gracile thing, retiring and modest; as delicate in her feelings as in the hue of her complexion; her thoughts of her glen and waterfall only natural to her--all others, fearful even to herself, glenting forth through a flushed medium, which equally betrayed the workings of the blood in the transparent veins--a being of young life, elasticity, and sensitiveness, such as, like some modest flower, we find only in certain recesses of the valleys in mountain-lands. Such were you, Alice Scott, when you first darted across our path on the hills. We have said that we see you now through the dream of age; and, holding to the parallel, there is a change o'er the mood of our vision, for we see you again in a form like that of "The Ladye Geraldine"--your mountain russets off; the bandeau that bound the flying locks laid aside; the irritability and flush of the young spirit abated; and, instead of these, the gown of silk, the coif of satin, and the slow and dignified step of conscious worth and superiority. And whence this change? The young female we have thus apostrophised, was the daughter of Adam Scott, a cottar, who occupied the small cottage of Homestead, under the proprietor of Whitecraigs--a fine property, lying to the south of the cottage; and the mansion of which is yet to be seen by the traveller who seeks the Tweed by the windings of the river Lyne. Old Adam died, and left his widow and daughter to the protection of his superior, Mr. Hayston, who, recollecting the services and stanch qualities of his tenant, did not despise the charge. The small bield was allowed to the mother and daughter, rent free; and some assistance, in addition to the produce of their hands, enabled them to live as thousands in this country live, whose capability of supporting life might be deemed a problem difficult of solution by those whose only care is how to destroy God's gifts. Nature is as curious in her disposal of qualities as the great genius of chance or convention is of the distribution of means. Literature has worn out the characteristic and gloomy lines of the description of the fair and the good; and the impatience of the mind of the nineteenth century--a mind greedy of caricature, and regardless of written sentiment--may warn us from the portrayment of what people now like better to see than to read or hear of. Away, then, with the usual terms, and let old Dame Scott and her daughter be deemed as of those beings who have interested you in the quiet recesses of humble poverty, where Nature, as if in sport or satire, loves to play fantastic tricks. If you have no living models to go by, call up some of the pages of the thousand volumes that have been multiplied on a subject which has been more spoiled by poetical imagery, than benefited by sober observation. Within about five years of the death of the husband and father, old Hayston died, and left Whitecraigs to his only son, Hector, who was kind enough to continue the gift of the father to the inmates of Homestead; but he loaded them with a condition, unspoken, yet implied. The young laird and the pretty cottage maiden had foregathered often amidst the romantic scenes on the Lyne; and that which Nature probably intended as a guard and a mean of segregation--the shrinking timidity of her own mountain child, when looked upon by the eye of, to her, aristocracy--only tended to an opposite effect. A poet has compared love to an Eastern bird, which loses all its beauty when it flies, and it is as true as it is a pretty conceit; but if there was any feathered creature whose wings, reflecting, from its monaul tints, the sun in greater splendour, when on the wing, it would supply as applicable and not less poetical an emblem of the object of the little god's heart-stirrings; and so it seemed to the young laird of Whitecraigs, that, as Alice Scott bounded away over the green hills, or down by the Lyne banks, at his approach, her flight added to the interest which she had already inspired when she had no means of escape. But, as the wildest doe may be caught and tamed, so was she, who was as a white one removed from the herd. The young man possessed attractions beside those of imputed wealth and station; and probably, though we mean not to be severe upon the sex, the process by which his affection had been increased was reversed in its effects upon her, to whom assiduous seeking was as the assiduous retreating had been to him. Yet all was, we believe, honourable in the intentions of young Hayston; and, as for Alice, she was in the primeval condition of a total unconsciousness of evil. The "one blossom on earth's tree," as the poet has it, was by her yet unplucked, nor knew she how many thousands have had cause to sing-- "I have plucked the one blossom that hangs on earth's tree; I have lived--I have loved, and die." Her former timidity was the _à priori_ proof of the strength of the feeling that followed, when the sensitiveness of fear gave way to confidence. Town loves are a thing of sorry account: the best of them are a mere preference of the one to the many; and he who is fortunate enough to outshine his rivals, may pride himself in the possession of some superior recommendations which have achieved a triumph. Were he to look better to it, he might detect something, too, in the force of resources. At best, a few hundred pounds will turn the scale; for he is by all that a better man; and the trained eye of town beauties has a strange responsive twinkle in the glare of the one thing needful. In the remote and beautiful parts of a romantic country, things are otherwise ordered: affection there, is as the mountain flower to the gallipot rose; and it is a mockery to tell us that the difference is only perceptible to those who are weak enough to be romantic. A doughty warrior would recognise and acknowledge the difference, and fight a great deal better too, after he had blubbered over a mountain or glen born love for a creature who would look upon him as the soul of the retreat, and hang on his breast in the outpourings of Nature's feelings. That young Whitecraigs appreciated the triumph he had secured, there can be no reason to doubt. He had been within the drying atmosphere of towns, and had sung and waltzed, probably, with a round hundred of creatures who understood the passion, much as Audrey understood poetry--deeming it honest enough, but yet a composition made up of the elements of side glances, arias, smorzando-sighs, and quadrilles. With Alice Scott on his bosom, the quiet glen as their retreat, the green umbrageous woods their defence, its birds as their musicians, and the wimpling Lyne as the speaking Naiad, he forgot, if he did not despise, the scenes he had left. She flew from him now no longer. The fowler had succeeded to captivate, not intentionally to kill. Two years passed over in this intercourse. There was no secret about it. The dame was well apprised of their proceeding; and the open frankness of the youth dispelled all the fears of wrong which the innocence of the daughter, undefended by experience, might have scarcely guaranteed to one who, at least, had heard something of the ways of the world. The income from Whitecraigs, somewhere about seven hundred a-year, was more than sufficient for the expenditure of the older Haystons; and Hector, at this time, did not seem inclined to alter the line of life followed by his fathers. He had not spoken of marriage to the mother; but he had not hesitated to breathe into the ear of Alice all that was necessary to lead her to the conclusion, to which her heart jumped, that she was to be the lady of the stately white mansion that, at one time, had appeared to her as a great temple where humble worshippers of the glen and the wood might not lay their sandals at the doorway. She had entered the vestibule only as an alms-seeker, and trembled to think she might have been observed throwing a side glance into the interior, where pier-glasses might have reflected the form of the russet-clad child of the valley and hill. The tale has been told a thousand times, and the world is not mended by it. The young master pressed her to his bosom, imprinted a kiss, and was away into the mazes of life in the metropolis, whither some affairs, left unsettled by his father, carried him. Six months passed away, and the rents of the succeeding term were collected by Mr. Pringle, the agent of the family, in Peebles. There was no word for poor Alice, though the small allowance was handed in by the agent, who, ignorant of the state of matters between the young couple, informed the mother that the master of Whitecraigs was on the eve of being married to a young lady of some wealth in the metropolis. The statement was heard by the daughter; and what henceforth but that of Thekla's song:-- "The clouds are flying, the woods are sighing-- The maiden is walking the grassy shore; And as the wave breaks with might, with might, She singeth aloud through the darksome night; But a tear is in her troubled eye." Alice Scott was changed; yet, who shall tell what that change was? If the slow and even progress of the spirit may defy the eye of the metaphysician, who may describe its moods of disturbance? Poetry is familiar with these things, and we have fair rhymes to tell us of the wanderings, and the lonely musings by mountain streams, and the eye that looks and sees not, and the wasting form, and the words that come like the sounds from deep caves; yet, after all, they tell us but little, and that little is but to tickle us with the resonance of spoken sentiment, leaving the sad truth as little understood as before. True it was, that Alice Scott did all these things, and more too: the charm of the hills and the water banks was gone: the light spirit that carried her along, as if borne on the winds, was quenched; the songs by which she gladdened the ears of her mother, as she plied her portable handwork on the green, was no more heard mingling its notes with the music of the Lyne; and the face that shone transparently, like painted alabaster, as if part of the light came from within, was as the poet says-- "Like an April morn Clad in a wintry cloud." Nor did additional time seem to possess any power save that of increasing the pain of the heart-stroke. Most of the griefs of mortals have their appointed modes of alleviation--some are complaining griefs, some are talkative, and some sorrows are sociable for selfishness. But the heart-wound of her who has only those scenes of nature which were associated with the image of the unkind one, to wear off the impressions of which, under other hues, they form a part, is a silent mourner. There is enough of a painful eloquence around her, and her voice would be only the small whisper that is lost in the wailings of the storm in the glen. Yet painful as the language is, she courts it in silence, even while it mixes and blends with the poison which consumes her. It was in vain that her mother, who saw with a parental eye the malady which is the best understood by those of her class and age, urged her with kindness to betake herself to her household duties. She was seldom to be prevailed upon to remain within doors; the hill-side, or the bosom of the glen, or the back of the willows by the water-side, were her choice. Ordinary meal times were forgotten or unheeded, where Nature had renounced her cravings, or given all her energies to the heart. The next intelligence received at Homestead was that of the marriage of Hector Hayston, and his departure for France. The servants at Whitecraigs were discharged, as if there had been no expectation, for a long period, of the return of the young laird. The supply to the two females was increased, and paid by Mr. Pringle, who, now probably aware of the situation of Alice, delicately avoided any allusion to his employer. Report, however, was busy with her tales; and the absence of the youth was attributed to the workings of conscience or of shame. There was little truth in the report. The object of his first affections might easily have been banished from Whitecraigs, and he who had been guilty of leaving her maybe supposed capable of removing her from scenes which could only add to her sorrow. A true solution of his conduct might have been found in the fact, that Hayston was now following his pleasures in the society of his wife's friends--a gay and lavish circle--and did not wish to detract from his enjoyment by adding banishment and destitution to a wrong now irremediable. Little more was heard of him for some time, with the exception of a floating report, that he had borrowed, through his agent, the sum of ten thousand pounds from a Mr. Colville, a neighbouring proprietor, and pledged to him Whitecraigs in security. The circumstance interested greatly the neighbouring proprietors, who shook their heads in significant augury of the probable fate of their young neighbour in the whirlpool of continental life. Yet the allowance to Dame Scott at the next term was regularly paid; and if there was a tear in her eye, as she looked, first at the money, and then at the thin, pallid creature who sat silent at the window, it was not that she dreaded its discontinuance from the result of the extravagance of the giver. The effect of the act of payment of the money had, on a former occasion, been noticed by Pringle on the conduct of Alice: it was on this occasion repeated. She rose from her seat, looked steadfastly for a moment at the gift as it lay on the table, placed her hand on her forehead, and flitted out of the room. The eye of the agent followed her from the window: her step was hurried, without an object of impulse. She might go--but whither? probably she knew not herself; yet on she sped till she was lost among the trees on the edge of the glen. Thus longer time passed, but there seemed no change to Alice, save in the continual decrease of the frame, under the pressure of a mind that communed with the past, and only looked to the future as containing some day that would witness the termination of her sorrows. The anglers on the Lyne became familiar with her figure, for they had seen it on the heights, with her garments floating in the breeze, and had come up to her as she sat by the waterside, but they passed on. At the worst she could be but one whose spirit was not settled enough to admit of her according with the ways of honest maidens; and they might regret that the beauty that still lurked amidst the ravages of the disease of the heart, had not been turned to better account. It is thus that one part of mankind surveys another: they form their theory of a condition whose secret nature is only known to its possessor; draw their moral from false premises, formed as a compliment to their own conduct and situation, and pass on to their pleasure. Yet there occurred an important exception to these remarks:--One day Alice had taken up her seat on the banks of a small pond in front of the house of Whitecraigs. She sat opposite to the front of the dwelling, and seemed to survey its closed windows and deserted appearance, with the long grass growing up through the gravel of the walks--the broken pailings and decayed out-houses; a scene that might be supposed to harmonize with the feelings of a mind broken and desolate. There might seem even a consanguinity in the causes of the condition of both. The scene might have suited the genius of a Danby. There was no living creature to disturb the silence. The house of faded white, among the dark trees, cheerless and forsaken; the face of Alice Scott emaciated and pale, with the lustre of the loch, shining in the sun, reflected on it, directed towards the habitation of which she should have been mistress; her eyes, which had forgotten the relief of tears, fixed on the scene so pregnant with unavailing reminiscences--with these we would aid the artist. But the charm was gone, as a voice sounded behind her. She started, and, according to her custom, would have fled as the hare that remembers the snare; but she was detained. A man, advanced in years, poorly clad, with hair well smitten with snow tints, and a staff in his hand, stood beside her, holding her by the skirt of the gown. "I am weary," said he; "I have walked from Moffat, and would sit here for a time, if you would speak to me of the scenes and people of these parts." And the application of his hand again to her gown secured a compliance, dictated more by fear than inclination. She sat, while she trembled. "You are fair," continued he; "but my experience of sorrow tells me that grief has been busier with your young heart than years. I will not pry into your secrets. To whom does Whitecraigs now belong?" The name had not been breathed by her to mortal since that day she had heard of the intended marriage. She made an effort to pronounce it, failed, and fixed her eyes on the pond. The stranger gazed on her, waiting for her reply. "Hector Hayston," she at length muttered. "And why has he left so fair a retreat to the desolation that has overtaken it?" rejoined he again. The question was still more unfortunate. She had no power to reply. Her face was turned from him, and repressed breathings heaved her bosom. "You may tell me, then, if one Dame Scott lives in these parts?" he said again, as he marked her strange manner, and probably augured that his prior question was fraught with pain. "Yes--yes," she replied, with a sudden start, as if relieved from pain, while she regained her feet; "yonder lives my mother." The stranger stood with his eyes fixed upon her, as if in deep scrutiny of the inexplicable features of her character and appearance; but he added not a word, till he saw her move as if she wished to be gone. "You will go with me?" he said. But the words were scarcely uttered, when she was away through the woods, leaving him to seek his way to the house of her mother, whither, accordingly, he directed his steps, from some prior knowledge he possessed of the locality about which he had been making inquiries. As he went along, he seemed wrapt in meditation--again and again looking back, to endeavour to get another sight of the girl, who was now seated on the edge of the stream, and again seized by some engrossing thought that claimed all the energies of his spirit. On coming up to the door of the cottage, he tapped gently with his long staff; and, upon being required by the dame to enter, he passed into the middle of the floor, and stood and surveyed the house and its inmate. "I have nothing for you," said the latter; "so you must pass on to those whom God has ordained as the distributors of what the needy require. Alas! I am myself but a beggar." The words seemed to have been wrung out of her by the meditative mood in which the stranger had found her, and, whether it was that the interest which had been excited in him by the appearance of the daughter had been increased by the confession of the mother, or that there was some secret cause working in his mind, he passed his hand over his eyes, and for a moment turned away his head. "I have been both a beggar and a giver in my day," he replied, as he laid down his hat and staff, and took a chair opposite to the dame; "and I am weary of the one character and of the other. I have got with a curse; and I have given for ingratitude. But I may here give, and you may receive, without either. There is an unoccupied bed; I am weary of wandering, and have enough to pay for rest." "That is better than charity," rejoined the dame--"ay, even the charity of the stranger." "And why of the _stranger_, dame?" added he. "I have hitherto thought that the charity of _friends_ was that which might be most easily borne. And who may be your benefactor?" "Hector Hayston of Whitecraigs," replied she, hanging her head, and drawing a deep breath. The stranger detected the same symptoms of pain in the mother as those he had observed in the daughter. "Then forgets he not his cottars in his absence," he added. "But why has he left a retreat fairer than any I have yet seen throughout a long pilgrimage over many lands?" "We will not speak of that," she replied, rising slowly, and going to the window, where she stood for a time in silence. "You have a daughter, dame," resumed the man, as he watched the indications of movement in the heart of the mother. "I saw her sitting looking at the mansion of Whitecraigs. I fear she can lend you small aid; yet, if her powers of mind and body were equal to the beauty that has too clearly faded from her cheeks, methinks you would have had small need to have taken the charity of either friends or strangers." "Ay, poor Alice! poor Alice!" rejoined the mother, turning suddenly, and applying her hand to something which required not her care at that time--"Ay, poor Alice!" she added. "Is it a bargain, then," said he, wishing to retreat from a subject that so evidently pained her, "that I may remain here for a time, on your own terms of remuneration?" "It may be as you say," replied she, again taking her seat; "but only on a condition." "What is it?" inquired he. "That you never mention the name of Hector Hayston, or of Whitecraigs, while Alice is by. She harms no one; and I would not see her harmed." "I perceive," said he, muttering to himself, "that I am not the only one in the world who carries in his bosom a secret. But," he continued, in a louder tone, "your condition, dame, shall be fulfilled; and now I may hold myself to be your lodger." And he proceeded to take from the stuffed pockets of his coat some night-clothes of a homely character, and handed them to the dame. "And now," he said, "you may be, now or after, wondering who he may be who has thus come, like a weary bird from the waste that seeks refuge among the sere leaves, to live in the habitation of sorrow. But you must question me not; and farther than my name, which is Wallace, you may know nothing of me till after the 29th day of September--ay, ay," he continued, as if calculating, "the 29th day of September." The dame started as she heard the mention of the day, looked steadfastly at him, and was silent. "Yes," he continued, "that day past, and I will once more draw my breath freely in the land of my fathers; and my foot, which has only bowed the head of the heather-bell in the valley, may yet collect energy enough from my unstrung nerves to press fearlessly the sod of the mountain. How long is it since your husband died?" "Seven years," replied she. "Well, short as our acquaintance has yet been," said he, "our words have been only of unpleasant things. Now, I require refreshment; and here is some small pay in advance, to remove the ordinary prejudice against strangers. We shall be better acquainted by times. I will take, now, what is readiest in the house; for you may guess, from my attire, that I have been accustomed to that fare by which the poor contrive to spin out the weary term of their pilgrimage." So much being arranged, the dame set about preparing a meal; and Mr. Wallace, as he had called himself, proceeded to transform his staff into a fishing-rod, and arrange his other small matters connected with his future residence. When the humble dish was prepared, the dame went out, and, taking her position on a green tumulus that rose between the cottage and the Lyne, stood, and, placing her hands over her eyes, looked down the water. Her eye, accustomed to the search, detected the form of her daughter far down the stream, and, waving her hand to her, she beckoned her home. But she came not; and the two inmates sat down to their repast. "This shall be for my poor Alice," said the mother, as she laid aside a portion of the frugal fare; "but she will take it at her own time, or perhaps not at all." "And yet how much she needs it," added the stranger, "her wasted form and pale face too plainly show." "There is a sad change there, sir," rejoined she. "There was not a fairer or more gentle creature from Tweedscross to Tweedmouth than Alice Scott; nor did ever the foot of light-hearted innocence pass swifter over the hill or down the glen. You have seen her to-day where she is often to be seen--by the pond opposite the closed-up house of Whitecraigs--and may wonder to hear how one so wasted may still reach the hill-heads; yet there, too, she is sometimes seen. I have struggled sore to make her what she once was; but in vain. She will wander and wander, and return and wander again; nor will this cease till I some day find her dead body among the seggs of the Lyne, or in the lirk of the hill. When I know you better, I may tell you more. At present, I am eating the bread of one who is more connected with this sad subject than I may now confess; and I have never been accounted ungrateful." The stranger was moved, and ate his meal in meditative silence. In an hour afterwards, Alice returned to the house, and, as she entered, started as her eye met that of him who had, by his questions, stirred to greater activity the feelings that were already too busy with her heart; but her fears were removed, by his avoidance of the subject which had pained her; and a few hours seemed to have rendered him as indifferent to her as seemed the other objects around her. Some days passed, and the widow would have been as well satisfied with her lodger as he was with her, had it not been that he enjoined secrecy as to his residence in the house--retiring to the spence when any one entered; and if at any time he went along the Lyne in the morning, he avoided those whom he met; and betook himself to private acts in the inner apartment during the day. At times he left the cottage in the evening, and did not return for two days; but whither he went, the inmates knew not. The dame conjectured he had been as far as Peebles; but her reason was merely that he brought newspapers with him, and intelligence of matters transacting there. The secrecy was not suited to the open and simple manners to which she had been accustomed; but she recollected his words, that on the 29th of September, she would know all concerning him. Now these words were connected by a chain of associations that startled her. The 29th of September had been set apart by her deceased husband as a day of prayer. He had never allowed it to pass without an offering of the contrite heart to God; this practice he had continued till his death, and she had witnessed the act repeated for fifteen years. She was no more superstitious than the rest of her class; she was, indeed, probably less so; and her theories, formed for an adequate explanation of the startling coincidence, were probably as philosophical as if they had been formed by reason acting under the astute direction of scepticism. Yet where is the mind, untutored or learned, that can throw away at all times, at all hours--when the heart is in the sunshine of the cheerful day of worldly intercourse, or in the deep shadow of the wing of eternity--all thoughts of all powers save those of natural causes, which are themselves a mystery? We may sport with the subject; but it comes again back on the heart, and we sigh in whispering words of fear, that in the hands of God we are nothing. One day Mr. Wallace was seated at breakfast; he had been away for two nights; Alice was sitting by the side of the fire, looking into the heart of the red embers, and the mother was superintending the breakfast; he took out a newspaper from his pocket, and, without a word of premonition, read a paragraph in a deep, solemn voice. "Died at ---- Street, London, Maria Knight, wife of Hector Hayston, Esq., of Whitecraigs, in the county of Peebles, in Scotland." A peculiar sound struggled in the throat of Alice; but it passed, and she was silent. The mother sat and looked Wallace in the face, to ascertain what construction to put upon the occurrence which he had thus read with an emphasis betokening a greater interest than it might demand from one, as yet, all but ignorant, as she thought, of the true circumstances of the condition of her daughter. He made no commentary on what he had read; but looking again at the paper, and turning it over, as if searching for some other news, he fixed his eyes on an advertisement in the fourth page. He then read-- "On the 1st day of October next, there will be exposed to public roup and sale, within the Town-Hall of Peebles, by virtue of the powers of sale contained in a mortgage granted by Hector Hayston, Esq., of Whitecraigs, in favour of George Colville of Haughton, all and hail the lands and estate of Whitecraigs, situated in the parish of ----, and shire of Peebles, with the mansion-house, offices, &c." He then laid down the paper, and, looking the widow full in the face-- "The day of sale of Whitecraigs," said he, "is the _second_ day after the 29th of September. It would have been too much had it been on that day itself." No reply was made to his remark. The announcement called up in the mind of the dame more than she could express; but that which concerned more closely herself, was too apparently veiled with no mystery. The sale of Whitecraigs was the ejection of herself and daughter from Homestead; and she knew not whither she and her daughter were now to be driven, to seek refuge and sustenance from a world from which she had been so long estranged. "All things come to a termination," she said. "For many years I have lived here, wife and widow; and if I have felt sorrow, I have also enjoyed. The world is wide; and if I may be obliged to ask and to receive charity, the God who moves the hand to give it, may not again--now that His purpose may be served by my contrition--select that of the destroyer of my child. But there is another that must be taken from these haunts;" and, turning to Alice, whose face was still directed to the fire, she gazed on her hapless daughter, while the tear stole down her cheeks. Wallace's eye was fixed on the couple. He seemed to understand the allusion of the mother, which indicated plainly enough, that though the hills and glens of Whitecraigs had been the scene of the ruin of her daughter's peace, she anticipated still more fatal consequences from taking her away from them. Meanwhile, Alice, who had listened to and understood all, arose from her seat. "I will never leave Whitecraigs, mother," she said; and bent her steps towards the door. "Let her follow her fancy," said Wallace. Then relapsing into a fit of musing, he added--"the 29th of September of this year will soon be of the time that is. For twenty years I have looked forward to that day--under a burning sun, far from my native land, I have sighed for it--in the midnight hour I have counted the years and days that were between. Every anniversary was devoted to the God who has chastened the heart of the sinner; and there was need, when that heart was full of the thoughts inspired by that day, and penitence came on the wings of terror. Now it approaches; and I have not miscalculated the benefits it may pour on other heads than mine." "Alas!" said the widow, as she cast her eye through the window after her daughter, "there is no appointed day for the termination of the sorrows of that poor creature. To the broken-hearted, one day as another, sunshine or shower, is the same. But what hand shall bear Alice Scott from Whitecraigs?" "Perhaps none," replied Wallace, as, taking up the newspaper, he retired to an inner apartment, where he usually spent the day. Some hours passed; and, in the afternoon, Mr. Pringle, while passing, took occasion to call at Homestead, and informed the widow that it would be her duty to look out for another habitation, as Whitecraigs was to be sold by the creditor, Mr. Colville, whose object in granting the loan was, if possible, to take advantage of the difficulties into which extravagance had plunged the young proprietor, and to bring the property into the market, that he might purchase it as an appanage of the old estate of Haughton, from which it had been disjoined. He represented it as a cruel proceeding, and that its cruelty was enhanced by the circumstance of the sale being advertised in the same paper which contained the intelligence of the death of Hector's young wife. Another listener might have replied that God's ways are just; but Dame Scott, if she thought at the time of her daughter, considered also that Hayston had supported her for many years. "Good dame," added the agent, "it might have been well for my young friend if he had remained at Whitecraigs. I never saw the wife he married, and has just lost in the bloom of youth; but she must have been fair indeed, if she was fairer than she whom he left. Yet Hector's better principles did not, I am satisfied, entirely forsake him. The disinclination he has shown to visit his paternal property, was the result of a clinging remembrance of her he left mourning in the midst of its glens; nor do I wonder at it, for even I have turned aside to avoid the sight of Alice Scott. Misfortunes, however, are sometimes mercies; and the change of residence you will be now driven to, may aid in the cure of a disease that is only fed by these scenes of Whitecraigs." He here paused, and, putting his hand in his pocket, took out some money. "This may be the last gift," he said, as he presented it to her, "that Hector Hayston may ever send you. These are his words. His fortunes are ruined, his wife is dead, and, worse than all, his peace of mind is fled." "Heaven have mercy on him!" replied the widow. "One word of reproach has never escaped the lips of me or my daughter. I have suffered in this cottage without murmuring, and the glens and hollows of Whitecraigs have alone heard the complainings of Alice Scott. She will cling to these places to the last; but were the windows of the deserted house again opened, with strange faces there, and maybe the lights of the entertainments of the happy shining through them, she might feel less pleasure in sitting by the pond from which she now so often surveys the deserted mansion. This last gift, sir, moves my tears--yea, for all I and mine have suffered from Hector Hayston." The agent had performed his duty, and departed with the promise that he would, of his own accord, endeavour to prevail upon some of his employers to grant her a cottage, if the purchaser of Whitecraigs should resist an appeal for her to remain. He had no sooner gone, than the stranger Wallace, who had heard the conversation, entered. He asked her how much money Hector had sent as his last gift; and, on being informed-- "That young man," he said, "has fallen a victim to the allurements of a town life. The story of your daughter has been known to me; but I have avoided the mention of the name of Hayston, which could only have yielded pain without an amelioration of its cause. That gift speaks to me volumes. Even fashion has not sterilized the heart of that young man. He has erred--he may have transgressed--but for all, all, there is a 29th of September!" The allusion he thus made was as inscrutable as ever. Again she reflected upon her husband's conduct upon that day of the year; and again, as she had done a hundred times, searched the face of the speaker. But she abstained from question; and the day passed, and others came, till the eventful morning was ushered in by sunshine. Wallace was up by times; and his prayers were heard directed to the Throne of Mercy, in thanks and heart-expressed contrition. In the forenoon he went forth with freedom, climbed the hills, and conversed with the anglers he met on the Lyne. He seemed as if relieved from some weighty burden; and the dame, who had carefully watched his motions, waited anxiously for the secret. He had not, however, pledged himself to reveal it on that day. He had only said that all would be made known some time after the day had passed; and, accordingly, he made no declaration. Yet, at bedtime, he was again engaged in prayers, and even during the night he was heard muttering expressions of thanksgiving to the Author of the day, and what the day bringeth. On the following morning, he announced his intention of going to Peebles, whither he was supposed to have gone before; but now his manner of going was changed. He purposed taking the coach, which, as it passed within some miles of Whitecraigs, he intended to wait for, and on departing-- "You will not hear of me till to-morrow night," he said. "I can now face man; would that I could with the same confidence hold up my countenance to God. Alice Scott," he continued, as he looked to the girl, "I will not forget you in my absence. Your day of sorrow has been long; but there may yet be a 29th of September even to you." And, taking the maiden kindly in his arms, he whispered some words in her ear, in which the magic syllables of a name she trembled to hear were mixed. Her eyes exhibited a momentary brightness, a deep sigh heaved her bosom, and again her head declined, with a whisper on her lips--"Never, O never!" In a moment after, he was gone; and the widow was left to ascertain from Alice what he had said, to bring again, even for a moment, the blood to her cheek. On the day after, there was a crowd of people in the Town-Hall of Peebles, and the auctioneer was reading aloud the articles of roup of the lands of Whitecraigs. Mr. Colville was there in high hopes; but there were others too, who seemed inclined to disappoint them. The property was set up at the price of fifteen thousand pounds, and that sum was soon offered by the holder of the mortgage. Other bodes quickly followed, and a competition commenced, which soon raised the price to eighteen thousand, at which it seemed to be destined to be given to Haughton. The other competitors appeared timid; and several declared themselves done, one by one, until no one was expected to advance a pound higher. All was silence, save for the voice of the auctioneer; and he had already begun his ominous once, twice, when a voice which had not yet been heard, cried--"Eighteen thousand two hundred." The hammer was suspended, and all eyes turned to view the doughty assailant, who would, at the end of the day, vanquish the champion who had as yet retained the field. Those eyes recognised in the bidder a man poorly clothed, and more like an alms-seeker than the purchaser of an estate--no other was that man than Mr. Wallace. The auctioneer looked at him; others looked and wondered; and Haughton gloomed, as he advanced another hundred; and that was soon followed by a hundred more, which led to a competition that seemed to be embittered on the one part by pride and contempt, and on the other by determination. Hundred upon hundred followed in rapid succession, till Haughton gave up in despair, and a shout rung through the hall as the hammer fell, and the estate was declared the property of the humble stranger, whom no one knew, and whom no one would have considered worth more than the clothes he carried on his back. A certificate of a banker at Peebles--that he held in his hands funds, belonging to the purchaser, of greater amount than the price--satisfied the judge of the roup; and the party were divided in circles, conversing on the strange turn which had been given to the sale of Whitecraigs. On the same night, Wallace returned to Homestead, and sat down composedly to the humble meal that had been prepared for him by the widow. Alice was in her usual seat; and the placidity of manner which distinguished them from ordinary sufferers, spoke their usual obedience to the Divine will. "This day the property of Whitecraigs has changed masters!" said he. "And who has purchased it?" inquired the mother. "He who is now sitting before you!" replied he. Alice turned her head to look at him; the mother sat mute with surprise; while he rose and fastened the door. "It is even so," he continued, as he again sat down; "David Scott, the brother of your husband, and the uncle of Alice, has this day purchased Whitecraigs." A faint scream from the mother followed this announcement, and, recovering herself, she again fixed her eyes on the stranger. "It is true," continued he; "I am the brother of your deceased husband. For two years after you were married to Adam, you would, doubtless, hear him speak of me, as then engaged in a calling of which I may now be ashamed, for I was one of the most daring smugglers on the Solway. The 29th of September, 17--, dawned upon me, yet with hands unsullied in the blood of man; but the sun of that day set upon me as proscribed by God and my country. My name was read on the house walls, and execration followed my steps, as I flew from cave to cave. Yet who could have told that that day in which my evil spirit wrought its greatest triumph over good, was that whose evening shades closed upon a repentant soul!" He paused, and placed his hand on his brow. "These things are to me as an old dream," replied the widow, looking round her, as if in search of memorials of stationary space. "My husband never afterwards mentioned your name, save to inform me that you had died in the West Indies; yet now I see the import of his devotion, in the coming round of the day that shamed the honest family to whom he belonged." "And it was to save that shame, and to secure my safety under my assumed name, that, after I flew to the islands of the west, I got intelligence of my death sent to Scotland. What other than the issue of this day must have been in the view of the great Disposer of events, when, in addition to the grace He poured on the heart of the sinner, He invested the arm that had been lifted against His creatures with the prosperity that filled my coffers! But, alas! though I may have reason to trust to the forgiveness of Heaven, that of man I may never expect." "And punishment still awaits you?" rejoined she. "No, no!" he cried, as he rose and placed his foot firmly on the floor. "I am free--the heart may hate me, the tongue may scorn me, the hand may point at me, but it dare not strike. On the 29th of September I was no longer amenable to the laws for the crime which drove me to foreign lands: twenty years free the culprit from the vengeance of man; the last day of that period was the 29th of September--it is past; and now God is my only judge." He again paused. "But I must live still as David Wallace. The name of Scott shall not be sullied by me. As David Wallace I have made my fortune, and as David Wallace made my supplications to Heaven. By the same name I have bought Whitecraigs, and by that name I shall make it over to one who may yet retrieve the honour of our humble house--to Alice, who should, through other means, have been mistress. Come to your natural protector, Alice, and tell him if you will consent to be the lady of Whitecraigs." The girl, on whom the ordinary occurrences of life now seldom made any impression, had listened attentively to the extraordinary facts and intentions thus evolved; and, at his bidding, rose and stood by his side. He took her hand, and looked into her face. "I knew," said he, "that I was pledged not to mention a certain name while you were by; and I kept my word, with the exception of the whisper I stole into your ear on the day I set out for Peebles. But things are now changed. The rights of Whitecraigs are now in the act of being made out in your name. Within a month you will be mistress of that mansion, and of those green dells and hills you have loved to wander among in joy and in sorrow. Now, will you answer me a question?" "I will!" she replied. "What would be your answer to Hector Hayston--who is now no longer a husband, and no longer rich--were he to come to Whitecraigs and make amends for all that is by and gone? Would you receive him kindly, or turn him from the door of the house of his fathers?" The question was too sudden, or too touchingly devised. She looked for a moment in his face, burst into tears, and hid her face in his breast. "Try her poor heart not thus!" cried the mother. "Time, that as yet has done nothing but made ravages, may now, when things are so changed, work miracles. Do not press the question. A woman and a mother knows better than you can do what are now her feelings. The answer is not asked--Alice, your uncle has taken back his question!" "I have--I have!" replied he, as he pressed her to his breast. "Look up, my dear Alice. I have, in my pride and power, been hasty, and thought I could rule the heart of woman as I have done my own, even in its rebellion against God. I have yet all to learn of those secret workings of the spirit, in all save repentance. I never myself knew what it was to love, far less what it is to love and be forsaken. No more--no more. I will not again touch those strings." And, rising hurriedly, he consigned the maid to her mother, and went out, to afford her time to collect again her thoughts. During the following week the furniture of Whitecraigs was disposed of by Mr. Pringle, for behoof of the other creditors of Hayston, and purchased by the uncle, who took another journey to Peebles, for the purpose of negotiating the sale, and making further preparations for obtaining entry. In a fortnight after, the keys were sent to Homestead by a messenger, while the making up of the titles was in the course of progress. It was no part of the intention of Wallace to reside in the mansion-house: his object was still secrecy; and, though the form and character of the transaction might lead ultimately to a discovery, he cared not. By the prescription of the crime he had committed, he was free from punishment; while, by retaining his name, and living ostensibly in a humble condition, he had a chance of escaping a detection of his true character, at the same time that he might, by humility and good services, render himself more acceptable to that Great Power whose servant he now considered himself to be. On the twenty-first day of October, the house of Whitecraigs was again open. Servants had been procured from Peebles; the fires were again burning; the wreaths of smoke again ascended from among the trees; and life and living action were taking the place of desertedness. On the forenoon of that day, Wallace took the two females from Homestead, and conducted them, hanging on his arms, to their new place of residence. To speak of feelings, where a change comprehended an entire revolution of a life of habit, thought, and sentiment, would be as vain as unintelligible. From that day, when the uncle had put the trying question to his niece, a change might have been detected working a gradual influence on her appearance and conduct. Might we say that hope had again lighted her taper within the recesses where all had been so long dreary darkness! The change would not authorize an affirmative--it would have startled the ear that might have feared and yet loved the sounds. One not less versed in human nature might be safer in the construction derived from the new objects, new duties, new desires, new thoughts, from all the thousand things that act on the mind in this wonderful scene of man's existence; but would he be truer to the nature of the heart that has once loved? We may be contented with a mean, where extremes shoot into the darkness of our mysterious nature. Alice Scott took in gradually the interests of her new sphere; did not despise the apparel suited to it; did not reject the manners that adorned it; did not turn a deaf ear or a dead eye to the eloquent ministers that lay around amidst the beauties of Whitecraigs and hailed her as mistress, where she was once a servant, if not a beggar. Meanwhile the house of Homestead was enlarged, to fit it as a residence for the uncle. Mr. Pringle was continued agent for the proprietress of Whitecraigs; and, while many, doubtless, speculated on a thousand theories as to these strange occurrences, we may not deny to Hector Hayston, wherever he was, or in whatever circumstances, some interest in what concerned him so nearly as the disposal of his estate, and the fortune of her by whom his first affections had been awakened. Neither shall we say that Wallace and Pringle had not, too, their secret views and understandings, and that the latter was not silent where the interests of his old employer called for confidence. In all which we may be justified by the fact that, one day, the agent of Whitecraigs introduced to the bachelor of Homestead a young man: it was the former proprietor of Whitecraigs. "It is natural, Mr. Wallace," said Mr. Pringle, "that one should wish to revisit the scenes of his youth--especially," he added, with a smile, "when these have been one's own property, come from prior generations, and lost by the thoughtlessness of youth." "It is," replied Wallace, renouncing his usual gravity, "even though there should be no one there who might claim the hand of old friendship. But this young man has only, as yet, seen the hill-tops of his father's lands; and these claim no seclusion from the eye of the traveller. He might wish, with greater ardency, to see the bed where his mother lay when she bore him, or the cradle (which may still be in the house) where she rocked him to sleep." "God be merciful to me!" replied the youth, as he turned away his head. "This man touches strings whose vibrations harrow me. Sir," he added, "were you ever yourself in the situation of him whose feelings you have thus, from good motives, quickened so painfully?" "What Whitecraigs and she who lives now in the house yonder were or are to you, Scotland and my kindred were to me; but the house where I was born knows me not, and the bed and the cradle do not own me. But Alice Scott recognised me as a fellow-creature, whatever more I say not; and even that, from one so good, and, even yet, so beautiful--is something to live for. No more. I know all. Will you risk a meeting?" "Mr. Pringle will answer for me," replied he, as he turned, with a full heart, to the window. "And I will answer for Mr. Pringle," said Wallace. "But who will answer for _her_?" rejoined the other. "Stay there," said Wallace. "I will return in a few minutes." And, bending his steps to Whitecraigs House, he was, for a time, engaged with Alice and her mother. He again returned to Homestead; and, in a few minutes after, the three were walking towards the mansion. The eye of the young man glanced furtively from side to side, as if to catch glimpses of old features which had become strange to him; but in the direction of the house he seemed to have no power to look--lagging behind, and displaying an anxiety to be concealed, by the bodies of the others, from the view of the windows. On arriving at the house, Wallace and Pringle went into an apartment where the mother was seated. Hector stood in the passage: he feared that Alice was there, and would not enter. "Think you," whispered Wallace, quickly returning to him, "that I, whom you accused of touching tender chords, am so little acquainted with human nature as to admit of witnesses to your meeting with Alice Scott? There, the green parlour in the west wing," he continued, pointing up the inside stair to a room well known to the youth. "If you cannot effect it, who may try? Go--go!" "I cannot--I cannot!" he replied, in deep tones. "My feet will not carry me. That room was my mother's favourite parlour. A thousand associations are busy with me. And now, who sits there?" "Come, come!" said Pringle, as he came forth, in consequence of hearing Hayston's irresolution. "What did you expect on coming here? Alice to come and fly to you with open arms?" "No, sir; to reject me with a wave of disdain!" replied the youth. "I am smitten from within, and confidence has left me. Let me see her mother first. My cruelty to her has been mixed with kindness, and she may give me some heart." And he turned to the apartment where the mother sat. "Your confidence will not be restored by anything the mother can say!" rejoined Pringle, who was getting alarmed for the success of his efforts. "Alice is now mistress here, and must be won by contrition, and a prayer for forgiveness." "Ho!" interjected Wallace. "To what tends this mummery? Must I take you by the hand, and lead you to one who, for years, has seen you in every flitting shade of the hills, and heard you in every note of the sighing winds of the valley?" "To hate me as I deserve to be hated!" replied Hayston, still irresolute. "None of you can give me any ground for hope, and seem to push me on to experience a rejection which may seal my misery for ever!" Wallace smiled in silence, beckoned Pringle into the room beside the mother, and taking Hayston by the arm, with a show of humour that accorded but indifferently with the real anguish of doubt and dismay by which the young man's mind was occupied, forced him on to the first step of the inside stair. "You are now fairly committed!" said he, smiling; "to retreat, is ruin; to advance, happiness, and love, and peace." And he retreated to the room where Pringle was, leaving the youth to the strength or weakness of his own resolution. His tread was now heard, slow and hesitating, on the stair. Some time elapsed before the sound of the opening door was heard; and that it remained for a time open, held by the doubtful hand, might also have been observed. At last it was shut; and quick steps on the floor indicated that the first look had not been fraught with rejection. The party below were, meanwhile, speculating on the result of the meeting. Even the mother was not certain that it would, at first, be attended with success. Alice had yielded no consent; and it was only from the mother's construction of her looks, that she had given her authority for the interview. "All is now decided, for good or evil," said Wallace. "Go up stairs, and bring us a report of the state of affairs." The mother obeyed; and, after a considerable time, returned, with her eyes swimming in tears. "Is it so?" said her friend. "Is it really so? Has all my labour been fruitless?" "No," replied she; "but I could not stand the sight. I found her lying on the breast of Hector, sobbing out the sorrows of years. Her eyes have been long dry. The heart is at last opened." "Too good a sight for me to lose," replied her friend. "For twenty years I have only known the tears of penitence: I will now experience those that flow from the happiness of others." And, with these words, he hurried up stairs. We would follow, but that we are aware of the danger of treading ground almost forbidden to inspiration. Within two hours afterwards, Hector Hayston and Alice Scott were again among the glens of Whitecraigs, seeking out those places where, before, they used to breathe the accents of a first affection. The one had been true to the end; and the other had been false only to learn the beauty of truth. We have given these details from a true record, and have derived pleasure from the recollections they have awakened; but we fairly admit, that we would yield one half of what we have experienced of the good, to have marked that day the workings of the retrieved spirit in the eyes, and speech, and manners of Alice Scott. These are nature's true magic. The drooping flower that is all but dead in the dry, parched soil, raises its head, takes on fresh colours, and gives forth fresh odours, as the spring showers fall on its withered leaves. Oh! there is a magic there that escapes not even the eye of dull labour, retiring home sick of all but the repose he needs. But the process in the frame that is the temple of beauty, worth, intelligence, sensibility, rearing all in loveliness afresh, out of what was deemed the ruins only of what is the greatest and best of God's works--to see this, and to feel it, is to rejoice that we are placed in a world that, with all its elements of vice and sorrow, is yet a place where the good and the virtuous may find something analogous to that for which the spirit pants in other worlds. Yet, though we saw it not, we have enough of the conception, through fancy, to be thankful for the gift even of the _ideal_ of the good; and here we are satisfied that we have more. Hector Hayston and Alice Scott were married. David Wallace's history was long concealed, but curiosity finally triumphed; yet with no effect calculated to impair the equanimity of a mind which repentance, and a reliance on God's grace, had long rendered independent of the opinions of men. He had wrought for evil, and good came of it; and he lived long to see, in the house of Whitecraigs, its master, mistress, and children, the benefits of the prescription which the 29th of September effected--a principle of the law of Scotland that was long deemed inconsistent with the good of the land, but now more properly considered as being no less in unison with the feelings of man than it is with divine mercy. THE COUNTESS OF WISTONBURY. In the summer of 1836 I had occasion to make a journey into Wiltshire, in England. As the business that called me there, although of sufficient importance to me, would have no interest whatever for the reader, I will readily be excused, I dare say, from saying of what nature that business was. It will more concern him, from its connection with the sequel, to know that my residence, while in England, was in a certain beautiful little village at the southern extremity of the shire above named, and that mine host, during my stay there, was the worthy landlord of the White Hart Inn, as intelligent and well-informed a man as it has often been my good fortune to meet with. The nature of the business which made me a guest of Michael Jones, left me a great deal more spare time than I knew well what to do with. It hung heavy upon my hands; and my good host, perceiving this, suggested a little excursion, which, he said, he thought would dispose of one day, at any rate, agreeably enough. "I would recommend you, sir," he said, "to pay a visit to Oxton Hall, the seat of the Earl of Wistonbury.[5] It is one of the finest residences in England; and, as the family are not there just now, you may see the whole house, both inside and outside. If you think of it, I will give you a line to the butler, a very old friend of mine, and he will be glad to show you all that's worth seeing about the place." [5] Under this name we choose, for obvious reasons, to conceal the real one.--_Ed._ "How far distant is it?" I inquired. "Oh, not more than three miles and a half--little more than an hour's easy walk," replied mine host. "Excellent!" said I; "thank you for the hint, landlord. Let me have the introduction to the butler you spoke about, and I'll set off directly." In less than five minutes, a card, addressed to Mr. John Grafton, butler, Oxton Hall, was put into my hands, and in two minutes more I was on my way to the ancient seat of the Earls of Wistonbury. The directions given me as to my route, carefully noted on my part, brought me, in little more than an hour, to a spacious and noble gateway, secured by a magnificent gate of cast-iron. This I at once recognised, from the description given me by Mr. Jones, to be the principal entrance to Oxton Hall. Satisfied that it was so, I unhesitatingly entered--and the house of one of the proudest of England's aristocracy stood before me, in all its lordly magnificence. A spacious lawn, of the brightest and most beautiful verdure, dotted over with noble oaks, and tenanted by some scores of fallow-deer, stretched far and wide on every side. In the centre of this splendid park--such a park as England alone can exhibit--arose the mansion-house, an ancient and stately pile, of great extent and lofty structure. Having found the person to whose civilities I was recommended by mine host of the White Hart--a mild and pleasant-looking old man, of about seventy years of age--I put my credentials into his hands. On reading it, the old man looked at me smilingly, and said that he would have much pleasure in obliging his good friend Mr. Jones, by showing me all that was worth seeing both in and about the house; and many things both curious and rare, and, I may add, both costly and splendid, did I see ere another hour had passed away; but fearing the reader's patience would scarcely stand the trial of a description of them, I refrain from the experiment, and proceed to say, that, just as our survey of the house was concluded, my cicerone, as if suddenly recollecting himself, said-- "By-the-by, sir, perhaps you would like to see the picture gallery, although it is hardly worth seeing just now--most of the pictures having been removed to our house in Grosvenor Square last winter; and, being in this denuded state, I never think of showing it to visitors. There are, however, a few portraits of different members of the family still left, and these you may see if you have any curiosity regarding them." Such curiosity I avowed I felt, and was immediately conducted into the presence of a number of the pictorial ancestry of the illustrious house of Wistonbury. The greater part of the pictures had been removed, as my conductor had informed me; but a few still remained scattered along the lofty walls of the gallery. "That," said my cicerone, pointing to a grim warrior, clad from head to heel in a panoply of steel,--"that is Henry, first Earl of Wistonbury, who fell in Palestine during the holy wars; and this," directing my attention to another picture, "is the grandfather of the present Earl." "A very handsome and pleasant-looking young man," said I, struck with the forcible representation of these qualities which the painting exhibited. "Ay," replied the old man, "and as good as he was handsome. He is the pride of the house; and the country around yet rings with his name, associated with all that is kind and charitable." "And who is this lovely creature?" said I, now pointing in my turn to the portrait of a young female of the most exquisite beauty--the face strikingly resembling some of the best executed likenesses of the unfortunate Queen Mary--which hung beside that of the Good Earl of Wistonbury, as the nobleman of whom my cicerone had just spoken was called throughout the country. "That lady, sir," replied the latter, "was his wife--the Countess of Wistonbury. She was one of the most beautiful women of her time; and, like her husband, was beloved by all around her, for the gentleness of her manners and benevolence of her disposition." "But what's this?" said I, advancing a little nearer the picture, to examine something in her attire that puzzled me. "A Scotch plaid!" I exclaimed in considerable surprise, on ascertaining that this was the article of dress which had perplexed me. "Pray, what has the Scotch plaid to do here? How happens it that we find a Countess of Wistonbury arrayed in the costume of Caledonia?" "Why, sir, the reason is good--perfectly satisfactory," replied Mr. Grafton, smilingly. "She was a native of that country." "Indeed!" said I. "A countrywoman of mine! Of what family?" added I. My conductor smiled. "Truly," said he, after a pause, "that is a question easier put than answered." "What!" said I, "was she not of some distinguished house?" "By no means, sir," replied Mr. Grafton. "She was a person of the humblest birth and station; but this did not hinder her from becoming Countess of Wistonbury, nor from being one of the best as well as most beautiful that ever bore the title." "Ah, ha!" said I to myself, "here's a story for the 'Tales of the Borders.'" I did not say this to Mr. Grafton, however; but to him I did say--"There must be some interesting story connected with this lady. The history of her singular good fortune must be curious, and well worth hearing." "Why, it certainly is," replied my conductor, with the air of one who, while he cannot but acknowledge that there is interest in a certain piece of information which he possesses, is yet so familiar with it himself, has owned it so long, and communicated it so often, that his feelings seem to belie his words--the former remaining unmoved by the tale which the latter unfolds. "There is certainly something curious in the Countess's story," said Mr. Grafton; "and, now that we have seen everything that is worth seeing, if you will come with me to my little refectory, I will tell you all about it over a tankard of fine old ale and a slice of cold round." Need I say, good reader, that I at once and gladly accepted an invitation that so happily combined the intellectual and the sensual? You will give me credit for more sense; and the following story will prove at once that your good opinion is not misplaced, that I must have been an attentive listener, and, lastly, that I must be blessed with a pretty retentive memory. I relate the story in my own way, but without taking the slightest liberty with any single one of the details given me by my informant, who, from having been upwards of forty-five years in the service of the Earls of Wistonbury, and, during the greater part of that time their principal and most confidential domestic, was minutely and accurately informed regarding every remarkable event that had occurred in the family for several generations back. "But, before we leave this part of the house," resumed Mr. Grafton, "be so good as step with me a moment into this small room here, till I show you a certain little article that cuts some figure in the story which I shall shortly tell you." Saying this, he led the way into the small apartment he alluded to, and, conducting me towards a handsome ebony or blackwood cabinet that occupied one end of the room, he threw open its little folding doors, and exhibited to me, not some rich or rare curiosity, as I had expected, but a small, plain, very plain--or I should, perhaps, rather say very coarse--country-looking, blue-painted chest. "Do you see that little chest, sir?" said Mr. Grafton, smilingly. "I do," said I; "and it seems a very homely article to be so splendidly entombed, and so carefully kept." "Yet," replied Mr. Grafton, "homely as it is, and small as is its intrinsic value, that is one of the heir-looms of the family, and one of the most fondly-cherished of them all." "Indeed!" said I, in some surprise. "Then I am very sure it cannot be for its marketable worth. It wouldn't bring sixpence." "I verily believe it would not," replied Mr. Grafton. "Yet the Earl of Wistonbury would not part with that little chest for a good round sum, I warrant ye." "Pray, explain, my good sir." "I will. That little, blue-painted chest contained all the worldly wealth--a few articles of female dress--of the lady whose portrait you were just now so much admiring, when she became Countess of Wistonbury." "Why, then," said I, "that is proof that riches, at any rate, had nothing to do with her promotion to that high rank." "They certainly had not," replied my aged friend. "But all this you will learn more particularly in the story which I shall tell you presently. You will then learn, also, how the little, blue-painted chest comes to figure in the history of a countess." Saying this, Mr. Grafton shut the doors of the cabinet, when we left the apartment, and, in a few minutes after, I found myself in what my worthy old host called his refectory. This was a snug little room, most comfortably furnished, and in which I observed a very large quantity of silver plate,--being, I presumed, the depository of that portion of the family's wealth. My good old friend now rung his bell, when a female servant appeared. "Let's have summut to eat, Betsy," said the old man; and never was order more promptly or more effectively obeyed. In an instant the table, which occupied the centre of the floor, absolutely creaked under the load of good things with which it was encumbered. The "slice of cold round," I found, was but a _nomme de guerre_ with the old man, and meant everything in the edible way that was choice and savoury. To this conclusion I came from seeing the table before me covered with a great variety of good things, amongst which rose, conspicuous in the centre, a huge venison pasty. When the _loading_ of the table was completed, and the servant had retired-- "Now," said the old man, looking at me with a significant smile, and at the same time drawing a bunch of small keys from his pocket, from which he carefully singled out one, "since Betsy has done her part so well, let me see if I can't do mine as creditably." Saying this, he opened what I thought a sly-looking little cupboard, and brought forth from its mysterious recess an aristocratic-looking bottle, sealed with black wax, and whose shoulders were still thickly coated with sawdust. Handling this venerable bottle with a lightness and delicacy of touch which a long practice only could have given, and with a degree of reverence which an _à priori_ knowledge of its contents only could have inspired, my worthy host tenderly brushed off its coating of sawdust, gently inserted the screw, drew the cork, with a calm, cautious, steady pull, and, in the next moment, had filled up two brimmers of the finest old port that the cellars of Oxton Hall could produce. Having done ample justice to the good things before us-- "Now, my good sir, the story, the story, if you please," said I. "Oh, to be sure," replied my kind host, smiling. "The story you shall have. But first let us take another glass of wine, to inspire me with fortitude to begin so long a story, and you with patience to listen to it." The procedure thus recommended having been complied with, the good old man immediately began:-- "About a hundred and thirteen years since," he said, "there lived in the neighbourhood of one of the principal cities in Scotland, a farmer of the name of Flowerdew. He was a man of respectable character, and of sober and industrious habits. His family consisted only of himself, his wife, and an only child--a daughter, named Jessy. Gentle and affectionate, of the most winning manners, and surpassingly beautiful in form and feature, Jessy was not only the darling of her father, but the favourite character of the neighbourhood in which she lived. All yielded the homage of admiration to her supreme loveliness, and of the tenderest esteem to her worth. For many years, Jessy's father contrived, notwithstanding of an enormous rent, to keep pace with the world, and eventually to raise himself a little above it; but, in despite of all his industry and all his prudence, reverses came. A succession of bad crops was followed by a series of losses of various kinds, and James Flowerdew found himself a ruined man. 'It's not for myself I care,' said the honest man, when speaking one day with his wife of the misfortunes which had overwhelmed them--'it's for our puir bit lassie, guidwife. God help her! I thought to have left her independent; but it's been ordained otherwise, and we must submit. But what's to become of her I know not. Being brocht up a little abune the common, she cannot be asked to enter into the service of ony o' our neebors; yet, I see nae other way o't. It must come to that in the lang run.' 'I suppose it must, guidman--I suppose it must,' replied his wife, raising the corner of her apron to her eye, and then bursting into tears. 'My puir, dear, gentle lassie,' she exclaimed, 'it's a sad change to her; but I ken she'll meet it cheerfully, and without repining. But, guidman, if to service she must go, and I fancy there's little doot o' that, wouldna it be better if we could get her into the service of some respectable family in the toon, than to put her wi' ony o' our neebors, where she might be reminded o' her fall, as they will call it?' 'It's a good thought, Lizzy,' replied her husband, musingly, as he gazed in sadness on the fire that burned before him. 'It's a good thought,' he said. 'She will be there unknown, and her feelings saved from the taunts of callous impertinence. I will think of it,' added Flowerdew. 'In the meantime, guidwife, prepare Jessy, the best way you can, for the change of situation in life which she is about to meet with. I canna do it. It would break my heart a'thegither.' This painful task Mrs. Flowerdew undertook; and, as she expected, found her daughter not only reconciled to the step which was proposed for her, but eager and anxious to be put in a way of doing for herself, and, as she fondly hoped and affectionately said, of aiding her parents. Shortly after this, the ruin which had overtaken James Flowerdew began to present itself in its most instant and most distressing shapes. Arrestments were laid on his funds in all quarters. Visits of messengers were frequent, almost daily; and his whole stock and crop were sequestrated by the landlord, and a day for the sale fixed. This last was a sight from which Flowerdew anxiously wished to save his daughter, and he meant to do so, if he could, by finding her 'a place' previous to the day of sale. The duty of looking out for a situation for Jessy in town Flowerdew took upon himself, from the circumstance of his having been in the habit for many years of supplying a number of respectable families with the produce of his farm, which he generally delivered himself, his simple character and industrious habits not permitting him to see any degradation in driving his own cart on these occasions. Flowerdew had thus formed a personal acquaintance with many families of the better class, which he thought might be useful to him in his present views. Amongst the oldest and most respected of his customers was a learned professor, whom, to avoid what might be an inconvenient identification of circumstances, we shall call Lockerby. With this gentleman Flowerdew resolved to begin his inquiries respecting a situation for his daughter. He did so, and on being introduced to him, explained the purpose of his visit. 'Dear me, Mr. Flowerdew!' said the worthy professor, in surprise at the application, 'I thought--I all along thought, that your circumstances would entitle your daughter, whose modesty of demeanour and great beauty of person I have had frequent opportunities of admiring--she having called here frequently, as you know, on various occasions connected with our little traffic--I say, I thought your circumstances would entitle your daughter to look for something higher than the situation of a domestic servant.' 'I once thought so myself, professor,' replied Mr. Flowerdew, with a tear standing in his eye; 'but it has turned out otherwise. The truth is, that I have lately met with such reverses as have entirely ruined me. I am about to be ejected from my farm, and must betake myself to daily labour for a subsistence. In this explanation you will see the reason why I apply to you for a situation in your family for my daughter.' 'Too clearly--too clearly,' replied the worthy professor sincerely grieving for the misfortunes of a man whom he had long known, and whose uprightness of conduct and character he had long appreciated. 'I am seriously distressed, Mr. Flowerdew,' he added, 'to learn all this--seriously distressed, indeed; but, in the meantime, let us consult Mrs. Lockerby on the subject of your present visit.' And he rang the bell, and desired the servant who answered it, to request his wife to come to him. She came, and on being informed of Mr. Flowerdew's application in behalf of his daughter, at once agreed to receive her into her service; adding, that she might, if she chose, enter on her duties immediately. It was finally arranged that Jessy should take possession of her situation on the following day. Highly gratified at having got admission for his daughter into so worthy and respectable a family, Flowerdew returned home with a lighter heart than he had possessed for some time before. He felt that his Jessy was now, in a manner, provided for; and that, although the situation was a humble one, and far short of what he had once expected for her, it was yet a creditable one, and one presenting no mean field for the exercise of some of the best qualities which a woman can possess. Equally pleased with her father at the opening that had been found for her, the gentle girl lost no time in making such preparations as the impending change in her position in life rendered necessary. Part of these preparations, all cheerfully performed, consisted in packing a small trunk with her clothes, and in other procedures of a similar kind. In this employment her mother endeavoured to assist her, but was too much affected by the sadness of the task to afford any very efficient aid, although her daughter did all she could, by assuming a light-heartedness which she could not altogether feel, to assuage the grief to which her mother was every moment giving way. 'Why grieve yourself in that way, mother?' she would say, pausing in her operations, and flinging her arms around her parent's neck. 'I assure you I am happy at the prospect of being put in a way of doing for myself; I consider it no hardship--not in the least. I will take a pride in discharging my new duties faithfully and diligently; and I hope that, even in the humble sphere in which I am about to move, I shall contrive to make myself both esteemed and respected.' '_That_ I dinna doubt--that I dinna doubt, my dear lassie,' replied her mother; 'but, oh, it goes to my heart to see you gaun into the service o' ithers. I never expected to see the day. Oh, this is a sad change that's come over us a'!' And again the poor woman burst into a paroxysm of grief. 'Mother,' said the girl, 'you will dishearten me if you go on in this way.' Then smiling through the tears of affection that glistened on her eye, and assuming a tone of affected cheerfulness, 'Come now, dear mother, do drop this desponding tone. There's better days in store for us yet. We'll get above all this by-and-by. In the meantime it is our duty, as Christians, to submit to the destiny that has been decreed us with patience and resignation. Come, mother, I'll sing you the song you used always to like so well to hear me sing.' And, without waiting for any remark in reply, or pausing in her employment, the girl immediately began, in a voice whose richness of tone and deep pathos possessed the most thrilling power:-- 'A cheerfu' heart's been always mine, Whatever might betide me, O! In foul or fair, in shade or shine, I've aye had that to guide me, O! When luck cam chappin' at my door, Wi' right goodwill I cheered him, O! And whan misfortune cam, I swore The ne'er a bit I feared him, O!' 'O lassie, lassie!' exclaimed Jessy's mother, here interrupting her, and now smiling as she spoke--'how can ye think o' singing at such a time? But God lang vouchsafe ye sae light and cheerfu' a heart! It's a great blessing, Jessy, and canna be prized too highly.' 'I'm aware of it, mother,' replied her daughter, 'and am, I trust, thankful for it. I dinna see, after a', that anything should seriously distress us--but guilt. If we keep free o' _that_, what hae we to fear? A' ither mischances will mend, or if they dinna, they'll at least smooth doon wi' time.' 'But why are ye no puttin' up your silk goun, Jessy?' here interposed her mother, abruptly; seeing her daughter laying aside the article of dress she referred to, as if she did not intend it should have a place in the little chest she was packing. 'The silk gown, mother, I'll no tak wi' me,' replied Jessy, smiling; 'I'll leave't at hame till better times come roun'. It would hardly become my station now, mother, to be gaun flaunting about in silks.' 'Too true, Jessy,' said her mother with a sigh. 'It may be as weel, as ye say, to leave't at hame for a wee, till times mend wi' us at ony rate, although God only knows when that may be, if ever.' 'I'll keep it for my wedding gown, mother,' said Jessy, laughingly, and with an intention of counteracting the depressing tendency of her inadvertent remarks on the propriety of her leaving her silk gown behind. 'I'll keep it for my wedding dress, mother,' she said, 'although it's mair than likely that a plainer attire will be mair suitable for that occasion too.' 'Nae sayin', Jessy,' replied her mother. 'Ye'll maybe get a canny laird yet, that can ride to market wi' siller spurs on his boots and gowd lace on his hat.' 'Far less will please me, mither,' replied Jessy, blushing and laughing at the same time. 'I never, even in our best days, looked so high, and it would ill become me to do so now.' With such conversation as this did mother and daughter endeavour to divert their minds from dwelling on the painful reflection which the latter's occupation was so well calculated to excite. An early hour of the following morning saw Jessy Flowerdew seated in a little cart, well lined with straw by her doting father, who proposed driving her himself into the city. A _small, blue-painted chest_, a bandbox, and one or two small bundles, formed the whole of her travelling accompaniments. She herself was wrapped in a scarlet mantle, and wore on her head a light straw bonnet, of tasteful shape, and admirably adapted to the complexion and contour of the fine countenance which it gracefully enclosed. After a delay of a few minutes--for the cart in which Jessy was seated was still standing at the door--her father, dressed in his Sunday's suit, came out of the house, stepped up to the horse's head, took the reins in his hand, and gently put in motion the little humble conveyance which was to bear his daughter away from the home of her childhood, and to place her in the house of the stranger. Unable to sustain the agony of a last parting, Jessy's mother had not come out of the house to see her daughter start on her journey; but she was seen, when the cart had proceeded a little way, standing at the door, with her apron at her eyes, looking after it with an expression of the most heartfelt sorrow. 'There's my mother, father,' said Jessy, in a choking voice, on getting a sight of the former in the affecting attitude above described--but she could add no more. In the next instant her face was buried in her handkerchief. Her father turned round on her calling his attention to her mother, but instantly, and without saying a word, resumed the silent, plodding pace which the circumstance had for a moment interrupted. In little more than an hour the humble equipage, whose progress we have been tracing, entered the city. Humble, however, as that equipage was, it did not prevent the passers-by from marking the singular beauty of her by whom it was occupied. Many were they who looked round, and stood and gazed in admiration after the little cart and its occupant, as they rattled along the 'stony street.' Their further progress, however, was now a short one. In a few minutes Flowerdew and his daughter found themselves at the professor's door. The former now tenderly lifted out Jessy from the cart--for her sylph-like form, so light and slender, was nothing in the arms of the robust farmer--and placed her in safety on the flag-stones. Her little trunk and bandbox were next taken out by the same friendly hand, and deposited beside her. This done, Flowerdew rapped at the professor's door. It was opened. The father and daughter entered; and, in an hour after--long before which her father had left her--the latter was engaged in the duties of her new situation. Days, weeks, and months, as they will always do, now passed away, but they still found Jessy in the service of her first employers, whose esteem she had gained by the gentleness of her nature, the modesty of her demeanour, and the extreme propriety of her conduct. At the time of her first entering into the service of Professor Lockerby, Jessy Flowerdew had just completed her sixteenth year. The charms of her person had not then attained their full perfection. But now that two years more had passed over her head--for this interval must be understood to have elapsed before we resume our tale--her face and figure had attained the zenith of their beauty, a beauty that struck every beholder, and in every beholder excited feelings of unqualified admiration. It was about the end of two years after Jessy's advent into the family of the professor, that the latter one morning, raising his head from a letter which he had just been reading, and, turning to the former, who was in the act of removing the breakfast equipage, said-- 'Jessy, my girl, will you be so good as put the little parlour and bedroom up stairs in the best order you can, as I expect a young gentleman to-morrow, who is to become a boarder with us.' Jessy courtseyed her acquiescence in the order just given her, and retired from the apartment to fulfil it. On the following day a travelling carriage, whose panels were adorned with a coronet, drove up to the door of Professor Lockerby. From this carriage descended a young man, apparently between nineteen and twenty years of age, of the most prepossessing appearance. His countenance was pale, but bore an expression of extreme mildness and benevolence. His figure was tall and slender, but handsomely formed; while his whole manner and bearing bespoke the man of high birth and breeding. On descending from his carriage, the young man was received by the professor with the most respectful deference--too respectful it seemed to be for the taste of him to whom it was addressed, for he instantly broke through the cold formality of the meeting, by grasping the professor's hand, and shaking it with the heartiest and most cordial goodwill, saying while he did so-- 'I hope I see you well, professor.' 'In perfect health, I thank you, my lord,' replied the professor. 'I hope you left your good lady mother, the countess, well.' 'Quite well--I'm obliged to you, professor--as lively and stirring, and active as ever. Hot and hasty, and a little queenly in her style now and then, as you know, but still the open heart and the open hand of the Wistonburys.' 'I have the honour of knowing the countess well, my lord,' replied the professor, 'and can bear testimony to the nobleness of her nature and disposition. I have known many, many instances of it.' With such conversation as this, the professor and his noble boarder--for such was the young man whom we have just introduced to the reader--entered the house. Who this young man was, and what was his object in taking up his abode with Professor Lockerby, we will explain in a few words, although such explanation is rendered in part nearly unnecessary by the conversation just recorded between him and the professor. It may not be amiss, however, to say, in more distinct terms, that he was the Earl of Wistonbury, a rank which he had attained just a year before, by the sudden and premature death of his father, who died in the forty-fifth year of his age. Since his accession to the title of his ancestors, the young earl had continued to live in retirement with his mother, a woman of a noble, elevated, and generous soul, well becoming her high lineage--for she, too, was descended of one of the noblest families in England--but in whose temper there was occasionally made visible a dash of the leaven of aristocracy. On her son, the young earl, her only surviving child, she doted with all the affection of the fondest and tenderest of mothers; and well worthy was that son of all the love she could bestow. His was one of those natures which no earthly elevation can corrupt, no factitious system deprive of its innate simplicity. The promotion of the young earl to the head of his illustrious house, was, however, a premature one in more respects than one. One of these was to be found in the circumstance of the young man's being found unprepared--at least so he judged himself--in the matter of education, to fill with credit the high station to which he was so unexpectedly called. His education, in truth, had been rather neglected; and it was to make up for this neglect, to recover his lost ground with all the speed possible, that he was now come to reside for a few months with Professor Lockerby, who had once acted as tutor in his father's family to a brother who had died young. Such, then, was the professor's boarder, and such was the purpose for which he became so. The favourable impression which the youthful earl's first appearance had made, suffered no diminution by length of acquaintance. Mild and unpresuming, he won the love of all who came in contact with him. The little personal services he required, he always solicited, never commanded; and what he could with any propriety do himself, he always did, without seeking other assistance. A quiet and unostentatious inmate of the professor's, time rolled rapidly, but gently and imperceptibly, over the head of the young earl, until a single week only intervened between the moment referred to, and the period fixed on for his return to Oxton Hall. Thus, nearly six months had elapsed, not a very long period, but one in which much may be accomplished, and in which many a change may take place. And by such features were the six months marked, which the young Earl of Wistonbury had spent in the house of Professor Lockerby. In that time, by dint of unrelaxing assiduity and intense application, he had acquired a respectable knowledge of both Latin and Greek, and in that time, too, he had taken a step which was to affect the whole tenor of his after life, and to make him either happy or miserable, as it had been fortunately or unfortunately made. What that step was we shall divulge, through precisely the same singular process by which it actually came to the knowledge of the other parties interested. One evening, at the period to which we a short while since alluded--namely, about a week previous to the expiry of the proposed term of the earl's residence with Professor Lockerby--as Jessy Flowerdew was about to remove the tea equipage from the table of the little parlour in which the professor and his noble pupil usually conducted their studies, the latter suddenly rose from his seat, and, looking at their fair handmaiden with a serious countenance, said-- 'Jessy, my love, you must not perform this service again, nor any other of a similar kind. You are now my wife--you are now Countess of Wistonbury.' We leave it to the reader to imagine, after his own surprise has a little subsided, what was that of the worthy professor, on hearing his noble pupil make so extraordinary, so astounding a declaration--a declaration not less remarkable for its import, than for the occasion on which, and the manner in which it was made. On recovering from his astonishment, 'My lord,' said the good professor, with a grave and stern countenance, 'be good enough to inform me what this extraordinary conduct means? What can have been your motive, my lord, for using the highly improper and most unguarded language which I have just now heard you utter?' The young earl, with the greatest calmness and deference of manner, approached the professor, laid his hand upon his heart, and, with a graceful inclination, said, slowly and emphatically-- 'Upon my honour, sir, she _is_ my wife!' 'What, my lord!' exclaimed the still more and more amazed professor--and now starting from his chair in his excitation--'do you repeat your most unbecoming and incredible assertion?' 'I do, sir,' replied the earl, in the same calm and respectful manner. 'I do repeat it, and say, before God, that Jessy Flowerdew is the lawfully married wife of the Earl of Wistonbury.' 'Well, my lord, well,' said the professor, in angry agitation, 'I know what is my duty in this most extraordinary case. It is to give instant notice to the countess, your mother, of what I must call, my lord, the extremely rash and unadvised step you have taken.' To this threat and rebuke, the earl replied, with the utmost composure and politeness of manner--'I was not unprepared, sir, for your resentment on this occasion. Neither do I take it in the least amiss. You merely do your duty when you tell me I have forgotten mine. But the step I have taken, sir, allow me to say, although it may appear unadvised, has not been so in reality. I have weighed well the consequences, and am quite prepared to abide them.' 'Be it so, my lord, be it so,' replied the professor. 'I have only now to remark that, as you say you were prepared for _my_ resentment, I hope you are also prepared for your mother's, my lord--a matter of much more serious moment.' 'My mother, sir, I will take in my own hands,' replied the earl; 'she can resent, but she can also forgive.' 'I have no more to say, my lord, no more,' rejoined Mr. Lockerby; 'the matter must now be put into the hands of those who have a better right to judge of its propriety than I have. I shall presume on no further remark on the subject.' 'Come, sir,' said the earl, smiling and extending his hand to the professor, 'let this, if you please, be no cause for difference between us. I propose that we allow the matter to lie in abeyance until my mother has been appealed to; she being the only person, you know, who has a right to be displeased with my proceeding, or whose wishes I was called upon to consult in this matter.' 'Excuse me, my lord,' replied the worthy professor; 'but I must positively decline all interchange of courtesies which may, by any possibility, be construed into an overlooking of this very extraordinary affair.' 'Well, well, my good sir,' said the earl, smiling, and still maintaining the equanimity of his temper, 'judge of me as charitably as you can. In the morning, we shall meet, I trust, better friends.' Saying this, he took up one of the candles which were on the table before him, bade the professor a polite and respectful good night, and retired to his own apartment. The earl had no sooner withdrawn than Mr. Lockerby, after collecting himself a little, commenced inditing a letter to the Countess Dowager of Wistonbury, apprising her of what had just occurred. In speaking, however, of the 'degrading' connection which her son had made, the honest man's sense of justice compelled him to add a qualifying explanation of the term which he had employed--'degrading, I mean,' he said, '_in point of wealth, rank, and accomplishments_; for, in all other respects, in conduct and character, in temper and disposition, and, above all, in personal appearance--for she is certainly eminently beautiful--I must admit that her superior may not easily be found.' The letter that contained these remarks, with the other information connected with it, the professor despatched on the same night on which it was written; and, having done this, awaited with what composure and fortitude he could command, the dreadful explosion of aristocratic wrath and indignation, which, he had no doubt, would speedily follow. Leaving matters in this extraordinary position in the house of Professor Lockerby we shall shift the scene, for a moment, to the Countess Dowager of Wistonbury's sitting apartment in Oxton Hall; and we shall choose the moment when her favourite footman, Jacob Asterley, has entered her presence, after his return from a call at the post-office in the neighbouring village; the time being the second day after the occurrence just previously related--namely, the despatch to Oxton Hall of Professor Lockerby's letter. 'Well, Jacob, any letters for me to-day?' said the countess, on the entrance of that worthy official. 'One, my lady, from Scotland,' replied the servant, deferentially, and, at the same time, opening the bag in which the letters were usually carried to and from the post-house. 'Ah! from the earl,' said the countess. 'No, my lady, I rather think not. The address is not in his lordship's handwriting.' 'Oh! the good Professor Lockerby,' said the countess, contemplating for a moment the address of the letter in question, which was now in her ladyship's hands. 'I hope nothing unpleasant has occurred to my son.' And while she spoke, she hurriedly broke the seal, and, in the next instant, was intently engaged in perusing the intelligence which it had secured from the prying curiosity of parties whom it did not concern. It would take a much abler pen than that now employed in tracing these lines, to convey anything like an adequate idea of the mingled expression of amazement, indignation, and grief exhibited on the countenance, and in every act and attitude of the proud Countess of Wistonbury, on reading the story of her son's degradation. The flush of haughty resentment was succeeded by the sudden paleness of despair; and in frequent alternation did these strong expressions of varied feeling flit across the fine countenance--still fine, although it had looked on fifty summers--of the heart-stricken mother, as she proceeded in her perusal of the fatal document. On completing the perusal, the countess threw herself in silent distraction on a sofa, and, still holding the open letter in her hand, sank into a maze of wild and wandering thoughts. These, however, seemed at length to concentrate in one decisive and sudden resolution. Starting from the reclining posture into which she had thrown herself, she advanced towards the bell-pull, rung furiously, and, when the servant entered to know what were her commands-- 'Order the travelling carriage instantly, Jacob,' she said--'instantly, instantly; and let four of my best horses be put in the harness. What do you stare at, fool?' she added, irritated at the look of astonishment which the inexplicable violence of her manner had called into the countenance of her trusty domestic. 'Do as you are ordered, directly.' The man bowed and withdrew; and in pursuance of the commands he had received, proceeded to the stables. 'Here's a start, Thomas!' he said, addressing a jolly-looking fellow, who was busily employed in brushing up some harness; 'the travelling carriage directly, and four of your best horses for my lady.' 'Why, what the devil's the matter now?' replied Thomas, pausing in his operations; 'where's the old girl a-going to?' 'Not knowing, can't say,' replied Jacob; 'but she's in a woundy fuss, I warrant you. Never seed her in such a quandary in my life. Something's wrong somewhere, I guess.' 'Well, well, all's one to me,' said Thomas, with philosophical indifference; 'but it looks like a long start, where-ever it may be to; so I'll get my traps in order.' And this duty was so expeditiously performed, that, in less than fifteen minutes, the very handsome travelling carriage of the Earl of Wistonbury, drawn by four spanking bays, flashed up to the door of Oxton Hall. In an instant after, it was occupied by the dowager countess, and in another, was rattling away for Scotland, at the utmost speed of the noble animals by which it was drawn. Changing here, once more, the scene of our story, we return to the house of Professor Lockerby. There matters continued in that ominous state of quiescence, that significant and portentous calm, that precedes the bursting of the storm. Between the professor and the young earl, not a word more had passed on the subject of the latter's extraordinary declaration. Neither had made the slightest subsequent allusion to it, but continued their studies precisely as they had done before; although, perhaps, a degree of restraint--a consciousness of some point of difference between them--might now be discerned in their correspondence. Both, in short, seemed to have tacitly agreed to abide the result of the professor's letter to the countess, before taking any other step, or expressing any other feeling, on the subject to which that letter related. The anticipated crisis which the professor and his noble pupil were thus composedly awaiting, soon arrived. On the third day after that remarkable one on which the young Earl of Wistonbury had avowed the humble daughter of an humble Scotch farmer to be his wife, a carriage and four, which, we need scarcely say, was the same we saw start from Oxton Hall, drove furiously up to the door of Professor Lockerby. The horses' flanks sent forth clouds of smoke; their mouths and fore-shoulders were covered with foam; and the carriage itself was almost encased in mud. Everything, in short, told of a long and rapid journey. And it was so. Night and day, without one hour's intermission, had that carriage prosecuted its journey. In an instant after, the carriage stopped; its steps were down, and, bridling with high and lofty indignation, the Dowager Countess of Wistonbury descended, and, ere any one of the professor's family were aware of her arrival, she had entered the house, the door being accidentally open, and was calling loudly for 'her boy.' 'Where is my son?' she exclaimed, as she made her way into the interior of the house: 'where is the Earl of Wistonbury?' In a moment after the Earl of Wistonbury, who had heard and instantly recognized his mother's voice, was before her, and was about to rush into her arms, when she haughtily thrust him back, saying-- 'Degraded, spiritless boy, dare not too approach me! You have blotted the noblest, the proudest scutcheon of England. Where is Professor Lockerby?' The professor was by her side before she had completed the sentence, when, seeing her agitation-- 'My good lady,' he said, in his most persuasive tone, 'do allow me to entreat of you to be composed, and to have the honour of conducting you up stairs.' 'Anywhere!--anywhere, professor!' exclaimed the countess; 'but, alas! go where I will, I cannot escape the misery of my own thoughts, nor the disgrace which my unworthy son has brought upon my head.' Without making any reply to this outburst of passionate feeling, the professor took the countess respectfully by the hand, and silently conducted her to his drawing-room. With stately step the countess entered, and walked slowly to the further end of the apartment; this gained, she turned round, and, when she had done so, a sight awaited her for which she was but little prepared. This was her son and Jessy Flowerdew, kneeling side by side, and, by their attitude, eloquently imploring her forgiveness. It was just one of those sights best calculated to work on the nobler nature of the Countess of Wistonbury, and to call up the finer feelings of her generous heart. For some seconds she looked at the kneeling pair in silent astonishment; her eye, however, chiefly fixed on the beauteous countenance of Jessy Flowerdew, pale with terror and emotion, and wet with tears. Having gazed for some time on this extraordinary sight, without betraying the slightest symptom of the feelings beyond that of surprise, with which it had inspired her, the countess slowly advanced towards the kneeling couple. She still, however, uttered no word, and discovered no emotion; but a sudden change had come over her proud spirit. That spirit was now laid, and its place occupied by all the generous impulses of her nature. Keeping her eye steadily fixed on the kneeling fair one before her, she approached her, paused a moment, extended her hand, placed it on the ivory forehead of Jessy Flowerdew, gently laid back her rich auburn hair, and, as she did so, said, in a tremulous, but emphatic voice-- 'You _are_, indeed, a lovely girl! God bless you! Alfred, my son, rise,' she added, in a low, but calm and solemn tone; 'I forgive you.' And she extended her hand towards him. The earl seized it, kissed it affectionately, and bathed it with his tears. 'Rise, my lady--rise, my fair Countess of Wistonbury,' she now said, and herself aiding in the act she commanded, 'I acknowledge you as my daughter, and we must now see to fitting you to the high station to which my son's favour has promoted you, and of which, I trust, you will prove as worthy in point of conduct as you assuredly already are in that of personal beauty. God bless you both! And may every happiness that the conjugal state affords, be yours! Professor,' she added, and now turning round to that gentleman, 'you will think this weakness--a mother's weakness--and perhaps it is so--but I would myself fain attribute it to a more worthy feeling, and, if I know my own heart, it is so. But let that pass. I _am_ reconciled to the step my son has taken, and reverently leave it to God, and fearlessly to man, to judge of the motives by which I have been influenced. I trust they are such as to merit the approbation of both.' Surprised, and greatly affected by the unexpected turn which matters had taken, so contrary to what he had anticipated, the worthy professor had listened to these expressions of the countess with averted head, and making the most ingenious use of the handkerchief which he held to his face that he could, to conceal the real purpose for which he employed it. When she had done-- 'Madam,' he said, with great agitation and confusion of manner, and still busily plying the handkerchief in its pretended vocation--'Madam, I--I--I am surprised--much affected, I assure you--much affected, my lady--with this striking instance of what a noble and generous nature is capable. I was by no means prepared for it. It does you infinite honour, my lady--infinite honour; and will, I trust, in its result, be productive of all that happiness to you which your magnanimous conduct so eminently deserves.' 'I trust I have acted rightly, professor,' was the brief reply of the countess, as she again turned to the young couple, who were now standing on the floor beside her, 'I hope I have; and, if my heart does not deceive me, I am sure I have.' 'You are warranted, my lady, in the confidence you express in the uprightness, the generosity of your conduct on this very remarkable occasion--perfectly warranted,' replied the professor. 'It is an unexampled instance of greatness, of liberality of mind, and as such I must always look on it.' Thus, then, terminated this extraordinary scene. It was subsequently arranged that the marriage of the earl should, in the meantime, be kept as secret as possible, and that the young countess should, in the interim, be sent for a year or two to one of the most celebrated seminaries of female education in England, under an assumed name, and that, when she should have acquired the attainments and the polish befitting her high station, she should be produced to the world as the Countess of Wistonbury. Acting upon this plan of proceedings, the same carriage that brought down the earl's mother, bore away, on the following day, together with that lady, the young earl and his bride; the latter, to commence her educational noviciate in England; the former, to while away the time as he best could until that noviciate should expire, a period which he proposed to render less irksome by a tour on the continent. About two years after the occurrence of the events just related--it might be more, perhaps nearly three--Oxton Hall presented a scene of prodigious confusion and bustle. Little carts of provender were daily seen making frequent visits to the house. Huge old grates, in deserted kitchens, that had not been in use for a century before, were cleared of their rubbish, and glowing with blazing fires, at which enormous roasts were solemnly revolving. Menials were running to and fro in all directions, and a crowd of powdered and richly-liveried lackeys bustled backwards and forwards through the gorgeous apartments, loaded with silver plate, and bearing huge baskets of wine. Everything at Oxton Hall, in short, betokened preparations for a splendid fête--and such, in truth, was the case. To this fête all the nobility and gentry, within a circuit of ten to fifteen miles were invited; and such an affair it promised to be, altogether, as had not been seen at Oxton Hall since the marriage of the last earl--a period of nearly thirty years. None of those invited knew, or could guess, what was the particular reason for so extensive a merry-making. Its scale, they learned, was most magnificent, and the invitations unprecedentedly numerous. The whole affair was thus somewhat of a puzzle to the good people who were to figure as guests at the impending fête; but they comforted themselves with the reflection that they would know all about it by and by. In the meantime, the day appointed for the celebration of the proposed festival at Oxton Hall arrived; and, amongst the other preparations which more markedly characterized it, was the appearance of several long tables extended on the lawn in front of the house, and which were intended for the accommodation of the earl's tenantry, who were also invited to share in the coming festivities. Towards the afternoon of the day alluded to, carriages and vehicles of all descriptions, and of various degrees of elegance, were seen, in seemingly endless numbers, streaming along the spacious and well-gravelled walks that led, by many a graceful curve, through the surrounding lawn, to the noble portals of Oxton Hall. These, by turns, drew up in front of the principal entrance to the house, and delivered their several cargoes of lords and ladies, knights and squires, all honourable personages, and of high degree. An inferior description of equipages, again, and occupied by persons of a different class, sturdy yeomen and their wives and daughters, found ther way, or rather were guided as they came, to a different destination, but with no difference in the hospitality of their reception. All were alike welcome to Oxton Hall on this auspicious day. By and by the hour of dinner came, and, when it did, it exhibited a splendid scene in the magnificent dining-room of the Earl of Wistonbury. In this dining-room were assembled a party of at least a hundred-and-fifty ladies and gentlemen, all in their best attire. Down the middle of the spacious apartment ran a table of ample length and breadth, and capable of accommodating with ease even the formidable array by which it was shortly to be surrounded. On this spacious board glittered as much wealth, in the shape of silver plate, as would have bought a barony, while everything around showed that it was still but a small portion of the riches of its noble owner. At the further end of the lordly hall, in an elevated recess or interior balcony, were stationed a band of musicians, to contribute the choicest specimens of the art to the hilarity of the evening. Altogether the scene was one of the most imposing that can well be conceived, an effect which was not a little heightened by the antique character of the noble apartment in which it was exhibited, one of whose most striking features was a large oriel window, filled with the most beautifully stained glass, which threw its subdued and sombre light on the magnificent scene beneath. Hitherto the young earl had not been seen by any of the company; his mother, the countess-dowager, having discharged the duties of hospitality in receiving the guests. Many were the inquiries made for the absent lord of the mansion; but these were all answered evasively, although always concluded with the assurance that he would appear in good time. Satisfied with this assurance, the subject was no further pressed at the moment; but, as the dinner hour approached, and the earl had not yet presented himself, considerable curiosity and impatience began to be manifested amongst the assembled guests. These feelings increased every moment, and had attained their height, when the party found themselves called on to take their seats at table, and yet no earl had appeared. The general surprise was further excited on its being observed that the countess-dowager did not, as usual, take the chair at the head of the table, as was expected, but placed herself on its right. The chair at the foot of the table remained also yet unoccupied; and great was the wonder what all this could mean. It was now soon to be explained. Just as the party had taken their seats, a folding-door, at the further end of the hall, flew open, and the young Earl of Wistonbury entered, leading by the hand a young female of exceeding beauty, attired in a dress of the most dazzling splendour, over which was gracefully thrown a Scottish plaid. Bowing slightly, but with a graceful and cordial expression, and smiling affably as he advanced, the earl conducted his fair charge to the head of the table, where, after a pause of a few seconds, which he purposely made in order to afford his guests an opportunity of marking the extreme loveliness of the lady whom he had thus so unexpectedly introduced to them--an opportunity which was not thrown away, as was evident from the murmur of admiration that ran round the brilliant assembly--the earl thus shortly addressed his wondering guests-- 'Permit me, my friends,' he said, 'to introduce to you the Countess of Wistonbury!' A shout of applause from the gentlemen, and a waving of handkerchiefs by the ladies, hailed the pleasing and unexpected intelligence--an homage whose duration and intensity was increased by the singularly graceful manner with which it was received and acknowledged by her to whom it was paid. Nothing could be more captivating than the modest, winning sweetness of her smile, nothing more pleasing to behold than the gentle grace of her every motion. On all present the impression was that she was a woman of birth, education, and high breeding, and nothing in the part she subsequently acted tended in the slightest degree to affect this idea. The young and lovely countess conducted herself throughout the whole of this eventful evening, as she did throughout the remainder of her life, with the most perfect propriety; and thus evinced that the pains taken to fit Jessy Flowerdew for the high station to which a singular good fortune had called her, was very far from having been taken in vain. At the conclusion of the banquet, the earl entreated the indulgence of the company for an absence for himself and the countess of a quarter of an hour. This being of course readily acquiesced in, the earl and his beauteous young wife were seen, arm and arm, on the lawn, going towards the tables at which his tenantry were enjoying his hospitality. Here he went through precisely the same ceremony of introduction with that which we have described as having taken place in the banquet-hall; and here it was greeted with the same enthusiasm, and acknowledged by the countess with the same grace and propriety. This proceeding over, the earl and his young bride returned to their party, when one of the most joyous evenings followed that the banqueting-room of Oxton Hall had ever witnessed. There is only now to add, that Jessy Flowerdew's subsequent conduct as Countess of Wistonbury proved her in every respect worthy of the high place to which she had been elevated. A mildness and gentleness of disposition, and a winning modesty of demeanour, which all the wealth and state with which she was surrounded could not in the slightest degree impair, distinguished her through life; and no less distinguished was she by the generosity and benevolence of her nature, a nature which her change of destiny was wholly unable to pervert." Such, then, good reader, is the history of the lady whose portrait, in which she appears habited in a Scottish plaid, adorns, with others, the walls of the picture gallery of Oxton Hall, in Wiltshire. MIDSIDE MAGGY; OR, THE BANNOCK O' TOLLISHILL. "Every bannock had its maik, but the bannock o' Tollishill." _Scottish Proverb._ Belike, gentle reader, thou hast often heard the proverb quoted above, that "Every bannock had its maik, but the bannock o' Tollishill." The saying hath its origin in a romantic tradition of the Lammermoors, which I shall relate to thee. Tollishill is the name of a sheep-farm in Berwickshire, situated in the parish of Lauder. Formerly, it was divided into three farms, which were occupied by different tenants; and, by way of distinguishing it from the others, that in which dwelt the subjects of our present story was generally called Midside, and our heroine obtained the appellation of Midside Maggy. Tollishill was the property of John, second Earl, and afterwards Duke of Lauderdale--a personage whom I shall more than once, in these tales, have occasion to bring before mine readers, and whose character posterity hath small cause to hold in veneration. Yet it is a black character, indeed, in which there is not to be found one streak of sunshine; and the story of the "Bannock of Tollishill" referreth to such a streak in the history of John, the Lord of Thirlestane. Time hath numbered somewhat more than a hundred and ninety years since Thomas Hardie became tenant of the principal farm of Tollishill. Now, that the reader may picture Thomas Hardie as he was, and as tradition hath described him, he or she must imagine a tall, strong, and fresh-coloured man of fifty; a few hairs of grey mingling with his brown locks; a countenance expressive of much good nature and some intelligence; while a Lowland bonnet was drawn over his brow. The other parts of his dress were of coarse, grey, homespun cloth, manufactured in Earlston; and across his shoulders, in summer as well as in winter, he wore the mountain plaid. His principles assimilated to those held by the men of the covenant; but Thomas, though a native of the hills, was not without the worldly prudence which is considered as being more immediately the characteristic of the buying and selling children of society. His landlord was no favourer of the Covenant; and, though Thomas wished well to the cause, he did not see the necessity for making his laird, the Lord of Lauderdale, his enemy for its sake. He, therefore, judged it wise to remain a neutral spectator of the religious and political struggles of the period. But Thomas was a bachelor. Half a century had he been in the world, and the eyes of no woman had had power to throw a spark into his heart. In his single, solitary state, he was happy, or he thought himself happy; and that is much the same thing. But an accident occurred which led him first to believe, and eventually to feel, that he was but a solitary and comfortless moorland farmer, toiling for he knew not what, and laying up treasure he knew not for whom. Yea, and while others had their wives spinning, carding, knitting, and smiling before them, and their bairns running laughing and sporting round about them, he was but a poor deserted creature, with nobody to care for, or to care for him. Every person had some object to strive for and to make them strive but Thomas Hardie; or, to use his own words, he was "just in the situation o' a tewhit that has lost its mate--_te-wheet! te-wheet!_ it cried, flapping its wings impatiently and forlornly--and _te-wheet! te-wheet!_ answered vacant echo frae the dreary glens." Thomas had been to Morpeth disposing of a part of his hirsels, and he had found a much better market for them than he anticipated. He returned, therefore, with a heavy purse, which generally hath a tendency to create a light and merry heart; and he arrived at Westruther, and went into a hostel, where, three or four times in the year, he was in the habit of spending a cheerful evening with his friends. He had called for a quegh of the landlady's best, and he sat down at his ease with the liquor before him, for he had but a short way to travel. He also pulled out his tobacco-box and his pipe, and began to inhale the fumes of what, up to that period, was almost a forbidden weed. But we question much if the royal book of James the Sixth of Scotland and First of England, which he published against the use of tobacco, ever found its way into the Lammermoors, though the Indian weed did; therefore, Thomas Hardie sat enjoying his glass and his pipe, unconscious or regardless of the fulminations which he who was king in his boyhood, had published against the latter. But he had not sat long, when a fair maiden, an acquaintance of "mine hostess," entered the hostelry, and began to assist her in the cutting out or fashioning of a crimson kirtle. Her voice fell upon the ears of Thomas like the "music of sweet sounds." He had never heard a voice before that not only fell softly on his ear, but left a lingering murmur in his heart. She, too, was a young thing of not more than eighteen. If ever hair might be called "gowden," it was hers. It was a light and shining bronze, where the prevalence of the golden hue gave a colour to the whole. Her face was a thing of beauty, over which health spread its roseate hue, yet softly, as though the westling winds had caused the leaves of the blushing rose to kiss her cheeks, and leave their delicate hues and impression behind them. She was of a middle stature, and her figure was such, although arrayed in homely garments, as would have commanded the worship of a connoisseur of grace and symmetry. But beyond all that kindled a flame within the hitherto obdurate heart of Thomas, was the witching influence of her smile. For a full hour he sat with his eyes fixed upon her; save at intervals, when he withdrew them to look into the unwonted agitation of his own breast, and examine the cause. "Amongst the daughters of women," thought he unto himself--for he had a sprinkling of the language of the age about him--"none have I seen so beautiful. Her cheeks bloom bonnier than the heather on Tollishill, and her bosom seems saft as the new-shorn fleece. Her smile is like a blink o' sunshine, and would mak summer to those on whom it fell a' the year round." He also discovered, for the first time, that "Tollishill was a dull place, especially in the winter season." When, therefore, the fair damsel had arrayed the fashion of the kirtle and departed, without once having seemed to observe Thomas, he said unto the goodwife of the hostelry--"And wha, noo, if it be a fair question, may that bonnie lassie be?" "She is indeed a bonnie lassie," answered the landlady, "and a guid lassie, too; and I hae nae doot but, as ye are a single man, Maister Hardie, yer question is fair enough. Her name is Margaret Lylestone, and she is the only bairn o' a puir infirm widow that cam to live here some twa or three years syne. They cam frae south owre some way, and I am sure they hae seen better days. We thocht at first that the auld woman had been a Catholic; but I suppose that isna the case, though they certainly are baith o' them strong Episcopawlians, and in nae way favourable to the preachers or the word o' the Covenant; but I maun say for Maggie, that she is a bonny, sweet-tempered, and obleegin lassie--though, puir thing, her mother has brocht her up in a wrang way." Many days had not passed ere Thomas Hardie, arrayed in his Sunday habiliments, paid another visit to Westruther; and he cautiously asked of the goodwife of the hostel many questions concerning Margaret; and although she jeered him, and said that "Maggy would ne'er think o' a grey-haired carle like him," he brooded over the fond fancy; and although on this visit he saw her not, he returned to Tollishill, thinking of her as his bride. It was a difficult thing for a man of fifty, who had been the companion of solitude from his youth upwards, and who had lived in single blessedness amidst the silence of the hills, without feeling the workings of the heart, or being subjected to the influence of its passions--I say, it was indeed difficult for such a one to declare, in the ear of a blooming maiden of eighteen, the tale of his first affections. But an opportunity arrived which enabled him to disembosom the burden that pressed upon his heart. It has been mentioned that Margaret Lylestone and her mother were poor; and the latter, who had long been bowed down with infirmities, was supported by the industry of her daughter. They had also a cow, which was permitted to graze upon the hills without fee or reward; and, with the milk which it produced, and the cheese they manufactured, together with the poor earnings of Margaret, positive want was long kept from them. But the old woman became more and more infirm--the hand of death seemed stretching over her. She required nourishment which Margaret could not procure for her; and, that it might be procured--that her mother might live and not die--the fair maiden sent the cow to Kelso to be sold, from whence the seller was to bring with him the restoratives that her parent required. Now, it so was that Thomas Hardie, the tenant of Tollishill, was in Kelso market when the cow of Widow Lylestone was offered for sale; and, as it possessed the characteristic marks of a good milcher, he inquired to whom it belonged. On being answered, he turned round for a few moments, and stood thoughtful; but again turning to the individual who had been intrusted to dispose of it, he inquired-- "And wherefore is she selling it?" "Really, Maister Hardie," replied the other, "I could not positively say, but I hae little doot it is for want--absolute necessity. The auld woman's very frail and very ill--I hae to tak a' sort o' things oot to her the nicht frae the doctor's, after selling the cow, and it's no in the power o' things that her dochter, industrious as she is, should be able to get them for her otherwise." Thomas again turned aside, and drew his sleeve across his eyes. Having inquired the price sought for the cow, he handed the money to the seller, and gave the animal in charge to one of his herdsmen. He left the market earlier than usual, and directed his servant that the cow should be taken to Westruther. It was drawing towards gloaming before Thomas approached the habitation of the widow; and, before he could summon courage to enter it for the first time, he sauntered for several minutes, backward and forward on the moor, by the side of the Blackadder, which there silently wends its way, as a dull and simple burn, through the moss. He felt all the awkwardness of an old man struggling beneath the influence of a young feeling. He thought of what he should say, how he should act, and how he would be received. At length he had composed a short introductory and explanatory speech which pleased him. He thought it contained both feeling and delicacy (according to his notions of the latter) in their proper proportions, and after repeating it three or four times over by the side of the Blackadder, he proceeded towards the cottage, still repeating it to himself as he went. But, when he raised his hand and knocked at the door, his heart gave a similar knock upon his bosom, as though it mimicked him; and every idea, every word of the introductory speech which he had studied and repeated again and again, short though it was, was knocked from his memory. The door was opened by Margaret, who invited him to enter. She was beautiful as when he first beheld her--he thought more beautiful--for she now spoke to him. Her mother sat in an arm-chair, by the side of the peat fire, and was supported by pillows. He took off his bonnet, and performed an awkward but his best salutation. "I beg your pardon," said he, hesitatingly, "for the liberty I have taken in calling upon you. But--I was in Kelso the day--and"----He paused, and turned his bonnet once or twice in his hands. "And," he resumed, "I observed, or rather, I should say, I learned that ye intended to sell your cow; but I also heard that ye was very ill, and"----Here he made another pause. "I say I heard that ye was very ill, and I thocht it would be a hardship for ye to part wi' crummie, and especially at a time when ye are sure to stand maist in need o' every help. So I bought the cow--but, as I say, it would be a very great hardship for ye to be without the milk, and what the cheese may bring, at a time like this; and, therefore, I hae ordered her to be brocht back to ye, and ane o' my men will bring her hame presently. Never consider the cow as mine, for a bachelor farmer like me can better afford to want the siller, than ye can to want yer cow; and I micht hae spent it far mair foolishly, and wi' less satisfaction. Indeed, if ye only but think that good I've dune, I'm mair than paid." "Maister Hardie," said the widow, "what have I, a stranger widow woman, done to deserve this kindness at your hands? Or how is it in the power o' words for me to thank ye? HE who provideth for the widow and the fatherless will not permit you to go unrewarded, though I cannot. O Margaret, hinny," added she, "thank our benefactor as we ought to thank him, for I cannot." Fair Margaret's thanks were a flood of tears. "Oh, dinna greet!" said Thomas; "I would ten times ower rather no hae bocht the cow, but hae lost the siller, than I would hae been the cause o' a single tear rowin' doun yer bonny cheeks." "O sir," answered the widow, "but they are tears o' gratitude that distress my bairn, and nae tears are mair precious." I might tell how Thomas sat down by the peat fire between the widow and her daughter, and how he took the hand of the latter, and entreated her to dry up her tears, saying that his chief happiness would be to be thought their friend, and to deserve their esteem. The cow was brought back to the widow's, and Thomas returned to Tollishill with his herdsman. But, from that night, he became almost a daily visitor at the house of Mrs. Lylestone. He provided whatever she required--all that was ordered for her. He spoke not of love to Margaret, but he wooed her through his kindness to her mother. It was, perhaps, the most direct avenue to her affections. Yet it was not because Thomas thought so that he pursued this course, but because he wanted confidence to make his appeal in a manner more formal or direct. The widow lingered many months; and all that lay within the power of human means he caused to be done for her, to restore her to health and strength, or at least to smooth her dying pillow. But the last was all that could be done. Where death spreadeth the shadow of his wing, there is no escape from sinking beneath the baneful influence of its shade. Mrs. Lylestone, finding that the hour of her departure drew near, took the hand of her benefactor, and when she had thanked him for all the kindness which he had shown towards her, she added-- "But, O sir, there is one thing that makes the hand of death heavy. When the sod is cauld upon my breast, who will look after my puir orphan--my bonny faitherless and motherless Margaret? Where will she find a hame?" "O mem," said Thomas, "if the like o' me durst say it, she needna hae far to gang, to find a hame and a heart too. Would she only be mine, I would be her protector--a' that I have should be hers." A gleam of joy brightened in the eye of the dying widow. "Margaret!" she exclaimed, faintly; and Margaret laid her face upon the bed, and wept. "O my bairn! my puir bairn!" continued her mother, "shall I see ye protected and provided for before I am 'where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest,' which canna be lang noo?" Thomas groaned--tears glistened in his eyes--he held his breath in suspense. The moment of trial, of condemnation or acquittal, of happiness or misery, had arrived. With an eager impatience he waited to hear her answer. But Margaret's heart was prepared for his proposal. He had first touched it with gratitude--he had obtained her esteem; and where these sentiments prevail in the bosom of a woman whose affections have not been bestowed upon another, love is not far distant--if it be not between them, and a part of both. "Did ever I disobey you, mother?" sobbed Margaret, raising her parent's hand to her lips. "No, my bairn, no!" answered the widow. And raising herself in the bed, she took her daughter's hand and placed it in the hand of Thomas Hardie. "Oh!" said he, "is this possible? Does my bonny Margaret really consent to make me the happiest man on earth? Shall I hae a gem at Tollishill that I wadna exchange for a monarch's diadem?" It is sufficient to say that the young and lovely Margaret Lylestone became Mrs. Hardie of Tollishill; or, as she was generally called, "_Midside Maggie_." Her mother died within three months after their marriage, but died in peace, having, as she said, "seen her dear bairn blessed wi' a leal and a kind guidman, and ane that was weel to do." For two years after their marriage, and not a happier couple than Thomas and Midside Maggie was to be found on all the long Lammermoors, in the Merse, nor yet in the broad Lothians. They saw the broom and the heather bloom in their season, and they heard the mavis sing before their dwelling; yea, they beheld the snow falling on the mountains, and the drift sweeping down the glens; but while the former delighted, the latter harmed them not, and from all they drew mutual joy and happiness. Thomas said that "Maggy was a matchless wife;" and she that "he was a kind, kind husband." But the third winter was one of terror among the hills. It was near the new year; the snow began to fall on a Saturday, and when the following Friday came, the storm had not ceased. It was accompanied by frost and a fierce wind, and the drift swept and whirled like awful pillars of alabaster, down the hills, and along the glens-- "Sweeping the flocks and herds." Fearful was the wrath of the tempest on the Lammermoors. Many farmers suffered severely, but none more severely than Thomas Hardie of Tollishill. Hundreds of his sheep had perished in a single night. He was brought from prosperity to the brink of adversity. But another winter came round. It commenced with a severity scarce inferior to that which had preceded it, and again scores of his sheep were buried in the snow. But February had not passed, and scarce had the sun entered what is represented as the astronomical sign of the _two fish_, in the heavens, when the genial influence of spring fell with almost summer warmth upon the earth. During the night the dews came heavily on the ground, and the sun sucked it up in a vapour. But the herbage grew rapidly, and the flocks ate of it greedily, and licked the dew ere the sun rose to dry it up. It brought the murrain amongst them; they died by hundreds; and those that even fattened, but did not die, no man would purchase; or, if purchased, it was only upon the understanding that the money should be returned if the animals were found unsound. These misfortunes were too much for Thomas Hardie. Within two years he found himself a ruined man. But he grieved not for the loss of his flocks, nor yet for his own sake, but for that of his fair young wife, whom he loved as the apple of his eye. Many, when they heard of his misfortunes, said that they were sorry for bonny Midside Maggy. But, worst of all, the rent-day of Thomas Hardie drew near; and for the first time since he had held a farm, he was unable to meet his landlord with his money in his hand. Margaret beheld the agony of his spirit, and she knew its cause. She put on her Sunday hood and kirtle; and professing to her husband that she wished to go to Lauder, she took her way to Thirlestane Castle, the residence of their proud landlord, before whom every tenant in arrear trembled. With a shaking hand she knocked at the hall door, and after much perseverance and entreaty, was admitted into the presence of the haughty earl. She curtsied low before him. "Well, what want ye, my bonny lass?" said Lauderdale, eyeing her significantly. "May it please yer lordship," replied Margaret, "I am the wife o' yer tenant, Thomas Hardie o' Tollishill; an' a guid tenant he has been to yer lordship for twenty years and mair, as yer lordship maun weel ken." "He has been my tenant for more than twenty years, say ye?" interrupted Lauderdale; "and ye say ye are his wife: why, looking on thy bonny face, I should say that the heather hasna bloomed twenty times on the knowes o' Tollishill since thy mother bore thee. Yet ye say ye are his wife! Beshrew me, but Thomas Hardie is a man o' taste. Arena ye his daughter?" "No, my lord; his first, his only, an' his lawfu' wife--an' I would only say, that to ye an' yer faither before ye, for mair than twenty years, he has paid his rent regularly an' faithfully; but the seasons hae visited us sairly, very sairly, for twa years successively, my lord, an' the drift has destroyed, an' the rot rooted oot oor flocks, sae that we are hardly able to haud up oor heads amang oor neebors, and to meet yer lordship at yer rent-day is oot o' oor power; therefore hae I come to ye to implore ye, that we may hae time to gather oor feet, an' to gie yer lordship an' every man his due, when it is in oor power." "Hear me, guidwife," rejoined the earl; "were I to listen to such stories as yours, I might have every farmer's wife on my estates coming whimpering and whinging, till I was left to shake a purse with naething in't, and allowing others the benefit o' my lands. But it is not every day that a face like yours comes in the shape o' sorrow before me; and, for ae kiss o' your cherry mou', (and ye may take my compliments to your auld man for his taste,) ye shall have a discharge for your half-year's rent, and see if that may set your husband on his feet again." "Na, yer lordship, na!" replied Margaret; "it would ill become ony woman in my situation in life, an' especially a married ane, to be daffin with sic as yer lordship. I am the wife o' Thomas Hardie, wha is a guid guidman to me, an' I cam here this day to entreat ye to deal kindly wi' him in the day o' his misfortune." "Troth," replied Lauderdale--who could feel the force of virtue in others, though he did not always practise it in his own person--"I hae heard o' the blossom o' Tollishill before, an' a bonny flower ye are to blossom in an auld man's bower; but I find ye modest as ye are bonny, an' upon one condition will I grant yer request. Ye hae tauld me o' yer hirsels being buried wi' the drift, an' that the snaw has covered the May primrose on Leader braes; now it is Martinmas, an' if in June ye bring me a snowball, not only shall ye be quit o' yer back rent, but ye shall sit free in Tollishill till Martinmas next. But see that in June ye bring me the snowball or the rent." Margaret made her obeisance before the earl, and, thanking him, withdrew. But she feared the coming of June; for to raise the rent even then she well knew would be a thing impossible, and she thought also it would be equally so to preserve a snow-ball beneath the melting sun of June. Though young, she had too much prudence and honesty to keep a secret from her husband; it was her maxim, and it was a good one, that "there ought to be no secrets between a man and his wife, which the one would conceal from the other." She therefore told him of her journey to Thirlestane, and of all that had passed between her and the earl. Thomas kissed her cheek, and called her his "bonny, artless Maggy;" but he had no more hope of seeing a snowball in June than she had, and he said, "the bargain was like the bargain o' a crafty Lauderdale." Again the winter storms howled upon the Lammermoors, and the snow lay deep upon the hills. Thomas and his herdsmen were busied in exertions to preserve the remainder of his flocks; but, one day, when the westling winds breathed with a thawing influence upon the snow-clad hills, Margaret went forth to where there was a small, deep, and shadowed ravine by the side of the Leader. In it the rivulet formed a pool, and seemed to sleep, and there the grey trout loved to lie at ease; for a high dark rock, over which the brushwood grew, overhung it, and the rays of the sun fell not upon it. In the rock, and near the side of the stream, was a deep cavity, and Margaret formed a snowball on the brae top, and she rolled it slowly down into the shadowed glen, till it attained the magnitude of an avalanche in miniature. She trode upon it, and pressed it firmly together, till it obtained almost the hardness and consistency of ice. She rolled it far into the cavity, and blocked up the mouth of the aperture, so that neither light nor air might penetrate the strange coffer in which she had deposited the equally strange rent of Tollishill. Verily, common as ice-houses are in our day, let not Midside Maggy be deprived of the merit of their invention. I have said that it was her maxim to keep no secret from her husband; but, as it is said there is no rule without an exception, even so it was in the case of Margaret, and there was one secret which she communicated not to Thomas, and that was--the secret of the hidden snowball. But June came, and Thomas Hardie was a sorrowful man. He had in no measure overcome the calamities of former seasons, and he was still unprepared with his rent. Margaret shared not his sorrow, but strove to cheer him, and said-- "We shall hae a snawba' in June, though I climb to the top o' Cheviot for it." "O my bonny lassie," replied he--and he could see the summit of Cheviot from his farm--"dinna deceive yersel' wi' what could only be words spoken in jest; but, at ony rate, I perceive there has been nae snaw on Cheviot for a month past." Now, not a week had passed, but Margaret had visited the aperture in the ravine, where the snowball was concealed, not through idle curiosity, to perceive whether it had melted away, but more effectually to stop up every crevice that might have been made in the materials with which she had blocked up the mouth of the cavity. But the third day of the dreadful month had not passed, when a messenger arrived at Tollishill from Thirlestane with the abrupt mandate--"_June has come!_" "And we shall be at Thirlestane the morn," answered Margaret. "O my doo," said Thomas, "what nonsense are ye talking!--that isna like ye, Margaret; I'll be in Greenlaw Jail the morn; and oor bits o' things in the hoose, and oor flocks, will be seized by the harpies o' the law--and the only thing that distresses me is, what is to come o' you hinny." "Dinna dree the death ye'll never dee," said Margaret affectionately; "we shall see, if we be spared, what the morn will bring." "The fortitude o' yer mind, Margaret," said Thomas, taking her hand; and he intended to have said more, to have finished a sentence in admiration of her worth, but his heart filled, and he was silent. On the following morning, Margaret said unto him-- "Now, Thomas, if ye are ready, we'll gang to Thirlestane. It is aye waur to expect or think o' an evil than to face it." "Margaret, dear," said he, "I canna comprehend ye--wherefore should I thrust my head into the lion's den? It will soon enough seek me in my path." Nevertheless, she said unto him, "Come," and bade him be of good heart; and he rose and accompanied her. But she conducted him to the deep ravine, where the waters seem to sleep and no sunbeam ever falls; and, as she removed the earth and the stones, with which she had blocked up the mouth of the cavity in the rock, he stood wondering. She entered the aperture, and rolled forth the firm mass of snow, which was yet too large to be lifted by hands. When Thomas saw this, he smiled and wept at the same instant, and he pressed his wife's cheek to his bosom, and said-- "Great has been the care o' my poor Margaret; but it is o' no avail; for, though ye hae proved mair than a match for the seasons, the proposal was but a jest o' Lauderdale." "What is a man but his word?" replied Margaret; "and him a nobleman too." "Nobility are but men," answered Thomas, "and seldom better men than ither folk. Believe me, if we were to gang afore him wi' a snawba' in oor hands, we should only get lauched at for our pains." "It was his ain agreement," added she; "and, at ony rate, we can be naething the waur for seeing if he will abide by it." Breaking the snowy mass, she rolled up a portion of it in a napkin, and they went towards Thirlestane together; though often did Thomas stop by the way and say-- "Margaret, dear, I'm perfectly ashamed to gang upon this business; as sure as I am standing here, as I have tauld ye, we will only get oorselves lauched at." "I would rather be lauched at," added she, "than despised for breaking my word; and, if oor laird break his noo, wha wadna despise him?" Harmonious as their wedded life had hitherto been, there was what might well nigh be called bickerings between them on the road; for Thomas felt or believed that she was leading him on a fool's errand. But they arrived at the castle of Thirlestane, and were ushered into the mansion of its proud lord. "Ha!" said the earl, as they entered, "bonny Midside Maggy and her auld guidman! Well, what bring ye?--the rents o' Tollishill, or their equivalent?" Thomas looked at his young wife, for he saw nothing to give him hope on the countenance of Lauderdale, and he thought that he pronounced the word "_equivalent_" with a sneer. "I bring ye snaw in June, my lord," replied Margaret, "agreeably to the terms o' yer bargain; and I'm sorry, for your sake and oors, that it hasna yet been in oor power to bring gowd instead o't." Loud laughed the earl as Margaret unrolled the huge snowball before him; and Thomas thought unto himself, "I said how it would be." But Lauderdale, calling for his writing materials, sat down and wrote, and he placed in the hands of Thomas a discharge, not only for his back rent, but for all that should otherwise be due at the ensuing Martinmas. Thomas Hardie bowed and bowed again before the earl, low and yet lower, awkwardly and still more awkwardly, and he endeavoured to thank him, but his tongue faltered in the performance of its office. He could have taken his hand in his and wrung it fervently, leaving his fingers to express what his tongue could not; but his laird was an earl, and there was a necessary distance to be observed between an earl and a Lammermoor farmer. "Thank not me, goodman," said Lauderdale, "but thank the modesty and discretion o' yer winsome wife." Margaret was silent; but gratitude for the kindness which the earl had shown unto her husband and herself took deep root in her heart. Gratitude, indeed, formed the predominating principle in her character, and fitted her even for acts of heroism. The unexpected and unwonted generosity of the earl had enabled Thomas Hardie to overcome the losses with which the fury of the seasons had overwhelmed him, and he prospered beyond any farmer on the hills. But, while he prospered, the Earl of Lauderdale, in his turn, was overtaken by adversity. The stormy times of the civil wars raged, and it is well known with what devotedness Lauderdale followed the fortunes of the king. When the Commonwealth began, he was made prisoner, conveyed to London, and confined in the Tower. There, nine years of captivity crept slowly and gloomily over him; but they neither taught him mercy to others nor to moderate his ambition, as was manifested when power and prosperity again cast their beams upon him. But he now lingered in the Tower, without prospect or hope of release, living upon the bare sustenance of a prisoner, while his tenants dwelt on his estates, and did as they pleased with his rents, as though they should not again behold the face of a landlord. But Midside Maggy grieved for the fate of him whose generosity had brought prosperity, such as they had never known before, to herself and to her husband; and, in the fulness of her gratitude, she was ever planning schemes for his deliverance; and she urged upon her husband that it was their duty to attempt to deliver their benefactor from captivity, as he had delivered them from the iron grasp of ruin, when misfortune lay heavily on them. Now, as duly as the rent-day came, from the Martinmas to which the snowball had been his discharge, Thomas Hardie faithfully and punctually locked away his rent to the last farthing, that he might deliver it into the hands of his laird, should he again be permitted to claim his own; but he saw not in what way they could attempt his deliverance, as his wife proposed. "Thomas," said she, "there are ten lang years o' rent due, and we hae the siller locked away. It is o' nae use to us, for it isna oors; but it may be o' use to him. It would enable him to fare better in his prison, and maybe to put a handfu' o' gowd into the hands o' his keepers, and thereby to escape abroad, and it wad furnish him wi' the means o' living when he was abroad. Remember his kindness to us, and think that there is nae sin equal to the sin o' ingratitude." "But," added Thomas, "in what way could we get the money to him? for, if we were to send it, it would never reach him, and, as a prisoner, he wouldna be allooed to receive it." "Let us tak it to him oorsels, then," said Margaret. "Tak it oorsels!" exclaimed Thomas, in amazement, "a' the way to London! It is oot o' the question a'thegither, Margaret. We wad be robbed o' every plack before we got half-way; or, if we were even there, hoo, in a' the world, do ye think we could get it to him, or that we would be allooed to see him?" "Leave that to me," was her reply; "only say ye will gang, and a' that shall be accomplished. There is nae obstacle in the way but the want o' yer consent. But the debt, and the ingratitude o' it thegither, hang heavy upon my heart." Thomas at length yielded to the importunities of his wife, and agreed that they should make a pilgrimage to London, to pay his rent to his captive laird; though how they were to carry the gold in safety, through an unsettled country, a distance of more than three hundred miles, was a difficulty he could not overcome. But Margaret removed his fears; she desired him to count out the gold, and place it before her; and when he had done so, she went to the meal-tub and took out a quantity of pease and of barley meal mixed, sufficient to knead a goodly fadge or bannock; and, when she had kneaded it, and rolled it out, she took the golden pieces and pressed them into the paste of the embryo bannock, and again she doubled it together, and again rolled it out, and kneaded into it the remainder of the gold. She then fashioned it into a thick bannock, and placing it on the hearth, covered it with the red ashes of the peats. Thomas sat marvelling, as the formation of the singular purse proceeded, and when he beheld the operation completed, and the bannock placed upon the hearth to bake, he only exclaimed--"Weel, woman's ingenuity dings a'! I wadna hae thocht o' the like o' that, had I lived a thoosand years! O Margaret, hinny, but ye are a strange ane." "Hoots," replied she, "I'm sure ye micht easily hae imagined that it was the safest plan we could hae thocht upon to carry the siller in safety; for I am sure there isna a thief between the Tweed and Lon'on toun, that would covet or carry awa a bear bannock." "Troth, my doo, and I believe ye're richt," replied Thomas; "but wha could hae thocht o' sic an expedient? Sure there never was a bannock baked like the bannock o' Tollishill." On the third day after this, an old man and a fair lad, before the sun had yet risen, were observed crossing the English Border. They alternately carried a wallet across their shoulders, which contained a few articles of apparel and a bannock. They were dressed as shepherds, and passengers turned and gazed on them as they passed along; for the beauty of the youth's countenance excited their admiration. Never had Lowland bonnet covered so fair a brow. The elder stranger was Thomas Hardie, and the youth none other than his Midside Maggy. I will not follow them through the stages of their long and weary journey, nor dwell upon the perils and adventures they encountered by the way. But, on the third week after they had left Tollishill, and when they were beyond the town called Stevenage, and almost within sight of the metropolis, they were met by an elderly military-looking man, who, struck with the lovely countenance of the seeming youth, their dress, and way-worn appearance, accosted them, saying--"Good morrow, strangers; ye seem to have travelled far. Is this fair youth your son, old man?" "He is a gay sib freend," answered Thomas. "And whence come ye?" continued the stranger. "Frae Leader Haughs, on the bonny Borders o' the north countrie," replied Margaret. "And whence go ye?" resumed the other. "First tell me wha ye may be that are sae inquisitive," interrupted Thomas, in a tone which betrayed something like impatience. "Some call me George Monk," replied the stranger mildly, "others, Honest George. I am a general in the Parliamentary army." Thomas reverentially raised his hand to his bonnet, and bowed his head. "Then pardon me, sir," added Margaret, "and if ye indeed be the guid and gallant general, sma' offence will ye tak at onything that may be said amiss by a country laddie. We are tenants o' the Lord o' Lauderdale, whom ye now keep in captivity; and, though we mayna think as he thinks, yet we never faund him but a guid landlord; and little guid, in my opinion, it can do ony body to keep him, as he has been noo for nine years, caged up like a bird. Therefore, though oor ain business that has brocht us up to London should fail, I winna regret the journey, since it has afforded me an opportunity o' seein yer Excellency, and soliciting yer interest, which maun be pooerfu' in behalf o' oor laird, and that ye would release him frae his prison, and, if he michtna remain in this countrie, obtain permission for him to gang abroad." "Ye plead fairly and honestly for yer laird, fair youth," returned the general; "yet, though he is no man to be trusted, I needs say he hath had his portion of captivity measured out abundantly; and, since ye have minded me of him, ere a week go round I will think of what may be done for Lauderdale." Other questions were asked and answered--some truly, and some evasively; and Thomas and Margaret blessing Honest George in their hearts, went on their way rejoicing at having met him. On arriving in London, she laid aside the shepherd's garb in which she had journeyed, and resumed her wonted apparel. On the second day after their arrival, she went out upon Tower-hill, dressed as a Scottish peasant girl, with a basket on her arm; and in the basket were a few ballads, and the bannock of Tollishill. She affected silliness, and, acting the part of a wandering minstrel, went singing her ballads towards the gate of the Tower. Thomas followed her at a distance. Her appearance interested the guard; and as she stood singing before the gate--"What want ye, pretty face?" inquired the officer of the guard. "Your alms, if you please," said she, smiling innocently, "and to sing a bonny Scotch sang to the Laird o' Lauderdale." The officer and the sentinels laughed; and, after she had sang them another song or two, she was permitted to enter the gate, and a soldier pointed out to her the room in which Lauderdale was confined. On arriving before the grated windows of his prison, she raised her eyes towards them, and began to sing "_Leader Haughs_." The wild, sweet melody of his native land, drew Lauderdale to the windows of his prison-house, and in the countenance of the minstrel he remembered the lovely features of Midside Maggy. He requested permission of the keeper that she should be admitted to his presence; and his request was complied with. "Bless thee, sweet face!" said the earl, as she was admitted into his prison; "and you have not forgotten the snowball in June?" And he took her hand to raise it to his lips. "Hooly, hooly, my guid lord," said she, withdrawing her hand; "my fingers were made for nae sic purpose--Thomas Hardie is here"--and she laid her hand upon her fair bosom--"though now standing withoot the yett o' the Tower." Lauderdale again wondered, and, with a look of mingled curiosity and confusion, inquired--"Wherefore do ye come--and why do ye seek me?" "I brocht ye a snaw-ba' before," said she, "for yer rent--I bring ye a bannock noo." And she took the bannock from the basket and placed it before him. "Woman," added he, "are ye really as demented as I thocht ye but feigned to be, when ye sang before the window." "The proof o' the bannock," replied Margaret, "will be in the breakin' o't." "Then, goodwife, it will not be easily proved," said he--and he took the bannock, and, with some difficulty, broke it over his knee; but, when he beheld the golden coins that were kneaded through it, for the first, perhaps the last and only time in his existence, the Earl of Lauderdale burst into tears and exclaimed--"Well, every bannock has its maik, but the bannock o' Tollishill! Yet, kind as ye hae been, the gold is useless to ane that groans in hopeless captivity." "Yours has been a long captivity," said Margaret; "but it is not hopeless; and, if honest General Monk is to be trusted, from what he tauld me not three days by-gane, before a week gae roond, ye will be at liberty to go abroad, and there the bannock o' Tollishill may be o' use." The wonder of Lauderdale increased, and he replied--"Monk will keep his word--but what mean ye of him?" And she related to him the interview they had had with the general by the way. Lauderdale took her hand, a ray of hope and joy spread over his face, and he added-- "Never shall ye rue the bakin' o' the bannock, if auld times come back again." Margaret left the tower, singing as she had entered it, and joined her husband, whom she found leaning over the railing around the moat, and anxiously waiting her return. They spent a few days more in London, to rest and to gaze upon its wonders, and again set out upon their journey to Tollishill. General Monk remembered his promise; within a week, the Earl of Lauderdale was liberated, with permission to go abroad, and there, as Margaret had intimated, he found the bannock of Tollishill of service. A few more years passed round, during which old Thomas Hardie still prospered; but, during those years, the Commonwealth came to an end, the king was recalled, and with him, as one of his chief favourites, returned the Earl of Lauderdale. And, when he arrived in Scotland, clothed with power, whatever else he forgot, he remembered the bannock of Tollishill. Arrayed in what might have passed as royal state, and attended by fifty of his followers, he rode to the dwelling of Thomas Hardie and Midside Maggy; and when they came forth to meet him, he dismounted and drew forth a costly silver girdle of strange workmanship, and fastened it round her jimp waist, saying--"Wear this, for now it is my turn to be grateful, and for your husband's life, and your life, and the life of the generation after ye" (for they had children), "ye shall sit rent free on the lands ye now farm. For, truly, every bannock had its maik but the bannock o' Tollishill." Thomas and Margaret felt their hearts too full to express their thanks; and ere they could speak, the earl, mounting his horse, rode towards Thirlestane; and his followers, waving their bonnets, shouted--"Long live Midside Maggy, queen of Tollishill." Such is the story of "The Bannock o' Tollishill;" and it is only necessary to add, for the information of the curious, that I believe the silver girdle may be seen until this day, in the neighbourhood of Tollishill, and in the possession of a descendant of Midside Maggy, to whom it was given. * * * * * [TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: 1. On page 28, last line, page 74, footnote, and page 155, last line, missing text has been restored from scans atThe Internet Archive. A few missing letters or words at the ends of lines have been restored from the same source. 2. The French word "mouillé" appears, apparently randomly, both with and without the acute accent. Since the accent is clearly required, it has been restored where necessary. 3. On page 2, antepenultimate line, "bewrayed" has been corrected to "betrayed". 4. In this Latin-1 version, the only substitution effected is that the oe-diphthong is indicated by [oe].] 
34144	----	WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND. HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE. WITH A GLOSSARY. REVISED BY ALEXANDER LEIGHTON ONE OF THE ORIGINAL EDITORS AND CONTRIBUTORS. VOL. IV. LONDON: WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE. 1885. CONTENTS. THE SOLITARY OF THE CAVE, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_ THE MAIDEN FEAST OF CAIRNKIBBIE, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_ THE PROFESSOR'S TALES, _(PROFESSOR THOMAS GILLESPIE)_ EARLY RECOLLECTIONS OF A SON OF THE HILLS THE SUICIDE'S GRAVE THE SALMON-FISHER OF UDOLL, _(HUGH MILLER)_ THE LINTON LAIRDS, OR EXCLUSIVES AND INCLUSIVES, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_ BON GUALTIER'S TALES, _(THEODORE MARTIN)_ COUNTRY QUARTERS THE MONK OF ST. ANTHONY, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_ THE STORY OF CLARA DOUGLAS, _(WALTER LOGAN)_ THE FAIR, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_ THE SLAVE, _(JOHN HOWELL)_ THE KATHERAN, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_ THE MONKS OF DRYBURGH, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_ WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND. THE SOLITARY OF THE CAVE. On the banks of the Tweed, and about half a mile above where the Whitadder flows into it on the opposite side, there is a small and singular cave. It is evidently not an excavation formed by nature, but the work of man's hands. To the best of my recollection, it is about ten feet square, and in the midst of it is a pillar or column, hewn out of the old mass, and reaching from the floor to the roof. It is an apartment cut out of the solid rock, and must have been a work of great labour. In the neighbourhood, it is generally known by the name of the King's Cove, and the tradition runs, that it was once the hiding-place of a Scottish king. Formerly, it was ascended from the level of the water by a flight of steps, also hewn out of the rock; but the mouldering touch of time, the storms of winter, and the undermining action of the river, which continually appears to press southward, (as though nature aided in enlarging the Scottish boundary,) has long since swept them away, though part of them were entire within the memory of living men. What king used it as a hiding-place, tradition sayeth not: but it also whispers that it was used for a like purpose by the "great patriot hero," Sir William Wallace. These things may have been; but certainly it never was formed to be a mere place of concealment for a king, though such is the popular belief. Immediately above the bank where it is situated, are the remains of a Roman camp; and it is more than probable that the cave is coeval with the camp, and may have been used for religious purposes--or, perchance, as a prison. But our story has reference to more modern times. Almost ninety years have fallen as drops into the vast ocean of eternity, since a strange and solitary man took up his residence in the cave. He appeared a melancholy being--he was seldom seen, and there were few with whom he would hold converse. How he lived no one could tell, nor would he allow any one to approach his singular habitation. It was generally supposed that he had been "out," as the phrase went, with Prince Charles, who, after being hunted as a wild beast upon the mountains, escaped to France only a few months before the appearance of the Solitary on Tweedside. This, however, was merely a conjecture. The history and character of the stranger were a mystery; and the more ignorant of the people believed him to be a wizard or wicked man, who, while he avoided all manner of intercourse with his fellow-mortals, had power over and was familiar with the spirits of the air; for, at that period, the idle belief in witchcraft was still general. His garments were as singular as his habits, and a large coarse cloak or coat, of a brown colour, fastened around him with a leathern girdle, covered his person; while on his head he wore a long, conical cap, composed of fox-skins, somewhat resembling those worn now-a-days by some of our regiments of dragoons. His beard, which was black, was also permitted to grow. But there was a dignity in his step, as he was occasionally observed walking upon the banks over his hermitage, and an expression of pride upon his countenance and in the glance of his eyes, which spoke him to have been a person of some note. For three years he continued the inhabitant of the cave; and, throughout that period, he permitted no one to enter it. But, on its appearing to be deserted for several days, some fishermen, apprehending that the recluse might be dying, or perchance dead, within it, ascended the flight of steps, and, removing a rude door which merely rested against the rock and blocked up the aperture, they perceived that the cave was tenantless. On the farther side of the pillar, two boards, slightly raised as an inclined plane, and covered with dried rushes, marked what had been the bed of the Solitary. A low stool, a small and rude table, with two or three simple cooking utensils, completed the furniture of the apartment. The fishermen were about to withdraw, when one of them picked up a small parcel of manuscripts near the door of the cave, as though the hermit had dropped them by accident at his departure. They appeared to be intended as letters to a friend, and were entitled-- "MY HISTORY." Dear Lewis, (they began,) when death shall have sealed up the eyes, and perchance some stranger dug a grave for your early friend, Edward Fleming, then the words which he now writes for your perusal may meet your eye. You believe me dead--and would to Heaven that I had died, ere my hands became red with guilt, and my conscience a living fire which preys upon and tortures me, but will not consume me! You remember--for you were with me--the first time I met Catherine Forrester. It was when her father invited us to his house in Nithsdale, and our hearts, like the season, were young. She came upon my eyes as a dream of beauty, a being more of heaven than of earth. You, Lewis, must admit that she was all that fancy can paint of loveliness. Her face, her form, her auburn ringlets, falling over a neck of alabaster!--where might man find their equal? She became the sole object of my waking thoughts, the vision that haunted my sleep. And was she not good as beautiful? Oh! the glance of her eyes was mild as a summer morning breaking on the earth, when the first rays of the sun shoot like streaks of gold across the sea. Her smile, too--you cannot have forgotten its sweetness! never did I behold it, but I thought an angel was in my presence, shedding influence over me. There was a soul, too, in every word she uttered. Affectation she had none; but the outpourings of her mind flowed forth as a river, and her wit played like the ripple which the gentle breeze makes to sport upon its bosom. You may think that I am about to write you a maudlin tale of love, such as would draw tears from a maiden in her teens, while those of more sober age turned away from it, and cried--'Pshaw!' But fear not--there is more of misery and madness than of love in my history. And yet, why should we turn with affected disgust from a tale of the heart's first, best, purest, and dearest affections? It is affectation, Lewis--the affectation of a cynic, who cries out, 'vanity of vanities, all is vanity,' when the delicacy of young affection has perished in his own breast. Who is there bearing the human form that looks not back upon those days of tenderness and bliss, with a feeling akin to that which our first parents might have experienced, when they looked back upon the Eden from which they had been expelled? Whatever may be your feelings, forgive me, while, for a few moments, I indulge in the remembrance of this one bright spot in my history, even although you are already in part acquainted with it. We had been inmates beneath the roof of Sir William Forrester for somewhat more than two months, waiting to receive intelligence regarding the designs of his Excellency, or the landing of the Prince. It was during the Easter holidays, and you had gone to Edinburgh for a few days, to ascertain the feelings and the preparations of the friends of the cause there. I remained almost forgetful of our errand, dreaming beneath the eyes of Catherine. It was on the second day after your departure, Sir William sat brooding over the possible results of the contemplated expedition, now speaking of the feeling of the people, the power of the house of Hanover, the resources of Prince Charles, and the extent of the assistance he was likely to receive from France--drowning, at the same time, every desponding thought that arose in an additional glass of claret, and calling on me to follow his example. But my thoughts were of other matters. Catherine sat beside me, arranging Easter gifts for the poor; and I, though awkwardly, attempted to assist her. Twilight was drawing on, and the day was stormy for the season, for the snow fell, and the wind whirled round the drift in fantastic columns; but with us, the fire blazed blithely, mingling its light with the fading day, and though the storm raged without, and Sir William seemed ready to sink into melancholy, I was happy--more than happy. But attend, Lewis, for I never told you this; at the very moment when my happiness seemed tranquil as the rays of a summer moon at midnight, showering them on a mountain and casting its deep, silent shadow on a lake, as though it revealed beneath the waters a bronzed and a silent world, the trampling of a horse's feet was heard at the gate. I looked towards the narrow window. A blackish-brown, shaggy animal attempted to trot towards the door. It had rough hanging ears, a round form, and hollow back; and a tall lathy-looking figure, dismounting from it, gave the bridle to Sir William's groom, and uttered his orders respecting it, notwithstanding of the storm, with the slowness and solemnity of a judge. And, fearful that, although so delivered, they might not be obeyed to the letter-- 'A merciful man regardeth the life of his beast,' said he, and stalked to the stable behind them. 'There go a brace of originals,' thought I; and, with difficulty, I suppressed a laugh. But Catherine smiled not, and her father left the room to welcome the vistant. The tall, thin man now entered. I call him tall, for his stature exceeded six feet; and I say thin, for nature had been abundantly liberal with bones and muscle, but wofully niggard in clothing them with flesh. His limbs, however, were lengthy enough for a giant of seven feet; and it would be difficult for me to say, whether his swinging arms, which seemed suspended from his shoulders, appeared more of use or of incumbrance. His countenance was a thoughtful blank, if you will allow me such an expression. He had large, grey, fixture-like, unmeaning eyes; and his hair was carefully combed back and plaited behind, to show his brow to the best advantage. He gave two familiar stalks across the floor, and he either did not see me, or he cared not for seeing me. 'A good Easter to ye, Catherine, my love!' said he. 'Still employed wi' works o' love an' charity? How have ye been, dear?' And he lifted her fair hand to his long blue lips. Catherine was silent--she became pale, deadly pale. I believe her hand grew cold at his touch, and that she would have looked to me; but she could not--she dared not. _Something forbade it._ But with me the spell was broken--the chain that bound me to her father's house, that withheld me from accompanying you to Edinburgh, was revealed. The uncouth stranger tore the veil from my eyes--he showed me the first glance of love in the mirror of jealousy. My teeth grated together--my eyes flashed--drops of sweat stood upon my forehead. My first impulse was to dash the intruder to the ground; but, to hide my feelings, I rose from my seat, and was about to leave the room. 'Sir, I ask your pardon,' said he--'I did not observe that ye was a stranger; but that accounts for the uncommon dryness o' my Katie. Yet, sir, ye mustna think that, though she is as modest as a bit daisy peeping out frae beneath a clod to get a blink o' the sun, but that we can hae our ain crack by our twa sels for a' that.' 'Sir Peter Blakely,' said Catherine, rising with a look expressive of indignation and confusion, 'what mean ye?' 'Oh, no offence, Miss Catherine--none in the world,' he was beginning to say, when, fortunately, her father entered, as I found that I had advanced a step towards the stranger, with I scarce know what intention; but it was not friendly. 'Sir Peter,' said Sir William, 'allow me to introduce you to my young friend, Mr. Fleming; he is _one of us_--a supporter of the good cause.' He introduced me in like manner. I bowed--trembled--bowed again. 'I am very happy to see you, Mr. Fleming,' said Sir Peter--'very happy, indeed.' And he stretched out his huge collection of fingers to shake hands with me. My eyes glared on his, and I felt them burn as I gazed on him. He evidently quailed, and would have stepped back; but I grasped his hand, and scarce knowing what I did, I grasped it as though a vice had held it. The blood sprang to his thin fingers, and his glazed orbs started farther from their sockets. 'Save us a'! friend! friend! Mr Fleming! or what do they ca' ye?' he exclaimed in agony; 'is that the way you shake hands in your country? I would hae ye to mind my fingers arena made o' cauld iron. The cold and the snow had done half the work with his fingers before, and the grasp I gave them squeezed them into torture; and he stood shaking and rattling them in the air, applying them to his lips and again to the fire and, finally, dancing round the room, swinging his tormented hand, and exclaiming-- 'Sorrow take ye! for I dinna ken whether my fingers be off or on!' Sir William strove to assure him it was merely the effect of cold, and that I could not intend to injure him, while, with difficulty, he kept gravity at the grotesque contortions and stupendous strides of his intended son-in-law. Even Catherine's countenance relapsed into a languid smile, and I, in spite of my feelings, laughed outright, while the object of our amusement at once wept and laughed to keep us company. You will remember that I slept in an apartment separated only by a thin partition from the breakfast parlour. In the partition which divided my chamber from the parlour was a door that led to it, one half of which was of glass, and in the form of a window, and over the glass fell a piece of drapery. It was not the door by which I passed from or entered my sleeping room, but through the drapery I could discover (if so minded) whatever took place in the adjoining apartment. Throughout the night I had not retired to rest; my soul was filled with anxious and uneasy thoughts; and they chased sleep from me. I felt how deeply, shall I say how madly, I loved my Catherine; and, in Sir Peter Blakely, I beheld a rival who had forestalled me in soliciting her hand; and I hated him. My spirit was exhausted with its own bitter and conflicting feelings; and I sat down as a man over whom agony of soul has brought a stupor, with my eyes vacantly fixed upon the curtain which screened me from the breakfast parlour. Sir Peter entered it, and the sound of his footsteps broke my reverie. I could perceive him approach the fire, draw forward a chair, and place his feet on each side of the grate. He took out his tobacco-box, and began to enjoy the comforts of his morning pipe in front of a 'green fire;' shivering--for the morning was cold--and edging forward his chair, until his knees almost came in conjunction with the mantelpiece. His pipe was finished, and he was preparing to fill it a second time. He struck it over his finger, to shake out the dust which remained after his last whiff; he struck it a second time, (he had been half dreaming, like myself,) and it broke in two and fell among his feet. He was left without a companion. He arose and began to walk across the room; his countenance bespoke anxiety and restlessness. I heard him mutter the words-- 'I will marry her!--yea, I will!--my sweet Catherine!' Every muttered word he uttered was a dagger driven into my bosom. At that moment, Sir William entered the parlour. 'Sir,' said Sir Peter, after their morning salutations, 'I have been thinking it is a long way for me to come over from Roxburgh to here'--and he paused, took out his snuff-box, opened the lid, and added--'Yes, sir, it is a long way'--he took a pinch of snuff, and continued--'Now, Sir William, I have been thinking that it would be as well, indeed a great deal better, for you to come over to my lodge at a time like this.' Here he paused, and placed the snuff-box in his pocket. 'I can appreciate your kind intentions,' said Sir William, 'but'---- 'There can be no _buts_ about it,' returned the other--'I perceive ye dinna understand me, Sir William. What I mean is this'--but here he seemed at a loss to explain his meaning; and, after standing with a look of confusion for a few moments, he took out his tobacco-box, and added--'I would thank you, sir, to order me a pipe.' The pipe was brought--he put it in the fire, and added--'I have been thinking, Sir William, very seriously have I been thinking, on a change of life. I am no great bairn in the world now; and, I am sure, sir, none knows better than you (who for ten years was my guardian), that I never had such a degree of thoughtlessness about me as to render it possible to suppose that I would make a bad husband to any woman that was disposed to be happy.' Once more he became silent, and taking his pipe from the fire, after a few thoughtful whiffs, he resumed--'Servants will have their own way without a mistress owre them; and I am sure it would be a pity to see onything going wrong about my place, for every body will say, that has seen it, that the sun doesna wauken the birds to throw the soul of music owre a lovelier spot, in a' his journey round the globe. Now, Sir William,' he added, 'it is needless for me to say it, for every person within twenty miles round is aware that I am just as fond o' Miss Catherine as the laverock is o' the blue lift; and it is equally sure and evident to me, that she cares for naebody but mysel.' Lewis! imagine my feelings when I heard him utter this! There was a word that I may not write, which filled my soul, and almost burst from my tongue. I felt agony and indignation burn over my face. Again, I heard him add--'When I was over in the middle o' harvest last, ye remember that, in your presence, I put the question fairly to her; and, although she hung down her head and said nothing, yet that, sir, in my opinion, is just the way a virtuous woman ought to consent. I conceive that it shewed true affection, and sterling modesty; and, sir, what I am now thinking is this--Catherine is very little short of one-and-twenty, and I, not so young as I have been, am every day drawing nearer to my sere and yellow leaf; and I conceive it would be great foolishness--ye will think so yourself--to be putting off time.' 'My worthy friend,' said Sir William, 'you are aware that the union you speak of is one from which my consent has never been withheld; and I am conscious that, in complying with your wishes, I shall bestow my daughter's hand upon one whose heart is as worthy of her affections as his actions and principles are of her esteem.' Sir Peter gave a skip (if I may call a stride of eight feet by such a name) across the room, he threw the pipe in the grate, and, seizing the hand of Sir William, exclaimed-- 'Oh, joy supreme! oh, bliss beyond compare! My cup runs owre--Heaven's bounty can nae mair!' 'Excuse the quotation from a profane author,' he added, 'upon such a solemn occasion; but he expresses exactly my feelings at this moment; for, oh, could you feel what I feel here!'--And he laid his hand upon his breast. 'Whatever be my faults, whatever my weakness, I am strong in gratitude.' You will despise me for having played the part of a mean listener. Be it so, Lewis--I despise, I hate myself. I heard it proposed that the wedding-day should take place within a month: but the consent of Catherine was not yet obtained. I perceived her enter the apartment; I witnessed her agony when her father communicated to her the proposal of his friend, and his wish that it should be agreed to. Shall I tell it you, my friend, that the agony I perceived on her countenance kindled a glow of joy upon mine? Yes, I rejoiced in it, for it filled my soul with hope, it raised my heart as from the grave. Two days after this, and I wandered forth among the woods, to nourish hope in solitude. Every trace of the recent storm had passed away, the young buds were wooing the sunbeams, and the viewless cuckoo lifted up its voice from afar. All that fell upon the ear, and all that met the eye, contributed to melt the soul to tenderness. My thoughts were of Catherine, and I now thought how I should unbosom before her my whole heart; or, I fancied her by my side, her fair face beaming smiles on mine, her lips whispering music. My spirit became entranced--it was filled with her image. With my arms folded upon my bosom, I was wandering thus unconsciously along a footpath in the wood, when I was aroused by the exclamation-- 'Edward!' It was my Catherine. I started as though a disembodied spirit had met me on my path. Her agitation was not less than mine. I stepped forward--I would have clasped her to my bosom--but resolution forsook me--her presence awed me--I hesitated and faltered-- '_Miss_ Forrester!' I had never called her by any other name; but, as she afterwards told me, the word then went to her heart, and she thought, 'He cares not for me, and I am lost!' Would to Heaven that such had ever remained her thoughts, and your friend would have been less guilty and less wretched than he this day is! I offered her my arm, and we walked onward together; but we spoke not to each other--we could not speak. Each had a thousand things to say, but they were all unutterable. A stifled sigh escaped from her bosom, and mine responded to it. We had approached within a quarter of a mile of her father's house. Still we were both silent. I trembled--I stood suddenly still. 'Catherine!' I exclaimed, and my eyes remained fixed upon the ground--my bosom laboured in agony--I struggled for words, and, at length, added, 'I cannot return to your father's--Catherine, I cannot!' 'Edward!' she cried, 'whither--whither would you go?--you would not leave me thus? What means this?' 'Means! Catherine!' returned I--'are ye not to be another's? Would that I had died before I had looked upon thy face, and my soul was lighted with a fleeting joy, only that the midnight of misery might sit down on it for ever!' 'Oh, speak not thus!' she cried, and her gentle form shook as a blighted leaf in an autumnal breeze; 'speak not language unfit for you to utter or me to hear. Come, _dear_ Edward!' '_Dear_ Edward!' I exclaimed, and my arms fell upon her neck--'that word has recalled me to myself! _Dear_ Edward!--repeat those words again!--let the night-breeze whisper them, and bear them on its wings for ever! Tell me, Catherine, am I indeed _dear_ to you?' She burst into tears, and hid her face upon my bosom. 'Edward!' she sobbed, 'let us leave this place--I have said too much--let us return home.' 'No, loved one!' resumed I; 'if you have said too much, we part now, and eternity may not unite us! Farewell, Catherine!--be happy! Bear my thanks to your father, and say--but, no, no!--say nothing,--let not the wretch he has honoured with his friendship blast his declining years! Farewell, love!' I pressed my lips upon her snowy brow, and again I cried--'Farewell!' 'You must not--shall not leave me!' she said, and trembled; while her fair hands grasped my arm. 'Catherine,' added I, 'can I see you another's? The thought chokes me! Would you have me behold it?--shall my eyes be withered by the sight? Never, never! Forgive me!--Catherine, forgive me! I have acted rashly, perhaps cruelly; but I would not have spoken as I have done--I would have fled from your presence--I would not have given one pang to your gentle bosom--your father should not have said that he sheltered a scorpion that turned and stung him; but, meeting you as I have done to-day, I could no longer suppress the tumultuous feelings that struggled in my bosom. But it is past. Forgive me--forget me!' Still memory hears her sighs, as her tears fell upon my bosom, and, wringing her hands in bitterness, she cried-- 'Say not, _forget_ you! If, in compliance with my father's will, I must give my hand to another, and if to him my vows must be plighted, I will keep them sacred--yet my heart is yours!' Lewis! I was delirious with joy, as I listened to this confession from her lips. The ecstasy of years was compressed into a moment of deep, speechless, almost painful luxury. We mingled our tears together, and our vows went up to heaven a sacrifice pure as the first that ascended, when the young earth offered up its incense from paradise to the new-born sun. I remained beneath her father's roof until within three days of the time fixed for her becoming the bride of Sir Peter Blakely. Day by day, I beheld my Catherine move to and fro like a walking corpse--pale, speechless, her eyes fixed and lacking their lustre. Even I seemed unnoticed by her. She neither sighed nor wept. A trance had come over her faculties. She made no arrangements for her bridal; and when I at times whispered to her that _she should be mine_! O Lewis! she would then smile--but it was a smile where the light of the soul was not--more dismal, more vacant than the laugh of idiotcy! Think, then, how unlike they were to the rainbows of the soul which I had seen radiate the countenance of my Catherine! Sir Peter Blakely had gone into Roxburghshire, to make preparations for taking home his bride, and her father had joined you in Edinburgh, relative to the affairs of Prince Charles, in consequence of a letter which he had received from you, and the contents of which might not even be communicated to me. At any other time, and this lack of confidence would have provoked my resentment; but my thoughts were then of other things, and I heeded it not. Catherine and I were ever together; and for hour succeeding hour we sat silent, gazing on each other. O my friend! could your imagination conjure up our feelings and our thoughts in this hour of trial, you would start, shudder, and think no more. The glance of each was as a pestilence, consuming the other. As the period of her father's return approached, a thousand resolutions crowded within my bosom--some of magnanimity, some of rashness. But I was a coward--morally, I was a coward. Though I feared not the drawn sword nor the field of danger more than another man, yet misery compels me to confess what I was. Every hour, every moment, the sacrifice of parting from her became more painful. Oh! a mother might have torn her infant from her breast, dashed it on the earth, trampled on its outstretched hands, and laughed at its dying screams, rather than that I now could have lived to behold my Catherine another's. Suddenly, the long, the melancholy charm of my silence broke. I fell upon my knee, and, clenching my hands together, exclaimed-- 'Gracious Heaven!--if I be within the pale of thy mercy, spare me this sight! Let me be crushed as an atom--but let not mine eyes see the day when a tongue speaks it, nor mine ears hear the sound that calls her another's.' I started to my feet, I grasped her hands in frenzy, I exclaimed--'You _shall_ be mine!' I took her hand. 'Catherine!' I added, 'you will not--you SHALL not give your hand to another! It is mine, and from mine it shall not part! And I pressed it to my breast as a mother would her child from the knife of a destroyer. 'It SHALL be yours!' she replied wildly; and the feeling of life and consciousness again gushed through her heart. But she sank on my breast, and sobbed-- 'My father! O my father!' 'Your father is Sir Peter Blakely's friend,' replied I, 'and he will not break the pledge he has given him. With his return, Catherine, my hopes and life perish together. Now only can you save yourself--now only can you save me. Fly with me!--be mine, and your father's blessing will not be withheld. Hesitate now, and farewell happiness.' She hastily raised her head from my breast, she stood proudly before me, and, casting her bright blue eyes upon mine, with a look of piercing inquiry, said-- 'Edward! what would you have me to do? Deep as my love for you is--and I blush not to confess it--would you have me to fly with you accompanied by the tears of blighted reputation--followed by the groans and lamentations of a heart-broken father--pointed at by the finger of the world as an outcast of human frailty? Would you have me to break the last cord that binds to existence the only being to whom I am related on earth--for whom have I but my father? My _hand_ I shall _never_ give to another; but I cannot, I will not leave my father's house. If Catherine Forrester has gained your _love_, she shall not forfeit your _esteem_. I may droop in secret, Edward, as a bud broken on its stem, but I will not be trampled on in public as a worthless weed.' 'Nay, my beloved, mistake me not,' returned I--'when the lamb has changed natures with the wolf, then, but not till then, could I breathe a thought, a word in your presence, that I would blush to utter at the gate of Heaven. Within two days, your father and his intended son-in-law will return, and the father's threats and tears will subdue the daughter's purpose. Catherine will be a wife!--Edward a---- 'Speak not impiously,' she cried, imploringly--'what--what can we do?' 'The present moment only is left us,' replied I. 'To-night, become the wife of Edward Fleming, and happiness will be ours.' Her pulse stood still; the blood rushed into her face and back to her heart, while her bosom heaved, and her cheeks glowed with the agony of incertitude, as she resolved and re-resolved. But wherefore should I tire you with a recital of what you already know. That night, my Catherine became my wife. For a few months her father disowned us; but when the fortunes of the Prince began to ripen, through his instrumentality we were again received into his favour. Yet I was grieved to hear, that, in consequence of our marriage, Sir Peter Blakely's mind had become affected; for, while I detested him as a rival, I was compelled to esteem him as a man. But now, Lewis, comes the misery of my story. You are aware that, before I saw my Catherine, I was a ruined man. Youthful indiscretions--but why call them indiscretions?--rather let me say my headlong sins--before I had well attained the age of manhood, contributed to undermine my estate, and the unhappy political contest in which we were engaged had wrecked it still more. I had ventured all that my follies had left me upon the fortunes of Prince Charles. You know that I bought arms, I kept men ready for the field, I made voyages to France, I assisted others in their distress; and, in doing all this, I anticipated nothing less than an earldom, when the Stuarts should again sit on the throne of their fathers. You had more sagacity, more of this world's wisdom; and you told me I was wrong--that I was involving myself in a labyrinth from which I might never escape. But I thought myself wiser than you. I knew the loyalty and the integrity of my own actions, and with me, at all times, to feel was to act. I had dragged ruin around me, indulging in a vague dream of hope; and now I had obtained the hand of my Catherine, and I had not the courage to inform her that she had wed that of a ruined man. It was when you and I were at the University together, that the spirit of gambling threw its deceitful net around me, and my estate was sunk to half its value ere I was of age to enjoy it; the other half I had wrecked in idle schemes for the restoration of the Stuarts. When, therefore, a few weeks after our marriage, I removed with my Catherine to London, I was a beggar, a bankrupt, living in fashionable misery. I became a universal borrower, making new creditors to pacify the clamours of the old, and to hide from my wife the wretchedness of which I had made her a partner. And, O Lewis! the thought that she should discover our poverty, was to me a perpetual agony. It came over the fondest throbbings of my soul like the echo of a funeral bell, for ever pealing its sepulchral boom through the music of bridal joy. I cared not for suffering as it might affect myself; but I could not behold her suffer, and suffer for my sake. I heard words of tenderness fall from her tongue, in accents sweeter than the melody of the lark's evening song, as it chirming descends to fold its wings for the night by the side of its anxious mate. I beheld her smiling to beguile my care, and fondly watching every expression of my countenance, as a mother watches over her sick child; and the half-concealed tear following the smile when her efforts proved unavailing; and my heart smote me that she should weep for me, while her tears, her smiles, and her tenderness, added to my anguish, and I was unable to say in my heart, 'Be comforted.' It could not be affection which made me desirous of concealing our situation from her, but a weakness which makes us unwilling to appear before each other as we really are. For twelve months I concealed, or thought that I had concealed, the bankruptcy which overwhelmed me as a helmless vessel on a tempestuous sea. But the Prince landed in Scotland, and the war began. I was employed in preparing the way for him in England, and, for a season, wild hopes, that made my brain giddy, rendered me forgetful of the misery that had hung over and haunted me. But the brilliant and desperate game was soon over; our cause was lost, and with it my hopes perished; remorse entered my breast, and I trembled in the grasp of ruin. Sir William Forrester effected his escape to France, but his estates were confiscated, and my Catherine was robbed of the inheritance that would have descended to her. With this came another pang, more bitter than the loss of her father's fortune; for he, now a fugitive in a strange land, and unconscious of my condition, had a right to expect assistance from me. The thought dried up my very heart's blood, and made it burn within me--and I fancied I heard my Catherine soliciting me to extend the means of life to her father, which I was no longer able to bestow upon herself: for, with the ruin of our cause, my schemes of borrowing, and of allaying the clamour of creditors, perished. But it is said that evils come not singly--nor did they so with me; they came as a legion, each more cruel than that which preceded it. Within three weeks after the confiscation of the estates of Sir William Forrester, the individual who held the mortgage upon mine died, and his property passed into the hands--of whom?--heaven and earth! Lewis, I can hardly write it. His property, including the mortgage on my estate, passed into the hands of--Sir Peter Blakely! I could have died a thousand deaths rather than have listened to the tidings. My estate was sunk beyond its value, and now I was at the mercy of the man I had injured--of him I hated. I could not doubt but that, now that I was in his power, he would wring from me his 'pound o' flesh' to the last grain--and he has done it!--the monster has done it! But to proceed with my history. My Catherine was now a mother, and longer to conceal from her the wretchedness that surrounded us, and was now ready to overwhelm us, was impossible; yet I lacked the courage, the manliness to acquaint her with it, or prepare her for the coming storm. But she had penetrated my soul--she had read our condition; and, while I sat by her side buried in gloom, and my soul groaning in agony, she took my hand in hers, and said-- 'Come, dear Edward, conceal nothing from me. If I cannot remove your sorrows, let me share them. I have borne much, but, for you, I can bear more.' 'What mean ye, Catherine?' I inquired, in a tone of petulance. 'My dear husband,' replied she, with her wonted affection, 'think not I am ignorant of the sorrow that preys upon your heart. But brood not on poverty as an affliction. You may regain affluence, or you may not; it can neither add to nor diminish my happiness but as it affects you. Only smile upon me, and I will welcome penury. Why think of degradation or of suffering? Nothing is degrading that is virtuous and honest; and where honesty and virtue are, there alone is true nobility, though their owner be a hewer of wood. Believe not that poverty is the foe of affection. The assertion is the oft-repeated, but idle falsehood of those who never loved. I have seen mutual love, joined with content, within the clay walls of humble cotters, rendering their scanty and coarse morsel sweeter than the savoury dainties of the rich; and affection increased, and esteem rose, from the knowledge that they endured privation together, and for each other. No, Edward,' she added, hiding her face upon my shoulder, 'think not of suffering. We are young, the world is wide, and Heaven is bountiful. Leave riches to those who envy them, and affection will render the morsel of our industry delicious.' My first impulse was to press her to my bosom; but pride and shame mastered me, and, with a troubled voice, I exclaimed--'Catherine!' 'O Edward!' she continued, and her tears burst forth, 'let us study to understand each other--if I am worthy of being your wife, I am worthy of your confidence.' I could not reply. I was dumb in admiration, in reverence of virtue and affection of which I felt myself unworthy. A load seemed to fall from my heart, I pressed her lips to mine. 'Cannot Edward be as happy as his Catherine,' she continued; 'we have, at least, enough for the present, and, with frugality, we have enough for years. Come, love, wherefore will you be unhappy? Be you our purser.' And, endeavouring to smile, she gently placed her purse in my hands. 'Good Heavens!' I exclaimed, striking my forehead, and the purse dropped upon the floor; 'am I reduced to this? Never, Catherine!--never! Let me perish in my penury; but crush me not beneath the weight of my own meanness! Death!--what must you think of me?' 'Think of you?' she replied, with a smile, in which affection, playfulness, and sorrow met--'I did not think that you would refuse to be your poor wife's banker.' 'Ah, Catherine!' cried I, 'would that I had half your virtue--half your generosity.' 'The half?' she answered laughingly--'have you not the whole? Did I not give you hand and heart--faults and virtues?--and you, cruel man, have lost the half already! Ungenerous Edward!' 'Oh!' exclaimed I, 'may Heaven render me worthy of such a wife!' 'Come, then,' returned she, 'smile upon your Catherine--_it is all over now_.' 'What is all over, love?' inquired I. 'Oh, nothing, nothing,' continued she, smiling--'merely the difficulty a young husband has in making his wife acquainted with the state of the firm in which she has become a partner.' 'And,' added I, bitterly, 'you find it bankrupt.' 'Nay, nay,' rejoined she, cheerfully, 'not bankrupt; rather say, beginning the world with a small capital. Come, now, dearest, smile, and say you will be cashier to the firm of Fleming & Co.' 'Catherine!--O Catherine!' I exclaimed, and tears filled my eyes. 'Edward!--O Edward!' returned she, laughing, and mimicking my emotion; 'good by, dear--good by!' And, picking up the purse, she dropped it on my knee, and tripped out of the room, adding gaily-- 'For still the house affairs would call her hence.' Fondly as I imagined that I loved Catherine, I had never felt its intensity until now, nor been aware of how deeply she deserved my affection. My indiscretions and misfortunes had taught me the use of money--they had made me to know that it was an indispensable agent in our dealings with the world; but they had not taught me economy. And I do not believe that a course of misery, continued and increasing throughout life, would ever teach this useful and prudent lesson to one of a warm-hearted and sanguine temperament; nor would any power on earth, or in years, enable him to put it in practice, save the daily and endearing example of an affectionate and virtuous wife. I do not mean the influence which all women possess during the oftentimes morbid admiration of what is called a honeymoon; but the deeper and holier power which grows with years, and departs not with grey hairs--in our boyish fancies being embodied, and our young feelings being made tangible, in the never-changing smile of her who was the sun of our early hopes, the spirit of our dreams--and who, now, as the partner of our fate, ever smiles on us, and, by a thousand attentions, a thousand kindnesses and acts of love, becomes every day dearer and more dear to the heart where it is her only ambition to reign and sit secure in her sovereignty--while her chains are soft as her own bosom, and she spreads her virtues around us, till they become a part of our own being, like an angel stretching his wings over innocence. Such is the power and influence of every woman who is as studious to reform and delight the husband as to secure the lover. Such was the influence which, I believed, I now felt over my spirit, and which would save me from future folly and from utter ruin. But I was wrong, I was deceived--yes, most wickedly I was deceived. But you shall hear. On examining the purse, I found that it contained between four and five hundred pounds in gold and bills. 'This,' thought I, 'is the wedding present of her father to my poor Catherine, and she has kept it until now! Bless her! Heaven bless her.' I wandered to and fro across the room, in admiration of her excellence, and my bosom was troubled with a painful sense of my own unworthiness. I had often, when my heart was full, attempted to soothe its feelings by pouring them forth in rhyme. There were writing materials upon the table before me. I sat down--I could think of nothing but my Catherine, and I wrote the following verses TO MY WIFE. Call woman--angel, goddess, what you will-- With all that fancy breathes at passion's call, With all that rapture fondly raves--and still That one word--WIFE--outvies--contains them all. It is a word of music which can fill The soul with melody, when sorrows fall Round us, like darkness, and her heart alone Is all that fate has left to call our own. Her bosom is a fount of love that swells, Widens, and deepens with its own outpouring, And, as a desert stream, for ever wells Around her husband's heart, when cares devouring, Dry up its very blood, and man rebels Against his being!--When despair is lowering, And ills sweep round him, like an angry river, She is his star, his rock of hope for ever. Yes; woman only knows what 'tis to mourn She only feels how slow the moments glide Ere those her young heart loved in joy return And breathe affection, smiling by her side. Hers only are the tears that waste and burn-- The anxious watchings, and affection's tide That never, never ebbs!--hers are the cares No ear hath heard, and which no bosom shares Cares, like her spirit, delicate as light Trembling at early dawn from morning stars, Cares, all unknown to feeling and to sight Of rougher man, whose stormy bosom wars With each fierce passion in its fiery might; Nor deems how look unkind, or absence, jars Affection's silver cords by woman wove, Whose soul, whose business, and whose life is--LOVE. I left the verses upon the table, that she might find them when she entered, and that they might whisper to her that I at least appreciated her excellence, however little I might have merited it. Lewis, even in my solitary cell, I feel the blush upon my cheek, when I think upon the next part of my history. My hand trembles to write it, and I cannot now. Methinks that even the cold rocks that surround me laugh at me derision, and I feel myself the vilest of human things. But I cannot describe it to-day--I have gone too far already, and I find that my brain burns. I have conjured up the past, and I would hide myself from its remembrance. Another day, when my brain is cool, when my hand trembles not, I may tell you all; but, in the shame of my own debasement, my reason is shaken from its throne. Here ended the first part of the Hermit's manuscript; and on another, which ran thus, he had written the words-- "MY HISTORY CONTINUED." I told you, Lewis, where I last broke off my history, that I left the verses on the table for the eye of my Catherine. I doubted not that I would devise some plan of matchless wisdom, and that, with the money so unexpectedly come into my possession, I would redeem my broken fortunes. I went out into the streets, taking the purse with me, scarce knowing what I did, but musing on what to do. I met one who had been a fellow-gambler with me, when at the University. 'Ha! Fleming!' he exclaimed, 'is such a man alive! I expected that you and your Prince would have crossed the water together, or that you would have exhibited at Carlisle or Tower Hill.' He spoke of the run of good fortune he had had on the previous night--(for he was a gambler still.) 'Five thousand!' said he, rubbing his hands, 'were mine within five minutes.' 'Five thousand!' I repeated. I took my Catherine's purse in my hand. Lewis! some demon entered my soul, and extinguished reason. 'Five thousand!' I repeated again; 'it would rescue my Catherine and my child from penury.' I thought of the joy I should feel in placing the money and her purse again in her hands. I accompanied him to the table of destruction. For a time fortune, that it might mock my misery, and not dash the cup from my lips until they were parched, seemed to smile on me. But I will not dwell on particulars; my friend 'laughed to see the madness rise' within me. I became desperate--nay, I was insane--and all that my wife had put into my hands, to the last coin, was lost. Never, until that moment, did I experience how terrible was the torture of self-reproach, or how fathomless the abyss of human wretchedness. I would have raised my hand against my own life; but, vile and contemptible as I was, I had not enough of the coward within me to accomplish the act. I thought of my mother. She had long disowned me, partly from my follies, and partly that she adhered to the house of Hanover. But, though I had squandered the estates which my father had left me, I knew that she was still rich, and that she intended to bestow her wealth upon my sister; for there were but two of us. Yet I remembered how fondly she had loved me, and I did not think that there was a feeling in a mother's breast that could spurn from her a penitent son--for nature, at the slightest spark, bursteth into a flame. I resolved, therefore, to go as the prodigal in the Scriptures, and to throw myself at her feet, and confess that I had sinned against Heaven, and in her sight. I wrote a note to my injured Catherine, stating that I was suddenly called away, and that I would not see her again perhaps for some weeks. Almost without a coin in my pocket, I took my journey from London to Cumberland, where my mother dwelt. Night was gathering around me when I left London, on the road leading to St. Alban's. But I will not go through the stages of my tedious journey; it is sufficient to say, that I allowed myself but little time for sleep or rest, and, on the eighth day after my leaving London, I found myself, after an absence of eighteen years, again upon the grounds of my ancestors. Foot-sore, fatigued, and broken down, my appearance bespoke way-worn dejection. I rather halted than walked along, turning my face aside from every passenger, and blushing at the thought of recognition. It was mid-day when I reached an eminence, covered with elm trees, and skirted by a hedge of hawthorn. It commanded a view of what was called the Priory, the house in which I was born, and which was situated within a mile from where I stood. The village church, surrounded by a clump of dreary yews, lay immediately at the foot of the hill to my right, and the road leading from thence to the Priory crossed before me. It was a raw and dismal day; the birds sat shivering on the leafless branches, and the cold, black clouds, seemed wedged together in a solid mass, ready to fall upon the earth and crush it; and the wind moaned over the bare fields. Yet, disconsolate as the scene appeared, it was the soil of childhood on which I trod. The fields, the woods, the river, the mountains, the home of infancy, were before me; and I felt their remembered sunshine rekindling in my bosom the feelings that make a patriot. A thousand recollections flashed before me. Already did fancy hear the congratulations of my mother's voice, welcoming her prodigal--feel the warm pressure of her hand, and her joyous tears falling on my cheek. But again I hesitated, and feared that I might be received as an outcast. The wind howled around me--I felt impatient and benumbed--and, as I stood irresolute, with a moaning chime the church bell knelled upon my ear. A trembling and foreboding fell upon my heart; and, before the first echo of the dull sound died in the distance, a muffled peal from the tower of the Priory answered back the invitation of the house of death, announcing that the earth would receive its sacrifice. A veil came over my eyes, the ground swam beneath my feet; and again and again did the church bell issue forth its slow, funeral tone, and again was it answered from the Priory. Emerging from the thick elms that spread around the Priory and stretched to the gate, appeared a long and melancholy cavalcade. My eyes became dim with a presentiment of dread, and they were strained to torture. Slowly and silently the sable retinue approached. The waving plumes of the hearse became visible. Every joint in my body trembled with agony, as though agony had become a thing of life. I turned aside to watch it as it passed, and concealed myself behind the hedge. The measured and grating sound of the carriages, the cautious trampling of the horses' feet, and the solemn pace of the poorer followers, became more and more audible on my ear. The air of heaven felt substantial in my throat, and the breathing I endeavoured to suppress became audible, while the cold sweat dropt as icicles from my brow. Sadly, with faces of grief, unlike the expression of hired sorrow, passed the solitary mutes; and, in the countenance of each, I recognised one of our tenantry. Onward moved the hearse and its dismal pageantry. My heart fell, as with a blow, within my bosom. For a moment I would have fancied it a dream; but the train of carriages passed on, their grating roused me from my insensibility, and, rushing from the hedge towards one who for forty years had been a servant in our house-- 'Robert!--Robert!' I exclaimed, 'whose funeral is this?' 'Alack! Master Edward!' he cried, 'is it you? It is the funeral of my good lady--your mother!' The earth swam round with me--the funeral procession, with a sailing motion, seemed to circle me--and I fell with my face upon the ground. Dejected, way-worn as I was, I accompanied the body of my mother to its last resting-place. I wept over her grave, and returned with the chief mourners to the house of my birth; and there I was all but denied admission. I heard the will read, and in it my name was not once mentioned. I rushed from the house--I knew not, and I cared not where I ran--misery was before, behind, and around me. I thought of my Catherine and my child, and groaned with the tortures of a lost spirit. But, as I best could, I returned to London, to fling myself at the feet of my wife, to confess my sins and my follies, to beg her forgiveness, yea, to labour for her with my hands. I approached my own door as a criminal. I shrank from the very gaze of the servant that ushered me in, and I imagined that he looked on me with contempt. But now, Lewis, I come to the last act of my drama, and my hand trembles that it cannot write--my soul is convulsed within me. I thought my Catherine pure, sinless as a spirit of heaven--you thought so--all who beheld her must have thought as I did. But, oh! friend of my youth! mark what follows. I reached her chamber. I entered it--silently I entered it, as one who has guilt following his footsteps. And there, the first object that met my sight--that blasted it--was the man I hated, my former rival, he who held my fortunes in his hand--Sir Peter Blakely! My wife, my Catherine, my spotless Catherine, held him by the arm. O heaven! I heard him say--'_Dear Catherine!_' and she answered him, 'Stay!--stay, my best, my only friend--do not leave me!' Lewis! I could see, I could hear no more. 'Wretch!--villain!' I exclaimed. They started at my voice. My sword, that had done service in other lands, I still carried with me. 'Draw! miscreant!' I cried, almost unconscious of what I said or what I did. He spoke to me, but I heard him not. I sprang upon him, and plunged my sword in his body. My wife rushed towards me. She screamed. I heard the words--'Dear Edward!' but I dashed her from me as an unclean thing, and fled from the house. Every tie that had bound me to existence was severed asunder. Catherine had snapped in twain the last cord that linked me with happiness. I sought the solitude of the wilderness, and there shouted her name, and now blessed her, and again----but I will go no farther. I long wandered a fugitive throughout the land, and, at length perceiving an apartment in a rock, the base of which Tweed washes with its waters, in it I resolved to bury myself from the world. In it I still am, and mankind fear me. Here abruptly ended the manuscript of the Solitary. A few years after the manuscript had been found, a party, consisting of three gentlemen, a lady, and two children, came to visit the King's Cove, and to them the individual who had found the papers related the story of the hermit. "But your manuscript is imperfect," said one of them, "and I shall supply its deficiency. The Solitary mentions having found Sir Peter Blakely in the presence of his wife, and he speaks of words that passed between them. But you shall hear all:--" The wife of Edward Fleming was sitting weeping for his absence, when Sir Peter Blakely was announced. He shook as he entered. She started as she beheld him. She bent her head to conceal her tears, and sorrowfully extended her hand to welcome him. 'Catherine,' said he--and he paused, as though he would have called her by the name of her husband--'I have come to speak with you respecting your father's estate. I was brought up upon it; and there is not a tree, a bush, or a brae within miles, but to me has a tale of happiness and langsyne printed upon it, in the heart's own alphabet. But now the charm that gave music to their whispers is changed. Forgive me, Catherine, but it was you that, as the spirit of the scene, converted everything into a paradise where ye trod, that made it dear to me. It was the hope, the prayer, and the joy of many years, that I should call you mine--it was this that made the breath of Heaven sweet, and caused sleep to fall upon my eyelids as honey on the lips. But the thought has perished. I was wrong to think that the primrose would flourish on the harvest-field. But, Catherine, your father was my guardian--I was deeply in his debt, for he was to me as a father, and for his sake, and your sake, I have redeemed his property, and it shall be--it is yours.' Lost in wonder, Catherine was for a few moments silent; but she at length said-- 'Generous man, it must not--it shall not be. Bury me not--crush me not beneath a weight of generosity which from you I have been the last to deserve. I could not love, but I have ever esteemed you. I still do. But let not your feelings hurry you into an act of rashness. Time will heal, if it do not efface the wounds which now bleed; and you may still find a heart more worthy of your own, with whom to share the fortune of which you would deprive yourself.' 'Never! never!' cried he; 'little do you understand me. Your image and yours only was stamped where the pulse of life throbs in my heart. The dream that I once cherished is dead now--my grey hairs have awoke me from it. But I shall still be your friend--yea, I will be your husband's friend; and, in memory of the past, your children shall be as my children. Your husband's property is encumbered--throw these in the fire and it is again his.' And, as he spoke, he placed the deeds of the mortgage on a table before her. 'Hear me, noblest and best of friends!' cried Catherine--'hear me as in the presence of our Great Judge. Think not that I feel the less grateful for your generosity, that I solemnly refuse your offers, and adjure you to mention them not in my presence. As the wife of Edward Fleming, I will not accept what he would spurn. Rather would I toil with the sweat of my brow for the bare crust that furnished us with a scanty meal; and if I thought that, rather than share it with me, he would sigh after the luxuries he has lost, I would say unto him--'Go, you are free!' and, hiding myself from the world, weary Heaven with prayers for his prosperity.' 'Ye talk in vain--as I have said, so it is and shall be,' added he. 'And now, farewell, dear Catherine.' 'Stay! stay!--leave me not thus!' she exclaimed, and grasped his arm. At that moment her husband returned and entered the room--and you know the rest. But, Sir Peter Blakely was not mortally wounded, as the Solitary believed. In a few months he recovered, and what he had promised to do he accomplished. "That is something new," said the fisherman who had found the manuscript; "and who told ye, or how do ye know?--if it be a fair question." "I," replied he who had spoken, "am the Lewis to whom the paper was addressed." "You! you!" exclaimed the fisherman; "well, that beats a'--the like o' that I never heard before." "And I," said another, "am Sir Peter Blakely--the grey-haired dreamer--who expected the April lily to bloom beneath an October sun." And he put a crown into the hand of the fisherman. "And I," added the third, "am the Solitary himself--this my Catherine, and these my children. He whom I thought dead--dead by my own hand--the man whom I had wronged--sought for me for years, and in this my hermitage that was, he at length found me. It was the grey dawn when I beheld him, and I thought that the ghost of the murdered stood before me. But he spoke--he uttered words that entered my soul. I trembled in his presence. The load of my guiltiness fell as a weight upon me. I was unable to speak, almost to move. He took my hand and led me forth as a child. In my confusion the papers which you found were left behind me. And now, when happiness has shed its light around me, I have come with my benefactor, my friend, my Catherine, and my children, to view the cell of my penitence." THE MAIDEN FEAST OF CAIRNKIBBIE. He who has been present at a real Maiden, or Scotch feast of harvest-home, if it should happen that he belongs to the caste that makes the light fantastic toe the fulcrum of the elegant motions of the quadrille, and Hogarth's line of beauty the test of the evolutions of modern grace, might wish that the three sisters had long ago resigned their patronage of the art of dancing, and left the limbs of man, and their motions, to the sole power of the spirit of fun and good humour. Centuries have passed away since first the Maiden called forth the salient energies of the harvest-weary hinds and rosy-cheeked damsels of Scotland. We have only now amongst us the ghost of the old spirit-stirring genius of "the farmer's ha'." The modern vintage feast is only a shadow of the old _Cerealia_--the festival of festivals, as it has been called--at which the young and the old of ancient Greece and Rome resigned themselves to the power of the rosy god, and the _nil placet sine fructu_ was seen in every bright eye, heard in every glad voice, and listened to in every tripping measure. The Scotch Maiden was once what the vintage feasts of the Continent were, and still are. The hinds and maids of one "town" were present at the harvest-home of another; reciprocal visits kept up the spirit of the enjoyment; the fields and farmers' ha's resounded with the merry pipe; the whirling reel mixed up the dancers in its "uniform confusion," the flowing bicker was "filled and kept fou;" kisses, "long and loud," vindicated a place in the world of musical sound; and the Genius of Pleasure ran away with heart and soul to her happy regions--declaring that, for one solitary night in the year, the power of sorrow should have no authority over mournful man. The Maiden of Cairnkibbie, a farm on the property of Faulden--too long ago for the mention of a specific period, but while Maidens (to descend to a pun) were still in the height of their beauty and bloom--was one of the most joyous scenes that ever graced the green, or made the rafters of the barn ring with "hey and how rohumbelow." The farmer, William Hume--some far-off friend of the Paxton family--was rich, as things went in those days; and a gaucy dame, and a fair daughter, Lilly, blessed him with affection and duty. No lass ever graced a Maiden like Lilly Hume; and no free farmer's wife ever extended so hearty a patronage to the feast of fun as did the sleek and comfortable guidwife of Cairnkibbie. The pretty "damysell" was as jimp as "gillie"-- "As ony rose her rude was red, Her lire was like the lillie." and far and near she defied all manner of bold competition in those charms that go to deck the blooming maids of Scotland. Natural affection made her the pride of her parents; and a simplicity that did not seem to have art enough to tell her of her own beauty, endeared her to those who might have been expected to have been smitten with envy, or crossed with a hopeless passion. There was many a lass "as myld as meid" at the Maiden of Cairnkibbie, and many a Jock, and Steenie, and Robyne, as braw as yellow locks brushed bolt upright in the face of heaven could make any of God's creatures. But many of the merry-makers did not trust to such ornaments of nature: for Steenie Thornton, from the town of Kelton, the gay lover of Jess Swan from the same town, had his locks tied behind with a yellow ribbon got from her fair hand, and his "pumps" boasted the same decoration; the sprightly Will Aitken, the best hand at a morris-dance in all the Merse, had his jacket "browden" with "fowth o' roses" stuck into the button-holes by Jean Gillies from Westertown; the fiercest wrestler of the Borders, Jock Hedderick, who cherished Bess Gibson, pushed forward his bold breast, to exhibit to the goggle eyes of wondering admiration a vest sewed by her delicate fingers at intervals stolen from cheese-making; and Pat Birrel, the noted scaumer, who was accounted more than "twa hen clokkis" by Kirsty Glen the henwife's daughter of Earlston, lifted his feet high in mid-air, to shew the gushets in his hose wrought by her lily hands. Nor did the screechin gilpies lack ornaments to set off their fair persons. Some had bright yellow gloves of "raffal right;" and many, with kirtles of "Lincome light, weel prest wi' mony plaits," pulled the trains in most menacing bundles through the pocket-holes, to shew at once how bright were their colours, and how many a "breid" was wasted in their amplitude. Many had ornaments that tongue could not describe--because they were the first of their kind, and required a new vocabulary to do justice to their beauties. But, ornamented or plain, the revellers were all alike filled with the spirit of the Maiden; and, if their "Tam Lutar," the piper, did not skirl them up to the point of enjoyment to which they all struggled, and danced, and drank, and screamed to get, sure it was that no fault was attributable to the merry-makers themselves: nor was the guidman's daughter, Lilly Hume, less joyous than the merriest. Although at her father's harvest-feast she was accounted a lady, she was the humblest of the "hail menyie;" and never refused to draw up through her pocket-holes the ends of her falling yellow kirtle, as a preparation for another reel, at the supplicatory bend or bow of the humblest hind, albeit he was adorned with neither bright crimson nor ochre yellow. The "Tam Lutar" of the feast--a blind piper, who began to play when he first felt the incipient effects of the first bicker, blew stronger as the fumes of the potations rose higher, declined as the liquid impulse fell, and even stopped when the drink entirely sunk--was well supplied with the "piper's coig," a girded vessel of jolly good ale, that lay beside him, and was ever and anon filled, as the dancers felt the music beginning to lag in spirit. Away they flew, to the airs of "Gillquhisker," "Brum on tul," "Tortee Solee Lemendow," and other good old tunes, now forgotten, though their names are mentioned by Sir James Ingles; the resilent heels spurned the earth; the fore part of the foot, where the spring lies, dealt out those tremendous thuds on the suffering floor which heretofore were reckoned the true and legitimate soul of dancing, and now, alas! displaced by the sickly _slip_ of the French grace; the "dancing whoop" rung around, inspired every soul, and lightened every heel; Jock Splaefut "bobbit up wi' bends;" and Jenny set to him, and "beckit," and set again, and turned, and away glided through the mazes of the reel-- "For reeling there micht nae wench rest;" and came back, and set and "beckit" again; till, "forfochtin faynt" with pure dancing toil, the reelers gave place to the country dancers, who toiled and _swat_ in the same degree for the period of their sweet labours. Then was the breathing time in the far corners appropriated to the cooling tankard, the dew of which left on the panting lips ran a considerable risk of being dried up by the heat of love, elicited from the kiss that smacked of love and ale. At a corner in the end of the room, a crowd had collected; and some high words were passing between Will Aitken and Jock Hedderick, on a question that seemed to interest the dancers. Those standing about were washing down large mouthfuls of bannocks by draughts of strong beer, while they wiped the sweat from their brows, and listened to the subject in dispute. At intervals some one was heard at the door, playing and singing. "He played sae schill, an' sang sae sweet," that Lilly Hume felt interested in the musician. He was a beggar, who boldly claimed admittance to the Maiden, by what he called the "auld rights o' the gaberlunzies of Scotland," who were declared entitled to enter into the feast of the harvest home, to dance thereat, and drink thereat, and kiss the "damysells" thereat, with as much freedom as the gayest guest. This demand was resisted by Jock Hedderick, who besides disputed the authority of the ancient custom; which, on the other hand, was upheld by Will Aitken, whose supple tongue was so powerful over his opponents that "He muddelt them down like ony mice;" and, notwithstanding the terror of the scaumer's arm, prevailed upon the guidman and the company to hold sacred the rights of hospitality of the land, and admit the "pauky auld carle," with his pipes and his wallets. As soon as the decision was given, Lilly ran to the door, and, taking the gaberlunzie by the hand, brought him in. A loud laugh resounded throughout the room, to the profit of the proud and merry dancers, and at the expense of the jolly beggar, who, young and stalwart, and borne down by sundry appendages, containing doubtless meal and bread, "cauk and keil," "spindles and quhorles," and all the et-ceteras of the wallet, stood before them, and raised in return such a ranting, roaring laugh, as well apparently at himself as his company, that, by that one effort of his lungs, he made more friends than many a laughter-loving pot companion might make in a year. Then in an instant he struck this merry-maker on the back, and slapped that on the shoulder, and kissed the skirling kitties with such a jolly and hearty spirit of free salutation, that he even added flame to the already burning passion of frolic, and raised again the rafter-shaking laugh, till it drowned all the energies of Lutar himself, albeit his coig had that instant been filled. But this was only vanity, while the stomach of the jolly gaberlunzie was as yet empty. A large stoup was brought to him by Will Carr, a good-looking young man of gentle demeanour, the only person who in that pairing assembly seemed to want his "dow." A shade of melancholy was on his cheek, and, as he offered the gaberlunzie the stoup, he cast an eye on Lilly, the meaning of which seemed to be read in an instant by the beggar. "Ha! ha!" cried the latter; "ye are the true welcomer, my braw youth. Thae wild chiels an' their glaiket hizzies wad fill the beggar wi' the sound o' his ain laugh, as if he were a pair o' walking bagpipes. But, ho, man, this is sour yill. The bridegroom brought a pint of ale, And bade the piper drink it. 'Drink it?' quoth he, 'and it so staile; Ashrew me, if I think it!' Ye've anither barrel in the corner yonder--awa!--the beggar maun hae the best. This Maiden nicht it is his right, And, faith he winna blink it." And so he cadgily ranted and sang, swearing that the best ale and the prettiest lips in the whole house should that night be at his command. While Will Carr brought him ale out of another cask, Lilly Hume took away his wallets, and laid them in a window-sole at his back. Having taken a waught of the ale so long that the bystanders looked on with fear, lest he might never recover his breath again, he returned the stoup empty to Will, telling him to fill it again, as he intended to assist the legitimate Lutar in blowing up the spirits of the company--a work which would require "fowth o' yill." Without farther preface, he blew up his bags with a skirl that seemed to shake the house, and, dashing fearlessly into the time, poured so much joyous sound into the thick air of the heated apartment, that the weary-limbed dancers threw off their languor, and fell to it again with a spirit that equalled that of their first off-set. But his musical occupation did not prevent his attention to the looks and actions of Lilly Hume and Will Carr. "How dinna ye dance, hinny?" said he, in a low voice to Lilly. "How dinna ye dance, man?" he repeated, as he turned his head to Will. "Think ye yer sittin there's a compliment to me, wha am blawing awa my lungs here, for the very purpose o' makin ye dance?" The two young people looked at each other, and then at the guidman, who sat at a little distance. "Tell me the reason, my bonny hinny," he added; and, as he blew again, leant his ear to hear the answer. "Eh! come now, my white lily," he persisted. "I'm a safe carle, and can spae fortunes as well as blaw up thae green bags wi' thriftless wind. I may tell ye o' a braw lot, if ye'll only open yer lips and gie me some o' yer secrets." "My faither winna let me dance wi' Will Carr," at last replied Lilly, blushing from ear to ear. "How! how!" answered the gaberlunzie, taking the pipes suddenly frae his mouth--"no let ye dance wi' a decent callant, the bonniest hensure o' the hail menyie! What crime has he committed, hinny? Eh?" "He's puir," answered Lilly, innocently. "Ha! a red crime that, Lilly," answered he; "if he had killed a score o' God's creatures in a Border raid, he micht hae been forgi'en; but wha forgies poverty? But do ye like Will Carr, hinny?" "My faither and mither say sae," answered Lilly. "Ay, ay,--I see whar the wind blaws," said the gaberlunzie. "But ye _will_ dance wi' him. I, as a beggar, hae a richt to the fairest hand o' the maiden--yer faither daurna refuse ye to me; an' let Will tak yon quean wi' the yellow ribbons in her wimple, an' we'll a' mix in ae reel. Will, man, awa an' ask yon bloomin hizzy wi' the rose rude to dance wi' ye." Will obeyed; and the beggar, having brought the tune to a termination, stepped boldly up into the middle of the floor, holding by the hand the fair Lilly Hume; while Will, with his blushing quean, Bess Gordon, took their stations opposite. "Up wi' the 'Hunts o' Cheviot,' Tam," cried the beggar; "an blaw as if ye wad blaw yer last. Gie him yill there, an' I'll play for him a hail hour, if he gars the roof-tree o' Cairnkibbie dirl to the gaberlunzie's dance." The expectation of a merry bout brought others to the floor, and even the guidman and guidwife of Cairnkibbie, themselves, rose and "buckled to the wark," as cleverly as the youngest gipsy of the whole assembly. Then up blew the "Hunts o' Cheviot," in the quickest of Tam's ale-inspired manner, and away banged the jolly gaberlunzie, as if the spirit of Cybele's priests had seized his heart; "and like a lyon lap," as if he would have foreleeted Lightfute himself, and "counterfeited Frans." He clapped his hands, till the echoes came back from the roof; and the exhilarating hoogh! hoogh! which can only be given forth by the throat of a Scotchman, when good liquor has wet it and fired the brain that moves it, was heard by every ear, and felt by every heart. The very piper was delighted with the ranting chield, and ever, as his clap and hoogh! hoogh! resounded through the barn, the yells of the pipes seemed to rise higher and higher, and echoes of the same sounds came from the imitative spirits of the dancers. "Hurra for the gaberlunzie!" shouted Will Aitken. "The jolly beggar, for ever!" cried Steenie Thornton; and the smiles of the hizzies, and occasional slaps on the back, administered to the jolly roisterer, as they met and passed him in the midst of the reel, testified their most perfect satisfaction with the king of his tribe. "Here, Will, here man," whispered the beggar, as he rioted in his wild humour, and twirled Will Carr about to face Lilly, while he left her for Bess Gordon. "Set to her, man, and dinna spare a kiss and a good squeeze o' her hand, as ye see the auld anes' backs to ye." And then he drowned his remark with his hoogh! hoogh! sprung up yard high, and clapped his knees opposite the blooming Bess, who would not have given her jolly new partner for a' the Will Carrs in Scotland. "Change the measure, Tam," cried the beggar, as he foresaw the termination of "The Hunts of Cheviot." "Up wi' 'King William's Note,' man. Fill his coig, ye lazy loons! Noo, Tam!--hoogh! hoogh!--there up yet, higher and higher, man--hoogh, hoogh!" The piper felt the inspiration, up mounted the notes to the highest and liveliest measure, and away again flew the merry dancers under all the impulse of the new tune. The clap on the beggar's knee ever and anon run along, and still he twirled round Will Carr to face Lilly--though not before he had taken her round the fair neck, and kissed her, "nothing loath"--and again presented himself to the welcome face of Bess, whose rosy lips he "prec'd" as often as his many laborious evolutions, hooghs, claps, and cries to the piper would permit. He even made _tacks_ to the side reels, and, laying hold of the damsels of his neighbours, kissed them from lug to lug, and then came back with a roar of laughter behind him, to greet of new Bess Gordon, to whom he seemed more welcome for his gallantry. The guidwife of Cairnkibbie herself was violently laid hold of round the neck and saluted with a loud smack, which, sounding in the ears of the guidman, produced a hearty laugh at the boldness, which was excused by the reckless jollity of the extraordinary gaberlunzie. Nor did he yet allow them to flag. "Keep at it, Will!" he cried to the young man. "Ye'll hae aneuch o' Lilly for ae nicht, or my name's no Wat Wilson. Aneuch o' 'King William's Note,' Tam. Come awa wi' anither--'In Simmer I mawed my meadow,' wi' double quick time. Look to his bicker there, ye culroun knaves, wha'll neither dance, drink, nor mak drink!" The piper heard the appeal, and struck up the new tune with great glee-- "Gude Lord, how he did lans! And again the inspiring strain, coming in a new measure, filled the dancers with new energies. There never had been such a reel since ever reels were danced. Heaven knows how long it had lasted, and yet the performers felt no weariness, all through the inspiring devilry, as they termed it, of the gaberlunzie, whose war-cry was as loud and uproarious as ever, and his leaps in the air as high as they had been at the first off-go. He now played off a new trick. He twirled round the partner of the next reel, and made him take his place before Bess Gordon, while he, ambitious of a new face, took the place of his neighbour, and continued the sport in his new locality and company. Bess regretted her change; but his new position was soon changed, for he played the same trick with the next reeling party, and so on through the whole four--for such was the number up at once; and he continued to "prec the mou's" of every young maiden on the floor, and, returning with many a hoogh, and clap, and leap to his old position, he seemed inclined to keep up the sport till the elder dancers should drop to the ground with sheer fatigue. It seemed to the guidman of Cairnkibbie that there was no remedy but a nod to Piper Tam, who, himself almost blown out, observed with pleasure the master's indication, and stopped the music even in the very midst of the leaping joy of the interminable gaberlunzie, who would have danced apparently till next moon, if he could have got any one strong enough and willing enough to dance with him. He was now a universal favourite; all flocked round him as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead, and declared they had never seen such a spirited dancer before. His name, Wat Wilson, flew through the barn, and every one wondered how they had never seen such a jolly beggar in those parts before. But Wat said nothing of his _unde_, his _ubi_, or his _quo_; he only drank to the crowd around him; and, with Lilly on one side of him, and Will Carr on the other, he seized again his own pipes, and, forcing Tam to his feet, and crying to a new party to start, struck up one of the liveliest airs that the folks of the Merse had ever heard. In an instant again the barn was resounding with mirth; his strains were irresistible. "Then all the wenches te he they playit, And loud as Will Aitken leuche; But nane cried, Gossip, hyn your gaits, For we have dansit aneugh." At least none cried they had danced enough while the beggar played; for the very heels seemed to obey the influence of his spirit, as if they had been gifted with some power of sympathy, independently of the bodies to which they were attached. The dance was kept up till the dancers tired--for the beggar's lungs were as tough as his feet; and when all had, for a time, tired of dancing, they assembled round their guest, who, of his own accord, struck up many a ranting song, and, by his humour, made the laugh resound through the barn. So fond grew they of his song and his jokes, that they felt no inclination, for a time, to resume again the dance. They drank and laughed, and screamed at every new sally of his wit, and every humorous turn of his song; and no one knows how long this scene might have lasted--for the gaberlunzie seemed inexhaustible--when a sound of horses' feet at the door claimed the attention of the revellers, and some one cried out that a party of horsemen were come to demand the body of a thief, who had that day, at Dunse, stolen the silver mace of King James, and was suspected to be at this Maiden, under the assumed dress of a wandering piper. "That is the man," cried a belted knight, as, having dismounted, he trod forward into the middle of the barn, and pointed to the happy gaberlunzie, who had that instant finished his song. "Ye lee," answered the beggar, in an instant, as he stood up, surrounded by his friends. "Ha, sirrah!" answered the stranger, "this boldness will avail thee nothing. I know thee; and these, thy new-made friends, will not save thee from the execution of our orders. There are witnesses against thee, who saw thee steal the silver mace. Forward, ye sooth-saying men!" Two men entered, dressed nearly in the same style as the first, and bearing all the marks and insignia of the grade of Knights. "Is not this the thief?" inquired the first. "It is--we will swear to him. He snatched the mace from the royal mace-bearer, in the streets of Dunse, and made off with it amidst the hue and cry of the populace, whose speed he outran as he would that of the greyhound." "Guid faith," replied the guidman of Cairnkibbie, "if our friend ran as cleverly as he has danced this nicht, a' the greyhounds o' the Merse wadna hae catched him." "Will ye gie me up to the beadles, freends," cried the beggar, "or will ye stand by him wha has sought yer protection, and partaken o' yer hospitality?" "Gie ye up!" ejaculated the spirited old farmer; "in faith, na. If King Jamie war the Cham o' Tartary, or had three kings' heads on his shouthers in place o' ane, we'll defend ye while there's a flail in the barn o' Cairnkibbie." A shout of approbation followed the speech of the old farmer. The maidens, whose chins still smarted from the rub of his jolly beard, flew for flail, and rung, and "hissil ryss," and in an instant every willing hand held a weapon. "We'll defend him to the last drap o' oor bluid," cried Will Carr, as he manfully stood forward, and brandished a huge hazel rung. "And, by my saul," cried the scaumer, Jock Hedderick; "if we fecht as he'll fecht, whether for auld feid or new, noytit pows and broken banes will tell the fortune o' the nicht, lang before the play's played." "Ha, ha! guidmen, and true guidmen, and true!" cried the beggar, undaunted and laughing; "thank ye, my hinny, Lilly, for this green kevel! By the haly rude, come on now, ye silver-necklaced bull-dogs o' royalty:-- 'The beggar was o' manly mak, To meet him was nae mows, There darena ten come him to tak, Sae noyt will he their pows.' Ye should ken that sang, if ye hae lear aneugh in your steel-bound noddles. Come on, ye calroun caitiffs!" "Search his wallet," cried the foremost of the strangers; and six or seven men rushed into the barn, and made direct for the window-sole pointed to by the chief; but Will Swan and Will Carr, with half a dozen more stout hensures, flew forward and anticipated the searchers. "Give me my meal-pocks," cried the gaberlunzie; and, having got hold of his wallet, he slung it over his shoulders, and, to the surprise of every one, took out the mace said to have been stolen, and, holding it in his left hand as a badge of his authority, continued, laughing like a cadger, to gibe the strangers-- "Beggars hae a king as weel as belted bannerets," he cried: "see ye my badge? Ken ye wha ye seek? Heard ye ne'er o' Wat Wilson the king o' the beggars, crowned on Hogmanay, on the Warlock's Hill near Dunse, in presence o' a' the tribe o' kaukers and keelars, collected from Berwick to Lerwick. This is the beggar's badge. Tak it if ye dare. By ae wag o't, yer bairns will be kidnapped, your kye yeld, and your mithers' banes stricken wi' the black sickness." "Guidman of Cairnkibbie," said the foremost knight, "thou hast now evidence in that bold beggar's own hand, that he hath stolen a part of the king's regalia--an act of high treason, incurring death to him and all that give him shelter. Take the badge, examine it, and thou'lt find on it the royal arms. See to thy predicament. If I report a rescue, thou'rt ruined. James will punish thee as a resetter. These misguided men will fall in thy ruin, and sorely wilt thou repent having harboured and defended a thief and a vagabond. Wilt thou give him up, or must we take him at the expense of our blood and thine?" "A' fair words," answered the guidman; "but this beggar is our guest. He says the badge is his ain, and truly I am bound to say that King Jamie himsel is nae mair like the king o' this auld land, than this jolly gaberlunzie is like the king o' his tribe. Every inch o'm's a king. He sings like a king, dances like a king, drinks like a king, and kisses the lasses like a king--and, king as he is, feth we'll be his loyal subjects. What say ye, guid hearts?" "The same, the same," cried many voices; and a brandishing of flails and kevels showed that they were determined to act up to their pledge of defending the jolly gaberlunzie to the end. Matters now assumed a serious aspect. "Thy ruin be on thine own heads!" cried the chief of the strangers. "Draw for the rights of King James, claim our prisoner, and take him through the blood of rebels who dispute the authority of their king!" The men from without now began to rush into the barn with drawn swords; and seemed to expect that, when the steel was made apparent, no serious resistance would be offered. Their expectation, however, was vain; for the hinds did not seem to fear the naked swords, and several of them had already aimed blows at the heads of the enemy. The beggar was moving to the right and to the left with great rapidity; brandishing his huge kevel, and whispering something into the ears of his friends. The guidman was busy getting the women removed by a back door; and, in the midst of all the uproar, there seemed some scheme in operation on the part of the defenders, which would either co-operate with their warlike defence, or render the shedding of blood unnecessary. The assailants clearly did not wish to use the glittering thirsty blades; and continued to ward off the blows of the hinds, and to push them back, with a view to get hold of him who was the object of their search. He, in the meantime, was directing some secret operation with great adroitness and spirit. The confusion increased; the size of the barn, and the pressure of the assailants forward, apparently with a view to take away the power of the long sticks, prevented in a great measure the full play of the hinds' arms, and some of the king's men were engaged in a powerful wrestle, with the intention of disarming the hinds, and thus achieving a victory without loss of blood; but their efforts in this respect would have been attended with small success, if the tactics of the beggar had been a deadly contest. The assailants still pushed on, and it seemed that their opponents were fast receding, while the clanging of sticks on the swords, and the hard breathing and cries of those engaged, seemed to indicate a severe and equally contested strife. The defendants were latterly pushed up to the very farthest end of the apartment, and it seemed apparent that, if they did not make a great effort to redeem their position, and acquire room for the circle of their staves, they must resign the contest. But an extraordinary evolution was now performed. The back door was opened; in an instant, every hind disappeared from the faces of their foes; the door was locked and bolted; and the king's men turned to retrace their steps and seek the enemy outside. That turn exposed their position, and the trick of the gaberlunzie. The front door was also shut, locked, and riveted. On every side they were shut in, confined in a dark barn, and all means of escape entirely cut off. It was in vain that they roared through the key-holes of the doors. The gaberlunzie, who regulated all the motions of the successful party, responded to them in words of cutting irony, and even set agoing the swelling notes of his pipes, to celebrate his triumph by a poean in the form of a pibroch. "Ye may tell yer king," he cried, loud enough for them to hear--"that is, when ye get out, if ye ever experience that blessed fortune--that he is not the only king in these realms. And surely Scotland is wide enough for twa. I hae my subjects, he has his; an' Wat Wilson's no the potentate that wad ever interfere wi' Jamie Stuart, if Jamie Stuart will let alane Wat Wilson. If I happen to pass Dunse on the morn, I shanna fail to report favourably o' yer prowess; an', abune a', I shall tell him o' the condition o' his belted knichts--how 'There was not ane o' them that day Could do ane ither's bidden, And there lie three and thretty knights Thrunland in ane midden.' Come now, my friends, we'll adjourn the feast to the ha', an' let the knights tak their nicht's rest in the barn, after a' the toil o' their desperate battle." A loud shout responded to the spirited speech of the gaberlunzie; and the feelings of the kidnapped and discomfited men-at-arms, on hearing the triumph of the beggar, who had out-manoeuvred them, may be conceived, but could not well be expressed by an ordinary goose-quill. The guidman of Cairnkibbie took as hearty a laugh as the rest, at the trick thus successfully played off upon the king's men, and his laugh was nothing the less for the quantity of good ale he had drank before the fray began, and without which potation, perhaps, he would not have patronised an act which might bring him into trouble. There was one thing that, even through the fumes of the ale, struck him as very remarkable--the confined knights made scarcely any noise. There was no blustering or swearing of vengeance, nor threat of the king's displeasure, nor endeavours to break the doors. They submitted to their durance like lambs in a sheepfold, and seemed to have lost their spirits as well as courage, when they found themselves completely within the power of their enemy. What could this mean? There was a mystery in it, which the farmer, who was an arch old fox, could not explain; and when he put a question to the gaberlunzie, the answer increased his difficulty, for the beggar laughed, and attributed the quietness and meekness of the foes to the terror of his prowess, and the awe which his name inspired throughout a great part of Scotland. "This is the most extraordinary deevil," said the farmer to himself, "that it has been my fortune to meet. His dancing, roaring, rioting, drinking, piping, singing, joking, fechting, seem a' on a par; an' nane o' them are beat by his power o' winning the hearts o' young an' auld. He has forced me to like him, will I or nill I; an' my dochter Lilly, an' my guidwife Jean, are nae less fond o' him than I am. Here, noo, is our Maiden broken up, my barn made a warhold, mysel a seneschal o' the king's troops, my head in a loop, an' my fortunes hanging in the wind o' the royal displeasure--a' brocht aboot by a wanderin beggar, wha forced himsel into oor happy meeting at the very point o' the bauldest tongue that ever hung in man's head; an' yet sae supple that it has won the very hearts o' the men that strove to keep him oot, an' brocht me into the hardest scrape I ever was in my life." Cogitating in this prudential way, the guidman was fast coming to the conclusion that he was in a position of great danger; and that it was necessary that he should take the proper steps for freeing himself from the consequences of his imprudence as soon as it was possible. He turned round to look for the gaberlunzie, that he might commune with him on the prudence of letting the king's men free. The greater number of the men and women had gone into the house; and some of them stood at a distance, their forms revealed by a glimpse of the moon, which, freed from a cloud, began to illumine the holms of Cairnkibbie. "Where is the beggar?" inquired the farmer at Will Carr. "Where is the beggar?" cried Will Carr to his neighbour. "Where is the gaberlunzie?" shouted several voices at once. The gaberlunzie was gone. Steenie Thornton said he saw a person mount one of the troopers' horses that stood at the door of the barn, and, turning round the corner of the steading, gallop off at the top of his speed. He thought it was one of the hinds, who was trying the mettle of the king's horses, and would return instantly, after he had indulged himself with a ride. Now it was apparent to all that it was the strange gaberlunzie himself. He had crowned all his extraordinary actions of the evening by stealing one of the horses of the king, or his knights, and, with meal-pocks, wallet, pipes, and stolen mace, was "owre the Borders and awa," and might never be seen or heard of again; while the farmer, who now saw the extent of his danger, must stand the brunt of the king's vengeance, and be tried for forcing the king's messengers in the execution of their duty, for shutting them up in his barn, and stealing (for he would be charged with it) one of the horses, the property of his sovereign. The whole company now assembled around the farmer, whose position was apparent to the bluntest hind that ever danced at a Maiden. Some proposed to follow the beggar, and bring him back again; but he had already exhibited such a power of locomotive energy and daring spirit in the former adventures of the evening, that it seemed vain to attempt to overtake him with the quickest steed that was at their command. The difficulty was great, and, apparently, insuperable; and the whole scene enacted by the gaberlunzie appeared like a dream. The farmer swore against him mighty oaths, and directed against himself a part of the objurgatory declamation. But how was he to get out of the scrape? If the doors were opened, and the armed knights let loose, the whole company might be slaughtered, in the fury of the enraged men-at-arms, who would attribute to the farmer and his men their discomfiture, the loss of the thief, their confinement, and the loss of the horse. To keep them confined was, also a fearful resource; for they must be let out _some time_, and every minute of their confinement would add fuel to the flame of their resentment. Many opinions were given. Some were for getting assistance to enable them to stand on the defensive, against the expected attack, on the knights being let free. Some again were for striking a bargain "wi' the fou hand," as the saying goes, and letting the pursuers free, upon their word of a knight that they would not molest them. This latter plan seemed the best; and a good addendum was made by the greatest simpleton of the whole meeting--viz., that they should include in this act of amnesty the loss of the horse. The farmer proceeded to act upon this resolution. "We are friendly inclined to ye," said he, in a tone of voice that might reach the prisoners. "Your enemy was that accursed gaberlunzie, wha maun be the very deevil himsel; for he it was wha blew us up against ye, and made us, a parcel o' quiet men, fecht against the servants o' our lawfu king. The cunning rogue's awa, and left us to bear the dirdum o' his feint or folly; and, a' ungeared as we are for war, we wish, withoot either dewyss or devilry, to ken the condition upon which ye will get yer liberty." A loud laugh from within was the reply to this speech. What next could this mean? The farmer was confounded, the hinds stared, and every one looked at another. Here were men who five minutes before were fighting like fiends, who had been deceived and confined, struck and ill-used, indulging in a good jolly laugh at the broaching of a question concerning their liberty. The mystery was increased, the affair was more extraordinary, the development more difficult and distant. "Ay, ay," continued the farmer, "ye may laugh; but, maybe, the laugh may be on the ither side when ye get oot. This may be an assumed guid nature, to blind us. I'm as far ben as ye, though no in the barn. Come, come. It is a serious affair. Will ye pledge the honour o' a knight, that, if I draw the bolts, ye'll let alane for let alane?" "Surely, surely," was the ready reply, and another laugh accompanied the condition. "Right merry prisoners, by my saul!" continued the farmer. "Will they laugh at the loss o' their horse, I wonder?" (To his friends.) "That's a' very weel," he continued, in a higher voice. "I hae witnesses here to the pledge; but I'm sorry to inform ye that that deevil o' a beggar, wha stole yer king's mace, is aff and awa, the Lord kens whaur, wi' the best horse o' a' yer cavalcade. Will ye forgie this to the boot?" Another burst of laughter responded from the barn, mixed with cries of-- "Ay, ay; never mind the horse. Let him go with the mace. The king of the beggars deserveth a steed." "Weel, these are the maist pleasant faes I ever saw," said the farmer; "but I hae a' my fears there's a decoy duck i' the pond. Haud firm yer kevels, friends, in case a' this guid nature may, like the blink o' an autumn sun, be followed by the fire-flaughts o' their revenge." The men stood prepared to fight, if necessary; the bolts were withdrawn, and out came the knights, as merry as larks, making the air resound with their laughter. The farmer and his friends were still more amazed, as, for their very souls, they could see nothing in discomfiture and imprisonment to make any man laugh. But the fact was now certain, that the prisoners were right glad and hearty; and the sincerity of their good humour was to be tested in a manner that seemed as extraordinary as anything that had yet been witnessed on this eventful evening. Not one of them ever mentioned the beggar or the loss of the horse--a circumstance remarkable enough; and, not contented with this scrupulous regard of the treaty, the chief of them, slapping the farmer on the back, proposed that, as they had so unceremoniously broken up the sports of the evening, they should not depart till they saw the dancing again commenced, and till they each and every man of them should dance a reel with the blooming maidens they had seen on their entry. This request, though as remarkable as the former proceedings, was received with loud applause. The parties were again collected; Tam the piper again took his seat; the ale flowed in its former abundance; and in a short time the brave knights were seen tripping it gaily through the mazes of the merry dance. This was another change of the moral peristrephic panorama of that extraordinary evening; and, as the farmer looked at the merry knights with their surtouts of green, and their buff baldricks and clanging swords, busy dancing in that very barn where they had, a few minutes before, been fighting like Turks, he held up his hands in wonder, and would have moralised on the chances and changes of life, if a barn had been a proper place, a Maiden a proper occasion, and the hour of relief from a great evil a proper time for the indulgence of such fancies. The knights danced only for a very short time; and there can be no doubt that they did their best to please themselves, and to exhibit to their host and his friends the greatest triumphs of the gay art; but all their efforts only tended to bring into higher contrast their best and most intricate evolutions, their highest and most joyous humours, their pleasantest and merriest tricks, with the devil-daring, jumping, roaring, laughing, kissing, and hugging of the jolly gaberlunzie, who outran all competitors in the production of fun, as much as ever did an Arab steed the plough-nag at a fair gallop. There was not a knight among them that could, as the saying goeth, "hold the candle to him;" and as for the private opinions of the "damysells," the very best judges of the properties of man, they would not have given one hair in the beard of the jolly gaberlunzie for all the short crops of the chins of all the knights put together. His thefts and vagaries were lost, like spots on the sun, in the blaze of his convivial splendour; and, coming and flying off like a comet, as he had done, he had left them in a darkness which all the tiny lights of the good-natured crew of bannerets could not illumine beyond the twinkle that only served to exhibit more clearly their gloom. _Sic transit gloria mundi!_--they might never see his like again. The knights, after enjoying themselves in the manner we have mentioned, mounted their horses, (the one whose steed was stolen, having borrowed one from the farmer,) and having been supplied with a good stirrup-cup, galloped away, without ever having said one word, either of good or evil, of the mysterious gaberlunzie of whom they came in search. The Maiden was finished soon after, and the guidman of Cairnkibbie retired with his guidwife to rest, and in their waking moments to wonder at the strange events of the day. The fears of evil, resulting from his own conduct, had in a great measure ceased; but, alas! they ceased only to be revived in the morning, and increased to a degree that made him still lament having forced the king's messengers, and harboured a thief. About eleven o'clock of the succeeding day, a horseman, booted and spurred, arrived in great haste at the door of the farm-house of Cairnkibbie, and requested to see the guidman. "What's your will, sir?" said the farmer to the messenger, as he went to the door. "I bear his Highness the King's schedule, to be delivered to William Hume, the tenant of Cairnkibbie." "The King's schedule!" answered William, as he took the paper out of the messenger's hands--"what hae I dune to offend the king?" "Read it," said the messenger; and William complied. "These are to show our high will and pleasor, that whereas ane gaberlunzie, of the name of Wat Wilson, or at least ane wandering vagabond to whom that denomination does by common use or courtesie effeir, did, in our guid toun of Dunse, on Wednesday last past, of this current month of October, when our servitors and officers marching rank-on-raw, before and behint our person, reft frae the hands o' our mace-bearer, our mace of authority, fabricat of real siller, and embossed with dewysses of goold, whar-with he did flee trayterly to the protection and refuge of thee, William Hume, tenant of Cairnkibbie, wha, with thy tenants, domestics, and retainers, and others, did harbour him, even against our officers of justice, wham thou didst pummel, and lik, and abuse in a maist shameful manner, and thereafter didst confine in ane auld barn the whyle thou didst let off the said gaberlunzie, and steal ane o' the very choicest horses o' our knights; for all the whylk thou (and eke thy aiders and abettors) shalt answer at our present ambulatory Court, at our auld burgh of Dunse, wharto thou art summonit by this schedule, to attend on the day after thou receivest this, at 12 of the forenoon; whylk, if thou disregardest, thou shalt dree the punishment o' our righteous vengeance. Given at Dunse, this----day of October 15--. JAMES R." "The Lord hae mercy on the house o' Cairnkibbie!" ejaculated the farmer, as he read this fulmination of an incensed king's wrath. "What am I to do? How can I face the king after abusing his officers, and harbouring the thief wha stole the royal mace, as weel as the horse o' his officer? Can ye no intercede for me, sir, or at least gie me some advice how I am to act in this fearfu business?" And the farmer stamped on the ground, and paced backwards and forwards in great distress. The officer who brought the schedule seemed to sympathise with the unhappy man; but, looking over to the door of the farm house, and seeing Lilly standing on the landing-place, combing her fair locks, he smiled as if some hope for the unfortunate farmer had broken in on his mind. "Is that your daughter?" said he. "It is," answered the farmer; "but that question has sma' concern with this present misery that has overtaken the house o' her father." "More than thou thinkest, mayhap," answered the horseman. "Bring her with thee, man, to Court. The king cannot resist the appeal of beauty. If that fair wench will but hold up that face of hers, while thou settest forth thy defence, I'll guarantee thy liberation for a score o' placks. But see thou attendest; otherwise, messengers will be sent to force thy presence." Saying these words, the messenger clapped spurs to his horse, and was out of sight in an instant, leaving the poor farmer in a state of unabated terror. He went into the house, and reported the direful issue of last night's adventure to his wife and daughter. The sympathetic communications of their mutual fears increased their sorrow and apprehension, till the females burst into tears, and the guidman himself groaned, at the prospect of his inevitable ruin. During the day and the night, the subject formed the continual theme of their conversation; and the terror of meeting the sovereign, the weakness of the defence, and the fear of ruinous consequences, alternated their influence over their clouded minds, without a moment's intermission of ease. The guidwife was determined she would not leave her husband in the hands of his enemies; Lilly agreed to accompany them, at the request of her father; and Will Carr, with one or two of the farm-servants, were to go as exculpatory witnesses. The farmer had in his grief resolved upon a candid defence. The truth, he was satisfied, might bring him off, while any attempt at concealment or falsification could not fail to hasten and increase the punishment he dreaded. At an early hour next day, the party were all on their way to Dunse; the farmer dressed in his long blue coat and blue bonnet, his wife with her manky kirtle and high-crowned mutch, bedizened with large bows of red ribbons; and Lilly, with her "Lincolme gown" and wimple-bound hair, looking like the Queen of May herself. On their entry into the town of Dunse, they were met by two men having the appearance of officers, who claimed them in the king's name as criminals, and conducted them to a small castle at the end of the town, at that time used as a garrison for the king's troops. After passing through a long passage (their hearts palpitating with terror and awe), they came to a room of a large and stately appearance, hung round, as they could see by their side glances--for they were terrified to look up--with loose hangings of rich cloth, whereon were many curious figures, that seemed to stand out apart from that on which they were set forth. About the middle of the room--so far as they could guess by their oblique investigation--they were seated on a species of "lang settle;" and when they found themselves seated, they began (after drawing nearer and nearer to each other) to look up and around. There was a considerable number of individuals in the hall, some standing and some sitting, and all dressed in the most gorgeous style. On an elevated seat, covered by a temporary canopy of velvet, sat the august monarch of Scotland, the Fifth James; and at his feet were three or four individuals in the habiliments of barons. All this was little suited to calming the beating hearts of the simple individuals who were so strangely situated. There was not (and the circumstance seemed strange) an ordinary individual present. Those who acted as officers were clearly knights, or high gentlemen in the confidence of the king. All was silence for a few minutes, when a loud voice called out the name of "William Hume." "Here," answered William, with a choking voice, while his wife and daughter shook till their very clothes rustled. "Stand up, sir," cried the same fearful voice again. William obeyed; and now, unimaginable awe! the voice of Majesty itself sounded through the hall. "Read the indictment, Dempster," said the King. The indictment was accordingly read. "Is it true, sir," began his Majesty, "that thou didst harbour this man called Wat Wilson, knowing him to have stolen our mace, and thereafter didst beat and confine our messengers who were sent to apprehend him?" Like many other timid witnesses, William Hume, regained his self-possession the moment he was fairly committed to giving evidence by a plain question being put to him. "I cam here this day," replied William, looking up and around him with increasing confidence, "to tell your Highness God's truth. I canna deny the charge." "Knowest thou the punishment of deforcing the king's messengers?" rejoined the King. "No, yer Highness," replied William; "but my fears tell me it's no sma'." "Hast thou anything to say in palliation of thy crime?" "Owre muckle, I fear, yer Highness," answered William. "I say owre muckle; for now, when I look back upon the dementit proceedings o' that nicht, I have almost come to the conclusion that that gaberlunzie wha has brought me into a' this trouble, was neither mair nor less than his august Majesty wha"---- "Who, who?" cried the King impatiently; while several of the lords began to laugh, and whisper, "He knows him, he knows him." "--Than his august Majesty," continued William, "wha haulds his court there--there"--(pointing his finger downwards.) "To be plain, yer Highness, I do on my saul believe he was the Deevil himsel!" The king laughed a loud laugh, and all the barons burst fair out into a hearty "guffaw;" while some of them muttered, "A compliment--a compliment, in good faith, to the King"--a whisper which, if William Hume had heard, he might have construed into a hint that the gaberlunzie was no other that the king himself; but, luckily for the naiveté of William's testimony, he remained in his ignorance. "What, man!" exclaimed the King, when he had again arranged his jaws into something like gravity--"Dost thou believe he was the Devil?" "Troth do I," replied William, now getting bolder by the laughter that had rung in his ears; "and the mair I think o' him and his wild and wonderfu' feiks and freits, the mair satisfied am I o't." William's adherence to his position produced another burst of merriment. "What _did_ he do," continued the King, "to entitle him to that character? It would ill become us to punish a subject for the acts of the Evil One." "What did he _no_ do, your Highness?" ejaculated the farmer--"he did everything the enemy could do, and man couldna. We were hauldin our Maiden when he cam to the door, and were determined no to let him in; but he turned a' oor hearts in an instant, and the enemies o' his entrance becam the freends o' his presence. Then began he to act his part: he played as nae man ever played; drank as nae man ever drank; danced, and made ithers dance, langer and blyther than ever man did on the face o' this earth; caught men's hearts like bullfinches wi' his sangs, the women's by the rub o' his beard; and sent through a' and owre a' sic a glamour and witchery o' fun, and frolic, and enjoyment--ay, and luve o' himsel--that nae mortal cratur was ever seen to hae sic power since the days o' Adam." William drew breath, and the king and lords again laughed heartily. "But a' that was naething," continued William; "I'm a plain man, as ye may see--and wha, looking at me, would say that a mortal gaberlunzie could twist me round his finger as easily as he could do a packthread? Yet this beggar did that. Your Highness' troops cam to seize him--and wha before ever saw the guidman o' Cairnkibbie harbour a thief? The Deevil had thrown owre me and the hail menyie the charm o' his cantraps. We swore we would defend him--ay, even though we saw the stowen mace in his hand; we did defend him, and he had nae mair to do than to blaw in oor lugs, when clap went the barn-doors, and a' yer Highness' knights were imprisoned as if by magic. Could a beggar o' ordinar flesh and blude hae dune a' that, yer Highness?" William again drew breath, and again the hall resounded with the laugh of the king and his lords. "But even a' that was little or naething," continued William again; "for to pay us for a' the guid we had dune him, he made himsel invisible, and rode aff like a fire-flaught on ane o' the knight's horses; and frae that eventfu hour to this, we hae ne'er seen his face." "Art satisfied, my Lord of Ross?" said the King in a whisper, to a lord that sat beside him. "Is our wager won? Have we, as we essayed, succeeded in our undertaking? Have we in the form of a beggar, so wrought upon the hearts of the members of a Maiden feast, as to gain their love to the extent of making them defend the gaberlunzie against the king's knights, inspiring them to fight, and win the day in a fought battle, and latterly riding home on one of the enemy's horses? Ha! ha! we opine we have--what say our judges?" "The game is up," replied the Lord of Ross. "I acknowledge myself beat. Your Highness has won the day." Another laugh sealed the triumph of the king, and William Hume stared in amazement at the extraordinary mummery that was acted around him. "William Hume," said the King, "this is an artifice on thy part to escape our vengeance. I go to put on the black cap, and to return to pronounce thy fate. Thou hast admitted the crime; and to lay it on the devil's back, is only the common way of the wicked." Lilly, on hearing the mention of the black cap, screamed, the mother cried for mercy, and the thunderstruck farmer waited to receive his doom. The king went out, and returned in a short time in the cap of Wat Wilson, holding in his hand the stolen mace. A new light broke in upon the mind of the criminal--he perceived at once the identity of the king and the beggar; and the fears of all were in a moment dispelled. "Stand up, Lilly Hume and Will Carr," said the monarch. The voice of royalty sounded like a death-knell in the ears of the maiden. Her mind ran back to that eventful hour when she told the beggar the secret of her love; and she felt even yet the hug of the king, and the royal kiss burning on her lips. She blushed to the temples, and could scarcely stand without the support of her father, who now, when he saw how the land lay, had recovered all his fortitude, with a portion of well-founded hope that the services he performed to the beggar-king would meet with their reward. "So your faither, Lilly, will not allow you to marry Will Carr," resumed James, "because he is puir?" "Guid Lord!" muttered William to himsel--"hoo comes he to ken that too?--a family secret that I could scarcely breathe in my ain lug for its injustice, and now I see to be punished as it deserves." Lilly hung her head. She could not open her lips. The mention of her humble love by a king and in the presence of nobles, was so far beyond the ordinary experience of her obscure life, and held such a contrast to the secret breathings of her affection in her stolen meetings with her lover among the broom knowes of Cairnkibbie, that she thought the world itself was undergoing some extraordinary convulsion. Turning round, she caught the eye of Will Carr, who, having more courage, infused some portion of his confidence into the blushing girl. "Is that true, William Hume?" rejoined James, who despaired of getting an answer from Lilly. "Deed, an' it's owre true, yer Highness," answered the farmer; "but I thought there wasna a mortal on earth knew the circumstance but mysel and my wife; for, begging your Highness' pardon, I was ashamed to tell it to the lassie hersel, for fear she might hae communicated it to Will's freends, wha are decent people, and canna help their poverty." "Dost thou still stand to thy objection to the match?" again asked James. "If your Royal Highness, as Wat Wilson," replied the farmer, smiling, "could command me and the hail household o' Cairnkibbie to do your bidding, and turn us round your finger like a piece o' packthread, I micht hae sma chance o' resistin yer authority as king o' Scotland. I hae nae objection noo to the match, seem that a king gies oot the bans." "William Hume," resumed the laughing monarch, "hear thy doom. For the love thou didst extend and show to our royal person, we give thee a free grant of the lands of Cairnkibbie, upon this one condition--that thou consentest to the union of Lilly Hume with Will Carr, to whom we shall, out of our royal purse, give, as a marriage portion, two hundred marks." "I canna disobey the command o' Wat Wilson," replied William with a dry smile. "He has already exercised great authority owre us a', and we winna throw aff our allegiance in this eventfu day." A general laugh wound up the scene. The young couple were married, and a merry wedding they had of it; but there was one great exception to the general joy, and that was, that although there was many a good dancer present, and Tam Lutar was not absent, there was not to be seen or heard the jolly beggar who had, on the former occasion, been the soul of the Maiden. James became afterwards engaged in more serious concerns, and there were few who knew anything of his nocturnal exploit. The Humes were told to keep it a secret; and the lords who were present had too much regard for their king to expose his good-humoured eccentricities. When Hume became proprietor of Cairnkibbie, the people speculated; but little did they know, so well had the secret been kept, that the grant proceeded from the farmer's supposed misfortune, or that Wat Wilson the beggar, who danced so jovially at the Maiden, was the individual who had transformed William Hume from a simple farmer to one of the small Border lairds who held their heads so high in those days; and far less was it known that the same individual had brought about the marriage of Lilly Hume and Will Carr. Thus have we attempted to describe one of those wild frolics in which the young King James V. of Scotland occasionally indulged. If he had lived to an advanced age, his subjects might have had as much reason to admire the king as they had to love the royal gaberlunzie, who, wherever he took up his quarters, whether "in a house in Aberdeen," or in the barn of Cairnkibbie, sent the fire of his spirit of love and fun throughout all with which he came in contact. THE PROFESSOR'S TALES. EARLY RECOLLECTIONS OF A SON OF THE HILLS. I have oftentimes thought, what, I dare say, has been thought again and again by thousands before I was born, and will be thought by as many millions after I have ceased both to think and speak--I have thought that, if any one were to give an exact transcript of his feelings and experience, in early life in particular--without any connecting link even, beyond that of time and place--such a written record could not fail to be exceedingly interesting. The novelty of the scene; the uncloyed character of the feelings; the harpy-clutching nature of the imagination; the variety of sources within and without, from which pleasure is derived and is derivable--all these form a mine of delightful insight, which has not, perhaps, ever yet been exhausted--a mine conducting to, and losing itself in, that far-away central darkness which precedes perception, recollection, existence. I remember--and it is an awful remembrance--the death of my grandmother when I was only four years old. There she lies in that bed. Alongside of that sheet, there are my mother and the minister kneeling in prayer. The whisper is conveyed to the minister's ear--"Sir, she has win to _rest_!" Oh, that sweet word rest!--rest negative, rest positive--rest from, rest in, rest amidst a sea of troubles--rest in an ocean of glorious happiness! "Sir, she has win to rest!" I can never forget the words, nor the look, nor the place, nor the all which then constituted _me_. The minister pauses in the middle of a sentence, he rises from his knees, and, taking my mother's hand in his, as well as mine in the other, he approaches the bed of death; but, O my soul, what an impression is made upon me! My grandmother--the figure with the short cloak over her shoulders, the check apron, the tobacco-box, and the short cutty-pipe--the speaking, conversing, kind-hearted figure--what is _it now_? Asleep!--but the eyes are open, and frightfully unmeaning. Asleep!--but the mouth is somewhat awry, and there is an expression unknown, intolerable, terrible, all over the countenance. And this is death! I cannot stand it. I fly to the door--to the brae--to the hill. I dash my face, shoulders and all, into a bracken bush, and weep, weep, weep myself asleep. When I awake, it is a dream; I am amused with the white table-cloth, the bread and cheese, and wine bottle. I am amused with the plate, salt, and earth placed on the breast of the corpse. I am amused with the coffining; but, most of all--oh, delightful!--with the funeral--the well-dressed people--the numbers, the services of bun, shortbread, wine, and spirits; and above all, with various little bits and drops which fall to my share. I firmly believe I got fuddled on the occasion. Such is man; for men are but children of a larger growth. Now, there is only _one_ event, circumstance, incident, firmly and fairly told--and it is interesting exceedingly: how interesting, then, would all the incidents and events of early life be, were they only narrated with equal faithfulness! So one may say; but, in so saying, they will be misled and mislead. There are few things which I remember so vividly as this. Death! I have seen thee since! Thou hast torn from me mother, brother, friend, and, above and beyond all, thou hast been betwixt these arms, murdering her whom my soul loved--the partner of my life--the mother of my babes--the balm of my soul--the glory, ornament, and boast of my existence; and yet, and yet my grandmother's death is more vividly imprinted on brain and heart than any other event of a similar nature. Proof impressions sell dear! and proof feelings--oh, how deep are the lines, how indelible the engravings! They are cut on steel with a graving tool of adamant. The heart and the brain must be reduced to their elemental dust, ere these impressions can wear out--and yet I was only four years and six months old! I saw it--ay, and I see it still--a poor innocent lamb. I had kissed it, and hung about its neck on the sunny brae. People said it was not thriving: I would not believe it. It was my companion. I often fed it with milk; put my finger into its little toothless mouth, and made it lap the invigorating and nourishing liquid. It had no parent, no friend, in a manner, but me, and I was only five years old, in petticoats; a very semblance of humanity; a thing to be strode over in his path by mankind of ordinary stature. But there came a blight, a curse, a dreadful change, over my dear and endearing pet. It was torn--ay, dreadfully torn, by some nightly dog. When I first found it, it was scarcely alive, lying bleeding; its white, and soft, and smooth skin dragged in the mud, torn and untouchable. There was a knife applied; but not to cure; it was to kill, to put out of pain. I could not stand it; I went into convulsions, screamed, and almost tore myself to pieces. "My lamb! my wee lambie! my dear, dear sweety!"--but it had passed, and I was alone in my existence. But, oh! it was a fearful lesson which I had learned--a dreadful truth which I had ascertained. Youth, as well as age, is subject to death: dreadful! There she sits in loveliness--there, there, in the midst of that hazel bush, snug in her retreat, her yellow bill projecting over the brow of her nest: smooth, black, and glittering are her feathers, and her eye is the very balmy south of expression. Yet there is a watchfulness and a timidity in her attitude and movement--she is not at ease, for that eye has caught mine, as they protrude upon her betwixt two separated branches; and, after two or three hesitating stirs, she is out--off--away; but perched on a neighbouring bough, to mark and watch my proceedings. And _he_, too, is there; _he_, her companion and helpmate; he who was singing, or rather whistling, so loud on that tall and overtopping birch; he who was making the setting sunlight glad with his music--who was, doubtless, chanting of courtship, and love, and union, and progeny. Yes! _he_ has left his branch and his sun; he has dropped down from his elevation, to inquire into the cause of that sudden chuckle, by which his lady bird has alarmed him. There are four eyes upon me now, and all my proceedings are registered in two beating bosoms. But the nest is full--it is full of life--of young life--of the gorling in its hair, and incipient tail--of yellow gaping bills, all thrust upwards, and crying, as loud as attitude and cheep can do, "Give, give, give!" Surely Solomon had never seen a blackbird's nest with young, else he had given it a place amongst his "gives!" This was my first nest. It was discovered when I was only five years old; it was visited every day and every hour; the young ones grew apace; they feathered into blackness; they hopped from their abode; they flew, or were essaying to do so, when--O world! world! why, why, is it so with thee!--destruction came in a night, and the feathers of my young ones were strewed around their once happy and crowded abode. There had been other eyes upon them than mine. Yes! eyes to which the night is as noonday--vile, green, elongated eyes, and sharp, penetrating, and unsparing teeth, and claws, stretched, crooked, and clutching; and, in short, the cat had devoured the whole family!--not one was left to the distracted parents. I shall never, never forget their fluttering movements, their chirpings, their restlessness, their ruffled feathers, and all but human speech. There was revenge in my young bosom--mad and terrible revenge. I snatched up the murderer--all unconscious as she was of her fault. I ran with her, like a fury, to a deep pool in the burn. I dashed her headlong into the waters--from which, of course, she readily escaped, and, eyeing me with a look of extreme surprise from the further bank, immediately vanished into the house. Though we were great friends before this event--and I would gladly have renewed our intercourse afterwards, when my passion had subsided--yet Pussy never forgave me, at least I know that she never trusted me, for I could never catch her again. That's the pool--the very bumbling pool, where we bathed, and stood beneath the cascade, for a whole summer's day. There were more than one or two either--there were many of us; for we collected as the day advanced, and still those who were retreating, upon encountering those who were advancing, would turn with them again, and renew their immersions. It was summer--and such summer as youth (for I was only six) alone can experience--it was one long blaze of noontide radiance. The sun stationary, as in the valley of Jehosophat; the trees, green, leafy, shady, rejoicing; the very cattle dancing in upon the cooling element; and the grasshopper still dumb. The heat was intense, yet not overpowering; for we were naked--naked as were Adam and Eve prior to sin and shame--naked as is Apollo Belvidere, or the Venus de Medicis. We were Nature's children, and she was kind to us; she gave us air that was balm; sunbeams that wooed us from the pool; and water again that enticed us from the open air! What a day it was of fun and frolic, and splash, and squatter, and confusion! Now jumping from the brow into the deep; now standing beneath the Grey Mare's Tail, the flashing cascade; now laving--like Diana on Actæon--the water from the pool on each other's limbs and faces; now circling along the green bank, in sportive chase and mimic fray, and again couching neck deep in the pool. But the awful dinnle is on the breeze; the black south hath advanced rapidly upon meridian day; the white and swollen clouds have boiled up into spongy foam; and there runs a light blue vapour over the inky cloud beneath. Hist!--whisht!--it's _thunner_! and, ere many minutes have escaped, we are each quaking every limb at our own firesides. Many recent winters have made me cry, What has become of winter? I wished Government would fit out an expedition to go in quest of him. He must have been couching somewhere, the funny old rogue, behind the Pole; he must have been coquetting with the beauties of Greenland or Nova Zembla. He has, last season, condescended to give us a glimpse of his icy beard and hoary temples. Oh, I like the old fellow dearly!--but it is the old fellow only. As to him of modern times, I know not what to make of him--a blustering, blubbering, braggadocio; making darkness his pavilion, for no other purpose than to throw pailfuls of water on the heads of women and children; letting out his colds and influenzas from his Baltic bags, and terrifying our citizens with "auld wives," broken slates, and shivered tiles. But my winter of 1794--what a delightful companion he was! He did his work genteelly; his drift was a matter of a few hours; but they were hours of vigorous and terrible exertion. Some ten score of sheep, and some twenty shepherds, perished within a limited range, in one wild and outrageous night. It was, indeed, sublime--even to me, a youth of eight years of age, it was fearfully sublime. Can anything be more beautiful than falling and newly-fallen snow. _There_ you see it above, and to a great height, shaping into varied and convolving forms. It nears, it nears, it nears, and lights in your little hand, a feathery diamond, a crystallized vapour, an evanescent loveliness! But the tempest has sounded an assail, and the broadened flakes are comminuted into blinding drift--the earth beneath blows up to heaven, whilst the heaven thunders its vengeance upon the earth. The restless snow whirls, eddies, rises, disperses, accumulates. Man cannot breathe in the thick and toiling atmosphere. The wreaths swell into rounded and polished forms, and, on a sudden, disappear. The air has cleared, has stilled, and the sharp and consolidating frost has commenced. What a sea of celestial brightness! The earth wrapped in an alabaster mantle, the folds of which are the folds of beauty and enchantment. Days of glory, and nights of splendour. The moon, in her own blue heaven, contracted to a small circumference of clear, gaseous light; the hills, the hollows, the valleys, the muirs, the mosses, the woodlands, the rocky eminences, the houses, the churchyards, the gardens, the whole of external nature beneath her, giving up again into the biting and twinkling air an arrowy radiance of far-spread light. Here and there the course of a mountain torrent, or of a winding river, marked with a jagged and broken line of black. The bay of the house-dog heard far off--the sound of the curlers' sport, composed of a mixture of moanings--the "sweep," the "guard," the "stroke," the homebred and hearty shout and guffaw--the Babel mixture of noises, coming softened and attuned from the distant pond. It is the "how-dum-dead" of winter. Christmas has passed, with its happiness wished and enjoyed--it is the last night of the year; long and fondly-expected Hogmanay! We are abroad, amongst the farm-houses and cottars' huts--we pass nothing that emits smoke. Our disguises are fearful, even to ourselves, as we encounter each other unexpectedly at corners. Cakes, cheese, and all manner of eatables are ours, even to profusion. And who would not endure much of life, to have such exquisite fan renewed! But my first trout!--killed--fairly landed out of the water--dancing about in all its speckled beauty on the green bank: this was indeed an event--this was an achievement of no ordinary interest. Fishing! to thee I owe more of exquisite enjoyment than to any other amusement whatever. I am a mountain child--born, and nursed, and trotted about from my cradle on the winding banks of a bonny burn, through whose waters there looked up eyes, and there waved fins and tails. I have taken, again and again, in after life, the wings of the morning, and have made my dwelling with the stunted thorn, the corbie nest, the croaking raven, the willie-wagtail, and the plover, and the snipe, and the lapwing. I have seen mist--glorious mist!--in all its fantastic shapes, and openings and closings, from the dense crawling blanket of wet to the bright, sun-penetrated, rent, and dispersing tatterment of haze. I have studied all manner of cloud, from the swollen, puffed up, and rolling castellation, to the smooth, level, and widespread overshadowing. The breezes have been my companions all along. I could scan their merits and demerits with a fisher's eye, from the rough and sudden puff, urging the pool into ridges of ripple, to the steady, soft, and balmy breath that merely brought the surface into a slight commotion. Burns, too, I have studied, and streams, and gullets, and weils, and clay-brows, and bumbling pools. I have fished in the Caple with Willie Herdman. (See Blackwood, volume sixth.) I have fished in the Turrit with Stoddart. (See his admirable book on Angling.) But the true happiness of a fisher is solitude. Oh, for a fine morning in April, fresh, breezy, and dark!--a mountain glen, through which the Dar or the Brawn threads its mazy descent; the bottom clear, and purified by a recent flood; the waters not yet completely subsided--something betwixt clear and muddy--a light blue, and a still lighter brown. Not a shepherd, nor a sheep, nor a living creature within sight--nothing but the sound of the passing stream, and the plash of the hooked and landing trout. A whole immensity of unexhausted stream unfurled before me; the day yet in its nonage; my pockets stuffed with stomach store; my mind at ease; my tongue ever and anon repeating, audibly--"Now for it, this will do, there he has it, this way, sir, this way; nay, no tricks upon travellers--out, out you _must_ come--so, so, my pretty fellow, take it gently, take it gently!" But I am forgetting my first trout in the thousand and tens of thousands which have succeeded it. I had a knife--I know not how I got it; perhaps I bought it at a Thornhill fair, with a sixpence which the guidman of Auchincairn gave me as my fairing, or perhaps--but no matter; as Wordsworth would say, "I had a knife!" and this knife was my humble servant in all manner of duties; it was, in fact, my slave; it would cut bourtree, and fashion scout guns; it would make saugh whistles; it would fashion bows and arrows; it would pare cheese, and open hazel nuts; it was more generally useful than Hudibras' sword--and I felt its value. In fact, what was I without my knife? A soldier without his gun, a fiddler without his fiddle, a tailor without his shears. And yet this very knife, dear and useful as it was to me, I parted with--I gave it away, I fairly bartered it for a bait-hook with a horse-hair line attached to it. But then I had seen, and seen it for the first time, a trout caught with this very hook and line. Having a hook and line, I cut myself, from an adjoining wood, a rowan-tree fishing-rod, which might serve a double purpose, protecting me from the witches, and aiding me in catching trout. Away I went, "owre muirs and mosses mony o'," to the glorious Caple, of which I had heard much. I baited my hook with some difficulty; for worms, whatever boys may be, are not fond of _the sport_. I stood alongside of the deep black pool. I saw the deception alight in the water, and heard the plump; it sank, and sank, by a certain law, which philosophers have named gravitation; it became first pale-white, then yellow, then almost red, as it sank away into the dark profundity of mossy water. It lay still and motionless for a few instants. At last it moved; ye powers! it cuts the water like an edged instrument--it pulls--pulls strongly. The top of the rod touches the surface of the pool--something must be done--I am all trepidation. But, by mere strength of pulling and of tackle, a large yellow-wamed, black-backed fellow lies panting on the sand bank at the foot of the pool. "And its hame, hame, hame, Fain wad I be; And it's hame, hame, hame, To my ain mammie!" I ran home with all possible rapidity; and displayed, on a very large pewter plate, my first trout, to my kind and affectionate parent. My happiness was completed. The woods!--I was born in the woods; man lives originally in the primeval forests, with the exception, perhaps, of the Arab, the Babylonian, and Egyptian; wherever there was sufficient soil and suitable climate, there was wood, from Lapland to Capetown, from the Bay of Biscay to the Yellow Sea. The American forests still exist, where even the axe of European civilization has not reached them. There woods are natural to man; he turns to them as to something, he cannot well tell how or why, congenial to his nature. At least so I have felt it, and feel it still in my recollections of early life. Plantations are stiff and artificial, generally consisting of a dense field of regular similarity; but natural wood, the offspring of our own soil, the indigenous plants of Scotland--the birch, for example, with its bending and elegant twigs, its white stem, and grateful fragrance; the eternal oak, with its leafy shade; the tough ash, with its pointed leaf; the lowly hazel, with its straight stems and fragrant nuts; the saugh, the willow, the thorn-sloe, the haw, the elder, the bourtree, the crabtree, the briar, and the bramble--all these consociate lovingly, and actually did consociate around, and almost over, the humble but snug cot where I first drew breath. There, my first herald of day was the song of the linnet, thrush, or blackbird; there, my first efforts were made in gaining the top of some little ash or birch; there, my first riches consisted in a few pints of ripened and browned nuts, kept in the leg of a footless stocking, against the ensuing Halloween. But Halloween has now become a mere name--_et preterea nihil_, still _stat nominis umbra_, sufficient to make me recollect with delight the exquisite pleasure which I enjoyed in anticipating as well as in observing this festival. The crabtree yielded its reddest and ripest fruit for the occasion; a casual apple was hooked over the hedge of the castle orchard for the same purpose; but, above and beyond all, nuts were gathered, dried and stored away into sly corners and out-of-the-way places. What amusement so delightful as nut-gathering! There they hang to the afternoon sun, brown and ready to escape from their husks or shells. There are twosome clusters, and threesome clusters; and if you could reach without shaking that topmost branch (but there is the difficulty and the danger), you may even secure a twelvesome cluster--a glorious knot of lovely associates, that would crumble from their abodes into your hands like dried leaves! You pass on from bush to bush; but you have been anticipated. Will or Tam, or Jock or Jamie, or all four, have been there before you, and have left you nothing but a scanty gleaning. Here and there, you are enabled to extract from the centre of a leafy shade, an ill-ripened, because an unsound, single nut, which serves no better purpose than to break your jaws with its emptiness, in cracking it. But you push away into the interior--the _terra incognita_ of the woodland; and, standing out by itself, aired and sunned all over, you find a little branch of scroggs, stinted and ill-leaved, but really covered all over with the most exquisite fruitage. Long, large, are the nuts you have thus acquired; and you chuckle inwardly, as you contemplate a prize which has been reserved for your exclusive use. With what despatch are cluster after cluster accumulated into handfuls, and then again into pocketfuls, and then, at last, into cap, hat, or bonnetfuls, till you become a kind of shellicoat, a walking _nuttery_, a thing of husks and kernels! The voice of your companions is loud and frequent, in the language of inquiry into the state of your success; but you preserve a deep silence, or answer prevaricatingly, by, "you have got a few--not many--very bad place this," &c. &c. At last you come upon them with the astonishment of display, and expose your treasure with ineffable feelings of triumph. You have distanced them all. Your Halloween fortune is made--you are a happy being. But Halloween comes at last--Scotland's Halloween--Burns' Halloween--the Halloween of centuries upon centuries--of the Celt amidst his mountains, the Saxon in his valley, the Druid in his woods, King James the First in his palace--and old Janet Smith in her humble cottage. It was at Janet Smith's that I held the first Halloween of which I have any distinct recollection. There was a kind of couthiness about old Janet, which made her hearth the resort of all the young lads and lasses, boys and girls, around. On Halloween, Janet had on her best head-gear, her check apron, and clean neck napkin. We had such burning of nuts, such pu'ing of stocks, such singing of songs, such gibing, laughing, cracking, tale-telling, and, to crown all, such a gallant bowl of punch, made from a sonsy greybeard, which the young men had taken care to store previously with the needful, that I went home half crazy, and, my mother affirmed, continued so for several days to come. Ye gods! what superstitious notions peopled my brain ever since! I recollect such fears about the invisible world becoming visible--I walked amidst a multitude of unseen terrors, ever ready to burst the casement of immateriality, and to stand, naked, confessed, in material semblance, before me. There was the fairy, the inhabitant of the green unploughed knowe, the green-coated imp, intent on child-stealing, or rather barter, and jingling her bridle through the high air on Halloween; there was the ghost, awful, solemn, and admonishing, pointing with the finger to buried treasure or murder glen; there was the wraith, little less terrible, and clothed in a well-known presence, prognosticating death or sore affliction; there was the death-watch, distinctly heard tick, ticking, all night long, in the bed-post; there were the blue lights seen in round spots on the bed-head, on the very night when three lads and three lasses perished in the boat; there was the muckle deil himself, driving in a post-chaise, over the "chaise-craig," or panting, like a bull-dog, at the nightly traveller's feet; and, over and above all these, was "Will o' the Wisp," skipping about from one side of the moss to the other, and always placing itself betwixt you and your home. "D'ye see that?" said my cousin, Nelly Laurie, a girl of eighteen, to me, when my years could be reckoned by the number of the muses. "What! what is it!" I exclaimed; and my attention was directed towards a moss, or morass, through which our footpath lay, on our way home, about ten o'clock of a dark, damp, and cloudy night. "There! there it's again!" There is something in the word "it" most indefinitely terrific. Had she said _he_ or _she_, or even that ghost, or that wraith, or that bogle, it would not have been half so startling; but "it"--do you see it?--see a thing without a name, a definition--a mere object, shorn of its accidents or qualities! This is indeed most awful. With fear and trembling, I lifted up mine eyes, and beheld--O mercy, mercy!--a light in the middle of the moss, where no light should have been; and it was floating and playing about, blue as indigo, and making the darkness around it visible. My joints relaxed, and I fell to the earth, incapable of motion. I was a mere bundle of loose and unconnected bones, sinews, and muscles. My cousin stood over me, incapable of deciding what would be done; at last, it was discovered that to advance homewards was better than to retrograde, as we were already more than half-way on our course. I was instructed to repeat, and to continue repeating, aloud, the Lord's prayer; whilst she, on whose shoulders I lay like a dead sheep, continued to give audible note to the tune of the twenty-third psalm. It was, indeed, an odd concert for the devil, or his emissary, Mr. William yclept "of the Wisp," to listen to; for, whilst I was roaring out, in perfect desperation, "Our Father which art in Heaven," she was articulating, in a clear and overpowering tone, "The Lord's my shepherd;" whilst I slipt into "Hallowed be thy name," she advanced with, "I'll not want--he makes me down to lie!"--and, sure enough, down _both of us lay_, with a vengeance, in the midst of a moss-hole, into which, from terror and the darkness of the night, we had inadvertently plunged. "What's the meaning of all this, sirs!" exclaimed a well-known voice. It was my mother's, God bless her! I clung to her like grim death, and never quitted my hold till I was snugly lodged above the fire, near to the lamp, and with dog, cat, my cousin, and my mother, betwixt me and the dark doorway passage! I did not get a sound sleep for months and years afterwards! Such are thy miseries, unhallowed, unmanly superstition! Disease may relax the body and enervate the whole frame; but thou art the disease of the soul, the fever of the brain. Misfortunes may be borne--pain must be endured till it is cured--but superstition such as _this_, is neither endurable nor curable. I am not yet completely cured of it, now that I have entered my sixtieth year. Were you to send me into an empty, dark church, at midnight, and through a surrounding churchyard, peopled with the bodies of the dead, I durst not go, though you gave me large sums of money. And is my judgment or reason in fault? Not at all; it is my feelings, my moral nature; my very blood has got such a blue tinge that I verily believe it would look like the blue ink I am writing with, were it caught in a tea-cup! Sir Walter Scott was bit, too, and so are nine-tenths of the _living_, though they won't allow it. It has now become, like latent heat, an unseen agency; but it still acts, and powerfully, on civilized, and even learned man! Seeking of birds' nests is a glorious amusement, and the knowledge of a large amount of these is a possession to be boasted of. I know of a linnet's nest, says one--and I of a robin's, says another--I of shilfa's, says a third; but a fourth party comes in with his mavis, and all competition is at an end. The mavis is indeed a Scottish nightingale; he sings so mellow, and so varied--his brown spreckled breast turned up to the rising or the setting sun, he pours o'er the woodland a whole concert of harmony; and then he awakens into competition the blackbird, with his �olian whistle; the green and grey linnet, with their sharp and sweet tweedle-twee; the goldfinch, with his scarlet hood and song of flame; and the lark on the far-off fell, with his minstrelsy of heaven's border. But what to a boy, a boy of eight or nine, is all this song and sunshine, in comparison with the fact--"I know of five birds' nests!" Why, this annunciation is enough to settle your doom--you may almost apprehend assassination, so much must you be envied. But true it is, and of verity; I once knew five birds' nests--all containing eggs or young. Oh, I remember them as it were only of yesterday. Time has only engraved, with a tool of adamant, the impression deeper and deeper. There was the snug and pendulous abode of the little kitty-wren. It was beneath the brow of the burn, covered over from winds and rains by the incumbent bank and brushwood. It was a plum-pudding, with a hole made by your thumb on one side; a stationary football, composed of all things soft and comfortable, covered on the outside with fog or moss, and in the inside lined with the down of feathers; and there were from sixteen to twenty little blue _peas_ in it; and the little hen sat on them daily, and opposed her little bill vigorously to my intrusive finger. She was not afraid--not she! she fought manfully, "_pro aris et focis_;" if not, as the Romans say, "_manibus pedibusque_;" nor, as the savage Saxons say, "tooth and nail," nor, as the shepherd of Ettrick says, "knees and elbows an' a',"--still she fought with the instruments with which nature had endowed her, with her bill and her little claws, and she fought it most vigorously. O Nature! thou art a fearful mystery of wisdom--thou makest the meekest and most timid natures bold as lions when their progeny are concerned. Look at the hen--poor chucky, that scrapes her pittance from the doorway or dunghill, whom the veriest whelp which can bark and tumble over will scare into wing and screech--put the hen on eggs, give her an infant brood, show her danger from dog, man, bear, or lion--who's afraid? Not she at least; she will dance on the nose of the mastiff, she will fly in the face of humanity, whether in the shape of man, woman, boy, or child. The warrior looks fierce in his regimentals and armour; but what cares she for guns, bayonets, swords, and pistols? Not a peppercorn! Her young ones are behind her, and she will meet the armed monster, with foot, bill, wing, and with a fearful intonation of terrifying sounds. No Highland regiment, even at Prestonpans, ever set up a more alarming battle shout. She is never conquered--like Achilles, she is "invincible;" but so soon as her progeny need no more her care or her protection--so soon as they have been pecked into estrangement, and sent to scrape and provide for themselves--she resumes all her mild and feminine qualities--she is plain "chucky" again! The linnet's nest is covered with scales of a silky whiteness--the fine thin _laminæ_ which cover the bark of the oak, of that very tree in the cleft of whose branches her nursery is fixed. Inside of this little nicely-proportioned cup, there are five beautifully-spotted eggs--a white ground with a grey spot, flung over the whole shell with a most charming regularity. And there is a nest in that stone wall which surrounds the plantation--it is that of the stone-chatter--filthy, unsonsy bird, fit companion for the yellow yeldring, which conceals her treasure 'neath a tuft of grass on the bent, and is trodden under foot. They are both deserving of all detestation; the one for drinking every May morning of the devil's-blood, and the other for many an impertinent jest and chatter. Let them perish in one day--let their eggs be blown, and hung up as ornaments in strings along the brow of the household looking-glass, or smashed to atoms by the stroke of an urchin previously blinded. "For he ne'er would be true, she averred, That would rob a poor bird." It was whilst engaged in robbery of this kind, that I was first checked by the tears and entreaties of Mary--of my dear cousin, Mary Morison. Alas! poor Mary! thou wast mild, beautiful, kind, merciful; yet thy days have been numbered, and thou art gone-- "Unde negant redire quenquam;" and I, a lubber fiend in comparison with thy beauty and gentleness--I, a personification of cruelty and horror in comparison with thee--I am still alive, and thinking of thee--whilst thou art not even _dust_--"_etiam periere ruinæ_." Forty-five years confound even dust, and reduce to a fearful nonentity all that smiled, and charmed, and inspired. But of this enough--this way madness lies. That was a terrible conflagration at Miramichi. I think I hear it crashing, thundering, crackling on; before it the wild beasts, the serpents, the cattle--man! poor, houseless, helpless, smoke-enveloped, and perishing man. The reason why I can conceive so vividly of this awful and comparatively recent visitation is this--I was accustomed to "set muirburn" when a boy of nine or ten. The primeval heath of our mountains was strong, bushy; and, when dry in spring, exceedingly inflammable. I was a mountain child; for, on one side of my dwelling the heather withered and bloomed up to the door; and when one thinks of the "bonny blooming heather," it is quite refreshing; it blooms when all things around it are withering, during the later months of harvest; but then, oh, then, it puts on such a russet robe of beauty--a dark evening cloud tipped and tinged with red--a mantle of black velvet spangled with gold; and its fragrance is honey steeped in myrrh. Yet when withered in March and April, it is an object of aversion to the sheep farmer, who prefers green grass and tender sward; and he issues to impatient boyhood the sentence of destruction. Peat follows peat, kindled at one end, and held by the other; the hillside or the level muir swarm with matches; carefully is the ignition communicated to the dry and widespread heath; from spot to spot--in lines and in circles--it extends and unites--the wind is up, and one continuous blaze is the almost immediate consequence. It is night, dark night--the clouds above catch and reflect the uncertain gleam. The heathfowl wing their terrified flight--through, above, and beneath the rolling and outspreading smoke. The flame gathers into a point; and, at the more advanced part of the curvature, the force and blaze is terrible. A thousand tongues of fire shoot up into the density, and immediately disappear. Who now so venturous as to dash headlong through the hottest flame, and to recover from beneath the choking night his former position? There goes--a hat--a cap--a bonnet! They have taken up their position in the pathway of the devouring flood of fire--and who so brave, so daring, as to extricate his own property from instant destruction? Hurrah! hurrah! from a score of throats, mixes with the thunder, the crackle, the roll--all is power, novelty, ecstasy; bare heads and bare feet dance and show conspicuously upon the still smoking turf. Here an adder is seen writhing and twisting in the agonies of death. There a half-burned hat evinces the fun and the folly of its owner. But, oh, horrible! what is that on the edge of vision, in the dim and hazy distance; it comes forward, bounding, turning, and bellowing, fearful and paralysing; it is the bull himself escaped from his fold, and maddened by the smoke and blazing atmosphere. He comes down upon the charge, tail erect, and head down, tossing all that is solid under his feet, and looking through the scattered earth with eyes glaring as well as reflecting fire. Achilles, Hector, Agamemnon, Wallace, Wellington, never entered a field of battle with such a terrific presence. He seems as if he had just escaped from a Roman or Spanish arena. He is desperately infuriated; and woe be to him who shall be overtaken by this muscular tornado in his weakness and his fears! We are off! _diffugimus_! We are nowhere to be found. One has made for a distant wall surrounding the heather park, and is in the act of climbing it. The bull is in full chase, armed with two short but powerful horns. The fugitive has just laid hold of an upper stone to assist his ascent; but the faithless help has given way; stone and he are lying alongside of the dyke. The bull is in full scent. The noise has directed him. He nears--he nears--he nears! My God! the urchin's life is not worth two minutes' purchase. "Now, do thy speedy, Arnot Wull-- 'Twill take it all to clear the bull!" Bravo! the summit is gained; the feet of the pursued are seen flying in mid air; he has sprung from the summit at least twenty feet; but the whole weight of the pursuing brute is upon the crazy structure; it gives way with a crash, and down rush stones over stones, and the poor maimed, bruised brute over all. What! Mr. Bull! are you satisfied?--why not continue the sport? But the game is up; Will has regained his mother's dwelling, and now lives to record this wonderful, this all but miraculous escape. Catch me setting muirburn again! I was very unwilling, at the age of nine, to be sent to school--I had formed for myself a home society with which I was perfectly satisfied; but the decree had gone forth, and to school I must go, to learn Latin, conducted by a scholar of some standing. I had three miles to walk, but I would have wished them ten. Shakspeare shows the characters with whom time gallops, and, amongst others, with a thief who is to be hanged on a certain day--he might have mentioned a schoolboy, with shiny morning face, going unwillingly to school. When I came within sight of the large, many-windowed building, my heart beat sorely with alarm. All was new to me--the boys, the masters, the house, the grounds around it; in fact, I was about to pass into a new state of being. I was bursting the shell, and coming forth into real life. Hitherto I had seen nobody but the herd-callan, the Gibson family, my mother and _her_ aunts. I was exceeding smart and mischievous, no doubt; but my sphere of operations was confined; now it was about to be enlarged--I must face three hundred boys and girls in the park or school play-ground of Wallacehall. All eyes would be turned upon me; my very dress would undergo a scrutiny; nor would I easily escape the seasoning welcome, a hearty drubbing: all this I anticipated, and all this and more I soon experienced. When I set up my face in the play-ground about half-past eight (nine being the school hour), all was commotion. Alas! how many are now motionless who were then active--_still_, who were then vociferous--_cold_, whose hearts were then beating warm and buoyant! When the disk of my countenance appeared at the entrance into the park or play-ground, I was immediately smoked. One fellow came up with the most affected good-nature, and hoped my _mither_ was with me. I would be in great danger, he said, without her. A second one bid me tie my shoe, and, whilst I was stooping, hauled me heels over head. I had not fairly recovered my natural position, when I was hit on the side of my head with a ball, till my eyes glanced fire; anon, the drive, the crowd, the scramble carried me along with it completely off my feet. I was pelted, bruised, buffeted, and even kicked. Human nature could stand it no longer--my spirit, even that of the Devil, was awakened within me--I struck out around me with all my might, and at random--somebody's nose happened to come in the way of my knuckles, and it bled; he struck back again, and the blood sprang from my lips. A ring was formed--to it we went--I, running in upon him head and shoulders, "knees and elbows an' a'," laid him flat; unfair play was proclaimed--my antagonist was raised; but he was pale and breathless; he said he was _hearted_, and had almost fainted; so I got a cheap victory, and eternal glory! I took my place amongst the boys, unmolested and respected in future. I would twaddle through a pretty decent volume, about public and private education, and everybody but my bookseller would think I was speaking sense; but I will spare my reader and myself, and only add, in one sentence, that a public seminary, well conducted, is the best of all schools _for the world_--preparation for the buffetings, kickings, and jostlings of life. THE SUICIDE'S GRAVE. The suicide's grave--where is it? It is at the meeting or crossing of three public roads; the body has been thrust down, under the darkness of night, into a coffinless grave. The breast, formerly torn and lacerated by passions, has lately been mangled into horrid deformity by the pointed stake; and the traveller, as he walks, rides, or drives along, regards the spot with an eye of suspicion, and blesses his stars that he is a living man. The suicide's grave--where is it? On the bare and cold top of that mountain which divides Lanark from Dumfriesshire. There you may see congregated the hoody craw, and the grey gled, and the eagle--but they are not congregated in peace and in friendship; they are fearful rivals, and terrible notes do they utter as they contend over the body of her who was fair, and innocent, and happy. Alas, for Alice Lorimer! Her story is a sad one, and it would require the pen of a Sterne or a Wilson to do it justice. But the circumstances are of themselves so full of mournful interest, that, even though stated in the most simple language, they cannot fail, I should think, to interest--nay, I will say it at once, to excite sympathy and pity; for why should we not pity the unhappy and unfortunate? They are pitied in poverty, in obscurity, in sickness, in death. Why should not we even pity the guilty and abandoned? They are pitied in prison, on the day of trial, and, most of all, in the hour of execution. There--even there--on that platform, the murderer himself obtains that sympathy which we refuse to the suicide. He who has only ruined, destroyed himself, is held in greater abhorrence than the man who has ruined innocence, and even murdered the unhappy mother and unborn babe. Away with such unjust and ungenerous distinctions! Away, and to the highway and to the mountain top, and to the raven, and the falcon, and the eagle, with the seducer and the murderer; and let the poor suicide's grave, in future, be in consecrated ground, where remembrance may soon overlook his woes and his very existence. Let him sleep unknowing and unknown in the churchyard of his fathers. Alice Lorimer, I myself knew--I was intimately acquainted with her--I was a companion and a favourite. In frosty weather we have frequented the same slides, and, when Alice was in danger of falling, I have caught her in my arms; we have hopped together for hours, playing at beds, and I even made Alice privy to all my birds' nests. Hers was indeed a playful, but a gentle nature. Her heart was light, her voice clear and cheerful, and her whole affections were engrossed by an only surviving parent, a widowed father. Alice was his first-born and his last. Her mother had given her life at the expense of her own; and her father, a shoemaker in the village of Croalchapel, devoted his whole spare time to the education of Alice. Often have I seen him, with the shoe on the last, and the elshun in his hand, pursuing his daily labours; but listening attentively all the while to Aly's readings. It was thus the child was taught to read the Bible, to say her prayers, and ultimately to make her father's dinner and her own. Their cottage stood at what was termed the "_head_ of the town," on a sunny eminence looking to the west; behind it were the shade and the shelter of many trees, of the widespread oak, the tall ash, and the sweetly-scented birch. On Sabbath afternoons, John Lorimer might be seen with his beloved child, clean and neatly dressed, ascending to the top of the Bormoors braes; and, from the green summit of the eminence, looking abroad over a landscape, certainly not surpassed by any which has yet come under the writer's observation. On his one hand lay the worn and silver-clasped Bible, from which portions of the gospels were occasionally read, and on the other reposed Poodle, a little wire-haired dog of uncommon natural parts, which had been greatly improved by education. Poodle could bark, and do all manner of things. His eyes would "glisten in friendship, or beam in reply." His nose was a platform, from which many little pieces of bread had been tossed up into the air, and afterwards snapped. He was all obedience to little Alice in particular; and, at her bidding, would do anything but swim--he had, somehow or other, contracted an aversion for the water, probably referable to some mischievous boys having one day thrown him into Closeburn Loch. Alice and I went to school together. Her father's cottage lay directly in my way, and I called daily for the sweet girl. The other boys laughed at me, and made a fool of me, and asked me if I had seen Alice this morning. I could not stand this; for I reverenced the little innocent lamb--so I hit the Mr. Impertinence a blow in the stomach, which sent him reeling over several benches. I was no more taunted about Alice Lorimer. There were a number of older and less feminine girls at the school at this time. At play-hours these congregated by themselves behind the school, whilst the boys occupied the play-ground in front. Alice was one day severely handled by a neighbour's daughter, who had fixed a quarrel on her, and then beat her severely, calling her all manner of names, and, amongst others, honouring her with my own. I found the poor child--for I was a few years older--in tears, as we met in the Castle-wood on our way home. It was with difficulty that I drew, bit by bit, the whole truth from her; and I resolved to punish, in one way or other, the rude and ill-hearted aggressor in this matter. I could not think of punishing her myself; but I got Jean Watson, the servant-maid of the factor's clerk--a kind of haverel, who sometimes threw me an apple over the hedge in passing--I got her to catch the culprit after dark, and to chastise her in her own way. I know not how it was effected, but it produced loud screams, and much merriment to me; for I was lying all the while _perdu_ on the other side of the hedge. Tibby Murdoch was a most revengeful person--quite the antipodes to sweet Alice Lorimer. She was the daughter of a quarryman, who had come, only a few years before, to reside in the place, and work at the Laird of Closeburn's lime-works. How difficult it is for poor blind mortals to see the consequences of their actions! Had I then fully perceived what this act of retaliation was to lead to--what dismal consequences were to follow--I would rather have sunk at once into perdition than have been concerned in the affair. Tibby Murdoch's father was a brutal and a passionate man; and, understanding from his daughter how matters stood, and that poor Alice Lorimer had been the cause of his daughter's disaster, he left his work at mid-day, and, taking a horse-whip in his hand, entered the shoemaker's shop, and not finding Alice, without more ado, he proceeded to apply it to John Lorimer's shoulders. John Lorimer was a little, but a strong and well-made man, and, though the other was tall, bull-headed, and extremely athletic, John immediately threw aside his instruments of labour, which he felt it was dangerous to use on the occasion, and closed at once with the enemy. The struggle was severe; but John Lorimer, having got a hold of Murdoch about the middle, fairly lifted him off his feet, and dashed him down on the floor. Murdoch's strength, however, was superior to John's; and he contrived to roll over upon his enemy, and at last to thrust his head immediately under a grate, which stood in a corner of the shop, containing live coals for melting some rosin which was about to be used. The crucible, with the melted and boiling rosin was upturned; and, unfortunately, the whole contents were spread over John Lorimer's face. He was dreadfully burned; but, what was worst of all, he lost the sight of one eye by the accident, and was very materially injured in the other. On an investigation by the proper authorities, Murdoch was convicted of the assault, and imprisoned for twelve calendar months. During his imprisonment, revenge upon poor Lorimer was his constant theme; and, when the time expired, he removed to the parish of Keir, and found employment in a lime-work belonging to Dr. Hunter of Barjarg. He was still, unfortunately, within an hour's walk of Croalchapel, and lay, like a cat in a corner, watching his prey. In the meantime, John Lorimer, though greatly deformed in his countenance, recovered the use of one eye, and pursued his quiet and useful labour as formerly. As his daughter Alice advanced in years, she grew in loveliness and virtue. At twelve years of age she became her father's housekeeper; and conducted herself in that capacity with surprising sense and prudence. It was at this time that I left school for college; and I spent the last night with Alice Lorimer. I was then a lad of sixteen, and she, as I have said, was twelve. What had I to do in the Castle-wood, by moonlight, and late after her father had gone to rest, with Alice Lorimer! Gentle reader, have a little patience, and exercise a little Christian charity, and, upon my honour, I will tell you all! But, in the first place, I must know your sex, and whether or not you have ever been sixteen years old. If your sex corresponds with my own, and your information on the other subject is equal to my own, then you will understand the thing completely. I was then as innocent as it is possible for a youth of sixteen to be; nay, I was absolutely shy and bashful to a great degree, and would have shrunk from any advances, even to innocent familiarity, with the other sex. But I was not in love with Alice Lorimer. True, she preferred my company to that of any other person, save her dearly-beloved father; true, she sat on my knee, as she did on that of her parent, unconscious of any different feeling in the two positions; but we never talked of love; I would as soon have thought of talking of our being king and queen; and as to Alice, her friendship for me was as pure as the love of angels. She could not think of parting with me--of perhaps (and she burst into tears) never seeing me again. I must write to her--and I must come back and see her, and talk funnily to her father, who liked a joke--and I must--I forget how many "musts" there were; but they lasted till half-past one o'clock. I parted with her at her father's door. I never saw her again! I was coming down Enterkin late in a fine moonlight night in the spring of 1806. I was on my way to join a family in Galloway, where I long acted in the capacity of tutor. I had then attained my twenty-first year; and I chanced to be calculating--as I expected seeing Alice Lorimer on the following day--what her age must be. Let me see, said I, so audibly that I started at my own utterance, as did a little pony I rode; and what followed was the sum of my reflections. I calculated, by the common rule of proportion, that if Alice was twelve when I was sixteen, she would be seventeen now that I was twenty-one. Seventeen! I repeated, just seventeen!--and I urged on the pony instinctively, as if hastening towards Croalchapel. But I had been five years at Edinburgh at College. What a change had come over the spirit of my dreams during that period! I had had to contend with fortune in many ways; had been often disappointed, and sometimes driven almost to despair; again I had prospered, got into lucrative employment, become a member of speaking societies, distinguished myself by talking sense and nonsense right and left. I had spent many merry evenings in Johnie Dowie's; and had seen Lady Charlotte Campbell and Tom Sheridan in a box at the theatre. In fact, I was not now the same being I was when I left for College; and I felt that, however fair and faultless Alice Lorimer might be, she could never be mine--I could never be hers; our fortunes were separated by a barrier which, when I went to College, I did not clearly perceive. In fact, my ambition now taught me to aim at the bar or the church; and I knew that, for years to come, I must be contented with a single life, which, in Edinburgh in particular, I had learned to endure without murmuring. Yet I thought of poor Alice with most kindly feelings, and had some secret doubts upon the propriety of exposing myself in her presence to a revival of old times and former feelings. In this tone of mind I was jogging on, with half a bottle of Mrs. Otto's (of Lead-hills) best port wine under my belt, and endeavouring to collect some rhymes to the word Lorimer; but either the muse was unpropitious, or the word, like that mentioned in Horace, refused to stand in verse; it so happened that I had given up the effort, and was about to dismiss the subject altogether, when I discovered, near the bottom of the pass, a number of figures advancing upon me in an opposite direction. As they came up the pass, under a meridian moon, I could discover that they carried something on a barrow, which, on nearer inspection, I found to be a coffin. I drew my pony to the side of the road, lifted my hat reverentially, and the party, consisting of upwards of twenty, passed in solemn silence. The incident was a little startling, and somewhat unnatural, not to say superhuman; for, why were these people carrying a coffin up the long and narrow pass which separates Lanark from Dumfriesshire, so late at night, and in such mysterious silence? A thought struck me, which contributed not a little to ease my mind in regard to supernaturals; were they a company of smugglers from Bowness, taking this method of carrying forward their untaxed goods to Lanark and Glasgow? Ruminating on this subject, and laughing inwardly at my own ingenuity and discernment, I arrived at last at Thornhill, where I remained for the night. Next morning I reached Croalchapel, on my way to my birthplace. I went up to that very door at which I had parted with Alice, some five years before, and endeavoured to open it; but it was shut and locked. I looked in at the end-window, above the fire-place; but there was neither fire nor inhabitant--all was silence. My heart sank within me; and a neighbour, who saw my ignorance and mistake, advertised me that both parent and child were no more; and that Alice Lorimer was _buried_!--here he hesitated, and seemed to retract the expression--"at least," said he, "committed to the earth last night!" "Was she not buried by her father in the burial-ground of the Lorimers of Closeburn?" said I, hastily, and in an agitated tone. The man looked me in the face attentively, and, probably then for the first time recognising me, waved his hand, burst into tears, and left me. I hastened to the home of my fathers, half distracted. My mother still lived and enjoyed good health--from her I learned the following particulars. John Lorimer's sight, she said, served him for a time, during which he wrought as usual, and his daughter grew to be a tall and handsome woman; but at last it began to fail, and he would put the elshun into a wrong place, or thrust it into his hand. Alice perceived this, and was most anxious to provide for her father under this irremediable calamity. She took in linen and bleached it on the bonny knowe among the gowans; she span yarn, and sold it at Thornhill fairs; in short, she did all she could to support herself and her father in an honest and honourable way. But it was a severe struggle to make ends meet. In the meantime she had several offers of marriage; but refused them all, as she could not think of leaving her poor blind parent alone and helpless, and none of her lovers were rich enough to present a home to a supernumerary inmate. One evening, whilst, after a severe day's labour, she was sitting with old Poodle (her constant companion, but now likewise blind) by the fire, Mr. John Murdoch made his appearance. Her father had gone early to bed in the shop end of the house, and did not know of the man's visit. He came, he said, as a repentant sinner to relieve her necessities. He had occasioned her father's blindness, and he was glad to be made the instrument of bringing some pecuniary relief. Thus saying, he put into her hands a five-pound note, and, without waiting for a reply, took his departure. This startled poor Alice not a little; she looked at the money, then thought of the man, and again listened to see if her father was sleeping--at last, she put it into her chest, determined not to make use of it unless in case of necessity. The factor, who had hitherto been lenient, became urgent for the rent. There were two years due, and the five-pound note exactly covered the debt; away therefore it went into the factor's hands, and poor Alice returned thanks on her knees to Heaven, that had sent her the means of keeping from her father the knowledge of their situation. In a few days Murdoch found her at the washing-green, and entered more particularly into the history of the money. He said it had been sent by one who had seen and admired her. He was on a visit at Barjarg, the proprietor being his uncle. He was the son and heir of a very rich man, not expected to live many months. He was determined to please himself in marrying, having observed great misery arise from adopting a contrary plan and he wished, in fine, to cultivate a further acquaintance with Alice, to whom he had sent another five-pound note in the meantime. In short, after exhibiting great reluctance to agree to a secret interview, and after having again and again tried to get words to communicate the whole matter to her father, a young gentleman of gaudy and genteel appearance made his way out of the adjoining wood, and was introduced by Murdoch as young Johnstone of Westerhall. Few words passed--poor Alice was quite nonplussed--she felt that she was not equal to this awful trial, and yet there was something fearfully pleasant in it. A young man, handsome and rich--her father blind and helpless--her hand quite at her own disposal--and independence and comfort brought to the good man's house for life. Her lover, however, did not press the thing further that time; he took his departure along with Murdoch, and Alice was a second time left to her own reflections. These, however, soon informed her that she was on the brink of perdition. She ran at once to her father, and, in a paroxysm of feeling, informed him of all that had passed. He reproved her, but gently, for her having devoted the money to the purpose which she mentioned; informed her that he was richer than she supposed, for he had just five pounds which her sainted mother had put into his hand on the marriage day; and that he was keeping, and had kept it sacred against the expenses of his funeral. He would now willingly give it to recover their house, and to free her from all temptation to sin. Alice wept; but she felt comforted in the assurance that, by repaying the money, and breaking off all connection with Murdoch and Johnstone, she was doing the right and the safe thing. Accordingly, she went to bed with a satisfied mind, determined next day to find out Murdoch's dwelling, and have everything settled to her father's advice and her own wish. She dressed herself in her best; and set out, soon after breakfast, for Barjarg Castle, never to see her father again. She was betrayed by the revengeful Murdoch to a dissipated, a heartless debauchee; was carried by force betwixt Murdoch and him in a chaise to Dumfries; was lodged by Johnstone in convenient quarters. Every art was used to reconcile her to her situation: but all in vain; she stood her trials nobly; detected the old game of a private marriage; and afterwards refused to be united to Johnstone on any terms whatever. But in the meantime, poor John Lorimer missed his daughter, and immediately guessed the cause of it. Tibby Murdoch took care to inform him, for his comfort, that Alice had run away with the young Laird of Westerha', and, giggling and laughing all the while, that they were living very comfortably and lovingly in Dumfries. The blind man knew this to be all a lie, but he knew enough to kill him; he knew that his daughter was young and beautiful--that a villain had been endeavouring to inveigle her--that a still greater villain, Murdoch, had betrayed her--and that, in a word, she was now a poor dishonoured woman. He knew, or thought he knew, all this, and was found dead next morning in his bed. The doctors said he died of apoplexy! If it was, it was a mental apoplexy. Tired with fruitless efforts to gain his purpose, Johnstone at last permitted Alice to depart. In a few hours she was at her father's house; but it was desolate and silent. A paper, which was put into my hands, was evidently written by Alice. She expressed her determination to follow her dear father into another and a better world, and hoped Heaven would forgive her. It was her funeral I met at Enterkin. Hers was "The poor suicide's grave." THE SALMON-FISHER OF UDOLL. In the autumn of 1759, the Bay of Udoll, an arm of the sea which intersects the southern shore of the Frith of Cromarty, was occupied by two large salmon wears, the property of one Allan Thomson, a native of the province of Moray, who had settled in this part of the country a few months before. He was a thin, athletic, raw-boned man, of about five feet ten, well nigh in his thirtieth year, but apparently younger; erect and clean-limbed, with a set of handsome features, bright intelligent eyes, and a profusion of dark-brown hair, curling round an ample expanse of forehead. For the first twenty years of his life, he had lived about a farm-house, tending cattle when a boy, and guiding the plough when he had grown up; he then travelled into England, where he wrought about seven years as a common labourer. A novelist would scarcely make choice of such a person for the hero of a tale; but men are to be estimated rather by the size and colour of their minds, than the complexion of their circumstances; and this ploughman and labourer of the north was by no means a very common man. For the latter half of his life, he had pursued, in all his undertakings, one main design. He saw his brother rustics tied down by circumstance--that destiny of vulgar minds--to a youth of toil and dependence, and an old age of destitution and wretchedness; and, with a force of character which, had he been placed at his outset on what may be termed the table-land of fortune, would have raised him to her higher pinnacles, he persisted in adding shilling to shilling and pound to pound, not in the sordid spirit of the miser, but in the hope that his little hoard might yet serve him as a kind of stepping-stone in rising to a more comfortable place in society. Nor were his desires fixed very high; for, convinced that independence and the happiness which springs from situation in life lie within the reach of the frugal farmer of sixty or eighty acres, he moulded his ambition on the conviction; and scarcely looked beyond the period at which he anticipated his savings would enable him to take his place among the humbler tenantry of the country. Our firths and estuaries at this period abounded with salmon--one of the earliest exports of the kingdom; but from the low state into which commerce had sunk in the northern districts, and the irregularity of the communication kept up between them and the sister kingdom, by far the greater part caught on our shores were consumed by the inhabitants. And so little were they deemed a luxury, that it was by no means uncommon, it is said, for servants to stipulate with their masters that they should not have to diet on salmon oftener than thrice a-week. Thomson, however, had seen quite enough, when in England, to convince him, that, meanly as they were esteemed by his countryfolks, they might be rendered the staple of a profitable trade; and, removing to the vicinity of Cromarty, for the facilities it afforded in trading to the capital, he launched boldly into the speculation. He erected his two wears with his own hands; built himself a cottage of sods on the gorge of a little ravine, sprinkled over with bushes of alder and hazel; entered into correspondence with a London merchant, whom he engaged as his agent; and began to export his fish by two large sloops, which plied, at this period, between the neighbouring port and the capital. His fishings were abundant, and his agent an honest one; and he soon began to realize the sums he had expended in establishing himself in the trade. Could any one anticipate that a story of fondly-cherished, but hapless attachment--of one heart blighted for ever, and another fatally broken--was to follow such an introduction? The first season of Thomson's speculation had come to a close; winter set in; and, with scarcely a single acquaintance among the people in the neighbourhood, and little to employ him, he had to draw for amusement on his own resources alone. He had formed, when a boy, a taste for reading; and might now be found in the long evenings, hanging over a book, beside the fire; by day, he went sauntering among the fields, calculating on the advantages of every agricultural improvement; or attended the fairs and trysts of the country, to speculate on the profits of the drover and cattle-feeder, and make himself acquainted with all the little mysteries of bargain-making. There holds, early in November, a famous cattle market in the ancient barony of Ferntosh; and Thomson had set out to attend it. The morning was clear and frosty, and he felt buoyant of heart and limb, as passing westwards along the shore, he saw the huge Ben-Nevis towering darker and more loftily over the Frith as he advanced; or turned aside, from time to time, to explore some ancient burying-ground or Danish encampment. There is not a tract of country of equal extent in the three kingdoms, where antiquities of this class lie thicker than in that northern strip of the parish of Resolis which bounds on the Cromarty Frith. The old castle of Craig House, a venerable, time-shattered building, detained him, amid its broken arches, for hours; and he was only reminded of the ultimate object of his journey, when, on surveying the moor from the upper bartizan, he saw that the groups of men and cattle which, since morning, had been mottling in succession the track leading to the fair, were all gone out of sight; and that, far as the eye could reach not a human figure was to be seen. The whole population of the country seemed to have gone to the fair. He quitted the ruins, and, after walking smartly over the heathy ridge to the west, and through the long birch-wood of Kinbeakie, he reached about mid-day the little straggling village at which the market holds. Thomson had never before attended a thoroughly Highland market; and the scene now presented was wholly new to him. The area it occupied was an irregular opening in the middle of the village, broken by ruts, and dung-hills, and heaps of stone. In front of the little turf-houses on either side, there was a row of booths, constructed mostly of poles and blankets, in which much whisky, and a few of the simpler articles of foreign merchandise, were sold. In the middle of the open space, there were carts and benches, laden with the rude manufactures of the country--Highland brogues and blankets; bowls and platters of beech; a species of horse and cattle harness, formed of the twisted twigs of birch; bundles of split fir, for lath and torches; and hair tackle and nets, for fishermen. Nearly seven thousand persons, male and female, thronged the area bustling and busy, and in continual motion, like the tides and eddies of two rivers at their confluence. There were countrywomen, with their shaggy little horses, laden with cheese and butter; Highlanders from the far hills, with droves of sheep and cattle; shoemakers and weavers, from the neighbouring villages, with bales of webs and wallets of shoes; farmers and fishermen, engaged as it chanced in buying or selling; bevies of bonny lasses, attired in their gayest; ploughmen and mechanics; drovers, butchers, and herd-boys. Whisky flowed abundantly, whether bargain-makers bought or sold, or friends met or parted; and, as the day wore later, the confusion and bustle of the crowd increased. A Highland tryst, even in the present age, rarely passes without witnessing a fray; and the Highlanders, seventy years ago, were of more combative dispositions than they are now; but Thomson, who had neither friend nor enemy among the thousands around him, neither quarreled himself, nor interfered in the quarrels of others. He merely stood and looked on, as a European would among the frays of one of the great fairs of Bagdad or Astracan. He was passing through the crowd, towards evening, in front of one of the dingier cottages, when a sudden burst of oaths and exclamations rose from within, and the inmates came pouring out pell-mell at the door, to throttle and pummel one another, in inextricable confusion. A grey headed old man, of great apparent strength, who seemed by far the most formidable of the combatants, was engaged in desperate battle with two young fellows from the remote Highlands, while all the others were matched man to man. Thomson, whose residence in England had taught him very different notions of fair play and the ring, was on the eve of forgetting his caution and interfering; but the interference proved unnecessary. Ere he had stepped up to the combatants, the old man, with a vigour little lessened by age, had shaken off both his opponents; and, though they stood glaring at him like tiger cats, neither of them seemed in the least inclined to renew the attack. "Twa mean pitiful kerns," exclaimed the old man, "to tak odds against ane auld enough to be their faither! an that, too, after burning my loof wi' the het airn! But I hae noited their twa heads thegither! Sic a trick!--to bid me stir up the fire, after they had heated the wrang end o' the poker! Deil but I hae a guid mind to gie them baith mair o't yet!" Ere he could make good his threat, however, his daughter, a delicate-looking girl of nineteen, came rushing up to him through the crowd. "Father!" she exclaimed, "dearest father! let us away. For my sake, if not your own, let these wild men alone; they always carry knives; and, besides, you will bring all of their clan upon you that are at the tryst, and you will be murdered." "No muckle danger frae that, Lillias," said the old man. "I hae little fear frae ony ane o' them; an' if they come by twasome, I hae my friends here to. The ill-deedy wratches, to blister a' my loof wi' the poker! But come awa, lassie; your advice is, I daresay, best after a'." The old man quitted the place with his daughter; and, for the time, Thomson saw no more of him. As the night approached, the Highlanders became more noisy and turbulent; they drank, and disputed, and drove their very bargains at the dirk's point; and, as the salmon-fisher passed through the village for the last time, he could see the waving of bludgeons, and hear the formidable war-cry of one of the clans, with the equally formidable, "Hilloa! help for Cromarty!" echoing on every side of him. He kept coolly on his way, however, without waiting the result; and while yet several miles from the shores of Udoll, daylight had departed, and the moon at full had risen, red and huge in the frosty atmosphere, over the bleak hill of Nigg. He had reached the burn of Newhall--a small stream, which, after winding for several miles between its double row of alders, and its thickets of gorse and hazel, falls into the upper part of the bay--and was cautiously picking his way, by the light of the moon, along a narrow pathway which winds among the bushes. There are few places in the country of worse repute among believers in the supernatural than the burn of Newhall; and its character seventy years ago was even worse than it is at present. Witch meetings without number have been held on its banks, and dead lights have been seen hovering over its deeper pools. Sportsmen have charged their fowling-pieces with silver when crossing it in the night-time; and I remember an old man who never approached it after dark without fixing a bayonet on the head of his staff. Thomson, however, was but little influenced by the beliefs of the period; and he was passing under the shadow of the alders, with more of this world than of the other in his thoughts, when the silence was suddenly broken by a burst of threats and exclamations, as if several men had fallen a-fighting, scarcely fifty yards away, without any preliminary quarrel; and, with the gruffer noises, there mingled the shrieks and entreaties of a female. Thomson grasped his stick and sprang forward. He reached an opening among the bushes, and saw in the imperfect light the old robust Lowlander of the previous fray attacked by two men armed with bludgeons, and defending himself manfully with his staff. The old man's daughter, who had clung round the knees of one of the ruffians, was already thrown to the ground and trampled under foot. An exclamation of wrath and horror burst from the high-spirited fisherman, as, rushing upon the fellow like a tiger from its jungle, he caught the stroke aimed at him on his stick, and with a sidelong blow on the temple, felled him to the ground. At the instant he fell, a gigantic Highlander leaped from among the bushes, and raising his huge arm, discharged a tremendous blow at the head of the fisherman, who, though taken unawares and at a disadvantage, succeeded, notwithstanding, in transferring it to his left shoulder, where it fell broken and weak. A desperate but brief combat ensued. The ferocity and ponderous strength of the Celt, found their more than match in the cool, vigilant skill, and leopard-like agility of the Lowland Scot; for the latter, after discharging a storm of blows on the head, face, and shoulders of the giant, until he staggered, at length struck his bludgeon out of his hand, and prostrated his whole huge length by dashing his stick end-long against his breast. At nearly the same moment the burly old farmer, who had grappled with his antagonist, had succeeded in flinging him, stunned and senseless, against the gnarled root of an alder; and the three ruffians--for the first had not yet recovered--lay stretched on the grass. Ere they could secure them, however, a shrill whistle was heard echoing from among the alders, scarcely a hundred yards away. "We had better get home," said Thomson to the old man, "ere these fellows are reinforced by their brother ruffians in the wood." And, supporting the maiden with his one hand, and grasping his stick with the other, he plunged among the bushes in the direction of the path, and, gaining it, passed onward, lightly and hurriedly, with his charge; the old man followed more heavily behind; and, in somewhat less than an hour after, they were all seated beside the hearth of the latter, in the farm-house of Meikle Farness. It is now more than forty years since the last stone of the very foundation has disappeared; but the little grassy eminence on which the house stood may still be seen. There is a deep-wooded ravine behind, which, after winding through the table-land of the parish, like a huge crooked furrow--the bed evidently of some antediluvian stream--opens far below to the sea; an undulating tract of field and moor--with here and there a thicket of bushes, and here and there a heap of stone--spreads in front. When I last looked on the scene, 'twas in the evening of a pleasant day in June. One half the eminence was bathed in the red light of the setting sun--the other lay brown and dark in the shadow. A flock of sheep were scattered over the sunny side; the herd-boy sat on the top, solacing his leisure with a music famous in the pastoral history of Scotland, but now well-nigh exploded--that of the _stock_ and _horn_; and the air seemed filled with its echoes. I stood picturing to myself the appearance of the place, ere all the inmates of this evening, young and old, had gone to the churchyard, and left no successors behind them; and as I sighed over the vanity of human hopes, I could almost fancy I saw an apparition of the cottage rising on the knoll. I could see the dark turf walls; the little square windows, barred below and glazed above; the straw roof, embossed with moss and stone-crop; and, high overhead, the row of venerable elms, with their gnarled trunks and twisted branches that rose out of the garden wall. Fancy gives an interest to all her pictures--yes, even when the subject is but a humble cottage; and when we think of human enjoyment--of the pride of strength and the light of beauty--in connection with a few mouldering and nameless bones hidden deep from the sun, there is a sad poetry in the contrast which rarely fails to affect the heart. It is now two thousand years since Horace sung of the security of the lowly, and the unfluctuating nature of their enjoyments; and every year of the two thousand has been adding proof to proof that the poet, when he chose his theme, must have thrown aside his philosophy. But the inmates of the farm-house thought little this evening of coming misfortune--nor would it have been well if they had; their sorrow was neither heightened nor hastened by their joy. Old William Stewart, the farmer, was one of a class well-nigh worn out in the southern Lowlands, even at this period; but which still comprised in the northern districts no inconsiderable portion of the people; and which must always obtain in countries only partially civilized and little amenable to the laws. Man is a fighting animal from very instinct; and his second nature, custom, mightily improves the propensity. A person naturally courageous, who has defended himself successfully in half-a-dozen different frays, will, very probably, begin the seventh himself; and there are few who have fought often and well for safety and the right, who have not at length learned to love fighting for its own sake. The old farmer had been a man of war from his youth. He had fought at fairs, and trysts, and weddings, and funerals; and, without one ill-natured or malignant element in his composition, had broken more heads than any two men in the country side. His late quarrel at the tryst, and the much more serious affair among the bushes, had arisen out of this disposition; for, though well-nigh in his sixtieth year, he was still as warlike in his habits as ever. Thomson sat fronting him beside the fire, admiring his muscular frame, huge limbs, and immense structure of bone. Age had grizzled his hair and furrowed his cheeks and forehead; but all the great strength, and well-nigh all the activity of his youth, it had left him still. His wife, a sharp-featured, little woman, seemed little interested in either the details of his adventure or his guest, whom he described as the "brave, hardy chield, wha had beaten twasome at the cudgel--the vera littlest o' them as big as himsel." "Och, guidman," was her concluding remark, "ye aye stick to the auld trade, bad though it be; an' I'm feared that, or ye mend, ye maun be aulder yet. I'm sure ye ne'er made your ain money o't." "Nane o' yer nonsense," rejoined the farmer--"bring butt the bottle an' your best cheese." "The guidwife an' I dinna aye agree," continued the old man, turning to Thomson. "She's baith near-gaun an' new-fangled; an' I like aye to hae routh o' a' things, an' to live just as my faithers did afore me. Why sould I bother my head wi' _improvidments_, as they ca' them? The country's gane clean gite wi' pride, Thomson. Naething less sairs folk noo, forsooth, than carts wi' wheels to them; an' it's no a fortnight syne sin' little Sandy Martin, the trifling cat, jeered me for yoking my owsen to the plough by the tail. What ither did they get tails for?" Thomson had not sufficiently studied the grand argument of design in this special instance, to hazard a reply. "The times hae gane clean oot o' joint," continued the old man. "The law has come a' the length o' Cromarty noo; an' for breaking the head o' an impudent fallow, ane runs the risk o' being sent aff to the plantations. Faith, I wish oor Parliamenters had mair sense. What do they ken aboot us or oor country? Diel haet difference do they mak atween the shire o' Cromarty an' the shire o' Lunnon; just as if we could be as quiet beside the red-wud Hielanmen here, as they can be beside the queen. Na, na--naething like a guid cudgel;--little wad their law hae dune for me at the burn o' Newhall the nicht." Thomson found the character of the old man quite a study in its way; and that of his wife--a very different, and, in the main, inferior sort of person, for she was mean-spirited and a niggard--quite a study too. But by far the most interesting inmate of the cottage was the old man's daughter--the child of a former marriage. She was a pale, delicate, blue-eyed girl, who, without possessing much positive beauty of feature, had that expression of mingled thought and tenderness which attracts more powerfully than beauty itself. She spoke but little--that little, however, was expressive of gratitude and kindness to the deliverer of her father--sentiments which, in the breast of a girl so gentle, so timid, so disposed to shrink from the roughnesses of active courage, and yet so conscious of her need of a protector, must have mingled with a feeling of admiration at finding, in the powerful champion of the recent fray, a modest, sensible young man, of manners nearly as quiet and unobtrusive as her own. She dreamed that night of Thomson, and her first thought, as she awakened next morning, was whether, as her father had urged, he was to be a frequent visitor at Meikle Farness. But an entire week passed away, and she saw no more of him. He was sitting one evening in his cottage, poring over a book--a huge fire of brushwood was blazing against the earthen wall, filling the upper part of the single rude chamber of which the cottage consisted with a dense cloud of smoke, and glancing brightly on the few rude implements which occupied the lower--when the door suddenly opened, and the farmer of Meikle Farness entered, accompanied by his daughter. "Ha! Allan, man," he said, extending his large hand and grasping that of the fisherman; "if you winna come an' see us, we maun just come an' see you. Lillias an' mysel were afraid the guidwife had frichtened you awa--for she's a near-gaun sort o' body, an' maybe no owre kind spoken; but ye maun just come an' see us whiles, an' no mind her. Except at counting-time, I never mind her mysel." Thomson accommodated his visitors with seats. "Yer life maun be a gay lonely ane here, in this eerie bit o' a glen," remarked the old man, after they had conversed for some time on indifferent subjects; "but I see ye dinna want company a'thegither, such as it is"--his eye glancing as he spoke over a set of deal shelves, occupied by some sixty or seventy volumes. "Lillias there has a liking for that kind o' company too, an' spends some days mair o' her time amang her books than the guidwife or mysel would wish." Lillias blushed at the charge, and hung down her head; it gave, however, a new turn to the conversation; and Thomson was gratified to find that the quiet, gentle girl, who seemed so much interested in him, and whose gratitude to him, expressed in a language less equivocal than any spoken one, he felt to be so delicious a compliment, possessed a cultivated mind and a superior understanding. She had lived, under the roof of her father, in a little paradise of thoughts and imaginations, the spontaneous growth of her own mind; and, as she grew up to womanhood, she had recourse to the companionship of books--for in books only could she find thoughts and imaginations of a kindred character. It is rarely that the female mind educates itself. The genius of the sex is rather fine than robust; it partakes rather of the delicacy of the myrtle, than the strength of the oak; and care and culture seem essential to its full development. Who ever heard of a female Burns or Bloomfield? And yet there have been instances, though rare, of women working their way from the lower levels of intellect to well-nigh the highest--not wholly unassisted, 'tis true--the age must be a cultivated one, and there must be opportunities of observation; but, if not wholly unassisted, with helps so slender, that the second order of masculine minds would find them wholly inefficient. There is a quickness of perception and facility of adaptation in the better class of female minds--an ability of catching the tone of whatever is good from the sounding of a single note, if I may so express myself, which we almost never meet with in the mind of man. Lillias was a favourable specimen of the better and more intellectual order of women; but she was yet very young, and the process of self-cultivation carrying on in her mind was still incomplete. And Thomson found that the charm of her society arose scarcely more from her partial knowledge, than from her partial ignorance. The following night saw him seated by her side in the farm-house of Meikle Farness; and scarcely a week passed during the winter in which he did not spend at least one evening in her company. Who is it that has not experienced the charm of female conversation--that poetry of feeling which developes all of tenderness and all of imagination that lies hidden in our nature? When following the ordinary concerns of life, or engaged in its more active businesses, many of the better faculties of our minds seem overlaid; there is little of feeling and nothing of fancy; and those sympathies which should bind us to the good and fair of nature, lie repressed and inactive. But in the society of an intelligent and virtuous female, there is a charm that removes the pressure. Through the force of sympathy, we throw our intellects for the time into the female mould; our tastes assimilate to the tastes of our companion; our feelings keep pace with hers; our sensibilities become nicer, and our imaginations more expansive; and, though the powers of our mind may not much excel, in kind or degree, those of the great bulk of mankind, we are sensible that, for the time, we experience some of the feelings of genius. How many common men have not female society and the fervour of youthful passion sublimed into poets! I am convinced the Greeks displayed as much sound philosophy as good taste in representing their muses as beautiful women. Thomson had formerly been but an admirer of the poets--he now became a poet; and, had his fate been a kindlier one, he might perhaps have attained a middle place among at least the minor professors of the incommunicable art. He was walking with Lillias one evening through the wooded ravine. It was early in April, and the day had combined the loveliest smiles of spring with the fiercer blasts of winter. There was snow in the hollows; but, where the sweeping sides of the dell reclined to the south, the violet and the primrose were opening to the sun. The drops of a recent shower were still hanging on the half-expanded buds, and the streamlet was yet red and turbid; but the sun, nigh at his setting, was streaming in golden glory along the field, and a lark was caroling high in the air, as if its day were but begun. Lillias pointed to the bird, diminished almost to a speck, but relieved by the red light against a minute cloudlet. "Happy little creature!" she exclaimed--"does it not seem rather a thing of heaven than of earth? Does not its song frae the cloud mind you of the hymn heard by the shepherds? The blast is but just owre, an' a few minutes syne it lay cowering and chittering in its nest; but its sorrows are a' gane, an' its heart rejoices in the bonny blink, without ae thought o' the storm that has passed, or the night that comes on. Were you a poet, Allan, like any o' your two namesakes--he o' "The Seasons," or he o' the "Gentle Shepherd"--I would ask you for a song on that bonny burdie." Next time the friends met, Thomson produced the following verses:-- TO THE LARK. Sweet minstrel of the April cloud! Dweller the flowers among! Would that my heart were formed like thine, And tun'd like thine my song! Not to the earth, like earth's low gifts, Thy soothing strain is given; It comes a voice from middle sky, A solace breathed from heaven. Thine is the morn; and when the sun Sinks peaceful in the west, The mild light of departing day Purples thy happy breast. And, ah! though all beneath that sun Dire pains and sorrows dwell, Rarely they visit, short they stay, Where thou hast built thy cell. When wild winds rave, and snows descend And dark clouds gather fast, And on the surf-encircled shore The seaman's bark is cast-- Long human grief survives the storm, But thou, thrice happy bird! No sooner has it passed away, Than, lo! thy voice is heard. When ill is present, grief is thine; It flies, and thou art free; But, ah! can aught achieve for man What nature does for thee! Man grieves amid the bursting storms When smiles the calm he grieves; Nor cease his woes, nor sinks his plaint Till dust his dust receives. As the latter month of spring came on, the fisherman again betook himself to his wears, and nearly a fortnight passed in which he saw none of the inmates of the farm-house. Nothing is so efficient as absence, whether self-imposed or the result of circumstances, in convincing a lover that he is truly such, and in teaching him how to estimate the strength of his attachment. Thomson had sat, night after night, beside Lillias Stewart, delighted with the delicacy of her taste and the originality and beauty of her ideas--delighted, too, to watch the still partially developed faculties of her mind, shooting forth and expanding into bud and blossom under the fostering influence of his own more matured powers. But the pleasure which arises from the interchange of idea and the contemplation of mental beauty, or the interest which every thinking mind must feel in marking the aspirations of a superior intellect towards its proper destiny, is not love; and it was only now that Thomson ascertained the true scope and nature of his feelings. "She is already my _friend_," thought he; "if my schemes prosper, I shall be in a few years what her father is now; and may then ask her whether she will not be _more_. Till then, however, she shall be my friend, and my friend only; I find I love her too well to make her the wife of either a poor, unsettled speculator, or still poorer labourer." He renewed his visits to the farm-house, and saw, with a discernment quickened by his feelings, that his mistress had made a discovery with regard to her own affections somewhat similar to his, and at a somewhat earlier period. She herself could have, perhaps, fixed the date of it by referring to that of their acquaintance. He imparted to her his scheme and the uncertainties which attended it, with his determination, were he unsuccessful in his designs, to do battle with the evils of penury and dependence without a companion; and, though she felt that she could deem it a happiness to make common cause with him even in such a contest, she knew how to appreciate his motives, and loved him all the more for them. Never, perhaps, in the whole history of the passion, were there two lovers happier in their hopes and each other. But there was a cloud gathering over them. Thomson had never been an especial favourite with the stepmother of Lillias. She had formed plans of her own for the settlement of her daughter, with which the attentions of the salmon-fisher threatened materially to interfere. And there was a total want of sympathy between them besides. Even William, though he still retained a sort of rough regard for him, had begun to look askance on his intimacy with Lillias;--his avowed love, too, for the modern, gave no little offence. The farm of Meikle Farness was obsolete enough in its usages and modes of tillage, to have formed no uninteresting study to the antiquary. Towards autumn, when the fields vary most in colour, it resembled a rudely executed chart of some large island--so irregular were the patches which composed it, and so broken on every side by a surrounding sea of moor, that here and there went winding into the interior in long river-like strips, or expanded, within, into friths and lakes. In one corner there stood a heap of stones, in another a thicket of furze--here a piece of bog, there a broken bank of clay. The implements with which the old man laboured in his fields were as primitive in their appearance as the fields themselves--there was the one-stilted plough, the wooden-toothed harrow, and the basket-woven cart, with its rollers of wood. With these, too, there was the usual misproportion on the farm, to its extent, of lean, inefficient cattle, four half-starved animals performing, with incredible effort, the work of one. Thomson would fain have induced the old man, who was evidently sinking in the world, to have recourse to a better system--but he gained wondrous little by his advice. And there was another cause which operated still more decidedly against him: a wealthy young farmer in the neighbourhood had been, for the last few months, not a little diligent in his attentions to Lillias. He had lent the old man, at the preceding term, a considerable sum of money; and had ingratiated himself with the stepmother, by chiming in on all occasions with her humour, and by a present or two besides. Under the auspices of both parents, therefore, he had now paid his addresses to Lillias; and, on meeting with a repulse, had stirred them both up against Thomson. The fisherman was engaged one evening in fishing his nets; the ebb was that of a stream tide, and the bottom of almost the entire bay lay exposed to the light of the setting sun, save that a river-like strip of water wound through the midst. He had brought his gun with him, in the hope of finding a seal or otter asleep on the outer banks; but there were none this evening; and, laying down his piece against one of the poles of the wear, he was employed in capturing a fine salmon that went darting like a bird from side to side of the inner enclosure, when he heard some one hailing him by name from outside the nets. He looked up, and saw three men, one of whom he recognised as the young farmer who was paying his addresses to Lillias, approaching from the opposite side of the bay. They were all apparently much in liquor, and came staggering towards him in a zig-zag track along the sands. A suspicion crossed his mind that he might find them other than friendly; and, coming out of the enclosure, where, from the narrowness of the space and the depth of the water, he would have lain much at their mercy, he employed himself in picking off the patches of sea-weed that adhered to the nets, when they came up to him and assailed him with a torrent of threats and reproaches. He pursued his occupation with the utmost coolness, turning round, from time to time, to repay their abuse by some cutting repartee. His assailants discovered they were to gain little in this sort of contest; and Thomson found in turn that they were much less disguised in liquor than he had at first supposed, or than they seemed desirous to make it appear. In reply to one of his more cutting sarcasms, the tallest of the three, a ruffian-looking fellow, leaped forward and struck him on the face; and in a moment he had returned the blow with such hearty good-will that the fellow was dashed against one of the poles. The other two rushed in to close with him. He seized his gun, and, springing out from beside the nets to the open bank, dealt the farmer, with the but-end a tremendous blow on the face, which prostrated him in an instant; and then cocking the piece and presenting it, he commanded the other two, on peril of their lives, to stand aloof. Odds of weapons, when there is courage to avail oneself of them, forms a thorough counterbalance to odds of number. After an engagement of a brief half minute, Thomson's assailants left him in quiet possession of the field; and he found, on his way home, that he could trace their route by the blood of the young farmer. There went abroad an exaggerated and very erroneous edition of the story, highly unfavourable to the salmon-fisher; and he received an intimation, shortly after, that his visits at the farm-house were no longer expected: But the intimation came not from Lillias. The second year of his speculation had well-nigh come to a close, and, in calculating on the quantum of his shipments and the state of the markets, he could deem it a more successful one than even the first. But his agent seemed to be assuming a new and worse character: he either substituted promises and apologies for his usual remittances, or neglected writing altogether; and, as the fisherman was employed one day in dismantling his wares for the season, his worst fears were realized by the astounding intelligence that the embarrassments of the merchant had at length terminated in a final suspension of payments! "There," said he, with a coolness which partook in its nature in no slight degree of that insensibility of pain and injury which follows a violent blow--"there go well-nigh all the hard-earned savings of twelve years, and all my hopes of happiness with Lillias!" He gathered up his utensils with an automaton-like carefulness, and, throwing them over his shoulders, struck across the sands in the direction of the cottage. "I must see _her_," he said, "once more, and bid her farewell." His heart swelled to his throat at the thought; but, as if ashamed of his weakness, he struck his foot firmly against the sand, and, proudly raising himself to his full height, quickened his pace. He reached the door, and, looking wistfully, as he raised the latch, in the direction of the farm-house, his eye caught a female figure coming towards the cottage through the bushes of the ravine. "'Tis poor Lillias!" he exclaimed. "Can she already have heard that I am unfortunate, and that we must part?" He went up to her, and, as he pressed her hand between both his, she burst into tears. It was a sad meeting--meetings must ever be such when the parties that compose them bring each a separate grief, which becomes common when imparted. "I cannot tell you," said Lillias to her lover, "how unhappy I am. My stepmother has not much love to bestow on any one; and so, though it be in her power to deprive me of the quiet I value so much, I care comparatively little for her resentment. Why should I not? She is interested in no one but herself. As for Simpson, I can despise without hating him; wasps sting, just because it is their nature, and some people seem born in the same way, to be mean-spirited and despicable. But my poor father, who has been so kind to me, and who has so much heart about him--his displeasure has the bitterness of death to me. And then he is so wildly and unjustly angry with you. Simpson has got him, by some means, into his power--I know not how; my stepmother annoys him continually; and, from the state of irritation in which he is kept, he is saying and doing the most violent things imaginable, and making me so unhappy by his threats." And she again burst into tears. Thomson had but little of comfort to impart to her. Indeed he could afterwards wonder at the indifference with which he beheld her tears, and the coolness with which he communicated to her the story of his disaster. But he had not yet recovered his natural tone of feeling. Who has not observed that, while, in men of an inferior and weaker cast, any sudden and overwhelming misfortune unsettles their whole minds, and all is storm and uproar, in minds of a superior order, when subjected to the same ordeal, there takes place a kind of freezing, hardening process, under which they maintain at least apparent coolness and self-possession? Grief acts as a powerful solvent to the one class--to the other, it is as the waters of a petrifying spring. "Alas, my Lillias!" said the fisherman, "we have not been born for happiness and each other. We must part--each of us to struggle with our respective evils. Call up all your strength of mind--the much in your character that has as yet lain unemployed--and so despicable a thing as Simpson will not dare to annoy you. You may yet meet with a man worthy of you; some one who will love you as well as--as one who can at least appreciate your value, and who will deserve you better." As he spoke, and his mistress listened in silence and in tears, William Stewart burst in upon them through the bushes; and with a countenance flushed, and a frame tremulous with passion, assailed the fisherman with a torrent of threats and reproaches. He even raised his hand. The prudence of Thomson gave way under the provocation. Ere the blow had descended, he had locked the farmer in his grasp, and with an exertion of strength which scarcely a giant would be capable of in a moment of less excitement, he raised him from the earth, and forced him against the grassy side of the ravine, where he held him despite of his efforts. A shriek from Lillias recalled him to the command of himself. "William Stewart," he said, quitting his hold and stepping back, "you are an old man, and the father of Lillias." The farmer rose slowly and collectedly, with a flushed cheek but a quiet eye, as if all his anger had evaporated in the struggle, and, turning to his daughter-- "Come, Lillias, my lassie," he said, laying hold of her arm, "I have been too hasty--I have been in the wrong." And so they parted. Winter came on, and Thomson was again left to the solitude of his cottage, with only his books and his own thoughts to employ him. He found little amusement or comfort in either; he could think of only Lillias--that she loved and was yet lost to him. "Generous, and affectionate, and confiding," he has said, when thinking of her, "I know she would willingly share with me in my poverty; but ill would I repay her kindness in demanding of her such a sacrifice. Besides, how could I endure to see her subjected to the privations of a destiny so humble as mine? The same heaven that seems to have ordained me to labour and to be unsuccessful, has given me a mind not to be broken by either toil or disappointment; but keenly and bitterly would I feel the evils of both, were she to be equally exposed. I must strive to forget her, or think of her only as my friend." And, indulging in such thoughts as these, and repeating and re-repeating similar resolutions--only, however, to find them unavailing--winter, with its long, dreary nights, and its days of languor and inactivity, passed heavily away. But it passed. He was sitting beside his fire, one evening late in February, when a gentle knock was heard at the door. He started up, and, drawing back the bar, William Stewart entered the apartment. "Allan," said the old man, "I have come to have some conversation with you, and would have come sooner, but pride and shame kept me back. I fear I have been much to blame." Thomson motioned him to a seat, and sat down beside him. "Farmer," he said, "since we cannot recall the past, we had, perhaps, better forget it." The old man bent forward his head till it rested almost on his knee, and for a few moments remained silent. "I fear, Allan, I have been much to blame," he at length reiterated. "Ye maun come an' see Lillias. She is ill, very ill--an' I fear no very like to get better." Thomson was stunned by the intelligence, and answered he scarcely knew what. "She has never been richt hersel," continued the old man, "sin' the unlucky day when you an' I met in the burn here; but for the last month she has been little out o' her bed. Since mornin there has been a great change on her, an' she wishes to see you. I fear we havena meikle time to spare, an' had better gang." Thomson followed him in silence. They reached the farm-house of Meikle Farness, and entered the chamber where the maiden lay. A bright fire of brushwood threw a flickering gloom on the floor and rafters, and their shadows, as they advanced, seemed dancing on the walls. Close beside the bed there was a small table, bearing a lighted candle, and with a Bible lying open upon it, at that chapter of Corinthians in which the Apostle assures us that the dead shall rise and the mortal put on immortality. Lillias half sat, half reclined, in the upper part of the bed. Her thin and wasted features had already the stiff rigidity of death, her cheeks and lips were colourless, and, though the blaze seemed to dance and flicker on her half-closed eyes, they served no longer to intimate to the departing spirit the existence of external things. "Ah, my Lillias!" exclaimed Thomson, as he bent over her, his heart swelling with an intense agony. "Alas! has it come to this!" His well-known voice served to recall her, as from the precincts of another world. A faint melancholy smile passed over her features, and she held out her hand. "I was afraid," she said, in a voice sweet and gentle as ever, though scarcely audible through extreme weakness, "I was afraid that I was never to see you more. Draw nearer--there is a darkness coming over me, and I hear but imperfectly. I may now say with a propriety which no one will challenge, what I durst not have said before. Need I tell you that you were the dearest of all my friends--the only man I ever loved--the man whose lot, however low and unprosperous, I would have deemed it a happiness to be invited to share? I do not, however--I cannot reproach you. I depart and for ever; but, oh, let not a single thought of me render you unhappy; my few years of life have not been without their pleasures, and I go to a better and brighter world. I am weak and cannot say more; but let me hear you speak. Read to me the eighth chapter of Romans." Thomson, with a voice tremulous and faltering through emotion, read the chapter. Ere he had made an end, the maiden had again sunk into the state of apparent insensibility out of which she had been so lately awakened; though, occasionally, a faint pressure of his hand, which she still retained, shewed him that she was not unconscious of his presence. At length, however, there was a total relaxation of the grasp--the cold damp of the stiffening palm struck a chill to his heart--there was a fluttering of the pulse, a glazing of the eye--the breast ceased to heave, the heart to beat--the silver cord parted in twain, and the golden bowl was broken. Thomson contemplated, for a moment, the body of his mistress, and, striking his hand against his forehead, rushed out of the apartment. He attended her funeral--he heard the earth falling heavy and hollow on the coffin-lid--he saw the green sod placed over her grave--he witnessed the irrepressible anguish of her father, and the sad regret of her friends--and all this without shedding a tear. He was turning to depart, when some one thrust a letter into his hand; he opened it almost mechanically. It contained a considerable sum of money, and a few lines from his agent, stating that, in consequence of a favourable change in his circumstances, he had been enabled to satisfy all his creditors. Thomson crumpled up the bills in his hand. He felt as if his heart stood still in his breast; a noise seemed ringing in his ears; a mist cloud appeared as if rising out of the earth and darkening round him. He was caught, when falling, by old William Stewart, and, on awakening to consciousness and the memory of the past, found himself in his arms. He lived for about ten years after, a laborious and speculative man, ready to oblige, and successful in all his designs. And no one deemed him unhappy. It was observed, however, that his dark brown hair was soon mingled with masses of grey, and that his tread became heavy and his frame bent. It was remarked, too, that, when attacked by a lingering epidemic, which passed over well-nigh the whole country, he of all the people was the only one that sank under it. THE LINTON LAIRDS, OR EXCLUSIVES AND INCLUSIVES. In no part of her Majesty's widespread dominions does mighty Aristocracy rear its proud head with greater majesty than at Linton. There are, or were, in the neighbourhood of that ancient borough, no fewer than forty-five lairds, all possessing portions of the soil; and from the soil it is that the big genius of aristocratic pride derives, like the old oak, the pith of her power. It is of no avail to say--and we, being ourselves of an ancient family, as poor as the old dark denizens of the soil who were displaced by the Norwegian brown species, despise the taunt--that fifteen out of the whole number of Linton lairds were, at one period, on the poor's box. Gentry, with old noble blood in their veins, are not a whit less to be valued that they are beggars, for it is the peculiar character of gentle blood, that it never gets thinner by poor meat. A low marriage sometimes deteriorates it; and hence the horror of the privileged species at that kind of degradation; but the tenth cousin of a scurvy baronet will retain the purity of the noble fluid, in spite of husks, acorns, and onions. All the efforts of the patriots called radicals--even if they should have recourse to the starving system, by taking the properties of their masters--will never be able to bring down to a proper popular equal consistency the blood of the old stock; and so long as they dare not, for the spilling of their own thin stuff, _let out_ the life stream of their lords, they must submit to see it running in the old channels as ruby and routhy as it did in the reign of Malcolm Canmore. But you may say that Laird Geddes of Cauldshouthers was no Linton laird, and was never on the poor's box. Take it as you please, we will not dispute with you if you come from Tweeddale. You are, perhaps, of the old Hamiltons of Cauldcoats, or the Bertrams of Duckpool, or the Hays of Glenmuck, or the old tory lairds of Bogend, Hallmyre, or Windylaws, and may challenge us, like a true knight, for endeavouring to reduce the grandeur of your compeers; and therefore, to keep peace, we will be contented with the admission that Gilbert Geddes was the thane, or, as Miss Joanna Baillie would have it, according to the distinction indicated in the line, "the _thanies_ drinking in the hall," the thanie--that is, the lesser Thane of Cauldshouthers, in the shire of Peebles. True, there was in that county, properly only one thane, viz., he of Drumelzier, whose castle, now in ruins, may still be seen near Powsail; but of the lesser order there were many; and, if any gutter-blooded burgher of Linton had, in his cups at Cantswalls, alleged anything to the contrary, he might have been set down as a leveller. The property of Cauldshouthers was of that kind comprehending a mixture of bog, mire, and moss, which is indicated by its name. Indeed, almost all the estates in that shire bore names no less appropriate; and, though some proprietors, such as Montgomerie, Veitch, Keith, and Kennedy, have endeavoured to impart a gentility to their possessions by rechristening them, they did so, we shrewdly suspect, to conceal the fact that they were new comers, and not of the noble old Hallmyres, Bogends, Blairbogs, and Cauldcoats. Not so, however, Gilbert Geddes, for the laird was of the good ancient stock of Cauldshouthers, and gloried in the name as he did in the old blood that had come down through honourable veins, unadulterated and unobstructed--save probably by a partial congelation, the effect of the cold barren lands--until it landed, with an accumulation of dignity, in his own arteries, and those of his sister, Miss Grizelda. Nothing in the world could have been more natural than that one of so old a family should endeavour to keep up the stock by marriage; yet it was true, and as lamentable as true, that Mr. Gilbert had not been able--though the fiftieth summer had shone on Cauldshouthers since he was born in the old house--to get matters so arranged as to place himself within the noose in a manner befitting his dignity. Somehow or another, the other proprietors around, such as Bogend and Glenmuck, pretended to discover that their blood was thicker than that of the Geddeses, and not a scion of their stocks would they allow to be engrafted on the good old oak of Cauldshouthers. It is, however, an old saying, that fortune favours the brave in marriage as in war, and the adage seemed fair to be realized, for, one day, the laird came from Linton a walking omen of prospective success, and the very first words he said to his sister Grizelda boded good. "Ken ye the dame Shirley, wha lives at the east end o' Linton?" said he, as he sat down on the big oak chair in the mansion of Cauldshouthers. "Better than you do, Gilbert," rejoined the sister. "Her maiden name is Bertram; but wha her husband was is no easy tauld. They say he was a captain in England, but I canna say she has ony o' the dignity o' a captain's widow. Report says naething in her favour, unless it be that she's a descendant o' the Bertrams o' Duckpool." "Ah, Grizel!" ejaculated Gilbert, "if ye could mak out that pedigree, a' her fauts would be easily covered, especially with the help of the five thousand she has got left her by a cotton-spinner in St. Mungo's. Ye maun try and mak out the pedigree, Grizel. Set about it, woman; mair depends on't than ye wot." "What depends on't?" replied the sister. "Maybe the junction o' the twa ancient families," rejoined he. "Are ye serious, brother?" said Grizel, as she stroked down her boddice, and sat as upright as the dignity of the family of Cauldshouthers required. "Indeed am I," rejoined the laird. "I want to be about with Bogend and Glenmuck, who refused me their dochters. Ken ye the antiquity o' the Bertrams?" "Brawly," was the reply of the stiff Grizelda. "They count as far back as the fifth James, who, passing through Tweeddale, was determined to pay nae court to the Thane of Drumelzier; and yet he couldna mak his way--in a country where hill rides upon hill, and moss joins moss, frae Tweedscross to the Cauldstane-slap--without some assistance, the mair by note that he stuck in the mire, and might have been there yet, had it no been for Jock Bertram, a hind, who got the royal traveller and his men out, and led them through the thane's lands, to Glenwhappen. John got the mire whar the king stuck, which was called Duckpool, as a free gift to him and his heirs. But we o' Cauldshouthers are aulder, I ween, than even that, and we maun keep up our dignity." "So we maun, Grizel; but you've forgot the best part o' the story, how the Thane o' Drumelzier having heard that a stranger had passed through his lands without paying him homage, rode with his men, mounted on white horses, after the rebels, and cam up with them just as the king was carousing after his journey. The thane, I wot, was sune on his knees. But we're aff the pin o' the wheel, Girz. The question is, could the family o' Geddes o' Cauldshouthers stand the shock o' a marriage wi' a doubtfu' descendant o' Jock Bertram, with five thousand in her pouch?" "We're sae _very, very_ ancient, ye see Gib," replied the sister, as she looked meditatingly, and twirled her two thumbs at the end of her rigid arms. "Indeed, we're a'thegither lost in mist, and, for aught we ken, we may be as auld as the Hunters o' Polmood, wha got a grant o' the twa Hopes frae Malcolm Canmore. Duckpool is a mere bairn to Cauldshouthers, and this woman mayna be a real Bertram after a'. There were English Bertrams, ye ken--Bertram the Archer was o' them, and he followed the trade o' robbery." "And what auld honourable family about the Borders ever got their lands in ony other way, Girz!" replied the brother. "Nane, of course," rejoined Grizel; "but maybe Mrs. Shirley comes frae the real Bertrams, and five thousand might be laid out in draining the lands. Nae doubt she wad jump at ye, Gib!" "That makes me laugh, Girz!" rejoined the brother. "The legatee o' a cotton-spinner jump at the Laird o' Cauldshouthers! Ay, if he wad stoop to let her--that's the question, sister; and there's nae other, for I was wi' the dame this very day, within an hour after Rory Flayem, the Linton writer, gave me the hint o' her gude fortune. I cam on her wi' a' the force o' the dignity o' our family, and the very name o' our lands made her shiver in tory veneration. She was thunderstruck at the honour." "I dinna wonder at that," replied Grizel. "I mysel hae aften wondered at the ancientness o' our house, and pity the silly fools wha change the names o' their properties. Ha, ha! I fancy if the Duke o' Argyle had been ane o' the auld Blairbogs, he wadna hae changed the name o' their auld inheritance to that o' 'The Whim.'" "Na, faith he, Girz!" "And, by my troth," continued the sister, "I think the guidwife o' Middlebie, wha bade us change Cauldshouthers to Blinkbonny, was a wee envious, and deserved a catechising for her pains." "There's nae doubt o't," added the brother. "But we're aff the wire again, Girz. Is it really your honest opinion that our honour would stand the shock o' the connection wi' the Widow Shirley?" "The Emperor o' Muscovy," replied the sister, with a toss of her head, "didna lose a jot o' his greatness by marrying the cottager. The eagles o' Glenholme stoop to pick up the stanechaffers and fatten on them; and, really, I think, a'thing considered, that Cauldshouthers might, without a bend o' the back, bear up a burgher." "The practice is, at least, justified by the aristocracy," added Gilbert; "and, ye ken, that's enough for us. It wad tak a guid drap o' burgher bluid, and mair, I wot, if there's ony o' the Duckpool sap in't, to thin that o' the Geddeses." "And even if our honour was a wee thing damaged," rejoined the sister, "that might be made up by our lands being changed frae bog to arable, though, I believe, the bog, after a', is the auldest soil o' the country. Even the sad fate o' Nichol Muschet didna a'thegither destroy the respectability o' the Bogha's. There's great ancientness in bogs, yet as there's a kind o' fashion now-a-days about arable, I wadna be against the change to a certain limited extent. Ye hae now my opinion on this important subject, Gilbert, and may act according to the dictates o' the high spirit o' our auld race." The door opened, and Rory Flayem entered. "Weel, hae ye made the inquiry?" said the laird. "Has Mrs. Shirley really got a legacy o' the five thousand?" "I have seen the cotton-spinner's will!" replied the writer, "and there can be nae doubt of the legacy." Why more?--Next day the spruce laird was rapping at the door of the widow heiress. He entered with the cool dignity of his caste; and might have come out under the influence of the same cool prudence, had not his honourable blood been fired by the presence of one of those worthies already hinted at--a Linton laird--who could have been about nothing else in the world than trying to get a lift from off the poor's box, by the assistance of the Widow Shirley. "Your servant, sir," said the Linton portioner; "I did not think you had been acquainted here. Ane might rather hae expected to hae seen you about Bogend or Glennmuck, where there are still some braw leddies to dispose of." The remark was impertinent, doubtless, and horribly ill-timed, because Cauldshouthers had been rejected by Bogend, and he was here a suitor competing with one who desecrated the term he gloried in, and whom, along with the whole class of Linton lairds, he hated mortally and he had a good right to hate them, for some of them with no more than ten pounds a-year, were still heritors, and not only heritors, but ancient heritors, not much less ancient than the Geddeses themselves, so that they were a species of mock aristocrats, coming yet so near the real ones in the very attributes which the latter arrogated to themselves, that it required an effort of the mind to distinguish the real from the false. But Mr. Gilbert admitted of no such dubiety, and marked the difference decidedly and effectually. He did not return the Linton aristocrat an answer, but, drawing himself up, turned to the window as if to survey his competitor's estate, which consisted of a rood or two of arable land, and to wait till the latter took his hat. The Linton aristocrat very soon left the room; and however unimportant this slight event may appear, it was in fact decisive of the higher aristocrat's fate, for the blood of the Geddeses was up, and the heat of tory blood is a condition of the precious fluid not to be laughed at. "Ye'll hae nae want o' thae sma' heritor creatures after ye, dame," said he, as he condescended to sit down by the blushing widow. "Yes," answered she, with great simplicity. "Fortune, Mr. Geddes, brings friends, or, at least, would-be friends, and one who has few relations requires to be on her guard." "It is everything in thae matters," said the proprietor, "to look to respectability and station. Thae Linton bodies ca' themselves lairds, because they are proprietors o' about as muckle ground as would mak guid roomy graves to them. A real laird is something very different. And it's a pity when it becomes necessary that _we_ should shew them the difference." "Ah, you are of an ancient and honourable family, Mr. Geddes," said the widow. "Cauldshouthers is a name as familiar to me as Oliver Castle, or Drochel, or Neidpath, or Drumelzier." "I see ye hae a proper estimate o' the degrees o' dignity, dame," said he; "and, doubtless, ye'll mak the better use o' the fortune that has been left ye; but I could expect naething less frae ane o' the Duckpools. I'm thinking ye're o' the right Bertrams." "Yes," replied she; "and then my husband was descended from the Shirleys, Earl Ferrars, and Baron Ferrars of Chartley. His arms were the same as the Beauchamps, at least he used to say so. What are your's, Mr. Geddes?" "Maybe ye dinna ken heraldry, dame!" replied the laird. "Our arms are vert, _three peat bags_, argent--the maist ancient o' the bearings in Tweeddale; as, indeed, may be evinced frae the description--peat land being clearly the original soil. Would it no be lamentable to think that sae ancient a family should end in my person." "It is in your own power to prevent that, Mr. Geddes!" answered she. "Say rather in your power, dame Shirley!" rejoined he, determined to cut out the Linton heritor by one bold stroke. "O Mr. Geddes!" sighed the widow, holding her head at the proper angle of _naïveté_. "Nae wonder that she's owrepowered by the honour," muttered the suitor, as he took breath to finish what he had so resolutely begun. "I am serious, madam," he continued. "To be plain wi' ye, and come to the point at ance, I want a mistress to Cauldshouthers; and you are the individual wham I hae selected to do the honours o' that important situation." "Oh--O Mr. Geddes!" again cried the dame. "You have _such_ a winning way of wooing!" "I fancy there canna be the slightest breath o' objection," again said he, in his consciousness of having ennobled her in an instant by the mere hint of the honour. "She would be a bold woman, besides a fool, that would reject so good an offer," replied she, burying her face in a napkin. "That she would," rejoined Gilbert--"baith bauld and an idiot; and now, since ye hae received the honour wi' suitable modesty and gratitude, there is just ae condition that I wad like satisfied; and that is, that ye wad do your best to support the dignity o' the station to which you are to be elevated. Your ain pedigree, ye see, is at best but a dubious concern; and, therefore, it will require a' your efforts to comport yoursel in such a way as to accord suitably wi' the forms and punctilios o' aristocracy. It is just as weel, by the by, that ye hae few relatives; because, while the honour o' our ancient house may retain its character, in spite o' a match maybe in nae sma' degree below it, it might become a very different affair in the case o' a multitude o' puir beggarly relations." "I am nearly the last of my race, Mr. Geddes," replied she. "Is it not strange that we should be so very like each other?" "Ay, in _that_ particular respect," added the laird, as a salvo of their inequality. And, after some farther concerted arrangements, the heritor left his affianced, and proceeded to Cauldshouthers, to report to Grizelda what he had achieved. In a short time, accordingly, the marriage was solemnized; and a very suitable display was made in the mansion of Cauldshouthers, where there were invited many of the neighbouring aristocrats. There were the Bogends, and the Hallmyres, and the Glenmucks, and others, some of whom, though they had asserted a superiority over the Geddeses, and turned up their noses at the match with a burgher widow with five thousand pounds, made by the vulgar operation of cotton-spinning, yet could not refuse the boon of their presence at the wedding of one of their own sect of exclusives. Miss Grizelda acted as mistress of the ceremonies, and contrived, by proper training, to make the bride go through the aristocratic drill with much eclat. She had correct opinions, as well as good practice, in this department. It is only the degenerate modern town-elite, among the exclusives, who pretend that _easiness_ of manners--meaning thereby the total absence of all dignified _stiffness_--is the true test of aristocratic breeding. The older and truer stock of the country--such as the Geddeses--despise this beggarly town-born maxim: with them nothing can be too stiff; buckram-attitudes and dresses are the very staple of their calling. And why not? Any graceful snab or snip, of good spirits, when freed from the stool or board, may be as free and frisky as a kitten; but to carry out a legitimate and consistent stiffness of the godlike machine with an according costiveness of speech and loftiness of sentiment, can belong only to those who have been born great; and so, to be sure, these were the maxims on which Grizelda acted in qualifying the bride to appear in a becoming manner before the Tweeddale grandees. Everything went off well. The dame was given out as a Duckpool; and it must have been fairly admitted, even by the proud Bogends, that she could not have acted her part better though she had been in reality descended from that house, so favoured by the fifth James, at the very time that he brought Drumelzier to his knees at Glenwhappen. And it may thus be augured, that the Thane of Cauldshouthers was satisfied. The manners imparted to Mrs. Geddes by the sister, seemed to adhere to her; and though the Glenmucks alleged that her dignified rigidity was nothing but burgher awkwardness, it was not believed by those who knew that gentle blood hath in it some seeds of spleen. "She performs her pairt wi' native dignity," was Gilbert's opinion expressed to his sister; "and seems to feel as if she had been born to sustain the important character she has to play, as the wife o' ane o' the auldest heritors o' Tweeddale. But ye maun keep at her, Girz; and, while you are improving her, I'll be busy with the bogs. We'll mak a' arable that will be arable." And straightway, accordingly, he set about disposing of a part of his wife's tocher, in planting, and draining, and hedging, and ditching, with a view to impart some heat to Cauldshouthers, in return for the warmth which the fleeces of coarse wool had yielded to him and others. Meanwhile, the training within doors went on. Tea-parties were good discipline; and at one of these, the mistress of Bogend and her two daughters, and the mistress of Hallmyre and her daughter and nephew, and a number of others, witnessed the improvement of their new married neighbour. Pedigrees were always the favourite topic at Cauldshouthers. "I maun hae Mrs Geddes's reduced to paper," said the laird, "for the satisfaction o' ye a'. I like a tree--there's a certainty about it that defies a' envy. There's few o' us, I wot, that can count sae far back as the Bertrams." "Mrs. Geddes might tell us off hand," said the mistress of Bogend, piqued of course. "I could gie the Bogends from the first to the last." "And I hae a' the Ha'myres on my tongue's end," said she of that old family. "And I could gie the Geddeses, stock and stem," added Grizelda. "But it doesna follow that Mrs. Geddes has just the same extent o' memory," said the laird, as a cover to his half-marrow. "Indeed, my memory is very poor on family descents," said the wife; "and there is now none of our family left to assist my recollections." "Ah, Janet," cried a voice from the door, which had opened in the meantime and let in a stout huckster-looking dame and two children. "I am right glad to see you sae weel settled," she continued, as she bustled forward and seized the mistress of the house by the hand. "But it wasna friendly, it wasna like a sister, woman, no to write and tell me o' yer marriage. Heigh! but I am tired after that lang ride frae Glasgow. Sit down, childer; it's yer aunty's house, and, by my faith, it's nae sma affair; but oh, it has an awfu name." The speaker had it all to herself, save for a whisper from the lady of Bogend, who asked her of Hallmyres if this would be another of the Duckpools. The others were dumb from amazement; and the new-comer gloried in the silence. "Wasna that a lucky affair--that siller left us by the cotton spinner?" she rattled forth with increasing volubility. "Be quiet, childer. Faith, lass, if we hadna got our legacy just in the nick as it were, our John, wha was only makin six shillings a week at the heckling, wad hae gi'en up the ghaist a'thegither." The laird was getting fidgetty, and looked round for the servant; Grizelda was still dumb; the Bogends and Hallmyres were all curiosity; and Mrs. Geddes looked as if she could not help it. All was still an open field for the speaker. "But, dear me, lass," again cried the visiter, "we never heard o' Serjeant Shirley's death." "If ye're ony friend o' Mrs. Geddes's," said the laird, recovering himself, "you had better step ben to the parlour, and she'll see you there." "Ou, I'm brawly where I am, sir," replied she of St. Mungo's. "There's nae use for ceremony wi' friends. Ye'll be Janet's husband, I fancy? Keep aff the back o' yer uncle's chair, ye ill-mannered brat." "There is a woman in the parlour wishes to see yon, Mrs. Geddes," said the servant. "What like is she?" cried the Glasgow friend. "Is she a weel-faured woman, wi' a bairn at her foot?" "Yes," was the reply. "Just bring her in here, then," continued the speaker. "It's our sister Betty. I asked her to meet me here the day, and she was to get a cast o' a cart as far as Linton. She was to hae brocht Saunders wi' her, but there's some great folk dead about Lithgow, and he's been sae thrang wi' their mournings that I fancy he couldna win." "Are these your sisters, Mrs. Geddes?" said the lady of Bogend, who probably enjoyed secretly the perplexity around her. "I can answer for mysel," replied the visiter; "and whether this be Betty or no, I'll soon tell ye;" and she rose to waddle to the door to satisfy the inquiry of the lady of Bogend. "The truth is, madam," she said, by way of favoured intelligence, as she passed the chair of the latter, "we're a' sisters; but, if we had been on the richt side o' the blanket--ye ken what I mean, if our faither and mither had been married--the siller left us by our uncle the cotton-spinner wad hae been twice as muckle. Is that you, Betty?" she bawled at the door. "Come in, woman." "Save us!--save us!--the honour o' the Geddeses is gane for ever," groaned Gilbert. "It's just me, Peggy," responded another voice from the passage; and the heavy tread of a weary traveller, mixed with the cries of a child, announced an approach. The two entered. The woman was dressed like the wife of a man of her husband's profession, who had got a recent legacy. "Saunders is coming, after a," cried Betty, as she entered. "He got done with the mournings on Wednesday. He's in the public-house, alang the road there, taking a dram wi' a friend, and will be here immediately. John, I fancy, couldna win. Ye're weel set doon, Janet," she continued, as she stood and stared at the room, turning round and round. "My troth, lass, ye hae fa'n on yer feet at last. It was just as weel the sergeant de'ed. Sit ye there, Geordie, and see if ye can learn manners enough to haud yer tongue." The little cousins, Geordie, Johnny, and Jessie, entered instantly into a clattering of friendly recognizances; and the two mothers bustled forward to chairs alongside of their sister, the lady of the house, whose colour had come and gone twenty times, and all power of speech had been taken away from her by a discovery as sudden as it was unpleasant. Yet what was to be done? Was the aristocratic Grizelda to sit and see tea filled out for the wives and weans of a dresser of yarns, and an artificer of garments? Was the honour of the Geddeses of Cauldshouthers to be scuttled by a needle and a hackle-tooth? But matters were not destined to remain even upon the poise of these pivots. The little nephew of Hallmyres, annoyed by the burgher-bairns, struck one of them a blow in the face, which the spruce scion of the Lithgow tailor returned with far more gallantry than might have been expected from one of his degenerate caste. The cousin Johnny took the part of his relative; and matters were fast progressing towards hostilities, when the lady of Hallmyres rose to quell the incipient affair. "Aff hands, my woman," cried Peggy, suddenly leaving her chair. "Ay, ay," added Betty, "we hae at least a right to civility in the house o' our sister. We come kindly and friendly, as may be seen frae what's in my bundle--a gude bacon ham, and a gude cassimir waistcoat, sewed by Saunders' ain hands, for the guidman o' Cauldshouthers, and a' we want is something like friendliness in return. Just let the bairns alane. They'll gree fine when better acquaint." "Mrs. Geddes," said Grizelda, with a puckered face and a starched manner, "ye'll better tak yer friends ben the house." "Awa wi' them!" added the laird. "We maun hae a reckoning about a' this." "There's no the sma'est occasion for't," responded Betty. "The bairns will agree fine. Just let them play themselves while we're taking our tea. Saunders will be here immediately." "A guid advice," added Peggy; "but wha are our friends, Janet? Canna ye speak, woman? This will be Mr. Geddes, my brither-in-law, I fancy; and this will be Girzie, my gude-sister; but as for the ithers, I ken nae mair about them than I do o' the brothers and sisters o' the sergeant, wham I never saw." "And here comes Saunders, at last," cried Betty, rising, and running to the window. "I will gang and let him in." Bustling to the door, she executed her purpose, and straightway appeared again, ushering in, with a face that told her pride in her husband, a Crispinite, wonderfully _bien fait_, dressed in a suit of glossy black, clean shaven, and as pale as any sprig of nobility. "Mr. Geddes, I presume," said he, rubbing his hands, which retained the marks of the needle, if not the dye of the mournings. "Here's a chair for ye, Saunders," cried Betty. "Ye'll no be caring for tea, after the gill ye had wi' yer auld foreman, at the sign o' the 'Harrow,' yonder. Had ye ony mair after I left ye? I'm no sure about yer e'e. There's mair glamour in't than there should be. Sit ye down, and I'll bring the bundle with the ham and the waistcoat." Grizelda held up her hands in amazement. "For the love o' heaven, leave us, good leddies," she said to her friends. "Oh ay," added the laird, "leave us, leave us, for mercy's sake." "You have got into a duckpool," whispered the lady of Hallmyres, as she rose, followed by the others; "and I wish you fair out of it. Good by--good by." BON GUALTIER'S TALES. COUNTRY QUARTERS. A pleasanter little town than Potterwell does not exist in that part of her Majesty's dominions called Scotland. On one side, the hand of cultivation has covered a genial soil with richness and fertility. The stately mansion, "bosomed high in tufted trees," occasionally invites the eye, as it wanders over the landscape; while here and there, the river Wimpledown may be seen peeping out amid the luxuriant verdure of wood and plain, and seeming to concentrate on itself all the radiance of any little sunshine that may be going. On the other side, again, are nothing but impracticable mountains--fine bluff old fellows--that evidently have an extensive and invincible contempt for Time, and, like other great ones of the earth, never carry any _change_ about them. Look beyond these, and the prospect is indeed a fine one--a little monotonous, perhaps, but still a fine one--peak receding behind peak in endless series, a multitudinous sea of mountain tops, with noses as blue as a disappointed man's face, or Miss Harriet Martineau's stockings. With a situation presenting such allurements for the devotees of the picturesque, is it wonderful that Potterwell became a favourite resort? By the best of good fortune, too, a spring, close by, of a peculiarly nauseous character, had, a few years before the period we write of, attracted attention by throwing into violent convulsions sundry cows that had been so far left to themselves as to drink of it, besides carrying off an occasional little boy or so, as a sort of just retribution for so far suppressing his natural tastes as to admit it within his lips. Dr. Scammony, however, had taken the mineral water under his patronage; and his celebrated pamphlet upon the medicinal properties of the Potterwell Mephitic Assafoetida Waters at once fixed their reputation, while it materially augmented his own. A general subscription was projected, with a view to the erection of a pump-room. The plan took amazingly; and, from being left to work its way out, as best it might, through the diseased and miserable weeds with which it was overgrown, the spring all at once found itself established in a handsome apartment, fitted up with a most benevolent attention to the wants of such persons as might repair thither with the probable chance--however little they might be conscious of the fact--of dying by a watery death. It was a bright sparkling morning in August, and there was an exhilarating freshness in the air, that caused the heart to leap up, and make the spirit as unclouded as the blue sky overhead. The pump-room was thronged, and every one congratulated his neighbour on the beauty of the morning. "At your post as usual, Stukeley!" said a smartly-dressed young man, stepping up to Mr. Stukeley--a well-known frequenter of the wells since their first celebrity--and shaking him warmly by the hand. "I do believe you are retained as a check upon the pump woman, that you keep such a strict look out after her customers. How many doses has she administered to-day? Come now, out with your note-book, and let me see." "Oh, my dear Frank, if you really want to know, I am the man for you--Old Cotton of Dundee, four and a-half, and his daughter took off the balance of the six. What do you think I heard him whisper to her?--'Hoot, lassie, tak it aff, it's a' paid for;' and she, poor soul, was forced to gulp it down, that he might have the satisfaction of knowing that full value had been given for his penny. Then there was Runrig the farmer from Mid-Lothian, half-a-dozen; the man has a frame of iron, and a cheek as fresh as new-mown hay; but somebody had told him the water would do him good, and he has accordingly taken enough to make him ill for a fortnight. Then, there was Deacon Dobie's rich widow--fat, fair, and forty--she got pretty well through the seventh tumbler; but, it's a way with her, when she begins drinking, not to know when to stop; which, by the way, may account for her having been, for some time, as she elegantly expresses it, 'gey an nervish ways, whiles.' After her came"----And Stukeley was going on to enumerate the different visiters of the morning, checking them off upon his fingers as he proceeded, when his friend, Frank Preston, stopped him. "For Heaven's sake, have done; and tell me, if you can, who those two fops of fellows are at the foot of the room? They only came a week ago; and, though nobody knows who they are, they have made the acquaintance of half the people here." "I see nothing very odd in that. I know nothing of the men; but they dress well, and are moderately good-looking, and have just sufficient assurance to pass off upon the uninitiated for ease of manner and fashionable breeding. A pair of parvenus, no doubt; but what is your motive for asking so particularly about them?" "Oh, nothing, nothing! Only, I am to meet them at the Cheeshams to-night, and I wished to know something of them." "So, so! sets the wind in that quarter? A rival, Master Frank? It is there the shoe pinches, is it?" "A rival--nonsense! What should I care whether the puppies are attentive to Emily Cheesham or not?" "Why more to her than to her sister Fanny? I mentioned no names. Ha! Master Frank, you see I have caught you. Come, come, tell me what it is annoys you?" "Well," stammered out Frank Preston,--"well, the fact is--the fact is, one of them has been rather particular in his attentions to Emily, and I am half-inclined to think she gives him encouragement." "And, suppose she does, I see nothing in that but the harmless vanity of a girl, pleased to have another dangler under her spell." "That is all very well, but I don't like it a bit. It may be so, and it may not. Her encouragement to him is very marked, and I don't feel easy under it at all, I don't." "Why, Frank, you must both have a very poor opinion of Miss Emily, and be especially soft yourself, to give yourself any concern in the matter. If you have deemed her worthy of your regards, and she has given you warrant for thinking you have a claim upon them, and yet she now throws you off to make way for this newer lover, your course is a clear one. Turn from her at once, and fortify yourself with old Withers' lines-- 'If she be not made for me What care I for whom she be.'" "Excellent philosophy, if one could but act upon it. But what annoys me about the business is, that I am sure these fellows are a pair of snobs, and are playing themselves off for something greater than they are." "Very possibly; but that is just a stronger reason for taking my advice. If Miss Emily can be gratified with the attentions of such persons, leave her to the full enjoyment of them. Don't make yourself miserable for her folly." "Oh, I don't make myself miserable at all, not in the least; only, I should like to find out who the fellows are." The young men, of whom Preston and Stukeley had been speaking, and who now lounged up the room, describing semicircles with their legs at every step they took, were certainly never meant for the ordinary tear and wear of the hard-working every-day world. Their dress had too fine a gloss upon it for that, their hair much too gracefully disposed. They were both rather below the middle size, both dark in the complexion, but one of them much more so than the other. The darker slip of humanity had cultivated the growth of his hair with singular success. It fell away in masses from his forehead and temples, and curled, like the rings of the young vine, over the velvet collar that capped a coat of symmetrical proportions. Circling round the cheeks, and below the chin, it somewhat obtruded upon the space which is generally occupied by the face, so that his head might truly be said to be a mass of hair, slightly interspersed with features. His friend, again, to avoid monotony, had varied the style of his upper works, and his locks were allowed to droop in long, lanky, melancholy tangles down his sallow cheeks; while, perched upon either lip, might be seen a feathery-looking object, not to be accounted for, but on the supposition that it was intended to seduce the public into a belief of its being a moustache. Both were showily dressed. Both had stocks terminating in a cataract of satin that emptied itself into tartan velvet waistcoats, worn probably in honour of the country; both had gold chains innumerable, twisting in a multiplicity of convolutions across these waistcoats; both had on yellow kid gloves of unimpeachable purity, and both carried minute canes of imitation ebony, with which, at intervals, they flogged, one the right and the other the left leg, with the most painful ferocity. They were a noble pair; alike, yet, oh, how different! "Eugene, my boy," said the darker of the two, in a tone of voice loud enough to let half the room hear the interesting communication, "we must see what sort of stuff this here water is--we must, positively." "Roost eggs, Adolph, whisked in bilge-water, with a rusty tenpenny nail. Faugh! I'm smashed if I taste it." "Not so bad that for you," returned Adolph, smiling faintly; "but you must really pay your respects to the waters." "'Pon my soul, I shawn't. I had enough of that so't of thing in Jummany, the time I was ova with Ned Hoxham." "That was the time, wasn't it, that you brought me over that choice lot of cigaws?" "I believe it was," responded Eugene, with the most impressive indifference, as if he wished it to be understood that he had been so often there that he could not recall the particulars of any one visit. "I know something of Seidlitz and Seltzer myself," resumed the darker Adonis, "and Soda water too, by Jove, for that matter, and they're not bad things either, when one's been making a night of it, so I'll have a try at this Potterwell fluid, and see how it does for a change." In this manner the two friends proceeded, to the infinite enlightenment of those about them, who, being greatly struck with their easy and facetious manners, stood admiringly by with looks of evident delight! The young men saw the impression they were making, and, desirous of keeping it up, went on to ask the priestess of the spring, how often, and in what quantities she found it necessary to doctor it with Glauber salts, brimstone, and assafoetida. The joke took immensely. Such of the bystanders as could laugh--for the internal agitation produced by the cathartic properties of their morning draught, made that a somewhat difficult and dangerous experiment--did so; and various young men, of no very definite character, but who seemed to support the disguise of gentlemen with considerable pain to themselves, sidled up, and endeavoured to strike into conversation with our Nisus and Euryalus, thinking to share by contact the glory which they had won. All they got for their pains, however, was a stare of cool indifference. The friends were as great adepts in the art and mystery of _cutting_, as the most fashionable tailor could be; and, after volunteering a few ineffectual efforts at sprightliness, these awkward aspirants to fame were forced to fall back, abashed and crest-fallen, into the natural insignificance of their character. These proceedings did not pass unnoticed by Preston and his elderly friend, who made their own observations upon them, but were prevented from saying anything on the subject to each other by the entrance of a party, which diverted their attention in a different direction. These were no other than Mrs. Cheesham and her two accomplished daughters, Miss Emily and Miss Fanny Cheesham. Mrs. Cheesham's personal appearance may be passed over very briefly; as no one, so far as is known, ever cared about it but herself. She was vain, vulgar, and affected; fond of finery and display; and the one dominant passion of her life was to insinuate herself and her family into fashionable society, and secure a brilliant match for her daughters. They, again, were a pair of attractive showy girls; Emily flippant, sparkling, lively; Fanny, demure, reserved, and cold. Emily's eyes were dark and lustrous--you saw the best of them at once; and her look, alert and wicked. These corresponded well with a well-rounded figure, a rosy complexion, and full pouting lips, that were "ruddier than the cherry." Fanny was tall and "stately in her going;" pale, but without that look of sickliness which generally accompanies such a complexion, and her eyes, beautiful as they were when brought into play, were generally shrouded by the drooping of her eyelids, like those of one who is accustomed to be frequently self-inwrapt. With Emily you might sport in jest and raillery by the hour; but with Fanny you always felt, as it were, bound to be upon your best behaviour. They passed up the room, distributing nods of recognition, and occasionally stopping to allow Mrs. Cheesham to give her invitations to a _soirée musicale_ which she intended to get up that evening. "Your servant, ladies," said old Stukeley, raising his hat, while his friend followed his example. "You are late. I was afraid we were not to have the pleasure of seeing you this morning. Pray, Miss Emily, what new novel or poem was it that kept you awake so late last night that you have lost half this glorious morning? Tell me the author's name, that I may punish the delinquent, by cutting up his book, in the next number of our review?" "Cut it up, and you will do more than I could; for I found myself nodding over the second page, and I feel the drowsiness about me still." "The opiate--the opiate, Miss Emily? Who was its compounder? He must be a charmer indeed." "Himself and his printer knows. Only some unhappy bard, who dubs us women 'The angels of life,' and misuses us vilely through a dozen cantos of halting verse. The poor man has forgot the story 'Of man's first disobedience, and the fruit Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste Brought death into the world and all our woe,' or he would have christened us daughters of Eve by a very different name." "O you little rogue! you are too hard upon this devotee to your dear deluding sex. It is only his excess of politeness that has made him forget his historical reading." "His politeness! Fiddlestick! I would as soon have a troop of boys inflict the intolerable tediousness of their calf-love upon me as endure the rhapsodies of a booby, who strips us of our good flesh and blood, frailties and all, to etherealize us into an incomprehensible compound of tears, sighs, moonshine, music, love, flowers, and hysterics." "Emily, how you run on!" broke in Mrs. Cheesham. "My dear Mr. Stukeley, really you must not encourage the girl in her nonsense. I declare, I sometimes think her tongue runs away with her wits." "Better that, I'm sure, madam, than have it run away without them," responded Stukeley, in a deprecating tone, which threw Mrs. Cheesham, whose intellect was none of the acutest, completely out. "Girls, there are Mr. Blowze and Mr. Lilylipz," said Mrs. Cheesham, looking in the direction of the friends, Adolph and Eugene; "you had better arrange with them about coming this evening." Emily advanced, with her sister, to the engaging pair, who received them with that peculiar contortion of the body, between a jerk and a shuffle, which young men are in the habit of mistaking for a bow, and was soon deep in the heart of a flirtation with Adolph, while Fanny stood listening to the vapid nothings of Eugene, a very model of passive endurance. Frank Preston was anything but an easy spectator of this movement; nor was Emily blind to this; but, like a wilful woman, she could not forbear playing the petty tyrant, and exercising freely the power to torment which she saw that she possessed. "You will be of our party to-night, gentlemen," continued Mrs. Cheesham. "We are to have a little music. You are fond of music, Mr. Stukeley, I know; and no pressing can be necessary to an ama_toor_ like you, Mr. Francis. I can assure you, you'll meet some very nice people. Mr. and Mrs. M'Skrattachan, highly respectable people--an old Highland family, and with very high connections. Mr. M'Skrattachan's mother's sister's aunt--no, his aunt's mother's sister--yes, that was it--Mr. M'Skrattachan's aunt's mother's sister; and yet I don't know--I dare say I was right before--at all events, it was one or other of them--married a second cousin--something of that kind--of the Duke of Argyle, by the mother's side. They had a large estate in Skye or Ross-shire--I am not sure which, but it was somewhere thereabout." Stukeley and Preston were glad to cover their retreat by acceptance of Mrs. Cheesham's invitation; and, leaving her to empty the dregs of the details which she had begun into the willing ears of some of her more submissive friends, they made their escape from the pump-room. Slopbole Cottage, where the Cheesham's were domiciliated during their sojourn at Potterwell, was situated upon the banks of the Wimpledown, at a distance of somewhat less than a quarter of a mile from the burgh. It had, at one time, been a farm-house; but, within a few years, it had been recast: and, by the addition of a bow window, a trellised door, and a few of the usual et ceteras, it had been converted into what is by courtesy termed a cottage ornée. It was an agreeable place, for all that, shaded by the remnants of a fine old wood--the rustling of whose foliage made pleasant music, as it blended with the ever-sounding plash and rushing of the stream. When Frank Preston arrived at Slopbole Cottage that evening, he found the drawing-room already well stocked with the usual components of a tea-party. The two exquisites of the morning he saw, to his dismay, were already there. Adolph was assiduously sacrificing to the charms and wit of Miss Emily, while his shadow, Eugene, was--but Preston did not care about that--as much engaged in Macadamising his great conceptions into small talk suitable for the intellectual capacity of Miss Fanny. Mrs. Cheesham regarded these proceedings with entire satisfaction. The friends, to her mind, were men of birth, fashion, and fortune, and the very men for her daughters. Besides, there was a mystery about them that was charming. Nobody knew exactly who they were, although everybody was sure they were somebody. None but great people ever travel _incog_. They were evidently struck by her daughters. Things were in a fair train; and, if she could but make a match of it, Mrs. Cheesham thought she might then fold her hands across, and make herself easy for life. Her daughters would be the wives of great men, and she was their mother, and every one knows what an important personage a wife's mother is. "Two very fine young men, Mr. Francis," said Mrs. Cheesham. "Extremely intelligent people. And so good looking! Quite _distingue_, too. It is not every day one meets such people." Frank Preston threw in the necessary quantity of "yes's," "certainly's," and so forth, while Mrs. Cheesham continued-- "They seem rather taken with my girls, don't they? Mr. Blowze is never away from Emily's side. His attentions are quite marked. Don't you think, now, they'd make a nice pair? They're both so lively--always saying such clever things. I never knew Emily so smart either; but that girl's all animation--all spirits. I always said Emily would never do but for a rattle of a husband--a man that could talk as much as herself. It does not do, you know, really it does not do for the wife to have too much of the talk to herself. I make that a principle; and, as I often tell Cheesham, I let him have it all his own way, rather than argue a point with him." This was, of course, an exceedingly agreeable strain of conversation to the lover, to whom it was no small relief, when Mrs. Cheesham quitted his side to single out her musical friends for the performance of a quartette. At her summons, these parties were seen to emerge from the various recesses where they had been concealing themselves, in all the majesty of silence, as is the way with musical amateurs in general. Miss Fanny, who was really an accomplished performer, was called to preside at the pianoforte, and Mr. Lilylipz rushed before to adjust the music-stool and turn over the leaves for her. Mr. Blewitt got out his flute, and, after screwing it together, commenced a series of blasts upon it, which were considered necessary to the process of tuning. Mr. Harrower, the violoncello player, turned up the wristbands of his coat, placed his handkerchief on his left knee, and, after a preliminary flourish or two of his hands, began to grind his violoncello into a proper sharpness of pitch. Not to be behind the rest, Mr. Fogle screwed his violin strings first up, and then he screwed them down, and then he proceeded to screw them up again, with a waywardness of purpose that might have been extremely diverting, if its effects had not been so very distressing to the ears. Having thus begot a due degree of attention in their audience, the performers thought of trying how the results of their respective preparations tallied. "Miss Fanny, will you be kind enough to sound your A?" lisped Mr. Blewitt. Miss Fanny did sound her A, and again a dissonance broke forth that would have thrown Orpheus into fits. It was then discovered that the damp had reduced the piano nearly a whole tone below pitch, and Mr. Blewitt's flute could not be brought down to a level with it by any contrivance. The musicians, however, were not to be baulked in their purpose for this, and they agreed to proceed with the flute some half a tone higher than the other instruments. But there was a world of preliminary work yet to be gone through; tables had to be adjusted, and books had to be built upon music stands. But the tables would not stand conveniently, and the books would fall, and then all the work of adjustment and library architecture had to be gone over again. At last these matters were put to rights, and, after a few more indefinite vagaries by Messrs. Blewitt, Harrower, and Fogle, the junto made a dash into the heart of one of Haydn's quartetts. The piano kept steadily moving through the piece. Miss Fanny knew her work, and she did it. The others did not know theirs, and they _did for_ it. After a few faint squeaks at the beginning, Mr. Blewitt's flute dropped out of hearing altogether, and, just as everybody had set it down as defunct, it began to give token of its existence by a wail or two rising through the storm of sounds with which the performance closed, and then made up its leeway by continuing to vapour away for some time after the rest had finished. "Bless my heart, are you done?" cried Mr. Blewitt, breaking off in the middle of a solo, which he found himself performing to his own astonishment. Mr. Harrower and Mr. Fogle threw up their eyes with an intensity of contempt that defies description. To be sure, neither of them had kept either time or tune all the way through. Mr. Harrower's violoncello had growled and groaned, at intervals, in a manner truly pitiable; and Mr. Fogle's bow had done nothing but dance and leap, in a perpetual staccato from the first bar to the last, to the entire confusion of both melody and concord. But they had both managed to be in at the death, and were therefore entitled to sneer at the unhappy flutist. Mr. Eugene Lilylipz, who had annoyed Miss Fanny throughout the performance, by invariably turning over the leaf at the wrong place, now broke into a volley of raptures, of which the words "Devaine" and "Chawming," were among the principal symbols. A buzz of approbation ran round the room, warm in proportion to the relief which the cessation of the Dutch concert afforded. Mr. Harrower and his coadjutors grew communicative, and vented an infinite quantity of the jargon of dilettanteism upon each other and upon those about them. They soon got into a discussion upon the merits of different composers, whose names served them to bandy to and fro in the battledore and shuttlecock of conversation. Beethoven was cried up to the seventh heaven by Mr. Harrower, for his grandeur and sublimity, and all that sort of thing. "There is a Miltonic greatness about the man!" he exclaimed, throwing his eyes to the ceiling, in the contemplation of a visionary demigod. "A vastness, a massiveness, an incomprehensible--eh, eh?--ah, I can't exactly tell what, that places him far above all other writers." "Every man to his taste," insinuated Mr. Blewitt; "but I certainly like what I can understand best. Now I don't understand Beethoven; but I _can_ understand Mozart, or Weber, or Haydn." "It is very well if you do!" retorted the violoncellist, reflecting probably on the recent specimen Mr. Blewitt had given of his powers. "It is more than everybody does, I can tell you." "Od, gentlemen, but it's grand music onyhow, and exceeding justice you have done it, if I may speak my mind. But ye ken, I'm no great shakes of a judge." This was the opinion volunteered by Mr. Cheesham, who saw the musicians were giving symptoms of that tendency to discord for which they are proverbial, and threw out a sop to their vanity, which at once restored them to order. As he said himself, Mr. Cheesham was no great judge of music, nor, indeed, of any of the fine arts. He had read little, and thought less; and yet, since he had become independent of the world, he was fond of assuming an air of knowledge, that was exceedingly amusing. There was nothing, for instance, that he liked better to be talking about than history; and, nevertheless, that Hannibal was killed at the battle of Drumclog, and Julius Cæsar beheaded by Henry the Eighth, were facts which he would probably have had no hesitation in admitting, upon any reasonable representation. By this time, Mr. Stukeley had joined the party, and was going his rounds, chatting, laughing, quizzing, and prosing, according to the different characters of the people whom he talked with. When he reached Mr. Cheesham, he found him in earnest conversation with Mr. Lilylipz, regarding the ruins of Tinglebury, an abbey not far from Potterwell, of which the architecture was pronounced, by Mr. Lilylipz, to be "_suttinly_ transcandent beyond anythin_k_. It is of that pure Græco-Gothic, which was brought over by William the Conqueror, and went out with the Saxons." Stukeley encouraged the conversation, drawing out the presumptuous ignorance of Mr. Lilylipz, and the rusty nomeanings of the parent Cheesham into strong relief. "Gentlemen, excuse me for breaking up your _tete-a-tete_. Have you got upon 'Shakspeare, taste, and the musical glasses?'" said Miss Emily, joining the trio. "Mr. Lilylipz, your friend tells me you sing. Will you break the dullness, and favour us?" "Oh, I never do sing; and, besides, I am suffering from hoarseness." "Come, come," replied Miss Emily, "none of these excuses, or we shall expect to find a very Braham, at least." "Now, _r_eally!" remonstrated Mr. Lilylipz. "Oh, never mind his nonsense, Miss Cheesham," exclaimed Mr. Blowze, from the other side of the room. "Lilylipz sings an uncommonly good song, when he likes. Give us 'the Rose of Cashmere,' or 'She wore a wreath of Roses.' Come away, now--no humbug!" "Oh, that will be delightful!--pray, do sing!" were the exclamations of a dozen voices, at least. "Mr. Lilylipz' song!" shouted the elderly gentlemen of the party; and, forthwith, an awful stillness reigned throughout the apartment. Upon this, Mr. Lilylipz blew his nose, coughed thrice, and, throwing himself back in his chair, rivetted his eyes, with the utmost intensity, upon a corner of the ceiling. Every one held back his breath in expectation, and the interesting young man opened upon the assemblage with a ballad all about an Araby maid, to whom a Christian knight was submitting proposals of elopement, which the lady appeared to be by no means averse to, for each stanza ended with the refrain, "Away, away, away!" signifying that the parties meant to be off somewhere as fast as possible. Mr. Lilylipz had just concluded verse the first, and the "Away, away, away!" had powerfully excited the imagination of the young ladies present, when the door opened, and the clinking of crystal ware announced the inopportune entrance of a maidservant bearing a trayful of glasses filled with that vile imbroglio of hot water and sugar coloured with wine, which passes in genteel circles by the name of negus. All eyes turned towards the door, and Mrs. Cheesham exclaimed, "Sally, be quiet!" but Mr. Eugene was too much enrapt by his own performance to feel the disturbance, and he tore away through verse the second with kindling enthusiasm. "Away, away, away!" sang the vocalist, when a crash and a scream arrested his progress. The servant maid had dropped the tray, and the glasses were rolling to and fro upon the floor in a confusion of fragments, while the delinquent, Sally, shrieking at the top of her voice, was making her way out at the door with all the speed she was mistress of. "What the devil's that?" cried one. "The careless slut!" screamed another. "Such thoughtlessness!" suggested a third. "What the deuce could the woman mean?" asked a fourth. "It's the last night she sets foot in my house!" exclaimed Mrs. Cheesham, thrown off her dignity by the sudden shock. "Bless me, you look unwell!" said Mr. Cheesham to Mr. Lilylipz, who had turned deadly pale, and was altogether looking excessively unhappy. "Oh, it is nothing. Only a constitutional nervousness. The start, the surprise, that sort of thing, you know; but it will go off in a moment. I shall just take a turn in the air for a little, and I'll be quite better." The ladies were engaged in the contemplation of the wreck at the other end of the room, and Mr. Lilylipz, accompanied by his friend, stepped out at one of the drawing-room windows, which opened out upon the lawn. Frank Preston looked after them, and saw them in the moonlight, passing down the banks of the river among the trees, apparently engaged in earnest conversation. "What do you think of this business, eh?" said Stukeley, rousing him from a reverie, by a tap upon the shoulder. "Queerish a little, isn't it?" "Queerish _not_ a little, I think; and blow me if I don't get to the bottom of it, or the devil's in it. That girl knows something of Mr. Eugene, I'll be sworn. We must get out of her what it is." "Oh, no doubt she does. It wasn't the song that threw her off, although it was certainly vile enough for anything; it was himself; that is as clear as day. Let us off, hunt out the wench, and get the secret from her." They left the room by the open window, and passing round the house to the servants' entrance, walked into the kitchen, where they found Sally labouring under strong excitement, as she narrated the incident which had led to her precipitate retreat from the drawing-room. "To think of seeing him here; the base deceitful wretch! Cocked up in the drawing-room, forsooth, as if that were a place for him or the likes of him. Set him up indeed--a pretty story. But I know'd as how he'd never come to no good!" "Who is he, my dear?" inquired Stukeley. "Who is he, sir!--who should he be but Tom Newlands, the son of Dame Newlands of our village." "Oh, you must certainly be mistaken." "Never a bit mistaken am I, sir. I have too good reason for remembering him, the wretch! Oh, if I had him here, I wouldn't give it him, I wouldn't? I'd sarve him out, the deludin' scoundrel. But he never was good for nothing since he went into the haberdashery line." "A haberdasher, is he? Capital!--capital! The man of fashion, eh, Frank?" "The young man of _distingue_ appearance!" "And who's his friend, Sally?" "What! the other chap? Oh, I don't know anything about him, except that he's one of them man millinery fellows; and a precious bad lot they are, I know." "Glorious!--glorious!" cried Stukeley, crying with delight, as he walked out of the place with his friend. "Here's a discovery for some folks, isn't it? The brilliant alliance, the high family, et cetera, et cetera, all dwindled into a measurer of tapes. Aren't you proud of having had such a rival?" "Oh, come, don't be too hard upon me on that point. Mum, here we are at the drawing-room again. Not a word of what we have heard. If these scamps have made themselves scarce, as I think they have, good and well. But, if they venture to shew face here again, I shall certainly feel it to be my duty to pull their noses, and eject them from the premises by a summary process." "Oh, never fear, they will not put you to the trouble. They are off for good and all, or I am no prophet." Stukeley was right. The evening passed on, and the friends returned not. Infinite were the surmises which their absence occasioned, but the general conclusion was, that the interesting Mr. Lilylipz had found himself worse, and had retired to his inn for the night, along with his faithful Achates. Morning came, but the friends did not make their appearance at the pump-room as usual. They were not at their inn; they were not in Potterwell. Whither they had wended, no one knew; but, like the characters in the ballad, which had been so oddly broken off, they were "away, away, away." They had come like shadows, and like shadows they had departed. Some months afterwards, Mrs. Cheesham and her daughter Emily entered one of the extensive drapery warehouses of Edinburgh, to invest a portion of their capital in the purchase of a _mousseline de laine_. They had seen an advertisement which intimated that no lady ought, in justice to herself, to buy a dress of this description without first inspecting that company's stock of the article. They were determined to do themselves justice, and they went accordingly. "Eugene," said the superintendent of the place, "shew these ladies that parcel of goods. A very superior article, indeed." Eugene! Eugene! the ladies had good reason to remember the name; and what was their surprise, on looking round, to see the exquisite of Potterwell bending under a load of dress pieces? If their surprise was great, infinitely greater was his dismay. His knees shook; his eyes grew dim; his head giddy. His hands lost their power, and, dropping the bundle, the unhappy Eugene stumbled over it in a manner painfully ignoble. Mrs. and Miss Cheesham turned to quit the shop, when there, behind them, stood the dashing Adolph. "The devil!" he exclaimed, and, ducking dexterously under the counter, disappeared among sundry bales that were piled beyond it. The lesson was not lost. Mrs. Cheesham had had quite enough of quality-hunting to satisfy her; and Miss Emily found out that it was desirable to be wise as well as witty, and gave her hand to Frank Preston, who forgave her temporary apostacy, not only because it had been smartly punished by the result, but for the sake of the many estimable qualities which Miss Cheesham really possessed. Miss Fanny still roams, "in maiden meditation, fancy free," but she cannot do so long, or there is no skill in man. At all events, when she does want a husband, she will not go in search of him to COUNTRY QUARTERS. THE MONK OF ST. ANTHONY. "When the devil was sick, the devil a monk would be; When the devil grew well, the devil a monk was he." In that very ancient and very filthy quarter of the town of Leith, called the Coal Hill, there flourished, in days of yore, a certain hostelrie kept by one David Wemyss. This house, which was distinguished by the figure of a ship, carved in high relief in stone over the lintel of the door, was one of good repute, and much resorted to by the seafaring people who frequented the port. But it was not alone the good cheer and reasonable charges, for both of which "The Ship" was remarkable, that brought so many customers to David Wemyss: for this patronage he was as much indebted to his own civil and obliging manner, as to the considerations just mentioned, although, doubtless, these had their due weight with all considerate and reflecting men. With all David's civility of manner, however, there was thought to be a spice of the rogue in him; just the smallest thing possible; but it was a sort of good-humoured roguery. In the small trickery he practised, there was as much to laugh at as to deprecate; for, being a facetious sort of personage himself, everything he did--good, bad, and indifferent--had a touch, less or more, of this quality about it; so that he could hardly be said to have been liked a bit the less for his left-handed propensities; the more especially that these were never exhibited in his dealings with his guests or customers, to whom he always acted the part of an obliging and conscientious landlord. He knew this to be for his interest, and therefore did he abide by it. At the period at which our story opens, namely, the year 1559, the Reformation, if it had not yet driven papacy entirely out of the land, had, at least, compelled it to retire into holes and corners, and to avoid, as much as possible, the public eye. One of the last retreats of the denounced religion in its adversity, was the preceptory of St. Anthony, in Leith. For the protection, or rather endurance, which it found here, it was indebted to the circumstance of the town's being, in an especial manner, under the patronage of Mary of Guise or Lorraine, the mother of the unfortunate Scottish queen of that name. Conceiving Leith to be, as it was, a convenient point from which to correspond with France, and well situated for the reception of such supplies as might be sent her from that country, to enable her to make head against her discontented nobles, Mary made the town, as it were, her own; and to identify herself still more closely with it, made it also, for some time, her place of residence. To this circumstance, then, was it owing, that after they had almost wholly disappeared everywhere else, a few monks might still be seen moving stealthily and crest-fallen through the streets of Leith. These belonged to the preceptory of St. Anthony, which stood at the upper or western end of the long, tortuous street, called the Kirkgate. But even from this, one of its last places of refuge, was prelacy now about to be driven. The town, at the particular period to which our tale refers, was besieged by the lords of the congregation, aided by an army of three thousand English, under Lord Gray of Wilton, who had been despatched for this purpose by Elizabeth, to whom the Reformers had appealed in their necessities. The reader, then, will understand that he is in a beleaguered town: that he is in Leith during the famous siege of that ancient seaport; when it was invested on all sides by the enemies of prelacy, and against whom it was defended, chiefly by a body of French troops, under a general of the name of D'Oysel, who had been sent from France to aid the Queen Regent in maintaining her authority in the kingdom. Having despatched these preliminaries, we proceed with our story. It was on a certain evening in the latter end of April, or beginning of May, 1559, that mine host of "The Ship" was suddenly summoned from his cellar, at a moment when he was employed in tapping a new hogshead of claret, by a gentle rap at a quiet back door which stood just beside the hatchway that led to the cellar in question. This door, which had been contrived, or struck out, for the accommodation of private and confidential customers, who did not care to be seen entering "The Ship" by the front door, was accessible only through a complicated labyrinth of mean buildings, on a spot still known by the name of the Peat Neuk, and so called, from its having been the public depository of that description of fuel, before coals came into the general use in which they now are, and have long been. "Wha's this?" muttered David Wemyss to himself, on hearing the gentle rap at the back door above spoken of, and, at the same time, laying down a bright tankard of claret, which he had just drawn from the newly broached hogshead. "Lang Willie Wilson, the herrin curer, I dare say, or the skipper o' the Cut-luggit Sow o' Kirkcaldy." Thus conjecturing who his visiter might be, David Wemyss approached the door, undid its fastenings, and admitted, not Willie Wilson, the herring curer, nor the Kirkcaldy skipper, but a certain worthy brother of the preceptory of St. Anthony, by name Peter Drinkhooly. Peter, who wore the dress of his order, namely, a loose, black cloth gown, had long been one of mine host of "The Ship's" private and confidential customers. He dearly loved a stoup of fresh claret; but both his character and calling compelled him to go cautiously about such carnal indulgences, and to trust no front doors with his secret. Peter, however, although addicted to vinous propensities, was not what could be called a "jolly friar." He was rather a quiet, maudlin sort of a toper; neither boisterous in manner, nor reckless in disposition. He could, however, drink with the face of clay. "Oh, father, is that you?" said David, on perceiving the black gown and slouched hat of his visiter. "I thocht it had been Willie Wilson, or the skipper. Stap awa in by there," pointing to the well-known sanctum of the backdoor customers; "and I'll gie ye a tasting o' a fresh tap I was just at whan ye cam in." Without saying a word in reply, Friar Drinkhooly glided into the little dark closet indicated by mine host, and there awaited the reappearance of the latter from the cellar with the promised sample of the new butt. Both quickly came. "Awfu' times--father, awfu' times thae," said David, placing a tankard of claret on the table, and seating himself directly opposite his guest. "If this siege continues muckle langer, guid kens what'll become o' us. They tell me that some o' the Frenchmen hae ta'en to eatin their dead horses already, for want o' better provender. But they can cook up onything, thae Frenchers, and can mak, I'm tell't, a savoury mess oot o' a pair o' auld boots. But come, tak a mouthfu' o' that," continued mine host, shoving the tankard towards his guest, "an' tell me what ye think o' our new browst." Father Drinkhooly, who had not yet spoken a word, or in any other way noticed what had been addressed to him, than by nods and shakes of the head, readily obeying the gratifying invitation, seized the tankard, and, at one pull, emptied it of half its contents. Having performed this feat, he replaced the vessel on the table, wiped his mouth with a quiet, composed air, and, in a soft under-tone, said-- "Fair liquor, David--fair liquor. What size is the cask?" "It's a gey thumper," replied mine host; "big aneuch, I hope, to see oot the siege o' Leith." "Ay, the heretic is pressing us hard, David. The strength of the wicked is prevailing," said Father Drinkhooly; "but there will be a day of count and reckoning. It is coming, David, coming on the wings of the thunder, to blast and destroy the sacrilegious spoilers; to scaith and render barren this accursed land." "Weel, I wadna wonder," replied David, looking very serious; for, although he cared little for either the new religion or the old, he had, if anything, rather a leaning towards the latter; at least, so was suspected; but this was a point not easily decided on, owing to the very accommodating nature of David's doctrines, which, at a moment's notice, could adapt themselves to any circumstances. "I wadna wonder," said David; "for I'm sure the spoilin and ravagin that's gaun on is aneuch to bring down the judgments o' Heaven on us. Heard ye if there hae been mony killed the day?" "Alas! a very great number," replied Father Drinkhooly. "There has been a terrible slaughter to-day, at the western block-house. The brethren and I have shrived some twenty or thirty departing souls, who fell by the cannon-shot of the enemy--two of them officers and men of rank in the French army--worthy, pious men--who have left something considerable to the brotherhood. But God knows if we will be permitted te enjoy it." "Ay," said David, pricking up his ears, as he always did when money, or property in any shape, became the subject of conversation--"That was a lucky wind-fa'; for I daresay the brethren are no oot o' need o' a wee assistance o' that kind enow. Times are no wi' them as they used to be. What feck, noo, if it's a fair question, did the twa Frenchmen leave ye?" "It's not usual for us to speak of these things, David," replied Father Drinkhooly--"not usual for us to make these things the subject of irreverent discussion; but, as thou art an old friend, I will gratify thy curiosity--doing the same in confidence. Here," continued the worthy father, slipping his hand under his cloak, and drawing out a leathern bag well stored with coin, "here are a hundred and fifty crowns of the sun placed in my hands by one of these dying Christians, and here are three gold rings, worth fifty merks each, that were given unto me by the other, under pledge of saying fifteen masses for the well-being of the soul of the departed donor." "My feth! no a bad day's work," said David. "It's an ill wind that blaws naebody guid. The siege is no like to be such a bad job for ye, after a'. Though ye should be driven oot o' the preceptory the morn, ye'll no gang empty-handed; and that same's a blessin. But here's to ye, father, and Gude send us mair peacefu' times;" saying this, mine host of "The Ship" cleared off the remainder of the tankard. On his replacing the latter on the table, brother Drinkhooly peered into the empty vessel with a half involuntary spirit of inquiry. His host smiled. Then--"We maun replenish, I fancy," he said. Father Drinkhooly simply nodded acquiescence, saying not a word. In half a minute after, another tankard of claret reamed on the board, between mine host and his guest. By the time this second supply of the generous fluid was exhausted, brother Drinkhooly began to exhibit certain odd changes of manner. From being solemn and taciturn, he became energetic and talkative, thumping the table violently when he wished to be particularly impressive, and displaying, altogether, a boldness and vivacity which strangely contrasted with the quiet meekness of his demeanour but half an hour before. The claret then was doing its duty; for to its exciting influence were these changes in the moral man of brother Drinkhooly, of course, attributable. It would not, we fear, much interest the reader to follow out in all its details the debauch now in progress of celebration by the landlord of "The Ship" and his worthy guest. Be it enough to say, that it finally ended in the latter's getting so overcome that he did not think it would be consistent either with his own character or the credit of the preceptory, to return to the latter until he had had previously, an hour or two's sleep. "'Deed, I dare say ye'll no be the waur o't," said mine host, on brother Drinkhooly's suggesting the propriety of this proceeding, "for that claret's gey an' steeve. I fin thae twa jugs touchin my ain garret a wee thing, and it used to tak sax to do that. But I'm no so able to staun't noo, as I was wont." This was certainly true; but, even yet, David was more than a match over the claret stoup for any two men in the county. His capacity in this way was extraordinary; and no contemptible proof of the fact was afforded on the present occasion; for, while the priest was all but completely prostrated, his host had not, to use his own phrase, "turned a hair;" although he had drank quantity for quantity with the vanquished churchman. Always kind and attentive to the wants of his guests, and, from a fellow feeling, especially tender of those who were in the helpless condition of brother Drinkhooly, David, desiring the latter to take his arm, conducted, or rather, smuggled him into a small back bedroom, helped him off with his gown and shovel hat, and tumbled him into bed, where he left him, with a promise to awake him at the expiry of two hours. Having thus disposed of his clerical friend, David betook himself to the duties of the house: to the filling of measures of wine, brandy, and ale, to the running hither and thither, supplying the wants of one party of customers, soothing the impatience of another, and joining in the drunken laughter of a third. David was thus employed, when he was attracted to the door by an alarming outcry on the street. On reaching the latter, he saw a boy approaching at his utmost speed, and bawling out-- "A priest, a priest! For the love o' God, a priest to shrive a dying sinner. A priest, a priest!" "What are ye screaming at, ye young rascal?" exclaimed David, intercepting the boy, and catching him by the breast. "Wha wants a priest?" "It's a French offisher, sir, that has just been struck enow wi' a cannon-shot on the ramparts," replied the boy; "and, as I was passing at the time, he bade me rin for a priest." "Was there naebody beside him?" inquired David. "No ane, sir; and there's naebody yet--for he's lyin doon at the east end o' the rampart, whar never a shot was kent to come before, as neither town's folk nor Englishers is ever in that quarter." "Is he sair hurt?" said David. "I'm thinking he is," replied the boy. "But I maun awa up to St. Anthony's, and get ane o' the brethren." "Ye needna fash, my man," said mine host of "The Ship." "Hae, there's a groat to ye. There's ane o' the brethren in my house, and I'll send him up immediately to the puir man." The boy, well enough satisfied with this conclusion to his mission, went his ways, seeking to have nothing farther to do with the matter. Now, good reader, would you suspect it, that our friend David Wemyss was at this moment acting under the influence of one of the most wicked temptations that ever led an unhappy wight from the paths of righteousness? You would not; yet it is true--too true. Tempted by the exhibition of the bequests confided to brother Drinkhooly by the two wounded French officers, David Wemyss, beguiled by the devil, conceived the atrocious idea of arraying himself in the hat and gown of the unconscious churchman, and of officiating as father confessor to the dying gentleman on the ramparts, in the hope that he too would leave something to the preceptory, and make him the interim recipient of the bequest. Circumstances, David thought, were favourable to the adventure. The night was dark, and the wounded man was lying at a remote part of the rampart, where there was no great chance of his being annoyed with many witnesses. The whole affair, besides, he calculated, would not occupy many minutes. Encouraged to the sacrilegious undertaking by this combination of happy circumstances, David Wemyss hastened, on tiptoe, to the chamber of the sleeping brother, and, in a twinkling, had himself bedight in the gown and hat of the latter. Thus arrayed, he stole out by the back door, and, taking all the by-ways he could, hastened, as fast as his legs could carry him, towards the south-eastern extremity of the ramparts, where, as described to him, the wounded man was lying. David was thus pushing along, when he suddenly felt himself slapped on the shoulder by some one behind. He turned round, and beheld a man closely muffled up in a cloak, who thus addressed him:-- "Your pardon, holy father, for this somewhat uncourteous interruption; but the urgency of my case must plead my apology. An expiring sinner, holy father, claims your instant attendance. I will conduct you to her. Will you have the goodness to accompany me?" "Impossible--impossible," replied the counterfeit monk, in great perturbation at this most unexpected interruption, and threatened exposé. "I'm juist gaun on an errand o' the same kind enow, and canna leave ae sinner for anither." "You will oblige me by accompanying me, good father," said the stranger, in a mild tone, but with a firmness of manner that was rather alarming. "You will oblige me by accompanying me, good father," he said, _looking_ a little surprised at the style of the holy father's language, but making no remark on the subject. "Canna, sir--canna, canna, canna, on ony account," repeated the unhappy brother of St. Anthony, with great volubility, and endeavouring to push past the stranger, who stood directly in his way, and who kept dodging in his front to prevent his succeeding in any attempt of this kind. "Nay, now, good father, if you please--now, if you please, and without more bandying of words; for the case is urgent, and there is not a moment to lose." "Man, it's oonpossible--utterly oonpossible," replied David, with desperate energy. "I tell ye it's oonpossible." "Do not compel me to use force, good father," said the stranger, calmly but determinedly. "Force--force!" reiterated the horror-stricken monk. "Wad ye use force to a holy brither o' the preceptory? That wad be an awfu like thing." "I must; you drive me to it," said the stranger--"Heaven knows how unwillingly. My orders were peremptory. They were to accost the first of your brethren I met; to entreat him to accompany me; and, if he refused, to compel him. The first I have done; the latter I must proceed to do; but, rest assured, no personal injury shall be done you; and you shall, moreover, be well rewarded for your trouble." Having said this, the stranger gave a low whistle, when he was immediately joined by two men, who had been concealed in a dark passage close by, and who the unhappy monk saw were well armed. "Now, good father," resumed the person by whom the latter had been first accosted, "I trust you will see the folly of any attempt at resistance, should you--which God forfend!--be indiscreet enough to entertain any such idea. Excuse me hinting farther, holy father, that any attempt at outcry, or at giving the slightest alarm of any kind, will be attended with unpleasant consequences." "But--but--but"--exclaimed the distracted innkeeper, with rapid utterance. "No buts, if you please, good father, but follow me," interrupted the stranger; and, saying this, he moved off, while his two companions placed themselves one on either side of their charge, and requested him to proceed. Scarcely knowing what he did, but seeing very clearly that there would be imminent personal danger in farther remonstrance or resistance, the unlucky monk obeyed. This, however, he did only until he should have had time to reflect on his best course of proceeding--that is, until he should have taken it into due consideration whether he had not better brave exposure, and at once avow himself as no brother of St. Anthony, but David Wemyss, landlord of "The Ship," on the Coal Hill of Leith--reserving to himself, however, the right of keeping the secret of his purpose in assuming the garb of the brotherhood. Having weighed the matter well, and taken all probable and possible consequences into account, David finally determined on making the confession above alluded to--hoping by this means to put an end to the awkward proceedings now in progress and to accomplish, of course, at the same time, his own liberation. Having come to this resolution-- "Hey! hey!" he exclaimed, in a slightly raised voice, to draw the attention of the principal of his three guards or captors, who was still walking a little way in advance. The person thus hailed stopped until David came up. The latter took him aside a little way, and whispered in his ear-- "I say, man, this is a' a mistak thegither. I'm no a monk. I'm no ane o' the brotherhood at a', man." The man stared at him with surprise for a few seconds, without saying a word. At length, a satirical, or perhaps rather incredulous smile playing on his countenance-- "Come, come, now, father; that will never do," he said. "But I excuse your attempt, though a clumsy one, to impose on me; for the duties of your office have now become dangerous, and I do not wonder that you should seek to avoid them as much as possible. I was prepared for this--I was prepared for reluctance; and hence the precautions I took to compel, in case of failing to persuade." "But I assure ye, sir, most seriously, that it's true I hae tell't ye," exclaimed David, with desperate eagerness, "I'm nae mair a monk than ye are." "And, pray, who the devil are you then?" exclaimed the stranger. "'Deed, to tell you a Gude's truth, I'm juist plain Davy Wemyss o' 'The Ship,' on the Coal Hill." "Umph! oh! Don't know such a person; never heard of him." "Od! that's queer," here interposed David, hastily. "I thocht everybody kent me." "Not I for one," replied the stranger drily; "but, to cut this matter short, in the first place, I am not bound, good father, or hosteller, or whatever you are, to believe you; in the next, my orders were peremptory: I was instructed to accost the first person I met in clerical garb, and entreat him to accompany me; and, if he did not do so willingly, to compel him, as I told you before. So, there's an end of it. If you really be not what you appear to be, I can't help it. That's a point you must settle with others, not with me; I have nothing to do with it. My duty's done when I have brought you along with me; and that duty I am determined to do." Saying this, the speaker, without waiting for farther remark or remonstrance, walked on, having previously made a sign to his two assistants to look to their charge. What mine host of "The Ship's" feelings or reflections were, on finding himself thus cut off from all chance of escape from his awkward predicament, it would be rather tedious to describe. The reader will believe that they could not be very pleasant; and that is enough. Whatever these feelings were, however, they did not hinder David Wemyss from entering, or rather attempting to enter, into conversation with the two men to whose charge he was confided. "Od, men," he said, on their resuming their march, "this is an awkward sort o' business. I'm sure ye ken me weel aneuch--dinna ye?" The only reply was a shake of the head. "Davy Wemyss o' the Coal Hill? Ye canna but ken me, I should think," added the latter. "No voord Ainglish," at length replied one of the men. "Oh, ye're Frenchmen; ye belang to the Queen's Guard?" said David, now enlightened on the subject of their silence. "Weel, this is waur and mair o't," he continued. "Sma chance noo o' makin oot my case." In the meantime, the party, who had taken their way by the quietest and most circuitous routes, were rapidly approaching the wooden bridge over the Water of Leith, which, in these days, formed the only communication between the opposite sides of the river. Having gained the bridge, they proceeded alongst it; and, thereafter, made for a certain outlet in the ramparts situated in this quarter. This outlet, as might be expected, seeing that the town was at this moment under siege, was strongly guarded, and no egress or ingress permitted excepting to persons properly accredited. Of such, however, seemed to be the person who had captured the unlucky hero of our story; for, on David and his escort coming up to the gate, they found the way prepared for them by the former, who, keeping still in advance, had arrived there before them. Without word or question, then, they were permitted to pass through. At this point, David was strongly tempted to make his case known to the guard at the gate; but, perceiving that they too were all Frenchmen, he thought it would be of no use, as they would not understand him. So he held his tongue. The guard--who, we need hardly say, were staunch Catholics to a man--were, in the meantime, sadly annoying David with reverences to his clerical character. They formed themselves into two lines, that he might pass out at the gate with all due honour, and kept touching their caps to him, with the most respectful obeisance, as he walked on between their ranks. Having gained the outside of the wall, Wemyss' escort, still led on by their principal, conducted him, by circuitous routes, towards the mills of Leith, at the distance of about a quarter of a mile from the town. Here, under a shed, they found four horses ready saddled and bridled, in charge of a groom, who seemed to have been waiting their arrival. So soon as the party came up, the latter, without waiting for orders, disappeared for an instant; and, in the next, presented himself leading forth the four horses, two by each hand. On one of these David, notwithstanding his most earnest entreaties to the contrary, which he backed by earnest assurances that "he was nae horseman," was immediately mounted. His guards mounted one a-piece of the others; and the whole cavalcade now proceeded, at a round trot, towards Edinburgh--poor Wemyss bouncing terribly with the roughness of the motion, to which he had been but little accustomed. On approaching the city, the leader of the party, who, on horseback as on foot, still kept in advance, suddenly drew bridle, and waited the coming up of the holy brother and his escort. On the former drawing near-- "Our route, father, lies through Edinburgh," he said. "Now, as these are troublesome times for persons of your cloth, I would recommend your conducting yourself, for your own sake, as warily as possible. We shall take the quietest routes, in order to avoid observation; and I beg that you will neither say nor do anything while we are passing through the city calculated to defeat our caution or attract notice." Having said this, and without waiting for any reply, the speaker rode on, leaving his charge to follow with his escort. The party had now passed the village of Broughton, when, turning in an easterly direction, they passed round the eastern base of the Calton Hill, descended to the south back of the Canongate, traversed its whole length, and finally entered the city by Leith Wynd. For some time, the horsemen passed along without attracting any particular notice; and, very probably, would have continued to do so, had it not been for an idle boy, who, catching a glimpse of the brother of St. Anthony's flowing gown and slouched hat, just as the party had turned into the High Street, set up a loud cry of-- "Prelacy's mounted! prelacy's mounted! Hurra! hurra! Prelacy's mounted! and riding to----." Continuing to follow the cavalcade, and continuing his clamour also, the mischievous little rascal soon had a crowd at the heels of the horsemen. The boy's exclamations spoke the spirit of the times; so that others of a similar character soon arose from twenty different quarters, and from as many different voices. "Doon wi' the limb o' Satan!" shouted one. "Doon wi' the man o' sin!" shouted another. "Pu' Papery frae its throne o'iniquity!" exclaimed a third. "Strike your spurs into your horse's sides, and let us shew them clean heels for it," said the leader of the party, addressing his unhappy charge, by whose side he was now riding, and speaking in a low but firm and earnest tone. "But, man," began the latter, who appeared to be in great trepidation. "You'll be murdered else," said the former, interrupting him sharply, and, at the same moment, striking the spurs into his horse's sides--a proceeding which instantly carried him clear of the crowd, and, shortly after, out of sight and out of danger. The prudent example of their leader was quickly followed by the other two men, who, also, clapping spurs to their horses, soon found themselves out of the tumultuous throng by which they were surrounded, to whose tender mercies they left their unhappy charge, who being, as he said himself, no horseman, was unable to extricate himself from the now fast-thickening crowd. Despairing of being able to effect his escape by any effort of horsemanship, the poor innkeeper, though with little hope of being believed, determined on divulging the facts of his case to the mob--always, however, of course, reserving to himself the original purpose for which he had assumed the unfortunate dress he now wore, the cause of all his trouble. Having come to this resolution, he began to address the mob, some of whom had already laid hands on him, for the purpose of dragging him from his horse. "Guid folks," began David, "I'm nae mair a munk than ony o' ye. I'm"---- At this moment, a well-aimed brick-bat took the unfortunate speaker on the right temple, and tumbled him senseless from his horse. The mob, somewhat appalled by the suddenness of this catastrophe, and imagining that the unhappy man was killed outright, stood aloof for a few seconds, when David, almost instantly recovering from the stunning effect of the blow, which had unhorsed him, started to his feet, and, finding the press around him not very dense, pushed his way through it, and took to his heels. This proceeding was the signal for a general chace, and it instantly took place. Relieved from the apprehension of having a murder to answer for, the mob, with shouts of exultation, started after the fugitive at full speed. Down Leith Wynd went David, instinct taking him in the direction of home; and down after him, like an avalanche, or raging torrent, went the mob, whooping and yelling as they rushed along. Maddened and distracted with terror, David's progress was splendid, and, had nothing occurred to interrupt it, would soon have carried him out of the reach of his enemies; but the steepness of the street, which had aided his velocity, also increased its perils. For a long while he kept his feet on the abrupt declivity, like a winged Mercury; but a treacherous inequality in the pavement brought him suddenly, and with dreadful violence, down on his face, while, partly over and partly on him, went half-a-dozen of the foremost of the pursuers, tripped up by his abrupt and unlooked-for prostration. Those who fell on the unhappy victim of popular fury, now instantly, and, as they lay, betook themselves to avenging their fall by tearing and worrying at the unlucky cause of their accident; while others coming up, added to his punishment by an unmerciful infliction of kicks and buffets, that quickly deprived him of all consciousness. It was at this critical moment that a person, apparently of consideration, approached the crowd, and asked some of those who were hovering around it, what was the meaning of the uproar. "They're bastin a Papist--a fat priest o' Baal, they hae gotten hand o'," said a burly fellow who, from the leathern apron he wore, appeared to be a shoemaker. "Giein him a taste o' Purgatory before they send him to ----, just by way o' seasonin." "What, is this more of the accursed doings of the spoilers and persecutors of the church," exclaimed the stranger, in a tone of deep indignation. "Are they about to add murder to robbery;" and, drawing his sword, he rushed into the crowd, calling out--"Stand aside, ye caitiffs! shame on ye; would ye murder a defenceless man? Would ye bring Heaven's wrath upon your heads by so foul a deed?" The crowd, either awed by the bold bearing of the stranger, or taken by surprise by the suddenness of his assault, readily opened a way for him, so that, in an instant, he stood by the bruised, battered, and senseless body of our unhappy brother of St. Anthony. Seeing that the latter was in a state of utter unconsciousness, though still living, the stranger, after clearing a circle around the prostrate man, addressing those near him, said-- "Ten crowns will I give to any three or four amongst ye who will bear this unfortunate person whither I shall conduct them. It is not far: only to the southern side of the city." For a few minutes there was no answer to this invitation; but it was heard with a silence which shewed that it had made an impression--that religious zeal and hatred were giving way to cupidity. At length, a brawny-armed smith, with shirt rolled up to his shoulders, stepping out of the crowd, said-- "Well, I'm your man for one. I say, Bob, and you Archy," he continued, turning round, and selecting two persons from the mob, "will ye no join us in giein a lift to the carrion? Ten croons are no to be fand at every dike-side." Without making any reply in words to this appeal, the two persons named came forward, although with a somewhat dogged and sullen air, and were about to seize limbs a-piece of the still unconscious victim of popular hatred, with the view of thus transporting him, as if he had been a dead dog, to the destination proposed for him, when the person who had now taken the unfortunate man in charge, objected to the unseemly and inhuman proceeding, and offered an additional crown for a bier or litter on which to place him. The activity of the smith, stimulated by the increased reward, quickly produced the conveniency wanted. It was but a coarse and clumsy article; being nothing more than a few rough boards hastily put together; but it answered its purpose indifferently well. On this latter, then, the body of our unlucky brother was now placed--his face dreadfully swollen and disfigured; and the procession moved off, with a shouting and laughing mob at its heels. Leaving David thus disposed of, we will return to Leith for a space, to see how Drinkhooly came on, denuded as he was of his shovel hat and his gown. On awaking from his nap, the worthy churchman, not well pleased that David had not come to rouse him as he promised, started up in great uneasiness, lest the gates of the preceptory should be shut, and his character as a regular living man be thereby injured. What was the surprise of the good man, however, to find that he had been stripped of his gown while he slept, and left in his shirt sleeves. Alarmed at the circumstance, brother Drinkhooly began searching the apartment for the missing garment, and also for his hat, which he now found had likewise gone astray. Being able to discover no trace of the missing articles, he commenced rapping on the door to bring some one to his assistance, although very unwilling to expose himself in his present predicament to any but his well-beloved crony, David Wemyss. He could not help himself, however. His gown and hat he must have. He could not leave the house without them, and without assistance they could not be got. The worthy brother's rapping on the door being unattended to, he commenced with his heel on the floor, a proceeding which he had often found, as it has been facetiously termed, an "_effectual calling_." In the present instance, it brought mine host's wife into his presence. On her entering-- "Good woman, good Mrs. Wemyss, I would say, know ye anything of mine outer garment? My gown, know ye where it has been deposited? I likewise lack my hat, good Mrs. Weymss; know ye what has become of it?" "Truly, your reverence, I dinna ken," replied Mrs. Weymss, beginning to bustle about the apartment in search of the desiderated articles; "but they canna be far aff, surely. Does your reverence no mind whar ye laid them?" "My hat, I recollect perfectly--there being no reason why I should not recollect it--I laid on this chair by the bedside here. Now it is gone. My gown I laid nowhere, but kept on me. So, of that garment I must have been denuded even while I slept. It is strange. Is my good friend David not in the way? He would, doubtless, explain all, and help me to mine outer covering and head-gear?" "Indeed, no, your reverence, David's no in the way; and I canna tell whar he is. He's been missing oot o' the house thae three hours; and gaed aff without telling ony o' us whar he was gaun, or what he was gaun aboot. Indeed, nane o' us kent when he gaed. Sae he maun hae slippit aff unco cannily." In the meantime, the search for the missing articles of dress went on vigorously, but without any good result. They were nowhere to be found. "What's to be done?" said the good father in a despairing tone, as he threw himself into a chair. "I cannot go through the streets in this indecent condition, and, if I remain longer, I will be deemed a disregarder of canonical hours. What is to be done?" "Deed it's an awkward thing, your reverence, and how ye are to gae hame in your sark sleeves, and your bald head to the win, I dinna see." "I'll tell you what you'll do for me, my good Mrs. Weymss," said the worthy father, after thinking a moment: "You'll send up your little girl to the preceptory, and I'll give her a message to Brother Christie. I think he'll oblige me in a strait. He'll send me down a gown and hat wherewith I may hie me home, and your good husband, and my good friend, David, will, doubtless, find me mine own garments when he returns." "Surely, your reverence, surely; Jessy'll be but owre prood to do your reverence's biddin," replied Mrs. Weymss, and she hastened to call her daughter. On the girl making her appearance, the worthy brother gave her her instructions. He desired her to go to the preceptory; to ask a private word of Brother Christie; and to say to him that he, Drinkhooly, had got into tribulation. That, having some matters of private concernment to talk over with mine host of "The Ship," he had called on him, and that, while there, overcome with exhaustion, in consequence of his late fatiguing duties, he had fallen asleep, and that, while he slept, some one had removed his gown and hat, and that he could nowhere find the same, and could not therefore return to the preceptory unless his good brother, Christie, would furnish him with the loan of these two articles, the which, he had no doubt, he would readily do. Charged with this rather long-winded message, the girl departed on her mission. In less than a quarter of an hour she returned, but brought neither hat nor gown. "Has he refused them?" inquired the worthy brother, with a look of grievous discomfiture, when he saw the girl enter without the much-desired articles. "What did he say?" "He said, sir," replied the girl, who was both too young and too single-minded to think of saving any one's feelings at the expense of truth, "that, if ye had drank less o' David Wemyss' claret, ye wad hae kenned better what had become o' your gown and hat." "_O scandalum magnatum!_" exclaimed the indignant priest. "Doth he--doth Brother Christie accuse me of vinous indulgences? Him whom I have, a hundred times, helped to his dormitory, when incapacitated therefrom by the excess of his potations. And he would not give thee the garments?" "No, please you, sir; he said ye micht gang without the breeks for him. He wadna send ye a stitch." It became now matter for serious consideration what was to be done. It was true that the good father might easily have been arrayed for the nonce in a coat and hat of his friend, David Wemyss', and might, so attired, pass unheeded through the streets. But how was he to account for his appearance in such an unseemly garb at the preceptory. It might lead to some awkward inquiries as to how the good brother had spent the evening. There was no other way for it, however. So, equipped in the deficient articles from mine host of "The Ship's" wardrobe, Brother Drinkhooly stole out of the house, slunk along the streets, gained the gate of the preceptory, knocked thereat, whispered two or three words of explanation to the porter, with whom he was fortunately in good terms, and, finally, got snugly to his own dormitory without detection. To return to mine host of "The Ship." It was not for nearly twelve hours after the occurrence of the tragical affair of Leith Wynd, that David Wemyss was restored to a consciousness of existence. When he was, conceive, if you can, reader, his surprise and amazement to find himself in a superb bed, hung round with rich crimson velvet curtains, and whose coverlets were of satin fringed with gold. The room, which was also gorgeously furnished, was so darkened when David awoke from the refreshing sleep which had restored him to the possession of his senses, that it was some time before he discovered all the splendours with which he was surrounded. When these, however, had at length begun to take his eye, he started up on his elbow, and, with a mingled look of perplexity, consternation, and bewilderment, commenced a survey of the magnificent chamber of which he thus so strangely and inexplicably found himself an occupant. How or when he had been brought there, he could not conceive; neither, for a good while, had he any recollection whatever of the pummelling with which he had been favoured in Leith Wynd. The operation, however, of certain physical effects of that incident--namely, a painful aching of the bones, and an almost total inability to move either leg or arm, gradually unfolded to him, although only in a dim and confused manner, the occurrence of the preceding night. In the meantime, David went on with his survey of the apartment, during which he perceived two objects that convinced him that he was in the house of a Roman Catholic--of one of those who still clung to the ancient religion of the kingdom, and who held in detestation and abhorrence the doctrines of the new faith. These objects were a large painting, over the fire-place, of the Saviour on the Cross, and a small silver crucifix which stood on a table close by the side of the bed; there was also lying on the floor, opposite the crucifix, and near to it, a crimson velvet cushion with gold tassels on which were such indentations as intimated its having been recently knelt upon. Having completed the examination of his new premises, David Wemyss threw himself back on the bed, in order to take a deliberate survey in his own mind of his present strange position, and of all the circumstances connected therewith. "'Od, but this is a most extraordinar affair, and a dooms awkward ane," thought David, to himself. "Wha wad hae dreamed o't. Wha wad hae dreamed that sae simple a thing as me putting on Drinkhooly's goun, wad hae led to a' this mischief. "What'll they think's become o' me in Leith? And what'll I say for mysel whan I gae back? And what'll Drinkhooly do for his goun? Od, they'll excommunicat him; they'll ruin him. God help us, it's an awfu' business. But, whar am I?--Wha's house is this, and hoo got I till't? And hoo and whan am I to get hame again; for I fin' that I couldna keep a leg under me enow, an it were to mak me provost o' Edinburgh." At this moment, David's somewhat disjointed, though pertinent enough reflections, were interrupted by the entrance of some one into the apartment. The intruder, whoever he was, came in on tiptoe, as if fearful of disturbing the occupant of the apartment; and, on approaching the bed, peered cautiously into it, to see whether he was awake. David, without saying a word, stared at the person, who appeared to be a serving man or cook, from his wearing a blue velvet cap on his head--the usual head-dress of such persons in those times, and his bearing a steaming silver posset dish in one hand. David, as we have said, stared at the man, without saying a word--a line of proceeding which he adopted, in order that the other, by speaking first, might give him a sort of cue by which to guide himself in the impending colloquy. Seeing that the patient was awake, the man, bowing respectfully, said:-- "I trust, holy father, I find you better. Here is a posset which has been prepared for you by the directions of our leech, worthy Dr. Whang o' the Cowgate Head, which you will be so good as take." "My man," said David, without either accepting or refusing the proffered posset, "I'm misdoubtin that there's a sad mistak in this business a'thegither. Howsomever, let that flee stick to the wa' for the present. Can ye tell me whar I am, and hoo I cam here?" "Most assuredly, holy father. You are just now in the house, and under the protection and guardianship of Lady Wisherton of Wisherton Mains, whose house is situated about two hundred yards south of the Kirk of Field. As to the manner of your coming here, holy father, it was this:--Her ladyship's son, Lord Boggyland, coming up Leith Wynd last night, found you in the midst of a crowd of sacrilegious ruffians, who were murdering you, and who had already, by their brutal treatment, deprived you of all consciousness. Seeing this, his lordship, who, as all his family--his good and pious mother included--are staunch adherents of the old religion, instantly interfered in your behalf, and had you conveyed to his mother's house, where, as I have already said, you are at the present moment." "Umph," muttered David. "Is that the way o't. Then, I fancy, I'm juist oot o' the fryin-pan into the fire." The serving-man, not perceiving the applicability of the remark, although somewhat surprised at it, made no reply, but again pressed the posset on the suffering martyr. "Weel, weel, let's see't then," said David, raising himself up in the bed. "There can be nae great harm in that, I fancy. It'll no mak things muckle waur than they are. Is't onything tasty?" His attendant assured him that he would find it very pleasant, being made by her ladyship's own hands, who long enjoyed a high reputation for manufacturing possets and comfits of all sorts. Having raised the lid of the posset dish, and flavoured it contents, David pronounced it "savoury;" when, taking spoon in hand, he cleared out the vessel in a twinkling. "A gusty mouthfu' that," said mine host of "The Ship," throwing himself luxuriously back on his pillow, "although I think it wadna been the waur o' a wee hair mair brandy in't." The serving-man having done his errand, now left the room, retiring with the same careful step and respectful manner with which he had entered, and left David once more to his own reflections. In these, however, he was permitted but a very short indulgence. His attendant had not been gone five minutes, when the door of the apartment was again gently opened, and an elderly lady, of tall and majestic form, arrayed in a close fitting dress of black velvet, with a gold chain round her neck, from which was suspended a large diamond cross, entered the sick man's chamber. It was Lady Wisherton herself. Approaching, with stately step, but with a look of tender concern, the bed on which her patient lay-- "It rejoices me much, holy father," she said, "to learn, from our good and faithful servitor, William Binkie, that your reverence begins to feel some symptoms of amendment." "Ou, thank ye, mem, thank ye," replied David, with no small trepidation; for the dignified and stately appearance of his visiter had sadly appalled him. "I fin' mysel a hauntle better, thanks to your leddyship's kindness--takin' ye to be Leddy Wisherton hersel', as I hae nae doot ye are." "You are right in your conjecture, good father," replied Lady Wisherton, rather taken aback by the very peculiar style of his reverence's language, which she did not recollect ever to have met with in any other person in holy orders before. The circumstance, however, only puzzled her; it did not, in the smallest degree, excite in her any suspicion of the real facts of the case. "You are right in your conjecture, good father," she said, "I am Lady Wisherton." "So I was jalousin, mem," said David, who, by the way, we may as well mention here, had made up his mind to endeavour to avoid exposure, by not saying or doing anything to undeceive Lady Wisherton as to his real character, and to trust to some fortunate chance of getting, undetected, out of the house. "O father!" said Lady Wisherton, bursting out into a sudden paroxysm of pious excitation, "what is to become of our poor persecuted church? When will a judgment descend on this unholy land, for the monstrous sins by which it is now daily polluted. Oh, dreadful times!--oh, unheard of iniquity! that a priest of God--a father of our holy church--should be attacked on the public streets of this city, and put in jeopardy of his life by a mob of heretical blasphemers! When will these atrocities cease? Oh, when, when, when?" "Deed, mem, it's no easy sayin," replied the subject of this pathetic lamentation. "They're awfu' times. Nae man leevin ever saw or heard o' the like o' them. There, doon at Leith enow, they're murderin ane anither by the dizzen every day, and no comin a bit nearer the point after a'. Heaven kens whar it's to end. In the meantime, they hae gien me a confounded lounderin; I fin' that in every bane o' my body." "You have been sorely abused by them, indeed, father," replied Lady Wisherton. "But a day of retribution is coming. You will be avenged, terribly avenged." "There was ae fallow, in particular, amang them, that I wad like to see gettin a guid creeshin," replied David: "_that_ was a great big scounneril o' a blacksmith, wi' his shirt sleeves rowed up to his shouthers. He was the warst o' the lot. I got mair and heavier waps frae him than frae a' the rest put thegither." Again, Lady Wisherton looked surprised at the style of language in which her reverend patient spoke, his last remarks being particularly rich in the homely vernacular of the country, and greatly was her perplexity increased by the discordance between his calling and his manner, which was every moment becoming more and more marked; still she did not, nor could suspect the truth. "Was it not a blessing of Providence, father," resumed Lady Wisherton, "that my son, Lord Boggyland, happened to be in Leith Wynd at the time you were attacked by these sacrilegious ruffians?" "Feth, my leddy, it was just that," replied David--"A Gude's mercy. They gied me a bonny creeshin as it was; but they wad hae dished me clean oot an it hadna been for him. Feth, yon fellows care nae mair for a man's life than they wad do for a puddock's." "Your reverence's face is much swelled," said Lady Wisherton, suddenly attracted by the swollen and discoloured countenance of her patient. "Greatly swelled. You must allow me to bathe it with my lotion." "Nae occasion, mem, nae occasion, thank ye; I dinna find it ony way painfu. Besides, I'll try and get up, towards the darkenin, and be steppin doon to Leith; for they'll be wonderin there what's come o' me." It will be seen from this that our brother of St. Anthony contemplated an early retreat from his present quarters; and further, that he meant to avail himself of the obscurity of night to effect that retreat. But this was a point not to be so very easily managed as he thought. "Leave my house this afternoon!" exclaimed Lady Wisherton, in the utmost amazement. "That, with your reverence's leave, indeed, you shall not do. You shall remain where you are, under my tendance, until you be perfectly recovered, which we dare not hope for under a fortnight, at the very least. But, in the meantime, good father, you shall have every attendance, every comfort which you can desire, or of which your situation will admit. My son and I are but too happy, although we deplore the cause, of having been presented with an opportunity of testifying our reverence and love for a minister of our holy religion. "As to your fears," she continued, "for any uneasiness among your friends in Leith, on account of your absence, be not concerned about that, good father; I have provided for it. I have sent notice to the preceptory of your misfortune, relating all that has happened, and giving intimation that you are in my house, and in safety; so have no doubt that some of the brethren will be here in the course of the evening." Here was a pretty piece of information for the already but too much perplexed martyr to the old faith. Intimation had been sent to the preceptory, and half-a-dozen of the brethren would be in upon him immediately, and a dreadful exposé would, of course, follow. It was a most trying crisis, and David but too sensibly felt it to be so. He felt as if he could have wished the house to fall upon him, and bury him in its ruins. Appalled and horrified, however, as he was at this impending catastrophe, he said nothing, but, anxious to be left alone, in order to have an opportunity of thinking over his position, and of taking into consideration what had best be done, he began to affect drowsiness; when his noble hostess, taking the hint, quietly left the apartment. Hearing the door close, David first opened one eye cautiously, and then the other; then turning gently round, peered over the edge of the bed to see if the coast was clear. Discovering that it was, he threw himself again on his back, and, fixing his eyes on the roof, began thinking as hard as he could how he was to get out of his present dilemma. The sequel will tell the result of his deliberations. On that same night, about twelve of the clock, David Wemyss' worthy spouse--who had been in great distress at his sudden disappearance, and who was fully impressed with the belief that he had fallen over the quay and had been drowned--was startled by a low tap-tapping at the back door of "The Ship." Thinking it might be some one with tidings of her lost husband, she instantly got up, lighted a candle, and, although under no little apprehension and alarm, opened the door, when, lo! who should enter but her beloved David himself. She instantly set up a scream of delight. "Whisht, whisht, woman," said David, stealing into a back apartment as fast as he could. "This is no a business to blaw about. The calmer sough we keep the better." "But, gude sake, David," said his wife, on rejoining him, after having secured the door, "whar hae ye been a' this time, and whar hae ye gotten that awfu-like face?" "I hae gotten a hantle mair than that, guidwife, although ye dinna see't," replied David. "I dinna believe there's a hale bane in my entire buik. I hae had a bonny time since I left ye; aneuch to serve a man his hale life time; and yet it was a' crammed into ae four-and-twenty hours. But gie me a mouthfu o' brandy, guidwife, and I'll tell ye a' about it." David now proceeded with his narration, giving his wife a detailed account of the series of adventures related in the foregoing pages. To these we have now to add only a reference to one or two points, which will be considered, probably, as requiring some explanation. First, as to how our brother of St. Anthony escaped from Lady Wisherton's. This he effected by the simple process of stealing out of the house after dark. There was no other way for it, and he was fortunate enough to succeed in the somewhat hazardous attempt, by dropping himself from a window of a story in height, at the back part of the house. Who the person was who first laid hands on mine host of "The Ship," on his first appearance in his new character, or by whom he was employed, he never certainly knew, but suspected afterwards that he was a retainer of Lord Borthwick's, who was then in Leith with the Queen Regent. Whither, however, he meant to have taken him, or who the sufferer was for whom the last duties of religion were wanted, he never learnt; nor, indeed, for obvious reasons, did he ever inquire. The whole, in short, was a subject on which David Wemyss always thought the less that was said the better; and, acting on this opinion, it was one which he carefully abstained from making matter of conversation. All his caution, however, could not prevent some hints of his adventure from getting abroad. These hints some of the little ragged scapegraces of the Coal Hill wrought into the following rhymes, which, in dark nights, they were in the habit of shouting in at the door of "The Ship," to the great annoyance of its landlord, who might frequently be seen rushing out, stick in hand, to inflict summary punishment on the offenders:-- "Davie Wemyss gaed oot a priest, By filthy lucre temptit; Davie Wemyss cam hame again. And thocht naebody kent it." THE STORY OF CLARA DOUGLAS. "The maid that loves, Goes out to sea upon a shattered plank, And puts her trust in miracles for safety."--_Old Play._ I am a peripatetic genius--a wanderer by profession--a sort of Salathiel Secundus, "doomed for a term," like the ghost of Hamlet's papa, "to walk the earth," whether I will or not. Here, however, the simile stops; for his aforesaid ghostship could traverse, if he chose, amid climes far away, while the circuit of my peregrinations is, has for sometime been, and must, for some short time more, necessarily be, confined to the northern extremity of "our tight little island"--_vulgo vocato_--Scotland. In my day I have seen many strange sights, and met with many strange faces--made several hairbreadth 'scapes, and undergone innumerable perils by flood and field. On the wings of the wind--that is, on the top of a stage-coach--I have passed through many known and unknown towns and villages; have visited, on foot and on horseback, for my own special edification and amusement, various ancient ruins, foaming cataracts, interesting rocks, and dismal-looking caves, celebrated in Scottish story. But better far than that, and dearer to my soul, my foot has trod the floors of, I may say, all the haberdashers shops north of the Tweed: in short, most patient reader, I am a travelling bagman. In this capacity I have, for years, perambulated among the chief towns of Scotland, taking orders from those who were inclined to give them to me, and giving orders to those who were not inclined to take them from me, unless with a _douceur_ in perspective--viz., coachmen, waiters, bar-maids, _et hoc genus omne_. From those of the third class, many are the witching smiles lighting up pretty faces--many the indignant glances shot from deep love-darting eyes, when their under neighbours, the lips, were invaded without consent of parties--which have saluted me everywhere; for the same varied feelings, the same sudden and unaccountable likings and dislikings, have place in the breasts of bar-maids as in those of other women. As is the case too with the rest of their sex, there are among them the clumsy and the handsome, the plain and the pretty, the scraggy and the plump, the old and the young; but of all the bar-maids I ever met with, none charmed me more than did Mary of the Black Swan, at Altonby. In my eyes she inherited all the good qualities I have here enumerated--that is to say, she was handsome, pretty, plump, and young, with a form neither too tall nor too short; but just the indescribable happy size between, set off by a manner peculiarly graceful. It was on a delightful evening in the early spring, that I found myself seated, for the first time, in a comfortable little parlour pertaining to the Black Swan, and Mary attending on me--she being the chief, nay, almost the only person in the establishment who could serve a table. I was struck with her loveliness, as well as captivated with her engaging manner, and though I had for thirty years defied the artifices of blind Cupid, I now felt myself all at once over head and ears in love with this village beauty. Although placed in so low a sphere as that in which I then beheld her, there was a something about her that proclaimed her to be of gentle birth. Whoever looked upon her countenance, felt conscious that there was a respect due to her which it is far from customary to extend to girls in waiting at an inn. Hers were "Eyes so pure, that from their ray Dark vice would turn abashed away." Her feet were small and fairy-like, from which, if her voice, redolent of musical softness--that thing so desirable in woman--had not already informed me, I should have set her down as being of English extraction. Several months elapsed ere it was again in my power to visit Altonby. During all that time, my vagrant thoughts had been of Mary--sleeping or waking, her form was ever present to my fancy. On entering the Black Swan, it was Mary who bounded forward to welcome me with a delighted smile. She seemed gratified at my return; and I was no less so at the cordiality of my reception. The month was July, and the evening particularly fine; so, not having business of much consequence to transact in the place, and Mary having to attend to the comforts of others, beside myself, then sojourning at the Black Swan, I sallied forth alone-- "To take my evening's walk of meditation." When one happens to be left _per se_ in a provincial town, where he is alike unknowing and unknown--where there is no theatre or other place of amusement in which to spend the evening--it almost invariably happens that he pays a visit to the churchyard, and delights himself, for an hour or so, with deciphering the tombstones--a recreation extremely healthful to the body, and soothing to the mind. It was to the churchyard on that evening I bent my steps, thinking, as I went along, seriously of Mary. "What is she to me?" I involuntarily exclaimed; "I have no time to waste upon women: I am a wanderer, with no great portion of worldly gear. In my present circumstances it is impossible I can marry her; and to think of her in any other light were villanous. No, no! I will no longer cherish a dream which can never be realized." And I determined that, on the morrow, I should fly the fatal spot for ever. Who or what Mary's relations had been, she seemed to feel great reluctance in disclosing to me. All I could glean from her was, that she was an orphan--that she had had a sister who had formed an unfortunate attachment, and broken their mother's heart--that all of her kindred that now remained was a brother, and he was in a foreign land. The sun was resting above the summits of the far-off mountains, and the yew trees were flinging their dusky shadows over the graves, as I entered the burial-place of Altonby. The old church was roofless and in ruins; and within its walls were many tombstones over the ashes of those who, having left more than the wherewithal to bury them, had been laid there by their heirs, as if in token of respect. In a distant corner, I observed one little mound over which no stone had been placed to indicate who lay beneath: it was evidently the grave of a stranger, and seemed to have been placed in that spot more for the purpose of being out of the way than for any other. At a short distance from it was another mound, overtopped with grass of a fresher kind. As I stood leaning over a marble tombstone, gazing around me, a figure slowly entered at the farther end of the aisle, and, with folded arms and downcast eyes, passed on to those two graves. It was that of a young man of perhaps five-and-twenty, though a settled melancholy, which overspread his countenance, made him look five years older. I crouched behind the stone on which I had been leaning, fearful of disturbing him with my presence, or rousing his attention by my attempting to leave the place. After gazing with a vacant eye for a few moments upon the graves, he knelt down between them. His lips began to move, but I heard not what he said. I thought he was praying for the souls of the departed; and I was confirmed in this by hearing him at last say, with an audible voice:-- "May all good angels guard thee, Clara Douglas, and thou, my mother!" As he uttered these last words, he turned his eyes to the newer grave. I thought he was about to continue his prayer; but, as if the sight of the grave had awakened other feelings, he suddenly started up, and, raising his hands to heaven, invoked curses on the head of one whom he termed their "murderer!" That done, he rushed madly from the church. All this was very strange to me; and I determined, if possible, to ascertain whose remains those graves entombed. On leaving the churchyard, I was fortunate enough to orgather with an old man, from whom I learned the melancholy story of her who occupied the older-looking grave. She was young and beautiful. Accident had deprived her father of that wealth which a long life of untiring industry had enabled him to lay past for his children; and he did not long survive its loss. Fearful of being a burden to her mother, who had a son and another daughter besides herself to provide for out of the slender pittance which remained to her on her husband's death, Clara Douglas accepted a situation as a governess, and sought to earn an honourable independence by those talents and accomplishments which had once been cultivated for mere amusement. The brother of Clara, shortly afterwards, obtained an appointment in the island of Madeira. Unfortunately for Clara, a young officer, a relative of the family in which she resided, saw her, and was smitten with her charms. He loved and was beloved again. The footing of intimacy on which he was in the house, procured him many interviews with Clara. Suddenly his regiment was ordered to the Continent; and when the young ensign told the sorrowful tidings to Clara, he elicited from her a confession of her love. Months passed away--Waterloo was fought and won--and Ensign Malcolm was among those who fell. When the death-list reached Scotland, many were the hearts it overpowered with grief; but Clara Douglas had more than one grief to mourn: sorrow and shame were too much to bear together, and she fled from the house where she had first met _him_ who was the cause of all. None could tell whither she had gone. Her mother and sister were agonized, when the news of her disappearance reached them. Every search was made, but without effect. A year all but two weeks passed away, and still no tidings of her, till that very day, two boys seeking for pheasant's nests upon the top of a hillock overgrown with furze--which the old man pointed out to me at a short distance from the place where we stood--accidently stumbled upon an object beneath a fir-tree. It was the remains of a female in a kneeling posture. Beneath her garments, by which she was recognised as Clara Douglas, not a vestige of flesh remained. There was still some upon her hands, which had been tightly clasped together; and upon her face, which leant upon them. Seemingly she had died in great agony. It was supposed by some that she had taken poison. "If your time will permit," added the old man, as he wiped away a tear, "I will willingly show you the place where her remains were found. It is but a short distance. Come." I followed the old man in silence. He led the way into a field. We climbed over some loose stones thrown together, to serve as a wall of division at the farther extremity of it, and slowly began to ascend the grassy acclivity, which was on both sides bordered by a thick hedge, placed apart, at the distance of about thirty feet. When half way up, I could not resist the inclination I felt to turn and look upon the scene. It was an evening as fair as I had ever gazed on. The wheat was springing in the field through which we had just passed, covering it, as it were, with a rich green carpet. Trees and hills bounded the view, behind which the sun was on the point of sinking, and the red streaks upon the western sky "gave promise of a goodly day tomorrow. If, thought I, the hour on which Clara Douglas ascended this hill was as lovely as this evening, she must indeed have been deeply bent upon her own destruction, to look upon the world so beautifully fair, and not wish to return to it again. We continued our ascent, passing among thick tangled underwood, in whose kindly grasp the light flowing garments of Clara Douglas must have been ever and anon caught as she wended on her way. Yet had she disregarded the friendly interposition. Along the margin of an old stone quarry we now proceeded, where the pathway was so narrow that we were occasionally compelled to catch at the furze bushes which edged it, to prevent ourselves from falling over into the gulf beneath. And Clara Douglas, thought I, must have passed along here, and must have been exposed to the same danger of toppling headlong over the cliff, yet she had exerted herself to pass the fatal spot unharmed, to save a life which she knew would almost the instant afterwards be taken by her own hand. Such is the inconsistency of human nature. Our course lay once more through the midst of underwood, so thickly grown that one would have supposed no female foot would dare to enter it. "Here," cried the old man, stopping beside a dwarfish fir tree, "here is the spot where we found the mortal remains of Clara Douglas." I pressed forward, and, to my surprise, beheld one other being than my old guide looking on the place. It was the same I had noticed at the grave of Clara Douglas, within the walls of the ruined church of Altonby. I thought it a strange coincidence. Summer passed away, winter and spring succeeded, and summer came again, and with it came the wish to see Mary once more. However much I had before doubted the truth of the axiom, that "absence makes the heart grow fonder," I now felt the full force of its truth. My affection for Mary was, day after day, becoming stronger; and, in spite of the dictates of prudence, my determination never to see her again began to falter; and one evening I unconsciously found myself in the yard of the Black Swan. Well, since I had come there at any rate, it would be exceedingly foolish to go away again without speaking to Mary; so I called to the stable boy to put up my horse. The boy knew me, for I had once given him a sixpence for running a message, and he came briskly forward at my first call, no doubt with some indistinct idea of receiving another sixpence at some no very distant date. "Eh! Mr. Moir," said the boy, while I was dismounting, in answer to my question, "What news in the village?" "Ye'll no guess what's gaun to happen? Our Mary, the folk say, is gaun to be married!" Our Mary! thought I, can _our_ Mary be _my_ Mary? and, to ascertain whether they were one and the same personage, I inquired of the boy who our Mary was. "Ou!" replied he, "she's just bar-maid at the inn here." I started, now that this disclosure had unhinged my doubts; and subduing, as well as I was able, my rising emotion, I boldly asked who was "the happy man." "They ca' him a captain!" said the boy, innocently; "but whether he's a sea captain, an offisher in the army, or a captain o' police, I'm no that sure. At ony rate, he aye gangs aboot in plain claes. He's been staying for a month here, an' he gangs oot but seldom, an' that only in the gloamin." After thanking the boy, and placing the expected silver coin in his hand, I turned the corner of the house in my way towards the entrance, determined, with my own eyes and ears, to ascertain the truth of the boy's statement. The pace at which I was proceeding was so rapid, that, ere I was aware of the vicinity of any one, I came bump against the person of a gentleman, whom, to my surprise, I instantly recognised as the mysterious visitant to the grave of Clara Douglas, and to the spot where her relics were found. He seemed to regard me with a suspicious eye; for he shuffled past without uttering a word. His air was disordered, his step irregular, and his whole appearance was that of a man with whom care, and pain, and sorrow had long been familiar. Can this be the captain? was the thought which first suggested itself to me. It was a question I could not answer; yet I entered the Black Swan, half persuaded that it was. "Ah! Mr. Moir," cried Mary, coming forward to welcome me in her usual way, the moment she heard my voice, "you have been long a stranger. I fancied that, somehow or other, I was the cause of it, for you went away last time without bidding me good-by." I held her hand in mine, I saw her eyes sparkle, and the blush diffuse her cheek, and I muttered a confused apology. "Well! I am so glad to see you," she continued. "It was but yesterday I spoke of you to the captain." "The captain," I repeated, while the pangs of jealousy, which had, during the last five minutes, been gradually lulled over to sleep, suddenly roused themselves. "Who is the captain, Mary?" "Oh! I'm sure you will like him when you become acquainted with him," said she, blushing. "There is something so prepossessing about him, that really I defy any one not to like him." The animation with which she gave utterance to these words made me miserable, and I cursed the captain in my heart. The next day passed over without my being able to obtain a sight of my rival; and, when I walked out in the afternoon, he had not yet risen. Mary's assigned reason for this was, that he was an invalid; but his was more the disease of the mind than of the body. In his memory there was implanted a deep sorrow, which time could never root out. In my walk, the churchyard and the venerable ruins of the church were visited--I stood again beside the grave of the hapless Clara Douglas, and her melancholy story afforded me a theme for sad reflection, which for a while banished Mary and all jealous fears from my mind. It was evening when I reached "mine inn." On passing the parlour window, a sight met my eye which brought the colour to my cheeks. A tall, noble-looking man lay extended upon the sofa, while Mary leant over him in kindly solicitude, and, with marked assiduity, placed cushions for his head, and arranged his military cloak. This, then, must be the captain, and he and my mysterious friend were not the same. That was some consolation, however. Thus as he lay, he held Mary's hand in his. My breast was racked with agony intense; for "Oh! what a host of killing doubts and fears, Of melancholy musings, deep perplexities, Must the fond heart that yields itself to love, Struggle with and endure." Once I determined on flying from the scene, and leaving my rival in undisputed possession of the village beauty; but, having been resolved that no woman should ever have it in her power to say she made me wretched, I screwed my courage to the sticking place, and, on seeing Mary leave the parlour, I shortly afterwards entered it. The stranger scarcely noticed my entrance, so intently was his attention fixed upon the perusal of a newspaper which he held in his hand. I sat down at the window, and, for want of something better to do, gazed with a scrutinizing eye upon the gambols of the ducks and geese outside. After some time Mary came in to ask the captain what he would have for supper. "This is the gentleman I spoke of," she said, directing her expressive glance towards me. "Mr. Moir must pardon my inattention!" said the stranger, laying down the paper; "I was not aware that my pretty Mary's friend was in the room." His urbane manner, his soft winning voice, made me feel an irresistible impulse to meet his advances. He proposed that we should sup together, and I sat down at the table with very different feelings from those which had been mine on entering the parlour that evening. I felt inclined to encourage an intimacy with the man whom, but a short while before, I had looked upon with aversion. As the night wore on, I became more and more captivated with the stranger. His conversation was brilliant and intellectual; and, when we parted for the night, I began to find fault with myself for having for a moment harboured dislike towards so perfect a gentleman. I resolved to stay a few days longer at Altonby, for the purpose of improving our acquaintance. The stranger--or, as he was called at the inn, "the captain"--expressed delight when he was informed of my resolution; and, although he seldom rose before the afternoon, we spent many pleasant hours together. On the evening of the third day of my sojourn, he expressed a wish that I would accompany him in a short walk. Notwithstanding his erect and easy carriage, there was a feebleness in his gait, which he strove in vain to contend against; and it was but too evident that a broken spirit, added to a shattered constitution, would speedily bring him to his grave. Leading the way into the churchyard, to my surprise he stopped at the resting-place of the ill-starred lady, the story of whose untimely end I had so patiently listened to the last time I visited Altonby. "I am exceedingly fortunate," said the captain, "in having met with one so kind as you, to cheer the last moments of my earthly pilgrimage. You smile--nay, I can assure you that I feel I am not long for this world. The object of my visit to this spot, to-night, is to ask you to do me the favour, when I am dead, of seeing my remains laid here--here, beside this grave, o'er which the grass grows longer than on those around;" and he pointed to the grave of Clara Douglas. After a moment, he continued:--"Unlike other men, you have never annoyed me by seeking to inquire of me, who or what I am; and, believe me, I feel grateful for it. I would not wish that you should ever know the history of the being who stands before you. When the earth closes over my coffin, think of him no more." Although the captain had done me the honour of calling me unlike other men--a distinction most folks are so exceedingly desirous of obtaining--I must own that I had hitherto felt no common degree of curiosity concerning him; and now that there was no prospect of it being gratified, its desire increased tenfold, and I would now have given worlds, if I had had them, to have learned something of the birth, parentage, and education of the captain. "And now," he added, "I beseech you, leave me for a short time--I would be alone." In silence I complied, sauntering outside the ruins, and seeking to find, in my old avocation of perusing the tombstones, the wherewithal to kill the time during which the captain held communion with the dead; for I could not help thinking that it was for such a cause he had desired to be left to himself. Ten--twenty minutes passed, and the captain did not appear. I retraced my steps, and again entered the ruins, by the farther end. The gloom which prevailed around--the monuments which intervened--and, above all, the distance at which I then was from the grave of Clara Douglas--prevented me from descrying the captain. I had advanced a few paces when I heard voices in high altercation. I stopped; and, as I did so, one of the speakers, in whose clear intonation I could recognise the captain, said--"On my word, I returned here the instant my wounds were healed--I returned to marry her--and my grief could not be equalled by your's when I heard of her melancholy fate." "Liar!" exclaimed the other; "you ne'er intended such. My sister's wrongs call out aloud for vengeance; and here--here, between her grave and that of our sainted mother--your blood shall be offered up in atonement." This was instantly followed by the report of a pistol. I rushed forward, and beheld, O horror! the captain stretched upon the ground, and the blood streaming from a wound in his breast. I caught a glimpse of his assassin, as he fled from the church; it was the stranger whom I had seen, on a former visit, at the grave of Clara Douglas, and beside the fir-tree where her remains had been found. I made a motion to follow him, but the captain waved me back--"Let him go," said he; "I forgive him. I have no wish that he should die upon the scaffold." So saying, he fell back exhausted; and, in my haste to procure assistance for him, I quite forgot the assassin, until it was too late. The captain was conveyed to the Black Swan, where, with Mary to attend his every want, he was, no doubt, as comfortable as if he had had a home to go to, and a beloved wife to smooth his dying pillow. Mary bestowed more than ordinary care and attention upon him, which, although she had declared to me that she could never love the captain so well as to marry him, should he ever condescend to make the offer, brought back occasionally a pang of jealousy to my heart. I could not exactly understand the extent of her regard for him. Having business to transact at a neighbouring town, I left Altonby the next day, with a determination to return, ere the lapse of a week, to see the captain, I feared for the last time. I had been but two days gone, when I received a note from Mary, informing me that he was daily becoming worse, and that it was the fear of his medical attendant that he could not live four-and-twenty hours. With the utmost speed, I therefore hastened back to the Black Swan, where, indeed, I saw that the surgeon had had quite sufficient reason for his prediction--the captain was greatly altered since I last saw him. Wan and emaciated, he lay in resignation upon his couch, calmly waiting the approach of death. He seemed quite composed. Taking my hand in his, he reminded me of his wish regarding his burial-place. I assured him that it should strictly be complied with. A smile lighted up his pale countenance for an instant, as I pledged myself to this. He then drew from under his pillow a parcel of letters, tied together with a faded ribbon, and desired me to consign them, one by one to the flames. With an eager eye, and a countenance full of excitement, did he watch them as they consumed away. I did not dare to examine minutely the address on the letters, but, from the glance I had of them, I could see they were all written in an elegant female hand. When all were gone--"And this," said he, "is like to human life--a blaze but for an instant, and then all is ashes." He paused, and then continued, as he held a small packet in his hand, more in soliloquy than if he were addressing me--"Here is the last sad relic I possess--shall I?--Yes! yes! it shall go as the others have gone. How soon may I follow it?" He stretched forth his hand towards me. I took the packet. Instantly, as if the last tie which bound him to the earth had been hastily snapped asunder, the captain fell backwards upon his couch. I thrust the packet into my bosom, and ran to afford him assistance. He was beyond human help--he was dead! The grief of Mary knew no bounds when the dismal tidings were conveyed to her; she was like one distracted. Mine was more chastened and subdued. The remains of the captain were duly consigned to that spot of earth he had pointed out to me. After his death, there was found a conveyance of all his property, which was pretty considerable, to Mary, accompanied with a wish that I would marry her. To this arrangement Mary was quite agreeable; and accordingly, our nuptials were solemnized in about six months after the death of the captain. It was then that Mary confided to me that she was the sister of Clara Douglas; but when I made inquiry at her concerning the nature of her attachment to the captain, she always avoided answering, and seemed not to wish that his name should be mentioned in her hearing. Several years passed, and I had forgotten all about the packet which the captain on his death-bed had placed in my hand, till one day, in looking for something else, which, of course, I could not find--(no one ever finds what he wants)--I accidentally stumbled upon the packet. Curiosity induced me to open it. A lock of black hair, tied with a piece of light-blue ribbon, and a letter, were its contents. Part of the letter ran thus:--"Enclosed is some of my hair--I don't expect you to keep it, for I have heard you say you did not like to have any such thing in your possession. I will not _ask_ you, lest I might be refused; but if you give me some, I'll get it put into one of my rings, and shall never, never part with it." This letter bore the signature of Clara Douglas! Here, then, was a solution of all the mystery. The captain was the lover of Clara, and this had been the cause of Mary's intimacy with him. Of the fate of the brother I afterwards heard. He was killed in a street brawl one night in Paris, and Mary never knew that he was the assassin of the captain. THE FAIR. You may smile, reader, at the idea of a story entitled--THE FAIR; but read on, and you may find it an appropriate title to a touching, though simple tale. This may seem like the writer's praising his own production--but that is neither here nor there amongst authors--it is done every day; and not amongst authors only, but amongst all trades, crafts, and professions. If a man does not speak well of his own wares, whom does he expect to do it for him, when every person is busy selling wares of his own? You know the saying--"He's a silly gardener that lichtlies his ain leeks." But to go on with THE FAIR. On a Fair day, nature always turns out hundreds of her best human specimens of unsophisticated workmanship. Did you ever examine the countenances of a rustic group around a stall covered with oranges and sweetmeats--a bevy of rustic beauties, besieging the heart and the pockets of a rural bachelor of two-and-twenty? The colour of one countenance is deep and various as the rainbow--a second emulates the rose--a third the carnation--while the face of a fourth, who is deemed the old maid of her companions, is sallow as a daffodil after a north wind. There blue eyes woo, and dark eyes glance affection, and ruby lips open with the jocund laugh; and there, too, you may trace the workings of jealousy, rivalry, and envy, and other passions less gentle than love, according as the oranges and gingerbread happen to be divided amongst the fair recipients. You, too, have heard the drum beat for glory, and the shrill note of the fife ring through the streets, while a portly sergeant, with a sword bright as a sunbeam, and unsheathed in his hand, flaunted his smart cockade, or belike shook a well lined purse as he marched along, or, halting at intervals, shook it again, while he harangued the gaping crowd--"Now, my lads--now is the time for fortune and glory! There, by Jupiter! there is the look--the shoulders--the limbs--the gait of a captain at least! Join us, my noble fellow, and your fortune is made--your promotion is certain! God save the King! Down with the French!"--"Down wi' them!" cries a young countryman, flushed with "the barley bree," and, borrowing the sword of the sergeant, waves it uncouthly round his head--feels himself a hero--a Sampson--a Cæsar--all the glories of Napoleon seem extinguished beneath his sword arm. "Down wi' them!" he cries again more vehemently, and again--"Hurra for the life of a sodger!"--and the next moment the ribbon streams from his Sunday hat. On such incidents turns our present story. Willie Forbes was a hind in Berwickshire. He was also the only child and the sole support of a widowed mother, and she loved him as the soul loveth the hope of immortality; for Willie was a dutiful son and a kind one, and, withal, one of whom many mothers in Scotland might have been proud; for his person was goodly as his heart was affectionate; and often as his mother surveyed his stately figure, she thought to herself--as a mother will--that "there wasna a marrow to her Willie in a' braid Scotland." Now, it chanced that, before Willie had completed his twenty-third year, they were "in need of a bit lassie," as his mother said, "to keep up the bondage." Willie, therefore, went to Dunse hiring, to engage a servant; but, as fate would have it, he seemed to fix upon the most unlikely maiden for field-work in the market. At a corner of the market-place, as if afraid to enter the crowd, stood a lovely girl of about eighteen. Her name was Menie Morrison. "Are ye for hiring the day, hinny?" said Willie, kindly. "Yes," was the low and faltering reply. "And what place was ye at last?" "I never was in service," said she; and as she said this, she faltered more. "An' where does your father live--what is he?" continued Willie. "He is dead," answered Menie, with a sigh. Willie paused for a few moments, and added--"And your mother?" "Dead, too!" replied the maiden; and tears gushed into her eyes. "Puir thing! puir thing!" said Willie; "weel, I'm sure I dinna ken what to say till't." "You may look at this," said she; and she put into his hands a slip of paper. It was her character from the minister of the parish where she had been brought up. "That's very excellent," said Willie, returning the paper; "very satisfactory--very, indeed. But--can ye--can ye hoe?" added he, hesitatingly. "Not well," answered she. "I like that, that's honest," added he; "hoein's easy learned. Can ye milk a cow?" "No," she replied. "That's a pity," returned Willie. But he looked again in her face; he saw the tear still there. It was like the sun gilding a summer cloud after a shower--it rendered her face more beautiful. "Weel, it's nae great matter," added he; "my mother can learn ye." And Willie Forbes hired Menie Morrison through his heart. In a short time, Menie became an excellent servant. Willie and his mother called her--"_our_ Menie." She loved her as a daughter, he as a man loveth the wife of his bosom; and Menie loved both in return. She had been two years in their service, and the wedding-day of Menie and Willie was to be in three months. For a few weeks, Willie, from his character and abilities, had been appointed farm-steward. He looked forward to the day when he should be able to take a farm of his own, and Menie would be the mistress of it. But Berwick Fair came--Willie had a cow to sell, and Menie was to accompany him to the fair. Now, the cow was sold, and Willie was "gallanting" Menie and three or four of her companions about the streets. He could not do less than bestow a fairing upon each; and he led them to a booth where the usual luxuries of a fair were spread out. At the booth, Willie found his master's daughter with some of her own acquaintances. She was dressed more gaily than Menie Morrison, and her face was also fair to look upon, but it wanted the soul, the charm that glowed in the countenance of the humble orphan. It had long been whispered about the farm-stead, and at the farm-steads around it, that "Miss Jean was fond o' Willie Forbes;" and some even said that it was through her partiality he obtained his stewardship. Menie had heard this, and it troubled her; for more easily than a breath moves the down on the thistle, will a word move the breast of a woman that loves. Miss Jean accosted the young steward for her fairing. "Ye shall hae that," said Willie, "but there's naething guid enough here for the like o' _you_--come awa to ane o' the shops." So saying, he disengaged his arm from Menie Morrison's, and without thinking of what he did, offered it to his master's daughter, and left Menie and her friends at the booth. Poor Menie stood motionless, a mist seemed to gather before her eyes, and the crowd passed before her as a dream. "Ye see how it is," observed her companions; "_naething here guid enough for her_!--if ye speak to him again, Menie, ye deserve to beg on the causie!" Her pride was wounded--her heart was touched--a cloud fell upon her affections. Such is human nature that it frequently happens revenge and love are at each other's elbows. Now, Menie was not without other admirers; and it so happened that one of these, who had more pretensions to this world's goods than Willie Forbes, came up at the moment, while her bosom was struggling with bitter feelings. For the first time Menie turned not away at his approach. He was more liberal in his fairings than Willie could have been. As the custom then was, and in some instances still is, there were the sounds of music and dancing. Willie's rival pressed Menie and her companions to "step up and hae a reel." They complied, and she accompanied them, scarce knowing what she did. In a few minutes Willie returned to the booth, but Menie was not there. His eyes wandered among the crowd--he walked up and down the streets, but he found her not. Something told him he had done wrong--he had slighted Menie. At length a "good-natured friend" informed him she was dancing with young Laird Lister. The intelligence was wormwood to his spirit. He hastened to the dancing-room, and there he beheld Menie, "the observed of all observers," gliding among her rustic companions lightly as you have seen a butterfly kiss a flower. For a moment and he was proud to look upon her as the queen of the room; but he saw his rival hand her to a seat and his blood boiled. He approached her. She returned his salutation with a cold glance. Another reel had been danced--Willie offered her his hand for her partner in the next. "I'm engaged," said the hitherto gentle Menie; "but maybe Miss Jean will hae nae objections--_if there's onything guid enough for her here_." At that moment, Willie's rival put his arm through Menie's--she stood by his side--the music struck up, and away they glided through the winding dance! Willie uttered a short, desperate oath, which we dare not write, and hurried from the room. But scarce had he left, till confusion and a sickness of heart came upon Menie. She went wrong in the dance--she stood still--her bosom heaved to bursting--she uttered a cry, and fell upon the floor. She, in her turn, felt that she had done wrong, and, on recovering, left her companions, and returned home alone. She doubted not but Willie was there before her. The road seemed longer than it had ever done before; for her heart was heavy. She reached his mother's cottage. She listened at the door--she heard not Willie's voice; and she trembled she knew not why. She entered. The old woman rose to meet her. "Weel, hinny," said she, "hae ye got back again? What sort o' a fair has there been? Where is Willie?" Menie turned towards the bink, to lay aside her bonnet, and was silent. "What's the matter wi' ye, bairn?" continued the old woman; "is Willie no wi' ye; where is he?" "He is comin', I _fancy_," returned Menie; and she sobbed as she spoke. "Bairn! bairn! there's something no richt," cried the mother, "between ye. Some foolish quarrel, I warrant. But tell me what he's done; and for sending my Menie hame greetin', I'll gie him a hamecomin'!" "No, no, it wasna Willie's wyte," replied Menie, "it was mine--it was a' mine. But dinna be angry." And here the maiden unbosomed her grief, and the old woman took part with her, saying--"Son as he's mine, ye just served him as he deserved, Menie." Her heart grew lighter as her story was told, and they sat by the window together watching one party after another return from the fair. But Willie was not amongst them; and as it began to wax late, and acquaintances passed, Menie ran to inquire of them if they had seen anything of Willie; and they shook their heads and said, "No." And it grew later and later, till the last party who left the fair had passed, singing as they went along; but still there were no tidings of Willie. Midnight came, and the morning came, but he came not. His mother became miserable, and, in the bitterness of her heart, she upbraided Menie, and Menie wept the more. They sat watching through the night and through the morning, listening to every sound. They heard the lark begin his song, the poultry leap from their roost, the cows low on the milk-maidens, and the ploughman prepare for the field; yet Willie made not his appearance. Time grew on till mid-day, and the misery of the mother and of Menie increased. The latter was still dressed in the apparel she had worn on the previous day, and the former throwing on her Sunday gown, they proceeded to the town together to seek for him. They inquired as they went along, and from one they received the information, "I thought I saw him wi' the sodgers in the afternoon." The words were as if a lightning had fallen on Menie's heart--his mother wrung her hands in agony, and cried, "My ruined bairn!" And she cast a look on poor Menie that had more meaning than kindness in it. They reached the town, and as they reached it, a vessel was drawing from the quay--she had recruits on board, who were to be landed at Chatham, from whence they were to be shipped to India. Amongst those recruits was Willie Forbes. When he rushed in madness from the dancing-room, he met a recruiting party on the street--he accompanied them to their quarters--he drank with them--out of madness and revenge he drank--he enlisted--he drank again--his indignation kindled against Menie and against his rival--he again swore at the remembrance of her refusing him her hand--he drank deeper--his parent was forgotten--he took the bounty--he was sworn in--and while the fumes of the liquor yet raged in his brain, maddening him on and drowning reflection, he was next day embarked for Chatham. The vessel had not sailed twenty yards from the quay--Willie and his companions were waving their hats, and giving three cheers as they pulled off--when two women rushed along the quay. The elder stretched out her arms to the vessel; she cried wildly, "Gie me back my bairn!--Willie! Willie Forbes!" He heard her screams above the huzza of the recruits--he knew his mother's voice--he saw his Menie's dishevelled hair; the poisonous drink died within him--his hat dropped from his hand--he sprang upon the side of the vessel--he was about to plunge into the river, when he was seized by the soldiers and dragged below. A shriek rang from his mother and from Menie; those who stood around them tried to comfort and pity them; and, by all but themselves, in a few days the circumstance was forgotten. "Who will provide for me now, when my Willie is gane?" mourned the disconsolate widow, when the first days of her grief had passed. "I will," answered Menie Morrison; "and your home shall be my home, and my bread your bread, and the Husband o' the widow, and the Father o' the orphan, will bring our Willie back again." The old woman pressed her to her breast, and called her "her mair than daughter." They left the farm-stead, and rented a very small cottage at some miles' distance, and there, to provide for her adopted mother, Menie kept two cows; and, in the neighbouring markets, her butter was first sold, and her poultry brought the best price. But she toiled in the harvest-field--she sewed, she knitted, she span--she was the laundress of the gentry in the neighbourhood--she was beloved of all, and nothing came wrong to bonny Menie Morrison. Four years had passed, and they had twice heard from Willie, who had obtained the rank of sergeant. But the fifth year had begun, and, from a family in the neighbourhood, Menie had received several newspapers, that, as she said, she "might read to her mother what was gaun on at the wars." She was reading an account of one of the first victories of Wellington in the east, and she passed on to what was entitled a GALLANT EXPLOIT. Her voice suddenly faltered--the paper shook in her hands. "What is't--oh! what is't, Menie?" cried the old woman; "is't onything aboot Willie?--My bairn's no dead?" Menie could not reply; she pressed her hands before her eyes and wept aloud. "My son! my son!" exclaimed the wretched widow--"oh! is my bairn dead?" The paragraph which had filled Menie with anguish, stated that a daring assault had been led on by Sergeant Forbes of the 21st, after his superiors had fallen; but that _he also fell mortally wounded_ in the moment of victory. I will not attempt to paint their sorrow. Menie put on the garments of widowhood for Willie, and she mourned for him not only many but every day. He had fallen in the arms of glory, yet she accused herself as his murderer. Five years more had passed. It was March; but the snow lay upon the ground, and the face of the roads was as glass. A stranger gentleman had been thrown from his horse in the neighbourhood of the widow's cottage. His life had been endangered by the fall, and he was conveyed beneath her lowly roof, where he remained for weeks, unable to be removed. He was about fifty or sixty years of age, and his dress and appearance indicated the military officer. Menie was his nurse; and if her beauty and kindness did not inspire the soul of the veteran with love, they moved it with sympathy. He wished to make her a return, and, at length, resolved that that return should be an offer of his hand. He knew he was in his "sere and yellow leaf," and his face was marked with wounds; but for those wounds he had a pension; he had his half-pay as Major, and three thousand pounds in the funds. He would show his gratitude by tendering his hand and fortune to the village maiden. He made known his proposal to the old woman--maternal feeling suggested her first reply: "She was to be my Willie's wife," said she, ruefully, and wiped away a tear; "she was to be my daughter--and she _is_ my daughter; I canna part with my Menie." But prudence at length prevailed, and she added: "But why should she be buried for me? No, sir, I winna wrang her; ye are owre kind--yet she deserves it a', an' I will advise her as though she had been my ain bairn." But Menie refused to listen to them. When the sun began to grow warm in the heavens, a chair was brought to the door for the invalid, and Menie and her mother would sit spinning by his side, while he would recount his "battles, sieges, fortunes." And thus, in an evening in May, as the sun was descending on the hills, ran his story: "Fifty of us were made prisoners. We were chained man to man, and cast into a dark, narrow, and damp dungeon. Our only food was a scanty handful of rice, and a cup of water once in twenty-four hours. Death, in mercy, thinned our numbers. A worse than plague raged amongst us--our dead comrades lay amongst our feet. The living lay chained to a corpse. All died but myself and my companion to whom I was fettered. He cheered me in fever and sickness. He took the water from his parched lips and held it to mine. And, maiden, I have been interested in you for his sake; for in his sleep he would start, and mention the name of Menie!" "Oh, sir!" interrupted Menie and the old woman at once, "what--what was his name?" "If the world were mine, I would give it to know," replied the Major, and continued: "He succeeded in breaking our fetters. We were left unguarded. 'Let us fly,' said he; but I was unable to follow him. He took me upon his shoulders. It was midnight. He bore me to the woods. For five days he carried me along, or supported me on his arm, till we were within sight of the British lines. There a party of native horsemen came upon us. My deliverer, with no weapon but a branch which he had torn from a tree, defended himself like a lion in its desert. But he fell wounded, and was taken prisoner. A company of our troops came to our assistance; I was rescued, but my noble deliverer was borne again into the interior; and three years have passed, and I have heard no more of him." "But it is five years since my Willie fell," sighed Menie, Morrison. Yet she brooded on the word--_Menie_. A wayfaring man was seen approaching the cottage. As he drew near, the eyes of the Major glistened--his lips moved--he threw down his crutch. He started, unaided, to his feet--"Gracious Heaven!--it is himself!" he exclaimed; "my companion!--my deliverer!" The stranger rushed forward with open arms--"Menie!--mother!" he cried, and speech failed him. It was Willie Forbes! Menie was on his bosom--his mother's arms were round his neck--the old Major grasped his hand. Reader, need I tell you more. Willie Forbes had fallen wounded, as was thought, mortally; but he had recovered. He had been made a prisoner. He had returned. Menie gave him her hand. The Major procured his discharge, and made him his heir. He took a farm; and on that farm the Major dwelt with them, and "fought his battles o'er again," to the children of Willie and Menie Forbes. THE SLAVE. Some of the inhabitants of Edinburgh, who, some years since, were in the habit of enjoying the pure air and delightful prospects which the head of Burntsfield Links and the Burghmuirhead afford, may remember the person of whose eventful life I am about to narrate a few passages. He was a square-built, thick-set old man, short in stature, with a weather-beaten countenance; which, though harsh in its expression at the first glance, exhibited, in conversation, all the traits of a mind influenced by humane sentiments and benevolent feelings. He was often to be seen standing near the wells, at the south border of the Links, where the females bleach their linen; gazing steadfastly upon them, his rough features in continued change, as if some inward feelings completely engrossed his whole faculties, and indulging in frequent mutterings, as if the occupations of those whose motions he was observing had roused some latent thoughts that had been laid up in his memory in former years. When I saw him first, he was busy looking at a few sprightly young females, whose loud laugh enlivened the scene of the bleaching-ground, as they were splashing the water on each other in merriment. His features had something fearful in them. Anger flashed from his dark blue eyes, his shaggy eyebrows which covered them were knit, his teeth were compressed; and such unaccountable passion I had never seen so fearfully expressed. I almost shrunk from him; yet curiosity detained me, and I saw his features gradually relax, and a languid smile succeed his fearful frown. The change was as unaccountable as the contrast was striking, and I could scarcely believe that I still looked upon the same individual. The circumstance prejudiced me against him; for I attributed his fixed gaze upon the females to a cause very different from the true one; though why he should frown upon them I was still at a greater loss to understand. I saw him every day on the golfing ground; I wished for no intercourse with him, though there was a strange anxiety in my mind to know more of him; and, often as I followed the game we were busily engaged in, my eyes would involuntarily turn to where he stood or walked; and so habituated did I become to his presence that, when he was absent, I felt as if all was not as it used to be on the golfing ground. No one of whom I made inquiries knew aught of him; all I could learn was, that he was known by the name of the Captain, and had a black servant, who, with an aged female, constituted his whole household at Morningside, where he resided in one of those small self-contained villas in that retreat. One morning towards the end of September, I was up rather earlier than usual, as I had engaged to accompany some friends upon a small party of pleasure; and, taking a turn, I had sauntered down past Merchiston Castle, to see how the reapers were getting on with their labour in the harvest-fields. There I met the identical Captain, the subject of my curiosity, coming up the road, accompanied by a female, who leant upon his right arm as if she walked with difficulty; while in his left he carried a young child, whose head lay upon his broad shoulder, pillowed as if asleep, or depressed with sickness; and his black servant, who bore a considerable burden, walked by their side. The female was evidently poor, but neat and clean; and her features were pale as death, with an expression of sickness and languor which roused my sympathy with my approbation of the Captain's benevolence--for I was satisfied he was engaged in an act of charity. "Billy," I heard him say, "you had as well go on before, and tell Mary to make all ready for our arrival. Poor thing!--she is a sailor's wife, and one of us." "Yes, Massa, I do so--gladly do so," replied the negro. And away he moved from them, past me, with the bundle upon his arm; the smile that lit up his black face giving it, in my estimation, a look more interesting than I thought an African's could possess. The female looked gratefully at her supporter; and, as the Captain gazed first at her, then at her babe, I could see his clear blue eye glisten with tears--my own heart swelled, my bad impressions left me in a moment, and I could have put him in my bosom; I bowed to him with true reverence, as if I asked pardon for the injustice I had done him, and he looked at me as if he was gratified, and gently nodded his head--all the return he could make, so fully occupied was he with his benevolent labours. "My good sir," said I, "since you seem to be engaged in a noble act, may I request to be allowed to lend my aid?" "Certainly, with all my heart," replied he; "for I fear this good woman gets on but poorly with all the assistance I can give her." "God bless you both," said the woman, as I gave her my arm, "for your kindness! Oh, my baby!--my poor baby, I fear, has got his death in the cold of this miserable night. My husband! little did you think that your Peggy was so near, and exposed to the bare heavens, sick and houseless, or you would have come to her help." I requested her not to exert herself; and, as we proceeded, I learned that the Captain and Billy, having been out early, had found the female and child in the middle of a group of reapers, who had discovered her at the entrance of the field, chilled, and almost deprived of sense, with the infant wrapped up in her bosom; and they had in part restored her to some faint degree of consciousness when the Captain arrived, and took the whole charge upon himself and his servant. The negro had used all the expedition in his power, and met us before we reached the house. "Massa," said he, "you give me the piccaninny--I carry it, if you please." The child opened its languid eyes as he laid hold of it; and, looking in the negro's face, screamed with fright, leaned towards its mother, (who soothed it with her voice, in vain,) and nestled once more upon the Captain's shoulder, clasping its little arms friendly round his neck. "Let him remain, Billy," said he; "I think the young one loves me." In a few minutes we reached the house, where Mary received the female and child with all a mother's care, while the Captain and I looked on with feelings of satisfaction. I bade him adieu, promising to call in the evening. The day on which I had anticipated to be so happy, hung rather heavy upon my hands than otherwise; and I longed much for an interview with the Captain, expecting, when an intimacy was established, to be much amused with his conversation, as, from his appearance, he was no common character, and he had already roused my curiosity, by some broken hints of his adventures. I waited upon him, and found the female much restored, and the negro nursing the child, who appeared as much pleased with his nurse as he had been alarmed in the morning. After the first compliments were exchanged, I learned that the woman was the wife of a sailor, and on her way to Leith, to join him. She had journeyed on foot from Lanark, where she had been living with her mother during the time he had been on a voyage to the South Seas. Having got accounts of his arrival in London, and his being to be in Leith, where he had got a berth in one of the Leith and London smacks, and where he wished her to come and reside, she had set out, but come off her road to visit a relation she had, who resided in Colinton, and with whom she had intended to stay during the night; but, unfortunately, she found that her relation had been dead for some weeks. The shock and grief had a great effect upon her; and, having no other acquaintance in the place, she had resolved to proceed to Edinburgh, as she calculated there was sufficient time for her to do so before it would be dark, and the weather was delightful. Oppressed with her bundle, and sunk by her grief, she had plodded on, in hopes of soon meeting the husband of her love; yet still her progress was slow, and the sun had set for some time, and the shades of evening had begun to thicken, ere she reached Craig-Lockhart; but the spires of the distant city began to rise in view, and she hoped soon to see the end of her toil, when, from over-exertion, or some other cause, she became sick and faint--her limbs bent beneath her--and with difficulty she made her way to a gate, to be off the roadside, in hopes that the attacks would soon go off, and she would resume her way. She fainted; and, when she came to her senses again, her babe was crying piteously upon her bosom. It was completely dark; and, after stilling the child, she in vain attempted to rise and resume her journey. It was far beyond her strength; and fear, bordering on despair, took possession of her mind. It was very chill; and, covering her infant in the best manner she could from the cold, she, almost without hope, commended herself to God, and, weeping, resigned herself calmly to her fate. She never expected to survive until the morning. The tedious hours rolled on, she knew not how--her child slept soundly, and her heart was in close communion with that merciful God who sustained her in all this misery--until the voices of the reapers sounded upon her ears like heavenly music, and hope once more warmed her breast; yet she was, at their first coming up, so weak that she could scarcely speak--a symptom that surprised her, for she was unconscious of her extreme exhaustion, and her heart was hale from the manner in which she had employed her thoughts during the cheerless hours. This is almost the words of the poor creature, who now was able to move about, and expressed a wish to proceed to Leith--a step that would not be heard of by the Captain, who said he would not allow her to depart until he had ascertained that her husband had arrived; and the name of the smack in which he sailed having been ascertained, we looked into the newspapers for the arrivals and departures at Leith, and found that the _Czar_ had not arrived. The grateful Margaret agreed to remain, to the delight of the negro, who appeared as fond of the child as if it had been his own. At the Captain's request, I agreed, with pleasure, to stay supper. "How I do love black Billy!" said my host; "this is a new trait of him; he is bold as a lion, faithful as a dog, and yet mild as a lamb." "Sir," said I, "you appear to have a great regard for your black servant; I believe, from what I see, he is worthy of it." "He is not my servant," said he--"he is my friend; yet it would grieve him to see any one do any little office for me, besides himself. He is as humble as he is good; and if you knew his history and mine, you would not be surprised at what I now say of him." "Nothing that I know of would give me more pleasure," replied I, "than to know a little more of him and his friend, would he be so kind as oblige me." "With all my heart," replied the old man, "if you have the patience to hear me." Supper was at this time brought in by Billy, and soon despatched, when we drew in our chairs, and, seated by the fireside, I felt as if I had been on intimate terms with him for many years. "My name is William Robertson," he began; "I am a native of Edinburgh, born within the sound of St. Giles' bells. My parents were once in a respectable line of business; but they died when I was very young, leaving me to the care of my paternal uncle--for I was an only child. This uncle, who has long since rendered his account at that judgment-seat where we must all appear, took possession of all my father's property, and became tutor to me. I was too young, at the time, to know my loss, but soon felt it in all its bitterness; for he used me very ill, so much so that I trembled at his voice. I was quite neglected, and allowed to ramble about as much as I pleased, amongst the other idle boys of the neighbourhood. I could read and write a little at the death of my parents, which was all the instruction I received. I was now nearly thirteen; and, as my uncle's abuse became quite intolerable to me, I left the house, boy as I was, and entered on board a trader at Leith, which was on the point of sailing for America. The captain, who was one of the best of men, waited upon my uncle before we sailed; and, I believe, as much by threat of compulsion by law, as any entreaty he used, got from him a few necessaries for me--for, besides his other ill usage, he kept me miserably clad. The five years I sailed in the _Bounty_ of Leith, were the happiest I had ever spent--for my kind master had me taught navigation, and everything necessary for a seamen to know; but, in the middle of this prosperity, when I was to have been made his mate next voyage, the American war broke out, and I was impressed as soon as our vessel cast anchor in Leith Roads. I was only grieved to be parted from my kind captain, who was as vexed to leave me--but in vain he applied to have me set at liberty; and, to be short, I served out the period of the war, and was in a good deal of service. The seventy-four I was in being; on the West India station, I was not paid off for some months after the peace. On arriving at Portsmouth, I followed the usual course of sailors; and, having gone to amuse myself with some of my shipmates, I got robbed of all I had in the world; and, when I came to my senses, I found I had not even a sixpence in my pocket, a shoe on my feet, or a hat on my head. I was thus in a strange place, quite destitute; but I soon got a loan of some money from one of my comrades, who had been more prudent or more fortunate than myself, and set off for London to proceed to Leith. I learned there, from a Leith trader, that the _Bounty_ had been taken by the French, and that my old captain had left going to sea; so I gave up all thoughts of returning to Leith. Berths were at this time not to be obtained--the seamen were to be seen wandering upon the quays of every port, begging for employment in vain; and thus, young and vigorous as I was, I was reduced to great want. In this dilemma, I thought of writing to my uncle--being advised by one of my acquaintances, who knew much more of the world than I did, to do so, and threaten to call him to account for his intromissions with my father's effects, if he did not send me, by return of post, a few pounds for my immediate wants. I waited most anxiously for an answer, which I duly received; but it brought me no supply, and I learned that he had been for a long time bankrupt, and was at this time, if possible, in greater want than myself. In a day or two after, I got a berth in a Bristol trader, whose master was an old messmate of mine, and who having told me I had a better chance in Bristol than in London, I cheerfully made the run; but I found berths as difficult to be obtained there as in London; and, in this desperate state of my affairs, I was persuaded to go a voyage to the coast of Africa, in a slaving ship--a species of employment that no seaman will engage in if he can do better. The men are in general not well used; and the danger is great as regards life, both from fatigue and the climate. You must not judge of me by this voyage; for the slave trade was then as legitimate as any other branch of commerce, and much the same, for popularity or unpopularity, as it is in America at the present time." "I don't think harshly of you on this account," replied I; "I only beg you to be as circumstantial as you can regarding this inhuman branch of traffic, now so happily destroyed by the unwearied efforts of Christian benevolence." "To proceed, the vessel lay at King's Road, waiting my arrival on board, to overhaul her stores, to see what might be awanting. Her name was the _Queen Charlotte_; she mounted twenty-two guns; her captain was called by the seamen the Gallipot Captain, as he had formerly been doctor on board the same vessel, and, her captain having died in her last voyage, he was now the commander, in consequence of having brought her home. I went on board in the captain's boat, which was waiting for me, and to my great joy, found an old messmate who had sailed in the Exeter man-of-war with me. He was now second-mate of the _Queen Charlotte_, and I was engaged as boatswain. We were soon ready for sea; and unmoored about eight o'clock, the wind chopping about to the east. The captain and pilot came on board through the night, and we set sail for the African coast on the morning of the 1st of May, 1788. We passed the island of Madeira on the 8th of the month; and having got beyond the Canary and Cape de Verd islands, all became bustle on board, making preparations for the coast; the carpenters fitting up barricades to keep the male and female slaves apart, and the cooper getting ready all the tubs and vessels for their use. Though in anticipation, I may say that the males are never allowed to see the females until they are put on shore. The children are with the women, in general; but are at times allowed to run at large all over the ship; and merry little creatures they are, and soon pick up a number of English words. The first land we made was Cape Palmas. "Still steering along the coast, keeping a good offing, until we passed Cape Three Points and Cape Coast Castle, we crossed the Bight of Benin, and made the land again, which is so low that you can scarce distinguish it from the water--the tall palms resembling a large fleet of ships. The weather was so thick and hazy that we lay at the Bar five days before we could venture in--the tide running so strong, at full moon, that it is with difficulty the boats can pull against it. Upon our getting up, we found about thirty sail of large ships, some of them fitted up for one thousand slaves, all (save a few completely slaved) waiting for cargoes, several with none on board, and others half-full. There was one sad memento of the unhealthiness of this vile place which made a deep impression on me, thoughtless as I was. There was a beautiful French ship lying at anchor off the town, without one single person alive on board that had come out in her from Europe--captain, doctor, and all had died; and the agent had written to the owners to send out a new crew, either to complete the voyage or carry her back to France. This was a sad sight for us; and we all heartily wished ourselves safe out of a place where never a day passed without two, three, or more European sailors being rowed on shore, from the ships, to be buried. I shall not wound your feelings by all the details of this disgusting traffic. We longed much for King Peppel, the sovereign of the place, to come on board, to break trade, as it is called; for no native merchant dare either to buy or sell until he has got his 'dash' or present, and made his selection of the goods that are on board, at the same time that he fixes the prices himself. At times his Majesty is very backward, and a long time elapses before he comes on board--for he is as cunning and political as any European statesman that ever penned a protocol; but the captain, who had been often here before, knew well the customs of the place, and how to entice him quickly to his wishes. In the morning, after we were all prepared, he sent his boat to the town, under the command of the mate, who carried a private 'dash' for his Majesty, consisting of a blue uniform, all covered with gold lace, so stiff that it would scarcely fold. This had the desired effect; for the answer was, that he would visit the _Queen Charlotte_ next day--and this was the ninth since our arrival. "In the morning all was again bustle, preparing for a sumptuous dinner for the king, in which there behoved not to be forgot a huge plum-pudding, and a roast pig, two dishes upon which depend the good or ill humour of his Majesty; and the larger the fragments are, the better is his humour, as all that is not consumed at the time is taken ashore with him. It was necessary that everything of value should be carefully put out of sight; for the moment it attracts the attention of the king, he will immediately ask for it, and never cease to importune until he has obtained it. There is no use in refusing, if you mean to trade; and all you can do, is to make the best terms for yourself you can, on the principle of present for present. "About eleven o'clock, we heard from the shore a confused sound of drums and horns; and, soon after, the royal canoe, formed of one single tree, put off in great state, with nearly one hundred men paddling her along, her colours flying, and about a dozen of musicians in her bow, some blowing upon antelopes' horns, others beating upon drums and other things, and the remainder chanting or singing in a voice as melodious as the horns and drums. His Majesty sat upon a platform, in an arm-chair, in the centre of the canoe, surrounded by his favourites, all of whom he invites to his feasts. They were dressed agreeably to their tastes--his Majesty's uniform consisting of a cocked hat, a blue laced coat and red vest, with a shirt ruffled at breast and wristbands, and about six or seven yards of calico wrapped round his loins; while his legs and feet were wrapped in flannel, as he was at this time suffering from gout. He appeared to be about fifty years of age, portly in his appearance, but extremely fat. When he was hoisted upon deck, his attendants carried him, chair and all, into the cabin, where they passed a jovial afternoon, and matters were arranged to the satisfaction of all parties. The king had seven puncheons of brandy, and other articles in the same proportion, for his dash; which was immediately put on shore. "Next forenoon, our decks were crowded by the native merchants, bargaining for the cargo, which was soon arranged, and the half of the value paid in advance--a custom rendered necessary, from the traders not having the slaves in the town, but being obliged to go up the river to purchase them at the new moon. This being in a few days, we had to wait patiently. On the night before they set out, the sound of drums and horns never ceased, while parties with lighted torches were to be seen all along the beach, down to the water's edge, placing offerings of fowls, manilla, and dried fish, upon stakes, for the use of their jew-jew or god, that he might give them a prosperous voyage. The object of their worship is the guana, a creature having much the same appearance as the alligator, but smaller; and so completely domesticated that they go out and in to the huts at pleasure. Indeed, the natives build huts for them, where victuals are regularly placed every day. "On the morning, they set off with their canoes loaded deep with goods, and well armed. Of the proceeds of this expedition we only got twenty slaves, with assurance that our cargo would be completed next trip, as they had made arrangements up the country for more. Of those we received at this time, all had to get their hurts fomented and dressed, so much had they been injured, from the manner in which they had been secured by the traders; and it was some days before they were completely recovered. The gyves we put on did not gall the ankles, while they were secure; but their greatest inconvenience was that, on whatever occasion one had to move, the companion of his chain had to accompany him. During our tedious stay, it was my duty often to go to King Peppel's town for water, and there I recollect well, I met a handsome young female slave, who used to weep much, and importune me, in Negro English, to purchase and carry her to the West Indies with me. I was much surprised at this request, for the blacks are in general very averse to leave the country; and having made inquiry into her history, found it to be most cruel. I never was so sorry for a slave as I was for that young creature. She had been taken captive at the surprisal and plunder of her native town--her husband having escaped--and, being heavy with child, had been delivered on her way to the coast, where she and her infant were shipped for the West Indies. In the voyage out, the captain having taken a fancy to her person, kept her in his cabin, and did not sell her, but brought her again to Bonny, where he had come for a new cargo. It so happened that her husband had, like herself, been reduced to slavery, and was brought on board the very ship in which she was. Her feelings may more easily be conceived than described. Neither flattery nor punishment could make her comply with the captain's wishes; and he was so provoked, that he exchanged her for another slave with King Peppel, who had passed his word never to sell her to any one of the European traders. Her husband and child were meanwhile carried away, and she was left behind, to linger out a life of hopeless grief. "Let me hasten to leave this horrible place. I could make your heart sick by relating a hundredth part of what I was forced to witness. As to what happened in our own ship, I cannot avoid. After next new moon, we received the remainder of our cargo--four hundred slaves, male and female. The receiving them on board is the most heart-breaking and disagreeable part of the whole of a slaving voyage. When they come first on board, extreme terror is expressed in every feature; and their tears and groans while being put in irons few hearts can withstand, even though hardened by two or three voyages. This was my first and last; I cursed my folly a thousand times, and would have rejoiced to have been a beggar in Scotland rather than where I was. The men are chained by the ankles, two and two, then placed within their own barricade; so that husband and wife, sister and brother, may be in the same ship, and not know of it. When they come first on board, many of them refuse to eat or drink, rather choosing to die than live, and thinking we only wish them to feed, that they may become fat and fit for our eating--a prejudice many of them firmly believe in, and founded on the notion that the whites are men-eaters, and purchase them to carry to market like bullocks. While this feeling is in their mind, which is called the sulky fit, there is much trouble with them. The men remain silent and sullen, the women weep and tremble. Arguments, could we speak the different tongues, would be of no avail--the cat is the only remedy; and that is administered until they comply. The sight of it, or a few strokes in general, is sufficient for the females; but many of the males will stand out a long time, and, during the flogging, never utter a groan--snapping their fingers in the face of their tormenters, and crying, 'O Furrie! O Furrie!' (Never mind!) always a sure token of their despair and recklessness. We were very fortunate in getting our cargo so soon. We had two or three visits of King Peppel alongside in his begging disguise--and wished no more. His custom was to visit each ship, meanly dressed, and in a whining voice, equivalent to a demand, beseech an alms--and he never begged in vain, for the royal beggar always got a handsome present; and, indeed, the ultimate success of the voyage required this, in consequence of his unlimited power over his subjects. "Having got on board the lime-juice and other necessaries, all we required was the royal leave to depart; and at length his Majesty came on board, in as great state as at first--the same scene was acted over again--his parting-present was little inferior to the former, the difference being, that this was called a farewell present, and was returned by a man slave, and two elephant's teeth. The price of a prime male slave was, at this time, in Bonny, equal to an elephant's tooth of sixty-five pounds weight, or one thousand billets of red wood--nearly £10 of English money. "Next day we set sail for St. Vincent, to our great joy, having lain here exactly six weeks and one day. Both the crew and the slaves began to grow very sickly. The duties of the crew were very severe, and, as disease prevailed, these became more and more disagreeable. As you seem interested, I will give you a faint, unconnected sketch of the run; but I would much rather pass it over, though the _Queen Charlotte_ was remarked for her care and humanity to the slaves. To proceed:-- "Next morning, the negroes were forced upon deck, and the place where they had passed the night upon the bare boards, naked as they were born, was scrubbed with lime-juice, until every stain was removed. When upon deck, chained by the ankles, two and two, a strict watch behoved to be kept over them, to prevent them from throwing themselves overboard--a remedy for their sufferings they are keen to resort to for the first fortnight; and, when the state of the weather would permit, the drum and fife being played, they were compelled to dance at least twice a day, to make their blood circulate, and promote their health. At these times, there was such a clanking of chains and stamping upon the decks, you would have thought they would have been beaten to pieces by them; and no wonder, when they were about two hundred lusty fellows, all in violent exercise at one time. At first the cat was forced to be employed; but they are very fond of the drum, and soon call of themselves for "jiggery-jigg," as they term it; will take the instruments themselves, beat their own time in their own way, and dance away in then own fashion. "We had four or five different nations on board. Of one nation we had only twenty, and these we found were more than enough, from the trouble they gave us, forcing us to confine them by themselves, as all the other nations were afraid of them, and said they were men-eaters. These stood nearly six feet high, and stout in proportion; their teeth were ground to a point, and fitted into each other like a rat-trap; their nails were long and strong; they were sullen and untractable, and of consequence often flogged to make them eat, at which times their looks, as they snapped their fingers in your face, and growled 'O Furrie!' to one another, were horrible. In vain was all our care and attention to them, and every indulgence consistent with the safety of the ship. They had each two glasses of brandy, and sometimes three, per day; but some nations would not taste it, while others would drink as much as we would have given them. Those who did not take their allowance would keep it in their bekka, (cocoa-nut shell;) and when any of the crew did them any little service, they would wait an opportunity, and beckon as slily as possible, and give it to them. It was really beautiful to witness their kindness to each other of the same nation. If any of us gave one of them a piece of salt beef--of which they were very fond, but of which they were allowed none, for fear of creating thirst--he that got it, though it were no larger than my finger, would pull it, fibre by fibre, and divide it equally, making, with scrupulous accuracy, his own proportion no larger than any of the others; while the man that gave it would get the grateful negro's day's allowance of liquor for it, when we went below to secure them for the night. Before they were turned below, they were carefully searched, lest they had concealed a nail, or any bit of iron, in their bekka, or little bag, by which they might have been enabled to undo their chains; and in the mornings, their irons and berths were as carefully examined. But what availed our care and attention, where sickness and death reigned triumphant? Never a day passed but one or two were thrown overboard, some days three; and, during our run to St. Vincent, of six weeks, we lost, out of a cargo of four hundred, one hundred and twenty. Two of the crew also died, and I myself was given up for death by the captain; but, contrary to his and my own expectation, I recovered rapidly. After I began to get convalescent, I had picked up a few of the poor creatures' words, and did my best, weak as I was, to relieve their wants, which were very urgent. The captain, from the very first, when he observed my dislike to the service I had engaged in, and the pity expressed in my looks, told me to take it easy, for that I would soon get accustomed to it. But I never could. Their complaints and piteous moans ceased not, night nor day. Although they were, in the night, confined below, and the crew had slung their hammocks on deck, under a spare sail, or anywhere they thought they would be most out of the sounds, still their moanings disturbed our sleep. Vain was the threat, 'Nappy becca--paum paum,' (Be quiet--I will beat you,) and the cat shaken over them. 'Eerie eerie cucoo' (I am sick plenty) was the reply. 'Biea de biea' (I want the doctor) sounded from every part; but 'Biea menie' (I want water) was the constant cry at all times--yet we were liberal in our allowance, and constantly supplying them with it. "We gave them hot tea, when sick, made of pepper and boiled water, which they relished very much, crying often--'Biea de biea ocko menie--eerie eerie cucoo.' (I want the doctor and hot water--I am very sick.) This would often be repeated from twenty voices at once, in their soft, plaintive manner of speaking, as they gathered confidence from the time they had been on board. As long as they were able to move, we forced them to the deck; but we in general found them dead in the morning, when we went below to send them up. Often did the companion of the dead man's chain feign death, to be thrown overboard with him; but the cat was always applied to test him, and he was kept alive against his will. All this happened oftenest within the first fortnight or three weeks; for, by the fourth week, we had gained their confidence in a great measure, and their fears had worn off. The captain's custom was, when we found any one of them cheerful, and apparently easy in mind, to take off their chains, clothe them in a pair of trowsers and frock, and give them a charge over their fellows. Then they became proud, and stalked over the deck like admirals--and none more ready with the cat than they. Thus we gained upon them fast--the others envying those whom they saw dressed and trusted; so that, before we reach the end of the voyage, they were all, except some indomitable spirits, clothed, and walking the deck. Though still strictly watched, we allowed some of them to go aloft, and they soon became useful, more especially the boys, who before they left the vessel, were, some of them, no despicable seamen. When freed of their irons, and dressed, if they got the loan of a razor, or even a piece of broken bottle, they would shave, and cut their hair in their own fashion, and become, if possible, more vain and proud of their appearance. In the middle of this heart-rending misery, at least to me, there was one ray of light that enlivened the gloom. "We had on board of us a son of Bonnyface, the prime minister or chief favourite of King Peppel. He had been intrusted to Captain Waugh, as a great favour, to take him to England for his education, and we were to take him out again next voyage. Billy Bonnyface acted on board like a ministering angel. He was a sweet boy, and of great service to the captain, in soothing and giving confidence to the slaves, and attending the sick. He felt most acutely for their distress, and was constantly pleading with the captain for some little comfort or other for them--the tears streaming down his ebony face, in which the unsophisticated workings of his young mind were more moving than his words. All looked upon him as a friend, while by those whose language he spoke he was almost adored. All the crew, too, loved him; for to every one of them he had rendered some little service, by interceding for them with the captain, over whom his influence was great. A smarter or more active boy I never saw; he spoke English, for a negro, very well, and took great delight in teaching the black boy-slaves, who learned amazingly fast. I know not how it was, but little Billy loved me more than any other of the crew, and I can safely say there was no love lost. When he had a moment at leisure he was ever with me. You can judge by my looks if there was anything comely in them; yet the dear boy often hung round my neck and kissed me, while I held him to my bosom, and he called me Dad Robion." Here the worthy captain paused, as if from extreme emotion. I felt as if I could have wept myself. He hastily resumed-- "I am an old fool. I shall go on, if I don't sicken you with my gossip." "Proceed," I said--"in charity, proceed." "I thank you," he replied. "Till now I had almost persuaded myself that no one cared for what I said, but Billy." And here he rung the bell, and the negro entered. "Billy," said he, "it wears late; bring an extra glass, and take your wonted seat." "Tank you, massa," said the negro; "rather sit wit Mary. Picaninny no sleep yet." "Well, Billy, as you please," he said, and resumed. "On proceeding to the southward, we got becalmed eleven days in 2° east longitude. After a few days lying logging and motionless upon the water, despondency began to take possession of our minds; our water and provisions were wearing fast away, and the slaves dying fast, three and four being often thrown overboard at once. The most gloomy and fearful ideas began to occupy our minds--death stared us in the face, and we were utterly powerless. On the tenth day, the men began to gather together in parties, and whisper what they feared to speak aloud. They looked with an evil eye upon our chief mate, who was both feared and hated; to the crew he was tyrannical, but to the slaves he was cruel in the extreme; and little Billy avoided him as if he had been a fiend. He was, indeed, a hardened slaver of many years' standing; but the circumstance that would have sealed his doom was, that, on his last voyage to the coast, the ship he was in had been becalmed in the same latitude for twenty weeks; the captain, doctor, and all on board perished, except himself, two boys, and two of the slaves, out of forty-six Europeans and four hundred slaves, which they left the coast with. This was a subject he never wished to hear mentioned, and did all in his power to avoid being spoken to about; but he and I being on the best of terms, in consequence of my having laid him under deep obligation to me at Bonny, he yielded to my request, and gave me the following details:-- "'We left the coast of Africa all well,' he said; 'in better health than common, and in high spirits. Nothing particular happened until we were about the place where we now are, when we had, first, variable winds for some days; then all at once it fell a dead calm, and our sails hung loose upon our masts. We felt no uneasiness at first, as such things are usual in these latitudes; and we only regretted the loss we were sustaining in our cargo, who had become very sickly, and were dying fast. Thus three weeks passed on, and despair began to steal upon us--our provisions and water began to threaten a short-coming, and it was now agreed to shorten our allowance of both, until a breeze sprung up. Our crew were listlessly loitering about the deck, and adding to the horrors of our situation by relating dismal stories which they had heard of vessels becalmed in these latitudes; and their spirits sank still lower and lower. Thus, week followed week, and no relief came--our despondency deepened--more than one-half of our slaves were already dead; and, by the fourteenth week, our water was almost spent, when it was debated by the crew whether we should not force the remainder of the slaves overboard. We were reduced to perfect skeletons by anxiety and want; and the slaves were much worse off than even we. When the result of the council was made known to the captain and mate, they gave a decided refusal, and armed themselves, threatening to shoot the first man who would again propose it; and it was again agreed to shorten yet further our scanty allowance of water. On the sixteenth week, the Europeans began to die as fast as the slaves, who were now reduced to one hundred and four, the crew to thirty-six. Our sufferings were terrible. Our thirst parched and shrivelled up our throats. So listless were we, that the slaves were now allowed to be at large, and many of them leaped overboard, yelling fearfully as they splashed in the water, we not caring to prevent them, but rather wishing that they might all immolate themselves in the same way. We scarcely ever slept when we lay down; our torments were so great that we would start up in a state of stupefaction, and wander over the deck like ghosts, until we sank down again, exhausted. The eyes of all were dim, some glaring bloodshot, red as raw beef. Several of the crew leaped overboard in a state of wild derangement; others would be walking or conversing in their usual way, and suddenly drop down dead, expiring without a groan. Thus did we linger out eighteen weeks, when the captain took to his cabin, and died through the night. Death's progress was fearful until the end of the nineteenth week, when all that remained alive out of such a number, were, of the Europeans, only myself and two boys, who kept up better than the men, and two young slaves. But by this time, there was no distinction between black and white: we lay, side by side, looking over the bulwarks of the vessel upon the glassy expanse of water; then to our sails that hung upon our masts like sere-cloths; then at each other--and our hearts felt as if they had ceased to beat. The heat was intolerable. We had only half a barrel of water on board, and such water as none ashore would have allowed to remain in their house; it was putrid, yet we were grieved at the smallness of the quantity; for in our present condition it was more precious than gold or diamonds, and was to us most sweet. There was still as little appearance of a wind springing up as on the first day of the calm. I was thus in possession of the vessel, without the means of working her, should a breeze spring up. The fear of this made me enlarge the allowance of water to the two slaves and boys, as on their lives my only chance of escape depended; for, were they to die, I must, like all my fellows, also die in the calm, or become the sport of the winds and waves, when this appalling stillness in nature should cease to chain me to this fatal spot. How could I express what we felt when we first beheld the ripple upon the distant waters, as the long-looked for wind came gently along! We stretched out our arms, we wept like children, and the burning drops smarted upon our chopped and blistered faces--the breeze reached our decks, we felt as if our thirst had fled and we were bathed in pure water so balmy did it feel. The sails that had hung loose upon the yards for twenty weeks began to fill. The vessel moved through the water; I stood at the helm; and we soon left this fatal latitude far behind. I never left the deck until we arrived at Barbadoes. When overcome by sleep, one of the boys steered by the directions I gave, until I awoke again, and took the helm; and when the pilot came on board, as we neared the island, we had not one gill of water in the ship.' "My heart sank within me," continued the Captain, "at this recital. We were in the same place, and had every prospect of sharing a similar fate. We were on short allowance of water; and it is the remembrance of these few fearful days that, as I walk alone, will at times even yet come over my mind, and, while their horror is upon me, vivid as it was at the time, if I see water recklessly wasted, I feel angry, until the illusion has fled, and then I bless God that I am in the middle of green fields, and not that watery waste that glowed like a furnace from the intense rays of the sun, and where nothing met the anxious gaze of the sufferer but an expanse of water and sky, both equally bright and unvaried, without cloud in the one or swell in the other, all still as death, save any noise in the vessel, which, if ever so small, was, at this time, fearfully acute to our ears. On the afternoon of the eleventh day, fortunately for the mate, and equally so for us all, a breeze came rustling along the waters, our sails filled, and we glided along with joyful hearts. Great was the deliverance to us all, but greatest to that threatened victim; for, had we continued many days in the same situation, the ship's crew would have made a Jonah of him and thrown him overboard, as the man himself did not hesitate to say our bad fortune was solely on his account. "On our arrival at St. Vincent, the slaves became very dull and low-spirited, especially when they saw from our decks the gangs of negroes at work in the fields, as we passed up along the shores of the islands. We were now all busy preparing them for the market,--that is, giving them frocks and trowsers, and making them clean; while the captain sent on shore for the black decoys, to raise their spirits and give them confidence. These decoys are black women, who are some of them free, and others slaves. They make a trade of it, and are well paid; the money, if they are free, being their own--if slaves, their masters receive it. They come on board gaily dressed, covered with tinsel and loaded with baubles, of which they have a great many to give away to the slaves. As soon as they come on board, under pretence of looking for relations or former friends, (the decoys are of all of the different nations that come from the coast,) they address each in their own tongue; tell them a number of cock-and-bull stories; point to themselves; profess all manner of joy to see them in this land of wealth and happiness, where they will soon be as gay and happy as they are; and, to show their riches and friendship for them, distribute the baubles among them before they leave the vessel. This has all the desired effect. The poor creatures immediately become full of spirits, and anxious to get on shore. The business of the voyage was now accomplished; for they were all sold by the agents on shore, and we knew no more of them. As soon as the ship was cleared of the slaves, the carpenters commenced to take down the barricades, and we to prepare for returning home, taking in water for ballast. I had no wish to return to Britain at this time, as berths were so difficult to be had when I left home, and I told Captain Waugh so; but he refused to let me leave the vessel, for he had not many good seamen in his crew; and I having signed the articles for the whole voyage, did not choose to forfeit my wages thus dearly won--so I at once made up my mind to return, and thought no more of it. We remained here for seven weeks before the captain got all his business settled, during which time I would have wearied very much, had it not been for little Billy, who was seldom from my side. As I went very little ashore, he preferred staying with me to going even with the captain, who was as well pleased at the choice, as his sole object was to be well spoken of by the boy to his father when they returned to the coast, that he might have the favour of old Bonnyface, who was King Peppel's chief minister, and had greater influence with him than any of his other favourites. "Billy himself was one of the sweetest tempered and smartest boys of his age I ever saw, yet irascible to madness at the least affront from any one; for his nature had never been subject to the least training, and his passions were under no control. His countenance was the true index of his heart; and if any of the men intentionally gave him offence, his large black eyes would flash in an instant, he would spring at them like a tiger, to tear them with his teeth, and it would be some time before we could get him appeased; but, when the rage died away, he would think no more of it, nor would he complain to the captain, as he knew that the man would have been punished. However, it was only when some of the crew returned on board the worse of liquor, that they ever meddled with him; for otherwise there was not a man in the ship but would have as soon thought of leaping overboard, as giving him the slightest offence. "Billy began to weary to get under way as much as myself; and when I asked him why he was so anxious to get to Britain, he replied, simply-- "'I much want to make book speak! You make book speak! Dad Robion, and all white man make book speak! Dat gives much power, dat make big man--so me wish to make book speak.' "'I am happy,' I said, 'to hear you say so. Will you learn if I teach you, Billy, while we lie here? It will be so far good for you that you will not have to begin when we reach Bristol.' "'You make my heart glad,' he replied. 'You teacha me--me all heart, me all attention, me never tink but what you say.' And he threw his arms round my neck. "I was much affected, and seriously thought about what I had undertaken; for there were many difficulties to surmount--the greatest of which was the want of a proper book to begin with. There was not such a thing on board; so I got from the carpenter a smooth board, and formed the letters, telling him their names, and giving them to him to form after me. This he took the utmost delight in, and learned amazingly fast, for he was ever at his board; and, before we left the island, he knew words of one and two syllables in my book of navigation, the only one I had, save my pocket Bible, which he took great delight to hear me read--putting occasionally such puzzling questions to me as made me blush. When I told him it was the book of the white man's religion, he used to shake his head, and say-- "'Me no tink dat; for white man swear, white man steal, he drink over too much, he do what book say no; how dat?' "I felt it quite impossible, from what he saw in our own crew, and what he had seen of the other white men at Bonny, to make him believe that white men had any rule of conduct but their own inclinations and avarice. I sighed, and gave up the task; for what is instruction or precept to an ingenuous mind, without example; and our profession is belied by too many around, who acknowledge and claim the faith as theirs by word, and yet give it the lie by their actions.--At length we sailed, and reached King's Road on the 1st of January, 1789. "I was so fortunate as get a berth, as mate, on board a West Indiaman, which was taking her cargo on board. Billy was, meanwhile, put to school, and I saw him every evening, at his request, and by Captain Waugh's leave. When he heard I was going to leave Bristol, and not to go back to the coast in the _Queen Charlotte_ again, he wept, and importuned me, in the most moving terms, to go to Bonny with him, where he would cause his father to give me as many slaves as I pleased, and he would send his own people to get them for me. I was vexed to part with him, and did what I could to soothe him before my departure; but still I left him disconsolate. I once more left Bristol in the beginning of February, and had a fine run to Jamaica, where I left the vessel, with the consent of my captain, having made an exchange with a lad belonging to Bristol, who was mate in an American trader, and wished to get home, as he did not keep his health well in these climates; and, as he was an acquaintance of the captain's, all parties were agreeable. I now continued for several years in the carrying trade between the different islands and the continent of America, saved money very fast, purchased a share of a large brig, and sailed her successfully as captain. The war was now raging between Britain and the French Republic; but it did not affect my prosperity, for, being now a naturalized American, my ship and papers were a passport to me, and I sailed unmolested by the fleets and privateers of both nations. But my heart was British, and rejoiced in the superiority she held at sea, as if I had been in the British service, and fighting for my country. For ten years everything had prospered with me. I thought myself rich--for I never was avaricious--and had some thoughts of returning to Edinburgh, when the failure of a mercantile house in Charlestown reduced me once more to a couple of thousand dollars. There was no use of fretting. I had all to do over again, and to it I set. 'I am yet not an old man, and, if I am spared (a few years are neither here nor there), I will be content with less this bout--so here goes.' I made over my claim upon the bankrupts to the other creditors for a small sloop that had belonged to them, and began the coasting trade again. I sold my sloop soon after, bought a brig, and took a trip in her to Kingston in Jamaica--when, what was my grief and surprise, to see, in the first lighter that came alongside the vessel, my old friend Billy! I could at first scarcely believe my eyes; I thought I knew the face, but could not call to my recollection where I had seen it, yet I felt I had known it by more than a casual meeting. I was at this time sitting at my cabin window; I saw that the person who had attracted my attention so much was a slave, and allowed the circumstance to pass out of my mind for the time, as I was busy with some papers, and had only been attracted by the sound of the oars as they passed under the stern of the vessel. On the second trip of the lighter I was on deck, and the same individual was there. I caught again his eye; and, as I gazed upon him, he uttered a cry of surprise, stretched forth his arms for a second, then shook his head sorrowfully, and sunk it upon his bosom, as if in despondency. That it was Billy, I had not now the most distant doubt; my heart leaped to embrace him, slave as he was. But how he had come into his present situation I could not conceive. I requested the black who had charge of the _Double Moses_(the name of the craft), to send Billy upon deck; and, as soon as he reached it, I held out my hand to him. I believe my eyes were not dry; his were pouring a flood of tears upon my hand, which he kissed again and again. The crew and others looked on in amazement. The captain of a brig shaking hands with a black slave! Such an occurrence they had never witnessed; for my crew were native Americans, and looked upon negroes as an inferior race of men. He was now a stout young man, but rather thin and dejected; he was naked, save a pair of old trousers, and his shoulders and back bore the scars of many old and recent stripes. His former vivacity was now nowhere to be traced in his melancholy countenance--the independence of his former manner had all forsaken him--he was, in truth, a broken-in spirit and crushed slave. I resolved at once to purchase his liberty, if within my power, and told him so, when he fell at my feet, wept, and kissed my shoes before I could lift him up. He had not as yet opened his lips--his heart was too full, emotion shook his frame; and, to ease the feeling that seemed like to choke him, I went from the cabin to the state room, leaving him alone, while I sought out a jacket and light vest for him. I staid no longer than was necessary to give him time to recover. It was ever engraven upon my heart, that look of gratitude he gave me. His attempt to speak was still a vain effort. He was another man's slave and liable to punishment. I requested him to go away to his duty, and not tell any one what I meant to do, lest his master should ask an exorbitant sum, if he thought I was resolved to purchase at any price. So he went into the _Moses_, and pulled ashore; but kept his gaze constantly on me. "As soon as my business would permit, I went on shore before sun-down to make inquiries about his purchase from his present master, and was pleased to find that he was the property of the merchant to whom my cargo was consigned. I told him at once frankly off hand that I wished to purchase a slave of his, to whom I had taken a fancy. He replied, I was welcome to any of them at a fair valuation, and then called his overseer--for he himself cared little about his slaves, hardly knowing them by sight--and inquired if I knew his name. I told him the one I meant was called Billy, and described him. The overseer at once knew whom I meant, and said I would be welcome to him at cost, for he was a stubborn, sulky dog, and gave him much trouble, and, besides, was getting rather sickly; so that, if I chose, I might have him for two hundred dollars. I at once agreed, and, after supper, went on board, happy that I had succeeded so well; for Billy was to be handed over to me in the forenoon, as soon as the notary had made out the transfer. At length he came on board, joy beaming in every feature; but so much had his noble spirit been crushed and broken, that he still felt his inferiority, and stood at an humble distance. He had been taught the severe lesson of what it was to be a slave. When I met him first, all he knew of the white man was the most humble submission to King Peppel and his father's humours. Their word was law to them at Bonny--how great the contrast to him here! He was insulted, despised, and tortured by the lash, by those very whites he had been taught, when a child, to look upon as scarcely his equals. Had he been even a prince in the interior, his bondage to the whites would not have been half so galling. I beckoned him to follow me to the cabin, where I got from him an account of his adventures since I had left him in Bristol. "The captain left him at school on his next voyage to the coast, and did not take him out until the second year, when Billy could read English well, and had learned to cipher and write a tolerable hand. On being delivered safe to his father, the prime minister was proud of his accomplishments. Captain Waugh was most liberally rewarded; King Peppel was glad to have one about him, who could make 'book speak.' Billy had every appearance of rising into great favour; but, poor fellow, the accomplishments his father was so proud of, proved the ruin of them both, and of all their family. In King Peppel's court there was as much ambition, intrigue, and rivalry, as in the most civilised in Europe; nor were the political plotters less scrupulous in the means they used to overturn the influence of a rival. They first began to hint, in an indirect manner, that Bonnyface had sent his son to the white man's land, to learn obi, and write 'feteche' or charms. The King, for some time, only laughed at them; but their endless inuendoes gradually began to poison his mind; and, while he became cool and more cool in his manner, the secret enemies had bribed the priests, or 'feteche' men, who also envied Billy his accomplishments, and they openly declared that it was not good to have white man's 'feteches' in the black man's country. Old Bonnyface saw the storm gradually thicken around him, without the means of averting it; but this torturing state of uncertainty came to a close. The King, who had been ailing for some time, and applying to the surgeons of the slave ships, without much relief, was advised to try the physicians of his own country. These were the priests and feteche men; and this was the opportunity so long desired by the enemies of Billy's family. It was declared by all that there was a white man's 'feteche' upon him, and they could not remove it; but gave no opinions as to who it was that had put it on the King. It could be none of the white men in the river, for they all were his friends for trade; and then they paused, and shook their heads, received their presents, and retired. No one gave the least surmise to the King, who was the charmer; for this had been done months before. All that had been hinted of Bonnyface and Billy going to Britain rushed upon the King's mind, aggravated by fear. Next day saw Bonnyface's head struck off, to break the 'feteche;' and the interesting Billy, and all the members of the family, were sold for slaves to the Europeans, their wealth confiscated to the King, and a part of it bestowed upon those who had wrought their ruin. I brought Billy home with me--and here ends my narrative, at least for this evening." It now being rather late, I bade the Captain good night, and called again in the morning, after breakfast, when I found that the mother and babe were quite restored. Upon inquiry, we learned that the name of her husband was William Robertson. As the day was remarkably fine, I walked with the Captain to the reading-room, and found that the _Czar_ had arrived at Leith the day before. We took the stage, and rode down, and soon had the pleasure to see the husband of the Captain's guest. When they met, the Captain seemed much affected at sight of him, and, in an agitated manner, inquired of what part of Scotland he was a native. He said he was born in the Grassmarket of Edinburgh; and, upon further inquiry, we found that he was the Captain's cousin, the son of his uncle, who had married after his bankruptcy, and died, leaving his son destitute, who, from necessity, had gone to sea. To conclude, William Robertson came home to Morningside with us a happy man. His wife and child resided with the Captain until his death, and that of Billy, who did not survive him many months. The cousin sailed his own vessel out of Greenock, and that was the last account I had from him. THE KATHERAN. Sae rantingly, sae wantonly, Sae dauntingly gaed he-- He played a spring and danced it roun Beneath the gallows tree. In the latter end of the summer of the year 1700, as a party, consisting of two ladies and two gentlemen, were returning to Banff, the place of their residence, from a distant excursion into the Highlands, they were overtaken by the dusk of evening in the Pass of Benmore, one of the wildest and most desolate spots in the north of Scotland. The ladies of this party were both young, and one of them, in particular, surpassingly beautiful. This lady's name was Ellen Martin, the daughter of a gentleman of great wealth, residing in the neighbourhood of the town above named. At the period we introduce her to the reader, Ellen had just completed her nineteenth year. She was rather under than above the average stature of her sex; but her fragile form was exquisitely moulded, and perfect in all its proportions. Her countenance was oval, glowing with health, and strikingly expressive of a disposition at once confiding, open, and affectionate. In truth, it was impossible to look on the youthful form of Ellen Martin, without feeling that you saw before you the very perfection of female loveliness. But, if there was any particular time or occasion when that beauty was seen to greater advantage than another, it might have been when, shaking aside with a gentle motion of her head the profusion of fair glossy ringlets with which it was adorned, she looked up with her large intelligent, but soft blue eye, and her small rosy lips apart, to catch more distinctly what conversation might be passing around her. At such a moment, and in such an attitude as this, she seemed, indeed, more like one of those aerial beings that fancy delights to create, than a creature of mortal mould. The female companion of Ellen Martin, on the occasion of which we have spoken and are about more fully to speak, was an intimate friend. One of the gentlemen was a near relation of Ellen's, the other the brother of her friend. The party, all of whom were mounted on little Highland ponies, having been overtaken by the dusk, began to feel rather uneasy at their situation, as they had yet fully fifteen miles of wild and hilly road to travel before they could reach any place of shelter. They had been perfectly aware, when they set out in the morning, of the distance they had to accomplish, and knew, also, that considerable expedition was required to enable them to complete with daylight the necessary journey; but, full of health and spirits, and possessed of tastes capable of enabling them to enjoy the splendid scenery which had met them at every turn in their mountain path, they had loitered on the way till they found that they had expended all their time, and had yet accomplished little more than half their journey. In this dilemma, there was nothing for it but to push on--a simple enough corrective of their error, apparently, but one by no means to them of very easy adoption; for they did not well know in what direction to proceed. Under these circumstances, one of the gentlemen called a halt of the party, to consider of what was best to be done, and to see if their united intelligence could make out where they were precisely, and help to the selection of the best route by which to prosecute their journey. To add to the unpleasantness of their situation, it began to rain heavily, and occasional peals of distant thunder growled amidst the hills. The party were at this instant crowded together beneath the shelter of a projecting rock, whither they had retired, to avoid the beating rain, and to hold the consultation to which we have above alluded. Unpleasant, however, as their situation was, they felt no great alarm. The ladies, indeed, expressed some uneasiness occasionally; but it was quickly banished by the rattling glee of their male companions, who, elated with experiencing something like an adventure, were in high spirits, and endeavoured to communicate the same feeling to their fair friends. Ellen, who with all her gentleness of nature and delicacy of form, was of a highly romantic and enthusiastic disposition, was gazing pensively on the mighty masses of hill that rose around her on all sides, and anon down into the deep hollow of the pass, to whose highest point they had nearly attained, when she thought she perceived, through the obscurity of the twilight, a human figure ascending the pass in the direction of the party. She called the attention of her friends to the approaching object, which, in a few minutes was sufficiently near to exhibit the outline of a man of tall stature. He was advancing rapidly, with the light springy step peculiar to the Highlanders, and was traversing with apparent ease, ground, which, from its ruggedness and steepness, would have rendered the progress of one accustomed to such travelling, slow, laborious, and painful. The person now approaching seemed not to feel any such difficulties. He bounded lightly and rapidly over the ground, and in a few minutes was within a few yards of where they stood. On observing the party, he made towards them, and, doffing his bonnet with great politeness, and with the air of a prince, inquired, after apologising for his intrusion, whether they stood in need of any such assistance as one who knew the country well could afford them, and was ready to give. The person who now stood before the party, and who made this friendly inquiry, was a young gentleman--at least one whose appearance and manner bespoke him to be such. He was dressed in the full Highland costume of a person of consideration of the period to which our tale refers; but was fully more amply and carefully armed than was even then usual amongst his countrymen. In his belt he wore, besides the dirk, the common appendage, a couple of pistols, and, by his side, a broadsword of the most formidable dimensions. The figure of this person, who appeared to be about five-and-twenty years of age, was singularly handsome; his countenance mild and pleasing in its expression, yet strongly indicative of a bold and determined spirit--advantages which were finely set off by the picturesque dress in which he was arrayed, and which he wore with much dignity and grace, and by his erect and martial bearing. His whole figure, in short, was remarkably striking and prepossessing. "I fear," said the stranger, addressing the party, and smiling as he spoke, "that you have miscalculated the height of our hills and the breadth of our muirs, that you are so late abroad." "It is even so, sir," said one of the gentlemen; "we have been idling our time, and are now reaping the fruits of our thoughtlessness. We neither know well where we are, nor which way we ought to go. I suppose we must just make the most of the situation we are in for the night, although these rocks are but very indifferent covering." "Why, I must say I would not feel much for your case, gentlemen," said the stranger, "though you had to sleep on the heather for a night--I have done it a thousand times; but such quarters would ill suit these fair ladies, I fear." "Yet they must be content to put up with it for this night at any rate," said one of the gentlemen; "for we can make no better of it." "Perhaps _we_ may make better of it," said the stranger. "Something must be done to get these ladies under shelter. Let me see." And he mused for a moment, then added--"If I thought you would not be overly nice as to the elegance of your quarters, and if you would accompany me for a distance of a couple of miles or so, I think I could promise you, at least, the shelter of a roof, and such entertainment as our Highland huts afford." The friendly offer of the stranger being gladly accepted by the party, who, one and all, declared they would be exceedingly thankful for any sort of quarters, the whole set forward under the conduct of their guide. Whether directed by choice or by chance, the latter, at starting, took Ellen's pony by the bridle, and was subsequently most assiduous in guiding the animal by the easiest and safest tracks. Nor did he once quit his hold for a moment during the whole of their march. This circumstance naturally placed Ellen and the stranger frequently by themselves; since, as leaders, they generally kept several yards in advance of their party--a circumstance which was not lost on the latter, who aimed at, and succeeded in making, perhaps a somewhat more than favourable impression on his fair companion, by his polished manners and lively and intelligent conversation. We will not say that the effect of these qualifications was not heightened by the personal elegance and manly beauty of their possessor; neither will we say that the romantic and susceptible girl was not predisposed, by the same cause, to discover, in all he said, fully more, perhaps, than would have been apparent to a more indifferent listener. Be this as it may, it is certain that on this night, and on this particular occasion, Ellen Martin felt, and felt for the first time, the, to her new, strange, and delightful emotions of incipient love. What avails it to say that prudence should have forbidden this? The object of Ellen's sudden regard was a stranger, a total stranger. His name even was not known, nor his rank in society otherwise than by conjecture, which, though favourable, was, of course, vague and uncertain. The circumstances, too, in which he had been met with, were such as to preclude all possibility of connecting any one single elucidatory fact with his history. But when, in a young and inexperienced mind, did love submit to be controlled by reason? and when did the young heart exhibit the faculty of resisting impressions at will? Certainly not in the case of Ellen Martin, who was, at this moment, placed precisely in those circumstances most eminently calculated for exciting, in susceptible bosoms, the one great and engrossing passion of the female heart. After about an hour's travelling, the party, with their guide, arrived at a solitary house situated in a little glen or strath overhung with precipitous rocks, and through which wound a narrow and irregular road, that led in one direction over the hills that stretched far to the west, and in the other to the lower grounds, from which the neighbouring mountains rose. The house itself, although apparently a very old one, was of the better order of houses in the Highlands at that period. It was two stories in height, roofed with grey slate, and exhibited at wide intervals small dingy windows filled with the thick, wavy, and obscure glass of the time. Altogether it had the appearance of being the residence of a person of the rank of a small proprietor or tacksman. As the party approached the house, all was quiet within and around it. Not a light was seen, or movement heard. The hour was late, and the inmates had been long to rest. When within a short distance of the house, the conductor of the party, addressing the latter, said:-- "You will be so good as wait here, my friends, for a few minutes, until I prepare Mr. Chisholm for your reception. He is an old and intimate friend of mine, and will be glad, on my account, to show you every kindness in his power." Having thus expressed himself, he left them, and, in a few moments after, returned to conduct them to the house, where they were received with great kindness by the landlord, a middle-aged man of respectable appearance and mild manners. On entering, the party were ushered into a large room, where a servant girl was busily employed in kindling a fire of peats. These quickly bursting into flame, the travellers, in a very few minutes, found themselves enjoying the agreeable warmth of a blazing fire. But the kindness of their host was not limited to external comforts. With true Highland hospitality, the board was loaded with refreshments of various kinds; huge piles of oaten cake, with proportionable quantities of eggs, cheese, butter, cold salmon, and mutton ham, and, though last, not least, a little round, black, dumpy bottle of genuine mountain dew. Delighted with their reception, pleased with each other, and urged into that exuberance of spirits which good cheer and comfortable quarters are so well qualified to inspire, especially when they present themselves so unexpectedly and opportunely as in the case of which we are speaking--the party soon began to get exceedingly merry; so much so, that they finally determined, as morning was now fast approaching, not to retire to bed at all, but to spend the few hours they intended remaining where they were. In this resolution they were the more readily confirmed by a certain proceeding of their late guide, in happy accordance with the mirthful feelings of the moment. This was his taking down from the wall a fiddle, which hung invitingly over the fire-place, and striking up some of the liveliest airs of his native land. The effect was irresistible; for he played with singular grace and skill, striking out the notes with a distinctness, precision, and rapidity, that gave the fullest effect possible to the merry strains which he poured on the ears of the captivated listeners. The party were electrified. The gentlemen leapt to their feet, the table was removed bodily, with all its furniture, to one side of the apartment, and, in an instant after, the ladies also were on the floor. In another, the whole were wheeling through the mazes of a Highland reel. Nor did the merriment cease till the rising sun alarmed the revellers, by suddenly pouring his effulgence into the apartment. On this hint, the music and mirth both were instantly hushed; and the party, throwing aside the levity of manner of the preceding hours, began, with business looks, to prepare for their departure. Their host pressed them to stay breakfast; but, being anxious at once to get forward and to enjoy the morning ride, this invitation they declined. Their ponies, which had been in the meantime carefully attended to by their hospitable landlord, were brought to the door, and in a few minutes the whole party were mounted, and were about to start, when the circumstance of their late guide's again taking the reins of Ellen's pony in his hand, and apparently preparing to repeat the service of the previous night, for a moment arrested their march; all protesting that they would on no account permit him to put himself, by accompanying them, to the slightest further inconvenience on their account. With what sincerity Ellen joined in this protest--for she did join in it--we do not know; but it is certain that her opposition to his accompanying them did not appear at all so cordial as that of her companions. The objections of the party, however, were politely, but peremptorily overruled by their guide, who reconciled them to his determination of escorting them, by remarking that, without his assistance, they would never find their way amongst the hills, and that, moreover, he was going at any rate several miles in the very direction in which their route lay. These assurances, particularly the latter, left no room for farther debate, and the party proceeded on their way; the guide and Ellen, as before, leading the march. But, as it was now daylight when any little chance distance that might occur between the parties was of less consequence and less attended to, they were always much farther in advance than on the preceding night; indeed, frequently so far as to be for a considerable time out of sight of their companions. In this proceeding, Ellen had, of course, no share whatever. It was solely the result of a certain little course of management on the part of her escort, who availed himself of every opportunity of widening the distance between his fair companion and the other members of the party. It was on one of these occasions, when the lovers--for we may now without hesitation call them such--had turned the shoulder of a hill which Ellen's guide knew, calculating from the distance which the party were behind, would conceal them from the view of the latter for a considerable time--it was on this occasion, we say, that he suddenly seized Ellen by the hand, and, ere she was aware, hurried it to his lips; but, as quickly resigning it-- "Ellen," he said, looking up to her with an expression of tenderness and contrition that instantly disarmed the gentle girl of the resentment into which the freedom he had just taken had for an instant betrayed her--"forgive me--will you forgive me? That cursed impetuosity of temper--the failing of my race, Ellen--has hurried me into an impropriety. I have offended you. I see it--but do forgive me." "On condition that you do not attempt to repeat it," said Ellen, smiling, though there was evidently much agitation in her manner. "I promise," replied the offender. A pause ensued, during which neither spoke. At length, Ellen's guide, who seemed to have been struggling with some powerful and oppressive motion, suddenly, but gently arrested the progress of the pony on which she rode, and said, in a voice altered in tone by intensity of feeling-- "Ellen, I wish to God we had never met!" "Why should you entertain such a wish?" inquired Ellen, timidly, and blushing as she spoke. "Because then I had not been broken-hearted," said her companion, with a sigh. "I had still retained my peace of mind--my step should still have been light on the heather, and my thoughts free and careless as the wind upon the mountains." "You speak in enigmas," replied Ellen, blushing deeper than before. "I do not understand you," she added, but with a manner that contradicted the assertion. "Then I will be more plain with you, Ellen," replied her companion:--"I love you, I love you, fair girl, to distraction." This declaration was too unequivocal to be evaded; yet poor Ellen, though her heart responded to the sentiment, knew not what reply to make in words. Her agitation was extreme--so great as almost to impede her respiration. "We are strangers, sir," she at length said--"total strangers; and such language as this should, if spoken at all, be spoken only when it is warranted by a longer and more intimate acquaintance. Ours is literally but of yesterday, although you have certainly crowded into that short space as much kindness as it would possibly admit of; and I and my friends are grateful for it--sincerely grateful. Still we are but strangers." "Strangers, Ellen!" replied her lover, getting more and more energetic and impassioned as he spoke--"no, we are not strangers--at least you are none to me. From the first instant I saw you, you were no longer a stranger. From that instant, you had a home in this heart, and on that instant you stood before me confessed one of the loveliest and gentlest of your sex. What more would an age of acquaintance have discovered? What more is there need to learn." At this instant, a shout from one of the gentlemen of the party interrupted the enthusiastic speaker, and put an end, for the time, to the conversation of the lovers. The call, however, that had been made on their attention by their friend, being merely intended to intimate that they had them in view, Ellen's guide soon found another opportunity of renewing his suit. We do not, however, think it necessary that we should renew a description of it--tedious as the conversation of all lovers is to third parties. We shall only say, then, that, long ere Ellen and her handsome and accomplished guide parted, the affections of the simple, confiding girl were unalterably fixed. Whether they were happily disposed of, the sequel will show. After having crossed "muirs and mountains mony o'," Ellen and her lover arrived on the ridge of a hill, which commanded a distinct, though distant view of the town of Banff, when the latter suddenly stopped, and--"Ellen," he said, "here we must part. I can proceed no farther with you; but it will go hard with me if I do not see you very soon again." "Nay," said Ellen, "since you have come so far with us, you must go yet a little farther. You must go on to the town, and afford us an opportunity of acknowledging the obligations under which we lie to you. My father will be most happy to see you." The expression of a sudden pang crossed the fine countenance of the stranger. His lip quivered, and his brow contracted into momentary gloom; but, with what was apparently a strong effort, he subdued the feeling, whatever it was, which had caused this indication of mental pain, and replied, after a brief pause-- "No, Ellen, it cannot be. I must not--I--I dare not enter Banff with the light of day." "Dare not!" said Ellen, in surprise. "Why dare you not? What or whom have you to fear?" "Fear?" replied her companion, somewhat distractedly--"I fear the face of no single man, weapon to weapon; but, were I to enter Banff, I might not have such fair play. There are some persons there with whom I am at feud; and my life would be in danger from them. This was what I meant, when I said that I dared not enter Banff. Yet it is not that I would not _dare_, either," he added, raising himself proudly to his full height, and laying an emphasis expressive of defiance on the word; "but it would be foolhardy--absurdly imprudent. I cannot--I may not go further with you, Ellen." Here the conversation was interrupted by the approach of the rest of the party, who at this moment rode up to Ellen and her companion. These, on being told that the latter was now about to leave them, repeated, and in nearly similar words, the invitation which Ellen had already given him; but it was not in similar words to those he had used on that occasion, he answered them. To them he merely said that pressing business called him in another direction, and repeated that, where they now were, they must part. He however, promised, though with the manner of one who has no fixed intention of fulfilling that promise, that the first time he went to Banff, if circumstances would permit, he would certainly pay them a visit. "Since you will not go with us, then," said one of the gentlemen, "at least inform us to whom we are indebted for the extraordinary kindness which you have shewn us. Favour us with your name if you please." "My name, sir!" said the late guide, smiling. "Why, that is a matter of no consequence. You will know me when and wherever you may see me again, I dare say, and that is enough." Saying this, he shook hands with each of the party--with Ellen this ceremony was accompanied by a look and pressure of peculiar intelligence--and bounded away with the same light and elastic step with which he had approached them on the preceding night, and was soon lost to view. It would not be easy for us to say precisely what were the opinions entertained by Ellen's party, of the warm-hearted but mysterious person who had just left them. These were various, vague, and indefinite. That he was a person far above the ordinary classes of the country, was evident from his dress, his manner, and his accomplishments. The first was that of a gentleman, the latter were those of a man of education and talent. These obvious proofs of his rank there was no gainsaying; nor would they admit of any difference of opinion. But it had not escaped those who were now engaged in discussing the subject of the stranger's probable history, that, during the whole time they had been together, neither his name, profession, nor place of residence, had ever transpired. They had not been at any time alluded to, even in the slightest or most distant manner. It was only now, however, that the oddness of this circumstance seemed to strike the members of the party with the full force of its peculiar character. Each now asked the other in surprise, if they had not ascertained any of the particulars just mentioned from the stranger; and all declared that they had not. More extraordinary still, as it now appeared on reflection, his name had never once been mentioned by the person in whose house they had passed the previous evening. In this investigation, the circumstance of the stranger's having declined to give his name at parting was not of course forgotten. The affair altogether was a singular one--a conclusion at which all arrived; but it was one also, which their discussion could throw no light on; and this being sensibly felt by all, the subject was gradually dropped. To what extent the doubts and indefinite suspicions with which the mystery associated with their late guide had inspired the various members of the party, were shared by Ellen, we do not know; but we suspect that, in her bosom, they were mingled with feelings that had the effect of giving them a totally different character from what they assumed in the minds of her companions. In her case, these doubts or suspicions were wholly unassociated with any idea unfavourable to the character of him whose conduct excited them. She saw, indeed, that there was a degree of concealment on the part of that person; but she never, for a moment, dreamt that it proceeded from any reasons involving anything disgraceful. In the fondness of her love, she conceived it impossible that a being of so kind and generous a heart, of so prepossessing appearance and manners, and of so noble a form, could ever have been guilty of anything which should subject him to the debasing feelings of either shame or fear. She felt there was mystery, but she was satisfied it was not the mystery of crime; and, under this conviction, she continued to cherish the love which had thus so suddenly sprung up in her own guiltless and guileless bosom. The party, in the meantime, were rapidly approaching the place of their respective residences, and a very short time after saw that consummation attained. If we now allow somewhere about the space of a month to elapse, and if we then look, in the dusk of a certain evening, into a certain retired green lane or avenue, at the distance of somewhat less than a quarter of a mile from the residence of Ellen Martin's father, in the vicinity of the town of Banff, and which, being on the property of the latter, was secluded from all intrusion, we shall then and there find two persons walking together, in earnest and secret conversation. If we approach them nearer, we shall discover that they are lovers; for there is the gentle accent and the endearing concourse of fond hearts. They are Ellen Martin and her mysterious lover; and this is the fifth or sixth night on which they have so met since they parted at the time and in the manner before described. "But why this mystery, James?"--for this much of his name had she obtained--Ellen might have been overheard, by an eavesdropper, saying to her lover on this occasion, as she leant on his arm, and gazed fondly in his face. "Why all this mystery?--why is it that you come and go only under the shade of night?--and why is it that you shun the face of man with such sedulous anxiety?--and why, above all, are you always so carefully armed? Oh, do confide in me, James, and tell me all. Relieve my mind. Tell me the reason of these things. You wrong me by this mystery; for it implies a suspicion of my sincerity--it implies that you think me unworthy of being trusted." "Doubt your sincerity, Ellen!--think you unworthy of being trusted!" said the person whom she addressed, emphatically but tenderly. "Sooner would I doubt the return of yonder moon--sooner would I doubt that the sea would flow again after it has ebbed--than doubt your sincerity, love; but I cannot, I will not, I dare not give you the information you ask; for, with that information I would loose you for ever; and what, think you, would induce me to inflict such misery as that on myself? Be content, Ellen, in the meantime at least, with an assurance of my love--yes, unworthy as I am," he exclaimed, with increased fervour, "of a love as strong, as sincere, as pure as ever existed in a human bosom." "I never doubted it, James--I never doubted it," said Ellen, bursting into tears, and leaning her head fondly on the shoulder of her lover; "and I will not press you further for that information which you seem so reluctant to give. I will, in the meantime, as you say, confide in your fidelity, and leave the rest to some future and happier hour." "Happier hour, Ellen!" said her companion, with a bitter smile. "Alas? there is no happier hour than this in store for me. But it is happiness enough." And he chanted in a low, but mellifluous voice-- "There's glory for the brave, Ellen, And honour for the true; There's woman's love for both, Ellen-- Such love's I find in you. "There's wealth into the Indies, Ellen, There's riches in the sea-- But I would not give for these, Ellen, One little hour with thee." "A poor bargain, James," said Ellen, smiling and blushing at the same time. "You are a fair poet, but very indifferent chapman, if that be a specimen of your bargain-making." "It may be so, Ellen," replied her companion, also smiling; "yet I am willing to abide by the terms." At this instant, a rustling noise was heard amongst the bushes close by where the lovers stood. The mysterious stranger started, hurriedly freed his sword hilt from the folds of his plaids, muttering, as he did so-- "Ha! have they dogged me? They shall rue it. By heaven, they shall rue it!--I shall not be taken cheaply!" And he half unsheathed his weapon, as he stood listening for a repetition of the sounds which had alarmed him; but they were not repeated; and the uneasiness of the lovers gradually subsiding, they resumed their conversation. At the expiry of another "little hour," the lovers parted, and parted to meet no more--a misfortune which they but little anticipated; for a solemn promise was given by both to meet in the same place and at the same hour on that day se'ennight. As it may lead to the gratification of some curiosity on the part of the reader regarding the mysterious lover of Ellen Martin, we shall follow his footsteps after leaving her in the manner just described. We may as well, first, however, make the reader aware that these visits of the person alluded to were by no means of very easy accomplishment. They cost him a journey, over mountain and moor, of upwards of a score of miles; but he was light of foot, nimble as one of the deer of his native mountains, and such a feat to him was not one which he deemed much to boast of. If we follow him, then, as proposed, on the night in question, we shall find him performing such a journey as we have alluded to, and finally arriving at a deep but narrow glen, or ravine, far up amongst the hills, and accessible only at one extremity, and even here of such difficult entrance that none but those intimately acquainted with it could effect it. This knowledge, however, the person whom we are now accompanying possessed. He ascended the natural barrier by which the ravine was closed with a sure but rapid step; when, having gained its utmost height, and ere he descended on the opposite side, he extricated a small bone or ivory whistle from the folds of his plaid, and drew from it a short, low, but piercing sound. Had he omitted this precaution, his life would have been the forfeit; for, concealed amongst the copsewood, at a little height inside of the glen, lay a sentinel with loaded rifle, whose duty it was instantly to fire on any one entering without such intimation previously given of his being a friend. Having sounded the whistle, the person of whom we were speaking, without waiting for any response--for none was required--plunged down into the ravine below, bounding from crag to crag like a hunted chamois, and trusting for security on each airy footing to a handful of the lichen which grew from the precipitous wall of rock down which he was descending. Having gained the bottom of the ravine, he pushed on towards its centre, when he again ascended, and now made for a clump of copsewood, which grew at a considerable height on the side of the glen. This gained, he dashed the branches aside, and, in the next instant, plunged into a cavern whose dark mouth they concealed. Accompanying him thus far also, we shall find the companion of our travels reaching a large and lofty chamber, in the centre of which burnt a huge fire of peats, built on a circular piece of rude masonry, and around which are seated eight or ten men. Here and there may be seen resting against the walls of the chamber the large steel basket-hilts of broadswords, and, in different corners, accumulations of plaids and bonnets. Another object also will strike us. This is several immense sides of beef, and several carcases of mutton, hung up in various parts of the cave, all ready for the operations of the cook. Neither the character of the place, nor of those by whom it is occupied, can be mistaken. It is a den of Highland katherans. The reception by the latter of the person whom we have just intruded upon them, was very markedly cold and distant; and it was rendered more so by the contrast between his manner to them on his entrance, and theirs to him. The former was cheerful and conciliatory, the latter sullen and repulsive. "The eagle's eyry is not now in the cleft of the rock," said one. "It is in the barn-yard." "Ay, the deer has left the mountain, and gone to herd with the swine," said another. "I understand you, friends," replied the intruder. "You do not approve of these wanderings of mine. You think I am taming down into some such animal as a Lowland shopkeeper or Wanshaw weaver--and perhaps it is so, in some measure; but I cannot help it. I acknowledge that the whole energies of my nature--all the feelings of my heart--have undergone a total change, both in character and direction. I certainly am not the man I was. I feel it, and therefore feel that I am no longer fit to be your leader." "Macpherson," said one of the men, "you guess part of our feelings towards you just now, but not all. There is in these feelings at least as much of fear for your safety in these excursions of yours, as displeasure with your neglect of us and our common interest. You know that we love you, Macpherson, for yours is the generous and open hand--yours is the hand that was never raised in anger against the unoffending or the helpless, and never closed in hard-heartedness against the needy." "No, thank God," replied the person thus eulogized--"much evil as I have done, the shedding of blood is no part of it. Personal injury I have never yet done to any man, nor to any man shall I ever do it, unless in self-defence. Neither can the poor ever say they asked from me in vain. But, my friends," went on the speaker, "this is but a melancholy strain. Come, let us have something of a livelier spirit, and let me see if I cannot introduce it." Having said this he went to a corner of the cavern, where lay a large wooden chest. This he opened, and drew out a violin. It was a favourite instrument, and well could the person who now held it, employ it. Seating himself on an elevated bench of stone, which had been erected by the inmates of the cavern against the wall, he commenced playing some cheerful airs, and with such effect that he very soon dissipated the angry feelings of his auditors, and brought expressions of benevolence and good will into these rugged countenances, that had been but a little before lowering with gloom and discontent. The skilful minstrel, perceiving the effect of his music--an effect, indeed, which former experience had taught him to anticipate with perfect certainty--now changed his strain, and launched into a series of the most thrilling and pathetic airs, all of which he played with exquisite taste and expression. Had any one at this moment watched the fierce and weather-beaten faces of those who were listening in breathless silence to the delightful tones of his violin, they might have marked in the eye of more than one, an unbidden tear, and on all an expression of deep sympathy with the spirit of the music. At length the musician ceased; but it was some time before the spell which he had thrown over his auditors was broken. For some seconds, there was not a word or a movement amongst them--all continuing to remain in the fixed and pensive attitude in which the melancholy strains had bound them. Having brought his performances to a close, the musician, half in earnest and half playfully, hugged his violin, as if exulting in its power, to his bosom, embraced it as if it had been a living thing, and hurried with it to the chest from which he had originally taken it, and there again carefully deposited it. His reception on now returning to the party whom he had just been entertaining with his music, was very different from what it had been on his first entrance. Their better and kindlier feelings had been touched by his strains--a sympathetic chord in each bosom had been struck; and the effects were sufficiently visible in the altered manner of those who were thus affected towards him whose skill had produced the change. The transition of the feelings of admiration was natural and easy from the music to the musician; and looks and words of kindness and forgiveness now greeted the mountain Orpheus, who took his place among the rest, to share in some refreshment which had been, in the meantime, in preparation. Leaving the katherans employed in discussing this repast, which consisted simply of roasted kid, we will proceed to divulge the whole of that secret regarding the chief personage of our tale, which we have hitherto so carefully kept. This personage, then, was no other than the celebrated freebooter, Macpherson. This man, as is well known, was the illegitimate son of a gentleman of family and property in Inverness-shire, by a woman of the gipsy race. He was brought up at his father's house; but, on the death of the latter, was claimed and carried away by his mother; when, joining the wandering tribe to which she belonged, he acquired their habits, and finally became the character which we have represented him--namely, a leader of a band of katherans. He was a person of singular talents and accomplishments, of uncommonly handsome form and feature, of great strength, yet, though of a lawless profession, of kind and compassionate disposition. Such was the hero of our tale--such the lover of Ellen Martin, although little did that poor girl yet know how unhappily her affections had been placed. Having nothing whatever to do with the proceedings of Macpherson and his band during the interval between the parting of the former with Ellen and the period of the proposed meeting--these having but little interest in themselves, and being in no way connected with our story--we will at once pass this space of time, and bring up our narrative to the day on which Macpherson was again to set out for the trysting place. His motive and feelings in this matter he confided only to one friend out of all his comrades. This man, whose name was Eneas Chisholm, was the son of the person at whose house the reader will recollect the party, of which Ellen was one, was so hospitably entertained on the night they had lost their way on the mountains. It was he, also, who had eulogized the generosity and clemency of Macpherson, as we a short while since recorded. He was a young man, and, both in manner and disposition, much like Macpherson himself. He possessed all his warmth and sincerity of heart, katheran as he was; but was greatly his inferior in talents and in personal appearance. Taking an opportunity when none else were near, Macpherson informed this person that he intended on that evening repeating his visit to Banff. "It is madness, Macpherson," said Eneas--"downright madness. You surely do not calculate on the risk you run, in these desperate adventures of yours, of falling into the hands of the sheriff. You are well known, and it is next to a miracle that you escape." "No danger, Eneas, none at all man," replied Macpherson, in the confidence of his own prowess, and not a little perhaps, in that of his agility. "I have done more daring things in my day on far less inducement; and," he added, proudly, "give me fair play, Eneas, my sword in my hand, and not any six men in Banff will take James Macpherson alive." "But they may take him dead, though, Macpherson," said Eneas, "and you can hardly call that escaping, I think." "Cheer up, cheer up my bonny, bonny May Oh, why that look of sorrow? He's wise that enjoys the passing hour-- He's a fool that thinks of the morrow!" exclaimed Macpherson, slapping his friend jocosely on the shoulder. "Why man, Ellen Martin I must see, and Ellen Martin I will see, let the risk be what it may--ay, although there were a halter dangling on every tree between this and Banff, and every noose were gaping for me." "Then, at least, allow three or four of us to accompany you, Macpherson, in case of accidents," said Eneas. "No, no; not one, Eneas," replied Macpherson--"no life shall be perilled in this cause but my own. If I am unfortunate, I shall be so alone. I alone must pay the penalty of my own rashness and imprudence. I would not put a dog's life in jeopardy, let alone yours, in such a matter as this. But I'll tell you what," he added: "I'll exact a promise from you, Eneas." "What is that?" said the latter. "It is," replied Macpherson, "that, if I am taken, and taken alive, you will do what you can to have my violin conveyed to me to whatever place of confinement I may be carried." "It is an odd fancy," said Chisholm, smiling; "but I promise you it shall be done, since you desire it." "I do," replied Macpherson. And here the conversation between him and his friend terminated; and, shortly after, the former having carefully armed himself, set out alone on his perilous journey. The sun, when he left the glen, had already sank far down into the west; while his slanting rays were yet beating with full fervour and intensity on those sides of the rocks and hills that looked towards the setting luminary, their opposite fronts were involved in a rapidly deepening shade, and the valleys were beginning to be darkened with a premature twilight. But Macpherson had calculated his time and distance accurately. Three hours of such walking as his would bring him to the goal he aimed at, and then the gloaming would be on the verge of darkness. And it was so, in each and all of these particulars. He arrived at the trysting-place precisely at the time and in the circumstances he desired. On reaching the appointed spot, Ellen was not yet there. Neither did he expect she should; but he felt assured that she would very soon appear. Under this conviction, he seated himself on a small green bank, closely surrounded with thick shrubbery or copsewood, and, thus situated, awaited her arrival. Leaving Macpherson thus disposed of for a time, we shall advert to a circumstance of which he was but little aware, although it was one which deeply, fatally concerned him. He had been seen and recognised. The persons--for there were two--who made the discovery, dogged the ill-starred freebooter to the place of his appointment with Ellen, where, seeing him stop, one of them hurried away to communicate the important intelligence to the sheriff, while the other remained to keep watch on the motions of the unsuspecting outlaw. On the former's being introduced to the presence of the dreaded officer just named-- "What would you give, Mr. Sheriff," he said, "to know where Macpherson the freebooter is at this moment?" "Why, not much, man," replied the sheriff, "unless he were so situated as to render it probable that I could take him. I have known where he was myself a hundred times, but dared not touch him." "But I mean as you say--I mean in a situation where he may be easily taken," rejoined the man. "I know where he is at this instant, and all alone too--not one with him." "You do!" exclaimed the Sheriff, with great animation for the capture of Macpherson had been long one of the most anxious wishes of his heart. "Where, where is he, man?" he added, impatiently. "Let me have half-a-dozen well-armed men with me," replied his informant, "and for fifty merks I will make him your prisoner." "Done!" said the Sheriff, exultingly--"fifty merks shall be yours, of well and truly told money, the instant you put Macpherson into my power; and, instead of half-a-dozen men, you shall have a whole dozen, and I myself will accompany you. Is he far distant?" "Not exceeding a mile." "So much the better--so much the better," said the Sheriff, rubbing his hands with glee. "If we take him, a worthier deed has not been done in Scotland this many a day. It were worth a thousand merks a-year to the shire of Banff alone." In less than fifteen minutes after this conversation had passed, a sudden bustle might have been seen about the old town-house of Banff. This was occasioned by a number of men, amongst whom was the sheriff, hurriedly ransacking the town armoury for such warlike weapons as it contained, each choosing and arming himself with the best he could find. This choice, however, was neither very extensive nor varied; the stock, chiefly consisting of some rusty Lochaber axes, and a few equally rusty halberds and broadswords, kept for the array of the civic guard on great occasions--sometimes of love and sometimes of war. The party having all now armed themselves, were drawn up in front of the town-house, when the sheriff, placing himself at their head, gave the word to march; and the whole moved off under the guidance of the person whose intelligence had been the cause of their turning out. After they had proceeded about a mile, the latter called a halt of the party, and taking the sheriff two or three paces in advance, pointed out to him the spot in which he had left Macpherson, and where, as they were informed by the man who had remained to watch his motions, and who at this moment came up to them, he still was. A consultation was now held as to the best mode of proceeding to the capture of the dreaded outlaw--a feat by no means considered either a safe or an easy one by those by whom it was now contemplated; for all were aware of his prowess, and of the desperate courage for which he was distinguished. Macpherson, in the meantime, wholly unconscious of his danger, was still quietly seated on the small green bank where we left him. Ellen had not yet appeared, and he was listlessly employed in drawing figures on the ground with the point of his scabbard, when he was suddenly startled by a similar noise amongst the bushes with that which had alarmed him on a former occasion. He sprung to his feet, drew a pistol from his belt with his left hand, and his sword from its sheath with his right, and, thus prepared, awaited the result of the motion, which he now saw as well as heard. The rustling increased, the foliage rapidly opened in a line approaching him, and, in an instant afterwards, his friend, Eneas Chisholm, stood before the astonished freebooter. "Eneas!" he exclaimed, under breath, but in a tone of great surprise. "Hush, hush!" said Eneas, seizing his friend by the arm--"not a word. In five minutes you will be surrounded. You have been recognised and dogged. There are a dozen of the sheriff's men within five hundred yards of you, planning your capture. Let us be off--off instantly, Macpherson," he continued, urging the latter onwards. "If we can gain the town, we may escape. I know a place of concealment there." "Nay, but Ellen--Ellen, Eneas!" said Macpherson, hanging backwards, and resisting the efforts of his friend to drag him away. "Fool, fool, man!" said Eneas, passionately, and still urging him forcibly along. "An instant's delay, and both you and I are in the hands of our deadliest enemies." "We can fight, Eneas." "Ten times a fool!" exclaimed the latter, with increasing anger. "Fight a dozen men, all as well armed as ourselves!--and observe, besides," he added, "your obstinacy will sacrifice me as well as yourself." "Ay, there you have me," replied Macpherson. "That shall not be--God forbid!" And he hurried along with his friend. At this instant, a shrill whistle was heard from the copsewood. "They are on us," exclaimed Eneas, as, with one bound, he cleared a five feet wall that intervened between them and the highway that led to the town of Banff. He was instantly followed by Macpherson, who, having thrown his sword over before him, cleared the impediment with yet greater ease. Having gained the road, the two outlaws hurried towards the town. No pursuer had yet appeared; and it seemed as if they had already effected their escape. In this fancied security, the fugitives slackened their pace, that they might not incur the risk which would attach to a suspicious haste. During all this time, not a word more than we have recorded had passed between them. They had pursued their way in silence, and were thus just entering the town, when Macpherson suddenly felt himself seized by both arms from behind. Their route had been marked, and they were intercepted. Macpherson, exerting his great personal strength, with one powerful effort freed himself from the grasp of his assailants--for there were two--flinging both, at the same instant, to the ground by a sudden and violent extension of his arms. Having thus set himself at liberty, he hastily drew his sword, and stood upon the defensive. His friend, Eneas, also drew, when they found themselves opposed to at least a dozen--the two who had sprung on Macpherson, being now joined by their comrades. Undaunted by the number of their enemies, and aware of what would be their fate if taken, the intrepid outlaws determined on a desperate resistance. Macpherson, with his other accomplishments, was an admirable swordsman, and he felt that he had not much to fear from the unskilled rabble to whom he was opposed, so long as he could keep them from closing with him--and in this conviction he coolly awaited their onset. It was some minutes before this took place; for their opponents, awed by their fierce and determined bearing, hung back. At length, however, they seemed to be gathering courage by degrees, as they came gradually moving on, till they were within two or three paces of Macpherson and his comrade, when two of the boldest of them made a sudden rush on the former, with the view of rendering his weapon useless, by closing on him; but the attempt was fatal to the assailants. With a fierce shout of defiance and determination, Macpherson struck down the foremost, with a blow that split his head to the chin, while his comrade despatched the other by running him through the body. Both the outlaws, on striking, leapt back a pace or two, so as to maintain the necessary distance between them and their enemies, who were still pressing on. But, panic-stricken by this, the first results of the encounter, they now paused, and entered into a hasty consultation, which ended in the resolution of their attacking simultaneously, and in a body, and thus, by mere force, bearing down their opponents. Acting on this resolution, the whole rushed forward, with loud shouts, when a desperate conflict took place. For a long time, both Macpherson and his friend not only warded off the numerous cuts and thrusts that were made at them, but brought down several of their assailants, one after the other; and the issue of the contest seemed very doubtful, great as the odds were against them. In the meantime, however, Macpherson, though fighting desperately, was compelled to yield ground, to avoid being closed upon and surrounded; for the pressure of the crowd was now greatly increased by an accession of town's people, who, having heard the din of the conflict, hastened to the scene to witness it, and to assist in the capture of the freebooters. Finding himself in danger of being assailed from behind, he rushed to one side of the street, and, placing his back to the wall of a house, flourished his sword, and defied the whole host of enemies who pressed upon him; and out of that whole host there was not one who would come within reach of the courageous outlaw thus desperately at bay. For fully a quarter of an hour he kept a circle of several yards clear around him, and having in this interval gained breath, it seemed extremely doubtful that he should be captured at all; for it was possible that, by a desperate effort, he might cut his way through his assailants and effect his escape. In truth, seeing the timidity of his enemies from the circumstance of none of them daring to approach him, some such proceeding he now actually contemplated. But a counter measure was at this moment in operation, which prevented its execution, and placed the outlaw in the hands of his enemies. A person from the crowd entered the house, against the wall of which Macpherson was standing, by a back door, and proceeded to an apartment, one of whose windows was immediately above and within a few feet of him. Opening this window cautiously, this person having previously provided himself with a large heavy Scotch blanket, threw it, as broadly extended as possible, over the outlaw, thus blinding him and disabling him from using his weapon. The crowd beneath--marking the proceeding which Macpherson, from his position, could not--watching the moment when the blanket descended, rushed in upon him, threw him to the ground, disarmed, and secured him; his friend, Eneas, who had been early separated from him in the melée, and who had not attracted, during any period of the conflict, so much of the attention of their common enemies, having contrived, previous to this, to effect his escape. On being captured, he was bound, conveyed to prison, and a strong guard placed over him. On the following day, an elderly woman, dressed in the antique garb of her country--the Highlands--was seen walking up and down in front of the jail in which Macpherson was confined, and ever and anon casting a look of anxious inquiry towards the building. A nearer view of this person discovered that her eyes were red with weeping; but all her tears had been already shed, and the first excess of grief had passed away; for both her look and manner, though still expressive of deep sorrow, were grave, staid, and composed--nay, even stern. Occasionally, however, she might be seen, as she stood gazing on the prison-house of the unfortunate outlaw, rocking to and fro with that slow and silent motion so expressive of the intensity of mental suffering. Occasionally, too, a low murmuring of heart-rending anguish might be heard issuing from her thin parched lips. But she held communion with no one, and seemed heedless of the passers by. At length she crossed the street, and having knocked at the massive and well-studded outer-door of the prison, inquired if she might see the principal jailor. He was brought to her. On his appearing-- "The deer of the mountain," said his strange visiter, "is in the toils of the hunter. Oh! black and dismal day that that proud and gallant spirit that was wont to roam so wild and so free should be cooped up within the four stone walls of a loathsome dungeon--that those swift and manly limbs should be fettered with iron--and that the sword should be denied to that strong arm which was once so ready to defend the defenceless!" "What mean ye, honest woman?" said the jailor, who was a good deal puzzled to discover a meaning in this address. "What mean I?" exclaimed his visitor, sternly. "Do not I mean that the brave is the captive of the coward--that the strong has fallen before the weak--that the daring and fearless has been circumvented by the timid and the cunning? Do not I mean this?--and is it not true? Is not James Macpherson a prisoner within these walls, and are not you his keeper?" "It is so," replied the astonished functionary. "I know it," said his visitor. "Then will you convey this to him?" she said, bringing out a violin from beneath her plaid. The jailor looked in amazement, first at the woman, and then at the instrument. "What!" he at length said, "take a fiddle to a man who's going to be hanged! That is ridiculous." "It is his wish," said the former, briefly. "The wish of a dying man. Will you convey it to him?" "Oh, if it be his wish, he shall surely have it," said the jailor; "but it is the oddest wish I ever heard." "You _will_ convey it to him, then?" replied the stranger, with the same sententious brevity as before. "I will," was the rejoinder. The woman curtsied and withdrew in the same cold, stern, and formal manner she had maintained throughout the interview. On her departure, the jailor proceeded to Macpherson's dungeon with the extraordinary commission with which he had been charged. The latter, on seeing the well-known instrument, snatched it eagerly and delightedly from its bearer, exclaiming--"Welcome, welcome! thou dear companion of better days! thou solacer of many a heavy care! thou delight of many a happy hour! Faithful Eneas!" And with the wild, strange, and romantic recklessness of his nature, he immediately began to play in the sweetest tones imaginable--tones which seemed to have acquired additional pathos from the circumstances of the performer--some of the melancholy airs of his native land; and from that hour till the hour of the minstrel's doom, these strains were almost constantly heard pouring through the small grated window of his dungeon. But they were soon to cease for ever. Macpherson was, in a few days afterwards, brought to trial, and condemned to be hanged at the cross of Banff. On the day on which he suffered the last penalty of the law, he requested the jailor to send some one with his violin to him to the place of execution. The request was complied with. The instrument was put into his hands as he stood at the foot of the gallows, when he played over the melancholy air known by the name of "Macpherson's Lament." It had been composed by himself while in prison. On concluding the pathetic strain, he grasped his violin by the neck, dashed it to pieces against the gallows, and flung the fragments into the grave prepared for himself at the foot of the gibbet. In a few minutes after, that grave was occupied by all that remained of Macpherson the Freebooter. We have now, we conceive, to gratify the reader's curiosity on one point only--and this is accomplished by adverting to Ellen Martin. The unhappy girl ultimately ascertained, though not till long after his execution, who her mysterious lover was; but neither the history of her attachment to him, nor her intimacy with him, was ever known to any one besides his friend Eneas; for to none other had he ever named her. Nor, during his confinement, or at any period after his capture, had he ever made the slightest allusion to her. This, indeed, from motives of delicacy towards her, he had studiously and carefully avoided. On Ellen, the effect of a grief--for the discovery of her lover's real character had not been able to efface the impressions which his handsome person and gentle manners had made upon her young heart--the effect, we say, of a grief which she durst not avow, was that of inspiring a settled melancholy, and determining her on a life of celibacy. In the grave of Macpherson was buried the object of her first love, and she never knew another. THE MONKS OF DRYBURGH. These worthies were celebrated for "guid kail;" but they were no less remarkable for their ingenuity in directing the wealth of their neighbours and dependents into their own coffers. In common with others of their profession, they assailed the deathbeds of the wealthy, and persuaded the dying sinner that he had no chance of heaven unless he came handsomely down for their holy brotherhood before his departure. It was for such a purpose as this that two of the brethren of Dryburgh set out, one day, in great haste, to visit the old Laird of Meldrum, who, they had been informed, was suddenly brought to the point of death; and the information was but too true--for the old man had not only arrived at the point of death, but had passed it, and that ere they came. In other words, the laird was dead when they arrived, and their services, of course, no longer required. This was a dreadful disappointment to the holy men; for they had reckoned on making an excellent thing of the job, as the laird had been long in their eye, and had been carefully trained up for the _finale_ of a handsome bequest. It was with long faces, therefore, and woful looks, that the monks returned to their monastery, and reported the unlucky accident of the laird's having slipped away before they had had time to make anything of him in his last moments. The disappointment was felt by all to be a grievous one, for the laird had been confidently reckoned upon as sure game. While in this state of mortification, a bright idea occurred to one of the brethren, and he mentioned it to the rest, by whom it was highly approved of. This idea was to conceal the laird's death for a time; to remove his body out of the way, and to procure some one to occupy his bed, and pass for the laird in a dying state: then to procure a notary and witnesses, having previously instructed the laird's representative how to conduct himself--that is, to bequeath all his property to the monastery: this done, the living man to be secretly conveyed away, the dead one restored to his place again, and his death publicly announced. This ingenious scheme of the monk met with universal approbation, and it was determined that it should be instantly acted upon. Fortunately, so far, for the monks, there was a poor man, a small farmer in the neighbourhood, of the name of Thomas Dickson, who bore a singularly strong personal resemblance to the deceased--a circumstance which at once pointed him out as the fittest person to act the required part. This person was, accordingly, immediately waited upon, the matter explained to him, and a handsome gratuity offered him for his services. "A bargain be't," said Thomas, when the terms were proposed to him; "never ye fear me. If I dinna mak a guid job o't, blame me. I kent the laird weel, and can come as near him in speech as I'm said to do in person." The monks, satisfied with Thomas's assurances of fidelity, proceeded with their design; and, when everything was prepared--the laird's body removed out of the way, Thomas extended on his bed, and the curtains closely drawn round him--they introduced the notary, to take down the old man's testament (having previously intimated to the former that he was required by the latter for that purpose), and four witnesses to attest the facts that were about to be exhibited. Everything being in readiness--the lawyer with pen in hand, and the witnesses in the attitude of profound attention--one of the monks intimated to the dying man that he might now proceed to dictate his will. "Very well," replied the latter, in a feeble, tremulous tone. "Hear me, then, good folks a'. I bequeath to honest Tammas Dickson, wham I hae lang respeckit for his worth, and pitied for his straits, the hail o' my movable guids and lyin' money. Put doon that." And down _that_ accordingly went. But if the house had flown into the air with them, or the ghosts of their great-grandfathers had appeared before them, the monks could not have expressed more amazement or consternation than they did, at finding themselves thus so fairly outwitted by the superior genius of the canny farmer. They dared not, however, breathe a word of remonstrance, nor take the smallest notice of the trick that was about being played them; for their own character was at stake in the transaction, and the least intimation of their design on the laird's property would have exposed them to public infamy--and this Thomas well knew. It was in vain, therefore, that they edged round towards the bed--concealing, however, their movements from those present--and squeezed and pinched the dying laird. He was not to be so driven from his purpose. On he went, bequeathing first one thing and then another to his honest friend Thomas Dickson, till Thomas was fairly put in possession of everything the laird had worth bequeathing. Some trifles, indeed, he had the prudence and discretion to bestow upon the monks of Dryburgh; but trifles they were, truly, when compared to the valuable legacy he left to himself. When the dying laird had disposed of everything he had, the scene closed. The discomfited monks returned to their monastery--the notary and the witnesses departed--and Thomas Dickson, in due time, stepped into a comfortable living, and defied the monks of Dryburgh, on the peril of their good name, even to dare to hint how he had come by it. END OF VOL. IV 
34146	----	WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND. HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE. WITH A GLOSSARY. REVISED BY ALEXANDER LEIGHTON ONE OF THE ORIGINAL EDITORS AND CONTRIBUTORS. VOL. VII. LONDON: WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE. 1885. CONTENTS. JUDITH THE EGYPTIAN; OR, THE FATE OF THE HEIR OF RICCON, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_ THE DROICH, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_ THE LYKEWAKE, _(HUGH MILLER)_ THE PENNY WEDDING, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_ THE AMATEUR LAWYERS, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_ THE PROFESSOR'S TALES, _(PROFESSOR THOMAS GILLESPIE)_ FAMILY INCIDENTS HOME AND THE GIPSY MAID THE RETURN THE POOR SCHOLAR, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_ THE LAIRD OF DARNICK TOWER, _(J. H. )_ THE BROKEN HEART. A TALE OF THE REBELLION, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_ THE CATERAN OF LOCHLOY, _(JAMES MAIDMENT)_ SERJEANT'S TALES, _(JOHN HOWELL)_ JOHN SQUARE'S VOYAGE TO INDIA WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND. JUDITH THE EGYPTIAN; OR, THE FATE OF THE HEIR OF RICCON. "The black-eyed Judith, fair and tall, Attracted the heir of Riccon Hall. * * * * * For years and years was Judith known, Queen of a wild world all her own; By Wooler Haugh, by silver Till, By Coldstream Bridge, and Flodden Hill: Until, at length, one morn, when sleet Hung frozen round the traveller's feet, By a grey ruin on Tweedside, The creature laid her down and died."--_Border Ballad._ More than three hundred years have elapsed since the people called Gipsies first made their appearance in this country; and, from all that I have been able to trace concerning them, it seems to have been about the same period that a number of their tribes or families proceeded northwards, and became dwellers and wanderers on the Borders. Their chief places of resort, and where, during the inclemency of winter, they horded or housed together, were, Kirk Yetholm, Rothbury, Horncliff, Spittal, and Tweedmouth. I believe that there are none of them now in Horncliff, which, on the bringing in of the muir, ceased to be a refuge for them; and there are but few in Spittal. But, in Rothbury and Kirk Yetholm, they still abound, and of late years have increased in Tweedmouth--that is, during the winter season, for they take to the hedges as soon as the primrose appears, and begin their wanderings. The principal names borne by the different tribes in these parts are Faa, Young, Gordon, Bailie, Blyth, Ruthven, and Winter. Their occupations are chiefly as itinerant muggers or potters, horners or "cuttie-spoon" makers, tinkers or smiths and tin-workers, and makers of besoms and foot-basses. They are still, with very few exceptions, a wandering and unlettered race, such as their fathers were when they first entered Britain. At Kirk Yetholm, however--which is their seat of royalty on the Borders, and where they have a lease of the houses in what is called Tinkler Row, for nineteen times nineteen years, on payment of a quit rent--they have not been so neglectful of the education of their children as in other parts of the country. At the period of their first appearance in this kingdom, the land was overrun with thieves and vagabonds, who, in the severe and sanguinary laws of Queen Elizabeth and her father Harry, were described as "_loyterers_" and "_sturdy beggars_;" and it is more than probable that many of these, finding the mode of life followed by the gipsies congenial to them, associated with or intermarried amongst them, and so became as a part of them; and this may account for many, calling themselves gipsies, having European, or, I may say, British features. But the real gipsy there is no mistaking--their dark piercing eyes and Asiatic countenance mark them as distinctly as do the eyes and peculiar features of a Jew. (By the by, I wonder that no searcher after the marvellous has endeavoured to prove them to be a remnant of the lost tribes of Israel.) Like the Jews, they are scattered over the whole earth--like them, they are found in every land; and in every land they remain a distinct people. Who they are, or whence they came, are questions involved in considerable mystery. Their being called Gipsies or Egyptians in this country, I hold to be a popular error which they themselves propagated. Egypt, from the earliest period, was distinguished above all lands for its soothsayers and diviners; and, as the chief occupation of the wanderers then was (and in many places still is) fortune-telling, they had cunning enough to profess to be Egyptians, or natives of the land wherein was taught the mysteries of rolling away the clouds which conceal fate and futurity. They have neither the language nor the manners of the Egyptians. No reason could be assigned for their leaving the land of the Pharaohs; and, although the gipsies of the present day profess to be Egyptians, they can bring forward no proof in support of the pretension. From all that I have read concerning them, it seems to me to be clearly proved that they are natives of Hindostan, where they formed a part of the lowest caste of Indians, called Pariars or Suders--a class held in detestation and abhorrence by the other castes. That the gipsy clans have a language peculiar to themselves, and which they frequently speak amongst themselves, is well known. It is not a written language; and they have endeavoured to conceal a knowledge of it from the people amongst whom they dwell. They have called it _gibberish_; and it has been very generally believed to be nothing more than what is usually understood by that term, or that at most it was a sort of _slang_, similar to the phrases used among thieves. This is an error. So far as those who have examined it have been able to ascertain, the secret language spoken by the British gipsies appears to be, with but trifling corruptions, the same as that which is spoken by the Indian caste of Suders in Hindostan.[1] [Footnote 1: We subjoin a few words as specimens. They are taken from the Glossaries of Grellmann and Richardson.--ED. _Gipsy._ _Hindostanee._ _English._ Bebee Beebe An Aunt. Mutchee Muchee Fish. Can Kan The Ear. Gur Ghur A House. Riah Raye A Lord. Dai Da'ee Mother. Mass Mas Food. Nack Nak The Nose. Loon Loon Salt.] But a stronger proof that the gipsies scattered over Europe derive their origin from the Suders of India is demonstrated by the facts that the Suders were the only people who professed the art of palmistry--that they, like the gipsies, are a wandering race--that their occupations are almost identically the same, being fortune-tellers, dancers, and wandering musicians--that the smiths amongst them go about exactly in the same manner as the tinkers, in this country--that, like the gipsies, their favourite food is that of animals that have died of disease--that, like them, they have no fixed religion--and, like them, they endeavour to conceal their language. And the certainty of their being originally the same people is further strengthened, from the Suders having fled in thousands from India, during the murderous ravages of Timur Beg in 1408, which corresponds with the period of the first appearance of the gipsies in Europe. And that they are not Egyptians is strongly proved by the fact, that there are tribes of them in Egypt, where, as in other countries, they are regarded as _strangers and foreigners_. I may have wearied the patience of the reader with this long and perhaps prosy introduction; but there may be some to whom it will not be uninteresting, as throwing a light on the probable origin of a singular people, of whom Judith the gipsy was one. And now to our story. One of the chief men amongst the gipsies on the Borders, at the beginning of the last century, was Lussha Fleckie, who was only inferior in authority among the tribes to King Faa, who dwelt at Kirk Yetholm, and boasted of reigning lord over a _free_ people. Lussha's avocations, like the avocations of all his brethren, were mere apologies for idleness. He was one day a tinker, on another a grinder, and on a third a wandering piper. He was a man of great stature and uncommon strength, and renowned for his exploits as a fisher and a sportsman. The name of his wife was Mariam, and they had a daughter, called Judith, who, as she grew up towards womanhood, became known throughout Roxburgh and Northumberland as the Gipsy Beauty, or the Beautiful Gipsy. The appellation was not unmeritedly bestowed; for, though her skin was slightly tinged with the tawny hue of her race, a soul seemed to glow through her regular and lovely features, and the lustre of her dark eyes to throw a radiance over them. She was tall, and her figure was perfect as her face--it was symmetrical and commanding. Yet she was at once conscious of her beauty and vain of it, and her parents administered to her vanity. They had her fingers adorned with trinkets, her neck with bugles; for Lussha Fleckie, like most of his race, was fond of gold and silver ornaments; and, amongst others, he had in his possession a silver urn, which had been handed down to him through generations, and in which his fathers, as he now did, had deposited the fruits of their spoils and plunder, until it was filled with rich coins as a miser's coffer. He therefore, although a vagrant, was not a poor man, and could afford to deck the charms of his daughter. Judith was early initiated by her mother into the mysteries of the sybilline leaves--her education indeed extended no farther; and, at the age of fifteen, she was an adept in the art of palmistry. The proudest ladies in broad Northumberland or fair Roxburghshire eagerly submitted their hands to the inspection of the beautiful fortune-teller. The searching brightness of her dark eyes seemed to give a prophetic reality to her words; and, as she caused them to kindle with apparent joy or become transfixed at the discovery of coming wo, her fair and high-born patrons have trembled before her, and inquired, "What is it, Judith?" And, being a favourite with them all, for they both loved and feared her, her person was bedecked with their cast-off garments. It was early in summer when about forty of the Faa people encamped near the foot of the Eildon Hills. A few minutes served for the erection of their portable village in a secure and sheltered situation, and speedily, supported on pieces of crossed branches, the caldrons swung over the crackling fires, each of which blazed fierce and merrily from between two stones. Savoury exhalations impregnated the air, and gave token of a feast. The banquet being spread upon the sward, when it was finished, and the brandy cup had been sent round, Lussha Fleckie took up his Northumbrian pipes, and began to play a merry reel. Old and young, men, women, and children, started to their feet, and joyous "Tripp'd the light fantastic toe." Judith glided through the midst of them, with her bright waving tresses falling on her shoulders, as queen of the glad scene. Of her it might have been said-- "A foot more light, a step more true, Never from heath-flower dash'd the dew; Even the light harebell raised its head, Elastic from her airy tread!" Her partner in the dance was Gemmel Græme; and in his veins also flowed gipsy blood. Gemmel was now a youth of twenty, and one of the most daring of his race. A passionate enthusiasm marked his disposition. In agile sports and feats of strength he had no competitor. In these he was what Lussha Fleckie had been. He boasted of his independence, and that he had never placed a finger on the property of friend or neighbour, nor been detected in levying his exactions on a stranger or a foe. His merits were acknowledged by all the tribes on the Borders; and, though he was not of the royal family of Faas, many looked to him as heir-apparent to the sovereignty. He held in princely contempt all trades, professions, and callings, and thought it beneath the dignity of a "lord of creation" to follow them. When, therefore, he accompanied the tribes in their migrations from place to place, he did not, as was the habit of others, assume the occupation of either tinker, grinder, bass-manufacturer, or the profession of a musician--but he went forth with his gun and his hound, or his leister and net, and every preserve, plantation, and river supplied him with food, and the barns of strangers with bread. Judith was two years younger than Gemmel Græme, and he had not looked upon her lovely face with indifference; for the stronger passions and the gentler feelings of the soul find a habitation in the breast of the wandering gipsy as in those of other men. He had a bold manly bearing, and an expressive countenance. Judith, too, had seen much of his exploits. She had beheld him, to the neck in water, struggle with the strong salmon, raise it up, and cast it on the shore. She, too, had witnessed instances of his daring spirit, and in every sport had seen all vanquished who dared to contend with him. Yea, when the scented blossom, like fragrant fleece, overspread the hawthorn hedgerows, and the primrose and wild violet flowered at its roots--when the evening star shone glorious in the west, brightening through the deepening twilight--when the viewless cuckoo sighed "goodnight" to its mate, and the landrail took up its evening cry--then have Judith and Gemmel sat together by the hedge-side, at a distance from the encampment, with her hand in his. Then he would tell her of the feats he had achieved, of the wrestling-matches he had won, or the leaps he had made, and, pressing her hand, add, "But what care I for what I do, or for what others say, when the bright een o' my bonny Judith werena there to reward me wi' a blink o' joy!" "Ye're a flatterer, Gemmel," whispered she. "No, bonniest," answered he; "I deny that; I am nae flatterer. But if I were, ye are far beyont flattery sic as mine; and it is nane to say, that to my een ye are bonnier than yon gowden star, that shines by its single sel' in the wide heavens--and to me ye are dearer than the mountain is to the wild deer, or the green leaves to the singing birds." Then he would press his lips to hers, and she blushed, but upbraided him not. But in the character of Judith, as in that of every woman over whose bosom vanity waveth its butterfly wings, there was something of the coquette. She did not at all times meet the affections of Gemmel with mutual tenderness, though she loved him beyond any one else, and was proud to see him wear her yoke. She had often smiled upon others, while her eyes glanced cold as illuminated ice upon him. Yet never was there one on whom she so smiled that repented not having courted or obtained it. For, as Gemmel's hand was strong and his love passionate, so was his jealousy keen and his revenge insatiate. There were cripples in the tribe, who owed their lameness to the hand of Gemmel, because, in some instance, Judith had shown a capricious preference to them while she slighted him. Now, as has been said, it was a day of feasting and rejoicing amongst them, and Judith was Gemmel's partner in the dance. Walter, the young heir of Riccon, was riding round the Eildons, with his grey goshawk upon his arm, and his servant following him; and hearing sounds of music and shouts of revelry, he turned in the direction from whence they proceeded. He drew up his horse within a few yards of the merry group, and, from the first glance, the striking figure and the more striking features of Judith arrested his attention. His eyes followed her through the winding mazes of the dance. They sought to meet hers. Gemmel Græme observed him, and a scowl gathered on his brow. When the dance was ended, he led Judith to a green hillock on which her father sat, and approaching the heir of Riccon, inquired, fiercely, "What want ye, sir?--what look ye at?" "Troth, friend," replied Walter, the master of Riccon, who was of too courageous a temperament to be awed by the face or frown of any man, "I look at yer bonny partner, and I want to speak to her, for a lovelier face or a gentler figure my een haena looked on since my mother bore me." "Sir," retorted Gemmel, more fiercely, "ye hae yer grey goshawk, yer horses, and yer servant; I dinna covet them, and dinna ye covet what is mine, and to me mair precious. Awa' the road ye cam, or ony road ye like, but remain not here. Your company isna desired. Is it the manners o' you gentry to break in where ye are uninvited? Again, I warn ye, _while the earth is green_, to turn your horse's head away! I, Gemmel Græme, wha never vowed revenge but I satisfied it, warn ye!" "As well," replied young Walter, haughtily, "might you vend your threats upon the rocks that compose those cloven mountains, as waste them upon me. I shall speak wi' your bonny partner;" and he struck his spurs into his horse to proceed towards her. Gemmel grasped the bridle, and in a moment horse and rider were upon the ground. "Gemmel Græme!" shouted Lussha Fleckie, "is that the welcome ye gie to strangers? Foul fa' ye! ye passionate tyke!--tak yer hands aff the gentleman, and if he wishes to join in oor merriment he's welcome. Gae, Judith, bring forward the gentle stranger." Gemmel withdrew his hand from young Walter's throat; and, as he did so, he uttered wild and bitter words, and flung himself, as if in carelessness, on the ground, his head resting on his hand. Judith, at her father's bidding, went and conducted the heir of Riccon to where her father sat and the late dancers were assembled, and Gemmel was left alone. A brief conversation passed between Lussha and Walter, during which the latter failed not to express his admiration of Judith. Her father smiled--there was a look of triumph in the eyes of her mother. The pipes again struck up, the dance was resumed, and Walter the heir of Riccon was the partner of Judith; while Gemmel Græme lay upon the ground, gazing upon them and gnashing his teeth. "We maun see that nae harm come to the young Riccon oot o' this," whispered some of the eldest of the tribe to each other, who had not again joined in the dance, "for Gemmel is kicking his heel upon the ground, and whistlin' to himsel', and the horse-shoe is on his brow. It was wrong in Lussha to provoke him. There is an ill drink brewing for the young laird. He is dancing owre gunpoother where the touch-fire is creeping to it." The dance was ended, and young Walter, taking a costly ring from his finger, placed it on Judith's, and whispered, "Wear it for my sake." And her cheeks seemed more lovely as she blushed, smiled, and accepted the gift. Gemmel started to his feet as he beheld this. But Walter dashed his spurs into his horse, and, riding away, in a few minutes was out of sight. Gemmel glanced upbraidingly on Judith, and he passed by her parents in sullenness and in silence. But the heir of Riccon had not ridden far, when he turned round and said to his servant, "We go now to Melrose, and from thence we shall go back and watch the movements o' the party we have seen. Mark ye weel the maiden wi' whom I danced, and whose marrow ye never saw; for rather would I that she was lady o' Riccon Ha', than that I shouldna meet her again." Shortly after the departure of Walter, some of the tribe, perceiving that what had passed between him and Judith was likely to lead to a quarrel between Lussha Fleckie and Gemmel Græme, and knowing, from the nature of both, that such a quarrel would be deadly in its results, proposed that the festivities should terminate, and the encampment break up. The proposal was carried by a majority of voices; and even Lussha, though conscious of the reason why it was made, knew so well the fiery and desperate nature of him who was regarded by the tribe as the future husband of his daughter, that he brooked his own temper, and agreed to it. And, while they began to move their tents, and to load their asses and their ponies, Gemmel stood, whistling moodily, leaning against a tree, his eyes ever and anon directed with an inquisitive scowl towards the tent of Judith's father, his arms folded on his breast, and at intervals stamping his foot upon the ground; while his favourite hound looked in his face, howled, and shook its tail impatiently, as though it knew that there was work for it at hand. Early on the following day, the servant of the heir of Riccon returned, and brought him tidings that the encampment had broken up, and Judith and her father had erected their tent in the neighbourhood of Kelso; for, as the ballad upon the subject hath it, "Often by Tweed they saunter'd down As far as pleasant Kelso town." Walter mounted his horse, and arrived within sight of their tent before the sun had gone down. At a distance from it he perceived Judith. She was alone, and holding her hand towards the declining sun, gazing upon her fingers as if admiring the ring he had presented to her on the previous day. He rode to where she stood. She seemed so entranced that she perceived not his approach. She was indeed admiring the ring. Yet let not her sex blame her too harshly: men and women have all their foibles--this was one of Judith's; and she was a beautiful but ignorant girl of eighteen, whose mind had never been nurtured, and whose heart had been left to itself, to be swayed by every passion. He dismounted--he threw himself on his knees before her--he grasped her hand. "Loveliest of women!" he began----But I will not follow him through his rhapsody. Such speeches can be spoken but at one period of our lives, and they are interesting only to those to whom they are addressed: therefore I will spare my readers its recital. But it made an impression on the heart of Judith. He spoke not of _his_ feats of strength, of his running, leaping, and wrestling, as Gemmel did; but he spoke of _her_, and in strains new but pleasant to her ear. And, although she had chided her first lover as a flatterer, she did not so chide the heir of Riccon. Vanity kindled at his words, and even while he knelt and spoke before her, she forgot Gemmel, and already fancied herself the jewelled lady of Riccon Hall. He perceived the effect which his first gift had produced, and he saw also how earnestly she listened to his words. He wore a golden repeater, which he had purchased in Geneva, and which was secured by a chain of the same metal, that went round his neck. He placed the chain around her neck, he pressed the watch upon her bosom. In her bosom she heard, she felt it beat, while her own heart beat more rapidly. "Hark!--hark!" said he, "how constantly it beats upon your breast--yet, trust me, loved one, my heart beats more truly for you." Before they parted, another assignation was arranged. From that period, frequent interviews took place between Walter and the lovely Judith, and at each visit he brought her presents, and adorned her person with ornaments. Her parents knew of his addresses, but they forbade them not. Now, one evening they had taken up their abode in a deserted building near to Twisel Bridge; and thither the young laird came to visit Judith. Her father invited him into what had once been an apartment in the ruined building, and requested him to sup with them. Walter consented; for the love he bore to Judith could render the coarsest morsel sweet. But, when he beheld the meat that was to be prepared and placed before him, his heart sickened and revolted, for it consisted of part of a sheep that had died; and, when Lussha beheld this, he said, "Wherefore shudder ye, young man, and why is your heart sick? Think ye not that the flesh o' the brute which has been slain by the hand o' its Creator, is fitter for man to eat than the flesh o' an animal which man has butchered?"[2] [Footnote 2: Gipsies always assign this as a reason for their preferring the flesh of animals that have died to that of such as are slaughtered.--ED.] Walter had not time to reply; for, as Lussha finished speaking, a dog bounded into the ruins amongst them. Judith started from the ground; she raised her hands, her eyes flashed with horror. "Ah!" she exclaimed, in a voice of suppressed agony, "it is Gemmel's--Gemmel's hound! Fly, Walter, fly!" "Wherefore should I fly?" returned the youth; "think ye, Judith, I am not able to defend myself and you against any man? Let this fierce braggart come." "Away!--haste ye away, sir!" said Lussha, earnestly, grasping him by the arm, "or there will be blood and dead bodies on this floor! Come away! Gemmel Græme is at hand, and ye dinna ken him sae weel as I do!" Walter would have remonstrated, but the gipsy, still grasping him by the arm, dragged him to a door of the ruin, adding, "Steal away--quick! quick among the trees, and keep down by the Till to Tweedside. Dinna speak!--away!" It was a grey midnight in July, and the heir of Riccon had not been absent three minutes, when Gemmel Græme stalked into the ruin, and with his arms folded sat down upon a stone in sullen silence. "We are glad to see ye, Gemmel," said Mariam; "ye hae been an unco stranger." "Humph!" was his brief and cold reply. The supper was spread upon the ground, and the mother of Judith again added, "Come, Gemmel, lad, it is o' nae use to be in a cankered humour for ever. Draw forward and help yersel'--ye see there is nae want." "So I see!" replied he, sarcastically; "did ye expect company? I doubt yer fare would hardly be to _his_ palate!" "What do you mean, Gemmel?" cried Lussha; "think ye that we are to put up wi' yer fits?--or wherefore, if ye hae naething to say, come ye glunching here, wi' a brow as dark and threatening as a nicht in December?" Gemmel rose angrily, and replied, "I hae something to say, Lussha, and that something is to Judith, but not in your presence. Judith, will ye speak wi' me?" added he, addressing her. Judith, who had sat in a corner of the ruin, with her hands upon her bosom, covering the watch which young Walter had given her, and forgetting that the golden chain by which it was suspended from her neck was visible, cast a timid glance towards her father, as if imploring his protection. "I am no sure, Gemmel," said Lussha, "whether I can trust my daughter in your company or no. If I do, will ye gie me yer thumb that ye winna harm her, nor raise your hand against her." "Harm her!" exclaimed Gemmel, disdainfully: "I scorn it!--there's my thumb." "Ye may gang, Judith," said her father. Judith, with fear and guilt graven on her lovely features, rose and accompanied Gemmel. He walked in silence by her side until they came to an old and broad-branched tree, which stood about forty yards from the ruin. A waning summer moon had risen since he arrived, and mingled its light with the grey gloam of the night, revealing the ornaments which Judith wore. "Judith," said Gemmel, breaking the silence, and raising her hand from her bosom, with which she concealed the watch, "where got ye thae braw ornaments? Has yer faither found a heart to lay his fingers on the treasures in the silver jug?" She trembled, and remained silent. "Poor thing! poor thing!--lost Judith!" exclaimed Gemmel. "I see how it is. For the sake o' thae vile gewgaws, ye hae deserted me--ye hae sacrificed peace o' mind, and bidden fareweel to happiness! O Judith, woman!--wha is the flatterer noo? Do you mind syne we sat by the hedge-side thegither, when the corn-craik counted the moments round about us, and tried to mind us hoo they flew--when the sun had sunk down in the west, and the bonny hawthorn showered its fragrance owre us, as though we sat in the garden where our first parents were happy? Do you mind o' thae days, Judith?--and hoo, when my heaving bosom beat upon yours, as we sat locked in ilka other's arms, I asked, 'Will ye be mine?' and ye let yer head fa' on my shouther, and said, '_I will!_'--Judith! do ye mind o' thae things, and where are they noo?" "Gemmel Græme," replied she, and she wept as she spoke, "let me gang--I canna bide wi' ye--and ye hae nae richt to put yer questions to me." "Nae richt!" he returned. "O Judith! hae ye forgotten a' yer vows?--or hae ye forgotten the time when, in caulder nichts than this, when the snaw was on the ground, and the trees were bare o' leaves, that ye hae stood or wandered wi' me, frae the time that the sun gaed down, until the sea-birds and the craws sailed owre our heads seeking for their food on the next morning?--and now ye tell me ye canna bide wi' me! O Judith! ye hae dune what has made my heart miserable, and what will mak yer ain as miserable?" And as he spoke he still held her hand. "Let me gang, Gemmel," she again sobbed, and struggled to wrest her hand from his grasp--"I hae naething to say to ye." "Then ye will leave me, Judith!" he cried, wildly--"leave me for ever, wi' a withered heart and a maddened brain!" She answered him not, but still wept and struggled the more to escape from him. "Then gang, Judith!" he cried, and flung her hand from him, "but beware hoo we meet again!" Some months after this, and when the harvest-moon shone full on the fields of golden grain, and the leaves rustled dry and embrowned upon the trees, there was a sound of voices in a wood which overhung the Tweed near Coldstream. They were the voices of Walter the heir of Riccon and of Judith. "Leave," said he, "dear Judith, leave this wandering life, and come wi' me, and ye shall be clad in silks, dearest, hae servants to wait on ye, and a carriage to ride in!" "Ah!" she sighed, "but a wandering life is a pleasant life; and, if I were to gang wi' ye, would ye aye be kind to me, and love me as you do now?" "Can ye be sae cruel as doubt me, Judith?" was his reply. "Weel," returned she, "it was for yer sake that I left Gemmel Græme, wha is a bald and a leal lad, and one that I once thought I liked weel. Now, I dinna understand about your priests and your books, but will ye come before my faither and my mother, and the rest o' oor folk, and before them swear that I am yer lawfu' wife, the only lady o' Riccon Ha', and I will gang wi' ye?" "My own Judith, I will!" replied Walter, earnestly. "You will not!" exclaimed a loud and wild voice, "unless over the dead body of Gemmel Græme!" At the same moment a pistol flashed within a few yards of where they stood, and Walter the heir of Riccon fell with a groan at the feet of Judith. Her screams rang through the woods, startling the slumbering birds from the branches, and causing them to fly to and fro in confusion. Gemmel sprang forward, and grasped her hand. "Now, fause ane," he cried, "kiss the lips o' yer bonny bridegroom!--catch his spirit as it leaves him! Hang roond his neck and haud him to yer heart till his corpse be cauld! Noo, he canna hae ye, and I winna! Fareweel!--fareweel!--fause, treacherous Judith!" Thus saying, and striking his forehead, and uttering a loud and bitter scream, he rushed away. Judith sank down by the dead body of Walter, and her tears fell upon his face. Her cries reached the encampment, where her parents and others of her race were. They hastened to the wood from whence her cries proceeded, and found her stretched upon the ground, her arms encircling the neck of the dead. They raised her in their arms, and tried to soothe her, but she screamed the more wildly, and seemed as one whose senses grief has bewildered. "Judith," said her father, "speak to me, bairn--wha has done this? Was it----" "Gemmel!--wicked Gemmel!" she cried; and in the same breath added, "No! no!--it wasna him! It was me!--it was me! It was fause Judith." Gemmel Græme, however, had dropped his pistol on the ground when he beheld his victim fall, and one of the party taking it up, they knew him to be the murderer. Lussha Fleckie, touched by his daughter's grief, and disappointed by his dream of vain ambition being broken, caused each of his party to take a vow that they would search for Gemmel Græme, and whosoever found him should take blood for blood upon his head. And they did search, but vainly, for Gemmel was no more heard of. Twelve months passed, and autumn had come again. A young maniac mother, with a child at her breast, and dressed as a gipsy, endeavoured to cross the Tweed between Norham and Ladykirk. The waters rose suddenly, and as they rose she held her infant closer to her bosom, and sang to it; but the angry flood bore away the maniac mother and her babe. She was rescued and restored to life, though not to reason, but the child was seen no more. For thirty years the poor maniac continued at intervals to visit the fatal spot, wandering by the river, stretching out her arms, calling on her child, saying, "Come to me--come to yer mother, my bonny bairn, for ye are heir o' Riccon, and why should I gang shoeless amang snaw! Come to me--it was cruel Gemmel Græme that murdered yer bonny faither--it wasna me!" It was in January the body of a grey-haired woman, covered with a tattered red cloak, was found frozen and dead, below Norham Castle. It was the poor maniac Judith, the once beautiful gipsy. Some years afterwards, an old soldier, who had been in foreign wars, came to reside in the neighbourhood, and on his death-bed requested that he should be buried by the side of Judith, and the letters G. G. carved on a stone over his grave. THE DROICH. On the evening of that eventful day which saw Patrick Hamilton, Abbot of Ferne, the young and learned Scotch proto-martyr to the Protestant faith, bend his head and resign his soul at the burning stake, in the head-quarters of Scottish superstition--St Andrews--a young man was slowly bending his steps from the scene of execution towards his home, a good many miles distant. The effect produced by that day's proceedings was, as is well known, felt throughout all Scotland, where the scene of martyrdom was, as yet, one of these _mira nova_ which startle a country, and extort from the innermost recesses of the heart thoughts and feelings as new as intense. In the case of Hamilton, there were many features calculated, in an eminent degree, to strike deep into the minds of a sympathetic and meditative people; and doubtless, his birth, descended from the royal house of Albany--his learning, derived from the deep wells of Mair's philosophy--and his extreme youth--were not the least impressive; yet there was something in the mere _manner_ of his death--abstracted even from the species of immolation not altogether new to Scotland, cruelly mangled, as he was, by an awkward or cold-blooded executioner--that deepened and riveted the effect produced by the extraordinary scene of his martyrdom. If casual or merely curious spectators might dream of that scene till their dying hour, we may form some estimate of what the friend and college companion of the martyr--for such was the young man whom we have now introduced to the reader--felt and thought, as, with eyes bent on the ground, he prosecuted his journey homewards, after witnessing the execution. Imbued himself with the spirit of the new faith, he had that day seen it proved, in a manner little less than miraculous. One of the softest and gentlest of mankind, who would have shrunk from the sight of pain inflicted on the meanest of God's creatures, had been enabled, by celestial influence, to stand, in the midst of a scorching and destroying fire, undaunted, unmoved, with smiles on his countenance, and words of exhortation on his lips. The feelings of the religionist were roused and sublimed by the contemplation of one of heaven's marvels; but the pity of the man and the friend was not lost in the admiration of the heaven-born fortitude that simulated total relief from bodily agony. Tears filled the eyes of the youth, and were wiped away only to rise again with the recurring thoughts of the various stages of the trial and triumph of his beloved friend. He had already wandered a considerable distance; but the space bore no proportion to the time occupied; for he had sat down often by the roadside, hid his face in his hands, and been lost in a species of charmed contemplation of images at which he shuddered. While yet some miles from the end of his journey, the shades of night began to fall over the undulating heights that form the end of the Ochil chain to the west; but, as yet, the sun, the only object seen in the whole horizon, appeared in full disk, red and lurid, like the mass of ember-faggots which, some hours before, lay in the street of St Andrews, surmounted by the blackened corpse of the martyr. The traveller turned his eye in the direction of the luminary; but quickly passed his hand over his brow, from an instinctive feeling of horror, as a dim wreath of cloud, stretching along the superior part of the fiery circle, seemed to realise again, in solemn magnificence, the sight he had witnessed. The altitude of the object which suggested the resemblance, with the gorgeousness in which it was arrayed, again claimed the aspiring thought, that the spirit of his friend, sublimed by the doctrines of the new faith, was even then journeying to the spheres which he contemplated. The final triumph of the martyr was completed in the scene of his agonies; and the seal of eternal truth was, by God's finger, imprinted on the doctrines he had published and explained in the midst of the melting fire of the furnace. Placing his hand in his breast, he drew forth the beautiful Latin treatise which his friend had composed on the subject of the justification of the sinner, through a believing faith in Him who was foretold from the beginning of time; and, sitting again down by the side of a hedge, he struggled, in the descending twilight, to store his mind with some of those precepts which were destined to claim the reverence of an enlightened world. He was soon lost in the rapt meditation in which the spirits of the early reformers rejoiced amidst the persecution with which they were surrounded, and was again in regions brighter than those of this world, in communion with him who, when the flames were already crackling among the faggots, cried out, "Behold the way to everlasting life!" From the exalted sphere of his dreamy cogitations he looked down with a contempt which, as his head reclined among the grass, might have been observed curling the lip of indignant scorn, upon all the thousand corruptions of the Old Church--its sold indulgences, its certified beatifications, its pardons, its soul-redeeming masses, its chanting music, its sins, and its ineffectual mortifications. The bright spirit of Christianity, arrayed in her pure garment of white, was before the view of his fancy; her clear seraphic eye beamed through his soul: and, with finger pointed to heaven, she invited him to brave the pile and the persecution of men, and gain the crown which was now encircling the temples of Hamilton. He thought he could then have died as his friend had perished, and that the pangs of the circling flames would have been felt by him merely as the smart pungency of a healing medicament, which the patient rejoices in as the means of acquiring health. How long he remained under the influence of this beatific vision he knew not himself. He had fallen asleep. He opened his eyes: the sun had now gone down into the western main; and all that was left of his glory was a thin stream of wavy light, which, shooting across the dark firmament, looked like the wake of the passing spirit of his friend on its journey to heaven. He arose. The searching dews of evening had penetrated to his skin; a cold shiver shot through his frame; and again, clutched by the humbling and levelling harpies of worldly feelings, fears, and experiences, he felt all the terror of his former sensations when he beheld the corpse of the martyr sink with a crash among the embers, which, as they received the body, sent forth a cloud of hissing, crackling sparkles of fire, mixed with a dense cloud of smoke. "Alas! this spirit of mine is strong only in dreams," he muttered to himself, as the shiver of the night air passed over him. "It is as the eagle of Bencleugh, which, with his eye in the sun and his feet under his tail-plumes, will resist the storms that shiver the pines of the Ochils; yet bring him to earth, and draw one feather from his wing, and he can only raise a streperous noise amidst the sweltering suffocation of his earth-crib." He had scarcely uttered the words, when he saw the short, thick figure of a man coming along the road, enveloped in a gown, and bearing a stick like a thraw-crook in his hand. Starting to his feet, he stood, for a moment, to see if he could recognise the individual. "Good even to ye, young Master o' Riddlestain," said the individual, as he came up, and was recognised by the youth--"good even to ye; and God send ye a warmer bed than the hedge-beild, and a caulder than ane o' bleezing faggots." "Good even, Carey," replied the youth. "I return your salutation. The one lair, as a beadsman of Pittenweem, you may have experienced ere now; the other you stand in small fears of. From St Andrews, if I can judge from your allusion to the sad doings of to-day in that part?" "Ye guess right," replied the beadsman, as they proceeded forward, side by side; "but how could you guess wrang, when every outlyer and rinner-about in the East Neuk has been this day at the head-quarters o' prelacy. A strange day and a selcouth sight for auld een. It's no often that Carey Haggerston carries a fu' ee and a fu' wallet." "Then you were moved by the fate of poor Hamilton, Carey?" replied the youth. "And wha, Papist or heretic, could stand yon sight wi' dry een?" replied the man, in a voice that trembled in the sinews of his throat. "I wad hae gien a' the bodles the prelates threw me--the mair by token, I think, that the puir callant was writhing in the fire-flaughts o' their anger--for ae stroke wi' this kevel at the head o' yon culroun caitiff o' an executioner. The bonny youth was roasted as if he'd been a capon for the table o' the cardinal, only there was mair smoke than might hae suited his lordship's palate, I reckon." "You have got a good awmous, Carey, will sleep sound, and think nothing of it on the morrow?" said the youth. "Anster Fair was naething to it," replied the beadsman. "The scene seemed to open the hearts o' prelates and priors, that never gave a plack to a bluegown before. I held up the corner o' my gown beneath the chapel o' the cardinal, and, sure enough, there were mair groats than tears fell into it. Ah, sir, though my wallet was yape, my heart was youden. But we're near the haugh road to Riddlestain, Master Henry, and, as the night is loun and light, I carena though I step up past the Quarryheugh wi' ye." "You may expect small alms from the Droich," said Henry. "No muckle, I daresay," replied the bluegown; "but I stand in nae fear o' him, and that's mair than the bauldest heart o' the East Neuk can say. I wad stroke the lang hair o' the creature any day for an awmous, unearthly as he is." "Know you aught of this extraordinary being, Carey?" said the youth, as they turned up the haugh loan. "Ye're no the first nor the hundredth that has put that question to the beadsman," replied the other, as he looked up with a side-glance in the face of the questioner. "Everybody thinks I should ken auld Mansie o' the Quarryheugh--the mair by token, I fancy, that naebody on earth kens mair o' him than just that he is a hurklin, gnarled carle, wha cam to the Quarryheugh some months syne, and biggit, wi' his ain hands, a beild which has mair banes than stanes in its bouk." "I know more of him myself than that, Carey," said the young man. "What ken ye?" rejoined the other, with a laugh. Henry's silence was probably meant as a quickener of the beadsman's garrulity. "Ye may ken, maybe," said the other, "that he speels the sides o' the Quarryheugh--that is, whar there are trees to haud by--like a squirrel, swinging frae ae ryss to anither, and sometimes dangling over the deep pool aneath him, like a showman's signboard, or a gammon frae the kitchen ciel o' the Priory o' Pittenweem; but the creature's legs are nae bigger than an urchin's, while his trunk and arms are like the knur and branches of an oak. What ken ye mair o' him? What kens ony ane mair o' him, an it bena that he has been seen, in the moonlight, howking the banes o' the dead Melvilles o' Falconcleugh frae the side o' the quarry, whar it marches wi' the howf o' the auld house that stands by the brink? An auld wife's tale, doubtless, though maybe he needed the banes for his biggin." "I believe the people in these parts would know more of him, were they not afraid to go near him," said the youth. "They stand peeping over the quarry brink at him, as if he were the 'gudeman of the croft,' Mahoun himself." "And nae ferly either, Henry," said Carey; "for his face speaks as clearly o' the skaith o' fire as did that o' Patrick Hamilton when yon gust o' wind drove the flames to the east, and showed his cheeks--sae pale, alace! and like a delicate leddy's, as they ance were--burnt as brown as the wa's o' Falconcleugh House there." The two speakers had now arrived at the old mansion of the Melvilles, which stood on the brink of the deep crater, whose high sides had procured for it the appellation of the Quarryheugh. At the side or end next the chasm, rose, beetling over it, a high turret, perforated in several storeys by small embrasures, and surrounded by three tiers of bartisans. From this flanking strength, the two side walls--relieved, at intervals, by circular projections containing spiral stairs--ran back, and were terminated by an ordinary gable, the inclined sides of which were cut in gradually-receding steps. The care which seemed to have been taken in securing the casements by closed shutters within, indicated, more certainly than did the general appearance of the withered house, that, though unoccupied, it was still deemed suitable for serving the uses of a dwelling, and that the choughs and stannyels that perched on its roofs were mere tenants at will, and might be removed on a day's warning. For a considerable distance around, there was nothing to be seen but a bare heath, the dark brown aspect of which suggested the probability of its having been swept by the destroying flames of muirburn. Even the few straggling boulders that shot up their grey heads through the scanty gorse stems, springing from their bases, wore a black, scathed appearance, as if they had still retained the traces of the ravage of the sweeping scourge. Hidden, except to near gazers amidst this wild waste, and shelving down from the tower of the mansion, the chasm or quarry, in the form of a huge crater, lay deep and still, with a dark mass of greenish-hued water reposing like another Dead Sea in its bosom. Around two sides of it, where there was a sufficiency of soil to support them, grew a number of stunted pines, the heads of none of which appeared above the superior circle; but, dipping down, added to the darkness of the water beneath, by the shadows they flung over its surface. At the eastern part, and where the pines in that direction ended, there seemed to have fallen down a large portion of the superincumbent bank, whereby there was formed a species of island, whose nearer edge might be about ten feet from the bank from which it had been severed. On this insular spot, which was now accessible from the mainland by means of two pine trunks thrown across and wattled together, lived the extraordinary individual whose form and habits had, in the conversation of the two speakers, been, in a partial manner, described. The small domicile he had reared for himself was entirely composed of materials supplied by the chasm in which it was situated, and constructed in the rudest manner of a self-taught artist, whose object was to shield himself from the inclemency of the weather, without any view to comforts, which he either despised, or deemed it unsafe or improper to indulge. It was, indeed, a mere rough shieling, with four walls, composed of rubble stones, mixed with--what probably excited more wonder than all the other supernatural attributes of the place, and the being himself--a due proportion of bones, collected from the cemetery of the family of Falconcleugh House, which had, on some disruption of the sides of the chasm, been laid open on its western side. The roof was supported by one or two rough trunks of pines, thrown in a slanting direction across, and composed of small twigs and leaves, wattled and compressed in such a manner as to save the inmate from a part, at least, of heaven's more profuse inundations. The bare and scorched wilderness around, over which the eyes of the beadsman and his companion were wandering, as they approached the scene of their conversation, had now resigned its embrowned hue, for the not less dreary and mystic tinge of the blue light of the young moon, as she struggled with the falling darkness. The circumstances of the still unseen chasm being tenanted by the only living mortal within the circumference of the bleak waste, and he himself, calculated, by his unusual formation of body, and imputed mystic powers and attributes, to aid the pregnant associations connected with his lonely condition, was, by those acquainted with the locality of Falconcleugh Muir, naturally combined with the dismal celebrity of the place for these deeds of violence so common at that period in Scotland. Whatever may have been felt by his less imaginative companion, whose familiarity with the overt proceedings of the occult powers of the waste and the ruin may have blunted his perceptions of the supernatural, it is at least certain, and assuredly no marvel either, that Henry Leslie surveyed the scene around him with the feelings natural to the time and the country when and where he lived. The dark figure of the house rose before him, claiming the homage due to the genius of the place, where it was almost the only object that arrested the eye. Replete in itself with the elements of gloomy associations, connected with the fate of the once happy Melvilles who resided there, it threw a wizard power over the surrounding heath-waste, investing the bleak inanity of Nature's most negative condition with an interest which could not have been possessed by her multiform productions. The absence of material objects of thought lent even a species of positive character of inspissated essence to the blue haze of the atmosphere, which seemed to hang like a mighty sea in the deepest stillness of nature's silence. For some time, neither of the parties had uttered a word. The brush of their feet on the heath, and the sound of their breath, were intensified by the silence into noises that to the younger of the two seemed startling and painful. "Hooly, hooly," muttered the beadsman, as his last step brought him to the chasm; "loun and canny, young master--loun and lightly," he added, as he sat down on what seemed to have been a step of a ruined porch, close by the building, and by the brink of the shelving heugh. "Eh! but this silence is gousty and elric. That corbie's grane was like the roar of a lion. Didna ye think the drum o' yer ear would crack wi' the sound?" Henry seated himself by the bluegown on the stone, and they both turned their eyes down on the deep hollow, where the waters seemed as dark as the Stygian stream. "I hear nae stir in the howe," said the beadsman, "and see naething but that rickle o' a house standing on that eerie pinnacle, like a craw's nest on the tap o' a tree in a glen. The creature's surely sleeping after his day's wark; for he works like a dergar, and nae man kens what at. He maks neither wicker corbins nor quhorls, like the rest o' his Droich species." "Hist! Carey; heard ye not a noise?" said the youth. "A hungry stane hawk spooming down the quarry after some raven that has been picking the banes o' the Melvilles," replied the other. "Wear-awins! there's a sad change on Falconcleugh now," he continued, as he turned his face to the walls. "The fire o' the ha' has been eighteen years extinguished; and when it may be lighted again, it will be to warm fremmet blude o' the spoiler o' the auld family. Heard ye that Gilbert Blackburn o' Kingsbarns, the commendator o' Pittenweem, is shortly to tak up his residence here, whar, methinks, he has as little right as the puir beadsman." "No," replied Henry, as, keeping his eye on the house of the strange inhabitant, he lent his ear to the gaberlunzie man. "It is even so," continued the old man. "It is now eighteen years, come the time, since George Melville, the last o' his ancient race, was burned for a heretic in Bordeaux. He was driven frae that mansion there, and the braw lands o' Falconcleugh, by Gilbert Blackburn, the persecutor o' the heretics, even he wha had a hand in raising the black stake at the cross o' St Andrews the day. I saw his ee, red as the burning faggots, fixed on the puir youth. I'm thinking I didna thank him for his awmous." "You seem friendly to the heretics, Carey, yet live by the kirk," said the youth, withdrawing his eye from the chasm. "The kirk's penny has as mony placks in't as a heretic's--the mair by token, they hae baith three," replied Carey. "I hae my ain thoughts o' the auld faith and the new doctrines; but it's better to live by the altar than be burned on't." "It might have been well for the earthly part of Patrick Hamilton, had he observed your worldly wisdom," said Henry. "Ay; but his soul wadna hae been in yon blue lift the night," replied Carey, looking up to the sky. "Na, na, nor might that o' puir Falconcleugh have been there afore him, if he had bowed his head at the auld altar. Yet _he_ tried to save his body by fleeing to France--vain flight, for his persecutor, Kingsbarns, wrote incontinent to the authorities at Bordeaux, to watch him as an enemy to the holy kirk. Then cam the sough, as pleasant to the ears o' Kingsbarns as the whistlin' winds to the outlaying bluegowns, that his victim was burned. His bonny wife, ane o' the Blebos, wha fled wi' him, died o' a broken heart; and now, they say, the race is dune. Whist! whist! Gude and the rude! What's the creature doing amang the trees o' the howe at this time o' nicht?" A rustling noise arrested the ears of the speakers, and Henry's eye was turned in the direction of the sound. The short stunted figure of a man was dimly seen down among the pines, working his way along the face of the precipice, by means of his arms alone, swinging from one stem to another, and occasionally resting for a moment, by remaining suspended, in an apparently dangerous and fearful, yet perfectly composed manner, over the water in the deep basin of the crater. Continuing this operation, in which there was clearly exercised an extraordinary brachial power and energy, he approached, with marvellous rapidity, his dwelling; and, by one or two more salient movements, in which there could not be observed, any more than in his prior progress, the slightest use made of his inferior extremities, he came to the wattled trunks lying across the cleft. Seizing these with the same extraordinary power of grasp, he hung for a few seconds in mid-air, suspended by the hands; then, by two or three successive throws and jerks, which made the pines bend and creak, he reached the insular height whereon his hovel was erected, and drawing himself up, he sat down, apparently in a resting attitude, upon the brink of the riven bank. In this position he remained for a considerable time, with his head bent downwards, as if he were wrapped in deep meditation. The rough croaking of some crows that had been disturbed by the rustling movements he had made among the pines ceased, and, in the hushed silence that again reigned over the bleak waste, there might have been heard his deep inspirations, as he drew breath after his exertions. Turning round, and applying himself again to his hands, he began to move along on the narrow space between the walls of his house and the edge of the height, making his arms the principal instruments of his progress, and using his short inferior extremities as subserving agents. The motion thus produced seemed to be a compromising medium between the crawl and the spasmodic jump of a wounded quadruped; yet he made rapid progress; went round the small dwelling, and was seen again at the other side in an attitude which showed, that, however ineffectual his lower limbs might be in the operation of ambulation, they could yet support his broad, thick-set trunk. Standing erect, he exhibited an elevation of about four feet and a-half, a stature which--in an individual of corresponding dimensions in other members--might not have been sufficient to entitle him to enter the pale of the "Droichs;" but, when viewed in relation to the almost gigantic breadth of his chest and shoulders, the troll-like size of his head, and the extreme length of his arms, could not fail, when seen through the medium of the moonlight, and in the locality of a blasted heath-waste, to suggest a relationship to some of the stout "elfin" of Scandinavian fable. The two spectators felt all the charm of the feelings of the supernatural in watching the motions of the eremite; and, probably--in so far, at least, as regarded the younger of the two--the interest was deepened by their total inability to understand his motions, as, having looked steadfastly for a few minutes down into the chasm, he again betook himself to his quadrupedal amble; entered his hut, and emerged with something in the form of a large volume--the brass clasps of which glittered in the moonlight--bound to his waist. The small space between the door and the end of the wattled trunks he cleared by a series of short, rapid, bounding strides, without the aid of his arms; and throwing his body again on the ground, he remained in that position for a few minutes, after which he again seized the end of the trunks, swung himself along them, and entered among the trees. The dark figure of his body was now indistinctly seen moving, by the same jerking, propulsive throws, from tree to tree, by which he had cleared the space before; and, getting beneath the shadow of the mansion, he disappeared from the view of the spectators, at the same time that the cracking of a branch, amid the sound of a splash in the water, came upon their ears. They neither heard nor saw more of him. The deepest silence reigned everywhere; and the dreary scene seemed as if in an instant deprived of every trace of living sound or motion, save the deep-drawn breath and palpitating throbs of the heart of the younger of the two observers. Overcome with the pressure of awe, he sat bound to his stone-seat, and turned his eye on the face of the beadsman, where he found an expression very different from what he expected. "Is the creature not down in that dreadful basin of pitchy waters?" muttered he. "And if he were," replied Carey, as he twinkled his grey eye, unmoved, in the face of the youth, "what would ye do, young Master o' Riddlestain? Seek him, as the baron did his brood-sow in the well, on the top o' the towering Bech, and maybe find mair than ye want--a farrow o' young water elfs? Na, na! let him alane--he'll no drown. He's maybe even now kissing some water queen in the bottom o' the loch." The youth looked inquiringly in the face of the bluegown; but the same expression was still there. He was sorely puzzled: the feelings of humanity were throbbing in his heart in audible pulses. The old beggar was in one of his humours, and held him by the skirt of his coat as he attempted to rise, while at the very moment, as he imagined, a human being was perishing in the waters. He sat breathless, with his ear chained to the abyss, and his eye searching in vain for some traces of meaning in the face of his arch companion. The same hushed stillness pervaded the scene of dreary desolation; neither the sound of a death-struggle nor of living motion could be distinguished, and it was as difficult to account for an individual endowed with life and the desire of self-preservation drowning without a sigh or groan, as it was for the sudden disappearance of every trace of a still living being in the dismal abyss into which he had so mysteriously descended. "It's a' owra now, at ony rate, Master Henry!" said the bluegown, adding to the youth's perplexity by a hint so directly opposed to his prior confidence, "the deil mair o' a sound comes frae earth, water, or air, than that croak o' a raven that even now flew o'er the quarry loch. We'll e'en be seeking hame, I think. I hae back to the road to Pittenweem to gae, and ye've a mile a-gate between ye and Riddlestain. Gude e'en to ye!" And, without even troubling himself to look over the quarry brink, the beadsman began his ordinary half-trotting pace; and in a short time Henry saw him, in the distance, making rapid progress over the heath. Meanwhile he was himself at a loss what to think or what to do. The strange manner of the beadsman led him at one time to suppose that he was satisfied that no misfortune had occurred to the inhabitant of the quarry; and at another, his parting words, joined to the inexplicable disappearance of the extraordinary individual, inclined him to an opposite belief, and filled him with painful feelings of self-crimination for not having rendered a timely assistance in behalf of a fellow-creature. He could not yet move himself from the spot. Placing himself on his breast, he looked over the brink of the chasm, gazing through between the trees on the deep, sullen pool, which, like a sleeping monster, satiated with prey, lay as still as death. His ears were not less occupied: for a space, not less than half-an-hour, he lay in this position, without seeing or hearing the slightest indication of anything that might solve the mystery. He was enveloped in the gloom of his own personal experiences of the day. The thoughts of the calcinated corpse of Hamilton, and the speaking spirit of the wild place where he lay, all combined with the painful feelings of the inquiry in which he was engaged to render his mind susceptible of morbid influences, and fecundative of supernatural creations of awe. He resolved frequently to rise suddenly to escape from the depressing yet charmed influence of the place, and the inexplicable circumstances connected with it, and resolved, on the following moment, to endure still the creeping sensations of fear that run over him, in the hope of getting the mystery cleared up. His watch, however, still proved ineffectual. More time passed, but the silence continued unbroken by any sound, save, occasionally, the flap of a night-bird's wing, as it floated past, or the dying scream of a victim, awakened to die in the talons of the hawk. Rising, at length, he cast another look over the chasm, and bent his steps to Riddlestain. When he reached home, he found his parents waiting impatiently for him. "It is all over," said he, as he sat down, and covered his face with his hands. "The martyr has received his crown. God have mercy on us who are of the new faith!" "And we are in danger from the commendator Blackburn," replied old Riddlestain. "He has taken the lands of Falconcleugh; and he will not be contented till he get Riddlestain also. Where is the martyr's treatise on the saving efficacy of faith? You took it with you to day to St. Andrews." "Here, here," replied Henry, as he searched his bosom for the brochure. "No, no--it is gone!" he continued, as he rose and looked wildly around him. "I was reading it by the wayside; and, overcome with fatigue and suffering, I reclined, and slept--and now I find the book is gone. What may come of this, when our enemies are ranging the land with the fiery faggot?" "Saw you no one by the way?" said the father. "Only Carey, the wandering beadsman of Pittenweem," replied the son. "Seek him--seek him, ere you sleep, Henry! Our lives depend on your recovering that book, which they call heretical, because it shows us the true way to that place where priests have no power. But the way it leads is through earthly flames, and we are not yet so well prepared for that ordeal as he who passed to-day." The young man flew out of the house, and taking his way again past Falconcleugh, without stopping to know more certainly the fate of the inhabitant of the quarry, he was hurrying on in the direction which he supposed had been taken by the bluegown, when he heard a noise, as if of the opening of a door of the old mansion. The sound startled him, and he returned and placed himself in the shade of the walls. In a few minutes, he saw the old beadsman, who he thought had betaken himself to his quarters at Pittenweem, come forth, in the company of a young woman rolled up in a cloak. They hurried onwards as if afraid of discovery; and Henry, following them, traced them to the small cottage of Mossfell, about a half-a-mile distant from Falconcleugh. "My own Margaret again at Falconcleugh at a late hour," muttered the youth to himself, as he saw the young woman part with the bluegown, and betake herself to the cottage, while Carey proceeded on his way to Pittenweem. The youth allowed him to continue his course until he came to the spot where he had been reading the book. He then made up to him. "Thus far only on your way, Carey?" said he, as he overtook him. "Nae farther, Master Henry," was the reply, accompanied by a scrutinising twinkle of the beadsman's eye, as if to ascertain whether the questioner had noticed his proceedings. "But what has brought you again frae Riddlestain, at this late hour?" "It is not to ask you what I know you will not tell me, Carey--the secret of Mansie of the Quarryheugh, and whether he be now in the bottom of the waters. I am myself in danger; and would know if you met any one on the road to-night, ere you came up to me?" As he spoke, he proceeded to search for the heretical tract. "So it was you," said the beadsman, "from whom, when sleepin by the roadside, was ta'en the written heresy that Blackburn's clerk, Geordie Dempster, was busy reading to his fellow-traveller, John o' the Priory, in Dame M'Gills, at the Haughfoot. The body o' young Riddlestain will be a cinder ere the sun has gane twelve times owre the East Neuk. If the commendator got Melville o' Falconcleugh burned in France, will he, think ye, hae ony great difficulty in getting Henry Leslie burned in Scotland?" "Your words carry fire in them, Carey; but I have not said that the book was mine." "There's nae occasion for the admission," replied the bluegown, "especially to ane wha lives by the auld kirk, and maybe ought, even now, to turn his face to St. Andrews, to evidence against you. You may be safe at Riddlestain for this night, but scarcely owre the morn. I will gie ye warnin, if ye will trust me." "I will," replied Henry. And the bluegown, waving his wand, continued on his journey, while the young man turned his steps, in fear, towards home. He again came to the cottage of Mossfell, and stood before the door. Margaret Bethune resided there, under the protection of old Dame Craigie. She was reputed an orphan; and, as such, she had secured the interest of the family at Riddlestain. By other claims she had secured the affection of the son; and never, until this night, had he observed in her conduct aught that excited any other feeling than love and respect, nor had what he had witnessed in any material degree altered the opinion he had formed of her. Yet, what object had she to serve by visiting the dark chambers of Falconcleugh with a wandering bluegown, at so late an hour of the night. He had heard from the servants at Riddlestain that she had been seen stealing from the old mansion at late hours; but she had uniformly avoided his inquiries for information. On this occasion, she might have gone to inquire as to the fate of Mansie, who had, apparently, been plunged into the waters. Yet why did the beadsman avoid the subject, and not offer satisfaction on a matter of importance to any one possessed of a spark of humanity? The danger of his own situation did not prevent him from indulging in these thoughts; and, as he stood and listened, he ascertained that the inmates had not gone to bed. "I will see," he muttered, "whether Margaret and her old friend observe the same silence." And he rapped at the door. He got admittance; and, seating himself by the fire-- "I am disturbed," he said. "As I returned this night from the scene of the death of my friend, I stood, with old Carey the beadsman, over the quarry of Falconcleugh, watching the motions of the old cripple who lives in that strange place. We heard a plash in the waters, and saw no more of him. Is it possible that he is drowned, and I, confused by selfish fears for my own safety, neglected to rouse my father's servants to make search for a fellow-creature." He watched the countenance of Margaret as he spoke and finished. There was no trace there of the effects of a sensibility which usually responded to the minutest detail of suffering. He waited for her explanation of the object of her own visit to the quarry, but none was forthcoming. "Ye needna fear for auld Mansie," said the dame. "If every plash o' a loose stane o' the auld wa's--ay, or a heughbane o' the auld Melvilles, or broken branch in the waters o' the quarry--were a sign o' his death, twenty times has he dreed the doom." "You spoke of your own danger, Henry," said Margaret, retreating from the subject. "Is it from the persecutors of our secret, holy faith, who have this day burned Hamilton at St. Andrew's?" "It is--it is, Margaret," rejoined the youth, as he rose, dissatisfied at what he supposed a trait of disingenuousness or secret mystery. "I may be compelled to leave Scotland, if I would not follow my friend through the flames. But old Carey the beadsman, or Mansie the cripple, may console you in my absence." And, with these words, he hastened to the door. "What mean you, Henry?" said the girl, as she hastened after him, and stopped him, by seizing tremblingly his hand. "Lovers have no secrets, Margaret," replied he. "You might have told me at once that you and the beadsman were at Falconcleugh. Why, if it was nothing more but a compliance with the dictates of humanity, to see whether or not, as we suspected, a fellow-creature had fallen into the basin, where was the reason for secresy? I am now satisfied the Droich is safe. He is nothing to me more than to others, who stand, and stare, and wonder at so strange a being in so strange a place; but a straw in the wind may tell us the direction of the argosy, and by this I may convict you of a want of ingenuousness. To-morrow I may be in flight for my life, in these tearful times, when the faggot surrounds the altar of the true faith; and how could I trust one with my secret who denies me satisfaction in a matter that concerns us scarcely more than it does the ordinary people of the world." "Who said that I was at Falconcleugh this night?" answered she. "Was it the beadsman? Tell me Henry, am I betrayed by one of whom neither you nor I can deserve better? for he eats the unholy fruits of the faith he pretends to disown." "No; Carey is as secret as yourself," rejoined he; "and, I hope, as true to me, who am also in his power." "Thank God!" ejaculated she, "and now, Henry, if you love me, no more of Falconcleugh or its maimed inhabitant. Will you promise?" "You put me to an unfair test, Margaret. I will reply to you in the same spirit. Will you, if I am forced to fly my country, accompany me as my wife?" "I cannot," replied she. "There is one here who claims the sacrifice to my first love." "Man or woman?" inquired he. "I cannot answer more," said she. "The time is not come. When it is decreed that the fire shall no longer burn on the street of St. Andrews, you shall know all. Meanwhile, fly, if flight will save you; and take with you the pledge that I am yours, in heart and spirit, in all that belongs to true affection." "So be it," he replied, hurriedly, and with a look of dissatisfaction. "Farewell! and it may be for ever." With these words he left the cottage, and hurrying to Riddlestain, gave an account of the dangerous situation in which he was placed. His father saw the peril with perhaps a keener perception of the probable consequences. The act of 1525 against heretics was in full force, and the church authorities eked out its sanctions by wrested texts of Scripture, with an ingenuity and thirst of blood that threatened destruction to all heretics. It was resolved that Henry should be regulated by the warnings of the beadsman, whose sources of information would enable him to save the son of his old friend from ruin, if not death. The night was passed by the inmates of Riddlestain with fearful forebodings, and next morning, and during a part of the day, Henry expected a secret visit from the beadsman. As the evening approached, he ventured forth to look for the bearer of intelligence, but as yet he was not visible. The moon had risen, and was again flinging her beams over the muir of Falconcleugh, and the old mansion of the Melvilles stood in solemn darkness in the midst of the scene. Again he was occupied by the thoughts suggested by what he had seen on the previous night, and what he had heard from Carey and Margaret, yet all his attempts to unravel their conduct and converse was unavailing, and he felt half inclined to seek again the cottage at Mossfell, to put the maiden to another test, while he would ease her mind of the reflections which the abrupt if not cruel terms of his departure would inevitably suggest. In the midst of his reverie he was startled by a noise, and, on looking round, he saw the dark figure of the inhabitant of the Quarryheugh coming along by his peculiar springing movement. He had never before seen him beyond the precincts of the hollow where he had taken up his residence; and felt as he might have felt on the approach of some being from another world. Every now and then the creature stopped, and beckoned him forwards, but Henry retained his position as if transfixed to the ground, and, in a short time, the hermit was by his side, with his face--which was covered with long hair, and the features almost obliterated by scars--turned up to him in the full light of the moon. "The fires of other lands," said he, "are as scorching as those of the Scotch faggot. Thou wouldst yet fly to them, and leave the commendator Blackburn to seize Riddlestain, while thy father suffers the fate thou wouldst avoid." "Let him remain," replied Henry, "who has faith and fortitude to pass through the fiery ordeal. You did not, good Mansie, see Hamilton's blackened body sink among the blazing faggots." A half-suppressed groan rumbled in the throat of the Droich. "What I have seen--what I have felt, thou may'st never know," said he. "But see, there are the church emissaries already after thee." Henry looked round, and saw some horsemen scouring along the muir, at a considerable distance, in the direction of Riddlestain. Throwing himself down on the heath to avoid being seen, he remained in that position for a few minutes, and by the time he again lifted his head, his Mentor was a considerable distance from him, working his progress forwards, on his hands and knees, with great effort. The next moment a hand was on his shoulder, and he shuddered with terror. "I'm maybe owre late," said the beadsman. "Quick, quick?--Blackburn and his hounds are awa' to Riddlestain wi' a warrant to apprehend you." Henry followed the beadsman, who hurried on towards Falconcleugh. "Now for your choice," said he. "Auld Mansie was giein ye counsel, maybe, to stay and stand your doom. What say ye--flight or flaught, an exile or an eizel?" "I am unresolved," replied the youth. "And by the faith o' the auld kirk, ye hae muckle time to ponder. See!--see! the bloodhounds have changed their course; their scent lies this way." "I am lost!" ejaculated the young man. "It maun be!--it maun be!" responded the beadsman, as he stood by the dark walls of Falconcleugh mansion, and seemed to hesitate. "There's naeither mean. Here, here," he continued, as he descended some steps, and taking Henry by the arm, hurried him down, and then applied a key to a low door of the mansion, which he opened. "There, there," he muttered, as he pushed the youth into a dark chamber. "I will turn their muzzles to the south." The door was shut, and Henry immediately after heard the loud call of some horsemen, inquiring of the beadsman whether he had not with him a companion. "Beggars hae short acquaintanceships," replied the bluegown. "The word awmous severs good company. Wha are ye after wi' the loose rein and the bloody spur?" "Henry Leslie, younger, of Riddlestain," replied one of the men. "Whither has he gone?" "My een lack now their former licht," replied the beadsman, "but if ye, wha are younger, look weel to the east, ye'll see something yonder thicker, I ween, than a munebeam. Ye ken what I mean. Ane wha has got an awmous frae his father canna speak plainer, even to the friends o' the auld kirk." "Well said, old Carey," cried the men, as they set forth with redoubled speed in the direction pointed out by the beggar. Now, left to himself in a dark chamber of the old mansion of the Melvilles, Henry began to look round him for some place where, in the event of a search being there made for him, he might, with greater chance of success, elude their efforts. Mounting up a few steps, he reached a recess in the wall, which had once been enclosed by a door, the hinges of which still adhered to the stones, and there he crouched, under the gloom of an anxiety that pictured in the future the images of the various forms of persecution to which the heretics of the time were exposed. There was scarcely any light in the chamber. The flapping of the wings of bats, that had been adhering, in a state of torpor, to the roof, was the only sound that met his ear. A noisome damp pervaded the atmosphere; and a creeping sensation ran over his flesh, which, co-operating with his fear and solitude, made him shiver. For two hours he heard no indications of any one approaching the building; he began to think of removing, while, now being dark he could escape to some greater distance from his enemies; yet he deemed it a dubious measure, while the absence of the beadsman augured danger from without. All was again still: the bats had again betaken themselves to the walls and the roof, and the sound of a cricket might have been heard throughout the extent of the dreary chamber. At length the grating sound of the hinges of a door startled him, and he stretched forth his head to watch the movement. The door opened, and a young woman, rolled up in a cloak, cautiously entered, taking from under her mantle a lantern, which she waved round and round, as if to ascertain that there was no one within. She then closed the door, and, proceeding to the side of the chamber next the quarry, made some audible knocks upon the side of an opening, somewhat of the form of a window, through which only a faint gleam of light had been able to struggle. This done, she sat down on the floor, and sighed heavily, muttering broken sentences in which the name of him who witnessed her strange proceedings could be distinguished. After a few minutes, the trees of the Quarryheugh, agitated by some living impulse, gave forth a rustling sound which, in the prevailing silence of the still night, reached the interior, and was observed by the listener. The movement continued, until the figure of the stunted inhabitant of the quarry appeared at the aperture, and, by two or three convulsive efforts, he flung himself into the apartment. The light from the lamp fell upon the couple. The girl still sat on the floor, and her companion reclined by her side, throwing out his maimed limbs, and turning up his face--which might have been fraught with terror to another--in the countenance of her who seemed to regard him with demonstrations of affection. "Blackburn, the old enemy of our house, is forth again," said he; "and young Riddlestain may fall. Are you prepared?" "It is to be hoped he will fly, father, and be yet saved to me," answered she, sorrowfully, while she took some edibles from a small corbin and placed them before him. Then drawing her hand over her eyes--"When is this wo and watching to cease?--when may I own my kindred, my love, and my faith?" "Weep not--weep not," said the other; "or let it be up in the chamber of thy mother, whither I nightly drag those maimed and scorched limbs, that the heart which burns for vengeance on the enemies of the Melvilles may be quenched with the tribute of a love that mourns the dead. She cured these fragments of members when rescued from the stake, that I might come back to my country, a wreck whom none may recognise and all may scorn, but a daughter who must yet pity while she loves." "Would that my love and my pity might be known," replied she. "How often have I asked permission to proceed to the court, to plead on my bended knees for relief to one who has already suffered what might expiate a thousand heresies--ay, more than death." "While the commendator lives, it is vain, Margaret. I have waited for him long, to show him, in the mansion of my fathers, what his power has achieved--ha! ha! I would do him homage as the holder of a pendicle of the lands he has wrested from me--even the Quarryheugh. It is my duty. These arms, which the fires spared, might yet let him feel the strength of a vassal who has no power to follow him to the wars against the faithful." "You fear me, father!" ejaculated the girl, as she bent over him, while he murmured, in growling accents, his threats. "The commendator is a man of power, and may get finished what his agents so wofully left undone in your exile." "Power," groaned the other--"power, when alone in this dark chamber with me, to whom yet is left these arms!" "Heaven keep him long away!" replied Margaret; "for your strength is a by-word to the creatures who gaze at you till they fly in fear from one they deem supernatural. Hush--a door has opened above." "Hie thee to Mossfell--quick--quick, child." "Oh remember that you have a daughter!" ejaculated she, as she retreated. "And that I had a wife whom my wrongs killed--yea, that I had once the face and form of a man!" he added, as he flung the fragments of victuals out of the window, and then swung himself out by the immense strength of his arms. The sound from above, which had thus startled the father and daughter, now chained the ear of Leslie whose curiosity had been roused and gratified by the strange scene he had witnessed. Footsteps now sounded overhead; and, by and by, the tread was heard on the inside stairs leading to the lower apartment. At the same moment, the door from which Margaret had issued opened quickly, and the head of another individual was presented. It was too dark for Leslie to ascertain who it was; but the words "Escape--fly," repeated hurriedly, satisfied him that it was the beadsman who was thus making an effort to save him. It was too late; the sound on the stairs indicated a near approach, and Leslie behoved to run the risk of being captured where he was, rather than make an effort to escape, which would be too clearly ineffectual. Several individuals now entered from the stair; and, by their statements, Leslie could perceive that they were in search of him. "The bird, if ever here caged, has flown," cried one, as he approached the door and found it open. "Then he cannot be far off," said another. "After him, and I shall wait here that you may report progress." Several of the company immediately rushed to the door. "Leave the light, Dempster," cried the voice of the last, and a man took from his cloak and placed on the floor a lantern. They were in an instant gone, and he who was left began to pace along the dark room. He was closely muffled up to the chin; and, as he continued to walk backwards and forwards, he occasionally seized the folds of his riding cloak, and wrapped them round him, ejaculating broken statements, as his thoughts and feelings rose on the suggestion of his situation and pursuits. "I shall get Riddlestain for my pains," said he; "ay, even as I have got Falconcleugh. The Church is a kind mother to her children; yet, has not this gift been as yet useless to me? Why? Down, down, rebellious answer of a coward heart--I am not afraid to occupy the house of him who expired in the flames by the condemnation which I accomplished. Now is the test. The bones of the Melvilles lie white in the Quarryheugh. I am alone in their old residence, and tremble not." And, as he argued against his fears, he quickened his step, listening, at intervals, for sounds from without. Not altogether satisfied that he was alone, he took the lantern and held it up so that the light might penetrate into the corners of the chamber. "All is still, lonely, and dreary," said he again, as he approached the north wall, and placed his head in the aperture. He started. There was a face there such as man might not look on and be not afraid. The lantern fell from his hands, and lay on the floor unextinguished. Receding backwards, and still keeping his eye on the object, he sought the low door on the west, and, finding it locked, betook himself to the stair, up which he flew with a rapidity corresponding with his fears; but it was only to descend again in greater difficulty, after he essayed an exit in that direction in vain, against a door also locked. "Oh! the Droich!" at length he exclaimed, as if suddenly recollecting himself, and affecting a composure well enough suited, probably, to his discovery, yet scarcely authorised by his finding himself a prisoner. At the moment of his exclamation, the cripple bounded on the floor, and stood before him on his knees with his arms folded, and his scorched face reflecting the glimmer of the lantern that lay before him emitting a weak light. "Gilbert Blackburn!" sounded in deep accents through the chamber. The commendator recoiled and recovered himself. "Mansie--so do the people call you,"--said he, affecting conciliation, "you are but an uncourteous vassal--taking up your habitation on another's lands without leave, and startling your overlord by the humour of your gesture, while you should be paying his ground-fees." "Mayhap, your honour," replied the cripple, "may remit these on behalf of my misfortunes. See you these limbs, and this countenance? I will show you them by the light of this lamp. Come closer to me. They say I am frightful to behold. Pshaw! Art thou afraid of a living man?--and yet thou didst now vaunt of thy courage, till thou didst even say that the spirits of the Melvilles would not terrify thee. Come closer to me, Gilbert Blackburn, and see if thou canst recognise in these features--horrid though they be--aught of the traces of one whom thou didst once think so well of that thou didst envy his lands of Falconcleugh." "What! are you man or monster?" cried the commendator, as he receded before the progressive movements of his enemy. "Both species are here," rejoined Melville; "I am a man, though like the other denomination. They called me George Melville, when I bore another shape, and I was of Falconcleugh. By that name I once lived happy in this mansion blessed with love and the reward of good offices. By that name, too, I worshipped God by the light of reason; and by that name was burned at the stake, till pity relieved me, and amputation saved the wreck that was not worth saving. Art thou not satisfied? Search these features. All is not gone. Enough of evidence there may be yet found to justify my claim for the remission of my ground-dues of Quarryheugh." As he spoke, his countenance exhibited, in the midst of its deformity, the traces of a fury that was only for a few minutes kept in abeyance by the offering of bitter satire. The commendator, overcome by fear, and consciousness of a cruel and heartless purpose, kept receding; while Melville sure of his prey, and eying him with remorseless hatred, approached him by a series of leaps and contortions, more after the manner of an enraged and maimed beast of prey than that of a human being. The fame of his strength had gone forth with that of his other singular attributes; and probably, even if Blackburn had been gifted with ordinary courage, he would have quailed before the approach of the extraordinary being. Fear, however, had taken possession of a mind devoid of all courage, and he flew round the chamber, imploring that mercy which he had never shown to others. Leslie, who witnessed the extraordinary scene, meditated an interference, but he quelled the thought from a sense of his own danger, and continued through the gloom to mark the conduct of the parties. The pursuit was short. Blackburn, finding himself pressed towards an angle, attempted feebly to use his sword. It was seized and snapped asunder, and, next instant, he was down in the iron grip of his ruthless foe--writhing in the agony of fear, as he felt himself drawn towards the window that overlooked the chasm of the quarry. Twice the energies of an ordinary man of courage might not have resisted the cripple; and, though the struggles of despair sometimes transcend all calculation of supposed strength, they were too apparently, in this instance, unavailing. Two or three gigantic efforts, and the commendator was on the brink of the descent--his back to the chasm, his face to that of his intended destroyer. The light of the lamp served to show Leslie the countenance of the victim, and a part of that of Melville; and he shuddered at the fearful expression of agony on the one part, and vengeance on the other. Not a word was spoken, but the chamber was filled with deep-drawn respirations. A faint scream burst from the commendator, and down, down he went into the chasm of dark waters; Melville drew a deep breath, as if he once again enjoyed the free use of his lungs, remained silent for a few minutes, and then deliberately issued from the aperture, by the mode he had been in the habit of following, and which, to him, was attended with no danger. Leslie was terror-struck. His first thoughts concerned his own position. Found there, he would be reputed the murderer of the commendator; and he hastened down to betake himself to flight. The doors defied his efforts; and he put his head out of the window, only to withdraw it with a shudder of horror. In a few minutes, the door was opened by the beadsman. "Ye'll be as weel oot here, I'm thinkin, Master Henry," said he. "Know you what has been done, Carey?" cried Henry. "I ken that baith you and I are owre lang here," replied the beadsman, as he hurried out. In a few minutes the muir was clear. The two took different directions; nor was Henry Leslie heard of again for a period of two years. During this interval, an investigation was made into the circumstances attending the murder of Blackburn. There was no evidence brought home to Melville; and the opinion prevailed that the commendator had fallen accidentally into the chasm. Melville, meanwhile, withdrew himself again to the Continent, where he died. The property was again restored to Margaret, in consideration of the injuries sustained by her parents. The death of Hamilton produced, throughout Scotland, so great an effect, that the prosecutions for heresy were for a time suspended, and Leslie returned to his native country. From the circumstance of Falconcleugh and Riddlestain being afterwards in the family of the Leslies, we may augur something of a union between the two lovers of our story. We merely, however, throw out this as a conjecture--our attention having been chiefly directed to the more important parts of the strange legend we have now given, which certainly does not exceed credibility. THE LYKEWAKE. I know no place where one may be brought acquainted with the more credulous beliefs of our forefathers at a less expense of inquiry and exertion, than in a country lykewake. The house of mourning is naturally a place of sombre thoughts and ghostly associations. There is something, too, in the very presence and appearance of death, that leads one to think of the place and state of the dead. Cowper has finely said, that the man and the beast who stand together, side by side, on the same hill-top, are, notwithstanding their proximity, the denizens of very different worlds. And I have felt the remark to apply still more strongly when sitting beside the dead. The world of intellect and feeling in which we ourselves are, and of which the lower propensities of our nature form a province, may be regarded as including, in part at least, that world of passion and instinct in which the brute lives; and we have but to analyse and abstract a little, to form for ourselves ideas of this latter world from even our own experience. But by what process of thought can we bring experience to bear on the world of the dead? It lies entirely beyond us--a _terra incognita_ of cloud and darkness, and yet the thing at our side--the thing over which we can stretch our hand--the thing dead to us but living to _it_--has entered upon it, and, however uninformed or ignorant before, knows more of its dark, and, to us, inscrutable mysteries, than all our philosophers and all our divines. Is it wonder that we would fain _put it to the question_--that we would fain catechise it, if we could, regarding its newly-acquired experience--that we should fill up the gaps in the dialogue which its silence leaves to us, by imparting to one another the little we know regarding its _state_ and its _place_--or that we should send our thoughts roaming in long excursions, to glean from the experience of the past all that it tells us of the occasional visits of the dead, and all that in their less taciturn and more social moments they have communicated to the living. And hence, from feelings so natural, and a train of associations so obvious, the character of a country lykewake and the cast of its stories--I say a _country_ lykewake, for in at least all our larger towns, where a cold and barren scepticism has chilled the feelings and imaginations of the people, without, I fear, much improving their judgments, the conversation on such occasions takes a lower and less interesting range. I once spent a night with a friend from the south, a man of an inquiring and highly philosophic cast of mind, at a lykewake in the upper part of the parish of Cromarty. I had excited his curiosity by an incidental remark or two of the kind I have just been dropping; and, on his expressing a wish that I should introduce him, by way of illustration, to some such scenes as I have been describing, we had set out together to the wake of an elderly female who had died that morning. Her cottage--a humble creation of stone and lime--was situated beside a thick fir wood, on the edge of the solitary Mulebuy, one of the dreariest and most extensive commons in Scotland. We had to pass, in our journey, over several miles of desolate muir, sprinkled with cairns and tumuli--the memorials of some forgotten conflict of the past; we had to pass, too, through a thick, dark wood, with here and there an intervening marsh, whitened over with moss and lichens, and which, from this circumstance, are known to the people of the country as the _white bogs_. Nor was the more distant landscape of a less gloomy character. On the one hand, there opened an interminable expanse of muir, that went stretching onwards, mile beyond mile, bleak, dreary, uninhabited, and uninhabitable, till it merged into the far horizon. On the other, there rose a range of blue, solitary hills, towering, as they receded, into loftier peaks and bolder acclivities, till they terminated on the snow-streaked Ben Weavis. The season, too, was in keeping with the scene. It was drawing towards the close of autumn; and, as we passed through the wood, the falling leaves were eddying round us with every wind, or lay in rustling heaps at our feet. "I do not wonder," said my companion, "that the superstitions of so wild a district as this should bear in their character some marks of a corresponding wildness. Night itself, in a populous and cultivated country, is attended with less of the stern and the solemn than mid-day amid solitudes like these. Is the custom of watching beside the dead of remote antiquity in this part of the country?" "Far beyond the reach of either history or tradition," I said. "But it has gradually been changing its character, as the people have been changing theirs; and is now a very different thing from what it was a century ago. It is not yet ninety years since lykewakes in the neighbouring Highlands used to be celebrated with music and dancing; and even here, on the borders of the low country, they used invariably, like the funerals of antiquity, to be the scenes of wild games and amusements, never introduced on any other occasion. You remember how Sir Walter describes the funeral of Athelstane. The Saxon ideas of condolence were the most natural imaginable. If grief was hungry, they supplied it with food, if thirsty, they gave it drink. Our simple ancestors here seem to have reasoned by a similar process. They made their seasons of deepest grief their times of greatest merriment; and the more they regretted the deceased, the gayer were they at his wake and his funeral. A friend of mine, now dead, a very old man, has told me that he once danced at a lykewake in the Highlands of Sutherland. It was that of an active and very robust man, taken away from his wife and family in the prime of life; and the poor widow, for the greater part of the evening, sat disconsolate beside the fire, refusing every invitation to join the dancers. She was at length, however, brought out by the father of the deceased. 'Little, little did he think,' he said, 'that she would be the last to dance at poor Rory's lykewake.'" We reached the cottage, and went in. The apartment in which the dead lay was occupied by two men and three women. Every little piece of furniture it contained was hung in white, and the floor had recently been swept and sanded; but it was on the bed where the body lay, and on the body itself, that the greatest care had been lavished. The curtains had been taken down, and their place supplied by linen white as snow; and on the sheet that served as a counterpane, the body was laid out in a dress of white, fantastically crossed and recrossed in every direction by scalloped fringes, and fretted into a species of open work, at least intended to represent alternate rows of roses and tulips. A plate containing a little salt was placed over the breast of the corpse. As we entered, one of the women rose; and, filling two glasses with spirits, presented them to us on a salver. We tasted the liquor, and sat down on chairs placed for us beside the fire. The conversation, which had been interrupted by our entrance, began to flow apace; and an elderly female, who had lived under the same roof with the deceased, began to relate, in answer to the queries of one of the others, some of the particulars of her last illness and death. THE STORY OF ELSPAT M'CULLOCH. "Elspat was aye," she said, "a retired body, wi' a cast o' decent pride aboot her; an', though bare an' puirly aff sometimes, in her auld days, she had never been chargeable to onybody. She had come o' decent, 'sponsible people, though they were a' low aneugh the day--ay, an' they were God-fearing people, too, wha had gien plenty in their time, and had aye plenty to gie. An' though they had been a' langsyne laid in the kirkyard--a' except hersel, puir body!--she wouldna disgrace their guid name, she said, by takin an alms frae ony ane. Her sma' means fell oot o' her hands afore her last illness. Little had aye dune her turn--but the little failed at last; an' sair, sair thocht did it gie her, for a while, what was to come o' her. I could hear her, in the butt-end o' the house, ae mornin, mair earnest an' langer in her prayers than usual--though she never neglected them, puir body--an' a' the early part o' that day she seemed to be no weel. She was aye up and down; an' I could ance or twice hear her gaunting at the fireside; but, when I went ben to her, an' asked what was the matter wi' her, she said she was just in her ordinar. She went oot for a wee; an' what did I do but gang to her amry, for I jaloused a' wasna richt there; an', oh! it was a sair sicht to see, neebors; but there was neither a bit o' bread nor a grain o' meal within its four corners--naething but the sealed-up greybeard, wi' the whisky, that, for twenty years an' mair, she had been keeping for her lykewake; an', ye ken, it was oot o' the question to think that she would meddle wi' it. Weel did I scold her, when she cam in, for being sae close-minded. I asked her what harm I had ever done to her, that she would rather hae died than hae trusted her wants to me; but, though she said nothing, I could see the tears in her ee; an' sae I stopped, and we took a late breakfast thegither at my fireside. "She tauld me that mornin that she weel kent she wouldna lang be a trouble to onybody. The day afore had been Sabbath, an' every Sabbath mornin, for the last ten years, her worthy neebor the elder, whom they had buried only four days afore, used to call on her, in the passing on his way to the kirk. 'Come awa, Elspat,' he would say; an' she used to be aye decent an' ready; for she liked his conversation; an' they aye gaed thegither to the kirk. She had been contracted, when a young lass, to a brither o' the elder's--a stout, handsome lad; but he had been ca'ed suddenly awa, atween the contract an' the marriage, an' Elspat, though she had afterwards mony a guid offer, had lived single for his sake. Weel, on the very mornin afore, just sax days after the elder's death, an' four after his burial, when Elspat was sittin dowie aside the fire, thinkin' o' her guid auld neebor, the cry cam to the door just as it used to do; but, though the voice was the same, the words were a wee different. 'Elspat,' it said, 'mak ready an' come awa.' She rose hastily to the window, an' there, sure enough, was the elder turning the corner in his Sunday's bonnet an' his Sunday's coat. An' weel did she ken, she said, the meanin o' his call, and kindly did she tak it. An' if it was but God's wull that she suld hae enough to put her decently under the ground without going in debt to ony one, she would be weel content. She had already the linen for the dead-dress, she said; for she had span it for the purpose afore her contract wi' William, an' she had the whisky, too, for the wake; but she had naething anent the coffin an' the bedral. "Weel, we took our breakfast, an' I did my best to comfort the puir body; but she looked very down-hearted for a' that. Aboot the middle o' the day, in cam the minister's boy wi' a letter. It was directed to his master, he said; but it was a' for Elspat; an' there was a five-pound note in it. It was frae a man who had left the country, mony, mony a year afore, a guid deal in her faither's debt. You would hae thought the puir thing wad hae grat her een out when she saw the money; but never was money mair thankfully received, or taen mair directly frae Heaven. It set her aboon the warld, she said; an' coming at the time it did, an estate o' a thousand a-year wadna be o' mair use to her. Next mornin she didna rise, for her strength had failed her at ance, though she felt nae meikle pain, an' she sent me to get the note changed, an' to leave twenty shillings o't wi' the wright for a decent coffin, like her mither's, an' five shillings mair wi' the bedral, an' to tak in necessaries for a sick-bed wi' some o' the lave. Weel, I did that; an' there's still twa pounds o' the note yonder in the little cupboard. "On the fifth mornin after she had been taken sae ill, I came in till ask after her--for my neebor here had relieved me o' that night's watchin, and I had gotten to my bed. The moment I opened the door I saw that the hail room was hung in white, just as ye' see it now; an' I'm sure it staid that way a minute or sae; but when I winked it went awa. I kent there was a change no far off; an' when I went up to the bed, Elspat didna ken me. She was wirkin wi' her hand at the blankets, as if she were pickin aff the little motes; an' I could hear the beginning o' the dead rattle in her throat. I sat at her bedside for awhile, wi' my neebor here; and when she spoke to us, it was to say that the bed had grown hard and uneasy, and that she wished to be brought oot to the chair. Weel, we indulged her, though we baith kent that it wasna in the bed the uneasiness lay. Her mind, puir body, was carried at the time; she just kent that there was to be a death an' a lykewake; but no that the death an' the lykewake were to be her ain; an' whan she looked at the bed, she bade us tak down the black curtains an' put up the white; an' tauld us where the white were to be found. "'But where is the corp?' she said; 'it's no there--where is the corp?' "'O Elspat, it will be there vera soon,' said my neebor; an' that satisfied her. "She cam to hersel an hour afore she departed. God had been very guid to her, she said, a' her life lang, an' he hadna forsaken her at the last. He had been guid to her when he had gien her friens, an' guid to her when he took them to himsel; an' she kent she was now going to baith Him and them. There wasna such a difference, she said, atween life and death as folk were ready to think. She was sure that, though William had been ca'ed awa suddenly, he hadna been ca'ed without being prepared; an' now that her turn had come, an' that she was goin to meet wi' him, it was maybe as weel that he had left her early; for, till she had lost him, she had been owre licht an' thochtless; an' had it been her lot to hae lived in happiness wi' him, she micht hae remained licht an' thochtless still. She bade us baith fareweel, an' thanked an' blessed us; an' her last breath went awa in a prayer no half-an-hour after. Puir, decent body!--but she's no puir now." "A pretty portrait," whispered my companion, "of one of a class fast wearing away. Nothing more interests me in the story than the woman's undoubting faith in the supernatural; she does not even seem to know that what she believes so firmly herself, is so much as doubted by others. Try whether you can't bring up, by some means, a few other stories furnished with a similar machinery--a story of the second sight, for instance." "The only way of accomplishing that," I replied, "is by contributing a story of the kind myself." "The vision of the room hung in white," I said, "reminds me of a story related, about a hundred and fifty years ago, by a very learned and very ingenious countryman of ours--George, first Earl of Cromarty. His lordship, a steady Royalist, was engaged, shortly before the Restoration (he was then, by the way, only Sir George Mackenzie), in raising troops for the king, on his lands on the western coast of Ross-shire. There came on one of those days of rain and tempest so common in the district; and Sir George, with some of his friends, were storm-bound in a solitary cottage, somewhere on the shores of Loch Broom. Towards evening, one of the party went out to look after their horses. He had been sitting beside Sir George, and the chair he had occupied remained empty. On Sir George's servant, an elderly Highlander, coming in, he went up to his master, apparently much appalled, and, tapping him on the shoulder, urged him to rise. 'Rise!' he said, 'rise! There's a dead man sitting on the chair beside you.' The whole party immediately started to their feet; but they saw only the empty chair. The dead man was visible to the Highlander alone. His head was bound up, he said, and his face streaked with blood, and one of his arms hung broken by his side. Next day, as a party of horsemen were passing along the steep side of a hill in the neighbourhood, one of the horses stumbled, and threw its rider; and the man, grievously injured by the fall, was carried, in a state of insensibility, to the cottage. His head was deeply gashed, and one of his arms was broken, though he ultimately recovered; and, on being brought to the cottage, he was placed, in a death-like swoon, in the identical chair which the Highlander had seen occupied by the spectre. Sir George relates the story, with many a similar story besides, in a letter to the celebrated Robert Boyle." "I have perused it with much interest," said my friend "and wonder our booksellers should have suffered it to become so scarce. Do you not remember the somewhat similar story his lordship relates of the Highlander who saw the apparition of a troop of horse ride over the brow of a hill, and enter a field of oats, which, though it had been sown only a few days before, the horsemen seemed to cut down with their swords. He states that, a few months after, a troop of cavalry actually entered the same field, and carried away the produce, for fodder to their horses. He tells, too, if I remember aright, that, on the same expedition to which your story belongs, one of his Highlanders, on entering a cottage, started back with horror;--he had met in the passage, he said, a dead man in his shroud, and saw people gathering for a funeral. And, as his lordship relates, one of the inmates of the cottage, who was in perfect health, at the time of the vision, died suddenly only two days after." THE STORY OF DONALD GAIR. "The second night," said an elderly man, who sat beside me, and whose countenance had struck me as highly expressive of serious thought, "is fast wearing out of this part of the country. Nor should we much regret it, perhaps. It seemed, if I may so speak, as something outside the ordinary dispositions of Providence, and, with all the horror and unhappiness that attended it, served no apparent good end. I have been a traveller in my youth, masters. About thirty years ago, I served for some time in the navy. I entered on the first breaking out of the Revolutionary War, and was discharged during the short peace of 1801. One of my chief companions on shipboard, for the first few years, was a young man, a native of Sutherland, named Donald Gair. Donald, like most of his countrymen was a staid, decent lad, of a rather melancholy cast; and yet there was occasions when he could be quite gay enough too. We sailed together in the Bedford, under Sir Thomas Baird; and, after witnessing the mutiny at the Nore--neither of us did much more than witness it, for in our case it merely transferred the command of the vessel from a very excellent captain to a set of low Irish doctor's-list men--we joined Admiral Duncan, then on the Dutch station. We were barely in time to take part in the great action. Donald had been unusually gay all the previous evening. We knew the Dutch had come out, and that there was to be an engagement on the morrow; and, though I felt no fear, the thought that I might have to stand in a few brief hours before my Maker and my Judge, had the effect of rendering me serious. But my companion seemed to have lost all command of himself; he sang, and leaped, and shouted--not like one intoxicated--there was nothing of intoxication about him--but under the influence of a wild irrepressible flow of spirits. I took him seriously to task, and reminded him that we might both at that moment be standing on the verge of death and judgment. But he seemed more impressed by my remarking, that were his mother to see him, she would say he was _fey_. "We had never been in action before with our captain, Sir Thomas. He was a grave, and, I believe, God-fearing man, and much a favourite with, at least, all the better seamen. But we had not yet made up our minds on his character--indeed, no sailor ever does, with regard to his officers, till he knows how they fight; and we were all curious to see how the parson, as we used to call him, would behave himself among the shot. But truly we might have had little fear for him. I have sailed with Nelson, and not Nelson himself ever showed more courage or conduct than Sir Thomas in that action. He made us all lie down beside our guns, and steered us, without firing a shot, into the very thickest of the fight; and, when we did open, masters, every broadside told with fearful effect. I never saw a man issue his commands with more coolness or self-possession. "There are none of our continental neighbours who make better seamen, or who fight more doggedly, than the Dutch. We were in a blaze of flame for four hours. Our rigging was slashed to pieces; and two of our ports were actually knocked into one. There was one fierce, ill-natured Dutchman, in particular--a fellow as black as night, without so much as a speck of paint or gilding about him, save that he had a red lion on the prow--that fought us as long as he had a spar standing; and, when he struck at last, fully one-half the crew lay either dead or wounded on the decks, and all his scupper-holes were running blood as freely as ever they had done water at a deck-washing. The Bedford suffered nearly as severely. It is not in the heat of action that we can reckon on the loss we sustain. I saw my comrades falling around me--falling by the terrible cannon-shot, as they came crashing in through our sides; I felt, too, that our gun wrought more heavily as our numbers were thinning around it; and, at times, when some sweeping chain-shot or fatal splinter laid open before me those horrible mysteries of the inner man which nature so sedulously conceals, I was conscious of a momentary feeling of dread and horror. But, in the prevailing mood, an unthinking anger, a dire thirsting after revenge, a dogged, unyielding firmness, were the chief ingredients. I strained every muscle and sinew; and amid the smoke, and the thunder, and the frightful carnage, fired and loaded, and fired and loaded, and with every discharge sent out, as it were, the bitterness of my whole soul against the enemy. But very different were my feelings when victory declared in our favour, and, exhausted and unstrung, I looked abroad among the dead. As I crossed the deck, my feet literally splashed in blood; and I saw the mangled fragments of human bodies sticking in horrid patches to the sides and beams above. There was a fine little boy aboard, with whom I was an especial favourite. He had been engaged, before the action, in the construction of a toy ship, which he intended sending to his mother; and I used sometimes to assist him, and to lend him a few simple tools; and, just as we were bearing down on the enemy, he had come running up to me with a knife, which he had borrowed from me a short time before. "'Alick, Alick,' he said, 'I have brought you your knife; we are going into action, you know, and I may be killed, and then you would loose it.' "Poor little fellow! The first body I recognised was his Both his arms had been fearfully shattered by a cannon-shot, and the surgeon's tourniquets, which had been fastened below the shoulders, were still there; but he had expired ere the amputating knife had been applied. As I stood beside the body--little in love with war, masters--a comrade came up to me to say that my friend and countryman, Donald Gair, lay mortally wounded in the cockpit. I went instantly down to him. But never shall I forget, though never may I attempt to describe, what I witnessed that day, in that frightful scene of death and suffering. Donald lay in a low hammock, raised not a foot over the deck; and there was no one beside him, for the surgeons had seen at a glance the hopelessness of his case, and were busied about others of whom they had hope. He lay on his back, breathing very hard, but perfectly insensible; and in the middle of his forehead there was a round, little hole, without so much as a speck of blood about it, where a musket bullet had passed through the brain. He continued to breathe for about two hours; and, when he expired, I wrapped the body decently up in a hammock, and saw it committed to the deep. The years passed; and, after looking death in the face in many a storm and many a battle, peace was proclaimed, and I returned to my friends and my country. "A few weeks after my arrival, an elderly Highland woman, who had travelled all the way from the further side of Loch Shin to see me, came to our door. She was the mother of Donald Gair, and had taken her melancholy journey to hear from me all she might regarding the last moments and death of her son. She had no English, and I had not Gaelic enough to converse with her; but my mother, who had received her with a sympathy all the deeper from the thought that her own son might have been now in Donald's place, served as our interpreter. She was strangely inquisitive, though the little she heard served only to increase her grief; and you may believe it was not much I could find heart to tell her; for what was there in the circumstances of my comrade's death to afford pleasure to his mother? And so I waived her questions regarding his wound and his burial as I best could. "'Ah,' said the poor woman to my mother, 'he need not be afraid to tell me all. I know too, too well that my Donald's body was thrown into the sea; I knew of it long ere it happened; and I have long tried to reconcile my mind to it--tried when he was a boy even; and so you need not be afraid to tell me now.' "'And how,' asked my mother, whose curiosity was excited, 'could you have thought of it so early?' "'I lived,' rejoined the woman, 'at the time of Donald's birth, in a lonely shieling among the Sutherland hills--a full day's journey from the nearest church. It was a long, weary road, over muirs and mosses. It was in the winter season, too, when the days are short; and so, in bringing Donald to be baptised, we had to remain a night by the way, in the house of a friend. We there found an old woman of so peculiar an appearance, that, when she asked me for the child, I at first declined giving it, fearing she was mad, and might do it harm. The people of the house, however, assured me she was incapable of hurting it; and so I placed it on her lap. She took it up in her arms, and began to sing to it; but it was such a song as none of us had ever heard before.' "'Poor little stranger!' she said, 'thou hast come into the world in an evil time. The mists are on the hills, gloomy and dark, and the rain lies chill on the heather; and thou, poor little thing! hast a long journey through the sharp, biting winds, and thou art helpless and cold. Oh! but thy long after-journey is as dreary and dark. A wanderer shalt thou be over the land and the ocean; and in the ocean shalt thou lie at last. Poor little thing! I have waited for thee long. I saw thee in thy wanderings, and in thy shroud, ere thy mother brought thee to the door; and the sounds of the sea, and of the deadly guns, are still ringing in my ears. Go, poor little thing! to thy mother--bitterly shall she yet weep for thee--and no wonder; but no one shall ever weep over thy grave, or mark where thou liest amid the deep green, with the shark and the seal.' "'From that evening,' continued the mother of my friend, 'I have tried to reconcile my mind to what was to happen Donald. But, oh! the fond, foolish heart! I loved him more than any of his brothers, because I was to lose him soon; and though, when he left me, I took farewell of him for ever, for I knew I was never--never to see him more, I felt, till the news reached me of his fall in battle, as if he were living in his coffin. But, oh, do tell me all you know of his death. I am old and weak, but I have travelled far, far to see you, that I might hear all; and surely, for the regard you bore to Donald, you will not suffer me to return as I came.' "But I need not dwell longer on the story. I imparted to the poor woman all the circumstances of her son's death, as I have done to you; and, shocking as they may seem, I found that she felt rather relieved than otherwise." "This is not quite the country of the second sight," said my friend; "it is too much on the borders of the Lowlands. The gift seems restricted to the Highlands alone, and it is now fast wearing out even there." "And weel it is," said one of the men, "that it should be sae. It is surely a miserable thing to ken o' coming evil, if we just merely ken that it is coming, an' that come it must, do what we may. Hae ye ever heard the story o' the kelpie that wons in the Conan?" My friend replied in the negative. THE STORY OF THE DOOMED RIDER. "The Conan," continued the man, "is as bonny a river as we hae in a' the north country. There's mony a sweet sunny spot on its banks; an' mony a time an' aft hae I waded through its shallows, whan a boy, to set my little scantling-line for the trouts an' the eels, or to gather the big pearl-mussels that lie sae thick in the fords. But its bonny wooded banks are places for enjoying the day in--no for passing the nicht. I kenna how it is; it's nane o' your wild streams that wander desolate through a desert country, like the Aven, or that come rushing down in foam and thunder, owre broken rocks, like the Foyers, or that wallow in darkness, deep, deep in the bowels o' the earth, like the fearfu' Auldgraunt; an' yet no ane o' these rivers has mair or frightfuller stories connected wi' it than the Conan. Ane can hardly saunter owre half-a-mile in its course, frae where it leaves Contin till where it enters the sea, without passing owre the scene o' some frightful auld legend o' the kelpie or the water-wraith. An' ane o' the maist frightfu'-looking o' these places is to be found among the woods o' Conan House. Ye enter a swampy meadow, that waves wi' flags an' rushes like a corn-field in harvest, an' see a hillock covered wi' willows rising like an island in the midst. There are thick mirk woods on ilka side; the river, dark an' awesome, an' whirling round an' round in mossy eddies, sweeps awa behind it; an' there is an auld burying-ground, wi' the broken ruins o' an auld Papist kirk, on the tap. Ane can still see amang the rougher stanes the rose-wrought mullions o' an arched window, an' the trough that ance held the haly water. About twa hunder years ago--a wee mair maybe or a wee less, for ane canna be very sure o' the date o' thae auld stories--the building was entire; an' a spot near it, whar the wood now grows thickest, was laid out in a corn-field. The marks o' the furrows may still be seen amang the trees. A party o' Highlanders were busily engaged, ae day in harvest, in cutting down the corn o' that field; an', just aboot noon, when the sun shone brightest an' they were busiest in the work, they heard a voice frae the river exclaim, '_The hour but not the man has come_.' Sure enough, on looking round, there was the kelpie stan'in in what they ca' a fause ford, just fornent the auld kirk. There is a deep black pool baith aboon an' below, but i' the ford there's a bonny ripple, that shows, as ane might think, but little depth o' water; an' just i' the middle o' that, in a place where a horse might swim, stood the kelpie. An' it again repeated its words--'_The hour but not the man has come_;' an' then, flashing through the water like a drake, it disappeared in the lower pool. When the folk stood wondering what the creature micht mean, they saw a man on horseback come spurring down the hill in hot haste, making straight for the fause ford. They could then understand her words at ance; an' four o' the stoutest o' them sprang oot frae amang the corn to warn him o' his danger, an' keep him back. An' sae they tauld him what they had seen an' heard, an' urged him either to turn back an' tak anither road, or stay for an hour or sae where he was. But he just wadna hear them, for he was baith unbelieving an' in haste, an' wauld hae taen the ford for a' they could say, hadna the Highlanders, determined on saving him whether he would or no, gathered round him, an' pulled him frae his horse, an' then, to mak sure o' him, locked him up in the auld kirk. Weel, when the hour had gone by--the fatal hour o' the kelpie--they flung open the door, an' cried to him that he might noo gang on his journey. Ah! but there was nae answer, though; an' sae they cried a second time, an' there was nae answer still; an' then they went in, an' found him lying stiff an' cauld on the floor, wi' his face buried in the water o' the very stone trough that we may still see amang the ruins. His hour had come, an' he had fallen in a fit, as 'twould seem, head foremost among the water o' the trough, where he had been smothered--an' sae, ye see, the prophecy o' the kelpie availed naething." "The very story," exclaimed my friend, "to which Sir Walter alludes, in one of the notes to 'The Heart of Midlothian.' The kelpie, you may remember, furnishes him with a motto to the chapter in which he describes the gathering of all Edinburgh to witness the execution of Porteous; and their irrepressible wrath, on ascertaining that there was to be no execution--'_The hour but not the man has come_.'" "I remember making quite the same discovery," I replied, "about twelve years ago, when I resided for several months on the banks of the Conan, not half-a-mile from the scene of the story. One might fill a little book with legends of the Conan. The fords of the river are dangerous, especially in the winter season; and, about thirty years ago, before the erection of the fine stone bridge below Conan House, scarcely a winter passed in which fatal accidents did not occur; and these were almost invariably traced to the murderous malice of the water-wraith." "But who or what is the water-wraith?" said my friend. "We heard just now of the kelpie, and it is the kelpie that Sir Walter quotes." "Ah," I replied, "but we must not confound the kelpie and the water-wraith, as has become the custom in these days of incredulity. No two spirits, though they were both spirits of the lake and the river, could be more different. The kelpie invariably appeared in the form of a young horse; the water-wraith in that of a very tall woman, dressed in green, with a withered meagre countenance, ever distorted by a malignant scowl. It is the water-wraith, not the kelpie, whom Sir Walter should have quoted; and yet I could tell you curious stories of the kelpie, too." "We must have them all," said my friend, "ere we part; meanwhile, I should like to hear some of your stories of the Conan." "As related by me," I replied, "you will find them rather meagre in their details. In my evening walks along the river, I have passed the ford a hundred times out of which, only a twelvemonth before, as a traveller was entering it on a moonlight night, the water-wraith started up, not four yards in front of him, and pointed at him with her long skinny fingers, as if in mockery. I have leaned against the identical tree to which a poor Highlander clung, when, on fording the river by night, he was seized by the goblin. A lad who accompanied him, and who had succeeded in gaining the bank, strove to assist him, but in vain: the poor man was dragged from his hold into the current, where he perished. The spot has been pointed out to me, too, in the opening of the river, where one of our Cromarty fishermen, who had anchored his yawl for the night, was laid hold of by the spectre when lying asleep on the beams, and almost dragged over the gunwale into the water. Our seafaring men still avoid dropping anchor, if they possibly can, after the sun has set, in what they term _the fresh_--that is, in those upper parts of the Frith where the waters of the river predominate over those of the sea. "The scene of what is deemed one of the best-authenticated stories of the water-wraith, lies a few miles higher up the river. It is a deep, broad ford, through which horsemen, coming from the south, pass to Brahan Castle. A thick wood hangs over it on the one side; on the other, it is skirted by a straggling line of alders and a bleak muir. On a winter night, about twenty-five years ago, a servant of the late Lord Seaforth had been drinking with some companions till a late hour, at a small house at the upper part of the muir; and when the party broke up, he was accompanied by two of them to the ford. The moon was at full, and the river, though pretty deep in flood, seemed no way formidable to the servant; he was a young, vigorous man, and mounted on a powerful horse; and he had forded it, when half-a-yard higher on the bank, twenty times before. As he entered the ford, a thick cloud obscured the moon; but his companions could see him guiding the animal; he rode in a slanting direction across the stream, until he had reached nearly the middle, when a dark, tall figure seemed to start out of the water, and lay hold of him. There was a loud cry of distress and terror, and a frightful snorting and plunging of the horse; a moment passed, and the terrified animal was seen straining towards the opposite bank, and the ill-fated rider struggling in the stream. In a moment more he had disappeared." THE STORY OF FAIRBURN'S GHOST. "I suld weel ken the Conan," said one of the women, who had not yet joined in the conversation; "I was born no a stane's cast frae the side o't. My mother lived in her last days beside the auld Tower o' Fairburn, that stan's sae like a ghaist aboon the river, an' looks down on a' its turns an' windings frae Contin to the sea; my father, too, for a twelvemonth or sae afore his death, had a boat on ane o' its ferries, for the crossing, on week days, o' passengers, an' o' the kirk-going folks on Sunday. He had a little bit farm beside the Conan; an' just got the boat by way o' eiking out his means--for we had aye aneugh to do at rent-time, an' had, maybe, less than plenty through a' the rest o' the year, besides. Weel, for the first ten months or sae, the boat did brawly. The Castle o' Brahan is no half-a-mile frae the ferry, an' there were aye a hantle o' gran' folk comin and gangin frae the Mackenzie, an' my faither had the crossin o' them a'. An', besides, at Marti'mas, the kirk-going people used to send him firlots o' bere an' pecks o' oatmeal; an' he soon began to find that the bit boat was to do mair towards paying the rent o' the farm than the farm itsel. "The Tower o' Fairburn is aboot a mile and a-half aboon the ferry. It stan's by itsel on the tap o' a heathery hill, an' there are twa higher hills behind it. Beyond, there spreads a black, dreary desert, where ane micht wander a lang simmer's day withoot seeing the face o' a human creature, or the kindly smoke o' a lum. I daresay nane o' you hae heard hoo the Mackenzies o' Fairburn an' the Chisholms o' Strathglass pairted that bit o' kintra atween them. Nane o' them could tell where the lands o' the ane ended or the ither began, an' they were that way for generations, till they at last thocht them o' a plan o' division. Each o' them gat an auld wife o' seventy-five, an' they set them aff ae Monday, at the same time, the ane frae Erchless Castle, an' the ither frae the Tower--warning them, aforehan', that the braidness o' their maisters' lands depended on their speed; for where the twa would meet amang the hills, there would be the boundary. An' you may be sure that neither o' them lingered by the way that morning. They kent there was mony an ee on them, an' that their names would be spoken o' in the kintra-side lang after themsels were dead an' gane; but it sae happened that Fairburn's carline, wha had been his nurse, was ane o' the slampest women in a' the north o' Scotland, young or auld; an', though the ither did weel, she did sae meikle better, that she had got owre twenty lang Highland miles or the ither had got owre fifteen. They say it was a droll sicht to see them at the meeting: they were baith tired almost to fainting; but no sooner did they come in sicht o' ane anither, at the distance o' a mile or sae, than they began to rin. An' they ran, an' better ran, till they met at a little burnie; an' there wad they hae focht, though they had neer seen ane anither atween the een afore, had they had strength aneugh left them; but they had neither pith for fechtin, nor breath for scolding, an' sae they just sat down an' girned at ane anither across the stripe. The Tower o' Fairburn is naething noo but a dismal ruin o' five broken storeys--the ane aboon the other--an' the lands hae gane oot o' the auld family; but the story o' the twa auld wives is a weel-kent story still. "The laird o' Fairburn, in my faither's time, was as fine an open-hearted gentleman as was in the hail country. He was just particular guid to the puir; but the family had ever been that--ay, in their roughest days, even whan the tower had neither door nor window in the lower storey, an' only a wheen shot-holes in the storey aboon. There wasna a puir thing in the kintra but had reason to bless the laird; an' at ae time he had nae fewer than twelve puir orphans living aboot his hoose at ance. Nor was he in the least a proud, haughty man; he wad chat for hours thegither wi' ane o' his puirest tenants; an' ilka time he crossed the ferry, he wad tak my faither wi' him, for company just, maybe half-a-mile on his way out or hame. Weel, it was ae nicht aboot the end o' May--a bonny nicht, an hour or sae after sundown--an' my faither was mooring his boat, afore going to bed, to an auld oak-tree, when wha does he see but the laird o' Fairburn coming down the bank? Od, thocht he, what can be taking the laird frae hame sae late as this? I thocht he had been no weel. The laird cam steppin into the boat, but, instead o' speakin frankly, as he used to do, he jist waved his hand, as the proudest gentleman in the kintra micht, an' pointed to the ither side. My faither rowed him across; but, oh! the boat felt unco dead an' heavy, an' the water stuck around the oars as gin it had been tar; an' he had just aneugh ado, though there was but little tide in the river, to mak oot the ither side. The laird stepped oot, an' then stood, as he used to do, on the bank, to gie my faither time to fasten his boat an' come alang wi' him; an', were it no for that, the puir man wadna hae thocht o' going wi' him that nicht; but, as it was, he just moored his boat an' went. At first he thocht the laird must hae got some bad news that made him sae dull, an' sae he spoke on, to amuse him, aboot the weather an' the markets; but he found he could get very little to say, an' he felt as arc an' eerie in passing through the woods, as gin he had been passing alane through a kirkyard. He noticed, too, that there was a fearsome flichtering an' shrieking amang the birds that lodged in the tree-taps aboon them; an' that, as they passed the _Talisoe_, there was a colly on the tap o' a hillock that set up the awfullest yowling he had ever heard. He stood for awhile in sheer consternation, but the laird beckoned him on, just as he had done at the river side, an' sae he gaed a bittie farther alang the wild rocky glen that opens into the deer-park. But, oh! the fright that was amang the deer! They had been lying asleep on the knolls, by sixes an' sevens, an' up they a' started at ance, and gaed driving aff to the far end o' the park as if they couldna be far aneugh frae my faither or the laird. Weel, my faither stood again, an' the laird beckoned an' beckoned as afore; but, Gude tak us a' in keeping! whan my faither looked up in his face, he saw it was the face o' a corp--it was white an' stiff, an' the nose was thin an' sharp, an' there was nae winking wi' the wide open een. Gude preserve us! my faither didna ken where he was stan'in--didna ken what he was doing; an', though he kept his feet, he was just in a kind o' swarf, like. The laird spoke twa-three words to him--something aboot the orphans, he thocht; but he was in such a state that he couldna tell what; an' whan he cam to himsel, the apparition was awa. It was a bonny clear nicht when they had crossed the Conan; but there had been a gatherin o' black cluds i' the lift as they gaed, an' there noo cam on, in the clap o' a han', ane o' the fearsomest storms o' thunder an' lightning that was ever seen in the country. There was a thick gurly aik smashed to shivers owre my faither's head, though nane o' the splinters steered him; an' whan he reached the river, it was roaring frae bank to brae like a little ocean; for a water-spout had broken amang the hills, an' the trees it had torn doun wi' it were darting alang the current like arrows. He crossed in nae little danger, an' took to his bed; an' though he rase an' went aboot his wark for twa-three months after, he was never, never his ain man again. It was found that the laird had departed no five minutes afore his apparition had come to the ferry; an' the very last words he had spoke--but his mind was carried at the time--was something aboot my faither." THE STORY OF THE LAND FACTOR. "There maun hae been something that weighed on his mind," remarked one of the women, "though your faither had nae power to get it frae him. I mind that, whan I was a lassie, there happened something o' the same kind. My faither had been a tacksman on the estate o' Blackhall; an', as the land was sour an' wat, an' the seasons for awhile backward, he aye contrived--for he was a hard-working, carefu' man--to keep us a' in meat and claith, and to meet wi' the factor. But, wae's me! he was sune taen frae us. In the middle o' the seed-time, there cam a bad fever intil the country; an' the very first that died o't was my puir faither. My mither did her best to keep the farm, an' haud us a' thegither. She got a carefu', decent lad to manage for her, an' her ain ee was on everything; an' had it no been for the cruel, cruel factor, she micht hae dune gay weel. But never had the puir tenant a waur friend than Ranald Keilly. He was a toun writer, an' had made a sort o' livin, afore he got the factorship, just as toun writers do in ordinar. He used to be gettin the haud o' auld wives' posies when they died; an' there was aye some litigious, troublesome folk in the place, too, that kept him doing a little in the way o' troublin their neebors; an' sometimes, when some daft, gowkit man, o' mair means than sense, couldna mismanage his ain affairs aneugh, he got Keilly to mismanage them for him. An' sae he had picked up a bare livin in this way; but the factorship made him just a gentleman. But, oh, an ill use did he mak o' the power that it gied him owre puir, honest folk. Ye maun ken that, gin they were puir, he liked them a' the waur for being honest; but, I daresay, that was natural enough for the like o' him. He contrived to be baith writer an' factor, ye see; an' it wad just seem that his chief aim in the ae capacity was to find employment for himsel in the ither. If a puir tenant was but a day behind-hand wi' his rent, he had creatures o' his ain that used to gang half-an'-half wi' him in their fees; an' them he wad send aff to poind him an' then, if the expenses o' the poindin werena forthcoming as weel as what was owing to the master, he wad hae a roup o' the stocking twa-three days after; an' anither account, as a man o' business, for that. An' when things were going dog-cheap--as he took care that they should sometimes gang--he used to buy them in for himsel, an' pairt wi' them again for maybe twice the money. The laird was a quiet, silly, good-natured man; an' though he was tauld weel o' the factor at times--ay, an' believed it, too--he just used to say, 'Oh, puir Keilly, what wad he do gin I were to pairt wi' him? He wad just starve.' An' oh, sirs, his pity for him was bitter cruelty to mony, mony a puir tenant, an' to my mither amang the lave. "The year after my faither's death was cauld an' wat, an' oor stuff remained sae lang green, that we just thocht we wouldna get it cut ava. An' when we did get it cut, the stacks, for the first whilie, were aye heatin wi' us; an' when Marti'mas came, the grain was still saft an' milky, an' no fit for the market. The term came round, an' there was little to gie the factor in the shape o' money, though there was baith corn an' cattle; an' a' that we wanted was just a little time. An--but we had fa'en into the hands o' ane that never kent pity. My mither hadna the money gin, as it were, the day, an' on the morn, the messengers came to poind. The roup was no a week after; an', oh, it was a grievous sicht to see hoo the crop an' the cattle went for just naething. The farmers were a' puirly aff wi' the late har'st, an' had nae money to spare; an' sae the factor knocked in ilka thing to himsel, wi' hardly a bid against him. He was a rough-faced, little man, wi' a red, hooked nose--a guid deal gien to whisky, an' vera wild an' desperate when he had taen a glass or twa aboon ordinar; an', on the day o' the roup, he raged like a perfect madman. My mither spoke to him again an' again, wi' the tear in her ee, an' implored him, for the sake o' the orphan an' the widow, no to harry hersel and her bairns; but he just cursed an' swore a' the mair, an' knocked down the stacks an' the kye a' the faster; an' whan she spoke to him o' the Ane aboon a', he said that Providence gied lang credit, an' reckoned on a lang day, an' that he wad tak him intil his ain hands. Weel, the roup cam to an end, an' the sum o' the whole didna come to meikle mair nor the rent, an' clear the factor's lang, lang account for expenses; an' at nicht my mither was a ruined woman. The factor staid up late an' lang, drinking wi' some creatures o' his ain, an' the last words he said, on going to his bed, was, that he hadna made a better day's wark for a twelvemonth. But, Gude tak us a' in keeping! in the morning he was a corp--a cauld, lifeless corp, wi' a face as black as my bannet. "Weel, he was buried, an' there was a grand character o' him putten in the newspapers, an' we a' thocht we were to hear nae mair aboot him. My mither got a wee bittie o' a house on the farm o' a neebor, an' there we lived dowie aneugh; but she was aye an eident, working woman, an' she now span late an' early for some o' her auld freends, the farmers' wives; an' her sair-won penny, wi' what we got frae kindly folk wha minded us in better times, kept us a' alive. Meanwhile, strange stories o' the dead factor began to gang aboot the kintra. First, his servants, it was said, were hearing aye curious noises in his counting office. The door was baith locked an' sealed, waiting till his freends would cast up, for there were some doots aboot them; but, locked an' sealed as it was, they could hear it opening an' shutting every nicht, an' hear a rustling among the papers, as gin there had been half-a-dozen writers scribbling among them at ance. An' then, Gude preserve us a'! they could hear Keilly himself, as if he were dictating to his clerk. An', last o' a', they could see him in the gloamin, nicht an' mornin, ganging aboot his hoose, wringing his hands, an' aye, aye muttering to himsel aboot roups and poindings. The servant-girls left the place to himsel; an' the twa lads that wrought his farm, an' slept in a hay-loft, were sae disturbed, nicht after nicht, that they had jist to leave it to himsel too. "My mither was ae nicht wi' some o' her spinnin at a neeborin farmer's--a worthy, God-fearing man, an' an elder o' the kirk. It was in the simmer time, an' the nicht was bricht and bonny; but, in her backcoming, she had to pass the empty hoose o' the dead factor, an' the elder said that he would tak a step hame wi' her, for fear she michtna be that easy in her mind. An' the honest man did sae. Naething happened them in the passing, except that a dun cow, ance a great favourite o' my mither's, came up lowing to them, puir beast! as gin she wauld hae better liked to be gaun hame wi' my mither than stay where she was. But the elder didna get aff sae easy in the backcoming. He was passing beside a thick hedge, when what does he see but a man inside the hedge, taking step for step wi' him as he gaed! The man wore a dun coat, an' had a huntin-whip under his arm, an' walked, as the elder thought, very like what the dead factor used to do when he had gotten a glass or twa aboon ordinar. Weel, they cam to a slap in the hedge, an' out cam the man at the slap; an', Gude tak us a' in keeping! it was, sure aneugh, the dead factor himsel! There were his hook nose, an' his rough, red face--though it was, maybe, bluer noo than red; an' there were the boots an' the dun coat he had worn at my mither's roup, an' the very whip he had lashed a puir gangrel woman wi' no a week afore his death. He was muttering something to himsel; but the elder could only hear a wordie noo an' then. 'Poind and roup,' he would say, 'poind and roup;' an' then there would come out a blatter o' curses--'Hell! hell! an' damn, damn!' The elder was a wee fear-stricken at first, as wha wadna? but then the ill words, an' the way they were said, made him angry--for he could never hear ill words withoot checking them--an' sae he turned round wi' a stern brow, an' asked the appearance what it wanted, an' why it should hae come to disturb the peace o' the kintra, and to disturb him? It stood still at that, an' said, wi' an awsome grane, that it couldna be quiet in the grave till there were some justice done to Widow Stuart. It then tauld him that there were forty gowd guineas in a secret drawer in his desk, that hadna been found, an' tauld him where to get them, an' that he wad need gang wi' the laird an' the minister to the drawer, an' gie them a' to the widow. It couldna hae rest till then, it said, nor wad the kintra hae rest either. It willed that the lave o' the gear should be gien to the puir o' the parish; for nane o' the twa folk that laid claim to it had the shadow o' a richt. An' wi' that the appearance left him. It just went back through the slap in the hedge; an', as it stepped owre the ditch, vanished in a puff o' smoke. "Weel, but to cut short a lang story, the laird and the minister were at first gay slow o' belief--no that they misdoubted the elder, but they thocht that he must hae been deceived by a sort o' waking dream. But they soon changed their minds, for, sure enough, they found the forty guineas in the secret drawer. An' the news they got frae the south about Keilly was just as the appearance had said--no ane mair nor anither had a richt to his gear, for he had been a foundlin, an' had nae freends. An' sae my mither got the guineas, an' the parish got the rest, an' there was nae mair heard o' the apparition. We didna get back oor auld farm; but the laird gae us a bittie that served oor turn as weel; an', or my mither was ca'ed awa frae us, we were a' settled in the warld, an' doin for oorsels." THE STORY OF THE MEALMONGER. "It is wonderful," remarked the decent-looking, elderly man who had contributed the story of Donald Gair--"it is wonderful how long a recollection of that kind may live in the memory without one's knowing it is there. There is no possibility of one taking an inventory of one's recollections. They live unnoted and asleep, till roused by some likeness of themselves, and then up they start, and answer to it, as 'face answereth to face in a glass.' There comes a story into my mind, much like the last, that has lain there all unknown to me for the last thirty years, nor have I heard any one mention it since; and yet, when I was a boy, no story could be better known. You have all heard of the dear years that followed the harvest of '40, and how fearfully they bore on the poor. The scarcity, doubtless, came mainly from the hand of Providence, and yet man had his share in it too. There were forestallers of the market, who gathered their miserable gains by heightening the already enormous price of victuals, thus adding starvation to hunger; and among the best known and most execrated of these was one M'Kechan, a residenter in the neighbouring parish. He was a hard-hearted, foul-spoken man; and often what he _said_ exasperated the people as much against him as what he _did_. When, on one occasion, he bought up all the victuals on a market, there was a wringing of hands among the women, and they cursed him to his face; but, when he added insult to injury, and told them, in his pride, that he had not left them an ounce to foul their teeth, they would that instant have taken his life, had not his horse carried him through. He was a mean, too, as well as a hard-hearted man, and used small measures and light weights. But he made money, and deemed himself in a fair way of gaining a character on the strength of that alone, when he was seized by a fever, and died after a few days' illness. Solomon tells us that, when the wicked perish, there is shouting--there was little grief in the sheriffdom when M'Kechan died; but his relatives buried him decently, and, in the course of the next fortnight, the meal fell two-pence the peck. You know the burying-ground of St Bennet's--the chapel has long since been ruinous, and a row of wasted elms, with white skeleton-looking tops, run around the enclosure, and look over the fields that surround it on every side. It lies out of the way of any thoroughfare, and months may sometimes pass, when burials are unfrequent, in which no one goes near it. It was in St Bennet's that M'Kechan was buried; and the people about the farmhouse that lies nearest it were surprised, for the first month after his death, to see the figure of a man, evening and morning, just a few minutes before the sun had risen, and a few after it had set, walking round the yard, under the elms, three times, and always disappearing when it had taken the last turn, beside an old tomb near the gate. It was, of course, always clear daylight when they saw the figure; and the month passed ere they could bring themselves to suppose it was other than a thing of flesh and blood like themselves. The strange regularity of its visits, however, at length bred suspicion; and the farmer himself, a plain, decent man, of more true courage than men of twice the pretence, determined, one evening, on watching it. He took his place outside the wall, a little before sunset, and no sooner had the red light died away on the elm tops, than up started the figure from among the ruins on the opposite side of the burying-ground, and came onward in its round--muttering incessantly as it came, 'Oh, for mercy sake! for mercy sake!' it said, 'a handful of meal--I am starving! I am starving! a handful of meal!' And then, changing its tone into one still more doleful, 'Oh,' it exclaimed, 'alas, for the little lippie and the little peck! alas, for the little lippie and the little peck!' As it passed, the farmer started up from his seat; and there, sure enough, was M'Kechan, the corn factor, in his ordinary dress, and, except that he was thinner and paler than usual, like a man suffering from hunger, presenting nearly his ordinary appearance. The figure passed, with a slow, gliding sort of motion; and, turning the farther corner of the burying-ground, came onward in its second round; but the farmer, though he had felt rather curious than afraid as it went by, found his heart fail him as it approached the second time, and, without waiting its coming up, set off homeward through the corn. The apparition continued to take its rounds, evening and morning, for about two months after, and then disappeared for ever. Mealmongers had to forget the story, and to grow a little less afraid, ere they could cheat with their accustomed coolness. Believe me, such beliefs, whatever may be thought of them in the present day, have not been without their use in the past." As the old man concluded his story, one of the women rose to a table in the little room, and replenished our glasses. We all drank in silence. "It is within an hour of midnight," said one of the men, looking at his watch; "we had better recruit the fire and draw in our chairs; the air aye feels chill at a lykewake or a burial. At this time to-morrow we will be lifting the corpse." There was no reply. We all drew in our chairs nearer the fire, and for several minutes there was a pause in the conversation, but there were more stories to be told, and before the morning, many a spirit was evoked from the grave, the vasty deep, and the Highland stream, whose histories we may yet give in a future number. THE PENNY-WEDDING. If any of our readers have ever seen a Scottish penny-wedding they will agree with us, we daresay, that it is a very merry affair, and that its mirth and hilarity is not a whit the worse for its being, as it generally is, very homely and unsophisticated. The penny-wedding is not quite so splendid an affair as a ball at Almack's; but, from all we have heard and read of these aristocratic exhibitions, we for our own parts would have little hesitation about our preference, and what is more, we are quite willing to accept the imputation of having a horrid bad taste. It is very well known to those who know anything at all of penny-weddings, that, when a farmer's servant is about to be married--such an occurrence being the usual, or, at least, the most frequent occasion of these festivities--all the neighbouring farmers, with their servants, and sometimes their sons and daughters, are invited to the ceremony; and to those who know this, it is also known that the farmers so invited are in the habit of contributing each something to the general stock of good things provided for the entertainment of the wedding guests--some sending one thing and some another, till materials are accumulated for a feast, which, both for quantity and quality, would extort praise from Dr Kitchener himself, than whom no man ever knew better what good living was. To all this a little money is added by the parties present, to enable the young couple to _plenish_ their little domicile. Having given this brief sketch of what is called a penny-wedding, we proceed to say that such a merry doing as this took place, as it had done a thousand times before, in a certain parish (we dare not be more particular) in the south of Scotland, about five-and-twenty years ago. The parties--we name them, although it is of no consequence to our story--were Andrew Jardine and Margaret Laird, both servants to a respectable farmer in that part of the country of the name of Harrison, and both very deserving and well-doing persons. On the wedding-day being fixed, Andrew went himself to engage the services of Blind Willie Hodge, the parish fiddler, as he might with all propriety be called, for the happy occasion; and Willie very readily agreed to attend gratuitously, adding, that he would bring his best fiddle along with him, together with an ample supply of fiddle-strings and rosin. "An' a wee bit box o' elbow grease, Willie," said Andrew, slily; "for ye'll hae gude aught hours o't, at the very least." "I'll be sure to bring that too, Andrew," replied Willie, laughing; "but it's no aught hours that'll ding me, I warrant. I hae played saxteen without stoppin except to rosit." "And to weet your whistle," slipped in Andrew. "Pho, that wasna worth coontin. It was just a mouthfu' and at it again," said Willie. "I just tak, Andrew," he went on, "precisely the time o' a demisemiquaver to a tumbler o' cauld liquor, such as porter or ale; and twa minims or four crotchets to a tumbler o' het drink, such as toddy; for the first, ye see, I can tak aff at jig time, but the other can only get through wi' at the rate o' 'Roslin Castle,' or the 'Dead March in Saul,' especially when it's brought to me scadding het, whilk sude never be dune to a fiddler." Now, as to this very nice chromatic measurement, by Willie, of the time consumed in his potations, while in the exercise of his calling, we have nothing to say. It may be perfectly correct for aught we know; but when Willie said that he played at one sitting, and with only the stoppages he mentioned, for sixteen hours, we rather think he was drawing fully a longer bow than that he usually played with. At all events this we know, that Willie was a very indifferent if not positively a very bad fiddler; but he was a good-humoured creature, harmless and inoffensive, and, moreover, the only one of his calling in the parish, so that he was fully as much indebted to the necessities of his customers for the employment he obtained, as to their love or charity. The happy day which was to see the humble destinies of Andrew Jardine and Margaret Laird united having arrived, Willie attired himself in his best, popped his best fiddle--which was, after all, but a very sober article, having no more tone than a salt-box--into a green bag, slipped the instrument thus secured beneath the back of his coat, and proceeded towards the scene of his impending labours. This was a large barn, which had been carefully swept and levelled for the "light fantastic _toes_" of some score of ploughmen and dairymaids, not formed exactly after the Chinese fashion. At the further end of the barn stood a sort of platform, erected on a couple of empty herring-barrels; and on this again a chair was placed. This distinguished situation, we need hardly say, was designed for Willie, who from that elevated position was to pour down his heel-inspiring strains amongst the revellers below. When Willie, however, came first upon the ground, the marriage party had not yet arrived. They were still at the manse, which was hard by, but were every minute expected. In these circumstances, and it being a fine summer afternoon, Willie seated himself on a stone at the door, drew forth his fiddle, and struck up with great vigour and animation, to the infinite delight of some half-dozen of the wedding guests, who, not having gone with the others to the manse, were now, like himself, waiting their arrival. These immediately commenced footing it to Willie's music on the green before the door, and thus presented a very appropriate prelude to the coming festivities of the evening. While Willie was thus engaged, an itinerant brother in trade, on the look-out for employment, and who had heard of the wedding, suddenly appeared, and stealing up quietly beside him, modestly undid the mouth of his fiddle-bag, laid the neck of the instrument bare, and drew his thumb carelessly across the strings, to intimate to him that a rival was near his throne. On hearing the sound of the instrument, Willie stopped short. "I doubt, frien, ye hae come to the wrang market," he said, guessing at once the object of the stranger. "An' ye hae been travellin too, I daresay?" he continued, good-naturedly, and not at all offended with the intruder, for whom and all of his kind he entertained a fellow feeling. "Ay," replied the new Orpheus, who was a tall, good-looking man of about eight-and-twenty years of age, but very poorly attired, "I hae been travellin, as ye say, neebor, an' hae come twa or three miles out o' my way to see if I could pick up a shilling or twa at this weddin." "I am sorry now, man, for that," said Willie, sympathisingly. "I doot ye'll be disappointed, for I hae been engaged for't this fortnight past. But I'll tell ye what--if ye're onything guid o' the fiddle, ye may remain, jist to relieve me now an' then, an' I'll mind ye when a's owre; an' at ony rate ye'll aye pick up a mouthfu' o' guid meat and drink--an' that ye ken's no to be fand at every dyke-side." "A bargain be't," said the stranger, "an' much obliged to you, frien. I maun just tak pat-luck and be thankfu'. But isna your weddin folks lang o' comin?" he added. "They'll be here belyve," replied Willie, and added, "Ye'll no be blin, frien?" "Ou no," said the stranger; "thank goodness I hae my sight; but I am otherwise in such a bad state o' health, that I canna work, and am obliged to tak the fiddle for a subsistence." While this conversation was going on, the wedding folks were seen dropping out of the manse in twos and threes, and making straight for the scene of the evening's festivities, where they all very soon after assembled. Ample justice having been done to all the good things that were now set before the merry party, and Willie and his colleague having had their share, and being thus put in excellent trim for entering on their labours, the place was cleared of all encumbrances, and a fair and open field left for the dancers. At this stage of the proceedings, Willie was led by his colleague to his station, and helped up to the elevated chair which had been provided for him, when the latter handed him his instrument, while he himself took up his position, fiddle in hand, on his principal's left, but standing on the ground, as there was no room for him on the platform. Everything being now ready, and the expectant couples ranged in their respective places on the floor, Willie was called upon to begin--an order which he instantly obeyed, by opening in great style. On the conclusion of the first reel, in the musical department of which the strange fiddler had not interfered, the latter whispered to his coadjutor, that if he liked he would relieve him for the next. "Weel," replied the latter, "if ye think ye can gae through wi't onything decently, ye may try your hand." "I'll no promise much," said the stranger, now for the first time drawing his fiddle out of its bag; "but, for the credit o' the craft, I'll do the best I can." Having said this, Willie's colleague drew his bow across the strings of his fiddle, with a preparatory flourish, when instantly every face in the apartment was turned towards him with an expression of delight and surprise. The tones of the fiddle were so immeasurably superior to those of poor Willie's salt-box, that the dullest and most indiscriminating ear amongst the revellers readily distinguished the amazing difference. But infinitely greater still was their surprise and delight when the stranger began to play. Nothing could exceed the energy, accuracy, and beauty of his performances. He was, in short, evidently a perfect master of the instrument, and this was instantly perceived and acknowledged by all, including Willie himself, who declared, with great candour and good-will, that he had never heard a better fiddler in his life. The result of this discovery was, that the former was not allowed to lift a bow during the remainder of the night, the whole burden of its labours being deposited on the shoulders, or perhaps we should rather say the finger-ends, of the stranger, who fiddled away with an apparently invincible elbow. For several hours the dance went on without interruption, and without any apparent abatement whatever of vigour on the part of the performers; but, at the end of this period some symptoms of exhaustion began to manifest themselves, which were at length fully declared by a temporary cessation of both the mirth and music. It was at this interval in the revelries that the unknown fiddler--who had been, by the unanimous voice of the party, installed in Willie's elevated chair, while the latter was reduced to his place on the floor--stretching himself over the platform, and tapping Willie on the hat with his bow, to draw his attention, inquired of him, in a whisper, if he knew who the lively little girl was that had been one of the partners in the last reel that had been danced. "Is she a bit red-cheeked, dark ee'd, and dark-haired lassie, about nineteen or twenty?" inquired Willie, in his turn. "The same," replied the fiddler. "Ou, that's Jeanie Harrison," said Willie--"a kind-hearted, nice bit lassie. No a better nor a bonnier in a' the parish. She's a dochter o' Mr Harrison o' Todshaws, the young couple's maister, an' a very respectable man. He's here himsel, too, amang the lave." "Just so," replied his colleague. And he began to rosin his bow, and to screw his pegs anew, to prepare for the second storm of merriment, which he saw gathering, and threatening to burst upon him with increased fury. Amongst the first on the floor was Jeanie Harrison. "Is there naebody 'll tak me out for a reel?" exclaimed the lively girl; and without waiting for an answer--"weel, then, I'll hae the fiddler." And she ran towards the platform on which the unknown performer was seated. But he did not wait her coming. He had heard her name her choice, laid down his fiddle, and sprang to the floor with the agility of a harlequin, exclaiming, "Thank ye, my bonny lassie--thank ye for the honour. I'm your man at a moment's notice, either for feet or fiddle." It is not quite certain that Jeanie was in perfect earnest when she made choice of the musician for a partner, but it was now too late to retract, for the joke had taken with the company, and, with one voice, or rather shout, they insisted on her keeping faithful to her engagement, and dancing a reel with the fiddler; and on this no one insisted more stoutly than the fiddler himself. Finding that she could do no better, the good-natured girl put the best face on the frolic she could, and prepared to do her partner every justice in the dance. Willie having now taken bow in hand, his colleague gave him the word of command, and away the dancers went like meteors: and here again the surprise of the party was greatly excited by the performances of our friend the fiddler, who danced as well as he played. To say merely that he far surpassed all in the room would not, perhaps, be saying much; for there were none of them very great adepts in the art. But, in truth, he danced with singular grace and lightness, and much did those who witnessed it marvel at the display. Neither was his bow to his partner, nor his manner of conducting her to her seat on the conclusion of the reel, less remarkable. It was distinguished by an air of refined gallantry certainly not often to be met with in those in his humble station in life. He might have been a master of ceremonies; and where the beggarly-looking fiddler had picked up these accomplishments every one found it difficult to conjecture. On the termination of the dance, the fiddler--as we shall call him, _par excellence_, and to distinguish him from Willie--resumed his seat and his fiddle, and began to drive away with even more than his former spirit; but it was observed by more than one that his eye was now almost constantly fixed, for the remainder of the evening, as, indeed, it had been very frequently before, on his late partner, Jeanie Harrison. This circumstance, however, did not prevent him giving every satisfaction to those who danced to his music, nor did it in the least impair the spirit of his performances; for he was evidently too much practised in the use of the instrument, which he managed with such consummate skill, to be put out, either by the contemplation of any chance object which might present itself, or by the vagaries of his imagination. Leaving our musician in the discharge of his duty, we shall step over to where Jeanie Harrison is seated, to learn what she thinks of her partner, and what the Misses Murray, the daughters of a neighbouring farmer, between whom she sat, think of him, and of Jeanie having danced with a fiddler. Premising that the Misses Murray, not being by any means beauties themselves, entertained a very reasonable and justifiable dislike and jealousy of all their own sex to whom nature had been more bountiful in this particular; and finding, moreover, that, from their excessively bad tempers (this, however, of course, not admitted by the ladies themselves), they could neither practise nor share in the amenities which usually mark the intercourse of the sexes, they had set up for connoisseurs in the articles of propriety and decorum, of which they professed to be profound judges. Premising this, then, we proceed to quote the conversation that passed between the three ladies--that is, the Misses Murray and Miss Harrison; the latter taking her seat between them after dancing with the fiddler. "My certy," exclaimed the elder, with a very dignified toss of the head, "ye warna nice, Jeanie, to dance wi' a fiddler. I wad hae been very ill aff, indeed, for a partner before I wad hae taen up wi' such a ragamuffin." "An' to go an' ask him too!" said the younger, with an imitative toss. "I wadna ask the best man in the land to dance wi' me, let alane a fiddler! If they dinna choose to come o' their ain accord, they may stay." "Tuts, lassies, it was a' a piece o' fun," said the good-humoured girl. "I'm sure everybody saw that but yersels. Besides, the man's weel aneugh--na, a gude deal mair than that, if he was only a wee better clad. There's no a better-lookin man in the room; and I wish, lassies," she added, "ye may get as guid dancers in your partners--that's a'." "Umph! a bonny like taste ye hae, Jeanie, an' a very strange notion o' propriety!" exclaimed the elder, with another toss of the head. "To dance wi' a fiddler!" simpered out the younger, who, by the way, was no chicken either, being but a trifle on the right side of thirty. "Ay, to be sure--dance wi' a fiddler or a piper either. I'll dance wi' baith o' them--an' what for no?" replied Jeanie. "There's neither sin nor shame in't; and I'll dance wi' him again, if he'll only but ask me." "An' faith he'll do that wi' a' the pleasure in the warld, my bonny lassie," quoth the intrepid fiddler, leaping down once more from his high place; for, there having been a cessation of both music and dancing while the conversation above recorded was going on, he had heard every word of it.--"Wi' a' the pleasure in the warld," he said, advancing towards Jeanie Harrison, and making one of his best bows of invitation; and again a shout of approbation from the company urged Jeanie to accept it, which she readily did, at once to gratify her friends, and to provoke the Misses Murray. Having accordingly taken her place on the floor, and other couples having been mustered for the set, Jeanie's partner again called on Willie to strike up, again the dancers started, and again the fiddler astonished and delighted the company with the grace and elegance of his performances. On this occasion, however, the unknown musician's predilection for his fair partner exhibited a more unequivocal character; and he even ventured to inquire if he might call at her father's, to amuse the family for an hour or so with his fiddle. "Nae objection in the warld," replied Jeanie. "Come as aften as ye like; and the aftener the better, if ye only bring yer fiddle wi' ye, for we're a' fond o' music." "A bargain be't," said the gallant fiddler; and, at the conclusion of the reel, he again resumed his place on the platform and his fiddle. "Time and the hour," says Shakspere, "will wear through the roughest day;" and so they will, also, through the merriest night, as the joyous party of whom we are speaking now soon found. Exhaustion and lassitude, though long defied, finally triumphed; and even the very candles seemed wearied of giving light; and, under the influence of these mirth-destroying feelings, the party at length broke up, and all departed, excepting the two fiddlers. These worthies now adjourned to a public-house, which was close by, and set very gravely about settling what was to them the serious business of the evening. Willie had received thirty-one shillings, as payment in full for their united labours; and, in consideration of the large and unexpected portion of them which had fallen to the stranger's share, he generously determined, notwithstanding that he was the principal party, as having been the first engaged, to give him precisely the one-half of the money, or fifteen shillings and sixpence. "Very fair," said the stranger, on this being announced to him by his brother in trade--"very fair; but what would ye think of our drinking the odd sixpences?" "Wi' a' my heart," replied Willie--"wi' a' my heart. A very guid notion." And a jug of toddy, to the value of one shilling, was accordingly ordered and produced, over which the two got as thick as ben-leather. "Ye're a guid fiddler--I'll say that o' ye," quoth Willie, after tossing down the first glass of the warm, exhilarating beverage. "I wad never wish to hear a better." "I have had some practice," said the other, modestly, and at the same time following his companion's example with his glass. "Nae doot, nae doot, sae's seen on your playin," replied the latter. "How do you fend wi' your fiddle? Do ye mak onything o' a guid leevin o't?" "No that ill ava," said the stranger. "I play for the auld leddy at the castle--Castle Gowan, ye ken; indeed, I'm sometimes ca'd the leddy's fiddler, and she's uncommon guid to me. I neither want bite nor sowp when I gang there." "That's sae far weel," replied Willie. "She's a guid judge o' music that Leddy Gowan, as I hear them say; and I'm tauld her son, Sir John, plays a capital bow." "No amiss, I believe," said the stranger; "but the leddy, as ye say, is an excellent judge o' music, although whiles, I think, rather owre fond o't, for she maks me play for hours thegither, when I wad far rather be wi' Tam Yule, her butler, a sonsy, guid-natured chiel, that's no sweer o' the cap. But, speaking o' that, I'll tell ye what, frien," he continued, "if ye'll come up to Castle Gowan ony day, I'll be blithe to see you, for I'm there at least ance every day, and I'll warrant ye--for ye see I can use every liberty there--in a guid het dinner, an' a jug o' better toddy to wash it owre wi'." "A bargain be't," quoth Willie; "will the morn do?" "Perfectly," said the stranger; "the sooner the better." This settled, Willie proceeded to a subject which had been for some time near his heart, but which he felt some delicacy in broaching. This feeling, however, having gradually given way before the influence of the toddy, and of his friend's frank and jovial manner, he at length ventured, though cautiously, to step on the ice. "That's an uncommon guid instrument o' yours, frien," he said. "Very good," replied his companion, briefly. "But ye'll hae mair than that ane, nae doot?" rejoined the other. "I hae ither twa." "In that case," said Willie, "maybe ye wad hae nae objection to pairt wi' that ane, an the price offered ye wur a' the mair temptin. I'll gie ye the saxteen shillins I hae won the nicht, an' my fiddle, for't." "Thank ye, frien, thank ye for your offer," replied the stranger; "but I daurna accept o't, though I war willin. The fiddle was gien to me by Leddy Gowan, and I daurna pairt wi't. She wad miss't, and then there wad be the deevil to pay." "Oh, an that's the case," said Willie, "I'll say nae mair aboot it; but it's a first-rate fiddle--sae guid a ane, that it micht amaist play the lane o't." It being now very late, or rather early, and the toddy jug emptied, the blind fiddler and his friend parted, on the understanding, however, that the former would visit the latter at the castle (whither he was now going, he said, to seek a night's quarters) on the following day. True to his appointment, Willie appeared next day at Gowan House, or Castle Gowan, as it was more generally called, and inquired for "the fiddler." His inquiry was met with great civility and politeness by the footman who opened the door. He was told "the fiddler" was there, and desired to walk in. Obeying the invitation, Willie, conducted by the footman, entered a spacious apartment, where he was soon afterwards entertained with a sumptuous dinner, in which his friend the fiddler joined him. "My word neighbour," said Willie, after having made a hearty meal of the good things that were set before him, and having drank in proportion, "but ye're in noble quarters here. This is truly fiddlin to some purpose, an' treatin the art as it ought to be treated in the persons o' its professors. But what," he added, "if Sir John should come in upon us? He wadna like maybe a'thegither to see a stranger wi' ye?" "Deil a bodle I care for Sir John, Willie! He's but a wild harum-scarum throughither chap at the best, an' no muckle to be heeded." "Ay, he's fond o' a frolic, they tell me," quoth Willie; "an' there's a heap o' gay queer anes laid to his charge, whether they be true or no; but his heart's in the richt place, I'm thinkin, for a' that. I've heard o' mony guid turns he has dune." "Ou, he's no a bad chiel, on the whole, I daresay," replied Willie's companion. "His bark's waur than his bite--an' that's mair than can be said o' a rat-trap at ony rate." It was about this period, and then for the first time, that certain strange and vague suspicions suddenly entered Willie's mind regarding his entertainer. He had remarked that the latter gave his orders with an air of authority which he thought scarcely becoming in one who occupied the humble situation of "the lady's fiddler;" but, singular as this appeared to him, the alacrity and silence with which these orders were obeyed, was to poor Willie still more unaccountable. He said nothing, however; but much did he marvel at the singular good fortune of his brother-in-trade. He had never known a fiddler so quartered before; and, lost in admiration of his friend's felicity, he was about again to express his ideas on the subject, when a servant in splendid livery entered the room, and, bowing respectfully, said, "The carriage waits you, Sir John." "I will be with you presently, Thomas," replied who? inquires the reader. Why, Willie's companion! What! is he then Sir John Gowan--he, the fiddler at the penny-wedding, Sir John Gowan, of Castle Gowan, the most extensive proprietor and the wealthiest man in the county? The same, and no other, good reader, we assure thee. A great lover of frolic, as he himself said, was Sir John; and this was one of the pranks in which he delighted. He was an enthusiastic fiddler; and as has been already shown, performed with singular skill on that most difficult, but most delightful, of all musical instruments. We will not attempt to describe poor Willie's amazement and confusion, when this singular fact became known to him; for they are indescribable, and therefore better left to the reader's imagination. On recovering a little from his surprise, however, he endeavoured to express his astonishment in such broken sentences as these--"Wha in earth wad hae ever dreamed o't? Rosit an' fiddle-strings!--this beats a'. Faith, an' I've been fairly taen in--clean done for. A knight o' the shire to play at a penny-waddin wi' blin Willie Hodge, the fiddler! The like was ne'er heard tell o'." As it is unnecessary, and would certainly be tedious, to protract the scene at this particular point in our story, we cut it short by saying, that Sir John presented Willie with the fiddle he had so much coveted, and which he had vainly endeavoured to purchase; that he then told down to him the half of the proceeds of the previous night's labours which he had pocketed, added a handsome _douceur_ from his own purse, and finally dismissed him with a pressing and cordial invitation to visit the castle as often as it suited his inclination and conveniency. Having arrived at this landing-place in our tale, we pause to explain one or two things, which is necessary for the full elucidation of the sequel. With regard to Sir John Gowan himself, there is little to add to what has been already said of him; for, brief though these notices of him are, they contain nearly all that the reader need care to know about him. He was addicted to such pranks as that just recorded; but this, if it was a defect in his character, was the only one. For the rest, he was an excellent young man--kind, generous, and affable, of the strictest honour, and the most upright principles. He was, moreover, an exceedingly handsome man, and highly accomplished. At this period, he was unmarried, and lived with his mother, Lady Gowan, to whom he was most affectionately attached. Sir John had, at one time, mingled a good deal with the fashionable society of the metropolis; but soon became disgusted with the heartlessness of those who composed it, and with the frivolity of their pursuits; and in this frame of mind he came to the resolution of retiring to his estate, and of giving himself up entirely to the quiet enjoyments of a country life, and the pleasing duties which his position as a large landed proprietor entailed upon him. Simple in all his tastes and habits, Sir John had been unable to discover, in any of the manufactured beauties to whom he had been, from time to time, introduced while he resided in London, one to whom he could think of intrusting his happiness. The wife he desired was one fresh from the hand of nature, not one remodelled by the square and rule of art; and such a one he thought he had found during his adventure of the previous night. Bringing this digression, which we may liken to an interlude, to a close, we again draw up the curtain, and open the second act of our little drama with an exhibition of the residence of Mr Harrison at Todshaw. The house or farm-steading of this worthy person was of the very best description of such establishments. The building itself was substantial, nay, even handsome, while the excellent garden which was attached to it, and all the other accessories and appurtenances with which it was surrounded, indicated wealth and comfort. Its situation was on the summit of a gentle eminence that sloped down in front to a noisy little rivulet, that careered along through a narrow rugged glen overhanging with hazel, till it came nearly opposite the house, where it wound through an open plat of green sward, and shortly after again plunged into another little romantic ravine similar to the one it had left. The approach to Mr Harrison's house lay along this little rivulet, and was commanded, for a considerable distance, by the view from the former--a circumstance which enabled Jeanie Harrison to descry, one fine summer afternoon, two or three days after the occurrence of the events just related, the approach of the fiddler with whom she had danced at the wedding. On making this discovery, Jeanie ran to announce the joyful intelligence to all the other members of the family, and the prospect of a merry dancing afternoon opened on the delighted eyes of its younger branches. When the fiddler--with whose identity the reader is now as well acquainted as we are--had reached the bottom of the ascent that led to the house, Jeanie, with excessive joy beaming in her bright and expressive eye, and her cheek glowing with the roseate hues of health, rushed down to meet him, and to welcome him to Todshaw. "Thank ye, my bonny lassie--thank ye," replied the disguised baronet, expressing himself in character, and speaking the language of his assumed station. "Are ye ready for anither dance?" "Oh, a score o' them--a thousand o' them," said the lively girl. "But will your faither, think ye, hae nae objections to my comin?" inquired the fiddler. "Nane in the warld. My faither is nane o' your sour carles that wad deny ither folk the pleasures they canna enjoy themsels. He likes to see a'body happy around him--every ane his ain way." "An' your mother?" "Jist the same. Ye'll find her waur to fiddle doun than ony o' us. She'll dance as lang's a string hauds o't." "Then, I may be quite at my ease," rejoined Sir John. "Quite so," replied Jeanie--and she slipped half-a-crown into his hand--"and there's your arles; but ye'll be minded better ere ye leave us." "My word, no an ill beginnin," quoth the musician, looking with well-affected delight at the coin, and afterwards putting it carefully into his pocket. "But ye could hae gien me a far mair acceptable arles than half-a-crown," he added, "and no been a penny the poorer either." "What's that?" said Jeanie, laughing and blushing at the same time, and more than half guessing, from the looks of the _pawky_ fiddler, what was meant. "Why, my bonny leddie," he replied, "jist a kiss o' that pretty little mou o' yours." "Oh, ye gowk!" exclaimed Jeanie, with a roguish glance at her humble gallant; for, disguised as he was, he was not able to conceal a very handsome person, nor the very agreeable expression of a set of remarkably fine features--qualities which did not escape the vigilance of the female eye that was now scanning their possessor. Nor would we say that these qualities were viewed with total indifference, or without producing their effect, even although they did belong to a fiddler. "Oh, ye gowk!" said Jeanie; "wha ever heard o' a fiddler preferring a kiss to half-a-crown?" "But _I_ do, though," replied the disguised knight; "and I'll gie ye yours back again for't." "The mair fule you," exclaimed Jeanie, rushing away towards the house, and leaving the fiddler to make out the remainder of the way by himself. On reaching the house, the musician was ushered into the kitchen, where a plentiful repast was instantly set before him, by the kind and considerate hospitality of Jeanie, who, not contented with her guest's making a hearty meal at table, insisted on his pocketing certain pieces of cheese, cold meat, &c., which were left. These the fiddler steadily refused; but Jeanie would take no denial, and with her own hands crammed them into his capacious pockets, which, after the operation, stuck out like a well-filled pair of saddle-bags. But there was no need for any one who might be curious to know what they contained, to look into them for that purpose. Certain projecting bones of mutton and beef, which it was found impossible to get altogether out of sight, sufficiently indicated their contents. Of this particular circumstance, however--we mean the projection of the bones from the pockets--we must observe, the owner of the said pockets was not aware, otherwise, we daresay, he would have been a little more positive in rejecting the provender which Jeanie's warmheartedness and benevolence had forced upon him. Be this as it may, however, so soon as the musician had finished his repast, he took fiddle in hand, and opened the evening with a slow pathetic Scottish air, which he played so exquisitely that Jeanie's eye filled with a tear, as she listened in raptures to the sweet but melancholy turns of the affecting tune. Twice the musician played over the touching strain, delighted to perceive the effects of the music on the lovely girl who stood before him, and rightly conceiving it to be an unequivocal proof of a susceptible heart and of a generous nature. A third time he began the beautiful air; but he now accompanied it with a song, and in this accomplishment he was no less perfect than in the others which have been already attributed to him. His voice was at once manly and melodious, and he conducted it with a skill that did it every justice. Having played two or three bars of the tune, his rich and well-regulated voice chimed in with the following words:-- "Oh, I hae lived wi' high-bred dames, Each state of life to prove, But never till this hour hae met The girl that I could love. It's no in fashion's gilded ha's That she is to be seen; Beneath her father's humble roof Abides my bonny Jean. Oh, wad she deign ae thought to wair, Ae kindly thought on me, Wi' pearls I wad deck her hair, Though low be my degree. Wi' pearls I wad deck her hair, Wi' gowd her wrists sae sma'; An' had I lands and houses, she'd Be leddy owre them a'. The sun abune's no what he seems, Nor is the night's fair queen; Then wha kens wha the minstrel is That's wooin bonny Jean?" Jeanie could not help feeling a little strange as the minstrel proceeded with a song which seemed to have so close a reference to herself. She, of course, did not consider this circumstance otherwise than as merely accidental; but she could not help, nevertheless, being somewhat embarrassed by it; and this was made sufficiently evident by the blush that mantled on her cheek, and by the confusion of her manner under the fixed gaze of the singer, while repeating the verses just quoted. When he had concluded, "Well, good folks all," he said, "what think ye of my song?" And without waiting for an answer, about which he seemed very indifferent, he added, "and how do you like it, Jeanie?" directing the question exclusively to the party he named. "Very weel," replied Jeanie, again blushing, but still more deeply than before; "the song is pretty, an' the air delightfu'; but some o' the verses are riddles to me. I dinna thoroughly understan them." "Don't you?" replied Sir John, laughing; "then I'll explain them to you by and by; but, in the meantime, I must screw my pegs anew, and work for my dinner, for I see the good folk about me here are all impatience to begin." A fact this which was instantly acknowledged by a dozen voices; and straightway the whole party proceeded, in compliance with a suggestion of Mr Harrison, to the green in front of the house, where Sir John took up his position on the top of an inverted wheelbarrow, and immediately commenced his labours. For several hours, the dance went on with uninterrupted glee; old Mr Harrison and his wife appearing to enjoy the sport as much as the youngest of the party, and both being delighted with the masterly playing of the musician. But, although, as on a former occasion, Sir John did not suffer anything to interfere with or interrupt the charge of the duties expected of him, there was but a very small portion of his mind or thoughts engrossed by the employment in which he was engaged. All, or nearly all, were directed to the contemplation of the object on which his affections had now become irrevocably fixed. Neither was his visit to Todshaws, on this occasion, by any means dictated solely by the frivolous object of affording its inmates entertainment by his musical talents. His purpose was a much more serious one. It was to ascertain, as far as such an opportunity would afford him the means, the dispositions and temper of his fair enslaver. Of these, his natural shrewdness had enabled him to make a pretty correct estimate on the night of the wedding; but he was desirous of seeing her in other circumstances, and he thought none more suitable for his purpose than those of a domestic nature. It was, then, to see her in this position that he had now come; and the result of his observations was highly gratifying to him. He found in Miss Harrison all that he, at any rate, desired in woman. He found her guileless, cheerful, gentle, kind-hearted, and good-tempered, beloved by all around her, and returning the affection bestowed on her with a sincere and ardent love. Such were the discoveries which the disguised baronet made on this occasion; and never did hidden treasure half so much gladden the heart of the fortunate finder as these did that of him who made them. It is true that Sir John could not be sure, nor was he, that his addresses would be received by Miss Harrison, even after he should have made himself known; but he could not help entertaining a pretty strong confidence in his own powers of persuasion, nor being, consequently, tolerably sanguine of success. All this, however, was to be the work of another day. In the meantime, the dancers having had their hearts' content of capering on the green sward, the fiddle was put up, and the fiddler once more invited into the house, where he was entertained with the same hospitality as before, and another half-crown slipped into his hand. This he also put carefully into his pocket; and having partaken lightly of what was set before him, rose up to depart, alleging that he had a good way to go, and was desirous of availing himself of the little daylight that still remained. He was pressed to remain all night, but this he declined; promising, however, in reply to the urgent entreaties with which he was assailed on all sides to stay, that he would very soon repeat his visit. Miss Harrison he took by the hand, and said, "I promised to explain to you the poetical riddle which I read, or rather attempted to sing, this evening. It is now too late to do this, for the explanation is a long one; but I will be here again, without fail, in a day or two, when I shall solve all, and, I trust, to your satisfaction. Till then, do not forget your poor fiddler." "No, I winna forget ye," said Jeanie. "It wadna be easy to forget ane that has contributed so much to our happiness. Neither would it be more than gratefu' to do so, I think." "And you are too kind a creature to be ungrateful to any one, however humble may be their attempts to win your favour--of that I feel assured." Having said this, and perceiving that he was unobserved, he quickly raised the fair hand he held to his lips, kissed it, and hurried out of the door. What Jane Harrison thought of this piece of gallantry from a fiddler, we really do not know, and therefore will say nothing about it. Whatever her thoughts were, she kept them to herself. Neither did she mention to any one the circumstance which gave rise to them. Nor did she say, but for what reason we are ignorant, how much she had been pleased with the general manners of the humble musician--with the melodious tones of his voice, and the fine expression of his dark hazel eye. Oh, love, love! thou art a leveller, indeed, else how should it happen that the pretty daughter of a wealthy and respectable yeoman should think for a moment, with certain indescribable feelings, of a poor itinerant fiddler? Mark, good reader, however, we do not say that Miss Harrison was absolutely in love with the musician. By no means. That would certainly be saying too much. But it is as certainly true, that she had perceived something about him that left no disagreeable impression--nay, something which she wished she might meet with in her future husband, whoever he might be. Leaving Jeanie Harrison to such reflections as these, we will follow the footsteps of the disguised baronet. On leaving the house, he walked at a rapid pace for an hour or so, till he came to a turn in the road, at the distance of about four miles from Todshaws, where his gig and man-servant, with a change of clothes, were waiting him by appointment. Having hastily divested himself of his disguise, and resumed his own dress, he stepped into the vehicle, and about midnight arrived at Castle Gowan. In this romantic attachment of Sir John Gowan's--or rather in the romantic project which it suggested to him of offering his heart and hand to the daughter of a humble farmer--there was but one doubtful point on his side of the question, at any rate. This was, whether he could obtain the consent of his mother to such a proceeding. She loved him with the utmost tenderness; and, naturally of a mild, gentle, and affectionate disposition, her sole delight lay in promoting the happiness of her beloved son. To secure this great object of her life, there was scarcely any sacrifice which she would not make, nor any proposal with which she would not willingly comply. This Sir John well knew, and fully appreciated; but he felt that the call which he was now about to make on her maternal love was more than he ought to expect she would answer. He, in short, felt that she might, with good reason, and without the slightest infringement of her regard for him, object to his marrying so far beneath his station. It was not, therefore, without some misgivings that he entered his mother's private apartment on the day following his adventure at Todshaws, for the purpose of divulging the secret of his attachment, and hinting at the resolution he had formed regarding it. "Mother," he said, after a pause which had been preceded by the usual affectionate inquiries of the morning, "you have often expressed a wish that I would marry." "I have, John," replied the good old lady. "Nothing in this world would afford me greater gratification than to see you united to a woman who should be every way deserving of you--one with whom you could live happily." "Ay, that last is the great, the important consideration, at least with me. But where, mother, am I to find that woman? I have mingled a good deal with the higher ranks of society, and there, certainly, I have not been able to find her. I am not so uncharitable as to say--nay, God forbid I should--that there are not as good, as virtuous, as amiable women, in the upper classes of society as in the lower. I have no doubt there are. All that I mean to say is, that I have not been fortunate enough to find one in that sphere to suit my fancy, and have no hopes of ever doing so. Besides, the feelings, sentiments, and dispositions of these persons, both male and female, are so completely disguised by a factitious manner, and by conventional rules, that you never can discover what is their real nature and character. They are still strangers to you, however long you may be acquainted with them. You cannot tell who or what they are. The roller of fashion reduces them all to one level; and, being all clapped into the same mould, they become mere repetitions of each other, as like as peas, without exhibiting the slightest point of variety. Now, mother," continued Sir John, "the wife I should like is one whose heart, whose inmost nature, should be at once open to my view, unwarped and undisguised by the customs and fashions of the world." "Upon my word, John, you are more than usually eloquent this morning," said Lady Gowan, laughing. "But pray now, do tell me, John, shortly and unequivocally, what is the drift of this long, flowery, and very sensible speech of yours?--for that there is a drift in it I can clearly perceive. You are aiming at something which you do not like to plump upon me at once." Sir John looked a good deal confused on finding that his mother's shrewdness had detected a latent purpose in his remarks, and endeavoured to evade the acknowledgment of that purpose, until he should have her opinion of the observations he had made; and in this he succeeded. Having pressed her on this point: "Well, my son," replied Lady Gowan, "if you think that you cannot find a woman in a station of life corresponding to your own that will suit your taste, look for her in any other you please; and, when found, take her. Consult your own happiness, John, and in doing so you will consult mine. I will not object to your marrying whomsoever you please. All that I bargain for is, that she be a perfectly virtuous woman, and of irreproachable character; and I don't think this is being unreasonable. But do now, John, tell me at once," she added, in a graver tone, and taking her son solemnly by the hand; "have you fixed your affections on a woman of humble birth and station? I rather suspect this is the case." "I have, then, mother," replied Sir John, returning his mother's expressive and affectionate pressure of the hand--"the daughter of a humble yeoman, a woman who----" But we will spare the reader the infliction of the high-flown encomiums of all sorts which Sir John lavished on the object of his affections. Suffice it to say, that they included every quality of both mind and person which go to the adornment of the female sex. When he had concluded, Lady Gowan, who made the necessary abatements from the panegyric her son had passed on the lady of his choice, said that, with regard to his attachment, she could indeed have wished it had fallen on one somewhat nearer his own station in life, but that, nevertheless, she had no objection whatever to accept of Miss Harrison as a daughter-in-law, since she was his choice. "Nay," she added, smiling, "if she only possesses one-tenth--ay, one-tenth, John--of the good qualities with which you have endowed her, I must say you are a singularly fortunate man to have fallen in with such a treasure. But, John, allow me to say that, old woman as I am, I think that I could very easily show you that your prejudices, vulgar prejudices I must call them, against the higher classes of society, are unreasonable, unjust, and, I would add, illiberal, and therefore wholly unworthy of you. Does the elegance, the refinement, the accomplishments, the propriety of manner and delicacy of sentiment, to be met with in these circles, go for nothing with you? Does----" "My dear mother," here burst in Sir John, "if you please, we will not argue the point; for, in truth, I do not feel disposed just now to argue about anything. I presume I am to understand, my ever kind and indulgent parent, that I have your full consent to marry Miss Harrison--that is, of course, if Miss Harrison will marry me." "Fully and freely, my child," said the old lady, now flinging her arms around her son's neck, while a tear glistened in her eye; "and may God bless your union, and make it happy! I would rather ten thousand times see you marry such a girl as you have described, than that you should do by her as many young men of your years and station would be but too ready to do." Sir John with no less emotion returned the embrace of his affectionate parent, and, in the most grateful language he could command, thanked her for her ready compliance with his wishes. On the day following that on which the preceding conversation between Sir John Gowan and his mother took place, the inmates of Todshaws were surprised at the appearance of a splendid equipage driving up towards the house. "Wha in a' the world's this?" said Jeanie to her father, as they both stood at the door, looking at the glittering vehicle, as it flashed in the sun and rolled on towards them. "Some travellers that hae mistaen their road." "Very likely," replied her father; "yet I canna understand what kind o' a mistake it could be that should bring them to such an out-o'-the-way place as this. It's no a regular carriage road--that they micht hae seen; an' if they hae gane wrang, they'll find some difficulty in getting richt again. But here they are, sae we'll sune ken a' about it." As Mr Harrison said this, the carriage, now at the distance of only some twenty or thirty yards from the house, stopped, a gentleman stepped out, and advanced smiling towards Mr Harrison and his daughter. They looked surprised, nay confounded; for they could not at all comprehend who their visiter was. "How do you do, Mr Harrison?" exclaimed the latter, stretching out his hand to the person he addressed; "and how do you do, Miss Harrison?" he said, taking Jeanie next by the hand. In the stranger's tones and manner the acute perceptions of Miss Harrison recognised something she had heard and seen before, and the recognition greatly perplexed her; nor was this perplexity lessened by the discovery which she also made, that the countenance of the stranger recalled one which she had seen on some former occasion. In short, the person now before her she thought presented a most extraordinary likeness to the fiddler--only that he had no fiddle, that he was infinitely better dressed, and that his pockets were not sticking out with lumps of cheese and cold beef. That they were the same person, however, she never dreamed for a moment. In his daughter's perplexity on account of the resemblances alluded to, Mr Harrison did not participate, as, having paid little or no attention to the personal appearance of the fiddler, he detected none of them; and it was thus that he replied to the stranger's courtesies with a gravity and coolness which contrasted strangely with the evident embarrassment and confusion of his daughter, although she herself did not well know how this accidental resemblance, as she deemed it, should have had such an effect upon her. Immediately after the interchange of the commonplace civilities above-mentioned had passed between the stranger and Mr Harrison and his daughter-- "Mr Harrison," he said, "may I have a private word with you?" "Certainly, sir," replied the former. And he led the way into a little back parlour. "Excuse us for a few minutes, Miss Harrison," said the stranger, with a smile, ere he followed, and bowing gallantly to her as he spoke. On entering the parlour, Mr Harrison requested the stranger to take a seat, and placing himself in another, he awaited the communication of his visiter. "Mr Harrison," now began the latter, "in the first place, it may be proper to inform you that I am Sir John Gowan of Castle Gowan." "Oh!" said Mr Harrison, rising from his seat, approaching Sir John, and extending his hand towards him--"I am very happy indeed to see Sir John Gowan. I never had the pleasure of seeing you before, sir; but I have heard much of you, and not to your discredit, I assure you, Sir John." "Well, that is some satisfaction, at any rate, Mr Harrison," replied the baronet, laughing. "I am glad that my character, since it happens to be a good one, has been before me. It may be of service to me. But to proceed to business. You will hardly recognise in me, my friend, I daresay," continued Sir John, "a certain fiddler who played to you at a certain wedding lately, and to whose music you and your family danced on the green in front of your own house the other night." Mr Harrison's first reply to this extraordinary observation was a broad stare of amazement and utter non-comprehension. But after a few minutes' pause thus employed, "No, certainly not, sir," he said, still greatly perplexed and amazed. "But I do not understand you. What is it you mean, Sir John?" "Why," replied the latter, laughing, "I mean very distinctly that _I_ was the musician on both of the occasions alluded to. The personification of such a character has been one of my favourite frolics; and, however foolish it may be considered, I trust it will at least be allowed to have been a harmless one." "Well, this is most extraordinary," replied Mr Harrison, in great astonishment. "Can it be possible? Is it really true, Sir John, or are ye jesting?" "Not a bit of that, I assure you, sir. I am in sober earnest. But all this," continued Sir John, "is but a prelude to the business I came upon. To be short, then, Mr Harrison, I saw and particularly marked your daughter on the two occasions alluded to, and the result, in few words, is, that I have conceived a very strong attachment to her. Her beauty, her cheerfulness, her good temper, and simplicity, have won my heart, and I have now come to offer her my hand." "Why, Sir John, this--this," stammered out the astonished farmer, "is more extraordinary still. You do my daughter and myself great honour, Sir John--great honour, indeed." "Not a word of that," replied the knight--"not a word of that, Mr Harrison. My motives are selfish. I am studying my own happiness, and therefore am not entitled to any acknowledgments of that kind. You, I hope, sir, have no objection to accept of me as a son-in-law; and I trust your daughter will have no very serious ones either. Her affections, I hope, are not pre-engaged?" "Not that I know of, Sir John," replied Mr Harrison; "indeed, I may venture to say positively that they are not. The girl has never yet, that I am aware of, thought of a husband--at least, not more than young women usually do; and as to my having any objections, Sir John, so far from that, I feel, I assure you, extremely grateful for such a singular mark of your favour and condescension as that you have just mentioned." "And you anticipate no very formidable ones on the part of your daughter?" "Certainly not, Sir John; it is impossible there should." "Will you, then, my dear sir," added Sir John, "be kind enough to go to Miss Harrison and break this matter to her, and I will wait your return?" With this request the farmer instantly complied; and having found his daughter, opened to her at once the extraordinary commission with which he was charged. We would fain describe, but find ourselves wholly incompetent to the task, the effect which Mr Harrison's communication had upon his daughter, and on the other female members of the family, to all of whom it was also soon known. There was screaming, shouting, laughing, crying, fear, joy, terror, and amazement, all blended together in one tremendous medley, and so loud, that it reached the ears of Sir John himself, who, guessing the cause of it, laughed very heartily at the strange uproar. "But, oh! the cauld beef an' the cheese that I crammed into his pockets, father," exclaimed Jeanie, running about the room in great agitation. "He'll never forgie me that--never, never," she said, in great distress of mind. "To fill a knight's pockets wi' dauds o' beef and cheese! Oh! goodness, goodness! I canna marry him. I canna see him after that. It's impossible, father--impossible, impossible!" "If that be a' your objections, Jeanie," replied her father, smiling, "we'll soon get the better o't. I'll undertake to procure ye Sir John's forgiveness for the cauld beef an' cheese--that's if ye think it necessary to ask a man's pardon for filling his pockets wi' most unexceptionable provender. I wish every honest man's pouches war as weel lined, lassie, as Sir John's was that nicht." Saying this, Mr Harrison returned to Sir John and informed him of the result of his mission, which was--but this he had rather made out than been told, for Jeanie could not be brought to give any rational answer at all--that his addresses would not, he believed, be disagreeable to his daughter, "which," he added, "is, I suppose, all that you desire in the meantime, Sir John." "Nothing more, nothing more, Mr Harrison; she that's not worth wooing's not worth winning. I only desired your consent to my addresses, and a regular and honourable introduction to your daughter. The rest belongs to me. I will now fight my own battle, since you have cleared the way, and only desire that you may wish me success." "That I do with all my heart," replied the farmer; "and, if I can lend you a hand, I will do it with right good will." "Thank you, Mr Harrison, thank you," replied Sir John; "and now, my dear sir," he continued, "since you have so kindly assisted me thus far, will you be good enough to help me just one step further. Will you now introduce me in my new character to your daughter? Hitherto, she has known me only," he said, smiling as he spoke, "as an itinerant fiddler, and I long to meet her on a more serious footing--and on one," he added, again laughing, "I hope, a trifle more respectable." "That I'll very willingly do, Sir John," replied Mr Harrison, smiling in his turn; "but I must tell you plainly, that I have some doubts of being able to prevail on Jane to meet you at this particular moment. She has one most serious objection to seeing you." "Indeed," replied Sir John, with an earnestness that betokened some alarm. "Pray, what is that objection?" "Why, sir," rejoined the latter, "allow me to reply to that question by asking you another. Have you any recollection of carrying away out of my house, on the last night you were here, a pocketful of cheese and cold beef?" "Oh! perfectly, perfectly," said Sir John, laughing, yet somewhat perplexed. "Miss Harrison was kind enough to furnish me with the very liberal supply of the articles you allude to; cramming them into my pocket with her own fair hands." "Just so," replied Mr Harrison, now laughing in his turn. "Well, then, to tell you a truth, Sir John, Jane is so dreadfully ashamed of that circumstance that she positively will not face you." "Oh ho! is that the affair?" exclaimed the delighted baronet. "Why, then, if she won't come to us, we'll go to her; so lead the way, Mr Harrison, if you please." Mr Harrison did lead the way, and Jane was caught. Beyond this point our story need not be prolonged, as here all its interest ceases. We have only now to add, then, that the winning manners, gentle dispositions, and very elegant person of Sir John Gowan, very soon completed the conquest he aimed at; and Jeanie Harrison, in due time, became LADY GOWAN. THE AMATEUR LAWYERS.[3] [Footnote 3: One of the characters of this tale may be easily recognised by some of the older Edinburgh agents. It has been said of him, that one day a travelling packman was seen to enter his farmhouse with a large book under his arm, and in about a quarter-of-an-hour afterwards to issue with a book of a very different appearance. The farmer had "swapt" his family Bible for Erskine's "Institute of the Law of Scotland." From that day he became litigious, and from that day he could date the commencement of his ruin.--ED.] The profession of the law is one of the highest respectability; the study itself a sufficiently interesting one, nevertheless of its having been called dry by those whose genius it does not suit, or by those whose pockets have been made lighter by some of its technical behests; yet we cannot conceive what there is, either in its language, its technicalities, or its general practical operation, or its application, to captivate the fancy of any one not connected with it professionally. But, of a surety, the science has had many amateur attachés--men whose whole souls were wrapped up in multiplepoindings, who loved summonses, who were captivated by condescendences. Strange customers for the most part--original geniuses in some of the queerest senses of the word. Born with a natural propensity for litigation, possessed of a most unaccountable aptitude for everything that is complicated and involved, the law becomes with these persons, not only a favourite, but an engrossing study--engrossing almost to the exclusion of everything else. Law, in short, becomes their hobby. Of law they constantly speak; of law they constantly think; of law, we have no doubt, they constantly dream. The victims of this curious disease--for disease it is--are generally to be found amongst the lower and uneducated classes, and are, for the most part, men of confused intellect and large conceit, all of them, without any exception, imagining themselves astonishingly acute, shrewd, and clever fellows--sharp chaps, who know much more than the world is aware of, or will give them credit for--screws for bungs of any dimensions--dungeons of wit and wisdom. For these persons the jargon of the law has charms superior to the sweetest strains that music ever poured forth. They delight in its uncouthness and unintelligibility, employ it with a gravity, composure, and confidence which, when contrasted with their utter ignorance, or, at best, confused notions of its meaning, is at once highly edifying and impressive. Yet, notwithstanding of the natural tendencies of such persons to legal pursuits and studies, they do not generally betake themselves to them spontaneously, or without some original influencing cause. They will be found, for the most part, to have been started in their legal career by some small lawsuit of their own, and, being previously predisposed, this at once inoculates them with the disease. From that moment to the end of their natural lives they are confirmed, incorrigible lawyers. They have imbibed a love for the science, a taste for litigation, which quits them only with life. All which remarks we have made with the view of introducing to the world, with the grandest effect possible, our very good friend, Mr John Goodale, or, as the name was more generally and more euphoniously pronounced by his acquaintances, Guidyill, who was precisely such a person and character as we have endeavoured to picture forth in this preliminary sketch with which our story opens. Guidyill was a small laird or landed proprietor in the shire of Renfrew, or, as it was anciently spelled, Arranthrough. He was a man of grave, solemn demeanour, with a look of intense wisdom, which was hardly made good by either his speech or his actions. It was evident that he was desirous of palming himself on a simple world for a man of shining parts, of great penetration and discernment, and profound knowledge. All this he himself firmly believed he was, and this belief imparted to his somewhat saturnine countenance a degree of calm repose, confidence, and self-reliance particularly striking. In person, he was tall and thin, or rather gaunt, with that peculiar conformation of face which has obtained the fancy name of lantern-jawed. His age was about fifty-five. To descend to items: the laird _always_ wore knee-breeches, and _never_ wore braces; so that the natural tendency of the former downwards being thus unchecked, gave free egress to a quantity of linen, which, taking advantage of the liberty, always displayed itself in a voluminous semicircle of white across his midriff. A small, unnecessary exhibition of snuff about the nose completed the _tout ensemble_ of the Laird of Scouthercakes. We have described Mr Guidyill (we prefer the colloquial to the classical pronunciation of his name) as a small laird, and such he was at the period we take up his history; but it had not been always so with him. He was at one time the owner of a very extensive property; but lawsuit after lawsuit had gradually circumscribed its dimensions, until he found no difficulty in accomplishing that in ten minutes which used to take him a good hour--that is, in walking round his possessions. Yet the laird had still a little left--as much as would carry him through two or three other suits of moderate cost; and this happiness he hoped to enjoy before he died; for, like a spaniel with its master, the more the law flogged him, the more attached he became to the said law. Just at the particular moment at which we introduce Mr Guidyill to the notice of the reader, he had no legal business whatever on hand--not a single case in any one even of the petty local courts of the district, to say nothing of his great field of action, the Court of Session. It was a predicament he had not been in for twenty years before, and he found it exceedingly irksome and disagreeable; for a dispute with some one or other was necessary, if not to his existence absolutely, at least most certainly to his happiness. The laird's last lawsuit, which was with a neighbouring proprietor regarding the site of a midden or dung-stead, and which, as usual, had gone against him, to the tune of some hundred and eighty pounds, had been brought to a conclusion about a year and a-half before the period we allude to; and, during all that time, the laird had lived contrived to live, we should have said, without a single quarrel with any one on which any pretext for a law-plea could be grounded. Moreover, and what was still more distressing, he was not only without a case at the moment, but without the prospect of one; for he had exhausted all the pugnacity that was in his vicinity. There was not now one left who would "take him up." But better days were in store for the Laird of Scouthercakes--better than he had dared to hope for. One thumping plea, a thorough cleaner out before he died, was the secret wish of his heart, though unavowed even to himself; and in this wish it was permitted him to be gratified. Now, about the period to which we refer, there came a new tenant to the farm of Skimclean, which farm marched with the remnant of Mr Guidyill's property. For some days after this person, whose name was Drumwhussle, had taken possession of his new farm, the laird kept a sharp look-out on his proceedings, in the hope that he would commit some trespass or other, or perpetrate some encroachment, which would afford standing-room for a quarrel; but, to the great disappointment of our amateur lawyer, no such occurrence took place. In no single thing did, or would, Skimclean offend. No; Skimclean would not throw even a stick on his neighbour's grounds, of whose exact lines of demarcation he seemed to have a most provokingly accurate knowledge. Losing all hope of his new neighbour's giving any offence spontaneously--that is, through ignorance, or involuntarily, or purposely, or in any way--Scouthercakes determined on visiting him, in the desperate expectation that an acquaintanceship might throw up something to quarrel with--that familiarity might breed, not contempt, but dislike--that friendship might give rise to enmity. This conduct of the laird's certainly seems at first sight paradoxical; but a little reflection, especially if accompanied also by a little experience of the world, will show that it was not quite so absurd or so contradictory as it seems. On the contrary, such reflections and experience would discover, in the laird's intended proceeding, a good deal of philosophy, and a very considerable knowledge of human nature. Be this as it may, Mr Guidyill determined on paying his new neighbour, Skimclean, a visit; and this determination he forthwith executed. The latter, whom he had never had the pleasure of seeing before, he found to be a little, lively, volatile person, of great volubility of speech; like himself, a prodigious snuffer; and like himself, too, possessed of a very comfortable opinion of his own knowledge and abilities. In another and still more remarkable point in character they resembled each other closely. This last resemblance involved a rather singular and certainly curious coincidence between the dispositions of the two worthies, and one which the laird, when he discovered it, viewed with a very strange mixture of feelings. What these were, and what was their cause, will be best left to appear in the progress of our narrative. On Mr Guidyill's having introduced himself to his new neighbour, and after a little desultory conversation on various subjects had taken place, but chiefly on the merits and demerits of the lands of Skimclean-- "Mr Drumwhussle," said the laird, planting his stick in the ground before him, and looking with deep interest on some trees that grew in front of Skimclean's house, "it's my opinion that ye ocht to cut down thae sticks. They shut oot yer licht terribly, man, and tak up a great deal o' valuable grun." "Ah, ha, laird, catch me there," replied Drumwhussle, with a knowing laugh. "The trees do a' the mischief ye say; but, do ye no ken, that, being but a tenant, I hae nae richt to cut them, my power being only owre the surface, and that, if I did cut them, I wad be liable to an action o' damages by the laird, wha wad inevitably recover accordin to law. A' tacks, ye ken, are granted, '_propter koorum et kultoorum_'[4] (ye'll perceive the Latin), an' the fellin o' trees, without consent o' the proprietor, wad be a direck violation. Na, na, I ken better how to keep my feet out o' thae law traps than that, laird." [Footnote 4: Propter curam et culturam.] We wish we could describe the look of amazement with which the laird listened to this extraordinary outpouring of law and Latin--this flourishing of his own weapons in his face. He was perfectly confounded with it. It was a thing so wholly unexpected and unlooked for, to meet with so accomplished a lawyer as Drumwhussle seemed to be in one of his own class and standing, that it was some time before he could say another word on any subject whatever. He was evidently struck with a feeling of mingled respect and awe for his learned neighbour, who, he perceived, had decidedly the advantage of him in the article, Latin--this being a language with which the laird was not at all conversant. Another consideration occurred to the laird, even in the moment of his first surprise. This was, that, should a difference arise between them, he had found in his new neighbour a foeman worthy of his steel; and that, should they remain friends, they might be of service to each other as legal advisers. In the meantime, the "interlockitor," as the laird would have called the series of legal sentiments which Drumwhussle had just delivered, was far beyond the reach of his comprehension. He did not understand a word of it, and neither could anybody else, we suspect; but, careful of exposing his ignorance-- "Aweel, Skimclean," he said, looking very gravely, "I'm no sure but ye're richt, and it may be as weel, after a', to let the trees stan whar they are; but there's a bit land there," pointing to a patch of about an acre and a-half, which lay low on the side of a small stream, "that I wadna advise ye to crap; for there's no a year that it's no three months under water." "Ah ha, laird, but that's a _pluskum_,"[5] replied the vivacious and acute Skimclean; "a case whar the owner o' the land is liable to the extent, at ony rate, o' remittin a year's rent. It's a _pluskum_, laird--that's Latin," added Skimclean, who always gave such intimation to his auditors when he employed that language; from a shrewd suspicion, probably, that it would not otherwise be readily recognised in the very peculiar shape in which he presented it. [Footnote 5: Plusquam tolerabile.] "Aweel, I daur say ye're no far wrang there either," replied the laird, now perfectly overwhelmed with the legal knowledge of his new neighbour. "I daur say ye're no far wrang there either, but it's best to be cowshous;" and, having delivered himself of this safe and general sentiment, the laird looked wiser than ever, and shook his head with an air of great intelligence. Hitherto, Scouthercakes, as the reader will have observed, had made no display of his legal acquirements. He had been too much taken aback by the sudden and unexpected effulgence of those of Skimclean; but it was by no means his intention to allow the latter to remain in ignorance of them. Availing himself of an early opportunity, he discharged a volley of law terms at Skimclean, in which the words Rejoinder, Multiplepoinding, Reclaimer, and, above all, the phrase, "Revise the Condescendence," sounded most audibly; the latter being an especial favourite of the laird's, who used it on all occasions, on all matters indifferently, and, as everybody but himself thought, almost always in the most absurdly inappropriate cases and circumstances. The effect on Skimclean, again, of the discovery of the laird's legal knowledge was pretty similar to that which the latter had experienced in similar circumstances, only that there was in the case of Drumwhussle a secret feeling of superiority over the laird, in the matter of intimacy with the science of the law. He, in short, considered the laird's knowledge respectable, but his own considerably more so. Now, the laird also, after his first surprise at his neighbour's acquirements had worn off a little, began to think Skimclean fully more apt and ready than profound. He considered his own depth, on the whole, rather greater. Each, thus, while certainly honouring the legal knowledge of his neighbour, enjoyed, at the same time, the comfortable conviction that he was the superior man. Having thus come to an understanding regarding each other's character, and this having given rise to a friendly feeling on both sides, their interview terminated in Drumwhussle inviting his new acquaintance into the house, to partake of a little refreshment--an invitation which the latter graciously accepted; looking forward to a feast of quiet, deliberate legal discussion with his learned friend. On entering the house--indeed, previous to entering it--Mr Guidyill was struck with the singular neatness and good order which everywhere prevailed--a point on which his inviter prided himself, and so much pleased was he with it, that he could not refrain from openly expressing his approbation. "A' accordin to law, Skimclean," he said, looking around him with a complimentary air of satisfaction; "a' accordin to law, I see." "Ay, ay," replied his host, perfectly understanding the laird's metaphorical laudation, and smiling complacently; "we aye try to keep things in as guid order as possible. I look after everything mysel, and see that a's done as it should be. That's the true way, laird." "Nae doot o't, nae doot o't," said the latter. "Naething like revisin the condescendence, Skimclean--eh!" he added, with an intelligent look. "Right there, laird," replied Drumwhussle, "as honest Donald Quirkum, the writer, ance said to me whan I consulted him anent a point o' law, in the case o' Drumwhussle _versus_ Camlachie. 'Drumwhussle,' said he, 'Drumwhussle'----But I'll tell ye a' about it presently, laird," said Skimclean, suddenly interrupting himself, to perform the duties of hospitality towards his guest; "step ben, step ben." And he ushered the laird into a little sitting-room in the back part of the house. "Now, laird, what wull ye drink?" inquired Drumwhussle. "Wull ye tak a drap o' cauld straik, or wad ye hae ony objection to a warm browst?" "Weel, if equally convenient, I'll vote for the toddy," replied the laird. "I second the motion," said Skimclean, now proceeding to a closet in a corner of the room, from which he shortly emerged with his arms and hands loaded with bottles, glasses, jugs, and decanters, and all the other paraphernalia requisite for the occasion. These arranged on the table, flanked by an enormous cheese, and hot water supplied from the kitchen, Drumwhussle commenced brewing _secundum artem_; and having produced the desiderated beverage, handed over half a glass to the laird, for his opinion as to its merits. The laird tasted, gave a short suffocating cough, and, speaking at such intervals as the stifling affection afforded-- "Re-revise the--the con-condescendence, Skimclean. Revise the--the condescendence. It's far owre strong." "It micht hae a waur faut, laird," replied Drumwhussle, "an' it's ane that's easy mended," he added, filling up the jug with hot water. "Taste him now, laird." "Accordin to law," replied the other, emphatically, after smacking off the half-glass submitted to him. "Accordin to law at a' points as accords. Just the thing now, Skimclean." The liquor thus approved of was immediately subjected to the process of consumption, which its merits were so well calculated to insure for it, and this at such a rate that the consumers very soon began to exhibit, in their own persons, rather curious specimens of the effect of strong drink on the animal economy. They began to speak thick and fast, and both at the same time; their conversation chiefly turning on the various actions and law proceedings in which they had from time to time been engaged. It was during this confabulation that Skimclean informed his guest of a certain law-plea in which he was at the moment involved, and in which he was ably supported by the astute Donald Quirkum, already alluded to. "The case, ye see," said Skimclean, "the case, ye see, my frien, is jist this:--In the place whar I was last, Craignockan, ane o' my laddies had a bit gemm cock, a bit steeve fechtin wee beastie, yea, a deevil o' a cratur. Aweel, ye see, it happened that our neebor the schulemaster had anither, o' whilk he was sae proud that he seemed to think mair o't than o' his wife. It was beyond a' doot a wonderfu' bird. His son brought it--so at least he said--frae Sumatra, in the East Indies--something o' the jungle-cock, or Jago cock species, _gawlus giganteus_[6] ye ken--ye'll maybe no understand the Latin." [Footnote 6: Gallus giganteus.] "Deel an' it may choke ye, as the _gallows_ has dune mony a better man!" interrupted the laird. "Purge the record o' a' bad Latin! Ha! ha! Drumwhussle, I ken guid Latin frae dog-Latin or cock Latin, just as weel as ye do. Purge the record, man, I say." "Let me alane, man," replied Drumwhussle, impatiently; "ye interrupt my story wi' your scraps o' misapplied learning. You should never insinuate an ill motive in English. Do ye no ken lawyers never use the words 'bad intention' in designating vice: they veil a' enormities in Latin--for the craturs are sae pure an' delicate-minded that they couldna bear the expression o' man's frailties in the vulgar tongue; _maelice prepense--maelice prepense_ is the term you should hae used, man. But letten that slip gang--for I excuse ignorance whar knowledge is so difficult o' attainment--the cocks were brought face to face, an', like true lawyers, they closed--no the record, for the craturs despised a' condescendence o' grievances; they fought upon the mere libel an' defence: a craw on each side _vivy vocey_; and till't they gaed wi' a pluck seldom witnessed out o' the Parliament House. The upshot may be easily predicted: weight, substance prevailed just as in the courts o' justice--the 'midden,' a pound heavier than the Sumatra jungle-cock, killed his opponent in five minutes; and Jock, lifting up the victor, that crew a noble triumph in his arms, hurried awa, an' left the dominie's cock lying a mere _kappit mortum_--like an interlocutor that's allowed to become feenal because nae man can mak either head or tail o't--on the ground, a corp, or, as Quirkum ca'ed it, a _corpus delichtfu_."[7] [Footnote 7: Corpus delicti.] "Capital, capital," cried the laird. "We'll hae a plea, I hope, on the ground o' damage. A better case for 'plucking' never came before the fifteen." "Ay, and that wi' a vengeance," resumed Drumwhussle. "Though the cock's plea was feenal, a _sleeping_ or _dead case_, as lawyers ken, may produce twenty living anes. The dominie valued his cock at the price o' twenty guineas; he was to have been the _pawter_ o' a new breed (he said) that he intended to produce in Scotland; an' the expense o' bringing him frae Sumatra alane was at least the half o' that sum. Like a sturdy litigant--gemm to the heels--I resisted the demand o' damage, an' took my ground on the instant--alleging _preemo_, that the cocks fought _sowy sponty_;[8] and, _secundo_, that the slaughtered cock was a mere 'blue ginger;' and thus throwing the _onus_ o' proving the contrary on the back o' the dominie." [Footnote 8: Sua sponte.] "A noble device," shouted the laird; "famous pleas in law. Even Corporal Jooris[9] himsel could na hae ta'en his position better. But proceed, proceed. I'm deein to hear the issue. Oh, that that plea had been mine! The chancellor's wig wad hae bobbit owre't; for they say there's nae stoure in it, as in the mealy, muddy _scratches_ in our Parliament House. Come awa wi' the soul-stirring intelligence." [Footnote 9: Corpus juris.] "Ay, an' _pouch_-stirring too," rejoined Drumwhussle. "Weel, the dominie was as guid gemm as his cock, an' awa he hied to Paisley, an' put the case into the hands o' that clever deevil o' a cratur Jobbit, who, _instanter_, sent me a summons, containing a preamble o' nineteen pages, an' a conclusion o' three--seventy-five words a-page, according to my calculation. I declare the screed made my vera een reel, it was sae masterfully Latineezed, turned, interwoven, an' crammed wi' 'saids' and 'foresaids.' It set forth the said dominie as 'greeting' to the sheriff for the loss o' his cock--a maist cunning an' loyal device o' Jobbit's, wha dootless had an ee to the case going before the depute, an' then it went on to narrate" (Drumwhussle drew out a copy of the summons) "that 'the complainer had commissioned the said bird or cock--along with a female--which was of the species _gallus giganteus_, from the island of Sumatra, where it is known by the natives of that island by the scientific, or vulgar, or common appellative of _ayam bankiva_--all as appeareth from Temmink's History of Cocks--and that the complainer's intention or object, in so commissioning the said birds from that distant region, was, that he might introduce into our country the breed, which was supposed to be more full of blood and spirit than our own breed of poultry, and had, moreover, the advantage of producing more eggs--insomuch as the female laid all the year through, while the flesh was whiter and more highly-flavoured, approaching, in this respect, to that of the pheasant; that the expense of bringing the said birds from Sumatra was ten guineas sterling; that the complainer had, by dint of great ingenuity and perseverance, got the said birds naturalised as completely as if they had been natural-born subjects of this realm, and was on the very eve of reaping the fruits of his patriotic labours--the fame of a breeder of a new species of poultry, and the emoluments of a vender or seller of the same to the farmers and bird-fanciers of the kingdom--when David Drumwhussle, tenant of Craignockan, actuated by _malice prepense_, or by envy, or by fear that his own breed of poultry (of the common or dunghill species) would be displaced and superseded by the other and superior kind, or by some other motive or feeling, implying _dolus_, did stir up and excite his son, John Drumwhussle, for whose acts and deeds--being a minor, and not _forisfamiliated_--he was liable, to bring--_vi aut clam_--his the said David Drumwhussle's cock, and his the said complainer's, into a pugnacious attitude and position, and to instigate the same to mortal combat, whereby the said cocks having engaged _secundum suam naturam_ in a lethal _duellum_, did fight till his, the complainer's, was left in the field dead; that the primary consequence of this premeditated act was, that the female was rendered mateless, unproductive, and useless, insomuch as her cohabitation and society with cocks of this country would never be the means of producing the species of _gallus giganteus_; the secondary, that the complainer was deprived of a source of legitimate gain; and the tertiary, that the country of Great Britain lost the superlative advantage of an improved breed of poultry.' Thae are the premises." "An' fine premises they are," replied Guidyill. "Jobbit never laid an egg mair certain o' producin a weel-feathered bird for the lawyers." "Ye're richt, laird, sae far," replied Drumwhussle; "but ye've yet to learn that it had twa yolks--twa law-pleas cam out o't. But ye'll hear. I needna read the conclusion--a' in the ordinary form, ye ken:--therefore it ought and should be found and declared, and so forth; and that I should be decerned to pay twenty guineas as the value of the cock, and damages sustained for the loss of his expected progeny." "Weel, weel, the defences, the defences," cried the laird, in eager expectation. "Ye wad state the defence on the merits first, I fancy, an' then the preliminary ane." "The cart afore the horse, ye fule!" answered Drumwhussle, chuckling. "I despised a' dilatory pleas, man: I cam to the marrow at ance, an' instructed my agent, Mr Kirkham, or Quirkum, as he is generally styled, for his exquisite adroitness an' cleverness, to use the very highest flicht o' his inventive fancy--to consult Erskine an' Stair, an' even Corporal Jooris--to dive into the Roman Pawndecs[10]--the deegest--the discreets--every authority, in fack, he could think o'--no forgetting Cock on Littletun; and send me a draft o' the defences _siny mory_.[11] He did so, and oh, such a beautiful invention! They set forth, as a kind o' flourish afore the real tug o' the tournay, that the libel was a big lee frae beginning to end; that the pursuer's cock was, even in his ain showing, an alien cratur, an' no entitled to the richts o' natural-born subjects; that he interfered wi' the queens o' the seraglio o' my winged potentate--making love to them, crawing to them, an' displaying his gaudy wings to them, as if he were lord o' a' the feathered creation; that the defender's cock, acting upon the weel-ascertained richt o' defending conjugal property, slew him, on the strength o' the English case, Jenkins _versus_ Lovelace, where a husband was found justified in taking the life o' ane wha made love to his wife. In the second place, it was denied _simpleeciter_ that the cock was o' the species _gawlus giganteus_, being a mere 'blue ginger'--worth five shillins--o' the auld breed o' Scotland, whilk cam frae the stock named by the Greek play-writer, Mr Arrantstuffanes, 'the Persian bird.' We thus threw the hail _onus proovandy_ on the back o' the dominie, an', by my faith, he fand the weight o't!" [Footnote 10: Pandects.] [Footnote 11: Sine mora.] "A noble defence--jist exactly what I wad hae written," ejaculated Guidyill, in ecstasy. "Weel, ye wad revise the condescendence after that, I fancy?" "Before it was written, man?" responded Drumwhussle. "Na, na; ye ken little aboot thae things. The dominie was ordered to condescend on what he undertook, and offered to prove in support o' his libel, then we answered, then he revised, then we revised, then he re-revised, then we re-revised, then he made an addition, which we answered by a corresponding addition, equal to a re-re-revision." "Hurrah!" cried Scouthercakes. "Then the record was purged, then closed, an' then we set to proving--for the proof was conjunk and confident--wi' a' the spirit o' the cocks themselves. Oh, it was gran' sport! The dominie brought twa witnesses frae Lunnon, to swear to the cock having been brought frae Sumatra; an' I brought frae Dumbarton, where the best cock mains in a' Scotland are fought, twa cock-fanciers wha had seen the dominie's bird, to swear that it was a 'blue ginger;' then there was sic proving, and counter-proving, witness against witness; the dominie's servant swearing to the instigation practised by Jock, my bothie men swearing an _aliby_; valuators for the dominie fixing ae value, and valuators by me fixing anither, till I fancy there were nae fewer than fifteen witnesses a-side." "Famous, famous!" cried the laird; "what a glorious main! Never was sic a cocking sin the match in 1684, between Forfarshire and the Loudons. You would be decreetit favourably, beyond a' doubt." "Mr Guidyill," answered Drumwhussle, taking up his glass, "I was cast in fifteen guineas, an' a' expenses." "Gran'!" exclaimed the laird--"gran'! Jist as bonny a plea as a man could wish. Ye protested an' appealed." "I gaed straught to my agent, Quirkum," continued Skimclean, "and stated the case to him, expressin, at the same time, my determination no to submit to the iniquitous decision o' the sheriff. Aweel, what did Mr Quirkum say or do, think ye, on my expressin mysel this way? He never spak, but, gruppin me by the haun, looked in my face, an', after a minnit, said, 'Drumwhussle, ye're a man o' spirit, an' I honour ye for't. Ye've just now come oot wi' sentiments that do ye the highest credit. I'll manage your case for ye, Drumwhussle. I'll let the dominie hear such a cock crawin as he never heard in his life before.' Aweel, ye see, we had the cock flappin his wings in the Court of Session in a jiffy. And as bonny a case it was, so Mr Quirkum said, as ever he had the haundlin o' in his life. Seemly in a' its bearins, he said, and as clean's a leek on our side, a' as ticht an' richt as legal thack and rape could mak it. But deil may care--wad ye believe it?--it was gien against us here, too, cast wi' a' expenses. There was a dish o' cockyleeky for ye, laird--cast wi' a' expenses!--an' they war nae trifle, as ye may weel believe; for yon lawyer folk dinna live on muslin kail." The laird shook his head with a concurring emphasis, whose force of expression was greatly increased by certain pungent reminiscences of his own disbursements in this way. "Aweel, there we are, ye see," continued Drumwhussle; "but we're no beat yet. I'll hae't to the House o' Lords, laird, if I should pawn my coat for't." And he struck the table with his fist, in token of his high determination, till jugs and glasses rang again. Delighted with his host's beautiful spirit of litigation, the laird, in a corresponding fit of enthusiasm, got up from his seat with a full bumper in one hand, and, extending the other across the table towards Skimclean-- "Your haun, Drumwhussle," he said, briefly, but with great emphasis. "Your haun, my frien. I honour ye--I respeck ye for thae sentiments." Saying this, he grasped the extended hand of his host, who had risen to meet his advances, shook it cordially, tossed off the contents of his uplifted glass to his success in his law-plea, and concluded with a piece of advice. "Stick till't, Skimclean," he said--"stick till't as lang's there's a button on your coat. That's my way. Kittle them up wi' duplies, and triplies, and monyplies, and a' the plies that's o' them--if thae papers are allowed in the Hoose o' Lords--an', if they stir a fit, nail them wi' a rejoinder and dilatory defences. Gie them't het, Skimclean. Gie them't het; an' if a' winna do, sweep your opponent clean oot o' the court wi' a multiplepoinding an' infeftment. That's the legal coorse, accordin to the new form o' process--no Mr Eevory's, or Mr Berridges, or the like o' thae auld forms--quite oot o' date noo." "Jist my ain notion o' things preceesely, laird," replied Drumwhussle. "Although I say't that shouldna say't, I maybe ken law as weel as some that hae mair pretensions. A' the law in the country, laird, 's no to be fan' under puthered weegs." (This with a look of great complacency.) "My lair's maybe nae great things, but my law's guid. I'll haud up my face to that ony day. An' I'm thinkin, laird, ye ken twa or three things in that way yersel." "I should," replied the laird, with a knowing smile. "But ye'll never hae been in the Court o' Session, maybe," said Skimclean. "Revise the condescendence there, Drumwhussle," replied the laird. "A score o' times at the least. It wad hae been a bonny business, indeed, if I had never had a case in the Court o' Session. A man wad hae but sma' pretension to respeck, in my opinion, that hadna been there wi' half-a-dizzen." We here take the liberty of interrupting, for a time, the colloquy of Skimclean and his guest, for the purpose of saying, that, although we have given, as we imagine, a pretty correct account of their conversation on the occasion to which our story refers, we have by no means done equal justice to the subject of their potations. On this point we have said little or nothing, an omission which we beg now to supply, by stating most explicitly, that, during the whole time they were engaged in exchanging the sentiments which we have just recorded, they had been also unremitting in their attention to the toddy jug, which had three several times sank to the dregs under their persevering devotions. It is not necessary to add, we should suppose, that this feat was not performed with impunity, nor that it had the effect of considerably deranging the faculties of the two lawyers. All this will be presumed--and, if it be not presumed, let it be so immediately; for it was the fact. Both Skimclean and the laird were now in a state of great felicity and personal comfort. They swore eternal friendship to each other at least fifty times over, and on each occasion sealed their amiable protestations by a cordial shaking of hands. But it was not love alone they expressed for each other. There was respect too, the most profound respect for each other's abilities and legal knowledge, declared in no very measured terms. In truth, if their own statements on this subject could have been credited, no two lawyers had ever got together who made so near an approach to Coke and Lyttleton. At an advanced period of the evening, and just after the fourth jug had been put upon active service, Skimclean again adverted to his famous game-cock case, and, having mentioned that he was going to Paisley on the following day, to call on Quirkum, on the subject of carrying the said case to the House of Lords, asked the laird if he would have any objection to go along with him and assist in the consultation which would then and there take place. "It wad be a great favour, laird," said Skimclean; "for ye ken twa heads are better than ane, and three than twa, an', moreover, laird, to tell a truth, there's twa or three points o' law that I'm no jist sure that Mr Quirkum's clean up to, an' I wad like a man o' your knowledge to be present. I dinna ken but you an' me, laird, wad bother the best o' them." The laird smiled slightly but complacently at this conjunct compliment, and modestly said that he had never seen the "law-wir yet that he couldna bambouzle. An' as to gaun in wi' ye the morn to Paisley, Skimclean," he added, "that I'll do wi' great pleasure." This was said, most assuredly, in all sincerity; for, next to the happiness of having a plea of his own, was that of being allowed to have what may be called a handling of the pleas of others; especially if they had a dash of the spirit of litigation in them, and gave promise of a protracted and obstinate fight; and this the laird saw, with intuitive tact, was the character of Skimclean's. This matter then settled, the two worthies proceeded to the discussion of various other subjects, until the laird, finding that he could hold out no longer, suggested, in the midst of a series of violent hiccups, that they should "clo-close the record, and re-re-revise the condescendence." Saying this, the laird got up to his feet, leaned his hands upon the table, and as he swung backwards and forwards in this attitude, gazed on his friend opposite with a look of drunken gravity. "We maun clo-clo-close the record," he repeated, "and re-re-revise the condescendence." "That's no accordin to the form o' process, laird," replied Skimclean, making an effort, but an unavailing one, to get up also to his feet. "That's no accordin to form, laird," he said; and now making a virtue of necessity, by throwing himself back in the chair which he found he could not conveniently leave. "Revise the condescendence, Skimclean," rejoined the laird, after a pause, during which he had been employed in an attempt to collect his scattered senses; an operation which was accompanied by sundry odd contortions of countenance, especially a strange working of the lips. "I say, revise the condescendence, Skimclean. It's baith accordin to law an' to form. Ye're no gaun to instruck me, I houp, in a law process." "Instruck or no instruck," replied Drumwhussle, with great confidence of manner, "ye're as far wrang as ever Maggy Low was, when you speak first o' closin the record an' then o' revisin the condescendence. Onybody that has ony law in them at a' kens that the revisin o' a condescendence taks place _before_ the closin o' the record, an' no after't." "Before or after't, it's guid law," said the laird, doggedly, and still rocking to and fro, as he leaned on the table, and continued gazing with lacklustre eye in the face of his learned brother opposite. "It's guid law, I'll uphaud; an' it's my opinion, Skimclean--an' I'll just tell ye't to your face--that for a' your blether o' Latin, I dinna think ye hae a' the law ye pretend to. The thorough knowledge is no in ye. That's my opinion." The reply to this sneer at Skimclean's legal acquirements was of as summary and expressive a nature as can well be imagined. It was the contents of a jug--said contents being somewhere about a quart of boiling hot water--discharged with great force and dexterity full in the face of the "soothless insulter," accompanied by the appropriate injunction--"Tak that, ye auld guse; an' if that's no law, it's justice." "Revise _that_ condescendence," replied the laird, making a tremendous effort to seize his antagonist across the table, in which effort the said table instantly went over with a tremendous crash, sending every individual article that it had supported into a thousand pieces. In the midst of the wreck and ruin thus occasioned lay the prostrate person of the laird, who had naturally gone down with the table, and who now, as we have said, lay floundering amongst the debris, composed of broken bottles, jugs, and glasses, with which the floor was covered. "A clear case o' damages," shouted Skimclean. "Revise the condescendence in that partikler," said the laird, rising to his feet, and exhibiting sundry bleeding scars on his lugubrious countenance. "That cock 'll no fecht, Drumwhussle. The case is no guid in law. It wadna stan a hoast in the Court o' Session." "Wull _that_ stan, then?" exclaimed Skimclean, making a lounge at the laird's face with his closed fist, which took full effect upon the enemy's left eye. "I maun mak a rejoinder to _that_," said the laird, now attacking his host in turn, and with such effect, as finally to floor him, being, although the older, by much the stronger man--"I maun mak a rejoinder to _that_," he said, first striking at, and then grappling, his antagonist, when a deadly struggle ensued, which ended in both coming to the floor with an appalling thud. The laird, although taken from his feet, still maintained his physical superiority by keeping the foe under him. He was uppermost, and uppermost he determined to remain; and this triumphant position he further secured himself in by seizing Skimclean by the neckcloth, and, by the vigour of his hold, subjecting him to a fac-simile of the process of strangulation. "What think ye o' my law, noo, ye puir empty pretender?" said the laird, as he gave the other twist to Drumwhussle's neckcloth--"you and yer trash o' Latin, that ye ken nae mair aboot, I believe, than a cow kens about a steam-engine." "That's aboot yer ain knowledge o' law, I'm thinkin," replied Skimclean, chokingly, but boldly; and in gallant defiance of his present adverse circumstances. "I wad match ony coo I hae in my byre against ye at a defeeckwalt point o' law." "Do ye fin' _that_?" said the laird, twisting Drumwhussle's neckcloth with increasing ferocity. "There's law for ye. There's the strong arm o' the law for ye. Doin summary justice on an ignorant, pretendin idowit." How or in what way this fierce struggle between the two lawyers would have terminated, we cannot tell, as it was not permitted to attain its own natural conclusion. It was interrupted. At the moment that the laird had renewed his efforts on Skimclean's neckcloth, which the reader will observe was doing the duty of a bowstring, the wife of the latter rushed into the apartment, exclaiming-- "The Lord hae a care o' me! what's this o't?--what's this o't? What are ye fechtin aboot, ye auld fules?" "A case o' hamesookin, Jenny--a decided case o' hamesookin," shouted Skimclean. "A man attacked an' abused in his ain hoose. That's hamesookin, an' severely punishable by law." "Tuts, confound yer law?--mind reason and common sense," said Skimclean's wife, seizing the laird by the coattails, and dragging him off her prostrate husband, of whose _penchant_ for law she had long been perfectly sick. "Mind reason an' common sense, an' let alane law to them it belangs to." Whether it was that the combatants had expended all the present pugnacity of their natures in the contest which had just been brought to a close, or that the soft tones of Mrs Drumwhussle's voice had suddenly allayed their ire, we know not; but certain it is, that the faces of both the lawyers exhibited, all at once, and at the same instant, a trait of amiable relaxation, indicative of a return of friendly feeling, together with something like a sense of regret, and perhaps shame for what had passed. It was then, under this change of sentiment, that Skimclean replied, laughingly, to his wife-- "Weel, weel, gudewife, if the laird here's willin, we'll close the record, an' let byganes be byganes." "Wi' a' my heart," said the former; "for it's a case that'll no stan law. Sae we'll just revise the condescendence, an' tak better care for time to come. This wark's no accordin to law." "Neither law, nor reason, nor sense," said Mrs Drumwhussle, who was a rattling, but good-natured, motherly sort of woman. "Ye're jist a pair o' auld fules--that's what ye are. Noo, laird," she continued, as she turned round to that worthy--who presented rather an odd spectacle; his person exhibiting, at this moment, a strange combination of ludicrous points--extreme tallness, extreme thinness, extreme drunkenness, extreme snuffiness, if we may use the expression, and a countenance marked and mangled in a manner that was absolutely hideous to look upon, although the application of a little simple water would have shown that the said countenance was not, after all, very seriously damaged--"noo, laird," said Mrs Drumwhussle, laying her hand kindly on the shoulder of her husband's guest, "ye'll jist stap awa hame, like a guid honest man as ye are, an' you an' the gudeman 'll meet the morn, whan ye're baith yersels, an' ye'll baith be as guid freens as ever--maybe a hantle better; for I've kent folk that never could understan ane anither till they had a guid fecht." To the general tone of this mediatory interference, neither Skimclean nor the laird offered any objection. Nay, as we have already shown, it met with their decided approbation; but there was one clause in it, as they themselves would have called it, which both peremptorily resented. This was the insinuation that they were tipsy. "Revise that part o' the condescendence, Mrs Drumwhussle," said the laird, in allusion to the said insinuation. "I could discuss a point o' law as weel as ever I did in my life. I'm as soun's a bell, woman." "A' ticht an' richt, laird. We're baith that," said Skimclean, staggering towards his guest. "For my pairt, I never was better in my life. Never mair correck. Jenny, ye're wrang--clean wrang, I'm perfectly _compous_." "Aweel, it's perfectly possible," replied the latter, laughing; "but I canna be far wrang in advising the laird here to stap his wa's hame, an' you, Davie, to slip to yer bed." "Ou, no, no, ye're no wrang there," said both the lawyers together; and in evident satisfaction with the circumstance of Mr Drumwhussle's having deserted the charge of inebriety, and founding upon other grounds--"ye're no wrang there," repeated the laird; "for it's gettin late, an' my road's nane o' the straughtest." Having been provided with his hat and stick, and an old tartan cloak, which was his constant companion in all his wanderings, the laird now commenced his retreat out of the house, and had gained the outer door, when his host shouted after him-- "Mind the consultation, laird--mind yer promise o' gaun to Paisley wi' me the morn." "I'll revise that condescendence, and decern as accords," replied the laird, turning half round, to deliver himself of this mystical response. Then, resuming his progress, he was soon quit of the house, but not of the premises altogether, as was made manifest by a certain awkward interruption he met with before he had gone fifty yards. This was by a huge watch-dog, within the reach of whose chain one of the laird's lee lurches had brought him. Availing himself of the tempting advantage, the dog bolted, with a growl like that of a tiger, out of his wooden tenement, and, in a twinkling had the laird fast by the cloak, at which he commenced tugging with a violence which all its owner's efforts to counteract, by dragging himself in an opposite direction, could not overcome. Finding his exertions this way vain, and that a continuance of them would only insure the dissolution of his favourite outer garment, the laird turned upon his enemy, and, making some hits at him with his stick--"Desert the diet, ye brute; an' bring yer action in a regular form, an' accordin to law," he exclaimed, abruptly; and, by a dexterous movement, avoiding a snap at his leg, which the dog at this moment made--"Tak yer mittimus," he said, discharging another violent blow at the animal, which, however, had only the effect of increasing the latter's ferocity; for the dog now fairly leaped on his back, and seizing him by the neck of the coat behind, laid him, in an instant, prostrate in the mud. Having thus got the laird down, the dog, without offering him further injury, planted a fore-leg on either side of him, and, with his muzzle within half-an-inch of his face, commenced a series of growls, "not loud, but deep," that indicated anything but a friendly feeling towards his victim. Even in these circumstances, however, the laird's deep sense of the propriety of proceeding strictly "according to law" in all cases did not desert him. Looking steadily at the dog, he thus addressed him, in a clear, loud voice, imitating, as nearly as he could, the tones of a court crier:-- "I, John Guidyill, Laird o' Scouthercakes, summon, warn, and charge you, Skimclean's dug, to compear before His Majesty's justices o' the peace for the shire o' Renfrew, within their ordinary court-place, in Paisley, upon the 12th day o' October, 1817, at eleven o'clock forenoon, to answer, at the instance o' the above-designed Laird o' Scouthercakes, for an illegal assault made on the said laird's person, on the nicht o' the 2d day o' October, in the aforesaid year, or in the month o' September preceding, or the month o' November following. This I do on the 2d day o' October, one thoosan aucht hunner an' seventeen years, with certification as effeirs. John Guidyill.--There, noo, ye're regularly ceeted," added the laird; "sae desert the diet for the present; an' see that ye mak punctual compearance in the hoor o' cause." Having thus delivered himself, the laird made another violent effort to free himself from his captor, and to regain his feet. But, finding this vain, he commenced a series of shouts for assistance, that had the effect of bringing Mrs Drumwhussle and a formidable body of her retainers to the rescue. By the aid of this friendly detachment, the laird was immediately relieved from his perilous situation. On regaining his feet-- "I tak ye a' witnesses," said the laird, "hoo I hae been abused wi' that infernal brute o' yours; an' it's my opinion that I hae a guid case baith against Skimclean an' his dug. If richtly argued, an action o' damages wad lie, in my opinion, against them baith; an' decreet wad follow, accordin to law, decernin the ane to be hanged, an' the ither to be mulcted o' a soum not exceedin fifty puns sterlin, as law directs--that's my opinion o' the case. But I'll revise the condescendence, an' let Skimclean ken the result the morn." Saying this, the laird gathered his cloak, in which there were now three or four tremendous rents, around him, and stalked, or rather staggered away, on his progress home, which he reached in safety, and without meeting with any further interruption. Faithful to his promise, and oblivious of all causes of difference with his host of the preceding night--an obliviousness for which a night's sleep and a return to sobriety, co-operating with the irresistible temptation of being permitted to interfere with the latter's law-plea, will sufficiently account--the laird waited, on the following day, on Skimclean, and announced his readiness to accompany him to Paisley, as had been previously arranged between them. Skimclean having, in turn, expressed his sense of the obligation, the two lawyers shortly after set out for the town just named--a distance of from five to six miles, which they beguiled with learned discussions on the various points of law that had come within the range of their respective experiences. On reaching Paisley, our two worthies directed their steps to the residence of Mr Quirkum, whom they luckily found at home. This worthy limb of the law was a stout, burly personage, with a loud voice, and tolerably confident manner, although it was pretty generally alleged that his skill in his profession was by no means very profound. This lack of legal knowledge, however, was compensated by a bold bearing, an unhesitating promptitude of decision, an utter fearlessness in delivering an opinion, whether right or wrong. Such, then, was the gentleman to whom Skimclean introduced the laird, as "an intimate frien, wha kent twa or three things in the law line, an' whom he had jist brocht in to gie him an inklin o' what was gaun on in the gemm-cock case, in the whilk, he bein a near neebor, he took a freinly interest." "Glad to see your _learned_ friend, Skimclean," said Quirkum, who affected the being a bit of a wag in his own way. "He'll perhaps help us with a little useful advice, which, you know, is always welcome." And Quirkum rubbed his hands with a sort of professional glee, and chuckled facetiously at his own banter. Not perceiving the irony of the lawyer's remarks, the laird smiled complacently, and said-- "That he didna pretend to ony very great skeel in law matters, although he had had some experience in that way, too. But that he wad be very glad to gie ony hints that micht appear to him, on revisin the condescendence in his frien Skimclean's case, to be likely to be o' service." "Muckle obliged, I'm sure, laird," said Drumwhussle; "an' sae is my frien Quirkum here, I daresay." Then addressing himself to the latter, "Wad ye be sae guid, noo, as gie oor frein here an inklin o' oor case. I hae explained to him the gruns o' oor action; but ye can let him mair fully into the merits o' the case." Now, Quirkum, although, as already said, no great lawyer, was by no means destitute of common sense. In fact, he was rather clever in a general sort of way, and this cleverness enabled him to see at once what kind of a character the laird was. Skimclean he knew well before, and according to this knowledge he acted on the present occasion. He rattled over a given quantity of law terms, galloped through two or three varieties of legal processes, and concluded by asking the laird's opinion of what they had done, what they were doing, and what they should do. Confounded with the volubility of Quirkum, of whose oration he did not comprehend one word, and yet unwilling to acknowledge his difficulty, the laird adopted the safe course of merely shaking his head, and looking wise. For some seconds he uttered not a word. At length-- "It seems to me a gey steeve case," he said. "There's twa or three points in't that wad require consideration, an' on the whilk I wadna consider myself jist free to gie an aff-haun opinion. Noo, this bein the case, I'll jist revise the condescendence in my ain mind, an' gie my frien, Skimclean here, the benefit o' the process at anither meetin." This Quirkum thought pretty well from a man whom he perfectly knew did not understand a word of what he had said; and he knew this, because he had not understood a word of it himself. Not being possessed of this important secret, however, Skimclean thought the laird's remarks highly creditable to his prudence; and, having expressed himself to this effect, concluded by inviting Quirkum and his brother lawyer to adjourn with him to the Brown Cow Inn, to "tak a bit chack o' dinner;" adding facetiously, "that, though law was a very guid thing, it wadna fill the wame." The laird smiled, and Quirkum laughed outright at the sally, and both at once accepted the invitation by which it was associated. Acceptation was speedily followed by accomplishment. In little more than a quarter-of-an-hour after, the whole three were seated around a comfortably-covered table in a small, snug back-parlour in the Brown Cow Inn. Dinner despatched, tumblers were filled up, and a very pleasant career of talking and drinking commenced, and continued without interruption for somewhere about a couple of hours. At the end of this period, however, a circumstance occurred which somewhat disturbed the quiet sociality of the party. A person, evidently the worse of drink, unceremoniously entered the room, and, seemingly unconscious that he was intruding, deliberately planted himself in a chair directly opposite the laird. It was some seconds before he appeared to recognise any of the party--as, indeed, it was hard he should, for he knew and was known to none of them, but one. This one was our friend Guidyill, and him he knew to his cost; the laird having once defeated him in a law-plea about a certain pathway which passed through the corner of a field on the farmer's property. For the laird, therefore, this man, whose name was Moffat, entertained anything but a friendly feeling. It was, however, some little time before he was aware of his being in the presence of his ancient enemy on the present occasion, the liquor he had swallowed having considerably impaired his powers of discernment. These, however, at length helped him to a knowledge of the fact; and, when they had done so-- "Ho, ho, laird, are _ye_ here?" he exclaimed, with a look and manner in which all the grudge he bore Guidyill was made manifest. "Ony law-pleas in the win' 'enow, laird--eh?" "Was ye wantin ane?" said the laird, coolly. "I thocht I had gien ye aneugh o' that." "Maybe ye hae, an' maybe no," replied Moffat. "But there's some things I ken, and some things I dinna. I dinna ken what ye're guid for; and I ken that ye're the biggest aul' rogue in the County o' Renfrew--a litigious, leein, cheatin rascal." "Revise that condescendence, frien," replied the laird. "Mr Quirkum and Skimclean, I tak ye to witness what that man has said. Defamation o' character as clean's a leek--a thumpin action cut and dry. I tak instruments in your hauns, Mr Quirkum, an' employ you to do the needfu' in this case. Ye baith distinctly heard what was said, an' 'll testify to the fact when ca'ed upon in due coorse o' law." Both Quirkum and Skimclean at once declared their willingness to do so--the latter from a wish to serve his friend, the former from a wish to serve himself, as he saw in the affair something like the promise of a very tolerable job. In the meantime, Moffat, rather alarmed at the formal and business-like manner in which his complimentary remarks on the laird's character had been taken up, first endeavoured to back out of the scrape, and, in default of success in this, sneaked out of the room, leaving the laird an infinitely happier man than he had found him; for he was now provided with a most unexceptionable ground for an action-at-law. It was a most unexpected piece of good fortune; chance having done for him in a moment what a long period of anxiety, directed to the same end, had failed to accomplish. It was truly delightful, and the laird _was_ delighted, delighted beyond measure. But, alas! by how frail a tenure is all earthly felicity held! By how frail a thread is life itself suspended! We make the remark, and the sequel illustrates it. The laird having given instructions on the spot to Quirkum to commence an action immediately against his defamer, the party broke up. The professional member repaired to his own house, and the laird and Skimclean mounted the Greenock coach, which passed within a short distance of their respective residences. Fatal proceedings. The coach was overturned, and the laird, falling on his head, received an injury which, in half-an-hour, proved fatal to him. Skimclean, more fortunate, escaped with some slight bruises. The latter was the first to come to the poor laird's assistance after the vehicle had capsised. He found him lying on his face on the road, bleeding profusely, and apparently insensible. On turning him round, however, and raising him up a little, he opened his eyes, and, recognising Drumwhussle, said, in a slow and scarcely audible tone--"The record's closed wi' me, Skimclean. I hae gotten my mittimus. Fate has decerned against me. It was an irregular summons; but it maun be obeyed, for a' that." The poor laird was now conveyed to an adjoining house, where he was assiduously attended by his friend, Skimclean, to whom his last request was, that he would consult Quirkum, and see whether it would not be competent for him, Skimclean, to carry on the action against Moffat after his own decease. Shortly after making this request, the poor laird sank into a state of insensibility; and, just before he expired, having lain for some time previously without moving, scarcely breathing, he began muttering, evidently in delirium, something which the bystanders could not make out. Skimclean stooped down to catch the words. They were quivering on his lip, and proved to be, "_Clo-clo-close the Record_." THE PROFESSOR'S TALES. FAMILY INCIDENTS. There is a beautiful glen in Dumfries-shire, which I would willingly point out to any as the very beau-ideal of all glens whatever. It is, in fact, entirely surrounded by high grounds, rising ultimately, towards the north in particular, into hills, or, more properly speaking, mountains, making part of the Queensberry range. In the centre of this glen, or vale, there is a round and conical green eminence, around which a small mountain-stream winds and wanders, as if unwilling to encounter the tossings and turmoil of the linn and precipitous course beneath. I could never behold, or even think, of this snug quietude in the bosom of unadulterated nature, without, at the same time, considering it as emblematic, in a striking degree, of man's experience in life. In infancy and youth all is snug, sunny, and peaceful as this little sheltered stream; but the linns and precipices of after-life assimilate but too closely to the foam, and tossing, and tumbling of the passage beneath. On the summit of that grassy mound, there once stood a thatched cottage, with which my story is connected. It was evening, or rather twilight, or, as emphatically expressed in Scottish dialect, it was the "gloaming," when Janet Smith, a poor widow woman, sat in her own doorway-- "E'en drawing out a thread wi' little din, And beaking her auld limbs afore the sun." A large grey cat occupied the other side of the passage, and a few hens, with the necessary accompaniment, clucked and chuckled, and crowed around. Janet sat there in her solitude, an old, infirm, and comparatively helpless creature; but she was wonderfully contented and happy. Her own industry supplied her little wants; and she was protected, in a free house and kail-yard, by Sir Thomas Kirkpatrick, the princely and humane laird of Closeburn. The wheel had just ceased its revolution, and her spectacles had just been assumed, with the view of reading, by the light of a cheery spark, her evening chapter. A cake of oat-bread was toasting at the fire, and a bowl of pure whey was set upon a stool, when Janet's ear was arrested by the approach of a horseman, who with difficulty urged his steed up the somewhat precipitous ascent. The horseman had no sooner attained the doorway, than he alighted, and giving his horse to be held by a little urchin, whom he had beckoned from the wood for this purpose, he was at once in the presence of the aged inmate of this humble dwelling. The scene I shall never forget; for I was, in fact, the little boy whom he had enlisted in his service, by the tempting reward of sixpence. The horseman was tall and well-built; he might be about fifty years of age, and every way wearing the garb and the aspect of a gentleman. Having advanced towards the old woman, he looked steadily and keenly into her face, while his bosom heaved, and the tears began to indicate deep and tender emotion. The old woman seemed petrified with astonishment, and fell back into her arm-chair, as if some one had rudely pushed her down into it. At last, old Janet found utterance in these words, pronounced in a quavering and almost inarticulate voice, "In the name of God, who or what art thou?" These words, however, had not been pronounced, when the stranger had already dropped down on his knees, and had actually flung himself into the arms of his mother. Yes, of his mother--for so it proved to be, that this was the first meeting betwixt mother and child for the space of upwards of forty years. The old woman's mind seemed for a time bewildered. She endeavoured to clear her eyes, pushed the stranger feebly from her, looked him intensely in the face for an instant, and then, uttering a loud scream, became altogether insensible. "Oh, what shall I do!" exclaimed the stranger; "what have I done? I have murdered--I have murdered the mother that bore me! Oh, that I had staid at Brownhill inn till morning, and had apprised my poor parent--alas! my only parent--of my approach!" Whilst he was ejaculating in this manner, the old woman's lips began to resume their usual colour, and she opened her eyes and her arms at once, exclaiming, in an agony of transport-- "My son! oh, my son! My long-lost, long-dead, long-despaired-of son!" The scene now became more calm and rational. The stranger passed, with his mother, into the humble dwelling. I tied the horse to the door-sneck, and followed, more from curiosity than humanity. The stranger sat down on what he termed his old creepy stool, from which, in days long past, he had taken his porridge. He drew his mother nearer and nearer him, kissed her again and again, and the tears fell fast and full over his manly and withered cheeks; and, ever and anon, as old Janet would eye her tall and manly son, she would exclaim, looking into his face at all the distance which her withered arms could place him-- "Ay, me, an' is that my wee Geordie?" The facts of Geordie's history I have often listened to with more than boyish interest; for this stranger ultimately took up his abode in a beautiful cottage, built on the spot where his original dwelling stood; and, as I came and went to Closeburn School, Mr George Smith would take me into his parlour, and discourse with me for hour after hour, and day after day, on all the varied incidents of a stirring and eventful life. His father died early, having lost his life by the fall of a tree which he was assisting in cutting down, or felling, as it is termed. George was a first-born, and, indeed, an only child; and the kindness of the laird, with the industry of his mother, combined to rear him into boyhood. Being, however, under no paternal authority, he became wild and wayward, and, ere he had gained his thirteenth year, he was a greater adept in fishing, orchard-breaking, and cock-fighting, than in Ovid and Virgil. It was his early fortune to become acquainted with an old sailor, who had been in various engagements, particularly in that betwixt Rodney and De Grasse, in the western seas. This sailor, whose name was Bill Wilson, and whose trade in his old age was that of smuggling tea and brandy from the Solway to the Clyde, used to fill his head with adventure, and daring purpose, and successful execution. He had listened, he said, for hours to Bill's account of niggers, and buccaneers, and dare-devils, who fed on gunpowder, and walked, whistling, amidst cannon and musket shots. And then, prize-money, and Plymouth, and fun, and frolic, all night long! The thing was irresistible; so, with a letter in his pocket from Bill to an old comrade in the Isle of Man, then the centre of smuggling, George Smith took a moonlight leave of his mother, and his youthful associates, and the bonny braes of Dunsyette, and was on board a smuggler at Glencaple Key ere day dawned. He was conveyed, in the course of forty-eight hours, to the Isle of Man, and fairly stowed into the warehouse of Dick Davison, in the neighbourhood of the town of Douglas. His first adventure was the landing of a cargo of French brandy in the Bay of Glenluce; but the night was dark and stormy, and the boat upset; and, according to a published account, all in the boat--namely, three souls--had perished. The fact, however, was, that, whilst clinging to the inverted boat, he had been picked up by a West Indian ship from Greenock, which had been driven into the bay by stress of weather, and carried out incontinent, as no land could be made, to the island of Jamaica. In the meantime, Bill Wilson thought proper to get sick, and to die, and to confess the whole truth, with the dreadful catastrophe, to the poor distracted mother. When George arrived off Kingston, in Jamaica, he resolved upon pushing his way, in one course or another, upon land; so, having bid his captain good-by, and thanked him sincerely for the small trifle of saving his life, he set his foot on shore, almost naked, friendless, penniless. As he entered Kingston, he encountered a runaway steed, which, with a young lady screaming on its back, was plunging forwards, and entirely without control. George, acting on a natural impulse, threw himself in the way of the unruly animal, and, by getting hold of the bridle, at last brought it up; but not without several severe bruises, as he hung betwixt its fore-feet, unable, for want of weight, all at once to check the horse's career. The father of the young lady had now overtaken them; and, having alighted, extricated first his daughter, and then poor George Smith, from their perilous position. The young lady, who had in fact sustained no bodily injury, was loud in praise of him who, by his promptitude and intrepidity, had rescued her, in all probability, from much serious injury, or even from death; and George was immediately invited to accompany the party (for there was a well-mounted servant likewise) home to their villa, in the neighbourhood of the town. As they walked slowly (the young lady refusing to mount anew) up the rising ground to the south of Kingston, George had sufficient time to unfold the particulars of his short but eventful history; and to interest the father not less by his good sense and sagacity, than he had the daughter by his intrepidity and self-devotion. In a word, George found favour in the great man's eyes, and was introduced to the overseer of an extensive plantation, with instructions to have him clothed, employed as a clerk or slave-driver, and properly attended to in all respects. This seeming accident George used always to consider as one of those arrangements of divine Providence, by which good is brought out of seeming evil; and a total destitution of all the necessaries of life was in his case prevented. For three years, George continued to act on these plantations, receiving many acts of kindness from his really humane employer; and waxing into vigorous manhood, without seasoning fever, or any disease whatever. It was Mr Walker's habit (such was the name of his benefactor) to have George up with him to dine every Saturday, when he had renewed opportunities of becoming acquainted with the young lady whom he had rescued; and who was now budding sweetly into the perfect and accomplished woman. The distance in point of wealth, and consequently station (in a country where wealth is the only rank), betwixt George and Miss Walker, kept the eyes of the parent long blind to the actual position of affairs. But true it was, and of verity, that Miss Walker's heart was fairly won, and George's was as fairly lost, without one word on the subject of love having been exchanged on either side. Wonderful, unsearchable passion!--the electric fluid does not more universally penetrate nature herself, than does this passion the whole framework of society; and yet the ethereal agency is not more remote and inscrutable in its workings and doings, than in love-- "Sae, lang ere bonny Mary wist, Her peace was lost, her heart was won." It was the employment of Miss Walker, on warm, yet refreshing evenings, to sit in her open verandah or balcony, playing on the harp, and wooing all the sea-breezes with the witchery of sweet sounds. To George Smith, who had never been accustomed to such refined and overpowering entertainment, this performance and exhibition (for what is there in nature so graceful as a fine female hand and arm sweeping the strings of the harp?) was perfect magic. A thousand times, as he sat and gazed, trembling all over, he felt inclined to grasp the fair performer, harp and all, to his bosom; and to squeeze them incontinently into himself. Again and again he has arisen, and partly withdrawn, as one would from a house on fire. Nor was Miss Smith, on her part, insensible to the presence of a youth, uncommonly handsome, who had so early recommended himself to her good graces. Her walks and rides over the plantation were frequent; and she took particular pleasure in observing the progress of that part of her father's property over which George Smith more immediately presided. Her questions and inquiries were truly astonishing; and she seemed as anxious to learn all about the process of cane-cutting and sugar-boiling, as if her own happiness had depended on this knowledge. But George was conscientious; and although loving the "bonny lassie" (as he said) to distraction, he understood it as a crime worse than that of witchcraft--namely, of ingratitude--to disclose his feelings. For some months, matters were in this position--the young lady's health manifestly suffering, and George evidently visited by strange and unaccountable fits of silence and mental absence. The overseer, who happened to be more quick-sighted than even the father, from repeated observations, guessed at the truth; and, thinking it his duty, immediately apprised Mr Walker of his suspicions. As Mary had been destined for some time to another--to a neighbouring planter, whose property was adjoining to that of Mr Walker--steps were immediately devised to prevent the lovers from coming to any more definite understanding on the subject; and, one night, when George had just fallen asleep, after having penned a few lines to "Mary, flower of sweetest hue," &c., he was forcibly seized upon, manacled, and carried on board a ship, which was lying at some distance from the harbour. By daylight the vessel was under weigh, and, ere noon, not a blue hill of Jamaica could be seen from the deck of His Majesty's ship Spitfire. It was needless to remonstrate or grumble--his fate, and the cause of it, were but too manifest; and he almost felt inclined to justify an act, which at once put it out of his power to prove ungrateful to so kind a benefactor. Still, still the bright idea of Mary haunted his imagination, and would not depart from his heart. In this frigate of forty-four guns, there was a countryman, and even countryman of his own; who, having more recently left the sweet banks of the silver Nith, was enabled to give him more recent information respecting affairs in Drumfries-shire; and from him he learned that his poor mother's heart had broken, and that she was reported to have died a few days before he had left the place. This distressed George exceedingly; for, though he had been an idle and wayward boy, under more strict management it might have been otherwise; and he manifestly bore in his bosom a kind and a feeling heart. But who can recall the past, or the dead from their appointment? So, in the active discharge of duty as a seaman, and in the enjoyment of the company of one or two intimate companions, George confessed that he soon chased, in a great measure, the mournful tidings from his recollection. It was not so easy, however, to get rid of Mary: and he used to entertain his friend Tom Harkness with all the outs and ins, the hopes and fears, the pulsations and ecstasies, of his love passion. In this ship, George sailed first to Rio Janeiro, then across the Atlantic to Cape Town, back again to the Azores, and ultimately, by the coast of France, into Plymouth. Although, during the whole of these voyages, they had no windfalls, no prizes, yet his pay had accumulated, and he landed with fifty guineas in his pocket. Having no friend or home, as he now conceived, to return to, he immediately took coach for London, resolved to make the most, in sailor phrase, of his fifty guineas. Over this part of Mr George Smith's history he himself ever preserved a veil; but I could easily gather, that his conduct, during four weeks spent in London, was, like that of many others similarly situated, anything but prudent, moral, or praiseworthy. Having at last got rid of the yellow boys, he bethought himself of returning to Plymouth, and of obtaining a berth as purser, if possible, in one of the many ships-of-war then lying in that port. When on his way down to Plymouth, he became the fellow-traveller, in the stage-coach, of a lady of a _certain age_, fair, fat, and forty, who was on a visit to a relative in the neighbourhood of Portsmouth. As his manners and person were both agreeable, he contrived to get into the good graces of the fair dame, who was yet ignorant of the "betters and the worse" of matrimony. So much was the buxom damsel taken with her travelling companion, that she invited him to visit her at "View Cottage," about a mile from Plymouth. This invitation was willingly accepted of--the visit was paid, the reception was most flattering, and, in the course of a fortnight, George was in possession of the charming Miss Higgenbottom, with one thousand pounds for her portion. With this money and the wife, George contrived to spend a couple of months at a place near Exeter, as unhappily as possible. His wife was the daughter of a rich butcher in Whitechapel, and as unlike her husband in tastes, temper, and pursuits, as possible. She was, moreover, miserably addicted to the bottle, which, with the help of a sufficient quantity of opium, brought her to the grave in the course of the time mentioned. As George, during this period, had lived upon the principal of his wife's money, he was just now where he was before--ready to step on board ship, and to push his fortune. On board ship, therefore, he went, and was immediately in the western seas, keeping a sharp look-out after some privateers, which had been, for some time past, harassing our traders, and making prizes of our merchantmen. At this stage of his narrative, the hero of my tale used to get so animated, that I can still recall nearly the very words which I have heard, I am sure, fifty times at least. "We had steered off and on for more than a month, betwixt Demerara and St Domingo, all along the stretch of the Leeward Islands. Our commander, Captain Broughton, was beginning to pet a little at our inactivity, and to thrust the tobacco into his left instead of his right cheek--a sure mark that he was out of tune. At last a sail appeared on the horizon, which, from her rigging, seemed of a suspicious character, and the orders were immediately issued to bear down upon her. As we neared, she hoisted British colours, and slipped quietly across our bows. "'Oh ho!' exclaimed old 'Broughty;' 'none of your tricks upon travellers, my lad--you are no more British than I am a kail-stock; and that we will very soon ascertain, by putting a few homethrust questions to you.' So saying, he ordered two shots to be fired across her bows. Upon finding that we were disposed to grapple with her, she instantly hoisted her own colours, and sent a broadside right across our quarters. The battle now began in good earnest, and, for a full half-hour, we bowled away as if all hell had been on deck. When the smoke cleared a little, we could see that we had disabled our adversary, by shooting away part of his rigging; and the captain's orders were to arm and board instantly. We rushed on board like furies; but, in the desperate struggle, our captain fell, and almost every officer on board. There was the hesitation of a moment, which determined our fate; for the dare-devils rushed in upon us, fore and aft, and made sad work of it. Not a man, with the exception of myself, the first lieutenant, and the steward, was spared; the cutlass and the deep soon obliterated the gallant crew of the Thunderer. It was, indeed, an awful sight; and, expecting every moment to be put to some horrid death by the monsters, I leaped from the deck into the sea, and remember nothing more till I awoke, as I conceived, in a state of future punishment. But over me there hung a countenance with which I was too well acquainted ever to mistake it: it was that of Mary Walker, my first, and dearest, and never entirely forgotten love. Her father sat by, wrung his hands in absolute despair; and Mary's face was strangely altered--wan, shrunk, and full of extreme misery. I scarcely could credit my senses, and was on the point of coming to some explanation, when a terrible tramping and bustle on board bespoke some approaching crisis. It was so. A British seventy-four was in the act of bearing straight down upon the crippled privateer, and the scarcely less disabled Thunderer, and all on board was despair and distraction. Resistance was found to be out of the question; so, in less than an hour, we were all conveyed safely on board of the Neptune--Captain Briggs commander. We were immediately carried into Kingston, and landed, at our own desire--Mr Walker having satisfied Captain Briggs in regard to my discharge from His Majesty's service." The explanation of the whole matter was this:--Miss Walker, after her lover's departure, became very disconsolate, and her health ultimately became very precarious. The more temperate air of Britain was recommended, and her fond father had sailed with her, with the view of placing her somewhere in Devonshire, with a near relative. He proposed to return for a season, to wind up his affairs finally, which, of late, had not prospered, and to spend the remainder of his days and fortune in his native land. They had only sailed twelve hours, when, after a desperate and unequal struggle, they were captured, and put under hatches. During the desperate engagement which succeeded, the sequel explains itself. They were ultimately landed in safety at the pier from which they had started, and all slept, the following night, under Mr Walker's roof. George Smith and Mary Walker were married in the course of a few months, nor did her husband perceive that her health declined. She lived to become the mother of two children--a boy and a girl--when her father, whose affairs, from some unlooked-for losses, had become embarrassed, died suddenly, not without some ugly surmises respecting the cause. Smith, after this, had no heart to remain on the island; so, collecting the remnant of a once princely fortune, he embarked, with his beloved wife and children, for Britain. Finding, however, that he could not succeed to his wish in his native land, he set out for Bordeaux, where he established himself in the wine trade, and, in the language of sacred writ, "begat sons and daughters." There he lived many years, in domestic peace and happiness, enjoying the society and affection of a most attached and amiable partner, and getting his family disposed of, till only one daughter remained with him unmarried. At last, death robbed him, in the disguise of a slow or typhus fever, of his beloved Mary; and, with his beautiful and amiable daughter, he sought again the shores of his own Scotland--his beloved Dumfries, his native Closeburn. Whilst dining with his daughter at Brownhill, he had learned that his aged mother was still alive, and an inmate of the same dwelling which he had himself inhabited. The rest of the story can easily be anticipated: his mother was well provided for during the few years--and they were but few--of her _happily_ protracted existence; and his lovely and affectionate Eliza is now the mother of seven children, and the virtuous and beloved wife of the bumble narrator of these "Family Incidents." HOME AND THE GIPSY MAID. I have been at school and college, I have read considerably in books, and have attended debating societies to satiety. Thus I have picked up a deal of what the world calls useful knowledge and worldly wisdom. But there is one branch of education to which I am more indebted than to any other whatever. I was born in the retired solitude of a mountain glen. I was myself alone amongst the mountains, with my mother and two old women, my relatives. I did not know, at the time, that I was any way peculiarly situated. I felt joyous and happy from morn to night; but the cause of all this happiness was no matter of inquiry. In fact, I never thought of causes at all. I took nature as she appeared, and put no impertinent questions to her. There I lay by a little stream, which, after dancing gaily down a steep and broken rock, became, all at once, a deep _bumbling_ pool. There I lay, amidst the daisies and buttercups of spring, on the green plot, listening to the song of a thousand throats, and marking the suspended trout, as it rose to the fly, or floated along in the watery sunshine. At intervals, I would stretch myself supine; and, with my eyes half-closed, convert the clouds which covered in our little valley into what shapes and forms my fancy pleased. The wild bee passed in his hum; but I saw him not. The grasshopper chirruped from the adjoining grass; but I marked not his form or his locality. The buzz of insect life was in the air, and on the earth. I was not alone, and I felt it; my companions were the happy, the lively, the rejoicing, the exulting; and I partook of all their sentiments. I was, in fact, a unity lost in the midst of countless beings--a single throb in the great framework of animated nature. And, then, there were the woods which embanked and enclosed me all around. The oak, with its spread stole and broad leaf; the glorious birch, rising in pillows of green fragrance, and overtopping all; the hazel, in its less aspiring nature, peeping from betwixt the trees; and the sweet hawthorn, bestudding the brae, arrayed in a wedding suit of purest white. The tall ash-tree was there, and the rowan-tree, and the sloe-thorn, and the rasp-berry, and the bramble. The whole valley was my own orchard; and I selected at pleasure, without check or restraint, the nut, the sloe, and the hind-berry. Upon the top of the tall ash, there I sat, with the mavis for my companion on one side, and the blackbird on the other. With all manner of birds I was familiar, from the pyat to the water-wagtail. The searching for nests was my spring recreation, from April till July--I could tell at once the inmate from the construction of its abode. The eggs of the linnet, goldfinch, yorling, laverock, robin, titling, thrush, and blackbird, were as familiar to me as the letters of the alphabet. And if I wandered but a mile and a-half up the glen, I was in the midst of barrenness and solitude. The shepherd loomed from the distant horizon--the sheep roved along the steep--the goats clung to the cliffs. There the hawk and the raven had their abode; and there hung their nests from the projecting rock, or the horizontal tree. The heath was the nursery of its wild inmates. The whaup, and plover, and lapwing piped, and whistled, and fluttered around me. I was in the midst of their nesting-ground; and they seemed disposed to sacrifice me to their fears. Overhead were the lofty peaks of Queensberry--the greater and the less twin pillars--over which the pediment of heaven was spread. The mist trailed and deepened. I beheld its approach; and witnessed its breaking up into shreds and patches. I saw the first gleam of the sunshine, as it struggled through the density, and stood revealed in all the glory of a full effulgence of sunlight. My fishing-rod, a hazel sapling, was in my hand, and I pulled from streams and gullets of the most tiny dimensions large black and yellow trouts. There they lay, amidst the wet spret, or on the velvet fringe of the streamlet, in all the glory of scale and fin. My soul leaped in unison to their motions; and I absolutely danced in ecstasy. When I gained the mountain summit--O my God! what impressions I have had of beauty and sublimity! On the one hand, the dark, southern range, ranging away eastward in barren magnitude; on the other, the green and softly-outlined Lead Hills, rounded into magnificence. Before me, and stretching far southward, the distant Criffell, lumbering on the horizon; the sunny Solway, gleaming in light; the Nith, winding and coqueting with its fertile banks and fruitful plains; the Annan, a younger but scarcely less lovely sister, running its lateral course to the same ultimate destiny, the nascent feeders of the Clyde, Carsehope, and Darr, bursting from their mossy cradles into the wilderness around them, rejoicing in their solitudes, and in their numerous and undisturbed inmates. Oh, what is education--the alphabet in all its combinations and significations--to this! When in after life I have had occasion to animate my public addresses with simile, or to inspire them with sentiment--when at the desk, and with the pen in my hand, I have fished in my brain for metaphor or illustration--I have constantly recurred to my infant, my boyish home; to my native glen, and woods, and streams, and cliffs, and mountains; and when I have once seated myself on the Cat-craig, or on a branch of the oak or the birch, I feel myself quite at home. I can, indeed, call spirits, as I do now, from the depths of imagination and feeling--I can ascend in the spiral movements of that blue smoke, which lies so soft and silky between me and the opposite green sward. I can sympathise with those devout and happy hearts, which, in simple female habiliments, are now plying the wheel, or preparing the frugal repast within. I see the domestic fowls, in their sunny happiness, flapping their wings in the dusty corner of the kail-yard, or crowing in frolic till the echoes are awakened. There is but one world--one sinless, sorrowless, painless world--and this is it. Where then were the cares of the great world, which has absorbed this one? Where the jarrings of envy--the justlings of competition--the dread of disappointment--the frenzy of hope--the fever of love--the whole bevy of passions, which form the Corrievrecken of the heart! They were then, like Abraham's posterity, in Abraham's loins; they were possibilities, mere futurities--sleeping undisturbed and undisturbing in the limbs of contingencies. Alas! that ever my soul awoke from this dream!--that ever, one fine summer evening, I discovered that a change had come over my nature--that I had crept unknowingly into youth--that there was a soft delicious fire in my blood, which made me look beyond my humble cottage, with its aged inmates, for gratification and happiness! Oh, the exquisite, the ecstatic delight of this first awakening into the manhood of feeling!--when the passion-flower is just opening--when the nerves are troubled, for the first time, by the sensibilities of sex--when the blooming cheek, the rosy lip, the inviting glance, and the happily-moulded rotundities of the female form, become, for the first time, an object of fearful, of indescribable, of trembling interest! I ask any one of my readers, male and female, Was it not thus with you? Did not your first perceptions of the full compass of your nature come upon you at once? Come, no blushing now--no shuffling--it was even so; but you never liked to speak of it to any one. You thought that, in this respect, you were singular; but now, that you see I have turned king's evidence, you are conscious that what I aver is true. Here, then, I fix my landmark, with the age of puberty; all on this side is school, college, society, the world, care, troubles, and anxieties; all before this was that paradise from which I still pluck, as on this occasion, an apple or two, to refresh you and me as we journey along. Come, now, good-natured reader, and I will tell you a tale or anecdote of this primeval state of my being. In one of my early fishing excursions, I had the misfortune to lose myself in a dense fog or mist. I wandered on and on, not knowing well where I was (for it is well known that in such circumstances the most familiar objects assume a strange and unknown aspect), till at last I sat myself down on the brow of a peat-hag, not knowing well whether to cry or laugh at my wanderings. Twice had I come upon a tethered horse, and twice upon a thorn-tree with a solitary nest in it; so I found that I was assuredly walking in a circle, the centre of which, for anything that I could learn to the contrary, might very probably be my own habitation. Whilst employed in listening for the response of a mountain stream by which I might be directed, as by an old acquaintance, to a more familiar locality, I thought I heard a kind of strange, unearthly noise, coming from--I could not well tell by the ear--what quarter. I listened again, and all was silent, and I began to think that the noise had proceeded from some bird or beast in my immediate neighbourhood. Again, however, as I moved cautiously across the moss, the sound came upon me more distinctly--it was manifestly the sound of wailing and moaning, intermingled with much and hysterical sobbing. What could this mean? Night was at hand, the mist was manifestly mingling with the coming darkness, and here I was alone, in the presence, seemingly, of some unearthly being. My head was full of fairies, and brownies, and such-like supernaturals; and my heart, under such apprehensions, was as that of the bird taken in a snare. It immediately occurred to me that this must be some decoy fairy, employed in entrapping me into that unchristian brotherhood. The story of young "Tam Lean," which my mother had often repeated to me, occurred opportunely to augment my apprehensions and increase my agitation. I already felt as if mounted on a fairy steed--I was "pawing the light clouds," and shaking my belled bridle over my native dwelling, without the power of returning to it. Whilst such meditations as these shook my whole frame, the awful voice of wo was manifestly approaching me; and I immediately took to my heels, "with all convenient speed, according to the rules of terror." But, in endeavouring to increase the distance betwixt the object of my fears and myself, I ran immediately and directly in upon it; and had all but fainted, as I saw immediately before me a small female figure running about, and crying piteously. The form came upon my vision very indistinctly, and induced me to reverse my steps, and set off in double swift time in a direction opposite to that in which I had advanced. To my utter horror and amazement, the thing pursued me swiftly, and screaming at the top of its voice. This was indeed appalling, and I already felt as if I had taken up my residence in the dark recesses of a fairy-knowe. I ran and screamed, whilst it ran screaming too, through moss and pool, and spret and heath; and there we coursed it along--startling the whaups and miresnipes with our music. At last I was fairly overcome, and threw myself head foremost into a peat hag, whilst my pursuer halted immediately over my person. Oh, I could have wished to have concealed myself, at this moment, somewhere near the centre of the earth; when a couple of shepherd's curs appeared, and instantly afterwards James Hogg, the Mitchelslacks hind (since better known as the Ettrick Shepherd), stood before me. "What's a' this o't, sirs?" said Hogg, eyeing my tormentor and myself with a look of perplexed inquiry. "What's the matter wi' ye, Tam, that ye're derned that gate into the throat o' a moss-hole? Get up, man, an' tell me whar ye fell in wi' this bit puir lassie." The lassie, in the meantime, had clung to the shepherd's knees, and was endeavouring, but unsuccessfully, to speak. "It's a fairy!" I exclaimed. "O Jamie Hogg, it's a fairy!--hae naething to do wi't; it has pursued me this _hour_ past" (not in reality above two minutes!); "an' I saw a great many more fairies up by yonder. O Jamie, dinna meddle wi't; it's uncanny, I'm sure." Hereupon the fairy began to give utterance, in tones quite human, to a fearful statement, implying that she had been carried off from Annan by some gipsies, and carried away by them to the wild hills; and that, about an hour ago, she had run away in the mist, and had fairly escaped, but became alarmed as the darkness approached, and had followed me, as her only guide and protector in these wild hills. I cannot tell how much I felt relieved by this statement; and, as I began to gather up my members into a human shape, I saw plainly that my pursuer was a fine, well-thriven lassie, about ten or eleven years of age, and no unearthly fairy, as I had so lately believed. Hogg laughed heartily at my mistake, telling me that I wad find the lasses, by an' by, muckle waur than the fairies; and that, instead o' rinnin awa frae them, I wad be rinnin after them. At the time when these words were spoken, I did not rightly understand their meaning; but, reading them through the spectacles of future experience, I now understand them to the letter. Just as this conversation was finished, a great, tall, lumbering, but most athletic fellow bore down upon us through the mist. At sight of him, the poor girl screamed piteously, and clung to Hogg, and begged most imploringly that she should not be given up to that "terrible man." Hogg had just thrown off his plaid, adjusted his staff, and put himself determinedly betwixt the stranger and the girl, when down came two brother shepherds, attracted in all probability by the noise, and guessing immediately that a battle was about to ensue. When the tinker saw that the odds were thus against him, he bent his course, as if he had mistaken his way, in another direction, and was immediately lost in obscurity. Home to my mother's was this poor girl conducted by Hogg and me; and for three days and nights she partook of my home and board. Her story was simple and consistent. She had been out pulling rushes, to make a rush-cap, in a wood adjoining to the town of Annan, when she was accosted by a woman, who was exceedingly kind to her, giving her some sugar-bools, and decoying her by fair words into the centre of the forest. There she found four or five men, with a great many women, children, asses, &c., employed in making spoons, pans, &c., at a fire lighted in the open air. The children immediately gathered around her, and endeavoured to engage her in some games, whilst the "terrible man," as she always designated the chief of the gang, patted her on the cheek, and said, "You must come along with me, and be my daughter." Meantime the whole party were in motion, and the poor child was tossed into a pannier, on the back of an ass, and, being bound down with cords, was carried all night long, she knew not whither. By daybreak she found herself on the banks of a mountain-stream, and no human habitation within view. In this station she had remained for three days, being always kindly used, but observing fearful scenes, and hearing dreadful expressions. At last, being worn out with crying, and partly gained over by the companionship of her playmates, she had assumed a more resigned and contented appearance, in consequence of which she ceased to be watched with so much vigilance. Taking advantage, however, of the mist, and of the absence of the greater part of the women, she had edged into the stream, along the almost dry channel of which she had run, till she lost sight of the encampment, and had taken at once to the hill, without knowing whither she was flying. Fatigued, however, at last, and terrified, she had even resolved to retrace, if possible, her steps, when the occurrence above mentioned brought her refuge and safety. I shall never forget the scene which took place on the occasion of the restoration of this sweet girl to her parents, who were immediately informed by Hogg of the asylum which the poor wanderer had found. But, as every breast in which the genuine feelings of humanity are implanted will immediately conceive what such a meeting must have been, I shall not attempt to describe it. We were all in tears, and the poor mother fainted outright, as she grasped convulsively her lost lamb (as she tenderly termed it) to her bosom. I have lived long, and so has Jeanie Paton, the now respected mother of a large family, and the wife of honest Willie Paton, the best fisher and the best weaver in all Annandale. When I take my annual excursions south, their house is my home, and a day's fishing with Willie in the Annan is to me a treat of no ordinary delight--Jeanie welcomes us with her best, though, to be sure, I occasionally rub her a little too hard, in reference to the circumstance which made us first acquainted. THE RETURN. "Alas! regardless of their fate, The little victims play; No sense have they of ills to come, No cares beyond to-day." In passing by coach to Cheltenham, in the year 1831, I dined with a very agreeable fellow at Carlisle. It so happened that, in the course of conversation, I discovered that he was a class-fellow of mine, some forty-five years ago. But we had been separated ever since; nor was there a single feature by which I could recognise his countenance. He wore a wig, was sallow, withered, and almost emaciated; whereas Charles M'Murdo, the boy of my acquaintance, was a chubby, rosy imp, with a heart as light as a feather, and feet as swift as a roe. Nevertheless, if I did not recognise him, he soon discovered me: the change upon my person being less remarkable, as I had never left my own country, nor been any way exposed to extreme climate, either of heat or cold. He having some business to transact in London, as I had in Cheltenham, we agreed, before parting, and whilst the guard was blowing his horn, to rendezvous, on my return, at Liverpool, and to proceed north in company with each other. Accordingly, at the appointed day and hour, we met; ordered a private room and a comfortable dinner at the Saddle, a bottle of good old port, and a strict watch upon all intrusion. What a night we had of it! All the scenes of our youth rose into review, and, as glass after glass, and perhaps bottle after bottle, disappeared, our souls warmed, our imaginations fired, our memories, like the churchyard at the day of reckoning, "gave up the dead that were in them," and at last we all but embraced each other, shaking hands from time to time, as the toast arose to some old remembrance, some school companion now no more. There had been twelve of us in the same class; and my friend and I were all that remained (like Job's friends), to think or to speak of the fate of the rest. One, two, three, had gone to Jamaica, and had perished, sooner or later, in quest or in possession of competence or wealth; two had been ruined by dissipated company at college, had enlisted, and perished at Waterloo; one had done well as a surgeon at Sierra Leone, but had fevered at last, and died. In short, the roll-call was mournful--we were the skeleton of the class, its ghost, its shadow; but we were alive, beside a comfortable fire, and a cheerful gas-light, and with wine before us; and it is wonderful how soon we forgot the mournful recollection which would ever and anon peep in upon us through the mazes of our many-hued discourse. At last our enthusiasm began somewhat to subside; we ordered tumblers and hot water, with the necessary accompaniments, drew in the table closer to the fire, for it was the month of November, and agreed each to give the narrative of his own life and experience. My tale was soon told, nor would it be any way interesting to the reader to hear it. I had been a home-bird, and had attained, without much adventure or difficulty, a respectable position in society; but my old companion had been tossed about in the world, as he expressed it, like a _quid_ of hay in the throat of a cow; and I shall endeavour to put the reader in possession of the outline of what Charles M'Murdo that night, betwixt the hours of seven and eleven, related to me in large detail. "You know," said he, "my début: I was sent out to Jamaica by Mr Watson, a rich planter, to act as clerk on his plantations--in other words, to keep a large and terrible whip in constant employ. Our voyage was tempestuous; I frequently felt as if the ship, in her lurches into the trough of the sea, would never reascend, but would go down head foremost to the bottom of the Atlantic. But our captain was a skilful seaman, kept his men in heart, had his orders promptly obeyed, and we weathered the storm. Landing at Kingston, I was received in, what was termed, a warehouse by an overseer, who, after reading Mr Watson's letter, cursed me as a supernumerary, and said I might go where I liked, but I could not be there; they had too many of my sort already. Watson he called an old superannuated fool, who was determined, seemingly, to ruin the estate by the mere expense of working it. In a little, however, the storm blew over. Having drunk pretty deeply from a tumbler of rum and water--at least so he called it, though for my part I never could discover any trace of the water, and think this element might easily have proved an alibi in any court of justice--he made me partake of his beverage, and tumble into a corner of a counting-room, beyond a number of chairs, desks, and old ledgers. My bed was none of the best, but the weather was exceedingly warm, and I contrived to sleep pretty soundly till morning. Next day I was roused betimes by a black slave, naked to the middle, and instructed in my day's work. I was to join some four or five slave-drivers at a common rendezvous, and with them to march a-field, suitably provided for my task. I saw the poor slaves hard at work--digging the soil, and planting slips of cane, under a most oppressive sun; I saw, likewise, my hardened and inhuman associates applying the scourge to mothers with children at the breast, to the old, and to the infirm. I could not stand it; my heart sank within me. Oh, how I sighed for my own native land, with all its advantages and endearments!--and how I cursed my ambition, that had been kindled at the wheels of the chariot of Mr Watson, who, though born poor as I was, had realised an immense fortune in Jamaica!" Hereupon he burst out into an eulogy on Britain, and the administration which had given liberty to the slaves, and at the same time remunerated the unhallowed proprietors; but, after a short pause, during which I expressed my anxiety to hear the sequel of his story, he proceeded:-- "Well, custom will reconcile one to anything. You will scarcely believe me when I tell you that, though shy at first, and backward in the active discharge of my duty, I came at last to regard it as a matter of course, and to imagine that the poor blacks did not feel as I did, or experience the pain which such an infliction would have occasioned to myself. I was one day chastising a fellow, who absolutely refused to labour, on the score of indisposition, which I knew or believed to be put on, when a little child, of the African breed, came up to me, and, with a look of perfect nature and simplicity, said-- "'Ah, massa, you no have father--you never know father--you no black man's boy--you no born at all, massa--you made of stone--you have no pity for poor black boy's pa!' "The speech struck me exceedingly. I immediately ordered the father into the sick-house, and, patting the boy on the head, said he was a good, kind-hearted boy, and I would look after him for this. All this was repeated at head-quarters, and I was represented as neglecting my duty, and conniving at the idle and the dissolute amongst the slaves; and being summoned into the overseer's presence, I was examined, confessed the truth, and was immediately dismissed the estate. "Where was I to turn?--Without a character, no other plantation would admit my services. The heavens over my head were iron, the earth was brass. I could get no employment, and to beg I was ashamed. I wandered down to the sea-shore, and in my excursion met with several ladies and gentlemen, riding on beautiful chargers, talking and laughing loudly all the while--and I wished to be one of them. It was this stimulus which had set me in motion, made me cross the Atlantic, and submit to great indignities--and yet here I was, an outcast less valuable than the wrecks which lined the bay. No one of the various cavalcades took the least notice of me; and I seated myself, at last, on a rock, and began to plunge little water-worn pebbles into the smooth bay. After a considerable interval of most poignant despair, the little black boy made his appearance, and told me that he had just heard of my dismissal, and that his father wished to see me in the hospital. I went with the boy half-stupified, and almost unconscious of either motive or motion. The poor, grateful creature wished me to take some money, which he had accumulated by his Sabbath-afternoon industry; but I refused it at once, though I did so with tears of gratitude in my eyes. He then informed me that he had formerly slaved on an adjoining plantation, and that his former master was of a more kindly disposition than the present one. He had just heard of the death of one of his clerks, and, if I would present myself immediately, ere the next fleet should arrive with a fresh supply of slave-drivers, he had no doubt but, from my appearance, and my good hand of writing, I might find employment. I took the honest creature's advice; and, accompanied by little Ebony, made the best of my way to Hillside plantation, about a mile and a-half from Kingston. The kind-hearted boy went before me, and, chancing to meet Mr Ferguson, the proprietor of Hillside estate, he threw himself on his knees before him, in the most imploring manner:-- "'Young gentleman dismissed; but he no ill--he kind to poor father--he very kind to black man when sick. Massa know poor Gabby.' "Ere the boy had risen from his knees, I had presented myself to Mr Ferguson, and told my own story precisely as it stood. Luckily for me, Mr Ferguson and my former employer were upon the worst terms possible; so I found no difficulty in getting a temporary appointment on trial. It is said somewhere that despotism is the best of all governments, when the despot is a good man. This is truly verified in these islands. Nothing can differ more than does the usage of the slaves in different plantations. The overseer, Mr Handy, on Watson's plantation, he whom I had just left, was a brutal person, almost constantly under the excitement or reaction of rum, and his slaves were constantly beaten and ill used in every way; whereas the Hillside slaves were allowed all possible indulgences, and really seemed quite happy. They used to go about, on the fine Jamaica evenings, singing, dancing, and playing upon instruments, visiting and returning visits, and enjoying all the happiness of which their state was susceptible. I lived two years on this plantation, and was handsomely paid as a clerk. I now, for the first time, began to think of accumulating money, with the view of purchase or partnership. But an incident occured to me at this stage of my fortunes which gave them an unforeseen turn. I was kidnapped, whilst walking on the sea-shore, rather late one evening, and immediately carried on board a vessel, which sailed ere morning. This had been done, as I afterwards understood, under the direction of Handy; who, having heard of my good fortune and prosperity, persuaded a brother of his, who traded to Hudson's Bay, in the fur trade, to carry me there, and keep me out of his sight. He could not bear to think that I might possibly one day come to effect an establishment in his immediate neighbourhood. Captain Handy was a cruel, despotic, weatherbeaten piece of mortality; he carried me in a few months to Hudson's Bay, and had me introduced into a great house in the fur trade. In vain, when I got ashore, did I remonstrate against the violence which had been used in regard to me; I was immediately clothed in warm garments, armed with a musket, and marched overland, along with about ten or twelve copper-faced Indians, towards the upper lakes of the St. Lawrence. Our ultimate destination was Lake Superior. There we were commissioned to trade with the Indians, exchanging muskets, spirits, and various kinds of cutlery, for fur-skins. There was a small settlement in the centre of the lake, but there were not sufficient provisions for the additional numbers during winter; so we were expected to return on land to the settlement on Hudson's Bay ere the winter set in. But this year the American winter commenced a month earlier than usual, and with unprecedented severity. We had nothing but one log-house to accommodate upwards of thirty people; but this erection was of considerable extent, and leaned against several growing trees. Our situation became immediately all but desperate. You can have no idea of an American winter in such latitudes." (Hereupon I stirred the fire, and helped myself to a glass of toddy.) "The snow comes on at once, and the atmosphere is so loaded and thickened with drift, that you may cut it into cubes with a knife. And then the snow, which in a few hours accumulates over your dwelling to the very roof, penetrates everywhere through your wooden erection. In spite of a blazing hearth, you are shivering almost in the midst of the flame. The horrors of that winter I can never forget; we were, long ere New Year's-day, reduced to our daily shifts for our daily food. Had it not been for our Indian friends, we should have perished of hunger to a man; but their skill in archery and even in ball-shooting is altogether incredible. Nothing borne on wings over our heads escaped them. The bow was lifted immediately to the eye, the arrow was pointed, and followed for a small space the course of the bird; it flew, but apparently not straight for the object, but greatly in advance of it; but, ere it had gained its utmost ascent, the winged and the feathered objects had crossed on their courses, and the prey fell immediately, transfixed by the arrow. We broke the ice, too, of the lake, which was often three feet in thickness, and, with bait prepared by the Indians, of the seeds of trees, decoyed occasionally some half-starved fish to our lines. But, with all appliances and means to boot, we became perfect skeletons; several died of various complaints, all brought on by cold, and spare as well as unwholesome diet. Oh, what would I then have given for a dinner such as we have enjoyed this day! But, not to fatigue you with exclamations and with representations of suffering which to you must seem incredible, the winter gave way at last, and its departure was agreeably unexpected with its approach; the thaw came as much earlier as the frost had anticipated its average approach. Our boats were again on the lake, and we were enabled to ship off our skins for their ultimate destination, Montreal. As I had shown considerable talents, and what they termed mettle, during the winter trials, the commander of the party had me boated off, along with the skins, for Mr Syme's warehouse, at Montreal. Here I met with a friend, in a cousin of my mother. He immediately took me into his warehouse. "By this time I was sufficiently tired of a moving life; like the rolling stone of the proverb, I had gathered no fog--'_movebam, sed nil promovebam_.' I was very happy, therefore, when Mr Syme proposed my remaining at least some time with him in the capacity mentioned. Montreal, as everybody knows, is situated upon an island in the St Lawrence, and few places could be more advantageous for trade, or more picturesque in appearance. In the centre of the island there rises a beautiful eminence, still covered with trees of the primeval American forests; and towards the eastern skies lies the town itself, upper and lower, adorned with public buildings, and presenting, as you approach it, a very prepossessing aspect. Mr Syme had a warehouse, at a place called Chine, about eight miles up, and immediately upon the river. Here the furs were shipped for Europe, and Britain in particular, and here it was my duty to remain, except on Sundays, when I constantly dined with my kind relative. Mr Syme had an only daughter, two sons having died, and the mother likewise, whilst being delivered of the last. This daughter was now a young woman of nineteen, and sufficiently handsome for matrimony, considering that she was to inherit her father's wealth and business, which was itself a mine of gain. Her father, who in many respects was a kind-hearted and a prudent man, was as obstinate as an old oak-trunk when he took it into his head to be so. Most people have some weak side or other--and this was his. He had determined, from the time when Samuel Horseman, the rich merchant (the richest, it was supposed, in the island), had rocked his Nancy in the cradle, and had suffered himself to be scorned with the child, that Nancy should one day or other be Mrs Horseman; and that thus, by the union of their families and their fortunes, there should not be a firm in Montreal that would once be spoken of in the same day with Horseman, Syme, & Co. This idea had grown with the growth of the child, and had strengthened with her strength--it was never twenty-four hours out of his head. But, one dreadful afternoon, Horseman arrived from Quebec with a little pretty French milliner, whom he had married. This was death to Syme's plans and prospects, and so he set immediately about cutting Horseman, and looking out for some other advantageous way of disposing of his _article_, which had now seen some fourteen summers. But before he could settle upon any particular individual, he was relieved from his disappointment, and restored to his intercourse with Horseman, by a gallant serjeant, who claimed Mrs Horseman as his lawful and married wife; in fact, there were several claimants; but one was as good as a hundred to Horseman, who by this time was heartily tired of his partner, and would have willingly seen her attempting a voyage of discovery over the Falls of Niagara. Syme soon redoubled his diligence, and gave his daughter to understand that, so soon as she had attained the age of nineteen, the age of her mother when she became a bride, she should be exalted to all the honours and privileges of Mrs Horseman. "There are two, it is said, at a bargain-making; but that is merely the _minimum_: in this case, there were three, and ultimately four. Miss Syme had been exceedingly annoyed by her father's unreasonable arrangement; she, of course, disliked Horseman, as she did everything old, ugly, snuffy, and bandylegged; but her father was incessant in his importunities, or rather commands, and matters were in this state when the friend now addressing you made his appearance, and took up his principal residence at Chine. It was not long before Miss Syme and I came to understand each other. I do not know how it was--I was not romantically in love--perhaps it is not in my nature; but I was willing to hear the poor girl's story, and to mingle tears with hers. We never talked of love; but yet, somehow or other, it made an inroad upon the debateable territory on both sides, till we felt that we were assuredly over head and ears, from the circumstance that, like Darby and Joan, 'we were ever uneasy asunder.' The father began to smell a rat, as they say--at least you and I have often said whilst at school--and he was in a furious passion, threatened dismissal to me and imprisonment to Nancy. In the meantime, death, in the shape of an ague, carried Horseman beyond the reach of matrimony--he went to that land where there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage; and I became every day more and more useful to my employer. It was manifest to all that his heart had now softened, and that he had come to see the utter folly of human schemes when controverted by the decrees of Heaven. One day he was up at Chine, seeing some furs shipped for London; when in passing from the shore to the ship, he slipped a foot and fell into the water. There was no one who observed this but myself, as all the men were busily engaged. I immediately plunged headlong into the somewhat rapid stream. He was not to be found. The current had borne him downwards, and a water-dog, which was kept on purpose on board, was in the act, as I perceived, of dragging the body ashore. I assisted the animal, and got the credit of saving my friend. "I need not delay you longer. I married Mr Syme's daughter, and succeeded, at his death, to the whole concern, which I have just wound up; and, having left my wife and an only daughter in London, I am on my way to visit, by surprise, my aged mother, who still lives in the place of my birth, and to purchase, if possible, a property in the neighbourhood, there to spend, in peace, and affection, and domestic love, the evening of my days.--Will you go with me to Lastcairn?" I agreed. We drove up the glen, by Croalchapel; and my friend was all absence, and inward rumination, and anticipated delight. But the footsteps of death were on the threshold. His aged parent was still alive and sensible, but manifestly fast going. She was made sensible that her long-lost Charlie, who had been so kind to her in her old age, was before her. She tried to stretch forth her withered arm, but it was scathed by death. She received the last embrace of her son, said something about "depart in peace," and fell asleep. THE POOR SCHOLAR. Reader, if ever thou hast been in "Babylon the Great," or, in other words, in the overgrown metropolis of the southern portion of these kingdoms, peradventure you have observed melancholy-looking men, their countenances tinged with the "pale cast of thought," in suits of well-worn black, "a world too wide," creeping, edging, or shuffling along the streets, each belike with a bundle of papers peering from his pocket. In nine cases out of ten, these neglected-looking men are the poor scholars who instruct or amuse the world. You may also find them, with anxiety in their eyes, and hunger sitting at home upon their cheeks, wandering in the most secluded corners of the parks, enjoying, by way of a substitute for dinner, the apology which the air in the parks offers for the pure and unadulterated breath of heaven. Daily, too, they may be seen in the library of the Museum, poring over an old volume, and concealing their shoes beneath the table, lest they should "prate" of the scholar's "whereabouts," and ask of the venerable volume, "Are you or we oldest?" Or you may find them in the corner of some obscure coffee-house, poring intently over the periodicals of the day, at intervals slowly sipping and mincing the cup of coffee and half slice of bread before them. But, in speaking of poor scholars generally, I keep you from the tale of our Poor Scholar. You have heard of Longtown, which is a neat, respectable-looking, and remarkably clean little town in Cumberland, on the banks of the Esk, near to what is called Solway Moss, and sometimes spoken of as the first or last town in England, in the same manner as Coldstream is mentioned as the first or last town in Scotland. Well, there dwelt in Longtown a respectable widow, named Musgrave. She derived an income of about eighty pounds a-year from a property that had been bequeathed to her in the West Indies. She had an only son, whose name was Robert, and who, after a respectable education in his native place, was bound as an apprentice to a medical practitioner in Carlisle. He afterwards attended the classes in Edinburgh; but, before he had taken out all the necessary tickets, and before he had obtained the diploma or qualification which was to enable him to use the word "surgeon" after his name, something went wrong about the property that was bequeathed to his mother in the West Indies; her remittances ceased, and, after a tedious lawsuit, it was swallowed up altogether. She was left in poverty--in utter destitution. The misfortune fell upon her heavily; she drooped, pined, mourned, and died; and Robert Musgrave, still under twenty, was left without money and without friends. His talents, however, had excited the notice of several of the professors under whom he had studied; and they, acquiring a knowledge of his circumstances, and feeling an interest in his fate, enabled him to take out his certificate as a member of the College of Surgeons. He now, with high hopes, and, I need not say, a low pocket, commenced practice as a country surgeon in a small village on the Borders. It was a young man's dream. A surgeon in a country village, and especially a young one, is generally the worst paid man in it. The war between poverty and the necessity of appearing respectable never ceases. The clergyman, be he churchman or dissenter, has a certain income, be it less or more; but the surgeon lives between the hand and the mouth; and he can hardly, considering his avocation, in Christian benevolence, pray for "daily bread." Such a prayer would be something akin to a gravedigger's for an east wind or a "green Christmas," which, as the adage hath it, "maketh a fat kirkyard." Now, Robert Musgrave was a young man, possessed not only of what may be called talent, but, what is more, of strong and ardent genius; while, young as he was, his professional skill would have done honour to a court physician. But, buried in the obscurity of a poor and secluded village, struggling between gentility and penury, shut out from all society congenial to his taste, education, and former habits, he became heartless and callous, if not slovenly; and, eventually, he sank into a sceptic from the _force of appearance_. For, be assured, gentle reader, if ye will study mankind closely, and examine into their outgoings and their incomings, and think of the _why_ for every _wherefore_, ye will find that the reasoning of a shabby coat produces more converts to everyday free-thinking or infidelity, than the philosophy of Hobbes, the rhetoric of Shaftesbury, the wit of Voltaire, the sophistry of Hume, and the blackguard ribaldry of Paine, united. The neighbouring farmers admitted Doctor Musgrave, as they called him, to be clever; but they despised his poverty, and invited him to their tables only for amusement. Deprived of books, and without society, while his temperament was framed for both, and feeling himself slighted, he gradually lost his respectability, and became a tippler, if not a drunkard. I shall here follow out a portion of his history, in a conversation which he had with a Cumberland farmer, one Peter Liddell, whom he met in London about three years after he had left his country practice on the Borders:-- "The longer I remained in----," said he, "my situation became the more painful. I felt I was becoming something less than the equal of society I despised. I found that I had gradually sunk into the odious vice of drunkenness; that I was the companion only of the ignorant and the worthless; and poverty, eternal poverty and obscurity, were all that appeared before me. But the dormant ambition of boyhood, the dreams that delighted my early years, did not wholly forsake me. I had long determined to leave the village, and try my fortune in the world; but want of means prevented me. I resolved to tear adversity by the beard, and face every obstacle. With difficulty I gathered in as many debts as enabled me to proceed to Newcastle, and take a passage to London, where I arrived on the first of February, without friends, and almost without money--in fact, with not five shillings in my pocket." "Poor fellow!" said Peter; and they were sitting together in a tavern in Fleet Street, which is called a north-country house; for Peter was in London on business, and having met the doctor on the street, they went into the tavern to talk of their native hills, and the "old familiar faces." "Poor fellow!" added Peter; and, with a sort of sigh, added, "_Ah_, sirs! it is really well said that the one half of the world doesn't know how the other lives. It would take planning to lay out those five shillings." "It certainly did," said the scholar. "You are aware that my practice in the village, from a prejudice against what some called my religion, or rather my no religion, was exceedingly limited. In fact, I was a persecuted man, for principles of which I was as ignorant as themselves; and disdaining to accommodate my habits and conversation to their rules, the persecution increased, and the payments made to me became more limited than my practice. I bade fair to become an actual representative of Shakspere's apothecary; and would assuredly have thought myself 'passing rich with forty pounds a-year.' But the one-half of my practice would not pay the expense of wrapping the powders in paper. On sending to our village tobacconist's, I have had my own accounts returning as snuff-paper; and, though my success was not, I believe, inferior to most in the profession, my patients regarded paying me as throwing money away, or as an unnecessary charity; and never did the payments, taking one year with another, exceed thirty pounds." "Poor fellow! do ye really say so?" responded Peter; "thirty pounds a-year!--and was that a'? And was ye really not an atheist or a deist, doctor, as the people gied ye out to be?" "Whatever I and the mass of mankind are in our practice, Mr Liddell," he replied, "I am neither, when the small still voice of conscience speaks." "Gie's your hand--gie's your hand, doctor," cried Peter; "I ask your pardon for onything I ever thought or said respecting ye, as sincerely as ever man did. Conscience is, as ye say, a sma still voice; but I doubt it is one that many will hear aboon the sough o' friends at a death-bed, the thunders o' the day o' judgment, and the roaring and raging o' the bottomless pit. But ye say that ye had barely five shillings in your pocket when ye arrived in London here. How, in a' the world, did ye manage to lay it out?' "Sixpence," replied the scholar, "went in treating the captain to a glass of grog, when we came on shore, including one for myself." "That was very foolishly spent, however," interrupted Peter. "And it being night when we landed," added the doctor, "another shilling was spent in the public-house for a bed." "A bed!" exclaimed our Cumberland farmer. "Man, had ye not the gumption to sleep aboord, or gie the captain the hint, after treating him wi' the glass. That was eighteen-pence clean thrown awa'; and only left ye wi' three-and-sax-pence. Poor soul! what did ye do?" "Beginning to reflect in the morning," said the other, "that three-and-sixpence was not an inexhaustible sum, I agreed to pass over the very useful ceremony of a breakfast; and, strolling about, planning what to do, and marvelling at all I saw--after narrowly escaping being jostled to pieces, as I moved slowly from street to street, while every soul in the great city appeared to be walking for a wager but myself--towards three o'clock I dined in an eating-house, for six pence, by the side of a coalheaver. The afternoon was also passed in dreamy wandering. After nightfall, I became dispirited and fatigued. I was still unable to form any definite plan of proceeding, and I more than once asked myself what I had come to London to do." "Poor man! I doubt there are too many like ye," said Peter. "I was satiated with the busy variety of the scene," he continued; "the very changes became as sameness, and I longed only for a place where I might lie down and rest. I obtained a lodging for the night, in a suspicious-looking public-house, for a sixpence; and rising early on the following morning, my second day in London was spent as the first had been, and at the same expense, save a penny--for on that day my dinner cost me but five pence. My two shillings and a penny were now sacred, and I feared to incur the expense of a night's lodgings. I was passing what I discovered to be Covent Garden. Crowds were pressing into the theatre. I stood and ran my eyes over the playbill. I saw the names, Kemble! Cooke! Bannister! Siddons!--The temptation was irresistible." "Irresistible!" cried Peter; "what the mischief do ye mean? I see naething irresistible in the case, unless ye just mean to tell me that ye are a born fool." "Siddons! Kemble! Cook! and Bannister!" proceeded our hero, "on the same boards, and on the same night! I thought myself transported to Elysium! I looked for the word _Gallery_, pressed forward with the eager crowd, and threw down my shilling. 'Another shilling, sir,' said the man of checks. I had followed the stream of the two-shilling gallery, and thus----" "Good gracious!" exclaimed the farmer, raising his hands "did ever man in his right judgment hear the like o' that?--ye're no to be pitied! I wonder ye didna think o' buying a strait-jacket!--ye was fitter for it than a play-house. Doctor, I didna think ye had been such an idiot. But I must say that some mothers bring fools into the world after a'. Did ye really no turn back again?--or what did ye do wi' your last penny? It would be thrown away as wisely as the two shillings, I reckon." "I plead guilty," said Robert; "I acted as a fool, but bore the consequence like a philosopher. My last shilling had disappeared. The performance proceeded--I was delighted, enraptured, overwhelmed. The curtain dropped. The house was crowded to suffocation--my throat was parched--and with my last penny--(keep your seat, Mr Liddell)--with my last penny I bought an orange from a fruit-seller in the gallery. The second piece was concluded. The human mass moved every one to the tavern or their homes, a supper and a pillow, and I--I alone of the thousands--went forth penniless into the streets, hungry, shivering, and fatigued, to wander without hope!" "And served ye right," said Peter. "I dinna pity ye, sir. No, no; after that, I'm done wi' ye. But how did ye get through the night?" "The day dawned," resumed Robert Musgrave, "and I was still wandering--fainting, trembling, cold, and benumbed. I had long had some pretensions to literature. I was born in the midst of poetry. It sang around me from the deathless voices of my native Esk, hymning to its green woods and its massy crags. It looked down upon me from the thunder-belted brows of my native mountains, and drew my soul upwards to itself. It grew with my growth, it became a part of my being, and, in the midst of my debasement, it parted not from me." "Famous! famous!--drat, ye're an orator, doctor!" cried the farmer, in admiration of the eloquent fervour of his countryman. "Cumberland--and where is the county like it? I wish, doctor, I had been a bishop for your sake--ye should have had a benefice." "My luggage," continued the other, "consisted only of a chest containing little beyond books and manuscripts. With the same feeling which every author may be supposed to have for his productions, I considered mine were not inferior to others which were puffed and published. I say puffed and published; for, now-a-days, it is common for a puff to be both written and published before the work be-praised is in the hands of the printer." "Coom, now, Maister Musgrave," said the farmer, "not so fast, if you please; I can believe anything that's possible in a reasonable way. But how a book can be praised before it be read and printed, or, as I should say, before it is a book, I canna comprehend. So ye mustna come over me in that way, doctor." "It is not so impossible as you imagine," replied the other; "you know that money is a powerful agent." "Ay, troth do I," said the farmer; "now I understand ye; I know 'That money makes the mare to go, Whether she has legs or no.'" "Well," resumed the surgeon, "laying the hope of fame and reward as an unction to my wounded spirit, I returned to the vessel, and, intrusting my trunk to the care of a wharfinger, I took from it a bundle of manuscripts--consisting of a novel, poems, essays, and papers on medical subjects--and, with a beating heart, proceeded towards Paternoster Row, praying as I went. I passed every bookseller's in the street, measuring the countenance of himself and his shopman. At length, after passing and repassing several doors a dozen times, as often having my feet upon their thresholds, half drawing my papers from my pocket and thrusting them back again, I ventured into one; and, after a few words awkwardly expressed, holding the manuscripts in my hands, I made known my business. The gentleman, without looking at my productions, but not without looking at me, said his hands were full, and hurried back to his desk. I called on six others; and though my reception with some was more courteous, my success was the same. I applied to the eighth and last. A glimmering of hope returned with the first glance of his countenance. It was not what every one would term inviting; but genuine feeling glowed through a garb of roughness. He received me with politeness, looked over my papers, delicately asked me a few questions, which I neither knew how to answer nor how to evade; he hinted his fears that I had written on subjects which were not exactly in demand in the market, and, in conclusion, requested me to leave the manuscripts, and call on him on the following morning. I again went into the streets, to hold battle with hunger and anticipation. For several hours, hope and hope's fond dreams bore me up; but towards evening, and throughout the night, the wind blew cold and wildly, the rain fell unceasingly. I was drenched and almost motionless, and but for the interference of the patrols, I would fain have lain down to sleep, beneath the cover of a passage, on the damp earth." "Oh, help us!" said Peter, "what is that o't! I know as well what it is to travel by night, and in a' weathers, as anybody; but, poor man! I had none o' your sufferings to contend wi'." "The longed-for and yet dreaded hour arrived," resumed the other. "I approached the shop with feelings as anxious, and not more enviable, than those of a criminal when he is dragged to the bar. The publisher was out upon business, and one of his young men returned me my manuscripts, and a letter, with his master's compliments and thanks. I do not remember leaving the shop. The stupefaction of death was dashed upon my soul. I believe that I appeared tranquil; but it was the tranquillity of misery immoveable beneath its own load. In despair, I broke open the letter--a guinea fell from its folds at my feet." "Heaven bless him!" interrupted the farmer. "Amen!" responded the scholar, and continued: "Without waiting to read the contents of his note, I hurried into a tavern, to allay the cravings of hunger, and to warm, or rather thaw, my almost frozen body. But I sickened, and could eat little. I had wanted food until, like a spoiled child, my appetite refused that for which it had yearned. With the still open letter upon my knee, as my joints began to feel the influence of returning heat, I suddenly sank, with my head upon my bosom, into a deep, dreamless sleep; and, being awoke by the rioting of some half-drunken men, I found one of them had made free with the back part of my letter to light his pipe, which had been addressed, after the usual silly and absurd fashion common amongst literary men--who ought rather to set an example in despising vain frivolities--_B. Musgrave, Esq._ 'I beg your pardon, _Squire_,' said the fellow, in a tone of irony. 'Here's wishing you a pair of new shoes, and health to wear them, _Squire_,' said a third, in the same tone, raising a tankard to his lips. And the party broke into a laugh of derision." "Doctor!" exclaimed the farmer, indignantly, "ye deserved all ye got, if ye didna make a broom o' the bunch o' them, and sweep the house wi' the hair o' their heads." "I am not remarkable for brooking insults," added Musgrave, "and of that more than one of the company had cause to be convinced. In his letter, the bookseller spoke of my writings as displaying considerable originality and genius. Parts of them, he thought, exhibited marks of being written too hastily, and recommended their omission. He regretted that he durst not hazard their publication; as, unfortunately, too much depended upon patronage, connection, or the influence of a name. He recommended publishing by subscription, and brought forward the example of Pope, Burns, and others, to render the advice palatable, as children receive sweetmeats after acid drugs. He begged to enclose a guinea for two copies to himself; and, wishing me success, he said it would afford him pleasure, by every means in his power, to forward the publication. I will not exhaust your patience by a recital of calamities which a critic, ignorant of their meaning, or ashamed to look back on them, would pronounce vulgar, and in bad taste. Being contented with the luxury of half a bed, for which I paid sixpence, I experienced the truth of the proverb, that 'misery maketh a man acquainted with strange bedfellows.' Beggars, thieves, men of all nations, and of all climes and colours, shared my pillow. But I resolved to husband my guinea, indulging myself with sleeping one night, and wandering the streets the next, alternately. It was in vain, in the meantime, that I used every effort to obtain the situation of assistant-surgeon. In London, more, perhaps, than in any city, appearance is everything; and I carried my own condemnation written on my ruined garments." "Troth, I have remarked there is some truth in what ye say, doctor," said the farmer; "if a man wishes to prosper, he should never, if possible, appear like a shorn sheep wi' the fleece bare on his back." "My money," added the scholar, "was again reduced to five shillings; and to ward off the approach of starvation, I was compelled to renounce the comforts of a bed once in forty-eight hours, as a luxury I could no longer afford. The very shoes left my feet with ceaseless wandering. My feet bled as I walked. My hat became shapeless; I was ashamed to look on it. The wind began to sport through my garments, and found loopholes for his sport. My person became like a moving spirit of famine, clothed with poverty, and shivering in a storm. My spirit was not broken, but it was bowed down. Yielding to the hope of despair, I attempted publishing by subscription. The plan may succeed where a man is known, where he has friends to push the subscription for him, or where he has impudence that is proof against insult; but, amongst strangers, it is a hopeless task. I was doomed to endure indignities from ignorant and contemptible menials, who, glancing at my figure, thrust the doors in my face, as on a common beggar! O sir! the recollection haunts me still. It is the only act of my life on which I cannot think without a burning blush coming over my face. I need not say it was unsuccessful. For thirty successive nights I wandered through the streets of this city, exposed to the storms of February and the bleak winds of March, sleeping as I moved along, or standing, and knowing not that I stood, till aroused by the jest of a passing unfortunate, or rudely driven on by the watchman of the night. Ten times in the hour, I would stumble beneath the oppression of sleep to the ground. But I will not detail those days and nights of misery. The scenes I then encountered would provoke a smile and a tear at the same moment. They were a mingling of the ludicrous and the wretched. Yet, to give you but one or two instances out of many:--One cold and weary night, sleep came upon me like death itself. I was wandering along Thames Street, and came to Billingsgate. Porters and oyster-sellers were lounging about the market, some sitting smoking, laughing, or drinking, though it was not an hour past midnight. I sought shelter beneath the sheds, and stretched myself upon one of the tables or benches. But the cold was intense. My very blood seemed freezing. I arose and removed to a corner of the market over the side of the river, and there, there was one of the open shops, stalls, or sheds, the one side of which was screened by a large and loosely-hanging canvas sign, facing the river, of more than six feet square, setting forth the occupant of the stall as fishmonger, oyster-dealer, and so forth. Through the lamplight and starlight, I cast a longing and envious look at the loose and painted canvas. I took it down, and stretched myself upon the bench, spread it over me as a blanket. It was the most comfortable covering I had had for many nights. But scarce had sleep, which pressed heavily upon me, sealed up my eyelids, when I was aroused by a rude hand shaking me by the shoulder, and a ruder voice exclaiming, 'Holloa! who have we got here?' It was the proprietor of the shed. I started--rubbed my eyes--stammered out an apology. A crowd of fishwomen and porters gathered round us. The fishmonger spoke of calling for the police. I expostulated. He offered to hold me. I raised my hand, and I am thankful that his table, which was a fixture, was between him and the river. I rushed through the crowd; and whether the blow which I had lent the fishmonger operated upon their courage and humanity, I cannot tell, but they made way for me. I had not, however, proceeded far, when sleep again became too much for me, and too literally I 'caught myself tripping.' Its influence was irresistible, and St Paul's had not yet chimed the hour of three. I saw a cart standing beneath an open gateway; and, with gratitude in my heart, I lay down on it as a couch of luxury. But there I had not lain long when I was awoke by a person at my side. I started. "'Don't be afraid, sir,' said the intruder; 'it is only a poor brother in misfortune!' "I turned round and glanced at him through the dim light, but scarce could I discover what manner of man he was, till sleep again 'locked up my senses in forgetfulness.' A little after daybreak, I awoke, shivering, my joints stiff, my teeth chattering together, and my whole body a mass of pain. I perceived that my 'poor brother in misfortune' was, or rather I ought to say had been, dressed respectably, yea, even fashionably. He carried with him a portfolio, which even in his sleep he pressed closely beneath his arm. As I arose he awoke; and groaning, he arose also and accompanied me. I know not whether it was mutual wretchedness, or the portfolio beneath his arm, that caused me to feel a regard for him at the first glance; but certain it is I was prepossessed in his favour. We were a couple of strange, miserable-looking characters, as we went drowsily, laggardly, and lamely up Fish Street Hill together. I observed the night-watchmen, who had not left their beat, turned round, and even held up their lanterns--though the morning's light was well advanced--and examined us as we passed. As though our errand or our thoughts were the same, we proceeded towards the Park together; and when the sun arose, he opened his portfolio, and exhibited it to me. He was an artist, and an artist, too, of high promise. His portfolio contained many bold and vigorous pencil sketches, where soul, taste, and a daring hand were exemplified. He had also a number of beautiful pieces in water-colours, which showed that his touch was delicate as well as bold. I took my pencil, and wrote a few lines on the back of one of the Bristol boards on which one of the subjects was sketched, and the artist and I became friends. Neither of us had wherewith to purchase a breakfast; but, in the forenoon, he had to call upon a printseller in the Strand with some of his pieces in water-colours, and we parted with a promise to meet again on the following day. But an accident, which I shall afterwards mention, prevented me from keeping my engagement; and we parted without the one knowing the name of the other. I have not again met with him; but, until this hour, I regret that I learned not the name of a young artist, whom I met with under such circumstances, and whose productions manifested high genius, a correct taste, and a skilful hand. Now, at this period, sir, I should tell you that the greater part of the day was generally spent in attempts to sleep upon the seats in the Park; and, dreadful as the pangs of hunger were, at length (and this is no idle saying), I could have been content to die beneath their rage, to have purchased but one hour of rest and repose. The agony of hunger yields to the agony of sleep." "And do you really say, doctor," inquired the farmer, "that ye have suffered a' this in a Christian land, even in this city? I hardly think it possible." "Some may doubt it," replied Robert, earnestly; "but the remembrance of what I have endured will live as a coal of fire in my heart for ever; and the fiftieth part of what I suffered has not been told you. But, sir, before I proceed farther with my story, allow me to go back to another part of my history, and advert to another circumstance. You will remember--it is more than a dozen years ago--a military gentleman, whom we generally called Colonel Forster, took up his residence on the banks of the Esk, a few miles from Longtown. He was, I believe, a lieutenant-colonel in the service of the East India Company." "I remember him perfectly well, Mr Musgrave," said the farmer, "and know him yet; and, moreover, I also remember that ye was particularly fond of his daughter Bertha, and that it was said that it wasna her beauty ye was in love wi', but her siller; for the colonel was understood to be a perfect nabob, and I have heard that he forbade you to come about the house." "Sir," continued Musgrave--and there was a glow of indignation on his countenance--"I care not what the world may have said, nor what they do say. The lark greeteth not the dawning of the dawn with more fervent delight than I first beheld the fair countenance of Bertha Forster. I knew not that her father was rich, and, when I did know it, I grieved that he was so. But to me she plighted her first vow, and pledged her 'maiden troth;' and, though I knew that, by her fulfilling it, I should take the hand of a penniless bride--for it is true that her father threatened to disinherit her if she kept my company, and to leave all that he was possessed of to a son in India--yet I loved her the more. I loved her for herself, and our feelings were reciprocal. Ever shall I remember the night on which we parted, previous to my leaving Cumberland for this city. It was in a deep wood, near her father's house. The Esk murmured by our feet, and the grey twilight fell over us. The evening-star was in the heavens; and the wood, the star, the river, and the twilight, were the witnesses of our tears and of our vows. But you are past the period of life when the recital of such things can be interesting; and respect for her whom my soul worships forbids me to say more. Yet, although her father despised and spurned me, we parted with a promise to write to each other, with a declaration to preserve our plighted vows inviolate even unto death. It was agreed that I should send my letters to her, addressed to a humble but mutual friend. But I was long in London ere I wrote; for I had not the means of writing; and, when an answer came to that letter--oh! I never knew real misery till then! She knew not the depth of my wretchedness--the extremeness of my poverty! I beheld my name on the board at the post-office amongst the list of persons whose residence could not be found. Day after day I visited it, and stood with my eyes fixed upon my own name, while my heart was ready to burst with agony and anxiety. I knew the letter was from my Bertha; but I had not the few pence necessary to relieve it. I had no means of obtaining them. I was a penniless, houseless stranger, unknown to every one in this vast city. And, after gazing on the board till my eyes were dimmed by rising tears, and my brain excited almost to madness, I was wont to flee from the city; and often, in solitude and in darkness, pour forth the bitterness of my spirit to the night winds. Often, at such times, in the excess of misery, I have wrung my hands together, and exclaimed aloud-- "'What would my poor Bertha think if she knew this!' "At length the list of names amongst which mine appeared was removed from the post-office and replaced by others; and when, after obtaining the means of paying for the letter, I made inquiry after it, I was informed that it had been returned. I doubted not but that she would imagine I had forgotten her; and, as I turned away in disappointment and in hopelessness, I said unto myself, 'Farewell, my Bertha!'" "Help us, doctor!" exclaimed Peter; "is it really possible that anybody can have been so put about for a thirteenpence matter! Yet, how do we fling away shilling after shilling, day after day, without ever thinking o' the road they are going! And how ready we are to say about anything, 'Oh, it was only a shilling!' But, doctor, when ye think what a relief 'only a shilling' would have given to your mind at that moment, surely ye will have considered weel the length and breadth o' every sixpence ye have spent since then. It will be a lesson to me, however, to be more cautious how I ever spend thirteenpence again; and, if I find myself ready to fling it away on any unwiselike or unprofitable purposes, I will just think--'What good will what I am going to do wi' my money do me?--and what would Doctor Musgrave have given for it, when he saw the letter from his sweetheart, and hadna the thirteenpence to open it?' As sure as death!--as we used to say at school, and that is gay sure--had any other body told me what ye have said but yoursel, I would have laughed at it. Had I read it in print, I wouldna have believed it. But there is one thing in it, and that is, it just shows us what poor dependent creatures we are one upon another. Doctor, ye had a sair trial there for a sma' matter." "You, sir," continued Mr Musgrave, "no doubt consider London an immense, almost a limitless city; but, sir, it is too small for the bounds of misery. Often have I wandered from Knightsbridge to Mile End, yea, from Cheswick to the East India Docks, and slowly returned the way I came thinking that daylight would never break, and wondering how people spoke of London as a great city. They, sir, who would really know the limits of London, must shake hands with misery as I have done. They must wander its streets by night, without food and without hope, and they will marvel how short they are. People talk of losing themselves amongst the intricacies and many turnings of this city. It is nonsense, sir--sheer stupidity. Let them once be lost in misery, in penniless, houseless wretchedness, and should a purse show itself at their feet, they would discover where they were in a moment. The man who has no money never loses himself in London--none do but fools who have it to lose. But, sir, it was on the very night after I had attempted to sleep in Billingsgate, beneath the comfortable covering of a fishmonger's sign, and dreamed by the side of an artist in a drayman's cart, that I was wandering on the borough side of the river, and had proceeded nearly three miles beyond the Elephant and Castle, when cries for assistance roused me from my waking dream. I rushed forward. A gentleman in an open carriage, with his servant, were attacked by four footpads, armed with knives and bludgeons. I took up a stone from the road, and, hurling it at the head of one of the robbers, when within a few yards of them, stretched him on the ground. We were then man to man. I sprang upon another--I grappled with him, overpowered him, and wrenched the bludgeon from his hands, but not until he had plunged his knife into my side. It was a bad wound, but not a dangerous one. With the bludgeon which I had wrenched from the hand of the robber, I rushed upon another of his associates, who, I found, had that moment overcome the gentleman to whose rescue I had providentially arrived. I dealt him a heavy and a hearty blow upon his busiest arm, which causing him to find that he had only his limbs left, he took to his heels and ran. The two whom I had already overthrown, had anticipated him in his flight, and, on seeing him run, the fourth followed their example. I attempted to run after them, but fell upon the ground from loss of blood. The gentleman was himself wounded, but slightly; and he, with his servant, raising me from the ground, and placing me in his carriage, conveyed me to the nearest inn. There, after a surgeon had been sent for, and my wound dressed, he requested to know who I was, and to whom he was indebted for his liberty and his life. But in all that concerned myself I was silent; and, in answer to all questions as to whom or what I was, I was dumb. My wound was deep, though not dangerous; and all that I regretted was, that I should be left an invalid in an inn, while I had nothing to recompense those who attended on me. After earnestly entreating to know who I was, or what was my name--though I have reason to believe that, from my dejected appearance, he entertained a most sorry idea of me--the gentleman whom I had rescued proceeded onwards to London. But I was silent to all his inquiries. Pride sealed up my tongue, and I shook my head and said nothing. I could not speak--shame and poverty tortured me more than my wound. "Within an hour he proceeded on his journey; and, on the following day, he returned with a medical gentleman to visit me. It was with difficulty that I could sit up in my bed to welcome them. The man of surgery began by asking many questions, which I answered like a true Scotsman, by asking others which startled him; and I heard him whisper to him whom I had rescued-- "'Sir, he is, without doubt, a member of my profession.' "The gentleman--I mean him whom I rescued from the ruffians--came forward to me; he took my hand in his--most earnestly he took it--and, as he held it, there was something like a tear--a tear of gratitude--rolling in his eyes. "'Sir,' said he, 'to your courage I owe my life. Allow me to ask by what name I shall call my deliverer. It is evident that you are not, or that you have not always been, what your present appearance bespeaks. Let me know, therefore, how I am to thank you--how I can reward you as I ought.' "'Sir,' answered I, 'you are a stranger to me; so am I to you. Let us remain so. If you speak of reward, you will cause me to regret what I did in attempting your rescue. Whatever I am, whatever I have been, matters not. I saw a fellow-man attacked and overpowered, and I attempted to deliver him. The humblest animal, prompted by its instinct, would have done the same. I am entitled to no thanks for what I have done--and, above all, I wish no questions asked of me.'" "Faith, doctor, ye answered nobly, and just as ye ought to have, if ye had had a hundred pounds in your pocket; but, man, ye stood in your ain light. There is nae saying what he might have done for you. It might hae been the king or the prime minister for onything ye kenned." "He might," resumed the scholar; "but he rejoined, 'Sir, I admire the independence of your spirit, but wherefore should you, without cause, reject the acquaintance of one who seeks your friendship? You have endangered your life to save mine--what stronger claim could you have on my everlasting gratitude? If common feeling prompted you to rescue me, suffer me not to leave you until I have testified that I am actuated by such feelings, in common with yourself. You refuse to tell me your name; mine is William Forster, a colonel in the service of the East India Company.' "At the mention of his name my heart leaped within me. The brother of my Bertha, and of whom I have spoken, was in the service of the East India Company. I dreaded that he and the individual I had saved might be the same person; and I resolved, more determinedly than before, to conceal from him my name and circumstances. But, finding he could learn nothing from me, he offered me money. O sir! at that time I could have taken his life--I could have taken my own. To what have I sunk, I thought, or what am I now, that I should be treated as the veriest beggar that crawls upon the streets! 'Sir,' I exclaimed, wildly, 'keep your gold--your dross--your insulting dross. I did not assist you in your hour of need, that you should insult my situation by a mendicant's reward. I, sir, have the feelings of a gentleman as well as you, whatever I may now seem--therefore torment me not.' He informed me that he had to leave London on the following day; and he entreated that I would tell him who I was, that he might show that he was grateful for what I had done, in a way that might not be painful to my feelings. But the thought that he was the brother of my Bertha haunted me, maddened me, and I waved my hand to him and cried, 'Away! away!' His countenance bespoke him to be a man to whom I could have poured forth my whole soul; but even in that countenance I read her lineaments, and my soul moved like an agitated thing that I could feel within me, as I gazed on them. "'Go, sir,' I exclaimed; 'and if you will be grateful, be so to one who rejoices in having been instrumental in assisting you. Leave me. I ask no more, for your questions torture me, and your pecuniary offers insult me.' "He left me, but never did I behold a man part from another more reluctantly, or one who was more under the influence of strong emotion. My wound confined me to the inn for five weeks, and, during much of that time, my thoughts were distracted regarding the bill of the innkeeper. But one day he came to me and said-- "'Sir, I don't know how you and the gentleman whom you rescued from the highwaymen stand; but one thing I know, he is a gentleman every inch of him. He has paid for all that you have had, or may have for a month to come; and here, master, are fifty pounds which he left me to give to you in as delicate a way as I could, for, as he said, you were rather proud-spirited. Now, master, here is the money, and he was as safe in trusting it in my hands as if he had put it in the bank.' "I knew not what to do; but, after a struggle, and a severe one, I accepted the money. You may despise me for what I did----" "Me despise you!" cried the farmer; "for what, I would like to ken? It is the only wiselike action I have heard you say that you did. The man that would despise another for taking fifty pounds where it was deserved, is a being that doesna understand what money is, or what it was made for. They may despise ye that like, doctor, upon that account, but it winna be me." "Well, sir," resumed Musgrave, "with the fifty pounds in my pocket, I again appeared upon the streets of London. But a change had passed over me. Even the policemen who before had ordered me to 'walk on' knew me not. I was another man--I was as one on whom fashion shed its sunning influence. I again endeavoured to obtain a situation as an assistant-surgeon, but the attempt was unsuccessful. I should have told you that it was owing to being confined with my wound that I was unable to meet my 'brother in misfortune,' the artist of whom I have spoken. I now tried my fortune as a writer for the magazines, and was paid for what I wrote even liberally, as I considered it. But there was one drawback attending this liberality: though I could write an article for which I received three, four, or seven guineas, in a day (for authors always calculate in guineas, though they are paid in pounds), yet it was not every day, neither was it every month, that I could get such an article accepted; and it was not every magazine that admitted me as a contributor. But by such writing I managed to live; and, as my name became known, I felt less of the misery which I endured when I first embarked in the precarious trade of authorship. Yet a precarious trade I still found it to be. I was enabled to live, but I lived between the hand and the mouth. "The publisher whom I have already mentioned as having given a guinea towards the publishing of my works by subscription, engaged me to translate a novel from the French, and a small work from the Italian, of which language I had but a scanty knowledge. But it does not require the perfect knowledge of a language to be a translator which many consider necessary." "I canna say," said Peter; "I must confess ye are out o' my depths there--but get on wi' your story, for I'm not sure but I may have something to tell ye." "Well, sir," resumed the scholar, "after the translations had appeared, and when the seductions of a literary life, notwithstanding all its privations and all its uncertainty, had induced me to abandon all thoughts of pursuing my own profession, I determined to write for the stage. It would be tedious for me to tell you of all the difficulties I had to encounter before I could obtain an audience of the theatrical managers, or what was called the committee of management. I found them more difficult of access than the Cham of Tartary. As well might I have undertaken a mission to Pekin, with the intent of pulling the celestial emperor by the button. But at length my object was attained. A tragedy that I had written was accepted, and announced for representation. The eventful night came. The new drama--my drama--was to be performed. The first scene went off in silence--in utter silence; and often the actors mangled the lines most miserably. They forgot Hamlet's advice. But, as the first act was concluded, pit, boxes, and gallery burst into a tumult of applause. I was seated in the pit. The sweat broke upon my brow. Vanity wrought triumphantly in my bosom. I was the greatest man in London. The second, the third, the fourth, the fifth acts concluded in the same manner. The curtain fell, and the audience shouted, 'The author! the author!' For this tribute of public approbation I was not prepared. The stage-manager came to me, and still the audience in the gallery kept thundering and shouting, 'The author! the author!' He insisted that I should appear upon the stage, and before the audience. Vain as I was, I sickened at his words; but he took my hand, and led me forth. I became as a thing that moves, without a consciousness of, or a power over, its moving. I had become pale as death. They led me to what they call the green-room, and they put rouge upon my face. But it was in vain, and the cold sweat swept it away, and left my countenance as if covered with wounds. I was led upon the stage as a sheep is led to the slaughter. The lights flashed on me, and I beheld twice a thousand eyes fixed upon me. I knew not how to act. I trembled--bowed--threw my eyes in bewilderment over the multitude; but, as I was about to address them, on whom amongst that mixed assembly should my eyes fall, but on my Bertha! I started. A frenzy came upon me. I sprang towards the pit. Yet it is in vain for me to tell you, for I knew not what I did. She sat in a box immediately facing me. I heard a woman's scream; I knew it came from where she was. The multitude seemed rising, and moving around me, and every eye was on me. But I cannot describe to you what I felt or what I saw. I became unconscious. I knew only that I had seen her--that she was somewhere. There was a noise like that of many waters in my ears. My head went round--my eyes were blind. When I recovered, I was seated in the green-room, and the actors in their strange dresses surrounded me. They endeavoured to restore me to consciousness, as though I had been a sickly maiden that had fainted in their arms; and when I did recover from the sickness and insanity that came over me-- "'Where--oh, where,' I cried, 'is my Bertha?' "I remember not of having done so; but I have been told that I did. You may think, sir, that I acted wildly, as a madman, or as a fool; but, before you condemn, think of what I had endured--of my recent misery, and of my vanity when shout rose on shout, and the cry from the assembled thousands was--'The author! the author!' Such changes, sir, were enough to turn a steadier head than mine." "For my part, doctor," said Peter, "I have no notion o' plays; I never saw one in my life, and I canna say that I a'thegither comprehend ye. But let me hear about Miss Bertha." "All that I could learn concerning her was," resumed Musgrave, "that a young lady in the boxes had uttered a sudden scream as she beheld me and the strange bewilderment that came over me, but that she had immediately been conveyed away by her friends in a coach. This only have I been able to learn. But it was she. Though all else that took place is as a wreck upon my memory, I see her before me now as I at that moment beheld her; I see still her one wild look that entered my soul, and I yet hear her heart-piercing cry, which brought delirium upon me, and rendered me dead to every other sound. But, from that night, I have been able to hear no more concerning her. I have sought her in church and in chapel, in the theatres and in the public walks, but never again have I beheld her. Often also have I written to Cumberland; but my letters have remained unanswered or been returned. She had forsaken me, or she has been compelled to forsake me; for, when I last beheld her, her face still beamed with affection, and her wild and sudden cry was the offspring of an old but a still living affection." "I hear, by what ye say, doctor," rejoined the farmer, "that ye are as fond o' Miss Bertha as ever. Now, as I said to ye before, I am not certain but what I have something that ye might wish to hear, to communicate to ye; and, before doing so, with your permission, I would just ask you one or two plain questions. Ye have told me a great deal of the miserable state ye was in after ye came to London, and I would just like to ask ye if ye are bettor off now, and how and in what respect ye are so? I trust, therefore, that ye will by no means think the question impertinent; for I assure you, it is for your sake that I ask it, and not for any gratification to mysel." "Well, sir," answered the scholar, "to be as plain with you as you desire, I have shaken hands with privation, and left it upon the road, to form the acquaintance of those who may follow me; or, to be more plain with you, I found that literature was a good staff but a bad crutch; and, as I began to gather my feet, I used it accordingly. In a word, as my name became known amongst men, my labours became more and more profitable; and, three years ago, thinking that I had obtained the means of doing so, I made an attempt to resume my profession as a surgeon. For many months, it was but an attempt, and a hopeless one, too; but gradually practice dawned or crept upon me. I am now employed as well as other members of my profession are; and, with the assistance of my literary labours, I look back upon the penury with which I struggled, and wish it to remain where I left it. But, though I have known something of the moonshine of fame as it has scattered its rays upon my head, and felt also the influence of the warmer beams of profit as I began to bask in the sun of popularity, yet there was, and there is, one dark and unsunned spot in my heart--and that is, the remembrance of my Bertha. Still does imagination conjure up her sudden glance, her one wild cry and look of agony, as I came forward to receive the plaudits of the multitude, when, as the bay-leaves were circling my brow, the prickly brier was rudely drawn across my bosom." "Well, doctor," said Peter, "ye have not just spoken so plain as I could have wished; but I dare to say that I comprehend ye. When ye eat a meal now, ye ken where the next is to come from; and if Miss Bertha still thinks o' ye, and were to gie you her hand, there would be no likelihood o' her being brought in contact with the privations with which ye have manfully struggled, and which, I am happy to hear (and, I may say, more happy to perceive--for a person's own eyes are excellent witnesses), ye have overcome. Now, sir, hearken to me, for I have something to tell ye. I had always a sort of liking for ye, doctor; and though I did see ye foolish and stupid in many things, yet I was sorry for ye, and I said I believed that ye was a lad o' real genius, and of a right heart at the bottom. More than that, I said, that, if ye minded your hand, ye would be heard tell of in the world--and I have not been mistaken, for, even down in Cumberland, we have seen your name in the papers; and a hundred times have I said to my neighbours--'I always told ye that lad would rise to something.' But now, sir--now to the main subject, the one in which you will feel the greatest interest. Ye say that ye again and again wrote to Miss Bertha to Cumberland, and never got an answer. I am in no way surprised at that at all; and for this simple reason, that old Colonel Forster left Eskside five years ago, and went to reside near a place they call Elstree, about ten miles from this city. Now, the way in which I am acquainted with the circumstance is this:--About a year after ye left, the old nabob, as we used to ca' him, bought the farm that I rented, and became my landlord. Therefore, when he came to live in this quarter, I had to send my rents here. But, sir, he understands that I am in London--for I just handed him my rent, being here, the other day--and he has invited me to dine wi' him at his house to-morrow. Now, sir, if ye hae nae objections, I will just tak you out wi' me as an old friend; and if ye're not made welcome, I shall not be welcome either. So, say the word--will ye go wi' me, or will ye not?" "I will--yes, yes, I will!" answered Mr Musgrave, eagerly. "Well, well," said Peter, "there need be no more about it, then--say that I meet you at this house to-morrow at two o'clock." "Agreed," replied the other. "But," returned Peter, "there is one thing I forgot to tell ye, and that is, that I understand Miss Bertha is on the eve of being married, and highly married, too, they say wi' us. Therefore, ye will not be surprised if ye find your former acquaintance forgotten, or seemingly forgotten, which, in such matters, amounts to somewhat about the same thing." On the following day, Mr Peter Liddell and Robert Musgrave entered a cab in Fleet Street together, and proceeded towards Elstree. "Now," said Peter, as they approached the residence of his landlord, "I believe that I may be running my head against a wall; for I am well aware that the old colonel never liked ye. Ye are one who would be unwelcome at any time, but doubly so at a time like this, when his daughter is on the point of being married. But I will tell ye what it is--I am just as independent as he is. I am as able to live without the help o' the landlord, as the landlord is to live without the help o' the tenant. Therefore, if he puts down his brows at you when we are introduced, I will show him the back o' my coat, and so good-day to him." "I believe, then," said Musgrave, "that with him I shall be no welcome guest; but, if Bertha welcome me, it is enough. You have spoken to me of her intended marriage--be it so. If she has forgotten me, if she has ceased to care for me, I will look upon her and bless her, in remembrance of days which have passed away as the shadow of a cloud passeth over the earth. But with that blessing hope will depart; for, sir, it was the remembrance of her that sustained me in all my struggles. It was the hope that she might, would one day be mine, that induced me to hope against hope, to wrestle with despair. For her sake only have I sought for fame, as a miser would seek after hidden treasure; and when it began to throw its light and its sunniness over me, she was the flower that rendered sunlight beautiful--for what is there lovely in light but as a thing which maketh the face of the earth fair to look upon?" They drew up at the door of the colonel's residence, and were ushered into a room where he and a party of his friends sat. Peter, who was what people in the south would call a '_cute_ man, was beginning to make an apology, saying-- "I beg your pardon, colonel, for the liberty I have taken; but meeting with my old friend, Doctor Musgrave, yesterday, I prevailed on him to come out wi' me, as we were a' Cumberland folk together; and though he is a great man now----" But, while Peter spoke, one of the company started forward. He grasped our hero by the hand, and exclaimed-- "My deliverer! Long and anxiously have I sought for you; but, until this hour, nothing have I been able to learn respecting you. Father," he added, "this is the gentleman of whom a hundred times you have heard me speak, as having at the peril of his own life saved mine. I have never known or met him again until now. Thank him with me." And, as he spoke, he held the doctor's hand between his. The old man rose. He evidently laboured to speak to the stranger; but other feelings obtained the mastery. He stretched out his hand. He touched Robert Musgrave's--he coldly bowed to him. The blood left his face. "Father," exclaimed the son, "you are ill. Hath gratitude----" But he paused as he beheld the expression of his father's features. They betrayed anger and agony at the same moment. "Son," said he, "I would speak with you: that man--that man;" and he pointed to the scholar impatiently, and, beckoning to his son, rose to leave the room. "Sir," said Musgrave, proudly, "if my presence trouble you, I can withdraw." "My friend, what mean you?--what means my father?" asked the brother of Bertha, who was, indeed, the same individual that the scholar had rescued. "I dinna ken," answered Peter Liddle; "but, if Doctor Musgrave go the door, I go to the door too." The father and the son looked at each other. The glance of the latter sought from the former an explanation. At that instant the door opened, and the much-talked-of Bertha entered the room. "Bertha!" exclaimed Musgrave, and stepped forward, as if unconscious of what he did. "Robert!" she rejoined, clasping her hands together. She started--she fell back; her brother supported her in his arms. "Bertha!--father!--friend!" he exclaimed, hastily glancing to each as he spoke, "what means this?" A man of middle age rose, and, as he hurried from the room, said-- "Farewell, Forster," addressing the old man; "you have deceived, you have insulted me. The man who is to be your daughter's husband is with her now." It was the intended husband of Bertha that so spoke, and left the apartment. The old colonel rose to follow him. "Stay, father," said his son; "what I have now witnessed requires an explanation. This stranger, to whom I owe my life, you have seen before--my sister has seen him--and there is something connected with your acquaintance with each other that I must understand." "Yes," cried the old man, "I have seen him before--I have--I have." "Bertha?" said his son; but she raised her hands before her face and wept. "Sir," said the younger Forster, "I can be grateful. Though I am not acquainted with you, my sister is. Let me call my deliverer _brother_!" And he took the hand of his weeping sister and placed it in that of Robert Musgrave. The old man started; but his son soothed him. And Robert Musgrave stood with the hand of Bertha Forster locked in his; and within a few weeks he called that hand his own, and was happy--and the sufferings that the Poor Scholar had endured became as a tale that is told. THE LAIRD OF DARNICK TOWER.[12] "Red glared the beacon on Pownell-- On Eildon there were three; The bugle-horn on muir and fell Was heard continually."--JAMES HOGG. [Footnote 12: Darnick Tower is still in possession of the old family, and is at present the property of our respected townsman, John Heiton, Esq., the lineal descendant of the hero of the legend.--ED.] There is no country in the world that has so many legends, and legends of so remarkable a character, as Scotland. The fact is attributable to the peculiar mental form of the Saxon; always with a disposition to look back, to cull glorious memories of the past, and from these, again, to distil the spirit of a noble emulation for the present and the future. We are not now speaking of a _dilettante_ antiquarianism, which becomes _blasé_ over a household utensil, or learned on a relic from the cradle of art; but of that moral antiquarianism which courts examples of a grand courage, exercised for the sake of liberty or Christianity, or searches for traits of the domestic or social virtues, upon which the true greatness of a nation is founded. In this sense, every Scotsman is an antiquary--embracing his subject with enthusiasm, and inspiring his contemporaries with the patriotism he himself feels. He cannot see an old ruin, be it of a castle or a peel tower, but he must know what its possessors did in the days of the red Flodden or the desperate Drumclog--a good old grandam, but he must hear of a legend of foray, or tournay, or love: "A story old Of baron bold, Or trollëd lay Of lady gaye;" and laugh or weep over the details, as they come from lips trembling as if with inspiration. Nor does time ever end legend, or the love of it, in the true legendary lands. Time's embalming yields the incense, which, like the sweetness of the vestal lamp, is fragrant for ever. Every recital, and every listening, is a triumph of the genius of tradition; but, as if the past were a thing of endless development, we are continually meeting with new instances, to add to the treasury of the old, and increase the stock for those who are to come after us, and live our feelings, and our throbbings, and our sighs, over again, even as did those of the dearly-beloved ones who have gone before, and now know the traditions of eternity. Though every nook and corner has been searched, there is something always left for such gleaners as we; and even now we are discoverers at the very side and within the verge of the wand of a magician. Notwithstanding that the old tower or peel of Darnick is described in the "Monastery," it was practically known to Sir Walter Scott principally as an ancient pile, which he wanted to possess, to impart some dignity of antiquity to the domains of Abbotsford. If he knew that it had been for ages the residence of the good old family of the Heitons, with the sturdy bull for their crest, the sooner their representative was engulfed in the Abbotsford swirl the better; for the new edifice was not only to be composed of old armorial stones, but to represent an _old_ family just brought into being by the modern Libitina, Genius.[13] [Footnote 13: Darnick Tower, so exquisite a bit of Border antiquities, was the chief object of Sir Walter Scott's passion for acquisition, and so well known was this foible of his, that he soon obtained the name of the Duke of Darnick. Mr Heiton, though inclined to dispose of a portion of the lands, was unwilling to part with the old tower, which had been for hundreds of years in his family. We do not believe that Sir Walter himself ever viewed with any feelings of disrespect a resolution so much akin to his own family predilection; but his son-in-law, Mr Lockhart, in his Life of Sir Walter, indulged in a sneer, that the proprietor of the tower, _having made money_ in Edinburgh, was unwilling to part with it. He forgot probably the counterpart, that Sir Walter, having also made money in Edinburgh, was very anxious to get it. The passage is as foolish as it is unjust, because it assumes that, while Sir Walter had a right to be proud of _founding_ a family, Mr Heiton was not entitled to hold the mark of _representing_ one.--ED.] Now it was left for us to know something more of the old peel tower in addition to what history tells. The traveller by the Tweed cannot fail to observe the old peel, as it raises its grey head over the houses of the village of Darnick, a little to the west of Melrose. The real antiquary will turn from Abbotsford to examine it, and to admire its wonderful preservation, after so many years' exposure to the devastations of time and war. It is many a long day since a gallant member of the house fell, as "one of the Flowers of the Forest," in the battle of Flodden; or since another fought against the bold Buccleugh in the fight with Angus, in the very precincts of the tower; or since another Heiton, or De Heyton, as he was called, got the charter to the lands from Queen Mary and Darnley; yet, dating from the last of these periods, and we know for certain the strength then existed, we are left to admire the old representative of defence against foray, as a kind of contrast to the modern effort of the Great Unknown, so like an old-new worm-eaten charter written in vellum, worm-eaten while on the sheep's back--at least not so ancient as the skin of the goat which suckled Jove! But to proceed with our legend of Darnick: It happened some time about the year 1526 that Andrew Heiton was sitting in his tower of Darnick, thinking of the strange things doing in Scotland at that time, which was the Augustan Era of the Borderers. Scott of Buccleugh had risen from the condition of a riever, and would have been a right poor clan, as the ballad says, if every honest man on the Borders had had his own cow. The Homes and the Kers had also risen into great power, and the Elliots, through the greatness of the Scotts, stood second in the ranks of these sturdy champions of might against right. All was tumult south of the Tweed, but it was not of the old foraying kind simply, when cattle made hatred, and hatred made war, when a Cockburn was against a Tushielaw, an Elibank against a Harden, an Elliot against a Ker, only because, some twenty years before that, a heifer or a sheep had chanced to change its ownership. When the king was strong, the Borderers sometimes made a virtue of necessity, and leagued together to save their necks; but, strange enough, this brotherhood never stopped their depredations upon one another's property. These were a necessity, a kind of birthright, and being inevitable, and born with them, and ingrained to the very marrow, they were looked upon in a jolly kind of way, even by the losers, because they knew they would have better luck next time. The only difference was, that, when the king was weak, or the crown in minority, their depredations got a wider scope. The quiet proprietors then came in for their contribution, and in reward for this, the greater rievers were grateful enough to do a good act for their sovereign in their own way, but only if he kept out of their province, and did not interfere with their feuds. In truth, the Borderers never hated their king, when he did not shorten their swords, or lengthen their necks. Amidst all their fighting and stealing, there was lurking in their hearts that spirit of chivalry which, surviving in their descendants, evolved, in the changes of time, into justice and order, adorned by sagacity and good manners. So it was that, when King James V. was a minor in the clutches of Angus, and Lennox could do nothing to get him at liberty, a number of the greater chieftains were on the side of the young prince, and among these the Scotts of Buccleugh and the Elliots of Stobs; but others, such as the Homes, and Kers, and Cockburns, were creatures of the Douglas; all the Borderland was divided into king's parties and Douglas' parties, and these again were partitioned into lesser rivalships, resulting from their personal feuds; so that it often happened that the lesser proprietors knew not what side to take, seeing their loyalty interfered with their revenge, or their revenge with their loyalty. In this way, as was said by a writer of the times, "a cow was greater than a king." Now the Laird of Darnick was, as we have said, thinking of these things in his tower of Darnick. "My father fell at the red Flodden," he said, meditatively, "and our house has ever been a loyal one. If we joined in a foray among the green fields of Wells or Harden, or took one upon our own account, it was only what we had a right to do, by the laws of the Borders, older, I ween, than those of Edinburgh or Scone. For what other purpose has the bull upon our crest his horns, if not to show that we had a courage to maintain, and which, thank God, has never been disgraced by an inhabitant of this old peel. By my crest! I love this young James Stewart as well as I love a Scott, or hate a Douglas, and I will away to meet him on his journey from Jedburgh to Melrose." And, calling together his retainers and all those who looked upon the old tower as a rallying point, and these having got their shaggy garrons, and as good equipments of shining rippons as they could muster, they set out upon their journey, viewing, as they went along, the rich pasturing places, to count how many sirloins they could turn out, when a good riever was hungry, and was not forgetful of himself while he was mindful of his king and his old country. They arrived in happy time to join the cavalcade, and the eyes of the Laird of Darnick were blessed with the sight of the young prince, though he was the son of the imprudent king who led the last Laird of Darnick to his death at Flodden. "But where is Wat Scott?" he asked at many among the royal party; "where is he who should be here with his strong arm and his sword, to show his master the kind of man he has in those parts to help him in his need against the Douglas, who holds him in a leash, and leads him about his own kingdom as if he were a dog, to show his breed and his fine collar." But no one could answer. Some said that the sturdy but changeable Wat of Buccleugh, the most extraordinary man, next to the doughty Harden, that ever led a foray by moonlight, had joined Angus, and turned against the prince, and was to be King of the Borders, or keep the prince in his own stronghold of Buccleugh, and rule Scotland himself. And some said that he was afraid of the Douglas, and kept away; and others, that he had gone west among the Johnstones and Blackets to get "kitchen,"[14] because, while the king was about the forest, the kine had got saucy, and would not follow a Scott. [Footnote 14: The Borderers sometimes used the word for flesh-meat; so our use of it is no novelty.--ED.] All this confused the Laird of Darnick mightily, and he even regetted coming among the royalists, because his display might raise Wat against him some day, and he might have kept his loyalty without endangering his clanship. But he could not help himself, now that he was there, and he resolved to wait and see whether Wat would turn out to be loyal after all. When in this dilemma, and standing amidst the cavalcade, which had stopped to recruit about midway, in a field still called the Prince's Rest, he was surprised by a whisper in his ear: "The mistress of Darnick says ye are to stand by Jamie Stewart." "And by my faith I will," he said, as he turned to see who had come with this news from Darnick. "Did Jessie tell you this herself, Will?" "Ay," rejoined Will; "and what's more, she says that Wat Scott is against James Stewart, and that, if the riever Buceleugh were ten times greater than he is, all the men of his clan wouldna mak her consent to desert her king." "Just like the woman!" said Andrew. "Not the first time she has unearthed the fox, and made him rue the day he has passed the peel. Get thee back, and tell her I will obey her--not because it is a command of a wife, but the request of one who might be a queen. While horse and man may stand, or spear and blade hold together, neither bolt nor bar shall keep me from the king--neither monk nor mass shall break my purpose." "And what's more?" "What more, man? is not that enough?" said Heiton. "No; there's to be a fight at Darnick; for Wat is to try to tak the king at Hallidon Hill, and you are to come hame to the tower, and be ready to offer it as a place of refuge for him, and, if necessary, to defend it; and if ye winna, she'll defend it hersel." "Then take this other answer with you: say I will return as soon as I can with credit get away, without creating the suspicion of going over to Scott; and in the meantime get everything put into fighting order in the tower. All this I know she can do as well as I." The messenger departed with the answer; but he had scarcely got out of sight, when Heiton encountered another man, whom he knew to be one of Scott's retainers. "Why are you here, man," he said, "and your master collecting his clan yonder for treason against his lawful sovereign?" "Because I am come to seek thee, as well as some others," replied he. "My master, Walter Scott, sends this to thee, wi' his gude greetings, that to-morrow night, by God's grace, he is to make a surprise on the Douglas, and seize him, and confine him in his castle, till the prince can get a better governor, or be able to reign himsel; and thou'rt to meet him, with all the strength thou canst muster, at Hallidon." "The foul fiend is in thee, man," said Heiton; "for thou dost not speak the truth. It is the king your master wants, and then he will rule Scotland and all of us as he listeth. Go, tell him I'll stand by the prince, though I hate Angus; but if he'll let this alone, I will still pay him his blackmail." With this answer, which astonished the messenger, he went away, and the cavalcade moved on. There was something like a difficulty into which Heiton had got, and he began to cast up the odds. His wife, he knew, was seldom wrong in her calculations; Scott was an old wolf, who never hesitated to make honesty subserve his policy, and with him policy was only another name for self-seeking. Even as he so thought he might get out of his perplexity, a knight with splendid armour rode past him, and whispered to him, as if afraid of being overheard, "Heiton, if you're for the prince, join Scott." "The foul fiend is in thee, too," muttered Heiton to himself. "Thou dost prevaricate, sir knight. Thinkst thus to trick me with thy jugglery--ha! ha!" Now Heiton was no more than other gallant Border men long in coming to a point, whether it was among black cattle or obscure fancies. His life had been spent in asserting rights which were constantly liable to invasion; and the prompt, fiery, and resolute disposition of the man had been kept for ever on the alert by the circumstances of his situation. Brave to intrepidity, almost to insensibility--strong and active in person--master of his weapons, and always ready to use them in the extremity of danger--his aid was courted in many a desperate enterprise by the rival clans on the Borders. So, putting spurs to his garron, he was galloping determinedly over the muir, when others might have been groping about for a solution in the intricate chambers of the brain. His face was turned to Darnick, and his spurs against his horse's side. Nor was the occasion unworthy of his energy. There was mischief brewing about the very precincts of his peel, and the torrent would be poured on the very heart of his kindred. He might lose his head, or win a charter, as the issue might show; and it was impossible that, in a contest where royalty was engaged, or a Douglas endangered, he could, with his stronghold in the midst of it, be permitted to be neutral. "And by the horns of my crest, I don't wish," he said, as he spurred on; "and if I did wish, the mistress of Darnick would teach me a better lesson than to shame myself beside the husbands of Yarrow roses or Ettrick lilies." But a man is never so ready to be caught, as when his head is above the bush; and Heiton's somewhat grand soliloquy was no sooner finished, than he was stopped by a body of Borderers well equipped. "Bellenden!" sounded in his ears. "Buccleugh himself!" he muttered, and in an instant he stood before Wat Scott. Now comes the storm, thought Heiton to himself, and began to collect his thoughts, as the cautious master of a vessel furls his sails, and makes his ship snug, when he discerns the approaching squall. "Whither drive you, man, as if the mistress of Darnick waited for ye to take your dinner off the best heifer in our enemy Home's parks?" said Scott. "Having only a small peel," rejoined Heiton, "it is necessary I should look after it when a thousand Scotts are marching north by west. It is not for crows' nests that Buccleugh marches with a thousand men, and without a blast of his horn. May I take the liberty to ask why thou'rt not with the followers of the prince?" "Because I wish to do better for my king than follow him," said Scott. "Make him follow _thee_," said Heiton. "Ay, so it is said; but, Walter Scott, though I have no objection to be in train, I would not like to see my king there." "Nor wilt thou, man," said Scott. "Hush! what would Wat Scott do with a king? Ha! ha! kings are ill to fodder, and when thou'st fattened them, they don't make the pot boil or keep the spurs out of the pewter dish. There are kings enow besouth the Tweed when Buccleugh is there. Let Jamie keep north and Wat south, and there will be no strife in Scotland but that of the good old custom of keeping thine own. Come, I want thee and thy friends." "I must know the foray first," replied Heiton. "And so thou wilt. Come near," said Scott. "Listen. I know that the prince wishes to get out of the hands of Angus, and I wish to undo the grasp--understand ye." "But an thou fail our heads may lick sawdust," replied Heiton. "Good-by." "When wilt thou return?" cried Scott after him. "I will tell thee when I know what's o'clock at Darnick," was the reply. And Heiton spurred on more hastily than ever, and never lifted rein or rested heel till he was at his own tower. "What's brought ye here, man, when the king needs thee?" said his wife, when he entered. "Thou look'st as if the king's headsman were after thee, and not thou after his enemies. Saw ye my messenger?" "I did, Jessie," replied he; "but there's one wheel within another wheel, and one within that." "And thou'st lost thy wits among wheels, and may even lose thy head under an axe." "And 'tis because I fear that I am here," he said, "to tell thee thou'rt wrong, lass. Scott wants only to free the king from the hands of the Douglas. What am I to do? I am placed between the horns of a dilemma. If I go with the king, I go against him, and may see the Heading Hill at Stirling; if I go with Scott, I go against Douglas, and may lose my head even before I get there." "A woman's wits are like her palfrey," said the wife--"go quickest when hardest pressed. Get thee back for the men, and come here to Darnick as fast as spurs can drive thee. There's no fear of your being suspected of a want of loyalty, for Douglas does not know that Scott is at the back of Hallidon; but hark ye, keep out of Scott's path, for he has a trick of keeping live stock when they come in his way." "And what am I to do when I come back?" said he; "for if there's a fight at Darnick, will the Laird of Darnick not be expected to be in the thickest of it?" "Certainly; and so ye will, man. Mount and go--begone! The cloud must soon rise, or it must sink for ever!" And Heiton, without putting more questions, returned to the Royal party, which was now approaching danger. He got the men who had gone with him, and returning by a round to avoid Scott, again reached his own peel. There was not much time to be lost, for there were signs abroad of the coming cavalcade. People were running hither and thither, under the excitement so natural as a consequence of a Royal procession in a part of the country accustomed only to lawless raids. There was a mystery too among the more knowing, for Scott's manoeuvre could not be altogether hidden. He was in the neighbourhood at no great distance from the Royal procession, and yet he did not show any intention to be of it; but his secret must have been wonderfully kept, for the generality had no suspicion that within less than an hour a bloody contest would eclipse by the confusion of its strife the _éclat_ of a Royal presence. Now the mistress of Darnick evolved her plans. She sent the men away on various errands, which somehow seemed to be all very necessary, though the necessity never appeared till the moment it was made known. "And now Andrew Heiton," she said, "thou'rt not to be found anywhere. Away in the donjon there, to remain till I tell thee thou'rt wanted either by James Stewart or Wat Scott." This command Heiton would not obey, till he understood better her intentions, and these were conveyed by a whisper which seemed to satisfy him. He did as he was directed, and the portal of the peel tower was closed and bolted. The mistress then betook herself to the top, and planted herself where she could see far around without being observed. Nor was all this done more quickly than was required. By and by the signs of the coming procession thickened. The indescribable stir of the air on the approach of crowds of human beings might easily be detected. Then the sounds of horses' feet, succeeded by the reverberations of trumpets, which the heralds and pursuivants began to blow as the town of Melrose came in view. The heraldic ensigns glittered in the rays of an unclouded sun; the gay armour of barons and knights cast their reflections everywhere, carrying the glory of war under the aspects of peace and loyalty. The young prince was seated on horseback, with Angus on the one side, and George Douglas on the other; their horses equipped after the gaudy fashion of the times, which were not yet beyond the era of chivalry, neighing to the sound of the horns, and curveting as if under the very feelings which inspired the riders. The scene was such as might seem the farthest removed from the inspirations of strife. Royalty sat enshrined in peace, to receive the _éclat_ of admiration, and be blessed with the breathings of gratitude. But, quick as a blast of a horn among the hills or the advent of a thunder-clap, the terrific cry of "Bellenden!" was heard, succeeded by the Border hurrah, and the next instant a thousand wild men, with glittering swords in their hands, the terrible battle-axe or the piercing spear, rushed more like a cataract than a torrent on the all-unprepared and utterly-unsuspicious party. In the midst of them was Wat Scott, with his stern face and fierce eye. For an enemy to see it was to tremble, for a warrior to be fired. Taken at once, the Royal party swerved like a surging sea. The prince was cared for, and the Douglas, maddened by the fear of losing their royal prize, and burning with the revenge of an old hatred, flew from place to place, crying, "For the king! for the king!" It was answered by the roar of the now raised Scotts, returned again by the Royalists, and echoed with an energy redoubled by the rising fury of opposition. The pressure of the Borderers increased as their hopes rose, and their repeated hurrahs told of their success amidst the clanging of swords, the heavy fall of the axe, the sharp risp of the lance. Scott was still paramount, and everywhere, pointing, hacking, calling to secure the prince. "The noise of battle hurtled in the air, Horses did neigh, and dying men did groan." At first and for some time the contest had more the appearance of an attack, ill resisted; but it soon ceased to present that aspect, and now it was as if every man closed with every man. The sounds of triumph or hope died away into hard breathings. "With foot to foot, and eye opposed, In dubious strife they darkly closed." Work allowed no time or inclination for exclamations; but death everywhere among both parties extorting the groan or the yell, pulled down the proudest and the bravest; but their places were not seen after their heads fell, for the mass was so thick that there scarcely seemed room for the arm to do the work of the will. Still victory boded well for Buccleugh; and again, as the opposing party began to recede, the cries commenced, "Bellenden! Bellenden!" but they were not destined to be many times repeated. A loud cheer came from the king's party, even when they were retiring. It was soon explained. They were being joined by the two clans of the Homes and Kers, who had come up hot with revenge against their old enemy, but with less loyalty than possessed by Scott. The onset of the newcomers was a repetition of that of the Borderers, fierce, and bearing the aspect of victory before it was won. All this was seen by the mistress of Darnick, and heard by Heiton with the feelings of a caged lion. It was now her time, she saw how victory pointed. It was impossible for Buccleugh to hold out. "Now," she said, "thou knowest whom to fight for with safety. Ere a quarter-of-an-hour the king's party will prevail. Get thee into the thick of the fight, but as far from Wat Scott as you can. Thou'lt save thy head and thy lands, without injuring thy old friend." The portal was opened, and the master of Darnick was soon fighting desperately in the ranks of the king, his nervous arm dealing death at every stroke. "Heiton to the rescue!" was sounded; and his retainers, returning, took the Scotts in flank. This movement was decisive. In a short time the Borderers were in retreat, and the wounded of the king's party conveyed to the tower, where the kind attentions and hospitality of the laird hastened their recovery. The policy of the mistress of Darnick was soon apparent from the treatment inflicted not only upon the retainers of Scott, but on all those who did not come forward to the help of Angus;[15] and it was this latter consequence, foreseen by her, which dictated her stratagem. She knew that it was necessary for Heiton to be on the one side or the other; and the good effects of her wisdom were shown in another way. About thirty years after the battle of Darnick, a new charter was bestowed on Heiton; a good sign that he was held in remembrance for having been found in the ranks of the king; that charter was, no doubt, not by James, who was supposed to favour the design of Scott, but by Mary, whose counsellors were not led by these distinctions, and who looked only at the open evidences of loyalty. [Footnote 15: Scott himself was outlawed.--ED.] THE BROKEN HEART. A TALE OF THE REBELLION. Early in the November of 1745, the news reached Cambridge that Charles Stewart, at the head of his hardy and devoted Highlanders, had crossed the Borders, and taken possession of Carlisle. The inhabitants gazed upon each other with terror, for the swords of the clansmen had triumphed over all opposition; they were regarded, also, by the multitude as savages, and by the more ignorant as cannibals. But there were others who rejoiced in the success of the young adventurer, and who, dangerous as it was to confess their joy, took but small pains to conceal it. Amongst these was James Dawson, the son of a gentleman in the north of Lancashire, and then a student at St John's College. That night he invited a party of friends to sup with him, who entertained sentiments similar to his own. The cloth was withdrawn, and he rose and gave, as the toast of the evening, "_Prince Charles, and success to him_!" His guests, fired with his own enthusiasm, rose, and received the toast with cheers. The bottle went round, the young men drank deep, and other toasts of a similar nature followed. The song succeeded the toast, and James Dawson sang the following, which seemed to be the composition of the day:-- "Free o'er the Borders the tartan is streaming, The dirk is unsheath'd, and the claymore is gleaming, The prince and his clansmen in triumph advance, Nor needs he the long-promised succours of France. From the Cumberland mountains and Westmoreland lake, Each brave man shall snatch up a sword for his sake; And the 'Lancashire Witch' on her bosom shall wear The snow-white cockade, by her lover placed there." But while he yet sang, and as he completed but the first verse, two constables and three or four soldiers burst into the room, and denounced them as traitors and as their prisoners. "Down with them!" exclaimed James Dawson, springing forward, and snatching down a sword which was suspended over the mantelpiece. The students vigorously resisted the attempt to make them prisoners, and several of them, with their entertainer, escaped. He concealed himself for a short time, when, his horse being brought, he took the road towards Manchester, in order to join the ranks of the adventurer. It was about mid-day on the 29th when he reached the town, which is now the emporium of the manufacturing world. On proceeding down Market Street, he perceived a confused crowd, some uttering threats, and others with consternation expressed on their countenance; and, in the midst of the multitude, was Serjeant Dickson, a young woman, and a drummer-boy, beating up for recruits. The white cockade streamed from the hat of the serjeant; the populace vented their indignation against him, but no man dared to seize him, for he continued to turn round and round, with a blunderbuss in his hand, facing the crowd on all sides, and threatening to shoot the first man that approached, who was not ready to serve the Prince, and to mount the white cockade. The young woman carried a supply of the ribands in her hand, and ever and anon waved them in triumph, exclaiming, "Charlie yet!" Some dozen recruits already followed at the heels of the serjeant. James Dawson spurred his horse through the crowd. "Give me one of your favours," said he, addressing the serjeant. "Ay, a dozen, your honour," replied Dickson. He received the riband, and tied it to his breast, and placed another at his horse's head. His conduct had an effect upon the multitude; numbers flocked around the serjeant; his favours became exhausted; and when the Prince and the army entered the town in the evening, he brought before him a hundred and eighty men, which he had that day enlisted. The little band so raised were formed into what was called the Manchester Regiment, of which the gallant Townly was made colonel, and James Dawson one of the captains. Our business at present is not with the movements of Charles Edward; nor need we describe his daring march towards Derby, which struck terror throughout all England, and for a time seemed to shake the throne and the dynasty; nor dwell upon the particulars of his masterly retreat towards Scotland--suffice it to say, that on the 19th of December the Highland army again entered Carlisle. On the following morning they evacuated it; but the Manchester Regiment, which was now composed of about three hundred men, was left as a garrison to defend the town against the entire army of proud Cumberland. They were devoted as a sacrifice, that the prince and the main army might be saved. The dauntless Townly, and the young and gallant Dawson, were not ignorant of the desperateness and the hopelessness of their situation; but they strove to impart their own heroism to the garrison, and to defend the town to the last. On the morning of the 21st, the entire array of the Duke of Cumberland arrived before Carlisle, and took possession of the fortifications that commanded it. He ordered the garrison to surrender, and they answered him by a discharge of musketry. They had withstood a siege of ten days, during which time Cumberland had erected batteries, and procured cannon from Whitehaven; before their fire the decaying and neglected walls of the city gave way, to hold out another day was impossible; and there was no resource left for the devoted band but to surrender or perish. On the 30th, a white flag was hoisted on the ramparts. On its being perceived, the cannon ceased to play upon the town, and a messenger was sent to the Duke of Cumberland, to inquire what terms he would grant to the garrison. "Tell them," he replied, haughtily, "I offer no terms but these--that they shall not be put to the sword, but they shall be reserved for His Majesty to deal with them as he may think proper." There was no alternative, and these doubtful and evasive terms were accepted. The garrison were disarmed, and under a numerous guard placed in the cathedral. James Dawson and seventeen others were conveyed to London, and cast into prison, to wait the will of His Majesty. Till now his parents were ignorant of the fate of their son, though they had heard of his being compelled to flee from the university, and feared that he had joined the standard of the Prince. Too soon their worst fears were realised, and the truth revealed to them. But there was another who trembled for him, whose heart felt keenly as a parent's--she who was to have been his wife, to whom his hand was plighted and his heart given. Fanny Lester was a young and gentle being, and she had known James Dawson from their childhood. Knowledge ripened to affection, and their hearts were twined together. On the day on which she was made acquainted with his imprisonment, she hastened to London to comfort him--to cheer his gloomy solitude--at the foot of the throne to sue for his pardon. She arrived at the metropolis--she was conducted to the prison-house, and admitted. On entering the gloomy apartment in which he was confined, she screamed aloud, she raised her hands, and springing forward, fell upon his neck and wept. "My own Fanny!" he exclaimed, "you here! Weep not, my sweet one--come, be comforted--there is hope--every hope--I shall not die--my own Fanny, be comforted." "Yes!--yes, there is hope!--the king will pardon you," she exclaimed. "He will spare my James--I will implore your life at his feet!" "Nay, nay, love--say not the king," interrupted the young enthusiast for the house of Stewart; "it will be but imprisonment till all is over--the _Elector_ cannot seek my life." He strove long and earnestly to persuade, to assure her, that his life was not in danger--that he would be saved--and what she wished she believed. The jailer entered, and informed them it was time that she should depart; and again sinking her head upon his breast, she wept "goodnight." But each day she revisited him, and they spoke of his deliverance together. At times, too, she told him with tears of the efforts she had made to obtain his pardon--of her attempts to gain admission to the presence of the king--of the repulses she met with--of her applications to the nobility connected with the court--of the insult and inhumanity she met with from some--the compassion she experienced from others--the interest that they took in his fate, and the hopes and the promises which they held out. Upon those hopes and those promises she fondly dwelt. She looked into his eyes to perceive the hope that they kindled there, and as joy beamed from them, she half forgot that his life hung upon the word of a man. But his parents came to visit him; hers followed her, and they joined their efforts to hers, and anxiously, daily, almost hourly, they exerted their energies to obtain his pardon. His father possessed an influence in electioneering matters in Lancashire, and hers could exercise the same in an adjoining county. That influence was now urged--the members they had supported were importuned. They promised to employ their best exertions. Whatever the feelings or principles of the elder Dawson might be, he had never avowed disaffection openly--he had never evinced a leaning to the family of Stewart--he had supported the government of the day; and the father of Fanny Lester was an upholder of the house of Hanover. The influence of all their relatives, and of all their friends, was brought into action; peers and commoners were supplicated, and they pledged their intercession. Men high in office took an interest in the fate of James Dawson, or professed to take it; promises, half official, were held out; and when his youth, the short time that he had been engaged in the rebellion, and the situation that he held in the army of the Adventurer, were considered, no one doubted but that his pardon was certain--that he would not be brought to trial. Even his parents felt assured; but the word of the king was not passed. They began to look forward to the day of his deliverance with impatience, but still with certainty. There was but one heart that feared, and it throbbed in the bosom of poor Fanny. She would start from her sleep, crying, "Save him!--save him!" as she fancied she beheld them dragging him to execution. In order to soothe her, her parents and his, in the confidence that pardon would be extended to him, agreed that the day of his liberation should be the day of their bridal. She knew their affection, and her heart struggled with her fears to believe the "flattering tale." James tried also to cheer her; he believed that his life would be spared; he endeavoured to smile and to be happy. "Fear not my own Fanny," he would say; "your apprehensions are idle. The Elector----" And here his father would interfere. "Speak not so, my son," said the old man earnestly--"speak not against princes in your bedchamber, for a bird of the air can carry the tidings. Your life is in the hands of a king--of a merciful one, and it is safe--only speak not thus!--do not, as you love me--as you love our Fanny, do not." Then would they chase away her fears, and speak of the arrangements for the bridal; and Fanny would smile pensively while James held her hand in his, and as he gazed on her finger he raised it to his lips, as though he took the measure of the ring. But "hope deferred maketh the heart sick;" and though they still retained their confidence that he would be pardoned, yet their anxiety increased, and Fanny's heart seemed unable longer to contain its agony and suspense. More than six months had passed, but still no pardon came for James Dawson. The fury of the civil war was spent, the royal Adventurer had escaped, the vengeance of the sword was satisfied, and the law of the conquerors, and the scaffolds of the law, called for the blood of those whom the sword had saved. The soldier laid down his weapon, and the executioner took up his. On the leaders of the Manchester regiment the vengeance of the bloodthirsty law first fell. It was on the evening of the 14th of July, 1746, James Dawson sat in his prison; Fanny sat by his side, with her hand in his, and his parents were ready also, when the jailer entered, and ordered him to prepare to hold himself in readiness for his trial in the court-house at St. Margaret's, Southwark, on the following day. His father groaned--his mother exclaimed, "My son!"--but Fanny sat motionless. No tear was in her eye--no muscle in her countenance moved. Her fingers grasped his with a firmer pressure--but she evinced no other symptom of having heard the mandate that was delivered. They rose to depart, and a low deep sigh issued from her bosom; but she showed no sign of violent grief; her feelings were already exhausted--her heart could bear no more. On the following day, eighteen victims, with the gallant Townly at their head, were brought forth for trial before a grand jury. Amongst them, and as one of the chief, was James Dawson. Fanny had insisted on being present. She heard the word _guilty_ pronounced with a yet deeper apathy than she had evinced at the announcement of his trial. She folded her hands upon her bosom, her lips moved as in prayer, but she shed not a single tear, she breathed not a single sigh. She arose, she beckoned to her attendants, and accompanied them from the court-house. Still his friends entertained the hope that the Pardon Power might be moved--they redoubled their exertions--they increased their importunities--they were willing to make any sacrifice so that his life might be but saved--and even then, at the eleventh hour, they hoped against hope. But Fanny yielded not to the vain thought. Day after day she sat by her lover's side, and she, in her turn, became his comforter. She no longer spoke of their bridal--but she spoke of eternity; she spoke of their meeting where the ambition, the rivalry, and the power of princes should be able to cast no cloud over the happiness of the soul. Fourteen days had passed, and during that he betrayed no sign of terror; she evinced none of a woman's weakness. She seemed to have mastered her griefs, and her soul was prepared to meet them. Yet, save only when she spoke to him, her soul appeared entranced, and her body lifeless. On the 29th of July an order was brought for the execution of the victims on the following day. James Dawson bowed his head to the officer who delivered the warrant, and calmly answered, "I am prepared!" The cries of his mother rang through the prison-house. She tore her hair--she sank upon the floor--she entreated Heaven to spare her child. His father groaned, he held the hand of his son in his, and the tears gushed down his furrowed cheeks. Fanny alone was silent--she alone was tranquil. No throe of agony swelled her bosom, flushed in her countenance, or burned in her eye. She was calm, speechless, resigned. He pressed her to his bosom, as they took their last farewell. "Adieu!--adieu!--my own!" he cried. "My Fanny--farewell!--an eternal farewell!" "Nay, nay," she replied; "say not eternal--we shall meet again. 'Tis a short farewell--I feel it--I feel it. Adieu, love!--adieu! Die firmly. We shall meet soon." Next morning the prisoners were to be dragged on sledges to Kensington Common, which was the place appointed for their execution. In the first sledge was the executioner, sitting over his pinioned victims with a drawn sword in his hand. No priest--no minister of religion attended them; and around the sledges followed thousands, some few expressing sympathy, but the majority following from curiosity, and others venting their execrations against all traitors. In the midst of the multitude was a hackney coach, following the sledges, and in it was the gentle Fanny Lester, accompanied by a relative and a female friend. They had endeavoured to persuade her from the fearful trial; but she was calm, resolute, and not to be moved, and they yielded to her wish. The coach drew up within thirty yards of the scaffold; Fanny pulled down the window, and leaning over it, she beheld the piles of faggots lighted around the scaffold--she saw the flames ascend, and the soldiers form a circle round them. She saw the victims leave the sledge; she looked upon him whom her heart loved as he mounted the place of death, and his step was firm, his countenance unmoved. She saw him join in prayer with his companions, and her eyes were fixed on him as he flung papers and his hat among the multitude. She saw the fatal signal given, and the drop fall--she heard the horrid shout, the yell that burst from the multitude, but not a muscle of her frame moved. She gazed calmly, as though it had been on a bridal ceremony. She beheld the executioner begin the barbarities which the law awards to treason--the clothes were torn from the victims; one by one they were cut down; and the finisher of the law with the horrid knife in his hand, proceeded to lay open their bosoms, and taking out their hearts, flung them on the faggots that blazed around the scaffold. The last spectacle of barbarity was James Dawson, and when the executioner had plunged the knife in his breast, he raised his heart in his hand, and holding it a moment before the horror stricken and disgusted multitude, he cast it into the flames, exclaiming, as he flung it from him, "God save King George!" Fanny beheld this--her eyes became blind--she heard not the shout of the multitude--she drew back her head into the coach--it dropped upon the shoulder of her companion. "My dear! I follow thee!--I follow thee!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands together. "Sweet Jesus! receive both our souls together!" They attempted to raise her head, to support her in their arms, but she sank back lifeless. Her spirit had accompanied him it loved--she died of stifled agony and a broken heart. THE CATERAN OF LOCHLOY. "Were I to lose sight of my native hills, my heart would sink, and my arm would wither like fern i' the winter blast."--ROB ROY. "And so, my dear lads, you wish me to relate my passage with the Caterans of Lochloy?" said General Dangerfield. "Do, father; you will so oblige me," replied the younger of his two sons. "Well, then," continued the general, laying his hand upon the boy's head, "you shall have it; but, remember, no interruption; I must tell my story my own way." "Agreed!" replied his eldest son, Edmund, a fine youth of sixteen. "Well, to begin at the beginning:--I am a native of Scotland--born on the Borders--of a respectable family well known there--the Jardines of that ilk. I entered the army young, and continued there the best part of my days. I became acquainted in very peculiar circumstances with your angel mother, who, having succeeded to the family estates in Northumberland, which had belonged to your uncle and godfather, I assumed his name, that these possessions might still be inherited at least nominally by a Dangerfield. "I was on service during that lamentable rebellion in which so much blood was poured out in an abortive attempt to restore a doomed race to their kingly possessions. I fought at Culloden; and well remember, and with horror witnessed, the cruelties that followed the victory. The Saxons, as we were called, were in consequence execrated; and the Highlanders burned with a fierce desire to avenge their slaughtered friends and kinsmen. So circumstanced, it is almost unnecessary to remark, that the government troops were peculiarly obnoxious; and it was consequently very dangerous for them to wander to any distance from their respective stations; as, in many instances where they had been so foolhardy as disregard the strict injunctions on the subject, they never returned to tell the tale. "I had leave of absence for a short time; and I therefore quitted my quarters, which were at Inverness, in order to spend my Christmas with my relations in Kelso--for I was not then married. As is usual, where friends are happy and comfortable, they were not fond of separating too soon, and I was loth to leave the hospitable board of my entertainers; so I lingered as long as I could, and thus made it a matter of necessity to proceed northwards with the utmost despatch. It is a long way between Kelso and Inverness; and I had to proceed on horseback, accompanied by a single servant. We got on very well till we reached Glasgow, after which the journey was both tedious and vexatious. "On the second day after quitting the western metropolis, there came on a great fall of snow, partially obstructing the roads, which, in those days, were not in the very best state, even in good weather; and, after pursuing, apparently, the proper route for at least a couple of hours, I found that we had lost our way--no very agreeable discovery, especially towards the close of day. However, there is nothing like putting the best face on a thing when you cannot help it; so we boldly pushed on, in the vain hope of at last getting into the right path. Vain it assuredly was; for, after wandering about till it became dark, we made the important discovery that we were just as far off as ever from escaping from our difficulties. "'Is not yon a light, sir?' exclaimed my servant. 'See! it is very high up.' "I looked up, and certainly there was a light; but from what it proceeded I could not conjecture. It could hardly be from a house, as it was too much elevated. I desired my servant to follow, and we made for the mysterious place, which was with some difficulty reached; and where, to our infinite dismay, in place of finding ourselves in the vicinity of a house, we discovered that we were at the foot of a tremendous precipice, and the light that had guided us was still glimmering at an apparently inaccessible height above our heads. "In this state of desperation, we hallooed, and made as much noise as possible, and were speedily answered by a human voice, inquiring why we made such a disturbance, and what we wanted. I answered, "'Shelter for the night, and food; for we are nearly dead from hunger.' "To this no reply was made for a few moments, when a voice again answered, "'Remain where you are, and I will descend and remove you from this place of danger.' "A man then descended from the rocks, and desired us to follow him, which we did, with some reluctance, more especially as we were compelled to leave our horses below. "'Never mind the cattle; they will be taken good care of,' said our conductor, laying especial emphasis on the word 'good.' "I must confess I did not feel by any means comfortable. But what was to be done? Starvation stared us in the face, and the danger of perishing by cold, or by falling into some of the deep ravines that lay about us, was but too probable; so I mustered up all my courage, and followed my unknown guide, who led me, by a very precipitous and dangerous path, to a large cavity in the centre of the rock. My servant came last; and, when we reached the place of our destination, we beheld a vast pile of faggots lighted up in the middle of a prodigious vacuity. The warmth, as you may readily suppose, was very grateful to two travellers benumbed by cold; and, while we were standing by the fire, the guide suddenly disappeared, but returned, some few minutes afterwards, from some concealed part of the subterranean habitation, with above fifty armed men. "At such a very unexpected, not to say disagreeable, spectacle, in circumstances otherwise sufficiently alarming, both myself and servant felt no small degree of fear. Our trepidation was observed; and one of the number, who seemed to have the command of the rest of the band, addressed me to the following purport:-- "'You can be at no loss to conjecture who we are, and what our ordinary occupation is; but you have nothing to fear; for, though we live by what is called violence, we are not destitute of humanity. Our depredations are never marked by cruelty, and seldom by blood; and those whom necessity has thrown on our care have never either been treated with barbarity or suffered to want. We extort only a little from those who are able to spare it, and rather augment than diminish the property of the poor. We know, alas! too well what the consequences would be were we to fall into the hands of the rich and powerful; but we are resigned to our fate. We can only die once, and our enemies can inflict no greater vengeance upon us. Miserable we may be; but we have a fellow-feeling for sufferers, and never take advantage of distress: in truth, it is from no sordid love of gain, nor is it to pander to vicious habits or immoral purposes, that we live in this manner. It is because we have no other mode of support; for, after the cruelties that have been perpetrated upon their disarmed opponents, it were in vain to expect assistance or relief at the hands of our Hanoverian oppressors. "'You see our quarters, and shall have every accommodation they can afford you: and, if you can trust us, who have neither inclination nor reason to deceive you, we give you a hearty welcome to these adamantine abodes, and that with the most perfect sincerity. Our fare is homely but wholesome; and our beds, though coarse, are clean. Nor be under any concern for your horses; they too shall share our protection and hospitality. We have no hay; but they shall not want. Stables we have none; but can shelter them, for one night at least, from the inclemency of the weather.' "This address revived our courage, which was not a little augmented upon being handed a bicker of whisky--mountain dew of the most delicious description; at least I thought so then, and have never changed my opinion since. Talk of the wines of Spain, or of France, or the Rhine, I never felt from them half the delight I experienced in quaffing the nectar of the Gael. When we had finished, a supper was laid before us which might have provoked the appetite of an English alderman, and that is saying a good deal. We had blackcock and ptarmigan broiled, or, as it is called in Scotland, brandered; fine black-faced Highland mutton done to a turn in the live ashes; and a stew of snipes and wild duck, the aroma of which was perfectly ambrosial. I did ample justice to the good cheer, and ate with as much coolness and self-possession as if I had been seated in Dolly's chop-house, in place of an apparently interminable cave surrounded by caterans; for so the Highland banditti are termed. "After having satisfied my craving appetite, in which example I had a worthy imitator in the person of my servant, rest was the next thing of which both of us stood in need. My generous host then led me to an inner apartment in the cave, which seemed at once to be the treasury and the magazine. There two sackfuls of heather were, by his orders, brought in and put on end, with the flower uppermost. Then a rope was fastened about the whole to keep it together, and on the top of each was placed a double blanket. On this simple contrivance, which formed an exquisitely soft and delicious couch, we laid ourselves down. "I had some bank-notes about me, and above twenty guineas in gold, besides a very handsome gold watch, and other trinkets of no inconsiderable value; but, as I had given them up for lost, I made no attempt to secrete any of them. My host, apparently divining my suspicions, insisted upon mounting guard over us--a proposal which I strenuously opposed; but he told me plainly that, unless he kept by me, he would not answer for the conduct of his companions. Against this there was no appeal; and he remained beside us, on the bare rock, all the night. "In the morning, we found ourselves alone with this singular being. Everything remained as it had been the preceding evening, with this, to us, very pleasant exception, that the band of caterans was nowhere to be seen. Another fire of wood was speedily kindled; and, as our host told us that, before we could reach any place of refreshment, we had to go twenty miles and a bittick--which, being interpreted, means somewhere about five miles more--we took the precaution to lay in a good stock of cakes, butter, and cheese, which we washed down with a moderate quantity of the nectar of the night preceding. "Our repast over, we descended the circuitous path which led from the cavern, and which one, uninitiated, might have searched for in vain; and, at the bottom, found a lad or gilly holding our horses, which had been well fed, and were in fine spirits. Our host then declared his intention of putting us upon the right track, otherwise, he said, we were sure of losing our way. I desired my servant to dismount and follow us on foot; but this the stranger refused to allow, assigning as a reason, that he preferred walking, and could, without the slightest difficulty, keep up with the horses. In this way, therefore, we proceeded nearly three miles: and, it was evident that, but for his friendly assistance, the chances of getting out of our difficulties would have been very problematical. At last he stopped, and said-- "'Pursue that path for half-a-mile farther, and you will enter upon the great road, after which you can have no difficulty in journeying to the place of your destination. "I was quite overpowered with this kindness, and felt reluctant to part with my new friend, without, at least, showing how much I appreciated his services. "'Sir,' said I, 'I am deeply affected by the whole of your conduct towards me and my servant. I can only hope that, some day or other, I may have it in my power to serve you. I have been treated like a prince, when I expected, if not to have my throat cut--which I once thought was inevitable--at least to have been robbed of everything about me. At present I can only offer you this small remuneration, which I trust you will accept. I am only sorry that it is not more.' As I said this, I drew forth my purse, with the intention of giving him all the gold I had about me, but he stayed my hand. "'Sir!' exclaimed the unknown, 'you have seen the way in which I and my companions live, and you may easily guess that to us gold can be no object. I thank you for the free and liberal way in which it was proffered; but I most respectfully beg to decline accepting it. In serving you I merely followed a precept which I ever--though a cateran--keep in view--to do to others as I would be done by myself. You were in distress, and I relieved you;--there was no merit in doing what I knew was merely my duty; and Ranald More will take no reward for having done that which his heart told him it was right to do.' "'Heavens!' I cried, 'are you Ranald More?' "'I am!' "'Why,' I rejoined; 'your name is a terror to all the country round.' "'I know it; but what care I? Let the bloodhounds take me if they can.' "'Are you aware that a reward is offered for your apprehension?' "'Perfectly.' "'Why, then, should you trust yourself alone with two armed men?' "To show that he was perfectly regardless of fear, he merely pointed to his claymore, and I must confess that I should not have been anxious for a single combat, and even with the assistance of my servant, I am not quite sure that we might not have come off second best. "'But,' continued the cateran, 'you are a gentleman and a man of honour. My secret is safe with you. Bid your servant ride on a few paces.' I gave the necessary order; and when we were alone, the cateran proceeded to narrate to me the following particulars of his life:-- "'I was born in the higher ranks of society; but circumstances, which I need not recapitulate, reduced me to the humble condition of a peasant. Early misfortunes compelled me to conceal my name and family, and I enlisted as a private soldier. My conduct in the army attracted the attention of my superiors; but I had no interest to rise higher than a halbert, and was discharged with the regiment in which I served. When Prince Charles landed on his native shores, I refused to join him, as I considered myself in a manner bound, by my former services, to his opponent. I took, therefore, no further interest in this civil broil than to give my humble assistance to many of those persecuted men whom the bloody mandates of the Duke of Cumberland had marked out for destruction. In this way I have gradually collected around me a band of gallant fellows, who are ready to follow me on any enterprise, however desperate. It was not choice but necessity that compelled me to my present way of life. Some day or other I shall, in all human probability, be taken, and made an example of, to deter others from following the like courses. I only ask, when you hear of my death--in whatever way that may happen--that you will not forget you owed your life to him who never took one but in the cause of his country, when he fought for his king, and exposed his own. Farewell.' "Then pressing my proffered hand in his, he turned away; and in a few minutes the Highland cateran was out of sight." "Did you never see him again, father?" inquired Edmund. "I did; but in circumstances extremely painful; although to the last interview I had with him I owe that portion of happiness with which Providence was graciously pleased to bless me." "Indeed! O father, do continue your story!" "Well, Edmund, have patience, and you shall hear all. Time hurried on imperceptibly; and, in a couple of years afterwards, I found myself raised to the rank of a captain. The regiment had been ordered to Ireland, where it remained for about a year; but the Highlands of Scotland not being in a very settled state, it was ordered to that kingdom; and, in the month of January, 1748, I found myself once more in my old quarters; a circumstance far from displeasing, as I had many friends there anxious to make me comfortable. "The severity of Government had by this time considerably relaxed; and as all fears of any new rebellion were at an end, an anxious endeavour was made to reduce the restless Highlanders to some sort of order, and put down the straggling bands of caterans that disturbed the tranquillity of the country, and kept the proprietors in a perpetual state of anxiety, by lifting, as it was called, their cattle, and other predatory acts. "Upon inquiring after my old friend, Ranald, I was told he had not been heard of for a long time, and that it was generally supposed he had been killed in some of his marauding expeditions. "One individual seemed to be peculiarly obnoxious to these worthies, and his cattle had not only been repeatedly carried off, but his granaries had been despoiled. He had bought some of the forfeited estates at small value, and having the misfortune--for so it was reckoned amongst the proud Highlanders, whose pedigrees were generally as long as their purses were short--to be a _parvenu_, his father having been a grocer in the Luckenbooths of Edinburgh, he experienced no mercy from the caterans, and little sympathy from the gentry in his vicinity, who laughed at his misfortunes. To crown all, he had been a commissary in the army of the Duke of Cumberland; and, though neither a bad man nor a hard landlord, still his original connection with the bloody duke was a sin not to be forgiven, and hence the reason of his peculiar persecution. "Irritated by a series of provoking outrages, Peter Penny, Esq., of Glenbodle, appealed to our commander, and, as he volunteered to guide a small detachment to the place where he had good reason to believe his tormentors were concealed, his appeal was listened to; and, under the charge of one of our lieutenants, a party of some twenty or thirty soldiers proceeded to capture the caterans. As resistance was anticipated, they were well armed, and every precaution was adopted to prevent surprise by ambush. "Of all this I thought nothing. Such occurrences were common; and, usually, the objects were accomplished with no very great difficulty. In this case, the result was different; and, although the detachment was successful, it was only so at a great expenditure of life; for the caterans gave battle, and were eventually subdued, after killing five of the king's troops, and severely wounding the commander. The laird himself escaped free; for, holding the truth of the adage, that the better part of valour is discretion, he prudently kept in the rear, and thus ran no other risk than a chance shot. Poor fellow, he assured me--and I believe he spoke with perfect sincerity--that, had he imagined so much blood was to be shed on his account, he had much rather the caterans had stolen every animal on his estate, and carried off its entire produce. "The defence had been well ordered; and it required little observation to see that the chief of the caterans was skilled in military tactics. He fought with infinite bravery, and it was not until a great proportion of his band was either killed or wounded that his capture was effected; and even this would have been doubtful, had he not been weakened by loss of blood. He was, however, brought to Inverness, with one or two of his confederates, who had also been severely wounded. The rest retreated safely to the fastnesses of the mountains. "The day following, I was somewhat surprised by an intimation that one of the captives was desirous of seeing me. I proceeded to the prison, when I found a man lying on a heap of straw, evidently in a very exhausted state. "'This is kind, Captain Jardine, very kind,' he exclaimed. Then, after pausing a minute, he proceeded, whilst a faint smile passed over his face--'When we last met, it was in different circumstances.' "'Gracious Providence!' I answered, 'can it be--do I see Ranald More?' "'You see all that remains of him--a few short hours, and I shall be beyond the reach of earthly foes. I had once hoped that better days would have come; but they came not. I sought pardon, but it was refused; driven back to my old courses, I am about to pay the penalty of my sins.' "I endeavoured to reassure him; for, in truth, I felt a sincere esteem for him, and, personally, knew his honourable principles, and deeply regretted that so noble a fellow should have been thrown away. I got the best medical advice, procured a comfortable bed, and everything that might tend to alleviate his sufferings during the brief remainder of his days. "He was gratified by my attentions. 'One thing consoles me,' he said: 'I shall not die the death of a felon. You soldiers have spared me that disgrace.' "'Do not despond,' I rejoined; 'whilst there is life there is hope, and---- "Here he interrupted me with-- "'No--no--no. I would not live if I could; I am weary, and need rest in my grave. Captain,' he continued, 'you have dealt with me kindly and considerately; would you make me your debtor still farther? I have one request to make, which, as it does not compromise you in the smallest degree, you will probably grant. It is to convey this ring to the only female in this world for whom I feel regard; and tell her, that the being she cherished when all others neglected him, died blessing her.' "I assured him I would obey his commands, and that the ring should be personally delivered. "Ranald, then, as soon as cessation from pain would allow him, disclosed his history, which was brief but painful. The son of a gentleman of an ancient family in Northumberland, proud of his descent and large possessions, he had formed an attachment to one of the bondagers on his father's estate; and, in a luckless hour, crossed the Borders, and was united to her at Lamberton--the Gretna Green of that part of the country. The result was the ordinary one--he was disinherited, and cast off by his father; and his wife, not matching with one of her own rank, could not put up with her husband's ways, or reconcile herself to those habits of propriety which were essential to her new station in society. Unhappiness followed--poverty made him fretful and impatient; although well educated, he would turn his attentions to no useful purpose, and in a fit of desperation he enlisted. During his banishment from home, he saw none of his relatives excepting his niece, then a girl of fourteen, who loved her uncle, and used, by stealth, to bring to his humble dwelling such articles as she thought he might fancy; and endeavoured, so far as was in her power, to soften the severity of his situation. "The uncle's unexpected departure did not prevent the niece showing similar attentions to the wife; but these were soon terminated by the demise of the latter, who died with the infant in her accouchment. For several years after this, nothing was heard of Ranald; but the anger of his father continued unabated. "Quitting the army, as I formerly mentioned, he joined the caterans; and after our interview, determined to make an effort to obtain paternal forgiveness. He left his retreat; and one evening presented himself suddenly before his father, who was residing at the family seat. He threw himself on his knees, and asked pardon. "'Go,' said his father. 'Degenerate son, disgrace not, by your presence, the halls of your ancestors. In vain you supplicate--in vain you attempt to move me from my fixed purposes by your assumed penitence.' "'Have you no pity for your own offspring--for a being who, but for one unhappy act, never caused you a moment's pain--who has ever venerated and obeyed you?' "No answer was returned. "'Say you forgive me--I seek no more; and I will leave you never to return, until my future acts have shown that I am not entirely unworthy of the proud race from whence I have sprung.' "The old man was silent. "'For years a father's malison has embittered my life, and rendered me reckless of all consequences. Your pardon will restore me to myself; and can you refuse to grant it?' "Still no response. "'If not for one so unworthy as the miserable wretch before you, at least on her account who gave me birth. Say you forgive me.' "'Never.' "'Father, we meet for the last time; one word would have restored your son to happiness, and you refuse it. Farewell for ever!' "At this moment the door opened, and a beautiful girl of twenty rushed in, and threw herself into the old man's arms. "'Oh, sir, do not part in anger with your son; you are so good, so kind. I am sure you will restore him to your favour.' "He gently disengaged her from his embrace. "'Emily,' said he, 'you are a good girl; and on any other subject you might be sure I would listen to your wishes; but on this point I am immoveable; and as Reginald deliberately dissolved the tie between father and son, I no longer recognise him as my child.' "Saying this, he left the room. "Emily was sadly overcome by this unexpected repulse. She knew her grandfather's inflexibility, but imagined that the lapse of time would have softened his resentment. Her father--the heir apparent--was then on the Continent; and it was doubtful how far even his influence would produce any change on the unnatural anger of his incensed parent. "'Dear uncle, you know not how deeply I grieve at this unkind reception. Often have I thought on you during your tedious absence, and longed to see you again; and now when my wish is gratified, I have no home here to offer you; but we must not part--time yet may make all right; and if you would only take up your abode near us, I would do everything to save you; and when my father returns, we will unite our entreaties to obtain your pardon.' "'Sweet girl!' replied Ranald, 'I duly appreciate your kindness; but it is vain to contend against fate, and here I cannot--will not stay.' "The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of a footman, who, with some confusion and hesitation, intimated that his master wished the strange gentleman would make his visit as short as possible. Having delivered this message, he withdrew. "'Emily, farewell! I have ever loved you; and your kindness in this hour of trial shows my love was not misplaced.' "'Do not leave me, uncle; better days will come.' "'It is vain to urge my stay; my father shall be obeyed. Once more, farewell!' "His niece found his resolution immoveable. She entreated him to take her purse; this he refused. She then placed on his finger a ring: it was the fatal one--the cause of all his misery. The sight of it overcame him. He wept bitterly. Clasping his niece to his arms, he said, in faltering accents-- "'Beloved girl! this fatal testimonial shall part from me only with death; and, when you see it again, be assured that all my earthly cares are over.' "He then quitted the home of his forefathers, never again to return. After wandering about for months, necessity drove him back upon his old companions. But he had lost his energy; and it was not until the attack upon the caterans that he again became the Ranald More of olden times. "The kindness and affection of his niece made a deep impression on Ranald's mind; and his chief anxiety now was to make her acquainted with his fate, and to let her know that he died a repentant man, in the hope of forgiveness in 'another and a better world.' "The night before he expired, I sat beside him. Ranald was composed. He said-- "'Often, very often, kind friend, have I meditated, after my last repulse, putting an end to my existence; but religion came to my aid, and I resisted manfully the temptings of the fiend. Resignation to the divine will, under every disappointment and affliction, is a duty we all owe to our great Creator, and this precept of my dear mother was too deeply implanted in my mind ever to be entirely eradicated; forgiveness of our enemies she also inculcated; and I can say, with perfect sincerity, that I die in peace with all mankind.' "'Even your father?' I inquired. "'Yes; even that cruel parent, through whose obduracy I am now a degraded felon, is forgiven by me. But no more of this. When you see Emily, give her my blessing. Tell her that her dying uncle had her always in his thoughts; and that, in his last moments, he prayed for her prosperity and happiness.' "As he was evidently much exhausted, I entreated him not to fatigue himself by farther conversation. The clergyman arriving, I took my leave, and returned in the morning. He was still sensible; and the man who had sat up with him mentioned that he had been very quiet all night, though he apparently slept very little. When I approached the bedside, he recognised me; and, with extreme difficulty articulated-- "'Remember!' "I assured him that his request should be implicitly complied with. His last words were 'Bless you!' Raising himself, he placed his wife's marriage-ring on my finger, pressed my hand feebly, and, overcome by the exertion, fell back on his pillow; a gentle slumber seemed gradually to come over him, from which he never awoke. "As he was only known as Ranald More, the secret of his birth and rank was carefully preserved by me; my adventure with him of former years was generally known, and my anxiety about him, and my following his body to the grave, created no manner of surprise. His companions were tried, convicted, and executed. The death of their leader, and the capital punishment inflicted on his followers, had a wholesome effect in that district, and 'lifting' of cattle, from that time, became, at least there, somewhat uncommon. "Resolved to redeem my pledge, I procured leave of absence, and journeyed to Northumberland, where I found the family in mourning for the old gentleman, who had died, strange to say, about a week before his son. The delivery of the ring at once announced the cause of my visit, and my attentions to the unhappy donor were repaid by the extreme kindness of his relatives. Her brother, Edmund, thought he could never do too much for me; and the kind-hearted and beautiful niece of the ill-fated Ranald became----" Here he paused. "What, father?" inquired Edmund. "YOUR MOTHER." THE SERJEANT'S TALES. JOHN SQUARE'S VOYAGE TO INDIA. Having been so much edified by Serjeant Square's narrative of the Palantines, I was anxious to hear another section of his adventures. Next day, my wish was gratified. "After my arrival in Greenock from my voyage to America," he began--"that land of promise, where I had been carried as a Palantine--I had no wages to receive; for I had wrought my passage home--that is, given my labour for my food and room in the vessel, and was not entered as one of the crew. A miserable passage it was; for the captain being as complete a tyrant as ever walked a deck, the crew were ill-used, and, of course, sulky and dissatisfied; and, humble and obedient as I was, the bad humour of every one was put forth upon me. The little seamanship I had been so eager to acquire in my voyage out, now stood me in great stead, and saved me many a kick and blow. Rough and severe as my masters were, my progress was rapid. Young and nimble as a monkey, with a quick eye and good memory, I was no despicable seaman before we reached the Cumbraes. Even the captain, after a severe squall we had off the west of Ireland, commended me, saying, 'Square, you are worth your room and victuals!' Yet of room I had little, and my victuals were no boast. Hammock or bedding I had none; but that mattered not to me, who had no rest. I was in no watch, but was called up or started with a rope's-end at the pleasure of every one, when there was anything to do, from the cable tier, or wherever I had stretched my weary limbs to snatch an hour's sleep. Still I bore up with a cheerful heart; for hard lying and scanty fare were nothing new to me, and I hoped soon to tread the shores of my native land. Well, I had only two dollars and a-half in my pocket when I left Greenock to walk to Auld Reekie. My step was as light as my heart. Towards sunset of the second day, I reached the city; and, before I thought of rest, I had visited all my former haunts. But a very few days served to dissipate my pleasing dreams of home. I had, for years before I left Edinburgh, been looked upon as one too many in the city by those who knew me as a dependant; and doubtless, when I disappeared, they had felt relieved of a load they bore but lightly. I had returned as poor as I departed; and they looked upon me with frowns, upbraiding me with folly for my return from a place where I had a chance of succeeding. "In my wanderings, I had entered the King's Park by the eastern stile, at the watering-stone, when, as I approached Mushet's Cairn, in the Duke's Walk, I heard the clashing of swords on the other side of the low wall. Urged by curiosity, I mounted the heap of stones to obtain a sight of the combatants. My eyes became fixed upon them; my whole mind was filled with so ardent, so intense an interest, that I could scarcely breathe; yet my feelings were so painful at first, that my heart beat thick, and my limbs shook under me. At one instant, I felt a desire to part them--the next, to see the scene enacted and ended. I had in my mind already taken a side, and wished 'my man' to conquer. They were both, to appearance, gentlemen, and about the same age and stature; one of them much slighter made than the other, who pressed him hard, while he appeared to act principally on the defensive; and so cool and dexterous was he in the use of his sword, that his opponent, though equally master of his, was foiled in all his assaults. It was fearfully grand to see two men so intent upon the destruction of each other. Their looks spoke hatred and determination; their keen eyes were fixed upon each other with an intensity I never before thought the eye capable of; each seemed fixed immoveably upon that of his adversary; yet a fierce vitality beamed in them, motionless as they appeared; while every limb and muscle of their bodies was in the most violent action. No sound arose on the stillness of the scene, except the clash and harsh grating of their swords, as they foiled each other in their cuts and thrusts. While I stood fascinated, gazing upon them, the thinner person--whose side I had taken involuntarily, for I knew neither the individuals nor the cause of quarrel--in parrying a thrust, slipped his foot, and sank to the ground, his antagonist's sword passing through his body in a downward direction. He lay extended at his conqueror's feet, who, quick as thought, seized the hand of his fallen adversary, and detached a ring from one of his fingers. I stood immoveable on the heap of stones, with the low wall still between us, watching the issue. He disengaged his sword, and was in the act of plunging it again into the body. 'Villain! villain!' I shouted; it was all I could utter, horrified as I was. He stopped his raised hand, looked round to where I stood, exclaimed, in a voice hoarse from passion, 'Scoundrel, you must die!' and, at the same moment, bounded towards me, with the blood-stained sword in his hand. Not a moment was to be lost. Urged by fear, I sprang from the cairn, and fled towards the hill, across the swamp. Fearfully I looked over my shoulder as I neared the wall; he was evidently gaining upon me. Young and fleet as I was, he was far my superior in length of leg and strength; yet my fears did not destroy my presence of mind. I saw that it was only by doubling I could escape; for, if the chase were continued for any length of time, he must run me down like a hare; and the fearful consequence gave me energy. At a bound I cleared the wall, and, stooping, ran under its shade for some distance before he reached the spot I had leaped. He stood (for I heard his panting breath) for a second, before he perceived the direction in which I had run--a circumstance of the utmost service to me. Down he leaped, and followed on my track. I again sprang the wall; and, after running a few yards, I was on the highway, and clear of the park. My hopes now were all placed in meeting some one or other, to claim their protection, or in reaching a house before my pursuer could overtake me. I had not run a hundred yards towards the Abbey Hill, when I saw three men in sailor's dress before me, going towards the city. I called to them to stop, for the rapid step of my enemy was sounding in my ears like the death-knell. They stood still, and looked back; the next moment I was up to them; while he that followed leaped the wall, and disappeared in the direction of the town. We sought not to pursue him, for I had not yet recovered my breath sufficiently to inform them of what I had been an unconscious witness. As soon as I told my story, the men resolved to go with me, to ascertain whether the person was dead or required our aid, saying, they were on their way to the Canongate, to meet their captain, by appointment, and having yet sufficient time, they would go by the King's Park, and bear the unfortunate gentleman to town. When we arrived at the spot, we found him seated upon the grass, his head bent forward upon his knee, sick and faint, the blood welling from the wound in his side, which he was making no effort to staunch, and he was plunged in the deepest melancholy. I could hear him sigh heavily ere we crossed the wall. When the seamen saw him, they uttered a cry of mingled surprise and rage. He raised his head; his face was deadly pale; a faint expression of pleasure passed over it for a moment, then it settled into deep sorrow. He appeared utterly regardless of life; and it was even with gentle violence only that he allowed them to staunch his wound by binding their silk handkerchiefs round his breast. We found that his ankle was also dreadfully sprained and swelled; and, truly, his agony must have been great from this cause alone; but no complaint or groan escaped from him; and I thought I perceived that his sufferings were far more mental than even bodily. From exhaustion or apathy, he allowed us to do as we pleased; all he commanded being, to be taken to his vessel, and not to the town. So we bore him to a house at Clock Mill, the nearest refuge, while I ran to the Canongate to procure a surgeon, and a conveyance to carry him to Fisherrow. The surgeon I might bring at my own responsibility, for he would not hear of one, wishing evidently to die. The sailors, who recognised me as having been on board the Eliza of London only a few hours before, in quest of a berth, looked upon me now as one of the crew, for the service I had rendered their beloved captain. After an absence of nearly an hour, I with difficulty procured a post-chaise and a surgeon. The injury was found not to be of much importance, the sword having glanced along the ribs, producing only a severe flesh wound, which was dressed, and the dislocation reduced. The surgeon insisted upon his staying where he was, for fear of fever, but he was bent upon proceeding to his vessel; so, accompanied by the surgeon, he set off in the chaise, and I, joining my new comrades on foot, proceeded to the vessel, along with them. The sensation produced by the wounded state in which the invalid had come on board, was in proportion to the love the men bore to their captain. As soon as we were upon the deck, every one on board crowded around us. I gave a true detail of all I had witnessed; every one shook me heartily by the hand, and declared he would be my friend to the end of life; but no one was more warmed to me for the little I had done than the mate. The captain's wound put on a favourable appearance, and he was declared out of danger. In a few days, the wind chopped about to the westward, and we got under weigh, to complete the voyage, being bound for London. Before we weighed anchor, the captain caused himself to be carried upon deck, where he sat gazing in the direction of Edinburgh until we were out of the Frith; he seemed consumed with some secret grief, and had not opened his mouth to give a single order, the mate doing all that was required. "When we had passed the islands of May and the Bass, and stood into the ocean, he called me to him. "'Square,' said he, 'I have been informed by the mate how much I am indebted to you. The service to me was of small value, insomuch as I had rather have perished in the combat, than survived to think that my traitorous rival has triumphed in his villany; but, believe me, young man, my gratitude to you is not the less--you shall in me never want a friend.' "I thanked him kindly for his assurance, and said it would be my endeavour to deserve his friendship. He was soon after removed below, and I did not see him until we reached the Thames, and were moored at the Isle of Dogs. The captain, who was part owner, went into furnished lodgings while we were delivering our cargo, being still unable to walk, from the dislocation of his ankle. The greater part of the crew also lodged on shore; but I remained on board with the mate, in charge of the vessel, and often went to the captain with letters and messages. In one of my visits, he desired me to be seated, and give him an account of myself, as he said he had taken an interest in my welfare, and wished to serve me, agreeably to his promise, if I continued to deserve it. I gave him a full detail of my life until I came to the encounter I had witnessed between him and his opponent, when I stopped. 'Nay, young man,' said he,'I wish to hear an account of what you were witness of, from your own mouth.' I went on. He heard me with composure, until I mentioned the tearing off the ring from his finger. When I came to this part of the narrative, his countenance became distorted with rage; he ground his teeth, and stamped upon the floor; his eyes flashed fire, and his passion seemed too great for utterance. I looked on in silence, fearful that, from his weakness, he would fall into a fit. At length, he said, as if in deep abstraction, and unconscious of my presence-- "'Faithless Eliza! I thought I had cast it at thy feet in my agony of blighted hopes, and felt pleased. It was my intention; but my mind was a chaos of misery. The traitor Wallace has got the pledge of the love you proved false to. Would that his sword had pierced the heart his treachery has rendered miserable! No; I shall meet him once again, and one of us shall die----' "Then starting to his feet, he supported himself upon the back of a chair, his countenance no longer distorted with rage, having changed into a settled, resolute cast, calm and stern. His burst of emotion had passed away. "'Square,' he said, 'you, like myself, have no tie to bind you to Scotland, no relation or friend on earth; we are as if we had dropped from some distant planet, now desolate of inhabitants, into this busy world. Still I must ever remember that any happiness I ever enjoyed was in Edinburgh; and my heart's cherished hopes--hopes that have cheered my way through toil and danger--were there for ever crushed by the subtle arts of one I thought my friend. Base wretch! you shall not long exult in your villany! Square, you must accompany me back to Edinburgh, as soon as I am able to use this limb with vigour. Do you agree to accompany me?' "'With pleasure,' I replied; 'whenever or wherever you go, I go'. My young heart was full of gratitude for the kindness I had received from him; and I felt almost as keenly for his wrongs as if I had been a brother. He saw the workings of my mind in my countenance, and, seizing my hand, said-- "'Hence forth we shall be as friends.' "The surgeon entered at this period of our discourse, and, to the captain's anxious inquiries, replied that it would yet be some weeks before his limb would be so strong that he might use it without pain, for any length of time. It was a whole month after this before we left London, during which I had a private tutor to teach me, and restore any little instruction I had got at school during the life of my parents. I went no longer on board, save to visit the mate, who was now as master on the point of sailing; the Eliza being chartered, and her cargo almost on board. He sailed for Rotterdam eight days before we intended to leave London for Edinburgh; which we were to do in a chaise. A voyage to America, in the present day, gives a landsman less concern than a voyage between London and Leith did in those days. "All being arranged, and the captain's ankle pretty stout, we set off for Edinburgh. In our tedious ride over the wretched roads, he was pleased to give me the following account of himself:--He was the second son of a gentleman of decayed fortune in the north of Scotland. He and his elder brother had been sent, young, to an uncle's in Edinburgh, for their education. His brother had chosen his uncle's profession of the law; while he, much against his uncle's wish, had preferred the sea. In his occasional visits to Edinburgh, when opportunity offered, he had met in his uncle's a lovely young lady, the daughter of a gentleman, who was obliged to live in exile for the share he had had in the rebellion. She was under his uncle's protection, as her father's agent and her guardian. The young sailor's heart was won by the charms of the gentle Eliza; he wooed and won her love. Vows of constancy were exchanged on both sides; but, although fortune had smiled upon him, he was still not rich enough to maintain his beloved in the rank she was by birth entitled to: and it was agreed at their last parting, that, after a few more successful voyages, he should ask her hand in form from his uncle. Changed rings were accordingly the memorials of their plighted faiths. It was Eliza's ring that Wallace had torn from his finger on that eventful evening. Urged by love, he had in his last voyage come far out of his regular course to visit his Eliza; and having anchored in Fisherrow Bay, he flew on the wings of joyous expectation to Edinburgh. On his way he had met an old schoolfellow, who, in answer to his inquiries after his friends, told him, as a part of the news of the day, that his old schoolfellow and rival, Wallace, was on the eve of marriage to Eliza, and that his addresses were sanctioned by his uncle. Maddened by the intelligence, he had hurried to his uncle's, and had the bad fortune to see Wallace taking leave of her as he approached the house; whereupon, in an agony of jealousy and disappointed love, he hastened to overtake him. Angry words ensued--Wallace boasted of his triumph, and a challenge was given and received, to meet in the King's Park. Urged on by his disappointed hopes, he waited upon Eliza in a frame of mind bordering upon distraction. Without prelude or explanation, he upbraided her as the most faithless of women, saying, he now thought as lightly of her love as he had ever highly prized it; and, in his fury, thought he had, as he intended, thrown her ring at her feet. At first she had looked alarmed, and wept, surprise held her silent, until all her native pride, and the innate dignity of the female, were roused by his taunts and reproaches, and she ordered him from her presence. They parted in mutual anger. Without seeing his uncle or any acquaintance in town, he had walked in the most sequestered parts of Arthur's Seat and the Hunting Bog, until the hour of meeting his rival. They met, and the issue has been told. "As we approached the city, he became very dull and uncommunicative, sitting absorbed in his own thoughts for hours; the fierce aspect that his countenance had for a long time worn was succeeded by a deep shade of sadness. I was young and inexperienced, and knew not how to speak, to divert his mind from the painful feelings that were preying upon him; thus we sat silent for hours, until we reached Musselburgh. 'Square!' he said, starting up, 'I shall soon have my doubts solved. For this some time an idea has haunted my mind, which renders me the most miserable of men. What if, in my madness (I can give it no milder term), I have wronged Eliza! She was all goodness and truth, and I ought to have weighed well before I reproached her. I have striven to think hardly of her, but my heart refuses. Eliza! Eliza! I have lost you for ever; true or false, I can never look on thy face again; but Wallace shall not triumph in my misery. I have preferred bringing you with me to any other person, because of your intimacy with Edinburgh. I do not wish it to be known that I am in town, until I have ascertained, through you, what has occurred since my last unfortunate visit to it.' I promised cheerfully to do my utmost to serve him in any duty he required, and, before the evening set in, we were safely lodged in the White Horse Tavern at the head of the Canongate. Our first step was to send for one of the cadies--a race of men now extinct; but they were, in their day and generation, a numerous fraternity in Edinburgh, and the source of communication, before the invention of the penny post. The affairs of the inhabitants of all ranks were in general well known to them. Their trustworthiness was admitted, and they were often employed in preference to domestic servants, in whose gossiping qualities they did not participate. I named Angus M'Dougal in preference to any other, as I had long known him. I brought him. When he entered, the captain sat with his back towards us, wrapped up in his travelling cloak, and avoiding the exposure of his face. After our first greeting, I proceeded to make the necessary inquiries, and found that Mr H---- was in town, and went very little abroad, on account of some distress in his house. The captain gave a start, a stifled groan escaped him, and, to relieve his suspense, I inquired of Angus if he knew the cause. 'Oh, the cause is no secret,' replied he; 'his ward, Elizabeth, is not expected to recover frae a dangerous illness. They say it is the effect o' grief, from a strange and hurried occurrence that happened several weeks ago. Miss Eliza had a sweetheart o' the name o' Mr Wallace, wha it was supposed was to hae married her; he was a constant visitor at her uncle's, but there was ane, they say, she liked better, a nephew o' Mr H----'s, wha was lang awa at sea. He appeared suddenly in the house when her guardian was frae hame, and as suddenly left it; nor has he been heard o' since. He was seen in the King's Park by several, as they think. It's no for me to speak evil o' ony gentleman; but they say that her other sweetheart murdered him, and concealed his body, for next forenoon, Mr H---- was sent for express, to come hame to Miss Elizabeth, wha had been out o' ae fit into anither ever since she had seen his nephew. Mr H---- sent everywhere to inquire for the unfortunate young man, but nae tidings could be had. Mr Wallace had left the town suddenly, but nane could tell whar he had gane. They say he was also seen, latish in the afternoon, entering the Duke's Walk to the east. Every part was searched, in vain, for the body, which has never been discovered; but, what has put it beyond a doubt, in the minds of many, that the youth was killed, was, that at a sma' distance within the wall near Mushet's Cairn, the grass was observed to be trodden down, and stained wi' blood. This, and the flight o' Wallace, who is said to hae gane owre to Holland to avoid the vengeance o' his uncle, are, at best, very suspicious circumstances. This Johnny Square, is a' that I ken o' the matter.' "Dismissing the cadie as soon as possible, amply pleased with his reward, I hurried to the captain, who was weeping, like an infant, his face buried in his handkerchief. I saw that anything I could say, in the present situation, would be intrusion upon grief, too sacred for interference, and too recent to be soothed. After a few minutes, he turned to me--'Am I not the most guilty of men,' he said, 'and deservedly the most wretched? I have, by my hasty, jealous temper, killed my Eliza, and banished myself from her presence for ever, even should she recover. Oh! how could I, for a moment, harbour such a thought, to the injury of such an angel--far less give utterance to it! Fool, fool, that I have ever been!--it is fitting you die to atone for your jealous madness.' And he beat his forehead with his clenched fists. I became afraid that he intended to do some injury to his person; for there was a fierceness, mingled with agony of mind, in his looks, as he grasped, as if by some involuntary motion, the hilt of his sword, that alarmed me. I was on the point, different times, of rushing upon and disarming him; but, at length, this paroxysm was succeeded by one of subdued grief, and he became, to all appearance, as feeble as an infant. 'Oh, that I could, by any sacrifice,' he cried, in thrilling tones, 'obtain one glance of my injured Eliza, if it even were my last, to die at her feet, pleading for forgiveness!--her esteem, and with it her love, I know I have forfeited for ever! Rash, rash fool that I was!' Again he relapsed into silence, and, taking advantage of this new turn of thought, I suggested his writing to his uncle. 'Alas, Square,' he said, 'I cannot write; my mind is in a chaos of confusion--my brain is racked almost to madness.' "'Then,' I answered, 'allow me to go, as if I had just arrived in town, and expected to have found you there, and to act as occasion requires. If I find I can, there shall be a messenger sent for you to come to your uncle's, or, at all events, I shall return in as short a time as possible, and give you an account of my success.' "'Square, my friend,' he replied, grasping my hand, 'do with me as you please. My heart is broken--my mind is a tumult of agonising reflections of what I am, and what I might have been. I blush for the weakness you have witnessed in me; but what man in his folly ever threw from him such a treasure as I have lost, and lost for ever?' "Anxious to alleviate the misery of my benefactor, with hasty steps I proceeded to the Covenant Close, to call upon Mr H----, who lived in the third flat in the Scale Stairs. Almost breathless from the speed I had used, I 'tirled at the pin.' The door was opened by a genteel man-servant in livery, of whom I inquired if Mr H---- was at home, and was answered in the affirmative. I was ushered into an elegant room, where, after waiting a few minutes, a benign but melancholy-looking old gentleman entered:-- "'Mr Square, I am informed,' said he, 'you wish to see me; may I inquire, is your business very pressing, as I am rather engaged at present?' "'I humbly beg pardon,' said I; 'I am a stranger to you, and only came to town this afternoon. My acquaintance is with your nephew, Captain H----, of the Eliza: can you inform me when you expect him in town?' "The old man sank into a chair, and remained silent, overcome by his feelings; at length, looking inquiringly into my face, 'Alas! sir,' cried he, 'I have now no nephew.' "'Excuse me, sir,' I said, 'if I have wounded your feelings. I am astonished at what you tell me, for I saw him, in good health, not many days since, and expected him to have been here to-night.' "Starting to his feet, he came to where I sat, and, placing his hand on my shoulder, looked anxiously in my face--'Young man,' he said, solemnly, 'have you seen Hugh H---- within these five weeks?' "'Certainly,' I replied; 'I saw him in London within these ten days, in good health.' "Clasping his hands, and raising his eyes to heaven--'Blessed be God!' he said, 'my nephew is alive, and my Eliza may yet be snatched from the grave!' "We now entered into familiar conversation, in which I got from him a similar account to what the cadie had given us, with the addition only of the exertions Mr. H---- had made for the bringing of Wallace to punishment for the murder of his nephew. 'That man,' he concluded, 'has come to rejoice that he is in life; for so strong was the circumstantial evidence, that, had he been apprehended and brought to trial, there is not a jury who would not have given their verdict Guilty.' "In return, I gave him a detailed account of all that I had witnessed, and the state of misery in which I had left him. Mr. H---- heard me with varied feelings as I proceeded, and said he had had no idea of the attachment between Hugh and Eliza, until this unfortunate affair disclosed it to him; and he feared it had proved fatal to his ward, who was in a very dangerous state--her life even despaired of; but he trusted his nephew's return would be more efficacious than all the prescriptions of her physicians; for hers was a sickness of the heart. "With a thrill of pleasure at the success of my call, I bade him adieu, taking with me the assurance that he would break the joyful intelligence to Eliza, and either call at the White Horse Tavern himself, or send a note by his servant, to his 'poor Hughie, who was ever a passionate boy,' to come to him. When I returned, I found him pacing the room with hasty steps. "'Square,' he cried, in a voice bordering on anger, 'is this what I expected from you? You have stayed an age away.' "'I beg pardon, captain, but I have made no unnecessary delay. I bring you tidings of good hope. Your uncle is rejoiced you are safe, and in town; he will either call himself, or send a card for you to-morrow, as he shall judge safest for the sake of Eliza. Meanwhile, he is to break the unexpected news to her.' "Joy and grief, hope and fear, now by turns took possession of his mind, until we retired to rest. "Next forenoon we passed in a state of great anxiety. Captain H---- had spent a sleepless night, and still paced the room in violent emotion, or sank exhausted into his seat. I could not leave him, for the sake of humanity. At length, about two o'clock, Mr H---- came himself to visit his nephew. I cannot describe this meeting; it was painful to all parties. The old man had endeavoured to break the news of Hugh's safety to his ward without success; she was, he confessed, so much reduced, that he feared the agitation might prove fatal; for every allusion to him, since that melancholy occurrence, had produced a series of fainting fits; soon, however, he hoped, with safety, to be enabled to communicate the safety of her Hugh, whom, in her troubled slumbers, he had heard her name, while the large drops glistened on or glided from her long dark eyelashes. "'O Hugh, Hugh, what have you done!' said the old man, unconsciously, as he wrung his hands--the tears falling over his venerable face. "'Uncle, dear uncle, do not drive me to distraction,' cried the captain; 'I cannot endure the----' "'Pardon me, my boy,' interrupted the uncle; 'I am a silly old bachelor; I know not what I say. Dear Hugh, I didn't mean to grieve you; but who can look on yon suffering innocent creature, and speak but as the feelings dictate?' "The captain groaned aloud, and hid his face in his handkerchief. "Several days were passed in a similar manner before we removed to the Covenant Close; but, alas! Captain H---- had arrived too late. The shock had untwisted the thread of life in the gentle Eliza, and it seemed only to hold together until his arrival. Joy, no doubt, once more visited that broken heart, when she smiled forgiveness upon her heart-stricken lover; but she survived only for three weeks after his arrival, and breathed her last sigh as he bent, almost bereft of reason, over her wasted form. "During this period, I was quite unoccupied, and walked the streets of Edinburgh with a stately gait. How different were my feelings now from what they once had been on the same spot, in former days, when I had run or glided through them, timorous and abject! A child might have taken the wall of me then; now I had a splendid dress, and guineas in my pocket. I walked erect and resolute as a giant, and would give the wall to none; such is the effect of circumstances upon the mind. This, I believe, is the only time in my life I ever was so foolish. I feared to meet any one who could by any chance have recognised me. Yet in my pride I was still a solitary being, too bashful to make new acquaintances with those I thought my equals, and too proud to associate with those I had known before. Thus did I strut about like a solitary peacock in a farm-yard, with this difference, that I became, unlike the haughty bird, weary of my own consequence. "After the funeral of Eliza, Mr H---- pleaded upon the captain to remain in Edinburgh; but he replied that he could not; all the scenes around only added to his melancholy, by recalling to his mind the lovely object he had lost for ever, and brought up the consciousness of the means--his own cruelty and jealous temper. In a few days we were once more on our way to London, where we arrived in safety, and found the Eliza moored at Rotherhithe. The captain resumed his active duties; and his grief was either more bearable, or, to blunt its edge, he entered more keenly into commerce. I was now appointed second mate. His wish was to obtain a distant freight, unmindful to what part of the world, so that the period of his absence from Britain might be the greatest. Not finding one so readily as he wished, he took a rich cargo on board upon his own account, fitted for the Indian market, and we left the Thames in November, 1751. "For several years from this date, I was as happy as any human being could be, for we sailed the Indian Ocean from point to point, in all directions, encountering various turns of fortune, but still progressing towards wealth. I was myself rich, far beyond what I could ever have hoped to have been; and as for Captain H----, he had accumulated a fortune with which he was satisfied; his equanimity of mind was in some measure restored; he could talk at times of Eliza with a pleasing melancholy, and spoke of returning once more to Europe. As his vessel, the Eliza, was now old, and not safe for a home voyage, he resolved to sell her in the country, and return to Europe a passenger in the first commodious trader. This he actually did at Bombay, giving to each of his crew who had left England with him a handsome present, and the amount in cash of their passage-money home, that they might either return at his expense, or stay longer in the country, where there were great inducements, if they chose. Me, as my sincere friend, he strongly advised to remain for a few years longer, when I might return an independent man to Edinburgh. "This was one of the golden opportunities every man has once in his power during his existence of bettering his circumstances for life. My evil destiny, or some other cause, made me reject it. I had, for several months back, as I had had several times before, a strong longing to visit Scotland once more. It is hardly possible for those who have never been for years absent from their native home, to imagine how overpowering this homesickness is, and how little will furnish to a languishing mind a plausible excuse for a return. I felt a conviction that I was not acting in the best manner for my own interest; yet I soothed down this feeling by the hope that I could return at any time, and pursue my fortune. To Captain H---- I stated my wish to return to Europe at all events, as I was weary of the Indian clime, and that, as I had left Edinburgh with him, I would, if he had no objections, return in the same vessel. He agreed; and thus we were again fated to go together. "After remaining on shore inactive for some weeks, we embarked on board the Traussean, bound for Amsterdam. Would that I had been of the same turn of mind and resolution as Mr. Yates, our chief mate, who remained in the country, and soon sailed a vessel of his own! I saw him several years afterwards in London, living in wealth and independence, the produce of his toils in India. I gratified my wish at all hazards--he obeyed his better judgment; he had his reward--I had mine. "From Bombay to the Cape of Good Hope we had a quick and pleasant run. We stopped at the Cape for three weeks, and took in refreshments and some passengers, amongst whom was an old, rich planter, on his return to Holland, taking with him a black boy, his slave, one of the merriest and most obliging creatures I ever saw. The little fellow soon became the favourite of every one on board. Pontoben was the joy of every one except his master, who was ever correcting or finding fault with him. In one of my sallies, I called the old planter Satan. He was worthy of the title, and it adhered to him like a burdockhead. A more forbidding figure I have never seen. Tall and bony, he had the appearance of a gigantic skeleton covered with shrivelled brown leather; his forehead, large and deeply-furrowed, rose over two shaggy eyebrows, that overshadowed eyes of light blue, keen and restless. There was a peculiar expression in his whole face that made even the most daring feel uneasy on beholding him; and, unless they were excited at the time by hatred towards him, few ever dared his eye. I myself felt that no inducement could ever make me look upon him as a kindred being; and, indeed, he rarely spoke to any of his countrymen. His harsh, sepulchral tones were seldom heard but in execrations of poor Pontoben, who would leave his master with the big drops of anguish, from punishment, rolling down his ebony face; and, in a few minutes after, be seen laughing and sporting with the seamen. "On the evening of the seventh day after we had left Table Bay, the sun set like an immense globe of deep red fire, and the sky began to be overcast. The vessel was made all tight for the expected storm; and come, it did, soon after dark, with fearful force. All I had ever encountered could not be compared to its violence. The vessel pitched, groaned, and quivered, during the whole night, as if she would have gone to pieces; and, when day at length came, with no abatement of the storm, it only served to show us the extent of our danger. The sky was dark and lowering; heavy masses of clouds obscured the sun, and poured forth deluges of rain; the vessel laboured so much, and the wind was so strong, that no man on board could keep his feet, and the crew were lashed to different parts of the vessel, to prevent their being washed from the decks by the waves, which were every now and then making a complete breach over us. The captain and I shared the fatigues of the crew as we shared their danger. Another night of darkness and tempest, if possible more severe than the first, passed over our heads; still the vessel held good, and we hoped to weather the gale; when, just about an hour after daybreak, the wind chopped about nearly two points off the compass; the man at the helm, either through fatigue or mismanagement, allowed a tremendous sea to strike her too much forward, when she heeled so far over that a second wave laid her upon her beam ends. A cry of despair rose in one long, wailing sound, from every one on board; three of the crew were hurled into the mountainous ocean, and perished in a moment. The vessel had been making a considerable quantity of water, but not sufficient to cause alarm on that account; but now it was finding its way in by the companions from every wave that rolled over us. It is in moments such as these that the character of the seaman shines forth in all its lustre. For a few minutes, and no more, we were paralysed, and looked on in stupor, expecting to go down to the deep; still she floated--the larboard side only a few inches out of the water; the wind had perceptibly declined, still the sea ran as high as ever; and thus, for several hours, we clung to fastenings, in expectation of her going down every instant. We had it not in our power to do anything for our safety; it seemed as if her cargo had shifted in the hold, and the first heavy sea would finish all. I cannot say how long this lasted; the rage of the tempest at length died away, and it became possible for us to act. Her fore and mizzen masts were cut away, when she righted considerably; and then we commenced to throw what of her cargo we could get at overboard, altering the remainder until she righted. When hope once more dawned upon us, exhausted by hunger and fatigue, we stretched our weary limbs upon the deck, and sank to rest--the captain of the vessel taking the helm, and keeping watch with a few of his exhausted crew, who were soon relieved by short watches, until their strength was restored. "Jurymasts were now erected, and we hoped to reach the coast of Portugal and refit; but our misfortunes had only commenced, for we found that our bread had been completely destroyed by the water we had made during the storm; and, besides, we were not provisioned for a very protracted voyage. It was at once agreed that both passengers and crew should go on short allowance; and, as our vessel was both leaky and sailed badly under her jurymasts, our prospects were now gloomy enough. Satan had never left his berth since the coming on of the storm; but lay and blasphemed, and beat poor Pontoben as usual, his temper having evidently become worse under his privations, though he had many preserves and luxuries of his own private property. The captain and myself kept up our spirits, in the expectation of falling in with some vessel bound for Europe, in which case we would leave the Traussean; but we were not so fortunate; for scarce were we refitted from the wrecks of the hurricane, when we were becalmed for three weeks. I shall not attempt to describe this our melancholy situation on the bosom of the ocean, that lay all around as still as death; its glassy brightness dazzling the eye under the intense rays of the sun, and our scanty supply of provisions rapidly wearing done. A lingering death from famine seemed inevitable; despair began to steal upon us; anxiety and fear were visible in the countenances of all. The pious became more fervent in their devotions, and the profane more choice in their expressions. All of us moved about the vessel like spectres, seldom exchanging words, every one seemingly absorbed in his own reflections. Vain was the attempt to call up a cheerful thought. If a laugh was heard, which some would attempt, it looked more like madness than mirth, and grated upon the ear like some unearthly sound; while tales of fearful import and sad forebodings alone could gain the attention of the listeners. "This state of the ocean at length changed; a faint breeze sprang up; but, alas! it was unsteady and baffling, and our crippled vessel was ill adapted for any but a leading wind. By observation, we were nearly equidistant from the coast of Portugal and the Cape; otherwise, to save our lives, we would have run the wreck of the Traussean back to Table Bay. This plan was even urged by several of the crew; but overruled by the captain and majority; for the reason that we could not depend upon the wind lasting long enough to carry us there, and we had more chance to fall in with some vessel as we neared Europe. Scarcely able to stand to the pumps, for she needed clearing every twelve hours, we persevered in our course, the provisions being doled out in the smallest portions that could sustain nature, and diminished till we resembled skeletons more than men. When we commenced the voyage, there were a great many monkeys, parrots, and other birds, intended as gifts to friends in Europe. These had long since been consumed by their owners; even the vermin we were so fortunate as to catch were indeed a luxury; and every invention was put in practice to ensnare them. The preserves and private stock, everything that could sustain life, had been taken from Satan and the other passengers, and placed in the common stock; so that no one might fare better than his fellow. We had for some time looked at each other with an evil eye, and to wish for a death, that we might avoid the necessity of casting lots; for, strange to say, we clung to life the more tenaciously the more our sufferings increased. I have often since been amazed to think that, for trivial sufferings or wounded pride, men will voluntarily commit suicide; and yet, among twenty-five individuals, to any of whom a natural death would have been a kind relief, this fearful remedy was never thought of. With the keenest scrutiny we counted the ships crew and passengers every morning, in hopes that some one had died in the night. One morning, Pontoben, who had, even amidst the ill-usage he received from his master, stood it out better than any on board, was amissing, and a search was made for him through the ship in vain. At length he was found in his master's berth, beyond him, dead--the marks of strangulation upon his throat, evidence to us all that Satan had strangled him through the night. The body was at once demanded; but his master, with execrations, refused to deliver it up, as he maintained the boy was his own property, and he would 'keep it for his own use.' My blood ran cold as I looked upon the murdered boy and his savage master. The lifeless corpse was torn from him, and mangled, to be consumed; but neither Captain H---- nor myself could look upon the horrid mess, and several others were similarly affected; but Satan gloated over it, and cursed the others for depriving him of the whole. "Our sufferings had now reached the limit of human endurance. We were unable to stand at the pumps even half-hour spells; and if we ceased to lighten the vessel we must soon founder. In this, our last extremity, it was at last agreed to cast the fatal lot, to ascertain who was to die to save the rest. We could sustain the gnawing of hunger no longer. Every article of leather, even our shoes, had been consumed. We were all assembled upon the quarterdeck, to bide our fate. Sunk and dispirited as we were by famine, we all clung to life with a more intense desire than we had ever done in more prosperous times. The arrangements were thus made:--a large china jar was placed upon the binnacle, into which was put a scroll of paper for each person on board, cut and folded exactly alike. On one was wrote, 'Gracious God, pardon my sins, and receive my soul, for Jesus' sake.' On the other, 'Merciful God, require not this innocent blood at my hands.' He that drew the first was to die, and he that drew the second was to be the executioner. All the other papers were blank. Everything was prepared before us in the most equitable manner. A period of thrilling suspense intervened, and, all being ready, the captain walked first, placed his hand in the jar, and drew a lot. In like manner, every one on board followed him, each holding his doom in his hand unopened until all was drawn. Another fearful pause ensued. Each feared to unroll his paper. Good God! the fatal scroll was in my hand, and Satan was to be my butcher! "I yet shudder when I call to mind the agony of that moment. All eyes beamed joy, I thought, that they had escaped. I was for a moment stupified. Then my brain seemed to whirl round--the light forsook my eyes--I became incapable of reflection; yet a nervous, convulsive energy made me plead for mercy--a mere instinctive effort; for, had I been able to command my thoughts, they would have satisfied me that there was no hope. Satan stood by my side, with the knife in his hand, ready for his victim, even yet, when my slumbers are uneasy, I see his tall, hideous figure, rendered, at the time, doubly frightful by famine, standing over me, his knife at my throat, and Captain H---- in vain endeavouring to hold his hand. My agony and pleadings so melted the whole sufferers, that it was resolved to delay my death until the shades of night had once more covered the ocean, in hopes some ship might heave in sight before my fate was sealed; if not, the morning never was to dawn for me--that day was to be my last in time. Captain H---- kneeled, weeping, by my side. He was joined by all the crew, except the satanic planter, in heartfelt devotion, and earnest supplication for my deliverance. Alas! I could not mould my own thoughts to prayer: a thousand wandering fancies crowded through my mind, making all dark chaos, save the lurid coruscations of the horrors of dissolution. Their prayers and supplications sounded in my ears as if they were the noise of broken water on a reef of rocks, in a gentle breeze; and if I mechanically joined, or kept imploring pardon and mercy through Jesus for my many sins, it was not prayer, for I felt neither peace nor hope while I called. My heart seemed to take little interest in what my lips were uttering. All appeared as if I had been suddenly thrown to the bottom of a mine in utter darkness. Then, again, the glowing sun, that the day before seemed stationary in the heavens, so slow had appeared his progress, now seemed to whirl with fearful velocity, as I occasionally cast up my despairing eyes to mark his progress. "It was now past noon. Captain H---- still sat by my side, with my hand clasped affectionately in his, doing his utmost to prepare my soul for the great change. I began slowly to recover from the stupor caused by the sudden announcement of my horrid doom. I joined in prayer with him. Never again will I be more fit to die than I became towards the evening. I told the captain of the vessel I was now ready to submit to my lot. He could not answer me, his heart was too full; the tears rolled down his rugged face, and with a groan he retired to his cabin. Satan, who had eyed me from the first as if he repined at the delay I had obtained, came forward. The men turned their backs. Captain H---- rose to his feet and pushed him back, saying I had been allowed to live until sundown, and I should have full time allowed. Some of the crew joined him. As for myself, I had become weary of my horrible suspense. "As had been the daily practice since our misfortunes began, several of the crew had been stationed in our remaining mast-head, to look out for any vessel that might come in sight; even yet several continued to crawl up, to gaze over the expanse of waters, in hopes of relief. Often through this day had my imploring eyes been fixed on them with anxious looks. Even while I felt weary of my suspense and wished it over, hope would steal over my mind; there was yet some space ere sunset, and my prayers for pardon, spite of myself, would end in supplications for deliverance. Suddenly a faint shout arose from the mast-head. It was repeated. I started up, and in voluntarily joined, as it ran along the deck, the blessed cry, 'A sail in sight!' There was life in the sound. Many wept, while others laughed aloud. Some clasped their hands in silence, and raised their eyes to heaven. I sank upon my knees; tears of gratitude to God poured from my eyes; words were denied me, but my heart burned within me with love. I arose and joined the crew, who were gazing over the side at the welcome sight, which was nearing us fast. We fired a gun and hung out a signal of distress, as the sun was now fast sinking in the west. She still neared us; but darkness was coming fast, and fearing to lose her, a lantern was fixed on the top, and minute guns were fired. The strange vessel occasionally replied; and during this last night of our misery no eye was closed. Each flash of her gun, less distant as she replied, acted upon our depressed minds, inspiring hope. Faint as the wind was, it was evident that she neared us, and we steered our almost waterlogged hulk towards the flash of her guns, in the best manner we could. When morning dawned, she was within a quarter-of-a-league of us. We now made her out to be a Portuguese merchantman; but had she been an Algerine cruiser, we would have hailed her with delight. A boat put off from her, and was soon alongside. The officer who came on board was shocked to witness our misery; for indeed we resembled spectres more than men. She proved to be a Portuguese trader of the largest class, bound for Brazil, laden with supplies. Captain H----, who was acquainted with the captain, and spoke a little Portuguese, having been several times in Lisbon, acted as interpreter. Language was not required to tell our miserable state. The Portuguese acted with the utmost humanity, and stayed by us for two days. The captain himself came on board with the first boat load of supplies, and superintended their serving out--as great an act of humanity as furnishing them; for the people on board the Traussean, now that provisions were on board, became actually mutinous to obtain them--each man thinking he alone could have eat the whole supply, so ravenous did our appetites feel. We were, at first, only served with half a biscuit each, steeped in wine. Impatient as we were for this and much more, as soon as it was given by our benefactors, numbers loathed it, and could not swallow the morsel. I thought, upon receiving my portion, it was cruel mockery of our wants to give so little. My desires were all for food, food; yet, when I put the first bit into my mouth, a sickness came over me--my stomach refused to receive it. Thus I sat with what my soul longed for in my hand, yet unable to enjoy it, conscious that my existence depended upon it; yet it was by several violent efforts I succeeded in swallowing it. Soon after I fell sound asleep. All were not affected in the same manner. Some devoured their allowance and pleaded for more, which was, for a space, refused, until it was thought safe to gratify the calls of hunger with more solid food. In about four hours I awoke from my sleep, with the most intense craving for food, much more so than I had felt during the famine. Captain H---- I found still asleep in his berth, to which he had retired. Ten of the crew of the Portuguese vessel were at our pumps and in charge of the vessel; for our own crew were incapable of any exertion. All energy seemed to have forsaken us, now that help had been so mercifully bestowed upon us. Gradually the allowance of food was increased to us, and next morning our vigour began gradually to return. Fortunately the weather was very fine. Our deliverers lay close to us during the night; their boats had been passing between the vessels with all they could spare to supply our wants, and their own men cheerfully undertook the task we ourselves were incapable of. Having done all for us they could, even assisting to refit and search for the leak, on the evening of the second day they bade us farewell, and proceeded on their voyage, amply rewarded for their kindness. The Portuguese captain made, at parting, a present to Captain H---- of six bottles of wine and some other necessaries; for he was now confined to his berth, the privations he had so long endured having made him very feverish and unwell. "On the third day after we parted from the generous Portuguese, we reached the mouth of the Tagus, when the pilot came on board. He had almost left the vessel again, so great was his alarm and surprise at our wretched appearance. We resembled a spectre ship. The Traussean was refitted and ready to sail; but we resolved not to proceed farther in her. We could as readily get a passage from Lisbon to Britain as from Amsterdam; and what would have induced me to leave her more than what I had suffered in her was the presence of the hated Satan. A feeling of horror crept over me every time I saw him, after that fearful day during which I was doomed to death. His malign eyes were never off me, as he sat like a rattlesnake fascinating a poor squirrel or bird. I did not fear him; it was loathing that made me recoil from him. I could have encountered him in single combat with a feeling of satisfaction; but he gave me or no one a just ground of quarrel, and it was not my nature to fix one on him. "Having settled with the captain of the Dutch vessel, and removed our luggage to the hotel, we remained several weeks, during which Captain H---- rapidly recovered. To amuse ourselves, we visited the English resident in the town; but our chief resort was to the house of Mr. B----, a Scottish merchant, who had a family of two sons and a daughter--the young lady a most engaging girl, and very beautiful. Captain H---- used to spend the most of his time in this family; and gradually I could observe a change in his manner and conversation. He became more gay and cheerful in his manner, at times; then, again, he would resume all the melancholy he felt at our first acquaintance. I was, for some time, at a loss to imagine what caused this change of temper in him. One day, as we sat at breakfast, talking over old adventures, he said-- "'Square, I have observed that you have been rather surprised at my manner of late. In truth, I do not wonder at it. I am not less surprised at it myself. That bewitching girl, Helen, has made a fool of me, I believe. The truth is, I love her to distraction, and fear to acknowledge it to myself; yet truth will out.' "Then, leaning his head upon his hand, he sighed heavily, 'Poor Eliza!' I made no reply for a few minutes, as I was taken by surprise, and knew not what to say. I was, involuntarily on my part, made his confidant. He told me that he had not as yet declared his passion to Helen, and feared to do so, lest he should be rejected by her, as there was a young Portuguese noble very marked in his attentions. Jocularly, I began to laugh him out of his fears, and urged a bold attempt to win her, if she was his choice, now that he was rich enough to forego all toil and care; for Bachelor Hall was but a lonely dwelling. Before noon, we parted--he to declare his unalterable love; I to make some calls upon a few Scotch friends I had picked up. The day passed on cheerfully. I was returning to our hotel as the shades of evening began to fall, having an appointment with Captain H---- to attend a party in the evening. I was posting quickly along, when, at the Church of St. Geremino, a little distance from our hotel, I saw a crowd collect suddenly. My way led through the narrow thoroughfare. I passed on, resolved not to stop, when the words 'Assassinated; poor gentleman!' fell upon my ear. Urged by curiosity and humanity, I bustled through the crowd. In the centre lay the captain, weltering in his blood. In a moment, he was supported in my arms. Opening his eyes, he recognised me, and said-- "'Square, I have been cowardly murdered by some villain.' "Urging silence upon him, I had him immediately conveyed home to our hotel, and the surgeon sent for to examine his wound. To my great joy, it proved not fatal, but dangerous. The poniard had taken, fortunately, an upward direction--entering the left breast, and passing outwards to the top of the shoulder. For several days he lay dangerously ill. In such a city as Lisbon, it was of no use to offer a reward or make inquiries after the assassin, even had death ensued. Mr. B---- and his sons called regularly upon him every day, to inquire after him and visit his sick-bed. After he was able to sit up, Helen, attended by her brothers, waited upon him. I was present at their interview. The captain, on the day of which I have spoken before, had called upon Helen, resolved to know her sentiments of him, and either declare his love or to banish her from his mind. The Portuguese noble was also present when he called. Helen's preference had been too apparent; yet no opportunity offered for him to declare his passion. His rival watched with jealous care, and seemed determined to wait him out; yet no animosity appeared in his manner; all was, to appearance, joy and mirth. The captain bade Helen adieu, to keep his appointment at the British Consul's; Helen gave him her hand to kiss: an interchange of looks had fired the Portuguese to madness; quickly he had followed; and, as he thought, slain his hated rival. All this had been discovered shortly after the event. But to return. "When Helen and her brothers entered, the captain lay upon his couch, propped up with pillows. She approached, pale, and evidently overcome by emotion; joy beamed in the captain's eye; he stretched forth his hand to welcome her, and she was in the act of presenting hers, when the captain's hand sank, and he fell back upon the pillows, pale and overcome. His eye was fixed upon her hand, which had sunk by her side. We looked on in astonishment. In a few minutes the captain recovered, and was the first to speak-- "'Excuse this burst of feeling I cannot control; this moment has recalled to memory the most miserable event of my life. Lady, that ring?' pointing to her hand with a melancholy smile. "'I got it from my poor cousin at her death,' she said. "'Thank God!' the captain ejaculated. 'It was once mine; the gift of one I loved dearer than life--my dear Eliza, now no more." "While he said this, the brothers looked upon each other astonished, while Ellen hung her head, and turned deadly pale. The whole party were much embarrassed, until the captain gave them an account of his first love, and its fatal issue. During the recital I could see the tears swim in Helen's eyes. She took the ring from her finger, and presented it to the captain, who kissed it with fervour, and placed it upon his bosom for a moment, saying-- "'Dearest Helen, will you be to me all that Eliza was, and allow me to keep this as a token of your promise, until I am thought by you and your relations worthy of you?' "Helen blushed, and made no reply; but her eyes were eloquent. Her brothers said they felt themselves honoured, and would consult their father. All were now happy. The elder brother told us the history of the ring, as far as he knew, as follows:-- "Their cousin Katherine, a young lady of great expectations and good fortune, had been betrothed to a Scotchman in Holland, where she resided with her mother, a widowed sister of their father's; before their marriage, her lover, who had fallen in a duel on the frontiers of France, had given her the ring. After his premature death, she had fallen into a bad state of health, and come to Lisbon to reside, where she breathed her last in the arms of Helen, bequeathing her the ring and other jewels of value. "Captain H---- now removed to the house of Mr B----, his acknowledged father-in-law to be. I remained no longer in Lisbon than a few weeks after the ceremony, when I bade adieu to Captain H---- and his bride, and embarked on board the Emelie for London, many pounds the poorer for my stay in Lisbon; yet rich: I was possessed of several hundred pounds; my mind was more harassed how to lay them out to advantage than it had been to earn them. In truth I was so unstable in my resolves, I sometimes wished I was once again as poor as I was when I left Edinburgh first with Captain H----" END OF VOL. VII 
34145	----	WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND. HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE. WITH A GLOSSARY. REVISED BY ALEXANDER LEIGHTON ONE OF THE ORIGINAL EDITORS AND CONTRIBUTORS. VOL. V. LONDON: WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE. 1885. CONTENTS. BILL STANLEY; OR, A SAILOR'S STORY, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_ THE SURGEON'S TALES, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON_) THE CONSCIENCE STRICKEN RATTLING, ROARING WILLIE, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_ BILL WHYTE, _(HUGH MILLER)_ THE PROFESSOR'S TALES, _(PROFESSOR THOMAS GILLESPIE)_ THE LAST OF THE PEDLARS DUNCAN SCHULEBRED'S VISION OF JUDGMENT, _(ALEX. LEIGHTON)_ ARCHY ARMSTRONG, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_ THE DOUBLE-BEDDED ROOM, _(WALTER LOGAN)_ THE HIGHLAND BOY, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_ MAJOR WEIR'S COACH, _(JOHN HOWELL)_ THE DIVINITY STUDENT, _(DAVID M. MOIR, "DELTA")_ WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND. BILL STANLEY; OR, A SAILOR'S STORY. Reader, if thou hast never visited the Fern Isles, but intendest to visit them, thou hast a pleasure in reserve--a positive, downright, profitable pleasure--profitable as regards the health of the body, for a trip upon the sea makes the blood feel ten years younger, and dance in the veins as merrily as the waves around us; and profitable also to the mind, by filling it with fresh objects for wonder and contemplation; and it is a fact very generally overlooked, that the poor jaded mind stands as much in need of new objects to work upon, as its plebeian neighbour, the body, stands in need of rest or change of diet. It is a matter of small consequence, whether you go in a yacht or in a steamer; in the former you will have as much pleasure, in the latter more punctuality. But it is a matter of much consequence what sort of company you have on board--in a word, what materials your fellow-voyagers are made of. If they be all your exceedingly good-natured sort of people--people bowed down with politeness and a desire to please--you won't be half an hour at sea till you find them dead as uncorked small beer that has stood an hour in the sun, or insipid as milk and water. I had as lief dine upon dried veal as be mewed up a day with such society. If you wish to relish the company, and to see character developed, be careful to have it sprinkled with the salt, the pepper, and the mustard of human dispositions; as for the vinegar, even a drop of that would be too much. Sickness might improve your health for the future, but would impair your pleasure for the present; and, in truth, seasickness appears to be as pale, ghostly, and uncomfortable a companion as a man may meet withal. But, if the day be fine, and the breeze moderate, there is but little chance of your being sick. At any rate, you will find about half a pound of well-boiled ham, just as the vessel kisses the salt water, an excellent preventive; and half the pleasure of a sea trip lies in the relish, the _salt_, which it gives to the homeliest morsel. When the Ferns are first seen, what appeared but two, or, at most, three islands, are now found to be a cluster of sixteen or twenty--the ocean-homes of ten thousand times ten thousand sea-fowls; which now may be seen rising in myriads, blackening the air and covering the surface of the islands, as if a thunder-cloud hung over them--anon their snowy wings flash in the sunbeams, countless specks of light begem the seeming cloud, and flickering for a moment, assume the appearance of a magnificent rainbow instinct with motion,--and, again, as if turning from the flashing of their own beautiful plumage, settle like darkness on the rocks. To appreciate the striking effect of these islands, it is necessary to sail round them, as well as to land upon them. Each appears to be surrounded by a pier or bulwark of nature's masonry. What is termed the Pinnacle Island, is the most impressive. We have been informed that it bears a strong resemblance to St. Helena--the grave of Europe's conqueror. The pinnacles are a mass of perpendicular rocks, representing towers, battlements, and fortifications, apparently as perfect to the eye as if formed by the hands of man, but that their terrible strength seems to frown in mockery on his puny efforts. They, alone, are worth visiting again and again. They make man feel his own insignificance, and the power of the Omnipotent voice that called into existence the mighty ocean and the wonders of its bosom. Burns, on visiting a place in the Highlands, said it was "enough to make a blockhead a poet;" and we say that the man who could visit the Fern Isles without feeling the influence of poetry within him, has a head as stupid as the sea-fowl that inhabit them, and an imagination as impenetrable as the rocks that compose the pinnacles. About three years ago, a mixed party left Newcastle, in a steamer, on a pleasure excursion to the islands. Amongst the company, there was a man of a weather-beaten but happy and intelligent countenance, whose age seemed to be at least sixty, and whose general appearance and manners indicated that he was an old seaman, and perhaps had been a purser or a sailing-master in the navy, or the commander of a merchantman, who had made enough to enable him to cast anchor ashore, in peace, quiet, and plenty, for the remainder of his days. His shrewdness, his knowledge, and his humour, soon rendered him a favourite with the company. On arriving at the islands, the party went on shore; and, dividing themselves into groups, sat down, and spread out their provisions on the rocks; about a dozen prevailed upon the old sailor to accompany them, and to be their messmate. After dinner, they began to sing, and the old tar was called upon for a song. "Gentlemen," said he, "I never could raise a single stave in my life; but, if it's all one to you, I will spin you a sailor's yarn." "Agreed," cried they--"all! all!" "Well," began the old seaman, "it was a year or two before the short peace of Amiens, that two young seamen were sitting in a public-house in North Shields, which I shall please to speak of as the sign of the Old Ship; and its landlord I shall call Mr. Danvers. The name of the one sailor was William Stanley, the other Jack Jenkins. Jack was but a plain fellow, though no lubber; but Bill was a glorious young fellow--the admiration of everybody; though only the son of a poor laundress, who wrought hard to bring him up, while a boy, he had contrived to get knowledge and book-learning enough to have been made commodore of a college. I may here tell you, too, that old Danvers had a daughter called Mary--one of the best and prettiest girls on all Tyneside. She was Bill's consort on all occasions; and they were true to each other as a needle is to the Pole. Jack and he were friends and shipmates; and being sitting together-- "'I say Bill,' said his comrade, 'as we are to sail upon a long voyage to-morrow, what say you for a run up to Newcastle to the theatre to-night? You shall take Polly Danvers, and I shall take my old woman.'" For Jack was married. "'It is of no use thinking of it,' answered he; 'I am brought up here as though it were my last mooring.' "'Whew! whew!' whistled the other--'with pretty Polly for a chain cable. But I don't ask you to part company with each other. So let us make ready and start.' "'No,' added Stanley; 'the best play and the best actors in the world, would be to me to-night like a land-lubber sitting smiling and piping upon a flute on the sea-banks, while I was being dashed to pieces by the breakers under his feet. "'What are you drifting at, Bill?' said Jenkins; 'your upper works seem to have hoisted a moon-raker.' "'I am unhappy, Jack,' said he, earnestly, 'and the cause presses like lead upon my heart. It throbs like fire within my forehead. For more than twenty years I have been tossed about as a helmless vessel, without compass or reckoning. It is hard, Jack, that I can't mention my mother's name, but the blush upon my cheek must dry up the tear that falls for her memory. Three months ago, as you know, I came home, with the earnings of a two years' voyage in my pocket, and I found----O shipmate! when I expected to have flung my savings into my mother's lap, I found her dying in a miserable garret, with scarce a blanket to cover her! She had been long ill; and the rich old rascal called Wates, (who came to this part of the country some years ago), seized all but the straw on which she lay, for his rent. I thought my heart had burst as I flung myself upon the ground by her side. A mist came over my eyes. I neither knew what I saw nor heard. I felt her cold arms clinging round my neck. She spoke--she told me _my father's name_! Comrade! it was the first time I had heard it! The word father pierced my heart like a dagger, and, in my agony, I knew not what she said. I started, I entreated her to repeat it again! But my mother was silent!--she was dead!--the arms of a corpse were fastened round my neck! With the breath which uttered the name she had not spoken for more than twenty years, her spirit fled--and I--I cannot remember it.' "'Vast there, Bill!' cried Jack, wiping a tear from his eyes; 'that is tragedy enough without going to the play for it. But, for the sake of Mary Danvers, the prettiest girl on Tyneside (not even excepting my old woman), cheer up, my lad!' "'If that should cheer me,' said he, 'I believe it is the principal cause why I am sad to-day.' "'Why, then,' said Jack, 'don't you take an example by me, and run your frigate to church at once? You will find a plain gold ring is a precious fast anchor.' "'But what,' replied Stanley, 'if the old commodore, her father, won't allow me to take her in tow?' "'He won't!' cried Jenkins--that's a goodun! Old dad Danvers won't allow you to splice with her! What's his reason? I'm sure he can't say but you are as sober as the chief judge of the Admiralty. "'To-night,' replied Stanley, in a tone of agitation, 'he found her in my company, and called, or rather dragged her away: and, as they went, I heard him upbraid her bitterly, and ask if the meanness of her spirit would permit her to throw herself away upon----upon'----William became more agitated, the words he had to utter seemed to stick in his throat; and his friend Jenkins exclaimed--'Upon a better man than ever he was in his life! But what did he say, Bill--_upon_ what was she going to throw herself away?' "'Upon a beggar's nameless _bastard_! he said,' groaned poor Stanley, striking his hand upon his brow. "'What d'ye say?'cried Jenkins, clenching his fist; 'had the old fellow's ribs not been removed off the first letter, this hand had shivered them! Flesh and blood, Stanley, how did ye endure it?' "'I started to my feet,' said he; 'my teeth grated together; but I heard her gentle voice reproving him for the word, and it fell upon my heart like the moon upon the sea, Jack, after a storm. My hand fell by my side. He is _her_ father, thought I; and, for the first time in his life, Will Stanley brooked an affront.' "Just as he was speaking, a gentle tap came to the door, 'Good night, Jack,' added he; 'I understand the signal, the old cruiser is off the coast, and now for the smuggling trade.' "I may tell you that the reason why old Danvers was so averse to his daughter keeping company with Bill Stanley was, that there was a hypocritical middle-aged villain, called Squire Wates (the same that Bill spoke of as having sold off his mother, and left her to die upon straw), I hate the very name of the old rascal! Well, you see, this same Squire Wates that I am telling you of, came from abroad somewhere, and bought a vast deal of property about Shields. He was said to be as rich as an Exchange Jew--and perhaps he was. He had cast an eye upon Mary Danvers, and the grey-haired rascal sought, through the agency of his paltry yellow dross, to accomplish the destruction of the innocent and beautiful creature; and thinking that Will Stanley was an obstacle to the accomplishment of his purpose, he determined to have him removed. He also persuaded old Danvers that he wished to make his daughter his wife. Conscience!--after half drowning such a hoary-headed knave, I would have hung him up at a yard-arm, without judge or jury, and buried him in a dunghill without benefit of clergy. He employed a fellow of the name of Villars as a confederate in his base intentions--one who had been thrice a bankrupt, without being able to show a loss that he had sustained, or pay a shilling to his creditors. This creature he professed to set up in business--in something connected with the West India trade--and he prevailed on landlord Danvers to embark in the speculation, and to risk all that he had saved in the _Old Ship_ for five-and-twenty years. So that the firm--if such a disgraceful transaction might be called by that appellation--went by the designation of _Villars & Danvers_. The firm, however, was altogether an invention of Wates, to promote his designs. There was another whom they engaged in their scheme--a fellow who was a disgrace to the sea--the very spawn of salt water--a Boatswain Rigby; and the frigate to which he belonged was cruising upon the coast for the protection of the coasters. But you will hear more about these worthies by-and-by. "It was within a few hours of the time, when, as I told you before, Bill Stanley and Jack Jenkins were to sail upon a twelvemonth's voyage. The vessel to which they belonged was lying out in the harbour below Tynemouth Castle, and sweethearts and wives were accompanying the crew to the beach, where a boat was waiting to take them aboard. "Mary had ventured to accompany William part of the way towards the beach to bid him adieu; and when, through fear of her father finding them together, she would have returned, he held her hand more firmly within his, and said--'Fear nothing, love; it is the last time we shall see each other for twelve months. Come down as far as the boat; and do not let it be said, when it pulls off, that Bill Stanley was the only soul in the ship's crew, that had not a living creature on the shore to wave _good-by_ to--or one to drop a tear for his departure, more than if he were a dog. If I be alone and an outcast in the world, do not let me feel it now.' "'Willingly,' she replied, 'would I follow you, not only there, but to the ends of the earth. But my father will be on the beach, watching the boat; or, if he be not, the spies of another will be there, and my accompanying you would only make my persecution the greater during your absence.' "'What!' exclaimed he, 'have I then a rival for your affections, one that I know not of, and whose addresses are backed by your father's influence? Who is he?--or what is his name? Tell me, Mary--I conjure you, by your plighted faith.' "'Give not the name of a rival,' said she, 'to a hypocritical wretch, whose heart I would not tread beneath my heel, for fear of pollution! A rival!--William, I would not insult the meanest reptile that feeds upon garbage, by placing it in competition with a hypocrite so base and mean! A rival!--rather would I breathe the vapours of a ploughed charnel-house for ever, than be blasted with his breath for a single hour! No--my heart is yours--it is wholly yours--fear not.' "'Mary,' said he, solemnly, 'if I am worthy of your love, I am not unworthy of your confidence. You would not, you could not, bestow such language on the most worthless, where personal indignity had not been offered, or intended you. Name him, I adjure--nay, I _command_ you,' he added wildly; 'it will yet be three hours till the vessel sail, and in that period I will avenge the indignity that has been offered to you.' "'Speak not of such a thing,' said she; 'whatever be his designs, against such a persecutor she is a weak woman who cannot defend herself. Would you raise your hand against a worm, or draw a sword against a venomous fly? Come, think not of it--look not so; would a vessel of the line throw a broadside into a paltry cock-boat? Punish him!--no, despise him!' "'It may be so,' he rejoined; 'but my heart is to yours as the eyelid is to the eyeball, and even a moth between them causes agony. Name him, that I may judge of his power to do evil, or the vessel which is this day to sail--sails without me.' "'Then, that your contempt may equal mine,' added she, 'think of the creature _Wates_! He whose name stands first on the list of _published_ charities--and who sends the newsman abroad to trumpet his piety, while villany lurks in his grey hairs.' "'What!' he exclaimed wildly--_Wates_! the murderer of my mother!--who sent his minions to sell the very bed from beneath her, and left her to perish on the ground! Justice! where sleep thy thunderbolts! Mary, we shall return--I go not to sea to-day!' "'William,' said she affectionately, 'do you then fear to trust me? Did he carry honours in his right hand, and in his left the wealth of the world, and lay them both at my feet--I feel that within me that would spurn them from me, as I would an insect that crawled upon me to sting me. To you would I give my hand and beg for a subsistence, rather than share with him the throne of an empire. What then do you fear? In your own words, if I am unworthy of your confidence, I am unworthy of your love.' "'No, Mary!' he cried, 'it is not fear. Wrong not yourself, neither wrong my bosom, that is full to bursting, by harbouring such a thought. When darkness issues from the sunbeams, I will doubt your affection; when a whirlwind sweeps across the sea, and the billows rise not at its voice, I will fear your truth--not till then. But I know that to associate the name of the most virtuous woman with that of a villain, is to make the world suspect her. Ah, Mary! in the innocence of your own heart you suspect not the iniquity of which some are capable. Let the name of a libertine be attached to the character of a man, and especially of a rich man, till his crimes are heaped up like a world of sin upon the shoulders of their contemptible author, and the next sun that rises, in the eyes of the world melts away their enormity, if not their remembrance; but, if the mere shadow of such a villain's breath pass over the character of a woman, its stains will remain fixed and immoveable, growing in blackness and gathering misery, until life and memory have made their last port. I will not speak of revenge, to distress you--but I shall not undertake this voyage. I will remain on shore, not to guard your innocence, but to protect your name from slander.' "'William,' she answered, 'ignorant of the world I may be; but I know that your remaining on shore would only give rise to the calumnies which you would wish to prevent. You would make yourself an object for the laughter and remarks of your shipmates; and would disoblige your owners, who, after this voyage, have promised you the command of a vessel. And for what would you do this, but through fear of a wretch on whom I could not waste a single thought, and on whom I regret that I have thrown away a single word.' "At that moment Jack Jenkins, with his wife Betty, weeping like a mermaid under his arm, hove in sight, and the moment he beheld his comrade, he called out--'Hollo, Bill! how did you and Polly manage to pass the old Commodore of _the Ship_; I saw him keeping a look-out abaft there.' But his wife sobbed while he was speaking, and, as he approached his shipmate, he continued--'Take aback in time, Bill, and don't marry--I ask your pardon, Polly, and yours too, Betty, my love,' kissing his wife's cheeks; 'I don't exactly mean not to marry, either--but this parting company breaks up one's heart, like an old fir-built craft that is not fit for fire-wood. I wish the lubber's back had a round dozen that invented the word--_good-by_! It always sticks in my throat, like pushing a piece of old junk down it.' "While he was speaking, a king's cutter shot round a point of land, with a pack of lobsters abaft; and the black fellow, Boatswain Rigby, sat in her bow. She was within twenty yards of where they stood. "'Fly, William!--fly!' said Mary, wildly; 'it is you they seek--my heart tells me it is you--oh, fly!' "'Be not afraid, dearest,' said Stanley; 'I do not think they mean harm to us, and, if they did, flight is impossible.' "'Oh, run! run!' cried Betty Jenkins; 'see--the marines are handling their muskets.' "'Run! why, it's of no use running,' said her husband; 'the lobsters would bring a fellow up with their pepper-boxes before he could run a quarter of a cable's length.' "The boat took the ground, and Rigby, with a party of sailors and marines, sprang on shore. "'Well, my hearties,' said the boatswain, 'will either of you volunteer to serve his Majesty?' "'Why, sir'----Jack Jenkins was replying, when his wife placed her hand upon his mouth, saying--'Are you a fool, Jack?' "'What!' said the boatswain, 'no volunteers! Well, we want but one of you. This is our man,' and he touched Stanley on the shoulder with his cutlass. "'Oh!' cried Mary, addressing the boatswain, as she fell upon William's neck; 'spare him! spare him! and with my last coin I will endeavour to procure a substitute in his stead.' "'It won't do, my pretty maiden,' said Rigby; 'in these times we can't lose so promising a prize, for a woman's tears. Marines, to the boat with him.' "'Hold! servile slaves!' cried Stanley, as they attempted to drag him away; 'allow me to bid adieu to my Mary and to my friends here, or I defy the worst you can do.' "'Quick, then,' said Rigby, 'the service cannot wait for farewells.' "Mary still clung to William's arm. 'Good-by, Jack,' said he, with the salt water rolling in his eyes, and his heart ready to burst--'and when you return from the voyage, see that you keep the land-sharks off my poor Mary, for the sake of your old messmate.' "'Belay, Bill!' cried Jenkins; 'my heart's afloat. Heaven bless you, lad, and be at ease respecting Polly. Should any lubber pull alongside, my name's not Jenkins if I don force him to strike his colours, and shove off with broken timbers. Good-by, Bill--give me your hand; and though they were my last words, I say--I'm blowed if ever I shook the flipper of a better fellow!' "'Mary!' sobbed he, pressing her to his heart; 'farewell, love!--we shall meet again!--you won't forget Bill Stanley!' "'Stay! oh, stay!' she exclaimed. But the boatswain waved his hand impatiently, and his crew rudely tearing them asunder, William Stanley was dragged to the boat, and borne on board the frigate. "Well, twelve months passed, after the impressment of William Stanley, and Squire Wates found that his wealth offered no temptation to Mary Danvers, to enable him to effect her ruin. He, however, had inveigled her father into his meshes; and, through the pretended failure of the mercantile speculation in which Villars and old Danvers had been engaged, the former brought a claim of five hundred pounds against the latter, who had lost his all. And the plan of the villains was, that Villars should cast the old man into prison, and that Wates should come forward, and professing to pay the debt, set the father at liberty, and obtain, through the daughter's gratitude, what her virtue spurned. To ensure success to this master-stroke of their wickedness, it was to be attended by a mock-marriage, in which Boatswain Rigby (the frigate to which he belonged being again lying off Tynemouth), was, for a _consideration_, to officiate as chaplain. "It was on the very day that this piece of iniquity was hatched, that Jack Jenkins, having returned--and having learned from his wife, and from Mary Danvers, of some of the attempts that had been made by Squire Wates, during his absence, and since the impressment of his comrade--hurried to the house of the old rascal, with a rope's end in his hand. He found the street door open, and, without knocking, he went to the foot of the stairs, and demanded to see Squire Wates. "'You can't see him, fellow,' said a portly, pampered man-servant. "'Can't see him!' roared Jack; 'he shall see me presently, and feel me too. So, come along, Mr. Powdered-pate; shew me where he is, or I'll capsize you head and heels.' "The old villain, himself, hearing the uproar, came blustering out of a room, crying--'Who are you, fellow? and how dare you, in such a manner, break into my house? What is your business with me?' "'Vast there with your questions, old leprous-livered knave!' vociferated Jenkins. 'As to who I am, I am a better fellow than ever stood in your shoes; and, as to daring to break into your house, before I leave it, I shall dare to break your head! And as to my business with you, I intend to make you _sensible_ of that too;' and as he uttered the word _sensible_, he shook the piece of rope in his hand, and continued--'Now, I have answered your questions; answer one to me. Do you remember a lad of the name of Bill Stanley--eh?' "The Squire shook with terror; but endeavouring to assume an air of authority, stammered out--'No--no--fellow; I--I know no such person. Begone, sir. Be--begone, I say.' "'Smash me if I do!' added Jenkins. 'And belike you don't know Polly Danvers, either? Well, perhaps this piece of old junk may sharpen your memory!' "Wates called upon his servants for assistance. "'Hands off, ye beggarly swabs! or kiss the boatswain's sister!' continued the sailor, laying lustily around him, and causing the domestics to shrink back. 'Vast there!' he continued, laying hold of the squire, who attempted to escape; 'not so fast--I an't quite done with you yet. Now, you see, I'm an old friend and shipmate of Bill Stanley's; and the day that he was pressed, and you were the cause of it, Bill says to me--'Jack,' says he, 'when I am away, see that no land-shark comes alongside my Polly.' 'Fear nothing, Bill,' says I, 'hang me if I don't--there's my hand on't.' Now, I've been at sea ever since, until the other day, and my old woman tells me that you, you cream-faced scoundrel, not only had the impudence to pull alongside Polly Danvers, but had the audacity to propose----shiver me if I can name it--but take that!' "And so saying, he began to lay the rope fiercely round the shoulders of his victim; and, as the servants again closed upon the sailor to rescue their master, he dashed them to the ground, to the right and to the left, and finally rushed out of the house, crying--'Who shall say that Jack is the lad that would break his promise?' "I told you it was a part of the plot of Wates, that his confederate Villars, was to cast old Danvers into prison, on account of the pretended debt. The old landlord was sitting in the parlour of the _Old Ship_, trembling at the horrors of a jail, and fearing every moment the entrance of a sheriff's officer to arrest him, while his wife and daughter endeavoured to comfort him, and he said mournfully--'Wife, after being married thirty years as we have been, I did not expect that we should have been parted in this way. I did not think that, after toiling in the _Old Ship_ here for twenty years, to save a matter of money for our daughter, I should lose all, and my hair grow white in a prison. But it is of no use mourning about it; for I question if those for whom we wished the money would have thanked us. I know I would not have seen a father or mother of mine dragged to jail like a common thief, if I by any means could have prevented it.' And, as he spoke, he cast a look of sorrow and upbraiding upon Mary, who wept on her mother's shoulder. "'Don't be cruel, husband,' said his wife; 'how can you distress our daughter? I am sure she can't help the state we are reduced to, any more than I can. But I always said what all your jobbing and trafficking in company with the bankrupt Villars, would end in. I know thou'rt suffering enough, and we are all suffering; but don't be reflecting upon our dear Mary, for a better child never parents had.' "'I an't making reflections,' replied he, peevishly; 'only I'm saying, I would not have stood so by my father. It is no reflection to say that Mary might have been a lady, and then I am sure I should not have been dragged from the parlour--where I have sat for twenty years--to a dungeon in a jail.' "'Father!' said Mary, 'what would you have me do? Would you have me become an object for the virtuous to shun, for your enemies to triumph over and despise, and for the abandoned to insult? Would you have me to sell my purity, my peace of mind, my present and eternal happiness, to a miscreant who carries sanctity on his brow, and morality between his teeth, while his heart is a putrid sepulchre? Would you have me do this to save you from a prison?--and to which you have been brought by your own simplicity. To assist you, I will become the servant of servants--I would brush the dust from the shoes of strangers, in this house where I was born. But, while the tear blanches my cheeks for your misfortunes, cause them not to burn with shame.' "'Why, daughter,' replied he, angrily, 'I don't understand thy high words at all. But though I don't know so much of my dictionary as thou dost, I know those books you read have turned thy head with foolish and high notions. I know you wont have Mr. Wates, because he is a thought oldish, and belike doesn't make love like one of the romance sparks you read about. But, I say, I'm neither blind nor deaf, and, for all that you have said, I know as how it is marriage, and nought else, that Mr. Wates intends. But, rich as he is, you won't have him, but will see your poor old father dragged through the streets, like a thief to a prison. O Mary! it is a sore thing to have an ungrateful child!' "'O husband!--husband!' said Mrs. Danvers; 'they were thy high notions, and none of our dear daughter's, that has brought us to this. But it is not my part to add to thy sorrows, when thou art about to be torn from my side. Alack! I never thought to be made a widow in this sort.' "'Wife!--wife!' cried he impatiently; 'be it my blame, or whose blame it may, we can't make a better of it now; but it is very hard to have lost the earnings of twenty years, and to be parted from wife and child. Don't be angry with me, daughter. Your father meant all he has said or done for your good. Come, give your old father a kiss and forgive him. It may be the last he will ever receive from you in his own house.' "She threw her arms around his neck and wept; and while the father and daughter embraced each other, a sheriff's officer entered the house. "'Well-a-day!--well-a-day!' cried Mrs. Danvers, as she perceived him; 'thy errand, and the disgrace of it, will break my heart.' "'Don't be distressed, good woman,' said the officer, 'it is no such disgrace but that many of the best in the country must submit to it every day. Mr. Danvers,' added he, 'I am sorry to inform you, you must walk with me. This paper will inform you, you are my prisoner.' "'It is very hard,' said the old man; 'I say, sir, it is very hard to be called a prisoner in a free country, for doing nothing at all. Heaven knows about this here debt that is brought against me, for I don't. But I know that locking me up in a jail won't pay it.' "'Oh, cruel law!' exclaimed Mary; 'framed by fools, and put in force by usurers. Let justice laugh at the wise law makers, who shut up the springs, and expect the reservoirs to be filled.' "'Why, miss,' said the official, 'I didn't make the law; I be only the officer of the law. So come along, Mr. Danvers, my good man, for I can't stop all day to hear your daughter's speeches. I have other jobs of the same sort in hand, and business must be attended to.' "'Go, unfeeling man,' answered Mary, 'we will go with you. Bear with misfortune, my dear father, like a man. I will accompany you--take my arm. If I have hung upon yours with pride, upon more joyful occasions, it shall not be said that I was ashamed for you to rest upon mine, when they led you through the streets to a prison.' And she accompanied him to the place of confinement. "It was two days after old Danvers had been taken to prison, that the frigate into which William Stanley had been impressed made towards the land, and rode off the mouth of the Tyne, while a boat's crew were ordered on shore. Boatswain Rigby, apprehensive that William would request to be one of them, and that his request might be granted, had, previous to the boat leaving the vessel, sought to quarrel with him, and struck him; and requested of the lieutenant that, in consequence of the insolence he had used towards him, he should not be permitted to go on shore, but, as a punishment, placed on duty. "Poor Stanley was walking the deck, saying unto himself--'Refused permission to go ashore! Yes, Rigby! petty tyrant as thou art, thou shalt rue it! Refused a privilege that would have caused a slave to rebel, had he been denied it. But the time will come, when we shall meet upon terms of equality; and were his cowardice equal to his brutality--yea, were he shielded by a breast-plate hard as his own heart--my revenge shall find a passage through both; and his blood shall wash out the impression and the shame of the blow with which to-day he dared to smite me as a dog. The remembrance of that blow sticks as a dagger in my throat--its remembrance chokes me!' And, hurried on by the agitation of his feelings, he spoke aloud as he continued. 'Not only denied to set my foot upon the place of my nativity, but struck!--yes, struck like a hound, by a creature I despise! O memory!' he added, 'torture me not! Here, every remembered object strikes painfully on my eyeballs! The church and the church-yard, where my mother's body now mingles with the dust, are now before me, and I am prohibited from shedding a tear upon her grave. The banks of the Tyne, where I wandered with my Mary, while it sighed affection by our side, and the blue sea, which lay behind us, raising a song of love, are now visible--but though they are still beautiful, they are as beautiful things that lived and were loved, but that are now dead!' "In the intensity of his feelings he perceived not a boat which drew alongside; and, while he yet stood in a reverie, his old crony, Jack Jenkins, sprang on board, and, assisted by a waterman, raised Mary Danvers to the deck. "'Yonder he is,' exclaimed Jack, 'leaning over the gunwale, as melancholy as a merman making his last will and testament in the presence of his father Neptune.' "Stanley started round at the voice of his friend; he beheld his betrothed wife; for you know they were the same as betrothed--they had vowed to be true to each other, and, I believe, broken a ring betwixt them. "'My own Mary!' he cried, and sprang forward to meet her. The poor things fell upon each other's neck, and wept like children. "'Shove me your fist, my hearty,' cried Jenkins, 'as soon as you have done there. I thought I would give you a bit of an agreeable surprise.' "'There, Jack!--there, my honest old friend!' cried Bill, stretching out his one hand, and with the other supporting his sweetheart. 'My head and heart are scudding beneath a sudden tempest of joy! Speak, Mary, love! let me again hear your voice thrilling like music through my breast! O Jack! I am now like one who has been run down in a squall at midnight, and ere he is aware that the waters have covered over him, finds himself aloft, listening to the harps of the happy.' "'I don't know what this is like, Bill,' said the other; 'but it an't like those meetings we used to have.' "'Why so silent, love,' said William, addressing Mary; 'in another hour I shall be off duty, and in one day of happiness let us forget the past.' "'Dear William,' she replied, 'I know not what I should say, nor what I should conceal. I have so little of joy to communicate, that I would not embitter the pleasure of the present short hour, by a recital of the events that have occurred during your absence.' "'Hide nothing from me, Mary,' said he earnestly; 'but tell me, have my forebodings, regarding the monster Wates, been but too true? Or are your parents----You tremble love--you are pale! O Jenkins, speak!--tell me what is the meaning of this?' "'Drop it, Bill, my dear fellow,' said the other, 'drop it. You have got Polly alongside of you there, with a heart as sound and true to you as when you left her; and don't distress her with questions; she didn't come aboard for that. I served out the old fellow Wates, as you requested me, with a rope's end, t'other night, and that pretty smartly too. And, with regard to father Danvers, why, poor soul, somehow or other, misfortune has got the weather-gage of him, and the other day he was taken to jail. So, say no more about it, Bill--we can't mend it.' "'Why,' he exclaimed, stamping his foot as he spoke, 'why am I a slave? And who, my beloved Mary--who now shall protect you? But I can still do something. I have a bank bill for a hundred pounds, the savings of former voyages. I know not why I took it out of my locker this morning. I had it carefully placed away with the ringlet which I cut from your brow, dearest. Here are both; I will keep the ringlet, and think it dearer than ever; take you the note, my love; it may be of service to your father.' "'No, no, William,' she cried, 'I must not, I cannot! Dearest, most generous of men, do not _pity_ me, or I shall wither in your sight. Look on me as you were wont. But, oh! let me not stand before you as a beggar. Keep it--as you love me, keep it--make me not ashamed to look in your face.' "'Then take it, Jack, take it,' said Stanley, handing him the note; 'do with it as I desire. Say nothing more now; for here comes our Boatswain Rigby, the curse of our ship's crew, and the disgrace of the service.' "Mary shuddered as Rigby approached them; and boisterously said--'Who have you got there, fellow, and you upon duty? I shall report you instantly. Some of your old friends, and meditating an escape with them, I see.' And, turning to Jenkins, he added--'Who, sir, gave you permission to come on board this vessel, and to bring _a woman of that description_ along with you? Off, instantly, or I shall detain you too. You, girl, must remain;' and he approached her familiarly to take her by the arm. Stanley sprang forward, exclaiming--'Hold, sir, hold! You have insulted her by your words; but touch not, as you would remain a living man, the hem of her garment.' "'Begone to your duty, presumptuous slave!' cried the boatswain fiercely; 'begone!' And as he spoke, he raised his hand, and struck him on the breast. "'Again!--ha!--ha!--ha!' exclaimed William, like a demon laughing through excess of torture; 'twice you have struck me, Rigby, to-day!--struck me in the presence of her who is dearer to me than life! Now, heaven have mercy on thee!' And, seizing the boatswain by the breast, he hurled him violently on the deck, and planted his foot upon his bosom. "'William!--dear William!' cried Mary; 'forbear!--forbear!' "'Bill, Bill, my dear fellow!' cried Jack, 'don't lose your life for the sake of a ruffian.' "William continued standing with his foot upon his breast, laughing in the same wild and fearful manner, and shouting--'struck me!' while Rigby called for help. A number of the ship's crew sprang forward to the rescue of the boatswain, who, rising, cried--'The irons instantly! Set a double watch over him! He has attempted, as ye have witnessed, the life of an officer, and his first promotion shall be the yard-arm.' "While they were placing the irons upon him, Mary threw herself at Rigby's feet, exclaiming--'Oh, spare him!--save the life of my William!--by her that bore you, or that loves you, save him!--save him!' "'Rise, Mary!' cried William, 'that our farewell glance be not one of reproach. Pray for vengeance on my enemy! Farewell, Jack--for ever this time! See my Mary safe!' And, as they were bearing him away, he turned his head towards her, and cried--'Dearest, we shall meet hereafter, where the villain and the tyrant cannot enter.' "She fell insensible on the deck, and, in a state of unconsciousness, was conveyed on shore by Jenkins. "The frigate was commanded by Captain Sherbourne, and, when the officers were assembled to hold a court-martial over poor Stanley, he said, addressing Rigby--'There is not a man in the British navy, Boatswain Rigby, more determined than myself to preserve order and discipline; but while, as captain of this vessel, I am compelled to enforce the law, I am no advocate for the inhuman and degrading lash; nor can I, with indifference, sentence a brave fellow to be hung up for doing that which the best feelings of his nature, and the sentiments that make a hero, prompted him to do. I sit here as a judge, and am neither advocate for the prisoner, nor your accuser; but, if the law must be satisfied, the offence, wherever it is found, shall be punished, whether in the accused or the accuser. For it has not escaped my observation, that no officer under me has ever found a fault in the prisoner, save yourself. Are you then resolved and prepared to prosecute your charge?' "'I am both resolved and prepared, Captain Sherbourne,' said Rigby; 'and I demand the satisfaction of the laws of my country and the service, not only as an officer who has been insulted and injured, but as a British officer and subject, whose life has been attempted.' "'This is a serious charge, boatswain,' said Captain Sherbourne; 'let the prisoner be brought forward.' "The culprit was brought up, guarded, and in fetters, and, being placed before his judges--'Prisoner,' began the captain, 'I deeply regret that one of your appearance, and of your uniform excellent conduct and courage, while under my command, should be brought before me under such circumstances as those in which you now stand; and I regret the more that, if the charges be proved, the proofs of your former character and courage, which are known to us, will be of no avail. You are charged not only with striking your commanding officer, which is in itself a heinous offence, but also with attempting his life. Do you plead guilty or not guilty?' "'That,' replied the prisoner, 'is as your honours please to interpret the deed. But there is no such charge reckoned against me in the log-book aloft.' "'You then plead not guilty,' said the captain. "'I am guilty,' answered he, 'of having acted as it was the duty of a man to act. I am guilty of having convinced a villain, that a proud heart may be found beneath a plain blue jacket. I am guilty of having proved that there are souls and feelings before the mast, as high-minded and as keen as upon the quarter-deck. But 'the head and front of my offending hath this extent, no more.' "'He speaks bravely,' muttered some of those who heard him; 'the chaplain himself couldn't have said it so well by half.' "'Boatswain,' said the captain, in the hearing of the prisoner, 'state the particulars of your charge against him.' "'While it was his turn on duty,' said Rigby, 'I found him neglecting it, and plotting his escape from the frigate, in conversation with a suspicious-looking man, and a girl of common fame'---- "'Tis false!--despicable recreant!--'tis false!' interrupted William, wildly; 'she is spotless as the fountains of light! Breathe again dishonour on her name, and these chains that bind me shall hurl you, with the falsehood blistering on your tongue, down to'---- "'Silence, young man!' interposed the captain, 'I command you. If you have cause of complaint you will afterwards be heard. You may be mistaken, Mr. Rigby, regarding the character of the young woman, and you will not better your cause in our eyes, by unnecessarily blackening the prisoner's.' "'Captain Sherbourne,' inquired the boatswain, in an offended tone, 'do you question my honour?' "'I permit no such interruptions, sir,' said the captain; 'we sit here to deal with facts, not with honour. Go on with your charge.' "'When,' resumed Rigby, 'I overheard him plotting his escape from the service, and commanded him to his duty, he haughtily rebelled; and, on my ordering the strangers on shore, he sprang forward, and dashing me on the deck, stamped his foot upon my breast, threatening and attempting to murder me, as these witnesses will prove.' "'Stand forward, my good fellows,' said Captain Sherbourne, addressing two of the seamen, who had been witnesses of the assault, and assisted in rescuing the boatswain 'Give your evidence truly. What do you know of this affair?' "'Why your honour,' said the first seaman, 'just that the boatswain was lying upon the deck, and that Bill there had his foot upon his breast.' "'Do you suppose,' inquired the Captain, 'he had a design upon his life?' "'Please your honour,' answered the seaman, 'I can't say; but you had better ask himself. If he had, he won't deny it; for I'll take my Bible oath that Bill, poor fellow, never hove the hatchet in his life--and I don't believe he would do it to save his life. I could always be as sure of what he said, as I am of our latitude when your honour's own hands works it out.' "'Well,' inquired the Captain, addressing the other sea man, 'what evidence have you to offer?' "'I don't know anything about evidence, your honours,' answered the seaman. 'The boatswain was lying on the deck, and poor Bill had his foot upon his breast sure enough, and was laughing in such a dismal way as made me think that he had gone maddish through ill-usage or something. For, poor fellow, he was never easily raised, and though brave as a lion, was harmless as a lamb--all the crew will swear that of him.' "'Prisoner,' said the Captain, 'I am sorry that the evidence of these witnesses, who seem as sorry for your fate as I am, but too strongly confirm, at least a part of the charges against you. If you have anything to say in your defence, the court is inclined to hear you.' "'I am neither insensible of, nor ungrateful for the kindness of my commander,' answered William; 'and for the sake of her and her only, of whom the boatswain dared to speak as one dishonoured, I do not hold life without its value. But I disdain to purchase it by the humiliation of vindicating myself farther from the accusations of a wretch whom I despise. Let the law take its award. Death is preferable to being the servant of a slave.' "'I know not,' whispered Captain Sherbourne to his first lieutenant, 'how my lips shall pronounce sentence of death on this brave young fellow. His heroic courage and his talents compel me to revere and love him--and there is something, I know not what, in his features, haunts me as a lost remembrance.' Then turning toward the prisoner he added--'Before the sentence of the court is passed, whatever requests you may wish to have performed, I will see them faithfully carried into effect.' "'Thanks! thanks!' replied William; 'I have but little to offer in return for your goodness; but the same spirit that made me resent the indignity of my accuser, would, were my hands free, cause me to embrace your knees. I have but three requests to make. I wish my watch to be given to her who is dearest to me on earth--Mary Danvers; my quadrant and other matters to my friend Jenkins, who sails in the ship '_Enterprise_,' now lying in the river; and my last request is, that, with the ten guineas belonging to me, and now in the possession of the purser, a stone may be placed upon my mother's grave--which Mary Danvers will point out--with these words chiseled upon it-- TO THE MEMORY OF THE AMIABLE AND UNFORTUNATE MATILDA STANLEY. BY DESIRE OF HER UNFORTUNATE SON. "'Matilda Stanley!' exclaimed Captain Sherbourne in a tone of agitation, 'was that the name of your mother?' "'It was, your honour,' replied William, 'and there were few such mothers.' "'And your father!--your father!' repeated the Captain, with increased agitation; 'what knew you of him?' "'Alas! nothing!' exclaimed the prisoner bitterly, and the tears gushed down his cheeks; 'but, oh, recal not to my memory in a moment like this--recal not my mother's--No! no! my sainted mother!' "'O conscience! conscience!' exclaimed the Captain, starting to his feet, and gasping in eagerness as he spoke. 'One question more--and your mother's father was a dissenting clergyman in the village of--name!--name the place! on that depends your life, and my happiness or misery.' "'In the village of ---- in Westmoreland,' replied William; 'but he survived not his daughter's broken heart. You knew them, then? Oh, did you know my father?' "'My son! my son! come to a father's heart,' exclaimed the Captain, springing forward and falling on his neck; '_I am your father!_ Shade of my wronged Matilda! look on this!' "'My father!' exclaimed William, 'have I found him! and in such an hour! But, if you loved my mother, wherefore'-- "'Upbraid me not, my son,' interrupted the Captain, 'mingle not gall with my cup of joy. Your mother was my wife--my first, my only one. Circumstances forced me to exact a promise from her, that our marriage should be concealed until I dared to acknowledge it, and long captivity severed me from her; until, on my return, I could obtain no trace of either of you. How I have mourned for her, all who now stand beside me have been the daily witnesses. My son! my son!' "'My father! O my father!' exclaimed William; 'but at this moment you are also my _judge_.' "'No! no!' cried the Captain. 'Seamen, strike off the fetters from your commander's son. Rigby, at another tribunal I will be surety for the appearance of my son.' "The fetters were struck off from William's hands and feet, and officers and men burst simultaneously into three times three, loud, long, and hearty cheers. "The boatswain, fearing that a worse thing might come upon him, fell on his knees before the Captain, and made a full confession of his shameful intrigue with Squire Wates, and begged forgiveness, as his kidnapping of William had been the means of finding the commander his son. The rascal was forgiven, but dismissed the frigate. "But I must return to poor Mary. She was sitting beside her father in the prison, when he addressed her saying--'Come, come, child, thou saidst thou wouldst sing and read to me, and is this thy singing--nothing but sighing and tears. I'm saying, is this thy promised singing, daughter?--but it is perhaps the fittest singing for a jail.' "'Ah, father!' said Mary, 'you know I would not willingly add to your sorrows. But can you forbid me to weep for him, who, from childhood, has been to me as a brother--whom I have long regarded as a husband, and who, _for my sake_, must in a few hours die as the vilest criminal.' "'Why, I'm saying, daughter,' said old Danvers, 'let's have no more about it. I'm as sorry for Bill Stanley as thou canst be for thy life. But I say, girl, they can expect no better who fly in the face of a father. I am sure we have distress enough of our own, if we would only think about it, without meddling with that of other people. Is it not bad enough that thy father is shut up here within these iron bars, and perhaps thou and thy mother will be driven to beg upon the streets, when thou mightest have been riding in thy carriage. I'm saying, is not this misery enough, without thy crying about what thou hast nothing to do with. Why, Mary, thou mayest be thankful thou an't his wife.' "'Father! father!' she said, wringing her hands together, 'murmur not at our lot, nor upbraid me with sympathising in misery to which yours is mercy! What are the sufferings of want compared with what I now feel! To save him I could smile and be happy, though doomed to beg and kiss the foot that spurned me from them.' "The sheriff's officer and Mrs. Danvers at this moment entered, and the latter rushed towards her husband, exclaiming--'O husband! husband! the worst is come at last! They have seized house and all!--and, Mary, thou and I are left without a house to cover us! Thou hast no home now, hinny! Your father is shut up in this filthy prison, and your mother never knew what misery was till now!' "'Wife! wife!' cried old Danvers, 'what dost thou say?--seized the house, too!--and my wife and daughter driven to the street! O wife!--I say, I wish I had never been born! Mary! Mary, love! what wilt thou do now?' "'Do not, my dear parents,' said Mary, 'repine at the hand of providence. HE who clothes the lily, and feeds the fowls of the air, will not permit us to perish in the midst of Christians.' "'Daughter! daughter!' cried her mother, 'thou little knowest what a hard-hearted and wicked world we live in! Humanity and honesty, and everything that is good, have gone out of it. The world was not so when I knew it first.' "'Well! well!' cried old Danvers; 'if the world be as bad as you say it is, it is one comfort that I shall not be long in it; for I cannot live to know that my wife and child are beggars, and that I am a prisoner, starving in a jail.' "At this moment, Wates entered the room, and addressing Mr. Danvers, said--'I have but this morning heard of your misfortunes, Mr. Danvers, and have not lost a moment in hastening to offer my assistance. To your daughter I now offer my _hand_, my fortune, and my heart; and let her but say she will accept them, and this day ends your imprisonment.' "'There! old woman!' exclaimed Mr. Danvers, in ecstasy, 'what dost thou and our daughter think of that? Did I not say that Mr. Wates meant marriage, and nothing else but marriage--and was not I right? Thou shalt have her, sir, with a father's blessing, and I will pray for thee the longest day I have to live. Fall on thy knees, mother Danvers--fall on thy knees, and thank the kind, good, generous gentleman. Daughter, why dost thou stand there and say nothing? Did I not always say thou wast born to be a lady?' "'For the sake of human nature, Mr. Wates,' said Mary, 'I will suppose that your intentions are now honourable. I will believe that you mean kindly, that you are willing to assist my parents, and rescue them from their distress. But, could I even forget the past--could I forget that for many months you have sought my destruction, and have striven to make me become that which would have made me to be despised in my own eyes, and an outcast in those of others--if, sir, I could even forget these things, I could not give my hand to one whom my heart has been accustomed to detest. For your offered kindness I would thank you with tears, but I can only repay you with gratitude. If, however, your assistance to my parents is only to be procured through my consenting to your wishes, they must remain as they now are, until it shall please providence to send them a more disinterested deliverer. Betwixt us there is a gulf fixed that shall ever divide us--it is death and aversion--therefore think not of me.' "'Daughter!' cried the old man wrathfully, 'hast thou taken leave of thy senses altogether?' "'Come, Mary, love,' said her mother; 'now that poor William must be no more, and that Mr. Wates means honourably, be not obstinate--do not suffer your father to die in a place like this, and your mother to beg upon the streets.' "'Mother!' cried Mary, vehemently, 'with the last of my blood will I toil for your support; but speak not of that man to me. Keep, sir, your wealth for one to whom it may have attractions, and to whom you have never offered dishonour. I despise it, and I despise you; and this shallow and cruel artifice will avail you nothing.' "'Consent,' said Wates, 'and to-night our hands shall be united.' "'Wife! wife!' cried the old man, 'we will humble ourselves at her feet; belike she won't see her father and mother weeping, on their knees before her, and say to them--die!' And they knelt before her. "'Rise! my parents!--rise!' she exclaimed; 'if ye would not have your daughter's blood upon your head. Monster!' she added, turning to Wates, 'can ye talk of marriage to me, when he to whom my heart and vows are given, if he be not already dead, must in a few hours die a death of shame!' "'And will you not save him,' said Wates, eagerly. "'Save him!--how? how?' she cried. "'Consent to be mine, and within an hour I shall procure his pardon,' said he. "'Villain! villain! would you deceive me with the snare of the devil?' she exclaimed. "'I swear it,' he answered. "'Save him! save him!' she exclaimed wildly; but again cried suddenly--'No, no!--wretch, ye mock me!' "'Yes, he mocks you, Mary,' said Jack Jenkins, who had just entered. 'I could find in my heart to kick the old murderer through those iron gratings; for I know it is all through him that poor Bill must, before the sun go down, lose his life.' "While Jack was speaking, the locks of the prison doors were again heard creaking, and in rushed William, his father, and the officers of the frigate, and they dragged the rascal Rigby along with them. "There was a cry of 'Mary!' 'William!' and a rush to meet each other. But the best scene was the confusion of Wates, when his brother knave exposed his villany; and Captain Sherbourne ordering them to begone, Jack Jenkins rushed after them, for the pleasure of kicking them down the prison stairs; but Bill, catching him by the arm, said--'Messmate, let me introduce you to _my father_! "'_Your father!_' exclaimed Mary; and it would have been hard to say which of the two was nearest fainting. They left the prison together, old Danvers and all; and Mary and Bill were soon spliced. They were the happiest couple alive. He rose to be post captain; and I hope to see him an admiral. So, gentlemen, that's an end to my yarn." "But," inquired the company, "what became of Jack Jenkins?" "Why, I am Jack Jenkins," answered he; "sailing-master, with half-pay of five and sixpence a-day, besides two shillings as interest for prize-money--thanks to my old friend Bill." THE SURGEON'S TALES. THE CONSCIENCE-STRICKEN. At a dark period of the world, not yet so far back, in point of time, as modern conceit would place it, many facts in philosophy constituted a mere page of fable in the estimation of those whose belief in witchcraft and other fanciful agencies was unbounded; but, in our enlightened times, things are so curiously reversed, that some of the real events of human life--the every-day workings of that wonderful organ, the human heart--are viewed sceptically, as delusion, deception, or invention, by those whose faith is pinned to the floating mantle of philosophy, though it cover the wildest theory that ever set fire to enthusiasm. The facts I have to relate in this chapter, though true, may, from their extraordinary nature, be apt to be classed among creations of the fancy; yet I would rather that their credibility were tested by the mind of the plain and argute man of the world, than by that of the philosopher, who with his head down in the well, kicks at inexplicable mysteries growing on its brink. It is not my object to treat metaphysically any of those powers of the mind which, either in health or disease, exhibit, in certain states, many extraordinary phases. The struggling energies of conscience loaded with crime, have been witnessed by philosophers who have denied the existence of the moral sense as an original power; but of what avail is their scepticism, when they are bound to admit that this great sanction of God's law is incident to all mankind--having been found as vivid and strong in the new-found islands of Polynesia, as it ever was in the Old World? It would be for the interest of mankind if those who call themselves its teachers, and dignify themselves with the name of investigators of truth, had looked more often at the workings of this extraordinary power--witnessed and described the agonies of the heart convulsed by its throes, heard and narrated the piercing cries and the flaming words that are wrung from the throat of him who is under its scorpion lash, felt and told the horrors of those sights and sounds--instead of inquiring whether it is connate or constructed by social and political institutions. Yet this, too, has been done, and well done; and it is not because the effects are unknown, or have been inadequately described, that I contribute the results of my experience on this interesting subject, but simply because I conceive they cannot be too well known, or too forcibly delineated, in a country where a struggling competition of interests and a fierce ambition are exerted hourly in attempting to still the voice of the monitor that so indefatigably and thanklessly whispers a better life. About twelve o'clock on the night of the 15th of December, 18--, I was aroused by a loud knocking at my bedroom door--a mode of calling me to my patients different from that generally followed by my domestics; and, upon my requesting the servant to come in, he entered hurriedly, with some one behind him, who called out, in the dark, that Mr. T----, a retired undertaker, whom I had been in the habit of attending, had been shot by an assassin, but that life remained, and might eventually be preserved, by my speedy attendance. I dressed instantly, and accompanied the messenger--a nephew of the wounded man, called William B----, whom I recollected to have seen in his house, and in whom he had much confidence--to where my services were thus so urgently required. We had about a mile to walk--the residence being beyond the town, in the midst of a small plantation of fir trees, and too well situated for the accomplishment of any felonious or murderous intention which the reputed riches of the proprietor might generate in the minds of ruffians. The night was pitch dark; our path was rendered more doubtful by a heavy fall of snow, which, having continued all day, had ceased about two hours before; and I was obliged to trust almost implicitly to my guide, whose familiarity with the road rendered it an easy task for him to get forward. As we hurried on in the darkness and silence which everywhere reigned, my companion informed me that the shot was directed against the victim through the window of his bedroom, while he was sitting warming his feet at the fire, previous to retiring to rest; and that, the individuals in the house having been roused, one had taken charge of the wounded man, others had gone in search of the perpetrator, and he, the narrator, had flown for me, in the hopes of yet saving the life of his guardian and benefactor. On arriving at the skirts of the planting, we met some domestics with lights, and perceived that they were busy endeavouring to trace some well-marked footsteps impressed on the snow, and which, they said, they had been able to follow from the window where the shot was fired. I requested them to desist for a short time, as they seemed to be incurring the danger of defacing or so confusing the foot-prints, by the irregular and excited manner in which they wore performing this important duty, that they could not be identified. They agreed to remain with the lights until I came to them, or sent some one more capable of conducting the investigation, and, in the meantime, I hurried on to the house, where a most appalling scene presented itself to my eyes. On the floor, which was literally swimming in blood, lay the body of Mr. T----, with two people--an old woman, the housekeeper, and a middle aged person, whom I understood afterwards to be another nephew of the wounded man, of the name of Walter T---- (the son of a brother, while my companion, the messenger, was the son of a sister)--bending over him, and endeavouring to stop a wound, made by a pistol bullet, near the region of the heart. The work of the assassin was not entirely finished: there was still a fluttering uncertain life in the body, which shewed itself rather by its struggles against the overpowering energies of death, than by any proper living action; a hemorrhage in the lungs, paralysing their vitality, and filling up the air cells, fought, inch by inch, the province of the breath, which forced, at intervals, its way, by a horrid crepitation, through the aperture in the side, while, as the wound was producing fresh supplies, it was not difficult to see how the contest would terminate. In the pangs of choking, the wretched man heaved himself about, and lifted his hands to his mouth in the vain effort to force an entry to that element so signally the food of life. The peculiar, and to us doctors, well-known barking noise of the _cynanche trachialis_, (or as the name implies, the strangling of a dog,) a few torsels of the body, and shivers extending from head to foot, preceded a sigh as deep as the relentless following blood in the lungs would permit; and, in a few moments, he expired. Leaving the body to the charge of the housekeeper, I called Walter T---- to accompany me to where the individuals stood with the lights, with the view of tracing the foot-prints in the snow to the hiding place of the cool-murderer, who had committed apparently so gratuitous a crime. When we arrived at the spot, several other people had collected, among whom were some sheriff officers on their way to the scene of the murder, but who stopped to join in, or rather superintend this investigation. The foot-prints around the spot where the people had collected were too much mixed and confused to be capable of being traced for some distance; but, further on, they were again discernible and traceable, and, at one place, the extraordinary appearance presented itself to one of the officers, of a well defined figure of a pistol imprinted on the snow, with the finger points of a hand applied to lifting it from the ground--suggesting to the mind of every one present the unavoidable conclusion that the murderer had dropped the instrument of his crime in the hurry of his retreat, and had snatched it up again as he continued his flight. We proceeded onwards slowly, aided by several lights brought from the house; and, though the darkness of the night presented many difficulties to a successful search, we were still able to progress with certainty to the termination of the murderer's route. Whenever two distinct marks were traced, we felt no difficulty in identifying them, from the unusual circumstance of one of them bearing the impress of nail heads, and the other not, as if only one of the shoes worn by the culprit had undergone the coarse process of repair, in which, in Scotland, short nails with broad heads are often used. As we proceeded onwards, some one cried out that the prints led to the dwelling of Walter T----; a remark which seemed to be about being verified by that individual's house now reflecting from its dark walls the glare of the lights, while the footsteps were clearly verging towards the door. I looked round and stared full in the face of the man, as it was darkly revealed to me by the flickering tapers; and, though I could perceive no indications of terror, there were clearly discernible signs of confusion, which, however, might have been the consequence of innocence as well as of guilt. In a few minutes, we traced the foot-prints to the very threshold of the door of Walter T----'s house; and, upon the instant, one of the sheriff officers laid hold of the suspected man, who looked wildly around him, as if he wished to escape from the grasp of justice, and at last appealed to me if it was fair to blast the character of an individual by an apprehension on such slender evidence as the tracing of a foot-print among the snow from one house to another. I replied, that I thought the evidence very inadequate to authorize a confinement, and that, as to the mere detention, he could, by taking off his shoes, and allowing them to be compared with the foot-print, remove the suspicion, and be set at liberty. The man pointed significantly and triumphantly to the foot-prints he had that instant made, and had been making during the whole course of the investigation, and we saw at once that, although the size of the impression was nearly the same in both, there was no indication of nails in the prints of the shoes he wore; a fact he verified by instantly taking off and exhibiting them to the officers; who, after a minute inspection, admitted that the impressions we had been tracing could not have been formed by the shoes exhibited. This clearance was deemed sufficient by those present; but one of the officers suggested a search of the house, in which he remarked, very properly, the person might be secreted whose foot-prints we had been tracing; and the party immediately entered. There was no person within, nor could anything be seen to justify those suspicions that had been roused by the evidence afforded by the foot-prints in the snow; and the officers and party were about to retire, when some one pointed to a kind of garret, formed by planks or boards laid on some cross beams that extended between the two walls of the cottage, and quite sufficient to have contained a man. The officer accordingly mounted by means of a ladder; and he had scarcely got up, when he cried out, in a voice that made us all start, that he had succeeded in his search. I had no doubt that he had found there the concealed murderer; and the silence that ensued for a few minutes, as the officer rendered his discovery, whatever it was, available--coming in place, as it did, of an expected uproar, struggle, or fight--imparted to the scene, at this moment, great mystery, which was, however, partly removed by the descent of the officer, holding in his hands a pistol and a pair of shoes. The appearance of these articles, so strangely and providentially traced by their images in the snow, produced a great sensation, for no one doubted but that they were the very evidences we were in search of; and so indeed they turned out to be, for the foot-prints and the shoes completely agreed, and the impression of the pistol on the snow was upon examination, found to be clearly that of the one discovered. It was again referred to me whether sufficient evidence had not now been procured to authorize the apprehension of the suspected man, who still remained in the grasp of the officer; and I felt myself, for the first time of my life, dragged, by the force of circumstances, into an investigation neither suited to my feelings and habits, nor connected with my profession, for the discharge of one of the duties of which I had been called out of bed at that late hour of the night. Unwilling even with the evidence before me, to pass sentence against the man, I inquired of William B----, his cousin, who stood by me, what kind of character he bore; and ascertained from him that he was a person of idle habits, and had been in the practice, for many years, of living upon what money he could extort, by threats or entreaties, from the deceased, who had done much for him, and had never received even thanks for what he had done; that he had known them have many quarrels, and one in particular a short time before that night; and that the deceased had threatened, by making a will, to deprive the ungrateful nephew (his heir) of any part of his effects--a step now prevented by his violent death, which would put the latter, if not guilty of this great crime, in possession of his property, which was very considerable. These corroborating circumstances bore heavy upon me; yet, such is force of habit, I would have felt less pain in amputating one of the suspected man's limbs, than I experienced (and, though it is twenty years since that night, I have the recollection of the painful feeling still) in giving my required sanction to a commitment that might be the first step in a progress to the scaffold. During the few moments of deliberation that passed, before I could bring my mind to pronounce my verdict, the unfortunate man sought, with a fearful eye, my countenance. A shaking terror, that chased every drop of blood from his face, and struck his limbs with the feebleness of a child, was exposed by the lights that flared at intervals on his person; and every one read in these indications of fear, the evidences of his guilt. My opinion was delivered in accordance with that of the other persons assembled. The agitation of the culprit rose to such a degree, that he fell upon the ground, and, grasping my limbs with the convulsive clutch of despair, screamed for mercy, till the echoes rung through the planting, and came back upon the ears of the relentless abettors of justice. The more eager were his energetic appeals to feelings that were steeled against the cries and sobs of a murderer, the more determined were the people to do their duty to the injured laws of their country; and as he, on relinquishing the grasp of my knees, was extended on the ground, laying about him, and casting up the snow, which he clutched with his hands, and even bit in his agony, he was again laid hold of by the officers, assisted by the people, and carried struggling to the nearest place where a cart could be procured to drive him to jail. Next day I was examined by the law officers, and stated the facts I had witnessed, as I have now related them from my notes. Many others were examined, and, among the rest, William B----, and the housekeeper I had seen hanging over the body of Mr. T----; the latter of whom, I understood, gave testimony to the effect that she had, some days before the murder, heard her master accuse the pannel of having stolen from him his watch; and an officer who had searched the house, and found the watch in a place not far from that where the shoes and pistol had been found, produced it to the men of the law, while the housekeeper and William B---- identified it as the deceased's property. Some days afterwards, a great advance was made in the evidence by another discovery, to the effect that the pannel had been in the practice of stating, to various people to whom he owed money, that he would pay them, with compound interest, when his old uncle (the deceased) was dead, as he, in the character of heir-at-law, would succeed to all his property; and, on one occasion, he had, in some drunken orgies, proceeded so far as to propose as a toast, in presence of his cousin, William B----, who spoke to the fact, a quick and safe passage to the soul of his uncle over the Stygean stream, which, to him, the heir, would become as rich in gold as Pactolus. A great number of other corroborative facts and circumstances were spoken to by many witnesses, which, at this distance of time, I cannot recollect: the evidence was, on the whole, deemed by the men of the law sufficient to justify a trial, which accordingly took place some time afterwards, and at which I was examined as a principal witness. The scene of that day was, in an eminent degree, heart-rending; the facts proved seemed to strike the unfortunate man like thunderbolts, driving him into a state of stupor from which he was no sooner roused than he was again stricken with the same paralysing proof of his crime. The hand of the Almighty appeared to be occupied in tracing, before the averted eyes of the murderer, the secret purpose he had devised in the recesses of his heart, far removed, as he thought, from mortal eye, yet now revealed as evidence to consign him to the death he was unprepared to meet; and, as he prayed, ejaculated, wept, and swooned by turns, the people assembled in court, while they could not doubt his crime, or conceal from themselves its enormity, pitied the victim of such agony of torture as he was apparently suffering, only, too, on the very threshold of his misery. Having remained in court after my examination, I was called upon by the judge, on more occasions than one, to administer what relief was in my power to the unhappy being, as he lay apparently senseless under the bolt of some truth that came on him from the witness-box, as if to seal his doom in this world. I could do little for him, when he was struck by these moral impulses, except by administering stimulants; but, on one occasion, he lay so long under an attack of syncope, that I felt myself called upon to have him removed, for a short time, to an ante-room, where I took from him some ounces of blood. I have watched the eyes of patients brought back to sensibility, life, and hope, and seen the ray of the brightening prospect of health, success, and happiness, dawn on the drowsy orb; but I had not before witnessed the return of sense and intelligence to be directed, at the first glance, on a gallows, and I shuddered as I perceived the breaking in on his clouded mind of the consciousness of the situation in which he was placed--the terror of again facing that court, and that damning evidence, and the recoiling effort he made to escape--alas, how vain!--from the grasp of the officers, as they again proceeded to carry him to the court-room. When placed again at the bar, upheld by the officers, pale and trembling, the relentless forms of justice proceeded; the witnesses resumed the chain of evidence, and the unfortunate man was again subjected to the rack, under the torture of which his weakened body recoiled with feebler efforts, as exhausted nature denied the supply of the sensibility of pain. But the charge of the judge, which was hollow against the prisoner, ingenious in its reasonings and stern in its conclusions, again revived the slumbering agonies, and the return of the verdict "Guilty" by the jury, was the signal for the commencement of a scene which the hardest hearted person in the court could not witness without horror. A shrill scream ran through the court-room, and was followed by the extraordinary sight of the prisoner clambering over the bar, clutching the clerks' seat, and struggling, against the grasp of the officers, to get forward to the bench, on which the judge sat adjusting the black cap with a view to pronounce the sentence of death. The roused judge vociferated to the officers, blaming them for their remissness; but his voice was overcome by the ejaculations of the prisoner, who cried for mercy, till, vanquished by the men, who held him firmly down, and even stopped his mouth, he fell senseless within the bar, deaf to the words of the fatal sentence, which now, in the midst of death-like silence, rolled over the court with a solemnity never perhaps witnessed in any place of justice before or since. On being carried to the jail, whither I accompanied him at the request of the judge, he was with difficulty brought back to a state of consciousness; but it was only to be able to fill the prison with his unavailing cries. I could do him no good; and, though used to exhibitions of pain and misery, I was unable to witness longer this most intensive picture of the most agonized condition of unhappy man. I left him, but I was repeatedly called to him again, in the interval which elapsed between this period and the day of his execution, to bring the strength of our art to bear against the effects of a determination to refuse all sustenance, and to resist all the confirmatory aids of necessity, resignation, and religion. All the efforts of the jailor were not able to get him to take food; the unabated strength of his despair occupied every nerve, and chased from his mind all lesser pains of hunger or bodily privations and wants; his moral apoplexy had extended its deadening effects to his physical system; and, as he lay chained by the leg to his stone couch, it could have been detected only from low murmuring groans, alternated, at long intervals, with sudden yells, that there was any real living action in his mind or body. The ministrations of the clergymen who attended him were likely to be of greater service to him than anything within the power of our professional art; yet they informed me that such was the force of the agony under which he laboured, that all their efforts had been unavailing to introduce into his mind any one sustaining or comforting principle or sentiment. For many days, his determination to take no food continued as strong as at the beginning, whereby his whole system became emaciated and deranged; and, even when the burning pangs of hunger and thirst, the most acute of all bodily pains, rose upon him to such a height that his moral anguish was forced, for a moment, to cede some portion of the territory of feeling to their irresistible impulse, he gave way to the imperative necessity like a maniac, starting up and seizing the can of water that stood by his couch, and, after draining it to the bottom, dashing it from him, and falling back again into the depth of his misery. The period of his execution was approaching; but he had become so weak that I gave it as my opinion that he would not be able to walk to the gallows. A fever had been induced by the inflammation which generally results from hunger, acting on what we call the _primæ viæ_; and now, when the moral pyrexia had so far weakened his brain, that the material of suffering seemed almost to be exhausted, he was attacked on the side of the flesh with pains and paroxysms of agony, not much less acute than those he had suffered, and was still, to a great extent, undergoing, from his mental and incurable causes of misery. I had a duty to perform, and I did perform it, by applying to this man, who was already "betrothed to death," those remedies that might enable him to walk into the arms of his grim bridegroom; yet, I do not blush to own and acknowledge, that I secretly sighed that God would overcome my efforts, and, by taking the poor victim to himself, save him from the death which awaited him at the gallows foot. Yet, how vain are the aspirations of mortals, in those emergencies claimed by Heaven as its own vindicated periods and purposes of divine wrath! The food he rejected, when he was _able_ to reject it, was supplied in the form of broths, when he was no longer sensible of the reception of that which was to sustain him for the bearing of the agony he dreaded, of all others--a violent death before an assembled multitude. He was saved from one death for the purpose of suffering another, and that in very spite of himself, through the instrumentality of the most pitiable state of man, the want of consciousness. When he came to be informed of the manner in which his life had been protracted and saved, for the purpose of being forcibly dragged from him by the relentless arm of public justice, he raved like a madman, expending the remnant of strength that had been saved to him in imprecations against me, in unavailing screams and clanking of the chain that still clung to his emaciated limbs. On the day of his execution he was as feeble as a child; but the gallows does not admit the plea of illness as an excuse for non-attendance. Emaciated and exhausted, he swooned in the hands of the officers, as they knocked from his limbs the chains that might as well have been applied to the infant that has not yet essayed its first attempt to walk; and, if the necessary time had been allowed for recovering him entirely from these repeated fits, the period comprehended in his sentence might have expired, and he would have been beyond the reach of the law. The executors of justice, themselves the very slaves of form, repudiated all ceremony, and the unfortunate being was carried to the cart, to be roused, by its horrid wheels, from a swoon to the awful consciousness of being in the act of being hurried to the scaffold, which he had not strength to mount, and yet could not escape. The scene that now presented itself was such that many individuals, whose morbid appetite for horror was insatiable, flew from the place of execution, unable to stand and witness the spectacle of a human being falling from one swoon into another, incapable of keeping his feet, and lifted _softly_, as by the hands of nurses, to receive around his neck the cord that was to strangle him by his own weight. Yet I was forced to witness this sight; for, by a strange contradiction of duties, I was called upon to attend the _patient_, and, by the use of stimulants, to render him susceptible of the pangs of death. Yet what was my art, my medicaments, to those of the executioner of the last act of the law, whose quick and sudden jerk ended in a moment life, disease, terror, and all the ills coiled up in the mortal frame of miserable man! The circumstances attending the execution of Walter T---- (though not the condemnation, which was reckoned just), were such as to rouse considerably the public attention, and the prints of that day were filled with disquisitions as to the expediency of wounding the feelings of a nation, by executing a man in a situation of mind and body calculated to excite pity and commiseration, and to exclude the feeling of satisfaction which ought to follow the punishment of the most heinous of all crimes. Yet all this was plainly absurd; for, if punishments were to wait the bodily condition of malefactors, the art of man would soon cheat the gallows of its dues, and retribution would be the stalking-horse of deceit. The unusual sufferings of this individual were commemorated in a manner very different from the ephemeral columns of daily prints; for Dr. ----, to whom his body, conform to the sentence, was delivered for dissection, anatomized it; and two years after, I purchased from him, for the price of fifteen guineas, the entire skeleton, to supply a want in my museum, and facilitate the osteological studies of my apprentices. During the twenty years that passed after the period of his execution, I seldom cast my eyes upon that dry crackling memorial of the unhappy man, as it hung in grim majesty and stoical defiance of the changes of time, and of those exacerbations of passion which, in its animated condition, penetrated its very marrow, without a cold shivering remembrance of his sufferings. On the patella or knee-pan of the left limb there was written, by Dr. ----, who constructed the skeleton, the words "Walter T----, a murderer, executed at ----, the -- day of ----." I wrote, on the patella of the other limb--"For the extraordinary circumstances attending his execution, see the ---- newspaper, published on the same day;" and I retained a copy of the print in my museum, to gratify the curiosity of those who might be interested in the fate of the being whose bones, as they crackled to the touch, sung that peculiar and heart-striking _memento mori_, which few people, not professionally interested in the sight, can hear and forget. The indescribable interest produced by a skeleton is well known, among anatomists, to produce in young students a peculiar facility in acquiring a knowledge of the immense number of bones, many of them bearing long Greek names, which go to make up the aggregate of the human system; but the fate of Walter T----, which I always communicated to my apprentices, adding the part I myself acted in the dark drama, imparted a peculiar interest to the grim spectacle, which no memory, however treacherous, could, even with the assistance of years, disregard or renounce. For a period of fifteen years after the execution of that unfortunate man, my avocations did not lead me into any correspondence of a professional character with the individuals who resided at the house of Mr. T----, the murdered man; but I understood generally, though I could not now tell how I got the intelligence, that William B----, his nephew, having succeeded to the deceased's effects, occupied his house, had got married, and had a large family of children. About the month of December, in the year ----, I was, however, called again to the same house in the fir planting, into which I had not been since that night on which I witnessed the death-struggles of its former proprietor. The emergency which now took me there, was the illness of William B----, who had been seized with that disease called _tic doloureux_, perhaps the most excruciating of all the ailments incident to the human frame. We are entirely ignorant of its causes, whether procatartic or proximate--all we can say of it being, that it is an affection of the nerves of the face, and particularly of that branch of the fifth pair which comes out at an aperture below the orbit; and that it is attended with such pain--coming on in an instant, generally without premonitory warning--that the devoted victim of its cruelty is often thrown on his back on the floor, where he lies, during the existence of the attack, in a state even beyond what can be figured of the wildest exacerbation of fevered frenzy. I have seen a strong man, who could have stood unappalled before a cannon mouth in the field of battle, running about like a madman, as he felt some internal monitor (a peculiarity in his case) telling him that an attack was coming on--holding out his hands, crying wildly for help, or as if he had been flying from the clutches of a hundred demons, and, in a moment after, laid on his back, in the full grasp of the relentless tormentor, uttering the most heart-rending screams, and requiring the power of several people to hold him down. Under an attack of this frightful complaint, I found William B----, who, being in the clutch of a paroxysm, was scarcely conscious of my presence. He was extended on his back on a sofa; his fingers were (according to the practice of these victims) pressed on that part of the face where the pain shoots from; sharp cries, keeping pace with the intermitting pangs, were wrung reluctantly from him, filled the house, and might have been heard beyond it; his limbs were restless, striking the foot and sides of the couch, and sometimes dashing them as if he would have broken and destroyed all resisting objects; his eye glanced fiercely around, as if he disdained the supplication of mortal aid in so hopeless a cause. I knew the nature of the disease too well to hope to be able to do him, at that time, any service; the patient himself, by the pressure he was applying to the seat of the pain, was doing all that could be done to ameliorate his sufferings; and, having told his wife that I could be of greater use to him at a time when the pain was off him, I left him, with the intention of calling again, to suggest the application of the only remedy yet known for this complaint. In a few days, accordingly, I called again, and found the patient recovered from a new attack which had come on during the previous night. He was greatly exhausted, looked pale and anxious, and dreaded intensely another paroxysm, which he said he could not be able to bear. He endeavoured to describe to me his feelings, when the disease arrived at its greatest height, and correctly distinguished between those neuralgic pains, and the fiercest of those that attack the viscera and muscles; bringing out, in his unprofessional language, what I have witnessed, that there is often a power felt by the sufferer of resisting, by some indescribable internal process, the latter kind of pain, while, in the former (and the _tic doloureux_ is the worst species), the victim is conscious of no power within himself of even _bearing_--all his energies, thoughts, and stoical resolutions being put to flight and routed by the fierce, lancinating, burning pangs; and even despair, the ordinary refuge of the miserable, seems to deny the tortured spirit the grim relief of its dark haven. As the patient proceeded in his description, he occasionally drew deep sighs, looked despairingly, and shuddered--all symptoms of the complaint from which he had suffered so much, and might still suffer; and, after a pause, he asked me, with a timid look, if the disease was known to medical men, or if I thought it _peculiar to him_. I replied that the complaint was well known, and very far from being uncommon; but that, unfortunately, we had not very many remedies to which we could resort or trust for a cure. He looked as if he did not believe me, or doubted my statement, and then asked what the best remedy was. I answered that it was an operation, whereby we divided a part of the facial nerve; and recommended to him the trial of that experiment, for as yet we could not pronounce certainly of its efficacy. He did not seem to be inclined to go into my views; and I asked him if he feared the pain of the operation, and yet dared to face that of his disease, which was a thousand times greater. He replied that he cared nothing for the pain of the operation; but yet he felt that he _could not_ undergo it. I looked at him with surprise, and requested an explanation; but he answered me by the question--"Are we not sometimes bound to bear pain?" And, as he uttered these words, he seemed to feel great distress. I replied that I thought we were bound rather to get quit of pain by every means in our power, and that all mankind acted on that principle--a circumstance to which my profession owed its existence and success. "But if this extraordinary, this _miraculous_ pain is not sent for some purpose," he said, "why is it that, the moment I think of removing it, an attack comes upon me?" I cannot explain that, I replied; and he then went on. "The last time you were sent for, I was seized, after my wife despatched you the message; and now," holding up his hand, "behold it comes again, the very instant I begin to talk of a remedy! Yet I must suffer--it is ordained that I must suffer--it is right and just that I should suffer. Welcome, ye dreadful messenger whom I fear and tremble at, yet love! You see, sir, he comes!" The unhappy man spoke truth: an attack of his disease came on him at that moment, and he fell back on the couch, screaming, and pressing, with all his force, his hand against the seat from which the pains lancinated through the bones and muscles of his face. His cries brought his wife to his assistance; but it is one of the characteristics of this disease, that assistants and comforters can only look on and weep, so utterly does it defy and mock all human efforts. I left him in the charge of his wife, to whom I gave some directions, rather to revive her hope and remove from her countenance a painful anxiety that clouded it, than with any hope of affording relief. As I proceeded through the planting in which the house was situated, I heard his cries for some distance; and, while I pitied the victim, called up into my mind his sentiments, which struck me as being peculiar and mysterious. His conviction of some connection between an attack of his complaint and his attempt to get it removed, was clearly a fancy; yet the existence of such an idea indicated something wrong either in his mind or conscience--even with the admission that a pain so extraordinary might itself suggest, to a sober-minded man, some thoughts of Divine retribution, where there was no crime to be expiated of a deeper die than the most of mankind are in the habit of committing. Whatever might be the ground of the delusion under which the patient laboured, it was necessary, at all events, to remove the notion that an effort to cure the disease had any supposed mysterious connection with an attack; the best way of accomplishing which was to hold forth, by calling and applying remedial processes, the handle of an occasion to the unseen power to make the attack, which, if not taken advantage of (and who could suppose it would?) might expose the absurdity of his suspicion or conviction. I accordingly called again next day, and observed, as I entered, that the patient's eye scanned me with a look as eloquent as words, that I had brought with me another attack of his complaint. I ascertained that he had not had an attack since the one I witnessed, and then told him, that, as he would not consent to allow the nerve to be severed, I had brought a lotion which might prove efficacious, if applied to the diseased parts in the manner I explained to him. I held out to him the bottle, but he looked at it with fear, and said, he _could not_, he _dared not_ take it. "Doctor," said he, "this disease must take its course. It never was designed for ordinary mortals, and I cannot believe that you or any medical man ever witnessed in another these excruciating tortures. There is nothing human about this visitation." "Nonsense," said I, "I know nothing of miraculous diseases." "Like the forked lightning," he proceeded, "it leaves no trace of its progress. There is no wound, no inflammation, no fever, not a spot in the skin, to tell that, under it, and, as it were, touching it, there exists agonies, in comparison of which the pain of red-hot irons applied to the skinless flesh (under which nature would claim the relief of sinking) is as nothing; for I cannot faint--I cannot get refuge in insensibility--I cannot die." "Still, all natural," said I. "No," he went on, "speak no more of remedies against Heaven's visitations; but let me suffer, that, by suffering, I may expiate. I shall immediately have another visit from my messenger. Oh, sir, who shall help him that is accursed of Heaven." He turned his body from me, to hide his face, and I could perceive that he shook as if from a spasm of the heart. I told him that he talked like one under the dark veil of religious melancholy, or rather like one who had something on his conscience different from the ordinary burden of human frailty, making him attribute to retribution what was only a disease incident to mankind; that Heaven was not against the cure of any mortal; and that he would, for certainty, have no attack that day, nor, perhaps, for several days, especially if he used the lotion I recommended to him. He heard me in silence, shaking, at intervals, his head, solemnly and incredulously, turning his eyes to heaven, and clasping his hands as if in mental adjuration. "It will not do," he cried. "I have more faith in the language of this monitor than in that of frail man. I will have another attack instantly. Leave me! Why will you force me thus to brave heaven, between, whose dread powers and me there is a secret compact recorded here--here?"--striking his chest. "This disease I fear and tremble at; but it is _not_ hell, and, by bearing the one, I may avoid the other. So do I claim these pangs, sharper than scorpions' tongues, as my right, my due, my redemption. Oh God! what a price do I pay for relief from eternal fire!" He sat down as he concluded these mysterious words, in an attitude of expectation of the coming paroxysm, and I conceived that my best reply to his wild and incoherent ideas would be, the refuting fact of the absence of any attack at that time. I, therefore, left him; and, as I passed along the passage to the door, was met by his anxious wife, who inquired of me, with tears in her eyes, if I knew what this malady was, which, leaving no trace of its presence, yet produced such a pain as she never thought mortal was doomed to suffer; and, above all, she was solicitous to know if I had got any insight into her husband's mind, which was loaded with some awful burden in some degree connected with this calamity; for, since ever the first attack, she had got no rest at night, and no peace during day--his haunted vigils, his sleep-walking, his dreaming, his agonies, and prayers, being unremitting and heart-rending, as well to him as to her. She wept bitterly as she concluded this account of her sufferings. I could give her little satisfaction beyond assuring her that the disease had nothing supernatural about it, as her husband thought, and giving it as my opinion that the unusual character of the complaint might, in a serious, contemplative-minded man, have given rise to the delusion that it came direct from heaven as a punishment of errors incident to fallen humanity. I informed her, also, of my expectation of removing this delusion, partly by impressing him with the disappointment he would likely feel that day in experiencing no attack consequent upon my remedial endeavours; and, in a short time, I might prevail upon him to allow me to perform the operation I had recommended. I left the poor woman praying fervently that I might succeed; for, until some change was effected on her husband's mind, she could expect little peace, far less happiness, on earth. As I proceeded homewards, I had great misgivings as to my having exhausted the secret of this man's misery; yet my efforts at fathoming the true mystery of this unusual imputation of a disease to the avenging retribution of an offended God were unavailing, and I left to time to discover what was beyond my power. As I expected, I found, on my next call, that no attack had followed my last visit. The patient was somewhat easier; yet his mind was apparently still greatly troubled. I impressed him with the vanity of the delusion under which he laboured, and prevailed upon him to consent to the application of the stimulating lotion to the scat of the disease. In yielding this consent, he underwent a great struggle; I noticed him several times in the attitude of silent prayer, and, as I was about to begin the application of the medicine, he recoiled from my grasp, turning up his eyes, muttering indistinct words, and trembling like one about to undergo a severe punishment. All this had nothing to do with the character of the simple stimulant I was about to apply, but was clearly the working of his terror at the application of a remedial process of any kind to a heaven-sent disease; and I was latterly obliged to use a degree of force, assisted by the energies of his wife, before I succeeded in my endeavours to get the medicine applied. His fears and tremors, silent prayers and murmurings, continued during the whole time I was occupied in rubbing in the liniment; and, when I had finished, he fell on his knees and prayed silently for several minutes, and then threw himself down exhausted on the couch. Two days afterwards, I called again, and found that there had still been no new attack of the disease--a fact communicated to me, on my entrance, by Mrs. B----, who was auguring from it the happiest results. On the day following, however, he had a most violent onset immediately before I called; and I ascertained that, for two days previous, the liniment had been discontinued, in consequence of a return of the patient's conscientious scruples; so that I could now reverse upon him his own argument, which I did not fail to do, pointing out to him and impressing upon him that, in place of Heaven being offended at his using remedial measures, he had now experienced its displeasure at not adopting those means which Providence points out to man for arresting the progress of disease. I therefore urged him, with all the force of my reasoning and power of persuasion, to consent to undergoing the operation I had proposed, the dividing of the nerve--backing my arguments with the stated conviction that, if he did not consent, he might be a martyr for many years to the most painful of diseases, and be deprived of all comfort in this world. He heard me in vain; for his conscientious scruples had leagued with his former terror, and he rejected my advice; but he did it as one compelled by a secret power, which overawed him by its stern decrees, and scattered his opposing resolutions with the breath of its whisper. Justice to myself and my profession required that I should not visit again a man who rejected my advice, and whose case seemed fitted rather for the ministrations of a servant of Christ than a disciple of �sculapius. Several days passed without my hearing anything of the condition of the unhappy patient; but I had no hopes of his having got quit of his neuralgia, which too often adheres to its victim like a double-tongued adder. One evening I was in my study, reading an old copy of Celsus, over a fire nearly exhausted, and by the light of a candle, whose long black wick indicated the attention I was devoting to the old physician. The night was dark and windy, and I was assured that, if no emergency demanded my presence out of doors (which I fervently wished), I stood little risk of being disturbed by any _walking_ patients, generally deemed by us the most troublesome of all our employers. At my side hung my skeletons; and, among the rest, that of Walter T----; around were other monuments of the frailty and the agonies of human life, all too familiar to me to take off my attention from the old chronicler of diseases, their causes, symptoms, and cures. While thus occupied, my bell rang with great violence and I started up from the study into which I had fallen. In an instant, my door was flung open. William B---- stood before me, the picture of a man who had broken out of bedlam: his eyes flashed the fire of an excruciating agony; his right hand was pressed convulsively on his cheek; his left made wild signs, intended to supply the want of words which his tongue could not utter; every symptom indicated that he was under the full grasp of his implacable enemy. Recovering his breath, he cried out, "I cannot bear this any longer." "Patience," said I. "No!" he proceeded, "the extent of human powers of suffering may be overrated by superior avengers. I must brave Heaven, or die under its exaction of the last pang of an overstrained retribution; death will not come to my prayer, and I am stung to rebellion. Will you, sir, use your operating knife against the wrath of Heaven? I am resolved. Though conscience cannot be amputated, this hell-scorched nerve may be severed. Come next what will, this must be ended. I am at last prepared." This frenzied burst, wrung from a mind labouring under some terrible burden, startled and alarmed me; and it was some moments before I could perceive the meaning which was veiled under his strange words and manner. He had been seized with an attack of his complaint, and, unable to bear it, had run out of the house to seek some relief at my hands. I requested him to be seated; and, though I had to struggle with the disadvantage of candle light, and the want of one of my assistants, I resolved upon performing the operation before the agony had abated. I accordingly rung for my oldest apprentice, and made preparations for the work, which, though simple, requires skill and care. The patient was seated on a chair, formed for receiving the back of the head on a soft cushion, and used by me for operations on the upper extremities. Everything was ready; my apprentice came in, and, as he passed quickly forward, struck his head against the skeleton of Walter T----, that hung at the side, and a little to the back of the operating chair on which the patient was seated. That _perterricrepus_ of dry bones crackled as the body swung from side to side, and attracted the attention of the man, whose eye, tortured as he was, sought fearfully the cause of the strange noise. I saw that his attention was in an instant rivetted on the figure, and perceived that his look was directed to the words (written in large letters) on the knee pan. The knife was in my hand, and my apprentice was about to lay hold of his head. The attitude of the man arrested my eye, and I witnessed, what I have often heard of, but never saw before, that extraordinary erection of the hair of the head, produced by extreme fear, and known by the name of horripilation. I now thought he was afraid of the knife--but I was soon undeceived. With a loud yell he started up suddenly and violently--his hair seemed to move with horror--his body was in the attitude of flying from the figure, yet his limbs obeyed not his fear; he stood rivetted to the spot, with his eyes chained on the skeleton, his lips wide open, and his hands extended. In this position he remained for several seconds, while my apprentice and I gazed on in wonder on the horror-stricken victim. "I said I would brave Heaven," he exclaimed in wild accents, "by curing a heaven-sent disease; but is Heaven to be braved by man? How came that figure there?" "That is easily explained," said I. "It is"--he continued--"my cousin, Walter T----, who died for me? Is he not heaven-sent also? See, he moves and nods his grim head at me, and says, 'You shall not escape the vengeance of the Almighty. The nerve shall _not_ be cut, and your agonies must continue to the last moment of your existence.' And who has a better right to speak these flaming words, than he whose cause is vindicated by the powers above--he whose agonies, produced by me--me, wretched, miserable man!--were ended by an unjust death on the scaffold, where I should have expiated the crime for which he suffered. Guard me from that grim spectre! I cannot stand that sight!" And, with a loud crash, he fell on the floor. In the midst of the confusion produced in my mind by what I had seen and heard, the glare of a revealed mystery flashed upon me; and I shuddered even to think of what might turn out to be true. Could it it be possible that that wretched man whose bones hung before me--whose sufferings at his trial, in the jail, on the scaffold, were unprecedented, and such as no man ever endured--was innocent of the crime for which he was hanged? Even the suspicion was too painful to me; and I recoiled from the skeleton, as my eye, led by my thoughts, rested on the grim memorial. The agitation into which I was thrown rendered me incapable of thought. "Get him home! get him home!" I cried to my apprentice, and sought, in the retirement of another room, some refuge from these sights, and an opportunity of calmly contemplating all the bearings of this apparently dreadful discovery. My apprentice, with difficulty, got the unhappy man into my coach, and took him home. Next day, I was called, early in the forenoon, by an express from his wife. I found him in bed, in the very room where Mr. T---- was murdered. An attack of his disease was upon him, and his conscience had roused him to a degree bordering on madness. Vain, indeed, would be my effort to describe what I now saw and heard; the powers of the physical and moral demons that externally and internally, at the same moment, wrung his nerves and fired his brain, seemed to vie with each other in the degree of torture to which they were capable of elevating his sufferings. His broken exclamations shewed that he was more and more convinced that the pain he endured was a part of the punishment of the crime that lay on his conscience; and, being only a foretaste of that he was doomed to suffer in another world, his imagination was haunted by the shadows of coming ills, a thousand times more terrible than were those he was struggling with, dreadful as those were. Screams, prayers, and ejaculations, succeeded each other unremittingly. As Despair threw over him her dark mantle, he raised himself in the bed, and, grasping the bedclothes, wrung them between his hands, and twisted them in intricate torsels round his arms, beating his head against the posts, and gnashing his teeth with the fury of a maniac. I waited until the paroxysm should pass over, in order to get from him the dreadful truth. His wife looked on him with eyes where no tear softened the fiery glance of horror and despair, and I conjectured, from her changed appearance, that she had heard some part of his confession. All at once he became calm, and I perceived he fixed his look upon me. I returned steadily his glance. Holding out his arms, he said, with an effort to resist an impulse to fury-- "Doctor, it must out. Heaven knows it, and what avails it that it is concealed from earth? Dear wife! once the beloved of my soul, know ye that, for ten years, you have nightly taken to your soft confiding bosom, a----." Here he stopped, as if the word were a physical thing sticking in his throat. "A kind husband," said his wife. "A murderer!" he said--"ay, the murderer, first of an uncle, and then of a cousin! Turn from me your eyes, and I will confess all--for now my relief is in confession; and that will not be satisfied till I throw myself at the back of the prison door, and cry through the gratings to let me in for mercy's sake. I lived with my uncle, but I was not his heir; and the death that seemed long a-coming, could, at any rate, only benefit my cousin, Walter T----, whose apparition I saw yesterday, and see now--dreadful sight! My bad habits generated a morbid desire for money, which I could not want. I stole my uncle's watch, and heard him blame my cousin. My fancy took the hint, and I formed, with a care worthy of a better cause, a deep scheme, whereby I might, by one spring, jump into the possession and enjoyment of wealth. I waited the first fall of snow, and, with my cousin's stolen shoes, walked from that window to his house, where I deposited the originals of the foot-prints, together with a pistol and the stolen watch, by introducing them through a small skylight on the top of his house. I then returned to my uncle's house by another path, entered his bedroom, where he was sleeping at the fire, pretended that some one was at the window, drew it up so that the servants might hear it, turned round, shot (with another pistol) my uncle through the chest, and cried out at the window to stop the murderer. An alarm was raised; some one ran for my cousin, who was found in his own house; while I hastened for you, who became a tool in my hands. Why need I proceed? What follows is known. What preceded my crime, I have no patience to tell: how I seduced my cousin, in moments of intoxication, to engage in conversations afterwards proved against him; how I got my uncle to blame him for stealing the watch, in presence of the housekeeper; and many other ingenious treacherous schemes. By getting my cousin convicted, I removed out of the way the only impediment between me and my uncle's property. He was hanged, and I took his place as my uncle's heir. Thus was I guilty of a double murder. How, O God! have I been brought to tell what I have for fifteen years shuddered to think of? But it has been wrung from me by a heaven-sent calamity, which has, for these few moments, intermitted, by Heaven's decree, to allow me breath and power to make this confession; and now, being done, my pain comes again, and these crackling bones of Walter T---- rattle in my ears and dance before my eyes. Whither shall I fly for refuge? Heaven, earth, and hell are against me--my own flesh wars with my soul, and my soul with my flesh!" And he again twisted the clothes round his arms, and wrestled with the opposing energies of his own muscles. On the other side of me was a scene not less affecting. His wife, struck to the heart by the horrible confession, had fallen on the floor in a swoon. Shall I confess it? The instant I saw in her signs of recovery, I hurried out of the house. What I heard and saw; what I cogitated of the part I took in the death of that poor innocent man, Walter T----; what my fancy conjured up of his agonies, contrasted with his innocence, and the injustice that was done to him, by the misdirected laws of his country--was too much for me, and I flew for relief to the duties of my profession. I afterwards requested my assistant to attend the unhappy patient in my place. He reported to me that, when he called next day, William B---- was in a condition, if possible, worse than that in which I had witnessed him. He had contracted an irresistible desire to throw himself into the hands of justice; and, in order to get his wish effected, had leaped from the window in his shirt, and had got a considerable way through the planting, on his way to the house of the procurator-fiscal. He was overtaken and seized; but he fought long with the people who had caught him--making the wood ring with his screams, and crying that, as the murderer of his uncle and cousin, it was necessary, ordained by heaven, and conform to justice, that he should be hanged. My assistant had been able to yield him no relief; and I was called upon by Mrs. B----, who entreated me, with tears in her eyes, to try and devise some means of putting an end to the terrible state of suffering in which she was placed. She attempted to make me believe that her husband was deranged in his mind, and had merely _conceived_ the circumstances of the confession he had made in my presence. I did not endeavour to undeceive the poor woman; but the conclusion I had come to was almost exclusive of any doubt of the truth of what had been wrung from the patient; and I contented myself with stating that, if there was any delirium about him, it might be relieved by the cessation of the painful disease which, in all likelihood, produced it. She then inquired if it were not possible, by any means, however violent, to attempt a cure of the disease, in spite of the opposing efforts of her husband; and I replied, that the remedy formerly proposed might be resorted to if the patient were bound down, or held by the energies of strong men, while the operation was in the act of being performed; but that such a step could only be justified by derangement or madness, and the uncertain nature of the remedy was, besides, a strong reason against its being so applied. Glad to grasp at any hope of reducing the amount of her misery, she was not inclined to hesitate, for an instant, about the propriety or possibility of the scheme of relief I had hinted at, and said she would have individuals present in the house to apply the necessary restraining force, at any time I chose to fix for carrying the purpose into execution. For the sake of the poor woman and her distressed family, I felt disposed to make one other attempt at ameliorating a grief which, however, I feared, had its cause much beyond the reach of a surgeon's knife, and fixed an hour next day for attending at the house, with a view to ascertain if any consent could be wrung from the unhappy man to allow something to be done at least for his body. I accordingly kept my appointment; but found that matters had, in the meantime, assumed a different and more serious aspect. The patient was now bound down by strong ropes, and two stout men sat beside him, ready to resist his efforts to escape, or to commit any act of violence. He had that morning jumped from his bedroom window, and flown, in a state approaching to nakedness, to the prison, situated about two miles distant, at the door of which he knelt down, and beseeched the jailor, in tones of piteous supplication, to receive him into what he called his _sanctuary_. The jailor, seeing a naked man supplicating to get _in_ to a place so generally feared and shunned, concluded he was mad, and paid little attention to his asseverations--made, as he said, before God, that he was guilty of murder, and wished to be hanged, with a view to an expiation of his crime. Having got his name, the jailor sent to his wife, and, assistance having been brought, he was carried home, crying bitterly all the way that no one would take vengeance on him, and ease the burning pangs of his mind, by punishing him according to the extent of his crime. The moment I entered, I saw, by the peculiar light and motion of his eye, that he was on the point of madness, which would likely exhibit itself in the form of a brain fever. He looked wildly at me, and, tugging at the ropes, attempted to release himself. I remember many of his expressions, which, however affecting through the ear, would appear only as rant to a reader. The supernatural strength of an access of brain fever enabled him to burst the cords; and the attendants were obliged to apply their hands to keep him down, until they could again bind him. Phrenitis, with all its horrors, had commenced. The history of a brain fever is the history of a man when he has ceased, from the very extremity of his agony, to interest feelings, which seek in vain for traces of humanity in the raving maniac; and why should I try to describe what never has been, and never will be described with any approach to the terrible truth? Heaven was at last merciful, and closed his sufferings with the seal of death. RATTLING, ROARING WILLIE. Rattling, Roaring Willie, an ancient Border minstrel, was a well-known character, in the south of Scotland, in the time of James V. His title, Sir Walter Scott supposes, was derived from his bullying disposition; but this, we humbly think, is not precisely the term which the great novelist ought to have employed on the occasion. It rather does Willie an injustice; for, although, according to Johnson, bully means no more than a noisy, quarrelsome person, yet usage has associated with it a certain degree of cowardice; and we are apt to look on a bully as a vainglorious fellow, who is much more ready with his tongue than his hands. Now, this was by no means the case with Willie. He certainly was a rattling, roaring boy, as described by his soubriquet; but he was no craven; he could drink and fight with any man that ever handled cup or cudgel; was at all times as ready to bite as to bark; and, indeed, it was his pugnacious disposition that ultimately caused his destruction.[1] [Footnote 1: This sturdy beggar of whom Sir Walter Scott makes mention, was hanged at Jedburgh for having killed in a duel, fought with swords, one of his own profession. If the combatants had been knights, the survivor would have stood a better chance for a title than for a halter.--ED.] Our intention at present, however, is, not to enter into a defence of Willie's character, which we suspect must now be left to shift for itself, but to relate an adventure of his which is not very generally known; and therefore, we go on to say, that our "jovial harper" once took it into his head to treat himself to a tramp through Fife, to see what kind of ale they brewed on the other side of the Frith, and generally, to see what sort of living he might pick up there. Having come to this resolution, Willie slung his harp on his back, took a stout cudgel in his fist, and, after partaking of a Hawick gill with a crony in the ancient little town from which the celebrated measure just spoken of takes its name, he started, and drank, and fought, and roared, and played his way through the country, till he arrived at the shore of Leith, where he intended ferrying over to Kinghorn. The ferry boat had just put off, when Willie reached the quay, all breathless and exhausted--for he had run every step of the way from Edinburgh, where he had stopped to refresh his inward man; and where he would have tarried much longer in the discharge of this important duty, had he not been told that, if he did not make haste, he would certainly lose the boat. On perceiving the latter pulling away from the shore--"Haud there! haud!" roared out Willie. "Back, ye villains! and tak me owre; and I'll gie ye a stoup o' the best in Kinghorn." Obedient to Willie's summons--the more so, perhaps, on account of the promise that was associated with it--the boatman put about, and the minstrel was taken on board, and in due time safely deposited on the opposite shore; where, having redeemed his pledge to the seamen, he started for the interior of the country; and, after a walk of some fifteen or twenty miles, which he had traversed with various success, he made up to a respectable looking house at a little distance from the road, where he proposed to seek quarters for the night. The house alluded to was the residence of the laird of Whinnyhill, or Winnel, as he was more shortly called. Being a total stranger in the place, Willie assumed a modesty of manner and quietness of demeanour which, it must be confessed, were not amongst the number of his natural failings; but he felt that he could not, with propriety, use the same freedom here that he did in his own part of the country, where he was well known to everybody. It was, therefore, with this sort of mock-modesty, that Willie appeared at the laird of Whinnyhill's gate, and sought a night's quarters from a person who happened to be standing at the said gate when he approached. This person was the laird himself. "A night's quarters!" said the latter, in reply to Willie's request, and, at the same time, eyeing him archly, and exhibiting a degree of respect in his manner which Willie was grievously at a loss to understand--"that ye shall hae, sir--a score o' them an' ye choose, and the best that my puir hoose can afford, to the bargain." And, after bestowing on his visitor another look of intelligence, which intimated a vast deal more than the latter could comprehend, the laird conducted him into the house. On entering, Willie made directly, and of his own accord, for his usual quarters in such cases--the kitchen; but this he did in direct opposition to the laird, who was conducting him towards his best apartment. On observing, however, that Willie insisted on taking the former course-- "Weel, weel, sir," he said, laughing, "ye will hae yer joke oot, I see; but ye'll do me the honour" (this he said in a whisper) "to join me ben the hoose when ye tire o' yer amusement?" To this proposal, Willie, though perfectly at a loss to comprehend the meaning of all this extraordinary kindness, readily assented; but, in the meantime, proceeded to the destination which he had originally proposed to himself. Here he found assembled the domestic servants of the family--lads and lassies, to the number of eight or nine. This was just what Willie wanted--an auditory; and he lost no time in giving them a taste of his calling. In ten minutes, he had the kitchen in an uproar with noise and laughter. He sang, danced, played, and pulled the girls about, till one and all declared they had never seen such a harumscarum chiel in all their lives. To all these various sources of entertainment, he added some of his best stories, which, as much from the sly and _pawky_ manner in which they were told, as from their inherent humour, were found to be irresistible; and the consequence was, that there was not one within hearing of them capable of doing anything else than laughing or listening to the sly narrator. Willie, in short, as he always was, was triumphant. Amongst the merry minstrel's auditory on this occasion, was the laird himself; and none seemed more to enjoy the fun than he did, although there was all along in his manner that most unaccountable degree of respect for his guest, which had already marked his conduct towards him, and which the object of it had such difficulty in comprehending. If this circumstance, however, puzzled Willie, how much more was he confounded, when the laird whispered to him, that, "as they had now had plenty o' daffin, he would be glad of his company ben the hoose, where the guidwife had prepared a bit comfortable supper for them!" It was in vain that Willie said, he "wad just remain where he was, and tak a mouthfu' alang wi' the servants--that he was not in the habit of sitting at gentlefolks' tables," &c. No excuses of this or any other kind would avail with the laird, who again bestowed on Willie one of those mysterious looks of intelligence which have been already alluded to, and insisted upon his accompanying him "ben the hoose." Finding that his host would take no denial, and perceiving, moreover, that it was at least all well meant, Willie at length followed the laird, and soon found himself seated at a plentiful board, with the "guidwife" dressed in her best at the head. Much, however, as all this surprised the jovial harper, it did not in the least disconcert him, or deprive him, in any degree, of the presence of mind and ready wit--shall we add impudence?--that was natural to him. Diffidence, as has been already hinted, was no part of his character; and he, therefore, very soon found himself perfectly at ease in his unwonted situation, and joked away with the laird and his wife till the roof rang again with the laughter of a joyous party; but it was not till the bottle had been introduced, and had made several rounds, that Willie began to shine forth in meridian splendour. The stimulating liquor had no sooner begun to operate, than he broke out into the wild and obstreperous glee which so signally characterised him in his cups; and renewing (but now with double effect, in consequence of the drink he had swallowed, and the generally comfortable state in which he found himself after an excellent supper) the part he had acted in the kitchen, he roared, and shouted, and sang, till the very rafters shook--slapped the goodwife on the shoulders, and gripped the hand of the husband till he nearly squeezed the blood out of his finger ends. Both the laird and his lady were delighted with their guest; and it is certain that he was no less pleased with them. As it got late, however, the latter retired from the apartment, and left her husband and Willie to finish the night and the bottle by themselves--a task which they instantly set about with great zeal and good will. Cup followed cup with marvellous celerity, and with each the bonds of friendship between the revellers were drawn closer and closer. They grasped each other's hands in the fulness of their hearts, and joined together in the choruses of the bacchanalian ditties, with which Willie, from time to time, at once varied and enlivened the festivity of the evening. It must be remarked, however, that, during the night, the laird had more than once hinted to his guest that he knew more of him than he was perhaps aware of. "However, let that flee stick to the wa'," he would add. "I'm no ane to spoil onybody's sport, much less yours. Only tak my advice, sir, and tak care o' yoursel, if ye be gaun through the Middlemass wood; for there's been twa or three loose-looking chiels seen dodgin aboot there since yesterday morning." "Ye ken mair o' me than I'm aware o', my honest friend," said Willie, on the occasion alluded to, in reply to his host's hints and insinuations, and at the same time slapping him on the shoulder. "I weel believe that, for I'm weel kent in the south country; but, bating the drap drink, and a sough about my being rather fond o' the lassies, ye could hear nae ill o' me, I think." "Oh, no, sir--the ne'er a bit," replied his host; "nae ill ava. Thae twa things just comprehend the very warst I ever heard o' ye." "And as to the chiels in the Middlemass wood, laird," continued Willie, "I'll tak my chance o' them. An' I should forgather wi' them, I hae a bit airn here" (and he clapped his hand on his sword) "that has stood me in guid stead mony a time before, and I'm willin to trust a guid deal till't yet. I can either tak or gie a clour, when such things are gaun." "'Od, sir, but ye play yer character to the life!" shouted out the delighted laird. "I've seen twa or three maskins and mummins in my day, but confound me if ever I saw ane come up to ye! Ye haena said or dune a thing the nicht oot o' joint--a' clean and richt, as if ye had been at the trade a' yer life." "The deil's in the man!" replied Willie, in amazement at the singularity of the laird's remarks, "and havena I been at it a' my life--ay, sin' I was nae bigger than a pint stoup." "Ah! ha! ha! very guid, very guid," roared out Whinnyhill. "There's nae drivin ye into a corner, I see, sir. Here's to ye again, sir, and lang may ye be spared to amuse yersel and ither folk too!" Saying this, the laird, who was already within a trifle of being floored, turned over such another quantity of liquor as threatened to consummate the catastrophe. His example was immediately followed by Willie, who, though far from being in a perfectly sound condition, was yet, from long practice, better able to stand his drink than his host. Still both were in such a state that it was impossible their carouse could go on much longer; and accordingly, by common consent, it soon after came to a close, but not, it must be observed, before they had finished every drop of drinkable liquor that stood before them. This accomplished, the laird, though his way was but a devious one, conducted the minstrel to his sleeping apartment, where he left him for the night; and here again the latter's surprise was excited, by finding that he had been shown into what was evidently the best bedroom in the house. The sheets were as white as a wreath of snow, while the bed itself was of the softest down, presenting to Willie a very striking contrast to the bundles of straw and coarse ragged mats which formed his usual couch during his peregrinations. On observing this climax to the singularly kind treatment which he had met with in his present quarters, Willie flung himself down into a chair, and endeavoured to think as well as he could over the events of the night, and to see if he could hit upon any plausible conjecture regarding the cause of the extraordinary hospitality that had been shown him; and, with a look of drunken gravity, he began thus to cogitate within himself. "The deil hae me, but this beats a'! I've often heard the folk o' Fife were queer folk, and, by my faith, I find it true. But it's a' on the richt side. I wish I could find such queer folk everywhar I gaed to. Nae queer folk o' this kind in our part o' the country. Faith, Willie, lad, ye fell on yer feet whan ye cam here. The best in the hoose! Naething less, as I'm a sinner; and as much drink as"--here Willie hiccupped violently--"as ony decent man wad wish to hae under his belt--that's, no to be the waur o't; and, to crown a', a bed that micht ser' the King himsel. This _is_ what I ca' treatin a man weel. And such a canty hearty cock o' a landlord, too! I haena seen his match this mony a day, and I'm fear'd they're owre thin sawn for me to see't for mony a day to come." And here Willie paused for a considerable time, to indulge in fancies which were either too profound or came too thick for utterance. At length, however, starting up from his reverie, having been unable, evidently, to make anything of his conjecture, "I'm much obliged to him, at ony rate," he muttered, "and that's a' I can say about it." And, immediately after, he tumbled into bed. Willie, however, had not lain here more than a minute, when his attention was attracted by a low murmuring, as if of two persons in conversation in the adjoining apartment. The partition, which was close by his ear, was of wood; and he found that, by listening attentively, he could gather pretty fully all that passed; and to this employment, therefore, he immediately betook himself, when he discovered that the laird and his wife were the speakers. The result of Willie's application on this occasion was his overhearing the following conversation. His own share of it, as it was of course interjectional and inaudible to the parties, we put within parentheses. "But are ye sure it's him, John, after a'?" said the laird's better half. ("Him!--wha?" muttered Willie.) "Sure that it's him, guidwife!" replied the laird, hiccupping at intervals as he spoke. "Deil a doot's o' that! Did ye ever ken me mistaen in my life, when I said I was sure o' a' thing? I kent him the moment I clapped my ee upon him, although I never saw him in my life before." ("Did ye, faith?" here again interjected Willie, who had no doubt that he himself was the subject of the conversation to which he was listening. "My word, then, but ye're a gleg chiel.") "There's that about him that canna be mistaen by ony thing o' a quick ee, however he may disguise himsel." ("Disguise himsel! What does the body mean by that? Whan did I disguise mysel, unless it war wi' liquor? Maybe he means that though.") "And, besides," continued the unconscious speaker, "hadna I certain information, frae a quarter that I couldna doot, that he had set oot on ane o' his vagaries, and that there was every reason to believe that he had come oor way. And it's the very dress, too, that was described to me." ("By my troth, then, but that's queer aneuch!" here quoth Willie. "Wha the deil could hae tellt you that I was on the tramp, and that I was coming this way? My very dress described, too--'od, that's unaccountable.") "It's a queer notion that o' the man's wanderin aboot the country this way," here interposed the laird's wife. "I'm sure he maun meet wi' mony odd adventures whan he's on thae tramps." ("Deil a doot's o't--mony a ane; and that I hae met wi' the nicht's ane o' them. But what's strange in the notion o' me gaun aboot the country? How else could I mak a leevin o't?") "His faither had the same trick before him," replied the laird to his wife's remarks. ("That's a curst lie--my faither, honest man, was a douce, decent, sober-livin weaver.") "I reckon't, guidwife, a lucky thing that he has come oor way." ("Do ye, indeed!--then, feth, say do I.") "He'll no forget oor kindness, I dare say." ("The ne'er a bit o' that I'll do.") "And maybe he'll help us to oor ain again, frae the laird o' Haudthegrip." ("Wi' great pleasure. But hoo do you expect such a service as that frae the like o' me?") "I've heard o' his doin the like afore. But I say, guidwife, mind we maunna just let on barefacedly that we ken wha he is; for I can see, frae the way he took my hints the nicht, that he doesna like it. A' that I could do, I could na drive him into a corner on that subject. He aye shyed the question. Sae we maun tak nae mair notice o't; for ye ken kings are kittle cattle to deal wi'." ("Kings! Whar the deevil are ye noo, laird? What's a' this aboot?") "So they're said to be, John," replied the laird's better half; "and I think the less we hae to do wi' them the better." ("My feth, ye're richt there, guidwife, as I ken to my cost. I was ance very near hanged by the king by mistake, amang a wheen Border rievers that he strung up. The rope was aboot my neck before he wad listen to my story, or be convinced that I wasna ane o' the gang.") "This is the first night," continued the laird's wife, "ever a king was under my roof, and I hope it'll be the last." Here we must interrupt the dialogue for a moment to say that it would have done any man's heart good to have seen the expression of Willie's countenance when this last sentence reached his ear. The painter's art alone could convey a correct idea of the look of perplexity and amazement which it exhibited. A glimmering of the facts of that singular case which will shortly be made to appear plain enough, began to break in upon him. But, as he could not yet entirely trust to its feeble light--in other words, could not believe what he heard, or rather could not believe that it applied to him--he lay as still as death, scarcely daring to breathe till he should gather something more regarding the strange insinuation that had just reached him; and for this he had not long to wait. "Speak laigh, Jenny--speak laigh, woman," said the laird, in reply to his wife's disloyal remark. "He's maybe no sleepin; and I wadna for the best cow in my byre that he heard ye say what ye hae said. I assure you, for my part, guidwife, I'm very proud o' the honour. He's just as guid a fellow as ever I spent a nicht wi'. My faith, he tooms his bicker like a man, as your greybeard 'ill witness in the mornin, guidwife." Here a loud and long-drawn whee-o-ou from Willie announced that he was now fully enlightened on the mysterious subject of the extraordinary attention, kindness, and hospitality of the Laird of Whinnyhill, and his wife. There was, in short, he felt, no longer any doubt of the fact, that he had been mistaken by them for no less a personage than the king, James V., who as all our readers know was in the habit of going about the country frequently in disguise; and it was true, as the laird had said, he had heard that he was at this moment abroad on one of those whimsical perambulations; and it was farther true, that he was in the neighbourhood of Whinnyhill. Here, then, was rather an odd predicament for the south-land harper. And he felt it to be so. "Ta'en for the king, as I'm a sinner!" said Willie--thus following up the whistle of amazement with which he had hailed the disclosure of the astounding fact. "'Od, this cowes the gowan! I've met wi' mony a queer thing in my life, but this beats a' oot and oot, as the weaver's wife said when she couldna find an end to the puddin." And Willie forthwith proceeded to ruminate internally on the singular situation in which he now found himself; and it was while thus ruminating that he was struck with the bright idea which forms the leading feature in the sequel of our tale. This idea was, to maintain the character which had been thrust upon him, and to continue to enjoy the good living which, judging from what he had already met with, was likely to accrue from the deception. He determined, therefore, to try and throw a little more dignity into his manner, and to be a little more guarded in his language--a good deal of which he felt would scarcely be becoming in a king, whatever character he might choose to personify; and, in conclusion, he resolved, in all cases where he should perceive that he was not mistaken for a prince in disguise--which he was conscious would, after all, be but seldom--to give such hints as should induce the desired belief; and, where it should appear to exist, to confirm it by the same means. Having chalked out this line of conduct for himself, and having indulged in a few more speculations on the subject, Willie resigned himself to sleep, and, in the morning, awoke--a king in disguise. True to the resolutions he had formed overnight, and not without ability to act up to them, Willie, on the laird's entrance into the apartment in the morning, to inquire how he had slept, looked as majestic as he could; and, in a familiar, but somewhat condescending manner, saluted him with-- "Ha, laird! how dost? None the worse for thy potations last night? On my royal--ah! on my word, I mean--thou hast been nearer regicide than thou wotest of. Another such night and I would be a dead man!" "The deil a fear o' ye, sir!" said the laird, now fully confirmed in his belief that it was James that stood before him. "It's no a drap guid soun' liquor that'll kill ye, I warrant; and it was nane o' the warst ye had last nicht, I assure ye. It wad hae been ill my pairt if it had. And noo, sir," he continued, producing at the same time a huge bottle of brandy which he had hitherto concealed behind his back--"Ye'll just tak a hair o' the dog that bit ye. A toothfu' o' this," filling up a large cup, "'ll keep the cauld morning air aff yer stomach; for, nae doot, sir, yours, after a', is just like other folks." "Richt soond advice, laird, as I'm a--a sinner. I'll pledge thee most cheerfully," said Willie, stretching out his hand to take the proffered cup, and, thereafter, draining it to the bottom with an eagerness and relish that amazed even the laird, who certainly thought it rather odd in a king. "Anither, sir?" said the latter, encouraged by the rapidity of his guest's execution, and looking at him slily as he spoke. "Why, laird, I don't mind if I do," replied Willie. "It warms me like a yard o' Welsh flannel. If my mother's milk had been like that, laird, I would have been sucking still!" Saying this, he turned over another cup with undiminished gusto. Here, in truth, was a weak point in Willie's character. He could not resist liquor; and had the laird persevered in giving him more drink, he would very soon have unhinged him; for there is little doubt that he would have forgotten his assumed dignity, and have swallowed much more than became a king at that unseasonable hour. Luckily for his guest, however, the laird desisted from pressing the bottle farther, and this danger was avoided. Willie, again conducted by his host, now proceeded to an apartment, where he found a sumptuous breakfast prepared for him, of which he partook with an appetite that impressed his host with a very high and satisfactory opinion of the state of his sovereign's health; and, being a loyal subject, the circumstance filled him with unfeigned joy. On the conclusion of the repast--"Weel, sir," said Willie's host, "what direction do ye propose takin noo? I hear there's to be a gran' hanlin at Braehead the nicht. Ye might get some rare fun there, sir, an' ye gaed--just o' the kind ye like." "Why, thank ye, Whinnyhill--thank ye for the hint! I'll just e'en go there, then. But what's the occasion, laird?" "A very guid ane, sir--a hoose-heatin. The laird o' Tumlinwa's takin possession o' his new hoose, and he's no ane to stint his freens o' either meat or drink when he brings them thegither. Ye'll want for naething, I'se warrant ye." "Why, faith, mine honest friend, and these are just the quarters I like," replied Willie, very well pleased to have got such a useful hint as to the direction he ought next to take. "But," continued the laird, "mind the Middlemass wood, sir, and keep a gleg ee about ye when ye're passin through't; for, as I was sayin before, there's some gay unchancy chiels thereabouts enow." "Never fear me, laird," replied Willie; "I'll gie as guid's I get ony day--let who likes try't." Willie being now ready to resume his journey, and having expressed a wish to do so without farther delay--for, in truth, he was not sure how long he might escape detection--the laird accompanied him a little way, to see him, as he said, fairly on his way. At parting, Willie took his host by the hand, and said, with all the dignity he could muster, and with a look which was intended to convey a great deal more than it would have been perfectly proper to express-- "Fare-ye-well, laird, and many thanks for your hospitality. Depend upon it, I will not soon forget it. It may stand thee in good stead some day." And with this he walked off with as much majesty as he could conveniently assume, leaving the laird of Whinnyhill highly delighted with his good fortune in having had an opportunity of making the personal acquaintance and friendship of his sovereign. Willie, in the meantime, pursued his way; and, after two or three hours' smart walking, found himself entering the wood about which he had been cautioned by his late host; and, although as indifferent to danger of the kind here threatened as most men, he thought there would be no harm in keeping the sharp look-out recommended to him. He now accordingly proceeded with a more wary step, and kept peering around him as he advanced, to prevent his being taken by surprise. And it was not long ere he found that neither his own caution nor the hints which his late host had given him were unnecessary. When he had got about half way through the wood, he perceived three or four suspicious-looking fellows skulking amongst the trees a little in advance of him, and directly in the route he was pursuing. "By St. Andrew, there they are!" said Willie, on observing the persons alluded to--"the very chiels the laird spoke aboot, or I'm greatly mistaen." And he began to free his sword hilt from those parts of his garment which were likely to interfere with its ready use. Although somewhat alarmed at the appalling odds against him, Willie resolutely held on his course till he arrived within a few paces of the foremost, who stood directly in his way with a drawn sword in his hand, and who he now perceived was masked and muffled to the eyes in a cloak, as were also all his companions. On perceiving the hostile attitude of the fellow, Willie also drew, stopped short, and demanded the reason of his being thus interrupted in his peaceful progress. To this inquiry no immediate reply was made. The ruffians seemed doubtful of their object--indeed, Willie overheard them say as much; and they appeared, besides, rather disconcerted by his resolute bearing and by the circumstance of his being armed. This he also overheard. Observing their hesitation, and thinking his assumed dignity, if announced, might terrify the fellows, and save him from the perils of an unequal encounter, Willie called out to them--"What, ye knaves! would ye kill your King?" Never were expressions more unluckily chosen--never imposition worse timed. "It is him! it is him!" shouted out the ruffians in reply. "Down with the tyrant!--down with the spoiler! Strike, Geordie, strike, for a thousand merks." And the whole rushed upon Willie at once, repeating their cries of "Down with the tyrant! the spoiler!" &c. But this was much easier said than done. Willie instantly retreated before his enemies. But it was by no means from fear. He was practising a very ingenious _ruse_; and it was one that he brought to a very successful issue. He retired from his assailants in order to separate them; and, having succeeded in this, he suddenly turned round, and, before the man who was nearest him was aware of his intention, ran him through the body. Having accomplished this dexterous feat, which he did quick as thought, he continued his flight until another had got considerably in advance of his companions, when he repeated the experiment, but this time by striking a desperate back blow with his sword, which, taking full effect on the face of his pursuer, inflicted a hideous wound that instantly disabled him from all further exertion. The other two, seeing the fate of their associates, and horror-struck with the ghastly appearance of him that was just wounded, lost heart, and fled. But, for one of them at least, this attempt was vain. Willie's blood was now up; and, not content with what he had already done, he gave chase, shouting out, as he pursued, "Down wi' the tyrant, ye villains! By St. Andrew, we'll see wha'll be doun first! If I dinna gie ye yer kail through the reek, may I never chew cheese again!" And with this--for Willie was as supple of limb, as dexterous and ready of hand--having overtaken the hindmost of the fugitives, he ran the flying ruffian through the back, who instantly fell forward on his face, a dead man. Thinking he had now done enough, and not a little exhausted with the exertions he had made, Willie, allowing the last of his assailants to escape, flung himself on the ground, to recover breath, exclaiming, as he did so, after a long drawn respiration, "Hech, but this has been a deevil o' a teuch job! This kingcraft 'ill never do. Here have I been as near murdered on account o't as ony decent man wad wish to be. I've nae notion o' the tred ava, whar ye're cuttled up ae nicht like a sick wife, wi' the best to eat and drink, and the next to hae yer throat cut. It's no the thing, by ony means." Such were the reflections in which Willie indulged on this occasion--an occasion which had shown him that the life of a king, as kings and subjects were in Scotland in his time, whatever respect it might procure him, in some instances was one of no small peril. Although, however, he had determined, from the experience which he had just had of the dangers of royalty, to resign the character, and disavow all claims to its dignities very shortly, he yet resolved on going through with it for one day longer--that is, until he had tried what sort of treatment it would procure him at Braehead, whither, the reader will recollect, he was now proceeding on the recommendation of the laird of Whinnyhill. In this resolution, therefore, he in a few minutes started once more to his feet, and resumed his journey, leaving the dead bodies of the slain where they had fallen; but not, it must be observed, before he had carefully searched them, to see whether or not there was anything about them to reward him for the trouble of killing them. But in this he was disappointed. On none of them was there anything of the smallest value. "'Od, ye've been as puir's mysel," he said, on completing his fruitless scrutiny into the pockets of the deceased. "Deil a bodle! No as muckle as wad supper a midge." Having said this, he rose from the kneeling posture to which his employment had reduced him, and, as we have already said, resumed his march through the Middlemas wood. Leaving Willie to prosecute his journey, we request the reader to return with us to Whinnyhill, where we shall find a circumstance occurring which is intimately connected with the denouement of our tale. Shortly after the former's departure from the place just named, another stout carle of a mendicant appeared at the laird's gate. It was the dinner hour, and, as was then customary in the country, and is so still, we believe, in some places, the doors were all carefully secured, and no egress or ingress permitted, till the conclusion of the meal. To this exclusion, however, the person now seeking admission to the laird's did not seem willing to submit; for he began to thunder at the gate with an impetuosity and vehemence that scarcely beseemed his very humble calling; and, as if this was not enough, he shouted out at the top of his voice to the inmates to open the gate to him. Yet, however unbecoming his conduct, or however insolent it may be thought, it had the desired effect of procuring him the service he wanted. The laird himself answered the call, though certainly more for the purpose of letting out his wrath on the noisy intruder, than to let him in. "My feth, friend," he said, his anger greatly increased when, on opening the gate, he found that it was a common vagrant who sought admittance, "but ye're no blate to rap at folk's doors this gaet. An' ye had been the best man in the land, ye couldna hae been baulder. My certy, it's come to a pretty pass, when beggars bang at yer door like lords!" "The devil's in the old churl!" replied the undaunted beggar. "Dost not see that I'm knocked up with fatigue, man, and didst think I was to stand here starving of hunger, if a few knocks at your gate was to bring me a little nearer to some refreshment? Come, Whinnyhill," continued the free and easy beggar, at the same time slapping the former familiarly on the shoulder, "I know ye, man, I know ye to be a good honest fellow, and one who grudges nobody either bite or sup. So, let's have something to eat directly." And he bestowed another hearty smack on the laird's shoulder. "By my feth, sirrah?" replied the latter, amazed and irritated at the singular ease and impudence of the mendicant, and above all at his presumptuous familiarity, "but that's a new way to seek awmous. 'Od, freen, an' ye lack onything, it 'ill no be for want o' askin't." "Why, Whinnyhill, how should I get, if I didn't ask?" said the mendicant. "Take my word for't, Whinny, when you want a thing there's nothing like asking. Your modest fool always comes off with an empty hand, and maybe an empty stomach too. Why, man, dost think people will run after one offering one what one wants without solicitation? No, no; and, besides, a thing that's worth having is always worth asking." "Ye're maybe no far wrang there, freend," said the laird; "but ye'll allow me to say that ye're ane o' the bauldest, no to say ane o' the impudentest beggars, I hae seen for a while. Nevertheless, ye may step into the kitchen there, and get a mouthfu' o' what's gaun; but mind ye, dinna kick up such a stramash at my yett again, when ye come seekin an awmous, or I'll maybe let ye cool your heels awhile or ye win in, and thankfu' if I dinna set the dog on ye." "The beggar man he thumped at the yett Till bolt and bar did flee, O, And aye he swore, as he thumped again, That denied he wadna be, O. Fal de ral, al al al, reedle al de ral, Fal de ral, al al al, de reedle ee di. "The beggar man he thumped at the yett Till bolt and bar did flee, O, When wha should come out but the laird himsel, And an angry man was he, O. Fal de ral," &c. Such was the reply, chaunted with great vociferation and glee, which the sturdy beggar vouchsafed to the laird's more candid than courteous remarks; and it would have been much longer, to the extent probably of a score of verses, had not Whinnyhill impatiently broken in with-- "Wow, man, but ye're an ill-mannered graceless loon as ever I saw atween the twa een. The greatest person in the land, man, is mair humble and respectfu' than you, when he's gaun about the country as ye're doin, and micht weel be an example to you and the like o' you." "What mean ye, laird?--of whom do ye speak?" said the sturdy beggar, evidently somewhat disconcerted by the former's remark. "Mean!" replied the laird, sharply--"I mean, sirrah, that the king himsel, when he ca's at ony decent man's house for a nicht's quarters, in his rambles through the country, is far mair civil and discreet than ye are." "Indeed," said the mendicant. "Dost know the king personally, Whinny? Didst ever see him in the guise thou allud'st to?" "Wad ye be the better if ye kent?" replied the laird, angrily; then adding, in better humour, as if recollecting it was something to boast of--"To be sure I do, sirrah! and weel I may, seein that he sleepit here a' last nicht, and's no three hours awa yet." "What, Whinny!--the king! The king here last night!" exclaimed the mendicant, now exhibiting in his turn, symptoms of surprise and amazement. "Surely you are jesting, laird?" "Jestin, sir! I'm jestin nane," said Whinnyhill, angrily. "The king _was_ here last nicht, sirrah!" "Impossible, Whinny!" "Confound ye, sir!--wad ye make me a leear to my face?" "Oh, no, no, laird," replied the former, laughing; "but you may be mistaken in your man. At any rate, if it is not impossible, it is certainly odd, Whinny." "Odd, sir. What's odd about it? Do ye think the king wad think himsel demeaned by takin a nicht's quarters frae me?" "Nay, nay; not at all--by no means, laird," replied the mendicant eagerly, as if anxious to do away the offensive impression--"by no means. The man would be unworthy of being a king who should think there was any degradation in sitting beneath the roof-tree, and partaking of the hospitality, of an honest and respectable man like you, Whinny. My surprise, laird, was at finding that the king had been here; for I was informed that he was in an entirely different part of the country. Pray, Whinny, what like a fellow was this king you speak of?" "What like a _fellow_, sir!" replied the laird, in extreme wrath. "My feth, ye're no blate to speak o' yer sovereign in thae disrespectfu' terms. Fellow, in troth! Repeat that word again, sir, in the same breath wi' the king's name, and if I dinna teach ye better manners, blame me! Ye've muckle need o' a lesson, at ony rate." "Very good, Whinny--very good," said the sturdy beggar, laughing heartily at the angry earnestness of the laird. "I meant no offence, man--none whatever. I've as great a respect for the king as you can possibly have." "It doesna look like it," interrupted the laird. "But it is so, nevertheless, I assure you," replied the former; "and I like you all the better, believe me, for your loyalty." "Ye like me a' the better!" said the laird. "And wha the deil cares whether ye like me or no? By my troth, but ye're very condescendin!" "Well, well, Whinny," replied the mendicant, again laughing. "But tell me, how did you know the king in his disguise? Are ye sure it was him, after all?" "Sure enough," said the laird gruffly; "he mair than half confessed it himsel." "Oh, he did!--then, there can be no doubt of it--none. I should like to see his Majesty, laird. Pray, can you tell me which way he has gone?" "Ye're very inquisitive, freen," replied the latter; "and to be plain wi' ye, I like neither that nor your familiarity. The king's awa to Braehead--and that's the last ye'll hae frae me; sae step into the kitchen and get a mouthfu', and then tak yersel aff as sune's ye like." And with this the laird was about to walk off, when the mendicant, who continued to stand still where he was, called him back and said-- "Laird, harkee--canst keep a secret?" "If it's worth keepin, maybe I can." "Well, then," rejoined the former, "although not very nice in these matters, I'm not altogether reconciled to taking my refection in your kitchen, though, I confess it, most particularly hungry; and therefore ask you what would you think now, if I was the king, and that person, whoever he is, whom you took to be the king, was an impostor?" "Wow, man, but that's a clumsy trick," replied the laird, chuckling at his own ready sagacity and penetration. "I'm owre far north, lad, to be come owre that way." "Well, laird," said the mendicant (who--we need conceal the fact no longer from the reader--was indeed no other than James himself), "well, laird," he said, smiling, "I assure you your penetration is at fault this time; for I tell you I am the king, Whinny!" "And I tell you," replied the laird, "that I dinna believe a word o't; and mair, for your impudence in attempting to impose upon me, ye shanna get bite or sup here this da Tak my word for that." Dropping here the dialogue, we relate the sequel in simple narrative. It was in vain that James endeavoured to pacify the irritated laird, and to prevail upon him to believe that he really was the king, or to induce him to let him have the refreshment of which he stood so much in need. Obstinate at all times, Whinnyhill was particularly so on this occasion; and not all that the good-humoured monarch could say could move him from his purpose of denying him admittance to his house, or affording him the slightest hospitality. Finding his efforts in vain, James at length gave up the task as hopeless; but, though not a little disappointed--for he felt both fatigued and hungry--he saw that he could not be displeased, since his churlish treatment by the laird, singularly enough, proceeded from his love and respect for himself. It greatly puzzled James, however, to conceive who it could possibly be that had taken up his incognito (for that some one had done so he felt assured), and seemed so successful in the use of it. The trick was a new one to him, and he could not help being tickled with the ingenuity of the impostor in hitting on so novel an idea. His curiosity, too, to see his rival, was great; so great that, on finding he could make nothing of the laird of Whinnyhill, he determined on setting out immediately for Braehead, a distance of about six or seven miles, whither he had been told his counterpart had gone; and, acting on this resolution, he started directly for that destination. On passing through the Middlemass wood, which was the direct and shortest route to the place he was going to, the king's attention was arrested by the dead bodies which Willie had left behind him, and which were still lying as they had fallen. "Ha!" exclaimed James, suddenly stopping on perceiving them, "what's this? Here has been some lawless work, which I must inquire into when I return to Falkland." A hollow groan at this moment fell on the king's ear, and directed him to the spot, at a little distance, where lay the man who had been so severely wounded on the face by the back stroke of Willie's rapier. King James stooped over the dying man, and inquired who he was, and what was the meaning of the horrid scene around him. The mutilated wretch fixed his glassy and almost sightless eyes on the face of the king, and said, speaking at long intervals, and as distinctly as his little remaining strength would permit. "I am a dying man, stranger; but I deserve my fate." "Indeed!" said James--"then thy iniquities must have been great, for thou'rt in very bad case. What hand dealt thee that cruel blow, man?" "The king's," replied the wounded man. "The king's!" said James, in astonishment--"what mean ye?" "I mean," said the dying man, "that it was the king's sword that left me as you now see me. We waylaid him in this wood, expecting he would come this way--and he did, in disguise; but he was too many for us, being armed, which we did not look for." "And what motive, miserable man," said James, "had you for attacking the king? I'm sure to you, and such as you, he has ever been a gracious prince. To none but his insolent and tyrannical nobles, who would make slaves of you and a puppet of him, has he ever been accused of severity." "I acknowledge it," said the dying man. "But we were hired to do the bloody work." "Ha! hired!" exclaimed James, in alarm! "who hired you? Speak, speak, man--who hired you?" "That I will not tell," replied the man; "for I've been under obligations to him. But stranger," he continued, "as you would have the blessings of a dying man upon your head, you will--you will----" Here the speaker seemed on the point of expiring; and the king, perceiving this, and dreading that that event would take place before the dying man could make any further disclosures-- "I will what? I will what?" he said, eagerly and impatiently. "You will," resumed the wounded man, after a short interval, "repair to Falkland, and tell the king--the king--to beware of--of----" "Whom, whom, man?" again interrupted James, breathless with the feeling of intense interest that now possessed him--"whom, man, for a thousand pounds!" he exclaimed, forgetting, in his impatience and eager curiosity, his assumed character. Apparently heedless, however, or unobservant of the questioner's emotion, the dying man at length slowly added, "Of the Earl of Bothwell"--and expired. "Ha! Bothwell! Bothwell!" repeated James, now falling into a profound reverie; "ay, is he at these pranks? He shall be cared for, however. I warrant he plays no more of them. But it would seem," continued the king, musing, "that this impudent varlet, my counterpart, has stood me in good stead here, and, by mine honour, done me good service too. Had it not been for him, however unwittingly he may have thus come between me and danger, I must have been slain by these ruffians. I'll forgive the dog his impudence, after all. Nay, he deserves a reward, and he shall have it too." Having said this, or rather thought it, James resumed his journey; and we shall avail ourselves of the opportunity which this circumstance affords, to throw in a word or two, explanatory of the discontented spirit which had led to the attempt on the king's life above spoken of. James V., it is well known, though an amiable and generous prince, and possessed of many excellent qualities besides, was particularly obnoxious to his nobles, on account of his persevering and successful efforts to restrain and limit the exorbitant power which they had acquired during his minority, and which they showed no disposition to relinquish on his assuming the reins of government. With this political hostility, as it may be called, to his nobles, James, recollecting what he had suffered from them in his youth, mingled a feeling of bitter personal dislike; and the consequence was, an unrelenting and unremitting course of persecution on the one hand, and of impatient endurance on the other; and the attempt on the king's life, whose consequences our hero, Willie, had so opportunely averted, was one of the ebullitions of that treasonable spirit which this state of matters had engendered. To return to our tale. Little more than an hour's walking having brought James to Braehead, he entered the house, which was one scene of mirth and festivity from one end to the other; and, uninvited, and, we may add, unopposed too, walked into the kitchen, where a number of country girls and their sweethearts were assembled, to share in the good cheer and jollity of the evening. On entering the apartment, the king's attention was instantly attracted by a conspicuous figure seated at the farther end, and very enviably placed between two uncommonly pretty girls, whom he was entertaining with a volubility of tongue and noisy glee that seemed to afford them great delight, and to have carried him far into their good graces. But the influence of the exuberant spirits of this joyous but somewhat obstreperous person, was by no means confined to his two fair supporters. He had, by the time James entered, evidently secured that pre-eminence which belongs to the character usually known by the title of the cock of the company. He was, in short, obviously in undisputed possession of the popular voice; and there was no doubt was considered by every one there as first fiddle of the evening. This jovial person, we need hardly say, was no other than our friend Willie; and James, as he eyed him, at once guessed that he was the person who had done him the honour of representing him at Whinnyhill. Satisfied of this, the disguised monarch stole quietly round to where Willie was seated, and whispered in his ear this courteous inquiry-- "I say, friend, who the devil are you?" "And, I say," exclaimed Willie, looking hard at the querist, and by no means making any secret of his inquiry--"Wha the deevil are ye?" "Just what you see me," replied James--"going about the country seeking a living wherever I think it likely I may pick it up." "Nae harm in that ava, freen," said Willie. "Puir bodies maun leeve some way or anither. They're no gaun to die at a dike side if they can get a mouthfu' for the askin." "Surely not, surely not, friend," replied James. "But, I say," he added--and now drawing Willie close to him, in order that the communication he was about to make might be inaudible to those beside him--"do you think I don't know you, sir, notwithstanding your disguise? If you do, you are mistaken. I know you well, sir. You are the king!" "And what though I be, sir?" said Willie, boldly, but secretly surprised to find royalty thus again thrust upon him. "What's that to you? But, I say," he added, and now whispering in his turn, "as ye value yer head, mum's the word aboot that 'enow; for I'm in very guid quarters whar I am, and hae nae wish to gang amang the gentry. Sae keep a calm sough aboot it, or ye may fare the waur." "Nay, nay, now," replied James; "I really cannot endure to see my sovereign in such an humble situation as this--a situation so unworthy of his dignity. It is unseemly and painful to behold. I will not endure it!" "But it is my pleasure, sirrah," said Willie, angrily and impatiently--"and that's aneuch. Sae, mak nor meddle nae mair wi't, or ye'll maybe rue't. Do ye think I want to mak a spectacle o' mysel?" "Excuse me; but positively, sir, I must insist on your being treated with more respect. I must inform the laird of your being here." And, without waiting for any farther remonstrances on the subject from Willie, or paying any attention to his anxious calls to him to return, the disguised monarch hurried out of the apartment, and desired one of the servants of the house to inform his master that a person wished to speak to him on important business, and that he would find him in front of the house. Having dispatched this business, James walked out, and, at a little distance, awaited the laird's appearance. On his approach--"Well, laird," said the King, "dost know me? I think thou should'st. We have seen each other before." The person thus addressed looked silently and earnestly for some time at the disguised monarch, as if perplexed by the question; but at length eagerly and joyously exclaimed, at the same time doffing his cap or bonnet "with the most profound respect-- "I do, sir--I do. You are the king!" "Hush, hush," said James. "Not a word of that just now. My crown's in danger, laird. There's a rival near my throne. Dost know, laird, that there's another king in your kitchen at this moment?" "You are pleased to be merry, sire. Pray, what does your Majesty mean?" replied the laird, smiling, yet evidently at a loss to comprehend the joke. "Why, I mean precisely what I have said, laird. There is, I repeat it, another king in your kitchen just now; and a rattling, stalwarth looking fellow he is, with a couple of very pretty girls, one on each side of him. But here is the truth of the matter, laird," continued the king, compassionating the former's perplexity--"here's a fellow, at this moment, in your kitchen, who has taken it upon him to assume my incognito, and has, in this character, already imposed upon Whinnyhill." "The knave!" exclaimed the laird. "We must have him instantly hanged." "Nay, nay--not so fast, laird. The fellow deserves a fright, and he shall have it; but he has done me good service, though unwittingly, and I must forgive him." And James here proceeded to relate the adventure in the Middlemass wood, which is already before the reader. When he had done. "Now, laird," he said, "we shall have some amusement with the rogue. You shall wait on him; and, professing to take him for what he represents himself to be, respectfully invite him, nay, insist on him joining you and your friends at your own table; for I rather think he'll flinch it if he can; and I shall, by-and-by, send in a messenger to announce my arrival, and to seek admittance; and we shall then see how the rogue looks." The laird, who was himself a bit of a humourist, readily entered into the spirit of the jest, and immediately set about its execution. Proceeding to the kitchen, he walked up, hat in hand, to where Willie was seated between his two doxies; and standing respectfully before him, informed him that, from some intelligence he had just received from Whinnyhill, he had come to solicit his illustrious guest to accompany him to a place more befitting his dignity, though still far from being worthy of it. "Why, laird," replied Willie, after his best manner, "I thank ye; but, to tell you a truth, I'd rather remain where I am. I'm amazingly well here, and cannot think of leaving these twa bonny lasses." And here the gallant harper chucked the girls under the chin. "Nay, excuse me," said the laird, bowing low; "but I must insist on your accompanying me. I will explain myself farther when we get to a more fitting place." "Why, if you do insist, laird," said Willie, "I really do not see that I can refuse you." And with this he arose, though with evident reluctance, from his seat; and, after comforting his fair companions with an assurance that he would rejoin them as soon as he could, followed the guidance of his host. This conducted him into an apartment where were a number of people assembled round a well-stored table, in the full career of social enjoyment. Willie by no means relished this display of company, as it greatly increased the chances of detection; but he resolved to brave it out the best way he could. On his entrance, the party, to all of whom the hint had been given of what was going forward, rose to their feet, and stood respectfully till Willie was fairly planted in a large arm-chair at the head of the table, when they resumed their seats. Every degree of respect and attention was now shown to the mock king which could have been bestowed upon the real one--with this exception, that he was plied with fully more liquor than it would have been altogether becoming to have pressed upon an anointed sovereign. In this, however, Willie himself saw nothing derogatory, and therefore continued to swallow all that was offered him, till he got, as was usual to him in such cases, into most exuberant spirits, when he began to entertain the company with some of his choicest songs and stories, and with the usual effect of "setting the table in a roar." Willie was, in short, in a fair way of becoming, if not king of Scotland, at least king of the company; and had attained about mid career in his bright track of jollification, when a messenger entered, and informed the master of the house that a person desired to see him on business of importance. The laird, instantly obeying the summons, withdrew. In a few minutes, however, he returned; and, with an air of surprise and perplexity, said, addressing the company, but more particularly Willie--"Gentlemen, here is a very strange matter. Here has a person arrived at my house, who insists on it that he is the king, and demands admittance." "Admittance!" roared out Willie, evidently a good deal discomposed by the communication--"on no account admit him, laird. Tie the impostor neck and heel, and throw him into the nearest burn! Pack him off instantly." "Nay, nay, sir," replied the laird; "I think we had better admit him, and leave it to you and him to decide which of you has the best claim to the dignity." And before Willie could make any farther objection, James himself was ushered into the apartment. On his entrance-- "Where," he exclaimed, with a fierce frown--"where is the impudent varlet that has been imposing on the credulity of my subjects, by assuming my incognito? Art thou the knave?" he immediately added; and now addressing Willie, who, completely crestfallen, was looking at him with the most rueful expression of countenance imaginable. "And if I am, man," said Willie, in a piteous tone, in reply to this home charge, "ye needna mak sic a stramash aboot it, nor look sae dooms angry either. I'm sure yer royalty's no a whit the waur o' me haen't on for a wee bit; and, guid kens, ye're welcome till't back again, for it doesna fit me. Sae tak it, sir, and muckle guid may't do ye!" Here James could contain his gravity no longer, but burst into a loud laugh. "And what, you knave," he said, "put it into your head to practise this imposition? You have fairly deceived Whinnyhill." "The ne'er a bit o' me did that, sir," said Willie, now somewhat relieved of his fears, by the king's good humour. "He deceived himsel," And here Willie related, to the great amusement of James, the conversation which he had overheard between the laird of Whinnyhill and his wife; and concluded with, "So ye see, sir, he made me a king whether I wad or no; and, as he put on the coat, I just wore't, although it was like to cost me dear aneuch in the Middlemass wood." "I've heard of that too, sirrah," replied the king, again laughing; "and it is for the good service thou didst me there, that I now feel disposed not to hang you." "That's an ugly word, sir." "Go to, go to, you knave!" said the good-humoured monarch, smiling; and, at the same time, drawing forth a well-filled purse from beneath his outer garment, and thereafter throwing it towards Willie--"There, sirrah, take that, and get thee gone; but mark me, my royal brother, see thou dost not try this prank again, else your quarrel and mine may be a more serious one than it has been on this occasion." Glad to get off on such favourable terms, Willie sneaked out of the apartment without making any further remarks and next day set out on his return to his native district, forswearing kingcraft and the kingdom of Fife for ever. BILL WHYTE. I had occasion, about three years ago, to visit the ancient burgh of Fortrose. It was early in winter, the days were brief though pleasant, and the nights long and dark; and, as there is much in Fortrose which the curious traveller deems interesting, I had lingered amid its burying-grounds and its broken and mouldering tenements, till the twilight had fairly set in. I had explored the dilapidated ruins of the Chanonry of Ross; seen the tomb of old Abbot Boniface, and the bell blessed by the pope; run over the complicated tracery of the Runic obelisk which had been dug up, about sixteen years before, from under the foundations of the old parish church; and visited the low, long house, with its upper windows buried in the thatch, in which the far-famed Sir James Mackintosh had received the first rudiments of his education. And, in all this, I had been accompanied by a benevolent old man of the place, a mighty chronicler of the past, who, when a boy, had sat on the same form with Sir James, and who, on this occasion, had seemed quite as delighted in meeting with a patient and interested listener, as I had been in finding so intelligent and enthusiastic a storiest. There was little wonder, then, that twilight should have overtaken me in such a place, and in such company. There are two roads which run between Cromarty and Fortrose; the one, the king's highway; the other, a narrow footpath that goes winding for several miles under the immense wall of cliffs which overhangs the northern shores of the Moray Frith, and then ascends to the top, by narrow and doubtful traverses along the face of an immense precipice, termed the Scarf's Crag. The latter route is by far the more direct and more pleasant of the two to the day traveller; but the man should think twice who proposes taking it by night. The Scarf's Crag has been a scene of frightful accidents for the last two centuries. It is not yet more than twelve years since a young and very active man was precipitated from one of its higher ledges to the very beach--a sheer descent of nearly two hundred feet; and a multitude of little cairns which mottle the sandy platform below, bear witness to the no unfrequent occurrence of such casualties in the remote past. With the knowledge of all this, however, I had determined on taking the more perilous road: it is fully two miles shorter than the other; and besides, in a life of undisturbed security, a slight admixture of that feeling which the sense of danger awakens, is a luxury which I have always deemed worth one's while running some little risk to procure. The night fell thick and dark while I was yet hurrying along the footway which leads under the cliffs, and, on reaching the Scarf's Crag, I could no longer distinguish the path, nor even catch the huge outline of the precipice between me and the sky. I knew that the moon rose a little after nine; but it was still early in the evening, and, deeming it too long to wait its rising, I set myself to grope for the path, when, on turning an abrupt angle, I was dazzled by a sudden blaze of light from an opening in the rock. A large fire of furze and brushwood blazed merrily from the interior of a low-browed but spacious cave, bronzing with dusky yellow the huge volume of smoke, which went rolling outwards along the roof, and falling red and strong on the face and hands of a thickset, determined-looking man, well nigh in his sixtieth year, who was seated before it on a block of stone. I knew him at once, as an intelligent, and, in the main, rather respectable gipsy, whom I had once met with, about ten years before, and who had seen some service as a soldier, it was said, in the first British expedition to Egypt. The sight of his fire determined me at once. I resolved on passing the evening with him till the rising of the moon; and, after a brief explanation, and a blunt, though by no means unkind invitation to a place beside his fire, I took my seat, fronting him, on a block of granite, which had been rolled from the neighbouring beach. In less than half-an-hour, we were on as easy terms as if we had been comrades for years, and, after beating over fifty different topics, he told me the story of his life, and found an attentive and interested auditor. Who of all my readers is unacquainted with Goldsmith's admirable stories of the sailor with the wooden leg, and the poor half-starved Merry-Andrew! Independently of the exquisite humour of the writer, they are suited to interest us from the sort of cross vistas which they open into scenes of life, where every thought, and aim, and incident, has at once all the freshness of novelty and all the truth of nature to recommend it. And I felt nearly the same kind of interest in listening to the narrative of the gipsy. It was much longer than either of Goldsmith's stories, and perhaps less characteristic; but it presented a rather curious picture of a superior nature rising to its proper level through circumstances the most adverse; and, in the main, pleased me so well, that I think I cannot do better than present it to the reader. "I was born, master," said the gipsy, "in this very cave, some sixty years ago, and so am a Scotchman like yourself. My mother, however, belonged to the Debatable-land, my father was an Englishman, and of my five sisters, one first saw the light in Jersey, another in Guernsey, a third in Wales, a fourth in Ireland, and the fifth in the Isle of Man. But this is a trifle, master, to what occurs in some families. It can't be now much less than fifty years since my mother left us, one bright sunny day, on the English side of Kelso and staid away about a week. We thought we had lost her altogether; but back she came at last, and, when she did come, she brought with her a small sprig of a lad, of about three summers or thereby. Father grumbled a little--we had got small fry enough already, he said, and bare enough and hungry enough they were at times; but mother shewed him a pouch of yellow pieces, and there was no more grumbling. And so we called the little fellow, Bill Whyte, as if he had been one of ourselves, and he grew up among us, as pretty a fellow as e'er the sun looked upon. I was a few years his senior; but he soon contrived to get half a foot a-head of me; and, when we quarrelled, as boys will at times, master, I always came off second best. I never knew a fellow of a higher spirit; he would rather starve than beg, a hundred times over, and never stole in his life; but then for gin-setting, and deer-stalking, and black-fishing, not a poacher in the country got beyond him; and when there was a smuggler in the Solway, who more active than Bill? He was barely nineteen, poor fellow, when he made the country too hot to hold him. I remember the night as well as if it were yesterday. The Catmaran lugger was in the Frith, d'ye see, a little below Carlaverock; and father and Bill, and some half dozen more of our men, were busy in bumping the kegs ashore, and hiding them in the sand. It was a thick smuggy night; we could hardly see fifty yards round us; and, on our last trip, master, when we were down in the water to the gunwale, who should come upon us, in the turning of a handspike, but the revenue lads from Kirkcudbright! They hailed us to strike in the devil's name. Bill swore he wouldn't. Flash went a musket, and the ball whistled through his bonnet. Well, he called on them to row up, and up they came; but no sooner were they within half-oar's length, than taking up a keg, and raising it just as he used to do the putting-stone, he made it spin through their bottom, as if the planks were of window glass; and down went their cutter in half a jiffy. They had wet powder that night, and fired no more bullets. Well, when they were gathering themselves up as they best could--and, goodness be praised! there were no drownings amongst them--we bumped our kegs ashore, hiding them with the others, and then fled up the country. We knew there would be news of our night's work; and so there was; for, before next evening, there were advertisements on every post for the apprehension of Bill, with an offered reward of twenty pounds. Bill was a bit of a scholar--so am I for that matter--and the papers stared him on every side. "Jack," he said to me, "Jack Whyte, this will never do, the law's too strong for us now; and, if I dont make away with myself, they'll either have me tucked up, or sent over seas to slave for life. I'll tell you what I'll do. I stand six feet ion my stocking soles, and good men were never more wanted than at present. I'll cross the country this very night, and away to Edinburgh, where there are troops raising for foreign service. Better a musket than the gallows!" "Well, Bill," I said, "I dont care though I go with you. I'm a good enough man for my inches, though I aint so tall as you, and I'm woundily tired of spoon-making." And so off we set across the country that very minute, travelling by night only, and passing our days in any hiding hole we could find, till we reached Edinburgh, and there took the bounty. Bill made as pretty a soldier as one could have seen in a regiment; and, men being scarce, I wasn't rejected neither; and, after just three weeks' drilling--and plaguy weeks they were--we were shipped off, fully finished, for the south. Bonaparty had gone to Egypt, and we were sent after him to ferret him out; though we weren't told so at the time. And it was our good luck, master, to be put aboard of the same transport. Nothing like seeing the world for making a man smart. We had all sort of people in our regiment--from the broken-down gentleman to the broken-down lamp lighter; and Bill was catching, from the best of them all he could. He knew he wasn't a gipsy, and had always an eye to getting on in the world; and, as the voyage was a woundy long one, and we had the regimental schoolmaster aboard, Bill was a smarter fellow at the end of it than he had been at the beginning. Well, we reached Aboukir Bay at last. You have never been in Egypt, master; but, just look across the Moray Frith here, on a sunshiny day, and you will see a picture of it, if you but strike off the blue Highland hills that rise behind, from the long range of low sandy hillocks that stretches away along the coast, between Findhorn and Nairn. I don't think it was worth all the trouble it cost us; but the king surely knew best. Bill and I were in the first detachment, and we had to clear the way for the rest. The French were drawn up on the shore, as thick as flies on a dead snake, and the bullets rattled round us like a shower of May-hail. It was a glorious sight, master, for a bold heart! The entire line of sandy coast seemed one unbroken streak of fire and smoke; and we could see the old tower of Aboukir, rising like a fiery dragon at the one end, and the straggling village of Rosetta, half cloud, half flame, stretching away on the other. There was a line of launches and gun-boats behind us, that kept up an incessant fire on the enemy, and shot and shell went booming over our heads. We rowed shorewards, under a canopy of smoke and flame; the water was broken by ten thousand oars; and, never, master, have you heard such cheering; it drowned the roar of the very cannon. Bill and I pulled at the same oar; but he bade me cheer, and leave the pulling to him. "Cheer, Jack," he said, "Cheer!--I am strong enough to pull ten oars, and your cheering does my heart good." I could see, in the smoke and the confusion, that there was a boat stove by a shell just beside us, and the man immediately behind me was shot through the head. But we just cheered and pulled all the harder; and the moment our keel touched the shore, we leaped out into the water, middle deep, and, after one well directed volley, charged up the beach with our bayonets fixed. I missed footing in the hurry, just as we closed, and a big whiskered fellow in blue, would have pinned me to the sand, had not Bill struck him through the wind-pipe, and down he fell above me; but when I strove to rise from under him, he grappled with me in his death agony, and the blood and breath came rushing through his wound in my face. Ere I had thrown him off, my comrades had broken the enemy, and were charging up the side of a sand hill, where there were two field-pieces stationed that had sadly annoyed us in the landing. There came a shower of grape shot, whistling round me, that carried away my canteen, and turned me half round; and when I looked up, I saw, through the smoke, that half my comrades were swept away by the discharge, and that the survivors were fighting desperately over the two guns, hand to hand with the enemy. Ere I got up to them, however--and trust me, master, I did'nt linger--the guns were our own. Bill stood beside one of them, all grim and bloody, with his bayonet dripping like an eaves-spout in a shower. He had struck down five of the French, besides the one he had levelled over me; and now, all of his own accord--for our sergeant had been killed--he had shotted the two pieces, and turned them on the enemy. They all scampered down the hill, master, on the first discharge--all save one brave, obstinate fellow, who stood firing upon us, not fifty yards away, half under cover of a sandbank. I saw him load thrice ere I could hit him, and one of his balls whisked through my hat; but I catched him at last, and down he fell--my bullet went right through his forehead. We had no more fighting that day. The French fell back on Alexandria, and our troops advanced about three miles into the country, over a dreary waste of sand, and then lay for the night on their arms. In the morning, when we were engaged in cooking our breakfasts, master, making what fires we could with the withered leaves of the date-tree, our colonel and two officers came up to us. The colonel was an Englishman--as brave a gentleman as ever lived--ay, and as kind an officer, too. He was a fine-looking old man, as tall as Bill, and as well built, too; but his health was much broken; it was said he had entered the army out of break-heart on losing his wife. Well, he came up to us, and shook Bill by the hand, as cordially as if he had been a colonel like himself. He was a brave, good soldier, he said, and, to show him how much he valued good men, he had come to make him a sergeant, in room of the one we had lost. He had heard he was a scholar, he said, and he trusted his conduct would not disgrace the halberd. Bill, you may be sure, thanked the colonel, and thanked him, master, very like a gentleman; and, that very day, he swaggered scarlet and a sword, as pretty a sergeant as the army could boast of--ay, and for that matter, though his experience was little, as fit for his place. For the first fortnight, we didn't eat the king's biscuit for nothing. We had terrible hard fighting on the 13th; and, had not our ammunition failed us, we would have beaten the enemy all to rags; but, for the last two hours, we hadn't a shot, and stood just like so many targets set up to be fired at. I was never more vexed in my life, than when I saw my comrades falling round me; and all for nothing. Not only could I see them falling; but in the absence of every other noise--for we had ceased to cheer, and stood as silent and as hard as foxes--I could hear the dull, hollow sound of the shot, as it pierced them through. Sometimes the bullets struck the sand, and then rose and went rolling over the level, raising clouds of dust at every skip. At times, we could see them coming through the air like little clouds, and singing all the way as they came. But it was the frightful smoking shot that annoyed us most; these horrid shells. Sometimes, they broke over our heads in the air, as if a cannon charged with grape had been fired at us from out the clouds; at times, they sank into the sand at our feet, and then burst up like so many Vesuviuses, giving at once death and burial to hundreds. But we stood our ground, and the day passed. I remember we got, towards evening, into a snug hollow between two sandhills, where the shot skimmed over us, not two feet above our heads; but two feet is just as good as twenty, master; and I began to think, for the first time, that I hadn't got a smoke all day. I snapped my musket, and lighted my pipe, and Bill, whom I hadn't seen since the day after the landing, came up to share with me. "Bad day's work, Jack," he said; "But we have at least taught the enemy what British soldiers can endure, and, ere long, we shall teach them something more. But here comes a shell! Nay, do not move," he said; "it will fall just ten yards short." And down it came, roaring like a tempest, sure enough, about ten yards away, and sank into the sand. "There now, fairly lodged," said Bill; "lie down, lads, lie down." We threw ourselves flat on our faces--the earth heaved under us, like a wave of the sea, and in a moment, Bill and I were covered with half a ton of sand. But the pieces whizzed over us; and, save that the man who was across me had an ammunition bag carried away, not one of us more than heard them. On getting ourselves disinterred, and our pipes relighted, Bill, with a twitch on the elbow--so--said he wished to speak with me apart; and we went out together, into a hollow, in front. "You will think it strange, Jack," he said, "that, all this day, when the enemy's bullets were hopping around us like hail, there was but just one idea that filled my mind, and I could find room for no other. Ever since I saw Colonel Westhope it has been forced upon me, through a newly-awakened dream-like recollection, that he is the gentleman with whom I lived ere I was taken away by your people; for, taken away I must have been. Your mother used to tell me, that my father was a Cumberland gipsy, who met with some bad accident from the law; but I am now convinced she must have deceived me, and that my father was no such sort of man. You will think it strange; but, when putting on my coat this morning, my eye caught the silver bar on the sleeve, and there leaped into my mind a vivid recollection of having worn a scarlet dress before--scarlet bound with silver; and that it was in the house of a gentleman and lady, whom I had just learned to call papa and mamma. And every time I see the colonel, as I say, I am reminded of the gentleman. Now, for heaven's sake, Jack, tell me all you know about me. You are a few years my senior, and must remember better than I can myself, under what circumstances I joined your tribe." "Why Bill," I said, "I know little of the matter, and, 'twere no great wonder though these bullets should confuse me somewhat in recalling what I do know. Most certainly we never thought you a gipsy like ourselves; but then I am sure mother never stole you; she had family enough of her own, and, besides, she brought with her, for your board, she said, a purse with more gold in it than I have seen at one time, either before or since. I remember it kept us all comfortably in the _creature_ for a whole twelvemonth; and it wasn't a trifle, Bill, that could do that. You were at first like to die among us. You hadn't been accustomed to sleeping out, or to food such as ours. And, dear me! how the rags you were dressed in used to annoy you; but you soon got over all, Bill, and became the hardiest little fellow among us. I once heard my mother say that you were a _love-begot_, and that your father, who was an English gentleman, had to part from both you and your mother on taking a wife. And no more can I tell you, Bill, for the life of me." We slept that night on the sand, master, and found, in the morning, that the enemy had fallen back some miles nearer Alexandria. Next evening there was a party of us dispatched on some secret service across the desert. Bill was with us; but the officer under whose special charge we were placed was a Captain Turpic, a nephew of Colonel Westhope, and his heir. But he heired few of his good qualities. He was the son of a pettifogging lawyer, and was as heartily hated by the soldiers as the colonel was beloved. Towards sunset, the party reached a hollow valley in the waste, and there rested, preparatory, as we all intended, for passing the night. Some of us were engaged in erecting temporary huts of branches, some in providing the necessary materials, and we had just formed a snug little camp, and were preparing to light our fires for supper, when we heard a shot not two furlongs away. Bill, who was by far the most active among us, sprung up one of the tallest date-trees, to reconnoitre. But he soon came down again. "We have lost our pains this time," he said; "there is a party of French, of fully five times our number, not half a mile away." The captain on the news, wasn't slow, as you may think, in ordering us off; and, hastily gathering up our blankets, and the contents of our knapsacks, we struck across the sand just as the sun was setting. There is scarce any twilight in Egypt, master; it is pitch dark twenty minutes after sunset. The first part of the evening, too, is infinitely disagreeable. The days are burning hot, and not a cloud can be seen in the sky; but no sooner has the sun gone down, than there comes on a thick white fog, that covers the whole country, so that one can't see fifty yards around; and so icy cold is it, that it strikes a chill to the very heart. It is with these fogs that the dews descend; and deadly things they are. Well, the mist and the darkness came upon us at once; we lost all reckoning; and, after floundering on for an hour or so, among the sandhills, our captain called a halt, and bade us burrow as we best might among the hollows. Hungry as we were, we were fain to leave our supper, to begin the morning with, and huddled all together into what seemed a deep, dry, ditch. We were at first surprised, master, to find an immense heap of stone under us; we couldn't have lain harder had we lain on a Scotch cairn; and that, d'ye see, is unusual in Egypt, where all the sand has been blown by the hot winds from the desert, hundreds of miles away, and where, in the course of a few days' journey, one mayn't see a pebble larger than a pigeon's egg. There were hard, round, bullet-like masses under us, and others of a more oblong shape, like pieces of wood that had been cut for fuel; and, tired as we were, their sharp points, protruding through the sand, kept most of us from sleep. But that was little, master, to what we felt afterwards. As we began to take heat together, there broke out among us a most disagreeable stench; bad, at first, and unlike anything I had ever felt before, but at last altogether overpowering. Some of us became dead sick, and some, to show how much bolder they were than the rest, began to sing. One half the party stole away one by one, and lay down outside; for my own part, master, I thought it was the plague that was breaking out upon us from below, and lay still, in despair of escaping it. I was wretchedly tired, too, and, despite of my fears and the stench, I fell asleep, and slept till daylight. But never before, master, did I see such a sight as when I awoke. We had been sleeping on the carcases of ten thousand Turks, whom Bonaparty had massacred about a twelvemonth before. There were eyeless skulls grinning at us by hundreds from the side of the ditch, and black, withered hands and feet sticking out, with the white bones glittering between the shrunken sinews. The very sand, for roods around, had a brown iron-like tinge, and seemed baked into a half-solid mass, resembling clay. It was no place to loiter in; and you may trust me, master, we breakfasted elsewhere. Bill kept close to our captain all that morning; he didn't much like him, even so early in their acquaintance as this--no one did, in fact; but he was anxious to learn from him all he could regarding the colonel. He told him, too, something about his own early recollections; but he would better have kept them to himself. From that hour, master, Captain Turpic never gave him a pleasant look, and sought every means to ruin him. We joined the army again on the evening of the 20th March. You know, master, what awaited us next morning. I had been marching, on the day of our arrival, for twelve hours, under a very hot sun, and was fatigued enough to sleep soundly. But the dead might have awakened next morning. The enemy broke in upon us about three o'clock. It was pitch dark. I had been dreaming, at the moment, that I was busily engaged in the landing, fighting in the front rank beside Bill, and I awoke to hear the enemy, outside the tent, struggling in fierce conflict with such of my comrades as, half-naked and half-armed, had been roused by the first alarm, and had rushed out to oppose them. You will not think I was long in joining them, master, when I tell you that Bill himself was hardly two steps a-head of me. Colonel Westhope was everywhere at once that morning, bringing his men in the darkness and the confusion, into something like order; threatening, encouraging, applauding, issuing orders--all in a breath. Just as we got out, the French broke through, beside our tent, and we saw him struck down in the throng. Bill gave a tremendous cry of 'Our colonel! our colonel!' and struck his pike up to the cross into the breast of the fellow who had given the blow. And, hardly had that one fallen, than he sent it crashing through the face of the next foremost, till it lay buried in the brain. The enemy gave back for a moment; and, as he was striking down a third, the colonel got up, badly wounded in the shoulder; but he kept the field all day. He knew Bill the moment he rose, and leant on him till he had somewhat recovered. 'I shall not forget, Bill,' he said, 'that you have saved your colonel's life.' We had a fierce struggle, master, ere we beat out the French; but, broken and half-naked as we were, we did beat them out, and the battle became general. At first, the flare of the artillery, as the batteries blazed out in the darkness, dazzled and blinded me; but I loaded and fired incessantly; and the thicker the bullets went whistling past me, the faster I loaded and fired. A spent shot, that had struck through a sandbank, came rolling on like a bowl, and, leaping up from a hillock in front, struck me on the breast. It was such a blow, master, as a man might have given with his fist; but it knocked me down; and, ere I got up, the company was a few paces in advance. The bonnet of the soldier who had taken my place, came rolling to my feet ere I could join them. But, alas! it was full of blood and brains; and I found that the spent shot had come just in time to save my life. Meanwhile, the battle raged with redoubled fury on the left, and we in the centre had a short respite. And some of us needed it. For my own part, I had fired about a hundred rounds; and my right shoulder was as blue as your waistcoat. You will wonder, master, how I should notice such a thing in the heat of an engagement; but I remember nothing better than that there was a flock of little birds shrieking and fluttering over our heads for the greater part of the morning. The poor little things seemed as if robbed of their very instinct by the incessant discharges on every side of them; and, instead of pursuing a direct course, which would soon have carried them clear of us, they kept fluttering in helpless terror in one little spot. About mid-day an _aide-de-camp_ went riding by us to the right. 'How goes it? how goes it?' asked one of our officers. 'It is just _who will_,' replied the _aide-de-camp_, and passed by like lightning. Another followed hard after him. 'How goes it now?' inquired the officer. 'Never better, boy!' said the second rider. 'The Forty-Second have cut Bonaparty's Invincibles to pieces, and all the rest of the enemy are falling back!' We came more into action a little after. The enemy opened a heavy fire on us, and seemed advancing to the charge. I had felt so fatigued, master, during the previous pause, that I could scarcely raise my hand to my head; but, now that we were to be engaged again, all my fatigue left me, and I found myself grown fresh as ever. There were two field-pieces to our left that had done noble execution during the day; and Captain Turpic's company, including Bill and me, were ordered to stand by them in the expected charge. They were wrought mostly by seamen from the vessels--brave, tight fellows, who, like Nelson, never saw fear; but they had been so busy that they had shot away most of their ammunition; and, as we came up to them, they were about despatching a party to the rear for more. 'Right,' said Captain Turpic; 'I don't care though I lend you a hand, and go with you.' 'On your peril, sir!' said Bill Whyte, 'What! leave your company in the moment of the expected charge? I shall assuredly report you for cowardice and desertion of quarters, if you do.' 'And I shall have you broke for mutiny,' said the captain. 'How can these fellows know how to choose their ammunition without some one to direct them?' And so off he went to the rear, with the sailors; but, though they returned, poor fellows! in ten minutes or so, we saw no more of the captain till evening. On came the French in their last charge. Ere they could close with us, the sailors had fired their field-pieces thrice; and we could see wide avenues opened among them with each discharge. But on they came. Our bayonets crossed and clashed with theirs for one half minute; and, in the next, they were hurled headlong down the declivity, and we were fighting among them pell-mell. There are few troops superior to the French, master, in a first attack; but they want the bottom of the British; and, now that we had broken them in the moment of their onset, they had no chance with us, and we pitched our bayonets into them as if they were so many sheaves in harvest. They lay in some places three and four tier deep--for our blood was up, master,--just as they advanced on us, we had heard of the death of our general; and they neither asked for quarter nor got it. Ah, the good and gallant Sir Ralph! We all felt as if we had lost a father; but he died as the brave best love to die. The field was all our own; and not a Frenchman remained who was not dead or dying. That action, master, fairly broke the neck of their power in Egypt. Our colonel was severely wounded, as I have told you, early in the morning; but, though often enough urged to retire, he had held out all day, and had issued his orders with all the coolness and decision for which he was so remarkable; but, now that the excitement of the fight was over, his strength failed him at once, and he had to be carried to his tent. He called for Bill, to assist in bearing him off. I believe it was merely that he might have an opportunity of speaking to him. He told him that, whether he died or lived, he would take care that he should be provided for. He gave Captain Turpic charge, too, that he should keep a warm side to Bill. I overheard our major say to the captain, as we left the tent--'Good heavens! did you ever see two men liker one another than the colonel and our new sergeant?' But the captain carelessly remarked, that the resemblance didn't strike him. We met, outside, with a comrade. He had had a cousin in the Forty-Second, he said, who had been killed that morning, and he was anxious to see the body decently burried, and wished us to go along with him. And so we both went. It is nothing, master, to see men struck down in warm blood, and when one's own blood is up; but oh, 'tis a grievous thing, after one has cooled down to one's ordinary mood, to go out among the dead and the dying. We passed through what had been the thick of the battle. The slain lay in hundreds and thousands--like the ware and tangle on the shore below us--horribly broken, some of them, by the shot; and blood and brains lay spattered on the sand. But it was a worse sight to see, when some poor wretch, who had no chance of living an hour longer, opened his eyes as we passed, and cried out for water. We soon emptied our canteens, and then had to pass on. In no place did the dead lie thicker than where the Forty-Second had engaged the Invincibles, and never were there finer fellows. They lay piled in heaps--the best men of Scotland over the best men of France--and their wounds, and their number, and the postures in which they lay, showed how tremendous the struggle had been. I saw one gigantic corpse, with the head and neck cloven through the steel cab to the very brisket. It was that of a Frenchman; but the hand that had drawn the blow, lay cold and stiff, not a yard away, with the broadsword still firm in its grasp. A little farther on, we found the body we sought. It was that of a fair young man; the features were as composed as if he were asleep; there was even a smile on the lips; but a cruel cannon shot had torn the very heart out of the breast. Evening was falling. There was a little dog whining and whimpering over the body, aware, it would seem, that some great ill had befallen its master; but yet tugging, from time to time, at his clothes, that he might rise and come away. 'Ochon, ochon! poor Evan M'Donald!' exclaimed our comrade; 'what would Christy Ross, or your good old mother, say to see you lying here!' Bill burst out a-crying, as if he had been a child; and I couldn't keep dry-eyed neither, master. But grief and pity are weaknesses of the bravest natures. We scooped out a hole in the sand with our bayonets and our hands, and, burying the body, came away. The battle of the 21st broke, as I have said, the strength of the French in Egypt; for, though they didn't surrender to us until about five months after, they kept snug behind their walls, and we saw little more of them. Our colonel had gone aboard of the frigate, desperately ill of his wounds--so ill that it was several times reported he was dead; and most of our men were suffering sadly from sore eyes ashore. But such of us as escaped, had little to do, and we contrived to wile away the time agreeably enough. Strange country, Egypt, master. You know, our people have come from there; but, trust me, I could find none of my cousins among either the Turks or the Arabs. The Arabs, master, are quite the gipsies of Egypt: and Bill and I--but he paid dearly for them afterwards, poor fellow--used frequently to visit such of their straggling tribes as came to the neighbourhood of our camp. You, and the like of you, master, are curious to see _our_ people, and how we get on--and no wonder; and we were just as curious to see the Arabs. Toward evening, they used to come in from the shore or the desert, in parties of ten or twelve; and wild-looking fellows they were; tall, but not very tall; thin, and skinny, and dark; and an amazing proportion of them blind of an eye--an effect, I suppose, of the disease from which our comrades were suffering so much. In a party of ten or twelve--and their parties rarely exceeded a dozen--we found that every one of them had some special office to perform. One carried a fishing net, like a herring have; one, perhaps, a basket of fish, newly caught; one a sheaf of wheat; one, a large copper basin, or rather platter; one, a bundle of the dead boughs and leaves of the date tree; one, the implements for lighting a fire; and so on. The first thing they always did, after squatting down in a circle, was to strike a light; the next, to dig a round pot-like hole in the sand, in which they kindle their fire. When the sand has become sufficiently hot, they throw out the embers, and, placing the fish, just as they had caught them, in the bottom of the hole, heaped the hot sand over them, and the fire over that. The sheaf of wheat was next untied, and each taking a handful, held it over the flame till it was sufficiently scorched, and then rubbed out the grain between their hands, into the copper plate. The fire was then drawn off a second time, and the fish dug out, and, after rubbing off the sand, and taking out the bowels, they sat down to supper. And such, master, was the ordinary economy of the poorer tribes, that seemed drawn to the camp merely by curiosity. Some of the others brought fruit and vegetables to our market, and were much encouraged by our officers; but a set of greater rascals never breathed. At first, several of our men got flogged through them. They had a trick of raising a hideous outcry in the market place for every trifle--certain, d'ye see, of attracting the notice of some of our officers, who were all sure to take part with them. The market, master, had to be encouraged, at all events; and it was some time ere the tricks of the rascals were understood in the proper quarter. But, to make short, Bill and I went out one morning to our walk. We had just heard--and heavy news it was to the whole regiment--that our colonel was despaired of, and had no chance of seeing out the day. Bill was in miserably low spirits. Captain Turpic had insulted him most grossly that morning. So long as the colonel had been expected to recover, he had shown him some degree of civility; but he now took every opportunity of picking a quarrel with him. There was no comparison in battle, master, between Bill and the captain; for the captain, I suspect, was little better than a coward; but, then, there was just as little on parade the other way; for Bill, you know, couldn't know a great deal, and the captain was a perfect martinet. He had called him vagrant and beggar, master, for omitting some little piece of duty; now, he couldn't help having been with _us_, you know; and, as for beggary, he had never begged in his life. Well, we had walked out towards the market, as I say. 'It's all nonsense, Jack,' says he, 'to be so dull on the matter; I'll e'en treat you to some fruit. I have a Sicilian dollar here. See that lazy fellow with the spade lying in front, and the burning mountain smoking behind him; we must see if he can't dig out for us a few _prans'_ worth of dates. Well, master, up he went to a tall, thin, rascally-looking Arab, with one eye, and bought as much fruit from him as might come to one-tenth of the dollar which he gave him, and then held out his hand for the change. But there was no change forthcoming. Bill wasn't a man to be done out of his cash in that silly way, and so he stormed at the rascal; but he, in turn, stormed as furiously, in his own lingo, at him, till at last Bill's blood got up, and, seizing him by the breast, he twisted him over his knee, as one might a boy of ten years or so. The fellow raised a hideous outcry, as if Bill were robbing and murdering him. Two officers, who chanced to be in the market at the time, came running up at the noise; one of them was the scoundrel Turpic; and Bill was laid hold of, and sent off under guard to the camp. Poor fellow! he got scant justice there. Turpic had procured a man-of-war's man, who swore, as he well might, indeed, that Bill was the smuggler who had swamped the Kirkcudbright custom-house boat. There was another brought forward, who swore that both of us were gipsies, and told a blasted rigmarole story, without one word of truth in it, about the stealing of a silver spoon. The Arab had his story, too, in his own lingo; and they received every word of it; for my evidence went for nothing. I was of a race who never spoke the truth, they said--as if I weren't as good as a Mahommedan Arab. To crown all, in came Turpic's story, about what he called Bill's mutinous spirit in the action of the 21st. You may guess the rest, master. The poor fellow was broke that morning, and told that, were it not in consideration of his bravery, he would have got a flogging into the bargain. I spent the evening of that day with Bill, outside the camp, and we ate the dates together, that in the morning had cost him so dear. The report had gone abroad--luckily a false one--that our colonel was dead; and that put an end to all hope, with the poor fellow, of having his case righted. We spoke together for, I am sure, two hours--spoke of Bill's early recollections, and of the hardship of his fate all along. And it was now worse with him, he said, than it had ever been before. He spoke of the strange, unaccountable hostility of Turpic; and I saw his brow grow dark, and the veins of his neck swell almost to bursting. He trusted they might yet meet, he said, where there would be none to note who was the officer and who the private soldier. I did my best, master, to console the poor fellow, and we parted. The first thing I saw as I opened the tent door next morning, was Captain Turpic, brought into the camp by the soldier whose cousin Bill and I had assisted to bury. The captain was leaning on his shoulder, somewhat less than half alive, as it seemed, with four of his front teeth struck out, and a stream of blood all along his vest and small clothes. He had been met with by Bill, who had attacked him, he said, and, after breaking his sword, would have killed him, had not the soldier come up and interfered. But that, master, was the captain's story. The soldier told me, afterwards, that he saw the captain draw his sword ere Bill lifted hand at all; and that, when the poor fellow did strike, he gave him only one knock-down blow on the mouth, that laid him insensible at his feet; and that, when down, though he might have killed him twenty times over, he didn't so much as crook a finger on him. Nay, more; Bill offered to deliver himself up to the soldier, had not the latter assured him that he would to a certainty be shot, and advised him to make off. There was a party dispatched in quest of him, master, the moment Turpic had told his story; but he was lucky enough, poor fellow, to elude them; and they returned in the evening, just as they had gone out. And I saw no more of Bill in Egypt, master. Never had troops less to do than we had, for the six months or so we afterwards remained in the country; and time hung wretchedly on the hands of some of us. Now that Bill was gone, I had no comrade with whom I cared to associate; and, as you may think, I often didn't know what to do with myself. After all our fears and regrets, master, our colonel recovered, and, one morning, about four months after the action, came ashore to see us. We were sadly pestered with flies, master. I have seen, I am sure, a bushel of them on the top of our tent at once. They buzzed all night by millions round our noses, and many a plan did we think of to get rid of them; but, after destroying hosts on hosts they still seemed as thick as before. I had fallen on a new scheme this morning. I placed some sugar on a board, and surrounded it with gunpowder; and, when the flies had settled by thousands on the sugar, I fired the powder by means of a train, and the whole fell dead on the floor of the tent. I had just got a capital shot, when up came the colonel, and sat down beside me. 'I wish to know,' he said, 'all you can tell me about Bill Whyte; you were his chief friend and companion, I have heard, and are acquainted with his early history. Can you tell me ought of his parentage.' 'Nothing of that, colonel,' I said; 'and yet I have known Bill almost ever since he knew himself.' And so, master, I told him all that I knew; how Bill had been first taken to us by my mother; of the purse of gold she had brought with her, which had kept us all so merry; and of the noble spirit he had shown among us when he grew up. I told him, too, of some of Bill's early recollections; of the scarlet dress trimmed with silver, which had been brought to his mind by the sergeant's coat the first day he wore it; of the gentleman and lady, too, whom he remembered to have lived with; and of the supposed resemblance he had found between the former and the colonel. The colonel, as I went on, was strangely agitated, master. He held an open letter in his hand, and seemed, every now and then, to be comparing particulars; and, when I mentioned Bill's supposed recognition of him, he actually started from off his seat. 'Good Heavens!' he exclaimed, 'why was I not brought acquainted with this before!' I explained the why, master, and told him all about Captain Turpic; and he left me with, you may be sure, no very favourable opinion of the captain. But I must now tell you, master, a part of my story which I had but from hearsay. The colonel had been getting over the worse effects of his wound, when he received a letter from a friend in England, informing him that his brother-in-law, the father of Captain Turpic, had died suddenly, and that his sister, who, to all appearance was fast following, had been making strange discoveries regarding an only son of the colonel's, who was supposed to have been drowned about seventeen years before. The colonel had lost both his lady and child by a frightful accident. His estate lay near Olney, on the banks of the Ouse; and the lady, one day, during the absence of the colonel, who was in London, was taking an airing in the carriage with her son, a boy of three years or so, when the horses took fright, and, throwing the coachman, who was killed on the spot, rushed into the river. The Ouse is a deep, sluggish stream, dark and muddy in some of the more dangerous pools, and mantled over with weeds. It was into one of these the carriage was overturned; assistance came too late, and the unfortunate lady was brought out, a corpse; but the body of the child was nowhere to be found. It now came out, however, from the letter, that the child had been picked up, unhurt, by the colonel's brother-in-law, who, after concealing it for nearly a week, during the very frenzy of the colonel's distress, had then given it to a gipsy. The rascal's only motive--he was a lawyer, master--was that his own son, the captain, who was then a boy of twelve years or so, and not wholly ignorant of the circumstance, might succeed to the colonel's estate. The writer of the letter added that, on coming to the knowledge of the singular confession, he had made instant search after the gipsy to whom the child had been given, and had been fortunate enough to find her, after tracing her over half the kingdom, in a cave, near Fortrose, in the north of Scotland. She had confessed all; stating, however, that the lad, who had borne among the tribe the name of Bill Whyte, and had turned out a fine fellow, had been outlawed, for some smuggling feat, about eighteen months before, and had enlisted, with a young man, her son, into a regiment bound for Egypt. You see, master, there couldn't be a shadow of doubt that my comrade, Bill Whyte, was just Henry Westhope, the colonel's son and heir. But the grand matter was where to find him. Search as we might, all search was in vain; we could trace him no further than outside the camp, to where he had met with Captain Turpic. I should tell you, by the way, that the captain was now sent to Coventry, by every one, and that not an officer in the regiment would return his salute. Well, master, the months passed, and at length the French surrendered; and, having no more to do in Egypt, we all re-embarked, and sailed for England. The short peace had been ratified before our arrival; and I, who had become heartily tired of the life of a soldier, now that I had no one to associate with, was fortunate enough to obtain my discharge. The colonel retired from the service at the same time. He was as kind to me as if he had been my father, and offered to make me his forester, if I would but come and live beside him; but I was too fond of a wandering life for that. He was corresponding, he told me, with every British consul within fifteen hundred miles of the Nile; but he had heard nothing of Bill, master. Well, after seeing the colonel's estate, I parted from him, and came north, to find out my people, which I soon did; and, for a year or so, I lived with them just as I have been doing since. I was led, in the course of my wanderings, to Leith, and was standing, one morning, on the pier among a crowd of people, who had gathered round to see a fine vessel from the Levant, that was coming in at the time, when my eye caught among the sailors a man exceedingly like Bill. He was as tall, and even more robust, and he wrought with all Bill's activity; but, for some time I could not catch a glimpse of his face. At length, however, he turned round, and there, sure enough, was Bill himself. I was afraid to hail him, master, not knowing who among the crowd might also know him, and know him also as a deserter or an outlaw; but you may be sure I wasn't long in leaping aboard and making up to him. And we were soon as happy, master, in one of the cellars of the Coal-hill, as we had been in all our lives before. Bill told me his history since our parting. He had left the captain lying at his feet, and struck across the sand, in the direction of the Nile, one of the mouths of which he reached next day. He there found some Greek sailors, who were employed in watering; and, assisting them in their work, he was brought aboard their vessel, and engaged as a seaman by the master, who had lost some of his crew by the plague. As you may think, master, he soon became a prime sailor, and continued with the Greeks, trading among the islands of the Archipelago, for about eighteen months, when, growing tired of the service, and meeting with an English vessel, he had taken a passage home. I told him how much ado we had all had about him after he had left us, and how we were to call him Bill Whyte no longer. And so, in short, master, we set out together for Colonel Westhope's. In our journey, we met with some of our people on a wild moor of Cumberland, and were invited to pass the night with them. They were of the Curlit family; but you will hardly know them as that. Two of them had been with us when Bill swamped the custom-house boat. They were fierce, desperate fellows, and not much to be trusted by their friends even; and I was afraid that they might have somehow come to guess that Bill had brought some clinkers home with him. And so, master, I would fain have dissuaded him from making any stay with them in the night time; for I did not know, you see, in what case we might find our _weasands_ in the morning; but Bill had no fears of any kind, and was, besides, desirous to spend one last night with the gipsies; and so he stayed. The party had taken up their quarters in a waste house on the moor, with no other human dwelling within four miles of it. There was a low, stunted wood on the one side, master, and a rough, sweeping stream on the other: the night, too, was wild and boisterous; and, what between suspicion and discomfort, I felt well nigh as drearily as I did when lying among the dead men in Egypt. We were nobly treated, however, and the whisky flowed like water, but we drank no more than was good for us. Indeed, Bill was never a great drinker; and I kept on my guard, and refused the liquor, on the plea of a bad head. I should have told you that there were but three of the Curlits--all of them raw-boned fellows, however, and all of them of such stamp that the three have since been hung. I saw they were sounding Bill; but he seemed aware of them. 'Ay, ay,' said he, 'I have made something by my voyaging, lads, though, mayhap, not a great deal. What think you of that there now, for instance?'--drawing, as he spoke, a silver-mounted pistol out of each pocket--'these are pretty pops, and as good as they are pretty; the worst of them sends a bullet through an inch board at twenty yards.' 'Are they loaded, Bill?' asked Tom Curlit. 'To be sure,' said Bill, returning them again, each to its own pouch. 'What is the use of an empty pistol?' 'Ah,' replied Tom, 'I smell a rat, Bill. You have given over making war on the king's account, and have taken the road to make war on your own. Bold enough, to be sure.' From the moment, they saw the pistols, the brothers seemed to have changed their plan regarding us--for some plan I am certain they had. They would now fain have taken us into partnership with them; but their trade was a woundy bad one, master, with a world more of risk than profit. 'Why lads,' said Tom Curlit to Bill and me, 'hadn't you better stay with us altogether? The road won't do in these days at all. No, no, the law is a vast deal over strong for that; and you will be tucked up like dogs for your very first affair. But, if you stay with us, you will get on in a much quieter way on this wild moor here. Plenty of game, Bill; and, sometimes, when the nights are long, we contrive to take a purse with as little trouble as may be. We had an old pedlar, only three weeks ago, that brought us sixty good pounds.--By the way, brothers, we must throw a few more sods over him, for I nosed him this morning as I went by.--And, lads, we have something in hand just now that, with to be sure a little more risk, will pay better still. Two hundred yellow boys in hand, and five hundred more when our work is done. Better that, Bill, than standing to be shot at, for a shilling per day.' 'Two hundred in hand, and five hundred more when you have done your work!' exclaimed Bill. 'Why, that is sure enough princely pay, unless the work be very bad indeed. But, come, tell us what you propose. You can't expect us to make it a leap in the dark matter.' 'The work is certainly a little dangerous,' said Tom, 'and we of ourselves are rather few; but, if you both join with us, there would be a vast deal less of danger indeed. The matter is just this. A young fellow, like ourselves, has a rich old uncle, who has made his will in his favour; but then he threatens to make another will that won't be so favourable to him by half; and you see the drawing across of a knife--so--would keep the first one in force. And that is all we have to do before pocketing the blunt. But, then, the old fellow is as brave as a lion; and there are two servants with him, worn-out soldiers like himself, that would, I am sure, be rough customers. With your help, however, we shall get on primely. The old boy's house stands much alone; and we shall be five to three.' 'Well, well,' said Bill, 'we shall give your proposal a night's thought, and tell you what we think of it in the morning. But, remember, no tricks, Tom! If we engage in the work, we must go share and share alike in the booty.' 'To be sure,' said Tom; and so the conversation closed. About eight o'clock, or so, master, I stepped out to the door. The night was dark and boisterous as ever, and there had come on a heavy rain. But I could see that, dark and boisterous as it was, some one was approaching the house with a dark lanthern. I lost no time in telling the Curlits so. 'It must be the captain,' said they; 'though it seems strange that he should come here to-night. You must away, Jack and Bill, to the loft, for it mayn't do for the captain to find you here; but you can lend us a hand afterwards, should need require it.' There was no time for asking explanations, master; and so up we climbed to the loft, and had got snugly concealed among some old hay, when in came the captain. But what captain, think you? Why, just our old acquaintance, Captain Turpic! 'Lads,' he said to the Curlits, 'make yourselves ready; get your pistols. Our old scheme is blown; for the colonel has left his house at Olney, on a journey to Scotland; but he passes here to-night, and you must find means to stop him--now or never!' 'What force and what arms has he with him, captain?' asked Tom. 'The coachman, his body servant, and himself,' said the captain; 'but only the servant and himself are armed. The stream outside is high to-night; you must take them just as they are crossing it, and thinking of only the water; and, whatever else you may mind, make sure of the colonel.' 'Sure as I live,' said Bill to me, in a low whisper, ''tis a plan to murder Colonel Westhope! And, good Heavens!' he continued, pointing through an opening in the gable, 'yonder is his carriage, not a mile away. You may see the lantherns, like two fiery eyes, coming sweeping along the moor. We have no time to lose; let us slide down through the opening, and meet with it.' As soon done as said, master; we slid down along the turf gable, crossed the stream, which had risen high on its banks, by a plank bridge for foot passengers, and then dashed along the broken road in the direction of the carriage. We came up to it, as it was slowly crossing an open drain. 'Colonel Westhope!' I cried, 'Colonel Westhope!--stop! stop!--turn back! You are waylaid by a party of ruffians, who will murder you if you go on.' The door opened and the colonel stepped out, with his sword under his left arm, and a cocked pistol in his hand. 'Is not that Jack Whyte?' he asked. 'The same, noble colonel,' I said; 'and here is Henry, your son.' It was no place or time, master, for long explanations; there was one hearty congratulation, and one hurried embrace; and the colonel, after learning from Bill the number of the assailants, and the plan of the attack, ordered the carriage to drive on slowly before, and followed, with us and his servant, on foot, behind. 'The rascals,' he said, 'will be so dazzled with the flare of the lantherns in front, that we will escape notice till they have fired, and then we shall have them for the picking down.' And so it was, master. Just as the carriage was entering the stream, the coachman was pulled down by Tom Curlit; at the same instant, three bullets went whizzing through the glasses, and two fellows came leaping out from behind some furze to the carriage door. A third, whom I knew to be the captain, lagged behind. I marked him, however; and when the colonel and Bill were disposing of the other two--and they took them so sadly by surprise, master, that they had but little difficulty in throwing them down, and binding them--I was lucky enough to send a piece of lead through the captain. He ran about twenty yards, and then dropped down, stone dead. Tom escaped us; but he cut a throat some months after, and suffered for it at Carlisle. And his two brothers, after making a clean breast, and confessing all, were transported for life. But they found means to return in a few years after, and were both hung on the gallows on which Tom had suffered before them. I have not a great deal more to tell you, master. The colonel has been dead for the last twelve years, and his son has succeeded him in his estate. There is not a completer gentleman in England than Henry Westhope, master, nor a finer fellow. I call on him every time I go round, and never miss a hearty welcome; though, by the by, I am quite as sure of a hearty scold. He still keeps a snug little house empty for me, and offers to settle on me fifty pounds a-year, whenever I choose to give up my wandering life, and go and live with him. But what's bred in the bone won't come out of the flesh, master, and I have not yet closed with his offer. And, really, to tell you my mind, I don't think it quite respectable. Here I am, at present, a free, independent tinker--no man more respectable than a tinker, master--all allow that; whereas, if I go and live with Bill, on an unwrought-for fifty pounds a-year, I will be hardly better than a mere master tailor or shoemaker. No, no, that would never do! Nothing like respectability, master, let a man fare as hard as he may. I thanked the gipsy for his story, and told him I thought it almost worth while putting it in print. He thanked me, in turn, for liking it so well, and assured me I was quite at liberty to put it in print as soon as I choose. And so I took him at his word. "But yonder," said he, "is the moon rising, red and huge over the three tops of Belrinnes, and throwing, as it brightens, its long strip of fire across the Frith. Take care of your footing, just as you reach the top of the crag; there is an awkward gap there on the rock edge that reminds me of an Indian trap; but, as for the rest of the path, you will find it quite as safe as by day. Good-by!" I left him, and made the best of my way home; where, while the facts were fresh in my mind, I committed to paper (for the express purpose of having it inserted among the Border Tales) the gipsy's story. THE PROFESSOR'S TALES. THE LAST OF THE PEDLARS. "Atlas was so exceeding strong, He bore the skies upon his back, Just as a pedlar does his pack."--SWIFT. The whole framework of society has been so much altered within these last sixty years, that a person who has been born within that period, unless from tradition, must remain entirely ignorant of the manners and habits of his immediate predecessors. _Now_, highroads, carriages by land and water, with all manner of facilities of intercourse, have brought every part of the country, even the most remote corners, into contact, as it were, with every other part. Any great or engrossing fact or feeling flies immediately, on wings of paper, and in characters of ink, from land's-end to land's-end. But, formerly, this was very far from being the case. The press, as a vehicle of public news, was altogether in its infancy. Roads _were_ not, or they were all _but_ impassable; and the one end of the island might be sunk into the sea, without the other extremity having any immediate perception of the loss. But we must not conclude, on this account, that our forefathers were without curiosity, or without the means of gratifying that passion for news which is deeply seated in our nature. Not at all; the very inconveniences of their position produced, in a great measure, the means of reciprocal intelligence. There were the tailor and the trogger, but, above and beyond all, the pedlar, the most respected and interesting of all walking and migrating gazettes, who, in the non-existence of woollen-drapers and haberdashers, nailed, like bad silver, to a locality, wandered from Dan to Beersheba--in other words, from Glasgow to Manchester, and _vice versa_--carrying all manner of fashionable clothing on their backs, and a vast assortment of fore-night gabble in their heads. As these itinerant merchants behoved to be young and strong, so they were generally unmarried, and kept up a kind of running fire with the lasses. Their opportunities of observing the characteristics of the farmer's fireside were unbounded, as they not unfrequently remained stationary for two or three days in one place. After several years of laborious travel, and enormous profits, at little or no expense in point of diet, such individuals generally purchased a stout horse, to carry the increased load of goods. The horse, again, was ultimately attached to a waggon, and the waggon, at last, stuck in the midst of some flourishing village or town, and became a regular haberdashery shop. Thus, through industry, all but dishonest parsimony, prudence, and perseverance, a comfortable independence often crowned the old age of the packman; and he was not unfrequently found with a fishing-rod by the mountain-stream, or with a book in the corner of his snug little garden, towards the close of his varied and eventful history. It was but the other day that we attended the sale of an old bachelor of this description--the last, we believe, of the race--and that, amidst a parcel of old books and papers, which we purchased _en masse_, we discovered a well written and somewhat extended manuscript, from which we intend to cull a few chapters for the amusement of our readers. CHAPTER I. It is now upwards of sixty years (says the packman) since I first took yard-wand in hand, and pack on back, addicting myself to much pedestrian travel, with the view of supplying dames with needles and shears, maidens with shawls and Bibles, and servant lads with watch-chains and waistcoat pieces. Having, at last, and after many wanderings and much converse with men, women, and children--not to mention dogs, which, in the hill-country, are numerous and noisy--having, I say, at last reached, as it were, a port or haven of rest, I sit here in my arm chair, with old Ponto on one side, and my not less faithful friend, the schoolmaster, on the other, keeping a calm look out over the ocean upon which I have been tossed, and recalling, as well as endeavouring in the best way I can to narrate, the somewhat varied incidents of my past life. It is quite true that I was never properly bred for any profession, but was simply educated in the reading of English, and in the keeping of accounts, and may, therefore, be supposed to be very unfit for anything like grand composition, or style of language; but in case this narrative should, by any accident, as they say, _see the light_, I must premise that I am possessed of advantages of which the reader, till I inform him, cannot possibly be apprised. I have the benefit of my friend the schoolmaster's strictures; of which, however, I shall only avail myself, in regard to the language, and that merely when I am fairly convinced that he is right and that I am wrong. With the wording of this very last sentence, Dominie Tawse finds fault, and insists upon it, that there is, I think he calls it, a "pleonasm" in it; but of this he has failed to convince me, and I therefore suffer the sentence to stand as it was originally written. In fact, I have a great respect for my good friend, the Dominie's opinions, in most occasions, but really, in regard to composition, his taste has been perverted by certain rules and regulations, to which he gives very hard names, and to which, in my opinion, he sacrifices both ease and sense. I pass over the history of my early days. Were I to enter upon them, I should write a volume, and still have volumes to write; for I was born in a mountain glen, beside a mountain stream--my father being a shepherd--and where I grew insensibly into an affectionate friendship for everything around me; for my dear and indulgent mother; for my douce and sagacious father; for our two dogs, Help and Watch; for the old grey cat; for all manner of wooden trenchers, spoons, and ladles; for the stream that winded past the byre-end; for every fin that shoot across the pool; for the sheep bleating upon the brae and glen; for the glen and brae themselves; for the mist, the clouds, the sky, the sun, the moon, the stars--which all seemed made for and subservient to us, and us alone. I pass over the killing of my first trout, with a crooked pin, my noviciate in fishing, and my amazing progress and success in after years; but I cannot pass over a song, which, in these my days of youthful glee, I laboured into something like the tune, I think, of "Blue Bonnets over the Border:"-- "Oh, would you wish to gang to the fishing, lad-- Ye maun get up in the morning sae early, Wi' step like the roe-deer, and blythe heart and glad, And tackle in order, to start to it fairly. Away! while the sleepers around you are dreaming, Away! while the grey eye of morning is beaming, Ere the mist leaves the mountain, The wild duck the fountain, Or the pure light of day o'er the world is streaming. "Gang down by the glen where the burnie rows gently, When the light western breeze the stream ripples over; By the deep eddied pools, where, silent and tently, The trout keep his watch, 'neath the willowed bank's cover And there, with the fly, where the water winds slowly, Neatly and clean throw it out just below you; Watch for him steadily, Strike at him readily. And run him till, faint, on the sward he lies lowly. With the well-seasoned bait in the streams that are fleetest, Fish the large yellow fellows, two pounders or more; You are sure of a tune to the fisher's ear sweetest, For the sound of the pirn is all music before. He comes with a boil, like a deep caldron gasping, So sudden and keenly the tempting bait grasping-- Hark to him dashing! See to him splashing! Now he pants on the green, and your hand cannot clasp him." I pass over, likewise, the mournful recollection of my worthy father's death. He was swept away in an avalanche, which, on the melting of the snow, detached itself from the mountain's brow. He and Help perished together. Oh, I remember, as it were but yesterday, Watch's look when he entered the house, and all but told us in words what had happened. But what avail such recollections? My father was dead, and, in a few hours, my mother followed him; she was seized prematurely with her pains, and, ere assistance could be procured, there was a dead mother and a still-born child. I wonder yet that I kept my senses; but I was stupified. My uncle, a gruff and worldly-minded, but shrewd carle, arranged and managed everything, and took me home with him, the day after the double funeral. My mother's brother--with whom I now lived, and by whom I was educated, in the town of Moffat, Dumfriesshire--had made a respectable independence as a packman; and having only one son, and being a widower, he found no great inconvenience in accommodating me. His son was grown up; and, having a natural taste for a sea-faring life, he was, soon after my arrival, placed as middy on board of an East Indiaman; so my uncle and I had the whole house to ourselves. But my uncle's temper was bad; and there was that in his manner to me which seemed ever and anon to say--You are devilishly in my road, I wish I were quit of you. Accordingly, being now a pretty well-educated lad of seventeen, I cast about in my own mind for a profession, or some way or other of supporting myself, independent of my snarling relative. Jamaica, I remember, was thought of, and I even had some pairs of shoes made for the voyage; but the person died on whose patronage my uncle relied, and the scheme luckily blew up. I wrote a good hand, and was quite master of book-keeping, both by single and double entry; so I was put to a writer's desk in Dumfries, with many admonitions, and much wise instruction. But I had been accustomed to the hills and streams, and fishing, and all the varieties of an active life; and so, one fine evening, I went out to walk on the banks of the Nith, but forgot to return to my desk next morning. In fact, I had returned to Moffat, telling my uncle that I was tired of sitting, and would rather, like himself, carry a pack. At this he seemed at first somewhat startled; but, finding me resolute, he at last consented, and agreed to furnish me with credit to the amount of £20 sterling. A suitable box was accordingly purchased, and a somewhat limited assortment of penknives, watch-seals, scissors, thimbles, needles, pins, brooches, Bibles, and Psalm-books, with a small assortment of shawls, waistcoat pieces, and Kilmarnock night-caps, &c., were selected and packed up; and the following morning was fixed upon for my departure, when my uncle requested my company for a little in his own small sitting room, off the kitchen. "You are about," said my uncle, "to enter upon a profession, the profits of which, if rated according to shop regulations, would be altogether inadequate to the recompense of your risk and trouble; you must, therefore, effect an 'assurance,' as it were, by disposing of every article at the highest price you can possibly obtain. Ask, if you mean to secure a reasonable and a remunerating profit, at least double the prime or original cost; and thus you can afford to be prigged, or beat down from penny to penny, till you all but swear that the purchaser has the article below prime cost. In all your travels, never lodge at an inn or public house. One single instance of this, well authenticated, would ruin your trade for ever; for every lad and lass, every guidman and guidwife, would infallibly conclude, that, if you could afford such expensive accommodation, it must undoubtedly be at their cost--it must be exacted from the ribbons, shawls, gown and waistcoat pieces, with which you supply them. You must, therefore, fix, as soon as may be, upon your points or stations of regulated half-yearly or yearly calls; and this is undoubtedly one of the nicest and most delicate points of your profession, and must be managed, not so much on any general principle, as by a reference to character and circumstance. There are, undoubtedly, many farm-houses, from which the sooner that you depart, and relieve the dogs of their clamour, the better. But this is not their universal or even general character. Whenever you find the guidwife couthy and heartsome, the guidman gruff, and frank, and honest, and the daughters young and buxom, there deposit your pack on Saturday night, and if greatly pressed, do not lift it again till Tuesday or Wednesday morning. Monday or Tuesday, if you are up to your trade, can be advantageously employed in exhibiting, bit by bit, and at intervals, the wonders of the pack; in retailing, with a corresponding parsimony, your country and city news; and in disposing of as many articles on trust (for you must never deal for ready money only), as may entitle you to announce your return with new patterns and fashions that day six or twelve months. To the sheep or stock-farmer in particular, your periodical visits will be the welcomest: for, as he lies at a distance from shops or cities, his wants will be numerous, and his knowledge of the market price imperfect in proportion. To him, too, you can render yourself useful on various occasions. At speaning and smearing time, in particular, you can lend him a lift; for you must never grudge a little labour of this sort, to secure you a good market, and a welcome back again. There is a way, too, of gratifying your customers, and of benefiting at the same time yourself, which you would do well to observe: Whenever occasion may offer, your maxim is to please them on the spot, and without delay; for delays in purchasers, like those in other matters, are dangerous. Your pack is exposed, and every eye is turned intently upon its many attractions. The farmer's daughter is mightily pleased with a particular pattern, but wishes it more of a superior quality. The only test, however, which your inexperienced customer has of quality, is _price_. You have asked, I shall suppose, five shillings, which may be about double its value, for this pattern; but it will not do--a finer article is wanted. You immediately recollect that you actually have such an article somewhere else, and bustle over your goods in great seeming confusion. At last, up the pattern turns; but the price is high--in fact, you did not mean to part with it, as it was in a manner bespoke by an old customer. Thus, the _very identical_ shawl is disposed of at double the price, and your customer is obliged at the same time. The neat performance of this allowable imposition, requires, however, some previous practice, so that no suspicion may, in any case, attach to you. "Never," continued my uncle, after inhaling his usual large allowance of snuff--"never neglect golden opportunities, or favourable occasions. A death is one of those most propitious occurrences; and, if it take place suddenly, and in one of your 'starting families,' so much the better. Hasten forward, or backward, (as may suit your purpose, on such occasions), with all possible dispatch. Night and day you must continue your travel towards the house of mourning, and, after suitable inquiries and condolences, which must never be overtasked, you may, as it were incidentally, mention that, by the most strange coincidence, your present stock of mourning articles is full and good. A whole black suit for the guidman, or a gown, at least, and ribbons for the mistress, will yield a profit more than equal to console your grief, and reconcile you to the behests of Providence. "The lassie, again, who is thinking of marriage, will easily be recognised by her bashful look and embarrassed manner. You will soon learn to observe the great approaching event, in a laughing eye and an excited demeanour-- "Coming events cast their shadows before;" and, under the advanced shadow of this coming event, you will be able to spread out your pack to some purpose. Whatever of head-gear, ribbon, or lace, flutters in the wind, adorns the countenance, or borders a dress gown, you will be ready to afford, at prices greatly reduced since last season. Bridegrooms, too, make presents; and for this purpose you must have neat-bound Bibles, gilt Psalm-books, and Boston's "Fourfold State." Marriages have a natural tendency towards, and connexion with christenings; and you will be a lame calculator if you cannot make it your business to be present on these occasions, with such dresses as infancy, thus circumstanced, is known to require. "Fairs, too, and markets, are never beneath your notice; not that I would advise you to attend indiscriminately such public resorts. There is danger in this; for if, whilst selling, as you would be compelled to do, your goods at a fair market price, some of your muirland customers should observe it, your private and more lucrative trade would be endangered; but, in markets sufficiently remote from your ordinary route, no such consequences are to be apprehended, and there you may occasionally get rid of some old and rather unsaleable stock. "One of the most important secrets of the trade is, the recovery of bad debts; for, however delighted your customers may be with their fine new fashionable articles when they are purchased, the day of payment is always an unwelcome day. "So comes the reckoning, when the banquet's o'er, The awful reckoning, and men smile no more." "Servants, too, frequently change their service, and you will often have great difficulty in tracing them out. In every instance, almost, some particular procedure must be resorted to. In one case, you may succeed by threats, and by pretending to read a warrant of apprehension; in another, a little flattery may not be amiss, particularly with the fair sex. 'It is, indeed, a pity that the price is not forthcoming: for you never saw _her_ look so handsome as she did in the still unpaid article. Could she only manage the one-half now, you would take her acknowledgment for the other half, next time you came about,' &c. &c. In desperate cases, desperate measures must be resorted to. For example," continued my knowing instructor, "I'll tell you how I once recovered thirty shillings, which I had fully given up as lost. "There was a servant lass, in the parish of Penpont, who had the hardihood not only to refuse me payment, but actually to aver that she owed me not a farthing, that she had already paid me, and would not pay me twice over. True, she had no receipt for the money; but then I was in the habit of receiving money without giving or being asked for any receipt whatever. What was to be done? There had been no witnesses of the transaction. Was I to sit quietly down, not only under the loss, but under the suspicion that I was capable of charging twice for the same purchase? I, at last, after much meditation, devised and carried into effect the following method of recovery. I shut myself up in a room, in the village of Penpont, for a day or two, and took care to have it noised abroad, by means of a boy whom I had bribed into the secret, first, that I had been taken suddenly and extremely ill, and lastly, that I had died. This report I took particular care to have conveyed to the ears of my fair debtor. She resided about two miles from the village. In a day or two, my messenger repaired to the lady, averring that I had left him, being a near relative, my heir, and that he had found a debt due by her in my books, which debt he requested her to liquidate incontinent. To this proposal Tibby opposed words and actions of the most disdainful and reproachful character, calling my agent many bad names, and at last setting him to the door by actual violence. In the meantime, knowing what was likely to occur, I hove in sight, at the further extremity of a grass field, in full uniform, with my well-known pack on my back, and my yard-wand in my hand. "'Aweel,' says Sandy, 'if ye winna pay, I canna help it; but there _he's_ coming to speak to you _himsel_. So ye can e'en settle the business atwixt ye.' "'The Lord forbid!' exclaimed Tibby, looking towards my approach, with staring eyes, and limbs trembling like an aspen leaf--'The Lord Almighty forbid, Sandy! Come here! come here! Wait a moment till I get the key of my trunk! Here, here! there's the money, every shilling, and see ye letna the awfu' dead creature come ony nearer us.' "And thus I recovered my just debt, and afforded a source of much good-humoured merriment to the neighbourhood for many days afterwards." CHAPTER II. It was on a fine morning in the latter end of the month of October, that I took yard-wand in hand, and pack on back for the first time. The sun shone slanting and sweetly over wood, and vale, and hill-side; and the light and airy gossamer (at this season _only_ visible) lay in gleaming and floating lines, over grass fields and ploughed lands. I bent my way to the mountains, well knowing that there, at a distance from shop or market, I should most likely meet with a sale for my goods, and should, at the same time, fix the prices, without fear of check or detection. By the time that I had reached Locherben, the sun had set, and the twilight was still lingering on the tops of the twin Queensberries. The herds were coming in from the hills; the guidman was steeking some yetts in the inclosure of the in-fields; and the guidwife, with some half-a-dozen servant lasses, were busily employed in domestic arrangements. Dogs were everywhere to be seen, meeting in unity, or snarling defiance over some contested pot from which they were extracting a rather scanty meal. I leaned my pack on a fail or turf dike, which enclosed a few ill-thriven cabbages, and waited patiently an invitation from some chance inmate to enter. At last, a canny lass came out, with a tub full of sheeps entrails, which she proceeded to cleanse and scour in the passing stream. She took up her station near to where I leaned, and, blithely singing the while, proceeded, with kilted coats, and sleeves tucked up to the shoulders, to perform her work. Having cast a random glance around her, she immediately perceived that she was not alone--and, without any feeling or appearance of embarrassment, immediately proceeded to address me-- "And what are _you_, sitting there, like a craw in the mist? and what's that lying behint you, man?--Losh preserve us! hae ye gotten a coffin on yer back, or are ye just a kintra lad, gain hame wi' yer sister's kist on yer shoulders?--Speak, body, speak this minute, or I'll come alang yer chafts wi' a nievefu o' thairms!"--Thus saying, she actually left the pure water which she was so busy defiling, and, brandishing some score of yards of the tripe in her right hand, was in the act of accomplishing her threat, when I suddenly disengaged myself from the arm-strings of my pack, and, parrying the blow which was aimed at me, I closed at once with my fair adversary, and, ere she could raise a scream, sufficient to alarm the whole town land, I had taken as many favours from her as ever Apollo did from Daphne. To scream so loud and shrill as to bring down upon us half-a-dozen dogs, and nearly as many herds, was the work of an instant; but of an instant during which she was made distinctly to perceive that I was no lassie, but a young fellow of some spunk and mettle. "What's the matter wi' Jenny?" said a stout figure, snugly wrapped up in the shepherd's toga. "Matter!" replied Jenny--"matter!"--adjusting her dress, and now red from ear to ear--"why, I believe, after a', there is nae great matter--but that body frightened me sae with his kists and his coffins, I was amaist out o' my wits." "Kists and coffins, ye gomeril woman!--why, that's a packman; and I'll warrant he has as mony shawls, and gown-pieces, and ribbons, and as muckle braw Brussels lace in his box, as wad set ye fleeing to kirk on Sabbath, like an Indian queen. Come in, lad--come ben--it's getting dark, and ye're far here frae ony neighbour town--come away, and ye shall hae yer supper in the spense, and yer bed in the cha'mer--and Jenny there into the bargain, if ye will only promise to mak us rid o' her for guid and a'." "Jenny!--hegh! that's ane indeed!" responded the fair tripe scourer.--"I'se warrant, guidman, ye wad soon be sending a' owre the country, and sticking up bits o' paper on the kirk doors, war I only four-and-twenty hours amissing; and, as for Wee Watty there--if there be a bauk low enough to hang him, ye wad be sure to find him, ere the first twal hours were owre, dangling frae't, like a periwinkie candle hanging to a spit." Upon this sally of Nanny's wit, all things were put to rights, and the packman was snugly lodged _versus_ the guidman, the guidwife, and God only knows how many persons, in the spence, or small apartment adjoining to and looking in upon the kitchen. The chapman's drouth is proverbial--and, to assuage it, I was immediately supplied with a cog o' crap-whey, bannocks, and a ram-horn spoon, just to put aff the time till supper was ready! In the meanwhile, the inmates of the farmer's kitchen began and continued to congregate. Some half-score of acres of inland croft had just been reaped, and there had been the promise of a hett supper and a dance, to conclude the comparatively insignificant grain harvest. James Hogg, then a youth of twenty-four, acted as chief musician, and contrived to extract from the thairms of an old time-worn fiddle, some sounds, which, when assisted by a lively imagination and high animal spirits, passed for music. And the guidman led off the dance wi' the guidwife--snapping his fingers, and springing three or four times over the kitchen fire. The guidwife enjoyed the fun exceedingly; and, though encumbered in more ways than one, spread her napkin over her breast--adjusted her pockets and nether garments, and presented herself every now and then to the guidman, with a sly look and a sidelong bob. I was lucky enough to get hold of Nanny, whom, in spite of Wee Watty, as he was termed, I drew at once into the centre of the whirlpool, and there we went, hand in hand, round and round, with the velocity of planets whose orbits are limited--Wee Watty, for the time, having supplied himself with Nell Morrison, a tall, prepossessing wench, who seemed to rejoice in vexing my partner, Nanny, who was manifestly Wee Watty's favourite. Shepherds--as Wilson would say, shepherdesses--sported around, like giants dancing to Polyphemus; and boys, girls, and dogs caught the infection--screaming, barking, singing, leaping, and reeling, as God gave them instinct. Hogg seemed amazingly delighted, and, ever and anon, removed his hand from the strings of the fiddle, to flourish it aloft in the air, and then come down flap upon some sonsy cummer's neck, as she demanded "Dainty Davie," "Jenny Nettles," or "The Highlandman kissed his Mother"--the triad which composed our fiddler's whole stock of tunes! At last, supper came, in the shape of boiled bloody puddings, haggis, king's-hood, and a long _et cetera_ of inferior occupants of the interior of a sheep-skin. There was, besides, a sprinkling of whisky, administered in its natural purity, and, after a song or two from Nanny, and Hogg, who gave "Donald Macdonald" in his own style, sleep began to intimate his claims, and we all stepped off our several ways to bed. I could easily perceive, as I imagined--for there is a masonry in all manner of love concerns--that I had made a favourable impression upon Nanny, and that she would have no great objection to spend an hour or two in my company when all the other inmates, and, amongst them, Watty Telfer, had gone to rest. I had learned all this by certain signs, and winks, and nods, and squeezes, which are Hebrew to all but the parties concerned; and I took my way across the closs to the cha'mer, under a firm conviction that I should meet Nanny behind the great peat stack whenever the last dog had ceased to bark. Accordingly, I was early at the place of rendezvous, and waited, with some impatience, the approach of my fair visitant. The night was dark and somewhat misty, and I could not distinctly see to any distance. At last, a figure began to move in the distance, closely wrapped up in a Scottish plaid, from foot to head, and stretching forward its head as if in the act of listening. "Is that you, Nanny?" was whispered, and responded to by a silent nod of assent; and, ere I could make any farther observation, Nanny was close by my side. To my surprise, however, she refused to permit me to unveil her face, and spoke so low that I was difficulted in getting at the import of her words. "Is Watty Telfer to bed?" said I. "Yes--oh yes," was the response; "and you and I will play him a trick, if you will only assist me." I promised immediately to be art and part--for I liked fun and frolic dearly, and I thought Watty was the only obstacle to my suit with fair Nanny. "Watty sleeps by himsel in the stable aboon the naigs; and, if you will go up the ladder, which I will show you, you will find his clothes lying upon an old chair just at the ladder-head. Now, just slip quietly one of your best waistcoat-pieces into his pocket, and we will swear, to-morrow morning, that Watty entered the auld cha'mer, when you were asleep, and stole the piece. I will be answerable to you for the money." The scheme pleased me exceedingly; so I ascended the ladder and deposited the goods as directed. But, when I turned about again to descend, I found the ladder, as well as my directress, absent without leave. What was to be done? I could not descend without risk to my neck from the stable loft; and yet I was afraid that, if Watty should awake, he would take me for a thief, and, perhaps, tumble me headlong from the dangerous position which I occupied. In feeling, therefore, about me, to ascertain if there was no other method of escape, I was immediately seized by the neck, and grasped so closely that I had almost been choked ere I could ejaculate--"Help! murder!" _&c_. Not a word was said in reply; but I felt cords passing around my body in various directions, and myself tied down, like Gulliver, flat on the boards and beams beneath me. I expostulated--threatened--coaxed my tormentors--for I felt there were two--but all to no purpose. My destiny was fixed, and there I lay supine, whilst my mischievous jailors manifestly slept, and even snored aloud. At last, worn out with watching and vexation, I fell soundly asleep; and, when I awoke, it was broad daylight. I found my limbs unloosed, my tormentors gone, and the ladder by which I had ascended restored. Next day, I learned that, instead of playing a trick upon any one, I had myself been imposed upon, to the immense amusement of Nanny and the whole household. It was not Nanny, but wee Watty Telfer, with whom I had conversed by the peat stack. It was _he_, set on by James Hogg, who had got me up the ladder, and then, entering himself by another passage, had assisted a fellow-servant in binding me, and in ultimately releasing me from limbo. Well, what, good reader, did I do on this occasion? Did I immediately take things in great dudgeon, and depart with my pack in great wrath? No such thing. I had listened to my uncle to little purpose had this been the result. On the contrary, I immediately displayed my tempting articles before the young couple, Watty and Nanny, who were actually bride and bridegroom, and sold to the whole family, the young folks included, not less than upwards of ten pounds of goods; not one farthing of which would I have pocketed had I been the fool to resent my somewhat disagreeable usage. Ever after this adventure, I was a welcome visitant at Locherben; and Nanny Telfer who is now the mistress of a large family, and has servants of her own, patronises me to a very considerable extent. Wee Watty has become staid and industrious, and rents a sheep-farm from the Duke of Buccleuch, on which he seems to thrive amazingly. Indeed, all the duke's tenantry are in a very thriving condition; for this simple reason--that they are not rack-rented. CHAPTER III. IT was about dusk when I was caught in a mist on the borders of Scotland. I had made my way from Manchester, by Kendal and Penrith, and was on a long stretch across the bleak muirs which separate England from Scotland, as you advance towards the village of Castletown on the Liddle. Not being familiar with the footpath which I was tracing, I fairly lost my way, and had some severe pulls, through mosses and ravines of no ordinary depth and extent. Still, I was young and strong, and not subject to superstitious fears. At last, however, I was enveloped in close and almost palpable darkness, or rather whiteness--for the ground-mist rose, and crawled, and trailed, white, and damp, and still, all around me. I even felt as if it entered my very nostrils, and made a portion of myself. I could scarcely see the two ends of my pack, as they peeped over my shoulders. My faithful dog Neptune, of the Newfoundland breed, went on, however, gaily and caressingly before me; and seemed to say, at every return, "Another effort, master--one pull more--and we shall be alongside of the flesh-pots of Mr. Elliot, laird of Whithaugh." All at once, I came to the brow of a precipice, from which my faithful monitor warned me to retreat; and while in the act of so doing, I thought I heard human voices in the linn beneath. Neptune, too, gave loud note of the discovery; and in an instant was engaged in mortal warfare with a bull-dog of great power and fierceness. Whilst I was endeavouring, with my yard-wand, to separate the combatants, a stout, tall, and somewhat ungainly figure came, with a long horsewhip, to my assistance. The combatants, seeing how matters stood, were content to adopt the growling, instead of the tearing system; and separated, as if by mutual agreement, that matters should not long remain as they were. However, a leash of strong cord, with a neck-band, made fast Neptune's opponent, and rendered it safe for Neptune and me to accept of the stranger's invitation to join their camp. The camp was, indeed, of a novel and somewhat strange description. Over a brawling current, which, as I was told, at this point separated England from Scotland, there were extended from rock to rock, poles and branches of dwarf-elder and saughs, which were growing, or rather decaying, on each side of the glen or linn. These branches and poles were again traversed by cords, which kept them in close order and regular position. Over all, were laid turf, and spret, and bog-hay, which formed a kind of isthmus betwixt the two kingdoms. When you stood in the middle of this erection, you were neither in England nor in Scotland, but _medio tutissimus_; and, should the civil power show its miscreant front on the one side, you could immediately retreat to the other, and _vice versa_ with regard to that of England. The gipsies were the famous Yetholm band, and had lived here for some time past, disposing during the day-time, of their pots, pans, ram-horn spoons, and other kitchen conveniences; and spending the night under shelter of their tents, located, or rather suspended, as above-mentioned, in riot, uproar, revelment, and debauchery. There were about an equal number of men and women, but no children--these being left at Yetholm, where they remained stationary during the winter months. Their king or leader was at this time Cuthbert, or Cubby Elliot, who boasted of his long descent and connection with the laird of Whithaugh, on the skirts of whose property he was now encamped. The use which Cubby made of his relationship with Whithaugh, was to amerce him in a fat wedder every time he came round, together with a gallon of whisky, in consideration for which voluntary donation he protected his hen-roost and barn-yard from all manner of gipsy depredation. This was sheep-night, as it was called--the evening, namely, on which the Whithaugh wedder was to be discussed, and the whisky was to be drunk; and the whole company was in the middle of the wassail, when I stumbled upon their retreat. Being not unknown to Cuthbert, whom I had even met at Whithaugh's fireside, I ran no risk either of insult or violence; but, on the contrary, was hailed with an uproarious welcome, which made the grey gled quit the cliff above. The small cask containing the laird's _due_, as they called it (mountain dew was then a term unknown), lay in the midst of the encampment, alongside of a blazing heap of brushwood, which seemed, ever and anon, to threaten with conflagration the whole erection; and the sheep, roasted, or rather broiled, in its own skin, betwixt two forked poles, was subjected every now and then to an incision from the large whangers or knives, which, like Hudibras' sword, "served more purposes than one." The mist sat close above; the flames roared in unison with the torrent beneath; the barrel gave out its glutting contents in horns and cups; the bare poles of the sheep began to appear in the shape of ribs; the song, the jest, the jeer, the howl, the tumble, the almost quarrel, were all in their height, when I thought I heard a distant but terrific sound. With difficulty I procured a temporary suspension of noise. It was manifestly distant thunder. No matter--on went the carousal. A young man who had lately joined the gang, made a conspicuous figure; he was evidently over head, ears, and shoulders, in love with Ellen Elliot, the king's fair and buxom daughter. The fellow was such a one as I have never seen before nor since. He had the eye of a hawk or eagle; a nose corresponding; high cheek-bones; fair or yellowish hair, forking out like lightning in every direction; a red beard, fully a month old; and the limbs, and nerves, and muscles of a giant. He twisted a horse-shoe in two behind his back; held out a musket by the extremity of the muzzle, his arm at full stretch; and lifted up Ellen Elliot, tossing her up in the air, and catching her again, like a tennis ball. His name I have since learned, though I am not at liberty to divulge it, as he now occupies a chair in one of our most celebrated universities, which he adorns with as much vigour and originality as he did that night the tinkler's gathering. It is thus that men of genius study human nature to advantage, and not in the turning over of quarto volumes from one year's end to the other; and it was thus that the great and celebrated Christ---- N---- acquired that richness of illustration and vigour of conception which have raised him, in this respect, above every living name. Long may he live!--and often may the fresh and vigorous effusions of his pen recall to my recollection the astonishing gambols and revelment of this evening! At last, however, the cask gave out its last benediction--the utmost effort of man or woman could not extract a drop more; limbs became supple, and eyes misty, muddy, heavy, and shut. Men slid down in their garments, and snored aloud; women disappeared into the now closing obscurity, and huddled together under eaves and covering; the embers emitted, or were about to emit, their last gleam, when the young and extraordinary person I have described, made up to me. I had thought him drunk; but he was not--it was all assumed. We entered immediately into conversation, and he made me acquainted with his resolution of stealing away from the frolic whilst the company slept. In this he was joined by me, and we were upon the point of putting our resolution into execution, when a sudden gleam of lightning shone in upon us, and two or three large pieces of hail, or rather ice, came down with the force and velocity of shot. All at once, the waters of the linn began to tumble about in an unusual manner--the Gullet, or Gray Mare's Tail, immediately above us, presented, even through the shade of night, a fearful projection of flood; the gullets roared and choked, and accumulated sticks, and turf, and heath, in their descent; and, ere a single individual could be aroused, the whole erection on which the whole gang were sound sleeping, was swept down the flood. Piteous was indeed the picture, and terrible the screams; but after the obstruction behind which the waters had accumulated gave way, the stream narrowed in its course, and many were left on dry land, almost without any efforts of their own. The fearless stranger was everywhere--he seemed now to be amphibious; and Neptune, too, was of the greatest service. I myself was not awanting either in courage or enterprise; and so it came to pass, that, in a few seconds, all had mustered, save one, the buxom and frank-hearted Ellen Elliot. The father raved, and dashed anew into the gullets. "Search Hell's Caldron!" was the almost universal cry. This was a terrible pool, some way down the stream. My young friend flew off; and I saw him leap some twenty or thirty feet into the black and boiling flood; he came up again exhausted, but exclaiming--"She is here! she is here!" Her father's plunge was simultaneous with the last words; down they both went together, and up they brought betwixt them poor Ellen Elliot. She was apparently dead; but, being laid on the brink of the pool, with her head downwards, much water escaped from her mouth. "She lives! she lives!" exclaimed parent and lover at once; "oh, kindle a fire!" It was done, I never knew how, as if by magic. Spirits from a small flask in her father's side-pocket were made use of first externally, and latterly internally. Ellen awoke in terrible pain, she travailled fearfully into life; but at last she became sensible, and her first words were--"Bless me! what a terrible dream I have had!" All is well that ends well. Ellen Elliot, the fair gipsy, is now Lady Whithaugh; the old man in his dotage having taken it into his head to marry again, though he was at the time a grandfather. She is one of my most steady customers, and I have no doubt that, when the old, kind-hearted, and easy-tempered laird shall have taken his leave, she may very soon after take her leave of widowhood--and why not? Then will be "a wedding," and there (perhaps) may be the writer and the reader of these _chapters_! Amen! CHAPTER IV. As I was wending my way from the hospitable mansion of Whithaugh, up Hermitage Water, I was decoyed, by the near appearance of the old castle, to deviate a little from the straight but steep and difficult road to Hawick, to visit the ruins of this old Border keep--where Queen Mary once lodged, and Bothwell once met her--where still sleeps the stern ghost of Soulis, and the tremendous bones of the Count of Baldar. As the stream abounded in fish, I undid my pack, and, from the upper corner, extracted a fishing-rod, which I had purchased at Kendal, and amused myself, for an hour or two, in this most fascinating amusement. Alas! I have lived to see other times and other circumstances!--rivers without fish, and fishers without spirit: the one spoiled of their finny inhabitants by every chemical abomination, and the other contented with a brace of parr or a triad of minnows. But to my narrative. I soon filled a bag which I carried for the purpose, and was at last compelled to give up the sport, from my inability to carry any additional weight. By this time, I had reached the old castle, and taken an eye measurement of its meaningless and monotonous architecture. Strength and security seem to have been the only objects pursued in its erection. But time had destroyed the one, and the other had ceased to be an object. I was on the point of leaving this keep--with many suitable reflections on the changes which time had wrought since Soulis roasted his foes, or cut them to pieces in the dungeon with the saw-mill--when I thought that I perceived a little thread of blue smoke escaping through the loose stones by which the interior of the ruined walls was occupied. This naturally excited my suspicion that there were more doings going on than I was aware of; so, depositing my trouts and my pack on the green bank of the Hermitage Water, I began to peer and poke about, with the end of my fishing-rod, amongst the stones. Neptune, too, had smelt a rat, and was busy, nose, and feet, and tongue, in assisting me in some mighty discovery. But all our efforts were in vain: the smoke ceased to issue, if indeed it had been smoke at all; and, although Neptune encompassed the old tower as often as Moses did the city of Jericho, yet still the immense walls stood true to their foundation; and, night coming on, we were compelled, though reluctantly, to leave the spot. Having determined to reach Hawick this night, I pushed on, there being good moonlight, though the evening was cold; and Neptune, as usual, kept on the advance, giving me timely intimation of whatever might, or might seem, to approach us. At or near the top of the ridge which separates the vale of the Hermitage from that of the Kitterick, there stood, and perhaps still stands, a small public-house, built for the accommodation of such travellers as pass this way, dreary and difficult as it is. Into this, Neptune and I thrust our noses, and found a large family of children gathered around a blazing peat fire. We took our position immediately by the fire, and learned from the children that their mother was milking the cow--that their father had been killed in a quarry some months ago--and that there was a great number of fine-dressed gentlemen _ben_ the house. The mother, a decent, melancholy-looking woman, soon entered, with the milk-stoup in her hand, and immediately proceeded to replenish the gill-stoup with a very different beverage, for the use of her ben-house customers. "She didna ken weel what to mak o' them," she said; "but she thought, by their way o' speaking, and their dress, and ither accoutrements, they were maybe limbs o' the law--the deil's agents, excisemen--wha wadna let a puir body live, if they could prevent it." At this time, one, who seemed to be the commander of the party, entered the kitchen, manifestly flustered with drink; and, seeing my fish-bag lying on the dresser, immediately seized it, exclaiming, "By G--! what have we got here?" However, he was soon disabused, if he imagined it to contain any illicit commodity; and, slipping a half-crown into my hand (which I willingly accepted), he ordered the fish to be immediately prepared for his supper, and that of his companions. They were, indeed, a jolly company, and, after a little while, invited me to partake of the produce of my own sport, and of a due qualification of whisky. In the course of an hour or two, we got exceedingly well acquainted; and I found, at last, from several incidental observations, that they had received information of an illicit still being in the neighbourhood, and were about to surprise those engaged in it so soon as the moon should set, and their approach might be covered by the darkness. Upon finding how the land lay, it immediately occurred to me that my uncle would have contrived to turn this incident to his professional advantage. It was manifest that, although their information extended to the whereabouts, they were ignorant of the exact spot where the illicit manufacture of whisky was, in all probability, going forward. In fact, they were led to believe that an old shieling, or shepherd's hut, constructed out of a mountain cairn, was probably the place where the work was proceeding. I opened my mind to them somewhat cautiously, by proposing that they should deal with me in such goods as my pack, so recently replenished at Manchester, would supply. They were all very shy, and expressed their _contempt_ indeed of any such preposterous proposal. But, when I hinted that I was in possession of such information as might lead to the accomplishment of their object, they took at once at the bait, and agreed that, not only they, but their wives and families, should be supplied from my stores. Fancy waistcoats, watch-chains, twelve-bladed knives, razors, snuff-boxes, and pocket-books, were immediately secured, and handsomely paid for; and Neptune and I (for I verily believe he understood the whole transaction) had the pleasure of making a very considerable profit, by gaining at least 100 per cent. upon the whole concern. About 11 o'clock--for they were now impatient to secure their prize--we advanced, seven strong (exclusive of Neptune), upon the old tower of Hermitage. But our approach had been anticipated, and the bird was flown. Some friendly imp, one of the family where we had so recently been convened, had probably given the necessary intimation to the illicit distillers; and, after much searching, and some curious discoveries of dark passages, and dungeons half filled with rubbish, we found a cask or two of recently distilled spirit, with a few vats or tubs which had not been removed. It was manifest, however, from what we had discovered, that my information had been correct, and that, though flown, the bird would not be at any great distance. The whisky was removed to the public-house which we had just left; and, when we were in the act of returning upon our footsteps, we were met by a bare and curly-headed callant, about twelve years of age, who seemed inclined, when too late, to avoid any encounter. This excited our suspicion; and he was immediately secured, and questioned hard, whether he knew anything about the distillery in the Auld Tower. "Na," said the urchin, "I ken naething about tilleries; but I ken weel there's something no canny about the place." "What makes you think so, my man?" "Ou, I dinna ken--I reckon it will be Auld Soulis' ghost; for he was an awfu wicked man, my mither says, and canna get rest in his grave at nae rate. I hae seen lichts about the auld place mysel." And hereupon the rascal looked about him, as if afraid to speak out, and, in a low voice, gave us to understand that he had just met an awesome sight: it rowed owre the body, and owre the body, and rumbled away down the linn into the miller's house yonder. It was for a' the warl' like a whean corn-sacks, dyed black, and clinking ane against anither. "Why, man, corn sacks dinna clink." "Maybe no; but the deil's sacks are different. I reckon they wadna stand fire, unless they clinked." There was no resisting this logic; so our informant was desired to show us the direction in which the apparition had gone. He pointed to a glen or linn on Hermitage Water, and to a light which flitted before us, appearing and disappearing at intervals. Down the glen we instantly rushed, through some brushwood, and along a narrow pass. When we had reached the mill-steading, the light had disappeared; and, on investigation, our informant likewise. We found the miller still at work, and not a little surprised at our untimely and really unwelcome visit. It was manifest now, that we had been imposed upon by the knowing urchin, who, to give time for escape to the illicit traders, had trumped up the ghost story, well knowing that a direct information might have been suspected. In a word, we were completely out; and, where the distillers betook themselves, whether across the Border, or into some of the almost inaccessible mountains of Eskdalemuir, remains to this day a secret. However, I had made my market, and earned additional patronage by a chance adventure, which was quite in my uncle's way, and gave me assurance that, by pursuing a similar course in future, I should undoubtedly prosper. My next advantageous hit was made at Moffat. To this favourite resort of the invalid, the idle, and the wealthy, there had been added this season a dinner, given by the advocates in Edinburgh to the future _author_ of the poems of Ossian. Macpherson had just published some fragments of the Gaelic poetry, and had excited the attention of the learned world, by his announcing that, if he had the means, he would collect through the Highlands many larger and more valuable works of Ossian and other bards. I had been lucky enough to have purchased, when at Glasgow, a cheap remnant of the Macpherson tartan, having heard that it would take in England--but I was mistaken; and I could not prevail upon a single gentleman or lady of any note, betwixt Carlisle and Manchester, to patronise it. Their patronage, in my trade, as in most others, is everything. Only get some celebrated country belle to sport a particular and uncommon pattern at a market or at church, and the fate of your napkin-web is fixed. Only get the laird's eldest son to appear in the gallery, at church, in a waistcoat of a particular stripe and combination of colours, and every boor in the parish will purchase the like, at three or four prices. Only get a bride, on her wedding-day, to sport the newest ribbon, and your box is immediately emptied. It is thus that pedlar profit is realized, and a certain degree of notoriety, if not popularity, is obtained. I had got a waistcoat made, for my own use, out of this bit of unsaleable tartan--not, indeed, at the time anticipating any advantage, but the ordinary wear, from the garment. But, as good fortune would have it--and she has much to say in all professions--this very waistcoat was, in a sense, the making of me. I appeared in the town of Moffat in this tartan waistcoat, and had the good fortune, as I stood opposite to the inn-door where the company were to dine, adjusting my pack, and preparing to expose my goods to public view, to be observed from the window by Macpherson himself. He immediately announced the fact of the nature of the tartan which I wore to the gentlemen around him. They immediately began to wonder if the pedlar had any more of the same pattern in his pack; and, from one thing to another, it was agreed, at last, to address me on the subject. Down they came--for they had yet half-an-hour to wait for dinner; and, having made the necessary inquiries, were answered, somewhat shyly, by me, that I "didna ken but I micht hae a wee bit o' the same web." (In fact, I had upwards of two hundred yards deposited snugly in a friend's house, as I passed to England, besides the remnant carried along with me!) So I opened out my supply, and, in a few seconds, I sold the whole of it. Next day, my pack was exposed at the principal well; and, to my no small delight, I saw Macpherson himself, with upwards of a score of advocates, all sporting the tartan. The thing took like wildfire; piece after piece, (always the last!) I produced and sold; and had I been possessed of double, or even ten times the quantity, I verily believe I might have sold it, at any price. The very shepherd lads, from Queensberry and Errickstane, were down upon me, coaxing and urging me to let them have a waistcoat-piece, at any price. But the more fixed merchants of the place saw my advantage; and, by dismissing an express to Glasgow, in two or three days had their windows filled with the Macpherson. The fever, however, was over. Macpherson himself, waistcoat and all, had set out on his celebrated Highland search; the advocates had returned to their briefs; and the Moffat haberdashers had reason to regret their hasty proceedings in this matter. I had, however, realized a round sum of profit--not less than forty pounds--on this hit; and was content to limit my sale to the more ordinary commodities of my pack, for the rest of the time which I sojourned here. From Moffat, I took the road, across the hills, to Durrisdeer. At this time, the famous M'Gill was minister of this parish. He was a man celebrated, in his day, for fervency in preaching; for marrying a Miss Goodfellow, (who had paid for his education, and was on the wrong side--I don't say of fifty, but at least of seventeen;) and for his extensive powers and experience in _haggis_-eating. The "Kirkton" of Durrisdeer--a small cluster of houses around the church--has been celebrated by Burns, in his "Tam o' Shanter"-- "And at the Lord's house, even on Sunday, Thou drank wi' _Kirkton_ Jean till Monday." This parish is principally mountainous, and, consequently, pastoral; and the shepherds and sheep-farmers were, at the time of which I speak, in the habit of transacting their worldly affairs, after church time, on the sabbath evenings. This traffic was carried on in small, thatched ale-houses, some of which still remain, kept in general, by old women. (one of whom lived to see 114 years!) and, in one particular exception, by a jolly young lass, yclept "Kirkton Jean." Nobody knew Jean better than Burns; and though, in his admirable poem, he places her near the Doon, yet, in fact, she was a nymph of the Carron, and a parishioner of Durrisdeer. It grieves me sore to say it, but Jean, though a stanch and steady believer and kirk-goer, though a great favourite with the minister, and with all the younger part of the plaided mountaineers, was detested by many decent women, and, in particular, by Mrs. M'Gill, who said she could not bear the sight of her. Her house, however, was much resorted to, and her company, as well as her ale, much sought after; and, when I reposed my pack on Jean's chest-lid, she gave me a hearty welcome, and, telling the old, blind body, her grandmother, that here was the pedlar, greeted me in the most kind and couthy manner possible. It was not my usual wont to put up in a public-house, where I had to pay for my food and bed; but I had my reasons in this case, as the reader will see anon. I arrived on the Tuesday of the sacrament, and attended sermon on Thursday and Saturday, as well as on Sunday. Monday, however, came at last; and it was towards this Monday that I was looking during all the previous days; for this Monday was, in fact, the great market day of the parish. After M'Gill had preached in the open air to a vast multitude, (for he was the most popular preacher of the presbytery,) man, wife, and wean, master, servant, merchant--all classes and denominations of Christians--were immediately up to the ears in drink and traffic, buying, selling, hiring, _niffering_, as if religion and its observances had been unknown amongst them. The mind of man is a _queer_ concern--at least, the heart, on the best authority, is "deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked;" and, really, the "Kirkton" of Durrisdeer, in the days of M'Gill, and on the Monday of the sacrament in particular, but too manifestly exhibited the truth of this observation. I had placed my pack on a stand, by the kirk-stile; and, as the congregation dispersed, they had one and all an opportunity of seeing my goods in a state of full display. I had no rival, unless a very decent old woman might be considered as such. She sold a few articles of dress, such as stockings and plaids, all of her own and her daughter's manufacture; but mine were Manchester and Glasgow goods of the very newest fashion, and worn by every lady and gentleman of quality betwixt the two great marts. As the evening advanced, Jean's house became more and more difficult of access. My station was what is termed the spence, or the mid-room or closet, betwixt the kitchen and the _ben_. There I stood, with my ellwand in my hand, measuring off waistcoat-pieces, displaying shawls, and exhibiting watch-chains and knives, till late in the evening. Some moorland farmers purchased largely on credit--a mode of dealing which I greatly relished, for two reasons: first, because it gave me an opportunity of visiting them in their mountain homes; and, secondly, because I could then with a safe conscience, or, at least, without challenge, charge double the original price. I need not, and I shall not, proceed with the sequel of the evening's events. From Jean, I learned that old Fingland, who was now a widower, had actually asked her in marriage; and that, in a few days, she should, in all probability, be Mrs. Gibson. The poor, doited, drunken body had a good farm from the Duke of Buccleuch; and, having got rid of his family by his first spouse, thought himself entitled to enter anew into the hallowed and often-tried state. He lived to repent his precipitancy and indiscretion; for Jean ruined him in a few months, and making a moonlight flitting, was afterwards found in the Grassmarket of Edinburgh, mistress of the public-house called the Harrow. But here my narrative must conclude for the present. DUNCAN SCHULEBRED'S VISION OF JUDGMENT.[2] [Footnote 2: The vision here recorded will carry a greater interest to the reader, when he knows that it is not a _mere_ fancy. Many still living can recognize in the narrative all the circumstances of the real adventure. We think proper thus to authenticate our tale, to prevent it from being classed among current versions (taken from our own original), which have no more foundation than may be claimed for other good stories.--ED.] Well, it is always the same. We are fed by the moralities just as we are by potatoes. We must be always repeating the dose to keep the world in order, and thus it is that we go on. We see many examples of the extraordinary discovery of evil designs attempted to be concealed by all the craft of cunning man; nay, it is impossible to doubt, even with the many cases before us of the apparent success of criminal schemes, that it is a part of God's providence to lay open the secret actings--often the secret thoughts--of those who contravene his laws. The modes by which this purpose is fulfilled are as various as the designs themselves; and though some of them may not appear to be consistent with the seriousness and gravity of an avenging and punishing retribution, we are not, on that account, to doubt their authority or undervalue their effect. Now, we have a case to record of an extraordinary and ludicrous discovery of roguery, which, as well on account of its truth as the moral which, amidst all its grotesqueness, it inculcates, deserves to be remembered. It may do good too to that "muckle ne'er-do-weel," Human Nature, who is still enjoying his grin at the schoolmaster, the philanthropist, and the bible. In that manufacturing town which has lately risen to considerable eminence, called Dunfermline, there lived, some time ago, a person of the name of Duncan Schulebred, by trade a weaver--or, as he chose rather to be called, a manufacturer, a term which the inhabitants love to apply to every man who can boast the property of a loom and its restless appendage. We believe the people of that town to be as honest and industrious as those of any mercantile place in the kingdom; but they have too much good sense to think of claiming for their entire community, a total exemption from the inroads of dishonesty and deceit--vices which prevail in every corner of this land. Unhappily, the individual we have mentioned had allowed himself to become a slave to those evil propensities which are concerned in the collecting together of ill-gotten wealth, and never left any feasible plan unattempted, which might present any chance of gratifying the ruling passion by which he was mastered. He was a little man, with a florid complexion, and the small twinkling eye which almost invariably accompanies cunning. His walk was that of a man accustomed to carry under his left arm a web of huckaback, and in his right hand a staff ellwand; and his style of speech, bland, conciliating, and persuasive, was derived from the habit of wheedling customers into exorbitant terms. He was a great coward, as well physical as moral--the consequence, doubtless, of being a dishonest trader. Altogether too contemptible to be hated, his greatest enemy was his own conscience, of which he stood in such terrible awe, that his wife was often obliged, during the dark hours of the reign of that mysterious agent, to rise and light a lamp for the purpose of exorcising the spirit which, seated on his heart, tormented him with the gnawing inflictions of its pain. This trick of his conscience had hitherto been unable to prevent Duncan from using his short ellwand, and acting dishonestly. The moment he got into daylight and active life, he, like all other cowards, despised the enemy from which he thought himself at the time safe. In a strong-minded man, conscience produces resolution; in a weak, it gives rise merely to fears and vacillation. It is not often that greedy, cunning men are given to intoxication; yet we are obliged to add this vice to the character of Duncan Schulebred, who, exhibiting, however, the one vice in the other, never failed to get intoxicated, if he could effect his purpose at the cost of his neighbour--a result he often achieved, by leaving the tavern after he had got enough--on pretence of returning in a few minutes to the company of his unsuspecting victim. Like many others of the peripatetic manufacturers of Dunfermline, Duncan Schulebred sold through the country the cloth he fabricated at home; so that, for one half, the winter, of the year, he _sat_, and for the other, the summer, he _travelled_. By the same means and ratio, Duncan Schulebred was one half of the year sober, and the other inebriated; for he could fleece no pot companion in his native town, where he was known; while, throughout the country, he could walk deliberately out of every ale-house on the road, and leave his travelling companions to pay for his drink, in exchange for that society which they had enjoyed. Now, in the course of his journey, this individual had occasion, during the latter end of a summer, to be in Edinburgh, where he usually sold a considerable part of his stock. During the day, he had been in treaty with a person of the name of Andrew Gavin, a pettifogging writer, residing near the Luckenbooths, for the sale of a web of linen, which the latter, like a trout with a bait on a clear day, approached and examined, and looked at and felt, and yet still seemed irresolute in his determination to be caught. The weaver's twinkling eye saw and admired the gudgeon; the linen, to a _safe_ extent, was unrolled, its texture felt with a "miller's thumb," its qualities extolled, and its price wondered at by him who fixed it and smiled inwardly at his profit and the trick by which he realized it. The unwary purchaser, though a man of the law, was at last caught--the bargain was struck, the money paid; and all that remained was, that Duncan Schulebred, in addition to cheating him in the manner to be explained, should, after his usual practice, get drunk at the expense of his customer. The two parties accordingly repaired to a tavern known by the name of The Barleycorn, where they sat down deliberately, to indulge in a deep potation. In the midst of their orgies, the customer, who had a humour of his own, took many "rises" out of his companion, who submitted to his fun, in consideration of his determination to leave him to pay "the score," which would put "the laugh on the other side." As they went on in their potations, Duncan Schulebred gradually drifted from one condition of evil to another. Originally his desire was simply to cheat the writer as a man. This was mere vulgar selfishness. He would have "done" any man after the same fashion, because it was his nature. But in this instance, he was concerned in the purpose of cheating a pettifogger, whose very occupation it was to cheat every poor litigant that came in his way. Here was a great occasion for Duncan Schulebred. He felt another motive prompting him to the gratification of his wickedness, and that was pride--the pride of circumventing those who circumvent others. Ah, Duncan Schulebred! you never thought of the ugliness of this peculiar aggravation of sin, when the evil genius rejoices in itself--when it is puffed up with the glory of exaltation, when instead of being checked by conscience, it is rather inspired by conscience "turned back side fore--all the wrong way." Neither did he consider that the said conscience has an ugly trick of springing round into the normal state, with a jerk not over pleasant to sinners. But even here Duncan Schulebred did not stop, for his pride of overcoming the "devil's limb," was inflamed by revenge, in consequence of the pettifogger having traduced Dunfermline; not that Duncan Schulebred had any patriotism, even in Dr. Johnson's sense of that virtue; but that he felt all the hits as directed against himself, just as every knave is always trying on the cap, and declaring that it is no fit. Behold selfishness, pride, and revenge, all met in one purpose; and as probably the writer had as many motives for attempting, by urging Duncan to drink, to enlarge the bill--the two were antagonists worthy of each other. Their wordy war only made the writer and the weaver more thirsty; every argument was followed by a draught, which slaked at once both thirst and revenge. The more they drank the warmer they grew in defence of their respective towns, till they came to that condition of topers, when, by the mere operation of their potations, they become unable even to _dispute_. All confirmed drunkards have in their drunkenness some ruling principle, which; however far gone they may be, regulates their wayward movements. The writer's habit was to sit when he thought he could not stand--one which many sober men might do well to adopt. The weaver's, again, was to _walk_ when he wished not to stand the reckoning--a prudent maxim which never left him, even when all other ideas had been washed from his brain. It was now about one o'clock in the morning, and they had drank so much that neither of them could tell--for neither had any interest in a matter which did not seem to concern his pocket--how much would require to be paid; it was enough for Duncan Schulebred, that he knew that something, and not little, _must_ be paid--and now was the time for escape. "We were speakin o' the law," said Duncan Schulebred, winking with cunning and hiccuping with drink--"I fancy they never refuse siller at the _bar_ here, ony mair than they do in Dumfarlan. There is only this difference atween the twa--that the folk wha resort to _your_ bar pay when they enter, we (hiccup) pay as we gae oot. Rest yersel there till I cast up the bill, and if I hae ony _plea_ wi' the landlord, ye can come and plead it." "That's kind, Duncan," said the writer--"it will be the only plea I ever had from a Dunfermline weaver. If I gain it, we must have a--another gill." "Twa o' them," replied Duncan, trying to rise. "We maun, at ony rate, hae (hiccup) the stirrup-cup, ye ken"--laughing and twinkling again his reeling eyes. "O yes, but I--I fancy I must pay for _that_, seeing you are the traveller, and--and are besides to pay all this tremendous bill, that lies, doubtless, on the bar like a--a lawyer's memorial." "Ye're an example o' an honest, ay, a generous writer," said Duncan Schulebred--"wha could hae thocht ye wad hae offered to pay the stirrup-cup? I'll send yer wife a piece o' dornock for that, as weel as a screed o' huckaback and harn, to keep up a gratefu' recollection o' me after I'm awa. I'll no be a minute at the bar; for it's a place (hiccup) I dinna like." "Here," cried the writer, riping his pocket--"take with you and pay at the same time the price of the stirrup-gill--one settling will serve all." "Ye're richt, Mr. Gavin," replied Duncan Schulebred, receiving the money; "but that's a sma sum (hiccup) in comparison o' what I hae to pay; but it's pleasant to discharge the obligations o' honour." Now, the wily huckaback manufacturer was, as he spoke, approaching the corner where his staff ellwand lay--an article he stood more in need of at that time (short measure as it was) than ever, on any other occasion of _taking off_, he had encountered. The recourse to it for the purpose of merely going to the bar, could not fail to raise suspicions in the mind of the writer; but then, again, was he to lose a _short_ measure, which, getting into the hands of a writer, might be sent--in revenge of the trick he had already played him, in selling a web of linen damaged in the heart, and that he was about to play--to the public authorities, who would hunt him to Dunfermline, and ruin him by the exposure? Not he. He besides required it for his support, for he could scarcely stand. In this dilemma, he had again recourse to his wits. "I'm no sure aboot thae folk ben the hoose," said Duncan Schulebred, holding up the ellwand. "They may try to cheat me, seein I'm a simple cratur, besides being twa _sheets_ i' the wind--(hiccup)--dinna ye think that I should tak my stick i' my hand, as a kind o' lawburrows and protection? No to say I would think o' usin't, but simply to keep the publican in awe, and within just and lawfu measure." "Take it with thee, take it with thee, man," said the writer. "Say it is a--a Dunfermline baton, the sign of your constableship, and you will find the bill two inches shorter." "Ingenious cratur!" ejaculated Duncan, with a hiccup, and the old leer of his grey eyes. "A law plea never can fail, surely, in the hands o' a man wi' sic a power o' suggestion as ye hae. But ye forget that Dumfarlan batons are no sae lang as Dumfarlan ellwands--(hiccup)--the power o' authority there's short, but the reach o' oor honesty's prodigious. That's a guid sign: our batons are short because we are quiet and civil, and our ellwands are lang because we are honest. Wad ye believe it, noo, that that ellwand o' mine, in spite o' the wear and tear o' walkin wi't, is a haiil inch different frae yer Edinburgh yards?" This attack against the honesty of Edinburgh roused the blood of the writer, and another wordy battle was like to commence; but Duncan Schulebred saw at once, that, if he put off more time, the people of the house might, from the lateness of the hour, come and insist upon the reckoning on the spot--a measure which all his wits would not enable him to counteract. The open mouth of the writer was therefore shut, by a few conciliatory words from the aggressor:-- "I dinna say, Mr. Gavin," added Duncan Schulebred, "whether the inch belanged to Dumfarlan or Edinburgh. Ye may tak the benefit o' a _presumption_ in yer ain favour till I come back. Mony ane o' yer tribe stick langer by a presumption than that, and, till it grows into a fact, it canna injure an honest man like me. Guid"--(he was going to add "night," and leered grotesquely at his own imprudence)--"guid--(hiccup)--guid luck to my speedy settlement o' the lawin!" Then Duncan Schulebred staggered to the door, which he opened so gently that the writer might, if he had not been drunk, have suspected him of foul play. His foot was scarcely heard on the passage; but a sound, as if from the end of the stairs, indicated that some one had missed a step. No notice of it was taken by the writer, who sat with his eye fixed on the candle, concocting, like a good poet, one of those works of imagination called a preliminary or dilatory defence. Formerly, these works of fancy were very rife among lawyers, and, before the judicature act, they used to reach a second or even a third edition, under the form of "amended defences," "re-amended defences," and so forth. They are not now so much in favour, though the fancy which produces them is still as vivid as ever. How long Andrew Gavin sat dreaming over his intended work we cannot say; but never was poet more rudely, importunately, and unpleasantly roused from his dream, by the hand of a messenger-at-arms, than was the unsuspecting victim of Duncan Schulebred's treachery, as he was called upon by the landlord to pay the bill. He had no money upon him--the small sum he had given to the weaver to pay the last or stirrup gill, and which the varlet had carried away with him, having been all his remaining cash, after paying the price of the linen. He requested the importunate landlord to wait a little, to ascertain if Duncan would return; but the man wished to get to bed; and Andrew's credit being somewhat worn, like that of many others of his overdone profession, the publican insisted upon him leaving his watch, as a pledge for the payment of the money. The writer's pride--a quality never awanting in the race, especially when they're in liquor--was roused; he roared; he refused to _impignorate_, as he called it, his watch; he swore that he would rather remain in durance all night than succumb to the unreasonable demand of the publican. The man was as resolute as he, and, without saying a word, turned the key in the lock, and left the writer to dream over his legal works of fancy in the dark. Meanwhile, the wily Duncan Schulebred, having recovered from a fall on the last step of the stair--produced by that impatience of slight obstacles which seizes an ambidexter at the successful termination of a well-concerted and better-executed scheme--proceeded down the Canongate. He was out and out intoxicated; but the wish to cheat, so long as it was in operation, kept his mind from that confusion which, his purpose being effected, immediately seized him. He was not certain of the direction in which he was moving; but he was satisfied with the idea that he was going _from_ the sign of The Barleycorn, and any destination was better than that. A confused intention of sleeping all night in the town of Leith, with the view of catching the Fife boat in the morning, at last wrought its way through the cloud which overhung his mind; and having found himself as far as the Watergate, he continued his progress until he came to what is called the Easter Road, leading directly down to the Links. The air produced its usual effect upon a man who was filled to the throat with liquor; and every step he took he found himself getting more and more unsteady, and more and more unfit for prosecuting his journey. He was, however, still conscious of his condition, and felt great alarm lest some one should assail him, and take from him his money. By and by, even his consciousness left him, and he rolled from side to side, engrossing, for his own particular ambulation, the whole breadth of the road. Several times he came down, and, being unable to rise without many repeated attempts, lay on the ground for considerable periods. The necessity of motion of some kind is the last idea parted with by an intoxicated traveller; and Duncan Schulebred still retained it, even after he had lost his ellwand, his chief means of support. On and on he struggled, falling, and lying, and rising, and to it again, till he got at length as far as the green called the Links of Leith--an open space always as disadvantageous to the drunk man as it is pleasant to the sober. A road with two sides may be got over--the dikes keep him on; but an extended area of grass, with radiating openings all round, is a kind of place which a man in Duncan Schulebred's position, without the rudder or compass of consciousness, must always view with great uneasiness. Accordingly, Duncan Schulebred did beat about in this large circle for several hours, and at last entered a street which leads down to that called Salamander Street. Having reached the south side of this street, Duncan Schulebred kept close by the walls and houses, stepping along, unwilling to trust himself again to open space. Alas! he knew nothing of whither he was progressing; he had lost all recollection of what he had been engaged in; he was unconscious of what he was doing; and he was utterly ignorant of all localities. As he moved past the houses, he came to an opening, and, staggering to a side, entered a small avenue into which it led, and proceeded along it, still holding by the wall, until he got into what he thought was a large house. There he lay down, and fell in an instant into a sleep, disturbed by those frightful dreams that haunt the pillow of the dissolute and the wicked. Having lain for hours, Duncan Schulebred began at last to show some signs of returning consciousness, rolling his body backwards and forwards, as if under the effect of a night-mare of the fancy, or of that more terrible night-mare of the conscience by which he was often at home so relentlessly ridden. And so he was. Frightful dreams had filled his mind with terrors; and, having produced a kind of half-waking state, were followed, as they usually were, by the gnawing of his old enemy. A dim recollection came on him of all the wickedness he had committed--the number of innocent individuals he had cheated by his short measure and his damaged linen; the shirking of publicans, the duping of travellers, his drunkenness, his lies, his false pretences--all his thoughts being accompanied by the terrors of his roused conscience, which whispered punishment by fire and brimstone, and filled his half-sleeping fancy with vivid images of the place of punishment. It is not unlikely that this half-waking, dreamy cogitation, was aided insensibly by the painful operation of external sense, conveying some dim intelligence of what was going on around him--the operations of glass-blowing on a great scale. A large furnace was lighted, and blown up to a red heat; vivid flames shot forth from a fire, which was, from time to time, supplied with great quantities of fuel; at every blow of a large pair of bellows, the living light flashed through the space around, which was comparatively dark, from the disproportion between the large area, and the few lights yet lighted. Obscure-looking beings were occupied about the furnace, the light striking on their sallow faces, and leaving all again in an instant nearly dark; a number of others were busy in the distance, performing other operations, dipping long tubes in some substance, and inflating a ball, till, red and glowing, it expanded into a fire globe. The dark beings were active in their movements, darting backwards and forwards between the furnace and the reservoirs, with the hot, red, glaring globes at the end of the tubes, and crossing and recrossing each other, in the dark obscure, so as to present the appearance of demons engaged in some mysterious doings of their avenging spirits. In all this, the fiery globes were the only appearances clearly discernible in continuation; the figures and faces of the individuals being only at intervals shown by the glare thrown upon them by the glowing furnace, as it responded to the loud murmuring bellow of the inflating and fire-producing blast. This condition did not last long; Duncan Schulebred awoke to the full conviction of being in the very place of the damned. He heard the roaring of the bellows; then he saw huge red walls rising up to heaven; then his eyes turned round on that terrific furnace, vomiting forth its living fire, while the bearers of the burning globes, hurrying to and fro past him and around him, and plunging their fiery weapons into the receptacles, doubtless, of the condemned wicked--claimed, on every side, his rapt and terrified gaze. Fear prevented him from moving; his cogitations took the form of a soliloquy; and he communed with himself on his awful condition. "Mercy on my puir soul!" exclaimed Duncan Schulebred, but so as not to let any eavesdropping devil hear him--"am I _here_ at last? When I was in the body, how aften did I think and dream o' the bottomless pit?--can it be that I'm now in it? Alas! it's owre true! What hae I, a wicked cratur, now to expect frae thae fiends for a' the sins dune i' the body? But when did I dee? I dinna recollect the circumstance o' my death--dootless apoplexy--ay, ay, I was aye fear't for't. Yet did I no fa' doon the stair o' The Barleycorn? I did--that's it--I had been killed by the fa'. Death's a sma' affair to this. What a fiery furnace for a puir sinner! See hoo the devils run wi' their burning brands, forkin them into thae pits, whar lie craturs in the same condition wi' mysel! But why do they no come to me? Ah! the furnace is for me. I see Satan himsel at the bellows, and it's no for ilka sinner _he_ wad condescend to work. It's for Duncan Schulebred, wha cheated the folk by a short ellwand at the rate o' thirty-six inches o' claith a-week for fifteen years--wha drank, and lee'd, and deceived--wha committed sins redder than scarlet and mair numerous than the mots i' the sun--wha dee'd i' the very act o' cheating Andrew Gavin, by selling him a wab o' damaged linen, and leaving him to pay the bill at The Barleycorn. Alas! am I at last in this awfu place!" As he ended, he heard pronounced in a hollow voice, by some Belphegor behind him: "Now, Duncan, thou wilt get thy fairin', For here they'll roast thee like a herrin'." "Ay, ay!" groaned Duncan. Then a dark figure appeared before him, holding in his hand one of the fiery globes:--"Where," cried he, "is the weaver who cheated the public at the rate of thirty-six inches of cloth per week, and died in the very act of cheating our _special friend_, Andrew Gavin the writer (for every writer is our special friend, and must be protected by us, so long as he writes lying defences and long memorials), by selling him damaged linen, and leaving him to pay his tavern bill? Where is the scarlet rogue, that we may burn out the red of his sins by the red fire of this glowing furnace?" A loud yell uttered by the Mephistophileses and Asmodeuses was the reply to this speech, and went to the very heart of the devoted Duncan Schulebred. The principal, followed by his demons, approached him; he was lying, shaking and groaning, upon his back, and looked at the legion, with their flaming brands, with an expression of countenance transcending anything that could be produced by mere earthly agony, or described by a mere goose quill of the upper world. "What is thy name, sinner?" asked the Prince. "Mercy on me!" ejaculated Duncan Schulebred, "I'm in for't now! An' please your excellent Majesty," replied he, in a voice scarcely audible, from the pure effect of terror, "Duncan Schulebred, wha, when in the upper warld, was by trade a puir weaver in the toun o' Dumfarlan. I did yer Honour some service i' my sma' way, and hope ye winna be sae ill to me as ye threaten. Oh, keep thae fierce fiends, wi' their burning torches frae me, and I'll confess to ye a' my crimes. Be mercifu' to a puir sinner!" "What service didst thou ever do to me?" said Satan. "I made ye some freens," replied Duncan Schulebred, still groaning. "I did a' that was i' my power to get the craturs i' the upper warld to drink wi' me till they were sae drunk that ye might hae run awa wi' them as easily as ye carried aff Doctor Faustus or danced awa wi' the exciseman. Oh, think o' that, and save me frae that awfu furnace!" "Confess, sinner," said the Devil, "that thou didst that for the purpose of getting more easily quit of the tavern bills. Thou didst also cheat the lieges by a false measure." "Lord, he kens everything," muttered Duncan--"I confess I did cheat the lieges; but I assure yer Majesty, upon my soul--now no muckle worth--that I never cheated ony o' yer Majesty's freens; for I aye dealt wi' honest folk. Surely that's a reason for some mercy." "Recollect thyself, varlet," said Satan--"didst never cheat a writer?" "How correct he is!" muttered Duncan Schulebred, with a groan. "Ou ay--true, true--a' writers are yer Majesty's freens. I forgot. I did cheat Andrew Gavin, by sellin him a wab o' rotten linen, and leavin him to pay the lawin at The Barleycorn--a name your Majesty, dootless, weel kens." "I think I should," replied Satan, "seeing _that_ is _my_ grain, wherewith I work greater wonders than ever came out of the mustard seed. This place is fed with barleycorns--we bait our hooks with barleycorns--we spread barleycorns under our men-nets--the very man who sang the praises of the grain, under the personification of 'John Barleycorn,' and of its juice, under the soubriquet of 'barley-bree,' took our bait; but a redeeming angel touched him on the fore part of the stomach, and made him throw it, and heaven now boasts that glorious prize." "Miserable as I am, I'm very glad o't," said Duncan, whose fears began to decline. "I wadna like to see our darling poet in sic a place as this." "Impudent varlet!" said the Devil. "In with him into the furnace! Yet, stay. How much money did you cheat our friend Andrew Gavin of?" "I needna try to conceal it," said Duncan to himself. "He kens it as weel as I do. Here it is" (speaking out) "and some mair--ye may hae it a', if ye'll no consign me to that red-hot fiery furnace. Fearfu, fearfu place!" "Count it out," said Satan. Duncan complied with trembling hands and Beelzebub took up the money. "That is a most precious commodity," said he. "They say, above, that our dwelling is paved with good intentions--they should rather say, that it is paved with gold, a metal with which the ancient infidels said heaven was constructed. Never was there a greater error. 'The root of all evil' cannot surely be found in the very birth-place of good." "I ken, at least," said Duncan Schulebred "that it was gowd that brought me here. Cursed trash! It is the gowd, and no the puir sinners deceived by't, that should be put into the furnace. Weel, weel has it been ca'd the root o' a' evil. Oh, cursed dross! what am I to suffer for ye? 'Yon warld's gear, when I think on Its pride, and a' the lave o't; Fie! fie! on silly coward man, That he should be the slave o't.'" "Doth the creature malign our staple commodity," said Satan, "and say it should be melted? Well, away with him, Asmody, to the furnace!--melt _him_!" Now did Duncan scream for mercy, while the dark spirits laid hold of him, and proceeded to carry him to the mouth of the furnace, at last blown up into a fearful red heat. He continued to roar with very great vociferation, making all the cone ring, and casting about his legs and arms, like one distracted. Those who were not engaged in carrying him, brought within an inch of his face, their burning globes of glass, and made indications as if they would apply them to his body; the bearers, turning his head to the fiery volcano, laid it within a foot of the burning coal; the whole ceremony was accompanied by a chorus of really frightful yells, set up by the operators, and made to echo and reverberate throughout the area of the cone. Independently, altogether, of the conviction of being in the hands of the Evil One and his legions, the situation of Duncan, with his head within a foot of a furnace, and surrounded by wild-looking howling beings, intent apparently on his destruction, would have terrified a pretty stout heart; but he _truly_ believed himself on the very eve of being punished for his crimes, by being thrust head-foremost into the burning furnace, from which no power could save him. And who could contemplate that position without horror? His agony was, in short, inexpressible, except by screams; and it was cruelly prolonged by affected manoeuvres, such as blowing the bellows, and stirring and restirring the coals, to make them burn more fiercely, for the more adequate reception of the greatest of human sinners that had ever been consigned to the pit. Having held him for some time in this position, Satan, seeming to recollect himself, cried out-- "Meph, do thou get the red-hot pincers. We were oblivious. He has not confessed all his crimes. We will pinch him for a few hours before we consign him to the fire, which is not, at any rate, red enough for so great a sinner. Asmody, lay him down close to the furnace, and now, a pair of pincers for each leg and arm. We will make him cry as loud as I did myself when St. Dunstan had me by the nose." Then was Duncan Schulebred laid before the furnace, screaming at the top of his voice, and his eyes rolling about like fiery balls. The pincers were brought and put into the furnace, and the bellows again sent forth their dreadful sound; the howling was increased; and all the dark spirits, as they uttered their yells, danced round him, waving their red globes, and every now and then bringing them within a few inches of his face. The pincers were getting hot apace, by the fierce blowing of the bellows; and one of the legion held the head of the victim so as to force him to contemplate the instruments of his torture. Still the confusion grew worse confounded--the noise of the blowing forge, the howling of the legion, the groaning and screaming of Duncan, the loud word of command of the Prince, all blending together; while the rapid motions of the dancers, and the rising and falling of the bellows, again made the eyes of the distracted being reel like those of a maniac. This punishment was continued until it appeared that the terrified Duncan Schulebred was about to faint. His cries ceased, and fear seemed to lose its effect over him. It was surely time to stop, as even amusement may be carried to the verge of death--and the unfortunate Duncan was more like death than life. The Prince accordingly gave the sign to his legion, and in an instant the bellows ceased to blow, and the men to dance, and all was as still as death. Apprehensive of having killed the victim by pure fright, the Prince, assisted by some of the crew, lifted him to a distance from the furnace, and having held up his head so as to get him to sit, some whisky was brought in by a Mephistophiles. As he sat pale and trembling, and looking wistfully about him, the chief actor filled up a glass of the spirits, and offered it to him. He seemed irresolute and timid--looking first at the whisky, then at the devils, and much at a loss what to think of his position. His grotesque appearance forced the chief actor to smile: the effect was instantaneous--Duncan caught the favourable indication, and took the glass into his hands. "I didna think," said he, "that there was ony o' _this_ kind o' liquor here. I expected naething but melted brimstone, said to be the staple drink o' your dominions. But is it really whisky? It's surely impossible--if the circumstance got wind aboon, that there was whisky in _these parts_, there wad be nae keepin folk out. How dinna ye spread the intelligence? Surely ye're no sae keen for recruits as ye were when ye danced awa wi' the exciseman." "It is already known on earth that whisky was first brewed in Pandemonium," said the actor. "The nectar belongs to heaven, the wine to earth, and the whisky to the infernal regions. A thousand poets have sung about the drink of the gods, and a little old fellow--a Greek--who lies in one of these troughs, getting his wine-heated pate cooled with brimstone every five minutes, danced and sang the praises of wine till I got hold of him at the age of eighty. The only poet who has let out the secret of whisky being first brewed in our regions was a person of _the_ name of M'Neil, who sang-- 'Of a' the ills puir Caledonia E'er yet pree'd, or e'er will taste, Brewed in Hell's black Pandemonia, Whisky's ill has scaithed her maist.' I tried to get hold of the fellow, for his impudence in maligning our favourite liquor; but he wrote some sweet poems, and the gods took him under their wing." "Ye were muckle indebted, I think, to Hector," replied Duncan Schulebred, "for tellin the folk that whisky was brewed here. It will save your Majesty a warld o' trouble; for customers, o' their ain accord, will come 'linkin to the black pit' in millions, if they're sure o' the _spark_." "They _are_ sure of the _spark_," replied the Prince. "But we give it here only as a medicine whereby we recover our patients that they may be the more able to feel our torments. The moment thou drinkest, the pincers will be applied." "Then I beg leave to decline the liquor," said Duncan Schulebred, "I see nae use for fire baith ootside and in; besides, I hae renounced the practice o' drinkin at another person's expense--a tred I followed owre lang in the upper regions, to my sad cost this day." "Thou hast paid for this with the money thou gavest me," said the actor. "That's mair than I ever did upon earth," said Duncan with a leer which he could not restrain. Now, it will have been seen that the truth had for some time been dawning upon the mind of Duncan Schulebred. He looked round and round him, and every look added fresh proof of the delusion under which he laboured. Peering into the face of Satan, he even was bold enough to smile, accompanying the act with one of his inimitable leers. It was impossible to resist this look of sly humour; and the whole company broke out into a fit of laughter, which made all the cone ring again. Then seizing the whisky he looked round upon all the parties, and, bowing, said-- "Gentlemen, I'm obleeged to ye for the trouble ye hae taen on my account. I see now how the land lies; but though I ken the haill extent o' this awfu delusion, dinna think that the part ye hae played is a piece o' mere fun and humour, to form afterwards the foundation o' a guid story. Ye hae dune mair this mornin for the regeneration o' a puir sinner than was effected by a' the sermons I ever heard frae the pulpits o' Scotland. I've confessed my crimes to ye, and I canna expect that this cone is to confine for ever my evil reputation. It maun gae abroad and condemn me, and ruin me; but" (lowering his voice seriously) "I will defy it to prevent me frae following the course I hae this day determined to pursue. Frae this hour henceforth, to that moment when it may please Heaven to tak me frae this warld, I shall be an upright, a sober, and a religious man; the folk I hae injured, cheated, and robbed, I will try to benefit to the utmost extent o' my puir ability; every day o' my life will be dedicated to the service o' the Almighty, and the guid o' his craturs. My first step will be to gang to Edinburgh, and pay back to Andrew Gavin the price o' the damaged linen he purchased frae me, and to settle the tavern bill at The Barleycorn, to assist me whereunto ye will dootless gie me back my siller. This resolution I confirm thus." And he flung the whisky into the furnace, which blazed up, a kind of holocaust, as a thanksgiving for the regeneration of a sinner. Duncan Schulebred's money was paid back to him honestly, and the actors were well pleased that they had, out of their amusement, wrought so extraordinary a miracle. The regenerated man departed from the glass-works, and proceeded, according to his intention, direct to Edinburgh. He called first at Andrew Gavin's house. "Is Mr. Gavin within?" said he to Mrs. Gavin. "My husband," said the disconsolate wife, "has not been at home all night. The last time I saw him was when he departed with you. What have you done with him? I fear some sad mischief has befallen him; for unless he is at a proof or after a _fugy_, he never stays out of his own house at night. But what kind of linen was that ye sold him?" "It was a piece o' _rotten_ linen I sauld him," replied Duncan Schulebred. Mrs. Gavin looked at him in amazement. "Ay, and," he continued, "your husband is dootless locked up in The Barleycorn, because he couldna--puir man!--pay the lawin that I should hae paid, and ran awa and left him to pay." Mrs. Gavin's amazement was increased. "Ay, and," continued he, "I hae cheated thoosands besides you and yer husband--a greater sinner than I hae been, ye wadna find between the Mull o' Galloway and John o' Groats. If I had got my due, I wad hae been hanged, or at least sent to Botany Bay." "Are you mad, or do you glory in your wickedness?" said Mrs. Gavin. "Nane o' the twa," said Duncan. "I am as wise as ye are; and, in place o' gloryin in my wickedness, I am as repentant as a deein martyr." "Repentance is nothing without works," replied she. "Warks!" ejaculated Duncan. "Bring, bring me the rotten linen." The astonished woman went and brought the article. "There's the siller," said Duncan, "I got fra yer husband for that wab. I'll sell it noo for what it is--a piece o' vile deception. Need ye a commodity o' that description?" "I think I could find use for it," said Mrs. Gavin. "It has one good end, but you will come to an ill one when you"----"roll it down," she would have said, but Duncan caught her:-- "When ye cheat yer neighbour," added he. "Ye're quite right, madam; a rotten-hearted wab is just like a rotten-hearted man--they baith come to an ill _end_. Oh, hoo gratefu I am to thae glass-blawers, wha hae blawn awa my crimes, and converted and reformed me!" "He is surely mad, after all," muttered Mrs. Gavin, to herself--"who ever heard of glass-blowers converting sinners? I have always understood that glass-blowers are free livers, and need repentance themselves as much as other folk. How could they convert you, man?" "There are strange mysteries i' the warld," said Duncan; "but we will better let that subject alane. We only, after a', see 'as through a glass darkly.' Stick to the linen--what is it worth?" Mrs. Gavin stated a price, Duncan accepted her offer, and the damaged linen was sold. "Noo," said Duncan, "I'll send ye yer husband." "I will be obliged to you," said Mrs. Gavin; "and if you can get the glass-blowers to give him a blast, your kindness would be increased far beyond my poor powers of recompense." "Ah, madam," said Duncan, "writers are owre well accustomed to _blasts o' the horn_, to care for ordinary wind-fa's. I ken nae better thing for an ill husband (no sayin that Andrew is liable to that charge) than a blast o' a wife's tongue. God be praised, Janet Schulebred will hae nae mair cause to lecture me! We will now live happily durin the remaining portion o' the time o' oor pilgrimage. I hae aye taen something hame to her. Last year I took some whisky bottles--probably made at the glass-warks o' Leith; this time I intend to tak a family Bible. Guid day, madam, I'm awa to The Barleycorn; and frae that I gang to a Bible repository, and then hame." He repaired to The Barleycorn. He saw the landlord standing at the door, with a sombre face. He had the key of the room in his hand, and looked the very picture of a jailor. He knew Duncan instantly, and was proceeding to seize him, when the latter surrendered himself with so much good humour that the publican gave up his purpose and smiled at the prospect of getting his money. "You forgot to come back last night," said the man. "Mr. Gavin says that you were the principal debtor to me for my drink, and that he was merely surety or cautioner. Is that true?" "Perfectly true," replied Duncan. "I promised to pay the bill, and should hae paid the bill; but I was determined I wadna pay the bill. Accordingly, I ran awa for nae ither purpose than to avoid payin it." "A trick ye'll no play a second time," said the publican seizing him. "No," said Duncan, taking out the money, "seein I am come to pay ye plack and farthin. Let us adjourn to Mr. Gavin's prison." "The vera place I intended to tak ye to," said the man. They proceeded to the room where Andrew was confined, and found him sitting in a sombre fit of melancholy. As they entered, he looked at Duncan with an appearance of mixed anger and satisfaction. The latter feeling predominated, as his mind suggested that the poor weaver had been prevented by drunkenness from returning immediately to pay the bill, and had now come to make amends. "I have been angry at you, Duncan," said he; "but I might have had more faith in your honour, than to doubt you, without better proof of dishonesty than not returning (when you were not able) to pay your debts." "Ye couldna hae a better proof o' my dishonesty," replied Duncan, sternly; "for, last nicht, when I ran awa withoot payin the lawin, I had nae mair intention o' comin back than I had o' gangin doun to the bottomless pit." Andrew looked at the speaker with the same amazement as was exhibited by his wife. "How comes it, then," said the writer, "that thou hast returned here this morning?" "I hae got some new _licht_," replied Andrew. "Ye ken-- 'So long's the lamp hold's on to burn The greatest sinner may return.' I hae returned, no only to this tavern to pay my debt, but to a proper sense o' what is due to Heaven and to my fellow-creatures. I am a changed man, sir. Nae 'vision o' judgment,' penned by Southey or Byron, ever transcended that o' the bottle-blawers o' Leith." The writer considered him mad, and trembled for the payment of the bill, which could not be extorted from a maniac. The tavern-keeper took a calmer view, and thought he was still drunk. "What are ye starin at?" said Duncan. "Did ye never before see a repentant sinner? Bring yer bill, sir. And, Mr. Gavin, I refer ye to Mrs. Gavin for some information, regarding a wab o' rotten linen I sauld ye yesterday, bought back again, and sauld again to her this mornin." The tavern-keeper brought the bill, which Duncan discharged. "I cheated ye, Mr. Gavin, also o' the price o' the stirrup-cup." "Let us drink it now," said Mr. Gavin--"Bring us a gill"--to the tavern-keeper. The whisky was brought, and the writer took cleverly his morning dram, a practice which the craft has latterly renounced, but which they should have recourse to again, as a glass of whisky is a good beginning to a day's roguery, and has, besides, sometimes the same effect upon the conscience that it produces on the toothache--stills the pain. A glass was next filled out for Duncan. He took it up and held it in his hand. "Your fire's no sae guid as the ane I saw last nicht," he said to the tavern-keeper. "It is only newly lighted," was the apology of the host. "It may be the better o' that," said the other, throwing the whisky into the grate, and making the fire blaze up. "Sae should a' burnin, fiery liquors be used. They might then warm the outsides, in place o' burnin the insides o' sinners. Ye hae seen some o' the first acts o' my repentance. This is ane o' them. Ye may hear and sae mair, if ye consider Duncan Schulebred worthy o' yer consideration, and trace his conduct through this weary, wicked, waefu warld, during the remainin period o' an ill-begun but (I hope) weel-ended life." ARCHY ARMSTRONG. For thirty years Sandy Armstrong of the Cleughfoot had been one of the most daring and successful freebooters of his clan. His name was a sound of terror on the Borders, and was alike disagreeable to Scotch and English ears; for, like Esau, Sandy's hand was against every man, and every man's hand against him. His clan had been long broken and without a leader, and the Armstrongs were regarded as outlaws by both nations. Cleughfoot, in which Sandy resided, was a small square building of prodigious strength, around it was a court-yard, or rather an enclosure for cattle, surrounded by a massy wall, in which was an iron gate strong as the wall itself. The door of the dwelling was also of iron, and the windows, which were scarce larger than loop-holes, were barred. It was generally known by the name of "Lang Sandy's _Keep_," and was situated on the side of the Tarras, about ten miles from Langholm. Around it was a desolate morass, the passes of which were known only to Sandy and his few followers, and beyond the morass was a decaying but almost impenetrable forest. Sandy, like his forefathers, knew no law, save "The good old law--the simple plan-- That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can." He had had seven sons, and of these five had fallen while following him in the foray, the sixth had been devoured by a blood-hound, and he had but one, Archy, his youngest, left, to whom he could bequeath his stronghold, a fleet steed, and his sword. Land he had none, and he knew not its value: he found it more profitable to levy blackmail, to the right and to the left, on Englishman and on Scot; and he laughed at the authority of Elizabeth and of James, and defied the power of the Wardens of their Marches--"Bess may be Queen o' England," said he, "and book-learned Jamie, King o' braid Scotland, but Sandy Armstrong is lord o' the wilds o' Tarras." On the death of Elizabeth, Sandy and his handful of retainers had been out in the raid to Penrith; in that desperate attempt, some of them had fallen, and others had been seized and executed at Carlisle. But Sandy had escaped, driving his booty through the wilds before him to Cleughfoot. On one side of the court-yard stood a score of oxen and six fleet steeds, and on the other was provender for them for many days. On the flat roof of Cleughfoot Keep sat Sandy Armstrong; before him was a wooden stoup filled with _aqua vitæ_, and in his hand he held a small quegh, neatly hooped round, and formed of wood of various colours. It had a short handle for the finger and thumb, was about two inches in diameter, and three quarters of an inch in depth, and out of this vessel Sandy, ever and anon, quaffed his strong potations, while his son Archy, a boy of twelve years old, stood by his side, receiving from his parent a Borderer's education. But, leaving the freebooter and his son on the turret of their fastness, we shall also, for a few moments, leave Dumfriesshire, and carrying back our narrative for some weeks, introduce the reader to the ancient town of Berwick-upon-Tweed. On Wednesday, the 8th of April, 1603, every soul in the good town of Berwick was up by daybreak;--wife and maiden flaunted in their newest gowns, with ample fardingales, and the sweating mechanic looked as spruce in his well brushed "jack," as a courtly cavalier. By sunrise, the cannon thundered from the ramparts. Before noon, the Marshal, Sir John Carey, at the head of the garrison, composed of horse and foot, marched out of the town towards Lamberton, firing _feu-d'-joies_ as they went, while the cannon still pealed and the people shouted. The thunder of the artillery became more frequent--the bells rang merrily--the volleys of the garrison became louder and more loud, as though they again approached, and "He comes!--He comes!" shouted the crowd; "Hurra! Hurra!--the King! the King!" The garrison again entered the town, they filed to the right and left, lining the street. In front of Marygate stood William Selby, the gentleman porter, with the keys of the town. The voice of the artillery, the muskets, and the multitude, again mingled together. James of Scotland and of England stood before the gate--Selby bent upon his knee, he placed the keys of the town in the hands of the monarch, who instantly returned them, saying, "Rise, _Sir_ William Selby, an' saul o' me, man, but ye should take it as nae sma' honour to be the first knight made by James, by the grace of God, an' the love o' our gracious cousin, King o' England an' Scotland likewise." His Majesty, followed by the multitude, proceeded down Marygate, through the files of the garrison, to the market-place, where the worshipful Hugh Gregson, the mayor, his brother aldermen, the bailiffs, and others of the principal burgesses, waited to receive him. The mayor knelt and presented him with a purse of gold and the corporation's charter. "Ye are a leal and considerate gentleman," said the king, handing the purse to one of his attendants--"worthy friends are ye a'; and now take back your charter, an' ye sall find in us a gracious and affectionate sovereign, ready to maintain the liberty and privileges it confers upon our trusty subjects o' our town o' Berwick." Mr. Christopher Parkinson, the recorder, then delivered a set and solemn speech, after which the king proceeded to the church, where the Rev. Toby Mathews, Bishop of Durham, preached a sermon suited to royal ears. On the following day, the demonstrations of rejoicing were equally loud, and his Majesty visited the garrison and fortifications; and as he walked upon the ramparts surrounded by lords from Scotland and from England, and while the people shouted, and the artillery belched forth fire, smoke, and thunder, the monarch, in order to give an unquestionable demonstration of his courage, in the presence of his new subjects, boldly advanced to the side of one of the cannon, and took the match from the hands of the soldier who was about to fire it. Once--twice--thrice, the monarch stretched forth his hand to the touch-hole, but touched it not. It was evident the royal hand trembled--the royal eyes were closed--yea, the royal cheeks became pale. At length the quivering match touched the powder, back bounded the thundering cannon, and back sprang the terrified monarch, knocking one of his attendants down--dropping the match upon the ground, and thrusting his fingers in his ears--stammering out, as plainly as his throbbing heart would permit, that "he feared their drum was split in twa!" Scarce had his Majesty recovered from this demonstration of his bravery, when a messenger arrived with the intelligence that the Armstrongs and other clans had committed grievous depredations on the Borders, and had even carried their work of spoliation and plunder as far as Penrith. "Borders, man!" quoth the king, "our kingdom hath nae _borders_ but the sea. It is our royal pleasure that the word _borders_ sall never mair be used: wat ye not that what were the _extremities_ or _borders_ o' the twa kingdoms, are but the _middle_ o' _our_ kingdom, an' in future it is our will an' decree that ye ca' them nae langer the borders, but the _middle_ counties. An' now, Sir William Selby, as we were graciously pleased yesterday by our ain hand, to confer on ye the high honour o' knighthood, take ye twa hundred and fifty horsemen, and gae ye up our middle counties, commanding every true man in our name, capable o' bearing arms, to join ye in crushing and in punishing sic thieves and rievers; hang ilka Armstrong and Johnstone amang them that resists our royal will--an' make the iron yetts o' their towers be converted into ploughshares. Away, sir, an' do your wark surely an' right quickly." On the following day, Sir William Selby set out upon his mission; and before he had proceeded far, he found himself at the head of a thousand horsemen. They burned and destroyed the strongholds of the Borderers, as they went, and the more desperate amongst them who fell into their hands were sent in fetters to Carlisle. It was early in May, and the young leaves, bursting into beauty and being, were spreading their summer livery over Tarras forest, and the breeze wafted their grateful fragrance over the morass; even on the morass itself, a thousand simple flowers, like fragments of beauty scattered in hand-fuls amidst the wide-spread desolation, peeped forth; and over the sharp cry of the wheeling lapwing rang the summer hymn of the joyful lark, when, as we have said before, Sandy Armstrong sat on the turret of Cleughfoot with his son by his side. "Archy," said the freebooter, "this warld is turning upside down, an' honest men hae nae chance in't. We hear o' naething noo but law! law! law!--but the fient a grain o' justice is to be met wi' on the Borders. A man canna take a bit beast or twa in an honest way, or make a bonfire o' an enemy's haystack, but there's naethin' for't but Carlisle and a hempen cravat. But mind, callant, ye ha'e the bluid o' the Armstrongs in your veins, and their hands never earned bread by ony instrument but the sword, and it winna be the son o' Sandy o' Cleughfoot that will disgrace his kith and kin by trudging at a ploughtail, or learning some beggarly handicraft. Swear to me, Archy, that ye will live by the sword like your faithers afore ye--swear to your faither, callant, an' fear neither Jamie Stuart, his twa kingdoms, nor his horsemen--they'll ha'e stout hearts that cross Tarras moss, and there will be few sheep in Liddesdale before the pot at Cleughfoot need nae skimming." "I will live like my faither before me--king o' Tarras-side," said the youth. "That shall ye, Archy," rejoined the freebooter; "an' though the Scotts an' the Elliots may, like fause louns, make obeisance to the king, and get braid lands for bending their knees, what cares Sandy Armstrong for their lands, their manrents, or their sheep-skins, scrawled owre by a silk-fingered monk--his twa-handed blade and his Jeddart-staff shall be a better title to an Armstrong than an acre o' parchment." The boy caught the spirit of his sire, and flourished his Jedburgh-staff, or battle-axe, in his hand. The father raised the quegh to his lips--"Here's to ye, Archy," he cried, "ye'll be cooper o' Fogo!" He crossed his arms upon his breast--he sat thoughtful for a few minutes, and again added--"Archy--but my heart fills to look on ye--ye are a brave bairn, but this is nae langer the brave man's country. Courage is persecuted, and knaves only are encouraged, that can scribble like the monks o' Melrose. Ye had sax brithers, Archy--sax lads whase marrows warna to be found on a' the lang Borders--wi' them at my back an' I could hae ridden north and south, an' made the name o' Sandy Armstrong be feared; but they are gane--they're a' gane, and there's nane left but you to protect and defend your poor mother when I am gane too; and now they would hunt me like a deer if they durst, for they are butchering guid and true men for our bit raid to Penrith, as though the life o' an Armstrong were o' less value than an English nowt. If ye live to be a man, Archy, and to see your poor auld mother's head laid in the mould, take my sword and leave this poor, pitifu', king-ridden, an' book-ruined country; an' dinna ye disgrace your faither by makin' bickers like the coopers o' Nicolwood, or pinglin' wi' an elshin like the souters o' Selkirk." The sleuth-dog, which lay at their feet, started up, snuffed the air, growled and lashed its tail. "Ha! Tiger! what is't, Tiger?" cried Sandy, addressing the dog, and springing to his feet. "Troopers! troopers, faither!" cried Archy, "an' they are comin' frae ilka side o' the forest." "Get ready the dags,[3] Archy," said the freebooter; "it's twa lang spears' length to the bottom o' Tarras moss, an they'll be light men and lighter horses that find na a grave in't--get ready the dags, and cauld lead shall welcome the first man that mentions King Jamie's name before the walls o' Cleughfoot." [Footnote 3: Pistols.] The boy ran and brought his father's pistols--his mother accompanied him to the turret. She gazed earnestly on the threatening bands of horsemen as they approached, for a few seconds, then taking her husband's hand--"Sandy," said she, "I hae lang looked for this; but others that are wives the now shall gang widows to bed the night, as well as Elspeth Armstrong!" "Fear naething, Elspeth, my doo," replied the riever; "there will be blood in the way if they attack the lion in his den. But there's a lang and tangled moss atween them an' Cleughfoot. We hae seen an enemy nearer an' be glad to turn back again." "They will reach us, faither," cried Archy; "do ye no see they hae muffled men before them?" "Muffled men! then, bairn, your faither's betrayed!" exclaimed the freebooter, "an' there's naething but revenge and death left for Sandy Armstrong!" He stalked rapidly around the turret--he examined his pistols, the edge of his sword, his Jedburgh-staff, and his spear. Elspeth placed a steel cap on his head, and, from beneath it, his dark hair, mingled with grey, fell upon his brow. He stood with his ponderous spear in one hand and a pistol in the other, and the declining sun cast his shadow across the moss, to the very horses' feet of his invaders. Still the horsemen, who amounted to several hundreds, drew nearer and nearer on every side, and impenetrable as the morass was to strangers, yet, by devious windings, as a hound tracks its prey, the muffled men led them on, till they had arrived within pistol shot of Cleughfoot. "What want ye, friends?" shouted the outlaw--"think ye that a poor man like Sandy Armstrong can gi'e upputtin' and provender for five hundred horse?" "We come," replied an officer, advancing in front of the company, "by the authority o' our gracious prince, James, king o' England and Scotland, and in the name o' his commissioner, Sir William Selby, to punish and hand over to justice Border thieves and outlaws, o' whom we are weel assured that you, Sandy Armstrong, o' the Cleughfoot, are habit and repute, amangst the chief." "Ye lie! ye lie!" returned the outlaw; "ye dyvors in scarlet an' cockades, ye lie! I hae lived thir fifty years by my ain hand, an' the man was never born that dared say Sandy Armstrong laid finger on the widow's cow or the puir man's mare, or that he scrimpit the orphan's meal. But I hae been a protector o' the poor and helpless, an' a defender o' the cowan-hearted, for a sma' but honest blackmail, that other men, wi' no half the strength o' Sandy Armstrong, wadna ta'en up at their foot. "Do ye surrender in peace, ye boastin' rebel?" replied the herald, "or shall we burn your den about your ears?" "I ken it is death ony way ye take it," rejoined the outlaw--"ye would show me an' mine the mercy that was shown to my kinsman, John o' Gilnokie,[4] and I shall surrender as an Armstrong surrenders--when the breath is out." [Footnote 4: This subject forms another of the Border Tales.] Fire flashed from a narrow crevice which resembled a cross in the turrets--the report of a pistol was heard, and the horse of the herald bounded, and fell beneath him. "That wasna done like an Armstrong, Archy," said the freebooter; "ye hae shot the horse, an' it might hae been the rider--the man was but doing his duty, an' it was unfair and cowardly to fire on him till the affray began." "I shall mind again, faither," said Archy, "but I thought, wi' sic odds against us, that every advantage was fair." While these events transpired, Elspeth was busied placing powder and balls upon the roof of the turret; she brought up also a carabine, and putting it in her husband's hands, said--"Tak ye that, Sandy, to aim at their leaders, and gie Archy an' me the dags." The horsemen encompassed the wall; Sandy, his wife, and his son, knelt upon the turret, keeping up, through the crevices, a hurried but deadly fire on the besiegers. It was evident the assailants intended to blow up the wall. The freebooter beheld the train laid, and the match applied. Already his last bullet was discharged. "Let us fire the straw among the cattle!" cried little Archy. "Weel thought, my bairn!" exclaimed the riever. The boy rushed down into the house, and in an instant returned with a flaming pine torch in his hand. He dropped it amongst the cattle. He dashed a handful of powder on the spot, and in a moment half of the court-yard burst into a flame. At the same instant a part of the court-wall trembled--exploded--fell. The horned cattle and the horses were rushing wildly to and fro through the fire. The invaders burst through the gap. Elspeth tore a pearl drop from her ears,[5] and, thrusting it into the pistol, discharged it at the head of the first man who approached the house. It was evident they intended to blow up the house, as they had done the wall. Sandy had now no weapon that he could render effective but his spear, and he said--"They shall taste the prick of the hedgehog before I die." He thrust it down furiously upon them, and several of them fell at his threshold, but the deadly instrument was grasped by a number of the besiegers, and wrenched from his hands. [Footnote 5: The wives and daughters of the Borderers, at this period, wore numerous trinkets--spoils, no doubt, presented them by their husbands and wooers.] The sun had already set, darkness was gathering over the morass, and still the fire burned, and the cattle rushed amongst the armed men in the court-yard. "Elspeth," said the freebooter, "it is not your life they seek, and they canna hae the heart to harm our bairn. Gie me my Jeddard-staff in my hand--an' fareweel to ye, Elspeth--fareweel!--an eternal fareweel! Archy, fareweel, my gallant bairn!--never disgrace yer faither!--but ye winna--ye winna--an' if I am murdered, mind ye revenge me, Archy! Now we maun unbar the door, and I maun cut my way through them or perish." Thus spoke the Borderer, and with his battle-axe in his hand, he embraced his wife and his son, and wept. "Now, Archy," said he, "slip and open the door--saftly!--saftly!--an' let me rush out." Archy silently drew back the massy bars; in a moment the iron door stood ajar, and Sandy Armstrong, battle-axe in hand, burst into the court-yard, and into the midst of his besiegers. There was not a man amongst them that had not heard of the "terrible Jeddart-staff o' Sandy Armstrong." He cleaved them down before him--his very voice augmented their confusion--they shrank back at his approach; and while some fled from the infuriated cattle, others fled from the arm of the freebooter. In a few seconds he reached the gap in the court-wall--he rushed upon the moss;--darkness had begun, and a thick vapour was rising from the morass. "Follow me who dare!" shouted Sandy Armstrong. Archy withdrew into a niche in the passage, as his father rushed out;--and as the besiegers speedily burst into the house, amongst them was one of the muffled men[6] bearing a torch in his hand. Revenge fired the young Borderer, and, with his Jedburgh-staff, he made a dash at the hand of the traitor. The torch fell upon the floor, and with it three of the fingers that grasped it. The besiegers were instantly enveloped in gloom, and Archy, escaping from the niche from whence he had struck the blow, said unto himself--"I've gien ye a mark to find out who you are, neighbour." [Footnote 6: A muffled man was one who, for his future safety, assumed a mask or disguise in leading the enemy to the haunt of his neighbours or associates whom he betrayed.] The besiegers took possession of Cleughfoot, and the chief men of the party remained in it daring the night, while a portion of their followers occupied the court-yard, and others, with their horses, remained on the morass. Archy and his mother were turned from their dwelling, and placed under a guard upon the moss, where they remained throughout the night; and, in the morning, Cleughfoot was blown up before them. They were conveyed as prisoners to Sir William Selby, who had fixed his quarters near Langholm. "Whom do ye bring me here?" inquired the new-made knight; "a wife and bairn!--Hae ye been catching sparrows and let the eagle escape?--Whar hae ye the head and the hand o' the outlaw?" "Troth, Sir Knight," replied an officer, "and his head is where it shouldna be--on his ain shouthers. At the darkenin' he escaped upon the moss; three troopers, guided by a muffler and a sleuth-dog, pursued him; an' as we crossed the bog this mornin', we found ane o' the troopers sunk to the middle in't, an' his horse below him; and far'er on were the dead bodies o' the other twa, the sleuth-dog, and the muffled man. I am sorry, therefore, to inform ye, Sir Knight, that Sandy Armstrong has escaped, but we hae made a bonefire o' his keep, an' brought ye his wife and his son--wha are Armstrongs, soul and body o' them--to do wi' them as ye may judge proper." "Tuts, man," replied Sir William, "wad he hae us to disgrace our royal commission by hangin' an auld wife an a bairn? Gae awa, ye limmer, ye--gae awa wi' your brat," he added, addressing Elspeth, "an' learn to live like honest folk; or, if ye fa' in my way again, ye shall dance by the crook frae a woodie." "Where can I gang?" said she sorrowfully, as she withdrew. "O Archy! we hae neither house nor hauld--friend nor kindred!--an' wha will shelter the wife and bairn o' poor persecuted Sandy Armstrong!" "Dinna fret, mother," said Archy; "though they hae burned Cleughfoot, the stanes are still left, an' I can soon big a bit place to stop in; nor, while there's a hare in Tarras wood, or a sheep on the Leadhills, shall ye ever want, mother." They returned in sorrow to the heap of ruins that had been their habitation; and Elspeth, in the bitterness of her spirit, sat down upon the stones and wept. But after she had wept long, and the sound of her lamentation had howled across the desert, she arose and assisted her son in constructing a hut from the ruins, in which they might lay their heads. In two days it was completed, but, on the third day, the disconsolate wife of the freebooter sank on her bed of rushes, and the sickness of death was in her heart. "Oh, speak to me, mother!" cried Archy; "what--what can I do for ye?" "Naethin', my bairn!--naethin'!" groaned the dying woman--"the sun's fa'in dark on the een o' Elspeth Armstrong; but, oh, may the saunts o' heaven protect my poor Archy!" She tried to repeat the only prayer she had ever learned--for religion was as little understood in the house of a freebooter as the eighth commandment. Poor Archy wrung his hands and sobbed aloud. "Dinna die, mother--oh! dinna die!" he exclaimed, "or what will become o' your Archy!" He rushed from the hut, and with a broken vessel which he had found among the ruins, he brought water from the rivulet. He applied it to her lips--he bathed her brow--"O mother! mother, dinna die!" he cried again, "and I will get you bread too!" He again hurried from the hut, and bounded across the moss with the fleetness of a young deer. It was four long miles to the nearest habitation, and in it dwelt Ringan Scott, a dependent of the Buccleuchs. There had never been friendship between his family and that of Sandy Armstrong, but, in the agony of Archy's feelings, he stopped not to think of that nor of aught but his dying mother. He rushed into the house--"Gie me bread!" he exclaimed wildly, "for the love o' heaven gie me bread, for my mother is perishin'!" "Let her perish!--an may ye a' perish!" said a young man, the son of Ringan, who stood by the fire with his right hand in a sling, "ye's get nae bread here." "I maun!--I shall!" cried Archy, vehemently. Half of a coarse cake lay upon the table; he snatched it up, and rushed out of the house. They pursued him for a time, but affection and despair gave wings to his speed. Breathless, he reached the wretched hut, and, on entering, he cried--"Mother, here is bread! I have gotten't! I have gotten't!" But his mother answered him not. "Speak, mother! O mother, speak! here is bread now--eat it an' ye'll be better," he cried, but his mother was still silent. He took her hand in his--"Are ye sleepin', mother?" he added--"here is bread!" He shook her gently, but she stirred not. He placed his hand upon her face; it was cold as the rude walls of the hut, and her extended arms were stiff and motionless. He raised them, and they fell heavily and lifeless. "Mother!--mother!" screamed Archy; but his mother was dead! He rushed from the hut wildly, tearing his hair--he flung himself upon the ground--he called upon his father, and the glens of Tarras echoed the cry; but no father was near to answer. He flew back to the hut. He knelt by his mother's corpse--he rubbed her face and her bosom--he placed his lips to hers, and again he invoked her to speak. Night drew on, and, as darkness fell over the ghastly features of the corpse, he fled with terror from the hut, and wandered weeping throughout the night upon the moss. At sunrise he returned, and again sat down and wept by the dead body of his mother. He became familiar with death, and his terror died away. Two nights more passed on, and the boy sat in the desolate hut in the wilderness, watching and mourning over the lifeless body of his mother. On the fourth day, he took a fragment of the iron gate, and began to dig her grave. He raised the dead body in his arms, and weeping, screaming, as he went, he bore it to the tomb he had prepared for it. He gently placed it in the cold earth, and covered it with the moss and the green sod. All the day long he toiled in rolling and carrying stones from the ruins of his father's house, to erect a cairn over his mother's grave. When his task was done; he wrung his hands, and exclaimed, "Now, poor Archy Armstrong hasna a friend in the wide world!" While he yet stood mourning over the new-made grave, a party of horsemen, who were still in quest of his father, rode up and accosted him. His tragic tale was soon told, and, in the bitterness of his heart, he accused them as being the murderers of his father and his mother. Amongst them was one of the chief men of the Elliot clan, who held lands in the neighbourhood. He felt compassion for Archy, and he admired his spirit; and, desiring him to follow him, he promised to provide for him. Archy reluctantly obeyed, and he was employed to watch the sheep of his protector on the hills. Eighteen years passed away. Archy was now thirty years of age; he had learned to read, and even to write, like the monks that were in Melrose. He was the principal herdsman of his early benefactor, and was as much beloved as his father had been feared. But at times the spirit of the freebooter would burst forth; and he had not forgiven the persecutors, or, as he called them, the murderers of his parents. Amongst these was one called "Fingerless Dick," the son of Ringan Scott, of whom we have spoken. Archy had long known that he was one of the muffled men who had conducted Selby's horsemen to his father's house, and that he was the same from whose hand he had dashed the torch with his battle-axe. Now, there was to be a football fray in Liddesdale, and the Borderers thronged to it from many miles. Archy was there, and there also was his enemy--"Fingerless Dick." They quarrelled--they closed--both came to the ground, but Scott was undermost. He drew his knife--he stabbed his antagonist in the side--he was repeating the thrust, when Archy wrenched the weapon from his hand, and, in the fury of the moment, plunged it in his breast. At first the wound was believed to be mortal, and an attempt was made to seize Archy, but clutching an oaken cudgel from the hands of one who stood near him--"Lay hands on me wha dare!" he cried, as he brandished it in the air, and fled at his utmost speed. Archy knew that though his enemy might recover, the Scotts would let loose the tender mercies of the law upon his head, and instead of returning to the house of his master, he sought safety in concealment. On the third day after the fray in Liddesdale, he entered Dumfries. He was weary and wayworn, for he had fled from hill to hill, and from glen to glen, fearing pursuit. He inquired for a lodging, and was shown to a small house near the foot of a street leading to the river, and which, we believe, is now called the Bank Vennel; and in which, he was told, "the pig folk and other travellers put up for the night." There was a motley group in the house, beggars and chapmen, and amongst the former was an old man of uncommon stature; and his hair, as white as snow, descended down upon his shoulders. His beard was of equal whiteness, and fell upon his breast. An old grey cloak covered his person, which was fastened round his body with a piece of rope instead of a girdle. He appeared as one who had been in foreign wars, and he wore a shade or patch over his left eye. He spoke but little, but he gazed often and wistfully on the countenance of Archy, and more than once a tear found its way down his weather-beaten cheeks. In the morning when Archy rose to depart, "Whither gang ye, young man?" inquired the old beggar, earnestly--"are ye for the north or for the south?" "Wherefore spier ye, auld man?" replied Archy. "I hae a cause, an' ane that winna harm ye," said the stranger, "if ye will thole an auld man's company for a little way." Archy agreed that he should accompany him, and they took the road towards Annan together. It was a calm and glorious morning: the Solway flashed in the sunlight like a silver lake, and not a cloud rested on the brow of the majestic Criffel. For the space of three miles they proceeded in silence, but the old man sighed oft and heavily, as though his spirit were troubled. "Let us rest here for a few minutes," said he, as he sat down on a green knoll by the way-side, and gazing steadfastly in Archy's face--"Young man," he added, "your face brings owre my heart the memories o' thirty years--and, oh! persecuted as the name is--answer me truly if your name be Armstrong?" "It is!" replied Archy, "and perish the son o' Sandy Armstrong when he disowns it!" "An' your faither--your mother," continued the old man, hesitating as he spoke--"do they--does she live?" In a few words Archy told of his father's persecution--of his being hunted from the country like a wild beast--of the destruction of the home of his childhood--of his mother's death, and of her burial by his own hands in the wilderness. "Oh! my poor Elspeth!" cried the aged beggar, "Archy! my son! my son! I am your faither! Sandy Armstrong, the outlaw!" "My faither!" exclaimed Archy, pressing the beggar to his breast. When they had wept together,--"Let us gae nae farer south," said the old man, "but let us return to Tarras moss, that when the hand o' death comes, ye may lay me down in peace by the side of my Elspeth." With a sorrowful heart Archy told his father that he was flying from the law and the vengeance of the Scotts. "Gie them gowd as a peace-offering," said the old man, and he pulled from beneath his coarse cloak a leathern purse, filled with gold, and placed it in the hands of his son. For nearly twenty years Sandy had served in foreign wars, and obtained honours and rewards; and on visiting his native land, he had assumed the beggar's garb for safety. They returned to Tarras-side together, and a few yellow coins quashed the prosecution of "Fingerless Dick." Archy married the daughter of his former employer, and became a sheep-farmer; and, at the age of fourscore years and ten, the old freebooter closed his eyes in peace in the house of his son, and in the midst of his grandchildren, and was buried, according to his own request, by the side of Elspeth in the wilderness. THE DOUBLE-BEDDED ROOM. "Say you love His person--be not asham'd of't; he's a man, For whose embraces, though Endymion Lay sleeping by, Cynthia would leave her orb, And exchange kisses with him." _Massinger._ The morn was fair, the sky was clear, when Mr. Andrew Micklewhame set his foot aboard one of the "Stirling, Alloa, and Kincardine Steam Company's" boats, at the Chain Pier, Newhaven, for the purpose of proceeding to the first-named place, on a visit to his old friend, Davie Kerr, who had been, for upwards of twenty years, a respectable iron-monger in that romantic town. On reaching Alloa, however, where, as every one knows, the steamers pause for such length of time as enables them to take in a supply of coals, and the tide to run up, it began to rain, in the manner best expressed by the household phrase, "auld wives and pipe stapples." Notwithstanding this, Andrew being determined to make the most of his time--for a week was the utmost limit of his leave of absence from the Edinburgh cloth establishment, in which he was in the habit of wearing away his days and his coat sleeves--ascended from the cabin where he had been luxuriating over the only volume--the first of "Wilson's Tales of the Borders"--of which its library could boast; and unfurling his umbrella, walked ashore in the fond hope of seeing or hearing something worth the seeing or hearing. And Andrew was not disappointed; for, to his unspeakable delight, he descried against the gable-end of a white house, a play-bill, on which "Venice Preserved," appeared in letters of half-an-inch deep; the part of Pierre, by Mr. Ferdinand Gustavus Trash, and Jaffier, by Mr. Henry Watkins. The afterpiece, "Rob Roy." Being extremely partial to theatrical amusements, of whatever description, and, moreover, being a contributor to a dramatic review published weekly in the Scottish metropolis, it occurred to Mr. Andrew Micklewhame that here he might, in all probability, find materials sufficient on which to establish a funny critique, that would print to the extent of at least six of the twelve pages of the aforesaid dramatic review, and yield him good pay. Such an opportunity was not to be lost. He, therefore, resolved on remaining at Alloa that night to witness the performances, and proceeding to Stirling next morning by the earliest conveyance. Having arranged this to his own content, he stalked majestically into an inn--without stopping to notice the sign which projected angularly over the door, bearing the representation of a ship in full sail, among emerald waves, with moon-rakers and sky-scrapers ingeniously mixed up with the indigo clouds above--and stoutly called for a pint of porter and a biscuit, to take the edge off his appetite. This inn rejoiced not in a landlord; he that _was_ the landlord had, some twelve years before, taken himself off to "that undiscovered country from whose bourne no traveller returns;" and his widow had not been lucky enough to meet with another ready and willing to let himself become entangled with her in the meshes of matrimony. The waiters who had, in her husband's time, been wont to serve the customers, had either died out, or gone to other and better situations, and left her with one solitary maid of all work--the same who had officiated as barmaid to the inn for fifteen years. This maid of all work--Kirsty by name--was a tall, hard-featured woman, of--by her own acknowledgment--two-and-forty; not very tidy in her adornment, nor very bewitching in her manner. She it was who brought Mr. Andrew Micklewhame the pint of porter and the biscuit. "I suppose, my dear!" said Andrew--(he had been a gay deceiver in his youth, and, ever since that period, the phrase, "my dear!" had stuck to him, and always when speaking to a female did he use it)--"I suppose, my dear," continued he, "I can have tea, and a beef-steak, or something of that kind, to it, in"--(here he stopped, and looked at his watch, from which he ascertained that it was then half-past four o'clock)--"in an hour and a half; and, as I purpose staying here to-night, I should like a bed. Will you arrange this for me?" "Ye can easily get yer tea, sir," said the woman of forty-two, looking pleased at being addressed, "my dear;" "but, as for the bed, unless ye like to sleep in a dooble-bedded room, we canna gie ye accomodation. The lad that sleeps in ane o' the beds, is a decent sort o' a callant. We dinna ken much aboot him though; for he only comes here at nicht for his bed; and in the mornings, after his breakfast, awa' he gangs, and we never sees his face till nicht again; except upon the Sundays, when he aye has a pairty o' braw leddies an' gentlemen to dinner wi' him. He has leeved that way for a fortnicht or three weeks; an' my mistress hasna been the woman to ask him for a penny. Fegs! I'm thinkin' she has taen a notion o' the callant. What he is or what he diz we dinna ken, an' naebody can tell us." "Mysterious being!" inwardly ejaculated (as the novelists' phrase goes) Mr. Micklewhame; then turning to Kirsty, with an inquiring look, he said--"Is he genteel in appearance? of good address? of pleasing manner? Is he"---- "Ou, ay!" was the reply; "he's a' that--I never see'd a genteeler young man in a' my days; and sae handsome too; sic black whiskers, an' sae broad aboot the shouthers. My certie, he's a stalworth chiel. An', as for his address; heth man, he often gies me a kiss in the mornings as he gangs oot, and promises me anither whan he comes back again. Ye needna be the least feared to sleep in the same room wi' him." "Feared!" muttered Micklewhame. "Afraid of a man with black whiskers and broad shoulders! I flatter myself I never was afraid in my life." So saying, he elevated himself on his pins to the same degree as he rose at that moment in his own estimation. Then turning to the table whereon he had deposited his hat, he seized it up, and, with a dexterous jerk, stuck it on his head, at the same time exclaiming--"You may prepare the bed for me--I'll sleep in the room with this mysterious man; and, while the tea is getting ready, I'll just take a short stroll." With these words he left the inn. Mr. Andrew Micklewhame was a middle-aged man, with a rotundity of corpus, and a bachelor to boot. In his youthful days his love for the fair sex had partaken more of a general than a particular character; and now that he had arrived at the meridian of life, his taste had grown too particular for him to choose a partner for the remainder of his days from among those unmarried ladies whom he ranked among his acquaintances. "Girls," he would say, "are not now half so pretty, nor half so domestic, as they were in my young days." Then he would enter into a long tirade against the march of intellect, usually ending with a few observations upon pianoforte playing, and cooking a beef-steak, the latter accomplishment being in his opinion--as it is in that of every well-thinking person--the greater accomplishment of the two. One lady was too young; another was too old; a third was too tall; a fourth was too small; a fifth had no money; a sixth _had_ money, but was downright ugly; a seventh was ill-tempered: in short, with every one on whom his matrimonial ideas had condescended to settle, he had some fault to find. There is no pleasing one who is predetermined not to be pleased. Once, indeed, at a party to which he had been accidentally invited, he had felt a kind of a sort of a nervous tremulousness come over him on being set down at the supper table beside a lady, who, he discovered, was a widow; not from her garb, however; for widows--that is, young widows free of encumbrance--usually dress themselves in a much gayer manner than they were wont to do when "nice young maidens." He had made himself as agreeable as it was in his power to do, drinking wine with her at least half-a-dozen times, and otherwise doing, as he supposed, "the polite." Nay, he even went so far as to volunteer his services in seeing her home; and on the way over (she was from the country, and, _pro tempore_, resided with a friend in Bruntisfield Place, fronting the Links), he had the boldness to pop the question. He was accepted, and invited to breakfast with the lady the following morning. The morning came; but Andrew did not go--the fumes of the wine having subsided, and "Richard being himself again." He had taken a second thought on the subject, and determined on remaining a bachelor; by which arrangement the Widow Brown was, like Lord Ullin for his daughter, "left lamenting." Who her husband had been? whether she had money? what was her situation in life? were what Andrew tried long and earnestly to discover, but in vain--the Widow Brown seemed wrapped in mystery; and, from that hour, when he imprinted a kiss upon her lips, under a lamp-post, at two o'clock in the morning, in Bruntisfield Place, he had neither seen nor heard of her. Years--six in number--had elapsed since then, and Andrew had not ventured to accept another invitation to an evening party; but, as soon as his business for the day was over, he returned to his solitary lodging in Richmond Street; and, for the remainder of the evening, followed the example of the gentlemen of England, and "lived at home at ease," never stirring out, except to pay an occasional visit to the theatre. The localities of Alloa were quite unknown to Andrew, for the best reason in the world--he had never been in it before; but, by dint of attending to the usual expedient resorted to on like occasions--that of following his nose--in the space of a few minutes he discovered that his feet, or fate, had led him into a dockyard, where a vessel was just upon the point of being wedded to the ocean. Some women and men--the former, as usual, predominant--were seated on logs beneath a shed; others, the more impatient seemingly, were walking about with umbrellas and parasols above their heads--young men with young misses--old men and babes. Children in their first childhood, of various shapes and sizes, chiefly barefooted, were scampering among the wet sawdust, round about the logs of wood, in the shed and out of it, quite absorbed in the spirit-stirring game of "tig"--ever and anon yelping out each other's names, and otherwise expressing their joy at not being "it." Among their seniors there was a great deal of gabble to very little purpose, with a preponderate share of bustle and agitation. Carpenters were thumping away at the blocks on which the vessel rested, making more noise than progress. At length the blocks were fairly driven out, and away boomed the vessel into the Forth, amid the cheers of the assembled spectators. The general interest then subsided; and in a few minutes thereafter, with exception of the carpenters and some stray children, the dockyard presented the picture of emptiness. The din had ended; and the multitude, reversing the condition of Rob Roy, had left desolation where they had found plenty. Tea over, Mr. Andrew Micklewhame, having first seen to his accommodation for the night, and secured a place in the Stirling omnibus, which was advertised to start the next morning precisely at nine, wended his way quietly to the theatre. It was in the Assembly Room--a rumbling old mansion, on the windows of which "time's effacing fingers" had taken _pains_ to leave their mark so effectually, that sundry detachments of old soot-bedizzened "clouts" filled up those interstices where glass had once been. "The nonpareil company of comedians" entertained their audiences and held their orgies on the second floor--the first being occupied as an academy, where "young gentlemen are taken in and done for." The scenes in which the establishment rejoiced were five in number. Luckily, "Venice Preserved" did not require so many; but in "Rob Roy" the manager was compelled to make them perform double duty; and, consequently, the same scene was thrust on for the inside of a village inn apartment in Bailie Nicol Jarvie's, and the interior of Jean M'Alpine's change-house. The audience department was most gorgeous; there were boxes, pit, and gallery; or, in other words, front, middle, and back seats--the term "boxes" being applied to the front form, to which there was a back attached, most aristocratically garnished with green cloth, with brass nails in relief. At the farther end of this form "an efficient orchestra" was placed. It consisted of a boy to play the panpipes and the triangles at one and the same moment, a lad to thump away at the bass drum, and a blind man to perform on the clarionet--the last being dignified in the bills by the title of "leader of the orchestra, and conductor of music." The whole under the immediate superintendence of Mr. Ferdinand Gustavus Trash. After an immensity of preliminary puffs into the clarionet, occasional rattles on the drum, and consultations among themselves as to the air to be played, the musicians struck up the spirit-stirring "All Round my Hat;" which, though achieved in beautiful disregard of time and concord, was received with great--ay, with very great applause, by the momentarily increasing audience, some of whom mistook it for "God Save the King," and, in an extreme fit of loyalty, bawled out--"Off hats! stand up!" with which command many did not hesitate to comply. There was a pause, interrupted at length by the loudly expressed wish of the gods that the curtain should draw up. Up it went accordingly, and "Venice Preserved" commenced with some show of enthusiasm. Belvidera was personated by an interesting female of five-and-thirty, who, after parting in tears from Jaffier, a youth of eighteen, as the means of acquainting the audience with her extraordinary vocal abilities, consoled herself and them with that very appropriate ditty--"Within a Mile of Edinburgh Town," accompanied by the orchestra. The Doge of Venice, not to be outdone, as it were, left his throne after the terrific disclosures of Jaffier, and, in honest exultation at the discovery of the horrid plot, solaced the mysterious Council of Ten with--"I was the boy for bewitching them." The bass drum was particularly distinguished in the accompaniment. In a critique of the performances which Mr. Micklewhame wrote, he says--"It would have greatly added to the delight of those conversant with the pure English idiom, had many of the actors paid a visit, for a short time, to the _first_ floor of the Assembly Room, ere venturing to appear on the second." The meagreness of the company compelled several of the principal performers to play inferior parts, in addition to those against which their names appeared in the bill. For instance, in "Rob Roy," the same person who performed Rashleigh had to "go on" in the capacity of a peasant, and sing a bass solo in the opening glee. Owen and Major Galbraith were _done_ by the same individual. Mattie sung in the opening glee, and danced the Highland Fling at the Pass of Lochard, with Dougal and Bailie Nicol Jarvie. Some of the audience were scandalized at the appearance of Mattie on this occasion, and began to entertain great doubts of the morality of the bailie, when they saw his handmaid in his company so far from the Trongate. Seated on _the_ front form, with green cloth back studded with brass nails, and immediately behind a row of six penny dipped candles, tastefully arranged in order among an equivalent number of holes in a stick placed in front of the drop-scene to divide the audience from the actors, Andrew Micklewhame gazed on all this with the stoical indifference of one who is used to such things: in short, he gazed on it with the eye of an experienced critic--the best of all possible ways to mar one's enjoyment of a play. Occasionally, however, he felt inclined to indulge in a hearty laugh; but the dignity of the critic came to his aid, and he restrained it by turning away his face from the stage and casting his scrutinizing glance around the inhabitants of the seats in the rear, or listened to the remarks of those in the pit. It was during the latter part of the performance of the first act, and the interval between it and the second, that he, in this manner, overheard the fragments of a conversation carried on, _sotto voce_, in the seat immediately behind him. He had the curiosity to steal a glance at the speakers. They were a young woman, with fine dark eyes, and a young man, of apparently five-and-twenty years of age, with cheeks _red_olent of rouge, enveloped in a faded Petersham greatcoat, whom Andrew immediately set down as belonging to the company of comedians. He could hear the young woman with the dark eyes upbraiding the young man with the coloured cheeks for deserting her; then the young man said he had intended to write her soon, with some money, so she ought not to have followed him. "I am pretty well situated in lodgings here at present," continued the young man; "but I cannot venture to take you there to-night, for the fact of my being a married man would not, were it known, raise me in the estimation of the landlady. But I will procure other lodgings for you after the play is over; and if you do not hear from me in the morning, at farthest by ten, you may call for me at the inn where I am staying." He ended by observing that he was wanted in the next act to go on as a Highlander; and, accordingly, he left her, and crept in behind the curtain. There was nothing very extraordinary in all this; yet, though Andrew knew that such occurrences happened daily, he could not help thinking of what he had just overheard, and feeling interested in the damsel of the sparkling eyes. He did not dare, however, to take another peep at her, as he thought it would be too marked; and when he rose, at the termination of the performances, to go away, the seat behind him was quite vacant; nor could he discern, among the dense mass of human beings that obstructed the door-way, the slightest vestige of her, or the youth in the shabby greatcoat who had acknowledged himself her husband. The rain had not ceased when Mr. Micklewhame left the Assembly Room, so he hurried to his inn with all possible despatch. Mr. Micklewhame prided himself on his knowledge of the principles of economy; and when he travelled he invariably made it a point to take no more than two meals per diem--breakfast and tea--both with a meat accompaniment; but this evening--this particular evening--as he sat toasting his toes before an excellent fire, in a comfortable parlour of a comfortable inn, and heard the rain pattering against the casement, it, somehow or other, entered into his head that a tumbler of punch would be by no means amiss. A tumbler of punch was ordered in accordingly; after that came a second; and a third; and--no, we can't exactly say that there was a fourth. At all events, there was a marked inclination, first towards one side of the staircase, and then towards the other, in Mr. Andrew Micklewhame's ascent to his bedroom that evening. Nay, more; he attempted to kiss Kirsty as she was depositing the candlestick upon the table; but he missed his aim, and measured his length on the floor. By the time he was up again, Kirsty had vanished. Mr. Micklewhame was a little annoyed that he could not use the precaution of bolting his door. The mysterious man, with the black whiskers and broad shoulders, had not yet claimed his bed, although it was pretty well on towards "The wee short hour ayont the twal." "I don't half like this sleeping in a double-bedded room, with a man I never saw," he thought, but did not venture to say it aloud, lest some one might be within ear-shot, and set him down as a coward. "I wonder," exclaimed he, as he proceeded to undress before the yet glowing embers of a consumptive fire, "whether--hic--whether the f--f--fellow snores. I sha'n't sleep, I'm sure--hic--I sha'n't--hic--sleep, if the f--f--fellow snores." Having delivered himself of this very sensible observation, he got into one of the beds in the best way he could, covered himself up warm, and fell fast asleep. Dreams visited his pillow; distorted visions, in which Kirsty, the dark-eyed damoiselle, and the man with the black whiskers, bore prominent parts, flitted across his fancy. Then he felt himself borne through the air by a vulture in a shabby brown greatcoat, which set him down on the top of a high house, and flew away. He thought he got up and groped his way along the house-top; but, missing his footing, he fell over, and would certainly have had his brains dashed out upon the pavement below, had not the motion of his descent caused him to start and awaken. All was still within the chamber. He looked out of bed, but could discover no signs of the appearance of his mysterious neighbour; so he composed himself to sleep again. This time, however, he was not so successful as at first; for it was only after some time that he could coax himself into a sort of doze--something betwixt sleeping and waking. While in this state, he fancied he saw the man in the brown greatcoat enter the room; then he saw a flash of light; then he imagined he smelt sulphur; and then, all of a sudden, he felt himself in reality pulled half out of bed. "Hollo, hollo!" cried he; "what the deuce is the matter?" and he rubbed his eyes until he found himself wide awake. "Sir, sir!" cried a voice, "you've made a mistake--you've got into my bed in place of your own." Any one in Andrew's place but Andrew himself would have cursed and sworn like a trooper at a person daring to awaken him from a comfortable snooze upon such slight pretences; but Andrew was a peaceable man--he never liked to make any disturbance--and he actually, without saying a word, turned out of the bed he had warmed for himself, and allowed the stranger to get into his place. He was sure, at all events, that he had not given up his bed to any but the lawful tenant of the room; for a blink of fire-light gleamed upon a pair of extensive whiskers, with shoulders to correspond. The features struck Andrew as being familiar to him; but he could not, though he tried, for the life of him, recollect where he had before seen them. He cursed the fellow's impudence, as he discovered that the smell of sulphur which had saluted his olfactory nerves, was _not_ the smell of sulphur, but of a candle having been blown out. He did not dare, though, to utter a word on the subject. He felt very much afraid--indeed, so much so, that it was not till after an hour's perambulation through the room, that he could prevail on himself to lie down in the empty bed. Again he fell fast asleep. When he awoke, the morning light was streaming into the room through the chinks of the shutters. He wondered very much what o'clock it was, as he remembered that he purposed setting off by the omnibus at nine, and groped about for his watch. Horror!--he had left it beneath the pillow of the other bed. Jumping to the floor with considerable agility, and opening the shutters with a bang, in the hope that noise and daylight would bring him courage, the first objects that met his astonished gaze, were a shabby brown greatcoat and a shocking bad hat, lying carelessly on a chair. Had any one asked Andrew to shave his head without soap, or give sixpence for a penny loaf, he could not have been more amazed or terror-stricken than he was at that moment. That the shabby brown greatcoat and the shocking bad hat belonged to the mysterious man with the black whiskers, and that the mysterious man with the black whiskers, and he who had sat beside the damsel with the bright eyes at the play, were one and the same individual, Mr. Andrew Micklewhame had not the smallest doubt, and thereupon he began to get a little fidgetty regarding his watch. The curtains of the bed were closely drawn--so closely that Andrew could not see in; and he did not just like at first to open the curtains and disturb the whiskered youth in the same manner as the whiskered youth had disturbed him. No. Andrew was a more generous-minded man than that. He paced the room for some time, fancying all sorts of things about the owner of the shabby brown greatcoat, but never taking his eye off the curtains, resolved to rush forward on the first appearance of their opening. "'Tis for no good this fellow lives here," thought Andrew. "All a sham, too, his being connected with these players. I have no doubt in my own mind that he is either the murderer of Begbie in disguise, or a resurrectionist. Ah! perhaps he has run away from the world, and come here for the purpose of committing suicide in a quiet way. But, no; why should he? That's quite improbable." And, after thinking all this, he paused for about five minutes, then exclaimed, not aloud, however--"I can bear this suspense no longer. Ecod! I'll ask the fellow who he is, and, at the same time, claim my watch!" So saying, he rushed forward with a determined air, drew the curtains, and discovered--the bed was empty! "He can't have gone far, for he has left his coat and hat behind him," were Andrew's reflections; and as he said this, he looked for his watch, and then for his clothes. Amazement! they were all gone; watch, shirt, coat, vest, and inexpressibles--all had vanished. In a paroxysm of fury he rang the bell; and, presently, the voice of Kirsty, from without, inquired, as she half-opened the door, and thrust forward a pair of well worn Wellingtons, which Andrew recognised as not belonging to him--"D'ye please to want onything else?" "Anything else!" roared Andrew, choking with rage, and utterly regardless of the respect due to the sex of the speaker. "Come in here, and help me to find my trowsers!" "O you--ye'll wait awhile, I'm thinkin, or I do siccan a thing." "Zounds! that infernal fellow must have carried them off!" muttered Andrew. "Na, na," said Kirsty; "it's no the infernal gentleman ava, man. I wadna be the least surprised but it's that auld punchy buddy that sleepit in this room last nicht, and ran awa this morning, wi' the nine o'clock omnibush, without payin his reckonin, that's ta'en yer breeks; but ye needna mind, ye can just pit on _his_ for a day." This was too much. To be told that he himself was the thief of his own o-no-we-never-mention-ems, and that he had run away that morning without paying his reckoning, was more than Andrew Micklewhame could bear. "Are you mad, woman?" cried he. "Confound you, I'll leave your house instantly, and bring an action for the recovery of my clothes." "Your claes, quotha--your claes. My man, thae tricks winna do here, I can tell ye. Ye're fund oot at last. My certie, to hear a fallow speakin o' claes, whan it's weel kenned he had nae mair than a brown greatcoat, an auld hat, an' a pair o' boots I wadna gie tippence for. Ye're fund oot at last. There's twa chaps below has twa or three words to say to ye." "They may go to the devil, and you along with them!" was Andrew's pert rejoinder. "Bide a bit--just bide a bit. Hy," cried Kirsty, seemingly over the banisters of the stair, to some unknown individual or individuals below. "Stap up this way, will ye?" And fast upon the heels of this summons, in walked two justice of peace officers, who, despite the asseverations of Mr. Andrew Micklewhame that he was himself and no other, ordered him to don the brown greatcoat, and the shocking bad hat, and follow them. "We've pursued you from Queensferry," said the first--"round by Edinburgh, Glasgow, and Stirling; and Grog the innkeeper is determined to punish you, unless you pay him for the eight weeks' board you had in his house, and our expenses over and above." It was in vain that Mr. Micklewhame protested he had never been in Queensferry in his life; nor had he the honour of the acquaintance of Grog, the innkeeper; but, at length, seeing that it was impossible to convince the officers to the contrary he thought it advisable to pay the amount of their demand, and trust to law and justice afterwards for retribution. Even with this he found himself unable to comply--his purse, containing every rap he owned in the world, was in the pockets of his inexpressibles. There was no help for it. With despair in his countenance, he donned the shabby brown greatcoat and the dilapidated Wellingtons, took the shocking bad hat in his hand, and, in silence, followed the officers of justice down stairs, determining to appeal to the generosity of the landlady, who, he had no doubt, would give full credence to his story. The present mishap of Mr. Micklewhame had arisen solely from the fact of his having taken so much toddy overnight, which was the cause of his sleeping longer and more soundly in the morning than usual. Kirsty, ever vigilant, had gone to the door of the double-bedded room and knocked, at the same time calling out, with a stentorian voice, that "the omnibush was ready to start." All this was unheeded by Andrew, who slept on, utterly unconscious of the progress of time. Not so, however, was it with the other occupant of the chamber; for no sooner did he hear Kirsty's summons, than a lucky thought occurred to him; and he bawled through the door, in tones "not loud but deep," that he would be down instantly. He then proceeded, in the coolest manner possible, to adorn himself in the habiliments of his somniferous neighbour; which, he soon perceived, were a "world too wide" for him--a fault which he instantly remedied by the assistance of a pillow, disposed of after the manner he had seen greater actors than himself "make themselves up" for the character of Falstaff. Thus equipped, he removed Andrew's watch from beneath the pillow, and placed it in the same pocket it had occupied the preceding day; took off his portable bushy whiskers, and put them in his pocket; then bidding adieu to his brown greatcoat and napless hat, which, with the accompaniment of a pair of well-worn Wellington boots, had been his only attire for many a day, he strode from the apartment, carefully shutting the door behind him. As he got to the foot of the stairs, there was Kirsty in the outer passage. For a moment he felt undetermined what course next to pursue; but his never-failing wit came to his aid, and, stepping into a side room, the window of which looked out into the street, he desired Kirsty to bring him his bill of fare--_i. e._, the bill of fare peculiar to Mr. Andrew Micklewhame--and a sheet of writing-paper, with pens and ink. Those being brought, and Kirsty having shut the door, leaving him "all alone in his glory," he scribbled a few lines on the paper, and made it up in the form of a letter. This was no sooner done, than the "impatient bugle"--_vulgo vocato_, tin horn--of the ominous cad, who stood on the opposite side of the street, just behind the omnibus, holding open the door with his left hand, blew a blast so loud and shrill, that all those in waiting in the street, who had serious intentions of proceeding to Stirling by that conveyance, seemed, of one accord, to know that it was their last warning; so, shaking hands with the friends who had come "to see them off," they scrambled nimbly up the steps of the omnibus, and passed from before the view of the bystanders into its ponderous interior. Our actor saw this, and, without more ado, he opened the window and jumped into the street. His letter he deposited in the post-office receiving-box, and his body in the omnibus, which, being now full, the cad banged to the door, gave the signal to the driver, and off the omnibus rattled; nor did Kirsty or her mistress know of the escapement of their guest, whom they both believed to be Andrew Micklewhame, until he was a considerable part on his way to Stirling. * * * * * Kirsty was in the bar, stamping the post-mark on some letters--for her mistress was post_master_--and talking to a young woman with bright eyes. "The villain that he is!" said Kirsty. "A married man! Wha wad hae thocht it? an' a playactor too, crinkypatie! He'll be doon the noo, and ye'll see him then. There's twa gentlemen gaen up to him a wee while ago." At this moment the landlady opened the door of a parlour off the bar, and handed to Kirsty some letters, which she had been ostensibly arranging for delivery--in reality, making herself acquainted with their contents. "Here's six for delivery, and one to lie till called for!" Kirsty took them; and as her mistress shut the door, read aloud from the back of the letter--"'To lie till called for.' The name, 'Mrs. Isabella Young!'" "What!" exclaimed the dark-eyed young woman starting, "a letter for me?" and she almost snatched it out of Kirsty's hand. A gleam of joy played upon her handsome face as she read-- "DEAR ISY,--I enclose you a crown; if you want more, apply to Manager Trash for my arrears of salary. I'm off to Perth with the toggery of an old fellow who slept in the same room with me last night. They'll perhaps talk of pursuing me; if so, detain them as long as possible, and follow, at your leisure, "Your affectionate "PATRICK YOUNG." At this juncture appeared Andrew in the custody of the two officers; and the damsel of the dark eyes, taking her cue from the document she had just perused, rushed forward and threw herself into his arms, exclaiming, "My own, my lost one!--Oh, do not--do not drag my husband from me!" The latter part of her sentence was addressed to the officers of justice. "Loshifycairyme!" cried Kirsty; "he's lost his bonny black whiskers, and turned fatter nor he was!" Then, after a moment's reflection, she added--"But thae player buddies can do onything!" "My pretty one," said Andrew, "I know nothing of you!" Yet the young woman still clung to her embrace. "You vile woman," he continued, waxing wroth, "get you gone. I'll tell your husband if you don't!" But Mrs. Young clung close and closer to him. He then addressed himself to Kirsty, desiring her to inform her mistress that he wished to say a few words to her. "Tell her," he continued, "that I am in great tribulation here, and I wish her to advance a small sum of money to these gentlemen, which will be returned with grateful thanks as soon as I get to Edinburgh." Kirsty grumbled a little at being sent on such an errand; but proceeded into the little parlour off the bar. In a few seconds she returned, saying--"My mistress'll no advance money to ony man unless to her lawfu' husband; and she says gif ye like to marry her, she'll do't, but no unless. I'm sure I dinna ken what she means, seeing ye're a married man already!" "What!" exclaimed Andrew, "marry a woman I never saw?" "On nae ither condition will she advance the money. Between oorsels, my mistress is worth at least twa thousand." "Two thousand pounds!" thought Andrew. "The speculation wouldn't be such a bad one after all." And, after a show of hesitation, he gave a reluctant consent, as the only way, and a speedy one, to relieve him from his difficulties. His private debts amounted to at least a hundred pounds; and with two thousand pounds he could pay that; ay, and live like a prince besides. The whole party was ushered into the little back parlour, where, to complete Andrew's amazement, he descried, seated over a cup of coffee, the identical Widow Brown to whom he had given the slip six years before. She rose and shook him by the hand. "Be not amazed!" she said. "The moment I saw you, from the window of this room, enter my inn yesterday, I recognised you, and my love for you returned. I know all." She certainly did, for she had read Patrick Young's letter to his wife. "I shall procure your immediate release; and should you rue the consent you have just given, you are free to return to Edinburgh as you came--a single man!" "Generous woman!" cried Andrew, sinking on one knee, "this--this is too much! Think ye I could again desert you? No, by heaven!"--Here he laid his hand upon his breast, and turned up the white of his eyes in an attempt to look pathetic. The widow raised him and led him to a seat. The officers were dismissed; and the damsel with the dark eyes escaped through the open door as they went out, fearful of being detained for her deceitful attempt upon the person of Andrew Micklewhame. In a few days the nuptials were solemnized; and Andrew Micklewhame ever blessed the lucky chance that led him to Alloa. History is silent regarding the ultimate fate of Mr. Patrick Young; but it is to be hoped that he was either hanged or sent to Botany Bay. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Micklewhame thought it worth their while to pursue him for the injuries he had done them; and Grog, the innkeeper, could not, for his myrmidons had lost the scent of the stroller from the moment he fled from Alloa. THE HIGHLAND BOY. Strange, sometimes, are the destinies of men, and mysterious the ways of Providence. In these expressions there is nothing new, for they have been repeated a thousand times before; but we are not sure that they have often been more strikingly illustrated than in the following short narrative--alas! "owre true a tale." Within a short distance of the town of Inverary, in Argyleshire, there lived, towards the middle of last century, a person of the name of M'Lauchlane. He was a miller to business; but, if any idea be formed of his circumstances as such, or of the general condition and appearance of his establishment, from those of the "jolly millers" of the low country, with their large, well-built, slated mills, filled with expensive machinery--their comfortable houses, and rough and round abundance--it will be a very erroneous one. The highland miller--he, at any rate, of the last century--was a very different person, and very differently circumstanced. His business was trifling, as it must, of necessity, have been, in a country yielding but little corn--just sufficient, and barely so, to support, with other aids, its thin and widely scattered population. His mill was a small, thatched, crazy building; and its machinery (almost all of wood), the clumsy, rude workmanship of the miller himself. Such, at any rate, was M'Lauchlane's establishment--a very poor affair; and very poor, though very industrious, and an honest and upright man, was M'Lauchlane himself. Yet, strange as it may seem in a person in his situation in life, he was not only an upright man, but a man of some education, of a grave and intelligent cast of countenance, and of a tall and athletic form. For fifteen years, M'Lauchlane toiled on his little farm with unwearied assiduity, struggling with a barren soil, that scarcely yielded a subsistence for his family, leaving no surplus for sale, the rent being paid by a few black cattle reared for the purpose; and more than half of that time dividing this labour with attendance on his little mill; and other fifteen years, had he lived so long, would, in all probability, have found him still thus employed, had not a circumstance occurred which suddenly changed his destiny. He quarrelled with his landlord, and resolved suddenly, in a fit of exasperation, upon leaving his mill. He never gave any further particulars of the occurrence which had galled his proud spirit. He never said what was the cause of quarrel between him and his laird; but the fancied disgrace of some harsh word which the latter had used towards him, preyed on his mind, and, in less than a fortnight after, he resigned his mill and his farm, and proceeded to the low country in search of employment. This he found in Edinburgh, where he had some friends, in the humble capacity of a caddie, or chairman. On leaving the place of his residence in the Highlands, M'Lauchlane left behind him, until he should fall into some way of earning a subsistence, his wife, a son, and two daughters. The son was, at this period, about fifteen years of age; a fine, manly-looking boy, of kind and amiable dispositions, the pride of his mother's heart, and the stay of his father's hopes. It was not doubted that, on the latter obtaining employment, he would succeed in procuring some situation or other in Edinburgh for his son also; and, with these, and sundry other little plans and prospects, the family of M'Lauchlane, including himself, looked forward to the enjoyment of some happy days. Having obtained employment himself, M'Lauchlane lost no time in looking out for an engagement for his son; and, at length, found an opening for him in a merchant's counting-house in Leith. This good fortune he speedily communicated to his family, desiring that James should immediately set out for Edinburgh. James, however, had been already unexpectedly provided for, although not altogether to his liking. He had been engaged to assist some salmon-curers who had an establishment in the neighbourhood; and with these he was now employed. The wages, however, were small, and the work heavy; but it was considered by the dutiful boy himself a desirable situation, as it enabled him to reside with his mother, whom he tenderly loved, and to contribute more promptly and efficiently to her support than if he were at a distance. On these accounts, therefore, he determined to remain in his present employment for some time at least--this was till the ensuing term, when it was proposed that the whole family should proceed to Edinburgh, to join their head; and this was stated in reply to James' father, who, though he longed to have his boy with him, acquiesced in its propriety; and thus matters stood for several weeks, when it was found that James' strength was unequal to the labour imposed on him. The poor lad was long unwilling to admit this, even to himself, and continued to toil on with uncomplaining perseverance; but a mother's anxiety and scrutinizing solicitude soon discovered what he would have concealed. She saw, from his wan cheek and sunken eye, that he was tasked beyond his strength, and that a continuance much longer in his present employment might even endanger his life. Impressed with this idea, she insisted on him quitting it, and proceeding immediately to Edinburgh to join his father. "But, mother," said the affectionate boy, "what will you do without me? My wages, though small, are a great help to you." "They are, James, no doubt," replied his mother; "but what are your wages, or what would all the gold and silver in the world be to me, compared to your life, my child? Think ye that anything could compensate that to your mother, James? No, no; all the wealth of the Indies, my son, would be nothing to me, if anything was to happen you. Besides, you can help me even where you are going. You can remit me a little of your wages, along with what your father sends from his; and, at the term, you know, which is now only four months distant, we will all be together again, and as happy as the day's long." Thus reasoned with, and feeling his own physical inadequacy to continue in his present employment, the boy finally consented to leave it, and to proceed to Edinburgh, to join his father. It was not thought necessary to give the latter any previous intimation of this change in his son's views; and no communication, therefore, took place on the subject. The day fixed for the boy's departure having arrived, a little bundle, containing some small articles of wearing apparel, and some bread and cheese, was made up for him by the hands of his doting mother, whose tears fell fast and thick on the little humble package, as she tied it up. This completed, the boy took down a staff from amongst many that were hung to the roof of the cottage, thrust one end of it through the bundle, shouldered it manfully, clapped his bonnet on his head, and was about suddenly to rush out of the house, finding that he could not stand a more deliberate parting; when his mother, flying after him, caught him by the arm just as he had reached the door, and, murmuring his name, clasped him in her arms, and, in silent anguish, pressed him convulsively to her bosom. The weeping boy returned the fond embrace of his mother; but, at length, tore himself away, and hurried off, with a speed that soon carried him out of her sight. The lad had now a long journey before him, not less than a hundred and fifty miles, the whole of which was to be performed on foot, for there were then no conveyances on his intended route; and, although there had, he had no money to pay for their use; but, as he was active and vigorous, and accustomed to rove over his native hills like a young deer, a journey on foot of even a hundred and fifty miles had nothing formidable whatever in it for him; and it was, therefore, with a fearless heart and bounding step that he now took the long, wild, and dreary highland road, that was to conduct him to the city in which his father resided. In about four months after the boy had left home to join his father in Edinburgh, his mother, with her two daughters, also proceeded to that city, and for the same purpose; the period having arrived which, according to previous understanding, was to see the family once more united under one roof. We will not attempt to describe the poor mother's feelings of joyous anticipation on this occasion, as she looked forward to the exquisite happiness of embracing the two objects whom she loved best on earth, her husband and son. These feelings were such as the reader can imagine for himself without our aid or interference. On M'Lauchlane's wife and daughters arriving, which they did in due time and in safety, at the humble domicile which the farmer's dutiful affection had provided for them in Edinburgh, the first question she asked of her husband, and she put it ere she had yet fairly entered his door, was-- "Where is James? Where is my dear boy, Fergus?" "Why, Margaret," replied M'Lauchlane, laughingly, "you should know that fully better than I do. Where did you leave him?" The boy had never reached his father's house. "Come, come, now, Fergus, none of your tricks," said his wife, smiling. "Tell me where my boy is--I cannot rest till I see him." "Ha, ha!" rejoined her husband, now laughing outright, "you keep up the farce very well, Margaret; but, come, now, let James be produced; for _I_ am impatient to see him. You want to tantalize me a little." "Or rather it is you that wish to tantalize me, Fergus," replied his wife, good-humouredly; "but do not keep me longer in pain, I beseech you. Go and bring James to me immediately. Do now, I entreat of you." "Margaret," said M'Lauchlane, now somewhat alarmedly--for the earnest manner of his wife struck him as very strange, and as carrying very little of jocularity in it--"Margaret," he said, gravely, "is this jest or earnest? Is James not with you?--and, if he is not, where is he?" "Gracious heavens!" exclaimed his wife, in an agony of horror--she in turn having marked the serious manner of her husband--"what is this come over us? O Fergus, Fergus," she said, in dreadful agitation, and flinging her arms around her husband in wild despair, "has not James been with you for these three months past? He left home to come to you then, and I always believed him to be with you. O my God, my God! where is my child? What has come over my boy?" And she gave way to a fearful and uncontrollable paroxysm of grief. During this scene, her husband sat silent and motionless; but there were dreadful workings going on in his bosom. His face was deadly pale, and his lips quivered with agonizing emotion. "I have never seen him, Margaret," he at length said, in a slow and solemn tone--"never seen him. What has come over my boy?" And the strong man burst into tears. We need not prolong our description of the scene of misery which ensued on the appalling discovery being made, as it now was, that the poor boy had never reached his destination. His distracted father instantly set about the apparently hopeless task of ascertaining what had been his fate; but, for some weeks after, all remained as great a mystery as ever; and no exertion or inquiries he could make, led to the slightest elucidation of the fact. At length, however, a clue to the mystery was obtained. It was gradually unwarped, and a train of circumstances finally unfolded the dreadful tale. In disclosing this tale to the reader, however, we have no occasion whatever to go through the tedious and digressive process by which M'Lauchlane ultimately arrived at the history of his unfortunate son's fate. Ours is a much simpler and much easier task. It is merely to place the facts in their order, divested of all extraneous matter; and this will be best done by our retrogressing a little, and resuming the history of the unhappy boy's proceedings after leaving his mother, at the point where we left it. On the evening of the second day after his departure, the lad arrived at Stirling, and had thus accomplished about half his journey. On reaching this town, where he intended remaining for the night, young M'Lauchlane repaired to a certain public-house, which he knew, by report, to be much frequented by his countrymen, when going to and from the Highlands and the low country. This house was usually crowded with guests; but it happened that it contained but one on the night of his arrival. The solitary stranger was an Irishman, on his way to Edinburgh, as he said, to look for employment. Between young M'Lauchlane and this person--they being the only two guests in the house--a familiar footing was soon established, chiefly through the advances of the latter, who affected a sudden and strong liking for his young companion, whom he insisted on treating with some liquor. In the morning, they breakfasted together, and, immediately after, set out together for Edinburgh--M'Lauchlane delighted with the kindness and rattling off-hand glee of his companion, who seemed, to his unsuspicious and unsophisticated nature, one of the best and merriest fellows he had ever met with. In place, however, of showing an anxiety to prosecute the journey with the expedition natural to those seeking a distant destination, M'Lauchlane's companion seemed bent on living by the way. Every mile, and often within shorter distances, he insisted on his young friend's taking some refreshment with him. He would, in truth, scarcely pass a single public-house on the road; but he paid, in every instance, for the entertainment to which he invited his companion. Two consequences resulted from this manner of proceeding. These were--young M'Lauchlane's getting, for the first time in his life, somewhat intoxicated; and the expiry of the day, before they had completed their journey that comprehended the distance between Stirling and Edinburgh. The shades of evening were thus just beginning to gather, as the travellers reached a small village about six or seven miles from Edinburgh; and it had become pretty dark by the time they had got midway between the two places just named. At this particular locality, young M'Lauchlane and his companion passed a well-dressed, respectable-looking, elderly man, on the road, who was going in the same direction with themselves. On having gone beyond him, about the distance of a hundred yards or so, the Irishman suddenly stopped, and addressing his young friend, said-- "I owe that old rascal that we passed just now, a grudge, and have a good mind to go back and give him a taste of this twig, by way of recompense"--shaking a stout cudgel that he carried in his hand. "Will you lend me a hand?" Stupefied, or rather, perhaps, distracted with the drink which he had swallowed, the poor, unreflecting boy at once agreed to assist his friend in revenging the injuries of which he complained. What these were, or when, where, or how they had taken place, he never thought of inquiring. It was enough for him that his companion had been injured, and enough also for him was the assertion of the latter that he had been so, and that the old man they had just passed was the inflictor of this injury. In a minute after, the old man, whom they had now approached, was knocked down by the bludgeon of the Irishman--young M'Lauchlane standing close by. On his falling-- "Tip his watch there," said the former, in a hurried whisper to his companion, at the same time nudging him with his elbow; "and feel if the old fellow has any clink in his pockets. Out with it if he has. He owes me ten times more than he has about him, let that be what it may." Without a moment's thought or hesitation, the unthinking boy, doing as he was desired, flung himself on the prostrate old man, seized his watch chain, and had just dragged it from its pocket, when he was seized by the collar from behind. On turning round, he found himself in the custody of two men, who had come up accidentally, unheard and unobserved, at least by him; but not by his companion, who, aware of their approach, had, without giving the unfortunate lad warning, darted through a hedge, and disappeared. It was in vain that the unhappy youth, on perceiving the dreadful predicament in which he stood, urged the extenuating facts of the case to his captors. All the circumstances of a highway robbery, aggravated by personal violence, were too apparent, and too clearly referable to M'Lauchlane as the perpetrator, to allow of anything he might assert to the contrary being for an instant believed. On the recovery of the old man (whose face was streaming with blood) from the temporary stupefaction which the blow he had been struck had caused, M'Lauchlane was conveyed a prisoner to Edinburgh, handed over to the police, and eventually thrown into jail on a capital charge. We may here pause a moment to remark that, at the period of our tale, the penal code of this country was enforced, with the most unrelenting ferocity, against all offenders who came within the reach of its sanguinary enactments. Mercy was then unknown in the dispensation of the criminal laws, which, written in blood, were executed to the letter, without regard to any of those considerations which are now permitted to have their influence on the side of clemency. The ultimate fate of the poor Highland boy may be anticipated; and this the more certainly, that his seducer was never taken, or even heard of; so that no chance was left him of the facts of his unhappy case being ascertained. Shortly after being committed to prison, he was capitally indicted to stand trial before the court, which happened to be held in Edinburgh about six weeks after his apprehension; and, on the evidence of the old man and the two persons who had assisted in his capture, he was convicted of highway robbery, condemned to death, and actually executed at the usual place of execution; neither the boy's extreme youth, nor the extenuating circumstances connected with his case (which, indeed, the Court was not bound to believe, seeing there was only his own bare unsupported assertion of the facts), having the slightest effect on his judges, who, partaking at once of the spirit of the times and of the laws, were sternly rigorous in the execution of what they conceived to be their duty--seeing no safety for society but in a frequent and unsparing use of the gibbet. We have now to explain the most extraordinary part of this piteous case--and that is, how it was that the poor boy's parents knew nothing of his miserable fate till it was discovered by the inquiry of which we shall shortly speak. In the first place, his father took it for granted that he was at home with his mother, and his mother believed that he was with his father, and thus his absence was known to neither; and, therefore, no unusual interest regarding him was excited. During his confinement, and at all his precognitions, the infatuated boy steadily refused--though for what reason we know not--to give up his name, or to give any account of himself whatever. He would neither tell where he came from, where or to whom he was going, nor what nor who were his parents; and in this resolution he remained to the last; and, as no one knew him, he was thus finally executed, without any single particular being known regarding him, excepting that for which he suffered. Neither could he be prevailed upon to make known his situation to any of his friends. In short, he seemed to have determined to prevent his fate from ever being associated with his identity. What his motives were for this extraordinary conduct--whether it arose from a fear of disgracing his family, or from tenderness to the feelings of his parents--we cannot tell, nor will we trouble the reader with conjectures which he can make as well for himself. We content ourselves with relating the facts of the melancholy case, as they actually and truly occurred. It was by an inquiry at the police-office of Edinburgh, whither he had gone, as a last expedient, to endeavour to find some trace of his son, that M'Lauchlane obtained the intelligence that led to the discovery of his unhappy fate. He had gone to the office, however, without the most remote idea that he should there learn anything of his boy as a violator of the laws, but merely as a repository of general intelligence on such subjects as that in which he was at the moment interested. Having stated his errand to two officers whom he found there, they asked him to describe the boy. This he did; when the men looked significantly at each other. Poor M'Lauchlane observed the look; and he felt his heart failing him, as he imagined, and too truly, that he saw in it something ominous. "Do you know anything of my boy?" he said, looking piteously at the officers. They made no reply, but seemed a good deal discomposed. They felt for the unfortunate father--having little or no doubt, from the personal description, and other particulars he gave of the boy, that it was he who had been executed for the robbery on the Stirling road. "Tell me, for God's sake, if you know anything of my son," said the poor father, imploringly, after waiting some time in vain for an answer to his first inquiry of a similar kind. The men would have still evaded a reply, and were, indeed, both edging out of the apartment, to avoid being further pressed on the subject, when M'Lauchlane seized one of them by the arm, and besought him not to leave him, without giving him what information he possessed on the subject of his inquiry. "Has any accident happened him?" said the miserable father. "Is he dead? Tell me, for Heaven's sake, tell me the worst at once. I can bear it. If he is dead, I say, God's will be done. Is it so or not, my friend?" again said M'Lauchlane, with a look of wretchedness that the man could not resist. "I am afraid he is," was the reply. "Still, I say God's will be done," said M'Lauchlane, endeavouring to display a composure he was far, very far from feeling. He next inquired into the time and manner of his death. On being informed, the unhappy man instantly sank down on the floor in a state of insensibility. He had little dreamt of such a horrible catastrophe; and, however resigned he might have been to his boy's having met with a natural death, his fortitude was unequal to the dreadful trial it was now called on to sustain. On coming again to himself, the unfortunate man left the office without exchanging a word with any one, and returned to his own house. When he entered, his wife, as was her usual practice, eagerly inquired if he had yet heard any tidings of their son; but she soon saw that she had no occasion whatever to put the question. The haggard countenance of her husband--a countenance in which the utmost depth of human misery was strongly depicted--assured her at once that tidings had been heard of the boy, and that these were of the most dismal kind. "He's dead, then," she screamed out, on looking on the wo-begone, or rather horror-stricken face of her husband--"my boy is gone." And she flung herself on the floor in a paroxysm of grief and despair. To his wife's exclamations, M'Lauchlane made no reply, but threw himself on a bed, and buried his head beneath the clothes. But this covering did not conceal the dreadful writhings of the crushed spirit beneath. The bedclothes heaved with the violent emotions that shook the powerful frame of the miserable sufferer. From that bed M'Lauchlane never again rose. He never, however, told his wife of the unhappy death her son had died; steadily and even sternly resisting all the importunities on that appalling subject; and whether she ever learned it, we are not aware. MAJOR WEIR'S COACH. A LEGEND OF EDINBURGH.[7] [Footnote 7: A legend, similar to that here given, was current in Glasgow a number of years ago, and for ages before. The hero's name was Bob Dragon, whose income, when alive, was said to have been one guinea a minute. His coachman and horses were said, as those of the major, to want the heads. The most curious trait of the Glasgow goblin horses, was that they went down to the river to drink, although they had no heads. The superstitions of most European countries have a similar origin: the Germans have their spectre huntsman; the coaches and horses of Major Weir and Bob Dragon are of the same character. The antiquary will find the trial of Major Weir in Pitcairn's "Criminal Trials;" and the lover of such stories may consult "Satan's Invisible World Discovered."--ED.] The time of our story was September, early in the seventies of the last century, or it might be the end of the sixties--it matters not much as to the year--but it was in the month of September, when parties and politics had set the freemen and burgesses of the royal burghs by the ears--when feasting and caballing formed almost their whole employment. The exaltation of themselves or party friends to the civic honours engrossed their whole attention, and neither money nor time was grudgingly bestowed to obtain their objects. The embellishment and improvement of the city of Edinburgh were keenly urged and carried on by one party, at the head of which was Provost Drummond. He was keenly opposed by another, which, though fewer in number, and not so well organized, was not to be despised; for it only wanted a leader of nerve and tact to stop or utterly undo all that had been done, and keep the city, as it had been for more than a century, in a position of stately decay. The wild project of building a bridge over the North Loch was keenly contested; and ruin and bankruptcy were foretold to the good town, if the provost and his party were not put out of the council before it was begun to be carried into execution. The heavens were illuminated by a glorious harvest moon, far in her southings; the High Street was deep in shade, like a long dark avenue; the dim oil lamps, perched high upon their wooden posts, few and far between, gleamed in the darkness like glow-worms--as two portly figures were seen in earnest discourse, walking, not with steady step, up the High Street. "By my troth, deacon!" said one of them, "I fear Luckie Bell has had too much of our company this night. I had no idea it was so late. There is the eighth chime of St. Giles': what hour will strike?" "Deil may care for me, Treasurer Kerr!" hiccuped the deacon. "Preserve me, deacon!" replied the treasurer, "it has struck twelve! What shall I say to the wife? It's to-morrow, deacon! it's to-morrow!" "Whisht, man, whisht! and no speak with such a melancholy voice," said the other. "Are you afraid of Kate? What have we to do with to-morrow? It is a day we shall never see, were we to live as long as Methusalem; for, auld as he was, he never saw 'to-morrow.' It's always to come, with its cares or joy." And the deacon stood and laughed aloud at his conceit. "Let to-morrow care for itself, Tom, say I. What can Kate say to you? What the deil need you care? Have we not had a happy evening? Have we not been well employed?" And they again moved on towards the Castlehill, where the deacon resided. Thomas Kerr was treasurer of the incorporation, and hoped at this election to succeed his present companion, whose influence in the incorporation was great, and to secure which he was, for the time, his humble servant, and assiduous in his attentions to him--so much so, that, although his own domicile was in St. Mary's Wynd, at the other extremity of the High Street, his ambition had overcome his fears of his better half, and, still ascending the long street, he resolved to accompany the deacon home; not, however, without some strong misgivings as to what he might encounter at his return. Both were in that happy state of excitement when cares and fears press lightly on the human mind; but the deacon, who had presided at the meeting, and spoken a good deal, was much more overcome than his treasurer; and the liquor had made him loquacious. "Tom, man," again said the deacon, "you walk by my side as douce as if you were afraid to meet Major Weir in his coach on your way down the wynd to Kate. Be cheerful man, as I am. Tell her she will be deaconess in a fortnight, and that will quiet her clatter, or I know not what will please her; they are all fond of honours. We have done good work this night--secured two votes against Drummond; other three would graze him. Pluck up your spirit, Tom, and be active; if we fail, the whole town will be turned upside down--confound him, and his wild projects, of what he calls improvements! The deil be in me, if I can help thinking--and it sticks in my gizzard yet--that he was at the bottom of the pulling down of my outside stair, by these drunken fellows of masons; the more by token that, when, after much trouble, I discovered them, and had them all safe in the guardhouse, he took a small bail, and only fined them two shillings a-piece, when it caused me an expense of ten good pounds to repair the mischief they had done; and, more than that, I was forced to erect it inside the walls; for they would not allow me to put it as it was, or grant me a Dean of Guild warrant on any other terms. They said it cumbered the foot-pavement, although, as you know, it had stood for fifty years. From that day to this I have been his firm opponent in and out of the council. Tom, are ye asleep? Where are your eyes? What high new wall is this? See, see, man!" "This beats all he has done yet!" said the treasurer; "a high white wall across the High Street, and neither slap nor style that I can see! Wonderful, wonderful! A strange man that provost!" "He has done it to vex me, since I came down to Luckie Bell's," replied the deacon. "It was not there in the early part of the evening. He must have had a hundred masons at it. But I'll make him repent this frolic to-morrow in the council, or my name is not Deacon Dickson!" "What can he mean by it, deacon?" rejoined the other. "I see no purpose it can serve, for my part." "But it does serve a purpose," hiccuped the deacon; "It will prevent me from getting home. It is done through malice against me, for the efforts I am making to get him and his party out of the council." During the latter part of this discourse, they had walked, or rather staggered, from side to side of the street. Between the pillars that, before the great fires in Edinburgh, formed the base of the high tenement standing there, and St. Giles' Church, being the entrance into the Parliament Square, and between St. Giles' and the Exchange buildings, the full moon threw a stream of light, filling both the openings, and leaving all above and below involved in deep shade. It was the moon's rays thus thrown upon the ground, and reaching up to the second windows of the houses, that formed the wall which the two officials observed. "Deil tak me," ejaculated the deacon, "but this is a fine trick to play upon the deacon of an incorporation in his own town! Were it not for exposing myself at this untimeous hour, I would raise the town, and pull it down at the head of the people. Faith, Tom, I will do it!" And he was on the point of shouting aloud at the pitch of his voice, when the more prudent treasurer put his hand upon the mouth of the enraged deacon. "For mercy's sake, be quiet!" said he. "What are you going to be about? Is this a time of night for a member of council to make a riot, and expose himself in the High Street? To-morrow will be time enough to pull it down by force, if you cannot get a vote of the council to authorise it. No doubt it is a round-about way and a sair climb; but just, like a wise and prudent man, as you always are, put up with it for one night, and come along down the Fishmarket Close, up the Cowgate, and climb the West Bow, to the deaconess, who, I have no doubt, is weary waiting on you." "Faith, Tom, I am in part persuaded you advise well for once," replied the deacon; "so I will act upon it, although I am your deacon, and all advice ought to come from me." And away they trudged. Both were corpulent men; but the deacon, having been several times in the council, was by much the heavier of the two. Down they went by the Fishmarket Close, and up the Cowgate, the deacon, sulky and silent, meditating all the way vengeance against the provost; but, in ascending the steep and winding Bow, his patience entirely left him; he stopped, more than once, to wipe the perspiration from his brow, recover his breath, and mutter curses on the head of the official. At length, they reached the deacon's home, where his patient spouse waited his arrival. Without uttering a word, he threw himself upon a chair, placing his hat and wig upon a table. It was some minutes before he recovered his breath sufficiently to answer the questions of his anxious wife, or give vent to the anger that was consuming him. At length, to the fifty-times put questions of-- "Deacon, what has vexed you so sorely? what has happened to keep you so late?" he broke forth-- "What vexes me? what has kept me so late? You may, with good reason, inquire that, woman. Our pretty provost is the sole cause. You may be thankful that you have seen my face this night." And he commenced and gave an exaggerated account of the immense wall that the provost had caused to be built, from the Crames to the Royal Exchange, reaching as high as the third story of the houses; and the great length of time he had been detained in examining it, to discover a way to get over or through it--all which the simple deaconess believed, and heartily joined her husband in abusing the provost. "Had a wall been built across the Castlehill," she said, "when the highlandmen were in the town, and the cannon balls flying down the street, I could have known the use of it; but to build a wall between the Crames and the Royal Exchange, to keep the Lawnmarket and Castlehill people from kirk and market--surely the man's mad!" The treasurer had been for some time gone ere the worthy couple retired to rest, big with the events that were to be transacted on the morrow, for the downfall of the innovating provost. The morning was still grey, the sun was not above the horizon, when the deaconess, as was her wont, arose to begin her household duties; but, anxious to communicate the strange conduct of the provost, in raising the wall of partition in the city, she seized her water stoups, and hurried to the public well at the Bowhead, to replenish them, and ease her overcharged mind of the mighty circumstance. Early as the hour was, many of the wives of the good citizens were already there, seated on their water stoups, and awaiting their turn to be supplied--their shrill voices mixing with those of the more sonorous tones of the highland water-carriers, and rising in violent contention on the stillness of the morning, like the confusion of Babel. The sensation caused by the relation of the deaconess of her husband's adventure of the preceding evening, was nothing impaired by the story being related at second-hand. Arms were raised in astonishment as she proceeded with her marvellous tale of the high wall built in so short a space by the provost. After some time spent in fruitless debate, it was agreed that they should go down in a body and examine this bold encroachment upon the citizens--and away they went, with the indignant deaconess at their head. For some hundred feet down the Lawnmarket, the buildings of the jail and Luckenbooths hid that part of the street from the phalanx of Amazons; but, intent to reconnoitre where the wall of offence was said to stand, they reached the Luckenbooths, and a shout of laughter and derision burst from the band. The deaconess stood petrified, the image of shame and anger. No wall was there--everything stood as it had done for years! "Lucky Dickson," cried one, "ye hae gien us a gowk's errand. I trow the deacon has been fu' yestreen. Where is the fearfu wa' ye spak o', that he neither could get through nor owre? Ha! ha! ha!" "Did ye really believe what he told you, Mrs. Dickson?" screamed another. "It was a silly excuse for being owre late with his cronies. He surely thinks you a silly woman to believe such tales. Were my husband to serve me so, I would let him hear of it on the deafest side of his head." "You need not doubt but that he shall hear of it," responded the deaconess; "and that before long. But, dear me, there must have been some witchcraft played off upon him and the treasurer last night; for, as true as death, they baith said they saw it with their een. There's been glamour in it. I fear Major Weir is playing more tricks in the town than riding his coach. There was no cause to tell me a lie as an excuse, for I am always happy to see him come hame safe at ony hour." By this time they had returned to the well, where they resumed their water vessels and hurried home, some to report the strange adventure the deacon had encountered the night before, and the deaconess to tell her better half of the delusion he had been under. Before breakfast time, the story was in every one's mouth, from the Castle to the Abbey-gate, and as far as the town extended. On a clear moonlight night, for many years afterwards, Deacon Dickson's dike was pointed out by the inhabitants; and at jovial parties we have heard it said--"Sit still a little longer; we are all sober enough to get over Deacon Dickson's wall." The treasurer, who was not so muddled by the effect of the evening's entertainment as the deacon, yet still impressed by the idea of the wall, proceeded homewards by the same route whereby he had reached the deacon's, but now much refreshed by the walk, and night, or rather morning air--for it was nearly one o'clock. As he approached the Bow-foot Well, the sobbing of a female broke the stillness of the night: he paused for a few minutes, and, looking towards the spot from whence the sound came, urged by humanity, he drew more near, till he perceived an aged female almost concealed by the dark shade of the well, against which she leaned to support herself. As soon as he saw her distinctly, with an emotion of grief and surprise he exclaimed-- "Mrs. Horner!--what has happened? Why are you here at this untimeous hour?--or what is the cause of your grief?" "Thomas Kerr," replied she, "I am a poor unfortunate woman, whom God alone can help. Pass on, and leave me to my misery." And she buried her face in her hands, while the large drops of anguish welled through her withered fingers. "I cannot leave you here in such a state," said he again. "Come home, my good woman, and I shall accompany you." "I have no home," was her sad reply. "Alas! I have no home but the grave. I am a poor, silly, undone woman, in my old age. Comfortable, and even rich as I was, I am now destitute. I have neither house nor hall to cover my grey hairs. Oh, if I were only dead and buried out of this sinful world, to hide the shame of my own child. An hour is scarce passed since I thought my heart would burst in my bosom before I would be enabled to reach the Greyfriars' church-yard, to lay my head upon Willie Horner's grave, and the graves of my innocent babes that sleep in peace by his side. I feared my strength would fail; for all I wish is to die there. I did reach the object of my wish, and laid myself upon the cold turf, and prayed for death to join as he had separated us; but my heart refused to break, and tears that were denied me before, began to stream from my eyes. The fear of unearthly sights came strong upon me, stronger even than my grief. Strange moanings and sounds came on the faint night wind, from Bloody Mackenzie's tomb, and the bright moonlight made the tombstones look like unearthly things. I rose and fled. I will tarry here, and die in sight of the gallows stone; for it was here my only brother fell, killed by a shot from cruel Porteous' gun; and on the fatal tree which that stone is meant to support, my grandfather cheerfully gave his testimony for the covenanted rights of a persecuted kirk. Leave me, Thomas Kerr--leave me to my destiny. I can die here with pleasure; and it is time I were dead. To whom can a mother look for comfort or pity, when her own son has turned her out upon a cold world? I am as Rachel mourning for her children. I will not be comforted." And the mourner wrapped her mantle round her head with the energy of despair, and, bending it upon the well, burst anew into an agony of sobs and tears. The treasurer felt himself in an awkward situation. He paused, and began to revolve in his mind what was best to be done at the moment--whether to obey the widow or the dictates of humanity. His better feeling prompted him to stay and do all in his power for the mourner, whom he had known in happier times; but his caution and avarice, backed by the dread of his spouse, urged him, with a force he felt every moment less able to resist, to leave her and hurry home. As he stood irresolute, the voice of the stern monitor sounded in the auricles of his heart like the knell of doom, and roused into fearful energy feelings he had long treated lightly, or striven to suppress when they rose upon him with greater force. He ran like a guilty criminal from the spot. The wailings of the crushed and pitiable object he had left, had given them a force he had never before known, and he urged his way down the Cowgate head as if he wished to fly from himself--the traces of the evening's enjoyments having fled, and their place being supplied by the pangs of an awakened conscience. There was, indeed, too much cause for his agitation, often hinted at by his acquaintances, but in its full extent only known in his own family--a striking similarity between the situation of his own mother and that of Widow Horner. The cases of the two aged individuals agreed in all points, save that he had not yet turned her out of doors; and conscience told him that even that result had been prevented, more by the patient endurance of his worthy parent herself, than any kindly feeling on the part of her son. The father of the treasurer, and the husband of Widow Horner, had both been industrious, and, for their rank in life, wealthy burgesses of the city. At their death, they had left their widows with an only child to succeed them and be a comfort to their mothers, who had struggled hard to retain and add to the wealth, until their sons were of age to succeed and manage it for themselves. Their sole and rich reward, as they anticipated, would be the pleasure of witnessing the prosperity of their sons. That they would be ungrateful, was an idea so repugnant to their maternal feelings, that, for a moment, it was never harboured in their bosoms. A cruel reality was fated to falsify their anticipations. The treasurer had, before he was twenty-five years of age, married a female, whom his fond mother had thought unworthy of her son; and to prevent the marriage she had certainly done all that lay in her power. Her endeavours and remonstrances had only served to hasten the event she wished so much to retard and hinder from taking place; the consequence was, that the hated alliance was made several weeks before she was made aware of it, by the kindness of a gossiping neighbour or two. Much as she felt, and sore as her heart was wrung, she, like a prudent woman, shed her tears of bitter anguish at the want of filial regard in her son, in secret. She at once resolved to pardon this act of ingratitude, and, for her son's sake, to receive her unwelcome daughter-in-law with all the kindness she could assume on the trying occasion. Not so her daughter-in-law, who was of an overbearing, subtile, and vindictive turn of mind. The mother of her husband had wounded her pride; she resolved never to forget or forgive; and, before she had crossed her threshold, a deep revenge was vowed against her, as soon as it was in her power to execute it. The first meeting was embarrassing on both sides; each had feelings to contend against and disguise; yet it passed off well to outward appearance--the widow from love to her son, striving to love his wife--the latter, again, with feigned smiles and meekness, affecting to gain her mother-in-law's esteem; and so well did she act her part, that, before many days after their first interview had passed, Thomas was requested to bring his wife into the house, to reside in the family, and to save the expense of a separate establishment. From that hour the house of Widow Kerr began to cease to be her own, for the first few months almost imperceptibly. Thomas, although a spoiled child, was not naturally of an unfeeling disposition, but selfish and capricious from over-indulgence. Amidst all his faults, there was still a love and esteem of his mother, which his wife, seeing it would be dangerous openly to attack it, had resolved to undermine, and therefore laid her wicked schemes accordingly. In the presence of her husband, she was, for a time, all smiles and affability; but, in his absence, she said and did a thousand little nameless things, to tease and irritate the good old dame. This produced complaints to her son, who, when he spoke to his wife of them, was only answered by her tears and lamentations, for the misery she suffered in being the object of his mother's dislike. To himself she referred, if she did not do all in her power to please his mother. These scenes had become of almost daily occurrence, and were so artfully managed, that the mother had the appearance of being in the fault. Gradually, the son's affection became deadened towards his parent; she had ceased to complain, and now suffered in silence. For her there was no redress--for, in a fit of fondness, she had made over to her son all she possessed in the world. She was thus in his power; yet her heart revolted at exposing his cruelty. The revenge of the wife was not complete, even after the spirit of the victim was completely crushed, and she had ceased to complain. Often the malignant woman would affect lowness of spirits, and even tears, refusing to tell the cause of her grief until urged by endearments, and obtaining an assurance that he would not regard her folly in yielding to her feelings; but she could not help it--were it not for her love to him, she knew not in what she had ever offended his mother, save in preferring him to every other lover who had sought her hand. Thus, partly by artifice, but more by her imperious turn of mind, which she had for years ceased to conceal, the treasurer was completely subdued to her dictation; and, by a just retribution, he was punished for his want of filial affection, for he was as much the sufferer from her temper as his mother was the victim of her malice. With a crushed heart, the old woman ate her morsel in the kitchen, moistened by her tears. Even her grandchildren were taught to insult and wound her feelings. So short-sighted is human nature, the parents did not perceive that by this proceeding they were laying rods in pickle for themselves, which, in due time, would be brought in use, when the recollection of their own conduct would give tenfold poignancy to every blow. On the occasion to which we have alluded, the situation and wailings of Widow Horner still rung in the ears of the treasurer. All his acts of unkindness to his parent passed before him like a hideous phantasmagoria as he hurried down the Cowgate. He even became afraid of himself, as scene after scene arose to his awakened conscience--all the misery and indignities that had been heaped upon his parent by his termagant wife, he himself either looking on with indifference, or supporting his spouse in her cruelty. Goaded by remorse, he still hurried on. The celerity of his movements seemed to relieve him. He had formed no fixed resolution as to how he was to act upon his arrival at home. A dreamy idea floated in his tortured mind that he had some fearful act to perform to ease it, and do justice to his parent; yet, as often as he came to the resolution to dare every consequence, his courage would again quail at the thought of encountering one who had, in all contentions, ever been the victor, and riveted her chains the more closely around him on every attempt he had made to break them. In this pitiable state, he had got as far towards home as the foot of the College Wynd, when the sound of a carriage approaching rapidly from the east roused him and put all other thoughts to flight. With a start of horror and alarm, he groaned--"The Lord have mercy upon me! The Major's coach! If I see it, my days are numbered." And, with an effort resembling the energy of despair, he rushed into a stair foot, and, placing both his hands upon his face to shut out from his sight the fearful object, supported himself by leaning upon the wall. As the sound increased, so did the treasurer's fears; but what words can express his agony when it drew up at the foot of the very stair in which he stood, and a sepulchral voice issued from it-- "Is he here?" "Just come," was the reply in a similar tone. "Then all's right." "O God! have mercy on my sinful soul!" screamed the treasurer, as he sank senseless out of the foot of the stair upon the street. How long he remained in this state, or what passed in the interval, he could give no account. When he awoke to consciousness, he found himself seated in a carriage jolting along at a great speed, supported on each side by what appeared to him headless trunks; for the bright moonlight shone in at the carriage window, and exhibited two heads detached from their bodies dangling from the top. The glance was momentary. Uttering a deep groan, he shut his eyes to avoid the fearful sight. He would have spoken; but his palsied tongue refused to move, even to implore for mercy. Wringing his hands in despair, he would have sunk to the bottom of the coach upon his knees, but was restrained by the two figures. He felt their grasp upon his arms, firm as one of his own vices. The same fearful voice he had first heard fell again on his ear--"Sit still. Utter no cry. Make a clean breast, as you hope for mercy at the major's tribunal. He knows you well; but wishes to test your truth. Proceed!" With a memory that called up every deed he had ever done, and sunk to nothingness any of the actions he had at one time thought good, he seemed as if he now stood before his Creator. All his days on earth appeared to have been one long black scene of sin and neglected duties. His head sunk upon his breast, and the tears of repentance moistened his bosom. When he had finished his minute confession, a pause ensued of a few minutes. The moon, now far in the west, was sinking behind a dense mass of clouds. The wind began to blow fitfully, with a melancholy sound, along the few objects that interrupted its way, and around the fearful conveyance in which he sat, more dead than alive. The measured tramp of the horses, and rattling of the carriage, fell on his ear like the knell of death. He felt a load at his heart, as if the blood refused to leave it and perform its functions. Human nature could not have sustained itself under such circumstances much longer. The carriage stopped; the door opened with violence; his breathing became like a quick succession of sobs; his ears whizzed, almost producing deafness. Still he was fearfully awake to every sensation; a painful vitality seemed to endow every nerve with tenfold its wonted activity; all were in action at the moment; his whole frame tingled; and the muscles seemed to quiver on his bones. The same hollow voice broke the silence. "Thomas Kerr, your sincerity and contrition has delivered you from my power this once. Beware of a relapse. Go, do the duty of a son to your worthy parent. You have been a worse man than ever I was on earth. I have my parent's blessing with me in the midst of my sufferings; and there is a soothing in it which the wretched can alone feel." Quick as thought he was lifted from the coach and seated upon the ground. With the speed of a whirlwind, as it appeared to him, the carriage disappeared, and the sound died away. For some time he sat bewildered, as if he had fallen from the clouds. Gradually he began to breathe more freely, and felt as if a fearful night-mare had just passed away. Slowly the events of the night rose in regular succession. The forlorn and desolate widow; the hideous spectres in the coach, that, without heads, spake and moved with such energy--the whole now passed before him so vividly that he shuddered. At first he hoped all had been a fearful dream; but the cold, damp ground on which he sat banished the fond idea. He felt, in all its force, that he was now wide awake, as he groped with his hands and touched the damp grass beneath him. All around was enveloped in impenetrable darkness. Not one star shone in the murky sky. How much of the night had passed, or where he at present was, he had no means of ascertaining. The first use he made of his restored faculties was to rise upon his knees, and pour out his soul to God, imploring pardon and protection in this hour of suffering. He rose with a heart much lightened, and felt his energies restored. Stumbling onwards, he proceeded, he knew not whither, until, bruised by falls and faint from exhaustion, he again seated himself upon a stone, to wait patiently the approach of dawn. Thus, melancholy and pensive, he sat, eager to catch the faintest sound; but all was silent as the grave, save the faint rustling of the long grass, waving around him in the night breeze, that was chilling his vitals, as it, in fitful gusts, swept past him. The hope of surviving the night had almost forsaken him, when the distant tramp of a horse fell on his longing ears. Then the cheerful sound of a popular air, whistled to cheer the darkness, gladdened his heart. In an ecstasy of pleasure, he sprung to his feet. The rolling of wheels over the rugged road, was soon added to the cheering sounds. With caution he approached them over hedge and ditch, until, dark as it was, he could discern the object of his search almost before him--a carrier's cart, with the driver seated upon the top, whistling and cracking his whip to the time. "Stop friend, for mercy's sake, and take me up beside you." "Na, na," replied the carrier; "I will do no such foolish action. Hap, Bassie! hap!" And, smacking his whip, the horse increased its speed. "Come not near my cart, or I will make Cæsar tear you in pieces. Look to him, Cæsar!" And the snarling of a dog gave fearful warning to the poor treasurer to keep at a distance; but, rendered desperate by his situation, he continued to follow, calling out-- "Stop, if you are a Christian; for mercy's sake, stop and hear me. I am a poor lost creature, sick and unable to harm, but rich enough to reward you, if you will save my life. I am no robber, but a decent burgess and freeman of Edinburgh; and where I am at present I cannot tell." "Woo, Bassie! woo!" responded the carrier. "Silence, Cæsar! Preserve us from all evil! Amen! Sure you cannot be Thomas Kerr, whose shop is in Saint Mary's Wynd?" "The very same; but who are you that know my voice?" "Who should I be," rejoined he, "but Watty Clinkscales, the North-Berwick carrier, on my way to the town; for you may know well enough that Wednesday morning is my time to be in Edinburgh; but come up beside me, man, and do not stand longer there. If you have lost yourself, as you say, I will with pleasure give you a ride home this dark morning; but tell me how, in all the world, came you to be standing at the Figgate Whins, instead of being in your warm bed? I am thinking, friend Kerr, you have been at a corporation supper last night." While the carrier was speaking, the treasurer mounted the cart, and took his seat beside him. They moved slowly on. To all the questions of the carrier, evasive answers were returned; the treasurer felt no desire to be communicative. As they reached the Watergate, the first rays of morning shone upon Arthur's Seat and the Calton Hill. Before they entered, the treasurer dismounted, having first rewarded his conveyer to the town, and proceeded to his home by the south back of the Canongate, faint and unwell. When he reached his own door, he was nearly exhausted. It was opened to him by his anxious mother, who had watched for him through the whole night. Alarmed by his haggard and sickly appearance, timidly she inquired what had happened to him, to cause such an alteration in his looks in so short a time. The tears started into his eyes as he looked at her venerable form, degraded by her attire. He took her hand in both his, and, pressing it to his lips, faltered out-- "Oh, my mother! can you pardon your undutiful son? Only say you will forgive me." "Tammy, my bairn," she replied, "what have I to pardon? Is not all my pleasure in life to see you happy? What signifies what becomes of me, the few years I have to be on earth? But you are ill, my son--you are very ill!" "I am indeed very unwell, both in body and mind," said he. "Say you pardon me, for the manner in which I have allowed you to be treated since my marriage; and give me your blessing, lest I die without hearing you pronounce it." "Bless you, my Thomas, and all that is yours, my son! with my blessing, and the blessing of God, which is above all riches! But go to your bed, my bairn, and do not let me make dispeace in the family." At this moment his spouse opened the door of the bedroom, and began, in her usual manner, to rate and abuse him for keeping untimeous hours. Still holding his mother's hands in his, he commanded her, in a voice he had never before assumed to her, to be silent. She looked at him in amazement, as if she had doubted the reality of his presence; and was on the point of becoming more violent, when his fierce glance, immediately followed by the sunken, sickly look which one night of suffering had given him, alarmed her for his safety, and she desisted, anxiously assisting his mother to undress and put him to bed. He soon fell into a troubled sleep, from which he awoke in the afternoon, unrefreshed and feverish. His wife was seated by his bed when he awoke. Turning his languid eye towards her, he inquired for his mother. A scene of angry altercation would have ensued; but he was too ill to reply to the irritating language and reproaches of his spouse. The anger increased his fever, and delirium came on towards the evening. A physician was sent for, who at once pronounced his life to be in extreme danger; and, indeed, for many days it was despaired of. The horrors of that night were the theme of his discourse, while the fever raged in his brain. The smallest noise, even the opening of a door, made him shriek and struggle to escape from those who watched him. His efforts were accompanied by cries for mercy from Major Weir; his bed was the coach, and his wife and mother the headless phantoms. Clinkscales had told the manner and where he had found him, on the morning he was taken ill. The sensation this excited through the city became extreme. Deacon Dickson told the hour in which he left his house, and the language of the sufferer filled up the space until he was met by the carrier. The nocturnal apparition of the major's carriage had, for many years, been a nursery tale of Edinburgh. Many firmly believed in its reality. There were not awanting several who affirmed they had seen it; and scarce an inhabitant of the Cowgate or St. Mary's Wynd, but thought they had heard it often before the present occurrence. That the treasurer had by some means been transported to the Figgate Whins in the major's coach, a great many firmly believed; for two of the incorporation on the same night had been alarmed by a coach driving furiously down the Cowgate; but they could not describe its appearance, as they had hid themselves until it passed, fearful of seeing the spectre carriage and its unearthly attendants. It was at least certain that, of late, many had been aroused out of their sleep by the noise of a carriage; and, the report gaining ground, the terror of the citizens became so great that few chose to be upon any of the streets after twelve at night, unless urged by extreme necessity. This state of foolish alarm, as the magistrates called it, could not be allowed to continue within their jurisdiction; and they resolved to investigate the whole affair. Several were examined privately; but the treasurer was too ill to be spoken to, even by his friend the deacon. There was a strange harmony in the statements of several who had really distinctly heard the sounds of horses' feet, and the rumbling of a carriage, and the ravings of the unfortunate treasurer. The authorities were completely at a stand how to proceed. Several shook their heads and looked grave; others proposed to request the ministers of the city to watch the major's carriage, and pray it out of the city. But the provost's committee sent for the captain of the train-bands, and consulted with him: he agreed to have twelve of the band and six of the town-guard in readiness by twelve at night, to waylay the cause of annoyance, should it make its appearance, and unravel the mystery. That there was some unlawful purpose connected with it, several of the council had little doubt. These meetings were private, and the proceedings are not on record to guide us. It was with considerable difficulty the captain could get the number of his band required for the duty; they chose rather to pay the fine, believing it to be a real affair of diablerie; for their earliest recollections were associated with the truth of the major's night airings. For several nights the watch was strictly kept by many of the citizens; but in vain. No appearance disturbed the usual stillness of the night in the city; not even the sound of a carriage was heard. The whole affair gradually lost its intense interest, and ceased to be the engrossing theme of conversation. The sceptics triumphed over their believing acquaintance; and the mysterious occurrence was allowed to rest. The election week for deacon of the crafts at length arrived. All was bustle among the freemen; the rival candidates canvassing and treating, and their partisans bustling about everywhere. City politics ran high; but the treasurer, although recovered, was still too weak to take an active part in the proceedings. Deacon Dickson, on this account, redoubled his exertions--for the indisposition of his treasurer had deranged his plans; and it was of great importance, in his eyes, to have one of his party elected in his place. Had Kerr been able to move about, to visit and flatter his supporters, his election was next to certain, so well had the whole affair been managed. Kerr was accordingly dropped by him, and a successor pitched upon, who could at this eventful period aid him in his efforts against the candidate of the Drummondites, as the supporters of the provost were called. On the Thursday, when the long lists were voted, the deacon carried his list, and every one of the six were tried men, and hostile to the innovations of the provost and his party. The deacon was in great spirits, and told the treasurer, whom he visited as soon as his triumph was secure, that, if not cut off the list in shortening the leet, his election was sure. On the list coming down from the council, neither Kerr nor the person Dickson wished were on the leet; both had been struck off, and the choice behoved to fall upon one of three, none of whom had hoped, at this time, to succeed to office. Their joy was so much the greater, and the election dinner not less substantial. It was the evening of the election, closely bordering upon the morning--for all respected the Sabbath-day, and even on this joyous occasion, would not infringe upon it--that a party of some ten or twelve were seen to issue from one of the narrow closes in the High Street, two and two, arm in arm, dressed in the first style of fashion, with bushy wigs, cocked hats, and gold-headed canes. At their head was, now old Deacon Dickson, and his successor in office. They were on their way, accompanying their new deacon home to his residence, near the foot of St. Mary's Wynd in the Cowgate, and to congratulate the deaconess on her husband's elevation to the council. None of them were exactly tipsy; but in that middle state when men do not stand upon niceties, neither are scared by trifles. The fears of the major's coach were not upon them; or, if any thought of it came over them, their numbers gave them confidence. Leaving the High Street, they proceeded down Merlin's Wynd to the Cowgate. Scarce had the head of the procession emerged from the dark thoroughfare, when the sound of a carriage, in rapid advance, fell on their astonished ears. The front stood still, and would have retreated back into the wynd, but could not; for those behind, unconscious of the cause of the stoppage, urged on and forced them out into the street. There was not a moment for reflection, scarce to utter a cry, before the fearful equipage was full upon them. Retreat was still impossible; and those in front, by the pressure from behind, becoming desperate by their situation, the two deacons seized the reins of the horses, to prevent their being ridden over. In a second, the head of the coachman (held in his hand!) was launched at Deacon Dickson, with so true an aim that it felled him to the ground, with the loss of his hat and wig. Though stunned by the blow, his presence of mind did not forsake him. Still holding on by the reins, and dragged by the horses, he called lustily for his companions to cut the traces. The head of the coachman, in the meantime, had returned to his hand, and been launched forth, with various effect, on the aggressors. Other heads flew from the windows on each side, and from the coach-box, in rapid, darting motions. The cries of the assailants resounded through the stillness of the night; fear had fled their bosoms; there was scarce one but had received contusions from the flying heads, and rage urged them on to revenge. Candles began to appear at the windows, exhibiting faces pale with fear. Some of the bolder of the male inhabitants, recognising the voice of some relative or acquaintance in the cries of the assailants, ran to the street and joined the fray. Dickson, who had never relinquished his first hold, recovered himself, severely hurt as he was by the feet of the horses, which were urged on, short as the struggle was, up to the College Wynd, in spite of the resistance. At the moment the carriage reached the foot of the wynd, the door on the left burst open, and two figures leaped out, disappearing instantly, although closely pursued. In the confusion of the pursuit, the coachman also disappeared. No one could tell how, or in what manner he had fled, he appeared to fall from the box among the crowd; and, when several stooped to lift and secure him, all that remained in their hands was a greatcoat, with basket work within the shoulders, so contrived as to conceal the head and neck of the wearer, to which was fastened a stout cord, the other end of which was attached to an artificial head, entangled in the strife between the horses and the pole of the coach. Two similar dresses were also found inside. The coach was heavily laden; but with what, the authorities never could discover, although envious persons said that several of the tradesmen's wives in the Cowgate afterwards wore silk gowns that had never before had one in their family, had better and stronger tea at their parties, and absolutely abounded in tobacco for many weeks. But whether these were the spoils of the combat with the infernal coach, or the natural results of successful industry, was long a matter of debate. As for the coach and horses, they became the prize of Deacon Dickson and his friends, never having been claimed by the major. The sensation created on the following day by the exaggerated reports of the fearful rencounter and unheard of bravery of the tradesmen, was in proportion to the occasion. Several of the assailants were reported to have been killed, and, among the rest, the deacon. For several days, the inn-yard of the White Hart was crowded to excess to view the carriage and horses. As for the deacon, no doubt, he was considerably bruised about the legs; but the glory he had acquired was a medicine far more efficacious to his hurts than any the faculty could have prescribed. At the first toll of the bells for church, he was seen descending from the Castle Hill towards the Tron Church, limping much more, many thought, than there was occasion for, supported by his battered gold-headed cane on one side, and holding by the arm of the deaconess on the other. With an affected modesty, which no general after the most brilliant victory could better have assumed, he accepted the congratulations he had come out to receive. When he entered the church, a general whisper ran through it, and all eyes were upon him, while the minister had not yet entered. This was the proudest moment of his life. He had achieved, with the assistance of a few friends, what the train-bands and city-guard had failed to accomplish; that it was more by accident, and against his will he had performed the feat, he never once allowed to enter his mind, and stoutly denied when he heard it hinted at by those who envied him the glory he had acquired. As soon as the afternoon's service was over, he proceeded to the treasurer's house, to congratulate him on his re-election to the treasurership, and give a full account of his adventure. To his exaggerated account, Kerr listened with the most intense interest; a feeling of horror crept over his frame as the deacon dwelt upon the blow he had received from the coachman's head, and the efficacious manner in which the two inside phantoms had used theirs, concluding with-- "It was a fearful and unequal strife--devils against mortal men." "Do you really think they were devils, deacon? Was it really their own heads they threw about?" said the treasurer. "I am not clear to say they were devils," replied the other; "but they fought like devils. Severe blows they gave, as I feel this moment. They could not be anything canny; for they got out from among our hands like a flash of light." The deacon's vanity would have tempted him to say he believed them to be not of this earth; but the same feeling restrained him. Where there had been so many actors in the affair, he had as yet had no opportunity of learning their sentiments; and, above all things, he hated to be in a minority, or made an object of ridicule. Turning aside the direct question of the treasurer, he continued-- "Whatever they were, the horses are two as bonny blacks as any gentleman could wish to put into his carriage. By my troth, I have made a good adventure of it? I mean to propose, and I have no doubt I shall carry my motion, that they and the major's coach be sold, and the proceeds spent in a treat to the incorporation. Make haste, man, and get better. You are as welcome to a share as if you had been one of those present; although, indeed, I cannot give you a share of the glory of putting Major Weir and his devils to the rout--and no small glory it is, on the word of a deacon, treasurer." The load that had for many days pressed down the treasurer's spirits gradually passed off as the deacon proceeded, and a new light shone on his mind; his countenance brightened up. "Deacon," he said, "the truth begins to dawn upon me, and I feel a new man. Confess at once that the whole has been a contrivance of the smugglers to run their goods, availing themselves of the real major's coach. It was a bold game, deacon, and, like all unlawful games, a losing one in the end. Still, it is strange what inducement they could have had for their cruel conduct to me on that miserable night, or how I was enabled to survive, or retained my reason. I have been often lost in fearful misery upon this subject since the fever left me; but you, my friend, have restored peace to my mind." And they parted for the evening. The treasurer's recovery was now most rapid. In a few days, all traces of his illness were nearly obliterated, and he went about his affairs as formerly. An altered man--all his wife's influence for evil was gone for ever; calmly and dispassionately he remonstrated with her; for a few days she struggled hard to retain her abused power; tears and threatened desertion of his house were used--but he heard her unmoved, still keeping his stern resolve with a quietness of manner which her cunning soon perceived it was not in her power to shake. She ceased to endeavour to shake it. His mother was restored to her proper station, and all was henceforth peace and harmony. Several years had rolled on. The deaconship was, next election, bestowed upon Treasurer Kerr. He had served with credit, and his business prospered. The adventure with the major's coach was only talked of as an event of times long passed, when, one forenoon, an elderly person, in a seaman's dress, much soiled, entered his workshop, and, addressing him by name, requested employment. Being very much in want of men at the time, he at once said he had no objection to employ him, if he was a good hand. "I cannot say, I am, now what I once was in this same shop," he replied. "It is long since I forsook the craft; but, if you are willing to employ me, I will do my best." The stranger was at once engaged, and gave satisfaction to his employer--betraying a knowledge of events that had happened to the family, and that were only traditionary to his master. His curiosity became awakened; to gratify which, he took the man home, one evening, after his day's work was over. For some time after they entered the house, the stranger became pensive and reserved--his eyes, every opportunity, wandering to the mother of his master, with a look of anxious suspense. At length, he arose from his seat, and said, in a voice tremulous with emotion-- "Mistress! my ever-revered mistress! have you entirely forgot Watty Brown, the runaway apprentice of your husband?" "Watty Brown, the yellow-haired laddie," ejaculated she, "I can never forget. He was always a favourite of mine. You cannot be him; your hair is grey?" "My good mistress, old and grey-headed as you see me," said he, "I am Watty Brown; but much has passed over my once yellow head to bleach it white as you see. My master here was but an infant in your arms, when I left Edinburgh. Often have I rocked him in his cradle. After all that has passed, I am here again, safe. I am sure there is no one present would bring me into trouble for what is now so long passed." "How time flies!" said she. "The Porteous mob is in my mind as if it had happened last week. O Watty! you were always a reckless lad. Sore, sore you have rued, I do not doubt, that night. Do tell us what has come of you since?" "Well, mistress, you recollect there was little love between the apprentices of Edinburgh and Captain Porteous. All this might have passed off in smart skirmishes on a king's birthday, or so; but his brutal behaviour at poor Robinson's execution, and slaughter of the townsmen, could not be forgiven by lord or tradesman. Well, as all the land knows, he was condemned, and all were satisfied; for the guilty was to suffer. But his pardon came; the bloodshedder of the innocent was to leave the jail as if he had done nothing wrong! Was this to be endured? Murmurs and threats were in every tradesman's mouth; the feuds of the apprentices were quelled, for a time; all colours joined in hatred of the murderer. Yet no plan of operations was adopted. In this combustible frame of mind, the drums of the city beat to arms. I rushed from this very house to know the cause, and saw the trades' lads crowding towards the jail. I inquired what was their intention. "'To execute righteous judgment!' a strange voice said, in the crowd. "I returned to the shop; and, taking the forehammer, as the best weapon I could find, in my haste, with good will joined, and was at the door amongst the foremost of those who attempted to break it open. Numbers had torches. Lustily did I apply my hammer to its studded front. Vainly did I exert myself, until fire was put to it, when it at length gave way. As I ceased from my efforts, one of the crowd, carrying a torch, put a guinea into my hand, and said-- "'Well done, my good lad. Take this; you have wrought for it. If you are like to come to trouble for this night's work, fly to Anstruther, and you will find a friend.' "While he spoke, those who had entered the jail were dragging Porteous down the stairs. My heart melted within me at the piteous sight. My anger left me, as his wailing voice implored mercy. I left the throng, who were hurrying him up towards the Lawnmarket, and hastened back to the workshop, where I deposited the hammer, and threw myself upon my bed; but I could not remain. The image of the wretched man, as he was dragged forth, appeared to be by my side. Partly to know the result, partly to ease my mind, I went again into the street. The crowds were stealing quietly to their homes. From some neighbour apprentices I learned the fatal catastrophe. I now became greatly alarmed for my safety, as numbers who knew me well had seen my efforts against the door of the jail. Bitterly did I now regret the active part I had taken. My immediate impulse was to fly from the city; but in what direction I knew not. Thus irresolute, I stood at the Netherbow Port, when the same person that gave me the guinea at the jail-door approached to where I stood. Embracing the opportunity, I told him the fear I was in of being informed upon, when the magistrates began to investigate and endeavour to discover those who had been active in the affair. "'Well, my good fellow, follow me. It will not serve your purpose standing there.' "There were about a dozen along with him. We proceeded to the beach at Fisherrow--going round Arthur's Seat, by Duddingston--and were joined by many others. Two boats lay for them, on the beach, at a distance from the harbour. We went on board and set sail for Fife, where we arrived before morning dawned. I found my new friend and acquaintance was captain and owner of a small vessel, who traded to the coast of Holland. He scrupled not to run a cargo upon his own account, without putting the revenue officers to any trouble, either measuring or weighing it. He had been the intimate friend of Robinson, and often sailed in the same vessel. I joined his crew; and, on the following day, we sailed for Antwerp. But why should I trouble you with the various turns my fortunes have taken for the last thirty-seven years? At times, I was stationary, and wrought at my trade; at others, I was at sea. My home has principally been in Rotterdam; but my heart has ever been in Auld Reekie. Many a time I joined the crew of a lugger, and clubbed my proportion of the adventure; my object being--more than the gain--to get a sight of it; for I feared to come to town--being ignorant as to how matters stood regarding my share in the Porteous riot. We heard in Holland only of the threats of the government; but I was always rejoiced to hear that no one had been convicted. Several years had passed before it was safe for me to return; and, when it was, I could not endure the thought of returning to be a bound apprentice, to serve out the few months of my engagement that were to run when I left my master. Years passed on. I had accumulated several hundred guilders, with the view of coming to end my days in Edinburgh, when I got acquainted with a townsman deeply engaged in the smuggling line. I unfortunately embarked my all. He had some associates in the Cowgate, who disposed of, to great advantage, any goods he succeeded in bringing to them. His colleagues on shore had provided a coach and horses, with suitable dresses, to personate Major Weir's carriage, agreeably to the most approved description. The coach and horses were furnished by an innkeeper, whom they supplied with liquors at a low rate. My unfortunate adventure left the port, and I anxiously waited its return for several months; but neither ship nor friend made their appearance. At length he came to my lodgings in the utmost poverty--all had been lost. Of what use was complaint? He had lost ten times more than I had--everything had gone against him. His narrative was short. He reached the coast in safety, and landed his cargo in part, when he was forced to run for it, a revenue cutter coming in sight. After a long chase, he was forced to run his vessel on shore, near St. Andrew's, and got ashore with only his clothes, and the little cash he had on board. He returned to where his goods were deposited--all that were saved. The coach was rigged out, and reached the Cowgate in the usual manner, when it was attacked and captured, in spite of stout resistance, by a party of citizens. What of the goods remained in the neighbourhood of Musselburgh, were detained for the loss of the horses and coach. I was now sick of Holland, and resolved to return, poor as I left it, to the haunts of my happiest recollections. To be rich, and riches still accumulating in a foreign land, the idea of what we can at any time enjoy, a return--makes it bearable. But poverty and disappointment sadden the heart of the exile; and make the toil that would be counted light at home, a burden that sinks him early in a foreign grave." "Did your partner make no mention of carrying off one of the townsmen in the coach?" said the treasurer. "Excuse me, master, for not mentioning it," replied Walter. "He did give me a full account of all that happened to you, and all you said; and regretted, when he heard of your illness, what, at the time, he was forced to do in self-preservation. When you fell out of the stair he meant to enter, he knew not who you were--a friend he knew you could not be, for only other two in the city had his secret. That you were a revenue officer, on the look-out for him, was his first idea. He was as much alarmed as you, until he found you were insensible. Not a moment was to be lost. The goods were hurried out, and you placed in the carriage, which was on its way from town before you showed any symptoms of returning consciousness. His first intention was to carry you on board his lugger, and convey you to Holland, then sell you to the Dutch East India Company, that you might never return to tell what you had been a witness of that night. The terror you were in, the sincerity of your confession, and belief that you were in the power of the major, saved you from the miserable fate he had fixed for you. Pity struggled against the caution and avarice which urged him to take you away. Pity triumphed--you had been both play and schoolfellows in former years. You were released--you know the rest." The wife and mother scarce breathed, while Wattie related the danger the treasurer had been in; he himself gave a shudder--all thanked God for his escape. Wattie Brown continued in his employ, as foreman over his work, and died about the year 1789. Widow Horner did not long survive that night of intense anguish--she died of a broken heart in her son's house. It was remarked by all, that, while Thomas Kerr prospered, Walter Horner, who was at one time much the richer man, gradually sank into the most abject circumstances, and died a pensioner on his incorporation, more despised than pitied. And thus ends our tale of Major Weir's famous night airings in Edinburgh. THE DIVINITY STUDENT. "So fades, so perishes, grows dim, and dies, All that the world is proud of." WORDSWORTH. Although the revelations of a divine philosophy have taught us no more to entertain the blind notions of the Epicureans of old, that everything is the result of chance--or to agree with the Stoics, that the revolutions of the planetary system decree the fates and regulate the actions of mankind--yet the vicissitudes of human life, and the uncertainties of earthly hope, continue no less frequently to be the theme of the poet, and the regret of the philosopher. The truth is deep; nor is it ever suffered to be so long uncalled forth from our memories as to allow of its force being blunted. Striking and melancholy examples continually crowd upon us. Daily we are summoned to behold some noble aspiration blasted--to behold youth cut off in the bud--learning disappointed of its reward--worth suffering under the grip of misfortune--and industry sowing the wind to reap the whirlwind. These are dread and warning lessons to us, yet affording the surest marks of proof, that this sublunary and distempered world cannot be the final abode of man; that the seeds sown here will grow to maturity in a more genial clime; and that the events which now baffle the scrutiny of our moral reason, will yet appear to us revealed in clear and unperplexed beauty. The story I am now about to narrate is simple in the extreme, yet affording scope for melancholy, and, it is to be hoped, not unprofitable meditation. Robert Brown, a Scottish carrier, living in a remote district in Roxburghshire, contrived to bring up his family, consisting of five sons, by a course of unwearied industry and rigid economy, to an age at which the youngest had attained his sixteenth year--a time when it was thought by his friends that he might be able to take himself as a burthen from off his father's hands, and set about something towards his ultimate provision for life. Consistently with their humble condition in the world, his brothers had all received the usual education of the Scottish peasantry--that is to say, they had been taught reading, writing, and the elements of arithmetic; and, at suitable ages, had been alternately called from school to assist in farm work. They were fortunate in obtaining employment from the neighbouring landlords; and, though the servants of different masters, none of them were above two miles distant from their father's cottage. William, the youngest, had been destined from the cradle for something superior to the rest. They looked far forward, through the vista of years, to him as the pride of their old age, and the representative who was to carry down the respectability, credit, and good name of the family, to the succeeding generation. So far from the rest being chagrined at the partiality thus openly avowed, they contributed, "each in his degree," to the furtherance of the plan chalked out by their parents; judging, with honest pride, if William was destined to move in a sphere somewhat superior to their own, that a portion of the common approbation must necessarily be reflected on themselves, his relations. Thus all were united and amiable; no selfish and grovelling feelings introduced themselves to mar the cordiality of affection, or interfere with motives so upright and so honourable. The object of this concentrated flood of generous love was certainly not an unworthy one. Having been born some years posterior to the other members of the family, he had never been a sharer in the youthful sports of his brothers, but was remembered by them as a favourite object on their Saturday evening meetings at their father's cottage. The frame of William was by no means so robust as that of the rest; and his dark glossy hair only set off more plainly the pale, and sometimes sallow hue of complexion. From both of these circumstances, his comparative youth, and his comparative delicacy of constitution, he ran a considerable chance of being, what is commonly termed, a spoiled child. He had, of course, contracted, from indulgence, a waywardness of disposition, which, however, by his innate modesty and good sense, was kept within very excusable limits, and soon wore entirely away, as the forwardness of boyhood began to subside into the more pensive thoughtfulness of maturer years. After having exhausted all the means of instruction which an adjacent town supplied, he was obliged to have recourse to the grammar school of a neighbouring parish, about four miles distant from his home. For two years, neither summer's heat nor winter's snow were for a day allowed to frustrate his walking thither. He never returned till late in the afternoon; sometimes the evening star was the herald of his approach; and, during the brief days, towards the end or about the commencement of the year, darkness had set in before his face glimmered by the bickering fire of his parental hearth. Habits of temperance had been familiar to him all his days. Some cheese and oaten cake, regularly deposited in his satchel, served him for dinner, during the interval of school hours, after mid-day--and these he ate, walking about or reclining on the turf; but the warm tea and toast always awaited his evening arrival, and were set before him with all a mother's mindfulness and punctuality. He was diligent at his books; and, being endowed by nature with good parts, he made a very fair and promising progress. He had none of that intellectual cleverness which makes advances by sudden fits and starts, and then relapses into apathy and idleness; but his steady industry, his attention, and his assiduity, gave omens favourable to his success, while his gentle and conciliatory manners gained him not only the love of his schoolfellows, but the esteem of his instructor. It was now evident, that, from the pains and expense taken in regard to his education, he was destined for the pulpit--that climax of the honours and distinctions ever aimed at by a poor but respectable Scottish family. Years of rigid economy had been passed, almost without affording any hope as to the ultimate success and attainment of their laudable end. His destination, almost unknown to himself, having been thus early fixed, it was resolved that he should be sent to Edinburgh, to attend the college there, professedly as a student of divinity. The expense, resulting from this resolution, bore hard upon their slender circumstances; but they were determined still farther to exert themselves, indulging the fond hope, that, one day or other, they would reap the reward of their honourable endeavours in the prosperity of their son. To the university he set off, amid the ill-concealed tears of some, and the open and hearty blessings of all--so much were they attached to one, who, till that day, had never been even more temporarily separated from them, without many a caution, perhaps little required, to guard against the evil contaminations of the capital--little thinking, in their simple minds, that the slender means allowed him were barely sufficient for necessary purposes, without indulging in any uncalled for luxury, and that gold is the only key that fits pleasure's casket. He found himself seated in the Scottish metropolis, in a cheap but snug and comfortable lodging, and encompassed by other sights and sounds than those which he had been accustomed to. The change struck on his heart with a low deep feeling of despondency, which a little time, conjoined with the urbanity and kindness of all around him, was sufficient to dissipate. The immense mass of lofty and majestic buildings, exhibiting their roofs in widening circles around him, and stretching far away, like the broken billows of an ocean, created thoughts of tumult, discord, and perplexity, when contrasted with the serene beauty of the calm pastoral district which he had left; and, amid the nightly crowd of population which engirded him, a sense of his own individual insignificance fell, with a crushing weight, on his spirit. The deeply engrafted strength of virtue and religion, however, at length prevailed, restoring to his mind its usual buoyancy; and he began to see objects in the same degree of relative value, but with a widely enlarged scope of sensation. He set about his studies with vigour and alacrity; and, keeping in recollection the circumstances of his relatives, he determined not only to avoid all unnecessary expense, but to exercise the most rigid economy. Few hours were allowed to sleep, and almost no time allotted to exercise and recreation. The hopes his father entertained he determined should not be frustrated, nor the confidence they reposed in him be shown erroneous, by any negligence on his part; while, by persevering with assiduity and ardour, he trusted, sooner than they expected, to relieve them of the burthen of his support--a burthen which, he knew, could not fail to press heavy on them all, however cheerfully supported. In a course of the utmost economy, sobriety, and temperance, anxiously endeavouring to allow no opportunity of improvement to pass by unimproved, the winter session wore through, and left behind on his heart very few causes for self-disapprobation. Towards the end of April, the pale student returned to the cottage of his father. Worn out by unwearied and unremitting studies, the vernal gales of the country came like a balsam to reanimate his flagging spirits; and the hopes that the object of so much exertion and care would be ultimately crowned with success, gained a strong hold on the mind it had threatened almost to forsake. In the crowd of the city he felt too deeply his own insignificance--an isolated stranger, poor and unknown of all, striving with a feverish hope, at rewards most likely to be carried away by more powerful interests. But here he felt a grain of self-importance return to elevate his fallen thoughts. The budding hawthorn, the singing birds, and the blue sky, were all delightful; and he began to lose his own bosom fears in the general exultation of nature. The first ebullience of parental joy at his return, together with the congratulations of his affectionate brethren, having gradually subsided, few days were indeed allowed for idle recreation; and the same industrious course was persevered in. Of the cottage, which consisted of three apartments, one of which served for kitchen, another was entirely set apart for William, that no interruptions might at any time disturb him. In the summer mornings he was up with the lark; but he closed not his book with her evening song. His studies were carried far into the silence of the night, and the belated traveller never failed to mark the taper gleaming from the window of his apartment. Summer mellowed into autumn, which, with its fruitage, flowers, and yellow corn fields, also passed away; and again the hoar-frost lay whitely at morning on the wall of the little garden. Towards the end of October, our student, a second time, set out on his journey to Edinburgh. The life of a college student is not one of incident or variety. Day after day calls him to the same routine of employment; and week is only known from week by the intervention of Sabbath repose. Suffice it, therefore, to say, that the second season passed away like the first, in frugal living and indefatigable exertion, and left our hero, at its close, the same uncorrupted, simple-hearted, and generous-minded youth, as when he first left the shadow of his father's door. His dress and his manners were very little altered. Amid the hum and the bustle of thousands, wealthy and toiling after wealth, he was an individual apart--a hermit standing on the rock, and listening to the roar of life's billowing ocean, but launching not his bark on its dim and dangerous waters. His delicacy made him feel acutely, that the expenses which he had necessarily incurred, must weigh heavily on those upon whose open, but necessarily circumscribed bounty, he depended. It was, therefore, agreed on, at his own suggestion, to open a school for a season, in some one of the neighbouring villages. He hoped, by this means, to be enabled to raise a small fund for future exigencies, and to be indebted to his own industry for what necessity had hitherto obliged him to be dependent for on the bounty of others. Alas! this commendable design was but the protracting of a course of study already too severe for his tender and delicate constitution. The scheme was, however, immediately acted on. A school in the village of Sauchieburn was opened, and, in a brief space, everything succeeded to the utmost of his expectations--for the school-room speedily began to fill; and, by a conscientious discharge of his duty to his pupils, the affection of their parents began to flow towards him. Although the quarterly payments were small, he contrived to lay aside by much the larger half. From the natural timidity of his disposition, conjoined with the fear of making acquaintances which might lead him into expenses, he lived almost alone, spending the leisure of his afternoons in walking with his book in his hand through the fields; his evenings passed over in solitary study. Not long after his settlement, Mr. Allan, a farmer of some consideration in the neighbourhood, requested him to devote an hour or two daily to the tuition of his boys. In every point of view, this was a favourable circumstance for him. His labours were handsomely remunerated; and an introduction secured for him into a well-informed and rather elegant circle. The family in whose house he lodged were little removed above the order of peasantry, but remarkable not only for their cleanliness and for the comfort of their dwelling, but for that integrity in their small concerns, and devout feeling of religious truth, still so frequently found united to narrow circumstances in the nooks and byways of Scotland, and constituting, certainly, not the least valuable gem in the coronal of her honour. Here he was regarded with looks of love; and his minutest wants attended to, with that scrupulous zeal which can only be expected from parental tenderness. He was regarded not only as a member of the family, but looked up to as something that was above them--doing honour to their dwelling. Every possible care was taken to render his situation as agreeable as possible to him; and his health was inquired after, by the kind inmates, with the most anxious and affectionate solicitude. But the dark work was begun within, and the canker, which was to destroy the rose of health, was already committing dreadful ravages. He uttered no complaint; and, if pain was felt, its pangs were unacknowledged. A languor of the eye, an unusual paleness of the face, and the bursting forth of large drops of perspiration on the least exertion, were the only indications of declining health. The school was attended to as usual--not an hour was sacrificed to his weakness; and day succeeded day, and week followed week, without relaxation and without amendment. This could not last. The interregnum between receding health and approaching disease is generally of short duration, and the vacant throne is either greedily seized on by the angel or the demon. He was getting gradually worse--gradually weaker. He had tried all those little remedies commonly prescribed for coughs, without advantage, and in secret. What was next to be done, he hardly knew. The school could no longer be continued, as he was unable to leave his room. After so much reluctant delay, a medical practitioner was consulted. On inquiry, it was found that, for some weeks, he had been expectorating blood--he had nocturnal perspirations, hectic flushes, and almost incessant cough. His appetite was gone, and his whole frame in disorder. Poor William said, that he hoped he should soon be better, and able to persevere with his school. A week passed over, and matters were rapidly getting worse; yet it was not without reiterated persuasions, that the pale scholar could be persuaded to return for a season to the home of his fathers. We must not omit, that, during his confinement, every attention was paid to William by the family of the Allans, and such small luxuries as his state seemed to require were sent by them unsolicited. Mr. Allan himself repeatedly called for him; and, one afternoon, as Miss Mary had walked as far as the village, she summoned up resolution to inquire at the door. William heard her voice, and requested her to come in. As he sat in a large stuffed chair, propped with pillows, his appearance evidently shocked her; and, when she wished to speak to him, her voice swelled in her throat. He extended his hand to her, and told her he would soon be better; but his long thin fingers thrilled her to the heart by their touch. She stood for a minute beside him; and, after again shaking hands with him, departed. Her sensations, during her solitary walk home, may be more easily imagined than described. It was noted by the servants, that Miss Mary happened to be always the first to receive the communications of the messenger sent to the village of Sauchieburn. It was also remarked that the tidings, whether favourable or otherwise, could be read in a countenance not yet hardened by artifice, as so to belie the feelings of the heart. Home he returned at length. To paint the distress of the family, on that occasion, at such a reappearance of one whom they had loved so tenderly, for whom they had done, and were yet willing to do, so much, were a heart-rending and melancholy task. As he entered the door, the mother rushed out to embrace her weak and emaciated son; and, throwing her arms around his neck, kissed his pale cheek with an agony of distress, while the tears, in spite of opposition, gushed in burning drops over her furrowed cheeks to the ground. The father grasped him by the hand, and supported him, with cheering words, into the apartment which of old he had inhabited. It had been but little used since he had last been its occupant; and the neat, clean, but plain furniture, remained almost as he had left it. He was put to bed after the fatigue of travel, and every heart in that house was sorrowful. The poor scholar could not fail to see the distress so visible on his return; and his heart sank as the clouds of fate lowered over him. His brothers, as they dropped in, one after another, from the fields, approached affectionately to the bedside, and, taking his long, thin fingers in their toil-hardened hands, lamented his case, but cheered him with many a word of comfort, which almost belied themselves, from the uncertain tone in which they were uttered. And no wonder, for the alteration in his appearance was dreadful; and it was evident, to the least observant glance, that the poor young man was far gone in a consumption. For some weeks the change of air, and the sight of so many countenances, so anxiously interested in his welfare, seemed to work a favourable change; and the gloom on his spirits began gradually to subside. In the sunny fore-noons, a chair was placed for him in the little garden behind the house. The spot commanded an extensive view of the country; and it amused him to look on the jolly reapers in the neighbouring field, and listen to their simple music while gathering in the yellow harvest treasures. Around him were many tall ash-trees, well remembered in the thoughts of other years. The gooseberry bushes, each of which was familiar to his memory, had shed their fruits, and were beginning to shed their leaves; but, on the later currants, some depending red and white strings were yet visible. The summer flowers were disappearing; but the more hardy roots, the spearmint, the gillyflower, the thyme, and the southernwood, sent forth to the autumnal air "a faint decaying smell." The beehive in the corner of the hedgerow was still unremoved, and the buzz of its never idle inhabitants filled the whole air with a continual pleasant murmur. The birds were all singing amid the beauty of nature, and, ever and anon, the lark, springing up on twinkling wings, sent a fainter and yet fainter note from its receding elevation. So many agreeable images, so much affectionate attention, soothed the wounds that no earthly medicine could heal. In a short time, debility rendered him completely bed-ridden, and the tyrant of the human race betokened his approach "by many a drear foreboding sign." It was one evening, when all the brothers had dropped in, one after another, that symptoms of rapid dissolution showed themselves. They sat down in silence around the hearth, and looked frequently, first at William and then at each other; while, at intervals, the fortitude of manhood could not forbear a half stifled sob. They saw that the curtain of death would soon be let down over eyes so beloved; and many a hurried glance of affection--and the agitated countenance--and the quivering hand--seemed to say, in silent eloquence, "Would to God I could die in my brother's stead!" William was not insensible to the afflicting scene around him. He told them to bear up, and assured them that he suffered neither pain of body nor mind. "Heaven is wise in all its decrees," said the dying youth; "mourn not much for me; we shall, I trust, all meet again in Heaven. I only set out on my journey a little while before you. I feel that I have been much, too much of a burden to you all"---- Here he was eagerly interrupted by all of them, who conjured him not to speak in that manner, and that it was almost unkind of him to do so. "Well," continued William, "I feel your affection as I ought. The reward hath not perished, and shall not be taken away, though now God calls upon me to leave you." He then requested his father to read to him the latter part of the 15th chapter of 1st Corinthians, which he did with a composed and steady voice, amid the silent tears of his children, and the frequent sobs of the almost heart-broken mother, who leant with her face on the bedclothes, holding in hers the emaciated hand of her son. The soul of a mother can only comprehend the depth and the agony of her sufferings at that hour, when called on to part with her last born--the Benjamin of her small household. In a short time his exhaustion was so great, that his efforts to speak were unavailing, and he fell into a gentle slumber, from which he never awoke--breathing his soul out upon the silent midnight without a groan! However much the stroke of death may be expected, it never arrives without a violent shock to the feelings of all around. Here the grief was deep, but it was not upbraiding; and every pang was tempered by the gentle consolations of Christianity. The mournful news was communicated to the inhabitants of Sauchieburn; and, amid the regrets of many a grateful parent, bright tears fell from the eyes of childhood, at the thoughts of their kind instructor's death. For a time, with the buoyancy of feeling incident to their years, they had considered the few first day's of play as something favourable and fortunate. Feeling the pleasurable effects, they forgot the melancholy cause. But now the "hope deferred" was taken away, and nothing but uncertainty and doubt were left in its place. They looked on the shut up windows and closed door of the school-house with a mingled feeling of curiosity and regret. The more affectionate said to each other, "our master shall never hear us lessons any more; they are going to lay him in the church-yard; we shall never see him again;" while the more selfish-minded busied themselves with conjectures about him who should come to them in his stead. The sorrows of childhood are of short duration; the heart is then like the softened wax, which takes all impressions--the one obliterates the other, and the last, whatever be its import, is still the deepest. Not so evanescent was the melancholy at the house of the Allans. The two boys who had been under his charge spoke often of him as their kind master to Miss Mary, who seldom answered them but with a stifled accent, and an involuntary tear in her eye. That, almost unconsciously to herself, some impression had been made on her heart was evident. The feelings, perhaps, were reciprocal, for William had never mentioned her but in terms of deep respect, mingled with something of tenderness and admiration; but the wide gulf that separated them prevented him from having, even for a moment, indulged one dearer hope. Certain it is, from whatever cause it might arise, that the health of Mary Allan declined rapidly, even to a state of the utmost delicacy; and the cheerful, lively girl, could hardly be recognised in the pale, emaciated, but still beautiful features, over which the ray of pleasure now seldom shot even a transient gleam. But time, the grand physician of all human troubles, by slow, but sure degrees, began the healing of the wound so afflictingly felt by her, and by the whole cottage family. Though, after the first burst of sorrow was over, each turned to his wonted avocation, yet the mainspring of activity was felt to be broken; and the heart often refuses, for a long period, to mould itself for the reception of new feelings and altered objects. Life assumes a different aspect; and the thoughts are often tardy to accommodate themselves to change, and its inevitable concomitants. The remaining brothers met in the cottage of their parents, as heretofore, on the Saturday evenings; and, for a long time, the blank was felt--a chair was unoccupied--a beloved face was absent; but resignation to the decrees of Providence at length triumphed over the yearnings of natural affection. The father, on whose temples the few remaining hairs were changed to white, read the portion of Scripture with accustomed gravity, from the "big ha' Bible;" and exhibited a lesson, to all around, of noble, steadfast, and unshrinking piety. The books, the papers, and everything that had belonged to William, were preserved by his relations with an affectionate regard, amounting almost to veneration; and, in a short time, a plain tombstone was erected at the head of the turf under which his ashes lay, inscribed simply with his name and age. As the church was at more than two miles' distance from the cottage, the family usually spent the intervals between the forenoon and afternoon services, in loitering about the burial-ground. Around the grave of William, often were the whole remaining family observed, seated in the sunshine, upon the daisied turf, with their open Bibles in their hands. The health of Miss Allan gradually recovered its former tone; but the shock she had sustained threw a shadow of change over her whole character. A degree of thoughtfulness and pensive grace hung around her looks and motions, softening down sorrow to resignation, and gaiety to cheerfulness. She grew more passionately fond of the beauties of external nature, and enjoyed a serene pleasure in solitary walks. Sometimes, in the light of the setting sun, when an azure shadow hung over the hills, when the clouds were tipped with refulgent glory, and the note of the blackbird, "most musical, most melancholy," burst on the ear from the neighbouring coppice, the eye of the passenger has, unawares, intruded on the privacy of her grief, as she stood silently gazing on the grave of him who had gone up before her into heaven. END OF VOL. V 
32956	----	Wilson's Tales of the Borders AND OF SCOTLAND. HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE. WITH A GLOSSARY. REVISED BY ALEXANDER LEIGHTON, ONE OF THE ORIGINAL EDITORS AND CONTRIBUTORS. VOL. IX. LONDON: WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE. AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE. 1885. CONTENTS. Page. THE CRIPPLE; OR, EBENEZER THE DISOWNED (_John Mackay Wilson_) 1 THE LEGEND OF FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNEL (_Alexander Leighton_) 23 TOM DUNCAN'S YARN (_Oliver Richardson_) 55 THE PROFESSOR'S TALES (_Professor Thomas Gillespie_) THE THREE BRETHREN 87 THE MISTAKE RECTIFIED 97 DURA DEN; OR, SECOND THOUGHTS ARE BEST 106 THE LAIRD OF LUCKY'S HOW (_Alexander Campbell_) 119 THE ABDUCTION (_Alexander Leighton_) 151 SIR PATRICK HUME: A TALE OF THE HOUSE OF MARCHMONT (_John Mackay Wilson_) 167 THE SERJEANT'S TALES (_John Howell_) THE PACKMAN'S JOURNEY TO LONDON 178 CHARLES LAWSON (_John Mackay Wilson_) 210 BON GAULTIER'S TALES (_Theodore Martin_) MRS. HUMPHREY GREENWOOD'S TEA-PARTY 217 THE RECLUSE OF THE HEBRIDES (_Walter Logan_) 230 ELLEN ARUNDEL (_Walter Logan_) 238 CHATELARD (_Alexander Campbell_) 243 CHRISTIE OF THE CLEEK (_Alexander Leighton_) 275 WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND. THE CRIPPLE; OR, EBENEZER THE DISOWNED. It is proverbial to say, with reference to particular constitutions or habits of body, that May is a _trying_ month, and we have known what it is to experience its trials in the sense signified. With our grandmothers too, yea, and with our grandfathers also, May was held to be an unlucky month. Nevertheless, it is a lovely, it is a beautiful month, and the forerunner of the most healthy of the twelve. It is like a timid maiden blushing into womanhood, wooing and yet shrinking from the admiration which her beauty compels. The buds, the blossoms, the young leaves, the tender flowers, the glittering dew-drops, and the song of birds, burst from the grasp of winter as if the God of nature whispered in the sunbeams--"Let there be life!" But it is in the morning only, and before the business of the world summons us to its mechanical and artificial realities, that the beauties of May can be felt in all their freshness. We read of the glories of Eden, and that the earth was cursed because of man's transgression; yet, when we look abroad upon the glowing landscape, above us, and around us, and behold the pure heavens like a sea of music floating over us, and hear the earth answer it back in varied melody, while mountain, wood, and dale, seem dreaming in the sound, and stealing into loveliness, we almost wonder that a bad man should exist in the midst of a world that is still so beautiful, and where every object around him is a representative of the wisdom, the goodness, the mercy, the purity, and the omnipotence of his Creator. There is a language in the very wild-flowers among our feet that breathes a lesson of virtue. We can appreciate the feeling with which the poet beheld "The _last_ rose of summer left blooming alone;" but in the firstlings of the spring, the primrose, the lily, and their early train, there is an appeal that passes beyond our senses. They are like the lispings and the smiles of infancy--lowly preachers, emblems of our own immortality, and we love them like living things. They speak to us of childhood and the scenes of youth, and _memory_ dwells in their very fragrance. Yes, May is a beautiful month--it is a month of fair sights and of sweet sounds. To it belongs the lowly primrose blushing by the brae-side in congregated beauty, with here and there a cowslip bending over them like a lover among the flowers; the lily hanging its head by the brook that reflects its image, like a bride at the altar, as if conscious of its own loveliness; the hardy daisy on the green sward, like a proud man struggling in penury with the storms of fate. Now, too, the blossoms on a thousand trees unfold their rainbow hues; the tender leaves seem instinct with life, and expand to the sunbeams; and the bright fields, like an emerald sea, wave their first undulations to the breeze. The lark pours down a flood of melody on the nest of its mate, and the linnet trills a lay of love to its partner from the yellow furze. The chaffinch chants in the hedge its sweet but unvaried _line of music_; the thrush hymns his bold roundelay; and the blackbird swells the chorus; while the bird of spring sends its voice from the glens, like a wandering echo lost between love and sadness; and the swallow, newly returned from warmer climes or its winter sleep, "Twitters from the straw-built shed." The insect tribe leap into being, countless in numbers and matchless in livery, and their low hum swims like the embodiment of a dream in the air. The May-fly invites the angler to the river, while the minnow gambols in the brook; the young salmon sports and sparkles in the stream, and the grey trout glides slowly beneath the shadow of a rock in the deep pool. To enjoy for a single hour in a May morning the luxuries which nature spreads around--to wander in its fields and in its woods--to feel ourselves a part of God's glad creation--to _feel_ the gowan under our feet, and health circulating through our veins with the refreshing breeze, is a recipe worth all in the Materia Medica. Now, it was before sunrise on such a morning in May as I have described, that a traveller left the Black Bull in Wooler, and proceeded to the Cheviots. He took his route by way of Earle and Langleeford; and, at the latter place, leaving the long and beautiful glen, began to ascend the mountain. On the cairn, which is perhaps about five hundred yards from what is called the extreme summit of the mountain, he met an old and intelligent shepherd, from whom he heard many tales, the legends of the mountains--and amongst others, the following story:-- Near the banks of one of the romantic streams which take their rise among the Cheviots, stood a small and pleasant, and what might be termed respectable or genteel-looking building. It stood like the home of solitude, excluded by mountains from the world. Beneath it, the rivulet wandered over its rugged bed; to the east rose Cheviot, the giant of the hills; to the west, lesser mountains reared their fantastic forms, thinly studded here and there with dwarf alders, which the birds of heaven had planted, and their progeny had nestled in their branches; to the north and the south stretched a long and secluded glen, where beauty blushed in the arms of wildness--and thick woods, where the young fir and the oak of the ancient forest grew together, flourished beneath the shelter of the hills. Fertility also smiled by the sides of the rivulet, though the rising and setting sun threw the shadows of barrenness over it. Around the cottage stood a clump of solitary firs, and behind it an enclosure of alders, twisted together, sheltered a garden from the storms that swept down the hills. Now, many years ago, a stranger woman, who brought with her a female domestic and a male infant, became the occupant of this house among the hills. She lived more luxuriously than the sheep-farmers in the neighbourhood, and her accent was not that of the Borders. She was between forty and fifty years of age, and her stature and strength were beyond the ordinary stature and strength of women. Her manners were repulsive, and her bearing haughty; but it seemed the haughtiness of a weak and uneducated mind. Her few neighbours, simple though they were, and little as they saw or knew of the world, its inhabitants and its manners, perceived that the stranger who had come amongst them had not been habituated to the affluence or easy circumstances with which she was then surrounded. The child also was hard-favoured, and of a disagreeable countenance; his back was strangely deformed; his feet were distorted, and his limbs of unequal length. No one could look upon the child without a feeling of compassion, save the woman who was his mother, his nurse, or his keeper (for none knew in what relation she stood to him), and she treated him as a persecutor, who hated his sight, and was weary of his existence. She gave her name as Mrs Baird; and, as the child grew up, she generally in derision called him "_Æsop_," or, in hatred, "the little monster!" but the woman-servant called him Ebenezer, though she treated him with a degree of harshness only less brutal than she whom he began to call mother. We shall, therefore, in his history mention him by the name of Ebenezer Baird. As he grew in years, the disagreeable expression of his countenance became stronger, his deformity and lameness increased, and the treatment he had experienced added to both. When nine years of age, he was sent to a boarding-school about twelve miles distant. Here a new series of persecutions awaited him. Until the day of his entering the school, he was almost ignorant that there was an alphabet. He knew not a letter. He had seen one or two books, but he knew not their use: he had never seen any one look upon them; he regarded them merely as he did a picture--a piece of useless furniture, or a plaything. Lame as he was, he had climbed the steep and the dripping precipice for the eggs of the water-ouzel, sought among the crags for the young of the gorgeous kingfisher, or climbed the tallest trees in quest of the crested wrens, which chirped and fluttered in invisible swarms among the branches.[A] The birds were to him companions; he wished to rear their young, that they might love him, for there was a lack of something in his heart--he knew not what it was--but it was the void of being beloved, of being regarded. It is said that nature abhors a vacuum, and so did the heart of Ebenezer. He knew not what name to give it, but he longed for something that would show a liking for him, and to which he could show a liking in return. The heart is wicked, but it is not unsocial--its affections wither in solitariness. When he strolled forth on these rambles about the glen, having asked the permission of his mother or keeper (call her what you will) before he went, "Go, imp! Æsop!" she was wont to exclaim, "and I shall pray that you may break your neck before you return." There were no farmers' or shepherds' children within several miles: he had seen some of them, and when they had seen him, they had laughed at his deformity--they had imitated his lameness, and contorted their countenances into a caricatured resemblance of his. Such were poor Ebenezer's acquirements, and such his acquaintance with human nature, when he entered the boarding-school. A primer was put into his hands. "What must I do with it?" thought Ebenezer. He beheld the rod of correction in the hands of the teacher, and he trembled--for his misshapen shoulders were familiar with such an instrument. He heard others read, he saw them write; and he feared, wondered, and trembled the more. He thought that he would be called upon to do the same, and he knew he could not. He had no idea of _learning_--he had never heard of such a thing. He thought that he must do as he saw others doing at once, and he cast many troubled looks at the lord of a hundred boys. When the name of "Ebenezer Baird" was called out, he burst into tears, he sobbed, terror overwhelmed him. But when the teacher approached him kindly, took him from his seat, placed him between his knees, patted his head, and desired him to speak after him, the heart of the little cripple was assured, and more than assured; it was the first time he had experienced kindness, and he could have fallen on the ground and hugged the knees of his master. The teacher, indeed, found Ebenezer the most ignorant scholar he had ever met with, but he was no tyrant of the birch, though to his pupils "A man severe he was, and stern to view;" and though he had all the manners and austerity of the old school about him, he did not lay his head upon the pillow with his arm tired by the incessant use of the ferule. He was touched with the simplicity and the extreme ignorance of his new boarder, and he felt also for his lameness and deformity. Thrice he went over the alphabet with his pupil, commencing, "_Big Aw_--_Little Aw_," and having got over _b_, he told him to remember that _c_ was like a half-moon. "Ye'll aye mind _c_ again," added he; "think ye _see_ the moon." Thus they went on to _g_, and he asked him what the carters said to their horses when they wished them to go faster; but this Ebenezer could not tell--carts and horses were sights that he had seen as objects of wonder. They are but seldom seen amongst the hills now, and in those days they were almost unknown. Getting over _h_, he strove to impress _i_ upon the memory of his pupil, by touching the solitary grey orbit in his countenance (for Ebenezer had but one), and asking him what he called it. "My _e'e_," answered Ebenezer. "No, sir, you must not say your _e'e_, but your _eye_--mind that; and that letter is _I_." The teacher went on, showing him that he could not forget round O, and crooked S; and in truth, after his first lesson, Ebenezer was master of these two letters. And, afterwards, when the teacher, in trying him promiscuously through the alphabet, would inquire, "What letter is this?"--"I no ken," the cripple would reply; "but I'm sure it's no O, and it's no S." Within a week he was master of the six-and-twenty mystical symbols, with the exception of four--and those four were _b_ and _d_, _p_ and _q_. Ebenezer could not for three months be brought to distinguish the _b_ from the _d_, nor the _p_ from the _q_; but he had never even heard that he had a right hand and a left until he came to the school--and how could it be expected? Scarce, however, had he mastered the alphabet, until the faculties of the deformed began to expand. He now both understood and felt what it was to learn. He passed from class to class with a rapidity that astonished his teacher. He could not join in the boisterous sports of his schoolfellows, and while they were engaged in their pastime, he sought solitude, and his task accompanied him. He possessed strong natural talents, and his infirmities gave them the assistance of industry. His teacher noted these things in the cripple, and he was gratified with them; but he hesitated to express his feelings openly, lest the charge of partiality should be brought against him. Ebenezer, however, had entered the academy as the butt of his schoolfellows--they mocked, they mimicked, they tormented, they despised, or affected to despise him; and his talents and progress, instead of abating their persecutions, augmented them. His teacher was afraid to show him more kindness than he showed to others; and his schoolfellows gloried in annoying the cripple--they persecuted, they shunned, they hated him more than even his mother did. He began to hate the world, for he had found none that would love him. His teacher was the only human being that had ever whispered to him words of praise or of kindness, and that had always been in cold, guarded, and measured terms. Before he was eighteen, he had acquired all the knowledge that his teacher could impart, and he returned to the cottage among the mountains. There, however, he was again subjected to a persecution more barbarous than that which he had met with from his schoolfellows. Mrs Baird mocked, insulted, and drove him from her presence; and her domestic showed him neither kindness nor respect. In stature, he scarcely exceeded five feet; and his body was feeble as well as deformed. The cruelty with which he had been treated had given an asperity to his temper, and made him almost a hater of the human race; and these feelings had lent their character to his countenance, marking its naturally harsh expression with suspicion and melancholy. He was about five-and-twenty when the pangs and the terrors of death fell upon her whom he regarded as his parent. She died--as a sinner dies--with insulted eternity frowning to receive her. A few minutes before her death, she desired the cripple to approach her bedside. She fixed her closing eyes, which affection had never lighted, upon his. She informed him that he was not her son. "Oh, tell me, then, whose son I am! Who are my parents?" he exclaimed, eagerly. "Speak! speak!" "Your parents!" she muttered; and remorse and ignorance held her departing soul in their grasp. She struggled; she again continued: "Your parents! no, Ebenezer, no! I dare not name them! I have sworn--I have sworn! and a death-bed is no time to break an oath!" "Speak! speak! Tell me, as you hope for heaven!" cried the cripple, with his thin, bony fingers grasping the wrists of the dying woman. "Monster! monster!" she screamed, wildly, and in terror, "leave me--leave me! You are provided for--open that chest--the chest--the chest!" Ebenezer loosed his grasp; he sprang towards a strong chest which stood in the room. "The keys! the keys!" he exclaimed, wildly; and again hurrying to the bed, he violently pulled a bunch of keys from beneath her pillow. But while he applied them to the chest, the herald of death rattled in the throat of its victim; and, with one agonising throe and a deep groan, her spirit escaped, and her body lay a corpse upon the bed. He opened the chest, and in it he found securities, which settled upon him, under the name of Ebenezer Baird, five thousand pounds. But there was nothing which threw light on his parentage--nothing to inform who he was, or why he was there. The body of her who had never shed a tear over him he accompanied to the grave. But now a deeper gloom fell upon him. He met but few men, and the few he met shunned him, for there was a wildness and a bitterness in his words--a railing against the world--which they wished not to hear. He fancied, too, that they despised him--that their eyes were ever examining the form of his deformities; and he returned their glance with a scowl, and their words with the accents of hatred. Even as he passed the solitary farmhouse, the younger children fled in terror, and the elder laughed, or pointed towards him the finger of curiosity. All these things fell upon the heart of the cripple, and turned the human kindness of his bosom into gall. His companions became the solitude of the mountains, and the silence of the woods. They heard his bitter soliloquies without reviling him, or echo answered him in tones of sympathy more mournful than his own. He sought a thing that he might love, that might unlock his prisoned heart, or give life to its blighted feelings. He loved the very primrose, because it was a thing of beauty, and shrank not from his deformity as man did. To him it gave forth its sweetness, and its leaves withered not at his touch; and he bent and kissed the flower that smiled upon him whom his kind avoided. He courted the very storms of winter, for they shunned him not, but spent their fury on his person, unconscious of its form. The only living thing that regarded him, or that had ever evinced affection towards him, was a dog, of the mastiff kind, which ever followed at his side, licked his hand, and received its food from it. And on this living thing all the affections that his heart ever felt were expended. He loved it as a companion, a friend, and protector; and he knew it was not ungrateful--it never avoided him; but, when mockery or insult was offered to its master, it growled, and looked in his face, as if asking permission to punish the offender. Such was the life that he had passed until he was between thirty and forty years of age. Still he continued his solitary rambles, having a feeling for everything around him but man. Man only was his persecutor--man only despised him. His own kind and his own kindred had shut him out from them and disowned him--his sight had been hateful to them, and his form loathsome. He avoided the very sun, for it revealed his shadow; but he wandered in rapture, gazing on the midnight heavens, calling the stars by name, while his soul was lifted up with their glory, and his deformity lost and overshadowed in the depth of their magnificence. He loved the flowers of day, the song of morning birds, and the wildness or beauty of the landscape; but these dwindled, and drew not forth his soul as did the awful gorgeousness of night, with its ten thousand worlds lighted up, burning, sparkling, glimmering in immensity--the gems that studded the throne of the Eternal. While others slept, the deformed wandered on the mountains, holding communion with the heavens. About the period we refer to, a gay party came upon a visit to a gentleman whose mansion was situated about three miles from the cottage of the cripple. As they rode out, they frequently passed him in his wanderings. And when they did so, some turned to gaze on him with a look of prying curiosity, others laughed and called to their companions--and the indignation of Ebenezer was excited, and the frown grew black upon his face. He was wandering in a wood in the glen, visiting his favourite wild-flowers (for he had many that he visited daily, and each was familiar to him as the face of man to man--he rejoiced when they budded, blossomed, and laughed in their summer joy, and he grieved when they withered and died away), when a scream of distress burst upon his ear. His faithful mastiff started, and answered to the sound. He hurried from the wood to whence the sound proceeded as rapidly as his lameness would admit. The mastiff followed by his side, and, by its signs of impatience, seemed eager to increase its speed, though it would not forsake him. The cries of distress continued, and became louder. On emerging from the wood, he perceived a young lady rushing wildly towards it, and behind her, within ten yards, followed an infuriated bull. A few moments more, and she must have fallen its victim. With an eager howl, the dog sprang from the side of its master, and stood between the lady and her pursuer. Ebenezer forgot his lameness and the feebleness of his frame, and he hastened at his utmost speed to the rescue of a human being. Even at that moment a glow of delight passed through his heart, that the despised cripple would save the life of a fellow-mortal--of one of the race that shunned him. Ere he approached, the lady had fallen, exhausted and in terror, on the ground. The mastiff kept the enraged animal at bay, and, with a strength such as he had never before exhibited, Ebenezer raised the lady in his arms, and bore her to the wood. He placed her against a tree: the stream passed by within a few yards, and he brought water in the palms of his hands, and knelt over her, to bathe her temples and her fair brow. Her brow was indeed fair, and her face beautiful beyond all that he had looked upon. Her golden hair in wavy ringlets fell upon her shoulders--but her deep blue eyes were closed. Her years did not appear to be more than twenty. "Beautiful!--beautiful!" exclaimed the cripple, as he dropped the water on her face, and gazed on it as he spoke--"it is wondrous beautiful! But she will open her eyes--she will turn from me as doth her race!--as from the animal that pursued her!--yet, sure she is beautiful!" and again, as he spoke, Ebenezer sighed. The fair being recovered--she raised her eyes--she gazed on his face, and turned not away from it. She expressed no false horror on beholding his countenance--no affected revulsion at the sight of his deformity; but she looked upon him with gratitude--she thanked him with tears. The cripple started--his heart burned. To be gazed on with kindness, to be thanked, and with tears, and by one so fair, so young, so beautiful, was to him so strange, so new, he half doubted the reality of the scene before him. Before the kindness and gratitude that beamed from her eyes, the misanthropy that had frozen up his bosom began to dissolve, and the gloom on his features died away, as a vapour before the face of the morning sun. New thoughts fired his imagination--new feelings transfixed his heart. Her smile fell like a sunbeam on his soul, where light had never before dawned; her accents of gratitude, from the moment they were delivered, became the music of his memory. He found an object on the earth that he could love--or shall we say that he _did_ love; for he felt as though already her existence were mysteriously linked to his. We are no believers in what is termed _love at first sight_. Some romance-writers hold it up as an established doctrine, and love-sick boys and moping girls will make oath to the creed. But there never was love at first sight that a week's perseverance could not wear away. It holds no intercourse with the heart, but is a mere _fancy_ of the eye; as a man would fancy a horse, a house, or a picture, which he desires to purchase. Love is not the offspring of an hour or a day, nor is it the _ignis fatuus_ which plays about the brain, and disturbs the sleep of the youth and the maiden in their teens. It slowly steals and dawns upon the heart, as day imperceptibly creeps over the earth, first with the tinged cloud--the grey and the clearer dawn--the approaching, the rising, and the risen sun--blending into each other a brighter and a brighter shade; but each indistinguishable in their progress and blending, as the motion of the pointers on a watch, which move unobserved as time flies, and we mark not the silent progress of light till it envelop us in its majesty. Such is the progress of pure, holy, and enduring love. It springs not from mere sight, but its radiance grows with esteem; it is the whisper of sympathy, unity of feeling, and mutual reverence, which increases with a knowledge of each other, until but one pulse seems to throb in two bosoms. The feelings which now swelled in the bosom of Ebenezer Baird were not the true and only love which springs from esteem, but they were akin to it. For though the beauty of the fair being he had rescued had struck his eye, it was not her beauty that melted the misanthropy of his heart, but the tear of gratitude, the voice of thanks, the glance that turned not away from him, the smile--the first that woman had bestowed on him--that entered his soul. They came from the heart, and they spoke to the heart. She informed him that her name was Maria Bradbury, and that she was one of the party then on a visit to the gentleman in his neighbourhood. He offered to accompany her to the house, and she accepted his offer. But it was necessary to pass near the spot where he had rescued her from the fury of the enraged bull. As they drew towards the side of the wood, they perceived that the bull was gone, but the noble mastiff, the friend, companion, and defender of the cripple, lay dead before them. Ebenezer wrung his hands, he mourned over his faithful guardian. "Friend! poor Friend!" he cried (the name of the mastiff was Friend), "hast thou, too, left me? Thou, of all the things that lived, alone didst love thy master! Pardon me, lady, pardon an outcast; but until this hour I have never experienced friendship from man nor kindness from woman. The human race have treated me as a thing that belonged not to the same family with themselves; they have persecuted or mocked me, and I have hated them. Start not--hatred is an alien to my soul--it was not born there, it was forced upon it--but I hate not you--no! no! You have spoken kindly to me, you have smiled on me!--the despised, the disowned Ebenezer will remember you. That poor dog alone, of all living things, showed affection for me. But he died in a good cause! Poor Friend! poor Friend!--where shall I find a companion now?" and the tears of the cripple ran down his cheeks as he spoke. Maria wept also, partly for the fate of the noble animal that had died in her deliverance, and partly from the sorrow of her companion; for there is a sympathy in tears. "Ha! you weep!" cried the cripple; "you weep for poor Friend and for me. Bless thee--bless thee, fair one! they are the first that were ever shed for my sake! I thought there was not a tear on earth for me." He accompanied her to the lodge of the mansion where she was then residing, and there he left her, though she invited him to accompany her, that he might also receive the congratulations of her friends. She related to them her deliverance. "Ha! little Ebenezer turned a hero!" cried one; "Ebenezer the cripple become a knight-errant!" said another. But they resolved to visit him in a body, and return him their thanks. But the soul of the deformed was now changed, and his countenance, though still melancholy, had lost its asperity. His days became a dream, his existence a wish. For the first time he entertained the hope of happiness; it was vain, romantic, perhaps we might say absurd, but he cherished it. Maria spoke much of the courage, the humanity, the seeming loneliness, and the knowledge of the deformed, to her friends; and their entertainer, with his entire party of visiters, with but one exception, a few days afterwards, proceeded to the cottage of Ebenezer, to thank him for his intrepidity. The exception we have alluded to was a Lady Helen Dorrington, a woman of a proud and haughty temper, and whose personal attractions, if she ever possessed any, were now disfigured by the attacks of a violent temper, and the _crow-feet_ and the _wrinkles_ which threescore years imprint on the fairest countenance. She excused herself by saying, that the sight of deformed people affected her. Amongst the party who visited the cripple was her son, Francis Dorrington, a youth of two-and-twenty, who was haughty, fiery, and impetuous as his mother. He sought the hand of Maria Bradbury, and he now walked by her side. Ebenezer received them coldly; amongst them were some who were wont to mock him as they passed, and he now believed that they had come to gratify curiosity, by gazing on his person as on a wild animal. But, when he saw the smile upon Maria's lips, the benign expression of her glance, and her hand held forth to greet him, his coldness vanished, and joy, like a flash of sunshine, lighted up his features. Yet he liked not the impatient scowl with which Francis Dorrington regarded her attention towards him, nor the contempt which moved visibly on his lip, when she listened delighted to the words of the despised cripple. He seemed to act as though her eyes should be fixed on him alone--her words addressed only to him. Jealousy entered the soul of the deformed; and shall we say that the same feeling was entertained by the gay and the haughty Dorrington? It was. He felt that, insignificant as the outward appearance of the cripple was, his soul was that of an intellectual giant, before the exuberance of whose power the party were awed, and Maria lost in admiration. His tones were musical as his figure was unsightly, and his knowledge universal as his person was diminutive. He discoursed with a poet's tongue on the beauty of the surrounding scenery; he defined the botany and geology of the mountains. He traced effect to cause, and both to their Creator. The party marvelled while the deformed spoke; and he repelled the scowl and contempt of his rival with sarcasm that scathed like passing lightning. These things produced feelings of jealousy also in the breast of Francis Dorrington; though from Maria Bradbury he had never received one smile of encouragement. On their taking leave, the entertainer of the party invited Ebenezer to his house, but the latter refused; he feared to mingle with society, for oft as he had associated with man, he had been rendered their sport--the thing they persecuted--the butt of their irony. For many days the cripple met, or rather sought, Maria in his solitary rambles; for she, too, loved the solitude of the mountains or the silence of the woods, which is broken only by the plaintive note of the wood-pigeon, the _chirm_ of the linnet, the song of the thrush, the twitter of the chaffinch, or the distant stroke of the woodman, lending silence a charm. She had become familiar with his deformity, and as it grew less singular to her eyes, his voice became sweeter to her ears. Their conversation turned on many things--there was wisdom in his words, and she listened to him as a pupil to a preceptor. His feelings deepened with their interviews, his hopes brightened, and felicity seemed dawning before him. As hope kindled, he acquired confidence. They were walking together, he had pointed out the beauties and explained the properties of the wild-flowers on their path, he had dwelt on the virtues of the humblest weed, when he stopped short, and gazing in her face--"Maria!" he added, "I have loved these flowers--I have cherished those simple weeds, because they shunned me not--they shrank not from me, as did the creatures of the human race--they spread their beauties before me--they denied me not their sweetness. You only have I met with among the children of Adam, who persecuted me not with ridicule, or who insulted not my deformity with the vulgar gaze of curiosity. Who I am I know not--from whence I was brought amongst these hills I cannot tell; I am a thing which the world has laughed at, and of which my parents were ashamed. But my wants have been few. I have gold to purchase flattery, if I desired it--to buy tongues to tell me I am not deformed; but I despise them. My soul partakes not of my body's infirmities--it has sought a spirit to love, that would love it in return. Maria, has it found one?" Maria was startled--she endeavoured to speak, but her tongue faltered--tears gathered in her eyes, and her looks bespoke pity and astonishment. "Fool! fool!" exclaimed the cripple, "I have been deceived! Maria _pities_ me!--_only pities me_! Hate me, Maria--despise me as does the world. I can bear hatred--I can endure scorn--I can repel them!--but _pity_ consumes me!--and _pity_ from you! Fool! fool!" he added, "wherefore dreamed I there was one that would look with love on deformed Ebenezer? Farewell, Maria! farewell!--remember, but do not pity me!" and he hurried from her side. She would have detained him--she would have told him that she reverenced him--that she esteemed him; but he hastened away, and she felt also that she _pitied_ him--and _love_ and _pity_ can never dwell in the same breast for the same object. Maria stood and wept. Ebenezer returned to his cottage; but the hope which he had cherished, the dream which he had fed, died reluctantly. He accused himself for acting precipitately--he believed he had taken the tear of affection for pity. His heart was at war with itself. Day after day he revisited the mountainside, and the path in the wood where they had met; but Maria wandered there no longer. His feelings, his impatience, his incertitude, rose superior to the ridicule of man; he resolved to visit the mansion of his neighbour, where Maria and her friends were residing. The dinner-bell was ringing as he approached the house; but he knew little of the etiquette of the world, and respected not its forms. The owner of the mansion welcomed him with the right hand of cordiality, for his discourse in the cottage had charmed him; others expressed welcome, for some who before had mocked now respected him; and Maria took his hand with a look of joy and her wonted sweetness. The heart of Ebenezer felt assured. Francis Dorrington alone frowned, and rose not to welcome him. The dinner-bell again rang; the Lady Helen had not arrived, and dinner was delayed for her, but she came not. They proceeded to the dining-room. Ebenezer offered his arm to Maria, and she accepted it. Francis Dorrington muttered angry words between his teeth. The dinner passed--the dessert was placed upon the table--Lady Helen entered the room--she prayed to be excused for her delay--her host rose to introduce her to Ebenezer. "Ebenezer!--the deformed!" she exclaimed, in a tone of terror, and, dashing her hands before her eyes, as he rose before her, she fell back in hysterics. "Turn the monster from the house!" cried Francis Dorrington, springing forward; "my mother cannot endure the sight of such." "Whom call ye monster, young man?" said Ebenezer, angrily. "You, wretch!" replied Dorrington, raising his hand, and striking the cripple to the floor. "Shame! shame!" exclaimed the company. "Coward!" cried Maria, starting from her seat. The cripple, with a rapidity that seemed impossible, sprang to his feet--he gasped, he trembled, every joint shook, rage boiled in his veins--he glanced at his insulter, who attempted to repeat the blow--he uttered a yell of vengeance, he clutched a dessert-knife from the table, and within a moment it was plunged in the body of the man who had injured him. A scream of horror burst from the company. Ebenezer, with the reeking knife in his grasp, stood trembling from rage, not from remorse. But he offered not to repeat the blow. A half-consciousness of what he had done seemed to stay his hand. The sudden scream of the party aroused the Lady Helen from her real or affected fit. She beheld her son bleeding on the floor--she saw the vengeful knife in the hands of the cripple. She screamed more wildly than before--she wrung her hands! "Monster!--murderer!" she exclaimed, "he has slain--_he has slain his brother_!" "_My brother!_" shouted Ebenezer, still grasping the knife in his hand. "Woman--woman! mother--mother!--who am I? Answer me--who are you?" and he sprang forward, and held her by the arm. "Tell me," he continued, "what mean ye--what mean ye? My _brother_--do ye say my _brother_? Art thou my _mother_? Have I a _mother_? Speak--speak!" and he grasped her arm more fiercely. "Monster!" she repeated, "offspring of my shame!--away--away! _He is thy brother!_ I have shunned thee, wretch, I have disowned thee; but thou hast carried murder to my bosom!" and, tearing her arm from his grasp, she threw it round the neck of her wounded son. The company gazed upon each other. Ebenezer stood for a moment, his eyes rolling, his teeth rattling together, the knife shaking in his hand. He uttered a wild cry of agony--he tore the garments from his breast, as though it were ready to burst, and, with the look and the howl of a maniac, he sprang to the door, and disappeared. Some from an interest in his fate, others from a desire to secure him, followed after him. But he fled to the woods, and they traced him not. It was found that the wound of Francis Dorrington was not mortal; and the fears of the company were directed from him to Ebenezer, who they feared had laid violent hands upon his own life. On the following day, without again meeting the company, Lady Helen left the house, having acknowledged the deformed Ebenezer to be her son--a child of shame--whose birth had been concealed from the world. On the third day, the poor cripple was found by a shepherd wandering on the hills. His head was uncovered; his garments and his body were torn by the brambles through which he had rushed; his eyes rolled wildly, and, when accosted, he fled, exclaiming, "I am Cain! I am Cain! I have slain my brother! Touch me not--the mark is on my forehead!" He was secured, and taken to a place of safety. The circumstances twined round Maria's heart; she heard no more of Ebenezer the cripple, but she forgot him not. Several years passed, and she, together with a friend, visited a lunatic asylum in a distant part of the country, in which a female acquaintance, once the admired of society, had become an inmate. They were shown round the different wards; some of the inmates seemed happy, others melancholy, but all were mild--all shrank from the eye of their keeper. The sound of the clanking chains around their ankles filled Maria's soul with horror, and she longed to depart; but the keeper invited them to visit the garden of his asylum. They entered, and beheld several quiet-looking people engaged in digging; others were pruning trees; and some sat upon benches on the paths, playing with their fingers, striking their heels upon the ground, or reading stray leaves of an old book or a newspaper. Each seemed engaged with himself, none conversed with his neighbour. Upon a bench near the entrance to a small arbour or summer-house sat a female, conning an old ballad; and, as she perused it, she laughed, wept, and sang by turns. Maria stopped to converse with her, and her friend entered the arbour. In it sat a grey-headed and deformed man; he held a volume of Savage in his hand, which had then been but a short time published. "I am reading the 'Bastard,' by Savage," said he, as the stranger entered; "he is my favourite author. His fate was mine--he describes my feelings. He had an unnatural mother--so had I. He was disowned--so was I. He slew a man, and so did I; but I my brother." The voice, the words, fell upon Maria's ear. She became pale, she glanced towards the arbour, she cast an inquiring look upon the keeper. "Fear not, ma'am," he replied; "he is an innocent creature. He does not rave now; and but that there is an occasional wildness in his language, he is as well as you are. Enter and converse with him, ma'am; he is a great speaker, and to much purpose, too, as visiters tell me." She entered the arbour. The cripple's eyes met hers--he threw down the book. "Maria--Maria!" he exclaimed, "this is kind! this is kind, indeed! But do not _pity_ me--do not _pity me again_! Hate me, Maria! you saw me slay my brother!" She informed him that his brother was not dead--that he had recovered within a few weeks. "Not dead!" replied the cripple. "Thank Heaven! Ebenezer is not a murderer! But I am well now--the fever of my brain is passed. Go, Maria, do this for me--it is all I now ask--inquire why I am here immured, and by whose authority. Suffer not my reason to be buried in reason's tomb, and crushed among its wrecks. Your smile, your words of kindness, your tears of gratitude, caused me to dream once, and its remembrance is still as a speck of light amidst the darkness of my bosom; but these grey hairs have broken the dream." And Ebenezer bent his head upon his breast, and sighed. Maria and her friend left the asylum, but in a few weeks they returned, and when they again departed, Ebenezer Baird went with them. He now sought not Maria's love, but he was gratified with her esteem, and that of her friends. He outlived the persecution of his kindred and the derision of the world; and in the forty-sixth year of his age he died in peace, and bequeathed his property to Maria Bradbury--the first of the human race that had looked on him with kindness, or cheered him with a smile. [Footnote A: The water-ouzel, the kingfisher, and the crested wren, abound in the vicinity of the Cheviots, though the latter beautiful little creature is generally considered as quite a _rara avis_; and last year one being shot about Cumberland, the circumstance went the round of the newspapers! But the bird is not rare, it is only difficult to be seen, and generally flutters among the leaves and near the top branches.] THE LEGEND OF FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNEL. The seat of a branch of the Dumfries-shire Maxwells--Kirconnel--a property lying not far distant from Dumfries, and surrounded by the little pastoral stream, Kirtle--is one of the most beautiful that ever gratified the taste or inspired the pride of a high family. It was not until about the beginning of the seventeenth century that it came into the possession of the Maxwells; for, during a long period, it belonged to the old, though never illustrious, family of the Bells, who, amidst all the turmoil and strife of the March territories, had the good sense to prefer the quiet pleasures of the retreats of their own pure Kirtle, to the tumultuous and cruel scenes which boasted no streamlet but the heart's blood of contending foes. The power of Lord Maxwell, or the threat of Douglas, were equally unavailing to force the old proprietor of Kirconnel--though he ranked as a lesser baron, and might command retainers to fight for his plea--to sacrifice the pleasures of domestic peace on the altars of Laverna or Bellona: these conjunct goddesses who, hand in hand, swayed the destinies of Border men, and regulated the Border rights of mine and thine. He held his fine property directly of the crown; and, so long as he fulfilled the conditions of his right, he conceived himself entitled to the enjoyment of what had been fairly got and honourably retained. One strong element in Kirconnel's determination to live at home, in the enjoyment of what home may produce to a mind capable of appreciating its sweets, was the fear of interrupting the happiness of his lady--one of the family of Irvings in that quarter, who latterly came to possess his property--and of one child, a daughter, the Maid of Kirconnel, concerning whom, as all our readers know, more has been said and sung by antiquarian minstrel than ever fell to the hapless fame or treasured memory of fair woman. Ah, we need scarcely say, that this young heiress of Kirconnel's name was Helen; for who that has read the touching lines of Pinkerton can ever forget the appellation of one whose fate has drawn more tears than ever did that of the heroine Lady Margaret, in the old ballad of "Douglas' Tragedy?" The disasters of ordinary women, though hallowed by the sanctifying power of love, have seldom in this country inspired the harp of the minstrel; so far we are forced to admit the power of beauty, abstracted from the qualities of the mind and heart, that it has been a talisman to bardic genius in every age; yet it is honourable to the character of our nation, that the soul which illumines the "face divine" has called forth strains as melting and triumphant as ever resulted from the effects of physical beauty. It is, however, when the two qualities have been found combined in a favoured daughter of Scotland, that an unhappy fate has called forth a sympathy which has left no harp to sound fitfully in the willow-tree, no heart in our true land untouched, no eye destitute of sympathetic tears. Such has truly been the effect produced by the fortune of Helen of Kirconnel--a fortune which came up on the revolving wheel of the mutable goddess, notwithstanding all the efforts of her father to make the course of her life happy, and its termination blessed. Abstracted as the thoughts were of the three inhabitants of Kirconnel--the lady, the laird, and the daughter--from the scenes that were ever changing in the warlike world around them, so much greater was the necessity for cultivating the opportunities of enjoyment that nature and fortune had awarded to them; and so much greater also was the relish for that enjoyment which has ever been found in minds and hearts properly constituted and tuned to the harp of goodness, to increase with possession as much as the false taste for stimulating avocations cloys with the easy surfeit. It is not often, even in our virtuous land, and even in these days when the blessings of a high civilisation have inclined mankind to the cultivation of the social affections, that a family is found with its different members so predisposed for the harmony of exclusively domestic joys, that some chord does not occasionally give forth a discordant sound when touched by an external impulse; but, in the times of which we speak, and in the district where the individuals resided, "the happy family" was a group that was more often found in the lyrics of the poet or the creations of hope deferred than in the real existences of the troubled and vexed world. The house of Kirconnel stood on "fair Kirconnel Lee;" a term implying that the wood, which in those days encompassed every baronial residence, had been, to a certain extent, cleared away, to allow the daisy-covered lawn to rejoice in the beams of the generally excluded sun. But, at a little distance, the empire of the forest was again resumed, on the condition exacted by nature, of allowing the winding Kirtle to enjoy her grassy bank, covered with the wild rose and the eglantine; and to roll playfully along her pebbly bed, unimpeded by the neighbouring trees, which, as if in amatory dalliance, sent down their straggling lips to kiss her as she went. The wood bower--in early times a species of rural retreat in much greater fashion than now-a-days--was, in repetition of itself, seen rearing its ornamented walls, round which the native parasite plants were entwined in close embrace in various parts of the shady retreat. Some of these had been carefully looked to by the lady of Kirconnel herself, who, anxious to confirm her husband's resolution against engaging in the wars of the times, left no energy unemployed to render their residence, not only within the walls of the house, but in the bowers and gardens, as pleasant to the eye as the fruits of her heart and mind were delightful to the rational and loving soul of her appreciating and grateful lord. As Sir Owain says:-- "Fair were her erbers with flowers-- Rose and lili divers colours, Primrol and parvink; Mint, feverfoy, and eglantine, Colimbin, and mo there were, Than ani man mocht think." True; the Graces had, as yet, but small influence in Scotland; but the Genius of Chivalry, a cognate spirit, was busy in effecting a great revolution in the minds of the inhabitants; and though there was little to humanise, there was much to elevate and beautify. Traces of this power might already be seen about the bowers and shades of Kirconnel, where some rude figures of knights in various positions--one rescuing a damsel from her enemies--one in the combat at outrance--one striking the palisades of an armed city--placed, as they were, in the retreats of peace and domestic happiness by a former warlike possessor of the property, served the purpose of ornamenting the sequestered walks, and supplying to the peaceful and happy inhabitants a contrast between the pursuits of war and the pleasures of home, and home's blessed enjoyments. At a little distance from the mansion or castle--for every house, in those days, had a castellated character--was, and still is, the burying-ground of Kirconnel; a spot which, from the peculiarity of its situation, as well as from its own mournful associations, impressed the mind of the visiter with feelings which startled him, as much from their novelty as from their intensity. There is a small stone there, that would, if deciphered and communicated to our readers, anticipate our story, and claim the ready tear before our own sympathies are relieved by our recital. We pass it by at present, to give some idea of the extraordinary spot where it lies. This ground of the dead, or "Death's Mailing," as it has sometimes been called, is invested with all the _charms_ of a sublimed melancholy, which contemplates nature as a whole, and looks to those high purposes of her great author in visiting poor mortals with their heart-chastening woes. At the time of which we speak, this place of the dead was entirely surrounded with high oaks and spreading elms, except where the silvery Kirtle embraced the hallowed spot, as she rolled slowly along--more slowly, it might almost appear, at this spot than elsewhere--and murmured a soft threnody in the ears of the guardian spirits, that there tended the clay forms which they once animated. A few very rude stones, whose rudeness was their greatest recommendation to the sentimental mind, told, in the quaint "old Inglis" of that day, their simple tale. "Here lyethe the race of ye sons of Kirconnelle," might have been seen on a rude freestone that has long since disappeared. "Terraughtie did choose to lie her," appeared upon another old relic; and some exhibited more simple tokens--still pointing out nothing more than name and surname, yet more eloquent in that brevity than the most "storied urn." "Jon Kirkpatrycke," "Andrew Welles," "Heln Johnston," "Mary of the Le'," without one word more to say what they were, where they lived, when they visited this scene of sorrow, and when they departed from it, possessed an eloquence in their simple brevity that moved the heart of the visiter with a power now little felt and less appreciated. The swelling green tumuli, with these simple-speaking, grey-headed stones, standing, yet leaning to a side, as if themselves bent by the hands of time, how humbly might they appear, encircled as they were, with the proud monarch of the wood, the primeval oak, that had seen the sires and grandsires of the lowly inhabitants of "Death's Mailing" rise and fall, and become dust, as man contemplates the day-fly wing forth in the morning, live out its day, and die. Such was the romantic burying-place of Kirconnel at the time of which we speak; and even now, when the oak has fallen before the axe of civilisation, and Fame's trump has sounded even over the tomb, the place has a hallowed and romantic character (the Kirtle is still there) not exhibited by other burying-grounds in Scotland. In those retreats, the members of the family of Kirconnel passed the greater part of their time. Helen, though a lover of home, was fond of gratifying a fancy pregnant of beautiful images, and a taste for what is lovely in nature, by sitting by the banks of the Kirtle, and supplying her mind with the pabulum of the old Scottish romances. "Raf Coilyear and his Cross-bow," and "Gilbert with the White Hand," though soon superseded by the continental romances, were then the legitimate fountains of amusement to the fair maids of Scotland; and those who aimed at sublimer flights, might have had recourse to "Fyn Maccowl," or "Gret Gow Macmorne;" but there was in none of the works as yet circulated in Scotland, what might gratify the intense yearnings of the female heart for those poetical images which subsequently sprang up with the more mature growth of chivalry. The loves of warriors are not the loves of everyday life, far less the loves of the inspired poet; and Helen, as she read these old legendary romances, might find in them the amusement that afforded a relaxing alternative to her own poetical communings with the oldest bard of all--Nature; but for the inspiration of love itself she required the talisman--man--in that high aspect she had prefigured of the noblest of God's creatures, to rouse her heart from nature to the lover's dream. As yet the Maid of Kirconnel had not seen any one that realised the idea she had formed, by the banks of the Kirtle, of the individual who could call up in her young bosom those extraordinary emotions which constitute "love's young dream." The secluded mode of life adopted by her parents was unfavourable to a choice of the talismanic objects; and it even appeared to be her father and mother's wish that such choice should be excluded, that her heart might, in the absence of many forms, learn to be pleased with the man whom their love or policy might point out to her adoption. A second cousin of her own, Walter Bell of Blacket House, had a free passport to the hall of Kirconnel, as well as to the bowers that were enshrined in Kirconnel woods. The laird saw in the young man his nearest heir, in the event of his Helen being taken from him by fate; and the lady could detect, as she thought, in Bell's quiet and sombre manner, some assimilation to her own love of retirement and ease, and a consequent disrelish of the warlike and sanguinary customs of the times. Yet it was known that the young laird of Blacket House had been engaged in secret frays between the Johnstones and Crightons; while, for some purpose not generally known, though, from what we have said, not difficult to be surmised, he had fought in disguise, and disclaimed the glory of having hewn off the heads of many Johnstones, whose deaths might have brought him renown, if not wealth. He had fought from a spirit of animosity and a thirst of blood that lay deep buried in his heart, but which, along with its noisome fruits, he had striven to conceal, from the knowledge he possessed of the pacific disposition of his friends the Kirconnels, whose good-will he had a motive to cultivate more powerful than that of wealth or glory. He wished to recommend himself to the fair Helen, by acquiring the love and esteem of her father and mother; and he doubted not that, by his own personal accomplishments--neither few nor unimportant--aided by the advice or power of parental love and authority, he would succeed in changing in her the old habitual feelings of ordinary friendship into the higher and purer sentiments of affection. And sure it was that no one who ever aimed to acquire a "ladye's love," made his attempt with more advantages on his side than Walter Bell of Blacket House. The gay lover in the old romance, who cried that, with the advantage of making love in a wood, and by the side of a silver stream, he would gain the heart of the fairest woman of Christendom, though his face were as black as the coal slave's, and his lineage no better than the knave-child's, spoke more of human nature than he himself perhaps knew. But he spoke of women in the aggregate; and it is not unlikely that such a woman as fair Helen of Kirconnel had never come under the trial of his skill. The truth of the statement fell to be tested by one who, besides the advantages stated by the gay knight, could boast the consent of a father, old friendship, and a face and a lineage against which no exception could be taken by the admirers of graces and genealogy. Bell was aware of the advantages he possessed; but he could calculate the strength of these better than he could fathom the mysteries of woman's heart. Although the greater part of his time was passed at Kirconnel, where he took every opportunity of threading the mazes of the oak woods, or sitting by the side of the Kirtle, with the object of his affections, it is doubtful if he ever ascertained, by the passing indications she exhibited, that her thoughts and feelings were pitched much beyond the grade of those which nature had awarded to himself. She saw and felt beauties in the scenery of Kirconnel, which to her lover were but as the "sear leaf." Every object in nature--from the planet to the plant, from the shining levin of heaven to the phosphoric beam on the margin of the Kirtle--had some intelligence for her inquiring eye. Every power in operation around her--from the general sympathy of nature's highest elements, to the loves of the little forest birds that sung their love-song in her bower--had some charm to elevate her thoughts and sublime her sentiments. She, therefore, who could search for intelligence where others saw nothing but inert matter, or, at least, the uninteresting indications of everyday nature, might probably have been an unfortunate object on whom our said romantic knight might try the effect of his extraneous charms of wood and water. Nor was she at all fitted for being acted upon by the love intrigues of her cousin of Blacket House, who, coming far short of a knowledge of the elevated sentiments by which she was inspired, could neither yield her that sympathy which she required as a _sine qua non_ of affection, nor stand the investigation of the shrewd wisdom or the high philosophy of the heart of an elevated woman. While he simply sued and used the ordinary words of love, she analysed, and found that, where she never could be understood, she never could dispose of her affections. The mind of Helen had long been made up on the question of her cousin's suit. It had begun early; and the innumerable walks he had enjoyed with her along the banks of the Kirtle had afforded him a thousand opportunities of declaring his feelings. By the natural tact of women, she had always contrived to evade the question, and contented herself, even in the midst of extravagant declarations, with negative indications of her inability to return his passion. These he understood not; and, unfortunately, he acted upon the principle that has driven many a fond lover to despair--that the mistress who appears to listen without displeasure is presumed to give a tacit consent. They know little of the heart of woman who trust their happiness or their lives to the frail bark of such a fond and dangerous delusion. A woman will seldom put an end to the adulation that supports her pride; but the Maid of Kirconnel, who had no pride to gratify, acted as many a single-hearted female has done and will do, who receives without a frown that her nature detests, but without a satisfaction that her honesty will not allow her to assume, the fond speeches of an old friend, couched in terms of an admiration which is only her due. The native sensibility of her soul shrank at the thought of first construing harshly her relative's professions of affection, and then telling him that he was not the individual who was qualified to win her heart. Yet, in justice to her, it requires to be stated, that she often communed with herself, in her solitary walks, on the necessity of checking her cousin's fond and unfortunate delusion, lest evil might come out of gentleness so nearly allied to good. This unfortunate connection between Blacket House and his fair cousin, fated as it was to continue, assumed daily a more critical aspect. The young man, overwhelmed by a passion that was daily and hourly fed by the contemplation of a beauty and qualities seldom before witnessed in a Scottish maiden, was not only intoxicated by the violence of his love, but satisfied that his cousin, in return loved him with an affection only more chastely expressed, though, of course, not less powerful than his own. Her parents, too, who had lent a fond and willing ear to his statements of their daughter's love for him, had made up their minds upon a point which presented all the appearances of being sealed and settled by her who had the greatest interest in its truth. She was always to be found by him in her solitary walks among Kirconnel woods. Their meetings were favoured by their parents; their walks were uninterrupted; the current of his passion flowed without check, and his expressions only varied in becoming more animated. The absence of a _harsh denial_ filled the measure of a deluding, blending hope; and while the courses of their two minds were in directions entirely opposite--his along the rose-strewed valley of a requited affection; hers in a channel that led to objects too brilliant for his dull eye to scan, and too sublime for his unfledged fancy to reach--he conceived that a mutual sympathy of congenial feeling animated both their hearts. It was at this extraordinary state of the domestic affairs of Kirconnel that an extraneous cause gave a new current to the feelings of the young maiden, without having the effect of changing that of her lover, or of opening the eyes of her father and mother to the true fact, that she could not love the man they intended as her husband. A gallant, high-spirited youth, one of the Flemings of Kirkpatrick, had followed a doe up to within a very short space of Kirconnel House. The timid creature had taken to the water, and, springing on the opposite bank, fled past a bower in which Helen was at the time sitting reading "Sir Tristam," then in the hands of every young lady in Scotland and England. She started as the creature shot past her, and, putting her head timidly forward, to get a better view of the fleet inhabitant of the forest, saw before her, with cap in hand, bowing, in knightly guise, Adam Fleming of Kirkpatrick. Neither of the two had before seen the other; but the fame of the one's noble mien, high mind, and martial virtues, and of the other's incomparable beauty and elevation of sentiment, had reached reciprocally their willing ears. "That a Fleming of Kirkpatrick," said the youth, still bowing humbly, and smiling, "should have had the boldness to interpose the image of his worthless person between the fancy and the heaven of the meditations of fair Helen of Kirconnel, doth, by my sword, require an apology. Shall I be still bolder in asking a pardon?" The effect produced on Helen's mind by the noble figure of the youth, and the romantic and playful turn he had given to his intrusion, was quick and heartfelt. It was, besides, simultaneous with the memory of his spread fame; and in an instant her face was in a glow of mixed shame and confusion, the causes of which, perhaps, lay deeper than the influence of a mere feeling of surprise or interruption. "You have my full forgiveness, sir," she replied, while her face glowed deeper, in spite of her efforts to appear unaffected. Her soft musical voice fell on the ear of the youth; but his keen, dark eye was busy with the examination of charms with which his ear had been long familiar. The blush of a woman is a man's triumph; whatever may be its secret cause, the man will construe it favourably to himself, in the face of a denial of his power; and so far at least he has the right, that nature herself evidences in his favour, by an acknowledgment that he has touched the fountains of the heart. Fleming was not different from other men; and, though he might have been wrong in his construction of the secret moving impulse which called up the mantling adornment of beauty that was almost beyond the power of increase, he felt the full influence of the effect he thought he had produced, and, conceiving himself favourably received, laid in his heart the germs of an affection that was to govern his destiny. The forms of breeding, more punctilious in those days of chivalry than even now, forbade farther communication at that time, and, bowing gracefully as he drank up the rays of her blushing beauty, he bounded away after his dogs, that had kept their course in pursuit of the flying doe. This was the first time that ever Helen had seen a stranger huntsman cross Kirconnel Lee in pursuit of his game; but it was soon to appear that roes and does, when pursued by the gallant Fleming, seemed to think that in the recesses of Kirconnel they might find that safety which was denied them in other coverts; at least it became certain that more of that kind of game fled before the hunter over Kirconnel Lee, after the meeting we have described, than ever were seen before by man or maiden. Meanwhile the image of the noble youth, with his clear, intelligent eye, his rising and expanded forehead, from which his black hair was shaded to a side, and mixed with the long flowing locks that reached down to his shoulders; his intellectual expression of countenance, where beauty sat enshrined among the virtues, his breeding, his modesty, his voice and general bearing--were all busy with the fancy of the Maid of Kirconnel. Nature's talisman had been applied, and the charm had wrought in its highest and most mysterious power. Nor less had been the effect of that first meeting on the mind of the youthful heir of Kirkpatrick. They loved; and the does which afterwards brushed over Kirconnel Lee were only the scouts of the hunting lover, who, while he could not help the choice of the flying wilding in taking that direction, could not, of a consequence, avoid a repeated _intrusion_ on the wood-bower privacy of her who longed to see him with a heart that palpitated at his coming as strongly as did that of the flying deer. The rules of breeding direct all their force against a first interview; against a second, though brought about in the same way as the first, they have no efficacy; and love, which defies the whole code, soon reconciled differences which he despised. A few meetings revealed to each other the fact--which, somehow or other, is discovered by nobody but lovers--that one person has been intended from the beginning of the world to be formed for another. The heir of Kirkpatrick and the Maid of Kirconnel exhibited to each other such a similarity of thought, feeling, and sentiment, that love seemed to have nothing more to do than to tie those threads which nature had not only spun, but hung forth with a predisposed reciprocity of communication. The discovery that their thoughts had taken the same range, and reached an equal altitude of elevation, carried with it that pleasant surprise that is always favourable to the progress of the tender passion; and the delight of a new-born sympathy in sentiments that had long gratified only the heart in which they were conceived, but which now were seen glowing in the eyes of another, was only another form of that passion itself. Though Helen had seen many indications that might have satisfied her (if her mind had been directed to the subject) that her father and mother were bent upon a match between her cousin of Blacket House and her, she had never, either from a want of courage or steady serious thought on the subject, put it to herself what was her precise predicament or condition, on the supposition of such circumstance being in itself true and irremediable. She had hitherto had no great need for secresy, because she did not love another; and her father, mother, and lover, having taken it for granted that she was favourable to her cousin's suit, nothing of a definite nature had ever transpired to call for a demonstration on her part, as an alternative of dishonesty and double-dealing. Her situation was now changed. She now loved, and loved ardently, another; and the necessity she felt of meeting the heir of Kirkpatrick in secret, brought out in full relief her inmost sense of what were the views and purposes of her father and mother, and all the responsibility of her negative conduct, as regarded the suit of him she could never love. But, strange as it may seem, if she felt a difficulty in correcting her cousin and disobeying her parents before the accession of her love, she felt that difficulty rise to an impossibility after that important event of her life. She trembled at the thought of her love being crossed: one word of her rejection of the suit of her cousin would reach the ears of her parents; dissension would be thrown into the temple of peace; her love would be discovered; her lover, a man famous in arms, and an aider of the Johnstones, the opponents of Blacket House, traced, rejected, and banished: and her heart finally torn and broken by the antagonist powers of love and duty. She felt her own weakness, and trembled at it, without coming to a resolution to make a disclosure; while her overwhelming love carried her, on the moonlight nights, over Kirconnel Lee, to meet her faithful Heir of Kirkpatrick in the romantic burying-ground already described. This extraordinary place was that fixed upon by the lovers for their night meetings; for in any other part of the domains of Kirconnel they could not have escaped the eye of Blacket House; who, though he had no suspicion of a rival, was so often in search of the object of his engrossing passion, that she seldom went out without being observed by the ever-waking and vigilant surveillance of love. Many times already had Helen waited till her unconscious parents retired to the rest of the aged, and the moon threw her sheet of silver over Kirconnel Lee, and, wrapped up in a night-cloak, slipped out at the wicker-gate of the west enclosure, to seek, under the shades of the oaks, Death's Mailing, the appointed trysting-place of the ardent lovers. Again she was to see her beloved Heir of Kirkpatrick, and at last she had resolved to break to him the painful position in which she was placed by the still existing belief of her parents and Blacket House, that she was to be his wedded wife. On this occasion, she sat wistfully looking out at her chamber window. Her father and mother had retired to their couch. Everything was quiet, the wind stilled, and the mighty oaks whispered not the faintest sigh to disturb the sensitive ear of night. The moon was already up, and she was on the eve of wrapping her cloak round her, and creeping forth into the forest shade, when she observed the long shadow of a man extending many yards upon the shining grass of the green lee. The figure of the individual she could not see; for a projection of the building, sufficient to conceal him, but not to prevent his shadow from being revealed, interrupted her vision. She hesitated and trembled. If the shadow had moved and disappeared, she could have accounted for it, by supposing that some of the domestics had not yet retired to bed; but why should a man stand alone and stationary at that hour, in that place, in that position? Her fears ran all upon Blacket House, who was never happy but when in her presence or near her person; and who had been, on a former occasion, reported by the servants to have lain and slept under her window for an entire night, and never left his position till the morning sun exposed the doting lover to the wondering eyes of the domestics, who had never yet felt a love that kept them awake for more than a dreamy hour at cockcrow. As she gazed and hesitated, her hour was passing, and her lover would be among the grave-stones, waiting for her. Her anxiety grew intense; she feared to go, but shook at the thoughts of disappointing _him_; never dreaming (so whispered love) of herself. The figure still stood as stationary as a grave-stone, while her soul was agitated like the restless spirit that hovers over it, sighing for the hour of departure to the regions of ether. She could bear no longer; the projection which concealed him would conceal her; she plied the furtive steps of love; and crossing, like a fairy on the moonlit green knowe, the rising lawn, was forth among the towering oaks in as little time as the shadow of a passing cloud would have taken to trail its dingy traces over the shining lee. In a short time she arrived at the churchyard, and saw, through the interstices of the surrounding trees, the Heir of Kirkpatrick sitting on a green tumulus, the grave of one who had perhaps loved as they now loved, waiting for her who was beyond the trysting-hour. In a moment longer she was in his arms, and the stillness of the dead was invaded by the stifled sighs, the burning whispers, the rustling pressure of ardent, impatient lovers. The rising graves, and the mossy tomb-stones, and the white scattered bones that had escaped the sexton's eye, and glittered in the moonbeams, were equally neglected and overlooked; and no fear of fairy, ghost, or gnome, or gowl, entered where Love left no room but for his own engrossing sacrifices. The simple monument of love of "Mary of the Le'," that rose by their side, had often brought the tears to Helen's eyes; but Mary of the Lee was now forgotten. "There is a time and a place for all things" but love, whose rule is general over the flowery lee and the green grave, the mid-day hour and the dreary key-stone of night's black arch. "What kept ye, sweet Helen, love?" whispered Kirkpatrick in her ear, as she lay entranced in love's dream on his bosom. "By that question, good Adam," answered she, according to the mode of familiar address of her day, "there hangs a secret that oppresses your Helen, and drinks up all the joys of our affection." "Speak it forth, my gentle Helen," said Fleming. "What is it? The secresy of our meeting? I have been meditating a resolution to address your father, and this will confirm me. He can have no objections to my suit, save that I am a friend of the Johnstones, and an open warrior; while your cousin, whom you rejected before you saw me, is a concealed mosstrooper, and a secret manslayer." "There, there," muttered Helen, with trembling emotion--"there, Adam, you have hit the bleeding part of my heart. I did not say to you that I had rejected Blacket House before I saw you; but you were entitled to make that supposition, because I told you that I never received his love; but, alas! Adam, there is a distinction there; and, small as it may seem, its effects may be great upon the fortunes and happiness of your Helen. It is true I have never received his love; but it is equally true that his love, having overgrown the thought of a possibility of rejection, has overlooked my negative indications, and put down my silence for consent. Yes, Adam, yes--even now Blacket House thinks I love him; and, oh! the full responsibility of my apathy rises before me like a threatening giant; my father and my mother have, I fear, taken for granted that I am to become the wedded wife of my cousin." "Helen, this does indeed surprise me," replied Kirkpatrick, thoughtfully and sorrowfully. "I thought I had a sufficient objection to overcome on the part of your father, when I had to conquer the prejudices of clanship, and soothe his fears of my ardent spirit for the foray. But this changes all, and my difficulties are increased from the height of Kirconnel Lee to the towering Criffel." And he sat silent for a time, and mused thoughtfully. "But why, my love," he continued, "have you allowed this dangerous delusion to rest so long undisturbed, till it has become a conviction that may only be removed with danger to us all?" "Ask me not, Adam," replied she, with a full heart, "what I cannot explain. While the tongue of Blacket House's friendship was changing to love, I, whose thoughts were otherwise directed, perceived not the change; and when the truth appeared to me, my love for my father and mother, against the placid stream of whose life I have ever trembled to throw the smallest pebble of a daughter's disobedience, prevented me, day by day, from making the avowal that I could not love their choice. The difficulty increased with the hour; and, ah! my love for you crowned it at last with impossibility." "That should rather have removed the difficulty," answered he. "Explain, sweet Helen. You are dealing in shadowy parables." "Think you so, Adam?" said she, sighing. "Ah, then, is man's love different from woman's? The one can look an obstacle in the face; the other turns from it with terror, and flees. See you not that, by telling my parents I could not love my cousin, I would have been conjuring up a bad angel to cross, with his black wing, the secret but sweet path of our affection. The very possibility of being separated from you--too dear, Adam, as you are to this beating heart--made me tremble at the articulation of that charmed word which contains all my happiness on earth. You have stolen my heart from my father and mother, my sweet woods and bowers, my bright moon and Kirtle; and think you what it would be for me to lose him in whom all is centred!" "Ah! Helen, Helen, this is unlike the majesty of that mind that roved the blue fields of the heavens, and searched the hidden springs of the love that reigns through all created things. That such thoughts should be allied to that weakness which increases inevitable danger by flying from it, I could not have supposed to be exemplified by my Maid of Kirconnel. Yet is that trembling fear not a greater proof of my Helen's love than an outspoken rejection of twenty rival suitors? It is--I feel it is; and who will chide a fault of earth that hangs by a virtue of heaven? Dear, devoted, cherished object of my first passion, what has the simple heir of Kirkpatrick to give in exchange for the devotion of such a being?" And the impassioned youth pressed her closer and closer to his breast, while he spread over her shoulders the falling cloak, to shield her from the autumn dews. They sat for some time silent--the difficulty of their situation being for a brief period forgotten and lost in the tumult of the rising feelings of a strong mutual passion. "But this must not be allowed to continue," again said Kirkpatrick. "It is _necessary_, Helen, that you do this duty to yourself, to your cousin, your parents, and to me. Call up the necessary fortitude, my love. Tell your mother that you cannot love Blacket House. I know the pain it will produce to you and to them; but, alas! there are many positions in this world where we can only get to the object of our desires through painful means. Pain is, indeed, the price of most of our pleasures; and, when we do not pay that price, we become bankrupt in our best feelings, and die wretched. When the path is free, I shall come forward and claim my Helen in the face of the world. Will you, will you, love?" And he bent his head, and repeated the question in soft tones beneath the cloak that covered her head; while she, in muffled accents, replied-- "I will, I will, Adam, though I should die with the last word of the declaration." A heavy groan at this moment fell upon their ear. Adam started hastily up; and Helen, roused from her love's dream, stood petrified with fear. They looked around them in every direction; but the proximity of the place where they had been sitting to the edge of the wood, rendered it easy for an intruder to overhear their discourse, and to escape among the trees in an instant. Helen's fears again fell on Blacket House, and she whimpered to Adam what she had observed previous to her leaving the house. He conceived them to be well founded; and, as the thought of the man who could kill his enemies in disguise, and deny the deed, flashed upon his mind, he felt for his sword, and then smiled at the precipitude of his defensive precaution. It was necessary, however, that Helen should now hurry home; and, surmounting the turf-dyke of the burying-ground, they, with rapid steps, made for Kirconnel House, at a little distance from which they parted, with a close embrace. Helen stood for a moment, and looked after her lover; then, wrapping her cloak about her head, she moved quickly round the edge of the enclosed lawn, and was on the eve of running forward to the wicket, when Blacket House stood before her. He looked for a moment sternly at her, spoke not a word, and then dashed away into the wood. Terrified still more, Helen hurried away, and got into the house and her own chamber before the full extent of her danger opened, with all its probable consequences, upon her mind. Having undressed herself, she retired to her couch, and meditated on the extraordinary position in which she was now placed. She had now been discovered by her cousin, who, no doubt, knew well that she had that night had a secret meeting with Kirkpatrick--a partisan of his antagonists, the Johnstones. The discovery of a rival had come on him with the discovery of a delusion under which he had sighed, and dreamed, and hoped for years. It was probable, nay, certain, then, that the communication she intended to make to her father and mother, that she could not love Blacket House, would be received along with the elucidating commentary, that the lover now despised had discovered her love intercourse with the heir of Kirkpatrick. She would, therefore, get no credit for her statement that she never loved her cousin; but would be set down as a breaker of pledges, and one who traitorously amused herself with the broken hopes of her unfortunate lovers. Whether she made the communication or not, it would be made by Blacket House, whose fear of losing the object of his affections, or his revenge--whichever of the two moved him--would force him to the immediate disclosure. The serenity of the domestic peace and happiness of Kirconnel House would be clouded for the first time, and that by the disobedience of one who had heretofore been held to contribute, in no small degree, to that which she was to be the means of destroying, perhaps for ever. The contrast between the confidence, the hope, and the affection with which she had been, by her parents, contemplated, and fondly cherished, during all the bygone part of her life, and the new-discovered treachery into which her secret love for a stranger would be construed, was a thought she could scarcely bear. These and a thousand other things passed through her thoughts with a rapidity which did not lessen the burning pain of their impress upon her mind; and the repetition of a thousand reflections, fears, and hopes, produced in the end a confusion that terrified sleep from her pillow, and consigned her to the powers of anguish for the remainder of the night and morning. She rose with a burning cheek and a high-fluttering pulse, produced by the fever of mind under which she still laboured. She opened the casement to let in the cool breeze of morning to brace her nerves, and enable her to stand an interview with her father and mother, who might already (for Blacket House was at Kirconnel at all hours) be in possession of the secret of what they conceived to be their once-loved Helen's disobedience and treachery. Her own communication, which she had pledged herself to Kirkpatrick to make, was now invested with treble terrors; and though she knew that her safety and happiness depended upon an open declaration, she felt herself totally unable to make it. Trembling and irresolute, she approached the parlour where her father and mother, along with herself, were in the habit of taking their morning meal. They were there; and there was another there--it was her cousin. He looked at her as she entered, with a calm, but mysterious eye, which fluttered her nerves again, and forced her to stand for a moment in the middle of the apartment, irresolute whether to go forward or retreat. She fearfully threw her eye over the faces of her parents. There was no change there; the ordinary placidity of their wonted manner, and the kindly love-greeting borne in their mellow voices, startled her--so strong had been her conviction that all was disclosed. Her parents were destitute of guile; and an instant's thought satisfied her that they were still in their ignorance of the secret. But Blacket House continued his dark gaze in silence; and even this--a decided alteration in his manner--was unnoticed by the unsuspecting couple, who threw their fond eyes on their loving daughter as their only remaining pride and solace. What meant this? The new turn taken by the stream of her difficulty and danger surprised and confused her; but, calming by the influence of her parents' kindness, she sat down and went through the forms of the morning meal, without exhibiting a discomposure that might attract the notice of these loving beings, who searched her face only for the indications of health and the beams of her pleasure. Her comparative composure enabled her to collect her ideas; and she thought she now discovered a reason for this seeming forbearance or discretion of Blacket House--a man little formed for these, or any other virtues: he intended to _sell_ his knowledge at the price of a hand that never could be his, but by this or some other means of compulsion. The moment this thought--and, under all the circumstances, it was a reasonable one--entered her mind, she trembled at the power of the dark-eyed, silent being who sat there, and gazed upon her in revengeful triumph. For relief, she turned her eyes to her parents; yet she saw there the smile that approved his suit, and the confidence that would believe his declaration. Her own Kirkpatrick was absent; and she dared not meet him to receive the assistance of his advice, to enable her to support herself under her trial, or devise a plan suited to the changed circumstances for her relief. She hurried over her meal, and hastened again to her apartment, to confirm herself in the opinion she had formed of Blacket House's intentions. Every thought tended to add to her conviction that she was correct, and told her that he never would succeed in his scheme. He would now, for certain, endeavour to see her alone, and lay before her the danger into which she had plunged herself, and the bargain by which she would be relieved from it. But she would defeat him; she would renounce her walks in the woods, desert, for a time, her bowers, and bid adieu to her silver Kirtle. She would keep her apartment under a pretence of slight indisposition--far from an untruth--and, in the meantime, try to devise some mode of relief from her painful situation. But the solicitude of her parents interfered, in some degree, with these plans. They discovered that she was not so ill as to be unable to seek what might do her service--her former walks and amusements around Kirconnel Lee; and thus was she obliged to yield to kindness; yet she contrived to have her parents near her, so as to deprive Blacket House of an opportunity of communicating to her his imputed plan of enforcing his suit. As yet, his silence had been continued: her parents were still in ignorance; and it was only (so she argued) because he had not hitherto found her alone, that his dreaded communication had not as yet been made. On the occasion of her first walk, however, she, by some untoward chance, was left in one of the arbours alone, and the opportunity (the first that had occurred) was seized by him--Blacket House was again before her, and all her fears were in a moment roused. Their eyes met with an intelligence they had never before possessed. Every passing thought seemed to be mutually read, while a few words of ordinary import seemed to be only as a preparation to his expected statement. Helen did not dare to leave him; she feared to rouse his anger, and yet she wanted courage to reply with ordinary pertinence to his remarks. His eye was constantly fixed on her, and the few words he uttered came with difficulty and pain; yet was there not the slightest allusion to the secret he undoubtedly held locked up in his breast. Was he not to bring forward his threat of exposing her, as a wrenching instrument, to force from her a consent that he was satisfied would never be given voluntarily? There was no indication of any such issue. What could be the true meaning of this dark-minded man's conduct? Again he had disappointed her fearful anticipations. He had not told her parents; he was not to tell herself. What then was he to do? She could not answer her self-put question; and her surprise when he parted from her, after a short conversation, conducted with difficulty, with his secret unapproached, and the mysterious stare of his illegible eye, was not less than her terror of the anticipated issue when she first encountered him. This new extraordinary element in the subject of her meditations and fears disarranged all her ideas, and sent her thoughts in new channels for a discovery of what might be the secret plans of her cousin. She sighed for an interview with her lover; but that, she was satisfied, would be attended with great danger; and thus reduced to her own resources, she passed the night following her meeting with Blacket House in still increasing pain and difficulty. In the morning she was visited in her own chamber by her mother, who appeared, from the serious aspect of her countenance, to have something of great importance to communicate. "Helen," began the good matron, "though your father and I have seldom broached the subject of love and marriage in your presence, we have, with heartfelt satisfaction, observed and understood that the man who alone has our consent to win your virgin heart is your own choice. Your wooing has lasted so long, that the very birds in the woods are familiar with your persons and converse; and surely this is not to last always. You are twenty years old, my dear Helen, at the next Beltane, the first of May; and I know that it is Blacket House's wish that your happiness may be crowned by a union within as short a period as we will agree to fix. I have broken the matter to you, my love; and as I am well acquainted with the fluttering of Love's wings when Hymen enters the bower, I will not urge you to fix a day at present, but leave you to the pleasant meditations my communication cannot but call forth. I shall send your breakfast to your bedroom this morning, my love; but I hope we may walk in the afternoon. Say nothing, Helen. Adieu! adieu!" And the mother left the room rapidly, as if to avoid noticing the blushes of the supposed happy damsel. Helen heard the words uttered, as one may be supposed to feel the syllables of a condemnation falling upon the heart. It was well that her mother departed so rapidly, for the agitation the kind parent attributed to joy, was but the prelude to a faint, which retained her cold and struggling in its relentless arms for a considerable period. The first indications of consciousness were, if possible, more terrible than the last thoughts that frightened it away. For a long period she sat upon the couch where she had heard the dreadful intelligence, and, passing her hand over her brow, tried to collect her energies, so as to be able to contemplate the full extent of her evil. She thought she could now see some connection between the announcement made by her mother and the extraordinary and mysterious conduct of Blacket House, though she was satisfied that neither of her parents possessed any knowledge of her intercourse with Kirkpatrick. The scheme of the early marriage might originate in the fears of her cousin, while his secresy was only still maintained till he found that she would not yield to her parents' authority; when would be the time for using his threat of disclosure to Helen, to compel her consent. All this reasoning seemed founded in existing circumstances and appearances; but so confused were her thoughts, and so painful every effort of her mind to acquire clearer views, that she felt inclined to renounce reasoning on a subject that seemed at every turn to defeat all her efforts to come to the real truth. Her misery was at least certain; for now, while the absolute necessity of a disclosure of her secret love became more peremptory and inevitable, the circumstances under which it would be made were such as would add to the unhappiness of her parents, and to the apparent deceit and treachery of her own nature, which was, notwithstanding, incapable of guile. Meanwhile, the effects of so much mental anguish, acting upon a tender frame, became soon apparent in her pale countenance and swollen eyes. She would not leave her apartment; and when her mother again visited her, she saw a change on her daughter very different from that which accompanies the character of a bride in prospective. The circumstance surprised the old lady; but still so satisfied was she that there could exist no objection to a lover whom she had (as was thought) cherished for years, that it never occurred to her that the change in her daughter was attributable to the announcement she had made to her; while Helen herself, oppressed with the secret which she struggled (as yet in vain) to divulge, shunned a subject which she found herself unable to treat in such a way as would insure to her relief from her sorrow. Every effort was made to get her out into the woods, where her former scenes might enliven her mind, and bring back her wonted spirits, which, chiming the musical bells of youth's happy glee, used to charm the age-stricken hearts of her parents. But these scenes had lost their power over her. The secrets Blacket House had to divulge still lay like an unholy spirit upon her heart, killed its energies, and rendered her miserable. She expected the additional sorrow of his society in these forced walks, and her grief was mixed with surprise at his absence. He was often at the house, but he avoided her. She even saw him turn into a by-path, to get out of the way in which she walked--a circumstance as inexplicable as any of the prior difficulties with which the whole affair was beset on every side. She continued her meditations, called up repeated energies to nerve her for her disclosure, and, with many a sigh, felt them die away, and the tongue cleave to her mouth, as the unavailing effort shook her frame. She had been in the habit of meeting Kirkpatrick at regular intervals; but two of the stated periods had passed without an interview. The third was approaching; and she trembled as the necessity of throwing herself on his bosom, and seeking counsel in her difficulty, appeared to her in such a form as to shake her resolution not to encounter another night-meeting with her cousin. On the morning of that evening when she must repair to the burying-ground, or lose the chance of meeting Kirkpatrick for a considerable time, it was announced to her parents, in her presence, at the table of the morning meal, that Blacket House had, on the previous day, gone on a visit to a relation in a very distant part of the country, and that he would not return for eight days. She heard it, and her eyes were involuntarily turned up to heaven, in thanksgiving for the opportunity she now enjoyed of sobbing out her sorrows on the bosom of her Kirkpatrick, and getting good counsel in her distress. She said nothing when the announcement was made, and heard, without heeding, the remarks of her parents. Her thoughts were in Death's Mailing, and the pallid hue of her cheek gave place for a moment to the flush that followed the fancied touch of his lips, and the pressure that brought her nearer to the bosom where lay all the relief she now had in this world. She sought more freely than she had done for some time her old retreats, and again the song of the merle had some music for her ear--so ready is the oppressed soul to seek its accustomed pleasures, that it will clutch them in the interval of a suspended grief, though sure to return. Her cousin was gone for a time; he could not cross in these paths of the wood; and, oh happy thought! she would lie on the bosom of her Kirkpatrick, and breathe forth, uninterrupted, love's sweet tale, rendered sweeter and dearer by the grief with which it was shaded. The evening fell that night beautiful and serene. No vapour clouded the "silver sheen," and no breath of wind rustled a leaf on the trees. "Hail to ye, bright queen!" ejaculated Helen, as she folded her mantle round her, and was on the eve of seeking the wood; "once more light me to my lover, if, after this meeting, you should for ever hide your face among the curtains of heaven." And, breathing quick with the rising expectation of being enclosed in his arms, she issued from the house, and sought the well-known loaning that led to the burying-ground. Her grief had sunk for a time amidst the swelling impulses of her passion; and it was not till she had been pressed to his bosom, her brow kissed by his burning lips, and deep-drawn sighs exhausted the ardour of a first embrace after so long a separation, that one single thought of the cruelty of her situation arose in her mind. They sat on the tumulus where they had sat often before. The gravestones around them lay serene in a flood of moonlight; the soft "buller" of the wimpling Kirtle was all that disturbed the silence of the night; calmly there reposed the dead of many generations; if their lives were ended, their griefs, too, were past; and Mary of the Le', whose grey monument reflected clearly the moon's light, was free from the anguish which, in struggling sighs, came from the bosom of her who was _yet_ above the green mound. Helen told her lover all the extraordinary circumstances of her situation. She wept at every turn of a new difficulty, and Adam's eyes were also suffused with tears; he pressed her again to his breast, and bade her be of better heart, for that better days were coming on the wings of time. "I confess," he said, "my dear love, that I am unable to understand the conduct of that dark-minded man; but what can he do, if my Helen should yet redeem her error, and make this necessary disclosure? That is alone the cure of our pain. Oh, Helen! what a load of evil might have been averted from our heads by the exercise of a little self-command!" "I see it, I feel it," replied she; "but there are powers higher than the resolves of mortals. I have struggled with myself till the blood was sent back in my veins, and frightened nature saved the powerless victim of grief by the mantle of unconsciousness. What, Adam, shall I do? I feel I am unequal to the task of speaking a daughter's rebellion and a traitor's resolution." "When everything is explained, Helen," replied the other, "the treachery disappears, and a father and mother's love will not die under the passing cloud of a little anger. Think of our bliss, love! Did hope never bring courage to your tongue, Helen? Ah, what would that bright goddess make Adam Fleming dare!" "And what," said she, "would Helen Bell not dare for the love she bears to her Adam, if that sacred feeling of a daughter's duty were overcome? But it must be. I shall fall upon my mother's neck, and weep out with burning tears of repentance a daughter's contrition. I will appeal to the heart of a mother and a woman. I will conjure up her own first love, move again the spring of her earliest affection, and feign to her my father lost, and her heart wrecked. Ay, Adam, hope--the hope of the possession of you--will accomplish all this. Helen has said it, and the issue will prove." This burst of generous resolution produced a flood of tears. She crept closer to him, and the throbs of her heart were heard in the silence which reigned among the graves. A rustling sound among the trees roused her; she lifted her head, and fixed her eyes on a part of the wood on the other side of the Kirtle. For a moment she watched some movements not noticed by her lover. They rose, and Adam stood aside to get a better view of the interruption. In an instant she clung to his bosom; a loud shot reverberated through the wood; Helen fell dead--the ball destined for Kirkpatrick having been received by the devoted maiden, who saw the hand uplifted that was to do the deed of blood. Neither scream nor audible sigh came from her; one spring when the ball entered the heart--and death! Kirkpatrick saw at once death and the cause of it, and in an instant he gave pursuit. Springing with a bound over the Kirtle, he seized Blacket House in the act of flight. The murderer turned, sword in hand, and a battle was fought in the wood, such as never was witnessed in the heat of the contest of armies. Had his opponent had twenty lives, the fury of Kirkpatrick would have been unsatiated by them all. His spirit was roused to that of a demon; a supernatural strength nerved his arm; he despised life and all its blessings; the world had in an instant lost for him any charms, but as the place where lived that one man whose blood was to glut his vengeance. His sword found the heart of Blacket House, and twenty wounds verified the ballad:-- "I lighted down my sword to draw-- I hacked him in pieces sma'-- I hacked him in pieces sma', For her sake that died for me." He returned to the burying-ground. His Helen's body was as cold as that of those who lay beneath. "O Helen fair beyond compare, I'll mak a garland of thy hair, Shall bind my heart for evermair Until the day I dee." Such is the story of Helen Bell, a subject that has employed the pen of many a poet, and brought tears to the eyes of millions. We sometimes, according to our privilege, amuse our readers with pure unadulterated fiction. Would that our task had been such on this occasion!--for we prefer the sorrow which fancy, imitating truth, rouses in the heart, to the depressing power of "owre true a tale." We may add, that the Maid of Kirconnel is more frequently called Helen Irving than Helen Bell, in consequence of some doubt as to whether her mother was not really one of the Bells, and her father an Irving. After giving the matter all due consideration, and searching several authorities, we are satisfied that the truth is as we have related it. Our very ingenious friend, Professor Gillespie, in a section of the "Gleanings of the Covenant," says that the beautiful ballad, some of the lines of which we have quoted, was written on "Helen Palmer." We must have his authority. TOM DUNCAN'S YARN. William Duncan had lived nearly thirty years in the service of a landed proprietor in Dumfries-shire; where his honest, upright, trustworthy character had gained him the esteem and respect of his employer; and he was looked upon more in the light of a humble friend, than of a hired menial. Nearly five-and-twenty years had elapsed since his marriage to Janet, who had long before been his "neebor" servant. Their family consisted of two children, a son and daughter; the latter of whom had been, at the time our story commences, for some time married to a farm-servant, and was living in a cottage closely adjoining her father's. The son had been sent, when about seventeen years of age, with cattle to Annan, and had there made acquaintance with some seafaring men, whose stories of the wonders of other lands had excited his curiosity, and awakened an irrepressible longing to witness the strange sights he had heard of. It was in vain that his father and mother strove to divert his thoughts into another channel--"he _would_ be a sailor;" and they at last wisely consented to what they could not prevent. About two years after his departure, Willie's good old master died; having left his faithful servant a small annuity, sufficient to make his old age comfortable--for he was now almost superannuated. The old gentleman had died childless, leaving his estate to a distant relative; and his successor, knowing the estimation in which Willie had been held by his late master, allowed him to live rent-free in one of the cottages on the estate, and treated him, on all occasions, with great consideration and kindness. There was but one thing wanting to make the old couple happy: their simple appetites were easily satisfied; they had enough and to spare, without the toil of labour; but their son, their only son, was a wanderer, and years had passed since they had received any intelligence of him, and then they had only been informed that he had gone to some foreign station. "Oh, could we but see him ance mair afore we dee!" was often their exclamation. One stormy night in October, the old couple were startled by a loud rap at the door. "Preserve us!" said Janet, in great alarm, "what's that? Wha can that be chappin at the door on sic a nicht as this? Maybe it's some puir seekin body, wantin shelter frae the blast. Up, Willie, man, an' ask wha it is." "It's me, faither--it's Betty," replied the voice of the daughter, in answer to her father's queries; "let me in." "What's brocht ye oot, woman," said Willie, "in sic a clash o' rain as this?" "There's a puir sailor lad come to oor hoose," replied she, "an' he wants something to eat an' drink, an' we haena a bite o' cake left: hae ye ony to spare? An', what think ye, faither? he kens oor Tam weel, an' says he saw him no tha' lang syne." "Kens oor Tam!" said the old man; "what for did ye no bring him wi' ye? Gie's doon my plaid; I'll gang an' speak to him mysel." "Na, na, faither; ye maunna cross the door while it's pourin this gate. I'll fetch him when he's had his supper. I'd hae brocht him afore, but I thocht maybe he micht be makin ye believe oor Tam was comin hame, or some sic clavers, an' ye wad be wearyin to see him, an' maybe no see him after a'." "An' what for micht he no be comin hame?" said Willie. "It's time he war, I think, if he wishes to find the auld folk to the fore." "Well, but, faither, suppose he war to tell ye that he had seen oor Tam twa or three days syne, an' that ye micht expeck to see him hame sune?" "Mercy, lass! what's the matter wi' ye, wi' yer maybes an' yer supposes? What gars ye gang swaggerin up an' doon that gait, lookin as ye were demented? There's something pleasin ye by common. If 'twar Tam himsel, ye couldna be mair uplifted." "An' guid richt hae I to be uplifted, mither, if ye kent a'." "Eh, it's Tam himsel!" almost screamed the old woman; "where is he? Let me see my bairn." "Here's all that's left of him, mother," said a fine, stout-looking sailor; who, unable any longer to restrain his impatience, stumped in on a wooden leg just as Janet was speaking. "My bairn! my bairn!" sobbed the old woman, throwing her arms round him; "mony a lang day hae I prayed to see ye ance mair; an' noo that I hae ye, oh, do I see ye a puir cripple!" "Oh, that's nothing, mother; nothing but the fortune of war. If I'd lost my head instead of my leg, mother, I wouldn't have been here to tell my own story." "That's Gude's truth; an' great reason hae we to be thankfu it's nae waur. But, oh! it's a sair dispensation." "Ah, old boy! how are you?" said Tom, shaking his father heartily by the hand; "all alive and hearty--eh?" "Weel aneugh, weel aneugh, Tam; just choppin on; but richt glad am I to see ye again, my son. But, Tam, that wasna the gate ye wad hae spoken to yer auld faither afore ye gaed frae hame." "My manner of speaking may be changed, father," replied the young man, respectfully; "but there's no change in my heart--that's true-blue still; and it'll be long before I can clear off my reckoning with you for all your kindness to me. No, no, father, my _heart's_ in the right place still." "Weel, my man, I hope sae. Sit doon an' tell us a' that's happened ye sin' we last heard frae ye. But wait a wee. Janet, seek oot the best that's in the hoose for the puir fallow; an', whan he's had a guid supper, he'll be in better fettle for giein us his cracks." "Tak aff yer jacket, my bonny man," said his mother; "an' hing it up afore the fire, an' draw in till't yersel. Willie, I'm thinkin there's something in the bottle. I'll put on the kettle, an' we'll gie the lad something he'll be nane the waur o'." After the sailor had done his devoirs at the supper-table, the whole party drew round the fire, and the old man, lighting his "cutty," said-- "Noo, Tam, tell us a' aboot what ye've been doin, an' hoo ye cam to lose yer leg." "It's a terrible long yarn, father, and I'm afeared ye'll be glad to sing out Avast! before I've spun it out; besides, you'll not understand my sea lingo." "Nae fear o' that," replied he; "ye ken I was ance a bit o' a sailor mysel. We could see the Solway frae the hoose I hired at when I was a callan." "But, eh, Tam, my man," said old Janet, "ye talk English as weel's the grand folk doon by." "Ay, ay, mother; leave me alone for that. My messmates used to say as how I ought to have been a Methodist preacher, seein I knowed so well how to tip them the dictionary." "Hear till him!" said the delighted mother, holding up her hands in admiration. "But, howsomdever, they haven't made me proud on't, you see, with all their blarney. But I must carry on, or my yarn'll reach from this to the end of next week. It's now six years since I got a berth on board one o' them Newcastle colliers, and a jolly time we had on't; for, though we'd lashing to do, and no want of wet jackets, there was always a full bread-bag, and swipes and grub at no allowance. They're the craft to teach a man his duty! Well, I'd been in that trade about a year, when I goes ashore one day with the mate at Wapping; and, while we were sitting comfortably swigging our grog, the landlord comes rushing in, and, says he, 'My lads, you must brush; there's the pressgang a-coming.' Hearing that, the mate and I bolted out of the door, and ran for it; but they twigged us, and gave chase. They nabbed the mate in less nor no time; but I cracked on a press o' sail, and was dropping them astern fast, when, as I was looking back at them over my shoulder, I ran stem on to an old fishwife. My eyes, what a crash! I sends her and her sprats a-swimming in the gutter, and I falls as flat as a flounder on the pavement, spouting out blood from my nose, like a whale. Well, to cut a long yarn short, we were taken on board the tender, and afterwards drafted into the Fire-eater frigate, which was stationed on the north coast of Ireland. I was very well off on board the frigate. 'Sharp' was the word, to be sure, and the cat often wagged her tail; but then, as long as a man was smart and willing, he'd never no 'casion to be afeared: there was never no favour nor affection there. Well, as I said afore, we were cruising off the coast of Ireland, when, one day, it came on to blow great guns from the westward. For three blessed days, there was the little Fire-eater tossing and tumbling, and kicking up her starn, and going through as many manoeuvres as a dancing-master, till at last we were driven so far west that we made the coast of Argyle; then 'bout ship we went, and stood away again to the eastward. Well, we carried on for a matter of four-and-twenty hours, with a little more northing in the wind, when we made land again, and hauled up two or three points to clear it. The weather was so thick ye might a'most have cut it with a knife, and there wasn't such a thing as a dirty face on board, the sea made a clean wash of everything, and it blowed--my eyes, how it did blow! Mayhap, you call this a gale, but you wouldn't have heard it beside that. It was bad enough to be on deck, but ten times worse below; a devil of a sea smashed in some of the ports, and the leeside of the main-deck was three feet deep in water. And then, while we were hard at work, stuffing up the holes where the water was pouring in, and pumping, there was an awful stramash on deck; for there was the land again, close aboard of us ahead. 'Wear ship!' was now the cry, and away went the little hooker again on the other tack, and bravely did she behave--a better sea-boat never swam; for, battered and knocked about as she was, she showed true pluck; no sooner was she knocked over by a sea, than she rose again like a duck, though she was forced to shake her feathers now and then. Well, at eight-bells in the first watch (midnight), we thought it was all up with us again, for there was the surf breaking on the rocks little more than half-a-mile on the lee-bow--and touch-and-go it was; but our tight little barky--though she was anything but tight by that time--though she lay over till she was half buried alive, looked boldly up in the wind, and shot past like a sea-bird. If there hadn't been such a devil of a noise, you might have heard a pin drop just then. There was not a man on deck who did not hold his breath, and gasp, when the danger was past, like one that's just escaped drowning. "'By the powers!' says I to Bill Jones, 'that was a close shave.' "'You may say that,' says he. "Just as he was a-speaking, the moon shone out, and there, not six hundred yards to leeward, were breakers again. The sea was running as high as our tops at the time; but beyond and above it we saw the breakers curling their white tops, foaming, and dashing, and roaring, as if they were raging to get at us, as you may have seen wild beasts tearing and leaping, and striving to break their chain to get out of the menagerie at their prey. Now, indeed, it seemed there was no chance of escape--there was no room to wear, and the ship was already half-buried under her canvas; our only hoped seemed to be in our ground tackle, and orders were given to clear away the anchors, and to have all ready for cutting away the masts. That was an awful moment; we thought it was all up with us, and there was many a pale cheek, and many a muttered prayer for mercy and deliverance; for the worst amongst us are glad to look aloft when death is staring us in the face below. Our captain was as brave a fellow, and as good a seaman, as ever stepped a plank. What his feelings may have been, it's impossible for the likes o' me to say; but I never seed him more cool in a calm than at that moment, when the bravest might have flinched, and no man could have cast it in his teeth. His voice never shook when he gave his orders, loud, clear, and distinct; and his gallant bearing cheered the down-hearted, and gave fresh pluck to the daring. He was a trump, that fellow! He ordered the foretopsail and foresail to be set. It seemed to be a rash and dangerous experiment, but it succeeded. Nothing venture, nothing win; we might have lost our masts, but we saved the ship. The little frigate lay over for a minute, as if she was never going to rise no more; all hands thought the masts must go, for everything aloft grinned again, and the rigging was as taut as bars of iron; but it held on, and the frigate righted again, and sprung ahead, as you have seen a hare make a fresh stretch from the hounds--and we were all saved. We shaved the reef so close, that I'm blessed if I couldn't a'most have chucked a biscuit on shore." "Mercy!" said the old woman; "what an escape!" "Ay, mother, we sailors have many a narrow squeak for it, that you long-shore folks never dream of; but you know, as the song says, 'There's a sweet little cherub sits perched up aloft, to take care of the life of poor Jack;' and we're as safe, for the matter o' that, on the stormy sea, as you are on the terry firmy, as our doctor used to call the land." "Weel, but what was the upshot o' the business?" said Willie. "Why, ye see, though we had escaped so mirac'lously like, we were still too near a lee-shore to be quite comfortable; for we'd another headland to weather afore we could say we was clear o' danger. There was never an eye closed on board that night, and a long and weary night it was. Blessed if ever I seed a craft stand up under her canvas as our little barky did, carrying on at the rate of seven knots an hour, while the sea made a fair breach over her every now and then, and made her stagger from stem to starn. At last, 'old roarer,' as I've heard our doctor call the daybreak, made its appearance, and we saw the land we was afeared o', some distance astarn. After that, the gale began to moderate, and a fair wind soon took us under our anchorage." Here old Janet interrupted her son, with, "Weel, but Tam, ye haena tauld us yet hoo ye cam to lose yer leg." "Never hurry no man's cattle, mother," replied the sailor; "leave me to spin my own yarn my own way, and I'll come to the end on't at last; I told you you'd cry out Avast! afore I'd done." "Hoot, Janet," said Willie, "let the lad tak his ain gate. It just astonishes me to hear him rinnin the words oot sae glib, an' him sic a solid callant as he used to be." "Weel, weel, gang on, my man; I'll no meddle wi' ye ony mair." "Then here goes! Carry on again, says I," replied Tom. "The frigate I belonged to afterwards went on the Jamaica station, and cruised about, to protect the merchantmen from the pirates as infested them seas. Well, we were dodging about one night, under topgallantsails, off Cape St Antonio, with just wind enough to make the barky crawl through the water. It was my look-out on deck, and I sees something like a large bird, as it seemed to me, hovering about in a patch of clear sky; so I stared at it, and stared at it, but I couldn't make out what it could be, for it kept moving backwards and forwards, but always in the same part of the sky. So I calls the midshipman of the watch, and says to him-- "'D'ye see that large bird a-flying about there, sir? It's the biggest I ever seed, and it keeps always about the same place; I can't make out what it can be after.' Well, he looks and wonders like myself, and then he goes to fetch the night-glass; and, after he'd squinted through it for a minute or two, he just mutters to himself, 'The devil!' and away he runs aft to the luftenant of the watch, and brings him a-running back with him. "'Whereabouts?' said the luftenant. "'There, sir; just under that cloud that's hiding the moon.' "'Ay, so it is!' said he; 'I see her spars plain enough; nothing but a royal loose--and there's her hull!' he continued, as the moon broke out, and showed us a long, low, rakish-looking square brig, lying as snug as a duck in the water, about two miles on our lee-bow. 'I don't like the look of her at all,' says the luff, and away he goes to make his report. She seemed to have twigged us at the same time, and didn't like the look of us neither; for, almost before the smoke had cleared away from our bows, after we had spoken to her with one of the forecastle guns, we could hear the pipe on board of her, the night was so still; and, in a crack, she was one cloud of canvas, from the truck to the lower boom. Blowed if ever I seed a man-of-war do the thing smarter. 'All hands make sail in chase!' was the cry on board of us, and, in a very short time, the water was talking Spanish under our bows. Every stitch of sail was packed on the ship: but the stranger stood right away before the light breeze, and crawled away from us fast, for that was our worst sailing point. We kept a-blazing away with our bow guns, to bring her to; but the more we fired, the more she wouldn't stop; and we might just as well have fired at the moon, for all the mischief we could do her. At daylight, she was hull down ahead; but the breeze freshened with the rising sun, and we began to fetch up our starnway, and, before noon, we began to drop our shot into her. She wasn't slow in answering at first from her stern guns, which were uncommon well sarved, and every now and then walked a ball through our sails, but luckily did not strike our masts. We were overhauling her in great style, peppering away as fast as we could, when all at once she began to yaw about, and, giving a broad sheer away to port, she shortened sail, and then came to the wind again on the starboard tack, with her maintopsail to the mast, and doused a red rag she had a-flying at the main. We gave over firing, and soon bowled up alongside of her, rolled up the small sail, hauled up the foresail, and backed the main-yard. Our captain hailed her in a devil of a rage, and was answered in some lingo I couldn't understand; but the fellow pointed to his boat, as had a plank knocked out of her side; and orders were given to man our boats, and send them on board, to take possession of her. Well, just as we were a-lowering the boats, and all hands pleased at the thoughts of a good prize, blowed if she didn't quietly steal her fore-yard forward a little, to gather way, and before you could say Jack Robinson, she was braced sharp up, with all her small kites set, and, as she stood across our bows, she pitched it into us in style. It was a blind look-out, sartinly, to let the sneaking scoundrel slip through our fingers that way; but there was no help for it now. The boats were secured again; and in a few minutes we were after her. As long as the breeze held strong and steady, we had rather the best on't; but it soon began to die away, and then we thought we would lose her for sartin, when a lucky shot crippled her gaff, which soon snapped like a carrot. Now that so much after-sail was off her, she couldn't keep her wind, and we neared her fast. 'Don't spare her, my lads!' shouted the captain; and we _did_ pour the grape and canister into her in fine style, till she was a regular wreck; but she showed pluck to the last, and kept blazing away at us as long as she was able. At last she got tired, and gave over firing, and struck her colours. The boats were well manned and armed, and were again sent to take possession of her; the frigate running almost alongside, and threatening to blow her out of the water, if she attempted any further resistance. When we were coming up under her quarter in the boats, we heard the sound of loud quarrelling on board, and when we got fairly on the quarterdeck, we found the captain of the pirate swearing like a trooper, and saying as how his crew had betrayed him, like cowardly dogs, as they were. He kept stamping up and down the deck like mad, looking as if he could eat the luftenant, when he took his sword from him. Ten or twelve desperate-looking rough'uns as ever I seed gathered round him, muttering that it was better to die on the quarterdeck like men, than hang like dogs at the yardarm, and all at once they snatched up some tommyhawks as was lying on the deck, and made a desperate rush upon us. We had an awful tussle for it; and, just as we were in the thick on't, hand to hand, up runs a young man from below, and sings out to us, 'Save me--save me!' As soon as the pirate captain seed him, he ran at him like a tiger, and, seizing him by the throat, shouted out, 'Dead men tell no tales!' and raised his tommyhawk to cleave him to the skull. Poor lad! he thought his signal for sailing was made, that it was all up with him. He muttered, 'Mercy! mercy!' But poor mercy would he have met with, if I hadn't run up just in time, and fetched the fellow a slash with my cutlass, which made him drop the tommyhawk like a hot potato. He left the lad, and turned round upon me, gnashing his teeth like nothing at all with very rage, and, before I had time to wink my eye, he snatches a loaded pistol out of my belt, and smashes my leg to shivers. Down I dropped; but before he could finish what he had begun so cleverly, a pistol flashed close to his head, and he staggered, and fell, never to rise no more. When I came to my senses again, I found myself in the sick-bay, on board my own ship. The surgeon was forced to cut off my leg to save my life; and when we arrived at Port Royal, I was sent ashore to the hospital, and afterwards got my discharge." "An' what o' the--what d'ye ca' them--rats?" said old Janet. "Oh, they were taken into Port Royal, and tried for piracy; there was lots of evidence against them, the bloodthirsty rascals, and they were all hanged, except three or four. And so there's an end of my yarn, father; and a precious long one, I daresay, you think it is; and here am I come home a poor useless cripple, to moor myself for life, if so be you'll let me come to an anchor under your lee." "Ay, my boy," replied the old man, clapping him kindly on the shoulder, "as long's there's a plack to the fore in the purse, or a gowpenfu' o' meal in the kist, ye'se aye be welcome to a share." "True-blue for ever!" shouted Tom; "but, father, it's not come to that yet; I'm not going to anchor without paying the harbour dues. Here," continued he, tossing a well-filled purse to the old man; "I haven't been so long afloat for nothing; there's a good whack of prize-money there, and I'll come in for a pension by and by, if I've luck." "Keep it yersel, Tam," replied Willie; "I'm no gaun to touch a bawbee o't. Gude be thankit! I hae aneugh an' to spare." Finding his father firm in his refusal, Tom at last said-- "Well, well, keep it for me, if you won't keep it for yourself. It won't keep company with me long; for, somehow, whenever I cast off the standing part of a guinea, it devilish soon unreeves itself in quarter less no time. Stow it away in your own lockers, and serve it out to me now and then, when I wants baccy." As this seemed a very rational kind of arrangement, the old man consented to become his son's banker. "And now that I've run all my line off the reel, father, you must give me a spell, and let's hear all that's been put down in your log since I left you." "Oh, it's no muckle I hae to tell, Tam," replied he; "ae day has been as like the ane that gaed afore't, as ae pear to anither; I was born here, and here I'll maist likely dee." "But what's become o' bonny Jean Cameron, father? I remember well how fond I was of her, when I was a boy at school; I've oft thought on her, when we've been keeping up Saturday night, at sea. Many's the _tot_ I've emptied to her health." "She's still to the fore, Tam, and 'maist as bonny as ever; she was married four years syne, but she's a widow noo." He then went on to tell his son the other changes that had taken place since his departure, the principal of which was the death of his late master and kind friend, Murray of Greenha'. "He was a guid freend to me," said Willie, drawing the back of his hand over his eyes; "but he's gane noo. I've nae cause to compleen o' my present maister, for a kinder couldna be; but he'll never be to me like him that's gane." James Hamilton, old Willie Duncan's present master, had made a large fortune in the West India trade, and was proprietor of a valuable estate in Jamaica. For a series of years, so rapidly had he amassed wealth, that he seemed to be a peculiar favourite of Fortune; but Fortune has ever been a capricious dame, and those who are apparently highest in her good graces, are often made to feel how uncertain is the tenure by which they hold them. She seems, like some of the savages of the western world, to pamper her victims with the good things of this life, only to make them feel more keenly the reverses she is preparing for them. James Hamilton was one of those men, unfortunately too rare, who do not allow themselves to be dazzled by the flattering appearances of present prosperity, but who, aware of the changeable and fleeting nature of all earthly possessions, hold on the even tenor of their course, with minds prepared for every vicissitude. He always acted upon high and pure principle, and never, in the height of prosperity, forgot that the same Supreme Benefactor, who in his bounty had blessed him with abundance, might, in his wisdom, think fit to try him with adversity. He was a kind-hearted and liberal man, but withal cool, quiet, and methodical in his manners and actions. Heedless of the opinion of the world, he acted up to the dictates of his own conscientious feelings of right and wrong; and his strict notions of evenhanded justice often led him to enter into engagements, and to perform actions, which, though perfectly just and rigidly honest, bore, in the eyes of a misjudging world, the impress of calculating selfishness and niggardly illiberality. But, notwithstanding, there was such straightforward honesty, such child-like, confiding simplicity, and such pure and unpretending Christianity, evident in his character, that it was impossible for those who knew him well not to esteem and love him. His principal failing was one which "leaned to virtue's side." Upright, and honourable, and candid, he thought all others like himself, and was often the dupe of designing and crafty men; who, with more worldly wisdom, were far his inferiors in judgment, and sound, practical sense; but who practised upon his confiding nature by the semblance of qualities which they did not possess. He had long been blessed with the companionship of an amiable and excellent wife; and, when she was snatched from him by a sudden and virulent disorder, he could ill have borne his bereavement, had he not been supported by the conviction that she was only removed to a purer and happier state of existence; and he bowed with submission to the decrees of that Being who "doeth all things wisely." His only son, John, who had been an object of most tender solicitude to both his parents, had been educated with the greatest care; and, though apparently born the heir to great wealth, had undergone a regular probation in a mercantile house in the city, of which he hoped soon to become a partner. Many of the elder Hamilton's friends had expressed their surprise at his choice of a profession for his son, and wondered that, rolling in wealth, as he was supposed to be, he should condemn his heir to the drudgery of a counting-house: but events proved that he had acted wisely and well. The sudden and totally unexpected failure of a large West India house with which he was connected, and to support which he had advanced considerable sums, gave the first shock to his credit; and, as is often the case, reverse followed reverse afterwards, until utter ruin seemed to be inevitable. Undazzled by prosperity, Hamilton proved himself to be equally unshaken by adversity. His character as a mercantile man stood so high for unimpeachable integrity and indefatigable industry, that he might have made head for some years longer against the stream of adverse circumstances, and might, perhaps, eventually have overcome them; but the plain path of duty was the one he had followed through life, and he did not desert it now. He immediately wound up his affairs, and, having settled with his creditors to the uttermost farthing, he found himself almost destitute, with the exception of his personal property, and the West India estate; which, however, had for some years barely paid its own expenses. It was now that Hamilton had reason to rejoice that his beloved son had, by his wise foresight, been rendered independent of circumstances, and had been bred up in habits which would enable him soon to acquire a comfortable establishment for himself. He immediately sold his house and furniture, and retired to a humble lodging in the city, where, with patient and laudable energy, he exerted himself to recover the ground he had lost. Sudden and unexpected as his reverses had been, he never murmured at the hardship of his lot, convinced that all the dispensations of Providence are wisely and mercifully ordered, and happy in the consciousness that he had nothing to reproach himself with, as far as concerned his dealing with his fellow-men. About this time, his son John was sent out to Jamaica, on some mercantile speculation, by the house with which he was connected, and obtained permission to remain some time on the island, to inquire into the management of his father's plantation; and, if necessary and possible, to effect its sale. He was about twenty-four years of age; tall, and handsome in his appearance, and a youth of excellent dispositions and steady principles. By his persevering and conscientious attention to his duties, he had gained the confidence and esteem of his employers, and had acquired the character of an active and clever man of business. He had long been a secret admirer of Ellen Winterton, the orphan child of an officer in the army, and who was living under the guardianship of the head of his firm. Accustomed, however, always to keep his feelings under control, and to regulate his desires by the rules of honour and of prudence, young Hamilton did not think himself justified in making his proposals in form, until fortune should have enabled him to do so as an independent man. The change in his father's circumstances, while it called for fresh exertions on his part, seemed to separate him still more widely from the object of his wishes; but he bore his prolonged probation with cheerfulness, and his grief at parting with Ellen was almost neutralised by the animating prospect of serving his beloved father. After an absence of some months, during which he had written home several times, a letter was received from him, announcing his having left Kingston harbour, in the fast-sailing, well-armed merchant-ship, the Delight, and expressing his hope soon to join his father again. Fortune, in the meanwhile, had smiled again upon the elder Hamilton, in a way he little expected. He was surprised one evening by the receipt of a note from a gentleman, whose signature was unknown to him, and who requested a personal interview with him next morning, at a neighbouring coffee-house. Thither he repaired accordingly, wondering what could be the nature of the communication the stranger wished to make to him. "Mr Hamilton, I believe?" said a gentleman, dressed in deep mourning, to whom the waiter pointed him out, as he entered the room. "I know you well by name and character, Mr Hamilton, though I have not the happiness of your personal acquaintance, and I am happy to be the bearer of pleasing intelligence to you. I am one of the executors of Mr Murray of Greenha', who died childless, and, in consequence of the demise of his near relations, has made you his heir; and I have to congratulate you upon your accession to a valuable landed property and a handsome fortune." Mr Hamilton was not a little surprised at this announcement. Murray of Greenha' was a distant relation of his late father; but the families had had no communication for several years, and he had almost forgotten that such a person was in existence. This unexpected revolution, by which he was again restored from poverty to wealth and comfort, excited his warmest feelings of gratitude and thankfulness towards that Being in whom he had always trusted with unwavering confidence. He immediately set off to the north, to visit his newly-acquired property, and to carry into effect the provisions of his benefactor's will. Among other duties devolved upon him, was that of providing for our friend Willie Duncan, whose upright, manly character, and grateful attachment to his late master, gave him strong claims upon the good-will and respect of his successor. He had been some time in the north when he heard of his son's having left Jamaica; but months instead of weeks had elapsed, and still no further accounts had been received of him, and he began to be seriously alarmed on his account. His agent in town, in reply to his anxious inquiries, informed him that the Delight was known to have left Kingston harbour at the time specified, but that she had not since been heard of; and, as she was so very much beyond her expected time, and several ships had arrived in England, which had only just reached the harbour when she left it, there was now little doubt of her loss. This was sad news to the elder Hamilton, and it required the exercise of all his Christian fortitude to enable him to bear up under the heavy dispensation. He had gained unexpected wealth; but he for whom he prized it had been snatched from him. One afternoon, shortly after the return of the sailor, Tom Duncan, Mr Hamilton was sauntering, in a melancholy mood, along the high road near Greenha', and was scarcely aroused from his abstraction by the rattling of a post-chariot, which was almost upon him before he was aware of its approach.--"Stop!--stop!" said a voice from the inside. The door was dashed open, and in a moment the bewildered father was in the arms of his long-lost son. It was some time before either of them could speak. At last, the father sobbed out-- "My dear, dear son! I thought you were torn from me for ever! Heaven be praised for all its mercies! I shall now die happy. But how have I been so cruelly deceived? They told me you were lost, and my heart was almost broken. But come, come away to the house, and, after you have refreshed yourself, you can gratify my curiosity." On entering the house, John congratulated his father most affectionately on the change that had taken place in his affairs. "I am glad of it on your account, John; for myself, I care not. I was as happy with my crust and cheese, and with my consciousness that I was doing my duty, as I am now--rich beyond my fondest hopes. Yes, John, I thank Heaven, for myself, that I am blessed with a contented spirit; and, for _you_, that, when I die, you will be amply provided for." As soon as John had done ample justice to the substantial lunch placed before him, his father said to him, "If you are not much fatigued, we will take a stroll, and, while I am showing you the lions, you can be telling me your adventures." "With all my heart," replied he. "When we left Kingston harbour in the Delight, we were all in high glee, in the anticipation of a speedy and pleasant voyage. Our ship was one of the fastest of her class, well armed, and manned with an active and spirited crew; so that, to all human appearance, we had little to dread, either from man or the elements. We had scarcely lost sight of the land, when the wind died away to a dead calm, and the sea became as smooth and clear as a mirror, glancing back the reflection of a bright and cloudless moon. The sails flapped heavily against the masts, as the ship rolled helpless and unmanageable in the long swell, and the water dripped from her channels, as she rose again, after dipping them deep into the sea. All at once a small, dark cloud appeared on the larboard beam. "'Oh, it's nothing,' said the mate. "Not so thought the captain, who fortunately came upon deck at the time. "'All hands shorten sail!' shouted he. 'Bear a hand! Up foresail!--in royals and topgallantsails! Brace the yards round to port! Stand by topsail--haulyards and sheets!' "These orders were barely carried into effect, when a sudden and tremendous squall struck the ship. The small sails were clued up, and the topsailyards on the caps; but the gallant little bark staggered under the shock, lay over till her gunwale almost touched the water, struggled for a moment, and then rose again. The squall had overtaken them with lightning-like rapidity, and was gone again almost as quickly. A few moments before, and a neater and snugger ship never swam the water--now, she was almost a wreck aloft. The foretopmast was hanging over the side, the jib-boom gone, the maintop-gallant-mast snapped short above the step, and the maintopsail in tatters. All this desolation had been the work of a moment; the demon of the storm had passed, and all was again calm. "'Thank Heaven it's no worse!' said the captain. 'Two minutes sooner, and we should all have been lost! Better lose a few sticks than the ship herself. But this will be a warning to you, Mr Rogers,' said he to the mate, 'not to be foolhardy for the future.' "All hands were immediately set to work to clear away the wreck of the spars, and were busily employed all night. It was late in the forenoon before the wreck of the foretopmast was launched clear of the ship, and a new maintopsail bent. During this interval, a light breeze had sprung up, and a strange sail hove in sight to windward. The captain mounted the rigging, and got his glass to bear upon her, and, after a long and anxious look, paced the quarterdeck with hurried and irregular steps, glancing uneasily aloft, and hailing the men to bear a hand with their mast-ropes. "'Rogers,' said he to the mate, at the same time handing him the glass, 'take a look at that craft, and tell me what you think of her.' "The mate looked long and carefully at her, and, returning the glass to his superior, looked doubtingly and inquiringly in his face, and shook his head-- "'I don't like the look of her at all, sir.' "'Nor I, Rogers; however, we'll say nothing about her just now. If the air continues so light, it will take her some time to reach us, and we must make good use of the opportunity. Hurry the men with the topmast. Heaven send us a cloudy night! As soon as it is dark, we'll alter our course.' "By dint of hard work, and a suspicion among the crew that the stranger was an unpleasant neighbour, we were all ataunto, as the sailors call it, before midnight, and were standing away before the light breeze. At daylight, the captain's glass swept the horizon, and soon rested upon the object of his search. A long and steady gaze seemed to confirm both him and the mate in their first suspicion. The vessel, now considerably nearer us, had been evidently watching our motions, and was as evidently in pursuit of us. She was a long, low, rakish-looking brig, creeping along before the faint breeze, and aiding its efforts with her sweeps. "'It's the Dare-Devil, sir!' said the mate, his cheek paling as he spoke; 'I know her now by the black fiddlehead, and her mast-heads black. A bloodier pirate never swam. The Lord have mercy upon us, for _he_ won't!' "'Call the hands aft!' said the captain. "The men assembled on the quarterdeck in stern silence. They seemed to anticipate what was to follow; but it was evident theirs was not the quietness of fear, but of determination. "'My lads,' said the captain, 'that stranger, we have every reason to believe, is a pirate. If there had been anything of a breeze, we might have escaped; but now, our only chance is to show her what mettle we're made of. You will have to fight for your lives; for so soon as they set foot on this deck, they will murder every soul on board. What say you, my lads? Will you die like dogs, or fighting like brave men?' "A simultaneous cheer from the crew was the only reply, and they were immediately dismissed to prepare for the impending conflict. "'Ah, there she shows her teeth at last,' said the captain, as a puff of smoke burst from the brig, followed by the flash and report of a gun, the ball from which struck the water some distance from us. "'It is of no use our attempting to escape, Rogers!' said the captain; 'he is gaining upon us fast. We will not fire a gun till he is close aboard of us, and till every shot will tell.' "The guns were all loaded with grape, the fire-arms placed in readiness on deck, and the men ordered to lie down at their quarters, and not to fire a shot till the order was given. Meantime, the pirate rapidly approached, and her shot began to tell upon our rigging and sails. The Delight kept steadily on her course; but her yards, which had been nearly square, were drawn quietly forward, one by one, to port. The pirate was sweeping up at some little distance on our quarter, and had hailed us to heave to directly, or she would sink us. 'Now, my lads,' said our captain, 'be cool and steady. I'm going to cross his hawse: as soon as the guns bear upon him, blaze away.' "The helm was put a-starboard, and, as we crossed the bows, we poured our grape into him. The fire was not such a _raking_ one as we expected; for he was too quick for us, and sheered to port almost as soon as ourselves; but it was evident that we had almost sickened him, for he widened his distance, and before night was almost hull-down to windward of us. "'I hope we have got rid of our troublesome customer, sir,' said Rogers to the captain. "'Don't halloo till you're through the wood,' replied he; 'we haven't done with him yet, I'm afraid. I'm much mistaken if he is not trying to play a game at humbug with us; as soon as it is dark, he will edge down upon us, and endeavour to take us by surprise. We will keep the men at quarters all night, and haul close to the wind, on the starboard tack, when darkness comes on.' "At nightfall strict orders were given that all the lights should be put out, except that in the binnacle; and the ship's course was altered. We were in great hopes that by these means we should elude the pursuit of the pirate; for, though the breeze was still light, the night was dark and cloudy, and the mate, after sweeping the horizon with his night-glass, said, in a joyous tone, to the captain-- "'I think we have outwitted him, sir; I see no signs of him now.' "'Let _me_ look,' said the captain. 'Holloa! What is that dark body to the northward? That infernal brig, I'll be bound. How could he have seen us?' "As he spoke, his eye glanced aloft, and there, to his great surprise, was a light shining at the mizentop-gallantmasthead! "'What light is that?' shouted he; 'who has dared to disobey the orders? Jump up there, one of you boys, and douse it. Rogers, there's a traitor on board.' "'Then Jose is the man, sir!' "The Delight had lost a few hands in harbour, by fever; and, a few days before she sailed, a Portuguese seaman had been shipped to supply the place of one of them. He was an active, able-bodied fellow, and produced excellent certificates from former ships; but there was something extremely forbidding and repulsive in his countenance, and the mate was very unwilling to obey Captain Forbes's order to receive him on board. He was a man of few words; but his eyes were constantly wandering, with a furtive glance, round the ship; and, when he did speak, it was generally to express his fear of pirates, and to inquire into the means of defence of the Delight. On the evening before the ship sailed, he went on shore as one of the boat's crew, but did not make his appearance again till next morning. For this breach of duty he made some plausible excuse, which was unfortunately accepted. It was afterwards proved that he was one of the crew of the pirate, and had been employed to gain all the information in his power, as to our guns, time of sailing, &c., and to make private signals, if necessary. "The brig kept hovering about till daylight, and then bore down upon us, and, when within range, fired a shot across our bows, to make us heave to. To this salutation no answer was returned, but we stood steadily on, as before, reserving our fire for closer quarters. Shot after shot was dropped into us, but still not a hand was moved on board. At last the pirate came within hail, and swore with the most horrid oaths that he would sink us, if we did not immediately heave to. "'Now, my lads, stand by!' The men were on their feet in a moment. 'Starboard a little! Fire!' Again our grape rattled into her, and we could judge, by the bustle on her decks, and by the loud cries and execrations that reached our ears, that our fire had been a destructive one. Two of our men were killed by his discharge, and our boat amidships smashed to pieces; but he again sheered off, and, shaking his sails in the wind, dropped slowly astern. Again our hopes revived, but only to be miserably disappointed. When he was beyond the range of our short carronades, he kept dropping shot after shot into us, with deadly precision from his long gun. "'Rogers,' said the captain, 'if this game lasts long, it is all up with us; unless the breeze freshens, we shall all be murdered like so many sheep.' "In vain did we endeavour to come to closer quarters with him; as we shortened sail, so did he. Our guns were useless, while--crash--crash--crash--followed each remorseless shot from his long twelve. The breeze, instead of freshening, gradually died away to a calm, and we lay entirely at his mercy, for he kept sweeping round us, and, unhurt himself, inflicted deadly injuries upon us. At last, we lay a complete wreck upon the water; our gallant captain was killed, and fifteen of the men either dead or desperately wounded, and the gallant, but exhausted remnant of the crew were persuaded by the mate to consent to surrender. Our colours were accordingly hauled down; yet the pirate for some time paid no attention to this mark of submission on our part, but seemed determined to gratify his thirst for slaughter, by putting his threat of sinking us into execution. At last he ceased firing, and, sweeping up on our quarter, hailed to order the captain of the Delight on board. "'Our captain is killed, and we have not a boat left that can swim.' "'Oh, then, if you can't come to me, I must go and fetch you!' A boat, well manned, soon pushed off from the pirates, and in a few minutes dashed alongside of us. The first man who boarded us was the captain, as ferocious-looking a monster as I ever beheld; and his followers, who swarmed up the side after him, were, in appearance, worthy of their leader. They rushed on board with cries of exultation and rage, brandishing their cutlasses, and shouting, 'Down with them!' 'Cut them down, and make an end of them at once!' And they were proceeding to put their threats into execution, when they were checked in a moment by the loud and commanding tones of the captain. 'Stand back, all of you! I'll shoot the first man that lays a hand upon them! No, no, my lads; it would be letting the rascals off too cheap to kill them at once; we'll despatch them in pairs at a time; there are twelve of them, so we shall have six days' sport instead of one.' This proposal was received with shouts of savage joy by the crew. 'We'll keep these two till the last,' continued he, pointing to the mate and myself, 'that they may have the pleasure of seeing all their comrades walk the plank before them. But, come my lads, be smart; we have no time to lose; put all these fellows on board our little hooker; and then we'll see what's to be done below.' We were all immediately forced into the boat, and rowed on board the brig, where some of us were put in irons, and others lashed to ringbolts on the deck. The boat then returned, and the work of plunder commenced; and for some hours the pirate crew were busily employed in transferring to the brig all the valuables they could lay their hands upon on board the Delight. When they had taken everything available, they scuttled the ship, and left her, and obliged us, with many taunts and blows, to watch for the catastrophe. It was a heartrending sight to us all to see our gallant little ship gradually settling in the water, rolling deep and uneasily, till at last, after a heavy lurch, she dipped her bulwarks low into the water, and, struggling in vain to recover herself, sank to rise no more. A groan of horror burst from us all; we felt as if our last connecting link with humanity was broken; we were left powerless in the hands of monsters in human form, but with the spirit of demons. Alas! our fears were but too well verified: that very evening two of our poor shipmates, after having been tormented in the most savage manner, were blindfolded, and compelled to walk out upon a plank launched from the gangway, from the end of which they fell into the sea, shrieking with horror as they fell. As their bodies plunged heavily into the smooth water, the captain turned to us with a savage sneer, and said-- "'They were too well fed by half; when it comes to your turn, you won't make such a disturbance amongst the fishes.' "But why need I dwell longer upon these horrors? For five succeeding days, the same murderous scene was enacted; we were fed on bread and water, and tormented in every way that cruelty could suggest, and then had the horror of witnessing the death of our companions, and of anticipating the same cruel fate for ourselves. At last the mate and I were the only survivors, and we were brought to the gangway, to mount the same fatal plank which had been the instrument of death to our unfortunate shipmates. Our eyes were blindfolded, and, weak and exhausted as we were, we looked forward to death as an easy and happy release from our miseries. We bade each other farewell. "'Our murderers allow us one blessing, Rogers,' said I--'to die together.' "That remark saved my life. "'A blessing is it?' exclaimed the captain; 'then it's one that I'll be hanged if you enjoy. You shall go to the devil by yourself. Take the handkerchief off that sentimental gentleman's eyes, and let him see his dear friend take a leap in the dark. He can moralise about it till to-morrow evening.' "Poor Rogers! I did indeed feel deserted, when the sullen plunge announced that the sea had closed over its prey! To this refinement in cruelty on the part of the pirate, however, I eventually owed my deliverance. Slowly and painfully did the first hours of that night pass over my head. My thoughts constantly recurred to the horrors I had witnessed, and to the dreadful doom that awaited me on the morrow. The tears filled my eyes as I prayed for forgiveness of my past sins, and for strength to support me through the coming trial. The brig was tumbling about on the almost calm sea, with all sails furled, except the topgallantsail, which by some chance had broken adrift, and the crew, not excepting the look-out man, were all asleep, when all at once the report of a gun came booming over the water. The sound acted like magic upon the slumbering crew--they were on the alert in a moment--the sails were set with wonderful quickness--the sweeps were manned, and the little schooner rippling through the water. Next morning we had distanced the stranger considerably, and the pirate was in great hopes of escaping; but the breeze freshened, and before noon the frigate, for such she proved to be, had gained so much upon us, that her shot began to tell upon us. I was now hurried below, and a sentry was placed over me; the captain ordering him to blow my brains out if I attempted to escape, and adding, 'I'll settle his account by and by.' It was with impatience almost amounting to agony that I listened to the strange medley of sounds which reached my ear--the creaking of the sweeps, the curses and shouts of our crew cheering each other at their work, the loud report of our guns, and the more faint and distant sound of those of the frigate; and I prayed for deliverance--prayed that some lucky ball might find its way into the cabin, and put an end to my suspense and to my miseries at once. At last the sound of the sweeps ceased. I heard the rattling of blocks and the sound of running feet. I felt, by the motion of the vessel, that some alteration was made in her course, and then--I burst into tears--I heard a voice hailing the brig! I felt that the hour of my deliverance was at hand, and I breathed a prayer of silent thankfulness to Heaven. Again there was a movement on deck, the brig laid over to the breeze, and a loud shout burst from her crew, as they discharged the guns. Merciful powers! she had escaped; and my spirit sank within me. But the avenger of blood was behind us, and his voice spoke in the thunder of his guns. I heard a crash upon deck, then the noise of something coming down from aloft, followed by the muttered curses of my sentry, as he exclaimed, 'The gaff is gone!' The report of the frigate's guns now became louder and louder, and the little brig absolutely staggered, when the grape-shot rattled against her sides. Her crew, however, seemed to be fighting with the desperation of madmen, for they maintained a warm fire. At last all was silent on board; the firing ceased, and not even a voice could be heard. Presently I heard the dash of oars; then the grating of a boat against the vessel's side; then loud and angry voices, and afterwards all the sounds of a desperate conflict. I looked up the companion--my sentinel had deserted his post, to join in the fray. I saw the boat's crew of the frigate engaged in a deadly struggle with the pirates. I rushed over to them, and had just joined them, calling for help, when the pirate captain seized me by the shoulder, and raised his tomahawk to cleave me to the deck. Weak as I was, I must have fallen a victim to his fury, had not a gallant sailor rushed between us, and inflicted a severe wound upon his upraised arm. I saw my brave deliverer fall immediately afterwards by a pistol-shot; but he was well avenged; for the next moment the pirate fell lifeless on his body. I saw no more. I was carried, in a state of insensibility, on board the frigate, and it was long before I recovered from the effects of my severe discipline on board the pirate. As soon as I was sufficiently recovered, I wished to hasten homewards immediately; but I was obliged to remain, to give evidence against the crew of the piratical brig, all of whom, with the exception of three or four, suffered the extreme penalties of the law. And now, my dear father, my tale is at an end, and grateful am I to the merciful Providence which has restored me to your arms." "My dear, dear son!--doubly endeared to me by the dangers you have undergone on my account--I am thankful that my altered fortunes now enable me to gratify what I know to be the dearest wish of your heart. Go to her, John--go to Miss Winterton--she is worthy of you: no longer restrained by the clog of poverty, you may freely indulge the feelings of your heart." As the father and son were walking along the road, they saw two men approaching them at some distance. "Whom have we here?" said John Hamilton. "One of them is old Willie Duncan, a cottar of mine; and who the lame man is that is with him I know not. By the by, I heard that his son was returned from sea; perhaps that's the man." Willie Duncan respectfully saluted his master, when he approached, and said-- "I was just bringing my son to----" "Good heavens!" exclaimed John Hamilton, gazing earnestly at the disabled man; "it cannot be--yes, it is--my brave deliverer! My gallant fellow," continued he, shaking him heartily by the hand, "how rejoiced I am to see you, and to have an opportunity to prove my gratitude to you! I heard you were dead--how did you escape?" "Why, blow me, your honour, if you didn't take me quite aback. I couldn't make you out at first--you're twice the man you were when I see'd you on the pirate's deck; and I'd never no thoughts of falling in with you so near home. I'm right glad, however, to see your honour once more." "Duncan," said Hamilton, senior, with a trembling voice, "I owe you a debt I can never repay. You lost your limb in saving the life of my son--it shall be my endeavour to make the loss to you as light as possible." "And is the gentleman the son of my father's good master? Then a fig for the leg!--it couldn't have been lost in a better cause. And, as for gratitude, sir, you owe me none; his honour, here, would have done the same for me, if the case had been reversed, like--if he'd been the sailor, and I'd been the gemman." "Well, well, my good fellow--no doubt--we won't argue on that point; only tell me how I can serve you, and I will do so, to the best of my ability." "Why, your honour, I wants for nothing just now. I've got a lot of prize-money, and my father's snug roadstead to anchor in; but, if your honour likes to give me a few ounces of baccy, I won't say but what I'll be obligated to you." "A modest request, certainly," said Mr Hamilton, laughing; "but we must give you something better than tobacco, and as much of that as you like into the bargain. Come, William, as your son won't speak, you must do so for him. Tell me how I can best serve him." A whispering consultation here took place between father and son, which was put a stop to by the latter addressing Mr Hamilton in a sheepish, confused manner, twirling his hat in his hands at the same time, and feeling the rim all around, as if to ascertain that it was all there. "Why, your honour, as your honour's so kind----Blow'd if I can speak about it, father! You see, your honour, I'm a first-rate hand at a yarn on a Saturday night; but, somehow, my jawing-tacks gets all bedevilled when I begins to speak about _she_." "And who's she?" said Mr Hamilton, laughing--"some old sweetheart that has been waiting for you?" "Why, it's bonny Jean Cameron that was when I went away. She's a widow now, your honour, and, as I wants to be spliced, and she's no objection, why, if it's not making too bold, if your honour would let us have one of your empty cottages, we'd join company at once, and sail together for the rest of our cruise." We need hardly say that the sailor's request was cheerfully granted; and in a few weeks he and his wife were happily settled in a neat cottage, comfortably and substantially furnished by Mr Hamilton, who likewise settled upon him an annuity, sufficient to keep him from want, but not so large as to encourage habits of idleness or dissapation. John Hamilton was equally successful in his suit; and his union with Ellen Winterton proved that those who have been tried by adversity are best qualified to enjoy prosperity. THE PROFESSOR'S TALES. THE THREE BRETHREN. "Together such as brethren are, In unity to dwell." The unity of the three brethren about whom I am going to speak is complete: some are united in heart and soul, but these are united in body and frame: closer than the Siamese twins did their union abide, till, in an evil hour, the winds smote them, and they were no more--"_Sed stat nominis umbra._" They have left behind them a name and a record which will not soon perish. They might have said--had speaking been at all their forte--with Horace, "_Non omnis moriar."_ They shall live in the recollection of the present, and in the records of future times--at least it will not be from want of will, if the pages of the "Tales of the Borders" do not transmit their memorial to late posterity. The three brethren! you exclaim, quite naturally enough. What! were they brothers by blood or by marriage--brothers in profession--or, like Simeon and Levi, in iniquity? We should like to see the mist cleared away, and the subject made tangible. Well, listen! The three brethren were three trees, or rather divisions of one tree--as like each other as one pea is to another--which once stood in the middle of the high road from Glasgow to Dumfries, upon the banks of the Nith. People had it that their similarity was so great that it reached the details of their branches, and even leaves, and that they were in every--even in the minutest--respect copies or fac-similes of each other. Nobody living--and far less any one dead--can tell their age. They saw Oliver Cromwell and his saintly crew march into Scotland; and beheld, in later times, the Highland host, in the year '45, pass along. They might have given an old chronicle of ancient times and manners, had it not been that they probably did not outlive the age of Methuselah. But "Improvisa vis lethi rapuit Rapietque gentes." Destruction came in the shape of a nor'wester, and they are now in the act of being converted into snuff-boxes, writing-desks, and dressing-cases, for their old and attached acquaintances and friends; every one seems more anxious than another to obtain a relic of the immortal triumvirate--and they are more likely to be remembered with pleasurable feelings than even were the Triumvirates of ancient Rome. But now that they have bowed their heads, and given up their roots, it is proper that some effort should be made to perpetuate their memory; and who so fit as an old Closeburn man to execute this bold but praiseworthy task? The explanation, however, requires a glance at the race of gipsies, one of whom thus characterises the race:-- "My bonny lass, I work in brass-- A tinkler is my station-- I've travell'd round all Christian ground In this my occupation. I've ta'en the gold--I've been enroll'd In many a noble squadron-- In vain they search'd, when off I march'd, To go and clout the caldron." The gipsies have now disappeared entirely from the north of Scotland; even in Fife, the former residence of the gipsy clan Jamphrey, no such variety of the species is to be found. Their chief residence, as we have had occasion to say before, is now on the Borders, where, in the village of Yetholm, and in Langtown, they still maintain a separate clanship. They still are, and have always been, extremely jealous of the marriage of any of their daughters, in particular, out of the tribe. Hence the fact, that almost every third person amongst them labours under some mental peculiarity or defect. Their male youths enjoy greater latitude; yet, on their alliance with the Philistine fair, they are usually looked down upon, and regarded as a kind of amphibious race, who, like the "Proselytes of the Gate" amongst the Jews, were not admitted into equal communion. Their children are brought up (at least were so, till of late) in the most religious contempt of the alphabet. Nor are any moral principles inculcated, beyond successful thieving--that is, downright knavery--and dexterity of execution as workmen, whether it be in forming a ram's horn into a cutty spoon, or in appropriating the fattest hens from the farmer's bauks. Their women, too, are expert fortunetellers, and have husbands ready-made for sixpence. They are a fearful, fearless race, wandering about, in former times, almost during the whole year, and pitching their tents--in other words, setting their asses to graze, and themselves to forage--wherever solitude or the tolerance of the laird or farmer will permit their presence. When Scotland, in general, and Dumfries-shire in particular, from Criffell to Corsincon, were densely covered with natural wood, these people divided the woodland with the fox, the boar, and the wolf, and were extremely expert in noosing hares, rabbits, and polecats. Theirs was the bow, and ultimately the long-barrelled gun, for securing the fowls of heaven; and the set line, liester, and fishing-rod for the tenants of the water. As was the case with the Roman of old--"_Patres ad insignem deformitatem puerum cito necaverunt;_" in other words, and in a different tongue, they put their diseased and deformed offspring to death; and more than one-half of those which were permitted to survive were killed in a year or two by harsh usage, cold, and imperfect clothing. Thus their youth which did survive these manifold trials and risks rose up into man and womanhood, proud, hardy, strong, well-seasoned plants, exhibiting much muscular power and symmetry in the male, and occasionally uncommon beauty and figure in the female form. The "wild gazelle exulting" and bounding on the hills of Judah was not more elastic in its motion, nor penetrating and fascinating in its glance, than were many of the fairer wives and daughters of these hordes of part mendicant, part predatory, and part artist wanderers. Their chief resorts, in ancient times, were to the banks of the Hermitage and Slitterick, near Hawick; to the banks of the Dee, near Kirkcudbright; and, above and beyond all, to the woods of Colliston, and the linns of Balachun, on the Nith, in Dumfries-shire; and it is to this last locality that the following narrative particularly refers. It was about the middle of the month of October that a packman, or pedlar, with an enormous chest laid transverse on his shoulders, was seen wending his way up the banks of the Nith, from Manchester to Glasgow. He had hoped to have reached Thornhill, then an exceedingly small village, before dusk; but this being his first migration in this direction, he found himself so surrounded and obstructed by the river Nith on the one hand, the linns of Balachun on the other, and an almost impenetrable wood in front, that night came upon him, dark and moonless, whilst still pushing his way through brambles, thorns, and every species of tangling and perplexing underwood. At last, despairing of extricating himself, and terrified, at the same time, by the roaring of waters, howling of wild beasts, and hooting of owls, he extricated his shoulders from the pack-bands, and, selecting as dry and soft an apartment as circumstances permitted, he set himself down on the grassy turf, with a birch branch for his canopy, and the old stump of a tree for his lean. In a little time he was alarmed by the cries of what appeared to be a child in the act of being cruelly murdered. Mungo Clark (for such was the packman's name) rose, and, advancing a few steps in the direction of the now faintly-emitted sounds, found a hare in the act of expiring of strangulation by means of a noose, or girn, formed of strong wire, and placed so as to intercept a little footpath made by the feet of the wild animals of the forest. Mungo was in the act of disengaging the dead creature from its executioner, the noose, when he heard the rustling as if of a lion on the spring, very near him, and all at once he found himself in the iron grip of a customer with whom he had no wish, on this occasion at least, to deal. "And wha are ye," were the sounds which, in a hollow and harsh tone, first greeted his ears--"and wha are ye, man, wha hae made yer bed this dark night wi' the howlets and the wull-cats--ye wha meddle wi' what naething concerns ye, and burn yer fingers in ither folk's kail-pats? Speak, man, and dinna keep me blethering here, for I hae got ither fish to fry, I trow, than standing here palavering wi' sic as you--come, speak, body, or I'll send ye, pack an' a', sixty yards lower into the bumbling pool o' Balachun Linn." Mungo Clark was neither soldier nor belted knight, nor was he armed for any deadly conflict; but he was not accustomed to submit without resentment to such rough usage. "Unhand me, rascal!" was the packman's reply; and making, at the same time, a lateral jerk, he twisted himself fairly out of the assailant's grasp. A whistle was immediately set up, and in an instant our traveller was surrounded by four strong, ablebodied men, who immediately flashed the light side of a dark lantern full in his face. "Oh ho!" said one of the newly-assembled assailants; "this is neither the deil, nor the factor, nor the wood-keeper, nor the old boy, Colliston himsel, but just plain Mungo Clark, Widow Clark o' Penpont's son, who has been at Manchester feathering his pack, for the first time, wi' all manner o' varieties; such as Bibles, psalm-books, ribands, shawls, and waistcoat-pieces. Why, by the flesh-pots o' Yetholm--and that's a terrible oath--we'll adopt Brother Clark into our number, and teach him how to snare game, and spear salmon, instead of drivelling away his time and strength under the pressure of a load" (trying to raise the pack) "which would break the back-bone of an elephant." The matter appeared to Mungo to be settled without any consent of his, asked or obtained; so, knowing somewhat of the character and habits of this wandering and peculiar race, he was compelled to make a virtue of necessity, and, raising his pack again on his shoulders, to descend with them into the very lowest depths of the linns of Balachun. Even at noonday, on the 23d of June, the Pass, as it is called, is dreary, dark, and dreadful; but now, under the cover of night, and with no other guidance than a small lantern, which scarcely made darkness visible, Mungo hesitated ere he would commit himself to the crossing of a fearful gully, and the walking along the face of a rock, or scaur, scarcely eight inches wide, and overhanging a fearful pool, well known by the terrible appellation of "Hell's Caldron." The party at last arrived at a small grassy plot, encircled on the one side by the roaring stream called Clauchry Burn, and on the other by an amphitheatre of steep, high, and overhanging rocks, fringed and darkened in with brushwood and furze, and guarded, at the upper and lower extremities, by the rocks, which, after receding a little to make room for this grassy retreat, closed in again upon the current, and prevented all _easy_ entrance or escape. Soon after Mungo's arrival, he discovered a large kettle, boiling and bubbling, in a crevice of the cliff, suspended from a transverse beam; and beheld around it, now that a parcel of sticks and dry leaves were kindled, a most picturesque and motley group--women, children, men, boys, and lasses, of all hues, aspects, and sizes, were scattered about in profusion; and, as the flame flashed back from the red sandstone of the linn, their faces glared on Mungo with a demoniac expression. It seemed the very picture of Pandemonium; and yet the hearty laugh, the bold oath, and the occasional inquiry, bespoke the inhabitants to be at least one remove from devils. Mungo was desired to rest him and his load on the apron of the rock, and compelled, without a nay-say, to unstrap his pack, and expose his goods, not (seemingly) for sale, but for plunder. This was not the way, assuredly, to turn the penny to advantage, but what can one say, "_durum telum necessitas?_"--there was no avoiding the spoliation. To be sure, the king, or leader of the gipsy tribe--amounting probably to not less than forty or fifty persons--hinted in his ear that he should not be a loser at last; but, in the meantime, to his no small mortification, he saw his shawls, napkins, stockings, and waistcoat-pieces, making the round of the company without ceremony, and forgetting, like the dove from the ark, to return whence they had fled. The pack having been thus ransacked, and the pot having given audible intimation for some time of its preparatory doings, the king--for such he was--the notorious Donald Faa, with his three sons, Duncan, Cuthbert, and _Donnert_ Davie, together with the king's fair daughter, Helen Yetholm Faa, squatted down on the grass, and without the help of forks, made a hearty meal on hares, chickens, turkeys, geese, and half-a-dozen brace of partridges, which might have rejoiced the heart even of a Dominie Sampson. The other members of the community seemed to acknowledge the deputed authority of a young man of good features, and an athletic and genteel appearance, who went by the name of the Squire. After _eating_ had had its fair share of devoted and unremitted attention, a barrel, of considerable dimensions, began to make its way downward from amidst the recesses of this water-worn and excavated rock; and a tub being hurled sideways into the service, boiling water was procured, and sugar in no ordinary quantity commingled; and, by the help of a ladle and several chopin decanters, the whole mass of Egyptian humanity was stirred up into song, laugh, scream, inebriety, quarrel, battle, stupor, and insensibility. Our friend Mungo had no objections whatever to the feast, or to the means by which it was prolonged. He was afterwards notorious for his drinking habits, insomuch that his observation on this occasion is still repeated in the neighbourhood of the place of his nativity. When questioned by the king respecting the size of his native village, Penpont, his reply was--"It is an exceeding great city." This being questioned, his proof was equally ingenious, and descriptive of his habits--"Why, Nineveh took Jonah three days to travel through it, whereas Penpont generally takes me _seven_." He referred manifestly to his habit of stopping and drinking at every petty inn and public-house in the village! The jest told exceedingly in his favour. Mungo, however, in spite of his losses and crosses, had a noble night of it, as he afterwards said, with the gipsies, and awakened next morning from his grassy couch to cool his aching temples in the stream, and restore his stomach by a hair of the dog that had bit him. He then observed that the two sons, Duncan and Cuthbert, but not Davie (yclept Donnert, from his peculiarity of mental constitution), were absent, and that their father not only exhibited no surprise respecting his sons' absence, but refused to give any account to his guest of the cause of it. Meanwhile, Mungo had an opportunity of marking the appearances of the various objects around him somewhat more distinctly than he had been able to do on the preceding evening. Blankets, supported by forked poles, old clothes and rags of every description, formed a kind of nightly shelter for the common herd; whilst the royal head reposed in the midst of his male progeny, on the lap of a projecting rock, with a few hare-skins for his pillow, and a corn-sack for his coverlet. His fair daughter's bedchamber was somewhat more removed beyond a projecting corner of the winding linn, and she was protected from observation by the branches of the overhanging trees being drawn closely down over her, and by what had once, in all probability, been a soldier's tent, but which was now miserably rent, and unweather-worthy. It was manifest that this child was the darling and care of a fond father; for she was not only provided in a superior manner, but, by the position of his own sleeping apartment, she was protected from all intercourse with the other members of the tribe. Honest nature! thou art too many, even for a gipsy life; and even here parental affection hallowed and refined what was unseemly and revolting. I say revolting; for, in an obscure corner, and under the shelter of a hazel-bush, lay a figure, emaciated with disease, and probably with dissipation and crime, groaning in agony, and regarded with no more sympathy by the great mass of the tribe than if he had been a strangled hare or a mangled horse. There was something indeed terrible in this sight. True, Helen Faa did all that she was permitted, but that was but little, to alleviate his sufferings; but death was in his eye and in his throat--he made one great effort to rise, grasped a branch convulsively, and ceased to live. Mungo would willingly have retired, even with the losses he had sustained, but he was not permitted--probably because old Donald conjectured that information would be immediately lodged against him, and he would be compelled to relinquish one of his strongest holds in the south of Scotland. Meantime, Mungo had an opportunity of beholding more closely the female portion of this society; and was exceedingly struck--for he was yet a young man and unmarried--with the really handsome faces and well-formed persons which characterised the whole; but far and away above all the rest shone Miss Helen Yetholm Faa--for thus was she designated by the clan--in the pride of health, youth, and black, or rather brown, eyes--those weapons of female onset which are sharper than a two-edged sword, as Mungo used to sing or say afterwards, in a song which he composed on the occasion:-- "They were jet, jet black, and like a hawk, And wadna let a body be." All this seemed to be fully appreciated by the Squire, who evidently paid the young princess particular attention, and seemed, at the same time, sufficiently jealous of any foreign interference with the object of his attention. Donnert Davie was a stout, ill-made, squint-eyed being, who stammered in his speech, and seemed particularly useful in carrying on the culinary operations, under the direction of Helen, in the retreat. He felled wood for the fire, carried water to the kettle, heated cow and sheep horns in the flame; brought round about and close to the operator old pots, pans, and trenchers, which had been obtained to be clouted, clasped, and mended. He was, in short, a kind of gipsy factotum; and when "the house affairs did not call him thence," he would associate with the stranger, stammering out such incoherent inquiries as--"Whare been?--What do?--What do?--Mother dead?--Mother dead?-- Yes--yes--yes--true--true--true"--muttering to himself, and repeating the same monosyllable half-a-dozen times. His sister Helen was manifestly kind to him, and would not permit any of the company to insult or ill-use him. Night arrived, but with it not Duncan or Cuthbert; and it was not till late on the following evening that they made their appearance, and with them came silver and gold in abundance: consequently Mungo Clark's claims were satisfied; and he was informed that, next morning, as they were all about to decamp, he might pursue his journey homewards; but about the following dawn, an authoritative voice from the top of the precipice summoned the whole party to a surrender. One figure stood prominently forward, looking over the rock; and Donnert Davie, whose blunderbuss always lay charged beside him, immediately fired, and the figure came tumbling down headlong, and sunk in the yawning abyss of boiling water. In a word, the whole party, after a most determined resistance, were taken prisoners by a military party obtained from Dumfries; and it being proved against Duncan and Donald Faa that they had stolen some cattle from Dalswinton Mains, and sold them on the sands of Dumfries--as also against Donnert Davie, that he had shot the serjeant who commanded on the occasion--the whole three brothers were tried, condemned, and sentenced to be executed, _in terrorem_, near the spot where their depredations had been committed. As there were three persons to execute, and the famous tree already referred to had three branches, they appeared to the sheriff to be destined for each other; and accordingly all the three were hung at the same time on the same tree, which has ever since retained the appellation of "The Three Brethren." Old Donald, his fair daughter, Mungo Clark, Squire Cockburn, and the rest, were set at liberty; but the gipsies were conveyed by a military escort across the Borders; and I have been given to understand that the Squire, who was the young laird of Glenae, after considerable opposition from the old father, was married to fair Helen Yetholm Faa; and that he was the happy husband of the fair dame who used afterwards to go about the country in disguise, attending in gipsy garb at weddings, kirns, and merry-meetings, and giving origin to the well-known reel--"Auld Glenae." THE MISTAKE RECTIFIED. "Now," said the traveller, as he wandered up one of those retired Highland glens, which characterise and beautify the Grampian range, "I shall once more visit my dear father and mother; and my sister, now woman grown; and, what is more, my sweet Helen M'Donald, who used to gather the mountain berries along with me, and pursue the little kids and lambs. Ah, Helen was only about thirteen years old when I left; she will now be eighteen; a full-grown beautiful woman, I have no doubt. I wonder if old Andrew, her grandfather, be still living; he used to tell me such tales of Prince Charlie, and Prestonpans, and Culloden, that my hair yet almost stands erect at the recollection of them. And then there was Euphemia M'Gregor, his son's wife, the mother of my dear Helen; and Oscar and Fingal, my father's faithful attendants and servants: and we had such fun during the long winter nights, when the sheep were in a place of safety, and the door was barred, and the peat-fire was burning clear, and the very cat and kitten enjoyed the cheery fireside--such questions and commands, such guessing and forfeiting, and riding round the fire on a besom, and holding one's mouth full of water to discharge on the person's face who should first laugh at our grotesque gestures and looks: but night is approaching whilst I linger by the way--my whole heart heaves to behold once more the sweet home of my youth and innocence." Thus said, or thought aloud, a young man, seemingly about twenty-two years of age, as he ascended Glen----and approached the thatched shieling which stood on the margin of a small mountain stream, which wended its mazes along the tortuous glen. He had been five years, come the time, absent from his mountain home, and had, during that period, endured and encountered a variety of fortune. He sung as he went along-- "A light heart and thin pair of breeches, Goes through the world, brave boys!" switching the bent and heather-bells with his cane, and treading with a step as elastic as was his bosom. At last, just as the sun was tinging with his departing ray the top of the highest mountain in the neighbourhood, he turned the corner of a projecting rock, and came at once into full and distinct view of his home. It was then grey twilight, and objects began to assume an indistinct appearance. Walking by the side of the stream, as if meditating, there appeared a figure wrapped up in a Highland plaid. It immediately struck the young sailor that this was his sister; and in order to give her what is called an agreeable surprise, he stepped aside unperceived by her, and stood concealed behind a projecting cliff, which the stream had stripped bare of soil in its passing current. The figure came nearer and nearer, and then, sighing deeply, uttered some sound, which his ear could not catch. At last, tears and sobs followed, and he heard the words most distinctly pronounced--"Alas, I can never truly love him! I shall be the most wretched of women! But he whom I loved as angels love--oh, he, my own dear William M'Pherson, is dead and gone, and I can never see him more." "But you can though, my own dear Helen;" and in an instant he held her lifeless and motionless in his arms. She had uttered just one awful scream, which was re-echoed by the surrounding cliffs, and had ceased to feel or know anything connected with the living world. Alas! she was dead, and he was distracted. He ran to the house, calling aloud for help; but every one of its inmates, even the mother who bore him, fled from his presence, uttering ejaculations, intimating the greatest terror at his presence. In vain did he protest with tears--I am your son and no other--I am Willie M'Pherson, your lost boy! His words bore no conviction along with him. Avaunt, foul fiend! Avaunt, in the name of God and the Holy Trinity--trouble me not--trouble me not; my dear child is in heaven; and thou, foul spirit, art permitted for a time to assume his shape. His sister, too, was equally incredulous, and his father had not yet returned from the hill. What was to be done? Helen M'Donald was in all probability dead, or dying, helpless and alone, and yet no one would come to her assistance. At last, Oscar and Fingal made their appearance in advance of his father; and though they barked at first upon his naming them, they immediately ran up to him, and jumped upon his back, his neck, his head, his whole person. They seemed in as much danger of expressing joy as poor Helen had been of dying of fearful surprise. "Stand back," said the delighted and believing father to his wife, who absolutely clung to his knees to prevent his advance--"stand back, woman; d'ye think Fingal and Oscar would caress the foul fiend in that manner? Na--na--na. Ha! ha! ha!" And he fell upon his son's shoulders, weeping and crying convulsively. "My father--my dear, dear father." "My son--my lost, my only, my restored son," was the response. But Helen, in an instant, brought the whole party, consisting of father, mother, sister, and son, to her aid: a light was procured and held over her face; her bosom was bared, and rubbed; her forehead had water plentifully poured upon it from the stream; and, at last, symptoms of returning life appeared. Oscar and Fingal, in the meantime, had licked Helen's face, and neck, and shoulders, all over; and whether from any virtue in the peculiar touch of their tongues, or from the natural expiry of the trance, Helen breathed heavily--her bosom heaved; William looked on her cheeks, and they were flushed with red. In a moment he had her in his arms. Helen, for some time, suffered exquisite bodily torture; but was at last capable of having the truth made gradually known to her. She said surely she had been dreaming, as she had often done, and that she was still surely asleep, and that she would waken at last, as she had done before, to a dreadful perception of the reality. William M'Pherson still continued to clasp and assure Helen of his personal identity. But, even when convinced of the reality of William's presence, Helen did not evince that degree of happiness which might have been expected; she sat stupified and passive, and seemingly insensible to everything around her; her mind was evidently wandering to a disagreeable subject. However, she was prevailed upon to return with the family into the house, and, worn out and fatigued, she was soon after put to rest in an adjoining apartment. In the meantime, the young sailor was questioned minutely respecting the reason of his reappearance, after he had been so long reported, and believed by everybody, to be dead. Without repeating his answer in his own words, which were interlarded with sea phrases, we may state, in general, that it was to the following purpose:--He had gone to Dundee, with the view of making some small purchases for the household, when he accidentally fell in with a recruiting party, who were beating up for marines for the fleet, then just returned from the capture of the Danish fleet at Copenhagen. Inexperienced as he was, he was enticed into a public-house on the shore, and awakened, after a stupor of some hours, on board a British man-of-war. In a few hours, he was conveyed out to sea, along with several others, and was conveyed immediately to Spithead. Having it ultimately put to his choice whether he would stand by a gun, or handle a musket and a sabre, he chose the former, and was regularly entered as an ablebodied seaman on board His Majesty's ship the Victory. In her, along with Admiral Nelson, he sailed for the West Indies, and then crossed the Atlantic, back to the shores of France. The enemy still eluding the eagle-eye of Lord Nelson, he sailed for the Mediterranean, and, after various landings and inquiries, came upon the French fleet, moored closely inland on the coast of Egypt, at the mouth of the Nile. He was in the dreadful battle of the Nile, and assisted in rescuing several who were blown up, but not killed, in the L'Orient. After the battle, he had promotion, and ultimately prize-money, on account of his brave and humane conduct, and sailed again for Naples, and latterly in quest of the Spanish fleet on the coast of Spain. He was close by Nelson when he was shot by a rifleman from the mast of the ship with which he had grappled, and saw the fellow who did the deed drop on the deck, being shot through the heart by a marine on board of Lord Nelson's ship. After the battle, he was returned to Plymouth, having been wounded in the leg--a musket-ball had passed through the flesh, and somewhat, but not greatly, injured the bone. He spent some months in the hospital, and was then despatched to the coast of France on board the Spitfire. There he had distinguished himself in cutting out and burning several of the enemy's craft at Havre; and being again wounded, though slightly, in the arm, he was put upon the pension list, and allowed to dispose of himself till his country should again require his services. In these circumstances, he began to think of his home; and, with some hundreds of pounds in the bank, and a pension order of about two shillings and sixpence a-day in his pocket, he arrived at Dundee in a sailing vessel, and was on his way to his _native glen_ when the reader first became acquainted with him. When this narrative was finished, his father retired for an instant, and then appeared with some papers, which he had extracted from his private depositories. He first read a letter which purported to come from a king's officer, who signed himself William Wilson, and who informed his afflicted father that his son had been induced to go on board a king's ship, to see the arrangements which it exhibited; but that, in passing from the small boat to the deck, he had missed a foot, and been drowned. The letter was dated on board the Spitfire; and mentioned, likewise, that the ship was under sailing orders for the general rendezvous at Spithead. The poor distracted parent had come to Dundee, but could obtain no information of his son--only, about three months after, he heard that a dead body, severely mutilated, had been thrown out upon the sands of St Andrews; and, on account of the state of its decomposition, had immediately been interred in Christian burial-ground. A second pilgrimage to St Andrews was undertaken by the father and daughter; but nothing satisfactory was discovered, except that the corpse exhibited marks of having been dressed in a blue-and-white striped waistcoat, which answered to that in which he had left Denhead, his home in the Highlands. After this last discovery, all further inquiry ceased, and the afflicted family fulfilled the period of their sincere mourning, and things returned nearly to their usual bearing. But, when father, and mother, and sister had seemingly got over the worst of their grief, Helen M'Donald still pined in silence over the recollections of her early companion; and as she expanded into womanhood, her grief seemed to grow "with her growth;" and her father became extremely anxious to have Helen properly and creditably disposed of in marriage. The son of a small proprietor in the neighbourhood had lately become laird himself; and, though far exceeding Helen in years, having had frequent opportunities of seeing her, particularly at church on Sabbath, he had become enamoured of so much beauty and innocence. Proposals had been made to the father, which were immediately accepted; and the young lady had been dealt with, as young ladies in such situations generally are, by arguments of interest, and worldly comfort, and even grandeur. First impressions are deep (oh, how deep!); and Helen could not yet entirely exclude the image of her beloved William from her recollection. Laird M'Wharry was urgent in his suit--her father, whom she affectionately loved, was troubled and anxious--her mother, too, pressed home upon her attention prudential considerations--so, after long delays and many internal struggles, Helen at last consented to become, but not till some months afterwards, Mrs or Lady M'Wharry, as the peasantry styled the laird's wife. It was during her visit (previous to her marriage) to M'Wharry that the incident took place which thus connects our narrative, and brings us up to the point of time when William M'Pherson arrived at Denhead. William, learning from Helen, as well as from his father and mother, how matters were situated, suddenly disappeared, and left no means of tracing the place of his retreat. Days, and even weeks, passed, but no letter arrived, and no message came. In the meantime, the day appointed for the marriage approached, and Helen seemed to have made up her mind to submit to necessity; at least she tried to look cheerful, and put as good a face upon it as many tears, shed in private, would permit. Laird M'Wharry was a true Highlander--he had much of that clannish feeling which is peculiar to the Celt. He was, besides, exceedingly passionate, and had more than once got into trouble from having used hasty and unguarded expressions. Nay, he had once been prosecuted in the Court of Session, and damages had been obtained to a considerable amount, by one of his servants, or rather slaves, whom he had beat most unmercifully. In attending a Perth market, he had occasion to ride homewards, after dark, with a brother proprietor, who had lately bought an estate in his neighbourhood. This proprietor could not boast a Celtic name or origin. He was plain Mr Monnipenny, from the town of Kirkcaldy, in Fife. They had both been drinking during the course of the day, and were, therefore, more liable to get into some dispute or quarrel. M'Wharry began by deprecating Mr Monnipenny's horse, whose character the master supported with some warmth; so, to settle the matter, they both set off at the gallop, and the fire flashed from the horses' heels as they passed through Dunkeld. Unfortunately for Laird M'Wharry, however, about a mile beyond the above town, the saddle-girth gave way, and he came to the ground head foremost. He was dead when Mr Monnipenny came up with him. He had suffered a concussion of the brain; and, notwithstanding that medical aid was immediately obtained from Dunkeld, nothing could be done. Poor Helen M'Pherson really mourned his fate; for, though she had no love for him, she had brought herself to think that it was her duty to fulfil her promise. But where was he whom her young heart held in its core? No one knew--no one could tell. Helen had inwardly resolved to live single on his account, even if no further accounts were received of William M'Pherson. But her father in the meantime died of a fever; and her mother was compelled to remove from the farm to the village of Dunkeld, where, in order to support herself and her lovely daughter, she set up a little shop with a small sum which her husband and she had saved, and was highly respected by all who knew her. In the meantime, the parish schoolmaster, an excise officer, and a wealthy sheep-farmer, all solicited Helen's hand; but she lent a deaf ear to all these offers, still thinking, and speaking, and dreaming about her William. One day, when she was standing at the shop-door, she observed a crowd gathered about a horse and gig, out of which a person had just been thrown, and was taken up as was feared lifeless. Helen, from motives of humanity, rushed into the crowd to make inquiries, and saw the person carried into an adjoining apothecary's shop; there he was immediately bled, and, to the infinite satisfaction of all, had begun to recover. The fact turned out to be, that he had been stunned by the fall on his head, but no concussion or fracture had taken place. The gentleman, she learned, had been put to bed, but was mighty unruly, as he insisted upon pursuing his journey that very evening into the Highlands; and a post-chaise, with two horses and a steady driver, had been brought to the apothecary's door, and the traveller was passing into it, with his head and arm tied up, when all at once Helen uttered a scream, and stood trembling betwixt him and the conveyance. It was her own William, returned from sea--to which he had again fled--and making all despatch to reach Denhead, as he had learned, on his way towards the Highlands, the fate that had overtaken the bridegroom, Laird M'Wharry. Now, reader, you and I part--I can do no more for you; for, if you cannot far better conceive than I can describe what followed, you can be no reader of mine--you will never have perused the story at all. William was now comfortably circumstanced, pensioned, and dismissed the service; and the last time I had a week's fishing at Amalrie, I spent my evenings and nights under his roof. He is now, like myself, a grandfather; and Helen, though not quite so young as she was some thirty or forty years ago, is still in my mind a perfect beauty, and has blessed her husband, during a pretty long life, with all that kind husbands can expect or obtain by marriage. She has made him a happy father, and a fond, foolish, indulgent grandpapa. DURA DEN; OR, SECOND THOUGHTS ARE BEST. I took my way, a few days ago, fishing-rod in hand, from Cupar in Fife, by Dura Den, up towards the healthy and sequestered village of Ceres. Dura Den was once romantic and secluded. Its brawling stream, which empties the waters of the upper basin into the Eden, leaped and tumbled over igneous, and penetrated its way through aqueous, formations, till it mingled into rejoicing union with the lovely Eden immediately under the old towers of Spottiswood, and the fine Gothic church of Dairsie. This deep and beautifully-winding ravine was covered from rock to rock, on each successively sunny side, by trees of various name and leaf, from the scented sloe and hawthorn, up to the hazel, the birch, and the oak. It was a perfect aviary during the spring months. A few wild deer browsed amidst recesses, and various love-smitten maids and men repaired to this retreat, to talk of many things which were only interesting to themselves. The soft projecting sandstone rocks had been water-run into caves and recesses; and in some of these report had fixed the residence, for a night at least, of the famous Balfour of Burley, after the affair of Magus Muir.[A] It is not, however, to this, but to a more recent occurrence, that I am now about to solicit your attention, after, however, premising the change which has now been wrought upon this once rural, secluded, romantic, lovely spot. At the very entrance, there stands a bone-mill, grinding, with grating activity and horrible crunch, into powder the mingled bones of man and beast. You have scarcely escaped from the horrible jarring sound of the modern ogre, than you come full plump upon a spinning-mill, with as many windows as there are days in the year. There it stands bestriding the valley like a colossus, and commanding all the collected energies of the once pure and solitary stream. Bless me! how it thunders: the very rocks seem to shake under the whirl of the tremendous machinery; whilst at every open window out flies in clouds the imprisoned dust and stour. A single door opens, and the sound maddens on your ear into a screwing torture. It shuts again. You are greatly relieved by the compressed and imprisoned horror. A little further up this once delightful den, a pillar of smoke shoots out on the eye, like an eruption of Mount Vesuvius. This is an evidence that (as in the formation of this globe) fire has been called upon to assist water. Again and again, another and another hulking dirty erection fixes its hideous trail in the lovely localities, till the landscape still onwards opens upon green fields, all covered and whitened over, _not_ with daisies, but with _yarn_, which has just been removed from the vitriolic vat. I had essayed here and there to fish, but had not even a nibble. A little factory urchin, who saw my mistake, immediately accosted me with-- "Ye needna fish here about, sir, for the fish are a' dead." "What has _deaded_ them?" said I. "Oh! I dinna ken, except maybe it's the vitriol--they dinna tak wi' the vitriol ava." "No wonder," thought I. "I suspect neither you nor I would tak weel with such a beverage." So I at once rolled in my line, put up my rod, and was on the eve of returning, somewhat disappointed, from my forenoon's ramble, when my attention was attracted by an old, though fresh-looking man _in his "cruda viridisque senectus_," who was sitting on a bench in the sunshine, betwixt the door and the window of one of those very neat and cleanly cottages, which have been erected for the convenience and accommodation of the mill-spinners, and which, from the name of the spirited proprietor, has been called "Yoolfield." "James," said the old man--"come here, James, and tell me what's that ye waur saying to the gentleman." "Ou, I was only telling him there waur nae trouts, except _stane anes_,[B] here." In the meantime, I had approached the old man's seat, and thinking that he motioned me to be seated, I at once took my place, as if I had been an old acquaintance, by his side. It turned out that he was the grandfather of this urchin, who in a few minutes reappeared with a face of great comfort and vigorous health; "_causa erat in aperto_"--he had dined. "Ye'll be a stranger hereaboots, I mak nae doubt?" said the old man. I replied that I had been so for some time past; that I had stopped, on my way north, a day in Cupar, in order to revisit this romantic retreat; but that it was now sadly changed, and I had not the heart to pursue my walk any further. I miss, added I, everything which I expected to see: the solitude, the green banks, the trees, the pure waters, the yellow trouts, the all of innocence and nature by which this den was marked, ere these vile spinning-jennies had entered, with noise, confusion, and defilement in their train. "And so," said the aged Nestor, "ye are up in arms against the late erections, because ye canna get an hour or twa's fishing, nor pursue your own fancies about solitude, and innocence, and that! I will tell ye, my good sir--for ye're but a bairn in comparison wi' me--that had ye experienced what I hae experienced, ye wad hae blessed the day which converted this solitary and useless den into a source of comfortable living to hundreds of families, who might otherwise be starving at home, or banished from all that they hold dear into a foreign land." "Grandfather," hereupon said a fine rosy girl about fourteen, "dinner's ready: will ye come in, or will I bring it out to you?" "I think," said the ancient patriarch, "I'll just rest whar I am; it's a bonny sunny day, and the den is a' loun and sheltered. Just bring out the broth and the wee bit Irish stew here, and maybe this gentleman, now tired wi' nae fishing, will no scorn to tak a spoonfu' and a bit alangside o' a puir auld body." I immediately assured my kind host that I had provisions in my basket, which I soon disengaged, together with a flask containing a sufficiency of old Nantz. To it, therefore, we set, exchanging viands: I partaking of the excellent and savoury stew, and he of a wee drap, only a very wee drap, of the brandy. Like Sir Walter Scott's minstrel, the soul of the old yet vigorous Trojan waxed strong within him; and, after having duly returned thanks to the Giver of all good, he drew me close to his elbow, and proceeded thus:-- "Indeed, sir, I'm now considerably upwards of eighty years--the period at which the psalmist says the strength of man is but grief and labour; but I haena found it sae, for a' my griefs and labours were confined to the earlier pairt o' my life, and no to the latter day--His name be praised for the same." I instinctively answered "Amen;" and, partly encouraged by this, and partly by an additional pull at the brandy-flask, the old man pursued his egotism. "Well, ye see, ye are against spinning-jennies and large manufactures, ye say; but they are the freends o' the puir, sir--the blessed supporters o' thousands and millions in these lands.[C] You shall hear; for, as you seem to have time on your hands, I will, for your father's sake" (I had made him acquainted with my descent from a worthy clergyman in the north), "unfold to you my whole history, and that of my children, up to this hour:-- "My name, sir, is Donald Sutherland. I belong originally to the county of that name; and I was bred a farmer on the estates of the Duchess of Sutherland. But there was neither duke nor duchess then, oh dear!" (Hereupon the old man absolutely cried; having, however, checked himself by observing that he was an old fool, he again proceeded):--"I had, as I said, a small sheep-farm, of about one thousand acres, in the western district of that county. I see, sir, you are surprised at my saying _small_; but, sir, when land is let at a shilling an acre, as it was in my day, such a farm is but small--a thousand shillings, ye ken, is just fifty pounds o' yearly rent: and that was my rent at _Edderachills_, near by Loch Assynt. I am now, as ye see, an auld man, and a grey; but I was ance young, and stout, and foolish too, nae doobt. I thought naething wad war me, sae I just married whan I was a young, inexperienced callan, about nineteen; and, having got a brother of my puir father's to be security (ye see my puir father was only a hind on the estate o' Sutherland, and had neither money nor credit), I took my dear Helen M'Roy home to no that ill a bigging--wi' a hantle o' blankets, a peat-fire, a herd callan, and twa as canny and sensible dogs as ever followed a herd, or turned a hirsel. Aweel, ye ken, Helen and me war very happy, for we loved each other dearly; we had been acquainted frae the time we could climb a brae or eat a cranberry; and things went on no that ill ava. We had twa bairns in the course o' twal years, a lassie, and a fine lad, wha was drowned, as ye shall hear; but oh my heart is sair whan I think o't. It was one awful night in the month of January. A vessel had stranded in Loch Assynt. The men were seen, through a stormy moonshine, hanging to the topmast, which, however, went from side to side, with a fearful swing. At every turn or jerk, another and another human being was plunged into the roaring foam. My son Archibald, my shepherd, and I, pushed from the shore in a fishing-boat, which was lying high and dry--we heard the fearful screams of perishing men--we rowed off at all hazards, but had not neared the vessel, when our boat fairly swamped. We were still, however, within wading depth, and with difficulty regained our feet and the boat. We again pushed hard from land, and at last came under the lee of the wreck. My son was young, active, and daring; and, in order to ascertain how matters were, or what remained of the deck, he caught a rope, and leaped on board. In an instant, a young man, a passenger, with his wife and child, were slung, as it were, miraculously on board our little boat. The waves went up in spouting foam betwixt the wreck and the boat, and then subsiding, heaved us with a tremendous crash against the side of the vessel; and I remember no more till I awoke to misery, in a kelp hut by the sea-shore. I found that my son, with the woman and child, had perished; but that the husband, my shepherd, and myself, had been cast ashore, and with difficulty resuscitated. My grief and his mother's grief were loud and severe. But 'what cannot be cured must be endured.' The stranger was a native of Fife, who had been to America on a mercantile speculation, and having married at New York, and become a father, was on his way towards Kirkcaldy, his native place, when this dreadful accident occurred. He had lost all his effects, and some money in the wreck, and was content to take part of my humble dwelling for a season. In the meantime, my lease expired, and another proprietor had arisen, who knew not Donald Sutherland. The rent offered by my next and more wealthy neighbour was far above what I would think of promising, so I behoved to leave sweet Edderachills, with all its heath, and moss, and muir, for a sea-shore appointment in the manufacturing of kelp from sea-weed--at that time a very flourishing employment in the West Highlands in particular. The stranger about this time took his departure, but not without many promises of returning again to visit the grave of his wife and child, and to renew his acquaintance with my wife, my daughter, and myself. For a time the kelp concern did pretty well; we had good and regular payment for the article, and an increasing demand; and we contrived to live at least as comfortably as we had done as sheep-farmers. But man is always finding out inventions; a method was devised of dispensing, by means of a chemical discovery, with our kelp entirely; and we were suddenly and entirely ruined. It was at this period that I, in a manner, _cursed_, like you, the spirit of discovery and invention. I was disgusted by the change which the progress of science had made, and I did not know how to turn myself for a bare subsistence. In this situation of affairs, my daughter Nelly within there (pointing to the door) was courted by a neighbouring sheep-farmer's son, of a somewhat disreputable character, but of considerable reputed wealth. This was a sad trial to us all; for, though the marriage might have benefited us somewhat, in a worldly point of view, we did not like to see our blooming and virtuous child sacrificed, it might be, to the momentary feelings of a known deceiver. Nelly could not bear the thoughts of such a union; and one night she told her lover as much. In consequence of this unfortunate affair, we were very soon after turned out of house and hold--the old farmer having contracted with the proprietor for the huts and steadings which had once been peopled with busy and prosperous hands, but which now were nearly empty. Baser proposals than before were made by the degraded and vindictive young man; and we set off, one moonlight night, across the hills, for the town of Dornoch. We were three wanderers in the wilderness--my wife Helen, my daughter Nelly, and myself. I was still comparatively strong, and was determined to work, but could find no employment. For days we slept (for the weather was fine) on the heath, and lived on what little of our means yet remained. I was resolved, come what might, that I would not beg. My wife and daughter bore up amazingly; for we trusted that our God--the God of the hills, as well as of the valleys; of the poor and the outcast, as well as of the rich and provided--would not forget us. I found temporary work, at last, in a stone quarry, and occupied a hut close upon the sea-shore. This, to us all, was luxury; for it was independence. Contentment _kitchened_ labour, and we slept soundly in our poverty and innocence. But this, I saw, could not long continue; my strength was not equal to this severe labour, to which I was unaccustomed; so I persuaded, not without difficulty, my wife and daughter to accompany me to Canada, to which the Countess of Sutherland was then offering a free passage from Cromarty Frith, in the good ship Aurora. I should, however, have mentioned that, whilst residing at Dornoch, I had observed the son of a neighbouring proprietor--a somewhat smart-looking gentleman--frequently passing our door, and sometimes conversing with my wife and daughter; but I took no notice of the affair, as I felt secure in the virtue and prudence of both parties. No proposals, honourable or otherwise, were made to my daughter, and I conceived the matter to be at an end. On the day of the ship's sailing, we were all on the quay, and ready to embark. My wife and I had entered the boat, and were waiting for my daughter, who had been sent by us on a message to a shop. She did not return in time for the boat in which we were conveyed to the Aurora; but we were told by the sailors that she would probably arrive in the next. One boat, however, arrived, but our dear Nelly was not in it; another came, but with it no daughter. Meantime the ship was under sail, and the captain said he would not lose the favourable breeze for all the girls in Scotland. My dear wife was inconsolable, and I petitioned hard to be let out, even on one of the Western Isles; but the weather was exceeding stormy, and we kept as far as possible from land. 'God,' said I to my grieving partner, 'will protect Nelly; for she is good and virtuous. God can be father and mother, and more than all that, to those who fear and obey him.' We landed at Quebec, and maintained ourselves for some time--I acting as a kind of shore-porter, and my wife assisting in assorting furs in a great warehouse. But our means were but small; so we bethought us of removing more inland. So we arrived ultimately at Montreal, where I had the good fortune to meet with a distant relative in pretty good circumstances. He had long been engaged in a mercantile house, and had now obtained a considerable and a profitable share in it. He immediately found employment for me as a warehouse servant, whilst my wife washed and dressed for himself and a few friends. Year after year passed by, and many a letter did we write to Edderachills and Dornoch; but we received no answer. At last it pleased God to remove my dear Helen by death; and my friend having resolved to remove to Kirkcaldy, his native place, I took shipping with him in the ship St John, and we arrived off the Land's End in safety. But it came on to blow dreadfully from the north and the east, as we rounded the island; and one dark night in the month of November we struck upon a rock in the neighbourhood of Ely. The ship fired signals of distress, and a boat came out, which saved the passengers and crew; but the ship and cargo were lost. What was my surprise, upon arriving at the inn, to find, in the person of one of the boatmen, the shipwrecked stranger, Sam Rogers, who had lodged so long with us at Edderachills. He insisted upon my immediately repairing to his cabin, as he termed it, on the shore, with the view of introducing me to his wife and a large family of children. "'Have you ever heard,' continued he, after we were seated, 'anything of your daughter Nelly?' "'Not a word,' said I, eagerly. 'Have you?' "'Would you know her,' continued he, 'if you were again to see her?' "'Know her,' said I; 'to be sure I would--her image is ever before me. I see her, at this moment, as plainly as if she were still alive. Oh! what--horrible!--stand off!--stand off! Do these old eyes deceive me, or art thou indeed my own darling, lost child?' said I; whilst Nelly--the real flesh-and-blood Nelly--clasped me to her arms, and burst into a flood of tears. "'My father!--my father!' she exclaimed, whilst the young ones gathered around us in stupid amazement; and my son-in-law, Sam Rogers, rubbed his hands and flapped his arms in perfect delight. It was indeed my dear Nelly, in the person of Helen Rogers, the still handsome mother of seven children. "But, Helen, I say--Helen, set down the bairn a wee bit, and tell this honest gentleman the Dornoch story, ye ken." "Hout," said Helen, "I hae nae time, father, to enter into a' the outs and ins o' thae langsyne tales; besides, I see Sam waving me up to the mill--I'm wanted, father, an' ye maun look after the bairn till I come back again." Being foiled in his wish to set his daughter's tongue agoing to the tune of her own adventures, the old man placed the child on the greensward in front of the cottage, and, after once more paying his respects to my brandy-flask, proceeded as follows:-- "Weel, the lassie disna like to hear me tell the story; I ken she aye blushes at bits o't; but now that she's awa, I may just as weel finish, by letting ye know that the scamp wha had seen, and fallen in love, as he called it, with her at Dornoch, had watched her down to the beach, and having hired some accomplice in the person of one of the sailors, had her misdirected in the first place, and lifted off her feet in the second, and placed beside the well-known gentleman in a post-chaise, which drove off immediately in an inland direction. In vain were all her struggles and entreaties. The young blackguard immediately proceeded to inform her that her struggles and her shouts were of no avail; that he could not promise her marriage, as he was already engaged, to please his mother; but he would give her love in abundance, and a cottage residence, which he had provided for her on his father's property, at no great distance. It was in vain for her to resist; but she had resolved rather to die than to yield to his wishes; so, when they had arrived at the centre of an extensive plantation, he caused her to alight, and dismissing, as it was now nearly dark, the chaise and driver, proceeded to conduct her, as he said, on foot to the cottage which he had provided. He half dragged her a few paces from the road, or rather track through the wood, and, unveiling all at once the fiend within him, proceeded to open and undisguised violence. But, sir," said the old man, with emphasis, "he thought himself alone, but he was not alone--God saw him, and had marked his proceedings; and God sent a deliverer, in the person of him owre by yonder" (pointing to the mills). "God sent Sam Rogers, with a guid oak plank, to free the captive, and make the captor flee for his life: in short, sir--for I fear I have tired ye wi' my lang-winded story--Sam, by the mercy of God, had just landed at Dornoch as we sailed from it; and being on his way to Edderachills, for the very purpose of asking my Nelly in marriage, he had pushed on, meaning to travel all night across the country, when the providential occurrence took place. Weel, we went now to Ely, where we remained for a time--old grandy, that is, myself, my son, and his family; but times became tight there, and the family kept still increasing; so at last we got acquainted with the worthy gentleman, Mr Yool, to whom all these great works and these neat cottages belong, and he brought us up here, and set us down comfortably, where not only my son-in-law, but every wean, male and female, above seven years of age, can earn its own clothes and subsistence. We are now, sir, in comparative affluence; and all this, sir, is owing to these improvements in machinery and in chemistry, which at one time drove me from my native land. 'SECOND THOUGHTS, THEY SAY, ARE BEST;' at least so it has been with me, as I sit here in my old age, in comparative ease and comfort, and see my grandchildren growing up in domestic affection and public usefulness around me. Here is no scattering of the young family--one going east, and one west, never to meet again; but here, every night, all congregate around _one hearth_, whilst a psalm is sung, a chapter is read, and a prayer said by grandy himself!" I shall never regret the loss of my old and favourite amusement, whilst I can recollect this old man's narrative, and the many happy and comfortable homes which now occupy the once solitary holms of _Dura Den_. [Footnote A: A sword has lately been discovered in one of the caves, rusted and broken--probably once the sword of Burley!--19th Oct., 1839.] [Footnote B: _Vide_ recent discoveries of extinct species of fish found in this den. "Fife Illustrated." Glasgow: James Swan.] [Footnote C: Very different this deliverance from that of Mrs Trollope in her "Factory Boy."] THE LAIRD OF LUCKY'S HOW Have any of our readers ever been at the Hague? It doesn't much signify whether they have or not. They know that it is one of the most beautiful towns in the Netherlands, and that it is not a little famous in ancient story; and their knowing this is quite enough for our present purpose. If, however, they knew the town a little more intimately, they would know that one of its principal and most ancient streets is called the Hoogstraat; and that here, once on a time, stood the principal inn or hostelry of the town. It was an oldfashioned house, with a great variety of projecting and excrescent structures, of all sorts and sizes, stuck to it, to increase its internal accommodation, and to puzzle the curious inquirer--at least this seemed a part of the design--who, while taking an outside view, wondered what they could all be intended for. Notwithstanding, however, the somewhat uncouth and perplexing appearance of the exterior of the Drouthsloken--which was the name of the ancient hostel in question--it was a sufficiently handsome and comfortable house within. Its kitchen, in particular, was a sight; it was so clean, so bright, and so cheerful: shining all round with pewter trenchers and brass utensils of various descriptions, all as lustrous as whiting and hard rubbing could make them. The place was a treat to look at; and no less a treat to look at was its jolly landlord, Thonder Vander Tromp. From stem to stern, Thonder was of the regular Dutch build; which, without descending to particulars, we may say consists, as our readers know, in exhibiting an amplitude of material at all points of the person. In this respect, our good friend Thonder might be considered a _chef d'oeuvre_; for he was of the most magnificent dimensions, especially latitudinally. In longitude, indeed, he might be considered as a little deficient. He was of no great height; but his girth was superb, and told a tale of good living, with an unction which no language could approach. In this tale the ruddy, jovial countenance of mine host of the Drouthsloken cordially joined; and supported by its hilarious testimony the facts therein set forth. Having thus shortly described both mine host and his hostel, we proceed to say that, on a certain evening in the middle of the winter of 1651, a stranger, carrying a small bundle under his arm, walked, or rather stalked--for there was something uncouth in his gait--into the passage of the Drouthsloken. He was wrapped up in a Scottish plaid, and wore on his head the well-known flat blue bonnet of the Scottish Lowlands. In person, he was tall and spare, with the grave and serious cast of countenance so characteristic of that people whose national dress he wore. Unpolished, however, as the exterior of this person bespoke him to be, there was yet, in his light grey eye, a mingled expression of determination and intelligence, that never failed to secure the respect which his manner and first appearance might well have forfeited. His age seemed about forty or forty-five. Finding no one to whom he might address himself in the passage of the inn, the stranger held on his way to its further extremity--no trifling distance; towards which he was attracted by sounds of laughter and merriment, issuing from the kitchen of the Drouthsloken, which was situated at the farther end of the passage by which the house was intersected, and the same with that which he was now traversing. The sounds of merriment by which the stranger had been attracted proceeded from a group of young men, who, standing in the form of a semicircle in front of the jolly landlord of the house--who, again, stood with his back to the fire, wielding a huge black bottle in his hand--were indulging in uproarious laughter at the witty sayings which he, the latter, seemed throwing amongst them like so many squibs and crackers. At the moment that our friend of the plaid and bonnet entered the kitchen of the Drouthsloken, our jovial host was standing, as we have said, with his back to the fire--a roaring one, by the way--and looking the very personification of all that's joyous, and comfortable, and care-dispelling. A bright and broad red waistcoat covered his portly front; but buttoned so short a way up as to expose a dazzling display of snow-white linen beneath. Across this brilliant garment there lay also the folds of a pure white apron, tucked up with business-like smartness. Dark velveteen small-clothes, with well-polished shoes, on which shone a pair of massive silver buckles, completed the outer man of Thonder Vander Tromp. Amongst the merry group of which Tromp was one, something like a sensation was created by the entrance of the stranger. The career of badinage was instantly arrested, and the eyes of the whole party turned towards him. Undismayed by the general attention he had excited, the stranger coolly deposited his bundle on a side-table, and, approaching at once the fire, and the group by which it was surrounded, delivered himself, as he did so, of the very simple and homely remark-- "There's a wat nicht, gentlemen." Now, the stranger, although he had thus expressed himself, had not ventured to hope that his language would be understood. He had spoken mechanically as it were, and delivered himself in his usual way, simply because he could do no otherwise, and because he thought it necessary to say something. Great, therefore, was his surprise, and, we may add, his joy also, when one of the young men of the party, of singularly graceful manners and bearing, acknowledged his greeting in excellent English, and with great politeness and civility of speech. Delighted at having met with a native of Great Britain, which he could not doubt the young man who had addressed him was-- "Feth, but I am richt glad, sir," said the stranger--"excuse my freedom--at having met wi' a countryman, as I tak ye to be, sir--in this outlandish place. It's mair than I expeckit, I'm sure. I had nae thochts o' meetin wi' ony but ane." "And pray who was that one, my good friend?" said the young man, throwing, at the same time, a rapid look of intelligence around on his companions, who seemed at once to comprehend its meaning. "Who was that one, my good friend," he said, "if I may ask, without subjecting myself to a charge of impertinence?" "Ou, nae impertinence at a', sir; only ye'll excuse me keepin my thoom on the mater ye inquire aboot till I ken better wha's speerin. Excuse me, sir, excuse me, for this plainness," continued the stranger, smiling; "but I hae come frae a country whar a slip o' the tongue, in thae times, micht cost a man his head; and that maks folks wary, ye ken." "Faith, and good reason it should, friend," replied the young man, laughingly. "Thou hast well accounted for thy caution. But recollect thou art now in a different country, mine honest friend, and hast no need to be so guarded in thy speech." "Feth, sir, I dinna ken. That may be; but, if ye had fan the ticklin o' a tow aboot yer craig, as I hae dune, ye wadna forget it in a hurry, nor the lesson it taught ye to keep yer tongue atween yer teeth." "Well, no doubt; that certainly is rough schooling," said the young cavalier; "but I repeat again, that thou art now in a different country, friend; and one where thou hast nothing to fear from a reasonable use of thy tongue." "Aweel, it may be sae, sir," replied the imperturbable stranger; "but I ken o' nae country whar a calm sough's no guid counsel." "Ha! ha! ha! right, friend, right," roared mine jolly host of the Drouthsloken, with open mouth and noisy laugh. "It is not goot to say too moosh anywhere; no more in the Hague as any oder place. But here is all honourable gentlemen," he added, casting a furtive glance of good-humoured meaning at the young man who had first addressed the Scotch visiter, "who will not make bad use of what you shall say." "Ou, I hae nae doot o' that at a', sir," replied the latter; "but, to be plain wi' ye, it's no my intention to say onything that onybody can mak ony use o', either guid, bad, or indifferent." And, having said this, the speaker showed a very palpable desire to put an end to the conference, which he evidently began to think was studiously directed by the other party towards an elucidation of his purposes in visiting the Hague. In this disposition, however, he was by no means joined by the party in whose presence he was, particularly by the young man by whom he had been first addressed, who evinced a gratification in the peculiar humour of the stranger, and an interest in him altogether that would not permit of his being shaken off. So far indeed, was he from permitting this, that he insisted on the latter's joining him in a bottle of wine, which he instantly ordered mine jolly host of the Drouthsloken to produce. On the return of the latter, bearing a bottle of wine in one hand and a screw in the other-- "Will your--your----" he said, but was here interrupted by a wink from the person he addressed, which had the evident effect of making him substitute a different word for that which he had intended to use, and he added "your honour." "Will your honour not go up-stairs to your own favourite apartment, de leetle blue parlour?" "No, no, Mynheer Tromp," replied the young cavalier, "we'll just stay where we are. The night is cold, and I have always thought your kitchen the most comfortable and cheerful apartment in your house. So place us a table here, close by the fire, if you please." Mynheer Vander Tromp bowed a humble assent; and, in an instant after, a small round table of walnut-tree, shining like a mirror, was placed in the desired situation. Bottles and glasses covered it in a twinkling, and in a twinkling also was the party seated around it, including our friend of the bonnet and plaid. This worthy person at first shied the good fellowship thus thrust upon him; but, gradually warming with the wine he drank--for bottle succeeded bottle with marvellous celerity--he became by degrees less and less reserved in his manner, until at length his natural caution giving way altogether before the increasing pressure of the vinous influence, he became as communicative as he had before been the reverse. Availing himself of the altered disposition of the stranger, the young cavalier, whom we have represented as having more especially attached himself to the former, again endeavoured to extract from him the purpose of his visit to the Hague; and his attempt was now successful. "Aweel, I'll just tell ye Gude's truth, gentlemen," he said, in answer to a question, or rather hint, on the subject of explanation which had just been addressed to him by his young friend; and for the reply to which all waited--"I'll just tell ye Gude's truth, as I think ye're a' honourable men, and wadna willingly bring a man into trouble, wha has gien ye nae cause o' offence. Ye see, then freends, I hae just arrived frae Scotland, and hae come here to see our unfortunate young king, Charles the Second that should be, whase unhappy story ye dootless a' ken. I hae been ruined oot o' hoose and ha' for the part I took in his puir faither's behalf, and hae been obliged to flee my ain country, besides, for the same reason; and hae noo come here, to see if His Majesty, God bless him, could afford me ony sort o' protection till the storm that's noo tearin a' up by the roots in Scotland blaws by; and that's just the hail affair, gentlemen." Long ere the stranger had concluded this account of the purpose of his visit to the Hague, a look of intelligence, which originated with his young friend, had passed amongst his auditors, and, in the case of the former, was associated with a peculiar expression of sympathy. Both, however, the look alluded to, and the latter symptom of a yet deeper feeling, was unobserved by the person whose communication had given rise to them. Becoming now querist in turn, he asked, "if ony o' the gentlemen could tell him whar the king leeved, and if they could put him on a way o' gettin introduced to him?" "Thou couldst not have lighted more luckily for that, my friend," said the young man to whom we have already so often alluded, "than thou hast done in coming amongst us; for it happens that I hold a confidential place near the person of Charles, and will have much pleasure in exerting my influence in procuring you the introduction you desire." "Mony thanks to ye, freend," replied the martyr to royalty--"mony thanks to ye, if ye mean, by Charles, His Majesty the King o' England--God bless him!" "I certainly do, my friend. I mean him and no other." "Weel, sir--excuse my freedom--if ye do, I think ye micht ca' him sae. Wha can dispute his title, although his back be at the wa'?" "Oh! no one--no one, my good friend, I believe--that is, lawfully," replied the young cavalier, laughingly; "but, seeing his present circumstances--a wandering exile in a foreign land, crownless and coinless--we, somehow or other, cannot get our tongues about those sounding titles that are his birthright. We prefer calling him simply Charles, or English Charles; and I rather think he prefers it himself. His titles he thinks best left in abeyance in the meantime." "Aweel, if it be his ain pleasure, I hae nae mair to say. Perhaps it's as prudent and becomin; for, as ye say, sir, a king that has neither a croon on his head nor in his pouch is in but a sair condition for his dignity. That maun be allowed." There was not much in this remark itself to excite merriment; but there was certainly something in the naïve manner in which it was delivered that was calculated to produce this effect; and it did. A shout of laughter, in which the speaker's young friend was the loudest and heartiest performer, acknowledged the peculiarity to which we have alluded. On the laugh subsiding, the latter again addressed the former, saying-- "But, friend, you have not yet told us by what name we should address you." "As to that," replied the stranger, smilingly, "I believe the maist appropriate name or title ye could gie me at the present moment wad be that o' the Launless Laird. But it wasna aye sae. I had a bit guid property in the Loudans, ca'ed Lucky's How, every clod o't my ain, wi' a yearly rental o' forty merks, guid siller, forby the thirlage o' the Mill o' Meldrum, that was worth a guid twa or three merks mair. But a's gane awa like a handfu o' ingan peelins on a windy day; that cursed battle o' Worcester settled a', and left me withoot a groat, and withoot as much grund as wad mak the hillock o' a moudiwart. But it's a' gane in a guid cause; I dinna begrudge't; and, besides, things 'll maybe come roond again; and, if they dinna, there's nae help for't." "So you were at the battle of Worcester, laird?" said the speaker's young friend. "Feth! that I was, sir; and there," he added, holding out his right hand, which was minus the forefinger and thumb--"there's a certificate o' the truth o' my statement, gien under the hand o' ane o' Crum'll's praying dragoons. It was an ugly lick; but there were a hantle o' uglier anes than it gaun whar it was gotten. It was a coorse business athegither." "It was no less, my good friend," said the young cavalier. "I was there, too." "Was ye, feth?" replied the laird. "Then, if ye was, sir, ye saw a bonny stramash--mair than ye'll forget in a hurry, I daursay. It was an awfu scene yon, when the dragoons cam in upon us in the streets o' Worcester. 'Od! they sliced and slapped aboot them as if they had gotten into a plantation o' lang kale, and no amang Christian men like themsels." "It was indeed a sad business," replied the young man, with a melancholy smile. "Saw ye the king on that day?" "I did," replied the laird. "Wouldst know him again?" "No; I canna think I wad. I just got a glisk o' him, for the first and last time, in the middle o' the dirdum at Worcester. When I saw him, the puir lad was fechtin like a Turk; but it was a' to nae purpose. He was obleeged to rin for't at last, and to perk himsel up in a tree, like a hoolet, to keep oot o' the way o' Crum'll's sodgers. If they had gotten the puir lad--as it was a God's mercy they didna--they wad hae taen aff his head, nae doot, as they did his unfortunate faither's; and then, as, indeed, it's said they proposed to do, made a buttonmaker o' his sister, and maybe a Spitalfields weaver o' his brither, the Duke o' Gloucester." "I _have_ heard," replied the young cavalier, with a contemptuous smile, while a blush of deep feeling, it might be indignation, overspread his intelligent countenance--"I have heard that some such idea was actually entertained by the Parliament as that thou hast alluded to." "There's nae doot that such a report was current, sir; but whether true or no, I winna tak upon me to say. They may hae been belied in't." "I hope they may," replied the young cavalier, musingly. Then, suddenly recovering himself, and assuming his usual cheerfulness of manner--"And what are the king's friends about in Scotland?" he said, slapping the laird good-humouredly on the knee. "Dooms little, sir," replied the laird. "They daurna cheep. Monk has gotten his heel fairly on their necks; so that deil a ane o' them can wag either tongue or finger. There's a wheen o' them taen to the hills wi' Glencairn and Balcarras; but what can they do? Naething. It's a puir thing to be in that way, sir. I had a trial o' that mysel. Tak my word for't, that sleepin in a moss hag, or in the lee o' a whin-bush, and leevin upon lavrocks, or raw turnips and bog-water, is nae better than it's ca'ed." "Well, well, laird, I hope times will mend with our poor friends in Scotland," replied the young cavalier, to whom this picture of the sufferings of the royalists, notwithstanding the strong tincture it exhibited of the speaker's natural humour, seemed to give much pain. "I hope times will mend with them yet, and that feasting and feather-beds will make them forget the raw turnips and whin-bushes ye speak of. In the meantime, my good friend, push round the bottle, and let us talk of other matters; for these make me sad." Nothing loth, the Laird of Lucky's How filled up a brimming bumper, and, drinking "better times," sent it down after some two or three dozen that had preceded it. The party were now getting into high glee. The laugh, the joke, and the bottle went merrily round, and the merriest, and apparently the most jovial of the company, was the young gentleman whom we have hitherto represented as expressly attaching himself to the laird, and whose name, as the latter learned from himself, was Jones. This roysterer was the life and soul of the company, when roystering became the order of the evening; but his mirth was tempered with a gentleness of demeanour, and an air of polished hilarity, if such a phrase may be permitted, as inspired the idea of the presence of a perfect gentleman. His whole manner, in short, was exceedingly captivating. His fancy was ready and playful; his wit brilliant and appropriate; and the affability and winning character of his smile irresistible. Altogether, he was a most delightful companion, and admirably calculated to figure in such circumstances as those in which he was now placed. How he might acquit himself in a scene of a more grave and serious character, it would not perhaps have been easy to guess. The mirth of the party in the kitchen of the Drouthsloken had just attained its height, when a circumstance occurred which did not affect its humour, but somewhat changed its character. This was the entrance of two of the landlord's daughters. Dressed in the neat and simple, although somewhat peculiar, costume of their country, with their hair tightly braided up, and bound with a broad silver frontlet, so as to exhibit in bold relief the contour of their full and fair countenances, two prettier girls than Juliana and Joan Vander Tromp were not within the walls of the Hague. As they entered the kitchen, to which they had come merely, or, perhaps, we should have said ostensibly, to look after some household affairs, the girls curtsied slightly but gracefully to the company by which it was occupied, and, smiling pleasantly and good-naturedly the while, passed on to the upper end of the apartment, and began to occupy themselves in some little domestic duties. They had not, however, been permitted to enter unnoticed. On their appearance, the whole party got up from their seats, and acknowledged their presence by a gallant greeting; and in this courtesy, Mr Jones again shone pre-eminent by the greater grace and deeper devotion he displayed in his chivalrous welcome to the fair visitors. It might have been observed, too, that to him, in turn, were the curtsies and the looks also of the young ladies most especially directed; but in this case these were associated with a degree of respect for which it would not have been easy to account. "What think ye of our fair Netherlanders, laird?" said Mr Jones to the latter, in a half whisper, when the ladies' attention was, or seemed to be, engrossed by their occupation. "Will they not match your Scotch lasses, think you?" "That's a pair o' braw queans, I maun allow," replied the laird. "Just twa as bonny bits o' lassocks as ane wad wish to see; but I think they want the complexion--they haena the blume o' our kilted heather trampers. They want the caller red that the norland breeze puts on the cheeks o' our Scottish gilpies. That's my humble opinion, sir. But they're twa bonny lassocks, for a' that. Nae doot o't." "On the score of complexion I grant ye, laird, they are, perhaps, deficient a little, but I think this amply compensated by the intellectual expression, the fine contour, and the softer and more intense lustre of the eye. I have seen your Scottish maidens, laird, and admired them in my time." "Feth, sir, I maun say your taste wad hae been very questionable if ye hadna," interposed the laird. "When and whar saw ye them, if ye please, sir? What pairt o' Scotland was ye in?" he added. The question appeared to place Jones in a difficulty for a moment; but he at length answered-- "Why, laird, I have been in many parts of Scotland in my day. I was with the king at Scone." "Was that at the time o' his coronation?" inquired the laird. "It was," said Jones. "And it wad be there, like, and aboot the quarter o' Perth, that ye saw our bonny Scotch lasses, I warrant," said the laird, laughingly. "Ay, if a' tales be true, the king admired them when he saw them, as muckle as ye could do, sir," continued the laird. "Why, they do report something of that kind," replied Jones, with some confusion of manner, and slightly colouring as he spoke--indications of a feeling, whatever it was, which seemed highly edifying to his companions, who marked it with repeated bursts of laughter; "they do report something of the kind," said Jones; "but we mustn't credit all we hear, laird." "The tae half's aboot the usual thing I believe," replied the latter; "and, if we tak that in the present case--that is, regarding the king's gallantries----" "Ay, ay, go on, laird, go on--that's it--give us all you know about the king's gallantries in Scotland," shouted, almost simultaneously, the other members of the party. "Go on, go on, like a good fellow." "Nay, nay, now," exclaimed Jones, earnestly, but good-humouredly, "as one of the king's confidential servants, I must protest, laird, against your divulging anything of that kind in my presence." "Never mind the protest--never mind the protest, laird. Go on, and we'll stand between you and the consequences," again shouted several members of the party. "What know ye about the king's gallantries at Scone?" "Ou, it was nae great things after a', to mak a wark aboot; but, ye see, there war a wheen unco godly ministers there at the time, an' they made an awfu ado aboot it. The hale affair was just this. The king happenin to go into the room that he usually occupied in the Palace o' Scone ae mornin earlier than ordinar, wha does he fin sortin't oot but a bit bonny lassie o' a chaumermaid. Aweel, whan she saw the king enter, wham she hadna expeckit for at least an hour after, what does she do but mak a rin oot, as it war, and what does the king do but kep her, throw his arms aboot her neck, and gie her a hearty kiss--a reglar royal salute? And awa gaed the lassie, skirlin like a curlew, half-mad wi' the fricht an' the honour. But what wad ye hae o't but that ane o' the Covenantin ministers, wha war then as thick as craws aboot Scone--it bein just like a rookery wi' the black coats for the time--suld be just at the moment stanin at a window, in anither apartment that lookit richt into the ane whar the king had kissed the bit lassie, and saw the hale affair; and what does he do but report the scandal to his brethren, wha, shocked at the indecency, appointed a committee o' ministers to reprove the royal offender! This committee accordingly waited on the king, whan their spokesman, ane Douglas--an awfu stern man--after rebookin His Majesty, added, that it wad be prudent o' him, whan he desired to amuse himsel in future, to be mair carefu in shuttin the windows." "Capital, laird; capital!" shouted several of the party, in convulsions of laughter. "Any more--any more?" "Nay, nay, now, laird," said Jones, laughing, and clapping his hand on the mouth of the tell-tale; "on your allegiance to your lawful sovereign, I command ye to silence. He must not, in my presence, be made a subject of mirth to these idle jesters." "Tuts, it's but a joke, man; but if ye think it wad offend His Majesty, I'll say nae mair. I wad suner lose something considerable than do that. But what the waur can the king be o' it's bein kent that he likes the lasses? I trow it's rather a feather in his kep than a discredit till him." "Well done, laird!" exclaimed Jones, clapping the former jocosely on the shoulder. "Thou'rt a good old soul; and I shall take care that Charles knows of thy lenity towards his failings. It will do thee no harm with him." Having said this, Jones rose from the table, and went towards the landlord's daughters, who were still busily occupied, or apparently so, at any rate, at the further end of the apartment. His approach to these fair damsels was made in the most gallant fashion imaginable, and with all the air and manner of a thoroughbred courtier and cavalier. What conversation passed between him and the girls was not overheard by the other members of the party; but the frequent bursts of laughter which were from time to time elicited, sufficiently showed that it was of a mirthful character, and that the badinage of Jones fully supported, in point and brilliancy, the credit of his other kindred qualifications. After some time, he returned to his party, and again took his seat beside the laird; who, on his doing so, remarked-- "Feth, sir, ye seem as guid a hand at botherin the lasses as your master. It's in the family, I think." A roar of laughter succeeded this sally, to which Jones himself was one of the largest contributors, although it was certainly mingled with some embarrassment of manner. From this embarrassment, however, he was unexpectedly relieved by the strains of a wandering minstrel, which suddenly rose from the street, just underneath the window of the kitchen of the Drouthsloken. As these strains were of no ordinary excellence, they instantly attracted the attention of all in the apartment, inclusive of the landlord's two fair daughters, one of whom in especial (Juliana) evinced, by her flurried and agitated manner, a greater interest in the presence of the minstrel than would have been warranted on the supposition that it was merely accidental. Her confusion, however, and the consciousness which it implied of a knowledge exceeding that of those around her, passed undiscovered by all except Jones, whose more vigilant eye detected these symptoms of secret and mysterious understanding. He made no remark, however, on the subject; and carefully concealed his discovery, not only from the rest of the party, but from her who was the object of his mental speculations. Having concluded his serenade, or at least its first department, which consisted, first, of a preliminary flourish on a violin, executed with great spirit and felicity, and then of a song, accompanied by the instrument, sung in a peculiarly deep-toned, but exceedingly melodious, voice, the minstrel ceased for a few seconds, when Jones proposed that he should be invited in; and that, if he proved merely a gallant, he should be asked to a glass of wine; and if he turned out a professional performer, who came in the exercise of his vocation, he should be requested to entertain them with his music within-doors. To this proposal a general assent was at once given; and this assent was immediately followed by the proceeding proper to its fulfilment. Three or four of the party, headed by Jones, instantly rushed out, and surrounded the astonished minstrel before he was aware. At first he discovered symptoms of a desire to escape from the party; but, seeing this impossible, he stood his ground manfully, and awaited the pleasure of the gentlemen, whose notice, he said, he had the honour, it seemed, of so specially attracting. A momentary glance at the speaker satisfied Jones and his party of his quality. It was that of a professed street performer; or at least of a person of the humblest class, as was indicated by his apparel, which consisted of a short cloak, with a sort of coarse jerkin underneath, a pair of wide and ill-made knee-breeches, coarse blue woollen stockings, and a pair of enormous wooden shoes. On his head was a brown felt hat, of a conical shape, adorned with a cock's feather, and altogether resembling those seen in paintings of Dutch boors. These outward indications, then, settled the question of the minstrel's rank, and rendered no ceremony necessary in inviting him in. "You play well, friend," said Jones. "We have been listening to you, and will be glad if you will come and amuse us for half-an-hour or so. I will see to your being suitably recompensed." "Thank you, honourable sirs," replied the minstrel. "I doubt not of my recompense, were it once earned; but the hour is late, and I may not tarry abroad longer. Moreover, I make it a rule never to enter any house, or to perform to any private party within-doors. I bid you a good-night, gentlemen." "Nay, by my troth, and you do no such thing, friend," said Jones, seizing the minstrel, who was at this moment about making off, by the skirt of his jerkin. "We don't part with good company in this way. Friends," he said, addressing his companions, "lend a hand here, to secure the fiddler. We must compel him to his own interest, which he would thus wilfully neglect." No sooner said than done. In a twinkling the reluctant minstrel was grasped on all sides, and in an instant after found himself in the centre of the kitchen of the Drouthsloken, to which he had been carried almost bodily, in despite of a certain quantum of vain resistance and remonstrance, by which he had at first endeavoured to thwart the purpose of his captors. On being brought into the light of the kitchen, it was discovered that the captured fiddler and songster was deficient of an eye, at least of the use of it, as it was covered by a large green shade, apparently unnecessarily large, as it concealed the half of his face. Another peculiarity was now also observable, and this was, that the neck of his cloak was clasped at a most extraordinary height up on his face, and that he would by no means listen to any entreaties, either to lay aside the said cloak, or even to unloosen the clasp by which it was secured in so strange a position. We need scarcely add, that the effect of these various dispositions of his externals was to conceal almost entirely his countenance, of which only a small portion of the left side was visible; and even this it was attempted to circumscribe as much as possible, by the disposition of the hair of the head, which was carefully combed down over the exposed space. "Come now, friend," said Jones, addressing the musician, and handing him, at the same time, a huge brimmer of wine, "gulp this with a celerity that shall be creditable to thy craft, man, and let us have thereafter a taste of thy calling--some of thy merriest strains; for I mean to see if we cannot make a dance of it, by the help of these fair dames there"--inclining his head towards the landlord's daughters, who still kept their ground in the kitchen; although, if the matter had been inquired into, we rather fear they would have found some difficulty in naming the particular duty that detained them. Finding it of no use to resist the spirit which he saw prevailed amongst the party, the minstrel quietly despatched the contents of the goblet that had been presented to him, and commenced the duty that had been imposed upon him. On the first sound of the preliminary flourish of his bow becoming audible, Jones went up to the buxom daughters of Mynheer Tromp, and in his most gallant manner asked them if they would have any objection to take the floor with him and his friends, seeing that they had unexpectedly made the acquisition of an admirable musician, although, he must confess, rather an odd-looking man; and Jones, as he made the latter remark, looked slyly at Juliana, to mark its effect, and found it acknowledged by a deep but transient blush, which she endeavoured to conceal. The proposal, however, of a dance was accepted on the part of the younger sister, Joan, with eager alacrity; and on the part of Juliana with an appearance of the same willingness, but with a confusion and hesitation of manner that gave token of a counteracting feeling. Having obtained the consent of the fair sisters to "tread a measure," the gay courtier took a hand of each, and gallantly led them to the middle of the floor; intimating, at the same time, by signal, to his friends to clear the space for the impending performances--a signal which they lost no time in obeying; two or three seizing chairs apiece; and other two or three--one of whom was the laird, who seemed to enter with great goodwill into the spirit of the thing--lifting the table, with all it carried, to a distant corner of the apartment. Just as these preparations were completed, and while Jones stood in the middle of the floor, doing the polite to his two ladies--but directing his attentions most especially to the elder--their father, the jolly Vander Tromp, who had been absent for a considerable time, entered the apartment, when, perceiving what was going on-- "Ah, very goot, very goot!" he said, in his most hilarious manner--his jolly, broad red face beaming with delight. "A daunce, a daunce--ah, very goot thing a daunce"--and he cracked his finger and thumb, and threw up one of his huge legs in the air, with an expression of highly-excited feeling. Then, calming down a moment--"You vill have no objection, Mynheer Jones, to my frow have share in the daunce?" "Objection, Tromp!" ejaculated Jones, with well-feigned horror at the supposition. "By no means. I shall be but too proud of the honour." "An tank you, Mynheer Jones--you are too goot." And saying this, Vander Tromp disappeared, with another joyous flourish of finger and thumb and left leg, in search of Mrs Tromp, to conduct her into the presence of the dancers, and to a share of their amusement. In the meantime, the parties were set, and the dance commenced with great vigour; Jones displaying in this exercise a degree of skill and grace in entire keeping with the refinement of his general manner. His spirits, too, were exuberant, and infused a life into all around him, that all the other circumstances combined could not have inspired. Although by no means wanting in attention to the younger lady, it might be observed, however, that Jones was much more assiduous in his civilities to Juliana; and, what was a yet more remarkable circumstance, it might also have been observed, that the musician evinced a strange sensation of uneasiness whenever he saw Jones paying any particular attention to this lady. He fidgeted in his seat, bungled the tune he was playing, and shot fiercer glances from his solitary optic on the revellers on the floor, but most especially on Jones and his fair favourite. What was odd, too, Jones seemed to be aware of the feeling he was exciting in the sensitive fiddler, and to delight in the uneasiness he was occasioning; for the more markedly it was evinced, the more assiduous and persevering was he in his gallantries. Although, however, all this might have been sufficiently evident to a close and vigilant observer, it escaped the notice of those present; for Jones managed his secret tactics, whatever these were, with great caution, and exhibited no other symptoms of consciousness than a slight, scarcely perceptible, smile of sly intelligence. We have said that none present were cognisant of this mysterious understanding, or rather misunderstanding, between Jones and the musician; but we are not sure that this is quite correct. There was an air of embarrassment about the manner of the fair Juliana, that seemed to indicate that she was also in possession of some share of the secret knowledge that was working so much underhand mischief; and of this Jones appeared likewise to be aware. Thus stood matters, then, with this trio, when Vander Tromp and his wife--the former leading the latter on his arm--came tripping into the kitchen, with the grace and agility of a couple of elephants; for the worthy spouse of the worthy landlord of the Drouthsloken was, like himself, of the regular Dutch build, and had very much the shape and appearance of a featherbed upon legs, if such an object can be conceived. Her breadth, which was naturally of the most formidable dimensions, was greatly increased by a stiff silk gown, which projected in rigid amplitude on all sides, and gave to her whole person an appearance of illimitable expanse. Notwithstanding these vast dimensions, there was yet a comeliness about her bulk, and an expression of benevolence and good-nature in her rosy countenance, that rendered her altogether by no means an unpleasing object. On the entrance of mine host and his larger as well as better half, Jones, with that gallant devotion which seemed natural to him, instantly advanced towards the latter, and, with a preliminary flourish of some of his most graceful obeisances, in which, perhaps, a very shrewd observer might have discovered a slight tincture of mock gallantry, invited her to join him in the next dance. The large lady, with a good-humoured smile, curtsied a ready acquiescence to the polite invitation; and, in the next instant, might be seen sailing majestically through the mazes of the dance, closely attended by her respectful and devoted partner. In the meantime, the unwilling musician seemed heartily tired of his employment, and looked as if he would have given a trifle not only to have got quit of that employment, but to have got out of the house altogether. Jones, however, was inexorable; and the more marked the fiddler's impatience became, the more unmercifully did he deal out his orders to "play up;" and much did he seem to delight, although he kept the satisfaction to himself, in the grin of irritation which his commands never failed to produce on the countenance of the hapless musician. Leaving, then, the general position of matters in the kitchen of the Drouthsloken in this state, we shall resume the particular history of the laird's proceedings, which we fear the reader may think we have already too long neglected. Of the ongoings of the evening the laird, who was now pretty well in the wind, was an attentive, but by no means a silent, spectator. In the enthusiasm which the proceedings passing before him had excited, he had mounted a chair, and from that elevated position was whooping, and yelling, and shouting, and clapping his hands--at once to express his own delight in the performances, and to encourage the performers. "That's it, my bonny lassie!" he screamed out, addressing the younger Tromp, whose agility particularly pleased him. "'Od ye're just doin amazinly! That's it! Kilt yer coats, ye cutty, and skelp at it withouten fear or dread! That's the true way to mak a figure on a flure!" "Feth, no amiss, guidwife, no amiss ava," he said, and now addressing himself to the better half of mine host of the Drouthsloken, who was heaving like a seventy-four in a ground-swell--"no amiss ava, considerin the wecht ye carry. Ye're just doin wonderfu, too, to be sae broad in the beam. My word, but ye are a sonsy lass," he continued, his attention gradually directing itself to a contemplation of her personal dimensions. "If ye're an unce, ye're twenty stane, quarry wecht; and everybody kens that's no scrimpit." "Weel dune, Jones! weel dune, lad! Hoo, hurrah! up wi't! Ye've a pair o' guid souple shanks o' your ain. That's it, lad--that's it! Up wi't! Hoo, hurrah, hurrah!" And the laird clapped his hands with a vigour and energy that emitted a sound more like the contact of a pair of boards than human palms; and accompanying this expression of heartiness of feeling with whoops and shouts, that drowned the noise of both feet and fiddle. Impartial in the distribution of his praises, the laird now directed his compliments to the various other members of the dancing party, severally, and finished with mine host himself. "Unco weel, laird, unco weel," he exclaimed, addressing that worthy performer. "Really, unco weel! ye've a wonderfu licht foot to hae sic a heavy stern. That's it, laird! Up wi' the left leg!--capital, capital!" And again the laird clapped his hands, and again raised his tremendous war-whoop. Hitherto the dancers had paid no particular attention to the laird's noisy expressions of interest in their proceedings; but they so highly tickled Mr Jones, that, on the conclusion of the dance, he came laughing up to the laird, and asked him if he would not take a turn on the floor on the next occasion. "No, thank ye, Mr Jones," replied the latter; "my dancin days are weel aboot owre now; but, though the flesh is weak, the spirit's willin, and, to mak mysel as guid company as possible, I'll tak a screed o' the fiddle an ye like; for I'm mair souple aboot the elbows than the ankles now-a-days, and, besides, I dinna think that fallow puts the richt smeddum in his tunes. They're awfu draicky, and no like our Scotch measures, that mak ye fling your legs aboot like flails, till ye dinna ken whether your heels or your head's uppermost." "Ah ha, very fair, laird," replied Jones, laughing; "and although I have reasons for keeping all relief from the fiddler as long as possible, I am so curious to hear your performance, that I, for my part, consent to your taking a turn of his instrument, provided he will allow you." "We'll try him," replied the laird, briefly, and at the same time stepping down from his high place, and thereafter proceeding with Jones towards the musician of the evening, in order to offer his services in the way of assisting him. "Friend," said Jones to the one-eyed minstrel, while the laird stood behind, or rather beside him, waiting the result of his application--"friend, have you any objection to be relieved a little in your labours? Here is a brother musician, who would gladly take a turn with you, provided you would favour him with the loan of your instrument." The only reply of the fiddler was a sullen, dissentient growl; for he was as averse to speaking as to exposing his countenance. "What! won't you lend our friend here your fiddle?" said Jones, now bursting out into a fit of suppressed laughter, which seemed, from its heartiness, and the relief which it evidently afforded him, to have been long pent up. "Do, man, do--you had better do. _I'll_ be much obliged to you"--with marked emphasis on the pronoun, which he further increased by a gentle but significant tread on the toe of the perplexed minstrel, who, after returning the secret intimation of Jones by a smile and an intelligent leer of his open eye, handed the fiddle to the laird without saying a word. The incident which we have just described was unobserved by any other party but those concerned in it; or, at least, if it was observed, it was not understood; and in this predicament also stood he who had the best opportunity of seeing it--namely, the laird. He saw all that passed between Jones and the fiddler; but he could not make out what it meant; nor did he seem to concern himself about discovering it. Having got the fiddle into his possession, the laird commenced tuning it with great assiduity, and with a bow stroke that showed he was well practised in the use of the instrument. The tuning effected to his mind, he struck up, with great vigour, a ranting Scotch reel, which he played with uncommon spirit and skill. At first, the novelty of the measure took the greater part of the audience by surprise. For a time they could make nothing of it; but music being a universal language, both the spirit and rhythm of the tune soon began to be perceived and appreciated; and, with a little schooling from Jones, who seemed not only to understand the music, but to be delighted with it, the dancers were placed in the order of a reel; and, by a vigilant superintendence of their motions on the part of the latter, they contrived to get through the figure with tolerable correctness. All were delighted with the new dance. It was repeated again and again, and every time with increased success, and a diminishing necessity for the interference of Jones, who, having entered fully into the spirit of the mirthful train, whooped and yelled as vociferously as ever the laird had done. His enthusiasm was infectious; all caught it--even the broad-beamed wife of Vander Tromp, who moved under the inspiring influence of the laird's bow with an agility that no one could have believed her ponderous person capable of; while the others, including mine portly host himself, flung, and flew, and shuffled, as madly as the witches in the midnight dance in Alloway Kirk. The spell, in short, of the laird's music was complete, and each owned the hilarious spirit which it was so well calculated to diffuse over all who were within reach of its influence--in other words, over all who were within hearing of the laird's admirably-played fiddle. Inspired with additional glee by these indications of the powerful effect of his music, the laird still further heightened its influence by breaking out, as he played, into short, abrupt shouts, which were responded to, from time to time, by the male dancers, but with most especial emphasis by Jones, who seemed to be, altogether, at the very acme of human enjoyment. It was while the revellers were thus dinning the drowsy ear of night with their obstreperous mirth, and while they were yet in the full career of enjoyment, that four persons suddenly entered the kitchen of the Drouthsloken. They were in the garb of seamen, wearing large, shaggy pea-jackets, and low, round-crowned, glazed hats, with circular flaps projecting behind. Although, however, all were dressed nearly alike, there was one who evidently took the lead amongst them. He was a young man, and had an air of authority in his manner to which the rest seemed to pay deference. Some differences, too, in his outer habiliments, notwithstanding of the general resemblance that prevailed in this particular, pointed him out as of a superior grade to the others. This person was not unknown to the inmates of the house. He was recognised as Captain Hagedorn of the Jungfrau of Rotterdam--a man of fierce, irascible temper, and an ardent, although not very acceptable, admirer of Juliana. On his entrance, therefore, he was immediately greeted as an acquaintance by Tromp, his wife, and their two daughters--by Juliana, however, with an evident confusion and embarrassment of manner. To these greetings, Hagedorn vouchsafed the return only of a surly and unintelligible muttering, while he proceeded to provide himself with a chair, on which he placed himself directly opposite the one-eyed minstrel, at whom he threw, from time to time, looks of the most malignant ferocity. All, especially Juliana, who had reasons for fearing the worst, seemed impressed with the belief that the fellow was bent on mischief, and that he had come there for the especial purpose. Of this they were more convinced, on observing the brass-tipped sheaths of cutlasses projecting from beneath the pea-jackets of the intruders. Their fears were not long of being realised. "Tromp," said Hagedorn (we take the liberty of translating, in this, and all other similar cases), "I thought you kept a regular, decent house. Such is the character you pretend to, at any rate." "And such," replied Tromp, with a blush of honest indignation, "is the character I maintain. Who shall gainsay it?" "Why, there are some things going on here to-night that don't look much like it," replied Hagedorn. "Know ye, Tromp, or does Juliana know, who this one-eyed gallant is?" pointing to the late serenader. "Whether they do or not, they shall soon know, and so shall you to your cost, Hagedorn!" replied the minstrel, starting to his feet, and hastily stripping off the disguise, eye-patch and all, in which he was enveloped; a proceeding which discovered to the astonished onlookers--not, however, including either Jones or Juliana, who had a previous knowledge of his identity--a tall, handsome, gentlemanly-looking young man, well known as Sir Lionel Musgrave, one of the gayest and most respected of those English gentlemen who shared the misfortunes and exile of Charles II. during the existence of the Commonwealth. "Ha!" said Hagedorn, starting to his feet, on Musgrave discovering himself. "So, I have unearthed the fox, eh!" And, as he spoke, he made a grasp at Musgrave's throat; which the latter evaded by adroitly stepping back a pace, when he instantly drew his sword and made a pass at Hagedorn, who, however, skilfully warded it off with his cutlass, to which he had had recourse the moment he missed his hold of his antagonist. These proceedings were, of course, a signal to all the other men in the apartment to muster on their respective sides; and this they instantly did. Hagedorn's men immediately drew; Jones and his party did the same; and the women ran screaming from the scene of the impending contest. In one instant after, a general melée commenced. There were deep oaths, overturning of tables, and clashing of swords in every direction, and all the other characteristics of a tremendous and very serious hubbub. Blows, too, were not wanting. They fell thick and fast on all sides. Hitherto our friend the laird had remained an idle, but sufficiently-astonished spectator of the strange and sudden scene that had been thus brought before his visual organs. Though an idle, he was not altogether, however, a mute witness of the proceedings that were going forward. "'Od! this _is_ a queer business!" he muttered to himself. "Wha on earth wad hae thocht that yon blin-ee'd, broken-doon-lookin soul o' a fiddler wad hae turned oot a braw young swanky like that? Na, na, that'll no do," suddenly added the laird, and now referring to the circumstance of Jones being hard pressed by two of the intruders. "Twa on ane--that'll never do." And the laird looked around him for some weapon wherewith he might compensate the odds against his friend. Nothing of this kind more efficient than the tongs presenting itself, the laird leaped down from the table on which he had been perched in the quality of musician, and, seizing the afore-mentioned instrument by the feet, advanced upon the foe, shouting, "Stan to them, Jones! stan to them, lad! till I gie them a taste o' the tangs!" And, in the same instant, he discharged a blow at the head of one of Jones' assailants that laid him senseless on the floor. Finding his first effort so successful, the laird repeated the experiment on the prostrate man's companion with precisely the same result. Down he went also with a fractured skull. "That's the way!" shouted the laird, now greatly excited by his own destructive exertions; "ca' them down like nine-pins! Soop them aff the face o' the yearth!" At this moment, the laird's Io Pæans were interrupted by the entrance of a party of the town-guard, whom Tromp had summoned to his aid. These immediately seized on the intruders, as they were pointed out by the latter--the fallen men having so far recovered as to be now sitting up, although evidently sick and giddy from the effects of the laird's blows, and looking, as he said himself, "unco white aboot the gills"--and marched them off to the guard-house, to answer in due time to the judicial authorities of the city for the breach of the peace of which they had been guilty. On the kitchen of the Drouthsloken being cleared of the enemy, an investigation into the extent of personal injury sustained took place, when it was found that this was, after all, very trivial, consisting only of two or three slight flesh wounds, of which Musgrave bore two, and one or two others one apiece. "And now, laird," said Jones, addressing the latter, "what share of the honours have you got?" "Deil a scratch," replied the laird. "Feth, I didna gie them time for that. I didna stan whilly-whain wi' them, wi' a bit shabble in my haun, as ye a' did, but gied them richt knock-me-doon thuds at ance--sent them owre like stots, ane after the ither. Feth! commen me to a pair o' tangs in a kitchen row. It maks clean wark. I'll think mair o' them as a weapon, baith o' offence and defence, than ever I did." "In such hands as yours, laird, they certainly are a sufficiently-formidable weapon. Had it not been for them and you together, I would scarce have got off so scatheless as I have done. I owe you a good turn, and it shall not be forgotten. I promised you an introduction to the king; and I shall not only fulfil that promise, but, as my word goes a long way with him, I shall give such an account of you as, I answer for it, will insure you a favourable reception, and probably procure you some still more substantial tokens of his regard." "Ou, thank ye, sir, thank ye," said the laird; "but I dinna see that I hae dune onything the nicht that should entitle me to ony special favour frae his most gracious Majesty. What interest can he possibly hae in a kitchen collyshangy like this?" "More than you're aware of, perhaps, laird; but never mind that in the meantime. Here comes Tromp, to read us a lecture, I daresay, on the evening's occurrences, although it was none of our fault either. Ha, Musgrave, my spark!" continued Jones, and now turning to that gallant--"didst think I couldn't have known thee? 'Od's fish, man, I would have known the cut of thy jib, although thou hadst been sewn in a sack." "Faith, your ----" A wink from Jones prevented the word that was about to follow. The wink was understood. "Faith, my friend," said Musgrave, laughing, "to tell a truth, I had no idea you were here. It was intended for a stolen march--to see whether I could not win my wager, by cutting ye out in the good graces of our landlord's fair daughter July." The conversation between Jones and Musgrave was here interrupted by the approach of Tromp, who came not, as the latter had suspected, to complain of what had occurred, but merely to request that the gentlemen would now retire, as it was getting late, and as his household was in a state of great alarm and confusion, in consequence of what had taken place. The request was too respectfully made, and in itself too reasonable, to admit of the smallest objection. The party immediately donned their hats and cloaks, when Jones, taking the laird by the hand, told him to remain where he was for the night, and that he would wait upon him on the following morning to conduct him to the king. Agreeably to his promise, early in the forenoon of the following day, Jones, attended by a gay band of cavaliers, entered the apartment in which the laird was at breakfast. "Oh, Mr Jones, hoo are ye?" said the latter, rising from his seat on the entrance of the former. "I'm sure this is very guid o' ye. Nane the waur o' the bit stramash we had last nicht, I hope?" "Oh! not a bit, not a bit, kind thanks to you for that, laird," replied Jones. "Now, my friend," continued the latter, "I am better than my word: I promised to bring you to the king; instead of this, I have brought the king to you. Any objection, laird, to take me for your lawful, but unfortunate king? I am Charles," he said, in a tone of more earnest emphasis. Need we describe the laird's amazement at this astounding disclosure? We need not. The reader will conceive it. Although he looked unutterable things, all that he said was-- "Gude preserve me! is that a fact?" pronounced in the slow, deliberate tone of overwhelming and perplexed amazement. The sequel of our tale is soon told. Charles settled a small pension on the laird--all that his circumstances at the time would afford--on which he lived for several years at the Hague. He subsequently found his way back to Scotland, the distracted state of the king's affairs preventing the regular payment of his pension. In the meantime, years rolled on, and changes took place, and amongst these came the Restoration. Charles was restored to the throne of his ancestors. On this throne the monarch had not been many days seated, when he was informed by one of the pages in waiting that they had been much annoyed by an old grey-headed Scotchman, with a large flat blue bonnet on his head, insisting on admission to His Majesty's presence. "Did he give his name?" replied the monarch. "He did, please your majesty," replied the page; "he said he was sure that, if we would inform your majesty that it was the Laird of Lucky's How who sought admission, your majesty would instantly grant him an audience." "He was right," said Charles, smiling. "I recollect the honest man well. Admit him next time he presents himself." The laird came, was admitted, and was received with a most cordial welcome by the good-natured monarch. They talked over the occurrences of the evening they had spent in the kitchen of the Drouthsloken; and the laird was finally dismissed, with a promise, shortly afterwards redeemed, of his being reinstated in his patrimonial lands. To this other gratuities were added, to an amount that amply compensated him, as he often himself said, for all that he had suffered in the royal cause. Some will say, perhaps, and with too much truth, that Charles was not so grateful to all his friends; but, in the present instance, we have only to do with the case of the Laird of Lucky's How. THE ABDUCTION. The farm of Kelpiehaugh, at a short distance from Lessudden, was, at an early period of the St Boswell's meetings, occupied by Giles Ramsay--a man who, as often happens in Scotland, was not loth to admit that "his grey mare was the better horse." He liked the philosophy of the old ballad quoted by Shakspere, and received it as a general maxim, that "nought's to be had at a woman's hand" unless, in every case, "ye gie her a' the plea." And, verily, Matty did not love him the worse for his correct notions of woman-kind, though, as for anything like gratitude for his easy submission to her entire authority, she knew nothing of the sentiment, if she did not heartily despise it. The reason was indeed plain enough; for she had the capacity to know that, whatever superiority nature intended her husband should possess over her, in his character of one of the lords of the creation, he had none whatever in the capacity of her husband. In this there was a secret which she communicated to no one; and that was simply, that Giles was, in all respects, a stupid, simple, honest "cudden," and she was one of the cleverest dames that ever made a good-natured husband cry "barlafummil" in a matrimonial skirmish. Yet, with all the guidwife's cleverness, she had not been able either to prevent Giles from getting behind with his rent--the more by token as, we fancy, that Kelpiehaugh was too dear--or to get "the glaikit hizzy," Mary, her daughter, well buckled to a canny laird, who might help them to pay up their arrears. The first was clearly no marvel; but the second might have been termed some what extraordinary, seeing the young woman was as fair as Dowsabell. Something as regarded the rent depended upon the next sale of cattle at St Boswell's, for which honest Giles had ready six as good stirks as ever grazed on a green lea; and it was arranged between him and the better partner of the matrimonial firm, that he must get six pounds for every head of them, otherwise he might have small chance for "love's roundelay" on his return. "It will mak thirty-six pounds, Giles," said Matty; "and that will enable us to pay up ten pounds o' oor arrears." "And what will I get for a superplus o' a pound a-head on them?" said Giles. "The liberty to buy a new gown for Mary," replied she, "that we may try to get her aff at the next fair. But, if ye sell them for a pound less, I rede ye to seek a quieter bield for your hame than Kelpiehaugh will be on your return." And so primed, old Giles set off with his six stirks to St Boswell's. He arrived at the green, and exposed his bestial in the most favourable manner he could; but he found that Matty's price did not accord with the humour of the buyers, who probably thought proper to judge for themselves in the question of value. The time passed, and Giles saw before him nothing but the necessity of driving the stirks back again to Kelpiehaugh--an operation he by no means relished. As he stood musing on the apparently forlorn hope of a customer, an old man, much bent, with a grey beard, and a patch over his left eye as big as the blind of him of forging celebrity, "Blackpatch" himself, came up to him, and at once offered him eight pounds a-head for his stock. The old farmer wondered, smiled, and accepted. The bargain was struck, and forty-eight good pounds were instanter placed in the hands of the seller. "Now I have a favour to ask of you, good Mr Ramsay," said the buyer. "It will be an unreasonable request I winna grant to ane wha has gien me my ain price," replied the farmer. "What is't?" "That you will drive the cattle home to Kelpiehaugh, and keep them there at my risk and cost till I send for them," said the other. "Granted, and wi' thanks," said the farmer. "I have another favour to ask," said the other. "As mony's ye like, sir, if they're a' o' a kind," answered the farmer, smiling. "Out wi't." "That you'll give me a bed at Kelpiehaugh to-night," said the old man. "I have a distance to ride, and would fain halve the stage, by making your house a half-way resting-place. "Of a surety, sir," replied the farmer; "ye'll hae the best bed and the best victuals Kelpiehaugh can boast o', and nae boast after a', though Matty, I am proud to say, kens hussyskep as weel as ony woman in a' the shirradom. Will ye gang wi' me, or come yersel?" "I will come by myself," said the buyer. "I have some other affairs to settle before the fair breaks up, and it may be later than your time before I have finished." The matter being thus arranged, the two parted. Giles was anxious to know who his customer was; but no one could tell anything of him, and the hour getting forward to the gloaming, he set off again for his farm, with his forty-eight pounds in his pocket, and the cattle before him. On his approaching Kelpiehaugh, Matty, along with her fair daughter, was at the door, waiting for him. It was now dark; but she could hear his voice in articulations which pleased her not. "Hey! hey! yaud! yaud!" and then came the sound of a thwack on the backs of the lazy troop he was driving before him. "And ye've brought them back again, ye sorry simpleton?" cried the wife. The husband answered nothing, but continued thumping at the nolt with his "hey," and "yaud," and "phew"--every ejaculation having the effect of an objurgatory attack on the dame herself. "Ay, ay," she cried, "thump them and drive them into the shed, Giles, that they may be ready for the roup o' our plenishing and stocking. The auctioneer's hammer will knock them down wi' mair pith than that rung ye are using, wi' a' the spite o' an angry disappointed man, wha couldna mak a sale o' his ain kye." Her cutting words had still no effect upon the good-natured farmer, who continued his operations till he got the six steers safely lodged in their shed. He then came into the house quietly, and, with a "heigh-ho, that job's weel owre," sat him down by the side of the fire, opposite to his wife and daughter. For some minutes there was silence in the house of Kelpiehaugh; the reason whereof was that Matty's authority was for once apparently disregarded, or set at naught, by the apparent absence of all tokens of fear and contrition on the part of her mate. She had already indicated sufficiently her sense of his stupidity, and given him a peremptory notice of what he might expect for the next half-year to come; yet there was he, against all custom, and all the laws of marital subordination, sitting as easy and comfortable as if he merited her praise and deserved her blessing. She could only look daggers at him, with occasionally an expression of staring wonder at a nonchalance that disproved twenty years of authority. "Is there naething in Kelpiehaugh for its master to eat or drink?" said he, at last, in a calm, soft voice. "A hard day's wark deserves something at e'en." "Is he adding impertinence to his folly?" thought the dame, as she sat doggedly silent and immoveable. "Come, Mary," added he; "since Matty will gie us naething, rise, lassie, and gie your father the best that's in the house, and, by way o' bribe, here's a new gown to ye--the bonniest and brawest I could find at St Boswell's." The girl started up and laid hold of the dress. The bright hues glared on her eyes. The dame cast a side-eye on the gaudy article. "Waur and waur, Giles," she ejaculated. "Are ye mad, man? What, in the name o' a' that's guid or ill, possessed ye? Will that gown pay our rent?" "Maybe it may," rejoined Giles. "Mary's the bonniest lass on this side o' the Tweed, and beauty's nae waur o' being weel buskit. It may bring her a husband wha'll pay our rent; and, if it doesna, there's nae skaith, seeing we may yet be able to do it oursels." "The man's as mad as a March hare, or a gled-stung quey," cried Matty. "But am I to get nae supper, Matty?" rejoined he, with the same calmness. "The deil a bit," ejaculated the dame. "Maybe this may bribe ye," said he, as he pulled out of another pocket a gown-piece, as bright as the other, for his beloved spouse. The charm had no power, save that of increasing the wonder of the dame; and the statement which immediately followed, that there was a stranger to be entertained at Kelpiehaugh that night, roused her still farther. It was not till she began to look more narrowly into the face of her husband, that she observed a dry humour about him, that might be anything but the result of an unsuccessful attempt to dispose of his bestial, and, going up to him, she shook him heartily by the shoulders. "Come, come, Giles," she said, "there's a secret at the bottom o' a' this, and maybe this may explain it." And, seizing his pocket-book, she opened it, and pulled forth the bunch of notes. They were counted on the instant, and the eyes of the dame brightened up at every addition to the calculation. The farmer explained all, and, in the course of his narration, Matty's wonder waxed great again. She was not altogether satisfied. She looked at the notes, to see that they were not forged; glanced at Giles; fell into a brown study; looked at Mary; hemmed and heyed; and began to make preparations for the stranger. In about an hour afterwards, the old customer arrived, was ushered in to the fire, and took his seat, while Giles went to look to the putting-up of his horse, which, he observed, was as clever and clean-limbed a creature as that which carried the "fair ladye" and "true Thomas" over the Eildon Hills. The supper was, in the meantime, in the act of being served up. The old man coughed and told stories, Mary listened, and Matty eyed her guest with a peculiar expression, which made him rub his beard, cough more and more, and retire farther into the recess which he had taken possession of. Nor would the supper draw him forth; for he said he had supped before he came, yet had he no objection to drink the ale which Matty handed him, and was as merry as an old man might be, who had seen so many summers as his beard betokened. Many a thing they talked of, but they all concerned the farmer, and his wife and daughter; for the never a word would he say of himself, either as to what he was, or where he lived--the dry skeleton of a name, Mr Farquharson, being all he gratified them with, while, in return, he asked so much of the condition and doings of his host and family, that one might have thought he intended either to pay their arrears of rent, or marry the daughter, at the very least. The supper, of which he partook not, being done, he said he wished not to put them about in their arrangements, and would be very well pleased to lie in the small bed behind him, unless that were set apart for some other of the family. "That ye may weel hae, sir," said Matty on the instant, "if ye hae a fancy to it. A sma' reward for the guid price ye gae for the cattle. Mary can sleep for a nicht in the kitchen--for Jenny is at St Boswell's, and winna be hame before the morn." "You will have only one night's trouble of me," replied the old man; "but you may have more of the cattle--eight at least--and I think I will better pay you beforehand, Mr Ramsay, that there may be no mistake when the men come to take them away." And he put into the farmer's hand three times the sum he would have demanded for the keeping of the steers. The farmer would have refused the money, but Matty, whose by-play all along had been unnoticed by her husband, pinched him on the arm, and the words of rejection died away in his mouth. The parties afterwards retired to bed, leaving the strange visiter in the apartment allotted to him. "I never did a better day's wark, guidwife," said the farmer to his partner, when they went up-stairs. "Hush! hush! man, ye dinna ken what ye have done," replied she; and the next moment she was busy whispering something in the ear of the farmer. He started instantly, cried, "Impossible, impossible!" and stood for a moment in dismay and consternation. But Matty gave him no time for thought. She was again busy with his ear; and the next exhibition he made was of an opposite character--a strange expression was upon his face, and he slapped her upon the back in the extravagance of a feeling that, whether betokening good-humour or not, seemed to have no bounds. In a short time, the house was as quiet as Grimalkin himself could have wished it, when bent on a hunting foray. All had apparently gone to bed, and the stillness continued till considerably after midnight. A slow tap at the kitchen-door showed that one individual at least was astir. "Mary, Mary, are you awake?" said a voice, that at least was uninterrupted by a cough. The answer was a whisper from within. After some parley, the door was opened, and a series of secret doings, among which the opening of the outer door of the house, a recourse to the stable, the saddling of the fleet horse, and other furtive preparations for a departure, were the most important. During all this time, the figure of a female wrapped in a cloak stood in the recess of the door. The horse was quietly walked to the loan, and the mantled figure glided as secretly as a ghost, who knows that the pimp Gallus will shortly awaken, to the starting-post. One swing brought her to the pad, and another placed before her one whom the light of the faint moon exhibited without a bend in his body or beard on his chin. Away they set-- "On, on they rade, and farther on-- The steed gaed swifter than the wind-- Until they reach'd a desert wide, And living land was left behind." Not a word passed between the couple. The one was occupied spurring on the steed, and the other clung to him, as if love had nerved her arms, and made them as tenacious of the grasp of his waist as Lenora, of German celebrity, was of the soulless body of her Wilhelm. Sometimes he slackened his pace, to ascertain whether the guidman of Kelpiehaugh was up and away in quest of runaway bride, like the Græmes after the heiress of Netherby, over Cannobie-lee; and then, when he thought he heard the clatter of a horse's hoof, he applied the spur again, and away they went, over moss and muir, with such speed as love and fear in the rider may alone impart to the obedient steed. At other times, the space of a few minutes was devoted to soft whispers, and the gallant pressed the encircling arms of his fair one, and sighed as he felt her embrace as tight as a lover's heart could wish. He was as happy as one who is on the verge of the enjoyment of stolen pleasures can be in a world where lawful indulgences had no zest for him; and he turned his head for the muffled kiss, which was granted as freely as any rieving lover, even Lochinvar himself or Jock o' Hazeldean, could have desired. Nor less was he pleased with the pressure of her fair arms, which accompanied or followed the other demonstrations of her affection, and the speed of his steed, now safe, as he thought himself, from all pursuit, was quickened, that he might reach the goal, where all the joys of a long-sighed-for possession awaited him. At length he gave his horse breathing-time, and, taking himself a long inspiration-- "When, think ye, Mary," said he, "I will send for the six steers I purchased from your father yesterday?" "Maybe never, Robert," was the whispered reply. "You say right, love. It was never my intention," said he. "I thought it but fair to leave old Giles some consideration for his daughter." A squeeze was the expression of the gratitude felt by the female for the boon so generously bestowed on the farmer of Kelpiehaugh. "Was I known, think ye?" he continued. "I liked not the sharp eye of your mother. By my faith! I quailed under it. The devil an ancient carlin duenna in an old romance ever observed so sharp a look-out for the safety of her ward. But, ha! ha! Mary, we have outwitted the old dame, and let her catch us now, if she can. We want only two miles of Langholm, and then, hey! hey! and be merry, as the song says-- 'Now all this time let us be merry, And set nocht by this world a cherry.' Safe in my house at Langholm, Mary, let Giles and his old dame enjoy the bargain they have got. They may sell the steers at the next fair of St Boswell's; but I will not so soon part with my Mary." "Na, I hope not," replied the whispering female. "But hearna ye the sounds of a horse's feet?" The lover turned his head. "Your father, by the rood!" cried he; and, clapping spurs again to his horse, they set off at a quick gallop, with a view to distance their pursuer, who was no other than Giles Ramsay himself, mounted on one of his quickest plough-horses, and brandishing a huge cudgel, in the double act of beating his nag and threatening vengeance on the fugitives. The pursued were now in danger of being overtaken; for the greater speed of the hunter was counterbalanced by the greater burden, and it was clearly a cast-up whether they would be able to escape the vengeance that awaited them. But, whatever might be the issue, there was no want of energy in either hand or heel of the abductor; and he lashed and spurred his steed more furiously as his fears increased-- "Still looking the sidelong woods among, Before, around him, and behind; And aye, whene'er the echo rung, The steed flew swifter than the wind." And no less energetic was the fearful pursuer, whose hearty thwacks upon the curpan of his shaggy cart-tracer, mixed with loud halloos, might be heard in the distance, awakening the echoes of the silent night. The lover relished not the appearance, and still less the cries, of the lusty farmer; and as little apparently did his companion--who, as the horse increased his speed, grasped her abductor round the waist--wish to fall into the hands of the enraged pursuer. Away they scoured, and, "Fear not, Mary--love will distance the old churl," fell from the lips of the panting lover, in reply to the inspiring pressure of her arms; while, "Na, na, Robert, flee for the love o' heaven," added more energy to the spur, and more passion to his breast. They reached the skirts of the woody Langholm; but it was not the abductor's intention to stop at his residence, while he was in danger of being overtaken; so, striking to the left, and dashing into a _corrie_, or deep lirk of a hill, he stretched on with the flight of desperation. His wish was to clear the fern brae, as the height was called, and, getting into the thick wood at the back, make a sudden turn, and elude the quick eye of the farmer; but the latter kept dashing and bounding on, hallooing in the distance, and still brandishing his oaken ryss, in the most fearful demonstrations of a vengeance that would be contented with nothing less, apparently, than the body of the one, and the life of the other. Still the fond female turned her eyes behind, and, giving her companion reports of the progress of the pursuer, kept up his energies and alive his spirit. "All the work of that accursed old duenna, your mother," muttered he. "Ay, ay, nae doot, nae doot," rejoined she, and hugged him again more closely than ever. The turn of the fern hill did not seem, however, to bring the relief which it promised, for the couple were still within hail of the redoubted Giles; and his shouting reverberated among the rocks like the tally-ho of the hunter, or rather like the deep-mouthed bay of the pack. But here a more extraordinary phenomenon presented itself, and that was an accession of strength to the sturdy Giles of no fewer than three horsemen, who, probably attracted by his war-whoop, had tendered their services in endeavouring to overtake and seize the fugitives. This circumstance was proclaimed by a united cry of the whole pursuers, which rung in the ears of the lover like the howl which met the Florentine on his visit to the region of the wicked in Hades. There was, however, more in the appearance of the strangers, as seen in the light of the now bright moon, than in their war-shout that carried dismay to the breast of the abductor. What this was, he told not; but his muttering of "Who can have brought him and his servants to this part of the country at this time?" satisfied his companion that he knew the individuals who had thus opportunely joined the cause of the farmer; and now, if indeed that were possible, he urged his panting steed forward at a still quicker pace. His chance of escape was diminishing every moment. The horses of the assistants were fleeter than those of the farmer; and, if he did not succeed in overtaking the fugitives, it was too evident that they would accomplish for him the object he had in view. The lover seemed doubtful what he should do--whether still to press on, lay down his charge, or make a sweep round the hill, and take refuge in Langholm. A clump of trees now intervening between him and the party, he appeared to resolve suddenly on the last manoeuvre; and his reason probably was, that he might have time to secrete his fair one among some of the outhouses of the mansion before the pursuers came up. Acting upon this resolution, he turned the head of his horse, swept in by the tail of the height, struck into a loan, and, after a rapid run of a few minutes, was opposite to the house of Langholm. "Quick! quick, Mary! jump and follow me," he cried, as he took her in his arms. "This way," and he flew first to one door and then another. They were shut, and he had no alternative left but to take his fair charge into the mansion itself. Rushing up-stairs, and dragging after him his abducted love, he reached a small bedroom, thrust her into it, shut the door, locked it, and returned to face boldly his pursuers. By the time he arrived at the landing-place, his horse had sought the stable; and there was no apparent sign, save his appearance there at that hour, of his having been engaged in the unlawful undertaking for which he had been so hotly pursued. "I have paid well for my love-errantry," said he, as he took a handkerchief, and wiped the sweat from his face. "There is not another beauty in Scotland for whom I would have toiled as I have now done. Have I given them the slip? Mayhap I may, unless I am right in that fearful conjecture, suggested by the appearance of my strange pursuers." "Ho, there!" cried the voice of a man, rushing up on horseback. "What is this, Robert?" "My father!" ejaculated the youth; "what has brought you from Craigton at this hour?" "Robert! Robert!" ejaculated a voice from a bedroom window, at that moment drawn up--"why have you placed a woman in my bedroom, and locked her in?" "Is that you, my love?" rejoined the father, in answer to the cry of his wife. "Why, here is some infernal mystery. Your mother and I arrived here to-day. We heard you were at St Boswell's, and I left her here that I might go and join you at the market. Now I have returned to witness a scene that baffles all my wits. Here is a man who has a claim upon you which your mother corroborates by her extraordinary inquiry." The cavalcade at that moment came up--Giles in the rear, still brandishing his rung, and muttering incoherent threats against the abductor. The youth was surrounded: his father cried for information, his mother screamed from the window. Giles demanded restitution, and the voice of the abducted female was heard in shrill tones over all. "Ha! Matty, lass, this is sad wark," cried the farmer, on recognising the voice of his wife. "Is it possible, Robert Melville," said the father, "that you could disgrace your family and your pedigree, by carrying off the wife of this honest farmer--a woman stricken in years--and place her in the bedroom occupied by your mother?" "It's owre true," cried Giles, with something like a suppressed laugh. "I see her face at the window. He came to Kelpiehaugh habited as an auld man, wi' a grey beard stuck on his chin, and a scratch wig on his head; and, in return for a supper and a bed, carried aff my helpmate, wi' whom I hae lived, in love and honour, for thirty years." The scene was getting more extraordinary. The young man was sceptical of the truth of Giles' statement; but he could not disprove it by stating what he conceived to be the veritable fact--that he had run away with Mary, the young daughter of the farmer of Kelpiehaugh. He looked at the latter, then turned up his eyes to the window, where he then saw only the face of his mother. Her cries still rung in his ears; the father called for the key; Giles insisted on the truth of his statement; and the inquiries of the servants mingled with the general confusion. By an impulse he could not resist, he gave his father the key; the door was opened, and the mother, who was now dressed, came down-stairs, along with her husband, followed by the female, on whom they turned eyes in which wonder and indignation alternated their suitable expressions. The female threw back her hood. "We hae had a lang and a hard ride, Mr Melville," said she. "My feth, ye did weel, but your horse did better; and, Giles, man, ye did as I never saw ye do before." "I couldna want ye, Matty," replied Giles; "and, if I havena testified my love for ye by this nicht's wark, never a man in Scotland ever proved his affection for his wife." The absence of all ill-humour, the winks which Matty directed to the wonderstruck youth, and his apparent amazement, added to the puzzle which perplexed the minds of the father and the mother. "What does all this mean, Robert?" cried the mother. "For God's sake, explain this extraordinary affair!" rejoined the father. The youth was still mute. At length Matty whispered something in his ear. He spoke for the first time since the scene commenced. "It may be as you say, Mrs Ramsay," said he. "Aweel, it's a' richt," replied she; "but it may please Giles and mysel if ye will acknowledge it in the presence o' your father and mother." "I have no objections," replied he; and, turning to his parents, who understood not one word of all this dialogue, and far less of the strange scene still acting around them, he added, "I hereby declare, in presence of you, as witnesses, that I hereby renounce all claim----" "To whom?" cried the mother; "to another man's wife--an aged matron? Fie, Robert! Say no more. Close the lips that would dishonour a son in presence of his parents." "I hereby renounce all claim to six stirks at present lying at the farm of Kelpiehaugh, and promise never to trouble Giles Ramsay for the same." "It's a' settled and adjusted," cried Matty. "I am satisfied; and Giles, I fancy, you are no ill-pleased wi' my nicht's wark?" "I dinna ken which o' us hae dune best," replied the farmer. "Between us, our arrears o' rent will be paid up. My bargain was guid; but I freely admit yours is better." "Then this affair is at last arranged?" said the youth. The farmer assented. The worthy couple bade adieu to their friends, and proceeded on their way to Kelpiehaugh. We cannot tell what explanations took place at Langholm between the young man and his parents; neither can we tell precisely the import of the conversation that took place between the farmer and his wife on their journey homewards; but we strongly suspect they enjoyed a hearty laugh at the clever manoeuvre of the dame. It is probable that Giles himself was in the secret; at least the good-humour he exhibited in getting again possession of his spouse would lead us to believe that he had been a willing party in the plot that had been so cleverly laid and executed. How far the daughter was to blame has not been recorded; and, to do justice to the farmer and his wife, they never taxed her with indiscretion. She was some time afterwards married, and so put beyond the power of the wild youth who had been so completely foiled by the genius of a clever dame. SIR PATRICK HUME. A TALE OF THE HOUSE OF MARCHMONT. Sir Patrick Hume of Polwarth was elected representative of the County of Berwick in the year 1665, being then in the twenty-fifth year of his age. He was a lover of freedom, a lover of his country, and a staunch Presbyterian. In those days, however, a love of freedom was a dangerous principle either to avow or to carry into Parliament. The tyrant Charles, whom some falsely call the Merry Monarch, was then attempting to rule the empire with a rod of iron. You have all heard of his Long Parliament, and of his afterwards governing the country, like an absolute tyrant, without a Parliament at all. Fettered and servile as parliaments then were, young Hume had boldly stood forward as the advocate of civil and religious liberty; and, when the arbitrary monarch sent down a mandate to Scotland for a levy of men and of money, that he might carry his plans of despotism the more effectually into execution, Sir Patrick resisted the slavishness with which it was about to be obeyed. "What!" exclaimed he, "are we mere instruments in the hands of the king--creatures appointed to minister to his pleasure? Are we not representatives of the people of Scotland--the representatives of their wants and their wishes, and the defenders of their rights? And shall we, as such, at the mere nod of a monarch, drag them from following their plough in the valley, or attending their hirsels on the hill--shall we do these things, and lay contributions on their cattle, on their corn, and on their coffers, merely because His Majesty wills it? Pause, my countrymen. The king has no authority to compel such a measure, and it can only be rendered legal by the concurrence of the assembled representatives of the people." "Treason!" vociferated the Duke of Lauderdale, who was the arch-minion of Charles; "before the Parliament of Scotland, I denounce Sir Patrick Hume as a dangerous man--as a plotter against the life and dignity of our sovereign lord the king!" "What!" exclaimed Sir Patrick, indignantly fixing his eyes upon Lauderdale. "Though there may be amongst us a slave who would sell his country for a royal smile, I still hope that this is a FREE Parliament, and it concerns all the members to be FREE in what concerns the nation." From that day, Sir Patrick Hume became a suspected man, and the eyes of the king's creatures were upon him; and when, two years afterwards, Charles endeavoured to put down the people by the sword, and establish garrisons throughout the country, again the Laird of Polwarth stood foremost in the ranks of opposition, and resisted his power. The king accordingly ordered his privy council to crush so dangerous a spirit; and Sir Patrick was confined in Stirling Castle, where, with the exception of a short interval, he was imprisoned for two years. Britain had long been distracted with the pretended discovery of fabulous or ridiculous plots against the royal family; and the perjury of paid miscreants, like the infamous Titus Oates, was causing the scaffolds to run with gore. But tyranny being glutted with Catholic blood, and the extinguishing of what were called Popish plots, the myrmidons of Charles (who lived a libertine, and died a Papist) professed that they had discovered a Protestant plot against his royal person. In this plot the incorruptible Algernon Sydney, Lord Russell, Mr Bailie of Jerviswoode, and Sir Patrick Hume, were included. They beheld their common country withering and wasting beneath the grasp of a tyrant; and true it is they had united together to restore it to freedom, but they were innocent of designs against his life, or even of a wish to dethrone him. They did not, however, act sufficiently in concert, and were unable to bring their plans into operation. A price was set upon their heads--some fled into exile, and others sought refuge on the mountain and in the wilderness; while the amiable Russell died upon the scaffold. It was near nightfall, in the month of September, 1684, when Jamie Winter, who was joiner on the estate of Polwarth, ran breathless up to Redbraes Castle, and knocked loudly at the door. It was opened by John Allan, the land-steward, who, perceiving his agitation, inquired-- "In the name o' guidness, Jamie, what's happened, or what do ye want?" "Dinna ask, Maister Allan," replied Jamie; "but, for Heaven's sake, tell me, is Sir Patrick at hame? and let me speak to him presently, as ye value his life." "Follow me, then, Jamie," said the other, "and come in quietly, that the servants mayna observe onything extraordinar; for we live in times when a man canna trust his ain brither." The honest joiner was ushered into a room where Sir Patrick sat in the midst of his family, acting at once as their schoolmaster and their playmate. "Weel, James," said the laird, "I understand ye hae been at Berwick the day. Ye've got early back. What uncos heard ye there?" "I watna, Sir Patrick," replied the other; "now-a-days, I think, there's naething unco that can happen. Satan seems to have been let loose on our poor misgoverned country. But I wish to speak to your honour very particularly, and in private, if you please." "You may speak on, James," said the laird; "I am private in the midst o' my ain family." "Wi' your guid leave sir," returned the cautious servant, "I wad rather the bairns were oot o' the way, for what I hae to say is no proper for them to hear, and the sooner ye are acquainted wi' it the better." Sir Patrick led his younger children out of the room, but requested Lady Polwarth and their eldest daughter, Grizel, a lovely dark-haired girl, about twelve years of age, to remain. "You are the bearer of evil tidings, James," said he, as he returned, "but you may tell them now--it is meet that my wife should hear them, if they concern me; and," added he, taking Grizel's hand in his, "I keep no secrets from my little secretary." "God bless her!" said James, "she's an auld-farrant bairn, as wise as she's bonny, I ken that. But, your honour, I am, indeed, the bearer of evil tidings. A party o' troopers arrived at Berwick this morning, and it was nae secret there that they would be baith at Jerviswoode and Redbraes before midnicht. I heard them talk o' the premium that was set upon your life, and slipped out o' the town immediately, without performing a single transaction, or speaking a word to a living creature. How I've got alang the road is mair than I can tell; for I was literally sick, blind, and desperate wi' grief. I've this minute arrived, and whatever can be done to save you maun be done instantly." Lady Polwarth burst into tears. Sir Patrick grasped the hand of his faithful servant. Little Grizel gazed in her father's face with a look of silent despair, but neither spoke nor wept. "Oh, fly! fly instantly, my dear husband!" cried Lady Polwarth, "and Heaven direct you." "Be composed, my love," said Sir Patrick; "I fear that flight is impossible; but some means of evading them may perhaps be devised." "Oh, my leddy," said Jamie Winter, "to flee is out o' the question athegither. Government has its spies at every turn o' the road--in every house in the country--even in this house. Our only hope is to conceal Sir Patrick; but how or where is beyond my comprehension." Many were the schemes devised by the anxious wife--many the suggestions of her husband, and honest Jamie proposed numerous plans--but each was, in its turn, rejected as being unsafe. More than an hour had passed in these anxious deliberations; within three hours more, and the king's troops would be at his gate. Grizel had, till now, remained silent, and dashing away the first tear that rolled down her cheek, she flung her arms around her father's neck, and exclaimed, in an eager and breathless whisper-- "I ken a place, faither--I ken a place that the king's troopers and his spies will never find out; and I'll stop beside ye, to bear ye company." "Bless the bairn!" said Sir Patrick, pressing her to his breast; "and where's the place, dearest?" "The aisle below Polwarth Kirk, faither," returned Grizel. "Nae trooper will find out such a hiding-place; for the mouth's a bit wee hole, and the long grass, and the docks, and the nettles grow owre it, and I could slip out and in without trampling them down; and naebody would think o' seeking ye there, faither." Lady Polwarth shuddered, and Sir Patrick pressed the cheek of his lovely daughter to his lips. "Save us a', bairn!" said Jamie, "there's surely something no earthly about yer young laddyship, for ye hae mair sense than us a' put thegither. The aisle is the very place. I'll steal awa, and hae a kind o' bed put up in it, and tak ither twa or three bits o' necessary things; and, Sir Patrick, ye'll slip out o' the house and meet me there as soon as possible." Within an hour, Sir Patrick had joined Jamie Winter in the dark and dismal aisle. The humble bed was soon and silently fitted up, and the faithful servant, wishing his master "farewell," left him alone in his dreary prison-house. Slow and heavily the hours of darkness moved on. He heard the trampling of the troopers' horses galloping in quest of him. The oaths and the imprecations of the riders fell distinctly on his ears. Amidst such sounds he heard them mention his name. But his heart failed not. He knelt down upon the cold damp floor of his hiding-place--upon the bones of his fathers--and there, in soundless, but earnest prayer, supplicated his father's God to protect his family--to save his country--to forgive his persecutors, and to do with him as seemed good in his sight. He arose; and, laying himself upon his cold and comfortless bed, slept calmly. He awoke shivering and benumbed. Faint streaks of light stole into the place of death through its narrow aperture, dimly revealing the ghastly sights of the charnel-house, and the slow reptiles that crawled along the floor. Again night came on, and the shadows of light, if I may use the expression, which revealed his cell, died away. A second morning had come, and a second time the feeble rays had been lost in utter darkness. It was near midnight, and the slender stock of provisions which he had brought with him were nigh exhausted. He started from his lowly couch--he heard a rustling among the weeds at the mouth of the aisle--he heard some one endeavouring to remove the fragment of an old gravestone that covered it. "Faither!" whispered an eager voice--"faither--it is me--yer ain Grizel!" "My own, devoted, my matchless child!" said Sir Patrick, stretching his hands towards the aperture, and receiving her in his arms. She sat down beside him on the bed--she detailed the search of the troopers--she stated that they were watched in their own house--that a spy was set over the very victuals that came from their table, lest he should be concealed near, and fed by his family. "But what of that?" continued the light-hearted and heroic girl; "while my plate is supplied, my faither's shall not be empty; and here," added she, laughing--"here is a flask of wine, cakes, and a sheep's-head. But I will tell you a story about the sheep's-head. It was placed on a plate before me at dinner-time. The servant was out o' the room, naebody was looking, and I whupped it into my apron. Little Sandy wanted a piece, and, turning round for it, and missing the head, 'Ah, mother!' he cried, 'our Grizzy has swallowed a sheep's-head, bones and a', in a moment!'--'Wheesht, laddie!' said my mother; 'eat ye next ane then.'--'Oh, ye greedy Grizzy!' said Sandy, shaking his little nieve in my face, 'I'll mind you for this.'--'I'm sure Sandy will ne'er forget me,' said I, and slipped away out to hide the sheep's-head in my own room; and as soon as I thought naebody was astir, I creeped out quietly by the window, and got down here behint the hedges; and I'll come every nicht, faither. But last nicht the troopers were still about the house." In spite of his misery, Sir Patrick laughed at the ingenuity of his beloved and heroic daughter; then wept and laughed again, and pressed her to his bosom. He had passed many weeks in this cheerless dungeon, with no companion during the day save a volume of Buchanan's Psalms; but every night he was visited by his intrepid daughter, who at once supplied him with food, and beguiled the hours of his solitude. He was sitting in the gloomy cell, conning over his favourite volume--the stone at the aperture had been pushed aside a few inches to admit the light more freely, and the weeds at the entrance were now bowed down and withered by the frost--a few boys were playing in the churchyard, and tossing a ball against the kirk. Being driven from the hand of an unskilful player, it suddenly bounded into the aisle. Sir Patrick started, and the book dropped from his hand. Immediately the aperture was surrounded by the boys, and the stone removed. They stood debating who should enter, but none had sufficient courage. At length one more hardy than the rest volunteered to enter, if another would follow him. The laird gave himself up as lost, for he knew that even the tale of a schoolboy would effect his ruin. He was aware he could disperse them with a single groan; but even that, when told to his enemies, might betray him. At length three agreed to enter, and the feet of the first already protruded into the aisle. Sir Patrick crept silently to its farthest corner, when the gruff voice of the old gravedigger reached his ear, shouting-- "The mischief's in the callants, and nae guid. What are ye doing there? Do ye want the ghaists o' the auld Humes aboot yer lugs?" The boys fled amain, and the old man came growling to the mouth of the aisle. "The deevil's in the bairns o' Polwarth," said he; "for they wad disturb the very dead in their graves. I'll declare, they've the stane frae the mouth o' the aisle!" He stooped down, and Sir Patrick saw his grim visage through the aperture, and heard him thus continue his soliloquy, as he replaced the stone-- "Sorrow tak the hands that moved the stane! Ye're hardly worth the covering up again, for ye're a profitless hole to me; and I fancy him that I should lay in ye next, be he whaur he likes, will gang the gate that his freend Bailie gaed yesterday on a scaffold. A gravedigger's a puir bisness, I am sorry to say, in our king's reign; and the fient a ane thrives but the common executioner." So saying, he enveloped Sir Patrick in utter darkness. That night Grizel and her father left the aisle together, and from her he learned the particulars of what he had heard muttered by the gravedigger, that his friend, Mr Bailie of Jerviswoode, had been executed the previous day. Disguised, and in the character of a surgeon, he by byways reached London, and from thence fled to France. On the death of Charles, and when the bigot James ascended the throne, Sir Patrick was one of the leaders of the band of patriots who drew their swords in behalf of a Protestant succession. That enterprise was unsuccessful; and, after contending, almost singlehanded, against the enemies of his religion and his country, he and his family sought refuge in a foreign land. He assumed the name of Dr Peter Wallace, and they took up their abode in Utrecht. There poverty and privations sought and found the exiles. They had parted with every domestic, and the lovely Grizel was the sole servant and helper of her mother, and, when their work was done, the assistant of her father in the education of the younger children; for he had no longer the means of providing them a tutor. Yet theirs was a family of love--a family of happiness; and poverty purified their affections. But their remittances from Scotland were not only scanty but uncertain. Till now Sir Patrick had borne his misfortunes with resignation, and even cheerfulness; he cared not that he was stripped of attendants, and of every luxury of life; yet at times the secret and unbidden tears would start into his eyes, as he beheld his wife and his fair daughter performing, without a murmur, the most menial offices. But the measure of his trials was not yet full--luxuries were not only denied him, but he was without food to set before his children. The father wept, and his spirit heaved with anguish. Grizel beheld his tears, and she knew the cause. She spoke not; but, hastening to her little cabinet, she took from it a pair of jewelled bracelets, and, wrapping herself up in a cloak, she took a basket under her arm, and hurried to the street. The gentle being glided along the streets of Utrecht, with her eyes fixed upon the ground, and shunning the glance of the passengers, as if each knew her errand. She stood before a shop in which all manner of merchandise was exposed, and three golden balls were suspended over the door. She cast a timid gaze into the shop--thrice she passed and repassed it, and repeated the timid glance. She entered--she placed the bracelets upon the counter. "How much?" was the laconic question of the shopman. Grizel burst into tears. He handed her a sum of money across the counter, and deposited the bracelets in his desk. She bounded from the shop with a heart and a step light as a young bird in its first pride of plumage. She hastened home with her basket filled. She placed it upon the table. Lady Polwarth wept, and fell upon her daughter's neck. "Where have you been, Grizel?" faltered her father. "Purchasing provisions for a bauble," said she; and the smile and the tear were seen on her cheek together. But many were the visits which the gentle Grizel had to pay to the Golden Balls, while one piece of plate was pledged after another, that her father, and her mother, and her brethren, might eat, and not die; and even then the table of Sir Patrick, humble as it was, and uncertainly provided for, was open to the needy of his countrymen. Thus three years passed--the memorable 1688 arrived. Sir Patrick was the friend, the counsellor, and supporter of King William--he arrived with him in England--he shared in his triumph. He was created Lord Polwarth, and appointed Sheriff of Berwickshire; and in 1696, though not a lawyer, but an upright man, he was made Lord Chancellor of Scotland, and created Earl of Marchmont, and Lord of Polwarth, Redbraes, and Greenlaw. He was one of the most ardent promoters of the Union; and with it ceased his political career. In 1710, when the Tories came into power, the earl being the staunchest Whig in Scotland, he was deprived of the office of Sheriff of Berwickshire, but was reinstated in 1715. His lady being dead, he came to take up his residence in Berwick-upon-Tweed; and there, when the heroic Grizel, who was now a wife and a mother (being married to the son of his unfortunate friend, Mr Bailie of Jerviswoode), came with her children and friends to visit him for the last time, as they danced in the hall, though unable to walk, he desired to be carried into the midst of them, and, beating time with his foot-- "See, Grizel," exclaimed the old patriot, "though your father is unable to dance, he can still beat time with his foot." Shortly after this, he died in Berwick, on the 1st of August, 1724, in the eighty-third year of his age--leaving behind him an example of piety, courage, and patriotism, worthy the imitation of posterity. THE SERJEANT'S TALES. THE PACKMAN'S JOURNEY TO LONDON. At the next opportunity, I got Serjeant Square to resume the narrative of his adventures. No feeling that the human mind is called upon to sustain (said he) is more depressing than the consciousness of being alone in a strange place without friend or acquaintance--the populous city and the desert are alike lonely. I have been, in the wildernesses of America and in London, the victim of this saddening sensation, and felt it perhaps less keenly when a solitary wanderer in the trackless wilds; for there bodily exertion, and the hopes of soon being in the haunts of men, deadened its force; while, in the populous city, I felt as if I had, after severe suffering and toil, attained an object to me worse than worthless. Amidst the densest crowds, after all, a man can only feel himself truly alone when no hand is held out to him, no eye beams the glance of recognition, and all is strange as a dream. Such were my feelings on the morning after my arrival in Berwick, on my way to London on foot. Fortune had been adverse to me in my native city, Edinburgh--in truth, I had hitherto been her plaything; and, even now, had no definite object in view. Tired of my walk, I had agreed with the captain of a trader for my passage by sea, for the remainder of my journey; and lay upon my bed, awaiting the morning light, a prey to my feelings, and musing upon my chequered fortunes. The wind began gradually to rise and mourn sadly through the windows and in the chimney of the room where I lay. As the morning advanced, the storm increased and raged, so that no vessel could put to sea. After walking down to the harbour, I returned back to my inn, half resolved not to proceed to the south, but return to Leith in a vessel that was also ready to sail, loaded with grain. I felt myself as if I had been a child, without a will of my own, not caring what became of me. Had I been seized with a mortal disease, I would, I thought, have welcomed death as a relief; so completely had my spirits, somehow or other, become depressed. How I escaped the pressgang, I have often wondered since; for they were very diligent in impressing seamen at this time, and I was in seamen's clothes. Perhaps the fearless manner in which I walked about had led them and the informers to suppose that I had a protection, or was belonging to some ship, and at large on leave of absence. After breakfast, as I sat conversing with one of the captains about the weather and other trivial matters, a person entered the room with a pack upon his back, and inquired if any of the gentlemen would be so kind as look over his assortment of goods; strongly recommending some silk handkerchiefs. "No," said the person with whom I was conversing, gruffly. "I want none of your goods. You packmen are all swindling knaves." "Not all knaves, my good sir. There are knaves in all trades, I allow; but there are honest men, too." And, addressing himself to me, he repeated his request. His voice at first had sounded in my ears like some well-known sound, and roused my attention; but in vain I endeavoured to call to mind where I had heard it. I had not yet looked towards him; but the instant I did, a mutual recognition took place. He set his pack upon one of the tables of the tap-room. Our hands were clasped in each other's. "Square!" and "Wilson!" were uttered with mutual feelings of joy and surprise. I had met a companion of my early days and sufferings. Often had we spent the long and chilling winter nights, huddled together to keep each other warm, in the snuggest corner we could find; hungry and ill clothed, often had we shared the precarious morsel of charity with each other, when either could have devoured it all. We had not met since I had first left Edinburgh, many years before; and, if a tear was shed for my mysterious disappearance, it was by Bill Wilson. A glow of pleasure, such as I had never felt before, thawed the icy feeling that had chilled my mind. How delightful must some of the stronger affections be, when the meeting of an early associate can cause so much pleasure! We stood gazing in silence upon each other for some time, ere we could find words to express our feelings. At length they were poured forth in congratulations and kind inquiries. To be alone, we retired to my bedroom, where I gave him a full account of all that had befallen me since we last met, and the present unsettled state of my resolves. He heard me with varying interest, until I had concluded. "Square," said he, "you have been sorely knocked about, a passive agent, without an object, save to enjoy or suffer the present hour. Now, to succeed, we must have an aim, and hold it in sight, whatever may befall; even should it often elude our grasp, we must not despair or relinquish it for another. My wish is an old age of independence. I may die this night, or I may live until old age has long impaired my energies. To obtain this, my wish, I have, from circumstances, chosen my present calling; nor have I allowed the most adverse fortune to shake my resolve, or change my method of recovering it; for perseverance is the only road that leads to success. Fortune placed you in America at your outset in life. You forsook the path others have trod in with success. You prospered at sea, and threw the golden opportunity away for a whim; a third time you were placed in fortune's way; a dark cloud passed over it; you gave way to your feelings, and are once more, with years of lost time, where you commenced." As he spoke, a feeling anything but gratifying passed over my mind. I felt that what he said was strictly true; that I had been living, until now, without an aim, either of avarice or ambition--my thoughts never having extended to the future, nor a care for to-morrow having ever occupied my mind. His cares, again, were all for to-morrow. This difference could not have arisen from education; for in this we were both alike. He, in short, had more prudence. But to proceed. I requested him to give me an account of the manner in which he had lived since we had been separated. "You know, John," he began, "that we were twins in adversity upon the streets of Edinburgh, equally friendless and penniless. After your departure, I felt for a few days very sad and lonely. I sought you everywhere in vain, and made every inquiry; but who cared aught about a homeless beggar-boy? Had a dog as strangely disappeared, the public crier would have proclaimed him through the streets. I began, young as I was, seriously to reflect upon my desolate situation, and plan in my mind ways to mend it. The childish wishes we had often formed of being rich, and the happy dreams of what we would do if we were so, rose with tenfold force into my memory, and I resolved to be rich; but how to attain my aim was the rub. Wishing, I knew well, brought no gain. It must be toiled for, and steadily pursued. A tradesman I could not hope to be. No one would receive me for my labour during my apprenticeship, and clothe and feed me; and I was too young and weak for labouring work in town or country. There was one way alone open to me--to commence merchant. You may smile at the word; but you shall see. It was not my choice; but what have the poor to do with choice? My object now was to obtain a capital to commence business upon. I was far from fortunate. It was nearly a month before I had accumulated a groat; yet my labour and anxiety were intense. No gentleman appeared on horseback in the city, whom I did not follow, in anxious hopes to get, by holding his horse, a penny, to increase my capital. In messages I was more indefatigable than usual. No length of space or weight of load daunted me, if a penny was to be earned; but it appeared to my eager mind that the gentlemen, at this time, required less service than usual, and those that employed me were more liberal of their food than halfpence. Still I steadily held on unflinching, adding halfpenny to halfpenny, my mind a prey to a new fear, that of losing my treasure. But I had joys mixed with my fears; for, when I retired to a quiet corner, and counted again and again my increasing store, what a pleasure I felt in adding a halfpenny to it, and carefully wrapping up the paper! When I had reached my eightpence, I could delay my undertaking no longer. I felt I had attained my first step; and, with a feeling of importance to be envied, proceeded to a bookseller's shop, and purchased ballads, of which I got, for my groat, one dozen and three, with a piece of paper to wrap them in, and left the shop, exulting that I was now a merchant, and had goods to dispose of. "As it was not my intention to sing them on the streets--for from this my pride revolted--I set off in the direction of Lasswade, calling at every door to offer my wares. In two days I had sold off my whole stock, and returned to town for more ballads. After a time, I added other small books, and my trade prospered amazingly. My living cost me nothing; my voice was good, and a supper and bed to the pedlar-boy, were the purchase of my songs, at the cottar's or the farmer's ingle. During the first year my two groats had grown to nearly a pound, and my ambition had grown with it. Pins, tapes, and thread were added to my store; my excursions were extended, and Bill Wilson was a known and a welcome guest over the whole county of Mid-Lothian. My toil was great, but my strength seemed to increase with my load. I had now in view my second step in advance, a horse and cart to carry my load. Years had passed on; my pack, worth twenty pounds, was all my own, and I had two pounds in my pocket; it was far on in the year, and the day was short and louring. I had some goods bespoke for a bridal, which required to be delivered on the following day. My route lay over the Soutra Hill; and had the weather kept up, my task was easy of accomplishment--so I cheerily plodded on, counting my gains; but scarce had I reached the ascent, when the wind began to moan along the dreary waste, and thin flakes of snow to fall, while the blast, from the east, blew right in my face. I quickened my pace; but the storm increased before I reached the top, the drifting snow blinding me, and the fitful gusts almost lifting me off my feet. Cold and biting as was the air, I was wet with perspiration, from my load and my struggles against the blast. I could not see two yards before me; I was truly alone in the howling waste, yet I yielded not to despondency, but struggled on for life. I had, it seemed, deviated from the road, for all was now a trackless waste, when suddenly I stumbled and fell on the edge of a declivity, and my pack, the whole of my wealth, bounded from me, in what direction I knew not. It was vain to look for it in such a situation, in such a storm; but what is wealth under such circumstances, when life is scarcely to be hoped for? "When I recovered my feet, I was bruised, and began to chill. Hope of escape had nearly fled; despondency was stealing fast upon me; but life is sweet, and so I urged on, as much to overcome the intense cold I felt, as with any hope of finding a shelter from the pitiless storm. The magnitude of my loss never once entered my mind in this struggle for existence. I would have given all the remainder of my hard earnings for the sight of a cottage, in which to preserve my life. In this, my hour of need, I was snatched from death. As I stood, unable to move a step farther, and on the point of sinking upon the snow, to rise no more, the sound of a dog, barking loudly, fell upon my ear. There was life in the welcome sound; and, with an energy I had felt myself incapable of a minute before, I started off towards the spot from whence the sounds proceeded, calling at intervals with all my strength, and listening as the barking of the dog became more and more distinct. At length I could perceive the light shine dimly through the drifting snow, from a cottage window, which, having reached, I entered, almost exhausted. I was kindly received by the humane inmates, to whom I told my piteous tale. The storm still howled without. The good woman made for me a shake-down upon the floor, close by the fire, whereon to pass the night. After my benumbed limbs were restored to animation, the good man of the house took the book, and, after the worship, in which I joined with a fervour I had never felt before, we all retired to rest, the family speaking all the comfort to me their feeling hearts could dictate, and promising to rise before dawn, to assist in searching for my pack. All was still within; but the storm raged with unabated violence without, and for hours sleep forsook my pillow. I was tormented with heat; pains shot through my frame, and before the dawn I was in a raging fever, and unable to rise. The good people of the house were sore distressed. I gave them the best information I could where to search for my pack; but it was very vague, for I knew not myself the spot where it had bounded from me, and I was at this time two long Scotch miles from the Soutra Hill, and one mile off the highway. The storm of the preceding evening had been followed by a partial thaw after daybreak; but all, save where the wind had blown the snow from the heights, lay a trackless waste. Far on in the day the searchers returned from their fruitless labours, fatigued and hungry. I was myself much worse; no doctor was to be had nearer than Haddington, neither was there accommodation for me in the house. Ill as I was, I had no choice. A horse and cart were, at my request, procured, and, carefully wrapped up, I was conveyed to Haddington. What followed for some days I know not. I will hurry on. I would not have been so minute, were it not to show you that there are shipwrecks and disasters on land as well as at sea. "When I recovered my consciousness, I found myself in an obscure garret, the dwelling of a lone and pious widow, who had taken into her house the sick stranger, when all else had refused. I had occupied her only bed, while she passed her nights, seated by her scanty fire, and nursed me in my delirium and fever. The good doctor had attended me as assiduously as if I had been his own son, and aided the widow in supporting me. The snow had been all off the ground for many days; and whoever had found my store had kept it concealed, for I never heard of it. I was once again penniless, and worse than I was at the commencement; for I was indebted to my kind landlady and the doctor. My two guineas and seven shillings were still in my pocket untouched; for the pious widow had, even in her straits, on my account held them sacred, and they knew from the people who brought me of my ruinous misfortune. When I became able to move about, I besought them to accept of even one of the guineas as a remuneration; but their answer was, they would give me credit until I was enabled to pay them in full--and, thank God, I have done this long ago. "It was well up in February before I could resume my toils. Disheartening as my misfortune had been, my ultimate object, and the means of attaining it, I had never for one moment allowed to pass from my mind. It was now that the reward of honesty and fair dealing was felt by me, and proved of immense advantage in enabling me to recover my loss. There was not a merchant with whom I had ever dealed, who did not offer me his goods in trust, to what amount I chose; but to avoid debt has ever been my maxim, and I took no more than my finances would allow. I had only a smaller assortment, and returned the sooner. I was astonished at the rapidity of my own sales--for all had heard of my misfortunes, and pitied me; and, if I was expected, no other packman had any chance. What was required, if not in my pack, I got orders for, and brought at the appointed time. From that day to this, everything has prospered with me. I have attained my second step, and am now on my way to London, and other towns, to purchase goods, and a horse and cart. To cover my expenses, I am doing a little business by the way. An extensive shop, and at length a competency, are, I trust, not far distant." By mid-day, the gale of wind had considerably abated; the tide being in the evening, the vessels could not depart. We sat chatting together. The perseverance and success of my companion had made a deep impression on me. I began to think that I might do worse than follow his example; for I had never left my country through choice. "Wilson," said I, "do you think I could be converted into a packman? I care not what I do for an honest livelihood. I have often heard that an old packman makes a good merchant--I am willing to try if an old merchant can make a good packman. I have a few guineas to purchase goods with. If you will tell me what are the proper kinds, we will go together, by sea, to London, where you are going, and make our purchases: are you agreed?" "No! Square, no! I will never agree to trust myself upon the fickle element, when there is no occasion for it, besides manifest loss. With what goods are in my pack, I will travel free to London, and put a pound in my pocket, at least. If you have any thought of turning to my profession, you must study economy and a placid temper--'take the bit and the buffet with it.' I have not a doubt you may succeed, if you stick to it in earnest; and I have no objection to give you all the information I can, before we part." I myself had, indeed, no other motive for going by sea to London, than to avoid the fatigue and get quickly there; so it was agreed that I should proceed with him, and learn from his experience. My sailor's dress was sold, and one similar to his own purchased; and, while this was being done, he told me that he had upon his person, carefully concealed, an order from the Royal Bank of Scotland, upon the Bank of England, for one hundred and sixty guineas, which he had doubly secured. It was, he said, not indorsed, nor would he indorse it, until he was obtaining the cash. "There are such things as robberies," he said, "and much worse. I have left a letter and instructions at the bank, and with Widow Craig, who nursed me in my sickness (we have been as mother and son since then), that, if my order is not called for within twelve months, she is to give my letter to the worthy doctor, who will receive the amount, and administer to the widow's comforts. What remains at her death, I cheerfully bequeath to him. You may smile at this; but our trade is one not without danger even in Scotland; and in England, where highwaymen and footpads are plenty, we travel with our lives in our hands." Before the evening closed, I was all ready to start upon my new line of life. As Berwick, he said, was not a proper place to lay in a store of goods to sell again with a sufficient profit, I purchased only a few pounds' worth of hardware, Wilson being so kind as sell me, at cost, one dozen of Barcelona silk handkerchiefs, of which he had a great supply, and which he esteemed as valuable and light of carriage. The remainder of my cash he made me take out of my purse, saying that none but those who knew not the value of money carried it in purses. It was as if the owner had collected it for the first who chose to put his hand in his pocket, or for a vain display. "Square," said he, "if you had a thousand guineas in your pocket, among strangers never show or say you have a coin in gold. Tempt no man to evil. The poor travel safe, when the rich are in peril. Allow me to place your guineas in the bank." He then opened the lining of the waistband of my small-clothes, and stitched them in so dexterously, that no one could have thought there was coin there. "Now," says he, "we are all ready to start for London on the morning. The way is long, and our burdens heavy; but they will get lighter as we move along. Our lodging for to-morrow night is Belford. I shall manage so that we shall reach it before dark. The direct distance is only fifteen miles; but we may travel thirty in quest of customers. You are not now, as you were a few months since, to expect that customers will come to you--the pack is a travelling counter, and must move about." Next morning, after an early breakfast, we crossed the Tweed, and walked on, with our packs slung over our shoulders--the weather cool and pleasing. I felt a buoyancy of spirits I had not experienced for some time; I dreamed waking dreams, and built castles in the air. Wilson sung snatches of songs. I had once more entered on a new walk in life, and begun at the right end, as Wilson said in one of his sage remarks. "Square, your last misfortune arose from this--you began business at the wrong end; you commenced too soon and too full. No man can manage money well who knows not, by earning, the value of it. Be prudent--be cunning, too, if you please; but use not your cunning to wrong any one--a shilling won by fraud is a pound of loss. I have known many since I began who have hastened to be rich in that way; but they have all failed in their attempts. Those who once dealt would never deal with them again; their means of success became every journey more circumscribed. Here is a farm-steading--we must try how we are to succeed on the south of the Tweed." I will not weary you with our hawking adventures. We progressed on our journey with various success, but constantly with gain, our packs lightening apace; I liking the profession very ill. I loved not money sufficiently to bend my mind to the slights and insults we were often forced to endure. Upon Wilson they had no effect in ruffling his temper. He would smile, and, with a slyness of humour, turn their bitterest taunts against the taunters, or banter them into good-humour, and effect a sale. He would, indeed, be as good-humoured under insult as if he had been civilly treated; while I was on the eve of bursting into a rage, and either looking sulky or returning taunt for taunt. Indeed, before we reached Northallerton, I had made up my mind to relinquish my new calling as soon as we got to London; and told Wilson so. He shook his head. "John Square, you are one of those who, for want of firmness, never get on in the world. When there is an object to gain, we must not be scared from it by trifles, or neglect an honest mean that leads to success. You have commenced at the hardest part of a packman's life--his journey in England. But, ho! here is Northallerton. To-morrow we will strike off the eastern road, and go to York. I expect to see some acquaintances there." Thus we journeyed on, I more through a dogged stubbornness not to yield, than any love I had for the mode of life I had chosen, until we were a few miles from York, where we overtook a brother of the trade. As soon as he came in sight, Wilson said-- "There is Simon Hepburn, the Praying Packman, as the profane call him, or Pious Simon, his more befitting name; for he really is a good, well-meaning man. I have known him for some years, neither richer nor poorer; his pack or cash seldom exceeds twenty pounds, yet he could easily increase his store, if he had ambition; but that he wants; and his gains are always spent upon objects of charity or piety. He is never without Bibles or pious books, which he bestows, in free gift, where he thinks they may be of use; he has only particular houses where he stops, and he is always a welcome guest, superseding the goodman of the house, for the time, in the Christian office of a teacher. The most pleasing and edifying evenings I have ever spent were with him. When he is in Haddington, Widow Craig's is his home; and, although we are two of a trade, happy am I when we meet. You shall judge for yourself. His history is a most singular one, and nothing gives him more pleasure than to relate it. Let him speak for himself." We quickened our pace, and soon overtook him. He was a man, to all appearance, above sixty years of age; his hair was white as snow, with a shade of care at times upon his regular features, that flitted off, and was succeeded by a gleam of internal satisfaction. The smoothness of his brow, and the fulness of his features, bore an unusual contrast to the whiteness of his locks, the appearance of age and youth being strangely combined, while his whole appearance was winning in the extreme. When we came up to him, Bill said-- "Simon, I am happy to have met you; how come you on?" "Far beyond my deserts," said he. "How are you? and how did you leave my worthy friend the widow?" "In good health," said Bill; "I thank you. I have been just talking of you to my friend Square here, who would feel obliged were you to give him an outline of your strange history, as we walk on to York." "Certainly, Bill, certainly; it may be of use to him. He is a new beginner in his present craft, as I was when the events happened that I am going to relate. "The changes that occur both in nations and families," said Simon, "are soon felt by the individuals. Lawsuits and bad management had reduced the once extensive patrimony of our family to a small farm. At my grandfather's death, my father, who had married, as his father thought, far beneath him, had three sons. My oldest brother, before he succeeded, went to Holland, having got a commission in the Scottish brigade; the second attended the farm, at which I assisted until I was about eighteen. I grew weary of farming, and resolved to become a merchant. I was induced to this by the success of several who had left our neighbourhood, done well after a few years' travel as packmen, and were then settled in various towns, and prosperous. It was in the beginning of May, as soon as the weather became settled, that I left the neighbourhood of Annan, with a few pounds, on my way to Dumfries, and thence to Edinburgh; my object being to furnish my pack. I had a relation of my mother's, a wholesale merchant, in the first town, who had promised to do all in his power for me, as far as advice and a few articles would go. Cheerful and full of hope, I strode along, till, within about two miles from Dumfries, I overtook a young and interesting female, accompanied by a young man. We entered into conversation as we walked along. She appeared sad, and often sighed; while he was taciturn, and appeared to avoid conversation. When within a few hundred yards of the town, they stopped behind for a minute or so, and then, the man leaving her, she overtook me, and we entered the town together. I learned from her that she was on her way to Edinburgh, and, having a brother married in Dumfries, she was going to his house for some articles belonging to her, and her fellow-traveller was to meet her there. "Anxious to commence my new mode of life, I had soon completed my business with my friend. He was standing at the door when I came up with the young woman, and, laughing, inquired if she was my sweetheart or wife. In the course of two or three hours, I was again upon the road towards Moffat, on my way to Edinburgh, with my light pack upon my back, as happy as a king. As I passed the side of a young plantation that skirted the road, a few miles from Dumfries, I saw, lying on the side of the way, a small bundle, tied in a silk handkerchief. I immediately picked it up; and, after standing a few minutes, and looking around to see if any one was in sight who might have dropped it, I called aloud, but there was no answer. I continued my pace, rejoicing in my good fortune. At about a quarter-of-a-mile from the spot, there was a public-house, into which I entered, for a little refreshment, and to inquire if they would purchase anything I could supply them. I placed the bundle I had picked up and my pack upon the table, got what I asked for, and then inquired if they would purchase. During my stay, two farm-servants came in; and, when I was about to depart, they, seeing me lift the bundle from the table, inquired if it was my own. I hesitated for a moment, and, unfortunately, said that it was. They looked at each other; no more passed, and I resumed my journey towards Moffat, which I was anxious to reach before nightfall. I accomplished it; and, stopping at a cheap lodging-house, had an early supper, and went soon to bed, weary with my day's walk. "Scarce had I fallen asleep, when I was aroused by a loud knocking at the door, and the sound of many voices. Before I was fully awake, I was seized in my bed, and my hands bound tightly together. My terror became extreme--I shook in every limb. In vain I strove to speak, and inquire what all this meant. I could only see that every eye was bent on me with an expression of horror and rage. My clothes were searched, and then forced upon me. I was not allowed to assist myself--my hands were unbound to get on my coat; but a man held each arm while another pulled. They seemed afraid I would do something desperate, and were as coarse and cautious as if I had been a ferocious animal; yet I was passive from excess of fear; and, although numbers were speaking, I was in such a state that I could not collect the purport of their conversation. Execrations sounded in my ears above the confusion of voices, and the first sentence I made out was spoken by my landlady:--'Oh, the bloody-minded young wretch!' she cried. 'Who would have thought it, to look at him? But I hope they will hang him as high as Haman. And, after all, to come into a lone widow's house to bring disgrace on it. Take him away, sirs, as quick as you can, or I shall be an undone woman, and my character entirely lost.' "Astonished at what the woman said, I inquired what offence I had committed--or where. O God! what was my horror to learn that I was charged with murder!--that the bundle in my possession had been the property of the victim of some ruthless villain--and that I was taken for him! In vain I protested my innocence. The two men were present to whom I had said, when they inquired, that the bundle was my own. I was thus, by my own confession--if not a murderer--a convicted liar. No one, for a moment, thought me innocent. So strong was their conviction of my guilt, that had the laws not deterred them, they would have rejoiced to have put me to death on the spot. Even this would have been kindness, in a worldly sense, to what I was doomed to suffer. "It was nearly eleven o'clock at night, but clear and bright; the moon was nearly full; the air a little sharp, but not cold, when I was placed, bound hand and foot, in a cart, and accompanied by the two men and two officers. I thought my heart would have burst. I opened not my mouth to speak in answer to their questions, cruel taunts, and upbraidings. I saw I was an object of horror and loathing to them--and deservedly so, had I been the guilty creature they had cause to think me. I passed the melancholy time we were upon the road in tears, and prayers that my innocence might be made manifest; but I knew not yet the extent of my misery. At length the cart stopped at the door of the public-house; my feet were loosened, and I was desired to come down, and enter the same room where I had been in the afternoon. A crowd of horrorstricken people were huddled round the fireplace. In the wooden bed lay an object, covered with a white sheet, resembling a human body. I had never seen a corpse laid out in my life; yet the idea rushed upon my mind that this was one; and my blood curdled in my veins, as the conviction came over me that it was one that had met its fate by violence. I trembled, while the large drops of sweat stood upon my brow. All eyes were turned to me; a grim smile of malicious satisfaction was on the faces of some, while horror and pity were equally strongly marked upon the countenances of others. My natural feelings were, to all present, a sure indication of my guilt. I would have sunk to the ground had not the two men supported me. My head fell upon my breast. I requested a little water, in a voice scarcely audible. It was given me, and the sickness went off. One of the officers then, taking a lamp, went to the bed, and removed the sheet from the body. My eyes involuntarily followed him; a cry of horror escaped my lips; and I felt my muscles become rigid. Before me lay the body of the female I had parted with in health early in the forenoon, at the shop-door of my relation, shockingly mangled, her long fair hair clotted with blood, and her mild blue eyes, that had smiled upon me, dulled by the shade of death. I could only groan. My sufferings at this sight were beyond utterance. All in the room moved to the bed, and placed their hands upon the bosom of the dead, and protested their innocence. I was ordered to do the same; but I could not summon resolution to touch the body. My whole nature revolted from the contact. "'I am innocent!' I cried; 'God knows I am innocent! I know nothing of this foul murder. Ask me to cut off my hand, or place it in the burning fire, among the live coals; but ask me not to touch that bloody body, for pity's sake!' "My appeals were vain; they only served to confirm the prepossessions of my hearers that I was guilty. As I stood, shrinking from the fearful object as far as those who held me would permit, a cry arose that I was the murderer beyond a doubt, and that I should be compelled to touch the body. One of the officers seized my hand; those who held me pushed me towards the bed; I struggled in vain; my hand was held fast as I was forced along; and the consequence was, that it came with force upon the chest of the murdered victim, when a gurgling sound issued from the gaping wound. I became insensible. "When my faculties returned, it was the grey of the morning. We were entering the town of Dumfries; I in the cart, and the murdered body by my side. I was lodged in the jail--a criminal already condemned in the eyes of my fellow-men. Even the felons and debtors in prison avoided my society. At my examination before the sheriff, I trembled at the array of circumstantial evidence that was brought against me. My own relation admitted that he had seen us together at his shop-door. The young woman had gone from thence to her brother's, and staid only a short time--telling them she was on her way to Edinburgh, and was to meet a young man, who was to accompany her there. She had been seen by the two men lingering upon the Moffat road, near the planting, a short time before, with the same bundle in her hand that I had said was mine when they saw me in the public-house with it in my possession. They had thought it strange, but paid no attention until the body of the young woman was discovered in the wood a few hours after, and still warm. I had been pursued, and the property proved to belong to the victim of my cruelty. My terror at being apprehended, and my refusal to touch the dead body, all militated against me. I was fully committed as the murderer, without hope of escape, innocent as I was of the crime. To this damning evidence, all I had to advance was my unheeded assertion of my innocence. "From the beginning of May until the month of September I lay in jail--a stranger to comfort of any kind. Every anguish was mine, except remorse. I was looked upon by all, except my parents, as the most hardened villain on earth. No one doubted my guilt, except my parents; and it was only their parental feelings that made them doubt and pray that, if innocent, the really guilty might be discovered. I will not attempt to describe the scenes between me and my parents. They both wished that the grave might hide their shame before the fatal day of the execution of their son; for all chance of proving my innocence seemed out of the question. The worthy minister that visited the jail firmly believed in my guilt; to all my solemn asseverations of innocence, he only replied by holding forth on the dangers of hardened crime, with earnest exhortations for me to confess and make atonement as far as was in my power. He would for hours lay before me the horrors of appearing before my Maker with a lie in my mouth. My pride was wounded by the good man's well-meant efforts. I began to avoid him as much as possible; and, when I could not, I was silent and sullen. This, also, was held to be a sure token of my guilt. Alas! I was not hardened; but I was heart-broken. My Bible was my only companion--my soother and support; for I found no threat there but against the wicked. Its Author was the searcher of hearts. In it I found I was really guilty of many crimes which my fellow-men thought nothing of; but there I also found a Saviour and Mediator. My mind became humbled and composed; and, while I still solemnly asserted my innocence of the murder, I did it with temper and meekness. "'Worthy sir,' I said to the clergyman, 'appearances have deceived you. If it is the will of God that the innocent should suffer, for some wise purpose, his will be done. If it is not so, my guiltlessness of blood will be made evident in this world--at least I shall be declared innocent on that great day when all shall render their account--in this matter, innocent, save of the guilty falsehood I stated, that the unfortunate female's bundle was my own. Alas! I wished not to keep the property from the rightful owner. My thought at the time was, that, if I owned that I had found it, they would take it from me, or make a disturbance about it. Had they only said a few words more, I had told the truth; and thus, probably, have contributed to the proof of my innocence.' "At length, the Lords of Justiciary entered the town. None but those who are within the walls of a jail, awaiting their arrival, can conceive the dread sensation of fear and hope awakened in the breasts of criminals by the clang of the trumpets and shouting of the mob, as the pageant proceeds through the streets. How bitter are the feelings produced by the joyous shouts of the thoughtless people! forgetful, or heedless, of the fates of their fellow-mortals. Next day I was led into the court, more dead than alive. My head became giddy. Everything before me--the crowded court, the judges, jury, and officers--became a confused mass; a murmur as if of horror sounded in my ears from the assembled multitude; the fatal bundle lay upon the table before me. At length all was ready; and, the indictment having been read aloud by the clerk, the judge, in a solemn voice, asked if I was guilty or not. After a gasp or two for breath-- "'O my lord!' I said, 'I am as guiltless of this crime as the unborn babe. Have mercy on me!' And I sank upon the table before me, overpowered. "The public prosecutor then opened the case, and harrowed up my soul with the fearful account of the diabolical deed. He almost persuaded me I was the murderer; so clearly did he reason from appearances. The witnesses were called; a chain of circumstantial evidence was made out; all that was awanting in it was, that I had not been seen to do the deed. Witnesses I had not one. Those whom I could have called could have said nothing but what they had already said, and it was wrested to my disadvantage by my own story; for I was a self-convicted liar, and little better than a thief, in my attempt to appropriate what was not my own--even in the most favourable construction my able counsel could put upon my case. The jury, without leaving their box, pronounced me guilty, without a dissentient voice. The judge put on the fearful black hat upon his head; and, after a heart-harrowing speech upon my guilt, pronounced sentence of death upon me. I was to be taken back to the jail, and from thence to the spot where the murder had been committed, and hung in chains on the second market-day in October. How I was removed from the court I cannot tell; neither can I tell what intervened for some hours. The last thing strongly impressed upon my memory is a burst of satisfaction in the court, when the sentence was passed upon me, and the hooting of the crowd without; yet, strange to say, I slept soundly after the irons were riveted upon my ankles, and awoke to find my doom fixed, and my days on earth numbered. I became, in a manner, resigned to my fate. Indeed, save for my parents, I had no other regret in leaving the world; yet, at times, an anxious wish would steal upon my mind that I might be saved from my unmerited death. It was the shuddering of nature at entering upon eternity. The hope never left me that my innocence would, at one time or another, sooner or later, be made manifest to my fellow-men--for murder will not hide, nor innocent blood cry from the earth in vain. The hours flew past with fearful rapidity; the neighbouring clock seemed never to cease to strike the hour. Night followed day, and day night, as if there was no interval between; yet there was a heaviness upon me that bowed me down. My last Sabbath on earth arrived; the day was spent in devotion--my heart-broken parents, who now were convinced of my innocence, pouring out their souls with mine to the Throne of Grace. If ever there was on earth a foretaste of the joys of heaven, I felt it that day in the condemned cell, loaded with irons. We had taken farewell of each other, in the full assurance of soon meeting where there is no sorrow or shame. The bitterness of death was past. My thoughts were no longer of this world. "The Monday passed on. There was but one whole day more for me on the earth. Wednesday was to be my last. On the morning of Tuesday, as soon as the jail was opened, my brother, who had always thought hardly of me, and visited me only twice, rushed into my cell, and, weeping, fell upon my bosom. After a few minutes, he sobbed-- "'My brother! Simon, my brother! can you forgive me for thinking so hardly of you?' "'My brother,' I replied, 'I have ever thought of you in grief and pity, never in anger. My heart blesses you for this kindness.' "'You are innocent, my own Simon! You are cleared of this crime. All is made manifest. The worthy minister is at present with the provost, who will write to the sheriff to delay the fatal day, until your pardon come.' "I heard no more: a faintness came over me; my heart ceased to beat, and all consciousness left me for some time. When I recovered, we fell upon our knees, and poured out our souls in thanksgivings. At that time I dedicated the whole remainder of my days to the service of that merciful God who had made clear my innocence, and spared my parents and friends from shame. "When we had become composed, I learned from him the wonderful manner in which my innocence had been discovered, and the guilty punished by the hand of the sufferer's own brother. She had resided in the parish of Caerlaverock, with a brother, a widower, as his housekeeper, for some years; and it had been understood that she was soon to marry a young man, a stranger, who had come some years before into the parish. He was on intimate terms with her brother; but her other friends did not approve of the connection, as his character was none of the best. Her brother was of a thoughtless, jovial disposition, and saw no harm in him, for he was an excellent boon-companion, and they were thus inseparable on all occasions of festivity. On the Saturday afternoon before the day appointed for my execution, they had gone out with their guns to shoot for amusement. Both had been drinking pretty hard; and it was observed that the stranger had for some time almost entirely given himself up to intoxication, especially since the death of Grace, his sweetheart. This was attributed to his grief, and begat pity for him, and no one was more assiduous in endeavouring to cheer his gloom than her brother. After their search for game, they were returning to the village, when, by some accident, the gun which Grace's brother carried went off, and lodged its contents in the body of his companion, who fell, dreadfully wounded. A surgeon was sent for, who gave little hopes of his recovery. No blame could be attached to his companion, as the accident was seen by several, and the grief of Grace's brother was excessive. On the Sabbath, the stranger was much worse. His mind seemed to suffer more than his body; and words of fearful import escaped from him at intervals, which harrowed up the souls of those who attended him. Cries of despair, mixed with horrid imprecations, burst from his lips. Yet death evidently was approaching fast to seize his victim. When they spoke of sending for the minister to pray with and console him, he blasphemed, and thus spent he his last Sabbath on earth. Through the night he fell into a troubled sleep, and began to mutter. Gradually his words became more distinct. He talked of Grace, and recounted her murder as he had perpetrated it; writhed in remorse, and called for mercy from my injured spirit, as if I had already suffered. As soon as the morning dawned, the minister was sent for, and what the guilty man had said in his sleep recounted to him. He was now very low; the hand of death was on him; and, for some time, he was deaf to the remonstrances of the divine. But at length he confessed all; told that they would find the knife with which he had done the fearful crime buried at the back of the cottage where he lay. All was written down by the minister. The knife was found, stained with the blood of his victim. I was now as much the object of pity as I had been of hatred and horror. That day my irons were struck off; I had the freedom of the jail until my pardon arrived, and was visited by numbers of the inhabitants, who loaded me with presents. But my feelings of gratitude were principally awakened on my parents' account, for the joy it imparted to them. Many, many years have passed since that event, but it is ever present with me, and spurs me on in my labours of love, in comforting and winning souls to God." So deeply had I been interested in the narrative of the Pious Pedlar, that we had reached York, and stood at the door of the Duke of Marlborough public-house, before I was aware of the distance we had walked after he commenced. As this was the house where Bill and a number of others in his line were in the habit of staying during the time they were in the town, we entered, and found two or three, who, like ourselves, had come to purchase goods. I was astonished at the haughty manner in which they returned our salutation. The landlord, who seemed to know all his guests well, received William and Simon with a hearty welcome; and, shaking me by the hand, wished me success in my new calling, expressing his hope that I would find everything in the Marlborough to my liking. We were then ushered into a small room, where dinner was to be served to us. When we were comfortably seated, I remarked to Bill the impression the lofty bearing of the others had made upon me, and inquired if he knew the cause. He laughed-- "Quite well," said he; "there is an aristocracy among pedlars as well as other callings. They belong to the waggoners, and would think it a degradation to associate with us bearers. We are a grade beneath them; besides, the waggoners are, for the most part, gentlemen by birth--the younger cadets of decayed houses of long standing. With a little capital to commence with, they never dealt in small quantities, their line lying in supplying the retailers in distant towns, and many of them are very wealthy. Upon my return from London, when I have purchased my horse and waggon, I will be entitled to rank with them, but will never be treated as the equal of those who have both birth and waggons; nevertheless, I will be a waggoner until I commence business in my own shop, when I will be a grade higher than even waggoner; and, with economy and my usual perseverance, I may be a bailie, or even provost, of the town I settle in. Only think of that, John Square! Stick to your present occupation, and, without trusting the stormy ocean, you may, by following my counsel, succeed as well as I or any one." "My young friend," said the pious Simon, "all these are good in subjection; but a higher aim ought to be your guide through life; for all these give not peace to the soul." While he spoke, we were joined by other two of our own rank, to whom my two companions were barely civil, and very distant. Both were well advanced in years, with a forward cast of countenance and a look of low cunning strangely blended, which they endeavoured to make pass for frankness. Having settled our small bill, and left our packs in charge of the landlord, I walked out to see the minster, they to transact some business of their own. I returned when the shades of evening fell, and found that Wilson and Simon had arrived some time before me, and were seated by themselves. There were several others in the room in general conversation, in which we took no part. The two whom I had left before I went out were still in the same position, evidently under the influence of liquor. They were clearly unwelcome; their conversation was only calculated to beget disgust in well-regulated minds, consisting of anecdotes of fraud and imposition, of which they seemed proud of being the heroes. "These two," said Simon to me, "are a specimen of those who bring disrepute upon any callings, and much more so on ours. They are not without talents, but they cultivate them to unprofitable ends. I have known them for many years; and, with all their boasted cunning, they are, I believe, poorer at this moment than they were when I first knew them, and must still become poorer, for their character is gone. The public fear to deal with them, and will not do it, even when they would act honestly. They are forced to range far, to places where they are unknown; and even there they are every year circumscribing and planting thorns for others to walk over. They, besides, are ever under the fear of injury from some one or other whom they have defrauded. Such are the fruits of dishonest dealing." All our business being transacted, it was agreed that we should continue our route for London, to purchase silks and light goods, and return by the same route to Scotland. William having purchased a small waggon and horse, together with a small assortment of woollens, my stock remained much the same, and was slung over my shoulder, save when, for ease, and there were no houses on the road, I placed it in the waggon; for I was weary of my pedlar's life, and only endured it until I should reach London. We arrived at Hatfield, about twenty-five miles from London, early in the afternoon, and resolved to stay for the night, as Wilson had hopes of doing some good in the neighbourhood. As for me, I had ceased, much to his chagrin, to attempt any sales, as my pack was now much reduced. While he was gone, I sat at the inn-door, amusing myself in the best manner I could--sometimes musing on my strange fate, at others gazing listlessly upon the passers-by--when a post-chaise drove up to the door at a furious rate. The horses were extremely blown, and covered with perspiration. A gentleman and lady descended from the chaise; she evidently was under restraint, and looked anxiously and fearfully around. Our eyes met; I thought she gave her hand that was disengaged a movement, as if she wished me to come to her. She was in tears. I rose, and moved to approach, but she was hurried into the house before I could advance; for I was in doubt--yet her look expressed what her hand signalled. I thought it strange, for a moment; but this feeling died away, for I might have been deceived. The gentleman came to the door, to hurry the people, as they were rather slow, as he thought, in procuring fresh horses. I good-naturedly went to assist the postilion. As I stood before the chaise, I looked up to one of the windows, and saw the female weeping at it. Our eyes again met; she clasped her hands imploringly, and, taking a small packet, placed it behind the window-shutter, and, raising her clasped hands to heaven, looked earnestly at me. I gave a nod of assent. She retired from the window. All this had passed quickly as a shadow. In a few minutes they were again in the chaise. As it passed off, I again gave a nod, and a languid smile passed over her face. I entered the house, and inquired of the landlord who they were; but got no information, as he said they were unknown to him. I requested to have a glass of brandy-and-water in the room where the lady had been. As soon as it was brought, and he had retired, I looked behind the window-shutter, and, taking out the parcel, found it to contain a sum of money and a sealed letter, upon the inside of the wrapper of which was written in pencil--"Benevolent stranger, whoever you are, for mercy's sake and all that is dear to you, deliver this as directed, with your utmost despatch, and snatch a fellow-creature from misery. Let this supply your immediate wants, and an ample reward shall follow. Use all despatch, I again implore you." I was for a few minutes lost in amazement. The letter was addressed to Captain James H----, Strand, London. Could this be my old patron and captain? There was not one moment to lose. I descended to the bar, and told the landlord I must set off for London immediately, and requested his advice how I was to proceed. He told me I must make the journey on horseback, as he had not another pair of horses. I told him that was impossible, as I had never been on horseback in my life, and I could walk it faster and with more ease than I could ride. I would walk on to Barnet before dark, and get a chaise there if I could find none sooner. As I was on the eve of setting off, he found means to procure an old phæton; and, while it was getting ready, I wrote to Wilson that circumstances forced me to London, but that I would perhaps see him in the morning. At all events, I made him heartily welcome to my pack, as I meant to carry it no more, wishing him health and prosperity if we should not meet. I mounted the high-hung, crazy vehicle, with a lad to drive and bring it back, having satisfied mine host to his utmost wish. By half-past ten o'clock, I reached the jeweller's in the Strand, whose first floor Captain H----occupied, and found him at home. His lady was also present. His surprise was great at my entering. Our joy was mutual, and only damped by my relating the strange manner in which I had again had the pleasure of seeing him. He broke the letter open, and having hastily perused it, turned to his wife, who sat pale and anxiously looking at him--"My love, I must be off this instant, and endeavour to rescue Catherine from her unpleasant thraldom. Do not be alarmed--there is no danger. During the time I am getting all ready, you may peruse the letter." Saying this, he rung the bell, and ordered his servant to procure a post-chaise as quickly as he could, and send in refreshments for me. Mrs H---- was dissolved in tears, as she had read the letter to an end. When we were again alone, "James," said she, "this proceeding of Master Wilton is very cruel to my cousin; although he is her guardian, he has, I should think, no right to wound her feelings, and hurry her about the country in this mysterious manner. I am fearful he has some reason he is ashamed to confess. My dear James, be careful of yourself for my sake; I shall be miserable until your return." "There is not the smallest occasion, my love; I shall write you as soon as I arrive at Mr Wilton's. In the morning, you must write a note to Mr Stenton, to call upon you. Show him your cousin's letter, and order him to take what steps he may judge necessary in this affair." "Can it be possible," said she, "that my aunt approves of this proceeding? He could not have removed Catherine without her consent." "I shall soon know, my love. The dear girl must not be allowed to suffer from their designs or caprice." At this moment the chaise was announced to be at the door, and in a short time we were in it, and rattling along towards Barnet, where we changed horses, and were in Hatfield a little after daybreak. During our dark and comfortless ride, I told him all that had befallen me since we parted in Lisbon. He had only been in London a few months, where he had come upon business--an uncle of his wife's having died some time before, leaving the bulk of his fortune to his two nieces--Catherine, the young lady whose letter I had brought to London, and his wife. To Catherine, his favourite sister's daughter, he had left, besides an equal sum in cash, all his landed and other property. Mr Wilton's sister, the aunt of both, was a rich widow, but of a morose and finical temper. Catherine had been brought up by her some fifty miles from London, and Mr H---- had no idea until my arrival that she had not been still with her. "I hope there is no foolish love affair in this strange business," said he; "for Catherine is a warmhearted, susceptible girl. Her father was our countryman, and my intimate friend." As Mr Wilton's property lay near Baldock, about eighteen miles distant, and no post-horses were to be got, the captain, on horseback, set off alone; I was to follow on foot, which I preferred, to Stevenage, where I was to wait until I heard from him. After a hasty parting from my fellow-traveller Wilson, which was not without regret on both sides, I set off for Stevenage; he saying, as he shook my hand-- "John Square, I hope you will never want, but you will never be rich. You are as unstable as water." I had only been in the inn at Stevenage a short time, when a servant arrived with a note, informing me that Captain H---- had got all arranged to his satisfaction, and would return to London on the following day, requesting me to hasten thither with a letter for Mrs H----; which I did, and took lodgings for myself in Lower Thames Street. When the captain and I again met, I found present the young lady and another gentleman. I was most graciously received by all. The uncle of Catherine was likewise present, and, turning to his niece, said-- "So this is the messenger you contrived to engage, strictly as I watched you in this foolish affair. I see that a woman's invention, like her love, has no bounds"--saying which, he good-humouredly patted the happy and blushing Catherine under the chin. The captain retired with me to a separate room, where he told me that the whole had arisen out of the anger of his wife's aunt, who had set her heart upon marrying her niece to a young clergyman of her neighbourhood, for whom she had not the smallest regard, and whose assiduities were hateful to her, as her heart was already engaged to Mr Stenton, a distant relation of her own; but, as his circumstances were not sufficiently prosperous to enable them to marry, she had concealed their love from all but Mrs H----. "The death of her uncle, and my arrival in London, altered her views. She rebelled against her aunt's authority, and refused to see the clergyman as a lover. This threw the old lady into a paroxysm of rage. Poor Catherine was locked up, and, all her repositories being searched, Mr Stenton's letters were found. They were immediately sealed up, and a letter written to Mr Wilton, her brother, of the most alarming kind for the safety of his now wealthy niece, representing that she meant to throw herself and fortune away upon some peasant in the neighbourhood. He had posted, on receipt of the packet, to his sister, when his fears were further excited by the old lady's conjectures. Catherine was unconscious of what had passed, until she was summoned to the presence of her uncle, whom she had seldom before seen. He is a good-hearted, but a positive, irascible man. No explanation was asked. When all appeared so plain against the trembling girl, she was, by her uncle and aunt, hurried into a post-chaise, and was on her way to Mr Wilton's. She had contrived to write to me during the short time she was allowed to prepare for the journey, but had no opportunity until, struck by your manners, she resolved to shorten her confinement by trusting you, as her uncle's anger was so great that he had scarce spoken to her since they entered the chaise, but to threaten and abuse her. When I arrived, an explanation and reconciliation had taken place, and the marriage will follow in a few weeks. It only remains for you to consider in what manner we can serve you." I returned him my thanks for their kind intentions; and said the young lady's purse, which I would not affront them by offering to return, was much more than sufficient reward for all I had done; and, begging I might not detain him longer from his friends, I bade him adieu, promising to call in a day or two. CHARLES LAWSON. "Tak a faither's advice, Betty, my woman," said Andrew Weir to his only daughter--"tak a faither's advice, and avoid gaun blindfolded to your ruin. Ye are sune aneugh to marry these seven years yet. Marry! preserve us! for I dinna ken what the generation is turning to, but I'll declare bits o' lasses now-a-days haena the dolls weel oot o' their arms, till they tak a guidman by the hand. But aboon everything earthly, I wad impress it upon ye, bairn, that ye canna be owre carefu o' your company; mind that a character is a' a woman has to carry her through the warld, and ye should guard it like the apple o' your e'e; and remember, that folk are aye judged o' frae the company they keep. Now, how often maun I warn ye no to be seen wi' Charles Lawson? He's a clever lad, nae doubt--naebody denies that; but, oh, Betty, Betty, woman! wad ye only reflect that a' gifts are no graces; and I am far mistaen if he hasna a serpent's heart as weel as his tongue. He has naething o' the fear o' God before his een--ye canna deny that. In ae word, he is a wild, thoughtless ne'er-do-weel; and I charge ye--I command ye--Betty, that ye ne'er speak to him again in your born days; or, if ye do, ye surely will hae but little satisfaction to break your faither's heart, and bring him to the grave wi' sorrow and wi' shame--for that, Betty, that wad be the end o't." Elizabeth heard him, and bent her head upon her bosom to conceal her confusion. The parental homily was too late--she was already the wife of Charles Lawson. Having thus begun our story in the middle, it is necessary that we go back, and inform the reader, in a few words, that Andrew Weir was a respectable farmer on the north side of the Tweed, and withal a decent and devout Presbyterian, and an elder in the kirk. Charles Lawson's parents were originally from Northumberland. They had known better days, and, at the period we have alluded to, were struggling with a hard farm in the neighbourhood of Andrew Weir's. Charles was not exactly what his father-in-law had described him; and, were we to express his portrait in a line, we should say, he had blue eyes and a broad brow, a goodly form and open heart. The ringlets which parted on Elizabeth's forehead were like the raven's wing, and loveliness, if not beauty, nestled around the dimples on her cheeks. Their affection for each other began in childhood, and grew with their years, till it became strong as their existence. A few weeks after Andrew Weir had delivered the advice we have quoted to his daughter, Charles Lawson bade farewell to his parents, his wife, and his country, and proceeded to India, where a relative of his mother's had amassed a fortune, and who, while he refused to assist them in their distress, had promised to make provision for their son. As we are not writing a novel in three volumes, we shall not describe the scene of their parting, and tell with what agony, with what tears, and with what bitter words, Charles tore himself from his father, his mother, and his yet unacknowledged wife. The imagination of the reader may supply the blank. Hope urged him to go--necessity compelled him. After his departure, Elizabeth drooped like an early lily beneath the influence of a returning frost. There were whisperings among the matrons and maidens of the neigbouring village. They who had formerly courted her society began to shun it; and even the rude clown, who lately stood abashed in her presence, approached her with indecent familiarity. The fatal whisper first reached Andrew's ear at a meeting of the kirk-session, of which he was a member. He returned home troubled in spirit, a miserable and a humbled man, for his daughter had been his pride. Poor Elizabeth confessed that she was married, and attempted to prove what she affirmed. But this afforded no palliation of her offence in the eyes of her rigid and offended father. "Oh, what hae I been born to suffer ?" cried he, stamping his feet upon the ground. "O, you Witch o' Endor!--you Jezebel!--you disgrace o' kith and kin! Could naething--naething serve ye but breaking your puir auld faither's heart? Get out o' my sicht!--get out o' my sicht!" He remained silent for a few moments--the parent arose in his heart--tears gathered in his eyes. "But ye are still my bairn," he continued. "Oh, Betty, Betty, woman! what hae ye brocht us to?" Again he was silent, and again proceeded-- "But I forgie ye, Betty! Yes, if naebody else will, your faither will forgie ye for your mother's sake, for ye are a' that I hae left o' her. But we canna haud up our heads again in this pairt o' the country--that's impossible. I've lang thocht o' gaun to America; and now I'm driven till't." He parted with his farm, and in the ensuing spring proceeded with his daughter to Canada. We shall not enter upon his fortunes in the New World--he was still broken in spirit; and, after twelve years' residence, he was neither richer nor happier than when he left Scotland. Elizabeth was now a mother, and the smiles of her young son seemed to shorten the years of her exile; yet, ever as she returned his smile, the thought of the husband of her youth flashed back on her remembrance, and anguish and misery shot through her bosom as the eagle darteth on its prey. Her heart was not broken; but it fell like a proud citadel, burying the determined garrison. Charles Lawson had not been in India many months, when a party of native troops attacking the property of his relative, Charles, who had fallen wounded amongst them, was carried by them in their retreat into the interior of the country, where, for several years, he was cut off from all intercourse or communication with his countrymen. On obtaining his liberty, he found that his kinsman had been for some time dead, and had left him his heir. His wife--his parents--doubt--anxiety--impatient affection--trembling hope--all hastened his return. At length the white cliffs of Albion appeared before him, like a fair cloud spread on the unruffled bosom of the ocean; and in a few days more the green hills of his childhood met his anxious eye. It was the grey hour of a summer night as he again approached the roof that sheltered his childhood. His horse as if conscious of supporting an almost unconscious rider, stopped involuntarily at the threshold. He trembled upon the saddle as a leaf that rustles in the wind. He raised his hand to knock at the door, but again withdrew it. The inmates of the house, aroused by the sound of a horse stopping at the door, came out to inquire the cause. Charles gazed upon them for a moment--it was a look of agony and disappointment--his heart gave one convulsive throb, and the icy sweat burst from his temples. "Does not--does not Mr Lawson live here?" he inquired, almost gasping for words to convey the question. "Mr Lawson! Na, na, sir," replied the senior of the group, "it's lang since he gaed awa. Ye ken he gaed a' wrang, puir man, and he's no lived here since the hard winter, for they didna come upon this parish." "Did not come upon this parish!" exclaimed Charles; "heaven and earth! what do you mean?" "Mean! what wad I mean," answered the other, "but just that they were removed to their ain parish! Is there ony disgrace in that?" "Oh, my father!--my poor mother!" cried Charles, wildly. "Mercy, sir!" rejoined the astonished farmer, "are ye Maister Charles? Bairns! haste ye, tak the horse to the stable. Losh, Charles, man, and how hae ye been? But ye dinna ken me, man; I'm your auld schulefellow, Bob Graham, and this is my wife, Mysie Allan--ye mind o' Mysie! Haste ye, Mysie lass, kill twa ducks, and the bairns and me will hool the peas. Really, Charles, man, I'm sae glad to see ye!" During this harangue, Charles, led by his warmhearted friend, had entered the dwelling of his nativity; where Mr Graham again continued-- "Ye aiblins dinna ken that auld Andrew Weir was sae sair in the dorts when ye gaed awa, that he set aff wi' Betty for America. But I hear they are comin hame again this back end. The bairn will be a stout callant noo, and faith ye maun marry Betty, for she was a mensefu lass." Charles could only reply by exclaiming-- "America!--my wife!--my child!" Having ascertained where he would find his parents, early on the following morning he departed, and about five in the afternoon approached the village where he had been told they resided. When near the little burying-ground, he stopped to look upon the most melancholy funeral procession he had ever witnessed. The humble coffin was scarce coloured, and they who bore it seemed tired of their burden. Three or four aged and poor-looking people walked behind it. Scarce was it lowered into the grave, ere all departed save one, meanly clothed in widow's weeds, and bent rather with the load of grief than of years. She alone lingered, weeping over the hastily-covered grave. "She seems poor," said Charles, "and if I cannot comfort her, I may at least relieve her necessities;" and, fastening his horse to the gate, he entered the churchyard. She held an old handkerchief before her face, only removing it at intervals to steal a hurried glance at the new-made grave. "Good woman," said Charles, as he approached her, "your sorrows demand my sympathy--could I assist you?" "No! no!" replied the poor widow, without raising her face; "but I thank you for your kindness. Can the grave give up its dead?" "But why should you remain here?" said he, with emotion; "tell me, could not I assist you?" And he placed a piece of money in her hand. "No! no!" cried the widow, bitterly, and raising her head; "oh, that Mary Lawson should have lived to be offered charity on her husband's grave!" "My mother! Gracious heaven, my mother!" exclaimed Charles, casting his arms around her neck. Shall we describe the scene that followed? We will not--we cannot. He had seen his father laid in the dust, he had met his mother on his father's grave----But we will not go on. It was some weeks after this that he proceeded with his widowed mother to his native village, to wait the return of Elizabeth. Nor had he to wait; for, on the day previous to his return, Elizabeth, her son, and her father, had arrived. Charles and his parent had reached Mr Graham's--the honest farmer rushed to the door, and, hurrying both towards the house, exclaimed-- "Now, see if you can find onybody that ye ken here!" His Elizabeth--his wife--his son--were there to meet him; the next moment she was upon his bosom, and her child clinging by her side, and gazing on his face. He alternately held both to his heart--the mother and her son. Andrew Weir took his hand--his mother wept with joy, and blessed her children. Bob Graham and his Mysie were as happy as their guests. Charles Lawson bought the farm which Andrew Weir had formerly tenanted; and, our informant adds, they live on it still. BON GAULTIER'S TALES. MRS HUMPHREY GREENWOOD'S TEA-PARTY. Mrs Humphrey Greenwood was a stirring, lively, good-natured sort of person; had touched the meridian of her years; was mistress of a comfortable income; and possessed, withal, the privileged vivacity of a widow. Nobody gave nicer tea-parties than she; nobody managed to keep such a number of eligible bachelors on her visiting-list, and possessing, as she did, the nicest discrimination in drafting these in among the young ladies under her patronage, what wonder if no inconsiderable proportion of the matrimonial arrangements of her friends deduced their origin from these dangerously-seductive sofas in her snug little drawing-room? It was in that snug little drawing-room that Mr Simon Silky first saw the future Mrs Simon; it was on one of those dangerously-seductive sofas that he found courage to put that question which procured him a better half, and a comfortable settlement for life for Miss Jemima Linton. Miss Jemima Linton was still in that fluctuating period, between girl and womanhood, at which young ladies giggle a great deal, and seem to be always in a flutter, when Mr Simon Silky first met her. She was fair in complexion, with light hair and blue eyes; her face, in short, had all the delicacy of a wax doll, and nearly as much expression. She could say "yes, sir!" and "no, sir!" at the proper intervals in the course of a _tête-à-tête_ conversation, and, when warmed a little into familiarity and ease, could even hazard an observation with reference to the weather, without changing colour above twice in the course of it. In a word, she was one of those excessively bashful and retiring young ladies, who always look as if they thought a man was going to make violent love to them, and who, if your conversation happen to diverge from the beaten track of the smallest of small talk, take fright, and are off as fast as possible to whisper to some of their companions, "La! what a strange man that is!" This was the very kind of person for Mr Simon Silky, who was a bit of a sentimentalist in his way. When he met Miss Jemima Linton, the fair ideal on whom his fancy had often dwelt seemed to be realised. He came, he saw, and was conquered. On entering Mrs Greenwood's drawing-room, one evening that he had been invited there to meet "a few friends in an easy way," having arrived rather late, he found the party already assembled. The fire blazed cheerfully out upon a bevy of tittering misses, who were seated on either side of it, whispering to each other in a timid and confidential tone, with here and there a young man amongst them making convulsive efforts to render himself amusing, while two or three putty-faced juniors, with very white shirt-collars, and very brightly-polished pumps--who had been called in to stop gaps in quadrilles, and render themselves otherwise useful--sat in the background, for the most part two on a chair, and speculating how many of the cakes that glistened on the table they might appropriate to themselves with any degree of decency. Mrs Humphrey Greenwood, the presiding divinity of this motley gathering, vulgarly yclept a "cookie-shine," was planted behind a brightly-burnished brass urn of liberal dimension, that hissed loudly on the table. "Mr Simon," she exclaimed, advancing from her post of honour--" Mr Simon Silky, I'm so glad to see you; I really thought you had been going to desert us." Our hero blustered out some inarticulate apology, to which his hostess of course paid no attention, but hurried on into the work of introduction. "Mr Silky, Miss Silliman, Miss Gingerly, Miss Barbara Silliman, Miss Eggemon, Miss Jemima Linton; I think you know all the rest. Mr Scratcherd, you know Mr Silky." Mr Scratcherd grinned an assent. "Mr Silky, Mr Slap'emup. You'll find a seat for yourself somewhere. Try if some of the ladies will have pity, and take you in among them." All this time, Mr Silky was engaged in distributing a comprehensive bow to everybody about him--an ordeal which, in any circumstances, to a nervous man like him, was no joke. But his agitation had the finishing touch given it by Mrs Greenwood's facetious observation as to the ladies _taking him_ IN _among them_. The blood rushed to his temples, and he subsided into a vacant chair, with a remark, directed to nobody in particular, as to how very warm the room was. Attention having been once drawn to this interesting fact, it became the topic of conversation for some five minutes, which gave Mr Simon Silky time to cool down, and to look about him a little. In the course of his survey, his eyes alighted on Miss Jemima Linton, who just at that moment happened to be scrutinising his outward man. Their eyes met; a glance of quick intelligence passed between them. The lady lowered hers, blushing up to them as she did so; and the enraptured Simon muttered to himself, "What charming confusion!" He felt a novel sensation gathering about his heart. Could it be love? At first sight, too. Many deny it, but we say that all genuine love is at first sight. "He never loved, who loved not at first sight." Mr Simon Silky was a reader of the Beauties of Shakspere. This line took possession of his head, and he mused and looked, looked and mused, till he was roused from his reverie by Mrs Greenwood calling upon him to assist in handing round the "cups which cheer but not inebriate." He started up, with a very vague notion of what he was to be about, and grasping a tea-cup, which his hostess informed him was Miss Jemima Linton's, in one hand, and a plate of cheesecakes in the other, he stumbled up to the lady, and consigning the cakes to her outstretched hand, held out the tea-cup to Miss Eggemon, who sat next, inquiring if she would please to be helped to a little cake. Miss Eggemon tittered, and exclaimed, "Well, I never!" "Gracious! the like of that, you know!" simpered Miss Silliman, burying her face in Miss Eggemon's neck. "How very absurd!" sneered Miss Gingerly, who was verging to old-maidishness, and had a temper in which vinegar was the principal ingredient. "Bless me, Mr Silky! what _are_ you about?" cried Mrs Greenwood. "Oh--why--yes--no--I see--beg pardon--dear me!" stammered poor Silky, reddening like an enraged turkey-cock, as he handed Miss Linton the cup, out of which the greater part of its contents had by this time been shaken and seizing the dish of cakes with a sudden jerk, deposited one-half of them in the lady's lap, and the other half on the carpet. "Tell me, where is fancy bre_a_d?" said Mr Horatio Slap'emup, who was a wit in his own small way, pointing to the cakes, which our hero was endeavouring to bring together again from the different corners into which they had wandered. A general laugh greeted him on every side as he rose from his knees covered with confusion. He looked at the fair Jemima as he did so. There was not the vestige of a smile on her face. "Good kind soul! _she_ does not join in the vulgar mirth of these unfeeling creatures!" thought the unhappy Silky. "She pities me, and pity is akin to love." It did not strike him that there might be another reason for her gravity. The spilled tea and greasy cheesecake had spoiled her white muslin dress irremediably, for that night at least--a circumstance calculated certainly to make any young lady melancholy enough; but this never entered the brain of Mr Simon Silky. Happy man! "Where ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise." With some difficulty he regained his chair, after stumbling over a footstool, and crushing the tail of a King Charles cocker, that was snorting on the hearthrug in all the offensiveness of canine obesity. His distress was at its climax. "When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions," thought he, recurring once more to the Beauties of Shakspere. His ears felt as if they had been newly scalded, and objects floated in hazy confusion before his eyes. He commenced sipping his tea with desperate energy, wishing for a moment that it had been so much prussic acid. The patter of many voices sounded in his ears. They must be talking of him, "for they laughed consumedly;" and that confounded Slap'emup was obviously getting up a reputation for wit by cutting minute jokes at his expense. "You've been at the Exhibition, Mr Silky," said Mrs Greenwood, recalling him from the state of mental imbecility into which he was fast sinking. "The Exhibition, you said, ma'am! Yes, yes, certainly, the Exhibition. Oh yes!" rejoined Mr Silky, struggling to concentrate his scattered faculties. "Well, what is your opinion about the portrait?" continued his hostess. "Portrait, really--which of them--there's so many?" "Why, Mr Silky, what _has_ come over you to-night? The ladies have been like to pull each other to pieces, for the last five minutes, about the portrait of an officer a little to the left of the door of the first room; and, I declare, you have not heard a word that has been going. Pretty doings, Mr Simon; and who, may I ask, is the happy lady that so engrosses your thoughts?" "Oh, Mrs. Greenwood!" "Well, well, then, if it's a secret, I won't press it! But what is your opinion of the portrait? Miss Barbara Silliman here maintains it is beauty in the abstract." "Oh he's quite a love of a man!" broke in Miss Barbara, in a rapture of affectation; whereat Miss Gingerly appeared mightily shocked, and pursed up her mouth till it looked like a parched apple. "But Miss Linton, on the contrary, says she thinks it rather plain for a military man. Now, we want your decision on this knotty point." "Oh, why, really--a portrait of an officer, I think you said. Fair complexion, flaxen ringlets, and light blue eyes--beautiful, indeed! That is to say--I don't know; but"--and here poor Silky looked hopelessly about for an idea--"upon the whole, I think I declare for Miss Linton." "Well, really, Mr Simon, that _is_ coming to the point. Jemima, my dear, do you hear what Mr Silky says? Declares for you already! Upon my word, a fair proposal!" said Mrs Greenwood, catching up the allusion, and looking excessively matronly and significant. "Fair complexion, flaxen ringlets, light blue eyes!" broke in Miss Barbara Silliman, with that delicate spitefulness to which young ladies are subject, when they suspect any of their rivals of having produced an impression on one of the male creatures. "A pretty officer, indeed! It's you, Miss Linton, that Mr Silky means. Quite a conquest, I declare." Having said this for the benefit of the company, she murmured to herself, "I wonder at the man's taste. A gawky minx!" If Mr Silky felt uncomfortable before, he was now reduced to the lowest pitch of personal misery. He tried to smile, as if he took the thing as a good joke; but the contortions of his visage were galvanic. Everybody, he was sure, was looking at him, and he stammered out some inarticulate words, by way of extricating himself from his awkward position. What they were he knew not; but they only seemed to have made matters worse; for another titter ran round the circle, and showers of badinage assailed him on every side. Mr Simon Silky began to speculate whether sitting on the points of a score of red-hot toasting-forks could be worse than his present torment. He was pursuing this agreeable train of reflection, when the removal of the table to a corner of the room, and a general commotion, occasioned by the pushing back of sofas, and the laying away of chairs, made him aware that dancing was about to commence. The men, as they always do on these occasions, clustered together near the door, pulling on gloves--such of them as had them--and talking very thick and fast about nothing at all. "Miss Gingerly, may I ask you to give the young folks a set of quadrilles?" inquired Mrs Greenwood. "Certainly--with a great deal of pleasure," coldly responded Miss Gingerly, blowing her nose with the end of her pocket-handkerchief, which she extracted partially from her black satin bag for the purpose, and feeling particularly venomous at being cut out of the dance, and her very, very faint chance of captivating a partner therein. "Oh, thank you," said Miss Eggemon, laying her hands affectionately on Miss Gingerly's wrists. "You play quadrilles so nicely." And then turning to Miss Jemima Linton, Miss Eggemon whispered, confidentially, "Such a player you never heard. Not three bars in time. How provoking Mrs Greenwood should ask her to play. Just listen; did you ever hear the like of that?" Miss Gingerly had laid her black satin bag on the piano, drawn herself up with all the frosty-faced dignity of waning maidenhood, and was performing a prelude before commencing operations, which was chiefly remarkable for its ingenious flights from key to key, and bewildering accumulation of false concords. "Gentlemen, find partners for yourselves," said the lively Mrs Greenwood; and the gentlemen, after looking at one another, disentangled themselves from the knot into which they were gathered, and, shuffling up each to the lady that pleased his fancy, solicited the honour of her hand. The couples had taken their places, and Miss Gingerly was dashing away into the heart of the "Highland Laddie," when it was discovered that there was still a couple awanting. "Mr Silky, you dance?" said all the men at once to that gentleman, who was sitting pensively in a corner. "Oh, really!" replied Silky, smiling a sickly smile, and making vague protestations of inability. "Not dance!" said the vivacious Mr Slap'emup. "Fie on you!--oh, fie! And Miss Linton looking at you there, like Eve on the eve of Paradise, as if 'She would be woo'd, and not unsought be won.'" There was nothing for it but that Silky should make up to Miss Jemima, and lead her out to dance. This he did among the nods, and winks, and whispers of all present; and by the time he got into his place in the quadrille, he did not very well know which end of him was uppermost. Away rattled Miss Gingerly at the "Highland Laddie," and away bounced the dancers through the mazes of the figure. Dancing a quadrille is with some people no trifling matter, and Mr Simon Silky was one of these. He bent to it all the energies of his not over-powerful mind; and, while it lasted, beyond a passing word or two, he had no conversation to bestow upon his partner. It was amusing to see with what earnestness he watched the movements of those who preceded him, and, when his own turn came, the exhibition he made would have made a Timor grin. First, he threw out his arms to steady himself, and then jerking forward his right foot, brought himself suddenly into the centre of the floor, where he began throwing his legs confusedly about, till they seemed to be involved in hopeless entanglement. All the time he kept his eyes fixed anxiously upon his shoe-ties. It was obviously a critical affair with him to preserve his equipoise, and each time that he got back safely to his place, a sigh broke from him, as if a great burden had been taken off his mind, and he wiped the sweat away that glistered in heavy beads upon his brow. At length the quadrille ended. Mr Silky thanked heaven; and, leading the fair Jemima to a seat, planted himself at her side, and manfully endeavoured to open up a conversation with her. Dance succeeded dance, and by degrees the elements of the party got tolerably well interfused. Poor Miss Gingerly wrought away at her everlasting set of Scotch quadrilles, and nobody ever volunteered to relieve her of her task, "she played so well." At intervals some of the young ladies quivered through a fashionable ballad, and occasionally an attempt was made to get up one of those melancholy chants, which, by some strange misnomer, pass current in society for glees. In these, Mr Scratcherd, who sang bass, distinguished himself so signally, that loud calls were made upon him for a song, and Mr Scratcherd, after a little preliminary modesty, yielded to the call. He then began raving about an "Old Oak Tree," and groaned up and down the scale, till his voice became lost in the bottom of his neckcloth. Serious fears were entertained whether he would be able to get it up again, but these happily turned out to be unfounded. Again his voice mounted to its natural level, and after rolling about for some time, "grating harsh discord," wore itself out in a cadence of confused gutturals. "Bravo, bravo," cried the men. "A very fine quality of bass," exclaimed his friend, Slap'emup, who affected to be a judge; and Mr Scratcherd blew his nose, and fell back in his chair in a state of great personal satisfaction. With a thoughtful regard for the comforts of her guests, Mrs Greenwood had, early in the evening, thrown open her little back drawing-room, in which were placed abundance of refreshments, to sustain them through the fatigues of dancing and conversation. By a succession of visits to this room, Mr Simon Silky had succeeded in giving firmness to his nerves. He was gradually becoming less and less bashful. There must have been something bracing about the atmosphere of the apartments, for to this, and not to the bottle of port, to which he was observed to have frequent recourse, must be attributed that jauntiness of step and slipshod volubility of tongue which he now displayed. He danced every dance, and for the most part with Miss Jemima for his partner. What though his uncouth gestures provoked a smile, and his assiduities to the young lady were commented on at every hand. He cared not. His spirit was in the third heaven of exaltation, and the whole world might go hang for him. "Miss Linton," he exclaimed, seizing her hand fervently--they were seated on a sofa in the back drawing-room, while the others were labouring through a country-dance in the front--"Miss Linton, hear me for a moment. Let me use this opportunity of stating what I have long felt--what I now feel--what I shall always feel." And again Mr Silky pressed her hand tenderly in both of his. "Oh, sir!" timidly responded the lady. "Yes, adorable Jemima! I can no longer repress my emotion. You see before you a victim to your charms. The moment I beheld you, I don't know how it was, but my heart thrilled with a transport delightful as it was new. I felt--I felt--in short, I felt as I never felt before. My senses forsook me, and I said and did I know not what. These soulless creatures treated my confusion with ridicule; but, in your eyes, methought I could read pity, compassion, commiseration, sympathy. Say, was I right, or was I misled by the fond delusions of my own passion?" "Oh, sir!" again exclaimed the bewildered Jemima. "That look! I was not then deceived. Oh extend that pity into love! I lay myself and my fortune at your feet." And here Mr Simon Silky slipped off the sofa and down upon his knees, overcome partly with love and partly with intoxication. "Dearest Jemima! say only that you will be mine?" "Oh, sir!" once more sighed the blushing maiden, dropping her head upon the shoulder of her suitor, who acknowledged the movement by snatching a kiss from her pouting lips. "Ods! that came twangingly off. I'm afraid we're like to spoil sport here," exclaimed Mr Slap'emup, who at this moment entered the room, with Miss Gingerly on his arm. "Gracious! how very improper!" cried Miss Gingerly, wishing from the depth of her soul that it had only been her own case. "What's improper, ma'am?" retorted Silky, turning to her a look of drunken gravity, and endeavouring, with no little difficulty, to get on his legs again. "If I choose to kiss this young lady, or this young lady chooses to kiss me, that's no business of yours, I suppose? 'Have not saints lips, and holy palmers, too?' as the divine Shakspere says; and what are lips for, I should like to know, if not to kiss? Don't frown at me, Miss Graveairs. I'm a man--a man, ma'am, and I shall do just as I please. Shan't I, Jemima, dear?" He turned for an answer to his appeal; but the young lady had left the room. "Jemima, I say," continued Silky, getting more and more overcome. He looked around the room; and, finding no trace of the lady, began chanting in a lackadaisical tone-- 'And has she then fail'd in her truth, The beautiful maid I adore?' But I don't care that for her!" And he tried to snap his fingers; but failed in the attempt. "It's an ungrateful world--a vile world." "Oh, gracious me! let me away," exclaimed Miss Gingerly, in alarm. "He's certainly tipsy." "Tipsy--tipsy! Who's tipsy? Let me see her. Woman, woman, to get yourself into such a state! I'm ashamed of you; I am indeed. But it's the weakness of the sex. 'Frailty, thy name is woman!'" This apostrophe was addressed to some visionary female that flitted before Mr Silky's mental optics, and whom he followed, with his hands groping before him, with the voice and gesture of Mr Charles Kean pursuing the airdrawn dagger in the character of Macbeth. "Laugh away; it's very amusing, isn't it! Nero fiddled while Rome was burning; but I know better." "Mr Silky, you'll better go home," said Mrs Greenwood, who, with the remainder of the party, had by this time entered the room. "Home! exactly so. I _am_ at home, my charmer--perfectly at home; and you're at home; we're all at home. But no more wine, Mrs Greenwood; temperance and teetotalism for ever. We are beset with temptations in this wicked world--temptations, I say--Jemima, you're an angel! It is as much as a man can do to preserve his uprightness." And, in proof that it was more than he could, down rolled our hero on the floor, in a profound stupor. "Carry Master Silence to bed," remarked the ingenious Slap'emup, highly tickled with the catastrophe that had befallen the too--too bashful Silky. A coach was procured, and he was conveyed to his lodgings, where the sun found him in bed at noon next day. His dreams had been of the most ghastly kind. He had fancied himself compelled, by a fiend, to swallow huge goblets of port wine, strongly adulterated with brimstone, and dragged about by a fury, who held his neck within a halter. The fiend was Slap'emup--the fury, Miss Jemima Linton. He started from his dream, and with his hand pressed against his aching head, fell to adjusting the confused reminiscences of the previous evening's proceedings. He remembered nothing but that he had proposed for the hand of some young lady or other, and had been accepted. Well for him it was that memory went no farther, or he would never have found courage to visit Mrs Greenwood again. That he did visit her again, however, may be inferred from an announcement which the newspapers, not many weeks after, gave to the public:-- "Married at Edinburgh, on the 6th instant, Mr Simon Silky to Miss Jemima Linton." THE RECLUSE OF THE HEBRIDES. "Still caring, despairing, Must be my bitter doom; My woes here shall close ne'er But with the closing tomb."--BURNS. I resided some years ago in the Island of Tyree, which is one of the most western of the Hebrides; and, in the course of my business, had often occasion to cross by the base of Ben Chinevarah, whose rugged and sterile appearance impresses the mind with a sickening sadness. The narrow footpath sometimes dives into the deep and sullen gloom of the mountain glen, whose silence is unbroken, save by the torrent's red rush, and again winds along the edge of the steep precipice, among the loose rocks that have been hurled from their beds aloft by the giant efforts of time, where the least false step would precipitate the unwary traveller into the abyss below. There no cheering sound of mirth was ever heard, the blithe whistle of the ploughman never swelled upon its echoes, nor often did the reaper's song disturb its gloomy silence. The ear is assailed, on the one hand, by the discordant and dismal notes of the screech-owl; and, on the other, by the angry roar of the waves that beat, with ceaseless lash, the broken shore. A small hut now and then bursts upon the view, raising its lowly roof beneath the shelter of the mountain rock, and adds to the cheerlessness of the scene. One of those small cottages often attracted my notice, by its external neatness, and the laborious industry by which a small garden had been formed around the dwelling; and by degrees I ingratiated myself into the good graces of its owner, who, I found, by his knowledge and conversation, was of a different cast from the dwellers around him. I knew by his accent that he was a foreigner; and, feeling an interest in him, I often endeavoured to gain some account from him of the early part of his life; but when the subject was hinted at, he at once changed the conversation. Having occasion last summer to spend some days at the house of a friend in Argyleshire, I availed myself of this opportunity to visit my old acquaintance at Tyree. I found him stretched on the bed of sickness, and fast verging towards his end. When last I had seen him, his appearance, though infirm, evinced but few signs of physical decay; and, though the storms of scores of winters had blown over him, still his eye sparkled with animation, and his raven locks retained the fresh and jetty colour of the native of "Italia's sunny clime." But now, how changed the appearance! His eyeballs were dim, deep sunken in their sockets; a few scattered grey hairs waved carelessly over his finely-arched eyebrows; and his forehead and cheeks were deeply furrowed with the traces of sickness and secret wo. When I entered the lowly dwelling, he raised his lacklustre eyes, and stretched forth his hand to meet my grasp. "And is Heaven yet so kind," said he, raising his wasted hand in thanks to the Disposer of all good, "as to send one pitying friend to soothe my dreary and departing moments? Ah, sir, the hand of the grim tyrant is laid heavily upon me, and I must soon appear in the presence of an offended Deity. If you knew how awful are the feelings of a mind loaded with iniquity, of a soul immersed in guilt, when the last moment is approaching that separates us from mortality, and the misdeeds of a wicked life stand in ghastly array, adding stings to an already seared conscience, you would shrink at what you now deem the gay dreams of youthful frailty, and shun the delusive and seducing snares of a wretched world." Pointing to a block of wood alongside his pallet bed, he desired me to be seated, and, after drying the tear of sorrow from his swollen eye, he thus proceeded:-- "Often, in those moments when the sweet beams of health were mine, have you desired a recital of the events of my past life; but a feeling of shame withheld me from the task. Now, when I have nothing to fear but death and the dread hereafter, if you will have the patience to hear me, I will briefly unfold to you the causes which reduced me from a state of affluence, to become a fugitive amid the rugged rocks and the inclement skies of a foreign land." I assented, and he went on with his story. "My name," said he, "in the more fortunate years of my life, was Alphonso; and the city of Venice gave me birth. I was the only child of an opulent citizen, and need scarcely inform you that no restraint was laid upon my inclinations when a child; and the dawn of manhood beheld me plunged amid every intemperance which that luxurious city then afforded. Money was plentifully supplied me by my parents to support my extravagances; and I sought after happiness among the rounds of pleasure and the gay circles of society; but I only met with desires ungratified, hopes often frustrated, and wishes never satisfied. I had a friend. He was called Theodore. I loved him as dearly as a selfish being like myself _could_ love any one. He shared in all my pleasures. "An amorous, jealous, and revengeful disposition is commonly laid to the share of the Italians; and, with sorrow I confess, that formed the principal ingredient of my character. I had reached my twentieth year of thoughtlessness and folly, when, one night at the opera, a young lady in an opposite box attracted my attention; and my eyes were insensibly riveted upon the beauteous figure. I need not tell you that she was beautiful--she was loveliness itself. I will not trespass on your time in describing the new and pleasing sensations that arose in my bosom; you have trod the magic paths of pleasure, and bowed to the charms of beauty: they are not unknown to you. "I felt that all my libertine pursuits had only been the shadows of pleasure; and from that moment I determined to abandon them, and fix my love on her alone. We became acquainted, and I found that she was as worthy of the purest love as my fond wishes desired. She was the only child of Count Rudolpho; and, for the space of three months, I was a constant visiter at her father's palazzo. In due time I pleaded the force of my love. But what were the sensations of my soul, when the tear started from her eye of beauty, and the dreadful sentence burst upon my ear--'I am the bride of Theodore!' "I burst from her presence with a palpitating heart, and returned homewards, agitated by the conflicting passions of despair and revenge. I drew my sword from its sheath, and promised the blood of Theodore, of the friend of my bosom, to its point. The steel trembled in my grasp as the vow fell from my lips, and my heart recoiled at the idea of shedding blood; but the still small voice was an unequal match with the baneful principles of a corrupted soul." The recluse stopped, and the loud sobs of sorrow and repentance alone burst upon the gloomy silence of the scene. The hectic flush of fever played and wantoned across his pallid features, as if it seemed to exult in the weakness of mortality, and delight in the loveliness of its own soul-loathed ravages. The tears dropped large and plentiful from his eyes, and his spirit seemed bended and broken with the racking remembrance. I bent over the wasted form of the wretched penitent, and while I poured the voice of comfort in his ear, and wiped the tears from his eyes, his soul resumed its wonted firmness, and even a smile beamed upon his blanched lips, as he grasped my hand, and pressed it to his bosom in silence, and with thankfulness. "Behold!" said he, drawing an old sword from beneath the side of his miserable straw pallet--"behold this steel, red-rusted with the blood of Theodore, from which the bitter tears of sixty long winters have been unable to efface the stain. Pardon the feelings of an infirm old man. My soul weeps blood at the remembrance. "I pitched upon the bridal eve of Theodore for that of his death, and the seizure of his bride; and hired the leader of a band of ruffians to assist me in the scheme. The fatal night, so big with horror, at last arrived. The sun sank sullenly into the shades of the west, and his departing gleams glanced redly and angrily upon me. The raven wings of early night fell upon Venice; and I stepped into my gondola, with my hired followers. We set forward upon our errand. The palazzo of Count Albert was soon gained. Busy nature waxed calm and hushed; the artisan had retired to the sweets of his lowly but happy cottage; the convent-bell had tolled, solemn and slow, the vesper knell; and then 'Uprose the yellow moon,' silvering the rippling waters of the canals, and glancing its beams upon the glittering palaces of Venice. It was a lovely night; but my soul ill brooked the calm grandeur of the scene. "By the treachery of a servant, my comrades were admitted into Count Rudolpho's grounds, whilst I attended the nuptial rites with the well-dissembled face of friendship. Joy was dancing in every eye but mine. My hand trembled at times on the hilt of my poniard, and I awaited the favourable moment with a degree of impatience bordering on frenzy. Many a fair maid was there, tripping amid the joyous throng, whose beauty might have warmed the frigid heart of an anchorite; but my eyes and mind were upon the dear, dear Violetta: she was lovelier than ever, but--she was the spouse of Theodore. "The garden of the count was remarkably beautiful, and the trees in it had been grandly festooned with variegated lamps on the present occasion. The night was pleasant and calm, and the youthful couple retired from the crowded saloon to the garden for a few minutes, to enjoy the freshness of nature. I silently followed, unperceived, till they seated themselves in an arbour, whose beauty was unworthy of a villain's tread. Then suddenly I presented myself at the entrance; and the unsuspicious Theodore rose to embrace me. How shall I give utterance to the rest? My friend rose to embrace me; and I drew my poniard, and was about to plunge it into his bosom, when Violetta, whose attention this action had not escaped, rushed between us, to stay my hand. Horror! her heart received the blow I had intended for her husband. She uttered a piercing cry, and fell, a bleeding corpse, at my feet. "The sound attracted the attention of my ruffianly associates, who were ready at hand, to carry off the bride, and they hurried to the spot. Theodore, at first surprised and terror-stricken, now roused himself to energy. With the fury of a maniac, he rushed upon me, and felled me senseless to the earth. How long I lay in this situation I know not; but when my senses returned, the palazzo was in flames, and the clashing of swords and the groans of the wounded sounded horribly in my ears. And this was my doing. I had been the means of introducing into Count Rudolpho's grounds a band of desperadoes, to whom bloodshed was familiar; and I doubted not that they were at their work of blood and rapine. I repented of the deed, but it was too late. "The murdered Violetta lay on the ground at a short distance from me; the moonbeams played full upon her ghastly and distorted features; and her robes, her bridal robes, were deeply stained with blood. Her pulse had long since ceased to beat, and she felt cold to the touch. Resolved that no profane hand should consign to the earth her blessed remains, I threw the body across my shoulder, and fled with it from the garden. I felt not the weight of the burden, for excitement made me 'hardy as the Némean lion's nerve.' I soon reached the canal, leaped into my gondola with my precious burden, and, shortly afterwards, gained my father's palace. Ere the moon set, I had dug a deep grave in his garden, in which I buried her on whom I had doated, bedewing the earth with my tears as I proceeded in my work. "It was at length completed; and, with the morning's dawn, I fled from Venice. Despair added wings to my flight, and the land of France received me in her fostering arms. I have, since that time, wandered in many a clime, to wear away my grief, but in vain. I have fought under the banner of your king; and, though my arm was never palsied in the day of battle, death has been denied me. I now lie here, aged and forlorn. The hand of death is heavy on me, and chilly tremors are creeping over my exhausted frame. The just decrees of God have denied me even a friend to close my weary eyes; and my dust must mingle with the dust of strangers, far, far from the sepulchre of my fathers, and the home of my childhood." After a short pause, the Recluse continued-- "Here, sir," said he, "take this sword--it has been the constant companion of my travels--its blade is unsullied by ignoble blood; and when you look upon it, after the grave receives the wretched Alphonso, it may convey a lesson that volumes could not inculcate." I received the sword from his hand, which was trembling and cold. He turned his face from me; and before I had time to speak, a deep groan announced his departure to the mansions of another world. I called the inmates of the adjoining cottage, who took charge of the body; and I left the spot with a feeling which words cannot express, but which will be understood by those who look with the eye of pity upon the errors of a fellow-mortal. ELLEN ARUNDEL. Ellen Arundel was the only daughter of an officer in the British service, who, with his sword for his patrimony, had entered early into the profession of arms as the means of maintenance; and he had, accordingly, pursued it with that enthusiastic spirit of honour which is dictated by the considerations of family pride, the hope of fame, the dread of disgrace, and the most ardent love of glory. The utmost height, however, to which he had risen, when he committed the folly of matrimony, by uniting his destiny to that of the portionless daughter of a venerable, respectable, unbeneficed clergyman, was that of a lieutenant in a foot regiment. By dint of careful management on the part of his wife, they contrived to live happily together, nor did the increase of their family--for Ellen made her appearance within the first year after their marriage--add to their difficulties. In the care and superintendence of their darling daughter, did their years roll on in humble content. If they heaved a sigh, it was for their Ellen's future welfare; if they breathed a wish, it was to see her placed in a situation which might guard her against the attacks of poverty, and the designs of iniquity. From the former, they were aware, beauty and accomplishments would prove no shield; and they trembled when they reflected that they might prove the most powerful incitement to the latter. The sweets of life are not to be enjoyed without its accompanying embitterments. The regiment in which Mr Arundel served received orders to embark for America, in transports already prepared for the reception of the British forces. On the communication of this intelligence, so subversive of their little plans of economy and felicity, Mrs Arundel earnestly entreated that she and Ellen might be the companions of his voyage. For awhile Mr Arundel would not consent to this, from a fear of incurring expense which they were unable to support; but all the difficulties which the narrowness of their finances suggested were obviated by a thousand little arrangements, the ingenious devices of love; and the command of a company, which was conferred upon him before the embarkation, relieved them from their anxiety. Few events happened, either during their voyage, or on their arrival at Boston, except that the assiduities of a young officer of another regiment, who accompanied them in the transport, seemed to have made some impression on the heart of Ellen Arundel. She listened to his tales of love, with the full sanction of her parents, and sighed out the confession that his passion was returned. Mr Meredith was formed on the model which Captain Arundel had, in idea, fixed on for the husband of his Ellen. To the qualifications of a soldier, he added those which most highly adorn private life; nor was his income limited, for he was the only son of a gentleman of fortune. But both Captain Arundel and Mr Meredith were too regardful of decency and propriety to hasten an event of so much importance, till the father of the young gentleman had been made acquainted with the attachment; and letters from Captain Arundel and the lover were, accordingly, prepared, for the purpose of being despatched to Europe by the first ship that should sail. But alas! these precautions were soon rendered unnecessary, by events which dissolved the bonds of affection. On that day when the attack of Bunker's Hill occasioned a carnage which thinned the British ranks, Captain Arundel and Mr Meredith stood foremost in the bloody contest. Accident had placed them in the same brigade: they fought and fell together. The body of the young officer was carried off by the Americans; and the mortally-wounded captain conveyed to the habitation of his wretched wife and daughter, where, shortly afterwards, he expired. The keen and piercing anguish felt by Ellen and her mother, in consequence of this sorrowful event, had changed to silent and corroding melancholy, when they embarked for their native land, after having received every attention which the governor and garrison could offer as a tribute to the memory of the deceased. On their arrival in Britain, a pension was granted to Mrs Arundel, which, in the event of her death, was to be continued to her daughter; and with this they retired to a small village northward of the Scottish metropolis, where a maiden sister of Captain Arundel, who was remarkably fond of Ellen, resided. But, as no retirement will conceal the charms of beauty, nor any circle, however confined, prevent the fame of accomplishments from spreading beyond its limit, Mr Newton, a widower of independent fortune, not much past the prime of life, having been told of Ellen, resolved to visit the Arundels. An opportunity soon presented itself. The house which the ladies inhabited was advertised for sale; and, under pretence of an intention to purchase, he wrote Mrs Arundel, desiring to know when it would be convenient for him to call; to which Mrs Arundel returned a polite answer, naming an early day. Mr Newton went; and, after he had viewed the house and gardens with the air of an intending purchaser, Mrs Arundel, desirous of cultivating the acquaintance of so distinguished a neighbour, asked him to stay tea; which being unhesitatingly accepted, he was introduced to the fair, the amiable, the still mourning Ellen. Prepared by the universal voice to admire, love was the immediate consequence of a visit, which he requested leave to repeat, in terms with which civility could not refuse to comply; and a few weeks confirmed Mr Newton the ardent and the professed lover of Ellen. But her heart was still engaged; nor could she abandon even a hopeless passion. The character, the fortune, the unobjectionable person of Mr Newton, were urged to her, by her only friends, with such energy, but mildness, of persuasion, that, enforced by the declarations of her admirer, she was prevailed upon to promise him her hand, though not her heart; and a day was named for the celebration of their nuptials. The necessary preparations now engaged the attention of Mr Newton and the two matron ladies; whilst Ellen passively yielded to the assiduities of her friends, and suffered the adornments of her person, and the intended provisions of settlement to be adjusted, without once interfering. A few mornings before the appointed day, as Ellen was seated at breakfast with her mother and aunt, a note was put into her hands. She saw at a glance that it was from Mr Newton; and she immediately handed it across the table to Mrs Arundel, who read:-- "MADAM,--That your heart is not at all interested in the intended event, you have, with candour, frequently acknowledged to me. You will not, therefore, even wish to receive an apology for my releasing you from an unsuitable engagement. "My long-lost son--my son whom I had for years resigned to Heaven--is restored to me; and Providence, which has bestowed on me this consummate happiness, will not permit me to add to it a wish which concerns myself. He is young; he is amiable; and more worthy of your regard than I am. It is my sincere wish that he should become your husband. I shall, therefore, take an early opportunity of introducing him to you. "My real name is _not_ what you have hitherto considered it to be. I changed it when, on the supposed death of my son, I retired from my usual place of residence to a distant part of the kingdom, to avoid the importunities of some worthless relations; but, until I have the honour of disclosing to you in person my real name, I beg to subscribe myself, Madam, yours very truly, "J. B. NEWTON. "_To Miss Ellen Arundel._" When this most extraordinary epistle was read, Ellen turned deadly pale, and would certainly have fallen to the ground, had not a young man entered through the window which opened out on the lawn, and caught her in his arms. He was followed by Mr Newton. "Ellen," exclaimed the latter, "behold my son!" The sorrowing girl cast her eyes upon the form of him who held her. "Meredith!" she cried, and threw herself, weeping, upon his shoulder. Her tears were tears of joy. Little more remains to tell. Ellen Arundel gave her hand to the son on the very day which had been appointed for her nuptials with the father. CHATELARD. Some time after the unfortunate Queen Mary had established her court at Holyrood, on her return from France, to ascend the throne of her ancestors, a stranger arrived at a certain tavern or hostelry, kept by one Goodal, at the foot of the Canongate of Edinburgh. The former had last come from Leith, where he had been landed from a French vessel some two or three hours previously. He was a young man, probably about three or four and twenty, tall and handsome in person, of a singularly pleasing countenance, and of mild and exceedingly gentleman-like demeanour. His lofty forehead and expressive eye bespoke the presence of genius, or, at least, of an intellect of a very high order; while his general manners indicated a refined and cultivated mind. There was marked, however, on the brow of the interesting stranger very palpable traces of saddening thoughts--his whole countenance, indeed, exhibiting the characteristics of a deep and rooted melancholy; but it was of a gentle kind, and bore no likeness to the stern gloominess of disappointed ambition. His sadness was evidently a sadness of the heart--the result of some grievous pressure on its best and tenderest feelings and affections. After having partaken of some refreshment, the stranger desired a small measure of wine to be brought him. This order was executed by mine host in person; and, indeed, from what afterwards followed, it seemed to have been given with an express view to that result; for, on the landlord's placing the wine before his guest, the latter requested him, with great politeness of manner, to sit down and share it with him; saying that he wanted a little information on two or three particular points. Mine host, seating himself as desired, expressed his readiness to afford him any information of which he himself was possessed. Having thanked the former for his civility, and pressed him, not in vain, to taste of his own wine, the stranger said-- "Is the queen, my friend, just now at Holyrood?" He was answered in the affirmative. The querist paused, sighed, and next inquired if she walked much abroad--what were the hours she devoted to that recreation--whether she was accompanied by many attendants on these occasions--and whether her ordinary promenade was a place easy of access. Having been informed on all these points, he again relapsed into thought, and again sighed profoundly. After a short time, however, he once more recovered himself, and suddenly exclaimed, but more by way of soliloquy than inquiry-- "Is she not beautiful--transcendently beautiful?" Mine host, who was not a little surprised by the abruptness of the question, and the enthusiasm of manner in which it was expressed, replied, that she surely was "Just as bonny a creature as he had ever clapt ee on--a plump, sonsy, nice-lookin lass." A slight expression of disgust, or rather of horror, at the homely terms employed by mine host in speaking of the beauty of the queen, passed over the countenance of his guest. It was, however, but momentary, and was not observed, or at any rate not understood, by him whose language had called it forth. "Ay, beautiful is she," went on the enthusiastic stranger, leaning back in his chair, and gazing on the roof, in a fit of ecstasy, and in seeming unconsciousness of the presence of a third party--"beautiful is she to look upon, as is the rising sun emerging from the purpled east; beautiful as his setting amidst the burnished clouds of the west; lovely as the full moon hanging midway in her field of azure; grateful to the sight as the green fields of spring, or the flowers of the garden; and pleasant to the ear are the tones of her voice, as the song of the nightingale in the grove, or the sound of the distant waterfall." Here the speaker paused in his rhapsody, continued silent for some moments, then suddenly returning, as it were, to a sense of the circumstances in which he was placed, he brought his hands over his forehead and eyes, as one recovering from an agony of painful and melancholy thoughts. Surprised by this extraordinary conduct of his guest, the landlord of the house began to conceive that he had got into the company of a madman; yet he marvelled much what description of madness it could be, since it was made evident only when the queen was spoken of--the stranger speaking on all other subjects rationally and composedly. "She walks not much abroad, you say, my friend?" said the latter, resuming the conversation which he had broken off to give utterance to the rhapsody which has just been quoted. "Very seldom, sir," replied mine host; "for ye see she doesna fin hersel quite at hame yet amang us; but she'll come to by and by, I've nae doot." "And she is not easy of access, you say--no chance of one being able to throw himself in her way?" "Unco little, I should think," replied mine host, "unless she could be fa'n in wi' gaun to the chapel to mass; for she still abides by thae abominations, for a' John Knox can say till her." A flush of resentment and indignation crossed the pale countenance of the stranger at the last expressions of the innkeeper, and he threw a glance at him strongly expressive of these feelings, but suddenly checked himself, paused for a moment, and then resumed his queries in the calm and gentle tones which seemed natural to him-- "How likes she the country, know ye? "Indeed, I canna weel say," replied mine host; "but I rather doot, frae what I hear, she's no athegither reconciled till't yet. She thinks, I daursay, we're rather a roughspun set o' folk--a wee thing coorse i' the grain or sae." "Ay, that ye are, that ye are," said the stranger, with more candour than courtesy, again throwing himself back in his chair, and again beginning to rhapsodise as before. "She is among ye--the beautiful, the gentle, the accomplished, the refined--as a fawn amongst a herd of bears. She is in your wild and savage land, like a lovely and tender flower growing in the cleft of a rock--a sweet and gentle thing, blooming alone in the midst of rudeness and barrenness. Oh, uncongenial soil! Oh, discordant association! Dearest, cruellest, loveliest of thy sex!" If mine host was amazed at the first outpouring of his guest's excited mind, it will readily be believed that it was not lessened by this second ebullition of fervour and passion. He, in truth, now became convinced that he was distracted; and, under this impression, felt a strong desire to be quit of him as soon as possible. With this view, he took an early opportunity of stealing unobserved out of the apartment--a feat which he found no difficulty in performing, as his guest seemed ultimately so wholly wrapped up in his own thoughts, as to be quite unconscious of what was either said or done in his presence. Soon after mine host had retired, the stranger ordered paper, pen, and ink to be brought him. They were placed upon his table, he himself the while walking up and down the apartment with measured stride and downcast look, as if again lost in profound and perplexing thought; and at intervals the sound of his footsteps, thus traversing his chamber, was heard throughout the whole of the night. The stranger had slept none; he had not even retired to seek repose; but those periods during the night--and they were of considerable length--in which all was silent in his apartment, were employed in writing; and when morning came, the result of his labours was exhibited in a letter, curiously, or rather fancifully, folded, tied with a green silk thread, and highly perfumed. This letter was addressed on the back, "To the Most Illustrious Princess, Mary, Queen of Scotland." Having brought the proceedings of the stranger to this point, we will shift the scene to the sitting apartment of the queen in Holyrood. Here, surrounded with her maids, the young and lovely princess was, at the moment of which we speak, engaged in working embroidery, and laughing and chatting with her attendants, amongst whom were two or three young French ladies, who had accompanied her from France. The queen and her maids were thus employed, then, when the gentleman-usher, who stood at the door of the apartment, entered, and, with a low obeisance, presented a letter to the queen. It was the same as that addressed to her by the stranger, and above referred to. The queen took the letter, with a gracious smile, from the person presenting it, and, contemplating it for a moment, before she opened it, with a look of pleased surprise-- "This, sure," she said, "is from none of our Scottish subjects: the fold is French." And she sighed. "It has the cut and fashion of the _billet doux_ of St Germains; and," she added, laughing, "the precise flavour, too, I declare. But I should know this handwriting," she went on; "I have seen it before. This, however, will solve the mystery." And she tore the letter open, and was instantly employed in reading it, blushing and smiling by turns, as she proceeded with the perusal. When she had done, "Maria," she said, raising her eyes from the paper, and addressing one of her French ladies, "who, think you, is this letter from?" "I cannot guess, madam," replied the young lady appealed to. "Do try," rejoined Mary. "Nay, indeed, I cannot," said the former, now pausing in her work, and looking laughingly at her mistress. "Perhaps from the Count Desmartine, or from Dufour, or Dubois." "No, no, no," replied the queen, laughing; "neither of these, Maria; but I will have compassion on your curiosity, and tell you. Would you believe it?--it is from Chatelard, the poet." "Chatelard!" repeated the maiden, in amazement. "What in all the earth can have brought him here?" "Nay, I know not," said the queen, blushing, for she guessed, or rather feared, the cause. "But read, and judge for yourself," she added, handing her attendant the letter, which contained a very beautiful laudatory poem, full of passion and feeling, addressed to herself, and which the writer concluded by requesting that he might be permitted to form part of her court; declaring that it would be joy inexpressible to him to be near her person--he cared not in how mean a capacity. The having opportunities of seeing and serving her, he said, would reconcile him to any degradation of rank--to any loss, save that of honour. "In truth, very pretty verses," said the lady-in-waiting, returning the poem to the queen; "but, methinks, somewhat over-bold." "Why, I do think so too, Maria," replied Mary. "Chatelard rather forgets himself; but poets, you know, have a license, and I cannot be harsh to the poor young man. It would be cruel, ungenerous, and unworthy of me." "But what say you, madam, to his request to be attached to your court?" "Really, as to that, I know not well what to say, indeed," rejoined the queen. "Chatelard, you know, Maria, is a gentleman, both by birth and education. He is accomplished in a very high degree, and of a graceful person and pleasing manners, and would thus do no discredit to our court; but, I fear me, he might be guilty of some indiscretions--for he is a child of passion as well as song--that might lead himself into danger, and bring some blame on me. Still, I cannot think of rejecting altogether his humble suit, so prettily preferred; and, if he would promise to conduct himself with becoming gravity and reserve in all matters, and at all times, I should have no objection that he was attached to our court. I will, at all events, make trial of him for a short space." Having said this, the queen, now addressing the ladies present generally, went on-- "Ladies, I will shortly introduce to you a new gallant; but I pray ye take care of your hearts; for he is, I warrant ye, one especially given to purloining these little commodities. He is handsome, accomplished, and a poet; so mind ye, ladies, I have warned you--be on your guard. Kerr," she now called out to a page in waiting, "go to the hostelry whence this letter came, and say to the gentleman by whom it has been sent, that we desire to see him forthwith. Let him accompany you, Kerr." The page instantly departed; and we will avail ourselves of his short absence on this mission, to say briefly who Chatelard was--what was his object in coming to the Scottish court--and of what nature were the fears which the queen expressed regarding him. Chatelard, then, was a young French gentleman of rank, of rare accomplishments, and a poet of very considerable excellence. His seeking to attach himself to Mary's court, was the result of a violent and unhappy attachment to her person; and her fears for him, proceeding from a suspicion of this attachment, were, that he would commit himself by some rash expression of his feelings. She was displeased with his presumptuous love, yet found she could not, as a woman, but look on it with pity and compassion and hence her disposition to treat with kindness and affability its unhappy victim. Prudence, indeed, would certainly have dictated another course than what Mary pursued with Chatelard, in thus admitting him to her presence; but Mary's error here was an error of the heart, and more to be regretted than blamed. In a short while after the messenger had been despatched with the invitation to Chatelard, the door of the queen's apartment was thrown wide open, and that person entered. His bow to the queen was exceedingly graceful; and not less so, though measured with scrupulous exactness in their expression of deference, were those he directed to her ladies. Chatelard's countenance was at this instant suffused with a blush, and it was evident he was under the excitement of highly-agitated feelings; but he lost not, for a moment, nor in the slightest degree, his presence of mind; neither did these feelings prevent him conducting himself at this interview with the most perfect propriety. "Chatelard," said the queen, after the ceremonies of a first salutation were over, "I perceive you have lost none of your cunning in the gentle craft. These were really pretty lines you sent me--choice in expression, and melodiously arranged. I assure thee it is a very happy piece." "How could it be otherwise, madam," replied Chatelard, bowing low, "with such a subject?" "Nay, nay," said Mary, laughing and blushing at the same time, "I am no subject, Chatelard, but an anointed queen. Thou canst not make a subject of me." Chatelard now in turn blushed, and said, smiling, "Your wit, madam, has thrown me out; but, avoiding this play on words, my position is good, undeniable. All men acknowledge it." "Go to--go to, Chatelard--thou wert ever a flatterer. But 'tis a poet's trade. Thou art a dangerous flatterer, however; for thou dost praise so prettily that one cannot suspect thy sincerity, nor be angry with thee, even when thou deservest that they should. But enough of this in the meantime. Thou mayst now retire; and I think the sooner the better, for the safety of these fair maidens' hearts, and your own peace of mind, which a longer stay might endanger. Our chamberlain will provide thee with suitable apartments, and see to thy wants. Mark," she added, laughingly, "we retain thee in our service in the capacity of our poet--of court poet--a high and honourable appointment; and thy reward shall be the smiles and approbation of these fair ladies--the beauty of all and each of whom I expect thou wilt forthwith embalm in immortal verse." Chatelard, bowing, was now about to retire, when the queen, again addressing him, said, "We will send for thee again in the afternoon, to bear us company for awhile, when thou wilt please bring with thee some of thy newest and choicest madrigals." Expressing a deep sense of the honour proposed to be conferred on him, of the queen's kind condescension, and avowing his devotedness to her service, Chatelard withdrew, and was provided with the promised apartments by the express orders of Mary herself. To these apartments we shall follow the enthusiastic but audacious lover. On being left alone, Chatelard again fell into one of those reveries which we have already described, and again launched into that strain of extravagant adulation which, on another occasion, we represented him as indulging in. Again he compared Mary, in his incoherent ravings, to everything that is beautiful in earth, sea, and sky; but comparing her to these only that he might assert how far she surpassed them. There were mingled, too, with his eulogiums, on this occasion, expressions of that imprudent passion which subsequently at once urged him to commit the most daring offences, and blinded him to their consequences. Poor Chatelard's ravings, in the instance of which we are just speaking, were unconsciously uttered; but they were unfortunately loud enough to arrest the attention of the domestics, who were passing to and fro in the lobby into which the door of his apartment opened. These, attracted by his rapturous exclamations, listened, from time to time, at his door, and were highly amused with the rhapsodies of the imprudent poet. The latter, becoming more and more vehement, and, in proportion, more entertaining, the domestics finally gathered in a cluster around the door, to the number of six or eight, and, with suppressed laughter, overheard all that the excited and unguarded inmate chose to utter. That, however, was so incoherent, or at least of so high-flown a character, that the listeners could make nothing of it; and, as they could not, they immediately concluded it to be nonsense, and the speaker a madman. But there came one to the spot, at this unfortunate moment, who, with sharper intellect and more apt comprehension, at once discovered the meaning that lurked under the florid language of the poet's ill-timed soliloquies. While the servants were crowded around the door of Chatelard's apartment, too intent on their amusement to notice the approach of any one, another party, we say, had advanced to within a few paces of where they stood. Here, with his arms folded across his breast, he had remained observed for several seconds, gazing with a look of surprise and displeasure on the merry group assembled around the poet's door. He was, however, at length discovered, when the knot of listeners instantly broke up in the greatest hurry and alarm. "How now," exclaimed the unexpected intruder--a person of about thirty years of age, of rather slender form, of cold and haughty demeanour, and austere countenance--"How now?" he exclaimed, in a voice whose tones were naturally severe--"what means this idling?--what do ye all here, knaves, in place of attending to your duties?" Instead of answering this question, the terrified domestics were now endeavouring to make off in all directions; but the querist's curiosity, or perhaps suspicion, having been excited by what he had seen, he instantly arrested their progress, by calling on them, in a voice of increased severity and vehemence, to stop. "Come hither, Johnstone," he exclaimed, addressing one of the fugitives--"I must know what you have been all about." And, without waiting for an answer, "Who occupies this apartment?" he inquired, pointing to that in which was Chatelard. "And please ye, my lord," replied Johnstone, bowing with the most profound respect--"ane that we think's no very wise. He's been bletherin awa there to himsel, saving yer honour's presence, like a bubbly-jock, for this half-hour back, and we can neither mak tap, tail, nor mane o' what he's sayin." "What! a madman, Johnstone?" said the Earl of Murray, the queen's half-brother, for it was no less a personage; then hurriedly added, "Who is he?--what is he?--where is he from?--when came he hither?" The man answered categorically-- "I dinna ken, my lord, wha he is; but, frae the thinness o' his chafts, I tak him to be ane o' your French laun-loupers. He cam to the palace about twa hours syne." The earl's curiosity was now still further excited, and, without saying a word more, he drew near to the door of Chatelard's apartment, and became also an auditor of the poor poet's unguarded language; but not such as it was in the case of the listeners who had preceded him; to him that language was perfectly intelligible--at least to the extent of informing him of Chatelard's ambitious love. To Murray this was a secret worth knowing; and, in the hope that he might discover this attachment to be reciprocal, and thus acquire an additional influence over the queen, his sister, at the expense of her reputation, he considered it a singularly fortunate incident. Perhaps he expected that it would do even more for him than this: that it would eventually help him to the accomplishment of certain daring views towards the crown itself, of which he was not unsuspected. Whether, however, he was able to trace, in distinct and definite lines, any consequences favourable to himself from the fact which had just come to his knowledge, it is certain he was pleased with the discovery, and considered it as an important acquisition. That he viewed it in this light, indeed, was evident even by his countenance, cautiously guarded as its expressions ever were. On being satisfied of the fact of Chatelard's attachment to the queen, he withdrew from the door with a look and brief expression of satisfaction, and went directly in quest of the chamberlain. On finding whom-- "So, Mr Chamberlain," he said, "we have got, I find, another animal added to our herd of fawning, drivelling courtiers. Pray, who or what is he, this person who has taken up his quarters in the northern gallery, and by whose authority has he been installed there?" "By the queen's, my lord," replied the chamberlain. "I have had express and direct orders from the queen herself, to provide the gentleman with apartments in the palace, and to see to his suitable entertainment." "Ah, indeed," said the earl, biting his lip, and musing for a moment. "By her own express orders!" he repeated. "It is very well." Then, after a pause--"Know ye this favoured person's name, Mr Chamberlain?" "Chatelard," replied the latter. "Chatelard! Chatelard!" repeated the earl, mechanically, and again musing; "why, I think I have heard of that gallant before. He is one of those triflers called poets, me-thinks--a versifier, a scribbler of jingling rhymes. Is it not so?" "I have heard the queen say so, my lord," replied the chamberlain. "She has spoken of him in my hearing as a poet." "Ah! the same, the same," said the earl; "but how obtained he access to the queen, know ye?" "Through his own direct application, my lord. He addressed a poetical epistle to her majesty, I understand, from Goodal's hostelry, where he had taken up his quarters in the first place, requesting permission to wait upon her." "And it was granted?" interrupted the earl. "It was, my lord; and he has already had an audience." "Ah! so!" said the earl, without yet betraying, or having, during any part of this conversation, betrayed, the slightest emotion or symptom of the deep interest he took in the communications which were being made to him. "Know ye," he went on, "if that favour is to be soon again conferred on him? When will he again be admitted to the presence?" "That, my lord, rests on the queen's pleasure; but I hear say that he is to attend her again this evening in her sitting apartment." "So, so," said the earl, nodding his head, as he uttered the words. And, turning on his heel, he walked away without further remark. From the officer with whom he had just been speaking, the Earl of Murray carefully concealed the motives which had prompted his inquiries, but determined, henceforth, to watch with the utmost vigilance the proceedings of the queen and Chatelard, until some circumstance should occur that might put them both fairly within his power. Unaware of the dangerous surveillance under which he was already placed, it was with a delight which only he himself perhaps could feel, that Chatelard received, in the evening, the promised invitation from the queen to attend her and her ladies in their sitting chamber. The invitation was conveyed in some playful verses--an art in which Mary excelled--written on embossed paper. The enthusiastic poet read the delightful lines a thousand times over, dwelt with rapture on each word and phrase, and finally kissed the precious document with all the eagerness and fervour of a highly-excited and uncontrollable passion. Having indulged in these tender sensibilities for some time, Chatelard at length folded up the unconscious object of his adoration, thrust it into his bosom, took up a small _portfeuille_, covered with red morocco leather, gilt, and embossed, the depository of his poetical effusions, and hurried to the apartment of the queen, where he was speedily set to the task of reading his compositions, for the entertainment of the assembled fair ones; and it is certain that on more than one of them the tender and impassioned manner of the bard, as he recited his really beautiful verses, added to his highly prepossessing appearance and graceful delivery, made an impression by no means favourable to their night's repose. It would, however, perhaps be more tedious than interesting to the reader, were we to detail all that passed on the night in question in the queen's apartment; to record all the witty and pleasant things that were said and done by the queen, her ladies, and her poet. Be it enough to say, that the latter retired at a pretty late hour; his imprudent passion, we cannot say increased--for of increase it would not admit--but strengthened in its wild and ambitious hopes. From that fatal night, poor Chatelard firmly believed that his love was returned--that he had inspired in the bosom of Mary a passion as ardent as his own. Into this unhappy error the poet's own heated and disturbed imagination had betrayed him, by representing in the light of special marks of favour, occurrences that were merely the emanations of a kind and gentle nature--thus fatally misled by a passion which, if notorious for occasioning groundless fears, is no less so for inspiring unfounded hopes. Such, at any rate, was its effect in the case of Chatelard on the night in question. On gaining his own chamber, he flung himself into a chair, and spent nearly the whole of the remainder of the night in the indulgence of the wildest and most extravagant dreams of future bliss; for, in the blindness of his passion and tumult of his hopes, he saw no dangers, and feared no difficulties. From this time forward, Chatelard's conduct to the queen became so marked and unguarded in various particulars, as to excite her alarm, and even to draw down upon the offender some occasional rebukes, although these were at first sufficiently gentle and remote. Nor did the imprudences of the infatuated poet escape the cold, keen eye of Murray. He saw them, and noted them; but took care to wear the semblance of unconsciousness. It was not his business to interrupt, by hinting suspicions, the progress of an affair which he hoped would, on some occasion or other, lead to consequences that he might turn to account. Feeling this, it was not for him to help Chatelard and the queen to elude his vigilance, and defeat his views, by discovering what he observed, and thus putting them on their guard. This was not his business; but it was his business to lie concealed, and to spring out on his quarry the instant that its position invited to the effort. Coldly and sternly, therefore, he watched the motions of Chatelard and his sister; but was little satisfied to perceive nothing in the conduct of the latter regarding the former which at all spoke of the feelings he secretly desired to find. As it was impossible, however, for the earl personally to watch all the movements of Chatelard, he looked around him for some individual of the queen's household whom he might bribe to perform the duties of a spy; and such a one he found amongst the attendants whom Mary had brought with her from France, of which country he was also a native. The name of this ungrateful and despicable wretch, who undertook to betray a kind and generous mistress, whenever he should discover anything in her conduct to betray, was Choisseul--a man of pleasing manners and address, but of low and vicious habits. Without any certain knowledge of his character, or any previous information regarding him, the Earl of Murray's singular tact and penetration at once singled him out as a likely person for his purposes. On this presumption, he sent for him, and, cautiously and gradually opening him up, found that he had judged correctly of his man. "Choisseul," he said, on that person being ushered into his presence, "I have good reason to think that you are one in whom I may put trust; and, in this assurance, I have selected you for an especial mark of my confidence. Do you know anything of this Chatelard, who has lately come to court?" "I do, my lor'. He is countryman of my own." "So I understand. Well, then, I'll tell you what it is, Choisseul: I believe the fellow has come here for no good--I believe, in short, that he has designs upon the queen. Now, my good fellow, will you undertake to ascertain this for me? Will you watch their proceedings, watch them narrowly, and give me instant information of anything suspicious that may come to your knowledge--and ye shall not miss of your reward?" added the earl, now opening a little desk which stood before him, and taking from it a well-filled purse. Choisseul, with many bows and grimaces, readily undertook to play the knave, and, with still more, took the price of his knavery, the purse already alluded to, which the earl now handed him. "Now, Choisseul," said Murray, just before dismissing the miscreant, "I may depend on you?" "Mine honneur," replied the Frenchman, placing his hand on his breast, with a theatrical air, and bowing to the ground as he pronounced the words--"Je suis votre serviteur till die." "Enough," said the earl, waving his hand as a signal to him to retire; "be vigilant and prompt in communicating with me when you have anything of consequence to say." Choisseul again bowed low, and left the apartment. In the meantime, the gallant, accomplished, but imprudent Chatelard, hurried blindly along by the impetuosity of his passion, and altogether unsettled by the intoxicating belief that his love was returned--a belief which had now taken so fast a hold of his understanding that nothing could loosen it--proceeded from one impropriety to another, till he at length committed one which all but brought matters to a crisis; and this was avoided only by its having escaped the vigilance of Choisseul, and having been compassionately concealed by the queen herself. On retiring one night, early in February, 1563, to her sleeping apartment, Mary and her attendants were suddenly alarmed by an extraordinary movement in a small closet or wardrobe, in which was kept the clothes the queen was in the habit of daily using. The maids would have screamed out and fled from the apartment, but were checked in both these feminine resorts by observing the calm and collected manner of their mistress, in which there was not the slightest appearance of perturbation. "Ladies, ladies," she exclaimed, laughingly, as her attendants were about to rush out of the room, "what a pretty pair of heroines ye are! Shame, shame! ye surely would not leave your mistress alone, in the midst of such a perilous adventure as this. Come hither," she added, at the same time stepping towards her toilet, and taking up a small silver lamp that burned on it, "and let us see who this intruder is--whether ghost or gallant." Saying this--her maids having returned, reassured by her intrepidity--she proceeded, with steady step, towards the suspected closet, seized the door by the handle, flung it boldly open, and discovered, to the astonished eyes of her attendants, and to her own inexpressible amazement, the poet Chatelard, armed with sword and dagger. For some seconds the queen uttered not a syllable; but a flush of indignation and of insulted pride suffused her exquisitely lovely countenance. "Chatelard," she at length said, in a tone of calm severity, and with a dignity of manner becoming her high state and lineage, "come forth and answer for this daring and atrocious conduct, this unheard-of insolence and presumption." Chatelard obeyed, and was about to throw himself at her feet, when she sternly forbade him. "I want no apologies, presumptuous man," she said--"no craving of forgiveness. I want explanation of this infamous proceeding, and that I demand of you in the presence of my attendants here. Know ye not, sir," she went on, "that your head is forfeited by this offence, and that I have but to give the word, and the forfeit will be exacted?" "I know it, I know it," exclaimed Chatelard, persisting in throwing himself on his knees; "but the threat has no terrors for me. It is your displeasure alone--fairest, brightest of God's creatures--that I fear. It is----" "Peace, Chatelard," interrupted Mary, peremptorily. "What mean ye by this language, sir? Would ye cut yourself off from all hope of pardon, by adding offence upon offence? Rise, sir, and leave this apartment instantly, I command you; I will now hear neither explanation nor apology." "Then, will you forgive me?" said Chatelard; "will you forgive a presumption of which----" "I will hear no more, sir," again interrupted the queen, indignantly. "Begone, sir! Remain another instant, and I give the alarm. Your life depends on your obedience." And Mary placed her hand on a small silver bell, from which had she drawn the slightest sound, the poet's doom was sealed, and she would have rung his funeral knell. Chatelard now slowly rose from his knees, folded his arms across his breast, and with downcast look, but without uttering another word, strode out of the apartment. When he had gone, the queen, no longer supported by the excitement occasioned by the presence of the intruder, flung herself into a chair, greatly agitated and deadly pale. Here she sat in silence for several minutes, evidently employed in endeavouring to obtain a view of the late singular occurrence in all its bearings, and in determining on the course which she herself ought to pursue regarding it. Having seemingly satisfied herself on these points-- "Ladies," she at length said--these ladies were two of her Maries, Mary Livingstone and Mary Fleeming--"this is a most extraordinary circumstance. Rash, thoughtless, presumptuous man, how could he have been so utterly lost to every sense of propriety and of his own peril, as to think of an act of such daring insolence?" "Poor man, I pity him," here simply, but naturally enough, perhaps, interrupted Mary Fleeming. "Doubtless, madam, you will report the matter instantly to the earl?" "Nay, Mary, I know not if I will, after all," replied the queen. "I perhaps ought to do so; but methinks it would be hardly creditable to me, as a woman, to bring this poor thoughtless young man to the scaffold, whither, you know, my stern brother would have him instantly dragged, if he knew of his offence; and besides, ladies," went on the queen, in whose gentle bosom the kindly feelings of her nature had now completely triumphed over those of insulted dignity and pride, "I know not how far I am myself to blame in this matter. I fear me, I ought to have been more guarded in my conduct towards this infatuated young man. I should have kept him at a greater distance, and been more cautious of admitting him to familiar converse, since he has evidently misconstrued our affability and condescension. There may have been error there, you see, ladies." "Yet," said Mary Livingstone, "methinks the daring insolence of the man ought not to go altogether unpunished, madam. If he has chosen to misconstrue, it can be no fault of yours." "Perhaps not," replied Mary. "As a queen, I certainly ought to give him up to the laws; but as a woman I cannot. Yet shall he not go unpunished. He shall be forthwith banished from our court and kingdom. To-morrow I shall cause it to be intimated to him that he leave our court instantly, and Scotland within four-and-twenty hours thereafter, on pain of our highest displeasure, and peril of disclosure of his crime." Having thus spoken, and having obtained a promise of secresy regarding Chatelard's offence from her two attendants, Mary retired for the night, not however, quite assured that she was pursuing the right course for her own reputation, in thus screening the guilt of the poet; but nevertheless determined, at all risks, to save him, in this instance at least, from the consequence of his indiscretion. On the following morning, the queen despatched a note to Chatelard, to the purpose which we have represented her as expressing on the preceding night, and, in obedience to the command it contained, he instantly left the palace, but in a state of indescribable mental agitation and distraction; for in the determination expressed by the queen he saw at once an end to all his wild hopes, and more unendurable still, an assurance that he had wholly mistaken the feelings with which Mary regarded him. We have said that Chatelard obeyed one of the injunctions of the queen--that was, to leave the palace instantly. He did so; but whether he conformed to the other the sequel will show. Two days after the occurrences just related, Mary set out for St. Andrew's; taking the route of the Queensferry, and sleeping the first night at Dunfermline, and the second at Burntisland. On the evening of her arrival at the latter place, the queen, fatigued by her journey, which had been prolonged by hunting and hawking, retired early to her apartment. Here she had not been many minutes, when the door was thrown suddenly open, and Chatelard entered. "What! again, Chatelard!" exclaimed Mary, with the utmost indignation and astonishment. "What means this, sir? How have you dared to intrude yourself again into my apartment?" Without making any reply to this salutation, Chatelard threw himself on his knees before the queen, and, seizing the skirt of her robe, implored her pardon for his presumption; adding, that he had been impelled to this second intrusion solely by a desire to explain to her the motives of his former conduct, which, he said, had been wrongly interpreted, and to bid her farewell before he went into the banishment to which she had doomed him. "Rise, sir, rise," said Mary; "I will listen to no explanations forced on me in this extraordinary manner. I desire that you instantly quit this apartment. This repetition of your offence, sir, I will neither bear with nor overlook. Rise, I command you, and begone!" Instead of obeying, the infatuated poet not only persisted in remaining in the position he was in, but, still keeping hold of the queen's robe, began to speak the language of passion and love. The queen endeavoured to release herself from his hold, and was in the act of attempting to do so, when the door of the apartment, which Chatelard had closed behind him, was violently thrown open, and the Earl of Murray entered. Having advanced two or three steps, he stood still, and, folding his arms across his breast, looked sternly, but in silence, first at the queen, and then at Chatelard; keeping, at the same time, sufficiently near the door to prevent the escape of the latter, in case he should make such an attempt. Having gazed on them for some time without opening his lips, but with an ominous expression of countenance-- "Well, Sir Poet," he at length said, addressing Chatelard, with cold deliberation, "pray do me the favour to enlighten me as to the meaning of your having thus intruded yourself into the queen's apartment. Why do I find you here, sir, and wherefore have I found you in the position from which you have just now risen? Pray, sir, explain." "I came here, my lord," replied Chatelard, with firmness and dignity, "to take leave of Her Majesty before returning to France, for which I set out to-morrow." An ironical and incredulous smile played on the stern countenance of Murray. "A strange place this, methinks, and a strange season, for leave-taking; and yet stranger than all the language in which I just now heard you speak. You are aware, I presume, sir," he added, "that you are just now in the queen's sleeping apartment, where none dare intrude but on the peril of their lives. But probably, madam," he said, now turning to the queen, without waiting any reply to his last remark, "you can explain the meaning of this extraordinary scene." "You had better, my lord," replied Mary, evasively--for she was still reluctant to commit the unfortunate poet--"obtain what explanations you desire from Chatelard himself. He surely is the fittest person to explain his own conduct." "True, madam," said Murray, sneeringly, "but I thought it not by any means improbable that you might be as well informed on the point in question as the gentleman himself." "Your insinuation is rude, my lord," replied the queen, haughtily; and, without vouchsafing any other remark, walked away to the further end of the apartment, leaving the earl and Chatelard together. Murray now saw, from the perfectly composed and independent manner of the queen, that he could make out nothing to her prejudice from the case before him, nor elicit the slightest evidence of anything like connivance, on the part of Mary, at Chatelard's intrusion. Seeing this, he determined on proceeding against the unfortunate poet with the utmost rigour to which his imprudence had exposed him, in the hope that severity would wring from him such confessions as would implicate the queen. Having come to this resolution--"Sir," he said, addressing Chatelard, "prepare to abide the consequences of your presumption." And he proceeded to the door, called an attendant, and desired him to send the captain of the guard and a party to him instantly. In a few minutes, they appeared, when the earl, addressing the officer just named, and pointing to Chatelard, desired him to put that gentleman in ward; and the latter was immediately hurried out of the apartment. When the guard, with their prisoner, had left the queen's chamber, the earl walked up to Mary, who, with her head leaning pensively on her hand, had been silently contemplating the proceedings that were going forward in her apartment. "Madam," said Murray, on approaching her, "I think you may consider yourself in safety for this night, at any rate, from any further intrusion from this itinerant versifier; and it shall be my fault if he ever again annoys you or any one else." "What, brother!" exclaimed Mary, in evident alarm at this ambiguous, but ominous hint--"you will not surely proceed to extremities against the unfortunate young man?" "By St Bride, but I will though," replied Murray, angrily. "Why, madam, has not your reputation as a woman, and your dignity as a queen, both been assailed by this insolent foreigner, in the daring act he has done?" "Nay, my lord," replied the queen, haughtily, "methinks it will take much more than this to affect my reputation. I indeed marvel much to hear you speak thus, my lord. My dignity, again, can be debased only by mine own acts, and cannot be affected by the act of another." "Nevertheless, madam," rejoined her brother, "ye cannot stop slanderous tongues, and I know not how the world may construe this circumstance. Both your honour and station require that this presumtuous knave suffer the penalty of his crime in its utmost rigour. What would the world say else? Why, it would have suspicions that ought not for an instant to be associated with the name of Mary Stuart." "But you will not have his life taken, brother?" said Mary, in a gentle tone--subdued by the thoughts of the severe doom that threatened the unfortunate gentleman, and placing her hand affectionately on the earl's arm as she spoke. "Can ye not banish him forth of the realm, or imprison him--anything short of death, which, methinks, would be, after all, hard measure for the offence?" "You have reasons, doubtless, madam," said the earl, coldly and bluntly, "for this tenderness." "I have," said Mary, indignantly; "but not, my lord, such as you would seem to insinuate. My reasons are, humanity and a feeling of compassion for the misguided and unhappy youth." "Chatelard shall have such mercy, madam, as your Majesty's Privy Council may deem him deserving of," replied the earl, turning round on his heel, and quitting the apartment. On leaving the presence of the queen, the Earl of Murray retired to his own chamber where he was shortly after, waited upon by Choisseul, who had been for some time watching his return. "Ha, Choisseul art there?" said the earl, with an unusual expression of satisfaction on his countenance, on the former's entrance. "Thou hast done well, friend: I found matters exactly as you stated, and am obliged by the promptness and accuracy of your information." "Vere happy, my lor', I am serve to your satisfaction," replied Choisseul, bowing low. "I vas vatch Monsieur Chatelard as vone cat shall vatch vone leetle mice, and did caught him at las." "You did well, Choisseul, and shall be suitably recompensed. Dost know how the fellow came here, and when?" "He did come in vone leetle barque, my lor' from over de riviere, on de todder side opposite." "Ah, so!" said the earl. "Well, you may now retire, Choisseul. To-morrow I shall see to your reward." Choisseul bowed, and withdrew. When he had retired, the earl sat down to a small writing table, and, late as the hour was, began writing with great assiduity--an employment at which he continued until he had written eight or ten different letters, each of considerable length. These were addressed to various members of the Queen's Privy Council in Edinburgh, and to some of the law officers of the crown. They were all nearly copies of each other, and contained an account of Chatelard's conduct, with a charge to the several parties addressed to repair to St. Andrews on the second day following, for the purpose of holding a court on the offender, and awarding him such punishment as the case might seem to demand. On the day succeeding that on which the occurrence just related took place, the queen and her retinue proceeded to St. Andrews, whither the prisoner Chatelard was also carried; and, on the next again, the unfortunate gentleman was brought to trial, the scene of which was an apartment in the Castle of St Andrews, which had been hastily prepared for the occasion. In the centre of this apartment was placed a large oblong oaken table, covered with crimson velvet, and surrounded by a circle of high-backed chairs, with cushions covered with the same material. These were subsequently occupied by eight or ten persons of the Privy Council, including Mary's secretary of state, Maitland of Lethington, who sat at one end of the table. At the opposite end sat the Earl of Murray; the prisoner occupying a place in the centre at one of the sides. During the investigation which followed into the offence of Chatelard, the Earl of Murray made repeated indirect attempts to lead him to make statements prejudicial to the queen; urging him, with a show of candour and pretended regard for justice, to inform the court of anything and everything which he thought might be available in his defence, without regard to the rank or condition of those whom such statements might implicate. This language was too plain to be misunderstood. Every one present perceived that it conveyed a pointed allusion to the queen. Chatelard, amongst the rest, felt that it did so, and indignantly repelled the insinuation. "I have none," he said, "to accuse but myself; nothing to blame but my own folly. Folly, did I say?" went on the fearless enthusiast; "it was no folly--it was love, love, love--all-powerful love--love for her, the noblest, the loveliest of created beings, for whom I could die ten thousand deaths. It was love for her who has been to me the breath of life, the light of mine eyes, the idol of my heart; around which were entwined all the feelings and susceptibilities of my nature, even as the ivy entwines the tree--the constant theme of my dreams by night; the sole subject of my thoughts by day. It has been hinted to me that I may blame freely, where to blame may serve me. But whom shall I blame? Not her, surely, who is the object of my idolatry--my sun, moon, and stars--my heaven, my soul, my existence. Not her, surely; for she is faultless as the unborn babe, pure and spotless as the snow-wreath in the hollow of the mountain. Who shall maintain the contrary fies in his throat, and is a foul-mouthed, villanous slanderer." Here the enthusiastic and somewhat incoherent speaker was abruptly interrupted by Maitland of Lethington, who, rising to his feet, and resting his hands on the low table around which Chatelard's judges were seated, said, looking at the prisoner-- "Friend, ye must speak to your defence, if ye would speak at all. This that you have said is nothing to the purpose; and you cannot be permitted to take up the time of this court with such rhapsodies as these, that make not for any point of your accusation. Think ye not so, my lords?" he added, glancing around the table. Several nods of assent spoke acquiescence. When Maitland had concluded-- "I have done, then, my lords," said Chatelard, bowing, and seating himself. "I have no more to say." A short conversation now took place amongst the prisoner's judges, when sentence of death was unanimously agreed to, and he was ordered to be beheaded on the following day, the 22d of February, 1563. On the rising of the court, the Earl of Murray repaired to the queen, and informed her of the doom awarded against Chatelard. Mary was greatly affected by the intelligence. She burst into tears, exclaiming-- "Oh, unhappy, thrice unhappy, countenance! thou hast been given me for a curse, instead of a blessing--the ruin of these who love me best--that, by inspiring a silly passion, at once dangerous and worthless, will not permit one to remain near me in the character of friend! My lord, my lord," she continued, in great agitation, "can you not, will you not save the unhappy young man? I beseech thee, I implore thee, by the ties of consanguinity that connect us, by the duty ye owe to me as thy sovereign, to spare his life!" "You know not what you ask, madam," replied Murray, stalking up and down the apartment. "How can his life be spared consistently with your honour? Save him, and you will set a thousand slanderous tongues a-wagging. It may not, must not, be." Mary herself could not deny the force of this remark, and, finding she had nothing to oppose to it, she flung herself into a chair, and again burst into tears. In this condition the earl left her, to give orders respecting the execution of Chatelard on the following day, and to put another proceeding in train for obtaining that result which he had aimed at on the trial of the unfortunate young man. Sending again for Choisseul-- "Friend," he said, on that person's entering the apartment, "I wish another small piece of service at your hands." Choisseul bowed, and expressed his readiness to do anything he might be required to do. "I vas proud to discharge all de drops of my blood in your service, my lor'," said the knave, with a profound obeisance. The earl carelessly nodded approbation. "To-night, then, Choisseul," he went on, "you will repair to the dungeon in which Chatelard is confined. You will see him as a friend. You understand me?" "Ah, well, my lor', vere well." "Just so. Well, then, you will hint to him that you have reason to believe he might yet save his life by confessing a participation in his guilt on the part of the queen. You may add, though not as from me, of course, that I have no doubt of his having been encouraged to those liberties for which his life is forfeited; and you may say that you know I feel for him, and would readily procure his pardon, if he would only give me a reasonable ground or pretext for doing so, by showing that there were _others_ equally in fault with him. Do you entirely understand me, Choisseul?" "Entirely, my lor'," replied the latter; "bright, clear, as noonday at the sun." "So, then, return to me when you have seen Chatelard, and let me know the result," said the earl. Choisseul once more withdrew, to perform the treacherous and knavish part assigned him. About midnight he sought the dungeon of the unhappy gentleman, and, having been admitted by the guards, found him busily employed in writing; the indulgence of a lamp, with pen, ink, and paper, having, at his most earnest request, been afforded him. Indeed, these were more readily and willingly given than he was aware of. They were given in the hope that he would commit something to writing which, without his intending it, might compromise the character of the queen. But in this her enemies were disappointed. On Choisseul's entering Chatelard's dungeon, the latter, as we have already said, was busily engaged in writing. He was inditing a last farewell to the queen in verse. On this employment he was so intent, that he did not observe, or at least pay any attention to, the entrance of Choisseul, but continued writing on till he had completed his task, which now, however, occupied only a very few minutes. On finishing-- "'Tis done," he said, and threw down his pen with violence on the table. "These are the last notes of the harp of Chatelard. Ha, Choisseul!" he immediately added, and only now for the first time seeming conscious of that person's presence; "I am glad to see you, my countryman. This is kind. I thought there were none in this strange land to care for me. But they shall see, Choisseul," he added, proudly, "how a Frenchman and a poet can die. That is, boldly and bravely. He were no true poet whose soul was not elevated above the fear of death. I said, my friend," he went on, after a momentary pause, and sighing deeply as he spoke, "that I thought there were none in this land to care for me, or to sorrow for me--and perhaps it is so; but there is one, Choisseul, whom I would not willingly believe indifferent to my fate. She surely, much as I have offended her, will say, 'Poor Chatelard!' Nay, methinks I see a tear standing in that peerless eye, when she recalls the memory of her departed poet. That--that, Choisseul," said the unhappy captive, with an enthusiasm which even the near approach of death had not been able to abate--"that would be something worth dying for!" Choisseul smiled. "You hold your life lightly, indeed, Chatelard," he said, speaking in his native language, "if you think its loss compensated by a woman's tear." "Ah, Choisseul, but such a woman!" exclaimed Chatelard. "Well, well," replied the former, again smiling; "but you can have no doubt that _she_ at least will regret your death. _She_ loved you too well not to deplore your fate." "Did she?" exclaimed Chatelard, eagerly, and with such a look of inquiry and doubt as greatly disappointed the asserter. "You know who I mean, then; but how know ye that which you have just now said? Assure me that ye speak true, Choisseul, and I shall die happy." "Ah, bah! you know it yourself, my friend, better than I," replied the latter. "No use in concealing it now," he added, with an intelligent look. "Concealing what, sir?" said Chatelard, in a tone of mingled surprise and displeasure. "Why, the affection the queen entertained for you," replied Choisseul. "We all know, my friend, you would not have done what you did, had she not encouraged your addresses. And I'll tell you what, Chatelard," he went on, "I have reason to believe that your life would yet be spared, if you would only show that this was so." "Ah, I understand you," said Chatelard, with suppressed passion. "If I will accuse the queen--if I will put her in the power of her enemies--her enemies will be obliged to me. In other words, I may save my life by sacrificing her reputation; and it would be little matter whether what I said should be true or not. Is it not so, Choisseul?" Then, without waiting for an answer--"Villain, devil that thou art," he exclaimed, now suddenly giving full swing to the passion that had been raised within him, "how hast thou dared to come to me with such an infamous proposal as this? Didst think, most dastardly knave, that my soul was as mean as thine own? Begone, begone, ruffian! Thy presence, thy breath, pollutes my dungeon more than the fetid damps that exhale from its walls--more than the noxious reptiles that crawl on its floor. Begone! begone, I say!" And he seized the now trembling caitiff by the throat, and dashed him against the door of the cell, with a violence that instantly brought in the guards who were stationed on the outside. These, seeing how matters stood, hurried Choisseul out of the dungeon, and again secured the door on its unfortunate inmate. On leaving Chatelard, Choisseul repaired to the Earl of Murray, but with infinitely less confidence in his looks and manner than on the former occasion when his villany had been successful. To the earl he detailed the particulars of his interview with Chatelard; not forgetting to mention the rough treatment he had received from the infuriated poet. "Then he'll confess nothing, Choisseul?" said Murray, when the former had done speaking. "Not anything at all, my lor'. Dere is no hope; for he make no more of dying than I do of taking vone leetle pinch of snuff." "Obstinate fool," exclaimed the earl, evidently chagrined and disappointed. "Let him die, then! You may retire, Choisseul," he abruptly added. Choisseul obeyed. "His execution, at any rate, shall be public," said the earl to himself, when the latter had left him. "Perhaps he may make some confession on the scaffold, and it will be well to have it amply testified." On the following day, Chatelard was led out to execution, when his gentleman-like appearance and noble bearing excited the utmost sympathy of the crowd. On ascending the scaffold, he pulled a small volume from his pocket, opened it, and read aloud, with great dignity and composure, Ronsard's Hymn on Death. When he had done, he turned towards that part of the Castle of St Andrew's where he supposed the queen to be, and, kissing his hand, waved a graceful adieu, exclaiming--"Farewell, loveliest and most cruel princess whom the world contains!" Having uttered these words, he laid his head, with the utmost composure, on the block. The axe of the executioner fell, and the high-souled, accomplished, but enthusiastic Chatelard was no more. CHRISTIE OF THE CLEEK. Though the records of history and everyday experience teach us that human nature, when pressed beyond certain limits by the force of stern necessity, loses all trace of the lineaments of the lord of the creation, and degenerates as far below the grade of brute existence as it is, when not subjected to any such power, above it; yet it is remarkable how determinedly mankind cling to a sceptical incredulity in regard to those facts which derogate, in a very great degree, from the dignity of the character of their species. The story of Christiecleek has been considered by many as only fit for being, what it has been for five hundred years, a nursery bugbear, and yet it is narrated by Winton, one of the least credulous of historians, was attended by circumstances rendering it highly probable at the time, and has been corroborated by instances of _civilised_ cannabalism, produced by necessity, in cases of shipwreck, of almost yearly occurrence. The united powers of war and famine, which have so often poured forth their fury on the devoted head of poor Scotland, at no time exhibited greater malignity than in the beginning of the reign of David II. For about fifty years, the country had scarcely ever enjoyed a year of quiet--with, perhaps, the exception of a short period of the reign of Bruce. Repeatedly swept from one end to the other by the invading armies of the Edwards, carrying the sword and the faggot in every direction, she was, on the very instant of the departure of the foreign foes (in all cases starved out of a burned and devastated land), laid hold of by the harpies of intestine wars. The strong resilient energies of the country could have thrown off the effects of one attack, however severe and however protracted; but a series of incursions of the same disease, at intervals allowing of no time for recruiting her powers, produced a political marasmus--a confirmed famine--one of the most dreadful evils, including in itself all others, that ever was visited on mankind. It would be difficult to draw a picture--because imagination falls short of the powers of a proper portraiture--of the misery and desolation of Scotland at the time we have mentioned. The land had got gradually out of cultivation, and the herds of black cattle and sheep, on which the people relied, in default of the productive powers of agriculture, had been either driven into England, or consumed by the myriads of soldiers of the English invading armies. Great numbers of the people, having nothing wherewith to allay the pangs of hunger, though they had plenty of money, quitted their country in despair, and took refuge in Flanders. Those who had no money to pay their passage, left their homes, and betook themselves to the woods, where, to appease their agonies, they lay on the ground, and devoured, like the inhabitants of their sties, the acorns and the nuts that had fallen from the trees. In the want of these, the very branches were laid hold of and gnawed; and many poor creatures were found lying dead, with the half-masticated boughs in their clenched hands. The only remedial influence that was experienced, was the growth of dysenteries and other intestine diseases, which, produced by hunger and becoming epidemic, kindly swept off thousands who would otherwise have died of protracted famine. At a wild spot near the Grampian Hills, a number of destitute beings had collected, for the purpose of catching deer (a few of which still remained), to keep in the spark of life. They agreed to associate together, and divide their prey, which was dressed in a mountain cave, where they had assembled. Every morning they sallied forth, women and all, on the dreadful errand of taking advantage of chance, in supplying them with any species of wild animals that came in their way, to satisfy the imperative demands of hunger. They got a few creatures at first, consisting chiefly of hares and foxes, and occasionally wolves, as ferocious and hungry as their captors; and such was the extremity to which they were often reduced, that they sat down on the spot where the animals were caught, divided the smoking limbs among their number, and devoured them without any culinary preparation. This supply very soon ceased--the animals in the neighbourhood having either been consumed or frightened away to more inaccessible places. The wretched beings, like others in their situation, had recourse to the woods for acorns; but the time of the year had passed, and no nuts were to be found. Weakness preyed on their limbs; and several of their number, unable longer to go in search of food, which was nowhere to be found, lay on the floor of the cavern in the agonies of a hunger which their stronger companions, concerned for their own fate, would not alleviate. All ties between the members of the association began to give way before the despair of absolute famine. They ceased all personal communication; silence, feeding on the morbid forms of misery called up by diseased imaginations, reigned throughout the society of skeletons, and hollow eyes, which spoke unutterable things, glanced through the gloom of the cavern, where a glimmering fire, on which they had, for a time, prepared the little meat they had procured, was still kept up, by adding a few pieces of wood from the neighbouring forest. No notice was taken of each other's agonies, nor could the groans which mixed and sounded with a hollow noise through the dark recess, have been distinguished by the ear of sympathy; an occasional scream from a female sufferer who experienced a paroxysm of more than her ordinary agony, was only capable of fixing the attention for an instant, till individual pain laid hold again of the tortured feelings. A person of the name of Andrew Christie, a butcher, originally from Perth, had endeavoured, at first, to organise the society, with a view to save himself and his fellow-sufferers. He was a strong, hardy man; and, if any of the number could be said to retain a small portion of self-command, in the midst of the horrible scene of suffering which surrounded them, it was this man. He was still able to walk, though with difficulty, and continued to feed the fire, going out occasionally and seizing on grubs that were to be found about the mouth of the cavern. The others were unable to follow his example, and even he latterly was unfitted for his loathsome search. All were now nearly in the same predicament: agony and despair reigned throughout, to the exclusion of a single beam of hope of any one ever again visiting the haunts of man. At Christie's side a woman ceased to groan; an intermission of agony was a circumstance, and the only circumstance to be remarked. The thought struck him she was dead; he laid his hand upon her mouth to be assured of the fact; she was no more! The dead body was a talisman in the temple of misery--in a short time, that body was gone! The Rubicon of the strongest of natural prejudices was passed, with the goading furies of hunger and despair behind. A prejudice overcome is an acquisition of liberty, though it may be for evil. The death of the woman had saved them all from death; but the efficacy of the salvation would postpone a similar course of relief. Christie saw the predicament of his friends, and proposed in the hollow, husky voice of starvation, that one of their number should die by lot, and that then, having recovered strength, they should proceed to the mountain pass and procure victims. This oration was received with _groans_, meant to be of applause. The lot of death fell on another woman, who was sacrificed to the prevailing demon. A consequent recovery of strength now fitted the survivors for their dreadful task. They proceeded to the mountain pass, headed by Christie, and killed a traveller, by knocking him on the head with a hammer, and then removed him to the cavern, where his body was treated in the same manner as that of the woman on whom the lot of death had fallen. They repeated this operation whenever their hunger returned; making no selection of their victims, unless when there was a choice between a foot-passenger and a horseman--the latter of whom, always preferred for the sake of his horse, was dragged from his seat with a large iron hook, fixed to the end of a pole--an invention of Christie's, serving afterwards to give him the dreadful name by which he became so well known. That which hunger at first suggested became afterwards a matter of choice, if not of fiendish delight. The silent process of assuaging the pain arising from want subsequently changed into a banquet of cannibals; the song of rivalry was sounded in dithyrambic measure over the dead body of the victim, and the corrybantic dance of the wretches who required to still conscience by noise, or die, was footed to the wild music which, escaping from the cavern, rung among the hills. Such were the obsequies which Scotchmen, resigning the nature of man, amidst unheard-of agonies, celebrated over the corpses of their countrymen. These things reached the ears of government; and an armed force was despatched to the hills to seize the cannibals. Several of them were caught; but Christie and some others escaped, and were never captured. The bones of their victims were collected, and conveyed to Perth; where, upon being counted, it appeared that they had killed no fewer than thirty travellers. From these transactions sprung that name, Christiecleek, which is so familiar to the ears of Scotchmen. "Christiecleek! Christiecleek!" became instantly the national nursery bugbear. No child would cry after the charmed name escaped from the lips of the nurse; and even old people shuddered at the mention of a term which produced ideas so revolting to human nature, and so derogatory of Scottish character. Now it is said that, some time after the performance of the dreadful tragedy we have narrated, an old man in the town of Dumfries, who had three children by his wife, quarrelled her often for the use of a term intended simply to pacify her children when they cried, but which he declared was too much even for his ears. He was a respectable merchant, had earned a considerable sum of money by his trade, and was reputed a most godly man, attending divine service regularly, and performing all the domestic duties with order and great suavity of manner. His neighbours looked up to him with love and respect, and solicited his counsel in their difficulties. His name--David Maxwell--was applauded in the neighbourhood, and he received great sympathy from all who knew him, in consequence of having, as was reported, lost an only brother among Christiecleek's victims--a fact he had concealed from his wife, till her use of the name compelled him to mention it to her, but which afterwards came to be well known. The silence of the mother had, however, no effect upon the urchins, who, the more they were requested to cease terrifying each other by their national _terriculamentum_, "Christiecleek," the more terrible it appeared to them, and the more they used it. If they abstained from the use of the word in the presence of their parents, they were the more ready to have recourse to it in the passages of the house, and in the dark rooms, and wherever the dreaded being might be supposed to be. The pastime was general throughout Scotland; and David Maxwell's children only followed an example which has been repeated for five hundred years. "Christiecleek!--Christiecleek!" What Scotchman has not heard the dreaded words? Time rolled on, and the Misses Maxwell resigned their childish pastime for the duties of women. Their father had become a very old man; and the attentions which their mother could not bestow, were willingly yielded by the young women, who were remarked as being very beautiful, as well as very good. They loved their father dearly, and looked upon their filial duties as willing tributes of affection. After they became intrusted with the secret, they substituted for the cry of their youth, which had given their father so much pain, pity for the brother of the victim of the execrated fiend. At last David Maxwell came to die; and, as he lay on his bed, surrounded by his wife and daughters, he seemed to be wrestling with some dreadful thought which allowed him no rest, but wrung from him, incessantly, heavy groans and muttered prayers. His wife pressed him to open his heart to her, or, if he was disinclined to repose that confidence in her when dying, which he had awarded to her so liberally during a long union, he should, she recommended, send for Father John of the Monastery of St Agnes, and be shrived. The daughters wept as they heard these melancholy statements, and the old man sympathised in their sorrow, which seemed to give him additional pain. At last he seemed inclined to be communicative, and, after a struggle, said to his wife-- "Wha is to tak care o' my dochters when I am consigned to that cauld habitation whar a faither's love and an enemy's anger are alike unfelt and unknown? My effects will be sufficient for the support o' my household; but money, without a guardian, is only a temptation to destroyers and deceivers. If I could get this point settled to my satisfaction, I micht die in peace." "You never tauld me o' yer freens, David," said his wife--"a circumstance that has often grieved me. The hundreds o' Maxwells in the Stewartry and in Dumfries-shire surely contain among them some relation, however distant; but my uncle will act as guardian to our dochters, and ye hae tried his honesty." "Yet I dinna want relations," groaned the dying man. "I hae a _brither_." "A brither," ejaculated the mother and daughter in astonishment; "was he no killed by the monster, Christiecleek, in the Highland cavern?" "No," answered David, with great pain. "Whar lives he, and what's his Christian name?" cried the wife, in amazement. "Is it his _Christian_ name ye ask?" said the old man. "Surely David," replied the wife--"his surname maun be Maxwell." "But it is not Maxwell," said he, still groaning. "Not Maxwell!" said the wife. "What is it then?" "_Christie!_" ejaculated David, with a groan. The mention of this name produced a strange effect on the minds of the wife and daughters, who, in the brother, saw (as they thought) at once the hated Christiecleek, and found an explanation of the horror which David Maxwell had uniformly exhibited when the name was mentioned in his presence. They had at last discovered the true solution of what had appeared so wonderful; and, having retired for a few minutes, to allow their excitement to subside, they, by comparing notes, came to the conclusion that their father, having been ashamed of his connection with the unnatural being, had changed his name, and dropped all intercourse with him; but that now, when he was about to die, his feelings had overpowered him, and forced him to make the awful confession he had uttered. Pained and shamed by this newly-discovered connection, they were not regardless of what was due to him whose shame and grief had been even greater than theirs, and, accordingly, resolved to yield all the consolation in their power to the good man who could not help having a bad brother. On their return to the bedside, they found him in great agony both of mind and body. "This brither, David," said the wife, "I fear, is little worthy o' your friendship, and the change o' your name is, doubtless, the consequence o' a virtuous shame o' the connection. But can it be possible that he is that man o' the mountain cavern, whose name terrifies the bairns o' Scotland, and maks even the witches o' the glens raise their bony hands in wonder and execration? Tell us, David, freely, if this be the burden which presses sae heavily on yer mind. Yer wife and dochters will think nae less o' you for having been unfortunate; and consolation is never sae usefu as when it is applied to a grief that is nae langer secret. The surgeon's skill is o' little avail when the disease is unknown." This speech, containing apparently the fatal secret, produced a great effect upon the bedridden patient, who rolled from side to side, and sawed the air with his sinewy hands, like one in a state of madness. "We were speakin o' guardians for my dochters," said he, at last, "and I said I had a brither whase surname is Christie. You promised me consolation. Is this your comfort to a deein man? For twenty years I have hated the mention o' that dreadfu name; and now, when I am on my death-bed, speakin o' curators for my bairns, ye rack my ears by tellin me I am the brither o' _Christiecleek_! Would Christiecleek be a suitable guardian for my dochters? Speak, Agnes--say if ye think Christiecleek would tak care o' their bodies and their gowd as weel as he tended the victims o' the Highland cave?" The wife saw she had gone too far, and begged his pardon for having made the suggestion. "Ye will forgive me, David," said she, "for the remark I hae dune ye great injustice; for how is it possible to conceive that sae guid a man could be sae nearly related to a monster? But ye hae to explain to me the change o' name. How hae you and your brither different surnames?" "_Because_," said the dying man, turning round, and staring with lacklustre eyes broadly in the face of his wife--"_because I am Christiecleek!_" Transcriber's notes: - Obvious punctuation errors repaired. - Title page: No glossary included in the original. - pg 010: 'ferula' corrected to 'ferule' - pg 081: 'douce' corrected to 'douse' - pg 095: 'iron gripe' corrected to 'iron grip' - pg 107; 'spitfire' corrected to 'Spitfire' - pg 211: 'neices' corrected to 'nieces' - pg 223: 'Shakpere' corrected to 'Shakspere' (to match GWL) 
34147	----	WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND. HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE. WITH A GLOSSARY. REVISED BY ALEXANDER LEIGHTON ONE OF THE ORIGINAL EDITORS AND CONTRIBUTORS. VOL. VIII. LONDON: WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE. 1885. CONTENTS. THE DOOM OF SOULIS, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_ HARDEN'S REVENGE, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_ THE PHYSIOGNOMIST'S TALE, _(OLIVER RICHARDSON)_ THE GOOD MAN OF DRYFIELD, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_ THE SURGEON'S TALES, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_ THE CHERRY-STONE THE HENWIFE THE ARTIST THE BRIDE, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_ THE HENPECKED MAN, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_ MORTLAKE.--A LEGEND OF MERTON, _(JAMES MAIDMENT)_ THE SERJEANT'S TALES, _(JOHN HOWELL)_ THE BEGGAR'S CAMP LEEIN JAMIE MURDIESTON, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_ DUNCAN M'ARTHUR, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_ WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND. THE DOOM OF SOULIS. "They roll'd him up in a sheet of lead-- A sheet of lead for a funeral pall; They plunged him in the caldron red, And melted him--lead, and bones, and all."--LEYDEN. A Gazetteer would inform you that Denholm is a village beautifully situated near the banks of the Teviot, about midway between Jedburgh and Hawick, and in the Parish of Cavers; and perhaps, if of modern date, it would add, it has the honour of being the birth-place of Dr. Leyden. However, it was somewhat early on a summer morning, a few years ago, that a young man, a stranger, with a fishing-rod in his hand, and a creel fastened to his shoulders, entered the village. He stood in the midst of it, and, turning round--"This, then," said he, "is the birth-place of Leyden--the son of genius--the martyr of study--the friend of Scott!" Few of the villagers were astir; and at the first he met--who carried a spade over his shoulder, and appeared to be a ditcher--he inquired if he could show him the house in which the bard and scholar was born. "Ou, ay, sir," said the man, "I wat I can; I'll show ye that instantly, and proud to show you it, too." "That is good," thought the stranger; "the prophet is dead, but he yet speaketh--he hath honour in his own country." The ditcher conducted him across the green, and past the end of a house, which was described as being the school-house, and was newly built, and led him towards a humble building, the height of which was but a single storey, and which was found occupied by a millwright as a workshop. Yet, again, the stranger rejoiced to find that the occupier venerated his premises for the poet's sake, and that he honoured the genius of him who was born in their precincts. "Dash it!"[1] said the stranger, quoting the habitual phrase of poor Leyden, "I shall fish none to-day." [Footnote 1: This was a common expression of Leyden's, and, perhaps, was in some degree expressive of his headlong and determined character.] And I wonder not at his having so said; for it is not every day that we stand beneath the thatch-clad roof--or any other roof--where was born one whose name time will bear written in undying characters on its wings, until those wings droop in the darkness of eternity. The stranger proceeded up the Teviot, oftentimes thinking of Leyden, of all that he had written, and occasionally repeating passages aloud. He almost forgot that he had a rod in his hand--his eyes did anything but follow the fly, and, I need hardly say, his success was not great. About mid-day, he sat down on the green bank in solitariness, to enjoy a sandwich, and he also placed by his side a small flask, containing spirits, which almost every angler, who can afford it, carries with him. But he had not sat long, when a venerable-looking old man saluted him with-- "Here's a bonny day, sir." The old man stood as he spoke. There was something prepossessing in his appearance he had a weatherbeaten face, with thin white hair, blue eyes, that had lost somewhat of their former lustre, his shoulders were rather bent; and he seemed a man who was certainly neither rich nor affluent, but who was at ease with the world, and the world was at ease with him. They entered into conversation, and they sat down together. The old man appeared exactly one of those characters whom you will occasionally find fraught with the traditions of the Borders, and still tainted with, and half believing in, their ancient superstitions. I wish not to infer that superstition was carried to a greater height of absurdity on the Borders than in other parts of England and Scotland, nor even that the inhabitants of the North were as remarkable in early days for their superstitions, as they now are for their intelligence; for every nation had its superstitions, and I am persuaded that most of them might be traced to a common origin. Yet, though the same in origin, they change their likeness with the character of a nation or district. People unconsciously made their superstitions to suit themselves, though their imaginary effects still terrified them. There was, therefore, a something characteristic in the fables of our forefathers, which fables they believed as facts. The cunning deceived the ignorant--the ignorant were willing to deceive themselves; and what we now laugh at as the clever trick of a _hocus-pocus_ man, was, scarce more than a century ago, received as a miracle--as a thing performed by the hand of the "prince of the powers of the air." Religion without knowledge, and still swaddled in darkness, fostered their idle fear; yea, there are few superstitions, though prostituted by wickedness, that did not owe their existence to some glimmering idea of religion. They had not seen the lamp which lightens the soul, and leadeth it to knowledge; but having perceived its far-off reflection, plunged into the quagmire of error--and hence proceeded superstition. But I digress into a descant on the superstitions of our fathers, nor should I have done so, but that it is impossible to write a Border tale of the olden time without bringing them forward, and, when I do so, it is not with the intention of instilling into the minds of my readers the old idea of sorcery, witchcraft, and visible spirits, but of showing what was the belief and conduct of our forefathers. Therefore, without further comment, I shall cut short these remarks, and simply observe, that the thoughts of the young stranger still running upon Leyden, he turned to the elder, after they had sat together for some time, and said-- "Did you know Dr. Leyden, sir?" "Ken him!" said the old man; "fifty year ago, I've wrought day's wark beside his father for months together." They continued their conversation for some time, and the younger inquired of the elder if he were acquainted with Leyden's ballad of "Lord Soulis." "Why, I hae heard a verse or twa o' the ballad, sir," said the old man; "but I'm sure everybody kens the story. However, if ye're no perfectly acquaint wi' it, I'm sure I'm willing to let ye hear it wi' great pleasure; and a remarkable story it is--and just as true, sir, ye may tak my word on't, as that I'm raising this bottle to my lips." So saying, the old man raised the flask to his mouth, and, after a regular fisher's draught, added-- "Weel, sir, I'll let ye hear the story about Lord Soulis:--You have no doubt heard of Hermitage Castle, which stands upon the river of that name, at no great distance from Hawick. In the days of the great and good King Robert the Bruce, that castle was inhabited by Lord Soulis.[2] He was a man whose very name spread terror far and wide; for he was a tyrant and a sorcerer. He had a giant's strength, an evil eye,[3] and a demon's heart, and he kept his _familiar_[4] locked in a chest. Peer and peasant became pale at the name of Lord Soulis. His hand smote down the strong, his eye blasted the healthy; he oppressed the poor, and he robbed the rich. He ruled over his vassals with a rod of iron. From the banks of the Tweed, the Teviot, and the Jed, with their tributaries, to beyond the Lothians, an incessant cry was raised against him to heaven and to the king. But his life was protected by a charm, and mortal weapons could not prevail against him." [Footnote 2: He was also proprietor of Eccles, in Berwickshire, and, according to history, was seized in the town of Berwick; but tradition saith otherwise.] [Footnote 3: There is, perhaps, no superstition more widely diffused than the belief in the fascination of an evil eye, or a malignant glance; and, I am sorry to say, the absurdity has still its believers.] [Footnote 4: Each sorcerer was supposed to have his familiar spirit, that accompanied him; but Soulis was said to keep his locked in a chest.] The seriousness with which the narrator said this, showed that he gave full credit to the tradition, and believed in Lord Soulis as a sorcerer. "He was a man of great stature, and his person was exceeding powerful. He had also royal blood in his veins, and laid claim to the crown of Scotland, in opposition to the Bruce. But two things troubled him: and the one was, to place the crown of Scotland on his head; the other, to possess the hand of a fair and rich, maiden, named Marion, who was about to wed with Walter, the young heir of Branxholm, the stoutest and the boldest youth on all the wide Borders. Soulis was a man who was not only of a cruel heart, but it was filled with forbidden thoughts; and, to accomplish his purpose, he went down into the dungeon of his castle, in the dead of night, that no man might see him perform the 'deed without a name.' He carried a small lamp in his hand, which threw around a lurid light, like a glow-worm in a sepulchre; and as he went, he locked the doors behind him. He carried a cat in his arms; behind him a dog followed timidly, and before him, into the dungeon, he drove a young bull, that had 'never nipped the grass.' He entered the deep and the gloomy vault, and, with a loud voice, he exclaimed-- "'Spirit of darkness! I come! "He placed the feeble lamp upon the ground, in the middle of the vault; and with a pick-axe, which he had previously prepared, he dug a pit, and buried the cat alive; and as the poor suffocating creature mewed, he exclaimed the louder-- "'Spirit of darkness! come!' "He then leaped upon the grave of the living animal, and, seizing the dog by the neck, he dashed it violently against the wall, towards the left corner where he stood, and, unable to rise, it lay howling long and piteously on the floor. Then did he plunge his knife into the throat of the young bull, and, while its bleatings mingled with the howling of the dying dog, amidst what might be called the blue darkness of the vault, he received the blood in the palms of his hands, and he stalked around the dungeon, sprinkling it in circle, and crying with a loud voice-- "'Spirit of darkness! hear me!' "Again he digged a pit, and, seizing the dying animal, he hurled it into the grave, feet upwards;[5] and again he groaned, while the sweat stood on his brow, 'Come, spirit! come!' [Footnote 5: These are the recorded practices which sorcerers resorted to, when they wished to have a _glimpse_ of _invisible_ spirits.] "He took a horse-shoe, which had lain in the vault for years, and which was called, in the family, the _spirit's shoe_, and he nailed it against the door, so that it hung obliquely;[6] and, as he gave the last blow to the nail, again he cried--'Spirit, I obey thee! come!' [Footnote 6: In the account of the trial of Elizabeth Bathgate, wife of Alexander Pae, maltman in Eyemouth, one of the accusations in the indictment against her was, that she had "ane horse-schoe in ane darnet and secriet pairt of your dur, keepit by you thairopoun, as ane devilish meanis and instructions from the devill." But the superstitions of the Borders, which it is necessary to illustrate in these Tales, as exemplifying the character of our forefathers, are more particularly dwelt upon, and their absurdity unmasked, in the Tales entitled, "Betty Bathgate, the Witch of Eyemouth;" "Peggy Stoddart, the Witch of Edlingham;" and "The Laidley Worm of Spindlestone Heugh."] "Afterwards, he took his place in the middle of the floor, and nine times he scattered around him a handful of salt, at each time exclaiming-- "'Spirit! arise!' "Then did he strike thrice nine times with his hand upon a chest which stood in the middle of the floor, and by its foot was the pale lamp, and at each blow he cried-- "'Arise, spirit! arise!' "Therefore, when he had done these things, and cried twenty-and-seven times, the lid of the chest began to move, and a fearful figure, with a red cap[7] upon its head, and which resembled nothing in heaven above, or on earth below, rose, and, with a hollow voice,[8] inquired-- [Footnote 7: Red-cap is a name given to spirits supposed to haunt castles.] [Footnote 8: In the proceedings regarding Sir George Maxwell, it is gravely set forth, that the voice of evil spirits is "rough and goustie;" and, to crown all, Lilly, in his "Life and Times," informs us, that they speak Erse; and, adds he, "when they do so, it's like Irishmen, much in the throat!"] "'What want ye, Soulis?' "'Power, spirit! power!' he cried, 'that mine eyes may have their desire, and that every weapon formed by man may fall scatheless on my body, as the spent light of a waning moon!' "'Thy wish is granted, mortal!' groaned the fiend; 'to-morrow eve, young Branxholm's bride shall sit within thy bower, and his sword return bent from thy bosom, as though he had dashed it against a rock. Farewell! invoke me not again for seven years, nor open the door of the vault, but then knock thrice upon the chest, and I will answer thee. Away! follow thy course of sin, and prosper; _but beware of a coming wood_!' "With a loud and sudden noise, the lid of the massy chest fell, and the spirit disappeared, and from the floor of the vault issued a deep sound, like the reverbing of thunder. Soulis took up the flickering lamp, and, leaving the dying dog still howling in the corner, whence he had driven it, he locked the iron door, and placed the huge key in his bosom. "In the morning, his vassals came to him, and they preyed him on their bended knees that he would lessen the weight of their hard bondage; but he laughed at their prayers, and answered them with stripes. He oppressed the widow, and persecuted the fatherless; he defied the powerful, and trampled on the weak. His name spread terror wheresoever it was breathed, and there was not in all Scotland a man more feared than the Wizard Soulis, the Lord of Hermitage. "He rode forth in the morning, with twenty of his chosen men behind him; and wheresoever they passed the castle or the cottage, where the occupier was the enemy of Soulis, or denied his right to the crown,[9] they fired the latter, destroyed the cattle around the former, or he sprinkled upon them the dust of a dead man's hand, that a murrain might come amongst them. [Footnote 9: If legitimacy could have been proved on the part of the grandmother of Lord Soulis, he certainly was a nearer heir to the crown than either Bruce or Baliol.] "But, as they rode by the side of the Teviot, he beheld fair Marion, the betrothed bride of young Walter, the heir of Branxholm, riding forth with her maidens, and pursuing the red-deer. "'By this token, spirit!' muttered Soulis, joyously, 'thou hast not lied--to-night young Branxholm's bride shall sit within my bower!' "He dashed the spur into the side of his fleet steed, and, although Marion and her attendants forsook the chase, and fled, as they perceived him, yet, as though his _familiar_ gave speed to his horse's feet, in a few seconds he rode by the side of Marion, and, throwing out his arm, he lifted her from the saddle, while her horse yet flew at its fastest speed, and continued its course without its fair rider. She screamed aloud, she struggled wildly, but her attendants had fled afar off, and her strength was feeble as an insect's web in his terrible embrace. He held her upon the saddle before him-- "'Marion!--fair Marion!' said the wizard and ruffian lover, 'scream not--struggle not--be calm, and hear me. I love thee, pretty one!--I love thee!' and he rudely raised her lips to his. 'Fate hath decreed thou shalt be mine, Marion, and no human power shall take thee from me. Weep not--strive not. Hear ye not, I love thee--love thee fiercely, madly, maiden, as a she-wolf doth its cubs. As a river seeketh the sea, so have I sought thee, Marion, and now, thou art mine--fate hath given thee unto me, and thy fair cheek shall rest upon a manlier bosom than that of Branxholm's beardless heir.' Thus saying, and still grasping her before him, he again plunged his spurs into his horse's sides, and he and his followers rode furiously towards Hermitage Castle. "He locked the gentle Marion within a strong chamber, he 'Woo'd her as the lion woos his bride.' And now she wept, she wrung her hands, she tore her raven hair before him, and it hung dishevelled over her face and upon her shoulders. She implored him to save her, to restore her to liberty; and again finding her tears wasted and her prayers in vain, she defied him, she invoked the vengeance of Heaven upon his head; and, at such moments, the tyrant and the reputed sorcerer stood awed and stricken in her presence. For there is something in the majesty of virtue, and the holiness of innocence, as they flash from the eyes of an injured woman, which deprives guilt of its strength, and defeats its purpose, as though Heaven lent its electricity to defend the weak. "But, wearied with importunity, and finding his threats of no effect, on the third night that she had been within his castle, he clutched her in his arms, and, while his vassals slept, he bore her to the haunted dungeon, that the spirit might throw its spell over her, and compel her to love him. He unlocked the massy door. The faint howls of the dog were still heard from the corner of the vault. He placed the lamp upon the ground. He still held the gentle Marion to his side, and her terror had almost mastered her struggles. He struck his clenched hand upon the huge chest--he cried aloud, 'Spirit! come forth!' "Thrice he repeated the blow--thrice he uttered aloud his invocation. But the spirit arose not at his summons. Marion knew the tale of his sorcery--she knew and believed it--and terror deprived her of consciousness. On recovering, she found herself again in the strong chamber where she had been confined, but Soulis was not with her. She strove to calm her fears, she knelt down and told her beads, and she begged that her Walter might be sent to her deliverance. "It was scarce daybreak when the young heir of Branxholm, whose bow no man could bend, and whose sword was terrible in battle, with twice ten armed men, arrived before Hermitage Castle, and demanded to speak with Lord Soulis. The warder blew his horn, and Soulis and his attendants came forth and looked over the battlement. "'What want ye, boy,' inquired the wizard chief, 'that, ere the sun be risen, ye come to seek the lion in his den?' "'I come,' replied young Walter, boldly, 'in the name of our good king, and by his authority, to demand that ye give into my hands, safe and sound, my betrothed bride, lest vengeance come upon thee.' "'Vengeance, beardling!' rejoined the sorcerer; 'who dare speak of vengeance on the house of Soulis?--or whom call ye king? The crown is mine--thy bride is mine, and thou also shalt be mine; and a dog's death shalt thou die for thy morning's boasting.' "'To arms!' he exclaimed, as he disappeared from the battlement, and within a few minutes a hundred men rushed from the gate. "Sir Walter's little band quailed as they beheld the superior force of their enemies, and they were in dread also of the sorcery of Soulis. But hope revived within them when they beheld the look of confidence on the countenance of their young leader, and thought of the strength of his arm, and the terror which his sword spread. "As hungry tigers spring upon their prey, so rushed Soulis and his vassals upon Sir Walter and his followers. No man could stand before the sword of the sorcerer. Antagonists fell as impotent things before his giant strength. Even Walter marvelled at the havoc he made, and he pressed forward to measure swords with him. But, ere he could reach him, his few followers who had escaped the hand of Soulis and his host fled, and left him to maintain the battle single-handed. Every vassal of the sorcerer, save three, pursued them; and against these three, and their charmed lord, young Walter was left to maintain the unequal strife. But, as they pressed around him, 'Back!' cried Soulis, trusting to his strength and to his charm; 'from my hand alone must Branxholm's young boaster meet his doom. It is meet that I should give his head as a toy to my bride, fair Marion.' "'Thy bride, fiend!' exclaimed Sir Walter; 'thine!--now perish!' and he attacked him furiously. "'Ha! ha!' cried Soulis, and laughed at the impetuosity of his antagonist, while he parried his thrusts; 'take rushes for thy weapon, boy; steel falls feckless upon me.' "'Vile sorcerer!' continued Walter, pressing upon him more fiercely, 'this sword shall sever thy enchantment.' "Again Soulis laughed; but he found that his contempt availed him not, for the strength of his enemy was equal to his own, and, in repelling his fierce assaults, he almost forgot the charm which rendered his body invulnerable. They fought long and desperately, when one of the followers of Soulis, suddenly and unobserved, thrusting his spear into the side of Sir Walter's horse, it reared, stumbled, and fell, and brought him to the ground. "'An arrow-schot!'[10] exclaimed Soulis. 'Wherefore, boy, didst thou presume to contend with me?' And suddenly springing from his horse, he pressed his iron heel upon the breast of his foe, and turning also the point of his sword towards his throat, 'Thou shalt not die yet,' said he; and turning to the three attendants who had not followed in the pursuit, he added, 'Hither--bind him fast and sure.' Then did the three hold him on the ground, and bind his hands and his feet, while Soulis held his naked sword over him. [Footnote 10: When cattle died suddenly, it was believed to be by an arrow-shot--that is, shot or struck down by the invisible dart of a sorcerer.] "'Coward and wizard!' exclaimed Walter, as they dragged him within the gate, 'ye shall rue this foul treachery.' "'Ha! ha! vain boasting boy!' returned Soulis, 'thou indeed shalt rue thy recklessness.' "He caused his vassals to bear Walter into the strong chamber where fair Marion was confined, and, grasping him by the neck, while he held his sword to his breast, he dragged him towards her, and said, sternly, 'Consent thee now, maiden, to be mine, and this boy shall live; refuse, and his head shall roll before thee on the floor as a plaything.' "'Monster!' she exclaimed, and screamed aloud, 'would ye harm my Walter?' "'Ha! my Marion!--Marion!' cried Walter, struggling to be free. And, turning his eyes fiercely upon Soulis--'Destroy me fiend,' he added, 'but harm not her.' "'Think on it, maiden,' cried the sorcerer, raising his sword; 'the life of thy bonny bridegroom hangs upon thy word. But ye shall have until midnight to reflect on it. Be mine, then, and harm shall not come upon him or thee; but a man shall be thy husband, and not the boy whom he hath brought to thee in bonds.' "'Beshrew thee, vile sorcerer!' rejoined Walter. 'Were my hands unbound, and unarmed as I am, I would force my way from thy prison, in spite of thee and thine!' "Soulis laughed scornfully, and again added, 'Think on it, fair Marion.' "Then did he drag her betrothed bridegroom to a corner of the chamber, and ordering a strong chain to be brought, he fettered him against the wall; in the same manner, he fastened her to the opposite side of the apartment--but the chains with which he bound her were made of silver. "When they were left alone, 'Mourn not, sweet Marion,' said Walter, 'and think not of saving me--before to-morrow our friends will be here to thy rescue; and, though I fall a victim to the vengeance of the sorcerer, still let me be the bridegroom of thy memory.' "Marion wept bitterly, and said that she would die with him. "Throughout the day, the spirit of Lord Soulis was troubled, and the fear of coming evil sat heavy on his heart. He wandered to and fro on the battlements of his castle, anxiously looking for the approach of his retainers, who had followed in pursuit of the followers of Branxholm's heir. But the sun set, and the twilight drew on, and still they came not; and it was drawing towards midnight when a solitary horseman spurred his jaded steed towards the castle gate. Soulis admitted him with his own hand into the courtyard; and, ere the rider had dismounted, he inquired of him hastily, and in a tone of apprehension-- "'Where be thy fellows, knave? and why come alone?' "'Pardon me, my lord,' said the horseman, falteringly, as he dismounted; 'thy faithful bondsman is the bearer of evil tidings.' "'Evil, slave!' exclaimed Soulis, striking him as he spoke; 'speak ye of evil to me! What of it?--where are thy fellows?' "The man trembled and added--'In pursuing the followers of Branxholm, they sought refuge in the wilds of Tarras, and being ignorant of the winding paths through its bottomless morass, horses and men have been buried in it--they who sank not fell beneath the swords of those they had pursued, and I only have escaped.' "'And wherefore did ye escape, knave?' cried the fierce sorcerer; 'why did ye live to remind me of the shame of the house of Soulis?' And, as he spoke, he struck the trembling man again. "He hurried to the haunted dungeon, and again performed his incantations, with impatience in his manner and fury in his looks. Thrice he violently struck the chest, and thrice he exclaimed, impetuously-- "'Spirit! come forth!--arise and speak with me!' "The lid was lifted up, and a deep and angry voice said, 'Mortal! wherefore hast thou summoned me before the time I commanded thee? Was not thy wish granted? Steel shall not wound thee--cords bind thee--hemp hang thee--nor water drown thee. Away!' "'Stay!' exclaimed Soulis--'add, nor fire consume me!' "'Ha! ha!' cried the spirit, in a fit of horrid laughter, that made even the sorcerer tremble. '_Beware of a coming wood!_' And, with a loud clang, the lid of the chest fell, and the noise as of thunder beneath his feet was repeated. "'Beware of a coming wood!' muttered Soulis to himself; 'what means the fiend?' "He hastened from the dungeon without locking the door behind him, and as he hurried from it, he drew the key from his bosom, and flung it over his left shoulder, crying 'Keep it, spirit!' "He shut himself up in his chamber to ponder on the words of his familiar, and on the extirpation of his followers; and he thought not of Marion and her bridegroom until daybreak, when, with a troubled and a wrathful countenance, he entered the apartment where they were fettered. "'How now, fair maiden,' he began; 'hast thou considered well my words?--wilt thou be my willing bride, and let young Branxholm live? or refuse, and look thy fill on his smooth face as his head adorns the point of my good spear?' "'Rather than see her thine,' exclaimed Walter, 'I would thou shouldst hew me in pieces, and fling my mangled body to your hounds.' "'Troth! and 'tis no bad thought,' said the sorcerer; 'thou mayest have thy wish. Yet, boy, ye think that I have no mercy: I will teach thee that I have, and refined mercy too. Now, tell me truly, were I in thy power as thou art in mine, what fate would ye award to Soulis?' "'Then truly,' replied Walter, 'I would hang thee on the highest tree in Branxholm Woods.' "'Well spoken, young Strong-bow,' returned Soulis; 'and I will show thee, though ye think I have no mercy, that I am more merciful than thou.' Ye would choose for me the highest tree, but I shall _give thee the choice of the tree from which you may prefer your body to hang_, and from whose top the owl may sing its midnight song, and to which the ravens shall gather for a feast. And thou, pretty face,' added he, turning to Marion, 'sith you will not, even to save him, give me thine hand, i'faith, if I may not be thy husband, I will be thy priest, and celebrate your marriage, for I will bind your hands together, and ye shall hang on the next branch to him.' "'For that I thank thee,' said the undaunted maiden. "He then called together his four remaining armed men, and placing halters round the necks of his intended victims, they were dragged forth to the woods around the Hermitage, where Walter was to choose the fatal tree. "Now a deep mist covered the face of the earth, and they could perceive no object at the distance of half a bow-shot before them; and ere he had approached the wood where he was to carry his merciless project into execution-- "'The wood comes towards us!' exclaimed one of his followers. "'What!--_the wood comes!_' cried Soulis, and his cheek became pale, and he thought on the words of the demon--'_Beware of a coming wood!_'--and, for a time, their remembrance, and the forest that seemed to advance before him, deprived his arm of strength, and his mind of resolution, and before his heart recovered, the followers of the house of Branxholm, to the number of fourscore, each bearing a tall branch of a rowan-tree in their hands,[11] as a charm against his sorcery, perceived, and raising a loud shout, surrounded him. [Footnote 11: It is probable that the legend of the "_coming wood_," referred to in the traditions respecting Lord Soulis, is the same as that from which Shakspere takes Macbeth's charm-- "Till Birnam Wood shall come to Dunsinane." The circumstances are similar.] "The cords with which the arms of Marion and Walter were bound were instantly cut asunder. But, although the odds against him were as twenty to one, the daring Soulis defied them all. Yea, when his followers were overpowered, his single arm dealt death around. "Now, there was not a day passed that complaints were not brought to King Robert, from those residing on the Borders, against Lord Soulis, for his lawless oppression, his cruelty, and his wizard-craft. And, one day, there came before the monarch, one after another, some complaining that he had brought diseases on their cattle, or destroyed their houses by fire, and a third, that he had stolen away the fair bride of Branxholm's heir, and they stood before the king, and begged to know what should be done with him. Now, the king was wearied with their importunities and complaints, and he exclaimed, peevishly and unthinkingly, '_boil him, if you please, but let me hear no more about him_.' But, "'It is the curse of kings to be attended By slaves that take their humour for a warrant;' and, when the enemies of Soulis heard these words from the lips of the king, they hastened away to put them in execution; and with them they took a wise man, one who was learned in breaking the spells of sorcery,[12] and with him he carried a scroll, on which was written the secret wisdom of Michael the Wizard; and they arrived before Hermitage Castle, while its lord was contending single-handed against the retainers of Branxholm, and their swords were blunted on his buckler, and his body received no wounds. They struck him to the ground with their lances; and they endeavoured to bind his hands and his feat with cords, but his spells snapped them asunder as threads. [Footnote 12: Dr. Leyden represents this personage as being "True Thomas, Lord of Ersylton;" but the Rhymer was dead before the time fixed by tradition of the death of Lord Soulis, which took place in the time of Robert the Bruce, who came to the crown in 1308, and the Rhymer was dead before 1299, for in that year his son and heir granted a charter to the convent of Soltra, and in it he describes himself _Filius et hæves Thomæ Rymour de Erceldon_.] "'Wrap him in lead,' cried the wise man, 'and boil him therewith, according to the command of the king, for water and hempen cords have no power over his sorcery.' "Many ran towards the castle, and they tore the lead from the turrets, and they held down the sorcerer, and rolled the sheets around him in many folds, till he was powerless as a child, and the foam fell from his lips in the impotency of his rage. Others procured a caldron, in which it was said many of his incantations were performed, and the cry was raised-- "'Boil him on the Nine-stane rig!' "And they bore him to where the stones of the Druids are to be seen till this day, and the two stones are yet pointed out from which the caldron was suspended. They kindled piles of faggots beneath it, and they bent the living body of Soulis within the lead; and thrust it into the caldron, and, as the flames arose, the flesh and the bones of the wizard were consumed in the boiling lead. Such was the doom of Soulis. "The king sent messengers to prevent his hasty words being carried into execution, but they arrived too late. "In a few weeks there was mirth, and music, and a marriage feast in the bowers of Branxholm, and fair Marion was the bride." HARDEN'S REVENGE. From a state of high civilisation, it is curious to look back upon the manners and modes of life of our ancestors of barbarous times; and the contrast never can be presented in stronger hues than in the picture of the lives of the old Borderers, who so completely realised Hobbes' theory of the beginning of society (fighting and stealing for their daily bread), and that of the quiet, sedate men of industry and peace of these days, whose blood never rises beyond the degree of the heat of a money-making ambition. A shiver comes over us, when we read of the son killed in a feud, carried in to his mother a corpse; of the father of a family, and the laird of many broad acres, laid before his weeping wife and children, the dead victim of a strife with his next neighbour; of families rendered houseless and homeless, often by a marauding kinsman; of the never-ceasing turmoil, strife, cruelty, and revenge, of the whole inhabitants of that distracted part of our country. We read, pause, tremble, and hug ourselves in the happy thought that we have been born in more auspicious times, when the sword is turned into the ploughshare, the castle into the granary, and the fire of enmity softened and changed into the fervour of love and friendship. Yet, alas! if we carry our thoughts farther, how little may we have to felicitate ourselves on in the pictured contrast? Rudeness has its evils; but is civilisation without them? If the household of the Border chief was begirt with dangers of rieving and spoliation, the domestic _lares_ kept it free from the inebriated and demoralised son, whom the genius of civilisation sends from the city haunts of pollution, to lift his hand against his parent. If the _ingenium perfervidum_, of a roving life carried the husband from the arms of the wife, perhaps to be brought home a corpse, she seldom witnessed in him the victim of any of the thousand civilised crimes which render the common thief, the fraudulent bankrupt, the swindler, the gambler, the disloyal-spouse, the drunkard, worse than dead to her. If a well-directed revenge might deprive the inmates of the turret of a rude home, the strength was, at least, free from the inroads of the messenger or poinder, whose warrant has a crueller edge than the falchion of an enemy. We advocate not the cause of robbery, though dignified by the name of war or revenge, or coloured by the hues of a chivalric spirit of daring; but, when we look around us, and see how much civilisation has accomplished for our bodies and our intellects, and how little for our hearts or our morals, we hesitate to condemn our ancestors for crimes which they were taught to believe as virtues, to attribute to them an unhappiness which they viewed as the mere chance of war, and to laud the civilised doings of our own times, when the criminal has not the excuse of a want of proper education to palliate his offences against the laws of his country. We are led into these remarks by some rising reminiscences of the doings of old Wat Scott of Harden, the most gnarled, most crooked, and sturdiest stem of the tree of that old family. He lived in the fifteenth century, the hottest period of Border warfare, and occupied the old seat of the family, Harden Castle--a place of considerable strength, situated on the beetling brink of a dark and precipitous dell, not far from the river Borthwick, and facing a small rivulet which brawled past to meet the larger stream. The place was suitable to the castle and its possessor; for the stronghold contained in security the sturdy riever, and the glen was a species of _massy more_ for the cattle which he _made_ his own upon the good old legitimate principle of _might_, so much despised in these days of statutory legislation, when the acts of Parliament extend to twenty times the size of the Bible. Many anecdotes and stories have been recorded of Walter Scott of Harden; and we ourselves, we believe, have, in prior parts of our work, noticed him favourably. There can be little doubt, indeed, that he was a perfect man--that is, according to the estimate of qualities in the times in which he lived, as gallant in love as he was bold in war; and surely, letting the latter rest on his undisputed fame, the former could not be better proved than by his having, when still a fine bold riever, wooed and won the "Flower of Yarrow," Mary Scott, the daughter of Philip Scott of Dryhope--a young maiden, whose poetical appellation, expressive as it is, would go small way in carrying to the minds of those curious in beauties the perfections she enjoyed from nature. Of the manner in which Harden conducted his operations on the heart of this famous beauty, it may be difficult now to speak with that certainty which is applicable to his seizure and appropriations of his neighbours' live stock generally; but, judging from the analogy of the boldness of his other exploits, and from the circumstance that his father-in-law stipulated in the marriage-contract that he was "to find Harden in horse meat and man's meat, at his tower of Dryhope, for a year and a day, but that (as five barons pledge), at the expiry of that period, his son-in-law should remove _without attempting to continue in possession by force_,"[13] it may be presumed that the riever was not, in this instance, lost or forgotten in the lover. Old Dryhope _knew_ him from the early fame he had acquired; and, while he had no objection to give him the Flower of Yarrow for his wife, he saw the necessity of providing against the occurrence which would, in all likelihood, have taken place, of Walter taking up his residence at Dryhope Tower, and becoming laird, at the same time that he kept a firm hold of Harden and his other lands. The spirit of _appropriation_, in short, was so strong and overpowering in the heart of the bold chief, that, as was frequently alleged of him, it was dangerous to let him sit down on a creepy stool belonging, to a _bona fide_ proprietor; for three minutes' occupancy seemed to produce in him all the effects of the long positive prescription; and he never looked at an article of man's making, or nature's production, without considering whether it were a moveable or a fixture. [Footnote 13: The contract is extant in the charter-chest of the present representative. Neither Harden nor the Flower of Yarrow could write their names.--ED.] The only period of Harden's life in which his peculiar notions of _meum_ and _tuum_ were lost sight of, was during the sweet moon of his marriage with Mary Scott. For one lunation, the poor Border proprietors were safe; and, if the Harden motto, _Cornua reparabit Phoebe_, had any meaning in it, it was the only moon of his life that did not light him forth to commit some depredation. His marriage, with the slight exception already stated, had no such effect in modifying his appropriating spirit, as marriages now-a-days produce on reclaimed rogues or roués, for Mary Scott although the fairest of all the fair women of her time, had the same relish for cooking other people's kye, that her husband Walter felt in bringing them home. There was not a wife in all the Borders that served up "the feast of spurs" to her lord with greater regularity, and more attention to the rules of proper hussyskep, than the Flower of Yarrow. If Walter came in crying for supper-- "Haste ye, my dame--what cheer the night? I look to see your table dight; For I hae been up since peep o' light, Driving the dun deer merrilie"-- Her reply was just as spirited and ready;-- "Are ye sae keen set, Wat? 'Tis weel-- I'faith, ye'll find a dainty meal; For it's a' o' the guid Rippon steel, And ye maun digest it manfullie." The spirit of the riever, inborn, and strengthened by education and example, became, in the case of Harden, as it did in that of many a one else of the Border lairds, a regular household duty; and perhaps a more peaceable husband than he might have felt a difficulty in resisting the authority of so fair a governess as Mary Scott. In the course of a long period, occupied by Harden in his daily duty and pastime of overturning the rights of moveable property--and sure he must have been a happy man whose hobby was his duty--his helpmate bore him no fewer than six sons, who inherited the spirit of their father, and the beauty of their mother. They came all to man's estate, and there was not one of them who disgraced the principles of education which their father took so much care to instil into them, as well by precept as by the example daily laid before them, of levying black mail, and keeping the dark glen well filled with the cattle of their neighbours. It was the ambition of Harden that each of his sons should be an independent proprietor, who might rieve, in after times, on his own account; and, at the time when our story properly begins, he could count four fine properties which he intended for the inheritance of four of the six youths. Two remained to be provided for, and a point soon came to be mooted at the fireside of Harden Castle--how two fitting lairdships might be acquired for them, so that it might never come to be said, by posterity, that Wat of Harden was unable to steal, or win by power or purchase, a good domain for every one of the sons of the Flower of Yarrow. The great difficulty, of course, lay in the nature of the thing to be acquired, because, unhappily, an estate could not be carried away; and there had already begun to be introduced a practice on the Borders of regulating the rights of land by pieces of parchment skins, whereby the outside of a sheep--a creature itself easily conveyable--was made to vest a right in the land on which it grazed. No doubt, the charter chest might be carried away, and Walter had courage enough to enable him to accomplish that object; but still there remained many difficulties in the way; doubles of the charters were apt to make their appearance at a future day, and the best fire that could be produced at Harden Castle was not sufficient to burn out the vestiges of proprietorship which the sword of its master could so easily overturn. As his years increased, the anxiety of the old laird waxed stronger and stronger on the subject which lay nearest to his heart. He had often cast his eye on the property of Gilmanscleugh, not far distant; and he had even counted the broad acres, to ascertain if they would make a suitable inheritance for one of his sons. It belonged, also, to a family of Scotts--a circumstance that increased its peculiar fitness for the purpose he had so long cherished, as his son would still be a Scott of Gilmanscleugh, and the injustice of the appropriation would be diminished, by his being chief of the clan, and having a species of superiority over its proprietor. By an unfortunate agreement of tempers, the two families had long remained on a sort of friendly footing; and Harden had never been able to bring about such a feud as might give him a pretext for denouncing Gilmanscleugh at head-quarters, when he might have got the envied property forfeited, and a grant of it to himself. No doubt, he had often taken from Gilmanscleugh his kye, but what neighbour had been fortunate enough to escape, and what victim of his cupidity dared to resent an injury where resentment would have brought upon his head an evil a thousand times greater than that attempted to be avenged? It was even a species of favour conferred on a small proprietor to have a theft committed upon him by old Harden, because he was generally sure to be protected against more unscrupulous aggressors by the old lion, who liked to preserve what he himself might come to require; and so Gilmanscleugh, like many others, had suffered meekly the contributions laid upon him--for the double object of retaining his old chief's friendship, and preserving the rest of his stock from the hands of the other marauders, who were continually roaming about to take whatever they could violently lay hands upon. The situation of Harden was, therefore, that of the wolf in the fable; but he had never yet been able to come to the resolution of asserting that the lamb had rendered the descending water muddy to him who drank further up the stream. On this important subject he did not disdain to take the advice of Mary, who could see no reason, any more than Walter himself, why the chief of the Scotts should not be able to provide a landed portion for two of his sons, when the whole of Liddesdale and the Debateable Land contained so much good ground lying ready for the taking. She, moreover, was also partial to Gilmanscleugh, and only lamented that it was not large enough to form two good properties; though that, of course, was no reason why it should not be taken, _quantum et quale_, for one of her sons, leaving the other to be provided for by some other estate out of the many that lay around them. "By my faith, Mary," said Walter, "if Gilmanscleugh had four legs to it, it should not be long the property of its present master." "And if my Walter had the arms he used to have," replied she, "it should not be long ere it was Harden's. My power hath faded. Formerly, if the Flower of Yarrow had asked Harden to give her Gilmanscleugh for a jointure, it would have been hers ere next morn heard the cock crow in Harden glen, but years bring fears." "Not to Harden, Mary, love. He knoweth not the meaning of the vile word. Your dished spurs make me as sharp-set now, as they did when the cook was the fairest maid in Yarrow.[14] It is these sheep-skin rights, lass, that prevent me from bestowing Gilmanscleugh on one of our sons." [Footnote 14: Mary Scott is well known to have been as famous for the cooking of spurs as for her beauty.] "She who cooks Rippon steel, Wat, needeth a fire," replied she. "Charters will burn. I'll give ye the spurs, if ye'll give me the parchment. It will roast one of Gilmanscleugh's kye." "But I have no cause of quarrel, Mary," said Harden. "If I were to swear on the altar at Melrose," replied she, laughing, "that Harden, wishing cows, asked for a cause, there wouldn't a simpleton on the Borders believe my oath. Where be thy wits, Wat? What better cause of quarrel need ye now than you ever did--a good hanger?" "You would not have me kill my kinsman, Mary, to get his lands for our son? By the moon of our armorials, I've slain enough. Nothing now will make me take a man's life but anger, unless he be an Englishman, and then I'll do it for love." "There is no use for killing," rejoined she, "I'll give ye the steel feast in the morning, and set ye forth for Gilmanscleugh kine. Take them all, with the pet lamb that frisks before the door, on the green lea, and if this do not make Scott complain, I had no title to be called the Flower of Yarrow. If he complain, ye want no more. Ranshakle the house, bring me the parchment rights, and I'll have a fire 'bleezing bonnilie.' One who hath cooked spurs may cook parchment." "But there may be copies, Mary--doubles o' the rights," said Wat. "Aweel, my fire's big enough," answered she. "I've seen ye take fivescore o' sheep in one night, and the deil's in't if ye cannot take two skins." "Good faith, but thou'rt the Flower o' the Yarrow rievers, Mary! Now, tell me where I shall get a property for our remaining son?" "Gilmanscleugh may serve them both," replied she. These last words were spoken by Mary as she went out of the room; and Walter, having no opportunity of asking what she meant (though, indeed, she meant nothing more than that the property might be large enough to serve both), continued to mutter the words for a time, with a view to ask her for an explanation. "Gilmanscleugh may serve them both," he repeated. "The woman hath gone mad. It is not enough for one of them. Has she lost the spirit of our house, and brought down her ambition to a mailing? By my faith, Dryhope itself will make up the deficiency; and, if nothing else can be got, Dryhope shall be taken for my youngest." After this manner old Walter ruminated on the unexplained statement of his wife; and, by repeating it again and again, roused the pride that lay at the bottom of his heart, and made him wax even angry with the wife of his bosom, and she the Flower of Yarrow, and the mother of his six sons. But, angry as he was, he was also weary, having been hunting in the forest during the day; and he went to sleep, muttering, as he struggled ineffectually with the drowsy god, some oaths peculiar to himself, and to the effect that, take Gilmanscleugh when he chose, it should not suffice for the portion of two sons. In the morning he awoke, but did not forget the statement of Mary, that had given a momentary impulse to his bile, and, repairing to the breakfast-room, he found there his six sons and his wife, who, from some fugitive indications of face and manner, appeared to be engaged in some by-plot, in which she was the exclusive actor. Her original beauty, which acquired for her the poetical soubriquet by which she was so well known, still vindicated a place among the ravages of advanced ago, and her spirit, in place of falling with her bodily strength, had increased, and was continually breaking forth in expressions of vivacity and humour, which sustained the heart of the old chief, and made her the sun of the domestic circle which she had so long graced with her beauty. She was now in the very height of her most delightful occupation--serving up with her own hands the morning meal of her brave Wat and her six gallant sons, the parallel of whom, for make and manhood, might not again be found in broad Scotland. So happy was she, and so full of the joyous and soul-cheering fire of a woman's humour, that the six youths sat and looked at her with mute expressions of sons whose filial eyes saw, in the Flower of Yarrow, more beauties of mind and person than even exuberant nature had bestowed; and old Wat himself smiled as he gazed upon her, and finally relinquished his _malice prepense_, which had been urging him forward to ask her for an explanation of what she had said on the previous evening--that Gilmanscleugh would suffice for a portion to the two sons of proud Harden. The parties sat down to the morning meal; and as the old chief took off the cover of the first dish, a loud laugh, in which he heartily joined, announced the fulfilment of the spirited dame's promise of the previous evening, for there was nothing beneath it but a pair of spurs, made of shining Rippon steel, and presenting, in their sharp rowels, little power of assuaging the hunger of the youths, who had been hunting in the neighbouring dells, and could have eat, as the saying goes, the horse behind the saddle. Harden knew the meaning of the manoeuvre; for he recollected the statement of the dame, that she would present to him the feast of spurs, to send him to Gilmanscleugh for a portion to her sons, and, nothing loth to receive the sharp hint, he exhibited, through his rough growling laugh, the fire and keenness of his rieving spirit, which was now to be gratified by the luxury of an adventure. "What game shall these Rippon rowels prick us to, Mary?" cried the chief, still laughing. "A good portion for our youngest," replied she; "the broad acres of Gilmanscleugh, and all the kye thereon, and eke the kist that holds the parchment; which last is to be placed in my safe keeping." "And why not for our _two_ youngest?" rejoined Harden, recollecting with a slight bitterness mixed with his good humour, her former statement. "May not Gilmanscleugh serve both of our unprovided sons? What right have the sons of the Flower of Yarrow to more than the half of what hath served one Scott of Gilmanscleugh? By my faith, Mary! if I had not so good a breakfast before me, I would quarrel with my Flower for her depreciation of the honour of Harden, and were it not for that contract thy father wheedled out of me, I'd seize Dryhope in revenge." "And forfeit the five pledges," replied she, laughing. "But, Wat, had we not better measure Gilmanscleugh first, before we quarrel about its proportions." "I have driven too many of his cattle over it to Harden Glen, not to know the breadth of it," said he, keeping up the humour. "But come, my boys, we shall take a better gauge of its dimensions to-day. Harden never rieves by day; but the light of the sun tells us best what the moon may light us to." And having breakfasted on something more substantial than the dish of spurs, the old laird, and his sons were prepared to sally forth to take a survey of Gilmanscleugh's flock, with a view to those ulterior operations which might have the effect of precipitating its unlucky proprietor into such a quarrel with his sturdy superior as might afford the latter a pretext for carrying his object of ambition into effect. To cover their proceedings, they took with them their hunting-graith, without forgetting the stirrup-cup, or rather without being allowed, by the provident solicitude of the spirited dame, to forget that essential preparative to a Borderer's forth-going, whether he was bent on hunting, rieving, or wooing. Mounted on their strong shaggy garrons, with bows slung over their shoulders, swords by their sides, and the accompaniment of two wolf-dogs of great size and strength, and a number of stag-hounds, all yelling around, till their voices awakened the sleeping echoes of the glen, and formed a rugged harmony with the long shrill winding of the hunter-horns, they presented in the features of the group, that mixture of the war and the chase, sport and spoliation, which marked all the roving parties of that extraordinary period and still more extraordinary place. The mother of six such sons had presented to her a fair subject of exultation in the party that stood before her; and her eye, which still retained the blue light of that of the Flower of Yarrow, spoke the pride which swelled her bosom, as it passed, in laughing intelligence, from one fair face and manly person to another. "It was as a hunter I first saw you, Walter, from Dryhope Tower," said she; "and he who hunted for a wife, may well hunt for a portion to her children." "If I bring down Gilmanscleugh," replied Wat, laughing, "it will be a higher quarry than the Flower of Yarrow." "You thought not so then, Wat," rejoined she, in the same spirit; "but love giveth way to ambition. That day thou callest Gilmanscleugh thine own, I will busk me again, as I once busked thy bonny bride, and put thy once-cherished Flower of Yarrow in fair competition with the broad acres of Gilmanscleugh. By my troth, thou wouldst be a bold man to prefer the new love to the old." "I would not give thee, woman," rejoined he, "for all Branxholm's wide domains, with the whole of Ettrick Forest to boot; so hold thy peace, and apply thee to thy hussyskep; for, by my sword, we will come home hungry men." And old Wat's horn sounded again among the hills. The signal for starting was well known, and away they dashed down the steep, with that speed which the Borderers always exhibited--a consequence, perhaps, of the habit of getting off with their booty in the fear of a rescue. They were soon out of the sight of the fond dame, who long afterwards sat at the small window on the east side of the tower, listening to the notes of the horn, as they reverberated among the heights, and died away like the parting notes of mountain spirits that seek their dark recesses in the opening morn. A true Borderer's wife, she never feared for the result of an expedition of either hunting or harrying; and, as yet, a prosperous fate, by saving her husband and her six sons from the dangers to which their mode of life exposed them, had visited her with no cause of a wife's sorrow or a mother's affliction. But such was her heroic spirit, that, much as she loved these objects of her affection, she could have acted the Spartan dame over the dead body of the dearest among them, and quelled the bursting heart with the thought that he had died nobly in the vocation to which his fate had called him. It was not that habit had worn out the ordinary solicitude of the female heart; for, if custom had recognised the actions of a rieving female in the affair of moveable property as well as of moveable hearts, we dare to be bold enough to say that Mary Scott would have been as famous as an amazon scaumer, as she was as the Flower of Yarrow. Many an expedition she had planned; and it was often more easy for Harden to satisfy himself as to the number of good cattle he might lodge in the glen, than it was to come up to the expectations of his better half, who, as the ballad says, if he had brought her less than ten, would not have "roosed his braverie." Nor was Harden's wife singular in the possession of these unfeminine feelings of Border heroism; for, as women are generally seen to take on the hues and complexions of the minds of their lords, the Border dames were generally remarkable for the spirit with which they applauded the deeds of their husbands, and the fortitude with which they bore the consequences, often lamentably tragic, which resulted from the wild life they were habituated to lead. In her present situation, Mary Scott thought only of the fair property of Gilmanscleugh, which she conceived so well suited for the heirloom of her two sons that still wanted provisions; and she had already in her mind's eye the bickering flame that was to consume the parchment rights, and roast the oxen that would serve for the celebration of the new acquisition to the wealth and property of Harden. Meanwhile the hunting troop spread through the surrounding woods, sounding their horns, but caring less for the dun deer of the Scotch hills than for the black cattle of Gilmanscleugh. They had not proceeded far, being still within the limits of Harden's lands, when they heard the hunting-horn of some party in the distance; and the old chief immediately despatched one of his sons--whom he styled the Forester, from his love of the sports of woodcraft--to prick his garron forward, and ascertain who it was that had the hardihood to drive the dun deer so near to Harden's glen. The young man obeyed, and as he proceeded, he found that the huntsman, whoever he was, had, probably from hearing the sounds of the approaching chief, retired to the westward, with a view to avoid the coming party. This construction on his conduct was the first thought that arose on the mind of young Harden, and it came with the suspicion that the sound of the stranger's horn indicated no other a visitor to the Harden woods than that very Gilmanscleugh against whom his father and mother had been nourishing the schemes which might contribute to the gratification of their ambition. With these thoughts came another--viz., that he, the young Harden, who was one of the unprovided sons for whom Gilmanscleugh was intended, would contribute to the satisfaction of both his father and mother, if he made short work of the projected scheme, and, by urging the proprietor of the envied property to a quarrel and battle, got quit of him by a bilbo thrust, and thus settle in an instant an affair which apparently occupied a great deal more thought than it was entitled to. The idea brought a whole train of the most delightful cogitations that had ever yet fired his young fancy. He would anticipate the views of his father; set off by contrast the simplicity of his own act--a simple extension of the sword-arm--with the intricate machinery of his parents' scheme of ambition; enjoy the surprise of his father and the wonder of his mother when he told them that he had, by an unlucky quarrel, killed Gilmanscleugh, and asked, with affected simplicity, what would become of the property? show himself the best of the six sons of Harden, and worthy of the best smile of the Flower of Yarrow. The accumulation of rising thoughts and stirring feelings inflamed his mind; and, striking deep the rowels into his garron's side, he pricked forward at the rate of a quick gallop, with the wolf-dog Grim bounding before him, baying forth a deep yell, and his tongue hanging half-a-foot over his bloodthirsty jaws. He kept his pace for a considerable time, and was already far from his father's party, when he saw Gilmanscleugh's dog, also a wolf-hound, and known to him by the peculiarity of his colour, being almost white, bounding away to the left--in the track, doubtless, of his master. The moment the dogs perceived each other in the breathless, foaming condition into which their race had inflamed them, they closed in a fell struggle, and made the wood ring with the sounds of their wrath. Gilmanscleugh heard the affray, and returned to save his favourite hound from the jaws of Harden's, which was so famous throughout the forest, that no animal of its species, or indeed of any other in the wood, could stand before it. Coming up, he struck the fierce animal of his chief; and young Harden, coming from behind, upbraided him for assaulting his dog, in such terms of galling abuse that the insulted man turned and laid his hand on his sword. The act was followed by a similar movement on the part of the Forester--in another moment they were engaged in fight, and the period of a minute did not pass away before the young and beautiful son of Harden lay upon the ground, a bleeding corpse! "Ho, for Gilmanscleugh!" cried the victor, as he sheathed his bloody sword, and saw all the danger of his situation. "Ho, for Gilmanscleugh! and that without blast o' horn; for every tree o' Harden woods will rise up to avenge the death o' the Flower o' Yarrow's favourite son!" And he struck his horse's sides, and urged him forward, calling out for his dog Wolf, who was as anxious to get out of the clutches of Grim, as his master was to get out of the reach of Harden. "Wolf! Wolf!" he cried, as he turned round. "For Gilmanscleugh--hame--hame--ho! I have killed a dun deer to-day, whose umbles will tell the seer a sad tale o' our house, and whose corbin bane will bring mony a Harden corbie to Gilmanscleugh." But Wolf was too firmly in the fangs of Grim; and now Harden's horn was sounding in shrill tones in the hollows, announcing to the unfortunate victor the near approach of the fierce chief, but no longer awaking the ear of the victim, who lay already stiff among the green leaves of the forest. The dogs were still fast, and he must spend as much time in disengaging them as would bring the father of the slain youth to the scene of his sorrow and revenge, or he must braid on with the top-speed of his favourite Sorrel, and leave his dog an evidence of the deed, that, if traced to him, would bring ruin on his home, his wife, and his children, and all the retainers of Gilmanscleugh. Springing off, and nerved with the force of despair, he flung himself on the wrestling dogs, and laying hold of the throat of Harden's, he clutched it with such strength that the animal opened his jaws, gasping for breath, and turning up his eyeballs beneath the lids, fell on his side; but his revengeful opponent, no sooner free from the gripe which had bound him, seized Grim in his turn; and Gilmanscleugh saw before him an alternation of a process of choking that would consume more than his hurrying moments. There was not an instant for deliberation: seizing his sword, he stuck it into the heart of the dog, and, detaching Wolf, sprung to his saddle, and flew through the forest with the speed of light; while his faithful animal, seeing no longer life in his enemy, forsook his prey and his revenge, and bounded away after his flying master. But too much time had, unfortunately for Gilmanscleugh, been already lost in disengaging the dogs; for the twang of a bow announced to him, as he hurried on, that a messenger more fleet than Sorrel was after him, and, looking round, he saw his faithful attendant fall to the ground, with a long shaft quivering in his smoking side. "There is my king's evidence left behind me," muttered he, as he stuck the rowels deeper in the sides of his horse. "Wae to Gilmanscleugh when Harden has to avenge the death o' a son slain by his arm! Braid on, good Sorrel, to a flaming stable, and carry your master to what may be sune a lordless ha'!" The speed of his horse soon took him out of the reach of Harden and his sons--but not before they had seen him in the act of flight, and brought down his dog by an arrow sent from the unerring hand of the old chief's namesake. On coming up to the place where his favourite lay extended dead on the ground, with his face upturned to heaven, and, though partly covered by his bonnet's plume that had fallen down in the flight, displaying too evidently the rigid muscles of death, his father and his brothers uttered a loud cry of astonishment and grief, and ran to satisfy themselves of the terrible truth, that the beautiful youth was indeed dead. The satisfaction was easy and ready: enough of blood lay in a pool by his side to have carried in its stream two young lives; and a single glance at his pale face struck the mind with the palsy which death in the human countenance so strangely produces. His sword, firmly grasped in his hand, told also a part of the story, which was eked out by the body of the dead Grim and that of his lifeless antagonist, which one of the sons had brought to the place where the group stood, and looked at each other in mute grief. But that was only for a moment. The heavy, tear-filled eye of sorrow of the father changed in an instant, and flashed forth the fire of revenge, and, as every one of his five sons clutched their swords, loud cries rent the air--"Ho! for Gilmanscleugh with the sword and the fire-faggot!" So entirely were the fiery youths led away by the impulse of the new feeling, that they had all remounted their garrons, clanging their drawn swords, and uttering their deep-mouthed cries, without reflecting for a moment that the body of the dead youth had to be disposed of, and that all their party was not able to take Gilmanscleugh Tower, and put its inmates to the sword. "Hold! ho! my brave sons!" cried the father, as the fire of his revenge beamed through his tears. "Why this hurry? A hundred years would not cool our fire, and a sudden revenge lacketh the fulness of satisfaction. We must take home the body of my dead son to his mother. It will be her duty to swathe it and to lay it out. It is the first time she hath had this work to do; and, as she does it, she will recollect her words of yestreen when she said that Gilmanscleugh would serve for both of my sons. Too true, alas! Gilmanscleugh hath satisfied one; Gilmanscleugh shall satisfy the other." The youths, burning as they were for satisfaction, saw the necessity of agreeing to the recommendation of their father; and, dismounting again, they lifted the stiff body from among the clotted grass, and, wrapping it in a mantle, laid it over the backs of two of their horses, and proceeded in mournful procession towards home, where Mary Scott as yet sat at the castle window indulging in the meditation to which the expedition of her husband and her sons had given rise. The sounds of the horn that had struck her ear had long ceased, and she pictured to herself the bold party scouring over Gilmanscleugh, the intended inheritance of her son, the Forester, the best beloved of her, as he was of his father, for boldness, filial affection, and beauty. She did not expect them till the evening was far gone, and then it would be her duty and greatest delight to prepare for them the cheerful bickering fire, and the warm refreshing meal, and welcome them to their home and their pleasures with her accustomed looks of satisfaction, her well-chosen words of good-humour, and her questions of success, put in such form as might afford the opportunity of recounting their deeds of arms or woodcraft. Many a time had she enjoyed these highest pleasures of the dutiful wife, affectionate mother, and spirited companion; and there was yet time and opportunity in store for her to enjoy them again with undiminished relish. Casting her eyes over the side of the glen, she saw the procession of her husband and five sons, with the dead body of the sixth, coming slowly along the middle of the dell. This was not the way in which old Wat of Harden usually returned to his castle; there were no cattle driven before him, no winding of his horn among the hills, no whoop of triumph from his rough throat. The slow tread of the horses' feet, as they paced the sod, came upon her ear with a dead, hollow sound; and her heart became busy with its mystic divinations, before her eye could trace all the details of the unusual scene. But feature by feature of this first representation of a mother's bereavement opened gradually on her view; she ran over the faces of her sons and that of her husband, and soon distinguished the beloved victim; the expressions of the countenances of the bearers told her the extent of the calamity, if the form of the extended body, where Death sat triumphant, and gave forth those indications of his presence which cannot be misunderstood, had left any doubt on her mind that her fair Forester was no more. But her griefs knew no feminine paroxysms, the strength of her nerves enabled her to contemplate even the scene of a dead son with that strange calmness which the strongest feeling can draw from the depths of the mental constitution, as its cover and panoply in the hour of nature's greatest need. As the procession approached, she saw Harden draw his hand over his eyes, and the sobs of the youths fell on her ear. Yet she descended with firmness to meet a sight which, contemplated by a mother, is perhaps the most harrowing that can be exhibited to mortal eye--a dead son, and that son her hope and pride. At the entrance she met her husband, who took her hand, and, as he held it, waved to the conductors to pause in their progress. "Let them come in, Wat," said she. "I know all--my Forester is dead. Come forward, my sons, and let me see him who was once my pride, and tell me what cruel cause hath reft me of my boy." The sons came forward, and, taking the body by the head and feet, carried it into the tower, where, having placed it, they stood around, silently looking on what was, an hour before, their beloved brother, in the heyday of youth and beauty. "Who hath done this deed?" inquired the mother, as she looked on the pale face of her son, with feelings too deep for tears. "Gilmanscleugh," answered Walter. The word operated like electricity on the minds of the sons, as they stood silently looking at the corpse. Revenge had for a moment been clouded by grief, and the talismanic influence of the name of the destroyer drew aside the vapours, and exposed again the fiery sun of their resentment. A simultaneous movement carried their hands to their swords, and every face was turned to the door; but the eye of old Walter, looking askance through a bush of shaggy grey brows, watched keenly every motion; and, as they rushed out to raise the cry of destruction to Gilmanscleugh and its master, he called them back, and hurried them into a side-room with grated windows and a strong door, where were contained, as in a stronghold, the title-deeds of Harden, and other valuable things which required security. "Let us consult, my bold youths, let us consult," he said, as he pushed the last one in; and the moment they were all fairly enclosed, he turned the key in the lock, and put it into his pocket. "Give me the Forester's bloody doublet," he cried to his wife, "with the hole made by Gilmanscleugh's sword in the right breast." "What mean ye, Wat?" answered Mary, as, lifting her eyes from the face of the corpse, she noticed these extraordinary proceedings on the part of her husband. "Why do you lock up our five sons, when vengeance calls them to Gilmanscleugh? and why ask ye for the bloody vest, which should be the pennon to fly over the smoking ruins of the destroyer's tower? If you are to stop revenge, lock up the mother with her sons; for my heart beats with the pulsations of man's courage, and I will cease to feel as a woman till this blood be avenged. If thou wilt not lead on our sons to Gilmanscleugh, let me undertake the task; and mark well the issue of a woman's foray, when a son's bloody doublet hangs on the point of the spear." "Recollect ye not your words, Mary?" answered Wat, hurriedly. "Said ye not that Gilmanscleugh would serve for both our sons? That one lying there is satisfied; by the powers of revenge, the other shall not be disappointed. The doublet! come, wife, the doublet!--and see that you give our sons meat enough, through the west hole of the strong-room, to keep their blood warm and their hearts glowing for three days. Let our dead Forester lie there for that time; but turn his head to Gilmanscleugh. The doublet! come, quick!" Mary could not understand the meaning of these words; but she well knew that the resolutions of her husband, when determined, were founded on prudence and principle, and beyond the affecting capabilities of mortal man; so she proceeded to take from the body of her son the doublet, which was stained with blood, and perforated in the right breast by the sword which had deprived him of life. Having removed it, she handed it to Walter, who, holding it up to the light, looked through the hole, and, with that strange mixture of a peculiar humour with the deepest seriousness of human nature for which he was remarkable, declared, with a grim smile, that he saw through it the lands of Gilmanscleugh, and the Harden arms over the door of the old tower; then, wrapping up the vestment, he hurried to the outer court, and, binding it to the front of his saddle, mounted, and clapping spurs to his horse, was, in a few moments, away at a hard gallop over the hills. Confused by these abrupt and incomprehensible proceedings, Mary had not been able to make the necessary effort to get an explanation, though it is doubtful if all her entreaties would have been successful in wringing from the determined and cunning old chief what were his intentions. Returning to the apartment where the dead body lay, she found there a duty which would occupy the time till her husband returned--in watching the corpse of her beloved Forester, and tracing in his rigid, pallid features the traces of those expressions of his beautiful face which used to extend so much influence over the hearts of his father and mother, and bring love to him from all sides on the rapid wings of sympathetic attraction. On one side lay the corpse she had to watch; at the other were her five remaining sons, enclosed as prisoners, and prevented from executing the revenge with which she burned, or extending to her the comforting and assuasive assistance of their presence and conversation. As she looked on the face of the corpse, she heard the impatient murmurings of her sons, who, burning to get forth to satisfy the yearnings of their hearts, demanded of her, through a small opening in the door, what was the intention of their father in thus keeping them from so just and necessary an object as the vindication of the honour of Harden, and the taking of blood for blood. "We shall not be balked of our revenge, mother," cried the youngest. "The Forester's blood cries more loudly than the voice of our father. Call the retainers, and break open the door, that we may get free. Haste, good mother!" "Haste! haste!" added other voices. "I cannot disobey Harden's commands," replied she, "though the face of this fair corpse seems to beckon me to the satisfaction of a mother's heart, at the price of a wife's rebellion. My Forester's glazed eyes are fixed on me, and say, 'Open, and let my brothers free, that my blood may be avenged.' I cannot obey. Three days you must remain there--three days must the Forester lie in his shroud--then will Harden be back, and he will bring with him the bloody doublet to hang on the point of your spears." "Whither is our father gone?" rejoined the impatient youths. "I know not, but these were his words," replied she. "I am to watch my Forester's body, and feed you through the west bole, for three days." "We cannot survive three days unrevenged, mother," said another. "We will take on ourselves the responsibility of release. Send us Wat's John, and he will break down this door. Bethink ye, good mother, that Gilmanscleugh may fly, and the Forester's ghost may wander for twenty moons in Harden's Glen, upbraiding his five brothers for not avenging his death." "I cannot disobey your father," again said she. "Then we will force our freedom, mother," cried the third son. "Disobedient boy, say not the word," answered she. "Wait the three days, and, if you will, nurse during that time your fire; for, if I am not deceived, your father will require of you as much avenging wrath as you have to bestow, when his horn sounds again his return to Harden." With difficulty did Mary prevail on the impetuous youths to refrain from an effort to effect their freedom. For the three appointed days, she sat in the room by the side of her dead son; and at every meal-hour she handed in the food necessary for the sustenance of her prisoners. Nor did she conceive that she had any title to rest from her watchful labour, or to cease her care of the dead body, even during the hours of night, till she saw his death avenged. The midnight lamp was regularly trimmed, and hung upon the wall, that its glimmering flame might fall upon the pale face of the youth, as he lay rolled up in the shroud which his mother had prepared for him, while sitting by the bier. At the solemn hour of midnight, she sat silent and sad, looked now in the face of the dead, listened to hear if any sound of a horn without announced the approach of her husband, or of a messenger from him, and then inclined her ear, to catch the broken words of revenge muttered by her sons in their sleep, or the strains of mournful lamentations for the death of their brother, which the energy of their grief forced from them at those intervals when their revenge was overcome by the more intense feeling. Groans and sighs, muttered oaths, sobs, and expressions of impatience, mixed or separate, told continually the workings of their minds. The speech of the dreamer was often mixed with the conversation of those awake; but so well acquainted was the mother with the sounds of their voices, that she could distinguish the one from the other. The question was often put by one who slept--"Are the three days past yet?" and those awake gave him the answer he could not hear. Then some of them seemed to clutch his neighbour in his dreams, and call out, that he had now caught him, and would avenge on him the death of the Forester, accompanying his speech with a struggle, as if he were in the act of stabbing Gilmanscleugh. Another would call to the mother, to know the hour; and, when she told him that it was midnight, or an hour past midnight, he would sigh deeply, as if he felt the hours of the three days winged with lead. Then again, a victim of nightmare groaned with fear, at the vision of the Forester's ghost, and cried, that it would not have long to walk the glen, for that the three days were fast on the wing. The shrill scream of a passing eagle or solitary owl, wakening those who slumbered in a half sleep, was mistaken for their father's horn, and an appeal to the mother was required to rectify the mistake. All these things passed in her hearing, and threw a gloom over her mind, which was not relieved by the look which she every moment stole at the dead face, as it shone white as the shroud in the light of the lamp: but she stood the trial, and continued her watch. The beam of a deadly revenge indicated the steadfastness with which she adhered to her resolution never to rest till she knew that Gilmanscleugh had expiated by his life the murder of her son. Since the departure of Harden, no intelligence had come from him; and so strange had been his conduct when he went away, that his wife had often to combat the rising thought, that the fate of his favourite son had unsettled his intellects, and driven him away from the scene of his loss, in some wild dream of superstitious retribution. The locking up of his sons was the very reverse of the conduct which his revengeful nature might have dictated; and the taking with him the bloody doublet, through the sword-hole in which he declared he saw the lands of Gilmanscleugh his own, was far more like the act of a madman, than that of one who had duties to perform to himself, to his wife and children, on that sorrowful occasion, more serious and difficult than he had ever yet been called upon to fulfil. These thoughts rising throughout the dark night, when her ears were pained by the strange noises proceeding from the excitement of her sons, and her eye had nothing to rest on but the dead body of him who lay stretched by her side, stung her with anguish, and filled her heart with boding anticipations of terror. The third night was on the wing; and, though twelve o'clock had passed, there was no appearance of her husband. Her sons had become more than ordinarily restless, and said that, if their father did not make his appearance in the morning, they would disregard all authority, and call to the retainers to break down the door with battle-axes, and set them at liberty. She heard them in silence, and trembled to communicate to them the thoughts that had been passing through her mind as to the sanity and safety of their father. In a little, the restless prisoners began to fall over into their troubled sleep, and the moon, newly risen, sent in through the small windows a bright beam, that lay on the face of the corpse. She had wrought up her mind almost to a conviction that her husband had, in a fit of madness, thrown himself into the Borthwick, or otherwise committed suicide, and figured to her diseased fancy his body placed alongside of her son's, and with that same pale beam resting on it, and exhibiting to her the features which she had so long looked on with delight, made rigid by the grasp of death. Every sound was now hushed, with the exception of the occasional broken mutterings of her sons, and the notes of the winged inhabitants of the upper parts of the tower, who cawed their hoarse omens to the midnight wanderer in the forest. Every thought that rose in her mind was charged with a double portion of awe; and cold shivers, in opposition to her efforts to be firm, ran over her from head to heel, and precipitated her farther and farther into the depths of her fancied evils. Superstition might have borrowed a thousand aids from the circumstances in which she was placed; but, though she was beyond the influence of the direct operation of that power, the thoughts of evil which she had some reason for indulging, borrowed a part of their dark hue from the clouds in which the mystic goddess is generally enshrined: the individual would indeed have been more than woman who could have sat in the situation in which she was placed, and measured her evils with the gauge of calm reason. While sunk in these gloomy reflections, a shrill blast of a horn reverberated among the hills. "That is our father's horn!" cried the sons, who awoke with the sound; and Mary herself knew the signal of the approach of her husband. She rose from the side of the corpse, and, looking forth from the window, saw, by the moon's light, Harden himself hastening towards the tower. In a moment he bounded from his horse, and in another he appeared before his wife. "To horse! to horse! my sons!" he shouted, as he came forward. "Now for Gilmanscleugh, with the fire and the sword of Harden's revenge!" A loud shout from the chamber where the sons lay announced the relief which this statement brought to their frenzied minds. The door was opened, and the prisoners were set at liberty. Without waiting for refreshment, the old chief, having cast a look on the dead body, hurried with his liberated sons to the court, where every retainer was summoned to attend his master. A large party was assembled in a very short time, and, with the moon as their guide, the cavalcade, making the castle ring with Harden's war-cry, issued with rapid steps out of the ballium, and took the road to Gilmanscleugh. They arrived at the place of their destination while the moon shone still clear in the heavens; and Harden's sons observed that their father now took no precautions, as was usual in his night attacks, to prevent the assailed party from knowing his approach. He marched them silently, deliberately, and boldly up in front of the tower of Gilmanscleugh, where Scott, who had fondly imagined that his act had not been traced to him, was residing in a security that had been daily increasing, but was now so soon to be ended. The whole party were ranged in front of the devoted tower, and Harden's horn was sounded for entrance. Scott appeared at the window, and asked the pleasure of Harden, and the purpose of his call at that unusual hour, though he well knew to what he owed the fearful visit. "I have a paper, under the king's hand, to read to thee, Gilmanscleugh," replied Harden. "We had better read it in the mornin," replied Scott. "Our lights are out in the tower. I will wait ye at yer ain time; but let it be in the licht o' day." "The moon is Harden's time," rejoined the chief. "If thou wilt not let us in to read it, here, in the light of this torch, brought for the occasion, thou shalt hear the words of majesty. I am only the royal commissioner, and must do my duty." The torch was held up, and Harden calling forth one of his retainers, who had been a clerk in a convent, ordered him to read a royal charter which he put into his hands. The man obeyed, and read the document which purported, in the few words of these old land rights, that the king, for the love and favour he bore to Walter Scott of Harden, had conveyed and settled upon him and his heirs the lands, tower, and appurtenances of Gilmanscleugh, which formerly belonged to William Scott, but had fallen to the crown by escheat, in consequence of the constructive rebellion of the said William Scott, in killing the son of Harden, known by the name of the Forester, when engaged in hunting on his father's lands. The charter gave, in addition, full power to the said Walter Scott to take immediate possession of the property, and to adopt all necessary steps for ejecting the former proprietor and his family from the same. "Thou hast heard read the king's writ," cried the chief. "What sayest thou to the royal authority? I come here peaceably to demand the possession of Gilmanscleugh. If you will consent to depart, and give me up the key of the tower, I will pass my honour for the safety of thee and thine. If not, I will enforce the king's authority. Take a quarter-of-an-hour to decide. I will wait the decision." This announcement produced surprise on all hands, as well to the unhappy proprietor, who was to be deprived of his lands that had come to him from his ancestors, as to the sons of Harden, who were to be deprived of that species of revenge they had burned for, and considered to be the only one suited to the occasion which called for it--the life of the slayer. While Gilmanscleugh retired to consider of the proposal, the sons of Harden crowded round him, and implored him to retract his condition of extending safety to the person of the murderer of their brother. The old chief--who had already counted all the advantages and disadvantages of the bargain, and saw how much better were the broad acres of Gilmanscleugh, which the king had given him for the loss of his son, than the life of its master, which, although he took, he could make nothing of, seeing that it would vanish in the act of capture--replied calmly, to their warm entreaties, that the lands were his revenge, and a very good revenge, too; but he promised them that, if Scott did not immediately comply with his request, they would have their pleasure of him and his whole household, to kill, or wound, or burn, or hang, as they chose. This addition roused the spirits and restored the hopes of the sons, who could not suppose that a man would give up his property in the easy manner anticipated by their father. Yet so it turned out; for in a short time Scott appeared again, and stated that, upon condition of him and his household being permitted to go forth safe and free, he would instantly deliver to him the key of the tower. The bargain was struck; and in a short time the extraordinary scene was witnessed of a whole family leaving the home of their fathers on a quarter-of-an-hour's notice, and wandering away to beg a habitation and a meal from those who were their dependants. Scott's wife had in her arms a sucking child, and three other children held by her garments, and cried bitterly as they passed on through the fierce troop, who looked the daggers of a disappointed revenge. A sister of his wife's tended a sickly son of Scott's, who was borne forth on a board carried by two of his retainers; and there was seen, hobbling along, with a long piked staff in her hand, the laird's mother, who had gone to Gilmanscleugh sixty years before, and born in it seven sons and three daughters. Then came Scott himself, with the keys in his hand, at the sight of whom Harden's sons moved involuntarily forward, as the instinctive desire of revenge for a moment overcame the command of their father. The keys were handed forth in dead silence; and the servants of the ejected laird wiped their eyes as they beheld the melancholy scene. They wandered slowly and reluctantly away. Harden looked back as the last of them were disappearing in the wood. "Revenge enough," he muttered--"revenge enough, and to spare." He then entered and took possession of the tower, in which he left as many of his men as were sufficient to guard it. He then returned with his sons and a part of his troop to Harden, where he found Mary Scott still sitting by the side of her dead son, in conformity with a custom among the Borderers, derived from the land of Odin, that the corpse of a murdered relative should not be committed to the earth till his death was avenged. She looked up in the face of Harden as he entered, and the blue eye of the Flower of Yarrow searched wistfully for tokens of a deed of stern retribution. Such is the power of custom and education, that one of the fairest of women, who, if she had lived in the nineteenth century, might have been a Lady Fanny, and shrunk, according to fashion, from the sight of a murdered worm, deemed it necessary, from duty, and felt it as consonant to the feelings of her sex, to look her disappointment at not observing, on the clothes or arms of her husband and sons, the signs of a wrong righted by blood. "Is it thus that Harden comes, with bright steel and unsullied clothes, from the house of the murderer of his fairest son?" cried she. "Look at that corpse, and blush deep as the crimson that dyes the lily-lire of our boy. Is there no vengeance, Walter? Is there no satisfaction, my sons?" "Whether, Mary," replied Harden, "would you accept a charter to the lands of Gilmanscleugh to Harden and his heirs for ever, or the life's blood of its master, as a satisfaction for the death of our boy who lies there, killed by his hand?" "I would rather enjoy the lands," replied she, "and let the murderer enjoy, if he can, the life that is spared to him. Our revenge is double; for, while life may be painful to him, the lands will yield us pleasure in after years." "Here, then," said he, "is a charter to the lands of Gilmanscleugh"--holding out the parchment. "I got it from the king as my satisfaction; and now we may indeed say, as you strangely predicted, that Gilmanscleugh hath served both of our sons." On the following day, the unfortunate son of Harden was buried; and, long afterwards, the lands of Gilmanscleugh remained in the family under the name of Harden's Revenge. THE PHYSIOGNOMIST'S TALE. Hill and valley were clad in the cold and glistening mantle of winter, and the snow floated softly, though chillingly, against the cheek of a young and apparently weary traveller, who was plodding his way along the high road towards Annan. He was a youth of about nineteen, tall and good-looking, apparently of the labouring class, and carried a small bundle on a stick over his shoulder. I happened to be walking homewards in the same direction, and had been for some time watching him with great interest--my attention having been excited by his handsome and intelligent countenance, and by the expression of deep and settled sorrow which clouded it. Absorbed in the gloom of his own thoughts, he seemed not to heed the cold, and bleak, and desolate scene around him; or perhaps it might be more congenial to his feelings than the brightest landscape of summer; for who has not felt, in the first hours of grief and deprivation, a morbid seeking after, and clinging to, objects which serve to cherish and keep alive our feelings of gloom and depression? He started, as if awakened from a dream, when I addressed him with some trifling remark upon the weather; but there was something in the tone of his voice, when he answered me, which increased my prepossession in his favour. After some trifling conversation, I took an opportunity to remark, and to express my sympathy for, his evident dejection, at the same time hinting my wish to know the cause of it, and, if possible, to remove it. Many of my readers will no doubt think this sudden and uncalled-for interest in a perfect stranger romantic and injudicious; but I have rather Quixotic opinions on many subjects, and, among others, is a love of judging of character by countenance; and if I choose to run the risk of "paying for my whistle," I do but follow in the footsteps of wiser and better men. Events proved, as the reader will learn in the course of this story, that in this instance, at least, my judgment had not deceived me. The young man was evidently affected by the interest which I seemed to feel in him; and, after some little hesitation, said, with a strong Roxburghshire accent, "I feel grateful for your kindness, sir; yours is the first friendly voice I have heard since I left home, and the accents of sympathy fall as soft upon the wounded spirit as the snow-flakes on the warm ground, melting as they fall." We were now close to my gate, and I invited the lad to enter and refresh himself. This offer he accepted with the warmest thanks; and when seated by the comfortable fire in the kitchen, from which I dismissed for a short time my only servant, he told me the simple tale of his sorrows. I am not enough of a Scotchman to attempt to do justice to his national dialect; so much the better, perhaps, for my English readers; but I fear that what I gain in fluency I shall lose in expression. His name, he said, was Dalzell; he was the son of a respectable and thriving merchant in Kelso, who had given him, in his early years, the best education the place afforded, with the view of preparing him, at a future day, for the ministry; but before he was fifteen years old, his father, who was commonly reputed wealthy, died insolvent, and his mother and he were left in a state of utter destitution. Grief for the loss of her husband, combined with anxiety of mind, occasioned by the unexpected change in her circumstances, shortened the days of his beloved mother, and he was left in the world alone. A neighbouring farmer, pitying his distress, took him into his service, and treated him with the greatest kindness and consideration. In this place he had remained nearly four years, and had every reason to think that his master looked upon him more in the light of a friend than a servant. He had done his duty faithfully and conscientiously, because it _was_ his duty; but he was not happy; his thoughts were constantly reverting to former days, and to his blighted prospects, and he began to feel thoroughly discontented and disgusted with his menial situation, when, all at once, a powerful and absorbing feeling, like Aaron's serpent, swallowed all the rest. He loved! In the moments when his impatient spirit most winced beneath the yoke of servitude, light as it was, one glance at the bright blue eye and winning smile of Grace Douglas was sufficient to chase the cloud from his brow, and to cheer his heart with the thought that he had still something worth living for. She was his master's only daughter, just seventeen, and as bright and beautiful a creature as ever the eye of a lover rested upon. Even her beauty, however, would have failed in making any impression on the senses of the gloomy and discontented youth, had not the better feelings of his heart been excited by her tender sympathy. She knew his story; and, by her silent and unobtrusive attentions, showed her pity for his misfortunes. Her tones of kindness invested her, in his opinion, with a charm beyond mere beauty; his proud heart was melted, and his long-pent-up affections were lavished upon this new object with a violence that alarmed himself. It was not long before he was awakened to the consciousness that his love was returned; but that consciousness, blissful as it seemed at first, only gave additional bitterness to his reflections, when he thought of the difference in their respective situations. Poor, friendless, and dependent, a labourer working for his daily bread, how could he hope to gain the wealthy farmer's consent to a union with his daughter? and without _that_ consent, she had said that, much as she loved him, she never would be his. Prompt and impetuous, his resolution was soon adopted; he could not bear suspense, and was determined to put an end to it at once. He told his master all; told him that he could not bear to deceive him; that he loved his daughter, but that he was well aware it would be madness and presumption in him, situated as he was at present, to hope for his approval of his passion; that he could not live in the presence of the object of his hopeless affection; but that he meant to depart, and to endeavour, by his own exertions in some other sphere of life, to remove what he hoped was the only bar to his wishes--his poverty; his birth and education, he said, were equal to her own, and he trusted that his master had never had occasion to think otherwise than well of his private character. The good farmer was much surprised and affected by this disclosure, and, in reply, spoke in the warmest terms of commendation of his young friend; but said that, as a prudent father, he could not think of giving his consent to a union which the want of means might render an unhappy one to both parties; and that, much as he esteemed him, and grieved as he would be to part with him, he perfectly agreed as to the propriety and necessity of his departure. Next day, followed by the tears and good wishes of all the inmates of the farm, he left the house, a sorrowful but a sanguine wanderer. He had met his mistress before his departure; their parting was sad and tender. He vowed unwavering constancy and attachment, but would not accept an offered pledge of the same kind from her, leaving her free, he said, to think of or forget him. He told her he felt he was meant for better things; that brighter days would come; and that then he would return to prove that he was worthy of her. His intention, he said, was to go to sea; he had always a secret liking for it; and in the war which was now raging, he had no doubt that opportunities of distinguishing himself would present themselves. He was determined to do his duty steadily and perseveringly; her image would be ever present with him, to cheer him in the hour of danger, and to nerve him to exertion. With such a prize in view, he said, he felt confident in his own resolution, and was sanguine in his hope that fortune would eventually smile upon him. Such was the simple and affecting tale of the wayfarer. I was as much pleased with the modest, yet firm and determined manner in which he expressed himself, as with the narrative itself. I did not attempt to dissuade him from his purpose, but, on the contrary, urged him to persevere. I told him of the many gallant commanders who had distinguished themselves in the naval annals of their country, and who had risen to rank and fame from as humble a condition as his own. It was with the greatest difficulty I persuaded him to accept of pecuniary assistance to help him on his journey, and then only on the score of its being a loan, which, if he lived, he could at some future time repay. "I shall never forget your kindness to a friendless stranger, sir," said he, as he grasped my hand at parting. "To have met with such an unexpected friendship at my first outset, I may well consider a favourable omen; and I trust that the recollection of it will act as an additional incentive to prove myself worthy of it." Years passed on, and I heard nothing further of my interesting acquaintance. In the meantime, I had become a husband and father; and my wife, to whom I had related the story of the young adventurer, felt equally interested with myself in his welfare, and we used often to speculate as to his probable fate. Ten years after the rencounter with which my story commences, I was sitting reading to my wife in the drawing-room, after breakfast, when we were startled by a knock at the front-door, followed by the servant's announcement that a gentleman wished to speak to me. I desired that he might be shown up-stairs, and hastened to meet him, thinking it was one of my neighbours, from whom I expected a visit. But what was my surprise when a tall, handsome man, with dark, sunburnt features, and whose person was quite strange to me, grasped my hand, and shook it most cordially, at the same time smiling as he watched the doubting scrutiny of my gaze, as a faint recollection of his features crossed my mind. "I see you are puzzled, my dear sir," said he; "you do not remember me." "I have a confused idea of having seen features like yours before," said I; "but where or when I cannot at this moment recall to my recollection." "I do not wonder at your not remembering _me_," replied he, "but your disinterested kindness made an impression on a grateful heart, which neither time nor change have weakened. I am, or rather was, the boy Dalzell--the poor, friendless, desolate wanderer, whom you cheered with your benevolence, and animated by your advice. Do you remember me now?" "I do--I do," said I, returning his warm grasp; "and most happy am I to see you again, and to see you thus; for I perceive that your sanguine hopes have not been disappointed, and that you have risen from your humble station to one more worthy of you." "Fortune has indeed favoured me beyond my deserts," answered he. "I told you that my having met so kind a friend at my outset was a fortunate omen; it proved so. I entered the service as a boy before the mast; I am now a lieutenant in His Majesty's navy." "I congratulate you with all my heart; but your modesty must not attribute your success to good fortune alone, there must have been merit likewise to deserve it. But I forget; I have a new acquaintance to introduce to you--my wife; a new acquaintance, but an old friend, I can assure you; for she has long been acquainted with, and felt interested in, your story." My wife cordially welcomed him, and expressed her gratification at his return home in health and happiness. "Alas, madam!" said he, "happiness, I fear, is as far from me as ever. I told my kind friend there, that I felt confident fortune would smile upon me: I was then a sanguine boy. Fortune _has_ smiled upon me; I have risen from the humble station in which I commenced my career; I have gained for myself rank and competency; and I am now a disappointed man--the hope that cheered me on in my career is blighted. I returned to the home in which I had left all that was most dear to me in life: I found it deserted; my old master was dead--died in poverty; and Grace--my Grace, was gone, no one knew whither." We were both too much shocked at first by this announcement to be able to express our sympathy; but, on reflection, I expressed my conviction that there was no cause for serious alarm; that, while there was life, there was hope; and that no doubt he would, ere long, succeed in gaining some intelligence which would lead to the discovery of the orphan's retreat. I told him I would write to some friends in the neighbourhood of Kelso, who would, I was sure, be happy to exert themselves in making the necessary inquiries; and that I was able and willing to accompany him as soon as he thought proper, to assist him in his search. He was much gratified by the offer of my services, which he seemed inclined to avail himself of immediately. "No, no, my friend," said I; "we have too lately found you, to part with you so easily. You must stay with us a few days at least, until I receive answers from Kelso, and afterwards, when we have succeeded in the object of our search, make this house your home till you have one of your own." At first he seemed rather impatient at the delay; but gradually became more tranquillised and cheerful. He gratefully accepted my offer of extended hospitality, and pleased us by the frankness with which he seemed immediately to take us at our word, and to feel himself at home. We were both delighted with him; his manners were as pleasing as his conversation was entertaining. On my requesting him to favour us with an account of his adventures since we parted, he replied, "No one has a better claim than yourself, my dear sir, to be informed of the progress of an adventure of which you witnessed and cheered the commencement; but I feel an unwillingness to commence a story, the hero of which is the narrator, who, to do justice to it, must speak more of himself than is either seemly or agreeable." "Oh," said I, "do not allow your modesty to stand in the way of our enjoyment. Speak fully and freely, in the consciousness that you are talking to friends, who will be pleased with the narration of the most trifling incidents connected with one in whose fate they have always felt the warmest interest." He bowed, and without further preface commenced as follows:--"After I left you, I made the best of my way to London, and from thence to Portsmouth, where I volunteered on board the Dareall frigate, fitting out for the Cape station. I was asked if I wanted to ship as an able or ordinary seaman, and replied that I had never been at sea, but that I was active and willing. The lieutenant seemed pleased with my appearance and with my answer. 'You're just the lad for us, then,' said he; 'if you're active and willing, we'll soon make you _able_. I like the cut of your jib, my lad; and, if you perform as well as you promise, I've no doubt you'll make a smart fellow yet. Here, Telford,' said he to a boatswain's mate standing near, 'I give this youngster into your charge; make a man of him.' "'Ay, ay, sir. Come along, young blowhard,' said he, 'as the first leaftennan has trusted your edicashun to me, we must saw wood at once, and see what we can make of that block of yourn. Can you handle a marlinspike?' "'No.' "'Can you reef or steer, or heave the lead?' "'No.' "'Then what the devil _can_ you do?' "'I can read and write, and keep accounts.' "'Oh, ho!--a reg'lar long-shore gemman!--the makings of a sea-lawyer! And so you can't do nothin' but read and write?' "'Yes, there's one thing I can do, and am determined to do--to learn everything you will take the trouble to teach me. _You_ knew nothing before you were taught--how can you expect _me_ to do so?' "'Well, there's reason in that, anyhow,' said he; 'and if so be you pays attention, why, there's no saying but we may see _you_ a bosun's mate some o' these days. But I say, young un, make your number. The poor gulpin doesn't understand me'--(this was said half aside). 'What's your name?' "'Dalzell.' "'Dalzell! Dalzell!' said he; 'blow'd if that isn't a Kelso name! Where d'ye hail from, eh?--where d'ye come from?' "'Scotland.' "'Ay, that's as plain as the nose on your face, whenever you open your mouth. Now, nobody would never go for to doubt me to be an Englishman by my lingo. But I'll tell you a bit of a secret--I'm a Scotchman born and bred.' "'Well, I can tell you a secret too, if you'll promise not to tell it.' "'Speak on, youngster. I'll never blab till you give me leave. I'm as silent as the ship's bell, as never speaks till it's tolled.' "'Well, then, _Telford's_ a Kelso name, as well as Dalzell. Many a penny-bap have I bought, when I was at school, at old Jamie Telford's; and, if I'm not mistaken, I'm speaking to his son.' "'Did you know the old boy? Bless his old heart! Well, you're right for once in your life, my boy; but how the devil did you find me out?' "'I've often heard the old man talk of his son Tom, the boatswain's mate; and your name and your talking of Kelso together made me fancy you must be the man.' "'Well, that beats cock-fighting! Give us your hand, my hearty! I'll stick to you through thick and thin, for the sake of the old town and them as lives in it, and if I don't, call me a liar, that's all, and see what I'll give you. But who are _your_ people? I suppose that's part o' the secret you were going to tell me?' "'It was; and you will keep it?' "'In coorse; didn't I tell you so afore?' "I then told him my story, which he heard with great attention, and which evidently increased his respect for me. 'I have often heard tell of your father,' said he, 'and for his sake I'll do all I can for his son. I liked the looks of you before--I like you ten times better now; it shan't be my fault if you don't larn your duty. I'll live to see you an _admiral_ yet--who knows? You're right, however, to keep your story secret, for some o' these devil's limbs would be jeering about your being a gemman in a cog, as they calls it, come to sea to wear out his old toggery.' "The good-hearted fellow kept his promise. Never had scholar a more zealous and indefatigable teacher, and never had teacher a pupil more anxious to avail himself of his advantages. We were detained for nearly three weeks, and I made the most of my opportunities. During the day, my friend Telford employed all his leisure time in initiating me into the mysteries of knotting and splicing, and in teaching me the names and uses of the various ropes; and at night, when there were none to laugh at my awkward exhibitions, he encouraged me to go aloft, and to learn to make active use of my hands and feet. When we went on shore on liberty, he used to hire a boat, and teach me how to handle the oar: in fact, my kind instructor neglected no means of teaching me how to make myself useful. My whole heart and soul were in the matter, and my progress was proportionably rapid; and I was cheered on to redoubled exertion by the kind encouragement of the first lieutenant, who complimented Telford highly on his success. Before the ship sailed, I was on a par, as to qualifications, with many who, without a similar stimulus to exertion, had been some time at sea. I could hand, reef, and--no, I couldn't steer--but I knew all the marks on the lead-line, and had often taken a sly cast. I was constantly on the watch for instruction, always on the alert to start forward when any particular duty was required, and, by evincing a habitual desire to do my duty actively and well, I soon gained ground in the opinion of my superiors. The caterer of the midshipman's mess had been disappointed in his servant, and wished to promote me to that _high_ honour. I thanked him heartily for his kind intentions, but declined his offer; as I wished, I said, to learn my duty as _seaman_. This coming to the ears of the first lieutenant, increased his good-will towards me. 'We shall make something of that young man yet,' said he. A circumstance occurred a few days before we sailed, fortunate in its results as far as concerned me, but which might have terminated fatally. The captain's son, one of our midshipmen, a fine boy of thirteen, had been forward on the forecastle with some orders, and, in returning aft again, stopped to look over the gangway. How the accident happened I know not, but he lost his balance, and toppled over into the water. The men were below at supper at the time, but I happened to have just come on deck, and had passed him to go forward, when I heard the plunge, and, turning round, missed him from the deck. I instantly surmised what had happened, and, raising the cry of 'A man overboard!' I dashed over after him. There was a strong tide running, and objects were indistinct in the dusk of the evening, but I fortunately caught sight of him, and reached him just in time, for he was sinking. By dint of great exertion, I contrived to support him while I edged down to a buoy, some distance astern, to which we clung till taken off by a boat from the frigate. The captain, who was on board at the time, thanked and praised me before the whole ship's company for my gallantry, as he was pleased to call it, in saving the life of his son; and the boy, after whispering to his father, came up to me, and presenting me with his watch, begged that I would accept it as a mark of his gratitude. I have it still. From that day, both father and son behaved with the most marked kindness to me, and took every opportunity of showing their good-will. For some weeks after we sailed for the Cape: nothing particular occurred beyond the regular routine of duty; but, at the end of that time, the captain wanted some one to assist his secretary, and the word was passed round the decks by the master-at-arms, for those who were good writers among the crew, to send in specimens of their penmanship. I was one of the candidates. Our specimens were sent to the captain, and all the writers were ordered aft. "'Who is the writer of this specimen?' said the captain, pointing to mine. "'I am, sir.' "'And is the motto your own?' (It was, 'When a man's foot is on the first step of the ladder, he should never rest till he reach the top.') "'Yes, sir.' "'Indeed!--you seem to try to act on that principle. Go on as well as you have begun, and there is no telling where you may stop. In the meantime, you may act as assistant to my secretary.' He then called the first lieutenant, Mr Barlow, and walked up and down the deck with him some time; after which Mr Barlow beckoned to me to come to him:--'Dalzell,' said he, 'Captain Edwards and myself have both had reason to be satisfied with you since you joined the ship, and, as you have proved yourself to be qualified to assist his clerk, we wish to keep you separate from the ship's company, and to allow you to mess with the midshipmen, if they have no objection.' "I felt a flushing of the cheek and a fluttering of the heart. I felt that _the first step of the ladder_ was under my foot. "'I hope they can make no objection to me on account of character, sir; and my birth and education place me nearly on an equality with them.' "'Ah! how came you to be here then? You took to bad courses, I suppose, and so your friends sent you to sea, to reclaim you: was that it?' "'No, sir. Misfortune and necessity brought me here, united with the love of the profession of a sailor. It is a duty, however, which I owe to you as well as myself, on the present occasion, to appear in my true colours; and to tell you a tale which I would otherwise have kept secret, and which is only known to myself and my kind friend and townsman, Telford, the boatswain's mate.' I then proceeded to relate to him what I have already told you. Both the captain and Mr Barlow appeared to be much interested in my narrative, and were pleased to compliment me upon my independence of spirit, and the clear and distinct manner in which I expressed myself. 'After this,' said Captain Edwards, 'there can be no bar to your messing with the young gentlemen, as I suppose you have no objection to their hearing your story?' "'None whatever, sir.' "'Begging your pardon, Captain Frederick,' said Mr Barlow; 'I know a midshipman's berth too well, and he may tell of his birth and his misfortunes; but let him know the love, sir, and you'll never hear the end of it.' "'I daresay you're quite right, Mr Barlow. Dalzell, I have no doubt you will be discreet in your communications, for your own sake.' "That same day I was admitted into the midshipmen's mess, and was treated by them with the greatest kindness and consideration. My life was now a comparatively easy one, as I had hardly any duty to perform, except that of writing; but I determined in my own mind, if possible, to prove myself as quick as a clerk as I had endeavoured to do as a sailor. I was fortunate enough, in my new capacity, not only to please my immediate superior, but to add to the captain's good opinion of me. One stormy night, as we were nearing the Cape, I was letting go some rope on the poop, the hands having been called out to reef topsails, when something fell heavily upon the deck almost close to my feet. The night was so dark that I could not distinguish what it was; but I thought that a coil of rope, or something of that kind, had been thrown out of the top by the motion of the ship, and I began to feel about, to discover what it might be. My hand touched something soft and warm, and at the same time I heard a faint groan. I immediately gave the alarm, and a quartermaster brought up a lantern, by the light of which we discovered the lifeless body of young Hawkins, one of our midshipmen. He had been up furling the mizzen-royal, had lost his footing, and been precipitated to the deck. Poor fellow! he never spoke again--that groan had been his last. A few days after his death, the captain called the hands out, and told me, before them all, that he had entered me on the ship's books as midshipman, as a reward for my good behaviour; and he had no doubt that the same high sense of duty which had been the means of raising me to the quarterdeck would incite me to do credit to the appointment. He then told the ship's company to obey my orders for the future as their officer, and then dismissed them. I was immediately surrounded by the midshipmen, all of whom cordially congratulated me upon my appointment, and resolved to have a jollification on the occasion. I was much amused with my old friend Telford, who took the earliest opportunity of touching his hat to me, and calling me Mr Dalzell. "'Why, Telford, what makes you so distant?' said I, offering my hand at the same time. "'No, sir, thank ye,' said he; 'I knows my place better nor that. If so be you likes to give us your flipper down in your cabin, well and good; but not here, sir--not afore the people--'twould look too free-and-easy like. I'm plain Tom Telford still; but you've got a handle to your name now, Mr Dalzell.' "My messmates laughed heartily, and Tom was desired to come down to the berth, where he shook me heartily by the hand, and wished me all manner of success, and then tossed off a tumbler of strong grog in the most approved fashion: nose invisible--eyes raised heavenward--out-stretched little finger--gurgling noise in the throat, ending with a suffocating gasp of enjoyment, and a sweeping over his mouth with the cuff of his jacket. "I pass over a number of trifling incidents in my naval career, and shall proceed at once to the sad catastrophe by which I was deprived of my kind friend and benefactor, the captain, and of most of those with whom I had passed so many happy days. We were lying at anchor in Table Bay, one fine afternoon in November, the 4th of the month. The weather was perfectly calm, but there was a heavy swell, and clouds had been for some time gathering to the northward, and many of our weather-Solomons predicted a storm. In the midshipmen's berth, however, there were no croakers. It was the eve of the 'Gunpowder Plot,' and many a tale was told of boyish pranks, and of the bonfires and fireworks of schoolboy days. There was no care for the future, no anticipation of evil; all was life, and thoughtlessness, and mirth. Alas! alas! how little did we think what one day might bring forth! At daylight of the 5th, it was blowing a heavy gale from the northward, a quarter from which there is no shelter in Table Bay. The sea came tumbling in in long and heavy surges, and the ship plunged deeply and violently. The hands were called out at ten o'clock--'Down yards and masts!' The fore and main yards were lowered, and the topmasts were struck, and the ship, relieved by the removal of so much top weight, rode more easily. At noon, so little apprehension was felt for the effects of the storm, that a salute was fired in commemoration of the day. The gale gradually increased in violence; and at half-past twelve, after a heavy pitch, the cry was heard, 'The small bower has parted!'--'Let go the sheet!' was the order in reply, followed by the heavy plunge of the anchor. Such a mountainous sea was running at this time, that every soul on board seemed to anticipate the fatal result that followed. The ship was pitching bows under, shipping green seas over all--the sky was murky black--vivid flashes of lightning burst from it almost incessantly--and the loud rattling of the thunder, every now and then, was heard far above the howling of the gale and the roaring of the sea. Every eye was fixed in eager anxiety on the cables, which every now and then were buried in the sea, and then, as the ship rose to the swell, were seen far ahead of her, high above the surface of the water, stiff and rigid as bars of iron. "I know not how it happened, but, amid all the uproar around me, surrounded by faces which spoke but too plainly fears for the result, and conscious that our danger was imminent, I felt a kind of unnatural buoyancy of spirits, a secret conviction that, whatever might happen, I should escape unhurt. Telford stared at me, and muttered, 'The lad's fey, as they used to say in the North.' At two o'clock, the best bower cable parted, and the spare anchor was let go, but the cable went almost immediately. Our danger was now most imminent; our sole dependence was on our sheet cable; and it was evident to all on board that _that_ could not long resist the heavy strain. Our ensign was now hoisted, union downward, that well-known signal of extreme distress; and the mournful booming of our guns seemed to our excited imaginations to be the knell of our passing minutes. At seven o'clock, a cry was heard, which, like an electric shock, was passed from one end of the ship to the other in a moment, stunning the most daring spirits with its dreaded import. The sheet cable had parted, and the ship was at the mercy of the wind and sea. An order was now given for every man to provide for his own safety, and a scene of the greatest confusion ensued. For about ten minutes, the ship continued to drive before the wind, and then struck, with a dreadful crash, upon a reef of rocks, broadside to the shore. The main and mizzen masts were immediately cut away, and the foremast soon after went by the board. To add to our horrors, the gun-room was discovered to be on fire, and in a short time the smoke came eddying up from the different hatchways in such volumes as to prevent any communication with the lower deck. Feeble would have been the efforts of man in opposing the devouring flame; but here, element was fighting against element, and the sea claimed the mastery; the vast bodies of water which were constantly dashing over the ship effected, in about ten minutes, what no human exertion could have performed, and we were saved from a fiery, to anticipate a watery death. The scene on board the wreck was now awful in the extreme; every sea that broke over her swept away new victims; and those who were left clinging to life with the energy of despair, shuddered, as they missed their companions, in the anticipation of their own approaching doom. Several of the crew, maddened by the horror of a slow and lingering death, plunged desperately into the jaws of their watery tomb, to put an end at once to their suspense; and others, in a vain attempt to reach the shore, were carried out to sea by the eddy, and perished miserably, crying in vain for help from their helpless shipmates. About half-past nine, the poop was washed away, and forming a large raft, afforded a flattering prospect of deliverance. Seventy or eighty of the crew jumped overboard, and, by great exertion, contrived to reach it. We who remained on board watched their motions with intense anxiety, and, for the moment, forgot our own danger in the contemplation of theirs. An involuntary shout burst from us, when we saw them reaching the raft in safety, and borne onwards towards the shore; but, alas! a heavy sea struck the floating wreck when only a short distance from the beach, and, turning it over and over, engulfed all its wretched occupants. "'Poor fellows!' said Telford, who was clinging to the ring-bolts by my side, 'their cruise is up! They've reached their anchorage, and we may get our ground-tackle ready as soon as we like!' "'Oh no!' replied I; 'while there's life there's hope, Telford. Keep up your heart, man--we shall weather this bout yet.' "'Heaven in its mercy grant that _you_ may, Mr Dalzell! but there is a weight on _my_ heart, a dark feeling that my hour has come. I shall never see the bonny banks of Tweed again--never, never! If you should live, sir, to get back to Kelso, tell my good old father----' "'Hold on for your life!' shouted I, as a giant sea came rushing and roaring towards the wreck. "It burst over us; and when, gasping and half-suffocated, I was able to open my eyes, I looked round--my poor companion was gone. A dark body was visible, for a moment, on the surface of the sea, some forty yards distant, and that was the last I saw of my kind friend Telford. Soon after this, the wreck gave a heavy lurch towards the shore, and then, as the sea receded, rolled back again, and separated into three parts. I caught hold of some part of the floating wreck, and, after being repeatedly washed off, and recovering my station, I contrived to lash myself securely to it, and then exhausted nature found relief in insensibility. When I recovered, I found myself lying on the beach, surrounded by the bodies of my unfortunate shipmates, and, raising myself on my knees, I breathed a silent thanksgiving to Heaven for my almost miraculous escape. Hearing a faint groan near me, I groped my way towards the spot whence the sound proceeded--the night was very dark, but a flash of lightning revealed to me the object of my search. It was the body of a seaman stretched upon his back--the right arm extended on the sand, and the left covering the face. At first I thought it was a corpse that lay before me, so stiff, so cold, so motionless did it seem to be; but, on putting my hand on the breast, I felt the pulsation of the heart, and in a few moments low stifled moanings were heard, like those of a person labouring under the influence of nightmare. I spoke to the sleeper, but without receiving any answer; but, the muttering still continuing, I shook him gently. "'Holloa!' shouted he, as he started to his feet. "What was my surprise and delight, when I recognised the voice of Telford, whom I thought I had seen swallowed up by the waves. "'Telford!' said I, 'is that you?' "'Why, who else should it be?' replied he; 'eh, old boy, who else should it be?' "To my great surprise, I now perceived that my poor shipmate was half-seas-over, as we call it. "'Telford.' said I, 'do you not know me?' "'Oh, Mr Dalzell! I ax your pardon; I didn't know it was you, seeing that all cats are grey alike in the dark. I've had a reglar snooze; but I hope I may never snooze again, if I'm to have such another dream.' "'What have you been dreaming about?' "'Why, sir, I dreamed I was a-drowning, and that I was going down, down, down, when I heard your voice calling out, 'Come, Telford, I'm not an admiral yet;' and with that you took me by the cuff of the neck, and then I opened my eyes, and you had a hold o' me, sure enough. But d--n--ax your pardon, sir,' said he, fumbling about; 'but it's enough to make a parson swear.' "'Why, what's the matter?' "'Why, sir, I've lost my call;[15] no wonder my pipe's put out.' [Footnote 15: Silver whistle, used by the boatswain and his mates.] "'Is that all? You may thank Heaven you did not lose your life. You had little hope of saving it when we last parted.' "'Indeed! why, then, it can't have been a dream, after all. Blowed if I don't think I'm a little crazy in my upper works; my head is all in a whirl, and there's fifty thousand sparks dancing before my eyes. I say, Mr Dalzell, what was that you said about losing life, and all that gammon? Ax your pardon, sir--hopes no offence,' continued he, laying his hand with drunken familiarity upon my shoulder. 'Holloa! why, you're as wet as a half-wrung swab, and I'm not much better myself! What's the meaning of that?' "'Why, the meaning of it is, that we have both had a most providential escape from drowning. You must be crazy, indeed, if you have already forgot the sad events of the last few hours. When you were swept off the wreck of the poor old Dareall, I little expected to see you again. I could almost have sworn that I saw you go down.' "'The wreck!--ay, I remember it all now! Providential escape, _indeed_. Only think of a man, as my old father used to say, putting an enemy into his mouth to steal away his brains! I had clean forgotten all about it. Howsoever, I'll take my 'davy I was so full of water, that, afore I knowed what I was about, I took rum enough in to make me a _tumbler_--ha, ha!' "'You seem to treat the matter very lightly, Telford; I see nothing laughable in it.' "'Why, Lord love your honour, when the grog's in, the wit's out, you know, as the old song says.' "'But where did you get the grog? You were sober enough, and sad enough, goodness knows, when we parted; and how did you escape?' "'Why, your honour, I rode ashore on the back of a breaker,[16] and, as soon as I landed, I knocked my horse on the head, and found a drop of capital rum inside, and, as I was devilish cold and wet, I made a little too free with it mayhap.' [Footnote 16: Breaker--a small cask.] "'Well, well, it's fortunate it's no worse. Can you walk, do you think? We had better make the best of our way to the town.' "'Walk!--to be sure I can, your honour, though perhaps I may steer a little wild or so; but, if you'll heave ahead, I'll follow in your wake, and then you won't be so apt to notice me if I give a yaw now and then.' "We soon fell in with a party of light dragoons, by whom we were most kindly welcomed, and who assisted us in making our way to Cape Town. We afterwards heard that these gallant fellows had greatly distinguished themselves during that awful night by their humane daring; forcing their horses into the surf, to rescue the struggling survivors of the crew, many of whom would have perished but for their timely aid. In the town, we met with several of our unfortunate shipmates, to whom and to ourselves the inhabitants behaved with the greatest kindness and attention. At daylight next morning, a mournful sight presented itself; and we then ascertained the full extent of our sad loss. The whole line of beach was thickly strewed with dead bodies, and fragments of the wreck. There were only four officers and about fifty men saved--three of the lieutenants, the purser, surgeon, and two midshipmen, were fortunately on shore at the time of the accident; all the rest of the officers, and about three hundred and fifty seamen, perished. Three waggon-loads of corpses were taken to a place near the hospital, and interred; and about one hundred bodies, dreadfully mangled, were buried in one large pit on the beach, near where they were found. The body of my kind friend, the captain, was never recovered, but those of the other officers were interred, the Sunday following, with military honours. So ended my unfortunate outset in the Dareall. The survivors of her crew were drafted into other ships, and the officers were sent home by the first opportunity. I afterwards joined the Sunbeam frigate, and in due course of time got my promotion in her. As soon as she was paid off, I hastened to Kelso, fondly hoping there to find the prize, the hopes of obtaining which had for years cheered me onwards. You know how I have been disappointed. And now, my kind friends, the story of my adventures is ended." "Oh," said I, "you have told us the _story_, but not the _whole_ story; you have still an account to give of your cruise in the Sunbeam; do not flatter yourself you are going to escape so easily." "You must excuse me, my dear sir; I am not accustomed to act as my own trumpeter; when Telford comes, he may take the office upon himself." "What became of that poor fellow? He must be a rough diamond." "Rough enough; but as good-hearted a fellow, and as fine a specimen of his class, as ever lived. I wonder he has not been here before this time, for I told him I meant to come here; and he said he would give you 'a hail' as he went past, to let you know I was coming. I suppose he has 'hove to,' as he would call it, by the way." "But how does he know the place?" "Oh, he knew the neighbourhood from my description of it immediately; and, said he, 'if I make his number when I get there, some one will tell me where he hangs out.'" "Well, I shall be glad to see him whenever he comes. Anna, my love," said I to my wife, "Mr Dalzell will be ready, I daresay, to do justice to your luncheon whenever it makes its appearance." We were comfortably seated at the table, discussing our strawberries and cream, when the sound of a loud shrill whistle thrilled through our ears, followed by a rough hoarse voice, bellowing words which my wife and I could not understand. We both started from our seats, and ran to the window, which was open to admit the cool air, though the blind was down to exclude the sun. Dalzell sat still, and burst out laughing. On drawing up the blind, we saw a stout, dark-looking man, with an open and cheerful countenance, dressed like a sailor. His little shining tarpaulin hat was _flapped_ down upon the back of his head, and his long black hair hung in curls about his forehead and ears. His left arm was "absent without leave" from his empty sleeve, and in his right hand he held the little silver pipe which had caused all the commotion. "Ax your pardon, sir," said he, touching his hat, when he saw me; "I made bold to call the hands out to muster, to see if one Leaftennan Dalzell would answer to his name. Hopes no offence, sir." "Ah, Telford, my fine fellow, how are you?" said Dalzell, peeping over our shoulders. "God bless your honour!" said he, respectfully raising his hat; "I'm as pleased to hear the sound of your voice as if it were the pipe to grog." "That's saying a great deal, Tom. Why, you sway about _now_ as if you were a little top-heavy." "Oh no, your honour; I've only been freshening the nip[17] once or twice, and my bread-basket's a little empty." [Footnote 17: Sailor's term for taking a dram.] "Well, come in, Tom," said I, "and we'll try to fill it for you." Tom was soon established in a comfortable berth in the kitchen, and did ample justice to the good cheer which was placed in abundance before him. As soon as he had good time to shake his cargo into its place, he was summoned into the parlour. At first he demurred a little to change his quarters, saying that he was more in his own place in the galley[18] than in the cabin; but his reluctance was overcome when he saw spirits and water precede him. When he came in, he stood in the doorway, making sundry bobbing attempts at a bow, twirling his hat round and round, and looking as bashful as a young maiden. [Footnote 18: Kitchen.] "Come in, Tom," said I. "Sit down, and tell us all your adventures." Tom, however, was too polite a man, in his own way, to sit down in the presence of his officer, till the lieutenant said-- "Come, come, Tom, bring yourself to an anchor at once." Thus authorised, he plumped into a chair, and, putting his hat under it, carefully deposited there a large quid of tobacco, which he dislodged from its snug quarters in his left cheek. "Now, Tom, carry on," said Mr Dalzell. "Why, your honour," said Tom, slyly glancing at the table, "I'm in no spirits for spinning a yarn just now." I laughed, and filled a tumbler with whisky and water, to which Tom paid his respects with evident satisfaction. "Mr Dalzell has told us," said I, "of your escape from the wreck of the Dareall--and a wonderful one it was." "You _may_ say that," replied he; "I never had such a narrow squeak in my life." "But tell us something about yourself, and Mr Dalzell. I suppose you have been in action together?" "Action!--Lord love ye, sir, we were hardly ever out of it! If I were to tell you all, I'd have nothing else to do for the next week. I always said I'd live to see him an admiral, and I say so still; and if ever man deserved a flag, there sits the man, for a braver officer and a better seaman never trod a plank, though I says it as shouldn't say it, seeing as how I first taught him to reef and steer." "Come, come, Tom," interrupted Dalzell, "if you are going to spin such a yarn as that, the sooner you cut it the better." "Ax your honour's pardon, but I must speak. Didn't you save my life in that 'ere action with the Flower-de-louce? Haven't you been the best friend to me I ever had? Haven't you often saved me from the gangway when I've dipped my whiskers too deep into the grog-kid? And can I sit quiet with such a glass as this before me?" emptying the tumbler as he spoke. "Well, that's enough, Tom. If you're so fond of your grog, you had better get on with your story as fast as you can, for not a drop more shall you taste till you have finished." "But, bless your heart, sir, how am I to begin? I'm like a marine adrift on a grating, or an ass in a hay-field. I've got lots o' yarns to tell, but I don't know which way to turn myself among them." "Well," said Dalzell, "I'll go and take a walk, and leave you to your own devices;" and he left the room. "Now, your honour," said Tom, addressing me, "I'll tell you a famous trick our captain sarved the Johnny Croppös.[19] He was a dashing fellow that, and never stuck at nuffen: a reglar fire-eater--'ud face the devil himself. We was a-cruising off the coast of France, when the look-out hails the deck--'A strange sail ahead!' Well, there was crack on everything, below and aloft--clear ship for action--beat to quarters, and all that; and we were soon near enough to see a snug, business-looking craft, brig-rigged, standing to the westward under easy sail. So we fired a gun to leeward, and hoisted English colours, and she did the same, and hauled her wind to join us. When she came within hail, we found she was an English privateer, and the captain of her said he had something of consequence to tell our commander, and he was ordered to come on board. Well, the news soon spread over the ship, that the privateer had seen two French merchantmen at anchor under the guns of a small battery; that he was not strong enough to cut them out himself, and that he had hailed a king's ship the day before to tell her so, but he was not believed. [Footnote 19: Nautical for "Crapaud"--nickname for the French.] "'Well,' says our captain, says he, 'I'll have a slap at them at all events.' "'I'll lead the way, sir, if you'll allow me.' "'But'--and here they went into the cabin with the first luff; and, after staying there for some time, out they comes, and the captain of the privateer jumps into his boat, and shoves off. "'You understand?' shouted the skipper to him. "'Perfectly, sir.' "Our captain looked as pleased as Punch, and we all saw there was something in the wind. The privateer stood to the French coast under easy sail, and we followed in her wake. Word was passed for volunteers for a cutting-out job, and there wasn't a man o' the ship's company as didn't come forward; but they couldn't all go--that was sartain; and there was many a long face amongst those that were not chosen; but the others, you'd a-thought they were going to a _hop_ at the point, they were so pleased at the thoughts o' the fun. Well, when we'd got well in sight o' the land, the privateer made all sail, and shaped a course along the coast, and we cracked on in chase; but then we put a drag over the bows to keep us astarn, and though we made a great show, we didn't gain upon her. We all wondered at this strange move, but we wondered still more when we saw French colours flying from our peak, and heard the orders given to fire the bow-chasers, but to aim wide o' the mark. We saw the shot drop into the water, first on the one quarter, then on the other, of the privateer; but devil a one struck her; and she, with her English colours flying, kept peppering away at us with her starn-chasers; but her shot, like ours, all fell wide of the mark. By this time we were well in with the shore, and could see two fine large merchant ships lying at anchor close under the guns of a small battery near the town, which lined the beach of a snug bay. The privateer immediately hauled her wind off the coast, as if afeared o' the guns o' the battery, and we did the same. We could see the beach crowded with people hurrying to look at the running fight between the French frigate, as they thought (she had been one once), and the English privateer. Well, this game lasted for some time; lots o' smoke and noise, for we yawed two or three times to give her a broadside, and to let her get away from us, till at last we gave it up for a bad job, and bore up under easy sail for the bay we had before seen. We stood in, clued all up, and came to an anchor with a very short scope of cable, and brought to, all ready for weighing again. The boats were lowered and manned, and a few jollies[20] were stowed away in the starn-sheets out o' sight. The beach was crowded with people anxious to hear the news; even the swaddies,[21] except two or three sentries, deserted the battery, now that all danger was past, as they thought. Well, the gig pulled towards the shore, just to amuse the Frenchmen, while another boat pulled directly to the battery, and, in quarter less no time, the sentries were knocked down, and the guns were tumbled off their carriages--there were lots o' crowbars and handspikes in the boat. Meantime, two other boats boarded the merchantmen, and afore you could say Jack Robinson, their crews, never dreaming of the English, were secured, their cables cut, and the boats towing them out, without a single shot being fired, or a man hurt. By this time the topsails were at the masthead aboard the frigate, and the anchor weighed, and she stood quietly out of the bay, and hove to. The French ensign was then hauled down, and with three roaring cheers from our ship's company, the red flag of Old England was run up in its stead. In a short time crews were put on board the prizes, the boats were hoisted in, and we shaped our course for the Channel. What do you think o' that now, sir, for a clever move?" [Footnote 20: Marines.] [Footnote 21: Soldiers.] "Capital, capital! I never heard a better. But what part of the play did Mr Dalzell and you act?" "Oh, I says nuthen. I knows who was the first officer to mount the battery, and who was the man as trod upon his heels; but that is neither here nor there. Kelso for ever! says I. I says nuthen." I could not help laughing at Tom's expressive "nuthens." "Kelso for ever, indeed!" said I. "Then the two Kelso men were foremost, eh?" "It's of no use denying it, sir, or making a secret of what's no secret at all. I believe that job was the 'casion of Mr Dalzell's having a swab tacked to his shoulder." "A swab!--what's a swab?" "It's what you long-shore gemmen calls an appleeat,[22] I believe, sir; a bunch o' gold yarns a leaftennan wears on his shoulder." [Footnote 22: Epaulette.] "Oh, ay! I understand." "Oh, how pleased he was when he got his commission some time after; and pleased was I to see his happy face, for I knowed he was a-thinking of the bonny lass he left behind him at Kelso. I hope he'll soon take her in tow now for life." Great was the sorrow the good-hearted fellow expressed, when I told him of Dalzell's disappointment. He swore he would find Grace Douglas, if she were above ground; and that he would leave no means untried, as long as he had health and strength to persevere. "Well, but how did you lose your arm, Tom?" "Oh, your honour, it was in that 'ere action with the Flower-de-louce. We were blazing away at each other as hard as we could lather, and I had jumped into the main-chains to do something I was ordered, when, crack! a musket-ball strikes me on the arm, and I fell overboard as helpless as a sucking-pig; and I'd have gone down like a pig of lead, if Leaftennan Dalzell hadn't banged overboard after me, and supported me to the rudder chains, where we hung till they gave us a rope. Long life to him! says I--I lost my arm, but I got a pension, and we both on us got lots o' prize money." At this point of Tom's yarn, Mr Dalzell called to me through the window-- "Here are some young visiters coming, Mr Thomson." I looked out, and replied-- "Oh, they are my two boys. I forgot to tell you that I am a father as well as a husband. The little fellows have been with their nurse, spending the forenoon at my sister's--the house you see there, through the trees. Let us go and meet them." And out we all sallied, Tom bringing up the rear. As we approached them, the nurse, who was talking and playing with the children, looked up, and, seeing Dalzell, uttered a faint scream, and turned deadly pale. "Holloa!" said I, hurrying towards her; "what is the matter with the girl?" My companion, however, was beforehand with me. He rushed past me, caught her in his arms, and, calling her his "dear, dear Grace," kissed her pale cheek till the blood mantled rosy red upon it again; while she murmured, "Dear Edward, then you have not forgot your Grace?" It was quite a romantic scene altogether, with a slight touch of the ludicrous. There was the girl hanging on Dalzell's arm, half-fainting, her head hanging back, her bonnet off, and her long, fair hair floating in the breeze; while hysterical sobs of joy burst from her every now and then; my little George roaring might and main, and sobbing out, "Naughty man! bite Nelly;" Dalzell, pale and agitated, alternately kissing her cheek and hugging her to his bosom; my wife crying; Tom Telford whirling round and round, waving his hat over his head, and flourishing his empty sleeve in the air; and I, the most sensible person in the group, standing staring in delighted astonishment at this pleasing and unexpected denouement. After the first excitement occasioned by this unlooked-for meeting was over, we all returned to the house, eager to hear Grace Douglas's account of her adventures. Before she begins, however, I must beg the reader's patience till I relate how she happened to be in my service. About a twelvemonth before, my wife was obliged to part with her nurserymaid, in consequence of her repeated acts of misconduct; and, not being able to replace her in the neighbourhood, she begged me to advertise for one in the public prints. In answer to this advertisement, a young and very lovely woman presented herself, whose appearance immediately prepossessed us in her favour. Her manners were mild and gentle, and such as were little to be expected in one in her rank of life. When asked for a character, she replied that she had never been in service; that she was an orphan, and had none to recommend her; that, if we liked to try her, she hoped and trusted she would give us satisfaction--at least no endeavour should be wanting on her part. She declined giving any account of her family, merely saying that adverse circumstances had obliged her to resort to this means of seeking a subsistence. _She_ did not care about wages; all that she wished for was protection and a comfortable home. My wife, much as she was pleased with her appearance and manner, was unwilling to make what she considered the dangerous experiment of engaging an unknown character; but I overruled her objections, in which I was materially assisted by mamma's darling, little George, who, attracted by the mild countenance and sweet voice of the stranger, clung to her side, and cried for her to remain. My wife could not resist the appeal; and Ellen Stewart, as she wished to be called, became one of our family, and soon proved herself worthy of our confidence. The substance of her previous history, as she related it to Dalzell, was as follows:-- A succession of bad crops, and of unfortunate farming speculations, had obliged her father to give up the farm in which they had so long lived happily together. His health had been long declining; and, when he died, she was left almost destitute. She had a maternal aunt, who was willing and anxious to share with her her trifling pittance; but she was determined not to be a burden on one who was hardly able to support herself. At this time our advertisement met her eye, and she immediately hastened to answer it--resolved, under an assumed name, to submit to the duties of a menial station, which she was sure, if her poor but proud aunt were let into the secret, she would indignantly oppose. She had written to her aunt, to assure her of her welfare, but without disclosing the name of her place of abode. She had had, before her father died, two very eligible offers of marriage, which she rejected; for she felt sure, she said, that her own Edward would return. Three weeks afterwards, the long-tried constancy of the lovers was rewarded--mutually rewarded; for they were worthy of each other. I had the pleasure of giving away the bride; and honest Tom enjoyed an extra glass of his favourite grog on the occasion, by way of "wetting his commission," as he called it--Dalzell having installed him as a kind of Jack-of-all-trades in his new establishment. The only drawback to his perfect happiness was, that he never lived to see his master an admiral. THE GOOD MAN OF DRYFIELD. "To Let, the Mansion-house of Dryfield. This is a small, genteel, self-contained house, beautifully situated on the banks of the Clyde, with large garden and seven acres of fine arable land attached. Rent moderate. Premises will be shown, and other particulars given, by Mr Pentland, farmer, Minnigrain, near Dryfield, who is also empowered to transact all matters relative to the letting of the house and grounds." Such, good reader, was an advertisement that appeared in the "Caledonian Mercury" some six-and-twenty years ago. Well, but what on earth has an advertisement of this sort to do with the Border Tales? Patience, kind friend--patience; and, as a certain humorous song--whose title we have forgotten--says, "you shall hear." This advertisement, commonplace as it may seem, possessed some interest for me at the time it appeared; for at that very moment I was commissioned, by a friend then resident in Jamaica, but who was contemplating an immediate return to his native country, to look out for exactly such a place as that described in the announcement above quoted. Having some recollection of the place myself, which I had casually seen several years before, as I passed on the top of the mail, I felt convinced that it was precisely such a residence as my friend desired. Under this impression, I determined on paying Dryfield a visit, and making a personal survey of the premises. Conform thereto, the following morning found me on the top of the mail. In six hours afterwards, I was at Minnigrain, and in the presence of its worthy occupant, Mr Pentland. He was a decent, substantial-looking farmer--plain and unsophisticated in his manners, intelligent, and shrewd, with a spice of humour about him which he seemed to have some difficulty in controlling. Having mentioned to Mr Pentland the purpose of my visit, and my wish to take a look of Dryfield and its premises, he instantly accompanied me thither--having previously provided himself with a couple of keys: one to procure us access to the garden, through which it was necessary to pass to reach the house; the other to admit us to the house itself. Our way lay through a romantic wood, that grew on a steep bank overhanging the Clyde, and which was traversed by various winding paths. Having taken one of these, we soon threaded the little forest, and, emerging at its western side, found ourselves on a green lawn, at the further end of which stood the mansion-house of Driffel, as it was more shortly pronounced by the natives. It was a compact and comfortable-looking house, but had evidently been long untenanted. Everything around it was running to waste. The honeysuckle, with which its walls had been clothed, had fallen from its fastenings, and was idly sweeping the footpath below; the flower-plats in front were over-run with weeds; the garden was uncropped; and shrubs, bushes, and trees were revelling in an unprofitable luxuriance. Everything, in short, bespoke neglect, and the absence of a presiding care and taste. "The house does not seem to have been tenanted for a long time, Mr Pentland?" said I, as we walked towards the house. "'Deed, it's a gey while since there was what ye may ca' a reglar tenant in't," replied my companion. "We hae had families, from time to time, for a month or twa in the summer season, but nae reglar tenant since Mr Darsy himsel left, and that's gaun noo in ten years since." "Is Mr Darsy dead?" "Ou no! He gaed abroad for the benefit o' his health--him and his man Ramsay. He was to hae been back in six months, but he has never returned yet. But I'm sure the blessin o' the poor and the needcessitous'll follow the worthy man wherever he goes." "He was a benevolent man, was he?" "That he was, sir. Just ane o' the best men breathin. Some folk thocht him a wee whimsical now and then; but his heart was in the richt place. He had just five hunner a-year; and I'm sure he gied awa three o't in charity, if he gied a saxpence." "Any family?" "No; he never was married. It's said that he was ance crossed in love in his younger days; but whether this be sae or no, I dinna ken. There was naebody lived here wi' him but an auld maiden sister, his man Ramsay, and twa servant lasses. His sister's dead; and it's thocht it was partly her death that sent him awa frae Dryfield; for they war just extraordinar attached to ane anither. Just to show you, sir, how worthy a man he is," continued Mr Pentland, "the rent o' this property is, by his orders, to be handed owre to the minister, for the use o' the poor o' the parish." Just as the conversation had reached this point, we reached the door of the house. Mr Pentland inserted the key, but found some difficulty in turning the lock, from its having become stiff and rusted through disuse. While he was engaged in alternately coaxing and forcing the obstinate bolt, my attention was attracted by an inscription on the stone over the doorway. This inscription was in part concealed by some straggling branches of honeysuckle which had broken loose from their fastenings, and were hanging over it. These I removed with the end of my stick, and having done so, read-- "To balance fortune by a just expense, Join with economy magnificence." The quotation I remembered was from Pope, and thought it rather a peculiar sort of taste that had placed it where I now saw it. By this time, Mr Pentland had succeeded in opening the door; and we entered. I found the house to be an excellent one--well finished, commodious, and judiciously arranged. Having gone through all the rooms, we finished our survey by a visit to the kitchen. On entering this apartment, the first thing that caught my eye was a small board over the fireplace, on which, in gilt letters on a black ground, were the following lines:-- "To worth or want, well-weigh'd, be bounty given And ease, or emulate the care of Heaven; Whose measure full o'erflows on human race, Mend Fortune's fault, and justify her grace." "What!" said I, "Pope again?" Mr Pentland smiled. "Ou ay, sir," he at length said, "Mr Darsy had an awfu wark wi' Pope; and so had his man Ramsay. It was that brocht them first thegither, and it's maistly that has keepit them thegither ever since, nearly thirty year. Mr Darsy was aye gi'ein us screeds o' Pope; and onybody that could quote Pope to him was sure to win his favour, and to get a' the assistance he could gie them in whatever way they micht want it. It was a queer conceit o' his; and mony a time the worthy man was imposed on, by designin folk, through the medium o' this fancy. When ony o' that kind wanted his assistance, they had naething ado but get twa or three lines o' Pope by heart, come to him wi' a lang face, and tak an opportunity o' slippin out the lines, and their business was done. I've seen him actually shed tears when he was quotin his favourite author. He was just clean crazed about him. He made me a present o' the 'Essay on Man,' and gied me nae rest, nicht or day, till I got every line o't by heart." "But he did you a good service in that, my friend," said I: "it is a noble poem--full of fine thoughts, beautifully expressed." "Nae doot o't," replied Mr Pentland: "I like the poem weel, and think as much o' Pope as ony man. He is a great philosopher, as well as a great poet; but my excellent friend, Mr Darsy, just carried the thing a wee owre far. His admiration o' him, or rather his constant and open expression of that admiration, bordered on the ridiculous: it amounted to a weakness--although, in other respects, Mr Darsy was a man of great good sense. I've heard him and his man Ramsay--for he's just as great an admirer o' Pope as his master--firin quotations at ane anither for an hour thegither. Indeed they never spoke for five minutes without exchangin a couplet or twa, and seldom conversed on onything else but the merits o' Pope." In this sketch of the worthy proprietor of Dryfield, I thought I recognised--what I always took much delight in contemplating--an original character; and this was one of the best sort--a compound of oddity and benevolence. What had just been told me of him was enough to excite my curiosity, but far from being enough to gratify it. This, however, I hoped circumstances would yet effect for me; for, feeling amused by Mr Darsy's peculiarities, and interested by his worth, I determined on learning all about him that I could; and ample opportunity for doing so was subsequently afforded me. Having expressed to Mr Pentland my satisfaction with the house, and my wish to take it, he proposed that we should adjourn to his residence, and there settle the transaction by missive. We did so; and when the business was concluded, Mr Pentland kindly suggested that, as the day was now far advanced, I had better remain with him all night, and return home the following morning with the first coach. To this proposal, seeing that it would afford me an opportunity of learning something more of Mr Darsy, I at once agreed, and was soon after put in possession, by my good host, Mr Pentland, of some particulars regarding that gentleman, which I have thought might not be found unamusing. "Of Mr Darsy's early history," said Mr Pentland, who, at my request, began an account of his late worthy neighbour immediately after the dinner-cloth had been drawn, "I do not know much. He was bred, originally, I believe, for the church, but never took orders; for what reason I am ignorant; but have heard it alleged, that it was owing to an extreme diffidence of nature, which shrank at the idea of speaking in public. "Fortunately, his circumstances, although far from being affluent, were such as to enable him to yield to this timidity; and I am not sure that he ever adopted any regular profession in lieu of the one he abandoned. He bought Dryfield about twenty years since, when he also came to reside there; and it was then my acquaintance with him began. From that period till his departure for France, we lived in the closest intimacy and friendship; and during all that period I never heard or saw anything of him but what redounded to his honour. To quote his own favourite author--for he set us a' a-quoting Pope-- 'Him portion'd maids, apprenticed orphans, bless'd-- The young who labour, and the old who rest.' He was truly the Man of Ross in all that is kind and benevolent." "Oh, say," said I, smiling-- 'Oh, say, what sums that generous hand supply-- What mines to swell that boundless charity?'" My kind host laughed heartily, and readily replied-- "'Of debts and taxes, wife and children clear, This man possess'd five hundred pounds a-year. "Such a sum, or one thereabouts, was, in truth, all his dependance; yet the good he did with it was amazing. "When Mr Darsy came first to our neighbourhood, his family consisted of his sister only, and one servant-maid; and it is probable it would never have received any addition, but for the circumstance which added Sandy Ramsay to the establishment--as original a character as his master. Sandy was a sort of general jobber of country work--a good hand at cutting drains, clipping hedges, and felling and thinning timber, making and erecting wooden railings, &c. &c. "But, besides, and better than all this, Sandy was a learned man. He read a great deal, and was not a little vain of his acquisitions in this way. He was, however, a lively, good-natured little fellow, and very generally liked, notwithstanding that he gave himself out for a philosopher, and looked very grave and wise when he was asserting his pretensions to that character, or when he thought those pretensions were either overlooked or denied. "Such was Sandy Ramsay, and such was the person whom Mr Darsy found one morning, shortly after his arrival at Dryfield, working at a wooden railing at a little distance from the house. "'Good morning, honest man,' said Mr Darsy, approaching him with that kindly familiarity of manner which distinguished all his intercourse with his inferiors. "'Guid mornin, sir,' replied Sandy, resting on the wooden mallet with which he was driving the rails. 'Grand wather for the country, sir.' "'Excellent,' rejoined Mr Darsy. 'The crops in this neighbourhood look uncommonly well, and I think we shall have both an early and a plentiful harvest. Thanks be to God!' "'Yes, sir, as ye say, thank God for't,' replied Sandy. 'There's a reasonable prospect o' baith peace and plenty in the country; and, as Pope says, 'This day be bread and peace my lot; All else beneath the sun, Thou knowest if best bestow'd or not; And let thy will be done!' "'Ah, Pope, my friend!' said Mr Darsy, his eye sparkling with delight. 'So you are conversant with Pope, are you?' "'A wee bit, sir; his works form the staple o' my readin. I admire baith his poetry and his philosophy.' "'Ah, indeed! Well, do you know, I like that,' replied Mr Darsy. 'I'm one of Pope's worshippers, too; he is my guide, philosopher, and friend-- 'Correct with spirit, eloquent with ease, Intent to reason, or polite to please.' "'Yes, sir; and, better still,' replied Sandy, 'he 'Turn'd the tuneful art From sounds to things, from fancy to the heart.' "'And,' shouted Mr Darsy, in ecstasy-- 'For Wit's false mirror held up Nature's light-- Show'd erring Pride _whatever is, is right_.' "'And,' exclaimed Sandy, energetically, and waving his hand aloft, in the excitation of his feelings, as he spoke-- 'That reason, passion, answer one great aim; That true self-love and social are the same.' "Mr Darsy, striking his stick emphatically on the ground-- 'That virtue only makes our bliss below, And all our knowledge is ourselves to know.' "Having thus finished the concluding part of the 'Essay on Man' between them, Mr Darsy, with a gracious and benevolent smile, held out his hand to Sandy, seized that of the latter, and shook it with cordial warmth. From that moment, notwithstanding the disparity of their social position, they were sworn friends. "In a short time after this, Mr Darsy proposed to Sandy to enter his service, at a fixed rate of wages, to look after his garden, and be otherwise generally useful. To this proposal the latter readily assented; and they have been together ever since, quoting Pope to one another daily, and daily descanting on the merits of their favourite author. "Having now got an able and active assistant in Sandy Ramsay, and one who had a very competent knowledge of agricultural affairs, Mr Darsy determined on cultivating the few acres of ground which he had bought along with the house of Dryfield. His resolution before had been to let them; but he now bethought him of keeping them in his own hands. These lands had been allowed to run to waste by the former proprietor, who was a great speculator in everything, and in every way, where there was no chance of remuneration. One of these speculations was, to build, at various intervals, over the grounds alluded to, a number of fantastic tower-like structures, for a purpose which none could guess, and which was wholly unknown to all but the contriver himself. "Whatever the purpose was, however, for which these towers were erected, they were never applied to it. Some other whim struck the noddle of the speculator, and they were allowed (most of them only half-built) to fall into ruins--an eyesore to look at, and an encumbrance to the ground. "These stone-and-lime vagaries Mr Darsy now determined on removing, and of applying the surrounding lands to their proper use. Full of this design, which had suddenly struck him one day as he was out walking, he hastened, on his return, to the garden where Ramsay was at work, and told him of his intentions. "'I shall have all these lands laid down in corn, Sandy,' said Mr Darsy. "'Richt, sir, richt,' replied the former, thrusting his spade into the ground, and resting his elbow on the apex of the upright handle. 'Quite richt, too.' "'Another year,' said Mr Darsy-- 'Another _year_ shall see the golden ear Embrown the slope, and nod on the parterre; Deep harvests bury all his pride has plann'd, And laughing Ceres reassume the land.' "'Yes, sir,' replied Sandy-- ''Tis use alone that sanctifies expense, And splendour borrows all her rays from sense.' "'No doubt of it, Sandy,' said Mr Darsy. 'Beautiful sentiment, and admirably expressed.' "The project of cultivating the land having been thus settled by the assistance of Pope, Sandy was instructed to look out for the necessary means, proper implements, and, first and most important of all, a pair of good stout draught horses. This last want of Mr Darsy's was one that soon became known throughout the country; and, as Mr Darsy was always reckoned a liberal and punctual man to deal with, he had soon abundance of offers; and they were not a whit the less numerous, perhaps, that he was thought to be no great judge of the article he wanted. "Amongst those whose ears Mr Darsy's want of a pair of horses reached, was a certain dealer in horse-flesh, of the name of William Craig, as great a rascal as Scotland perhaps ever had the honour of producing; but he was withal a pleasant knave, and always cheated with the greatest good-humour imaginable. The smile was never off his countenance, excepting when he saw it for his interest to look grave, and then he could put on a face of sympathy and sentiment that it would break your heart to look at. He was, in short, a most plausible and most accomplished scoundrel--clever, and well-informed. "On hearing that Mr Darsy wanted a couple of horses, and that he had already rejected several that had been offered him-- "'I'll try my hand on him,' said Willie; 'and if I dinna fix him, blame me.' "'Do you mean by gi'ein him a fair bargain, Willie?' inquired the friend to whom he had made the boast above quoted. "'Never did that in my life to onybody, and I'm no gaun to begin now,' replied Willie. "'Then, how do you propose to fix him, Willie, as ye ca't?' "'Leave that to me,' said the honest horse-jockey. 'I'll do him owre as clean's a leek. I'll _trot_ him out as cleverly as I ever did ony beast wi' four legs. I hae the secret o' him.' "'What do you ca' the secret o' him, Willie? What do you mean by that?' "'Aha, lad! How's your mother?' replied Willie, laughing, and touching the side of his nose emphatically with the point of his forefinger. 'I'll keep my thumb on that till I hae tried it.' "On that very afternoon, Willie posted off to Dryfield with a couple of horses on which he had practised every secret of his art to give them a passable appearance. On one of the horses Willie himself was mounted; the other he led by a halter; and, thus disposed, arrived at a swinging trot at Mr Darsy's. That gentleman had seen his approach from a window, and, guessing the purpose of his visit, was now at the door to receive him. "Willie touched his hat:-- "'Heard, sir, that ye war in want o' a pair o' guid workin beasts,' said Willie, 'and hae broucht ye twa prime anes here to look at. No a bonnier or better pair between this and Johnny Groat's, and just a real bargain as to price.' "'Why, my good fellow, I certainly do want a couple of good draught horses,' replied Mr Darsy, eyeing Willie's bargain with a scrutinising look; for he had already been so often the subject of attempted imposition in the way of horse-dealing, that he could not help entertaining suspicions of the intentions of every one who approached him for such a purpose. 'I certainly do want a couple of good draught horses,' he said; 'but really, being no great judge myself, and some attempts having been made to take me in, I--I----' "'Feth, I weel believe that, sir,' interposed Willie. 'It's just incredible the villany that's practised in this trade o' ours. Some men hae nae conscience, and wad sell their very souls for gould--gould--gould--that curse o' the human race, that some think was 'Sent to keep the fools in play, For some to heap and some to throw away. But _I_, who think more highly of our kind (And surely Heaven and _I_ are of a mind), Opine that Nature, as in duty bound, Deep hid the shining mischief under ground.' That's my opinion, sir,' continued Willie; 'and I houp ye'll excuse the liberty I hae taen o' gi'ein ye't in poetry, but Pope comes tricklin' aff my tongue, whether I will or no, just like water aff a dyuck's back.' "'Excuse ye, my friend!' said the astonished and delighted Mr Darsy, with a gracious smile. 'My dear sir, your quotation requires no apology. It is appropriate, and to the purpose. A fine idea--tersely and pithily expressed. The man, sir, who studies Pope as he ought to be studied, and who acts on the principles he inculcates, will infallibly secure 'What nothing earthly gives or can destroy-- The soul's calm sunshine, and the heartfelt joy.' "'Yes, sir,' replied Willie:-- 'Say, in pursuit of profit and delight, Who risk the most--that take wrong means, or right, Of vice or virtue, whether blest or curst; Which meets contempt, or which compassion first; Count all the advantage prosperous vice attains-- 'Tis but what virtue flies from and disdains.' "'It is, it is!' shouted Mr Darsy, in ecstasy. 'Enough, my dear sir, enough,' he said, extending his hand to Willie, while a tear of emotion glistened in his eye. 'Come into the house, and take a little refreshment, and let us see if we cannot make a bargain about these horses. They look very well, and, I daresay, will suit my purpose.' "'Just the very thing, sir, ye may depend on't,' replied Willie, who had now dismounted, and was holding both horses by the halters. 'There's that black ane, I'm unco sweer to part wi't; but the want o' siller gars a puir man mak mony a sacrifice baith to his interest and to his feelins. O' that black horse, sir, I may safely say there's no his match in the county; yet I daurna, nor wadna, ask his price for him, for it wad be considered just an imposition.' "'But, my good friend,' interposed Mr Darsy, 'I hope you do not think that I would take advantage of you in any way--that I would avail myself of the urgency of your necessities, to give you less than the just value of your horse. God forbid! You shall have his price, be that what it may.' "'Oh, I'm no misdootin that, sir, no the least; but----' "'I say, my friend, by the way' (here again interrupted Mr Darsy, as they approached the house, being now within a few yards of the door), 'be so good as make no allusion to Pope in the presence of my sister, whom you will likely see; for she, poor woman, has just as little philosophy about her as the rest of her sex. "Woman and fool," you know-- 'Woman and fool are both too hard to hit; For true no-meaning puzzles more than wit.' "Willie smiled. 'No far wrang, sir, I daresay. It's, I doot, owre true.' "'She's a good, kind-hearted creature,' resumed Mr Darsy; 'but if there be any one thing on earth that she abhors above all other things, it is Pope. She cannot endure his name, ever since she read his "Characters of Women;" but you and I, my friend, know that there is more truth in that essay than her sex would willingly allow. 'In men we various ruling passions find; In women, two almost divide the kind. Those, only fix'd, they first and last obey-- The love of pleasure, and the love of sway.' "Having now reached the house, Mr Darsy desired Willie to remain a minute in charge of the horses, until he went for his factotum, Sandy Ramsay, whom he wished to see the animals, and whose judgment he meant to consult, as to their purchase. Sandy he found, as usual, in the garden. "'Here is a decent, honest, well-informed, and intelligent man, Sandy,' said Mr Darsy, 'with a pair of horses for sale, which I wish you to come and look at.' "'What ca' they him, sir?' inquired Sandy. "'Why, I don't know; I didn't ask his name,' replied Mr Darsy. "'I hope it's no Willie Craig,' said the former, drawing on his coat; 'for he's a slippery chiel, Willie; an' I wadna say that even my caution wad be a match for his cunning.' "'Whether his name be Craig or not, I do not know,' replied Mr Darsy; 'but this I do know, that he seems to be a very intelligent and conscientious man. He is a great admirer of our favourite author, Sandy, and quotes him with great propriety and facility; and of such a man I would not willingly believe any ill. "'He quotes Pope, sir, does he?' exclaimed Sandy. 'Then, sir, he's just the man. That's Willie Craig, beyond a' manner o' doot; and the biggest rogue this day in Scotland.' "'Come, come, Sandy,' said Mr. Darsy, a little severely, shocked at the idea of a rogue quoting Pope, and disbelieving the existence of such a moral incongruity--'come, come, Sandy,' he said, 'you judge too harshly; you speak unguardedly. The man is, I doubt not, a very honest man; and "an honest man," you know, Sandy, "is the noblest work of God."' "'I've seen that disputed, sir,' said Sandy; 'an' I think, after a' wi' some success. A man of great parts an' genius is surely a nobler creature than a'.' "'I'm grieved, Sandy, to find your moral perceptions so weak,' here interrupted Mr Darsy. 'Don't you see, or rather will you not see, that----' "'I really canna see, sir,' interrupted Sandy, in his turn 'that----' "'Well, but let me explain myself,' again interrupted Mr Darsy; and, having at length obtained this permission, he went on to expound the disputed text, after his own views of its bearings. "Sandy replied; Mr Darsy rejoined; and a hot dispute, of a good half-hour's continuance, ensued between master and man, on the moral points involved in the quotation; such disputes, by the way, being a frequent occurrence between them; for, although they agreed most cordially on the general merits of Pope, there were many minute points--some as to the meaning of passages; others as to their morality--on which they differed, as on the present occasion, and on which they spoke for hours on end. "To return to the instance just now under notice: they were thus engaged--that is, settling the moral bearing of the quotation above given--and so earnest in their employment, as to be totally oblivious of everything else--and, amongst the rest, Willie Craig and his horses--when Miss Darsy came running into the garden, just as her brother had begun a new section of his defence of Pope, with-- "'Pope, sir--I say Pope distinctly means----' "'Gracious heaven, Mr Darsy!' exclaimed Miss Sarah, 'are you at that odious Pope again? Have you forgotten that there has been a man with two horses waiting on you for this half-hour past? It is too bad--too bad, Mr Darsy.' "'I acknowledge it, my dear--I acknowledge it,' replied the benevolent and good-natured Popite, smiling kindly on his sister; 'but I am sure the honest man will forgive me when I tell him the cause.' "'Will he?' said his sister. 'I should rather think he will consider it an aggravation of the offence.' "'There you are wrong, Sarah, my dear,' rejoined Mr Darsy; 'for the man understands these things.' "'What!' exclaimed his sister, in alarm; 'does _he_ quote Pope, too? Do horse-jockeys quote Pope?' "'And why not, my dear?' said Mr Darsy, gladly seizing on this general query to avoid making any discoveries on the particular one. 'Why not, my dear? Why may not a horse-jockey understand and appreciate Pope as well as any other man? There is nothing to hinder him.' "'Oh, certainly not,' replied Miss Darsy; 'but oh! if he was dosed with Pope as I am--if he had Pope! Pope! ringing in his ears night and day, in all situations and on all occasions, as I have--he would grow sick, sick, at the very name.' "'Ah, Sarah, Sarah!' replied her brother, smiling-- 'Believe me--good as well as ill-- Woman's at best---- "'Pope again!' screamed Miss Darsy, putting her fingers in her ears, and rushing distractedly away from her Pope-mad brother. "The latter looked after her with a smile of pity, and perhaps a very slight matter of contempt mingled with it, and began again, and finished with additional emphasis, the quotation in which he had been interrupted. Then, turning to Sandy-- "'Let us go and take a look at this honest man's horses, Sandy,' he said. 'We have used him rather ill, after all; but I'll explain.' "In the next minute the parties had met, and the first thing Mr Darsy did was to explain to Willie, as he had proposed to do, the reason of his absence. "'A' richt, sir--a' richt,' replied Willie, graciously. 'There's far frae bein ony harm dune; and, besides, your excuse is a guid ane, although ye had been an hour langer.' "Willie, at the special request of Sandy Ramsay, now proceeded to put his horses through their paces; and, while the former was at a little distance in the performance of this duty--'Is that the man you meant, Sandy?' said Mr Darsy. "'I dinna ken him by sight, sir--only by repute,' replied Sandy; 'but, if he quotes Pope to you, he maun be the man, for he's a cunning scoundrel, and doubtless kens you're fond o' the little crooked poet.' "'Sandy, Sandy, you have a scurrilous tongue,' said Mr Darsy. 'You'll find the man prove an honest one, I have no doubt, and will, I am sure, feel then ashamed of what you are now saying to his prejudice.' "'Maybe, sir; but I'll be surer o' my man after I hae heard a quotation or twa, and still surer after ye hae bocht the horses; for if he doesna _do_ ye, he's most assuredly no Willie Craig.' "Here the conversation was interrupted by the return of the horse-dealer, who approached them, leading one of his horses at a full trot. Both animals having been subjected to this display-- "'Now, my good friend,' said Mr Darsy, 'what's your price?' "'Why, then, juist to be at a word wi' ye, sir,' replied Willie, taking off his hat with one hand, and scratching his head with the other, 'I'll take thirty guineas for the black ane, and twenty for the brown; and I'm sure that's a dead bargain--juist throwing the cattle awa. It's no a month since I was offered forty guineas in my loof for that black beast, but I wasna sae hard pressed for siller then as I'm noo, and I refused it.' "'Sandy,' said Mr Darsy, turning to the farmer, 'what do you say to these prices? You have some knowledge of horses.' "'I say, sir, that, as near as I can guess, they're juist aboot the dooble o' what they ocht to be. That black horse, if I'm no mista'en, is broken-winded, and 'll be dead lame in a week; and the brown ane's no a grain better.' "Willie looked at Mr Darsy with a smile of conscious integrity, and of calm contempt at once of the slander and the judgment of the slanderer. The unsuspecting Mr Darsy returned the look, attributing Sandy's decision to prejudice. "'Come now, Sandy,' said the farmer, 'forget that you have any interest to serve in this matter, and deal fairly between man and man.' "'But it's no between man and man, sir,' said Sandy; 'it's between man and a horse-jockey; and it's weel kent that's no a fair match. It wad tak the deil himsel to deal wi' a horse-couper.' "Willie smiled again the smile of conscious innocence; and, turning to Mr. Darsy, said-- "'I rather think ye will agree wi' me, sir, that 'Honour and shame from no condition rise; Act well your part'-- and he looked expressively at Sandy-- _there_ all the honour lies.' "'Unquestionably,' replied Mr Darsy, 'it is 'Worth makes the man, and want of it the fellow; The rest is all but leather and prunello.' "'Yes, sir,' said Willie-- 'For modes of faith, let graceless zealots fight, His can't be wrong whose life is in the right.' "'Certainly not--certainly not,' exclaimed Mr Darsy, in raptures. 'One self-approving hour whole years outweighs Of stupid starers, and of loud hurrahs.' "'Nae denyin't,' said Willie; 'and to a' wha doot it, I wad say-- Know, then, this truth (enough for man to know), Virtue alone is happiness below.' And, as he repeated the last line, he laid his hand with solemn emphasis on his heart. "This last quotation did Willie's business. "'Come, come,' said Mr Darsy, shedding tears of delight, and taking Willie by the arm to conduct him into the house, 'let us settle this small matter at once, and off hand. Just say at once, my friend, the lowest sum you really will take for these horses, and they are mine. Sandy there is a well-meaning man, but he has his prejudices, as we all have.' "'Weel then, sir, juist to be at a word wi' ye,' replied Willie, 'I'll tak nine-and-twenty guineas for the black horse, and nineteen for the brown ane; and if that's no a bargain, I never gied or got ane in my life.' "'They're no worth the half o't, I manteen,' exclaimed Sandy, energetically. "'Hush, Sandy, hush, man,' said Mr Darsy. 'I'm sure the horses are a fair bargain. This honest man would never ask more than they are worth.' "'Wadna he, feth? said Sandy, with a satirical smile. 'Sir, I'm thinkin ye'll fin out that before ye're a week aulder. Wait ye till the horses hae been twa days in the plough, and ye'll see whether he has asked mair than the worth o' them or no. I wadna trust him farrer than I could throw a bull by the tail.' "'Sandy, Sandy,' exclaimed Mr Darsy, in a deprecating tone, 'you have really a scandalous tongue. Have you forgot that beautiful verse in the universal prayer-- 'Teach me to feel another's wo; To hide the fault I see; That mercy I to others show, That mercy show to me.' "'That's a' very weel, sir; but I canna agree to hide the _cheat_ I see--that's a different sort o' thing a'thegither.' "'Sandy,' said Mr Darsy, in a still more angry tone, 'I really will hear no more of this.' And thus rebuked, Sandy said no more; he saw it would be useless. "Leaving the latter in charge of the horses, Mr Darsy and Willie now went into the house; and there the latter received the price of his cattle, together with a comfortable refection, during which he and his host kept up a running fire of quotations from Pope. "The former, as the reader will recollect, had cautioned the latter not to make any allusion to the author just named in the hearing of his sister; and this caution Willie observed. He took care to make no quotations while she was present; but he had not been put on his guard against her overhearing them, and the consequence was, that some of them were made in a tone so emphatically loud, that she did overhear them, even from the distance of an adjoining apartment. Perhaps few else than Miss Sarah could have discerned what were the words so spoken; but _her_ ears were so sensitively alive to the language of the abhorred Pope, that she at once recognised them; and on doing so, immediately sent for her brother to come and speak with her, for she had known him to have been repeatedly swindled by Pope-quoters before, some of whom had committed a scrap or two to memory for the express purpose. "'James,' said Miss Sarah, on his coming into the apartment where she was,'I hear that man quoting Pope. Now, James, I beg you'll be on your guard; for you may depend upon it he intends to cheat you. Recollect how often you have been taken in by Pope-quoters. There was the man that borrowed five pounds from you, on the strength of a quotation; there was the man that got your name to a fifty-pound bill, of which you had afterwards to pay every farthing, through precisely a similar claim on your bounty--for he had no other; then there was the fellow whom you recommended to the wood-merchants, and who forged a bill on his employers; then there were the silver spoons that you bought from the packman, and that turned out to be pewter and tin--all because they quoted Pope; then there was----But it would take me a week to go over half the impositions of which you have been the victim, through that detested and detestable Pope.' "To this tirade poor Mr Darsy listened with the utmost patience and meekness, while a smile of good-nature, blended with an expression of pity for his sister's blindness to the merits of the poet, played on his intelligent and benevolent countenance. "'Well, Sarah, my dear,' he said, when his sister had done speaking, 'if I have been taken in by these people, as I am willing enough to allow I have, whether does the shame and disgrace lie with them or me?' "'I do not know, James, where the shame and disgrace lie,' said his sister; 'but I have a pretty good guess, and so have you, where the loss does. But all that I have to say, just now, James, is--be on your guard in your dealings with this Pope-quoting horse-couper.' "Mr Darsy was about to come out with a quotation in reply--he had a very apt one at his finger ends--but, recollecting that this would only further irritate his sister, he made a violent effort, and suppressed it, and merely said, with his usual benevolent smile, 'I'll take care, Sarah, my dear; I'll take care.' And, saying this, he left the apartment, and, rejoined Willie Craig, who soon after took his leave, with his money in his pocket, and a good dose of whisky punch under his belt. "On leaving the house, Willie came accidentally across Sandy Ramsay, who was at the moment in the act of yoking the black horse to a cart. "'Ye hae gotten a prime beast there, Sandy,' said Willie. "'If we hae, I'm thinkin we hae paid as weel for him,' replied the latter dryly. 'I'm dootin ye hae saft-saped the master to some purpose. Ye hae come Pope owre him, as ither folks hae dune before ye.' "Willie smiled significantly, clapped his finger to his nose, and walked on without vouchsafing any other reply. "'What horse is that, Sandy?' said Mr Darsy on the forenoon of the second day after Willie Craig's visit, as the former approached the house, leading an old grey, lame beast by the halter. "'Do ye no ken him, sir?' replied Sandy, with an ominous smile. "'No,' rejoined Mr Darsy, gravely. "'Indeed, it's little wonder. This is Willie Craig's _black_ horse, but your grey ane.' "'What do you mean, Sandy?' said Mr Darsy, in a tone of alarm. 'You don't mean to say that that's my horse, my black horse?' "'It's a' that's for him, sir?' replied Sandy. 'A shower o' rain's made a' the difference. It has washed him into what ye see him--made him as grey as an auld rat. But his change o' colour's no the warst o't. See, he hasna a leg to staun upon, and every teeth that was in his head's faun oot. There they are, every ane.' And Sandy pulled a handful of horse-teeth out of his pocket. 'I hurried him hame out o' the plough,' continued Sandy, 'before he wad fa' in pieces a'thegither, as I expected every moment he wad do.' "Mr Darsy held up his hands in amazement at this most extraordinary metamorphosis of his famous black charger, and muttered an ejaculation of surprise at the very strange occurrence, but said nothing for a few seconds. Although he said nothing, however, he felt a good deal; not for the pecuniary loss it involved--for that he did not care--but for the credit of the admirers of Pope. His sister, too--what would she say to it? Here was another instance of imposition chargeable against his adored author, to add to the long list of which she was already in possession. It was an awkward affair. He would ten times rather that the price of the horse had been thrown into the sea; and this he would cheerfully have done, had the alternative been put in his power. But there was no help for it. "'Sandy,' said Mr Darsy, after musing for a moment on the astounding deception which had just come to light, 'I'll tell you what it is, regarding this very strange affair. I think it very possible--nay, very likely--that the man Craig has been himself imposed upon with this horse, and that he knew nothing of its defects; for I cannot believe that so decent, intelligent, and well-informed a man as he is, could be guilty of such villany as this. I cannot believe it. Now, then, Sandy, I'll tell you what you'll do--you'll take the brown horse----' "'Wi, your leave, sir, I'll no do that, for yon beast's no chancy to come near, let alane to ride. He's the maist vicious brute I ever saw, and 'll neither hap, stap, nor win. I dinna think ye'll ever get ony guid o' him.' "'God bless me!' exclaimed Mr Darsy, confounded at this additional misfortune; 'he seemed quiet enough when brought here by Craig.' "'Nae doot o't, he did,' replied Sandy; 'and heaven knows hoo the scoundrel managed it! But he's a very different thing noo, I can tell ye, sir.' "'Dear me! that's really odd,' said Mr Darsy. 'Well, then, Sandy, I'll tell you what you'll do: you'll go to our good neighbour Mr Pentland, and get the loan of a pony from him, and ride over the length of Craig's--he lives, you know, at Longlane; it's only about nine miles distant--and tell him what has taken place; and I have no doubt he will at once refund the money, or, at any rate, give us other horses instead of those we have bought. He, indeed, said he would do the former, if we found anything wrong with them within a month.' "'Catch him there, sir, if ye can,' said Sandy. 'The deil a bodle o' the price he'll ever gi'e back. He's no sae saft in the horn as that. He wad promise ye, I ha'e nae doot--he promises the same thing to every ane he sells a horse to; but whar's the man ever got a penny back frae Willy Craig, for a' that? I would gie half-a-croon mysel to see him.' "'Well, well, but do you just try him, Sandy,' said Mr Darsy; 'and I have no doubt you will find all turn out right, notwithstanding of appearances.' "Thus summarily enjoined, Sandy obtained the loan of a pony, mounted, and set off for Longlane, to have an interview with Willie Craig on the subject of his master's purchase. "Willie was standing at the door of his own house when Sandy approached; and, knowing well what he came about, would have retreated; but it was too late. He was seen; and, aware of this, he kept his ground manfully, and resolved to face out fearlessly the coming storm, as he had done many a one of a similar kind before. On Sandy's approach, Willie, thrusting his hands into his breeches-pockets, and bursting into a loud laugh, hailed his coming visiter with-- 'Come, then, my friend! my genius! come along!' "'Ay, I'll come along,' replied Sandy, angrily; 'and maybe to your cost. "'Awake, my St John!' shouted Willie-- 'Awake, my St John! leave all meaner things To low ambition, and the pride of kings; Let us (since life can little more supply), Than just to look about us, and to die----' "'Come, come, Willie, nane o' yer blarney for me,' said Sandy, now dismounting. 'Ye're no gaun to saft-sape me that way. What kind o' horses were they ye selt us? "'Just the very pick o' the country,' replied Willie, coolly. "'Ay, if ye mean the warst,' said Sandy. 'But to come to the point at ance--I'm sent here, Willie, by Mr Darsy--although I ken weel it's a fruitless errand--to tell ye that yer horses hae turned oot to be no worth their hides; that yer black ane has changed to a dirty grey wi' a shower o' rain, and is dead lame; and that the brown ane'll neither work in plough nor cart.' "'Dear me, Sandy, ye surprise me!' replied Willie, with a look of amazement as like the genuine as it was possible for any man to assume. "'Maybe I do,' said Sandy; 'but I hardly believe it. However, this being the case, my master has sent me to say that he expects you'll refund him the siller, as ye promised, or find him ither twa horses worth the amount, in their stead.' "'Whee-ee-ee-ou!' whistled Willie. 'Is that the next o't? Weel, I didna think your maister was sae unreasonable a man as that comes to, Sandy; but there's a heap o' queer folk in this world.' "'My feth! there's that,' said the latter; 'and some o' them no far aff.' "'As lang's _ye're_ sae near, ye may say that, Sandy,' replied Willie; 'but to gie ye an answer to Mr Darsy, tell him, wi' my compliments, Sandy, that there's a truth among Pope's maxims that he doesna seem to hae fan oot. Tell him, wi' my best respects, that, in 'Spite of pride, in erring reason's spite, One truth is clear, whatever is, is right. Tell ye him _that_, Sandy, and I'm sure he'll be perfectly satisfied.' "'Do ye no mean to refund the money, then?' inquired Sandy. "'Deil a cowrie,' said Willie. "'Nor to gie him ither horses in exchange?' "'No a hoof.' "'Weel, then, _ye_ are an infernal scoundrel--that's a' I hae to say,' replied Sandy, remounting his pony, and starting off on his return home. "On arriving at Dryfield, Sandy hastened to Mr Darsy's apartment, to inform him of the result of his mission, but, on opening the door, drew hastily back again, on finding a stranger in the room. "'Come in--come in, Sandy,' said Mr Darsy, on observing the former retreating. 'This gentleman will excuse your intrusion; for he is a 'Friend to truth! of soul sincere, In action faithful, and in honour clear.' "It might be so--of this we shall be better able to judge by and by; but the reader will think with us, we have little doubt, that this was saying rather too much of an acquaintance of half-an-hour; for no longer had the stranger been known to him by whom he was thus so highly complimented. Mr Darsy's visitor was, or at least represented himself to be, an itinerant preacher, who, aware, as he said, of that gentleman's benevolence and hospitality, had taken the liberty of calling on him as he passed on his pious vocation. This account of himself and calling, he wound up with a very apt quotation from Pope; and, we need hardly add, that it was to this circumstance he was mainly indebted for the rapid progress he had made in Mr Darsy's affections. "To return to our story:--On Mr Darsy's repeating the couplet above quoted, the stranger, who was a decent, quiet, elderly man, dressed in somewhat rusty blacks, smiled at the compliment, and looked graciously on Sandy, as if at once to assure him that he need be under no restraint on his account, and that he was, in truth, the worthy person which Mr Darsy had represented him to be. Thus encouraged, Sandy entered the apartment; and, at Mr Darsy's request, told the result of his mission. On hearing it, the worthy man merely shook his head, and said-- "'Well, well, Sandy, there's no help for it. We must just take better care next time.' "He then explained to the stranger gentleman the nature of the transaction. The good man was horrified, held up his hands in amazement, and recited, with much feeling and solemnity-- 'The good must merit God's peculiar care; But who but God can tell us who they are!' "'Ah, who indeed?' said Mr Darsy, smiling. 'There is the difficulty.' "'Ay, there, indeed, it is,' said the stranger, smiling in his turn. 'Who but God can tell the pure from the impure of heart? Who but he separate the tares from the wheat, the corn from the chaff? None else, indeed, my respected friend'--looking benevolently on Mr Darsy. "'My dear sir,' replied the latter, emphatically, and taking his benevolent looking visiter by the hand, to mark his deep sense of the truths which he delivered--'my dear sir,' he said, adding no more in words, but _looking_ the remainder of the sentence, which, when translated, said--'you speak well and wisely.' After a moment--'My good sir!' exclaimed Mr Darsy, glancing at his visiter's shoes, which appeared much travel-soiled, 'I suspect you have had a long walk to-day. You seemed fatigued. Now, you will take a little of something or other--a glass or two of wine, or a little brandy, or something of that sort, till dinner is ready.' "'You are too good--too good, my very excellent and much-respected friend,' replied the stranger; 'but,' he added, with a subdued yet significant look, 'there are other men of Ross than he whom Pope celebrated. There are others-- 'Whose causeway parts the vale with shady rows, Whose seats the weary traveller repose.' "This couplet, which was given in a mild and gentle tone, was so palpably directed to Mr Darsy, that he could not avoid seeing its intended application to himself; and, seeing this, he shook his head and smiled a disclaimer. "'My good friend,' he said, 'I have but slender pretension to any portion of that noble character, so masterly drawn by the immortal bard of Twickenham; yet do I agree with what the poet elsewhere says, that 'All fame is foreign but of true desert-- Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart-- One self-approving hour whole years outweighs Of stupid starers and of loud hurrahs; And more true joy Marcellus, exiled, feels, Than Cæsar with a senate at his heels.' "The stranger smiled, bowed, and looked benevolently on his host. "'Beautiful--beautiful!' he exclaimed, in a tone of rapture. 'How terse--how forcible! Yet, Mr Darsy, there are those--ay, there are those who say that Pope is no poet!' "Mr Darsy smiled grimly. "'I have heard,' he said, 'that there are such monsters in human shape; but I have never been so unfortunate as to meet with one of them. If I did, I do not know what I should do. I think I should murder the Goth off-hand. I believe I should. No human patience could stand against such heresy--such blasphemy, as I may call it.' "Mr Darsy now rung the bell, and desired the servant to put some wine and brandy on the table. The order was immediately complied with, and the two Popites forthwith drew in. "'Wine or brandy, my dear sir?' said Mr Darsy. "'Why,' said the gentle stranger, who, by the way, had given in his name as Claythorn--'why,' he said, with a quiet, pleasant smile, 'I will take a little brandy, if you please. Wine doesn't agree with me. I find the alcohol safer.' "'Then help yourself, my dear friend,' replied Mr Darsy; and Mr Darsy's friend did help himself, and that with a liberality which was rather surprising in one of his cloth; although it would not have surprised any one who had studied and drawn the proper conclusion from the appearance of his nose, which was of a bright, luminous red. Having finished his first jorum, Mr Darsy pressed his dear friend to another tifter; and his dear friend, nothing loth, did as he was desired; presenting satisfactory evidence, that a love of Pope and of brandy-and-water were perfectly compatible, doubt it who might. Opened up by the benign influence of the alcohol, the itinerant preacher now began to give Pope by the yard. Before, he had dealt him out sparingly--in bits and fragments: he now gave whole pages on end, to the inexpressible delight of his entertainer, who, having been induced, by the rarity of the occasion--the meeting with so enthusiastic an admirer of his beloved bard--to take a glass or two of wine extra, gave as ample measure in return. "The conversation between the two Popites was thus reduced to nothing--only a word or two now and then; the rest was entirely made up of quotations. While Mr Darsy and his guest were thus employed, a servant came to announce that dinner was on the table. Both immediately rose to their feet. When they had done so, Mr Darsy took the preacher by the hand, and said, in an under tone-- "'Now, my dear good friend, when you go down stairs you will see my sister. She will dine with us. A good creature as ever lived--an excellent creature. But--but--I am ashamed to say it. The fact is, and you know it, my dear friend, that 'Good, as well as ill, Woman's at best a contradiction still.' "'My sister, in short, my dear friend, has no fancy for our adored bard. I can't account for it; but so it is. Therefore, if you will just be so good as say nothing about him while she is present, it will be as well. No quotations, you understand. We'll have our revenge for this restraint when she retires. We will resume the subject then, my dear sir,' added Mr Darsy, slapping his guest, in a friendly and jocose way, on the shoulder, as he spoke. 'We'll have a night of it; and I'll smuggle down _his_ works from my library, and we will glance them over together when we've got the room to ourselves. That will be a treat, eh?' "Thus cautioned as to his conduct in the presence of Mr Darsy's sister, Mr Claythorn descended to the dining-room with his host. Not a word--not the most distant allusion to Pope--escaped either of the two gentlemen; so that, whatever Miss Darsy's suspicions of the case might be--and she certainly looked as if she had some suspicions of it--nothing transpired to give her assurance of the fact. On her retiring, however, the pent-up sluices of the Popites were thrown open, and out there rushed two impetuous streams of poetry; sometimes blending, sometimes alternating, and sometimes running counter to each other. Mr Darsy was delighted--more than delighted with his friend; for he had never, in the whole course of his life, met with one who could quote his favourite author with such facility and at such length, as the guest whom he was now entertaining; neither had he ever met with one who had so deep, so thorough a reverence for the mighty moral poet. "This was altogether, in short, one of the happiest nights he had ever spent in his life. At its close, Mr Darsy accompanied his guest--who he insisted should remain with him all night--to his bedroom, and parted from him there with a very apt quotation, to which his friend replied with another no less felicitous, which he delivered in a very feeling and impressive manner. On the following morning-- "'What keeps your reverend friend, brother?' said Miss Darsy, somewhat sneeringly--for she had strong suspicions of the stranger's being a Popite--as she sat at the breakfast-table, waiting the appearance of that person, before proceeding to discharge the duties of the morning meal. "'Really, my dear, I don't know,' replied Mr Darsy. 'The poor man is fatigued, I daresay; and we sat up rather late last night.' "'Ay, brother, I fancy you found him a very pleasant intelligent companion,' said Miss Darsy, with a look and tone of peculiar meaning. "What this meaning was, Mr Darsy perfectly understood. He knew that his sister was at once insinuating her suspicions of the stranger's Popism, and driving at a discovery of the fact. Aware of this, and by no means desirous of coming to an explanation on the subject, Mr Darsy, without noticing his sister's remark, said he would 'just step up-stairs to see what was keeping Mr Claythorn,' and deliver himself (but of this he said nothing) of a happy quotation which had occurred to him, and which he thought would form an exceedingly appropriate greeting. "He entered his friend's bedroom; there was no movement. He drew aside the curtains; the bed was unoccupied. The Pope-quoter had decamped. He was off; and off, too, were a dozen silver spoons and a small gold watch; all of which property had been unguardedly left in the room in which he slept." Here ended my good host's (Mr Pentland) anecdotes and sketch of the worthy proprietor of Dryfield; but, he added, he could give as much more of the same kind, if I chose, as would fill half-a-dozen volumes. I thanked him, and said that I would rest content with what he had been kind enough to give me, in the meantime; but that, if the readers of the "Border Tales"--for which, I told him, I intended these memorabilia--desired any more, I should, perhaps, take the liberty of applying to him again. THE SURGEON'S TALES. THE CHERRY-STONE. I have always been anxious to avoid giving publicity to details of my profession which might harrow the feelings of mankind--than which, I believe, nothing is more easy of accomplishment by those who are, as I am, in the daily exercise of painful operations on the human body. Pain has been gifted to man as an inheritance, so ample, in so many forms and complexions, in so many directions, that we have only to think, and we feel it--we have only to look, and we see it--we have only to speak or act, and we rouse it. Yet so wonderfully are we constituted, that we do not hate it more than we _love_ it; while we are all engaged in the general endeavours to banish it and conceal it, we have such a craving appetite for it, in the second-hand form of narrative, that we gloat over pictures of suffering with the feelings of an epicure, and seek and call for the stimulus of sighs, and groans, and tears, with an avidity only equalled by our desire of personal happiness. A final cause might be traced in this extraordinary feature of the human mind, if we were curious to know the ways of the Almighty, the modes he has had recourse to, to fit us for life, and prepare us for death; but this is not my object, nor, while I continue to draw pictures from life--charged with a moral that may instruct, truth that may edify, or results that may show there is good in evil, and wonderful deliverances from apparently irremediable wo--is it my desire to minister to the mysterious appetite for sorrow, according to its wants, or the abilities which a long experience might enable me to exercise with greater effect than many sensitive minds might approve. Some time ago, I had been on a visit to a neighbouring town, where I had been called to give my professional advice to a patient who had more faith to place in me than in his neighbouring practitioners. I was returning in the stage-coach, along with a number of other passengers, when my attention was directed to a poor woman sitting by me, with a young girl in her lap, apparently in great distress. The face of the invalid, who appeared to be about twelve years of age, was covered by a white napkin, which her mother, with a careful hand, lifted from time to time, to see how her daughter (for such she turned out to be) was affected by the motion of the vehicle. Two or three people around, from the same town, and who seemed to know the history of the pair, evinced a greater degree of anxiety and curiosity about the state of the poor girl than might have been expected from an ordinary case of illness. They spoke to each other in a low tone; and I could hear my own name mentioned in such a manner as indicated plainly that they did not know me. Though I had not been a professional man, and had not had my curiosity roused by the mention of my name, I could not have refrained from inquiring into the state of the little victim of so much disease, and the object of so much solicitude. Turning round, I asked the mother if she would allow me to remove the napkin, and look at her whose face it covered. She assented with a ready, anticipative willingness; and I lifted softly the white covering. The sight was extraordinary, even to me, who was in the habit of daily seeing strange faces, strangely marked by the powers of the fell fiends that feed on the lacerated feelings of pain-stricken mortals. The girl, though twelve years of age, was reduced to the size and weight of a child of half her little period of life. Her face was as white as the snow-coloured covering which shaded it; her eyelids were closed, as if she were in a deep slumber; her lips, wide apart, were as white as her cheek; and, notwithstanding of the change in all the natural lineaments of her countenance, there was such a regularity, or rather beauty of outline, lying in the calmness and composure of what one of fancy might conceive of a sleeping sylph, that I felt my sympathies more strongly roused by what may be termed the poetical accidents of the patient, than could have been effected by the mere aspect of a cruel disease. As I sat looking at the face of the half-lifeless being, and musing a little on the supposed nature of her complaint, previously to an inquiry at her mother for the particulars of her case, I saw rise, on a sudden, and as if by the power of some heart-born impulse, a feeling throughout all the fine, attenuated muscles, that changed the angelic quietness of her countenance into the shrinking and contorted motions of a pain that seemed to bring despair on its wings, as a colleague to strike as soon as its own pang was inflicted. I could see, also, that there was mixed with the expression of pain an indication of terror, as if the poor victim apprehended some onset of the enemy that had already laid her so low, similar to what she had been already in the habit of experiencing. In an instant it came: the whole chest, throat, and face were grasped by a convulsive spasm, and a cough, shrill and piercing, as if the breath passed with difficulty through the windpipe, accompanied by the long drawback of apparent croop, that sounded like the yell of a strangling dog, struck our ears, and produced a feeling of consternation among those who were as yet better acquainted with her extraordinary case than I was. I had never experienced anything of the same kind; for the symptoms that separated her complaint, whatever it was, from the most painful diseases of the windpipe known to us, were at first sight apparent. The sound prevented me from getting intelligence from her mother, who was, besides, under such alarm and anxiety, that she paid little attention to those around her. The rattling of the coach was a great aggravation of the attack; and the noise of a grating wheel, not unlike that wrung from the poor victim, mixed with it, and rendered the scene frightful. After lasting about ten minutes, the harrowing symptoms stopped suddenly; in a few minutes, I saw again before me the same placid countenance, with the closed eyelids, and the same lifeless appearance I had witnessed before the attack came on. I now got an account from the mother of the cause of her daughter's distress. About two months previously, the girl had been eating cherries; and one of the stones having been involuntarily thrown back into her throat, she had endeavoured to prevent the operation of swallowing it, from a fear that it would injure her, and thus produced an irregular action among the muscles of deglutition, which precipitated the hard substance into the windpipe. The first effects of this accident were grievous in the extreme; for the sensibility of that exquisitely tender part of the body roused the muscles to efforts of expectoration, and brought on fits of the most intense coughing, which lasted until the strength of the body having failed, the irritability of the passage died, through the pure inanition of the exhausted system. Every energy prostrated, she would be for a time quiet, until the _pabulum_ of the irritability was again supplied by the mysterious operation of nature, when the same painful spasms of the muscles were renewed, with another long fit of coughing--every re-drawn breath forcing its way with a shrill sound, and suggesting the fear that she was every moment on the eve of being choked. This was again succeeded by a calm, to be followed by a similar exacerbation; and thus was her life reduced to an alternation of agony and rest without peace; and all the time the reductive process of famine (for she could scarcely swallow a morsel without the greatest pain) went on, till she was reduced to a perfect skeleton. Having been the pride of her parents, as well from her beauty as her amiable mind and manners, she was watched night and day with a solicitude scarcely less painful than her own dreadful condition; and, as both the doctors of the small town seemed irresolute as to the course to be pursued, the victim was left lying on her back, and suffering those violent and incessant attacks, for the period of six weeks, without any effectual effort being made for her relief. At last, however, the urgent nature of the case, which interested almost all the inhabitants of the place, forced the medical men to try, at last, the only evident operation that could be of any service; and an incision was made into the windpipe, with a view to get hold of the stone. Whether it was that they had calculated on wrong data, in regard to the locality of the peccant and cruel intruder, or whether the operation was otherwise unskilfully performed, I know not; but the result was, that, after putting her to so intolerable pain, they were obliged to sew up the opening they had made, and again resign her to her miserable fate. Many of the neighbours got angry at this issue, and blamed the surgeons; but no one would lend a helping hand to pay the expense of bringing a more successful operator to the spot; so that all was vain reproof, with still the same fate to the interesting sufferer. At last, the mother, who could stand no longer the appalling sight of her daughter suffering worse than a thousand deaths, while a remedy on earth could be found, had come to the resolution of travelling by the coach to the residence of one who might, by an extensive experience, be supposed to be able to yield relief; and, having got a letter of introduction to Dr ---- (myself), she was thus far on her way to my residence. I heard the poor woman's story; and, when I took the letter from her, and told her that I was the individual she was travelling to, I could discover that her face was on the instant lighted up with hope; even the poor sufferer on her knee lifted up her eyelids, and fixed her clear blue eyes on my face with a piteous supplication that I shall never forget. I told the mother that she should have come to me long before; but that she was not yet too late--for that I had strong hopes of being able to extricate the stone, and restore her child to health. My words fell on the ear of the patient; and I could see by the tear in her eye--the only indication she could give of her gratitude--for she was under a continual terror of moving a single muscle of her face--that she understood perfectly what I said. The passengers seemed to be as much moved as those more nearly interested, and turned their eyes on me as if I had been one gifted beyond ordinary mortals with the means of benefiting mankind. We got forward, luckily, without another attack of the ruthless foe that haunted the innocent victim with such unremitting hatred; and, on our arrival at our place of destination, I made arrangements for the mother and daughter being lodged in a friend's house not far from my own, that my patient might be as much as possible under my eye, until I deemed it a proper time (for she required strength) to perform the operation which I meditated. I considered well what I had to do, and had no doubt of my success; but I was met by some untoward disadvantages. I found that there was no possibility of imparting to her strength--the incessant reductive workings of her spasms counteracting all my energies in this direction, and compelling me to a speedy application of my means of salvation. The prior wound had not been sufficiently cured, and the pain she had suffered under the mangling hands of her first tormentors left such a vivid impression on the tortured mind of the sufferer, that, anxious as she was to get the stone extracted, and to breathe again freely the air of heaven, she shuddered at the thought of being subjected to the knife of the operator. I used every seductive artifice to soothe her fears; I showed her the small instrument with which I would give her peace and health, and painted to her fancy the happiness she would again enjoy in romping among the green fields as in former days, freed from the terror of the slightest motion that now enslaved her. She lay and heard me, opened her eyes, sighed, and shut them again with a slight shake of her head, and a shudder, as if all arguments had failed; then, as I rose, threw after me a look of supplication, as if she wished me to try again to bring her to the point of resolution to free herself from the dreaded enemy that held her so firmly and securely in his grasp. She little knew that she was utterly powerless to resist--a child might have held her hands, while the operation was performed, against her will; but I wished to avoid compulsion; though I feared that, if she would not consent, I would be necessitated, from the gradual decay of the little remaining strength she had, to save her quickly, against her own fears of the means of her salvation. In the afternoon of the same day I had appointed to perform the operation against her will, her mother came to me and said that the invalid had made signs to her that she would now submit herself to my power. I lost no time in getting my assistants, and waiting upon her before the resolution should depart; but, what was my disappointment to find that she had, in the meantime, been seized with an attack of coughing, so much more serious than any she yet had, that I expected every moment to see her die of suffocation. Her mother sat beside her, weeping and looking on her with an expression of agony; and the little sufferer presented to me such an appearance of emaciation and weakness, that I doubted if I could venture to touch her with a knife, even if her relentless foe allowed her once more to escape for a little time. The coughing and spasms again ceased; but she lay as one dead. I could scarcely feel a pulse in her, and her pale, beautiful face was as calm and benign as if she had been soothed by a divine aspiration, in place of being tortured the moment before by an agony that twisted every muscle of her countenance. She lay in this state about ten minutes, at the end of which time she again opened her eyes, and made a faint sign to her mother that she was prepared. I lost no time. In a moment I had made the incision; and so well had I calculated the locality of the stone, that I was able to seize it on the very first insertion of the nippers. I drew it out, and held it up to her eye. The sight of it operated like magic. She started up on her feet, and, running a few paces, while the blood flowed plentifully down her white throat, clapped her hands, and cried, "It's out--it's out!" She would have fallen instantly, for the impulse that had overcome her weakness was like a shock from a galvanic battery, that moves, and in an instant leaves all dead as before. I seized her, just as she was falling; and, having placed her again on the sofa, sewed up the wound. Before I left her, I saw her breathing freely the unobstructed air. Her blue eye was illuminated with joy; and such was the immediate effect of giving a free passage to the breath of life, that one might have marked the rapid change of returning health going on throughout her whole system. In a short time she recovered, and returned home. I saw this interesting patient three years afterwards--a fine, blooming young woman. THE HENWIFE. I have often made observations on that extraordinary disease, hypochondria; and chiefly on the cases where it presents the phasis of a false conception of the existing condition of external circumstances affecting the patient, accompanied by a terror of their operation on his fortunes and prosperity. These are common. I conceive that they argue a lesser derangement of the cerebral functions, than where there occurs a total overturn of the conception of personal identity; and the conviction of _self_ passes into a belief that the patient is actually something else than himself--nay, something else than a man at all, and even something else than an organised being. In both cases, there is, of course, a false conviction, and so far they range under the same head; yet, as the conception of identity is among the first, and strongest, and steadiest of all the states or acts of the mind, it may be presumed to require a stronger deranging impulse to effect the overthrow of an idea that often remains unimpaired amidst the very wrecks of the intellect, than to produce those conditions of ordinary partial derangement of the rational or perceptive powers which daily come under our observation. Yet--and it is a curious feature of these pitiful states of the diseased mind, and one that argues ill for the superiority of man over the passing humours of a fluctuating temperament--wherever there is a false conception of identity, passing into an idea that the patient is something different from himself, he becomes an involuntary humorist; and, while the ordinary maniac brings tears to the eyes of the shuddering beholders, he, in his character of an animal or piece of inert matter, produces nothing but a tickling sensation of exquisite ludicrousness, passing often into broad laughter, certainly the greatest enemy of pity. Now, I approach a case of this kind with feelings entirely different; and, while I thus confess that I can contemplate no state of derangement but with pity, I shall leave a grave narrative of an extraordinary instance of false conviction--true in all its details[23]--to be read and relished according to the fancies and humours of the public. [Footnote 23: We understand that another case of human incubation occurred, somewhere about the Crosscauseway or Simon Square, of Edinburgh, in Dr Gregory's time.--ED.] In a large old land of houses in ---- Street, commonly known by the name of the Ark, and occupied by a number of small families in the lower grade of society, an old woman, Margaret B----, had lived for many years, chiefly upon the bounty of a noble family in the country, whom she had served in the capacity of poulterer--_vulgariter_, henwife. She had been for some time ailing; and I was requested by those who took an interest in her, to pay her occasionally a visit, in the course of my professional rounds in the neighbourhood of her dwelling. I could discover, for a time, no marked complaint about her. Living lonely, she had fallen into a lowness of spirits, which, as one of her neighbours informed me, was most effectually removed or ameliorated for a time, by a recurrence to the remembered employments of her former years. She was, in particular, curiously addicted to thinking and speaking of her former extensive establishment of fowls at ---- House; and made reference to speckled favourites by special name, as if she had treated them by distinctions of superiority, beauty, and utility, after the manner of fond mothers, who indulge a habit of fantastic favouritism among their children. I myself noticed this garrulous peculiarity; but, accustomed to all manner of eccentricities, as well healthy as morbid, I attributed her freaks to a foolish fancy, that sought for food among the cherished recesses of a fond memory of the past. By degrees, however, she underwent a considerable change; falling into moods of silent melancholy, which lasted for days, and rising from them to luxuriate, with a fervour that engrossed her whole soul, on the favourite theme, which seemed to present every day new attractions for her moody mind. As I passed one day along the passage that led to her humble dwelling, her nearest neighbour, a favourite gossip, met me, and whispered, secretly and mysteriously, into my ear, that old Margaret, as she called her, had been, during the whole day, occupied with the regulation of an imagined establishment of her old favourites, the hens. She had been calling them to her by name; using all the technicalities of the domestic fowler's vocabulary; driving some of the more forward away, and endearingly encouraging the backward favourites to participate in the meal of scattered barley she threw upon the floor. The woman added, that she feared she was mad, and yet she laughed at the symptoms of her imputed insanity. I went forward, and, on opening the door, saw good evidence of the truth of my informant's story in the grain that lay about in every direction; but the occupation was gone, the industrious fowler had sunk into a fit of melancholy, and sat, with a drooping head and heavy eye, looking into the fire. She was dogged and silent; and, though I touched gently the irritable chord, I got no response: the illusion was gone, and had left nothing in her mind but the darkness of a morbid melancholy which I possessed no secret to remove. This state of gloom lasted, I understood--for I could not get her visited in the meantime--for three days, during which she scarcely spoke to her neighbours, whose curiosity, roused by her previous conduct, supplied the place of the kindness which ought to have stimulated charitable attentions. At the end of that time, she awoke from her dream, and spoke with her accustomed sense on any subject that was started in her presence; but during the night she was heard again busy in her old occupation of feeding her feathered family; and several of the neighbours had even been at the pains to leave their beds, and listen to her one-sided dialogue and strange proceedings, as a matter of intense curiosity. I got a second report of these acts from the same neighbours, and very properly set the patient down for one of those unfortunate beings, too common in our land, who are afflicted with temporary derangement, which sometimes shows itself in the form of a fancied presence of some familiar object, and a passing into a condition or position occupied in some prior part of the life of the afflicted individual. These objects are too common to excite in us any particular curiosity; and, having made a report to those interested in her that I feared she was subject to temporary fits of insanity, I left to them the choice of the ordinary expedients in such cases. Some weeks afterwards, the neighbour whom I had formerly seen, called and told me that the patient had not been attended to as her situation required, and that she had passed into a new condition, so extraordinary and incredible, that she could not trust her tongue to tell it to a rational being, and therefore urged me to come and witness for the truth of what no mortal would otherwise believe, by the evidence of my eyes. I asked her to explain what she meant; but she replied by a laugh, and went away, stating, that, unless I visited her soon, I might lose one of the most strange sights I had ever witnessed in the course of all my extended and long practice. I had seen so much of the wild vagaries of distempered minds, so many metamorphoses of fancied identities, and such extraordinary instances of imaginary metempsychoses, and other freaks in lunatics, that I felt no more curiosity on the subject of the woman's excited report than I do in ordinary cases; but, in about an hour afterwards, I found leisure to call and make a proper judgment of what might, after all, be a matter exaggerated by the clouds of ignorance. As I proceeded up the stair, and along the passage, I observed several heads peeping out at me, and heard titters and whispers in all directions, as if the neighbours were all a-tiptoe with curiosity to enjoy the doctor's surprise at what he was to behold. The woman who had called me came running out from the middle of three or four old gossips like herself, and, holding away her head to conceal a suppressed laugh, perhaps mixed with a little affected shame, led the way before me to the patient's room. I was grave all the while, as becomes my profession; and I was besides displeased, as I ever am, when I see the misfortunes of my fellow-creatures made the subject of ill-timed mirth, merely because the most dreadful of all the visitations of man puts on grotesque appearances and ludicrous impersonations of fantastic characters. When I entered, I observed no one in the room. The patient's seat by the fire was empty. A strange noise met my ear--"Cluck, cluck, cluck!" which the woman requested me to pause and listen to. It seemed to me a human imitation of the sounds of the feathered mother of a young brood in our barn-yards. I was astonished, and felt my curiosity rise as high as my conductress might desire. She proceeded to a dark corner of the room, where I saw a large tub half-filled with straw, with the poor victim sitting in it, in such a position that her head and shoulders only could be observed. I now ascertained that the strange sounds came from the occupant of the old seat of Diogenes; yet still my understanding was at fault. I stood and gazed at the spectacle before me, while my conductress seemed to enjoy my perplexity, and I heard the repressed laughter of those in the passage who had come near enough to listen to our proceedings. "That is a strange seat, Margaret," said I. "What means this?" I was answered by a repetition of the same extraordinary sounds--"Cluck, cluck, cluck!" I looked gravely at the neighbour for a serious explanation. I could see no humour in the melancholy indications of drivelling madness, and added a stern expression to the gravity with which I intended to subdue a cruel and ill-timed levity. The woman felt awed and abashed, but it was only for a moment; she stooped down, and, putting her hands among the straw upon which the invalid sat, pulled out a couple of eggs. A louder repetition of the sounds, "cluck, cluck," followed, as if the incubator felt an instinctive parental anger at the temerity of the spoiler of her inchoate progeny. To satisfy her humour, the woman replaced the eggs, and the cluck ceased.[24] [Footnote 24: The reader may be here reminded of the well-known case of the confessor to the French King. He was long under the delusion of being a cock; he tried to fly, perched upon cross rafters, picked minced meat out of a wooden trencher, and crowed regularly every morning.--ED.] "There are two dozen of these beneath her," said the woman. "Lord ----'s gamekeeper brought them in to her four days ago, to serve for food to her. I saw her go out for the straw, and she borrowed the tub from me. She built her nest on the night afterwards, and she commenced sitting there immediately when it was completed, so that she has already sat three days and nights. We heard the 'cluck' through the partition; and, upon coming in, found her as you now see her." "Has she got any food?" said I, with a still graver aspect, as I saw my informant watching for a smile to repay her for her extraordinary information, and keep her in countenance. "Nothing but some peas of barley," replied the woman, with something of seriousness assumed with great difficulty. "See here." And she pointed to a small cup placed by the side of the tub, in which some of the grain mentioned was contained, and alongside of it a small vessel of water. The truth was now fully apparent. A false conviction of as extraordinary a nature as I had yet witnessed had taken entire possession of the invalid's mind. It was not difficult, on ordinary and vulgar data, to account for the peculiar turn of the malady in the case of this woman, because all her life had been spent among fowls; yet I must bear my professional testimony to the fact, that, among the many instances of false conceptions of identity I had previously witnessed, and have since seen, I never knew a case where the peculiarity of the conviction had any relation whatever to the prior habits of mind or body of the invalid. The deranging power, whatever it is, has often no respect to pre-existing habits or associations; but, on the contrary, seems to delight in a capricious triumph over all the ordinary acts of the mind, and delights to introduce an imagined form and character as widely opposed as the antipodes to the prior conceptions of the unfortunate individual. The case before me was, therefore, in this respect interesting; for, as to the grotesque conditions of the fancied change, though calculated to produce an extraordinary effect on vulgar minds, I looked upon them, philosophically, as only another instance of the endless variety of melancholy changes to which our frail natures are exposed. I proceeded to ask my informant if any means had been taken to draw the invalid from her position, and got for answer, that several of the neighbours had come in and endeavoured to prevail upon her to renounce her charge; but that, having failed in their efforts, they had on several occasions removed her by force, and in opposition to strenuous struggles, and extraordinary sounds of mixed anger and pitiful sorrow. No sooner, however, were their backs turned, than she _flew_ to her seat, and manifested the greatest satisfaction by peculiar noises, at being again reinstated in her charge of her inchoate brood, which she was terrified would, by growing cold, be deprived of the principle of vitality she was busy in communicating to them. I tested, by my own efforts, her instinctive force of affection, by taking her by the arms and endeavouring to remove her; but she sent up such a pitiful cry, mixed with her imitative cluck and cackle, that I let her go, as much through a sudden impulse of fear as from an inability to lift her by the power of my arms. I then put down my hand to remove some of the eggs, but was in an instant attacked as fiercely as if the invalid had in reality been the creature she fancied herself to be; and the manner of the attack was so true to the habits of the feathered mother, that, even in the midst of my philosophy and concern for the unhappy being, I trembled for my professional gravity. She had fancied that the protuberance on her face was a beak, and used that organ with such effect, that, on missing my hand, she darted the fancied organ of defence on the corner of the tub, and produced a stream of blood, which I required to quench by the vulgar but effectual mode of placing down her back the key of the door. During all the struggle, the "cluck, cluck" was kept up, accompanied with a shaking of her clothes, as if she had been raising the feathers to evidence farther for her instinctive anger. I now left this unhappy individual to the charge of the woman, with a recommendation (I could do nothing more) to endeavour to get her weaned from her situation and habit. Two or three of my brother practitioners having heard the circumstances, visited her during that afternoon, and witnessed, as they informed me, the same symptoms that had been seen by me. Two days afterwards, I visited her again, having, in the meantime, written to Lord ----'s steward an account of the state of the family's poor _protegé_, with some advices as to how she ought to be disposed of. I found her still in the same position, and if possible more determined to defend her brittle charge. I expressed to the attendant some surprise that a human being should have been allowed to remain so long in a predicament which seemed to throw some discredit upon our vindicated superiority over the lower animals; but she answered me by stating that the patient had become so fierce and vindictive, when an attempt was made to remove her from the tub, or to take the eggs from under her, that every one was afraid to go near her. A prejudice had, moreover, taken possession of the neighbours, that she was under the power of some evil spirit; and those who ventured to look at her, as she sat clucking over her charge, gratified their intense curiosity by putting their heads in at the door. As I approached her, I saw plainly that a fiercer spirit had taken possession of her, probably from the attempts that had been made to displace her, and overcome her extraordinary instinct. Her eyes glanced as if fired by the impulse of strong anger, and her "cluck" sounded with a wilder and more unearthly sound than when I saw her before; but she spoke not a word, and, indeed, since ever she had betaken herself to the nest, she had been heard to utter no other sounds than those that are peculiar to the bird she personated. These symptoms imparted to her a most impressive and terrific aspect, altogether incompatible with any feeling of the ludicrous. I have seen mad people in every mood; and, although I have observed them assume attitudes and looks more suggestive, of course, of the terror of personal injury, I am quite free to confess, that I never saw any one whose appearance was so productive of those indefinable feelings of pity, fear, and awe, so often roused within the walls of an asylum. Nature was not only changed--it was overturned; human feelings represented the instincts of the brutes that perish; and the organs, motions, and attitudes of our species, were made to subserve, with an intense anxiety that was painful to behold, the impulses of creatures in the lowest grade of creation. I confess that my feelings were, on this occasion, harrowed; and, if I were to search for any feature in the spectacle before me, more than another, that tended to produce in me this effect, I would say that it was the hideous intensity of the instinctive anxiety that beamed in her dull sullen eye, as I proceeded forward to the place where she covered and defended her charge, aided by the horrid interminable cluck that ground my ears with its unnatural sound. I was obliged to leave her again, still in the same predicament; for the woman declared that she, for her part, would not again meddle with her, unless assisted by her neighbours; and they, possessed of the terror of the evil spirit, would not approach her. I got her, however, to promise to give her some meat; but this, she said, was of no easy accomplishment, for the invalid was possessed of the idea that nothing ought to be eaten by one in her "particular situation," but what a hen might pick up in its bill and swallow. She had discarded broth and butcher-meat; and the few crumbs she had picked up off a platter that had been placed before her would not suffice to keep in her life. That same evening, an extraordinary scene took place in the house of this demented creature. I had not been informed that she had any near relations; but it happened that, when she was still in the same extraordinary position, an only son, a fine open-hearted fellow, a sailor, who had been absent from her for seven years, arrived, buoyant with hope, and fired with desire to see his mother happy and well. Good heavens! what a sight was presented to him! I witnessed not the harrowing meeting; but the old neighbour was present, and attempted an inadequate description of it to me. She did not know her son; and when he approached her, to greet her with a son's love, she exhibited the same symptoms of fury, and clucked the dreadful sounds of her defensive anger in his agonised ear. What he saw, and what he heard, opened up to him the hideous mystery. He rushed out of the house, and had not again returned. Next day, the butler of the family who took charge of her called on me. I accompanied him to the house, when one or two of the neighbours were prevailed upon to lend their assistance in getting her removed by force. The scene that followed was an extraordinary one. She resisted them to the last; as the struggle increased, her eye became more fiery, and her unearthly screams more loud and discordant--passing through all the notes of an incensed hen-mother, and attaining, at times, to the harsh scream which one may have heard from that feathered biped, when separated from her brood, and pursued by a band of urchins. The task of mere removal was not a difficult one, and was soon accomplished. Some curious observer examined the eggs, and found that not one of them was broken, so carefully had she performed her supposed duty of incubation. If she had sat the requisite time, there is not a doubt they would have been duly and legitimately hatched. Such are the details of this extraordinary case. It is needless to say that it may transcend human belief. That is nothing, because belief is too much regulated by experience. I waited on the poor woman afterwards. The idea haunted her for about two months, and then gave place to some other wild conceptions, that in their turn gave way to others of a more rational character. Her son returned, and saw, with pleasure, the change that had taken place upon his parent. Latterly she became perfectly rational; but, if any one alluded in the remotest degree to her position in the tub, she shuddered with horror, and evaded the subject, as if it had terrors too dreadful to be borne. THE ARTIST. In the course of my practice, I have paid some attention to the effects of the two great stimulants, whisky and tobacco, on the bodies and habits of the votaries of excitement. There is a great difference in the action of the two substances; and I know no more curious subject for the investigation of the metaphysical physician, than the analysis of the various effects upon the mind produced by all the stimulating narcotics which are used by man, for the purpose of yielding pleasure or mitigating pain. I have myself committed to paper some thoughts upon this subject, which may yet see the light; and many of the conclusions I have deduced from my reasoning and experience, may be found to be curious, as well as instructive. I have found, for instance, that people of sanguine temperaments are greater drinkers than smokers; and those of a dull, phlegmatic cast are greater smokers than drinkers. A man that smokes will almost always drink; but a man that drinks will not always, nor indeed often, smoke. The two habits are often found combined in the same individual; but it is, notwithstanding, a fact, that, if the smoker and drinker could always command the spirit, he would very seldom or ever trouble himself with the other. I am led into these remarks by a case that occurred in my practice not very long ago, where the two habits joined in an extraordinary manner their baneful influences in closing the mortal career of one of those unfortunate votaries. I was first called to William G----, a very ingenious artist, when he lay under a severe attack of what we call _delirium tremens_, or temporary insanity, produced by, or consisting of (for the proximate cause is often the disease itself), highly irritated nerves, the consequence of a succession of drinking fits. I found that he had been "on the ball," as they say, for three weeks, during which time he had drunk forty-two bottles of strong whisky. Like many other people of genius, whose fits of inspiration (for artists have those fits as well as poets) make them work to excess, and leave them, as they wear out, the victims of ennui and lassitude, he was in the habit of applying himself to his business with too much assiduity, for the period, generally, of about a month. Exhausted by the excitement of thought and invention kept up too long, he fell regularly down into a state of dull lethargy, which seemed to be painful to him. He felt as if there was a load upon his brain. A sense of duty stung him, after a few days' idleness, poignantly; and, while he writhed under the sting of the sharp monitor, he felt that _he could not_ obey the behest of the good angel; and yet could not explain the reason of his utter powerlessness and incapacity for work. If he had allowed this state, which is quite natural, and not difficult of explanation, to remain unalleviated by stimulants for a day or two, he would have found that, as the brain again collected energy, he would have been relieved by the _vis medicatrix_ of nature herself; but he had no patience for that; and drink was, accordingly, his refuge and relief. The first glass he took was fraught with the most direful power--it threw down the floodgates of a struggling resolution; the relief of the new and artificial impulse raised his spirits: another application inflamed his mind; and then bottle after bottle was thrown into the furnace, until the drink-fever laid him up, and brought upon him the salutary nausea which overcame the rebellious desire. This system had continued for more than ten years. He had been gradually getting worse and worse; and, latterly, he had resigned himself to the cognate influence of the narcotic weed. When I got an account of this young man--for he was still comparatively young--and saw some of the exquisite pieces of workmanship, both in sculpture and painting, he had executed, I felt a strong interest in his fate. He was, indeed, one example out of many, where I had contemplated, with tears that subdued my professional apathy, genius, commonly supposed to be the rarest, if not the highest gift of mortals, working out, by some power inherent in itself, the ruin of the body, mind, and morals of its possessor. This victim I saw lying under the fell power of one of the most frightful of diseases, brought on by his own intemperance; and not far from his bed lay a half-finished Scripture-piece--a work which, if finished, would have brought him money and fame. He presented the ordinary appearances of his complaint. Emaciated and pale, he laboured under that union of ague and temporary madness which _delirium tremens_ exhibits. All the motions of his nerves seemed to have been inverted; those servants of the will had got a new master, which kept them, by his diabolical power, in continual action. His arms were continually in motion, aiming at some object present or ideal; but, instead of making direct for it, vibrating in sudden snatches backward and forward; his legs were also in continual agitation, kicking up the bedclothes, then being stretched forth, as if held by a spasm; and his eyes, red and fiery, seemed to fly from object to object, as if the vision of a thing burned the orbs, and made them roll about for a resting-place. Thousands of _muscæ volitantes_, or the imaginary flies that swarm round the heads of victims of this complaint, tormented him by their ideal presence, and kept his snatching, quivering hands in continual play, till, by seizing the bed-posts, he seemed, though only for a moment, to get a relief from his restlessness. He knew no one; and sudden burning thoughts flashing upon his heated brain, wrung from him jabbering exclamations, containing intensive words of agony or mirth. The rest of his convulsed muscles was only purchased at the expense of such a morbid increase of the sense of hearing, that the scratch of a pin on the wall pained him as much as if the operation had been performed on his brain--a symptom often so strongly marked in regular brain-fever, and often detected in this last stage of the drunkard's disease. The sense of the pupil of the eye was of the same morbid character. A stream of light produced in him a scream, suggesting the analogy of the sound of the night-bird, the owl, when light is suddenly let into a nest among the young brood. The delights of life, sunbeam and sound, were transformed into poisons; so that his own vivid pictures, or the most melodious of songs, would have produced a convulsive spasm. Food was nauseous to him, and water swallowed by gulps, in the intervals of spasms, was all that could be taken without pain, to quench the burning fires within. Such is a faithful picture of a disease produced by ardent spirits. I recommend it to the votaries of intemperance. The moment I saw the patient, I knew his disease; and the particulars furnished to me by an old woman who kept his house only corroborated my opinion. The remedies in such cases are well known to us, and were instantly applied. He remained in the same state nearly all the next day; but began to show symptoms of recovery on the morning following. Nature prevailed, and he got gradually better; having, while his weakness was on him, a strong _antipathy_ to ardent spirits--a symptom of the drunkard I have often observed. The interest I felt in him made me call often; and I had a long conversation with him on the philosophy and _morale_ of his intemperance. He went himself to the very depths of the subject; and I found, what I have often done in regard to other drunkards, that no one knew better the predisposing causes, the resisting energies, the consequences--everything connected with the fearful vice; but all his philosophy ended, as these often do, in the melancholy sentence, that "there are powers within us greater than reason or philosophy." After the fearful attack he had had, he remained sober for about a month, and got a great length with his Scripture-piece. I called often to see his progress, to inspirit him in a continuation of his efforts, and support him in his self-denial. Matters seemed to be progressing well, and I hinted as much to his housekeeper; but she shook her head, and replied, calmly, "that she had seen the same scene acted, ten times a-year, for ten years." She added, "that he would break out again in a day or two;" and accordingly, on the next day, I discovered he had begun to lag in his work, to draw deep sighs, and to exhibit a listlessness, all premonitory signs of a relapse. Knowing that he was at times a smoker, I suggested to him the trial of tobacco, at this critical period. He said he had tried that remedy before; but acknowledged that perhaps he had not carried it far enough. I therefore set him agoing; advising him to keep to it steadily, for I had succeeded once before, in a very extreme case, in drawing out the one vice by the other--undoubtedly a lesser. So he began well, and persevered for about a week, during which time he had also got pretty well on with his work, having finished in that time two of the most difficult heads in the whole piece. I had now some greater hopes of him, and told the housekeeper to do what she could to aid me in my efforts. Two days afterwards I called, and met the old woman at the door. She shook her head ominously as I passed her. I opened the door, and went in. On a chair opposite to his picture sat the artist, with his pallet in his left hand--the brush had fallen from his right--his head was hung over the back of the chair, and his cravatless neck bent almost to breaking. Beside him sat a bottle empty; there was no glass beside it. I took up the vessel, and smelled it. It had been filled with whisky. I now looked at the picture. It was destroyed. His burin had been drawn over it like a mop, and dashed backwards and forwards, as if he had taken a spite at it, and been determined to put an end in one moment to the work of six months! There was now no occasion for a doctor; a drunkard fairly broken out is far beyond our help or care. I left him, and told the housekeeper to call and tell me when the fit was over. She did so; and I called again. I found him sitting on the same chair, perfectly sober, but so thin and wan, that he seemed like one taken from that place "where one inheriteth creeping things, and beasts, and worms." His languid bloodshot eye was fixed on the picture, and tears were stealing down his white cheeks. When I entered, he held his hands up to his face, to cover the shame that mantled on his cheek, and deep sobs heaved his bosom. I was moved, and sat down beside him without speaking a word. "O God!" he exclaimed, "what am I to do with myself? Is there no remedy against this vice?--has the great Author of our being thus left us with an inheritance of reason, and a power that sits like a cockatrice on our brains, and laughs at the God-sent gift? See--see the fruit of six months' hard labour! I expected fame from that, and money. I would have got both. The fiend has triumphed. When I awoke from my dream, I heard his laugh behind the canvas. I am undone." And he wrung his hands like a demented person, and sobbed bitterly. I was still silent; for any words I could have uttered would have destroyed the impressiveness of the scene before me. When I had allowed the sensation of remorse to sink deeper into him, I spoke:-- "I am glad that you have wrought this destruction," said I. "You have produced an antidote to your own poison--let it work. I have no medicines in my laboratory that have half the efficacy of that once splendid emanation of your genius--now the monument of your folly, and to be, as I hope, the prophylactic to save you from ruin and death." "Ah, God help me! it is a dear medicine," groaned he. "I feel that I never can produce such a work again." And he hung down his head, as if the blackest cloud that covers hope had thrown over him its dark shadow. I again observed silence, and he remained with his head on his breast for several minutes, without exhibiting a symptom of life beyond the deep sigh that raised his ribs. "You must hang that picture upon the wall," said I. "It is the most valuable you ever painted. Look at it daily, and, before the sun goes down, begin another on the same subject." My words produced no effect upon him, and indeed I knew that he was in a condition that entirely excluded external aid to his revolving thoughts. He was in the pit of dejection, which lies on the far side of the elevation of factitious excitement--a place of darkness, where the scorpions of conscience sting to madness, and every thought that rises in the gloomy, bewildered mind appears like a ghost that walks at midnight over open graves and bones of the dead. To some, these spectres have spoken in such a way as to rouse the dormant principles of energetic amendment, that lie beyond the reach of precept, or even that of conscience; but to the greater part of mankind this place of wailing and gnashing of teeth yields nothing but an agony that only tends to make them climb again the delusive mount from which they had fallen, though only again to be precipitated into the dreadful abode where, in the end, _they must die_. I knew that words had no effect upon my patient. I rose accordingly, and left him to the unmitigated horrors of his situation, in the expectation that he might be one of the few that derive from it good. I had no fear of his falling again, immediately, into another fit; for the period of nausea was only begun, and he was safe in the keeping of a rebelling stomach, whatever he might be in that of burning conscience. He remained, as his housekeeper told me, in that state of depression for two days, often recurring to the monument of his folly, the destroyed Scripture-piece; weeping over it, and ejaculating wild professions of amendment, clenched by oaths in which the blessed name of God was made the guarantee of the strength of a resolution which the demon of his vice was standing with glaring eyes ready to overturn. I have no faith in outspoken resolves of wordy declamation: not sure of ourselves, we fortify our weak resolutions through the ear and the eye, by spoken and written adjurations, and promises of amendment. After the medicine of dejection had wrought its utmost effect, I waited upon him. He was arrayed in melancholy and gloom: but the agony of the lowest pit was gone, and he stood on a dangerous middle place, between a temporary fulfilment of his resolutions and a relapse. With a patient of this sort I never _continue_ a system of argumentation and disputation. I am satisfied it does injury; for it reaches the moral sore only to irritate it, and an argument surmounted, or sworn resolution vanquished, is a triumph and a _pabulum_ to the spirit of the foe greater than years of domination. I told him, what he confessed frankly, that he stood, for a day or two, on the dangerous ground from which he had so often fallen, and requested him authoritatively, as if I had assumed the reins of his judgment which he had thrown over the back of his passions, to begin instantly another painting, and try once more the American weed. Command sometimes, persuasion never, succeeds with a drunkard. He set about stretching his canvas, and put on the first coat of the foundation of his picture. I told him I would call again in a week; but that, as it was not a part of my profession to reclaim drunkards, I would discontinue my efforts in his behalf, if I found that, at the end of that time, he had swerved from his resolution. The sense of degradation in the mind of these lost votaries of intemperance, while it inclines the unhappy individuals often to resign themselves to the command (from which, however, they often break) of those they respect, responds keenly to the manifestations of disregard and loss of esteem with which they are visited in consequence of their failing. He felt strongly the manner of my treatment, and I thought and observed even tears working for vent from his still bloodshot eyes. "You, and all good men, have a privilege to despise him who has not the approval of his own conscience," he said. "I could bear your persuasive reproof; but the thought that I have rendered myself unworthy of the trouble of one I esteem, to save me from the ruin I have madly prepared for myself, sends me to that deep pit of despair, from which I have even now struggled to get free. You saved me from death; and I was no sooner cured than I plunged headlong again into the gulf from which my disease was derived. I have made myself an ingrate, and a beggar; spurned your advice, and destroyed the work from which I expected honour and reward. I see myself as through a microscope, and you have diminished me still farther. Heaven help me!" "You have powers within you, sir," replied I, with affected sternness, "through the medium of which you might have surveyed yourself as through the telescope; and your size would not have been greater than that potential moral magnitude to which you might long ere now have arrived, and which is still within your own power. I exhort not--I leave you to yourself.--_In te omne recumbit._" "I know it, I know it," he cried, with a swelling throat. "My ruin or my salvation lies within my own breast. For ten years I have resolved, and re-resolved; and it is only three days since I destroyed that picture, and rose with fiery eyes and a burning heart to survey the consequences of my vice. O God! where is this to end? You saw what I suffered when extended on that bed, racked with pain; my brain on fire; my intellect overturned; my muscles twisted by spasms; my eyes and ears tortured by imaginary sights and sounds; with conscience in the back-ground, waiting till reason should bring to the avenging angel its victim. In that every mortal on earth might have found a lesson, but a drunkard. I found none. The very fire of my fever filled my soul with a thirst which precipitated me again deeper than ever in my old sin. I have got my senses again; and my bloodshot eyes have surveyed, and shall survey, that sad monument of my vice and folly--that child of my dreams, with which my pregnant fancy travailed with a delightful pain; and to which my fond hopes of honour, wealth, and happiness were directed--now, alas! dead--killed by my rebellious hand. From that dead body I have extracted a virtue which, with the powers of the amulet, shall guard me more effectually than the lesson of my bodily agony from further destruction. Believe me, sir. Aid me once again. If I fail this time, discard me for ever." As he finished, he hung his head over the chair, and covered his face with his hands, to hide from me his agonised face. I told him that it was my intention to try what effect the destroyed picture would have upon him. "You have made a fair beginning," said I. "Persevere--keep to the new picture to-morrow and to-morrow. I shall call in a week." "You shall find me at work, and an altered man," he said; and a blush came over his face, as he tried to open some subject to me of a delicate nature. "I--I have for some time thought," he continued, "that the way in which I live--a bachelor, with few domestic enjoyments--has a part of the blame of this horrid vice that has taken possession of my soul. Had I a wife, my sensibilities would be fed, my ennui relieved, my home made comfortable, and my ardour for my profession keeping my mind in the delightful bondage of fancy, I might thus satisfy all the cravings of my feelings, and be independent of the liquid fire and the envenomed weed." "You are a perfect �sculapius," replied I. "Had I lectured to you for a week from the manual of Galen, I could not have suggested a better medicine; but, mark you, I know not if you have properly described the manner of its operation. A wife will do all for you that you have described; but there is a greater virtue in her; and that is, that she _ought_ to produce in you a salutary terror of making her unhappy. This is a part of love--and I know no greater conservative element of the pure passion. If you fall again into your old habits, you will render an innocent individual miserable; and that thought ought to make you fly the poison as if it were distilled from the herbs of Medea or Circe." "Oh, I feel it, I feel it," he replied; "and am thankful to you for the suggestion. Like Pygmalion, I fell in love with a face that I sculptured last year. Every line I chiselled was engraven on my heart, and I have dreamed of her ever since. She is herself an artist, and paints beautifully. Our sympathies are kindred; and, though I never declared my passion, from a fear that my bad reputation for inebriety may have reached her, I have _looked_ it, and have reason to think that I may succeed." "Try," said I; "and I shall then have every hope of you." I left him, and heard some time afterwards that he had married a very pretty young lady, the daughter of an old artist that lived in the same town. It was not, however, (as I understood), till he had made a solemn promise and _oath_ to the old gentleman, who was possessed of some eccentricities, that he would renounce his habit of drinking, that the young female artist was yielded to him. I felt still the same interest in the man of genius, and called shortly after the marriage, to see how his _medicine_ had wrought. I found him as happy as the day was long. His picture was going on even during the honeymoon, and seemed to reflect a part of the sweet luminary's glory. The young wife, who was really pretty, and imbued with a strong love of both the artist and his art, looked over his shoulder as he proceeded with his work. I was delighted with the couple, and told him that the moment he had finished the picture he was occupied with, I wished him to give me a portrait of "the Doctor." He promised; and I left them, in the confidence--at times interfered with by my experience of the insidious power of the demon--that he would never again have recourse to his old habit. "To go to see a cousin" is, as all married people know, a very pretty and very usual mode of keeping up the flame of love in the hearts of the young worshippers of Hymen. Mrs G---- went, accordingly (so I learned at a future period), to see a friend who lived in the country. The artist was left again by himself, and promised to his loving wife, who left him with a kiss of true affection, that he would have the piece he was engaged on finished by the time she returned, when he was to commence with my portrait. "Never fear, Maria," he said, as he embraced her. "You have made me a new man. God bless you for it! I am happy now. Oh, that blessed thought, so opportunely confirmed by Dr ----! I shall paint him like an angel for it." And, laughing through his tears, he again kissed her, and she left the house with the intention of returning in a week, with an affection increased, and the satisfaction of seeing the painting imbued with all the glory of his high genius. I was, in the meantime, and while these love matters were going on, engaged in the pursuits of my profession. I knew nothing of them, but wished them happy, and thought all was right. I was sitting, after a day's labour, in my study. It was about eleven o'clock at night. I was startled by the artist's old housekeeper, who burst in upon me in great terror. Her eyes were absolutely starting from their sockets; and she stood before me with her mouth open, but without being able, for a time, to utter a syllable. "What is the matter?" said I. "Come to my master, for heaven's sake!" she cried, after some struggles of the throat. "He is vomiting fire." "What can the woman mean?" said I, as I took up my hat, and hastened to the victim. I soon found a sufficient explanation. The poor artist was lying on his back on the floor. There were a great number of empty bottles scattered _per aversionem_ round him. A blue, flickering flame was burning in his mouth, which was as black as a piece of coal. His eyeballs were turned up, and convulsive movements shook his frame. I was at no loss for the cause. A tobacco-pipe and a candle were beside him. After he had filled his stomach with whisky for six days, and drunk no fewer than thirteen bottles, he had, in endeavouring to light his pipe, set fire to the spirit that lay on his lips and in his mouth--the flame sought its way down the pharynx till it came to the full body of liquid in his stomach, and all was, in a moment, on fire. I need not dwell on the issue of this case. The poor artist was dead in an hour. Where was his resolution? This is no overcharged picture of the effects of drunkenness. THE BRIDE. Fifty years ago, William Percy rented a farm that consisted of about a hundred acres, and which was situated on the banks of the Till. His wife, though not remarkable for her management of a farmhouse, was a woman of many virtues, and possessed of a kind and affectionate heart. They had an only daughter, whose name was Agnes; and, as she approached towards womanhood, people began to designate her the _Rose of Till-side_. Her beauty was not of the kind that dazzles or excites sudden admiration; but it grew upon the sight like the increasing brightness of a young rainbow--its influence stole over the soul as moonlight on the waters. It was pleasant to look upon her fair countenance, where sweetness gave a character to beauty, mellowing it and softening it, as though the soul of innocence there reflected its image. Many said that no one could look upon the face of Agnes Percy and sin. Her hair was of the lightest brown, her eyes of the softest blue, and the lovely rose which bears the name of _Maiden's Blush_ is not more delicate in the soft glow of its colouring than was the vermilion tint upon her cheeks. She was of middle stature, and her figure might have served a sculptor as a model. But she was good and gentle as she was beautiful. The widow mentioned her name in her prayers--the poor blessed her. Now, Agnes was about eighteen, when a young man of her own age, named Henry Cranstoun, took up his residence for a few months in her father's house. He was the son of a distant relative of her mother, and was then articled as a clerk or apprentice to a writer to the signet in Edinburgh. He also was the only child of his parents; for, though they had had eight others, he was all that death had left them. He was the youngest son of his mother; and there was a time when there was no mother had greater cause to be proud of her children. Yea, as they hand in hand, or one by one, went forth on the Sabbath morning with their parents to their place of worship, there was not an eye that looked not with delight or admiration on the little Cranstouns. The neatness of their dress, the loveliness of every countenance, the family likeness of each, the apparent affection of all, the propriety of their demeanour, interested all who looked upon them. But as untimely flowers, that by a returning frost are stricken down in beauty, so drooped, so perished, this fair and happy family. Some had said that they were too beautiful to live; and, as they also manifested much quickness and wisdom for their years, there were others who said to Mrs Cranstoun, as she was shedding their shining hair upon their brows, that she would never comb an old head! This is a cold, cruel, and ignorant prophecy; it has sent foreboding and unhappiness into the bosom of many a fond mother; but, in this case, it needed not the gift of a seer to foretell the gloomy tidings. Consumption lurked amidst the beauty that glowed on every cheek; and seven of the fair family had fallen victims to the progress of the insidious destroyer, till Henry alone was left. And now, even upon him also, it seemed to have set its mark. The hollow cough and the flushed cheek, the languidness by day and the restlessness by night, gave evidence that the disease was there. Change of air and less study were recommended by the physicians, as the only means by which Henry might be saved; and he was sent over to Northumberland, to the house of William Percy, his mother's friend. It was about that period of the year which is spoken of as the "fall of the leaf," when Henry Cranstoun first arrived at Till-side. William Percy had just gathered in his harvest, and Henry met with the kindly welcome of a primitive family. The father and mother, and their daughter, received him as one whom they were to snatch from the hands of death. In a few days, the goat's milk, and the bracing air, which came with health on its wings from the adjacent mountains, wrought a visible change in the appearance of the invalid. His cough became more softened, his eyes less languid, his step more firm, and he panted not as he walked. He felt returning strength flowing through his veins--in his bosom, in the moving of his fingers, he felt it. He walked out by the side of Agnes--she led him by the banks of the Till, by the foot of the hills, by the woods where the brown leaves were falling, and by the solitary glen. Perhaps I might have said that the presence of Agnes contributed not less than the mountain air and the change of scenery to his restoration to health. Of this I have not been told. Certain it is that her beauty and her gentleness had spread their influence over his heart, as spring, with its wooing breath, awakens the dreaming earth from its winter sleep. It was not the season when nature calls forth the soul to love; for the cushat was silent in the woods, the mavis voiceless on the thorn, the birds were dumb on every spray, the wild-flowers had closed their leaves and drooped, and the meadows lost their fragrance. But, as they wandered forth together, a lark started up at their feet; it raised its autumn song over their heads; it poured it in their ears. Both raised their eyes in joy towards the singing bird; they listened to it with delight. His fingers were pressed on hers as he heard it, as though he would have said--"How sweet it is!" But the lustre forsook his eyes while he yet listened--he sighed, and was silent. They returned home together, and Agnes strove to cheer him; but his spirit was heavy, and he pressed her hand more fervently in his. The song of the lark seemed to have touched a chord of sadness in his bosom. Henry was heard walking backward and forward in his room throughout the night; and on the following morning at breakfast he put a paper into the hands of Agnes, on which was written the following rhymes:-- THE LARK'S AUTUMNAL SONG. (INSCRIBED TO AGNES PERCY.) Again in the heavens thy hymn is heard, Bird of the daring wing! When last ye sprang from the daisied sward, Making the welkin ring, Thy lay the dreaming buds awoke-- Thy voice the spell of winter broke-- The primrose, on the mossy brae, Burst beauteous into life and day, And smiled to hear thee sing! The children clapp'd their tiny hands; The shout rang through their little bands, Hailing the bird in spring! Thy lay made earth and air rejoice, And nature heard thee as an angel's voice. Again in the heavens thy hymn is heard, Bird of the mournful song! A lonely daisy yet decks the sward, The last of the summer throng. While here and there, upon the brae, Some primrose, _languid as the ray Of hope that vanisheth away Upon the cheek of death_, Untimely opes its golden wing, Mistaking, as it hears thee sing, That thou art come to tell of spring, And not of winter's wrath. But now thy strain is as one that grieves-- Thou singest the dirge of the falling leaves! Again in the heavens thy hymn I hear, Bird of the merry song! Thou art ringing a lay in old winter's ear-- Ye bid him farewell, and ye welcome him here-- Ye help the old man along! Ye are singing to look on the fruits of the year Gather'd in, and in ripeness, with plenty around; And ye pour o'er earth's fulness a rapturous sound. Ye are singing a strain that man should have sung-- Man with ingratitude seal'd on his tongue: At _seed-time_, thy joyous and _hope-breathing_ lay, To the ploughman was sung, as an anthem, all day, And now at his _harvest_ ye greet him again, And call him to join in thy _thanksgiving_ strain. Agnes wept as she perused the foreboding lines, which he had marked in what printers call Italics, in the second stanza, by drawing a line under them. She felt interested in the fate of Henry Cranstoun--deeply interested. We believe that, like the gentle Desdemona, she wished that "Heaven had made her such a man;" for, though the young writer to the signet spoke not "Of war, and broils, and battles," his tongue was the interpreter of nature--he dwelt as an enthusiast on its beauties, its mysteries, its benevolence, its glorious design; and, through all, he would point "Through nature up to nature's God!" It is a common saying, "that you cannot put an old head upon young shoulders!" but, if ever the truth of the saying might be disputed, it was in the case of Henry Cranstoun. The deaths of his brothers and his sisters had rested upon his young mind--they had struck it with awe--they had made him to feel that he, too, must die--he, indeed, felt as though the shadow of death were creeping over him; and the thoughts and the hopes of eternity early became the companions of his spirit. He treasured up the words of the inspired preacher, "Remember thy Creator in the days of thy youth." He treasured them up, and he practised them; and his deportment gave him a deeper interest in the eyes of the Northumberland farmer and his family. William Percy was esteemed by his neighbours as a church-going and a good man. He was kind to his servants; he paid every man his own; he was an affectionate husband and a fond father; the poor turned not away murmuring from his door; and every Sunday night he knelt with his wife and with his daughter, before their Maker, in worship, as though it were a duty which was to be discharged but once in seven days. Now, it was late on Saturday night when Henry Cranstoun arrived at their house; and, on the following evening, he joined in the devotions of the family. But Monday night came, and the supper passed, and the Bibles were not brought. Henry inquired-- "Is it not time for worship?" The question went to the conscience of the farmer--he felt that before his Creator, who preserved him, who gave him every breath he drew, he had knelt with his family but once a-week. "Is not He the Almighty of all time and of all eternity?" asked his conscience; "and have I not served Him as though He were Lord of the Sabbath only? I forsake him for a week--where should I be if He left me but for a moment?" "Agnes, love," said he aloud, "bring the books." She cheerfully obeyed, and the Bibles were laid upon the table. The psalm was read, and the voice of praise was raised; and as the hinds in the adjoining houses heard the sound, they followed the example of their master. Hitherto, like their employer, they had lifted their voices in thanksgiving but once a-week, as if a few minutes spent in praise and in prayer, and in the reading of a chapter, were all that was necessary for example to a family, or for gratitude to Him who sustained, protected, and gave them being from moment to moment. I should not dwell upon this, were it not that there are many good and Christian parents who conceive that they fulfil the injunction of "praying often with and for their children," by causing them to kneel around them on a Sabbath night. But this, certainly, is a poor fulfilment of the oath which they have taken--or which, if they have not taken, they are equally bound to perform. I do not say that the man who daily prays with his family will have the gratification of seeing all of them following in his footsteps, or that all of them will think as he thinks; but he may be of one sect, and some of them of another; yet, let them go where they will--let them be thrown into what company they may--let temptation assail them in every form, and absence throw its shadows over their father's house--yet the remembrance, the fervour, the words of a father's prayers, will descend upon their souls like a whisper from heaven, kindling the memory and awakening the conscience; and if the child of such a man depart into sin, the small still voice will not die in his ear. Nay, the remembrance of the father's voice will be heard in the son's heart above the song of the bacchanal, and the lowly remembered voice of psalms rise upon his memory, making him insensible to the peal of instruments. I have listened to the sonorous swell of the organ in the Roman church and the Episcopal cathedral, to the chant of the choristers and the music of the anthem, and I have been awed by the sounds; but they produced not the feelings of peace and of reverence--I might say of religion--which are inspired by the lowly voices of a congregated family joining together in their hymn of praise. I have thought that such sounds, striking on the ear of the guilty, would arrest them in their progress. Such was the change which Henry Cranstoun introduced into the house of his host. From that moment, Agnes regarded him with a deeper interest, her father loved him, and her mother looked on him as a son. But, although his mind had been early imbued with serious impressions, he was a lover of all that was beautiful in nature--he was warm of heart and eloquent of speech--and his form was such as the eye of a maiden might look on with complacency. Christmas had passed before he left the house of his mother's friend, and health again glowed on his cheeks, strength revisited his frame. No one that saw Henry Cranstoun upon his entering the house of Mr Percy three months before, and who had not seen him in the meanwhile, would have known him to be the same individual. But Agnes noted no change in him. She knew that his health was now restored; but she had begun to hope and love at the same moment, and she had never thought that Henry would die. His eyes had ever been bright to her--his voice ever pleasing; and her beauty, her gentleness, her sweetness of temper, her kindness, her looks, her tones of affection, had fallen upon his bosom, till every thought, save the thought of Agnes, was banished. He was to leave her father's house: he bade her _farewell_. Till that moment, they had not known how dear they were unto each other. They had never spoken of love; and, to hearts that do love, there is little need for such declarations. The affection of every glance, the guarded delicacy of every action, speaks it more plainly than the impassioned eloquence of language. True eloquence is feeling, and feeling dictates the words to be used, pouring them forth in the full tide of the heart's emotion; but, though love also be feeling, it is not of that kind which makes men eloquent. True love is dumb as true gratitude. It speaks from the glowing eye and the throbbing bosom; from the hand passionately grasped--not from the tongue. Henry and Agnes said little; but they fell upon the necks of each other when they parted. She wept, and from his eyes the tear was ready to fall. He kissed her brow, and said that in the spring he would return. He left Northumberland, and his parents welcomed him as one received from the dead. He was strong and healthy, and he alone, of all their children, seemed to have overcome the power of the destroyer. Yet a week never passed but he wrote to his friends, who had snatched him as from the gates of death; or rather, I should say, that he wrote to the gentle Agnes, requesting that the expression of his gratitude might be given to her parents, until he returned to thank them. But spring came; and with it Henry Cranstoun returned to Till-side. Health still glowed in his eyes, and beamed upon his cheeks. He was fond of angling, and, with his rod in his hand, he sought amusement in the gentle art; yet his favourite pastime afforded him no pleasure, save when Agnes was by his side, and then they would sit down on the brae-side together, with her hand in his, and the fishing-rod on the ground, and they forgot that he had gone out to fish, until evening came, and he returned with his creel empty. Thus five years passed on, and twice in every year Henry Cranstoun visited his friends in Northumberland. He had commenced practice in Edinburgh; fair prospects opened before him; his marriage-day was fixed; and need I say that the bride was Agnes? The ceremony was to be performed in the parish church, which was situated about a mile from her father's house. Henry was only expected to arrive an hour or two before the marriage was to take place. The bosom of fair Agnes throbbed with tumultuous joy. Her parents gazed upon her, blessed her, and were happy. She sat before them, arrayed, a bride for the altar. He whom she loved and they esteemed was that day to make her his wife. Her mother gazed on her with pride--she blessed her Agnes. Her father's heart glowed within him. The bridemaidens were come--Agnes was impatient, but still happy; no fear, no doubt, had risen in her mind. She knew her Henry. But the last hour arrived, and Henry came not. Her uneasiness increased. The servants were sent to a neighbouring hill; but no chaise, no horseman, appeared in sight. Agnes became unhappy; paleness overspread her cheeks. The company were silent. Her father's watch hung over the mantelpiece, and she sat at the opposite side of the room; yet its ticking fell upon her ears slow and heavy, as sounds from a hammer on an anvil. Tears, which she had struggled to conceal, now gathered in her eyes. Some evil had befallen Henry, she said, and wept. The hour which had been appointed for the ceremony was past; but still he came not. Her fears, her anxiety, increased, and she wept the more, refusing to be comforted. She knew not what she feared; but her breast was filled with misery. She had received a letter from him but three days before. She read it again--it breathed the language of impassioned affection, but his truth she doubted not; yet there was an incoherency, a vehemence, in some parts of the letter, which were not like the style of Henry. A vague horror shot across her thoughts, and her hand trembled, as she laid the letter aside. Still the servants were despatched to see if he approached, and at length they brought tidings that two horsemen were riding towards the house. Agnes strove to wipe away the tears from her eyes, but her heart yet throbbed, and others rose in their place. The horsemen drew near the house. Those of the company who beheld them from the windows drew back with a look of dismay. Agnes clasped her hands together, as she beheld the expression of their countenances. The evil she apprehended was about to be revealed. The parish clergyman and the minister of the congregation to which Mr Percy belonged entered the room. She started from her seat as they entered--she wrung her hands on her bosom--her eyes seemed fixed and motionless with misery--her lips moved--her tongue struggled for utterance. "Be comforted!" said one of the reverend visiters, kindly. "Is my Henry dead?" she exclaimed--"is he dead?" "He is not dead," was the reply; "but----" and the clergyman hesitated a moment to proceed. "_His mind is dead!_" added the wretched bride, and sank back in her mother's arms. The dismal thought flashed upon her soul; the vague horror that she had shrunk from before became tangible--the incoherence and vehemence of passages in his last letter were suddenly and fearfully interpreted. The tidings which the clergyman had to communicate, her fears had already told. The mind of Henry Cranstoun had become a wreck. A cloud fell upon his reason; and, on the day that he was to lead his bride to the altar, he was placed an inmate of the gloomy cells of Bedlam. Several months had passed, and the grief of Agnes became more tranquil, but not less deep. She entreated permission to visit her bridegroom in the place of his confinement, and her parents fondly endeavoured to dissuade her from her purpose; but it became the one--the ruling wish of her heart--and they consented. Her father accompanied her to the dreary prison-house. But I shall not attempt to describe the heartrending interview, nor to tell how the iron which fettered him entered her soul. He knew her--he wept before her as a child--he exclaimed, "My brain!--my brain!" and pressed his hand upon his brow. Around him were strewed scraps of paper; she beheld her name upon each; they were covered with verses of love and of wildness. But I will not dwell upon the harrowing scene, upon the words that were spoken, and the fitful gleams of reason that flitted across his soul, as his eyes remained riveted on the face he loved. But when her father, with a faltering voice, suggested that they should depart, and took her hand to lead her from the cell, a scream of loud and bitter agony burst from the wretched maniac. "Agnes--Agnes!" he cried; and his wailing was as the lamentation of a lost spirit. Anguish overpowered her, and she was borne insensible from the cell in her father's arms. Seven long and dreary years passed, and the mind of Henry was still bewildered; still was he an inmate of the melancholy asylum, and no hope was entertained of his recovery. But the heart of Agnes knew no change--for him she still shed the secret tear and offered up the secret prayer. But her father's fortunes were altered. He had been induced to enter into a speculation with one who deceived him, and in it the industry of years was swallowed up and lost. He was obliged to leave his farm, and he now resided in a small cottage in its neighbourhood. Still there were many who sought the hand of the fair Rose of Till-side; but she chose rather to brood over the remembrance of poor ruined Henry than to listen to their addresses. But amongst them was a young gentleman named Walker, whose condition was far above hers, and who for two years had vainly sought a place in her affections. In the day of her father's distress, he had been his friend, and he yet sought to place him again in a state of independence. The health of Mr Percy, also, began to decline; the infirmities of age were growing upon him; and the little that he had been able to save from the wreck of his capital was wasting rapidly away. He became melancholy with the thought that he should die a pauper, or leave his wife and his daughter in want; and, in the presence of Agnes, he often spoke of Mr Walker--of the excellence of his character--of his wealth--of what he had done for him in the midst of his misfortunes--of what he still desired to do--and of his affection for her. She listened to her father's words in sorrow and in silence, and, on her pillow by night, she wept because of them. To her the remembrance of Henry Cranstoun was dearer than the temptations of wealth, and her heart clung to him with a constancy which neither time, misery, nor hopelessness could shake. She was grateful to her father's friend for the kindness he had shown him, and for the generosity of the proposals he had made--yet she found that she could not love him, that her bosom had room for none but Henry. Poverty, however, entered her parents' dwelling, and her father seemed drooping for lack of nourishment which his increasing feebleness required. Her mother, too, sat silent and melancholy, occasionally raising her eyes to her daughter's face, with a look that implored her to save her father. The old man had been ordered wine daily; but their penury was now such that they could not purchase it, and the plainest food had become scanty on their table. Such was their situation, and they were sitting sorrowful together, when Mr Walker entered the room. He approached Agnes respectfully, he took her hand. "Dear Agnes," he began, "can one with so kind a heart look with indifference on the wants and the sufferings of a father and a mother? It is in your power to make them happy, to restore them to prosperity. For two years I have sought your hand, without meeting one look of encouragement or one word of hope. Yet believe me, Agnes, I admire the constancy which induces you to cherish a hopeless passion, and reject me. If not for my sake, yet for the sake of your poor father, for that of your fond mother, yea, for your own sake, dearest, permit me to call you mine. I do not ask your love now; give me but your esteem, and I will study to deserve your affection. Dear friends, plead for me," he added, addressing her parents. Her father laid his hand upon hers--"Dear Agnes," said he, "your father is now a poor man--he is very poor. I fear the hand of death is already upon me; and when I am gone, who will provide for your poor mother--who will protect thee, my child? It is the only wish of my heart to see you provided for, and your father would die in peace. And oh, my Agnes, as your father's dying request, permit me to bestow your hand upon this generous youth." "Save us, my sweet one!" cried her mother, and she flung her arms around her daughter's neck. "It is done!" exclaimed Agnes, bursting into tears; and she stretched out her hand to Mr Walker. A few weeks afterwards, and the village bells rang a merry peal, children scattered flowers, and there was joy on every face, save upon the face of the fair bride, who went as a sacrifice to the altar. She heard not the words of the clergyman as he read the ceremony. She trembled, she would have fallen to the ground, but that the bridesmaid supported her. The marriage party were returning by a footpath from the church, the sorrowful bride resting on the arm of her bridegroom. A stranger met them--he turned aside, that they might pass. His eyes fell upon the countenance of the bride. "O Heavens! my Agnes!" cried the stranger, in a voice of agony. "Henry! my Henry!" screamed the wretched bride, and, starting from the side of the bridegroom, she sank on the breast of the stranger. That stranger was indeed Henry Cranstoun. A severe illness had brought him to the verge of death, and with his restoration to health reason was restored also. He had come to take his bride to his bosom--he met her the bride of another. It was a scene of misery. "O Agnes! Agnes!" groaned Henry, "would to Heaven I had died! You are another's, though your heart is mine! Farewell! Farewell!--we must meet no more! I have endured much, but never misery like this!" She could only exclaim, "Henry!" and speech failed her--recollection fled. Henry Cranstoun struck his hand upon his brow, and rushed wildly away. Agnes was conveyed to her father's house, as being nearer than that of her bridegroom's. She was laid upon her bed, she seemed unconscious of all around, and her tongue only uttered the word "Henry." She rose not again from the bed on which she was laid, and within a week her gentle spirit fled. The shock which Henry had met with occasioned a relapse of the fever from which he had but recently recovered. He was taken to the village inn. He felt that death was about to terminate his sufferings, and when he heard of the death of his Agnes, he requested to be buried by her side. Within three weeks he died, and his latest wish was fulfilled--he was laid by the side of Agnes Percy, and a rose-tree was planted over their grave. THE HENPECKED MAN. Every one has heard the phrase, "_Go to Birgham!_" which signifies much the same as bidding you go to a worse place. The phrase is familiar not only on the Borders, but throughout all Scotland, and has been in use for more than five hundred years, having taken its rise from Birgham being the place where the Scottish nobility were when they dastardly betrayed their country into the hands of the first Edward; and the people, despising the conduct and the cowardice of the nobles, have rendered the saying, "_Go to Birgham!_" an expression of contempt until this day. Many, however, may have heard the saying, and even used it, who know not that Birgham is a small village, beautifully situated on the north side of the Tweed, about midway between Coldstream and Kelso; though, if I should say that the village itself is beautiful, I should be speaking on the wrong side of the truth. Yet there may be many who have both heard the saying and seen the place, who never heard of little Patie Crichton, the bicker-maker. Patie was of diminutive stature, and he followed the profession (if the members of the _learned professions_ be not offended at my using the term) of a cooper, or bicker-maker, in Birgham for many years. His neighbours used to say of him, "The puir body's henpecked." Patie was in the habit of attending the neighbouring fairs with the water-cogs, cream-bowies, bickers, piggins, and other articles of his manufacture. It was Dunse fair, and Patie said he "had done extraordinar' weel--the sale had been far beyond what he expeckit." His success might be attributed to the circumstance that, when out of the sight and hearing of his better half, for every bicker he sold, he gave his customers half-a-dozen jokes into the bargain. Every one, therefore, liked to deal with little Patie. The fair being over, he retired with a crony to a public-house in the Castle Wynd, to crack of old stories over a glass, and inquire into each other's welfare. It was seldom they met, and it was as seldom that Patie dared to indulge in a single glass; but, on the day in question, he thought they could manage another gill, and another was brought. Whether the sight of it reminded him of his domestic miseries, and of what awaited him at home, I cannot tell; but, after drinking another glass, and pronouncing the spirits excellent, he thus addressed his friend:-- "Ay, Robin" (his friend's name was Robin Roughead), "ye're a happy man--ye're maister in your ain hoose, and ye've a wife that adores and _obeys_ ye; but I'm nae better than naebody at my ain fireside. I'll declare I'm waur: wife an' bairns laugh at me--I'm treated like an outlan' body an' a fule. Though without me they micht gang an' beg, there is nae mair respeck paid to me than if I were a pair o' auld bauchels flung into a corner. Fifteen years syne I couldna believed it o' Tibby, though onybody had sworn it to me. I firmly believe that a guid wife is the greatest blessin that can be conferred upon a man upon this earth. I can imagine it by the treasure that my faither had in my mither; for, though the best may hae _words_ atween them occasionally, and I'm no saying that they hadna, yet they were just like passin showers, to mak' the kisses o' the sun upon the earth mair sweet after them. Her whole study was to please him and to mak' him comfortable. She was never happy but when he was happy; an' he was just the same wi' her. I've heard him say that she was worth untold gold. But, O Robin! if I think that a guid wife is the greatest blessin a man can enjoy, weel do _I_ ken that a scoldin, domineerin wife is his greatest curse. It's a terrible thing to be snooled in your ain house--naebody can form an idea o't but they wha experience it. "Ye remember whan I first got acquainted wi' Tibby, she was doing the bondage work at Riselaw. I first saw her coming out o' Eccles kirk ae day, and I really thocht that I had never seen a better-faured or a more gallant-looking lass. Her cheeks were red and white like a half-ripe strawberry, or rather, I should say, like a cherry; and she seemed as modest and meek as a lamb. It wasna very lang until I drew up; and, though she didna gie me ony great encouragement at first, yet, in a week or twa, after the ice was fairly broken, she became remarkably ceevil, and gied me her oxter on a Sunday. We used to saunter about the loanings, no saying meikle, but unco happy; and I was aye restless whan I was out o' her sight. Ye may guess that the shoemaker was nae loser by it during the six months that I ran four times a-week, wet or dry, between Birgham and Riselaw. But the term-time was drawing nigh, and I put the important question, and pressed her to name the day. She hung her head, and she seemed no to ken weel what to say; for she was sae mim and sae gentle then, that ye wad hae said 'butter wadna melt in her mouth.' And when I pressed her mair urgently-- "'I'll just leave it to yersel, Peter,' says she. "I thocht my heart wad louped out at my mouth. I believe there never was a man sae beside himsel wi' joy in this warld afore. I fairly danced again, and cut as many antics as a merryandrew. 'O Tibby,' says I, 'I'm owre happy now!--Oh, haud my head! This gift o' joy is like to be my dead.' "'I hope no, Peter,' said she; 'I wad rather hae ye to live than dee for me.' "I thocht she was as sensible as she was bonny, and better natured than baith. "Weel, I got the house set up, the wedding-day cam, and everything passed owre as agreeably as onybody could desire. I thocht Tibby turning bonnier and bonnier. For the first five or six days after the weddin, everything was '_hinny_,' and '_my love_,' and '_Tibby, dear_,' or '_Peter, dear_.' But matters didna stand lang at this. It was on a Saturday nicht, I mind, just afore I was gaun to drap work, that three or four acquaintances cam into the shop to wush me joy, and they insisted I should pay off for the weddin. Ye ken I never was behint hand; and I agreed that I wad just fling on my coat and step up wi' them to Orange Lane. So I gaed into the house and took down my market coat, which was hangin behint the bed; and after that I gaed to the kist to tak out a shilling or twa; for, up to that time, Tibby had not usurped the office of Chancellor o' the Exchequer. I did it as cannily as I could; but she had suspected something, and heard the jinkin o' the siller. "'What are ye doing, Patie?' says she; 'whar are ye gaun?' "I had never heard her voice hae sic a sound afore, save the first time I drew up to her, when it was rather sharp than agreeable. "'Ou, my dear,' says I, 'I'm just gaun up to Orange Lane a wee while.' "'To Orange Lane!' says she; 'what in the name o' fortune's gaun to tak ye there?' "'O hinny,' says I, 'it's just a neebor lad or twa that's drapped in to wush us joy, and, ye ken, we canna but be neebor-like.' "'Ay! the sorrow joy them!' says she, 'and neebor too!--an' how meikle will that cost ye?' "'Hoot, Tibby,' says I, for I was quite astonished at her, 'ye no understand things, woman.' "'No understand them!' says she; 'I wish to guidness that ye wad understand them though! If that's the way ye intend to mak the siller flee, it's time there were somebody to tak care o't.' "I had put the silver in my pocket, and I was gaun to the door mair surprised than I can weel express, when she cried to me-- "'Mind what ye spend, and see that ye dinna stop.' "'Ye need be under nae apprehensions o' that, hinny,' said I, wishing to pacify her. "'See that it be sae,' cried she, as I shut the door. "I joined my neebors in a state of greater uneasiness o' mind than I had experienced for a length o' time. I couldna help thinkin but that Tibby had rather early begun to tak the upper hand, and it was what I never expected from her. However, as I was saying, we went up to Orange Lane, and we sat doun, and ae gill brocht on anither. Tibby's health and mine were drunk; we had several capital sangs; and, I daresay, it was weel on for ten o'clock afore we rose to gang awa. I was nae mair affected wi' drink than I am at this moment. But, somehow or ither, I was uneasy at the idea o' facing Tibby. I thought it would be a terrible thing to quarrel wi' her. I opened the door, and, bolting it after me, slipped in, half on the edge o' my fit. She was sitting wi' her hand at her haffit by the side o' the fire, but she never let on that she either saw or heard me--she didna speak a single word. If ever there was a woman 'Nursing her wrath to keep it warm,' it was her that nicht. I drew in a chair, and, though I was half-feared to speak-- "'What's the matter, my pet?' says I--'what's happened ye?' "But she sat looking into the fire, and never let on she heard me. 'E'en's ye like, Meg Dorts,' thought I, as Allan Ramsay says; but I durstna say it, for I saw that there was a storm brewing. At last, I ventured to say again-- "'What ails ye, Tibby, dear?--are ye no weel?' "'Weel!' cried she--'wha can be weel? Is this the way ye mean to carry on? What a time o' nicht is this to keep a body to, waiting and fretting on o' ye, their lane? Do you no think shame o' yoursel?' "'Hoot, woman,' says I, 'I'm surprised at ye; I'm sure ye hae naething to mak a wark about--it's no late yet.' "'I dinna ken what ye ca' late,' said she; 'it wadna be late amang yer cronies, nae doubt; but if it's no late, it's early, for I warrant its mornin.' "'Nonsense!' says I. "'Dinna tell me it's nonsense,' said she, 'for I'll be spoken to in na sic way--I'll let you ken that. But how meikle has it cost ye? Ye wad be treating them, nae doubt--and how meikle hae ye spent, if it be a fair question?' "'Toots, Tibby!' said I, 'whar's the cause for a' this? What great deal could it cost me?' "'But hair by hair makes the carle's head bare,' added she--'mind ye that; and mind ye that ye've a house to keep aboon your head noo. But, if ye canna do it, I maun do it for ye--sae gie me the key o' that kist--gie me it instantly; and I'll tak care how ye gang drinkin wi' ony body and treatin them till mornin again.' "For the sake o' peace I gied her the key; for she was speakin sae loud that I thocht a' the neebors wad hear--and she had nae suner got it, than awa she gaed to the kist and counted every shilling. I had nae great abundance then mair than I've now; and-- "'Is that a' ye hae?' said she; 'an' yet ye'll think o' gaun drinkin and treatin folk frae Saturday nicht till Sabbath mornin! If this is the life ye intend to lead, I wush to guidness I had ne'er had onything to say to ye.' "'And if this is the life ye intend to lead me,' thought I, 'I wush the same thing.' "But that was but the beginnin o' my slavery. From that hour to this she has continued on from bad to worse. No man livin can form an idea o' what I've suffered but mysel. In a mornin, or rather, I may say, in a forenoon, for it was aye nine or ten o'clock afore she got up, she sat doun to her tea and white scones and butter, while I had to be content wi' a scrimpit bicker o' brose and sour milk for kitchen. Nor was this the warst o't; for, when I cam in frae my wark for my breakfast, mornin after mornin, the fire was black out; and there had I, before I could get a bite to put in my mouth, to bend doun upon my knees and blaw it, and blaw it, till I was half-blind wi' ashes--for we hadna a pair o' bellowses; and there wad she lie grumblin a' the time, ca'in me useless _this_, and useless _that_; and I just had to put up wi' it. But, after our first bairn was born, she grew far warse, and I becam mair and mair miserable every day. If I had been sleeping through the nicht, and the bairn had begun a kickin, or whingin--then she was at the scoldin, and I was sure to be started out o' my sleep wi' a great drive atween the shouthers, and her crying-- "'Get up, ye lazy body, ye--get up, and see what's the maiter wi' this bairn.' "An' this was the trade half-a-dizen o' times in a nicht. "At last, there was ae day, when a' that I had dune was simply saying a word about the denner no bein ready, and afore ever I kenned whar I was, a cracky-stool that she had bought for the bairn cam fleein across the room, and gied me a dirl on the elbow, that made me think my arm was broken. Ye may guess what a stroke it was, when I tell ye I couldna lift my hand to my head for a week to come. Noo, the like o' that, ye ken, was what mortal man couldna stand. "'Tibby,' said I, and I looked very desperate and determined, 'what do ye mean by this conduct? By a' that's gracious, I'll no put up wi' it ony langer!' "'Ye'll no put up wi' it, _ye cratur_!' said she; 'if ye gie me ony mair o' yer provocation, I'll pu' yer lugs for ye--wull ye put up wi' that?' "It was terrible for a man to hear his ain wife ca' him _a cratur_!--just as if I had been a monkey or a laupdoug! "'O ye disdainfu' limmer,' thought I; 'but if I could humble your proud spirit, I wad do it!' Weel, there was a grand new ballant hawkin about the country at the time--it was ca'd 'Watty and Meg'--ye have nae doubt seen't. Meg was just such a terrible termagant as my Tibby; and I remembered the perfect reformation that was wrought upon her by Watty's bidding her farweel, and threatenin to list. So it just struck me that I wad tak a leaf out o' the ballant. Therefore, keeping the same serious and determined look, for I was in no humour to seem otherwise--'Tibby,' says I, 'there shall be nae mair o' this. But I will gang and list this very day, and ye'll see what will come owre ye then--ye'll maybe repent o' yer conduct whan it's owre late.' "'List! ye _totum_ ye!' said she; 'do ye say _list_?' and she said this in a tone and wi' a look o' derision that gaed through my very soul. 'What squad will ye list into?--what regiment will tak ye? Do ye intend to list for a fifer laddie?' And as she said this, she held up her oxter, as if to tak me below't. "I thought I wad hae drapped doun wi' indignation. I could hae strucken her, if I durst. Ye observe I am just five feet twa inches and an eighth, upon my stokin-soles. That is rather below the army standard--and I maun say it's a very foolish standard; for a man o' my height stands a better chance to shoot anither than a giant that wad fire owre his head. But she was aware that I was below the mark, and my threat was of no avail; so I had just to slink awa into the shop, rubbin my elbow. "But the cracky-stool was but the beginnin o' her drivin; there wasna a week after that but she let flee at me whatever cam in the way, whenever I by accident crossed her cankered humour. It's a wonder that I'm in the land o' the living; for I've had the skin peeled off my legs--my arms maistly broken--my head cut, and ither parts o' my body a' black and blue, times out o' number. I thought her an angel whan I was courtin her; but, O Robin! she has turned out--I'll no say what--an adder!--a teeger!--a she fury! "As for askin onybody into the house, it's a thing I durstna do for the life that's in my body. I never did it but ance, and that was whan an auld schulefellow, that had been several years in America, ca'ed at the shop to see me. After we had cracked a while-- "'But I maun see the wife, Patie,' says he. "Whether he had heard aboot her behaviour or no, I canna tell; but, I assure ye, his request was onything but agreeable to me. However, I took him into the house, and I introduced him wi' fear and tremblin. "'Tibby, dear,' said I--and I dinna think I had ca'ed her _dear_ for ten years afore--'here's Mr W----, an auld schulefellow o' mine, that's come a' the way frae America, an' ca'ed in to see ye.' "'Ye're aye meetin wi' auld schulefellows, or some set or ither, to tak ye aff yer wark,' muttered she, sulkily, but loud enough for him to hear. "I was completely at a loss what to do or say next; but, pretending as though I hadna heard her, I said, as familiarly and kindly as I could, though my heart was in a terrible swither--'Bring out the bottle, lass.' "'Bottle!' quo' she, 'what bottle?--what does the man mean?--has he pairted wi' the little sense that he ever had?' But had ye seen her as she said this!--I've seen a cloud black when driven wi' a hurricane, and I've seen it awfu' when roarin in the agony o' thunder; but never did I see onything that I was mair in fear o' than my wife's face at that moment. But, somehow or ither, I gathered courage to say--'Hoots, woman, what's the use o' behavin that way? I'm sure ye ken weel aneugh it's the speerit bottle.' "'The speerit bottle!' cried she, wi' a scream; 'and when was there a speerit bottle within this door? Dinna show yoursel aff to your American freend for a greater man than ye are, Patie. I think, if wi' a' that ye bring in I get meat and bits o' duds for your bairns, I do very weel.' "This piece o' impudence completely knocked me stupid, for, wad ye believe it, Robin, though she had lang driven a' my freends frae about the house, yet never did ony o' _her_ freends ca'--and that was maistly every Sunday, and every Coldstream market-day--but there was the bottle out frae the cupboard, which she aye kept under lock and key; and a dram, and a bit short-bread nae less, was aye and to this day handed round to every ane o' them. They hae discovered that it's worth while to make Patie the bicker-maker's a half-way house. But, if I happen to be in when they ca', though she pours out a fu' glass a-piece for them, she takes aye guid care to stand in afore me when she comes to me, between them and me, so that they canna see what she is doing, or how meikle she pours out; and, I assure ye, it is seldom a thimblefu' that fa's to my share, though she hauds the bottle lang up in her hand--mony a time, no a weetin; and again and again have I shoved my head past her side, and said, 'Your health, Mrs So-and-so'--or, 'Yours, Mr Such-a-thing,' wi' no as meikle in my glass as wad droun a midge. Or, if I was sae placed that she durstna but, for shame, fill a glass within half-an-inch o' the tap or sae, she wad gie me a look, or a wink, or mak a motion o' some kind, which weel did I ken the meanin o', and which was the same as saying--'Drink it if ye daur!' O Robin, man! it's weel for ye that no kens what it is to be a footba' at your ain fireside. I daresay, my freend burned at the bane for me; for he got up, and-- "'I wish you good-day, Mr Crichton,' said he; 'I have business in Kelso to-night yet, and can't stop.' "I was perfectly overpowered wi' shame; but it was a relief to me when he gaed awa--and I slipped out after him, and into the shop again. "But Tibby's isna the only persecution that I hae to put up wi'; for we hae five bairns, and she's brought them a' up to treat me as she does hersel. If I offer to correct them, they cry out--'I'll tell my mither!'--and frae the auldest to the youngest o' them, when they speak aboot me, it is _he_ did this, or _he_ did that--they for ever talk o' me as _him!--him!_ I never got the name o' _faither_ frae ane o' them--and it's a' her doings. Now, I just ask ye simply if ony faither would put up wi' the like o' that! But I maun put up wi't. If I were offering to lay hands upon them for't, I am sure and persuaded she wad raise a' Birgham about me--my life wadna be safe where she is--but, indeed, I needna say that, for it never is. "But there is ae thing that grieves me beyond a' that I hae mentioned to ye. Ye ken my mither, puir auld body, is a widow now. She is in the seventy-sixth year o' her age, and very frail. She has naebody to look after her but me--naebody that has a natural right to do it; for I never had ony brothers, as ye ken; and, as for my twa sisters, I daresay they have just a sair aneugh fecht wi' their ain families, and as they are at a distance, I dinna ken how they are situated wi' their guidmen--though I maun say for them, they send her a stane o' oatmeal, an ounce o' tobacco, or a pickle tea and sugar, now and then, which is very likely as often as they hae it in their power; and that is a great deal mair than I'm _allowed_ to do for her--me that has a right to protect and maintain her. A' that she has to support her is fifteenpence a-week aff the parish o' Mertoun. O Robin, man!--Robin, man!--my heart rugs within me, when I talk to you about this. A' that I hae endured is naething to it! To see my puir auld mither in a state o' starvation, and no to be allowed to gie her a saxpence! O Robin, man!--Robin, man!--is it no awfu'? When she was first left destitute, and a widow, I tried to break the maiter to Tibby, and to reason wi' her. "'O Tibby, woman!' said I, 'I'm very distressed. Here's my faither laid in the grave, and I dinna see what's to come o' my mither, puir body--she is auld, and she is frail--she has naebody to look after or provide for her but me.' "'You!' cried Tibby--'you! I wush ye wad mind what ye are talkin about! Ye have as many dougs, I can tell ye, as ye hae banes to pike! Let your mither do as ither widows hae done afore her--let the parish look after her.' "'O Tibby, woman!' said I; 'but if ye'll only consider--the parish money is very sma', and, puir body, it will mak her heart sair to receive a penny o't; for she weel kens that my faither would rather hae dee'd in a ditch than been behauden to either a parish or an individual for a saxpence.' "'An' meikle they hae made by their pride,' said Tibby. 'I wush ye wud haud your tongue.' "'Ay, but Tibby,' says I, for I was nettled mair than I durst show it, 'but she has been a guid mother to me, and ye ken yoursel that she's no been an ill _guid-mother_ to ye. She never stood in the way o' you an' me comin thegither, though I was paying six shillings a-week into the house.' "'And what am I obliged to her for that?' interrupted my Jezebel. "'I dinna ken, Tibby,' says I; 'but it's a hard thing for a son to see a mother in want, when he can assist her. Now, it isna meikle she takes--she never was used wi' dainties; and, if I may just tak her hame, little will serve her, and her meat will ne'er be missed.' "'Ye born idiot!' cried Tibby. 'I aye thought ye a fule--but ye are warse than a fule! Bring your mither here! An auld, crossgrained, faut-finding wife, that I ne'er could hae patience to endure for ten minutes in my days! Bring her here, say ye! No! while I live in this house, I'll let ye ken that I'll be _mistress_.' "Ay, and maister too, thought I. I found it was o' nae use to argue wi' her. There was nae possibility o' gettin my mither into the house; and as to assisting her wi' a shillin or twa at a time by chance, or paying her house rent, or sending her a load o' coals, it was perfectly out o' the question, and beyond my power. Frae the nicht that I went to Orange Lane to this moment, I hae never had a saxpence under my thumb that I could ca' my ain. Indeed, I never hae money in my hands, unless it be on a day like this, when I hae to gang to a fair, or the like o' that; and even then, before I start, her leddyship sees every bowie, bicker, and piggin, that gangs into the cart--she kens the price o' them as weel as I do; and if I shouldna bring hame either money or goods according to her valuation, I actually believe she wad murder me. There is nae cheatin her. It is by mere chance that, having had a guid market, I've outreached her the day by a shillin or twa; and ane o' them I'll spend wi' you, Robin, and the rest shall gang to my mither. O man! ye may bless your stars that ye dinna ken what it is to hae a termagant wife." "I am sorry for ye, Patie," said Robin Roughead; "but really I think, in a great measure, ye hae yoursel to blame for it a'!" "Me!" said Patie--"what do ye mean, Robin?" "Why, Patie," said Robin, "I ken it is said that every ane can rule a bad wife but he that has her--and I believe it is true. I am quite convinced that naebody kens sae weel where the shoe pinches as they that hae it on; though I am quite satisfied that, had my case been yours, I wad hae brought her to her senses long afore now, though I had 'Dauded her lugs wi' Rab Roryson's bannet.' or gien her a _hoopin_ like your friend the cooper o' Coldingham." "Save us, man!" said Patie, who loved a joke, even though at second-hand, and at his own expense; "but ye see the cooper's case is not in point, though I am in the same line; for, as I hae observed, I am only five feet twa inches and an eighth in height--my wife _is not the weaker vessel_--that I ken to my sorrow." "Weel, Patie," said Robin, "I wadna hae ye to lift your hand--I was but jokin upon that score, it wadna be manly;--but there is ae thing that ye can do, and I am sure it wad hae an excellent effect." "Dearsake! what is that?" cried Patie. "For a' that has happened ye," said Robin, "ye hae just yoursel to blame, for giein up the key and the siller to her management that nicht ye gaed to Orange Lane. That is the short and the lang o' a' your troubles, Patie." "Do you think sae?" inquired the little bicker-maker. "Yes, I think sae, Peter, and I say it," said Robin; "and there is but ae remedy left." "And what is that!" asked Patie, eagerly. "Just this," said Robin--"_stop the supplies_." "_Stop the supplies!_" returned Patie--"what do you mean, Robin? I canna say that I fully comprehend ye." "I just mean this," added the other; "be your ain banker--your ain cashier--be maister o' your ain siller--let her find that it is to you she is indebted for every penny she has the power to spend; and if ye dinna bring Tibby to reason and kindness within a month, my name's no Robin Roughead." "Do ye think that wad do it?" said Patie. "If that wadna, naething wad," answered Robin; "but try it for a twelvemonth--begin this very nicht; and if we baith live and be spared to this time next year, I'll meet ye again, and I'll be the death o' a mutchkin, but that ye tell me Tibby's a different woman--your bairns different--your hail house different--and your auld mither comfortable." "O man, if it might be sae," said Patie; "but this very nicht, the moment I get hame, I'll try it--and, if I succeed, I'll try ye wi' a bottle o' wine, and I believe I never drank ane in my life." "Agreed," said Robin; "but mind ye're no to do things by halves. Ye're no to be feared out o' your resolution because Tibby may fire and storm, and let drive the things in the house at ye--nor even though she should greet." "I thoroughly understand ye," said Patie; "my resolution's ta'en, and I'll stand by it." "Gie's your hand on't," said Robin; and Patie gave him his hand. Now the two friends parted, and it is unnecessary for me either to describe their parting, or the reception which Patie, on his arriving at Birgham, met with from his spouse. Twelve months went round, Dunse fair came again, and after the fair was over, Patie Crichton once more went in quest of his old friend, Robin Roughead. He found him standing in the horse market, and-- "How's a' wi' ye, my freend?" says Patie. "Oh, hearty, hearty," cries the other; "but how's a' wi' ye?--how is yer family?" "Come and get the bottle o' wine that I've to gie ye," said Patie, "and I'll tell ye a' about it." "I'll do that," said Robin, "for my business is dune." So they went into the same house in the Castle Wynd where they had been twelve months before, and Patie called for a bottle of wine; but he found that the house had not the wine license, and was therefore content with a gill of whisky made into toddy. "O man," said he to Robin, "I wad pay ye half a dizen bottles o' wine wi' as great cheerfu'ness as I raise this glass to my lips. It was a grand advice that o' yours--_stop the supplies_." "I am glad to hear it," said Robin; "I was sure it was the only thing that would do." "Ye shall hear a' about it," said Patie. "After parting wi' ye, I trudged hame to Birgham, and when I got to my house--before I had the sneck o' the door weel out o' my hand-- "'What's stopped ye to this time o' nicht, ye fitless, feckless cratur ye?' cried Tibby--'whar hae ye been? Gie an account o' yoursel.' "'An account o' mysel!' says I, and I gied the door a drive ahint me, as if I wad driven it aff the hinges--'for what should I gie an account o' mysel?--or wha should I gie it to? I suppose this house is my ain, and I can come in and gang out when I like!' "'Yours!' cried she; 'is the _body_ drunk?' "'No,' says I; 'I'm no drunk, but I wad hae you to be decent. Where is my supper?--it is time that I had it.' "'Ye micht hae come in in time to get it then,' said she; 'folk canna keep suppers waitin on you.' "'But I'll gang whar I can get it,' said I; and I offered to leave the house. "'I'll tak the life o' ye first,' said she. 'Gie me the siller. Ye had five cogs, a dizen o' bickers, twa dizen o' piggins, three bowies, four cream dishes, and twa ladles, besides the wooden spoons that I packed up mysel. Gie me the siller--and, you puir profligate, let me see what ye hae spent.' "'Gie you the siller!' says I; 'na, na, I've dune that lang aneugh--_I hae stopped the supplies_, my woman.' "'Stop your breath!' cried she; 'gie me the siller, every farthin, or wo betide ye.' "It was needless for her to say _every farthin_; for, had I dune as I used to do, I kenned she wad search through every pocket o' my claes the moment she thocht me asleep--through every hole and corner o' them, to see if I had cheated her out o' a single penny--ay, and tak them up, and shake them, and shake them, after a' was dune. But I was determined to stand fast by your advice. "'Do as ye like,' says I; 'I'll bring ye to your senses--_I've stopped the supplies_.' "She saw that I wasna drunk, and my manner rather dumfoundered her a little. The bairns--wha, as I have tauld ye, she aye encouraged to mock me--began to giggle at me, and to mak game o' me, as usual. I banged out o' the house, and into the shop, and I took down the belt o' the bit turning-lathe, and into the house I goes again wi' it in my hand. "'Wha maks a fule o' me now?' "And they a' laughed thegither, and I up wi' the belt, and I loundered them round the house and round the house, till ane screamed and anither screamed, and even their mither got clouts in trying to run betwixt them and me; and it was wha to squeel loudest. Sae, after I had brocht them a' to ken what I was, I awa yont to my mither's, and I gied her five shillins, puir body; and after stoppin an hour wi' her, I gaed back to the house again. The bairns were a' abed, and some o' them were still sobbin, and Tibby was sittin by the fire; but she didna venture to say a word--I had completely astonished her--and as little said I. "There wasna a word passed between us for three days; I was beginning to carry my head higher in the house, and on the fourth day I observed that she had nae tea to her breakfast. A day or twa after, the auldest lassie cam to me ae morning about ten o'clock, and says she-- "'Faither, I want siller for tea and sugar.' "'Gae back to them that sent ye,' says I, 'and tell them to fare as I do, and they'll save the tea and sugar.' "But it is of nae use dwellin upon the subject. I did stop the supplies most effectually. I very soon brocht Tibby to ken wha was her bread-winner. An' when I saw that my object was accomplished, I showed mair kindness and affection to her than ever I had dune. The bairns became as obedient as lambs, and she soon came to say--'Peter, should I do this thing?'--or, 'Peter, should I do that thing?' So, when I had brocht her that far--'Tibby,' says I, 'we hae a but and a ben, and it's grievin me to see my auld mither starvin, and left by hersel wi' naebody to look after her. I think I'll bring her hame the morn--she'll aye be o' use about the house--she'll can knit the bairns' stockins, or darn them when they are out o' the heels.' "'Weel, Peter,' said Tibby, 'I'm sure it's as little as a son can do, and I'm perfectly agreeable.' "I banged up--I flung my arms round Tibby's neck--'Oh! bless ye, my dear!' says I; 'bless ye for that!--there's the key o' the kist and the siller--from this time henceforth do wi' it what ye like.' "Tibby grat. My mother cam hame to my house the next day. Tibby did everything to mak her comfortable--a' the bairns ran at her bidden--and, frae that day to this, there isna a happier man on this wide world than Patie Crichton the bicker-maker o' Birgham." MORTLAKE.--A LEGEND OF MERTON. "Pray, sir, will you condescend to inform me by what title you presume to set your foot on my grounds? Have I not already warned you; and if I use you now severely, the blame must rest with yourself." These words were addressed by Sir Thomas Bruce Vavasour, in an evident state of excitement, to a young lad apparently of about nineteen, but in reality not much above sixteen, whom he met traversing the grounds of Merton. Tom Vallance did not condescend to inform his interrogator why he had presumed to intrude where his presence seemed far from welcome, or explain why, on the present occasion, he happened to have in his hand a gun, which suspicious folks might be apt to suppose was intended to create some little confusion among the game on this well-preserved estate. He returned no very distinct answer; but some inarticulate sounds issued from his mouth, which, no doubt, were intended to deprecate the rage of the hasty and irritable baronet; but which seemed to have the effect only of heightening his ire, as he turned round to his keeper, who, with one of the servants, was at his back, and bade them secure the fowling-piece with which the youth was furnished--a command which was instantly obeyed; and the lad, not prepared for the sudden attack, was without difficulty disarmed. "Now, my lad," quoth Sir Thomas, "you had better be off, unless you wish me to use violence; for I will not allow my property to be trespassed upon, and my game destroyed, by you and the like of you." Tom stood firm, scowling on the baronet. At length he gained nerve enough to say-- "Give me back my gun. You have no right to rob me, nor shall you." "But you shall submit, my little cock-sparrow. Don't suppose I want to keep your twopenny-halfpenny pop-gun. Here, John, just take Master Tom by the shoulders, and turn him off my grounds; and you, Peter, carry this rubbishy thing to Mrs Vallance, and tell her it would better become her to keep her son behind the counter of her shop, to serve her customers with farthing-candles and brown soap, than allow him to vagabondise about the country poaching. If he does not mend his manners, I've a pretty good guess that some of those days he'll either take a voyage at the expense of his country, or get his neck thrust into a noose." This was certainly impertinent. It was, moreover, unjust and uncalled for; as, whatever might be said to the charge of Tom Vallance, on account of his predilection for field sports, no impeachment lay otherwise to his moral character. But Sir Thomas was in a passion; and, like all persons in that state, spoke without reflection. Naturally of a hasty and irritable temper, he had received a letter that morning which excited his ire excessively, and as, upon issuing from the mansion, the lad Vallance crossed his path, the first burst of his wrath fell on his devoted head. Tom felt deeply the insult. He had been accustomed to a shake of the head, and sometimes a sharp word; but Sir Thomas, upon the whole, used him well enough; for, as his mother had been housekeeper in the family during the lifetime of Sir Marmaduke Vavasour, who had married the heiress of Merton, the lad was looked upon, or rather he looked upon himself, as a sort of licensed person on the grounds. To be deprived of his gun was bad, but to insinuate moral turpitude was worse; and, forgetful of the rank of his tormentor, he exclaimed-- "I am no thief--I am as honest as yourself, Sir Thomas! and bitterly, bitterly shall you rue this day! When I set my foot next time on your grounds, it will be for no good to you." Saying this, he turned on his heel, and, extricating himself suddenly from the hands of the servants, cleared a ditch which opposed his retreat, and was speedily out of reach. The passion of Sir Thomas was not lessened by this unexpected reply, followed as it was by the speedy evasion of the speaker; and, as Tom was out of his reach, he transferred his wrath to the attendants, who were scolded in the most exemplary style for not knocking the young rascal down. After indulging some time in this agreeable relaxation, he returned to the house, looking all the while, as his men said, "like a bear wi' a sair head." Sir Thomas Bruce Vavasour was the third son of an English baronet of ancient lineage, who, by intermarriage with Isabella, daughter, and afterwards sole heiress, of Reginald Bruce of Merton, in the County of Roxburgh, eventually carried that estate into his family. He had three brothers, two elder and one younger than himself. By the marriage contract, the English estate, which was considerable, was destined to the elder son, the Scottish one to the second son. Thomas got a commission, went abroad, and, after much battling about, attained the rank of general, when, by the death of his brother William, he succeeded to Merton; and a few years afterwards, the demise of the eldest brother, who broke his neck whilst fox-hunting, gave him the extensive manor of Vavasour Castle, and the title of a baronet. The younger brother married an heiress, by whom he had one son, whom, after his demise, he left under the guardianship of Sir Thomas--excluding Mrs Vavasour from all control. The uncle carefully superintended the education of his ward--became much attached to him--and, during the holidays, frequently took him to Merton, to the infinite displeasure of Mrs Richard Vavasour, who cordially hated her brother-in-law. When he grew up, those visits were discontinued, partly as he was studying for the bar, and partly to please his mother, whom he considered he was in duty bound to propitiate as much as he could--rather a difficult task, as she was a capricious, fine lady, with violent and vindictive feelings. Edward was about four-and-twenty, and had formed an attachment to a lady--his equal in birth and fortune--but who did not meet with the mother's approbation. She demanded that the match should be broken off--Edward remonstrated--she persisted; and, after a war of words, matters remained precisely as they originally were: he avowing a fixed determination to make himself happy, notwithstanding Mrs Vavasour's threats of vengeance. This he accordingly did; and his mother, bursting a blood-vessel, soon afterwards died, leaving a sealed letter to be sent, after her demise, to Sir Thomas, whom she hated. Three weeks had elapsed from the date of this interview, when, one evening early in the month of September, a party of farmers (for it was market-day) were sitting, after dinner, in the public inn of the county town, when the landlord suddenly entered, exclaiming-- "Gracious! a dreadful murder has just been committed. The Laird of Merton has been killed in his own house!" This announcement was received with equal astonishment and horror by those assembled; and the intruder had every possible question to answer as to the time, place, and person, that the half-muddled brains of those present could devise; and such a Babel of voices arose in sweet discord, that a gentleman, who sat in the parlour alone, and who had arrived by that day's mail, was so much disturbed as to ring violently, to know why his meditations were thus so unharmoniously interrupted. "Waiter," said he, "why this disturbance? Cannot your farmers dine here without kicking up a riot?" "Oh, sir, it's the murder!" "What murder?" "The General, sir, who lives at Merton, sir, found stabbed in his own sitting-room, sir!" "Stabbed, do you say? It cannot be!" "Quite true, sir, as I'm a waiter! And they have got the murderer in custody." "Murderer! impossible! What mean you?" exclaimed the traveller, hastily. "Why, sir, the fellow that killed Sir Thomas is taken redhand, I think they call it." "Who is he?" "Just Tom Vallance, sir--an idle fellow, to be sure, but the last person that I would have thought would do such a thing." "What! the son of the old housekeeper?" "Yes. Do you know him, sir?" "Not I; but I've heard of his mother. What inducement could he have to commit so dreadful a crime?" "Revenge, sir! The General, some two or three weeks since, seized his gun, and, poor gentleman, abused Tom fearfully, for he was in one of his terrifics; and Tom told him the next time he was on his grounds he would do for him--at least so it is said." "Dreadful! And what was this Tom Vallance, as I think you call him?" "Nothing, sir. His mother is an industrious woman; and the lad was not that bad fellow neither--but dreadfully idle. He had a good education; but his father dying two years since, Tom left school; and his mother, in place of sending him back, kept him at home. She was so fond of him that she let him do whatever he liked." "How can she afford to maintain him?" "She is very industrious, sir; and, as she was daft fond of him, every penny she could scrape together went into his pockets." "Where is the accused?" "Tom, sir, do you mean? Why, before the sheriff, making his declaration." "Who succeeds the late baronet?" "His nephew--a very nice chap. He was often at Merton when a lad; but he has not been here for many years. He'll be better liked than his uncle, though the old fellow was not so bad neither. But I must go, sir, for I hear the bell ringing in the travellers'-room." So saying, he whipped his napkin under his arm, and withdrew with praiseworthy celerity. The unknown traveller paced slowly up and down the room, apparently very much perplexed in his mind. He muttered-- "Strange!--very strange!--caught in the room--a previous threat--all concurs." Shortly afterwards he again rang the bell, ordered in and paid his bill; and, taking a post-chaise to the next town, waited there only until the mail from Edinburgh to London stopped to change horses, and, having procured a seat, arrived in due time in the metropolis. The investigation of facts connected with the death of Sir Thomas proceeded, and a strong case was made out against the accused. The two servants swore to the threat; and, although not giving exactly the waiter's version of it, made it pretty nearly as bad; for, not having heard the precise words, they supplied the defect in hearing by generalising. "He threatened," they said, "to be revenged, and that he would come to the grounds for that purpose;" or used some such words, showing a determined resolution of getting "_amends_" of their master. That the General met his death by a stab in the heart was plain enough; and that the servants found Tom beside him, grasping a bloody knife, was equally so. Presumptions were, therefore, strongly against him; nor did his declaration or judicial statement help him much; for he admitted, after some little hesitation, that he had slipped into the grounds to redeem his threat of revenge by carrying off some very fine peaches, of which the General was very proud, and which he intended as a present to a neighbouring friend. Knowing that Sir Thomas was accustomed to take his _siesta_ immediately after dinner, which was usually at five--for he followed a fashion of his own in this respect, which has, since his time, become popular--and that the gardener left at six, he lurked about the grounds till after that period, and then, easily getting into the garden, thought it prudent to see how the land lay before he proceeded to his labour of love. The house of Merton was an old-fashioned building; or rather series of buildings erected at different times; and the present possessor, who had a fancy for horticulture, had added an apartment, which opened by a glass-door upon a terrace, from which, by descending a few steps, he entered the garden. This room was, necessarily, remote from the rest of the mansion, and here Sir Thomas uniformly dined, summer and winter. After dinner was removed, and the dessert and wine placed on the table, the servants withdrew, and were forbidden to enter till seven o'clock, when coffee was served. Of all this Tom was perfectly cognisant. Now Tom asserted that, as a precautionary measure, he resolved to peep into the room in question, to ascertain whether Sir Thomas was asleep before he took his boyish revenge; and seeing the glass-door which led into the garden open, he proceeded, cautiously and slowly, till he got there, when, looking in, he observed his old enemy lying on the floor on his face. Astonished at this, and forgetting all sense of personal risk, he advanced to raise the baronet, when he discovered that he was dead, and a knife lying beside the body, which he picked up. Fear tied up his tongue for some few seconds, and he had barely time to give utterance to an exclamation of horror, when, the door opening, the servant gave the alarm, and before he had time to collect his scattered senses he was a prisoner. All this might have been true, and perhaps the story would have been treated with more consideration than it obtained, had it not been for the _previous threat_, which naturally induced a strong suspicion against Tom. The result was, that, after the ordinary form had been gone through, the unhappy youth was fully committed to take his trial for the murder of Sir Thomas Vavasour Bruce Vavasour of Vavasour and Merton, Baronet. The heir, at this eventful period, was in England, whither the body was transmitted, and deposited in the Vavasour mausoleum. Meanwhile Tom remained for some weeks in the county jail, in a condition far from enviable. All attempts to induce a confession of guilt were abortive; he persisted in his declaration of innocence; but, as parties accused are not usually in the habit of confessing their crimes, these protestations were not considered worth much. Indeed, the only person he could convince was his poor mother, who gave implicit confidence to his assertions. A change, and one for the better, had come over the accused in prison. How bitterly did he regret his former idle moments--how deeply did he lament the burden he had been on his mother! Many a vow did he make, that, if he could get quit of this charge, he would eschew his former course of life, and be all a fond parent could ask. About the tenth day before the approaching sittings, Tom was visited by a gentleman, who proffered his assistance as his adviser. He had heard, he said, of the case, and was anxious, on his mother's account, to afford his aid; but he required a full and ample statement, without any concealment. Tom answered, he had nothing to conceal; and he recapitulated everything he had formerly stated. The stranger listened attentively, and, after his client had concluded, shook his head. "Tom, you may be innocent--there is the impress of truth in what you state, and I can hardly doubt you; but still the evidence against you is so strong, that, if you go to trial, I am fearful--very fearful of the result." Tom's face, which had brightened as the stranger commenced, became clouded ere the remarks were finished, and when they terminated he burst into tears. "Oh, sir!" he sobbed, "have pity on a poor misguided lad, who never meant evil to any one--who is as innocent of the crime of which he is accused as you are. Save me, sir--oh, save me! if not on my own account, at least on that of my poor mother, who will break her heart if I am condemned!" "I would willingly save you if I could," was the rejoinder; "but I cannot influence juries--I cannot sway the court." "And must I die, then? Must I, before my time, go down to my grave dishonoured and disgraced? Oh, sir, if it had pleased Heaven to visit me with a deadly sickness, I would have left the world without one sigh except for my mother! But to be degraded as a felon--to be branded as a murderer--it is too--too much!" He became so agitated that grief choked his utterance. The stranger, obviously affected, took his hand. "Tom, have you firmness? There is a way, perhaps." "How?" exclaimed the lad, eagerly. "This room is only one storey from the ground, and escape is possible." "Escape! No, no! The windows are barred with iron, besides, if I escape, it looks like guilt, and I cannot bear that." "But will staying behind prove your innocence? Will your suffering the last penalty of the law convince the world that you did not commit the murder?" "True--very true! If I live, my innocence may yet be proved. But how to get through the window?" "That can be easily managed, if you will act like a man. It is now early. I will be with you again before the prison shuts. Remember, not one word to your mother. You may console her by saying that your agent--for such I am--has given you hopes. Nothing more. Remember!" So saying, he departed, leaving Tom to meditate upon this extraordinary expedient. It was rather late when the stranger, who called himself Mortlake, returned. Tom had kept his promise, and, by affording his mother hopes of an acquittal, contrived to infuse a happiness to which her bosom had been for many a week a stranger. "Now, Tom!" said Mr Mortlake, in a low tone, "attend to me. I have brought you a file, some aquafortis, and a silken ladder. Apply the liquid to the bars, and it will gradually eat into the iron--then use your file, and the first impediment to your flight will be removed. Next fix the silken ladder firmly, and your descent is easy. Do not begin your operations until the inmates of the jail are asleep. You may get everything ready by the evening of the day after the morrow. As the clock strikes twelve, assistance will be at hand, and descend with the first stroke, if all is right. Some one will be waiting for you. He will whisper into your ear 'follow,' and you must follow as speedily as possible. But, again, I caution you to keep this a secret from your mother. Buoy her up with hopes; talk confidently of your acquittal; that you are to have a learned barrister from Edinburgh. This will get wind, and prevent any suspicion of your intended escape. Once safe, your mother will receive due notice; and be assured she shall not be allowed to suffer one moment more of suspense than is absolutely necessary. You will not see me again in prison, I hope." Tom's feelings were overcome. He seized Mortlake's hand, and pressed it to his lips, while tears flowed in torrents from his eyes. He could not speak. Mortlake was affected. "And yet, poor kind-hearted boy," he said, "people could deem you guilty of a murder. How little did they know you! But away with tears. Be a man. You have a difficult part before you. See you flinch not!" Then changing his tone, and speaking loudly, "Well! I'm off to Edinburgh, where I shall see Andrew Crosbie. I have great faith in him; and, as he is not a greedy man, I daresay, Tom, I may get him to come here." At this moment the jailer entered, saying it was time to leave; and Mortlake, pressing Tom's hand, bade him farewell, until his return from Edinburgh. Tom treasured every word in his heart--not one syllable escaped his lips, that might induce the most suspicious person to imagine he contemplated flight. He spoke sensibly of his case; inducing his mother, and one or two persons whom curiosity had prompted to visit him, to suppose that he was very sanguine of acquittal; and, as the fame of Andrew Crosbie extended over Scotland as a shrewd man and an able lawyer, this result was not thought by any means chimerical. When the evening came, Tom commenced operations. He applied the liquid as directed, which soon corroded the iron at the bottom. The sides and tops were more difficult, but their partial destruction was in time accomplished; and, when the eventful evening came, he had little difficulty in removing the grating. It was, of course, only injured at the ends; and, as the window was oblong, by altering the position of the grating, he obtained a substance sufficiently strong to which he attached the rope-ladder. Getting up to the window, he placed the grating reversed in the inside, and threw the ladder on the outside. To soften the fall of the iron after he had descended, he placed his mattress and bedclothes below; and having thus made every preliminary arrangement, with the first stroke of twelve he commenced his descent; and, ere the last had died upon the breeze, the ground was reached in safety. A figure, enveloped in a cloak, approached hurriedly, and whispered, "follow!" He tossed a bundle to the fugitive, then turned to the left. The order was obeyed; and, after the lapse of an hour and a-half, Tom found himself in a wood, and the stranger, opening a dark lantern--sliding shades at the side of which had previously been pulled down--disclosed to the eyes of Vallance the features of his agent, Mortlake. The bundle was untied, and Tom found it to contain a capacious wrapper, a shawl, and bonnet with a veil. Those Tom was required to put on, and this matter being accomplished, the journey was resumed, and in about two hours they arrived at a small hamlet or village, where they found a gig waiting for them. Mortlake then addressed his companion:--"My dear Emily! be more composed--never mind your father--I will write to him, and all will yet be put to rights." Tom, who had been previously instructed, spoke "small like a woman;" and, after some affected coyness, entered the carriage, when the parties drove off, leaving the man who had taken charge of the vehicle under the evident conviction that the strange man was a sad blackguard, and that the veiled lady was some unfortunate young woman who had been deluded away by his devices. The news of Tom's escape excited universal astonishment, and no means were left untried to trace his footsteps; but every exertion was in vain, and his pursuers were completely at fault. It was universally admitted that some one must have furnished him with the implements that had procured his liberation; and his mother was, as a matter of course, the first one on whom suspicion lighted. The poor old woman, when the fact was announced, was equally amazed and pleased; but she could furnish no clue. Tom had seen a few people in prison, yet it was evident they had nothing to do with the escape. It was at last resolved that the agent was the accessory; but here the good people were at fault again, for no one, except the jailer, remembered having seen him, and he could give but a very imperfect description of him. He might be tall or so--rather think he was, but not sure--wore powder, and had, he believes, a black coat, but did not think he would know him again. This was all that could be elicited. A reward of fifty pounds was offered by the magistrates for the capture of Tom; and Sir Edward Bruce Vavasour increased it to one hundred and fifty, expressing, at the same time, his anxiety that the accused should be retaken. Whilst all were in a state of excitement, fresh fuel was added to the flame by the following letter, bearing the Liverpool post-mark, which Mrs Vallance received from her son:-- "DEAREST MOTHER,--I am well, and as happy as one unjustly accused can be. Though fate has sundered us, you are ever in my thoughts. I have found a protector--fear not for me. You shall regularly hear from "Your affectionate son," &c. Beneath was written:--"Your son will be yet a blessing to you. Accept this trifle." And a twenty-pound-note was found enclosed. "What a fool!" said the wise ones; "only to think of letting us know where he is." And, upon the hint, away trotted the officers with a criminal warrant, to be backed, as it is termed, by an English Justice in Liverpool, where, to their great vexation, he was not to be found. Meanwhile, the object of their pursuit was out of all danger. His friend and he at last found themselves on the road to Wooler. "Tom!" said Mortlake, when they alighted at the inn, "you must pass for my wife. I have everything provided for that purpose in my portmanteau; meanwhile, keep down your veil, and wrap your cloak about you." He then took out a complete suit of female apparel, and speedily his protegé was metamorphosed into a tall and handsome, although somewhat masculine, female. We need not tire our readers with a detail of the subsequent journey southward, and may only mention that Mortlake left the horse and gig at Wooler, where, obtaining a seat for himself and his companion in the mail, they arrived in safety at Barnet. Here Tom resumed his sex; and, in a new suit of clothes, appeared, as he really was, a good and intelligent-looking young man. From Barnet, the travellers proceeded in a chaise to London, where Mortlake took lodgings, and, after the lapse of a few days, disclosed to the youth his ulterior purposes. "Mr Vallance----" said he. "Do not call me 'Mr.' If you do, I shall think I have offended you." "Well, Tom, then. Listen to what I have to say. You have been my companion now for nearly three weeks. During that time I have studied you, and the opinion I have formed is favourable. You possess good qualities and excellent talents: these have been obscured, but not extinguished, by your recent follies--not to give them a harsher name. By giving way to passion, and using threats, which, from you, were ill judged and ill timed, you have barely escaped an ignominious death. Far be it from me to say that the late owner of Merton was justified in the intemperate language he used; but you know that at times he had no control over himself, and you should have made allowances for what was really a disease. Of your innocence I have not the slightest doubt, otherwise I would never have aided your escape from jail. I think the lesson you have had is one you can never forget; and I prophesy that Thomas Vallance may yet assume that position in society which good conduct and perseverance ever secure." Tom heard this eulogium, qualified as it was, with great delight. "Try me! Oh, try me, my best friend! Give me an opportunity of evincing, by the propriety of my conduct, how much I feel your benevolence! To please you shall be the study of my future life." "Well, Tom, you shall have a trial. But you must leave me, and cross the seas. It is not safe for either of us that you remain here." Tom's countenance fell "And must I leave _you_--the only being in the world, save my mother, whom I love? But your commands are to me as laws, and they shall be obeyed." "Well, then, the family with which I am connected has large possessions in Antigua, and there is a wealthy mercantile establishment over which I have no inconsiderable control--so much so, that any recommendation from me or mine will meet with immediate attention. I shall place you there as a clerk, and if you discharge the duties of the office satisfactorily, means shall be afforded of advancing you: in one word, everything shall be made to depend upon your good behaviour. Preparations have already been making for your departure, and I have procured from the senior partner of Mortlake, Tresham, & Co., an order for your appointment, with a letter of recommendation to Mr Tresham, the resident partner, whose good graces I sincerely wish you may acquire." "Mortlake--is he a relation of yours?" "Yes; but you must ask no questions--seek to know nothing beyond what I choose to disclose. You must renounce your name. You will therefore, in future, be known as Thomas Mortlake, the son of a distant relation of mine. Such is the legend that must be circulated. Now, write to your mother. Would to heaven I could permit an interview! but that cannot be. Give me the letter, sealed if you choose, as I have a particular mode of transmitting it to her, and I wish it to appear, as the former one did, that it came from Liverpool. Be cautious and guarded in what you communicate; but mention that, in future, she shall have such an allowance as will make her easy for life. Now, farewell for a few hours, and be sure to have your letter ready when I return." Tom was left to his own reflections. The letter to Mrs Vallance was written; and, by the time that Mortlake returned, Tom was sufficiently composed to veil his feelings, and meet him as of old. "Everything is arranged," said Mortlake. "In a few days you sail from the Thames by the brig Tresham. You will have every accommodation afforded that a gentleman can require; a suitable wardrobe is preparing; in short, my dear young friend, you shall appear to these West Indians as their equal, and in such guise as suits the proud name of Mortlake. One thing more, and I have done. The present Baronet of Vavasour has, through his mother, property in Antigua, and is distantly related to the elder partner of the firm. You will, therefore, seem as if you knew him not; and, even in regard to myself, I wish little or nothing said. That curiosity will be excited, I doubt not, but I leave you to baffle it." Time passed with unusual rapidity--so, at least, Mr Thomas Mortlake opined; and the day of his departure having at length arrived, he was not a little startled when his friend made a very early appearance, accompanied by a young lady. Advancing towards him, she said--"Mr Mortlake! I am happy to have had this opportunity of seeing you previous to your departure, and of personally wishing you every success in the calling in which you are about to engage. Your friend has no secrets from me, and I am acquainted with every particular of your singular history." "Yes!" exclaimed his protector; "I conceal nothing from this lady, and she feels as much interest in you as I do myself. We propose to accompany you to the ship." Tom felt somewhat confused by this unexpected introduction; but that natural sense of propriety which is inherent in some minds, and which others vainly endeavour to obtain, enabled him to acquit himself in a manner that gave equal satisfaction to both visiters. The party then proceeded to the vessel, where Mortlake and the lady satisfied themselves that due provision had been made for the accommodation of their protegé. "Mr Mortlake!" said the lady at parting, "I have used the freedom of an old friend, and placed in your cabin a small collection of books, which, I have no doubt, will materially help to deprive your voyage of half its tedium; and, when you arrive at the place of your destination, if you could devote any leisure hours to their study, be assured the benefit will be incalculable." "Believe me," he answered, "my kind patrons, whatever may be my fate, I never can forget the wondrous acts of kindness that have been lavished on me. If an anxious desire to discharge the duties of my office--if a determination to surmount difficulties, coupled with a firm resolution to act fairly and honourably by my neighbours--can be taken as an earnest of my anxiety to please, on this you may rely; and, if my exertions be crowned with success, the pleasure will be doubled when I remember it is all owing to you." "Tom," said Mr. Mortlake, "you are eloquent; but time flies, and we must part." "I have but one request more--no doubt it is needless. Be kind! oh be kind to my poor mother!" "On that," replied the lady, "you may depend. And now, farewell!" Tom took her hand, and pressed it respectfully to his lips; then, turning to his friend, tried to give utterance to "farewell!" The word would not pass his lips; forgetting all difference of rank, he threw his arms around Mortlake's neck, and wept. In a moment, as if ashamed of his freedom or want of manliness, he hastily withdrew from his embrace. Mortlake was moved. He pressed the lad affectionately to his breast--"God bless you, my dear fellow; in me you have ever a steady friend. And now, farewell!" They separated; and years elapsed ere Mortlake and his friend again met. We will now follow the strange fortunes of the junior. Young Mortlake--for so he must in future be termed--suffered the usual inconveniences of a sea voyage; and, if ever his boyish inclination, influenced by a perusal of the fascinating fiction of "Robinson Crusoe," had given him a fancy for the pleasures of a seafaring life, they yielded speedily to the irresistible effects of sea-sickness. The vessel reached the island in about six weeks, and Tom presented his credentials to Mr Tresham, from whom he met a favourable reception. He had an apartment assigned to him in the house, and was treated as one of the family. To the duties of the counting-house, irksome in the outset, he became soon reconciled. His anxiety to please was not overlooked by his master, who, finding him able and apt, gradually raised both his rank and his salary. Before five years had elapsed, he was head clerk in the establishment. Favourites are not much liked; but Tom bore his honours so meekly, and was so obliging, without being obsequious, that his rise neither excited envy nor surprise--indeed, it was looked upon as a matter of course; and the astonishment would have been, not that he had risen, but that he had _not_ risen in the establishment. When he first arrived, he was pestered with questions as to birth, parentage, and education. These ordinary, but impertinent queries, he parried with equal good-humour and tact. All that could be extracted from him was, that he was protected by Mr Mortlake, and that that was his own name. Mr Tresham, however, put no questions. Sir Edward Vavasour was rarely mentioned. Little was known of him, excepting that several thousands a-year were annually remitted to England as the produce of his estates. Latterly, Tom observed that these returns were made to account of Lord Mortlake. This puzzled him; and, upon a question to Tresham being hazarded, he coldly answered-- "The possessions of Sir Edward Vavasour belong now to Lord Mortlake; but remember the request of your benefactor--to ask no questions." Other matters of more importance now occupied our hero's mind, and he gave himself no further thoughts on the subject. The first fruits of his labour were piously remitted to his mother, through his English correspondent. From her he (through the same channel) learned that Sir Edward Vavasour had given her a nice little cottage and garden, on the Vavasour estate, in England, rent-free, and that she had sold off everything in Merton, as the recollections there were unpleasant--the reason assigned being her former services as housekeeper in the family. No attempt had been made by him to elicit a confession of her son's residence. She farther stated, that she regularly received twenty pounds every half-year from some unknown person; and that she was, therefore, as happy as she could be in the absence of her son. The letters from his patron were warm and affectionate. Some little presents Tom had ventured to make; and a few of those lovely tropical shells, transmitted to the unknown young lady, were cordially accepted, not so much for their value, as for the indications they afforded of the unabated regard of the giver. Tom devoted a certain portion of each day to study. His early education had been, so far as it went, good; and he was enabled, by severe application, to master the Roman authors, and enjoy their beauties. The death of his mother, during the fourth year of his residence in the tropics, was a heavy blow to him. He had lived in hopes of coming back to Britain with a fortune sufficient to support her in affluence; but his pious intention was frustrated. One consolation he had, that the kind lady who, with his patron, took such an especial interest in his affairs, had watched over her dying moments, and afforded her every comfort. In the tenth year of his sojourn, a great revolution in his fortunes took place. One morning, Mr Tresham called him into his private room. "Mortlake," said he, "you have been now ten years in our service; and, during that time, I have never had cause to find the slightest fault with you. The demise of the senior partner compels me to visit England. Your patron has written me urgently to admit you as a partner; now, although his recommendation must have weight with me, I can assure you that I need no solicitation to do an act of justice. I rejoice, by adding your name to the firm, to show you how much I esteem you, and what unbounded confidence I have in you." Tom justly felt gratified by this communication. He was grateful for the never-slumbering care of his English patron, and equally so for the personal regard of Tresham, who, having thus removed a considerable portion of the burdens of commerce upon his younger partner, left the island, and safely arrived in London, where, for several months, he was engaged in adjusting the company's accounts, and effecting a settlement with the representatives of the deceased. The business, meanwhile, went on under the name of Tresham, Mortlake, & Co., and was managed with as much prudence and profit by the junior partner as it had previously been by the senior one. Tresham having realised a fortune, at the age of fifty resolved to return to England to enjoy it. Upon this occasion, his nephew, who had come out some time after Tom, became a partner, and, just twenty years from the period of his advent, did Thomas Mortlake, Esq., resolve, at the age of thirty-six, to return to his native land, leaving the affairs of the company to be exclusively managed by young Tresham, who was fully adequate to the task. He embarked in a vessel of the company's; and having had a fair wind, in a few weeks beheld the chalky cliffs of Old Albion. He found his patron and Tresham awaiting his landing, and a carriage ready to bear him away. The meeting was cordial. Twenty years had not affected his patron much. He was about forty-five years of age, but looked perhaps a little younger. There was a dignity about his manner which Tom had never previously remarked; but there was no lack of kindness; on the contrary, it was obvious at a glance that his return was most acceptable to his friend. Nor was Tresham less friendly. As Tom stepped into the carriage, he was thunderstruck to observe a coat-of-arms on the panels, with a _baron's_ coronet. "Indeed! Mr Tresham, have you been raised to the peerage?" Tresham smilingly replied-- "Not yet. We don't know, however, what may happen. Irish peerages may be had cheap. The carriage is not mine: it belongs to one of our best customers, Lord Mortlake." "Bless me!--how kind in his lordship!" was the rejoinder. "Is he, sir, a friend of yours?" turning to his patron. "I think," was the answer, "I should know him better than most people; but come, tell me how affairs are going on in Antigua." A desultory conversation followed, which lasted nearly the whole period of their journey. At last the vehicle approached a magnificent baronial seat, through a long avenue of lime-trees, then in full blossom. "Here we are!" said the elder Mortlake. Upon leaving the carriage, Tom and his companions entered a spacious hall of the olden time, the proprieties of which had been carefully preserved, and which was pretty much in the same state as it had been during the reign of Elizabeth. Taking Tom by the hand, his friend welcomed him to his family residence, and told him that a lady up-stairs--an old friend of his--was waiting to receive him. "But," added he, "you will perhaps require to go to your apartments." Tom, having put himself to rights, was led by Mortlake to the drawing-room, where he beheld his mysterious female visitant and a young lady of about nineteen, who, from her resemblance, it was not difficult to discover was the daughter of his host. Two fine-looking aristocratic lads, the one aged perhaps sixteen, and the other nearly eighteen, were standing beside their sister, chatting and laughing with Mr Tresham. The lady rose to receive her guest, when Tresham interposing, exclaimed:-- "Allow me--Lady Mortlake, Mr Mortlake; Mr Mortlake, Lady Mortlake." Tom was confused, certainly; but his good manners did not forsake him, and he expressed his gratification at again beholding the lady, in appropriate and feeling terms. "Mr Mortlake," said she, "I am happy--very happy--to receive you at Vavasour, which, I trust, you will consider as your home." Turning to her daughter--"Emily, my love, this is Mr Mortlake, whom you have heard your father and myself talk of so frequently." He was next introduced to the sons, by whom he was received with equal kindness. His patron then took Tom aside. "The mystery," said he, "will soon be explained; in me you behold Lord Mortlake; but, on that account, not less your sincere friend. No one, not even Tresham, but believes you to be a relation of the family, except Lady Mortlake and myself; so be collected, and assume a character which, some day or other, I confidently hope may be yours legally." The latter words sounded strangely in our hero's ears; but this was a day of wonders, and when they were to end he could not conjecture. "Sir Edward Vavasour?" he whispered. "Is no more!" was the reply. A week passed happily, and Mortlake, in the society he esteemed and respected, was superlatively blessed. One morning after breakfast, Lord Mortlake took him into the library; and, locking the door, bade him be seated. "Mortlake," said his lordship, "the time for explanation is at hand; it ought not any longer to be delayed; but, before disclosing much that may astonish you, be assured that I make the disclosure without seeking any pledge of secresy from you. I shall leave it entirely to yourself, when you have heard all, to take what course you may judge expedient." "My lord! do not think so meanly of the creature of your bounty as to suppose that, whatever may be the nature of your communication, I shall ever use it to your prejudice." "Make no rash promises, Mr Mortlake. Hear me, and decide. I told you Sir Edward Vavasour was no more; and yet he is only so in one sense--his title is merged in a higher one: he is now Lord Mortlake!" "Gracious Providence! Sir Edward Vavasour Lord Mortlake? Can it be possible?" "It _is_ possible; Lord Mortlake is before you. But hear me out. You are probably aware that the late Sir Thomas Vavasour had a younger brother, Richard; and it has perhaps come to your knowledge that he was married to Miss Mortlake, a lady of birth and fortune, the daughter of an extensive proprietor in Antigua. Mrs Vavasour was a Creole by birth, and a woman of violent passions. Her husband led a very unenviable life--but let me pass that over. Of that marriage I was the sole offspring, and was named heir by my maternal grandfather to his large estates, after the demise of my parents. This equitable arrangement of his property created a prejudice in my mother's mind against me, as she could not brook the idea of being interfered with in the use of that which she thought she was entitled to enjoy without control. When my father died, I was placed under the superintendence of my uncle, Sir Thomas, who, himself a proud and passionate man, had a great contempt for his equally proud and passionate sister-in-law; hence a new seed of enmity was sown. "My mother wished to make a fine gentleman of me: my uncle detested the whole tribe of 'puppies,' and determined to make a man of me. He carefully provided for my education; and, at the proper time, placed me in the Temple, where I studied jurisprudence for a few years with considerable success. The heir of a large estate, my uncle never wished me to do more than acquire habits of industry and application. My mother did all she could to unsettle me--but in vain. I had a will of my own, and was by no means disposed to become her vassal. "She was descended, through the intermarriage of one of the Mortlakes with a co-heiress, of the ancient Barons de Mortuo Lacu, who figured during the reign of the Edwards. This Mortlake was heir-male of the last baron; but his stock had come off before the family were ennobled. Now, Mrs Vavasour had a very intense desire to become Baroness de Mortuo Lacu, or Mortlake; and as she had a legal claim--being the undoubted representative of a co-heiress--it required political influence only to accomplish her object. My uncle could have effected this; but he gave the most decided opposition. He had no idea that the Vavasour name should be entombed, even in the sepulchre of the peerage. In his estimation, the Vavasours, who had fought with Coeur de Lion in the Holy Land, who had perished by dozens in the wars of the Roses, who had bled with Richmond at Bosworth, and who had taken up arms against the omnipotent Cromwell, were worth all the Mortlakes that ever breathed. "For this opposition my uncle was never forgiven by Mrs Vavasour. She vowed vengeance, and she kept her vow. She presented a petition to the King, which was referred to the Peers; and, after incurring enormous expense in proving her pedigree, she succeeded in obtaining a decision finding the barony in abeyance amongst the co-heirs of the last Lord Mortlake, and that she was the representative of the eldest co-heir. Thus far she got, but not one step farther. The desired writ of summons was withheld. Meanwhile, she got entangled in pecuniary difficulties. In this situation, she, to my surprise, applied to Sir Thomas for a loan. The result of this application may be anticipated; for, while refusing her request, my uncle took the opportunity of reading her a severe lecture upon her extravagance and ambition. She was in a towering rage upon receipt of his answer; but, as I was of age, I thought it my duty, especially as the Peerage proceedings were to my ultimate advantage, to raise a sum of money upon my eventual interest, by which means her debts were paid off. The consequence of this was, that, whilst I propitiated my mother on the one hand, I offended my uncle on the other. "I was at this time in love with the present Lady Mortlake. She was well connected, had fortune, and was sufficiently accomplished; but she did not come within my mother's list of advantageous wives. She was neither fashionable nor cared about fashion; and could not disguise her contempt of idle and silly women of quality. My mother placed her interdict upon my nuptials. I remonstrated, but to no purpose; and, although under no obligation to consult my relatives, I wished at least to have the countenance of Sir Thomas, and I took the bold step of writing to him. To my gratification and surprise, I received a gracious answer; and, I presume, my mother's opposition was itself, in the estimation of my uncle, a sufficient recommendation. Acting upon his consent and approbation, I married; but the result was fatal to Mrs Vavasour, who, upon learning what had taken place, got into one of her tremendous passions, and burst a blood-vessel. After lingering a few weeks, she died, leaving behind her a letter, which was fated to be the cause of both our troubles. A few days after its transmission, I received an epistle from him, which, from its incoherency, indicated, as I supposed, positive insanity. I resolved to lose no time in visiting him; but, as I wished my intended journey to be kept quiet, I gave out that I was merely going to Liverpool for a few days, where my wife had some relations. I arrived at Jedburgh; and, as Merton was not far off, I resolved to walk there; and I calculated that I should arrive about the time that my uncle was taking his evening _siesta_. Leaving my portmanteau at the inn, I proceeded on my way; and, as I was familiar with every inch of ground, took a by-path, which led into the policy, and which terminated in a door that opened into the garden. This door was kept open until the gardeners left their work, when it was locked for the night. I passed through, towards the stairs which descended from the terrace into the garden; and, in a few minutes, found myself in the presence of Sir Thomas. "My uncle was not a little startled at my unexpected appearance. He had apparently partaken freely of wine--at least he was in a state of excitement. "'By what right do you come here?' was the first inquiry. "'Why, my dear uncle, I was surprised at your late letter, and came personally to ascertain what you meant.' "'Mean! and do you pretend, sir, to be ignorant of my meaning?' "'Indeed, uncle, I am.' "'Uncle--don't uncle me, sir--I am no uncle of yours.' "I now thought his insanity undoubted. "'Be composed, my dear sir,' I rejoined; 'do you not know Edward Vavasour, your attached nephew?' "He rose--his eyes had a peculiar expression--one I had never witnessed before: naturally of a dark-grey, they seemed to take the hue of a fiery red, and they glared fearfully. "'The house of Vavasour is doomed--its last hour has come;' and, saying these words he drew from his pocket-book a letter, which he threw towards me. I seized it; and judge of my horror when I perceived this paper." Lord Mortlake then took from his escritoire the following letter:-- "SIR THOMAS,--You have had your triumph--my triumph comes now. The despised Mortlake rejoices in the extinction of the proud Vavasour. Know, haughty man, Edward is not the son of your brother!" "It is not possible to describe my feelings, Tom, at this instant--my head turned round. That the statement was false, I doubt not; for I knew better than Sir Thomas the deep feeling of hatred my mother could entertain, and did entertain against us both. "'Uncle, this letter is the legacy of an enemy--allow me to retain it, and I will bring positive evidence to disprove the assertion it contains.' "My uncle was too much excited to listen to me. In a hoarse and angry voice, he muttered-- "'Give me the letter, you villain!' "I endeavoured to pacify him, but without success; when, suddenly rising, he seized a knife, and, rushing forward, made a thrust at me with it. I avoided the blow, and retreated. He, incautiously advancing, lost his footing, and fell with the knife underneath. I hastily stepped forward to raise him, but had not strength to do so; for, by one of those strange and unaccountable accidents, which not unfrequently give the air of romance to real life, the point of the knife had been turned towards his body, and, passing between his ribs, had pierced his heart. He died in an instant. I endeavoured again to raise the body, but in vain. I drew out the knife, and blood then came with it. To describe my situation at this terrible moment is impossible: my uncle dead at my feet--no one to witness how the accident happened--I might be dragged as a felon to trial for his supposed murder. My grief for his unhappy end was soon absorbed in fears for my own safety--for, here was I, the apparent heir, discovered with the man to whom I was to succeed, a bleeding corpse beside me; then the quarrel between us--the stigma thrown upon me by my vindictive parent, which, for aught I knew, Sir Thomas might have bruited abroad--all this made me tremble. Even if acquitted, still the suspicious circumstances of the case would be greedily seized upon by the public, which never judges favourably, and a stain would have been cast upon the family name never to be effaced. My uncle was past all human assistance, and my remaining could not aid him. I therefore fled, unobserved by any one; and barely three hours had elapsed from my leaving the inn, until I was again its inmate. At a late hour I heard a noise of voices, which accorded ill with my morbid state of feeling. I rang to know the cause; and the answer to my inquiry was the announcement that a dreadful murder had been committed upon Sir Thomas Vavasour, and that you, Tom, had been taken into custody, under such circumstances as warranted the strongest presumptions of your guilt. "My astonishment could only be equalled by the horror I felt at having caused an innocent fellow-creature to be placed in hazard of his life. However, I was sufficiently collected; and, having learned that you could not be brought to trial for some time, I left the place with the firm resolution that, be the consequences what they might, not one hair of your head should be injured. "I had no secrets from my wife, and to her I disclosed everything. After some deliberation, we agreed that it was best, if possible, to procure your escape from the prison; as, if that could be accomplished, there would be no necessity for any disclosures to gratify the inquisitive and malicious. I resolved to act by myself, without the assistance of any one. My first object was to prevent interference of the country writers; and this I accomplished easily enough, by creating an impression that they would give offence to the new Baron of Merton, if they ventured to assist you. Thus I deprived you of the advice of these worthies, which, after all, was no great loss. I should have regretted your imprisonment, had I not been informed that you were a _mauvais sujet_, and that the restraint would do you no harm, as it might induce you to reflect. "With my wife's assistance, I procured a female dress, bonnet and cloak. I also bought a file, a rope-ladder, and some aquafortis, as I thought it would be no very difficult matter to help you out of an old Scotch county jail. Lady Mortlake had an uncle resident a mile or two from Liverpool. This fact presented an ostensible object for a trip, and we set off together. I left her with her relative; and, crossing the country, I got to Jedburgh in good time. I was quite unknown, as, prior to my last eventful visit, many years had passed by since I had been in the County of Roxburgh. I gave myself out to be an Edinburgh writer, which was believed. "I thus got free access to you, and the result I need not repeat. The gig I bought for the purpose, as well as the horse. I had them in readiness at a village at some distance, having given the landlord of the inn to believe that it was merely an ordinary case of elopement. In order to mystify the folks of Jedburgh, your letter was enclosed under cover to my wife, who herself drove to the post-office, and put it in the box, in this way destroying every possibility of detection. I caused the body of Sir Thomas to be interred at Vavasour, where his two brothers had previously been buried. This prevented the necessity of my personal presence at Merton, where perchance I might have been recognised as the person who left the counting-house so hurriedly on the day of the supposed murder. I have never lived at Merton since; it is occupied by the factor, and, in virtue of the deed of entail, the Scottish estates belong now to my second son. I induced your mother to reside on the English estate, where my wife could personally attend to her comfort. The rest you know. Our travels made me intimately acquainted with you, and I found you had talent, tolerable acquirements, and an affectionate heart; and I was determined to aid you, if you would be but true to yourself. Your vices were the result of idleness, and the foolish indulgence of a fond mother. Do not think me harsh when I say so; but, Tom, had you not been removed from her, you would have been lost. Oh, what have parents to answer for, by allowing their children to take their own way! From my connection with Antigua, I had no difficulty in providing for you. My cousin, Mr Edward Mortlake, managed my West Indian estates--a source of revenue to the company of which he was senior partner. I had merely to signify my wishes to place a young friend in his counting-house, and it was granted. Neither he nor Tresham knew your real history--they both thought you some off-shoot of the Mortlakes. The latter was expressly desired to conceal my name, and to avoid notice of the Vavasour family as much as possible. And he kept the secret well. My accession to the Vavasour estates brought without any trouble that which my misguided mother so much coveted; for, as my political support was not to be despised, ministers induced the king to terminate the abeyance, and I received my summons as Baron Mortlake. The story imposed upon my poor uncle by Mrs Vavasour was, as I was from the first assured, a malicious fiction of her own; for, luckily, I was able to trace out the whole circumstances connected with my birth; and the testimony of the nurse and medical man, which I obtained in a quiet way, were perfectly conclusive. Indeed, legally, my mother's declaration availed nothing; but I was anxious, morally, to satisfy myself, as far as I could, that I was the son of her marriage with Mr Richard Vavasour. I have now told you all. As I was the accidental cause of your perilous situation and loss of character, it was but common justice to assist you as far as lay in my power. You have raised yourself to respectability and affluence, partly by my recommendation, but principally by your own exertions. You owe me, therefore, nothing; and, on the contrary, I am still considerably your debtor. If, after reflection, you think a disclosure necessary to clear the reputation of Tom Vallance, you have my full permission to make it." "Never, my dear lord--or, if you will allow me to term you, my dear friend--shall I make the slightest use of your confidence. You have, from a worthless and idle vagabond, metamorphosed me into a reputable and honest man. Tom Vallance has ceased to exist; but the heart of Tom Mortlake is too deeply attached to his benefactor ever to do anything that would cause him the slightest pain." "You are a noble fellow, Tom, and well deserve your fortune." Several months after this conversation, the public journals announced that "Thomas Mortlake, Esq., of the firm of Tresham, Mortlake, & Tresham, was married, by special license, at Vavasour, to Emily, eldest daughter of the Right Honourable Edward Lord Mortlake." If an accomplished and sweet-tempered wife, a fine family, an attached friend, good health, and a competent fortune, could make any one happy, then Tom Mortlake was superlatively blessed. THE SERJEANT'S TALES. THE BEGGAR'S CAMP. I recur again to the strange adventures of Serjeant Square, and present another section of them to the readers of the "Border Tales:"-- With ruined prospects, and friendships severed by death (he began), I resolved to bid, once more, farewell to my native Edinburgh. I passed two or three days in this listless manner, each being to see me put in force my resolution to depart; till at length, having provided myself with a seaman's dress, taken the powder out of my hair, seized a stout stick, and provided a small bundle of necessaries, I once more set out upon the world, caring little whether I went to the south or the west, to London or Bristol, to Greenock or Port-Glasgow. I had, in my absent state of mind, almost unconsciously, or perhaps from habit, taken my way down the Canongate, and had reached the girth cross--a few steps, and the streets of Edinburgh would pass from under my feet, perhaps for ever. I neither knew nor cared. A flood of painful recollections came over me, as I stood scarce knowing for what object I had paused. So doubtful and indifferent, so undecided did I stand, that, to put an end to the recollections that pained me whilst I hesitated, I took a piece of copper from my pocket, and, tossing it up into the air, I cried, "A head for England--a lady for Scotland!" The halfpenny tingled at my feet, the king's head looked to the sky, and, as if relieved of a care, I moved quickly on, nor once looked behind, until I had placed Arthur's Seat between me and the city. Thus moving along, sometimes listlessly, at others quickening my pace, I had journeyed on until I had reached the neighbourhood of Berwick. The day had been overcast with partial light showers; several times I had resolved to stay for the remainder of the day and night in the next inn I came to; but, enticed by partial clearings up of the weather, I still walked on, until towards sunset, when the weather all at once put on the most threatening aspect and the rain fell very heavily. There was neither house nor shelter of any kind in sight; the thick, dense clouds that came driving from the west completely obscured the twilight I had calculated upon. At length I perceived, at a small distance from the road, a house, with light issuing from the windows. I knocked for admittance, which was at once cheerfully given, and every exertion made for my comfort by the kind host and hostess--a farmer and his wife. To my inquiries if they could oblige me with a bed for the night-- "You are kindly welcome to the shelter of our roof," said the farmer, "and a seat by the fire; and, were it not for a strange circumstance, you might have both a room and a bed." "William--William!" said the wife, with a look of great alarm, "do not speak of it; I could not think of even putting a dog there, far less a Christian. I will give the stranger a pair of blankets, and make a good fire for him; but do not speak of that fearful room. I wish the laird would allow us to pull it down." "Grace, my woman," replied he, "I did not mean him to pass the night in it. I only, without thinking any harm, mentioned it. I wish, as well as you, that it were taken down." Struck by their strange discourse, I requested my kind host to tell me the history of the apartment that seemed to give them so much uneasiness. Drawing his seat more near to the fire--"I have not the smallest objection," said he, "as it will show, whatever is the cause of the strange disturbances, that there is no blame on our part. This bit land that I farm has been in our family for more than two nineteen years, and the third nineteen of the lease is nearly expired. Both the old and present lairds have been good landlords to us--we could not well refuse any small favour they required at our hands; and, indeed, we always found ourselves the gainers for any little that was in our power. A few months after the rebels were defeated, and the rebellion quelled by the battle of Culloden, the young laird came back to the Big House again safe, and we all rejoiced. On the day after his arrival, he came to our house to visit us, for he was always like one of ourselves. I saw there was something upon his mind, he was so douce and thoughtful--not in the least like his former way, which was all laughing and chatting with every one. It did not become me to inquire the cause; so, after staying a short time, he requested me to come out and take a turn with him, to see some young trees that had been planted before he joined the king's army. As soon as we were a short distance from the house, he stopped, and, looking me full in the face-- "'William,' said he, 'I believe you would not do anything to harm or bring me into trouble.' "I think my face flushed, for I found my ears glow at the supposition. "'No, laird; I would far rather harm or bring myself into trouble. Who has belied me to your honour? I am certain neither thought nor word of mine ever gave you cause to suspect me.' "I really felt hurt and grieved for a moment, until he took my hand in his, and smiled. "'William,' said he, 'I am sorry if I have unintentionally hurt your honest feelings. I have nothing but good faith in you. I have an affair of importance on hand, and you must aid me.' "'With all my heart,' replied I. 'Only tell me what I am to do.' "'There is one for whose safety I am most anxious,' continued he; 'his life is in danger. In my own house he cannot be concealed; in yours he may. I shall provide for it, if you are willing to encounter the risk and inconvenience. You have no family or servants that reside with you. I shall build an apartment attached to your house, which he shall occupy; and you will attend to all his wants, and administer to his comforts as much as in your power.' "To all this Grace and I gave our hearty consent. Everything was made ready in much less time than I could have conceived possible; the laird superintending all himself, and we obedient to his will. When all was to his mind, he went from home for a few days, leaving word with me, that whoever should give me his letter, authorising me to put them in possession of the room, I was at once to comply, and ask no questions. "For those who had taken any part with the prince, it was a troublesome period. The cruelties committed by the king's troops in the Highlands, made our blood run cold in our veins; and we now pitied those whom we had a few months before hated and feared. Numbers were in prison, waiting a bloody release, more objects of pity than those who were butchered outright. The law sometimes realises the tales of the crocodiles, and weeps over the victims it is intent to devour. Well, the second evening after the laird left us, there came to our door a poor, aged man, scarcely able to support himself upon his staff; his keen, grey eyes were at one time fixed upon the ground, and the next, when he looked up, piercing into my inmost thoughts. With a tone of voice which affected humility, he requested rest and a little food. There was a round fulness in the subdued tone, that ill assorted with the apparent age of the individual; yet I welcomed him into the house--for the needy never left our door empty. When he was seated, I saw his searching eye scan the apartment. Grace was seated at her wheel, while I had been reading to her the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' and the book lay on the table. The first words he spoke were to inquire if there were any other inmates in the house except ourselves. When I answered him that there were not, he stretched his body erect as he sat on his chair. I could scarce believe my eyes. Grace gave a faint cry of surprise and fear. I looked to the gun that hung over the mantelpiece--for that he was a robber in disguise, was my first impression. It lasted, however, only for a moment; for, taking a letter from his pocket, he gave it to me. It was the promised letter from the laird; and so, taking the candle from the table, I requested him to follow me. He rose from the seat, and, clothed as he was in his beggar's weeds, I seldom had seen a more majestic figure, as he passed into the little apartment. Without uttering a word, he threw himself upon a seat, and motioned me to retire. I felt awed by his presence, and withdrew, shutting the door after me, and leaving him to his meditations. Grace prepared some supper for him; and, tapping on the door, inquired if he would partake of it. He replied no; and begged not to be disturbed until he called in the morning. "Wondering at what we had seen, and who our guest could be, we retired to rest. I could hear at times the stranger groan heavily; and Grace, who slept little through the night, said she believed he had never lain down, for she had heard him at times walking and sighing heavily. Yet, afterwards, we had more to wonder at. For many weeks, he never allowed any of us to enter his room. At night only he would walk forth, after we were in bed. His food was handed in to him at the door. I never saw him, neither did Grace; for he only exposed his hands, and part of his arms, when he took anything from her at the door. At first we felt very curious, and formed many conjectures who he could be; but, as the laird still remained in Edinburgh, we could learn nothing. Gradually, we became accustomed to all his humours, and thought little of them. Our few neighbours seldom visited us, and they never suspected there was any person except ourselves in the house. His taciturn and secluded manner at length wore off. Grace first was admitted to his apartment, then myself. Previous to this, a large trunk of books and necessaries, along with a letter to me, arrived at the Big House. I was to get the whole conveyed here in the best manner I could, for 'the gentleman,' as we called him, which I immediately set about. From this time he became an altered man. The almost misanthropical turn he had shown entirely left him; a shade of touching sadness overcast his countenance; and it appeared to me that his grey locks seemed more bleached by care than time; for his voice was full and melodious, and his face unmarked by a wrinkle. "The executions at Carlisle, and the beheading scenes at Tower Hill, had been over for some time before the change of which I speak took place. Pleasing as it was to us, another source of discomfort, and a far more trying one, was discovered: he was a rank papist!--an idolater!--a worshipper of painted and graven images! Judge you what we two covenanted adherents of the Church of Scotland, in all her purity, felt, to have a part of our roof turned into a temple of Dagon! We were sore beset. What to do, we knew not. If the laird had been at home, our duty was plain before us--to demand back my pledge, which I never meant should shelter the enemies of truth, or convert my house into the abode of idolatry, to the risk of the salvation of our precious souls. But I knew not where to find him; and besides, much as I detested our guest's mode of worshipping, I could not divest myself of a secret love for him--he was so condescending, so grand, yet so humble and polite in all he did; and I could not say there was anything amiss in his conduct, save the way in which he had decorated his lonely apartment. Grace there was not half so much perplexed as I was. 'Poor gentleman,' she said, 'if he is pleased, it would be wrong in us to find fault. I have nae doubt he is a poor, misled, ignorant papist, and wish from my heart he was as well informed as we are; but, if he thinks he is right, we may pity, but I wadna distress him. We must set a good example, and pray for his enlightenment night and morning.' "I yielded to what she said, partly because I had an affection for him, and partly because I agreed in her sentiments; yet I never entered the idolatrous scene without feeling a shudder come over me. Upon the top of his little table stood a crucifix and an open book, by the side of which lay a string of beads. At the foot of his bed there was a picture of Jesus on the Cross; and upon his breast he wore another, which I often saw him take out and kiss, with his face raised to heaven, in an expression of joy and hope, while the tears stole down his face. Yet I could never think he had peace in his faith; for he was always attempting something to secure his eternal happiness--night after night flogging his bare shoulders--week after week tasting only bread and water--on Friday refusing flesh or fowl--and, in the spring of the year, living for weeks on eggs, bread, or milk. Surely, thought I, if the papists are Christians, they do not feel the faith in Jesus that a true Christian enjoys; for this worshipper obeys the traditions and commands of men more than the Word of God. I often wished to expound the truth to him; but we never, in all our converse, entered upon matters of faith. I worshipped with Grace, as my fathers had done, by ourselves, and he in his room, in perfect harmony. Yet, if strictness of walk and self-denial be accounted holiness, he was far more holy than we; for, though his mind was not so much at ease in his faith, his yoke appeared grievous, and his burden heavy; and new penances, as he called them, were proofs of his ever coming short in his own estimation of his attainable object. Poor gentleman, he fell a victim to his own endeavours to attain peace of mind by his austerities! He would have been a bright and a shining light, had he only been brought up in the truth, as Grace and I had been. But I am growing tedious, and wandering from the subject. To be short, his life continued to be what I have described. We continued to love him as a father; and poor Colin" (pointing to an old dog that lay at our feet) "was his friend and constant companion. No one, save the laird, Grace, and myself, knew he was in our house; and, after two or three years, the laird called upon him often, and passed a few hours with him; but he seemed to feel pleasure only when alone, and engaged in his superstitious devotions. About twelve months since, he began evidently to decline in health, and the laird wished to remove him to the Big House, and procure medical attention; but this he would not hear mentioned. "'I have vowed,' said he, 'to the Virgin, never to leave this place alive; but, if you will send to Edinburgh, and get me a priest of our Holy Faith, that I may receive the last rites and consolations of the True Church, my soul will thank you and depart in peace--you, my friend, know whom. If possible, I would wish you to learn if he is still alive; he will not refuse to come.' "In a few days after, a stranger came to our door, and gave me a letter for the strange gentleman. I had not seen him for several days, Grace being his sole attendant; and even she dared not interrupt him but as little as possible. I was shocked at the change I saw upon him. He lay, pale and exhausted, his eyes bent on the crucifix, and his thin, wasted hands clasped upon his bosom, as if he had been entranced. The sickly light of the wax candle that burned beside the crucifix cast a strange light upon the dead-like body before me. I started back, and looked aghast. The noise of my entrance had aroused him. "'What want you, William?' he inquired, in a hollow voice. "'It is a letter for you, sir,' said I, 'brought by a stranger, whom the laird said I might admit.' "A glow of pleasure passed over his face, as, with an effort, he raised himself, and took the letter from my hand. "'Blessed Jesus!' he said, 'my prayers are heard! Admit him. He brings me peace and salvation through the Church. My penitence and penances have prevailed.' "After the stranger, who was a Papist priest, was admitted, they remained alone until our guest died, which was on the second day after. He was buried by the laird. What or who he was, we never knew. All his books and papers were taken away; but the consequences of his residence still remain, as a punishment for harbouring a Papist, and suffering idolatry under our roof. The room he possessed and died in is, we are certain, disturbed by a spirit. We hear the door open and shut at night, and strange noises startle us from our rest. Two visiters, one after the other, who attempted to sleep in it, were terrified almost out of their senses; and it is for this reason we could not offer it to you to sleep in." My curiosity was as much awakened by the vague account the good people gave me of the room in its present state, as my interest had been excited by the account of the poor outlaw. I am, I confess, not more brave than other people. I never courted danger for the love of it, or fled from it to meet dishonour; and, as for the reality of spectres, I neither believe nor disbelieve in them; having, in all my travels, never seen a legitimate one, nor troubled my head about them. As much through curiosity, I believe, as anything else--for I am sure it was not the love of a good bed, far less an adventure--I told my hosts I would with pleasure sleep in the room, if they would allow me; and, after some honest endeavours to dissuade me, they consented. Supper and family-worship being finished, we all three entered the apartment--the good woman insisting upon our company while she prepared my bed, and her husband going more cheerfully when I proposed to accompany them. All the little duties were done by the dame in a hurried, timid manner; and, while she was occupied, I looked round. The door was only fastened by a wooden latch, which opened by a string hung upon the outside. The whole interior had a simple, clean, neat look, which pleased me. After a hasty good-night and God be with you, they withdrew. When I was left alone, the account I had just heard of the strange individual who had for so long a period inhabited the apartment passed over my mind; and who or what he could be gave rise to many a conjecture. I became low-spirited at the thought of the many miseries that human nature is liable to, under reverses of fortune from which neither birth nor riches can protect us. In this frame of mind I retired to rest--the idea of anything supernatural never entering my mind, and no shade of fear discomposing my thoughts. I soon fell asleep. How long I had slept I know not; but I was awakened by a slight noise at the door of the room, as if some one had put his hand upon it. I now felt alarmed, and expected to witness some fearful sight. The door opened and shut with a faint clang. I heard a movement on the floor. A cold sweat came over me. I raised myself upon my elbow. All was dark--impenetrably dark, and I saw nothing; but the curtains at the foot of the bed shook violently. "Who is there?" I attempted to inquire; but only a faint murmur escaped my lips. A strange noise and movement on the floor again took place, and I bolted up and sat in the bed. The curtains again moved at the head; and, as I thought, were partially opened. Still nothing was to be seen, and I put forth my hand to grope. Something as cold as death touched it. This was more than I could endure. I sunk upon the bed, buried my head in the clothes, and would have cried out; but that terror had paralysed every faculty. Whatever was the cause of my alarm, I now found that the object had come into the bed, and was either seated or lying between me and the wall. I dared not uncover my head, or put out my hands to ascertain what it might be. The icy feeling still thrilled through my frame; and thus I lay in mortal agony, under the conviction that the object still reclined immoveable by my side. My firmness gradually began to return; and with it came calm reflection. I thought I heard a heavy breathing; and slowly uncovered my head to hear it better. Once more I summoned a desperate resolution to put forth my hand. What did my hand encounter?--the shaggy coat of a dog. A gentle whine followed; the next moment my hand was licked by a warm tongue. I smiled at my late alarm. It was Colin. Soon after daybreak I was awakened by my host, who came to inquire how I had passed the night. He was agreeably surprised to find me safe and well. To his inquiries, I related the adventure of the night without concealing my fears, and the chance there was of my having added one more testimony to the evil report of his apartment. The gratitude of the good people was extreme. They overwhelmed me with their thanks. They said I had rendered them a service they could not sufficiently repay. I had removed a cause of dread which had cast a gloom over their minds for many months; and, continued William-- "How silly it was in me not to know or think that it might be Colin!--for both the people who fled the room in terror gave the same account of the early part of the adventure. Colin, poor thing," he said, as he patted the head of the dog, "you little knew the evil you did your master and mistress. You and he that is gone were dear friends and inseparable companions. No Christian could have shown more concern at his death. You never came out from beneath his bed while the body lay on it; and, when he was carried out, Grace had to hold you, to prevent your snapping at the company as they bore him away. For long you visited his grave, and sat for hours upon it. It is the remembrance of your old friend that makes you still visit his room when all is quiet at night. He that is now 'where the Lord will,' taught you to take the string in your mouth and pull the latch, that, always welcome, you might enter when you chose." During this address to the dog, he looked wistfully in the face of his master, as if he comprehended all that was said. The weather having now cleared up, the morning was beautiful. After breakfast, I bade adieu to my kind hosts, with a promise that if I ever passed that way I should make their house my home, and sleep in the room I had freed from its evil name. As I moved cheerfully along the road, chanting some snatch of a song to keep up my spirits, my ears were assailed, at a sudden bend of the road, by a rough voice. "Holloa, messmate, cast here a few coppers to help to revictual a hulk all the doctors in the world could not refit for sea!" Turning my eyes to the roadside, I saw, seated upon a bank, two strange objects--a stout young man, in a tattered seaman's dress, with one arm off by the shoulder and the other by the elbow, and a young, good-looking, but tattered female by his side. In a moment my hand was in my pocket, and, drawing near to them, the female rose and held out her palm in dumb show. "Not so fast, young woman," said I, as I was putting a half-crown into his vest-pocket; "it is for Jack." "Bless your honour," said he, "it's all one. That there young one is my wife; poor thing, she was struck dumb in real earnest, when she saw me come home to her thus maimed. Bless her pretty face, she did not forsake poor Bill for all that." While he spoke, a strong feeling came upon me that I had seen his face before; but when or where I could not call to mind. As I stood gazing into his face, he looked as scrutinisingly at me. "Were you ever in the East Indies?" inquired I. "To be sure I was. In that place I lost my precious limbs," replied he. "Then you must be Bill Kay, whom Captain H----and I left at Bombay," said I. "And you are Jack Square," said he. "Give me your hand, old shipmate." And he held up the stump to me, and burst out a-laughing as I shook the sleeve. The female gave him an angry look, with so much more of meaning than anger, that I thought she knew all we said. "Come, Betsy, don't be sulky," said he; "I wish to have a bit of a talk with my old mate. Come, be a good girl, and let us go back to Berwick. Jack Square, you will not be ashamed to walk home with us?" The wife nodded a consent, and away we trudged to the town, from which we were only a small distance. During our walk, I told him that I was on my way to London to look out for a vessel to India, as my fortune had been adverse in Scotland; and I was sick of the land, and careless what became of me. "Never strike to an enemy, or quit the pumps while your vessel can float," cried he. "There are many ways of leading a jovial life. You were always my friend, and a good fellow. Give me your word, Jack, you will either stay and join us, or pass on and do us no harm, and I will have no secrets from you. Speak the word." "I know not what you mean," I replied. "As for joining you. I do not think, in the meantime, I shall, until I know better about it; and as for hurting you or doing any harm, I give you my sincere assurance I will not, however much I might gain by it." "Betsy, my dear," said he, "we are not going to the kenn, we will go home. I wish to entertain my old friend." We then altered our direction, and, after proceeding down a dark and dirty lane, entered a neat and well-furnished room. As soon as we entered, and the door was shut-- "Betsy," said he, "there is no use for gammon now; find your tongue, lass, and help me to find my arms." "As you please, Billy," said the dumb wife. And both retired to another apartment, from whence they soon returned--she well dressed, and Bill as perfect in every limb as when we had parted, he to remain in India, and I to return home. I believe he had told her his intention and who I was in the time they were away; for, seeing my surprise, he laughed aloud, while she, smiling, took me by the hand, and welcomed me to their house. Now that her begging disguise was thrown off, she really was a most bewitching girl, of the gipsy cast--brilliant black eyes and hair, her features regular, almost to perfection--the loveliest brunette I had ever seen. Bill smiled good-naturedly at the admiration my looks expressed, as I gazed at her; and, slapping me on the shoulder-- "Square," said he, "is she not a beauty? You must not fall in love with her if you stay--that I must make a condition." We all laughed. I said, if I fell in love, I could not help it; the fault was his for bringing me into temptation. A large square bottle of brandy and a jug of water were set on the table, and while the wife was busy preparing dinner, Bill gave me the following account of himself:-- "You know, Jack, I am no scholar," he began; "only a pretty good seaman, as far as hand, reef, or steering goes; so I soon found India was no place for me, in a regular country ship. I could not abide these black, lazy, cowardly rascals of lascars; and there were crowds of them in all the vessels I could find. They are well enough in fair weather; but when it blows the heart is blown out of them. They are either in the way, or skulking in corners; so I took the first opportunity of returning home to Britain again. When I came to London, I got into all manner of mischief, and lost my guineas like winking, above two hundred in one week; and the remainder, clothes and all, in one night in Wapping; for I awoke in the morning in the watch-house, bruised, and with only a watchman's greatcoat thrown over me. I had been thrown out of a window, or pushed down some stair, and in that state they told me I was found by the watchman. I had now time to reflect, but nothing to reflect upon, for all I had in the world was a shirt and a pair of trousers. There was no charge against me, so I walked from the watch-house like a man adrift in an old boat, without oars or food. I went to the wharves, for pity or employ. I got fitted in a kind of way; but could not find a vessel, for there were too many like myself. What to do I knew not. More than once I thought of doing as I had been done by--that is, helping myself where I could; but, although I was often without food, and slept in the streets or under a boat, I, somehow, could not bring my mind to that. I often wished I was again in Scotland, where I had friends and was known; but how to get there I knew not. At length the thought came into my mind--I could beg my way down. I could be no worse than I was in London--and where was the odds? A beggar in London was no better than a beggar in Scotland, or anywhere else; for my Scotch pride was by this time starved out of me; so off I set, but was poorly enough off, for I was not then up to the trade, so my stout look and honest truth met nothing but unkindness and insult. At length, one day, as I was on the point of dying from starvation (for England is not a country for an honest beggar), I fell upon a gang of gipsies, upon the borders of a heath, making merry. I joined them, and was kindly and hospitably received. Betsy there was one of the troop. From the moment I saw her, I took a fancy to her pretty face--joined the gang for her sake, and soon won her regard and love. I was now content and happy. We had victuals of the best in plenty, and roamed where we pleased, with no restraint but our own wills. I found there was some tough work before my hand. Betsy had one or two pretenders to her love, in her own and other gangs, and my rivals were not to be lightly thought of, for in their minds none but the brave deserve the fair. It is, win your bride and keep her while you can. There was one stout, active fellow, whom her parents intended for her husband, but Betsy had no wish for the match, and my arrival confirmed her dislike to him. Our loves were only known to ourselves, and our interviews stolen, until my services had gained me the esteem of her father. He was patriarch or head of the gang, and kept the common stock, guiding our movements and directing our operations as far as our wayward fancies could be guided--partly by argument, partly by yielding, but seldom by resorting to punishment, for all was done for our good, to the best of his judgment. No one thought of resisting his control, and if any became discontented they left the gang--a step by no means desirable, for our safety lay in the strength of the camp. There is scarce a gang but is at feud with some other gang or gangs, and when they meet, nothing but the flight of the weaker, or some other overruling cause, prevents a battle, in which murders are not unfrequently committed. "Under the tuition of Betsy, I became a most expert beggar, as you witnessed this morning. My contributions to the common stock often equalled the amount of all the others put together. I became the pride of the gang; and no wonder--for I strove for Betsy, and was cheered on by her acclaim, while I was scowled at by my rivals, who were quick enough, though her parents had no suspicion of it, to see her preference of me. When we thought it proper time, I proposed to the father for the hand of his daughter. He had no objection to me as a son-in-law, further than that he had all but promised her to Long Ned, but would leave it to Betsy and myself to manage the affair as we best could, and would interfere no farther with his authority than for the good of the gang. If Betsy was pleased, he cared not whether Long Ned or I had her. When I told her the result of my conference with her father, she was as well pleased as myself. "'Bill,' she said, 'you will not win me from Long Ned with both ease and honour. He is no contemptible rival. He will be at you as soon as he comes to the camp, for his mother will tell him. Now, be a man, and do not yield while you can stand to him, for, much as I love you--and you know I love you dearly--I could not marry you if you are beat. Nay, the people might make me marry him, and you must leave the gang, or your life would not be safe for one night. What says my Bill?' "I looked upon the lovely girl with astonishment, her language was so unlike anything I had ever heard from a woman. In Scotland here, if a woman knew her lover was to fight, she would almost go distracted, and do all in her power to prevent him. I could scarcely believe my ears, I was as yet so little used to their ways. As I stood looking at her, a shade of anger passed over her face, and the tears came into her eyes; she turned away her head, and sobbed aloud. This roused me. "'What ails my Betsy?" I said, taking her in my arms. She still sobbed, and pushed me from her. "'I am the most unfortunate girl in the world, she cried. 'I love a man, and he is a coward.' "'A coward, Betsy!' cried I. 'What do you mean? I am no coward. I fear not the face of clay.' "Turning to me with one of her sweet smiles-- "'I am not deceived, then, in my Bill?' she said. 'He is not afraid of Long Ned?' "'No, my love; nor of the whole gang, one after another--one down, another come on,' said I. 'Are we friends again?' "'O Bill, we are more than friends,' she sobbed. 'I love you dearly, and am proud of you.' "Arm-in-arm, we returned to the tents. "Long Ned had just come home after an excursion; so, as soon as he saw us, his rage knew no bounds; and his dark eyes flashed fire, as he came forward and ordered me to quit my hold of the girl. There were few words passed between us; every one knew what was to take place, so no one interfered further than to see fair play. You recollect, Square, I always loved a bit of a row. The lessons I took on board from Sambo, the black cook, stood me now in great stead. I learned from him the African mode, to hold the stick with both hands by the ends, and cover the body with it, more especially the head, having thus the advantage of striking with either hand, and puzzling my opponent. Ned, who was an expert cudgel-player, chose that weapon, I, nothing loth, agreed. Two sticks of equal length were chosen. Betsy at my side, held my jacket, while Ned's mother held his. His anger was so great, he could scarce restrain himself until we were ready. I knew my task, and was cool--as if I waited the boatswain's call to go. So away we went. I at once felt my advantage; and, expert as he was, he could not reach me--my mode embarrassed him. I hit him on both sides, not severely, as I might with ease have done, but he had never touched me. We paused, for a minute or two, for breath. "'Ned,' says I to him, 'I bear you no malice. I could have struck you down every time I have touched you. Yield me Betsy, and be friends.' "'I will die first,' he cried, kindling in rage. "'And if you yield, I will disown you,' said his mother. "As he made at me again--'Don't spare him,' cried Betsy, 'as you wish to win me.' "This was enough; but he plied me so hard for some time, that it was with difficulty I could defend myself. I had been hit slightly several times before an opportunity offered, so active was he and quick in his assaults. But my mode was not nearly so exhausting as his; and it being now my turn, I embraced it: down he went as if he had been shot. His mother raised him up, and encouraged him to renew the fight; while Betsy wiped some blood from my face, which came from a slight wound in the forehead; and, squeezing gently my hand, said I was her own brave boy; able to win a wife, and protect her. I see you do not much admire my story, but it shows the character of the people I was among. So, the short and the long of it is, Long Ned was carried to his tent, beaten to his mother's satisfaction; and I was married to Betsy next day, agreeably to the gipsy fashion--that is, a feast was given to all the gang--and her father delivered her up to me with a long harangue, concluding by declaring us man and wife, and the others wishing us joy. "Betsy and I did not remain long with the gang after this. Long Ned and his mother were our implacable enemies, and neither of us were safe from their revenge--not that I cared a straw for them openly, but I knew their character too well to be at ease. Betsy and I left them, have lived well and comfortably since, and could save money, only there is no occasion for it. We, like all the men of superior minds in the world, live by our wits; there is no occasion for working when we can live without. I never want money and a good diet. Now, you say you have no particular object in view, save to get a ship for India: and why should you court difficulties and dangers abroad, when there is so rich a prospect before you at home? From experience, I can assure you no trade is so easy, or quickly learned, as begging. The first day is the worst; after that it came quite natural and agreeable." There was a romance and bustle in the events he had narrated, which had a strange charm for me, and opened up a new leaf in the book of life. I had no conception of beggary but as extreme misery, and, until now, held them as synonymous terms, from what I had witnessed in Edinburgh in the early part of my youth. I had had no idea of the regular systematic beggar. My notions were formed upon the destitute widow and orphan, those whom I had herded with, who shrunk from importunity, and scarce let their wants be known, enduring hunger to the extreme ere they stealthily crept forth from their abodes of wretchedness, and returned as soon as their urgent wants were satisfied. To Bill I made known my surprise at the history he had given me of himself, and my wonder that any one should ask charity, save those who had no other means of supporting themselves. "I once knew as little of the matter as you," said he, "but this I know now were none but the really needy to ask charity, they would soon be supplied, and fare well, but it is too good a trade, once begun, to be given up easily. But here is Betsy, to tell us dinner is ready." The repast did honour to her cooking, and consisted of the best the town could afford. She herself sat at table, more lady-like than I thought it possible a gipsy girl could have done. "Bill," says I, "if your trade were as honourable as it appears to be profitable, I would commence it this night." "And what is more dishonourable in it, than any other calling a man may choose to live by?" said the young wife, with a smile. "Is not the whole bent of every one's mind to get as much from every one of his fellow-men as he can? Does not the king and his ministers get all they can from the people by taxation? Do not the ministers of the church get all they can from their flocks? Do not the lairds get all they can for their lands, the merchant get all he can for his goods, and the poor man get all he can for his labour? Real utility or value enters not into their minds at bargain-making. It is how they can get most of their neighbour's property, in the safest and easiest manner. What is honour but a fluctuating opinion? As I have heard my father say when he spoke the words I am now uttering--it is honourable for kings to take their subjects from their peaceful employments, and send them to plunder and destroy other states, it is honourable to be one of the plunderers; for one man to shoot another for some trifling word is honourable. Every nation has its own notions of this same thing called honour. But we of the wandering tribe think it means gold, for he that has got the most of it is the most esteemed, and he that has not a penny in his purse has not a jot of honour, though he had all the virtues. And why? Because, from the king to the beggar, no one can expect to add to their store from him. He is an egg already eaten--an empty shell; and, as such, crushed and thrown aside. These are the words of my father." I heard the bewitching creature with astonishment, and could not but admire how easily every class finds consolation to themselves, by arguing as it suits their views. I had often before remarked, that when numbers of any class associated, they rose in their own estimation; but I had no idea that the beggars carried it so far. "But it is under deceit and false pretence," said I, to enjoy the pleasure of hearing her speak, "you extort money from the humane and charitable. I would rather work to the death." "That is a matter of choice or education," replied she. "We use no more deceit than is necessary to obtain our object, and all the world do the same, while we do more to give pleasure to the good than any other class. Don't we keep alive the kindly feelings of man? My Bill there, as you saw him this morning, was a walking lecture upon the miseries of war, and I am sure, from what I saw in your looks at the time, that you felt a real pleasure in having it in your power to give him the half-crown--nay, had you walked on, you would have slept the sounder for it. Had you tippled it, or spent it foolishly, you would have regretted parting with it. Even now, that you think we had no need of it, your self-esteem is only wounded at being imposed upon; but your heart upbraids you not for your good intentions; and may not a beggar feel pleasure in the success of his arts as much as those of another calling?" "Does not Betsy speak like a parson?" said Bill. "I can't say I feels as if all was right when I am rigged out for an excursion; but, somehow, she appears to have reason on her side; and, even if I were to get a ship, I must leave my pretty Bess, so I just get on; and I am now pretty well used to it. If I had staid by my trade, as my parents wished me, I could have wrought for her at home, but Betsy is pleased, and I have no more to care for." "And why should I not?" she quickly replied. "I have been bred to it, and know nothing else. I could not live mewed up in a house, however grand. A wide heath, or a dark wood, with a few light, verdant, sunny spots embossed in its bosom, has far more charms for me than a crowded city or painted room; and the piece of money, dexterously obtained, has a beauty about it that does not belong to the fixed income. I had as soon be in my grave as a sober citizen; for there would be as much exercise for the mind in the one case as the other." For a moment I looked with admiration at the lovely girl, as her face glowed with animation while she spoke; but pity soon took its place, suggesting the mournful reflection, that a mind of her powers was in a state of nature, and what it might have been, had it been cultivated. A sigh escaped me at the thought of my own inability to lend instruction. She saw the cloud upon my brow. "Come, Bill," she said, laughing, "you neglect your friend; he grows sad. Shall we to the kenn to-night? We are expected." "To be sure, Betsy," replied he. "Square, fill your glass; and don't break your heart because Betsy is my wife, and can't be yours. There will be rare fun, I expect, and would advise you to go." I was in that mood at the time, between the serious and the sad, contrasting the pious and modest Helen Grey with the pert and forward beauty before me. Both were lovely in their persons--but how different in expression and mind! Helen was a lily, modest, and filling the air around her with a mild perfume; Betsy, an exotic flower, of surpassing beauty, with an odour so powerful, it required time to render it not offensive; yet it was a lovely flower, and in a skilful gardener's hands would have been the honour of his plots, and the object of his pride. Under the example and tuition of Helen, I had felt some serious impressions--at times a thorn, at others a balm, as my own wayward actions were approved or condemned. I wished to speak seriously to the interesting creature before me, but could not find resolution. I was conscious that it would be an evening of regret if I was left alone, so I agreed to accompany them. "Hurrah!" shouted Bill; "you will, I see, be a mumper yet. But you can't appear in that rig, Square; you could not get admittance. Betsy will furnish you out of my store. Will you be a soldier, a sailor, or a ruined, burned-out tradesman? I guess you will be a tar?" "Certainly," I replied. "Shall you lack a whole fin, or part of one, or be lame of a leg? Make your choice." "Oh, half-an-arm," said I, now ripe for the fun I expected. In a few minutes Betsy had me so completely changed, I hardly knew myself, even when I looked in the glass. An immense long tie of false hair--mine being then of a sandy colour, the same nearly as Bill's--was brought forth, opened, and my own shorter tie secured in it. With a liquid she browned my face. To this I at first objected, until she assured me that she would wash it off in the morning. An old pair of canvas trousers, a ragged jacket, a shabby vest and hat, were given to me. When I came to put on the jacket, she caused me to double my arm, laying my hand upon the top of my shoulder; and there was a case in the tattered arm, made of leather, to receive it. With difficulty my doubled limb was forced in, presenting the elbow first. For some time the constrained position pained me, for there was a flap of leather that came over my open hand, and was made fast to my trousers, to diminish the bulk. "Where did you lose your arm, my good lad?" said the smiling Betsy, as she offered a halfpenny in jest. "Faith, I do not know, mistress, if you have not cut it off for me," I replied. "Jack, that will never do," said she, "I will send for the constable, you impostor;" and she turned, smiling, from me, with all the airs of a fine lady; then, turning round, and assuming the attitude of a beggar, "Bless your pretty face," she said, "sweet lady, spare a halfpenny to a poor tar, who lost his precious limb in defending the beauties of Old England." "I have no coppers." "Oh, bless you, beautiful lady," she continued, "I would die of want, were it not for angels like you;" and she whined along the floor, as if she had followed some one. Bill and I could not refrain from laughter. "Does she not do it in style?" he said, exultingly. "Take the dear creature's advice, and copy her, and you need never want a good bed and a good diet, besides money in your fob, and be a jolly beggar." "Are there more kinds of beggars than one?" said I. "Oh," replied he, "there are many kinds; for instance jolly beggars, sturdy beggars, humble beggars, and randy beggars. I had forgot the gentle beggars; but you will see them of all description." And away we trudged--Betsy as an old decrepid woman, and with so well-managed a metamorphosis, that I, who saw the change effected, could scarce believe my eyes. Bill was not the same person I had seen in the morning; he only wanted his left arm, which was bandaged by his side, and his leg supported at the knee by a wooden substitute for the lower part of it. "This," said he, "was my last cruising dress when I was among them. I was maimed, as you see, in the gallant Admiral Hawke's own ship, when we defeated Conflans. You may have either lost your fin there or at Cape Breton, for our meetings are a kind of masquerade--no one knows his fellow, but as in the character he for the time assumes." After a few turns through dark alleys, we arrived at a low dirty-looking public-house. As we entered, Bill whispered in my ear-- "Now, Square," said he, "this is Liberty Hall--every one eats what he pleases, drinks what he pleases, and, I may say, speaks as he pleases. All I advise is, do not be too ready to take or give offence. Betsy has agreed to sit by you--be guided by her." We entered one by one. A single flickering light was attached to the wall; everything bespoke the most abject poverty, until we had passed through a second small apartment, when the sound of voices, mixed with boisterous laughter, fell upon my ears. "We are too late, I fear," said Betsy; "the fun is begun." The next moment the door opened--and such a scene! I did not think the universe could have produced such a collection of apparent misery and mutilation. The miraculous pool of Siloam, the evening before the angel descended to trouble the waters, I really believe, never furnished such a spectacle of incurables. To be more particular would only disgust you: all was hilarity and vulgar enjoyment. Viands of the richest kinds--roast fowls, and meats of all varieties--smoked on a table at one side of the room, and which, as called for by the guests, was cut off in proportion to the amount ordered, handed to the expectant guest, and the money received before the plate was delivered. Some had done, and commenced their favourite liquors; others were doing justice to the cookery--praising, and not a few finding fault. "What shall I have the pleasure of handing to Mr Kay?" cried the landlord, bowing. "Betsy, my love, what shall we have?" said Bill. "What you please, Bill, for myself. Square, what do you wish?" she said. "Oh, I care not," I replied. "Then, landlord, a duck; and have you any green peas yet?" "The season is backward; I have some," replied he, "but they are a little high-priced." "So much the better--send half-a-crown's worth with the duck, for me and my friends." "Well, Kay, you always do the thing genteelly; but who is this friend of yours?" said a fat little man, in very rusty black, of a clerical cut. "An old messmate of mine, I met by chance to-day--a real good un." "As Mr Kay's friend, I drink your health, and our better acquaintance." "Thank you, doctor," said Kay; and I did the same. After every one had satisfied his appetite, and got his liquor before him, the noise of voices, joined to the boisterous laughter, was absolutely deafening--all were in committees of twos and threes, talking. I began to despair of getting my curiosity gratified by Betsy on the spot; for the noise was so great that to whisper was impossible. Never in my life had I witnessed such unbounded apparent happiness and glee--all was enjoyment. At length a little hunch-backed caricature of a man leaped upon the head of the table, and, seated like a Turk, crosslegged, struck the table with a wooden mallet, and, in a hoarse, croaking voice, commanded silence and attention to their president for the night. In a minute all was still. Without rising to his feet, he croaked forth-- "Ladies and gentlemen, we are met here to forget the cares and toils of the day. You have all (or you have your purse to blame) had your pleasure of the eatables--of the drinkables you shall have the same provided. I add no more, save a word for our worthy landlord. He says, if we do not be less noisy, and give him less trouble than the last time we met, he must either cease to enjoy our company, or be on more intimate terms with the magistrates--an honour he does not covet. He has been a man to be sought after by the authorities already. Now, ladies and gentlemen, I call on Rhyming Bob for his last new song--ruff him in. Up rose a tall, gaunt, shabby-genteel, pale-looking figure, bowed to the company, and began, in a cracked voice, affectedly to chant some doggerel verses against the Ministers of State. I looked inquiringly at Betsy. "Oh, that is the poet," said she; "a gentle beggar by nature and profession, he has no shift but his verses, and a poor shift it makes for him. He bothers the gentry with his rhymes; sometimes gets kicked out, sometimes a six-pence. Hand him, when done, a glass Bill; he has been more fortunate than usual, if he has one of his own. He had better attended to teaching his scholars than song-writing. Our friend the doctor here is also a gentle beggar--he gets nothing on the streets and highways--he writes a good letter as a distressed clergyman or reduced man of education, and lives well, as you see. A great number, almost all the maimed, are jolly beggars, like Bill, and what you are to be. They have numerous ways of earning a subsistence, and spend it as freely. They never take anything save money in charity, for, poor souls, they are too feeble to carry heavy gifts." The noisy applause of the poet's song put a stop to our whispering. When order was restored, Mrs Kay was called upon for a song. Betsy immediately stood up in her old woman's attire, and astonished me, little as I know of music, by the sweetness of her voice, and the effect with which she sang, "An old woman clothed in grey." Twice was she obliged to sing it to the company, which she did with the utmost good nature. When the deafening applause had abated, or, I may rather say, the storm of noises had ceased, a stout, red-haired, broad-shouldered, rather shortish man was called upon to sing. He gave a Welsh song, the air of which was pretty, but the words uncouth to my ear. "That is one of the sturdy beggars," said Betsy; "he refuses nothing that is given him, carries all upon his person, and often, before he reaches the proper place to dispose of his gatherings, they amount to the weight of many stones. He always tells the charitable, when asked what is his complaint that prevents him from working--I can't speak the Welsh word, but it means 'sheer laziness.' The people are confounded at the, to them, unintelligible and strange name of the disease, and are ready to relieve the afflicted man. Once or twice, they say, he has been detected by countrymen of his own, who laughed at his impudence, and gave the true meaning of the words. The sturdies are a numerous class. The randies are nearly, if not, of the same class; they abuse and threaten until they are supplied, when they dare with impunity. The humble, poor creatures are old or real cripples--take what they get, and are thankful; there is not one of them here this night that I see." We had now sat in the pandemonium for nearly three hours. The potency of the liquor had for some time began to preponderate--angry words were exchanging, and some were sleeping, with their heads leaning upon the table. Bill himself was more than half-seas over, and began to bawl out a sea-song. Betsy and I endeavoured to keep him in order, and wished him to retire. We had succeeded, and were rising to leave the company--Bill only half-inclined--when a stranger entered the hall of confusion and drunkenness. We were on our feet. I saw Betsy turn pale as death, and turn her head aside. A number of voices called out, "Hurrah! hurrah! here is Long Ned." A young female, whose eye I had noticed was seldom turned from where we sat, cried out-- "Betsy, you are not going away because your old sweetheart, Long Ned, has come in?" "Shiver my timbers if we are!" cried Bill; and in a moment sat down and called for more liquor. I, as well as Betsy, saw that the envious female was bent on mischief; but how to prevent it I knew not. Long Ned had seated himself at the other side of the table, gloomy as Satan. I felt her tremble, as she sat by my side, I believe more through rage at the female than fear. Long Ned was evidently bent on some mischief or other, and he was quite sober. Bill and he eyed each other for some time. Betsy was coaxing him, to get him away, as well as myself. "No, I will not leave the room," he said, "while that scoundrel is in it; I will face him, or fight him out, if he says an uncivil word to you or myself." The same female sat only one seat from him; I saw them whispering together. Betsy's dark eyes glanced fire. She unbuckled his timber leg, and took it off. Scarce was this done, when Ned said aloud-- "Tell me, Kay, how much you have sold the jilt Bessy for. I see she is very gracious with your ac----" He had only got thus far, when the wooden leg was launched across the table, and felled him to the ground. A scene of uproar and confusion no words can express ensued; the lights were extinguished; blows were dealt furiously around; and the sleepers awoke and joined in the strife. Bitterly did I regret my curiosity, as well as the bondage my arm was in from its long confinement; it was benumbed and painful. As I had no immediate interest in the strife, I retired to one corner of the room, where I found several as anxious as myself to escape. Shouts of murder and groans were mixed with vengeful cries. At length the door was burst open, and a body of constables entered. The moment I saw this I slipped along the side of the room and darted past them, receiving in my flight several severe blows, and leaving the skirts and breasts of my jacket in the hands of those in the way who attempted to stop my career. I turned down the first opening I came to, and ceased to run, as no one appeared to follow me. Fortunately, I had the old canvass trousers and vest above my own, in which was secured my guineas and silver. With some difficulty I freed myself from the jacket, then I with ease got off the others, and had the mortification to find myself, pretty late in the evening, without a lodging, jacket, or hat. As I began to cool, and find myself secure from pursuit, the contusions I had received from the staves of the constables pained me very much, particularly one I had received upon the head; I put up my hand, and found it bleeding pretty fresh. Thus was I in a fine mess to seek for a decent lodging, or account for my present plight. As I turned over in my mind for a plausible story, I perceived a respectable-looking inn still open, and made straight for it. There were several seafaring men, like captains of coasters, sitting in the tap. When I entered, all eyes were turned upon me. The landlord insisted upon turning me out, without allowing me to speak. The company took my part, and insisted that I should be heard. I had now my story ready as near the truth as I dared--I told them I was a stranger from Scotland, on my way to London, in quest of a vessel, and had only arrived in the town that evening, when I had had a quarrel and fight, having been insulted, and some one had carried off my hat, jacket, and bundle; but that I had plenty of money to pay my way. As soon as I had finished, the landlord became all civility; I got my head bound up, and a good lodging, and got intimate with one or two of the captains before I retired to bed. Next morning my head ached, but nothing to speak of. I arose, sent for a dealer in clothes, and purchased a jacket and hat, had breakfast, and took a walk through the town. As I did not intend to leave it until I had heard the issue of the brawl, nothing else was talked of. The fight between them and the constables had been long and severe, for they made a desperate resistance; and it was not until several of the inhabitants had reinforced the civil power, that the beggars were secured, and lodged in jail, male and female. I wished only to know the fate of Bill and Betsy, and then started upon my journey--I wished to have no further intercourse with them. My bundle, and necessaries in it, I had given up for lost, unless they were liberated, at least Betsy, through the course of the day. I could not have found my way to their room without inquiry; and this it was neither prudent nor of any use to make, until they were liberated. Well, the magistrates were busy examining them, I was told, the whole forenoon, and the issue was, that all the able-bodied rascals--Bill amongst the rest--were sent to man His Majesty's navy, and the females were to be confined, and then banished the town for ever. I returned to my inn, and, by appointment, met my new acquaintances, the captains;--one of them, the captain of a brig, was loading grain for London. I was weary of walking on foot, and agreed with him for a passage, leaving my conductors to the beggars' ball in durance; the males expecting to be sent off in a day or two, and the females making out their solitary confinement, preparatory to their banishment. LEEIN JAMIE MURDIESTON. With the exception of one unhappy failing, delicately hinted at in the title of this sketch, there was nothing really bad in the character of Mr. James Murdieston. He was an honest, civil, inoffensive, and obliging man; but--we neither can nor will conceal the fact--a most determined inventor. Yet his lies had no malevolence in them. They were all of the vainglorious kind, and never bore reference to any man or woman's character or affairs. On the whole, as defensible as lies can be, they were also as harmless. To profession, an enlightener of the world, not as a philosopher or teacher of science, but simply as a candle-maker, he was so far a benefactor of mankind, but on a very humble scale--having only the wants of a very small village to supply with the produce of his manufacture. With this preamble, we proceed to say, that it happened once upon a time that Jamie Murdieston had to go to Glasgow, on some particular business--we believe it was to make a purchase of tallow. On this occasion, as on all others when his presence was necessary in the western metropolis, Jamie took the coach--an opportunity which he always prized highly, as affording him admirable scope for the exercise of his talent for romancing. At home, where his propensity was well known, he could get few listeners and still fewer believers; but, on the top of a coach, where he was not known, he was always sure of finding both; and he never failed to make an excellent use of his advantage. It was a great comfort and satisfaction to Jamie, when he stumbled on an unwincing believer. It was a perfect treat to him, since it was one which he rarely enjoyed. On the occasion of which we are speaking--namely, Jamie's visit to Glasgow--he found himself, on ascending the coach, seated beside a very engaging young lady, who had preferred the outside to the inside, on account of the extreme warmth of the weather, and also for the purpose, as she herself informed Jamie, of more fully enjoying the scenery through which they might pass. "Quite richt, mem," replied Jamie, on his fair and frank fellow-traveller informing him of this last particular, as they rolled along. "Quite right, mem; for the kintra hereawa is just uncommon beautifu--just uncommon. Do ye see, mem, that bit glisk o' the Clyde, there?--that's a spot I should mind weel, and I will mind it till the day o' my death." "Indeed, sir!" said the young lady to whom these remarks were addressed. "Pray, what circumstance is it, may I ask, which so solemnly binds your recollections to that particular locality?" "A melancholy aneugh are, I assure ye mem; that's to say, it micht hae been melancholy, an it warna that Providence had sent me just in time to save the life o' a fellow-cratur." On this communication being made to her, the young lady for whose edification it was intended discovered a degree of agitation and surprise, for which the circumstance itself would hardly account. As it escaped Jamie's notice, however, and she was aware that it did so, she merely said--"Dear me, sir, what was the occurrence you allude to, and when did it happen?" But there was an eagerness and an anxiety in her manner, when putting these queries, which she could not altogether conceal. Jamie observed it with inward satisfaction, hailing it as an assurance that whatever he might communicate would be at once taken for gospel. Feeling thus encouraged, Jamie replied-- "I'll tell ye a' aboot it, mem. Ye see it was just aboot this time twelmonth, I think--yes, just exactly aboot this time--that, as I was ae day fishin in the Clyde, at the spot I pointed oot to ye, I was suddenly startled by hearin an awful scream, and, immediately after, a tremendous splash in the water. 'Somebody fa'en in!' says I; and I instantly flang doon my rod, on which I had, at the moment, a saumont fifty pun wecht, if he was an unce--and ran roun the bit projectin bank that had keepit me frae actually seein what had happened. A weel, on doin this, doesna I see a woman's bonnet floatin on the water--it was a' I could see--and gann fast doun wi' the stream, which was geyley swelled at the time. Soon becomin aware that the bonnet was on the head o' some unfortunate person, and that she maun perish in a few seconds, if no attempt was made to rescue her, I, without a moment's thocht, threw aff my coat and shoon, and jumped in after her; and, as gude luck wad hae't, was the means o' savin her life; but it was a teuch job, for, by the time I reached her, she had sunk, and it wasna till I had dived three times that I got haud o' her. But I _did_ get a grup o' her; and I assure ye I held it, and never let it go till I had her safely on the bank, puir thing, and a bit bonny cratur she was." Thus far had Jamie got in his interesting story, and much further he would have gone, had he not been suddenly interrupted by his fair auditor, who, seizing him by the hand, in a transport of joy and surprise, exclaimed-- "O my deliverer, my deliverer!--_I_ was the person whom you saved; and delighted will my father, who's inside the coach, be, when he learns we have found you at last. But why, why," continued the grateful girl, looking all the gratitude she felt in Jamie's face--"why did you so abruptly and suddenly withdraw yourself, after having done such a generous and noble deed? We could never find you out, nor obtain the smallest trace of you, although hardly a day has passed since then that we have not made some attempt to accomplish either the one or the other. It was cruel of you not to afford us an opportunity of evincing the deep and everlasting gratitude we felt towards you." We leave the reader to conjecture what was Jamie's amazement on finding himself thus addressed by his fair companion; for we suppose we need hardly say that every word of his story about rescuing a young lady from drowning was a lie--an unmitigated, and, so far as he knew certainly, an utterly foundationless lie. Well may we then, we think, call on the reader to conceive, if he can, Jamie's surprise, when he found his narrative thus strangely converted into truth. He by no means liked it, for it threatened to lead to some awkward discoveries; and, under this impression, he endeavoured to back out, and to separate the two cases by some additional remarks. "That's odd," he said, on the young lady's imposing on him the character of her deliverer--"verra odd," he repeated, but with considerable embarrassment in his manner; "but I dinna think ye're the young leddy I saved that day; she was a hantle stouter than you, and a guid deal aulder." "The very same, the very same, I assure you, sir," rejoined his fair companion, laughingly. "There was no accident of the kind you mentioned, at the place you pointed out, during all last summer, but my own. This I know, from our having lived there from the month of March to October. So you must not attempt to balk me of the happiness of believing I have found my deliverer." Here, then, was a poser for Jamie. The young lady, it seems, was familiar with the place, and knew that no accident, except the one which, by so odd and unhappy a coincidence for Jamie's veracity, had befallen herself, had occurred there at the period he stated. He must, therefore, either confess to a lie, or quietly pocket the compliments that were thrust on him. On the latter he naturally enough determined; but he wanted no more acknowledgments, as he found them sit on him rather awkwardly. In truth, he now began to show as great a reluctance to advert to the subject as he had before shown forwardness, and was most evidently desirous of waiving it altogether; but this his fair companion would by no means allow. She was by far too full of the extraordinary chance, and extraordinary good fortune, as she reckoned it, of having thus so strangely met with her deliverer, to allow the matter to drop. Before going further, we may as well advert to a circumstance which may have a little startled the reader. This is, how it should have happened that Jamie's story of a rescue should have had a counterpart in fact. As to this matter, we can only vouch for its being perfectly true. It was a coincidence--certainly an odd one, but not more odd than many that have happened, and are daily occurring. The facts of the case, as we may say, were these:--The young lady's father, who was a wealthy Glasgow merchant, possessed a very pretty little cottage, which he and his family occasionally occupied during the summer months, at a short distance from the banks of the Clyde, and near to the very spot which Jamie had so unfortunately chosen as the scene of his exploit; and, still more unluckly for Jamie, it happened that the young lady in question had actually met with such an accident as that which formed the groundwork of his romance. Moreover, she had, in the case alluded to, been rescued from a watery grave by a person who chanced to be angling near the spot at the time; but this person had no sooner brought her on shore, being assured that her recovery was certain, although she appeared at the time insensible, and seen her safely in the charge of some people who had hurried to the scene of the accident, than he had suddenly and abruptly withdrawn, and was no more seen or heard of. These, then, were the facts of that case which so strangely tallied with Jamie's fiction. It is true that, had the fact and the fiction been carefully collated, a good many small discrepancies would have appeared, that would have at once stripped Jamie of his self-assumed honours; but this not having been done, and the leading incident being the same in both, no such result took place. To resume our story. On the arrival of the coach at Glasgow--an event to which Jamie had been looking forward with great impatience, as the only occurrence that could relieve him from his present awkward predicament--he bade his fair companion a hurried good-by, and, heedless of her remonstrances and entreaties, was hastening down the side of the coach, to make his escape, when the father of the young lady, to whom the latter had hastily communicated the discovery of her deliverer, by leaning over the top of the coach, and speaking through the upper part of the doorway, suddenly intercepted him. "Too bad, sir, too bad," said the old gentleman, smilingly, "to try and escape us again. But we have you this time, and will take care that you do not." Saying this, Mr. Alston held out his hand to Jamie, and, on grasping the latter's, shook it with the most cordial warmth, expressing, at the same time, the deepest sense of the mighty obligation under which he lay to him, for having so nobly saved his daughter from an untimely death--"An obligation," said the good old gentleman, "which I can never repay." "Dinna speak o't, sir, dinna speak o't," said Jamie, in the greatest embarrassment, and wishing, the while, that his tongue had been blistered when he first opened his mouth on the ill-starred subject of the rescuing. "Dinna speak o't," he said, "it't just what ae fellow-cratur should do for anither." And, having said this, Jamie was about to make a sudden bolt, when the old gentleman, perceiving his intention, dexterously hooked his arm within Jamie's right; while his daughter, who had by this time joined them, did the same by his left, and thus secured him. "Away from us you shall not get," said Mr. Alston. "Indeed you shall not," interposed his daughter. "You must go home with us," resumed the former, "and receive the thanks of my dear wife, who will be delighted to see you, and those of Ellen's brothers and sisters. They are all, I assure you, as grateful to you as either I or Ellen herself can possibly be." "Much obleeged, sir, much obleeged," stammered out Jamie, in great distress of mind; "but, ye see, it's impossible--althegither oot o' the question; for I have some important business to do, that maun be dune before I go onywhaur." And he struggled to free himself from his captors; but in vain. They held on with a determined gripe. "No, no, you must not leave us," exclaimed Mr Alston, "we must not lose sight of you, now that we have you. I should be sorry to be the cause of any interruption to your business; but we will not detain you an instant. I merely wish, in the meantime, to show you the way to my house, that you may find it readily when you want it, which I expect will be the moment you get your business finished." "Really, sir, really," exclaimed Jamie, despairingly, and holding back to repress the forward movements of Mr. Alston and his daughter--"really, sir, really I canna gang. I canna on no account. The business I hae on haun maun be instantly attended to, and winna admit o' the sma'est delay." "Well, in that case," said the pertinacious Mr. Alston, "I'll accompany you, and wait your conveniency; and Ellen here will, in the meantime, go home and apprise her mother of her having met with you, and tell her that we shall be there in--in--in what time shall I say?" "An hour--an hour--an hour," exclaimed the perplexed romancer, in great tribulation--"say an hour." "Well, an hour, Ellen. Tell your mother we'll be home in an hour," said Mr. Alston; "and let her have a little supper prepared for us by that time, and let a bed be got in readiness for our dear friend here. You'll take up your quarters with us, of course," turning to Jamie. "Oh, surely, surely--wi' great pleasure," exclaimed Jamie, hurriedly, and scarcely knowing what he said--"wi' great pleasure, but far owre meikle trouble." "Trouble!" said Mr. Alston, contemptuously; "you, the preserver of my dear daughter's life, talk of trouble! No--no; we shall be but too happy to have you, to show you, as far as we can, the deep sense we all entertain of the unrequitable obligation we lie under to you." "Don't lose sight of him, papa!" here exclaimed Miss Alston, in clear soft tones, as she tripped away. "No fear, my dear--I'll hold him fast," replied her father; and, while he did so, he clutched Jamie with a still surer gripe. Jamie now saw that the old boy was determined not to part with him until he should have run the gauntlet of the whole family's gratitude; and once more did he devoutly wish that his tongue had been anywhere but in his mouth when he first broached the unhappy story of the drowning adventure. He had never got into such a scrape before with any of his small _nouvelettes_, and he almost determined that he would never publish another--that he would henceforth deal in nothing but well-authenticated facts. The question, in the meantime, however, was, how to escape the threatened consequences of the one with which he was now entangled, and this question was a poser. There was but one way, and on this Jamie finally determined. This way was, to bolt for it--to show the old boy a pair of clean heels; and thus at once cut the connection. There was no other way of dealing with the dilemma. Having made up his mind to this proceeding, Jamie suddenly stopped at a certain close-mouth in the Trongate, and, intimating to his escort that he had a call to make there, requested him to wait an instant till he returned. "I'll no keep ye a minnit," said Jamie, "no ae minnit." And, leaving the old boy to mount guard till his return, he proceeded up the close, at first leisurely; but, on gaining a turn, which concealed him from his Cerberus, he fairly took to his heels, and emerged in a distant street, to which the close led. Here Jamie drew bridle and breath together, and thanked goodness for his escape; expressing, at the same time, a fervent hope that he would never again meet with Mr. Alston or any of his family. Having thus got his head out of the noose, Jamie adjourned to the quarters which he usually occupied when he went to Glasgow; and, on the following day, sallied out to transact the business which had brought him to the city. It was not, however, with a mind perfectly at ease that Jamie went about this business; for he dreaded every moment encountering Mr. Alston or his daughter; and, under this terror, he kept a sharp look-out as he went along, always cutting suddenly across the street, when he got his eyes on any person or persons of suspicious appearance--that is, on any old gentleman or young lady who bore a real or fancied resemblance to Mr. Alston or his fair daughter; and the sequel will show that his precaution was not an unnecessary, although, alas! a vain one. Just as he turned the corner of a street, who should Jamie see coming towards him, and at the distance of about fifty or eighty yards, but the much-dreaded Mr. Alston, his daughter, and a brother, a young man of about four-and-twenty! On recognising them, Jamie instantly stopped short, and, after a moment's reflection, determined on having again recourse to his heels--no other way of escape, as in the former instance, appearing practicable. To this proceeding Jamie was further induced by an impression that he had not been seen, or at least recognised; but in this, as will appear, he was mistaken. However, not aware of the fact, Jamie turned quickly round, and fairly ran for it. But, as we have already hinted, he had been both seen and known by the Alstons, and they, believing his anxiety to avoid them proceeded from excessive modesty, and a timid nature that shrank from the noise of its own good deeds, resolved on compelling Jamie to submit to their acknowledgments; and, acting on this resolution, the young man (who, by the way, was provided with an admirable pair of legs for such purposes) was despatched by his father and sister in pursuit. The effect of this proceeding on Jamie, who had become aware of it, by happening to turn round for an instant during his flight, was to accelerate his speed. He flew like the wind, knocking about and overturning several people in his rapid and furious career. Thus the run continued for several minutes, when Jamie, feeling his wind failing him, and becoming thereby sensible that he could not hold out much longer, made a sudden dive up a close--one of those convenient retreats for "gentlemen in difficulties;" and, by this cleverly-executed movement, succeeded in fairly throwing out his pursuer, who, from the crowded state of the street, did not perceive the ruse, but held on his way vigorously, and afforded Jamie the inexpressible satisfaction of seeing him rush past the mouth of the entrance in which he was concealed. Feeling now in comparative safety, which, however, he further insured by going half-way up a stair, Jamie, who was a good deal blown by his exertion, took off his hat, and began wiping the perspiration from his face and forehead with his pocket-handkerchief, and doing all he could to recover his nearly exhausted breath. "Hech," said Jamie, on beginning to respire more freely, and still wiping his face assiduously, "this has been athegither a deevil o' a job. Such a rumpus to be kicked up a' out o' nothing! Chased as if I was a mad dog! It was the maist unlucky _ane_ ever I tell't but catch me again savin onybody frae beein drooned! I'll no touch that style again in a hurry, I warrant." And with such disjointed remarks as these on his unhappy essay in his peculiar art, Jamie beguiled the short time which he thought it necessary to remain in his concealment. This expired--or, in other words, thinking the coast now clear--Jamie stole cautiously down the stair, and, on arriving at the bottom, peeped into the close before venturing out. The survey being satisfactory, Jamie emerged, and stealing down the close like a cat, repeated at the foot of it the operation of peeping round him, before taking the bold measure of stepping into the street. No enemy was in sight, Jamie drew his breath for a desperate adventure. It was a rush he meditated, which should at once carry him clear of the dangerous locality; and he accomplished it. From that hour, Jamie saw no more of the Alstons, and thus got out of the entangled web which he had woven for himself; but it was not long before he manufactured another, and a much more troublesome one. The day on which the event in Jamie's life which we have just recorded took place, was one of great stir and excitation in Glasgow. It was the day of the execution of the Radical, Swan; whose death, on account of his crime having been a political one, was to be attended with some of the appalling ceremonies and peculiar proceedings that usually mark the execution of traitors. Following the general current of the population which, as the hour appointed for the horrid exhibition was at hand, was drawing towards the jail, Jamie soon found himself at the place of execution. Here the general, and in some things the particular, appearance of the preparations for the approaching tragedy, showed that it was to be one of a very unusual kind. A strong party of foot-soldiers surrounded the gibbet, while the approaches at either end of the jail were occupied by dragoons, who, from the peremptory manner in which they performed their duty, in repelling all attempts at affecting a passage by the way which they guarded, sufficiently showed that their orders had been unusually strict. The crowd and general excitement was immense. Amongst the other objects that attracted Jamie's notice in this imposing scene, was a man holding a white horse, and standing a little way aloof from the crowd. The animal was an ordinary cart-horse, and the person who held it seemed to be a carter by profession. The situation of both seemed an odd and unsuitable one, considering attendant circumstances; and they, of course, attracted some notice, and excited some curiosity; the more so that the man looked as if he and his horse had some business there, and waiting for something or other. Jamie, among the rest, was struck with these indications, and, making up to the man, bluntly but civilly said-- "What are ye gaun to be aboot wi' the horse here, frien?" "A job I dinna like verra weel," replied the man, whose face was pale, and lips white, with some strong internal feeling. "What sort o' a job may that be?" inquired Jamie, his curiosity still further excited by this answer. "If ye wait a while, ye'll see," replied the person addressed, in a manner that intimated a desire to hold no further communication on the subject. Jamie took the hint, and walked off. In less than quarter-of-an-hour after, the dense mass of human beings that surrounded the gibbet seemed all at once struck with some new and strong feeling of excitement. A suppressed cry or exclamation rolled over that immense sea of heads; and the apathy which prevailed before was exchanged for a feeling of intense eagerness and restless curiosity. The first act of the tragedy had commenced; and it was the intelligence of this that was now working its way through the crowd, and producing the excitement alluded to. Conscious, with others, that the appalling proceedings of the occasion had opened, Jamie rushed towards the iron railings which enclosed a narrow paved way that ran round three sides of the jail, and there saw a scene more horrible than anything that even his own fertile imagination could have conceived. This was a hurdle, a machine somewhat resembling a Kamtschatkan sledge, raised slightly at either end, and to which was yoked the identical white horse, held by the head by the identical person, who had attracted Jamie's notice a short while before. Within this hurdle was seated, at one end, the executioner, with a broad, bright, short-handled axe resting on his shoulder; and opposite to him, in the other end, sat a quiet, composed-looking old man, of about sixty or sixty-five years of age. This was Swan, the unhappy man who was to suffer. In a second or two, the sledge moved on towards the scaffold; and in a second or two more Swan appeared upon the fatal platform. He was perfectly calm and collected throughout the whole of this trying scene, as was made sufficiently evident by his turning round to the executioner, and saying, with perfect composure, and an air of unconcerted simplicity, "Tammas, did ye ever see sic a crowd?" In a short time after, the miserable man was thrown off; and when he had hung about a quarter-of-an-hour or twenty minutes, three town-officers were seen to mount the scaffold and approach the body, which they immediately proceeded to lower--a ghastly spectacle, as they had to shoulder, handle, and support the corpse in the hideous operation. That operation performed, the body was placed in a position for decapitation, when suddenly another personage appeared on the scaffold. His step was quick and hurried. He wore a mask on his face, and was wrapped up in a loose black gown, which entirely concealed his person. On ascending the platform, this appalling personage, without looking to the right or left, quickly passed his hand round or over the neck of the dead man, as if to ascertain the proper place to strike. This done, he, with the same expedition, raised the axe, and at one blow severed the head from the body, and instantly thereafter glided from the scaffold, as mysteriously and rapidly as he had ascended it; the whole being the work of not more, perhaps, than a minute. All this, then, Jamie Murdieston saw, and it struck him with horror. But will the reader believe that it should have been the means of getting him into another of his lying predicaments? All will think, we daresay, that it should have had a very opposite effect, and have rather laid than aroused the fibbing spirit that was within him. But, verily, such was not the case. On the evening of the same day, Jamie betook himself to a coffee-room, to spend an hour, which he found hanging heavy on his hands, in taking a peep of the papers, and listening to the varied and desultory conversations which are usually to be heard in such places of resort. Being of a social and communicative disposition, Jamie soon began to take a share in the general talk. This talk, for the most part, as might be expected, bore reference to the recent execution, and to the popular movements out of which it had arisen. "I'll tell you what it is," said Jamie, who was at this particular moment pretty considerably muzzed--"I'll tell ye what it is," he said, addressing two men who sat opposite him, and with whom he had got into familiar conversation--"the government had better no try ony mair o' thae tricks" (meaning executions for political offences), "or they'll maybe get their kail through the reek. There's mair mischief brewin in the country than they're aware o'." "Faith, it's just as ye say, frien," said one of the persons spoken to. "There _is_ some wark gaun on that'll bother the big-wigs at Lunnun, when the proper time comes. But _we're_ no just ripe yet. Onything doin amang the _Friends_ in your pairt o' the country?" "We're gettin on cannily, but surely," replied Jamie, with a significant look to the querist. Then, with a wink, pregnant with mysterious intelligence--"I ken twa or three things aboot thae matters that haena been cried at the cross." On this, one of the men opposite Jamie stretched himself across the table, and whispered in his ear-- "Are ye headin ony movement in your quarter, noo?" Jamie replied with an expressive nod, and a look of great importance; but did not think it necessary, or perhaps safe, to speak. "Gie's yer haun, my frien," said the man who had whispered in Jamie's ear, with an air of high-wrought enthusiasm. "I honour you for your principles," he added, shaking, with great cordiality, the hand that was extended to him, and at the same time turning off the contents of his glass to Jamie's success. "Thank ye, frien--thank ye," said Jamie, who, the reader will see, had all at once set up for a Radical leader. "I'll tell ye what," he continued, now leaning over the table towards his cronies, and speaking in a cautiously low tone--"as I see ye're friens o' the guid cause, I'll gie ye some intelligence that ye'll be glad aneugh to hear, I daresay. We're, ye see, a hunner strong in oor quarter, and as fine a set o' stout, resolute fallows as ye wad wish to see, and a' ready to turn oot at a moment's notice. I'm their captain, ye see. They hae done me the honour o' makin me their captain--a very unworthy, but a very willin ane. But, ah! sirs, we had a sad fecht to get arms; and they wad never hae been gotten an I hadna advanced a hunner poun oot o' my ain pouch; takin bills frae the committee for the amount, payable oot o' the first and readiest whan a's settled." "I'm sure _the_ cause is much indebted to ye," here interrupted one of Jamie's new friends. "And hoo are ye armed noo, then?" "Ou, pretty weel--pretty weel," replied Jamie--"maistly pikes; for, ye see, wi' oor sma' funds, we couldna touch fire-arms, although there's a few o' thae among us too. But oor pikes'll be found troublesome things, I'm thinkin. They're made after a fashion o' my ain invention. This is the shape, ye see." And here Jamie dipped his forefinger into his tumbler, and therewith proceeded to draw the figure of a very formidable-looking weapon on the table. "That, ye see, is for stabbin, and that's for cuttin, and that's for hookin, and that's for knockin doon," continued Jamie, pointing out the various properties of the complex instrument. "Winna that be a botherer?" "My feth, in guid hauns it'll be that," responded one of Jamie's friends; and added, "Are ye drillin hard?" "Every nicht that we hae the least glint o' moonshine," replied Jamie, without a moment's hesitation. "I gie them twa hours o't every nicht, and am teachin them a new sort o' pike exercise, that'll be fand, if I'm no mistaen, particularly effectual in keepin off horse." "Where learned ye the use o' that weapon, sir, if I may take the liberty of asking?" inquired the former querist. Few questions found Jamie unprepared with an answer. "I'll tell ye that, frien," he replied. "It was in the Lancers. I was nine years a serjeant in that corps, which I left after the battle of Waterloo, in consequence o' a severe wound I got in that engagement. But what's come o' yer frien?" here said Jamie, suddenly interrupting himself, and now adverting, for the first time, to the absence of the companion of the person whom he addressed, and who had slipped out, without saying anything, about a quarter-of-an-hour before. "He'll be here in a minute," was the reply; and the calculation was perfectly correct. In about a minute, the man appeared, but not alone. He was now accompanied by three most equivocal-looking persons. "That's your man," he said, with an inclination of his head towards Jamie Murdieston. "Friend," said one of the strangers, laying his hand on Jamie's shoulder, "you'll come along with us, if you please." "Alang wi' you!" exclaimed Jamie, in the utmost amazement. "I wad like to ken whar and what for, first." "We'll let you know all that by and by, friend," replied the spokesman of the party; "but, in the meantime, you _must_ go with us; so there's no use in palavering about it." "I'll be hanged if I do, then," said Jamie, resolutely, "till I ken what for. 'Od, this is a pretty business! Do you tak me to be a robber or a murderer?" "No, but we take you to be a traitor, a conspirer against the government, and a leaguer with its enemies; and as such I apprehend you," said the spokesman, at the same time collaring Jamie, and calling on his assistants to aid him in making a forcible capture of his person. The call was instantly obeyed. Jamie was seized on all sides, at one and the same instant of time, and, despite of a loud and most earnest denial of all hostility to the government, or of ever having in any way or manner whatever aided in disturbing the peace of the realm, was dragged out of the apartment, and finally snugly deposited in an airy cell in the city jail. On being left to himself, Jamie, in no very happy mood, seated himself on a bench that ran along the wall, threw one leg over the other, planted his elbow on his knee, and, supporting his head with his hand, began to entertain himself with some reflections on the very extraordinary predicament into which he had been thus so suddenly and unexpectedly thrown. "Preserve us, this is awfu!" said Jamie. "Waur a great deal than the droonin business. What the deevil tempted me to speak such nonsense? But wha could hae thocht this wad hae come o't? A bit harmless piece o' falderal. Yon twa maun hae been a pair o' infernal scoundrels--that's clear; and as clear is it that I'm in a most wickedly-awkward situation. I maun, I suppose, either submit to be hanged peaceably, or confess that I hae been tellin a most unconscionable lee--no a very pleasant alternative; but the last's better than the first, I reckon." Jamie's communings were at this time interrupted by the entrance of the jailer, who came to see that all was right for the night. "Man," said Jamie, addressing him, and trying to smile graciously, in order to propitiate his good-will, "this is a queer business." "I rather think you'll find it so," replied the jailer, coolly, and unaffected by Jamie's soothing advances. "Both a queer business, and a serious one." "It was a' a joke, man," said Jamie. "Perhaps so," said the jailer; "but, like many other jokes, you may chance to find it attended with rather awkward consequences." And, without saying more, the man banged to the door with a violence that made the long passage on which it opened ring with an iron sound, and left Jamie to find what repose he might. "The fallow'll no believe me," he said, on being again left to himself, "nae mair than if he kent me." On the following morning, Jamie was conducted in procession, by three or four criminal officers, into the presence of the Procurator-Fiscal, when a precognition on his case immediately ensued. "Well, sir," said the latter, at the same time referring to a paper which lay on his desk before him, "so you have taken up arms against the government." "Naething o' the kind, my lord, I assure you," said Jamie. "What, sir! do you mean to deny your spontaneous acknowledgment of the fact, made last night in the presence of two credible witnesses?" "Indeed do I, my lord." "Why, you _may_," replied the fiscal, emphatically; "but, I fear, it will do no good. Have you not mustered a body of armed men, or at least taken the command of such a body, with the intention of overthrowing the government of the country?--and have you not furnished them with funds to procure arms?--and are you not in the habit of training them nightly, as their captain, or leader, in military exercises?--and----" "It's a' a lee, my lord--a lee frae beginnin to end," here interposed Jamie, earnestly. "I just spoke a' that nonsense for a bit o' diversion. It's just a way I hae, you see" (thus delicately did Jamie allude to his failing), "o' amusin mysel and my friens." "Oh, then, you mean to deny _in toto_," said the fiscal. "In that case, we must adopt other proceedings; and, in the meantime, you return to jail." To his old quarters, accordingly, Jamie was forthwith carried, and there lay for three entire days, until the result of the inquiries which were set on foot established that he was indeed no traitor, but a most inveterate and incorrigible liar. It is said, however, that Jamie, after this, was a great deal more cautious as to the nature and character of his romances, and as to the when, where, and to whom they were promulgated. DUNCAN M'ARTHUR. In the year 1778, Mr M'Donald, an extensive West India planter, from the island of Jamaica, came to Scotland, on a visit to his friends and relations in the West Highlands; amongst whom he spent several months, going from place to place, living a week or two here, and a week or two there, as chance or other circumstances directed. During one of these migrations, this gentleman came one day, accidentally, in a solitary place on the banks of Loch Awe, on a little kilted, barelegged, and bareheaded Highland boy, busily employed in launching a little fleet of paper-sailed boats on the lake. The situation in which Mr M'Donald was at the moment placed, was one of those which strongly predispose one to enter into conversation with whomsoever chance may throw in the way, without much regard to age, sex, or appearance. The day was delightful--it was in the middle of June; the place lonely, and the scenery around of the most sublime and beautiful kind--the most beautiful, perhaps, in the Highlands of Scotland; and this, as our readers know, is no mean character of its perfections. These were the circumstances, then, in which Mr M'Donald was placed on the occasion to which we have alluded, and on him they had the effect which they would have had on anybody else--namely, that of opening up the sympathies of his nature, of extinguishing the littleness of pride, and of inducing one general feeling of benevolence; and it was in this happy frame of mind that he now reined in his horse, and accosted the young stranger. "Well, my little fellow," he said, "what's this you're about?" The boy looked up in his face, and blushed and smiled at the same time, but made no reply, conceiving one unnecessary, as his employment was sufficiently evident. There was in that single look of the boy's, however, an expression of openness and intelligence that at once caught Mr M'Donald's fancy; and he immediately added, good-naturedly, "Where are all these ships going to?" The boy again looked up in his face and laughed, but now vouchsafed a reply:-- "To the West Indies, sir, for cargoes of rum and sugar." This was spoken in pretty fair English, though strongly tinctured with the Celtic accent. "Indeed!" rejoined Mr M'Donald; "my word, but you are an extensive trader, if it be the case, as I have no doubt it is, that all these fine ships are your own. What's your name, my little fellow?" "Duncan M'Arthur, sir." "Are you at school?" "Yes, sir; I'm just now on my way home from it." "What are you learning there?" "English, writing, and arithmetic." "Can you write pretty well?" "Ou ay, sir--middlin." "Count?" "Ay--middlin, too, sir." "That's a clever fellow. How should you like, now, to go abroad, and see the world? How should you like to go where you have just now sent these ships?" "It's mysel, sir, wad like it weel," said the boy, his sharp, intelligent little eye brightening with the idea; "but my faither couldna want me for herdin the cows, and helpin him wi' his peats." "Where does your father live, my boy?" inquired Mr M'Donald. "At the Ferry o' Bunaw, sir." It was within half-a-mile of the house to which the latter was just going, and where he intended stopping for a few days, previous to his leaving the country for good and all. "Well, my little fellow," he said, "I am going to Blackhouse. You know it, I fancy?" "Yes, sir." "Well, call upon me there to-morrow forenoon. Ask for Mr M'Donald. I wish to speak further with you." The boy promised, and Mr M'Donald rode off. Now, it would not be easy for us to say what were the latter's intentions regarding the little barelegged boy; and for this simple reason--that he did not well know himself. He had, however, taken a fancy to the boy--that is certain--and felt a disposition to do him a service, although he had not yet thought of what nature this should be, or how it was to be done. He had, in truth, no definite views on the subject; but he had not ridden far, when these began to assume something of a tangible shape, and this was, to take the boy into his service as a personal attendant, provided his parents should agree to it. True to his appointment, little Duncan waited next day on Mr M'Donald, his face well washed, and his hair carefully combed over his forehead. "Ah, Duncan, are you there?" said the latter, on his entering the apartment where he was. "I'm glad to see you. You said yesterday, Duncan, that you would like to go abroad." "Weel wad I like that, sir," replied the little bare-breeched Highlander, "if my faither could spare me." "Did you speak to your father on the subject, Duncan?" "I tell't him that I met you, sir, and what you said." "Ay; and what did he say, my little fellow?" "He said, sir, 'The shentleman's been shoking you, Duncan; but ye may go down to Blackhouse, as he pade you, and see what he has to say.'" And Duncan looked at Mr M'Donald as if he would be glad himself to know whether there was anything of a joke in the matter. Indeed, it was for this purpose that he repeated his father's words, cunningly availing himself of them to elicit the information he wanted. "Joking you, Duncan!" repeated Mr M'Donald, smiling. "By no means; and of this I'll soon convince both you and your father." Having said this, he took up his hat and stick, and desired the boy to conduct him to his father's. The house was one of the poorest class; and it was evident, from everything within and around it, that it was a hard struggle with its occupants to make, as the saying has it, "the two ends to meet." Having found Duncan's father, Mr M'Donald explained to him his views regarding his son. These were readily acceded to by both the boy's parents, who, though they sorely grudged to part with their little Duncan, yet saw that it might be for his advantage, and therefore felt themselves called on to sacrifice their own feelings in a case which seemed to involve his future welfare. At this interview it was settled, in short, that he should enter the service of Mr M'Donald, and of course leave the country with him when he went. Three days after this, Duncan bade farewell to his parents and the home of his childhood. His patron was about to set out for Greenock, and there to embark for Jamaica. The parting was a bitter one. His father clasped him in his arms; and, while those tears, which no danger to himself, and no sufferings merely his own, could ever have drawn from him, streamed down his rugged cheeks, he fervently and solemnly prayed, in Gaelic--in his own impressive language--for a blessing on his child. "When I have had such a parting as this, Duncan," he said, afterwards--"and many of them I've had with my brethren, and with more remote but still dear friends--it was the honour of our country and our name that caused the separation. They had girded on the sword, and went to seek distinction in the ranks of war, and on the field of battle. They went to be soldiers, Duncan; and I could wish that you had been now following their footsteps. But it may be better as it is. Your days may be more, though your reputation should be less. A different destiny seems meted out for you." But it was in the case of his mother that the parting of little Duncan was most affecting. She held the boy to her bosom, as if she meant that he should never again leave it, and loaded him with all the tender epithets which her memory could supply, and with which the Gaelic language so much abounds. On exhausting these, she proceeded to deplore the approaching separation from her child, in that affecting strain, at once metaphorical and poetical, peculiar to her country on such and similar occasions. "This day, my Duncan," she said, "the light of the sun is obscured to your mother's eyes, and he shines not as he did before. The green woods have lost their verdure, and the once sparkling waters of the fountain their brightness. A dark cloud is on the face of the sun, that will long, long remain, though none but your mother's eye will see it; a blight, that she alone can perceive, is on the lovely woods of Ardmoran; and, pure though the waters of the fountain may appear to others, to her, Duncan, they will henceforth seem soiled and discoloured." Such was the figurative language in which Duncan's mother went on to describe her feelings as they were, and as she anticipated they would be; and such was the strain in which she deplored the impending separation from her child. But this could be but of short duration. The moment of final separation arrived, and Duncan hastened to rejoin his master, who was about to embark in a small sailing vessel (there being then no steamboats on the Clyde) for Greenock. On going up the river, the boy was observed by the captain of the vessel leaning over the side, and gazing with the most earnest attention at something on the shore. The man's curiosity was excited by the circumstance, and he asked him what he was looking at so intently. "Oh, sir," replied Duncan, with great simplicity of manner, "I'm looking at yon beautiful hoose yonder," pointing to a handsome house that stood amidst an embowering wood on the face of a gentle acclivity. "It's the bonniest I ever saw." "Yes, my man, it's a very fine house," replied the skipper. "Should you like to live in such a house as that?" The boy looked up in his face and smiled--"That I would, sir; and, if I had plenty of money, I would buy't, for I have never seen such a pretty place." "Why, man," replied the good-natured seaman, "perhaps you may be able to buy it yet, or at least as good." Duncan smiled, and shook his head; but, from this moment, the vision of that house took possession of the boy's fancy, by one of those unaccountable and uncontrollable emotions of the mind, which all must have felt in particular instances; and, as long as he lived, he never forgot it. It haunted him in his sleep, and was the frequent resting-point of his memory, when far away in a foreign land. It was, indeed, a boyish fancy; but it was one of those enduring ones that no vicissitudes of after-life have power to efface, but that, on the contrary, grow the brighter, the further they are removed by distance or by time. Shortly after arriving in Greenock, Duncan's nether man was arrayed, for the first time, in a pair of inexpressibles and the kilt thrown aside. To these were added a trim short coat, ornamented with the M'Donald livery; and a smart hat, adorned with a gold band--and thus was the first step of Duncan's metamorphosis completed. For some time, the trousers bothered him a good deal as they felt extremely tight and uncomfortable--not allowing his limbs that freedom of motion which they enjoyed in such perfection beneath the airy envelopes of the kilt; but he in time got used to them, and even allowed latterly that they were a very good contrivance. Previous to this, however--that is, previous to striking the kilt--Duncan had made several excursions around the town, his master having left him in the hands of the tailor, and gone to see some friends in Glasgow, where he meant to spend a day or two before embarking. One of these excursions included a visit to that paradise of a place that had caught his eye in coming up the Clyde. It was only three or four miles distant; and he found it, on a nearer inspection, all that his fancy had conceived it from a more distant view. But Duncan's curiosity prompting him to venture farther into the enclosed grounds than was permitted to strangers, he was seen by one of the guardians of the place; and his kilt not increasing the man's notions of his respectability, or of the innocency of his intentions, he gave him chase, with a loud whoop and holloa. Duncan saw the enemy approaching, and took to his heels, and finally succeeded in clearing the outermost fence, just in time to save himself from a good drubbing. This incident, on which he had by no means calculated, disturbed his ideas of his Elysium a little, and convinced him that the beauties he so much admired were not at all intended for the enjoyment of such poor little ragged rascals as himself--that they were reserved for the great and the wealthy alone. Some days after this, Duncan embarked, with his master, for Jamaica, where they arrived safely, at the end of about the usual period consumed in that voyage. And with this event the first act of our little drama closes. The curtain is dropped, and a distinct division in the story is marked. A brief interval, and the curtain is again raised; but by no means so brief is the time that elapses in the progress of our tale--for this is no less than thirty years. It was, then, on a fine summer day, precisely thirty years after Duncan M'Arthur had embarked with his master for Jamaica, that a splendid carriage, with servants in livery, was seen rolling along the Gourock road. On coming opposite a certain gate, which led to a handsome house on the face of a low hill (it was the same house which had so much taken the fancy of the little barelegged Highland boy thirty years before), the carriage stopped, and the gentleman who occupied it, seemingly attracted by a large board suspended from a tree, stepped out and read on the latter--"This house and adjoining property on sale." Having obtained this piece of information, he opened the gate, and walked leisurely up towards the house, carefully examining the grounds as he went along. On arriving in front of the mansion, he was accosted by a feeble old man, who approached him with the most profound respect; and, bowing low, inquired if he wished to inspect the premises. The stranger looked hard for some seconds at the querist, without making any reply; but at length answered, "Yes, my honest man, I do wish to look at the premises. The house and grounds are on sale, I see." "They are, sir," replied the old man--"and a bonny spot it is." "The place certainly looks very well," replied the gentleman. "Is the house in good repair?" "Excellent, sir. The factor, Mr M'Ausline, keeps a' in guid order, baith without and within; kennin it's the only way to bring a customer." "Ah! he's right there." The stranger, conducted by the old man, now went through every room in the house, and examined them with a care and minuteness that showed he entertained serious intentions regarding the property. The house inspected, he proceeded to the garden, looked into all the outhouses, and made a general survey of the grounds in the immediate neighbourhood of the house. This done, he slipped a crown-piece into the old man's hand, and returned to his carriage, which was waiting him where he had left it. On the next day, the very same carriage of which we have spoken drew up before Mr M'Ausline's door; and the lackey having rung the bell, and ascertained that that person was within, the same gentleman who had occupied it on the preceding day jumped out, and entered the house. On being ushered into the apartment in which Mr M'Ausline was-- "You have, sir, I believe," he said, "the management of the sale of Bellevue House and grounds?" "I have, sir." "Well, Mr M'Ausline, I have been looking at them; and if you and I can come to terms, it is not unlikely that I may become the purchaser." Mr M'Ausline bowed. "What is the upset price, sir?" "Twenty-five thousand pounds, sir." "A long price." "Why, sir, it's well worth the money," said the factor. "Perhaps it may, sir; but let me look at the plans, &c., if you please." They were immediately produced, and, in a few minutes, the stranger and Mr M'Ausline were up to the elbows in papers; the former examining every document connected with the property, and the latter explaining and enlarging on each as it came under investigation. At the conclusion of this scrutiny, the stranger rose to depart, saying, at the same time, to Mr M'Ausline, that he would hear from him in a day or two. Just as he was going away, the latter asked, with some hesitation of manner, as if he feared the question might be thought rude, if he would have the goodness to favour him with his name. "Dear me," replied the stranger, "how stupid that I did not think of mentioning that of my own accord! It is one of the first things I should have communicated to you. My name, sir, is M'Arthur--Duncan M'Arthur, late of the Island of Jamaica." Mr M'Ausline bowed low at the name; for, although he did not know Mr M'Arthur personally, it was one with which he was familiar, and which he knew was that of one of the wealthiest men in the West Indies. Need we add, that this Mr M'Arthur was no other than the little kilted, barelegged Highland boy whom we introduced to the reader at the outset of our story. How he arrived at the high degree of prosperity which he now enjoyed, we shall make known before we have done; but, in the meantime, we shall conduct his transaction with M'Ausline to a close. Agreeably to his promise, Mr M'Arthur again called on that gentleman, at the expiry of about a week, and having previously satisfied himself of the value of the property in dependence, concluded the purchase, and paid down the money. On the very same day, he went down again to Bellevue, which was now his, the identical house which had so much struck his fancy when a boy. On this occasion, he was again attended by the old man of whom we have already spoken. "Well," said Mr M'Arthur, on the latter approaching him, "I have concluded the purchase for this place. The money is paid, and it is now mine." "I'm glad to hear it, sir, and long may you live to enjoy it!" replied the old man. "Thank you, my friend--thank you. What's your name?" "James Moffat, sir." "Ay, well, James," continued Mr M'Arthur, "do you recollect of chasing a little barelegged Highland boy out of these grounds one day, about--let me see--ay, I daresay it will be about thirty years since? See, there," he added, pointing to a particular piece of ground--"there is the very spot on which he stood when you discovered him; and there" (pointing to a particular part of the fence which enclosed the grounds) "is precisely the place where he escaped you. Do you recollect of this, James?" The old man thought for a moment; then looking in Mr M'Arthur's face, and smiling, "Yes, sir, now that you remind me of it, I do recollect the circumstance, and very distinctly. The little fellow had come, I thought, to carry off some of our hens and chickens, as we were then, and are yet, very much annoyed by young depredators of that description. But may I ask your honour how your honour happens to know so well about that affair?" "Troth, James," replied Mr M'Arthur, laughing, "I have good cause to know well about it; for that boy was no other than myself, James." James looked unutterable things on this announcement being made to him, and could only come out with the words--"Impossible, sir! It canna be." "Nothing at all impossible in it, my honest friend," replied Mr M'Arthur, again laughing. "It was indeed I, James; but I deny having had any felonious intentions on your hens and chickens, or anything whatever belonging to you. It was curiosity alone that prompted me. I was struck, boy as I was, with the beauties of the place, and had just taken the liberty of coming in to enjoy them a little." "Aweel, sir, the like o' this I never heard o', or met wi', or onybody else, I daresay. Wha wad ever hae thocht or dreamt o' such a thing?" "It is certainty rather odd, my friend," said Mr M'Arthur; "but you know it has been often said, and truly, that more strange things have happened in real life than ever were invented by story-tellers." "I've often heard that, sir," replied the old man; "and I consider this a very remarkable proof o't." "Yes, James," continued Mr M'Arthur, "at the moment when you discovered me, a barefooted and barelegged boy, trespassing on your premises, I had just formed the resolution which I have this day, at the distance of thirty years, carried into effect. I had then determined that I should purchase this property, if ever I became rich enough to do so. But," added Mr M'Arthur, smiling, "every dog has his day, James. You turned me off the grounds when you had the power, and you will not think it unreasonable, now that I have it, if I turn you off--eh?" The poor old man looked a little disconcerted at this speech; not being quite sure whether it was spoken in jest or earnest. "I canna say, sir," he said, looking at the querist doubtingly, and with a forced smile, "but what it wad be but fair." Mr M'Arthur saw the uneasiness which his joke had created, and hastened to relieve the old man's fears, by assuring him that he was welcome to remain on the property, rent free, as long as he chose; and not only that, but that he should have every indulgence and accommodation which he might require. Having brought our story to this point, we now return to trace the course of those events which raised Mr M'Arthur from the humble station in which he began life, to be one of the wealthiest of our colonial merchants. Some time after his arrival in the West Indies, the junior clerk in Mr M'Donald's counting-house died; and the latter, having found Duncan an active, smart, and scrupulously honest lad, and, moreover, possessing the qualification of writing a fair hand, together with that of a pretty competent knowledge of figures, he at once proposed to him to take the place of the deceased clerk. Duncan readily closed with the proposal, threw off his livery, laid down his towel, and mounted the stool, quill in hand. In this situation, he remained for three years, discharging his duties greatly to the satisfaction of his employer. At the end of the period above named, the clerk immediately above him also died, and Duncan, as a matter of course, stepped into his place, in which he continued to distinguish himself by his steadiness and abilities, and by the general excellence of his moral character--virtues which eventually raised him, step by step, to the responsible situation of head clerk of the firm. Two or three years after he had attained this promotion, however, an event occurred that gave him a much more rapid lift than was likely to proceed from the ordinary course of events. Having, about the end of the period alluded to, gone into the interior of the island on some business of his employer, an insurrection of the negroes had in the meantime occurred, and involved the whole country in terror and alarm. When Mr M'Arthur left home, all was quiet, and nothing of the kind suspected; nor indeed did he know anything of it, until some ruinous sugar-mills and deserted plantations, which he passed on his way homewards, informed him of the fearful event. As yet, he had seen none of the insurgents themselves--a fortunate circumstance for him; for, if they had fallen in with him, they would, to a certainty, have murdered him. Aware of this, and also guessing at the general state of the country, Mr M'Arthur hastened homewards with all speed; but his journey was considerably lengthened by the necessity he was under of taking by-paths and circuitous routes, to avoid any straggling parties of the insurgents who might be wandering about. Notwithstanding all the haste he could make, therefore, and though well mounted, night overtook him long before he could reach Kingston, the place of his destination; and, to make matters worse, he was benighted in a wild and remote woody strath, at the base of the Blue Mountains, which had long been famous as the haunt of runaway negroes, and where, from the inaccessible nature of the surrounding heights, they were enabled to defy all the force that could be brought against them. It was now pitch dark, and Mr M'Arthur, not well knowing his way, was guiding his horse slowly and cautiously through the intricacies of the place, when a wild whooping and yelling, which he knew to proceed from an assemblage of negroes, suddenly struck on his ear, and filled him with apprehensions for his safety, as he was totally unarmed--although this was, perhaps, a matter of no great importance, for resistance would have been vain against such odds as he had no doubt the number of the negroes presented. On hearing the cries alluded to, and which seemed to proceed from persons at no great distance, Mr M'Arthur reined in his horse, and advanced still more warily than before. His progress, however, slow as it was, brought him round the base of the high projecting rock that covered the entrance to an extensive green hollow, from the upper end of which again rose a precipitous wall of rock, on whose summit, a kind of natural platform, were assembled the negroes whose cries he had heard. They had kindled a large fire, and around this they were capering and dancing with a wildness of glee, to which--as Mr M'Arthur judged, from the outrageous and unsteady manner of most of them--rum had largely contributed. The sight was an alarming one to a person in Mr M'Arthur's situation; but he was a man of strong nerve and singular resolution, and he therefore determined to ascertain precisely what the negroes were about, and, if possible, whose they were. That they were a party of the insurrectionists he had no doubt; and he therefore thought it not unlikely that, if he could approach them without being perceived, he might gather some information regarding their intended future proceedings, or regarding what they had already done, that might be turned to good account. Having come to this resolution, he dismounted, secured his horse to a tree, and advanced cautiously on foot to the bottom of the rocks on the summit of which the negroes were assembled. On reaching the position, he looked upward, and saw that the ascent was both a difficult and a dangerous one; but not having yet forgot the practice he had had in such feats in the Highlands, he determined on attempting it; and this he did with such success, that he, in a very short time, found himself--his head, at any rate--on a level with the ground occupied by the negroes, and within a very few yards of them. On obtaining a view over the edge of the cliff, the first thing that attracted Mr M'Arthur's attention was a naked cutlass lying on the grass, and fully within his reach. Of this weapon he determined to possess himself; and, by watching a fitting opportunity, he succeeded in getting hold of it unobserved, when he drew it gently towards him, and found his confidence greatly increased by the timeous acquisition. The most remarkable object that presented itself to the daring adventurer's notice, was a slender female figure, wrapped up in a large, light-coloured cashmere shawl, and who was wildly but vainly struggling to free herself from the grasp of a stout, ferocious-looking negro, who had thrown his arms around her, and was evidently forcing himself on her as a lover, grinning hideously in her face, as he sputtered away at the gibberish which he intended for the language of love. Mr M'Arthur saw at once that the lady--for such she had every appearance of being--was a captive in the hands of the ruffians; probably, he thought, the daughter of some of their masters, whose property they had laid waste; and his blood boiled within him at witnessing the indignities to which the unfortunate girl was exposed; and he determined on making a desperate effort to save her. Grasping his cutlass firmly in his hand, he leaped, with one spring, on the level ground occupied by the negroes; and waving on high his weapon, which flashed in the ruddy light of the fire, shouted out, as if he were supported by others--"Here they are!--down with the villains! Shoot them! shoot them!" And he dashed into the middle of the band, and with one blow of his cutlass struck the ruffian whose arm was round the female to the earth, a dead man. The ruse of M'Arthur, in the meantime, took completely. The negroes, believing that a large force was coming on them, fled with the utmost precipitation in all directions, leaving the gallant adventurer, with the captive lady, sole possessors of the field. But the former, judging that they would soon return on finding that he was alone, ran up to the terrified girl, and taking her hurriedly by the hand, without waiting to put any questions to her, or even to look at her, urged her to fly with him instantly. Aware of the propriety of this measure, the latter instantly obeyed; and taking her deliverer by the arm, both hastened away from the spot. But M'Arthur, being wholly unacquainted with the locality of the place, knew no other way of escaping but that by which he had come; and by this way it was impossible the fragile, timorous creature he supported could go. But M'Arthur was a stout, as well as courageous man; and in this dilemma he did not hesitate an instant in adopting the only course which presented itself. He suddenly flung his left arm around the slender waist of his fair companion, and, raising her from the ground, proceeded to descend the rocks with her; holding on, from time to time, with his right hand, as he passed from one stepping place to another. Steady of step, stout of heart, and quick of eye, M'Arthur descended in safety with his precious burden; when, having placed her on her feet, he, with one single word, urged her further flight till they arrived at the spot where his horse was secured. Nor had the flight of the fugitives been a whit more expeditious than was necessary; for ere they had gained the bottom of the descent, the negroes, as M'Arthur conjectured they would do, had returned; and seemingly now assured that they had been deceived, began to search around, whooping and yelling in the most frightful manner, for their deceiver and his companion. Indeed, they appeared at one time to have discovered them, or at least to have conjectured which route they had taken; for several shots were fired in the direction in which they were--a fact which the fugitives ascertained by two or three bullets striking within a few yards of them. On reaching his horse, M'Arthur unloosed him, sprung on his back, and quick as thought, lifted the lady behind him; and having secured her to himself, by passing a silk neck-cloth around both, continued his flight--at first cautiously, till he cleared the loose stones and brushwood with which the place was encumbered; and then at full speed for the distance of eight or ten miles, when, being aware of his near approach to Kingston, and, consequently, to a situation of comparative safety, he reined in the exhausted animal; and it was now that an extraordinary denouement connected with the fate and fortunes of the fugitives took place. It was now, and not till now--for circumstances had hitherto permitted no conversation between them--that M'Arthur learned who the lady was whom he had so gallantly rescued from the brutality of the rebel negroes. Having checked the speed of his horse, M'Arthur turned round to his fair companion, and said, "May I now ask, madam, to whom I have had the honour of doing this little piece of service to-night?" "Don't you know me, Mr M'Arthur?" was the reply, in a soft and gentle tone, not unmingled with surprise that, as the speaker had recognised her deliverer, she had not been recognised by him. "No, indeed, madam," said M'Arthur, turning again round, but now with a look of intense curiosity; for, although his answer had been in the negative, the tones of the voice were familiar to him. "Don't you know Miss M'Donald--Flora M'Donald--Mr M'Arthur?" rejoined the lady, smiling. "Gracious heaven! is it possible?" exclaimed Mr M'Arthur, now aware that she who spoke to him was no other than the daughter of his employer, between whom and himself there had long been a secret and unavowed attachment--an attachment which they had never breathed to each other, but which did not the less certainly exist. The exclamation of surprise and delight--for this feeling was also strongly expressed in it--which we have just recorded, Mr M'Arthur followed up, by inquiring how she had come into the dreadful situation in which he had found her. This Miss M'Donald briefly explained, by stating that a party of insurgent negroes had attacked her father's premises, burned his mills to the ground, plundered his house, and, on their retreat, had carried her along with them. Much more than this passed between the lovers, thus strangely brought together; but we do not think it necessary to record it; and, therefore, not to interrupt the progress of our story, we proceed to land them safely at Mr M'Donald's residence, a short distance from Kingston, where Mr M'Arthur left his fair charge, and proceeded himself to the town just named--Mr M'Donald being there at the moment, on some matters connected with the insurrection. On his finding the latter-- "Oh, Mr M'Arthur!" he exclaimed, in great agitation and distress of mind, "isn't this a dreadful business! I'm ruined--ruined for ever! I can no longer hold up my head--I can no longer be good for anything in this world!" "Dear me, sir," said M'Arthur, "has the destruction of your property been so great?" "Destruction of my property!" reiterated Mr M'Donald; "no--no; that is nothing--nothing at all. A few thousands will repair that. It's the loss of my daughter I bewail--my poor, dear Flora!" And he burst into tears. "You have doubtless heard, Mr M'Arthur," he continued, after a short while, "that the ruffians have carried her off, God knows whither; and her death--worse than her death--is, I fear, certain." "Mr M'Donald," said Mr M'Arthur, "be no longer under any uneasiness regarding your daughter. She is safe, and at this moment under her father's roof, unscathed, unharmed." "How, Mr M'Arthur?" exclaimed the distracted father, in wild excitement; "my daughter safe--my daughter at home! Surely you do not dare to deceive me? Swear to the truth of it--swear to the truth of it, M'Arthur, and half my fortune is yours!" "I will, without hesitation, swear to the truth of it, sir, if you desire it, certainly, and on much easier terms than you propose. But let me first tell you what has happened." And he proceeded to detail the whole circumstances of his adventure with the insurgent negroes, as has been already related. When he had done, Mr M'Donald, whose feelings had been wrought to the highest pitch by the narrative, flew towards him, folded him in his arms, and said-- "God bless and prosper you, Mr M'Arthur, for what you have this day done to me and mine!" It was all he could say. His emotion prevented further utterance. Impatient to see his daughter, the happy father, accompanied by M'Arthur, now hastened home; and the interview between parent and child, which instantly followed, was most affecting. Flora rushed into her father's arms, exclaiming-- "My dear father!" She could say no more, and buried her head in his bosom. "Thank God--thank God, my child, that I see you again safe!" fervently ejaculated her father, at the same time straining the beloved being of whom he spoke to his bosom. After the lapse of a few minutes, and when the emotion of both had a little subsided, taking his daughter by the hand, Mr M'Donald led her towards her deliverer--who stood looking out of a window at the farther end of the apartment, that he might not seem to witness the expression of their feelings--and, on coming up to him, said, smiling as he spoke-- "Mr M'Arthur, I promised you the half of my fortune, if the intelligence you brought me of Flora's safety were true, and I did this without being aware that I was indebted to you for that inexpressible happiness; but now, knowing this, I must throw something into the bargain. What would you think, then, Mr M'Arthur, of my daughter here as a make-weight on this occasion?" M'Arthur looked confused and incredulous. "Nay, I'm in earnest, Mr M'Arthur," continued Mr M'Donald. "You have won her, and have the best right to wear her; and, to tell you both a truth, I've long thought, and not with much displeasure, that you were not indifferent to each other; and therefore I anticipate no very serious objections on this occasion on either side. What say you, Flora? Have you any objection to take Mr M'Arthur for your husband? Come now, be honest, be candid." Flora looked to the ground, blushed, but made no reply. "Answer me, Flora," said her father, "have you any objection to receive your deliverer as your husband?" "I have always considered it one of my first duties to obey my father," replied Flora, in gentle accents. "Enough, my dearest girl--enough," said her father, embracing her tenderly. "Now, Mr M'Arthur," he continued, smiling as he spoke, "will you have the goodness to state your objections to accepting the hand of my daughter?" "I would, sir, very readily, if I had any," replied Mr M'Arthur, smiling in his turn, but almost entirely deprived of his presence of mind by the great and unexpected happiness and good fortune with which he found himself thus so suddenly blessed. "But--but----" and he stammered out something about felicity, eternal gratitude, choice of his heart; which Mr M'Donald, as he could not make out, though he perceived and appreciated the feeling from which his confusion proceeded, suddenly arrested by saying-- "That'll do, Mac--that'll do. You would make a speech if you could, but it's not necessary. I know all you would say. But, Flora," he continued, now in a bantering humour--"Mac tells me that he had rescued you before he knew who you was; thus plainly intimating that it was no partiality towards you in particular that induced him to do what he did. What do you think of that?" "Why, papa, I think the more of him for it," said Flora, blushing as she spoke. "His gallantry was the more generous, the more disinterested. It was a deed of true knight-errantry--the rescuing of a distressed damsel, without regard to who or what she was. She was in jeopardy, and that was enough for him." "Excellent, Flora--very ingenious defence!" exclaimed her father, laughing, and rubbing his hands with glee. "Commend me to a woman for ready apology, for prompt excuse, for defending what is indefensible." We need not prolong the scene. In a fortnight afterwards, Miss Flora M'Donald was married to Duncan M'Arthur, Esq. of Rose Vale; and the latter became an equal partner in the concerns of his father-in-law, by which, in the course of a few years, he realised a handsome fortune, which was further increased on the death of his patron, who left him, for behoof of his wife and children, the whole of his immense wealth. Such is the story--and a true tale it is--of the little barelegged and bareheaded Highland boy whom we saw running wild on the banks of Loch Awe. It is almost unnecessary to add--yet our story would be incomplete perhaps without it--that the parents of Mr M'Arthur participated in his prosperity, and that in precise proportion with its advancement. Indeed, to minister to the comforts of the authors of his being was one of his first cares, and one of the very first purposes to which he applied the means which his good fortune put in his power--a circumstance indicative of so amiable and beautiful a trait of character, as would alone lessen our wonder at the singular degree of prosperity that attended its possessor--leaving us, is it does, impressed with a conviction that no one who owned such an excellent disposition could be otherwise than successful in the world. END OF VOL. VIII 
34148	----	WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND. HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE. WITH A GLOSSARY. REVISED BY ALEXANDER LEIGHTON ONE OF THE ORIGINAL EDITORS AND CONTRIBUTORS. VOL. X. LONDON: WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE. 1885. CONTENTS. THE FIRST-FOOT, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_ THE ROMANCE OF THE SIEGE OF PERTH, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_ THE PROFESSOR'S TALES, _(PROFESSOR THOMAS GILLESPIE)_ PEAT-CASTING TIME THE MEDAL THE MEETING AT ST BOSWELL'S, _(OLIVER RICHARDSON)_ THE STORY OF MAY DARLING, _(JOHN FRANCIS SMITH)_ I CANNA BE FASHED; OR, WILLIE GRANT'S CONFESSIONS, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_ TALES OF THE EAST NEUK OF FIFE, _(MATTHEW FORSTER CONOLLY)_ THE CASTLE OF CRAIL; OR, KING DAVID AND MAUDE THE LEGEND OF THE CHURCH OF ABERCROMBIE THE ROMANCE OF THE MAY CALEB CRABBIN, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_ THE SERJEANT'S TALES, _(JOHN HOWELL)_ THE IMPRUDENT MARRIAGE THE BEWILDERED STUDENT, _(JOHN BETHUNE)_ THE CROOKED COMYN, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_ WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND. THE FIRST-FOOT. Notwithstanding the shortness of their days, the bitterness of their frosts, and the fury of their storms, December and January are merry months. First comes old Christmas, shaking his hoary locks, belike, in the shape of snow-drift, and laughing, well-pleased, beneath his crown of mistletoe, over the smoking sirloin and the savoury goose. There is not a child on the south side of the Borders who longs not for the coming of merry Christmas: it is their holiday of holidays, their season of play and of presents; and old and young shake hands with Christmas, and with each other. And even on the northern side of "the river," and "the ideal line by fancy drawn," which "divide the sister kingdoms," there are thousands who welcome and forget not "blithe Yule Day." Next comes the New Year--the bottle, the hot pint, and the _first-foot_--and we might notice, also, Hansel Monday, and "Auld Hansel Monanday," which follow in their wake, and keep up the merriment till the back of January is broken. But our business at present is with the _first-foot_, and we must hold. It matters not on what side of the Borders it may be--and northward the feeling extends far beyond the Borders--there is a mysterious, an ominous importance attached to the individual who first crosses the threshold, after the clock has struck twelve at midnight, on the 31st of December, or who is the _first-foot_ in a house after the New Year has begun. The _first-foot_ stamps the "luck" of the house--the good fortune or the evil fortune of its inmates throughout the year! But to begin with our story. There was not a person on all the Borders, nor yet in all Scotland, who attached more importance to the first-foot than Nelly Rogers. Nelly was a very worthy, kind-hearted, yea, even sensible sort of woman; but a vein of superstition ran through her sense: she had imbibed a variety of "auld-warld notions" in infancy, and, as she grew up, they became a part of her creed. She did not exactly believe that ghosts and apparitions existed in her day, but she was perfectly sure they _had_ existed, and _had_ been seen; she was sure, also, there was something in dreams, and she was positive there was a great deal in the luckiness or unluckiness of a first-foot; she had remarked it in her own experience thirty times, and, she said, "it was o' nae use attempting to argue her out o' what she had observed hersel." Nelly was the wife of one Richard Rogers, a respectable farmer, whose farmhouse stood by the side of the post-road between Kelso and Lauder. They had a family of several children; but our business is with the eldest, who was called George, and who had the misfortune to receive, both from his parents and their neighbours, the character of being _a genius_. This is a very unfortunate character to give to any one who has a fortune to make in the world, as will be seen when we come to notice the history of George the Genius--for such was the appellation by which he was familiarly mentioned. Now, it was the last night of the old year--George was about twelve years of age, and, because he was their first-born, and, moreover, because he was a genius, he was permitted to sit with his father and his mother, and a few friends, who had come to visit them, to see the old year out, and the New Year in. The cuckoo clock struck twelve, and the company rose, shook hands, wished each other a happy new year, and, in a bumper, drank, "May the year that's awa be the warst o' our lives." "I wonder wha will be our first-foot," said Nelly; "I hope it will be a lucky ane." The company began to argue whether there was anything in the luck of a first-foot or not, and the young genius sided with his mother; and, while they yet disputed upon the subject, a knocking was heard at the front-door. "There's somebody," said Nelly; "if it's onybody that I think's no luck, I winna let them in." "Nonsense!" said Richard. "It's nae nonsense," replied Nelly; "it may be a _flat-soled_ body, for onything I ken; and do ye think I wad risk the like o' that. Haud awa, see wha it is, George," added she, addressing the genius; "and dinna let them in unless you're sure that they dinna come empty-handed." "Did ever ye hear the like o' the woman?" said her husband. "Sic havers! Rin awa, George, hinny; open the door." The boy ran to the door, and inquired--"Who's there?" "A stranger," was the reply. "What do ye want?" inquired the genius, with a degree of caution seldom found in persons honoured with such an epithet. "I have a letter to Master Rogers, from his brother," answered the stranger. "A letter frae my brother John!" cried Richard, starting from his seat; "open the door, laddie--open the door." Now, Richard Rogers had a brother, who also had been considered a sort of a genius in his youth. He was of a wild and restless disposition in those days, and his acquaintances were wont to call him by the name of Jack the Rambler. But it is a long road that has no turning--he had now been many years at sea--was the captain of a free-trader--and as remarkable for his steadiness and worldly wisdom, as he had been noted for the wildness of his youth. There was a mysterious spot in the captain's history, which even his brother Richard had never been able to clear up. But that spot will be brought to light by and by. George opened the door, and the stranger entered. He was dressed as a seaman; and Nelly drew back and appeared troubled as her eyes fell upon him. It was evident she had set him down in her mind as an unlucky first-foot. He was not, indeed, the most comely personage that one might desire to look upon on a New-year's morning; for he was a squat little fellow, with huge red whiskers that almost buried his face; his burly head was covered with a sou-wester, and his eyes squinted most fearfully. Nelly could not withdraw her eyes from the man's eyes--she contemplated the squint with horror! Such eyes were never in the head of a first-foot before! She was sure that "something no canny would be the upshot." "Tak a seat, sir--tak a seat, sir," said Richard, addressing the sailor; "fill out a glass, and mak yoursel at hame. Nelly, bring a clean tumbler. And ye hae a letter frae my brother, the captain, sir," added he, anxiously; "how is he?--where is he?--when did ye see him?" "I left him at Liverpool, sir," replied the queer-looking sailor; "and, as I intended to take a run down over and to Leith to see my old mother, 'Bill,' says he to me (for my name's Bill, sir--Bill Somers)--well, as I'm saying, 'Bill,' says he, 'you'll be going past the door of a brother of mine, and I wish I were going with you'--(and I wish he had, for, not to say it before you, sir, there an't a better or a cleverer fellow than Captain Rogers in the whole service--nor a luckier one either, though, poor fellow, he has had his bad luck too in some things; and it sticks to him still, and will stick to him)--however, as I say, said he to me--'Bill, here is a bit of a letter, give it to my brother--it concerns my nevy, George'--(yes, George, I think he called him). So I took the letter and set off--that is some days ago--and I arrived at the public-house, a little from this, about four hours since, and intended to cast anchor there for the night; but having taken a glass or two, by way of ballast, I found myself in good sailing trim, and, having inquired about you, and finding that you lived but a short way off, and that the people in the house said, it being New-year's times, you wouldn't be moored yet, I desired the landlady to fill me up half-a-gallon or so of her best rum, that I mightn't come empty-handed--for that wouldn't be lucky, ma'am, I reckon," added he, squinting in the face of Mrs Rogers, who looked now at his eyes, and now at a large bottle, which he drew from beneath a sort of half greatcoat or monkey-jacket. Nelly was no friend to spirit-drinking; nevertheless she was glad that her first-foot, though he did squint, had not come empty-handed. The letter was handed to Mr Rogers, who, having broke the seal--"Preserve us, Richard!" said Nelly, "that's a lang epistle! I daursay the captain's made his will in't--what does he say?" "It's a kind, sensible, weel-written letter," said Richard, "for John was a genius a' his days; and there is mair about a will in't than ye're aware o'. But there's nae secret in't. George will read it." The letter was then given to the genius, who read as follows:-- "DEAR DICK,--As one of my crew, Bill Somers, who has sailed with me for a dozen years, is going down to Scotland, and will pass your way, I take the opportunity of writing to you, and letting you know that I am as well as a person who has as much cause to be unhappy as I have can desire to be. The cause of that unhappiness you don't know, and few know it--but I do, and that's enough. I have made some money--perhaps a good deal--but that's of no consequence. I once thought that I might have _them_ of my own flesh and blood to inherit it; however, that was not to be. It is a long story, and a sad story--one that you know nothing about, and which it is of no use to tell you about now. As things are, my nevy George is to be heir to whatever money, goods, and chattels I possess." As her son read this, Nelly thought that it was nonsense, after all, to say that a squint first-foot was unlucky. "Read on, George," said his father, "and tak heed to what your uncle says." The boy resumed the letter, and again read-- "Now, as my nevy is to be my heir, I think it my duty to lay down a sort of chart--or call it what you like--by which I would wish him to shape his future conduct. I am glad to hear that his head is of the right sort; but let us have none of your fiddle ornaments about it. A lofty prow is not always the best for a storm, and looks bad enough with a Dutch stern. Beware, also, how you let him to sea before his vessel is fairly rigged, caulked, and waterproof--or, if you do, then look out for his growing top-heavy, and capsising in the turn of a handspike. If you set him off with a bare allowance of ballast, and without a single letter of credit--do you expect him to bring home a cargo? It is stuff, Dick--arrant stuff! All your boy exhibitions are downright swindling. Prodigies, forsooth!--why, parrots can speak, and jackdaws chatter. Or, to render myself intelligible to your agricultural senses, a tree blossoms in its first year, and a selfish, deluded idiot plucks it up, exhibits it in the market-place--the bud perishes, and the tree withers, while gaping lubbers wonder that it did not bear fruit! Now, Dick, this is always the case with all you fast-sailing miracles. Give a boy the helm, and get him to the drudgery of the cabin again, if you can. "As to his love affairs, provided the girl of his choice be virtuous, and tolerably pretty--though neither very rich nor very intelligent--see that you don't strike off at a tangent, and, like one of your own stupid cattle, run counter to his will. If you do, it will only hasten what you wish to prevent--or render a marriage certain, which the young couple thought sufficiently doubtful. Besides, your opposition might spoil a poor girl's reputation; and I have always found that imputations of a certain class, upon a man, are like marks left upon the sand within a tide-mark; but to a woman--a lovely, helpless woman--they adhere like a limpit to the rock. Besides this, Dick, I am certain the most powerful impression of moral rectitude you can imprint upon his heart would be like a pistol fired from a cock-boat, compared to the glorious and irresistible broadside of a seventy-four, when you contrast its influence upon his actions with the delightful and conquering emotions of love and esteem which he entertains for an amiable woman. Don't preach to me, Dick, for I know when the devil, the world, and the flesh, war against our better principles, and when early instructions, counsels, and all that sort of things, are fairly run down and drop astern, why, if a fellow just think for a moment of the beautiful being, whose soul is as pure as the blue sea on a summer day--if he just think of her--or of her last words, '_Don't forget me!_'--belay! is the word--about goes the helm--head round from the lee-shore of inconsistency, and he is again quietly moored in the fair-way of virtue. "When he begins to shape into manhood, _Discretion_ is the watchword; and whatever he or others may think of his abilities, let him douse _Presumption_, and stow it below, hoist a _desire to please_ at the fore-top, place _Perseverance_, at the helm, and _Civility_ and _Moderate Ambition_ upon the watch. People say they like a plain-spoken, honest fellow, who says what he thinks. But it is all a fudge. Just speak in the jack-blunt manner which they praise respecting themselves, and, mark me, they will march off to another tune. Let any man practise this for a time, and he will soon be hated by every soul on board. I don't mean to advise dissimulation; but a man can get enemies enough without making them; therefore, where he has no good to say of a person, though they may have injured him, let him hold his tongue. "Another thing, and an important one, for him to remember, is--he who is the king of good fellows, and a 'good soul' amongst his associates, is styled by the public a thoughtless man, and by his enemies a drunkard. Now, Dick, in the world of business, a _good fellow_ simply means a _good-for-nothing_. Therefore, see to it, and put my nevy on the look-out; for, not to speak of the growing influence of habit, just attribute unsteadiness to a man, and you bring him a wind ahead, stop his credit, and hurl him to ruin headlong. Sobriety is his compass--sobriety is his passport. "Again, Dick, I would neither wish to see him a booby nor a maw-worm; but I must tell you that the opinion the world forms of us is often cast upon very trivial circumstances. A heedlessly committed action, which we forget in half-an-hour, others will remember to our disadvantage for twelve months. There is nothing like being well-braced with circumspection; let him always look well to his bearing and distance, or he will soon find himself out in his latitude. No man of any ambition, or whether he was ambitious or not, ever loved a man who presumed to be in all things wiser that himself. I don't wish to lecture upon humbug humility, but diffidence and good-breeding should never be under the poop. Let him take heed, also, how he dabbles in politics or religion. Both concern him, and he must think and act upon both; but he must do so as becomes a man. I hate all your noisy boatswain politicians, both aboard the Commons and out of it. The moment I see a lubberly fellow swinging his arms about and blowing a hurricane, whether he be endeavouring to blow a nation or a tavern into agitation--there rages a grand rascal, say I; his patriotism, and the froth which he scatters from his mouth, are of a piece. Now, as to his religious principles, of all things, let him keep them to himself. Every man is as much in the right, in his own estimation, as he is. Nothing will procure a man more enemies than a real or affected singularity in matters of religion. For though there is a great deal of good sense afloat in the world, yet there is such a fry of feverish, canting, small craft, always skulking about, and peeping into our _pees_ and _ques_, which, though they cannot sink your character, they annoy it with their sparrow-hail. In a word, Dick, every intelligent being's religion lies between his own conscience and his Maker. Give my nevy a Bible, with a father's best blessing--in it he will find the ennobling hopes of eternity, and learn to do unto others as he would wish others to do unto him; and this, from the bottom of my heart, is the advice of his uncle Jack. "A sterling, upright, moral character, is absolutely indispensable. If the heart be well built, and kept in good sailing trim, he will have a tell-tale there which will keep all right aloft. As well set a seaman upon a voyage of discovery without a compass, as a young fellow upon the world without a character. But, d'ye see, because you can't go to sea without a compass of this kind, you are not to expect that, in all cases, it will insure you of reaching the pole. No, Dick, it is rather like a pilot sent out to steer you in, when you are within sight of land, and without whose assistance you cannot reach the port. "In conversation, too, I hate to see a smooth-water puppy running at the rate of twelve knots, as if no vessel in the fleet could sail but his own. I have seen fellows of this sort showing off like gilded pinnaces at a regatta, while they were only showing how little they had on board. Two things, in particular, I wish my nevy to avoid--namely, argufying in company, and speaking about himself. There is a time and a place for everything; and, though argument be well enough in its way, he who is always upon the look-out for one is just as sure as he finds it to find an enemy; and, as to speaking of one's-self, independent of its ill-breeding, it is like a dose of salt-water served round the company. The grand secret of conversation is, to say little in a way to please, and the moment you fail to do so, it is time to shove your boat off. Whenever you see a person yawn in your company, take your hat. "Independent of these things, let him look well to his tide-table. Without punctuality, the best character becomes a bad one. The moment a man breaks his word, or becomes indifferent to his engagement, why, the confidence of his commodore is at an end; and, instead of being promoted to the quarterdeck, he may slave before the mast till the boatswain's last whistle pipes all hands to his funeral. Punctuality, Dick--systematical, methodical punctuality--is a fortune to a fellow ready made. Let him once listen to the syren voice of delay--neglect to weigh anchor with the tide, and if he don't drift back with the current, go to pieces on a sand-bank, or be blown to sticks by a foul wind, my name's not Jack. Let him keep a sharp eye upon the beginning, the middle, and the end of everything he undertakes. He must not tack about, like a fellow on a cruise or a roving commission, but, whatever wind blows, maintain a straight course, keeping his head to the port. Burns, the poet, spoke like a philosopher, when he said it was the misfortune of his life to be without an aim. But I tell you what, Dick, we must not only have an object to steer to, but it must be a reasonable object. A madman may say he is determined to go to the North Pole, or the moon; but that's not the thing, Dick: our anticipations must be likelihoods, our ambitions probabilities; and when we have made frequent calculations, and find ourselves correct in our reckoning, though we have made but little way, then down with despondency, and stick to perseverance. I don't mean a beggarly, servile, grovelling perseverance, but the unsubdued determination of an unconquerable spirit, riding out the storm, and, while small craft sink on every side, disdaining to take in a single reef. "Now, having said thus much about shaping his course, and laying in a freight, it is material that I drop a concluding word with regard to his rigging. Send him out with patched canvas, and the veriest punt that ever disgraced the water will clear out before him. A patch upon his coat will be an embargo on his prospects. People affect to despise tailors; but it is base ingratitude, or shallow dissimulation. Not that I would for the world see my nevy an insignificant dandy, but remember, the moment the elbows of your coat open, every door shuts. "But my fingers are cramped with this long epistle, and, moreover, the paper is full; and with love to nevy George, to Nelly, and the little ones, I am, dear Dick, your affectionate brother, "JOHN ROGERS, "Otherwise, JACK THE RAMBLER." All applauded this letter, when they had heard it, and they vowed the captain was a clever fellow--a noble fellow--ay, and a wise one; and they drank his health and a happy New Year to him, though half of what he had written, from his nautical types and symbols, was as Greek and Latin unto those who heard it, and worse unto George the Genius, who read it; though some parts of it all understood. When the health of Captain Rogers had gone round-- "I wonder in the world," said Richard, "what it can be that my brother aye refers to about being unhappy? I've written to him fifty times, to try to fathom it; but I never could--he never would gie me ony satisfaction." "Why," said the seaman, as he sat leaning forward, and turning round his sou-wester between his knees, "I believe I know, or I can guess a something about the matter. It's about ten years ago, according to my reckoning, we were coming down the Mediterranean--the captain was as fine a looking young fellow then as ever stood upon a deck. Well, as I was saying, we were coming down the Mediterranean, and at Genoa we took a gentleman and his daughter on board. She was a pretty creature; I've seen nothing like her neither before nor since. So, as I'm telling you, we took them on board at Genoa, for England, and they had not been many days on board, till every one saw, and I saw--though my eyes are none o' the smartest--that the captain could look on nothing but his lovely passenger. It wasn't hard to see that she looked much in the same way at him, and I have seen them walking on the deck at night, with her arm through his, in the moonlight; and, let me tell you, a glorious sight it is--moonlight on the Mediterranean! It is enough to make a man fall in love with moonlight itself, if there be nothing else beside him. Well, d'ye see, as I am saying, it wasn't long until the old gentleman, her father, saw which way the land lay; and one day we heard the lady weeping; she never came out of her cabin during the rest of the voyage, nor did her father again speak to the master. We were laid up for a long time, and there was a report that the captain and her had got married, unknown to her father. However, we sailed on a long voyage; we weren't back to England again for more than twelve months; but the day after we landed, the captain shut himself up, and, for long and long, we used to find him sitting with the salt-water in his eyes. We again heard the report that he had been married, and also that his lady had died in childbed; but whether the child was living or ever was living, or whether it was a boy or a girl, we didn't know; nor did he know; and, I believe, he never was able to hear any more about the old gentleman--so, as I say, that's all I know about the matter, poor fellow." Now, the squinting sailor remained two days in the house of Richard Rogers, and he was such a comical man, and such a good-natured, kind-hearted man, that Mrs Rogers was certain he would be a lucky first-foot, even though he had a very unfortunate cross look with his eyes; and she was the more convinced in this opinion, because, in a conversation she had had with him, and in which she had inquired--"What siller he thought the captain might be worth?"--"Why, I'm saying," answered the sailor, "Captain Rogers is worth a round twenty thousand, if he be worth a single penny;--and that, I'm thinking, is a pretty comfortable thing for Master George to be heir to!"--"Ay, and so it is," responded Nelly. And there was no longer anything disagreeable in the sailor's squint. Well, week followed week, and month succeeded month--spring came, and summer came, and harvest followed; and it was altogether a lucky year to Richard Rogers. Nelly declared that the squinting sailor had been an excellent first-foot. Another year came, another, and another, until eight years passed round since they had been visited by the outlandish seaman. Nelly had had both lucky and unlucky first-feet. George the Genius was now a lad of twenty, and the other children were well grown--but George was still a genius, and nothing but a genius. He was indeed a good scholar--a grand scholar, as his mother declared--and a great one, as his father affirmed. He had been brought up to no profession, for it was of no use thinking of a profession for one who was heir to twenty thousand pounds; and, at any rate, his genius was sure to make him a fortune. In what way his genius was to do this was never taken into consideration. Many people said, "If we had your genius, George, we could make a fortune." And George thought he would and could. The joiner in the next village, however, said, that "Wi' a' George's genius, he didna believe he could mak an elshin-heft, and stick him!--and, in his opinion, there was mair to be made by making elshin-hefts than by writing ballants!" As I have said, eight years had passed; it was again the last night of the old year, and a very dark and stormy night it was. Mr Rogers, his wife, their son George, and the rest of their family, had again seen the old year out, and the New Year in, and exchanged with each other the compliments of the season, when the cuckoo-clock again announced the hour of twelve. Nelly had "_happed_ up the fire" with her own hands--a thing that she always did on the last night of the old year, that it might not be out on a New-year's morning. She was again wondering who would be their first-foot, and expressing a hope that it would be a lucky one, when a chaise drew up before the house, and the driver, dismounting and knocking at the window, begged that they would favour him with a light, as the roads were exceedingly dark, and the lamps of the chaise had been blown out by the wind. "A licht!" exclaimed Betty, half petrified at the request; "preserve us! is the man beside himsel? Do ye imagine that onybody is gaun to gie ye out a licht the first thing on a New-year's morning? Gae awa!--gae awa!" In vain the driver expostulated--he had met with similar treatment at other houses at which he had called. "Ye hae nao business to travel at siccan a time o' nicht," replied Betty to all his arguments. Her husband said little, for he entertained some of his wife's scruples against giving a light at such a time. George mildly ridiculed the absurdity of the refusal; but--"I am mistress o' my ain house," answered his mother, "and I'll gie a licht out o't when I please, and only when I please. Wi' a' yer learnin, George, ye wad be a great fool sometimes." The voice of a lady was now heard at the window with the driver, saying--"Pray, good people, do permit us to light the lamps, and you shall have any recompense." No sooner did George hear the lady's voice, than, in despite of his mother's frowns, he sprang to the door and unlocked it. With an awkward sort of gallantry he ushered in the fair stranger. She was, indeed, the loveliest first-foot that had ever crossed the threshold of Mrs Rogers. She had no sooner entered, than Nelly saw and felt this, and, with a civility which formed a strange contrast to her answers to the driver, she smoothed down for her the cushioned arm-chair by the side of the fire. The young lady (for she hardly appeared to exceed seventeen) politely declined the proffered hospitality. "Sit down, my sweet young leddy; now, do sit down just to oblige me," said Nelly. "Ye are our first-foot, and I hope--I'm sure ye'll ba a lucky ane; and ye wadna, ye canna be gaun out without tasting wi' us on a New-year's morning." The young lady sat down; and Nelly hastened to spread upon the table little mountains of short-bread (of which she was a notable maker), with her spice-loaf, milk-scones, and her best ewe-cheese, and her cream-cheese, which was quite a fancy! And while his mother was so occupied, George produced three or four sorts of home-made wine of his own manufacture; for, in his catalogue of capabilities as a genius, it must be admitted that he had some which might be said to belong to the useful. "Now, make yoursel at hame, my dear leddy," said Nelly; "need nae pressing. Or if ye wad like it better, I'll get ye ready a cup o' tea in a minute or twa; the kettle's boiling; and it's only to mask, so dinna say no. Indeed, if ye'll only consent to stop a' nicht, ye shall hae the best bed in the house, and we'll put the horses in the stable; for it's no owre and aboon lucky to gie or tak a licht on a New-year's morning." A faint smile played across the lips of the fair stranger, at the mixture of Nelly's kindness and credulity; and she thanked her for her hospitality, but stated that she must proceed on her journey, as she was hastening to the death-bed of a near and only relative. The young lady, however, sat longer than she wist, for she had entered into conversation with George--how, she knew not, and he knew not; but they were pleased with each other; and there were times (though it was only at times) that George could talk like an inspired being; and this was one of those times. The knowledge, the youth, the beauty of the lovely stranger, had kindled all the fires of his genius within him. Even his father was surprised, and his mother forgot that the chaise-driver was lighting the lamps; and how long the fair lady might have listened to George, we cannot tell, had not the driver hinted, "All's ready, ma'am; the horses will get no good in the cold." She arose, and took leave of her entertainers; and George accompanied her to the chaise, and shook her hand, and bade her farewell, as though she had been an old and a very dear friend. He even thought, as she replied, "_Farewell_," that there was a sadness in her tone, as if she were sorry to say it. Richard and his spouse retired to rest; but still the thought of having given a light out of her house on a New-year's morning troubled her, and she feared that, after all, her lovely first-foot would prove an unlucky one. George laid his head upon his pillow, to dream dreams, and conjure up visions of the fair stranger. A short week had not passed, however--Richard was returning from Kelso market, the roads were literally a sheet of ice (it is said that bones are most easily broken in frosty weather), his horse fell, and rolled over him, and he was carried home bruised, and with his leg broken. Nelly was loud in her lamentations, and yet louder in her upbraidings, against George and against herself, that she permitted a light to be carried out of her house on a New-year's morning. "It was borne in upon me," said she, "the leddy wadna be lucky, that something would come out o' the giein the licht!" But this was not all: before two months elapsed, and just as her husband was beginning to set his foot to the ground again, from friction and negligence together, the thrashing-machine took fire. It was still a severe frost, there was scarce a drop of water to be procured about the place, and, in spite of the exertions of all the people on the farm, and their neighbours, who came to their assistance, the fierce flames roared, spread, and rushed from stack to stack, until the barn, the stables, the stackyard, and the dwelling-house presented a heap of smouldering ashes and smoking ruins. Yet this was not the worst evil which had that day fallen upon Richard Rogers. He was one of those individuals who have an aversion to the very name of a bank, and he had the savings and the profits of twenty years--in fifty-pound notes, and in five-pound notes, and crown-pieces--locked away in a strong drawer in his bedroom. In the confusion of the fire, and as he bustled halting about, with the hope of saving some of his wheat-stacks (for wheat was selling high at the time), he forgot the strong drawer, and his twenty years' savings, until flames were seen bursting from the window of his bedroom. The window had been left open, and some of the burning materials having been blown into the room, it was the first part of the house which caught fire. "Oh, I'm ruined!--I'm ruined!" cried Richard; "my siller!--my siller!--my hard-won siller!" A rush was made to the bedroom; but before they reached it, the stairs gave way, the floor fell in, and a thick flame and suffocating smoke buried the fruits of poor Richard's industry--the treasure which he had laid up for his children. "Now, I am a beggar!" groaned he, lifting up his hands, while the flames almost scorched his face. "Oh, black sorrow tak that leddy!" cried Nelly, wringing her hands; "what tempted her to be my first-foot?--or what tempted me to gie her a licht? George! George! it was a' you! We gied fire out o' the house, and now we've brocht it about us! Wae's me!--wae's me! I'm a ruined woman! Oh, Richard, what will we do? What was ye thinking about, that ye didna mind the siller?" Richard knew nothing of the number of his notes, and his riches had indeed vanished in a flash of fire! He was now obliged to take shelter with his family in an outhouse, which had been occupied by a cottar. He had not heard from Captain Rogers for more than twelve months, and he knew not where he was; therefore he could expect no immediate assistance from him. It was now necessary that George should bring his genius into action--his father could no longer support him in idleness; and, as it had always been said that he had only to exert his genius to make a fortune, George resolved that he would exert it, and he was pleased with the thought of setting his father on his feet again by the reward of his talents. He had read somewhere in the writings of Dr Johnson (and the doctor had a good deal of experience in the matter), that "genius was _sure_ to meet with its reward in London;" and, if the doctor was _sure_ of that, George was as _sure_ that he was a genius, and therefore ho considered the reward as certain. So George determined, as his uncle might live many years, that he would go to London and make a fortune for himself, and to assist his father in the meantime. A cow was taken to Kelso market and sold for eight pounds, and the money was given to George, to pay his expenses to the metropolis, and to keep him there until his genius should put him in the way of making the anticipated fortune. His coat was not exactly such a one as his uncle desired he should be sent out into the world in--not that it was positively a bad coat, but it was beginning to be rather smooth and clear about the elbows, a lighter shade ran up on each side of the seams at the back, and his hat was becoming bare round the edges on the crown. To be sure, as his mother said, "he would aye hae ink beside him, and a dip o' ink would help to hide that." These, however, were things that could not be mended--the wardrobe of the whole family had been consumed at the fire; but these things did not distress George, for he did not consider it necessary for a genius to appear in a new coat. There were many tears shed on both sides when George bade adieu to his father, his mother, and his brethren, and took his journey towards London. It was about the middle of March when he arrived in the metropolis; and, having spent two days wandering about and wondering at all he saw, without once thinking how his genius was to make the long-talked-of fortune, on the third day he delivered a letter of introduction, which he had received, to a broker in the city. Now it so happened that in this letter poor George was spoken of as an "_extraordinary genius_!" "So you are a _great genius_, young man, my friend informs mo," said the broker; "what have you a genius for?" George blushed and looked confused; he almost said--"for everything;" but he hung down his head, and said nothing. "Is it a genius for making machines--or playing the fiddle--or what?" added the broker. George looked more and more confused; he replied--"that he could neither make machines, nor did he know anything of music." "Then I hope it's not a genius for making ballads, is it?" continued the other. "I have written ballads," answered George, hesitatingly. "Oh, then, you must try the west end--you won't do for the city," added the broker; "your genius is an article that's not in demand here." George left the office of the London citizen, mortified and humiliated. For a dozen long years everybody had told him he was a genius; and now, when the question was put to him--"what had he a genius for?" he could not answer it. This rebuff rendered him melancholy for several days, and he wandered from street to street, sometimes standing, unconscious of what he was doing, before the window of a bookseller, till, jostled by the crowd, he moved on, and again took his stand before the window of the printseller, the jeweller, or the vender of caricatures. Still he believed that he was a genius, and he was conscious that that genius might make him a fortune; only he knew not how to apply it--he was puzzled where to begin. Yet he did not despair. He thought the day would come--but how it was to come he knew not. He took out his uncle's letter, which his father had put into his hands when he left him, and he read it again, and said, it was all very good, but what was he the better of it?--it was all very true--too true, for he understood every word of it now; and he turned round his arm, and examined his coat with a sigh, and beheld that the lining was beginning to show its unwelcome face through the seams of the elbows. I should have told you that he was then sitting in a coffee-house, sipping his three-halfpence-worth of coffee, and _kitchening_ his pennyworth of bread, which was but half-a-slice, slightly buttered--and a thin slice, too, compared with those of his mother's cutting. He was beginning to feel one of the first rewards of genius--_eating by measure_! To divert the melancholy of his feelings, and the gloom of his prospects, he took up a magazine which lay on the table before him. His eyes fell upon a review of a poem which had been lately published, and for which the author was said to have received a thousand guineas! "_A thousand guineas!_" exclaimed George, dropping the magazine--"a _thousand guineas_! I shall make a fortune yet!" He had read some of the extracts from the poem--he was sure he could write better lines--his eyes flashed with ecstasy--his very nostrils distended with delight--a thousand guineas seemed already in his pocket! though, alas! out of the eight pounds which he had received as the price of his father's cow, with all his management, and with all his economy, he had but eight shillings left. But his resolution was taken--he saw fortune hovering over him with her golden wings--he purchased a quire of paper and half-a-dozen quills, and hurried to his garret--for his lodging _was_ a garret, in which there was nothing but an old bed and an olden chair, not even an apology for a table; but sometimes the bed served the purpose of one, and at other times he sat upon the floor like a Turk, and wrote upon the chair. He was resolved to write an epic; for the idea of a thousand guineas had taken possession of all his faculties. He made a pen--he folded the paper--he rubbed his hands across his brow for a subject. He might have said with Byron--had Byron then said it-- "I want a hero!" He thought of a hundred subjects, and with each the idea of his mother's beautiful but most unlucky first-foot was mingled! At length he fixed upon one, and began to write. He wrote most industriously--in short, he wrote for a thousand guineas! He tasked himself to four hundred lines a-day, and in a fortnight he finished a poem containing about five thousand. It was longer than that for which the thousand guineas had been given; but George thought, though he should get no more for his, that even a thousand guineas was very good payment for a fortnight's labour. Of the eight shillings which we mentioned his being in possession of when he began the epic, he had now but threepence, and he was in arrears for the week's rent of his garret. The landlady began to cast very suspicious glances at her lodger--she looked at him with the sides of her eyes. She did not know exactly what a genius meant, but she had proof positive it did not mean a gentleman. At times, also, she would stand with his garret-door in her hand, as if she intended to say, "Mr Rogers, I would thank you for last week's rent." Scarce was the ink dry upon the last page of his poem, when George, folding up the manuscript, put it carefully into his coat-pocket, and hurried to the bookseller of whom he had read that he had given a thousand guineas for a shorter work, and one, too, that, he was satisfied in his own mind, was every way inferior to his. We do not say that he exactly expected the publisher to fall down and worship him, the moment he read the first page of his production, but he did believe that he would regard him as a prodigy, and at once offer terms for the copyright. He was informed by a shopman, however, that the publisher was engaged, and he left the manuscript, stating that he would call again. George did call again, and yet again, trembling with hope and anxiety; and he began to discover that a great London publisher was as difficult of access as his imperial mightiness the Emperor of China. At length, by accident, he found the bibliopole in his shop. He gave a glance at George--it was a withering glance--a glance at his coat and at his elbows. The unfortunate genius remembered, when it was too late, the passage in his uncle's letter, "the moment the elbows of your coat open, every door shuts." We have already mentioned that the lining was beginning to peer through them, and, during the fervour of inspiration, or the _furor_ of excitement in composing the epic, he had not observed that the rent had become greater, that the lining, too, had given way, and that now his linen, which was not of a snow colour, was visible. He inquired after his manuscript. "What is it?" asked the publisher. "A poem," answered George--"an epic!" The man of books smiled; he gave another look at the forlorn elbows of the genius--it was evident he measured the value of his poetry by the value of his coat. "A poem!" replied he; "poetry's a drug! It is of no use for such as you to think about writing poetry. Give the young man his manuscript," said he to the shopman, and walked away. The reader may imagine the feelings of our disappointed genius: they were bitter as the human soul could bear. Yet he did not altogether despair; there were more booksellers in London. It is unnecessary to tell how he offered his manuscript to another, and another, yea, to twenty more--how he examined what books they had published in their windows--and how he entered their shops with fear and trembling, for his hopes were becoming fainter and more faint. Some opened it, others did not, but all shook their heads, and said, nobody would undertake to publish poetry, or that it was not in their way; some advised him to publish by subscription, but George Rogers did not know a soul in London; others recommended him to try the magazines. It was with a heavy heart that he abandoned the idea of publishing his epic, and with it also his fond dream of obtaining a thousand guineas. He had resolved within himself that the moment he received the money, he would go down to Scotland, and rebuild his father's house; and all who knew him should marvel, and hold up their hands, at the fame and fortune of George the Genius. But a hungry man cannot indulge in day-dreams, and his visions by night are an aggravation of his misery; he therefore had to renounce the fond delusion, that he might have bread to eat. His last resource was to try the magazines. His epic was out of the question for them; and he wrote songs, odes, essays, and short tales, on every scrap of paper, and on the back of every letter in his possession. With this bundle of "shreds and patches," he waited upon several magazine publishers. One told him he was overstocked with contributions; another, that he might leave the papers, and he should have an answer in two or three weeks. But three weeks was an eternity to a man who had not tasted food for three days. A third said, "he could seldom make room for new contributors--poetry was not an article for which he gave money--essays were at a discount, and he only published tales by writers of established reputation." There was one article, however, which pleased him, and he handed George a guinea for it. The tears started into his eyes as he received it--he thought he would never be poor again--he was as proud of that guinea as if it had been a thousand! It convinced him more and more that he _was_ a genius. I need not tell you how that guinea was husbanded, and how it was doled out; but, although George reckoned that it would purchase two hundred and fifty-two penny loaves, and that that was almost as many as a man need to eat in a twelvemonth, yet the guinea vanished to the last penny before a month went round. He had frequently called at the shop of his first patron, the publisher of the magazine; and on one day when he so called-- "Oh, Mr Rogers," said the bookseller, "I have just heard of a little job which will suit you. Lord L---- wishes me to find him a person to write a pamphlet in defence of the war. You are just the person to do it. Make it pungent and peppery, and it will be five or ten guineas for you, and perhaps the patronage of his lordship; and you know no bookseller will look at genius without patronage." A new light broke upon George--he discovered why his epic had been rejected. He hurried to his garret. He began the pamphlet with the eagerness of frenzy. It was both peppery and passionate. Before the afternoon of the following day it was completed, and he flew with it to the house of the nobleman. Our genius was hardly, as the reader may suppose, in a fitting garb for the drawing-room or library of a British peer, and the pampered menial who opened the door attempted to dash it back in his face. He, however, neither lacked spirit nor strength, and he forced his way into the lobby. "Inform his lordship," said George, "that Mr Rogers has called with the pamphlet in defence of the war!" And he spoke this with an air of consequence and authority. The man of genius was ushered into the library of the literary lord, who, raising his glass to his eye, surveyed him from head to foot with a look partaking of scorn and disgust; and there was no mistaking that its meaning was--"Stand back!" At length he desired our author to remain where he was, and to read his manuscript. The chagrin which he felt at this reception marred the effect of the first two or three sentences, but, as he acquired his self-possession, he read with excellent feeling and emphasis. Every sentence told. "Good! good!" said the peer, rubbing his hands--"that will do!--excellent!--give me the manuscript!" George was stepping boldly forward to the chair of his lordship, when the latter, rising, stretched his arm at its extreme length across the table, and received the manuscript between his finger and thumb, as though he feared contagion from the touch of the author, or fancied that the plague was sewed up between the seams of his threadbare coat. The peer glanced his eye over the title-page, which George had not read--"A Defence of the War with France," said he; "by--by who!--the deuce!--George Rogers!--who is George Rogers?" "I am, your lordship," answered the author. "You are!--you!" said his lordship, "you the author of _the Defence_? Impertinent fool! had not you the idea from me? Am not I to pay for it? The work is mine!" So saying, he rang the bell, and addressing the servant who entered, added, "Give that gentleman a guinea." George withdrew, in rage and bewilderment, and his poverty, not his will, consented to accept the insulting remuneration. Within two days, he saw at the door of every bookseller a placard with the words--"Just published, A DEFENCE OF THE WAR WITH FRANCE, by the Right Hon. Lord L----." George compared himself to Esau, who sold his birthright for a mess of pottage--he had bartered his name, his fame, and the fruits of his genius, for a paltry guinea. He began to be ashamed of the shabbiness of his garments--the withering meaning of the word clung round him--he felt it as a festering sore eating into his very soul, and he appeared but little upon the streets. He had been several weeks without a lodging, and though it was now summer, the winds of heaven afford but a comfortless blanket for the shoulders when the midnight dews fall upon the earth. He had slept for several nights in a hayfield in the suburbs, on the Kent side of the river; and his custom was, to lift a few armfuls aside on a low rick, and laying himself down in the midst of it, gradually placing the hay over his feet, and the rest of his body, until the whole was covered. But the hay season did not last for ever; and one morning, when fast asleep in the middle of the rick, he was roused by a sudden exclamation of mingled horror and astonishment. He looked up, and beside him stood a countryman, with his mouth open, and his eyes gazing wistfully. In his hand he held a hayfork, and on the prongs of the fork was one of the skirts of poor George's coat. He gazed angrily at the countryman, and ruefully at the fragment of his unfortunate coat; and, rising, he drew round the portion of it that remained on his back, to view "the rent the envious _hayfork_ made." "By goam! chap," said the countryman, when he regained his speech, "I have made thee a spencer; but I might have run the fork through thee, and it would have been no blame of mine." They were leading the hay from the field, and the genius was deprived of his lodging. It was some nights after this he was wandering in the neighbourhood of Poplar, fainting and exhausted--sleeping, starting, dreaming--as he dragged his benumbed and wearied limbs along; and, as he was crossing one of the bridges over the canal, he saw one of the long fly-boats, which ply with goods to Birmingham and Manchester, lying below it. George climbed over the bridge, and dropped into the boat, and finding a quantity of painted sailcloth near the head of it, which was used as a covering for the goods, to protect them from the weather, he wrapped himself up in it, and lay down to sleep. How long he lay he know not, for he slept most soundly; and, when he awoke, he felt more refreshed than he had been for many nights. But he started as he heard the sound of voices near him; and, cautiously withdrawing the canvas from over his face, he beheld that the sun was up; and, to increase his perplexity, fields, trees, and hedges were gliding past him. While he slept, the boatmen had put the horses to the barge, and were now on their passage to Birmingham, and several miles from London; but, though they had passed and repassed the roll of canvas, they saw not, and they suspected not, that they "carried Cæsar and his fortunes." George speedily comprehended his situation; and extricating his limbs from the folds of the canvas as quietly as ho could, he sprang to his feet, stepped to the side of the boat, and, with a desperate bound, reached the bank of the canal. "Holloa!" shouted the astonished boatmen--"holloa! what have you been after?" George made no answer, but ran with his utmost speed down the side of the canal. "Holloa! stop thief!--stop thief!" bellowed the boatmen; and, springing to the ground, they gave chase to the genius. The boys, also, who rode the horses that dragged the boat unlinked them, and joined in the pursuit. It was a noble chase! But when George found himself pursued, he left the side of the canal, and took to the fields, clearing hedge, ditch, fence, and stone wall, with an agility that would have done credit to a first-rate hunter. The horses were at fault in following his example, and the boys gave up the chase; and when the boatmen had pursued him for the space of half-a-mile, finding they were losing ground at every step they returned, panting and breathless, to their boat. George, however, slackened his pace but little until he arrived at the Edgeware Road, and there he resumed his wonted slow and melancholy saunter, and sorrowfully returned towards London. He now, poor fellow, sometimes shut his eyes, to avoid the sight of his own shadow, which he seemed to regard as a caricature of his forlorn person; and, in truth, he now appeared miserably forlorn--I had almost said ludicrously so. His coat has been already mentioned, with its wounded elbows, and imagine it now with the skirts which had been torn away with the hayfork, when the author of an epic was nearly forked upon a cart, as he reposed in a bundle of hay--imagine now the coat with that skirt awkwardly pinned to it--fancy also that the button-holes had become useless, and that all the buttons, save two, had taken leave of his waistcoat--his trousers, also, were as smooth at the knees as though they had been glazed and hot-pressed, and they were so bare, so very bare, that the knees could almost be seen through them without spectacles. Imagine, also, that this suit had once been black, and that it had changed colours with the weather, the damp hay, the painted canvas, and the cold earth on which he slept; and add to this a hat, the brim of which was broken, and the crown fallen in--with shoes, the soles of which had departed, and the heels involuntarily gone down, as if ready to perform the service of slippers. Imagine these things, and you have a personification of George Rogers, as he now wended his weary way towards London. He had reached the head of Oxford Street, and he was standing irresolute whether to go into the city or turn into the Park, to hide himself from the eyes of man, and to lie down in solitude with his misery, when a lady and a gentleman crossed the street to where he stood. Their eyes fell upon him--the lady started--George beheld her, and he started too--he felt his heart throb, and a blush burn over his cheek. He knew her at the first glance--it was the fair stranger--his mother's first-foot! He turned round--he hurried towards the Park--he was afraid--he was ashamed to look behind him. A thousand times had he wished to meet that lady again, and now he had met her, and he fled from her--the shame of his habiliments entered his soul. Still he heard footsteps behind him, and he quickened his pace. Ho had entered the Park, but yet he heard the sound of the footsteps following. "Stop, young man!" cried a voice from behind him. But George walked on as though he heard it not. The word "stop!" was repeated; but, instead of doing so, he was endeavouring to hurry onward, when, as we have said, one of the shoes which had become slippers, and which, bad before, were now worse from his flight across the ploughed fields, came off, and he was compelled to stop and stoop, to put it again upon his foot, or to leave his shoe behind him. While he stopped, therefore, to get his shoe again upon his foot, the person who followed him came up--it was the gentleman whom he had seen with the fair unknown. With difficulty he obtained a promise from George that he would call upon him at his house in Pimlico in the afternoon; and when he found our genius too proud to accept of money, he thrust into the pocket of the memorable skirt, which the hayfork had torn from the parent cloth, all the silver which he had upon his person. When the gentleman had left him, George burst into tears. They were tears of pride, of shame, and of agony. At length, he took the silver from the pocket of his skirt; he counted it in his hand--it amounted to nearly twenty shillings. Twenty shillings will go farther in London than in any city in the world, with those who know how to spend it--but much depends upon that. By all the by-ways he could find, George winded his way down to Rosemary Lane, where the "_Black and Blue Reviver_" worketh miracles, and where the children of Israel are its high priests. Within an hour, wonderful was the metamorphosis upon the person of George Rogers. At eleven o'clock he was clothed as a beggar--at twelve he was shabby-genteel. The hat in ruins was replaced by one of a newer shape, and that had been brushed and ironed till it was as clear as a looking-glass. The skirtless coat was thrown aside for an olive-coloured one of metropolitan cut, with a velvet collar, and of which, as the Israelite who sold it said, "de _glosh_ was not off." The buttonless vest was laid aside for one of a light colour, and the place of the decayed trousers was supplied by a pair of pure white; yea, his feet were enclosed in sheep-skin shoes, which, he was assured, had never been upon foot before. Such was the change produced upon the outer man of George Rogers through twenty shillings; and, thus arrayed, with a beating and an anxious heart, he proceeded in the afternoon to the home of the beautiful stranger who had been the eventful first-foot in his father's house. As he crossed the Park by the side of the Serpentine, he could not avoid stopping to contemplate, perhaps I should say admire, the change that had been wrought upon his person, as it was reflected in the water as in a mirror. When he had arrived at Pimlico, and been ushered into the house, there was surprise on the face of the gentleman as he surveyed the change that had come over the person of his guest; but in the countenance of the young lady there was more of delight than of surprise. When he had sat with them for some time, the gentleman requested that he would favour them with his history and his adventures in London. George did so from the days of his childhood, until the day when the fair lady before him became his mother's first-foot; and he recounted also his adventures and his struggles in London, as we have related them; and, as he spoke, the lady wept. As he concluded, he said--"And, until this day, I have ever found an expression, which my uncle made in a letter, verified, that 'the moment the elbows of my coat opened, every door would shut.'" "Your uncle!" said the gentleman, eagerly; "who is he?--what is his name?" "He commands a vessel of his own in the merchant service," replied George, "and his name is John Rogers." "John Rogers!" added the gentleman; "and your father's name?" "Richard Rogers," answered George. The young lady gazed upon him anxiously, and words seemed leaping to her tongue, when the gentleman prevented her, saying, "Isabel, love, I wish to speak with this young man in private;" and she withdrew. When they were left alone, the gentleman remained silent for a few minutes, at times gazing in the face of George, and again placing his hand upon his brow. At length he said--"I know your uncle, and I am desirous of serving you--he also will assist you, if you continue to deserve it. But you must give up book-making as a business; and you must not neglect business for book-making. You understand me. I shall give you a letter to a gentleman in the city, who will take you into his counting-house; and if, at the expiration of three months, I find your conduct has been such as to deserve my approbation, you shall meet me here again." He then wrote a letter, which, having sealed, he put, with a purse, into the hands of George, who sat speechless with gratitude and astonishment. On the following day, George delivered the letter to the merchant, and was immediately admitted as a clerk into his counting-house. He was ignorant of the name of his uncle's friend; and when he ventured to inquire at the merchant respecting him, he merely told him, he was one whose good opinion he would not advise him to forfeit. In this state of suspense, George laboured day by day at the desk; and although he was most diligent, active, and anxious to please, yet frequently, when he was running up figures, or making out an invoice, his secret thoughts were of the fair Isabel--the daughter of his uncle's friend, and his mother's first-foot. He regretted that he did not inform her father that he was his uncle's heir--he might then have been admitted to his house, and daily seen her on whom his thoughts dwelt. His situation was agreeable enough--it was paradise to what he had experienced; yet the three months of his probation seemed longer than twelve. He had been a few weeks employed in the counting-house, when he received a letter from his parents. His father informed him that they had received a letter from his uncle, who was then in London; but, added he, "he has forgotten to gie us his direction, where we may write to him, or where ye may find him." His mother added an important postscript, in which she informed him that "She was sorry she was richt after a', that there wasna luck in a squintin first-foot; for he would mind o' the sailor that brought the letter, that said he was to be his uncle's heir; and now it turned out that his uncle had found an heir o' his ain." It was the intention of George, when he had read the letter, to go to the house of his benefactor, and inquire for his uncle's address, or the name of the ship; but when he reflected that he might know neither--that he was not to return to his house for three months, nor until he was sent for--and, above all, when he thought that he was no longer his uncle's heir, and that he now could offer up no plea for looking up to the lovely Isabel--he resumed his pen with a stifled sigh, and abandoned the thought of finding out his uncle for the present. He had been rather more than ten weeks in the office, when the unknown Isabel entered and inquired for the merchant. She smiled upon George as she passed him--the smile entered his very soul, and the pen shook in his hand. It was drawing towards evening, and the merchant requested George to accompany the young lady home. Joy and agitation raised a tumult in his breast--he seized his hat--he offered her his arm--but he scarce knew what he did. For half-an-hour he walked by her side without daring or without being able to utter a single word. They entered the Park; the lamps were lighted amidst the trees along the Mall, and the young moon shone over them. It was a lovely and an imposing scene, and with it George found a tongue. He dwelt upon the effect of the scenery--he quoted passages from his own epic--and he spoke of the time when his fair companion was his mother's first-foot. She informed him that she was then hastening to the death-bed of her grandfather, whom she believed to be the only relative that she had in life--that she arrived in time to receive his blessing, and that, with his dying breath, he told her her father yet lived--and, for the first time, she heard his name, and had found him. George would have asked what that name was, but when he attempted to do so he hesitated, and the question was left unfinished. They spoke of many things, and often they walked in silence; and it was not until the watchman called, "Past nine o'clock," that they seemed to discover that, instead of proceeding towards Pimlico, they had been walking backward and forward upon the Mall. Ho accompanied her to her father's door, and left her with his heart filled with unutterable thoughts. The three months had not quite expired, when the anxiously-looked-for invitation arrived, and George Rogers was to dine at the house of his uncle's friend, the father of the fair Isabel. I shall not describe his feelings as he hastened along the streets towards Pimlico. He arrived at the house, and his hand shook as he reached it to the rapper. The door was opened by a strange-looking footman. George thought that he had seen him before--it was indeed a face that, if once seen, was not easily forgotten. The footman had not such large whiskers as Bill Somers, but they were of the same colour, and they certainly were the same eyes that had frightened his mother in the head of her first-foot. He was shown into a room where Isabel and her father waited to receive him. "When I last saw you, sir," said the latter, "you informed me you were the nephew of John Rogers. He finds he has no cause to be ashamed of you. George, my dear fellow, your uncle Jack gives you his hand! Isabel, welcome your cousin!" "My cousin!" cried George. "My cousin!" said Isabel. What need we say more--before the New Year came, they went down to Scotland a wedded pair, to be his mother's first-foot in the farmhouse, which had been rebuilt. THE ROMANCE OF THE SIEGE OF PERTH. In the year 1310, King Robert Bruce had overcome many of those extraordinary difficulties that threatened to render all the efforts of mere man unavailable in regaining for Scotland that perfect liberty of which she had so long boasted, and which, though it had never been taken from her absolutely, had been, by the unwarrantable schemes and policy of the first Edward, loosened from her grasp, and lay trampled on by the fierce genius of war. Great and wonderful, however, as had already been the prowess and determination of Bruce, and successful beyond the aspirations of hope as had been his efforts in the glorious cause of his country's freedom, there was great room for question whether Scotland would even at this period have triumphed, had the sceptre of England not fallen so opportunely into the hands of the second Edward. The first and greatest of all Scotland's foes, the first Edward, had died three years before, at Burgh-upon-Sands, leaving, as Froissart informs us, his dying injunction on his son, to boil his body in a caldron, till the bones should part with the flesh, and to carry the grim relics with him into Scotland, with the condition that they should not be buried till Scotland was subdued. The legacy of dry bones, from which the spirit of the great king had departed, was apparently all of his father that the young Edward inherited; for he soon displayed so much vacillation of policy, and so little genius for war, that, if Providence had intended to work to the hands of Bruce for the salvation of his country, she could not have brought about her designs with greater effect than by giving Bruce as an enemy the young King of England. Things were going straight forward to the result of Bannockburn. Bruce had been successful almost everywhere. The clergy at Dundee had declared his right to the throne, and the injustice of the decision that gave Baliol the crown; the nobles, with the exception of Angus, Buchan, and some others, were in his favour; but, above all, the common people, in whom the true sovereignty of every country lies, had begun to see in their new king those qualities that are calculated to move the heart. The hopes of Bruce rose every hour; and, having scattered the forces of the English in every recent encounter, he saw the necessity, and felt the power, of seizing some of the walled towns that Edward had fortified with much care, as if stone and lime could bind the freedom of Scotland. The town of Perth was the one that seemed then of greatest importance, as well from its central situation between the Highlands and Lowlands, as from the state of its battlements, which were a regular fortification, with strong walls defended by high towers, and all surrounded by a broad and deep fosse. The town had for some time been under siege, and, being one of those that Edward was determined to hold to the last, was promised succour with the first supplies that should enter the Tay. It was commanded by William Oliphant, an Anglicised Scot, who, with a firmness worthy of a better cause, had resolved to be true to the enemy of his country, and to give up the town only with his life. But his efforts were sorely thwarted by the remissness of Edward in sending provisions, and by the effects of a grievous famine, that, as a consequence of the intestine wars by which the country had been so wofully torn, was desolating the land in every quarter. He had already drained the pockets of the most wealthy of the citizens, by forcing them to supply him with money, by which he contrived to get in provisions to enable him to hold out against Bruce. Among the rest, a rich burgher from the Lower Provinces, Peter of Ghent (his latter name has not reached us) was expected to lend him a large sum of money. The Fleming was, in those days, what the Scots afterwards became--remarkable for the possession of the faculty of prudence--the legitimate offspring of the genius of merchandise. By the importation of broadcloths and armour gear, he had contrived to realise a large fortune, and was reported by the good men of Perth as one of the wealthiest merchants in the kingdom. He had only one child, a daughter, commonly known by the name of Anne of Ghent, a young creature of great beauty, and, what may appear to have been somewhat remarkable in her station, of a spirit that was deeply imbued with the love of chivalry. But we would form a very inadequate estimate of the charms of that extraordinary power which overturned kingdoms and damsels' hearts wherever its influence was felt, if we were to limit its sphere to the sons and daughters of nobility. Its principles, indeed, are found in every bosom that responds to the sentiments of love and heroism; and from the humble and beautiful Anne of Ghent, up to the noble and heroic Isabella of Buchan, the spirit burned with a fervour that was only in some accounted less strong because no opportunities wore afforded for its display. It was not in Scotland that this spirit had been first fanned into a flame in the bosom of the fair Fleming, but in France, where the _preux chevalier_ was seen in all his pride and glory. When about sixteen years of age, she had accompanied her father to Flanders, when he resorted thither for the purpose of traffic; and, in order to gratify his daughter, of whom he was justly proud, he had taken her to Paris, to be present at a joust held before Louis IX. The display of arms on that occasion was a trial between Sir Piers Guyard and Sir William Indelgonde, the latter of whom, having defamed the mistress of the former, had been compelled, by order of Louis, to prove his assertion by the issue of a mortal combat. The battle ended by the death of Indelgonde; but what possessed greater charms to Anne than the details of the _duellum_, was the extraordinary sight she witnessed of twenty untried squires of France, all arrayed in shining coats of armour, with long flowing plumes of various colours on their glittering basnets, taking, according to the custom of these days, their first oaths, "before the peacock and the ladies," that they would not see with both eyes until they had accomplished some daring deed of arms. The gay bird of gaudy hues was brought into a large pavilion erected at the end of the arena; and, like that before which King Edward I. swore at Westminster when he denounced poor Scotland, was encircled with a thin covering of golden gauze, and placed on a tripod ornamented with many carved devices of chivalry. The squires, one by one, knelt before the bird, and recited their oaths, and then, turning round to the queens of their destinies, solicited like mendicants, with one knee on the ground, a silk riband to bind up the orb which was about to be deprived of the fair sight of their charms. Nearly opposite to where Anne sat, a very young chevalier of the name of Rolande of Leon knelt for his eye gear; and though twenty ladies of birth, all anxious that their gifts should be accepted, threw to him ribands of silk, it happened that, whether from chance or from some mysterious sympathy between the hand and eyes of the young mendicant, a narrow green stripe, that Anne in her enthusiasm tore hurriedly from her head-gear, fell into his willing grasp. When she saw the fluttering trophy in the hands of so comely a youth, she trembled with modest fear; for she knew that, as the daughter of a burgher, rich as he was, she had but a very questionable title to compete for the honours of chivalry; but, when she saw the riband bound round his head, and the helmet placed upon it, she was ready to faint outright, and it was with difficulty that she retained her position on the bench. As soon as the crowd began to move, she hastened away to join her father, who was waiting for her beyond the palisades. Next day she was on her way to Flanders, and shortly afterwards she arrived at the city of Perth. Two or three years had now passed since the fair Fleming acted the almost involuntary part of a high lady, within the pale of the _Theatre de la chevalerie_. Living, with the rich old merchant, within the walls of a city devoted to traffic, she had had few opportunities of witnessing another show of arms. The warriors of Scotland were then holding their jousts in the open fields and thick forests; and, in place of fighting for the smiles of women, were doing battle for the liberties of their ancient and much-abused country. But the rising fame of Bruce, his brother Edward, and Douglas, and Randolph, claimed her feelings of admiration; and she would have given her rosary itself, with her jewelled cross, to have got a glimpse of men of whom all the ladies of Christendom were enamoured. She often pictured to herself, as she sat in her small parlour that fronted the city wall, their forms firmly girt with their shining armour; but a visor was never lifted up to the eye of her fancy without revealing the feature of Rolande, as she saw him kneeling at her feet for the gift he solicited and obtained. The face had been deeply imprinted in her memory, and the encircling gift which she had bestowed, seemed to connect her by some indefinable tie with one whom she might never see again, but of whom she could never cease to think. His elegant and manly form, which displayed all the graces of the accomplished man-at-arms, mixed itself with all her thoughts, and her greatest delight was to pre-figure to herself the appearance, on some occasion, of that same warrior, with his left eye bound by the badge she had given him, and a declaration on his tongue, as he knelt before her, that she had the sole power of restoring him full-orbed to the light, which he might now claim as the reward of his prowess. Anne was thus one evening indulging in some of these reveries of a love-sick brain, when Peter of Ghent entered the room. He was dressed in his Sunday's suit, with his ample surcoat of the best broadcloth, girt round the waist with a leather belt, his broad slouched hat of felt, and boots of the old Flemish style turned down at the tops, forming altogether a favourable contrast with the roughly-clad people of those early times, when the rough hats, coarse jerkins, and untanned shoes, constituted the apparel of Scotland's sons. Anne looked up, and a slight feeling of surprise passed through her mind as she noticed him thus arrayed. "The town is still in great danger, Anne," said he, as he took a seat by her side, at the fire of blazing faggots, that threw a bright glare over the beautiful face of his daughter. "The enemies of Edward seem to be on the increase. Dundee has surrendered, the whole of Galloway has been ravaged, and Bruce, become bolder by his success, lies looking on our good town, as the wolves of Atholl look on the sheepfold in the glen." "If there had been lions in these parts, father," answered Anne, "I might have heard from thee a comparison more suitable to the qualities of that brave soldier." "These words, Anne," replied Peter, "but ill become a liege woman of King Edward. This poor country cannot thrive without the protecting power of England, where more broadcloths are disposed of in one year than Scotland uses in ten. The limbs of the sturdy hills and dales men seem to spurn all modes of human comfort; yet verily the love of ease and warmth to the body is the parent of all arts and improvement; and until that begins to be felt, we can have no hope of Scotland." Anne looked up, and smiled at this professional allusion to the source of her father's wealth. "But I need not so speak to the pretty Anne," he added, returning her smile; "for I know that thou hast the fashionable womanish affection of these times for steel, as the commodity of man's apparel; and thereto appertaineth the subject of which I came to speak to thee. Our governor, William Oliphant--who, though a Scotchman, is as true an adherent of Edward as ever fought under the banner-borne bones of his father--wanteth a thousand Flemish nobles, to enable him to get provisions for our citizens from a Dutch galley in the Tay; and whom should he apply to for it but Peter of Ghent, who is looked upon as being the richest man of Perth?" "And wilt thou give it him, father?" said Anne. "Of a surety, thou wilt lose it, if thou dost; for, were Perth as strong as Roxburgh, which, they say, is the strongest hold of these parts, it would not stand against such a warrior as Robert Bruce; and where wilt thou get thy money again, if the town falls into the hands of the Scots?" "That is a good point of argument for a woman, love," replied Peter. "I fear for the old town myself; for they tell me that Bruce's fame has brought to his blue banner three French knights, with their left eyes bound up by ladies' favours, who deem that their feats of arms in an escalade of Perth may restore to them their sight. Doubtless they will fight like lions or devils; but seest thou not, that, whether I give the money or not, the town may fall, and all I have in the world may be wrenched from me by these naked caterans, to whom a single merk, albeit it were clipped to the dimensions of King David's bodles, would be a fortune?" Anne was silent. The mention of the monoculous knights of France had driven merks and all other moneys from her mind, and she would have rejoiced to have seen Perth taken upon the instant, provided always that she were taken with it. But Peter understood not her absence of mind, and resumed his argument, on the assumption that Anne was listening with all due attention to his scheme. "But Peter of Ghent," he again said, "never gave a silver piece, or a woollen piece either, for nothing; and, if my dutiful Anne will enter into my scheme, she may have for her consort no less a man than William Oliphant himself, the Governor of Perth, and her wedding-dress shall be of the best silks of Nismes, the richest gloves of Grenoble, and sandals from the fair of Bocaire." This announcement of some cunning purpose of her father filled Anne with alarm. Oliphant, a dissolute man, had been sometimes in the habit of calling at the house, and she had often thought that she herself was the object of his attraction. Her father, by mentioning the French knights that fought under the banner of Bruce, had raised a hope that her chevalier of the green riband was among them, and now he had caused an alarm that might have been read in her countenance. "William Oliphant, the Governor of Perth," she replied, as she held down her face towards the blazing faggots, "will not surely stoop to marry the daughter of a Flemish merchant." "Money will make any man stoop, fair Anne," replied Peter. "I have heard the back armour of the bravest knight of the lists crack with the bow to Mammon, as loud as when he knelt to the peacock. A merchant knows the science of provisos, and conditions, and stipulations, and never a Scotch plack will William Oliphant get from Peter of Ghent, but upon the condition that he wed my Anne, when the town is saved from the arms of Bruce and his blind knights, and the promised succours shall arrive from England. By Saint Dennis, we may have a jolly wedding in the midst of our jubilee of liberation. What sayest, my love?" Anne still hung down her head. She feared to oppose her father, who was indulgent to her, and had hitherto prided himself on her obedience. She was, besides, overcome with the conflicting thoughts that had been so suddenly raised in her mind by the mention of the French knights, and of this new purpose of her father, that seemed to destroy all the hopes she still entertained of one day enjoying the affections of the man who had first produced an effect upon her heart. A deep sigh escaped from her, and roused her father's suspicions of the cause of her silence. "Speak, Anne," he said; "thou hast already captivated the governor by thy beauty, and my money will do the rest. He will be knighted by Edward, if he beat off the Bruce; and my daughter will be a lady." "William Oliphant is not a man according to my heart, father," answered she, at last, with a trembling heart; "but might I be absolved from my engagement to marry him, if the town falls before the arms of the Scots?" she added, as she looked modestly and fearfully into his face. "Most certainly, love," replied Peter; "and, moreover, thou shalt not be bound to Oliphant personally, for it is I that must make the condition that he will marry thee, in consideration of the loan I gave him for the good old town." Well pleased with the dutiful answer he had got from his daughter, the worthy man of traffic sallied forth to meet, by special appointment, the governor, who anxiously waited for him in his residence. After he had gone forth, Anne bethought herself of what her fear of offending her father had wrung from her. Though timid from love and duty, she was of a noble spirit, and upheld her heart, as it recoiled from the thought of becoming the wife of a man she hated, by revolving in her mind the chances of the gallant Scots forcing the town to surrender, and relieving her from her qualified obligation. She wished all success to the chivalrous Bruce, because she loved the character of him, and the great and enthusiastic spirits who were struggling for freedom; but she was filled with a high swelling hope, that burned in her bright eye, and heaved her bosom, that her chosen knight of the lists was among the three Frenchmen, who were undergoing their probation for the honours of chivalry. At that moment, her lover was in all probability at a very short distance from her--her lady-gift still bound the flowing hair of dark auburn she had seen and admired, as it escaped from beneath his helm; her power was still exercised in occluding one of the darkest and most brilliant eyes that ever peered through the warrior's visor, and the thought of her then sitting and dreaming of him was perhaps occupying his mind, and filling his heart. Then rose the thrilling thought, that, ere another week passed over, her own hands might be required to unbind the pledge, and the light of the eye that had so long been hid from the sun, might first be thrown upon the face of her who bound it. The hazards of a siege were despised by her bold spirit, as it contemplated these glowing visions. She feared nothing for either herself or her father from men who, while they fought like lions for their country's liberty, were actuated by the high and noble spirit of chivalry. Possessing that confidence in the generosity of noble hearts which seems to be natural to lovely women, she would throw herself on the protection of Bruce himself; claiming that, she could defy all danger, from whatever quarter it might come; and her request for safety to her father would be as successful as her petition for herself. In the siege and capture of the town, her best and dearest interests were involved; for she would contemplate the success of great men fighting in a cause she loved, she would have the chance of meeting her lover, and she had the certainty of escaping the licentious Oliphant, who could not claim her, in the event of losing his treacherous cause in fighting against his country. The sounds of the clang of arms of the assailants would at that moment have been the sweetest sound she ever heard; and she drew deep sighs, as she contemplated the chances of their triumph. Unconscious of the thoughts that were revolving in the excited mind of his daughter, Peter of Ghent walked along the streets of Perth, till he came to the residence of the governor. His mind was too much occupied on the subject of his diplomatic undertaking to allow him to notice the gazing burghers, who, from their windows, stared at the rich Fleming, and suspected that the object of his expedition was in some way connected with the perilous state of the town. He found the governor waiting for him; and, having made his bow, was soon seated by the official's fire. "Well, Peter of Ghent," began Oliphant, "hast thou bethought thyself of my request--to give me the thousand nobles that are required for the support of the town against the arms of the Bruce, whose head deserveth a spear, alongside of that which upholdeth Wallace's on London Bridge, or whose body meriteth a cage, alongside of the Countess of Buchan's crib, in the Castle of Berwick. What sayest thou?" "The sum thou mentionest, Sir Governor," replied the cunning burgher, "hath been laid apart for the tocher of Anne, who meriteth well of the good consideration thou hast bestowed on her. The marriage dower is a sacred gift. Dost thou think as well of her now as formerly?" "Why, yes, Peter of Ghent, I do," replied Oliphant, who probably saw some obscure connection between Peter's sentences which the words themselves scarcely supplied. "No man with a heart could see that maiden once, and forget her ever. Less beautiful women have been the cause of the meeting of bleeding heads and sawdust; and thou wilt not be far beyond the Saracen's head of thy suspicion, if thou deemest me a lover of fair Anne of Ghent." "That I have had a fair cause to suspect," said Peter; "and I am well entitled to opine that Anne would give her consent to my paying the sum required of me, upon the consideration that it was merely a species of foreinstalment of dowery, given for the double purpose of saving the town and securing a governor of her heart. A man that can defend, so nobly as you have done, a walled city, could keep a woman's heart in good discipline." "A right fair point of dialects, Peter of Ghent," replied Oliphant; "but we had better speak of concernments of love after the city is saved. Let us have the nobles in the meanwhile, and we will discuss the merits of the fair Anne, when we have time and leisure to appreciate the qualities of womankind." "Well and veritably indited," said Peter; "but it would lubricate and facilitate the gaining of Anne's consent to the payment of this money, if I could report to her that it was to be paid as a matrimonial propine to the man she loveth; and, to be honest, I cannot, of a truth, pay it, but upon that stipulation." "And, by the honour of a governor! I am well pleased to think that I am thus estimated by so fair a creature. Let us have the money; and, if all goes well with the town, I shall look for a second tocher, of another thousand, with the hand of thy daughter." "Concluded, Sir Governor," cried Peter, in ecstasy. And the two sat down to finish, over a bottle of Burgundy, the details of a bargain which, on one side, was, at least, sincere; but on the other, was deemed, by those who knew the faithless character of the man, of, at least, dubious faith. Whatever sincerity, however, was felt and exhibited by Peter, in so far as concerned the governor, it was very clear that he had acted a part of true mercantile subtlety, in so far as regarded the interests of his fair daughter. Meanwhile, the money was paid, and extraordinary efforts were made by Oliphant to get foraging parties sent abroad, to procure, for the inhabitants, the necessary supplies. The motions of these troops, as well as those of the besiegers, were regularly noticed by Anne from a part of the wall to which she had access from her father's house. Her interest in the issue of the impending strife was the greatest that could be felt by woman; for it involved the dearest rights of her sex. Bound to Oliphant only in the event of his success, his defeat might bring to her the object of her affections, and she looked for every demonstration of activity on the part of Bruce as a sign of her coming liberation. During these watchful operations of the fair Fleming, the soldiers of Bruce remained steady at their post, where they had already been for five weeks, endeavouring to prevent any supplies from being sent into the town. Their numbers as yet, however, were so few, and the fortifications of Perth so extensive, that a considerable portion of the ground surrounding the town was left under the surveillance of a species of riding patrole, which the indefatigable endeavours of Oliphant sometimes succeeded in enabling the purveyors to elude. A like good fortune did not attend some of those sent to turn the merks of Peter of Ghent into edibles; for several foragers were intercepted in their passage from the country to the besieged city. One of these--a person called Giles Mortimer--was taken before Bruce, and examined as to the state of the town's provisions. "Well, sirrah, are these rebels still determined to hold out?" said the king. "There are many murmurs in the town, sire," replied the man; "and were it not, as fame reporteth, that a rich citizen hath given the governor a thousand Flemish nobles, on condition that he marry his daughter, I do believe that not another noble would have been wrung from any one in the whole city." "And what is the name of this rich citizen?" said Bruce. "How could it be any other than Peter of Ghent?" said the man, with a smile; "for is he not the richest citizen of Perth?" "We have heard of this same Peter of Ghent," said Bruce; "and, by our crown, we should not be ill pleased to be present at the wedding of his daughter. We have some French knights here, who would dance merrily, in honour of the fair bride. What is her name?" "Anne of Ghent she is called," replied the man; "and, by'r lady, she might, for the matter of beauty, be the wife of a king." "And when is the wedding to be?" rejoined Brace. "When the governor can declare the town to be safe from the Bruce," replied the man. "And that will be when the hares in the pass of Ben Cruachan are safe from the wolves of Lorn," replied Bruce, laughing, and looking around to his chiefs. "Now, look around you, sir, at these warriors, and after thou hast made a gauge of their numbers, and learned that every castle we have yet attempted hath fallen before us, go and tell William Oliphant that we intend to be present at his wedding with the fair Anne of Ghent, and cannot think of waiting either for the succours of King Edward, or for our own defeat. Hie thee on our message, sirrah." The man was accordingly liberated; and Bruce, during that same day, having resolved to perform by stratagem what seemed to be impossible by the fair play of arms, took with him Sir James Douglas, and went to reconnoitre. Great and even marvellous as was the courage of these far-famed assertors of their country's freedom, it may be doubted whether their genius for daring and successful stratagem did not excel the chivalrous spirit of fair-fighting by which they were actuated to perform deeds of arms that have made the whole world ring with their fame. The capture of the peel or castle of Linlithgow, and that of Edinburgh, afterwards performed, were the most cunningly-devised pieces of military stratagem that had ever been witnessed; and the work of old Polyænus on the warlike acts of the strategists of Greece exhibits nothing that can be compared to them. Bruce had already exhibited this talent for scheming, in the affairs of Lindon Hill and Cruachan Ben; but his powers in this respect were yet to be developed on a grander scale, and as it were by gradation, till the final triumph of Bannockburn should establish his fame for ever. The capture of Perth was one of those intermediate and probationary trials that were fitting the great master for that final and glorious display of all his talents for war; but, small as it was in comparison of what followed, it exhibited perhaps as much of his peculiar genius as had yet been shown. Accompanied by Sir James, he went, during the hours of twilight, up to the margin of the fosse. "We must know the depth cf this miniature Styx," he said to his companion. "But we have no measuring-rods," replied Sir James. "By thine own St Bride! we have though," replied Bruce, smiling. "I am six feet two inches in height." And, in an instant, he was up to the neck in the water; proceeding forward he reached the bottom of the wall, and satisfied himself that all the tall men of his army might make their way through the ditch without incurring the danger of being drowned. Having ascertained this, he returned to the camp, and having provided himself and his companion (for he avoided any show of men) with scaling-ladders of ropes, they again sallied forth under the shade of the increasing darkness, and reached the spot that had already been tested. With one of the ladders in his hand, he again plunged into the water, and made a signal for Sir James to follow; but the knight wanted full two inches of the height of the king, and hesitated a moment, from a well-grounded suspicion that he would be overwhelmed. But shame mastered his scruples, and in an instant he was alongside of the king, who, however, required to seize and sustain him, to prevent his being taken off his feet by the power of the water, that was almost on a level with his lips. They paused a moment in this position, to listen if there were any sounds of stir on the walls, and, perceiving all quiet, they proceeded, and reached the bottom of the fortification. Sir James stood close to the wall, and Bruce, by the aid of some jutting stones, mounted upon his shoulders, remarking, with a quaint humour, that the knight required some weight to be placed upon him, to enable him to keep his erect position. In this strange attitude the king contrived to throw up and fix the ladders to the top of the first bartizan of the wall, and having tugged them with all his force, to ascertain their steadfastness, he came down, and was about to retrace his steps, when Sir James, who disdained to be behind even his king in feats of daring, seized the end of one of the ladders, and, mounting up, looked calmly over the top of the wall, and satisfied himself of two things--first, that the ladders were properly fixed; and, second, that their daring act had not been observed. Having descended, he was again laid hold of by the king; and they reached the bank, where they deliberately shook the water off them after the manner of water-spaniels, and returned to the camp. Some of the heads of the army were informed of what had been done, and, next morning, after all the inhabitants of the town were astir, the clarion was sounded, loud and long, as if the city had been upon the instant to be attacked. The tents were struck; but, in place of an attack, a retreat was the order of the day, and in the course of an hour the whole Scottish host were beyond the sight of the inhabitants of Perth. The intelligence was soon therefore circulated within the city, that Bruce had given up the siege, and had departed upon some expedition of less difficulty; and the friends of Edward rejoiced that they were liberated from so fearful a foe. The communication was received by many with great rejoicings; and a courier, who arrived that same day from England, announced that Edward had despatched succours to the city, which would arrive in the Tay nearly as soon as the messenger would reach the end of his journey. To Peter of Ghent, this change of circumstances was the apparent prelude to the honours he expected to be showered upon his daughter; but Anne herself, dreaming still of her monoculous knight, and of her anticipated delivery by the champions she desired so ardently to see, looked forward with fear and trembling to the sacrifice that seemed to await her. Her watching at the city walls had been persevered in; but all her care and perspicacity had not enabled her to perceive the strange act of Bruce in suspending the ladder before sounding a retreat. The guarding of the walls was in some degree relaxed, and the inhabitants began again to go forth, and engage in their avocations. About three days afterwards, the handmaid of the fair Fleming, who was in the secret of her mistress, informed her that, as she returned from a meeting near the fortifications with her lover, a soldier, she had observed the top of a rope-ladder affixed to the lower bartizan of the west wall; but the girl's information ended with the announcement of the fact, for her simple mind had suggested no explanation of the circumstance. But to Anne's quick thought the communication presented an aspect pregnant of hope; and, having cautioned the maiden against speaking of what she had seen to any of the inhabitants, she sallied forth in the light of the moon, and by the directions of her informant soon came to the spot where the ladder was suspended. A train of reflections opened up to her the scheme of Bruce, who had, as she thought, raised the siege, to lull the inhabitants into a security which he might turn to his advantage. By some bold efforts, she reached the part of the wall to which the instrument of escalade was attached, and, in the height of her enthusiasm, she took from her dress a narrow riband, and bound it to the top of the ropes. "The design of these bold spirits," she said, "shall not lack the inspiring gift of a woman to hail, as that favour streameth in the wind, the success of the cause that giveth freedom to their country. If Rolande de Leon may not see this, the eyes of Bruce, that are unbound, may catch a sight of the trophy; and what better evidence may he have that Anne of Ghent wisheth him triumph?" After indulging in her short monologue, she retreated from the wall, and with some difficulty escaped the eyes of some of the neighbouring guards, as she sought with quick steps the house of her father. As she entered, Peter of Ghent looked at her as if he would have questioned her as to where she had been at so late an hour; but his mind was too much occupied by matters of greater moment. "Welcome, my love," said he to her, as she sat down by the fire. "I have been with the governor, who is full of rejoicing at this unexpected quittance of the Bruce and his host of wolves. The period of the fulfilment of our condition approaches. The succours of Edward are expected every hour; and then, Anne, I have a right to claim for thee a lord, who is worthy of thy beauty and thy goodness." "The Bruce may return, father," replied Anne. "It is not thus that he resigns his prey." "That is nothing to thee or to me, Anne," said Peter, somewhat roused. "A knighthood will be the more sure to the governor; and I should like as well to see that honour bestowed on thy husband as on thy betrothed. Get ready thy marriage-gear, love, and lay aside thy maiden blushes, which can aid thee as little in capturing a husband, as Bruce's backwardness in the taking of Perth." "The governor hath not claimed me, father," replied Anne, hesitatingly. "He hath not called here since the money was paid to him." "More still of thy doubtful questionings, wench!" cried Peter, rising in his anger. "What is his remissness to thee, if I adhere to my condition, and demand my bond? He is bound by his honour; to-morrow he is to be here, and thou must show thy fairest qualities in his presence. Go and assign thee thy appurtenances and paraphernals." Anne rose silently and left the room; but it was not to obey her father. Her mind was occupied with meditations on the chances of the return of Bruce, upon which her safety from the arms of Oliphant, and her hope of meeting her French knight, depended. Her calculations of the probability of that event were but the operations of her own unaided mind, and misgivings, ushering in painful fears, vindicated a place in her thoughts, and made her alternately the victim of hope and apprehension. She could not retire to rest, and her devotions before the Holy Virgin were performed with a fluttering heart, that shook off the holy feelings with which she was accustomed to kneel before the sacred image. The moon still shone bright in at the window, and the stillness that reigned within the house told her that the inmates had retired to rest. She felt a strong inclination to go forth, and find that relief which is often experienced by troubled spirits, in the calm beams of the queen of night; and, wrapping around her a mantle, she obeyed the impulse of her feelings. A large garden nearly connected the house with a part of the fortifications; and, having perambulated the open space, she sauntered along till she came to an embrasure, at which she set herself down, and fixed her eyes on the surrounding ground, where she had formerly seen a part of Bruce's besieging forces. She could perceive nothing now but the wide plain spread forth in the silver light of the moon, and below her feet the deep fosse which reflected the bright beams from its quiet surface. The wind was hushed, and an unbroken silence seemed to reign throughout all nature. A deep train of meditations took possession of her mind; and the sublimed feelings that were called forth by the still and solemn silence around her, mixed with and lent an influence to the thoughts that were ever and anon busy with the hopes that had not yet forsaken her breast. As she sat thus meditating, she thought she observed a dark mass of some moving body upon the plain beyond; and, as she gazed, her attention became more and more fixed upon the extraordinary appearance. In a short time, the dense mass became more perceptible, and she could now distinguish that it was composed of a body of men, whose motion forward was so noiseless that scarcely a single sound met her ear. There was a small body somewhat in advance of the rest, and she now saw that the direction which they held was towards the spot where she had seen the instrument of escalade fixed to the wall. Rising hurriedly, she crept along by the covered way, and was surprised to find that her passage was not interrupted by a single guard, the men having, in consequence of the fatigue to which they had been exposed for five weeks, taken advantage of Bruce's retreat, and betaken themselves to rest. She soon arrived at the spot, and about the same time she observed that the van she had noticed had also got to that part of the fosse opposite to where she was now placed. The silence enabled her now to catch the low tones of the men; and the coruscations of their steel armour, as the moonbeams played upon it, met her eye. She hesitated a moment whether she would remain or retreat; for the terrors of a siege were before her, and her father was in danger; but she felt that her own freedom from a hated union depended upon the success of the besiegers, and the workings of an enthusiastic spirit stilled the whisperings of fear. She bent and listened, for articulate sentences now rose from the warriors, who stood for a moment on the brink of the fosse. A gigantic individual, in full mail, stood in the midst of the group, and he could be no other than Bruce himself, whose height exceeded that of most men of his day. "Art ready?" said he, as he held forth his spear, the point of which glittered in the moonbeams, as he waved it. "Ay--on, noble king!" was responded by another behind him. "Come on, then," again said the former, and immediately he dashed into the water, which seemed to cover his body to the head. Some of the others appeared to hesitate for a moment. "What shall we say of our French lords," cried another, in a French accent, "who live at home in the midst of wassail and jollity, when so brave a knight is here putting his life in hazard to win a hamlet?" And he was the second that followed the Bruce. "Shall a Frenchman, who hath not yet redeemed the sight of his left eye, bound by a lady's pledge, be the second to mount the wall," was said by a third, as he rushed forward. In an instant the whole party were in the water. Bruce was now on the ladder. He stopped suddenly, and gazed for a moment at the riband on the top of the escalade. Anne's voice met his ear. "Come on, come on, brave warriors," she said, in a low tone. "Who art thou, in Heaven's name?" replied he. "Anne of Ghent, thy friend. The guard is asleep, and the governor deemeth thee far away. I claim indemnity in life and limb to Peter of Ghent." "Granted, noble damsel, by the sword of Bruce!" was the answer; "away--away!--to a place of safety." Anne lost no time in obeying the command. She flew along the covered way with the quickness of light. In her speed she stumbled on the feet of a soldier who lay in a recess of the ramparts, and was almost precipitated to the ground. The man looked up in agitation, and, seeing that it was a woman, growled out a few incoherent sentences, and again resigned himself to sleep, from which he might awake only to feel the sharp steel of a Scotch dagger, as it sought his heart. She paused a little, to satisfy herself that the man was not sufficiently roused to hear the sounds of the assailants, and, finding all safe, she sought hurriedly the dwelling of her father. He was sound asleep when she entered, and there was no one stirring; but the sounds of horns were now ringing through the city, and, as she opened the door of his sleeping-apartment, the clamour roused him. Starting to his feet, he called out to Anne to know the cause of the disturbance. "The Bruce is in the act of storming the city, father," she said. "Then are the dreams of my ambition finished," replied Peter; "and we shall be the marks for the vengeance of these savages. I have no chance of escape. My money is gone, and the reward that will be given for it will be death." "Fear not, father," said Anne, calmly; "thou art safe." "Peter of Ghent," replied he, "who hath furnished money for the support of the city, will be among the first objects of the vengeance of the Bruce. Ha! I hear already the groans of the dying. Whither shall I fly, or where shall I conceal myself?" "Thou canst be safe only in this house," said Anne. "The Bruce hath, by his sword, pledged his faith to me that Peter of Ghent shall be safe in life and limb." "What meaneth the damsel's strange words?" cried the father. "Art thou mad? Where couldst thou have seen the Bruce?" "Concern not thyself for that, father," replied she, with the same unperturbed air. "Thou art safe. The Bruce hath said it." Peter looked at his daughter in blank wonder; and, as the sounds of horns, the clashing of swords, and the screams of the dying met his ear, he trembled and seemed irresolute whether he should repose faith in her words, or take means for his safety. A loud noise now approached the house; the door was burst open, and three naked caterans entered the apartment, with bloodstained swords gleaming in their hands. One of them rushed forwards, and, seizing Peter, was on the point of thrusting the weapon into his bosom. "He is safe by the word of the Bruce," ejaculated Anne, as she rushed between the soldier and her father. "His name, then?" cried one of the soldiers behind. "Peter of Ghent," answered Anne. The sword of the soldier was dropped in an instant. "To pe sure he will pe safe if that pe his name," said the man, with a grim smile. "Te prince has said it. Here, Tuncan, guard this maiden and her father, while I and Tonald will pe after sending te neebours to their lang hames." With these words the two caterans left the house, and joined the other soldiers who were careering through the city, and slaying every Anglicised Scot that came in their way. The guard Duncan remained in Peter's house, and sat with grim majesty, surveying in silence the terrified Fleming, who was lost in wonder at what he had seen and heard; for everything appeared to him a mystery. Others of the soldiers burst at intervals into the house, with the intent to slay the inmates; but Duncan silenced them all by the watchword, "Peter of Ghent," and at every demonstration of the charm the worthy burgher seemed more and more surprised. He questioned Anne as to the meaning of the strange effect of his name and of the unlooked-for security that it afforded to him who deserved death more than any one in the city, except the governor himself. But he got small satisfaction from the maiden, for she felt that it was impossible for her to explain the part she acted, without incurring the charge that she had been untrue to the cause of her father, and the rights of the governor and the king. Neither would Duncan give him any information but what tended rather to increase the mystery; for he merely said that it was the command of the Bruce that Peter of Ghent should be saved from the general massacre, and guarded safely from the fury of the soldiers by the first man that entered his house. In the midst of this mystery, a suspicion took possession of him, that Bruce wished to save him for a more cruel death, after the siege should be ended; and, notwithstanding of all that Anne could say to him to calm his fears, he still retained doggedly the apprehension, and sighed bitterly as he contemplated his expected fate. "Thou hast given me no reason, girl," he whispered to her, "to satisfy me that I am not reserved for the heading-block. Bruce hath, of a verity, heard of the money I lent to the governor, and thou shalt by and by mourn the death of thy father. But what didst thou mean, Anne, by thy statement to the soldier, that I was safe by the word of the Bruce? Was it a device of thy quick fancy to save me from the sword of that man, who weareth no broadcloth on his body, and whose limbs are, of a consequence, as hard as his heart?" "If thou wilt stand by thy pledge, father," answered Anne, "that I shall not be required to marry Oliphant, now that the city is taken, I will pledge a simple damsel's word that thou shalt be as safe from the headsman's falchion as thou art from the broadsword of that wild man, whose bare limbs terrify me more than the bright steel of the Bruce." "Of a surety I will stand by my pledge, girl; but I cannot rest satisfied till I hear thy reason for the confidence thou reposest in the clemency of the Scottish leader, whose name is a terror to every enemy of his country." "Nay, father, I am now trafficking with thee--driving a bargain, as thou sayest," replied she, with a smile, which the still terrified Fleming could not for the soul of him understand. "The bargain is concluded, and I cannot, for my honour, say more, even to my father." "Tell me, man," cried Peter, to the Highlander, who still stood guarding the door, with the drawn sword in his hand--"tell me, since my daughter will not, what the Bruce intendeth to do with Peter of Ghent, whose name hath operated as a charm on thy ear?" "Hoigh, hoigh, man!" replied Duncan; "ye'll pe trying to get secrets oot o' Tuncan Thu Mohr." "I will give thee money, my brave preserver," rejoined Peter, as he ran forward. "Let me escape, and I will reward thee with ten nobles. Here they are--see, see--it is meet thou shouldst have them, seeing thou wilt get no share of the spoils of the city." "Keep him securely," whispered Anne, in the ear of the Highlander, "and I will reward thee better on the morrow." "Thou art mad, Anne. What means the rebellious wench?" cried Peter, angrily. "Thou hast become a trafficker with the enemies of thy father. Henceforth I have no faith in thee. Wilt thou not let me free, good Master Mohr?" Duncan turned, and looked knowingly at Anne, who, he probably thought, was wishing to torment the old merchant. "To pe surely, she will pe keeping her prisoner," said he, in aid of the imputed design of the fair accomplice, and with a twinkle in his eye. "Te auld merchant's head will pe worth more than te ten nobles, she will pe thinking." "Dost thou not hear, Anne, that I am, as I suspected, doomed to lay my head on the block?" cried Peter again. "Thou hast apparently some power over the savage," he added, in a whisper; "aid me in bribing him, and we may yet escape to Flanders, with my wealth, otherwise thou wilt lose thy dowery, and I my head." "I have told thee that thou art safe, and thou wilt not listen to me," replied she. "Thou oughtst to be thankful for thy condition. Hearest thou not the groans of the dying citizens amidst the loud clang of arms? Thousands are now dying, and thou hast a royal guard to save thee from harm; yet art thou grumbling at thy fate!" During all this time, the work of destruction had been going on in all parts of the city. Bruce was well aware that the great evil he had to cure could only be overcome by extreme measures, and the better feelings of his nature had for a time given place to the thirst for vengeance for the many wrongs he had suffered from the tyrants, who had not only ruined the country, but stained his domestic hearth with the cruelties of persecution. He gave orders, on entering the city, that every Soot that had favoured Edward should die; and his command was but too literally obeyed--thousands on that night felt, in the pangs of death, the effects of his dreadful retaliation. When the day dawned, he collected his captains in the court hall of the city, for the purpose of issuing ordinances of confiscation, settling the terms on which the city should in future be held, and passing sentence on the governor, who had been taken alive, and stood in the hall bound in chains. Bruce sat in the chair of office, his captains were ranged around him, and by his left side sat two of the French squires already spoken of, who had trusted to the events of that siege for getting the leave of the bravest knights of these times to remove the bandages from their left eyes, and be declared entitled to the rights and honours of chivalry. The scene presented one of the most extraordinary aspects of these times of war and bloodshed. Bruce himself had fought hand to hand with the officers of the garrison, and slain every one who dared to withstand his terrible onset. His face and hands were covered with blood; his bright armour was stained; and the sword which he still held in his hand bore evidence to the work of deadly execution it had done against Scotland's foes. Sir James Douglas, Randolph, and others of the fiercest of his captains, bore the same grim aspect; and the French squires exhibited by their gore-stained shields that they merited the reward for which they looked, from the honour-dispensing sword of the king. At a table before the king, there sat a man habited as a clerk, with a black cloak over his shoulders, and a small felt cap, that covered the crown of his head. He was busy calling forth the names of the inhabitants who had adhered to the cause of Edward; and, as he repeated them, the king awarded his fiat of confiscation of the effects of the individuals. As the man proceeded, he came to the name of Peter of Ghent, and Bruce paused. The recollections of Anne and her father had been, by the turmoils of the siege, for some time absent from his mind; but now his face glowed as the adventure of the preceding night flashed upon him, and the heroic conduct of the maiden was appreciated in the triumph he was now enjoying. He thought for a moment, and remembered that it was she who was to have been wedded to the governor. He could not account for the apparent contradiction between this purpose and the conduct of the girl in hailing him on to the siege of the city; but his quick mind at once suggested the solution that she had been hostile to the match, and that it had been projected merely by her father as a part of the transactions of the loan that had been given for the support of the city. "Let Peter of Ghent and his fair daughter Anne be called to our presence," cried the king. And in a short time the wealthy Fleming, with Anne, who was covered with a deep veil, was led forwards in the midst of the assembled chiefs. It was apparent, from Peter's manner, that he was still actuated by the fear of punishment, for he trembled and shook all over, while Anne, looking at him with side-glances from beneath her veil, seemed to contemplate him with a mixed feeling of pity and good-humour. Bruce, who was anxious to see the face of the maiden who had acted so noble and fearless a part, would have requested her to lift her veil; but the high-bred feelings inculcated by the peculiar formula of knighthood induced him to wait till he could accomplish the object of his wish after the legitimate manner of the chevaliers. Turning to the trembling culprit, he raised his voice to the highest pitch. "What does that inhabitant of old Scotland deserve," he said, as he fixed his eyes on Peter, "who giveth his means in aid of rebellion against his crowned king? Answer us, Peter of Ghent, according to the estimate thou formest of thine own act, in giving to Mr Oliphant, governor of our city, the money wherewith he endeavoured to resist our authority." Peter was silent, for he was now satisfied that he had been spared to be reserved for the gallows or the heading-axe. "Speak, sirrah!" cried the Bruce, assuming a more stern tone of authority. "What it meriteth in the mind of Scotland's lawful king," replied Peter, at length; "but spare the old father for the sake of his child, and what is left of my substance shall go to support the crown, which a king's leniency to repentant subjects renders the more lustrous." "Flattery is no atonement for rebellion," thundered out Bruce. "God have mercy upon me!" cried Peter of Ghent. "Thou knowest, my liege, that I had no power to resist the command of the governor, when he demanded of me a thousand nobles; nor could I resist thy higher authority, wert thou to ask of me to lay another thousand at this moment at thy royal feet." "Thou wouldst now even bargain for thy head, as thou didst for the marriage of thy fair daughter," cried Bruce. "Is it not true, sir, that thou didst sell the maiden to the traitor Oliphant?" "It is even true that I did make it a condition of the advance of the thousand nobles, that he should fulfil the intentions he had manifested towards my daughter; yet I was not the less necessitated to give the money, seeing it would have been taken from me otherwise." "Then what does the man merit who sells his daughter for the liberties of the country by whose industry and means he liveth?" replied the king. "I put it to the nobles here assembled." "The heading-block--the heading-block," resounded in hoarse groans through the hall. "Will she not yet throw off her veil?" muttered the king, as he cast his eyes on Anne. "Lead Peter of Ghent to the block," he cried aloud. Anne threw back her veil, and, with her face uncovered, cast herself at the feet of Bruce. The assembled lords fixed their eyes upon the damsel, as she occupied a position which exhibited the graces of her perfect figure, and the intelligence of her beautiful face lighted up with feelings which moved the hearts of the sternest warriors around. They were struck with the full blaze of a beauty that was not excelled by the fairest woman of Scotland in her day, and whispers went round among them that told eloquently the effect she had produced by the sudden display of her charms. "Is this the reward, my liege," she said, in a clear, tuneful voice, "that is due to me for my humble efforts in behalf of the success of thine arms? Is this the faith of the Brace, whose name has filled the nations as the trumpet resounds within the palisades when honour is to be sought and won?" A smile played upon the face of the king. The quick, dark eye of the maiden searched his heart, and was satisfied. A mantling blush, accompanied by a smile that seemed to respond to the humour of the king, enhanced her beauty, and showed that she understood the play that was enacted by the noble monarch. "It is the privilege of beauty," said the king, still smiling, "to inspire its possessor with an unshaken faith in the sanctions of the brave. We are not oblivious, fair Anne of Ghent, of our promise, as this will testify." And he undid her own riband from his arm, and put it around the neck of the supplicant. "The colour of this streamer shall afterwards be that of the banner of Perth. Thy father is safe in life and limb; but tell us, fair damsel, what other method could we have adopted, to gratify our sense of justice and our love of beauty, than to show thy father that he owes his safety to thee, and to make thee throw off the veil that concealeth so fair a face?" At this moment, one of the French squires, with his left eye bound up by a green riband, advanced to the feet of the king, and stood for a moment surveying the countenance of the supplicant. "By the patron saint of the house of Leon," cried the Frenchman, "it is my fair queen of the lists! Knowest thou this silken band, lady, by which my left orb is occluded, and my affections bound to the giver?" "If thou art Rolande de Leon," said Anne, as she rose, by the hand of the king, "thou canst tell if that gift was bestowed by my hands. To that valiant squire, Anne of Ghent did once award the humble pledge of a silken band, which was to remain on his temples till he achieved a feat of arms." "Ha, well timed!" cried Bruce. "Hear the command of thy liege sovereign. We command Anne of Ghent to give the light of heaven to that occluded organ, which is so well entitled to see the glitter of the sword of knighthood, and the charms of her who restores it to its natural rights." Anne proceeded, amidst the applause of the lords, to obey the commands of the king. With a firm hand, but a palpitating heart, she undid the bandage, as the Frenchman knelt at her feet. "Rise not yet," said Bruce, when he saw the operation concluded; and, taking his sword, he touched the back of the squire, and pronounced the words, "Rise, Sir Rolande de Leon, one of the bravest knights that it has been our good fortune to see fighting under the blue banner of Scotland." The knight rose, amidst the acclamation of the nobles. The clerk again proceeded with his monotonous vocation of calling out the names of the citizens. Peter, with his daughter, accompanied by Sir Rolande, left the court-room, and proceeded to his house, where, after proper explanations, the Fleming saw no reason to regret the taking of the city. On that same day, William Oliphant was beheaded. The town was quickly restored to order; and, before Bruce's army again set out on a new expedition, Anne of Ghent became the lady of Sir Rolande de Leon. This brave knight accompanied Bruce through all his engagements, taking frequent opportunities, throughout the wars, of stealing a few days of the society of his fair Anne of Ghent. In a short time he was covered with honours; and, by the end of Scotland's period of direst strife and danger, old Peter of Ghent died, leaving a large fortune to his daughter. The couple, we have reason to believe, retired afterwards to a castle somewhere in Perthshire, to enjoy the peace and happiness of a domestic life, after so many toils and dangers. We have somewhere seen the arms afterwards adopted by the knight, in which _three Lioncels rampant topaz_ figure on a _field sapphire_, _crest_, wreathed with a _riband vert_. The wreath we may easily understand; nor can we be at any loss for the derivation of the young Lions, seeing that, according to our authority, Anne bore Sir Rolande three sons, whose descendants, under the name of Lion, long lived in Perthshire; and, if we are not led astray by old writs, they afterwards intermarried with the Lions of Strathmore. THE PROFESSOR'S TALES. PEAT-CASTING TIME. In the olden times, there were certain fixed occasions when labour and frolic went hand in hand--when professional duty and kind-hearted glee mutually kissed each other. The "rocking" mentioned by Burns-- "On Fastening's E'en we had a rocking"-- I still see in the dim and hazy distance of the past. It is only under the refractive medium of vigorous recollection that I can again bring up to view (as the Witch of Endor did Samuel) those images that have been reposing, "'midst the wreck of things that were," for more than fifty years. Yet my early boyhood was familiar with these social senile and juvenile festivities. _There_ still sits Janet Smith, in her toy-mutch and check-apron, projecting at intervals the well-filled spindle into the distance. Beside her is Isabel Kirk, elongating and twirling the yet unwound thread. Nanny Nivison occupies a _creepy_ on the further side of the fire (making the third Fate!), with her shears. Around, and on bedsides, are seated Lizzy Gibson, with her favoured lad; Tam Kirkpatrick, with his jo Jean on his knee; Rob Paton the stirk-herd; and your humble servant. And "now the crack gaes round, and who so wilful as to put it by?" The story of past times; the report of recent love-matches and miscarriages; the gleeful song, bursting unbid from the young heart, swelling forth in beauty and in brightness like the waters from the rock of Meribah; the occasional female remonstrance against certain _welcome_ impertinences, in shape of, "Come now, Tam--nane o' yer nonsense." "Will! I say, be peaceable, and behave yersel afore folk. 'Od, ye'll squeeze the very breath out o' a body." "Till, in a social glass o' strunt, They parted off careering On sic a night." "Ye've heard a lilting at our ewes-milking." How few of the present generation have ever heard of this "lilting," except in song. It is the gayest and sunniest season of the year. The young lambs, in their sportive whiteness, are coursing it, and bleating it, responsive to their dams, on the hill above. The old ewes on the plain are marching-- "The labour much of man and dog"-- to the pen or fold. The response to the clear-toned bleat of their woolly progeny is given, anon and anon, in a short, broken, low bass. It is the raven conversing with the jack-daw! All is bustle, excitement, and badinage. "Weer up that ewe, Jenny, lass. Wha kens but her woo may yet be a blanket for you and ye ken wha to sleep in!" "Haud yer tongue, Tammie, and gang hame to yer books and yer schoolin. Troth, it will be twa days ere the craws dirty your kirk riggin!" Wouf, wouf, wouf!--hee, hee, hee!--hoch, hoch, hoch!--there _in_ they go, and _in_ they are, their horny heads wedged over each other, and a trio of stout, well-made damsels, with petticoats tied up "_à la breeches_," tugging away at their well-filled dugs. "Troth, Jenny, that ewe will waur ye; 'od I think ye hae gotten haud o' the auld tup himsel. He's as powerfu, let me tell ye, as auld Francie, wham ye kissed sae snug last nicht ayont the peat-mou." "Troth, at weel, Tam, ye're a fearfu liar. They wad be fonder than I am o' cock birds wha wad gie tippence for the stite o' a howlet." "Howlet here, howlet there, Jenny, ye ken weel his auld brass will buy you a new pan." At this crisis the crack becomes general and inaudible from its universality, mixed as it is with the bleating of ewes, the barking of dogs, together with the singing of herd-laddies and of your humble servant. Harvest is a blithe time! May all the charms of "Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on him" who shall first invent a reaping-machine! The best of all reaping-machines is "the human _arm_ divine," whether brawny or muscular, or soft and rounded. The old woman of sixty sits all year long at her domestic occupations--you would deem her incapable of any out-door exertions; but, at the sound of the harvest-horn, she renews her youth, and sallies forth into the harvest-field, with hook over shoulder, and a heart buoyant with the spirit of the season, to take her place and drive her rig with the youngest there. The half-grown boy and girl of fourteen are mingled up in duty and in frolic, in jest and jibe, and jeer and laugh, with the stoutest and the most matured. Mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, and, above and beyond all, "lads and lasses, lovers gay!" mix and mingle in one united band, for honest labour and exquisite enjoyment; and when at last the joyous kirn is won--when the maiden of straw is borne aloft and in triumph, to adorn for twelve months the wall of the farmer's ben--when the rich and cooling curds-and-cream have been ram-horn-spooned into as many mouths as there are persons in the "toun"--then comes the mighty and long-anticipated festival, the roasted ox, the stewed sheep, the big pot enriched with the cheering and elevating draught, the punch dealt about in ladles and in jugs, the inspiring fiddle, the maddening reel, and the Highland fling. "_We_ cannot but remember such things were, And were most dear to us!" Hay harvest, too, had its soft and delicate tints, resembling those of the grain harvest. As the upper rainbow curves and glows with fainter colouring around the interior and the brighter, so did the hay harvest of yore anticipate and pre-figure, as it were, the other. The hay tedded to the sun; the barefooted lass, her locks floating in the breeze, her cheeks redolent of youth, and her eyes of joy, scattering or collecting, carting or ricking, the sweetly-scented meadow produce, under a June sun and a blue sky! "Oh, to feel as I have felt, Or be what I have been!" The favoured lover, namely, of that youthful purity, now in its fourteenth summer--myself as pure and all unthinking of aught but affection the most intense, and feelings the most soft and unaccountable. "Ah, little did thy mother think, That day she cradled thee, What lands thou hadst to travel in, What death thou hadst to dee!" Poor Jeanie Johnston! I have seen her, only a few weeks ago, during the sittings of the General Assembly, sunk in poverty, emaciated by disease, the wife of an old soldier, himself disabled from work, tenanting a dark hovel in Pipe's Close, Castlehill of Edinburgh. In the upper district of Dumfries-shire--the land of my birth, and of all those early associations which cling to me as the mistletoe to the oak, and which are equally hallowed with that druidical excrescence--there are no coals, but a superabundance of moss; consequently peat-fires _are_ very _generally_ still, and _were_, at the time of which I speak, _universally_, made use of; and a peat-fire, on a cold, frosty night of winter, when every star is glinting and goggling through the blue, or when the tempest raves, and "There's no a star in a' the cary," is by no means to be despised. To be sure, it is short-lived--but then it kindles soon; it does not, it is true, entertain us with fantastic and playful jets of flame--but then its light is full, united, and steady; the heat which it sends out on all sides is superior to that of coals. Wood is sullen and sulky, whether in its log or faggot form. It eats away into itself, in a cancer ignition. But the blazing peat-- "The bleezing ingle, and the clean hearth-stane"-- is the very soul of cheerfulness and comfort. But then peats must be prepared. They do not grow in hedges, nor vegetate in meadows. They must be cut from the black and consolidated moss; and a peculiarly-constructed spade, with a sharp edge and crooked ear, must be made use of for that purpose; and into the field of operation must be brought, at casting-time, the spademen, with their spades; and the barrowmen, and women, boys, and girls, with their barrows; and the breakfast sowans, with their creamy milk, cut and crossed into circles and squares; and the dinner stew, with its sappy potatoes and gusty-onioned mutton fragments; and the rest at noon, with its active sports and feats of agility, and, in particular, with its jumps from the moss-brow into the soft, marshy substance beneath--and _thereby hangs my tale_, which shall be as short and simple as possible. One of the loveliest visions of my boyhood is Nancy Morrison. She was a year or so older than me; but we went and returned from school together. She was the only daughter of a poor widow woman, who supported herself, in a romantic glen on the skirts of the Queensberry Hills, by bleaching or whitening webs. In those days, the alkalis and acids had not yet superseded the slower progress of whitening green linen by soap-boiling, tramping, and alternate drying in the sun, and wetting with pure running water. Many is the time and oft that Nanny and I have wielded the watering-pan, in this fairy, sunny glen, all day long. Whilst the humble-bee boomed past us, the mavis occupied the thorn-tree, and the mother of Nanny employed herself in some more laborious department of the same process, Nanny and I have set us down on the greensward--_in tenaci gramine_--played at chucks, "head him and cross him," or some such amusement. At school, Nanny had ever a faithful defender and avenger in me; and I have even purloined apples and gooseberries from the castle garden--and all for the love I bore "to my Nanny, oh!" I know not that any one has rightly described a first love. It is not the love of man and woman, though that be fervent and terrible--it is not the love of mere boy and girlhood, though that be disinterested and engrossing--but it is the love of the period of life which unites the two. "Is there a man whose blood is warm within him" who does not recollect it? Is there a woman who has passed through the novitiate of fifteen, who has not still a distinct impression of the feeling of which I speak. It is not sexual, and yet it can only exist betwixt the sexes. It is the sweetest delusion under which the soul of a created being can pass. It is modest, timid, retiring, bashful; yet, in absence of the adored--in seclusion, in meditation, and in dreams--it is bold, resolute, and determined. There is no plan, no design, no right conception of _cause_; yet the _effect_ is sure and the bliss perfect. Oh, for one hour--one little hour--from the thousands which I have idled, sported, dreamed away in the company of my darling school-companion, Nancy! Will Mather was about two years older than Nancy--a fine youth, attending the same school, and evidently an admirer of Nancy. Mine was the love of comparative boyhood; but his was a passion gradually ripening (as the charms of Nancy budded into womanhood) into a manly and matrimonial feeling. I loved the girl merely as such--his eye, his heart, his whole soul were in his future bride. Marriage in no shape ever entered into my computations; but his eager look and heaving bosom bespoke the definite purpose--he anticipated felicity. I don't know exactly why, but I was never jealous of Will Mather--we were companions; and he was high-souled and generous, and stood my friend in many perilous quarrels. I knew that _my_ pathway in life was to be afar from that in which Nancy and Will were likely to walk; and I felt in my heart that, dear as this beautiful rosebud was to me, I was not _man_ enough--I was not _peasant_ enough to wear it in my bosom. Had Nancy on any occasion turned round to be kissed by me, I would have fled over muir and dale, to avoid her presence--and yet I had often a great desire to obtain that favour. Once indeed, and only once, did I obtain, or rather steal it. She was sitting beside a bird's nest, the young ones of which she was feeding and cherishing--for the parent birds, by the rapacity of a cat, had recently perished. As the little bills were expanding to receive their food, her countenance beamed with pity and benevolence. I never saw even _her_ so lovely--so, in a moment, I had her round the neck, and clung to her lips with the tenacity of a creature drowning. But, feeling at once the awkwardness of my position, I took to my heels, becoming immediately invisible amidst the surrounding brushwood. Such was "Will Mather," and such was "Nancy Morrison" at the period of which I am speaking. We must now advance about two or three years in our chronology, and find Will possessed of a piece of information which bore materially on his future fortunes. Will was an illegitimate child. His mother had kept the secret so well that he did not know his father, though he had frequently urged her to reveal to him privately all that she knew of his parentage. In conversing, too, with Nancy, his now affianced bride, he had expressed similar wishes; whilst she, with a becoming and feminine modesty, had urged him not to press an aged parent on so delicate a point. At last the old woman was taken seriously ill, and, on her death-bed and at midnight, revealed to her son the secret of his birth. He was the son of a proprietor in the parish, and a much-respected man. The youth, so soon as he had closed his mother's eyes, hurried off, amidst the darkness, to the abode of his father, and, entering by a window, was in his father's bedchamber and over his body ere he was fully awake. "John Scott!" said the son, in a firm and terrible tone, grasping his parent meantime convulsively round the neck--"John Scott of Auchincleuch, _I am thy son_!" Tho conscience-stricken culprit, being taken by surprise, and almost imagining this a supernatural intimation from heaven, exclaimed, in trembling accents-- "But who are you that makes this averment?" "I am thy son, father--oh, I am thy son!" Will could no more; for his heart was full, and his tears dropped hot and heavy on a father's face. "Yes," replied the parent, after a convulsive solemn sob--(O Heaven! thou art just!)--"yes, thou _art_ indeed my son--my long-denied and ill-used boy--whom the fear of the world's scorn has tempted me, against all the yearnings of my better nature, to use so unjustly. But come to my bosom--to a father's bosom _now_, for I know that voice too well to distrust thee." In a few months after this interesting disclosure, John Scott was numbered with his fathers, and Will Scott (no longer Mather) became Laird of Auchincleuch. Poor Nancy was at first somewhat distressed at this discovery, which put her betrothed in a position to expect a higher or genteeler match. But there was no cause of alarm. Will was true to the back-bone, and would as soon have burned his Bible as have sacrificed his future bride. After much pressing for an early day on the part of the lover, it was agreed, at last, that the marriage should take place at "Peat-casting Time," and that Nancy should, for the last turn, assist at the casting of her mother's peats. I wish I could stop here, or at least proceed to give you an account of the happy nuptials of Will Scott and Nancy Morrison, the handsomest couple in the parish of Closeburn. But it may not be! These eyes, which are still filled (though it is forty-eight years since) with tears, and this pen, which trembles as I proceed, must attest and record the catastrophe. Nancy, the beautiful bride, and I (for I was now on the point of leaving school for college) agreed to have a jump for the last time (often had we jumped before) from a suitable moss-brow. "My frolicsome days will sune be owre," she cried, laughing; "the guidwife of Auchincleuch will hae something else to do than jump frae the moss-brow; and, while my name is Nancy Morrison, I'll hail the dules, or jump wi' the best o' my auld playmates." "Weel dune, Nancy!" cried I; "you are now to be the wife o' the Laird o' Auchincleuch, when your jumping days will be at an end, and I am soon to be sent to college, where the only jump I may get may be from the top of a pile of old black-letter folios--no half sae guid a point of advantage as the moss-brow." "There's the Laird o' Auchincleuch coming," cried Peggy Chalmers, one of the peat-casters, who was standing aside along with several others. "He's nae langer the daft Will Mather, wha liked a jump as weel as the blithest swankie o' the barnyard. Siller maks sair changes; and yet, wha wad exchange the Will Scott of Auchincleuch, your rich bridegroom, Nancy, for the Will Mather, your auld lover? Dinna tempt Providence, my hinny! The laird winna like to see his bride jumpin frae knowe to knowe like a daft giglet, within a week o' her marriage." "Tout!" cried Nancy, bursting out into a loud laugh; "see, he's awa round by the Craw Plantin, and winna see us--and whar's the harm if he did? Come now, Tammie, just ae spring and the last, and I'll wad ye my kame against your cravat, that I beat ye by the length o' my marriage slipper." "Weel dune, Nancy!" cried several of the peat-casters, who, leaning on their spades, stood and looked at us with pleasure and approbation. The laird had, as Nancy said, crossed over by what was called the Craw Plantin, and was now out of sight. To make the affair more ludicrous--for we were all bent on fun--Nancy took out, from among her high-built locks of auburn hair, her comb--a present from her lover--and impledged it in the hands of Billy Watson, along with my cravat, which I had taken off, and handed to the umpire. "Here is a better moss-brow," cried one, at a distance. And so to be sure it was, for it was much higher than the one we had fixed upon, and the landing-place was soft and elastic. Our practice was, always to jump together, so that the points of the toes could be measured when both the competitors' feet were still fixed in the moss. We mounted the moss-brow. I was in high spirits, and Nancy could scarcely contain herself, for pure, boisterous, laughing glee. I went off, but the mad girl could not follow, for she was still holding her sides, and laughing immoderately. I asked her what she laughed at. She could not tell. She was under the influence of one of those extraordinary cachinnations that sometimes convulse our diaphragms, without our being able to tell why, and certainly without our being able to put a stop to them. Her face was flushed, and the fire of her glee shone bright in her eye. I took my position again. "Now!" cried I; and away we flew, and stuck deeply in the soft and spongy moss. I stood with my feet in the ground, that the umpire might come and mark the distance. A loud scream broke on my ear. I looked round, and, dreadful sight! I saw Nancy lying extended on the ground, with the blood pouring out at her mouth in a large stream! She had burst a blood-vessel. The fit of laughing which preceded her effort to leap had, in all likelihood, distended her delicate veins, and predisposed her to the unhappy result. The loud scream had attracted the notice of the bridegroom, who came running from the back of the Craw Plantin. The sight appalled and stupefied him. He cried for explanation, and ran forward to his dead or dying bride, in wild confusion. Several voices essayed an explanation, but none were intelligible. I was as unable as the rest to satisfy the unhappy man; but, though we could not speak intelligibly, we could act, and several of us lifted her up. This step sealed her fate. The change in her position produced another stream of blood. She opened her eyes once, and fixed them for a moment on Will Scott. She then closed them, and for ever. I saw poor Nancy carried home. Will Scott, who upheld her head, fainted before he proceeded twenty yards, and I was obliged to take his place. I was almost as unfit for the task as himself; for I reproached myself as the cause of her death. I have lived long. Will the image of that procession ever pass from my mind? The bloodstained moss-ground, the bleeding body, the trailing clothes, the unbound locks, are all before me. I can proceed no further. Would that I could stop the current of my thoughts as easily as that of this feathered chronicler of sorrow! But-- "There is a silent sorrow here, A grief I'll ne'er impart; It breathes no sigh, it sheds no tear, But it consumes my heart." I have taken up my pen to add, that Will Mather still remains a bachelor, and that on every visit I make to Dumfries-shire, I take my dinner, _solus cum solo_, at Auchincleuch, and that many tears are annually shed, over a snug bottle, for poor Nancy. THE MEDAL. I was educated in a Scottish university, where prizes were distributed to the most distinguished students in each class at the termination of the session. The most distinguished prize was a gold medal, value ten guineas, the gift of a departed _eleve_, and awarded to the best scholar in the mathematical class. Having a natural turn or bias for mathematical pursuits, I applied myself night and day to the attainment of this my object of ambition; and this, too, at the expense and neglect of all the other classes which I attended. I was a very imperfect Latin scholar, I knew almost nothing of Greek, and held the unscientific reasoning of logic and moral philosophy in great contempt. By great labour, and after a severe competition, I succeeded in attaining the distinction at which I aimed, and saw myself blazoned in several newspapers as the holder of this distinguishing badge. My great chum at college was a Mr Donald Ferguson, a lad of a staid and persevering disposition, of a well-balanced and judicious mind, and without any talents, _apparently_, which bespoke future distinction. We had been friends and companions at school--our parents were friends before us--and, although we differed materially in disposition, this did not prevent the closest and most affectionate intercourse. Oh! such recollections as now rush upon my mind!-- "Dear happy scenes of innocence and ease-- Scenes of my youth, when every sport could please!" Ferguson and I spent whole days together in the solitude of nature, with nothing but the deep blue and fleecy white overhead; the stunted thorn and the croaking raven above; and the brawling brook and trout-dimpled pool before us. In all games of activity I had the start of Ferguson, and was always first chosen at "King o' Cantilon," "the dools," and "shinty;" but he had the advantage again of me in feats of strength and precision of eye--in the quoits and putting-stone. But I am wandering from my purpose, and forgetting my narrative. Ferguson would often admonish me that I was giving offence to several professors, in order to gain the good opinion of one, and that the applause which my medal would procure for me might be too dearly bought at the expense of every other department of study. I took all this in good part, but without altering, in the least, my conduct, as I answered that my friend was making a virtue of necessity, and recommending that course of obscure diligence to me which he, by nature, was destined to pursue. In consequence of the _eclat_ of the medal, I had an invitation to make one of a pleasure party to Roslin, and had the happiness of being introduced to some young ladies, who had previously expressed to my friend Ferguson a wish to make my acquaintance. We spent a most delightful day-- "'Midst Roslin's bowers sae bright and bonny, And a' the sweets o' Hawthornden." The ladies were young, bright, and beautiful, light of heart, and delightfully pleasing in manners and conversation. I had not been previously accustomed to such fascinating society; and I felt that kind of intoxication which youth, innocence, and strong passion only can feel. I was all day _off_ my feet, and gave way to every manner of fun, frolic, and foolery, to show that, though I was an immense philosopher, I was still a man in every pulse and vein. There was in this happy group one divine countenance; an eye so blue, and so soft, and so penetrating--lips that moved in meaning, and held every instant communication of the most electric character, with a little playful, almost wily dimple which gave the most varied fascination to a cheek of sunshine and almost rosy hue. Her form "Was fresher than the morning rose When the dew wets its leaves--unstain'd and pure As is the lily or the mountain snow." In a word, as you will easily perceive, I was captivated; and could do nothing all the ensuing night but toss and think, and think and toss, till nature at last steeped me anew, not in forgetfulness, but in all the motley, medley joys and gambols of Roslin. I had now become a student of divinity; but all study was with me at an end. No party of young people--particularly where young ladies were concerned--could be held without me; and I had the very great misfortune to be talked of by them as monstrous clever. The young lady to whom I had so long paid particular attention, and at whose house (that of the widow of a respected clergyman of the Church of Scotland) I had long been a habitual and a welcome guest, at last consented to receive me in future in the light of a lover. We walked it, talked it, and laughed it from morning to night, "as other lovers do," and scarcely thought of either the past or the future, being so completely engrossed with the present. Time flew by on angel wings, fleeting as bright, and the period of my examination, previous to my receiving license, at last approached. I had all the while a secret misgiving that I would not stand a trial, in the Presbytery of Edinburgh in particular; but I had no other residence for several years, and, consequently, no other way of becoming a licentiate. As good fortune would have it, the mother of my betrothed, through her interest with the Duke of Queensberry's factor, had every chance of procuring me a presentation the moment I was qualified to accept of it; and both she and her daughter would as soon have dreamed that I would fail in opening my eyes, as in obtaining the indispensable requisite of a license. What I had anticipated, however, actually took place: I was found so deficient in the classics of Greece and Rome, that my license was delayed, and I was remitted for twelve months to my studies. This was a degree of disgrace and degradation which altogether unmanned me. I could not face my beloved Mary, or her mother, or any of my own friends and acquaintances, under such circumstances. Sleep fled my eyes, and my mind became unhinged. Existence itself became a positive, insupportable misery. I fled to the mountains; but they, through all their glens and streams, had tongues that syllabled beloved names, which I wished, were it possible, to forget. Wherever I went, the horrors of the past were ever present. People seemed to me to stop and point the finger of scorn at me from every street and doorway. At last, in a fit of despair, I rashly resolved on self-destruction, and plunged headlong into Leith harbour. I have the sound of the waters still in my ears, and that sound will, I verily believe, remain till that of the last trumpet shall mingle with it. When I awoke from seeming nonentity, I was surrounded by many and unknown faces; and my passage back to life was more terrific and painful by far than my exit. I had been for some time in a warm bed, and undergoing the means of resuscitation. "Much kinder," thought I, "had ye been to let me go." My name, parentage, &c., having been ascertained, my father was written to, and I was kept in close custody till his arrival. My father was a respectable farmer in Dumfries-shire, and immediately hurried me away to my native glen. My mother met me with tears; but they were those of sympathy and affection, and one word of reproach she never uttered. I became gradually more and more calm: but at times the thoughts of the paradise which I had lost, and the hell I had earned, would throw me absolutely into convulsions. The calmness which gathered over my soul was not that of resignation--it was the settled gloom of despair. Religion was talked of and pressed upon me; but as yet I had no settled views on that subject. I neither believed nor disbelieved: I was willing, when the subject obtruded itself upon my thoughts, to get rid of it the best way I could. At last my melancholy gradually undermined a naturally good constitution, and it was manifest to my medical adviser that I was verging towards that degree of weakness and decay which, under various distinctive appellations, is sure to terminate in death. A change of scene was urged, and I was hurried away to Saturness Point, that I might inhale the sea breeze, and be interested in new objects. This measure was at first partially successful; but, happening to see a newspaper one day, in which the settlement of my more steady companion in the very church which I had once destined for myself was mentioned, and reading in the very same page a notice of his marriage with my beloved Mary, I became immediately frantic. For years my mind was so far unhinged that a person was appointed to watch my motions, and guard me from self-destruction. "Oh, that cursed medal!" was I heard again and again to exclaim; "it is to this I have to trace my every wo." What I endured, during this dark and fearful night, no power of fancy can image, no pen can describe. _Horresco referens._ As God would have it, the person who was thus associated with me night and day was religiously disposed, and took occasion, when opportunity served, to lead my mind to serious subjects--to talk of eternity, immortality, heaven, and hell. Often did I kick against the pricks, and strive to resume my former indifference; but it would not do. The very _possibility_ of such awful truths was terrific. I awoke all at once, as it were, to a sense of my imminent danger. I found that I was sleeping on a parapet, from which to fall was certain death. I fled with all possible speed to the only city of refuge--to the redemption that is in Christ Jesus. I grasped the truths of the gospel with the energy of a dying creature. I hugged the very Bible to my bosom, and read it night and day. Our conversations were protracted, and, to me, ultimately delightful. I found that there was mercy even to the _chief_ of sinners, and I regarded myself as personally referred to in the gracious intimation. With the perception and cultivation of gospel truth, my health gradually rallied, and my mind assumed a more balanced attitude. It was about this time that my father died, and the superintendence of a pretty extensive sheep-farm naturally devolved upon me. This avocation, uncongenial as it was to my college pursuits and feelings, still occupied my attention, and withdrew me from reflections of no very pleasing nature. In cultivating, or rather in renewing, my acquaintance with the soil, and with its productions, vegetable as well as animal, I felt that I was placed as it were in the outer vestibule of God's temple. Into the holy of holies, through the blessed mediation, I had already been introduced, and it gave me pleasure to behold the outer, as well as to contemplate the inner, courts of so stupendous an erection. "The Shepherd of Israel neither slumbers nor sleeps. My sheep hear my voice. He shall separate the sheep from the goats. The streams that run amongst the hills. Mount Carmel, Mount Zion, Mount Horeb." These and similar expressions, in which the Jewish Scriptures, in particular, abound, came home to my newly-renovated, and, I trust, regenerated, perceptions, with a vividness and a force formerly unknown. I seemed to myself to be a dweller on the mountains of Jacob, and amongst the tents of Israel, as my flocks scattered themselves on the hill-side, or pursued the green pasturage by the streams of waters. There was a harmony and correspondence betwixt the seen and the unseen, the present and the past, the temporal and the spiritual life, of which I every day became more and more aware. About this time we received intimation of the death of my father's brother, who had gone, early in life, to Kingston in Jamaica, and had, by prosperous adventures as a merchant, realised a considerable sum of money. After various delays and much peculation, the residue of his fortune, together with his will, was transmitted home, and I found myself, as my father's heir-male, entitled to upwards of £10,000. My mother had already greatly declined, indeed she never fully rallied after my father's death; and on the very day on which the papers respecting the inheritance arrived, I had to perform the last sad duties to one of the best of parents. Alas! that ever my unhappy conduct should have occasioned pain and anxiety in a bosom where pure affection and undefiled religion habitually resided! I had the consolation, however, to receive my mother's blessing in her parting breath, and to hear her construe my misconduct and misfortunes into merciful dispensations of a wise Providence, who is ever bringing good out of seeming evil. "And better thence again, and better still, In infinite progression." The lease of the farm having expired in a year after this, I did not think of continuing on a spot which suggested so many recollections connected with the departed; so I at once removed to furnished lodgings in Edinburgh, and gradually renewed my acquaintance with a few of my still surviving friends. Amongst these was the mother of my Mary, who informed me that her daughter was now a widow and without family, and was expected in a month or two to return to her old fireside from the Manse of ----. I do not know how it was, but I trembled all over at this information, and an image, which had for so long a time been almost obliterated from my memory, now rose before me in all its original loveliness. The two months appeared to me two twelvemonths, till I again saw, and renewed my acquaintance, with the only woman whom my soul had ever loved. Mutual explanations took place; she had married my friend Ferguson, under the impression that, if not dead, I was confined in a lunatic asylum; and had only consented, after all, at the earnest request of her mother. It was but yesterday that we had a most delightful drive to Roslin, where I renewed my addresses, and have been accepted. I have taken a neat cottage near Hawthornden, where I mean to spend with Mary the remainder of my days, if not in the fervour of young love, at least in the more enduring, perhaps, and more rational endearments of mutual affection, friendship, and esteem. The medal, which was the foundation of all my sufferings, I have at this moment suspended before me, in my study, that I may be ever reminded of that false step which, but for the interposition of Providence, might have ruined both soul and body for ever. If it shall be in God's providence that I am blessed with any pledges of affection by my dear Mary, I shall endeavour to save them from the danger which I so narrowly escaped; yet, so strangely commingled are the good and bad things of life--so very delicately are the fine threads that go to form the web of our moral system connected and interlaced--that it requires a hand finer than mere man's to remove some of the dingy lines, so as to restore to the whole that beauty it possessed when spread in the garden of Eden. If we take from the noble steed the emulation that may hurry him over the precipice, we will see him distanced at the next St Leger. Must we, then, secure the good, and run the risk of the attendant evil? The answer does not seem difficult. Let emulation be by all means encouraged; but let all teachers and parents impress upon the minds of the fortunate competitors the true value of the prize won. And whilst efforts are made in one direction, let it ever be remembered that a _useful_ education comprehends _breadth_ as well as _length_; and that the departments which have been neglected may prove, in future life, those of the most essential value in promoting success and securing happiness. THE MEETING AT ST BOSWELL'S. It is now some years since I happened to visit the pretty little village of St Boswell's, in Roxburghshire, in company with a friend, who had some stock to dispose of at the great annual fair then holding there. Most of my readers are aware that the Duke of Buccleugh is lord of the manor of St Boswell's, and that a dinner is always provided, at his grace's expense, in a barn on the fair ground, for all gentlemen who have tickets of admission from the baron bailie. While my friend was busied with the disposal of his stock, I, being an idler, wandered up and down the green, and was much pleased with the appearance of the fair, which was more English, if I may be allowed to use the term, than anything of the kind I had ever witnessed in Scotland. The numbers, neat arrangement, and really handsome appearance of the "street" of booths--the gay and well-dressed parties of gentlefolks--the cheerful, joyous faces of the lower orders--the handsome equipages--the green at a distance, swarming with cattle of various kinds--with a bright and genial sun shining over all--formed altogether a pleasing and animated scene. Pleased as I was, however, I caught myself several times involuntarily yawning, and turning my eyes towards the barn; and I was not at all sorry when the welcome sound of the drum announced that "the roast beef" was ready. I was soon seated beside my friend, who, like myself, was most ready and anxious to do justice to the duke's liberal provision. I have a great talent for eating, but none for description, so I will not attempt to enumerate or describe the variety of good things which _dis_appeared before us; suffice it, we were all much more contented with ourselves and each other when all was over, than before our operations commenced. Commend me to a man who has just made a good dinner--if he be not a philanthropist then, he never will be. Happening to glance my eye towards the other end of the table, I observed that I was the object of close and intense attention to one of the company--a stranger of prepossessing aspect, who was seated at some distance at the opposite side. He gazed at me with an earnestness almost amounting to rudeness; and whenever I glanced in that direction, I perceived that his eye was constantly riveted upon my countenance. At first, I was considerably annoyed by the persevering scrutiny of his gaze; but, after a time, I was conscious of a vague impression on my mind that I had seen his face before; but when or where, I in vain endeavoured to recall. I was in the unpleasant situation of one who hears a long-forgotten melody, which stirs up within his mind overpowering and indefinable emotions, though, at the moment, the associations connected with it are forgotten. A confused train of visions of the past, of pleasure and of pain, crowded through my brain, with a dreamy consciousness that the stranger was, in some way or another, connected with them. I could not, for the life of me, shake off the impression his features had made upon my mind; and I wandered up and down, through all the bustle of the fair, as abstracted as if I were in a desert--treading upon the toes of the present, and raking up the ashes of the past, to puzzle out some connection between them and the stranger; but in vain. The indignant looks and half-suppressed curses of those I jostled or trod upon alike failed in rousing me from my reverie, till a violent push from the elbow of one of my victims sent me staggering against a gentleman who was standing close to one of the booths. It was the stranger. How wonderful and unaccountable are the workings of the human mind, and what trifling incidents may present us with a clue to the labyrinth of thought we have been in vain endeavouring to unravel! In making my apologies to the stranger, my eye chanced to glance upwards to the _sign_ above the entrance to the booth; it was "The Old Ship." A flash of sudden recollection lighted up the dark places of my memory--the friend of my early days stood before me. "Sandford!--in the name of all that's strange, is that you?" "My name is Sandford Grant," said he, "and I know and feel that you are an old friend. I have been thinking of nothing else since I saw you in the barn; but my memory plays me false--I cannot recollect when or where we have met before." "Look up at that board--perhaps it will assist your recollection, as it did mine." "The Old Ship!" exclaimed he, with a look of wonder and inquiry. "The Old Ship!" he repeated, slowly and distinctly, and then he gazed long and earnestly in my face, till at length the look of indecision and doubt gave place to a sudden glow of delighted recognition. "Douglas!" exclaimed he, with a long and cordial shake of the hand. "The same, my dear fellow. It is ten long years since we met, and time has left his marks upon us both; no wonder we did not recognise each other at first; particularly as it was in such a very different scene we last met, or rather parted." We spent the evening together, as two long-separated friends should do, in talking over the events of our early years, and relating our mutual adventures since we parted. As I did not know Sandford myself at first, it is hardly to be expected that the reader can know either of us without a formal introduction; which is the more necessary, as we are both to figure in the tale I am about to relate. Those of my readers who have passed through Longtown in Cumberland may have remarked, on the left-hand side of the main street, as they entered the town from the bridge, a neat red-brick house, with an iron-railed enclosure in front, and a large gateway to the right, leading into the courtyard. In that house Sandford Grant and I first became acquainted with each other; it was then an academy. The house still remains, but master and pupils are "scattered to the four winds of heaven." For three years we were class-fellows and friends; for we were just of the same age, and a Scottish feeling of clannish regard made us cling to each other more perhaps than we otherwise would have done. He was a handsome, spirited boy, or rather child, and was always ready, at a word, to fight my battles as well as his own. He was a great favourite on account of his frank, liberal disposition; but the most unlucky little dog that ever lived. If ever there was any mischief going on, he was sure to be concerned in it, and as sure of being discovered and punished; if there was only one puddle in the road on a Sunday, he, somehow or other, contrived to go out of his way to tumble into it, dirty his white stockings, and be recommended by the mistress to her husband's tender mercies. In fact, he was constantly getting into scrapes; so much so that "Sandford's luck" became quite a proverb among us. It was with sad hearts and tears on both sides that we parted, when circumstances obliged me to accompany my family to the south. We were then about eleven years of age; and having lately read the tale of Damon and Pythias, we felt assured that we would willingly follow their example, and were ready, if necessary, to immolate ourselves on the altar of friendship. Fortunately for us, there was no such necessity. The spring of tears in youth lies too near the surface--it is soon exhausted. We solaced our sorrows for the present, by promising that, as we could no longer see each other, we would exchange long letters, at least once a-week. At first our correspondence added considerably to His Majesty's revenue; but our epistolary ardour soon cooled, till, at no very long interval, our correspondence fell into a gradual decline, and at last died away altogether. But the Fates had decreed that Sandford and I were not to part so easily. We met some years afterwards at the Military College at Addiscombe, where we added to the number of the East India Company's _hard bargains_. There we were inseparable; for, with all the warmth of early recollections around us, our renewed acquaintance soon ripened into sincere and devoted friendship. After the usual term of probation at Addiscombe, Sandford obtained an appointment in the engineers, and I a cadetship of infantry, and we sailed from England together. On our arrival at Calcutta, we separated: he remaining at the presidency, and I being ordered up the country, to join my regiment at Cawnpore. I pass over the details of my life in India; suffice it that, after ten years roasting under an eastern sun, I was pretty well done at last, and my liver began to give me sundry gentle hints that it was time for me to be moving, unless I wished to remain altogether where I was; accordingly, I applied for and obtained furlough to visit Europe for the benefit of my health. Though Sandford and I had been so long separated, we had always kept up a regular intercourse by letter, and we had arranged that, if practicable, we would take our furlough together; and, accordingly, we managed matters so that we took our passage in the same ship for England. Fortune had favoured us both in promotion; we had each attained the rank of captain in our respective corps. In congratulating Sandford on his good fortune, I remarked, in allusion to our school-days, that it was better than "Sandford's luck." "You would not say so, my dear fellow," said he, "if you knew all. I am as unlucky a dog as ever; and you may have reason yet, before we part, to wish we had not met again." "Nonsense," said I; "let us enjoy the present, at all events, whatever the future may have in store for us. Come, order your palanquin, and let us be off; the boat was to be waiting for us at Champaul Ghaut at ten o'clock, and it only wants a few minutes of the hour." Our ship, the Dolphin, was a beautiful little chartered free-trader, of about 600 tons, remarkably fast for a merchantman--a regular clipper, as her captain called her--and manned by an active and effective crew. She mounted twelve small carronades on her upper deck, and a neat brass swivel which traversed on the head of the capstan. On the 28th August, 18--, we sailed from Sangor with several other merchantmen, under convoy of H.M.S. Albatross. Our voyage was very tedious, unmarked by any variety except that of wind and weather; and our captain, who was a smart, active little man, an excellent disciplinarian, and much beloved by his crew, was dreadfully annoyed by the detention occasioned by the dull sailers of the fleet. At last he resolved, if possible, to effect his escape, and make the best of his way home. After we left St Helena, an opportunity, unfortunately for us, soon presented itself. One squally evening, the frigate made a signal for the convoy to carry easy sail, and to watch the commodore's motions during the night. Soon after dark, the wind freshened up to a strong breeze, with passing squalls and heavy rain at times. With her topgallantsails set over single-reefed topsails, the little Dolphin bounded over the waves in such style as to do credit to the name she bore; and, by keeping a little of the course she had before been steering, and carrying a press of sail through the night, made such good use of her _fins_, that at daybreak not a ship of the fleet was to be seen. We were all at first delighted with our freedom, and with the prospect of reaching our destination so much sooner than we otherwise would have done; but, upon after reflection, we began to doubt the prudence of trusting to our own legs and arms, when we would have been so much safer under the wing of the Albatross. Captain Driver himself, however, was in high glee; he said he knew that few even of the crack privateers were matches for his little Dolphin. However, he neglected no means of adding to, and improving, the efficiency of his vessel: the men were exercised regularly at the guns, the passengers and servants drilled in the use of the muskets, and every precaution was adopted which skill and experience could suggest, to make our means of defence as available as possible. In this way our time passed away stirringly and pleasantly enough, till we lost the south-east trade, and then we were tormented for nearly three weeks with calms and burning heat during the day, and heavy unceasing rains during the night. To add to our discomforts, a great mortality had taken place among our live stock, and we were for days floating about among a whole fleet of dead ducks and fowls, with the pleasant prospect before us of salt junk and hard Curtis[1] for the rest of the voyage. [Footnote 1: A famous biscuit-baker.] "My old luck," said Sandford. We had at last contrived to crawl as far as four degrees north, when, one afternoon, to our great joy, we observed signs of change in the weather. Light grey clouds were beginning to appear to the northward; and we watched with great interest those "ships of heaven" slowly and gradually moving upwards. Light _cats'-paws_ began to ruffle the waters, and every here and there we saw in the distance shoals of fish sporting amid the roughness which the light and partial airs produced upon the surface. But we were still lying becalmed; the awnings were all spread, but the heat was oppressive; and the little Dolphin was rolling heavily in the long sea, dipping her bright sides deep into the water. A long dark line was now visible on the horizon to the eastward, which gradually spread, and neared us. "Thank goodness! there is a breeze at last!" said Captain Driver; and in half-an-hour's time the Dolphin was once more dancing along, like a living creature, over the waves. During the night, the wind drew gradually round to the northward; and before morning we had a fine steady north-east trade, which carried us as far as twenty-nine degrees north. From this time nothing particular occurred, till we arrived nearly in the parallel of the English Channel--the Lizard bearing about north-east-by-east of us, fifteen hundred miles distant. Here, after a succession of south-easterly breezes, we had another taste of "Sandford's luck," in the shape of a calm of two days' duration. On the morning of the third day, we were surprised by seeing, at some six or seven miles' distance to the south-west, a long, low, rakish-looking brig, with her royals furled and courses hauled up, and a pennant flying at the mast-head. Immediately on noticing us, she hoisted an English ensign, and fired a gun. Our boatswain, an old man-of-war's-man, immediately exclaimed that he recognised her as H.M. brig Hawk; and upon her firing a second gun, the quarter-boat was lowered and manned, and the second mate despatched in her. Sandford, who was fond of novelty, asked and obtained leave to join the party. Soon after the boat shoved off from the Dolphin, a light breeze from the southward filled the stranger's sails, and she drew a little nearer. We were all anxious for news from England, and watched our boat with great anxiety, as she went alongside of the brig; but what was our surprise to observe that the crew were all called up, and two of the stranger's men were sent into the boat! The brig was all this time slowly and gradually approaching us, while we were lying helplessly becalmed, watching the breeze as it rippled over the still, smooth water, about half-way between the vessels. The stranger was now within two miles of us, when the light air, which had so long been favouring her, began to roughen the sea close under our stern. A bright flash and a thick cloud of smoke now burst from the stranger's bow, and the loud, sharp report of a gun broke, with startling import, on our ears, while, at the same moment, the English ensign was hauled down, and the white flag of France floated proudly in its stead, and a red cornet fluttered at the main. "Here's a pretty business!" said Captain Driver. "We will give them a run for it, however." In an instant, all was bustle and activity an board the little Dolphin: every stitch of canvas was spread to catch the coming breeze; two of the guns were _trained_ aft, and pointed out of the cabin windows; not a voice was heard on board, but that of the captain; the men moved actively and noiselessly about, watching their commander's eye, and in prompt obedience to his orders. The little Dolphin herself seemed conscious that danger was near, so silently did she slip through the water, as her lofty sails swelled out with the light but steady breeze. There was such a hush among us on board, after all the sails had been set, that the only sound heard was the hissing noise made by the ship as she cut rapidly through the smooth water, and the small bubbles floated away astern. Presently a tiny wave raised its white crest here and there, and broke with a gentle murmur; there was glad music in the sound--for it was a sign that the breeze was freshening. In the course of an hour, though the water was still smooth, the Dolphin was beginning to _speak_ audibly, and the white foam-bells danced merrily past her. In the meantime, the stranger had not been idle. She had at first made use of her sweeps; but, as the breeze freshened, she laid them in. Her lofty spars were crowded with canvas, and she seemed to be rather gaining upon us. We could see that her decks were crowded with men; and every now and then she sent a shot after us. "Talk away, my boys," said the gallant little captain. "I have no time to return the compliment. If I can only keep clear of you till dark, I will weather you yet." The poor little Dolphin glided away beautifully, and proved that she well merited her good character; for, after some hours' chase, the privateer had gained but little upon us; but still there appeared no chance of our escaping in the long run. About noon, the enemy was within range, and no sooner made the discovery, than she began blazing away with her bow-guns, in hopes of disabling us; but fortune, for once in her life, favoured the weaker party. The privateer's shot riddled our sails; but our spars and hull were as yet unharmed, when a well-aimed shot from one of our stern-chasers went through her fore-topgallantsail, and struck the mast just above the cap. Three cheers burst from our gallant crew, as they saw her small masts first bend, then fall forward together before the foretopsail, dragging with them the main-royal and skysail masts. The sailing of the two vessels was so nearly equal, that we now had a decided advantage over the enemy, which Captain Driver did all in his power to make the most of. Two of the foremost guns were _trained_ aft, and the men were all ordered to lie down on the deck close to the taffrail, to bring the ship more by the stern. There were active hands, however, on board the privateer. In a wonderfully short time, the wreck was cleared away, and new spars had replaced the crippled ones. She came crawling quickly up again; and it was evident to all on board the Dolphin, that, unless some unforeseen accident saved us, a few hours would seal our fate. It was now late in the evening; the sun had set, and dark, louring clouds were hanging over the horizon to the westward. The water was still tolerably smooth, and the wind was a little on our starboard quarter; the privateer was coming up rather to leeward, gaining rapidly upon us, and peppering away as fast as she could with her bow-chasers. Some of her shot _told_ upon our hull, smashing the cabin bulk-heads, but hurting no one; and, fortunately, our spars were as yet untouched. But she was not so lucky--for we could see, by their getting preventer-backstays upon her fore-topmast, that the mast was crippled. Captain Driver perceived that there was no chance of escaping much longer by fast sailing, and he determined to try what stratagem could do for us. He called his men round him, and explained to them what his intentions were; telling them that everything depended upon their energy and activity, and promising them, in the name of his owners, a handsome reward if they succeeded in saving the ship. Immediately after the next shot fired by the privateer, the man at the helm, by Captain Driver's orders, began to yaw the ship about--the stunsails were hauled in--the royal sheets let go--the sails clued up, but not furled--the topgallantsails lowered, and the colours hauled down. Every movement must have appeared to the enemy indicative of terror and indecision; and we could distinctly hear the cheers with which they hailed the lowering of our ensign. In the midst of our apparent confusion, the yards of the Dolphin were quietly drawn forward to starboard, and the men and passengers stationed at the topgallant and royal halyards, and royal sheets. The privateer, which some of our men now recognised as the notorious Hercule of Brest, came bowling upon our larboard quarter, taking in and furling all her small sails, and hauling up her courses. When she was so close to us that we might almost have thrown a biscuit on board, the French captain jumped upon the bulwark with his trumpet in his hand, as if to hail us. "Now, my lad," said Driver to the man at the helm, "remember what I told you. When I call out to you to put the helm hard a-starboard, put it hard a-port." The privateer captain was just putting the trumpet to his lips, when Captain Driver bawled out, "Put the helm hard a-starboard!" As he expected, this order was instantly echoed on board the privateer, who thought we intended to try and run aboard of him. As I said before, the wind was a little on our starboard quarter; and the Frenchman, by paying quickly _off_, threw his sails aback; while the little Dolphin, _her_ helm having been put to port instead of starboard, flew _up_ to the wind, and, her yards being all ready braced up, darted away like an arrow to windward--this being her favourite sailing point; at the same moment, the topgallant sails were sheeted home and set, and the royals hoisted. It was some little time before the privateer recovered from the surprise and confusion occasioned by this unexpected manoeuvre; and, by the time her yards were trimmed and sails set, the Dolphin had again a good start of her. We had now reason to bless the fortunate shot that had crippled her fore-topmast; for she was afraid to carry such a press of sail as she otherwise would have done. However, disabled as she was, she was still a match for us, and kept throwing her shot after us, in token of her friendly feeling. "Hurrah, my little beauty!" said Captain Driver, apostrophising his ship; "another hour, and we are safe." The privateer was gaining upon us slowly but surely, when the night, which, fortunately for us, was dark and gloomy, set in. Captain Driver kept a light burning in the stern cabin, and gave strict orders that every other light in the ship should be put out. He then had a large water-butt sawed in half, and fitted into it a light bamboo staff, to the end of which a lantern was affixed. The tub was well ballasted; and, when all was ready, it was lowered down nearly to the water's edge astern, the lantern lighted, and the lamp in the captain's cabin extinguished. Just as the lanyards were let go, and the tub, with its decoy light, fell into the water, we fired both our stern-chasers, to deceive the enemy, and immediately bore up, and stood away, under a press of sail, to the westward. The night was pitch dark; the wind drawing round to the southward and westward, and with every appearance of further change. Our ruse succeeded completely. We were only aware of the privateer's position by the bright flashes of her guns, as she fired them in chase, as she thought; and by the twinkling light of the floating lantern, which was, at last, suddenly extinguished, after a brisk fire from the Frenchman. We ran, for a couple of hours, to the westward; and then, the wind gradually heading us, we kept away again for the Channel, and, before morning, we had a fine staggering westerly breeze to help us along. At daylight, nothing was to be seen from the mast-head; and we cheerfully pursued our voyage, rejoicing in our fortunate escape. We had now time to think of and to lament the hard fate of our shipmates, who had been so cleverly entrapped. "Sandford's luck, again," said I. "Poor fellow, how strange it is that such a fatality always seems to attend him!" "You forget," said Captain Driver, "that the men who are with him are in the same unlucky predicament, and of course are equally unfortunate. But it _is_ curious to observe how some men are favoured and others persecuted by fortune. When I was a youngster, I sailed with a captain (a smart, active, intelligent man he was) who told me that ever since he had commanded a ship, each alternate voyage had always been an unlucky one. 'And this,' said he, 'is my unlucky one.' And sure enough it was so; for, from the commencement to the close of it, it was one constant series of misfortunes. However, I have no doubt our poor lads will be well enough off on board the privateer--the French are fine fellows, after all; but I do not envy them the quarters that await them on shore." The breeze continued steady; and in about ten days' time we had run down a great part of our distance from the Lizard, which we expected to _make_ in two days more. One morning the man at the mast-head reported a large ship to the southward, and Captain Driver _made her out_ to be a man-of-war. We immediately crowded all sail, with the horrors of a French prison before us; but she had already noticed us, and come bowling after us, firing a gun to bring us to, and hoisting English colours. After a long and anxious survey of the stranger, Captain Driver was satisfied that she was an English frigate, and accordingly hoisted his colours and hove to. From the lieutenant who boarded us, we learned that the frigate was H.M.S. ----, bound to Spithead. When we related to him our adventure with the privateer, he told us that it was no wonder we were deceived; for that the Hercule was often mistaken for the Hawk, and that the real Hawk was cruising about the _chops_ of the Channel, in hopes of falling in with her. We followed in the wake of the frigate up Channel, and, on the 1st May, to our great joy, we cast anchor once more on the shores of Old England. I remained two years at home, and then returned to the East, without having heard any news of poor Sandford's fate. "And now, my dear Sandford," said I, "tell me all your adventures since we parted company so unexpectedly." "You may imagine our surprise," replied he, "when we found how quietly we poor gulls had thrust our heads into the eagle's nest. The second mate of the Dolphin and I had hardly set foot on the deck of the stranger, when we saw at a glance our mistake; and, if we had any doubts on the subject, they were soon set at rest by the captain, who said to us, shrugging his shoulders, with a smile-- "'Messieurs, you are my prisonnars; dere is no use for de resiste; call your men out of de boat.' "We saw too plainly that resistance was vain, and we submitted to our hard fate as patiently as we could. The boat's crew were sent down into the hold, and sentries placed over them, and we were disarmed, but allowed the range of the deck and cabin, giving our parole that we would hold no intercourse with our own men or the crew. When we saw the privateer's sails swell with the breeze and when with her long sweeps she began to crawl along 'like a centipede,' while the little Dolphin lay stationary and becalmed, we feared that we should soon have more companions in captivity. Great was our delight when the gallant little vessel glided away like a fairy before us, and we began to have some hopes of your escape, knowing as we did what a character the Dolphin had for sailing. "'Well done, my beauty!' shouted the mate. "'Ah, mon ami,' said the Frenchman, 'do not rejoice too queek; before night, your leetel beauté, as you call hare, shall be mine.' "I cannot describe his mortification at the skilful manoeuvre by which you baffled him just as he thought he was sure of you, and contrived to steal away again to windward of him; but, after a time, when his angry feeling had passed away, he could not help exclaiming-- "'Parbleu! he is one clevare man, that capitane! He most be var weak after lose one boat's crew, and yet how he manage his sheep skeelfully! 'Tis almost peety not let him rone away; bote I mos catch heem--he cannot escape long.' When the night set in so dark and gloomy, he said--'Well, begar, I do begin think that capitane of yours is not so vary clevare man after all. How he most be fool to carry that light!--without that lumiere I should lose sight of heem quite entirely, the night is so, what you call, so tar--no--peetch dark.' "'I suppose,' said I, 'in the confusion he has forgot it.' "'Not a bit of it,' said Gordon, the mate, to me, aside; 'Captain Driver is not such a fool as he thinks. He has some reason for what he is doing, depend upon it.' "After a time, the light, which had kept a pretty equal distance ahead of us, became apparently stationary, and we came up to it with great rapidity. "'Ah,' said the Frenchman, 'he is tire at last. We have catch heem.' "We all thought that some of our chance shots had taken effect, and that the Dolphin, unable to escape, had hove to, to surrender. As we came near the light, the small sails were taken in and furled, the courses hauled up, and the boat was cleared away for lowering to board the prize. "'Begar, dis is ver extraordinare!' said the Frenchman to me--'dere is de light, but I do not see de sheep. Sheep ahoy!' No answer. 'Sheep ahoy! Answere, or I weel fire.' Still no answer. 'Tirez donc!' A broadside was fired, and the light disappeared. "Not a cry or sound of any kind was heard after the noise of the firing had ceased. The poor little Dolphin, we thought, must have sunk at once; but yet it was very strange that so large a vessel (she was large compared to the Frenchman) could have been invisible and inaudible when so near us. The boats were lowered immediately, and furnished with lanterns, that their crews might see to save all they could. After a short time, they returned, bringing back, as the sole remains of the poor Dolphin, a few broken staves, and a bamboo, with a lantern lashed to the end of it. The French captain's blank stare of astonishment was at first quite amusing; but at last the truth flashed upon him, and, with a loud laugh, he exclaimed-- "'Parbleu! that capitane is one dam clevare fellow! He throw out one tub to catch a whale; he deserves to escape. _Néanmoins_, he is not safe yet.' "He then hauled close to the wind, and stood to the eastward, thinking that you would make for the Channel as fast as possible. If it had not been for the name of the thing, we would have enjoyed the cruise very much; for the French captain and his officers were polite and gentlemanly, and treated us as messmates and friends. _Their_ destination was Brest, and ours, eventually, a French prison, till we should be ransomed or exchanged--a pleasant way for me to enjoy my three years' furlough! "One afternoon, just after dinner, as we were dodging to the eastward, with the wind at north, a sail appeared ahead, but too far off to distinguish what she could be. All sail was immediately made in chase, and we rapidly neared the object of our pursuit. She was a lumbering, heavy-looking brig, under topgallantsails, painted with a broad, dirty white streak, turning up at each end with a _sheer_ like a bow. We hoisted French colours, and fired a gun to leeward; she showed an English ensign, and immediately began to make more sail, which she did in a regular collier-like fashion, and went floundering and plunging along like a cart-horse over a ploughed field; and the more sail she made, the slower she seemed to go. We were all mightily amused with her clumsy attempts to escape, and wondered at her folly in exasperating her enemy by such unavailing efforts. Gun after gun was fired to bring her to; but still she floundered on, kicking up her stern as if in derision, as her heavy bow plunged deep into the water. At last the captain of the privateer got into a towering passion, and swore he would sink her when he got alongside. While the brig, or at least her crew, were straining every nerve to escape, one of her maintopgallant sheets _went_; and the awkward and slovenly manner in which the sail was handled excited the laughter of all on board our small craft. The brig at this time, as if aware that escape was hopeless, took in her royals, and lowered her topgallantsails, but without altering her course, or striking her colours. It was dusk when we came within speaking distance; and, running up close under her quarter, our captain seized the speaking-trumpet, and ordered the brig to strike her colours immediately, or he would sink her. What was his surprise, when, in answer to his hail, three deafening cheers resounded from the brig! Her deck was in an instant swarming with men; and, while our crew were gaping with astonishment, _the painted canvas screen_ disappeared from her side as if by magic, and a broadside was poured into our hull, which made us reel again, and wounded and killed several of the crew. In justice to the Frenchman, I must say, that, as soon as the first surprise was over, he (the captain, I mean) was as cool and collected as possible. His orders were given rapidly and energetically; and actively and ably were they executed. He instantly stood away to the southward and eastward, and trusted to his heels to escape from an enemy whom he saw at a glance he was unable to cope with. In a few minutes, from the truck to the water's edge, the Hercule was one cloud of canvas; and merrily did she dance away over the waves. The English man-of-war crowded all sail after us; very differently was she _handled_, now she was no longer acting merchantman. She seemed to have cast aside her sluggishness with her disguise, and, to our great surprise, seemed rather to gain than lose ground. She kept on our weather (larboard) quarter; and her bow-chasers were in constant play, and remarkably well served--hardly a shot but told upon our rigging or hull. "The Hercule was considered the fastest privateer out of France; but, before the wind, the brig was evidently gaining upon us. Not one of our shot had, as yet, done her any material injury, though her head sails were riddled through and through. This game could not last long;--the privateer determined upon trying another move. He was obliged to keep his pumps constantly going, for he had received several shots between wind and water. Suddenly whipping in all his stunsails, he ran his yards forward, and hauled to the eastward. This manoeuvre was rapidly and skilfully executed; and, as we shot across the bows of the English brig, we poured a raking broadside into her, which, we afterwards learned, did not do so much damage as we expected, as our guns were pointed too high. Three cheers rang from the English brig; as quick as thought, they _ran_ in their stunsails, and, following our movements, hauled to the wind. "As the privateer had anticipated, the moment the brig rounded to, her foretopsail and topgallantsail, already in tatters, blew clean out of the bolt-ropes. This was a glorious sight for the privateer, but a sad one for us poor prisoners; we thought that all chance of escape was at an end, and that it was impossible for the brig to shift her sails quickly enough to save her distance. But 'impossible' is a landsman's word--there is none such on board a British man-of-war; her fore-rigging was swarming with men in a moment, and in ten minutes more they were _bringing_ a new topsail _to_ the yard, and the topgallantyard was on its way to the mast-head again. In the meantime her bow guns had not been silent; a pretty smart conversation was carried on between them and our stern-chasers, and _their_ answers were most unpleasantly _true_ and galling. Her guns must have had picked marksmen stationed at them, for hardly a shot was thrown away. "We were, however, leaving the brig rapidly, when a lucky shot from her came through one of our quarter-ports, and knocked down the two men at the helm. The privateer instantly flew up in the wind, and her head-sails took aback; and though the helmsmen were instantly replaced, and the vessel boxed off again skilfully and rapidly, yet the few minutes that elapsed before she paid off and gathered way again, were sufficient to make a great alteration in our relative positions. "The English brig was now within half-a-mile on our weather quarter, gaining steadily and slowly, and throwing her single shot into us with the most unerring precision. At last an eighteen-pound shot struck our weather maintopsail yardarm; and the spar snapped in two close outside the slings. All chance of escape was now over; but the Frenchman, a gallant fellow, was determined not to strike till the last; and all the guns that could be brought to bear upon the brig were double-shotted, and rattled into her. In answer to this salute, the man-of-war gave a yaw to windward, and poured her starboard broadside into the privateer, with deadly effect; and then, bearing suddenly up amid the clouds of smoke, she ran close under our stern, and discharged her larboard guns, sweeping our decks fore and aft, dismounting two of our guns, killing five of our men, and carrying away our tiller-ropes. The privateer was now perfectly unmanageable; her topmasts were hanging in splinters over her sides; her brave captain was killed; there were three feet water in the hold; and the active and indefatigable brig was playing round and round, pouring in her remorseless fire. The French crew, seeing the madness and inutility of further resistance, struck their colours; and in a few minutes a boat came on board from H.M. brig Hawk, and the officers of the privateer surrendered their swords to the lieutenant in command; who, on receiving them, complimented the privateer's men highly on their gallant defence. I was greatly grieved at the death of the French captain, who, during our short sojourn with him, had endeared himself to us by his handsome and gentlemanly behaviour. He had allowed Gordon, the mate, and myself to dispose of ourselves as we thought proper during the action, on our giving our parole that we would not in any way interfere. As soon as the privateer ceased firing, the smothered sound of three cheers came faintly up the hatchway from our poor fellows in the hold, who rightly judged the result of the action. They were immediately liberated; and a prize crew having been sent on board, the French took up the quarters just vacated by the 'Dolphins.' "After a few hours spent in repairing damages, and in vigorous exercise at the pumps of the privateer, the Hawk, with her prize in tow, stood to the northward and eastward; and in a few days the Hercule, with the red ensign proudly floating above the flag of France, followed her captor into Spithead. As soon as I possibly could, I hastened up to town, where I found a letter lying for me at my agent's, to be delivered as soon as the Dolphin arrived (my friends knew I had taken my passage in that ship), begging me to hasten over to Ireland immediately, to attend the death-bed of a maternal uncle. I arrived in Dublin in time to attend the old gentleman's funeral, and to find, to my great surprise, that he had left the whole of his Irish property and a large estate in this country to his grateful nephew, on condition that I took his name. Fortune was tired of plaguing me at last. I was obliged to remain nearly three years in Ireland, in order to arrange matters satisfactorily with my agent, and to put everything in train for making my tenants as comfortable as possible. My other estate is in Perthshire, where I shall be delighted to enjoy the pleasure of _your_ society, until you are wearied of _ours_.--I say ours, because I have a new friend to introduce to you in the person of my wife." I accompanied Sandford home, and found his establishment such as I should have expected from a man of his liberal and enlightened turn of mind--handsome without ostentation--liberal without profusion. His lady was a most amiable and agreeable person--unaffected and cheerful in her manners. I was delighted with my first introduction to her. Coming forward to meet me with all the graceful ease that distinguishes a well-bred woman, and with all the warmth of manner of an old friend, she shook me most cordially by the hand. "Mr Douglas," said she, "I am delighted to see you; often and often has Sandford talked over your mutual adventures, and regretted the evil destiny that separated him from his earliest and dearest friend. Your character is so familiar to me, that I feel as if, instead of addressing a stranger, I were talking to an old friend. I hope you will soon learn to look upon all here in the same light." It was impossible not to feel instantly at home, where such genuine and sincere cordiality was displayed; and in a few hours I was as completely domesticated at Grant Hall, as if I had been its inmate for years. The very servants seemed to feel that in pleasing me they were pleasing their master and mistress; for whom, it was evident, they all felt the greatest affection and respect. It is a good sign of the heads of a house, when the servants grow grey at their posts; and most of those at Grant Hall seemed in a fair way of doing so. But I am digressing. While the ceremony of introduction between myself and Mrs Grant was in progress, a young lady was seated at one of the open windows. She raised her eyes on my entrance--and such eyes! However, I will say nothing more about them; for, though so much has already been spoken and written about ladies' eyes, one glance from such a pair as then beamed upon me was worth volumes of description. There was nothing at first particularly striking about the lady's appearance; at least nothing sufficiently so for particular notice or description; but, on further scrutiny, her features were faultlessly regular, and the expression of her countenance was so placid and gentle, that, had it not been for the lambent fire of her dark eyes, I might almost have fancied that some pure, cold, faultless creation of the sculptor's fancy sat before me. Hers was one of those faces which seldom _arrest_ admiration at first sight, but which seem to display new beauties the longer they are gazed upon. Sandford introduced her as his sister Alice. "This is an unexpected pleasure, Miss Sandford," said I. "Your brother wished to give me an agreeable surprise, I suppose; for he never told me that you formed one of his family party." "Sandford may have neglected to mention his sister to you, Mr Grant," said she, her bright eyes sparkling with animation, and giving life and energy to her features; "but I assure you he has not been backward in making you the theme of his discourse to us. I have often been inclined to feel jealous of his brotherly regard for you." "Upon my word, Ned Douglas," muttered I to myself, when I was comfortably settled into my soft bed, "you're a lucky dog to have fallen into such good quarters. A few weeks ago, you were afraid to move, lest you should tumble out of your narrow cot, and break your invaluable head upon a hard deck; and now you are afraid to move for fear of losing yourself in this wilderness of a bed, or being smothered in an ocean of feathers." It was bright and beautiful July; all nature brightened in the smile of the summer sun, and fair Alice smiled upon me. Could I be otherwise than happy? Sandford was a keen fisherman; and we used to wander together day after day along the banks of the beautiful Tay--he to indulge in an amusement which he enjoyed with enthusiastic relish, and I to gratify my love for the beauties of nature, which are nowhere seen to greater perfection than on the banks of that noble stream. We always returned home to a late dinner, and the evenings were enlivened with music and song, in which both the ladies excelled, and in talking over the adventures of the day, and the stirring scenes of our past lives. "What strange beings sailors must be!" said Alice to me one evening; "such compounds of contradictions!--so lavish, yet so selfish--so daring, yet so superstitious." "Do you remember that strange old fellow, Rodney, the quartermaster," said Grant, "who used to be such a favourite of yours? What yarns, as he called them, he used to spin!--enough to stagger the faith of the most credulous; and yet I really think the old fellow had told them so often that he believed them himself." "Come, Mr Douglas," said Alice, "can you not revive your recollections of the past sufficiently to favour us with a sample of his yarns, as you call them? We have a long evening before us, and you know we ladies are fond of novelty and excitement." "Well, Miss Alice, I will endeavour to gratify your love of the novel and marvellous; but, remember, the story I am about to tell is Rodney's, not mine. You talked of the superstition of sailors--I will repeat you one of his ghost stories, as it is less improbable than most of his yarns; and I know for a fact that there were numbers besides Rodney who firmly believed it." "Well, but, Douglas," said Sandford, "let us have it in true Rodney style--slang and all. Don't be alarmed, ladies, by slang I only mean the peculiar phraseology of men of the Rodney stamp." "Oh, do, Mr Douglas--now do! It will add so greatly to the effect of the story; and I am sure you will not say anything to shock our ears." "Well, Miss Alice, I will do my best to please you; but I must endeavour, in the first place, to give you some notion of Rodney's appearance. Do you remember him distinctly, Sandford? I have his figure before my mind's eye--long, thin, and muscular; a kind of prototype of that pink of all coxswains and quartermasters, 'Long Tom Coffin;' his round, brightly-blackened hat flapped down upon his head, with an air of careless indifference; his thin, iron-grey hair peeping out behind, as if it was wondering where the queue was going to; and his face looking out in front, as rough and unmoved as the surface of a weatherbeaten rock. "'Well, Rodney,' said I to him, one first-watch, when his spell at the cunn was over, and he was taking what he called a fisherman's walk[2] on the lee side of the poop--'well, Rodney, you really do believe in Flying Dutchmen, ghosts, and all that kind of nonsense?' [Footnote 2: "Fisherman's walk"--two steps and overboard.] "'Believe!--Lord love your honour, to be sure I do! Didn't I sail with a man once as had been in a ship where one of the lads had seen the Flying Dutchman the voyage before, and swore to it, too? Believe! Why, axing yer honour's pardon, and meaning no offence, there's none but fools and long-shore chaps what doesn't believe them.' "'Well, well; but ghosts, Rodney--did you ever see a ghost?' "'Why, I can't say as how I ever seen one myself; but I knows them as has.' "'Ah! and what sort of ghost was it?' "'Why, it's a longish yarn, yer honour; and ye're wanting to turn in. You can't keep your eyes open like an old sailor; it's not naturable you should, seeing you haven't had the same opportunity of larning. You oodn't believe, now, I suppose, Mr Douglas, that I keeps watch and watch with my peepers, and always goes to sleep with one eye open? And, for the matter o' that, when I'm walking the deck by myself, I often takes off one of my shoes, to give 'em spell and spell about.' "'Why,' said I, 'I have seen you keeping your shoes at watch and watch; but the eyes, Rodney--I can't swallow the eyes.' "'Love yer honour, you hain't half a swally, then; when you've heerd as many queer yarns as I've heerd, and seen as many deviltries as I've seen, ye'll larn to swallow anything.' "'But come, Rodney, let's have the ghost. I don't mean to turn in till eight-bells.' "The old man leaned back upon the hencoop on which I was sitting, crossed his arms over the breast of his pea-jacket, and began:-- "'Well, yer honour, Jack Rodney never was the man to lay at his anchors when the signal was made to get under weigh. I've been at sea, yer honour, man and boy, five-and-thirty years come next quarter-day; and there's ne'er a blue-jacket afloat as can say Jack Rodney ever sailed under false colours, or stretched a yarn beyond its bearings. When once old Jack gets his jawing-tacks aboard, his yarn runs off clear and quick, like the line off a log-reel in a breeze. I hates them stuttering beggars, axing yer honour's pardon, as boxes all the points of the compass, and never steers no strait coorse after all. Their words come creeping out as if they were afeerd the master-at-arms was a-going to put them in limbo; but a steady helm and a straight coorse for old Rodney, says I.' "After the old man had talked himself into a proper opinion of his merits, he began at once to steer a straight course, as he called it. "'Ye've never been in Chainey, yer honour? Ah you long-togged gentry has a vast to see! Why, you sits at home half your lives, and never knows nothing. Why, now I'll make bould to say yer honour doesn't know how to make a sea-pie or a dish of lobskous?' "'Not I, Rodney.' "'My eyes!' muttered the old man to himself, 'to think of a man coming to his years, and not knowing how to make lobskous! Why, sir, axing yer pardon, yer edication must have been sadly neglected.' "'Oh, I shall improve under your tuition, Rodney; but now for the ghost.' "'Well, sir, you sees when I was aboard the old Bruisewater, East Injeeman, we wor lying at our moorings in Wampoa Reach--that's in Chainey, yer honour. There was a large fleet of us, all lying waiting for a cargo, with nothing in the varsal world to do but to keep the ships clean, and to play at race-horses with the boats. A grand sight it was, yer honour, to see so many fine large craft lying at anchor, all clean painted, and looking as gay as so many women rigged out for a dance ashore, with their red and striped ensigns all fluttering in the sunshine; and the lads all as neat and clean as shore-going gemmen. Why, Lord love you, this here craft would look like a cockleshell alongside o' them! 'Twas a sight to do an old sailor's heart good, to see sich a show of merchantmen as no other country but Ould England could produce. And then, for such an outlandish, out-o'-the-way place as Chainey, the country wasn't so ill-looking neither. On each side of the river were the level green paddy fields, with here and there a little hill, with a joss-house peeping out from the bamboos; the green hills of Dane's Island further up, and its valleys rich with orange-trees and patches of sugar-cane. Further up still was the village of Wampoa, all sticks and straw like, with a great thing like a lighthouse--what them neggurs calls a pugodour--standing as stiff as a marine at attention, on the opposite bank of the river. And then to see the outlandish-looking mat sails--for devil a boat could you see belonging to them--cutting across in all directions, as if they wor taking a walk in the paddy fields! and the junks cocking up ahead and astern like nothing else in the world, with eyes painted on their bows, because the natural fools think they won't be able to see without them! Then, sir, there's the men with tails like cows, and the women with feet like dolls, and the children in the boats tied to calabashes, to prevent their drowning. Why, bless ye, sir, if ye couldn't swally what I told you before, all this 'll choke ye outright. Well, but to come to my story agen. I hates all this here traverse sailing; I must take a fresh departure. The chief mate of the Prince Royal, Mr Pattison, was a riglar out-an-outer, a man as was well knowed in the fleet, and was a favoryte with high and low; for he was a sailor every inch of him, and knowed right well how to keep persons and things in their places. He was a taut hand, too; but none the worse for that, for your true sailor, sir, loves an officer as is a real officer, and gives every man his due, good or bad, without favour or affection--one knows what one has to trust to with such a man. He was quite a pet with the crew, though he made them fly whenever he spoke to them; they were proud of old Charley, as they called him, and of their ship--and high kelter[3] she was in. Well, sir, old Charley was taken ill--then he got worse--then we heard he wasn't expected to live. There wasn't a man or officer in the fleet but wor sorry for him; for them as hadn't been shipmates with him knowed him by karacter. Of coorse, sir, when the chief mate was in the doctor's hands, and hove down to repair, the second did duty for him. One day, when Charley was very ill, the second mate came on deck, and seed the carpenter a-standing in the sun without his hat on; so says he-- [Footnote 3: Kelter--order.] "'Mr Chips,' says he (the carpenters aboard them ships were all warrant-officers, and so always had a handle put to their names)--'Mr Chips, why are you standing in the sun without your hat? You'll be getting a stroke of the sun.' "'Oh, sir,' said the carpenter, with a face as long as the maintop-bowline, 'it's of little consequence; my time's almost up; I haven't much longer to live.' "'What do you mean?' said the officer; 'what foolish notion have you taken into yer head?' "'Oh, sir, it's no foolish notion; _he_ told me so, and I never knowed him deceive any one yet!' "'Who told you so, Chips?' said the mate, kind and soothing like; for he was afeerd that the sun really had got in at some little crack in his upper works; '_who_ told you so?' "'Mr Pattison himself told me so, sir, last night.' "'Mr Pattison? Why, Chips, you're dreaming; he's regularly hove down, can't stir hand or foot, poor fellow.' "'No matter, sir, _he_ told me so; and if it wasn't him, it was his ghost.' "'But how was this, and when?' "'Why, sir, as I was lying awake last night in my cot, I saw Mr Pattison come into my cabin port. The cot shook under me, I trembled so with fear, for I knew how ill he was; but I thought that, while the fever was at its height, he might have got up and wandered to my cabin without knowing what he was about; so I mustered courage to say to him, 'I am glad to see you on your legs again, sir.' He shook his head mournfully, and said, 'I shall never rise from my bed again; in two days' time my eyes will be closed in death, and in three more you will follow me.' He then disappeared, and left me with a weight upon my heart that will sink me to the grave.' "'Oh, nonsense, Chips,' said the officer; 'don't let your mind dwell upon it. You must have been asleep--it was nothing but a dream.' "'Dream or not, sir, I feel that I am a doomed man.' "'Two days after this confab, yer honour, I saw the colours of the Prince Royal slowly rise from the tafferel, as if they didn't like the duty they were on; and then they hung mournfully half-way between deck and the gaff-end: in three minutes, every ship in the fleet had her colours hoisted half-mast, that well-known signal that some officer has struck his flag to death. Poor Charley was no more! A circular was sent from the commodore, to order two boats from every ship in the fleet to attend the funeral--and a grand funeral it was. It was a beautiful sight to see the procession, yer honour. There was the boat, with the coffin in the starn-sheets, covered with a union-jack; and the mourners sitting on each side of it, towed by one of the Prince's cutters; all her crew in mourning, with black crape round their arms, and pulling minute-strokes. Then came the Prince's launch, towed by another boat, full of the ship's company, who had all asked leave to see the last of their officer. Poor fellows! sincere mourners I believe they were. Then, sir, there was a long line of boats from each quarter of the long-boat, all following in each other's wake, and stretching from one end of the reach to the other. As soon as the boat with the coffin in it shoved off from the Prince, her bell began to toll slowly, and, as it passed the gangway of the next ship, her bell took up the knell, and so on all up the fleet. It was a beautiful sight, yer honour, to see the long lines of boats, with their neat jacks fluttering half-mast from the staffs; the men of each boat dressed alike; some crews in blue jackets; others in white, but all with the crape round their arms: then the flags of all the fleet--English, French, American, and Dutch--waving, mournful-like, half-mast high; not a sound to be heard, yer honour, but the dull sound of the minute-strokes, and the fluttering of the colours, and the long clear tones of the bells, as they died away further and further up the fleet:--oh, sir, it was a sad and a beautiful sight! He was buried, where all the other English officers are buried, on French Island. Well, yer honour, now comes the end of the business. Three days afterwards I was quartermaster of the deck, and was standing on the foksle, when I see'd three boats a-passing, with their jacks half-mast, and a coffin in the starn-sheets of the foremost on 'em; so says I to Tom Rattlin, the captain of the foksle--"Tom," says I, "what boats is them?"--"The Prince's," says he; "I believe her carpenter is dead." And sure enough it was the carpenter, sir; the ghost didn't tell him no lie; his signal for sailing was made at the very time he named. Now, sir, after that yarn, will you tell me that there are no such things as ghosts? It was my old shipmate, Bill Buntling, that told me; and, if all tales are true, that's no lie.' "There was no answering such a truism; so I thanked the old man for his yarn, and giving him a stiff'ner,[4] when the watch was over, turned into my snug cot, little dreaming that I would ever repeat the story on the banks of the Tay." [Footnote 4: Strong glass of grog.] "Thank ye, Mr Douglas, for your 'yarn,'" said Alice, "I really think you would make as good a 'spinner of yarns,' as you call it, as old Rodney himself." "What became of old Rodney, did you ever hear?" said Sandford. "Yes. He was lost from the Dundas Indiaman, poor fellow! some years ago. I used often to be talking of him on board the Dolphin, and Captain Driver told me that he knew the man, and that he had heard his fate. He went out to put additional lashings on the sheet-anchor in a heavy gale of wind, a sea struck the bow, and tore him away while clasping the anchor in his arms. He was swept twenty yards from the ship, poor fellow! at once, and all hopes of saving him were at an end. He was an excellent swimmer, and was seen to take off his pea-jacket with the greatest coolness, and, whenever he rose on the top of a sea, he was seen waving his hat for assistance; at last he was seen on the crest of a sea, but when it rose again Rodney was gone----" "Where many a true heart has gone before him!" said Sandford, as the ladies were rising to bid us good-night. "How happy ought you and I to be, Douglas, enjoying all the comforts of a cheerful home, while so many brave fellows are exposed to all the storms and dangers of the deep!" I _was_ happy; I had felt like a new man ever since my visit to Perthshire; a gleam of sunshine had brightened the dark and gloomy path of my life. I was no longer an isolated being--I had met with congenial hearts--I contrasted with gratitude the present with the past, and looked forward with hope to a calm and happy future. I have before spoken of my first impressions of Alice Sandford: I soon learned to look upon her with feelings of warmer interest than I had thought I would ever experience again towards mortal being. I will not waste more words in endeavouring to describe the beauty of a face which, lovely as it was, owed its principal charm to its sweet and amiable expression. That her countenance was a true index to her heart, I have had well-tried experience; for Alice Sandford has been the wife of my bosom for many years, and never, in joy or in sorrow, has she given me a moment's cause to repent of my choice. My friend Sandford (Grant, I should call him) persuaded me to fix my quarters in a handsome villa on his property; and I have ever since had reason to be thankful to Providence for the happiness I have enjoyed, and for the blessed chance that led to my meeting with my friend in the barn at ST BOSWELL'S. THE STORY OF MAY DARLING. "Lay her i' the earth; And from her pure and unpolluted flesh May violets spring!"--HAMLET. It is a lovely spot, Grassyvale--"beautiful exceedingly." But its beauty is of a quiet, unimposing description; the characteristic feature of the landscape which would strike the eye of a spectator who surveyed it from the highest neighbouring eminence, is simply--repose. There are no mountains, properly so called, within a circuit of many miles--none of those natural pyramids which, in various parts of our beloved land of mountain and of flood, of battle and of song, rise in majestic grandeur, like columns of adamant to support the vault of heaven. The nearest are situated at such a distance that they appear like clouds, and might readily be mistaken for such, but for their death-like stillness, and the everlasting monotony of their outline. No waterfalls hurl their bolts of liquid crystal into dark, frowning, wave-worn chasms, which had echoed to the thunder of their fall since the birth of time. There is no far-spreading forest--no yawning ravine, with "ebon shades and low-browed rocks"--no beetling cliff or precipice, "shagged" with brushwood, as Milton hath it. There is nothing of the grand, the sublime, the terrible, or the magnificent--there is only quiet; or, if the terms do not sound affected to "ears polite," modest, unassuming beauty, such as a rainbow, were it perpetually present in the zenith, might form a characteristic and appropriate symbol of. Nature has not here wrought her miracles of beauty on a Titanic scale. What, then, is so attractive about Grassyvale? it will be asked. We are not sure but we may be as much stultified with this question as was the child in Wordsworth's sweet little poem, "We are Seven" (which the reader may turn up at leisure, when the propriety of the comparison will be seen), and may be forced, after an unsuccessful attempt to justify ourselves for holding such an opinion, to maintain, with the same dogmatic obstinacy, it is beautiful. But the length of our story compels us to exclude a description of the landscape which we had prepared. The village of Grassyvale, which is situated on the margin of a small stream, consists of about one hundred scattered cottages, all neatly whitewashed, and most of them adorned in front with some flowering shrub--wild-briar, honeysuckle, or the like--whilst a "kail-yard" in the rear constitutes no inappropriate appendage. There is one of those dwellings conspicuous from the rest by its standing apart from them, and by an additional air of comfort and neatness which it wears, and which seems to hallow it like a radiant atmosphere. It is literally covered with a network of ivy, honeysuckle, and jasmine, the deep green of whose unvarnished leaf renders more conspicuous "the bright profusion of its scattered stars." The windows are literally darkened by a multitude of roses, which seem clustering and crowding together to gain an entrance, and scatter their "perfumed sweets" around the apartment. Near the cottage, there is also a holly planted--that evergreen-tree which seems providentially designed by nature to cheer the dreariness of winter, and, when all is withered and desolate around, to remain a perpetual promise of spring. But we have more to do with this beautiful little dwelling than merely to describe its exterior. Behind Grassyvale, the ground begins to swell, undulating into elevations of mild acclivity, on the highest of which stands the parish church, like the ark resting on Ararat--faith's triumph, and mercy's symbol. Numerous grassy hillocks scattered around indicate the cemetery where "the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep." Amongst those memorials which are designed to perpetuate the recollection of virtue for a few generations--and which, with their appropriate emblems and inscriptions, preach so eloquently to the heart, and realise to the letter Shakspere's memorable words, "sermons in stones"--there is one which always attracts attention. It is not a "storied urn, an animated bust"--one of those profusely decorated marble hatchments with which worldly grandeur mourns, in pompous but vain magnificence, over departed pride. No; it is only a small, unadorned slab of rather dingy-coloured freestone; and the inscription is simply--"To the memory of May Darling, who was removed from this world to a better, at the early age of nineteen. She was an affectionate daughter, a loving sister, and a sincere Christian. "Weep not for her whose mortal race is o'er; She is not lost, but only gone before." Ah! there are few, few indeed, for many miles round, who would pass that humble grave without heaving a sigh or shedding a tear for her who sleeps beneath--her who was so beloved, so admired by every one, as well as being the idol and pride of her own family, and whose romantic and untimely fate (cut off "i' the morn and liquid dew of youth") was the village talk for many a day. John Darling, the father of our heroine, was, what is no great phenomenon amongst the peasantry of Scotland, a sober, industrious, honest man. In early life he espoused the daughter of an opulent farmer, whose marriage-portion enabled him to commence life under very favourable auspices. But, in spite of obedience to the natural laws, the mildew of misfortune will blight our dearest hopes, however wisely our plans for the future may be laid, and however assiduously and judiciously they may be pursued. Untoward circumstances, which it would unnecessarily protract our narrative to relate, had reduced him, at the period to which our tale refers, to the condition of a field-labourer. Death had likewise been busy singling out victims from amongst those who surrounded his humble but cheerful fireside; and of a large family there only remained three, and he was a widower besides. May was the eldest; and, accordingly, the superintendence of the household devolved upon her. The deceased parent was of a somewhat haughty and reserved turn of mind, for the recollection of former affluence never forsook her; and this circumstance kept her much aloof from the less polished and sophisticated matrons of the village, and also rendered her a strict family disciplinarian. She concentrated her mind almost entirely upon the affairs of her own household; and her children were accordingly watched with a more vigilant eye, and brought up with more scrupulous care, than was usual with those around her. It was her pride, and "let it be her praise," to see them arrayed in more showy habiliments than those worn by their associates; and, to accomplish this darling object, what serious transmutation did her finery of former days undergo, as the mutilated robes descended from child to child, turned upside down, inside out, and otherwise suffering a metamorphosis at every remove! The dress of May, in particular--her first-born bud of bliss, the doated on of her bosom--was always attended to with special care; nor was the cultivation of her mind in any way overlooked. She very early inspired her with a love of reading, which increased with the development of her faculties, and many a day survived her by whom the passion had been awakened. In person, May was slender; but her light, airy, sylph-like form was eminently handsome. Hair and eyes of intense depth of black contrasted admirably with a countenance which may be designated as transparent--it was nearly colourless; and only on occasions of unusual bodily exertion, or when some mental emotion suffused the cheek with a damask blush, would a tint of rosy red fluctuate over her pure skin. It can scarcely be called pale, however--it had nothing about it of that death-in-life hue which indicates the presence of disease. "Oh, call it _fair_, not pale!" The expression was at once amiable and intellectual--mellowed or blended, however, with a pensiveness which is usually, but most erroneously, called melancholy. Melancholy had nothing to do with a "mind at peace with all below--a heart whose love was innocent." The countenance, in general, affords an index of the mental character--it takes its "form and pressure," as it were, from the predominant workings of that inward principle which is the source of thought and feeling. It is there that thought and feeling, those subtle essences, are made visible to the eye--it is there that mind may be seen. The most casual observer could not fail to perceive that the soul which spoke eloquently in the eye, "and sweetly lightened o'er the face," of May Darling, was a worshipper of nature, of poetry, and of virtue; for they are often combined--they have a natural relation to one another; and, when they exist simultaneously in one individual, a mind so constituted has a capacity for enjoying the most exalted pleasure of which humanity is susceptible. May Darling was indeed imaginative and sanguine in a very high degree; and books of a romantic or dramatic character were mines of "untold wealth" to her. "Many are poets who have never penn'd Their inspirations." And, although the name of this rural beauty, this humble village maiden, will be looked for in vain in the rolls of fame, she enjoyed hours of intense poetical inspiration. In both her mental character and in the style of her personal attractions, she rose far above her companions of the village. Need it be told, that often, of a fine evening, she would steal away from her gay, romping, laughing associates, and, with a favourite author in her hand, and wrapped in a vision of "_sweet_ coming fancies," follow the course of the stream which intersected her native vale, flowing along, pure and noiseless, like the current of her own existence? The favourite haunt in which she loved to spend her leisure hours was a beautiful dell, distant about half-a-mile from the village. It was a place so lonely, so lovely, so undisturbed, that there (but then all these fine old rural deities, those idols shrined for ages in nature's own hallowed Pantheon, have been expelled their temples, or broken by science--why should this be?)--there, if anywhere, the genius of solitude might be supposed to have fixed her abode. It was a broken piece of ground, intersected by several irregular banks, here projecting in hoar and sterile grandeur (not on an Alpine scale, however), and there clothed with tufts of the feathery willow or old gnarled thorn. The earth was carpeted with its usual covering of emerald turf; and interwoven with it, in beautiful irregularity, were numerous wild flowers--the arum, with its speckled leaves and lilac blossoms; the hyacinth, whose enamelled blue looks so charmingly in the light of the setting sun; and oxlips, cowslips, and the like--throwing up their variegated tufts, like nosegays presented by nature for some gentle creature like May Darling to gather up and lay upon her bosom. The air, of course, was permanently impregnated with the perfume which they breathed out--the everlasting incense of the flowers rising from the altars of nature to her God. Such was the sanctuary in which May gleaned from books the golden thoughts of others, or held communion with her own; and well was it adapted for nursing a romantic taste, and giving a tenderer tone to every tender feeling. The personal attractions of this sweet and lovely creature increased with her years, and she became the reigning belle of Grassyvale and all the country round. It followed, as a matter of course, that her admirers outnumbered her years; and that the possession of her affections was, with many a rustic Adonis, a subject which troubled the little kingdom of the soul, like the Babylonish garment. At every village fête--a wedding, a harvest-home, or other rural festival--hers was the step most buoyant in the dance, hers the hand most frequently solicited, hers the form and face that riveted all eyes, and thrilled the heart of the ardent admirer "too much adoring." Amongst the other accomplishments of our heroine, skill in music was not the least prominent. Not that she excelled in those intricate graces which are often had recourse to by vocalists to conceal a bad voice, and atone for want of feeling and expression; but her "wood-note wild" was eminently characterised by the latter qualities of singing; and the effect which she produced was accordingly calculated to be lasting. It must not be supposed, however, that the flattering unction of adulation, at best like the love of Kaled to Lara, "but half-concealed," had any pernicious influence over her mind. She was neither puffed up with vain conceit, nor display of haughty reserve and distance towards those who numbered fewer worshippers than herself; still humility of heart, which was "native there, and to the manner born," characterised her deportment; nor was there any relaxation in the discharge of the household duties which devolved upon her; and the comfort of her father, and the proper care and culture of the younger branches of the family, were as faithfully attended to as if her deformity, instead of her beauty, had been proverbial. She folded the little flutterers under her wing, like a mother bird; and, if there was one thing more than another that she took delight in, it was the training of their young minds to the love and practice of virtue and religion--the only fountains whence happiness, pure and uncontaminated, can be drawn in this life. "So pass'd their life--a clear united stream, By care unruffled; till, in evil hour----" But we anticipate. It was on a fine summer morning that May, with one of her little sisters, set out to visit the annual fair of the county town. Such an event naturally excites considerable interest over all the country round; and old and young, blind and cripple, male and female, pour along the public ways--not in "weary" but in lighthearted "droves"--full of eagerness and expectation, like the Jews to the Pool of Bethesda, when the angel was expected to make his annual descent, and impart a healing virtue to its waters; for there there is to be found variety of amusement for every mind--from the Katerfelto wonderer, "wondering for his bread," down to the more humble establishment of the halfpenny showman, with his "glorious victory of Waterloo," his "golden beetle," or "ashes from the burning mountains." But, on the occasion to which we refer, there was an exhibition in the shape of a theatrical booth, which presented extraordinary attractions for May Darling; and, accordingly, after deliberately balancing the gratification which she anticipated with the expense which it would cost (her exchequer was, of course, not very rich), she at length found herself comfortably seated near the front of the stage. The tragedy of "George Barnwell" was going off with prodigious _eclat_; and the performers had arrived at that scene where the hero is about to assassinate his uncle, when the insecure props that supported the gallery began to indicate a disposition to disencumber themselves of their burden, and at last finally gave way. The confusion which now ensued, not to mention the shrieks and other vocal notes of terror and dismay, it is needless to describe--these have nothing to do with our tale. Barnwell, instead of imbruing his hands in innocent blood, even "in jest," became the most active agent in rescuing his hapless audience from their perilous situation. He was a tall, handsome young man, of a very prepossessing exterior, and appeared to great advantage in his showy stage habiliments. The general rush was towards the door, the most likely avenue of escape which presented itself to the astonished rustics; but a few, amongst whom was our heroine, with more collected judgment and presence of mind, found a place of security on the stage. May was slightly bruised in her endeavours to shelter her young charge; and, although not much injured, her forlorn yet interesting appearance drew the attention of the histrionic Samaritan, and he kindly conducted her into the back settlements of the theatre. The affair was not of such a serious nature as might have been anticipated. A few dilapidated seats, and a score or two of trifling contusions, made up the sum total of the damage. A hat or two might have changed owners in the confusion; but these are things beneath the dignity of a tragedian to look after; and, as soon as matters were adjusted on the grand theatre of commotion, he returned to the object of his first solicitude. She was seated on a stool in what was dignified with the sounding appellation of a green-room--looking paler, and lovelier, and more loveable than ever. He quieted her apprehensions with respect to the catastrophe; for he was an adept in the art of imitation, and politely requested the honour of conducting her to her place of residence. It is not difficult to conceive what was the first impression which the request made upon the mind of May Darling; but the scruples of modest, virgin innocence yielded at last to the importunities of the actor, and they left the scene of mirth and confusion together. On their journey homewards, the conversation naturally turned upon the drama; and many a fine passage, which May admired, was recited to her with all the eloquence and stage artifice which the actor was master of. And he would speak feelingly of "the gentle lady married to the Moor"--her love--the love of Desdemona, pure, exalted, all-enduring, such as death alone could quench--her wo and her fate, so replete with all that can agonise the human soul, and awaken its profoundest sympathies;--of Ophelia--"the fair Ophelia," the young, the beautiful, and the gentle--her devoted, child-like affection, her mournful distraction, and her untimely doom;--of Miranda, the island bride--the being of enchantment--half-earthly, half-heavenly--around whom the spirits of the air hovered, and ministered unto as vassals;--of Imogen, the fair and faithful--the patient, long-suffering, and finally fortunate Imogen;--of Cordelia--she of the seraph-spirit, pure and peaceful--whose love for a father surpassed that of the Roman daughter;--of Perdita, "the prettiest low-born lass that ever ran on the greensward"--the shepherdess and the princess;--of Juliet--the martyr of passion--she who drew poison from earth's sweetest flower, love, and died thereby; by love's own flame "kindled she was and blasted." These, and many other creations of fancy, which omnipotent genius has rendered almost real historical personages--not shadow, but substance--were the topics of discourse which were handled by our hero of the buskin, until the cottage of John Darling was reached. From the description which has been given of May's character, it need be no matter of surprise that the impression made upon her gentle bosom was profound; and, on taking leave of her, a request on the part of Mr Henry Wilkinson (such was the tragedian's name) to be permitted to visit her on some future occasion, made under cover of a pretext to inquire after the state of her health, was acceded to. Again and again Mr Wilkinson visited the cottage, and poured into the ear of the humble, unsuspecting, and happy inmate many a story of love, and hope, and joy--such as his knowledge of the drama, which was great, supplied him with. "These things to hear Would Desdemona seriously incline; But still the house affairs would draw her thence; Which ever as she could with haste despatch She'd come again, and with a greedy ear Devour up his discourse." Substitute the name of May Darling for that of Desdemona, and the description becomes perfect of our heroine's situation, whilst the result was similar: in a short time, the happiness of our village maiden was entirely at the disposal of Mr Wilkinson. Hitherto her heart had slept, like some untroubled lake, reflecting only heaven, and nature grand and beautiful around; but now its waters were darkened and disturbed by one single image--and that was her lover's. Her ears were no longer open to the murmurs of her native stream, or the gush of song of the fairy-winged and fairy-plumaged birds, whom she almost knew one from another: she only heard the music of her lover's voice. Her secluded dell was no longer visited alone: her walks were no longer solitary, or, if they were, it was only to meet him whom her heart loved, and to see if his speed "kept pace with her expectancy." Everything was beheld through one all-hallowing atmosphere--and that was love. It lay upon her soul like the shadow on the sundial, and time was measured by it. How, it will be asked, was all this looked upon by her father? With no favourable eye--nay, with many suspicious forebodings and prophetic fears. It was about three months after the catastrophe which took place in the provincial theatre, that Mr Wilkinson made proposals of a union to May, which, being accepted, the consent of her parent was next applied for. The advances of the actor were for a time checked by an uncompromising refusal; but May's father gradually became less peremptory, until there remained only one objection, but that was insurmountable--namely, the profession of Mr Wilkinson--one, in general, very obnoxious to a Scottish peasant. It was, however, finally obviated, by the actor's promising to abandon it, and become a teacher of elocution in the town of H----. The father's consent was obtained at last, though with reluctance, and the day of their nuptials was fixed. It was a beautiful evening, that which preceded the day when May Darling was to give her hand to the man for whom her heart cherished a love as deep, intense, and concentrated, as ever was awakened and nursed in woman's gentle bosom. The sun--just sinking through those vast masses of clouds which usually attend his exit, and assume, as he descends, various wild and fantastical shapes, and catch every hue, from the intense purple to the scarcely perceptible yellow--showered on the face of nature a stream of rich but mellowed radiance, which softened without obliterating the outlines of objects, and produced that "clear obscure, so softly dark, so darkly pure," which is so favourable to indulgence in tender emotions. "Sweet hour that wakes the wish and melts the heart!"-- sweet hour, when reflection is deepest and feeling most profound--when the mind, abroad all day, busied with the concerns of this work-a-day world, comes home to itself, and broods, and sleeps, and dreams golden dreams--sunny, hope-illumined dreams!--sweet hour, when the ties of social being which the day had severed are reunited, and around the household hearth the "old familiar faces" are assembled!--sweet hour, when the shades of evening, gradually deepening, are sufficient to conceal the blush which might mantle beauty's cheek, too warmly, fondly pressed, as, in a voice half-sighs, half-whispers, she confesses the secret of her love; and when, in the arms which gently enfold her yielding form, she seems, in the fine language of Rogers, to become less and less earthly, "And fades at last into a spirit from heaven!" 'Twas at this enchanting hour that Wilkinson and his betrothed set out on one of those charming walks during which they had so often exchanged vows of mutual and eternal love. The road which they at first took was sufficiently retired to admit of their conversing aloud with unreserved confidence; but, continuing their journey, unconscious where they were going, they found themselves at last in the vicinity of the high road which leads to the town of H----. Turning to strike down a narrow hedgerow path, a moving spectacle presented itself to their observation. Upon a grassy knoll lay a female fast asleep, with a child at her breast, vainly attempting to force its little fingers within the folds of the handkerchief which concealed the bosom of its mother. May uttered a faint exclamation, somewhat between pity and fear; for she was taken by surprise. But her lover's astonishment was still greater than hers; for, after he had contemplated the careworn features of the wayfarer, he started, and, had not the increasing gloom of evening prevented any change of countenance from being perceptible, May might have seen his face turn ashy pale; but she felt the arm in which hers was fondly locked tremble distinctly. "This touches your feelings, Henry," said May; "but can we not, love, do something to alleviate the sufferings of this, no doubt, unfortunate female? Had I not better awake her, and conduct her to my father's, where refreshment and rest can be procured?" "Nay, dearest love," said Wilkinson; "sleep is to the wretched the greatest boon that can be bestowed: let us leave her alone, nor deprive her of the only comfort which, possibly, she is capable of enjoying." So saying, he hastily retired, bearing May, somewhat reluctantly, homewards; for her sympathy was much excited, and she would fain have carried her generous purpose into effect; but gave way to the entreaties of her lover, who had some miles to walk ere he could reach his place of residence. After seeing May safely beneath the domestic roof, Wilkinson bade farewell for the night to his betrothed bride, and took his departure, with the intention, he said, of immediately returning to H----. He did not proceed directly home, however; but, making a retrograde movement, he fell back upon the place where the fatigued traveller had been seen. She was gone when he arrived; and whether the circumstance gave him pleasure or the reverse, we have never been able to ascertain; but, at all events, he now set out in good earnest for H----. What should have interested Wilkinson so much in this apparently wandering mendicant?--_Pacienza_. On the evening which we have described, let the reader picture to himself two aged crones, comfortably seated upon a rough slab of wood, elevated two feet or so above the ground, by a massive block of granite which supported either end. This, together with the cottage wall against which their backs reclined, might, even with individuals more fastidious than its present occupants, have appeared a luxury little inferior to a sofa, especially in that bland and beautiful hour when daylight dies along the hills, and our feelings, partaking of the softness of the scene and hour, dispose us to be pleased, we ask not why, and care not wherefore. On either hand was situated a door, over which hung suspended a very homely signboard. From one of these the wayfarer might learn that good entertainment for man and beast could be supplied within, by Janet Baird, who, it appeared, was, by special permission of government, permitted to retail spirits, porter, ale, and other items. Lest any mistake should occur as to the nature of the invitation (or perhaps it was a ruse to provoke the alimentary faculties), there was a painting of the interior, representing a table, which seemed to groan under the weight of bottles, glasses, porter and ale cans, bread, cheese, and what not; whilst two jolly companions, with rubicund faces, where an infinity of good-nature predominated, sat round it, each with a cup in hand, and both evidently sublimed by their potations far above this "dirty planet, the earth." At the entrance to the apartment was seen the landlady, who with one hand pushed open the door, whilst the other, projecting forwards, supported a huge tankard, charged with the favourite beverage, which mantled or effloresced at the top like a cauliflower. The neighbouring sign had fewer attractions for the weary traveller or the droughty villager, throwing out merely hints as to the condition of the reader's linen, by intimating that clothes might here undergo purification, and be mangled by the hour or _peace_ (such was the orthography) by Nelly Gray. The two neighbours lived on terms of the utmost harmony; for there was no rivalry of interests. Their callings were antipodes to each other--one being devoted to the decoration and comfortable appearance of the human exterior, whilst the other took special cognisance of the internal condition of the animal economy. They, of course, carried on a mutual traffic; but it was on the primitive principle of barter--the weekly account for washing and dressing which Janet owed being duly balanced by her accommodating Nelly with a certain potent nostrum, which we shall not name, but merely describe as a sovereign remedy for aching bones and pains, and other complaints of the stomach, to which this petticoat Diogenes (for she likewise practised in a tub) was very subject, especially after washing a whole day, or impelling her crazy, creaking machine for the same space of time. It was their invariable practice to spend an hour or two every evening in what is termed in the vernacular a "twa-handed crack," either seated out-doors, or snugly immured in Janet's back parlour--a small dark room, encumbered with sundry articles of retail. The subject of their conversation, on the present occasion, will immediately become apparent. "They say he's gaun to learn folk ellykeashun," said Janet, in reference to May's lover. "And what's that, Janet?" asked the other. "Ne'er a bit o' me kens very weel," rejoined Janet; "but I'm thinkin it's the way the gentry speak, eghin and owin, and sichin and sabbin, and makin yer voice gang up and doun, like daft Jock playin on the fife." "Ay! ay! that's an idle kind o' way o' makin ane's bread," sighed Nelly. "It's naething else than beggin. He'd better pit a nappin-hammer in his hand, and tak the roadside for an honest livelihood." "'Deed, Nelly, it's my opinion he's been on the road before, followin anither trade," said Janet. "I'm sair mistaen if he's no a hempie; and we'll maybe hear mair aboot him yet than some folks wad like to ken o'. I never liked your land-loupers and spoutin gentry a' my days. They're nae better than tinklers, that carry aff whatever they lay their hands on, nae matter whether it's beast or body. It cowes the gowan hoo sae sensible a man as John Darling wad e'er hae looten his dochter tak up wi' sic-like clam-jamphrey. But he was aye owre easy wi' his family, and gied them owre muckle o' their ain wull frae the first. But the mother was sair to blame in pittin sic daft-like notions intil a bairn's head as to read playactorin books and novels. Wae am I to say sae, noo that she's whar the Lord wull." "Is't true, Janet, that they're to be coupled i' the kirk?" asked Nelly. "They say the minister's taen an unco likin to the lad; and, to mak things look as genteel as possible, he's offered the use o' the kirk for marryin them in; and's to gie them a ploy forbye, after it's a' owre." "Guid faith, it's a true sayin, 'The fat sow gets a' the draff,'" rejoined Janet. "It wad be lang or he did a turn like that for ony puir body like oorsels. The birkie doesna stand in need o' cash; for he gies saxpence to this ane, and a shillin to the tither ane, for gangin errans. He micht hae provided something for the waddin folks doun at Michael Crummie's, whase tred's no sae brisk noo, sin' that kick-up wi' him and the mason-lodge folk, wha swore he gied them up ill whusky--and that was maybe nae lee. He ne'er, since ever I mind, keepit the real stuff, like that o' mine. But see, Nelly, whatna puir, waebegone-lookin cratur's that comin alang the road, scarcely able to trail ae leg after anither? and a bairn, too, help us a'!" The object which drew the attention of the honest ale-wife was, as the reader may have already sagaciously conjectured, the same forlorn being whom May Darling and her lover had accidentally encountered. With a slow and faltering step she approached the village dames, and inquired of them how far it was from the town of H----. "Five miles guid," said Janet Baird, and continued--"But ye'll no think o' gaun there the nicht; it's gettin dark, and ye've mair need o' a while's rest; and maybe ye wadna be the waur o' something to support nature; for, wae's me! ye do look thin and hungert like! Tak her in by, Nelly, and I'll fetch her some cordial, as weel as a morsel to eat." So saying, she proceeded to her shop, for the purpose of making good her word, whilst Nelly followed up that part of the duty of relieving the stranger which devolved upon her, and conducted the "wearied one" into the interior of her humble domicile. "Ye'll hae travelled a gey bit the day, na, I sudna wonder?" said Nelly. "Yes," said the stranger, whom we shall now designate as Mrs B----. "Since morning I have prosecuted my journey with all the speed which want and weariness would permit of. But these were nothing, did I only know how it was to terminate." Meantime Janet had returned, bearing in her apron an ample stock of provisions; and, having heard the latter part of Mrs B----'s reply to Nelly, her curiosity was not a little excited to know something of her history. This she set about with the characteristic _pawkiness_ (there is no purely English word sufficiently expressive) of the Scotch--that style of speaking which is half-asking, half-answering a question; and she was successful in her endeavours. "It'll be the guidman that ye're gaun to meet at H----?" said Janet. "He'll be in the manufacturing line, nae doot; for there's little else dune there; and, indeed, that itsel has faun sair aff sin' that dirt o' machinery was brocht in to tak the bread oot o' the puir man's mou." "Yes--no; he is not in that line, nor do I know, indeed, if he is to be found there at all. But--but--excuse me, kind friends, for showing a little reserve touching one who----" Here, however, her feelings overcame her; and, turning round to gaze on the helpless being that clung to her bosom, tears from her suffused eyes began to find a ready passage down her pale emaciated cheek--a channel with which they appeared to be familiar. "He never saw thee, my little Henry, my sweet boy! Methinks, that cherub smile of innocence which lies upon that countenance would be powerful enough to melt the icy feelings of his soul, and recall ----. Pardon me, kind friends," she continued; "but the name of husband is associated in my mind with all that human nature can suffer of unmitigated, hopeless wretchedness. You see before you the victim of ----. But you shall hear all." She then commenced her history, recounting every circumstance of a tale of misery but too common. As it is in some measure connected with that of May Darling, we shall give a few of its leading facts. She was the daughter of a respectable farmer in the north of England, and, being an only child, received an accomplished education; and, from her engaging manners, personal attractions, and skill in music, she was much courted, even by those who moved in the higher circles. At the house of a neighbouring clergyman, Mr G----, she was a very frequent visiter; and her charms captivated the heart of Dr G----, a young medical gentleman, and the nephew of the clergyman. On her part, however, there was no attachment, although the ardour with which Dr G---- pressed his suit might have captivated a bosom less stubborn than hers. But another idol was shrined and secretly worshipped there. This was a Mr Henry Bolton, a fellow-student of Dr G----'s, who, in calling at the house of Mr G---- to see his friend the doctor, was induced to spend a few days with him. His stay was protracted to weeks, months--in short, till the farmer's daughter and he, having come to an understanding with respect to the all-important matter of love, agreed to join hands for better, for worse. The marriage took place at a neighbouring town, where the couple remained for several months, living in a state of great privacy, for no one was in the secret of their union, not even the lady's father. The finances of Mr Bolton became exhausted; and a letter from his father having shut out all hope of succour from that quarter, he was thrown into a state of extreme dejection. His temper soured, and harshness towards his wife soon followed; for an application on her part to her father, to whom she was compelled by necessity to reveal her situation, met with a reception similar to the other. One day, he dressed himself with more than usual care, packed up in a small parcel the principal part of his body-clothes, and having told his wife that he meant to go as far as ----, naming a considerable town, which was situated at some miles distance, parted from her, like Ajut in "The Rambler," never to return. The sun arose and set, and arose again and again, and week after week, but still he came not; nor was she ever able to obtain the faintest trace of him. Her health began to droop, and, in the depth of her humiliation and misery, like the prodigal of old, she was compelled to seek for shelter under the paternal roof. Her father received her even with kindness; for time, the softener of affliction, the soother of wrath, had not passed over his head without exercising its due influence upon his feelings. Here she gave birth to a child, the baby which now lay at her breast. Time passed away, and still no intelligence of her runaway husband reached her, till, "about a week back," she said, "communication was made me by letter, that, if I would repair to the town of H----, I would hear something of my lost husband. Without the knowledge of my father, I have undertaken the journey; and God alone knows whether the information, so mysteriously conveyed to me, be true or false--whether my hopes will be disappointed or realised. A few hours, however, will be sufficient to set my mind at rest. I have wearied you, I fear; but my present wretched appearance required some explanation on my part--for, oh, it is difficult to lie under the suspicion of being a vagrant or vagabond, as Heaven knows I am neither." And, clasping her hands and raising her eyes, she remained for a few minutes in that reverential but death-like attitude which is assumed when a human soul prays in agony. Her painful narrative had its due influence upon the minds of those to whom it was addressed; and, although both admitted the propriety of proceeding to the town of H----, yet they earnestly exhorted her to remain with them for a night; and to this proposal she acceded. After breakfast next morning, Mrs B---- (who must now be looked upon as one of the principal of our _dramatis personæ_) set out for the town of H----. What the nature of her reflections were, as she drew near the termination of her journey, may be readily conceived; but of their intensity, no idea can be formed by any one except by the brokenhearted female who has passed through the same fiery ordeal of desertion and despair. She had arrived within a short distance of the town, when a chaise, driving rapidly down the principal entrance to it, attracted her attention. It approached, and from the favours which profusely adorned the driver, his team, and his vehicle, it was evident that some happy pair were destined soon to become its occupants. The blinds were all drawn up; but, as the chaise passed her, one of them was partially let down, and she heard some one from within instruct the driver to proceed to the manse by a road more retired than that usually taken. There was something in the tone of the voice (though indistinctly heard from the rattling of the wheels) which startled Mrs B---- from a reverie in which she had been indulging, and made every fibre of her body to thrill, as if an electric discharge had shot through it. In mute astonishment, not unmingled with thick-coming fancies, horrible forebodings, which, without assuming any definite form, were prophetic of wo, she fixed her eyes upon the retiring vehicle, and, rooted to the spot where she stood, motionless as a Niobe of stone, gazed and gazed till her eyeballs ached. "Can it be?" she at last exclaimed, with wild emotion--"can it be?--No--no--'tis but fancy; yet the place!--gracious powers!" Her eyes continued to follow the retiring wheels, fixed upon them she knew not by what mysterious power; and long she might have remained in this position, had not some person from behind softly addressed her. She turned round, and her eyes fell upon her former suitor, Dr G----. Let her astonishment be imagined--we will not attempt to give words to her feelings. "It is to you, then," she said, after recovering from her surprise--"it is to you, Dr G----, that I am indebted for information regarding my lost husband." "It is," he replied; "but not a moment is to be lost. Things are in a worse condition than they were when I despatched my letter to you. But let us proceed instantly to Grassyvale. On the way I will inform you of all that has come to my knowledge regarding that monster--it were a profanation of language to call him husband." So saying, they commenced their journey, which we shall leave them to prosecute whilst we bring up some parts of our narrative which have been necessarily left in the rear. We need hardly say that the morning of her marriage was an anxious and a busy one to May Darling. It is true that she had plenty of assistance afforded her by the village matrons, and by a few youthful associates, whom she had singled out as especial favourites, from amongst many who were regarded by her with affection. But still a fastidiousness of taste always seizes people on those occasions when they are desirous of appearing to the best advantage. Besides, when there are a number of lady's-maids, all busily engaged in decorating a single individual, a difference of opinion relative to the various items of dress always takes place, and occasions much delay. One of them is clear that such and such a colour of riband will best suit the complexion of the wearer; another holds out strongly for an opposite hue; and a third silences them both by asserting that neither answer the colour of the bonnet. What sort of flowers would most fittingly ornament the hair was also a subject of protracted debate; and half-an-hour was wasted in determining whether the riband which was to circle her waist like a zone should hang down or not. Matters, however, were at last adjusted--the bride was arrayed, the hour of twelve was struck by a small wooden clock which ticked behind the door; and with the hour there arrived at the cottage a sort of rude palanquin, fashioned of birch-tree boughs, which intertwisted with each other, and were interwoven with branches of flowering shrubs; and upon this some of the kindest and blithest-hearted of the villagers had agreed to bear May to the kirk. Some modest scruples required to be overcome before she would be induced to avail herself of this mode of conveyance; and, after being seated, with the bridesmaid walking on one side, and John Darling on the other, the cavalcade began to move. Many hearty good wishes for the happiness of the bride from the elder people, and many joyous shouts from the younger part of the villagers, greeted the ears of the marriage party; whilst a pretty long train which drew itself out in the rear, sent up its rejoicings on the wind from a distance. But one step must bring us to the altar of Hymen. Side by side stood the bridegroom and the bride; and a more interesting, handsome, and apparently well-matched pair, never were seen in the same situation, as we are informed by the clergyman who officiated on the occasion. The ceremony proceeded with due formality--one moment more would have joined their hands, when a person who had just entered the church called to the clergyman to stay the nuptials; and, at the same moment, a shriek from a female who had entered along with him, rose so wild, thrilling, and distracted, that every bosom shook beneath its glittering attire. "Base, inhuman miscreant!" shouted Dr G----, addressing himself to Wilkinson (which name must now be supplanted by his real one, Bolton), at the same time rushing forward to seize the bridegroom. He, however, had ere this dropped the hand of May Darling--that hand which, till now, like Desdemona's, had "felt no age, nor known no sorrow"--and, unsheathing a dagger which was concealed about his person (doubtless one of his theatrical weapons), he threatened to make a ghost of any one who disputed his retreat from the church. His menacing attitude and wild gesticulations terrified every beholder, and even Dr G---- gave way, allowing him unmolested to quit the sacred place which he was about to profane, and possibly might have stained with blood. Only one attempted to arrest him, and for a short time succeeded. It was his wife--she who the night previously had kindled up in his soul the fires of conscience, as she lay asleep, unsheltered save by heaven's blue canopy, and apparently an abandoned outcast. "Henry," she said, holding up their child, and stretching forth her arms--"Henry, look on this dear pledge of our affection, the child of love, though born in bitterness and tears, the offspring of your choice--look on him, Henry, and let the voice of conscience in your breast, which must be heard now or hereafter, plead in his behalf. The helpless darling innocent--of what crime has he been guilty, that his natural protector should cast him forth to meet the buffetings of fate without a shield--that he should be launched upon the sea of life without an oar? If not for my sake, at least for the sake of little Henry--for he bears your name--restore us both to honour and society, by returning to the path of duty. The arms that have so often embraced you will again encircle the neck to which they have clung so often and so fondly. O Henry, Henry! reflect for an instant on my destitute outcast condition--without you, I am a weed cast from the rock, to be driven whithersoever the storm sets wildest. Think what my sufferings have been and must be!--God alone can estimate them. Henry, hear me. Stay but one instant--Henry, Henry!" And, taking her child in one arm, she stretched out the other to detain him; but the heartless villain shook her rudely from him, and darted from the church. What were May Darling's feelings during this heartrending scene? She was not a spectator of it. The moment that the dreadful truth flashed upon her mind, she sank into the arms of her father, dead to consciousness and time. By the same conveyance which had brought her in triumph to the church, covered with the insignia of happiness, and palpitating with rapture almost too intense for the human soul to enjoy for any length of time without experiencing pain and a revolution of feeling--by that same conveyance, not an hour after, she was borne to her father's cottage, a wretched, but a gentle maniac. Days, weeks, months, passed away, and she remained the same listless, mild, and inoffensive creature--a baby-woman, a human being ripe in years, and an infant in thought, feeling, and everything mental. 'Tis painful to contemplate the situation of an individual overwhelmed by such a calamity under any circumstances; but, under the present, how terrible indeed! To be struck down at the altar, arrayed in bridal robes, and with all her hopes blooming around her--how does it humble human pride, set at nought all calculations of human happiness, and assign narrow limits to human hope! And yet there was mercy in the dispensation. Better unconscious almost of existence itself, than alive to all the horrors of a doom like that of May Darling. Better the vacant stare, and the look of silent indifference on all beneath the sun, than the wild gesticulations of violent grief, the shriek of wo, or the agony of despair, for the alleviation of which "hope never comes that comes to all." Every means were had recourse to for rousing her from the dismal trance into which she had fallen, to dispel from her thoughts the gloomy, the dead images by which they were haunted--but in vain. Sometimes she would sit amongst her gay companions; and, whilst they laughed, chatted, and sung, as in former happy days, a faint smile would rekindle about her lips, so rosy once, so wan and withered now, and for a moment playing like a mental coruscation, would suddenly expire, and then she would droop again into the gloom of moody madness, and weep amidst all the gaiety that surrounded her--weep even like a child. If spoken to, she made no reply; but, lifting up her dark streaming eyes, sparkling through the humid medium in which they were suffused, like a star in motionless water, she would sing snatches of old songs about disappointed love, blighted hopes, and broken hearts. And the melancholy tones of her voice would sadden all around her, as if some powerful spell had suddenly passed over their minds like a cold wind, and frozen up the fount of joyous feeling; and they would weep too--weep along with her; for she was so beloved, so good, so beautiful, so happy once, and so wobegone and wretched now. Then would the gentle maniac start up on a sudden, as if some one had hastily summoned her, and, rushing towards home, would mutter, in a quick tone of voice--"I am coming--I am coming! I knew we would be in time!--I knew we would be in time! He is there!--he--he!----Who?" She was silent now. Many an eye was filled with tears as she passed through the straggling village of Grassyvale. Winter had passed away; the vernal eruption of spring had been matured into the bloom and the promise which spring gives of autumn, when May Darling one evening wandered forth from her father's cottage, attended only by a little sister. Striking into that beautiful and unfrequented path where she had last walked with him who, on the following day, was to have become her husband, she had arrived at the very spot where lay asleep on the grassy bank by the hedge-side the wife of Bolton. A train of thought seemed suddenly to rush through her mind; for she sat, or rather dropped, gently down. 'Twas the recollection of former events which had begun to be reanimated within her; and, though faint, it was sufficient to cause a temporary suspension of muscular energy: her sight became dim, only vague images being presented to the eye; and she might probably have fallen backwards, had not a person sprung through the hedge, and, putting his arms around her slender form, maintained her in an erect position. The individual who had thus so opportunely come to her assistance was closely wrapped up in a greatcoat, although the warmth of the weather rendered such a covering scarcely necessary. The upper part of his countenance was concealed by a slouched hat drawn pretty far down; but from what of it was visible, it was plain that care, remorse, and dissipation, had gone far to modify its natural expression. May gradually revived from her partial swoon; and the stranger, uncovering his head, and fixing his eyes upon the languid features which began to assume the hue of life and the expression of conscious being, said, in a low, trembling voice-- "May Darling, hear me--do not curse me--I am miserable enough without the malison of her whom----" But his feelings, for a moment, choked his utterance. "Through a thousand dangers and difficulties have I sought this interview, only that I might obtain your forgiveness, and acceptance of this small gift." Here he flung a purse down by her side. "Say you forgive me, May--breathe but the word, and in a few days an ocean shall roll between us." But he spoke to ears which heard not. The moment that May recognised Bolton, reason was restored, but animation fled, and she sank dead for a time in his arms. He was about to take measures for her restoration, when the rapid trampling of horses' hoofs drew his attention in another direction; and, looking over the hedgerow, he perceived two horsemen, at a very little distance, advancing towards the village. He seemed to be aware of their errand, and the cause of their speed; for no sooner had he cast his eyes on them, than his head instinctively slunk down behind the hedge. But his precaution was too late. He had been seen; and that night he was led, a fettered man, to the jail of H----, charged with highway robbery. We may as well conclude his history, as well as that of the other individuals who have been interwoven with our tale, before returning to May Darling. Mr Henry Bolton was found guilty of the crime with which he was charged, and condemned to perish on the scaffold, although it was only his first offence, and, to do him justice, he had committed the crime for the purpose of having it in his power, in some measure, to requite May Darling for the injury which she had received at his hands. How wonderful are the ways of Providence in punishing the guilty! Actuated by a motive unquestionably virtuous, Bolton commits a capital crime, and the woman whom he had wronged becomes, unconsciously to herself, the ultimate cause of his punishment! However, by powerful intercession on the part of his friends, the sentence was commuted to transportation for life. But it was destined that he should end his days miserably. "Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed." Bolton was virtually a murderer, as we shall see; and the curse could not be eluded by the decision of any earthly tribunal. 'Twas vain to attempt to fly from it. The vengeance of Heaven would have pursued him through all the regions of space; and, screened by the closest envelope of darkness and disguise, would have struck its victim down. In a skirmish with the natives of the place to which he had been transported, he was taken prisoner, and by them put to a cruel and lingering death. After the painful interview with her husband in the church of Grassyvale, Mrs Bolton returned to her father, secluding herself from the world, and devoting her time to household duties and the education of her son. Rumours of the death of her husband penetrated at last to the remote part of the country where she resided, and, on its being officially authenticated, Dr G----, who had commenced practice in a neighbouring town, became a frequent visiter at the farmhouse. His former courtship was renewed; and, when the days of mourning were over, and time had done much to alleviate grief, to restore the faded charms of Mrs Bolton, and to throw the events of the past into dimness and distance, they were united; and are still, according to the last accounts, living happily together, surrounded by a family of thriving children. Nelly Gray and Janet Baird still pursue their respective callings in Grassyvale--the latter never failing, on every possible occasion, to boast of her sagacity in detecting the real character of Mr Henry Wilkinson, _alias_ Bolton. But let us return to the suffering May Darling. She was borne to her cottage home insensible, in which state she remained all that night, and next day revived, only to know that she was dying. Yes, the arrow that had pierced her was poisoned; but the venom, though fatal, worked slow. Gold is refined by fire, and the more intense the heat applied, the purer will the metal become. So is it with the human soul. It is made perfect through suffering; and the more it is destined to endure, the fitter will it become for taking a part with the choirs of saints and angels, when it shall have thrown aside the garment of mortality, and mounted on high, like the unshadowed moon, through parted clouds. But May was happy notwithstanding. In all her looks and movements were disclosed the peace of mind which passeth understanding. It was diffused, like light from heaven, over her countenance; it was heard, like a rich chord of music, in the tones of her voice; her every word and action betrayed its presence and all-prevailing power. Her Bible, although always a favourite study, became now her sole one; and by its all-hallowing influence, her mind, looking down with calm complacency on all terrestrial things, had an early foretaste of immortality, in many a delightful contemplation of that abode and that felicity which shall reward the just. "It was a delightful evening, about the middle of autumn," says the worthy clergyman to whom we have been indebted for many of the facts of the foregoing narrative, "that I was hastily summoned by John Darling to visit his daughter, who, he believed, was dying. I lost no time in proceeding to his cottage, and found that his conjecture was but too true. In an easy-chair, placed at an open window which faced the west, reclined the victim of a broken heart. On her pale cheek death had impressed his seal, though there the deceitful rose-tint fluctuated, which was not so in her days of health and hope. Her words, when she spake (and that was seldom), seemed to come forth without her breath; and the lightest down that ever was wafted through summer's air might have slept unfluttered on her lips. I kneeled down, and prayed that the gentle spirit, which was about to be released from its mortal bonds, might receive a welcome to the realms of life and light. She understood distinctly that she was dying; and, in token that her mind was at perfect ease, she faintly uttered, when I had finished, 'Yes! oh yes! Heaven! he----!' The words died unfinished on her tongue, and her spirit rose to its native sky. 'Peace to her broken heart and virgin grave!' "In what a noble, what a truly grand point of view does this instance of triumphant faith place the glorious religion in which we believe! In what bold relief does its value to our fallen race appear! What a luminous light does it shed in life's last agonies, opening up a radiant vista through the clouds and darkness which settle on the soul, like the shadows of approaching death! There is nothing better qualified to develop the intellectual faculties, enlarge the understanding, and strengthen and foster the latent virtues of the heart, than the love and the study of literature. I am no advocate for the exclusive study of Scripture--nay, I am not sure if such restricted reading would not lead to narrowness of mind and gloomy unconcern about the affairs of life, and the duties connected with it, if not also to selfish moroseness and illiberal bigotry--a want of community of feeling and sympathy with human nature in general. But what would literature _alone_ have done for May Darling? Would the recollection of Shakspere's finest bursts of inspiration, where the dramatist seems struggling with nature which shall be the greatest, have buoyed her spirit up under the load which oppressed it, or given but one, only one, faint assurance of immortality? Alas! they could only have reminded her of what it would have been far better to forget for ever, to bury in everlasting oblivion beneath the waves of Lethe. How finely does the bard of Hope write, in reference to the anticipation of eternal felicity in the hour of dissolution! 'What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly?-- The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye? Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey The morning dream of life's eternal day!' Or what could philosophy have done for her? Science has only reference to this life--its eagle eye has never caught a ray reflected from that which is to come. Matter may be tortured by methods, varied with infinite ingenuity; but every secret thus disclosed only relates to _matter_--there is nothing of spirit brought to light in all the experiments of the chemist, in all the observations of the astronomer, in all the gropings and searching investigations of the geologist; for, though he reveals past time--ay, almost a past eternity--the strata of the earth, with their world of organic wonders, which record the transpired history of our planet in imperishable hieroglyphics, tell nothing of the future. The ocean, with its buried wrecks and its countless treasures; the mountain, over which the mighty deep once rolled its undulating expanse, and there deposited its myriads of living creatures; the desert, which heaps its ocean of sand over entombed cities, once the glory of the earth----But why should we go on?--everything speaks of the past, but not a whisper comes from creation's breast of what is to come. The Bible alone discloses the mighty secret. May all, therefore, find it what it proved to be to May Darling: light, when all is dark--hope, when all is despair--pleasure in pain--life in death. It was upon her that a nameless rustic bard, who had been an admirer, composed the following lines:-- "She faded like a flower That wastes by slow decay; Not snatch'd in an untimely hour, But wither'd day by day. 'Twas sad to see those charms, So heavenly once, decay'd; And oh! to blight thee in our arms, In bridal robes array'd! But Heaven commenced with thee Whilst yet below the sun; And, ere the mortal ceased to be, The seraph had begun. Calm, then, on Nature's breast, In dreamless sleep, sleep on, Till angel voices break thy rest In music like thine own!" I CANNA BE FASHED! OR, WILLIE GRANT'S CONFESSIONS. "Here's a bonny day, sir," said old Willie Grant, "and the Whitadder's in excellent trim--will ye get your gad and your creel, and we'll awa see what sort o' sport there is. If I'm no mistaen, the trouts will rise as fast as ye throw the line to-day." "Oh, I canna be fashed," said the individual to whom he spoke. "What's that I hear ye say?" added Willie, seriously. "Ye canna be fashed! can ye no? Do ye think ye could be fashed to read the 'Cottagers o' Glenburnie?' Ye would there see the meaning and the effects o' 'I canna be fashed' illustrated. But if ye can be fashed to hear, I'll gie ye an example in my ain case; and, I assure ye, that those four words, 'I--canna--be--fashed' (he spoke them very slowly, laying emphasis on each)--I say, sir, those four words hae cost me a thousand pounds twice told. I got them for naething; but, certes, they proved a dear bargain in the long run. They hae made me acquainted wi' a sair skin, a sair heart, and an empty pocket. I hae nae remembrance wha learned me the words, nor am I altogether certain but that they are words that just spring out o' the laziness and indolence o' our dispositions, like weeds out o' a neglected soil. But weel do I remember the first time when I was made to hae a feeling remembrance o' having used them. My faither was a bit sma' laird in East Lothian--no very far frae Dunglass--and the property consisted o' between thirty and forty acres, so that he managed to bring up a family o' five o' us very comfortably, and rather respectably--and the more especially as my mother was a very thrifty woman. I was the third o' the family; and, as I was gaun to say to ye, there was ae day that we were a' gilravishing about the floor, and wheeling ane anither in a little wheelbarrow that my faither had got a cartwright in Dunbar to mak for us (for he was a man that liked to see his bairns happy), when, says he to me-- "Willie, tie yer whings,[5] and dinna let yer shoon be shaughlin aff yer feet in that gate, or ye maun gang barefoot. Folk shouldna hae shoon that dinna ken hoo to wear them." [Footnote 5: Shoe-ties.] "I canna be fashed, faither," said I, and continued running after the wheelbarrow; but, before ever I wist, and before I thought that I had done ill, he gied me a cuff i' the haffits that made me birl half donnert by the cheek o' the lum.[6] [Footnote 6: Chimney.] "Ay, man!" says he, "what's that I hear ye say--'_ye canna be fashed_!' Let me hear the words come out o' your lips again if ye daur, and I'll knock the life out o' ye." That was the first time that I particularly remember o' having made use o' the phrase, and I am only sorry that the clout which my faither gied me didna drive it out o' my head frae that day henceforth, and for ever; though, truly, it had nae such effect, as ye shall hear, and as I experienced to my sorrow. I sat down whinging till my faither gaed out o' the house, and, as soon as his back was turned, I dried my een, and began to drive about the barrow again wi' my brothers and sisters; but I hadna ran aboon ten minutes, till my mother, wha was tired wi' the noise we were making, cried-- "Willie, laddie, gie me aff your stockings instantly. Preserve us! the callant has holes in their heels ye micht put yer nieve through!--There's what ye've dune wi' your running about without yer whings tied." "Hoot, mother," cried I, "I canna be fashed--darn them again' nicht." "I'll '_canna be fashed_' ye--ye lazy monkey, ye. Did your faither no gie ye aneugh for that no ten minutes syne, and ye'll tell me ony siccan a story!" She grippit me by the neck, and for my faither's ae clout she gied me ten, at every cuff saying, "I'll _canna be fashed_ ye!" And at last she threw aff my shoon, and pulled the stockings aff my legs, and pushed me awa frae her wi' a great drive, crying, "Now, only let me hear ye making use o' thae words again, and ye'll maybe see what I can be fashed to do." "Oh dear me!" thought I, "what ill have I done?" And I sat down, and I grat and I roared most heartily, and I kicked my bare feet upon the floor. "Kick awa there, my man," said my mother--for she was a woman that never got into what ye could call a passion in her family, as I have seen some mothers do--"kick awa there," says she; "and if ye drive a hole in the heels o' the stockings you've on now, ye'll darn them yoursel." But this, sir, was only the first thrashing that I got for "I canna be fashed"--it wasna the last, by a score o' times. My faither was a man that never liked to lay out a shilling where it could be saved; and he always grudged to employ other people to do anything when he thought it could be done within his own house--that is, by the members o' his own family--therefore, about the back end o' spring, or the fore end o' summer, he would have said to us-- "Now, bairns, haud awa to your beds, and before school-time the morn, gang and howe the potatoes, or weed the corn." I never durst say onything then, but slipped awa to bed very unwillingly--just feeling as if I felt it a trouble to put aff my claes. But before sunrise in the morning, when my brothers would have wakened me, I used to rub my een, and gaunt, and say-- "What!--what!--hoots!--I canna be fashed!" And my father, frae the ben-a-house, would have cried out, wi' a voice that made the very nails on my fingers shake, "What's that he's saying?--I'll _be fashed_ him!" Then up I would have got, shrugging my shoulders, and wriggling them frae side to side, and cried peevishly to one, "Where's my stockings?" and to another, "Where's my jacket?" Then my faither would have cried out again, "_I'll seek_ it for ye!" Then I soon found it, and got out o' the house wi' the rest o' them. It was precisely the same thing when my brothers used to shake me in a morning, and say-- "Get up, Willie--ye haena your task yet." I had invariably the same answer for them on such occasions also. I appeared as if naething could drive it out o' me. I have heard auld wives say, if ye were taking infants to ony part o' the globe ye like, and keeping them where they never would hear a human voice, nor speech o' one kind nor anither, that they would speak Hebrew! Now, I verily believe that, if ye had done the same by me--if ye had taken me, when a week auld, into the deserts o' Arawbia, wi' naething but dummies round about me, and not a living soul nor a living thing endowed wi' the power o' speech allowed to see me or come near me--I say, that I verily believe the first words I would have spoken would have been, "_I canna be fashed_!" in guid braid Scotch. The words literally seemed born wi' me. And, as I was telling ye about getting up to learn my tasks in the morning, many, many is the time, in the cauldest day o' winter, that my favourite phrase has caused the tawse to warm my hands, when the fingers o' a' the rest o' the scholars were dinnlin wi' cauld, and they were holding them at their mouths, and blowing their hot breath on them to take out the frost. My faither should have paid no coal-money for me. And more than this, the four insignificant and carelessly-uttered words which I allude to, while I was at school, always kept me near the bottom o' the class; or, if I rose one or two towards the top, it was purely on account o' others having been awa from the school for a day, or half-a-day, and having to take the foot o' the class, on account o' their absence, as a matter o' course. Often and often I could have tripped their heels, and taken my place aboon them--and the teacher kenned it as weel, and many a weary time has he said to me, "Oh, ye stupid stirk! why do ye stand there? why didna ye trap him?" And once, in particular, I remember I answered him, "I couldna be fashed, sir!" "Fashed!" he cried, in a perfect fury, and he raised the tawse to his teeth--"fashed, sirrah!" he cried again; "then I'll learn ye to be fashed!" But o' a' the belabourings I ever got frae either faither or mother, for the same cause, they were naething to the schoolmaster's. It's a miracle to me that there was a tail left on his tawse; for he loundered me round the school and round the school; and, aye as he loundered, he ground his teeth together, and he cried, "Heard ever onybody the like o' that! Canna be fashed, truly!--I'll fash ye, my man!--I'll learn ye to gie me an answer o' that kind again!" But a' the thrashings that faither, and mother, and master could thrash at me, on every occasion the confounded words were aye uppermost--they were perpetually at my tongue end. I was just an easy, indolent being--one that seemed disposed to steal through the world wi' my hands in pocket, as smoothly as possible. When I grew to be a lad, I daresay those that kenned me best were surprised that I could be fashed to gang a-courting, like other youngsters. But even then, when others would brush themselves up, and put on their half-best coat, and the like o' that, in order that they might look as smart as possible, I have thought to mysel, I wonder if I should shave and wash my face, and gie mysel a redd-up before I gang to see _her_ the nicht; but perpetually I used to say to mysel--"Ou, I carena; I canna be fashed--I'll do very weel as I am." And there wasna less than three or four young lasses that I had a particular liking for--and each o' them, I daresay, would made an excellent wife, and I could been very happy wi' ony o' them--but they all broke off acquaintance wi' me, "just," as they said to their friends, "because I was o' such a slovenly disposition, that I couldna even be fashed to mak mysel purpose-like when I gaed to see a body." The like o' this was very galling to me; but it hadna the effect o' making a better o' me. I couldna be fashed to be ony better, let come what might. "Losh-a-day," thought I, "I wonder what folk would hae me to be at, or how they can gie themsels sae meikle trouble, and be sae particular?" But, beyond all others, there was one young woman that I had an affection for in a very extraordinary degree. She was as dear to me as the apple o' my ee; and I am sure she could hae done onything wi' me--save to break me o' my habit o' saying "I canna be fashed." That was beyond her power. It was my fixed intention to marry her; and, indeed, not only was the wedding-day set, but her wedding-gown and my coat were made, and the ring was bought, and she had spoken to her bridesmaid; and, besides buying a' sort o' things hersel, she had got her mother to have her providing packed up, and everything was in readiness just to be lifted to our new house--that is, the house we were to occupy. Now, when all this had taken place, there was one bonny starlight nicht that we were walking together, just as happy as twa wood-pigeons, and talking owre the settlements o' every thing, that she said to me-- "What did the joiner say last nicht, Willie?--will he be sure no to disappoint us wi' the furniture?--for I would like everything richt at the very first." "Eh! weel-minded, my dear," says I; "I really forgot to gang and see him, for I was sae tired when I got hame last nicht, that--I couldna be fashed." "That was silly o' ye, man," said she; "it was very thoughtless. But I hope ye didna forget to gie in the marriage lines to the minister?" (The session-clerk was ill at the time.) "Save us a', hinny!" said I, "weel, I am sure that dings everything! But, as sure as death! as I told ye, I was sae tired, that I never minded a word about it till bed-time, when I had my waistcoat unbuttoned and my shoon off, and I couldna be fashed to put them on again, and, at ony rate, it was owre late." "Very weel, Willie," says she, and apparently a good deal hurt, "I wouldna thought it o' ye--but no matter." "No, love," said I, "it's no great matter, sure enough; for this is only Saturday nicht, and I'll just call in at the manse in the by-going, as I gang hame, and tell the minister a' about it. The thing can be done in a minute." "Indeed, no," said she, "though I should never be cried,[7] ye are to go no such way. This is Saturday nicht--the morn is the Sabbath, and the minister will be at his studies, and ye are not to disturb him upon my account." [Footnote 7: Cried--Publication of banns.] "Very well, love," said I, "we'll just have to put off a week, then." "Maybe sae," said she. But I thought there was something unco dry in her manner o' saying "maybe sae." However, as I couldna be fashed to call upon the minister that nicht, I took nae mair notice o' the subject. I could hardly get a word out o' her after this, for above an hour that I remained in her company. However, she rather came to a little (for she was a kind-hearted lassie), when we were about to part; and we promised faithfully to meet one another at the usual trysting-place, on the Wednesday nicht following, at eight o'clock, within a minute; and I was to have everything arranged wi' the minister and the joiner in the meantime. On the Sunday morning, the minister passed me between the manse and the kirk, and, says he, quite familiarly--for he was a man that had nae stiffness about him-- "Willie, I thought you was to have been cried to-day." "I beg your pardon, sir," said I; "but it was all my neglect; for I couldna be fashed until last nicht, and then I thought ye would be at your studies, and it was owre late to trouble ye." "You were very considerate," said he, wi' a smile; "but I'll save you the trouble next week." "I'll be obliged to ye, sir," said I, taking off my hat. In going home, I overtook the joiner--no, I'm wrong, the joiner overtook me--and, after he had observed that it was a fine day, and I had said it was, and he had asked me what I thought o' the sermon, and so on, I said to him--"Now, I expect that ye'll no disappoint me wi' the furniture." "Ye needna be feared o' that, Mr Grant," said he; "ye ken ye proposed that it was to be a ready-money transaction. It's no every day that we meet wi' jobs o' that kind, and ye may tak my word on't, I'll no disappoint ye--both for your sake and mine." "Weel," thought I, "that's twa things aff my head--Isabella will surely be pleased now (for they ca'd her Isabella). I've been fortunate in meeting wi' them baith--in killing twa birds wi' ae stane." But the appointed Wednesday nicht came, and perfectly do I recollect, that a dark, dirty, gousty nicht it was. I had full three miles to go to see her, and about seven o'clock I pulled out my watch, and I went to the door. A sma' drizzling rain came battering on my face. I looked a' round about the heavens, and saw that there was nae appearance o' the nicht's clearing up, and, thinks I--"Weel, she'll ne'er think o' coming to meet me the nicht. She'll no be sae daft. It's o' nae use o' me gaun, and--I canna be fashed." So I went into the house again, and sat down quite contented; and a nicht or twa after, the weather having settled, I went to see her at her faither's. The auld folk received me, as usual, very kindly; and the auld man got a seat for me next the fire, and inquired if there were any news--while his guidwife asked me if I wadna hae my stockings changed, as the roads were very wet, and my feet might be damp--and I thanked her, and said "No." But there sat _my intended_, plaiting at a cap-border, or frill, or something o' that sort, as stiff and as silent as a stucco image, never letting on that she either saw or heard me. I spoke to her twice or thrice, and she gied a sort o' low, half cough, half _hem!_ but not a syllable did I get out o' her. Never did she look to the side o' the house I was on. Her head seemed to be fixed in a blacksmith's vice in an opposite direction, and dear kens what sort o' cap or frill it was she keepit plait, plait, plaiting at; but her task was never like to come to an end, and she keepit pingle, pingling, and nip, nipping at it wi' a knife, until my patience was fairly worn out. In my opinion her fingers had discovered the perpetual motion; and when I had sat until vexation and anxiety were like to choke me, I felt a sort o' ha!--ha!--haing! in my throat, as though I could hae burst out into a fit o' passion, or greeting, or I dinna ken what--and wi' a great struggle I got up, and I managed to say-- "Will ye speak at the door, Isabella dear?" "_I canna be fashed!_" said she. O sir! sir! had ye experienced what I felt at that moment. The lounderings o' my faither, my mother, and my dominie, and the slights o' former sweethearts, were a mere naething to what her answer caused me to endure. I expected naething but that I would drop down upon the floor. "Oh, ye foolish lassie, ye!" said her mother, who was sorry for me, "what do ye mean?" "Get up!" said her faither. "I canna be fashed!" said she again, more cuttingly than before, and half turned her een upon me, as she said it, in a manner that gaed through my breast as if ye had drawn a sharp knife across it. Weel, sir, our names were ca'ed on the Sunday following; and between the first day o' their being published, and the day on which the marriage was to take place, I was three or four times back and forward at her faither's--but I got nae mair out o' her. I almost thought that I ought to stop the banns; but I thought, again, that that would be very unco like, and very contrary to what I wished; so I allowed them to go on, Sunday after Sunday. I never imagined but that she was just in the pet at me having broken my tryst, and that, like everybody that was in the pet, she would come out o't when she found it necessary, and the sooner frae being left to hersel. But, on the very day we had fixed for the wedding, and when the best-man and I went to her faither's house, expecting to find her and the best-maid, and the whole o' them, in readiness to go before the minister--to my unutterable astonishment and dismay, there was she, sitting in her morning gown, as unconcerned as a judge, just as if naething had been to happen. "Mercy me! Isabella!" says I, "are ye no ready?--where's the women?" "Ready!" returned she--"what for?--what do ye mean?--what women?" Oh! guid gracious! I'll never forget the sensation that I felt at that moment. I'm surprised that I didna drop dead on the floor. "Isabella," said I, "are ye no perfectly aware that this is our wedding-day, and that we were to be at the manse at twelve o'clock precisely?" "Ay!" said she, "had ye keepit your tryst at such a time, and at such a place, nae doubt this would have been the day; but ye couldna be fashed to keep it then--and I canna be fashed now." "Oh, confound it!" cried I; "Isabella, do ye want to drive me mad?" "I dinna think there's ony danger o' that," replied she. Vexation and surprise put me fairly beyont mysel--I was taken in a moment. "Weel!" exclaimed I, "ye'll rue it, Isabella! ye'll rue it--there shall nae woman mak a fool o' me!" "Nor man o' me," said she. "Be it sae," said I; "yet, guidness me! you're no in earnest?" "Earnest!" said she; "I tell you I canna be fashed." At the sound o' the terrible words, I banged out o' the house. I never stopped till I came to Dunbar, and there, at the very moment I arrived, I took the coach for Edinburgh; and there I stopped but two days till I set off for London, for my heart was in such a terrible state o' perturbation, that I could have gone to the world's end, ay, and round it, and round it again, if I had had the means, in order that I might have found rest. It seems that poor Isabella thought that I would come back--and the best-man persuaded her that I would--and she went to dress hersel, and sent for the best-maid. But little did she understand the character she had to deal wi'. I was either a' laziness, or a' desperation. I knew no medium; and I have no doubt that, before she got her hair dressed, and her gown fairly on, I was half-way to Edinburgh--for I flew to Dunbar as though furies had pursued me. But, sir, the upshot was, that Isabella died a spinster, and I am a bachelor until this day, and will be, until the last day o' my existence; and thus did the four never-aneugh-to-be-detested words--"I canna be fashed"--place eternity, yea, an infinite chasm, between me and the only woman for whose sake I could have laid down my life, as cheaply as though it hadna been worth a sixpence. Ye may think that the few instances I have related to ye, and their consequences, would have been aneugh to have cured me o' ever making use o' the words again--but ye shall see. Now, you'll observe that, before the time I'm speaking o', my faither and mother were both dead, as well as two o' their family, so that there were but three o' us left, and we sold the property, and divided the money amongst us in equal shares. Therefore, when I got to London, I was not altogether bare-handed. Now, to my shame, I must confess that I had not been long there, till the remembrance o' Isabella, and the cause that had provoked me to come to desert her, were almost forgotten; for ye must remember that absence makes many changes--and there is many a bonny face in London. So, after I had looked about me for a week or two, I thought to mysel that I saw nobody doing better than the keepers o' wine and spirit vaults. It seemed a' ready-money; it was just nipper after nipper--that is, glass after glass, owre the counter--the money down, and done wi' it. I resolved to become a wine-vault keeper, and I looked around to see where such premises were to let. At length I pitched upon a shop that I thought would suit me exactly, on the north side of Clerkenwell Street, and nearly facing Jerusalem Passage. There were a very great number o' compositors and pressmen, and bookbinders and gold-beaters, and other trades, in the immediate neighbourhood; and I understood that they were in the habit o' making the vaults which I was about to take their pay-house and house-o'-call. So I took the house, and entered upon the business, and, in a very short time, I thought very little about Isabella, or the grief she had caused me. I hadna long opened the house until the compositors and the pressmen, the bookbinders, gold-beaters, and others, a' came back to it. They were weel-spoken, civil lads. They spent a deal o' money, and I certainly tried to be as civil and obliging to them as I could; and, in short, they called me "a fine chap," and "the best Scotsman out of all _sorts_ they had ever met with." Weel, in a week or two, some o' them began to get on to my slates--not by name, for I didna like to ask it; it was impudent; and, thought I, oh, it might spoil their custom at ony rate; and I canna be fashed; it would be an awfu trouble writing names upon a slate, especially the names o' so many. But I knew them a' by head-mark, and I thought there was no need for it. However, one got into my books, and another got into my books; but, no, I am wrong there again, for they only got on to the slates--I couldna be fashed to carry them into the books; I thought there was nae need for it; they generally paid upon the Saturday nicht, and there was nae fear o' me forgettin. But, in a short time, there never was a Saturday nicht but there was always some o' my debtor customers amissing; and when I inquired for any o' them, the reply was-- "Oh, you're one of his ghosts, are you? well, I wish you may get it--he's _got the bag_.[8]" [Footnote 8: Got the bag--_i. e._, paid off, or discharged.] "So, so," I would say; "and he is off with his finger in my bag too." Well, in this way I lost more money than I can tell. But I lost it in another way also, and from the same cause. You know that in London every public-house has a porter-walk, or a beer-walk, as they call it, the same as the rounds of a milk-woman here, and they go round twice a-day, at dinner-time and supper-time. Well, to my surprise, in a few months I got the best beer-walk in all London. I couldna think how it was. I was almost rivalling the Alderney dairy which was at my very hand, for I had to engage two pot-boys to carry out my supply. But I gave credit; I trusted to the lads to keep an account of what they took out, and they trusted to me. I said "I couldna be fashed wi' the like o' that;" but they said they gave me the names and number o' the individuals with whom they had intrusted both porter and pewter-pots; and if I did not mark it down and see after it, it was my look-out, and not theirs. In this way, I believe, I lost five butts o' porter within twelve months. Yet, sir, these were not the only griefs and the only losses that the four words which are the subject of my story have brought upon me. Not only did I frequently neglect to insert in my own books what I had sent out on credit, but I as frequently delayed to mark down what had been sent to me by the brewer or distiller, and said, "Hoot, I haena time--I canna be fashed to enter it to-day, I will do it the morn, or the next day." But the next day and the next came, and I could be less fashed than ever, and the entry remained untouched. Many a heavy loss I am sensible this has caused me; and often has it made me appear as a rogue, when my intentions were honest. Sir, what I have told ye is but a sample o' what "_I canna be fashed_" has cost me. I could relate to you a thousand o' its consequences; but half-a-dozen are as good, and perhaps better than a thousand, by way o' example. I had been about fifteen years in business, when I became bond, for a friend that I thought I could have trusted as my own brother, to the extent o' three thousand pounds. I was certain he was perfectly solvent, and from the acquaintance I had had o' him, I could nae mair hae doubted him than I could hae doubted that I was the son o' my mother. But a few weeks after I had signed the bond, a mutual acquaintance called upon me, and, says he-- "Grant, you have acted like a fool." "I dinna doubt," says I, for I was perfectly aware that I often had; "but what do ye mean to be at?" "Why," says he, "So-and-so has taken you in. He is preparing to be off, bag and baggage, for America, and you will be left to pay the piper." "Oh, ye are a suspicious wretch," says I; "man, I couldna believe the like o' that if ye were to swear it to me." "Believe it or not," says he, "if you don't see after it instantly, your three thousand pounds are gone." "Hoot! babbles!" said I, "the man's daft!--do ye think I dinna ken him better than that? The man is as sure as the bank. I would be the last man he would injure a farthing--I ken that weel aneugh. But, at ony rate, I am particularly busy, and I canna be fashed wi' ony nonsense o' the kind; so ye may keep yoursel easy, and I am only sorry that ye should hae such an opinion o' ony friend o' mine." "Canna be fashed!" cried my acquaintance, hurrying from the shop; "what a deuced fool! Grant, you'll repent it." I laughed at the man; for I had perfect confidence in my friend, and I knew that he had property worth three times the money that I was bond for him. On the very next day, the same acquaintance came into my house very hastily, and says he-- "Grant, if you don't look after your money, and that very sharply, you will find your friend's property is no go, and you are in for paying the three thousand." "Ye dinna mean to say the like o' that?" said I. "Say that, you blockhead!" returned my acquaintance--"wherefore wouldn't you believe me yesterday?" And placing his arm through mine, he dragged me out o' the house. We reached the habitation o' the worthy gentleman for whom I was surety in the sum o' three thousand precious pounds sterling. But he was off--off like a bird whose nest has been robbed o' its eggs. Twelve hours before, he had sailed for America, or some other quarter o' the globe; but where I never knew. "Come home, Grant," said my friend, "don't distress yourself now." "Oh, dinna speak to me," says I--"I canna be fashed; my three thousand pounds!--my poor three thousand pounds!" We went into a tavern, and I drank out o' pure desperation until I could hardly stand; and as we were going home I fell, and I dislocated my arm, or I broke it; at ony rate I did something to it, and it never was like to get better; and my friends advised me to send for a surgeon--but---- "What to do wi' a surgeon?" says I; "I canna be fashed wi' them. The arm will get better itsel." But from that day until the present hour, I have never had the right use o' it. It made me useless, in a great measure, in the way o' business. Therefore I sold the goodwill o' my house, and wi' the other little remains o' what I had saved, I came down here, just to live as easy and as cheap as possible. And now, sir, as ye have seen what a _great gainer_ I have been by the words "_I canna be fashed_," I hope and implore ye will never use them again, but take a warning by the example o' Willie Grant. TALES OF THE EAST NEUK OF FIFE. THE CASTLE OF CRAIL; OR, KING DAVID AND MAUDE. "Ev'n kings hae taen a queen out o' the plain, And what has been before may be again."--ALLAN RAMSAY. The reign of the illustrious Malcolm III., surnamed Canmore, King of Scotland, which began in the year 1057, was not more distinguished for heroism and literature than for love. He was both a religious and a valiant king, and was often victorious against the Danes, who frequently invaded Scotland. In his time, William, Duke of Normandy, conquered England, and in the great battle of Hastings, which took place in 1066, killed King Harold. Edgar, the lawful heir to the English crown, seeing the country conquered, and the nobles routed and dispersed, took shipping with his mother and sisters, and arrived in the Frith of Forth, and landed at Queensferry, which received its name from Margaret, the eldest sister of Edgar, whom King Malcolm afterwards married. King Malcolm was killed at the siege of Alnwick by Robert Moubray, who, unarmed, upon a light horse, came out of Alnwick Castle, with a lance in his hand, and bearing the keys of the castle upon its point. King Malcolm, while earnestly regarding the keys, was stabbed by Moubray through the left eye to the brain, and died instantly. King William the Conqueror, in consequence of this achievement, changed the name of Moubray to that of Percy, of whom are descended the Dukes of Northumberland. After sundry usurpations, Edgar and Alexander, the first and second sons of King Malcolm, severally reigned for a number of years, and died childless; and in 1124, David I., the hero of our tale, ascended the throne. He possessed a large share of his father's virtues, and during his reign cultivated those arts and sciences which Malcolm had encouraged. His heart was particularly susceptible of the tender passion, and of the power of beauty. It is a well-established historical fact, that King David occasionally resided at the Castle of Crail, which stood on a rock overhanging the harbour, and vestiges of this royal residence still remain. A summer-house now stands on the site, surrounded by a large garden; and the place is sometimes occupied by the owner, a landed gentleman in the neighbourhood, and his friends, for the purposes of good fellowship and social intercourse. While residing at the Castle of Crail, the king and his younger nobles resolved on partaking of the wild sports of the neighbourhood; and with this view they proceeded one day, well mounted, and attended by the hounds, to Kingsbarns, a fine tract of land belonging to the crown, where the grain was stored in barns for payment of the king's rents; and from thence they passed on to an extensive and thickly-wooded district--in fact, a large forest, which now constitutes a considerable portion of the Parish of St Andrews and surrounding parishes. The ancient name of this district was _Cursus Apri_, or, the Boar-Chase, and hence is derived the present name of the village contiguous, "Boar-hills." Having started a wild boar out of this forest, it took a westerly course towards Kingsmuir (which, as its name implies, also belonged to the crown), and the party set off in hot pursuit. This muir, now highly cultivated, was, at the time to which we refer, a waste or common of little value, and on which many of the neighbouring proprietors, in consequence, claimed a servitude right of pasturage; but it was under an officer of the crown, styled "Heritable Keeper of the Kingsmuir." Here, then, while engaged in the exciting sport of the chase of the boar (which, in the end, was killed at Kingscairn Mill), a deer, a fox, and a wild cat also broke cover, and the attention of the hunters and hounds being thus divided, the party separated, and the king found himself alone upon the muir. David was in the prime of life--a very handsome man, and of princely bearing, and, while thus unattended and unknown, he met with a lovely young shepherdess in a lonely part of the muir, tending her father's sheep. The name of the young woman, he found, was Maude, or Matilda, and, having inquired of her where she abode, he departed, resolving to cultivate the acquaintance he had thus accidentally formed. He frequently visited the shepherdess after this (who was entirely ignorant of his rank), in the capacity of a private gentleman, and her conversation was his delight. There was something mysterious to him in her deportment and her accomplishments: she possessed the strictest innocence and the most dignified bearing without the slightest embarrassment. Though plainly attired, "grace was in all her steps," and every action exhibited courtly propriety and ease. Though her observations were chiefly confined to her flocks, and to rural affairs, yet she would occasionally surprise the king with her remarks upon astronomy, history, geography, morals, and agriculture, which bespoke a mind informed far above the common level. Being thus engaging in her mind and manners, it was not to be wondered at that every additional visit increased the love and affection of the astonished king, whose dignity was her torture. His passion grew stronger every day. The king was captivated with her charms. Honour, however, governed his actions, and subjected his wishes to the control of virtue: he wished to raise her to an exalted situation, not to triumph over her innocence--in short, he wished to make her his royal bride; but this seemed impossible, and he returned dejected to his Castle of Crail. He regretted that high rank should now stand in the way of his happiness, and almost wished he had not been born a king. He consulted the Lord of Douglas, his prime minister, urged the beauty, the virtue, the genius of Matilda, but all in vain; the reply was, that policy and prudence required him to seek a union with some exalted character--an alliance with the daughter of a powerful and wealthy prince; and that, were he to place a shepherdess on the throne, his nobles would be disgusted, and quit his court, and in all probability proceed by open violence to resent the supposed insult to their dignity. The king admitted that what was said was too likely to be the fact, and at the same time reprobated that pride which deemed an alliance with obscure and untitled virtue disgraceful; but he knew the prejudices of his nobility were unconquerable, and he submitted with great reluctance to his fate. His friends--and amongst others the Lairds of Cambo, Anstruther, Grangemuir, and Balcombie, the Provost of Crail, and Prior of St Rufus, the remains of whose chapel may still be seen a little eastward of Crail, near Roome Bay, and whose well (called the Prior's Well) is yet resorted to occasionally by the good people of the Nethergate--those friends, we say, tried in vain to divert the king's thoughts, and alleviate his distress. They informed him of the great antiquity of the burgh--that it was a place of note in the ninth century. They conveyed him on horseback to the Dane's Dyke, the remains of a bulwark of stones thrown up by our Danish invaders in one night, where human bones, in great quantities, are yet cast up by the plough on the farm of Kilmining; and they then passed on to the Cave of Balcombie Sands, where they told him one of his majesty's predecessors, Constantine, the Scottish king, was beheaded by the Danes, in the year 871, he having been taken prisoner in a skirmish, while the enemy were retreating. The party then visited the Castle of Balcombie, a lofty and extensive pile of building, of immense strength and remote antiquity, where, in after years, Mary of Guise was hospitably entertained, on landing, after a tempestuous passage, at Fifeness-haven, in order to be married to King James V. From hence King David proceeded to Airdrie, or Ard-rhi--a name which in the Celtic language denotes "the king's height"--then a favourite royal hunting-station on the borders of Kingsmuir; and, returning to Crail, the Runic Cross was not forgotten.[9] [Footnote 9: This is a singular monument, and of great antiquity. At the repair of the church of Crail, it was laid down in place of a piece of Arbroath pavement, to form one of the passages, and is thereby already somewhat mutilated, and had it been allowed to continue much longer in that situation, it must have been entirely obliterated; but it is gratifying to state that, while these lines are going to press, a gentleman from the Cape of Good Hope, on a visit to Crail, his native parish, has had the good taste to get the stone removed, and placed in the wall of the church, where it will be now preserved from further dilapidation.] It were endless to tell of all the devices resorted to by his friends to alleviate the king's melancholy. The greatest beauties of the castle courted his smiles without effect. Their charms seemed but to remind him of the superior fascinations of his beloved Matilda. Nothing seemed to remain to him but the trying task of parting, perhaps for ever, from his captivating shepherdess. The king often thought of asking Matilda for the story of her life, but dreaded that the narrative would but confirm his misery. Upon one of his visits, he missed her at the accustomed spot, but found a venerable old man attending the sheep in her place. The king anxiously inquired for Matilda, and was informed that she was visiting a family in the neighbourhood. The family which she had gone to visit lived in an unpretending mansion beautifully situated on a ridge of rising ground, which stretches from east to west, nearly through the middle of what is now the Parish of Carnbee. This ridge rises in different places into hills of a beautiful conical form, and are green and verdant to the summit; these are Carnbee-law, Kellie-law. Gillingshill, and Cunner-law. It was to Gillingshill Matilda had directed her steps, and, occupying as it did an elevated position, the house commanded an extensive and splendid view.[10] [Footnote 10: Among the objects which the eye now takes in by a short sweep are the noble mansion of Kellie Castle, belonging to the Right Honourable the Earl of Mar and Kellie; Grangemuir, the residence of the Right Honourable Lord William Douglas; Balcaskie, the seat of Sir Ralph Abercrombie Anstruther, Baronet; together with Elie House and village, with its commodious harbour; Kilconquhar House, with its beautiful loch; Balcarras, with its picturesque craig, its ivy-mantled chapel, and its many military, historical, and literary associations; Pitcorthie, with its magnificent mansion; Gibleston, with its fine woods and gardens, and many villas of lesser note.] The maiden had acquainted her father that she often had a visiter when keeping her flocks in the muir, and, from her description of him, the old man conceived the individual present to be that person, and accordingly invited him to their habitation, which invitation David, throwing aside for awhile his usual courtly ceremony, accepted. He went on with sorrowing steps, and yet would not have staid behind. The small and unpretending cottage before him damped him at first, but when he thought upon it as the home of his fair enchantress, his spirits were again cheered. He found in the place neatness and rural elegance. He would have been happy to have changed his sceptre for a shepherd's crook, and his noble Castle of Crail for this humble dwelling. He was invited to refresh himself, and Matilda soon joined them; but, although the table was spread with healthful rustic dainties, he could not do justice to the feast. Matilda's charming company and conversation was his regalement. The old man apologised for the homeliness of his fare, supposing _that_ to be the cause of his guest's abstinence, and said, "That once he could have entertained him better, but now he had little more to offer than a hearty welcome." A knock was heard at the door, and a young farmer having entered who wished to buy some sheep, the old man retired with him with the view of making a bargain. The young couple being left alone, David moved his chair nearer to that of Matilda, and began to renew his attentions to her; but, however much she was pleased with the courtly air and intellectual conversation of her visiter, she was resolved to act with prudence and circumspection. She therefore took this opportunity of stating to him, in a polite and kindly manner, that, as he had said his visits were paid for the purpose of making _her_ acquaintance, and that while she thanked him for the favourable opinion he had often expressed with regard to her, yet, as he was a stranger, and had never been regularly introduced, she should be obliged to decline his future visits. She further stated, that he must be well aware there can be no safe principle except this, that every man aiming at our acquaintance must be introduced to us by some person we already know, who becomes a guarantee, as it were, for the propriety of his behaviour and the honour of his views; that without this we can never be sure that the individual addressing us is not a designing adventurer, who would think nothing of making our happiness his sport; and that for a young female to admit the addresses of an unknown young man, however fascinating his manners or noble his air, would be to run a great risk of disappointment and unhappiness for life. The old man now came into the room, and the subject of conversation being changed, King David shortly afterwards took leave of his entertainers, bowing respectfully as he retired. Matilda's father had been her tutor, and he was well qualified for that office. To aid the development of her infant mind--to pour forth to her, as she grew in years and in reason, all the fruits of his own richly-cultivated intellect, was the solitary consolation of one over whose head was impending the misfortune of incompetence, or deficiency of means for the adequate support of himself and his daughter. Matilda was gifted with a mind which, even if her tutor had not been her father, would have rendered tuition a delight. Her lively imagination, which early unfolded itself; her dangerous but interesting vivacity; the keen delight, the swift enthusiasm with which she drank in knowledge, and then panted for more; her shrewd acuteness, and her innate passion for what was excellent and beautiful, filled her father with rapture, which he repressed, and made him feel conscious how much there was to check, to guide, and to form, as well as to cherish, to admire, and to applaud. As she grew up, the bright parts of her character shone with increased lustre; but, in spite of the exertions of her instructor, some less admirable qualities had not yet disappeared. She was still too often the dupe of her imagination; and though perfectly inexperienced, her confidence in her theoretical knowledge of human nature was unbounded. She had an idea that she could penetrate the character of individuals at first meeting; and the consequence of this fatal axiom was, that she was always the slave of first impressions, and constantly the victim of prejudice; she was ever thinking individuals better or worse than they really were, and she believed it to be out of the power of any one to deceive her. Constant attendance during many years on a dying beloved mother, and her deep religious feelings, had first broken, and then controlled, a spirit which nature had intended to be arrogant and haughty. Her father she adored; and she seemed to devote to him all that consideration which, with more common characters, is generally distributed among their acquaintances. We hint at her faults. How shall we describe her virtues? Her unbounded generosity, her dignified simplicity, her graceful frankness, her nobility of thought and feeling, her firmness, her courage, and her truth, her kindness to her inferiors, her constant charity, her devotion to her parents, her sympathy with sorrow, her detestation of oppression, her pure unsullied thoughts, her delicate taste, her deep religion--all these combined would have formed a delightful character, even if unaccompanied with such brilliant talents and such brilliant beauty as she possessed. Nature and art were the graces which had combined to form this girl. She was a jewel set in gold, and worthy of a king. After the remarks made by Matilda on his last visit, the king resolved to make known to the old man and his daughter his rank and station with as little delay as possible; but, being wishful at the same time to ascertain previously what were the feelings of Matilda towards him as a private individual, irrespective of his kingly crown and dignity, he thought it best to postpone the communication until he should have learned the history of the old shepherd and his family. For this purpose he repaired on an early day to Kingsmuir, and bearing in mind the few words which formerly fell from the old man in reference to his having seen better days--words which had greatly raised the hopes of the king, and fixed his attention on the story of their fortunes--he entreated the sage to relate the same, which he agreed to do, and began as follows:--"I was formerly Earl of Northumberland, and husband of Juditha, grand-daughter of William the Conqueror. Our family were nearly connected with royalty, and my possessions in lands, flocks, and herds, exceedingly extensive and valuable. I lived in becoming splendour. I was beloved by my neighbours, and happy in my family. My estates are situated not far from the borders of Scotland, and were frequently invaded by the Scottish chiefs. For a long time my tenants and servants bravely repelled these attacks, but at length increasing in their numbers, we were overpowered. They spoiled and ravaged all our lands, and drove away our flocks and herds, save a small portion, with which I removed to the East of Fife, to find security and protection. Here have I since lived--suppressed my style and title, and passed myself off as a poor old shepherd, with this my humble but virtuous and affectionate daughter, the comfort and support of my declining years." The king struggled to conceal the thrilling emotions which he felt at this narration, and asked the old man whether he had applied at court for succour in his distress. His question was answered thus:--"No; my family, consisting of but myself and young Matilda, and my desires being confined to narrow bounds, by the dictates of religion and philosophy, I thought it unjust to ask of this country that support which health and honest industry could procure, and thereby deprive more useful subjects of their just reward." The king admired the generous spirit of the venerable sage; told him he had interest at court; assured him that the king would be glad to see him, and insisted that he and his daughter should hasten thither; which journey, after considerable hesitation, they resolved to undertake. It is impossible to describe the transports of the young king on this occasion. He came back to the castle, to inform his courtiers that two interesting strangers were shortly to visit them, and he made all due preparations for his expected and welcome guests. The scene was now changed from deep despondency to the most complete joy and felicity. At the appointed time the old shepherd and his lovely daughter arrived at the good old town and Castle of Crail; and having recovered from their surprise, the king introduced them to the court in their rural habits, without disclosing their rank. As companions of the king, the courtiers were obliged to receive them with civility, but their affected politeness could ill conceal their absolute contempt. The court broke up, and the king again engaged in conversation with the Earl of Northumberland. He requested to know where his daughter derived so much knowledge? To which the earl replied, "From my own poor stock. She was my sole companion. I thought it my interest as well as my duty to teach her every science I knew. She had an apt and comprehensive intellect, and easily received instruction." In a few days the king again assembled all his courtiers. He had previously advised with the prime minister and privy councillors on the propriety of a marriage with an earl's daughter of royal lineage, and obtained their unqualified consent and approval. He then introduced the old man as the Earl of Northumberland, and the beautiful shepherdess as his daughter Matilda. Shame seized the ungenerous nobility for their former conduct, but the offended parties soon removed their embarrassment; and a noble suite of apartments were soon set aside for the earl and Matilda in the house of the governor of the castle.[11] [Footnote 11: The Castle of Crail was an important station in early times. The fortress was entered by a massive gate in the Shoregate, the site of which is now occupied by a house some time belonging to the late Mr William Cowan. Within the rampart which defended the entrance were placed the guard-house and apartments for officers. For centuries the castle consisted of little more than these houses and a single tower, surrounded by a barbican, and other defences; but after the end of the eleventh century it became of more importance as a royal residence for King David. In his reign the fortifications were considerably extended; a governor's house was erected, with two circular towers, from which a grand view was obtained to seaward, and of the surrounding country. Within a second gate were two courts, containing the king's palace, the parliament hall, the chapel, and other buildings. The roof of the king's room in the palace was completely covered with rich carving in oak, long regarded by the town's-people with veneration. There was also a house for storing grain, and a well of excellent water within its walls. This fortress was considered the key of the East of Fife, and, before the invention of gunpowder, was deemed impregnable.] In a fine summer afternoon David and his beloved Matilda were seated alone in a room of the governor's house. Now, as interviews between lovers are usually very delightful to our fair young friends in general, we might for their benefit narrate at great length all that was said and done by the parties above mentioned; but, without disappointing them altogether, we shall be very brief on the subject, and rather hasten to unfold more important parts of their adventures. "Sweet Matilda," began David, "my heart, that never knew another love, is all your own. Since we first met on Kingsmuir, your image has not quitted my mind for a second. Not for a moment have I ceased to think you the best, the most beautiful, the most enchanting, the most endearing creature that ever graced our country." She turned; her eye glistened; her arm fell over his shoulder; she buried her head in his breast. At this very moment the door opened, and the earl her father entered; and David exclaimed, "Oh, my dear earl, I am the happiest man that ever breathed." "What is all this?" inquired the earl. "Is it possible," said the king, "that you have not long before detected the feelings I ventured to entertain for your daughter? In a word, she requires only your sanction to my being the most fortunate of men." "My gracious sovereign," cried the earl, "it is out of the power of man to impart to me any event which could afford to me such exquisite pleasure." The earl then approached his daughter, and, bending down, pressed the lips of his child. It was the seal to their plighted faith, and told without speech that the blessing of a father mingled with the vows of a lover. At this moment Matilda thought only of her father--that friend of her life in prosperity and adversity, whose love had never been wanting--was she now about to leave him? She rose; she threw her arms about her father's neck, and wept. The earl at this time considerately remembered that he wanted to see his servant, and they were left alone. Their eyes meet; their soft looks tell that they are thinking of each other. His arm steals round the back of her chair, and with the other hand he gently lays hold on hers. But why more? First love--first love, how many a glowing bard has sung thy charms! Nature herself seemed to those loving hearts more beautiful than ever. Their own thoughts reflected themselves in every object that met their view, as they wandered amidst the shady woods or along the sunny braes near the royal residence. But although the young king was in love, duty was not to be neglected; and the old earl entreated that the youthful pair should cease to wander on the West Braes, and Roome Links, and woods, and muirs which at that time surrounded the burgh. He urged the king to examine and make good the walls of the town, and the gates at the East and West Ports, and Jockey's Port, as well as those of the Nethergate and Shoregate; also the castle walls, gates, and defences, and whole fortifications. The armoury came likewise under observation, and an inspection took place of the bowmen, while practising archery in the Bow Butts. These precautions became necessary, as rumours began to be circulated that a war might speedily be expected with the English. The affairs of state having also received due attention, the court resolved to visit the Isle of May. The morning was remarkably fine, when the king, with the Earl of Northumberland, Matilda, and a number of his court, embarked at Crail in a pleasure-yacht for the May. The air was pure, the sea slightly ruffled with a favouring breeze, and the sky almost cloudless; all nature looked bright and beautiful, and the morning sun cast the shadows of the vessel's masts across the water in the harbour. The harbour of Crail presented a very animated scene. Everything was in unison with the sunny day and the illustrious occasion. The piers were lined with soldiers, and behind them were dense crowds of spectators. The royal Scottish standard was flying from the castle, and from the south pier-head. The harbour was crowded with boats and small craft, to witness the departure. On the yacht leaving the harbour, the cheer was taken up by the soldiers and the populace, while the band struck up the national air. The Island of May was reached in less than an hour. In sailing round the western side, the most discordant sounds saluted the ear from kittiewakes, seagulls, scouts, and other wild sea-fowl, which inhabit the rock in myriads, and nestle in the bare crevices; and some of the party, wishful to display their skill in archery, brought down a few of the birds with their arrows, both sitting and on the wing. A landing was safely made on the southern side, and the company separated into small parties, to stroll over the island, and view its natural curiosities and various remains of antiquity, particularly its priory and gifted holy well. After spending a delightful day, the court embarked with the afternoon's tide for Crail, and, when at a distance from the island, they viewed with interest the romantic Castle of Dreel, the stronghold of the Anstruthers of Anstruther, to whom the king had lately granted a charter, wherein the heir is designed "Filius Willielmi de Candela, domini de Anstruther:" "son of William de Candela, Lord of Anstruther," a name obviously of Norman origin. This castle lies at the bottom of the bay, between the Billowness and Craignoon Rock, with its rough, grey, antique houses clustering round the mouth of the Dreel burn. Brightly on sea and on shore shone the unclouded afternoon's sun on the white cliffs of the isle, and the rugged shore of the East of Fife, with all its caverns, rocks, and towers, its ancient burghs, with their pointed spires, and long and straggling fishing villages, that dot the rocky beach. The scene was lovely and beautiful. The Forth shone like a stream of lucid gold; West Anstruther, with its old church of Norman architecture; Royal Crail, with its lofty castle, its chapel, and turreted battlements; Castle Cunningham, at the West Braes, and its gloomy caverns not far distant--all these were visible at once, and bathed in ruddy light. King David having now declared his intention of espousing Matilda, the marriage was soon after solemnised within the chapel of the castle, with much splendour and dignity. The guests of the bridal were the nobility and dignified clergy, and in their suite a numerous assembly of vassals. A thousand knights, in their robes of silk, attended the bride on the morn of her nuptials, and several days were spent in hunting, feasting, dancing, and other circumstances of pomp and revelry. A tournament, the frequent amusement of this warlike age, also took place. This was a martial sport or exercise which the ancient cavaliers used to perform to show their address and bravery. On this occasion, Walter Bisset, a powerful baron, who piqued himself on his skill in his weapons, was foiled by Patrick, Earl of Athole. An old feud which existed between these families embittered the defeat, and Athole was found murdered in his house, which, probably for the purpose of concealment, was set on fire by the assassins. The suspicion of this slaughter--which, even in an age familiar with ferocity, seems to have excited unwonted horror--immediately fell upon the Bissets; and although _Walter_ was the person concerned in the tournament, the popular clamour pointed to _William_, the elder brother, and chief of the family. He was pursued by the nobility, who were incited to vengeance by the Earl of March and David de Hastings, and would have been torn to pieces, had not the interference of the king protected him from the fury of the friends of Athole. Ultimately the Bissets were condemned, their estates forfeited to the crown, and they were ordered to repair to Palestine, and there, for the remaining days of their lives, to pray for the soul of the murdered earl. When we muse on the chivalric and martial sports which distinguished our ancient burgh in former days, and witness the silence and gloomy depopulation which now reign in our streets; when we compare its lofty and formidable castle with its present bare and defenceless walls; when we think of the great maritime and commercial interest carried on, before the Union, between its harbour and Holland, and other foreign countries, and see its present limited coasting trade, we can scarcely help regretting the loss of its ancient grandeur. One cannot help _feeling_ that of this royal residence, where princes feasted and heroes fought--now in the bloody earnest of storm and siege, and now in the games of chivalry, where beauty dealt the prize which valour had won--all is now desolate, all its glory is departed. The mossy ruins of its castle walls only serve to show what their extent and splendour once was, and to impress on the mind of the musing visiter the transitory nature and value of all human possessions, and the true happiness of _those_ who enjoy a humble lot in virtuous contentment. Some of our readers may deem the marriage of David and Matilda a singular and improbable circumstance; but we can tell of a far more romantic bridal, and one well attested by historical evidence, which happened little more than a hundred years afterwards--viz., in 1272--with which important consequences were connected:--A Scottish knight of high birth, Robert de Bruce, younger of Annandale and Cleveland, was passing on horseback through the domains of Turnberry, which belonged to Marjory, Countess of Carrick. The lady happened at the moment to be pursuing the diversion of the chase, surrounded by her squires and damsels. They encountered the Bruce. The young countess was struck by his noble figure, and courteously entreated him to remain and take the recreation of hunting. Bruce, who, in those feudal days, knew the danger of paying too much attention to a ward of the king, declined the invitation, when he found himself suddenly surrounded by the attendants; and the lady, riding up, seized his bridle, and led off the knight with gentle violence to her Castle of Turnberry. Here, after fifteen days' residence, the adventure concluded as might have been anticipated: Bruce married the countess, without the knowledge of her relations, or obtaining the king's consent; upon which King Alexander seized her Castle of Turnberry. The intercession of friends, however, and a heavy fine, conciliated the mind of the monarch. Bruce became, in right of his wife, Lord of Carrick, and the son of this marriage of romantic love was the great Robert Bruce, the restorer of Scottish liberty. Soon after the royal marriage, preparations were made for the queen's coronation (King David having been crowned when he ascended the throne), and the royal pair, with the court, proceeded to Scone Palace for that purpose. It was a fine morning in the month of July when the party set out, and the dawn was beautiful. Before them lay the great Frith of Forth, rolling down in the bright sunshine from the mountains of the west, its shores teeming with fertility and natural loveliness. Along the banks the mists were rising from the verdant cones and waving woods of Innergellie, Lochton, and Balcomie. It was a spacious prospect of flowering meadow and ripening corn-field--of foliaged coppice and flowing ocean--of rising eminence and busy burgh town--of ships and fishing-boats at anchor or under sail, with the glorious sunshine beaming over all, and everything was full of life, of light, and of happiness around them. The road from Crail passed through Airdrie Woods, by the back of Kellie-law, and thence through the muirs to Falkland.[12] Here the royal party stopped and partook of refreshments, and thereafter proceeded on their journey to the Palace of Scone. [Footnote 12: It is still open, and of great breadth in various parts of the line, and retains the name of the King's Cadgers' Road, because the fish carriers from Crail travelled along it with fish from that royal burgh to supply the king's table when resident at Falkland Palace]. The mode in which the ceremony of Queen Matilda's coronation was performed is strikingly illustrative of the manners of the age. The Bishops of St Andrews and Dunkeld, with the Abbot of Scone, attended to officiate. The Bishop of St Andrews explained to her majesty the respective oaths, which were to be taken first in Latin, and afterwards in Norman French. They then conducted her to the regal chair or sacred stone of Scone, which stood before the cross in the eastern division of the chapel. Upon this she sat; the crown was placed on her head; she was invested with the royal mantle, and the nobility kneeling in homage threw their robes beneath her feet. A Highland bard or sennachy, clothed in a scarlet mantle, with hair venerably white, then advanced from the crowd, and bending before the throne, repeated in his native tongue the genealogy of the youthful queen. Many years pass. Maude is dead; and our fancy, under a spell, leads us to Crail Church. The usual service has not yet commenced, and consequently neither the king, his family, nor attendants, have entered the church; but it is whispered that they may be looked for every moment, as his majesty was scrupulously punctual at prayers. There was soon a large congregation assembled, certainly not less than a thousand persons, drawn hither by loyalty and curiosity, and in compliment to the royal birth-day. A soft and solemn strain of music now rose from the organ, and time is given, during the voluntary, to collect the distracted thoughts, and to compose them into calmness and order suitable to the occasion. There now ran a muffled whisper of "The King! the King!" and a vista being opened in front, his majesty is seen quite distinctly. He is a venerable old man, hoary and furrowed--no grandeur, no majesty, no assumption of princely dignity. Shading his dim eyes with one hand, he reverently knelt down, and inwardly breathed his composing aspiration to the Throne of Grace. The other hand rested on the shoulder of the fair-haired child who stood by his side, his little grand-daughter, whom he had led in his hand to the place of worship. All this had passed in a few seconds: and there was now a deep hush, for the priests were in their places. The staring and whispering were suspended; the service commenced, and the aged monarch, bareheaded, his thin, trembling hands fervently clasped, his eyes uplifted as it were to the place to which all his earnest thoughts were now directed, in the attitude of intense, absorbing devotion--presented a picture of devotion of a character so solemn and impressive, that anything more striking could rarely be witnessed or imagined. Here, then, is an end to all our previous dreams of royal splendour, for there stands the pious monarch, David, King of Scotland, "His staff his sceptre, his grey hairs his crown," trembling in presence of his God, breathing the general confession of his sins with the beings of the same kindred and frail nature as himself that stood around him. THE LEGEND OF THE CHURCH OF ABERCROMBIE. From authentic documents referred to by Sir John Connel in his "History of Tithes," Abercrombie, or Abercromlin, appears to have been a parish as far back as 1174. How long that character pertained to this portion of Fife we cannot say, but the church is obviously of very great antiquity. Having become so ruinous as to be unfit for a place of worship, it was abandoned in 1646, and since that time the parishes of Abercrombie and St Monans have been united, and the old church of St Monans, situated on the sea-shore, has served for the use of both. In a romantic and beautiful situation within the grounds now forming part of the domain of Sir Ralph Abercrombie Anstruther of Balcaskie, Baronet, and in the old burying-place, still used as a cemetery by the Balcaskie family, stands the remains of the old grey parish church of Abercrombie, with its encircling lime-trees and its green ivy garment duskily investing its aged walls. Dedicated to St Mary and St Margaret, tradition has deduced the origin of Abercrombie Church from the piety and wealth of two sisters similarly named. About the middle of the twelfth century, the broad lands and swelling coffers of Sir Humphrey Abercrombie (failing male issue) devolved upon two maiden sisters, Mary and Margaret, only children of the baronet; and as both were young, and of unimpeachable descent--the true Norman blood mantling in every vein--the heiresses early became objects of absorbing interest in the eyes of such of the surrounding knights and thanes as could advance pretensions to as clear a shield and pure a lineage as their own. Educated within the walls of the convent at Haddington, the sisters' limited experience and unripe notions of the world would have inadequately fitted them for the duties entailed upon them by their new position, were it not that nature had beneficently gifted the elder with a certain strength and self-reliance of character, imperfectly developed in the cloister, but daily expanding and maturing in a broader sphere, in proportion as circumstances seemed to call it into action, and demand its vigorous exercise. The younger was a graceful, gentle girl, gifted with rare beauty, and with a disposition as femininely soft and placid as the mild and dove-like eyes through which her soul looked out upon a world but newly revealed to her enfranchised gaze. How was it, then, that thus differing--thus unlike in mind and feature--the high-souled Mary and the shrinking, soft-eyed Margaret should, almost simultaneously, have set their hearts on one object? Was it that, under the handsome exterior of her soldier-cousin, Philip de Candela, the elder sister recognised a spirit similar to her own? And was it that the pliant mind of Margaret, putting forth a host of tendrils--impulses, affections, sympathies--craved some object for support, something to cling to and weave themselves around, encircling what they garlanded? Was it in the harder nature of the soldier these budding tendrils found, as it were, a massive trunk wooing their embrace and strengthening their growth? Was it that the elder loved him for the perils he had undergone in Palestine and in France, the exciting scenes in which he had conspicuously borne a brave man's part, and for the spirit of daring and adventure by which he had been influenced in his busy brief career? We may know that it was so; that continued intercourse confirmed and ripened love; that Mary's ears were seldom regaled with tales of war and chivalry, while the songs of Provence were carolled with a frequency and fervour most gratifying, it would seem, to the happy, hopeful Margaret; and that, in short, the soldier and his soft-eyed cousin plighted their troth, and then irrevocably sealed it with a sacred union. The ceremonial was performed by St Monan, a hermit or religious recluse belonging to the Monastery of Pittenweem, which was sheltered in a recess amongst the banks, walls, and crevices at the west end of the village of the same name, with a dusky-coloured mass of hard whinstone overhanging it behind, and a stair or gully winding past it in front. Haste and secresy could be purchased then as now, and Philip and his bride were ferried across the frith, and landed at North Berwick, hours ere their lengthened absence had been noted by the elder sister as an unusual circumstance. How fierce and violent a storm of passion then swelled within the disappointed sister's breast--how from her heart she cursed them bitterly, bridegroom and bride--how vowed an unmitigable hatred to them both--how every soft and womanly feeling seemed utterly extinct--how in their stead arose an intense, consuming thirst to be avenged--how, in fact, her whole nature seemed changed, and how she moodily immured herself within her Castle of Abercrombie, day after day, week after week, brooding upon the scornful slight which had been put upon her love, and upon the cunning, as she deemed it, of the sister who had supplanted her--it were a charity to the infirmities of our common nature to touch upon but lightly, and so pass on to after incidents. Six months had scarcely run their course after the marriage, when the war broke out between Stephen, the unpopular usurper of the English throne, and his fair relative and competitor, Maude. Margaret's husband was among the first to join the standard of King David, and to fling himself within the ranks of those who opposed Stephen. Alas! he was among the first also to fall a victim to that sanguinary strife, being slain in a mere chance skirmish, into which his zeal and well-known bravery had unhappily led him. Poor Margaret might well be overwhelmed by such a fearful and unlooked-for bereavement. Reason almost gave way; and during the time that partial delirium deprived her of consciousness, her husband's kinsmen mercifully consigned the gashed and ghastly corpse to its last home, that the widow's eye might never look with agony upon the loved and distorted features of her slaughtered soldier. When the elder sister heard of this sudden sharp calamity, her heart melted within her. In the presence of death, anger and hate, and jealousy, and wounded love, and baffled hope, stood solemnly rebuked. The cause of their disunion no longer found a place within their memory; but a more unclouded past, childhood and girlhood, the recollections of an era teeming with thoughts and images of love and tenderness--of a time when they two nestled their soft cheeks upon the same pillow, wove the same woof, shared the same rambles to Kellie-law and Kilconquhar Loch, to Macduff's Cave and Balcarras Craig--cherished the same dear rose-tree, wept and laughed, grew pale or crimson, sad or merry, as the same feelings swayed the hearts of both--came thronging to her mind; and as the past brought with it such gentle harmonising influences, why should they not renew it in the future? They had been too long widely and unwisely severed. Henceforth they would have, as they had had of yore, but one home and one heart. Borne down, indeed, still almost distraught with grief, the younger yet could find a solace and a mitigation of her sorrow in her reunion with her elder sister; and when the latter fell upon the widow's bosom, and brokenly sobbed out her sorrow for the past, her grief for this last heavy stroke, and spoke of hope for better days, when suffering should be softened down by time, and submission soothe regret, her dark eyes kindled through her tears, and a faint smile, like a ray of fleeting sunshine gilding the blackness of the storm, played momentarily upon her compressed and pallid lips. So the old Castle of Abercrombie received them once again, linked together by a closer tie--wiser and sadder both--the joyousness of youth displaced by thoughts of a graver, if not gloomier, texture, as though a few short months had done the work of years, and prematurely stamped the feelings of a later epoch upon their youthful minds. Perhaps the solitude in which they lived, disposing them to ponder on the after destination of the soul, or perhaps the converse of a priestly adviser, anxious to aggrandise the church (for there was only _one_ church then, and for three hundred years after there was no other, namely, the Church of Rome) of which he was a member; or perhaps that natural revulsion of the mind from matters of momentary to matters of imperishable importance, which results from worldly disappointment and domestic calamities, influenced them in coming to the determination to which they came; but whatever may have been the influences which operated on them, this alone is certain--that the sisters mutually resolved to _found a church_, and dedicate it to the service of the Almighty, in token of their reconciliation; purposing likewise to endow it at their decease with the personal wealth of which they were possessed. At that time the whole surrounding country, or at least the muirland portion of it, was little better than a leafy wilderness, intersected by numerous bridle-ways, with here and there a broader track, offering a passage for the slow and cumbrous carts and sledges of those rude days. At scattered intervals large clearances had been made; and out of the old primeval trees, and with the aid of turf taken from the soil, and rushes gathered from the margin of the burns, rivulets, and lochs, groups of cottages were framed, windowless and chimneyless--a miserable shelter for the hardy cottars who tenanted them. A frank tenementer's more commodious abode, a smithy, or perhaps a huckster's store, were the only tenements that varied that otherwise uniform aspect of these primitive clachans. Wherever the ground swelled into anything like a reasonable eminence, the stronghold of a baron might be observed perched on the summit, while the circumjacent hollow would exhibit its irregularly-clustered hovels, overlooked by the more massive and enduring residence of the rural magnate. Such churches, too, as then existed, were mostly built upon a rising ground, and seemed to serve as landmarks in that wild untravelled breadth of muir-moss and forest-land. It may be readily conceived, therefore, that at such a time, and in such a district, the rumour of the meditated erection in the first instance, and afterwards the commencement, continued progress, and completion of the sacred structure, were regarded as the gradual evolution of an event peculiarly important. It was an event, moreover, that was regarded with the utmost satisfaction by the Romish Church, upon whose dignitaries, in due time, devolved the task of formally consecrating the edifice to the sacred object for which it was intended, and who purposed to lavish in the ceremonial all those adventitious aids by which the Church of Rome imparted a character of such imposing grandeur to every rite and ceremonial to which she lent her countenance, or in which she bore a part: and hence the consecration of this edifice, followed, or rather accompanied, by a solemn presentation of the sisters at the altar, in token of compunction for dissensions past, and thankfulness for love restored, was marked by features of such rare magnificence, by such impressive pomp, and such professional display, and witnessed by such a multitude of wondering spectators, gathered from far and near, that both the solemnity itself, and its strange issue, lived in the memories of succeeding generations for centuries afterwards. On that solemnity we need not tarry to comment; our legend has reference to _its issue_ only. As the sisters knelt before the altar, thus by a formal act to ratify their reconciliation in the sight of God and man, and the venerable diocesan, Bishop Arnold of St Andrews, bent down to give his benediction on them both, a flash of vivid lightning on a sudden filled the sacred edifice with a ruddy light, and a rattling peal of thunder rolled, as it were, along the very roof of the building. There was a hush--a silence that was almost audible--a deep, dead calm reigning for a space in every portion of the holy pile. Most of the congregation lay prostrate on the pavement; the sisters knelt upon the altar steps, with buried heads and clasped hands; the old prelate stood alone erect, and folding his hands upon his breast, with eyes uplifted and serene, at length emphatically said, "Thy will be done!" A thousand voices as by one impulse, blending into chaos, made response, "Amen, amen!" And then the good old bishop, gently touching the kneeling sisters, bade them rise; but neither speech nor motion answered him, for still they knelt, with heads bowed low and fingers intertwined--with mute lips and eyelids drooping heavily. Again and yet again he would have them raised from their kneeling posture; but there was neither word nor sign; and then awe fell upon the hearts of all present, for they knew that _death_ was there! The spirits of the sisters, forgiving and forgiven, had passed away, and doubtless angels and redeemed spirits had heralded them to the mansions of the blessed. THE ROMANCE OF THE MAY. The Isle of May, which lies at the mouth of the Forth, is about six miles from Crail, and is about a mile in length, and three-quarters in breadth. It has a well of excellent water, a small loch, and affords the finest pasturage for sheep.[13] The island contained a religious house and chapel dedicated to St Adrian, who was murdered by the Danes in 872, and buried at Anstruther-Wester, where his stone coffin is yet to be seen. The island belonged to the crown; King David afterwards presented it to the abbot and convent of Reading in Berkshire; and from this and many other valuable benefactions to the church, King James I., when he visited his tomb, three hundred years after, called him "a sair saint to the crown." From Prynne's records it appears that the abbot afterwards unwarrantably sold the island to William Lamberton, Bishop of St Andrews. It afterwards came into the possession of General Scott of Balcombie, whose daughter, the Duchess of Portland, sold it to the Commissioners of Northern Lights. [Footnote 13: Two-year-old May wether mutton is said to be a feast worthy of the gods, if they would admit anything more substantial than ambrosia.] Some remarkable events are connected with this island. The first we shall advert to is the "Battle of the May." Our readers have all doubtless heard or read of Sir Andrew Wood of Largo, a famous Scottish admiral in the reign of James III. In the year 1490, King Henry, the English monarch, mortified at the defeat of some of his ships by Admiral Wood the previous year, assembled his officers, and offered rewards to any of them who should take the sea against Sir Andrew, and bring him to him dead or alive. One Stephen Bull, a London merchantman, who, like Sir Andrew Wood, combined the pursuits of warfare and commerce, accepted the offer, and with three large ships set sail for the Frith of Forth, in order to get between Admiral Wood and the land on his return from Flanders, to which he had escorted a fleet of merchantmen. The English ships anchored under shelter of the Isle of May; and Bull, having captured some sailors, compelled them to give him intelligence about Sir Andrew's movements. Early by daybreak, on a fine summer morning, the 10th of August, Sir Andrew's two vessels, the one named "The Flower," and the other "The Yellow Carvel," were observed to come in sight, on which the English commander made preparations for engaging them, and distributed wine amongst his men to raise their courage. With regard to the Scottish admiral, Pitscottie the historian says, "On the other hand, Sir Andrew Wood came pertly forward, knowing no impediment of enemies to be in his gate, till at last he perceived their three ships under sail, and coming fast to them in fier of war. Then Sir Andrew Wood, seeing this, exhorted his men to battle, beseeching them to take courage against their enemies of England, who had sworn and made their vows that they should make us prisoners to the King of England, but, God willing, they shall fail of their purpose. Therefore set yourselves in order, every man in his own place. Let the gunners charge their artillery and the cors-bows make them ready; with the lyme-pots and fire-balls in our tops, and twe-handed swords in your fore-arms; and let every man be stout and diligent for his own part and for the honour of Scotland, and thereto he caused fill the wine, and every man drank to other." The engagement that took place is described as being of the most desperate character. The Scottish admiral contrived to get to windward of the enemy. The fight lasted from sunrise to sunset, and was beheld by an immense crowd of men, women, and children on the coast of Fife. At last the two fleets were parted by the darkness, and drew off from each other, till the daylight next morning again enabled them to see what they were about. The signal for a renewal of the engagement was then given by blowing of trumpets on both sides, when the two hosts encountered each other again, "and fought so cruely," says our historian, "that neither the skippers or mariners took heed of their ships," but allowed them to drift away with wind and tide till they reached as far as opposite the mouth of the Tay, the crews all the while contending hand to hand. At last the English admiral was compelled to yield, and to give up his sword to Sir Andrew Wood; and his three ships were then towed up to Dundee, where the wounded were landed, and placed under medical care. A few days after, Sir Andrew, our brave countryman, presented the English admiral and his officers to his majesty, James, King of Scotland, who, so far from returning evil for evil, released and sent back Admiral Bull, his officers and men, with their vessels, and with rich gifts as a present to the English king. King Henry of England had thus, in addition to his vexation at this signal defeat, the humiliation of being obliged to acknowledge the generosity and princely bearing of the Scottish king, whom he had insulted and injured without the slightest provocation. The next occurrence which we shall record is the melancholy accident which took place on the Island of May in January, 1791. For two evenings no light was exhibited from the lighthouse, and the weather was such as no boat could put off to ascertain the cause. On the third day the storm abated, and a boat was manned from Crail. No sooner had the crew of the boat landed, than they were assailed by a strong sulphurous smell, and proceeding directly to the lighthouse, they found the door shut, and no one answered their call. Forcing an entrance, they saw the keeper, his wife, and five children, all lying suffocated, and a sixth infant sucking its dead mother. In another room were found two men almost expiring, but who, by the timely assistance rendered, providentially recovered. It was supposed that this sad accident was occasioned by some burning coals being blown among some cinders and refuse lying at the bottom of the lighthouse. The last incident to which we shall refer is the boat disaster at the island in 1837. On the 1st of July, 1837, a skipper and boat-owner belonging to Cellardyke set sail from that harbour, with a large party, on a pleasure excursion to the Isle of May. The day was fine and wind favourable, and the party, chiefly young men and women, consisting of sixty-five persons, including the crew, were all in high spirits, having music on board, indulging freely in mirth and gaiety, and little thinking of the sad event impending over their heads, by which, in a little half-hour, so many of them were to perish. Having approached close to the island, on the western side, it was not deemed fitting to land at the place called "the Stand," or "Atterstones," but to proceed round the southern end of the island to the eastern side thereof, with intention to disembark at a creek on the eastern side, called "Kirken Haven." In the attempt to enter this haven, there being a swell of the sea, or surge, setting in from the eastward at the time, the boat became unmanageable, and was violently driven against the shore; the _stem_, in consequence, having stuck fast on the rocks, while the _stern_ floated in deep water, the swell or eddies, and broken water, upset or caused the boat to sink, and a great number of persons belonging to Anstruther, Cellardyke, and the neighbouring towns, were drowned. Of those, ten were young unmarried women, two married women, and one infant--in all, thirteen persons. One individual lost his wife, his mother, and his child; another, a young man, observing his sister and a young woman to whom he was warmly attached both struggling in the water, and sinking in the midst of furious breakers, boldly plunged into the boiling sea, and made his way to the perishing girls. And oh what a sight for those on shore, to see the noble-minded youth risking his life for those he loved! He supports both for some time; he comforts them with hopes of succour; but his strength begins to fail. What shall he do? Shall he part with one? and if so, which of the two? No; the idea is torment to him--he cannot for a moment entertain it. He will save both, or perish in the attempt. He sinks, and rises, and sinks again, with his precious burden. The waters close over their heads--they are given up for lost. The two young women perish, but a huge wave casts the young man nearer the shore; his comrades on the beach make the most extraordinary efforts to save him, and he is at last rescued from the very jaws of death. CALEB CRABBIN. As a good theorising spirit in philosophy is the very soul of all progress in science, and the creatures that dabble in experiments with crucibles and retorts are no better than pioneers to the great geniuses that combine and generalise, so some think it an undoubted truth that speculation is the great spirit of commerce (including, of course, in the articles of that commerce, _wives_), and that those who do not make a bold stroke seldom make an effectual one. In no department of commerce is speculation held of greater importance than in that of marriage; and how rare is it to find a man who thoroughly understands it--if, indeed, it may not be said that ninety-nine out of a hundred do not know even the difference between buying and selling. The women marriage-traders, indeed, form a very creditable exception, because every one of them--knowing very well, for a surety, that they have on hand a stock that does not improve by keeping--are sellers, out and out; while the males again are almost all buyers, though, if they had the sense of a tortoise, they might know that they have just as good a stock to dispose of as their fair customers. There are, doubtless, some exceptions in our sex that go far to retrieve our characters; but, alas! they are very few; and it is just on that very account that we think it proper to give some account of Mr Caleb Crabbin, hosier in the Lawn-market in Edinburgh--so great a genius in the department to which we have alluded, that he discovered that all mongering in blankets and stockings was a perfect bagatelle in comparison of the profitable disposal of his own person; and no sooner did he make the discovery than he acted upon it, with all the boldness that belongs to original thinkers. The worthy we have thus mentioned favourably--because we admire a supporter of the rights of free trade--had laboured for a period of six or eight years in disposing of articles of hosiery, for every one of which he paid a high price; and, whether it was that he could not buy to advantage--his genius, probably, not lying in that way--or that he could not sell with a profit, wherein he displayed the same want of natural tact--it is certain that he became a bankrupt about as soon as other people merely begin to see they might make "a good thing" of a stop. So he wound up cleverly, and made just as little of his bankruptcy--a matter of profit often to those who are mere bunglers in the department of solvency--and took it into his head to sell himself. So, accordingly, as chance would have it, he threw his eyes on Miss Belinda Yellowlees, who combined the two comely properties of wealth and weakness--in other words, she possessed a thousand pounds, and a very bad constitution; and here it was that Caleb's properties began to be manifested; for the man who thought himself not worth one farthing--and was, in fact, not worth more, in the estimation of any of his own sex--was proved to be worth no less than a thousand pounds, at which price Miss Yellowlees bought him, and thought, too, that she had got a very good bargain. Seldom, indeed, it happens that both buyer and seller, in a transaction of pure business concerns, think that they have made a hit; yet, of a surety, it was the case in this marriage; for Mr Caleb Crabbin actually conceived that he had made as good a bargain as did Miss Belinda Yellowlees; and so, to be sure, it was soon proved, by an exceeding good probatory test; for Miss Belinda, within six months, went the way of the dead, and her thousand pounds went the way of the living--that is, into the possession of her surviving husband. No one will deny that this was undoubtedly a good beginning in this new commercial enterprise of Mr Caleb; and the best feature of the whole transaction was, that, along with the thousand pounds, he had actually got back again the commodity which he gave for it, and was thereby in a capacity to dispose of it again, on far better terms than ever. Many a good article of hosiery he had disposed of over the counter, and never seen a single glimpse again either of the price or the article; whereas here there was all the difference in the world; for he held the possession of both--the thing sold, and the price got for it; and, stimulated by his success, he, as soon as decency would permit, set about again endeavouring to make a bargain, upon the same, or better, terms than before. Nor was he long about encompassing his object; for the money he had got by the first transaction yielded a facility to the progress of the second; and, within a year of the death of the first unfortunate, Mrs Belinda Crabbin, he, after a hunt comprehending nearly all that period, found out an individual not only in every way worthy of his attention, but exhibiting all the features of being as good a market-woman as he was an out-and-out trader. The lady, whose name was Miss Amelia Reddie--clearly an orthographic phase of the cognomen Ready--was eager, or "yape," as the Scotch call it, for a transaction; and, having nothing to boast of but her patrimony of twelve hundred and fifty, she made the most of what she had; and the never a man of all she had ever spoken to but knew, as well as he did the number of his own fingers, the exact sum, to the odd fifty, which she was willing to give as the consideration. Many a dozen of suitors had heard her set forth her mercantile recommendation; but, then, she was the last of five, who had all died of consumption, leaving her the heir of the small sums that belonged to them; and this fact, which she tried assiduously to conceal, had, in a great measure, destroyed her saleable capability, till the time when there appeared in the mart Mr Caleb, who, instead of deeming it an objection, thought it the consideration next best to the amount of her funds. Well, without exhausting a lexicon upon the affair, we come to the point, as cleverly as did the hero himself, who was, in the thirteenth month after the death of his first wife, duly and lawfully put in possession of Miss Amelia Reddie and her twelve hundred and fifty. "A deuced deal better than hosiery this!" said Caleb to himself, on his marriage night; "for here have I not made two thousand two hundred and fifty pounds in one year and a month, without ever a shop, or signboard, or risk or trouble at all!" If we were to say that there was an atom of affection in a concern of this kind, we would assuredly be doing not only Mr Caleb a great injustice, but be committing a libel on the taste of our sex; and, to be sure, save for the money, there was none at all. But we have more to say; and that is, that, where a man does not love the woman (as why should he?) whom he has married for money, it follows, as a natural corollary, that he wishes her dead. With "a trembling hand," like that of the poet Tibullus, he would hold the fair one, when dying; but then the hand would tremble lest she should recover, not lest she should go the way of all flesh. But, alas for the plans of mortals! the greatest geniuses sometimes fail in noble undertakings; and, not long after Mr Crabbin had begun to discover ailing symptoms on the part of his helpmate, the truth broke upon him that he was about to become a father; and a father, too, in good time, he became, of as healthy a child as ever blessed a living husband who liked his wife. "If I am to have half-a-dozen, or mayhap a dozen, of these," said he, "the devil a merchant that ever sold cheaper than he bought, ever made so bad a bargain. Every one of those creatures will cost, at least, three hundred pounds; so that, if I shall have six of them, I will be a loser to the extent of five hundred and fifty." The speech was prophetic; for every year, for a period of six, the consumptive Mrs Amelia Crabbin presented her husband with a healthy pledge; and on every birth-day Mr Caleb made a speech almost the same, but with increased lugubrity. But for this he might have found very good authority among the ancients; and if he had known of that strange man who wept at the birth of a child, or of Xenophon, who continued the job of a sacrifice he was at, though a messenger told him of the death of his boy, he would have thought them very sensible men, of a very different kidney from the fool, John Zopilah, who died of joy, when he heard that his wife had brought him an heir male. But it availed Mr Caleb nothing. "Better," said he, "I had stuck by the counter; for I might have become bankrupt as often as I chose; and, if I had made the never a penny by it, I might at least have got quit of my creditors; but children are a sort of creditors that a man cannot sweep off by any means, not even the famous cessio." And what made the matter more intolerable was, that all this time, when Mrs Crabbin was thriving so excellently well, in the way of adding to the number of the human species, she was gradually declining in health, having, by the time she had the third child, become so lean and shrivelled, that neither the Atlas nor the Hercules would have insured her life at a premium of fifty per cent. Yet, as we have said, three more followed in good time, and healthier creatures never opened their eyes on an evil world. Mrs Amelia Crabbin had now, however, done her worst; and, having been wasted away to a mere sigh, she one night took Mr Caleb round the neck, and, weeping bitterly, told him she was going, in the midst of her prosperity, to where she once thought she would have gone six years before--even where her five sisters were--the grave; recommending to him to take care of the twelve hundred and fifty, for the sake of the six children she had left, as every penny of it, and more, would be needed by the dear orphans. Mr Caleb wept too; but it was at the touching allusion she had made to the danger she had escaped, of dying before the first of the children was born; and Mrs Amelia, seeing what she conceived to be undoubted evidence of his affection, hung awhile upon his neck, and then bid him bring in every one of the six. They were accordingly ranged by the side of her bed. "Now, my little ones," she said to them, tenderly, "Caleb, Andrew, Maria, George, Amelia, and Augustus, your mother is going to die, and you may never see her again after this hour. Mr Crabbin," she continued, looking to her husband, "you must know that these children are the last of the blood of our Reddies, and proud am I to think that it has pleased Heaven that I should be the means of thus leaving so many scions of our ancient race, that there is no chance of the name being forgotten, seeing that they have all three names, the middle one being Reddie in every instance. I hope they will multiply as I have done. Bless you, my dear children! Your father will protect you; and thankful am I that the twelve hundred and fifty is yet all left, so that you will get your shares when you come to be of age." In an hour afterwards Mrs Amelia Crabbin was no more, and in three days afterwards she was buried. "It is finished," said the husband; "and a fair speculation never turned up an uglier balance, since the days of the bubble of the South Sea." So he took to real weeping; and there was not a friend that came to give him consolation, but went away with the impression that he had been one of the most loving of husbands, and was one of the tenderest of men. Among those visiters, were two or three acquaintances of his deceased wife, and one or two of them possessed even more than twelve hundred and fifty. So, Mr Caleb, seeing through his wet eyes that his grief took with them very well, continued the indications--a very easy process, seeing he had only to look to the debit and credit of his speculation to make the tears drop as fast as hailstones. "It's a heavy loss you have sustained, Mr Crabbin," said Miss Jean Gibbs. "Very heavy loss," rejoined he, with emphasis on the principal word. "But the children are a consolation." "To be sure they are," answered Caleb; "and I have six of them, and now, you see, all without a female to take charge of them." The hint did not take, as the saying goes; and Miss Jean having departed, and Miss Isabella Gentle, who had also a competency, having arrived, he tried the same plan with her; for his spirit for speculation was still strong; and he expected, yet, to make a far more successful hit than he had even done in the case of Miss Belinda Yellowlees. Now, Miss Isabella was just as sincere in her admiration of his sorrow as was Miss Jean Gibbs; and all that was gone over about the loss he had sustained, and the consolation of the children, and the feeling he exhibited, as became a good husband and a loving father. But the moment he made a hint about the poor creatures having no female to look after them, the same effect was as evident as in the case of Miss Jean--for Miss Isabella, for a certainty, did not seem to relish it. "All this may come of my being too eager and too soon," said he. "But I fear these six children will be stumbling-blocks in the way of my farther enterprise; for a woman will not give so much for a man with six children, as she would do for himself. Had my second transaction come up to the first, I might to-day have been an independent man. But a third may do better; and, if it don't, it shall not, by Hymen, be Mr Caleb Crabbin that will be to blame." Nor, indeed, could it be alleged that he spoke falsely; for, as soon as the proper time came, he set about a very vigorous search for a third helpmate in every direction where he thought he had any chance. He tried again Miss Jean Gibbs and Miss Isabella Gentle; but the children formed an objection which they could not get over. "I will never marry a man with six children--no--nor five, nor four, nor three, nor two," said Miss Jean. "I would far rather live and die an old maid, than become the slave of another woman's family," was the reply of Miss Isabella. And then he tried Miss Julia Cross, who had something of a lying stock, though not much, and her answer was just as peremptory. "I hold the woman to be mad, Mr Caleb Crabbin," said she, "who would undertake the charge of six children. One might as well become a schoolmistress at once." And after this rebuff, he tried Miss Angelina Crabbe, who had an annuity of somewhere about seventy-five pounds, besides about three hundred of old savings; but Angelina said that she would not be a stepmother for the whole earth. "I see it will not do," said he, after some farther rejections. "Unless I take a wife with nothing, I will never get another, where it is known that I am burdened with six children. But he who takes a wife with nothing is but a sorry trafficker; and the never a wife with nothing, were she as fair as Venus, will Caleb Crabbin marry in this world. I will pack off the whole crew, and try my fortune under other colours." The resolution thus formed he put in execution, by getting the whole of his children boarded with friends who lived at a distance, upon the pretence that he was going to take a trip away somewhere abroad. Having achieved this preliminary, he set off for the nearest good watering-place, being no other than the noted Pitcaithly, where so many "wanters," have, with various success, been supplied; and he had not been a week there when he fell in with a buxom widow of five-and-thirty, who was reported as being worth not a jot less than one hundred and fifty pounds a-year, secured on the strong Atlas, by the providence of her deceased husband. The name she carried, Mrs Jemima Bowsie, was a mixture of her own maiden name and the surname of her husband, very well blended; and she carried herself with such an air of frankness, surrounded with the eclat of her fortune, which she had taken care to blaze pretty well, that Mr Caleb Crabbin was immediately struck. "That is my mark," said he, "as sure as was Belinda Yellowlees; and, if I'm not worth the purchase at one hundred and fifty pounds per annum, on the life of Mrs Jemima Bowsie, I have lost all my saleable commodity." One who had twice sold himself, and offered himself for sale a score of times over, had no difficulty in getting matters placed in a train for a new offer; and an hour had scarcely elapsed after the monologue we have mentioned, when Mr Caleb Crabbin and Mrs Jemima Bowsie were walking and talking together as if they had been acquainted from the period of conning the alphabet. Nor was their intimacy long limited to talking a-field; for he found his way to the house where she lodged, and she found her way to the house where he had taken up his quarters, and, in the course of these meetings, mutual hints and questions tended towards the expression of mutual wishes. "By the way, Mr Crabbin," said Mrs Jemima, one evening when they were sitting together in her lodgings, "I have a question to put to you; and, as you respect a widow, left, as it were, alone in the world, you will answer me according to your conscience." "That will I, Mrs Bowsie," answered Caleb, "as sincerely as if you were my wedded wife." "That is tenderly and beautifully indited, Mr Crabbin," answered she. "Pray, sir, is the Atlas a strong company?" "I believe it is a very strong concern, madam," replied he; "not much less so, I fancy, than the Royal, where I happen to have two thousand pounds deposited on an operating account. But might I have the great boldness, madam, to ask you why you put that question to me?" "I am not sure," replied Mrs Jemima; "yet, let me see. Why, there can't be much harm in it either, only one does not like to trumpet forth her private affairs. But then it is to be remembered that I am a lonely creature in the world; and to whom can an unprotected widow speak, if it isn't to one who is just in her own situation?--for you hinted to me that your wife has gone, and left you also solitary." "Too true," answered Caleb, affecting some ocular moisture. "My house is indeed empty enough. Indeed I have the key of it in my pocket; and one who has the never a one to speak to at home just wanders about where the fancy lists." "How our positions and sentiments _do_ coincide!" replied she. "Well, as to the reason for my putting the question about the strength of the Atlas; this," she continued, as she opened a box, and took out a policy--"this may explain it." And she handed the policy to Mr Caleb Crabbin. "An annuity policy for one hundred and fifty, for the natural life," said he, as he affected surprise at what he knew as well as he did the amount of the sums possessed by his two deceased wives. "A handsome thing, madam, of a certainty." "Very well for two single people," rejoined she, sentimentally; "but believe me, sir, I would not have put the question, had it not been that a female is apt to get nervous where her all is laid out on the security of one concern." "There need be never a tone of apology about the matter, madam; for, to be plain with you, I often make inquiries about the stability of the Royal, where, as I told you, I have two thousand pounds deposited on an operating account; and, to be plainer still, I do not hesitate to tell you, madam, that my house being, as I said, locked up in these gloomy days of my widowhood, I carry about with me my receipt. Here it is." (Opening his pocket-book.) "You may take a glance at it just as I have done at your policy. Giff-gaff, as we say, makes good friends." "And you have just hit upon the very reason," replied she, "why I carry about my policy with me; for, where there is no one at home to take an interest in one's affairs, or a charge of their effects, one feels uneasy about a valuable document, such as these in our hands. Of course you do not tell any one of the question I put to you; because, you know, the Atlas might come on me for damages." "No fear on't, madam," said Caleb; "but pray--hem! hem!--is it your intention, Mrs Bowsie, ever again to change your name?" "And, pray, Mr Crabbin," replied she, holding away her head, "is it your intention ever to give yours to another woman?" "The never a doubt on't, madam," rejoined Mr Caleb. "Loneliness is poor company; and I would marry to-morrow, were it for nothing else than to produce some stir of life in my deserted house." "And, for society's sake, I would almost be tempted to change condition, too," rejoined she, rising to put past the policy and conceal her blushes. Unluckily, at this interesting moment, an acquaintance entered, and put an end to a conversation that was clearly tending towards a crisis, to which the boldness of Mr Caleb would soon have brought it. But enough had been said to dream upon; and by the time that the two met next day in the woods, the matter had been arranged in the minds of both. The question was "popped," a gracious answer returned, and, as Caleb had clearly induced her to believe, without any direct statement, that he had not a single child to mar Mrs Jemima's happiness, he saw the necessity of getting the transaction concluded without the loss of a moment of time, lest discoveries might break it up. But the widow was just as anxious for quick despatch as he was; and he did not fail to take advantage of so favourable a circumstance. So to Perth he went, and got all things put in readiness for a proclamation of banns. This preliminary was gone through on the following Sunday; on the Monday after, Mr Caleb Crabbin and Mrs Jemima Bowsie were man and wife; and thus had Caleb disposed of himself, for the third time, on terms which he conceived to form the elements of a good bargain. These matters we have run over rapidly, leaving it, of course, to be understood that several explanations--such as the localities of their locked-up houses, their connections, and so forth, were mutually made and mutually relied on; and it becomes us, in the same manner, to leave to the fancy all the pretty excursions and conversations that lasted for the legitimate period of the sweet moon, at the end of which the couple arrived in Edinburgh to take possession of the husband's deserted house. And, to be sure, the house was empty enough, in so far as regarded human beings; for there was no one in it, and Mrs Jemima Crabbin surveyed it as her future home with no small expression of satisfaction. A new servant was got. A week passed, and all was as it should be--not a word of the six children having, as yet, been uttered by Caleb, and no one of the neighbours having taken it upon them to supply the want of knowledge which Caleb conceived to be necessary to a continuation of his happiness. On the eighth day, they went out together to draw the quarterly annuity from the agent of the Atlas Company; and never was a man better pleased with himself than Caleb, when he pocketed the thirty-seven pounds ten shillings, the first earnest of many drawings, even so long as the life of his helpmate. This was clearly not fated to last; because it behoved Caleb to make the necessary disclosure, to prevent its being made, perhaps, in a manner fraught with more pain to her who apparently looked forward to a life of genteel ease. It was clear that the sooner the disclosure was made the better; and a stronger cup of tea than usual (brewed on the head of the quarter's annuity) having been served up, he sat ruminating on the best way of breaking the intelligence. "What are you thinking of, Mr Crabbin?" said the lady, as she sat filling out the first cup of tea, and while the door stood open that the servant might bring in the toast. "There he is, you little darlings," said Mrs Reddie of Pennicuick, as she entered; and at the same instant Master Caleb Reddie Crabbin, Master Andrew Reddie Crabbin, and Miss Maria Reddie Crabbin, rushed forward with a united cry of "Papa! papa! papa!" and hung round his neck, and jumped on his knee, with a demonstration of affection that a father, in ordinary circumstances, would have been delighted to see. "I couldna keep them awa, sir," said the woman. "They would be in, reason or nane." Mrs Crabbin sat with the teapot in her hand, held nearly as high as her mouth, and contemplated the affectionate scene, with open lips and wide staring eyes; but never a word had Mr Caleb said, though the dear little ones hugged him more fondly than ever. "Are these your children, Mr Crabbin?" at last said the wife. Caleb looked at her, and saw something like a smile playing round the corner of her lips, in the midst of sufficient indications of surprise; but the meaning thereof transcended all his powers of construction. "The children, you hear, say I'm their father," replied he, still gazing in her face, to try if he could catch again the same symptom he had observed before; and, to be sure, he did catch it, and, with it, another symptom that astonished him more still; for Mrs Crabbin immediately ejaculated-- "Why did you not tell me of this, Mr Crabbin? What nice, dear, sweet creatures! I'm delighted to see them. Come to me, George; come to me, Andrew; and, Maria, you are the prettiest little girl in the world." "What an amiable wife I have got!" ejaculated he, as he saw her take the little ones and fondle them as kindly as if they had been her own. "When saw ye the others," said Mrs Reddie--"George, Amelia, and Augustus? Are they weel aneugh?" "Three more!" ejaculated Mrs Crabbin. And Caleb again searched her face, to see if there was not some irony lurking about the muscles; but the never a trace could he find but satisfaction. He was puzzled as never man was puzzled since the days of OEdipus. "Have I been at all these pains," muttered he, "to conceal what yields her pleasure rather than chagrin?" "Now, Mr Crabbin," said his wife, as she still fondled the children, "you must send to-morrow for the others, that I may see them; for I long to show them that I shall be as kind to them as would have been their own mother." "The never such another woman is to be found in all Christendom!" muttered Caleb. "Jenny," cried Mrs Crabbin, "bring cups here, that the children may have their tea." And so the cups were brought; and the whole group, Mrs Reddie--whose mouth had been closed up by the effect of the extraordinary scene--included, sat down in the most perfect harmony. On the very next day, a messenger was sent off for Master George Reddie Crabbin, Miss Amelia Reddie Crabbin, and Master Augustus Reddie Crabbin; and they were expected to arrive at the house of their father within three days afterwards. Meanwhile, Mrs Crabbin displayed still the same degree of kindness she had at first exhibited; and Caleb continued to wonder more and more at conduct that seemed to set at defiance all the matrimonial maxims he had got proved to him by the many women he had solicited to become his wife. Nor can there be a doubt that he was pleased--if, indeed, it might not be said that he was delighted; for it cannot be denied that the weight of the secret he had carried about had materially interfered with his connubial happiness; and even the light of the honeymoon had been dashed with streaks of shade, thrown up from the cavern where the dread fact had lain concealed. On the day on which the additional children were expected, Mrs Crabbin was occupied in making preparations for their home-coming. A thousand little matters were gone about with maternal assiduity; and, everything having been arranged, the couple and the three children sat down to tea, much in the same spirit they had done on the previous occasion. It was about five o'clock; and the coach would arrive somewhere about that time. "Here they come at last," said Caleb, as he listened to a tread of many steps on the stair, accompanied by the clear clack of the tongues of happy children. And, to be sure, in they came; but there happened to be no fewer than five, accompanied by an old nurse; and they had no sooner entered, than they ran forward to Mrs Crabbin, crying out "Mamma! mamma! mamma!" all together, and hanging round her neck, and kissing her, and climbing on her knees, just in the same affectionate manner that had been exhibited by Mr Crabbin's children on the prior occasion. Meanwhile, Mrs Jemima Crabbin was busy with the face of Mr Caleb, to see what she could find there; but the man, who never had any great sense of justice, showed no smile, as she had done when _his_ children came so unexpectedly in upon her. A sombre gloom covered his face, and he sat and looked as glum as he did on every occasion when Mrs Amelia Crabbin had brought him a child; and, probably, if there had been any deeper shade, or rather five times as deep as that expression, it would have found a place upon his face. "Are all these your children, madam?" said Caleb, with a voice that expressed with the question a tendency to choke. "Yes," answered Mrs Crabbin; "but you see, my dear sir, you beat me; for, while I have only five, you have six." "Eleven of a family to support on two thousand pounds of principal, at four per cent., and one hundred and fifty per annum on the life of Mrs Jemima Crabbin!" groaned Mr Caleb. "A deuced poor trafficker I am proved to be! Would I not have been better as a hosier?" "A hosier!" ejaculated Mrs Crabbin. "I took you for a gentleman, as Mr Frederick Bowsie was, every inch of him." "And I took you for a solitary widow, as you led me to believe," responded he. "And so, to be sure, I took you for a solitary widower, carrying the key of your house in your pocket, as you previously told me," was the just reply. At this juncture the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of the other three Crabbins, who acted over again the scene of their brothers and sister; and thus there were brought on the carpet no fewer than eleven of a family, one-half strangers to their half-brothers and sisters, and all talking, and laughing, and romping in a manner that might have afforded no small joy to well-conditioned parents. Yet Mr Caleb was not to be cajoled by their fun into anything like good humour, for no man likes to behold the evidence of the almost total defeat of a darling project, which he had held to be the pride and profit of his existence. Nor was the bringing of eight more tea-cups, instantly ordered by Mrs Crabbin, likely to effect what the romping of the "dear ones" had not been able to accomplish; and it is impossible to say how long he would have remained under the cloud of his gloom, had not Mrs Crabbin risen, and, going round to him by the backs of the circle of children, gently and playfully clapped him on the hanging clouded cheek. "Come, now, Mr Crabbin," said she, "you see we are just in the position of the pot and kettle that fell into warfare, calling each other blackamores. You have cheated me, and I have cheated you, and therefore are we on a par. No good can come of complaining where each has so good a rejoinder; and, to be plain with you, if you gloom, I'll gloom, having just as good a right; whereas, if you are well pleased, and love my five, I shall be well pleased, and love your six; and thus we may make the best of a bad bargain. What say you, Mr Caleb Crabbin?" Caleb threw his eye around the table, and groaned; but necessity is a strong monitor; and so he turned round--where there was a matrimonial kiss awaiting him--and, having taken the offering for better and for worse-- "I believe, Jemima, you are right, after all," said he; "but still it is a bad business; for, if we add five or six more children to that small army, we may come to starve." "You can begin business again as a merchant (but not in the hosiery way) with your two thousand, and I shall be as frugal a wife as ever made the two ends of coming and going out meet." Caleb meditated. "You are right again, Jemima," said he; "for, after all, I have not been happy under the trade of wiving I have driven for so many years--always idle, and pointed out as one who lives on the means of his wives--so, to be sure, I'll immediately betake myself to an honourable calling, and before I die I may yet acquire the reputation of what is called a respectable member of society. For true it is," he added, "that a fortune-hunter, even if he has run down the game of thousands, is only a fortune-hunter to the end of the chapter. Out of my evil, you see, has come my good; and you, who a little ago seemed my bad angel, have turned out to be my good. So here be all our strife ended." And another embrace settled the affair. "Now," said Caleb, "you'll be kind enough to tell me the names of these children. By my faith, they are pretty ones--as pretty as my own!" "This is William--this is George--this is Andrew--this is Mary--and this is Margaret." "Well, we must fall upon some way of distinguishing those of mine and those of yours, who carry the same name. Let it be your George and my George, your Andrew and my Andrew. I see now no difficulty about the matter." "Neither do I," answered Jemima. "All we have to provide against is to avoid calling our own _mutual_ children George or Andrew, for a third of the name wouldn't do." "Neither it would," rejoined he. According to these arrangements, Mr Crabbin commenced business again; and, having been taught experience by his former failure, did very well. We believe there were at least two or three additional children born afterwards; but that was of no consequence, because Mr Crabbin's means became, by his own industry, proportionate. A good lesson hangeth by the peg of our tale, or we are somewhat out. THE SERJEANT'S TALES. THE IMPRUDENT MARRIAGE. Serjeant Square again resumed the narrative of his adventures:-- There is a strange feeling, that every reflecting person must have often been conscious of, accompanying the idea of time. We feel as if in contact with the past, as far back as our memory can reach. If our reading has been extensive, it requires reflection to disentangle the events of early ages, as well as those of a more recent date; and, even as regards the time to come, we feel as if it also were for us, until the melancholy certainty of the shortness of life forces us back upon the present moment, which, until passed, we cannot call our own. Neither is there a situation in which we can be placed, in which we do not feel some cause of uneasiness, from the faintest shade of unfulfilled anticipation, to the depth of real suffering. Gloomy were the reflections that haunted my mind for the first three weeks after my arrival in London. Often and far as I had been from Scotland, never until now had I been home-sick--if it could be called so in one who had neither kindred nor home in the world. Destitute of kindred as I was, the feeling seemed to extend my relationship: every Scotchman being my relation, and his accents music to my ears. An unaccountable melancholy was upon me; and I felt a strange presentiment as if some evil were about to befall me. I felt no pleasure, as I was wont, in walking about. My time was spent at my lodgings, in Lower Thames Street, save when I went occasionally to the neighbourhood of Covent Garden, to visit Captain H----. Even these visits had become irksome, as no good seemed likely to arise to me from them. I was always received in the most friendly manner. Still there was a constraint upon me I could not overcome, arising from the relative situation in which we had formerly stood towards each other as private seaman and captain. I would have felt far more at my ease had he treated me in a more distant manner. Frugal as my mode of life was, my cash wore done apace, and I had fixed upon no mode of obtaining a new supply. Once or twice I had made inquiries among the shipping for a situation, without success. Perhaps the fault was my own, as I was rather nice to please, and not over anxious to go to sea if I could do better. I hoped that the captain or his friend would propose something for my advantage; and thus the time had run on, while my lowness of spirits increased upon me. The weather had become wet and foggy. I cared not to leave the house, and remained at home for several days, so depressed that I even wished I were dead, and away from a world in which I had suffered so much. The pleasures I had also enjoyed were entirely blotted out from my recollection. All my life appeared to have been a scene of suffering, with no prospect before me but further misery and endurance. This was a state of mind that could not long endure without leading to a fatal result. I began to regard suicide as the only remedy for my misery; and even to look upon it as a crime of no very deep atrocity. Yet there was a feeling within me that made death as a remedy horrible. At length, by an effort that cost me more to accomplish than anything I had ever done before or since, I shook off this, the darkest moral incubus of the darkest period of my life, and, after an absence of ten days, waited upon Captain H---- to bid him farewell, as I was resolved to leave London, and enter on board the first vessel wherever bound for, and in any capacity I could obtain a berth. When I reached the house, I found it shut up, and could obtain no information whither he had gone. All I learned was, that they had left the house three days before, it was believed for the country. I felt indignant and hurt, although I had no reason, at this sudden departure. I had no claim upon him. I had ever been overpaid for any service I had rendered. Still, this was not my feeling at the time; and I bent my steps towards my lodgings in no enviable mood, either with myself or the world. A numbing sensation was upon me. I felt once more alone in the world; and passed through the busy crowds that thronged the streets, almost unconscious of the presence of a human being, until I had reached Tower Hill, when my attention was roused by a crowd of men and boys, who were hooting and jostling an old man of rather respectable appearance, whose impatient anger caused them only to increase their shouts and annoyance. They were calling to him, "Rebel Scot," and "Scottish traitor;" and crying, "Roll him in the kennel," "Duck him in the river." I was in a humour to quarrel with any one, or even dare a host. My blood was on fire in a moment, for the old man upbraided them in Scotch, although tinctured by a foreign accent. He was tall, and had once been a very powerful man. His hat had been knocked off, and his grey hairs were in disorder, save what were retained by a neat cue that bobbed from side to side, as he was pushed, or turned to aim a blow at his cowardly assailants, many of whom, I blush to say, had reached man's estate. In an instant I was by his side, and shouted, to overtop the noise-- "For shame, to use an old man and a stranger so! Is that like Englishmen?" For a moment there was a pause; it was but for a moment. My Scottish accent turned them as much against me as him whom I wished to befriend. "They are both rebel Scots--serve them alike!" shouted a stout young fellow, as he aimed a blow at me. The others joined in the cry. The blow took effect upon the side of my head. I was stunned a little; but returned it with so good effect that he staggered back a pace or two. The blood flowed from my cheek, which was cut, pretty fast. In a moment the shouting ceased, and "A ring! a ring!" was the cry. "Give the Scottish sailor fair play--he has pluck in him." "Go it, Joe!" cried others; and their attention was directed from the old man to me and my opponent. A ring was formed. I gave my jacket and hat to the old man to hold, and to it we went; but, tall as I was and stout, I was forced to give in after a severe contest; my enemy's science prevailed; but my object was attained. The old man and myself were no longer hated. "I was a bit of good stuff," they said, "and had stood well up to fighting Joe of Smithfield." Even Joe said he would give any one a beating who molested us. We were conducted to a public-house, where I got myself cleaned and my bruises dressed. The old gentleman gave me a thousand thanks for the part I had taken in his rescue, and seemed to feel much more for the injuries I had received than I did myself. As soon as we had had some slight refreshment, he caused a coach to be brought, and accompanied me to my lodgings. During our short drive, I learned that he had only arrived from Holland the evening before, and was a stranger in London. He said he had resided for the last ten years there; that he had not been in Scotland for many years; and that he was on his way to it to lay his bones in the graves of his fathers. There was a reservedness of manner that interested me much in the man; and every time I looked to him, I grew the more certain that his face had been familiar to me at some former period of my life. Even his voice fell on my ear like some well-known sound. Neither of us had inquired the name of the other. The coach stopped at the door of my lodging, into which he assisted me; and I immediately went to bed at his request, he promising to call upon me in the morning. After passing a restless night, I was awoke in the morning by my landlady entering my room to inquire if I would see Lieutenant Speare, the old gentleman who had accompanied me home the evening before. Although I felt rather feverish, I replied that I would be glad to see him. In a few minutes I was astonished to see him enter in an undress, until he informed me that he had been so fortunate as to obtain a room from my landlady; and, if I was agreeable, he wished to breakfast along with me and spend the day, as I was not, he felt assured, in a state to leave my room. I did not conceal that I felt very unwell, and would be happy to have his company. After he was seated, I inquired by what accident he had become involved with the rabble upon Tower Hill. After a short pause-- "You and I," replied he, "are countrymen, but strangers to each other. From the disinterested manner in which you interfered in my behalf, I feel that I may trust you with my secret. Even if we differ in opinion, you will not betray me; I therefore shall make no reserve. "I was born and bred an adherent of the exiled royal family of Great Britain; have bled in their cause; suffered exile from all I held dear; and even now I tread my native land with a halter about my neck, which one word from you might attach to the fatal tree that has ceased to have any horrors for me, were it not for a sacred duty I have to perform before death put a period to my long life of suffering. Yesterday afternoon I had only been a few hours in London, for the first time in my life; yet its gloomy Tower, and blood-drinking Tower Hill, had long been familiar to my mind, as scenes of cruelty and tyranny, where the best blood of Scotland was poured out like water to satisfy the thirst of a usurper. I had surveyed the scene for some time in silent agony, when my oppressed feelings called before me the heroes, as I had seen and admired them, in manly vigour, struggling in a righteous cause, with the sad termination they experienced, when their headless trunks were insulted by an unfeeling crowd. All caution left me, and I expressed my thoughts aloud. I was overheard and assailed. You delivered me. I acknowledge my imprudence; and, on your account, lament what I have done." "On my account there is no cause of regret," said I. "I am happy your unguarded language had no more fatal result. Your secret is safe in my keeping. I myself have been a sufferer through that fatal affair, although too young to distinguish between parties; for the miseries of civil war fall heaviest upon the innocent, the females and children. By it I was deprived of both my parents, and thrown destitute upon the world, without friends or home. If the great will struggle, urged by ambition or party zeal, what have the poor to do with their strife, who can, at the best, only change their taskmasters? Had my father remained in Edinburgh, my mother had not broken her heart, and I had not been an outcast orphan boy." "Edinburgh, did you say, young man?" replied he. "Few joined the Prince from that city." His voice faltered; his whole frame shook. He gazed fixedly upon me for a short time; then, starting to his feet, he staggered to my bedside, supporting himself by the bedpost. "What is your name?" he eagerly said. "John Square," I replied. Uttering a cry that resembled a heavy groan, he sunk upon the bed, and, grasping my hand, bathed it with tears; then, clasping me to his breast, kissed my forehead. His heart was too full to speak; he held me in his embrace, and gazed upon my face. I was so much amazed at the strange conduct of the old man, that it was some time before I recovered from my surprise, or could inquire the cause of his, to me, unaccountable proceeding. Still grasping my hand-- "Now, welcome death!" said he. "My mission is accomplished. I shall die in peace. I have found thee, my long-forsaken and injured boy." It was now my turn to feel the utmost agitation. Did my father really stand before me? I feared to ask the question, yet burned to do so. "Are you my father?" cried I. "Alas! no! I am not your father," said he. "Yet I am all the father you ever knew; and you were, and are, dear to me as my own son. Ah, my poor Mary!--she was a kind mother to you. Told she not the secret of your birth before she died?" "No," was my answer. "I was too young and thoughtless at the time. I recollect she called me to her bedside often, and wept over me; but she only prayed, and blessed me. She sent one of her neighbours, who was very attentive, for the minister to come to her, saying she had something important to intrust him with; but, before he arrived, her mind began to wander, and she remained in that condition until her death, two days after. She had even forgot she had sent for the good man, who, after offering up a prayer, departed." I paused, for the old man wept bitterly while I spake. I did respect his feelings; but my own were too impetuous to be restrained. "Who was my father, since you are not?" cried I. "Is he alive? If you ever loved me, pause not a moment. Nay, I shall tear the secret from you." And I started up in my bed, sore as I was, and looked wildly at him, as he appeared to hesitate. "Be composed, my dear John," said he. "It is a melancholy tale. I would more willingly spare your feelings than wound them by the relation; but it were cruel now to withhold it from you. You will have no cause to blush for your relatives. My own history is so deeply interwoven with that of your parents, that I cannot disentangle them, and therefore must give them, connected as they are. It was upon the borders of the romantic Esk I first awoke to consciousness, in the hospitable house of your grandfather, to whom my father had been head servant for many years. I was within a few weeks of the same age as John, your father, his third son. I was his foster-brother and playfellow, unequal as was our rank. I loved him with more than a brother's love, and would have risked my life for him, had he been in danger. He was my young master; his comfort was all my duty and care; and swiftly the days and hours passed on, until the period arrived that he was to go to Edinburgh to attend the classes at the university, and whither I was to accompany him. We were both young and inexperienced. Your father was of a fearless, open, and generous temper; and his rank in life gave him access to the best society in the city. At one of the assemblies he became acquainted with a young lady, the orphan daughter of an officer who had fallen in the wars of Marlborough. She resided with two rich maiden aunts, upon whom she depended for her present support and future fortune. Their intimacy soon ripened, unfortunately, into love. As politics raged at this time with a force and bitterness that divided friends and relations, even the sacred mysteries of love were interrupted by the offerings to the stern genius of discord. Rose's aunts were stern Whigs, supporters of what were then styled by us the Hanoverian usurpers; and their only surviving brother was an officer high of rank in their armies; while your grandfather was faithful to his lawful king, and as true a Tory as ever lived or bled for the Stewarts. Neither your father nor myself had ever troubled ourselves about the rival factions; yet we were, as we had been bred, staunch adherents to the royal exiles; but Love is of no party, and we were both under his influence. From the cause I have mentioned, your father's visits were unacceptable at Rose's aunts; their interviews were stolen, and, of course, more sweet. She was at times allowed to walk out for exercise, and to visit, but never unaccompanied by her maid, who had been her servant before her mother's death. She was a bar in my master's way; and, if he dared to converse with his beloved, she would have been kept entirely from his sight. To aid him in his interviews, I became acquainted with Mary, the servant, and was soon as deep in love as my master. Little did our young and joyous hearts dream of the bitter dregs that lay in the cup of pleasure we quaffed in the hours of romance, as we walked, or sat scarce in sight of each other, among the cliffs and sheltered valleys of Arthur Seat. Nothing but my love for your father could have blinded me to the folly he was guilty of, and the ruin that awaited his future prospects in life. As for myself, I could not be other than I was. Mary was of my own rank, born to toil, and with little to lose; while they had a fearful height to fall from, if they wedded without consent of friends. But when, alas! did ever youthful love calculate consequences aright, until the calculation is useless? "Thus intoxicated with love, the time ran on with unheeded speed; yet my master was unremitting in his studies. He had, with the consent of his father, fixed upon the law as his profession, as the political opinions of the latter gave his son small chance of rising in the army. Rose and he had often exchanged vows of mutual constancy, until more fortunate times for their love should arrive. Your father had pictured to himself speedy success at the bar; and the first use he was to make of his fame was to claim your mother from her aunts; and if they refused, as, from the vain efforts he had made to gain their good graces, he had every reason to expect, to wed her without their consent, or one farthing of fortune. His father's consent he knew he could not hope for before the marriage; but his forgiveness afterwards he had no doubt of obtaining. Thus had he lulled himself into a pleasant dream of security, from which he was soon awakened. It was in the beginning of the third session of college, that one of the two aunts was taken suddenly ill, and died in a few days, without making any will. Elizabeth, the younger sister, who had never been very kind to Rose, was now her sole protector; and she, sweet lady, was rendered very unhappy--a circumstance that gave great pain and uneasiness to your father, and was the cause of the imprudent step he took. Scarcely was the funeral over, when Mary her maid was discharged, as an unnecessary burden; and, with my master's consent, she and I were married. Aided by his bounty, I began housekeeping, still waiting upon him; and, meanwhile, our house was the scene of the meeting of the lovers. The penury and harshness of her aunt rendered the young lady's life miserable. Her secret was communicated to my wife, who again told my master. This precipitated the consummation of the long courtship. He prevailed upon his beloved to give her consent to a private marriage, that he might have the right to shelter her from suffering longer from her aunt's tyranny. They were privately married in my house, at the head of Mary King's Close. "Your father had not yet passed as an advocate, and had no means of subsistence, save what he got from his father. It was imperative that his marriage should be kept secret from every one. Your mother resided with her aunt only until your father had furnished a small house, near the foot of our close, for his beloved wife--an achievement he could not get accomplished so quickly as he wished, without raising curiosity as to the cause of his repeated demands for money. Nearly four months passed on after the marriage, and your mother still resided with her aunt, who, since her sister's death, had become gay, and had many visiters--principally bachelors--all paying her court, old as she was, for the sake of her wealth; and several of them often paying more attention to the young wife than she wished. Among the visitants was one, a great favourite with the aunt, a retired officer, of an abandoned turn, but connected with some of the oldest families in Scotland. He was well received in most companies, and welcomed for his wit and jovial manner. I recollect I was waiting your father's return from a tavern party, principally young lawyers, before I went to my own house for the night, when he came home much sooner than I had expected, greatly agitated, and in high anger. Alarmed at his unwonted manner, I, with all the humble freedom I could ever use with him, implored him to tell me what had occurred to disturb him so much. After he had become more calm, he told me that Captain Ogilvie had been of the party; that they had drunk pretty freely, and were giving toasts; that the captain pledged Rose, your mother, and spoke more lightly of her than he could endure to hear; and that a quarrel had ensued, and blows had been struck. He then desired me to see that his rapier was sharp and in order, as he was to meet the captain by five the next morning in the Duke's Walk. My anger against the vile traducer was as great as that of my master. I wished I could meet him in his place; for I had a strong feeling that evil would come out of it; but this was impossible. "Your father sat down to his writing-table, and began two letters--one for his young wife, the other to his father--and, while he was thus employed, I ran home, told Mary not to expect me home that night, and put on a suit of plain clothes. Before he was done, I had his sword and my own in excellent order; for I was as good at fencing as he was, in consequence of having practised with him all the manly exercises he had learned. As soon as he was ready, we began play at the swords; as the captain was an expert swordsman, while my master had had no practice for several years. Thus we passed the night until past four o'clock. When we sallied forth, we called at Blackford's Wynd upon his second, whom we found waiting upon him, and then proceeded by St Mary's Wynd Port and the South Back of the Canongate to the ground, which we reached a few minutes before the appointed time. The captain and his friend arrived almost as soon as we did. Since then, I have seen blood spilled as freely as water; but never did my heart quail as at this time. In fighting with the blood warm, there is a fierce pleasure; but to me nothing is, or can be, more distressing than to stand an idle spectator, and see your friend engaged, and hear the clash and rasp of the weapon aimed at his heart, as if it were your own, and your hands bound. Such were my feelings at this time. The seconds wished to reconcile them, but neither would hear of it. Each drew, and stood on his guard. A fearful pause of a few seconds ensued, while they eyed each other like hungry wolves. My eyes felt as if they would start from their sockets; my breath was suspended; all was still as death; a sudden clang rung on my ears; their swords gleamed in the rays of the rising sun; and so rapid were their movements, that my eye could not follow them. I saw that the captain, from his fence, was a complete master of his weapon, having practised abroad. My master had been foiled in his favourite assault--the one, indeed, on which I had placed my reliance. A moment's pause ensued; neither had drawn blood. Again they closed, and, after a few unsuccessful attacks, paused again for breath. I saw the blood upon my master's arm, from a slight cut. My hand grasped my sword; but, by a violent effort, I restrained myself. They had been engaged nearly half-an-hour; my master's hand was dyed in blood; but he was young and alert; while his antagonist was rather corpulent, and his constitution shaken by dissipation. His play became now more feeble and cautious, and my confidence began to revive. He was yet without a scratch; and, collecting all his energies, he made a desperate lunge, which your father only parried so far as to make it pass between his side and the sword-arm, piercing his vest; and the captain lay at his feet transfixed. My heart leaped for joy as I ran to your father's aid. I bound up his arm, while the two seconds attended to the captain. I found my master but slightly hurt. He despatched me for aid to his antagonist, with which I returned; and, as the captain's wound appeared to be mortal, we left them, and proceeded over the hill. We scarcely exchanged words. Passing up the valley, we stood upon the crest of the height that commanded a view of Craigmillar Castle, and the distant hills, with the level country between. Here we paused; and your father, clasping his hands in agony, gazed around for a few minutes in silence. My own heart was too full to speak, and I stood looking upon his mental suffering, which I knew no mode of soothing, and reverenced too much to interrupt. At length he said, as if unconscious of my presence, 'Farewell, sweet scenes of my happiness! my cruel destiny drives me from you, and her who is dearer to me than life. But that thought is distraction. Rose! my beloved Rose! in what a state am I forced to leave you! Alas! I dare not even bid you farewell. My hands are red with blood, and the avengers will soon be on my track; but in defence of your honour it was shed, and Heaven will justify the act. Who now--who will protect you when I am an outlaw?' "He dashed his hands upon his forehead, and groaned. I could endure in silence no longer, and at length soothed him into something like composure. It was agreed that he should go to his father, inform him of his duel, and act by his counsel; while I should return to my own house, watch the progress of the captain's wound, and, happen what would, meet him at Roslin Chapel at ten o'clock in the evening, to consult what was farther to be done. We parted at St Leonard's Hill. "In the forenoon nothing was talked of in the city but Captain Ogilvie's duel; and it had become a party question. The Whigs had one version of the cause of quarrel, the Tories another, I gave no ear to either; but was rejoiced to learn that the captain was not dead, although his life was despaired of. "It was now past six o'clock--the quarter had chimed upon the clock of St Giles. I had my hand on the latch to go once more to the captain's, to know how he continued since my last inquiry, when the rasp was gently moved. I opened the door, and your mother staggered into my arms, pale as death, and swooned away. With difficulty Mary and I restored her to consciousness. I told her of your father's safety; and she replied that she was now, save for her husband, a destitute outcast; that her aunt, who only waited a pretext, had turned her out upon the world; and that the cause of her expulsion was her conduct in being the mean of her aunt's favourite, Captain Ogilvie's death. I told her that the captain was not yet dead, and would, I hoped, survive; and, leaving her in charge of Mary, I hurried to ascertain what ground there was for any hope. I found that the captain was still alive, but that his death was hourly expected. "With a sorrowful heart I hurried out by Bristo Port, after getting the word for the night from the keeper, that I might be admitted, on my return, into the city. I was at the chapel some time before ten o'clock, and found my master waiting for me. When I told him that the captain was still in life, he took my hand--'Square,' he said, 'this has been a sad and dreary day to me. It is a fearful thing to have blood upon our hands, even in a just cause. I pray with my whole soul he may recover, both for his own sake and mine.' "I then told him what had befallen your mother. "'I am happy it is so,' he said, 'I shall leave her under the keeping of Mary and you with more confidence than I could in her aunt's. My mind is relieved of a burden; my greatest difficulty was how to dispose of my beloved until my return; for, by the command of my father, I set off for France to-morrow--to St Germains, where I will remain until this untoward affair blows over. If all go as we anticipate, you will, perhaps, see me here sooner than you expect--ay, with a gallant band of patriots, to redress Scotland's wrongs, and restore our rightful prince. My father is not displeased at my conduct--would that he knew the right I had to take my Rose's part! But the time will come. As I know not how soon the officers of justice may be in quest of me, I must depart to-morrow morning for England, on my way to France. I must therefore see Rose, to bid her good-by for a short season. I shall be waiting for her near St Anthony's Chapel, to weep our parting, where we have so often smiled at our meetings. O William, William! these thoughts unman me.' "'My dear master,' said I, 'am I to accompany you?' "'No, William,' replied he--'no; I leave my beloved wife to your care until my return, when I will requite you as she shall report of you.' "It was early in the morning before I reached Edinburgh. I found your mother and Mary still out of bed, awaiting my return. The night was spent in tears by the females, and a melancholy presentiment was on my own heart. Before we set out to meet the fugitive, I caused them to disguise themselves--your mother having my wife's maud, and she a dress she had never before worn. They proceeded down the street by themselves, while I went to inquire how the captain had spent the night. I found he was still in life, but no hopes were entertained of his recovery. "The shades of evening were beginning to fall before this last and sorrowful parting terminated. They never met again. Your mother, who was in the family way, although we knew not the fact for weeks afterwards, began to droop and pine--a sadness of heart seemed to consume her; in vain we strove to cheer her gloom; and her aunt made no inquiries after her. Once a-week I visited the banks of the Esk to inquire after my master; and occasionally got accounts of his welfare; but they were few and far between--only, indeed, when the letters could be forwarded by some one coming to Scotland. No letter had as yet come to me for his wife. How often have I left her, with a faint smile of hope dispelling the habitual sadness of her lovely countenance, and returned with an aching heart to witness her increased melancholy. Your father had left her all the gold he could, even more than he could spare; yet we would have given it all for a single letter from his hand; but none came. Meanwhile Captain Ogilvie, who continued long in a precarious state, ultimately recovered. "At length you were born; but your unfortunate mother did not survive many days; and scarcely was the sod green on her grave, when my master came back to Scotland. His grief, his agony, I shall not attempt to describe. In a few weeks after he returned to France, for his native country was hateful to him; and I would have accompanied him, but that Mary was in delicate health, and I could not leave her. As his father was displeased at him for relinquishing his study of the law, he gave him only a small sum to maintain him in France. You passed, meanwhile, as my own child, and went under my name. "At length the long-expected deliverer came. I concealed the certificate of your father's marriage, and some other papers, in the wainscot of our room, and would have joined my master in the north; but, as the party were in rapid advance to Edinburgh, I thought I could be of more service to the cause in Edinburgh. It was I who contrived the way, and caused the easy entry of the Prince into the city, by the Netherbow Port. The gentleman you saw once or twice in conversation with Mary, whom you took for your mother, was your father; but it was not thought prudent to undeceive you. We had the greatest confidence in the success of our righteous cause. Alas! we were prosperous for a time, only to feel more bitterly our reverse. We advanced into England, elate with the victory of Tranent, where we scattered the red-coats like frightened deer. I had no opportunity of visiting Edinburgh again, until it would have been death to me to dare the act. Your father was wounded at the Battle of Falkirk, and required my utmost care. After the Prince retired from the siege of Stirling, and Cumberland's arrival in the north, our affairs began to wear a different aspect. Carlisle had been recaptured, and our success seemed farther from us than at the commencement. My master's wound was, by good management, so much better that he could travel by easy stages. The volunteers and adherents of the Hanoverians were beginning to show more bravery, by apprehending all whom they knew belonged to the Prince; so that, without taking leave, we left our landlord in the night; and, crossing at Kincardine, got into Fife, and travelled down the shores of the Forth until we reached Dysart, where your father was confined to bed, by fever, for some days. Here we received the heart-breaking intelligence of Culloden Field, and the massacre of the friends of royalty. Scotland was no longer a country for us. My master had acted too open and conspicuous a part to hope for pardon. I would, perhaps, on Mary's account and yours, have ventured my life in a return to Edinburgh; but I could not leave your father in his present situation. As yet no one suspected we had belonged to the Highland army; for I had so adroitly concealed my master's wound, that he was thought to be only sick of a fever. Fortunately, there was a vessel about to sail for Rotterdam. We embarked for Holland without interruption, and arrived safe. During your father's convalescence we were reduced to great straits; for our supply of cash was, when we left Scotland, much reduced, and here it entirely failed. My master had written to his brother for assistance; but he had found it for his advantage to change sides; and, so far from sending a remittance, he never answered one of his letters. Had it not been for the disinterested aid of a Scottish merchant, who was established in the place of our retreat, and who had been a college friend of your father, we must have been reduced to absolute want. Through his influence, he obtained for him a commission in the Scottish Brigade, then in the service of the States; and thus relieved him from the humiliation of dependence; but this was not accomplished until nearly the end of the second year after I had left my peaceful home. During all this time we were in the greatest anxiety--he about his son, I about my dear wife. Yet we had no means of ascertaining your fates; and the consciousness of the poverty you must be plunged in embittered all our thoughts. As soon as my master joined the division of the brigade, which was quartered in Bergen-op-Zoom, he borrowed a sum of money for my use. At all hazards I had resolved to return to Edinburgh, use all the precaution I could to avoid being recognised, and bring over with me to Holland you and my dear Mary. "All being prepared, I bade adieu to your father, and embarked, in the dress of a Dutch skipper, on board of a vessel bound for Dysart, principally loaded with old iron, for the nailers of Pathhead. She was a Fife vessel; and the captain knew me only as William Speare, a Dutchman. Upon our arrival, I crossed, with the first Kinghorn boat, for Leith, and hurried up to Edinburgh. Our passage across the Frith had been very tedious; and the shades of evening were just coming on when I reached the Abbey Hill. With a heart equally divided between hope and fear, I walked up the Canongate, through the Netherbow Port, and up the High Street. I saw many that I had known in happier days, and my heart yearned to address them; but, alas! I was a proscribed outlaw, shut out from the society I loved. When I reached Mary King's Close, my heart beat so ardently, that I was forced to pause for breath as I climbed the stair to my old door. I took the rasp in my hand, and gave my wonted tirl. A female opened the door, about the same height as her I loved. It was very dusky. That it was my wife I had no doubt. I threw my arms around her, crying, 'Dear Mary!' The female pushed me from her, and screamed out for help. I thought I would have sunk to the ground, and leaned against the door for support. An elderly female came in haste with a light. I attempted to speak, but could only sob, and felt sick almost to death. The women looked upon me in amazement, for the tears were silently stealing down my face. After whispering a few words, I was kindly invited into the house which I had expected to have been my own. It was tidily furnished; but everything in it was strange to me, and wore a look of desolation and loneliness. Neither my wife nor you were there. Not to betray myself, I told them that I had not been in Edinburgh for a long time; but that, when I left it last, a very dear friend had resided there, whom I had hoped to find where I left her, and that my mistake must plead my excuse for any apparent rudeness. Their answers to my inquiries crushed all my hopes. Mary was in her silent grave, and you had disappeared. Nothing now remained to me in Scotland that I cared for; and, after in vain offering a reward to any one who could give any information concerning you, and shedding a few tears over the grave of my wife, I returned to Holland with my sorrowful intelligence. Your father, quite sunk with your uncertain fate, fell into a lowness of spirits that preyed upon his health, and continually reflected upon himself as the cause of your mother's early death, and your destitution. "As the monotony and dulness of garrison duty in a strongly-fortified town served to increase his melancholy, which threatened to merge into consumption, he, by the advice of his physician--that change of scene, and a warm climate, might remove all the bad symptoms he exhibited--exchanged into a regiment stationed in the Island of Ceylon, into which I also enlisted, that I might accompany him. There was, alas! no other individual on earth for whom I cared. Far from recovering on the voyage, its tedious dulness sunk him more and more into his habitual lowness of spirits; and, on our arrival on the island, he grew worse, and did not survive many months. I buried him at Trincomalee. Alas! how true is the saying, that 'all men know where they were born, but none where they shall lay their bones.'" So intense had been the interest I felt in his narrative, that I scarcely moved, lest I should lose a word, or interrupt him. He paused at this event, and wiped a tear from his eyes. William and Mary I had until this hour looked upon as my real parents. For those I now heard of, I had new feelings to acquire. I noticed that he did not tell me the surname of my parents, and I pressed not the question. All that I asked of him was to continue his history, and inform me what had induced him once more to return to Scotland. "Can a Scotsman ask that question of a Scotsman?" said he. "In whatever part of the globe he may be, the hope to lay his bones with his fathers is the Polar Star that cheers his wanderings, be they prosperous or adverse. Remove this hope, and his energies from that moment sink, for he has lost all of life worth caring for. I have both known and felt it. But to proceed:-- "After your father's death, I felt the most solitary of men for many months. Still I continued to do my duty as a private soldier, without taking any interest in surrounding events. About two years after my arrival, a revolt broke out in the colony: the Singaleese were aided by the Candians from the mountains; and the handful of Europeans could scarce make head against the multitudes of the natives, who had courage and ferocity more than sufficient to have exterminated us every man; but, fortunately for us, they had no discipline or other mode of warfare, but to rush on their enemy and overpower them. This they found to be a vain attempt; yet they never changed their mode until compelled to sue for peace, by the immense slaughter made of them in this war of carnage and massacre. I had been several times the decided cause of victory to the Dutch, in preventing small detachments from being cut off, and directing the movements of the main body; for which services I was promoted to a lieutenantcy. I never rose higher, nor do I believe I would have attained this rank, had it not been to enable me to take command of small parties, for which I was qualified from my being ever on the outskirts of the army, or in the borders of the jungle. Great numbers of my men died through fatigue and fever. I, myself for several years, remained robust; but my turn came at length. I fevered and relapsed; several times my life was despaired of for whole weeks; and many wounds I had received from the Candian spears and arrows broke out afresh, and baffled the power of medicine. My constitution triumphed over my malady; but I was unfit for service. I have one wound here on my side that is hurrying me to my grave; which, I hope, will be in Pennycuick churchyard. But, now that I have the happiness to find my long-lost charge, there is one more duty for me to perform when we reach Edinburgh, whither you must return with me, to consign me to the dust. That duty I never did expect to be called to perform--it is to re-possess myself of the certificates of your father's marriage and your baptism, which are, as I told you, concealed behind the wainscot in the house in Mary King's Close. I trust, for your sake, they are still safe, and may be the means of placing you in your proper rank in society." "Dear father," I replied--"for I must still call you so--if it is to be of any service to me alone, it is of no avail to proceed further on that errand, for fortune baffles all my undertakings, and I tell you you will not succeed; still I have no objection to return with you to Scotland, although my present object in London was to go to sea in a vessel bound for the Indian seas--the only place of all I ever visited where fortune smiled upon me, and I scorned her favours." After dinner I gave the lieutenant an outline of my adventures since he had left Edinburgh, at which he was much moved. When I told him of the obligation I lay under to the worthy lawyer-- "Ah, Johnnie!" said he, "we have already half-gained the victory. Mr Davidson was at college and intimate with your father, and ho knows me well as your father's servant. Scotland does not contain a better man for our purpose. I shall fee him liberally, and fortune may yet smile upon us." It was now late in the evening, and the lieutenant left me for the night. Scarce was he gone, when a new passion took entire possession of me--that of pride and ambition. I felt myself quite changed, and strange visions of imaginary importance floated before me. My present finances were now deemed low enough--eleven guineas--which at one period I would have considered an immense sum. So sanguine had a few hours made me, that I looked upon it only as so many pence. From this period I date a complete revolution in my train of thoughts. Formerly I had cared but for the passing hour, nor heeded for to-morrow. My early education had, until now, clung to me in all my vicissitudes, being ever the outcast orphan boy, who, his belly full, his back warm, had nothing further to obtain. My contentment was now gone. But to proceed:-- For a few days I was forced to keep at home, until the marks of my Tower Hill affray had disappeared; during which, urged by my new passion (pride), I got myself equipped in the extreme of fashion. I now smile at my folly, when I look back to these few weeks in which I was swayed by it. But no young lady, getting her first ball-dress, was ever more fidgety or hard to please than John Square. The lieutenant was pleased to see me ape the gentleman; for he really looked upon me as such, and paid me every deference, as the son of his master. The money he had saved while in Ceylon he counted as mutual; nor would he allow me to expend one farthing of my own. We both were now anxious to proceed to Edinburgh, and embarked in the first trader bound for Leith. This voyage was the most pleasant I had ever made; I was in fairyland, and the lieutenant not far behind me. When we were landed, with the earliest convenience we proceeded to Edinburgh, with far different feelings from any I had before experienced. Having arrived in the evening, it was next morning, after an early breakfast, that we proceeded from our inn in the Canongate towards the Cross, to reconnoitre the old domicile of William Square, the house in which I had first drawn breath. You may judge our horror, surprise, and grief--I cannot describe it--that loved edifice had disappeared from the earth; it no longer existed. Where it had once stood, new walls were shooting up towards the firmament. It and many others had been swept away, to make room for the site of the present Royal Exchange. A feeling of desolation, bordering on despair, took possession of my heart. The lieutenant, uttering a groan, wrung his hands, and looked upon me with a gaze that pierced me to the soul. I felt his frame leaning upon me with the weight of death. He would have sunk to the ground, had I not supported him. With, difficulty I conveyed him into Corbet's tavern, under the Piazzas, where, after a time, he recovered, only to give vent to a burst of anguish. "Ill-fated parent and ill-fated child!" he cried, "it was not that my heart yearned not to tell you the family from whence you sprang, but a presentiment hung heavy upon my mind that there was evil still in store for you. Alas, my poor John! are you really doomed to dree the weird assigned your forebears. Your father's father was Mr William ---- of ----. Can it be possible that these canting Whigamores have the spirit of prophecy? This almost forces me to think they had-- 'For saints' blood and saints harried, The third generation will ne'er inherit.' "It is too true, too true!" These last sentences he repeated to himself several times as if unconsciously, and again sunk back upon his chair in a state of stupor; nor could I rouse him by all the gentle methods I could use. At length I called a sedan-chair, and had him conveyed to the inn, and put to bed. He seemed quite unconscious and passive, until, disturbed by our moving him into bed, when, as if mechanically, he again said-- "'For saints' blood and saints harried, The third generation will ne'er inherit.' My poor boy! my poor boy!" At this time a physician arrived, and, having administered the remedies he thought most efficacious in my foster-parent's case, was about to retire, when I inquired if he thought there was any immediate danger. He candidly said he thought there was; for the patient's constitution was much reduced, and he had received some violent shock, which might dash out the remaining drops from the nearly exhausted glass. He advised that he should not be left alone for any time; and, above all, that he must be kept quiet, until he called again in the afternoon. As soon as I had recovered myself a little from the agitation this untoward event had produced, I wrote a note to Mr Davidson, requesting he would be so kind as call upon me as soon as convenient, stating that I had urgent business to consult him upon, and pleading, as my excuse for putting him to the trouble, the sudden illness of a friend. When the cadie was sent off with my card, I began to ruminate upon my prospects, which again had been so suddenly overcast. He on whom my sole dependence was placed lay in the room where I sat, in a state of prostration bordering almost upon unconsciousness. The visions of pride and consequence in which I had indulged, from the time I first heard of my gentle forefathers, began to fade from before me; a short time of sad and melancholy reasoning on probabilities had swept them away as completely as the innovating hands of the good citizens had removed the old tenement in which the testimonials of their reality had been concealed. In the midst of these reflections, the lawyer arrived. His astonishment at seeing me was equalled by my joy at meeting with one in whose judgment and shrewdness I had the utmost confidence. The sight of him renewed my hopes; and the fond clinging to self-importance, so natural, yet so foolish, when it is derived from no merit or endeavour of the individual, again returned upon me. After mutual congratulations, we at once proceeded to business. After stating my arrival in London, and strange meeting with the lieutenant, I narrated the melancholy fate of my parents. He heard me to the end with all the imperturbability of a man of business; yet his countenance betrayed the interest he took in my recital. When I concluded, he rose to his feet; and, placing his hands behind his back, moved quickly two or three times across the room, then stopped at the side of the bed where the lieutenant lay; and, after gazing for a short time upon his altered countenance, turned to me, and gave his head an ominous shake. "Mr Square," said he, "this is a strange business. I myself have not a doubt of the truth of all the circumstances, some of which I have a distinct recollection of--more especially the quarrel and duel; but how to obtain the necessary evidence I at present cannot divine. The loss of the papers is a very material point; and the sudden illness of your foster-parent is very unfortunate. But there is also another difficulty, even were we so fortunate, as I hope we will be, as to restore him to health and consciousness: his testimony could not be taken in any court of justice; he is an outlaw, tainted by actual rebellion, and liable to be apprehended and executed as a traitor. His mildest punishment, if not pardoned after sentence, would be banishment; and, what is not the least worthy of serious consideration, the object to be attained, unless your friend is very rich, may not be worth the expense and trouble. That foolish rhyme has been fulfilled, in the meantime, so far. Your great-grandfather was a zealous partisan of the Lauderdale administration in Scotland; and, I believe, rather rigorous with the adherents of the Covenant. At the Revolution, he fell into disgrace with the powers that assumed the reins of government, and so turned his hopes upon the restoration of the exiled family, and impoverished himself in aiding the intrigues to restore them. Your grandfather had been bred in, and adhered to, the same politics, now a losing game. He still farther reduced the rent-roll by sales and bonds; and, at his death, your two uncles, who remained at home, changed their party. The older died young, without having married; and the younger succeeded to what remained of the estate of his ancestors--a mere wreck, soon spent in dissipation. Not one furr of land that once owned your ancestors as lord now owns their sway. With the sum produced by the last sale, your uncle bade adieu to Scotland; and you are the last of the race. I would advise no farther proceedings than to endeavour, if possible, to recover the documents relating to your birth and legitimacy, if they have not been destroyed in pulling down the old walls." Why should I dwell on my disappointment. Mr Davidson used every effort, by inquiries and offers of reward; but the papers never were recovered, although we got from one of the workmen the brass Dutch box in which they had been placed. He had purchased it from one of the labourers who picked it up in the ruins, and had destroyed the papers as of no importance. I had now the knowledge of the family from whom I was descended, but no proof to establish my claim, even though my right to property to any amount would have been the consequence. As for my foster-parent, he gradually recovered from the stupor that had overwhelmed him, but never regained his wonted energies. He was possessed of a few hundred pounds, besides his half-pay from the Dutch Government, which was regularly paid. He never could endure me for any length of time out of his sight; and I remained with him until his death, a few years afterwards. I know that I was wasting my time; yet I could not desert the old man, whose whole happiness was concentrated in me; and, shall I confess, I felt a strange happiness in his society--for he alone of all mankind treated the beggar-boy of former years as an individual of rank; and our conversation was generally about the traditions of my ancestors. When the weather would permit, it was our wont to leave our house at Clock Mill, to wander over the scenes he loved--the spots in and around the bosom of Arthur Seat, where he had first won the affections of his departed Mary--and point out the favourite haunts which my father and mother used to sit in or walk. On these we would gaze, until our imagination seemed vested with the power of calling the personages before us. Thus passed on the time until the lieutenant's death, which happened suddenly. I was thus once more alone in the world, without a tie to bind me to it, save the natural love of life inherent in man. In Edinburgh I had formed no acquaintance; a continual soreness haunted me as to the dignity of birth, yet I never assumed even the name of my parent. I only heard it pronounced by my foster-father, who urged me to adopt my family honours. The conversation of the lieutenant had given my mind a military bias. I was weary of Edinburgh, which recalled to my mind too many sad reflections; and I mentioned to Mr Davidson the resolution I had formed. After winding up the affairs of the lieutenant, I found that I was possessed of one hundred and seventy pounds. Mr Davidson, who still insisted that the money I had left as a gift in his hands was at my disposal, generously offered to advance the amount required to purchase me an ensigncy; but this I would on no account allow. My pride revolted at a pecuniary obligation, as a derogation from my family dignity, which still hung heavy upon me. By his advice, and through his assistance, I sunk in the hands of the magistrates one hundred and fifty pounds, as the most profitable way I could invest it--the interest to accumulate until my return in person to claim it. It was about the year 1775, when the troubles in America had commenced. Accounts had just arrived that blood had been shed at Lexington and Concord; and the bootless victory at Boston was announced, but not confirmed. It was the month of August, and the utmost excitement reigned among the people in the city: every means, both legal and scarcely legal, being employed to raise troops. The comprehending act was passed, by which the justices of the peace were empowered to impress and send to the army all idle or immoral characters: an engine of great tyranny and oppression in their hands; for every person who was in the least obnoxious to them was hurried to the army, whatever his character might be. Without informing my friend Mr Davidson, I bade him farewell, and proceeded to Glasgow, where I entered as a private into the Fraser Highlanders, resolved to carve out my own fortune with my sword. This I did through my foolish pride, so little had I learned by my former experience. During my short stay with the party, before I joined the regiment, my mind became disgusted by the modes I saw practised to augment the army, by trepanning and actual violence. The landed gentlemen and magistrates appeared to have lost, in their zeal, every sense of justice. The most disgusting modes were resorted to: such as putting a shilling into a drinking jug, and causing the king's health to be pledged; while the soldier, in plain clothes, sitting in company as a tradesman, or a person from the country, was ready to seize the person whom he had pitched upon, the moment he drank the royal toast. If he resisted, nothing could save him from prison; enlist, and attest he must. So prevalent, indeed, was this mode, that the publicans were under the necessity of getting pewter jugs with glass bottoms to drink from, or their houses would have been deserted. This gave security to the customer that there was not a shilling in the bottom; and allowed him to watch through the glass the motions of the persons with whom he drank. The only redress the kidnapped individual got was, that he might choose the regiment he would join; and he in general fixed upon some other one than the one to which his betrayer belonged. One instance disgusted me beyond endurance. It happened to a good-looking young lad, belonging to Hamilton. An intimate acquaintance of his had been enlisted, whether voluntarily or not I do not recollect, but he was still without any marks of his new profession. Several of the old soldiers were also with him, prowling about for recruits, when he recognised his former friend in the Briggate, accompanied by his intended bride and their mothers, who had come to Glasgow with the young people to purchase their plenishing. Rejoiced to meet an old acquaintance in the city, the party, being fatigued with their walk and the heat of the weather, retired to a neighbouring public-house to rest and refresh themselves. The companions of the betrayer, to avoid suspicion, had passed on, as if they were not of his party, but entered the house a short time after. As those from the country had business to transact, they refused to tarry, and the new-made soldier insisted to pay for the entertainment, which, after a good-natured dispute, he was allowed to do. By design, or otherwise, he sat at the far end of the table, and when the landlady was called, he said, handing forward a shilling-- "Here, George, is a shilling; be so good as hand it to the landlady." "The reckoning is one and sixpence," said she. "Oh, I have plenty of the king's coin. Here is another for you, George." To the alarm and grief of the bridal party, when they were at the door to proceed on the business they had come to town upon, the soldiers in waiting seized the young man, and declared him one of the king's men. The betrayer shrunk back, not yet hardened to the trade; but his associates compelled the victim to go with them to the jail. Fortunately for them and the young man, they had respectable friends in the city, who waited upon some of the magistrates. An investigation took place. The soldiers scrupled not to maintain that he was enlisted, and were willing to swear that he had taken the second shilling in the king's name--the usual words of voluntary enlistment. They even produced the landlady, who, either leaning towards the soldiers (her good customers), or not paying much attention at the time, declared that she heard, when the second shilling was given, distinctly the words "king and coin." So powerful was the feeling at this time, that he was declared duly enlisted, and only escaped by paying to the party a round sum of smart-money. After passing the winter at drill, I was embarked with a numerous body, to reinforce the army besieged in Quebec, where we arrived in the month of May. I was now on the field where I was to reap the fruits of my ambition; but I found it unpromising, and strewed with thorns. Still I had an object to attain, however distant it might be, and my oppression left me. I was most assiduous in my duties, and was soon made a corporal. My heart leaped for joy. This was the first step to my ambition; my hopes began to brighten, and I submitted to our privations without a murmur. At the storming of St John's, I was made a serjeant; and here I stuck. In vain was all my daring and good conduct. At the descent upon Long Island, I was as conspicuous as I dared to be by the rules of strict discipline, and, in consequence, often had the charge of small picquets upon dangerous service, and was twice slightly wounded. Once I led the company, and took several prisoners, after both the captain and ensign were carried to the rear dangerously wounded. The ensign died in a few days of his wound; and it was generally believed by the men of the regiment that I would have been promoted to his rank. At length, in the month of August, 1781, I was made paymaster-serjeant; which rank I did not long retain; for the army was not long after completely surrounded by the Americans, besieged in Yorktown and at Gloucester, and, after suffering the extreme of hardships for twelve days, from sickness, famine, and the fire of the enemy, Lord Cornwallis, hopeless of being relieved, surrendered himself and army prisoners of war. This put an extinguisher upon all my hopes. I was now a prisoner, sick, and looked upon for death, and must have perished, had it not been for one of the captains of the American army, to whom the sick prisoners were delivered over. He proved to have been one of the palantines--an Aberdeen lad--who had been my companion in early misfortune, now an extensive proprietor in New England. To him I was indebted for much kindness during my imprisonment until the peace. When I returned to Britain, I was discharged with a pension of one shilling per day, being what is called the king's letter, which, with the accumulation of my annuity, enables me to finish my chequered career in competence, and wander as I list amidst these scenes of wo and pleasure, lovely by nature, and endeared by former recollections. THE BEWILDERED STUDENT.[14] [Footnote 14: The author of this tale, John Bethune, was one of the two brothers, self-educated labourers, referred to in the Editor's note appended to "The Young Laird."--ED.] Fifty years ago, the roads in many parts of Scotland were so bad that they could only be travelled on with safety in broad daylight. The dangers which the tourist had to encounter did not arise from the lawless dispositions of the people; for Scotland was then a highly moral and highly hospitable country. But, ere the genius of road-making had visited it, the benighted wanderer had more reason to apprehend destruction from the delusive light of the "moss-traversing spunkie," than from the sudden flash of the robber's pistol. Vast undrained marshes were common in every part of the country. From these marshes many a goodly peat-stack had been delved, and the holes were soon filled up with stagnant water--covered with zoophytes and other aquatic plants, and surrounded by tall rushes, which concealed from the eye those dangerous pits, where a whole regiment of soldiers might have found an inglorious grave. The roads, in many places, passed so close to these unwholesome bogs, that a false step in the dark was often equal to stepping out of this world. Nor was this the only risk that a traveller had to calculate upon, when settling the propriety of making his will before he undertook a journey; for the highways--properly so called, at that period--frequently ascended in the most abrupt manner from the swampy valley to the rocky hill-side, where they winded along the edges of precipices, which afforded admirable facilities for despairing lovers to take the _loup_ without being suspected of suicide. Besides the actual danger which attended travelling in those days, there were many inconveniences, which, though less appalling, were even more perplexing to a forward spirit, than the risk of tumbling from a rock-head, or plunging into a peat-bog. The roads in many places branched out in different directions upon lonely muirs, where no information could be obtained concerning the places to which they led; and the consequence was, that many a weary wight, after cogitating half-an-hour upon the propriety of turning to the right hand or the left, dashed into one of the doubtful paths, and proceeded for another hour at his utmost speed, to no better purpose than simply to receive information that he had walked four miles out of his way. Inns, too, were almost unknown, except in the towns and upon the most frequented roads; and even there the accommodation was so meagre, that equestrians had often the greatest difficulty in finding lodgings for themselves and horses. Steam-waggons and stage-coaches, as yet, lay packed up in the heads of their inventors; and the traveller, though otherwise in comfortable circumstances, had no other means of conveyance but his own two legs, and an oaken or hazel staff, with which he urged them onward when ascending, and prevented them running away with him when descending the hill-side. Thus equipped, he could find lodgings in the first cottage which he came to; and, if his mind was not too refined for the conversation of simple, social, warm-hearted men, nor his taste too delicate for the "halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food," he could generally pass the night with tolerable comfort, and very little expense. In this way, many of the most eminent men of the time became acquainted with the humble homes and virtuous habits of the peasantry of their native land; and the information which they thus acquired formed a link of connection between the different classes of society, which the prejudices of fashion could never afterwards wholly destroy. But we have a simple story to narrate, which will sufficiently illustrate the kindly hospitality which characterised the poorest of our rural population, and the generous feeling with which the greatest could remember and requite the little services which inclination _induced_, or necessity _forced_, them to accept. Upon the banks of one of the most beautiful little lakes which is to be found in the Lowlands of Scotland, and not far from the ancient and now half-forgotten village of Lindores, stand four humble cottages, which are still the abodes of men; though, to the eyes of a modern traveller, their low walls and moss-covered roofs would present the idea of sheep-cots or cattle-sheds, rather than that of human habitations. The fields around them are now in the highest state of cultivation; and the gentle hills with which they are on all sides surrounded, where inaccessible to the plough, are, for the most part, covered with thriving plantations, which give a sheltered and picturesque appearance to the little world in which they are situated. These simple shielings seem to have outlasted many of their humble contemporaries, the sites of which are now only indicated by two or three decaying trees, which, in the greenness of youth, must have beautified the little gardens of sober old men, who are long ago in their graves, and shaded the sports of children, who are now, perhaps, tottering with bleached locks through the crowded streets of some smoky town, forgetful alike of the quiet fields upon which they danced away the innocent morning of existence, and the spreading trees beneath whose branches they had imitated the voice of the cuckoo, and listened to the song of birds, with spirits as light and musical as their own. About fifty years ago, one of these cottages was occupied by James W---- and his wife, a most respectable and industrious pair, whose humble virtues are still remembered with esteem by the elderly part of the community in the neighbourhood where they lived. James was a weaver, and, like most of his craft at that time, he manufactured his own yarn, and sold his own cloth. But, besides this little business, which he carried on for himself, he was often employed by the country people in what was called customer work. He also farmed a small piece of ground, which afforded him a healthful occupation in the spring months, and supported a cow, whose produce, to use his own language, "keepit a fu' house a' the year round." James was rather an intelligent man for his station. Besides being deeply versed in all that Biblical knowledge which was then so happily cultivated by the labouring class in Scotland, he had read Josephus and some other old historians, whose writings he quoted with so much promptness and propriety, that many of his simple listeners believed him to be almost inspired, and some of them went even so far as to say that his speech wanted only a little polishing to make him a match for the minister. But, though James really possessed a greater amount of knowledge than most of those with whom he mingled, he never exhibited that arrogant, overbearing manner, which is too often allied to superior abilities. His good-nature was equal to his other acquirements, and he was a special favourite with all who knew him. He could explain an abstruse doctrine to the satisfaction of the old gudemen, and enlarge with great animation on the merits of good housewifery, not forgetting, in the course of discussion, to pay a delicate compliment to the thrifty dames who intrusted him with the manufacturing of their linen. Nor was he less admired by the younger part of the community; for, while the old and sober asserted that James was a _canny_ man, and a learned man, the young and frolicsome assured one another that he was a droll man, and a funny man. On the harvest field he was the very "soul of all;" for he never wanted a queer story or a witty jest, to cheer the spirits of his fellow-labourers, when they began to flag under the heat and toil of the day. His wit, however, was of that quiet, inoffensive kind, which delights those who listen, without wounding the feelings of those upon whom it is exercised. He possessed a happy turn, too, for settling the disputes which frequently arose among the young and fiery spirits composing the little army of reapers with whom he was engaged. When a competition, or _campe_, as it was called, occurred, James's mediation was often necessary to reconcile the contending parties to the results of the contest; and his talent was seldom exerted in vain. While the pride of the vanquished brought forth charges of unfair play to cover the shame of defeat, and while these charges were repelled by the boasting of the victors, James stepped forward with some humorous remark, or displayed some piece of ludicrous mimicry, which overpowered the spirit of contention, and united both parties in a harmonious roar of laughter. He was not only umpire in their quarrels, and master of the ceremonies at their feasts, but chaplain in ordinary at their common breakfasts and dinners among the stooks. Upon these occasions, it was pleasing to remark the solemnity which prevailed in the usually noisy assembly, when James took off his old dimpled hat, and, with a devotional gravity, which contrasted finely with the cheerful expression of his ordinary countenance, solicited the blessing of God upon the simple repast of which they were about to partake. If at any time the sly winks of some mischievous wag succeeded in raising a titter among the younger part of the company, it was suppressed in a moment; for, though James was extremely good-natured, he was always severe in rebuking the conduct of those who showed the least disrespect to religion. Having thus given a general account of James's character, we must now proceed to narrate a simple anecdote in his life, which we consider worthy of being known, not only on account of the generosity of feeling which it exhibits, but also on account of the opportunity which it affords for displaying the genuine simplicity of manners prevailing among the class to which he belonged at the period when it occurred. One fine afternoon, in the beginning of the winter of 1776, as James was busily employed at his occupation in the shop, Nanny, his wife, entered with a handful of pirns, and a countenance which betokened something of importance. She was evidently in a hurry, and needed her husband's assistance; but hesitated about the propriety of asking it. "When Jamie's aff the loom," said she to herself, "neither beam-traddles nor bore-staff'll budge a single bit; and, if he fa's in wi' onybody by the gate, wha kens when he may come back again?--for the greatest faut that oor Jamie has, is just that he likes a crack owre weel." Notwithstanding of these prudential considerations, Nanny did broach the subject in a most becoming and delicate manner, by asking her husband's advice in her present perplexity. "What are we to do noo, Jamie?" said she, in a rather depressed tone. "There's no a pickle meal i' the barrel; and I hae the cow's supper to get in, and the butter to mak, and the bed to mak, and the milk to 'earn, forby mony a ither thing that _maun_ be done--sae, ye see, I hae nae time to gang for meal the nicht." "Hout, lassie!" said James, with a smile; "I'll tell ye what we'll do. I'll just get a pock, and set up by to Sandy Laing's for a peck or twa to keep oor teeth gaun till oor ain melder come frae the mill." "Weel, aweel, Jamie," said the guidwife, glad to find such a ready remedy for all her difficulties. "If ye'll bring the meal, I'll mak the parritch, lad; but it wad hae been a braw thing if we had haen a bit cratur o' oor ain to gang an errant like this, and we micht hae been makin something at oor wark i' the time." "It's very true, lassie," said James; "but, if we hae nae bairn to carry meal, we hae nane to eat it--let's aye be content, woman." James was soon provided with a clean linen bag, which he deposited in his pocket; and, crossing his arms upon his back, he set off to the neighbouring village of Lindores for the necessary supply of meal. As he was proceeding along the ridge of a natural embankment, which forms the north-eastern boundary of the loch, he saw a well-dressed young man advancing towards him. The stranger seemed to be in a hurry--at least one might have supposed so from the rapidity of his motion; but he occasionally stopped and looked down upon the frozen lake, which expanded to the sky like a mighty mirror for the passing clouds to behold their own shadows in. After gazing for a few minutes, as if he had forgotten the length of his journey in contemplating the beauty of the prospect which extended beneath him, he would start off at a quicker pace, as if anxious to redeem the time which he had lost in gratifying an idle curiosity. When he drew near, James could easily discover, from his superior dress, slender make, and pale, meditative countenance, that he did not belong to that class "who drudge through wet and dry with never-ceasing toil;" and, notwithstanding of his itch for conversation, he would have passed the stranger without making any remark upon the state of the weather, the beauty of the scenery, or the antiquities of the parish. But the young man, who seemed to be as inquisitive as James was communicative, addressed him in a tone of frank cordiality, which at once removed every feeling of reserve. After a few questions had been asked and answered, James, recollecting his errand, pulled out the bag which he had received from his wife, and, exhibiting it to his new-found acquaintance, remarked-- "I'm just gaun doon by to Sandy Laing's here, to get twa pecks o' meal; and gin ye'll stap at leisure for a wee, I'll gae doon the hill wi' ye, and point oot a' the curiosities o' the place by the gate." The stranger agreed to this proposal, and James marched off with most ungentlemanly strides to the merchant's, from which he returned in an incredibly short time, with his meal on his back, his hat in his hand, and his body bent forward several degrees beyond its usual perpendicular position. "Ugh!" said James, as he again came up with the stranger, "I'm clean oot o' breath wi' my hurry; but an auld body's blast's sune blawn, and that's a stiff brae to climb wi' a burden; but mine's no a heavy ane." "Permit me to carry it a bit till you recover yourself," said the stranger, taking hold of the bag. "Na, na, sir," said James, laughing. "I'm muckle obliged--greatly obliged, sir; but ye dinna ken the penalty o' carryin a pock o' meal yet. Only look at my back, and think hoo sic a melvyin wad suit on your fine black coat. It wad mak ye look like a miller athegither; and the ladies, whan they saw ye neist, wadna ken that it was just yersel again. But I'll gather wund in a wee; and, i' the meantime, as I promised to gie ye an account o' the curiosities o' the place, I'll just begin wi' the nearest first; and, I assure ye, if onything short o' real richteousness can hallow the dust o' the earth, we noo stand on hallowed ground. This very spot where we noo breathe bears the name o' M'Duff's Hill; and thae auld stumps o' wa's, that ye see lookin oot amang the grass there, are the remains o' what was ance a castle or a palace belangin to the Thanes o' Fife. It wad be a very _unpregnable_ place afore the invention o' gunpowther; for ye'll observe that it has Lindores Loch on the south, the Dog Loch on the wast, the Boistart Loch on the north, and the Childert Loch on the east; and there's nae doot but they wad hae ditches atween, to prevent their enemies frae gettin in upon them by surprise. I could tell ye some fine stories about the sieges and battles that hae happened here; but, as it wad tak owre muckle o' yer time, I shall just mention hoo the lochs cam to get their names. About Lindores Loch I need say naething. A'body kens that it's just ca'ed after the little towny there, that stands on the north side o't. But the Dog Loch's rather a darker subject. It's supposed to hae derived its name frae the purpose it was devoted to. In auld times, ilka great chief had twa or three packs o' hounds, for huntin boars, and deers, and men wi'; and it's believed that the dogs frae the castle were aye driven to that loch to drink, when the chase was done; and the auld anes, that were owre sair bursten to rin again, were thrown into the middle o't, wi' stanes about their necks, to droon. Sae, ye see, frae this circumstance it got the name o' the Dog Loch. The Boistart Loch, again, as ye'll observe, lies atween twa hills; and when the wind blaws frae the east or the wast, it gathers into great gusts i' the glen, and maks the water jaw, and jawp, and foam like a caldron; and for this reason it has been ca'ed Boistart, or Boisterous, Loch. But there's a better story than this connected wi' the name o' the Childert Loch; and I aye like to tell't, on account o' the generosity that it displays, and the honour that it reflects upon oor countrywomen, wha, even in the maist savage times, werena athegither withoot some gliffins o' natural affection. It was the custom, it seems, in thae rude ages, for the leddies to engage in oot-door sports as weel as the men; and a very common amusement hereabout, wi' mothers and nurses o' a' descriptions, was the drawin o' their bairns, in a sort o' boxes or cradles, upon the smooth ice o' the loch. This diverted the women folk, and exercised the little anes, wha were thus prepared for the hardships o' the wild life that they afterwards led. Aweel, ae fine winter afternoon, as ane o' the bairns' maids frae the castle was pu'in a young Macduff, in a braw silver-mounted cradle, upon the loch, and his mother lookin at them frae the hill here--maybe frae the very place where we noo stand--the ice brak, and doon gaed the cradle, bairn and a', to the bottom o' the loch. The puir lassie, wha stood upon a stronger part o' the ice, and still had the broken leadin-strings in her hand, heard the screams o' the distracted mother, and saw the muddy water risin owre the head o' the helpless wean; and, castin a confused look around, to see if ony assistance was at hand, she plunged into the same hole; and, in tryin to save the bairn, lost hersel. The watchman on the castle-tower heard the screams o' the leddy, and saw the melancholy accident; and ae tout o' his horn sent a hunder hardy callants to the place; but they were owre late. The bairn and his nurse were pu'ed oot o' the loch clasped in ane anither's arms; but the life had gaen oot o' them baith. It's said, however, that the body o' the bit lassie wha had perished in tryin to save that young sprout o' nobility received a' the honour that the gratitude o' its high-minded parents could confer. The last act o' her life was noble, and she was buried in the same grave wi' the son o' Macduff. But, noo that I've recovered my breath, we'll be joggin awa, if ye like; for ye'll be clean wearied oot wi' waitin upon an auld man's havers." "I assure you I am not," said the stranger. "I have been much delighted with your recital; and I shall never think that time lost which is spent listening to such interesting anecdotes. But, pray, what is the name of that old, grey-roofed house upon the bank, at the western extremity of the loch?" "Ou, that's just oor auld kirk," said James; "and a very venerable biggin it is, too. It was ance a Roman Catholic chapel; but the altar and the images hae been a' demolished; and the only vestige o' superstition that remains noo is the cross upon the riggin, and the jugs, and a stane basin for the holy water, in the porch. But that's a fine, solemn situation, ye'll alloo, for a kirk; and that's a bonny burying-ground around it, too. It's just a pleasure to puir bodies like me to think that they hae a claim to sic a quiet inheritance, when a' the toils and troubles o' life are past." "Tis indeed a sweetly-retired spot," said the stranger; "and it wants only that 'cheerless, unsocial plant,' the sepulchral yew, to make it accord exactly to the description given by Gray in these beautiful lines of the Elegy-- 'Beneath these rugged elms--that yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.'" "The description agrees unco weel, sir," said James; "for mony a sober Christian and mony a royit callant lie thegither below yon grassy divot, withoot bein sensible o' the company they keep. But, noo that we're speakin o' kirks, gin y'll just turn a wee bit to the richt wi' me, I'll let ye see a kirk construckit by the hands o' the _Creawtor_ himsel; and, I'm sure, he has been mony a time as devootly worshipped there as ever he was in temples built by human hands." The distance was but a few steps out of the way; and, as the stranger was enthusiastic in his desire to see every curiosity, he readily agreed to accompany James to the place. They accordingly turned into a narrow footpath, which diverged to the right, and winded among the gorse in a more southerly direction. The lake, which had been for some time concealed by a shoulder of the hill, again appeared; and the hill itself, divided into two ridges--forming a capacious amphitheatre, covered by smooth grass, and surrounded on all sides by tall broom and impenetrable furze. At the head or northern end of this dingle, the ground rises into a mound of considerable height and regularity of form; and from this mound the prospect in all directions is unobstructed and extensive. "There," said James, "is the kirk o' the Covenanters; and mony a guid sermon has been preached there, in defiance o' the winter's cauld and the summer's heat, and the persecution o' cruel men, that was waur to bide than them baith. In that howe stood the minister, upon a muckle stane that has been lang syne removed; and the congregation sat upon the brae around him. The sentry stood upon this knowe here, at yer richt hand; and it still bears the name o' the Watchman's Tower. His business, as ye'll maybe ken, was to watch for the appearance o' an enemy, and gie warnin to the preacher and his hearers to provide for their safety, by standin to their arms or takin to their heels. Mony a time I picture to mysel the confusion that wad tak place amang the women folk, when a party o' wild dragoons were seen scamperin in this direction. I think I hear the watchman fire his gun, as he rins to the congregation; I think I see the minister faulding up the Word o' God, and descendin to his audience wi' the composed dignity o' ane that has settled his account wi' time, and is prepared to dee for the doctrines he has advanced; then there is the animatin address that he delivers to his little flock, as they gather around him, wi' their swords in their richt hand, and their Bibles in the left; the tears o' their greetin wives, and dochters, and sisters, and sweethearts, fa'in thick as a simmer shower, while they stand tremblin and sabbin, and pleadin wi' their freens to flee frae the dangers o' the comin storm. I think I see them wringin their hands and rivin their hair wi' agony, when their entreaties are answered by the deliberate determination o' the auld, and the fiery resolution o' the young, wi' the fearfu assurance that they will conquer or dee. I think I see that little company o' matrons and maidens retirin slowly frae the scene o' confusion; while aye noo and then some kind-hearted youth, wha convoys and comforts them, fa's oot frae the band, and rins back to the ranks. Then they begin singin a hymn o' praise to the God o' battles, wha is able to withstand the powerfu, and protect the oppressed; and immediately--when the crack o' the guns and the clang o' the swords has convinced them that the deadly wark is indeed begun--they are kneelin doon on the grass, wi' their een turned up to heaven, and sabbin oot wordless prayers for the success and the safety o' their freens; there is that little band o' heroes, noo broken and driven back by superior numbers, noo rallyin around their leader, and returnin to the charge wi' a shout o' triumph that maks a' the hills ring; they are noo ance mair repulsed, and nearly borne down by the heavy onset o' their mair skilfu enemies--and, just as my heart begins to tremble for their sakes, I hear the cheers o' a fresh reinforcement o' countrymen, and see their swords brandishin owre the brae, as they rush down to the assistance o' their freens, wha welcome them to the ranks wi' the inspirin war-cry o' the party, 'God and oor country!' The bluidy persecutors are at last broken and dispersed afore the irresistible charge o' the united _pawtriots_; and, while they are scamperin frae the field wi' mony a toom saddle in their train, the victors are busy, devoutly offerin up thanks to Heaven for the battle they hae won. "But this is no a', sir. I think I see the women folk returnin to the scene o' strife, to lament owre the dead, and to administer consolation to the deein. There is a puir widow supportin the lifeless head o' her husband--kissin his bluidy lips i' the agonies o' her grief, and strivin to close the gapin wounds, that gie nae mair pain to the body that bears them; a beautifu and an affectionate dochter kneelin by the side o' her expirin parent, twinin her arms around his neck, and droonin wi' her bitter lamentations the deep groans o' the deein man; a band o' sisters are noo endeavourin to bear awa the dead body o' a fair-haired striplin, wha had been the pride o' their family, and the joy o' their hearts; and there is ane there wha, though nae relation to the youth, feels his fate mair deeply than the nearest o' his kin; upon her pale face there is a fearfu struggle between modesty and grief--the last overcomes, and, forgetfu o' the presence o' ony but the dead, she clasps him in her arms, while her breast heaves and sabs like ane wha is suffocatin wi some unutterable feelin! Then there are her neebors, wha never kenned onything o' her affections, till death had divulged them, remarkin, in the language o' Scripture, 'Behold how she loved him!' But, 'deed, sir, I maun hae dune; for ye'll be like to think that I've gane clean daft athegither wi' sae muckle nonsense; and I maun confess, that, when I get on thae auld stories, I haena guid gettin aff them again." "I just think," said the stranger, "that, if you _had_ lived in the days of the Covenant, you would have been a most inveterate conventicler; and, to confess a truth, had I lived at the same period, I would most likely have been found in the same ranks; for, ere I arrived at that age when men are ashamed to cry, I often wept most heartily over the sufferings of the poor hillmen. But night approaches; and, as I suppose I have a long way to go before I can get a bed, I would thank you to direct me the nearest road to Cupar." "To Cupar, sir?" said James, in surprise. "Ye dinna surely intend to gang to Cupar this nicht?" "No," said the stranger; "I only intend to go as far as the first public-house where I can find accommodation for the night; but that will not be just at hand, I believe." "Atweel no, sir," said James; "for there's no a public-house on the road to Cupar nearer than John Denmill's--and that's at Easter Fernie a' the gate. But John's a queer chap, and he _will_ divert ye, if ye ance get there." "Well," said the stranger, "a good fire, a good supper, and a jolly landlord, make the best entertainment for a traveller on a winter evening." Our two friends proceeded for a short distance farther together; and before they parted, James not only gave the young man the best instructions he could with respect to the road, but also invited him to come to his cottage, which was just at hand, and partake of some bread and cheese, assuring him at the same time "that he wad get nae meat on the hill, and that his guidwife wad be as proud as a duchess to hae sic a guest under her roof." The stranger thanked James most heartily for his kindness, but civilly declined the offered entertainment. They parted with mutual esteem. James went home with his meal, and the stranger went on his way. By this time the sun had sunk to the verge of the horizon, and the sky, which had been previously clear, began to overcast. A fresh gale, too, sprung up from the east, and blew full in the stranger's face. Night was approaching fast; and he had five miles to travel upon an intricate hilly road, before he could reach any place of shelter. The moon, upon which he had depended for light, now threatened to be of little service; for though she occasionally burst upon his eye through the ragged edges of the driving clouds, it was but a momentary flash, which deepened, instead of dissipating the surrounding darkness. He buttoned his coat, drew his hat closer down upon his head, and made all the speed he could against the tempest, which now blew so violently that it sometimes brought him to a dead stand; and notwithstanding of his perilous circumstances, he could not refrain from laughing at himself, as he struggled with the viewless element which opposed his progress, and whistled defiance to his vengeance. He at length came to a place where the road divided, and, turning his back to the storm, he stood for a few minutes to recollect the instructions which he had received from his late guide. A number of little lights now caught his eye, twinkling from the cottage windows in the vale below; and as he again proceeded on his way, he could not help looking back, and indulging a momentary feeling of envy over the condition of those who were sitting warm and dry by their own firesides, while he was toiling amid the tempest. The poorest inhabitants of these cottages, thought he, are, for the present, blessed, when compared with me. They possess all the comforts of home, and perhaps do not appreciate their worth, while I am destitute of all but a deep knowledge of the value of what I do not possess. As he advanced, the lights began to disappear. He seemed to have passed beyond the limits of the inhabited country, and nothing was to be seen but an uncertain road before him, and darkness on every side. The storm grew wilder, and the doubtful path, which he had previously pursued, terminated in a number of little tracks, which diverged in all directions among the furze, as if they had been formed by a flock of sheep scattered over the hill in search of their pasture. He tried to retrace his steps, in the supposition that he had taken the wrong road; but a blinding shower of snow came driving with the wind, and concealed every object which might have guided him in his return. He became completely bewildered, and every moment increased his confusion. The snow began to drift; and all the stories that he had ever heard of benighted travellers lost among the hills rushed into his mind with painful distinctness. He began to run in the direction, as he supposed, of the little hamlets which he had passed in the afternoon; but his feet got entangled among the gorse and broom which covered the hill, and he fell several times at full length among the snow. He stood still and listened, with the faint expectation that he might hear some sound which would lead him to the abodes of men. Something tinkled at a distance, between the gusts of the storm, like the ringing of a bell. He immediately shaped his course by the sound, and was glad to hear that it grew louder as he advanced. Though he could not conjecture the purpose of a bell in that deserted region, yet such it certainly was; and, as no bell will ring without motion, he trusted to find some one who would be able to direct him to a place of shelter. But, after he had walked for a considerable time, at his utmost speed, he found himself very little nearer the object of his pursuit, which seemed to retire as fast as he advanced. He again began to run, and soon had the satisfaction to find himself within a very few yards of the sound; but still he could not perceive the object from which it proceeded. The mysterious bellringer seemed to increase his speed, as if he had discovered a pursuer, and determined to elude his grasp. The stranger was out of breath; he paused to listen. The bell still rung, and still retired, though at a less rapid rate. He had never believed in ghosts nor fairies; but this mysterious phenomenon seemed to confirm his nurse's tales, and make "chimeras true." He was not one, however, who would shrink from phantoms without evidence of their existence. "Honest, honest, Iago!" said he, quoting Shakspere, 'If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee.' But, devil or ghost, I will hunt thee to thy den, and if I can overtake thee, I will tread thee under my feet." So saying, he renewed the chase, and, in a few minutes, the bell was again jingling at a fearful rate, almost among his feet. He called out to the flying mystery to stop and speak with him. No answer was made; but his words seemed to produce some effect; for in a moment more the bell was off in another direction, tinkling and jingling as loudly as ever. "You shall not escape me thus," said the stranger, who had quite forgotten his own bewildered condition in his earnestness to discover the cause of this unaccountable noise. He again turned, and followed the bell with his utmost speed; and, after a long pursuit, and many doublings and windings among the broom, he at length tumbled over some soft body, which rolled among his feet. He grasped it in his arms and listened. The bell had ceased to jingle, and nothing was to be heard but the howling of the wind and the rustling of the drift. "I have you now, my boy," said the stranger; "and I will bring you to a severe reckoning for all this sport." "Bae!" cried the terrified bellringer, struggling to escape from the rude grasp which held him. "Bae!" said the stranger, imitating the voice of the animal. "What a silly pursuit I have been engaged in! But I am glad to find that I am not alone on these wild hills in this wild night." The young man's knowledge of rural economy convinced him that he had chased from his companions a poor sheep, who had been intrusted with a bell about his neck, as was the custom in many parts of the country, to enable the shepherd to discover his flock in the morning. The adventure of the renowned Don Quixote occurred to his mind, and he could not help laughing at himself even in the midst of his misery. Both the sheep and the man were completely exhausted, and they lay still together for some time among the snow; but the piercing blast and the gathering drift soon convinced the latter that he must either renew his exertions, or perish with his fleecy companion beneath the accumulating heap. He accordingly started up, and proceeded--he knew not where. His imagination became haunted with the horrors of his condition, and the idea "Of covered pits unfathomably deep, A dire descent, beyond the reach of frost; Of faithless bogs; of precipices huge, Smoothed up with snow"-- 'so paralysed his powers that he could scarcely move. But again "The thoughts of home Rush'd on his nerves, and call'd their vigour forth." He now found himself descending the hill-side; but whether it was the same side which he had ascended, or some other, he could not conjecture. By this time the snow had accumulated to a considerable depth in the hollows; and he frequently plunged into it up to the middle before he was aware. He pulled out his watch to try if he could ascertain the hour; but he could not. He tried his voice, in the hope that some one might hear him, and come to his assistance; but his feeble cry died away unanswered upon the blast. His situation was a desperate one, and he resolved to make one desperate effort more for existence. He turned his back to the storm, determined to run before it as far as he was able; and, should he perish, if possible to perish upon his feet. He had not proceeded far, however, when he tumbled over a steep bank, and rolled from hillock to hillock till he reached the bottom of the den in a state of insensibility. When he again recovered, he found himself beneath the storm, stretched among the undrifted snow, which was lying about a foot deep around him, while close by his side a brawling stream was dashing over the large stones which, like him, had rolled down the hill, and rested in the bottom of the glen. "Here," thought the stranger, "I have at last found a place where I may die in peace; and it is, perhaps, better to give up the struggle, then again to rush into the tempest only to perish beneath its pitiless pelting." What were his religious feelings in the prospect of death we know not; but his home and his friends, the grief which his early fate would occasion, and the melancholy satisfaction which they would derive from bestowing the last rites upon his lifeless remains, were present to his imagination. And, lest they should be deprived of the performance of these sadly-pleasing duties, by the ignorance of those who found him, he pulled out his pocket-book, and endeavoured to write his own name, with the name of his father's farm, and the name of the parish in which it was situated. While thus engaged, in that "Hopeless certainty of mind Which makes us feel at length resign'd To _that_ which our foreboding years Presents the worst and last of fears," the deep sonorous sound of a well-blown horn fell upon his ears, and roused him to fresh exertions. He had crossed the burn and clambered to the top of the bank before the blast had ceased; and, as he endeavoured to fix the direction of the sound, the horn was again winded. It seemed not to be very distant. Hope invigorated his weary limbs, and he dashed through the opposing wreaths as stoutly as if his toils had been only newly begun. Another blast was blown, and he continued to run upon the sound till it ceased, and it was not again repeated. He recollected that it was common for the farmers, in many parts of Scotland, to blow a horn at eight o'clock on the winter evenings, for the purpose of warning their servants to attend to the suppering of the horses; and he hoped that, if he could keep to the proper direction, this might lead him to some hospitable farmhouse, where he would soon forget the horrors of the storm before a comfortable fire. He now proceeded more leisurely, striving not to deviate from the course which the horn had induced him to take; and keeping a sharp look-out on all sides, and an intense attention to every sound, in the expectation that some cottage light might twinkle upon his eye, or some human voice reach his ear, in the intervals of the deafening blast. But still he could discover no sight nor sound of man; and the shifting tempest, which attacked him from every direction, soon confounded all his ideas of time and distance. In some places, too, the snow had accumulated in such immense masses, that he could not pass through them; and the circuits which he was obliged to make tended farther to confuse his mind. His spirits again began to sink, and his limbs to falter; and that sluggish indifference which follows the extinction of hope again took possession of his senses. But, while he was dragging himself onward with slow and feeble steps, a new and extraordinary noise broke upon his ear. He stood still and listened; but he could not conjecture the cause of it. It seemed to mingle with, and yet it was different from, the ravings of the storm. It proceeded from one quarter, and remained steadily in one place. There was a mingling of sounds, like the dashing of waves, the rushing of winds, and the jingling of a thousand little bells, accompanied occasionally by a harsh, guttural cry, like that which is emitted by a band of wild geese when disturbed in their "watery haunt." Though this mysterious noise was more appalling than attractive, and though it promised neither rest nor shelter to the stranger, yet it operated upon his curiosity, and induced him to continue his exertions. The terrific sounds grew louder and louder as he advanced. The clouds of snow, which were every moment dashed into his face, prevented him from seeing more than a few yards before him; and an involuntary shudder passed over his frame, as he thought that he might even now be toppling upon the brink of some dreadful gulf, and that another step might precipitate him into destruction. Something terrible was certainly at hand; but what was the nature of the danger was beyond his powers of conception. The unaccountable noise, which was now thundering beneath him, resembled most the dashing of a cataract, or the roaring of the ocean, when its far-accumulated waves are broken into foaming madness among hidden rocks. He stood still, and gazed intently in the direction of the sound. The storm abated a little in its violence, and he thought he could perceive a black expanse at a little distance stretching out before him. He advanced a few steps nearer it. It was tossing in fearful commotion, and here and there streaked with lines, and dotted with patches of white. It was evidently water; but whether lake, river, or ocean, was all a mystery. "Can it be possible," thought he, "that the storm has insensibly driven me in the right direction? Do I now stand among the rocks that look down upon the breaker-beaten bay of St Andrews? Or have I returned again to the banks of the Tay? Or can this be the little loch which I passed in the afternoon, and which then lay stretched out in frozen tranquillity beneath me?" His heart grew sick and his brain dizzy with conjecture. He turned away from the stunning scene with a shiver of despair. A strange sense of torpidity and madness passed along his nerves--it was the confused energy of an active soul, struggling with the numbedness of exhausted nature. The snow seemed to swim around him--his eyes became heavy, and, when he closed them, numberless phantoms seemed to pass before him, like figures in a dream. In this state of drowsy insensibility, he lost for a time all recollection of his sufferings--his blood began to stagnate in his veins, and the icy coldness of death was stealing over his extremities, when a covey of wild ducks swept past, and their short, sharp cries startled him again into consciousness of his condition. When he opened his eyes, a faint light seemed to be glimmering from a hill-side about a hundred yards above him. It was now seen, and now lost, as the clouds of drift passed between him and the place from which it issued. But still it was there; and its dim, shadowy lustre was to him like life to the dead. Hope again returned to his heart, and animation to his limbs; and in a few minutes he had reached the window of a little cottage, which was so completely drifted up with snow on all sides save that on which he stood, that any one might have passed in broad daylight without supposing it to be a human habitation. The stranger looked in at the window. The fire, which was composed of peats, had been covered up with ashes to prevent them from wasting through the night; but, by this time, the small dust had passed through the grate, and there only remained a little heap of live embers, which cast a sombre glow around the interior of the cottage. The family were in bed. The stranger rapped gently on the window, and then listened for an answer; but nothing stirred. He rapped a little louder, and again listened. "What's that, Jamie?" said a female voice within. "Hoch, hoch, hey!" said another, yawning and stretching out his arms from the same box or bed, as if to relieve them from the uneasiness of lying long in one position. It was evident that the voice of the first speaker had awakened the second, without communicating to his mind the purport of the question, which was again repeated. "What was that Jamie?" "What was _what_, lassie?" said the wondering husband. "I see naething by ordinar." "Man," returned the guidwife, "did you no hear yon awfu rattle at the windock? My flesh's a' creepin, for I fear something no canny's aboot the back o' the hoose. It was just like the noise that was heard at Willy Patty's windock last year afore his mither dee'd." "Havers, lassie; ye've just been dreamin," said the guidman, who was anxious to quiet his partner's fears, though he was not altogether free from some tremours himself. The stranger gave another rap. "Hear ye that, then, Jamie?" said the guidwife. "It's no sic a dream, I trow; for that's something awfu." "Deed is't," said James, who was now convinced that the "rattle" was not quite so terrible as it had been represented; "it's an awfu thing for ony puir body to be oot in sic a nicht as this; but let's be thankfu, Nanny, that we hae a roof to hap oorsels frae the storm, and a door to let a hooseless body in at." James flung himself around, and disentangled his feet from the bedclothes, with the intention of going immediately to admit the stranger; but, ere he got away from the bedside, his "better half" laid hold of him, and cried out, in great perturbation-- "Stop, Jamie--stop, I beseech ye; and consider weel what ye're aboot; for ye ken that, forby the danger o' robbers and rascals, the evil spirits just delight to range aboot in sic a nicht as this, like roarin lions, seekin wham they may devour; and wha kens what may come owre ye, if ye pit yersel i' their merciment." "Havers, woman!" said James again; "let me go, I tell ye; for I'll speak at the windock, and spier if he wants shelter, though it war auld Satan himsel." Nanny relaxed her grasp; but she seemed determined that the guidman should encounter no danger which she did not take a share of; and she too sprung to the floor, and followed him to the window. "Wha's there?" cried James, in a voice that showed he was neither to be _cowed_ by fiends, fairies, ghosts, nor men. "A bewildered stranger," was the reply. "Weel," said James, "a great stranger may be a great villain; but, for a' that, if I understand my Bible richtly, the words, 'I was a stranger and ye took me in,' will never be addressed to ane wha has the hard heart to refuse a hameless wanderer the shelter o' his roof in sic a nicht as this. Sae just gang ye aboot to the tither side o' the hoose, and come alang the fore wa' a' the gate, till ye find the door, and I'll let ye in." "Thank you!" said the stranger. Nanny, who now discovered that the object of all her fears was neither ghost nor goblin, but a conversable and civil creature of her own species, thought that her husband might be safely trusted in his presence without her support; and she accordingly returned again to her bed. James lighted the lamp, and went to admit the stranger; but, when he opened the door, he opened no passage for his entrance. A solid wall of snow still separated the guidman and his intended guest. "Preserve's a'!" cried the former, "that's been an awfu' nicht, indeed. The door's drifted up to the lintel; and there's no a hole i' the hale hicht o't, that a mouse could creep oot or in through. Are ye aye there yet, freen?" (addressing the stranger, who answered in the affirmative.) "Aweel, aweel," he continued, "ye maun just content yersel awhile or I get a spade and try and mak some oot-gate in't." James got a spade, and commenced to delve the snow into the passage, between the _hallant_ and the outer door; but he had no sooner broken down a part of the barrier, than the insidious drift entered the aperture, and, getting under his shirt, which was the only garment he had on, it whirled about his bare legs. He persisted for awhile, but his powers of perseverance ultimately forsook him. He flung down the spade, and, as every gust of wind brought a fresh volley of snow whistling about his ankles, he leaped as high as the henroost, which formed the ceiling of the lobby, would permit. "Preserve's a', that's dreadfu!" he at length cried out, making a most magnificent jump at the same time. "Flesh and bluid canna endure that--it wad gar a horse swither. Ye'll just hae to thole awee till I get my claes on, lad." James bounded into the house, and commenced immediately to get his shivering limbs conducted into the proper openings of a pair of canvas trousers. But this was no easy task. He had got one foot in, and the other within a few inches of the entrance, when his great toe unluckily got entangled in one of the pockets of the garment, and, as he was striving to preserve his equilibrium, by hopping through the house backwards upon one leg, the stranger, who had forced himself through the aperture which he had made in the doorway, entered like a moving mass of snow. James at length succeeded, by the support of the bed, which happily resisted his retrograde movement, in getting on his clothes; and then all his attention was directed to the comfort of his guest. "Dear me, man," said he, taking hold of the stranger's arm with the one hand, and a broom with the other, "ye'll need hauf-an-hoor's soopin afore we get a sicht o' ye. I'm sure ye're unco far frae comfortable below that wread o' snaw." As the stranger was standing before the fire, while James was endeavouring to clear away the snow from his neck and shoulder, the sudden change of temperature which he had experienced, expanding the fluids faster than the vessels which contained them, produced in his extremities that agonising sensation which is more forcibly expressed by the Scottish word _dinnling_, than by any other word with which we are acquainted. Sickness and pain overpowered his exhausted nerves. His eyes turned wildly up to the roof of the cottage. He gave one suffocating gasp for breath, and sank senseless upon the floor. James seized him in his arms, and called out to his wife-- "O Nanny, Nanny, woman! get up and help's here! The puir callant's fa'en into a drow, and I'm feared he's gaun to dee upon our hands athegither. Get up, woman, and let's try if onything can be dune to bring him aboot again." Nanny sprang up at the call of her husband; and, seizing the stranger by the hand, cried out-- "Preserve us a', Jamie! he's perfectly perishin'; his hand is as cauld and stiff as the poker. I maun get on the kettle and heat some water to thaw the snaw aff him." "Na, na," cried James, "that wad mak him waur, woman. Rin ye to the door and get a gowpen o' snaw, and rub his hands wi' _it_ and a rough clout time aboot, and sprinkle some cauld water in his face, and he'll may be sune come till himsel again." "Jamie," said the guidwife, in a tone of gentle remonstrance, "the lad's gotten owre muckle snaw and cauld water already; that's just what's the matter wi' him. I maun hae up the fire and get something warm till 'im." "Ye're haverin, Nanny," said James, who was too much agitated to be respectful. "Gang ye and get the snaw, I tell ye; for ye understand naething o' the matter." "Aweel, aweel, then," said Nanny, "ye hae mair skill o' doctory than me, Jamie; but it's a very unnatural-like cure, to rub cauld snaw on a man perishin' wi' the cauld." Nanny got the snow, and commenced the operation with great activity, while James reached his hand to a pitcher which was standing near, and sprinkled a few drops of water in the stranger's face. He soon began to show some symptoms of returning animation, and James earnestly inquired-- "How are ye yet? Are ye better noo?" After a considerable pause, the stranger replied, as if the question had only then reached him-- "I'm better now, I thank you!" "God be praised that it's sae!" said James. "Gie him a drink, Nanny, woman, and he'll be a' richt in a wee again." Nanny brought some water, and, while she was endeavouring to pour it into the stranger's mouth, James got a full view of his face, and cried out-- "He's the very young gentleman that I cam doon the hill wi' this afternoon. Dear me, what a nicht he's had, wanderin amang the drift sin yon time!" "He's a bonny laddie at ony rate," said Nanny, looking close into his face, "Ye'll no grudge to let him get some heat noo, Jamie. Help me aff wi' his coat and his shoon; and we'll just coup him inowre in oor ain warm bed, here." "That's weel thocht on," said James. "I canna say but ye hae sometimes a gliffin o' sense aboot ye, Nanny." The stranger soon recovered so far as to be able to put off his own clothes; and though he remonstrated strongly against taking possession of the honest couple's bed, they would not be resisted in their kindness; and he was obliged to comply. Nanny now took the management of the patient wholly into her own hands; and, as she had all her life considered heat the only remedy for a man perishing with cold, she began to make preparations for applying her own cure. She stirred the fire, supplied it with fresh fuel, laid a brick across it on each side, and placed a panful of water between them. She then took James's leather apron, and folded it so as to form a substitute for a fan; and with it she blew the slumbering embers into flaming activity. In a very short time the bricks were _red_, and the water boiling hot. The former were immersed in water, and then wrapped up in flannel, and laid to the stranger's feet and breast; the latter was converted into gruel, which, though not very thirsty, he drank with a very good appetite--having missed his supper that night on the hill. "Noo, sir," said Nanny, "ye maun just lie doon and try if ye can get a gloffen o' sleep; for I'll warrant ye're baith tired and drowsy, after sic a wrastle amang the snaw. Gin ye want onything, Jamie and me'll just be sittin at the ingle here; but we'll mak nae din to disturb ye." Thus heated within and without, the stranger soon lost all recollection of his wanderings, in a deep and refreshing sleep. "The storm without micht rair and rustle, _He_ didna mind the storm a whustle." James betook himself to his old companion, Josephus; and Nanny sat down by the other side of the fire, and resumed her evening's employment, which had been the knitting of a pair of stockings for the guidman. She now felt all a mother's anxiety for the comfort of the stranger; and she frequently rose and peeped into the bed, to see how he rested; then returned to her husband, with a smile, and whispered into his ear-- "The lad's sleepin as sound as a tap, yet." The night passed away; and by the time that daylight dawned down the _lum_--the little windows being drifted up with the snow--Nanny had prepared a warm breakfast for the stranger, the guidman, and herself. It consisted of oatmeal porridge, served up in two wooden platters, with a jugful of milk and three horn spoons set down on the table between them. Nanny now awakened the stranger by asking how he had rested. She then took his clothes, which had been carefully dried and warmed before the fire; and, handing them into the bed, which had to serve the purpose of a dressing-room also, she closed the lids--remarking, that "the parritch was ready; and it wad be better to sup them afore they got owre cauld." The stranger dressed, and took a seat beside his kind entertainers. James asked a blessing, apologised for the coarseness of the fare, and despatched his portion of the repast in shorter time than a fashionable eater would take to stir about his coffee and crack the shell of his egg. It occurred to Nanny that she might make the porridge more agreeable to the stranger's delicate taste, by giving him cream, instead of milk, to sup them with. She accordingly brought her evening's _meltith_, and skimmed it into his dish, remarking, at the same time-- "Ye'll no like oor coorse way o' livin, sir; but hunger's guid kitchen, they say, and that's no ill sap, I think, for it was just drawn frae the coo yestreen." The stranger assured her that he liked the dish exceedingly well; and Nanny added--"Ye'll be used to drappies o' tea, I warrant; but we haena had ootower twa brewins i' the hoose sin we were married; and, though a wee sirple o't may do brawly when the sap's scarce, yet I aye thocht that it was an unco feckless sort o' a diet, for a manbody especially." After breakfast, the young student (for such was the stranger) gave his entertainers an account of his wildered wanderings on the hill, as we have already narrated them; and James explained all the mysteries which he had met to his entire satisfaction. We shall only give his exposition of the last; namely, the fearful minglings of sounds which had alarmed him so much when he approached the lake. These were occasioned by the breaking up of the ice, which, driven ashore in innumerable fragments by the wind, rose and fell with every wave, making a confused tinkling, like the ringing of a thousand little bells. The storm had now abated; and, though the roads in many places were entirely blocked up, by keeping along the high ground it was possible for a person on foot to pursue his journey. The stranger, who was travelling to the College of St. Andrews, prepared to depart. He offered Nanny such a sum of money as he could spare, in acknowledgement of her kindness; but she refused it. "Na, sir!" said she, "we'll hae nae reward. Only look what a dad o' a stockin I've wrocht, that wadna been wrocht gin ye hadna been here; and the guidman's gotten as muckle lear oot o' that auld book, as may ser' him for a twalmonth to crack aboot; sae, ye see, we hae made some profit o' yer visit, forby a' the pleasure o' yer company." James also refused money; and still further enhanced his kindness, by accompanying the stranger to the top of the hill, where he gave him the best directions with respect to the road, and bade him an affectionate farewell. Many years after this, a medical student from the neighbourhood was attending the lectures of the celebrated Dr. B---- of Edinburgh, who one evening intimated a desire to speak with him after the class was dismissed. He accordingly waited, and the doctor opened the conversation by inquiring if he knew an individual of the name of James W----, who lived near the village of Lindores. He was answered in the affirmative. "Well," said the doctor, "I owe my life to the exertions of that old man and his wife; and I received my first lessons in medical science from them. When I was a student at the College of St. Andrews, I lost my way among the hills, and was nearly smothered among the snow. I at last discovered their cottage, and was kindly admitted. Like all good knights of _misventure_, I fainted and fell down upon the floor. James and his wife held a consultation over me, and I afterwards came to learn that even here 'doctors differed.' James was an Emperic, and argued from experience, or experiment, that cold water and friction was the best remedy for numbed fingers. Nanny adhered to the Dogmatics, and inferred, from reason and nature, that heat was the best application for driving away cold. "Thus Epilogism and Dogmatism contended in the mouths of people who had probably never heard of the names of Aristotle and Plato in their lives. But, in my case, both the systems were adopted with advantage. I was resuscitated by the empiric with cold, and recovered by the theorist with heat. And, what is more wonderful still, my kind physicians, unlike all other members of the profession, refused to take any fee. But they are not forgotten. They cast their bread upon the water, and they shall find it again after many days." We shall only add, that in a short time after this James received an elegant silver-mounted snuff-box, bearing the following inscription:--"From Dr B---- to James W----. 'I was a stranger, and ye took me in.'" Nanny at the same time received a more useful present; and both rejoiced that they had once possessed an opportunity of being useful to a man whose genius had made him an honour to his country, and an ornament to the profession to which he belonged. THE CROOKED COMYN. Walter Comyn, Earl of Menteith, one of the "three Comyns," all earls, who, in the minority of Alexander III., possessed so much power in Scotland as to be able to oppose all the other nobility together, was a very remarkable man. Of low stature, deformed in his person, dark in his complexion, of gigantic strength--he possessed the spirit of a lion with the subtlety of a fox. Neither in the planning nor the executing of a political scheme could any man in Scotland or England cope with him. He made his two brothers, and the thirty-three knights who joined him against the measures of the English regency, his puppets, allowing them no will of their own, but subjugating them entirely to his direction. He could read the human countenance even of a courtier of Henry III. of England as easily as he could do the court hand of the clerks of his time; and, to complete his character, he so falsified the muscles of his face, by mixing up smiles and frowns in such a thorough confusion of activity and change, that no one could tell his thoughts or his feelings. His wife, the countess, was directly the reverse of her husband. Tall in her person, handsomely formed, with graceful movements and accomplished manners, she was accounted open-hearted, good-humoured, approaching to simplicity, destitute of all guile and deceit. Her countenance wore a continual smile, and was so open and ingenuous, that it might be read like the page of a book. The best proof of her goodness was the kindness she exhibited to the deformed partner of her life. She boasted--and he admitted--that she was the only person who could read him, not from her powers of penetration, but from his yielding relaxation of the deceptive discipline of his face and manners. He often remarked that it was fortunate for him that his Countess Margaret was so much of a child; for he felt and acknowledged that it was only in the presence of children that he considered himself safe in throwing off his disguise, and appearing for a time in his natural character. Such are the effects of ambition. A legend saith that, on one occasion, the following conversation took place between these dissimilar yet well-mated companions-- "Wert thou not so simple, fair Margaret," said the earl, "I would suspect thou hadst no great affection for him whom King Henry calleth the 'Crooked Comyn.' Men may love me for my subtlety and power, from interest; my brothers because I am their brother, from instinct; and my wolf-dog, Grim, because I join him in the chase. Now, to gratify my humour for frolic on this night when I think I have overturned the power of the English regent, tell me what thou lovest me for, good simpleton; for I cannot doubt that simpletons have their fancies like other folks; and, if thou dost not love me, why hast thou prepared for me, even now on this night of my triumph, that cup of warm milk curdled with sack which thou callest a posset? I asked it not of thee, and love must have suggested it." "What should I love my Walter for," replied Countess Margaret, "but his noble qualities, placed in a person the defects of which, as he states them, I cannot see? Custom hath made thee straight, and love hath embellished both thy mind and body; but, above all, I love thee because thou lovest me; for it is an old saying in our cottage, that love begets love, and"--patting him playfully on the cheek--"my heart must have been barren indeed, if, after ten years of thy wooing, it produced no more affection than was able to prepare for thee a posset of milk and sack on the evening of the day of thy triumph." "Thou hast made a good turn of the subject, simpleton," said Comyn. "If I beat my political opponents during the day, thou worstest me at night by thy ingenious pleasantry. Thou conquerest even nature's twists and torsels, for my crooked mind and deformed body become straight under the soft ministration of thy simple manners. I cannot help sometimes thinking that, if it had been thy fate to be wedded to such a fair piece of nature's handiwork as the English baron, John Russel, who banqueted with us yesterday--a thing of red and white pigment--an automaton mannerist, without a mind--every woman's slave, and never his own master--thy simplicity would have lost its power, for, having no foil, it would have merged into the idiocy of thy husband, and you would have become a pair of quarrelsome simpletons." "And if thou hadst got a wife," answered Countess Margaret, smiling, "as deep and subtle as thyself, the charm thou hast for me--thy mental superiority--would have been lost, for want of a foil; but thou wert too clever to fall into that snare, and didst avoid artful and knowing women, though beautiful, as anxiously as I, if I were still unmarried, would avoid that fair painted Jackalent thou hast mentioned, the English baron, John Russel. Sheep, thou knowest often fight, and get entangled in each other's horns. They are then an easy prey to the wolves. I would not give my 'Crooked Comyn' for all the Russels of England." "Thy rattle pleaseth me, sweet Margaret," said Comyn. "But how is this? I feel ill. What can ail Comyn on the night of his day of triumph? These pains rack me. So sudden an attack! These are not usual feelings that now assail me." "Ill in the midst of health!" cried Countess Margaret. "What meaneth this!--where is the complaint? Speak, dear husband! tell thy devoted wife what may enable her to yield thee relief." "A burning pain wringeth my heart," replied Comyn, with an expression of agony, "and unmanneth a soul that never knew subjugation; that is to me the only symptom of danger. When Comyn trembleth, death cannot be far distant." "Thou alarmest me, dear husband," cried Countess Margaret; "speak not in such ominous terms of what I could not survive one solitary moon. What can I minister to thee?" "Water, water from the icy springs of Lapland!" cried the frantic earl; "yet the frozen sea will not quench this burning fire! What availeth now the wiles, the subtlety, the courage of Scotland's proudest earl? I never was master or director of such pains as these. Death! how successfully dost thou earn thy reputation of being the grim king! Water, beloved Margaret, for this miniature hell!" "It is here, good heart," cried Countess Margaret. "God bless its efficacy!--drink." "It is as nothing," cried Comyn, after swallowing the contents of the cup. "It is as nothing--these tormina laugh at the puny quencher of fires fiercer than those of Gehenna. I must submit. Thou wilt have no terce from my earldom, wherein I am not yet feudally seised. Alas! shall my innocent be left terceless--a beggar--the dependant of my brothers? 'Sdeath, this is worse than these scorching fires! Call the clerk of St John's--quick." The countess flow out of the room, and in a short time returned with the clerical lawyer. "Attend, sir," cried Comyn. "Thou seest one in the hands of death; prepare, with the greatest speed of thy quill, a liferent disposition of my whole earldom in favour of Countess Margaret, my wife. I shall then confess to thee, and thou shalt pray for me." "The liferent disposition I shall make out," replied the clerk of St John's; "for Comyn's commands must be obeyed. But I, in behalf of the holy brethren of our order, must tell thee, noble earl, that our prayers can be of little avail if they are limited, in point of time, to the period of thy sojourn on earth. Thy mausoleum must be lighted for ten years with wax tapers, a thousand masses must be said for thy soul, and a pilgrimage to the Holy Land must be performed, ere we can hope to bring thee out of purgatory. If thou leavest the liferent of thy earldom to Countess Margaret--the fee going to thy eldest brother as heir--what is to pay the monks of St John for all their labours, in thus endeavouring to free thee from the pains of that temporary place of punishment?" "No purgatory can equal these pains, man," cried the earl. "Thou shalt have my earldom this instant for one hour's relief from this hell-fire." "Why, good priest," said the lady, "canst thou thus talk of worldly possessions to one in such agony? While I am thus ministering to the body, it would better become thee to minister to the soul, while it is still in its earthly tabernacle. I, his dear wife, asked for no liferent, and yet thou requirest a mortification." "It is for his own sake," said the priest, "that I have recommended the provision of the means for saving his soul. We are not bees, to produce wax for tapers; nor birds of paradise, to fly from hence to Jerusalem, and sit on the holy shrine, without being fed as other birds; nor are we canonised saints, requiring no meat nor drink. We must live, or we cannot pray. Wilt _thou_, madam, give up a half of thy liferent, to aid in the redemption of the soul thou lovest so ardently?" "Thou hast heard my lord's commands," rejoined the lady. "I cannot allow my mind to be occupied at present with thoughts of that contemptible trash thou callest gold. What is all the earldom of the Comyns to the preservation of the life of my dear husband?--Walter, dear Walter! what can be done for thee?" "The priest hath already my commands," answered the earl. "The parchment!--the parchment!--and--and--water--water!" "Hie thee away to thy work, good monk," cried the lady. "There's no time for parley. Away. Thou seest that _I_ deny him not his request." "Water costeth little," said the priest, with a smile of suspicion, "and availeth little either to assuage these pains or those of purgatory." The priest retired, and in the course of an hour returned, with the deed extended, and two witnesses at his back. The paper was read. Comyn was still able to sign it. He attached his name, and in a few minutes expired. Thus died that remarkable man. A dark story now arose in Scotland: Countess Margaret had encouraged a criminal passion for the English baron, John Russel, and was openly accused of having poisoned her husband, by means of a posset of milk and sack, to make way for her paramour, whom she married with indecent haste. Insulted and disgraced, she and her husband were thrown into prison, despoiled of their estate, and compelled to leave the kingdom. It was afterwards rumoured in Scotland that she quarrelled with Russel--who ill-used her, and stood in continual fear of being treated in the same way as Comyn--and, finally, drowned herself in the river Thames. END OF VOL. X 
34149	----	WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND. HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE. WITH A GLOSSARY. REVISED BY ALEXANDER LEIGHTON ONE OF THE ORIGINAL EDITORS AND CONTRIBUTORS. VOL. XII. LONDON: WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE. 1884. CONTENTS THE SCOTTISH HUNTERS OF HUDSON'S BAY, _(HUGH MILLER)_ THE PROFESSOR'S TALES, _(PROFESSOR THOMAS GILLESPIE)_ THE WEDDING MIKE MAXWELL AND THE GRETNA GREEN LOVERS, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_ REUBEN PURVES; OR, THE SPECULATOR, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_ THE SEA-STORM, _(OLIVER RICHARDSON)_ THE HEIR OF INSHANNOCK, _(JAMES MAIDMENT)_ THE MOSSTROOPER, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_ THE FORGER, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_ THE SURGEON'S TALES, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_ THE THREE LETTERS THE GLASS BACK WE'LL HAVE ANOTHER, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_ THE SCOTTISH VETERAN, _(JOHN HOWELL)_ THE WHITE WOMAN OF TARRAS, _(PATRICK MAXWELL)_ WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND. THE SCOTTISH HUNTERS OF HUDSON'S BAY. The gloom of a boisterous winter evening was settling over one of the wild, inhospitable tracts which lie to the north of the St Lawrence. The earth, far as the eye could reach, was covered, to the depth of many feet, by a continuous sheet of frozen snow; over which the bellying clouds, heavily charged with the materials of a fresh storm, hung in terrible array, fold beyond fold, as they descended on every side to mingle with the distant horizon. On the one hand, a frozen lake, deeply buried, like all the rest of the landscape, stretched its flat, unvaried surface for leagues along the waste; on the other, a winding shore, covered with stunted trees and bushes, alternately advanced into the level, in the form of low, long promontories, or retired into little hollow bays, edged with rock, and overhung by thickets of pine. All was sublimely wild and desolate. The piercing north wind went whistling in sudden gusts along the frozen surface of the lake, dashing against each other the stiff, brittle branches of the underwood, and shaking off their icicles, or whirling the lighter snow into huge columns, that ever and anon went stalking along the waste like giants, and seemed at times to thrust their foreheads into the very clouds. Not a single human habitation--not so much as the wigwam of an Indian, or aught that could give evidence of even the occasional visits of man--could be seen in the whole frozen circle, from the centre to the horizon. All seemed alike uninhabitable and uninhabited--a dreary unpeopled desert, the undisputed domain of solitude and winter. And yet, on this dismal evening, the landscape was enlivened by two human figures. They were mounted on a rude sledge, drawn by four large dogs, that now, as the evening began to darken, were urging their way at full speed across one of the wider bays of the lake. The keen, penetrating wind blew right ahead, so intensely chill that it felt to the naked hand like a stream of ice; and the travellers, who were seated, with their backs to the blast, on the front part of the car, and who from time to time half turned their heads to direct the course of the dogs, drew closer and closer together as they felt their limbs stiffening, and a drowsy torpor stealing over all their faculties, under the deadening influence of the cold. They were dressed from head to foot in the skins of wild animals, with hoods, like those worn by the Esquimaux, projecting over their faces, and long strips of some thick, coarse fur wrapped in a spiral fashion round their limbs. One of them--a robust, dark-complexioned young man, rather above the middle size--had an Indian blanket bound round his shoulders; the other--who, though tall and well-made, was of a rather slighter form, and much less deeply bronzed by the climate--was closely enveloped in the folds of a Scottish plaid. "I am afraid, Sandy, it's all over with us," said Innes Cameron, the fairer and handsomer of the two; "I have been dead asleep for the last ten minutes--ah, me! and dreaming of Scotland, too, and of one I shall never, never see more. Do you think there can be any chance of our yet reaching the log-house?" "I have been more than half asleep, too," said Sandy Munro, the more robust traveller, "and my feet are ice to the ankles; but, if we can hold out for barely one quarter-of-an-hour longer, we are safe. Pine Creek Point is quite at hand--see how it stretches black across the snow yonder, not four hundred yards away; and, hearken! you may hear the wind whistling through the branches. There is a little bay beyond it, and the log-house is at the bottom of the bay. Just strive and keep up for a few minutes longer, Innes, and we shall get over this night with all the rest." The sledge reached the promontory, and entered the wood. It was thick and dark; and there was a rustling and crackling on every side, as the dogs went bounding among the underwood--their ears and tails erected, and opening from time to time in quick, sharp barkings, sure indications that they deemed themselves near the close of their journey. The trees began to open; and, descending an abrupt ice declivity, the travellers found themselves on the edge of a narrow creek, that went winding into the interior, between steep banks laden with huge piles of snow, which, hollowed by the blast into a thousand fantastic forms, hung bellying over the level. A log-house, buried half-way to the eaves in front, and overtopped by an immense wreath behind--resembling some hapless vessel in the act of foundering--occupied an inflection of the bank opposite the promontory; and in a few minutes the travellers had crossed the creek, and stood fronting the door. "Ah, no kindly smoke comes frae the lum, Innes," said Sandy, leaping out of the car; "all dark, too, as midnight at Yule; but we maun just bestir ourselves, and get up a blaze. Do exert yourself, my bonny man, or we shall perish yet. Unfasten the dogs, and be sure you hang up the harness out of their reach, or the puir hungry wratches will eat it up, every snap, afore morning. Unfasten the door, too, and get out our driest skins and driest tinder; and I, meanwhile, shall provide you with brushwood aneugh to keep up a bonfire till morning." He seized an axe, and began to ply lustily among the underwood; while his neighbour unharnessed the dogs, and, clearing the door, entered the log-house, which soon began to throw up a thick steam through the snow. We shall take the liberty of following him. The apartment was about ten feet square; the walls formed of undressed logs, and the roof of shingles. The snow peeped in a hundred different places through the interstices; and a multitude of huge icicles, the effects of a late partial thaw, hung half-way down from the ceiling to the floor, and now glistened in the light, as the flames rose gaily on the hearth. The dogs were whining and pawing in a corner, impatient for their evening repast. In a few minutes Sandy had half-filled the apartment with brushwood, and then set himself to assist his companion, who seemed but indifferently skilled in the culinary art, in preparing supper, which consisted mostly of frozen fish and biscuit, relished by a dram of excellent rum. It was soon smoking on the floor, and, with the assistance of the dogs, soon discussed; and the two fur-gatherers sat indulging in the genial heat, with the long dark evening before them, and neither of them in the least disposed to retire to the bed of brushwood and skins which they had formed on the floor, immediately behind them. "We are strange, changeable creatures," said Sandy--"the bairn sticks to us a' life lang; and, if we dinna laugh, and cry just in the ae breath, it's no that the feelings dinna vary, but that the pride o' consistency winna always let us show what we feel. Little mair nor an hour ago, we were baith perishin in the bitter cauld, half resigned to die, that we might escape frae our misery, and noo here we are as happy as if there were no such things as death or hardship i' the warld. Man, what a bonny fire! I could maist forget that I was a puir Hudson's Bay fur-gatherer, and that kindly Scotland was four thousand miles awa." "What," said his companion, "could have induced a steady, sensible fellow like you, Sandy, to indenture with the company? 'Tis easy to divine what brought most of our comrades here--they resemble David's associates in the Cave of Adullam; but you, who could have been neither in debt nor distress, and who are always so much the reverse of discontented--I could never guess what brought you. Come, now, let us have your story; the night is long and tedious, and I know not how we could pass it to better purpose." "But I do," replied Sandy. "My story is nae story ava. I am but a rude man amang rude men like mysel; but you, Innes, what could hae brought you here? You are a gentleman and a scholar, though ye hae but sma' skill, maybe, in niffering brandy and glass beads for the skins o' foumarts; and your story, no a vera gay one, I fear, will hae a' the interest o' an auld ballad. It's but fair, however, that ye should hae mine, such as it is, first. But draw just a wee bittie out o' the draught; for there's a cauld, bitter wind soughin ben frae the door--and only hear how the storm rages arout! "There's a curious prejudice," continued Sandy, "among our country folks--and, I suppose, among the folks o' every other country besides--against some particular handicrafts. It's foolish in maist cases. The souters o' Selkirk were gallant fellows; and, had a' our Scottish knights fought half as weel at Flodden, our country would hae lost a battle less; and yet ye canna but ken how our auld poets o' the time--Dunbar, and Kennedy, and Davie Lindsay--ridicule the puir souters. They say that, once on a time, the vera deil himsel wadna keep company wi' ane o' them, till he had first got the puir man to wash himsel. Now, the prejudice against tailors is hardly less strong in our ain days; and yet a tailor may be a stalwart fellow, and bear a manly heart. I'm no sure, had it no been for this prejudice, that I would now hae been a fur-gatherer on the shores o' Hudson's Bay." "Would to heaven," exclaimed his companion, interrupting him, "that I had been bred a tailor! I'm mistaken if any such prejudice would have sent me across the Atlantic." "We can be a' wise enough on our neebor's weaknesses, Innes," said Sandy; "but to the story. "I come frae a seaport town in the north o' Scotland, no twenty miles frae Inverness, your ain bonny half-Hieland, half-Lowland home. My father, who had married late in life, was an old grey-headed man from the time I first remember him. He had a sma' family; and, in his anxiety to see us a' doing for oursels, I was apprenticed to a tailor in my tenth year. Weel do I mind wi' what a disconsolate feeling I left the twa cows I used to herd on a bonny brae-side speckled wi' gowans and buttercups, to be crumpled down on the corner o' a board hardly bigger than an apron, amang shreds and patches o' a' the colours o' the rainbow, wi' an outlook through a dusty window on the side wa's o' an auld warehouse. And then my comrades were such queer fallows, fu o' a droll, little, wee sort o' conceit, that could ride on the neck o' a new button, and a warld o' fashious bits o' tricks, naething sae guid as the tricks o' a jackanapes, but every grain as wicked; and aften hae they played them aff on the puir simple laddie. There are nane o' our craftsfolks, Innes, but hae some peculiarity to mark them that grows up oot o' their profession; and there's nae class mair marked than the class I belong to." "I have read Lamb on the Melancholy of Tailors," said Innes, "and remember laughing heartily at the quaint humour of some of his remarks; but I never wasted a thought on the subject after laying him down." "Ah, Lamb, wi' a' his bonny, bairn-like humour and simplicity," said Sandy, "is but a Cockney feelosopher after a', and kent naething o' the matter. Melancholy o' tailors, forsooth! Why, man, a Hieland tailor is aye the heartiest cock, and has aye the maist auld stories i' the parish. But I maun gie you the feelosophy o' the thing at some ither time.--I got on but ill wi' my companions," continued Sandy; "and the royitous laddies outside used to jibe me wi' no being a man sax years afore I ceased being a boy. Is it no hard that tailors should lose the reputation o' manhood through a stupid misconception o' the sense o' an auld-warld author? He tells us the tailor canna mak a man, just in the spirit that Burns tells us a king canna mak an honest man. And, instead o' the pith o' the remark being brought to bear on the beau and the coxcomb, wha never separate the human creature frae his dress, it's brought, oot o' sheer misapprehension, to bear against the puir artisan." "I see, Sandy," said Innes, with a smile, "you are still influenced by _l'esprit de corps_. If you once get back to Scotland, you will take to your old trade, and die a master tailor." "I wish to goodness I were there to try!" replied Sandy. "But the story lags wofully. I got on as I best could--longing sadly, i' the lang bonny days o' simmer, to be oot amang the rocks o' the Sutors, or on the sea, and in winter, thinking o' the Bay o' Udoll, wi' its wild ducks and its swans, and o' the gran fun I could hae amang them wi' my auld pistol--whan my master employed an auld ae-legged sodger to work wi' him as a journeyman. He was a real fine fellow, save that he liked the drap drink a wee owre weel, maybe; and he had wandered owre half the warld. He had been in Egypt wi' Abercromby, and at Corunna wi' Moore, and o'er a' Spain and at Waterloo wi' Wellington, and in mony a land and in mony a fight besides; and noo he had come hame wi' a snug pension, and a budget o' first-rate fine stories, that made the ears tingle and the heart beat higher, to live and die amang his freends. Oh, the delight I hae taen in that man's company! Why, Innes, at pension time, though I never cared muckle for drink for its ain sake, I hae listened to his stories i' the public-house till I hae felt my head spinnin round like a tap, and my feet hae barely saired to carry me hame. I hae charged Bonaparte's Invincibles wi' him, fifty and fifty times, and helped him to carry aff Moore frae beside the thorn bush where he fell, and scaled wi' him the breach at St Sebastian; and, in short, sae filled was I wi' the spirit o' the sodger, that, had the wars no been owre, I would hae broken my indentures, and gane awa to break heads and see foreign countries. As it was, however, I learned to like my employment ten times waur nor ever, and to break a head, noo and then, amang the town prentices. Spite o' my close, in-door employment, I had grown stalwart and strong; and I mind, on ae occasion, beating twa young fallows who had twitted me on being but a _ninth_. Weel, the term o' my apprenticeship cam till an end at last; and, flingin awa my thimble wi' a jerk, and sendin my needle after it like an arrow, I determined on seeing the warld. My crony, the auld veteran, advised me to enter the army. I was formed baith in mind and body, he said, for a sodger; and if I took but care--a thing he never could do himsel--I micht dee a serjeant. But whatever love I micht hae for a guid fecht, I had nane for the parade, and my thorough dread and detestation o' the halberds o'er-mastered ony little ambition I micht hae indulged in when I dreamed o' a battle. I thocht o' a voyage to Greenland--o' gangin a-sodgerin wi' Lord Byron to Greece--o' emigratin to New South Wales or the Cape--o' turnin a farmer in the backwoods--o' indenturin for a Jamaica over-seer--o' goin oot to Mexica for a miner--ay, and o' fifty ither plans besides--whan an adverteesement o' the Hudson's Bay Company caught my notice, and determined me at once. I needna tell ye what the directors promised to active young men: a paradise o' a country to live in--the fun o' huntin and fishin frae Monday to Saturday nicht for our only wark--and pocketfus o' money for our pay. I blessed my stars, and closed wi' the agent at once. And now, here I am, Innes, in the seventh year o' my service, no that meikle disposed to contemn my auld profession, and mair nor half tired o' huntin, fishin, and seein the warld. But just twa months mair, my boy, and I am free. And now, may I no expect your story in turn?" The wind, which had been rising since nightfall, now began to howl around the log-house and through the neighbouring woods, like the roar of the sea in a storm. There was an incessant creaking among the beams of the roof, and the very floor at times seemed to rise and fall under the foot, like the deck of a vessel which, after having lain stranded on the beach, has just begun to float. The storm, which had been so long impending, burst out in all its fury, and for some time the two fur-gatherers, impressed by a feeling of natural awe, sat listening to it in silence. The sounds rose and fell by intervals; at times sinking into a deep, sullen roar, when all was comparatively still around; at times swelling into thunder. In a pause of the blast, Sandy rose and flung open the door. Day had sunk more than two hours before, and there was no moon, but there was a strong flare of greenish-coloured light on the snow, that served to discover the extreme dreariness of the scene; and through a _bore_ in the far north, resembling, as Sandy said, the opening of a dark lantern, he could see that, beyond the cloud, the heavens were all a-flame with the aurora borealis. Earth and sky seemed mingled; the snow, loose and fluctuating, and tossing its immense wreaths to the hurricane, resembled the sea in a storm when the waves run highest; the ice, though so deeply covered before, lay in some places dark and bare, while in others, beneath the precipices, the drift had accumulated over it to the depth of many fathoms. Again the blast came roaring onwards with the fury of a tornado, and Sandy shut and bolted the door. "Ane o' the maist frightfu nichts, Innes," he said, "I ever saw in America. It will be weel if we're no baith buried a hunder feet deep afore mornin, wi' the log-house for our coffin. The like happened, about twenty years syne, at Badger Hollow, where twa puir chields were covered up till their skulls had grown white aneath their bannets. But though alane, and in the desert, we're no oot o' the reach o' Providence yet." "Ah no, my poor friend!" said Innes; "I do not feel, in these days, that life is highly desirable; but nature shrinks from dissolution, and I am still fain to live on. A poet, Sandy, would view our situation at present with something like complacency; but I am afraid he would deem your story, amusing as it is, little in keeping with the scene around us, and a night so terrible as this. I can scarcely ask a tailor if he remembers the little bit in 'Thalaba,' where the cave of the Lapland sorceress is described? The long night of half-a-year has closed, and wastes of eternal snow are stretching around; while in the midst, beside her feeble light, that seems lost in the gloom of the cavern, the sorceress is seated, ever drawing out and out from the revolving distaff the golden thread of destiny." "I mind better," replied Sandy, "Jamie Hogg's wild story o' my brother craftsman, Allan Gordon, and how he wintered at the Pole in the cabin o' a whomilt Greenlandman, wi' Nannie and a rum cask for his companions. Dear me, how the roarins o' the bears outside used to amaze the puir chield every time he was foolish aneugh to let himsel grow sober! But gudesake, Innes, what's that?" There was something sufficiently frightful in the interruption. A fearfully-prolonged howl was heard outside, mingling with the hurricane, and, in a moment after, the snorting and pawing of some animal at the door. Sandy snatched up his musket, hastily examined the pan, to ascertain that his powder had escaped the damp, and, setting it on full cock, pointed it to the place whence the noises proceeded. Innes armed himself with a hunting-spear. The sounds were repeated, but in a less frightful tone: they were occasioned evidently by a dog whining for admittance. "Some puir brute," said Sandy, "who has lost his master." And, opening the door, a large Newfoundland dog came rushing into the hut. With more than brute sagacity, he flung himself at the feet of the fur-gatherers, as if imploring protection and assistance; and then, springing up and laying hold of the skirts of Sandy's blanket, he began to tug him violently towards the door. "Let us follow the animal," said Innes; "it may be the means of rescuing a fellow-creature from destruction; his master, I am convinced, is perishing in the snow." "I shall not fail you, Innes," exclaimed Sandy; and, hastily wrapping their plaids around them, and snatching up, the one a loaded musket, the other a bottle of spirits, the fur-gatherers plunged fearlessly into the storm and the darkness. A greenish-coloured light still glimmered faintly from the north, through the thick drift and the falling snow, too faint, indeed, to enable them to catch the outlines of surrounding objects, but sufficient to show them the dog moving over the ice a few yards before them, like a little black cloud. They followed hard in his track towards the bottom of the creek. The steep banks on either hand contracted as they advanced, till at length they could see their shagged summits high above them in the darkness, and could hear the storm raging in the pines, though it had become comparatively calm in the shelter below. The creek at length terminated in a semicircular recess, surrounded by a steep wall of precipices. The dog bounded forward to a fissure in the rock--and there, at the edge of a huge wreath of snow, which half shut up the entrance, lay what seemed, in the uncertain light, the dead body of a man. The dog howled piteously over it, breathed hard in the face, and then looked up imploringly to the fur-gatherers. Innes leaped over the wreath, followed by Sandy, and, on raising up the body, found, though the extremities were stiff and cold as the ice on which it lay, that life was not yet extinct. "Some unlucky huntsman," said Sandy; "we maun carry him, Innes, to the log-house; life is sweet even among the deserts o' Hudson's Bay." The perishing hunter muttered a few broken syllables, like a man in the confusion of a dream. "It grows dark, Catherine," he said, "and I am sick at heart, and cold." "Puir, puir fallow!" exclaimed Sandy--"he's thinkin o' his wife or sweetheart; but he'll no perish this time, Innes, if we can help it. Pity, man, for the car and dogs; but minutes are precious, and we maun just lug him wi' us as we best may." Rolling their plaids around the almost lifeless stranger, the fur-gatherers bore him away over the ice, the dog leaping and barking with very joy before them; and in less than half-an-hour they had all reached the log-house. The means of restoring suspended animation, with which the casualties of so many Hudson's Bay winters had made Sandy well acquainted, were resorted to on this occasion with complete success; and the stranger gradually recovered. He proved to be one of the most trusted and influential of the company's managers--a native of Scotland, and much loved and respected among the inferior retainers of the settlement, for an obliging disposition and great rectitude of principle. He was a keen sportsman, and had left his place of residence in the morning, on a solitary hunting excursion, accompanied only by his dog. But, trusting to his youth and strength, the enthusiasm of the hunter had drawn him mile after mile from home; and, on the breaking out of the storm, he had lost his way among the interminable bays and creeks of the lake. On his recovery, he was profuse in his expressions of gratitude, and meant all that he said. He was, perhaps, not much afraid to die, he remarked, but then he had many inducements to live, and there were more than himself who had a stake in his life, and who would feel grateful to his preservers. "Compose yourself," said Innes; "you have been strangely tried to-night, and your spirits are still much flurried. Set yourself to sleep, for never had man more need; and my companion and I shall watch beside you during the night. Remember you are our patient, and entirely under our control." The manager good-humouredly acquiesced in the prescription, and in a few minutes after was fast asleep. "Now, Innes," said Sandy, "as there's to be no bed for us to-night, you maunna forget that you're pledged to me for your story. Remember, my bonny man, our bargain when ye got mine." "I do remember," replied Innes; "but I well know you will be both tired and sleepy ere I have done." "I have long had a liking for you, Sandy," continued Innes--"I knew you from the first to be a man of a different cast from any of our fellows; and, ever since I saw you take part with the poor Indian, whom the two drunken Irishmen attempted to rob of his rum and his wife, I have wished for your friendship. It is not good for man to be alone, and I have been much too solitary since I entered with the company. You were, when in Scotland, the victim of a silly prejudice against a humble, but honest calling, but you could have lived in it, notwithstanding, had not a love for wandering drawn you abroad. I, on the contrary--thought like the hare with many friends, I was a favourite with every one--was literally starved out of it. My father was a gentleman farmer, not thirty miles from Inverness, whom the high war prices of cattle and grain had raised from comparative poverty to sudden, though short-lived, affluence. No man could be more sanguine in his hopes for his children. He had three boys, and all of us were educated for the liberal professions, in the full belief that we were all destined to rise in the world, and become eminent. Alas! my brother, the divine, died of a broken heart, a poor over-toiled usher in an English academy; my brother, the doctor, perished in Greenland, where he had gone as the surgeon of a whaler, after waiting on for years in the hope of some better appointment; and here am I, a lawyer--prepared to practise, as soon as we get courts established among the red men of Hudson's Bay. But I anticipate. I am not sure nature ever intended that I should stand high as a scholar; but I was no trifler, and so passed through the classes with tolerable _eclat_. I am not at all convinced, either, that I possess the capabilities of a first-rate lawyer; but I am certain I have seen men rise in the world with not more knowledge, and with, perhaps, even less judgment to direct it. What I chiefly wanted, I suspect, was a genius for the knavish parts of the profession. Will you believe me when I say I have known as much actual crime committed in the office of a pettifogging country lawyer, as I ever saw tried in a sheriff court. Oh, what finished rascality have I not seen skulking under the shelter of the statute-book!--what remorseless blackening of character, for the sake of a paltry fee!--what endless breaches of promise!--what shameless betrayals of trust!--what reckless waste of property! Sandy Munro, I am a poor Hudson's Bay fur-gatherer, and can indulge in no other hope than that I shall one day lay my bones at the side of some nameless creek or jungle; but rather that, a thousand, thousand times, than affluence, and influence, and respectability--ay, respectability--through the wretched means by which I have seen all these secured!" "You are an honest chield, Innes," said Sandy, grasping him by the hand. "I have had a regard for you ever since I first saw you; and the mair I ken o' you the mair my respect rises." "My father," continued Innes, "was respectably connected; I had a turn for dress, a tolerably genteel figure, and was fond of female society; and, during the four years I served with the lawyer in Inverness, I found myself a welcome guest in all the more respectable circles of the place. Scarcely a tea-drinking or dancing party was got up among the _élite_ of the burgh, but I was sure of an invitation. I danced, played on the flute, handed round the tea and the sweetmeats--all _par excellence_--and was quite an adept in the art of speaking a great deal without saying anything. In short, I became a most accomplished trifler--an effect, perhaps, of my very imperfect love of my profession. The men who rise to eminence, you know, rarely begin their course as fine fellows; and were it not for a circumstance to which I owe more of my happiness and more of my misery than to any other, I would have had to attribute my failure in life less to an untoward destiny than to the dissipation of this period. But I was taught diligence by the very means through which most young people are _un_taught it. I fell in love. There was a pretty, simple lassie, the daughter of one of the bailies of the place, whom I used frequently to meet with in our evening parties, and with whose appearance I was mightily taken from the moment I first saw her. She united, in a rare degree, all the elegance of the young lady with all the simplicity of the child; and, with better sense than falls to the share of nineteen-twentieths of her sex, was more devoid than any one I ever knew of their characteristic cunning. You have heard, I daresay, that young ladies are anxious about getting husbands; but, trust me, it is all a mistake. The anxiety is too natural a one to be experienced by so artificial a personage as the mere young lady. It is not persons but things she longs after--settlements, not sweethearts. I have had a hundred young-lady friends, who liked my youth and gentility, and who used to dance, and romp, and chat with me, with all the good-will possible, but who thought as little of me as a sweetheart as if I were one of themselves. Thoughts of that tender class were to be reserved for some rich Indian, with a complexion the colour of a drum-head, and a liver like a plum-pudding. This bonny lassie, however, was born--poor thing!--with natural feelings. We met, and learned to like one another; we sang and laughed together; talked of scenery and the _belles lettres_; and, in short, lost our hearts to one another ere we so much as dreamed that we had hearts to lose. You must be in love, Sandy, ere all I could tell you could give you adequate notions of the happiness I have enjoyed with that bonny, kind-hearted lassie. Love, I have said, taught me diligence. I applied to my profession anew, determined to be a lawyer, and the husband of Catherine. I waded through whole tomes of black-letter statutes, studied my way over forty folios of decisions, and did what I suppose no one ever did before--read Grigor on the Game-laws. Not half-a-dozen practitioners in the country could draw out a deed of settlement with equal adroitness--not one succeeded in putting fewer double meanings into a will. My master used to consult me on conveyancing; and when, at the expiry of my term, I left his office and set up for myself, you will not wonder it was with the hope that my at least average acquirements would secure for me an average portion of success. You will see how that hope was realised. "The father of my sweetheart was, as I have said, a Inverness bailie; he was extensively engaged in trade, and all deemed him a rising man; but the case was otherwise. An unlucky speculation, and the unexpected failure of a friend, involved him in ruin; and I saw his office shut up not three weeks after I had opened my own. A week after brought me the intelligence of my father's death. He had been sinking in the world for years before; getting, much against his will, into arrears with every one; and now, immediately on his death, all his effects were seized by the laird. He was an easy-tempered, obliging man--credulous and confiding--and hence, perhaps, his misfortunes. You will deem me cold and selfish, Sandy, to speak in this way of my father; and yet, believe me, I felt as a son ought to feel; but repeated blows have a stupefying effect, and I can now tell you, with scarcely a twinge, of hopes blighted and friends lost. All my hopes of rising by my profession soon failed me. No one entered my office. Though not without some confidence in my acquirements, as you may see, I have ever had a sort of shamefaced bashfulness about me, that has done me infinite harm. People were afraid to trust their cases with one who seemed to mistrust himself--the forward, the impudent, and the unprincipled carried off all the employment, and I was left to starve." "Honest, unlucky chield!" ejaculated Sandy, with a profound yawn. "One might guess, by the way ye bargain wi' the Indians, that ye hae a vast deal owre little brass for makin a fortune by the law. But what cam o' your puir simple lassie, Innes, when her father broke?" "Ah, dear, good girl," replied Innes, "with all her simplicity, she was, by much, better fitted for making her way through the world than her lover. She was highly accomplished, drew beautifully, read Chateaubriand in the original, and had a pretty taste for music. Through the recommendation of a friend, she was engaged as governess in the family of a Highland proprietor, in which, when I left Scotland, she continued to be employed--well, I trust, for her own happiness--usefully, I am sure, for others. I shall forget many things, Sandy, ere I forget the day I passed with her on the green top of _Tomnahurich_, ere we parted, as it proved, for ever. You know that beautiful hill--the queen of all our Highland _Tomhans_--with the long winding canal on the one side, and the brattling Ness on the other, and surrounded by an assemblage of the loveliest hills that ever dressed in purple and blue. It was a beautiful day in early spring, and the sun shone cheerily on a hundred white cottages at our feet, each looking out from its own little thicket of birch and laburnum, and on the distant town, with its smoke-wreath resting over it, and its two old steeples rising through. The world was busy all around us: we could see the ploughman following his team, and the mariner warping onward his vessel; the hum of eager occupation came swelling with the breeze from the far-off streets--and yet there was I, a poor supernumerary among the millions of my countrymen, parting almost broken-hearted from her whom I loved better than myself, just because there was no employment for me. Oh, the agony of that parting! But 'tis passed, Sandy, and 'tis but folly thus to recall it. No one, as I have already told you, ever thought of entering my office--no one, save my landlord and the old woman with whom I lived; and you may believe there was little of comfort in their visits. I was in arrears to the one for rent, and to the other for lodging. So far was I reduced, that, in passing through the old woman's room, I have been fain to take a potato from off her platter, and that single potato has formed my meal for the time. On one occasion I was for two days together without food." "Goodness gracious!" exclaimed Sandy--"what came o' a' the grand freends that used to gie ye the teas and suppers? Had they nae bowels ava?" "I would sooner have starved, Sandy, than have made my wants known to the best of them. But there was one on whom I had a nearer claim, to whom I applied in vain--a brother of my father--a close old hunks, who, though he had realised thousands as a ship-broker in London, had not heart enough to part with a shilling for the benefit of his poor nephew. But I believe the wretched man was well-nigh as unkind to himself as he was to me, and, in the midst of his wealth, fared nearly as ill. You are getting sleepy, Sandy, and I daresay 'tis little wonder you should; but I find a melancholy satisfaction in thus retracing the untoward events of the past, which I am certain I could not feel, did conscience whisper that my misfortunes were in any great degree owing to myself. Well, but to conclude. I became squalid and shabby; all the ladies sent me to Coventry, and all the gentlemen spurned me as a fellow of no spirit. I had mistaken my profession, it was said; and blockheads, who had been guiltless of a single new idea all their lives long, used to repeat from one another that my father, in making a wretched lawyer of me, had spoiled a good ploughman. I could bear no longer. The Hudson's Bay Company had an agent, you know, at Inverness. I called on him one evening after a day of fasting and miserable low spirits--and now here I am, in the second year of my service with the company." "But, how, Innes, man," inquired Sandy, "could ye hae found heart to leave Scotland, without seein the puir lassie, your sweetheart? Do ye ken aught o' her now?" "Know of her!" exclaimed Innes; "alas! I too surely know I have lost her. The last thing but one that I did ere I sailed from Stromness, was to write her to say how I had fallen from all my hopes regarding her, and to bid her forget me; the very last thing I did was to cry over a kind, cheerful letter, which had followed me all the way from Inverness, and in which she urged me to keep up my heart, for that all would yet be well with us. Little did she know, when writing it, what I was on the eve of becoming--a poor vagabond fur-gatherer on the wild shores of Hudson's Bay. Dear, generous girl! I trust she is happy." "May I ask," said the manager, who, unknown to the two fur-gatherers, had lain awake for some time, listening to the narrative--"may I ask if you are not Innes Cameron, late of Inverness, only surviving son of Colin Cameron of Glendocharty, and nephew of the lately deceased Malachi Cameron, of Upper Thames Street, London?" "I am that Innes Cameron," said the fur-gatherer; "and so my poor old uncle is dead?" "And having died intestate," continued the manager, "you, as heir-at-law, succeed to his entire estate, personal and real, consisting of a property of a few hundred acres in the vicinity of Inverness, and twenty thousand pounds vested in the three per cents. A considerable remittance from London has been waiting you for the last month at the Hawk River Settlement, and, what you will deem very handsome in the circumstances, a free discharge from the company for your five remaining years' servitude. I am acting manager at the River, and to my care the whole has been committed." Innes seemed astounded by the intelligence; his gayer companion leaped up and performed a somerset on the floor. "Innes, Innes, Innes!" he exclaimed, "why are ye no dancin?--why are ye no dancin? Did I no ken ye were born to be a gentleman? I maun hae a double glass to drink luck to ye; and I'm sure the manager winna say no. Goodness, man, it's the best news I hae heard in America yet!" Morning at length broke--a calm, clear morning, for the clouds had passed away with the storm--and the travellers, after sharing in an ample, though not very delicate, repast, prepared to set out on their journey. The dogs were harnessed, and the car laden. The manager, who, from the fatigue and exhaustion of the previous night, still felt indisposed, was mounted in front; the two fur-gatherers were lacing on their snow-shoes to follow on foot. At length the sun rose far to the south, through a deep frosty haze, that seemed to swaddle the horizon with a broad belt of russet, and the travellers set out in the direction of a distant promontory of the lake. The snow all around, the woods that rose thick over the level, the overhanging banks of the lake, the hills in the far distance, were all bathed in one rich glow of crimson, that more than emulated the blush of a summer's evening at sunset; the shadows of the travellers, as they stretched for many fathoms across the lake, had each a moon-like halo round the head, like the glory in an old painting; and the very air, laden with frost rime, sparkled to the sun, like the gold water of the chemist. The scene was altogether strangely, I had almost said unnaturally, beautiful; it was one of those which, once seen, are never forgotten. "You have been silent, Innes," said Sandy, "for the last half-hour, and look as wae and anxious as if some terrible mishanter had befallen ye. I'll wad the best quid in my spleuchan, ye hae been thinkin about Catherine Roberts, and o' your chance o' findin her single. I'd advise ye, man, just for fear o' a disappointment, to marry the manager's sister: she's ane o' the best, bonny lassies I ever saw, and plays strathspeys and pibrochs like an angel. Oh, had ye but heard her at 'Lochaber no more,' and the 'Flowers o' the Forest,' ye wad hae grat like a bairn, as I did. Dear me, but she's a fine lassie! Had I as mony thousands as ye hae, Innes, I wad marry her mysel." "How came you to hear her music?" asked Innes, in a tone that showed he took but little interest in the query. "Ah, there's a story belongs to that question," replied Sandy. "It's about a month or twa mair nor a twelvemonth noo, sin Tam M'Intyre and I set out frae Racoon Settlement, on ane o' the weariest and maist desperate journeys I have yet taen in America. About Christmas, a huntsman, in passing the settlement, tauld us there was to be a grand ball on New-year's Day at the Hawk River, and that there were to be four Scotch lassies at it, who had come owre the simmer afore, forbye a bonnie young leddie, the manager's sister. The River, ye ken, is no mickle aboon twa hundred miles frae Racoon Settlement, and Tam M'Intyre and I, who for five years hadna seen a living creature liker a woman than an Indian squaw, resolved on going to the ball, to see the lassies. We yoked our sledges on a snell frosty morning, set out across the great lake, and reached the log-house at Bear's Point about dark. We got up a rousin fire, and drunk maybe a glass or twa extra owre our cracks about Scotland and the lassies; but I'll tak my aith on't there was neither o' us meikle the waur. But, however it happened, about midnight we baith awakened mair nor half scomfisht, and there was the roof in a bright lowe aboon our heads. M'Intyre singed a' his whiskers and eebrees in getting out; I was luckier, and escaped wi' the loss only o' my blanket and our twa days' provisions. But we just couldna help it; and, yokin our dogs by the light o' the burnin, aff we set, weel aware that we wad baith miss our breakfasts or we reached the Hawk River. We travelled a' that day and a' the next nicht, the dogs hearty and strong, puir brutes, for we had been lucky aneugh to get the hinder half o' a black fox in a trap--the other half had been eaten by the wolves; but oursels, Innes, were like to famish. When mornin came, we were within thirty miles o' the Hawk River. There was little wind, but the frost burned like het iron. I dinna remember a sneller morning. M'Intyre had to thaw his nose three times, and my chin and ears had twice got as hard as bits o' stockfish. We had rubbed off a' the skin in trying to mak the blood circulate, and baith our faces had so swelled out o' the size, and shape, and colour o' humanity, that, when we reached the settlement, we were fain to steal into an outside hut, just that the lassies mightna see us. Man, but it was a sair begeck! The ball night came, and we were still uglier than ever, and I thought I wad hae gane daft wi' vexation. We could hear the noise o' the fiddles, and the dancin--and that was just a'. M'Intyre had some thoughts o' hangin himsel oot o' spite. Just when we were at the warst, however, a genteel tap comes to the door; and there there was a smart bonny lassie wi' a message to us frae her mistress, the manager's sister. We were asked down, she said; her mistress, hearing o' our misluck, and that we had baith come frae the north country, had got up a snug little supper for us, where there would be none to ferlie at us, and was noo waitin our comin. Was this no kind, Innes? I made a veil o' my plaid as I best could, M'Intyre muffled himself up in a napkin, and aff we went to the manager's. But, oh man! sic kindness frae sae sweet a leddy! She sang and played till us--and weel did it set her to do baith; and mixed up our toddy for us--for we were gey blate, as ye may think; and, on takin our leave, she shook hands wi' us as gin we had been her equals. I've never been fule aneugh to be in love, Innes--beggin your pardon for sayin sae--but I feel I could lay down my life for that bonny lassie ony day. Weel, but kindliness is a kindly thing!" "What is the young lady's name?" inquired Innes, with some eagerness, as a sudden thought came across him. "Her brother, I think, calls her Catherine." "Ah, no your Catherine, though," said Sandy; "the manager's name is Pringle, ye ken, and that's no Roberts." "I am a fool," replied Innes, with a sigh; "and you see it, Sandy." The track pursued by the party, which had hitherto lain along the edge of the lake, now ascended the steep wooded bank which hung over it, and, after winding for several miles through a series of shaggy thickets, with here and there an intervening swamp, opened into an extensive plain. A few straggling clumps of copsewood served to enliven the otherwise unvaried surface, and, in the far distance, there was a range of snowy hills that seemed to rise directly over a deep narrow valley in which the plain terminated. There was no wind, and a column of smoke, which issued from the centre of a distant wood, arose majestically in the clear sunshine, till, reaching a lighter stratum of air, it spread out equally on every side, like the foliage of a stately tree. "Some Indian settlement," said the manager. "There is much of beauty in this wild scene, Mr Cameron--beauty merging into the sublime; and the poor red men, its sole inhabitants, form exactly the sort of figures one would choose to introduce into such a landscape. I am now much more a lover of such scenes than before my sister joined me." "A taste for the wild and savage seems to be an acquired one," remarked Innes; "a taste for the beautiful is natural. Certainly the first comes later in life to the individual, and it is scarcely ever found among the uneducated. One of the finest wild scenes in Ross-shire--a deep, rocky ravine, overhung with wood, and with a turbulent Highland stream roaring through it--is known by all the country folk in the neighbourhood by the name of the Ugly Burn." "The remark chimes in with my experience," said the manager. "I ever admired the beautiful; but it was Catherine who first taught me to admire the sublime. There is a savagely wild scene before us, where I can now spend whole hours in the fine summer evenings, but which I used to regard, only a few years ago, as positively a disagreeable one. But such scenes make ever the deepest impression, whether the mind be cultivated or no." "Ay, Mr Pringle," remarked Sandy; "and frae that I draw my main consolation for havin spent sae mony o' my best years in gatherin skins for a wheen London merchants." "How?" inquired the manager. "Why, I just find that I am to bring hame wi' me recollections and impressions aneugh to ser' me a' my life after; recollections o' mony a desert prairie, and mony a fearfu storm--o' encounters wi' wild beasts and wild men--o' a' that we deem hardship now, but which we will find it pleasure to dwell on afterwards." "Thank you for the remark, Sandy!" said Innes; "I find I am to bring home with me something of that kind, too." Towards the close of the day, the course of the travellers had lain along the banks of the river; the waters were bound, from side to side, with a broad belt of ice, but, at the rapids, they could hear them growling beneath, like a wild beast in its den; and, just as the evening was beginning to darken, they descended into a deep hollow, surrounded by immense precipices and overhung by trees, into the upper part of which the stream precipitated itself in one unbroken sheet of foam, which had resisted the extremest influence of the frost. Innes thought he had never before seen a scene of wilder or more savage grandeur. There was a lofty amphitheatre of rock all around; the centre was occupied by a dark mossy basin, in which the waters boiled and bubbled as in a huge caldron; a broad, level strip, edged with trees and bushes, lay immediately under the precipices; and, directly beneath the cataract, there was a fantastic assemblage of tall riven peaks, laden with icicles, that seemed in the gloom a conclave of giants. A deep, gloomy cavern, whose echoes answered incessantly to the roar of the torrent, opened behind and under it; while, immediately in front, there rose a large circular mound, roughened with a multitude of lesser hillocks, and now wrapped up, like all the rest of the landscape, in a deep covering of snow. "'Tis an Indian burying-place," said the manager, pointing to the mound; "wild and savage, you see, as the people who have chosen it for their final resting-place. These hillocks are sepulchral cairns. My sister spends most of her summer evenings here--for we are now little more than a mile from the settlement; and she has taught me to be well-nigh as fond of it as herself. Should she die in this country, I am pledged to lay her among the poor Indians. There are strange stories among them of yonder cave and cataract--the one is a place of purification, they say, the other, a way to the land of spirits. I am certain you will feel much interest, Mr Cameron, in discussing with Catherine what she terms the beginnings of mythology, as illustrated by this place. She has naturally an original and highly vigorous mind, and her father (by the way, she is but a half-sister of mine) spared no pains in cultivating it. But now that we have gained the ridge, yonder is the settlement; see--that higher light comes from Catherine's window. Trust me, you may calculate on her warmest gratitude for what her brother owes you." Hawk River Settlement is situated in the middle of a valley, surrounded by low, swelling hills, with a river in front, and a deep pine-wood behind. It forms a small straggling village, composed mostly of log-houses, with a range of stone and lime buildings--the store places of the company--rising in the centre. On reaching the manager's house--a handsome erection of two storeys--Innes and his companion were shown into a small, but very neat parlour. There were books, musical instruments, and drawings. The very arrangement of the furniture showed the delicate and nicely-regulated taste of an accomplished female. The shutters were fast barred, there were candles burning on a neat mahogany table, and the cheerful wood-fire glowed through the bars of a grate, and threw up a broad powerful flame, that, in the intense frost, roared in the chimney. "Ah," said Innes to the manager, "your neat, Scotch-looking parlour brings Scotland to my mind, and my old evening parties; it reminds me, too, that a dress of skins is not quite the fittest for meeting a young lady in. Can you not indulge me with a change of dress?" "Ah, how stupid I am," replied the manager, "not to have thought of that! Attribute it all to my eagerness to introduce you to Catherine. There is a whole chestful of clothes from London waiting you below. Come this way. We shall join you, Sandy, in less than twenty minutes, when Mr Cameron has made his toilet; and Catherine, meanwhile, will find what amusement for you she can." On their return, Catherine and the fur-gatherer were engaged in conversation. She was a lady of about two-and-twenty; paler of cheek and sparer of form than she had been once; for there was an indescribable something in her expression that served to tell of sufferings long endured, and exertions painfully protracted; but she was still eminently beautiful; and there was an air of mingled spirit and good-nature in the light of her fine black eyes, and the smile that seemed lurking about her mouth, that might well be termed fascinating. Sandy had evidently felt its influence ere his companion entered the room. "And what," eagerly inquired the lady, as the manager opened the door, "is the name of your companion, the man to whom, with you, my brave, warmhearted countryman, I owe the life of my brother?" "Good heavens!" ejaculated Innes, springing forward, "can it be possible?--Catherine Roberts, the best, truest, dearest of all my friends!" "Innes Cameron!" exclaimed Catherine; and in one moment of intense, life-invigorating joy, whole years of suffering were forgotten. But why lengthen a story rapidly hastening to its conclusion, in the vain attempt to describe what, from its very nature, must always elude description? Never was there a happier evening passed on the shores of Hudson's Bay. It has long since become a truism, that, when fortune ceases to persecute a man, his story ceases to interest. It was certainly so with Innes Cameron and his story. Few men could be happier than he for the two months he remained at Hawk River Settlement. When, however, the ice broke up, and vessel after vessel began to arrive from Europe, he had become happier still; and when, about the middle of summer, he sailed for Stromness, in the good ship Falcon, accompanied by Miss Roberts and his old comrade, Sandy, there was yet a further accession to his happiness. An old file of Inverness newspapers, from which I manage to extract a good deal of amusement in the long winter evenings--for no one writes more pleasingly than Carruthers--shows me that his enjoyments were not wholly full, until after his arrival in Scotland, when he was married, says the paper, "at Belville Cottage, by the Rev. Dr Rose, to the beautiful and highly accomplished Miss Catherine Roberts." I find, in a more recent number of the same newspaper, a very neat description of a masonic procession in one of our northern towns. "There is, to a native of Scotland," says the editor, "something very pleasing in the contemplation of a goodly assemblage of Scotchmen, powerful in muscle and sinew--suited either to repulse or invade--to preserve the fame of their country, or to extend it; and this feeling was of general experience among the people of Sutorcreek on Friday last. After the brethren had paraded the streets, they returned to their lodge, where dinner was prepared for them, and where, after choosing Mr Alexander Munro, late of Hudson's Bay, as their master for the ensuing year, they spent the evening in meet cordiality." And here my story ends. The lives of a country gentleman, of superior talent and worth, and a shrewd, honest mechanic--varied only by those migrations which the Vicar of Wakefield describes--migrations from the blue room to the brown, or from the workshop to the street--however redolent of happiness and comfort to themselves, furnish the writer with but little scope for either narrative or description. THE PROFESSOR'S TALES. THE WEDDING. On a certain vacation-day of August, of which I have still a vivid recollection, I fished in Darr Water; and with so much success, that night had gathered over me ere I was aware. I was at this moment fully fifteen miles from home, in a locality unmarked by one single feature of civilisation; for here neither plough, nor sickle, nor spade had ever made an impression. For anything I knew to the contrary, there was not a human habitation nearer than ten miles. I was loaded down to the very earth with fish, and not a little fatigued by the forenoon's travel and sport. It behoved me, however, at all events and risks, to set my face homewards; and, although I might have followed the Darr till it united with the Clyde, and thus made my way with a certainty home at last, yet I preferred retracing my steps, and saving at least a dozen of miles of mountain travel. But the mist was close and crawly, lying before me in damp, danky obscurity; and the wind, which during the day had amounted to a breeze, was now wrapped up, and put to rest in a wet blanket. All was still, except the voice of the plover, mire-snipe, and peese-weep. The moss or muir, or something partaking of the nature of both, and rightly neither, was lone, uniform, and unmarked; it was like sailing without star or compass over the Pacific. Meanwhile, day, which seemed to be desirous of accelerating its departure, disappeared, and I was left alone in my wilderness. I could not even lie down to rest, for the spongy earth gave up its moisture in jets and squirts. I hurried on, however, following my breath, which smoked like a furnace amidst the mountain mist, and trailing my fish, in a large _bag_, after me. I had killed somewhere about sixteen dozen. At last I gained a small stream, and, as I have an instinctive liking for all manner of streams, I was led by the ear along its course, till I found myself in a close ravine or dell, surrounded on each hand by steep grassy ascents, scaurs and rocks. I kept by the voice of the water, which now fell more contractedly over gullet and precipice, till at last, to my infinite delight, I heard, or thought I heard, the bark of a dog; and in a few seconds one of these faithful animals occupied the steep above me, giving audible intimation of my unlooked-for presence. The shepherd's voice followed hard behind; and I never was happier in my life than on the recognition of a fellow-creature. My tale was soon told, and as readily understood and believed. To travel home on such a night was out of the question; so I was conducted to the shepherd's sheiling--to that covert in the wilderness in which there is more downright shelter, comfort, and happiness than in town palaces; for comfort and happiness are inmates of the bosom rather than of the home. My entrance was welcomed by the shepherd's wife and an only daughter. There was likewise a young lad, of about twelve years, who was the younger of two sons, the elder being dead. Servants there were none; for where all serve themselves, there is no need of what the Americans call "helps." Nothing could exceed the kind hospitalities of this family; the very dogs, with a couple of young puppies, gathered round me. They licked the wet from my legs and clothes, and seemed sufficiently satisfied even with a _look_ of approbation. My supper was the uncelebrated, but unequalled, Dumfries-shire feast--champit potatoes. I slept soundly till morning; and, after a breakfast of porridge--"Scotland's halesome food"--and learning that the young and beautiful woman, the shepherd's daughter, was to be married on Saturday eight-days, I bent my way homewards, to hear and bear merited reproof for the anxiety which my absence (which was, however, luckily attributed to a stolen visit to an aunt) had occasioned. Saturday eight-days dawned, and by this time I had resumed my fishing preceptor and companion, _Willie Herdman_, to accompany me to the mountains, thinking to decoy him, as it were, to the neighbourhood of the wedding, and there to treat him with a view of the happy party and blooming bride. I kept my own secret, and we were within a mile of the sheiling ere I disclosed it. It was then about two o'clock, and, so far as we could guess, precisely the marriage dinner-hour. Willie, who was an old soldier, had no objection to join in the merriment, nor to drink a glass to the future happiness of the young folks. So on we trudged, our lines rolled up, and our fishing-wallet (for baskets we had none) properly adjusted. We soon caught the descending stream; and, at a pretty sharp turning, came all at once within view of the hospitable cottage; but, to our surprise, there was neither noise nor cavalcade--all was desolation and silence around. The very dogs rather seemed to challenge than to invite our advance, and neither smoke nor bustle indicated any preparation. At first I thought that I had mistaken my way, and was upon the point of entering, to ascertain the fact, when the shepherd presented himself in the doorway. I then could hear the voice of mourning--"Rachel weeping" within, and the boy lying across a half-demolished hay-rick, crying and sobbing as if his heart would burst. The face of the shepherd was blank and awful--it was as if by a sudden concussion of the brain he had lost all recollection of the past. He stood leaning against both lintels of the door, and neither advanced nor retreated. At last, hearing the voice of lamentation wax louder and louder behind him, he turned suddenly round, and disappeared. Impressed with the belief that something terrible had happened, but not knowing the nature or extent of it, I advanced to the boy, with whom, as a fellow-fisher in the mountain streams, I had made up an acquaintance at the former meeting, and, taking him firmly by the shoulder, endeavoured to turn his face towards me; but he kept it concealed in the hay, and refused either commiseration or comfort. The very dogs seemed aware of the calamity, and one of them howled mournfully from the corner of a peat-stack adjoining. At last a woman, with whom I was totally unacquainted, emerged from the doorway, and informed us of the cause of all this lamentation. She had been sent for as a relation from a distance, and had only arrived a few hours before. The particulars were as follows:--Two days previous to the day set apart for the marriage, the young, light-hearted, and blooming bride had been employed in building a rick or stack of bog-hay, for winter fodder to the cow. She was in the act of completing the erection, and standing on the contracted apex, when her foot slipped, and she fell head foremost, and at once dislocated her neck. Had there been immediate medical assistance (as had been injudiciously communicated to the family), the fatal accident might have been remedied; but, alas! there was not, and, long ere surgical aid could be procured, the ill-fated bride had ceased to breathe! The first thought of the household had been directed towards the bridegroom, who had, ever since the fatal tidings, lost his reason, and become apparently fatuous, ever and anon insisting that the wedding should take place "for a' that!" We did not deem it proper, nor would it have been so, to inflict our presence upon such a household. And for months after, I never slept without dreaming of this incident, and of the distressed family--of whose future fortunes I know nothing further. MIKE MAXWELL AND THE GRETNA GREEN LOVERS. There are many individuals who think they are safe if they act within the strict letter of the law of the land, although they transgress the precepts of Holy Writ, as well as the dictates of their conscience. There is a wide field of right and wrong, good and evil, within the lines of demarcation drawn by legislators or moralists; and as the acts therein performed are equally removed from punishment and reward, the merit of the actors is the greater, the less they are influenced by the hope of praise or the fear of censure. It would, indeed, be as absurd for an individual to say that he cannot be blamed if he acts within the law, as for another to allege that he can do no good unless his actions are blazoned in the columns of a newspaper, after the fashion of the five-pound donations of dukes and duchesses; but, clear as the proposition is, there are many who pretend to say that it is far from being self-evident. To such mole-eyed moralists, the best lesson is one derived from a practical example drawn from life; and we shall, as public moral teachers, in our humble sphere, proceed to lay one, not, we hope, altogether divested of amusement, before our readers. The remembrance of the strange individual, Michael Maxwell, who lived, in the end of the last century, in the village of Gretna, so famed for irregular marriages, is not, it is supposed, yet extinct. He was the son of a small farmer, called David Maxwell, who claimed relationship to the Maxwells of Tinwald; and having died when Michael was still young, left him to the care of his mother, without, however, any means of support. His friends gave him a little education, and endeavoured to prevail upon him to learn some trade; but early habits of roving, and living on the chance occurrences of the day--perhaps strengthened by the continued assistance of his mother's friends, who got her a small house, with an acre or two of ground, for a trifling rent, and thus furnished some occasion for his services (when these could be procured) at home--rendered all kinds of business disagreeable to him. He became remarkable, as he grew up, for great strength, strong love of enterprise, and amazing bodily agility, so that no man in that part of Dumfries-shire could cope with him at the games of the neighbourhood, or in personal contest. Of these gifts he was prouder than those who are possessed of undisputed superiority, in any respect, generally are; but he claimed also the possession of other qualities, which are not often found associated with those we have mentioned: an adroit cunning, or Scottish sagacity, and certain powers of humour, on which he plumed himself more than on his bodily strength and agility. In his trials of strength with the English, whom he loved to vanquish, he sometimes contrived to bring all those qualities into operation at once--a feat in which he delighted. Giving his English vaunting opponent in a wrestling match every advantage, he allowed him gradually to get more confident and proud of his anticipated victory, wiled him on to greater exertions and more impertinent boastings, and, when he saw him rising on his tiptoe for the last triumphant throw, laid him on his back like a child, amidst the mirth and applause of the assembled crowds. It was a problem which few of the people about Gretna even attempted to solve, how Mike Maxwell, as he was called, lived; and how he contrived to keep a swift black mare always well fed and redd, besides supporting his old mother, apparently from the proceeds of a small mailing of ground, formed an addition to the difficulty, and set the wits of the wiseacres at defiance. Some supposed that he had a secret intercourse with the smugglers of the Solway, and that he kept the horse for the purpose of aiding him in directing the contraband dealers on what part of the coast to land their commodities; others again surmised that he was secretly employed by the village secular-marriage priest, to act as _avant courier_ to runaway couples, whom, by leading through circuitous roads, he might enable to escape from their pursuers. Of all those who speculated on the subject, none felt a greater interest in the mystery than a young Englishwoman of the name of Alice Parker, the daughter of a widow who lived on the English side of the Borders, and with whom Maxwell had been long on habits of great intimacy, notwithstanding of an indomitable prejudice he entertained against her country and countrymen. The great leveller of all distinctions of rank shows little respect for national prejudices; the two were devoted to each other, and would have been united, if he would have complied with her repeated request, to satisfy her as to the means whereby he maintained himself, and would maintain her. The condition of the young woman was reasonable; and one night, as she was accompanying him a short way on his road homewards, she pressed the point with so much force, that Maxwell could scarcely resist an explanation. "It is not I alone," said she, "who feel a curiosity on this subject, which perhaps you may think only concerns yourself. The inhabitants of the surrounding country all know you, in consequence of the fame of your strength; and my countrymen of Cumberland, by token of their broken limbs and dislocated joints, know you in particular to their cost. It is to this fame, which you yourself have produced, that you owe the curiosity that is entertained about your means of living; for your maimed enemies would fain make out that you betake yourself to the highway--a very convenient and satisfactory way of accounting for the mystery, as it includes an explanation of your object in keeping Black Bess there; who, as I mention her name, looks about to chide me for the imputation." "Weel may she," answered Maxwell, "for it is a foul charge; and if I knew wha originated it, I wad mak the place o' him it sprang frae (his head) sae dizzy that he wad be at some loss again to find it. But is it no yersel, Alice, wha maks the charge, and faithers it on the hail o' Cumberland, to force me to gie ye an explanation, which, after a', ye dinna need? The mailin I rent frae Laird Dempster keeps Bess, the kailyard my mither, and" (smiling, and taking his companion round the neck) "a man in love, Alice, needs little meat." "No one has any chance with you, Mike," replied she. "Your arm lays your foes on the ground, and your Scottish tongue, made supple by cunning, baffles all attempts to reach your judgment; yet you have not succeeded in this instance, for you tell me in plain terms that, if I marry you, I must live on love. That sounds not well in the land of roast beef, of which I am as fond as my neighbours; so you shall be no husband of mine." "You forget, Alice," said Maxwell, still smiling, "the three weeks ye lay in bed sick wi' love, when I left ye for Bridget o' the Glen. How muckle o' yer national dish did ye eat durin that time?" "Again at your Scottish humour!" replied Alice; "but I am in earnest. You treat me ill, Mike. What is your love to me, if I am denied your confidence? Yet may I not be asking poison? I could not hear that you were a lawless man, and live a week after I was intrusted with the secret. Unhappy fate, to love, and be forced, by the mysterious conduct of my lover, to suspect his honesty!" "You are on dangerous ground, Alice," said Maxwell. "We o' the north side o' the Borders say that love has nae suspicions, and that whar there are suspicions, there is nae love. Do ye mean that I should suspect yer love, as ye do my honesty." "Would to heaven," cried Alice, "there were as little ground in the one case as in the other! Here comes a carriage at full speed; take Bess to the side of the road." "Na," cried Mike, with a sudden start, and looking in the direction of the carriage; "Bess and I will tak the middle o' the road. She'll no stay behind a carriage; she has owre muckle gentle bluid in her veins." The carriage came up with great speed; the blinds were up, and the route was to Gretna. "Guid-nicht, Alice," cried Mike, as he flung himself suddenly on the back of Bess, and bounded off immediately behind the flying carriage. The young woman stood and looked after her friend with feelings of surprise, and it was some moments before she became sufficiently self-possessed to try to account for so abrupt a departure. Was he angry with her? His conversation showed the reverse, and his good-nature was a prominent feature of his character. A painful question followed these thoughts: Was he away after the carriage, to realise the suspicion she had been communicating to him by the privilege of love? It seemed too likely; for he had never left her before without many endearing expressions of attachment; and she had observed the sudden change of manner and look which seemed to be produced by the approaching vehicle. All the vague reports she had heard concerning him came in aid of these suspicious appearances; and as she wandered slowly home to Netherwood, where her mother resided, she sunk into a gloomy train of thought, which shadowed forth, on the dim horizon of futurity, disgrace and shame to her lover, and misfortune and death to herself. The carriage which Maxwell followed under such unfavourable appearances was, as already said, on the route for Gretna. The speed of the horses, and the loud cracking of the whip which propelled them, indicated haste; and the close blinds told of adventure, secresy, and love. Maxwell followed hard; and just as the vehicle turned to take the direction of the village, Black Bess and her rider flew past with the speed of light, and by another path reached the back-door of a small house, where she stopped. Maxwell descended, and tapped lightly at the door. "David Hoggins," said he, "are you in?" "Yes," answered the individual addressed; "what's wanted?" And the door was opened by an old man in a Kilmarnock nightcap. "There's a couple on the road, David," said Maxwell, "dootless in search o' you. The night is gettin dark, and the carriage-lights winna tell them north frae south. I'll wait at the back-door till you try and get me engaged to lead the fugitives out o' danger and the reach o' their pursuers." "The auld condition, I fancy," said David--"half and half." "Lively," answered Mike--"quick; the row o' the wheels mak the village ring. There, they're landed. Awa wi' your noose, and dinna let me slip through the loop." "I'm as sure's a hangman," said David, nodding significantly, and shutting the door, to proceed to the front of the house, where his presence was in great request. Maxwell stood for a considerable time waiting the issue of his proposal, stroking down occasionally the sleek back of Bess, and at times muttering somewhat irreverent expressions of impatience against David and his customers. At last the door opened. "They dinna need ye," said David; "Jehu will do their business, though it's clear they're pursued. They're for Berwick, and intend travellin a' nicht. She's a bonny cratur, man; sae young and guileless, and yet sae fond o' the wark, that she wad hae been doin wi' ae witness, to save the time o' gettin anither. As for him, I can see naething o' him for whiskers, the cause, I fear, o' a' the mischief. It's a Chancery touch, doubtless. They're for aff this minute. Five guineas, Mike--ha! ha!" (shutting the door.) "Five guineas," muttered Maxwell, imitating David's laugh, "and naething for me. Come, Bess, and let us try what our Scottish cunning may do against English treachery. It has filled our purse afore, and I dinna see how it shouldna do't again. If they winna hae us as guides, they canna refuse us (that is, Bess, if your heels keep, as they say, the spur o' your head) as followers; and I hae made as muckle i' the ae capacity as the ither. Come, lass" (throwing himself in the saddle, and clapping her sleek neck as she tossed her head in the air), "come--hark! the wheels row--awa--but whip or spur--awa--we'll try baith their mettle and metal." As he finished these words, he dashed down the lane, the foot of which he reached just as the carriage containing the buckled lovers passed, at the top of the speed of their spurred horses. It was clear they were afraid of pursuit, and were hastening on to Berwick, to take shipping for the Continent, the usual retreat of all runaway lovers passing through Gretna. Confiding in the abilities of Bess, Mike allowed the carriage to proceed onwards for half-a-mile before he seriously took the way, as he did not wish to be observed following it so near to the village. He kept moving in the middle of the road, reining in Bess, who, having been gratified by the noise of the carriage-wheels, pricked up her ears, pawed the ground, and capered from side to side. Roused by the sound of a strange voice, he started and turned round. "You've time yet, man," cried Giles Baldwin, a Cumberland man, whose arm Mike had broken at a wrestling-match the year before, and whose suit to Alice Parker he had strangled by her consent. "But her going's like a Scotsman running from an Englishman over the Borders. Were my arm whole, I'd lead Bess's head to the follow. Away, man, or the booty's lost, like the field o' Flodden, before it is won." "Ye've anither arm to brak, Giles," said Mike, in a low voice. "A craven has nae richt to be impudent till a' his banes are cracked, and then, like the serpent, he may bend and spit his venom. I'll see ye at the next match at Carlisle, and let ye feel the strength o' the grip o' friendship and kind remembrance. Tell Alice, as ye pass Netherwood, that I'm awa after a carriage, to show a couple the way to Berwick. Marriages beget marriages, they say; and she'll maybe tak ye, to be neebor-like, and to get quit o' me, against whom ye hae tried to poison her ear." Saying these words, Mike bounded away; and gave the Cumberland man no opportunity of replying, otherwise than by bawling out some further impertinence about his successful rival's expectation of booty from the expedition in which he was engaged. "If I had been to put mysel within the reach o' the arm o' the law," muttered Mike to himself, as he moved rapidly along, "this man's impudence micht hae scared me and saved me; but, thanks to Lewie Threshum, the writer o' Dumfries, I ken what I'm about. I can wring a man, in wrestling, to within an inch o' his life; and cut so close by an act o' parliament, that the leaves o't move by the wind o' my flight. Nae fiscal dare speak to me, sae lang as my Scottish cunning does justice to Threshum's counsel, and my arm defends me against a' ithers. Stretch on, guid Bess, and let me hae twa words wi' the happy couple." The spirited animal increased her speed, and, in a short time, approached the carriage, which continued to whirl along with great rapidity. A series of quick bounds brought Mike alongside of it. He now saw that the blinds were still up, and the driver so intent upon propelling his horses forward, that he did not know that any one was in pursuit, while the noise of the vehicle prevented the possibility of hearing the soft pattering of Bess's heels. Taking the point of his whip, Mike gave a slight and knowing tap on the carriage-blind, like the announcement of an expected lover. A noise, as of sudden fright and agitation, followed from within. "A's richt," muttered Mike to himself. But the blinds were still kept up. He paced on a little further, and, seeing that no answer was returned to his application, repeated the rap a little louder than before. "Who's there?" cried a rough voice. "A friend," answered Mike. "What is your name?" said the other, evidently in agitation. "I never gie my name through closed doors," answered Mike; "and sae lang as ane acts within the law, there's nae use for imitatin the ways o' jail birds. My name, however, is no unlike your lady's maiden ane--an admission I mak through sheer courtesy and guid manners, and respect for her worthy faither." The blind was taken down hurriedly, and a face covered with a great profusion of curly black hair presented itself. Mike drew down his hat, so as to cover his face, and, clapping Bess on the neck, paced along at great ease. After trying to scan his countenance, the gentleman seemed at a great loss. "What is it, sir, that you wish with me?" said he, "or what is your object in thus disturbing peaceable travellers by legal turnpikes?" "I beg your pardon," replied Mike. "The night is dark, and the road lonely; I thought ye micht hae wished a companion--sma' thanks for my courtesy. The gentlemen in the carriage that's comin up behind, at a speed greater than yours, ken better what is due to Scottish civility. I accompanied them a space, and enjoyed their conversation. They're in search o' twa Gretna fugitives, and wished me to assist them in the pursuit. I'm sorry I left them, seein I hae forgathered wi' ithers wha dinna appreciate fully my motives. I think I canna do better than ask Bess to slacken her pace, and bring me again to the enjoyment o' their society and conversation." A suppressed scream from a female within followed this speech. The gentleman withdrew his head, to assist the lady; the coachman looked round, and was inclined to halt; but the words, "Drive on!" rang in his ears, and he obeyed. Mike calmly kept his course, clapping Bess's neck occasionally, and pretending not to notice the agitation and confusion within the carriage, where it seemed as if the lady had gone off in a faint. After some time, the same whiskered face appeared at the carriage-window. "Hark ye, friend," said he, in an agitated tone; "you're a Scotchman, I presume, and must be _up_, as we say in London. What would you take to put the gentlemen in the other carriage _off the scent_?" "What scent?" asked Mike, gravely. "The scent of the couple they're after," said the other. "Could you not stimulate their noses with a red herring drag? Don't understand me? Hey, man, quick! What say ye?" "I understand ye," answered Mike, "mair easily than I can assist ye, I fear. The hounds ken their track owre weel. They're for Berwick direct; but a Scotchman micht maybe send them scamperin to Newcastle--I mean that is possible, barely possible." "Well, well!--what say ye?" replied the other. "Name your sum. Come, quick!" "Let me see," said Mike; "by returnin, I may lose the market--a dead loss o' twenty pound, at least. Gie me that, and I'll answer for their being twenty miles on their way to Newcastle by the time ye're twenty miles on to Berwick." "Here, here, then," said the gentleman, holding out his hand. Mike met him half-way, and received a handful of guineas, among which was a ring. "Keep yersel and the braw leddy easy," said he, as he put the money into his pocket. "Drive on, my lad" (to the driver), "and, if ye keep aff the Newcastle road, ye'll no fa' into the hands o' the chancellor." With these words, Mike drew up Bess's head, turned, and sauntered slowly back to Gretna, gratifying his humour by a few words of soliloquy. "But whar is the coach, wi' its contents, I was to send on to Newcastle? A principle o' honesty I hae aboot me maks me almost wish for an opportunity o' fulfillin my promise; but a' I undertook to insure was safety, and if they hae safety ony way, they get value for their siller; so, after a', I'm nae cheat. But here's anither coach drivin at deil's speed." "Holloa! sirrah!" cries a person from the window; "met you a carriage on your way, driving quickly, and with closed blinds, towards Berwick?" "You'll no likely find what ye want atween this and Berwick," replied Mike. "But I dinna wonder at your speed; I could almost wish to flee after her mysel. Sweet cratur!--she maun be fond o' whiskers." "Then you have met the carriage!" cried the man, with great vehemence, quickened by the concluding remark of Mike. "Quick, quick--tell us where they are, and whither going. We lose time." "I lose nane," replied Mike; "I'm saunterin at ony rate, thinkin o' my poverty; are o' the very warst o' a' subjects o' mortal meditation." "Will money drag a direct answer from you, sir?" cried the man. "No; but it will draw it out o' me as smoothly as oil," replied Mike. "Here, then," said the other, handing him some--"will that satisfy you?" "Double it," said Mike, "and I'll halve your labour." The eagerness of the pursuers forced a ready compliance. "The lady and gentleman you are in quest o'," said Mike, "hae changed their minds, and are on to Newcastle. They gave out Berwick as a decoy--an hour's ridin will bring ye up to them. But, hark ye! I have acted honourably by you--you maun do the same by me; and, therefore, when ye come up to the fugitives, ye will act discreetly, and say naething o' your informer. A nod's as guid's a wink----ye ken the rest." The pursuers took no time to reply, but flew off at full speed to Newcastle, while Mike sought, at his ease, his mother's house, at a little distance from Gretna. About two hours after he arrived, a loud knock came to the door. Mike himself opened it. "Is your name Mike Maxwell?" said a man habited like a sheriff-officer. "It is," said Mike; "and wha in thae parts doesna ken me, either by grip or sicht?" "It's by the first I get my acquaintance o' folk," said the officer, as he seized his prisoner. "I apprehend ye in the name o' the king, for highway robbery, committed on a lady and gentleman bound for Berwick." Maxwell threw himself back, and, freeing himself from the grasp of the man, laid him, by one blow, at his feet. His humour was gratified; and, laughing boisterously, he lifted the messenger from the ground. "That was merely for your impudence," said Mike. "I'm owre confident o' innocence, either to fecht or flee. A present is nae robbery--they gied me what I got o' their ain free-will and accord; and, if this is the way they tak to get their gifts back again, I can only say that the presents o' the English to the Scotch are like their blows--weel returned." "Then you admit having the property of the lady and gentleman," said a second officer, who, attended by a concurrent, now came up. "We must search you." "There's nae occasion for that," said Mike; "there's the guineas and the ring." "But where is the portmanteau and the papers?" said the officer, as he took the gold. "Search the house, Jem, while we hold him; the hen's no far off when the chicken whistles." The man searched the house. Mike looked surprised and confused, and suspected they had mistaken their man. He told them he had taken no portmanteau, and expressed total ignorance of what they meant. The men only laughed at him; they had got a damning evidence against him already--the ring, which had carved on it the initials "C. B." (Charles Beachum), the individual who had been robbed; and they did not require to hesitate an instant about his apprehension. They therefore carried him direct to Dumfries Jail. Next morning, the news had spread far and wide that Mike Maxwell had been apprehended for highway robbery; he and another individual, unknown, having, on the previous night, attacked a travelling-carriage, knocked down the driver, wounded the gentleman, frightened the lady, and carried off a portmanteau filled with valuable articles, and particularly many important documents, together with the gentleman's diamond ring (which had been found on Maxwell's person), and other things of great value. On being examined, Maxwell thought it best to tell (with a slight exception) the truth; that he had followed the carriage to inform the runaway couple that they were pursued, and had received the money and the ring for undertaking to disappoint their pursuers. He kept the secret to himself, that when he got the money he did not know, certainly, that there were any persons in pursuit, and had therefore obtained it on false pretences; but, even with this prudent qualification, his examination was held to be just as complete an admission of the highway robbery as any criminal ever uttered, under the excitement of fear or the promise of pardon. The great desideratum was the portmanteau, which the robbers had carried off; and this, by the request of Captain Beachum, who had left instructions to that effect at the next inn, as he proceeded onwards, was searched for by many individuals, under promise of a very high reward. About two hours after his examination, Maxwell was told that a young woman wished to get in to see him. He knew at once who it was; and the jailer, who was an old acquaintance, permitted her to enter. "The secret that is denied to true love," said Alice, as she stood before Mike, looking at him sorrowfully and dignifiedly, "is sometimes told to the king. You hate my country, yet an Englishwoman would have saved you, if your confidence had been equal to the love you have expressed for me. When I asked you how you lived, you told me that a lover requires little food. How much, Mike Maxwell, does a prisoner within these walls either require or get? What avails your Scottish cunning now, and how much does it transcend English honesty? But, thank heaven, I have made a narrow escape! What would your strength, your fair face, and manly bearing, which have made such conquests at our country games, have yielded me of pride or pleasure, if I had been wedded to a _robber_? Is it possible that that word and Mike Maxwell claim kindred?--that Alice Parker, who treasured up your image in her bosom as a sacred thing, or a charm against the evil eye, should this day be doomed to the pain of saying that that hateful word and the name of her heart's choice are one and the same? Miserable hour!" "Alice," replied Maxwell, "I did you injustice. I should have confided everything to your bosom; but I didna require to pollute that pure casket wi' the confidence o' a robber. I am nae robber--the first man wha said the word was laid in an instant at my feet, and sae should a' slanderers be served. I defy Scotland and England to prove Mike Maxwell a robber." "The ring you have given up to the sheriff," said Alice, "is proof against you." "Ha, Alice," replied Mike, laughing, "rings are dangerous things. Was the ane I got frae you, wi' a plait o' that raven hair in't, a sign o' robbery?" "Would to heaven that it had been such a sign!" said the maiden; "I would not then have had to lament this miserable hour, and this dreadful night." (Pausing.) "But can it be, Mike, that you are so hardened in vice that you can laugh in a jail?" "And why no, my love, if ane is innocent?" replied Maxwell. "I am indebted for this apprehension to some enemy--probably my rival, Giles Baldwin--who has got up a story about a portmanteau that never was stolen; and my honesty in confessin that I got the ring frae the gentleman for puttin the English beagles wha pursued him aff the scent, has gien the lee some colour o' truth. Conscious as I am o' my innocence, I am determined to keep up my spirits, laugh at my enemies till I get out, and then mak game o' their banes, by giein them joints whar nature never intended them to be." "You have often, in playfulness, mocked me, Mike," answered she, "and turned the inquiries of my love into questions to myself, by the force of your Scottish humour; but I bear faith that you never told me a lie. Yet, when I think of the mystery of your life, your secresy, the strange way in which you left me last night, to make after the carriage, your admission concerning the ring, and many other circumstances, I must also admit that my heart is not satisfied. I cannot help it. Even my love, unbounded as it is, does not enable me to vanquish a cold feeling that, like the shivering of an ague, creeps over my skin. I cannot say I _disbelieve_ you; but oh, what would I not give for _proof_ to still this restless aching heart!" (Pausing.) "That proof, Mike, I _shall_ have. The unpretending Englishwoman, whose counsel the wily Scotchman despised, shall now try to redeem the character of her countrywomen, and show that love and honesty are stronger than wiles and secresy." "Weel said, heroine Alice!" cried Mike, still laughing. "Ye intend to mak me guilty, to increase the glory o' your efforts to save me; but, thanks to the laws o' our country, there's nae great merit in savin an innocent man. I defy a' my faes, and wad prefer a kiss o' my bonny Alice" (clasping her to his bosom), "to a' her noble endeavours to do that which innocence itsel will do for her lover." "We stand at present on a _new_ footing, Mike," said she, as she struggled to get free, and retired back. "I must have my _proof_. Till then, farewell!" "Noble wench!" said Mike, as she departed. "However I may dislike her suspicions, I canna but admire her guidness and spirit. But Lewie Threshum will goon blaw awa this cloud, wi' the wind o' the leaves o' Stair or Mackenzie, and a' will shine bright again on Alice Parker and Mike Maxwell." The views and feelings of Alice were very different: she suspected her lover, and the thought was death to her; yet her native nobility of soul urged her to the task of draining every source of evidence to prove his innocence. She called on Lewis Threshum, who had undertaken Mike's defence, and learned from him, what pained her to the uttermost, that the evidence, so far as it went, was loaded with heavy presumptions against the prisoner. A letter had been lodged in the hands of the fiscal, from Captain Beachum, stating that the robbery was committed at a distance of about ten miles from Gretna; that the perpetrators were two ruffians, mounted on good horses; that they had taken the portmanteau filled with valuable papers, and also his purse, containing a balance of twenty-two guineas, and a diamond ring, marked "C. B.;" all of which they carried off in the direction of Gretna. The letter contained authority to the Lord Advocate to prosecute the perpetrators, and recover the articles. The ring and guineas, _minus two_, had been found on Mike Maxwell, within some hours of the robbery. Then Giles Baldwin had sworn that he saw Mike Maxwell in full pursuit after the carriage some short time before the robbery was committed; and some other individuals swore that they saw him return to Gretna some time after, mounted on his black mare. In addition to all this, was Mike's improbable examination, which seemed of itself to be conclusive of the case. This appeared to Alice overpowering, especially when she added to it what she herself had witnessed--the arrival of the carriage, and the precipitate retreat of Mike, at a time when it was _impossible_ he could know that there was (according to his theory) any carriage coming up in pursuit of the other. She went home, sad and disconsolate, and passed the remaining part of the day and the night in the greatest misery. She revolved in her head various schemes for eliciting something favourable to her lover; but the absence of Captain Beachum, who could alone give any account of the circumstances attending the alleged robbery, formed a bar to her inquiries which she could not overleap. As she sat next evening, musing on the unfortunate current of events that cast her from the elevation of the pride of one who possessed the favour of the most proper and comely man of the Borders, to the shame of the confidential friend and lover of a robber, who might shortly be hanged, after associating, on the scaffold, her name with his sorrows--she was roused from her grief by a tap at the window. She started. It was Mike's rap, and the very hour at which he generally visited her. She flew to the window, thinking he had escaped, and had thus come to communicate the joyful tidings. "Is it possible? It is not you, Mike?" she said, lowly. "No, but it is his friend," said a voice she thought she knew. "What friend?" said she; "and with what object does he call here?" "Names have a dangerous odour," said the other, "when the beagles are out and snuffing every breeze for the scent of red game. You wish Mike Maxwell well--you visited him yesterday; would you aid in his escape?" "Doubtless," said Alice. "Tell me what I could do to attain that object honourably." "Here is the portmanteau," said the other, "which was taken from Captain Beachum. If it is sent back to him, he will give up the prosecution against Mike, as all he wants is the papers contained in it. Open the window a little till I rest the end of it on the sill." Rendered stupid by this statement, Alice obeyed like an automaton. She lifted up the window. The portmanteau was placed within it in an instant. "Get it sent to Beachum," said the voice. "_I joined Mike in the robbery, and wish him to get off._" The window fell from the powerless hold of the thunderstruck girl, and struck the speaker's hand which was on the end of the portmanteau. The blow was a severe one; he ran off, and the portmanteau fell down within the house, where it lay as if it had been placed there by the hands of a housewife. It was some time before the miserable girl came back to the consciousness of her true position. The last words of the voice--"I joined Mike in the robbery, and wish him to get off"--rung in her ears like a death-knell; and the next moment her eyes fell on the fatal portmanteau--the very article stolen by her lover--that which was to convict him, to hang him. She grew frantic, ran to the door, looked east and west through the shadows of the trees, flew first one way, then another, called aloud, screamed, and called again. No one answered. The man was gone. She returned into the house, where her eyes again met and recoiled from the damning memorial. Terror now took possession of her mind. The circumstance of the portmanteau being found there would form the only link wanting of the evidence that would hang her lover. Were she to state how it came there--concealing the last dreadful words which still haunted her ear--she would not be believed; and if she told the whole truth, including the fatal words, the same result--the condemnation of her lover--would follow. What therefore was she to do? She could not discover it; but could she conceal it without danger to herself as well as to him? It was clear she could not; and, besides, her soul abhorred secresy and deceit of all kinds. As she sat in this state of doubt and despair, a noise of footsteps was heard at the door, with whisperings and broken ejaculations. A tremor passed over her. They might be officers of justice come to search the house. A rap sounded softly on the door, and the whisperings continued. The portmanteau must, in any view, be concealed in _the meantime_; and, until her mind was made up, she flew and seized the covering of the bed, and hurriedly threw it over the glaring evidence of her lover's guilt. She had scarcely accomplished this hasty, but fatal concealment, when the door opened, and three sheriff-officers entered the house, and asked her if Mike Maxwell had left anything to her charge? The necessity for acting prudently called up her energies. She stood erect before the men. "No," she replied, "Mike Maxwell committed nothing to my charge." "We have here a warrant for a search, young woman; and you will not be annoyed by our putting it to execution." She was silent, and shook from head to heel. One of the men drew off the bed-cover, and discovered the object of their search. Captain Beachum's name was on the top of it. "So Mike committed nothing to your charge?" said the man, addressing Alice again. "No," she answered, firmly. "You can tell that to the sheriff," said the man. "Meantime, we take this article along with us." He threw the portmanteau on his shoulders, and departed along with the concurrents, leaving the girl fixed to the floor like a statue. In a short time after, her mother, who was against Maxwell's suit, and blamed her daughter for having anything to do with him, entered the house. Alice dared not make her mother her confidant; she was reduced to the necessity of not only wrestling single-handed with her difficulty, but of concealing it from her parent. Bed-time came, and she retired to rest, but slept none. At daybreak she started, dressed herself, and, without saying one word to her mother, proceeded to Dumfries to visit Lewis Threshum. On arriving at his house, she found he was in the prison along with Maxwell, and waited till he came home. She informed him truly of everything that had taken place, and saw, from the effects of her communication, that she was condemning her lover. Starting up in great agitation, he cried-- "Mike's life is in your hands, Alice: will you hang or save him?" "Save him if I can," replied the girl. "Then you must tell the shirra," said Lewie, "everything ye've tauld me, but the last words uttered by the secret visiter. These you maun keep in your bosom, and hauld like grim death, otherwise Mike's a dead man." "I will speak the truth," said Alice, calmly. "Didna you love Mike?" said the writer, staring at her. "Yes, but I loved also, and still love, truth and honesty." "Idiot cratur!" ejaculated Lewie, stamping with his feet. "Mike Maxwell is a dead man--Mike Maxwell is a dead man!" (Pausing and looking at her.) "Will you hide yourself then?" "No," replied she; "I do not love secresy." "Hang him then!" cried the infuriated man; "hang him, and then drown yourself, like the rest o' your inconsistent sex." Offended by the violence of Threshum, which resulted, however, from his wish to save his friend and her lover, Alice left the room suddenly, and had scarcely got to the door, when she heard the writer calling after her. At this moment she was seized by a sheriff-officer, and conducted before the sheriff to be examined. She told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. The fatal words of the secret visiter--"I joined Mike in the robbery, and wish him to get off"--were formally recorded, and the deposition closed. Threshum, finding the necessity of exerting his best energies to overcome the weight of this overpowering evidence, called at the office of the fiscal, and demanded, on behalf of his client, to see the contents of the portmanteau. This was conceded to him; and the man of the law, having examined carefully the papers in presence of the fiscal, and taken notes of them, departed, to turn his information to the best account he could for his client. He discovered that the papers belonged to Mr William Anson, merchant in Bristol, the guardian of the runaway bride, Miss Julia Anson. This done, Lewis got hold of Alice before she left Dumfries, and took her with him to the prisoner, to see if the efforts of Mike would have any effect upon making her depart from her intention of adhering to the truth on the day of trial--the examination she had already undergone being merely a step in the preparation of the evidence. When they entered, they found Mike enjoying himself over some brandy, which the friendship of the jailer had procured for him. Lewis told him, with a grave face, of the extraordinary circumstances attending the recovery of the portmanteau, and, in particular, the words uttered by the individual who handed it in at the window. Mike remained unmoved. "And do ye believe the words o' the ruffian wha thus hounds me?" said he to Alice. "I cannot disbelieve what accords so well with everything else I have seen," replied she. "Alas! would that I could disbelieve them!" "But ye'll keep them at least to yersel, Alice?" said Mike. "If I could keep my heart to mysel, Mike, I would," replied she. "But God does not allow that, and I must speak the truth. What would you have me to do?" "To say naething," replied he. "Fule, man!" rejoined Lewis; "say naething! That wad hang ye mair certainly than what she has already said to the fiscal (to whom she has tauld everything), and intends to repeat at the trial, unless we can, in some way, prevent it. Say naething, man! You and she are tryin, like the competin millspinners o' Dryden's mill, which o' ye is best at twistin hemp. If she said naething, wha wad be presumed to be the depositor o' the portmanteau in the hands o' Alice Parker, the weel-kenned lover o' Mike Maxwell? Wha but Mike Maxwell himsel? Could it come frae a mair likely hand than that on whase finger the owner's diamond ring was, or micht hae been? Ye're baith fules. The lassie should swear, and she _maun_ swear (unless, indeed, she wants to hang ye, which seems to be the case), that the portmanteau was handed in at the window by a man wha said ye were innocent, and had sent back the papers to try to save ye." "Will ye say that, Alice?" said Mike. "I cannot tell a lie, Mike," replied Alice. "I will speak the truth; and I would do that if Alice Parker's neck, in place of Mike Maxwell's, were in danger of the rope." "Incomprehensible wench!" cried Mike. "Is this the last and strongest proof o' your affection? Does this agree wi' the sabbin heart and watery ee o' the greetin Alice, as she used to hang round my neck amang the green shaws o' Netherwood, and get me to promise that I never again wad see May Balfour? or does it agree wi' my promise, made on the condition that you wad renounce Giles Baldwin, wha, I fear, is at the bottom o' a' this affair? Is it common for women to agree to marry simple men, and then hang them?--to promise them a gowden ring for the finger, and gie them a hempen ane for the craig?" "It is common for women to love," replied Alice, "and it is too common for women to lie for love; but the love that is leagued with the falsehood of the tongue, cannot be supported by the truth of the heart. No woman ever loved man as I loved you, Mike; but you are only a man, and there is a God" (looking upwards) "to be loved--ay, and to be feared. But you say you are innocent; and when did white-robed innocence require the piebald, ragged covering of falsehood, to show the purity which it covers? It were a mockery of the laws of God and man, to swear falsely to save an innocent man. And, alas! if you are guilty (and appearances are sadly against you), no falsehood ought to save you from the injured laws of your country." "The plain Scotch o' a' this English, Mike," said Lewie, "is, that the lassie is determined to hang ye, as a repayment for a' the kisses ye were at the trouble to gie her in the holms o' Netherwood; and, after ye're dead, she'll sing 'Gilderoy' owre your grave. But, in sober seriousness, she's an idiot, like a' the rest o' her English freends. A Scotchwoman wad hae leed through fire and brimstone for her lover; and, after she swore the rope aff his neck, placed her saft arms round his craig, in place o' the hemp. Mercy on me, whar wad be a' my glory at _proofs_ if folk were to speak the truth? My pawkieness, slyness, cunnin, art, and triumph o' the cross-question, wad be o' nae mair avail than sae muckle ordinary fair rubbish o' straightforward judgments and honesty. Keep up your spirits, Mike; I'll no let her hang ye. The English man or woman's no born that will hang Mike Maxwell." "Are ye resolved, Alice?" said Mike, approaching her, and holding out his arms to enfold her. "I am," replied she, receding. "Clear yourself by the aid of truth, and there's no haven in this world that could be dearer to me than these arms. Till then, I am the bride of sorrow. Farewell!" And she departed, leaving Lewis Threshum with Maxwell. "Saw ye ever sic a stubborn fule?" said Lewie. "I never saw sae noble a wench," replied Mike. "Ha! ha!" cried the writer. "A pair o' fules! Ye're the first man, Mike, I ever heard praise the person that swears awa his life; but this nonsense will neither prove nor pay. We maun set aboot discoverin the mystery o' this adventure at Alice's window. Ae thing seems to me perfectly clear; and that is, that it wasna the robber that handed in that portmanteau." "Hoo do ye mak oot that?" said Mike. "You're as simple's the puir English fule," replied Lewie. "Wad the man wha took the portmanteau frae Captain Beachum hae admitted to Alice Parker that he was the robber? and, what's mair, wad he hae said that ye joined him in the robbery--a lee--at the very moment when he wanted to save ye by returnin the stolen article?" "You astonish me, Lewie," said Mike; "thae things never occurred to me." "A lawyer's ee has twa lenses," said Lewie. "The man, whaever he is, who handed in that portmanteau at Alice Parker's window is your enemy, and no the robber. How he got the portmanteau is a different thing; but maybe we may be able to discover that also." "If my enemy," said Mike, "he maun be Giles Baldwin, the lover o' Alice." "Ha!" cried Lewie, "there's light there, man. Why was the portmanteau no taen to yer mother's? The question's a curious ane. Baldwin was the likely man to tak it to Alice's, and the _only_ man wha wad hae tauld the lover o' his successfu rival that that rival was the robber. There's conies i' this hole; I see the marks o' their feet; and whar will ye find a better terrier than Lewie Threshum? Mair, man: wha sent the officers to Alice's house? That I'll sune discover. Keep up your spirits, Mike; and, while ye try to shake that fause English woman frae yer heart, I'll try and keep Hangie frae yer craig." And away Lewie hastened; to continue his inquiries. He went first to the officers who searched for the portmanteau, and ascertained from them, through the influence of that heart-aperient whisky, that it was in fact Giles Baldwin who had told them to go and search the house of Widow Parker. Lewis next proceeded to Gretna, where he interrogated Alice more distinctly. "If ye're determined to speak the truth," said he to the grieved girl, "ye should tell us the hail truth, as ye did te the shirra. Did the voice o' the man no strike ye as a kent ane?" "It did," replied Alice; "but though I have been trying to discover whose it resembled, I have not been able to make anything of it." "What say ye to Giles Baldwin's?" said Lewie. "When you mention it," said Alice, "it does strike me that the resemblance between the two voices was very great. But a thought now strikes me: when the man said that Mike had joined him in the robbery, I let fall the window, which struck him over the knuckles a severe blow. The mark must be on his hand yet. For God's sake, fly to Giles' house, and see if his hand is hurt. If that is the case, I will believe that Mike Maxwell is an innocent man." "Why," said Lewie, looking cunningly into her face. "Because," said she, "Mike Maxwell never would have joined Giles Baldwin, his enemy, in a robbery; and, therefore, the statement made to me at the window was a lie; and one lie, like a fly in a box of ointment, corrupts the whole mass of evidence." "My writing-chamber maun be like a charnel-house, then," said Lewie. "But, lassie, you're surely Scotch, wi' merely an English tongue." "Sir," said Alice, "I would wish you would hasten to Giles Baldwin, rather than joke about this serious affair." "A' my triumph in the law consists in jokin when I am serious," replied Lewie, with a grave face. "Ye wadna tak my advice when I wanted ye to save yer lover; and now I'll no tak yours when ye want me to save him" (leering); "I mean, Alice, just that I'll gang to Giles Baldwin at my ain time. Will ye swear to his voice and his hand?" "If Giles Baldwin's hand," said she, "is cut in such a way as might have been done by the fall of that window, I will swear to my perfect belief of his being the man who handed in the portmanteau." "Aneugh, aneugh," cried Lewie; "I kent ye were Scotch; and now I'll awa to Giles, and _shak hands_ wi' him." Lewis departed, and went away direct to Baldwin's house. He found Giles at the door, and, holding out his hand, asked him, in a friendly manner, how he did. Giles intuitively extended his hand, which, as Lewie seized it, he observed, was clearly peeled along the back, a little above the knuckles. "Ye hae a hard grip, Giles," said the writer. "Is this the arm that Mike Maxwell broke at the wrestlin match last year?" (Looking down at his hand.) "I declare, there's the marks o' Mike's fingers on yer hand yet! But I'm sorry ye hae fa'n into this new scrape, Giles. The craig's a mair kittle part than the arm or the hand, and aften does penance for the acts o' its restless freend. I'm sorry for you, Giles." "What's the matter?" said Giles. "I need no man's sorrow, nor money either." "A man that has been successful in the highway doesna need the last," said Lewie; "but he is in great need o' the first. It was strange that twa enemies should join thegither to commit robbery. It's now quite ascertained that you and Mike Maxwell were the robbers o' Captain Beachum." "Wha dares say that?" replied Giles, looking alarmed. "Alice Parker," said Lewie. "That nicht ye handed into her Captain Beachum's portmanteau at the window, and got your hand" (taking hold of it) "hurt by the fa' o' the sash (the mark is on't yet--Providence winna let thae marks heal), you told her very honestly--but I canna say, Giles, it was prudent o' ye--at least I wadna hae dune sae unguarded a trick--that Mike Maxwell joined you in the robbery. You then told Jem Anderson, the shirra-officer, to gae and search for the portmanteau in Widow Parker's hoose. What made ye do that, man? Couldna ye hae come to me, and gien me six and eightpence for an advice? The neck o' a sheep, wi' the head at ae end, and the harrigals at the ither, is worth eighteen-pence. Surely the craig o' a man is worth six and eightpence." Giles was bewildered by this speech, and appeared like a man who gets the folds and meshes of a net thrown over him. He stood and stared at the writer. The great terror was the charge of robbery, of which he was quite innocent; and he was conscious that he had so far convicted himself, by an unwary statement to that effect made for a certain purpose to Alice Parker. His mind, occupied by this fear, let go the apprehension of a discovery of the mere act of handing in the portmanteau. "I see no harm in handing in the portmanteau," he said, irresolutely, his mind still occupied by the major terror; "a person finding it on the road might take that way of returning it to the owner, and saving poor Mike. I committed no robbery." "Giles Baldwin," said Lewie "this winna do; I can prove that ye hae _admitted being a robber_. Now, tak yer choice--admit the truth about the portmanteau, (for I dinna believe ye stole it), or run the risk o' a trial for yer life. If ye refuse me, I'll hae ye apprehended within an hour." The scrape into which Giles had got was evident to himself. He saw no way of escaping; but he was still dogged and silent. "Guid-day, Mr Baldwin!" said Lewis; "ye needna try to flee the country; I'll hae twa beagles after ye afore ye can even cut a stick frae that ash to help ye on. Twa hangins on ae wuddy maks twa pair o' shoon to the hangman, but only ae ploy to the people." "Mr Threshum," cried Baldwin, as the writer was going out, "what do you want?" "Explain to me a' ye ken about the portmanteau," said Lewis, "and I'll guarantee ye against the wuddy: that's fair." "I found the portmanteau," said Giles, at last overcome with fear, "and gave it to Alice Parker to send to the owner, and save Mike." "That's no a' true," said Lewis. "If ye wanted to save Mike, why did ye tell a lee, and say that he was ane o' the robbers, yoursel bein the ither?" Giles was caught; he saw now that he had only one course, and agreed to sign a paper, setting forth all he knew and everything he did in relation to the transaction. Lewis sat down accordingly, and took down his declaration, which, after it was finished, he signed and authenticated. It bore that he had a grudge against Mike Maxwell, for having broken his arm, and taken from him his lover, Alice Parker. He had heard the suspicions which were afloat in regard to Mike's mode of living; and, having seen him that night sitting on Black Bess, and looking after the carriage, he suspected he was after prey. He insulted him in the way mentioned; and Mike having retaliated in the way also already set forth, Giles was wroth against him, and seeing, some time after, a carriage hastening after the other, he got up behind it, and rode on, with the view of watching the motions of Mike, and of being enabled to inform upon him, and thus revenge himself. After riding for some time, he heard the conversation between Mike and the gentleman in the carriage, which has been already detailed; and, having proceeded on some distance farther, to get some whisky at a house where he was acquainted, he noticed, as the carriage swerved to a side, a portmanteau lying on the ground. He jumped down, and, taking hold of the article, swung it behind a hedge, and covered it with leaves and twigs. Some time after, two men came up, and asked him if he had seen a portmanteau. He denied that he had, and they passed on. Then came two sheriff-officers, who told him that a robbery had been committed on a lady and gentleman going to Berwick, whereby a valuable portmanteau had been taken from the carriage. This made Giles prick up his ears: he suspected that Mike had been the robber; and his suspicion was confirmed by the fact, that he had heard him send the gentleman in the second coach to Newcastle, though he knew they were after the couple that were bound for Berwick--a device resorted to by Mike, no doubt, for preventing them from coming upon the robbed couple, and giving information against him when they had met. Filled with this suspicion, and his desire of revenge, Giles sent the officers to Mike's house, and afterwards gave as much evidence against him as he could, consistently with his wish to keep the contents of the portmanteau to himself. Having gone and examined it next day, he found nothing in it but papers; and therefore resolved upon committing it to the charge of Alice, and then informing the officers that it was in her custody. To prevent Alice from telling how it came into her possession, and of course to leave the presumption open that she had got it from Mike, he said that Mike had been one of the robbers; and the reason why he had said that he himself was the other, was, that he was personating one of the robbers at the time when he was speaking to Alice; and, as he knew that the report spoke of two robbers, he glided naturally into the statement he had made to Alice, whom he wished also to prejudice against his rival. This declaration Giles signed; and Lewis came away with it in his pocket very well pleased. He read it to Alice Parker as he passed along. She was delighted beyond adequate powers of expression, and only wanted an explanation of the ring to satisfy her entirely. "That ye'll get too," said Lewie. "I hae a' that, cut and dry; but the time's no just come yet. Ye maun hae patience, and I wad recommend to ye to pay some attention in the meantime to puir Mike, and mak amends for yer cruelty, in refusin to tell a lee to save the life o' a fellow-cratur." "If people were not cruel to themselves," said Alice, "they would not require any one to commit for them so heinous a sin." Lewis left her, and returned to Dumfries, where he communicated his success to Mike. Some time afterwards, the former understood that Captain Beachum had written from Paris, wishing to avoid a personal appearance in Scotland; but the Lord Advocate wrote him back, to say that, if he did not appear, he would neither get the criminal prosecuted, nor receive up his portmanteau and papers. The captain (leaving his young wife on the Continent) accordingly came over to Dumfries, extremely anxious to have the trial over, and get possession of his papers. As soon as Threshum knew he was arrived at the Cross Keys, he waited upon him. "Captain Beachum," said Lewis, "ye hae committed an honest man to prison, on a charge o' being the individual wha robbed ye o' your portmanteau, guineas, and ring. Wad ye ken him if ye saw him?" "No," said the captain; "but there's proof enough against him; he had my ring in his possession, and the portmanteau was discovered in the house of his sweetheart." "The last part o' the charge gaes for naething," said Lewis, "as I can prove to your satisfaction; and the first proves nae robbery, but only your munificence in giein a man a dimond ring, as a luck-penny to a bargain, whereby ye saved yersel and yer wife frae the vengeance o' Mr Anson, wha was that nicht followin you wi' a' the speed o' a guardian's flight after his ward." "What mean you?" said the captain. "Do ye no recollect," said Lewis, "o' giein a man on a black mare twenty guineas to mak a red-herrin drag across the nose o' Mr Anson?" "I do," said the captain; "but I did not give him the ring." "I can assure ye that ye did, though," said Lewis. "Recollect yoursel." "I'm not inclined to try to recollect my own stupidity," said the captain. "It is impossible I could be so foolish as to give away my diamond ring, either as a present or by mistake." "If you're no inclined to do that muckle justice to an injured man, maybe you'll gie me the papers that belang to Mr Anson, by virtue o' this letter o' authority" (taking out the letter). "Tak your choice." "The papers, sir," said the captain, getting frightened, "are all I want. I care nothing for the prosecution of the man. It's certainly possible I may have given him the ring by mistake; but how do you account for the portmanteau being in his lover's house?" Lewis read to him Giles Baldwin's deposition. "Then," said the captain, "all the evidence against Maxwell is the ring?" "Naething mair," said Lewis. "He shall not be hanged for that," said the captain. "I shall go off to the authorities, and inform them that it is very probable I gave the man the ring in the way you mention. You say nothing of Mr Anson and the papers, you know." "I canna interfere, luckily," said Lewis. On the statement of Captain Beachum, Mike was liberated. He afterwards took a farm, married Alice Parker, whom he admired the more for her love of truth, and lived with happily for many years; but he ever lamented the course of life he had led. He ran a great risk of being hanged, from the curious combination of circumstances that conspired against him--lost reputation by it, and caused unspeakable grief to one of the best of women. Hence our moral: that one is not always safe from the effects of vice, though he act within the laws. REUBEN PURVES; or, THE SPECULATOR. Speculation is the soul of business; it is the mainspring of improvement; it is essential to prosperity. Burns has signified that he could not stoop to crawl into what he considered as the narrow holes of bargain-making; and nine out of every ten persons who consider themselves high-minded profess to sympathise with him, and say he was right. But our immortal bard, in so saying, looked only at the odds and ends--the corners and the disjointed extremities--of bargain-making, properly so called; and he suffered his pride and his prejudices to blind, in this instance, his mighty spirit, and contract his grasp, so that he saw not the all-powerful, the humanising, and civilising influence of the very bargain-making which he despised. True it is, that as a spirit of speculation or bargain-making contracts itself, and every day becomes more and more a thing of farthings and of fractions, it begets a grovelling spirit of meanness, that may eventually end in dishonesty; but as it expands, it exalts the man, imbues his mind with liberality, and benefits society. The spirit of commercial speculation will spread abroad, until it render useless the sword of the hero, cause it to rust in its scabbard, and to be regarded as the barbarous plaything of antiquity. It will go forth as a dove from the ark of society, bearing the olive-branch of peace and of mutual benefits unto all lands, until men shall learn war no more. But at present I am not writing an essay on speculation or enterprise, but the history of Reuben Purves, the Speculator; and I shall therefore begin with it at once. Reuben was born in Galashiels, than which I do not know a more thriving town, or one more beautifully situated, on all the wide Borders. As you pass it, seated on the outside of the Chevy-Chase coach on a summer day (if perchance a sunny shower shall have fallen), it lies before you as a long and silvered line, the blue slates reflecting back the sunbeams. In its streets, cleanliness and prosperity join hands; while before it and behind it rise hills high enough to be called mountains, where the gorgeous heather purples in its season. Before it--I might say through it--wimples the Gala, almost laving its thresholds. There the spirit of speculation and of trade has taken up "a local habitation and a name," in the bosom of poetry. On the one hand is the magic of Abbotsford, on the other the memories of Melrose. But its description is best summed up in the condemnation of a Cockney traveller, who said, "Vy, certainly, Galashiels would be wery pretty, were it not its vood and vater!" But I again digress from the history of Reuben Purves. I have said that he was born in Galashiels: his father was a weaver, and the father brought his son up to his own profession. But although Reuben "Was a wabster guid, Could stown a clue wi' onybody," his apprenticeship (if his instructions from his father could be called one) was scarce expired, when, like Othello, he found "his occupation gone," and the hand-loom was falling into disuse. Arkwright, who was long considered a mere bee-headed barber, had--though in a great measure by the aid of others--brought his mechanism to a degree of perfection that not only astonished the world, but held out a more inexhaustible and a richer source of wealth to Britain than its mines did to Peru. Deep and bitter were the imprecations of many against the power-loom; for it is difficult for any man to see good in that which dashes away his hard-earned morsel from the mouths of his family, and leaves them calling in vain for food. But there were a few spirits who could appreciate the vast discovery, and who in it perceived not only the benefits it would confer on the country, but on the human race. Arkwright, who, though a wonderful man, was not one of deep or accurate knowledge, with a vanity which in him is excusable, imagined that he could carry out the results of his improvements to an extent that would enable the country to pay off the national debt. It was a wild idea; but, extravagant as it was, it must be acknowledged that the fruits of his discoveries enabled Britain to bear up against its burdens, and maintain its faith, in times of severest trial and oppression. Reuben's father was one of those who complained most bitterly against the modern innovation. He said, "the work could never be like a man's work. It was a ridiculous novelty, and would justly end in the ruin of all engaged in it." It had, indeed, not only reduced his wages the one-half, but he had not half his wonted employment, and he saw nothing but folly, ruin, and injustice in the speculation. Reuben, however, pondered more deeply; he entered somewhat into the spirit of the projector. He not only entertained the belief that it would enrich the nation, but he cherished the hope that it would enrich himself. How it was to accomplish his own advancement he did not exactly perceive, but he lived in the idea--he dreamed of it--nothing could make him divest himself of it; and he was encouraged by his mother saying-- "Weel, Reuben, I canna tell, things may be as ye say--only there is very little appearance o' them at present, when the wages o' you and your faither put thegither are hardly the half o' what ane o' ye could hae made. But ae thing is certain--_they who bode for a silk gown always get a sleeve o't_." "Nonsense, woman! ye're as bad as him," was the reply of his father; "wherefore would ye encourage the callant in his havers? I wonder, seeing the distress we are a' brought to, he doesna think shame to speak o' such a thing. Mak a fortune by the newfangled system, indeed!--my truly! if it continue meikle langer, he winna be able to get brose without butter." "Weel, faither," was the answer of Reuben, "we'll see; but you must perceive that there is no great improvement can take place, let it be what it will, without doing injury to somebody. And it is our duty to watch every opportunity to make the most of it." "In my belief, the laddie is out o' his head," rejoined the father; "but want will bring him to his senses." Reuben, however, soon found that it became almost impossible to keep soul and body together by the labours of the loom. He therefore began to speculate on what he ought to do; and, like my honoured namesake, the respectable poet, but immortal ornithologist, he took unto himself a PACK, and, with it upon his shoulders, he resolved to perambulate the Borders. There was no disgrace in the calling, for it is as ancient, perhaps more ancient, than nobility; and we are told that, even in the time of Solomon, "there were chapmen in the land in those days." Therefore Reuben Purves became a chapman. He, as his original trade might lead one to suppose, was purely a dealer in "_soft_" goods; and when he entered a farmhouse, among the bonny buxom girls, he would have flung his pack upon the table, and said-- "Here, now, my braw lassies; look ye here! Here's the real upright, downright, elegant, and irresistible muslin for frills, which no sweetheart upon this earth could have the power to withstand. And here's the gown-pieces--cheap, cheap--actually giein them awa--the newest, the most elegant patterns! Only look at them!--it is a sin to see them so cheap! Naething could be mair handsome! Now or never, lassies. Look at the ribands, too--blue, red, yellow, purple, green, plain, flowered, and gauze. Now is the time for buskin your cockernony--naething could withstand them wi' sic faces as yours--naething, naething, and that ye would find. It would be out o' the question to talk o't. Come, hinnies, only observe them, I'm sure ye canna but buy--or look at this lawn." "O Reuben, man," they would have said, "they are very bonny; but we hae nae siller." "Havers!" answered he; "young queans like you talking about siller! Sell your hair, dears, and buy lang lawn?" Then did Reuben pull forth his scissors, and begin to exercise the functions of a hairdresser, in addition to his calling as a chapman--thinning, and sometimes almost cropping, the fair, the raven, the auburn, or the brown tresses of the serving-maids, and giving them his ribands and his cambrics in exchange for their shorn locks. The ringlets he disposed of to the hairdressers in Edinburgh, Newcastle, or Carlisle, and he confessed that he found it a very profitable speculation; and where the colour or texture of the hair was beautiful, he invariably preferred bartering for it, to receiving payment in money. This was a trait in Reuben's character, at the outset of his career as a speculator, which showed that he had a correct appreciation of the real principles of trade--that he knew the importance of barter, without which commerce could not exist; and it afforded an indication of the future merchant. He was in the habit of visiting every town, village, and farm-stead within sixty miles of the Borders--to the north and to the south--and taking in the entire breadth of the island. His visits became as regular as clock-work. No merchant now-a-days knows more exactly the day and almost the hour when he may expect a visit from the traveller of the house with which he deals, accompanied with an invitation to drink a bottle of wine, and pay his account, than the people in the Border villages knew when Reuben would appear amongst them. It was shrewdly suspected that Reuben did not confine himself solely to the sale of ribands, gown-pieces, and such-like ware, but that his goodly pack was in fact a magazine, in which was concealed tea, cognac, and tobacco. At all events, he prospered amazingly, and in the course of three years--though he lessened its weight at every village he came to--his pack overgrew his shoulders, and prosperity compelled him, first, to have recourse to a pack-horse, and, before he had had it long, to a covered cart or caravan. In short, on arriving at a village, instead of going round from house to house, with his stock upon his shoulders, as he was wont to do, he sent round the drummer or bellman: or, where no such functionaries are known, he employed some other individual, with a key and a trencher, to go round the village and make the proclamation-- "This is to give notice, that Mr Reuben Purves, with his grand and elegant assortment of the newest and most fashionable varieties of soft-ware goods, _and other commodities_, all bought by him for ready money, so that great bargains may be expected, has just arrived (at such an inn), and will remain for this day only; therefore those who wish the real superior articles, at most excellent bargains, will embrace the present opportunity." Let not the reader despise Reuben because he practised and understood the mysteries of puffing. There is nothing done in this world without it. No gardener ever "lichtlied" his own leeks. All men practise it, from the maker of books to the maker of shoe-blacking, or the vender of matches. From the grandiloquent advertisement of a metropolitan auctioneer, down to the "_only_ true and particular account" of an execution, bawled by a flying-stationer on the streets, the spirit of puffing, in its various degrees, is to be found. Therefore we blame not Reuben; he only did what other people did, though perhaps after a different fashion, and with better success. It gave a promise of his success as a tradesman. He said he ventured on it as a speculation, and finding it to suit his purpose, he continued it. In truth, scarce had the herald made the proclamation which I have quoted, until Reuben's cart was literally besieged. His customers said, "it went like a cried fair--there was nae getting forward to it." Moreover, he was always civil; he was always obliging. He had a smile and a pleasant and merry word for every one. Buy or not buy, his courtesy never failed him. In short, he would do anything to oblige his customers, save to give them credit; and that, as he said, was not because he had any doubt of their honesty, or that he was unwilling to serve them, but because he had laid it down as a rule never to trust a single penny, which rule he could not break. He was also possessed of a goodly person; was some five feet ten inches in height; he had fair hair, a ruddy, cheerful countenance, intelligent blue eyes; and his years but little exceeded thirty. At this period of Reuben's history, there lived in the town of Moffat one Miss Priscilla Spottiswoode. Now, Priscilla was a portly, and withal a comely, personage, and though rather stout, she was tall in proportion to her stoutness. Nothing could surpass the smoothness of the clear red and white upon her goodly countenance. There was by no means too much red, and constitutional good-nature shed a sort of perpetual smile over her features, like a sunbeam irradiating a tranquil lake. In short, it was a reproach to every bachelor in the town and parish of Moffat, to have permitted forty-and-four summers to roll over the head of Priscilla, without one amongst them having the manliness to step forward and offer his hand to rescue her from a state of single solitariness. She had been for more than twenty years the maid, or rather I might say the nurse, of an old and rich lady, who at her death bequeathed to her five hundred pounds. Reuben first saw Priscilla about three months after she had received the legacy. "Five hundred pounds," thought he, "would set a man on his feet." He also gazed on her kind, comely, smiling countenance, and he said within himself that "the men of Moffat were blind." And eventually he concluded, communing with himself, that the fair Priscilla was a speculation worthy the thinking of. She wished to purchase a few yards of lace for cap-borders, and such-like purposes; and as Reuben sold them to her, he said to her a hundred pleasant things, and he let drop some well-timed and well-turned compliments, and she blushed as his eulogy on the lace aptly ended in praise of her own fair features. Yet this was not all; for he not only sold to her fifty per cent. cheaper than he would have parted with his goods to any other purchaser, but he politely--by what appeared a wilful sort of accident--contrived to give her a full yard into her bargain. Priscilla looked upon Reuben with more than complacency; she acknowledged (that is, to herself) that he was the best-looking, polite, and most sensible young man she had ever seen. She resolved that in future she would deal with no one else; and, indeed, she had got such an excellent bargain of the lace, that she had come to the determination of again visiting his stock, and making a purchase of other articles. And, added she, to a particular friend, "It does a body good to buy from him, for he is always so pleasant." But Reuben saved her the trouble; for early the next day he called at her house, with a silk dress under his arm. He said-- "It was the last piece of the kind he had--indeed it was a perfect beauty, equal to real India, and would become her exceedingly--and not to think about the price, for that was no object." "What, then, am I to think about?" thought Priscilla; and she admired the silk much, but, peradventure, if the truth were told, she admired its owner more. Reuben spent more than two hours beneath the roof of the too-long-neglected spinster. Often in those two hours she blushed, his tongue faltered, and when he rose to depart, he had neither the silk beneath his arm, nor the cash for it in his pocket; but he shook her hand long and fervently, and he would have saluted her fair cheek--but true love, like true genius, people say, is always modest. Priscilla, on being left alone, felt her heart in a very unusual tumult; and now she examined her face in a mirror, and again admired the silk which he had presented to her. She had always heard him spoken of as a steady, thriving, and deserving young man; and it became a settled point in her mind, that, if he directly popped the important question, she would be as candid with him, and at once answer, "_Yes_." Reuben was frequently seen in Moffat after this, even when he brought no goods for sale; and within six months after her purchase of the lace, the sacred knot, which no man may unloose, was tied between them; and at the age of forty-and-four years and four months, but before time had "wrote a wrinkle" on her fair brow, Miss Priscilla Spottiswoode blushed into Mrs Purves. While following his avocation as a chapman, Reuben had accumulated somewhat more than two hundred pounds, which, with the five hundred that his wife brought him, raised his capital to more than seven hundred. But he was not a man to look only at the needle point of things, or whose soul would be lost in a nut-shell. Onward! onward! was the ruling principle of Reuben--he had been fortunate in all his speculations, and he trusted to be fortunate still. Never, during all his wanderings, had he lost sight of the important discoveries of Arkwright, and of the improvements which were every day being made upon them; and, while he was convinced that they would become a source of inexhaustible wealth to the nation, he still cherished the hope and the belief that they would enrich himself. He said also--and Mrs Purves agreed with him--that travelling the country was a most uncomfortable life for a married man. He therefore sold his horse and his covered cart, disposed of his stock at prime cost, and, with his wife and capital, removed to Manchester. He took a room and a cellar at the top of Dean Street, and near to the foot of Market Street, "Where merchants most do congregate." The upper room served them for bedchamber, parlour, kitchen, and all, while the cellar he converted into a wareroom. Perhaps, having more than seven hundred pounds to begin the world with, some may think that he might have taken more commodious premises; but rents were becoming high in Manchester--many a great merchant has begun business in a cellar--and Reuben, quoting the words of poor Richard, said:-- "Vessels large may venture more, But little boats should keep near shore." And he further said, "I am but serving my time yet; we must creep before we walk." Never was any man who prospered in the affairs of this world more diligent in business than Reuben Purves, and in Priscilla he found an admirable helpmate. She soon learned the name, the price, and the quality of every description of goods; and when he was necessarily absent, she could attend to the orders of customers as promptly as himself. The reader unacquainted with the Manchester mode of business, is not to suppose that Reuben, although his stock was wedged up in a cellar, was a retail draper or haberdasher. Its magnitude considered, there are fewer such in Manchester than in any other town in the kingdom; but Reuben commenced as a wholesale merchant--one who supplies the country dealers. He always went to the markets to purchase with the money in his hand, as Joseph the patriarch's brethren came to him to buy corn--and pity it is that the good old custom has too much fallen into disuse. He made his purchases chiefly from the small manufacturers, to whom ready money was an object of importance, and consequently bought his goods to much advantage to himself. During his extensive perambulations on the Borders, also, he had become generally acquainted with the drapers in all the towns upon his circuit; and at the seasons when they generally visit Manchester, he might have been seen rapidly passing along what is now called Piccadilly, and passing the coach from the north, just as it drew up to the inn; and if one whose face he knew stepped off it or out of it, Reuben turned suddenly round as if by accident, took the north-country purchaser by the hand, and invited him home to "eat beef" with him, or to take supper, as the case might be. He was generally successful; for to resist his solicitations was a matter of difficulty, and after partaking of a frugal meal and a single glass, the stranger was invited to examine the stock in the wareroom, and seldom failed of becoming the purchaser of a part. By such means, and perseverance, his business in a few years increased exceedingly. He was of opinion that there is hardly anything too difficult for resolute perseverance to accomplish or overcome, at least he always found it so; and I confess I am very much of his mind. Within three years he had taken extensive warerooms. He had a clerk, a salesman, four warehousemen, a traveller, and a porter. He had also taken his father from the loom. Reuben had seized fortune at the flood, and he floated down with the stream. He said he never undertook a speculation, but he was convinced in his own mind it would be successful. He also said, that fortune-making was like courtship; it was never venture never win--only to know what you were venturing upon. I should have mentioned, that, previous to this, Priscilla had made Reuben the happy father of twin daughters, and the one they named Rachel, the other Elizabeth. The mother gloried in her children, and her husband looked on them with delight. He was a fortunate man and a happy one; and his cup of felicity, if it did not run over, was well filled. In a short time, Reuben not only supplied with goods to a great extent the merchants on the Borders, but throughout the three kingdoms; and he also exported extensively to other countries, and even to some where the importation of British goods was prohibited. "A fig for their tariffs," he was wont to say, snapping his fingers; "the profit will cover the risk. The principle of trade is like the principle of steam--there is no restraining it. Neither kings, emperors, congresses, nor laws, are a match for it. They canna cage it up like a bird. They might as well say to the waves of the sea, 'hitherto shalt thou come and no farther,' as to the spirit of trade--'_stop_!'" In these speculations however, Reuben frequently experienced the common fate of the smuggler; and the goods which he sent into countries where they were prohibited were seized. He was of too ardent a temperament to be merely the purchaser and vender of other men's manufactures, and eventually he erected a cotton-mill of his own, a few miles out of Manchester. And here it will, perhaps, be more acceptable to the reader, that I detail the remainder of Reuben's narrative in his own words, as he related it to an old schoolfellow in his native town, after an absence from it of more than thirty years. It was delivered with his unchanged Scottish accent, and with many Scottish phrases and modes of expression, which a residence of more than three times ten years in England had not destroyed:-- I was now (said he, alluding to the erection of the mill), at what I had always considered as the very pinnacle of my ambition--the proprietor of a cotton-mill, and of one, too, that had cost me several thousands in completing it. I had no manner of doubt, but that it would turn out the master-speculation of my existence; for, bless ye, at that period, to have a mill was to have a mine. A spinning-jenny was worth its weight in rubies. There was Arkwright, made a fortune like a nobleman's in a jiffy; and Robert Peel, greatly to his credit from being a weaver lad, I may say, in less than no time, made a fortune that could have bought up half the gentry in the country. Indeed, wealth just poured in upon the millowners; and, I must confess, they werna bad times for the like o' me, that bought their calicoes, and got them dressed and printed to sell them out, as you may judge from my having been able to erect a mill of my own before I had been many years in business. But, I must confess, that the mill ran between me and my wits. All the time it was building, I was out and in frae the town to see how the workmen were getting on, wet or dry; and, I dare to say, that if I dreamed about it once during the twelve months it was in hands, I dreamed about it a thousand times. Many a time Priscilla has said to me-- "Reuben, I doubt ye are thinking owre meikle about that mill, and really it's no richt--it is sinfu. I fear it is aneugh to mak the concern no prosper." "My dear," I used to say, "do ye consider what an immense speculation it is?--it is like death or life to me; and, if I dinna think o't, and look after the workmen to see how they are gettin on wi' it, who, do ye suppose, would? There is naething like a man lookin after his own concerns; and, where there is sae meikle at stake, it is impossible but to think o't." But, sir, I looked after the progress of the mill, and my thoughts were taken up concerning it, to the neglect of my more immediate business. After commencing in the wholesale line, I found it impossible to abide by my original rule of--no credit; and, during my frequent absence from my warehouse, my salesman had admitted the names of men into my books of whom I knew nothing, but whom I afterwards learned were not to be trusted. Their payments were not forthcoming in the proper season; and, in looking after them, I put off insuring the mill at the time I intended. Delay, sir, is a curse to a person in business; it is as dangerous as the blandishments of a harlot to the young--and so I found it. On the very night that the machinery and everything was completed, I allowed the spinners and others that I had engaged, to have a supper and dance in it wi' their wives and sweethearts. I keepit them company for an hour mysel, and very merry they were. But, after charging them all to keep sober and harmonious one with another, and to see that they locked the doors behind them when they broke up, and to leave everything right, I wished them good-night; and they drank my health, and gave me three cheers as I left them. I got into my gig, and drove home to Manchester. But I dinna think I had been three hours in bed, when Priscilla gied me a dunch with her elbow, and, says she-- "Waken, Reuben! waken!--there's an unco knocking at the street-door." "Hoot! it will be some drunk body passing," says I, and turned round on my side to compose myself to sleep again. But the knock, knocking, continued louder and louder. "That is nae drunk body," said Priscilla; "something has happened." I started owre the bed, and I was hardly half-dressed, when I heard the street-door open, and the servant lass come fleein up the stair. "What is it?" cried I. "Oh, sir--the mill!--the mill!" said she. Had she shot me, she could not have rendered me more stupefied. "What about the mill?" cries I, all shaking with agitation. "Oh, it's on fire--it's on fire!" replied the lassie. I heard Priscilla scream, "On fire!" and she also sprung to the floor. I cannot tell ye how I threw on my coat--I know that I banged out without a napkin about my neck, and, rushing down the stairs, I couldna even stop to get the horse from the stable and saddled, but away I flew upon my feet. If ever a man ran as if for his life, it was me that night. It was six miles to the mill, but I never slacked for a single moment. I didna even discover, though the stones were cutting my feet, that I had come away without my shoes. The mill absorbed both thought and sense--I was dead to everything else. But oh, upon reaching it, what a sight presented itself to my view! There was the great red flames roaring and raging up the height of its five storeys; and the very wheels of the machinery, seen through the windows, glowing as bright as when in the hands of the smith that formed them. The great suffocating clouds of smoke came rolling about me, and even blinding me. Hundreds of women ran about screaming, some carrying water, and some running in the way of others, and drunken men staggered to and fro, like lost spirits in the midst of their tortures. Oh, sir, it was an awful sight for any one to behold; but for me to witness it was terrible! For some minutes I was bereft of both speech and reason; and, had the spectators not held me back, I would have rushed into the middle of the flames. Crash after crash, the newly-erected walls and the floors fell in, and I was a helpless spectator of the destruction of my own property. In one night, yea, in one hour, more than half of the fortune that I had struggled for years to gather together, was swept, as by a whirlwind, from off the face of the earth! I stood till I beheld the edifice that had been the pride of my heart a mass of smoking ruins, with, I may say, scarce one stone left upon another. All the manufacturers round about sympathised with me very sincerely, and one of them drove me back to Manchester in his drosky. When I entered my own house, I believe I appeared like a person on whom sentence of death has been passed, as he is removed from the bar, and led back to his prison. "Weel, Reuben," asked Priscilla, in her own calm and gentle way, "is the damage great?" "Oh, my dear," said I, "there is nothing left but a heap o' ashes! Nothing! nothing!--we are ruined!" "No, no," replied she, as quietly as ever, "we arena ruined. The back is aye made fit for the burden. The Hand that sent the misfortune, as we think it, upon us, will enable us to bear up against it. Now, just ye compose yersel, and dinna be angry at what I am gaun to say, but we are just as rich now as we were three years ago; and, I am sure, Reuben, we were quite as happy then as we are now. Ye have still a very excellent business, and a fortune far beyond onything that you and I could ever expect to possess when we cam thegither. You have your health and I have mine; and our twa bits o' bairnies are growing up to be a comfort to us baith. They will ne'er feel the loss o' the cotton-mill, and you and I ne'er kenned the guid o't. Wherefore, then, should ye grieve? Ye ought rather to be thankfu that it is nane o' your family that is taen frae ye. And, I have nae doubt that, although we self-wise and shortsighted mortals canna see it, this visitation will be for the guid o' us a'. It is better that ye should lose the mill than forget your Maker; and, forgie me for saying it, but I feared it was setting your heart upon the things o' this world to a degree which did not become the faither o' a Christian family. Therefore, let me entreat you to say, 'His will be done,' and to believe that this has fallen upon you for the best. Our loss is not so great but that, if times keep good, we may soon o'ercome it." I had often experienced the value of my wife, and admired her meek, patient spirit and affectionate heart; but I never, until this trial came upon me, knew her real worth. She enabled me to begin the world; ay, sir, and this far she had guided me through it. She was better than twelve years older than me--but what of that? She looked as young like at forty as ever I saw another woman do at twenty; and now, when she has been my wife for thirty years, I hardly ken her aulder. A glaiket lassie, under such circumstances, might have wrung her hands, and upbraided me for allowing the supper and the dance; but Priscilla strove only to comfort me, to imbue my mind with fortitude, and to turn the accident to my eternal advantage. I had long loved and esteemed her, but I now reverenced her. I sat and I listened to her, and looked in her face for the space of ten minutes, without speaking a word; and, at last, fairly overpowered wi' her gentleness and her tenderness, I rose and took her hand; and "Priscilla," says I, "for your sake, dear, I will think no more about the matter. The mill is destroyed; but, as you say, we may overcome the loss--and I shall try." Though I have as keen feelings as onybody, I was not a person to sit down long, and croon and shake my head over misfortunes that couldna be helped. I might be driven back from an object, and defeated in accomplishing it; but it would be necessary to take my life before I could be made to relinquish my attempts, or to conquer me. Perseverance, and a restless, ambitious spirit of enterprise, spurred me on. I endeavoured to extend my business more widely than ever; and, as I had sometimes had losses with houses on the Continent, I resolved to visit France, and Germany, and other places, myself, and see in what situation the land lay. I did so; and in Holland and Switzerland in particular I entered into what proved some very profitable speculations. Now, sir, it is my conviction, that where there is no speculation, there can be no luck. As well might a man with his hands in his pockets expect a guinea to drop into them. People who, perhaps, have been born with a silver spoon in their mouths, or had enough to purchase them a hot joint every day, thrust upon them by accident, will tell you, in speaking of any particular subject, "Oh, I will have nothing to do with it--it is only a speculation." Now, sir, but for some speculation that had been entered into before they were, the one would have neither had the silver spoon in his teeth, nor the other the hot joint. Without speculation, commerce could not exist. In the community where its spirit is not felt, they must be dull as horses in a ring; moving round and round as regularly and as monotonously as the wheels of a machine, to procure the every-day bread and cheese of existence. I have been a speculator all my life--I am a speculator still. Neither you nor I have time for me to enter into the particulars of thirty years' enterprises. It is true I have lost by some, but in more I have been successful, or until this day I would have been a hand-loom weaver in this my native town of Galashiels. But, sir, within three years I had built another mill. I commenced manufacturer, and prospered; and, in a short time, I began the business of printer also. You understand me--it is a calico-printer I mean, not a book or newspaper printer; for if, in a town in Lancashire, you ask for a printer, nobody would think of showing you to a consumer of ink and paper. Our two daughters had been educated at a boarding-school in Yorkshire; but they were now come home, and were, I may say, women grown, for they were eighteen; and, although I say it, that, perhaps, ought not to say it, remarkably fine-looking young women they were. People said that Elizabeth was a perfect picture; though, so far as I could judge, Rachel was the bonniest of the two; but they were remarkably like each other. There, however, was this difference between them--Rachel was of a sedate and serious disposition, and very plain in her dress, even plainer, sometimes, than I wished to see her; but she was always so neat, that she set whatever she put on. Elizabeth, on the other hand, though a kind-hearted lassie, was more thoughtless, and more given to the vanities of this world. When her sister was at her books, she was at her looking-glass. She was as fond of dress as Rachel was the reverse. I have often said to her-- "O Bessy! Bessy!--dress will turn your head some day or other. Ye will frighten ony man from having ye." "Don't be afraid of that, father," she replied, laughing, for there was no putting her out of temper--she was like her mother in that--"there is no danger, and it is time enough yet." She was also excessively fond of amusements--such as balls, concerts, plays, and parties; much fonder, indeed, than it was agreeable for me or her mother to observe. And we frequently expostulated with her; for, though we did not wish to debar her entirely from such amusements, yet there is a medium to be observed in all things, and we did not like to see her going beyond that medium. Well, sir, she had been at a party one night in Mosley Street, and a young gentleman, who, I afterwards understood, had shown her a great deal of attention throughout the evening, saw her home. There was no harm in this; but he called again the next day, and, as I shortly after learned, every day. So, when I heard this, I thought it was right and proper that I should see him, and learn who and what he was. I accordingly stopped at home a forenoon for the express purpose, but not much, as I easily observed, to the satisfaction of Elizabeth. About eleven o'clock the gentleman came as usual. I easily saw that he was rather taken aback on perceiving me; but he recovered his self-possession as quick as the eyelids can twinkle, and perfectly confused me with his superabundance of bows and scrapes. I did not like his appearance. He was dressed like a perfect fop. He wore silk stockings, and his feet were wedged into bits of French-soled pumps, which, to my eye, made it perfectly painful to look on them. He had on a light green, very fine, and very fashionable coat and trousers, with a pure white waistcoat, and a riband about his neck. He also carried a cane with an image on the head o't; and he had a great bunch of black curls on each side of his head, which, I verily believe, were pomatumed, brushed, and frizzled. "I must put an end to your visits, billy," thinks I, before ever he opened his lips. He was what some ladies would call "a most agreeable young man." In fact, I heard one (not my daughter) pronounce him to be "a prodigious fine gentleman!" "Prodigious!" thought I, when I heard it. He had a great flow of speech and spirits, and could run over all the scandal of the town with a flippancy that disgusted me, but delighted many. He could also talk like a critic about dancers, singers, actors, and race-horses, and discuss the fashions like a milliner. All this I ascertained during the half-hour I was in his company. He also gabbled French and Italian, and played upon a thing like a sort of bass-fiddle without a bow, that they call a guitar. I at once set him down in my own mind for a mere fortune-hunter. He was a shallow puppy; he carried all on the outside of his head, and nothing within it. I found he knew no more about business than the man in the moon. But he pretended to be the son of an Honourable, and carried cards with the words, "_Charles Austin, Esq._," engraved upon them. He was above belonging to any profession--he was a gentleman at large. Disgusted as I was with him, I had not the face to rise and say to him, "Sir, I will thank you to go out of my house, and not to enter it again." And from the manner in which I had been brought up, I had not the manner of what is called--bowing a person to the door. But what vexed me most, while he remained, was to observe that even Priscilla sometimes laughed at the silly things he said, which, as I afterwards told her, was just encouraging him. When he left the house, I turned to Elizabeth, and-- "Now, Betty, hinny," says I, "tak my advice, as yer faither and yer freend, and ne'er speak to that young man again, nor alloo him to keep ye company; for, as sure as my name is Reuben, there is something essentially bad aboot him." She hung her head, and there was a tear in her ee, and I think for the first time ever I had observed it in my days, she looked rather sulky; but I could get no satisfaction from her. I think it was between two and three months after this--during which time I had seen and heard no more of the fashionable Charles Austin--that, having business to transact in Liverpool, I took Priscilla down with me in the gig, for the benefit of her health. It was in the summer season, and eleven o'clock had just chimed from the steeple of the collegiate church before we returned at night. But never, never shall I forget our miserable home-coming. There was our poor Rachel, sitting by herself, wringing her hands, and the tears running down her bonny cheeks. "Rachel! dear Rachel! what is the matter, love?" cried her mother and myself at the same instant. "O Elizabeth!--Elizabeth is away!" sobbed my poor bairn. Priscilla was stupified, and she repeated the word "Away!" but the truth broke over me in a moment; and I sank back into a chair, as helpless, for all the world, as a new-born infant. Rachel tried to compose herself the best way she could; and she informed us that her sister had left the house about ten o'clock in the forenoon, and that she had not since returned. She also mentioned that Elizabeth had been seen in the company of Charles Austin shortly after leaving the house; and that, when she did not return in the course of the day, suspecting that they had fled to Gretna, she had sent my principal clerk, Thomas Galloway, after them, in a chaise-and-four, to bring back Elizabeth. Distressed as I was, I admired the presence of mind which Rachel had exhibited. She had done all that I could have done myself, had I been at home; and a fitter person than Thomas Galloway could not have been sent. His zeal, honesty, and industry, had long rendered him a favourite with me; and, though he was but a young man, I treated him more as an equal than a clerk. Nor had I any doubt but in the mission he was sent upon, he would show as much courage, if such an article were required, as he had at all times shown zeal and prudence in my service. But Thomas returned. He had heard nothing of them on the road, and they had not been at Gretna. These tidings threw us all into deeper affliction; and a week passed, and we could hear nothing of my daughter, and our misery increased. But, on the ninth day after her disappearance, a letter arrived from her. It was dated _Coldstream_. My fears read its contents before it was opened. In it she poured forth a rhapsody in praise of her "dear Charles," as she termed him, and said, if we knew his virtues as well as she knew them, we would love him as she did. She begged forgiveness for the step she had taken, and sought permission to return with her husband, and receive mine and her mother's blessing. She concluded the letter by signing herself our "affectionate and dutiful daughter, _Elizabeth Austin_." "_Dutiful!_--the ungrateful, the silly gipsy!" cried I, flinging down the letter, and trampling it under my feet, in pure madness; "she shall never inherit a penny of mine--she shall never enter my door. She is ruined--she has married worthlessness and misery!" It was some time before Priscilla said anything; but I saw she was very greatly affected. At last, the mother's love for her offspring got the better of every other consideration in her heart, and she endeavoured to soothe me, and to prevail on me to forgive Elizabeth, and to see her again. I had intended that the marriage portion of my daughters, on the very day they became wives, should be ten thousand each, providing that I approved of the match--though I by no manner of means wished or intended to direct their choice, or control their affections, further than it was my duty as a parent to see that they did not throw themselves away. But I was perfectly persuaded that, to give ten thousand, or the half of it, or any sum, to such a person as Elizabeth had got, would be no better than to fling it into the fire. However, the entreaties and persuasion of Priscilla prevailed. I consented that Elizabeth should return, and gave her husband five thousand pounds as her dowery, with a promise of more, if they should conduct themselves to my satisfaction. He had not received the money many days when they set out for London. Some time previous to this, I thought I had observed a sort of particular kindness between my daughter Rachel and my clerk, Thomas Galloway, of whom I have already spoken, and to whose worth I have borne testimony. He was a native of Newton-Stewart, and a young man of humble parentage, like myself; but I liked him nothing the worse upon that account; for, in my opinion, there is no real respectability, save that only which a man purchases through his own merits. Now, I once or twice, when I went out to enjoy the air in the summer nights, after business hours, perceived Rachel and Thomas oxtering together along the green lanes, behind a place in the suburbs that is called Strangeways. Such was the high opinion that I had of him, that I was determined, if there was anything between them, to offer no obstacle in the world to their marriage. I considered that a character, a disposition, and a knowledge of business, such as Thomas had, were far before riches. But I knew that, in certain respects, both of the two were such bashful creatures, that neither of them would dare to mention the matter to me. So, after their familiarity became every day more apparent, though they tried to hide it, and when, at different times, I had tried humorously to sound both of them in vain, I mentioned the subject to Priscilla. I found that she had perceived it long before me; for women have quick eyes in such matters. But she said that Rachel was such a strange reserved lassie, that, though her own bairn, she could not speak to her with a mother's freedom; though, now that she had heard my mind concerning the match, she would ask Rachel how matters stood between her and Thomas Galloway that very day. She therefore went into the room where Rachel was sitting sewing, and, after talking about various matters, by way of not just breaking the matter at once, she said-- "Rachel, dear, are ye aware if your faither has ever made ony sort o' recompense to Thomas Galloway for his trouble in gaun a' the way to Gretna after Elizabeth, when the foolish lassie ran away wi' young Mr Austin?" "I do not think it," replied Rachel. "Then," said her mother, "he has not done what he ought to have done. Indeed, I think he would only be doing his duty if he were to do something for Thomas; for he is a fine, genteel, deserving lad. Do ye not think so, dear?" This was a home-thrust which our bit lassie was not prepared for, and it brought the vermilion to her cheeks. But, after a moment's hesitation, she said, though not without a manifest degree of confusion-- "Yes, I think him a very deserving lad." But her mother had made the first step, and she was not to be put back, and therefore she continued-- "He is a lad that will rise in the world yet, and he weel deserves it; for a kinder, or more prudent, and obliging young man, I never saw--and I am glad, hinny, that ye hae the good sense to think weel o' him." "Mother!" said Rachel, and her confusion greatly increased. "Come, love," continued Priscilla, "ye needna blush or conceal onything frae yer mother. She's a bad mother, indeed, that a daughter daurna trust wi' a virtuous secret; and I hope ye ne'er saw onything in me, Rachel, that need debar ye frae making yer feelings known to me. Dinna suppose, love, that I am sae shortsighted but that I hae observed the tender affection that has been long springing up between ye; and I have not only observed it, but I have dune sae wi' satisfaction and pleasure; for I know not a young man that I could have more credit by in calling him son-in-law. So look up, dear, and tell me at once, am I not right--would ye not prefer Thomas to any man ye have seen for your husband?" And she kindly took our daughter by the hand. "_Yes_, mother!" faltered my sweet, blushing blossom, and she sank her head on her mother's breast. "That is right, hinny," said her mother; "but ye micht hae tauld me before, and it would hae saved ye baith mony a weary hour o' uneasiness, I hae nae doobt. But ye shall find nae obstacles in yer way; for it is a match that will gie baith yer faither and me great satisfaction. He has observed the attentions o' Thomas to ye as weel as mysel, and spoke to me concerning it this very hour. Indeed, I may just tell ye, that he desired me to mention the subject to ye; and if I found that yer feelings were as we supposed, that the marriage should immediately take place. And he will also take Thomas into partnership." Rachel, poor thing, grat with joy when her mother told her what I had said; and when Thomas heard of it, he could have flung himself at my feet. The upshot was, that, in a few weeks, they were married, and I took Thomas into partnership with me, which lifted a great burden off my shoulders--and more particularly as I had recently entered into a canal speculation, and become one of the principal shareholders and directors of the company. For twelve months from the time that Elizabeth went to London, we had but two letters from her; and one of them was abusing her sister for what she termed her "grovelling spirit," in marrying her father's clerk, and bringing disgrace upon the family. When I saw the letter, my answer back to her was-- "Elizabeth, my woman, do not forget yourself. Your sister has married a deserving lad; and your mother married a packman." As to her husband, I never, in my born days, had a scribble from his pen. But I heard, from people that had business in London, that they were flinging away the money I had given them with both hands; and that Elizabeth, so far from being a check upon her husband's extravagance, thoughtlessly whirled round with him in the vortex of fashionable dissipation. The third letter we received from her was written about fourteen months after her marriage. It was in a strain of the wildest agony. In one line, she implored to have her full dowery bestowed upon her, and in the next she demanded it--and again she entreated me to release her "dear Charles," who, as she termed it, had been imprisoned for the paltry sum of five hundred pounds. I saw plainly that to do anything for them would be money thrown away, and only encouraging them in their ridiculous, not to say wicked, course of fashion and folly. Therefore, in a way, I had made up my mind to let them feel what distress was, so that they might come to some kind of an understanding of the value and the use of money, which it was as clear as the sun at noonday that neither the one nor the other of them had. But Priscilla was dreadfully distressed; I never had seen anything put her so much about. We held a sort of family parliament, consisting of my wife and myself, Rachel and her husband, to consider what was best to be done. Rachel, poor thing, pled hard for her sister, which I was pleased to see, though I said nothing; and Thomas suggested that I should release Charles Austin from prison, and give Elizabeth two hundred pounds for their immediate wants, and that I would set up her husband in whatever line of business he might prefer; but that I neither could nor should keep them in idleness and extravagance. This advice was agreed to. I released my hopeful son-in-law from prison, and sent two hundred pounds to my daughter, with a long letter of admonition, entreaty, and advice. We heard no more of them for six months; and I wrote to Elizabeth again, and her mother wrote, and so did Rachel; but we all wrote in vain--our letters were never noticed. But there was one morning that my son, Thomas Galloway, came into the parlour where I was sitting, with an open letter in his hand, and his face was like the face of death. A trembling seized me all over. I was glad that there was no person beside me, for I saw that something had happened. "Thomas!" cried I, as I saw the letter shake in his hand, "is my bairn dead?" "No," said he, "but----" And he stood still, and handed me the letter. I just glanced my eyes on it, and it fell out of my hand. It showed us that a forgery had been committed upon our house to the extent of ten thousand pounds!--and, oh horrible!--by my own worthless son-in-law, Charles Austin! It was a dreadful trial--I knew not how to act. If I permitted the villain to escape unpunished, I was doing an injustice to society; and, oh, on the other hand, how was it possible that I could send to the gallows the husband of my own bairn! Thomas posted off instantly to London, to see what could be done; and I broke the bitter tidings in the best manner I could to Rachel and her mother. Their distress was even greater than mine. Thomas returned in a few days, and brought us word that the villain had escaped abroad somewhere; but where he could not learn; and it was supposed he had taken his wife and child with him--for they had an infant about eight months old. It was not the loss of the money, nor even the manner in which it had been lost, that chiefly affected me, but the loss, the ruin, the disgrace of my bairn. Indeed, it made such an impression upon me, that I never was the same man afterwards in any business transaction. Therefore, about twelve months after this melancholy event, I purchased a property in Dumfries-shire, and Priscilla and myself went to reside upon it. I intrusted the entire business to the prudence and experience of Thomas Galloway, and became merely a sleeping partner in the firm. We had been better than a year in our house in Dumfries-shire--it was about the Christmas time, and Thomas and Rachel were down seeing us, with their little son, who was just beginning to run about and climb upon our knees. It was a remarkably cold and gousty night, and a poor wandering woman came to our door, with a bairn at her breast, and another on her back, and begging a morsel, and a shelter for herself and infants. We were all sitting round the fire, when one of the servants came up and told us concerning her, asking if they might give her a seat by the fire. I never liked to harbour beggars, and, says I-- "No: there is a shilling for her; gie her some broken meat, and tell her to go down to the village--it is only two miles." "And give her this from me," said Rachel; and Priscilla had her hand in her pocket, when the lass added-- "Poor creature! I dinna believe she is able to crawl as far as the village, for baith her and her infants seem starving to death." "What like is she?" asked Rachel. "A bonny young creature, ma'am," answered our servant, "but sair, sair dejected." "She had better be brought in, father," said my daughter. "Take her into the kitchen, and let her warm herself and her bairns by the fire," said Priscilla. And the lass went away down-stairs and brought her in. Well, in the course of half-an-hour, Rachel went down to the kitchen, to see if there was anything that she could do for the poor woman and her infants--anything that they stood in need of, like--such as a gown, a frock, a pair of shoes, or the like of those things. But the sound of her light footsteps was hardly off the stairs, when we heard a scream, and the exclamations-- "Sister! sister!" I started to my feet--we all started to our feet; and Priscilla, and Thomas, and myself looked for a moment at each other, in an agony of wonder. We hurried down to the kitchen, and there was Rachel weeping on the bosom of the poor wandering woman--my lost, my ruined Elizabeth! She sobbed as though her heart would burst, and would have fallen down and embraced our knees; but her mother pressed her to her bosom, and cried, "My bairn! my bairn!" I took her hand, and, bursting into tears, could only sob, "My poor Betsy!"--and I felt her heart throb, throbbing, as she pressed my hand to her breast. Rachel again flung her arms around her neck, and took her and her little ones from the kitchen, to clothe them with her own apparel, and that of her child. Poor Priscilla could do nothing but weep; and, when Rachel had clothed her, and cast aside the rags that covered her, she brought her into the parlour, where we sat waiting for them; and her mother and myself again rose and kissed her cheek, and bade her welcome. Throughout the evening, she sat sobbing and weeping, with her face towards the ground, and could not be comforted. We were not in a state of feeling to ask her questions, nor she to answer them. But, in a few days, she voluntarily unbosomed her griefs to her sister, who communicated to me her tale of wo. It was evident that she knew nothing of the crime which her husband had committed, and we agreed that she should never know, as it would only add a heavier load to her broken spirit. All she knew was, that he had hastened with her to America, where he had changed his name, in consequence, as he said, of a property that had fallen to him in that country. He had long treated her with coolness and neglect, and prohibited her from writing to us, using threats that made her tremble for her life, if she attempted to do so. But, on arriving in America, his indifference gave place to open brutality; and in a few months he basely deserted her and her infants in a strange land. She sold the few trinkets and articles of apparel he had left her; and, with her children in her arms, fainting and broken-hearted, slowly performed a journey of several hundred miles, to the nearest seaport, where, after waiting for some months, doling out the little money she had left to procure food for her children, she at length found a vessel about to sail for Greenock, and her passage-money deprived her of her last coin. My poor bairn had been landed in Scotland without a penny in her pocket, and was begging her way to Manchester, to throw herself at our feet, when Providence directed her to our door. Never do I think of the sufferings which my bairn must at this period have endured, but my heart melts within me, and I think what must have been the tortures of her proud spirit before she could seek assistance from the cold and measured hand of charity. Oh, what a struggle there must have been in her gentle bosom, between the agonies of hunger, the feelings of the mother, and the shame that burned upon her face, and deprived her of utterance!--and while her bits of bairnies clung to her neck, or pulled at her tattered gown, and cried, "Bread, mother--give us bread!"--while her own heart was fainting within her--how dreadful must have been the sufferings that my poor Betsy endured! The idea that she was perishing, and begging like a wretched outcast from door to door, while we were faring sumptuously every day, brings the tears to my eyes even to this hour; and often has my heart overflowed in gratitude to the Power that in mercy directed her steps to her father's house. From that day, she and her children have never left my roof; and she shall still share equally with Rachel. About six months ago, I received a double letter from America. The outer one was from a clergyman, and that which was enclosed bore the signature of _Charles Austin_. It was his confession on his death-bed, begging my forgiveness, and the forgiveness of his wife--my poor injured Elizabeth--for the wrongs and the cruelties he had committed against her; and declaring that she was ignorant and innocent of the crime he had committed against me. He also beseeched me to provide for his children, for their mother's sake, if they yet lived. It was the letter of a dying penitent. Four thousand of the sum with which he had absconded he had not squandered, and it he had directed to be restored to me. The letter from the clergyman announced the death and burial of the unhappy young man, and that he had been appointed to carry his dying requests into effect. I communicated the tidings of his death and his repentance of his conduct towards her; and she received them meekly, but wept as the remembrance of young affection touched her heart. Such, sir, is an account of my speculations, and the losses and crosses with which they have been attended. But success and happiness have predominated; and I must say that I am happier now than ever. And at the season when Rachel and Thomas come down to see us, with the bairns, and they run romping about with Elizabeth's, who are two interesting creatures, and three or four will be crying at once, "Granny this, and granny that," I believe there is not a happier auld woman in Britain than my Priscilla, who first enabled me to speculate to some purpose. THE SEA-STORM. It was a beautiful, calm afternoon in summer; the surface of the Solway was as smooth as glass, for it was just high-water, and there was scarcely wind enough to dimple its surface, or to raise the dense train of smoke which the Liverpool steamer left behind her, as she came rapidly and steadily bearing down from Port Carlisle towards Annan Water-foot, where a crowd of passengers were anxiously expecting her arrival. The air was so still that the sound of her paddles, and the rush of water from her bows, were distinctly heard a great distance, and the toll of the bell of Bowness Church fell full and clear upon the ears of the dweller on the Scottish coast. Here and there a solitary sea-gull soared lazily over his shadow in the water, and then bending downwards, dipped his wing in the smooth stream, rising up again with a sharp, quick turn, and a shrill scream, which sounded rather ominously, particularly as there was a kind of bright, hazy indistinctness hanging over the whole scene, and a close, suffocating oppression in the atmosphere, foretelling change and storm. The wooden jetty at the water-foot was crowded with people--some about to embark for Liverpool, others attracted by curiosity, and by the beauty of the afternoon. On the road near the jetty lay a large flock of sheep, and several cattle, ready for embarkation; and Ambrose Clarke's Dumfries coach, and other conveyances, stood at hand, ready to transfer their freights into the steamboat. It was altogether a beautiful and exciting scene; bright and joyous summer seemed to have shed its cheering influence over the spirit of man, as well as over the face of nature; and, amid the throng around me, I did not remark a single unhappy countenance. At length the steamboat bore up for the mouth of the Annan, and, after a great deal of manoeuvring with the paddles, was laid safely alongside the jetty. Then came the tug of war, and the peaceful quiet of the calm afternoon was disturbed by the loud and various sounds of embarkation. The bleating of sheep, the bellowing of cattle, the loud shouts of their drivers; the elbowing and jostling of passengers of various classes making a rush on board, dragging after them their trunks or portmanteaus, regardless of legs or elbows in their progress; and, over and above all, the loud, deafening, rushing, roaring noise of the steam, like the voice of some giant bellowing to them all to be as quick as possible--converted the late quiet scene into one of Babel-like confusion. At length the sheep were comfortably wedged up together, and the cattle secured; and then the bell rang as a warning to those who were going to stay on board, and to those who were staying on board too long, to take their departure. While standing on the jetty, I had exchanged a few commonplace remarks with a frank, middle-aged, gentlemanly-looking man standing near me, who, like myself, was _en route_ for Liverpool; and when the steamboat was fairly off, I made up to my new acquaintance again, and we had a long and amusing conversation together. To those who are fond of studying human character, and who derive amusement from observing its numerous varieties, a public conveyance of any kind is an interesting _study_--a cabinet in which they may chance to meet with strange and rare specimens to add to their collection of human originals. I do not envy the man who seems to think the warning bell of the steamboat, or the shutting of the door of the stage-coach, a signal to him to close the door of his mouth and ears; and who can doze away in a corner, uninterested and uninteresting, and leaves the conveyance, as he entered it, dull and heavy, uncomfortable and discontented himself, and a species of incubus upon the spirits of his companions. We had only left our port about two hours, when the sky began to overcast, and heavy clouds rose slowly from the horizon. The wind seemed to be awaiting in silence, and reserving its strength for the approaching conflict of the elements, for there was not a breath stirring; the sea-birds shrieked around us, as if to warn us of approaching danger; and the smoke from the engine-fire hung heavily over the deck, and covered the water around us, as if to hide us from the coming storm. At length the forerunner of the _squall_ appeared in the shape of a broad, bright, sudden blaze of lightning, followed by a rattling peal of thunder, which seemed to have burst open the floodgates of heaven, for the rain descended in torrents from the overcharged clouds, while flash followed flash, and peal followed peal, in rapid succession. A light breeze soon springing up from the south, the flashes of lightning became less and less vivid; and we heard, afar off, the low growling of the thunder, as the clouds slowly and unwillingly retreated before the wind, which now freshened up rapidly. In a short time it blew a gale, and occasioned such a heavy sea, that most of the passengers were driven below by the violent motion of the vessel. I, being an old stager, preferred the cool breeze on deck, to the close, confined air of the cabin; and, to my great surprise, saw my new and agreeable acquaintance walking up and down the deck as unconcernedly as if the boat were lying at the jetty. "You seem to have excellent _sea-legs_, sir," said I; "you walk the deck with the confidence of one to whom such unsteady footing is familiar; you do not look like a sailor, but still I am greatly mistaken if this is the first time you have been in a gale of wind." "You are right," replied he, "in both your conjectures: I am not a sailor by profession, and I have been in many a gale. I owe the greatest happiness of my life to a storm and its consequences." "Indeed!" said I; "if it is not asking too much, will you favour me with an account of the adventure to which you allude?--it will serve to beguile the time till we turn in." "With all my heart," said he; "and with the greater pleasure, because I perceive you are a sailor, and will understand me. If you find me tedious, remember you have yourself to blame for the infliction:"-- When I was a youngster, I was sent out by my friends to join a mercantile house in Bombay, of which my father had formerly been a partner. After labouring for some years as clerk, I was admitted as junior member of the firm, and being considered a stirring man of business, I was sent by the heads of the house as supercargo of one of their ships trading to the Straits and China. It was in this way I acquired the sea-legs on which you have been pleased to compliment me; and, what was still more to the purpose, I managed well for my employers, and added considerably to my own resources. Fortune smiled upon all my private mercantile speculations; and, in the course of a few years, I amassed what I considered a comfortable competency. As my constitution, although it had been severely tried, was still tolerably unimpaired, I thought it wiser to return home at once, to enjoy the moderate fruits of my labour, than to risk my health in the endeavour to add to my means. I accordingly retired from the firm, wound up my affairs, transferred my money to the English funds, and took my passage in a country ship to China. From thence I embarked in a fine Indiaman of 1000 tons burden, called the Columbine, bound to England, and to touch at the Cape of Good Hope. Our passage was quick and pleasant; and I greatly enjoyed our fortnight's stay at the Cape, where our party was increased, by the addition of a lady and gentleman to our cabin circle. The gentleman was a retired surgeon of the Indian army, and one of the funniest little Sancho Panza figures I ever beheld. When he first stepped over the gangway, there was a general titter among the crew at his strange appearance. He was dressed in a little scarlet shell-jacket; a pair of wide Indian-made _continuations_ of nankeen, with stockings as nearly as possible of the same colour; a little black velvet hunting-cap, stuck on one side over his round, fat, rosy face; a walking-cane in one hand (a walking-cane on board a ship!); and a leather bottle, suspended by a belt from his shoulders. On further acquaintance, I found he was as odd in character as in appearance. He was a regular old bachelor, fidgety and particular. His countenance bespoke him a lover of the good things of this life--and it did not belie him, for dearly did he enjoy them all; nothing came amiss to him, that came in a _perishable_ shape, provided it had all the "appliances and means to boot" of the culinary art. It was really quite a treat to hear the smack of genuine pleasure (a kind of _parting-salute_, a token of good-will and kindly feeling) which followed the engulfment of every mouthful of the captain's excellent claret--and his mouth, like the Irishman's, held exactly a glass; and then his little dark eye twinkled with anticipated delight, as it wandered discursively over the cuddy table, when the covers were raised at dinner. And yet with all this spice of epicurism and apparent selfishness, he was liberal, kind-hearted, and obliging. He had been so long absent from home that he had become completely _Indianised_; and his strange opinions and expectations respecting England, were in the highest degree ludicrous. The lady was a young widow, who had accompanied her husband, a Madras civilian, many years her senior, to the Cape, in the hope of re-establishing his health; but it was too late--the hand of death was upon him, and he had been taken from her about six months before our arrival. She remained at the Cape, waiting for expected letters from Madras, and then determined upon proceeding to Europe. She came on board in mourning and in tears: the sight of the ship seemed to have re-awakened the memory of him she regretted; and she did not for some time take her place at the cuddy-table, nor appear among the other passengers. Now and then, in the calm moonlight evenings, she came stealing up like a shadow, and wandered listlessly up and down the deck, leaning on the captain's arm, or bending over the bulwark of the poop, gazing mournfully on the waves below. Time, with the absence of all objects that could revive her painful recollections, soon had the effect of soothing her grief; and after we had crossed the _Line_, she was persuaded to join the cuddy party. She was young, and without being decidedly beautiful, was one of the most interesting-looking females I had ever met with. There was an air of mild, uncomplaining resignation in her look and manner, which irresistibly attracted sympathy and admiration. During the bustling scenes of my life in various parts of the East, I had met with all varieties and shades of beauty, and, strange to say, had passed unharmed and "fancy-free" through the ordeal of whole constellations of bright and beaming eyes. Love had hitherto been a stranger to me; I had read of it, talked of it, heard of it, but had never felt its overpowering influence; and I had begun to doubt whether I had a heart at all, at least for the tender passion. But I now soon found that I had been mistaken, and that I had feelings, and tender ones too, as well as those whom I had been in the habit of ridiculing for them. I could hardly analyse them at first, they were so various and contradictory. I began with admiration of the widow's expressive countenance and gentle manner. I was loud in her praise to every one who would listen to me: "If ever there was an angel on earth" (afloat I should have said), "she is one." I eagerly sought every opportunity of throwing myself in her way, till I happened to hear one of the officers calling me "the widow's shadow." Then, all at once, I felt confused whenever her eyes met mine; the warm blood rushed to my cheeks, and a flutter of nerve came over me, whenever she spoke to me. I gradually withdrew from her society; lost my appetite; became fond of solitary walks; and was seized with a most extraordinary oppression of the lungs, which obliged me to sigh continually. "Holloa, Wentworth!" said the officer of the deck to me one night, "what is the matter with you? There was a sigh like the blowing of a grampus!" He was an old friend of mine, and as kind-hearted a rough diamond as ever breathed. "I don't know, Wildman," replied I; "I'm afraid my liver is terribly out of order." "Liver!" said he, with a loud laugh--"tell that to the marines; I suspect it's the heart that's out of trim more than the liver." And so saying, he walked forward to hail the foretop, and left me to my meditations. He left me an enlightened man; his words had flashed conviction on my mind. "And so," muttered I, "I am actually in love! How strange that the _novelty_ of my emotions should so long have blinded me to their _nature_! Heigh-ho! But why the plague should I sigh about it? Love! No, no; I'm sure I'm going to have an attack of liver. I wonder if she likes _me_?" "Why don't you ask her?" said my sailor friend, who had returned unobserved to his place at my elbow, and had overheard the last part of my soliloquy. "Come, come, Wentworth," said he, seeing that I looked rather annoyed, "don't be angry with me; you have been like the bird that hides its head in the sand, and fancies no one can see it; but I have long observed your growing partiality for the fair widow, and I admire your taste--she is a prize worth trying for. Take a friend's advice, and, if you are in a marrying mood, put your modesty under hatches, and make a bold stroke for a wife at once." "Oh, nonsense, Wildman!--how can you talk so foolishly? She is in such affliction! I could not dream of following your advice; it would be indelicate in the extreme at present." "Ay, it is too soon to come to close quarters yet; but there is nothing like laying an anchor to windward in time. Play at long balls with her, my boy. Stand in a corner, and gaze in admiring silence; send a few well-aimed die-away glances through her, and play off a sigh or two now and then, backed by a little sentiment. Why, man, a broadside of such red-hot sighs as yours would riddle her heart, and make her strike her colours at once, if you had but courage to lay her alongside." Whether it was that I tacitly followed my friend's advice, or that my unconscious silent attentions had made the impression he anticipated, it so came to pass that, in a short time, the fair widow seemed to feel a pleasure in my society beyond that of any other on board. A slight degree of mutual good understanding soon ripens into intimacy on board a ship, where circumstances throw people into such close and constant communion; the flimsy veil of mere artificial politeness is soon seen through, and the character of each individual shows itself in its true colours. The more I saw of hers, the more I admired it; she was so free from the petty vanities of the sex, and so sweet and equable in her temper. She was the daughter of a highly respectable physician in the west of England, whose professional income had enabled him to bestow on all his family a liberal education, and to bring them up suitably to their apparent prospects, and to the station he expected them to fill in society. Her elder brother had gone out to India in a mercantile capacity, and had returned home to recruit his health in his native vale. During the interval of his visit, his father, who had long been in declining health, died, and, contrary to expectation, left his children but poorly provided for; and the brother, after having arranged the family affairs, and placed the juniors under the guardianship of an old and tried friend, persuaded his sister to accompany him to the East. When they arrived at Madras, my fair friend, whom I shall call Emily, was not long without admirers. Among others was an elderly civilian, high in the service, of great wealth and irreproachable character. He urged his suit with the greatest assiduity; and, notwithstanding Emily's evident coldness, he laid his heart and fortune at her feet. All Emily's friends were urgent with her not to reject so advantageous a settlement. Her brother _said_ nothing on the subject; but she had learned to read his wishes in his countenance. She thought of the almost destitute state of her family at home, and of the opportunities which the wealth and liberality of so excellent a man might afford her of benefiting them; and, after a long struggle of contending feeling, she consented to become the wife of Mr Stacey. He was for two years all he had promised--affectionate, considerate, and attentive to her slightest wishes. She respected and esteemed him, and, when she closed his eyes in a foreign land, she mourned for him as a sincere and valued friend. He had left her by his will the sole and uncontrolled command of his large fortune; and she was now returning home to comfort the declining years of her mother, and rejoicing in the thought that her wealth would enable her effectually to promote the interests of the junior members of her family. But I must proceed to other matters. Our passage from the Cape had been a long, but to me a most delightful, one, and we were expecting to _make_ the Lizard next day. The captain was very anxious to have a good _landfall_, as his best chronometer had met with an accident a few days before, and he was rather doubtful as to its correctness. The breeze was light and fair, and the waves were breaking short and crisp, curling their little white crests as they rose and fell in rapid succession; but there was a long, heavy under-swell from the southward, which gave rise to many an ominous shake of the head among the experienced hands on board. For my part, I dreaded no danger, and I enjoyed to the utmost the really beautiful scene around me. There was nothing, to be sure, to be seen but sea and sky; but it was beautiful and boundless nature--nature in her solitude and strength. There were no crowds of human beings jostling and hurrying past each other, as in the haunts of man and of art; but there was the glorious sun, shining in almost unclouded splendour--the sea, with its playful waves dancing and smiling in the sunbeam, and teeming with life and energy. Whole shoals of flying-fish quivered their little wings, glittering like silver in the sun, and then dropped fluttering into the waters; while those "hunters of the sea," dolphins, and bonitos, and albecores, darted, leaped, and plunged in pursuit of them--sometimes rising six or seven abreast, and making immense flying leaps together, as if emulating each other, and putting to shame the steeple-chasing "lords of creation." My attention was diverted from the water by the gradual _heeling over_ of the vessel, and the creaking noise of the blocks, as the freshening breeze gave additional tension to the tacks and sheets; at the same time, I heard one of the men muttering to another, as they stood by the royal cluelines-- "This here breeze is a-freshening fast, Bill. I doesn't like to see them beggars a-galloping round the ship like so many mad horses; and look how the cat's a-whisking about! There's a gale of wind in her tail, I'll take my 'davy." "Man the royal cluelines!" shouted the officer of the watch. "Haul taut! In royals!" As soon as the royals were furled, the boatswain piped to dinner; the men went below, and I hastened to my cabin. As I sat at the open port, I could not help recalling the conversation I had overheard, and, looking out, I observed that the clouds were rapidly rising from the southward, and forming into dense dark masses; and I was aware, from the increasing motion of the ship, and the long, crashing rush of the sea under the counter, that the breeze was freshening. "The fellow is a true prophet, after all," muttered I to myself; and, just as I spoke, the ship gave a heavy lurch, and my bookcase, which was badly secured, _fetched way_, and, with a heavy crash, fell on the deck. Fortunately, there was but little mischief done to my books, and I sent for one of the carpenter's mates to secure the case again. Scarcely had the poor fellow left my cabin, after having finished his work, when I heard the sharp warning _tweet tweet_ of the boatswain's call instantly echoed from three different parts of the lower deck; then came the sound of hurrying feet, and then a long, loud, shrill whistle, followed by a hoarse cry of "All hands reef topsails, ahoy!" then were heard the loud, clear orders, "In topgallantsails! Lower away the topsails!" followed by the whirring, rattling sound of blocks, and the dull flapping of the sails, as the yards were pointed to the wind. Poor Evans, the carpenter's mate of whom I spoke above, was stationed on the foretopsailyard, and in his hurry to _lay out_, his foot slipped, he lost his hold of the yard, and fell head foremost downwards. The ship was rolling to windward at the time, so that he fell outside the bulwark, struck the anchor in his descent, and must have been senseless when he reached the surface of the water; for, although he went down head-foremost, he _struck out_ mechanically, as if endeavouring to dive, and never rose again. For an instant this sudden and dreadful accident paralysed both officers and men; but it was only for an instant. "Poor fellow!" said the commanding officer, "he's gone! Come, bear a hand, there aloft! Lay out!--lay out! Tie away!--lay down!" Again the _tweet tweet_ was heard. "Hoist away!" was the order; and, with a quick and steady tramp, a hundred feet kept time with the merry notes of the fife. The sails were set, the yards trimmed, and, under her reduced canvas, the ship bounded along with great lightness and ease. But the face of nature was no longer smiling: the heavy masses of vapour had risen from the southern horizon, one dense body seeming to push another upwards, as it rose from the gulf of darkness, till the whole surface of the heavens was covered with a veil of gloomy and wildly-driving clouds. The waves were no longer, as Wilson says, "like playful lambs on a mountain's side," but were rushing after each other like wild beasts in search of prey. It was evident that the breeze was freshening fast; but, as it was still _free_, the ship was making rapid way through the water. I will pass over the next twenty-four hours, during which the breeze continued strong, but steady. At about five P.M. of the next day, a darkness like that of night hung over the horizon to windward, which gradually rose in the centre, forming a hard, clear, well-defined arch, which rapidly enlarged and enlarged, the centre part becoming dim with driving rain. "Call the hands out--reef topsails!" shouted the captain; and again all was bustle and animation. The sound of the boatswain's cry was hardly out of our ears, before the men were on deck, full of eagerness and emulation, their energies seeming to rise in proportion to the demand upon them. Our topsails were double-reefed and on the caps when the squall struck us; we could hear it howling over the water long before it reached us, the rain driving fiercely before it, mixed with the spray of the waves, which was dashed abroad like mist. "Lower the driver!--man the gear of the mainsail!" "All ready, sir!" "Up mainsail!" The men who were stationed at the mainsheet unfortunately let it run through their hands; the sail bellied up over the leeyardarm, gave one loud, heavy flap, and, with a report like that of a cannon, split right across, and was blown in pieces, and the tattered remnants fluttered from the yard, as if struggling to escape, and cracking like ten thousand whips. As soon as the blast had expended its fury, the fragments of the mainsail were unbent, and a new sail got up in their place. "Away, aloft there, topmen!--get the topgallantyards ready for coming down!" was now the cry. "All ready forward, sir!" "Ready abaft?" "All ready, sir!" "Haul taut!--sway away!--high enough!--lower away!" And, in a few minutes, the topgallantyards were safely landed on deck, and secured on the booms. Hitherto the weather had been dry and fine, except during the squalls; but, as the night closed in, a thick drizzling rain came on, which drove all the passengers below. The ship was now plunging and rolling heavily, and the white foam of the long tumbling seas looked doubly ghastly through the gloom, while their roaring formed dismal harmony with the howling of the wind. Our party was small at the cuddy-table that evening, when we met at eight bells (eight o'clock) to discuss our hot grog and negus. Some of the gentlemen were sick, others tired, and some alarmed at the appearance of things around them. The mercury in the barometer had fallen considerably; and the captain, as he sat at the table rallying some of his passengers on the extraordinary length of their phizzes, was evidently assuming a cheerfulness he did not feel; and at times looked absent and uneasy. "Has not the glass fallen very fast, captain?" said one of the military officers. "Yes," replied he, "a little. That question recalls to my recollection a most ludicrous circumstance that occurred on board a free-trader of which I was mate. I was keeping the middle watch on a beautiful night, when a fine light breeze filled all the _small kites_, and the weather was looking remarkably steady and clear. All at once the captain came running out in his nightcap and slippers, looked at the compass, and then aloft, and said, 'What kind of night is it, Mr Darby?' "'Very fine, sir; steady breeze, smooth water; every stitch of sail set that will draw.' "'Take in all your small sails, sir, as fast as you can; the glass has fallen considerably since I turned in; we are going to have a breeze.' "I looked at him with surprise, and then to windward; but to hear was to obey--the stunsails, smallstaysails, and royals were taken in. This was scarcely done, when the captain again made his appearance. 'Darby, the glass is falling fast--call the hands out, double-reef the topsails, and down topgallant and royal yards.' "'Sir!' answered I, staring at him with astonishment. "'Bear a hand, sir, and get the sail off the ship,' said he, sharply. "His orders were obeyed, greatly to the surprise of all on board. But even this did not appear to satisfy him. He came on deck again, and this time I kept at a most respectful distance, for I really began to think his head was cracked, and that he might perhaps wish to try how I would look in the same predicament. "'It's very odd, Darby,' said he; 'I don't understand it; the glass is still falling. Come and look at it.' "I went with him into his cabin, where the barometer was hanging near his cot, with a swinging lamp beside it. The mercury was very low, uncommonly so; but, while I was looking at it, I heard a heavy drop upon the deck, and, looking downwards, I saw something glittering below the lamp. I stooped to look what it was, and the mystery was solved at once: there was a hole in the bottom of the tube, and the mercury had been oozing out. The captain looked very foolish at first, and then, staring me full in the face, burst into an uproarious fit of laughter, in which I heartily joined him. At daybreak the hands were called out again; but for a very different purpose. 'Crack on everything!' was now the cry; and we were soon spanking along again under a cloud of canvas. But you are not to suppose," continued Captain Darby, "from this anecdote, that I mean to depreciate the value of the marine barometer; it is the seaman's invaluable friend--a prophet whose warnings are not to be disregarded. Many and many a time has it enabled me to prepare in time for a coming gale, which would otherwise have assailed me unawares." "The gale is freshening fast, sir," said an officer, putting his head into the cuddy-door. The captain hurried out, and gave orders for reefing the courses; and, during the whole of that long and, to us, miserable night, all hands were kept constantly at work; and we heard the loud orders of the officers, and the cries of the answering seamen, confusedly and at intervals, through the roaring of the wind and the rushing of the seas. I slept, or rather lay (for I could not sleep), in one of the round-house cabins; the edge of my cot, at every roll of the ship, knocking against the beams from which it was suspended; and I was every now and then nearly jerked out by the violent pitching, when the ship seemed as if she were endeavouring to dive head-foremost into the depths, to escape the violence of the winds. The ladies' cabins were abaft the round-house; the fair widow's divided from mine only by a thin bulkhead. I would have given all I was worth to be allowed to sit near her, to revive her spirits, and to soothe her fears. I was aware that she was dreadfully alarmed; for, whenever the vessel staggered under the overwhelming attacks of the sea, I heard from her cabin a shuddering of nervous terror. The gentlemen passengers actually envied the poor seamen who were exposed to the pelting of the pitiless storm: _they_ were actively employed, the excitement of the storm left no time for reflection--besides, storm, tempest, and danger were their elements; but we lay idle and helpless, knowing just enough of our danger to imagine it to be much greater--brooding over the chimeras of our own fancies, and anticipating we knew not what of approaching calamity. The continual creak, creak, creaking of the bulkheads--the pattering of the thick shower of spray upon our decks, following the dull, heavy "thud" of some giant sea, which made the ship reel and tremble through every timber--the cries of the seamen, heard indistinctly and at intervals, and then borne far away to leeward on the gale, as if the spirits of the air were shrieking above and around us--formed altogether a fearful medley of wild sounds. At length, towards morning, nothing was heard on deck but the deep, moaning voice of the gale, and the roar of the sea; but new and more ominous sounds arose from the lower deck: there was the monotonous clanking of the pumps, and the rash of water from side to side of the ship, as she rolled heavily and deeply. I could lie in my cot no longer--my nerves were worked up to such a state of excitement; and I rushed on deck to breathe the fresh air, and to see the state of affairs there. It was to me a beautiful, though awful, sight. The sun was just beginning to rise; and the lurid, threatening, angry glare he shed over the horizon gave additional horror to the gloomy scene. The ship looked almost a wreck to my eyes. The topgallantmasts had been got on deck; the booms were crowded with wet sails and rigging; the small ropes aloft were bellying out with the wind, and then striking violently against the mast with the roll of the ship; the hatches were battened down; lifelines were stretched along from the poop to the forecastle; heavy seas were striking the bow, every now and then pouring volumes of clear blue water over the decks, while the spray flew like a thick shower overhead, nearly half-mast high; the horizon all round was pitchy black, except where a dull, hazy, fiery gleam marked its eastern verge; the surface of the water was one wide sheet of white foam, glistening through the gloom; and the strength of the gale seemed absolutely to blow the tops off the giant seas, and scattered them abroad in showers of spoon drift. The deck was deserted, except by the captain and the officer of the watch--one watch of the men having been sent below to the pumps, and the other to their hammocks. The captain was standing under the lee of the weather bulwark, holding on by the main brace, looking pale and exhausted; near him, with his arm round the poop-ladder, stood the officer of the watch, muffled up in his pea-jacket, his eyes red and inflamed, and speaking in a low, husky whisper, his voice being completely broken with the exertion of the night. "Ah, Mr. Wentworth," said the captain, when I made my appearance, "you are soon tired of your cot. I did not expect to see any of you idlers on deck in such weather as this." "It is more pleasant here than down below, I should think, Captain Darby. Sleep is out of the question. I hope the gale is not going to last much longer?" "There is no chance of its moderating at present," said he; "the glass is still falling, and the appearance of the weather is as bad as it well can be!" "Whereabouts are we now, captain? Are we not very near the English coast?" "Yes--we're not very far from it; I hope we shall make the land soon." I asked one or two more questions, which the captain evidently evaded answering. I accordingly desisted from my inquiries; but a dark and undefined presentiment of evil came over me, which I strove in vain to shake off. Finding the captain so uncommunicative, and the spray, that was constantly dashing over the decks, anything but comfortable, I thought my wisest plan would be to crawl to my cot again. On my way to my cabin, I lingered for a few minutes under the poop awning, and happened to overhear the captain say, in a low voice, to the chief mate-- "Charters, I wish the sun would show his face again--I don't like this groping work. I'd give a hundred _pounds_ to be as many _miles_ to the westward--we are much too near a lee shore, for my taste." "Oh, sir, we shall, perhaps, see some of the pilot-boats soon, and then we shall be right enough." "Ten chances to one against it," replied the other, "in such weather as this. However, we will fire a gun every five minutes, in case any of them should be cruising in our neighbourhood. I wish we had bent our cables before this gale set in. As soon as the hands are called out, we will bend them, and get the anchors clear, that we may be prepared for the worst." "Ay, ay, sir." This was pretty comfort for me; but as I knew that talking would not mend matters, I did not mention what I had heard to any of the other passengers. A very short time had elapsed when the hands were called out, and the orders of the captain were carried into effect as actively as possible. It was a work of considerable difficulty and no little danger to bend the cables, as the ship was plunging and rolling awfully, and every now and then taking green seas over all, and volumes of water rushed through the open hawse-hole into the lower deck. At last it _was_ accomplished, and the men had a temporary respite from their labour. The gale, so far from moderating, rather increased in fury; but the leak had not gained upon us, and the maintopmast still seemed to stand stiffly up to the gale, with the close-reefed sail upon it. About four o'clock in the afternoon, a heavy sea struck the quarter, filled one quarter-boat, and broke it away from the tackles, and stove the other; and at the same time the ship _lurched_ so deeply, that the muzzles of her quarterdeck guns were buried in the water, one of the maintopmast backstays gave way, and the mast, with a loud crash, went toppling over the side. I was standing under the poop awning at the time, and was nearly washed off my feet by a body of water rushing out of the cuddy; and at the same time I heard the screaming of the ladies in the after cabin. I ran aft, and knocking at the fair widow's door, was immediately admitted, and found everything in the greatest confusion, and herself in extreme alarm. The sea had burst in the quarterport, and deluged the cabin with water; the deck was strewed with furniture, dashing and tumbling about with the motion of the ship; and Emily herself was clinging to one of the stanchions, pale with terror, and drenched to the skin. "Oh, Mr Wentworth!" was all she could utter, before she fell fainting into my arms. I will not enter into a description of my feelings at that moment, when the only woman I had ever truly loved was lying helpless in my embrace; suffice it that I felt I could die for her. In a short time she revived; and blushing deeply, apologised for the trouble and alarm she had occasioned me. My heart was on my lips. I had hitherto, from a feeling of delicacy, abstained from expressing all I felt towards her; but now she looked so lovely, so gentle, so confiding, that I was just on the point of giving utterance to the emotions of my heart, when the entrance of the servants coming to secure the furniture interrupted the unseasonable disclosure. I then hastened on deck, where a sight awaited me which almost paralysed my excited nerves. The ship was _lying to_, but anything but lying _still_, under the storm mainstaysail; the wreck of the maintopmast was hanging down the lee-mainrigging, banging backwards and forwards with the motion of the ship; the men were clinging like cats to the mainrigging, actively employed in endeavouring to secure and clear away the wreck; the wind had drawn more round to the eastward, and was blowing a perfect hurricane--when all at once a loud cry was heard from the forecastle, of "Breakers on the leebeam!" and their white tumbling crests were soon distinctly seen by all on deck, and it was evident we were fast approaching them. For an instant there was a pause of dead silence among the crew; officers and men looked at each other, and at the breakers, with blank dismay. The sharp, quick, distinct tones of the captain's voice startled them into habitual attention and activity. "Stations, wear ship! hard up with the helm! run up the forestaysail! square away the afteryards!" The staysail just _bellied out_ with the gale, and blew to rags; the ship fell off for a moment, and then flew up to the wind again. "Cut away the mizzenmast!" was the next order; and in five minutes the tall mast fell crashing over the side. The helm was again put up, but in vain; the ship would not pay off; and we were bodily and rapidly drifting down upon the breakers. "Have both bower cables clear below, and all ready with the sheet!" shouted the captain. I ran, or rather staggered, as fast as I could to the after cabin, and requested admittance. Emily was there, looking dreadfully pale. I suppose my countenance betrayed the agitation of my mind; for she instantly exclaimed--and her demeanour was unnaturally calm and collected, though her voice trembled, and her cheek was blanched with terror-- "Is there any hope, Mr Wentworth? Tell me the worst; I am prepared for it, and can bear it calmly." I hesitated. "You need not speak," said she; "your silence tells me there is no hope." "There is indeed none," replied I, "but in the mercy of an overruling Providence. In another hour, our doom, whether for life or for death, will be sealed." I saw the pang of agony that flitted across her countenance at this intelligence; she gasped for breath, and seemed as if about to faint; but she immediately recovered herself, and looking upwards, with mild resignation, she murmured, "It is a painful trial--but _His_ will be done." By my advice she put on some warmer but lighter clothing, and I then supported her to the quarterdeck. I felt the shuddering of her frame when the awful sight of approaching destruction was before her. The scene, altogether, was one to appal the bravest--to make the boldest "hold his breath;" never will the remembrance of it be erased from my mind; and, to this hour, it sometimes haunts my dreams. Scarcely half-a-mile to leeward lay the coast--dark, frowning, precipitous, and apparently inaccessible; its lower line completely hidden from our view; but at intervals the dark and rugged summits of the rocks were seen through the sheets of white foam dashed over them by the breakers. To windward the prospect was as cheerless; darkness was beginning to settle on the waters; and in the distance nothing was to be seen but the foam of the crested seas, flashing indistinct and ghastly through the gloom. Viewed by that uncertain light, and rising in such various waving forms, they seemed to my overwrought fancy as if the sea had given up her dead, and the spirits of the departed were assembling on the waters, to witness our approaching fate. The ship was already almost a wreck; the mizzenmast was still hanging alongside, having smashed the poop hammock-nettings and bulwark in its fall; the stumps of the fore and maintopmast were all that remained aloft; the giant seas were dashing over the sides, deluging the decks fore and aft, and blinding us with their thick showers of spray; the lower yardarms dipped into the water, as the half-waterlogged ship rolled heavily and deeply, groaning and trembling in every timber, like a living creature in its mortal agony. And then the accompaniments!--oh, how often since have I in fancy heard again the hollow, _ominous_ moaning of the gale, mourning, as it were, over the wreck of its own violence; the roaring of the waters, as they rose, and rushed, and dashed against our side; the dull, mournful, dirge-like sound of our minute-guns; the shuddering cries of the timid; the curses and imprecations of the hardened and desperate! Oh, if the recollection of it be so appalling, what must have been the reality? Some of the men were actively employed in endeavouring to clear away the wreck of the mizzenmast; others cutting adrift the small booms and spars, and all such light articles as might be instrumental in bearing them to the shore; and the passengers, and those who were unemployed, were gazing, in the gloomy silence of despair, upon their approaching destruction. I saw that there was no hope, and that the last struggle was fast approaching. I lashed the trembling and weeping Emily to a spar, and whispered in her ear, "Pray to the Ruler of the winds and waves, dearest Emily! _He_ can save when there is none other to help!" She pressed my hand in silence, smiled through her tears, and looked upwards. We had only one resource left now, and that was one of feeble promise--both bower anchors were cut away--the cables ran out to the clinches, and snapped like threads; the sheet-cable shared the same fate. "I knew it," exclaimed the captain--"I knew it was in vain. No hemp that ever was twisted could stand the strain of such a sea and breeze. It is all over with us now! Every man look out for his own safety! You had better lash yourselves to the spars, my lads!" The momentary check given to the ship brought her broadside round to the breakers. Never shall I forget the cold shudder which came over me when the vessel rose upon the crest of an enormous sea, and seemed to be balancing herself for a moment, as if loth to meet her doom; another instant, and she struck with a shock that made us all start from the deck, and a crash as if the whole fabric were falling to pieces beneath us. Again she was lifted by the sea, and dashed on the rocks nearer the shore, when she fell over on her side with her masts towards the beach, along which parties of men were hurrying, dimly visible in the dusk of evening, eager, but unable to afford us assistance; while the heights above were thronged with country people, who had been attracted to the spot by the report of our guns. The sea, which had dashed us on our broadside, swept away with it the boats, booms, spars--everything, in fact, from the upper deck; and bore its promiscuous prey onwards towards the beach. What was my agony to see the spar to which Emily was lashed sharing the fate of the rest! She tossed her arms wildly over her head, gave one shrill and piercing scream, and was borne away and hidden from my view by the following sea. "I will save her," I exclaimed, "or perish." The hull of the stranded ship formed a kind of breakwater, and the sea was comparatively smooth under her lee. I had stripped myself, in preparation for the coming struggle, of all superfluous clothing; and, crawling out as far as possible on the mainmast, I committed myself fearlessly to the sea, which was to me quite a familiar element. A few vigorous strokes, and the friendly elevation of a rising wave gave me a sight of Emily; I immediately swam towards her, and by partly supporting myself on the spar, and directing it towards the shore, I was fortunate enough to succeed in bearing my precious charge in safety to the beach, against which we were dashed with great violence, but fortunately without any injury. She was quite insensible, and lay on the sand so still and pale that at first my heart died within me; I thought she was gone for ever. "Emily! dearest Emily!" I frantically exclaimed. A faint sigh was the answer. The sudden revulsion from grief to transport, at this assurance that life was not extinct, was almost too much for me. Faintly, but fervently, did I breathe forth my thanksgivings to a merciful Providence, and then, with the assistance of some of the inhabitants, I bore the still unconscious form of my beloved companion to a fisherman's hut, which was perched in a fissure of the neighbouring rocks. "Don't be afeared, sir," said the old fisherman who assisted me in supporting Emily; "don't be afeared. Her cheek is a little pale or so; but my ould ooman 'll soon bring the colour into it again. Bless her ould heart, she's a famous doctor? But here we are," said he, giving a thundering rattle against the door. "Betsy, Betsy, heave ahead, ould woman!--this is no night to keep flesh and blood on the wrong side of the house." The door was cautiously opened, and, shading her candle with her hand from the rude blast, a tidily-dressed, respectable-looking woman made her appearance, who gave a cry of surprise and alarm when she saw the apparently lifeless body of Emily. She began pouring out a whole string of questions which her husband quickly cut short with-- "Come, come, Bet, there's no time for _backing_ and _filling_ now. Get the poor thing stripped, ould ooman, and put her into a warm bed as soon as ee can. There's a ship ashore below there, and this ere lady comed ashore with this ere gentleman." "For Heaven's sake be quick, my good woman," said I; "you shall be handsomely rewarded for your trouble." "Reward, sir!" replied the woman; "neither Bill nor me looks for reward for doing our duty. More's the luck, there's a good fire in both ends of the house to-night; bring her in here, poor thing." In half-an-hour, thanks to blankets, hot water, and Schiedam, Emily was in a quiet and placid slumber; and the fisherman and I, after having fortified ourselves with a glass of good Hollands, hastened again to the beach. The storm was still raging in all its fury; lights were flashing along the shore, and parties of men were running up and down, some in search of plunder, others with the more benevolent wish to afford assistance to the shipwrecked crew of the Indiaman. The beach was strewed with broken spars, hen-coops, chests of tea, and ship timber; and every now and then the fisherman's light flashed upon a dead body, lying extended partly on the sand and partly in the water. As we were hurrying along, I stumbled, and nearly fell over something soft, which I could not distinguish in the darkness, the fisherman being some paces ahead of me with his lantern. I stooped down, and found it was a human body. "Poor fellow!" muttered I--"he sleeps sound; 'tis the sleep of death." As I spoke, my hand touched the face, which, to my great surprise, was still warm. "Ah, there is life here still!" And of this I soon had startling conviction; for my finger was suddenly and sharply bitten, and, at the same moment I saw a little, round, dim-looking bundle rolling over and over with great rapidity along the beach. I was startled at first; but quickly recovered myself, and gave chase to the mysterious-looking object, calling out to the fisherman to join me. We soon overtook the object of our pursuit; and, cold and wearied as we both were, and surrounded by sights and sounds of horror, I could not forbear laughing at the sight that met my eyes. There, rolled up like a hedgehog, with his leather bottle by his side, and a red nightcap fastened on with a pocket-handkerchief, his little round chubby face buried in his hands, and his knees drawn up to his chin, lay the little doctor, his whole body trembling with fright. I flashed the light across his face, but he kept his eyes obstinately shut, and buried his face deeper in his hands. "Doctor!" said I, shaking him. "Oh, oh," shuddered he, "don't kill me--that's a good fellow! I'll give you my brandy bottle if you won't." I touched him in the ribs. "Oh! I am a dead man," groaned he, recoiling from the touch; "drowned like an ass at sea, and now going to be stuck like a pig on shore! Oh!" "Doctor!" "Never was one in my life!--my name's Posset. Drenched to the skin!--cold--cold! Don't kill me--that's a good fellow. I am so cold." "Don't you know me, doctor?" said I, almost crying with laughter; "don't you know Wentworth?" "Eh! What?" returned he, gradually uncoiling himself, till his little thick legs were stretched to their full length (shortness, I should say), and his sharp twinkling eyes stared full up in my face. "So it _is_! Give me your hand, my boy--who'd have thought it? How did you escape? Devil takes care of his own, eh?" "So it seems, doctor," said I, laughing; "that accounts satisfactorily for _your_ appearance here." "Ha, ha, ha! have me there--eh, Wentworth? Help me to take the stopper out of the bottle--that's a good fellow." He raised himself on his elbow, turned his face to the sky, and held deep communion with _his_ pocket-companion; but, happening to cast his eyes upon _mine_, he started nimbly to his feet, and, edging close to my side, muttered, with great trepidation-- "Who's your friend, eh? Not a wrecker, I hope? Sad fellows those--cut-throats, and all that." Having set the little gentleman's fears at rest on that score, we returned to the cottage, which was now crowded with survivors from the wreck, some dreadfully bruised, others only exhausted with cold and fatigue. We heard that several others had taken shelter in another cottage, about half-a-mile distant, and that a messenger had been despatched to a neighbouring town for medical assistance. It was found, on comparing notes, that only about fifty people were saved out of the crew of one hundred and twenty. Sad and silent were the greetings of the survivors; for the loud roaring of the wind, the rattling of the door and casements, and the low, rumbling sound of the distant breakers, recalled but too forcibly the horrors of the scenes they had just witnessed, and the sad fate of their unfortunate shipmates. As soon as the little doctor was revived by the heat, and by a dose of the fisherman's restorative, he hastened to make himself useful in a professional way; and his little rosy cheeks and merry chuckling laugh had the effect of soon dispelling the gloom which hung over the party. In a short time, we heard, in the intervals of the gale, the faint, distant sound of a horse's hoofs, galloping along the beach. "There comes the young doctor, I'll take my 'davy," said the fisherman. "Never knowed him let the grass grow under his horse's feet in time of need--blessings on his kind heart!" The door opened, and in walked the expected visiter. He was quite a youth in appearance, but tall, and of a most prepossessing exterior. "I hope there has no serious accident happened, William." "Serious enough, your honour," said the fisherman. "There's a fine ship stranded just below; many of the poor fellows on the beach are beyond the reach of your assistance; there is not so much as a broken bone here, however--nothing but wet clothes and bruises. But there's a lady in the other end of the house, doctor--you had better go to her first." We were just going to knock at the door of Emily's room, when the fisherman's wife opened it, and on seeing me, exclaimed-- "Your wife has just wakened from a sound sleep, sir, and looks quite fresh and life-like." I smiled at the good woman's mistake, which I did not see any occasion to rectify; but I followed the young doctor into the room. I saw in an instant that Emily had heard the woman's address to me; for as soon as her eye caught mine she blushed deeply, and averted her face. I almost flattered myself I heard a gentle sigh. The young doctor, in the meantime, approached the bed, and was about respectfully to feel her pulse, when, all at once, to my great surprise, he exclaimed-- "Merciful Heaven! Emily, dear Emily!" And, without the slightest ceremony, he printed kiss after kiss upon her fair cheek. My first impulse was to spring forward to chastise him for his insolence; but I felt my limbs tremble under me. I staggered against the wall, hid my face in my hands, and absolutely groaned with anguish of spirit. There was an end to all my bright visions; I had flattered myself that the cup of happiness was just at my lips, and now it seemed to be dashed from them for ever. I had saved Emily only for the arms of a happy rival! Such were the thoughts that flashed through my mind with the rapidity of lightning; and with them visions of ropes, and razors, and pistols. Two words of Emily dispelled them, and raised me again from the depths of despair into the seventh heaven of hope and happiness. These cabalistic words were--"Dear brother!" The young doctor now turned round to me, and said, hesitatingly-- "And this gentleman, Emily? Pray introduce me to him." "Mr Wentworth, allow me to introduce to your notice and friendship, my brother, Edward Walford." "Wentworth!" said young Walford; "there is surely some mistake here, Emily--I thought the woman called this gentleman your husband!" "So she did, Edward," replied she, blushing; "but it was a mistake on her part, and not a surprising one. I am more astonished at _your_ ignorance of my affairs than at hers. You cannot have received my two last letters from the Cape." She then informed him of the events which had taken place since she left Madras; spoke kindly and affectionately of her late husband, who, she said, had always behaved like a tender and considerate father to her; and expressed the warmest gratitude to him for his liberal provision for her future welfare. She hinted delicately that, though she grieved for his loss as that of a dear and valued friend, her feelings towards him had been chiefly those of gratitude and esteem. She gave a rapid and graphic sketch of the voyage, and ended with an account of the immediately preceding scenes of its fatal termination. Her cheek grew pale, and her voice trembled, as she detailed the horrors of the wreck. "Although I had thought myself perfectly resigned," she said, "to what appeared to be my inevitable fate, yet, when that awful sea tore me away from the deck, I felt as if my last earthly hope was wrested from me; that moment, snatched as it were from the confines of a violent and awful death, was crowded with the recollections of a lifetime, which flashed, with lightning-like rapidity, across my memory. I thought of all I had done and suffered, and then of the extinction of my fond hopes of meeting and benefiting those dearest to my heart. There was agony in the thought--I screamed, and became unconscious. The cold dashing of the sea, while it half-drowned, revived me from my fit. I was too faint and frightened to speak, but I was aware that Mr. Wentworth was beside me; I felt that I was saved, and I relapsed into unconsciousness. To this gentleman," she said turning her tearful eyes towards me, "am I indebted, under Heaven, for my escape from a watery grave. Oh, Mr. Wentworth! how can I ever adequately prove my gratitude to you?" "You owe me none," replied I. "The mere selfish impulses of our nature prompt us to endeavour to save what we value most. I _thought_ I loved you; but it was not till I saw you struggling in the waves that I knew how _very_ dear you were to my heart. Pardon my abruptness; if you think it presumption in a comparative stranger so _soon_ to talk of love, I will wait months, years--only speak one word, Emily--say, may I hope?" She was silent, but her eyes filled with tears, and she looked beseechingly at her brother. "I see how it is, Mr. Wentworth," said the doctor, laughing; "my sister deputes me to act as her interpreter. Her eyes say to you, as plain as they can speak (though you do not seem to understand their language), 'You saved my _life_--who has a better claim upon my hand and heart?' Am I right, Emily?" said he, putting her small fair hand into mine. She made no reply, but gently returned the pressure of my hand, and looked up in my face with such a sweet smile, that I could not resist the temptation to imprint the first fond seal of love upon her glowing cheek. "Come, Emily," said young Walford, "your _brother_ has given you to Mr. Wentworth, and now your _doctor_ must take care of you for him. You are too weak yet to bear more excitement; we will leave you to your repose." He then took my arm, and bidding Emily adieu, we went into the other room, where we found the most exhausted of the party stretched on the floor in various attitudes, giving audible notice that their lungs had not been materially injured by their late submersion; while the shuddering moans and convulsive starts of some of the number showed that fancy was busy within them, acting over again the dreadful scenes of the night. When day had begun to break, the whole party hastened out to the beach. Not a vestige remained of our unfortunate ship: the hull was completely broken up, and the shore was strewed for miles with portions of the wreck. We found Captain Darby, Wildman, and the survivors who had taken refuge in the other cottage, busily employed in the sad duty of collecting the dead bodies of their less fortunate shipmates. Young Walford and I had a long and interesting conversation together, in the course of which he told me that his mother and the rest of the family were living in the neighbouring town, in which he was practising as surgeon. He was obliged to return home immediately, he said, to attend to his professional avocations; and, leaving me to apologise to his sister when she awoke, he promised either to come or send for her as soon as possible. I returned to the cottage. Emily was sleeping, and remained for three or four hours in a sound slumber, from which she had only just awakened, when a post-chaise drove up to the door, a handsome middle-aged lady stepped out, and in a moment Emily was in the arms of her mother. For some time they embraced each other in silence; but their lips were moving, and the tears were streaming down their cheeks. "Dear, dear mother!" at last sobbed Emily. "Blessings on my darling!" replied she, holding Emily from her, and then hugging her to her heart; "let me look again on thy sweet face, my child!" she continued, gazing earnestly and affectionately at her, and then murmuring, "Oh, if I had lost you, Emily!" she again burst into an agony of tears. At last recollecting herself, she exclaimed, "Edward has told me all--where is _he_--where is the gallant man who saved your life?" "This is Mr Wentworth," said Emily. Mrs Walford took my hand in both hers, and pressed it to her heart, and, with a broken and trembling voice, she exclaimed-- "The blessing of a widowed mother be upon you, sir. You have saved my grey hairs from going down in sorrow to the grave." I was greatly affected by her warm expressions of gratitude, and by the almost maternal cordiality with which she urged me to accompany them home. This invitation, it may be readily supposed, I was not at all unwilling to avail myself of; and, as none of the party were encumbered with baggage, nothing having been saved from the wreck, we soon left the cottage, carrying with us the good wishes and blessings of its inmates, whom Mrs Walford had most liberally rewarded for their hospitality. Three months afterwards, Emily Stacely became my wife; and, as I said before, sir, I owe the greatest blessing of my life to a storm and its consequences. The steamboat soon afterwards entered the Mersey; and, when we parted on the quay at Liverpool, it was with mutual regret, and with a promise to renew our acquaintance as soon as possible. I have since had reason, like Mr Wentworth, to bless a "storm and its consequences;" for the next greatest blessing to a good wife is a good friend, and such he has ever proved himself to be, since our "stormy" meeting in the steamboat. THE HEIR OF INSHANNOCK. The ill-fated struggle of the partisans of the House of Stuart, in the year 1745, terminated, as our readers know, in the total ruin of almost all who were engaged in that unfortunate rebellion. The scaffold was deluged with the noblest blood in Scotland; and even those who were so fortunate as to escape the axe of the executioner, became penniless wanderers in a foreign land, meeting with little sympathy, and still less relief. Amongst those who preferred the risk of hanging in their own country, to the certainty of starvation in a foreign one, was Reginald, or, as he was usually called, Ranald Grahame of Inshannock--a gentleman who was distantly connected with the Viscounts of Dundee. His estates were extensive, although his rental was small. He resided in an old building called the Tower of Gloom, which stood on a ridge of a terrific defile overhanging Loch Lomond. Great rewards were offered for his apprehension by the Duke of Argyle, who entertained towards him a very hostile feeling, not founded in any patriotic desire to put down a rebel, but from an old grudge, either real or imaginary, which the great M'Callum Mor was not disposed to stomach. Hitherto, every effort to capture Reginald had been fruitless; for, secure in the devoted attachment of his tenantry, and the difficulty of an approach to the tower, he laughed at the threats of the chief of the Campbells, although backed by formidable government proclamations. It was to this security that Reginald became a victim. In his earlier years he had been intimate with Donald Campbell of Dungyle, who, although the nominal proprietor of these lands, derived nothing from them, as they were burdened by what is called, in Scottish law-language, a wadset. Now, Donald found it somewhat inconvenient to live upon nothing, or next to it; and he thought it no bad speculation to exchange his nominal estate for a real one, by handing his friend Reginald over to the tender mercies of the ministers of George II.; and, in return, quietly taking his place in the Tower of Gloom. Having thus made up his mind on the propriety of bettering his condition, and having reconciled his conscience to the betrayal of his friend, by assuming that, as Reginald would, one day or other, be infallibly taken prisoner and executed, it was much better, although it might shorten his life a few weeks or months, that a friend rather than a stranger should get whatever recompense was to be got. Indeed, if any scruples still lurked in his breast, his duties as a citizen at once put an end to them, for, as he said, "a true patriot must sacrifice every private feeling to the public good." Influenced by these mixed considerations, he applied for, and obtained a promise, if he should be able to surprise the Tower of Gloom and its proprietor, that he would be rewarded with a gift of the forfeited estate of Inshannock. Having made every arrangement, in the event of success, Donald Campbell, with a body of retainers, proceeded to the Tower of Gloom. Hiding his followers in a copse of wood in the immediate vicinity, Donald hastened to the abode of his friend, and, claiming his hospitality, was readily admitted as an inmate. The result may be easily anticipated: Reginald found himself a prisoner, for the first time in his life. Resolved rather to perish than surrender, the unfortunate laird ran to an apartment overlooking the loch, and leaped from the window into the water. His false friend, seeing his desperate efforts, threw him a rope as if in kindness, to support him, while a boat came near. "That rope was meant for my neck, and I leave it for a traitor's," were the last words that came from the lips of the betrayed one. The pangs of remorse penetrated the heart of the insidious Campbell. He leaped himself into a boat, held out an oar toward his drowning friend, with real oaths of fidelity; but Reginald pushed it from him, and abandoned himself to death. The waters of the lake are singularly transparent near the rock on which the Tower of Gloom was perched; and Campbell beheld his victim gradually sinking, till he seemed to lie among the broad weeds under the waters. Once, only once, he saw, or thought he saw, him lift his hand as if to reach his; and that dying hand never left his remembrance. Campbell having thus successfully accomplished the enterprise he had projected, applied for and obtained the reward he had stipulated for. He received a grant of the lands of Inshannock; and the long-wished-for Tower of Gloom came into his hands, together with the sum of money offered for the capture or death of Reginald. So far, therefore, as worldly matters went, Donald Campbell, Esq. of Inshannock, had no cause to complain. But he was far from happy, for he could not but reproach himself with the death of one who, trusting to his honour, had been basely betrayed; and those reasons of expediency which had satisfied him when he contemplated the deed, after its accomplishment lost all their previous efficacy. He had another and separate cause of distress; his only son, Roderick, a promising youth, above sixteen years of age, had suddenly disappeared in the year 1745, and no traces of him whatever could be found. Every effort had been made to discover his fate, but in vain; thus, although Donald Campbell was, apparently, a man of opulence, he was in reality a much less happy man than when he lived from hand to mouth, and knew not one day where he was to look for provision for the next. Although this enterprise had been successful, Campbell did not reap all the fruits of his perfidy; for some of the remote portions of the Highland estate which he had procured a gift of from the crown, were altogether unproductive, the tenants refusing to recognise any other chief than the son of the deceased proprietor. William Grahame was, at the time of his father's death, a boy of fifteen. He had been removed from the Tower of Gloom by his mother's relations, about the time of the suppression of the rebellion, and placed by them in the Marischal College in the city of Aberdeen. The lad, who had no great taste for classical literature, was by no means comfortable, and longed to return to the purple heath of his native hills. So long as his father lived, William behaved himself with considerable propriety, and made some progress in his studies; but no sooner did the tidings arrive of the untimely fate of the ill-starred Reginald, than his son disappeared from the university, and the anxious search of his friends was unable to obtain any traces of his flight. Some time afterwards, a body was found in the river Dee, in a state of great decomposition, which generally was supposed to be that of the young man, and was duly interred as the corpse of the last Grahame of Inshannock. Time hurried on; and the new proprietor of Inshannock had begun to feel the effect of its rapid transit: he was no longer the vigorous man of forty; and as he passed towards the period of threescore, the effects of age told severely upon him. For a series of years, Donald Campbell had been very much exposed to the depredations of a set of caterans or gipsies, who frequently kept him in a state of siege in his tower. This tower was of the true Scottish fabric, divided into three storeys: the highest of which contained the dormitories; the second or middle served as a general refectory; and the lowest contained his cattle, which required this lodgment at night, or very few would have been found next morning. The leader of the gipsies frequented the fairs on the north side of the Frith, well mounted--paying at inns and ferries like a gentleman; and attended by bands of gillies, whose green coats, cudgels, and knives, were sufficiently feared by the tenantry of the Lennox. The gipsy chieftain had also a grim cur of the true black-faced breed, famous for collecting and driving off sheep, and therefore distinguished by his own name. In the darkest cleughs or ravines, or in the deepest snow, this faithful animal had never been known to abandon the flock commited to his care, or to fail in tracing a fugitive. But, as sight and strength began to fail, the four-footed chieftain was deposed, imprisoned in a byre loft, and finally sentenced to be drowned. In one of those drear midnights so awful to travellers in the Highlands, a man, wrapped in a large coarse plaid, strode from a stone ridge, on the border of Loch Lomond, into a boat which he had drawn from its covert. He rowed resolutely and alone, looking carefully to the right and to the left, till he suffered the tide to bear his little bark into a gorge or gulf, so narrow, deep, and dark, that no escape but death seemed to await him. Precipices, rugged with dwarf shrubs and broken granite, rose more than a hundred feet on each side, sundered only by the stream, which a thirsty season had reduced to a sluggish and shallow pool. The boatman, poising himself erect on his staff, drew three times the end of a strong chain which hung among the underwood. In a few minutes a basket descended from the pinnacle of the cliff; and, having moored his boat, he placed himself in the wicker carriage, and was safely drawn into a crevice high in the fissure of a rock, into which he disappeared. The boat was moored; but the adventurer had not observed that it contained another passenger. Underneath a plank, laid artfully along its bottom, and shrouded in his plaid of the darkest green, another man had been lurking more than an hour before the owner of the boat entered it, and remained hidden by the darkness of the night. His purpose was answered. He had now discovered--what he had sacrificed many a perilous night to obtain a knowledge of--the mode by which the owner of the Tower of Gloom gained access to his impregnable fortress unsuspected. He instantly unmoored the boat, and rowed slowly back across the loch to an island near the centre. He rested on its oars, and looked down into the transparent water. "It is there still," he said to himself; and drawing close among the rocks, leaped on dry land. A dog of the true shepherd breed sat waiting under the bushes, and ran before him till they descended together under an archway of stones and withered branches. "Watch the boat," said the Highlander to his faithful guide, who sprang immediately away to obey him. Meanwhile his master lifted up one of the grey stones, took a bundle from beneath it, and equipped himself in such a suit as a trooper of Campbell's regiment usually wore. He then looked at the edge of his dirk, and returned to his boat. Having thus acquired an accurate knowledge of the secret mode of access to the tower, the stranger returned to the place where he had seen the basket descending for the purpose of conveying its present possessor to the tower; climbing up its rough face with the activity acquired by mountain warfare, he hung among furze and broken rocks like a wild cat, till he found the crevice through which the basket had seemed to issue. It was artfully concealed by tufts of heather; but creeping on his hands and knees, he forced his way into the interior. There the deepest darkness confounded him, till he had laid his hands on a chain which he rightly guessed to be the same he had seen hanging on the side of the lake when Campbell landed. One end was coiled up; but he readily concluded that the end must have some communication with the keep; and he followed its course, till he found it inserted in what seemed a subterraneous wall. A crevice behind the pulley admitted a gleam of light; but, striving to raise himself, he leaned too forcibly on the chain, and he was somewhat startled to hear the sound of a deep-toned bell. Donald Campbell was sitting alone in the chamber, from the windows of which, fifteen years before, his betrayed friend, Reginald Grahame, had precipitated himself into the lake below. His eyes were fixed on the blazing logs on the hearth. The thoughts of former times were flitting before him: he pondered on the days of his youth, before ambition and avarice had fixed their poisoned arrows in his heart; ere the world had banished those notions of virtue and religion that his excellent parents had, in his boyhood, so unceasingly inculcated. Many minor delinquencies had he committed; but the crime which now preyed upon his mind was the betrayal of his friend, embittered as it was by the reflection of the sordid motive that induced it. In this state of mind he was startled by one of those figures which fancy so frequently suggests to a disordered mind. In the masses of the burning embers, he traced the outline of a face: imagination lent its aid; and he recognised a resemblance of Reginald. He started up:--"Avaunt, base mockery; am I to be daunted with a mere figment of the brain? Alas! trifles now disturb me. If I have sinned, I have suffered: the loss of my only son has been the penalty. I have paid for my misdeeds." So saying, he sat back on his chair quite exhausted; and at that moment the bell rung. At the deep and hollow sound he cast his eyes fearfully round, but made no attempt to rise, though he stretched his hand towards a staff which lay near him. The stranger saw the tremor of the dismayed Lord of the Tower; and, putting his lips to the crevice, murmured, "Father," in a low and supplicating tone. That word made Campbell tremble. But when the other added, "Father! father! save me," he sprang to the wall, drew back the iron bolts of a narrow door, invisible to any eye but his own, and gave admission to the muffled man, who leaped eagerly in. Years had passed since Campbell had seen his son, and many rumours had been spread that the younger Campbell had not really perished, but had engaged in the service of the Pretender. The hopes and love of the father all revived in one moment; and the sudden apparition--the appeal for mercy--had full effect on his imagination. The voice, eyes, and figure of the stranger resembled his son: all else might and must be changed by the lapse of so many years. He wept like an infant on his shoulder, grasped his hand a hundred times, and forgot to blame him for the rash disloyalty he had shown to his father's cause. Roderick, in explanation, mentioned a variety of circumstances explanatory of the reasons of his evasion: how he had escaped, after the battle of Culloden, to France, where he had endeavoured to earn a scanty livelihood; and how he had at last resolved to revisit his native land, in hopes of obtaining the forgiveness of his father. His narrative was much abridged, by the fond delight of the old man weeping and rejoicing over the return of his prodigal son. Old Campbell eagerly asked by what happy chance he had discovered the secret entrance, and whether any present danger threatened him. Roderick answered the first question by repeating what our readers are already acquainted with; and he added, in answer to the second, that he feared nothing but the emissaries of the government, from whom he could not be better concealed than in the Tower of Gloom. Old Campbell agreed with joyful eagerness, but presently added-- "Roderick, my boy, we must trust in Annette: she's too near in kin to betray you; and ye were to have been her spouse." Then he explained that his niece was the only one person in his household acquainted with the secret of the basket and the bell; that by her help he could provide a mattress and provisions for his son; but without it he would be forced to hazard the most dangerous inconveniences. Roderick was commanded to return into the cavern passage, while his delighted father prepared his kinswoman for her new guest; and he listened greedily to catch the answers Annette gave to her uncle's tale. He heard the hurry of her steps preparing, as he supposed, a larger supper for the old laird's table, with the simplicity and hospitality of a Highland maiden. He was not mistaken. When the bannocks, and grouse, and claret were arranged, Campbell presented his restored son to the mistress of the feast. Roderick was pale and dumb as he looked upon her. She came before him like a dream of some lovely picture remembered in his youth; and with her came some remembrance of his former self. The old laird, forgetting that his niece had been but a child, and his son a stripling, when they parted, indulged the joy of his heart, by asking Annette a thousand times whether she remembered her betrothed husband; and urging his son, since he was still unmarried, to pledge his promised bride. Annette, whose predilections in favour of her cousin had been created by association--for she remembered him as far back as her recollections went--rejoiced at his reappearance, after so long an interval, and seemed by no means disinclined to listen to her uncle's proposition. Besides the persons just mentioned, there were present in the apartment an old woman, and a dog, also evidently advanced in years. The latter, upon the entrance of Roderick, saluted him with a loud bark; but, strange to say, suddenly paused in the middle of his hostile demonstrations, and, after smelling for half-a-minute, as if he was investigating what sort of person the intruder was, quietly retreated to his place by the fireside, apparently satisfied that all was right. The fire on the hearth was replenished, and burned cheerfully. Immediately opposite to the dog, on one side of the ingle, sat the woman. She was aged, and bent almost double, with no apparent sense of sight or hearing, though her eyes were fixed on the spindle she was twirling; and sometimes, when the laird raised his voice, she put her lean hand on the hood that covered her ears. "Do you not remember poor old Moome?" said Annette; and the laird led his supposed son towards the superannuated crone, though without expecting any mark of recognition. Whether she had noticed anything that had passed, could not be gathered from her idiot laugh; and she had almost ceased to speak. Therefore, as if only dumb domestic animals had been sitting by his hearth, Campbell pursued his arrangements for his son's safety, advising him to sleep composedly in the wooden panelled bed that formed a closet off this chamber, without regarding the half-living skeleton, who never left her corner. He gave him his blessing, and departed, taking with him his niece and the key of this dreary room, promising to return and watch by his bedside. He came back in a few minutes; and, while Roderick couched himself on his mattress, took his station by the fire and fell fast asleep, overcome with joy. The embers gradually sunk on the hearth, and the light diminished in proportion. Roderick, who had lain awake for some time, began to feel the approach of sleep; and, whilst in a state of transition, he observed, by the dying embers of the fire, the old woman cautiously rise, and, removing the dirk from the side of her sleeping master, approach his bed with cautious step and silent tread. The astonishment of Roderick at beholding this infirm creature advance, with a purpose so evidently hostile, was so great, that, in place of jumping from his couch, and wresting the weapon from the hands of its weak and attenuated possessor, he lay fascinated, as birds are said to be by the eyes of the rattlesnake, until the actual advent of the apparent assassin. The motions of the beldame were carefully watched in a quarter which she little suspected; for she barely reached the couch on which her intended victim reposed, and was about to raise her arm to strike, than the aged dog sprang at her throat, and brought her to the ground, from which she never rose again: the frail thread of her existence had been snapped by the suddenness of the onset. This unexpected occurrence awoke the lord of the tower, who, springing up, beheld the nurse lying on the ground, with the dog growling over her. This at once aroused Roderick from his trance; and he briefly explained to his father the singularly mysterious scene he had witnessed, and the fact of his rescue by the wonderful sagacity of the dog. The father was perfectly amazed that such an attempt should have been made on the life of his son by one whom he naturally supposed would, as his vassal, have rather died a thousand deaths than have touched a hair of the head of the son of her chief. The only plausible ground he could assign for this murderous attempt was the insanity of the old woman, who, perhaps, perplexed by the unexpected appearance of a stranger in a place where none had heretofore been, had, by some hallucination, fancied him a robber; and, under this impression, had boldly gone forward to do battle for the laird. "Dear Roderick," said the father, "this is a sad welcome to the Tower of Gloom. If I was superstitious, I should augur something bad from this event. Poor Moome! she had long been a faithful servant, and I could have wished her fate different. We must conceal it from Annette. She will be sufficiently unhappy as it is; and it would be cruel to add to her annoyance by disclosing the strange fact that she had perished in attempting the life of her benefactor's son. Once more, good-night, dear boy." So saying, he pressed his son's forehead to his lips, and, removing the body, left Roderick to his own thoughts. Poor Annette was shocked exceedingly by the unexpected death of the nurse; but sorrow is said to be near akin to love; and, in the delicate attentions of her cousin Roderick, the fair Celt felt her grief strangely soothed, and her bosom experience sensations to which it had previously been a stranger. Old Campbell witnessed the progress of this passion with great delight, and gave the young couple every opportunity for studying "_la belle passion_:" indeed, the necessary confinement of Roderick in the tower threw them so much together, that it was no wonder they became attached to each other. The scene from the top of the tower was magnificent: the clear and pellucid water of the fairest of Scotland's lakes at its feet; the isles with which its glassy bosom was studded, looked like so many fairy bowers; and the magnificent range of mountains to the northward, added to the grandeur of a scene, the beauty of which words can but inadequately express. Often, at night, by the light of the silvery moon, the cousins would repair to this favourite seat, where Roderick would speak "Of moving accidents by flood and field; Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach; Of being taken by the insolent foe, And sold to slavery;" whilst Annette listened breathless, but delighted, to his words. It was here that he first ventured to breathe of love. Seizing the guitar from his cousin's hand, he poured forth his feelings in the following verses:-- "Impell'd by angry fate's decree In foreign lands to roam, With heavy heart I bid adieu To happiness and home. "I braved the perils of the land, The dangers of the sea; But every suffering is repaid By one kind look from thee." It is unnecessary to trouble our readers with all the love-passages between the two lovesick swains, which, although exceedingly interesting to the parties themselves, is anything but agreeable to any one else. It is sufficient to say, that Annette yielded her heart to her cousin, and that her uncle rejoiced at the surrender. A change for the better was evident in Roderick. He was no longer the gloomy repulsive individual that he once was. His manners gradually softened; and even the coldness with which he originally repelled his father's kindness began to disappear. He had been barely a fortnight in the tower, when he expressed an urgent desire to be allowed to leave it for a short time. Old Campbell was not a little surprised at this, and represented the great risk he ran in leaving a place of security, and exposing himself to the chance of apprehension: he also expressed some curiosity to know what engagement could lure him from his father's house at such a time. Roderick replied, that, were the business his own, he would not have scrupled to have explained everything to his father; but, as any disclosure would compromise other persons, he could not, as a man of honour, betray a trust that had been confided in him. The laird, whose notions of honour were somewhat lax, was not altogether convinced by this reasoning; but he did not press his opposition farther, and Roderick was allowed to depart. After the absence of a week, Roderick returned, and was welcomed in the most affectionate manner by his father and cousin. Some time afterwards he again left the tower for a few days; but these absences became less and less, as his love prospered. One day his father, who had been from home for some time, returned, and calling his son and niece to his presence, said-- "My dear Roderick, you are now a free man--I hold here a free pardon for all offences. The interest of our chief with government has effected this. The Duke of Argyle is ever ready to assist his clansmen; and the faults and errors of the son have been overlooked in the services of the father. No obstacle longer remains to your nuptials with my beloved niece: take her from my hand as the greatest treasure I can give you." Roderick's passion was equal to her rapture. Here was every obstacle removed. He could again appear in the world as a free agent, and the husband of one whose beauty was her least recommendation. "Father," he exclaimed, "I know not how to express my gratitude for these favours. Henceforth you shall----" And here he paused--a blush came over his haughty features, and the sentence was left unfinished. A week before the nuptials, the old man took his son aside. "Roderick, I have something for your private ear." "I attend." "It is painful for a father to declare his unworthiness to his own offspring; but it must be. A bitter remorse has for many years soured my existence. My wealth is considerable; but it is a burden to me, because it originated in--blood!" Roderick answered not. "You must have heard that this tower once belonged to another?" The son started. "I have." "I betrayed my friend. He perished, not by my hands, but by my fault; and from that moment deep remorse has filled my bosom: but of that no more. A sense of justice induces me to act decisively. Reginald Grahame had a son." Roderick rose from his seat, but made no reply. "It is of him I would speak. Circumstances have induced me to believe that the leader of the caterans who pursued me so long--who harried my lands, and injured my crops--was that son. His feelings towards me must be deadly; but I forgive him. It is but natural that he should hate the destroyer of his father. Would that he knew the pangs I have suffered--the anguish I have felt!" "And is this true? Was your remorse so great? Have you repented of this cruel act?" "Deeply--deeply, my son; but what avails it?" "Much; for contrition----" And he paused. "Proceed." "I mean to say, that a contrite heart is acceptable to Heaven." "I hope it is--I believe it is. But, to proceed:--I have enough to make you and Annette comfortable; and it is my wish to return to my own estate, now redeemed from the burdens which once pressed heavily upon it. If young Grahame lives, as I suspect he does, I will surrender his father's lands. I ask not his forgiveness--that I expect not--but I request him to take back his own. Have I your consent?" "Most cordially." "Then all is right. I must see the gipsy chief. I will place myself in his hands." "Nay, nay, think not of that. I will myself see him." "No, no; if he slays me, he but extinguishes a light that soon must be quenched; but if he murder you, I am left desolate, and Annette miserable." "Feel no alarm: he knows me not. As a stranger I will seek him; and, be assured, no harm will befall me." After much resistance, the old man yielded; and Roderick left the tower that night. The only companion that accompanied the messenger of peace was the dog who had so strangely rescued Roderick from the maniacal attempt of the old nurse. This escort was accidental, and was not discovered until the traveller had crossed the lake in the boat, which his own hand rowed; when, to his great surprise, as he jumped ashore, the animal, who had quietly slipped aboard, made his appearance. "Poor fellow," said Roderick, patting him on the head, "what has brought you here? Your old limbs are more fitted for the fireside than for the devious path I must tread. I fear you will regret exchanging the comforts of the tower for the scanty food of the mountain glen." The distance Roderick had to go was considerable; and, although a good walker, and accustomed to traverse districts as wild, if not wilder, he was unable to accomplish more than thirty miles of his journey; for, as the dog gave evident tokens of fatigue, and was unable to keep up with him, he slackened his pace, and proceeded with less rapidity. The night was dark, and the traveller had wandered considerably from the right path; he saw no traces of civilisation about him; he was apparently in the midst of a large and boundless moor. "Well, it is not the first time that the heath has been my bed--probably it will not be the last; and, if it must be, I will roll myself up in my plaid, and sleep till dawn. O Oscar, you old fool! why did you not remain where you were? You have deprived me of at least ten miles of my journey, and a comfortable bed to boot." At this moment the horizon was illumined by a flash of what is termed sheet-lightning, and Roderick observed what appeared to be a dwelling about a quarter-of-a-mile distant. The discovery was certainly far from displeasing; and although the place was much out of the way, Roderick naturally enough conjectured it to be some little snug dwelling, admirably adapted for the purpose of illicit distillation. After the ordinary pleasure frequently enjoyed by those who wander in unknown paths through Highland districts, of plunging knee-deep in quagmires, and getting thoroughly drenched by the cooling mists from the mountains, Roderick, with some difficulty, arrived at the wished-for haven. It was a small and tolerable-looking bothy, containing, so far as the wanderer could ascertain, a butt and ben. Peeping through a clink in the small orifice intended for a window, it was with no ordinary delight he beheld a capital peat-fire, burning with more than accustomed briskness. As the door was fastened, he "tirled at the pin," as the old ballads term it. A hoarse, but evidently female, voice exclaimed-- "Wha's that, to disturb an honest woman at this time o' nicht?" "A stranger, who has lost his way." "Awa wi' ye; we've nae room for strangers in this kintry; gang your ways." "But, my good woman, I really can do no such thing. Have you the conscience--can you think of sending me back to the bleak moor through which I have been passing, when you have such a capital fire blazing away here? Come, now, have some compassion." "Let him in, Christie," exclaimed another voice, proceeding evidently from one of a different gender; "perhaps he may come from Macpherson." The mandate was obeyed; and Roderick found himself in presence of two men, dressed in military attire, and a middle-aged woman of somewhat repulsive aspect. The warlike individuals were making themselves comfortable over a bottle of mountain-dew; and the potency of the "fire-water," as the Indians term it, was pretty evident, from the flushed countenance and thick utterance of the drinkers. "I am sorry to intrude on you, gentlemen," apologised Roderick; "but I lost my way on the neighbouring moor, and my good stars guided me to this habitation, where I hope----" "No apologies--no apologies, sir. I have seen service, sir; I receive his majesty's pay; and know how to treat a gentleman as he ought to be treated, sir. Will you join us in a glass, sir?" Roderick was by no means desirous of partaking of the offer thus so ostentatiously offered; but, as it was his wish to conciliate rather than offend, he pocketed his pride, and took his place at the deal board, which, placed on the top of an old whisky cask, served for a table. "May I be bold enough, sir, to ask whom I have the honour of pledging?" quoth the inviter, filling his glass. "My name, sir, is Serjeant Patullo--Serjeant Patullo, of his Majesty's fifth troop of cavalry." With some hesitation, the name of Campbell was uttered by Roderick. "Campbell, sir? good name--loyal subjects to his gracious Majesty. Mr. Campbell, allow me to introduce Private Kincaid. Your health, Mr. Campbell. Are you in the army, Mr. Campbell? Pardon me for the question, sir; but you have a fine military look." "I am not presently employed, although, at one period, I saw a good deal of service; but pray, sir--question for question--may I ask to what accident I am to attribute the presence of two military gentlemen in this out-of-the-way place in the Highlands? "You may well call it out of the way, sir; but a soldier's duty, sir, requires his presence where his country calls him, sir. I am sorry, sir, that I cannot divulge to so polite a gentleman (more especially, sir, as, with your leave, there is somewhat a scant of good breeding in this petticoat country) the cause of our presence here; but state secrets, sir, must not be divulged." "Certainly," replied Roderick. "I cannot press you further. You will forgive me for pleading fatigue; but, with your leave, I must take a hurried nap, as I require to be early on my road to-morrow morning. Good-night, gentlemen." So saying, he threw himself on a bed in a corner of the room, wrapping himself up in his plaid. The dog took his place beside him. Roderick soon fell asleep. How long he slumbered he did not know; but he was awakened at last by a confused Babel of voices. Opening his eyes, he saw a third person present, and discovered a face which seemed familiar. The discovery was anything but pleasant; and, he deemed it prudent to remain quiet, and to counterfeit that repose which he certainly was far from feeling. The parties engaged in altercation had evidently been drinking deeply. The serjeant had thrown by his precision, and was talking volubly. "I'll tell you, ye Highland blackguard, the man's a gentleman, and you shall not disturb him." "But," replied the stranger, "I'm no going to be a fule, if ye are ane, serjeant. If ony o' the band get an inkling o' what I'm about, ye'll never put saut on their tails." "Nonsense," quoth Private Kincaid; "the man's asleep, and never dreaming of caterans, or the Glen of Benvorlich. I wish the Highland devils may be as sound as he is when we get there." "Just let him be quiet, Macpherson," said the serjeant. "I wish I was as sure of fifty guineas as you are. Come, let's be jolly--fill your tumbler and don't shirk." Roderick, who, on other occasions, would have scorned to have become an eavesdropper, was impelled by strong and urgent reasons to be a listener; and he easily gathered, from the broken and disjointed conversation of the parties, that Macpherson had been connected with the band of caterans of whom the titular Inshannock was the leader; that, from a quarrel, he had resolved to betray his companions; and induced by a government reward and promise of pardon, had made the bothy a trysting-place, from whence he was to be conducted to a village some few miles distant, where a detachment of the king's troops was stationed, from whence he was to guide them to the hiding-place of those who were sought. By this time the small hours were gradually becoming larger, and daylight was beginning to creep through the crevices in the diminutive window. The revellers were thoroughly inebriated; and Macpherson, no longer awed by his commander-in-chief, again vowed his determination of rousing the object of his curiosity. The serjeant hiccupped a negative, to which no attention was paid; and Macpherson advanced, as steadily as the effect of his libations would permit, to the side of the bed were Roderick lay, apparently fast asleep. The man of curiosity tottered onward towards the bed; but fate had willed that he should be baffled; for Oscar, who had been watching his footsteps with jealous care, sprang upon him, as he put forth his hand to remove the plaid from the head of the supposed sleeper. The suddenness of the attack brought the intruder to the ground; and the fall entirely removed any glimmerings of reason which his previous inebriety had left him. There he lay all his length in a state of hopeless intoxication. "Served him right," mutually exclaimed the serjeant and the private; "but what can you expect from a Mac?" "The Macphersons, Macgregors, and all, are not much better than savages," added the serjeant; who, being a Lowlander, felt that contempt for the Highlanders so common amongst the more southern inhabitants of Scotland. It is a curious fact--perhaps affording better evidence of the distinctiveness of the two races inhabiting North Britain than any other--that the dislike of the Lowlanders, especially among the lower orders, towards their brethren of the mountains, was extreme, both at the period when the events here related occurred, and long previously: even in these modern times, some portion of the leaven remains. This feeling Serjeant Patullo, a native of Dalkeith, shared with his compatriots. Roderick rose from the bed not much refreshed, but infinitely delighted by the unexpected manner in which the attempt of Macpherson had been frustrated. Shaking hands with the two military personages, who were just able to keep their feet, and giving his repulsive hostess a gratuity for her night's lodgings, he proceeded on his journey, accompanied by his faithful companion. "Oscar, twice you have saved me; and your last service was greater than your first. Henceforward we never part." The rest of the journey was accomplished with speed and safety. The glen of Benvorlich was reached. Two days afterwards the king's troops arrived; but the nest was cold, and not one trace of the caterans could be found. Little did the worthy serjeant imagine through whose timely information the well-arranged scheme had proved abortive. On the contrary, his suspicions rested on Macpherson, who was taken back in custody, to the port of Monteith, and there dismissed with ignominy. A week or two afterwards, he was found murdered, with a label on his breast, bearing these words--"The proper reward of a traitor." The day preceding that fixed for the nuptials, Roderick returned in safety--Oscar following at his heel. He made no mention of his adventure in the bothy, or his second obligation to his canine attendant; he merely observed that his journey had been prosperous. "Father, I have seen him; and in the leader of the caterans, the heir of Inshannock was detected. He knew me not as your son. I told him your sorrow and your proffer; and here is his answer." Here he delivered a letter to Campbell, who, hastily unfolding it, read as follows:-- "DONALD CAMPBELL,--In vain you seek, by offering back my own, to extinguish my hatred. It is not by gifts that you could deter me from my revenge. Repent; and if the remorse your messenger so forcibly describes is genuine, it will do more to procure my forgiveness than all the wealth you could heap upon me. I shall watch over you; and if--as I shall learn--your repentance is sincere, you may yet escape my vengeance." "Strange--very strange!" exclaimed the old man. "Then he rejects my offer. But how could I expect otherwise! The last scion of a noble race, he will not compromise the name of Grahame by accepting even his own from the hand of a Campbell. Well, Roderick, Inshannock shall be your marriage-portion with Annette; and you shall hold these lands under the condition that they shall be replaced by others whensoever William Grahame shall demand them from you." "Sir, I accept your gift: the lands of Inshannock are mine so long as unclaimed by the lawful proprietor." "Agreed. Thus one weight is off my mind; and, my dear Roderick, may I hope that the burden will press less heavily on you than it has on me; and that some day, I trust not very remote, shall witness the surrender of your stewardship to the rightful owner?" "That Inshannock may devolve on him who has best right to it, is as much my wish as yours." The ensuing day, the minister of Kilmun united Roderick Campbell to Annette Gordon. The marriage was kept quite private, contrary to the usual custom in the Highlands; but this was at the express desire of Roderick, who told his father that it ill became one who had so recently received a pardon for his transgressions to make any public display, even on such an occasion. Everything, therefore, was quietly managed--two or three friends only being present, to whom the old laird introduced his son for the first time. In place of returning to the Tower of Gloom, the married couple and the father proceeded to Dungyle, where the honeymoon was spent. Matrimony acts differently upon different people; in some cases it sweetens, in others it sours, the temper. With Roderick it operated in the former manner; for our hero had entirely divested himself of that gloom and melancholy which characterised his conduct upon his first return to the house of his parent. With his father it was different. As his life drew near a close, his despondency increased. It was in vain that Annette soothed him, or that Roderick offered him comfort. No longer was he hunted by the cateran chief--no more were his lands devastated, or his cattle carried off. All was quiet, save the workings of his conscience. He grew weaker and weaker, till at last he was compelled to keep his bed. Medical advice was procured, but in vain. The skill of the physician could not retard the approach of death. One beautiful evening, as his son sat beside his bedside-- "Roderick," he feebly exclaimed, "my last hour is at hand. One thing I could wish; but that, I fear, is impossible." "What is it, sir?" "That William Grahame could witness my sufferings--could satisfy himself of my penitence, and ease my soul by his forgiveness." "And could his forgiveness afford you relief?" "It would." "Then you are forgiven." "What mean you?" "I AM William Grahame; and I forgive you from the bottom of my heart." "My son, what has come over you?" "Farther concealment would add to my crime. Hear me. I am the son of Reginald Grahame, and the intended avenger of his wrongs. It was I who pursued you, and ravaged your lands. It was to satisfy my vengeance that I stole into the Tower of Gloom. I represented myself as your long-lost son, that I might make you drink the cup of bitterness even to the dregs. I saw Annette: her gentle but affectionate manners, her kind attentions, made a deep impression. When I retired to rest, my breast was strangely perplexed, and the feeling of revenge predominated. Then came the attempt by Moome upon my life, which was averted by the noble animal I had once consigned to destruction, and whose reappearance in the tower filled me with astonishment. The nurse, by some singular instinct, to me inexplicable, had discovered me. Her death preserved my secret. "This incident again made my purpose waver. I continued in the Tower, where the influence of Annette softened my vindictive feelings. Still I could not bring myself to bear with patience your paternal kindness. I left you, to join my followers, resolving to fly; still Annette drew me back again. Then came the pardon, to me of inestimable value, as under it I could shelter myself from all consequences, even had any one recognised the cateran chief in the heir of the Laird of Dungyle and Inshannock. "I saw before me a happiness I could never, even in my most imaginative moments, have previously contemplated. It was necessary to visit the band, of which I was still nominally the leader. By a singular mean, I became accidentally aware of a plan to surround and capture my brave companions. A miscreant of the name of Macpherson, who had been with me for some time, and had acquired a knowledge of all our places of retreat, for the sake of lucre, betrayed his associates. I was very nearly in his power; and, but for my faithful Oscar, would have been recognised as the bandit chief, and delivered up to justice. I escaped in time to warn my friends. They fled; and the military sent for the capture were entirely baffled. "I seized on this moment to devolve the command on the lieutenant, and to resign my sceptre for ever. I parted from my old followers, with deep regret; for they were, to a man, attached to me. Although I had strictly forbidden the shedding of blood, except in self-defence, I afterwards learned that they had avenged themselves on Macpherson, who was watched, seized, reproached, and dirked. "After I ceased to rule, the band ceased to prosper. Less cautious than heretofore, the captain and the greater part were surprised and slain; some few were taken prisoners, who were tried, convicted, and sent to the plantations. Much as I regretted the loss of so many faithful adherents, still my sorrow was tempered by the reflection that now my secret was safe, and that I was a free agent. I could hardly bring myself to forgive you, for revenge is dear to a Highlander. Time gradually lessened my hatred; but it was not till subsequent events had shown the deepness of your regret, and the reality of your self-reproach, that my resentment finally gave way. I even began to pity; and though, at one time, I should have rejoiced and gloried in my imposture, now I regard it in a different light; and, so far from your asking my forgiveness, it is I ought to be a suppliant to you." "Roderick--for so I must still call you," ejaculated the old man--"it is not for me to complain. Your presence and your pardon have eased the mental torment I suffered. To me you have acted as a son; continue to do so; let the secret die with us. No one is injured; and the rightful heir resumes the lands of his ancestors without any one to oppose him; for Annette, failing issue of my own body, is my next heir." "Your will is mine: if such is your command, it shall be obeyed." "Give me your hand. I shall now die content. It is needless to distress Annette: let her never know that you are not her cousin." The old laird lingered a few days, and then died in peace and charity with all. Some twenty-five years after the death of the old Laird of Dungyle, the estates came into the possession of his grandson, Donald. Roderick had gone the way of all flesh; Annette survived him; and in the education of her daughter Isabella sought oblivion for her sorrows. Donald was a fine young man; fond of his mother and sister; but by no means under petticoat government. Whilst at Edinburgh College, he formed an intimacy with the Master of Methven--the eldest son of Lord Methven, a peer of ancient family--and to the friendship thus formed it is more than probable that a love for the Honourable Emma Methven not a little contributed. As Donald was an excellent match for the daughter of a by-no-means-opulent nobleman, the intimacy was cultivated by the parents; and Roderick, whose great object was the happiness of his son, gave a sanction, before his demise, to the projected union. After the period of mourning had elapsed, preparations were made for the marriage, and the lawyers were busy with the settlements. One morning, about a fortnight before the day fixed for the nuptials, Donald received a letter, the contents of which excited the most lively astonishment. It was as follows:-- "SIR,--We are instructed by our client, Mr. Roderick Campbell, of Dungyle, to take legal steps against you to recover the estates wrongfully held by you, and which belong to him. We have, therefore, to intimate to you, unless they are surrendered in the course of a fortnight, legal steps will be adopted.--We are, sir, your obedient servants, "SHARPE & SWIFT, W.S. "ST. JAMES' COURT, "_20th March, 17--._" "Sharp and Swift, with a vengeance!" exclaimed the bewildered youth. "Sharp work, to insist upon my giving up my estate; and swift work to do so in a fortnight. What title can this man set up to my grandfather's estate? None that I can conceive; for the descent from him to my father, and from him to me, is undoubted." Donald, however, lost no time in communicating this unexpected requisition to his intended father-in-law, to whom he handed the letter. Lord Methven read the epistle carefully. "Was not Roderick your father's name?" "It was, my lord." "He was implicated in the rebellion of 1745?" "He was, but he got a remission from the late king of all crimes and offences. He was never attainted." "Then," rejoined his lordship, "I am quite at fault. It certainly did occur to me that this claim might have been rested upon his supposed attainture. With your permission I will place this document in the hands of my family agents, Messrs. Slow & Sure, W.S., and direct them to enter into a communication with the agents of your unknown adversary." It would not be very interesting to our readers to detail the legal game of chess played by these skilful men of law against each other; and it may suffice to mention, that the claim, which extended to all the large estates of the old Laird of Dungyle, was based upon the fact, that the competitor was neither more nor less than the son, whose place had been filled by Roderick. As the imposture of Roderick Grahame had been carefully concealed, and the secret had apparently died with him, his son and widow naturally viewed the claim as purely fictitious, and characterised the demand as an attempt to extort money; nevertheless, they were staggered by the bold steps adopted by their opponent, who proceeded to get himself served, before the bailies of the Canongate, as only lawful son of Donald Campbell, of Dungyle and Inshannock. The proof was apparently conclusive: the identification of the claimant was dependent upon the testimony of two witnesses, who swore distinctly to the fact. It was proved that young Campbell went to France, held a situation in the court of Prince Charles, commonly called the Pretender, and that he left it suddenly. This had occurred upwards of twenty years before; but no evidence was given of where he had been after that period, although he gave out that he had been captured at sea by a Barbary corsair, sold as a slave, and had only recently escaped. The jury--being composed in the manner usual with ordinary Canongate juries--gave themselves little trouble in cross-examination; and, as almost uniformly occurs, served the claimant in terms of his brief, and thus invested him with the legal status of son and heir of the deceased Laird of Dungyle. Donald was dreadfully grieved by the success of this initiatory proceeding, which was instantly followed up by a reduction of the titles vesting the estates in the person of his father and himself. Painful as the step was, he saw the necessity of breaking off the marriage with his beloved Emma. He waited on Lord Methven, and explained to him the measures adopted on the other side, and his apprehension that there was more in the case of his adversary than he had previously imagined; nay, he added his own impression that the event would turn out adverse to him. "How this has happened, I know not; my father ever was the reputed son and heir of old Dungyle; my mother recognised him as her cousin; and yet this man has made out, to the satisfaction of a jury, that he is the heir of Dungyle. "But, my dear lord, the worst part of the communication is to come; I dare not any longer aspire to the hand of your daughter, at least until everything is cleared up; although the words nearly choke me, they shall come out--this marriage must proceed no further." Unable to retain his feelings, he burst into tears. The peer was deeply moved by the evident sorrow of the young man. "Donald," said he, "you have acted like a man of honour. I respect you more at this moment than I ever did. Be not cast down; all is not lost; and if the worst come to the worst, have patience, and Emma may yet be yours." "Bless you, my lord, for these words; they have infused new vigour into me, and they will the better enable me to bear my discomfiture." "Donald, you must now act as a man of the world. That there is something radically wrong, I am persuaded; for I cannot conceive how a man should wilfully refrain claiming his inheritance for so long a time." "His capture and sale as a slave may explain this." "Fiddle-de-dee! this is affirming what is not proved. It is easy enough to circulate such a report; but what does Solomon Slow say to all this, and his worthy partner, Simon Sure?" "Nothing satisfactory. They merely hum and ha--ask questions, but give no answers. They have sent for the charter-chest from Dungyle, and I expect it here to-day." The legal proceedings went on with vigour; the reduction was called in court; taken to see, as it is termed; returned and enrolled; and order taken for producing the writings called for. All this was Hebrew to the defender; but he trusted everything to his agents. They, on the other hand, raised a counter-reduction of the service of the claimant, on the ground that the evidence was insufficient. This step was bold, but judicious; for Messrs Sharpe &, Swift began to think, that although the expense of these double proceedings might not be much to a party in possession, it was very different when they had to advance the necessary outlay, as they had taken up the cause on speculation. It was hinted that a _douceur_, properly applied, might settle the contest; but Donald peremptorily refused any such compromise, by remarking that-- "If I have justice on my side, why pay this man for troubling me? and, if he has justice on his side, it shall never be said that I took advantage of his poverty to compel him into a relinquishment of his just rights. If, upon proper examination, I find that he is the lawful owner of these estates, I will surrender them." The charter-chest arrived safely, was deposited in the office of Messrs Slow & Sure, and opened in the presence of the young laird. The more recent titles--those called for in the summons--lay on the top. Mr Sure then took up one parcel, and next another. "Ha! hum!" muttered he, taking off his spectacles, carefully rubbing his glasses with his handkerchief, and then replacing them.--"Marriage contract: so there was a marriage contract? Ha! 'Gives, grants, and dispones'--what--'to Annette Campbell, for her liferent use allenarly, and to her issue male by her marriage with Roderick Campbell, or by any other marriage, lawfully begotten, in fee, all and whole the lands and barony of Dungyle.' This is wonderful! This extinguishes any claim to Dungyle. The lands are validly conveyed. So, if this man is what he calls himself, which I doubt, the game is up with him as to Dungyle. I wish Inshannock was equally safe. So it is," lifting another parcel. "'Disposition and assignation, by D. Campbell, Esq., to Roderick Campbell, Esq., in trust for William Grahame; and, failing the said William, to the trustee and his heirs.' But what is this?" And he lifted a parcel carefully sealed, and addressed to Donald. On opening the mysterious packet, a paper was discovered, in the handwriting of his father, detailing the facts previously narrated, with a postscript, from which it appeared that, after the death of old Dungyle, his reputed son, having learned that the real son had been alive at least a year previously, proceeded to France, and there ascertained that the true Roderick, upon learning his father's death, had left Paris, had been taken ill on the road, and died. Fortunately, the priest who gave him absolution (for he was a Catholic) was traced; and there was found, wafered to the paper, a certificate of burial under the hands of the proper officials--thus proving to demonstration that the present claimant was an impostor. In face of such evidence, it was plain that even the skill of Messrs Sharpe & Swift could avail little; and the pretended Dungyle having found it convenient to be off, and "leave no wreck behind," these reputable writers to the signet, or, as the High School boys term them, wicked sinners, made something like a total loss by their speculation. Who the impostor was never transpired; but it was shrewdly suspected that he was an individual to whom the deceased heir of Dungyle had lost various sums of money, besides some family trinkets, in play; and this suspicion was confirmed by the very articles having been brought forward in support of the identity. We have only to add, that Donald was made happy in the hand of Emma; and of this marriage are sprung the Barons of Inshannock and the Earls of Dungyle. THE MOSSTROOPER. "I am determined to gie up this thievin trade, Dick. If I can only escape Sir Robert Cary this time, I'll turn honest man, hing up jack and spear, steel-cap and whinger, and lead the life o' a saint." This was said by Geordie Bourne--one of the most noted freebooters on the Borders, who flourished, in wickedness, about the end of the seventeenth century--and was addressed to one of his associates in crime. But how think you, good reader, was Geordie employed when he expressed this laudable resolution of abandoning his evil ways? Why, in driving before him a score of cattle which he had just harried in Northumberland. "If he could escape Sir Robert Cary!" Ay, but there was the rub. There was scarcely any escaping Sir Robert Cary, who was warden of the East March, on the English side--a generous-minded and high-spirited man, but the especial terror of all those gentlemen who practised the art of living at the expense of their neighbours. As warden of a march, this was his duty; and he performed it with a zeal and activity that threatened to ruin the trade altogether. His men were constantly abroad, on the look-out for visiters from the Scottish side, and those who were brought to him were hanged without mercy; and this would have been Geordie's fate long preceding the period of our story, had he not been an especial favourite with Sir Robert Kerr, the opposite warden, for whom Sir Robert Cary entertained a high respect. At this period, the latter person lived in the Castle of Witherington, in Northumberland, and it was thither that all the Scottish freebooters were carried who were taken--and it was there that they suffered the penalty of their crimes. The residence of a warden was then, in every sense of the word, a garrison. It was filled with soldiers, both horse and foot, but chiefly the former. These were called the warden's men, and were dressed in a peculiar livery, to denote the service to which they belonged. They were placed under his command, to enable him to keep the peace of the district over which he presided, to repel aggressions, and to apprehend and bring to justice the lawless marauders with which the Borders were then infested. His men, as has been already said, were constantly employed in patrolling the country, and looking out for defaulters; so that the profession of the freebooter was one of great peril, for he had not only to brave the weapons of those whom he spoiled, but the halter of justice, which was always dangling over his head. To return, however, to Geordie Bourne. In the little we have yet said of this gallant, we have by no means done full justice to his merits. Geordie was not simply a noted character in the times in which he lived, but an extraordinary one. The feats he had performed were the talk and the marvel of the Borders; and certainly, if all was true that was said of him--nay, if the half of it was true (and there is little doubt that fully that proportion at least was so)--he was one of the most daring and desperate ruffians that ever lived. He was, moreover, a man of great personal strength, of large stature, and ferocious courage. Altogether, he stood preeminent, even in those wild and lawless times, for everything that was evil in, and peculiar to, the Border character. But, from what Geordie said on the occasion with which our story opens, it would appear that he had determined to reform. Whether Geordie was in earnest when he announced this resolution, and whether, if he was, it arose from compunctions of conscience, or from the terror of Sir Robert Cary's halter, it would not be easy to say. That he was serious, however, was a thing very much doubted by his friend and associate, Dick Johnston, or Long Dick, as he was more picturesquely styled, who received his communication, on the delicate subject in question, with a very hearty and a very unequivocal burst of laughter. "You turn saint, Geordie!--you gie up thievin!" exclaimed Dick, so soon as his mirth would permit him to speak, "ay, when the Solway sands grow into green fields, and Annan Water is turned into wine--then ye'll gie up the trade, Geordie, but no till then." "I'll no delay sae lang, though, Dick; and, laugh as ye like, that ye'll see," replied Geordie. "I'm tired o' this wark, and I'm beginnin to think that I hae fully as much mischief scored against me already as I'll be weel able to answer for." Then suddenly directing his attention to the cattle they were driving before them, and that with an interest which showed pretty plainly that _their_ destiny, at any rate, was to be in no way affected by his proposed reformation, "Hey, Jock," he exclaimed, "look after that brown cow, man. Do ye think folk get their guids for naething? She's gaun aff the road athegither. Confound the beast!--keep her till't, Jock, keep her till't, lad, till we see what kind o' kail she maks. We'll be the greens, and I'm sure she needna grudge to be the beef." With this witticism, such as it is, the conversation terminated for a time, and the freebooters pursued their way in silence. Remarking that they had not yet cleared the County of Northumberland, we change the scene for a moment to Witherington Castle, the residence of the warden of the East March, Sir Robert Cary, who, at the moment when we would introduce him to the reader, was engaged in writing despatches to his mistress, Queen Elizabeth, in which he was giving an account of the then present state of the country, and of his own proceedings for the previous month. While thus employed, a person dressed in the warden's livery, entered the apartment, cap in hand, and advanced to a respectful distance from the warden, where he stood still, and gave two or three gentle hems, to make the latter aware of his presence. He succeeded. Sir Robert raised his head, and, looking at the intruder, "Well, Watt," he said, "what's stirring now? Any interlopers across the March?" "Why, my lord," replied the person interrogated, "I have just been informed that Geordie Bourne, with half-a-dozen Scottish thieves, has been seen on the tramp, and, if my intelligence be correct, is at this moment driving before him a score of Sir Thomas Carlton's best beeves." "Ah! Geordie Bourne!" exclaimed Sir Robert, evidently excited by the intelligence, "that fellow would be worth catching indeed. He's one of the most desperate thieves in Christendom; but a valiant rascal withal, and, as I'm told, a very pretty fellow to boot. To horse, then, Watt, my man," added the warden, "and see if you cannot fall in with him. If he is not killed, you will, of course, bring him to Witherington; and I had rather you should not kill him, if you can help it." "How many men shall I take, my lord?" inquired this subaltern officer of the warden's; for such he was. "Why, how many men has Bourne with him?" rejoined Sir Robert. "Six, my lord, I'm told," replied Watt. "Then take a dozen with you, Watt, and see they be well armed; for these fellows don't part with their prey very readily, and there may be blows going, especially with such a desperado as Geordie Bourne." Watt bowed, and left the apartment, and Sir Robert Cary resumed his writing. In ten minutes afterwards, thirteen well-mounted and well-armed troopers were seen issuing from the gate of Witherington Castle, and proceeding in the direction of the Scottish Border. For some time the party proceeded on their way in silence, without exchanging a word--nothing being heard amongst them but the jingling of their harness, and an occasional imprecation on their horses; but this silence was at length thus broken:-- "There will be some knocks going, Jack, if we fall in with this fellow, Bourne," said Watt Tomlins, to the man who rode next him. "Geordie hits hard, and I'm told is one of the best shots in these parts; but we can strike a fair blow, too, Jack, and handle a bow not amiss either; so I think we haven't much to fear from him, after all." "Why, no, not a bit, Watt," replied Jack, a stout, burly Northumbrian. "We're two to one at any rate, and that's some comfort--that is, Watt," he added, "if you have been rightly informed of the number Bourne has with him. If there's an error there against us, however, it will be rather an awkward business, I doubt." The reader will at once perceive that, notwithstanding the bravery of this talk, there was fear at the bottom of it. In truth, the warden's men, especially the two who just now spoke, would rather have had to do with half the thieves on the Borders, than with Geordie Bourne alone, of whose courage and prowess they had heard the most tremendous stories. They therefore went on the present errand with no very comfortable feelings; and there is little doubt that, had it not been for the fear of exposure, and the loss of their situations, they would have reported at the castle that Geordie was not anywhere to be seen. But there were others of the party composed of better fighting materials than Watt Tomlins and Jack Foster; and these, though they entertained all due respect for Geordie's strength and valour, were men who would not flinch from their duty from fear of any one. Of some of these, indeed, it was alleged that they had done a little business in Geordie's way themselves, before they entered the service of the warden; so that, in employing them, the latter had acted on the well-known principle, set a thief to catch a thief; and certainly those of this description who were in his service were by far the most expert in detecting and apprehending depredators. The party had now ridden for several hours without discovering any trace of the object of their pursuit; and, as it was getting dark, they had begun to lose all hopes of success, and to think of returning home. Ah, Geordie, Geordie, lad! you are now rubbing shoulders with a certain apparatus which shall be nameless. It is touch and go with you, Geordie. If the warden's company return at this moment, you are safe. If they go on but another hundred yards, for it is only a turn in the road that conceals you from them, it is all up with you. Your fate is trembling in the balance, and a breath will turn the beam. The warden's men had now called a halt, to consider the momentous question just alluded to--that is, whether they should proceed or return: when it was decided, _nem. con._, that they should put about, and live in the hope of catching Geordie on some future day; and on this resolution they were about to act, when one of the troop, suddenly struck with a second thought, proposed that they should proceed precisely the length of that very turn in the road on which Geordie's fate depended, ere they abandoned the chase. As the distance was but trifling, this was readily agreed to; and forward again the whole party rode. On arriving at the stipulated point, they once more drew bridle, suspended all conversation, and, in profound silence, listened attentively to ascertain if there was anything suspicious moving at a distance. While some were thus employed, others were endeavouring to peer through the gloom of the twilight, with a similar view. "Nothing to be heard or seen, Will--nothing moving," said Tomlins to a stout ferocious-looking Northumbrian Borderer who rode next to him. "Geordie has escaped us this bout." "Not so fast, Watt; not so fast," replied the person addressed, who was leaning over his horse's neck, and intently scanning the dusky road that stretched away before them in the distance--"I see something moving yonder that looks very like a drove of cattle; and hark! Watt," he added, "there's a shout! On my life, here is Geordie, after all, comrades." This was said in a loud whisper, and the whole party looked intently, and without exchanging a word, in the direction indicated, when all agreed that there was something to be seen, of which it would be proper to have a nearer view; and, under this conviction, the troop again set forward at a hard trot, which, in a few seconds, brought them up with the object of their suspicions. These suspicions were well founded. It was indeed Geordie Bourne, his associates, and their booty. On coming up with the freebooters, the warden's men rushed in upon them, when Geordie himself, ere he was aware of his danger, or could prepare for his defence, was felled to the earth by Will Armstrong; and in the next instant his hands were firmly bound behind his back with cords. The superiority of numbers with which he was attacked left Geordie, powerful and courageous as he was, without a shadow of a chance from resistance. This he perceived, and therefore made no attempt to return the violence with which he was assailed. On regaining his feet, however, being yet ignorant who they were who had thus so suddenly set upon him, he inquired, in a tone and manner which implied a threat of fierce retribution, "Who here dares--who among ye dares to avow this night's work? Let me hear him speak." "I dare," replied Will Armstrong--"I dare avow it, Geordie Bourne, and perhaps so will Sir Robert Cary." "Ha! you're warden's men, then," said the freebooter, alarmed at the discovery that he was in the hands of the dreaded enemy of his profession, and becoming instantly more calm and subdued in his manner. "Weel, there's nae help for't, lads--every dog has his day. I hae had mine, and I suppose I maun now straught a tow at Witherington. Deil may care," he added, after a moment's pause--"it's no sax yards o' cord, even though there should be a loop at the end o't, that's gaun to frighten Geordie Bourne." Then instantly recovering all the natural intrepidity of his character, he began to shout out, even while his captors were in the act of still further securing his arms by additional ligatures-- "And it's hey, my lads, for the bonny moonlight, That on mountain and muirland is streamin sae bright, Gae saddle my steed, for I maun ride the night As far as the English border. "'Tak tent, Jock, lad, for the warden's men Are ridin o'er hill and ridin through glen.' Tuts, sax Scots lads 'll keep twascore-and-ten O' sic feckless loons in order." And Geordie would have gone on with the complimentary stanzas, of which the first and second have been quoted, had he not been interrupted by a peremptory command to move on. The troop had now formed round the captive, who, besides having his arms bound, as already described, was secured to two horsemen, one on each side of him; and in this order the whole party marched on towards Witherington, where they arrived a little before the hour of supper, when Geordie was immediately conveyed to the strong room appropriated for the reception of such involuntary visiters. Having thus secured his prisoner, Watt Tomlins repaired to Sir Robert Cary, and informed him that Geordie Bourne was taken, and in custody. "Ha! so you have caught him at last, Watt! I am glad of it," said the warden. "Did he make any resistance?" "None, my lord," replied Tomlins. "We were too many for him. We took him as gently as a lamb, merely by knocking him down." "Very gentle proceeding, indeed, Tomlins. It's so far well, however--glad there's no one hurt. What like a fellow is he, this Bourne, Watt? I have heard much of the knave's valour and strength, and should like to see him. He would be an acquisition, the rogue, to my troop, if he could be prevailed upon to take to such an honest calling. Why, I would spare the rascal's life if he would, for I cannot help respecting his bravery, and am loth to put him to death, both on that account and on account of my friend, Sir Robert Kerr, who has a kindness for the knave." "Why, my lord, as to his appearance," said Tomlins, "he is, I must say, as pretty a fellow as ever put foot in stirrup--six feet, every inch, my lord--and a chest like a horse's; but I fear we couldn't depend on him." "I doubt that myself, Tomlins," said the warden; "however, I'll think of the matter; but I am unwilling to hang the rogue, if any good at all could be found in him. I'll think of it, however, Tomlins--I'll think of it," repeated Sir Robert; at the same time nodding his head in a manner expressive of his wish to be left alone. Tomlins, taking the hint, bowed, and retired. Soon after the supper-hour of the garrison, and when all was quiet within the castle, the door of the strong room in which Geordie Bourne was confined was cautiously opened, and three persons, dressed in the livery of warden's men, entered the apartment. Geordie's athletic figure was extended at full length upon a bench, when the intruders first made their appearance; but he started up on their entrance, and presented such an appalling personification of strength and ferocity, as startled for a moment those who had thus voluntarily obtruded themselves on his seclusion; and, secure as they were--for they were well armed, while he was totally defenceless--they could not contemplate his thick muscular throat, which was bare--thus giving full effect to the fierce but bold and manly countenance of the outlaw--without misgivings as to their safety with such a powerful and desperate man. Suppressing this fear, however, which, indeed, was wholly unnecessary, as the prisoner neither entertained, nor even conceived for a moment, any intention of doing them an injury-- "Geordie," said the foremost of the visiters, "we have stolen a march on your keepers, just to condole with you a little on your unhappy mischance. We are really sorry to see a brave man like you, Geordie, in this melancholy condition, and we have come to express this to you, and to beg of you to believe that we would help ye out of your strait, if we could." "Thank ye, friends, thank ye," replied the captive; "but it's a' owre now wi' Geordie Bourne. It's a' luck, lads, a' luck; and the chance has gane against me--that's a'. Never mind: I hae dune pretty fair wark on the English side in my day, and that's some comfort. There's twa or three there, I'm thinkin, that'll no be inconsolable for my fate, nor be at ony loss whether to laugh or to cry when they hear o' my end." "Ay, Geordie," said one of his visiters, "you have been a pretty wild gallant in your day, as we have heard. Tom," continued the speaker, now turning round to and addressing one of his associates, "go to the buttery, and get a jorum of double ale for our friend Bourne here. It will comfort him a little, and lighten heavy thoughts a bit." The order thus given was immediately obeyed, and in two or three minutes the messenger returned with a large tankard of the beverage just named. The vessel was handed to Geordie, who instantly applied it to his lips, and took such a copious draught of its powerful contents as soon produced a very sensible effect upon him. His eye began to glisten, and his whole countenance to beam with a savage humour; and, as a natural concomitant of these symptoms, he became extremely communicative. But hold, Geordie, lad--hold, if ye value your life. Be cautious--ye know not who is listening to you. Make no unnecessary disclosures of your little peccadilloes. You long-tongued fool, what assurance have ye that the lord-warden himself does not hear every word you are saying? You know not who are your auditors--neither, apparently, do you care. On, on ye go--little recking that you are but securing your own destruction. "Ye say right, freends," now said the unwary freebooter; "I have been a pretty rough gallant in my day, and hae dune some things that your warden here would scarce thank me for, I'm thinkin." And, with this preface, Geordie proceeded to unfold a tale of crime that made his auditors stand aghast, accustomed as they were, from the nature of their duties and peculiar situation, to scenes of bloodshed and rapine. Of these voluntary confessions of Geordie's, as many of them were wholly unfit to be recorded, we will enter into no details, but content ourselves with saying that they included almost every species of human wickedness, and brought on the head of the perpetrator a responsibility for almost every conceivable description of human guilt. Nor was the horrible effect of these disclosures lessened by the manner in which they were made. The marauder chuckled and laughed as he related the various deeds of violence in which he had been concerned, either as a principal or accessory; and with look and manner called on his auditors for approbation of the dexterity with which some of his robberies had been conducted; and, to say truth, there certainly were many of them contrived with an ingenuity, and executed with a boldness, coolness, and dexterity, which would have gained for Geordie immortal renown, had he had the good fortune to have been born a Spartan. As it was, however, they only secured him a halter. "Believe me or no, lads," thus Geordie introduced one of his adventures, "I ance rode saxty miles in ae nicht, without ever drawin bridle, except for about the space o' five minutes. I left my ain hoose at the gloamin--rode thirty miles--did my job--and was back again other thirty before cock-crawin, without ever being missed by onybody." "By my troth, an excellent night's work, George," said the spokesman of the three warden's men. "Pray, what was the cause of your making such an extraordinary exertion on that particular occasion?" "Why, the cause, ye see, sirs, was just this," replied Geordie: "At the last Border meeting at Lockerby, a Cumberland man, o' the name Tinlin, comes up to me, and he says, says he, 'Geordie, and it warna for breakin the peace, I wad like to break your head, for I dinna believe ye're the man ye pretend to be.' Weel, ye see, sirs, I drew--as I had guid cause to do--and was about to lend the fellow a lick wi' my whinger, when wha should come up behint me at the moment, and grip my sword-arm, but Sir Robert Kerr, just as I was gaun to strike? 'Ha, Geordie!' said he, 'at your auld tricks again! Come, put up your whinger, my man, and dinna be breakin the peace o' the meetin.' Weel, you see, as Sir Robert was a good freend o' mine, and had stood my part in many a strait, I did as he bade me, but wi' a secret oath that I wad tak an opportunity after o' clearin scores wi' Tinlin. And, by my feth, it wasna lang or I got amends o' him. The very next nicht, having beforehand learned whar he lived, I slippit my beast quietly out o' the stable, mounted and set off at a swingin trot for Tinlin's, where I arrived about twelve o'clock at nicht--a distance o' thirty miles; but I kent every fit o' the way. On reachin the house, I rapped at the door. 'Wha's there?' cried Tinlin, jumpin out o' his bed. 'A friend,' said I; and I gied him ane o' your ain names, lads--that is, the name o' ane o' your ain men whom I kent he knew--and said I was frae the warden wi' a message to him to attend a muster. Weel, you see, on that Tinlin opens the door. I was stannin ready wi' my drawn whinger in my hand; and the moment he did this, I gied him at least a foot o' the cauld airn in his wame, before he could say Tintock, and he fell dead at my feet. Having done this, I entered the house, turned out his wife and weans to the drift, set fire to the biggin, and mounted my horse by the licht o't; and, in little mair than four hours after, was in my ain house, without ony ane being a bit the wiser." And here Geordie gave a chuckle of satisfaction at the recollection of his atrocious feat, and looked to his auditors for a similar expression of approbation. In this, however, he was disappointed. They were by far too much horrified by what they had heard even to assume the appearance of gratification. Indeed, the feelings of him who seemed to be a sort of leading personage amongst the three appeared, from the sudden gravity and sternness of expression which now sat on his countenance, to have undergone a complete and unfavourable change regarding the prisoner. His manner towards him was no longer marked by that frankness and familiarity which had distinguished it on his first entrance; and, in place of listening with anything like interest, or exhibiting any appearance of being entertained by Geordie's communications, as he had been for a time, he now sat with his arms folded across his breast, seemingly engrossed in thoughts of his own. Geordie perceived the change alluded to in his auditor, and immediately drew in; but it was too late. He had already said more than would have hanged a dozen. Abandoning, however, the confessional, or it might perhaps be more correctly called the boasting system, Geordie now took up the pathetic, and resumed, after a short pause-- "But it's a' owre wi' Geordie Bourne now, lads; he'll hae nae mair hanlin o' such doings as these. No; I'll see the bonny holms o' Netherby nae mair, nor the saft moonlight fa'in on the Cheviot Fells. 'And it's hame, hame, hame, my bonny brown steed, And its riderless hame ye maun gang; The warden has me fast, and this nicht is my last, For he swears that the morn I maun hang.'" "I doubt it is even so, Geordie," said the person, gravely, to whom we have above alluded, on the former's concluding this very appropriate ditty, at the same time rising from his seat, and immediately after bidding the prisoner coldly a good-night, when he quitted the apartment, followed by his associates, the last of whom carefully secured the door with bolt and padlock. On leaving the captive, his three visiters proceeded down the private staircase, that led to the warden's library, which they entered, when he who had acted as spokesman during the interview with Geordie Bourne hastily began to divest himself of the livery in which he was attired--a process which gradually discovered the richer and more imposing dress of the lord warden underneath; the person spoken of being no other than Sir Robert Cary himself, who had adopted the disguise which he had just thrown off, in order at once to gratify his curiosity with a sight of the celebrated freebooter who was his prisoner, and to ascertain whether he could not discover anything in the man which might afford him a pretext for sparing his life, which, as has been already hinted, he felt some disposition to do. The result, however, of this benevolent attempt we leave the warden himself to communicate. Having thrown off his disguise, he flung himself into a chair, and, leaning his head upon his hand, thought in silence for a few moments; then looking to Watt, who was one of the three that had visited the prisoner, and who was now waiting the warden's commands regarding him-- "That fellow Bourne must hang, Watt," he said; "he must, by Saint Eloy. There never was such a villain on the face of this earth. I cannot spare him--I must not; it would be a gross dereliction of my duty to spare the life of such an atrocious ruffian. Hang, therefore, he must, Watt; and do you see that execution be done upon him betimes to-morrow morning." On the following morning, when the gates of Witherington Castle were thrown open, the lifeless body of Geordie Bourne was seen hanging from a beam in one of the inner courtyards of the building. THE FORGER. In a small town in the south of Scotland, there lived, about seventy years since, a person of the name of Wotherspoon. He was a merchant, and reputed wealthy. But Mr Wotherspoon's wealth was not by any means the sole cause of the respect in which he was held by all who knew him; although, no doubt, it had the usual effect in this way, even in his case. He was respected for his integrity in his dealings, and for the excellence of his moral character generally; while he was esteemed, nay, beloved, for his singularly mild, kind, and inoffensive disposition. At the period of our story, Mr Wotherspoon was about thirty-two years of age; and, as he had been remarkably industrious in, and attentive to, the business in which he was engaged, and not a little fortunate in some speculations into which he had entered, he had, even at this comparatively early stage of life, acquired the reputation already alluded to--namely, that of being a wealthy man. But it was not in reputation alone that Mr Wotherspoon was rich. He was actually and truly so; and he was so, too, without ever having done a mean thing to obtain his money; more, it is suspected, than can be said of nine-tenths of those who acquire wealth by their own exertions. Having arrived at this prosperity, Mr Wotherspoon thought he might now, with every propriety, take a step which he had long meditated, but which he had hitherto refrained from taking, at once from a sense of honour and from motives of prudence. This step was, to marry. The object of Mr Wotherspoon's affections, however, was not yet to seek: she had long been found; and it was his desire and anxiety to be previously possessed of means sufficient to secure to her that degree of happiness and comfort to which he conceived her entitled, alone, that had prevented them uniting their destinies many years before. But the period had now arrived, he thought, when this could be done without imprudence. The lady of Mr Wotherspoon's choice was a Miss Edington, the daughter of a neighbouring country gentleman, of respectable family, but of small fortune. Lucy Edington was a singularly beautiful girl; and in character and disposition as estimable, as in person she was lovely. But William Wotherspoon, though the favoured, was not the only lover of Lucy Edington. Her patience and good temper were severely tried by the pertinacious addresses of a young man in her own neighbourhood of the name of Lorimer. This person was the son of a farmer, and had been brought up to the profession of the law in Edinburgh, where, however, he had, by wild and extravagant courses, destroyed his own health, and nearly ruined his father. For some years previous to this period, he had been leading an idle life at home--ill health, brought on by his own reckless conduct, having, in the first instance, compelled him to abandon his profession, and an unsettled disposition and dissipated habits preventing him from resuming it, when he could no longer plead the apology of indisposition. Lorimer, however, was a decidedly clever young man, and his abilities, had they been seconded by good moral principles, would undoubtedly have, in time, raised him high in his profession; but the latter were entirely awanting in his character, as he never suffered any considerations of propriety, decency, or even common honesty, to interfere with, or interrupt the indulgence of, his appetites. He had acquired, moreover, a complete knowledge of, and great dexterity in, the practice of the chicaneries of law, or rather, perhaps, in the art of violating or evading it. The baser departments of legal knowledge had been his chief study. Indeed, for them he had a natural turn, and always felt more in his element when helping a man to cheat his neighbour, than when assisting him to recover his rights. In the former case, he was quite at home--all sharpness and intellect. In the latter, he was no more than a very ordinary person, evincing none of that tact or talent which carried him so swimmingly through the other. But Lorimer, though a clever knave, had none of the redeeming qualities--if such a character can be conceded them--which are frequently found in persons of his description; we mean, liveliness and good humour. He was not a facetious scoundrel. On the contrary, he was quiet, reserved, and morose. He was, in short, what is called a deep designing villain, and the saturnine and sinister expression of his countenance at once proclaimed this. Such, then, was the rival of William Wotherspoon for the love of Lucy Edington; but he was a rival only by his own constituting, not by any encouragement which he received from Lucy, who loathed and detested him. Lorimer, however, though in part aware of this, persevered in his suit; hoping, in time, to accomplish, by the exercise of his best and favourite faculty, cunning, what honest dealing could not achieve for him. All his ingenuity, however, could not prevent the marriage of William Wotherspoon and Lucy Edington from taking place. They were united; and the "happy occasion" was celebrated with much mirth and festivity; but the spirit of a demon was hovering over the ceremonies, in the shape of the evil wishes of Lorimer, whose worst passions, where all were bad, were excited to their utmost tension by an occurrence which at once extinguished his own hopes for ever, and consummated those of the man whom, of all others, he most detested--Wotherspoon. From the hour in which that occurrence took place, Lorimer vowed the most deadly vengeance against his successful rival, and determined that, if ever an opportunity should present itself of doing him an injury, he would avail himself of it, although it were to the extent of his utter destruction and ruin. Of doing Wotherspoon personal violence, Lorimer did not dream; not that he would not willingly have torn him to pieces, if he could, but, besides being something of a coward, he had a wholesome terror of those laws, which his knowledge of them, seconded by his own inclinations, told him it was safer to evade than to brave. His schemes of vengeance, therefore, took a professional complexion, if, indeed, vague as they at this time were, they could be said to have assumed any complexion at all. He hoped, in short, by some means or other, to get Wotherspoon involved in the meshes of the law. In the meantime, indeed, there was no prospect whatever of this, or of any other mode of injuring him, being likely to present itself. But the time might come, he thought; and in this hope he cherished his wrath, which, as the sequel will show, was none the worse for keeping. In the meantime, years passed on, and Wotherspoon continued to prosper in his business; while his domestic happiness--which had been, since the day of his marriage, all, nay, more than he had ever, even in his most sanguine moments, expected--was yearly increasing, with successive additions to his little family circle. In the lover of his youth, Mr Wotherspoon found a kind and affectionate companion of his more advanced years; for Lucy Edington underwent none of those unamiable changes which so frequently attend a change of condition with those of her sex, and which so often mar the happiness of the married life, by occasioning disappointment and regret. If somewhat less volatile than when a maiden, such deficiency was more than compensated for by the matronly grace with which some years of the married state had invested her. But, in manner and disposition, Lucy Edington remained unchanged. The time which flew thus happily and prosperously over the married pair, and saw them conduct themselves in all circumstances, and on all occasions, with a propriety that merited this good fortune, witnessed very different conduct and very different results on the part of Lorimer. That worthless person still remained an idler about his father's house, breaking the old man's heart with his wild and dissolute practices; for in these he continued to indulge whenever he could command the means; and, as to the mode of obtaining these means, he was not at all scrupulous, as his father rather frequently found to his cost. Young Lorimer would now, in short, do almost anything for money, for which he was often greatly at a loss, to enable him to pursue his desperate and reckless courses; and, acting on this principle, he had opened a source of occasional emolument, by practising, in a small and irregular way, the profession to which he had been bred. He became a low pettifogger, and quickly grew notorious throughout the country as legal adviser in all cases of roguery. Leaving Lorimer thus creditably employed, we return to follow, for a time, the fortunes of Mr Wotherspoon. It has been said that, during several years succeeding his marriage, Mr Wotherspoon continued to prosper, and to deserve his prosperity--and it was so. But what measure of prudence or foresight can secure a continuance of any worldly blessing, or prevent those changes and vicissitudes, whether for better or for worse, which it is the lot of man to experience? In an evil hour Mr Wotherspoon became a partner, to the extent of nearly his whole means, in that ruinous bubble known by the name of the Ayr Bank, which involved many families in misery and poverty. The speculation was an exceedingly plausible one; and the destruction occasioned by its failure was proportioned to the confidence it had inspired. We need scarcely, we presume, employ plainer terms to intimate to the reader that the Ayr Bank broke down, and that Mr Wotherspoon was one of the many hundreds that were ruined by its insolvency. Although thus suddenly and cruelly bereft of the fruits of many an anxious and toilsome year, and thus hurled at once from independence to comparative poverty, Mr Wotherspoon did not lose heart, but determined on making another effort to repair the ruined fabric of his fortunes. Having readily procured a settlement with his creditors--one and all of whom entertained the highest opinion of his integrity, and pitied his misfortunes--he again commenced business, but in this he experienced all the difficulties incident to his equivocal position. Credit was reluctantly given, and demands were peremptorily enforced. Still Mr Wotherspoon persevered; and, though greatly straitened occasionally for means, continued not only to keep his feet, but began gradually to improve his circumstances. He was yet, however, in difficulties; and this was pretty generally known amongst those who knew anything at all about him. It happened, about this period, that Mr Wotherspoon was one day invited to dine at the head inn of the town in which he resided, with a commercial traveller, with whom he was in the habit of dealing, and to whom he had at this time a considerable sum of money to pay. After dinner, when settling accounts with the traveller, Mr Wotherspoon, who was a little elevated with the wine he had drank, remarked, as he handed over the money to the former, that, if he had just one other bill for £50, then running, paid, he would, notwithstanding all that had happened him, be clear with the world. "But," he added, jocularly, "I'll find ways and means to pay that too, although I should take the highway for it, and cry, 'Stand and deliver,' or clap somebody's name to a piece of stamped paper." Mr Wotherspoon's friend laughed at the absurdity of these imprudent expressions, coming, as they did, from one who was so unlikely to have recourse to the expedients alluded to; and the matter went off as a very passable joke. In about a month after this, as Mrs Wotherspoon was one day standing at the door of her husband's shop, with one of her children in her arms, her curiosity was excited by seeing a post-chaise driven up with unusual speed to the door of the principal inn, which was directly opposite the shop; and she called to her husband, who was inside, to look at the carriage--at the same time expressing a wonder who they could be that were travelling in such haste. But, if Mrs Wotherspoon's curiosity and surprise were excited by this simple circumstance, how much more was the former increased when she saw the two persons who stepped out of the chaise look, for a few seconds, in the direction of the shop, say two or three words to each other, and then cross the street towards it! "They're coming here, William," she said, in amazement, and addressing her husband. "Who, on all the earth, can they be? and what can they be wanting?" "Indeed, Lucy," replied Mr Wotherspoon, no less surprised than his wife at the impending visitation, "that's more than I can conjecture; but we'll soon see." By this time the strangers were upon them. "Is your name William Wotherspoon?" abruptly and sternly inquired one of the strangers. "It is, sir," replied the former. "Humph!" ejaculated the querist, and began searching his pocket, from which he drew a slip of paper. Then again addressing Wotherspoon-- "Mr Wotherspoon, you are our prisoner. We apprehend you in the king's name, and you must immediately accompany us to Edinburgh." "Your prisoner, gentlemen!" said Mr Wotherspoon, becoming as pale as death, and trembling violently as he spoke, "What for? What crime have I committed? What do you charge me with?" "Ah! you don't know, I suppose, and can't guess," said one of the messengers, sneeringly; for such, indeed, was the character of the strangers. "No, indeed, gentlemen, I cannot," said Mr Wotherspoon, in a state of great agitation. "Very like a mouse-trap, but not so small," exclaimed the messenger. "However, I always like to be civil, and I shall tell you--though I'm confoundedly mistaken, if you don't know it pretty well already. You are apprehended, Mr Wotherspoon," he continued (and now eyeing his prisoner--for in such, a melancholy situation the unfortunate man now stood--with a scrutinising glance), "on a charge of forgery; so, if you please, we'll bundle and go." In following out this extraordinary conversation, we have necessarily lost sight for a moment of Mrs Wotherspoon. But we do not now call the reader's notice to her with any intention of describing the effects which the appalling occurrence just recorded had at first upon her. This we think it better to leave to the reader's imagination. But her subsequent conduct is more within the power of description. The unfortunate woman, having hastily laid down the smiling, unconscious innocent that was in her arms when the messengers entered the shop, flung herself upon her husband's neck, and frantically exclaimed that no one should tear her William from her. "My William guilty of forgery!" she wildly exclaimed. "No, no gentlemen--it's false, it's false. He has always been an honest man, and is well known to be so. He would sooner die than commit such a crime, and I will get all our neighbours to prove this." Then throwing herself on her knees at the messengers' feet, she implored them, by every consideration of humanity and justice, not to take her William away. "He is innocent, gentlemen," she exclaimed; "before God, he is innocent of the crime you charge him with. Oh! do not take him from me, gentlemen. Look at that babe there, and pity me, and pity us all. Do not believe what has been told you about his having committed a forgery. My William never did, and never could do, such a wicked thing." "May be so, mistress," said one of the messengers, little affected by these womanish appeals to a clemency which he had no power to show; "but we must do our duty. Here's the warrant," he said, exhibiting a piece of paper which he held in his hand, "for your husband's apprehension, and we must see to its execution." Having said this, he turned away from her to his associate and Wotherspoon, whom the former had already secured by handcuffs; and in a few seconds the unfortunate man found himself seated in the post-chaise, to which fresh horses had been put, with a messenger on each side of him. A few seconds more, and the carriage was on its way to Edinburgh--a circumstance which was a relief to the unhappy man; for, until the chaise started, he was not out of hearing the shrieks of his miserable wife, who had ultimately been forcibly torn from him. On arriving at Edinburgh, Mr Wotherspoon was immediately carried to jail, to abide his trial for the forgery with which he was charged. This forgery consisted in the felonious adhibition of the name of one James Laidlaw, a wealthy farmer in Liddesdale, to a bill for £50. This bill purported to be drawn by Wotherspoon on Laidlaw, and was indorsed by the former to James Lorimer, who again indorsed it, and discounted it in one of the banks in Edinburgh. Some time previous to this bill becoming due, Lorimer called at the bank where it had been cashed, and stated to the manager, with whom he sought a private interview, that he had discovered that the bill which he had discounted there, bearing to be the acceptance of James Laidlaw to William Wotherspoon, was a forgery, and that he could lead proof to show that Wotherspoon was the perpetrator of the crime. The matter being immediately investigated, it was found that there were sufficient grounds to institute a criminal action against Wotherspoon; and his apprehension, as already described, was the result. Wotherspoon, in the meantime, however, denied all knowledge of the bill, said he had no transactions whatever with Lorimer or Laidlaw, and that he did not know the latter, even by sight, or in any other way; and in this utter denial he remained firm and consistent to the last, to the great perplexity of his own counsel, who, while he could not resist the weight of evidence which was mustered against his client, and which indeed seemed conclusive, was yet staggered by the cool and pertinacious manner in which Wotherspoon maintained and insisted on his innocence. In due time the trial of the latter, for the forgery, came on before the High Court of Justiciary, when a long and careful investigation of the case was entered into. The first witness called by the public prosecutor was Lorimer, who deposed that the bill had been paid over to him by Wotherspoon, for professional services rendered the latter at the time of his bankruptcy. That it was Wotherspoon's handwriting. That Wotherspoon had stated that he had obtained the bill from Laidlaw, in payment of an account for goods with which he had furnished him. That he had discovered the forgery, by having asked Laidlaw, whom he accidentally met some time after, if he had ever had any dealings with Wotherspoon? when the former said he never had, and knew nothing about him. Had, from some circumstances which subsequently occurred, suspected that the bill was a forgery; particularly from Wotherspoon saying, that he would be obliged to retire it himself, in the first instance, as Laidlaw had intimated to him that he could not meet it when due. Witness, knowing Laidlaw to be a wealthy man, thought this very unlikely, and hence his suspicions--suspicions, he said, which were greatly increased by a circumstance which he begged permission to state to the court. Witness then proceeded to relate the expression used by Mr Wotherspoon on the occasion of his dining with the commercial traveller, which, he said, happening to be in an adjoining apartment, he had overheard. This witness was followed by Laidlaw, the alleged accepter of the bill, who swore that the signature attached to it was not his handwriting; and, in this assertion, he was supported by other evidence; adding, that he had no knowledge whatever of the prisoner, and had never had any transactions with him. James Anderson, Wotherspoon's shopman, was next called; and when asked if the bill, which was shown him, was his master's handwriting, answered, that he could not say--that it was certainly very like; thought, however, on the whole, that it was not, but would not swear to this. Asked if he ever saw or knew Lorimer to be employed by his master; said, he did not. Asked, if he meant that he never was employed by him, or merely that such a circumstance did not consist with his knowledge? Answered, that it did not consist with his knowledge; but allowed that Lorimer might have been employed by the prisoner without his knowing it. A person of the name of Andrew Hislop was next put into the witness-box, who swore that Wotherspoon had told him that he had settled with Lorimer, and that he had given him an indorsed bill, in payment of his account; that he had said, at the same time, that the bill was the acceptance of Laidlaw, and was in payment of an account for goods which the prisoner had furnished him. James Bryce, stabler and innkeeper, Grassmarket, Edinburgh, in whose house the transaction, which was the subject of investigation, was said to have taken place, next deponed that Lorimer, whom he knew very well, and Mr Wotherspoon, the prisoner at the bar, came to his house on the evening of the 14th September; and that he, being asked to sit down at table with them, saw Mr Wotherspoon indorse over a bill to Mr Lorimer, saying, at the same time, that he believed that would about clear scores between them. This witness's evidence was corroborated by that of his wife, who had been also asked to join the party, she being well acquainted with Lorimer, who used to frequent the house when he resided in Edinburgh. As these two witnesses were of highly respectable character, their evidence was held by the court to be conclusive against the prisoner. The latter, in his defence by his counsel, admitted that he had been in Edinburgh on the day condescended on by the witnesses who had just been examined, but denied that he had ever been in their house, or knew anything at all about them. Denied that he had ever made use of the language, or anything at all like it, attributed to him by Hislop; denied that he ever had employed Lorimer in any way, or ever was owing him a farthing. Admitted that he had used the expressions attributed to him by Lorimer on the occasion condescended on, and acknowledged their impropriety; but said they were spoken merely in jest, and in a spirit of levity, excited by the wine he had drank. For the rest, the prisoner had only the general respectability of his character to support him, of which he produced abundant proof to the court, and a simple denial of all that had been alleged against him; but this, of course, was of little avail in the face of the direct and positive evidence of his guilt which had been adduced. The difficulties, too, in which Wotherspoon was known to be at the time had a powerful influence in strengthening the belief of his guilt; while it was observed that the imprudent language used by the prisoner, when in company with the commercial traveller, and which was detailed by Lorimer, made a singularly strong and unfavourable impression on the court--an impression which was but little affected by the apology for, and explanation of it, that had been given. In short, no doubt remained on the minds of any one present that Wotherspoon was guilty of the crime charged against him; and the jury, in conformity with their own and the general impression, found the libel proven, without retiring from the box; and the unfortunate man was sentenced to suffer death: his counsel having in vain stated, that, from the steadiness, simplicity, and consistency of all the prisoner's answers to his interrogatories, put to him while in prison, he was all but entirely convinced of his innocence. "There was a mystery in the case," he said, "which he could not solve; but a day of retribution was coming," he added, "when the cause would be tried over again, and before a Judge from whom nothing could be concealed, and on whom no plot, however well contrived, could impose." Wotherspoon heard the terrible judgment pronounced on him with the utmost composure, and persevered in asserting his innocence, both to his counsel and to those of his friends who subsequently visited him in prison. On these last, his declarations produced various effects. Some of them--those who knew him--believed that he had met with foul play from some quarter or another; and their suspicions fell on Lorimer, whose character was well known to them: but there was nothing in the whole case which could warrant them in openly asserting that he had played the villain. By others, again, Wotherspoon's declarations of innocence were looked upon as proceeding from the natural shame of crime. They pitied the unhappy man sincerely; but, however high might have been their opinion formerly of his integrity, they had no doubt that the pressure of necessitous circumstances had broken down his principles, and that he was guilty of the forgery. And this last was the opinion generally entertained regarding the convict by the public at large; while the first was the most prevalent in the district from which Wotherspoon came, and where he was, of course, best known. With regard to Lorimer, the directors of the bank in which the forged bill had been discounted were so pleased with his activity and diligence in detecting and proving the forgery, that they not only forgave him the amount of it--for which he was liable as an indorser--but presented him with a handsome gratuity over and above, on the conviction of the offender. To return to Wotherspoon. Two or three days after his trial and condemnation, the session closed, and the gentleman, a Mr Moffat, who had been employed as his counsel, went to the country to spend a few days at a friend's residence there. On the first day of his arrival, and within an hour after that occurrence, Mr Moffat was invited by his host to take a stroll in the garden, to see some improvement he was then making on it. At the moment that Mr Moffat and his friend entered the garden, there were two men employed in delving a piece of ground at a little distance from the gate, one of whom, on perceiving the Edinburgh lawyer, hastily flung down his spade, and ran off. Somewhat surprised at this circumstance, Mr Porteous, Mr Moffat's entertainer, inquired of the fugitive's fellow-workman, who was his principal gardener, what it meant. The man smiled, and said that he believed he did not care to be seen by that gentleman there, pointing to Mr Moffat. "By me!--afraid to be seen by me!" said the latter, in astonishment. "What can that mean? What's the man's name?" "His name is Hislop, sir--Andrew Hislop," replied the gardener. "I believe he was witness in some case before the Court of Justiciary lately." "Right, right!" said Mr Moffat, already a good deal excited by the occurrence. "I thought I recollected the fellow, even from the momentary glance I had of him. Has he ever made any remark to you regarding that trial?" inquired Moffat. "Why, nothing more, sir, than saying, that it is an ugly job; and that, if he had not been very firm, perhaps somebody else would have swung in place of Wotherspoon." "Ay, indeed," exclaimed Mr Moffat, struggling hard to conceal the emotion he felt on this first glimmering of a new light on Wotherspoon's case being thus suddenly and most unexpectedly presented to him, and which was so much in accordance with certain preconceived notions of his own regarding that unfortunate case. "And just now!" said Mr Moffat, eagerly. "What did he say just now, before he left you? Did he say anything?" "He said, sir, as I told you before, he did not care to meet with you again, lest you should bother him with questions." "Very well, very well--that'll do, my man," replied Mr Moffat, who now felt convinced that he had got a clue to the mystery which had puzzled him so much in Wotherspoon's case. "That'll do," he said, at the same time leading away his friend, to whom he related the whole circumstances of the trial, mentioned his suspicions, and begged his co-operation--Mr Porteous being a justice of peace--in securing Hislop. This co-operation was readily conceded; and so effectively and promptly, that in less than two hours Hislop was apprehended, although he had got a good many miles away--for his flight had not been a temporary but a final one; and in less than two hours more he was hard and fast in the Heart of Mid-Lothian. On the day after his apprehension, Hislop was examined before the sheriff--Mr Moffat, who had gone to town on purpose, being also present--when, either through fear of punishment, which he hoped to avert by his disclosures, or from the impulses of an awakened conscience, he told a tale of villany, which--whether the amazing complexity of its character be considered, the singular dexterity with which it was managed, or the astounding depravity which marked it--will scarcely be found paralleled, it is believed, in the annals of crime. Hislop deponed, in the first place, that Lorimer, not Wotherspoon, was the actual forger of the bill, and that he had seen him write it. That he, Hislop, hired by Lorimer, had personated Wotherspoon in Bryce's house, on the occasion to which the evidence of that witness and his wife referred; and here Hislop called on Mr Moffat to mark the strong resemblance, both in person and countenance, that existed between himself and Wotherspoon; which, now that his attention was called to it, Mr Moffat perceived to be indeed singularly striking. The deponent further stated, that Lorimer had promised him £10 for his trouble, but had paid him with five. That Wotherspoon had never used the expressions to him that he had attributed to him, when giving evidence on the trial of the former. Lastly, he declared that Lorimer had frequently said to him, in reference at once to the plot against Wotherspoon, and to Wotherspoon himself, "that he would be revenged on the object of his deadly hatred, and would put fifty pounds in his pocket besides." On the strength of this deposition, Lorimer was now apprehended, while a respite was obtained for Wotherspoon; and the trial of the former, for the identical crime for which the latter was under sentence of death, soon after followed. On this trial, the deposition of Hislop was, through the activity of Wotherspoon's counsel, corroborated in every particular, and the whole villany laid bare to open day. The general result of the evidence against Lorimer showed that he had selected Hislop to be an instrument of his atrocious designs chiefly on account of his remarkable resemblance to Wotherspoon. That, still further to heighten this deception, so as to deceive Bryce and his wife, should they, as he expected they would, be confronted with Wotherspoon--or foreseeing, in short, exactly what had happened with regard to him--he had been at the trouble and expense of procuring for Hislop a wig of exactly the same description with that worn by Wotherspoon, and which was of rather a peculiar make and colour. That he had selected a day for coming to Edinburgh, to execute that part of the plot which was performed in Bryce's house, when he knew that Wotherspoon was also in the city; and thus his villanous design was complete in all its parts, and could only have been discovered through the treachery of Hislop. His assertions were all positive, while Wotherspoon's were necessarily all negative; and it is well known how much easier it is to prove than to disprove; and of this Lorimer had the full advantage in the case of the prosecution of the former. At the desire of the Lord Advocate, the wig which Mr Wotherspoon wore was placed on Hislop's head in court, the former being also present, when Bryce and his wife were called in, and asked to say which of the two was the Mr Wotherspoon they had seen with Lorimer; when both without hesitation and at once, pointed out Hislop; that difference in look and appearance--for, however like two persons may be, some difference between them there always is--being evident, when they were seen together under the circumstances just mentioned, which was scarcely to be detected when they were seen separately by those who were not previously acquainted with them individually and personally: and thus the most fatal evidence of all that had been adduced against Wotherspoon was in one instant rendered not only innocuous to him, but destructive to his persecutor. The result of Lorimer's trial will be foreseen by the reader. He was condemned to death, and hanged in the Grassmarket of Edinburgh; while Wotherspoon was dismissed from the bar with an unblemished character, and with the sympathy of the whole court and the public at large, for his unmerited sufferings. Wotherspoon again became a wealthy man, and saw many happy years afterwards; but often said that he would never again speak of forging bills, as Lorimer had declared, after he was condemned to death, that it was his having overheard his idle, but unguarded language on this subject in the inn, that had suggested to him the plot which had so nearly accomplished his destruction. THE SURGEON'S TALES. THE THREE LETTERS. It is a difficult question how far doctors ought voluntarily to interfere in matters of wills. One-half of our profession advocate the moral necessity and propriety of not only putting their patients in such a state of knowledge as to their bodily condition, as to bring out by _inference_ the prudence of arranging their temporal affairs, but of adding suggestions and recommendations to the effect of inducing them to perform this indispensable duty, before the grim tyrant's advances may render it impossible. The other half smile at their bolder and more philanthropic brethren, as fools who interfere with what lies beyond their province, and limit their statements or advice to those necessary replies which are called for by the questions of the patients themselves. Upon all such points, where the truth is sought for _in partibus extremis_, much has been said, and will be said; and perhaps a thousand years hence the profession and the public may be as far from any simple designative proposition of the real moral truth of the subjects, as they are at present. The fault lies in men's minds, which, seeking eternally to generalise, lose sight of the grand fact in nature--that, as in botany she defies man in his attempts at a natural classification, so, in moral states and conditions of society, she equally defies him to manufacture verbal rules for the regulation of individuals or masses under all existing circumstances. For my part, I have always avoided these verbose questions; and, though I have practised for many years, I have never experienced any difficulty in so regulating my statements and advices to dying patients, as might best suit their temporal interests of health and wealth, without losing sight of what was due to higher and more sacred feelings and prospects of a world to come. To tell some patients that they are dying would be to commit a species of homicide; to conceal from them the state of their bodies, and their approaching dissolution, may be to be accessory to worldly wrongs, to be felt for generations, and to that condemnation that is to be felt for ever; but between those extremes there ranges a wide field for the workings of prudence, an ample space for the exercise of a noble and manly virtue, and scope enough and to spare for the exhibition of all those elevated feelings of good hearts that add grace and beauty to the possessors, and are displayed for the benefit of our fellow-creatures. No man has so much in his power for the benefit of mankind as a medical practitioner; and proud am I to say, that no man, speaking generally, more seldom loses the opportunity of turning it to the proper account. These observations are called forth by a case that, some time ago, came under my observation, where the hand of a ruling Providence spurned the schemes of weak mortals, and took the regulation of a dying person's affairs out of her hands, in a manner as strange as it is dark and mysterious. Mrs Germain, a widow lady of fortune, sent her niece, a young woman about twenty-three years of age, to request that I would visit her in my professional capacity. The case, I was told, was not an urgent one, and I might call at any time during the course of the day, as suited my arrangements and leisure. I went, accordingly, in a short time afterwards, and was introduced into a very splendid drawing-room, where I observed an elderly lady, whom I took to be Mrs Germain herself, reclining on a damask-covered couch, with the young person who had waited on me sitting on a footstool by her side. The two individuals were interesting in many respects, even at first sight. There was a singular elegance of taste displayed in the dress, though a dishabille, of the elderly one, which, co-operating with a set of features at one time undoubtedly handsome, and now noble and intellectual, bespoke the lady by birth, and one that had cultivated the art of making the body and the mind reflect on each other mutual beauty and adornment. The young one, whom I had seen before, but under the shade of a jealous veil, was one of those _blondines_ so highly prized in French novel-writing, and seldom seen in our country in the perfection of contrast, of dark piercing eyes and light auburn tresses, so frequently seen in France. She was also very elegantly attired; and the graceful manner in which she reclined, with her left arm on the side of the couch, and her right holding a richly-gilt book, from which she had been reading to her aunt, produced an effect which an artist or a lover would not have been slow to acknowledge. On a nearer approach, I soon detected, in the composed and bland features of the elder, the delicate, yet certain, touch of the finger of some latent, lurking disease; which, by draining the blood from the lips, blanching the lower confines of the temples, and depressing the globes of the eyes, had given a melancholy premonition of serious changes about to be effected in vital parts. Having been introduced by the niece, who rose and handed me a chair, I sat down by the side of the couch, and received an account of the symptoms which had exhibited themselves to the invalid; from which I learned that she had been ailing for several months, but that no indications of serious disease having been detected by her, she had put off her application for medical advice from day to day, in the hope of getting better. How little did she know that, during all that time, she had been unconsciously, yet progressively, travelling the dark path of death!--how little did she now know, as she lay there, arrayed in the tasteful and costly decorations of the body--her face clothed with the composure of easy indolence and the expression of noble pride, and her soft languid eye lighted up with the hope of a long course of happiness supplied from the resources of wealth--that death was busy with the secret parts of her heart! I understood her complaint at the first description of her symptoms--an aneurism or tumour in the region of the fountain of life, which would burst in an instant, and precipitate her in another moment into eternity. Her complaint defies all the efforts of our profession, and it is, moreover, one which never can with propriety be explained to a patient, because there are few that have firmness enough to enable them to bear up under the certainty of an instantaneous dissolution, and the uncertainty of the dread moment. I therefore exercised that allowable and humane dissimulation which the searching eyes of patients, or that of friends, render necessary for their freedom and relief from fears that would often kill as certainly as the disease which generates them. This might not have been called for by any vigilance on the part of Mrs Germain to read my face; she felt no apprehension, and put no questions as to what I conceived to be the nature of her complaint. But I saw the dark eyes of the niece fixed upon my countenance with a searching intensity of look and solicitude of expression, which showed that, if she could, she would have read the most secret thoughts of my heart. There was affection deep and pure in that look, and the fear of the bursting asunder of ties more dear to her than her own existence. She continued her gaze silently, but thoughtfully; and the conversation of her aunt, which, notwithstanding her weakness, was spirited and buoyant, touching many indifferent topics lightly, and with the ease and grace of high breeding and fine cultivated fancy, struck her ear without carrying a meaning to her mind. I indulged the confidence of the patient, and witnessed, with feelings which we only can know, the delusive spirit of life flapping his golden-coloured wings round the heart whose citadel was already occupied by the demon of death. Such scenes are familiar to us; but there was something in this different from any I had yet witnessed: and I took my departure with an assumed placidity of look, while the inmost recesses of my spirit were convulsed by the laugh of the patient, and the silent-brooding and fearful-searching eye of that angelic being, whose existence seemed to be wound up in her friend. Even in desperate cases we must prescribe; and in the evening I sent some medicines of the paregoric and hypnotic kind, with a view, simply--for I could do no more--of relieving a slight pain which occasionally, but at considerable intervals, interfered with her good spirits. I continued my visits, and often witnessed scenes similar to those I described. The patient was gradually approaching the dread issue; and still, at every meeting, that beautiful young woman watched my every look, and searched my heart with those brilliant eyes, that spoke some mysterious language, which even the deepest feelings of friendship for her benefactress would scarcely explain. The patient herself felt no solicitude--she saw no danger. It was clearly otherwise with her niece: but what surprised me was, that this devoted girl only looked her intense feelings; she never asked me if her aunt was in danger. Every glance, every movement, showed that she felt it; but the fear of having her apprehensions confirmed--such, at least, was my construction of her strange conduct--sealed up her lips, and constrained her to a solemn silence. One day I called, and was shown into an anteroom, until some friend had departed. I heard words in an adjoining closet, and knew the voice of Louisa--for such was the name of the fair creature who had claimed so much interest from me. "Why will not you, my dearest Louisa?" said the soft voice of a young man. "This is terrible! Think, love, meditate, what will be the dreadful issue! Oh, sweet, angelic being! why were you fated to make me adore you for acting against those wishes I now breathe in your ear? Ask the doctor; tell him the awful secret, that our happiness depends on ten written letters of a name; and he has only to say write, and it is written." "I have already tried to speak to him, but I cannot. Alfred, I see our danger. My aunt, I fear, is dying. The £20,000 left her by her husband goes to a sordid wretch, his brother, if she dies without a will. There is none on earth she loves but me and Alfred. O beloved Alfred! you alone divide, with that angelic woman, the affection of your Louisa. You are poor; I know it; I have wept for it. I have nothing on this earth. If she die without a will, we are beggars, and her last breath will wail our destiny, and her last tear tell her too late her unavailing sympathy. I know all this. It is my night thought, my day dream, my love's whisper, my Alfred's theme; but, God help me, I cannot break this subject to the doctor; my very heart bounds within my bosom at the thought of raising one slight fear in the breast of that woman to whom I owe all the happiness I have ever experienced upon earth. What, oh, what shall be done, Alfred?" I heard her sobs burst from her, as she sought for sympathy in the bosom of her lover. "Louisa, love, lift up your head," he answered. "You are sacrificing both of us to a feeling which that excellent woman herself would pronounce a weakness and a cruelty to both you and her. Think, love, what shall be the thoughts, the agonies, of your aunt, if she finds herself firmly locked in the arms of death, and her hands bound up, by his rigid grasp, from obeying the dictates of a bursting, breaking heart. The thought that Augustus Germain, the man she hates, inherits all her fortune, and that her dear Louisa is left by her a beggar, will drag her parting spirit to the confines of the flesh, and torture it in the body's expiring struggle. You tremble at rousing in her a fear of death, by the mention of the will; and you inflict a thousand agonies, by leaving her unprepared for that death when it comes. Louisa, Louisa, lift up your head, and say if these are not the words of truth." A silence succeeded these words. The girl was in tears, and her feelings choked her reply. "I feel that you have spoken truth, Alfred," said she; "yet I cannot do it, I cannot--I will rather be a beggar." "And you _will_ be a beggar, sweet but deluded girl," rejoined the lover; "and Alfred, who would have died for his Louisa, will be also a beggar, through her weakness. Love is hated by the Fates." Another pause intervened, of some moments. "But, Alfred," resumed the sobbing girl, "if--if--oh, I tremble at the word--if my aunt should die without a will, and your Louisa, in place of having twenty thousand pounds, is, as she will be, a beggar--will your love for me, Alfred--ah, I choke--the thought swells my heart----" "I know it--I know it, Louisa," replied he; "mention it not--it is well that your swelling heart binds up the treacherous word--would not Louisa, with all her aunt's wealth, take Alfred, who has nothing--shall not Alfred, who has nothing, take his Louisa, a beggar? Lovely girl! good, elevated, and noble as you are, I question if you sufficiently appreciate the devotedness of your Alfred. But, Louisa, think again of what I have said. I see you again to-morrow. Oh, how time flies, when I think of your aunt!--how it lags when I think of you! Think--think, ere it be too late." "I cannot--I cannot," replied she. There was an embrace; he departed, and the disconsolate Louisa sat and wept bitterly alone. The servant came and told me that Mrs Germain was now alone. I hastened to her. She was, as usual, on the couch. The disease was gradually progressing, but without making much of external ravage; and her spirits were as good as usual. "Ha, doctor," she said, briskly, as I went forward, "that was Augustus Germain who now went from me. Know you him? He is the brother of my deceased husband; and now, when I am ailing, though, Heaven be praised, not dying, he has begun to sneak about me, for his own private ends. I have not seen his face these six months. Do you know he is in my power? I can leave the whole fortune I got from his brother past him--to whom I please. Ha! ha!" "And do you intend, madam, to leave it past him?" replied I, looking in her face gravely. "Intend!" cried she, with another laugh, which I feared would burst the tumour, and end her life in the instant. "Why, to be sure I do. Louisa Milford shall be my heir, though I had a million for every thousand. That girl, sir, is a jewel beyond the value of all that Golconda could give up from its inmost recesses. She loves Alfred Stanford, a young man as noble in his sentiments, as she is kind, and gentle, and true in her affections; but he is poor, and, praise be to Heaven! I have the means of making them rich and happy." "And why do you delay this act of kindness and duty," said I, with a look fixed on her eyes, "when you and all others are aware how very brittle a thread life hangs by?" She looked at me firmly and intently as I pronounced these words, and paused a little, as if she felt some slight shock, which she required to overcome. "Do _you_ think, sir," replied she, "that I ought not to delay that act?" "Though you were in perfect health, madam, I should, answer, yes, undoubtedly," said I, with eagerness. "Then I may as well do it now, when I am only slightly ailing," answered she; recovering, in a moment, from the slight uneasiness I had caused her; "yet, somehow or other, I am so filled with the spirit of life--so young--I mean comparatively--with so many years before me--with such a gay world around me, that I cannot help laughing at making a will. I must put on spectacles, I presume, when I sign it, and look grave and antiquated. Ha! ha! Well, I shall send for old parchment Jenkins in the evening; and, as I would wish you to be present at the execution, I will thank you to make your visit to me in the evening to-morrow. Old Goosequill and you may partake of a glass of my burgundy, vintage '94, on the head of the young widow's settlement." "I shall attend, madam," said I; "and, if you please, I shall send Mr Jenkins to you just now as I pass." She eyed me somewhat closely again; but the feeling flew off. "Do so--do," she replied; and I left her. As I proceeded out to the main door, I passed the small room where Louisa Milford still sat, with the effect of the extraordinary scene that had taken place between her and the young man called Stanford pressing on her bosom. I stood a moment, and heard distinctly her deep sobs and stifled moans. Her sentiments were beautiful, her conduct noble: she would sacrifice twenty thousand pounds to avoid giving the aunt she loved a moment's uneasiness; and she had resisted the impassioned importunities of a lover, who was suspended between beggary and affluence, and who had adroitly addressed himself to the young heart of love, as well as to the immature judgment of youth. I had no liberty to say one word to her of her aunt's intentions; yet I had for some time resolved to communicate to her the true state of her relative's health, with an injunction to keep the fearful nature of the disease a secret from the patient. I knocked at the door, and was requested to walk in. She was hurriedly occupied in drying up her tears, and removing the signs of grief. "You have been weeping, Miss Milford," I said; "is it for your aunt?" "Forbid that I should require to weep for her!" she cried, starting, as if stung with pain. "I cannot bear the idea of that woman being in danger. I have watched your eye daily, and have read in it fearful things; but I will comfort her; she shall never know that there is danger near. I will ward off the sad thought; and oh! sir, for mercy's sake, co-operate with me in my love, while you try to save her from the danger, the thought of which she shall never know!" The remembrance of what had passed a few minutes before between her and her lover, brought out the full effect of the purity of thought that dictated her impassioned words. I surveyed her for a moment with admiration. "I did not think my _professional_ eye was so easily read, Miss Milford," I replied. "You have read it correctly. Your aunt cannot live. I have thought it my duty to inform you of this. Her complaint is in the region of the heart, and she will likely die in an instant." She stood for a moment pale and motionless, as if her heart had suddenly ceased its functions. A slow heaving of the bosom showed the approach of a paroxysm of grief; and I trembled lest the sounds should reach the patient's room. I pointed in the direction silently. She understood me; and the strongest workings of nature were overcome by the strength of her fear to cause pain to her she loved. She struggled against the rising passion, and, turning to me, fell suddenly at my feet, and held up her clasped hands in the direction of my countenance. "And you will not tell her?" she cried, while struggling sobs impeded her speech; "no, no, pity demands it, and I pray for it--let her live in the hope of life! Say, good sir, for Heaven's sake, that you will conceal it from her, and from all others. None shall know it from me--I will die rather than divulge it. She will thus be happy to the end. She requires no preparation--she is spotless--pure as the child unborn; and as she has lived, so shall she die!" "It is not my intention to communicate it to her," replied I. "Ah! thanks, thanks, good sir," she replied, in the same impassioned voice. "Bless you--bless you!" "But this ignorance, Miss Milford," said I, "prevents a settlement of a patient's worldly affairs." "If that settlement, in the case of my aunt," replied she, fervently, and turning up her eyes to heaven, "is to be purchased by one moment of pain to her, let Augustus Germain take all." "Extraordinary sentiment!" muttered I--"extraordinary being!" I left her to her grief, and proceeded to the attorney's house. He was at home, and promised to wait on Mrs Germain that day. He called afterwards, and told me that the will would be ready next evening at seven, when I was requested to attend to witness it, along with him. I attended accordingly. The lady was in her usual state of spirits. She sat up on the couch, arrayed in a superb undress. Miss Milford was not present. I observed her in her own room, as I passed, with Stanford sitting by her, holding one of her hands. The attorney, and one of his clerks, and myself, were the only persons present besides the invalid. "I am dying to hear a will, Mr Jenkins," said the patient, laughing. "I don't think I ever heard one in my life; for my husband's settlement was a contract of marriage, and I fear there is _some_ difference between the two papers." Mr Jenkins read the settlement. "Will you not allow me a glass of wine, doctor?" resumed the invalid, in the same strain. "It may steady my hand. I declare I am as nervous as a young bride." I poured out a glass of her old burgundy, and gave it to her. "Here is to my own health first!" said she--"for, you know, I'm an invalid; and, secondly, here is to you all, and may you never be worse than I am until you come to die!" She took up the pen and began to write her name. I looked over her shoulder. She had written Margaret Germ--and the pen was quivering in her hand. She uttered a scream, and fell back--a corpse. In an instant, Louisa and Stanford rushed into the room. "Is she dead?" cried the attorney. "The will is not signed. It wants three letters. It is useless." "She is gone," replied I, "for ever." Louisa threw herself upon the body of her aunt. Stanford looked on like a statue of marble. The scene was heartrending; for the devoted girl clung with such force to the dead body, that it was with difficulty I could get her detached. The loss of the £20,000 was to her nothing. She did not even hear--at least she understood not the writer, when he cried out that the will wanted three letters, and was void. Her whole soul was occupied with the engrossing idea that her aunt was dead; yet so painful was the thought, that she could not bear to hear the truth, and cried with a loud voice on the dead body to answer her with one word of consolation. All this time, Stanford fixed his eye on the fragment of the name to the will. The three letters were worth a fortune. "Heavens!" I heard him mutter, "is it so? Are my fears realised, and in this dreadful form? Hope on the very brink of being realised, swallowed by the fell demon of despair!" Louisa was carried out senseless, and Stanford rushed out of the room like a maniac. The dead body was spread out; the will was rolled up in a scroll; the writer went away; and I sought home with eyes filled with tears. I afterwards learned that the brother came in as heir. Louisa was, indeed, a beggar; but Stanford married her. They are yet poor, and may remain so for life. THE GLASS BACK. I have already laid before the public one well-authenticated case of a false conception of identity, arising from the disease called hypochondria. In that case, as well as in most of the others generally met with, the supposed change of identity that takes place is complete, extending to the whole body, which is imagined to pass into a new form of being, different from man, and often into a piece of matter not imbued with life or motion at all. Of this latter case, by far the best known transmutation is that into some very brittle commodity, such as glass; and this is not to be wondered at, even amidst the darkness of our ignorance of the secret workings of those extraordinary changes which seem to shame even the invention of Ovid; for the idea or fantasy, in that case, is only a peculiar type of the feeling of the nervous apprehension or terror, which is the peculiar pathognomonic symptom of the disease itself. It is not difficult to suppose that, when the heart is filled with fear of personal injury, and yet the eye surveys no cause of danger, the mind itself will supply imaginary causes--and this accordingly we find to be the case; neither does it seem to defy our _à priori_ conceptions, that while imaginary objects of detrimental efficacy shall be conjured up from the depths of a dark fancy, a corresponding notion of peculiar brittleness in the body itself shall be generated, to give plausibility to the pre-existing apprehension of serious evil. Indeed, the two seem to be counterparts of each other; and we have only to proceed a step further, to the species of brittleness or liability to detriment, to come to that extraordinary conception, which almost every doctor of extensive practice has witnessed once or twice in his life--that the body is composed of glass, and therefore in continual danger of being cracked or broken to pieces, from the appulse of objects that are every day impinging upon us without doing us any harm. The frequency of the "glass man" is therefore not a matter of very great wonder to a philosophical mind, after the casual condition of the change is admitted. The case has so often occurred, that it now excites little curiosity; but I question much, if the case of a fancied _partial_ transmutation of the flesh into glass may not, as well from its rarity as its grotesqueness, claim a greater share of interest from the faculty, and from the general reader; and when I state that the instance I have to record was witnessed and studied by myself, with a view to the interests of science--a fact of much importance in all reports of extraordinary conditions of human nature--I need say no more in recommendation of it to the attention of the public. The unhappy subject of the case was a poor man, called Patrick G----, by trade a tailor--a profession, by the way, which is more productive of hypochondria than any other with which I am acquainted, arising, doubtless, from the sedentary habits of the individuals, combined with their irregular modes of living. I have always noticed a peculiar _outré_ character in the ideas and feelings of people inclined to hypochondria; and those who have been permitted to enter the _penetralia_ of the workshop where the _board_ is covered with these unfortunate beings, will justify the remark, by their experience of the strange sayings, grotesque art, and recondite humour, to be found in the peculiar atmosphere of that temple of taste. I make this allusion, of course, with a scientific view, as elucidating a fine point in psychology, and not in the slightest degree influenced by a love of the mere garbage of the food of an ill-timed curiosity. The peculiarity of thought and feeling, incidental to this class, might easily have been discovered in the individual who was so unfortunate as to require my aid; and all his physical appearances would have justified the anticipation of the peculiarity, before he opened his mouth. His complexion was so decidedly what we call saturnine, that it approached to the colour of green. He was at all times excessively irritable, so much so that he was often attacked with spasmodic affections; and at these times he was so easily acted upon by slight and trifling external causes, that his wife, a very sober and decent woman, required to observe the greatest caution in conducting those affairs of her domestic establishment which interfered with either his mind or body. If he was not in this state of irritability, he was sure to be under the power of an extreme rigidity of solids, and torpor of the nervous system, accompanied by their usual concomitant of melancholy, which suggested even a _bizarrerie_ of thought quite different from that of ordinary men. I thought the seat of his disease was the spleen, in consequence of finding an enlargement of that organ; but I afterwards came to be satisfied that his liver, too, was deranged--an opinion very well justified by what afterwards befel him. The symptoms I have mentioned continued in the man for a period of a year and a-half; but an aggravation of them became soon thereafter apparent, in a very marked increase of his melancholy, accompanied by a shaking nervousness on being approached by any heavy article, subject to movement. When forced out by his wife for the benefit of his health, he kept the side of the wall, shook at the risk of a jostle, as if a push or drive would have killed him, and ran into closes and avenues, to be out of the reach of carriages that were steadily keeping the middle of the high-road. I have observed these symptoms (to us well known) in very aggravated diseases of the stomach, without very marked derangement of the neighbouring organs; and calmed the fears of his wife, by stating that they would probably abate, as the medicines I gave him (chiefly tonics) began to operate upon his system. I had, notwithstanding, my fears that a deeper type of hypochondria was on the eve of exhibiting itself--an opinion formed chiefly from the study of his eye, which was getting daily heavier and gloomier, more turned to the angle of the orbit, and filled with morbid terror, on the approach of any moving thing, however innocuous. To test further the truth of my deduction, I gave him a gentle push aside, and observed that he shrank as if he had been stung by an adder, retreating back from me, and eyeing me with suspicion and dread, as if I had been about to kill him. He was now, I suspected, on the eve of falling into one of two positions, depending upon the temperament of his mind. He would either (as happens with people of an imaginative turn) create fanciful objects of fear that might do him bodily injury, retaining his conception of personal identity unimpaired, or he would pass into the false conviction of being made of some tender substance, capable of being injured by the approach of external objects, but retaining otherwise his conceptions of external things entire--a result more common to minds of a sedate, phlegmatic kind. My fears turned out too true. The next time I visited him, I was met by his wife in the passage, who said she wished to speak a few words to me before I entered. She whispered that she feared her husband had entirely lost his senses--for that, on the day previous, he had gone to bed, where he had lain ever since in the same position--_on his face_; and yet, so far as she could ascertain, there was nothing the matter with his back. When she asked him why he lay in that extraordinary position, he turned up a piteous eye in her face, and replied, with a sigh that came from the deepest part of his chest, that she would know that soon enough, requesting her, for the sake of Heaven's mercy and a wife's love, not to touch him, and to keep the bedclothes as light upon him as it was ever, ever in her power to do. I could not, even by the power of anticipation, derived from an ample experience of diseases of this sort, divine the peculiarity of this patient's complaint; but I was soon to have sufficient evidence to unravel the mystery. On going forward to him, I observed that he was carefully laid on his face, with just so much of his left eye exposed as to serve for a watch over his body, and exhibit the apprehension which filled his soul, and engrossed every other feeling. "Why in this position?" said I. "The back is the resting-place of patients. Turn, and you will experience the truth of what I say." "Turn!--oh, that I could!" said he; "but, alas, alas! I dare not; I dare not." And he accompanied his words with a peculiar nervous glance, indicating great uneasiness and fear. "Why?" rejoined I. "Ah, sir," he cried, in a choking voice, "I must keep this side uppermost. Glass is brittle, very brittle. I dare not turn; the crash--ay, sir, the crash--would be tremendous. I would be in a hundred pieces in a moment. Dreadful thought!--Do not touch me, for Heaven's sake! approach me not. It is brittle, brittle--ah, very, very brittle!" These words he accompanied with the same glance of intense fear. I saw at once where the secret lay; but the poor wife stared with glaring eyes, as if she had seen a spectre. She understood nothing; but she watched her husband's eye, and she had never seen there such a wild light before. Argument in such cases is altogether _hors d'oeuvre_, or rather it does much injury, and my course lay in a direction entirely opposite. I had first the precise vitreous locality to discover, which could be done only by an expression of belief of his extraordinary condition. "Calm yourself," said I; "we will deal with you quietly. Which is the dangerous part?" I laid my hand between his shoulders, and the bedclothes shook with the tremor of his limbs. "I never can _sit_ more upon this earth,"[1] he cried, and then paused and sighed. "My occupation's gone," he continued, in the same trembling, choking voice. "Merciful powers, what is to become of one of my profession, if he cannot sit without a crash? Do I not make my bread sitting? and yet, sir, I put it to you--I put it to you who know the strength of a window pane--how can I sit? how can I ever earn a livelihood for that weeping wife? Terrible! terrible!" [Footnote 1: A case of this kind occurred also in or near the town of Dundee in Scotland, where the glass was limited to the same regions--below the lumbars.] His wife, still at a loss for an explanation, looked into my face, where she saw the gravity of a philosophic doctor contemplating one of the miseries of his fellow-creatures, and, besides, interested scientifically in the case before me--one of partial vitrification, where the seat of the fancied transmutation was curiously connected with the prior habits of the individual. The case was serious; and, though I did not wish, by an expression of my real apprehensions, to frighten the poor woman, I could not belie my feelings, by assuming any appearance of carelessness, far less of levity, which I did not in sincerity feel. I could do nothing for the invalid in the position in which he now was, and left him, to consider what plan I should fall upon to dispossess him of this false belief, which, with all the determination and perversity of his complaint, had taken a firm hold of his mind. Next morning, the patient's wife called upon me, and stated that she had got alarmed at the state of her husband, in consequence of his extraordinary conduct when she endeavoured to get his couch spread up for their night's repose. On taking hold of him, though she did it in the gentlest manner possible, with a view to assist him out of the bed, he screamed out that she was breaking him to fragments, with such vociferation that the neighbours flocked in, to ascertain what was the cause. She could give no proper explanation; for, although she had already got some insight into the nature of the disease, she felt ashamed to exhibit the weakness of her husband; but he, who felt no delicacy on the subject, accused her, with tears in his eyes, of an intention to break him into pieces; called her a cruel woman, and appealed to several of those present whether it was reasonable to suppose that a person who had a part of his body made of glass could be safely handled in the rough manner in which the careless and temerarious woman had begun to touch and move him from the only safe position he could ever enjoy on earth. The poor woman wept as she told me that his speech was received by the neighbours with a loud laugh. I sympathised with her, and told her, with much grave and real sincerity, that I would do everything I could for her husband; and in the meantime recommended her again to try to get him out of bed by the hour of twelve, when I would call and see him, and try some remedy for him. I called accordingly, but found that the wife's efforts had proved unavailing; he was still in bed on his face, and murmuring strong and bitter reproaches against his helpmate, whom he eyed with an expression of mixed anger and terror. "Is it not horrible, sir," he vociferated, "that a woman should attempt to take the life of her husband? Say, as a Christian and a man, if I ought not to be handled in a manner suitable to the nature of the substance of which a part of my body is composed? Heavens! 'tis dreadful to be damaged irretrievably by the hands of one who should treat me more softly than others. Ha! my queen, you wish to get quit of me!--but I shall guard the vital and brittle parts from your evil intention. My hands and arms are still of flesh and blood." I tried to convince him that his wife had no evil intention towards him; but he continued to throw at her wild glances, in which there was apparent, however, much more terror than anger. I tried him on the question of rising; but he fixed his eye upon my face with a piteous expression, and said, in a calm, serious tone-- "Would you, sir, rise if you were in my position, with the danger staring you in the face of being crushed or broken by the first hard substance you came against. What would be my consolation in having the most important part of the body--at least to men of my profession--picked up in fragments, and laid in my coffin?" "Better run the risk of being damaged," said I, seriously, "than starve in your bed. Your wife says you have work lying to do, and that there is no money in the house." This statement produced a strong effect upon him. He shook between the horns of the dilemma in which he was placed, and threw a look at me, which said plainly, "Is not my situation horrible and heartrending?" But I retained the sternness of my expression, and yielded him no sympathy where I felt it to be my duty to use severity. I thought it better to leave him in this mood, and took my leave. I had made the statement regarding the necessity of working, at random, and was very well pleased to have it confirmed by Mrs G----, who followed me to the door, and told me that she was, indeed, in great perplexity, in consequence of a large order for mournings having come in that morning, and the two apprentices could do absolutely nothing to it. The case was one of domestic calamity, which I could do little to ameliorate, beyond giving another recommendation to her to strain every effort to get him up. Something occurred to prevent me calling next day; but on the next day after I waited upon my unhappy patient. The bed was empty. I looked round, and saw no one in the apartment. I was surprised, and dreaded some additional misfortune; but Mrs G----, who came out of the small room in which her husband wrought, stepped cautiously up to me, and whispered in my ear, that he had that morning got up, with the determination to commence work; but that he was still under the same delusion. "Come here," she added, retreating softly to the workshop. I followed her; and, at her desire, directed my eye through a small opening by the side of the door, which was partially open. A most extraordinary sight was exhibited to me. Two apprentices were sitting on a board, working fiercely at the mournings, and holding their heads down, as I thought, to prevent their cruel laughter from being seen by their unfortunate master, who was clearly the cause of their ill-timed and mischievous merriment. At a little distance from them, with his back turned to the wall, was my pale and emaciated patient, busy sewing--_on his feet_! "Is not that a dreadful sight, sir?" whispered Mrs G---- in my ear, with a woful countenance. "He has stood in that awful position since six o'clock this morning. He can come no speed; and see you how his apprentices are biting their lips, and holding down their heads to conceal their merriment?" I was too much occupied studying the motions and appearance of the invalid, to reply to the statement of his wife. He was standing in such a situation that no one could get behind him. There was a deep melancholy over his countenance, which was grotesquely relieved by the nervous light of his grey twinkling eye, as he lifted it at times from the piece of cloth he was busy with, and threw it fearfully in the direction of the apprentices, as if he watched their motions. It was clear that he laboured under an apprehension that some effort would be made to get him to sit, and that he was, _mordicus_, determined that he would not be broken and immolated in that way--from all which I was satisfied that his wife, or some other person, had been already that day making some attempt upon him to get him to sit down, and thus roused him to the state in which I now saw him. He looked as if he felt the truth of the motto, _nusquam tuta fides_. He had faith in none, and was on the quick watch to guard and save himself. The sight was undoubtedly an interesting one, in more respects than as a scientific study of one strange phase of human nature; but the only feature in it that surprised me was, that the patient was working with so much ardour--because lethargy, with a total prostration of spirit, is the prevailing symptom of the disease. I could only account for this anomaly, by supposing that the old excitement of a job of mournings had, for a time, overcome the depressing energies of his complaint. I had meditated a curative process to be applied when he got out of bed; but he was now evidently too much on the quick alert from his alarm, for its application at that time--his studied proximity to the wall excluding all hope of getting behind him; and I augured, besides, some relief from his application to business. I therefore told Mrs G---- that it would be improper to rouse his fears farther by any unsuccessful attempt at dislodging, from his addled brain, his false belief, and that I would call next day, when his confidence in those around him might, in some measure, be restored. On my calling next day at the same hour, Mrs G---- informed me that he had continued working on his feet for the greater part of the preceding day--turned himself fearfully round when he required to move, so as to keep the supposed brittle region out of the reach of all danger; when he retired to bed, he had laid himself on his face; and he was again working assiduously, in a standing position, in the same way as when I saw him last. I again applied myself to the opening, and satisfied myself that the statement I had received was correct. The scene presented all the extraordinary features--the same standing position, cadaverous face, and nervous watchful eye, in the patient, and the same look of mystery, wonder, and repressed risibility on the part of the apprentices. I opened the door, and entered, requesting Mrs G---- to bring me a chair, on which I sat down right opposite to the patient, who, almost simultaneously with these movements, retreated back, and, coming in contact with the wall of the room, uttered a sudden scream of fear, and again resumed his position. His wife looked at him with pity and affection; but the rebellious apprentices broke forth into a cachinnation, which I instantly repressed by a look, which conveyed a serious reproof, as sincere as it was strong and stern. I proceeded to endeavour to acquire his confidence; but he exhibited great shyness, and kept up a studied system of eyeing me askant, placing his back as near to the wall as he thought consistent with his safety, and keeping a sharp look-out for intruders in that direction. To my inquiry how he felt, he replied, peevishly, that he was so utterly beyond the powers of medicine, that he did not see the use of my visits. "Heaven help me!" he ejaculated; "I am safe nowhere but in my bed. No necessity will draw me from it, if I'm once there again. My ungrateful wife may starve. I will turn off these rebellious, unfeeling scoundrels. I am sure rounded by enemies, murderers, who would laugh if they saw me cracked in a thousand pieces. They gloat on my screams, as they take every opportunity to pass behind me and jostle me. Better be dashed at once like a potsherd among stones, than exposed to this horrible state of eternal apprehension." "You nourish vain fears," replied I. "Why not try to sit and compose yourself?" "Ha! ha! ha!" he cried, with a shrill, sardonic movement of his lungs--"sit on a glass globe!--ha! ha!--all enemies together--murderers all. It is not three hours yet since that woman placed a chair for me, and one of these unfeeling ruffians asked me, with a sneaking, whining sympathy, to take my place on the board, while his ears were tingling for the crash. I'll swear a lawburrows against you all--every mother's son of you." "You may at least try to sit," said I, calmly rising from the chair--a movement that operated upon him like magnetism--making him throw down the cloth he held in his hand, recoil still farther back, and scream again, loud and shrill. I made a step forwards to him, which roused his fears still higher; for he was clearly possessed with the idea that I was to force him to sit, or to press him against the wall, and thus shatter him to pieces. The one mode of destruction was just as fearful as the other; and, as I took another step nearer him, he raised a yell that made the whole house ring, and, changing his position, with his back still to the wall, he glided swiftly aside, and seemed, by the furtive glance of his terrorstruck eye, to wish to make for the door--which, however, was guarded by his wife. By this time the two young men had started to their feet, so that he was surrounded by foes on every side; and as the utter desperation of his case thus seemed to increase, he became more and more terrified, repeating his screams at shorter intervals, and placing himself with a caution which, in his excited state, had a strange appearance, closer and closer to the wall. The sight was a grievous one to his wife, and far from an agreeable one to myself; but the apprentices--probably from a spirit of retaliation roused by a memory of former inflictions--enjoyed it with a cruel delight. Having thus far roused his terror, I thought it prudent not to stop short in an operation which, at whatever time performed, must necessarily be attended with all the pain he now suffered; and, throwing out a signal to one of the young men to stand by the chair, and to the other to come to my side, I made boldly towards him, and, notwithstanding of his heartrending screams and looks for pity, seized him by one arm, while the other was willingly laid hold of by my assistant. At this period of the operation, I was rather importunately addressed by Mrs G----, whose feelings--for she was an irritable creature, and distractedly fond of her husband--overcame her. "For heaven's sake, let him alone!" she cried. "The neighbours will think we are in reality murdering him. His screams go to my heart, and I cannot stand these wild looks. Heaven pity my unfortunate husband!" "I am only performing my professional duty," I replied, loudly, to make myself heard in the midst of his screams. "You called me to him; and, if you really wish it, I will leave him to his fate. No man of his profession can do any good in the world by working on his legs. The disease is deep-rooted, and can only be overcome by strong remedies. I think I will cure him; and, if you stop us in the operation, the consequences will be entirely attributable to yourself." I spoke at this length with the view, purposely, of keeping the patient for some time in the high state of terror to which he was roused; because I was satisfied that, in proportion to the height of his apprehension, was the chance of benefit to result from my expedient for curing him. The woman saw the affair in its proper light; and, though still greatly moved by his screams and pitiful looks, she forbore further entreaty or interference. The apprentices, meanwhile, were all alive and ready for action, expressing by their eloquent leers, which I could not repress, their pleasure in thus having an opportunity--such is human nature--of repaying their taskmaster for his severity, as well as of witnessing one of the most curious operations they had ever heard of. All this time the patient continued his screams--having, at intervals, recourse to exclamatory expostulation. "Cruel fiends!" he cried, "will you dash me to pieces? Will nothing less serve you than to see a poor harmless being, who never injured one of you, reduced to atoms? And you, too, hard-hearted wretch, whose duty it is to protect me, stand there a witness of my destruction! Unheard-of misery, to have the tenement of an immortal soul reduced to particles no bigger than a farthing!" We proceeded to drag him forwards, in spite of a resistance strengthened by the energy of terror and despair, and heedless of his cries of "Save me, save me! Death, death in any form but being dashed to shivers!" Having brought him to the chair, the back of which was held firmly by the other apprentice, we turned him round so as to make the bottom of it (composed of hard wood) as fair a mark as our eyes could judge. He was now, as he thought, on the brink of utter extermination; and I was afraid that the terror might have the effect on him which I have noticed in criminals at the moment when the fatal drop is to fall, and, by inducing a fit of syncope, destroy all our labours. It was, however, otherwise, though I never saw a patient on the eve of undergoing the amputation of a limb in such a condition of terror and agony. We were bound to disregard all this; and, having made my assistant understand that it was necessary to lift him (for a simple seating, without a fall, I was satisfied, would do no good), we raised him a foot or two, by the application of considerable strength, and let him down upon the bottom of the chair, with a crash. A louder scream than he had yet uttered announced his fancied death-blow. "I am murdered! it is all over now!" he ejaculated, with a gasp, while his hands were busy groping about, to feel the pieces of broken glass, which must necessarily be scattered in every direction. This operation, on his part, I wished to encourage, and liberated his arms, to give him greater scope, while we continued to hold him firmly down on the chair, till we satisfied him that he had received, and could receive, no injury, from pressing upon it with all the weight of his attenuated and sickly body. His groping was accompanied by a trembling that shook all his system; and I saw his terrorstruck eye wavering on the pivot of doubt, whether it might be inclined downwards to witness the wreck of his shivered body. Deep, convulsive sobs, the result of the restrained breath, broke from him in strange sounds, mixed with the groans of one who thought himself in the firm grasp of death. At length he ventured to add the testimony of his eyes to that of his hands; and, when he found that there were no pieces of glass lying about the chair and floor, he turned up the panicstruck orbs in my face, with an expression of mixed wonder and terror, that, to any one but myself, acting in a serious medical capacity, would have appeared ludicrous to an extent infringing upon the diaphragm. As we held him firmly down, in spite of his efforts to bound up, the false conviction, so firmly fixed in his brain, was apparently suffering a silent process of qualification; and the difficulty of reconciling the belief within with the actual state of safety without, was drawing him to the favourable condition of doubt, from which we might augur benefit. As the old conviction rose, at intervals, more strongly on him, his hands were again busy to ascertain the actual state of safety of his body; then his eye sought my face for an assurance in favour of the evidence of touch, and he was for a moment reconciled; again the false conception seized him, again he groped, and felt, and looked, and thus was he precipitated into a state of perplexity, from which he could not get himself disentangled, but from which he might ultimately, as I hoped, rise into a natural belief. "Where are your smashed glass organs now?" said I. He could reply nothing, but turned up his eye, filled with wonder and doubt, in my face. "You have been labouring under a wretched delusion of the mind. There's no more glass about you than there is about me--and that is my watch-glass. Are you satisfied?" "Heaven help me! I know not," he replied, in a melancholy tone. "I am perplexed. I cannot conceive why I'm not broken. How is it possible I could have stood the shock? Strange!--wonderful!" And he seemed for a moment lost in the mist of a confused amazement. This was his medicine, and we allowed it to work, by still holding him firm in his position. "It cannot be!" he ejaculated, quickly, as he emerged from his dream of wonder. "It is impossible! I _am_ damaged! Let me up! let me up! and you will see the melancholy wreck." This request was a fair one, and we removed our restraining hands. In a moment he started up, with a bound, to his feet, casting a fearful look on the bottom of the chair, and clasping the supposed brittle region with his hands, to ascertain whether he was in reality uninjured. The laugh of the apprentices, which I had hitherto restrained by my serious looks, now burst forth, in spite of all their efforts; and, averse as I am to such exhibitions of levity in cases of serious ailments, I could not help now looking upon this powerful ridicule as a necessary and salutary ingredient of the medicine administered to him. "You are all safe, sir," said I; "not one jot of you injured. I hope to hear no more of your glass. Next time I call, I expect to see you seated at your work, as becomes the decorum of your profession." I now left him; but I was by no means satisfied that he would not pertinaciously account for his being uninjured, by a recourse to some fallacious reason--such as the strength of the glass--to satisfy his prior conviction; for, before I departed, I saw that his look was as furtive and nervous as before, and his old partiality for the wall was strong within him. My anticipations were too well founded; for I ascertained, next morning, that he was not cured. He had given up work, and betaken himself to bed, where he had gradually relapsed into his old belief--accounting for his entireness by the strength alone of the crystal. I told the woman to call again, and tell me when he ventured up, and I would essay another experiment, which might turn out more successful. Three days passed before I received the announcement that he had again betaken himself to work on his legs. I lost no time in getting two assistants who could work better to my plan than my former coadjutors, and went to the house. It was the dinner-hour of his apprentices, and I had arrived in the opportune moment when the door, which had been bolted all day, to keep me and others out, was still open, after the exit of the workmen. I went, with the assistants, straight in upon him, and got a chair handed to me, precisely as on the former occasion. I soon saw that he was still under the influence of the delusive fiend that had usurped the seat of reason. "I am determined," said I, resolutely, "to break this brittle appendage. I have made my calculations, and am satisfied that I can smash it and remove it without injury to the vital organs that lie within it. It is, I am satisfied, a mere glass covering, without the slightest connection, in an organic view, with the parts beyond it. Fear not when you hear the crash; for I pledge myself you will thank me for the operation after it is performed." "No, no!" he vociferated, with screams; "I shall die, inevitably perish, if it is broken. You may as well break my head to pieces with an axe, and say that, because my heart will remain untouched, I will live. Oh, for the love of Heaven, have mercy on me!" His screams and exclamations produced no effect upon us. We proceeded to take off a part of his garments, and led him, in spite of the most determined and tortuous struggles, to the chair. "We must break it thoroughly," said I. "Lift him up as high as possible." My assistant obeyed my directions; and, having raised him as high as our strength would permit, we brought him down with a hard crash, as formerly on the chair, at the very moment that my other assistant dashed, with great force, on the floor a large globular glass bottle, which he had, by my desire, brought with him for the purpose. The crash was tremendous, and rang in the victim's ear like a death-knell. "Pick me up--pick me up!" cried the patient. "I'm all in atoms. You would not believe me once that I was made in these parts of glass. Ah, you see now the melancholy evidence of the fact!" We held him steady, and he rolled his eyes from side to side, surveying the broken fragments of his vitrified substance with symptoms of horror. I noticed the hair on his head rise and stand as stiff as porcupine quills, and all his body was shaken by tremors that seemed to reach his heart. After allowing the conviction that the appendage was absolutely broken to take proper root in his mind-- "You are cured," said I. "The glass lies about you, and your body is entire. I was right in my diagnosis. It is proved; the glass was a mere covering--a species of fourth skin over the epidermis; and, being gone, the natural body is freed from the encumbrance. Rise and judge for yourself." These words, with the slow progress of his own mental workings, and, above all, the sound and sight of the glass, wrought wonders. He rose deliberately from his seat--examined himself--looked around him--turned and re-turned--looked at me and my assistants--at his wife, who had come in wondering at the noise and strange appearance of the glass--and at the broken evidence, at once of his disorder and his cure. "This is most wonderful!" he at last ejaculated. "Margaret, woman, look at that! Where is your scepticism now, your laughs, and your jeers, and your vain efforts to shake my belief? This may teach you sobriety of thought, and inspire you with confidence in my opinions. I was never deceived in my life. Man never found me wrong: and here is my last victory over the foolish prejudices of all my neighbours." Saying this, he took a part of the glass, and turned it round in his hand. "Perfect, pure, brittle glass," he continued. "A pier-glass might have been made of it." "I would rather say a _convex_ mirror, Mr G----," said I, laughing, contrary to my professional gravity. "But, doctor," said he, "why were you so hard of belief? It was long ere you would believe me. I have conquered you too; but, I must confess, you have conquered my disease." "Yes; I have mastered it at last," said I; "it will never trouble you again. Would you have the goodness to allow me to take a part of the fragments home with me, to put in my museum." "Most certainly," he replied; "but it's natural that I should have the liberty of retaining a considerable part, to evidence for my sincerity, and to exhibit as a great natural curiosity to the world." This matter was easily arranged. The patient mended from that day. The joy of the relief he had experienced shot its rays through his heart and system, quickened his blood, and roused his lethargic nerves. His daydreams vanished, and his nervous fears were replaced by a healthy, firm confidence. He was, last time I saw him, a very healthy person, saw through the glass clearly, and laughed heartily at my ingenuity in overcoming his complaint. WE'LL HAVE ANOTHER. When the glass, the laugh, and the social "crack" go round the convivial table, there are few who may not have heard the words, "_We'll have another!_" It is an oft-repeated phrase, and it seems a simple one; yet, simple as it appears, it has a magical and fatal influence. The lover of sociality yieldeth to the friendly temptation it conveys, nor dreameth that it is a whisper from which scandal catcheth its thousand echoes--that it is a phrase which has blasted reputation--withered affection's heart--darkened the fairest prospects--ruined credit--conducted to the prison-house, and led to the grave. When our readers again hear the words, let them think of our present story. Adam Brown was the eldest son of a poor widow, who kept a small shop in a village near the banks of the Teviot. From infancy, Adam was a mild, retiring boy, and he was seldom seen to join in the sports of his schoolmates. On the winter evenings, he would sit poring over a book by the fire, while his mother would say, "Dinna stir up the fire, bairn; ye dinna mind that coals are dear; and I'm sure ye'll hurt yoursel wi' pore, porin owre yer books--for they're never oot o' yor hand." In the summer, too, Adam would steal away from the noise of the village to some favourite shady nook by the river-side; and there, on the gowany brae, he would, with a standard author in his hand, "crack wi' kings," or "hold high converse with the mighty dead." He was about thirteen when his father died; and the Rev. Mr Douglas, the minister of the parish, visiting the afflicted widow, she said, "She had had a sair bereavement; yet she had reason to be thankfu that she had ae comfort left, for her poor Adam was a great consolation to her; every nicht he had read a chapter to his younger brothers; and oh, sir," she added, "it wad mak your heart melt to have heard my bairn pray for his widowed mother." Mr Douglas became interested in the boy, and finding him apt to learn, he placed him for another year at the parish school, at his own expense. Adam's progress was all that his patron could desire. He became a frequent visiter at the manse, and was allowed the use of the minister's library. Mr Douglas had a daughter, who was nearly of the same age as his young _protegé_. Mary Douglas was not what could be called beautiful, but she was a gentle and interesting girl. She and Adam read and studied together. She delighted in a flower-garden, and he was wont to dress it; and he would often wander miles, and consider himself happy when he obtained a strange root to plant in it. Adam was now sixteen. It was his misfortune, as it has been the ruin of many, to be _without an aim_. His mother declared that she was at a loss what to make him; "but," added she, "he is a guid scholar, that is ae thing--and CAN DO is easy carried about." Mr Douglas himself became anxious about Adam's prospects: he evinced a dislike to be apprenticed to any mechanical profession, and he was too old to remain longer a burden upon his mother. At the suggestion of Mr Douglas, therefore, when about seventeen, he opened a school in a neighbouring village. Some said that he was too young; others that he was too simple--that he allowed the children to have all their own way; and a few even hinted that he went too much back and forward to the manse in the adjoining parish, to pay attention to his school. However these things might be, certain it is the school did not succeed; and, after struggling with it for two years, he resolved to try his fortune in London. He was to sail from Leith, and his trunk had been sent to Hawick to be forwarded by the carrier. Adam was to leave his mother's house early on the following morning; and on the evening preceding his departure he paid his farewell visit to the manse. Mr Douglas received him with his wonted kindness; he gave him one or two letters of recommendation, and much wholesome advice, although the good man was nearly as ignorant of what is called the world as the youth who was about to enter it. Adam sat long, and said little; for his heart was full, and his spirit heavy. He had never said to Mary Douglas, in plain words, that he loved her--he had never dared to do so; and he now sat with his eyes anxiously bent upon her, trembling to bid her farewell. She too was silent. At length he rose to depart; he held out his hand to Mr Douglas; the latter shook it affectionately, adding, "Farewell, Adam! May Heaven protect you against the numerous temptations of the great city!" He turned towards Mary--he hesitated--his hands dropped by his side. "Could I speak wi' you a moment?" said he, and his tongue faltered as he spoke. With a tear glistening in her eyes, she looked towards her father, who nodded his consent, and she arose and accompanied Adam to the door. They walked towards the flower-garden--he had taken her hand in his--he pressed it, but he spoke not, and she offered not to withdraw it. He seemed struggling to speak; and at length, in a tone of earnest fondness--and he shook as he spoke--he said, "Will you not forget me, Mary?" A half-smothered sob was her reply, and a tear fell on his hand. "Say you will not," he added, yet more earnestly. "O Adam!" returned she, "how can you say _forget_!--Never--never!" "Enough--enough!" he continued, and they wept together. It was scarce daybreak when Adam rose to take his departure, and to bid his mother and his brethren farewell. "Oh!" exclaimed she, as she placed his breakfast before him, "is this the last meal that my bairn's to eat in my house?" He ate but little; and she continued, weeping as she spoke, "Eat, hinny, eat; ye have a lang road before ye. And, O Adam! aboon everything earthly, mind that ye write to me every week; never think o' the postage--for, though it should tak my last farthing, I maun hear frae ye." He took his staff in his hand, and prepared to depart. He embraced his younger brothers, and tears were their only and mutual adieu. His parent sobbed aloud. "Fareweel, mother!" said he, in a voice half-choked with anguish--"fareweel!" "God bless my bairn!" she exclaimed, wringing his hand, and she leaned her head upon his shoulder, and wept as though her heart would burst. In agony, he tore himself from her embrace, and hurried from the house; and during the first miles of his journey, at every rising ground, he turned anxiously round, to obtain another lingering look of the place of his nativity; and, in the fulness and bitterness of his feelings, he pronounced the names of his mother, and his brethren, and of Mary Douglas, in the same breath. We need not describe his passage to London, nor tell how he stood gazing wonderstruck, like a graven image of amazement, as the vessel winded up the Thames, through the long forests of masts, from which waved the flags of every nation. It was about mid-day, early in the month of April, when the smack drew up off Hermitage Stairs, and Adam was aroused from his reverie of astonishment, by a waterman who had come upon deck, and who, pulling him by the buttonhole, said, "Boat, master? boat!" Adam did not exactly understand the question, but, seeing the other passengers getting their luggage into the boats, he followed their example. On landing, he was surrounded by a group of porters, several of whom took hold of his trunk, all inquiring, at the same moment, where he wished it taken to. This was a question he could not answer. It was one he had never thought of before. He looked confused, and replied, "I watna." "_Watna!_" said one of the Cockney burden-bearers--"_Watna!_--there an't such a street in all London." Adam was in the midst of London, and he knew not a living soul among its million of inhabitants. He knew not where to go; but, recollecting that one of the gentlemen to whom Mr Douglas had recommended him was a Mr Davison, a merchant in Cornhill, he inquired-- "Does ony o' ye ken a Mr Davison, a merchant in Cornhill?" "Vy, I can't say as how I know him," replied a porter; "but, if you wish your luggage taken there, I will find him for you in a twinkling." "And what wad ye be asking to carry the bit box there?" said Adam, in a moment betokening an equal proportion of simplicity and caution. "Hasking?" replied the other--"vy, I'm blessed if you get any one to carry it for less than four shillings." "I canna afford four shillings," said Adam; "and I'll be obleeged to ye if ye'll gie me a lift on to my shouther wi't, and I'll carry it mysel." They uttered some low jests against his country, and left him to get his trunk upon his shoulders as he best might. Adam said truly that he could not afford four shillings; for, after paying his passage, he had not thirty shillings left in the world. It is time, however, that we should describe Adam more particularly to our readers. He was dressed in a coarse grey coat; with trousers of the same colour, a striped waistcoat; a half-worn broad-brimmed hat, and thick shoes, studded with nails, which clattered as he went. Thus arrayed, and with his trunk upon his shoulders, Adam went tramping and clattering along East Smithfield, over Tower-hill, and along the Minories, inquiring at every turning--"If any one could direct him to Mr Davison's, the merchant in Cornhill?" There was many a laugh, and many a joke, at poor Adam's expense, as he went trudging along, and more than once the trunk fell to the ground, as he came in contact with the crowds who were hurrying past him. He had been directed out of his way; but at length he arrived at the place he sought. He placed his burden on the ground--he rang the bell--and again and again he rang, but no one answered. His letter was addressed to Mr Davison's counting-house--it was past business hours, and the office was locked up for the day. Adam was now tired, disappointed, and perplexed. He wist not what to do. He informed several "decent-looking people," as he said, "that he was a stranger, and he would be obleeged to them if they could recommend him to a lodging." He was shown several, but the rent per week terrified Adam. He was sinking under his burden, when, near the corner of Newgate Street, he inquired of an old Irish orange-woman, if "she could inform him where he would be likely to obtain a lodging at the rate of eighteen-pence or two shillings a-week? "Sure, and it's I who can, jewel," replied she; "and an iligant room it is, with a bed his Holiness might rest his blessed bones on, and never a one slapes in it at all but my own boy Barney; and, barring when Barney's in dhrink--and that's not above twice a-week--you'll make mighty plaisant sort of company together." Adam was glad to have the prospect of a resting-place of any sort before him at last, and with a lighter heart and a freer step he followed the old orange-woman. She conducted him to Green Dragon Court, and desiring him to follow her up a long, dark, dirty stair, ushered him into a small, miserable-looking garret, dimly lighted by a broken skylight, while the entire furniture consisted of four wooden posts without curtains, which she termed a bed, a mutilated chair, and a low wooden stool. "Now, darlint," said she, observing Adam fatigued, "here is a room fit for a prince; and sure you won't be thinking half-a-crown too much for it?" "Weel," said Adam, for he was ready to lie down anywhere, "we'll no quarrel about a sixpence." The orange-woman left him, having vainly recommended him "to christen his new tenement with a drop of the cratur." Adam threw himself upon the bed, and, in a few minutes, his spirit wandered in its dreams amidst the "bonny woods and braes" of Teviotdale. Early on the following day he proceeded to the counting-house of Mr Davison, who received him with a hurried sort of civility--glanced over the letter of introduction--expressed a hope that Mr Douglas was well--said he would be happy to serve him--but he was engaged at present, and, if Mr Brown would call again, if he should hear of anything, he would let him know. Adam thanked him, and, with his best bow (which was a very awkward one), withdrew. The clerks in the outer office tittered, as poor Adam, with his heavy hobnailed shoes, tramped through the midst of them. He delivered the other letter of introduction, and the gentleman to whom it was addressed received him much in the same manner as Mr Davison had done, and his clerks also smiled at Adam's grey coat, and gave a very peculiar look at his clattering shoes, and then at each other. Day after day he repeated his visits to the counting-houses of these gentlemen--sometimes they were too much engaged to see him, at others they simply informed him that they were sorry they had heard of nothing to suit him, and continued writing, without noticing him again; while Adam, with a heavy heart, would stand behind their desk, brushing the crown of his brown broad-brimmed hat with his sleeve. At length the clerks in the outer office merely informed him their master had heard of nothing for him. Adam saw it was in vain--three weeks had passed, and the thirty shillings which he had brought to London were reduced to ten. He was wandering disconsolately down Chancery Lane, with his hands thrust in his pockets, when his attention was attracted to a shop, the windows and door of which were covered with written placards, and on these placards were the words, "_Wanted, a Book-keeper_"--"_Wanted, by a Literary Gentleman, an Amanuensis_"--in short, there seemed no sort of a situation for which there was not a person wanted, and each concluded with "_inquire within_." Adam's heart and his eyes overflowed with joy. There were at least half-a-dozen places which would suit him exactly--he was only at a loss now which to choose upon--and he thought also that Mr Douglas' friends had used him most unkindly in saying they could hear of no situation for him, when here scores were advertised in the streets. At length he fixed upon one. He entered the shop. A sharp, Jewish-looking little man was writing at a desk--he received the visiter with a gracious smile. "If ye please, sir," said Adam, "will ye be so good as inform me where the gentleman lives that wants the book-keeper?" "With pleasure," said the master of the register office; "but you must give me five shillings, and I will enter your name." "Five shillings!" repeated Adam, and a new light began to dawn upon him. "Five shillings, sir, is a deal o' money and, to tell ye the truth, I can very ill afford it; but, as I am much in want o' a situation, maybe ye wad tak half-a-crown." "Can't book you for that," said the other, "but give me your half-crown, and you may have the gentleman's address." He directed him to a merchant in Thames Street. Adam quickly found the house; and, entering with his broad-brimmed hat in his hand, and scraping the hob-nails along the floor--"Sir," said he, "I'm the person Mr Daniells o' Chancery Lane has sent to you as a book-keeper." "Mr Daniells--Mr Daniells?" said the merchant; "don't know any such person--have not wanted a book-keeper these six months." "Sir," said Adam, "are ye no Mr Robertson o' 54 Thames Street?" "I am," replied the merchant; "but," added he, "I see how it is. Pray, young man, what did you give this Mr Daniells to recommend you to the situation?" "Half-a-crown, sir," returned Adam. "Well," said the other, "you have more money than wit. Good-morning, sir, and take care of another Mr Daniells." Poor Adam was dumfoundered; and, in the bitterness of his spirit, he said London was a den o' thieves. I might tell you how his last shilling was expended--how he lived upon bread and water--how he fell into arrears with the orange-woman for the rent of his garret--how she persecuted him--how he was puzzled to understand the meaning of the generous words, "_Money Lent_;"--how the orange-woman, in order to obtain her rent, taught him the mystery of the _three golden balls_--and how the shirts which his mother had made him from a web of her own spinning, and his books, and all that he had, save the clothes upon his back, were pledged--and how, when all was gone, the old landlady turned him to the door, houseless, friendless, penniless, with no companion but despair. We might have dwelt upon these things, but must proceed with his history. Adam, after enduring privations which would make humanity shudder, obtained the situation of assistant-porter in a merchant's office. The employment was humble, but he received it joyfully. He was steady and industrious, and it was not long until he was appointed warehouseman; and his employer, finding that, in addition to his good qualities, he had received a superior education, made him one of his confidential clerks. He had held the situation about two years. The rust, as his brother clerks said, was now pretty well rubbed off Scotch Adam. His hodden-grey was laid aside for the dashing green, his hobnailed shoes for fashionable pumps, and his broad-brimmed hat for a narrow-crowned beaver; his speech, too, had caught a sprinkling of the southern accent; but, in other respects, he was the same inoffensive, steady, and serious being as when he left his mother's cottage. His companions were wont to "roast" Adam, as they termed it, on what they called his Methodism. They had often urged him to accompany them to the theatre; but, for two years, he had stubbornly withstood their temptations. The stage was to Adam what the tree of knowledge was to his first namesake and progenitor. He had been counselled against it, he had read against it, he had heard sermons against it; but had never been within the walls of a theatre. _The_ Siddons, and her brother John Kemble, then in the zenith of their fame, were filling not only London, but Europe, with their names. One evening they were to perform together--Adam had often heard of them--he admired Shakspere--his curiosity was excited--he yielded to the solicitations of his companions, and accompanied them to Covent Garden. The curtain was drawn up. The performance began. Adam's soul was riveted, his senses distracted. The Siddons swept before him like a vision of immortality--Kemble seemed to draw a soul from the tomb of the Cæsars; and, as the curtain fell, and the loud music pealed, Adam felt as if a new existence and a new world had opened before him, and his head reeled with wonder and delight. When the performances were concluded, his companions proposed to have a single bottle in an adjoining tavern; Adam offered some opposition, but was prevailed upon to accompany them. Several of the players entered--they were convivial spirits, abounding with wit, anecdote, and song. The scene was new, but not unpleasant to Adam. He took no note of time. He was unused to drink, and little affected him. The first bottle was finished. "WE'LL HAVE ANOTHER," said one of his companions. It was the first time Adam had heard the fatal words, and he offered no opposition. He drank again--he began to expatiate on divers subjects--he discovered he was an orator. "Well done, Mr Brown," cried one of his companions, "there's hope of you yet; _we'll have another_, my boy--three's band!" A third bottle was brought; Adam was called upon for a song. He could sing, and sing well too; and, taking his glass in his hand, he began-- "'Stop, stop, we'll hae anither gill, Ne'er mind a lang-tongued beldame's yatter They're fools wha'd leave a glass o' yill For ony wife's infernal clatter. "'There's Bet, when I gang hame the night, Will set the hail stair-head a ringin-- Let a' the neebors hear her flyte, Ca' me a brute, and stap my singin. She'll yelp about the bairns' rags-- Ca' me a drucken gude-for-naethin! She'll curse my throat and drouthy bags, And at me thraw their duddy claethin!' "Chorus, gentlemen--chorus!" cried Adam, and continued-- "'The fient a supper I'll get there-- A _dish o' tongue_ is a' she'll gie me! She'll shake her nieve and rug her hair, And wonder how she e'er gaed wi' me! She vows to leave me, and I say, "Gang, gang! for dearsake!--that's a blessin!" She rins to get her claes away, But--_o' the kist the key's amissin_! "'The younkers a' set up a skirl. They shriek and cry, "Oh dinna, mither!" I slip to bed, and fash the quarrel Neither ae way nor anither. Bet creeps beside me, unco dour. I clap her back, and say, "My dawtie!" Quo' she, "Weel, weel, my passion's owre; But dinna gang a-drinkin, Watty."'" "Bravo, Scotchy!" shouted one. "Your health and song, Mr Brown," cried another. Adam's head began to swim--the lights danced before his eyes--he fell from his chair. One of his friends called a hackney-coach; and, half insensible of where he was, he was conveyed to his lodgings. It was afternoon on the following day before he appeared at the counting-house, and his eyes were red, and he had the languid look of one who had spent a night in revelry. That night he was again prevailed upon to accompany his brother clerks to the club-room, "just," as they expressed it, "to have one bottle to put all right." That night he again heard the words--"_We'll have another_," and again he yielded to their seduction. But we will not follow him through the steps and through the snares by which he departed from virtue, and became entangled in vice. He became an almost nightly frequenter of the tavern, the theatre, or both, and his habits opened up temptations to grosser viciousness. Still he kept up a correspondence with Mary Douglas, the gentle object of his young affections, and, for a time, her endeared remembrance haunted him like a protecting angel, whispering in his ear, and saving him from depravity. But his religious principles were already forgotten; and, when that cord was snapped asunder, the fibre of affection that twined around his heart did not long hold him in the path of virtue. As the influence of company grew upon him, her remembrance lost its power, and Adam Brown plunged headlong into all the pleasures and temptations of the metropolis. Still he was attentive to business--he still retained the confidence of his employer--his salary was liberal--he still sent thirty pounds a-year to his mother; and Mary Douglas yet held a place in his heart, though he was changed--fatally changed. He had been about four years in his situation, when he obtained leave for a few weeks to visit his native village. It was on a summer afternoon, when a chaise from Jedburgh drove up to the door of the only public-house in the village. A fashionably-dressed young man alighted, and, in an affected voice, desired the landlord to send a _porter_ with his luggage to Mrs Brown's. "A porter, sir?" said the innkeeper--"there's naething o' the kind in the toun; but I'll get twa callants to tak it alang." He hastened to his mother's. "Ah! how d'ye do?" said he, slightly shaking the hands of his younger brothers; but a tear gathered in his eye as his mother kissed his cheek. She, good soul, when the first surprise was over, said "she hardly kenned her bairn in sic a fine gentleman." He proceeded to the manse, and Mary marvelled at the change in his appearance and his manner; yet she loved him not the less: but her father beheld the affectation and levity of his young friend, and grieved over them. He had not been a month in the village when Mary gave him her hand, and they set out for London together. For a few weeks after their arrival, he spent his evenings at their own fireside, and they were blessed in the society of each other. But it was not long until company again spread its seductive snares around him. Again he listened to the words--"_We'll have another_"--again he yielded to their temptation, and again the _force of habit_ made him its slave. Night followed night, and he was irritable and unhappy, unless in the midst of his boon companions. Poor Mary felt the bitterness and anguish of a deserted wife; but she upbraided him not--she spoke not of her sorrows. Health forsook her cheeks, and gladness had fled from her spirit; yet as she nightly sat hour after hour waiting his return, as he entered, she welcomed him with a smile, which not unfrequently was met with an imprecation or a frown. They had been married about two years. Mary was a mother, and oft at midnight she would sit weeping over the cradle of her child, mourning in secret for its thoughtless father. It was her birth-day, her father had come to London to visit them; she had not told him of her sorrows, and she had invited a few friends to dine with them. They had assembled; but Adam was still absent. He had been unkind to her; but this was an unkindness she did not expect from him. They were yet waiting, when a police-officer entered. His errand was soon told. Adam Brown had become a gambler, as well as a drunkard--he had been guilty of fraud and embezzlement--his guilt had been discovered, and the police were in quest of him. Mr Douglas wrung his hands and groaned. Mary bore the dreadful blow with more than human fortitude. She uttered no scream--she shed no tears; for a moment she sat motionless--speechless. It was the dumbness of agony. With her child at her breast, and in the midst of her guests, she flung herself at her father's feet. "Father!" she exclaimed, "for my sake!--for my helpless child's sake--save! oh, save my poor husband!" "For your sake, what I can do I will do, dearest," groaned the old man. A coach was ordered to the door, and the miserable wife and her father hastened to the office of her husband's employer. When Adam Brown received intelligence that his guilt was discovered from a companion, he was carousing with others in a low gambling-house. Horror seized him, and he hurried from the room; but he returned in a few minutes. "_We'll have another_!" he exclaimed, in atone of frenzy; and another was brought. He half-filled a glass--he raised it to his lips--he dashed into it a deadly poison, and, ere they could stay his hand, the fatal draught was swallowed. He had purchased a quantity of arsenic when he rushed from the house. His fellow-gamblers were thronging around him, when his injured wife and her grey-haired father entered the room. "Away, tormentors!" he exclaimed, as his glazed eyes fell upon them, and he dashed his hand before his face. "My husband! my dear husband!" cried Mary, flinging her arms around his neck; "look on me--speak to me! All is well!" He gazed on her face--he grasped her hand. "Mary--my injured Mary!" he exclaimed, convulsively, "can _you_ forgive me--_you_--_you_? O God! I was once innocent! Forgive me, dearest!--for our child's sake, curse not its guilty father!" "Husband!--Adam!" she cried, wringing his hand--"come with me, love, come--leave this horrid place--you have nothing to fear--your debt is paid." "Paid!" he exclaimed, wildly. "Ha! ha! Paid!" They were his last words. Convulsions came upon him; the film of death passed over his eyes, and his troubled spirit fled. She clung round his neck--she yet cried, "Speak to me!"--she refused to believe that he was dead, and her reason seemed to have fled with his spirit. She was taken from his body and conveyed home. The agony of grief subsided into a stupor approaching imbecility. She was unconscious of all around; and within three weeks from the death of her husband, the broken spirit of Mary Douglas found rest, and her father returned in sorrow with her helpless orphan to Teviotdale. THE SCOTTISH VETERAN. It was upon one of those clear, chill, but not unpleasant days, that so often occur towards the latter end of November, that an aged female, and one much younger, in all the bloom of maiden beauty, overcast by a tender shade of melancholy, that gave tenfold interest to her lovely countenance, and mellowed the lustre of her dark hazel eyes, were seen sitting at the door of a cottage on the banks of one of the tributaries of the silver Tweed. The full round orb of the sun was sinking slowly behind a huge bank of clouds, tinged by his departing rays, that lingered as if regretting his short career, and loth to depart. The deep shades of twilight closed quickly upon the scene; but the females sat engaged at their work, as if it had been an eve of autumn. Margaret Blair, the more aged of the two, sat gazing in one direction with unwearied assiduity, only occasionally looking at the progress she made at the stocking she was busy knitting; and Jeanie Aitken, the younger, bent her steadfast gaze at intervals in the same direction, towards the road that skirted the foot of the neighbouring hills. Heavy clouds began to rise in the east; the wind had changed towards that quarter, and howled mournfully along the waste. "Jeanie, my dear," said Margaret, "Jamie has gotten a fine day to travel in. Do you see no appearance o' him yet? Your young een are far clearer than mine. These heavy clouds mak me fear for the nicht. I am sure he might hae been here lang before this time, if his heart yearned as mickle to see me as mine does to see him. I trust that naething has happened to him on the road. Many a danger has he passed through in the wars. It would be an awfu thing were ony misfortune to happen him when he is sae near hame. God has preserved him in the battlefield; and oh, I trust and pray He will still be his guide! Do you no see ony signs o' him yet? The nicht will soon be on, and I fear it will be a stormy ane." A deep sigh escaped from Jeanie as she answered, "Oh no; I see no one on the road. Dear mother, retire into the house--you must be very cold--I will watch yet a little. I hope he will soon be here, and then we will be so happy when we meet." The tears that filled her eyes, and the trembling accents in which she spoke, betrayed a heart ill at ease. It was at this period I arrived at the cottage, in hopes of seeing my old schoolfellow; for a letter had been received a few days before, in which he informed his mother and Jean that he would be with them this day, as he had received his discharge. Jeanie and James had long loved each other; they were cousins, and had been brought up together; but he had enlisted in anger, and forsaken her. With all his faults, she had never ceased to love him; and, from the day he went off to join his regiment, for six long years they had never heard of him. About three months after the battle of Victoria, the carrier to the town of Dunse brought them two letters as he passed--one for Margaret Blair, the other for Jeanie Aitken. They were from James. I was shown both the letters, which will unfold the previous history of my friends, and the feelings of the reformed son better than I can, and introduce the Veteran in a more favourable light than I have as yet been enabled to do. "_Victoria._ "DEAREST MOTHER,--My folly has at length fallen upon my own head, and heavy is the load I will bear until I receive an answer to this, containing your forgiveness for my wicked neglect of your counsels, and despising the instructions of my worthy father--the result of all which has been my giving myself so much to evil company, and deserting you in your old age. But, dear mother, I am now an altered man. On the dark and cheerless guard, at the dead hour of the night, my conscience often awoke, and rendered me almost desperate--when sinking under fatigue, hunger, and thirst, on the long and toilsome march, it has given a keener edge to my sufferings; still I warred against the better feelings that arose in my breast--for I was still wayward and proud; but now, lingering under my wounds, I humble myself in the dust, before that God I so long neglected, who alone speaks peace to my humbled spirit! Be not alarmed at the mention of my wounds. I am now out of danger, and will be enabled to join my regiment in a few weeks--would it were to join your peaceful fireside. But, though I am unworthy to obtain yet for a time this my earnest prayer, I feel assured I shall yet be spared to comfort your declining years. And that every blessing may be yours until then, is the prayer of your now repentant and loving son, "JAMES BLAIR. "P.S.--Is cousin Jeanie still unmarried? Does she reside still near you? I hope she is still unchanged, unreasonable that I am. If she is, give her the letter; if not, burn it. The scenes and feelings I enjoyed before I left your roof are dearer and stronger here in Spain than I can express, or you imagine. I do not request you to write soon--it would be unjust and unkind to doubt it for a moment. Again, I am your now altered and dutiful son until death. "J. B." The letter to Jeanie was received with a trembling hand, and placed in her bosom, that felt it impart a buoyancy to her feelings, she had been long a stranger to. As soon as she had finished reading the letter to Margaret, she retired to a beautiful knowe that overtopped the burn, and seated herself among the long yellow broom, where the most pleasant of her days had passed with her James. There they had herded together; there they had first plighted their young loves; and there James had left her in anger, without hope of ever returning to her again. On this loved spot, every moment she could spare had been passed, musing upon her absent lover, or praying for his safety and return; and now, with a feeling of pleasure she had been long a stranger to, she drew the letter from her bosom, and broke it open, while joy and grief filled her heart by turns. "_Victoria._ "DEAREST AND BELOVED, BUT MUCH-INJURED JEAN,--Dare I hope you ever think of me? I fear, if you do, it is with anger and contempt; for I feel, and my heart is like to burst with the thought, that I have used you ill. Believe me, it was in anger at I knew not what. You, with the prudence I now esteem you for, refused to fulfil your promise of marriage, because I had given myself too much up to company--to my shame I own, to dissipation. Believe me, my love, I now feel, in all its bitterness, my folly, and your wisdom. I am no longer the 'roaring boy' I used to boast myself among my associates; but the humbled lover and son. The privations and toils of war have opened my eyes to my true interests. For a time I was the most reckless in our company; for I strove, by riot, to drive from my mind the upbraidings of my heart; but I strove in vain. The early lessons I had received in rectitude embittered all my guilty joys, and at length triumphed. Let me pour into your bosom the history of my reformation. It was on the eve of the battle of Fuentes de Honore the first serious reflection came over my mind. The whole after part of the day I had been engaged in the work of death, with all my energies aiding in the destruction of my species, my mind excited to the utmost. Thrice we had driven the enemy through the village before us, over the dead and wounded. My comrades were falling thick around me. Evening came to stop the work of death. My bosom friend, the companion of my follies, had fallen, early in the action, at the foot of the brae, by the burn-side. I remember the spot well. O Jeanie, how could I forget it? It was so like the spot where we last parted--where the most innocent and happiest of my hours had been spent--that, even in the hottest of the fire, the resemblance strung my arm, and fired my soul to double daring. I could not endure that an enemy should be in possession of it, and drive us from the sacred ground. I rejoiced that I was put on duty, to bury the dead and remove the wounded. I hurried to the spot where my friend had fallen, to assist him if alive, or to pay the last duty if dead. Alas! Jeanie, what a sight there met my eyes! He lay, adding to the pile of bleeding bodies, that, only a few hours before, were all in life and health. Silent and sad, we dug a trench, and deposited the victims of war. The French parties were out on the same duty; we mixed friendly together, only enemies by a cruel necessity, and, like dogs, brought out to fight for the interest or amusement of others. Several of them could speak a little English. We drank and ate together. They had plenty; we were at this time almost famished, being in advance of our supplies. Fear, my love, you know, is no part of my nature; but the uncertainty of human life as a soldier had never struck my mind with so much force as now. I returned an altered man. I felt as if we were never to meet again, and I never should reach my native vale, to lay my mother's head in the grave. I own, with shame, I had until now striven to forget you, but could not; for, sleeping or waking, you were ever in my thoughts, night after night you were present in my dreams, and day found me almost distracted. Dissipation only brought greater anguish; yet my proud heart would not stoop to communicate its woes to those who alone could give relief. Every draught that joined I anxiously looked for an acquaintance from my native place; and I would have given a kingdom for the knowledge that you were still free. I knew your faithful nature; but I had basely deserted you; wounded that heart I ought to have cherished, because it would act contrary to the dictates of a desecrating advice, that would have ruined us both. At length the battle of Victoria was fought; in which action I was wounded in the thigh; but still I kept the ranks. We were sorely pressed by the enemy; but nature could support me no longer, and I sank to the ground, as our regiment was forced to retire, overpowered by superior numbers. A charge of cavalry passed over the ground where I lay; and, O Jeanie! what horror did I feel at this moment! I commended my soul to God--my mother's and your name escaped from my lips--the horses passed over me--and when, from a swoon, I awoke to consciousness, the surgeons were setting the bone of my leg, and a bandage was already upon my wound in the thigh. I will not pain you more. I am now almost well, and often amuse myself with the thought that, were you to see the pale and emaciated soldier upon his crutches, you would look in vain for Jamie Blair. But be cheerful, my love; for the surgeon says I will be as sound a man as ever, and join my regiment in a few weeks. How much better were it to join you and my mother! But the time will come in course, and I hope soon. If pity ever found a place in your bosom, send me your forgiveness; and, if you can send me the assurance that, in spite of all my follies, you love me dear as ever, I will now do all in my power to be worthy of it. If you refuse to pardon me, you will drive me to despair, and I shall volunteer for every forlorn hope, and rush upon danger, until death relieve me from my present state of mind. Return me, my love, good for evil, and give peace to that heart that wounded yours. Remembered or forgot, dearest Jean, I shall ever remain yours until death, "JAMES BLAIR." On the evening of the day after the receipt of these letters, when I made my usual call, I was astonished at the change that had taken place in the widow's cottage. The sadness had passed from the brow of Jean, and hope had given a new lustre to her eye. Margaret was all garrulity, and loud in the praises of James; but Jean was silent, and seemed to luxuriate in the present feelings with which her soul was filled. I departed myself with a feeling of happiness at the welcome news from my old schoolfellow, and walked home more stately and erect, as if my consequence had been enhanced by my friendship and intimacy with one of Wellington's heroes; and crooned, with peculiar spirit and satisfaction, as I walked along, "Scots wha hae wi' Wallace bled." It would be superfluous to say that Jeanie returned such an answer as James might wish. Joy once more became an inmate of Widow Blair's cottage, and thanksgivings were now mingled in their prayers for the absent soldier. The correspondence was as regular as the vicissitudes of war would permit; and often, when I had occasion to go to town, I was intrusted with the letter and penny to lodge in the post-office for James Blair. Month after month rolled on; peace was at length concluded; the troops were returning to Britain; and James, being a seven-years' man, and his period of service nearly expired, we could calculate to a day the time we expected to have him once more among us. But for a time we were disappointed. In no home in Britain did the return of Bonaparte from Elba cause greater sorrow than in the widow's cottage. James was once more embarked for the Continent with his regiment--was present at the battle of Waterloo--escaped the dreadful carnage unhurt--and marched with the army for Paris, where he got his discharge, and was on his return at the commencement of this narrative. The shades of evening had forced the females to retire, benumbed with cold, long before my accustomed visit. I was grieved and disappointed at not finding James, and sorry to see the anxiety and grief of the mother and sweetheart. The clouds had now covered the whole sky; the darkness was intense; the wind blew with a piercing keenness, and snow had begun to fall fast, and drift along the waste. I gave them all the comfort I could, and retired, promising to call again in the morning--having in vain urged them to retire to rest; and, upon my return next day, I learned that, after my departure, they continued to watch--going repeatedly out to examine the state of the weather, or beguiled by the shaking of the door struck by the blast, and thinking some one tried the latch. Still no one came--hour after hour passed on--their humble supper stood untouched--the fears of the mother were expressed in wailings and ejaculatory prayers for his safety; and Jeanie's expressive countenance betrayed the anxiety under which she laboured. Their evening devotions were made with pious hope--their usual hour of retiring to rest had long gone by; yet neither thought of sleep--for all that was most dear on earth to them was, they feared, exposed to the pitiless storm, and they still sat by the fire, shrinking at every gust of wind, as if it had struck themselves, while the candle burned on the window-sill, a beacon to guide the wanderer. At length the door opened, and a thin, weather-beaten figure staggered in, and sank upon the floor, exhausted and senseless. The anticipated joyful meeting was one of anguish and alarm. Care and assiduity restored the soldier to warmth and animation; and hope and joy succeeded to fear and grief. James had come from London to Leith in one of the smacks; and, after leaving Haddington, anxious to reach his mother's as soon as possible, had left the highway, and struck into the country, over the Lammermuir Hills, by a route dear and familiar to him; and, being some miles shorter, chosen as much for the sake of former recollections, which were crowding upon him at every step, as for its shortness. The day was clear and bracing when he left Haddington, and all induced him to follow this route; but he had miscalculated his strength, and the shades of evening overtook him in the middle of the mountains. The sky began to lour, and threatened a storm. Ere he had reached the heights, the snow fell fast, the wind and drift threatened to overwhelm him, and all around became one undistinguishable chaos. He could recognise no mark by which to know whether he was in the right track or not. Confused and bewildered, but not dismayed, he stood still for a few minutes, to collect his energies; and having recalled to his recollection that the wind blew from the direction in which he wished to proceed, he started afresh, and battled with the storm, till at length he recognised a well-remembered cairn on the heights, against which he stumbled, and of which he gained his knowledge only by groping; for it was so dark that he could not see his own hand a few inches from his face. Having felt it round and round, he came to the broad, flat stone on the southern side, the shepherd's dial, which gave a thrill of hope to his breast, like a glimpse of the polar star to the tempest-tossed mariner. Starting anew, and still keeping his face to the biting blast, again he stumbled upon a cairn, and felt it round and round; and, to his surprise and regret, found it to be the same. Disappointed and confused, he started afresh--twice he struggled round the same circle upon the heights, each time adding to the despondency that began to steal upon him, till, exhausted and almost hopeless, he threw himself on the lee side of the cairn, to recover his strength. He thought some strange fatality attended him; yet was loth to yield to despair, and struggled manfully against it; but a languor came over him, attended by an almost irresistible drowsiness; and all he had suffered in the retreat to Corunna could not be compared to his present situation. There, companionship had lightened the most intense sufferings; severe as they often were, they were not, as now, without that aid which sustains men in the most trying cases--the countenance of their fellow-men. Here he was alone, in a sea of snow, within a few miles of his mother's door!--the thought was bitterness unutterable, such as he had never felt before. Death he had often braved in all his forms--in the battlefield he had gazed upon him in the pomp and tumult of war, when the excited mind unheeded his presence; but here he seemed to hold his victim in suspense, until his very presence might produce the parting of soul and body from very fear of him. He struggled to rise, and combat the feelings that he knew must prove fatal to him; but his limbs were stiff, and would not obey his will, and he commended his soul to his Creator, and resigned himself to his fate. His mind became more calm, his thoughts less confused; and, as he lay musing, it occurred to him that he had erred in taking the wind for his compass, for perhaps it blew round the top of the hill (as it did), and was the cause of his always returning to the same spot. The idea occurred to him, that, if he had held straight on until he came to a running water, and followed its course, it would have guided him to some mill or cottage. This acted upon his mind like an electric spark, his heart warmed, and his limbs resumed, under the inspiration of hope that once more came to his aid, their former energy. Onwards he urged his way, stumbling, at every few paces, over the unequal ground; and, with severe labour, he cleared the hills, and anxiously listened for the sound of running water; but the howling of the blast deadened every sound; and he still urged his way, dragging his weary limbs after him, till a faint rushing was heard, and a black chasm appeared at his feet, over which he must have fallen on the next step. He returned thanks to God for his preservation. The chasm was the well-remembered linn, only a few hundred yards from his mother's cottage; and he had thought, more than once, he had distinguished a faint light in the gloom, at times distinct, then vanishing again, but now easily made out. His heart leaped for joy, for he knew it proceeded from his mother's cottage-window. He kept the burn-side, and proceeded straight to the house; but his energies were entirely spent. He reached it, lifted the latch, and remembered no more until he found his mother and Jeanie hanging over him and chafing his benumbed limbs. After a night's repose, the hardy veteran had risen full of vigour, as if the last night's escape from death had been only a dream. I could perceive melancholy reflections mixed with the joy he felt at finding all well at his return; but he said to me, with much bitterness, "Eight years I have spent, of the prime of my life, in the service of my country; a few shillings, the remainder of my marching-money, is all I possess in the world; and I have returned to my mother's house, a poorer man, in every respect, than I left it." A cloud passed over his brow--a sigh escaped--his altered look Jeanie watched with pain. She spoke not, but the sigh fell on his mother's ear. She grasped his hand, and, pressing it to her bosom, "Jamie," said she, "my bairn, why do ye sigh on this blessed day? Are ye vexed that ye hae come back to yer auld mither and Jeanie?" "I am not, mother," replied he; "indeed; I am not; but a few painful recollections steal over my mind; and the consciousness that I am alone the cause adds to their bitterness. Jennie, I am at home, and find you all I could wish; but complete happiness is yet at a distance. We cannot be united until I have recovered, by care and industry, what I have lost by my unprofitable absence." Jeanie blushed, and hung down her head; her breast seemed too narrow to contain the feelings that rose in it; but his mother hastily interfered. "Jamie," said she, "ye maunna tak that view o' yer situation. This cottage, and a' that is in it, is yer ain. Ye'll no begrudge me my room in it for a' my time; and yer cousin has saved some pounds for this happy meeting, and winna put ye aff as she ance did before--for now she's satisfied ye're an altered man. What say ye, lassie? Am I richt?" Jeanie spoke not; but her looks showed her approval; and the happy pair sat gazing at him as if they feared he was soon about to leave them, and they could not look enough. I began to speak of the scenes he had witnessed in Spain, when his mother inquired what he considered his most unlooked-for escape. "Indeed, mother," he replied, "it is hard to say; but I think it was at the storming of Badajos, before my better feelings had returned to me. I was then reckless of everything; and, being in the grenadier company, I volunteered for the forlorn hope. I had been before on the same duty, and knew it was as well to volunteer as to be commanded, for the duty must be done, and volunteering has a more soldier-like sound; so we who were to form the party immediately sold everything we possessed, and drank it with our comrades. This was the practice of many, for we knew what we had to do as soon as it was dark; and, if we escaped death, we might look upon it as a miracle; and thus were determined to enjoy life while we had it. This is a soldiers philosophy: enjoy all you have in your power; for what you leave after you fall you know not who will enjoy. I have eaten the last morsel of bread in my haversack going into action, and my comrades did the same, lest we might fall and another eat it. As soon as the hour arrived, we were at our post and formed, then marched on in dead silence towards the breach, headed by a captain and a lieutenant. I was on the right, and heard the lieutenant sob once or twice. The captain turned to him and said, in an under voice-- "'Return, if you are afraid.' "'No,' replied the lieutenant, in a firm voice, though not much louder than a whisper, 'I am not afraid. I fear not danger, but will face it with any man in the British army; but, good God! my mother and sister----'" A dreadful crash stunned me--a mine had been sprung, and we were all scattered in different directions, the greater part mangled and dead. When I recovered my recollection, I was sweltering in the ditch of the place, almost suffocated, and sinking. I was sorely bruised and bewildered; and, led more by instinct than reason--for I was incapable of thinking--I struggled to get at some support; and fortunately got hold of some willow twigs that were growing in the side of the ditch, and clung to them, while my faculties gradually came to me, and I felt in all its force the horrors of my situation. The noise was louder than thunder; the shot was entering the banks, and plunging into the water around me like a hail-storm, while splinters of shells were flying past in every direction. I was at one moment covered with water, and the next with mud and earth, torn by the shot from the side of the ditch. The whistling of the balls, the shouts of the men, the volleys of musketry, and deafening roar of the guns, and constant flashes of light that shot fearfully across the darkness of the scene, rendered my mind a chaos of confusion. I felt not what could be called fear; I had, in vain, more than once tried to extricate myself from my horrible situation. A callous, regardless feeling was upon me; and I passed the tedious hours in a kind of stupor, much resembling a fearful nightmare. I felt fully the desperate situation I was in, and my utter inability to relieve myself; but there was no use of making it worse than it was by fretting--and morning at length came. The firing had for a long time ceased; and I was dragged out more dead than alive, benumbed and bruised. Most of the volunteers had perished, and along with them the lieutenant, for whom I felt more regret than for any officer I had ever known to fall in the field of war. I often thought how much more commendable his feelings were than my own; for I had never even thought of you until I returned once more safe to the camp, and coolly turned over in my mind the whole occurrences of this fearful night. My conscience, I own, did upbraid me; but I soon shook off the uneasy feeling. Jeanie heard the recital with a thrill of horror; and, while tears were falling fast-- "O Jamie!" said she, "little did we imagine the half of the dangers you were exposed to, or the misery you must have endured." "We had sufferings," replied he, "enough and to spare; but we had also our enjoyments, with a relish no one at home, in the calm of domestic life, can have the most distant conception of. The soldier's life, in an enemy's country, is made up of extremes, either of hardship or enjoyment. When the toilsome march is over, how sound and sweetly he sleeps, even on the hard, bare ground, under the canopy of heaven! But, if his billet be good, he is the happiest of mortals--words cannot express his pleasures. After a rapid pursuit of the enemy, such as we had after the French to Victoria, when we were far in advance of our commissariat, and our stomachs were keen, sweet, sweet was our dry hard beef, so hard and black from overdriving, we were forced to bruise it between two stones, before our eager teeth could masticate it. Victuals and drink were all we coveted, and we were not over scrupulous how we came by them. We were quartered in Alcantara for a winter, after a summer of privations, and we lived like kings. Four of us were quartered upon one house; our rations were regularly served; and we had abundance and to spare. In Spain, almost every family has a barrel of olive oil for a supply during the winter; for they cook a great many victuals with it. We had become as fond of it as the natives. I recollect that our host had two large barrels filled behind the door; and complaints having being made by the inhabitants, every day, of the depredations committed upon their oil by the soldiers, our host was as jealous as the rest, examined his store night and morning, and gave us the greatest character for honesty. But little did he know whom he praised; for we were no better than the rest--only more cunning; and it was fortunate for us when the route came, for I am sure there was not the depth of a finger of oil in one of the barrels, we having had the precaution to put in as much water as we drew oil, to save appearances." "Jamie, Jamie," said Margaret, "ye were sair left. Oh, man, did ye steal frae the poor folk in that gate?" "Indeed, mother," replied he, "we did not think we stole when provisions were in the case. The Spaniards, no doubt, said we were only better than the French in this respect; for the French took openly whatever they chose, and abused them to boot; we only stole provisions, when unobserved, and always gave them fair words for what we took, whether detected or not. Perhaps they were indebted to Wellington and the provost-marshal for this; for I assure you there was no mercy for us when detected. There were two brothers hanged upon the same tree, just before the battle of Victoria, for being detected in taking a little flour when we were in great want. I recollect we marched past them." "Oh, Jamie," said the mother, "ye've seen strange sichts." "Ay, and heard strange things, too," replied he. "I will tell you what I heard from a German, one of the legion, who had been severely wounded, and lay next my berth in the hospital:--He had served in a regiment of Swiss in the pay of Great Britain, which had been raised to stop the progress of the French, in the early part of the revolutionary war, and had been with it in Italy and Corsica. They had been hurried, by forced marches, from Constance to Rome, in the depth of a severe winter, and suffered much. The French were in such superior numbers, that they were forced to fly before them until they were joined by the British under General Stewart, when they made a successful stand for some time, and had a great deal of hard fighting. It was during one of these checks, after a severe action, that they lay for some weeks in an old castle, which they had fortified in the best manner they could. The French lay in front, in great force, their foraging parties scouring the country, and cutting off their supplies; so that they were reduced to the most extreme want of provisions, and suffered sadly from the severity of the weather. The cold was most intense; snow or sleet fell almost every day; while firing was not to be had. Their clothing almost worn out, great numbers were barefooted. Under such circumstances, it was with difficulty that human nature could bear up under its sufferings. The men became desperate, and numbers were falling sick, and dying every day. In the midst of these horrors, urged by extreme misery, three Germans conceived an idea the most repugnant to human nature that can be conceived by man, and put it in execution. One evening they were seen in deep consultation by their comrades, and, towards the middle of the night, they stole down to one of the vaults, of which there were many under the castle, and earnestly and fearlessly invoked the devil to come to them, and enter into an agreement upon any terms he chose. All they would stipulate for was to be delivered from their present misery; but they called in vain--no devil or other appearance could they perceive, although they remained calling upon him for a long time. At length they left the vault, much disappointed at their failure. It was remarked by all the regiment--for they told what they had been about--that none of the three survived any length of time after this, and all died by uncommon modes. The first that fell was Gualter Stulzer. That very night he awoke in his sleep, and, starting to his feet, shouted out, at the loudest pitch of his voice, in a manner that awoke all in the hall, and made us tremble--'Ho! ho! you are come at length--I am your man; take me anywhere, only take me hence;' and fell upon his face. When the day broke, we found him quite dead. We thought he had been in a dream. Not one of us could have risen to assist him, had we thought he was not, for all was dark, and we thought the evil one was present in the room. The two others, who were not in the same part of the building, we had no doubt were in the same state, until we saw them alive and well in the morning. A few days after this melancholy event, another of them was found dead at his post, with horror most strongly expressed on his countenance. The third survived only till we reached Corsica, where he was hanged for a cruel murder, a short time after our landing. And thus perished these three desperate men--the only instance really authentic of the kind I ever heard of in all my life." "His presence," said Margaret, "be aboot us a', to keep us frae evil! Ye hae made my flesh creep on my banes. Surely, my bairn, they must hae been Pagans. We read, in the blessed Word, that Esau sold his birthright for a mess o' potage. But men to gang and offer to sell their sauls to the evil one? Ohon! Ohon!" "No one can say," replied James, "what he will or will not do, until the hour of trial is past. These Germans gave implicit belief to stories of diablerie and witchcraft, and hoped to be relieved from their sufferings by becoming warlocks. You yourself are not free from the belief that such things have been." "I maun first doubt my Bible, Jamie," said she, "ere I doubt ony sic thing. Hae we no a commandment against witchcraft, and a pattern o' what they were in the Witch o' Endor? Hae I no kent folk that werena canny mysel? I only wonder he camna at their ca', to seal the bargain wi' them. I may say I ken o' nane at present that has a very ill name; but, when I was a young lass, Ellen Græme was feared owre a' the kintry side for her unholy power, after she witched Bauldy Scott, the minister's man, for something he had either said or done to her. She had a bauld and bitter tongue in her head; and, after giein him ill names until she was tired, she spat at him, and ended wi' saying--'Bauldy Scott, mind my words!--ye'll rue, ere lang, meddling wi' me.' Bauldy only leuch at her; but didna feel owre easy, for a' that. Aweel, a day or twa after the collyshangie wi' Ellen, he had to gang to Hawick, on some business about a web he had been weavin for the bailie's wife. A' went weel aneugh until he was comin hame in the evenin, whan, just as he was in the middle o' the hills--for he took the shortest cut hame--he met wi' a muckle black tyke o' a dog, that looked hard and sair at him, and followed, whether he wad or no. He feared to clod it; for it was an unsonsy like beast, and he had a druther that it wasna a canny creature. Bauldy took fervently to prayer and psalm-singin, and the dog soon left him; but he was nae sooner out o' sicht, than there cam on sic a mist that he fairly tint his gate, and wandered he knew not where, until wi' perfect fatigue he sat down on a stane. The nicht was closin in fast upon him, and he kendna whither he had dandered nearer or farther frae hame. There he sat, whiles prayin, whiles thinkin on his wife and weans, but oftener o' Ellen Græme and her threat, and the awesome black dog he had met. He was like to gang demented. The time hung sae dreich on his hand, he thocht the world was standin still. He daredna open his een, for fear he might be scared by some awesome sicht. So still was all around him, that the very beatin o' his ain heart sounded in his lugs like a death-watch. This grave-like calm and stillness became to him waur than any noise could hae been; and, to mak a lang tale short, there he sat on the stane till the grey o' the mornin. And whar was't, do ye think, he had been sittin the lee-lang nicht? No a hunder yards frae his ain door, on the big stane that stans by the kirk-stile, at the self and same spot where Ellen Græme had threatened him! That he had been bewitched, few in the parish doubted; and he himself believed, until the day o' his death, that he had seen the evil one in the form o' the black dog, who, being forced to flee by the force o' his prayers, had raised the mist to bewilder and prevent his gettin hame. He made a lang complaint to the minister against Ellen; but he wadna tak it up, and only laughed at Bauldy, and said, 'Are ye sure ye didna pree owre deep o' the yill in Hawick, Bauldy?' Now, this was warst o' a'; for, puir man, he had baith the skaith and the scorn; but few thocht waur o' the minister for no takin up Bauldy's case." "It may be as you say, mother," said James--"I never thought seriously on the subject; but this I know--I never felt so comfortable, when sentinel upon a lonely outpost, as I did in garrison or in camp. I remember once, while we lay in the valley of Roncesvalles, a short time before we entered France, I was on duty upon an outpost, with the enemy in front. I had almost made a fool of myself by giving a false alarm. I never was so much out of sorts in my life with real terror; I shook like a dog in a wet sack. My station was an old building, a complete ruin, without roof, and not more than six feet of wall standing in any part of it; so that, with a glance of my eye, I could examine recesses of the interior. My turn came at twelve o'clock. The orders were to allow no one to advance without the word and countersign; and if any movement was perceived in the enemy's lines, to fire off my piece, and fall back upon the mainguard. I had been upon my station for about half-an-hour, or better, musing upon various things--but Jeanie and you were ever uppermost in my thoughts. Suddenly a strange sound fell upon my ear. I could not distinguish whether it was a sigh or a low moan. I became all attention for a recurrence of the sound, and cocked my musket. Never did the click fall so loud upon my ear. Thus I stood at post, gazing, with eyes almost starting from their sockets, around me. It did not occur again. While I stood thus, I began to recover, and thought I had been deceived, uncocked my musket, and resumed my measured pace, peering on every side, and searching with my eyes, as far as the gloom of a starry night, without moonlight, would admit. I had not made above a dozen turns upon my allotted bounds, when the same sounds fell upon my ears, but much more distinct. It was a heavy groan, and appeared to come from my right--not in the direction of the enemy's lines. Again I cocked my musket. All was still as death after the groan. I stooped towards the ground to listen, but could discern no foot-tread upon it, or the smallest movement. I walked round the ruin, and examined it with care; but all was still and void. I looked in the direction I thought the sound had come from, when all at once there appeared to rise out of the ground, at a short distance from me, a most uncouth figure. It had the appearance of a monk in his cloak, with the hood up, and a pair of horns upon his head. From the outline between me and the sky, so appalling was the vision, that I clapped my musket to my shoulder, and called, "Who goes there?" A heavy groan was the only reply, and the whole disappeared into the ground as suddenly as it had risen out of it. A cold sweat covered my whole body--my knees knocked against each other, as I stood rooted to the spot. I would have fired, but had not the power at first; and as I recovered, I was ashamed, as I knew my comrades would laugh at me, and the officers give no credit to my story. I had not the power to withdraw my eyes from the spot. Again I saw the same appearance rise out of the ground, but with more fearful distinctness, and gaze upon me, utter a groan, and again vanish. This was too much. I was almost overcome, when I heard the tread of the relief advancing to change guard. My nerves were in a moment strung to energy again by the sound of the human voice. Although, in a whisper, I related what I had witnessed to them, all were inclined to laugh, save he who was to take my place. However, it was agreed to go to the spot I pointed out, and examine it. When we reached the place, we found, behind some low bushes, scarcely, in the dark, to be discerned from the ground, a wounded mule, so weak that it could not rise from the ground upon its feet. At our approach, it attempted to rise, but could only elevate its fore-quarters, as it had been shot through the loins, and fell down again with a groan. None of us laughed more heartily than I did at this elucidation of the fearful vision. These outpost duties often occurred, and we liked them worse than an action. So little did we dread fight, that I have heard the men say seriously, when they had lost even so trifling a necessary as a rosette, "I wish we may have an action soon, that I may pick up one." In action, so cool and steady had we become, that jests and remarks were made as freely, and even with more spirit than on a parade or in the barrack-room. In an affair of outposts, the sharpest I was ever in, and when the balls were whistling around us like grasshoppers on a sunny bank, James Graham, my left-hand man, said-- "Blair, they have hit me at last, confound them! and broke some of my ribs. I both heard and felt them crack like pipe-staples; but I will have a shot or two while I can stand to them." After a few minutes, he said, "They have hit me, but not cut me. There is no blood on my trousers, yet my breast is confounded sore." He put his hand into a pocket he had in the breast of his coat, and pulled out a favourite knife, stamped on the ground in anger, and cried, "Oh, the French blackguards! they have broken my knife, and I bought it in the High Street of Edinburgh." And he resumed his fire, if possible, with redoubled energy, taking as cool and deliberate an aim as if he had been firing at a target for a prize in his native village. In the same skirmish, James Paterson's bonnet fell over the wall which we were lining, as he was taking out some cartridges to place them in his breast. The enemy were in triple force not one hundred yards from the other side. "I shan't go bareheaded for all that," said he, and leaned his musket against the wall, climbed over it, gathered up his ammunition as calmly as if he had been in the barrack-yard, placed his bonnet on his head, and leaped back unhurt. An aid-de-camp, who rode past at the time, cried out to us-- "Well done, my brave men! They may march over your bodies, but they cannot drive you back." We gave him three cheers, and the enemy soon after fell back. But, Jeanie, lassie, I fear you think I am boasting far too much of myself and comrades. I would not speak to you of a soldier's life, were it not that you, my friend, invite me to it; but I assure you that those parts of it which are most dreaded by the people at home have in them great interest, and serve to enliven the otherwise monotonous duties of a campaign in an enemy's country, where our fatigues in marching and countermarching are scarce bearable. If we found any fault with the general, in our private conversation, it was, that we had not fighting enough. Our opinion was, the hotter war, the sooner peace; and we always felt a consciousness of being able to beat the enemy, if we were only led on. "O Jamie, my bairn!" said Margaret, "evil communications corrupt good manners. I wadna hae believed, had onybody but yersel tauld me, yer nature could hae changed sae muckle as to tak delight in sic a life. My heart is sair to hear ye speak wi sae muckle relish o' sic bloody wark." "Mother, you wrong me," replied the veteran. "I rejoice that there is now no call for such doings. While I was in Spain, my heart was ever here with you and Jeanie. I cannot help feeling my blood move quicker in my veins when I recall these moments of intense excitement. It is all the reward I shall ever have for my fatigues and wounds. We felt that we fought in Spain to keep the battle from our own beloved homes; and the scenes of rapine and desolation we witnessed there gave us double energy; for the foe that ravaged the fields of Spain had long threatened the land of our fathers, where all we held dear remained. A short time before the siege of Burgos, a party of our regiment were sent as a convoy to some stores. We halted at a village, where a foraging party of the French had been only a few hours before. Every house was a scene of ruin and blood. In one cottage that we entered, we found a beautiful young female sitting upon the ground, weeping over the bodies of her murdered father and brother, who had fallen defending her from the violence of the French soldiers. As the evening was soon to be upon us, we were halted until daybreak in the morning. Donald Ross, one of the men in our company, was particularly struck with the charms of the female, and, somehow, or other, became so intimate with her, that she agreed to go with him as soon as she had buried her father and brother--and she was as good as her word. Donald being a Roman Catholic, they were married by a Spanish priest, and lived happy enough for some time. While we lay at Abrantes, a party of Spanish guerillas came into the town. All at once, Maritornes became very dull and uneasy. Donald, at his coming home, often found her in tears; but she would not impart to him the cause of her distress. Ross, who loved her with all his heart, became himself uneasy upon her account. All at once she was amissing, and no accounts of her could be had, although diligent search was made for her. The guerillas were still in the neighbourhood of the town; and Donald suspected that she had gone to some of them, and resolved to go and make the necessary inquiries. On the morning of the day he was to have gone, having got leave from his officer, her body was found, stabbed to the heart, concealed in a thicket near the town. Poor Donald wept over her like an infant, and, after becoming a little more calm, swore a fearful vengeance on her murderer, should he ever meet him, and to do all in his power to discover the cruel perpetrator. The day following her interment, as he was indulging his grief for her loss, and thinking of means to trace her destroyer, near the spot where her body had been found, one of the guerillas started from behind a tree, and thrust a knife at his bosom. Fortunately it struck his breastplate, and glanced off. In a twinkling his bayonet was plunged to the socket in the body of the assassin, and he fell, grinding his teeth in rage and pain. Donald shouted for assistance, not to aid him in the strife--for his enemy was now helpless, and to all appearance dead at his feet--but to assist in bearing him into the town, as he had an impression on his mind that this was the murderer of his beloved. Two of his comrades who were in the neighbourhood came to his aid, bore the wounded man into the town, and carried him to the hospital, where his wound, which proved to be mortal, was dressed. Before his death, he confessed the murder of Maritornes, and gave the following account of himself:--His father had been a vine-dresser, whose vineyard joined that of the parents of Maritornes, so that they had been brought up together from their earliest childhood. After he came to man's estate, the beauty of Maritornes had made a violent impression upon him; but, being of a wild and unsettled turn of mind, her parents had disapproved of his attentions to her; and she herself had never encouraged his addresses, but had always appeared uneasy and fearful in his presence. He had tried every method to win her affections in vain, and had been involved in several quarrels upon her account with the other youths, one of whom he had slain, and was forced to fly. The war breaking out soon after, he had joined one of the guerilla parties, and had never seen or heard of her since he left the village, until he found her the wife of a vile heretic, as he thought. The sight was too much for him, and he resolved to murder her; for, he said, the hope of at one time or other winning her affections had never forsaken his mind until then; and he vowed the death of her and her seducer, as he supposed Donald to be. She had seen and recognised her tormentor, which had been the cause of her distress. For several days he had tracked and watched her steps like a bloodhound, until he accomplished his horrid purpose; and he showed not the least contrition for the deed, but appeared to regret that he had not slain Donald also. It was long before Donald ceased to regret the death of Maritornes, or to think of her; but it was perhaps wisely ordered for himself, for, after the battle of Bayonne was fought, and the peace made, the troops left for England. None of the men were allowed to take their Portuguese or Spanish wives out of the country along with them; and there were several hundreds, who had followed the army and clung to their husbands in all our privations, wherever we went. Poor things! my heart bled for them. When the order came, it was one of the most heartrending scenes to witness the distress of both parties--the despair and wailings of the females, and the anguish of many of the men--severals deserted, and all promised to return for these poor creatures, as soon as it was in their power. Many are the disconsolate females who still languish in their lonely homes, hoping in vain for the return of husbands they shall never see again, and who, if alive, only think of them now with indifference, or perhaps have heartlessly formed new ties." "O Jamie, Jamie," said Jeanie, "it is not possible, I learn frae yoursel, to tell a pleasing tale o' war. They are all o' blood, injustice, and violence. It gradually steels the heart to the best feelings o' the human race, and does away wi' the sense o' right and wrong by a false plea o' necessity. Surely man is never placed, but by his ain evil passions, in a situation where it is necessary either to be unjust or cruel." "Let us forget, my love," said James, "that such things ever were, and look forward in hope. I have, no doubt, the world once more to begin. I am not yet an old man; and, if I am not rich in cash, I am richer in experience than many others who have been at home, and shall, by the blessing of God, do my endeavour to put to use my dear-purchased wisdom. I shall then be more fortunate than poor Walter B---- and several others I have known." "Dear Jamie, tell us about Walter--what o' him?" said Margaret. There were severals in the army (continued James) whom I knew as common soldiers, that had been born to rank and riches--one in particular, Walter B----. I will give you his lamentable story, as I had it from his own mouth, in one of his fits of melancholy and repentance. We were on the heights above Roncesvalles, and the weather was more boisterous than I had ever seen it in my life anywhere; the gusts of wind blew down our tents, and the hailstorms were so severe, that we were forced to shelter ourselves from them by any means we could, and even the very mules were scarce able to endure their severity. He had been in one of his desponding fits for several days, and I had done all in my power to amuse him in vain. Towards the shades of evening, we sat shivering and cowering from the extreme cold, and, having given him an outline of my own history, he in return gave me his, nearly as follows:--He was a native of England, and a relative of some of the oldest families in it. His father had been one of the established clergy, and held a rich living, beloved and respected for his benevolence and piety. Walter, who was an only son, had received as good an education as England could afford; but, unfortunately for himself, he was of an unsettled and extravagant disposition, and was always getting himself into disagreeable situations, from which he was always relieved, after a show of contrition, by his indulgent parent. Thus matters waxed worse and worse with him, until he could not from very shame apply to his forgiving father. He had lost a large sum of money at play in London, and had no means of liquidating the debt. In an agony of shame and remorse, he fled, and, having no means of maintaining himself, changed his name, and enlisted as a private soldier. His distressed parent, for several years, knew not whether he was dead or alive. Matters remained thus with him until the arrival of a new chaplain to the regiment in which he was serving. Shortly after the chaplain joined, he recognised Walter, spoke to and reasoned with him in a truly Christian spirit, and chide him for his cruelty to his parent, who continued to mourn his loss, and would, he had no doubt, once more receive him to his bosom, would he only promise to behave more circumspectly in future, and express his sorrow for what he had done. Poor Walter was heartily sick of his present situation, and requested the chaplain to write for him what he chose, and, upon the receipt of an answer from his father, he would do all in his power to regain his pardon and confidence. In a few weeks after, Walter got his discharge, and returned to his father's mansion, where he was received with joy and forgiveness. His parent only appeared to have lived to be blessed in the return of his prodigal son; for he died in about three months after his return. Walter was his sole heir and was now rich, as he had been lately poor, while a private soldier. For a few months, he was all that his relations could have wished him--reserved and penitent for his former follies, and most punctual in his religious duties. In this frame of mind he became attached to a young lady, the daughter of a neighbouring squire, rather his superior in rank and fortune. To her he was wed, and lived in happiness and peace for some months, when unfortunately he paid a visit to London with his young wife; and, as bad fortune would have it, he once again launched out into all his former extravagance, and soon became embarrassed in his circumstances. An unsuccessful bet at a horse-race once more placed him in the same position he had been in at his first enlistment: but his distress was tenfold greater, for his young and innocent wife was now a partaker in his misery. He solemnly declared to me he more than once resolved to put a period to his existence, but was always prevented by some trivial interruption or other. At this critical period, an uncle of his wife's died, and she was his sole heir. Thus, once again, he was unexpectedly snatched from beggary, and was much richer than he was at his father's death; but, alas for him! not wiser; for, with accelerated pace, he held on his former career, and the consequence was, that he was forced to leave his young and beautiful wife to the charity of her relations. Under his assumed name, he became my companion in the ranks--a strange, interesting, even fearful companion, too, he was at times; for he would occasionally be the most light-hearted and amusing person in the group; at others, he was sullen and morose, scarce a monosyllable would escape his lips; and, when irritated, the expressions he made use of were sublimely fearful, such as a devil might have used, making even the most depraved of the men quail. Yet, when in his quiet and gentle moods, I have listened to his discourse with rapture. One hour of his conversation conveyed more information to my mind than a month of reading could have done. I have seen him, when we were alone, weep like a child over his fallen fortunes; then, the next moment, knit his brows, compress his lips, clench his fists, and stamp upon the ground, and call upon death to deliver him from his own thoughts. Times out of number I have heard him express a wish that he might fall in the next action. He had escaped without a scratch until the battle of Bayonne. Well do I remember the conversation we had the evening before. It were tedious to repeat it; but he expressed his fears that the enemy would miss him, and declared to me his firm determination to desert and remain in Spain (he spoke the language like a native) rather than return to England; for there was a rumour in the camp at the time of the reverses of Bonaparte, and the anticipations of a speedy peace. Towards the close of the action we had driven in the opposing column, and the fire had slackened; hundreds of dead and wounded lay around us, for the affair had been very sharp. "Blair," said he, "I knew they could not hit me; I must live on in misery." Scarce were the words spoken, when he fell upon his face. I stopped, and turned him on his back; his eyes were fixed in death; his countenance more placid and resigned than I ever remember to have seen it. He grasped my hand, his lips moved, but the noise of the firing deadened his voice. I placed my ear to his lips, and could just make out-- "James, I am now happy. Gracious God, pardon your erring creature!" A slight shiver passed along his frame, and all was over. What his real name was I never knew, or I would have written to his wife. Such were his talents, that, had his mind been well regulated, there was no effort that man can accomplish he was not capable of; but, alas! he perished, the victim of his uncontrolled passions. Here ended the soldier's narratives. James Blair had returned, and in health, but he had not found happiness, neither had his mother or cousin; yet his hopes were most reasonable. He had only attained one object, to find another more difficult to attain, humble as that object is--a way to earn his daily bread. Matters were in this state, when a rumour spread through the parish that a captain had purchased an estate which had been for some time in the market, and meant to build a new house, and live constantly at it. This was a matter of great joy to us, for it brought hope of employment, for a time at least; and James brightened up. The weather was no sooner favourable, than the new proprietor came to survey his purchase, and plan his improvements. A number of labourers were employed, and James among the rest; for he was first in his application. The captain, struck by his cleanly and military appearance, was much taken with him, and inquired as to his services. James gave a modest account of them, and retired, the captain making no observation at the time; but it was observed that he oftener stopped and spoke to him than to any other of his work-people, and observed him more closely. Still nothing uncommon had occurred to James, more than the rest. He received his wages the same as the others, and was most assiduous to please and give satisfaction to his employer. Since his return, he had been most punctual in his attendance at church, and zealous in his religious duties--for he felt all the heart-consoling comforts they are calculated to bestow; and thus had won back to himself the approbation of his own mind and the esteem of others, who had formerly thought very lightly of his principles and conduct. The consequence was, that James (who, before he went from among us, was well skilled in all the branches of agricultural labour) was appointed grieve by the new proprietor over his estate, towards the end of the harvest, and put into possession of a neat house before the winter commenced. All obstructions to his wedding with Jeanie Aitken were now removed; they were married, and after the wedding she left the widow's cottage for her own house, a happy bride; but the Widow Blair would not leave her cottage to live with them. Years thus rolled on; James's family had increased to three, two boys and a girl, when Widow Blair paid the debt of nature, and was buried beside her husband. James had accumulated a small sum of money by his industry and strict economy, when his excellent and worthy master died suddenly, and he was again without a way to live, though in much better circumstances than when he had first returned. He was now under a great necessity to exert himself, but he could not at once make up his mind as to the manner. He at last resolved to emigrate, and set sail for Sydney towards the fall of the leaf. I have parted with relations and dearest friends, but never did I feel a sharper throe than when I last bade farewell to James Blair and Jeanie Aitken. But I have often a letter from them. In my last, James says he is prosperous far above his deserts. He is sole proprietor of thousands of sheep of the best breed; and has the range of more land than he can ride round in a long day. THE WHITE WOMAN OF TARRAS. Up among the wild moors of Liddlesdale and Ewesdale rises the Tarras, a small, black-looking stream, which, after dashing and brawling through scenes as wild as itself, joins the Esk near Irvine, about twelve or fifteen miles from its source. In the olden time, the banks of the Tarras formed one of the favourite resorts of the freebooters of the Scottish Borders, who, in the midst of their inaccessible morasses, either set pursuit at defiance, or made an easy conquest of those who were foolhardy enough to follow them into their strongholds. They have long ceased their roving and adventurous life--pursuer and pursued have long been lying in the quiet churchyards, or slumbering in their forgotten graves among the wild hills where they fought and fell; but Tarras has since been haunted by other spirits than the turbulent ones of whom we have spoken; for, when the days of rapine and murder were past, it was but natural that superstition should people the wild and desolate morasses with the spirits of the departed. The "march of intellect" is gradually trampling under foot the legends, omens, and superstitions which formerly flourished in their strength amid the wild fastnesses of the land; and they are seldom talked of now but as things that have been, but never will be again. The incidents upon which the present tale is founded were matters of common conversation some sixty or seventy years since, and the belief in their truth was general and implicit; _now_, they only live in the recollection of the aged, like a half-forgotten dream in their early days. It was from an infirm old man, the son of our _ghost-seer_ that the tradition was obtained. Late one evening, in the autumn of 17--, Willie Bell, the blacksmith, was standing at the door, wondering what had become of his apprentice, John Graham, who had left Clay-yett that morning, to go to the neighbouring town of Langholm, where his father was lying dangerously ill. It was bright moonlight--calm and beautiful; the few clouds seen in the sky lay still and motionless on the horizon, like barks becalmed at sea, only waiting for a breeze to waft them. "I hope naething has happened the callant," said Nelly, the guidwife; "it's a bonny nicht--he canna hae tint the gate." "Hout, na," said Willie, "he kens the gate as weel's I do mysel--there's nae fear o' him; but I'm thinkin, maybe, his father's waur than he expeckit, and he'll be bidin at the Langholm a' nicht." "Puir chiel! I did hear tell that his father was waitin on; but I hope he's no that far gane yet." It was now near nine o'clock, and the good folks were beginning to be rather uneasy about John Graham, who had faithfully promised to return before eight, when they heard the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps, and presently the object of their solitude appeared, running at the top of his speed, and looking anxiously behind him, as if dreading pursuit, or flying from danger. He soon reached the cottage, and staggered to the door, where he leaned, apparently quite exhausted. His face was ghastly pale, large drops of perspiration stood on his brow, and his limbs trembled as if he were under the influence of ague. "Mercy on us!" said Nelly, looking wonderingly and anxiously in his face, "what ails the callant? Speak, my bonny man! What ails ye?" "Gie's a sowp water," said John Graham--"I'm amaist deed." The water seemed to revive him a little, and he stared wildly around him. "D'ye see ought?" said he; "eh!--what's yon?" "Hoot, the laddie's daft; there's nought yonder but just the holly buss, lookin, for a' the world, like a man body in the moonlicht." "Eh, whow!--eh, whow!" groaned the poor boy to himself, burying his face in his hands. "Nelly!" said he, at last, slowly and solemnly, "tell me the truth! When a body sees a ghost, is it no a warnin that his ain time's no far aff?" "Hout, na! I hae seen half-a-score ghosts mysel, and I'm no a bit the waur. Some folks threep that it's no canny to speak to a ghost; for, if ane does, there's sure some mischief to follow." "Deil's i' the woman, clatterin about ghosts!" said the blacksmith; "it's silly havers aboot them athegither. What is a ghost? It canna be a body--for we ken that the bodies o' the dead are moulderin in the grave; it canna be a soul--for what could gar a happy speerit come back frae heaven to revisit this wearisome warld?--and frae the ither bit, Auld Clootie wad tak far owre guid care o' them to let e'er a speerit among them won back again. Na, na! there's nae sic thing as ghosts." "Whether there's ghosts or no," said John Graham, solemnly, "I'm thinking I've seen ane the nicht. Gude be thankit, I didna speak till't!" "Seen a ghost!" cried Nelly. "Eh, John!--whar was't?--what was't like?" "Oh, like a holly buss, I'se warran," said the blacksmith, sneeringly; "or like a mucklecalf, or the shadow o' himsel." "Never heed him, John, lad," said Nelly; "say yer say, and tell us a' about it." Weel, Nelly, ye see, I'd been at the Langholm, and I fand my puir faither just waitin on, and my mother maist dementit, sabbin and greetin fit to kill hersel; and the doctor was fleechin on her to haud her tongue, and no disturb her husband in his last moments; and sair wark had we baith to keep her quiet. The doctor tell't us that my faither had just come to the warst, and that it was just the toss up o' a bawbee whether he lived or died. Weel, about the four hours, my faither fell into a sound sleep, and when he awakened up again, he'd gotten the turn; and the doctor said if he was keepit quiet, there was nae fear but he'd won owre it. Eh, but my mother was a pleased woman, and whan she gied the guidman the cordial, she kissed him, and cried out affectionately, "Geordie! Gude be thankit, ye're spared till us! Gae to sleep, my man." She then steekit the door, and cam ben and took a muckle bottle oot o' the cupboard, and mixed a glass o' real guid toddy, and said to me-- "Tak this afore ye gang hame, my bairn; 'twill do ye nae harm; drink it, and be thankfu that yer faither's life's spared. Ye maunna bide ony longer, but get back to yer maister's as fast as ye can; it's bonny moonlicht, and young limbs mak quick wark. Guid-nicht! His blessin be wi' ye!" Weel, I made the best o' my way owre the hill, and was aye thinkin o' my faither, and what a sad thing 'twad hae been if he'd been taen frae us; when, just as I'd gotten to yon side o' Tarras, and was passin a holly buss near the Gallsyke, I felt a' at ance, I canna tell hoo--the air seemed quite cauld and damp, a tremblin cam owre me, my flesh seemed as if 'twere creepin thegither, and a fear o' I dinna ken what garred me look roun, and there, as I'm a leevin man, no sax yards frae me, walkin the same gate wi' mysel, was a leddy a' dressed oot in white. It was bricht moon licht--I couldna be mistaen, I saw her as plain as I see yersel at this moment. I rubbit my een, thinkin I micht be dreamin--for I'd heard tell o' folk walkin in their sleep--but, na! there she was still. I didna ken hoo it was--whether it was the glass o' toddy my mother had gien me, or that I didna dread there was onything forbye common aboot her--but I didna feel at a' afeard o' her, though I still had the same unco oot-o'-the-way scudderin, and dread o' something I couldna conceive what. To tell the truth, I was mair pleased nor feared, to see a leevin body sae near me, and me sae fearfu in mysel. Weel, there she walkit, never turnin her head to the richt nor the left, and me glowrin at her, but no daurin to speak; for she was grandly dressed, just like a leddy, wi' pinners on her head, and buckles glintin in her shoon. There was a little wind at the time, but it never stirred her claes, and her feet gaed fast o'er the grund, but nae sound cam frae them; I didna notice a' that at the time, but I minded it after. "We had gotten as far as the auld aik-tree yonder, when, while I had my eye upon her--while I could tak my Bible aith she was there beside me--she was gane as clean's a whistle. I lookit ahint the tree--I lookit a' round me, but I seed nought; and then a' at ance, the thocht cam into my head that I'd seen a ghost. I couldna doot it, for the cauld air had passed awa wi' her, and I felt as if the chill had gaen clean out o' my bluid; for when I cam to think o' the awfu' company I'd been in, I maist swarfed wi' fear; and as soon's I cam roun, I set aff for hame as fast's my legs wad carry me." "Weel, that beats a'," said the blacksmith; "ye've seen the White Leddy o' Tarras!" "And wha's that?" said John Graham. "Come yer ways in, lad, and sit doun, and I'll tell a' I ken aboot her, for I'm thinkin nane o' us 'll be for gaun to bed enow; and it's better for ye to be sitting by the cheerfu ingle than cowerin aneath the bedclaes. Nelly, woman! gie's oot the whisky--the puir lad 'll no be the waur for a sowp, and I dinna care to tak a drap, to keep him company." After they were all comfortably seated, and had dispelled the thoughts of spirits with the toddy cup, Willie began his story: It's nae mony years sin' there lived a man o' the name o' Archy Brown, at the Windy Hill, up by yonder. He was a puir weaver body, wi' a wife and a hantel o' weans, and sair wark he had to keep the house owre his head. The wife was a clean, canty body, and keepit a'thing trig and comfortable, and made the maist o' what she could get, and that was but little; but content, they say, is better than riches, and she aye keepit her heart abune, and tried to mak her guidman as contented as hersel. But it wadna do--Archy was a disappointed, unhappy man; he was aye grumbling at his hard fate, and wonnerin what he'd dune, that he should be forced to work hard for his bread, whan ithers, nae better than himsel, he thocht, were sittin wi' their hans afore them, doin naething ava. But this wadna do; it taks a stout heart to face a stey brae--and Archy seemed to hae tint _his_ athegither. Wark cam slowly in, and when it did come, it was sair negleckit, till, at last, if it hadna been the respeck they had for his wife, his employers wad hae left him ane and a'. Archy had just suppit his parritch, after a grumlin day's wark in August, and was sittin by the ingle cheek, looking as black as the back o' the lum, and the wife was busy washin the dishes and puttin a'thing richt. "Hech," says Archy, with a pech, "but this is a weary warld." "Hoot," said the wife, "the warld's weel enough, if 'twarna the folk that's in't; it's a guid and a bonny warld, Archy, and thankfu we should be that we hae health to enjoy it." "Thankfu!" said Archie. "My certie! guid richt hae we to be thankfu, and can hardly get the bite and sowp to pit in our mous, when there are sae mony that dinna ken what to mak o' a' their havins!" "Ou, Archy, man! ye're aye thinkin o' them that's better off than yersel; but think how mony wad be happy to change wi' ye. There's mony a ane this nicht, Archy, that has nae shelter fo his head but the lift abune him, and that's fain to cower ahint the dyke frau the cauld blast." "Gae 'wa wi' your preachins!" said Archy. "Is't no aneugh to hear the minister on the Sabbath, but I maun be plagued wi' a wife playin hum in my lug a' the day lang?" The wife held her tongue, but the tears were rinnin doun her cheeks, as she wiped doun the dresser. Archy was a guid-hearted though a fretfu man; and the sicht o' his wife's distress softened him. "Come, come, Nancy, woman, dinna tak on sae; ye ken I lo'e ye weel--for a kind and guid wife hae ye aye been to me; and ye sudna heed what I say, when the vera heart's bluid within me is soured by disappointment. I could bear't a' weel aneugh for mysel; but to think o' my havin wiled ye frae yer faither's beil hame, to share the fortunes o' a broken man, gars my heart grue; and whiles I feel as if I could risk my saul to the evil ane, to procure ye ease and comfort." "Oh, Archy! shut such wicked thochts oot o' yer heart, or maybe, whan temptation comes, ye'll tak it by the hand, instead o' resistin it. Mindna for me--I want naething to mak me happy but to see ye pleased; and I'd far fainer see ye smile as ye used to do lang syne, than be the brawest o' the braw withoot it." The darkness o' night was noo beginnin to spread owre the earth, and Archy and the wife were just ettlin to gang to bed, when a saft rap cam to the door, and a hand tirled at the sneck. "Wha can that be, in Gude's name?" whispered Nance. "Rise, Archy, man, and speer at them what they're seekin at this untimous hour." "Wha's that?" said Archy, in a loud tone o' voice, though it trembled a wee when he thocht o' bogles, and rievers, and a' sic-like deevilry. A saft and gentle voice answered-- "Can you give me a guide over the hills as far as Langholm? I'm a lone unprotected woman, and have lost my way." "Is there onybody wi' ye forbye yersel?" said the cautious Archy. "No one. Pray let me in to rest for a short time. I am no beggar; you shall be well rewarded for your kindness." "Reward!" replied Archy, drawin the sneck--"there's nane needed; it should never be said that Archy Brown, puir though he be, wad keep his door steekin again' them that haena beil." The door was by this time open, and Nance had lighted the candle. The stranger walked in. Great was the surprise o' baith at the unexpected sight; they were maist as frightened as if they'd seen a bogle. The stranger was a tall, handsome woman, a' dressed oot like a leddy, wi' pinners on her head, and a' sorto' whirlygeerums--I dinna ken their names, but, howsomever, they a' gaed to prove that she was a leddy, and no ane like themsels; and when she spak, her voice was saft and gentle, and her words as grand as if they were oot o' a printed book. Then she had grand buckles in her shoon, and rings on her wee white hand, and a'thing grander aboot her than they'd ever seen afore. Weel, she sat doun by the ingle cheek, and askit again could they furnish her wi' a guide to Langholm; and they persuadit her to bide where she was a' nicht, and Archy wad gang wi' her himsel the neist morning. It was lang ere they could gar her stop; but there were nae roads herewa in thae days; and she was feared to gang farrer by hersel, and Archy dounricht refused to leave the hoose. She tell't them she had come fra the south country and that she was travellin to Embro to see a freend; and aye as she spak she sighed and sobbit; and when she laid aff her rich manteel, they saw that a' wasna richt; and they lookit at her hand, but there was nae weddin-ring upon't; and then Nance lookit in her face, and saw dule and sorrow there, but naething waur--for her beauty was like that o' a sorrowin angel; and she had sic a look o' innocence, that Nance dreaded she had been beguiled by the warmth and innocence o' her heart--that she was aiblins a puir thing mair sinned again' than sinnin; and Nance's ain heart warmed till her, and she fleeched on, and made muckle o' her. Sair did the puir thing greet; but she never loot on wha she was, or where she cam frae, or wha 'twas she was seekin; but said that she was a wanderer and an ootcast, and nae leevin soul cared for her, and the sooner she was dead the better for hersel. Puir Nance was sair put aboot to comfort her; but at last she persuadit her to sup some milk and bread, and gang to her bed. Archy and Nance sleepit on the flure--at least Nance sleepit, for Archy couldna; the deil was busy wi' him; the siller buckles and the braw rings were aye glintin in his een whenever he steekit them, and hinner't him frae sleepin. He closed his een and tried to snore, and to fancy that he was sleepin; but aye the langer he tried, the waur and the wickeder were the thochts that cam intil his head; till at last he got up on his elbow, and sat glowrin at the bed where the stranger leddy lay soun sleepin; and aye the langer he lookit, the mair he thocht what a happy man he wad be if he had a' her braw rings, and the gowd that was in her purse, and her siller buckles and a'. Weel, neist morning, the leddy waukens up, and cries to Nance that 'twas time for her to tak the road; but Nance wadna hear tell o't till she had gien her her breakfast. "It's no muckle we hae," said Nance; "but, sic as it is, ye're welcome to a share o't. Just sup yer milk and bread, while Archy snogs himsel up to gang wi' ye." As soon as they'd finished their breakfast, the leddy took oot a bonny silken purse, that looked as if it wad burst, and gied Nance a piece o' gowd. "I'm no for't," said Nance; "there's nae needcessity, ye're vera welcome to a' ye got." But the leddy wad insist upon her takin it; while Archy's een glistened at the sicht o' the purse, and he bit his lip, and his breast gaed up and doun like the bellows o' the smiddy, and his fingers opened and shut upon his thigh, like the claws o' a cat just gaun to loup at a mouse. The morning, though calm, was cauld; but, aboot twa hours after they had left, Nance heard the sough o' a comin wind. It was an awesome and an unca sound--she had never heard the like afore--it was like the groans o' the deein; and, as she hearkened till't moanin past the door, she fancied she heard a body cryin for help. Nance was terribly frightened; for it seemed to her that the wind was no just a common wind, but the voice o' a speerit--a kind o' whisper fare anither warld. A' at ance, there cam sic a blast as was never seen nor heard afore nor since, at the Windy Hill. A' the winds o' heaven seemed to hae been let loose at ance, and the noise o' their roarin was loud as the loudest thunder. Nance ran out o' the hoose, thinkin that clay wa's couldna even bide the brunt o' sic a storm; and there she waited for the upshot. She cowered down on the ground, and covered her head wi' her apron, while the noise o' a thousand storms was around her. Nance thocht it strange that she didna _feel_ the wind as weel as hear't and she keek't out frae under her apron--and there was nae visible appearance o' the presence o' the storm: the sound was a ragin tempest round her; but the lang grass was standin unshaken, and the leaves o' the trees were without motion. A dread o' the powers o' the air cam owre Nance--she thought she heard their bodily voices about her--and, wi' a loud skirl, she swarfed awa on the grund! Some o' the neighbours had seen Nance fa', and cam rinnin to help her; but it was lang or she was a'richt again. When she cam round, she steekit her een, and stappit her lugs--moanin, "Oh, that wind!--that awesome wind!" The neighbours a' wondered; for nane but Nance had heard aught extraordinary. Nance waited lang for Archy to come in to his dinner; but it was weel on to the gloamin when he cam back. Nance heard his fitfa, and ran to the door to meet him-- "Eh, but ye've been lang o' comin, Archy! How did ye leave the leddy, puir thing?" "Oh, she's safe at the end o' her journey," replied Archy, wi' a kind o' laugh that sounded unco like a groan. "Puir body," said Nance, "she maun hae been sair wearied; but, Archy, ye maun hae been maist blawn awa wi' that awesome wind." "What wind?" said Archy; "there wasna ony wind; it was as lown as a simmer day." "Oh, man, ye dinna say sae! Aboot twa hours after ye left this, there cam on sic a storm, that I thocht the house wad come doun on my head, and----" "Twa hours," said Archy; and he turned as white's a clout, and the cauld sweat stood on his face. "Mercy on us, Archy," said the wife, "what ails ye? Ane wad think he'd heard that awfu wind yersel; it maist frichtened me to death. It was for a' the warld, whan it first beguid, like the groans and moans o' a deein body." "Haud yer whisht, woman," said Archy, very short-like; "its no canny to talk o' sic things. Hae, tak my coat, and pit it awa i' the kist." "'Odsake, Archy!" cried Nance, haudin the coat to the licht; "what in Gude's name, is this that's on't--Its bluid! Where got ye that?" "Ou," said Archy, "there was a man killin a muckle sou in Tarras, and he cried to me to help him, and I didna mind that I'd gotten a guid coat to my back." "Weel, that beats a'! Here's ane o' the bonny rings the leddy had on her fingers in yer pocket! How cam ye by that?" "What's your business, woman?" said Archy, wi' an oath. "Did I no tell ye afore, that the leddy was safe and sound at her journey's end? She wad insist on giein me the ring, to keep for my kindness to her." "Did she no send ony word back by ye?" "Ay, she thankit ye for yer kindness, and said she'd send ye word when she got to the far end----But it'll be long or that," muttered Archy to himsel. Weeks and months gaed by, but still nae word cam o' the leddy; and puir Nance was wae for her; for she dreaded something uncommon had happened her. Archy gaed to Embro', and cam back wi' siller, and a lang story how an auld friend had died, and left him a hantle money. The leddy was never heard tell o' again--she had nae kith nor kin to speer after her--she cam like a dream, and vanished like ane; but there's a stane on the banks o' Tarras, wi' a mark upon it that o' the storms and floods o' years heena been able to wash oot--it's the mark o' blood; and aft sin syne the figure o' a leddy, o' dressed in white, has been seen wanderin in the mirk or the bright moonlicht, and aye vanishin like a flaff o' lichtnin. A sober man may pass the Tarras a hundred times, and see nought; but, after a Langholm hiring-day, or a July fair, if a man hae taen twa-three cheerers forbye common, he's maist sure to see the WHITE LEDDY O' TARRAS! END OF VOL. XII 
34150	----	WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND. HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE. WITH A GLOSSARY. REVISED BY ALEXANDER LEIGHTON ONE OF THE ORIGINAL EDITORS AND CONTRIBUTORS. VOL. XIII. LONDON: WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE. 1885. CONTENTS. THE UNKNOWN, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_ THE TRIALS OF MENIE DEMPSTER, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_ THE PROFESSOR'S TALES, _(PROFESSOR THOMAS GILLESPIE)_ THE NATURAL HISTORY OF IDIOTS THE FLOSHEND INN, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_ LOTTERY HALL, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_ THE DOMINIE AND THE SOUTER, _(JAMES WILSON)_ THE DOMINIE'S COURTSHIP THE SOUTER'S WEDDING ROSEALLAN'S DAUGHTER, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_ THE TWO SAILORS, _(OLIVER RICHARDSON)_ THE DREAM, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_ WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND. THE UNKNOWN. In the year 1785, a young and beautiful woman, whose dress and features bespoke her to be a native of Spain, was observed a few miles beyond Ponteland, on the road which leads to Rothbury. She appeared faint and weary; dimness was deepening over the lustre of her dark eyes, and their glance bespoke anxious misery. Her raiment was of the finest silk; but time had caused its colour to fade; and it hung around her a tattered robe--an ensign of present poverty and wretchedness, a ruined remnant of prouder days that were past. She walked feebly and slowly along, bearing in her arms an infant boy; and she was observed, at intervals, to sit down, press her pale lips to her child's cheek, and weep. Several peasants, who were returning from their labours in the fields, stood and spoke to her; but she gazed on them with wild looks of despair, and she answered them in a strange language, which they did not understand. "She has been a lady, poor thing," said some of them. "Ha!" said others, who had less charity in their breasts, "they have not all been ladies that wear tattered silk in strange fashions." Some inquired at her if she were hungry; if she wanted a lodging; or where she was going. But, like the mother of Thomas à Beckett, to all their inquiries she answered them but one word that they understood, and that word was "_Edinburgh_!" Some said, "the poor creature is crazed;" and when she perceived that they comprehended her not, she waved her hand impatiently for them to depart, and pressing her child closer to her bosom, she bent her head over him, and sighed. The peasants, believing from her gestures that she desired not their presence, left her, some pitying, all wondering. Within an hour, some of them returned to the place where they had seen her, with the intent of offering her shelter for the night; but she was not to be found. On the following morning, one Peter Thornton, a farmer, went into his stackyard before his servants were astir, and his attention being aroused by the weeping and wailing of a child, he hastened toward the spot from whence the sound proceeded. In a secluded corner of the yard, he beheld a woman lying, as if asleep, upon some loose straw; and a child was weeping and uttering strange sounds of lamentation on her bosom. It was the lovely, but wretched-looking foreigner whom the peasants had seen on the evening before. Peter was a blunt, kind-hearted Englishman; he resembled a piece of rich though unpolished metal. He approached the forlorn stranger; and her strange dress, her youth, the stamp of misery that surrounded her, and the death-like expression of her features, moved him, as he gazed upon her and her child, almost to tears. "Get up, woman," said he; "why do you lie there? Get up, and come wi' me; ye seem to be ill, and my wife will get ye something comfortable." But she spoke not, she moved not, though the child screamed louder at his presence. He called to her again; but still she remained motionless. "Preserve us!" said he, somewhat alarmed, "what can have come owre the woman? I daresay she is in a trance! She sleeps sounder there in the open air, and upon the bare straw, wi' her poor bairn crying like to brak its heart upon her breast, than I could do on a feather-bed, wi' everything peace and quietness around me. Come, waken, woman," he added; and he bent down, and took her by the hand. But her fingers were stiff and cold--there was no sign of life upon her lips, neither was there breath in her nostrils. "What is this?" exclaimed Peter, in a tone of horror--"a dead woman in my stackyard! Has there been a murder at my door through the night? I'll gie a' that I am worth as a reward to find it out!" And, leaving the child screaming by the side of its dead mother, he rushed breathless into the house, exclaiming, "Oh, wife! wife!--Jenny, woman!--I say, Jenny, get up! Here has been bloody wark at our door! What do ye think?--a dead woman lying in our stackyard, wi' a bonny bairn screaming on her breast!" "What's that ye say, Peter!" cried his wife, starting up in terror; "a dead woman! Ye're dreaming--ye're not in earnest!" "Haste ye! haste ye, Jenny!" he added; "it's as true as that my name is Peter Thornton." She arose, and, with her household servants, accompanied him to where the dead body lay. "Now," added Peter, with a look which bespoke the troubled state of his feelings, "this will be a job for the crowner, and we'll a' have to be examined and cross-examined, backward and forward, just as if we had killed the woman, or had onything to do wi' her death. I would rather have lost five hundred pounds, than that she had been found dead upon my stackyard." "But see," said Jenny, after she had ascertained that the mother was really dead, and as she took up the child in her arms, and kissed it--"see what a sweet, bonny, innocent-looking creature this is! And, poor thing, only to think that it should be left an orphan, and apparently in a foreign land, for I dinna understand a word that it greets and says!" A coroner's inquest was accordingly held upon the body, and a verdict of "_Found dead_" returned. Nothing was discovered about the person of the deceased which could throw light upon who she was. All the money she had had with her consisted of a small Spanish coin; but on her hand she wore a gemmed ring, of curious workmanship and considerable value, and also a plain marriage-ring. On the inside of the former were engraven the characters of C. F. _et_ M. V.; and within the latter, C. _et_ M. F. The fashion of her dress was Spanish, and the few words of lamentation which her poor child could imperfectly utter were discovered to be in that language. There being small likelihood of discovering who the stranger had been, her orphan boy was about to be committed to the workhouse; but Mrs Thornton had no children of her own, the motherless little one had been three days under her care, and already her heart began to feel for him a mother's fondness. "Peter," said she unto her husband, "I am not happy at the thought o' this poor bairn being sent to the workhouse. I'm sure he was born above such a condition. Death, in taking his mother, left him helpless and crying for help at our door, and I think it would be unnatural in us to withhold it. Now, as we have nae family o' our own, if ye'll bear the expense, I'm sure I'm willing to tak the trouble, o' bringing him up." "Wi' a' my heart, Jenny, my dow," said Peter; "it was me that found the bairn, and if ye say, keep it, I say, keep it, too. His meat will never be missed; and it will be a worse year wi' us than ony we hae seen, when we canna get claes to his back." "Peter," replied she, "I always said ye had a good heart; and by this action ye prove it to the world." "I care not that," said he, snapping the nail of his thumb upwards from his forefinger, "what the world may say or think about me, provided _you_ and my conscience say that it is right that I hae done." They therefore, from that hour, took the orphan as the child of their adoption; and they were most puzzled to decide by what name he should be called. "It is perfectly evident to me," said the farmer, "from the letters on the rings, that his faither's first name has begun wi' a C, and his second wi' an F; but we could never be able to find out the outlandish foreign words that they may stand for. We shall therefore just give him some decent Christian name." "And what name more decent or respectable could we gie him than our own?" said Jenny. "Suppose we just call him Thornton--Peter Thornton?" "No, no, good wife," said he, "there must twa words go to the making o' that bargain; for, though nobody would charge you wi' being his mother, the time may come when folk would be wicked enough to hint that I was his faither; therefore, I do not think it proper that he should tak my name. What say ye, now, as it is probable that his faither's name began wi' a C, if we were to call him Christopher? and, as we found him in the month o' May, we should gie him a surname after the month, and call him Christopher May? That, in my opinion, is a very bonny name; and I hae nae doubt that, if he be spared till those dark een o' his begin to look after the lasses, mony a ane o' them will be o' the same way o' thinking." The child soon became reconciled to the change in his situation, and returned the kindness of his foster-mother with affection. She rejoiced as he gradually forgot the few words of Spanish which he at first lisped, and in their stead began to speak the language of the Borders. With delight in her eyes, she declared that "she had learned him his _mother tongue_, which he now spoke as _natural as life_, though, when she took him under her care, he could say nothing but some heathenish kind o' sounds, which nobody could mak ony mair sense o' than it was possible to do out o' the yaumerin o' an infant o' six months old." As the orphan grew up, he became noted as the liveliest boy in the neighbourhood. He was the tallest of his age, and the most fearless. About three years after Peter Thornton had taken him under his protection, he sent him to school. But, lively as the orphan Christopher May was (for so we shall now call him), he by no means showed an aptness to learn. For five years, and he never rose higher than the middle of the class. The teacher was often wroth with the thoughtlessness of his pupil; and in his displeasure said, "It is nonsense, sirrah, to say that ye was ever a Spaniard. There is something like sense and stability o' character about the people o' Spain; but you--ye're a Frenchman!--a thoughtless, dancing, settle-to-nothing fool. Or, if ever ye were a Spaniard, ye belong to the family o' Don Quixote; his name would be found in the catalogue o' your great-grandfathers." Even Peter Thornton, though no scholar, was grieved when the teacher called upon him, and complained of the giddiness of his adopted son, and of the little progress which he made under his care. "Christie, ye rascal ye," said Peter, stamping his foot, "what news are these your master tells o' ye? He says he's ashamed o' ye, and that ye'll never learn." But even for his thoughtlessness the kind heart of Jenny found an excuse. "Dear me, goodman," said she, "I wonder to hear the master and ye talk; I am surprised that both o' ye haena mair sense. Do ye not tak into consideration that the bairn is learning in a foreign language? Had his mother lived, he would hae spoken Spanish; and how can ye expect him to be as glib at the English language as those that were learned--born, I may say--to speak it from the breast?" "True, Jenny," answered Peter, sagely, "I wasna thinking o' that; but there may be something in't. Maister," added he, addressing the teacher, "ye mustna, therefore, be owre hard wi' the laddie. He is a fine bairn, though he may be dull--and dull I canna think it possible he could be, if he would determine to learn." Christopher, however, was as wild on the play-ground as he was dull and thoughtless in the school-room. Every person admired the happy-hearted orphan. Good Jenny Thornton said that he had been a great comfort to her; and that all the care she had taken over him was more than repaid by the kindness and gratitude of his heart. They were evident in all he said, and all that he did. Peter also loved the boy; he said, "Kit was an excellent laddie--for his part, indeed, he never saw his equal. He had now brought him up for nine years, and he could safely say that he never had occasion to raise a hand to him--indeed he did not remember the time that ever he had had occasion to speak an angry word to him; and he declared that he should inherit all that he possessed, as though he had been his own son." Mrs Thornton often showed to him the rings which had been taken from his mother's fingers, with the inscriptions thereon; and on such occasions she would say, "Weel do I remember, hinny, when our goodman came running into the house one morning, shaking as though he had seen an apparition at midnight, and crying to me, quite out o' breath, 'Rise--rise, Jenny!--here is the dead body o' a woman in our stackyard!' I canna tell ye what my feelings were when he said so. I wished not to believe him. But had I wakened, and found myself in a grave, I could not have gotten a greater fricht. My heart louped to my throat, just as if it had gotten a sudden jerk with a person's whole might and strength! I dinna ken how I got my gown thrown on, for my teeth were chattering in my head--I shaked like a 'natomy! And when we did get to the stackyard, there was ye, like a dear wee lammie, mourning owre the breast o' yer dead mother, wi' yer bits o' handies pulling impatiently at yer bonny black hair, kissing her cold lips, or pulling her by the gown, and crying and uttering words which we didna understand. And oh, hinny, but your mother had been a weel-faured woman in her day!--I never saw her but a cold corpse, and I thought, even then, that I had never looked upon a bonnier face. She had evidently been a genteel person, but was sore, sore dejected. But she had two rings upon her fingers; one of them was a ring such as married women wear--the other was set wi' precious stones, which those who have seen them say, none but a duchess in this country could wear. Ye must examine them."--And here Mrs Thornton was in the habit of producing the rings, which she had carefully locked away, wrapped up in twenty folds of paper, and secured in a housewife which folded together within all. Then she would point out to him the initial letters, the C. F. and the M. V., and would add, "That has been your faither and your mother's name when they were sweethearts--at least so our Peter says (and he is seldom wrong); but the little _e t_ between them--I canna think what it stands for. O Christopher, my canny laddie, it is a pity but that ye would only endeavour to be a scholar, as ye are good otherwise, and then ye might be able to tell what the _e t_ means. Who kens but it may throw some light upon your parentage; for, if ever ye discover who your parents were, it will be through the instrumentality o' these rings. Peter always says that (and, as I say, he is seldom wrong) and therefore I always keep them locked away, lest onythin should come owre them; and when they are out o' the drawer, I never suffer them to be out o' my sight." In the fulness of her heart Mrs Thornton told this story at least four times in the year, almost in the same words, and always exhibiting the rings. Her kindly counsels, and the cogent reasons which she urged to Christopher why he should become a scholar, at length awoke his slumbering energies. For the first time, he stood dux of his class, and once there, he stood like a nail driven into a wall, which might not be removed. His teacher, who was a man of considerable knowledge and reading (though perhaps not what those calling themselves _learned_ would call a man of _learning_--for _learned_ is a very vague word, and is as frequently applied where real ignorance exists, as to real knowledge)--that teacher who had formerly said that Christopher could not be a Spaniard, because that he had not solidity enough within him--now said that he believed he was one, and not a descendant of Don Quixote; but, if of anybody, a descendant of _him_ who gave the immortal Don "a local habitation and a name;" for he now predicted that Christopher May would be a genius. But, though the orphan at length rose to the head of his class, and though he passed from one class to another, he was still the same wild, boisterous, and daring boy, when they ran shouting from the school, cap in hand, and waving it over their heads, like prisoners relieved from confinement. If there was a quarrel to decide in the whole school, the orphan Christopher was the umpire. If a weak boy, or a cowardly boy, was threatened by another, Christopher became his champion. If a sparrow's nest was to be robbed, to achieve which a tottering gable was to be climbed, he did the deed; yea, or when a football match was to be played on Eastern E'en (or, as it was there called, Pancake Tuesday), if the orphan once got the ball at his foot, no man could again touch it. His birth-day was not known; but he could scarce have completed his thirteenth year when his best friend died. Good, kind-hearted Jenny Thornton--than whom a better woman never breathed--was gathered with the dead; and her last request to her husband was, that he would continue to be the friend and protector of the poor orphan, and especially that he would take care of the rings which had been found upon his mother's hand. Now Peter was so overwhelmed with grief at the idea of being parted from her who, for twenty years, had been dearer to him than his own existence, that he could scarce hear her dying words. He followed her coffin like a broken-hearted man; and he sobbed over her grave like a weaned child on the lap of its mother. But many months had not passed when it was evident that the orphan Christopher was the only sincere mourner for Jenny Thornton. The widower was still in the prime and strength of his days, being not more than two-and-forty. He was a prosperous man--one who had had a cheap farm and a good one; and it was believed that Peter was able to purchase the land which he rented. Many, indeed, said that the tenant was a better man than his master--by a "better man," meaning a richer man. Fair maidens, therefore, and widows to boot, were anxious to obtain the vacant hand of the wealthy widower. Some said that Peter would never forget Jenny, and that he would never marry again, for that she had been to him a wife amongst a thousand: and they spoke of the bitterness of his grief. "Ay," said others, "but we ne'er like to see the tears run owre fast down the cheeks of a man. They show that the heart will soon drown its sorrow. Human nature is very frail; and a thing that we thought we would love _for ever_ last year, we find that we only _occasionally remember_ that we loved it this. If there be a real mourner for the loss of Mrs Thornton, it's the poor, foreign orphan laddie. Peter, notwithstanding all his greeting at the grave, will get another wife before twelve months go round." They who said so were in the right. Poor Jenny had not been in her grave eleven months and twenty days, when Peter led another Mrs Thornton from the altar. When he had brought her home, he introduced to her the orphan Christopher. "Now, dear," said he, "here is a laddie--none know whom he belongs to. I found him one morning, when he was a mere infant, screaming on the breast o' his dead mother. Since then I have brought him up. My late wife was very fond o' him--so, indeed, was I; and it is my request that ye will be kind to him. Here," added he, "are two rings which his mother had upon her fingers when I found her a cold corpse. Poor fellow, if anything ever enable him to discover who his parents were, it will be them, though there is but little chance that he ever will. However, I have been as a father to him for more than ten years, and I trust, love, that ye will act towards him as a mother. Come forward, Christopher," continued he, "and welcome your new mother." The boy came forward, hanging his head, and bashfully stretched out his hand towards her; but the new-made Mrs Thornton had his mother's jewelled ring in her hand, and she observed him not. He stood with his eyes now bent upon the ground, now upon her, and again upon his mother's ring, as she turned it round and round. "Well," said she, addressing her husband, and still turning it round as she spoke, "it is, indeed, a beautiful ring--a very beautiful ring!" "I am glad ye think so," said he; "she had been a bonny woman that wore it." She placed the ring upon her finger, she turned it round again, and gazed on it with admiration. "I should like to wear such a ring," she added. "Why, hinny, and ye may wear it," said Peter; "for the ring is mine twenty times owre, whatever its value may be, considering what I have done for the laddie." With an expression of countenance which might be described as something between a smile and a blush, or, as the people north the Tweed very aptly express it, with a "_smirk_," she slipped the ring upon her finger, saying that it fitted as well as though it had been made for her. Passion flashed in the eyes of the orphan. His "new mother," as Peter styled her, had done what poor Jenny never ventured to do. He withdrew his hand which he had extended to greet her, and he was turning away sullenly, when his foster-father said, "Stop, Christopher, ye must not go away until you have shaken hands with your mother." And he turned again, and once more extended to her his hand. "Well," said she, addressing her husband, and putting forth two of her fingers to Christopher, "is it really possible that you have brought up this great boy! What a trouble he must have been--and expense too!" "Oh, you are quite mistaken," said Peter; "Christopher never cost us the smallest trouble. I have been proud of him and pleased with him, since ever I took him under my roof; and, poor fellow, as to the expense that he has cost me, if I never had seen his face, I wouldna hae been a penny richer to-day, but very possibly poorer; for he has very often amused me wi' his drollery, and keepit me in the house, when, but for him, I would have been down at Ponteland, or somewhere else, getting a glass wi' my neighbours." Many weeks had not elapsed ere Christopher discovered that his protector who was dead had been succeeded by a living persecutor. A month had not passed when he was not permitted to enter the room where the second Mrs Thornton sat. Before two went round, he was ordered to take his meals with the servants; and he could do nothing with which a fault was not found. He had often, after scraping his shoes for five minutes together, to take them off and examine them, before he durst venture into the passage leading to the kitchen, which was now the only apartment in the house to which he had access. Peter Thornton beheld the persecution which his adopted son endured; and he expostulated with his better half, that she would treat him more kindly. But she answered him, that he might have children enough of his own to provide for, without becoming a father to those of other people. Now, a stripling that is in love generally says and does many foolish things which he does not wish to have recalled to his recollection after he has turned thirty; but the middle-aged man who is so smitten invariably acts much more foolishly than the stripling. I have smiled to see them combing up their few remaining locks to cover their bald forehead, or carefully pulling away the grey hairs which appeared about their temples, and all to appear young in the eyes of some widowed or matronly divinity. I do not exactly agree with the poet who says-- "Love never strikes but once, that strikes at all!" for I think, from nineteen to five-and-twenty, there are few men (or women either) who have not felt a peculiar sensation about their hearts which they took to be love, and felt it more than once too, and which ultimately would have become love, but for particular circumstances which broke off the acquaintanceship; and, before five-and-thirty, we forget that such a feeling had existed, and laugh at, or profess to have no patience with, those who are its victims. We should always remember, however, that it is not easy to put an old head upon young shoulders, and think of how we once felt and acted ourselves; and to recollect, also, how happy, how miserable, we were in those days. Love is an abused word. Elderly people turn up their nostrils when they see it in print. They will hardly read a book where the word occurs. They will fling it away, and cry "stuff!" But, if they would look back upon their days of old, they would treat it with more respect. But the second love of your middle-aged men and women--call it _doting_, or call it by any other name, but do not call it love, for that it is not, and cannot be. Man never knows what love is, until he has experienced the worth of an affectionate wife, who for his sake would suffer all that the world's ills can inflict. Now, Peter Thornton, though not an old man, and although his first wife had certainly been dear unto him, yet he had a doting fondness for his second spouse, who obtained an ascendency over him, and, to his surprise, left him no longer master of his own house. But she bore to him a son; and, after the birth of the child, his care over Christopher every day diminished. The orphan was given over to persecution--the hand of every one was raised against him--and, finding that he had now no one to whom he could apply for redress, he lifted up his own hand in his defence. The serving-maids who ill-treated him soon found him more than their equal; and to the men-servants, when they used him roughly, he shook his head, threatening that he would soon be a match for them. The coldness which Mrs Thornton had at first manifested towards him soon relapsed into perfect hatred. He was taken from the school; and she hourly forced upon him the most menial offices. For hours together he was doomed to rock the cradle of her child, and was sure of being beaten the moment it awoke. Nor was this all--but, when friends visited her, poor Christopher was compelled to wait at the table, at which he had once sat by the side of Jenny Thornton, and whoever might be the guests, he was first served. She even provoked her husband, until he lifted his hand and struck the orphan violently--forgetting the proverb, that "they should have light hands who strike other people's bairns." The boy looked upbraidingly in Peter's face as he struck him for the first time, though he uttered no complaint; but that very look whispered to his heart, "What would Jenny have said, had she seen this?" And Peter, repenting of what he did, turned away and wept. Yet a sin that is once committed is less difficult to commit again, and remorse becomes as an echo that is sinking faint. Having, therefore, once lifted his hand against the orphan--though he then wept for having done so--it was not long until the blows were repeated without compunction. Christopher, however, was a strange boy--perhaps what some would call a provoking one--and often, when Mrs Thornton pursued him from the house to chastise him, he would hastily climb upon the tops of the houses of the farm-servants, and sitting astride upon them, nod down to her triumphantly, as with threats she shook her hand in his face; and, smiling, sing "Loudon's bonny woods and braes." But his favourite song, on such occasions, was the following, which, if it be not the exact words that he sang, embodies the sentiment-- "'Can I forget the woody braes Where love and innocence foregather; Where aft, in early summer days, I've croon'd a sang among the heather? Can I forget my father's hearth-- My mother by the ingle spinnin-- Their weel-pleased look to see the mirth O' a' their bairnies round them rinnin? 'It was a waefu hour to me, When I frae them and love departed: The tear was in my mother's ee-- My father blest me--broken-hearted; My aulder brithers took my hand-- The younkers a' ran frae me greetin! But, waur than this--I couldna stand My faithfu lassie's fareweel meetin! 'Can I forget her partin kiss, Her last fond look, and true love token? Forget an hour sae dear as this! Forget!--the word shall ne'er be spoken! Forget!--na, though the foamin sea, High hills, and mony a sweepin river, May lie between their hearth and me, My heart shall be at hame for ever.'" Now, when Christopher was pursued by his persecutor, and sought refuge on the house-tops, sitting upon them much after the fashion of a tailor, he carolled the song we have just quoted most merrily. Many, indeed, wondered that he, never having known the hearth of either a father or a mother, should have sung such a song; but it was so, and the orphan delighted to sing it. Yet we often do many things for which we find it difficult to assign a reason. There was one amusing trait in the character of Christopher; and that was, that the more vehemently Mrs Thornton scolded him, and the more bitter her imprecations against him became, so, while he sat as a tailor on the house-top, did his song wax louder and more loud, and his strain become merrier. We have heard women talk of being ready to eat the nails from their fingers with vexation, and on such occasions Mrs Thornton was so. But her anger did not amend the disposition of Christopher, though it often drew down upon him the indignation of her husband. It has already been mentioned that he struck him once; and, having done so, he felt no repugnance to do it frequently. For it is only the first time that we commit a sin that we have the horror of its commission before us. The orphan now became like unto Ishmael; for every man's hand was against him, and I might say every woman's too. Now, during the lifetime of Jenny, he had had everything his own way, and whatsoever he said was done; some said that he was a spoiled child, and it was at least evident that his humour was never thwarted. This caused him to have the more enemies now; and every menial on the farm of Peter Thornton became his persecutor. It is the common fate of all favourites--to-day they are treated with abject adulation, and to-morrow, if the sun which shone on them be clouded, no one thinks him too low to look on them with disdain. For more than three years, Christopher's life became a scene of continual martyrdom. He was now, however, a tall and powerful young man of seventeen; and many who had been in the habit of raising their hands against him found it discreet to do so no more. But Mrs Thornton was not of this number; she found some cause to lift her hand and strike the orphan, as often as he came into her presence. Even Peter, kind as he had once been, treated him almost as cruelly as his wife. It was not that he disliked him as she did; but she had soured and fretted his disposition; and, unconsciously to himself, from being the orphan's friend, he became his terror and tormentor. But one day, when the violence of Mrs Thornton far exceeded the bounds of endurance, Christopher turned upon her, and, with the revenge of a Spaniard glistening in his eyes, grasped her by the throat. She screamed aloud for help, and her husband and the farm-servants rushed to her assistance. "Back, back!" exclaimed Christopher. "Woman, give me the rings--give me the rings!--they are mine--they were my mother's!" Peter sprang forward, and grasped hold of him. "Touch me not!" exclaimed the orphan; "I will be your slave no longer! Give me the rings--my mother's rings!" Peter stood aghast at the manner of the boy. His every look, his every action, bespoke desperation. He thrust his clenched hand towards Mr Thornton, exclaiming, "Touch me not!--the rings are mine!--I will have them!" "The muckle mischief confound ye!" exclaimed Peter, with a look of half fear and bewilderment; "what in a' the world is the matter wi' ye, Christopher? Is the laddie out o' his head?" "The rings--my mother's rings!" cried the orphan; and, as he spoke, he grasped more violently the hand of Mrs Thornton. "The like o' that," said Peter, "I never saw in my existence. In my opinion, the laddie is no in his right judgment." But Christopher tore the rings from the hands of Mrs Thornton, exclaiming, "Farewell--farewell!" "The like o' that!" said Peter, in amazement, holding up his hands; "the laddie is surely daft. Follow him, some o' ye." Mrs Thornton sank down in hysterics. Her husband endeavoured to soothe and restore her; and the men-servants followed Christopher. But it was an idle task. No one had rivalled him in speed of foot, and they could not overtake him. "The time will come," he cried, as he ran, "when Peter Thornton will repent his conduct towards me. Follow me not; for the first who shall lay a hand upon me shall die." The farm-servants who pursued him were awed by his manner, and, after following him about a mile, turned back. "Where can the laddie have gone to?" said Peter; "he never took ony o' those fits in Jenny's time. I hope, wife, that ye have done nothing to him that ye ought not to have done." "Me done to him!" she cried; "ye will bring up your beggars, and this is your reward." "Mrs Thornton," answered he, "I am amazed and astonished to behold this conduct in Christopher. For more than fourteen years he has been an inmate beneath my roof; seldom have I had to quarrel him, and never until you became my wife." The words between Peter and his better half grew loud and angry; but, instead of describing their matrimonial altercations, we shall follow the orphan Christopher. But, before accompanying him in his flight from the house of Peter Thornton, we shall go back a few years, and take up another part of his history. There resided in the neighbourhood in which Christopher had been brought up one George Wilkinson, who had a daughter named Jessie. Christopher and Jessie were school-mates together; and when the other children ran hallooing from the school, they walked together, whispering, smiling at each other. It was strange that affection should have sprung up in such young hearts. But it was so. Christopher became the one absorbing thought upon which the mind of Jessie dwelt; and she became the day-dream of his being. She was comparatively a child when he left the house of his foster-father--so was he; yet, although they became thus early parted, they forgot not each other. Young as she was, Jessie Wilkinson lay on her bed and wept for the sake of poor Christopher. They indeed might be said to be but the tears of a child; yet they were tears which we can shed but once. Young as Jessie was, Christopher became the dream of her future existence. She remembered the happy days that they had passed together, when the hawthorn was in blossom or the bean was in the bloom, when they loitered together, side by side, and the air was pregnant with fragrance, while his hand would touch hers, and he would say, "Jessie!" and look in her face and wonder what he meant to have said; and she would answer him, "Christopher!" Still did those days haunt the recollection of the simple girl; and as she grew in years and stature, his remembrance became the more entwined around her heart. When she had reached the age of womanhood, other wooers offered her their hand; but she thought of the boy that had first loved her; and to him her memory clung, as the evening dawn falleth on the hills. Her father was but a poor man; and when many perceived the liking which Christopher May, the adopted son and supposed heir of the rich Peter Thornton, entertained for her, they said that nothing, or at least no good, would proceed from their acquaintance. But they who so said did not truly judge of the heart of Jessie. She was one of those who can love but once, and that once must be for ever. In their early childhood, Christopher had become a part of her earliest affection, and she now found it impossible to forget him, or shake his remembrance from her bosom. It was certainly a girl's love, and elderly people will laugh at it; but why should they laugh? They were the feelings which they once cherished--the feelings which were once dearest to them--the feelings without which they believed they could not exist--and wherefore could they blame poor Jessie for remembering what they had forgot? Many years passed, and no one heard of Christopher. Even Peter Thornton knew nothing of where he was, or what had become of him--the child of his adoption was lost to him. He heard his neighbours upbraid him with having treated the boy with cruelty; and Peter's heart was troubled. He reflected upon his wife for her conduct towards the orphan, and it gave rise to bickerings between them. Hitherto we have spoken of the unknown orphan--we must now speak of an unknown soldier. At the battle of Salamanca, amongst the men who there distinguished themselves, there was a young serjeant whose feats of valour attracted the notice of his superiors. Where the battle raged fiercest, there were the effects of his arm made visible; his impetuosity over all his enemies had attracted the notice of his superior officers. But, in the moment of victory, when the streets were lined with dead, the young hero fell, covered with bayonet wounds. A field-officer, who had been an observer of his conduct, ordered a party of his men to attempt his rescue. The life of the young hero was long despaired of; and when he recovered, several officers, in admiration of his courage, agreed to present him with a sword. It was beautifully ornamented, and bore the inscription-- _"Presented to Christopher May, serjeant in the ---- regiment of infantry, by several officers who were witnesses of the heroism he displayed at the battle of Salamanca."_ The sword was presented to him at the head of his regiment, and the officer who placed it in his hand addressed him, saying, "Young soldier, the gallant bearing which you exhibited at Salamanca has excited the admiration of all who beheld it. The officers of your own regiment, therefore, and others, have deemed it their duty to present you with this sword, as a reward of merit, and a testimony of the admiration with which your heroism has inspired them. I have now the gratification of placing it in the hands of a brave man. Take it, and if your parents yet live, it will be a trophy of which they will be proud, and which your posterity will exhibit with admiration." "My parents!" said the young soldier, with a sigh; "alas, sir! I never knew one whom I could call by the endearing name of father or of mother. I am an orphan--an unknown one. I believe I am not even an Englishman, but a native of the land for the freedom of which we now fight!" "You a Spaniard!" said the officer, with surprise; "it is impossible--neither your name nor features bespeak you to belong to this nation. But you say that you never knew your parents--what know you of your history?" "Little, indeed," he replied; and as he spoke, the officers gathered around him, and he continued--"I have been told that in the month of May, four-and-twenty years ago, the dead body of a woman was found in a farm-yard, about fifteen miles north of Newcastle. She was dressed in Spanish costume, and a child of about three years of age hung weeping on her bosom. I was that child; and I have been told that the few words I could then lisp were Spanish. The kind-hearted wife of the honest Northumbrian who found me brought me up as her own child; and while she lived, I might almost have said I had a mother. But at her death, I found indeed that I had neither parent, kindred, nor country, but that I was in truth, what some called me in derision, '_The Unknown_.' I entered the army, and have fought in defence of the land to which I believe I belong. This only do I know of my history, or of who or what I am." While the young serjeant spoke, every eye was bent upon him interestedly; but there was one who was moved even to tears. He was an officer of middle age, named Major Ferguson. He approached the gallant youth, he gazed earnestly in his face. "You say that you were about three years old," he said, "when you were found clinging to the breast of your mother; have you no remembrance of her--no recollection of the name by which you were then called?" "None! none!" answered the other. "I sometimes fancy that, as the vague remembrance of a dream, I recollect clinging around my mother's neck, and kissing her cold lips; but whether it indeed be remembrance, or merely the tale that has been often told me, I am uncertain. I often imagine, also, that her beautiful features yet live in my memory, though with the indistinctness of an ethereal being--like a vapour that is dying away on the far horizon; and I am uncertain, also, whether the fair vision that haunts me be indeed a dim remembrance of what my mother was, or a creation of my brain." The interest of the scene was heightened by the resemblance which Major Ferguson and the young serjeant bore to each other. All observed it--all expressed their surprise--and the major, in his turn, began his tale. "Your features, young man," said he, "and your story, have drawn tears to the eyes of an old soldier. Thirty years ago I was in this country, and became an inmate in the house of a rich merchant in Madrid. His name was Valdez, and he had an only daughter called Maria. When I first beheld her, she was about nineteen, and a being more beautiful I had never seen--I have not seen. Affection sprang up between us; for it was impossible to look on her and not love. Her father, though he at first expressed some opposition to our wishes, on the ground of my being a Protestant, at length gave his consent, and Maria became my wife. For several months our happiness was as a dream--as a summer sky where there is no cloud. But our days of felicity were of short continuance. We have all heard of the revengeful disposition of the Spanish people, and it was our lot to be its victims. I have said that it was impossible to look upon the face of Maria, and not love; and many of the grandees and wealthiest citizens of Madrid sought her hand. Amongst the former was a nephew of an Inquisitor. He vowed to have his revenge--and he has had it. In the dead of night, a band of ruffians burst into the bedchamber of Maria's father, and dragged him to the dungeons of the Inquisition. For several weeks, and we could learn nothing of what had become of him; but his property was seized and confiscated, as though he had been a common felon. My wife was then the mother of an infant son, and I endeavoured to effect our concealment, until an opportunity of escaping to England might be found. We had approached within a hundred yards of the vessel, when a band of armed men rushed upon us. They overpowered me; and while one party bore away my wife and child, others dragged me into a carriage, one holding a pistol to my breast, while another tied a bandage over my eyes. They continued to drive with furious rapidity for about six hours, when I was torn from the carriage, and dragged between the ruffians through numerous winding passages. I heard the grating of locks and the creaking of bolts, as they proceeded. Door succeeded door, groaning on their unwilling hinges, as they ascended stairs, and descended others, in an interminable labyrinth. Still the men who hurried me onward maintained a sullen silence; and no sound was heard, save the clashing of prison doors, and the sepulchral echo of their footsteps ringing through the surrounding dungeons. They at length stopped. A cord, suspended from a block in the roof was fastened round my waist; and, when one, turning a sort of windlass, which communicated with the other end of the cord, raised me several feet from the ground, his comrade drew a knife, and cut asunder the fastenings that bound my arms. While one, holding the handle of the machine, kept me hanging in the air, other two applied a key to a large, square stone in the floor, which, aided by a spring, they with some difficulty raised, and revealed a yawning opening to a dungeon, yet deeper and more dismal than that which formed its entrance. The moment my hands were at liberty, I tore the bandage from my eyes, and perceiving, through the aid of a dim lamp that flickered in a corner of the vault, the horror of my situation, I struggled in desperation. But my threatenings and my groans were answered only by their hollow echoes, or the more dismal laughter of my assassins. "Down--down!" vociferated both voices to their companion, as the stone was raised; and, in a moment, I was plunged into the dark mouth of the dungeon. I uttered a cry of agony louder and longer than the rest; and, as my body sunk into the abyss, I clutched its edge in despair. One of the ruffians sprang forward, and, blaspheming as he raised his foot, dashed his iron heels upon my fingers. Mine was the grasp of a dying man; and, thrusting forward my right hand, I seized the ankle of the monster, who attempted to kick me in the face. With my left I strengthened my hold, and my body plunging downward with the movement, dragged after me the wretch, who, uttering a piercing shriek, as his head dashed on the brink of the fearful dungeon, escaped instantly from my grasp, and with an imprecation on his tongue, he was plunged headlong into darkness many fathoms deep. Startled by the cry of his comrade, the other sprang from the machine by which he was lowering me into the vault, and I in consequence descended with the violence of a stone driven from a strong arm. But, before I reached the bottom, the cord by which I hung was expended, and I swung in torture between the sides of the dungeon. In this state of agony I remained for several minutes, till one of the miscreants cutting the rope, I fell with my face upon the bloody and mangled body of their accomplice; and the huge stone was placed over us, enveloping both in darkness, solid and substantial as the pit of wrath itself. "A paralysing feeling of horror and surprise, and the violence with which I fell upon the mangled body of my victim, for a time deprived me of all consciousness of my situation; nor was it until the convulsive groans of the bleeding wretch beneath me recalled me in some measure to a sense of other miseries than my own, that a remembrance of the past, and a feeling of the present, opened upon my mind, like the confused terror of a dismal dream. I rose slowly to my feet, and, disengaging myself from the rope by which I was suspended into the vault, endeavoured to look around the walls of my prison-house--but all was dark as the grave. Recollecting the part sustained in seizing me by the wounded man, who still groaned and writhed at my feet, I darted fiercely upon him; and hurling him from the ground, exclaimed, 'Villain!--tell me or die!--where am I? or by whom am I brought here?' A loud, long yell of terror, accompanied by violent and despairing struggles, like a wild beast tearing from the paws of a lion, was the only answer returned by the miserable being. And as the piteous and heart-piercing yell rang round the cavern, and its echoes, multiplying in darkness, at length died away, leaving silence more dolorous than ourselves, I felt as a man from the midst of a marriage-feast, suddenly thrust into the cells of Bedlam; where, instead of the music of the harp and the lute, was the shriek and the clanking chains of insanity; for bridal ornaments, the madman's straw; and for the gay dance, the convulsions of the maniac, and the sorrowful gestures of idiocy. Every feeling of indignation passed away--my blood grew cold--the skin moved upon my flesh--I again laid the wretched man on the damp earth, and fearfully groped to the opposite side of the dungeon. "As I moved around, feeling through the dense darkness of my prison, I found it a vast square, its sides composed merely of the rude strata of earth or rock; and measuring nearly six times the length of my extended arms. As often as I moved, bones seemed to crackle beneath my feet; and a noise, like the falling of armour and the sounding of steel, accompanied the crumbling fragments. Once I stooped to ascertain the cause, and raising a heavy body, a part of it fell with a loud, hollow crash among my feet, leaving the lighter portion in my hands. It was a round bony substance, covered, and partly filled, with damp, cold dust. I was neither superstitious nor a coward; but, as I drew my hand around it, my body quivered, the hair upon my head moved, and my heart felt heavy. It was the form of a human skull. The damp dust had once been the temple of a living soul. My fingers entered the sockets of the eyes--the teeth fell in my hands--and the still fresh and dewy hair twined around it. I shuddered--it fell from my grasp--the chill of death passed over me. The horrid conviction that I was immured in a living grave absorbed every other feeling; and smiting my brow in horror, I threw myself, with a groan, amidst the dead of other years. "I again sprang to my feet, with the undetermined and confused wildness of despair. The mournful howlings of the assassin continued to render the horrid sepulchre still more horrible, and gave to its darkness a deeper ghostliness. Dead to every emotion of sympathy, stricken with dismal realities, and more terrible imaginations, yet burning for revenge, directed by the howlings of the miserable man, and hesitating to distinguish between them and their incessant echoes, stretching my hands before me, I again approached him, to extort a confession of the cause and place of my imprisonment, or rather living burial. Vainly I raised him from the ground--threatening, soothing, and expostulation were alike unavailing. On hearing my voice, the miserable being shrieked with redoubled bitterness, plunged furiously, and gnashed his teeth, fastening them, in the extremity of his frenzy, in his own flesh. His fierce agony recalled to my bosom an emotion of pity; and, for a moment, forgetful of my own injuries and condition, I thought only of relieving his suffering; but my presence seemed to add new madness to his tortures; and he tore himself from my hold with the lamentable yells of a tormented mastiff, and the strength of a giant who, in the last throe of expiring nature, grapples with his conqueror. He reeled wildly a few paces, and fell, with a crash, upon the earth. "Slowly and dismally the hours moved on, with no sound to measure their progress, save the audible beating of my own heart, and the death-like howling moan of my companion. As I leaned against the wall, counting these dismal divisions of time, which appeared thus fearfully to mete out the duration of my existence, through the black darkness, whose weight had become oppressive to my eyeballs, I beheld, far above me, on the opposite wall, a faint shadow, like the ghost of light, streaking its side, but so indistinct and imperfect, I knew not whether it was fancy or reality. With the earnestness of death, my eyes remained fixed on the 'gloomy light;' and it threw upon my bosom a hope dim as itself. Again I doubted its existence--deemed it a creation of my brain; and groping along the damp floor, where my hand seemed passing over the ribs of a skeleton, I threw a loose fragment in the air, towards the point from whence the doubted glimmering proceeded; and perceived, for a moment, as it fell, the shadow of a substance. Then, springing forward to the spot, I gasped to inhale, with its feeble ray, one breath that was not agony. "Thirst burned my lips, and, to cool them, they were pressed against the damp walls of the prison; but my tongue was still dry--my throat parched--and hunger began to prey upon me. While thus suffering, a faint light streamed from a narrow opening in the roof of the vault. Slowly a feeble lamp was lowered through the aperture, and descended within two or three feet of my head. A small basket, containing a portion of bread and a pitcher of water, suspended by a cord, was let down into the vault. I seized the pitcher, as I would have rushed upon liberty; and raising it to my lips, as the pure, grateful beverage allayed the fever of my thirst, I shed a solitary tear, and, in the midst of my misery, that tear was a tear of joy--like the morning-star gilding the horizon, when the surrounding heavens are wrapped in tempest. With it the feelings of the Christian and the man met in my bosom; and, bending over my fellow-sufferer, I applied the water to his lips. The poor wretch devoured the draught to its last drop with greediness. "The presence and the unceasing groans of my companion--yea, the dungeon and darkness themselves--were forgotten in the one deadening and bitter idea, that my wife and child were also captives, and in the power of ruffians. If any other thought was indulged a moment, it was longing for liberty, that I might fly to their rescue--and it was then only that I became again sensible of captivity; and my eyes once more sought the dubious gleam that stretched fitfully across the wall, becoming more evident to perception as I became inured to the surrounding blackness. Hope burned and brightened, as I traced the source of its dreamy shadows; and from thence weaved plans of escape, which, in the calculation of fancy, were already as performed; though, before reason and common possibilities, they would have perished as the dewy nets that, with the damps of an autumnal morning, overspread the hawthorn with their spangled lacework, and, before the rising sunbeam, shrink into nothing. "But gradually my grief and despair subsided, and gave place to the cheering influence of hope, and the resolution of attempting my escape; and I rose to eat the bread and drink the water of captivity, to strengthen me for the task. For many hours, the presence of my companion had been forgotten; he still continued to howl, as one whom the horrors of an accusing conscience were withholding from the grasp of death; and I, roused from the reverie of my feelings and projects at the sound of his sufferings, hastened to apply water and morsels of bread to the lips of my perishing fellow-prisoner; for bread and water had been lowered into the vault. "In order to carry my plan of escape into effect, for the first time, aided by the lamp that was suspended over me, I gazed inquisitively, and with a feeling of dismay, around the Golgotha in which I was immured. There lay my hideous companion, the foam of pain and insanity gurgling from his mouth; beside him the skeleton of a mailed warrior, and around, the uncoffined bones of four others, partly covered with their armour, and 'The brands yet rusted in their bony hands.' "Although prepared for such a scene, I placed my hands before my eyes, shuddering at the thought of becoming as one of those--of being their companion while I lived--of lying down by the side of a skeleton to die! The horror of the idea fired anew my resolution, and added more than human strength to my arm. I again eagerly sought the direction of the doubtful gleam, which formerly filled me with hope; and was convinced that from thence an opening might be effected, if not to perfect liberty, to a sight of the blessed light of heaven, where freedom, I dreaded not, would easily be found. Filled with determination, which no obstacle could impede, I took one of the swords, which had lain by the side of its owner untouched for ages, and with this instrument commenced the laborious and seemingly impossible task of cutting out a flight of steps in the rude wall, and thereby gaining the invisible aperture from which something like light was seen to emanate. The ray proceeded from an extreme angle of the dungeon, and apparently at its utmost height. The materials on which I had to work were chiefly a hard granite rock, and other lighter, but scarce more manageable strata. "Several anxious and miserable weeks thus passed in sluggish succession. Half of my task was accomplished; and hope, with impatience, looked forward to its completion. I still divided my scanty meals with my companion, who, although recovered from the bruises occasioned by his fall, was become more horrible and fiend-like than before. As his body resumed its functions, his mind became the terrible imaginings of a guilty conscience. He had either lost, or forgotten, the power of walking upright, and prowled, howling round the dungeon, on his hands and feet; while his dark bushy beard and revolting aspect gave him more the manner and appearance of a wild beast than a human being. "Our portion of food being barely sufficient for the sustenance of one, hunger had long been added to the list of our sufferings; but particularly to those of the maniac. And, with the cunning peculiar to such unfortunates, he watched the return of the basket, which was daily lowered with provisions, and frequently before I--who, absorbed in the completion of my task, forgot or heeded not my jailer's being within hearing--could descend to the ground, he would grasp the basket, swallow off the water at a draught, and hurry with the bread to a corner of a dungeon; thus leaving me without food for the next twenty-four hours. "It was at the period when I had half completed my object, that my companion, springing, as was his wont, upon the basket, before I could approach to withhold him, succeeded in draining off the contents of a goblet, in which a few drops of a dark-coloured liquid still remained; and the pitcher of water was untouched. The wretched maniac had swallowed the draught but a few minutes, when, rolling himself together, his screams and contortions became more frightful than before, and increased in virulence for an hour. He lay motionless a few seconds, gasping for breath; then, springing suddenly to his feet, he gazed wistfully above and around him, with a look of extreme agony, and exclaiming, 'Heaven help me!' he rushed fiercely towards the wall in the opposite direction to where I was attempting to effect my escape, gave one furious pull at what appeared the solid rock, and, with a groan, fell back, and expired. "When the horror occasioned by his death in some degree abated, the singularity of the manner in which he tore at the wall of the dungeon, fixed my attention; and, with almost frantic joy, I perceived that a portion of the hitherto thought impenetrable rock, had yielded several inches to his dying grasp. I hastily removed the body, and pulling eagerly at the unloosed fragment, it fell upon the ground, a rough unhewn lump of granite, leaving an opening of about two feet square in the rude rocky wall, from which it was so cut, as to seem to feeling and almost appearance a solid part of it. "My task was now abandoned. The gleam of light, which for weeks was to me an object of such intense interest, proceeded from a mere hairbreadth cleft in the rock. Taking up a sword which lay upon the ground, I drew my body into the aperture formed by the removal of the piece of rock; and creeping slowly on my hands and knees, groping with the weapon before me, I at length found the winding and dismal passage sufficiently lofty to permit me to stand erect. I seemed enveloped in an interminable cavern, now opening into spacious chambers, clothed with crystal; again losing itself in low passages, or narrow chinks of the rock, and suddenly terminating in a slippery precipice, beneath which gurgling waters were heard to run. Hours and hours passed; still I was groping onward; when I suddenly found my hopes cut off, by the interposition of a precipice. I probed fearfully forward with the sword, but all was an unsubstantial void; I drew it on each side, and then it met but the solid walls. I knelt, and reached down the sword to the length of my arm, but it touched nothing. In agony, I dropped the weapon, by its sound to ascertain the depth; and, delighted, found it did not exceed eight or ten feet. I cautiously slid down, and groping around, again placed my hand upon the sword. Though my heart occasionally sank within me, yet the overcoming of each difficulty lent its inspiring aid to overcome its successor. Often every hope appeared extinct. Now I ascended, or again descended the dropping and crystalled rocks; now crept into openings, which suddenly terminated, and turning again, anxiously listened to the sound of the rippling water as my only guide. Often, in spite of every precaution, I was stunned with a blow from the abrupt lowness of the roof, or suddenly plunged to the arms in the numerous pools, whose waters had been dark from their birth. "Language cannot convey an idea of the accumulating horrors of my situation. Struggling with suffocation, with a feeling more awful than terror, and with despair, the agony of darkness must be _experienced_ to be imagined. "Still I moved on; and suddenly, when ready to sink, wearied, fainting, hopeless, the glorious light of day streamed upon my sight. I bounded forward with a wild shout; but the magnificent sun, bursting from the eastern heavens, blinded my unaccustomed gaze. "I again found that I was free: but my wife--my child--where were they? It was many years before I learned that the nephew of the inquisitor, who had sought her hand, having died, she regained her liberty, and fled with our infant son to Scotland, to seek the home of her lost husband. Since then I have never heard of them again." When the major had thus concluded his narrative, "Here," said Christopher, "are two rings which were taken from the fingers of my mother--both bear inscriptions." The old officer gazed upon them. "They were hers--my Maria's!" he exclaimed; "I myself placed them upon her fingers. Son of my Maria, thou art mine!" The major purchased a commission for his long-lost son; and when peace was proclaimed throughout Europe, they returned to Northumberland together, where Christopher gave his sword as a memorial to his foster-father, Peter Thornton, and his hand to Jessie Wilkinson. THE TRIALS OF MENIE DEMPSTER. In the contemplation of the affairs of the world, there is perhaps nothing that strikes a philosophical observer with more wonder than what has been quaintly called the mutability of truth. With the exception of some of the best ascertained laws of matter, and the evidences and sanctions of our holy religion, there is scarcely anything around us that can be said to be absolutely determined and ascertained in all its bearings--including the influential cause, in a chain extending its unseen links through many minds; the proximate cause, involved in the dark recesses of the soul of the actor; and the effects, spread forth in endless ramification through society. Men are judged of, condemned, hanged, reviled, ruined, elevated, applauded, and rewarded upon less than a thousandth part of the real moral truth that is evident to the eye of the Almighty; and it too often happens, that what seems to be best ascertained by the united testimony of many soothfast witnesses, is after all little better than a lie, or an invention of men's minds, rolled up in the clouds of prejudice, selfishness, or hallucination. This truth, of no truth, is apparent to all thinking men; and yet how melancholy is it to reflect that we are so constructed that we cannot but live and act upon the principle and practice that we see the whole, when we see only an insignificant part, that, if observed in the midst of the general array brought out by divine light, would appear not only a speck, but by the influence of surrounding evidence, changed in its nature, and reversed in its object and bearing! It was but a partial, though a striking illustration of this fact, that the murder which Sir Walter Raleigh saw committed with his own eyes from the Tower window came to him so distorted and changed, through the medium of public and judicial report, that he could scarcely recognise in it the lineaments of the vision of his senses; for if the act he witnessed performed in the streets of London were falsified by the errors or inventions of man, how little could have been known of the motives that led to its commission! This subject, if carried out, might open up a dreadful array of the effects of man's conceit and blindness, exhibiting innocent individuals paying the penalty of death for the crimes of others; characters without a stain immolated at the shrine of public prejudice; and innocence suffering in ten thousand different ways under the cruel scorn of the bloodthirsty Chiun of a blind yet self-sufficient public. We are led into these observations by the facts of a curious case of false implication that occurred near Edinburgh many years ago, from which, besides the interest it may inspire, we may learn the lesson of that charity which our blessed Saviour laboured so much to make a ruling principle in the men of the world, but with a success that might form a melancholy theme for the fair investigations of philanthropists. In the village of Old Broughton, situated on the north of the old town of Edinburgh, and now nearly swallowed up by the surrounding masses of architectural grandeur that compose the new town of that proud city, there lived (we love the good old style of beginning a story) the old widow of William Dempster, who long officiated in the capacity of precentor in the ancient kirk of the Tron; where his voice, loud as that of Cycloborus, stirred the sleeping power of vocal worship in the breasts of the good citizens. His voice had long been mute, not as that of Elihu, who trembled to speak to the Lord, but as that of those who lie in the mould till that day when there shall be no hindrance by the chilling hand of death, to sing the praises of the King of heaven and earth. Yet the voice of thanksgiving was not silent in the house of the widow and fatherless, where old Euphan, as she was styled, and her pretty daughter Menie, lived that life whose enjoyments the proud may despise, but whose end and reward they may envy in vain. It may not be that it was their choice (as whose choice is it?) to be poor; but it was their wisdom to know, as expressed by old Boston, that it may be more pleasant to live in a palace, but it is more easy to die in a cottage. The characters of these individuals, who happily never dreamed of forming heroines in the "Border Tales," can be best appreciated by those who lived in the last century; for in these jaunty days, when the sun of perfectibility is beginning to dawn on the moral horizon of a once sinful world, the contentment that is derived from a trust in heaven, and the pride that is begotten of a virtue that rejoices in itself, are more often pictured by the pen of the fictioneer than found in the place and personages that be. The representations of our old painter, George Jamesone, would be true as applied to Euphan Dempster and her daughter; for the dresses of the women of Scotland underwent small change until the eventful era of the nineteenth century; but we need them not--for our faithful memory has treasured the description of our parent, who lived to set forth the old representative of the Covenanters, sitting with her linsey-woolsey gown, of green or cramosie, made close in the sleeves--the body tight, and peaked in the form of the old separate bodice--the huge swelling skirt of many folds, twined out at the pocket-holes, and open in front, to show the bright-coloured petticoat of callimankey--her round-eared mutch that served the purpose of bonnet and coif--her clear-bleached tuck, with its row of mother-of-pearl buttons running down the front--and her hose of white woollen, that disappeared at the extremities in the shoe, whose high-turned heels gave a kind of dignity to the step of the poor. The dress of the mother in those days was almost that of the daughter, with the exception of the head-gear, which, in the latter, was limited to a band of black velvet (the _bandeau_), to restrain the flowing locks; and, high as the word velvet may sound, there were few maidens, however poor, that wanted the small strip of the costly material that now is seen covering the whole persons of the wives of rich tradesmen. Such were the external characteristics of the inhabitants of the old red-tiled dwelling, so long known by the name of Dominie Dempster's House, in the village of Old Broughton; and, if we will form a character out of a combination of the virtues that dignified and graced the wives and daughters of the old Cameronians, we might make a fair approach to the dispositions and habits of this solitary pair, whose earthly stay and support being gone, trusted implicitly to Heaven, for what Heaven has seldom denied to the good. The mother was one of those happily-constituted beings, whose minds are so completely formed, as it were, upon the Bible, that not only were her actions regulated by the precepts of the holy book, but her thoughts were naturally and almost unconsciously expressed in Scripture language; nor could it be said that, dearly as she loved the old defenders of our faith, who reared their temples among the mountains, and died on the altars, she imitated their speech and manners merely because she loved their virtues--she only drew from the same fountain from which they drew; and the water that slaked their thirst in the wilderness of their persecution sustained her in the hour of her privation. Obeying the holy behest, "Let thine heart retain my words," she made the religion of Christ "the life of her soul;" and that which was a part of her spirit could not fail to regulate her conversation. An heir of an ever-blessed eternity, in which she believed soon to enter, the only worldly feeling that bound her to life was her desire to see her beloved Menie exhibit the fruits of her parental culture as fair to the eye of virtue, as the many simple beauties of her person--her blooming Scotch face, with the blue eye, and cheek that rivalled the peach in softness and colour; her mermaiden hair, and the graces of an almost perfect harmony of proportions--were to the eye of the admirer of female loveliness. And this the mother had already in part seen in the evolution of all those estimable qualities of the heart, that, when joined to physical beauty, form the fairest object among all the fair creatures of this fair but fleeting world. It is a trite saying, that female beauty seldom brings happiness to the possessor, even when it is combined with that goodness that ought to guard the children of virtue from the evils of life; and this was to some extent verified by almost the first of the acts of our younger heroine's intercourse with the world; for she secured the heart of a lover even against her own will, and, with the unsought-for boon, got unwittingly the envy, and deep but concealed hatred, of her earliest friend and companion. The son of the farmer of the Mains of Inverleith, a property in the neighbourhood, George Wallace, had for some time been paying his addresses to Margaret Grierson, the daughter of the occupant of one of the small cottages of Broughton; and his success was in proportion to the attractions of a fine manly figure, and considerable power of that species of conversation which, with love ever on its wings, finds a ready access to the hearts of women. Though his passion had not been declared, it had, by the anticipative selfishness of the sex, been assumed and claimed by the object of his attentions; and Menie had been so far made a confidant of her companion, as to be intrusted with the secret of a love which had as yet been declared only on one side. The communication was sufficient to prevent the simple friend, even if there had been in her disposition any spirit of rivalship--a feeling which found no place in her breast--from presenting even an opportunity for Wallace discovering in her qualities with which her companion could not have competed; and she uniformly maintained, in the presence of the lovers, a quiet reserve, which afforded pleasure to the one, but, perhaps, only tended to quicken in the other a comparison that operated in a manner contrary to the wishes of the confidant. Time, and the frequent meetings and wanderings by the banks of the Leith--then comparatively a sweet and rural stream, especially about the low grounds of Warriston and Inverleith--soon elicited the merits of the two companions; and Wallace was not slow to perceive that, fair and interesting as his first object had appeared to him, she was eclipsed in all the finest attributes of woman by her who had never taken the trouble to display her estimable properties. The reserve of the one--the result of a natural modesty, and of a strict training according to the rules of the wisest of men--set off the freedom of the other as little better than forwardness; while her excellent sense, and an inborn susceptibility of the finest and purest feelings of the sex, whether stirred by the flowers of the field arrayed in their simple beauties, or the heaven-born genius of virtue working its pleasant ways in the hearts of man, brought out, by a contrast dangerous to her friend, the defects of a character that Wallace, in his first blindness, had taken for perfections. The result might have been anticipated by all but the unwitting possessor herself of virtues of which she was unconscious; and it was with no affected surprise that, one night, when walking by the moonlight along the brattling Leith, she heard poured into her ear a strain of impassioned sentiments that ought to have been reserved for another, who had a prior and a better right to them. The startled girl flew home to her mother, and narrated, as nearly as she could recollect, the high-flown expressions of Wallace's changed love; not forgetting to add, that the young man had declared upon his honour that he had never declared any affection for her companion. Overpowered with sorrow for her friend, the tear glistened in her eye as she sat and told her simple tale to her mother, who lifted up her face from the open book, to observe in the delicate workings of a well-trained heart the fruits of her maternal care. "Your sorrow for Margaret Grierson, child," she said, "is a scented offering to auld friendships; but 'when thou wilt do good, know to whom thou doest it, so shalt thou be thanked for thy benefits.' I like not the bearing and manners o' yer companion, for I hae seen in her the office o' whisperer, and the fascinations o' the singer, wha would kindle love by her smiles, and unholy discord by her wiles. Her vanity, like the gaudy streamers o' her head-gear, winnows wi' every wind but that which comes frae the airth, whar God's chastening tribulations hae their holy birth. Ye may be surprised to hear me speak thus o' ane wha has sae lang enjoyed the first place in your young affections; but my auld een hae a quick turn in them when vanity rideth abroad. She has other lovers than George Wallace, and other places and other trystin-trees than the banks o' Leith, or the auld willow that grows by the horse's pool, at the foot o' the bonny brae o' Warriston. Sorrows she for George Wallace, think ye, when she sits amang the ruins o' the hospital o' Greenside, and hears the love tale o' vanities frae the lips o' secret lovers?" "A' that's new to me, mother," answered the daughter. "I never dreamed that Peggy had ony ither than George. Wha are they, and how cam ye by the knowledge?" "Never mind, Menie," said the mother, "how I cam by the knowledge. Though my eyes, like Jeremiah's, are auld, and do fail with tears, I hae neither the blindness o' the mole nor the deafness o' the adder. But let thae things alone; we hae nae right to pry into the secrets o' our neighbours' ways, albeit they may savour o' the vanities o' Baal. It is enough for me that I warn ye against the 'lamps o' fire' that scorch as well as light. George Wallace is a rich and an honest man's son; and if, as I believe, he has plighted nae troth with the follower o' vanities and double-loves, ye're no bound to reject his affections. Can your heart receive him, Menie?" "Ou ay," replied the maiden, as she held down her head, and seemed afraid of the strange sounds of her own words. "I hae seen nae man yet like George Wallace, and I hae chided my puir heart for sometimes envying Peggy o' his affections. But are we not told to change not a freend for the gold of Ophir?" "Surely, child," responded the mother--"a true freend o' God's election is better than fine gold; but she who seeketh vanity understands not the name o' freendship, and her kisses are as those o' the serpent. Seek nae mair the society o' Margaret Grierson; leave her to her secret thoughts and secret lovers, and turn your heart to him wha has routh o' means to support ye, and whase love is the love o' the heart that kens nae guile." The counsel of her parent was ever a law to the daughter; but there was something in the advice she now gave that exercised an influence over Menie's heart, or rather there was something in the heart itself, of a nature hitherto unknown to its possessor, that acknowledged and recognised the influence as more congenial to her feelings than any authority of spoken wisdom (though founded on the words of the son of Sirach) she had yet submitted to. The secret of this feeling lay in the well-springs of an affection that had been pent up by her sense of honour; but now, when she found that she was justified in giving her heart its natural freedom to love the choice of her judgment, she lent in aid of its operations the creations of a young and glowing fancy, which soon pictured so many exquisite forms of beauty, both of mind and person, in the object of her rising affection, that, before another morning had dawned on her, she had become versant in the secret and sweet mystery of sighs and throbbings, hopes, fears, and aspirations, of experienced lovers. She now wished as ardently for another meeting with Wallace, as she had done for a separation on the occasion of their last interview. Nor did she wish in vain; for he, with a passion roused into a warmer flame by her resisting coyness and startled apprehension, sought her anxiously, to renew his suit, and remove all the scruples of conscience that lay in the way of a passion to be, as he hoped, returned. He little knew that part of the work had been already done to his hand by a mother's cherished counsel; and his joy may be more easily conceived than expressed, even by the electric words of love's inspired power, when he found that Menie not only loved him, but conceived she had a good title to repay him with a warmth of affection equal to that of his own. He was now a frequent visiter at her mother's house; and though he knew that all his motions were watched by her whom he had thus abruptly, though, perhaps, not without just cause, forsaken, he kept steady in his new attachment, and avowed openly a love of which the best man of his station in Scotland might have been proud. The affection that is hallowed by the blessing of such a parent as Menie's possessed a good title to be excepted from the ordinary proverbial fate of the loves of the humble; but, unfortunately, the adverse circumstances, that, like harpies, follow the victims of the tender passion, acknowledged no limit to the sources from which they spring. The rejected maiden pursued her successful rival with all the bitterness of disappointment and envy; odious calumnies were fabricated, given to the tongue of inveterate scandal, and found their way to the sensitive ear of her whom they were intended to ruin. Unacquainted with the ways of a bad world, every individual in which she judged by the test of her own pure feeling--the universal error of young and unchilled hearts--her pain was equalled by her surprise, and she sought consolation on the breast of her lover, as they reclined upon the sloping and wood-covered banks of Inverleith. "I hae bought ye dearly," said she, as she looked up in his face through her tears, "when, for your love, I paid the peace o' mind that was never troubled with the breath o' a dishonourable suspicion. The hail o' Broughton rings with the report that I betrayed my freend to secure your affections, and that I am unworthy o' them, as being a follower o' unlawful loves. My eyes hae never been dry since my heart was struck with the false charge. I hae looked to heaven, and found nae relief. My mother has tried to comfort me, by telling me o' the waes o' Ane higher than mortal man, wha was pursued to the death by envy and malice, and wha yet triumphed. You, George, hae alane the power to comfort me. Tell me that ye heed them not, and I will yet try to hold up my head among the honest daughters o' men." "If ye heed them as little's I heed them, Menie," replied he, "there will be sma skaith though muckle scorn. Dry up your tears, love, and tell me if it is true" (and he laughed in playful mockery of her fears) "that you keep the weekly tryst, by the elm in Leith Loan, with the notorious Mike M'Intyre, the city guardsman?" "George, George!--Oh man, how can ye mak light o' the sorrows o' yer ain Menie?" said the girl, as she heard the calumny come from the lips of her lover. "That is Margaret Grierson's charge against me; and, if ye knew that every word o' the falsehood gaes to my heart like the tongue o' the deaf adder--ay, even though they come on the wings o' yer playfu laugh--ye wad rather gie me the tears o' your pity than the consolation o' your mirth." "And what better way, Menie, could I tak to prove my faith in my love's honesty," said he, as he clasped her in his arms, "than by dispersing the poisoned lie by the breath o' a hearty laugh. Nae mair o't--nae mair o't, Menie--I believe it not; and that ye may hae some faith in my statement, I'll put a question to ye. Will ye answer me fairly, wi' the truth and sincerity that your mother draws frae the fountain o' a' guidness--her auld Bible--and pours into yer heart in the dreary hour o' late, even as ye retire into the keepin o' Him who looks down on sleepin' innocence with the eye of love?" "Ay will I, George," answered the maiden, "with the openness and sincerity with which I lay my sins on the footstool o' Heaven's mercy." "Will ye consent to be George Wallace's wife on Fastern's E'en, and leave the city guardsman to your rival?" "I am already yours, George," answered she, as she buried her head in his bosom, to conceal her blushes--"I am already yours, by a plighted faith that never will be broken; and it may be even as you say; but I wish nae ill to my enemies, and will spae nae waur fortune to Margaret Grierson, wha has injured me, than that she may get as guid a husband as you will, I trust, be to me." "Kind, guid creature!" responded Wallace. "If the first part o' yer answer maks ye mine for life, the ither proves that ye are worthy o' me; for she wha wishes nae ill to her enemies will never do wrang by her freends. Gae and report to your mother what I hae said. The time is yet distant: but hope gies light wings to the hours o' lovers." The two parted; and Menie, seeking the nearest way to her home, hurried along, her heart beating high with unutterable emotions, and with all the pain she had felt from the evil reports of her rival drowned in the intoxicating pleasure of being the betrothed of the man she loved. The moon, which had been throwing her silver light o'er the dark foliage that overhung the Leith, and catching a look of her own face in the waters through the opening branches, was now half-concealed behind a cloud; and as the maiden passed along by the side of the stream, she required to restrain the flutter of her spirits, to enable her to thread her way by the narrow footpath. The ecstatic emotions of her novel situation, and the hurry of her progress, made her breathless, and she paused to recover herself, when she observed two individuals sitting by the side of the water. A loud laugh struck her ear; and she did not require to speculate as to the individuals from whom it came--for a voice she too well knew followed, with words of reproach that shook her to the heart. It was that of her former companion; and a glance satisfied her that she was in the society of that very individual, M'Intyre, the city guardsman, with whose name her own had been so cruelly and invidiously connected. In an instant the notorious individual was by her side. "I've waited for ye, Menie," he began, "till the mune has waned and sunk behind the Pentlands. How hae ye been sae lang, woman, when ye ken sae weel the impatience o' a true lover, and that I maun be on the city watch on the morrow, and canna meet ye? Mak amends, and let us roam a wee amang the birken woods, whar the absence o' the mune will be nae hindrance to our loves." And before she could reply, he had his arms round her neck, and was pulling her away among the trees. The apparition of the very individual of whom she had been conversing with Wallace, and whose name was a terror to her, with the fearful consciousness of the pollution of his embrace, took away from her all power of resistance; her knees trembled; she tried to reply to him, but could not; and a weak scream, that almost died in her throat, was the only show of ineffectual resistance she could oppose to his efforts. A few minutes enabled her to rally her powers; and she had turned to wrest herself from his arms, when she saw Wallace standing at a little distance among the trees. He had that very instant come up; and there was something in the cool, piercing look he threw at her, that repressed the inchoate scream for relief that she struggled to utter; and the hands she held out to him imploring his succour fell nerveless within the grasp of the man who held her. Upon the point of fainting, she would have sunk to the ground, had she not been upheld by the force of her tormentor; and, in turning her eyes again in the direction of Wallace, she observed he had vanished. The scream, no longer restrained, burst forth; but it came too late; for, if Wallace heard it in his retreat, he might justly attribute it to his own appearance at a time when he might suppose himself an unwelcome intruder. At that moment two men came in sight; and the city guardsman, probably afraid of being recognised, released her from his grasp, and retreated to the position he had left by the side of her who sat awaiting in laughter for his arrival. The instant she was liberated, the frightened maiden flew with the speed of terror homewards--all her energies wound up in the mere effort to increase her irregular progress, and without the capability of feeling the true and fearful circumstances of her position. Arrived at her mother's house, she sprang forward in a state bordering on despair, and threw herself on a chair by the side of the fire, opposite to her parent, who was engaged in her usual evening exercise of searching the inspired volume for the balm of the consolation of age and poverty. "What is this, Menie?" cried the mother, as she saw her daughter trembling under the influence of nervous terror. "Has yer enemy been at her auld wark again? and have a' yer mother's injunctions failed to get ye to rest on the sure foundation o' conscious innocence? It canna be that George Wallace has listened to the poisoned breath o' scandal and envy. Speak, child; and frae this book shall ye get the support that no son or daughter of Adam can lend to the children o' sorrow." "Let me think, mother--let me collect mysel!" responded the girl, as she raised her hand to her head, and threw back her locks. "Whar am I? what spell is on me? Am I to be a bride on Fastern's E'en, or a disowned and heart-broken maiden? Why did he no speak to me--or why did I no speak to him? I will to him yet, and explain a', and the men will speak for me; but wha were they? Ah, they were strangers! and there's nane to warrant the words o' truth." And rising, she made again towards the door, apparently with the confused intention of hurrying to Inverleith Mains; but her mother rose and restrained her, and she again sat down to collect her thoughts. It was some time before she could give so connected an account of the strange circumstances that had occurred within the space of a short hour, as to be understood by the mother; but, by questioning and cross-questioning, the latter came to the truth--and a truth of dangerous import she soon observed it to be. She had already, in her own person, suffered from the blighting effects of prejudice, and she trembled as she surveyed the difficulties that lay in the way of a proper explanation. The poison of a false conviction had too certainly already entered the breast of Wallace, and she knew that its workings might be made only the more inveterate, the greater the efforts resorted to for eradicating it. In all her trials, however, her refuge was the book that supported her fathers in the mountain glens, when the storm of persecution raged over a struggling land; and, enjoining her daughter to offer up with her their prayers to the throne of grace, she sought from the true fountain the means of relieving them from the danger which threatened innocence and poverty. The night passed, and the morning came, when it was resolved that they both together should repair to the residence of Wallace, and openly declare to him the truth of the perplexed appearances which had too evidently operated on his mind to their disadvantage; but a little farther consideration showed them the inexpediency of thus assuming that the conduct of Menie required explanation; and the resolution that at last prevailed was, to wait for some time to ascertain what might be the intentions and motions of Wallace, whom they expected to call at the house, according to his wont, as he passed to the city. The day passed away, but there was no appearance of him; and, on the day following, it was ascertained, from one of his father's servants, who was passing with grain to the market, that he had gone to the borders of England to bury a relation, where, it was expected, he would remain for a considerable time, to arrange the affairs of the deceased, to whom his father was nearest heir-at-law. This intelligence made it only more certain that the prejudice had taken root; because, otherwise, both duty and inclination would have forced him to pay a visit to his betrothed before his departure, however sudden or unexpected that might have been. A month passed, and Wallace had not yet returned; but Fastern's Even was still a month distant, and every day brought the hope of a letter, at least, to explain the cause of his conduct, and point out his future proceedings, whether "for feid or favour." But no letter came; and all their inquiries ended in the intelligence that his relative's affairs were not yet wound up, and that some weeks yet would elapse before he could return. The situation, meanwhile, of the victim of prejudice was painful, and gradually becoming hopeless. Her prior sufferings from the stings of calumny were alleviated by the expectation that the generous mind of Wallace would scorn the schemes of her enemy, and her marriage would refute the aspersions, and place her beyond the reach of their poison; but now her relief was not only apparently cut off, but changed, by some adverse fate, into a proof--a confirmation of what had been alleged against her character. Every day found her a mourner; and it was only after nightfall that she could summon up resolution to go abroad on the small messages that domestic wants rendered necessary. Involved in mystery as were both mother and daughter, and pained as the latter was beyond endurance, there yet hung over them a still darker cloud of misfortune, equally mysteriously and fortuitously collected and formed, and equally cruel in its unmerited discharge on the heads of innocent victims. Misery of the deepest and most complicated kind seems often to be evolved from the most trifling causes, as if to show the proud sons of men, by a lesson that pains while it mocks them, the utter darkness of that blindness which they mistake for the light of a concealed reason. One evening, Menie had occasion to proceed to the small village of Canonmills, on a message to a friend; and, as usual, she waited till nightfall, to avoid the gaze of the neighbours, whom her fevered fancy exhibited to her (to a great extent untruly) as participators in the circulation of the calumnies under which she suffered. Wrapped up in a cloak, she hurried out, and proceeded down the narrow loan that then led to the village she intended to visit. Her step was stealthy, and her eye filled with secret shame, even among the shades of night. She reached the house, where she staid for a short time, and then set out on return, which she was inclined to accomplish as quickly and stealthily as she had done her progress forth; but she had not proceeded many paces from the village, when she observed a small wicker corban or basket lying by the side of a hedgerow that then ran along the lower part of the loan. There appeared to be no one near it; and, impelled by a natural curiosity, she proceeded forward and inspected it. There was on it, she observed, a bundle, so carefully pinned up, that, though she applied her fingers hastily to it, she could not penetrate its folds. On lifting up the strange deposit, she found that it felt heavy. She stood irresolute, and again looked around her, but saw no one. She was flurried; and her desire to get home urged her to take it up, and proceed hurriedly along the road, with the view of taking it to the house with her, to examine it leisurely, and restore it to the owner, in the event of his casting up. She obeyed the natural impulse; and, as she ran home with the unknown charge, she repeatedly cast her eyes about, to see if any one appeared to claim it; but she still saw no one; and, in the space of a few minutes, she reached the door of the house, and hurried in. She placed the burden upon the floor--telling her mother, at the same time, that she had found it on the road, and brought it home to see what it contained, as the bundle was so carefully tied up that she could not unfold it on the highway. Her mother put on her spectacles; and, bending down, proceeded, with the aid of Menie, to undo the cloth, when, to their surprise, they evolved from the many foldings of an envelope the dead body (still warm) of a new-born babe. Menie fainted at the grim spectacle, and the mother ran for hartshorn, to recover her daughter. In a little time she revived, but it was only to shudder again at the strange sight; while the sagacious mind of Euphan was busy with the divinations of a sad experience, that pointed to some new calamity to result from this new turn of their adverse fate. She saw, at once, that if she called in her envious neighbours, that had been already busy with the character of her daughter, the unlikely story of the finding and bringing home of a dead child would be scorned and laughed at, while the circumstance of the child being found in the house would be laid hold of as a handle for corroborating and confirming the already circulated calumnies, if, indeed, it might not form a subject for judicial examination and exposure, that might end in the ruin of one already too much persecuted. These cogitations led to a sudden resolution. Rolling up the body hastily in the envelope-- "Hie ye quickly, Menie," she said, "to the place whar ye fand this dangerous burden, and lay it in the precise position in which ye first saw it. The shafts o' envy are already thick round innocence, and we need not for sorrow to prick our own eyes that tears may fall. There is a knowledge that is for guid, and ane that is for evil; but 'the work of all flesh is before Him, and nothing can be hid from his eyes,' so shall this shame be made manifest in his own way. Haste, child, and obey the behest o' your mother." The trembling girl started back at the mention of again bearing the unholy load; but she was impelled by the strange looks of her parent; and, like an automaton, she hurriedly snatched up the corb, and hastened with it to the place where she found it. She was wrapped up in her cloak, which she threw over the charge, and, after the manner of a thief, or a worker of secret iniquity, she slouched along the loan, trembling and stumbling at every step, till she came to the precise spot, and there she looked several times around her, before she ventured to deposit her burden. She thought she perceived some one behind her, who passed into an opening in the hedge, and she felt irresolute whether to lay down the corban at that moment, or ascertain first whether there was really any one behind the fence; but her mind again recurring to the contents of her burden, a feeling of horripilation crept over her, and, gently crouching down, as if terrified to behold her own act, she withdrew the cloak, left the charge, and fled precipitately along the dark side of the loan. Curiosity impelled her, as she fled, to turn her head, and she saw, with terror, some one issue from the opening in the hedge, and proceed, as she thought, to the identical spot which she had just left. It struck her forcibly, and she shuddered at the thought, that the figure she saw resembled that of Wallace; and the suspicion arose, that he had been watching about the cottage, had followed her, and observed her motions, and would now examine the burden she had so stealthily and mysteriously deposited by the side of the hedge. A strong paroxysm of hysterical emotion seized her, as the full consequences of a realisation of the conjecture were arrayed before her by the conjuring power of her terrors. The prior unexplained suspicion under which she yet lay rose to swell the tumult of her thoughts. She thought her God had deserted her, and that the destiny of her miserable life was placed under the charge of evil spirits, who gloried in her utter ruin. She grew faint, and was scarcely able to walk; and before she again reached the house, the choking effects of the hysterical spasm had almost deprived her of breath. The door was open for her reception; and the moment she entered, she fell upon the floor, panting for air, the blood streaming from her nostrils, and shrill, broken screams, like the sounds that issue from the victims of Cynanche, bursting from her labouring throat. The alarmed mother again applied restoratives to her suffering daughter, who, in a few minutes, opened her eyes, and became sensible. "Were you seen, Menie?" whispered the mother, anxiously, in her ear. "Speak, love. 'Blessed is he that trusteth in the Lord, and whose hope the Lord is.' Fear not, child; tell me, were ye seen by the eyes o' mortal?" "God be merciful to me!" answered the girl. "If my eyes deceived me not, George Wallace cam behind me, and saw me lay down that evidence o' anither's shame. I am lost for ever!" The mother was silent, and lifted up her eyes in an attitude of prayer to Heaven. The nervous symptoms still clung to the daughter, and shiverings and spasms succeeded each other, till she grew so weak that she was unable to undress herself to retire to bed. The office was performed by the kindly hands of the parent, who, still overcome by the workings of fearful anticipations, sat down by the fire, and, fixing her eyes on the red embers, seemed for a time lost in the meditations of a heart that, filled with the spirit of God, felt that, as Esdras sayeth, "life is astonishment and fear," and that we cannot comprehend the things that are promised to the righteous in this world, nor those that are given to the wicked to destroy the happiness of the good. The night was passed in anxiety and fearful forebodings; and the beam of the morning was dreaded by the daughter, as if it were the blaze of evidence that was to bring to light some crime she had committed. She was unable to rise; the small domestic duties of the morning were performed by the mother, pensively, and under the burden of the prospect of coming ill. About ten o'clock, a slight knock was heard at the door; Euphan cried, in a weak voice, "Come in." She heard a whispering and rustling of clothes, as if the visitors were deciding, by expostulations and pushings, which of them should enter first. At last two neighbours, who had been known to be active in circulation of reports against the daughter, made their appearance. On the usual salutation, expressed, as Euphan thought, in a strange voice, and accompanied by stranger looks-- "Is Menie ill the day?" said one of them, as she cast her eye obliquely upon the bed. "Has she nae doctor, puir thing?" "I haena seen her for mony weeks," said the other. "Why do ye conceal her illness, Euphan, woman? The lassie may dee, when a helpin hand micht save her." "Yet I hae heard that she was seen on the road to Canonmills last nicht in the darkenin," rejoined the first, with an oblique glance at the other. The words reached Menie in the bed, and the clothes shook above her. "God be praised, my bairn is weel!" said Euphan, who understood the import of their speech; "but, though 'affliction cometh not forth from the dust, neither doth trouble spring out of the ground,' yet are we all born unto grief. We hae our ain sorrows, and never pry into those o' our neighbours." The conversation continued for some time, and the women departed, leaving the inmates to the certainty that the village had got hold of the dreaded topic of calumny against the miserable victim of prejudice. The shock had not expended its strength upon their already racked nerves, when the door was opened by a rude hand, and two men entered, dressed in the garb of officers of the Sheriff Court. An involuntary scream was uttered by Menie, as her eyes met the uniform of red facings of the harsh-looking men. Euphan was silent; but her eyes were filled with the eloquence of fear. "Is your daughter at home, good woman?" said one of the men, while he cast his eye on the bed from which the weak scream issued. "Ay," answered the mother. "What is your pleasure wi' her or wi' me?" "Where is she?" added the same person. "There," answered the mother. "She is weakly this morning, and hasna yet risen." "No doubt--no doubt," said the man. "She cannot be weel. I understand she has been confined to the house for six weeks, with the exception of some night wanderings; but she must this day face the light of the sun. We have a warrant of apprehension against her, proceeding on a charge of child-murder. She must up and dress, sick or well, and go with us. The body of the child lies in the sheriff's office; and it is right that the mother should be there also." The words, which had an ironical virulence in them, unbecoming the station of the man, wrung a wail from the accused maiden, which, muffled by the bedclothes she had wrapped round her head, sounded like the waning voice of the departing spirit; and the mother, overcome by the accumulation of ills crowned by this consummation, flung herself at the feet of the speaker, and grasped his legs with her fleshless arm. "God hath spoken once; but I have heard it many times that power belongeth unto him, and not to those wha whet their tongues like swords, and bend their bows to shoot their arrows at the innocent. My dochter is as guiltless o' this crime as the babe she is accused o' murderin. Let her remain, if ye hae in ye the heart that travaileth with pity, and I will awa to them that sent ye, and satisfy them, as never suspicion was satisfied, that Menie Dempster is nae mair capable o' committin this crime against God and his laws, than is she wha is sanctified by the holiest spirit that ever warmed the breast or filled with tears the een o' the mercifu. Grant me this ae request, and it will be a' that Euphan Dempster may ever ask o' man." "We cannot," replied the officer; "all we can do is to retire for a moment, till your daughter dress herself; but we cannot wait long--so, quick--quick." And the two men retired to the door, where their appearance had already collected a crowd of curious inquirers. The behests of necessity overcome the strongest feelings of mortals, and even impart to weakness a morbid strength. The unhappy maiden rose, and put on her clothes in the midst of the outpourings of her mother's religious inspirations; but her sobs and suppressed wailings bore evidence to a sorrow that would not be comforted, even by the assurances of the mercy that endureth for ever. The men again entered; and Menie, accompanied by her mother, was led away to the hall of the Sheriff's Court, to undergo an examination, which, of itself, might operate as their utter ruin in this world. They arrived at the court-room about eleven o'clock. An examination of witnesses had already been begun. As they entered the door of the room where they were to be placed, Menie saw passing through the lobby several neighbours; and between two men, in the act of taking him to be examined, she observed George Wallace, whose eyes seemed red and inflamed, and who exhibited a strong reluctance to proceed forward, requiring the efforts of the men to drag him before the examinator. The whole scene seemed nothing but a dream; and the trifling circumstance from which it originated invested it with a character strange and unnatural. It was nearly four o'clock before Menie was called in to be examined. When led before the judge, she looked wildly around her. A chair was set for her, and she sat down. The usual questions as to her name, and other matters, were put, and the more important part of the examination proceeded. She was asked whether she had at one time been on terms of intimacy with Michael M'Intyre, the city guardsman; whether she had not been in his society among the trees of Inverleith, on a night mentioned; whether she had not been courted by George Wallace of Inverleith Mains; whether she had not been renounced by him; whether the reason of such renouncement was not her prior intimacy with M'Intyre; whether she had not been confined to the house for a considerable period, and what was the reason of such confinement; whether she had not deposited a basket containing the dead child near the hedgerow in the loan leading to Canonmills; and whether she was not the mother of the child. Every question was answered according to her simple ideas of innocence and truth; but when she came to state that she found the basket on the road, carried it home without looking at it, and then replaced it in the situation in which she found it, and all this without being able properly to account for so unlikely and extraordinary a proceeding, the sheriff, prejudiced as he was against her, from her previous admission that she had been seen in the society of M'Intyre, a man of dissolute habits--that Wallace had not visited her for many weeks, in consequence, as she supposed, of that circumstance--and that she had not been in the habit of going out for a considerable period--viewed her statement as false, and entertained the strongest suspicions of her being guilty of the crime laid to her charge. She was accordingly committed to prison until further evidence might be procured, to throw more light on the mysterious transaction. In the meantime, the circumstances of the case being of that inexplicable kind that stirs the curiosity of a prying public, the results of the precognition got abroad, and it was ascertained that a considerable part of the information afforded to the sheriff had been procured from Elspeth Grierson, the mother of Margaret Grierson, and from one of the men who had seen Menie in the arms of the city guardsman. The manner in which Wallace became implicated as an unwilling witness against his betrothed, was also a curious feature in the case. He had not been absent in the south so long as it had been represented, but had concealed his arrival at home with a view to watch the motions of her whom he yet loved, in spite of the suspicions he entertained against her; and having, on that eventful evening, seen Menie hurrying along with a basket in her hand, he had followed her, and seen her deposit the charge in the manner already mentioned. At the very moment when he was in the act of examining it, Elspeth Grierson came up, as if she had been returning from Canonmills, and helped him to undo the cloth in which the dead body of the child was wrapped; and thus was he painfully committed as a witness of what he had seen. The authorities soon after got intelligence of the circumstance; the child was taken to the office, and a great number of witnesses, chiefly pointed out by Elspeth Grierson (among the rest, George Wallace), were examined, previous to the interrogation of the supposed culprit herself. The unhappy situation of the girl, and the apparently conflicting testimony of the witnesses, roused a sympathetic interest in many of her acquaintances, who, having set on foot a system of inquiry, induced or persuaded the fiscal to seek for the truth, rather than for an unilateral array of inculpative testimony. It was impossible, even on the part of the authorities, to deny the force of the facts, that Menie had been often seen by the neighbours during their visits, though she had kept the house in the day-time, in consequence of the shame produced by the reports circulated against her; that she had been on a visit to Canonmills on that evening when the child was exposed; that the rumours against her (with the exception of the facts attending the depositing of the corb) proceeded mainly from one source, which was a poisoned one; and that, in place of denying, as she might have done, all knowledge of the transaction, she had explained everything with a simplicity that was seldom exhibited by the votaries of vice. These things made a suitable impression, and the crown authorities were obliged to stop short in their proceedings, from the circumstance that they could find no proof of gravidity, and only one witness, Wallace himself--whose reluctance to give his testimony was looked upon, when contrasted with his ascertained inimical feelings towards her, as an affected exhibition of leniency to cover concealed hatred--could speak to the fact of the depositation of the child. All seemed enveloped in doubt; and, if there was a glimpse of certainty in regard to any part of the inexplicable case, it was that, that doubt itself would effectuate the ruin of the unfortunate prisoner, who could never claim again the respect that is due to innocence. For six months she was confined within the narrow cells of a jail, and during every day of that period she was visited by her mother, whose endeavours to support the young and breaking heart of the victim, by the application of the balm that God has sent to the miserable, only tended to calm the spirit as it sunk in the ruins of a decaying constitution. She was at last liberated; but the freedom of the body only made more manifest the effects of the blasting power of prejudice and suspicion; and the intelligence, that was communicated to her some time afterwards, that Wallace had married Margaret Grierson, crowned the misery that enslaved her, and seemed to cut off all hope that she could ever again hold up her head among the daughters of men. Time passed, and realised that inherent condition of his power, which, as his progress continues, brings to the miserable the sad consolation of the woes of their enemies. The marriage of Wallace with Margaret Grierson was an unhappy one. The collision of adverse sentiments produced in the wife an infirmity of temper, which, in its exasperated moods, sought for relief in intoxication; and the domestic feuds at Inverleith Mains became a common topic of conversation among the inhabitants of Broughton. Such are the turns of fate that acknowledge the influence of a power whose ways we cannot comprehend; yet a still more extraordinary discovery was to be manifested to the child of misfortune. One night Menie and her mother were engaged in their evening exercise, heedless of the concerns of a world from which they were excluded, when the door opened with a loud noise, and George Wallace stood before them. His eyes were wild and bloodshot, a fever was in his blood, and his nerves, excited by some maniac passion, shook till his frame seemed convulsed, and the powers of judgment and will lay prostrate before the fiend that ruled his heart. Menie started up affrighted, and the mother laid her hand upon the book. "I am compelled to be here," he cried, with a choking, unnatural voice, as he held forth his hands to the maiden; "and it is well I have come, for the quiet air o' this house o' innocence already quells the fever o' my heart. I have this moment left my wife; and I had a struggle to pass the water-dam, that shone in the mune to invite me to bury mysel and my grief in its still breast. But there is a God in heaven; and He it is wha has brought me here, to look ance mair on her I loved and ruined, and now can only save by my ain endless misery and shame. She lies yonder steeped in drink; but the power o' conscience has repelled the subtle poison, and she could speak in burnin words her crime and my eternal shame. Margaret Grierson it was--my wife--the mother o' my child--O God, help my words!--she has confessed, in her drunken madness, and my heart tells me it is the confession o' God's eternal truth, that the babe was hers--that her mother laid it by the hedgerow, a breathin victim, to hide her daughter's dishonour--and that it died there by suffocation. Let me speak it out, that this throbbin heart may be stilled. But it cannot--it never can be in this world--no--no--nor in the next." And, groaning deeply, he threw himself on a chair, and rugged his hair like a maniac in the highest paroxysm of his disease. The unexpected and extraordinary statement rendered the women speechless. They looked at him, and at each other. Mutterings of prayer escaped from the lips of Euphan, and surprise and pity divided the empire of the heart of the daughter, who had never thought to see misery that equalled her own. There was no reason for the feeling of triumph, where the melancholy relief came from the ruins of one whom they had both loved and respected. He had been the only individual that ever influenced the heart of the one, and the other had fondly looked forward to him as the support and solace of her old age. Now he was a ruined, miserable man, and had no power to make amends for the wrong he had unintentionally committed. The calmness of the silence, and the relief that came from the unburdening of a secret that had been wrung from him by the pangs of conscience, brought him to a sense of the position in which he had placed himself. He had put himself and his wife in the power of those he had wronged, and returning reason brought with it the fears of self-preservation. "What hae I done?" he again exclaimed, as he took his hand from his forehead, and looked into the face of Menie. "I hae condemned mysel and the wife o' my bosom--my conscience and a burnin revenge hae wrought this out o' me; but what shall be the consequence thereof? Will ye bring her to justice, the gallows--and me to a still deeper ruin and desolation than that which hang over this house o' innocent suffering? Say, Menie; speak, guid mother; our doom is in your hands. What says that blessed book on the merits o' forgiveness and the crime o' revenge?" Euphan Dempster fixed her eyes on him calmly. "Sair, sair hae ye wranged me, and that puir child o' misfortune, wha stands there unable to reply to ye, though the tears o' her grief and her pity speak in strange language the waes o' a broken heart. But sairer, far sairer, hae ye wranged yersel; for, though we 'have seen the travail which God hath given to the sons and daughters o' men,' we have been answered in the dark nights in which we cried and wept, by Him who 'maintains the cause o' the afflicted, and the right o' the poor;' but ye are left to the wrath o' yer ain spirit, that burns in yer heart, and even now lights up your eyes wi' a strange licht. Vainly would my daughter and I hae read this book, if we hadna learned to forgive our enemies. You hae naething to fear from us." "And are thae the sentiments o' her wha was ance the life and light o' this stricken heart!" said Wallace, as he turned mournfully to Menie, who, pale and emaciated from her sorrow, stood before him, the ghost of what she was. "O God! can this be my Menie? Is a' that ruin o' health and beauty the doin o' him wha loved her as nae man ever loved woman? Are thae your sentiments, Menie? and am I, and is my miserable wife, safe in the keepin o' your forgiveness?" "Ay, George," answered the maiden, as she burst into tears at the recollection of her former love, and the sight of her unhappy lover. "I hae been sair dealt wi'; but I forgie ye; and I forgie also your wife. I will dree the scorn o' an ill warld; but till you and she are dead, my lips will never mention the wrangs I hae suffered from my auld freend, and him I could hae dee'd to serve." "Miserable man that I am!" exclaimed the youth. "How much do your generosity and kindness show me I have lost, and lost for ever? Whither now shall I fly!--to the arms o' a murderer, the wife o' my bosom--or to the wide world, to roam, a houseless man, to whom there is nae city o' refuge on earth?" Unable longer to bear the poignancy of his feelings, he rushed out of the house. For several years after the scene we have now described, Wallace was not heard of. None but his father knew whither he had gone. His wife was absolutely discarded from the farmhouse; and, her habits getting gradually worse, she became a street vagrant, and renounced herself to the dominion of the evil power that had, from an early period, ruled her, but whose workings she had so artfully, for a time, attempted to conceal. She paid many visits to Inverleith Mains, but was rejected by the old farmer, who attributed to her the ruin of his son. On these occasions, she broke forth in wild execrations; and, on her return, did not fail to assail the widow and her daughter as the instruments of her ruin. The old story of the child was published at the door in the words of drunken delirium; and often mixed with stray sentences of triumph that, to any one possessed of the secret, would have appeared a sufficient condemnation of herself. Yet the construction was all the other way; for Menie had never been cleared by evidence, and the virulent expressions of the vagabond were, according to the laws which too often regulate mundane belief, taken as inculpation; and hence the prejudice against the innocent victim was kept up, and the lives of her and her mother embittered to a degree that called for all the aids of their "sacred remeid" to ameliorate sufferings that seemed destined to have no end upon earth. But the ways of Heaven are wonderful. A boisterous sea may wreck, but the sufferer may be carried to the shore by a wave which, if less impetuous, might have been his grave. Wallace's wife at last died from the effects of that dissipation that had opened the evil heart to give forth the confession of her own shame; and, after this relief, the husband's father paid regular visits to Menie and her mother. He never spoke of the secret that had driven his son away, nor of the place to which he had fled; but he showed sufficiently, by his attentions and kindness, that he knew all. The house of the widow and her daughter was now kept full by supplies from the farm; money, too, was given to them in abundance, and, in so far as regarded worldly means, the two inmates had, at no period of their lives, been so well provided for. Five years had now elapsed since the disappearance of Wallace. One night, as Menie and her mother were sitting by the fire, the door was opened, and Wallace stood before them. His manner was now very different from what it was on that day when he rushed like a madman from the house. He stood for a moment, looking at the couple who had suffered so much from his wrongs; and the first words he uttered were-- "Menie Dempster, ye have been true to your promise, and ye have been rewarded. That woman is gone to her trial, and yours is ended. Now shall truth triumph." Menie was unable to utter a word. Her eyes were alternately turned to Wallace and to the fire. The mother laid her hand solemnly on the Bible, and addressing the inspired volume-- "Thus are yer secrets brought to light--ay, even out o' darkness. They wha trust in ye shall not fail in the end, though they should stumble seven times, yea, seven times seven." "If I had trusted mair to that," said Wallace, "than to the whisperins o' my ain heart, I might never have been a miserable husband, or a banished man. But it's no yet owre late. I am resolved. Menie, will ye now consent to be the wife o' him wha wrought, maybe unwittingly, to your ruin?" Menie was yet silent. "I will publish your innocence," rejoined he. "There is mair evidence than my word against her wha is dead. It shall be known far and wide, and you will be the innocent and respected wife o' George Wallace." "I will speak for her," said the mother; "she will consent. It is asked of her by Him wha has brought good out o' evil, and whase mercies, bein the reward o' the patience o' trial, are as a command that shall not be disobeyed." Wallace drew near to Menie, and took her hand. Her face was still turned away, but he felt the trembling pressure, that got sooner to the heart than the sounds of the voice. "It is enough, Menie," he whispered. "Come, the mune is again shinin amang the trees o' Warriston." The couple proceeded to their old haunts. They passed the hedgerow where the child had been deposited. Menie's step was quick as they approached it, her eyes were averted from the spot, and they passed it in silence. We need not record the spoken sentiments of lovers in the situation of this couple. They parted, after it was arranged that their marriage should take place in the following week. In the interval, the most prudent and effectual means were taken to clear up the mystery of the old story. The written statements of several individuals, who had heard the broken confessions of the woman, were taken. Wallace and his father added theirs, and there was soon a reaction in favour of Menie, much stronger than the original imputation. Every one believed her innocent; and the marriage, which took place a short time after, confirmed all. THE PROFESSOR'S TALES. THE NATURAL HISTORY OF IDIOTS. The very foundation of idiocy is peculiarity; whatever this unfortunate class may want, they do not want those features by which they are distinguishable from the ordinary ranks of mankind. Hence the interest which idiocy has ever exerted, and the splendid creations which, under the name of asylums, quiet, country residences, &c., have been made for their accommodation. The great mass of society--with the exception, perhaps, of a kingdom, which shall, for the present, be nameless--have nothing _idiotical_, that is, peculiar, belonging to them exclusively. They move as others move, dress as others dress, think as others think, and worship God as others do and as others did. Were it not for _idiots_, in the extended sense of the word, there were an end of plays, novels, and all works of fiction. Very few women, if we may credit Pope, are idiots: for he says-- "Nothing so true as what you once let fall-- Most women have no character at all; Matter too soft a standing mark to bear, And best distinguish'd by black, brown, or fair." But, although the original meaning and enlarged sense of the term might carry us into a field thus almost boundless, we shall at the present limit ourselves to two classes of idiots, comprehending, as they do, a great variety of species. First, the natural idiot, or the simply fatuous: of these there are _two_ varieties--the peaceable and the frantic. Secondly, the unnatural or rational idiot; of these the varieties are infinite, and a selection only is in the present instance either desirable or attainable. We return then to the purely fatuous, or peaceable idiot. Poor innocent! as he is uniformly and kindly named by the neighbourhood. There he walks about, along that stream, or across that meadow, from morn to night, and from night to morning, his hand at his cheek, and his lips muttering incoherence, such as, "Johnnie, quo' he, lad; ah, ha, Willie lad, Willie lad, Willie lad." He is so biddable, that a child may make him lie down, or rise up, enlarge or shorten his step. He will carry a peat-barrow when peats are a-casting, ted hay, or lift a child safely over a fence; yet, for all that, he is not always to be trusted--for there are times when his countenance gets flushed, his frame nervously convulsed, and then he utters dreadful things, and becomes violent and unmanageable. These are, however, only aberrations, not continued character; and, by watching the symptoms of the approaching storm, the effects may be easily avoided. Idiots, even of this peaceable and innocuous kind, are now abstracted from their natural and kindly hearths, and concealed in asylums and private residences. Not so--it was not indeed so--in the olden times. The hereditary possession of at least one "innocent" in a family was deemed a blessing. "There never will be wanting," said the pious parent, "a bit for thy helplessness, poor Johnnie." Good luck took up her residence under the roof where such a one resided; and the parent was doubly attached to _the object_, as he was sometimes called. To hurt him, or injure him in any manner of way, was domestic treason; and even the schoolboy, on his harvest rambles, only pelted him with nuts and brambleberries. Poor Johnnie! he was missed one day; he had wandered beyond his ordinary reach, and all the town was in motion searching for him. The night came on, dark, and even drifty; and the poor helpless object could nowhere be found. Shouts were raised, dogs were dismissed on errands of inquiry, herd-boys ran, and servant lads greatly hastened their pace. At last, he was discovered on the brink of a precipice, over which he was suspended, by the coat-tails, which a strong shepherd's dog was holding fast in its teeth. But for the powerful sagacity of this brute, the helpless being had been dashed to pieces. When he was rescued from his dangerous position, he was repeating, in his usual manner, "Johnnie's a-caul quo' he, lad." He was never suffered to be in such danger again. These eyes saw him on his death-bed; and, at the instant of his departure, it was indeed a most affecting scene. "The soul's dark cottage, shatter'd and decay'd, Let _in_ new light through chinks which time had made." As the pulse ebbed and the feet swelled, reason seemed to resume her long-deserted seat. He actually raised himself upon his elbow, drew the back of his hand twice across his brow, as if clearing away some obstruction from his eyes, and, looking around with an eye unusually bright and beaming, lambent like an expiring taper-- "Oh, what a dream! what a dream! But I see you all now; yes--yes--I see my kind mother, my dear father, my sister! Yes--yes--I am now well. I am awake--I live." Hereupon the fatal and well-known struggle in the throat stopped his speech; he fell back, gave one deep sigh, and was at rest. Poor Johnnie! if a tear of gratitude can gratify anything that lives, bearing the most distant relationship to thee, that tear has now been shed. Heaven has long been merciful to the poor Innocent. But the frantic idiot who now struggles against the chain and the strait-waistcoat in yonder cell. He too, at one time, roamed at large, to the great alarm, but seldom to the injury, of the lieges. "His bark," as the people said, "was waur than his bite;" and, if at any time he required to be confined by force, a few kindly words and soothing accents threw oil on the troubled sea, and restored comparative serenity. Daft Will Gibson rises before me; his long rung or kent by way of staff, his Kilmarnock night-cap, and shoes of many patches, his aversion to all manner of trick or nickname, and his furious onset when pursued by schoolboys: all these circumstances rise again from the dark past, and glare before me like the shades in "Macbeth." Yet, though occasionally furious, and even dangerous, he was kind-hearted, and not unobservant of character. The timid he rejoiced to terrify, whilst he passed by the bold and firm unmolested. Though he often threw large stones at those who assailed him, he took special care always to throw short of his object. But one day a little child, unobserved by him, had crossed the pathway of his missile after it had been delivered, altogether unobserved by poor Will. The child was knocked down and greatly injured--it bled profusely. Will seemed horrorstruck, and roared aloud-- "It was I! It was me! It was daft Will Gibson!" From that day he never lifted another stone, but always exhibited the greatest liking for this child--of which the following anecdote is sufficient proof. A little boy was playing in the channel of a mountain torrent, then almost dry. There was thunder in the distance, and Queensberry had put on her inky robe of darkness. All at once, the burns began to emit a loud, roaring, rattling sound, and down came the Caple Water--as my informant, who witnessed the scene, said--like "corn sacks." The boy, owing to his eagerness in pursuing a trout (which he was endeavouring to catch) from stone to stone, did not hear or see the approaching danger, till the mighty flood was upon him. My informant--a shepherd--threw aside plaid and staff, and ran to the rescue; but the red and roaring flood was before him; and a fine boy of seven or eight years old would undoubtedly have lost his life, had it not been for the poor maniac, who chanced to be pulling rushes hard by. He rushed into the flood just as it was oversetting the helpless victim, and, with a tremendous jerk, threw him clean upon the green bank of the torrent. He then endeavoured himself to clear the bank; but the treacherous and hollow earth, under the pressure of the water, gave way, and down tumbled brow and man into the raging whirlpool--the man underneath, the brow above him. The boy, by means of his heels, escaped; but poor Will Gibson's body was next day found some miles lower down, sadly disfigured and mangled. Thus did this grateful maniac expiate the inadvertent injury which he had done this very boy when a mere child, by saving his life at the expense of his own. We now pass, in prosecution of our history, from darkness into light, from the irresponsible and irrational agent, to the responsible and foolish. Our guide here, in this _mare magnum_ of idiocy, shall be _the use_ of language in discussing the various merits of the different classes. We shall make use of no new phraseology, but be guided to our purpose by the acknowledged and recognised use and meaning of terms. Why the word "idiot" is retained in conversational language in particular, when its original and more legitimate meaning is lost, we have already pointed at; it is owing to analogy and resemblance that in this case, as in many others, such terms are legitimate and expressive. There is, then, in the first place, to come at once to the point--there is "THE HAVERING IDIOT." Horace gives a most correct idea of this class in these well-known lines:-- "Hunc neque dira venena, nec hosticus auferet ensis Nec laterum dolor, aut tussis aut tarda podagra, _Garrulus hunc quando consumet_." Galt, too, has hit off the character, under a feminine aspect, in his "Wearifu Woman;" but we have no occasion to ask Horace for his spectacles, or Galt for his microscope, in order to discover the features of this most numerous and annoying class. Midges, in a new-mown meadow, are terribly teasing; so are peas in one's shoes--particularly if unboiled. There is a certain cutaneous disease which is said to give exercise at once to the nails and to patience. Who would not fret if placed naked, all face over, in a whin bush? To be teased and tormented with grammar rules is vastly provoking; and to get the proof questions by heart cannot be deemed anything but annoying. A showery day, when you have set out on a long-meditated "pic-nic," will vex the most patient soul into spleen; and marriage-settlements are frequently great sources of heartburnings and delays. To be told that your house is on fire, when your messenger is on his way to effect an insurance, may possibly give pain; and to find that every pipe is frozen, so that there is not a drop of water for the engine, may probably add to your chagrin. All these, and a thousand other miseries to which human flesh is heir, may, nay must, be borne; but the torment of coming into ear-shot of a "havering idiot" is a thousand and a thousand times more insupportable. You are placed beside him at table, and in a mixed company of men of literature and science, whom probably you may never see again. A subject is started, which, from peculiar reasons, happens to be not only of itself curious, but exceedingly interesting to you, professionally in particular. Professor Pillans is discussing education, or Combe is manipulating heads; Sir David Brewster is describing the polarisation of light, or Tom Campbell is thrilling every heart with poetic quotations;--no matter, you are unfortunately in juxtaposition to a "havering idiot," and about five removes from the focus of general conversation. He will not let you rest for a moment, but is ever whispering into your ear some grand thing which he said last evening at Lady Whirligig's ball. You push your dish forward, and fix your eyes upon the intelligent speaker. He observes, and mistakes, or seems to mistake, your movement and your motive, and immediately hopes he may help you to the dish you are after. You are fairly _dished_; and unless you knock him down with your fist in the first place, and shoot him afterwards, you have no resource but to repeat the lines of Horace, already quoted, and submit to your fate. His stories are infinite and inextricable; but, unlike the epic, they have neither a beginning, a middle, nor an end. When he starts with "I'll tell you a good thing," you listen for an instant, but immediately perceive that you are on the wrong scent; and, as he advances, he is ever admonishing you with his elbow of the many _hits_ he is making; and having heard him out--if that be possible!--you immediately exclaim, "Well!" thinking assuredly the cream of the joke is yet awaiting you. "But, sir, you are making no meal at all. You must try some of that fine honeycomb; it is most excellent; it is of our own making; for, I may say, we have almost everything within ourselves. The bees, last season, did not do well at all; but they have done better this, sir. You are a natural philosopher, sir--can you tell me how the bees see their way back again to their houses, when they go far away in search of flowers and honey?" "Just the way, I suppose, ma'am, that they see their way a-field." "Oh, ay--I ken that; but I hae a book here--(go away, Jeanie, and bring me the book on natural history; the Cyclopædia, ye ken). Now, sir, this book tells me that, from the shape of their eye, the bees canna see an inch before them--how then do they travel miles and miles, and never lose their road?--but bless me, sir, you're no making a meal at no rate. Ay, here's 'the article,' as it is called. Read that, sir, just at the bottom of the 196th page," &c. &c. "THE BLETHERING IDIOT" is manifestly twin-brother to the haverer, with this small difference, however, that the bletherer is a mere repeater or reporter of havers. The one is the importer, as it were, of the article wholesale, and the other retails the article thus imported. They are raw commodity and manufactured goods--they are original and copy--cause and effect. Burns was quite aware of this when he wrote-- "And baith a yellow George to claim, And thole their blethers." These blethers were not original inventions, but merely varnished repetitions. The blethering idiot is most dangerous as well as most disagreeable. In this respect, he even surpasses the haverer, whose annoyances terminate in themselves, in the irritations and inconveniences of the moment. But the bletherer is a dangerous friend, an inveterate foe, and a most unsafe neighbour. Will Webster was the intimate friend of poor James Johnston. James was a lad of honest intentions, fair talents, and warm feelings. He was educated as an engineer, and had already acquired a certain status and character in that capacity. His friend Webster had been accidentally a school companion, from the proximity of their dwellings and the intimacy of their parents. Webster had studied law, and was about to pass advocate, when he came to meet his friend, and spend a harvest vacation with him at Castledykes, in the parish of Tynron, Dumfries-shire. The two young men were in the bloom and strength of youth, being both some months under twenty-one. Georgina Gordon was the daughter of a small neighbouring proprietor (a Dunscore laird), an only daughter, her father's prop (her mother having died at her birth), and the admiration of everybody who merely saw her at church on Sunday, or who knew her intimately. I should have mentioned before, that this beautiful flower had been named Georgina, with the view of perpetuating the name of a brother whose fate had been involved in obscurity. He had betaken himself early to sea, and the vessel in which he sailed had never more, during several years before Georgina's birth, been heard of. All possible inquiries had been made, but without effect. The Thunderer, Captain Morris, had been seen off the coast of South America; but no more was known. James Johnston was already in the way of making reasonable proposals to any one; but his heart had long been fixed at Castledykes. He used to wander for hours and days along the glen of the cairn, and within sight of the old family abode. Georgina, however, had already many lovers, and was reported to have, in fact, made a selection. It was again and again reported by Will Webster to his friend Johnston, and to everybody who took any interest in the report, that he had seen Georgina enter the Kelpie Cave in company with a lover, and that he had even seen them fondly embracing each other. At first Johnston gave no heed to Will's _blethers_; but still they gradually made an impression upon him. He became, at last, decidedly jealous, when, led and guided by his friend Will, he beheld with his own eyes a male figure, closely wrapped up in a plaid, holding secret converse with the lovely Miss Gordon. What will not jealousy, goaded on by officious and injudicious friendship, do? Unknown to any one, he met and accosted the figure in the dark: a struggle and a contest with lethal weapons took place, and the stranger fell. No sooner had the deed been done, than James saw and repented of his rashness. The wound which he had inflicted was bound up, and the fainting man, help being procured, conveyed to Castledykes. James Johnston was not the man to fly, even should death prove the consequence of his rashness. A curious denouement now took place: the person whom James had wounded was no other than the long-lost George Gordon. The vessel in which he had sailed had not been wrecked, as was supposed, but had been taken, scuttled, and sunk, by Spanish privateers, who then infested the Leeward Islands. He had been bound and fettered in the hold, till he came under a solemn promise neither to desert nor abandon his colours in the hour of battle. Under such discipline, it was no wonder that, in a few years, George Gordon (now taking the Spanish name of Joan Paraiso) should be habituated to all manner of rapine and bloodshed. From less to more, by acts of heroism, he became second, and ultimately first, in command of a Spanish privateer. England, having viewed this growing evil with a suitable indignation, sent out her armaments to the west; and the Don Savallo, Joan Paraiso, commander, was taken. The prisoners were conveyed to Britain; and it being discovered that Paraiso was originally a British subject, he was thrown into prison to abide his trial. From this he escaped, almost by a miracle, and wandering over the kingdom in another domino, or assumed name, he came at last, as if by the law of force and attraction, to his native glen. But he durst not yet discover himself, for he was an outlaw, and the papers were filled with rewards for his apprehension. In this situation he discovered himself, under the most dreadful oaths of secresy, even from his own father (at least for a time), to his sister. The rest, up to the period of his wound, which was by no means dangerous, is easily understood. What follows will be necessary to complete the narrative:--James Johnston having learned all this from Georgina, who, in a moment of excitement, discovered that it was not a lover but a brother over whom she hung, he again met his blethering friend Webster--acquainted him with the history, and, in a few days, Joan Paraiso was arrested in his bed, and carried to Plymouth, to undergo his trial. The grief and horror of all may be easily conceived. All, save the origin of the evil, were thunderstruck and overpowered with grief and vexation. "But for your long tongue and empty head," said Johnston, taking him one day by the throat, "my dear Georgina had been mine--her brother had lived, and all had been well." The guilty man struggled, and was dashed against a stone wall with tremendous violence. A concussion of the brain followed, and poor unhappy James Johnston was himself on trial for murder. It is true that he was acquitted, as the surgeon would not positively affirm that the dead person had not died from a natural stroke of apoplexy; and it is likewise true, that Joan Paraiso, _alias_ George Gordon, was acquitted, as he had been compelled, from fear of death, to act as he had done. But Georgina was no longer an heiress, and the mercenary laird of Clatchet-Knowe, who had all but obtained her consent to a marriage, became suddenly cooled in his fervour. Johnston hearing of this, and having, after some months, recovered his spirits, made his addresses, and was accepted. Georgina Johnston is now, or was lately, a happy wife and mother. Her husband has purchased the farm of Kirkcudbright, in that neighbourhood, and they live in comfort and respectability. So much as a specimen of the achievements and fate of a bletherer. But who waits there? "THE AFFECTED IDIOT. Let him enter. What a thing! But it is not with the tailor-work that we have to deal; we leave that to the titter and ridicule of every sensible person in the company, and to the compassion of the rest. "In man or woman, but far most in man, I hate all affectation." So says good-hearted Cowper. But, hating affectation, he must in some degree hate a large section of the male, and a still larger proportion of the female sex. In fact, we are all more or less affected--I in writing this article in such an easy, off-hand, after-dinner manner, and the publisher of the "Border Tales" in affecting not to be affected by so many favourable notices in so many papers. I don't like the word--I hate it ever since Lord Brougham (who once was so great) made use of the one half of it, when speaking of Sugden; but, notwithstanding, I must out with it--"_humbug_" is the go, and everybody knows it, and yet everybody does it. Was there ever such a queer world, ma'am? I _wish_--well, I will tell you, madam, what I wish--I wish I had a new tack of "this world," with all its nonsense. This thing we call "life" is to me exceeding amusing; but I am off, on the very velocipede of affectation, and must "'bout ship." The affectation of no affectation is the most unsupportable of all. Simple Johnnie comes into the room, throwing about, from side to side, both his elbows. He immediately, in the simplicity of his nature, lets you know that he never was up to the ordinary methods of society; in testimony of which he sits down beside you on a sofa--plaits his legs, and passes his hand along his leg, from heel to knee, and _vice versa_. You talk of anything and everything. He is sure you are right. He never could remember anything. He is sure you are right; but he cannot say, it is so long since he read about it. He tells you at once that people call him "Simple Johnnie;" that he once tumbled into a river, whilst reading a book; that he is _so_ absent, you have no notion; that he has forgotten his own name, and only remembered it, after having given a penny to a boy, saying, "Now, my boy, do you know who gave you that?" He puts on a blue stocking and a grey, and wonders that people observe it; he pushes through the market, snuffing, snorting, and repeating almost aloud, Thomson's "Seasons;" he is called a good sort of a body, and tells you so; but he knows in reality that he is an excellent classical scholar, and a writer of no mean degree. Affectation, however, hangs over him, like a mist; and his real merits, which are great, are greatly obscured by the medium through which they are seen. Let us change the sex!--A farmer's daughter married to an earl--no, not an earl--a laird--a country gentleman. She is all _gentility_--talks of nothing beneath dukes and marquises; asks you if there is anybody of note in India; never saw fish eaten without a silver fork; and considers that Queen Victoria has never seen good company! After a', wha cares? This is a precious rag of feminality; nobody can hurt her feelings, or destroy her equanimity. You mention, in her company, that Lady Louisa Russell, her most intimate friend, of whom she talks daily, and to everybody, has left the town without calling; she assumes an air of supreme indifference, and exclaims--"Well! after a', wha cares?" A bluestocking!--No, I will not spend ink and paper on the subject--it is literally _thread_-bare--not a loop in the stocking but may be seen by a man of ninety without spectacles. A fop!--faugh!--who cares for anything of the dandy or exquisite species?--A braggadocio--another Munchausen! who kills trouts by the gross, and men by the dozen--who shoots on the wing--_e.g._ Two individuals of this description once met in my own presence. They had been in India, and were Indianising for the benefit and entertainment of the company. Shooting came on the carpet, and their various achievements were stated. Colonel A---- had shot more than a dozen water-fowl at one shot. "I am sure," said he, appealing to his Indian friend--"I am sure, general, you know it to be true." "Twelve dozen, by God!" was the emphatic response. "Who has not heard of my father, the colonel?"--viz., Colonel Cloud--and yet this colonel proved to be nothing more than plain Mr B----, from the grand town of Forfar. Oh, how shall I overtake the varied forms that rise up before me!--as well might I essay to catch and fix every butterfly from the Emperor of Morocco down to the blue wing. "Upwards and downwards, thwarting and convolved," the myriads of insects dance away their hour, and are forgot. And who art thou who thus speakest of others? A solitary fly! A large blue-bottom, madam, as insignificant and ephemeral as any amongst them. But of this enough. Let us now introduce another actor, or rather speaker. "Well, sir, I am glad I have met you; for I was just going to call upon you, to tell you that my son John, poor fellow--you know John?--that he has got a step--what they call a step in the service, and that he has had a severe fever, but is now quite well; and that he writes to his sister--such a letter--but I have it here, sir, in my pocket. Pray do, sir, sit down for a little, and I will read it to you; it is such a funny letter--you have no notion--and so full of inquiries for everybody, amongst the rest for yourself, whom it is wonderful that he remembers--he has such a memory, my Johnnie, and always had. I remember, when just a little thing not higher than this parasol. But, bless me, sir, you are not listening!" "No, ma'am; I beg your pardon; but I have an engagement." (Exit.) And who does not see, at once, that this is a "PROSING IDIOT?" "I was up, yes--yes--up--up--yes, I was up by five yesterday--yes--yes--yesterday morning. When do you rise, ma'am? I always rise--yes--yes--rise--I always rise by six--true--true--quite true--by six, ma'am--it is good--so good--yes--yes--very good, ma'am, for the health--the health--yes--the health." Such is the drivel which we have often heard oozing, drop by drop, from a male creature of the prosy kind. "THE BLAZING IDIOT." The blazing idiot is all over self and wonderment. He has done--what has he not done? He can do--what can he not do? One of this character was one day entertaining old Quin with the account of an encounter with a furious bull, in which the blazer had proved too much for the horner, and held him, in spite of his neck, till he roared for a truce. "Oh," said Quin, looking around him knowingly on the company, "that is nothing at all to what I once experienced myself." The original blazer looked amazement. "Yes," says Quin, "I--even I, have managed the bull exercise in a higher style than you, sir. You only held the bull's head down by the horns, but I twisted his head from his neck, and threw it after his departing hind-quarters!" This produced a roar at the idiot's expense, and he shrunk out, to announce his achievements somewhere else. Is he a traveller?--Why, then, Munchausen is a fool to him. He has undergone, achieved, seen, heard, tasted, more wonders than a thousand Gullivers. "The bats of Madagascar are large, assuredly, and almost exclude the sunlight by the breadth of their hairy wings. But the bats are nothing, sir, to the bees." "What kind of bees have they?" "Why, sir, the bees are, 'pon honour, sir, they are as large as your sheep in this country." "Why, then, one would require to keep a pretty sharp look-out ahead, in case of a near encounter with such a winged monster." "Not at all, sir. They make such a roaring noise, sir, with their wings, that you can hear them, like the bulls of Bashan, a full mile distant." "Terrible! But are they numerous?" "Oh, exceedingly!" "And what kind of flowers have they to feed on?" "Why, just ordinary flowers. They cover them all over, and insert their proboscis into a thousand, without stirring from their position." "Yes! And what kind of skeps have they?" "Oh, just ordinary skeps, like ours in this country." "Yes! And how do these bees get into the skeps?" "Oh, _just let them see to that_!" But these may be termed the magnificent blazers. There is an animal of this species of very reduced dimensions; and yet, from its numbers and activity, it is not less provoking and annoying than the giant race. You cannot mention a long walk which you have taken, but it out-walks you by at least ten miles. You cannot drink your three bottles at a sitting, but it empties five. You made, whilst a boy, some hairbreadth escapes, but they are nothing to what it has escaped. You have had a very bad fever, and lay a whole week insensible; this creature roared a whole month. You have broken your tendon Achilles; this unfortunate has cut all the arteries and tendons of the leg. Go where you will, the land has been travelled before you. Do what you may, the thing has been done, and much better done, already. In fact, you are only the copy of the original before you; a shaping out of a web; a degenerate branch of a vine in full growth; an Italian alphabet in the presence of a Roman. "I thought my master a wise man; but this man makes my master a fool," says the housemaid in Dean Swift; and it is thus that the emmet Blazer befools you, turn where you may. Whom have we next in this our show-box of rarities? Step in, sir. Don't stumble on the doorway, like Protesilaus in setting out for Troy. Oh, I ask your pardon-- "THE BLUNDERING IDIOT." Sit down there, sir--no, not on that sofa--with your dirty garments, and shoes bemired; but on that arm-chair, where you may roll about to your heart's content. Now, sir, be silent; for I see you are about to blunder out whatever comes uppermost (and that is generally froth and scum), and listen to me. I am going to read you a lecture. It was owing to your blundering interference that I am not the Laird of Peatie's Mill at this moment. You went to my uncle, and, by the way of recommending his nephew, told him that I was an intimate acquaintance of yours, and that you and I had many a happy night together at Johnnie Dowie's. Now, you ought to have known my uncle's views and habits--in short, his character--and that he had all his life long an utter abhorrence of anything approaching to dissipation. My uncle instituted inquiry, and found that what you stated was true, at least to a certain extent; and, in consequence, cut me off with a shilling, leaving Peatie's Mill to a miserly, mean fellow, who had once informed him of the approaching failure of one who owed him money. You need not make any apology now, the thing is done, and cannot be undone. When I was on the point of being married to an heiress, with a good person and a fine property, you came again as my evil genius, denying a report, which I had myself propagated, of my early indiscretions, and assuring her cousin that I was totally incapable of anything of the kind; that I was a perfect Nathaniel, or Joseph, or what not; and, in short, so disgusted the lady with your praises of me, that she immediately cut me, and married the master of a coasting vessel. I know what you are going to say; but I know, too, that you had no business to pop your nose into other people's business. Besides, at last election, did not you assure the members to whom you, amongst others, applied in my favour, that I was at heart a Tory, though I had assumed Whig colours of late; and all this because you knew his own father had been a violent Tory in old times. This so disgusted my patron, that I lost the stamps by it. Your blundering idiocy, sir--without any bad motive to arm it to mischief--has done more injury to yourself, as well as to others, than would be the very worst intentions and the most malevolent endeavours. But I spare you--convinced, as I am, that nothing which I can say will ever drain the blundering propensity out of your nature. But whom have we here?-- "A BORN IDIOT." "Well, ma'am, let me have your own story from your own lips." "Why, sir, do you use no more ceremony with me, knowing who I am, sir? When your ancestors, sir, were working on the queen's highways, and breaking stones----" "I beg your pardon, madam; but it is but a short time since Macadamising was introduced, and my ancestors happened to live at a period prior to the breaking of stones on high-roads as a business." "Well, sir, but you have interrupted me, and I forgot what I was going to say. Oh ay! I was going to tell you that my ancestors rode in coaches, when yours drove carts; that mine spent thousands upon thousands, whilst yours were dealing in tarry-woo and candle grease; and yet you, sir--you now sit in this cottage of yours (as you must needs call it)--you have the audacity, and the impertinence, and the presumption, forsooth, to call my son to account for shooting a few of your dirty birds over your poor, paltry acres." "Ma'am, I only warned him off my preserves, and did it in civil language, too; but your son, taking his cue, I have no doubt, from so accomplished a parent, used improper and ungentlemanly language to me, and threatened to horsewhip me; so I thought it was only justice to myself to put him into the hands of my man of business." "Your man of business, sir! And who gave you, or your father's son, a man of business, pray? What business may you have to manage, which a servant lass may not conduct to a favourable conclusion with a three-pronged grape?" "Madam, I will stand this no longer. This house is my own. Depart!" There she goes, wagging her tail and tossing her head, the Born Idiot! But here comes a change of person, in "THE CANTING IDIOT." But, hush! I hear the voice of psalmody. She has taken to what she terms a "sweet psalm," and must not on any account be disturbed. It is true that there are odd stories abroad of her early life, and some rather suspicious reports respecting a certain serjeant of a certain regiment. Suspicions, too, have been entertained of her being concerned in the burning of a certain will, by which her husband became possessed of property to a comfortable extent; but she has no family, and of late years has taken to religion, and, some say, occasionally to a less safe stimulant. Be that as it may, Mrs Glaiks is at the head of all manner of female associations of a religious character. She is a perfect adept in judging of young preachers and evangelical discourses. If she pronounce her verdict, the matter is settled; there is no appeal, not even to her poor henpecked husband, whose conscience, every now and then, requires all her care and eloquence to soothe. She has already taken possession of this world by a _trick_, and she means to take the next by _force_. She is urgent with the Lord, in season and out of season, and has been at great pains in converting a handsome young man, who was addicted to wine and its usual accompaniments. She says that she has been the unworthy instrument, in God's hand, of his soul's salvation; and meets with him more frequently in private than John Glaiks approves of. Pass on, Mrs Glaiks-- "If honest worth to heaven rise, Ye'll mend ere ye come near it." But what a mighty fuss is here! The door flies wide open, till the hinges crack again, as _in_ there rolls, in all the majesty of a new suit of clothes, and a mighty self. "THE POMPOUS IDIOT." Reader! it is not Samuel Johnson, nor his Leader Bozzie. These were both pompous enough, God knows; but they were not idiots--it is "my Uncle Thomas." My Uncle Thomas was once a colonel in the Galloway Militia, and has long retired in single blessedness, to live upon a small family inheritance, which is scarcely sufficient to support himself, with a _man in livery_ and a servant girl, to work his means, and act as chambermaid. My uncle rises every morning at seven, rings his bell, and calls his servant to shave and dress him. All this is done in solemn silence; for it would be presumption in John to utter a word, unless he be spoken to. My uncle, having surveyed his full, round person in the glass, takes possession of his arm-chair, then pokers the fire; looks out at his window; scolds a turkey-cock for spreading his feathers and keeping up a row in the back court; rings the bell again, and says-- "Why, sir, what do you stare at? Let me have breakfast." Breakfast with my uncle is a serious concern. The cups are not in order; the bread is burned to a cinder; the butter is rancid, and the cream is only fit to feed pigs with. However, he has at last breakfasted, and been again surveyed and brushed by John, and is now prepared for the onerous duties of the day. These consist, first, in taking snuff, which he does regularly with three raps on the box-lid, a gaze around, to see if he is observed, and a knowing plunge of the forefinger and thumb into the midst of the powder. But his box is empty, though in fact half-full, and John, having been well scolded, is despatched to his own shop, Donald Mackechnie's, for the real Irish. The box is impressed with the family arms, and the family motto, "_dum vivo spero_." At last the supply arrives; his gold-headed cane, presented to him when colonel of the Galloway Militia, is taken in hand; his hat is brushed, and planted in proper attitude on his head; and forth he sallies, in his pepper-and-salt habiliments, to scold the schoolboys for neglecting to take off, or even touch, their hats, as he passes along what he terms his gravel-walk, which is nothing more nor less than a cart-road leading to a stone-quarry. A cow has escaped from under the care of his keeper, and poor Davie Proudfoot, the herd-boy, is in hot pursuit. The cow is directing her steps, somewhat unceremoniously, towards the colonel's favourite walk, and he is loudly appealed to by the boy, to assist him in "wearing" the brute. My uncle stares with ineffable rage and contempt upon the unfortunate tender of cattle. "What, sir!--what mean you, sir, to ask a colonel in His Majesty's service _to turn a cow_?" My uncle has gone, in quest of an appetite, beyond his usual bounds, and having observed a person passing over the grounds of a neighbouring laird, with a gun under his arm, and of a questionable appearance, he determines to inform Lord Douglas, the neighbouring laird, as he usually designates his lordship, of the fact; and for this purpose, in order to receive information, he calls at the door of a cottage. A little girl, about ten years of age, makes her appearance, and is accosted with-- "Lassie, where is your mother?" "Mither, oh, mither--she's butt the house; but what do you want wi' her?" "You are an ill-educated girl," says my uncle. "Why don't you say 'sir' to me when you address me? But go and tell your mother to speak to me--away!" "Mither! mither! haste and come here--there's a _man_ wantin to speak to you." This was more than my uncle could stand: so he instantly decamped, gold-headed cane and all, to ruminate over the indignities to which he had been subjected. "Go," said he one day to John, when acting as butler to the colonel, his master, and the young laird of Puddentuscal, who had been invited to dinner--"go to catacomb seventeen, and bring us a bottle of vintage twenty-six." "Catacomb here, and vintage there," replied John, with a comical expression on his face, "that's the last bottle on the table I've got frae Peter Cruikshanks, for the twa cheeses we selt him." My uncle died one day, but had taken previous care to have himself carried shoulder-high to the grave. "_Sic transit gloria mundi!_" "Miss Smiles! Oh, Miss Smiles, I am happy to see you, you have been _such_ a stranger! But how is your mother? I was sorry to hear of her late dangerous indisposition, and that you were obliged to call in the assistance of a doctor." "Oh yes," replies "THE SIMPERING IDIOT" with an everlasting smile on her countenance. "Poor mamma was so ill!--he--he--he! we really thought she would have died--he! But then Dr Blister was so attentive and funny. Oh la!--oh la! how he did laugh, and made such a deal of fun, that poor mamma absolutely sat up in bed, and he!--he!--he!--laughed, absolutely laughed outright. But, really, Mrs Wotton, really that is such a beautiful little pony which you have got feeding on the green, and it looked so comical at me in passing--he! he!--and your little boy, Bobby, rides it so gracefully--ha! ha!--and he fell so prettily. But be not alarmed, Mrs Wotton, the boy is only a little, just a very little hurt about the head--he! he!--only about the head, ma'am. I assure you don't be alarmed. Pray--pray, don't!--he!--he! I think I see little Bobby tumbling heels up, head down. A pretty boy, indeed, your little Bobby. But, bless me, Mrs Wotton, don't ring the bell--he!--he! I saw Bobby carefully carried into the gardener's cottage at the gate, with the whip still in his hand, and--but he did not bleed severely----Oh la!--oh la! I hope I have not alarmed you, ma'am. Good-morning--good-morning." There goes that insensible piece of everlasting giggle. She has no more heart than that poker, and no more mercy than an enraged cobbler, making use of it to chastise a drunken spouse. There she goes from house to house, from morn to night, with all the external marks of contentment and high delight, and yet with an inward feeling of envy and ill-will, which is a perfect hell. But here comes, with a copy of the "Laus Stultitiæ" by Erasmus, in one pocket, and a play of Æschylus in the Other. "THE PEDANTIC IDIOT" Oxford bred--pure Oxford, ma'am. You cannot possibly utter a sentiment which he does not roll you off in pure Iambics, nor mention a fact which does not suggest another, at least eighteen centuries old. "The day is very fine, ma'am, very fine indeed. 'And thus, from day to day'--you remember the quotation in Shakspere--it is prettily said, but not delicately. I do not like the words 'rot, and rot;' yet, if one take into account the age, ma'am, the age of Shakspere--I don't mean the years which he lived, but the age of the world in which he lived--if you take into consideration the age, such words as rot were not deemed ungenteel. 'Like a bare bodkin,' and 'groan and sweat'--all these phrases have got somehow into bad repute now; but they were once seen in the most polite company. Have you read the 'Laus Stultitiæ' of Erasmus, sir; or, as it is more frequently expressed in Greek terms, the Encomium Moriæ? It is quite unique, sir; so full of genuine fun, expressed in beautiful Latin, with scraps of Greek intermixed. What think you of the 'Prometheus' of Euripides?--is it not sublime and terrific?--such a thunder of language and meaning intermingled! These old fellows--these ancients--were the boys. What are our moderns to them? What is Southey to Virgil, or Scott to Homer, Tom Moore to Anacreon, or the lyrics of Burns to those of Horace? Oh, _fons Blandusiæ_! how soft, how sweet, how beautifully _simplex munditiis_! And then his _'quem verum aut heroa,' 'Coelo tonantem credimus Jovem'_. But I am, perhaps, trespassing on your patience; if so, I ask your pardon, and bid you good-morning." There he goes--a creature of nut-shells, one who deals with the husk but never with the kernel--a bag of chaff, with scarcely a per-centage of honest grain--a sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal--a thing of shreds and patches--a Joseph's coat of many colours. I was heartily tired of the classical pedant; but there are pedants, ma'am, in all situations and professions. There are even pedantic chimney-sweeps--men in sooty garb, who brandish the brush and display the dirt-bag with an air of importance, and whose loud and penetrating "sweep" has a peculiar force with it. There is, for example, your next neighbour, Mrs Manage, who makes more cheeses from less milk than any one of her neighbours; whose butter has a higher flavour than any in the market; and who kills you, from morn to night, with plans of savings, and profits, and improvements. She even rides her hobby whilst asleep; for she often starts, and mutters the name of a favourite milcher. And there is Mr Clark. Ah, my dear, good-natured, companionable, ever-to-be-remembered Mr Clark! You were indeed the prince of fishers. You had travelled over a great part of Scotland, like my friend Stodart, fishing; and, really and in truth, you had done and seen wonders. I am sorry, very sorry, indeed, to place you amongst the "pedants;" but truth, my dear sir--my dear shade, compels me to do so. Set you once upon fishing, and there was no end of it--from Dan to Beersheba, on you went. Here you killed a salmon of fourteen pounds weight, after playing him up pool and down stream for at least six hours; there, you hooked another, which broke your line, and curvetted away to the tune of "I care for nobody, no not I, If nobody cares for me." Again, you filled your basket ere twelve o'clock, and gave up fishing merely because you could carry no more. And then, such adventures! One day you lost yourself in the mist--found a tethered horse--wandered for hours, and then encountered the same tethered horse again. At another time, you came upon a cottage in the muirland with a lame crow; and, after much wandering, came again upon the same object. You once changed your flies _three_ times, and at last pulled _him_ out by a knot upon the line, at which he took _greedily_. Was it not you who filled your basket with trouts of a pound weight each, and then, in leaning over a bank to land another, your basket-pin gave way, and they all tumbled dead into the gullet? Did not you jump _in_ after them; and were you not carried down into the bumbling pool; and had it not been that you got a hold of a _heather cow_, would not you have been absolutely drowned? After all this testimony, which you know--I mean _knew_ (alas! my dear friend, that I should say _knew_!)--to be true, can I avoid placing you amongst the _fishing pedants_? Yet, as the angel did in Sterne (an angel who has had a deal of work to do in his time), do I now drop a tear upon what I have written, and all _but_ blot it out for ever. Honest Mr Clark! you were indeed the king of fishers; but, then, all your fish weighed fisher's weight--you added at least seventy-five per cent. to the avoirdupois! But golfers! Golfers, of all pedants who infest earth or purgatory, are the most intolerable. During dinner, you hear the distant grumble of thunder; there is a word or two dropped, of this hole and that hole--of this stroke and that stroke--of this tee and that tee; but so soon as the glass has circulated a little, you are all mish-mash, helter-skelter, at it again. Done--done! is the word on the match; shillings, pounds, and guineas fly about like midges in harvest sunshine. Some one tries to introduce general conversation, by observing that the coronation went well off; but it is all to no purpose. Their voice is not heard in the general uproar. The very table seems to take an interest in the hubbub, and responds to the clenched fist with a peculiar hollow sound. If this be not pedantry, I know nothing of the subject. The Old Commodore, a second Uncle Toby, was a pedant; and so was Willie Herdman, who had fought as a common soldier at the siege of Gibraltar; and Jumping Jenny was a pedant, who had not an idea beyond a reel and a fling; and Willie Crosbie was a pedant, who could talk of nothing but ewes and gimmers; and Geordie Johnston was a pedant, who valued himself on his small ankles, and nice lambs'-wool stockings; and Archy Tait was a pedant, who kept up a nightly intercourse with the devil and all manner of bogles. But time and paper (which is more precious than time, never to speak of the printing) would fail me, were I to reveal to you the thousandth part of the cases in which pedantic idiocy appears. Turn we now, therefore, to another species of the same genus, to the "SARCASTICAL JESTER," who, though he has not yet obtained a name amongst the notables, is, undeniably, the greatest and most offensive Idiot of the whole batch. We must approach him slily, for he is an exceedingly cunning fellow; and, when you least think of it, he will be showing you off to some third party, whom, in his turn, he will again be showing off to you. Dean Swift's housemaid was one of this class, who pinned a dish-clout to the tail of Dr Sheridan, and pointed him out as an object of ridicule to all the servants. Nay, Satan himself was a master of works on the occasion, when he said "eat, and be wise," well knowing that his advice was folly, and obedience to it death. The practical jester is not a man of many words, but he looks two ways for Sabbath. He will tread upon your corny toe, and then ask your pardon, looking all the while slily to his companion, who is in the secret. He will call you _Kettle of Barclay_, instead of _Barclay of Kettle_--aware, as he is, that you value yourself upon your title. He will, above all this, practise upon you his great leading joke of _Johnnie Hastie's shears_. You are sitting beside him upon the top of a coach, and thinking of nothing but the crops, the fields, and the cottages. All at once, you spring to your feet with a shout, and are precipitated over the driver's seat upon the backs of the horses. All that he did, or was doing, was to give you a clip of Johnnie Hastie's shears. Good reader (for all readers of those Tales are good, like the Tales themselves), dost thou know anything about Johnnie Hastie or his shears? I shall tell thee. He was a tailor in the Parish of Crail, famous for fish and herrings--a real cankered body, but with about an equal quantity of humour or malevolent wit. Whenever he found a proper opportunity, he used to bend his fore and middle fingers, and then, protruding the middle joint, and opening or separating the one from the other, he used to apply this instrument to the fleshy and most sensitive part of any person who might happen to sit near him, and, by compressing suddenly the joints and fingers, gave the impression of severe clipping. This he denominated a clip of Johnnie Hastie's shears; and hence arose the by-word. An incident or two of this sort it may not be improper to mention. It is well known that hiccuping is an unpleasant but a pertinacious complaint, and that it proceeds from many causes as well as from a too liberal indulgence in wine. A person who happened to be at the time afflicted with this convulsive movement was suddenly struck on the back, by a practical jester, by way of surprising him out of the distemper. The stroke, however, happened to introduce a small piece of nut kernel, which he was eating, into his windpipe, and it was not without much suffering that it was at last extracted. Another came up to a man of peculiar habits and feelings, observing that he was looking very ill; and then, meeting him again next day, and a third, and a fourth, made the same observation. The poor nervous creature took it sadly to heart, went to bed, and never rose again. He died from the fear of death. At the siege of Toulon--when balls flew about in abundance--after the battle was over, and our ships were forced, by the infant Hercules, Bonaparte, to retreat, an officer went up to his companion, who was standing with his back towards him in the dark, and slapped him suddenly on the back betwixt the shoulders. The person suddenly struck jumped up on the deck, and shouting, "Shot at last, by God!" he died on the spot. Jeanie Gibson and William Laidlaw were lovers, not in any particular sentimental manner, but just in the old-fashioned way. They liked each other's company, sat very close to each other in the dark, and occasionally indulged in an innocent kiss! But Jeanie was what is called "bonny," and had more lovers than Willie Laidlaw; one of whom, Bob Paton, a sly, unfeeling rogue, of the practical-jesting kind, was over head-and-ears in love with bonny Jeanie. He took it into his head that he would play a trick upon Jeanie, and make her avow at once her preference for Willie Laidlaw, whom she only in secret favoured. For this purpose, he dressed up a figure in what (in the dark) might appear to be the clothes of Willie Laidlaw, and placed it in a field through which he knew Laidlaw was to pass. He armed himself with a gun, duly charged with powder and shot. Firm prepared, he advanced into the field or park, well knowing that Jeanie Gibson was not only within _sight_, but within _hearing_ of him, being seated under the cover of a stone dyke hard by. "Where are you going, William?" said the practical jester. "I know where you are going; you are going to meet wi' Jeanie Gibson; but I'll blaw your brains out first." Thus saying, he fired off his musket, and the figure immediately fell. A wild scream was all that was heard, and Jeanie was found lifeless: no, much worse--deprived of reason for life! She never recovered; but when her lover was brought into her presence, always said-- "I know--I know it is not my Willie. I saw--I saw him fa'! It isna him; it canna be him. He's awa--awa--awa!" And then she uniformly fainted. Nor did the practical jester escape. Willie actually shot him, and was hanged on Lockerby Muir for the deed. _Finis coronat opus_--to conclude, I shall e'en take off myself under the character of "THE SCRIBBLING IDIOT." He is always meditating something great, but never carries it into execution. One day he commences a heroic poem, which terminates the next in a rebus or sonnet. One day he becomes a dramatist, and pens a scene of a play on the escape of James the Fifth from the palace of Falkland; the next he writes an article for the "Tales of the Borders." Now he undertakes a history of the eight-and-twenty years' persecution--gets out numerous books from the library--actually writes a preface and a conclusion in fine style, which ends in a few lines in the poet's corner of a country newspaper. He sketches a poem, to be entitled, "Gratitude"--in which dogs, elephants, lions, and even horses, as well as men and women, are to figure; but he never gets on further than four very indifferent lines. He is sixty years old; and at sixteen could write as well and cleverly as he does now. He never takes time to correct _vetere stylum_, he is always in such a confounded hurry lest his idea should escape him ere he has given it a black coat and a white waistcoat. Nobody can equal him in rapidity of composition; but, then, his composition is like the man's horse, with two faults--"it is very ill to catch, and not worth a penny when caught." He does everything for everybody; writes all manner of reviews of books which he has never read, and quotes authorities which he has never consulted. He gets daily into scrapes by making use of people's names about whom he knows nothing, and who abhor, or pretend to abhor, notoriety. One day he is all devotion and sentiment, the next all fun and frolic. He spends his life in an endless whirl of fancies, meditations, resolves, attempts, and finds himself every hour less respected; and, indeed, less respectable than he once was. The worst of it is, "he knows that he is an idiot;" but the knowledge does him no manner of good. He takes a tumbler or two; and then he is, in his own estimation, the very acme of genius! He knows that, had he possessed perseverance, he might have done much; and this knowledge, instead of stimulating, paralyses all manner of effect. His life is a dream; and when he dies, he will be instantly forgotten. He will set like an equatorial sun, and there will be no twilight over his memory. But "_latet dolus in generalibus_"--I set out in life with excellent prospects--had gained the patronage of a nobleman who had at least twenty kirks in his gift. In these days the Veto had not shown its appalling phiz. I had the absolute promise of a kirk, which was sure to be vacant in a year or two. But nothing would serve me but I would write some satirical verses on a scolding wife, whom I knew only by report. I sent the following lines to some magazine of the day. TUNE--"_Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch_ "Tam's wife o' Puddentuscal[1]-- Tam's wife o' Puddentuscal, Wat ye how she rated me, And ca'ed me baith a loon and rascal! "Her words gaed through me like a sword-- She said she'd gnash our heads together. Had I sic wife, upon my word, I'd twist her chanter in a tether. Tam's wife, &c. "I did but pree her dinner cheer, And hadna drunk twa jugs o' toddy, When _in_ she bang'd like ony bear-- Oh, she is an awsome body! Tam's wife, &c. "I took my bonnet and the road, And to my waefu fate resign'd me; When, what think ye, the raging jade Daddit _to_ the door behind me? Tam's wife o' Puddentuscal-- Tam's wife o' Puddentuscal, Wat ye how she rated me, And ca'ed me baith a loon and rascal. [Footnote 1: Name of a farm.] Now this song happened to take in the neighbourhood, and was reckoned severe and clever. The murder came out in a few weeks. I received the following letter from Lord C----:-- "SIR,--I hear you have been lampooning, in a periodical work, a person in whom Lady C---- takes a deep interest. I consider myself relieved from any obligations which your past services may have imposed upon me.--I remain, &c." My lord was as good as his word, and that I am now "Within my noisy mansion skill'd to rule," instead of appearing sleek, fat, and comfortable at the General Assembly now sitting, is owing to my scribbling propensities. But there is yet one other idiot, with whose character I might close "this strange, eventful history"--an idiot decidedly the most prominent of all--an idiot who, in modern times in particular, has proved his claims on my notice to an unusual extent--an idiot, too, without whose idiocy mine were literally a dead letter: Reader! gentle reader!--"_Quid rides--nomine mutato de_ TE"--that is, if you are _displeased_; if not, you are an angel! THE FLOSHEND INN. About the middle of the last century, and previous to it, the truly national trade of carrying the pack was, as doubtless many of our readers know, both much more general and respectable than it now is. It did not then, by any means, occupy the low place in the scale of traffic to which modern pride, and perhaps modern improvement, have reduced it. At the period to which we allude, those engaged in this trade were for the most part men of good substance and of unimpeachable character, trustworthy, and, in their humble sphere, highly respectable--circumstances which, doubtless, imparted to their calling the consideration which it then enjoyed. The reason lies on the surface: the trade was then both a more extensive and a more important one than it is now, and required a much greater capital; for there being then none of those rapid and commodious conveyances for transporting merchandise from place to place which are now everywhere to be met with, the greater part of this business was then done by the packmen, who combined the two characters of merchants and carriers; and in this double capacity supplied many of the shops of Edinburgh and Glasgow, and other large towns, with English manufactures. Those, therefore, who would conceive of the packman of old, an indifferently-clad and equivocal-looking fellow, with a wooden box on his back, containing his whole stock, would form a very erroneous idea of the peripatetic merchant. Their conception would not, in truth, represent the man at all. The packman of yore kept two or three horses, and these he loaded with his merchandise, to the value often of several thousand pounds; and thus he perambulated the country, passing between Scotland and England, conveying the goods of the one to the other; and thus maintaining the commercial intercourse of the two kingdoms. About the year 1746, this trade had arrived at so great a height, that the high-road to England by Gretna Green was thronged with those engaged in it, going to and returning from the sister kingdom with their loaded ponies; and a merry and bustling time of it they kept at the Floshend Inn. This hostelry, now extinct, was long a favourite resort of these packmen, or pack-carriers, as they were more generally or more properly called. It was situated on the Scottish side of the Borders, near to Gretna Green, and was kept by a very civil and obliging person, of the luminous name of John Gas--a little, fat, good-humoured, landlord-looking body, with a countenance strongly expressive of his comfortable condition, having a capital business, and being very much at his ease, both in mind and body. His house was a favourite resort of the pack-carriers; and for good reasons. It was the last inn of any note on the Scottish side, and was, of consequence, the first they came to on re-entering their native country from their expeditions into England. The quarters, besides, were in themselves excellent; the accommodations were good, and the fare abundant, reasonable, and of the first quality--especially the liquor, that great _sine qua non_ of good cheer. In addition to all this, John Gas himself was the very pink of landlords; humorous, kind, attentive, and obliging; possessing that valuable quality of being able to stand almost any given quantity of drink, which enabled him to distribute his presence and his company over any number of successive guests. Fresh as a bedewed daisy, and steady as a wave-beaten rock, he was always forthcoming, whatever might have been the amount of previous duty he had performed; and what might remain yet to do he always overtook, and executed with credit to himself, and satisfaction to his customers--no instance having been known of his having been placed _hors de combat_, either by ale-cup or brandy-bottle. With such claims on public patronage, it was no wonder that his house secured so large a share of the custom of the itinerant merchants of the time; who, so much did they appreciate the comforts of the Floshend Inn, and so much were they alive to the merits of its host, that they would not rest, foul or fair, dark or light, anywhere within ten miles of it. A dozen of them were thus frequently assembled together at the same time under the hospitable roof; and, being all known to each other, they formed, on such occasions, a merry corps--spending freely, and sitting down all together at the same table. A more amusing or more entertaining company could, perhaps, nowhere be found; for they were all shrewd, intelligent men--their profession and their wandering lives putting them in possession of a vast store of curious adventure and anecdote, and throwing many sights in their way which escape the local fixtures of the human race. Naturally of a gossiping turn--a propensity made particularly evident when they chanced to meet together in such a way as we have described--they were in the habit of amusing each other with narratives of what they had seen and heard that was strange, and enlivening the evening with merry tale and jest. It was somewhere about the month of March, in the year 1750, that a knot of these worthies, consisting of seven or eight, was assembled in the cheerful kitchen of the Floshend Inn--an apartment they preferred for its superior comfort, its blazing fire, and its freedom from all restraint. Some of the guests present on this occasion were on their way to England; others had just returned from it, with packs of Manchester goods, and large bales of Kendal leather. These last, and all other descriptions of merchandise which his pack-carrier customers brought, were stowed in a large room in the inn, which the landlord had very judiciously and very properly appropriated for this purpose; while the horses that bore them were comfortably quartered in the commodious and well-ordered stables. They were seated on either side of the fire, with a small round table between them, on which stood a circle of glasses; in the centre, a smoking jug, whose contents may be readily guessed; and close by the table was the landlord, doing the honours of the occasion--that is, making the brandy-toddy, and filling the glasses of his guests. The master of ceremonies was in great glee, being precisely in his element, the situation of all others in which he most delighted--a bowl of good liquor before him, a set of merry good friends around him, and the prospect of a neat, snug reckoning in perspective. The conversation amongst the guests was general; but it might have been observed that one of the party had got the ear of the landlord, and was telling him, in an under-tone, some curious story; for the latter, with head inclined towards the facetious narrator, was chuckling and smirking at every turn of the humorous tale. At length a sudden roar of laughter at once announced its consummation, and attracted towards himself the general attention of the company. "What's that, mine host?" was an inquiry put by three or four at once. "Something guid, I warrant; for that was a hearty ane." The speaker meant Mr Gas's laugh. "What was't?" "It's a story," replied he, the tears still standing in his eyes, "that Andrew here has been tellin me, aboot the minister o' Kirkfodden and his servant lass--and a very guid ane it is. Andrew, will I tell it?" he added, turning round to the person who had told him the story. "Surely, surely," replied Andrew; "let it gang to the general guid." Aweel, freends (said mine host, now confronting his auditors), the minister o' Kirkfodden, ye maun ken, is, though a clergyman, a droll sort o' body, and very fond o' a curious story, and still fonder o' a guid joke--and no a whit the waur is he o' that; for he is a guid, worthy man, as I mysel ken. The minister had a servant lass they ca'd Jenny Waterstone--a young, guid-lookin, decent, active quean; and she had a sweetheart o' the name o' David Widrow--a neighbourin ploughman lad, a very decent chield in his way--wha used to come skulkin aboot the manse at nichts, to get a sicht and a word o' Jenny, withoot ony objection on the part o' the minister, wha believed it to be, as it really was, an honourable courtship on baith sides. Ae nicht, being later in his garden than usual--indeed, until it got pretty dark--the minister's attention was suddenly attracted by a loud whisperin on the ither side o' the garden wa', just opposite to where he stood. He listened a moment, and soon discovered that the whisperers were David Widrow and his servant, and overheard, as the nicht was uncommonly lown, the followin conversation between the lovin pair:-- "I fear, Jenny," said David, "that the minister winna be owre weel pleased to see me comin sae aften aboot the house." "I dinna think he'll be ill pleased," replied Jenny. "He's no ane o' that kind." "Still," said David, "I had better let the nicht fa', now and then, before I come; and then he'll no see me mair than four times a-week or sae. He canna count that bein very troublesome." "Just as ye like, David," said she. "But how am I to let ye ken I'm here?" inquired the lover. "Ye can just gie a rap at the kitchen window, and I'll come oot to ye," replied the girl. "Very weel," said David; "I'll come and rap at the back window the morn's nicht." "Do sae," replied she; "and, if I canna get oot to ye at the moment, just step into the barn till I come. I'll leave the door open for ye." This matter arranged, the lovers parted, little suspectin wha had overheard them; and the minister went into the house. On the followin evenin, a little after dark, the doctor, closely wrapped up in a plaid belongin to his servin-man, slipped oot, and, stealin up behind the house, till he cam to the kitchen window, gave the preconcerted signal, by gently tappin on it with his fingers. Jenny, who was employed at the moment in bottlin aff a sma' cask o' choice strong ale, for his ain particular use, immediately answered the ca', raised the window, and put oot her head. "Is that you, David?" said she. "Yes," said the minister, in a whisper so gentle as to prevent her recognisin his voice. "I canna get to ye at present," said Jenny; "for I'm engaged bottlin some ale, and maun put it a' past before I gang oot; the minister's waitin till I tak it up the stair; but love maks clever hands, as they say, and I'll gie ye something to keep ye frae wearyin, in the meantime, till I come." Sayin this she handed him oot a bottle o' the ale, and a basket containin some cakes and cheese. "Now," said she, "tak thae awa to the barn wi' ye, David, and tak a bite and a sowp till I come." And she drew down the window, and resumed her work. The minister, without sayin a word, retired wi' his booty, and placed it in a dark corner at a little distance. In a short time he again returned to the window, and again rapped. The window was promptly thrown up, and Jenny's head thrust oot. "Can ye gie's anither bottle, Jenny?" said the minister, speakin as low as before, and disguisin his voice as well as he could. "Anither bottle, David!" exclaimed Jenny, in surprise. "Gude save us frae a' evil! hae ye finished a hail bottle already? My troth, that's clever wark! But I canna gie ye anither the nicht, David. It's a' put past. Besides, ye hae aneugh for ae nicht." "Weel, weel," said the minister; "come oot as sune as ye can, Jenny." And he again slippit awa. Thinkin, now, that he couldna carry the joke farther wi' safety, as there was great risk o' the real David appearin, the minister slippit into the house, threw aff his plaid, and went to a little back window that was immediately over the kitchen ane, from which he could, by a little cautious management, both see and overhear, unobserved, all that should pass between Jenny and her lover, when _he_ came on the stage. Nor had he to wait long for this. In a few minutes after he had taken his station, he saw David come round the corner o' the house, and steal, wi' cautious steps, towards the kitchen-window. He rapped. The window was raised, but evidently wi' some impatience. "Gude bless me, Davie! are ye there again already?" said Jenny, somewhat testily. "Dear me, man, can ye no hae patience a bit? I'll come to ye immediately." And, without waitin for ony answer, she again banged doun the window. David was confounded at this treatment; but, as Jenny had gien him nae time to mak ony remark for her edification, he made ane or twa for his ain. "Here _again_!" he said, mutterin to himself--"here _already_! Can I no hae patience!" Then, after a pause, "What does the woman mean? What _can_ she mean?" This was a question, however, which Jenny hersel only could explain; and for this explanation David had to wait wi' what patience he could conveniently spare. But he certainly hadna to tarry lang; for, in twa or three minutes after, a soft, low voice was heard sayin-- "Whar are ye, David?" "Here," quoth David, in the same cautious voice. "Dear me, man," said Jenny, "what was a' yer hurry? I'm sure ae rap at the window was as guid as twenty. Ye micht hae been sure I wad come to ye as sune as I could." "Hurry, Jenny! What do ye mean? I was only ance at the window," replied David. "Ye surely canna ca' that impatience." "Ye're fou, Davie; that's plain," said Jenny. "The bottle o' ale has gane to your head, and ye've forgotten. Nae wonder; it wasna sma' beer, I warrant ye, but real double stoot. Catch the minister drinkin onything else! Thae black-coats ken what's guid for them." And, without waitin for ony answer, she proceeded--"But whar hae ye left the basket, Davie? Is't in the barn?" "Jenny," said David, now perfectly bewildered by all this, to him, wholly incomprehensible ravin, "ye say I'm fou; but, if I'm no greatly mistaen, ye're the fouest o' the twa." And he peered into her face, to see how far appearances would confirm his conjectures. "Awa wi' ye, ye stupid gowk!" said Jenny, pushin him good-naturedly from her. "Ye're just as fou's the Baltic--that's plain. But tell me, man, whar ye put the basket; for it may be missed? I houp ye haena forgotten that tae?" "Jenny," replied David, now somewhat mair sincerely, "will ye tell me at ance what ye mean? What bottles o' ale and baskets are ye speakin aboot?" "Ha! ha! Like as ye dinna ken!" said Jenny, lookin archly, and giein her lover anither push. "That's a guid ane! To drink my ale, and eat my bread and cheese, and then deny it!" I leave you, guid freends (said the narrator here), to conjecture what were David's feelins, and to conceive what were his looks, while Jenny was thus chargin him wi' ingratitude. I'll no attempt a description o' them. A' this time the minister was lookin owre his window, richt abune the lovers, and heard every word o' what they said; but he keepit quiet till the argument should come to a crisis. In the meantime the conversation between the lovers proceeded. "Jenny," said David, in reply to her last remark, "ye're either daft or fou--and that's the end o't. Sae let us speak aboot something else if ye can." "Do ye mean to say, David," replied Jenny--now getting somewhat serious too, and a little surprised, in her turn, at seein the perfect composure o' her lover, and the utter unconsciousness expressed on his countenance--"do ye mean to say that I didna gie ye a bottle o' ale and a basket o' bread and cheese oot o' the window there, aboot a quarter-o'-an-hour syne?" "Never saw them, nor heard o' them," replied David, with great coolness. "Ta! nonsense, man!" said Jenny, with impatient credulity. "And did ye no come and seek anither? and did ye no come three or four times to the window?" "Naething o' the kind," replied David, briefly, but with the same calmness and composure as before. "I never got a bottle o' ale and a basket o' bread frae ye oot o' that window; I never sought anither frae ye; and I hae been only ance at that window this blessed nicht." There was nae resistin belief to a disclaimer sae coolly, sae calmly, and sae pointedly made; and Jenny acknowledged this by immediately exclaimin, in the utmost dismay and alarm-- "Lord preserve me, then! wha was't that got them, and whar are they?" Her queries were instantly answered. "It was _me_ that got them, Jenny; and they're owre in yon corner yonder," said the minister, in a loud whisper, and now thrustin his head oot o' the window. Jenny looked up for an instant in horror, uttered a loud scream, and fled. David looked up, too, for a second, and then set after her as fast as he could birr; leavin the facetious, but worthy minister in convulsions o' laughter. "And that, my freends," here said the merry landlord, "is the story o' the minister o' Kirkfodden and his servant lass, as tauld to me by my guid freend, Andrew, here"--laying his hand kindly on the shoulder of the person he alluded to. The narrator was rewarded for his story, or rather for his manner of telling it--for in this art he excelled--by a continued roar of laughter from his auditory. When this had subsided-- "Come now," he said, "put in yer glasses. The best story's no the waur o' a weetin. It looks as weel again through a glass o' toddy." The invitation thus humorously given was at once obeyed. In a twinkling a circle of empty glasses, like a _garde du corps_, surrounded the bowl, and were soon replenished, with a dexterity and skill which long practice alone could have given the artist. His well-practised hand and arm skimmed the ponderous vessel as lightly over the glasses as if it had been a cream-pot; filling each of the latter as it went along to exactly the same height--not a drop in or over--with a precision that was truly beautiful to behold. The glasses, which had thus been scientifically filled, having been again emptied, the landlord suddenly fixed his look on another of his guests, who was sitting up in one of the furthest corners, by the fireside, and to whom his attention had been directed, by observing him musing and smiling at intervals, as if tickled by the suggestions of his imagination. He rightly took them for symptoms of a story, and acted upon this impression. "James," he said, addressing the person alluded to, who was at the moment gazing abstractedly on the fire, "if I'm no mistaen, ye hae something to tell that micht amuse us. Ye're lookin like it, at ony rate, if that smirk at the corner o' yer mouth has ony intelligence in't." James turned round, and, with a smile that was gradually acquiring breadth, said that he was "thinkin aboot Tam Brodie and the kirn." "I was sure o't," exclaimed the landlord, triumphantly. "What aboot Tam and the kirn, James?" "There's little in't," replied the other; "but I'll tell it for the guid o' the company." And he immediately went on:--I daresay the maist o' ye here ken Tam Brodie o' the Broomhouse; and them that dinna may now learn that he's a sma' farmer, as weel as unco sma' man, in a certain part o' Annandale. He is in but very indifferent circumstances, and has, on the whole, a sair struggle wi' the warld; but this is no to hinder him, as how should it, frae haein a maist extraordinar fondness for cream; but it ought to hinder him frae takin every opportunity, which he does, o' his wife's bein oot o' the way, to steal frae his ain kirn, to the serious detriment o' his ain interest. His wife entertains the same opinion; for she's obliged to watch him like a cat; and, when she does catch him at the forbidden vessel, or discovers that it has been there--which she often does, by the ring about his mouth, when she has come so suddenly on him as no to gie him time to remove the evidence--she does pepper him sweetly wi' the first thing that comes to her haun; for she's a trimmer, though a weel-behaved, hard-workin woman. A' her watchfuness, however, and a' the wappins she could gie her husband, could neither cure him o' his propensity, nor prevent him indulgin it whenever he thought he could do it without bein detected. It happened ae day, that Mrs Brodie had some errand to a neighbourin farmhouse, which she behoved to execute personally. Having dressed hersel a little better than ordinary for this purpose, she cam to her husband, who was at the moment delvin in the kail-yard behind the house, told him where she was gaun, and desired him to look after the weans till her return. This task, Tam, of course, readily undertook, and continued to delve awa as composedly as if his wife's proposed absence had suggested nae ither idea to him. He, in short, looked as innocent of a sinister purpose as a man could do; although at that very moment the cunnin little rascal's mind was fu' o' the idea o' makin a dive at the kirn, the moment the wife's back was turned. And he soon made these evil intentions manifest aneugh. While his wife was speakin to him, leavin the bairns in his charge, Tam never raised his head, but continued delvin awa wi' great assiduity. He was, in fact, afraid to lift his head, for fear that his wife should discover his joy on his countenance, and tak some means o' bafflin his designs. Although, however, he didna raise his head while she was speakin to him, he did it the instant she left him. While continuin bent as if in the act o' workin, he looked after her till she disappeared down a brae, at the distance o' aboot a hundred yards, when he stood erect, stuck his spade in the ground, and went wi' deliberate step into the hoose. This deliberation, however, did not proceed so much from a consciousness o' security, as to prevent excitin suspicion o' his ain weans, whom he did not wish to trust wi' the secret o' his intended depredations on the kirn, for fear they should tell their mother, as, had they known it, they certainly would--perhaps not deliberately, but they would blab it. This risk, therefore, he resolved not to run. On enterin the kitchen whar the weans war, to the number o' three or four-- "What keeps ye a' in the hoose sic a nice bonny day as this?" said he; "awa and play yersels in the yard for a wee; and, as I'm wearied, and gaun to rest mysel, ye can come and tell me whan ye see yer mither comin. Ye can see her, ye ken, frae the tap o' the yard a lang way aff. Now," he said, addressin the last o' the urchins, as they scampered oot, in obedience to their father's commands--"now mind, and let me ken _the moment_ your mither comes in sicht." The boy promised, and rushed out after his brothers and sisters. The coast was now clear; Tam's progress thus far was triumphant. He had never had before sae fair a field for operations, and he felt a' the satisfaction that his happy situation was capable o' affordin. Havin got the weans oot, he advanced to the door, shut it, and, to prevent any unseasonable intrusion, locked it--at least he thocht he had done so, but the bolt had missed. Unaware o' this circumstance, he proceeded to his operations wi' a feelin o' perfect security. Havin gone into the room where the kirn was, he lifted the large stone by which the lid was kept down, and placed it on the floor. This done, he lifted the lid itsel, and next the clean white cloth which is usually thrown first on the mouth o' the vessel. These a' removed, the glorious substance appeared--thick, rich, and yellow. The glutton gazed on it a moment with a rapturous eye; but there was no time to be lost. He had provided himsel wi' a small tin jug. This he now dipped into the delicious semi-fluid mass, raised it to his lips, and quaffed it aff as fast as its consistency would admit. Again he dipped and again he swilled; and to make everything as comfortable as possible, he next drew a chair to the kirn, sat down on it, stretched out his legs, and in this luxurious and deliberate attitude proceeded wi' his debauch. While in the act o' pourin down his throat the fifth or sixth jug, wi' his head thrown back, his eye--though half closed, from an overpowerin sense o' enjoyment--caught a glimpse o' a castle o' cakes and a plate filled wi' rolls o' fresh butter, that stood on the upper shelf o' a cupboard fastened high upon the wa' in ane o' the corners o' the apartment. The sight was temptin; for he felt at that moment somewhat hungry, and he thocht, besides, the cakes and butter would eat delightfully wi' the cream--and there is little doot they would. Filled wi' this new idea, he rose frae his chair and approached the cupboard wi' the intention o' sackin it; but it was owre high for him. (He was a very little man.) This, however, he was perfectly aware o'. So he took a stool in his hand, placed it, and mounted; but was still several inches from the mark. Findin this, he descended, put anither stool on the top o' the first, and, on again mountin, found himself just barely within reach o' the prize. By seizin, however, a fast hold o' ane o' the shelves o' the cupboard by one hand, he found he could raise himsel up sufficiently high to accomplish the purposed robbery wi' the ither. Discoverin this, he grasped the shelf, and was just in the act o' raisin himsel up by its means, when the stool on which he was standin (he had stood owre near the end o't) suddenly canted up, and left him suspended to the cupboard shelf; for he held on like grim death, kickin and spurrin awa in a vain attempt to recover his footin. This was a state o' things that couldna continue lang; either he must come doun himsel, or the cupboard must come doun alang wi' him--and the latter was the upshot. Doun cam the cupboard; wi' everything that was in it--and it was filled wi' cheeny and crystal--smash on the floor wi' a dreadfu crash, and Tam below it. There wasna a hail glass, cup, or plate left; and the rows o' butter were rollin in a' directions through the floor. Here was a pretty business; and the puir culprit knew it. Cantin awa the cupboard frae aboon him, he slowly rose (for he was not at all much hurt) to his feet, infinitely mair distressed wi' fear for his wife's vengeance than wi' regret for his ain loss. At this instant--that is, just as he had gained his feet, and was lookin ruefully doun on the wreck he had occasioned--ane o' his bairns cam runnin to the door, and bawled out the delightfu intelligence-- "Faither, my mother's comin!" The horrible announcement roused him from his reverie, and instantly put him on the alert. He had presence o' mind aneugh left to recollect that the cupboard wasna a' he had to answer for. There was the kirn, which, in its present denuded state, told an ugly tale. He flew to remedy this. He snatched up the towel, spread it over the mouth o't, lifted the huge stone with which all had been secured, dashed it down--on what? on the lid? No, in his hurry and confusion he forgot the lid;--on the towel--and doun went towel and stone into the kirn, and the latter with such force as fairly knocked out the bottom, and sent the whole contents streamin owre the floor. At this particularly felicitous moment, his wife entered the outer door, when the first thing she met was the colly dog wi' a row o' the fresh butter in his mouth. In ordinary circumstances, this wad hae been a provokin aneugh sicht to her, but a glimpse at the same instant o' the dreadfu ruin within made it appear but a sma' matter indeed. On enterin on the scene o' devastation, she fand the culprit standin almost senseless and speechless wi' terror and horror, and every other stupifyin feelin that can be named, in the middle o' the ruins he had created, and up to the shoe-mouth in cream. "An awfu business this, Maggy," he said, in a sepulchral voice. It was a' he got leave to say; for, in the next moment, he was felled wi' the stroke o' a besom; and when he resumed his feet, which he did almost instantly, he took to his heels, and didna venture hame again till wife and weans were a' lang in their beds. Tam ne'er touched the kirn after this. "And here," said the narrator, "ends my story o' Tam Brodie and the kirn." "And a very guid ane it is," rejoined the landlord, taking off a cold half-glass of punch that stood before him. "I ken Tam o' the Broomhouse as weel as I ken ony ane here, and it's just as like him as can be. William," added mine host, now turning and addressing another member of the company--a quiet, mild-looking man, whom one could not, _à priori_, have suspected of being a joker--"that's nearly as guid a ane as the Blue Bonnet. Do ye mind that story? William shook his head and smiled. "I mind it weel aneugh," he replied; "but it was rather a serious affair--at least it micht hae been sae--and I'm no fond o' recollectin 't." "Nonsense, man; nae harm cam o't," said the other; "and it was harmlessly meant." "But it micht hae been a bad business," said William. "But it _wasna_," said mine host; "and, as I dinna believe there's ane here that ever heard the story, I wish ye wad let me tell it." "It's no worth tellin," said the other. "I'll tak my chance o' that," replied the landlord; "if it's counted worthless, I'll tak the wyte o't. Do ye gie me leave?" "A wilfu man maun hae his ain way--do as you like," rejoined William Brydon, affectin a chariness he did not altogether feel. Thus regularly licensed, the narrator began:-- About twa or three years syne, there used to come about this house o' mine a wee bit whupper-snapper body o' an English bagman. An impudent, upsettin brat he was, although no muckle higher than that table. The favourite theme o' this wee ill-tongued rascal--for he had a vile ane--was abusin Scotland, and a' that war in't, for a parcel o' sneakin, hungry, beggarly loons. This was his constant talk wherever he was, and whaever he micht be amang. I didna mind him mysel; for the cratur wasna a bad customer, and he was, besides, such a wretched-lookin body--I mean as to size and figure, for he was aye weel aneugh put on--that puttin a haun to him was oot o' the question. Ye couldna hae blawn upon him, but ye wad hae been in for murder, or culpable homicide at the very least. But, although I keepit a calm sough wi' him, and didna mind his abusive jabberin, it wasna sae wi' everybody; and there was nane bore it waur than oor freend William Brydon here, wha aften forgathered wi' him in this hoose. William couldna endure the cratur, and mony a sair wrangle they had wi' the tongue; but the Englishman's was by far the glibber, though William's was the weightier. It chanced that William and the little gabby Englishman met here, both on their way to England, ae day sune after the execution o' the rebels in Carlisle--a time whan the Scots, as ye a' dootless ken, war in unco bad odour throughoot a' England, and especially in Carlisle, whar the feelin ran sae high that no person wearin ony piece o' dress which smelt in the least o' Scotland was safe in the streets. And wha was sae vindictive against the rascally rebels, as he ca'ed them, as our wee bagman? "Headin and hangin's owre guid for the villains," he wad say. "They should be roasted before a slow fire, like sae mony shouthers o' mutton." Oh, he had a bitter spite at them! It was aboot this time, as I said, that he and our freend here met in my hoose--and, as usual, they had a tremendous yokin; but it was, on this occasion, a' aboot the rebels; for this was the thing uppermost in the wee bagman's mind at the time. It was a grand catch for him, and he made the maist o't. In short, a' his abuse now took this particular direction. Notwithstandin William and the bagman's constant quarrellin, and their mutual dislike o' each ither, they aye drank thegither whan they met, and whiles took guid scours o't, and lang sederunts; but it wasna for love, ye'll readily believe, they sat thegither: na, na, it was for the purpose o' gettin a guid worryin at ane anither; so that they may be said to hae sought each ither's company oot o' a kind o' lovin hatred to ane anither. In the afternoon o' which I'm speakin, the twa, as usual, drank and quarrelled; but I was surprised to find, towards the end o' their sederunt, that oor freend here, instead o' gettin angrier, as he used to do, as the contest drew towards a close, grew aye the calmer; and, what astonished me still mair, suddenly showed a strong disposition to curry favour wi' his antagonist, and actually so far succeeded, by dint o' soothin words, as to induce the bagman to extend the hand o' friendship and good-fellowship to him--swearin that William was, after all, a devilish good fellow, for a Scotchman. The bagman, however, was by this time pretty weel on by the head; and this micht hae had some share in producin this new-born kindness for the Scotchman. However this may be, being both anxious to get on to Carlisle that nicht, they agreed--such good freends had they thus suddenly become--to travel together. This settled, their horses were brought to the door. William's packs had been sent on before, and he had hired ane o' my horses to carry him unto Carlisle. Just as they were gaun oot the passage there, to the door to mount, William hings back a bit, lettin the bagman gang on before him, and whispers into my ear-- "I'll play that pockpuddin a pliskie yet. Hae ye such a thing as an auld broad bonnet aboot ye, that ye could lend me?" Little dreamin what he was gaun to do with it, I replied I had; and runnin into the kitchen here, I took down frae a nail, ane that I used to wear when gaun aboot the garden, and gae it to him. William took it, rowed it up, and thrust it in his pocket, without sayin a word, and, in three minutes after, the twa war aff. On arrivin within aboot a mile o' Carlisle, Willie proposed to the bagman that they should go into a public-house that was on the roadside, and hae something before they entered the toon, as they required to part a wee on this side o't--William having, he said, some sma' business to do aff the road. To this proposal the Englishman readily agreed, and in they gaed, leavin their horses at the door. Here William plied the bagman--nothing loth, for he was a drucken wee rascal--wi' brandy till he began to wink, and no to be perfectly certain which end o' him was uppermost. Havin reduced him to this condition, his freend proposed that they should be movin, when they both got up for that purpose. "Where's my _'at_?" said the bagman, turnin round to look for the article he named. "Here it's, man," said William, comin behind him, and clappin the bonnet on his head. "Thank you, freend!" replied the bagman, generously believin that, as he felt _something_ put upon his head, it must be his hat; and thus theekit, he walked to the door, and mounted his horse, as grave and composed as if a' was richt, and rode aff wi' William alangside o' him. They hadna ridden far, however, when his friend, for obvious reasons, desirous o' bein quit o' his companion, said he was sorry that they maun now part, he requirin, as he told him before, to turn aff the road a bit. On this they shook hands and parted. The bagman hadna proceeded far wi' the notorious badge o' Scotland--the broad blue bonnet--on his head, till he found himsel, he could not conceive how, an object of marked attention to a' the passers-by. At length, as he approached the town, this attention became gradually more and more alarmin, and began at the same time to be accompanied by such symptoms as plainly evinced that it was not o' a pleasant character. Popular notice, the bagman very weel saw, he had attained by some means or other; but he also saw as weel that this by no means meant popular admiration; for in every face that was turned towards him there was an angry scowl. Amazed and confounded at bein thus so strangely and disagreeably marked, the poor little Englishman looked first at his legs, and then at his horse, leanin forward for this purpose, and then examined his own outer man all over, to see if he could discern onything wrang wi' either, that micht account for his sudden elevation in the public mind; but he found nothing--a' was richt, and the little bagman was more perplexed than ever. He rode on, however--as what else could he do?--and at length entered the town. Here the general attention became still more strikingly marked: people stood on the streets and stared broadly at him; and, when he had passed, looked after him, and shook their heads. At length matters came to a crisis. This approached by occasional cries of "Doun wi' the rebel!" "Doun wi' the Scottish cut-throat!" "Hang the robber!" "Head him! head him!" If confounded before, the little bagman was now ten times more so. These terms could never apply to him, and yet they were most palpably directed to him. What on earth could it mean? To be taken, too, for a character which of all others he most abhorred. It was unaccountable--most extraordinary. In the meantime, both the cries and the crowd increased, till the latter at length fairly surrounded the little bagman and his horse, and peremptorily arrested his progress, still shoutin, but with greater ferocity, "Doun wi' the rebel!" "Good people," said the perplexed and terrified cratur, "what do you mean? Hear me for a moment. I'm no rebel. I detest them as much as you can do. I am an Englishman--a born Englishman." "Yes, when it suits your purpose, ye cowardly Scottish dog!" exclaimed one of the crowd, advancin towards him, and seizin him by a leg. "We know you too well by your head-mark," said a second, bustlin forward to hae a share in forcibly dismounting the wee bagman; a measure which was now evidently contemplated, if not determined on, by the crowd. "Yes, yes!" shouted a third, "he has the mark o' the beast on him. Doun wi' him! doun wi' him! He can't deny the blue bonnet. Doun wi' it, and the head that's in it!" Seein all eyes at this moment directed to that part o' his person where a hat should have been, the wee bagman instinctively clapped his hand on his head. It felt strange! There was no superstructure--all was bare and flat. He pulled aff the mysterious coverin, and beheld with horror and amazement a large, broad, Scottish blue bonnet, the size o' a cart wheel, with a red knob, like an overgrown cherry, in the centre o't. "Ay, where got ye that? where got ye that?" exclaimed some one frae the crowd. But, though the question was put, no answer was permitted to the questioned. In the next instant he was on his back on the street, kickin and strugglin amongst the feet o' his assailants, who applied the latter to all parts o' his person wi' a rapidity and vigour o' execution that threatened, and certainly would hae extinguished, the wee life o' him, if he hadna been rescued a trifle on this side o't by a guard o' sodgers, whom the alarm had brought to the spot. Battered, bruised, speechless, and his face streamin wi' blood, the unfortunate bit bagman was now conveyed to the guard-house, and from thence, after he had somewhat recovered, to prison, under the same suspicion which had procured him such rough treatment from the mob. So that, to appearance, as they werena very nice in thae times, he was saved frae a violent death only to be subjected to anither; frae bein kicked into the ither warld to be hanged; and o' this opinion the wee bagman was himsel for some time, for the authorities o' Carlisle war at that period excessively loyal, and wadna cared muckle to hae hanged him on chance. As it was, however, he was kept in jail for a week, when his innocence havin been so clearly established that the most loyal o' his judges couldna deny it, he was set at liberty--though wi' a grudge, for they wad still fain hae hanged him--and a caution never to wear a blue bonnet in Carlisle again. "The wee bagman," added the landlord, "has never come this way since, and I fancy now never will. Come, freends," continued he, "shute in your glasses--the drink's gettin cauld; and," he said, edging the mouth of the bowl slopingly towards him, so as to afford him a view of its contents, "there's a gey drap in't yet." Then, with that forethought which was a very remarkable and praiseworthy trait in his character--"Betty," he cried out to a servant girl, "keep the kettle boilin." His call for the glasses of his friends being promptly obeyed, they were as promptly re-filled, and it is but doing justice to the honest men assembled on this occasion to state, were as speedily emptied again. This done-- "Mr Gas," said Walter Gibson, one of the most extensive traders and most respectable men in the company--"Mr Gas," he said--for they all addressed him as their chairman--"these are a' queer aneugh stories in their way that hae been tell't the nicht; but I'm no sure if there's ony o' them better than the story o' Sandy M'Gill and his mither." The landlord cocked his ears. "And what story's that, Watty?" he said. "I never heard it." "It's no the waur o' that, however," said Watty, dryly. "No a grain," replied the other, with one of his good-natured laughs; "but let us judge for oursels." "I'll do that," quoth Walter; and he immediately began:--"Twa or three years ago, as ye a' ken, Lord Drumlanrig, son o' the Duke o' Queensberry, raised a regiment for what was ca'ed the Holland service. His lordship's headquarters durin the recruitin for the corps was Dumfries, where he used to beat up on the market days. Amongst those who were enlisted on ane o' thae occasions was a young lad o' the name o' Sandy M'Gill--a joiner to trade. Sandy was a handsome, good-lookin young man--very smart and clever, and possessed o' a good education; that is, he wrote and figured weel. On the regiment being completed, it was embodied at Dunse, and then drilled for some time. It was then marched to Leith, Sandy M'Gill and a', where it was to be embarked for Amsterdam. Two days after the regiment had left Dunse, Lord Drumlanrig, mounted on horseback, and attended by a servant, also mounted, set out from Dumfries, to join his regiment at Leith, whence he meant to sail wi' it for Holland. On approachin the Nether Mill, his lordship was recognised, while yet at some distance, by an auld blacksmith o' the name o' William Thamson. "There," said he to a bit lively, hardy-lookin auld wifie--it was Widow M'Gill--"there's Lord Drumlanrig comin forrit." "Is that him?" quoth the auld wife; "feth and I maun speak to him then! He's taen awa my puir Sandy for a sodger." And she ran into the middle o' the road, and, ere Lord Drumlanrig was aware, she had his horse by the bridle, exclaimin-- "Please yer lordship, ye maun stop and speak to me a wee. I hae something to say to ye." "What is it, my good woman?" said his lordship, smilin good-naturedly; "but I'm in a great hurry, and you must not detain me a moment." "What I want to speak to yer lordship aboot," replied Widow M'Gill, taking nae notice o' his lordship's impatience, "is this: ye hae taen awa my puir son, Sandy, for a sodger, and I'm like to brak my heart aboot him." "There's nae guid reason for that in the world, my honest woman," said his lordship; "as he'll be better wi' me than lyin at hame here, scartin the porridge pots." "I'm no sure o' that, my lord, unless ye look weel to him, and tak him under yer special care. Ye'll fin' him weel wordy o't; for, although I say it that sudna say it, he's a clever, weel-inclined lad." "I've nae doot o't, honest woman, nae doot o't," said his lordship, now endeavourin to move on; "and, you may depend on't, I'll see that he gets every justice." And he made another attempt to get on. "Na, na, my lord," said the widow, perceivin his efforts to get quit o' her, "I winna let ye gang that way--I hae something mair to say to ye yet; but, as I see a' the neebors glowrin at us, ye'll just come doon and step into the house wi' me a minute, and I'll tell ye there a' I hae to say." "Really, really, my good woman," said his lordship, in great alarm at this threat o' further detention, "it is impossible--I cannot on any account--I am indeed in a great hurry, and exceedinly anxious to get forrit." "Deil may care, my lord!--the deil a fit ye'll stir till ye come in wi' me a bit--on that I'm determined." And she took a still firmer haud o' the bridle. "Some ither time, my guid woman," said his lordship, despairinly. "Na, na, nae time like the present, my lord," replied the widow. Seein now that, unless he had recourse to some violence--which it was neither his nature nor desire to hae--it was useless to contend wi' the resolute auld wife, his lordship dismounted, though, ye may believe, wi' a very bad grace, gave his horse to his servant to haud, and went in wi' Widow M'Gill to her little cot. On enterin the hoose, his lordship made anither desperate effort to prevail on the widow to shorten his detention. "Now, my guid woman," he said, "let me beg o' you to say quickly what ye hae to say, for I really will not be detained." "No twa minutes, no twa minutes, my lord," said the widow, dustin, wi' great activity, wi' her apron, a chair for his lordship to sit doun upon. "No, no; I really will not sit doun," said his lordship, determinedly. "I'll hear what you hae to say standin." "But ye _maun_ sit, my lord," replied the widow, wi' equal resolution. "A bonny thing it wad be, you to come into my house, and gang oot again withoot sittin doun. Na, na, that maunna be said. Doun, my lord, ye maun sit." And, seein that he wad only increase his ain delay by resistance, doun, to be sure, his lordship did sit. "Noo, my lord," says the widow, "I'm sure the deil a morsel o' breakfast ye hae gotten the day yet--for it's no aboon seven o'clock; sae ye'll just tak a mouthfu wi' me." At this horrid proposal, his lordship sprang frae his chair--for he was noo fairly driven at bay--and made for the door; but the widow was as clever in the heels as he was. She sprang after him, and, before he could gain the door, had him fast by the tails o' the coat, exclaimin, as she pu'ed him back-- "Deil a fit o' ye, my lord, 's gaun oot o' this house, till ye taste my bread and cheese. Ise haud ye fast, I warrant." Regardless o' her threats, his lordship still pressed for the door; but the stieve auld wife held on wi' a determined and nae feckless grip, and he couldna mak it oot, withoot efforts that micht do her an injury. Seein this, and seein, at the same time, the ludicrousness o' the struggle, his lordship at length gied in, and returned to his seat. In a twinklin the active auld wifie had a table before him, covered wi' bread, butter, and cheese, and a large jug o' sweet milk. "Noo, my lord, see and tak a mouthfu. It's but hamely fare to put before a lord; but it's gien wi' hearty guid-will, and that maun mak amends." His lordship guid-naturedly took a little o' what was put before him. While doin this, the auld wifie kept up a runnin fire o' sma'-talk. "Noo, my lord, ye'll be guid to my son. He's an honest man's bairn, but his faither's dead and gane mony a year syne; and mony a lonely seat and sair heart has fa'en to my share sin syne; but I aye looked forward to findin a comforter and supporter in my only son, in my auld age; but noo he's taen frae me too, and a' is desolation and darkness around me." Here the puir widow, whose maternal feelins, thus excited by the picture she had drawn o' her ain loneliness, had suddenly and totally changed her character, or rather had brocht oot its real qualities, which were, after a', those o' a kind and feelin heart, raised the corner o' her apron to her eyes, and wiped awa an involuntary tear. His lordship, notwithstandin o' the provokin predicament in which he was, feelin much affected by the widow's lamentations, thus simply expressed, took oot a memorandum-book frae his pocket, and havin inquired her son's name, and the name o' the place o' her residence, wrote them doun. He next asked if she knew in whose company he was. "Captain Dooglas," replied the widow--"Captain Dooglas they ca' him." Then, becomin querist in turn--"Do ye ken what sort o' a man he is, my lord?" "Oh, an excellent man, my guid woman," said his lordship. "Your son could not be under a better fellow." And his lordship noted doun this circumstance also, wi' the name o' Sandy's captain. Havin dune this, he replaced his memorandum-book in his pocket, and rose frae his seat, the widow noo offerin nae farther resistance; and havin placed, unperceived, as he thought, a couple o' guineas on the table, was aboot to leave the house, after shakin his hostess kindly by the hand--for his lordship was noo rather tickled wi' the adventure athegither--and promisin to see to the interests o' her son, when the widow, gettin her ee on the coin, snatched it up, and was forcin it back on its original possessor, exclaimin-- "Na, na, my lord--I'll tak nae siller for kindness. A' that I want is, that ye wad be guid to my puir Sandy, whan he's far awa frae his hame and his freends. Be kind till him, my lord, and tak the widow's blessin in return." And she was pressin the money back on his lordship, when he ran frae her, got oot o' the hoose, and was aboot to mount his horse, when, to his unutterable horror, he heard the widow exclaimin, "Gude guide me! I hae a' this time forgotten your servant, my lord; and he'll be hungry aneugh, too, puir fallow, I hae nae doot." And she ran and seized _his_ horse next by the bridle. "Come doun, lad, and come in by a bit, and tak a mouthfu. His lordship, I'm sure, 'll wait twa or three minutes on ye without grudgin't; for the puir maun be fed as weel as the rich, the man as weel as his maister." "No, no, no. For God's sake, my guid woman, let us be gone!" exclaimed his lordship, in an implorin voice, and now beginnin to think he wad never get oot o' the auld wife's hands. "Na, troth, my lord, I'll no let him go. The lad _maun_ hae a mouthfu o' meat." "Then, in Heaven's name," said his lordship, "if ye will hae him tak something, bring't oot till him here, and dinna tak him aff his horse." Complyin wi' this request, the very first she had complied wi', the auld wifie ran in to the house--his lordship, while she was there, tellin his servant to put at ance into his pocket whatever it micht be--and brought oot a quantity o' bread and cheese, which the man disposed o' as his maister had desired him. The coast being now clear, his lordship, after again shakin hands wi' the auld wife, and promisin to keep an ee on her son, put spurs to his horse, and darted aff at full speed, as delighted wi' his liberty as if he had escaped frae a highwayman; but, fast as he gaed, it was some seconds before he got oot o' hearin o' the auld wife's voice, bawlin after him, "Now, my lord, dinna forget Sandy--dinna forget Sandy M'Gill." On gainin some distance, both master and man drew bridle, and laughed heartily at the adventure wi' the auld wife o' the Nether Mill. Aweel, shortly after, his lordship embarked for Holland with a part o' his regiment--the remainder, amongst which was Sandy M'Gill, proceeding in another vessel--and arrived there, as did the whole corps, in due time, and without any accident. Some days after the landin, Lord Drumlanrig, at parade one forenoon, after speakin and laughin for a few minutes wi' Captain Douglas in front o' the line, went up to a certain guid-lookin young sodger in that officer's company, and callin him out frae his comrades, asked him his name. "Sandy M'Gill, my lord," replied the young man, touchin his hat, and somewhat surprised at bein singled out in this way. "Exactly," said his lordship. "Well, Sandy, I breakfasted in your mother's house on my way frae Dumfries to Edinburgh, just before I left Scotland; and a kind, hearty old woman she is, I assure you." "I wonder, my lord," said Sandy, blushin, "that my mother could hae had the impudence to tak your lordship into her puir sooty house." "It was no impudence at all, Sandy--nae such thing. It was oot o' kindness to me and affection for you. The breakfast, however, was an excellent one, and gien wi' a hearty welcome and richt guid-will. But I promised yer mother, Sandy," continued his lordship, "to look after ye, and I mean to do sae. Can you write any?" Sandy said he could. "Can you figure?" Another reply in the affirmative. "Can ye show me your handwriting? Have ye any specimens upon you?" Sandy pulled out of his pocket some scraps o paper that exhibited his fist. His lordship looked at them, and said the writing was very guid--that it wad do very weel. "Now, then, Sandy," he added, "I'll tell ye what I mean to do for you, to begin wi': there's anither serjeant wanted for your company, and I hae desired Captain Douglas to appoint you. You will get a suit o' claes frae the store, and there's five guineas to you to purchase necessaries, and I hae nae doot ye'll turn oot a guid and brave sodger." Sandy endeavoured to express his gratitude for the sudden and unexpected fortune; but he couldna. Nor, though he had been able, did his lordship gie him an opportunity; for, anticipatin the lad's embarrassment, he walked awa the moment he had dune speakin. Next day, Sandy appeared in the uniform o' a non-commissioned officer; and, being now on the road to promotion, returned, at the conclusion o' the war, to his native place, as captain; attributin a' his guid fortune to the breakfast which his mother gae to Lord Drumlanrig at the Nether Mill. "Aweel, it is really curious how things turn oot sometimes," said lang Jamie Turner, on the conclusion o' the foregoing story--"very curious. Did ye ever hear, Mr Gas," continued Jamie, now addressing his landlord, "hoo Jock Tinwald, a son o' Andrew Tinwald's o' Shaw Hill, recovered forty guineas he ance lost at the Candlemas Fair o' Dumfries?" "No," said Mr Gas, looking with interest at the speaker. "I never heard that ane." "It was a gey clever ane," said Jamie Turner, and, without further preface, he proceeded to relate the following adventure:-- On a certain Candlemas Fair, some twa or three years back, auld Tinwald o' Shaw Hill sent his son Jock to Dumfries, wi' forty guineas in a net purse in his pocket, to purchase a couple o' good draught horses. Jock wasna lang in the fair until he fell in wi' twa horses that appeared to be o' precisely the description he wanted. He inquired their price, found it wasna far beyond the mark, and, finally, after some chaffering, struck a bargain with the seller. This done, the young farmer put his hand into his pocket, to bring out the net purse with the forty guineas. He started, and looked pale. It was not in the pocket in which he thought--nay, in which he was certain he had put it. He searched anither, and anither, and anither, with distraction in his looks. It was in nane o' them--it was lost, gane! He had been robbed. O' this there was nae doubt. Poor Jock was in despair, but it was an evil without a remedy; for he had not the smallest notion when, where, or by whom he had been plundered. There was therefore no help for it; and, feelin this, Jock repaired to a public-house, drowned the recollection of his loss in brandy, and went home at nicht penniless, horseless, and drunk. Six months after this, the Rude Fair of Dumfries came round; and, in the thick and the thrang o' this fair, micht hae been seen the braid shouthers and the round, healthfu, guid-natured face o' Jock Tinwald. But surely he'll tak care this time how he mingles wi' the crood, or at least keep a sharp ee on his neebors. Not he. There he is, pushin and jostlin awa in the heart o' the very densest mass, wi' an apparent regardlessness o' consequences which is most amazin, considerin the loss he sustained on a former occasion. Nay, not only is he doin this, but he is ostentatiously displayin a purse apparently as well filled as the last one. This does indeed seem the extreme o' folly. But it only _seems_ so. It is not without a reason. Jock is not so unguarded as he appears. The truth is, he is just now practisin a ruse which he is not without hope may help him to the recovery o' his forty guineas. The purse which Jock is so openly sportin is filled not with gold, but with copper. It contains, in short, instead o' guineas, a quantity of farthings, and is thus ostentatiously displayed in the hope of attractin the notice of the light-fingered gentleman who had relieved him on the former occasion--and with what promise o' success may be guessed frae the followin incident. On Tinwald's first entering the scene o' the fair, he was marked by two persons o' very equivocal appearance who were hoverin about. "That," said ane o' them, nudging his neebor wi' his elbow, and inclinin his head towards Tinwald--"that's the flat I _did_ at the last Candlemas fair. The easiest handled guse I ever cam across." "What wad ye think o' our tryin him again?" said the speaker's neebor. "Wi' a' my heart," replied the other. "He's but a saft ane; but I fear he'll no hae onything on him this time." At this instant the fears of the pair of pickpockets on this score were relieved by a sight of Jock's purse. It caught their eyes in a moment, and they viewed it with a delight which gentlemen of their profession alone can know. They felt as sure of it as if it were already in their pockets. Dropping all other speculation, therefore, they now commenced dogging Jock, who was fishing away with his purse through the crowd, like an angler with his fly, for the thief of his guineas or some of his gang, whom he had a pretty shrewd notion would not be far off. Jock, however, took care to keep the exhibition of his purse within bounds. He took care not to make an over frequent or suspicious display of it, only occasionally, and then returning it to a certain side pocket of easy access. There was nothing, therefore, which Tinwald was at this moment so anxious for as to feel a hand in the said pocket; and this was a gratification which he was not long denied. A hand was introduced, he felt it, and, turning quickly round, he seized the person to whom it belonged. "I ken ye, freend," said Jock to his prisoner, in a low whisper--"I ken ye perfectly weel. It was you that robbed me o' forty guineas in a green net purse at the last Candlemas Fair." (All this was said by Jock at a venture, but by chance was true.) "Now, I say, let me hae the money back quietly, and I'll tak nae mair notice o' the matter; but, if ye dinna, I'll immediately gie the alarm, and hae ye apprehended. Sae tak yer choice, freend. But, mind, there's a rope round your neck: it's hangin at the very least." "Let me go, then, and follow me," replied the depredator, briefly, and in the same low tone that he had been addressed. Jock loosed his grasp, and keepin close behind his man, who immediately began threadin his way oot o' the crowd, followed him till they had cleared it; when, dreadin a sudden bolt, he cam up close beside him; and thus the two held on their way, till they cam to a retired part o' the market-place, when the thief suddenly stopped, and, plungin his hand into his bosom, drew oot a leathern bag, from which he counted into the astonished young farmer's hand forty golden guineas. Jock, confounded at his own success, could scarcely believe his eyes when he looked at the precious deposit in his hand; and, in the fulness o' his joy, insisted on giein the thief half-a-mutchkin o' brandy on the head o't. This, however, the latter declined, and, in an instant after, disappeared in the crowd; and Jock never saw mair o' him. And sae ends my story, freends," added lang Jamie Turner. "And, by my feth, a richt guid ane--a real clever ane," said the landlord, as he filled glasses round, and, rising on his little, short legs, drank to each and all of the company "a soun sleep and a blithe waukenin." In two or three minutes more, the kitchen of the Floshend Inn was cleared of its tenants, and for that night, at any rate, no more was heard in it the sounds of revelry, nor the accompanying glee of the gibe, or jest, or merry tale. LOTTERY HALL. I had slept on the preceding night at Brampton; and, without entering so far into particulars as to say whether I took the road towards Carlisle, Newcastle, Annan, or to the south, suffice it to say, that, towards evening, and just as I was again beginning to think of a resting-place, I overtook a man sauntering along the road, with his hands behind his back. A single glance informed me that he was not one who earned his bread by the sweat of his brow; but the same glance also told me that he had not bread enough and to spare. His back was covered with a well-worn black coat, the fashion of which belonged to a period at least twelve years preceding the time of which I write. The other parts of his outward man harmonised with his coat as far as apparent age and colour went. His head was covered with a low-crowned, broad-brimmed hat; and on his nose he wore a pair of silver-mounted spectacles. To my mind he presented the picture of a poor scholar, or of gentility in ruins. The lapels of his coat were tinged a little, but only a little, with snuff; which _Flee-up_, or _Beggar's Brown_, as some call it, is very apt to do. In his hands, also, which, as I have said, were behind his back, he held his snuff-box. It is probable that he imagined he had returned it to his pocket after taking a pinch; but he appeared from his very saunter to be a meditative man, and an idea having shot across his brain while in the act of snuff-taking, the box was unconsciously retained in his hand, and placed behind his back. Whether the hands are in the way of contemplation or not, I cannot tell, for I never think, save when my hand holds a pen; yet I have observed that to carry the hands behind the back is a favourite position with _walking thinkers_. I accordingly set down the gentleman with the broad-brimmed hat and silver-mounted spectacles to be a walking thinker; and it is more than probable that I should not have broken in upon his musings (for I am not in the habit of speaking to strangers), had it not been that I observed the snuff-box in his hands, and that mine required replenishing at the time. It is amazing and humiliating to think how uncomfortable, fretful, and miserable the want of a pinch of snuff can make a man!--how dust longs for dust! I had been desiring a pinch for an hour, and here it was presented before me like an unexpected spring in the wilderness. Snuffers are like freemasons--there is a sort of brotherhood among them. The real snuffer will not give a pinch to the mere dipper into other people's boxes, but he will never refuse one to the initiated. Now, I took the measure of the man's mind at a single glance. I discovered something of the pedant in his very stride--it was thoughtful, measured, mathematical; to say nothing of the spectacles, or of his beard, which was of a dark colour, and which had not been visited by the razor for at least two days. I therefore accosted him in the hackneyed but pompous language attributed to Johnson-- "Sir," said I, "permit me to immerge the summits of my digits in your pulveriferous utensil, in order to excite a grateful titillation in my olfactory nerves." "Cheerfully, sir," returned he, handing me the box, for which, by the way, he first groped in his waistcoat-pocket; "I know what pleasure it is--'_naribus aliquid haurire_.'" I soon discovered that my companion, to whom a pinch of snuff had thus introduced me, was an agreeable and well-informed man. About a mile before us lay a village in which I intended to take up my quarters for the night, and near the village was a house of considerable dimensions, the appearance of which it would puzzle me to describe. The architect had evidently set all orders at defiance; it was a mixture of the castle and the cottage--a heap of stones confusedly put together. Around it was a quantity of trees--poplars and Scotch firs; and they appeared to have been planted as promiscuously as the house was built. Its appearance excited my curiosity, and I inquired of my companion what it was called, or to whom it belonged. "Why, sir," said he, "people generally call it LOTTERY HALL; but the original proprietor intended that it should have been named LUCK'S LODGE. There is rather an interesting story connected with it, if you had time to hear it." "If the story be as amusing as the appearance of the house," added I, "and you have time to tell it, I shall take time to hear it." I discovered that my friend with the silver-mounted spectacles kept what he termed an "Establishment for Young Gentlemen" in the neighbourhood--that being the modernised appellation for a boarding-school; though, judging from his appearance, I did not suppose his establishment to be over-filled; and having informed him that I intended to remain for the night at the village inn, I requested him to accompany me, where, after I had made obeisance to a supper--which was a duty that a walk of forty miles strongly prompted me to perform--I should, "enjoying mine ease" like the good old bishop, gladly hear his tale of Lottery Hall. Therefore, having reached the inn, and partaken of supper and a glass together, after priming each nostril with a separate pinch from the box aforesaid, he thus began:-- Thirty years ago, there dwelt within this village a man named Andrew Donaldson. He was merely a day-labourer upon the estate of the squire to whom the village belongs; but he was a singular man in many respects, and one whose character very few were able to comprehend. You will be surprised when I inform you that the desire to become a MAN OF FASHION haunted this poor day-labourer like his shadow in the sun. It was the disease of his mind. Now, sir, before proceeding with my story, I shall make a few observations on this plaything and ruler of the world called Fashion. I would describe Fashion to be a deformed little monster with a chameleon skin, bestriding the shoulders of public opinion. Though weak in itself, it has gradually usurped a degree of power that is well-nigh irresistible; and this tyranny prevails, in various forms, but with equal cruelty, over the whole habitable earth. Like a rushing stream, it bears along all ranks and conditions of men, all avocations and professions, and often principles. Fashion is withal a notable courtier, bowing to the strong, and flattering the powerful. Fashion is a mere whim, a conceit, a foible, a toy, a folly; and withal an idol whose worshippers are universal. Wherever introduced, it generally assumes the familiar name of Habit; and many of your great and philosophical men, and certain ill-natured old women, who appear at parties in their wedding-gowns, and despise the very name of Fashion, are each the slaves of sundry habits which once bore the appellation. Should Fashion miss the skirts of a man's coat, it is certain of seizing him by the beard. It is humiliating to the dignity of immortal beings, possessed of capabilities the extent of which is yet unknown, to confess that many of them, professing to be Christians, Jews, Mahometans, or Pagans, are merely the followers in the stream of Fashion; and are Christians or Jews simply because such a religion was after the fashion of their fathers or country. During the present century, it has been the cause of much infidelity and free-thinking; or, rather, as is more frequently the case with its votaries, of _no thinking_. This arose from wisdom and learning being the fashion; and a vast number of brainless people--who could neither be out of the service of their idol, nor yet endure the plodding labour and severe study necessary for the acquiring of wisdom and learning, and many of them not even possessing the requisite abilities--in order to be thought at once wise men and philosophers, they pronounced religion to be a cheat, futurity a bugbear, and themselves organic clods. Fashion, indeed, is as capricious as it is tyrannical; with one man it plays the infidel, and with another it runs the gauntlet of Bible and missionary meetings or benevolent societies. It is like the Emperor of Austria--a compound of intolerable evil and much good. It attempts to penetrate the mysteries of metaphysics; and it mocks the calculations of the most sagacious chancellor of the exchequer. At the nod of Fashion, ladies change their gloves; and the children of the glove-makers of Worcester go without dinners. At its call they took the shining buckles from their shoes, and they walked in the laced boot, the sandalled slipper, or the tied shoe. Individually, it seemed a small matter whether shoes were fastened with a buckle or with riband; but the small-ware manufacturers found a new harvest, while the buckle-makers of Birmingham and their families, in thousands, were driven through the country, to beg, to steal, to coin, to perish. This was the work of Fashion; and its effects are similar to the present hour. If the cloak drive the shawl from the promenade, Paisley and Bolton may go in sackcloth. Here I may observe that the cry of distress is frequently raised against _bad government_, assuming it to be the cause; when fickle Fashion has alone produced the injury. In such a matter, government was unable to prevent, and is unable to relieve--Fashion defying all its enactments, and the ladies being the sole governors in the case. For, although the world rules man and his business, and Fashion is the ruler of the world, yet the ladies, though the most devoted of its servants, are at the same time the rulers of Fashion. This last assertion may seem a contradiction, but it is not the less true. With simplicity and the graces, Fashion has seldom exhibited any inclination to cultivate an acquaintance. Now, the ladies being, in their very nature, form, and feature, the living representatives of these virtues, I am the more surprised that they should be the especial patrons of Fashion, seeing that its efforts are more directed to conceal a defect, by making it more deformed, than to lend a charm to elegance, or an adornment to beauty. The lady of fortune follows the tide of Fashion, till she and her husband are within sight of the shores of poverty. The portionless, or the poorly-portioned, maiden presses on in its wake, till she find herself immured in the everlasting garret of an old maid. The well-dressed woman every man admires--the fashionable woman every man fears. Then comes the animal of the male kind, whose coat is cut, whose hair is curled, and his very cravat tied according to the fashion. Away with such shreds and patches of effeminacy! But the fashion for which Andrew Donaldson, the day-labourer, sighed aimed at higher things than this. It grieved him that he was not a better-dressed man and a greater man than the squire on whose estate he earned his daily bread. He was a hard and severe man in his own house: at his frown his wife was submissive, and his children trembled. His family consisted of his wife; three sons, Paul, Peter, and Jacob; and two daughters, Sarah and Rebecca. Though all scriptural names, they had all been so called after his own relations. His earnings did not exceed eight or nine shillings a-week; but even out of this sum he did not permit the one-half to go to the support of his family--and that half was doled out most reluctantly, penny by penny. For twenty years, he had never intrusted his wife with the management or the keeping of a single sixpence. With her, of a verity, money was but a _sight_, and that generally in the smallest coins of the realm. She seldom had an opportunity of contemplating the gracious countenance of His Majesty; and when she had, it was invariably upon copper. If she needed but a penny to complete the cooking of a dinner, the children had to run for it to the fields, the quarry, or the hedge-side, where their father might be at work; and then it was given with a lecture against their mother's extravagance! Extravagance indeed! to support seven mouths for a week out of five shillings! I have spoken of dinners, and I should tell you that bread was seen in the house but once a-day, and that only of the coarsest kind. Potatoes were the staple commodity, and necessity taught Mrs Donaldson to cook them in twenty different ways; and, although butcher meat was never seen beneath Andrew's roof, with the exception of pork of their own feeding, in a very small portion, once a-week, yet the kindness of the cook in the squire's family, who occasionally presented her with a jar of _kitchen-fee_, enabled her to dish up her potatoes in modes as various and palatable to the hungry as they were creditable to her own ingenuity and frugality. Andrew was a man of no expensive habits himself; he had never been known to spend a penny upon liquor of any kind but once, and that was at the christening of his youngest child, who was baptised in the house; when, it being a cold and stormy night, and the minister having far to ride, and withal being labouring under a cold, he said he would thank Andrew for a glass of spirits. The frugal father thought the last born of his flock had made an expensive entry into existence; but, handing twopence to his son Paul, he desired him to bring a glass of spirits to his reverence. The spirits were brought in a milk-pot; but a milk-pot was an unsightly and an unseemly vessel out of which to ask a minister to drink. The only piece of crystal in the house was a footless wine-glass, out of which a grey linnet drank, and there was no alternative but to take it from the cage, clean it, pour the spirits into it, and hand it, bottomless as it was, to the clergyman--and this was done accordingly. For twenty years, this was all that Andrew Donaldson was known to have spent on ale, wine, or spirits; and as, from the period that his children had been able to work, he had not contributed a single sixpence of his earnings towards the maintenance of his house, it was generally believed that he could not be worth less than two or three hundred pounds. Where he kept his money, however, or who was his banker, no one could tell. Some believed that he was saving in order to emigrate to Canada, and purchase land; but this was only a surmise. For weeks and months he was frequently wont to manifest the deepest anxiety. His impatience was piteous to behold; but why he was anxious and impatient no one could tell. These fits of anxiety were as frequently succeeded by others of the deepest despondency; and during both, his wife and children feared to look in his face, to speak or move in his presence. As his despondency was wont to wear away, his penuriousness in the same degree increased; and at such periods a penny for the most necessary purpose was obstinately refused. Such were the life and habits of Andrew Donaldson, until his son Paul, who was the eldest of his family, had attained the age of three-and-twenty, and his daughter Rebecca, the youngest, was seventeen, when, on a Saturday evening, he returned from the market-town, so changed, so elated (though evidently not with strong drink), so kind, so happy, and withal so proud, that his wife and his sons and daughters marvelled, and looked at each other with wonder. He walked backward and forward across the floor, with his arms crossed upon his breast, his head thrown back, yea, he stalked with the majestic stride of a stage-king in a tragedy. He took the fragment of a mirror, which, being fastened in pieces of parchment, hung against the wall, and endeavoured, as he best might, and as its size and its half-triangular, half-circular form would admit, to survey himself from head to foot. His family gazed at him and at each other with increased astonishment. "The man's possessed!" whispered Mrs Donaldson, in terror. He thrust his hand into his pocket, he drew out a quantity of silver. "Go, _Miss_ Rebecca," said he, "and order John Bell of the King's Head to send Mister Donaldson a bottle of brandy and a bottle of his best wine, instantly." His wife gave a sort of scream, his children started to their feet. "Go!" said he, stamping his foot, and placing the money in her hand--"go! I order you." They knew his temper, that he was not to be thwarted, and Rebecca obeyed. He continued to walk across the floor with the same stride of importance; he addressed his sons as Master Donaldson, Master Peter, and Master Jacob; and Sarah, who was the best of the family, as Miss Donaldson. He walked up to his wife, and, with a degree of kindness, such as his family had never witnessed before, he clapped her on the shoulder, and said-- "Catherine, you know the proverb, that 'they who look for a silk gown always get a sleeve o't'--I have long looked for one to you, and now "I'll mak ye lady o' them a'!" And, in his own unmusical way, he sang a line or two from the "Lass o' Gowrie." Poor Mrs Donaldson trembled from the crown of the head to the sole of the foot. Her looks plainly told that she feared her husband had "gone beside himself." He resumed his march across the floor, stately as an admiral on the quarterdeck, when Rebecca entered with the brandy and the wine. "What!" said he, again, stamping his foot, "did I not _order_ you to _order_ John Bell to _send_ the bottles?" Rebecca shook--but he took them from her hand, and ordered her to bring the glasses! I have already noticed the paucity of glass vessels at Rebecca's baptism. They were not more numerous now; and even the footless glass, out of which the linnet drank, had long ago, with the linnet, gone the way of all flesh and of all glass; and Rebecca placed a white teacup, scored and seamed with age (there were but four in the house), upon the table. "What! a cup! a cup!" exclaimed he, stamping his foot more vehemently than before; "did I not _order_ you to bring _glasses_! Me!--me!--Mister Donaldson drink wine out of a teacup!" And he dashed the cup behind the fire. "O Paul! Paul!" cried Mrs Donaldson, addressing her first-born, "is yer faither crazed!--will ye no haud him!--shall we send for the doctor, a strait-jacket, or the minister?" Paul was puzzled: his father did not exactly seem mad; but his conduct, his extravagance, was so unlike anything he had ever seen in him before, that he was troubled on his account, and he rose to reason with him. "Keep your seat, Master Donaldson," said his father, with the dignity of a duke--"keep your seat, sir; your father is not mad, but before a week go round, the best hat in the village shall be lifted to him." Paul knew not what to think; but he had been taught to fear and to obey his father, and he obeyed him now. Andrew again handed money to his daughter, and ordered her to go and purchase six tumblers and six wine-glasses. Mrs Donaldson wrung her hands; she no longer doubted that her husband was "beside himself." The crystal, however, was brought, the wine and the brandy were sent round, and the day-labourer made merry with his children. On the Monday following, he went not out into the fields to his work as usual; but arraying himself in his Sunday attire, he took leave of his family, saying he would be absent for a week. This was as unaccountable as his sending for the wine, the brandy, and the crystal, for no man attended his employment more faithfully than Andrew Donaldson. For twenty years he had never been absent from his work a single day, Sundays and Fast-days alone excepted. His children communed together, and his wife shed tears; she was certain that something had gone wrong about his head; yet, strange as his actions were, his conversation was rational; and though still imperious, he manifested more affection for them all than he had ever done before. They did not dare to question him as to the change that had come over him, or whither he was going; for at all times his mildest answer to all inquiries was, that "fools and bairns should never see things half done." He departed, therefore, without telling why or whither, simply intimating that he would return within seven days, leaving his family in distress and bewilderment. Sunday came, but no tidings were heard regarding him. With much heaviness of heart and anxiety of spirit, his sons and daughters proceeded to the church; and while they, with others, yet stood in groups around the church-yard, a stranger gentleman entered. His step was slow and soldier-like. He carried a silken umbrella to screen himself from the sun, for they were then but little used as a protection from rain; few had at that time discovered that they could be so applied. His head was covered with a hat of the most fashionable shape. His hair was thickly powdered, and gathered up behind in a _queue_. His coat, his vest, his breeches, were of silken velvet, and the colour thereof was the kingly purple--moreover, the knees of the last-mentioned article were fastened with silver buckles, which shone as stars as the sun fell upon them. His stockings also were of silk, white as the driven snow; and partly covering these, he wore a pair of boots of the kind called Hessian. In his left hand, as I have said, he carried an umbrella, and in his right he bore a silver-mounted cane.[2] [Footnote 2: To some this picture may appear exaggerated, but many readers of these Tales will recognise in it a faithful portraiture of the original.] The people gazed with wonder as the stranger paced slowly along the footpath; and, as he approached the door, the sexton lifted his hat, bowed, and walking before him, conducted him to the squire's pew. The gentleman sat down; he placed his umbrella between his knees, his cane by his side, and from his pocket he drew out a silver snuff-box, and a Bible in two volumes, bound in crimson-coloured morocco. As the congregation began to assemble, some looked at the stranger in the squire's seat with wonder. All thought his face was familiar to them. On the countenances of some there was a smile; and from divers parts of the church there issued sounds like the tittering of suppressed laughter. Amongst those who gazed on him were the sons and daughters of Andrew Donaldson. Their cheeks alternately became red, pale, hot, and cold. Their eyes were in a dream, and poor Sarah's head fell, as though she had fainted away, upon the shoulder of her brother Paul. Peter looked at Jacob, and Rebecca hung her head. But the squire and his family entered. They reached the pew--he bowed to the stranger--gazed--started--frowned--ushered his family rudely past him, and beckoned for the gentleman to leave the pew. In the purple-robed stranger he recognised his own field-labourer, Andrew Donaldson! Andrew, however, kept his seat, and looked haughty and unmoved. But the service began--the preacher looked often to the pew of the squire, and at length he too seemed to make the discovery, for he paused for a full half-minute in the middle of his sermon, gazed at the purple coat, and all the congregation gazed with him, and breaking from his subject, he commenced a lecture against the wickedness of pride and vanity. The service being concluded, the sons and daughters of Andrew Donaldson proceeded home, with as many eyes fixed upon them as upon their father's purple coat. They were confounded and unhappy beyond the power of words to picture their feelings. They communicated to their mother all that they had seen. She, good soul, was more distressed than even they were, and she sat down and wept for "her poor Andrew." He came not; and Paul, Peter, and Jacob were about to go in quest of him--and they now thought in earnest of a strait-waistcoat--when John Bell's waiter of the King's Head entered, and presenting Mr Donaldson's compliments, requested them to come and dine with him. Wife, sons, and daughters were petrified! "Puir man!" said Mrs Donaldson, and tears forbade her to say more. "Oh! my father! my puir father!" cried Sarah. "He does not seem to be poor," answered the waiter. "What in the world can hae put him sae?" said Jacob. "We maun try to soothe and humour him," added Paul. The whole family, therefore, though ashamed to be seen in the village, went to the King's Head together. They were ushered into a room, in the midst of which stood Andrew, with divers trunks or boxes around him. His wife screamed, as she beheld his transformation; and, clasping her hands together, she cried, "O Andrew!" "Catherine," said he, "ye must understand that ye are a lady now, and ye must not call me Andrew, but Mister Donaldson." "A leddy!" exclaimed she, in a tone of mingled fear and astonishment--"O dear! what does the man mean! Bairns! bairns! can nane o' ye bring yer faither to reason!" "It is you that requires to be brought to reason, Mrs Donaldson," said he; "but now since I see that ye are all upon the rack, I'll put ye at your wits' end. I am sensible that baith you and our neighbours have always considered me in the light of a miser. But neither you nor them knew my motive for saving. It has ever been my desire to become the richest, the greatest, and the most respectable man in the parish. But, though you may think that I have pinched the stomach, and wasted nothing on the back, this I knew I never could become out of the savings of nine shillings a-week. Yet, night and day, I hoped, prayed, and believed, that it would be accomplished--and it is accomplished!--yes, I repeat, it is accomplished." "Oh help us!--help us?--what's to be dune wi' him?" cried Mrs Donaldson. "Will ye speak sae that we can understand ye, faither?" said Paul. "Well, then," replied Andrew, "for twenty years have I purchased shares in the lotteries, and twenty times did I get nothing but blanks--but I have got it at last!--I have got it at last!" "What have you got, Andrew?" inquired Mrs Donaldson, eagerly, whose eyes were beginning to be opened. "What have ye got, faither?" exclaimed Rebecca, breathlessly, who possessed no small portion of her father's pride; "how muckle is't?--will we can keep a coach?" "Ay, and a coachman, too!" answered he, with an air of triumphant pride; "I have got the half of a _thirty thousand_!" "The like o' that!" said Mrs Donaldson, raising her hands. "A coach!" repeated Rebecca, surveying her face in a mirror. Sarah looked surprised, but said nothing. "Fifteen thousand pounds!" said Peter. "Fifteen thousand!" responded Jacob. Paul was thoughtful. "Now," added Andrew, opening the boxes around him, "go each of you cast off the sackcloth which now covers you, and in these you will find garments such as it becomes the family of Andrew Donaldson, Esquire, to wear." They obeyed his commands; and, casting aside their home-made cloth and cotton gowns, they appeared before him in the raiment which he had provided for them. The gowns were of silk, the coats of the finest Saxony, the waistcoats Marseilles. Mrs Donaldson's dress sat upon her awkwardly--the waist was out of its place, she seemed at a loss what to do with her arms, and altogether she appeared to feel as though the gown were too fine to sit upon. Sarah was neat, though not neater than she was in the dress of printed cotton which she had cast off; but Rebecca was transformed into the fine lady in a moment, and she tossed her head with the air of a duchess. The sleeves of Paul's coat were too short, Peter's vest would admit of but one button, and Jacob's trousers were deficient in length. Nevertheless, great was the outward change upon the family of Andrew Donaldson, and they gazed upon each other in wonder, as they would have stared at an exhibition of strange animals. At this period there was a property, consisting of about twenty acres, in the neighbourhood of the village for sale. Mr Donaldson became the purchaser, and immediately commenced to build _Luck's Lodge, or Lottery Hall_, which to-day arrested your attention. As you may have seen, it was built under the direction of no architect but caprice, or a fickle and uninformed taste. The house was furnished expensively; there were card-tables and dining-tables, the couch, the sofa, and the harpsichord. Mrs Donaldson was afraid to touch the furniture, and she thought it little short of sin to sit upon the hair-bottomed mahogany chairs, which were studded with brass nails, bright as the stars in the firmament. Though, however, a harpsichord stood in the dining-room, as yet no music had issued from the lodge. Sarah had looked at it, and Rebecca had touched it, and appeared delighted with the sounds she produced; but even her mother knew that such sounds were not a tune. A dancing-master, therefore, who at that period was teaching the "five positions" to the youths and maidens of the village, was engaged to teach dancing and the mysteries of the harpsichord at the same time to the daughters of Mr. Donaldson. He had become a great and a rich man in a day; yet the pride of his heart was not satisfied. His neighbours did not lift their hats to him, as he had expected; but they passed him, saying, "Here's a fine day, Andrew!" or, "Weel, Andrew, hoo's a' wi' ye the day?" To such observations or inquiries he never returned an answer, but with his silver-mounted cane in his hand stalked proudly on. But this was not all; for, even in passing through the village, he would hear the women remark, "There's that silly body Donaldson away past;" or, "There struts the Lottery Ticket!" These things were wormwood to his spirit, and he repented that he had built his house in a neighbourhood where he was known. To be equal with the squire, however, and to mortify his neighbours the more, he bought a pair of horses and a barouche. He was long puzzled for a crest and motto with which to emblazon it; and Mrs. Donaldson suggested that Peter should paint on it a lottery ticket, but her husband stamped his foot in anger; and at length the coach-painter furnished it with the head and paws of some unknown animal. Paul had always been given to books; he now requested to be sent to the university. His wish was complied with, and he took his departure for Edinburgh. Peter had always evinced a talent for drawing and painting. When a boy, he was wont to sketch houses and trees with pieces of chalk, which his mother declared to be as _natural as life_, and he now took instructions from a drawing-master. Jacob was ever of an idle turn; and he at first prevailed upon his father to purchase him a riding-horse, and afterwards to furnish him with the means of seeing the world. So Jacob set up gentleman in earnest, and went abroad. Mrs Donaldson was at home in no part of the house but the kitchen; and in it, notwithstanding her husband's lectures to remember that she was the wife of Mister Donaldson, she was generally found. At the period when her father obtained the prize, Sarah was on the eve of being united to a respectable young man, a mechanic in the village, but now she was forbidden to speak or to look on him. The cotton gown lay lighter on her bosom than did its silken successor. Rebecca mocked her, and her father persecuted her; but poor Sarah could not cast off the affections of her heart like a worn garment. From childhood she had been blithe as the lark, but now dull melancholy claimed her as its own. The smile and the rose expired upon her cheeks together, and her health and happiness were crushed beneath her father's wealth. Rebecca, too, in their poverty had been "respected like the lave," but she now turned disdainfully from her admirer, and when he dared to accost her, she inquired with a frown, "Who are you, sir?" In her efforts also to speak properly, she committed foul murder on his Majesty's English; but she became the pride of her father's heart, his favourite daughter whom he delighted to honour. Still feeling bitterly the want of reverence that was shown him by the villagers, and resolved at the same time to act as other gentlemen of fortune did, as winter drew on, Mr. Donaldson removed, with his wife, and daughters, and his son Peter, to London. They took up their abode at a hotel in Albemarle Street; and having brought the barouche with them, every afternoon Mr. Donaldson and his daughter Rebecca drove round the Park. His dress was rich and his carriage proud, and he lounged about the most fashionable places of resort; but he was not yet initiated into the mysteries of fashion and greatness; he was ignorant of the key by which their chambers were to be unlocked; and it mortified and surprised him that Andrew Donaldson, Esq., of Luck's Lodge--a gentleman who paid ready money for everything--received no invitations to the routes, the assemblies, or tables of the _haut ton_; but he paraded Bond Street, or sauntered on the Mall, with as little respect shown to him as by his neighbours in the country. When he had been a month in the metropolis, he discovered that he had made an omission, and he paid two guineas for the announcement of his arrival in a morning newspaper. "This will do!" said he twenty times during breakfast, as he held the paper in his hand, and twenty times read the announcement--"Arrived at ---- Hotel, Albemarle Street, A. Donaldson, Esq., of Luck's Lodge, and family, from their seat in the north." But this did not do; he found it was two guineas thrown away, but consoled himself with the thought that it would vex the squire and the people of his native village. With the hope of becoming familiar with the leading men of the great world, he became a frequenter of the principal coffee-rooms. At one of these, he shortly became acquainted with a Captain Edwards, who, as Mr. Donaldson affirmed, was intimate with all the world, and bowed to and was known by every nobleman they met. Edwards was one of those creatures who live--heaven knows how--who are without estates and without fortune, but who appear in the resorts of fashion as its very mirrors. In a word, he was one of the hangers-on of the nobility and gentry--one of their blacklegs and purveyors. Poor Mr. Donaldson thought him the greatest man he had ever met with. He heard him accost noblemen on the streets in the _afternoon_ with, "Good _morning_, my lord," and they familiarly replied, "Ha! Tom! what's the news?" He had borrowed ten, fifty, and a hundred pounds from his companion; and he had relieved him of a hundred or two more in teaching him to play at whist; but, vain, simple Mr. Donaldson never conceived that such a great man and such a fashionable man could be without money, though he could not be at the trouble to carry it. Edwards was between thirty and forty years of age, but looked younger; his hair was black, and tortured into ringlets; his upper lip was ornamented with thin, curved moustaches; and in his dress he was an exquisite, or a buck, as they were then called, of the first water. Mr. Donaldson invited him to his hotel, where he became a daily visitor. He spoke of his uncle the bishop of such a place, and of his godfather the earl of another--of his estates in Wales, and the rich advowsons in his gift. Andrew gloried in his fortune; he was now reaching the _acmé_ of his ambition; he believed there would be no difficulty in getting his friend to bestow one or more of the benefices, when vacant, upon his son Paul; and he thought of sending for Paul to leave Edinburgh, and enter himself of Cambridge. Rebecca displayed all her charms before the captain; and the captain all his attractions before her. She triumphed in a conquest; so did he. Mr. Donaldson now also began to give dinners--and to them Captain Edwards invited the Honourable This, and Sir That; but in the midst of his own feast he found himself a cipher, where he was neither looked upon nor regarded, but had to think himself honoured in honourables eating of the banquet for which he had to pay. This galled him nearly as much as the perverseness of his neighbours in the country in not lifting their hats to him; but he feared to notice it, lest by so doing he should lose the distinction of their society. From the manner in which his guests treated him, they gave him few opportunities of betraying his origin; but, indeed, though a vain, he was not an ignorant man. While these doings were carrying on in Albemarle-street, Mrs. Donaldson was, as she herself expressed it, "uneasy as a fish taken from the water." She said "such ongoings would be her death;" and she almost wished that the lottery ticket had turned up a blank. Peter was studying the paintings in Somerset House, and taking lessons in oil-colours; Rebecca mingled with company, or flaunted with Captain Edwards; but poor Sarah drooped like a lily that appears before its time, and is bitten by the returning frost. She wasted away--she died of a withered heart. For a few weeks her death stemmed the tide of fashionable folly and extravagance; for, although vanity was the ruling passion of Andrew Donaldson, it could not altogether extinguish the parent in his heart. But his wife was inconsolable; for Sarah had been her favourite daughter, as Rebecca was his. It is a weak and a wicked thing, sir, for parents to make favourites of one child more than another--good never comes of it. Peter painted a portrait of his deceased sister from memory, and sent it to the young man to whom she was betrothed--I say betrothed, for she had said to him "_I will_," and they had broken a ring between them; each took a half of it; and, poor thing, her part of it was found on her breast, in a small bag, when she died. The captain paid his daily visits--he condoled with Rebecca--and, in a short time, she began to say it was a silly thing for her sister to die; but she was a grovelling-minded girl, she had no spirit. Soon after this, Captain Edwards, in order to cheer Mr. Donaldson, obtained for him admission to a club, where he introduced him to a needy peer, who was a sort of half-proprietor of a nomination borough, and had the sale of the representation of a thousand souls. It was called his lordship's borough. One of its seats was then vacant, and was in the market, and his lordship was in want of money. Captain Edwards whispered the matter to his friend Mr Donaldson. Now, the latter, though a vain man, and anxious to be thought a fashionable man, was also a shrewd and a calculating man. His ideas expanded--his ambition fired at the thought! He imagined he saw the words ANDREW DONALDSON, ESQ., M.P., in capitals before him. He discovered that he had always had a turn for politics--he remembered that, when a working man, he had always been too much in an argument for the _Blacknebs_. He thought of the flaming speeches he would make in parliament--he had a habit of stamping his foot (for he thought it dignified), and he did so, and half exclaimed, "Mr. Speaker!" But he thought also of his family--he sank the idea of advowsons, and he had no doubt but he might push his son Paul forward till he saw him prime minister or lord chancellor; Peter's genius, he thought, was such as to secure his appointment to the Board of Works whenever he might apply for it; Jacob would make a secretary to a foreign ambassador; and for Rebecca he provided as a maid of honour. But, beyond all this, he perceived also that, by writing the letters M.P. after his name, he would be a greater man than the squire of his native village, and its inhabitants would then lift their hats to him when he went down to his seat; or, if they did not, he would know how to punish them. He would bring in severer bills on the game laws and against smuggling--he would chastise them with a new turnpike act. Such were the ideas that passed rapidly through his mind, when his friend Edwards suggested the possibility of his becoming a Member of Parliament. "And how much do ye think it would cost to obtain the seat?" inquired he, anxiously. "Oh, only a few thousands," replied the captain. "How many, think ye?" inquired Mr. Donaldson. "Can't say exactly," replied the other; "but my friend Mr Borrowbridge, the solicitor, in Clement's Inn, has the management of the affair--we shall inquire at him." So they went to the solicitor; the price agreed upon for the representation of the borough was five thousand pounds; and the money was paid. Mr Donaldson returned to his hotel, his heart swelling within him, and cutting the figures M.P. in the air with his cane as he went along. A letter was despatched to Paul at Edinburgh, to write a speech for his father, which he might deliver on the day of his nomination. "O father!" exclaimed Paul, as he read the letter, "much money hath made thee mad." The speech was written, and forwarded, though reluctantly, by return of post. It was short, sententious, patriotic. With the speech in his pocket, Mr. Donaldson, accompanied by his friend Edwards, posted down to the borough. But, to their horror, on arriving, they found that a candidate of the opposite party had dared to contest the borough with the nobleman's nominee, and had commenced his canvass the day before. But what was worse than all, they were told that he bleed freely, and his friends were distributing _gooseberries_ right and left. "What is the meaning of all this?" said Mr. Donaldson, "have I not paid for the borough, and is it not mine? I shall punish him for daring to poach upon my grounds." And, breaking away from Captain Edwards and his friends, he hurried out in quest of the mayor, to request advice from him. Nor had he gone far, till, addressing a person who was employed in thatching a house-- "Holloa, friend!" cried he, "can you inform me where I shall find the right worshipful the mayor?" "Whoy, zur!" replied the thatcher, "I be's the mayor!"[3] [Footnote 3: This picture also is drawn from life.] Andrew looked at him. "Heaven help us!" thought he, "you the mayor!--you!--a thatcher!--well may I be a Member of Parliament!" But, without again addressing his worship, he hastened back to his friends; and with them he was made sensible, that, although he had given a consideration for the borough, yet, as opposition had started--as the power of the patron was not omnipotent--as the other candidate was bleeding freely--as he was keeping open houses and giving _yellow gooseberries_--there was nothing for it but that Mr. Donaldson should do the same. "But, oh! how much will it require?" again inquired the candidate, in a tone of anxiety. "Oh, merely a thousand or two!" again cooly rejoined Captain Edwards. "A thousand or two!" ejeculated Mr. Donaldson, for his thousands were becoming few. But, like King Richard, he had "set his fate upon a cast," and he "would stand the hazard of the die." As to his landed qualification, if elected, the patron was to provide for that; and, after a few words from his friend Edwards, "Richard was himself again"--his fears vanished--the ocean of his ambition opened before him--he saw golden prospects for himself and for his family--he could soon, when elected, redeem a few thousands; and he bled, he opened houses, he gave gooseberries as his opponent did. But the great, the eventful, the nomination day arrived. Mr. Donaldson--Andrew Donaldson, the labourer that was--stood forward to make his speech--the speech that his son Paul, student in the University of Edinburgh, had written. He got through the first sentence, in the tone and after the manner of the village clergyman, whom he had attended for forty years; but there he stuck fast; and of all his son Paul had written--short, sententious, patriotic as it was--he remembered not a single word. But, though gravelled from forgetfulness of his son's matter, and though he stammered, hesitated, and tried to recollect himself for a few moments, he had too high an idea of his own consequence to stand completely still. No man who has a consequential idea of his own abilities will ever positively stick in a speech. I remember an old schoolmaster of mine used to say, that a public speaker should regard his audience as so many cabbage-stocks.[4] But he had never been a public speaker, or he would have said no such thing, Such an advice may do very well for a precentor to a congregation; but, as regards an orator addressing a multitude, it is a different matter. No, sir; the man who speaks in public must neither forget his audience nor overlook them; he must regard them as his _equals_, but none of them as his _superiors_ in intellect; he should regard every man of them as capable of understanding and appreciating what he may say; and, in order to make himself understood, he should endeavour to bring his language and his imagery down to every capacity, rather than permit them to go on stilts or to take wings. Some silly people imagine that what they call fine language, flowery sentences, and splendid metaphors, are oratory. Stuff!--stuff! Where do you find them in the orations of the immortal orators of Greece or Rome? They used the proper language--they used effective language-- "Thoughts that breathed and words that burn'd;" but they knew that the key of eloquence must be applied not to the head but to the heart. But, sir, I digress from the speech of Mr. Donaldson. (Pardon me--I am in the habit of illustrating to my boys, and dissertation is my fault, or rather I should say my habit.) Well, sir, as I have said, he stuck fast in the speech which his son had written; but, as I have also said, he had too high an opinion of himself to stand long without saying something. When left to himself, in what he did say, I am afraid he "betrayed his birth and breeding;" for there was loud laughter in the hall, and cries of _hear him! hear him!_ But the poll commenced; the other candidate brought voters from five hundred miles' distance--from east, west, north, and south--from Scotland, Ireland and the Continent. He polled a vote at every three proclamations, when Mr. Donaldson had no more to bring forward; and on the fourteenth day he defeated him by a majority of ONE! The right worshipful thatcher declared that the election had fallen on the opposing candidate. The people also said that he had spent most money, and that it was right the election should fall on the best man. He, in truth, had spent more in the contest than Andrew Donaldson had won by his lottery ticket. The feelings of Mr. Donaldson on the loss of his election were the agonies of extreme dispair. In the height of his misery he mentioned to his _introducer_, Captain Edwards--or rather I should call him his _traducer_--that he was a ruined man; that he had lost his all. The captain laughed and left the room. He seemed to have left the town also; for his victim did not meet with him again. [Footnote 4: This, I believe, was the advice to his students of a late professor in the University of Edinburgh.] In a state bordering on frenzy, he returned to London. He reached the hotel--he rushed into the room where his wife, his son, and his daughter sat. With a confused and hurried step he paced to and fro across the floor, wringing his hands, and ever and anon exclaiming, bitterly-- "Lost Andrew Donaldson!--Ruined Andrew Donaldson!" His son Peter, who took the matter calmly, and who believed that the extent of the loss was the loss of the election, carefully surveyed his father's attitudes and the expression of his countenance, and thought the scene before him would make an admirable subject for a picture--the piece to be entitled, "_The Unsuccessful Candidate_." "It will help to make good his loss," thought Peter, "provided he will sit." "Oh dearsake, Andrew! Andrew!--what is't?" cried Mrs. Donaldson. "Lost! lost! ruined Andrew Donaldson!" replied her husband. "Oh, where is the Captain?--where is Edwards? Why is he not here?" asked Rebecca. "The foul fiend?" exclaimed her father. "O Andrew, man--speak! Andrew, jewel--what is't?" added his wife; "if it be only the loss o' siller, Heaven be praised! for I've neither had peace nor comfort since ye got it." "_Only_ the loss!" cried he, turning upon her like a fury--"only the loss!" Agony and passion stopped his utterance. Mr Donaldson was in truth a ruined man. Of the fifteen thousand which he had obtained, not three hundred, exclusive of Lottery Hall, and the twenty acres around it, were left. His career had been a brief and a fashionable one. On the following day, his son Jacob returned from abroad. Within twelve months he had cost his father a thousand pounds; and, in exchange for the money spent, he brought home with him all the vices he had met with on his route. But I blame not Jacob: his betters, the learned and the noble, do the same. Poor fellow! he was sent upon the world with a rough garment round his shoulders, which gathered up all the dust that blew, and retained a portion of all the filth with which it came in contact; but polished substances would not adhere to it. Captain Edwards returned no more to the hotel. He had given the last lesson to his scholar in the science of fashion; he had extorted from him the last fee he could spare. He had gauged the neck of his purse, and he forsook him--in his debt he forsook him. Poor Rebecca! day after day, she inquired after the captain--the captain! Lost, degraded, wretched Rebecca! But I will say no more of her. She became as dead while she yet lived--the confiding victim of a villain! The barouche, the horses, the trinkets that deformed Mrs. Donaldson, with a piano that had been bought for Rebecca, were sold, and Andrew Donaldson, with his family, left London, and proceeded to Lottery Hall. But there, though he endeavoured to carry his head high, though he still walked with his silver cane, and though he was known (and he took care to make it known) that he had polled within one of being a Member of Parliament--still the squire did not acknowledge him--his old acquaintances did not lift their hats to him--but all seemed certain that he was coming down "_by the run_" (I think that was the slang or provincial phrase they used) to his old level. They perceived that he kept no horses now, save one to work the twenty acres around the lodge; for he had ploughed up, and sown with barley, and let out as potato ground, what he at first had laid out as a park. This spoke volumes. They also saw that he had parted with his coach, that he kept but one servant, and that servant told tales in the village. He was laughed at by his neighbours and those who had been his fellow-labourers; and with a sardonic chuckle they were wont to speak of his house as "_the Member o' Parliament's_." I have said that I would say no more of poor Rebecca; but the tongues of the women in the village dwelt also on her. She died, and in the same hour died also a new-born child of the villain Edwards. Peter had left his father's house, and commenced the profession of an artist, in a town about twenty miles from this. Mr. Donaldson was now humbled. It was his intention with the sorry remnant of his fortune, to take a farm for Jacob; but, oh! Jacob had bathed in a sea of vice, and the bitter waters of adversity could not wash out the pollution it had left behind it. Into his native village he carried the habits he had acquired or witnessed beneath the cerulean skies of Italy, or amidst the dark-eyed daughters of France. Shame followed his footsteps. Yea, although the squire despised Mr. Donaldson, his son, a youth of nineteen, became the boon companion of Jacob. They held midnight orgies together. Jacob initiated the squireling into the mysteries of Paris and Rome, of Naples and Munich, whither he was about to proceed. But I will not dwell upon their short career. Extravagance attended it, shame and tears followed it. Andrew Donaldson no longer possessed the means of upholding his son in folly and wickedness. He urged him to settle in the world--to take a farm while he had the power left of placing him in it; but Jacob's sins pursued him. He fled from his father's house, and enlisted in a marching regiment about to embark for the East Indies. No more was heard of him for many years, until a letter arrived from one of his comrades, announcing that he had fallen at Corunna. To defray the expenses which his son Jacob had brought upon him, Mr. Donaldson had not only to part with the small remnant that was left him of his fifteen thousand, but take a heavy mortgage upon Lottery Hall. Again he was compelled to put his hand to the spade and to the plough; and his wife, deprived of her daughters, again became her own servant. Sorrow, shame, and disappointment gnawed in his heart. His garments of pride, now worn threadbare, were cut off for ever. The persecution, the mockery of his neighbours increased. They asked each other "if they had seen the Member of Parliament with the spade in his hand again?" They quoted the text, "A haughty spirit goes before a fall;" and they remembered passages of the preacher's lecture against pride and vanity on the day when Andrew appeared in his purple coat. He became a solitary man; and, on the face of this globe which we inhabit, there existed not a more miserable being than Andrew Donaldson. Peter was generally admitted to be a young man of great talents, and bade fair to rise to eminence in his profession as an artist. There was to be an exhibition of the works of living artists in Edinburgh; and Peter went through to it, taking with him more than a dozen pictures, on all subjects and of all sizes. He had landscapes, sea pieces, historical paintings, portraits, fish, game, and compositions, the grouping of which would have done credit to a master. In size, they were from five feet square to five inches. His brother Paul, who was still at the college, and who now supported himself by private teaching, was surprised when one morning Peter arrived at his lodgings, with three cadies at his back, bearing his load of pictures. Paul welcomed him with open arms, for he was proud of his brother; he had admired his early talents, and had heard of the progress he had made in his art. With a proud heart and a delighted eye, Peter unpacked his paintings, and placed them round the room for the inspection of his brother; and great was his brother's admiration. "What may be their value, Peter?" inquired Paul. "Between ourselves, Paul," replied Peter, "I would not part with the lot under a thousand guineas." "A thousand guineas!" ejeculated the student, in surprise; "do you say so?" "Yes, I say it," answered the painter, with importance. "Look ye, Paul--observe this bridal party at the alter--see the blush on the bride's cheek, the joy in the bride-groom's eye--is it not natural? And look at the grouping! observe the warmth of the colouring, the breadth of effect, the depth of shade, the freedom of touch! Now, tell me candidly, as a brother, is it not a gem?" "It is certainly beautiful," answered Paul. "I tell you what," continued the artist--"though I say it who should not say it--I have seen worse things sold for a thousand guineas." "You don't say so!" responded the astonished student, and he wished that he had been an artist instead of a scholar. "I do," added Peter; "and now, Paul, what do you think I intend to do with the money which this will bring?" "How should I know, brother?" returned the other. "Why, then," said he, "I'm resolved to pay off the mortgage on our father's property, that the old man may spend the remainder of his days in comfort." Paul wept, and taking his brother's hand, said, "And if you do, the property shall be yours, Peter." "Never, brother!" replied the other--"rather than rob you of your birth-right I would cut my hand off." The pictures were again packed up, and the brothers went out in quest of the secretary to the exhibition, in order to have them submitted to the committee for admission. The secretary received them with politeness; he said he was afraid that they could not find room for so many pieces as Mr Donaldson mentioned, for they wished to give every one a fair chance; but he desired him to forward the pictures, and he would see what could be done for them. The paintings were sent, and Peter heard no more of them for a week, when a printed catalogue and perpetual ticket were sent to him, with the secretary's compliments. Peter's eyes ran over the catalogue--at length they fell upon "_No. 210. A Bridal Party--P. Donaldson_," and again, "_No. 230. Dead Game--P. Donaldson_;" but his name did not again occur in the whole catalogue. This was a disappointment; but it was some consolation that his favourite piece had been chosen. Next day the exhibition opened, and Peter and Paul visited it together. The _Bridal Party_ was a small picture with a modest frame, and they anxiously sought round the room in which it was said to be placed; but they saw it not. At length, "Here it is," said Paul--and there indeed it was, thrust into a dark corner of the room, the frame touching the floor, literally crushed and overshadowed beneath a glaring battle piece, six feet in length, and with a frame seven inches in depth. It was impossible to examine it without going upon your knees. Peter's indignation knew no bounds. He would have torn the picture from its hiding-place, but Paul prevented him. They next looked for No. 230: and, to increase the indignation of the artist, it, with twenty others, was huddled into the passage, where, as Milton saith, there "No light, but rather darkness visible;" or, as Spenser hath it-- "A little gloomy light, much like a shade." For fourteen days did Peter visit the exhibition, and return to the lodgings of his brother, sorrowful and disappointed. The magical word SOLD was not yet attached to the painting which was to redeem his father's property. One evening, Paul being engaged with his pupils, the artist had gone into a tavern, to drown the bitterness of his disappointment for a few moments with a bottle of ale. The keenness of his feelings had rendered him oblivious; and in his abstraction and misery he had spoken aloud of his favourite painting, the _Bridal Party_. Two young _gentlemen_ sat in the next box; they either were not in the room when he entered, or he did not observe them. They overheard the monologue to which the artist had unconsciously given utterance, and it struck them as a prime jest to lark with his misery. The words "Splendid piece, yon _Bridal Party_!"--"Beautiful!"--"Production of a master!"--"Wonderful that it _sold_ in such a bad light and shameful situation!" fell upon Peter's ears. He started up--he hurried round the box where they sat-- "Gentlemen," he exclaimed, eagerly, "do you speak of the painting No. 210 in the exhibition?" "Of the same, sir," was the reply. "I am the artist--I painted it," cried Peter. "You, sir--you!" cried both the gentlemen at once. "Give us your hand, sir, we are proud of having the honour of seeing you." "Yes, sir," returned one of them; "we left the exhibition to-day just before it closed, and had the pleasure of seeing the porter attach the ticket to it." "Glorious!--joy! joy!" cried Peter, running in ecstasy to the bell, and ringing it violently; and, as the waiter entered, he added, "A bottle of claret! claret, boy!--claret!" And he sat down to treat the gentlemen who had announced to him the glad tidings. They drank long and deep, till Peter's head came in contact with the table, and sleep sealed up his eyelids. When aroused by the landlord, who presented his bill, his companions were gone; and, stupid as Peter was, he recollected for the first time that his pocket did not contain funds to discharge the reckoning; and he left his watch with the tavern-keeper, promising to redeem it the next day, when he received the price of his picture. I need not tell you what a miserable day that next day was to him, when, with his head aching with the fumes of the wine, he found that he had been duped--that his picture was not sold. The exhibition closed for the season; he had spent his last shilling--and Paul was as poor as Peter: but the former borrowed a guinea, to pay his brother's fare on the outside of the coach to----. Andrew Donaldson continued to struggle hard; but, struggle as he would, he could not pay the interest of the mortgage. Disappointment, sorrow, humbled vanity, and the laugh of the world, were too much for him; and, shortly after Peter's visit to Edinburgh, he died, repenting that he had ever pursued the phantom Fashion, or sought after the rottenness of wealth. "And what," inquired I, "became of Mrs Donaldson, and her sons Paul and Peter?" "Peter, sir," continued the narrator, "rose to eminence in his profession; and, redeeming the mortgage on Lottery Hall, he gave it as a present to his brother Paul, who opened it as an establishment for young gentlemen. His mother resides with him; and, sir, Paul hath spoken unto you--he hath given you the history of Lottery Hall." THE DOMINIE AND THE SOUTER. THE DOMINIE'S COURTSHIP. "Weel, I dinna ken how it is, Richard," said a Selkirk dominie to his friend Richard Blackwell, a souter of the same royal borough--"I dinna ken how it is, but there's naething pleases me mair than some o' them Border Tales--they're so uncommonly natural. I've often thought, indeed, in my ain mind, that the writers must get silly, stupid folk to sit doun and repeat their little histories to them in their ain language; for I can hardly believe that such true delineations o' character, and such remarkable instances o' the ups and downs o' human affairs, are mere inventions. Frequently, when I finish a tale, I exclaim, 'I ken the man that's meant for;' and for a that, though the picture may be as like him as your ain face to its reflection in a looking-glass, it's ten to ane if the author is aware o' such a character being in existence. This is what puzzles me, Richard. The 'Henpecked Man,' for instance, was a _dead hit_; but unfortunately every village on the Borders claimed the bickermaker as well as Birgham; while ilk guidwife might hae been heard bawling to her next-door neighbour, as she shook the tale in her clenched hand, 'Filthy fallow! that's our John or your Ned he's been taking aff.'" "It wadna be worth their while putting ony o' us twa into prent," rejoined the souter. "I differ with you there, neighbour," replied the dominie; "for there is no calculating the value that clever and skilly hands can give to rude materials. Would ye believe, now, to use a funny illustration, that a farthing's worth o' pig-iron, made into steel chains, rises to mair than twa hundred times its value? Ye stare incredulously, Richard; but it's the truth I'm telling you;--so it follows that out o' the raw material o' our lives, value o' anither kind may be gotten by a proper adaptation o' incidents and the like: and it often occurs to me, there is that about my courtship that would make no that ill a story, were it a wee thocht embellished. Ye shall hear it, however, as it is, and judge for yoursel:"-- Love, ye must be informed, Richard, did not communicate itself to my heart till I was well up in years--probably when I was seven-and-twenty, or thereabouts--nor did it blaze up a' at once, like a sudden flame--for it seemed at first but a sma' sma' spark, which often threatened to go out o' its ain accord, like coals kindled with green sticks--till Margery Johnson--that's my wife's maiden name--would have come across my path again like a bonny blink o' sunshine, and presently the dying embers would grow het once more at the heart, and burn away for a' the world like a blown-up fire. Now, though Margery, when I went a-courting her, didna possess ony great personal attractions to make a sang about--like the feck o' your grand romance leddies--yet she had that life and buoyancy about her, and blowsy healthiness o' countenance, which can make a deeper impression on the heart, at least, according to my liking, than a' the fine complexions, blue een, and artificial forms in the world. Margery was a little above the middle height--a plump, robust, guid-looking lass--the apple o' her faither's eye, and the pride o' her mother--whom everybody spoke well o'. And it was not without either choice or reflection that my passion for Margery Johnson was imbibed. Her faither, who is as guid a man as ever broke the world's bread, attended the Rev. Mr Heslop as weel as mysel; and as the seat which I occupied gave me a full command o' him and his family--for they only sat about an arm's-length from me--I had the pleasure o' seeing Margery, with the lave, every returning Sabbath. I dinna ken rightly how it was, but when she slipped along the aisle, I felt like a shortness o' breath, and a queer tingling sensation steal owre my whole body. In the time o' the singing, too, I could not help from keeking off the psalm-book, had it been to save me, to see if she were looking at me; and when our glances happened to encounter, I would have instantly reddened to the bottom o' the haffets, and impudently pretended, by casting my eyes carelessly up to the big front window, that it was merely a casual contact. I cannot take upon me to say how far this was sinful; but I ken that at such times I sat in a sort o' religious fervour, on terms o' kindness with my bitterest enemy--for weel can love teach a moral to the mind--while my heart seemed rinning owre with gratitude to the Deity for this new proof o' his benevolence and goodness, in the provision made for puir erring mankind. I'm no sure whether I have mentioned that Margery was in the service o' the minister--if no, ye must understand that she was his housemaid; and the manse, ye may weel conceive, Richard, was not the best place in the world for carrying on a courtship. I happened to be muckle thought on, however, by the minister and his wife--for my learning, ye see, brought me within a very little o' the minister himsel--indeed, we were nearly a buckle; and I, accordingly, had frequent invitations from him on a week-day night, to drink tea and spend the evening. On those occasions, unfortunately, I only saw Margery when she brought in and carried out the tea things; but one night, when the minister and I were indulging ourselves after the four-hours was owre (I may mention, for your edification, Richard, that _four-hours_ signifies the time o' drinking tea,--_four_, according to Watson, being the ancient _hour_ for the afternoon beverage)--it was after our tea was done, as I was saying, that the minister and I sat down to a glass o' whisky-toddy; and, as we both got very cracky, the minister says to me, jocularly, for he was a pleasant, agreeable man, Mr Heslop-- "I wonder, James, ye never think o' changing your life!" Now, it did not just strike me, at first, what he meant; so I bluntly replied, "Yes, sir; I am weel aware, as the heathen philosopher has beautifully observed, _Proba vita est via in coelum_--which signifies, A good life is the way to heaven." With that the minister and his wife kinked and laughed a guid ane; and the latter at last cried out to me-- "Mr Heslop means, James, that you should get married." "Oh, is that what he's driving at?" says I, colouring at my ain want o' gumption--"truly it's no a slight matter to get married, though I'll no be after denying that, could I fall in with a likely, serious young woman, I should have no great objections to make her my wife." "What think you o' Margery, my housemaid?" says Mrs Heslop, archly--"I think she would make you a guid wife." Had I been convicted o' the theft o' a silver spoon, I could not have felt more confused than I did at this moment--I found the very perspiration, Richard, oozing out in large drops from every pore o' my frame; while Mr Heslop, in the midst o' my embarrassment, chimed in-- "You forget, dear, that James must have a learned lady--one who has attained the _tongues_.--What say you, Mr Brown, to a _bluestocking_?" "White lamb's-wool, sir, or blue jacey, are both alike to me," says I, laughing at his drollery. "I'm no particular to a shade." Another loud laugh from the minister and his wife followed up this sally, and, at the same minute, the parlour-door opened, and in capered Margery, with an ash-bucketful o' coals, to mend the fire. Mrs Heslop, at the same time, went out, and left the minister and me owre our second tumbler. I thought I never saw Margery look half so interesting as she did that night; and I was so passionately struck with her appearance, that, without minding the presence o' the minister, I leaned back on my chair, and, taking the glass o' spirits into my hand, and looking owre my left shouther-- "My service to you, Margery," says I, and drank it off. "I daresay the man's gyte!" says Margery, staring me in the face like an idiot, as she gaed tittering out o' the room. I was not to be beaten in any such way, however; and on the afternoon o' the following Sabbath, I contrived, when the kirk scaled, to get into the loaning before Margery, and sauntering till her and her neighbour overtook me, I turned round just as they were passing my side, and, says I, keeping up with them at the same time-- "Here's a braw afternoon, lassies." "It's a' that," says her neighbour. Now, had it been to crown me King o' England, I did not ken what next to say, for I felt as if I had been suddenly tongue-tacked; and, without the word o' a lee, Richard, I'm certain we walked as guid as two hundred yards without uttering another syllable. "How terrible warm it is!" says I, at last, removing my hat, and wiping the perspiration from my brow with my India silk napkin. "So I think," says Margery, jeeringly. And the next minute she and her neighbour doubled the corner o' the loaning, and struck into the path which led down to the minister's, without so muckle as saying, "Guid e'en to ye, sir!" I made the best o' my way back through droves o' the kirk folk, who kept speering at one another as I passed, quite loud enough for me to hear them-- "There now, what a world this is!--isna that the light-headed dominie? Whar can he hae been stravagin on the Lord's-day afternoon? He can hae been after nae guid." This, as ye may weel suppose, was but a puir beginning, Richard; but still I was determined to hold out and persevere. My next step was to mool in with Margery's faither; and, as I knew him to be a great snuffer, I bought a box and got it filled, though I did not care a button-tap for the snuff mysel, which I used to rax owre to him during the sermon. Nor did I forget her mother--for it's an important thing in courting, Richard, to gain owre the auld folk--but day after day I used to strip my coat-breast o' the bit "mint" and "southernwood" that I was in the habit o' sticking in my button-hole on a Sabbath-day, and present them to her, to keep her up in the afternoon service, when the heat was like to overcome her. I invited Margery's brother, too, twice or thrice, on a Sunday afternoon, to his tea; and contrived, in seeing him home, to walk aye within a stone's-cast o' his faither's house, when he could not for mense's sake but ask me in. On such occasions, the auld man and I used to yoke about religion, and my clever knack in conversation and argument did not fail to impress him with a high sense o' my abilities. Margery's mother was equally taken with my particular mode o' expression--for schule-maisters, Richard, have to watch owre the smallest _particle_; and frequently when I have delivered mysel o' a few long-nebbed words, she would have slapped me on the shoulder, and cried out-- "It's worth a body's while listening to the likes o' you, Maister Brown; for to hear ye speak is like hearing a Latin scholar reading aloud frae a prented book--such braw words, truly, are no found in every head; and the mair's the pity that your ain is no waggin in a pulpit. Now, what would I no gie, could ony o' mine acquit themselves in such a manner." This pleasant intercourse went on for some time, till, one everyday night, being down at tea with Margery's brother, her mother says--meaning, no doubt, for me to take the hint-- "Ye mustna sit there, Robert"--that was to her son--"for ye ken your sister is down at Greystone Mill, and has to come hame hersel the night, which is far frae being chancy, seeing that there are sae mony o' thae Irish fallows upon the road." "I will take a step doun," says I; "it will be a pleasant walk." "That wad be such a thing!" says the auld woman, "and _him_ sitting there! Now, I'm vexed at mysel for having mooted it before ye." "I feel a pleasure," says I, "in going; and it's o' no use Robert tiring himsel, as he was thrashing aneugh through the day." "But ye're sae kind and considerate, Maister Brown," says she--"it's just imposing on your guid nature athegither. Hurry her hame, sir, if ye please, afore the darkening; but, to be sure, we needna fret, kenning she's in such excellent company." I accordingly set off for the Greystone Mill; and when I came in front o' the premises, I began to see that it was rather an awkward business I was out on; for I didna ken but Margery might hae somebody o' her ain to see her hame; and to go straight up to an unco house, and speer for a female that I had only spoken twice till, and that in a dry "how-do-ye-do" kind o' manner, was rather a trying affair, Richard, for one that was naturally bashful, as ye may weel conceive. Into the house I went, however, and meeting auld _mooter-the-melder_ in the entry-- "How's a' wi' ye, freend?" says I, in guid braid Scotch, shooting out my hand, at the same time, to give him a hearty shake. "Ye hae the advantage o' me," says he, drawing back and puckering up his mealy mouth. "I dinna ken ye." "I'm the schulemaister o' Selkirk," says I. "And what may the schulemaister o' Selkirk be wanting wi' me?" says he, gruffly, still keeping me standing like a borrowed body in the passage. "I'm seeking a young woman," says I. "Oh," says he, "ye'll be Margery Johnson's sweetheart, Ise warrant--come awa ben." "He's no my sweetheart," says Margery, as I was stalking into the bit parlour. "I wonder what's brought the randering _fool_ here." This, I confess, was rather a damper; and had I not been weel versed in a woman's pawky ways, and kent that she was aye readiest to misca' them for whom she had the greatest regard, before folk, I'm not so sure, Richard, what might have been the upshot. I sat doun, however, as if I had not overheard her, and chatted awa to the miller's twa gaucy daughters, keeping a watchful eye on Margery a' the time, who did not seem to relish owre weel the attention I was bestowing on them. I saw plainly, indeed, that she was a little mortified, for she gaunted twice or thrice in the midst o' our pleasantry--no forgetting to put her hand before her mouth, and cast her eyes up to the watch that stood on the mantelpiece, as muckle as to say--"It's time we were stepping, lad." I kept teasing her, nevertheless, for a guid bit; and when at last we left the mill, and got on to the road that leads down to the Linthaughs, I says to her, "Will ye tak my arm, Margery dear?" "Keep your arms," says she, "for them ye mak love till." "That's to you, then," says I. "Ye never made love to me in your life," says she. "Then I must not ken how to mak it," says I; "but aiblins ye'll teach me." "Schulemaisters dinna need to be taught," says she; "ye ken nicelies how to mak love to Betty Aitchison--at least to her siller." This was the miller's youngest daughter.--"What feck o' siller has Betty?" says I. "Ye can gang and ask her," says she. "Hoot, what serves a' this cangling?" says I, taking hold o' her arm, and slipping it into mine--"you are as het in the temper as a jenny-nettle, woman." "Ye're the first that said it," says she. "And I hope I'll be the last," says I. And on we joggit, as loving-like as if we had been returning from the kirk on our bridal. It might be four weeks after this meeting, that Margery and I were out, on an autumn evening, in the lang green loaning that leads down to the Linthaughs. It was as bonny a night as man could be abroad in: the moon, nearly full, was just rising owre the Black Cairn, and the deep stillness that prevailed was only broken by the low monotonous murmur o' the trees, or interrupted by our own footsteps. I dinna ken how long we might have sauntered in the loaning--aiblins, two hours--and though inclined a' the time to confess to Margery that I loved her, I could not bring mysel to out with it, for aye as I was about to attempt it, I felt as if something were threatening to choke me. At last I thought on an expedient. And what was it, think ye? No--you'll not guess, Richard; but you'll laugh when you hear. I had recently got by heart the affecting ballad that had been written by a freend o' my ain, on Willie Grahame and Jeanie Sanderson o' Cavers, a little before Jeanie's death; and, thinks I--as I was a capital hand at the Scotch--Ise try what effect the reciting o' it will have upon Margery; for wha kens but it may move her heart to love and pity? This scheme being formed, I says to her-- "Margery, did you ever hear the waesome ballad about Jeanie Sanderson and her sweetheart?" "Where was I to hear it?" says she. "Would ye like to hear it?" says I. "I'm no caring," says she. And wi' that I began the ditty; but, as it has never been in prent, I had better rin owre it, that you may be able to judge o' its fitness for accomplishing my _end_. It begins as if Jeanie--who was dying o' consumption--were addressing hersel to Willie Grahame, and he to her--_vice versâ_. SCOTTISH BALLAD. "Six years have come and gane, Willie, Since first I met with you; And through each chequer'd scene I've been Affectionate and true. But now my yearning heart must a' Its cherish'd hopes resign; For never on this side the grave Can my true love be mine." "Oh, do not speak o' death, Jeanie, Unless that ye would break The heart that cheerfully would shed Its life's-blood for your sake;-- For what a dreary blank this world Would prove to me, I trow, If ye were sleeping your long sleep Upon yon cauld green knowe!" "When I have pass'd from earth, Willie, E'en sorrow as you will, Your stricken heart will pleasure seek In other objects still. For though, when my worn frame is cauld, Your grief may be profound. My very name will soon become Like a forgotten sound!" "I'm wae to see the cheek, Jeanie, That shamed the elder wine, Now stripp'd o' a' the bloom that told Your heart's fond love langsyne. But do not, Jeanie Sanderson, Come owre your death to me: It's pain enow to see you look So sad on a' you see." "I'm dying on my feet, Willie, Whate'er you'd have me say; And my last hour on earth, I feel, Draws nearer every day. Nor can ye with false hopes deceive; For ne'er can summer's heat Restore the early blighted flower That's crush'd aneath your feet." "Oh, bring once more to mind, Jeanie, The happiness we've seen, When at the gloaming's tranquil fa' We sought the loaning green. Ye ken how oft I came when ye Sat eerie, love, at hame, And tapp'd at that bit lattice, whiles-- Your ain true Willie Grahame!" "It's like a vanish'd dream, Willie, The memory o' the past, And oft I've thought our happiness Owre great at times to last. Alas! your coming now I watch In sickness and in pain; But will ye seek my mother's door When once that I am gane?" "You're harbouring thoughts o' me, Jeanie. It's wrong for you to breathe; For oh, is wretchedness the gift To _me_ ye would bequeath? I've ne'er through life loved ane but you; And must the hopes o' years Be rooted from my heart at once, And quench'd in bitter tears?" "Ye stand 'tween me and heaven, Willie, Yet, oh, I do not blame, Nor seek to wound the feeling heart, Whose love was aye the same. But love is selfish to the last, And I should like to wear The locket round my neck, when gane, That holds my Willie's hair!" "It cuts me to the heart, Jeanie, To see you thus give way To trouble ye are forcing on, For a' your freends can say. And do ye think that I could e'er To others passion vow, Were death to break the link that binds Our hearts so closely now?" "It may be that long time, Willie, Will teach you to forget, Nor leave within your breast--for me-- One feeling o' regret. But, should you fold another's heart To yours with fond regard, Oh, think on her who then shall lie Happ'd up in yon kirkyard!" Weel, a' the time I was repeating the ballad, I saw, in the changing expression o' Margery's countenance, that there was a tender struggle going on in her heart; but when I came to the last verse, she could restrain her feelings no longer, but grat outright, as if Jeanie had been her ain sister. I was rather on, Richard, for the greeting mysel; but, affecting an indifference I did not feel, I says to her, as she was in the act o' wiping her eyes wi' her pocket-napkin-- "Would ye greet for me, Margery, were I dying?" "You're very like a dying person, or you're naething," says she. "There are few lovers to be met wi'," says I, "like Willie Grahame and Jeanie Sanderson--their devotedness is rare." "Ye'll be judging frae yersel, Ise warrant," says Margery. "Oh," says I, "I do not doubt but I could mak as guid a sweetheart as Willie Grahame, would onybody try me. But I've a secret to tell ye, woman," continued I, summoning up courage to mak a confession. "Women canna keep secrets," says she; "so ye had better no trust me wi' it." A long silence was the upshot o' this, and we sauntered on, as if we had been two walking statues, till we came within sight o' the manse. Margery could not but notice my perplexity; for I looked round and round about me a thousand times, for fear o' listeners, and hemmed again and again, as the words mounted to my lips, and swooned away in a burning blush on my face. "What was it ye were gaun to tell me?" at last says she. "It maun be some great secret, surely, that ye're in such terror to disclose it." "Weel, Margery," says I, in the greatest fervour, locking her hand passionately in baith o' mine--"if ye will have it--I LOVE YOU!" "Is that a'?" says she, coolly slipping awa her hand. "I really thought, from seeing sae muckle dumb-show, that ye had something o' importance to tell me." "Might I ask, if ye like _me_?" says I to her, earnestly. "Were it even possible that I did," says she, "do ye think that I wad be sic a born fool as to tell ye?--_Atweel do I no!_" I had often heard, Richard, o' folk being dumbfoundered; but, till that moment, I never knew what it was to be so mysel; and such was the keen sense o' my silliness, that I even wished I might sink down through the earth, clean out o' sight and hearing. As matters stood, however, I saw there was naething for it but urging Margery to discretion; so I says till her, seriously-- "I hope in heaven, Margery, that neither your partner nor anybody else will be the better o' what has passed between you and me this night!" "What do you mean?" says she. "Why," says I, "I mean, that ye'll no acquaint them wi' my liking for you." "Guid truly," says she, wi' a toss o' her head, "I wad hae muckle to speak aboot! To tell ye the truth, lad, I never was thinking ony mair aboot it, nor wad it hae entered into my head again, had ye no mentioned it." "I do not care," says I, rather wittily, "how seldom it enter your _head_, Margery, so long as it engage your _heart_." "Ye're a queer man," says she, "to be a schulemaister;" and skipped aff to the manse, without expressing the least desire to see me again. When I went home and lay down in bed that night, I could do nothing but toss and tumble; and aye as my silliness recurred to me, I would have uttered a loud _hem_, as a person will do when he is clearing his throat, to keep the racking thought down; but, in spite o' a' I could do, it continued uppermost, and kept torturing me till better than half-past four in the morning. Weel, thinks I, this is really a fine pass I've brought mysel to! I'll not only become the laughingstock o' the minister and his wife, but the whole town will join in with ready chorus. Time slipped on, however, and things remained much the same, save that Margery took upon hersel a great many airs, and behaved on a' occasions as if I were her humble servant. At last, Richard, I took heart o' grace, plucked up a spirit, and seemed careless about _her_. That Margery was secretly piqued at this, I had ample proof; for, meeting William Aitchison one night at her father's--for she had then left the minister's service--to mortify me, the puir creature paid the most marked attention to the young man, scarcely goaming me; but, for a' that, I could see plainly aneugh that she preferred me in her heart, though her pride would not let her show it. Nor did she stop here; for, when Aitchison rose to go away, she hurried to the press, and taking out a bottle o' spirits, she poured him out a dram, which he no sooner had swallowed, than she put away the bottle and the glass, without so muckle as saying, "Colly, will ye taste?" But I saw through a' this, Richard; and, though she went to the door and laughed and chatted with him, I knew brawlies, from her very manner, that she was acting, and would have gien the best thing in a' the house, to have been freends with me again. At last, into the room she comes, and sets hersel doun by the fire, with her hands owre ilk other. Now, thinks I, I'll pay ye back in your ain coin, lass; so I rattled away with her brother, for as guid as half-an-hour, about the qualities o' bone-dust and marl, never letting on that I saw her a' the time, until happening to pat the auld colly that lay sound asleep on the hearthstane, the puir creature, vexed at the thought o' the dumb beast getting that attention paid him which was denied to hersel, kicked him ill-naturedly with her foot, and ordered him out o' the room. "I thought lassies were aye best-natured when they had seen their jo and dearie," says I, giving her brother a sly dunch with my arm, and looking slily up in Margery's face. "She's in the sulks, the jade," says her mother; "and if she doesna keep a better temper, the worst will be her ain--that's a' that I'll say." Margery made no reply to this; but taking the candlestick into her hand that stood on the table, left the parlour without uttering a word. "What's the matter wi' ye and her now, James?" says the auld wife--for she did not mind styling me _Maister_, as we were so very familiar, though I must say that Margery's faither continued to the last to _Maister_ me--he had such a regard for mysel, and veneration for the profession. "There is naething the matter with us," says I--"that I ken o', at least." "Come, come, lad; ye maunna tell me that," says she; "it's no little that will ding my lass; and if ye hae slighted her for ony o' the Aitchisons, it says unco little for you, wi' a' your learning. Oh, shame fa' that weary, weary siller!" added she, shaking her head, and leaving the room; "it's been the bane o' true love sin the world had a beginning, and will, I think, till it have an end." On my road home that night I resolved in my mind to trifle no longer with Margery; for I became convinced it was but heartless conduct, to say the very least o't. To get her to confess, however, that she loved me, I was resolutely determined on; and, after devising a thousand schemes, I at last thought o' trying what effect my way-going would have upon her. Accordingly, as ye may weel remember, Richard, I got a report circulated that I had an intention o' going out to America, to try my luck in the other world; so, meeting with Margery one night between the Rankleburn and her ain house, I asked her if she had any objections to take a walk with me as far as the Linthaughs. "What are ye gaun to do at the Linthaughs?" "Do ye not know," says I, "that I'm about to leave this quarter, for guid and a', for America?" Her heart lap into her mouth at hearing this, and she quickly cast her eyes round on me, which were brimful o' tears, as if to see whether or no I spoke in earnest, and hurriedly withdrew them the same moment without uttering a word. "It's a trying thing," says I, "to leave the place o' ane's nativity. It may appear childish, but there is a charm attaches even to the schulehouse, with its clay floor, and dirty hacked tables, that my heart cannot resist; and, as sure as death, Margery, the very wooden chair, whose hind legs I rock backwards and forwards on when the class is ranged before me, dimmed my eyes with tears this morning, when I reflected that, in a few weeks, some stranger lad should sit upon it. It was but the other night, too, that I chanced to light upon a few simple verses in Mrs Heslop's album that quite unmanned me." "What were they about?" says Margery. "Just about a person's way-going and fareweel-taking," says I; "and the writer, in speaking o' the sorrow it occasioned him, to take a last look o' ony familiar object, says, truly and feelingly-- 'I never look'd a last adieu To things familiar, but my heart Shrank with a feeling, almost pain, Even from their lifelessness to part. I never spoke the word Farewell! But with an utterance faint and broken; A heart-sick yearning for the time When it should never more be spoken.' "God only knows," continued I, in the same deep earnestness, "whether the time will ever come round to _me_ when the bitter word shall never be spoken again. Our evening walks, Margery, will soon be at an end; but go where I will, never can I forget the green banks o' the Yarrow, and the beetling brow o' those hills, with their red heather and bleached bent, where I used to rin when a callant; and no scene, however grand or lovely, can ever have nearer and warmer claims upon my affection, than this loaning, Margery, where you and I have watched the lang streaks o' the yellow sunlight fading in the grey clouds o' evening, as the twilight thickened round us, rendering us as happy as if we were under the delusion o' glamoury. In the sad clearness o' regret, the whole o' the simple images o' the past are crowding owre my fancy; and now that I am thinking o' leaving Selkirk, I cannot describe to you the melancholy sensation o' loneliness that possesses me. I depart from it a green bough, and can only return--if ever I be permitted to come back--a withered, sapless stem; and, though the sun may shine, the birds sing, and that bonny green haugh present the same garniture o' sweets and beauties as ever, what will it a' avail, Margery, if _you_, and a' them that I care for, have gone down into the grave, and left me without a tie to bind me to the world!" Here the tears actually trickled down my cheeks, Richard, having wrought my feelings into such a fermentation; and Margery, the same moment, threw her arms around me, and breathed on my neck, in a tremulous and broken voice, the love o' her warm and feeling heart. "Will ye cross the Atlantic with me, Margery?" says I, while the dear creature still trembled palpably by my side. "Yes, yes," says she, tenderly; "but ye're no gaun to leave Selkirk, James; and ye ken ye're only saying sae to try me." "You and my happiness are so utterly entwined, Margery," says I, "that I could not for a moment harbour the thought, were it to make you uneasy. _I'll no stir a foot._" About two months after this took place, Margery and I were married by Mr Heslop, our ain minister; and a braw wedding we had, there being no less than eight couple, besides my guidfather, at it. And, certies, she could not complain o' her down-sitting; for, though I say it who should not, I do not believe there's a brawer house than ours--among those o' our ain graith, I mean--in a' Selkirk, or one where you'll find half o' the comfort; for Margery and I are as happy as the day is long, and our twa bonny bairns, John and Mary--the laddie's christened after my faither, and the lassie after the wife's mother--mingle with us nightly around our cheerful fireside in the snug little parlour, delighting us with their endearing prattle, and beguiling our cares with the innocent joyousness o' their happy hearts. You may think me a weak man, Richard; but I doubt not the most feck o' parents are like mysel--fond o' speaking about their offspring--no minding that it may be tiresome aneugh to those that never had ony themselves; yet could we but feel how the sunshine o' their young and glad hearts reflects itself back upon a doting faither's, I am certain ye would think that I was more to be envied in my domestic happiness than the monarch o' England; and weel can I exclaim, in the words o' the Scottish sang-- "I view, with mair than kingly pride, My hearth--a heaven o' rapture; While Mary's hand in mine will slide, As Jockie reads his chapter." THE SOUTER'S WEDDING. "Not to flatter you, Maister Brown," said the souter, when the dominie had finished the account of his courtship, "your wooing is a capital tale in itself; and could it only be put into prent, in the simple and honest manner--for ye hide nothing--that you've gone owre it, I'll venture to say that a more laughable story is no in the book. Deil o' the like o' it I ever heard; so muckle duplicity on the one hand, and sheepishness on the other; and, after a', to think that ye should have won your wife's heart by such a wily stratagem. Ye talked, if I remember rightly, o' being weel up in years ere ye fell in love; but atweel I cannot say the same, for I was owre head and ears in it before I was rightly into my teens. Having my faither's business in Selkirk to fall back upon, and being rather handsome, and no that ill-farand, and naturally gifted, like the rest o' our family--for our cleverness a' came by the Maxwells--that's our mother's side o' the house--it is not to be wondered at that the young lassies o' the place should have held a great racket about me. I was even styled the leddies' man; and, night after night, I might have been seen strolling away down by the Pleasance, in company with the Jacksons--high as they hold their heads above you and me now, Maister Brown; and, at other times, with the braw niece o' the dean o' guild. At our annual fairs, too, I have seen the genteeler lasses--farmers' daughters and the like--flocking about me for their _fairing_ in perfect droves; and I'm certain there was not one o' them, either from Selkirkshire or Roxburghshire, but who would have waded the Tweed for me, had I but held up my thumb. I was very ill to please, however; for, unless I could get one possessed o' youth, beauty, and siller, I had resolved never to marry. These three requisites I considered indispensable in a wife; and though, at times, I felt my prudent resolution nearly sapped by the winning gentleness o' Susan Baillie, I still prevented the sacred citadel o' my heart from being openly taken, and kept cautiously speculating upon the untoward consequences o' a rash and imprudent marriage. My faither dropping off just as I was entering upon my three-and-twentieth year, his business was consigned owre to me, with the whole o' his effects; and, although the heavy bereavement did not fail to make a suitable impression upon my heart, I felt my personal consequence greatly increased, from the circumstance o' standing in his _shoon_. The Johnsons went actually mad about me, besides scores o' others, as weel to do in the world as any Johnson among them; and many a trap was set for me, by auld crones who had daughters at a marriageable age hanging on their hands. I continued, however, to gallant away among them, as a kind o' general lover; and at a' their select parties, there was I to be found figuring. Thus weeks, and months, and years passed on, and I still remained in single blessedness, while the young leddies o' my acquaintance kept stepping off one by one--some marrying tradesmen's sons, and others the young gentlemen belonging to the neighbouring counties, till not one o' a' the number that I used to caper about with was left for my taking. The very bairns o' some o' them, breeched and unbreeched, were big aneugh to come to my shop and get the measure o' their shoon; and on one occasion, when Susan Baillie's auld Irish nurse--Susan was then Mrs Captain Fraser--brought down the auldest lassie in her hand, to get a pair o' red boots fitted on, I declare the very tears came into my eyes when I saw the little creature--she looked so like her mother! "Losh, me!" says I to Peggy Byrne, "that lassie makes me an auld man." "Och, and it's your own fault, Master Blackwell," says the nurse, "that your ould at all at all; for you, who are a gintleman born, should be glad to have the mistress and purty childer at home, even to spake to." "A wife is an expensive piece o' furniture to keep about a house," says I. "I'm sorry to the heart for you, sir," says she; "and if you care for yoursilf, you'll not let a thrifle of money prevint you from trating yoursilf to some genteel cratur of a wife. Will you just give a look to this swate girleen, God bless it!" added she, kissing the wee lassie, "and say if ye could grudge her bit of brade, poor sowl, or the brade of the moder that bore her?" "But I cannot get anybody to please me, woman," says I, jocularly. "Take my word and honour, as an Irishwoman," says Peggy, in Hibernian warmth, "you'll bring the shame of the world on yoursilf, and ye will, ye will. I thought once you could not live after my mistress Susan; but she's lost to you, anyhow, the jewel, and I only know you will never have it in your power to get a glance of love from such two swate eyes again." "There are better fish in the sea," says I, "than ever came out o' it." "Don't attimpt to say so," says she; "for, though many a nate, dacent girl is to the fore, 'tis a silfish cratur they wish bad luck to; and maybe your honour will let me tell you the iligant ould story of the 'Crooked Stick' for your idification. Well, then," she went on, "you must know there was a whimsical young woman sent into a green lane, having on either side tall and beautiful trees; and she was tould to pick out and bring away the straightest and purtiest branch she could find. She was left at liberty to go to the end, if she plased; but she was not, by any means, to be allowed to retrace her steps, to make choice of a stick she had already slighted. Beautiful and tall were the boughs of the trees, and swate to look upon; and each in its turn was decaived in not being preferred; for the silly maiden went on and on, without any rason, vainly expecting to get a more perfect stick than those that courted her two eyes. At long and last, the trees became smaller, while blurs and warts disfigured their crooked boughs. She could not, she thought within hersilf, choose such rubbitch. But what was she to do?--for lo! she had arrived at the ind of her journey, and, instead of a nate young branch from a stately tree, an ould deformed bough was all that remained within her reach. So the silly maiden had to take the _crooked stick_ at last, and return with it in her hand, amidst the jeering of the beautiful trees which she had formerly despised. And now," said Peggy Byrne, in conclusion, "remember the _crooked stick_, your honour, and give over your dilly-dallying, or sure enough you'll get it--you will." I laughed heartily at the Irish nurse's foolery; and that very night, I mind, I had as queer a dream as mortal ever dreamed. I thought I was out on a fine summer's day in the month o' June, fishing in the stream a little below Selkirk, where the Tweed is augmented by the Ettrick. I was angling, I thought, with the artificial fly in the manner o' worm; and, though the water was very turbid, trouts, like silly women, are so apt to be taken with _appearances_, that that day multitudes o' them eagerly seized the deadly barb, and only found out the deceit at the precious cost o' their lives! I imagined I was particularly nice, however, in choosing the fish I raised; for, as I drew them ashore upon the nearest channel, instead o' rinning forward with alacrity and seizing them, I thought I stood like an innocent, turning owre in my mind whether the trouts were o' such a quality as to repay me for the trouble o' stooping to take them up. Presently the fish, not being properly banked, would have broken the gut and torn themselves from the hook, leaving me in bewilderment and shame, to execrate my ain stupid indecision. But this was not the worst o' it; for in some cases I actually fancied I saw the same bonny detached trouts taken further down the stream by other anglers, while a number, after a fierce struggle to get free, would have been seen pining, with wounded hearts, at the bottom o' the water, unable apparently either to feed or spawn. To add to my vexation, Maister Brown, the stream began suddenly to clear, while the fish, from the quantity o' food that covered the water, grew lazy, and would not so muckle as move. At last I thought I threw in, for the last time, in a fit o' desperation, and what should I do but hook a huge salmon by the side fin! He immediately started in beautiful style for his far hame, the sea; and as a fish so fastened was no better secured than a young bluid-horse bridled by the middle instead o' the mouth, I saw there was nothing for it but following him, and using my legs as weel as my line. Away we accordingly went, at a dead heat, down the Tweed--starting from about Ettrick foot, while the fish every now and then would have sprung furiously out o' the water in his attempts to shiver the line with his tail. It would not a' do, however; and, after a great many hours' play, I thought we landed at "Coldstream Brig-end," where, finding him greatly exhausted, I drew him closer and closer to the edge, whiles giving him a brattle out into the deep water, till seeing him unable to give any further resistance, I gaffed and secured him. But, judge o' my mortification, when, instead o' a bonny plump salmon, a lean, deformed skate lay in the dead-thraws upon the white gravel, to mock me for my pains! The bairns, at this moment, whom I thought I saw distinctly on the bridge, setting up a wicked shout o' derision, I awoke with the noise. Nor will I ever forget the agony that I was in--the sweat ran from my body like a planet shower; and do what I liked, I could not get the disagreeable image o' the ill-coloured toom skate from my mind; for aye, as I dovered owre again, I was as suddenly started by the presence o' the hateful fish laying itsel cheek by jowl alongside o' me. You may laugh as ye like, Maister Brown, at this strange dream; but, when you hear how significantly the crowning event in the after-history o' my life was prefigured by it, you'll see less cause for laughter, I'm thinking. It might be half-a-year subsequent to the dream, or thereabouts, that I happened to be in Wooler on a jaunt; and as the place and the folk about it were muckle to my mind, I was induced to protract my stay for several weeks. I soon made the acquaintance o' several o' the young leddies o' the same _caste_ as mysel; and, among others, I got uncommonly intimate with a Miss Cochrane, and her sister Arabella. The former, I was told, had a hantle o' siller, besides rich expectations from some auld aunt in Newcastle; while stories were whispered o' the prodigious number o' offers she had refused, and that he would be considered a lucky man who should make off with such a capital prize! Here, thinks I, I've fallen on my feet at last; and, if I do not impove the golden opportunity to my advantage, blame me. Miss Cochrane continued shy, however; and I was beginning to despair o' making any impression, when, one night, being at a party with her and her sister, at the house o' a Mrs Cavendish, we a' three grew so delighted with each other, that it was agreed, before parting, that, as neither Arabella nor hersel had ever seen Coldstream, and as they had a genteel cousin there, we should take a trip to it the next day in a post-chaise. Off we accordingly went on the ensuing morning; and, as soon as we reached the town, a messenger was despatched for the genteel cousin, when presently a little dissipated-looking creature made his appearance, who, at the sight o' his dear Sophia and Arabella, was like to go into ecstatics. He did not need to be asked twice to join us at dinner; for he moved about as if the inn had been his ain, and he fell to the dainties we had ordered as greedily as a half-famished cur. The wine and brandy, too, were sent down his throat as if his stomach had been a sand-bed, and he kept drinking glasses with us every whip-touch, first asking me to join him, and then his "dear cousins," till, long before the dinner was owre, I had got so completely _rosined_, that I could not weel make out where I was, or satisfactorily account for the appearance o' the two strange women that sat on each side o' me. The haze, however, that hung owre me began to go off in the course o' the evening; and, when I cleared up sufficiently, the Coldstream birkie proposed that we should sally out and get a sight o' the famed "Brig-end," where the well-known Peter Moodie celebrated clandestine marriages. "I'm yer man for a spree," says I--for the brandy, by this time, had flown to my head. And, starting to my feet, and seizing Miss Cochrane by the arm--"Come, my dawty," cries I, "let us away down to the brig and see Hymen's Altar!" "Oh, Master Blackwell!" says madam, in girlish bashfulness, allowing hersel at the same time to be led off "only think what our friends will say, should they hear of _us_ being there! I would not for ten thousand worlds they should know." "Fiddledee, fiddledum!" shouted I; and off we strutted, uttering a' the balderdash, and foolery in the world on our way down; and, when we came to the Brig-end, I began to sing, at the very top o' my lungs, "There's naebody coming to marry me." But I had scarcely finished the first line o' the sang, when forward stepped an auld man, with a snuffy white napkin round his neck, and with a head as white as the driven snaw; and says he, touching his hat with his hand-- "Would ye be wanting my services, sir?" "What services in a' the world can ye render, auld carle?" says I. "I'm the man that marries the folk," says he; "my name's Peter Moodie." "And what do you seek for your marriage-service?" says I. "Three half-crowns frae working-folk, and a guinea frae the like o' you, sir," says he. "There's a crown-piece, my guid fellow," says I, "and let me see you go owre the foolery--for the very fun o' the thing." "Do, do, Peter!" cried the youngest Cochrane and her cousin, eagerly. "Wha shall I buckle, then?" says the mimicking priest. "Our two selves," says I, pressing Miss Cochrane's hand, in maudlin fondness. "What's your name, sir?" says the white-headed impostor, looking me gravely in the face. "Richard Blackwell," says I, proudly. "Speak after me, then," says he--"I, Richard Blackwell, do take thee, Sophia Cochrane, to be my married wife, and do promise to be a loving husband unto thee until death shall separate us." I did as I was ordered by the body, and he next caused Miss Cochrane to take me by the right hand, and repeat a few words after him, muckle to the same effect. This being done--"Richard Blackwell and Sophia Cochrane," added the carle, with an air o' mock solemnity, "I proclaim you husband and wife." "Get on with the ceremony, ye drunken neer-do-weel," bawled I; "the five shillings will surely go a deal farther than that. We're not half married!" "Try to get off, if you can, and see how ye'll thrive," says Peter, and staggered off, leaving us to enjoy what I considered at the time a mere farce or bit o' harmless diversion. Having returned to the inn, we had another bottle o' brandy, to drink to the health and happiness o' Mr and Mrs Blackwell; and, as I was willing to carry on the joke, I good-naturedly humoured the fools--for what will a man not do in drink--and thanked them with sham politeness for their kind wishes. The bill at length was sent up to _our lordships_; but, as the cousin had no small change on him, and as the leddies had left their purses behind them in the bustle o' setting off, I had to pay dearly for my "whistle," but I cared not. Having got a' settled, we packed into the chaise, and drove off for Wooler; but I was so far gone, that I lay as sound as a tap on the auldest Cochrane's shoulder, until we came within a mile o' the village; and when I awoke the _mercury_ had fallen so low, that I felt as stupid and dead as a door nail. No sooner, however, did we reach their door in the main street, than I banged up in the chaise, and attempted to jump out; but, alack-a-day! my legs fell from beneath me as if they did not belong to my body, while my puir head swam round and round, like a light bung in a gutter.--"Will ony o' you chiels," hiccuped I to the crowd that stood in front o' the chaise window, "carry me to Lucky Hunter's?" "Ye maun pack in wi' your wife, Billy," cried they. "I've no _wife_," stammered I; "I'm Ma-ma-ister Blackwell, the braw sou-sou-ter o' Selkirk." At hearing this, some witty rascal roared out-- "_Doun_ wi' the souters o' Selkirk, And _up_ wi' the Yearl o' Hume." And, suiting the action to the words, _doun_ from the chaise they accordingly dragged me; but, as I would not on any account enter Miss Cochrane's house, the youngsters lifted me into a butcher's slaughtering barrow, and whirled me along the pavement like daft devils; and in the lapse o' a few minutes, I was thudded against my landlady's door, and tumbled out on the dirty street, as unceremoniously as if I had been the "lord o' misrule" at a village feast. Being carried up-stairs and laid upon a sofa, I was owre asleep before ye could say "Jock Robinson," and as unconscious o' the late hullybilloo as the bairn unborn. The burning fever, however, that the drink had flung me into would not let me sleep for any length o' time; and about two in the morning I awoke, with my tongue sticking to my mouth, as if it had been tacked; nor could I open my lips wide aneugh to let in a teaspoon shank, though my very throat was cracking with the heat, like a piece o' parched muirland. In raising mysel on the sofa, I fortunately got hold o' the bell-rope, and, resting mysel on my elbow, I rang it as furiously as if the house had been in flames about my ears. "What, what, what is the matter with you?" sputtered the terrified landlady, scrambling up the stairs. "People will think it is the fire-bell." "It is a great enough fire-bell," says I; "and if ye do not keep back your abominable candle, you'll set my breath a-low." "The good folk will then take you for one of the new lights," says she. "For mercy's sake," cries I, "bring up your water-pipe, and let it run doun my throat, to slocken me!" "There's not such a thing as a water-pipe in Wooler," says the aggravating creature. "The good people in this quarter haven't the _spirit_ in them that you've got." "Oh, do not torture me, wife," said I, "with your off-taking way, for I could drink the Till dry, could I get at it." "You shall have a proper sluicing in it in the morning, then," says the unfeeling wretch; "so just lay your head high till daylight comes in." Seeing I could not better myself, I flung my head down with a terrible clash on the side o' the sofa; while my thirst grew so intolerable, that the very breath which issued from my cramped lips was like to stifle me. In this indescribably miserable state I lay till about seven o'clock, when, by a sickly effort o' strength, I got up, and tried to walk across the floor; but my brain reeled at every step, and my limbs shook beneath me like willow wands. With my eyes swimming in dizziness, I next sought the washhand-basin, and plunging my head into the cauld water, I kept it there for nearly three minutes, drinking copiously at the same time; and though the terrible stimulus brought on a severe shivering qualm, that lasted for nearly a quarter-of-an-hour, it cleared my faculties sufficiently to lay me open to a' the violence o' self-reproach. Having swallowed a beefsteak, with plenty o' mustard and pepper, I felt comparatively recruited, at least in body; and when the day had worn on to about four in the afternoon, I thought, as the reading-room was only at the next door, I might contrive to slip in unobserved, and get a sight o' the papers. I accordingly stole out, and got into the room without meeting any one, where I found an auldish man in a brown tufted wig, who used glasses, sitting brooding owre the _bad times_ fornent the window. He did not take any notice o' me, nor I o' him; but I had not got weel seated, when in steps a spruce-looking body, in a Petersham frock, who immediately marched up to the spectacled dumby, and inquired if there was any news going. "None," replied the latter, in a sepulchral tone o' voice, "neither foreign nor domestic." "You haven't heard, then," says the other, "of Miss Cochrane's affair?" "Has she been _seized_?" says the elderly gentleman, taking off his spectacles, and turning up the whites of his eyes. "Ay, ay, heart and body," says the younger, in a fit of laughter; "she has been seized by her husband, a half-witted idiot of a fellow, a native of the town of Selkirk." "Ye dinna mean to say sae?" rejoins his friend. "The simpleton was hooked at Coldstream Brig-end," cries the young man in the surtout, as I stole out, in an agony o' remorse, and directed my steps to my lodgings, on the most freendly terms with desperation. My worst fears were instantly confirmed; for I no sooner had entered the house, than Mrs Hunter placed a letter in my hand from the youngest Cochrane. I have carried the thing about with me for these ten years now; and, as I regard it as a kind o' curiosity, ye would aiblins like to hear it. It's just word for word to this day as I received it:-- "MY DEAR BROTHER,--Mrs Blackwell, your much-attached wife, has passed a miserable night--going out of one hysteric into another; and bitterly lamenting that she should have given her hand to one who seems determined to repay the affection she has heaped upon him with a neglect which, if persisted in, will not fail to break her loving heart. She has tasted nothing since she left Coldstream, save a mouthful of cold water, and a little thin gruel; and our fear is, that the poor soul will starve herself to death! Do come down immediately, and try to comfort her, and you may rely upon my kind offices in doing away with the unpleasant feelings to which your unaccountable conduct last night has given rise.--Your affectionate sister, "ARABELLA COCHRANE." I turned in actual loathing from the perusal o' this artful scrawl; while my heart was like to burst with the wild tumult o' feeling that distracted me. "Is it possible," asked I, again and again, o' mysel, "that I am married? No, no, it cannot be; and rather than live with a woman I do not like, I'll leave the country, and transport myself for life to the farthest isle o' Sydney Cove." How I was kept in my right judgment throughout that sleepless and miserable night, is a wonder to me till this day. Twenty times did I fondly convince mysel that it was a' but a crazed dream; and as often did the truth flash upon my mind, curdling my very bluid with shame and remorse. The morning at length breaking, I hastily arose, threw on my clothes, and hurried down to the "Cottage" for a post-chaise; and in less than an hour I was off, bag and baggage, on my way to Selkirk. But bad news travel unco fast; and, long before I reached the town, the story o' my clandestine marriage was in the mouths o' auld and young; and, on driving up to my ain house, the first sight I saw was the big radical flag wapped to the chimney, and flapping out owre the premises, in token o' rejoicing. "Oh, Tam Wilson," cried I to the foreman, stamping my foot in madness, "what, in the name o' a' that's guid, has tempted ye to hoist that infernal rag above my house? Tear it doun this moment, sirrah, if ye value either your maister's character or your ain employ." "It was put up, sir, in honour o' your marriage," says he. "Breathe that word again in my hearing," says I, "and I'll cleave you to the teeth, ye scoundrel!" In the midst o' our cangling, a chaise rolled up to the door, when out jumped my two she-tormentors, and their little blackavised cousin, and marched direct into the shop. A _scene_ immediately ensued that baffles a' description. The auldest Cochrane first tried on the fainting and greeting; but finding, after a great deal o' attitudinising, that she was as far from her purpose as ever, she next began to storm like a fury, and even had the audacity and ill-breeding to smack me in the face--not with her lips truly, but with her open hand--using towards me, at the same time, language that would disgrace an outcast in a Bridewell. After expending the whole o' her wrath on my head, the party left the shop, threatening that they would make my purse smart for it in the way o' a settlement. And they were as guid as their word; for I had forty pounds a-year to settle on a person the law acknowledged as my lawfully-wedded wife, besides incurring legal expenses to the amount o' three hundred pounds. Years have come and passed sin a' this happened; but never has my unlucky marriage gone down in Selkirk: and I not only have lost my "status" in society, but my presence, at a public meeting or the like--even at this day--is the ready signal for the evil-disposed to kick up a riot. This I might even get owre; but when I think o' the cheerlessness o' my ain house, and the sad desolateness o' my heart--that my only sister, whose advice I have often treated with owre little deference, has sunk into the grave with a broken heart--that I have none to take an interest or enter into the cause o' the inquietude and suffering that has silently worn down the strength o' my constitution--and that, were I dying the morn, the fremmit must close my eyes, and my effects go to enrich an ingrate:--I say, Maister Brown, when I think on the misery that my foolishness has brought upon me, and reflect how happy I might have been, had I not become the dupe o' my ain erroneous opinions and self-conceit--my very heart sickens within me; and, in the bitterness o' my feelings, I earnestly wish that I were laid by the side o' my puir sister, and my head at rest, for ever below the sod. ROSEALLAN'S DAUGHTER. The old strength of Roseallan cannot now boast even a site on the face of the earth; for (so at least says tradition) the waters of the Whitadder run over the place where it reared its proud turrets. It is sad enough to look upon the green grass, and contemplate, with a heart beating with the feelings that respond to antiquarian reminiscences, the velvet covering of nature spread over the place where chivalry, love, and hospitality claimed the base-court, the bower, and the banqueting hall; but green grass, though long, and whistling in the winds of winter, carries not to the sensitive mind the feeling of mournful change and desolation suggested by the murmuring stream, as, rolling over the site of an old castle, it speaks its eloquent anger and triumph over the proud structures of man. So long as there is apparent to the eye a place where the cherished object of memory might, without violence to the ordinary conditions of nature, have stood, the plastic fancy asserts instantly her constructive power, and sets before the eye of the mind a structure that satisfies all our historical associations; but the moment we see the favoured place occupied by a running water, vindicating, apparently, a right to an eternal and unchangeable course, the many-coloured goddess takes fright, and refuses to obey the behest of the will that wishes her to compete with nature in the work of creation. We have stated a tradition, and we do not answer for it. There may be doubts now about the precise locality of the old strength of Roseallan, but there are none in regard to the fact of its last proprietor having been Sir Gilbert Rollo, a favourite of King James V., who saw no better mode of rewarding his loyal subject for important services, than by giving him a grant of the castle and domains, upon the old feudal tenure of ward-holding. This the king was enabled to do, from the property having fallen to the crown by the constructive rebellion of its former proprietor, whose name we have not been able to discover. Sir Gilbert Rollo had a wife and one daughter, the latter of whom was called Matilda. According to the account contained in some letters still extant in the possession of a branch of the family, this young lady was possessed of charms of so extraordinary a nature as to make her famous throughout "broad Scotland." Having little faith in verbal descriptions, as a mean of conveying to the mind of one who has not seen the original, any adequate idea of those peculiar qualities of form, colour, proportion, and expression that go to form what is called female beauty, we will not transcribe the elaborate account of her perfections which we have had the privilege of perusing. We content ourselves with stating, what will give a far better notion of her excellence, that there can be no doubt of the fact of her having been famous throughout Scotland at that period as the fairest woman in the kingdom. It has been stated that Queen Mary showed her picture to some of her French followers, with a view to impress upon their minds that, beautiful as she was, her country had produced one even transcending her; though some have asserted that the picture which hung in Mary's bedroom was that of a daughter of Crighton of Brunston. We cannot reconcile the different statements; but it is enough for our purpose that Matilda Rollo was supposed to be entitled to compete for this distinction. Sir Gilbert and Lady Rollo were staunch Catholics of the primary church. They gratified King James, by extending their hatred to all those who showed any disposition to favour the partial reformation effected by Henry VIII. of England; whose law of the six articles was then a subject of bitter contention among all parties, both in England and Scotland. This religious prejudice was of greater importance in the family of Roseallan Castle than as a mere question of faith. It interfered with the success of a suitor for the hand of Matilda--an English knight of the name of Sir Thomas Courtney. This individual, who was much famed on the English side of the Borders for his knightly bearing, manly proportions, and beauty of person, was ambitious of carrying off the fairest woman of Scotland; as well from an ardent passion with which he was inflamed, as from the pride of having to boast among his English compeers of being the possessor of so inestimable a jewel as the "Rose of Roseallan." His suit had been favoured for a time by Matilda's father, but had been discharged as soon as it was known that the lover of Matilda was an admirer of Henry's new system of religious reformation. This determination on the part of her parents was not disagreeable to the daughter, who had never been able to see, in the proud stateliness of the handsome Englishman, those softer qualities which could enable him to respond to the high aspirations and impassioned feelings of what she conceived to be genuine romantic love. For a considerable period, Sir Thomas had not been a visiter at Roseallan. He had, however, left a deputy in the person of Bertha Maitland, who had been Matilda's nurse, and was still retained in the family as a favoured domestic. A favourer of the religious tenets of the new English reformers, she had looked favourably on the suit of the lover; and there was reason to suppose that English gold, as well as English principles of religion, had been employed to gain over her interest in behalf of the Englishman. Her efforts had been sedulously devoted to the excitement of some feeling of attachment on the part of Matilda; but as women can only excite love in their female companions by rivalship, her praises went for nothing more than an old woman's garrulity. Matilda felt it impossible to give her affections to her English suitor, and was glad to take refuge behind the commands of her father, never to see him, and never to listen to his high-flown professions of passion. Many other suitors sought the favour of the far-famed Rose of Roseallan. They were of the highest of the land--many of them the courtiers of King James; and the rules and canons of love-making, taken from the old romances--"Amadis de Gaul" and others--were learned by heart, and acted on by tongue and eyes. But all was in vain. There was not a single individual among all those who resorted to Roseallan, not even Sir George Douglas (who had been favoured by her father), that had been able to excite the least spark of affection in the bosom of the fair object of their suit. The circumstance was remarkable, but not the less true; and the difficulty could not be solved by the ordinary expedients. Though the most beautiful woman in Scotland at that time, she was the humblest; and no rejected lover could lay his bad fortune to the account of pride, or solace his self-love by an imputed arrogance of beauty. The perfect disengagement (so far as could be observed) of her affections, kept up the hopes of her English admirer, who learned everything that took place at the castle through the medium of his hired agent. The mediations of Bertha were kept up; but her praises had, by repetition, become tiresome, and fell upon the ear of her fair mistress like the tuneless notes of the birds that, unfitted to be of the choir of the forest, chirped on the old walls of Roseallan. The castle was so situated that one end of it was almost washed by the waters of the Whitadder. A small bridge was thrown over the river, and communicated with a deep wood on the other side, then called the Satyr's Hall. In this wood, and towards the end of the bridge, was a small bower, which had been built for the sake of Matilda, and in which she often sat during the heat of the mid-day sun, listening to the songs of the birds, or reading some of the old romances and ballads of Scotland, which she loved with the devotion of the heart. It seemed to be in the imaginary world of these narratives that she had found the lover who defied the efforts of so many suitors to obtain a place in her affections. Her rapt fancy, occupied in the contemplation of some form which it had painted with all the fond colours of exaggerated beauty, carried her away from the ordinary thoughts and feelings of life. Yet it was not all imagination; she did not carry her romance so far as to uphold that no man of mere flesh and blood, however well put together, and however well decorated by the smiles of nature (the artificial ornaments of fashion she valued not), could satisfy the heart that had enshrined within it those hallowed images of a beautiful creative imagination. One who knew human nature, and the habits of thinking and acting of imaginative females, would have discovered, in this love of the fair inhabitants of her own Elysium, the true reason of her apparent coldness towards the most beautiful and accomplished men of her time; but they would have suspected that the form of beauty she thus cherished had some foundation in nature; and that--though an excited fancy engages in its service the young female heart, and, having limned for it an ideal object to contemplate, ceases not till it engages for the image the most pure, and sometimes the strongest affections of the heart--there is still a substratum in reality to which all may be referred. So was it with Matilda Rollo. One day, when sitting in her bower, she had fallen asleep with a volume of Italian poems in her hand. She had been busy culling roses--the bower was strewed with them; and the sun sent his rays past the window and entrance of the retreat, as if to avoid an interruption of her repose. She was, however, interrupted by another cause; and, looking up, she saw the face of a man gazing steadfastly upon her through the window. Alarmed, she started up--the individual disappeared; but the beauty of his countenance, which transcended anything she had ever seen on earth, or dreamed of in the grandest of her rapt imaginations, left an impression on her which she never forgot. She was supplied with a form of beauty on which her fancy might luxuriate, and to which she would refer all the descriptions in her favourite works; nor did she fail in this--for, though she could not discover who the individual was, and did not see him again, she cherished the beloved image as a treasure, and, day and night, in her fanciful musings and in her dreams, she delighted to contemplate the beauty of her imaginary lover. One morning Bertha accosted her young mistress in such a manner as to excite her curiosity. "The cushat doesna use to coo when the owl flies," said she. "Heard ye, my young leddy, the sounds last night in the beechwood?" "The owl is generally busy there at night," replied Matilda. "I went to sleep early, and never waked till morning, when I heard the wind booming like a moon-baying spaniel through the forest. It had begun before you slept; but you know, Bertha, you find often a magic virtue in night sounds that no one else has the wits to discover." "A lover's flute has mair virtue in it for young maidens than for auld witches," replied the other, looking knowingly. "Sir George Douglas has tried his looks and his speech upon you; his success may, peradventure, be greater through the means o' music, the lover's charm." "I understand you not, good Bertha," replied Matilda; "you do not mean to say that Sir George Douglas was bold enough to serenade me in that house into which he might have entered, and, by a father's authority, claimed my attention." "If it wasna Sir George, ye can maybe tell me wha it was," replied the old nurse, looking cunningly into the face of Matilda. "I can tell ye nothing, Bertha, for I heard nothing," said the other. This conversation, which was interrupted by the entrance of Lady Rollo, roused the curiosity of Matilda, who, ignorant of the interest felt by Bertha in the suit of the English lover, did not observe in her words or manner any wish to acquire information, but only a simple badinage on a subject of love. She trusted her nurse implicitly as her best friend, and sought her counsel often in those moments of unhappiness when her mother interrupted the imaginative course of her life by some effort to get her affections fixed on a proud baron or a courtly knight. The consolations of Bertha were ever ready; and her innocent and unsuspicious friend did not observe, in the nurse's zealous efforts to confirm her against the marriage-plans of her mother, the anxious workings of the concealed and paid deputy of a lover also rejected. She intended to have questioned her father about the sounds in the wood; but that day did not afford an opportunity for the gratification of her wish. Left to her own imagination, she concluded that some of her lovers had presumed to address her after the Spanish form of the evening serenade; and, while she resolved upon listening on the following evening, she was determined to take no notice of the importunities of her impassioned lover. The evening set in with great beauty. The full moon rose high in the heavens, in which there was not discernible the thinnest wreath of vapour to form a resting-place for the eye, as it wandered among the endless regions of pure illuminated ether. The bright queen, paramount over all, engrossed the whole hemisphere, reducing the twinkling stars to the dimensions of small satraps of distant provinces, whose smallness increased the splendour of her august majesty. The stillness of nature suggested the idea of a general worship of the presiding genius of the night. Every wind was stilled, and even the Whitadder seemed to glide along with a greater smoothness than usual; while its singing, mellow voice seemed as if it rejoiced in the bright reflection of the gay queen of the heavens it held in its bosom. It was now about nine o'clock. Matilda was sitting at the casement of her apartment, overlooking the stream--her eyes were fixed on the beautiful scene; the towers of Roseallan threw over a part of the river a shadow, at the farther extremity of which, and, as it were, at the point of the eastern turret, the round form of the moon, like a bright silver salver, lay still in the bosom of the water. A little beyond this striking object stood her bower in the wood; and so bright was the flood of light that penetrated every part of the forest, that she saw the door and window of the romantic retreat so perfectly, that she could have detected the entrance of the august Oberon, or even Piggwiggan himself, if either of them could have left their revels on the greensward, in that auspicious night, to favour her bower with a visit. The scene was so inviting, that she would have been tempted to wander over the bridge into the wood, if the information of Bertha had not pointed out to her the danger. As she continued her gaze on the beautiful scene, her attention was claimed by the form of a man gliding between the trees in the wood. He came forward to the edge of the river, and stood in a contemplative attitude, with his arm resting on the branch of an old beech, and his head directed in such a way as to suggest the idea that he was looking towards the casement of Matilda's apartment. On seeing him take this attitude, she retired back, to prevent her white dress from attracting his attention. A slight examination satisfied her that he was an individual below the rank of life in which she moved. He was of great height and commanding aspect; but his dress was that of the son of a free farmer of that time, being composed of the rough doublet, bound with a broad leather belt, and the slouched hat, made of thick plaits of coarse straw, and ornamented with a black riband tied round the junction of the rim and the crown. Though worn by the inferior orders, the dress was a noble one, imparting to the wearer an air of robust strength, with that easy carelessness and rude grace which forms the _dignité_ of the freeborn son of the mountain. It was only the general outline of his appearance and dress which Matilda could thus discover through the light of the moon; but she saw enough to excite her attention, and she continued to notice his motions. The stranger stood in the same attitude of mute contemplation for a considerable time, his face still directed toward the same part of the building, in spite of the powerful claims on his eye and attention that were put forth by the splendid scene around him, with the round figure of the moon shining in the waters at his feet. At length he took his arm from the branch of the old beech, and, turning round, slowly directed his steps towards Matilda's wood-bower, into which he entered, bending his tall person to enable him to get in at the door--a circumstance that satisfied Matilda of his great height, as her father--a very tall man--could enter without that preliminary. All was for a time still and silent; the gentle rippling of the Whitadder deriving from the absence of any other sound a distinctness which, in its turn, added to the depth of the quiet of sleeping nature. A soft sound began to rise in low strains of sweet music, coming apparently from the bower. It was the voice of a man, modulated into the tones of the pathetic expression of heart-felt sentiment; the air was slow, and filled with cadences which brought down the voice to the lowest note; the words--pronounced in the low tone of the music, and run together by the fluent character of the melody which accompanied them--could not be distinguished; but the effect of the plaintive sounds, co-operating with the silence of night, and the extraordinary scene of lunar splendour exhibited by earth and heaven, was felt by Matilda as the nearest approximation she had yet experienced to the realisation of her imaginative creations. The music continued for some time, and then ceased at the termination of one of the deep cadences, prolonged apparently for the purpose of expressing a finale. The individual came out of the bower, and stood again on the side of the river--the shadow of his tall figure fell on the ground like the reflection of the beech on which he leaned; he continued his gaze for some time in dead silence, and then, turning, disappeared in the wood. Matilda was unable, after all the consideration she could bestow on the subject, to come to any conclusion satisfactory to herself, as to either the identity of the individual, or the object he had in view. During the night, the scene, which had been deeply impressed on her mind, was verified by the power of fancy; and there was a certain romance about it which recommended it to her heart. In the morning she questioned Bertha, to whom she confided her every secret. "I am perplexed, Bertha," she began. "You asked me yesterday if I had heard any sounds in the Satyr's Hall, and I have that question now to put to you. The man that sings in my bower must have some other object in view than gratifying his own ears or those of the night birds with his plaintive melody. What means it, Bertha? Come, my good friend, unravel the mystery, and the grateful thanks of your Matilda will reward you." "If the throstle hen kens nae the mottled lover that sings to her, what other bird o' the wood can come to the knowledge?" answered Bertha. "I'm owre auld a bird to ken noo the notes o' a lover, or to tell a moulted feather frae the new plume; but, as far as my auld een would carry, your night freend looked mair curiously at the east tower o' Roseallan than men generally do at grey wa's in the light o' the moon. He's as tall, at ony rate, as Sir Thomas, and I thocht there was only ae man o' his height in the land where he sojourns. But I think I could unmask his secresy." Bertha looked, to see the effect of her allusion to her principal; but she got no encouragement. "Whoever he may be," answered Matilda, "he is a very different kind of individual from Sir George Douglas; nor is it Sir Thomas Courtney. The melody is too sweet for the execution of an English throat. He is a Scotchman; probably some of my Edinburgh courtly lovers, in the disguise of a free son of the mountains. I cannot listen to his strains; but you can safely approach the bower, and may, as you yourself have proffered, ascertain for me who and what he is." "My young leddy's wish is Bertha's command," answered the old woman; "watch me with your hazel eyes, over the white bridge, this night at nine. If he comes again, he shall not go away unknown." When the evening came, Matilda was again at her casement. The night was as beautiful as the preceding one; but there was a thin halo round the moon that gave her a softer aspect; and the diminished sound of the mellow ripple of the Whitadder seemed to indicate that there was a zephyr abroad whose presence could be detected only by that delicate test. About the hour of nine, she saw the thin figure of old Bertha, rolled up in a cloak, steal silently from a postern of the east wall, and creep slowly down to the end of the light, airy bridge, that spanned, with its pure white arms, the bosom of the river. Stretching forth her bony hand, she seized the rail, and, having got a firm footing, walked with slow steps along the planks. Her progress was slow, nervous, and unsteady. Matilda was solicitous for her safety; for she had never seen Bertha venture along the bridge at night, and she herself seldom crossed it after nightfall, even with the aid of a resplendent moon. Her attention was fixed upon her to the exclusion of all notice of any proceedings on the other side of the stream. The old woman had got to the middle of the bridge, and Matilda saw with horror her supposed faithful friend fall. Starting from her seat, she rushed down, and in an instant was at the end of the bridge. Seizing the rail, she hurried along, and found the body of the nurse lying extended on the planks, apparently senseless, though she had merely experienced an ordinary fall, the result of a stumble. Bending down, the anxious girl was proceeding to lift her up, when she was, in an instant, seized by the arms of a strong man, and hurried away to the further end of the bridge. Stunned by this sudden seizure, succeeding as it did the anxiety under which she laboured for her nurse, she was unable even to scream, and lay in the arms of the person that bore her away, helpless, and nearly senseless. When she recovered herself so far as to be conscious of her situation, she found she was in the wood, and heard the sound of the voices of several men, among whom she thought she observed the disguised figure of a gentleman. They had wrapped a large cloak round her, and were in the act of putting her on the back of a jennet that stood ready saddled and bridled, when the man that held her was struck to the ground by some one that came behind him. He lay senseless at her feet; a second one shared his fate in an instant; and a third, after dealing a treacherous blow on the head of her deliverer, flung himself on a horse that stood alongside of the jennet, and galloped off at the top of his speed. Meanwhile, she was again seized by another man, and soon found herself reclining in her own bower. "The feet o' the remaining horses," said a voice at her feet, "are raisin the echoes o' the Satyr's wood. The spoilers have recovered, and have fled after their master, who is, by this time, by the side o' the Tweed. Hoo fares Matilda Rollo? Can it be excused by high birth and beauty that the salvation o' their possessor frae the arms o' an English reformer cam frae the courage or the good fortune o' ane that daurna lift his face to ask forgiveness for doin the duty o' a fellow-creature?" "Whoever you are," cried Matilda, as she recovered, "you have done little in saving me, if Bertha Maitland lies drowned in the Whitadder; and that blood that flows down your face may be the dear price of my safety." And she started to her feet, as if she were to fly to save her friend. "Content yersel, fair leddy," said the individual who still knelt at her feet; "my wound is sma', and as to your auld nurse, I saw her rise without a helpin hand, and, like the stunned bird, shake her feathers, and return to Roseallan wi' a steadier step than when she wiled ye owre the bridge." The last words were pronounced with that irresolution which resulted from a fear of a false impeachment, and were not heard or understood by Matilda, who, made easy on the subject of her solicitude, now contemplated the individual who had saved her. The blood flowed profusely over his face, yet she could perceive that he was the same person whom she had seen on the previous night; and the estimate she had then made of his character was realised. But a new source of curiosity and interest was now opened to her. She recognised in his countenance, which was formed after the finest model that ever came from the pencil of Apelles or the chisel of Praxiteles, the original of the image which she had so often, in that bower, called up to the contemplation of a fancy excited by the reading of "Amadis" or "Cavalcante." She was surprised and confused; her mind recurred back to former times; a floating vision crossed her fancy; she fixed her eyes on the beautiful, though blood-stained countenance of her protector, and, blushing to the ears, threw them again on the ground. Her confusion prevented her from speaking, as well as from rising to return to the castle; and the doubt which clung to her mind, whether all the extraordinary proceedings of the last ten minutes were not a dream, added to her irresolution, and increased her embarrassment. A thought roused her suddenly to a sense of her position. Bertha would report her danger at the castle, and her father, with attendants, would instantly be in search of her, and in pursuit of the fugitives. Starting up, she made confusedly for the entrance of the bower; but the hem of her garment was held by her deliverer, who implored for a moment's delay. "A second time have I been blessed," he ejaculated, as he wiped the blood from his face. "Three years have passed sin chance led me to look in at the window o' this wood-bower, where, gracious heaven! I saw the fair maiden o' Roseallan in the beauty o' a calm sleep. On this heather-bench, which was strewn wi' roses, her head rested; a book had fa'en frae her left hand, and her right was spread amang the flowing curls o' auburn hair that spread owre her neck and bosom. She dreamed, dootless, o' some happy lover; for, ever and anon, the smile played on her lips, and a tear struggled frae beneath the closed lids, and trickled down her cheeks. The vision enchanted me--I gazed, and could have gazed for ever. Matilda Rollo, you awoke, and saw my face as it disappeared from the window; but, Heaven have mercy on me! I have never awoke frae that hour! Wi' the might o' that enchantment, I wrestled as became a humble admirer o' what fate had put beyond my reach--but it was in vain, and I sought relief frae the new scenes o' Northumberland, while my brother tended a widowed mother. Fate has brought me again to the neighbourhood o' Roseallan; but duty must--ay, shall drive me again far away." A sudden recollection glanced on the mind of Matilda; she threw her eyes upon his countenance, the origin of all her day-dreams, and quickly, and as if in terror, withdrew them. A slight struggle released her from his gentle hold; she sprang out of the bower, and, with trembling steps, sought quickly the bridge, along which she hurried to the castle, where she sought instantly the chamber of Bertha. She found the old woman on her knees, at her evening's devotion. "Ah! my leddy!" ejaculated the nurse, "why did ye leave me to seek my way back owre the brig, without the helpin hand o' your love and assistance? I was stunned sair by the fa', but I heard a sound o' voices as I recovered. I looked for you, and thought ye had returned to your apartment, whar I intended to have sought ye, after offering up my prayers to our Leddy for my deliverance." "Sore stunned you must have been, good Bertha," said Matilda, "when you did not see my peril. Surely it is impossible. Did you not see your own Matilda carried off by men? Yet, why do I put that question? Surely it is sufficient to satisfy me that my dear friend was insensible and ignorant of my fate, when I see her occupied in prayer, in place of rousing my father to my rescue." "Carried awa by men, child!" ejaculated the nurse, "and me ignorant o' the base treachery! By'r Leddy, I'm petrified! Whar were you carried, and wha were the ruffians? Kenned ye ony o' them? Doubtless, some o' our Holyrude knights in disguise. Speak, love, and relieve the beating heart o' your auld freend." Matilda took Bertha up to her chamber, and recounted to her, in the confidence of love and friendship, all that had occurred to her--not even excepting the interview she had had in the wood-bower with her unknown but interesting deliverer. "It was indeed he," she continued, "whose angelic countenance has so long hovered over me in my hours of retirement and in my dreams. He said he first saw me sleeping in my bower, and he spoke truth; for you must recollect, Bertha, of my having informed you, at the time, years ago, of my terror on awakening and finding a human countenance staring in upon me through the window. My confusion prevented me from recognising him; but his countenance had got into my mind by the power of its beauty, while my memory sometimes let go the connection between the image which subsequently waxed so vivid, and the occasion by which it became a part of my thoughts. Oh, long have I cherished it, long assumed it as the face of the beatified hero of my histories, often limned it in air by the pregnant pencil of my fancy, dreamed of it, and wept as the light of day chased away the beloved form, and left me only in its place the things of ordinary life, the countenances of the knightly wooers of Holyrood!" "And wha is he," inquired Bertha, "wha thus shoves his head into leddies' bowers, and sae timously saves them frae the hands o' kidnappers?" "I know not, good Bertha," answered Matilda. "He is humble, and knows as well as I know that he and I never can be united. Already has duty taken him hence, and again is he to force himself far from me. I may never see him more. Would that I had never seen him, or were fated to see him ever!" "Deliverer and spoiler are alike unkenned, then," said Bertha. "Hae ye nae suspicion o' the treacherous caitifs?" she added, looking searchingly into Matilda's face. "None," replied the other. "I heard them not; but, Bertha, my best and truest friend, you must endeavour to learn for me some intelligence of my deliverer; for, though he cannot ever stand in any other relation to me, I could wish to know something of one whose image I have treasured up in my heart, even as a miser does the number that forms the index of his wealth. The widow loves the grave of her departed husband, and bedews it with tears, and carries away with her again the image of him she leaves to the worms: he is to me as the entombed lover: life and death are not more distant, than the pride of the Rollos and the humility of the poor; but his name may become as the graven letters of the monumental stone--I may weep over it." "Auld age is a puir scout, my Matilda," replied Bertha. "Ance I have failed in my commission, and a watery grave in the Whitadder had nearly been my reward. Tak the advice o' eild, and seek neither his name nor nativity. The duty ye owe to the pride and power o' the braw house o' Roseallan must ever prevent ye frae being his wedded wife; and, if it is ordained that ye must forget him, ye will banish him from your mind the mair easily that ye ken nae mair o' him than ye do o' the bird that birrs past ye in the wood--that it has a bonny feather in its tail." "Ah, Bertha, that ignorance will not be to me bliss," said Matilda, sighing; "but, in the meantime, I must hasten to my mother, and tell her of the danger I have escaped." "And o' the lover that saved ye, guileless simpleton!" said Bertha, seizing her by the arm. "The Whitadder leads nae mair certainly to the Tweed, than will the story o' yer danger lead to the discovery o' him ye are ashamed to acknowledge as a lover. Darkness waukens the owl, and yer mystery will open the eyes o' Lady Rollo. Let the bird sleep, or its scream will mak the wood ring." Matilda saw, so far as she herself was concerned, the prudence of secresy, and was about to take leave of Bertha for the night, when Lady Rollo entered, and informed her daughter that Sir George Douglas of Haughhead had arrived to pay his addresses to her, and that she behoved to be in a proper state for meeting him in the morning at the first meal. Having delivered her command, the proud dame retired, leaving her daughter to the many distracting reflections suggested by all the conflicting and painful events of the evening. She retired to her couch, where she was to resign herself to the domination of that rapt fancy that had so long led the train of her thoughts, and regulated the affections of her heart. Sleep forsook her pillow, or came only for short intervals, with the Genius of Dreams in his train. Waking or slumbering, the image of the unknown youth, who had made such an impression upon her heart, by the extraordinary deputed power of an imagination ever active in painting in bright colours all his perfections, was before her eyes. The higher these perfections and the brighter the beauties, the greater was the pain and the deeper the sobs of anguish that were wrung from her heart, by the conviction that her love was destined only to similate the cankerworm, that eats into the heart of the flower, and makes it perish. Next day, she was compelled, with her hazel eyes still dimmed with tears, to meet Sir George Douglas, a man she had every reason to hate, as well from his proud assumption of a right to her affections, as from the mean and inconsistent mode of mediation he resorted to, and which she had learned from her mother that morning--by bribing her parents with large promises of a tempting dowery. With her feelings never kindly affected towards him, her heart burning with the thoughts of another, and her prejudices excited by the information she received from her mother, she conducted herself towards the knight with a _hauteur_ that called forth his hurt pride and the indignation of her parents. After breakfast, she retired to her apartment, to feast her eyes with the vision of her bower--to her now enchanted--while her angry parents closeted themselves for a conference on the subject of Sir George's splendid offer, and the conduct of their daughter. Wrought up to a pitch of excitement by the united feelings of anger and ambition, they came to the critical determination of submitting her entirely to the power and discretion of Douglas, who, if he chose to wed her upon the sanction of their consent, might, if he chose, dispense with that of the principal party interested. The project was instantly submitted to Douglas, a hard and unfeeling man, who, determined to possess Matilda upon any terms, closed readily with the offer, and a day was fixed at the end of a month for the marriage. These preliminaries settled, Lady Rollo repaired to Matilda's apartment, where she found her with her head resting on her hand, and her eyes fixed on the wood-bower, where she had conjured up the image of her unknown lover. "Thy conduct this day, Matilda," she began, "towards one of the gayest and richest knights of our land, the confidant of King James, and our especial friend and favourite, requireth the chastisement of the reproof of parental authority; but we have witnessed too long this pride of beauty in thee (which disdaineth the loves of mortals, and seduceth thee and thy heart into the airy regions of profitless romance), to remain contented now with mere words of argument, persuasion, or reproach. The day of these is by, with the hopes of the many lovers thou hast turned away from the gates of Roseallan; and the time for action--maugre thy wishes or thy prejudices--hath approached. Sir George Douglas is destined to be thy husband, and the day after the next feast of our Church is thy appointed bridal-day, whereunto thou hadst best prepare thyself with as much grace and favour as thou mayest be able to call up into thy fair face." Saying these words, Lady Rollo retired hurriedly, as if with the view of avoiding a reply, or witnessing the sudden effects of her announcement. The words had fallen upon her daughter's heart like the announcement of a doom, and closed up the fountains of her tears. She sat riveted to the chair, incapable of speech, or even of thought. On partially recovering her senses, she found Bertha standing before her. Rising into a paroxysm of struggling emotion, she flung her arms round the neck of the old nurse, and burst into a fit of hysterical weeping. The choking sobs seemed to come from the inmost recesses of her heart, and the burning tears, forcing the closed issues of their fountains, flowed down her cheeks, and dropped on the neck of her confidant. Bertha heard the intelligence, as it was communicated in detached syllables, in silence; and, having placed the unhappy maiden on her chair, sank into a train of thinking, which her young friend attributed to a sympathetic sorrow for her sufferings. The voice of Lady Rollo prevented the expected consolation, and obeying the command of her mistress, Bertha left the apartment, promising to return soon again. The day passed, and Matilda, unable to join the company in the western wing of the castle, remained in her apartment, sunk in despondency, and at times verging on the bleak province of despair. Heedless of the gloom that overhung the minds of mortals, the bright moon rose again in the evening with undiminished splendour, throwing her silver beams over the tear-bedewed face of the sorrowful maiden, whose weeping was increased by the contrast of nature's loveliness. She sat again at the casement; her eyes wandered heavily over the scene that lay like a fair painting spread before her; the long, dark shadows of the wood, lying by the side of bright, moonlit plots of greensward, with their spangles of dew glittering like diamonds, reminded her of the chequered scenes of life, into the depth of one of the gloomiest of which she was now sunk; and her pain was increased as she felt herself, by the power of fate, contemplating again her wood-bower, which stood fair in the broad light of the moon. A sound struck her ears and called forth her attention. It was that of a lute, and came in dying notes from a distance in the wood. Gradually increasing in distinctness, it seemed to come nearer and nearer; and now she recognised the air that was sung by her preserver on that night when she discovered him. The sound ceased suddenly, and she saw the figure of her preserver emerge from a thick part of the wood and pass into her bower. The same plaintive air was again raised, and spread around in soft mellifluous strains, suggesting the union, by some process unknown to metaphysical analysis, of light and sound--so connected and blended were the feelings produced by the soft beams of the moon and the sounds of the lute. The blessed sensation passed over her racked nerves like the odorous incense of the altar on the excited sensibility of the bleeding victim; her eyes and ears were versant with heaven, while her thoughts were claimed by the evil workings of bad angels; her heart swelled with the conflicting emotions, and a fresh burst of tears afforded her a temporary relief. Her paroxysm over, the soft sounds fell again upon her ear. Retaining her breath to drink deeper of the draught, she heard the notes gradually diminishing, as if the performer were retiring in the wood. He had left the bower unobserved; and the silence that now reigned around announced that he was gone. For seven successive nights the music in the wood-bower had assuaged the sufferings of the respective days; but for three nights there had been nothing heard but the cry of the screech-owl, and the moon had been illuminating other lands. The period of her sacrifice was drawing nearer and nearer, and the cloud of her sorrow was gradually becoming deeper and darker. "'Tis now three nights since he was in the wood," she said to Bertha. "My silence and inattention have but ill repaid his services and his passion. The sound of his lute has been to me the voice of hope breaking through the clouds of despair. O Bertha! my sense of duty to my parents and the honour of the old house of Roseallan has so nearly perished amidst this persecution, that I could now feel it no crime to throw myself into his arms, and seek in humble worth the protection I cannot procure in the Castle of Roseallan's master." "Wisely spoken, my bonny bairn," replied Bertha. "My auld blood boils wi' the passion o' youth, and drives frae my heart the gratitude I owe to the proud master and mistress o' Roseallan, as I witness this persecution o' the bonniest and the best o' Scotland's daughters. The arms o' George Templeton, the archer, the son o' the widow of Mosscairn, can send an arrow beyond the cast o' the best archer o' the Borders; and may weel defend (were he again in health) her for whom the proudest o' Scotland's knights would send the last shaft into the heart o' his rival." "Is that the name of my preserver, Bertha?" ejaculated Matilda, in surprise. "How came you by your knowledge? Speak, and relieve me, that I may be certain that I know to whom I owe my life or my honour; and to whom I--unworthy, thankless, ungrateful being that I am!--have not yet vouchsafed one solitary look or word of thanks or gratitude. But what said you of his health? He was wounded for me--ha! Has adverse fate another evil in store for a daughter of affliction?" "For your sake, my bairn, I traced out this man," replied the old nurse; "but, oh, that I should hae to add anither sorrow to the wo-worn child o' my early affection! He is ill. A wound he received in the wood has become, by ill treatment and exposure, the heart o' a fever that has eaten into the seat o' life." "And he will die for me--killed by the second and severest wound, of ingratitude!" cried Matilda, starting up in violent emotion. "With death on him, received in my defence, has he nightly visited the bower of his ungrateful mistress, who never, even by the movement of her evening lamp, showed that she heard his strains, or understood their meaning. That countenance, streaming with blood, yet beautiful through his life's stream flowing for me, will haunt me through the short span that misery may allow me. Would to God that I had returned one token as a mark of my gratitude, if not of my love! Bertha, I must see this man, who holds in his hands the issues of my destiny." "And ye will, guid child," answered the nurse; "but, should death deprive ye o' this refuge, we may think o' some ither means o' savin ye frae this forced match wi' this high Catholic knight o' Haughhead, wha persecuted the reformers as muckle as he does his lovers. Sir Thomas Courtney--whom your father has banned frae Roseallan--shows as muckle mercy to the Catholics as he does fair-seeming love to his lass-lemans. But are you able to wander to Mosscairn, child?" "A bleeding head did not keep him from my wood-bower," replied Matilda--"a bleeding heart shall not prevent me from seeing him before he dies." This resolution on the part of Matilda, though it did not meet with the entire approbation of Bertha, was adhered to; but no opportunity occurred for putting it into execution. Every hour, in the meantime, added to her unhappiness. Sir George Douglas had returned to Edinburgh, to make preparations for the marriage; her mother watched her, to detect what she termed the trick of simulated illness; and her father, who was led by her mother, seemed determined to carry their cruel scheme into execution. Tortured throughout the day, the moon, now late in rising, afforded her no solace at night; the scene from the castle was changed from lightness to darkness; the screeching of night birds came, in the fitful blasts, in place of the melody of her lover's lute; and the dreary view called up by the power of association the picture of her lover lying on a death-bed, paying, by the torture of death, the dreadful penalty of having dared to love one above his degree. After a suitable inspection, her mother had, as she thought, discovered that there existed no illness about her to prevent her from taking her usual airing, and Bertha, who had apparently some purpose in view, came and urged her to walk as far as the Monks' Mound, a green hillock that stood on the borders of the property of Roseallan. They accordingly set out. The day was not propitious; lazy clouds lay sleeping on the sides of the hills, and wreaths of mist floated along like shadows, assuming grotesque forms, and suggesting resemblances to aerial beings in the act of superintending the operations of mortals; the wind was hushed to the gentlest zephyr; and the sun, obscured by the masses of sleeping clouds, was not able even to indicate the part of the heavens where he was. Nature, "dowie and wae," seemed to have shrouded herself in the pall of mourning, and the feathered tribes, overcome by the instinctive sympathy, were mute, and cowered among the branches of the trees, as if they had borrowed the habits of the wingless, tuneless reptiles that crawled among the rank grass that covered the ground of the wood. The couple wandered along slowly, Matilda resting on the arm of the nurse. They came to the Monks' Mound, and sat down. The burying-ground of the monastery of Dominicans lay on their right hand, and they could see the tombstones rearing their grey, moss-covered heads over the turf-dyke that surrounded the consecrated ground. "See ye the little thatched house at the foot o' Lincleugh Hill yonder?" said Bertha, after some moments of solemn silence, and holding out her shrivelled hand. "The smoke frae its auld lum is curling among the mist-clouds; but there's a darker mist within, and nae sun to send a flaught through it." "I see it well," replied Matilda, in a melancholy voice; "and, humble as it is, and gloomy as it may be in its interior, I could even seek there the peace I cannot find in the proud towers of Roseallan. There are no forced marriages under roofs of thatch." "Ay, but there is death, in the cottage as well as in the bonniest ha'," muttered Bertha, ominously. Matilda looked into the face of her nurse, who continued to gaze in the direction of the cottage of Lincleugh. "The mist blinds my auld een," she continued, as she passed her hand over her eyes. "The hour is come, and there should be tokens o' gathering there--yet I see naething." Matilda looked again inquiringly into her face. "Young een are sharp," said she again, "and now the mist is rowing awa frae the side o' Lincleugh, and breaking into wreaths in the valley. Look again, Matilda, and tell me what ye see." "The removal of the mist," replied Matilda, directing her eyes to the cottage, "has revealed a cluster of people dressed in black standing round the door of the cottage." "Ay, I'm right," replied Bertha, straining her eyes to see the mourners; "the hour is near; and see the sextons stand there in Death's Croft, like twa ghouls, looking into the grave they have this moment finished." Matilda intuitively turned her eyes to the burying-ground that went under the name of Death's Croft. "You seem to know something more of this funeral than we of the castle generally learn of the fate of the distant cottagers," said she. "They're lifting," said the nurse, overlooking Matilda's remark, "and the train moves to Death's Croft. 'Round and round The unseen hand Turns the fate O' mortal man: A screich at birth, A grane at even-- The flesh to earth, The soul to heav'n.'" "Who is dead?" asked Matilda, as she fixed her eyes on the procession. Bertha was silent. The procession reached Death's Croft, and, in a short time, the rattling of the stones and earth on the coffin-lid was distinctly heard. Matilda shuddered as the hollow sounds met her ear, and Bertha crooned the lines of poetry she had already repeated. The rattling sound ceased, and the loud clap of the spade indicated the approaching termination of the work. The mourners gradually departed, and the sextons, having finished their work, returned to the monastery. "Come, come, now," said Bertha, "we've seen aneugh--the flesh to earth, the soul to heaven. A's dune--let us return to Roseallan." "The inhabitant of that narrow cell has the advantage of me," muttered Matilda, sadly, as she rose to return home. "The marriage with the Redeemer is not forced, and the union endureth for ever." Bertha, who remained silent, hastened home, and, old as she was, several times outwalked her weak and melancholy companion. When they arrived, they went direct to the apartment of Matilda, where they were met by Lady Rollo, who congratulated her daughter upon her increasing ability to go through, with the necessary decorum, the ceremony of the marriage. As soon as she retired, Matilda flung herself on her couch, and burst into tears. "There is only one individual who can save me from this dreadful fate," she cried. "Bertha, it is borne in upon my mind, that I cannot endure this trial. Death or madness will be the alternative doom of the forced bride of the knight of Haughhead. What of George Templeton? Did you not promise to assist me to inquire for his health? Were we not to visit him when my strength permitted? Tell me, tell me--have you heard how he is?" "He is weel, my bairn," replied Bertha; "better than either you or me." "Bless you! bless you, dear Bertha!" cried Matilda, rising and flinging her arms round the neck of the old woman; "then there is some chance left for me. I may yet be saved from that dreadful doom. I would trust to the honour of that man who has already saved it with my life. Ah, if he is well, I may expect again to hear these dulcet sounds which thrill through my frame, and soften, by their sweet tones, the grief that sits like a relentless tyrant on my heart. When, Bertha, shall we visit him?" "We hae already visited him," replied the nurse, with a strange meaning in her eye. "Did ye no see him this day, bairn, laid by the side o' his faither amang the saft mould o' Death's Croft?" "What mean you, Bertha?" replied Matilda. "There is a strange light in your eye; I never before saw your face wear that expression. Ah! another doom impends over me--I see the opening cloud from which the thunder is to burst on my poor head. Why look thus upon me, nurse? is there a humour on your seriousness?--for you laugh not. Read the doom backwards, and do not incur from your Matilda the imputation of inflicting a cruel torture on her who has hung at your breast." "It was to save pain to my beloved Matilda," replied the nurse, with a peculiar tone, "that I had ye hame before I told ye that the corpse ye this day saw laid in the grave, in Death's Croft, was that o' George Templeton." Conscious of the effect that would be produced by this announcement, the old woman held out her arms to receive the falling maiden. With a loud scream she fainted, and forcing her way through the arms of the nurse, fell on the floor with a loud crash. The sound brought up her mother. As Matilda recovered, she looked about her wildly; her eyes recoiling from the face of her mother, on which was depicted a smile of incredulity, and seeking Bertha's, on which she found an expression equally painful. There was no refuge on either side; and, as the image of her dead lover rose on her fancy, she felt, in the consciousness of the utter ruin of all her hopes, the stinging reproof of a tender conscience, that charged her with cruelty to the devoted being who, in defending her honour, lost his life. "All this will not impose upon me, Matilda," said her mother. "Thou wert well to-day, when thou didst walk forth; and this well-acted fit is intended to remove the impression I entertain of your perfect ability to perform the engagement your father and I have made for your benefit. Mark me, maiden!--I will not heed thee more, if thy simulation were as well acted as that of the wise King of Utica." And, saying these words, she abruptly departed, leaving Matilda still scarcely sensible of what was going on around her. The cruel dame called the nurse after her, and the miserable girl was left to wrestle with her secret and divulged griefs with the unaided powers of a mind broken down by her accumulated misfortunes. She lay extended on her couch; and fancy, deriving new energies from the impulse of feeling, became busy in the portrayment of the form of her lover, whom she had, as she was satisfied, killed. She recurred to the scene in the bower, with his manly countenance streaming with blood; his visits to her bower afterwards--when he must have been suffering the first approaches of that disease that proved fatal to him; and, above all, her heartless conduct in not even condescending to notice this tribute of devotion in one who had saved her life. She lay under the agony of these thoughts till it was after nightfall, when the gloom of her mind increased as the shades of darkness spread around her. She felt that she could suffer the agonising thoughts no longer, and, starting up, and throwing over her shoulders a night-cloak, she hurried out of the castle. She found herself intuitively taking the way to Death's Croft. The night was getting dark, and there was a hollow, gousty wind blowing among the trees, and whistling among the whins and tall grass that lay in her path. Heedless of all obstructions, and insensible to danger, she wandered along, and soon found herself at the side of the turf-dyke that surrounded the place of the dead. Surmounting this slight obstacle, she groped her way among the tombstones, starting occasionally, as a gust of wind made the long grass rustle by her side, or produced a hollow sound from the reverberation of some hollow cenotaph. After considerable labour, she came to a new-made grave, and endeavoured to satisfy herself that there was not another equally new among the many _tumuli_ that raised their green bosoms around her. On a stone at the foot of the grave she sat down, and wrapped the folds of the mantle round her, to keep from her tender frame the chill night-winds. She rose, and knelt down upon the new-made grave, the green sods of which she bedewed with her tears. The spot was doubly hallowed by recollections and self-criminations, and she could not, for a longer period than was consistent with her safety, drag herself away from it. Throwing herself on the grass in a paroxysm of grief, she kissed the sods, and, crying bitterly, rose, and mournfully sought the path that led to that home where a new misery awaited her. She wandered slowly along; and, as she approached the castle, saw with dismay a light shining in her chamber. Her mother, she concluded, was there, and would, by her absence, get all her suspicions fortified, that her illness was merely assumed. She stood for a moment, and paused, irresolute how to proceed--terrified to enter the house, yet unknowing whither to go. A voice struck her ear--it was that of Bertha; and, looking round, she saw her old nurse in close conversation with a man who had on the very dress worn by the individual who formerly endeavoured to carry her off, and who, she suspected, was no other than Sir Thomas Courtney. What could this mean? Was it possible that Bertha was in the interest of the man who had attempted to force her affections, by retaining possession of her person? The question was an extraordinary one, and startled her. She stood and looked for a moment. The man observed her, and retreated, while Bertha stealthily sought the castle by a back entry. Her suspicion increased, and, hurrying home, she threw herself on a couch. She was thus beset on every hand. Her lover was dead, and in his grave, and all left behind seemed to be against her. There appeared to be no refuge from the fate that awaited her. The marriage-day was on the wing, and would soon cast the cloud of its dark pinion on the turrets of Roseallan. Her reliance on Bertha was changed to the poignant suspicion of treachery. Her mind recurred to the scene on the bridge, which she suspected was a part of her scheme to get her into the hands of the English reformer, whose tenets, she thought, Bertha secretly favoured. Thus had she lost both friend and lover--the one by death, the other by infidelity; and she could scarcely tell which was most painful to her--such is the anguish felt on the discovery of the falsehood of friendship. Her mother's cruel and unjust reproof rung in her ears; her father was obdurate; her lover proud, determined, and, worse than all, filled with what he called an ardent love, and which she looked upon as a loathing, ribald passion, the indications of which she would fly as she would the embrace of the twisting serpent. Pained to the inmost recesses of her spirits, she could get no relief from tears; her dry, glowing eyes looked unutterable anguish; and a feverish heat pervaded her system, rendering her restless and miserable. She flung herself on her bed, where she lay tortured by her conflicting thoughts. Her mother did not again visit her, and Bertha remained absent, apparently from shame. A domestic obeyed her call, and administered the few necessaries she required. The night was passed in great anguish, and the morrow's light brought no assuagement of her pain. The domestic who waited upon her told her that Sir George Douglas had arrived at the castle with a party, and that her mother expected her presence in the hall next day. Bertha, she said, was indisposed, and could not attend her; but she would, in the meantime, supply her place. The day passed with no variation; there was no relief from the hope of succour; and her mind, dark and foreboding, sunk into a state of gloomy melancholy. The night came on, and threw the physical shades of gloom into a mind darkened with the misery of despair. As she lay in this state, she thought she heard the sound of a lute; and rising, she placed herself at the window. The night was still, and the moon, which had not for some time been visible, was sending forth faint beams before she set. The scene was composed and pleasant, and brought to her mind recollections that added to her griefs. She fixed her eye on the wood, and observed a figure passing between the trees. It was too indistinct to enable her to know who it was. A dark dress, unrelieved by any mixture of colours, suggested the idea of Bertha's friend, Sir Thomas Courtney. A new source of curiosity now arose in the individual playing (in, however, as she thought, a very indifferent manner) the tune that used to be played by her lover. The sounds went to her heart; but suspicion of treachery accompanied them, and fired her with as much anger as her gentle nature was capable of, against this new scheme to wile her from the castle. At this moment, her mother and father entered. "We have got again, in the wood-bower, a lover," cried the father. "I insist, Matilda, that thou dost tell me who it is." "I do not know, father," replied Matilda. "Is it he with whom you attempted to elope that night when Bertha fell on the bridge?" asked the mother. "I never attempted to elope," answered the maiden, weeping; "but I was attempted to be carried off by some one in disguise; and the man that is now in my bower may be he, but I know not." "Sir Thomas Courtney!" cried the mother. The father rushed out of the room. The sounds of voices were heard in the base-court, and that of George Douglas was pre-eminent. A shot was heard. Matilda looked out at the window, and saw some servants carrying the body of a wounded man across the bridge. Lights were brought, and some one called out the name of Templeton the archer. Matilda flew out of the room, and was in an instant in the ballium. She looked in the face of the wounded man. It was George Templeton. He opened his eyes, and fixed them on her face, took her hand into his, pressed it, sighed, and expired. Some days afterwards, Matilda Rollo was led, dressed by the hands of her mother, into the presence of the priest who was to unite her and Sir George Douglas. When asked if she consented to receive the knight as her husband, she burst into a loud laugh. Her reason had fled; she was ever afterwards a maniac, and was tended by Bertha Maitland, who, sitting in the wood-bower, often contemplated, with feelings we will not attempt to describe, the unhappy victim of her treachery. THE TWO SAILORS. One dark and cloudy evening in September, two young men were seen walking on the road that winds so beautifully along the shore of the Solway, below the mouth of the Nith, between the quay and Caerlaverock. The summit of Criffel was hidden in clouds; the sky was dark and threatening; and the shrieking of the sea-fowl, and the whitening crests of the waves, as they broke before the freshening breeze, gave warning that a storm was at hand. At some distance, a two-masted boat, or wherry, as it is there called, lay on the beach, half afloat on the rising tide; and a boy sat on the green bank near, apparently watching her. The two men appeared, by their dress, to be sailors. They were both in the prime of life, and remarkably handsome; but their countenances were of very different expressions. The one, whose short, crisp hair curled over a forehead embrowned by exposure to the elements, had the frank, bold, joyous look which we love to recognise as a characteristic of the class of men to which he belonged; the other, his superior in face and figure, as well as his senior in years, had a deep-set dark eye, whose very smile was ominous of the storm of evil passions and tempers within. Their conversation was loud and earnest, and was carried on in tones of considerable occasional excitement; the violent motion of their hands, and the increasing loudness of their voices, gave token that passion was beginning to usurp the throne of prudence; till at last the elder of the two, stung to madness by some observation of his companion, suddenly raised his hand, and struck him a blow on the head, which made him stagger for some paces. Quick as lightning, however, he recovered himself, and rushed to avenge the blow. A short and violent struggle ensued; and then the younger, whom we shall call Richard Goldie, sat astride the prostrate body of his antagonist, panting with violent exertion, and with his knees pinioning the arms of the other to the ground; while the latter, exhausted with his exertions, made feeble and ineffectual struggles to rise. "Let me rise," said he, at last, in a sullen tone; "you need not be afraid." "Afraid!" replied the other, with a contemptuous laugh; "it wad ill set a born and bred Nithsdale man to fear a mongrel o' a foreigner. Rise up, man--rise up; ye brought it on yoursel. I wadna cared for yer sharp words, or yer ill tongue, had ye but keepit yer hans aff. But dinna look sae dour-like man. Ye needna be cast doun aboot it; it was a fair stand-up fecht, and ye did yer best. Come, gie's yer han, and we'll think nae mair o't?" "Richie Goldie," said Cummin, rejecting the proffered hand, and drawing back, as if he thought its touch would be contamination, while his eye flashed with vindictive fire--"Richie Goldie, hear me. When we were boys at school together, you were like a serpent in my eyes. Since we left it, you have always crossed my path, like the east wind, to blight, and blast, and wither all the flowers that lay in it. You have stood between me and my love; and now you have struck me to the earth, and wounded me, when fallen, with your taunts and sarcasms. You have roused the slumbering devil within me, and before he sleeps again, you shall bitterly repent this day's work: you shall find the mongrel foreigner is no mongrel in his revenge!" "Dinna talk that fearfu gate," said Goldie, laughing; "ye'll mak a body think ye're clean demented--speakin o' revenge, and lookin at a man as if ye wished yer een war daggers. I wish ye a better temper and a kinder heart. I fear neither you nor yer revenge; and as we _maun_ gang this trip thegither, just put yer revenge in yer pouch, and let's 'gree and be freends." So saying, he sprang into the boat, which was now rocking in the tide, and rewarding the boy for his trouble, and followed in sullen silence by Cummin, he hauled aft the sheets, and in a few minutes the boat was dancing over the waves towards Annan. It is now necessary that we should introduce the two heroes of our tale more particularly to the reader, which we will endeavour to do as concisely as possible. Edward Cummin's mother was an Italian, who had accompanied a family of rank to England in the capacity of lady's-maid. She was a beautiful woman, of warm and violent passions, and, for her station in life, remarkably well-informed and clever. Her mistress had a high opinion of her, and thought she was throwing herself away when she asked permission to marry her master's gardener; but, finding that her arguments to dissuade her from the connection were ineffectual, she gave her consent to it, and did all in her power to render her favourite's married state a comfortable one. For seven years the Cummins lived a happy and industrious life together--the only fruit of their union being a boy, the Edward of our story. He was an uncommonly handsome child, and was very much noticed by the family at the hall, from whom he received the rudiments of an excellent education, and acquired manners and habits superior to his station. He was the idol of his parents; but his father--a sensible, steady Scotchman--did not allow his partiality to blind him to his son's faults, and was firm and steady in his correction of them; while the mother, with foolish and mistaken fondness, endeavoured on all occasions to conceal his failings, and soothed and caressed, when she ought to have checked and punished him. The consequence was, that young Edward soon learned to fear his father, and to despise his mother--and dissimulation and hypocrisy were the natural consequences of such contradictory management. At this time circumstances obliged the family to leave the hall, and settle on the Continent--the estate was sold, and Cummin, being deprived of his situation, returned, with his family, to his native place. Here their nearest neighbours were the Goldies; and a considerable degree of intimacy arose between the two families. The boys, Richard Goldie and Edward Cummin, were sent, during the winter months, to the same school, where a great deal of apparent friendship subsisted between them. But, on Edward's part, it was all seeming--for he was a hypocrite by nature, and, to suit his own purposes, could fawn, and cringe, and flatter, with an air, at the same time, of bold off-hand independence; and it was his interest to keep on good terms with Richard Goldie, who, though younger than himself, was more active and hardy, and who really _was_, what _he_ pretended to be, courageous and independent. But, in his heart, Edward hated his high-spirited companion; it was gall and wormwood to his proud and vindictive spirit to notice the evident partiality shown towards Richard by his companions, and the coolness and avoidance evinced towards himself. Several circumstances at last transpired, which served to open Richard Goldie's eyes to the true character of his pretended friend; and a coolness arose between them, which, though it never proceeded to an open rupture, for some time put a stop to the closeness of their intimacy. Years passed, and the young men both adopted the sea for a profession, and sailed for some time together in the same vessel--an American trader, "hailing" from Dumfries. Here, as at school, though equally active in the performance of their duties, Richard Goldie's frank and generous disposition rendered him a favourite with the rest of the crew, while Cummin in vain strove to make himself popular--he always was, or fancied himself to be, an object of distrust and aversion. Towards Goldie he maintained the same apparently friendly and kindly bearing, while he was storing up bitter feelings against him in his heart. It was strange that, with growing, though concealed, hatred on the one side, and with want of confidence on the other, these two young men should have continued to associate, and to keep up a companionship which it only depended upon themselves to discontinue; but so it was. They had learned from the same books; they had sported beneath the same roof; they had risen from boyhood to manhood together; and they could not, though so different in disposition, entirely sever the links with which early associations had bound them together. In the neighbourhood of Kelton lived an old fisherman, whose daughter was one of the loveliest girls in the district. Our two companions, being near neighbours of old Grey, were very constant in their attentions to him; they managed his boat for him, helped him to mend his nets, and made themselves useful in every possible way. Some of the neighbours insinuated, that all this kindness proceeded less from a regard for the old man, than from a wish to conciliate his pretty daughter. That, however, was matter of doubt; and old Grey took the "benefit of the doubt," and the compliment to himself. While flattering the father, however, they were both very assiduous in their attentions to the daughter, and each in turn fancied that he was the object of her exclusive regard. But Ellen Grey was as sensible as she was lovely, and had met with so much passing admiration, and knew so well what value to put upon it, that she was but little affected by this additional proof of her power. She liked both the young men as pleasant companions, but had, as yet, shown no decided partiality for either. She was perfectly well aware that they both admired her, and she was gratified by their attentions--as what pretty woman would not have been?--but the only use she made of her influence over them, was to restrain their angry passions, and to keep up friendly feelings between them. Of the two, Cummin was the most calculated to please the eye and attract the fancy of a young and inexperienced girl; for, besides being more strikingly handsome than Goldie, in his intercourse with the softer sex he had successfully studied the art of concealing and glossing over all the worse qualities of his nature. Goldie, on the contrary, was frank and open to all alike; he was manly and independent in his address to females, and never stooped to flattery or dissimulation. Things went on in this uncertain way for some time, till the young men, wearied of sailing backwards and forwards to and from America, resolved to vary the scene, by making a voyage to India. Although they both felt that friendship was with them but a name, yet they had become so united by habit and early association, that they could not make up their minds to separate, and accordingly agreed to "enter" on board the same ship. The evening on which our story commences, was the one fixed upon for their departure. Goldie had been to Annan the day previous, to ascertain the time of the steamboat's sailing from Liverpool, and had borrowed a boat from a friend of his father's there, in which he and Cummin were to return. They had passed the afternoon together at old Grey's, and Cummin fancied that Ellen smiled more kindly upon his rival than upon himself. She immediately, with the quickness of woman's tact, perceived, and endeavoured to remove, the impression--but in vain; and, in so doing, excited the jealous feelings of Goldie. They left the house in gloomy silence; but had not proceeded far before their irritated feelings found vent in words--few, and cautious, and half-suppressed at first, but gradually increasing in loudness, and energy, and bitterness, till the result was the struggle we have already described. Cummin's face, as he sat beside Goldie in the stern-sheets of the boat, was a true index to the black and vindictive passions that boiled within his heart. His glaring eye, set teeth, clenched hand, and heavy breathing, told too plainly what was passing within. A child might have read his secret on his brow--and yet he was too great a coward to utter it. He sat brooding over his wrath, and nourishing dark thoughts of hatred and revenge against his unconscious companion, whose momentary anger had passed away, and left no trace behind it. "Ye're as quiet's a sittin hen, Ned," said he; "I doot ye're hatchin mischief. Dinna tak on sae, man; let byganes be byganes, and think nae mair aboot it." Cummin's first flush of rage had by this time passed away, and he began to think of the expediency of _appearing_ to be reconciled to Goldie--for he knew that it was only by treachery and cunning he could hope to gratify his longing for revenge. He, therefore, in reply to Richard's speech, grasped him warmly by the hand, and said-- "Do not think so ill of me, Richard, as to suppose that I bear you any ill-will on account of what has passed. The words I uttered in my passion I am sorry for and disclaim, now that I am cool. I _was_ angry--very angry, certainly; but that is past. How can you wonder that I am sad and silent, when you remember that we may never return to the 'bonny banks o' Nith.' We are going among strangers, and into strange lands: let us not forget our old friendship--let us always be friends as well as countrymen." "That's said like a true Scot, at a' rates," replied Goldie. "What wi' yer English lingo and yer grand words, ye talk for a' the warld like a prented bulk; it does a body's lugs guid to listen t'ye. Ay, 'shouther to shouther' is the word in the Highlands, and we'll tak it for _our_ by-word." And the warm-hearted, generous lad shook him heartily by the hand. Next day, they took their passage in the steamer for Liverpool, and from thence made the best of their way to London. There they were soon picked up by one of the "crimps," on the look-out for men for the outward-bound Indiamen, and, in the course of a few days, were shipped on board the Briton--a vessel of twelve hundred tons. Here everything was strange to them, and they were subjected to a course of discipline to which they had not before been accustomed. They both proved themselves to be smart, active young fellows, and good seamen; but at first Cummin was a greater favourite than Goldie--for he was too cunning and timeserving to commit himself in any way; while the latter, always in the habit of speaking out his mind boldly and freely, frequently got himself into trouble by his forgetfulness of forms, and by the bluntness of his remarks. In a short time, however, they each appeared in their true colours, and the scale was turned in favour of Goldie, whose frank and open manners, and straightforward, fearless confidence, established him in the general good opinion of his officers and messmates; while, on the other hand, the mean cunning spirit of Cummin, becoming daily more apparent, rendered him an object of contempt and avoidance to the latter. This change in the opinion of his shipmates rankled deep in the heart of the vindictive Cummin; and, forgetting that he himself was the cause of it, he attributed all to the influence of the detested Goldie. A circumstance soon occurred which served to add fuel to the fire of evil passions that lay smouldering in his heart. The ship was within a few degrees of the equator, when one day a strange sail was seen ahead, which proved to be a "homeward-bounder." The captain immediately determined to board her, and gave his orders accordingly to the chief mate. "Midshipman! tell the sailmaker to make a bag for the letters, and pass the word fore and aft that a bag is going to be made up for England. First cutters, clean themselves!" The breeze was light, and gradually dying away; and, as the stranger was still at a considerable distance, orders were given to "pipe to dinner," and for the cutter's crew to come up as soon as they had dined, to lower the boat down. In a short time, the coxswain of the boat--a fine, active, young north-country man--came up with three of his crew, two of whom were stationed at the tackle-fall, to lower the boat, while the coxswain, with the other man, jumped in, to be lowered down in her. One of the men at the "falls" was Cummin; lowering away, quickly and carelessly, he allowed the rope to run too quickly round the "cleat," and not being able to check it again, he was obliged to let go "by the run." The consequence was, that the stern of the boat was plunged into the water, while the bow hung suspended in the other tackle--the men were thrown out, and the poor coxswain, not being able to swim, made two or three ineffectual struggles, and sank to rise no more. The accident was so sudden and unexpected, and there was so little apparent danger--for the water was as smooth as a mill-pond, and the poor fellow was within arm's-length almost of the boat's gunwale--that he was gone almost before an alarm was given. The men were all below at dinner; but ill news flies fast--in a moment there was a rush to the hatchways, each hurrying to get on deck. Goldie was one of the first up, and, rushing aft on the poop, he exclaimed, "Where is he?" and, hardly waiting for an answer, sprung over the taffrail into the water, a height of twenty feet, and dived after the sinking man; but in vain--the poor fellow was gone beyond recall. The captain reprimanded Cummin severely for his carelessness, degraded him from his station as topman, made him a "sweeper," and stopped his allowance of grog. Goldie was publicly praised on the quarterdeck for his spirited conduct, and received a handsome present from the captain, besides being promoted to the station of boatswain's mate at the first opportunity. This was a bitter potion for the moody and jealous spirit of Cummin; and he brooded day and night over his fancied wrongs. The ship was now rapidly approaching the "line," and the crew had been for some time anticipating with great glee the day of fun and license which was in store for them. The old stagers amused themselves with practising upon the credulity of those comparatively fresh-water sailors who had never been to the southward of the equator; and strange and mysterious were the notions which many of the latter formed of the dreaded "line," from the contradictory accounts they heard. Some imagined that it was a rope drawn across the sea, which could not be cut without the permission of the old king of the waves; others were gulled into the belief that there was a large tree growing out of the water, to which the ship was to be made fast, until the necessary ceremonies were gone through. But their doubts on the subject were soon to be changed into certainty. The officer of the deck one day made his report to the captain-- "The sun's up, sir." "What is the latitude?" "Fifty minutes north, sir." "Very well--make it twelve o'clock." "Strike eight-bells, quartermaster!" And away went the old fellow "forward," to strike the bell, brimful of the intelligence he had just overheard; and in two minutes it was known all over the ship, that, if the breeze held, they would cross the "line" before morning. "There it is at last," muttered one of the middies, who had been for some minutes apparently straining his eyes through a three-foot "Dollond," and who, knowing he was within ear-shot of a knot of young cadets, _muttered_ loud enough to be overheard. "What is it?" said a young Irishman. "The line, to be sure--the equinoxial line--which we have been so anxiously looking for." In the meantime, great was the bustle among all the old hands on board. Paint and tar were in constant requisition. A deputation had waited some days before upon the lady passengers, requesting from them some of their cast-off wearing apparel, as the crew expected "Mrs Neptune" to honour them with a visit in a few days, and wished to have a change of raiment in readiness for her, as she would most likely be wet and cold with her long cruise upon the water. A list had been drawn up, ready for presentation to Neptune, on his arrival, of all those who were for the first time crossing the line; and those of the passengers who were unwilling to undergo the ceremonies attendant upon being made "freemen of the line," had expressed their readiness to pay the customary exempting tribute, under the salutary dread of the razors, of three degrees of comparison, which were duly brandished before their eyes. Towards evening, the breeze gradually decreased; the clouds were tinged with all the gorgeous hues of a tropical sunset, assuming every variety of strange and grotesque appearances; and the water reflected back their image, if possible, with increased splendour. As far as the eye could reach, nothing was visible but the glassy, undulating surface of the sea, partially rippled by the "cat's paws"[5] which played over it. The ship was gliding slowly over the smooth expanse of water--her large sails flapping heavily against the masts, as the sea rose and fell, and her smaller canvas just swelling in the breeze, and lending its feeble aid to urge her onwards; the passengers were taking their evening lounge on the poop and quarterdeck; while the ship's "band" were "discoursing eloquent music" for their amusement; and the crew were scattered in groups about the forecastle and waist. Just as the dusk of evening began to render objects obscure and indistinct, the _look-out_ on the forecastle called out-- [Footnote 5: Light, partial airs.] "A light right ahead, sir!" "Very well, my boy; keep your eye upon it, and let me know if we near it." In a short time the man exclaimed, "The light is close aboard of us, sir!" and, at the same moment, a bugle-note was heard, and a glimmering light appeared, which gradually enlarged, throwing a broad, blue, unearthly glare over the fore part of the ship, till the smallest rope was as visible as in broad daylight; while a loud, confused, roaring noise was heard, and a stentorian voice shouted, apparently from the sea-- "Ho! the ship, ahoy!" "Holloa!" replied the officer. "What ship is that?" "The Honourable Company's ship Briton." "Ah! my old friend, Captain Oakum!--welcome back again! I am too busy to come on board just now; but I will pay you a visit to-morrow forenoon. Be sure to have everything ready for me, for I have a great deal of work on my hands just now.--Good-night!" "Good-night!" Again the bugle-note was heard; and then the car of his watery majesty--looking to vulgar and unpoetic eyes very like a lighted tar-barrel--floated slowly astern, throwing a flickering glare over the sails, as it passed; while the "band" almost knocked down what little of the breeze was left with their counter-blast of "Rule Britannia," which they puffed away with all their might and main, till the car of Neptune sank beneath the sea. "Come forward," said a middie to the cadets near him, just before the _car_ dropped astern--"come _forward_, and see Neptune's car; it is worth your while to look at the old boy, whisking along at the tail of half-a-score of dolphins, with a poop-light as big as a full-moon blazing over his stern; you can see him quite plain from the forecastle." And away they all ran, helter-skelter, towards the forecastle--the middie knowingly allowing the young aspirants for military distinction to get ahead of him, and bolting under the forecastle, while they ran thundering up the ladder. They had hardly reached the upper step, before a slight sprinkling from aloft made them look upwards; and, while they were gaping, open-mouthed, in wonder from whence the rain could proceed, as not a cloud was to be seen, they had soon reason to think that a waterspout had burst over their heads; for--splash, splash, splash--bucketful after bucketful of water was poured on their devoted heads from the "foretop." As soon as they recovered from the momentary shock and surprise, they made a precipitate retreat, amid roars of laughter from all parts of the ship, in which they were fain to join, to conceal their mortification. All was now quiet for the night; the "band" had played "God save the King;" the watch had been called; and the captain's steward had announced, "Spirits on the table, sir." "I had no idea, Captain Oakum," said one of the passengers at the "cuddy" table, "that Neptune was such a dashing blade, with his flourish of trumpets and car of flame. I shall feel a greater respect for him in future. Does he always announce his approach in such style?" "No; he sometimes does it by deputy. Last voyage, I was walking the quarterdeck with some of my passengers, when we were all startled by seeing a figure, in white, come flying down out of the maintop. It fluttered its wings for a while, and then alighted on the deck, close before us; touched its hat, and delivered a letter into my hands; and then--whisk! before we had time to look round us, it was flying up into the mizzentop. The figure in white was one of the topmen--intended, I suppose, to represent Mercury; and the letter was from the King of the Sea, announcing his approach. The men had rove a couple of 'whips' from the main and mizzen mast-heads, and the end of each being made fast round 'Mr Mercury's' waist, he was lowered from the one top, and 'run up' into the other." "Capital! It must have been rather startling, in the dusk of evening, to see such a strange sea-bird alight at your feet." The next morning, as soon as the decks were washed, preparations were made for the approaching ceremony. The jolly-boat was got in from the stern, and secured at the gangway, from which a long particoloured pole projected, announcing that this was "Neptune's free-and-easy shaving-shop." All the "scuppers" of the upper deck were stopped, and the pumps were kept in constant motion, till the lee-side of the deck was afloat, and the jolly-boat full to the "gunwale." An old sail was drawn across the fore-part of the ship's "waist," like the curtain of a theatre, to conceal the actors in the approaching ceremony, while making their necessary preparations. There was an air of bustling and eager mystery among all the old hands, which, to the uninitiated, gave rise to vague and unpleasant feelings of fear. It was in vain they strained their eyes to penetrate the mysteries of the sanctum concealed by the provoking curtain, from behind which sundry notes of preparation were heard, mixed with disjointed ejaculations--such as, "A touch more black, Jem." "How does my scraper sit?" "Where's my nose?"--and so on. All was bustle and animation; the carpenter's gang converting an old gun-carriage into a triumphal car; the gunner preparing flags for its decoration; his mates busy, with their paint-brushes, bedaubing the tars who were to act as sea-horses; and the charioteer preparing and fitting on Neptune's livery. At length all was ready for the reception of the King of the Sea. "On deck there!" shouted the man at the masthead. "Holloa!" replied the officer of the watch. "A strange sail right ahead, sir." "Very well, my boy. Can you make out what she is?" "She looks small, sir--not bigger than a boat." The officer made his report to the captain, who kindly entered into the spirit of the thing, to gratify the men, and desired to be informed when the boat was near the ship. "We are nearing the boat fast, sir." And the captain made his appearance on deck, to reconnoitre the approaching stranger. "Ship ahoy!" roared a voice ahead; "lay your maintopsail to the mast, and give us a rope for the boat." "Forecastle there!--a rope for the boat! Let go the maintop bowline! Square away the mainyard, after-guard!" bawled the officer of the deck. In the meantime, the unfortunates who had never crossed the line were driven below; the "gratings" were laid on fore and aft, and sentries were stationed at the hatchways to prevent escape. A bugle-note was now heard murdering the "Conquering Hero," who soon made his appearance in person, over the bows, and stood for a moment in a _graceful_ attitude on the night-head, where he really cut quite an imposing figure, with his robe of sheep-skins and flowing beard of "oakum," and grasping in his extended hand a trident, with a fine fish on its prongs. A few minutes after he had descended into the "waist," the screen we before mentioned was withdrawn, and the procession moved on. First came the ship's musicians, fantastically dressed for the occasion, and playing "Rule Britannia" with all their might and main; next came the triumphal car, surmounted by a canopy decorated with flags of all nations, under which were seated Neptune, Amphitrite, or Mrs Nep, as Jack calls her, and a little triton; and immediately in the rear followed the _suite_, consisting of the barber, doctor, clerk, and about a dozen half-naked and particoloured demigods, who acted as water-bailiffs. Each of these gentlemen merits a particular description; for they were all great men, in their way. The doctor wore an immense _floured_ wig, and an uncommonly long, unwholesome-looking nose, and over all a rusty piece of tarpaulin, pinched into three corners, to represent a hat; under his arm he carried his family medicine-chest, the lid of which was open, and displayed to view pills and powders of all shapes, sizes, and colours, in great profusion; and in his hand he carried a large bottle, labelled, "Neptune's elixir." The barber carried, slung over his arm, his shaving-box (a large tar bucket), with brushes to correspond; the pouch in the front of his apron was filled with little etceteras, such as boxes of _grease_ for the hair, _powder_ for the teeth, &c.; and in his hand he brandished three razors, each about three feet long--one made of smooth iron hoop, the next about as genteel as a hand-saw, and the third, meant for particular favourites, with teeth grinning at each other, half-an inch apart, more or less. The clerk, or scribe, was a dandy of the first water: he had on a small rarée hat, which looked as if it had been forced up on one side by an immense crop of oakum curls, which sprouted most luxuriantly from under one of the rims. His whiskers were pointed to the wind with the greatest nicety; and from behind his ear peeped the quill, his badge of office; while a little inkstand dangled at his button-hole. The tips of his nose and ears were almost hidden by a most magnificently stiff collar, and his chin nestled in a bed of frill, made to match the collar of the best _foolscap_. All these _gentlemen_ wore _long togs_.[6] [Footnote 6: Coats] On came the pageant: Neptune's sheep-skins and trident looked very majestic; Amphitrite, a tall, high-cheek-boned Scotch "topman," with the assistance of a little red paint and oakum locks, and arrayed _cap-à-pie_ in cabin finery, made a very passable representation of a she-monster; the barber brandished his razors; the scribe paraded his list, and, every now and then, made use of an old frying-pan, with the bottom knocked out of it, for a quizzing-glass; the jack-_tars_ who acted as sea-horses pranced as uncouthly as jack-_asses_; and the coachman, seated on the fore-part of the car, and proud of his livery and shoulder-knots, cracked his whip, d----d his horses for _lubbers_, and _singing out_ to them, "Hard a-port!" contrived to _weather_ the after hatchway, and then _bear up_ round the "capstan," where, with a graceful pull-up of the reins, very much like a strong pull at the mainbrace, and an "Avast there!" to his obedient cattle, he stopped the car. The captain was standing under the poop-awning, in readiness to receive his majesty, who welcomed him most graciously to his dominions. "Glad to see you once more, Captain Oakum," said he; "it warms the cockles of my heart to fall in with an old friend; and my wife here and I both wants comfort of some kind, after our long morning ride over the water; the cold air is apt to give one a cold in the stomach." The doctor immediately stepped forward with his bottle, and presented it to his majesty. "No, no," said he; "none of your doctor's stuff for _me_; keep that for my children; Captain Oakum knows my complaint of old." The captain laughed, and his steward, taking the hint, produced a bottle containing a different kind of _elixir_, which old Neptune seemed to quaff with peculiar relish. A glass was then offered to Amphitrite, who pretended to reject it, and tried to blush--in vain. "Come, come! none of that 'ere humbug, old gal," said the king; "tip it over; it'll do you good." And away it went, where many of its fellows had gone before. "Ah!" said she, smacking her lips with unqueenlike gusto, "glorious stuff to drive out a cold!" The whole of the suite were immediately seized with the same complaint, and all required the application of the same remedy. "I understand, Captain Oakum, you have a good many of my children on board." "Yes, a few. I hope you will treat them kindly." "Oh, leave that to me, sir; I'll give none of them more nor they desarves." He then thrust out his trident to the captain's steward, with a graceful air, as if he meant to impale him; but it was only for the purpose of presenting the fish on its prongs, as an addition to his honour the captain's dinner. "I wish it war better; but we've had a sad sickly season down below, and all the dolphins and bonitos are on the doctor's list with influenzie." During this interview, the men were all standing near the gangway, armed with buckets of water, wet swabs, &c., impatient for the commencement of the fun. "But I must wish you good-morning, Captain Oakum; I have no time to lose. I have two or three other ships to board this morning." "Good-morning!" The band struck up "Off she goes." "Carry on, you lubbers!" said the coachman. Crack went the whip--off pranced the horses--and away whirled the car, which no sooner approached the gangway, than the procession was greeted with torrents of water, and his "godship" was half smothered in his own element. After gasping for breath, and shaking off the superfluous moisture, Neptune and the _fair_ Amphitrite took their station on "the booms," to superintend the operations of the day. The clerk handed to his majesty a list of his new subjects, who were recommended to his peculiar attention. "Richard Goldie is the first on the list," said Neptune; "send him up!" And away scampered the Tritons (or constables), who were naked to the waist, the upper parts of their bodies being hideously painted, fantastic-looking caps on their heads, and short painted staves in their hands. The main-hatch "grating" was lifted, and up came our friend Richard, blindfolded, between two constables, laughing and joking with his captors as he came along. As soon as he made his appearance, Neptune exclaimed-- "Who have we got here? I ought to know the cut of that younker's jib. Ay, I'm blowed if it isn't the same that was cruising about the other day after a drowning shipmate. One of the right sort that. Just put my mark upon him--give him a touch of the tar-brush, and let him go." Almost untouched, Richard was allowed to escape forward, where he immediately equipped himself with a wet "swab," and prepared to follow the example of those around him. "Edward Cummin! Bring Edward Cummin!" And Cummin made his appearance, escorted as Goldie had been, with a face almost as white as the handkerchief that blinded his eyes, and shivering with anticipation. The attendant Tritons seated him on the edge of the jolly-boat at the gangway; and the barber, turning to Neptune, and holding up his three razors, said-- "Please your honour, which?" "Let us hear first what he has to say for himself," said Neptune. "Where do ye come from?" "From Scot----oo! oo!" said the poor fellow, as the barber thrust a well-filled tar-brush into his mouth. "How long is it since you left it?" But Cummin had gained experience; he set his teeth, pressed his lips together, and sat, a ludicrous picture of fear, mixed with desperate resolution. "A close Scot, I see," said Neptune; "give him some soap to soften his _fizz_, and teach him to open his mouth. Shave him clean." The barber lathered his victim's cheeks with tar, which he _dabbed_ on without much regard for his feelings; while the Tritons, with their hands in his hair, _tugged_ his head about in the proper direction. The operation was performed with the "favourite's" razor, which left the furrows of its _fine_ edge upon his cheeks. The doctor was standing by with his vial of tar-water, and his box of indescribable pills, ready to take advantage of every involuntary gasp of the poor patient. At last, after daubing his hair with rancid grease, "to make it grow," the bandage was suddenly taken from his eyes, and he was thrown backward into the boat, and left floundering among the tarry water, till some charitable hand dragged him out. Half-drowned and half-blinded, Cummin staggered forwards, blessing his stars that his torments were over; but, alas! he soon found that he had escaped from the fangs of the torturing few, only to encounter the tender mercies of the vindictive many. Groans and hisses from all quarters gave token of the dislike in which he was held--bucketfuls of water were dashed in his face, and a rope drawn suddenly right across, tripped up his feet, and he floundered on the deck at the mercy of his tormentors, who, whenever he attempted to rise, dashed torrents of water upon him, and half-buried him in wet "swabs." Mad with rage and mortification, wearied and exhausted, Cummin at last reached the forecastle, where he sat down for awhile, to recover breath and strength. "Come, Cummin, man," shouted Goldie to him--"come and join the sport." There was something in Goldie's joyous and laughing tone which jarred upon Cummin's excited feelings--it seemed to him like an insult, that his companion should be so merry and happy, while he was sitting, like an evil spirit, scowling on the scene of mirth before him. He made no reply to Goldie, but muttered to himself--"Laugh on, my young cock of the walk; you shall pay dearly for your fun." From that day, Cummin became an altered man in manner; he no longer attempted to conceal his dislike to Goldie, but on all occasions did his utmost to thwart and annoy him. He used to pace up and down the deck, in gloomy silence, while the rest of the crew were sleeping around him; and dark and deadly were the thoughts that crowded through his brain. He felt that he was disliked and avoided by all his companions, and, attributing their estrangement to the arts and influence of Goldie, over and over again did he vow bitter revenge against him. But how was his revenge to be gratified? There was the rub. He was too much of a coward to attack him openly, and feared to attempt any secret mischief, as he knew that he would be immediately suspected as the author of it; for his hatred to Goldie had, by this time, been remarked throughout the ship, where, it was equally obvious, Goldie had no other enemy. But, while he is meditating mischief, we must go on with our story. When the Briton arrived in Madras Roads, several vessels were lying at anchor there; and one of them, a small merchantman, had her foretopsail loose, and "blue-peter" flying. This was the Columbine, a Liverpool ship, which was expected to sail that night about twelve o'clock. As Cummin stood on the forecastle in the evening, after the hammocks were piped down, looking gloomily at that vessel, his countenance suddenly brightened up. He rubbed his hands together, and laughed aloud; then checking himself, and looking cautiously round, to see whether any one was near him, he dived below. At midnight, the Columbine "got under way," and stood to sea. Next morning, while washing decks, the officer of the deck called out, "Midshipman! I don't see Cummin; send him up." "Cummin!--Richard Cummin!" was echoed round the decks; but no Richard Cummin appeared. The hands were called out to muster; Cummin did not answer to his name. Strict search was made for him, but he was nowhere to be found. The first and most natural conclusion was, that he had deserted to the Columbine; but it was too late now to ascertain. But that belief was a good deal shaken, when one of the men, who happened to have been awake at eleven o'clock the night before, said that he had heard a loud splash in the water, and ran immediately to the "port" to look out; but all was silent again; and, if it was, as he now supposed, Cummin, he must have gone down immediately. He did not give the alarm at the time, for he was half-asleep when he heard the noise, and thought he must have been mistaken. While the man was giving this evidence on the quarterdeck, up came Goldie with a piece of paper, which he had found on the pillow of his hammock, on which were scrawled the following words:--"Richie, I must put an end to this life of misery and mortification; when I am gone, perhaps you will think more kindly of me. I was wicked enough to talk of revenge. I leave my chest and all my traps to you. Be kind to my poor mother, for the sake of your unhappy shipmate." It was now evident to all that the poor fellow, whose dejection and reserve had been long noticed, had committed suicide; and, much as he was disliked, his disappearance cast a gloom over the ship's company for some days. Goldie grieved sincerely for him, now that he was gone--all his violence, all his tempers were forgotten, and Richard only thought of him as the friend of his boyhood, and the companion of his early days; and he was much affected by the kindly feeling manifested in his note. We must now transport ourselves, for awhile, on board the Columbine, and follow Edward Cummin and his fortunes. On the night of the Briton's arrival in Madras Roads, Cummin, who was a capital swimmer, dropped unperceived under the bows of the Columbine, about an hour before she got "under way," and climbed into the "head" by a rope that was hanging overboard. He passed the look-out on the forecastle; but the man, being half-asleep, took him for one of the ship's company. He then _dived_ down the main-hatchway, and concealed himself in the "heart" of one of the cable-tiers, where he remained undiscovered during the day. Next night, when all was quiet, he stole up on the gundeck, and was in the act of helping himself out of one of the bread-bags there, when a man of the mess, who happened to be awake, seized him as a thief, and dragged him on the upper deck. "Bring a light, quartermaster," said the mate; "let us see who this skulking thief is. Holloa!" continued he, starting back, with surprise, "who the deuce have we got here? Where did you spring from?" "I came up from the cable-tier to get something to eat, sir; I was very hungry." "Out of the cable-tier! But how did you get _into_ the cable-tier?" "I swam----" "Swam into the cable-tier! You must be a clever fellow. Come, none of your tricks upon travellers--tell the truth at once." "I was going to tell you when you stopped me, sir. I am a 'Briton.'" "Well, what has that to do with it?" "Why, sir, I was tired of being one." "Tired of being a Briton, and swam into the cable-tier! What do you mean?" "Why, sir, that I was one of the crew of the Briton, the Indiaman that lay next you in the roads, and I cut and run from her, and got on board of you, just before you got under way." "Here's a pretty business! But we must make the best of a bad bargain. I suppose you're one of the company's _hard ones_." The Columbine was short-handed, having lost several men at Madras, and the captain, though he blustered a little when he first heard the story, was in his heart pleased to have got such an unexpected addition to his crew; and, after a short time, Cummin, behaving satisfactorily, was rated able seaman on the ship's books. On the Columbine's arrival at Liverpool, Cummin immediately set off homewards, and made his appearance at Kelton again, about eight months after he had left it, much to the surprise of his parents. He told a long and affecting story of his sufferings on board the Briton, and of the illness and death of poor Goldie, who had fallen a victim at sea, he said, to cholera. After the death of his friend, driven to desperation by the ill-usage he was exposed to, he determined to run from his ship on the first opportunity, and had accordingly deserted, as before stated. He spoke, on all occasions, in the warmest terms of Goldie's great kindness to him, and expressed the utmost regret at his loss. The sad news was a death-blow to the poor old Goldies, who never recovered from the effects of it, and who, broken-hearted and repining, fell easy victims, a few weeks afterwards, to an epidemic then raging. Ellen Grey mourned deeply and sincerely for Richard Goldie; she had always liked him as an agreeable companion, and respected him as an amiable and steady character; and though, at first, she had given the preference to the plausible Cummin, yet, before they parted, Richie's good qualities had so much gained upon her better sense, that she had begun to experience that kind of partiality towards him which might in time have ripened into a warmer feeling. With the quick eye of jealous rivalry, Cummin had noticed this change in her feelings, almost before she was conscious of it herself. He had never really loved her; his object in appearing to do so had been to annoy Goldie; but the wound thus given to his vanity had rankled in his heart, to the exclusion of every other feeling but that of a wish to punish her for her defection. He now renewed his intimacy with old Grey, and was doubly assiduous in his attentions towards him. He had become, apparently, quite an altered character--that is, he had become a more finished hypocrite; he had learned to calm his temper and to smooth his brow; and appeared, on all occasions, so steady and industrious, that the old man began to feel the kindest regard towards him, and pointed him out to his daughter's attention as a pattern for the young men around, and one who would make a steady and respectable husband. There was at first, however, a changeableness in his manner towards Ellen that puzzled and surprised her. At times, he was almost servilely obsequious in his attentions towards her; at others, when he thought himself unobserved, she was startled by the malevolent expression of his countenance, and by the derisive smile that played round his lips, as he gazed upon her. Cummin noticed the unfavourable impression he was making, and became more guarded in his behaviour; he redoubled his attentions, and never allowed a shade of unpleasant feeling to be visible on his brow. His perseverance had the desired effect of reviving her old partiality, and in an evil hour she consented to become his wife. The morning after their wedding, he had disappeared, and had never since been heard of. A deserted bride, she was left in all the misery of uncertainty respecting his fate or his intentions, and in utter ignorance to what cause she could impute the cool contempt with which it appeared he had treated her from the moment of their union. But we must return to our friend Richard Goldie. Nothing particular occurred during the remainder of the voyage of the Briton, until their arrival in China, where, in consequence of a dispute with the authorities, the ships were detained for several months, and a year elapsed before they returned to England. As soon as he had received his pay, Richard set off for Liverpool, from whence he proceeded by steam to Annan. When his foot was fairly planted on the soil of Dumfries-shire, and his face was turned homewards, Richard could not restrain the exuberance of his spirits. He laughed, he sang, he ran, he waved his hat, and was guilty of all those extravagances which could only be excused in a young sailor just let loose; and which, had they been witnessed by others of a cooler temperament, would have been looked upon as the freaks of a madman. Then he began to think of Kelton, of his parents, and of bonny Ellen Grey; and with thoughts of her came a sad recollection of poor Cummin, and a kind of flattering notion that the latter had had good cause for his jealousy on the night of their quarrel, when Ellen, every feature of whose face and every note of whose voice were vividly present to his memory, smiled so sweetly upon him, and bid him take care of himself "for a' our sakes." It was late in the evening when he approached Kelton, on his way homewards; and he resolved to give the Greys a call as he went past. At length he saw the well-known cottage, and a flush came over his brow when he recognised Ellen sitting at the door. He hastened forward to greet her; but, instead of the friendly reception he had anticipated, he was surprised and mortified to see her start up with a faint scream, and avert her eyes, with looks of horror and alarm. "Ellen!" exclaimed he--"hae ye forgotten me? What gars ye turn awa yer head, as though ye'd seen a bogle? Am I sae changed, that ye dinna ken yer auld freend, Richie Goldie?" And he advanced to take her hand. The girl started from his touch, with a cold shudder, and muttered-- "Is it no gane yet?" "What is't ye're speakin o', Ellen? There's nought here but yersel and me? Can ye no speak to me? It sets ye ill to turn the cauld shouther to an auld freend." The girl now looked at him for a moment fearfully over her shoulder, and exclaimed, with a start of joy-- "Oh! I believe it's himsel!" "Why, wha else did ye tak me for, Ellen?" "For yer wraith, Richie; they tell't me ye were dead." "And wha tell't ye sic a lee?" "He tell't me sae himsel." "And wha was he?" "Ned Cummin: he said he saw ye dee." "Ned Cummin! Why the lassie's head's in a creel. Ned drowned himsel, puir chiel! in Madras Roads; and mony a sair thocht has it gien me that we war unfreends when we parted." "Weel, Richie, a' I ken is, that it's Gude's truth that Ned Cummin tell't me ye were dead--and I believed him." And the tears gushed from her eyes as she said so. "But come ben the hoose, and see my faither." Old Grey was at first as much alarmed as his daughter at the apparition, as he thought it, of Richard Goldie; for they both were infected with the superstition of the country, and firmly believed in the doctrine of wraiths, bogles, and other supernatural appearances. "And, noo," said the old man, "that we ken that ye're yersel, and no yer wraith, sit doun and tell us a' that's happened ye sin ye gaed awa." "I hae nae time 'enow," said Richard; "I maun awa hame; for I haena seen my ain folk yet--mair's the shame; but I'll come back the morn's morn, and gie ye my cracks." "But Richie, my man, hae ye no heard--d'ye no ken?" said the old man, hesitatingly. "What's happened?" cried Goldie, alarmed. "Are they no a' weel at hame?" "They heard ye were dead, Richie: and ye ken, they aye said that ye war the life o' their hearts--they were never like the same folk again; the grass o' Caerlav'rock kirkyard is green abune their heads." Goldie was staggered by this unexpected and distressing intelligence; he had loved his parents with the fondest affection, and the hope of cheering and supporting them in their declining years had been the mainspring of his activity and industry. He covered his face with his hands, and remained for some moments silent; and at last, with a sudden outburst of grief, exclaimed-- "Gane! baith gane! and I am left alane without a leevin freend, or a roof to shelter me!" "Yese no want either, Richie, as lang's I'm to the fore. Come, bide whar ye are; ye'll aye be welcome for the sake o' langsyne. I hae aften wished, and I ance thocht, that oor Ellen and you micht come thegither; but it wasna to be." "And what for can it no be?" said Richie, forgetting his recent loss for the moment, and looking at Ellen. But she burst into tears, and left the room. Goldie, surprised at her emotion, asked the reason of it; and the old man, in explanation, told him the story we have already related, and expressed his surprise at Cummin's conduct, and his wonder as to what could be his motive for such deception. "What for did he tell us ye were dead, Richie?" "I see it a' noo," said Richard: "when I struck him to the ground, he swore he would hae revenge--and sair revenge has he taen. My puir faither and mither! What had they dune?" And the poor fellow hung down his head, and sobbed aloud. "But what could hae garred him leave our Ellen?" "Oh, he kent that I liked Ellen, and jaloused that she thocht mair o' me than o' himsel; and he just married her to spite me, and to be revenged upon her for slighting him at first. But there's a time for a' things; if I get a grip on him, he's repent it." It was long before Goldie was able to bear up against the disappointment of all his fondest hopes; and when the first violence of his grief was past, the springiness and buoyancy of his disposition seemed to have left him entirely. He became grave and thoughtful, a smile was scarcely ever seen to brighten his countenance, and he went about his usual occupations with a sort of dogged indifference, as if it mattered not to him how they were performed, and as if they were to him a mere mechanical and tiresome duty. Yet he loved Ellen Grey as fondly as ever; but she was now, though deserted, the wife of another, and he assumed a coldness of manner, to conceal the warm feelings which still reigned but too powerfully in his breast. He was _reserved_, because he felt a kind of painful pleasure in brooding in silence over his sorrows. In thinking of his poor parents, and of Ellen Grey, who might have been his wife but for another, he would mutter threats of retaliation upon the cold-blooded villain who had caused him so much misery. He would fain have left a place which, much as he loved it, only kept awake so many painful recollections, had he not been withheld from doing so by a strong feeling of gratitude to old Grey, who was now unable to work for his own subsistence, and depended almost entirely upon him for his daily support. Ellen herself, who was much liked in the neighbourhood, and whose story had excited much interest among the neighbouring gentry, obtained a good deal of employment as a dressmaker, which enabled her not only to assist in the support of her father, but likewise to procure many luxuries for him which he otherwise could not have obtained. At length, after lingering for some months in a state of gradual decay, the old man died, and Goldie, after having seen Ellen comfortably settled in a neighbouring family, took an affectionate farewell of her, and went to Liverpool in search of employment. No accounts had been heard of Cummin, although nearly two years had elapsed since his disappearance; and Goldie, who could not forget his love for Ellen Grey, was kept in a state of most unpleasant uncertainty. Richard had been for a short time in Liverpool, and was walking one day on the Clarence Dock, as some carts were being unloaded. The horse in one of them took fright at some passing object, and dashed off at full speed. A sailor, who was standing on the dock, ran forward and attempted to stop it; but was instantly knocked down with great violence, and the wheel of the cart passed over his head. Richard, who was close to the spot, hastened to his assistance; and was horrified at the sight that met his eyes. The poor fellow was senseless; his arm appeared to be broken, and his face, dreadfully disfigured, was covered with gore and dust. Richard raised his head on a log of wood lying near, loosened his collar, and, a crowd instantly collecting, requested some of them to run for the nearest doctor. He then, with the assistance of some of the bystanders, conveyed the poor sufferer into one of the houses near, where he lay for some time panting and groaning; but apparently quite insensible. After they had all gone, the wounded man turned to Richard, and, looking in his face, gave a heavy sigh. "Are ye in much pain?" said Goldie. "Pain of mind more than pain of body, Richard Goldie," replied the man, in feeble and imperfect accents. "Do you not know me?" "Mercifu powers!" exclaimed Richie; "sure it canna be Ned Cummin?" "It _is_ Edward Cummin, Richie, your false friend, your once bitter enemy, that lies bruised, and crushed, and broken-spirited before you. Can you forgive me?--can you forgive a dying and a penitent man?" "Ned Cummin," said Richard, "ye hae dune me grievous wrang; but I forgie ye wi' a' my heart." "Thanks, dear Richie!--this is more than I deserved. Now I shall die happy." "Speak nae mair, Ned; ye heard what the doctor said." "But I _must_ speak, Richie, while time is mine. Oh, that a few years were allowed me, to prove my repentance sincere! But I feel that is not to be. Death is before me, Richie, and I see things in a very different light now. You were always better than me; you were frank, and open, and confiding; I was a proud, revengeful hypocrite, and I hated you because I always _felt_ myself to be one when you were near me. When you struck me to the earth, the feeling of revenge was aroused within me; but it was long before I could contrive how to gratify it. At last I thought of Ellen Grey; I knew you loved her, and I fancied she had deserted me for you; I determined to be revenged upon you both. I wooed and won, and then deserted her. But the terrors of an accusing conscience went with me, and I had resolved to return homewards, when the accident occurred. Richard, I am dying! Cruel and revengeful as I have been, can you still forgive me?" "I do, I do, from my heart," sobbed Richard. "Bless you for saying so! Now leave me to my own thoughts, that I may make my peace with Heaven." Next morning Edward Cummin was no more. Goldie was with him in his last moments, and was gratified by the conviction that he departed in a happy frame of mind. After having attended the remains to their last home, he gave up his intention of going abroad, and turned his steps homeward. Having arrived, he sought Ellen, and communicated to her the sad news. His love for her was as strong as ever; and all obstacles to their union having been removed, they were soon afterwards wedded--a union very different from the former marriage into which Ellen had been betrayed. THE DREAM. The war of reason against the prejudices of superstition has been a long one. It followed on the heels of the crusades of superstition against reason. How different the spirit, tactics, and results of the two! Cruelty, injustice, blood, the burning stake, and an _increase_ of the strength of the persecuted, on the one side; on the other, argument, persuasion, and, at the worst, a harmless satire, with the almost _total extinction_ of the cowardly foe, who, having no refuge but in the dark recesses of ignorance, required only to be brought to light to suffer extermination. Auguries and divinations ruled the world for two thousand years, and were put an end to by the Christian faith, which left untouched the power of witches, ghosts, and dreams. The first of these, notwithstanding all the probation of King James, have perished; the second, maugre the arguments of Johnson, have left this earth; but the third, which has had a thousand supporters between Artemant Milesius and Lord Monboddo, still retain some authority in the world. We support them not; but we subscribe to the opinion of Peter Bayle, who stated, in reference to the reality of the dream of the Spanish Jesuit, Maldonat, there are many things appertaining to dreams which have troubled and perplexed strong spirits more than they have been ever willing to confess. We are now to add one instance more to those of which the same author has said the world is almost already full; but we again protest against the inference of our own belief in oneirology. About half-way between the towns of Hamilton and Glasgow, there stand, at the distance of about a quarter-of-a-mile from the highway, and on the left as you approach the latter place, the remains of what was once a small farmhouse. It is now long since the last inhabitant left this little humble domicile, whose handful of ruins would perhaps excite but little attention from the passer-by, were they not so delightfully and conspicuously situated. They stand on the very extremity and summit of a beautiful green promontory, of considerable height, that projects into and overlooks a lovely strath, skirted with wood, and through which winds one of the prettiest and best trouting streams in Scotland. The situation, therefore, of these humble ruins invests them with an interest which would by no means attach to them, were they situated in a less romantic locality. Of the farmhouse of which we speak there now remain only one of the gables and a portion of the side-walls; but, if your curiosity tempt you to further investigation, you may still trace the limits of the little _kail-yard_, which lay immediately behind it; and, struggling for an obscure existence with the rude bramble, which has now usurped the place of the homely but civilised vegetation of the little garden, may be seen a solitary rose, the last and almost only trace of its former cultivation. The little garden, in short, is now all but obliterated, and can only be distinguished by the low irregular green mound--once its wall--that forms the boundary of its limits. There is nothing in all this, perhaps, to excite any particular interest; for we have rarely any sympathy for the humble and the lowly. In the case of such vestiges of bygone days as those alluded to, it is only the ruined castle, the half-filled moat, and the crumbling walls of mighty masonry, that excite our curiosity, and set our imagination to work--not the handful of loose stones that once formed the cottage of the obscure peasant, not the little rudely-cultivated patch that formed his Eden. These are by far too commonplace and too undignified to attract a moment's notice, or to excite a moment's interest. Yet the cottage has its tale as well as the castle, as we will presently show. About the year 1760, the farmhouse of which we have spoken was inhabited by John Edmonstone--a man of excellent character, and who, humble as his station was, had contrived, in the course of a long life of industry and economy, to scrape together a very considerable sum of money, besides a good deal of property invested in stock, such as cattle, grain, farming implements, &c. The former--namely, the cash--according to the good old custom of Scotland, amongst John's class, was stowed into a stocking-foot, which again was stowed into a certain hole in the wall, known only to the members of the family. But, ignoble and odd as this depository may seem, it yet contained no inconsiderable treasure, and that not a whit the worse or less valuable for the homeliness of its abode. In one end of the stocking aforesaid was a bulbous swelling, as large as a well-sized fist. This contained a tempting store of bright and shining guineas, to the number of about, perhaps, 250. These being at once confined and secured by a string tightly tied round the stocking, produced the appearance above alluded to. Next followed, but in the same general depository--namely, the stocking--a huge conglomeration of crowns, half-crowns, and shillings, to the amount of about £50 more, which were also secured by a tight ligature--thus giving, if there had been another link or two to the stocking, something the appearance of a string of sausages. At the period of our story, John Edmonstone was a widower, with two daughters--the one, at this time, about twenty, the other some four or five years older. They were both unmarried, and lived with their father. Jane Edmonstone, the younger of the two, was a very pretty and interesting-looking girl. Her sister Mary did not possess such striking personal advantages; but this was amply compensated by a pleasant manner and a kind and gentle disposition. For many years these relatives lived happily together, in their little, lonely cottage at Braehead. They led a sober, industrious, and pious life; for, duly as the evening came round, the "big ha' Bible" was placed on the kitchen-table, and, by the light of a clean and well-trimmed lamp, aided by the blaze of a cheerful fire, John read aloud to his daughters from the sacred page. But the best regulated life must have an end, as well as the most reckless and abandoned. John was suddenly seized with a mortal illness, of which he shortly died, leaving his two daughters sole and equal inheritors of his wealth. The death of their father was a grievous calamity to the two unprotected girls; for they were without relatives--at least, there were none near them--though certainly not without those who wished them well, as they were universally respected in their own neighbourhood, both on their father's account and their own. Yet did they feel, on the death of their only parent, a sense of loneliness and of inability to cope with the world, which at once alarmed and dispirited them, notwithstanding the considerable resources which their father's industry and economy had secured to them. Nor did their local situation tend to lessen the former feeling; for it was a solitary one--the house in which they lived being at a considerable distance from any other habitation. The neighbourhood in which they resided, moreover, was a loose one. It was filled with coal-miners and coal-carters--the latter, in particular, a brutal, ruffian race; and to all these the poor solitary women believed it to be well known, as it certainly was to a great many of them, that their father had left them money, and that it was in the house; and thus, to their other fears, was added the dread of their dwelling being broken into, and themselves robbed and murdered. It was while living in this state of feverish alarm and utter helplessness--for they found they could not conduct the business of the farm--and about a fortnight after the death of their father, that Jane, the youngest of the sisters, suddenly awoke, early in the morning, from a troubled sleep, and sprang from her bed, in an agony of terror and affright, exclaiming, as she hurried on her clothes-- "O Mary, Mary! we'll stay here no longer. Not another day--not another day. I'll go into Glasgow this forenoon, and consult with our uncle about selling off, and removing into the city. We will not stay here, Mary, to be robbed and murdered." "I am as uneasy remaining here as you can be, Jane," replied her sister, now more than ever alarmed by the latter's wild looks and unusual excitement; "but what is the meaning of this sudden outcry?" "It does not matter, it does not matter, Mary," said Jane, in great agitation, and still hurrying on her clothes; "but I'll go this day to Glasgow, and consult our uncle." And, without vouchsafing any explanation of the cause of this sudden determination, so peremptorily expressed, she shortly afterwards took a hasty breakfast, and, in a few minutes more, was on the road to Glasgow, a distance of from four to five miles. The uncle whom Jane proposed to consult on this occasion was a brother of her mother's, named James Davidson. He was in poor circumstances, and had been so all his life; and, whether from this or some other cause, he had never stood high in the favour of his brother-in-law. He was a hard-featured old man, stern and morose, and without any of that patient forbearance of disposition and manner which gives to age so pleasing and amiable a character. Davidson, as we have said, was poor. He had never been able to improve his circumstances, or to rise above the condition of a labourer. There he started, and there he was still. Nor did his eldest son promise to be more fortunate in the world. He inherited his father's disposition, which was an unhappy one; was idly inclined; and, somehow or other, could never gain the good-will of any one. Neither Jane nor Mary Edmonstone had ever seen much of their uncle; their father's dislike to him prevented this. Neither did they know much about his circumstances or character; the same cause preventing all intercourse between the families. They, in short, only knew of their uncle's existence by his frequent applications to their father for the loan of money, which he invariably refused. Still, he was their uncle, and the nearest relative they had, and, in their present circumstances, they naturally looked on him as the fittest person to consult regarding their affairs, their wishes and intentions. These Jane now laid before the old man, who received her kindly, notwithstanding his usual asperity of manner; telling him, at the same time, that she and her sister were resolved, at all hazards, and at whatever loss, to sell off at Braehead, and take up their residence in Glasgow; "for," said she, "we are day and night in danger of our lives yonder; and besides, we are wholly unable to conduct our father's business--buying and selling cattle--or to carry on the affairs of the farm. These are things that we cannot do--and neither need we, as we have enough to live upon without it. All that we want is safety." The old man heard her patiently, and it was some time before he made any reply. At length he said-- "Yes, enough to live upon, I daresay you have. How much did your father leave, Jane?--in money, I mean." "Somewhat about three hundred pounds," replied his niece. "A good round sum," said the old man, "to be all in hard money. And is it all past you--all in the house?" "All." Davidson thought for a moment. Then--"Well, I'll tell you what it is, Jane," he said: "I do not at all approve of your leaving Braehead. If you do so, you throw yourselves at once upon your little capital, which will not last you very long in a town like this, where all would be going out, and nothing coming in--and where would you be when it was exhausted? Now, your byres and farm in the country are a certain source of emolument to you; and, by keeping these, you will make a decent maintenance of it, without encroaching on the funds left you by your father. My advice to you, then, Jane, is, by all means to remain where you are. Hire persons to do your heavy out-of-door work; and, as the distance is not great, I will come out myself once or twice a week, and assist you with both my personal services and advice." "Thank you, uncle," replied his niece; "but we really cannot remain at Braehead, on any account. I would not remain in it another week for any consideration." "No! what for, Jane? What are you afraid of?" said her uncle. "Of being murdered," replied Jane; "and I have but too good reason to fear it." "Nonsense, Jane. Who would murder you? What ridiculous fears are these?"' "But I have a reason, though, for fearing it, uncle," replied his niece, with emphasis. "Reason!--what reason can you have but your own idle and absurd fears?" "Yet I have, though, uncle," said Jane, pertinaciously, but appearing somewhat confused and embarrassed. "What do you mean, girl?" said her uncle, fixing his keen grey eye upon her countenance scrutinisingly; for he observed her embarrassment. "What _is_ this reason of yours for so unreasonable a fear?" "Well, uncle, I'll tell you what it is at once," replied Jane: "I had a most frightful dream last night. I dreamed that a soldier--a tall, fierce-looking man--broke into our house in the middle of the night, with a drawn bayonet in his hand; that he murdered my sister before my eyes--I saw her blood streaming on the floor; and that, having done this, he seized me by the hair of the head, and was about to plunge his bayonet into my heart, when I awoke. It was a horrible dream, uncle, and has made such an impression on me--it was so fearfully true--that I cannot think of abiding longer in the house. It was this frightful dream that urged me in to see you to-day. I have not told my sister of it; for it would put her distracted." Jane's uncle listened patiently, but with a smile of contemptuous incredulity, to the strange dream of his niece; and when she had done-- "Pho, pho! what stuff!" he said--"what absurd stuff! How can you be so silly, girl, as even to speak seriously, let alone putting any faith in such nonsense as this?" "I cannot help it," interrupted Jane. "Well, well--perhaps you cannot," continued Davidson; "but it is not the less ridiculous for that; and, if it were known, it would certainly get you laughed at. Pay no attention to such trash, Jane. Think no more of it; but return to Braehead, and proceed with your usual occupations, and I will come out in a day or two, to see how you get on." To this he added the advice which he had already given, and in nearly the same words, but in vain. Nothing could drive the girl from her purpose--from her determination to leave Braehead. Finding this-- "Well, then," said her uncle, "at least remain where you are for a day or two, when I will come out and assist you in your arrangements, and in the disposal of your effects; you cannot manage these matters yourselves." To this proposal Jane yielded a reluctant consent, but repeated her determination to leave the place as soon as possible, and to come into Glasgow to reside. On this understanding, then--namely, that Jane and her sister should remain at Braehead until their uncle came out--the former returned home, when she told Mary of all that had passed, excepting what related to her dream, to which, for the reason she had herself assigned, she carefully avoided all allusion. By a very strange coincidence, however--but, though strange, by no means unprecedented--the considerate caution of Jane, in the particular just spoken of, was soon after rendered unavailing. On the very next morning, the elder sister awoke, in an exactly similar state of perturbation with that in which Jane had arisen on that preceding, exclaiming-- "O Jane, Jane! I have had a frightful dream!" "What was it, Mary?" inquired her sister, in great alarm, recollecting her own frightful vision. "O Jane!" replied the former, still trembling with terror, "I dreamed that a person in the dress of a soldier broke in at our back-window, and murdered us both. O God! it was horrible! I think I see you on the floor there, struggling with your murderer, who held a naked dagger in his hand, with which he had already stabbed you in several places." "Gracious God protect us!" exclaimed Jane, leaping to the floor, in a state of alarm exceeding even that of her sister. "This is dreadful! Oh, these are fearful warnings! It can no longer be doubted--it can no longer be doubted! O Mary, Mary! I dreamed precisely the same thing last night; and it was that, though I did not tell you, that hurried me in to our uncle yesterday. I told him of my dream; but he treated it with contempt. He will surely now acknowledge that it is a warning not to be slighted." We need not interrupt our narrative at this point, by stopping to describe further Jane's feelings on hearing of this strange and appalling repetition of her own frightful vision. These feelings were dreadful. She grew pale as death, and shook like an aspen leaf. On their first terrors subsiding a little, the two sisters began to consult as to what they should do, to avoid the horrible fate with which they now had no doubt they were threatened; and finally resolved that, if their uncle did not appear on that day--or, indeed, whether he appeared or not--they would, on the next, remove to Glasgow, taking with them all their ready money, and whatever other things they could conveniently remove, and leave the rest, for a time, under the charge of a neighbouring farmer, who had been an intimate friend of their father's. They, in short, resolved that, in any event, they would remain only one other night at Braehead. Before proceeding further with our story, we would beg the reader to observe, that the circumstances we are now relating occurred in the year 1760, in the month of January. It was a winter of great severity, and remarkable for the amazing quantity of snow that fell; but one of the wildest days of that wild season was the 21st day of the month above named. It was the same day in which the scene between the two sisters which we have just related occurred. The storm, bearing huge drifts of snow on its wings, which had been raging all day, increased as night approached; and, when darkness had fallen upon the earth, it became tremendous. The trees around the little cottage of Braehead bent before the wind like willow wands; and loud and wild, nay, even appalling, was the rushing sound of the storm amongst the leafless branches. The snow, too, was whirling all around, in immense dense masses, and overwhelming every object whose height they surpassed in their cumbrous layers of white. It was in truth a fearful night, and such a one as no person long exposed to it could possibly have survived. Dreadful in particular to the lonely traveller, who was seeking a distant refuge, and whose urgencies required that he should do battle with the storm; and many a harrowing tale was afterwards told of the shepherd and wayfarer who had perished in the terrible night of the 21st of January, 1760. While the tempest is thus howling about the little lonely cottage of Braehead, and the huge wreaths of snow are blocking up door and window, what are its two solitary inmates about? There they are, the two unprotected women--all their previous fears increased tenfold by the awful sounds without, and their sense of loneliness and helplessness deepened into unendurable intensity. There they are, we say, sitting by their fire, pale and trembling, one on each side of the chimney--for they are afraid to go to bed--listening in silent awe to the raging of the storm. It was only at long intervals that the two sisters exchanged words on this dreary night, and then it was little more than a brief exclamation or remark, excited by some sudden and violent gust that swept over their little cottage, or roared amongst the trees with a fury exceeding the general tenor of the storm. To bed they could not think of going. They therefore continued by the fire, where they sat almost without moving for many hours. It was now late, perhaps about twelve o'clock, and the storm was at its height, when the fears of the two lonely sisters were suddenly wrought up to a horrible climax, by a loud rapping at the door, which, again, was instantly followed by the sound of a voice imploring admittance. In the first moment of alarm, the women leaped from their seats and flew to different corners of the apartment, screaming hideously, having no doubt that their fatal dream was now about to be realised. From this terror, however, they were gradually in some measure relieved by the supplicatory language and tones of the person seeking admittance. "For God's sake, open the door!" he said--for it was the voice of a man--"or I must perish. I have already travelled fifteen miles in the storm, and am now so benumbed and exhausted that I cannot move another step. Open the door, I say, if you have the smallest spark of humanity in you, and give me shelter till daylight." Somewhat reassured by these appeals, which had in them so little of a hostile character, and to which circumstances gave so truthful a complexion, Jane, the younger of the two sisters, asked the elder, in a low voice, what they should do. "Shall we admit him?" she said; "for it really seems to be a person in distress, and it would be cruel to refuse him shelter in such a night as this. We could never forgive ourselves, Mary, if the poor man should perish in the storm." "It is true, Jane," replied her sister--"we could not indeed. We will admit him, and trust the result to God. He will not allow a deed of charity and benevolence to be turned into an instrument of crime." Saying this, Mary approached the door, and, placing her hand on the bar, put one other query ere she undid it. "Are you," she said, addressing the person without--"are you really in the situation you represent yourself to be?" "Before God, I am!" replied the voice from without, emphatically. "Admit me for heaven's sake! You have nothing to fear from me." In the next instant the bolt was withdrawn, the door flew open, and in walked a man in the garb of a soldier. The brass plate on his cap glittered in the light of the lamp held by the younger sister, who stood at some distance from the door, and from beneath the greatcoat he wore peeped the dreaded red livery of the king. One fearful and simultaneous shriek from the sisters, as they fled frantically into the interior of the house, told of this horrid realisation of their dreams. The soldier, in the meantime, walked into the kitchen; but any one who should at this instant have marked his countenance, would have seen very little in it to indicate the fell purpose for which there seemed good reason to fear he had come. He was, in truth, a young, handsome, and singularly good-looking man, with a face expressive of great good-nature and mildness of disposition. Little regarding these indications of a character so different from that which occupied their minds, the sisters continued to express their horror and alarm in wild shrieks, and in the most piteous appeals for mercy. On their bent knees they implored it; offering all they had, if their lives were only spared. The soldier, benumbed and exhausted though he was, seemed to forget his own sufferings in contemplating what he appeared to consider as a most extraordinary and unaccountable scene--the terrified sisters on their knees, imploring his mercy. "Good women," he at length said, "what is the meaning of this? What are you afraid of? Is there anything in my appearance so dreadful as to excite this extraordinary alarm? If there be, I never knew it before; and am very sorry to find it out now. I am sure I intend you no harm--none in the world. God forbid I should! I am but too grateful to you for having opened your door to me; and but too happy to get near this cheerful fire." Again somewhat calmed by these friendly expressions, so different from what they had expected, the sisters ceased their frantic cries for mercy; and, though yet far from being reconciled to their tremendous visiter, they became a little more composed when the soldier, perceiving the effects of his disclamations, followed them up by repeated assurances of the perfect innocence of his intentions, and of the perfectly accidental and harmless nature of his visit. These asseverations, delivered, as they were, in a mild and conciliatory tone, eventually induced the sisters not only to look with less alarm on their unwelcome guest, but to desire him to take a seat by the fire. We will not say, however, that this act of kindness was dictated by pure benevolence. We will not say that it was not done more with a view to disarm their still dreaded visiter of any hostile intentions he might entertain towards them, than from any feeling of compassion. Be this as it may, however, the soldier, after throwing off his snow-covered greatcoat, gladly availed himself of the invitation of his hostesses, and sat him down before the fire. "Now, my good friends," he said, after having warmed himself a little, and having still further abated the terrors of the sisters by more kind and gentle words, "will you be so good as tell me why you were so much afraid of me when I first entered the house?--for I cannot understand it--seeing that you yourselves opened the door, and of your own accord, and must, therefore, have been prepared to see somebody or other. Was it my cap and red coat that frightened you so? Come, tell me now, candidly." The sisters looked to each other with a faint smile, and an air of embarrassment; but with an expression of inquiry which said as plainly as an unspoken expression could say it--"Shall we tell him?" Their guest perceived their difficulty, and saw very clearly that there was something to explain--something that they did not altogether like to avow. Observing this-- "Come, now, out with it!" he said, laughingly, "and, depend upon it, I shall not be the least offended, however uncomplimentary it may be to myself." "Well, then," said the younger sister, "I _will_ tell you. Both my sister and I dreamed very lately, that a soldier came into this house here, as you have done, and murdered us. We both dreamed the same dream at different times, and without its being previously known to either of us. Now, you'll allow that there was little wonder that we should have been so much alarmed at your appearance." "Odd enough," said the soldier, laughing; "but, in my opinion, very particular nonsense. Had you dreamed of a soldier coming to court you, it would have been a much more likely thing, and you would have had a better chance of seeing it realised, I should think, than that he should have come to murder you." "But why were you abroad in such a night as this, and at such an hour?" inquired the elder sister, whose fears, as well as those of Jane, were by no means entirely allayed by this familiarity. "Where were you going to, and whence came you?" "Why, I'll tell you all about that, mistress," replied the soldier, "when I have filled this pipe." And he proceeded to the operation of which he spoke. When he had done, and had expirated a whiff or two--Now, I'll tell you (he said) how it happens that I am out in such an infernal night as this. Depend upon it, it was not with my will. I belong to the 50th Regiment, now stationed in Glasgow, and have been absent on furlough, seeing my poor old mother in the south country, where she resides. I had not seen her, poor soul! for several years; and as she was unwilling to part with me again, I was obliged to stay with her to the last moment of my time. My furlough expired yesterday, and I was anxious to get on to quarters before it was out; for we have got a devil of a fellow in our commanding officer: and this is the reason why I was so late upon the road in such a night. I wanted to save my distance, and avoid a bothering. But it wouldn't do--I was obliged to knock under. I found my poor mother (went on the soldier) in much better circumstances than I expected to find her; for my father left her in great poverty and with a large family; but a rather curious occurrence gave her a lift in the world, in her own humble way, about a couple of years ago, of which she still reaps the benefit. Mother, you see, is a very pious woman, and she attributes it all to Providence, saying that it was the Divine interference in her behalf. However this may be, it was a very simple affair, and all natural enough. In mother's neighbourhood, you see--she lives in a remote parish in the south of Scotland--there resides a fellow of the name of Tweedie--Tom Tweedie. Tom is a cattle-dealer to business, and is well to pass in the world--a lively, active, bustling little scamp he is, and extremely fond of a practical joke, in which he often indulges at the expense of his neighbours. Amongst those who suffer most severely by his waggery is a good-natured man of the name of Brydon--Peter Brydon, a farmer who lives close by him--that is, at the distance of about a mile or so. Well, on this person, who is his favourite butt, Tweedie has played innumerable tricks--all, indeed, of a harmless character, but some of them sufficiently annoying. Either from want of opportunity, or what is more likely, from want of genius, Peter never could accomplish any retaliation--a circumstance which tended greatly to increase the fever of agitation in which Tweedie's superior dexterity and ingenuity in the way of practical joking constantly kept him. At length, however, chance threw in Peter's way what he considered an excellent opportunity of annoying his mischievous neighbour in turn. Passing the gable of Tweedie's house one morning, pretty early, on horseback (the road he was travelling led close by it), Peter saw a huge wooden dish of oat-meal porridge smoking on the top of the wall of the house-yard. It was intended for the breakfast of the family, and had been put out there to cool. On seeing the dish of porridge, Peter, struck with a bright idea, instantly drew bridle, and, after contemplating it for an instant, rode up to it, and having previously looked carefully around him to see that nobody marked his motions, he lifted the dish from its place, porridge and all, placed it before him on the saddle, brought his plaid over it so as to conceal it, and rode off rejoicing with his prize. Well, you see, it happens that my mother's house lies close by the road on which he had to travel, and at the distance of about a mile from the place where the robbery had been committed. Now, it struck Peter that he could not do better than leave the dish of porridge there, where he knew there was a houseful of children, who would clear all out in a twinkling; but he did not know--for my mother had carefully concealed her poverty from her neighbours--how seasonable would be the supply which he now proposed to bring them. On that morning, the children had no breakfast of their own to take. There was not a morsel in the house to give them. Having made up his mind as to the disposal of the dish of porridge, Peter made directly up to my mother's door, and, without dismounting, rapped with the butt-end of his whip. My mother came out. "Here," said Peter, handing down the stolen mess; "here's a dish of porridge I have brought for the children's breakfast." "Porridge!" exclaimed my mother, in amazement, and at the same time blushing deeply, from a conviction that her poverty had been detected, "how, in all the world, came you to think of bringing porridge to me, Mr Brydon?" This was a question which Peter had but little inclination to answer. He therefore waived it. "Hoot, hoot, guidwife," he replied, "what does that signify? There they are--that's enough--and a capital mess, I warrant ye, your young anes will find them. So let them fa' to wark as fast's they like, and muckle guid may't do them! It'll save you the trouble, at ony rate, guidwife, of making a breakfast of your own." My mother having now no doubt that her neighbour knew of her destitute condition--of which, however, he, in reality, knew nothing--and that his gift was one of pure benevolence, rising the corner of her apron to her eyes, thanked him with such expressions of humble gratitude as gave him full information regarding what she thought he already knew--her straitened circumstances. Peter made no remark, at the time, on my mother's confession of poverty, and said little or nothing in reply to what she addressed to him, but rode on his way. Well, it happened that, on this very day, my mother went to Tweedie's house with some yarn she had been spinning for his wife, who occasionally employed her in that way, when the latter, amongst other things, informed her of the robbery of the porridge; adding, however, that she cared little about the mess, and only regretted the loss of her dish, which, she said, was an excellent one of its kind. "If they would only bring me the basin back," she said, "they are welcome, whoever took it, to its contents." The blood rushed to my mother's face. She remained for some moments in silent confusion; but at length said--her face as red as crimson-- "Mrs. Tweedie, your dish is safe; it is in my house, but the porridge is gone." "In your house, Mrs. Johnston!" (that is my mother's name)--"my basin in your house! How does that happen?" replied Mrs. Tweedie, with a look of surprise, and something like displeasure. My mother detailed the circumstances as already related; and, thinking herself compelled to acknowledge her poverty, as an apology for having made use of the porridge, she fairly stated her condition; saying, amongst other things, that when it came she had not a morsel in the house. Mrs. Tweedie rated my mother for not having told her before of her situation, and concluded by promising that neither she nor her children should ever again want a meal as long as she had one to give them; and she instantly loaded her with as many potatoes as she could carry home. Her husband, who was present on this occasion, enjoyed the joke exceedingly, and gave the chosen victim of his own wit, Brydon, great credit for his trick. He further expressed himself highly pleased that the latter had taken the dish of porridge to my mother, seeing that she stood so much in need of them. To make a long story short (added the soldier), both Tweedie and Brydon, who were good kind-hearted men, from this moment that my mother's necessities were thus so strangely made known to them, took her under their especial patronage. On the following day, Brydon sent her as much meal and potatoes as lasted her a month; each of them took one of my brothers into their service; their wives gave her as much spinning as she could execute; and a complement of provisions, sometimes of one kind and sometimes of another, has been sent her alternately and regularly ever since by the two benevolent jokers. From that day to this, old mother, has never been in want; and when speaking of the occurrence says, that the day on which Peter Brydon brought the dish of stolen porridge to her door was the luckiest in her life. Here the soldier finished his story and his pipe together. Both the matter of his little tale and his manner of telling it tended considerably to calm the apprehensions of his hostesses, and to disabuse them, in spite of their dream, of much of the unfavourable opinion they had entertained of his intentions. Still, however, they felt by no means secure, and would even yet have readily given the half, perhaps the whole, of the money in the house, to have been quit of him. Nor were the fears that yet remained lessened by their having discovered, which they had not done for some time after he had entered, that he wore his bayonet by his side. On this formidable weapon the two poor women looked with inexpressible horror; having a strong feeling of apprehension that it was the dreadful instrument by which their destruction was to be accomplished and their dream fulfiled. Now, too, the sisters detected the fellow occasionally glancing around the house, with a most suspicious look, as if calculating on future operations. He now, also, began to put questions that greatly alarmed them--such as, Was there nobody in the house but themselves? How far distant was the nearest house? and guessing, with an apparently assumed air of jocularity, that their father (they had informed him of his death) had left them a good round sum in some corner or other? In short, his behaviour altogether began again to grow extremely suspicious; and, perceiving this, the sisters' fears returned with all their original force. In the meantime, the storm without, so far from abating, had increased; the dreary, rushing sound of the trees became fiercer and louder, and the fitful gusts of wind more frequent and furious. It was now about one o'clock of the morning, when, actuated by the same motives which had induced them to ask their terrible guest to sit by the fire--namely, to disarm him, by kindness, of any evil design he might entertain towards them--the sisters now offered the soldier some refreshment. He gladly accepted the offer. Food was placed before him, and he ate heartily. When he had done, one of the sisters told him that there was a spare bed in a closet to which she pointed, and that he might go to it if he chose. With this offer he also gladly closed, and immediately retired. The sisters, well pleased to have got their guest thus disposed of--thinking it something like a sign of harmless intention on his part--determined to sit themselves by the fire throughout the remainder of the night. They were, then, thus sitting, and it might be about one hour after the soldier had retired, listening with feverish watchfulness to every sound, when they suddenly heard a noise as if of some one forcing the door. At first the poor horrified women thought it was some unusual sound produced by the storm, but, on listening again, there was no doubt of the appalling fact. They heard distinctly the working of an iron instrument, and the creaking of the door from its pressure. The wretched women leaped from their seats, and again their wild shrieks were heard rising above the noise of the tempest without. Awakened by their alarming cries--for he had been fast asleep--the soldier started from his bed, calling out, as he hurried on his clothes-- "What the devil is the matter now! By heaven! you are all mad." "Oh, you know but too well what is the matter," replied one of the sisters, in a voice faint and almost inarticulate with excessive terror--"you know but too well what is the matter. These are some of the other murderers of your gang forcing open the door. O God! in mercy receive our souls!" "My gang forcing the door! What the devil do you mean?" replied the soldier, emerging from the closet. Then, after an instant--"By heaven! it is so far true. There is some one breaking in, sure enough." Saying this, he drew his bayonet, and ran to the door; but, ere he gained it, it was forced open, and two men were in the act of entering, one behind the other. On seeing the soldier, the foremost presented a pistol to his head, and drew the trigger; but a click of the lock was the only result. It missed fire. In the next instant the soldier's bayonet was through the ruffian's body, and he fell, when he who was behind him immediately fled. The soldier pursued him, but, after running several hundred yards, gave up the chase as hopeless, and returned to the house, where he found, to his great surprise, that the man whom he had stabbed, and whom he thought he had killed outright, had disappeared, and was nowhere to be seen. On entering the house--"Well, my good women," said the soldier, "are you now satisfied of the sincerity of my intentions towards you? Why, I think I have saved your lives, in place of taking them." "You have! you have!" exclaimed both the sisters at once. "And oh how thankful are we to God, who alone could have sent you here to protect us on this dreadful night!" "It certainly was as well for you that I was here," replied the soldier, modestly; "but have you any idea of who the villains could be?" "None in the least," said the younger sister; "but this neighbourhood is filled with bad characters, and we have no doubt it was some of them--for all of them know, we believe, that our father left us a little money. We have alwas dreaded this." "In that case," said the soldier, "I would advise you to leave this directly, and go to some place of greater safety." The sisters told him that they had, for some time, meant to do so, and that they intended going to Glasgow to reside. What subsequently passed, on this eventful night, between the sisters and their gallant protector, we will detail as briefly as we can, in order to get at a more interesting part of our story. Having again secured the door, the soldier sat with his hostesses by the fire till daylight, when, having previously partaken of a plentiful breakfast, he prepared to take the road. Just as he was about to leave the house, the youngest sister approached him, and, after again expressing her gratitude for the protection he had afforded them, slipped ten guineas into his hand. The soldier looked at the glittering coins for an instant, with a significant smile, and laying them down on a table that stood by-- "Not a farthing," he said--"not a farthing shill I take. I consider myself sufficiently paid by the shelter you afforded me. I was bound to protect you while under your roof. By admitting me last night you saved my live--and I have saved yours; so accounts are clear between us. This, at any rate," he added laughingly, "will balance them." And, soldier-like, he flung his arms around Jane's neck, and, ere she was aware, had robbed her of half-a-dozen hearty kisses. This theft committed, he ran out of the door; but was almost immediately after called back again by the elder sister, who, on his return, informed him, that, as Jane intended going into Glasgow on that day, to inform her uncle of what had happened, and to make arrangements for their instant removal from Braehead, she thought her sister could not do better than avail herself of his company to the city, and go in with him just now. "Besides," she said, "I should like you to see our uncle, if you would be so good as take a step that length with Jane, as you will be able to give a better account of the occurrences of last night than she can, and may better convince him of the necessity of our leaving this instantly. Indeed, I do not know if he would believe our story at all of being attacked last night, unless you were to corroberate it. He would think it was just an invention to get away, as he knows of our anxiety to leave this." The soldier was delighted with the proposal, and did not attempt to conceal the satisfaction he felt at having Jane, who, as we have already said, was a very pretty girl, for a companion into the city. In a few minutes Jane was prepared for the journey, and in a very few more she and the young soldier were upon the road; and, as the storm had now entirely subsided, they got on without much difficulty. What conversation passed between them on this occasion, we know not, and can only conjecture from the result, which will be shortly laid before the reader. That it was of a description, however, very agreeable to both, there can be no doubt. In the meantime, our business is to follow them into Glasgow, where they arrive in little more than a couple of hours. On reaching her uncle's with her companion, Jane was greatly disappointed and rather surprised, to learn from one of her little cousins--its mother being out of the way at the moment--that Davidson was not at home, that he had gone to the country on the previous night, and had not yet returned. "Then where's your brother;" inquired Jane. "He's gone to the country, too," said the child. "Is he with your father?" "Yes." "Did he go last night also?" "Yes." "And don't you know where they went to, or when they will be home?" The child could not tell. At this moment the mother of the child came in, and at once accounted for the absence of her husband and son, by saying that they had got work at a distance of some miles from the town, naming the place, and that she expected them home that day, although she could not say when. As the days were short, and her uncle's return uncertain, Jane resolved on going straight home again, and proposing to her sister that they should, for that night, at any rate, remove, taking all their money along with them, to the friend of their father's already alluded to, whose name was Anderson. And this step the sisters accordingly took. Leaving them thus disposed of for a short time, we shall return to their uncle's house in Glasgow; and, by doing so, we shall find there some things of a very extraordinary character occurring. Shortly after Jane had left her uncle's that person came home, but he returned a very different man from what he had set out. Strong, hale, and erect, though somewhat stricken in years, when he went away he now appeared, as he approached his own house, ghastly pale, bent nearly double, and dreadfully weak and exhausted. He seemed, in short, to be suffering from some excruciating pain. He could hardly get along without supporting himself by the walls of the houses he passed. On entering his own house, he went directly to bed, without speaking to any one, further than telling his wife that he was very ill--that he had received a severe injury by falling down amongst some loose timber, a pointed piece of which, he said, had penetrated his chest. His wife, in great alarm, proposed sending instantly for a surgeon; but this the wounded man would by no means allow--saying that his wound, though painful, was not, he thought, very serious, and that he had no doubt he would soon recover. A few hours afterwards, however, finding himself getting much worse, he not only allowed, but desired, that a surgeon should be sent for. One was immediately procured. On examining the wound, he inquired of Davidson how he had met with it. He was told, in reply, the same story which we have just related. "That cannot be true," said the surgeon. "Your wound has not been inflicted by a splinter of wood, but by a sharp three-edged instrument. It is a clean wound, and has all the appearance of having been inflicted with a bayonet or some such weapon. Indeed I feel quite assured of this, whatever may be your motives for concealing it." Davidson repeated his asseverations of having come by his injury by falling on a pointed piece of wood. "Well, well, sir, my business is not how or by what means your wound has been inflicted, but how it is to be cured," (During this time he was examining the injury.) "But I fear," he added, "it is beyond my skill, or that of any other human being. Your wound, I have every reason to think, is mortal." "Do you think so?" said the patient with great calmness and composure. "I certainly do," replied the surgeon, "and I think it my duty to tell you, that, if you have any worldly affairs to settle, the sooner you set about it the better." The patient made no reply for some time, but seemed absorbed in thought. At length he said-- "Could you, sir, procure me a visit from a clergyman? I know none myself, and it may be of consequence that I should see one. I have something of importance to communicate." The surgeon readily undertook to bring such a person as the dying man desired to see, and immediately departed for that purpose, having previously promised, at the earnest request of the sufferer himself, that he would return along with him. "I wish to have you both together," he said, "It will be better that there are two." In less than half-an-hour after, the surgeon returned with one of the clergymen of the city. The moment they entered, Davidson requested the former to shut the door, and to see that it was properly secured. This done, he requested them to draw near him, when he began, in a low voice, the astounding confession that it was he who had attempted to break into the house of his nieces, and that it was he whom the soldier had stabbed on that occasion. All this, indeed, the surgeon had previously suspected; for he had heard of the attempted robbery, and of one of the ruffians having been stabbed with a bayonet by a soldier; but did not, till now, know anything of the relationship of the parties. Thus much the dying man confessed; but he would not say, though pressed to tell, who was his associate in the crime. This person, however, was subsequently ascertained, beyond all doubt, to have been his son, as he never came home, nor was ever afterwards seen or heard of by any one who knew him. Having made this confession, the wretched man expired, and that even before one word of intercession could be offered up in his behalf by the attending clergyman. Having brought this incident to a close, we return to the two sisters, who were now residing with their father's friend, Anderson. This worthy man now took an active interest in their affairs; and, approving of their original intention of removing to Glasgow, did all he could to further their views in this respect, by selling off the cattle, farming utensils, &c., and stock of every kind. Some days after their settlement in Glasgow, their friend Anderson called on them, and remarked, in the course of conversation with them, that he thought, now that they were all snug and safe, something ought to be done for the soldier to whom they owed, not only a great part of their little fortune, but in all probability their lives. At this moment the young soldier entered. During the conversation that followed, Mr. Anderson discovered that the young man would willingly be quit of the army. This discovery he kept in recollection; and, when the soldier left them, he proposed to the sisters to purchase his discharge, and to do so without his knowledge. This was accordingly done on the very next day; and in three weeks afterwards, Henry Johnston (which was the young soldier's name), and Jane Edmonston were united in the bands of holy wedlock. The former, whose dislike of the army, it subsequently appeared, applied only to its subordinate situation--more definitely speaking, to the condition of a private--soon after purchased a lieutenant's commission with part of his wife's money, and finally died a lieutenant-colonel, leaving behind him the reputation of a good man and a gallant soldier. END OF VOL. XIII 
34151	----	WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND. HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE. WITH A GLOSSARY. REVISED BY ALEXANDER LEIGHTON ONE OF THE ORIGINAL EDITORS AND CONTRIBUTORS. VOL. XIV. LONDON: WALTER SCOTT. 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE. 1885. CONTENTS. THE COVENANTING FAMILY, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_ THE OLD CHRONICLER'S TALES, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_ THE PRINCE OF SCOTLAND RETRIBUTION, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_ THE PROFESSOR'S TALES, _(PROFESSOR THOMAS GILLESPIE)_ THE ENTHUSIAST TREES AND BURNS KIRKYARDS POLWARTH ON THE GREEN, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_ THE FESTIVAL, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_ A LEGEND OF HOLYROOD, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_ THE RESTORED SON, _(OLIVER RICHARDSON)_ THE SKEAN DHU, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_ THE SEVEN YEARS' DEARTH, _(JOHN HOWELL_) THE ORDER OF THE GARTER. A STORY OF WARK CASTLE, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_ WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND. THE COVENANTING FAMILY. Thirty years ago, there dwelt an old man named Simon Cockburn, who followed the avocations of parish teacher and precentor. Every Saturday afternoon, after he had washed his hands from the labours of the week, he went down to the public-house of the village in which he dwelt, and took his seat by the parlour window or fire (according as it was summer or winter), to read the newspaper, and see, as he said, "what country Bonaparte had conquered _this_ week;" and, as Simon read of some new achievement of "the terrible Corsican," as he called him, he was wont to lay down the newspaper, take off his spectacles, and say unto himself aloud, "But if the chield should come owre to Britain, surely he will never be guilty o' the cruelty and folly o' doing onything to the parish schoolmasters. He owes so much to learning himsel, that he will certainly respect those who impart it to others." But, if a stranger chanced to be in the room when he had glanced over the news, and as he began to warm and wax mighty over his single pint (or mutchkin) bottle of strong ale, Simon's wonted taciturnity gave way to a flow of speech; and seldom had the conversation continued long, when he invariably inquired, "Did ever ye hear o' the saying, by what law the bishops were expelled from Scotland?" The answer being in the negative, he continued--"Weel, it was neither by civil law nor by canon law, but by _Dunse Law_!" "By Dunse Law, old man!" inquired his auditors; "why, what law is that?" If ye never heard o' it (answered he), it is worth your while going to see it. Ye may become acquainted wi' it without paying a fee to a writer. Dunse Law, sir, is a bonny round hill, which rises behind the honest town o' that name. Ye have a magnificent view upon the top o' it. In my opinion, it is equal to the view from the Calton at Edinburgh; and some o' my scholars that have been travellers inform me that the view from the Calton is every way equal to the far-famed view in the Bay o' Naples. Ye have the whole Merse lying beneath your feet, like a beautifully-laid-out and glorious garden--the garden o' some mighty conqueror, that had converted a province into a pleasure-ground, and walled it round wi' mountains. There ye behold the Blackadder wimpling along; the Whitadder curling round below you, and as far as ye can see--now glittering in a haugh, or buried among woody braes. Before ye, also, ye behold the Cheviots and the Northumberland hills, wi' a broad country, the very sister o' the Merse, lying below them, and which runs to Tweedside, where they stand and look at each other! Down the middle distance runs the Tweed, shining out here and there, like an illuminated lake, and receiving the Border rivers o' both countries into its bosom, just as a hen gathers its young under its wings. To the right hand, also, ye behold Roxburghshire, wi' the dimness o' distance, like a thin veil thrown owre its beauty, and its hills a' before ye. Ye see also the smoke arising from towns, villages, and hamlets, and hovering owre them in the midway air, like almost transparent clouds. Gentlemen's seats, and the plantations around them, lie scattered owre the scene; farmhouses that lairds might live in, and stackyards that no other country could produce. On each elbow ye have the purple Lammermuir, where a hundred hirsels graze; and to the east, the mighty ocean, wi' the ships sailing upon it, where, wi' their white sails spread to the sun, they look from the distance just like sea-birds poising themselves on their out-stretched wings owre the deep. Ye see also the islands that rise wondrously from its bosom--fragments which the great waters have stolen from the dry land, or the dry land from the waters. But I ought to have mentioned that, before ye, also, ye see the ruins o' castles, some o' them still majestic, which changed masters a hundred times, as victory chanced to decide for the English bow or the Scottish spear, and which yet bear manifestations o' having been places o' strength and terror. All these things, sir, and mony mair, do ye see from Dunse Law--for I have described it very imperfectly; but I hope I have said aneugh to convince ye that it is no everyday view. And now, I shall endeavour to explain to ye the meaning o' the saying, that the bishops were expelled from Scotland by _Dunse Law_. When the first and unfortunate King Charles had the infatuation--and I may also say the cruelty--to attempt to bend and twist the consciences o' our forefaithers, just as if they had been willows in the hands o' a basketmaker, to make them swallow the service-book, and to clothe and feed bishops, and bow their heads to them, they, like men who regarded liberty o' conscience, the freedom o' their country, and, above all, the right o' worshipping their Maker as he had commanded them in his Word, to be dearer than life--when the king caused his troopers to ride rough-shod out owre Scotland, and to awe them into obedience with the naked sword--they also laid their hands upon their swords, ready to resist, and, flying to the hills, they congregated together a mighty army. The watchword o' the heroic army was, "_For Christ's Crown and the Covenant_;" and, having congregated together to the number o' many thousands, they, in accordance with the wish o' the Tables and chief men, were placed under the command o' the famous General Leslie. When, therefore, the king heard o' these things, he set out from London towards Scotland at the head o' his gay cavaliers and valorous men o' war, doubting not but that, at the glance o' his royal eyes, the rebellious Scottish peasants would be stricken with awe and reverence, lay down their arms, and bend their necks before him. Now, General Leslie was an old man, and a little man; but he had a wise head, and, like Bonaparte, he had a mighty spirit in his wee breast: and when he heard that the king was on his way to Scotland, at the head o' a regular army, he resolved to meet him face to face; and, for that purpose, the army o' the Covenant marched forward to Dunglass. But when Charles learned from his spies accounts of the numbers, the discipline, and enthusiasm of the Covenanters, his heart failed him; and when he looked on his own army, and perceived that they neither had zeal in his cause, nor discipline, nor numbers, to enable them to contend against the army that he was leading them to oppose, he lowered his tone marvellously. He found that the divine prerogative which surrounds kings is but a broken hedge, owre which every outlaw may trample, where the hearts and affections o' the people dinna form an outer bulwark around it. And though, a few days before, he had denounced all the inhabitants o' Scotland as traitors, and threatened, in the arrogance and confidence o' his heart, to deal with them as such, and had even given orders to his generals to wreak their vengeance on the rebels, he was now glad to send Lord Holland, with a trumpeter, to the camp o' the Covenanters at Dunglass, to proclaim to them that he was willing to grant them all their demands, and that their country should be free, provided they would profess their allegiance to him, and not approach within ten miles o' the Border. Now, sir, the Covenanters were by no means republicans in their principles: all they wanted was freedom--freedom o' mind and body; the right o' worshipping in the manner most agreeable to their conscience; and o' not being compelled to unbutton their pockets to pay for objects o' which they disapproved. They had a sort o' liking for Charlie. His faither was a Scotchman, and had been born among them; and they were anxious to like him, if he would only put it in their power to do it. They were loth to draw the sword against him; and, when they did do it, it was for conscience sake. They therefore accepted his conditions readily; for he promised fairly, and as much, if not more, than they expected to wring from him by the slaughter o' his troops, and steeping the land wi' the blood o' its inhabitants. When Charles, therefore, heard o' the readiness with which they had agreed to his proposal, in the vanity and delusion o' his spirit, he attributed it to his great power and glory as a king; and he repented that he had not offered to them more haughty and less righteous terms. But those that he had proposed to them he had no design to keep. He therefore marched forward his army, and encamped on the south bank o' the Tweed, above Berwick, at a place which historians call the Birks--which I take to be the fields lying between West Ord and Norham Castle. Here he soon gave proofs that, having come from the Thames to the Tweed, it was his resolution not to return until he had wreaked his vengeance on the people o' Scotland, whom he still regarded as rebels. When, therefore, General Leslie heard o' the king's doings, he gave orders to his army to march towards Dunse. But, before proceeding farther, I must make mention o' a Covenanting family, who are to be more particularly the objects o' my present discourse. At that time, there resided in the Castle Wynd in Dunse a singular and godly woman, one Alice Cockburn (or, as some called her, Weather-burn, that being her maiden name). She was the wife o' a devout and worthy man, one Alexander Cockburn, who was the proprietor o' a croft in the neighbourhood; and they had five sons, all men grown. Their names were John, James, Andrew, William; and the youngest, who was nineteen, was called Alexander, after his faither. I hae mentioned Alice first, not only because her name will be hereafter mentioned in this narrative, but also because, while we often speak in triumph o' what our faithers did in securing our civil and religious liberty, we forget to do justice to our mothers, who were even more enthusiastic in the great and glorious cause than our faithers were. They fired their zeal--they first lifted up a voice against tyranny--and, while our faithers fought in the field, they bound up their bleeding wounds, brought water from the brooks to cool their parched lips, and were purveyors to the army, supplying them with clothing and with food. It was on the evening o' the 5th o' June, 1639, that Alice Cockburn hastened into her house, exclaiming, "Rise, husband!--rise, sons!--arm yourselves, and let us awa to Dunse Law; for there is a sicht to be seen there the nicht, such as never before was witnessed in a' broad Scotland, nor yet in a' Christendie. Haste ye! gird your swords upon your thighs, and awa to assist the armies o' the Kirk and our country to do battle against the Philistines." "Tell us what ye mean, Alice," said her husband. "The king and his cavaliers are still near Berwick; I hae heard naething o' our people having left Dunglass, and there can be nae battle on Dunse Law the nicht--therefore, what is it ye allude to?" "The king may be whar ye say," replied she; "but General Leslie and our men are encamping upon the Law; and they are a host whose numbers seem countless as the sand upon the sea-shore. Our oppressors will be consumed as stubble before them, and tyrants will become their captives. Haste ye, sons; arm yersels to be ready for the fight that is to fight. Enrol yersels in the army o' the righteous, for the sake o' the truth, for the sake o' conscience and yer country. And, on my death-bed, if I be deprived o' every other consolation, I will still be borne up by the secret joy, that my five sons and my half-marrow drew their swords, and fought side by side, for the cause o' the Covenant." "Alice," said her husband, "sae lang as I hae ye to stir me up, and mak me mair fervent in the great cause, which it is our duty to support with our whole might and our whole strength, ye shall never hear it said that Sandy Cockburn shunned the brunt o' danger, or that his sword returned empty when he met wi' an oppressor weapon to weapon. My richt hand is aulder and stiffer than it has been; but, when ance suppled, it has lost but little o' its strength--and I think I can answer for our sons." "Ye may do that safely," said John, their eldest; "there shall nae want o' daring be fixed to the name o' Cockburn." His three younger brothers, James, Andrew, and William, agreed with him, and spoke in the same manner; but Alexander, the youngest, and the faither's namesake, though generally esteemed the boldest amongst them, hastened not to provide himself with arms, as his brothers did, but he sat with his arms folded upon his bosom, and was silent. "Alexander," said his mother, "wherefore do ye sit wi' yer arms faulded, and look like ane that wishes to conceal the word _coward_ written on his breast?" "Nae man, no even my brothers, durst ca' me a coward, mother," said he; "but I canna help thinking that this is an unnatural war, in which freends and kindred will plunge their swords into each other. And there are some who would be fighting against us whose swords I would rather feel pierced through my body, than raise mine against them." "Oh, wae's me!" she cried, "am I to be disgraced--is the truth to be deserted by my youngest and dearest--the Benjamin o' my age? Where, laddie--where are a' the precepts I endeavoured to inculcate into you now? But I see how it is: it a' arises out o' yer fondness for the dauchter o' that enemy o' our cause--Robert Stuart. Is there naebody ye can see to like but her? Her father is a spy and a persecutor, a defender o' the supremacy o' bishops, an advocate o' the service-book, and an upholder o' the absolute power o' the king. She is o' the same spirit and principles as her faither is; and, in that respect, she is more to be commended than ye are, for she has hearkened to the voice o' her parents, and has not the sin o' disobedience on her head. Have ye forgot the command, 'Be not unequally yoked?' Rise, Alexander, I command ye, get ready yer arms, and gae wi' yer faither, yer brothers, and yer mother to the camp." "Na, na, guidwife," said her husband, "that maunna be; for liberty o' conscience am I buckling on my sword; and I winna see the conscience o' my ain bairn suffer wrang. If Alexander winna gang wi' us, a' that I ask o' him is, that he winna draw his sword against the cause in defence o' which his faither and his brothers go forth, ready to lay down their lives, if they be required." "Faither," cried Alexander, springing up, and grasping his hand, "I will never fight against ye!--never! I stand by your side to the last, or die by it, and my arm shall be ready to defend ye! Where you go, I will go!" "That is right, Alexander, my man," said his eldest brother; "I kenned there was mettle in the callant, and principle, too--though I must say that he is rather unpleasantly situated, and I canna say that I would like his case to be my ain." His arms being sought out also, the father and his sons were accoutred and ready to depart, when Alice again said--"We have not yet prepared all that we ought to do. We are but stewards o' the inheritance intrusted to our hands in this world; and to the sacred cause in which ye are about to engage, it is our duty also to contribute liberally from the substance with which we have been blessed. Now, what say ye, guidman--do ye think that we could afford to take to the camp, and present before the general, six sheep, six firlots o' wheat, and six measures o' meal? Have ye faith to venture sae far?" "Alice," replied he, "can ye doubt me? If it were necessary, I would consider it my duty not only to part wi' my stock to the last sheep, and wi' my corn to the last firlot--but I would sell the croft also, and part wi' the money, rather than see one who has drawn his sword in defence o' the Covenant and his country want." "Ye mak my heart glad," answered Alice; "and now let us kneel and give thanks that we have lived to see the day when the armies o' the Kirk are gathered together, powerful as those which David led against the Philistines." And Alexander Cockburn and his family raised the voice o' thanksgiving, after which they knelt down together, and he prayed aloud. When they arose, each man girded his sword upon his thigh, and the father commanded that a horse should be harnessed, which was laden with the wheat and the meal for the army of the Covenant. The sheep they drove on before them, and Alice accompanied her husband and her sons. I must now, however, take notice o' Mr Stuart, o' whom particular mention was made by Alice, as being an enemy to the Covenant, and a persecutor o' its adherents. He was a man o' considerable substance, and lived about midway between Dunse and Polwarth. His daughter, to whom young Alexander Cockburn was attached, and whom his mother cast up to him, was called Flora. She was at that period a bonny young creature o' eighteen; her hair was like the yellow gowd when the sun shines on't, and her een were a brighter and a safter blue than the sky on a summer morning, when there isna a cloud in a' the heavens. She was tall and gentle-looking, and her waist ye might hae spanned wi' your hand. It was wranging her to ca' her a persecutor; for though she was an advocate for Episcopacy, as her faither had taught her to be, there wasna a sentiment in her heart that could hae wranged a worm. Young Alexander and Flora had become very early acquainted wi' each other, and as early intimate. They were yet but bairns in a manner; but, young as they were, they had a happy _langsyne_, on which they could look back, in which they had "Paidel'd in the burn, And pu'd the gowans fine." They had been playmates from the time that they could toddle hand in hand thegither; and the hands that they had joined to help each other to run when but infants, they now wished to join for good and a', that they might journey pleasantly together through life. Their hearts had become insensibly twisted around each other, and they had been so long entwined, that they had become as one. But I must now inform you of the arrival of Alice, her husband, and her sons, at Dunse Law. When they arrived at the camp, Alexander the elder inquired of one who seemed, by the orders which he was giving, to be an officer, or a man in authority, if he could see the general; for the officers in the army of the Covenant wore the plain blue bonnet, and the blue riband streaming from it, without any distinction from the men in the ranks; and when the men lay upon the bare ground, so did they. "Ye seem to come wi' a free-will offering," said the officer; "and not only wi' an offering o' provision, but, judging by your soldierly array, ye come to fight the battles o' conscience, the Covenant, and our country." "We do," said the father; "my five sons and mysel, and these sheep and provisions, are the offerings o' my children's mother; which, my lord, or whatever ye may be, wi' her husband and five sons thrown into the scale, makes nae sma' sacrifice." "Ye speak truly, worthy friend," said the officer; "we rejoice in such devotedness towards our glorious purpose. It is a volunteer cause, and Heaven affords us assurance of victory. Yonder, see ye, is the general riding round the tents on the black horse; go to him before he take up his quarters in the castle for the night. He will give ye a gracious welcome." "Weel, that is very odd," said the senior Alexander Cockburn, gazing upon the general with a look o' surprise. "He is a wee, auld-looking body. My opinion o' him was, that he would be something like what we understand Sir William Wallace to have been--a man before whom his enemies fled, at the shaking o' his spear." "O Alexander!" said Alice, "hae ye forgot yoursel athegither, or rather hae ye forgot your Bible? Do ye no remember the purposes for which the weak things o' this earth were chosen?" "True, Alice," said he; "I stand corrected." And the father, the mother, their armed sons, and the sheep and provisions which they brought with them, were placed before General Leslie. "Well, good folk," inquired the general, "what would ye wi' me?" "We come, sir," said the elder Cockburn, lifting his bonnet, "to offer you our best services o' heart and hand, and to--to----" Here old Alexander, who, though one o' the most rigid and unbending men o' the Covenant, was withal a man o' singular modesty, and, in some respects, o' bashfulness, began to falter; on which Alice, taking upon herself the office o' speaker, began to say--"Yes, your excellency--that is, your generalship--we are come----" But her husband gently pulled her by the sleeve, whispering, "Haud sae, Alice, just let me gang on--ye ken it behoves a woman to be silent, and in an assembly to open not her mouth." Though an obedient and an affectionate wife, this was a point which she probably would have been disposed to argue with him; but the general, interfering, said, "Wi' your good leave, sir, I shall hear your wife. Scotland owes a debt to its wives and mothers, which, as a nation, they should be proud to acknowledge; they are manifesting a godly enthusiasm, which is far, far beyond the boasted virtue o' the mothers and maidens o' Rome, when they saved their city from destruction. Speak on, good woman." Alice, thus emboldened, proceeded--"Weel, sir, as my husband has said, he and our sons have come to offer you their best services o' heart and hand; and o' the little we can spare, we hae brought ye six sheep, six firlots o' wheat, and six measures o' meal. The latter is but a poor offering; but when, as a wife, I present to ye my husband, and as a mother, my five sons, I trust that what we bring will not be altogether unacceptable; while it shall be my care to provide means at least for their support; so that, if they be not of assistance to ye, they at least shall not be a burden." The old general dismounted, and took Alice by the hand. "While Scotland can boast o' such wives and mothers as you," said he--"and I am proud to say there are many such--the enemies o' the Covenant will never be able to prevail against us." Alexander Cockburn and his five sons then began to erect a sort o' half hut, half tent, beside those o' the rest o' the army, that they might be always in readiness. And, oh, sir, at that period, Dunse Law presented one o' the grandest sights that ever the eyes o' man were witness to. On the side o' that hill were encamped four-and-twenty thousand men. Lowest down, lay the tents o' the nobles and the great officers, their tops rising like pyramids; before them were placed forty pieces o' cannon; and between them were the tents o' their captains; and from every captain's tent streamed a broad blue flag, on which was inscribed the words I have already quoted--"FOR CHRIST'S CROWN AND THE COVENANT." Higher up the hill were the straw-covered and turf-built huts o' the soldiers: and from the rising o' the sun until its going down, ye wouldna hae heard an oath or a profane expression amongst those four-and-twenty thousand men; but, on the contrary, hundreds o' the ministers o' the gospel were there, each man with his Bible in his hand, and his sword girt upon his thigh, ready to lead his followers to the battle, or to lay down his life in testimony o' the truth o' the doctrines which he preached. Morning and night there was public worship throughout the camp, and the drum summoned the army to prayers and to hearing the Word, while the services were attended by all, from the general down to the humblest recruit that had but newly entered the ranks. At every hour in the day, also, from some part o' the camp or other, the sounds o' praise and prayer were heard. Every man in that army was an enthusiast; but he had a glorious cause to excite his enthusiasm--the cause o' his Creator, and his country's liberty--ay, and the liberty, the rights, and privileges o' posterity also. Yes, sir, I say o' posterity; for it is to those men that we are indebted for the blessings and the freedom which we enjoy beyond the people o' other countries; though there are men who dared to call them _mere fanatics_!--fanatics, indeed!--but, oh, they are fanatics that saved their country--that braved oppression--that defied it even to death, and that wi' their own blood wrote the irrevocable charter o' our liberty! If they were fanatics, they were such as every nation in the world would be proud to call its sons, and would glory to have possessed. They are fanatics, if they must be called so, whose deeds, whose characters, whose firmness o' purpose, the integrity o' whose principles, and whose matchless courage, with the sublime height to which they carried their devotion, despising imprisonment, pain, and death, render us unworthy o' being numbered as their descendants. I canna endure to hear the men, whose graves are the foundations on which are built our civil and religious liberties, so spoken o'; I winna see their graves--I winna hear their memories profaned. More fit we were to set up a national monument in remembrance o' them. On the day after the army o' the Covenant encamped on Dunse Law, the king held a grand review o' his army by Tweedside; but just as the review was over--and when the king and his courtiers were retiring, to sit down to their wine, and their feasts o' fat things, and his poor half-hungered soldiers to kitchen out a broken biscuit or a piece o' bare bannock (while the Covenanters were living like gentlemen on wheaten bread and flesh-meat every day)--some o' the Loyalists, that had clearer een than others, observed the great camp upon Dunse Law, and the hundred banners waving in the wind, and ran to communicate what they had observed to the king. Charles, to do him justice, was a canny, silly sort o' a body, but just infatuated wi' his ideas about his prerogative--by which he meant absolute power--and his foolish desire to force everybody to swallow a bishop, gown, sleeves, and all! However, when he heard that the "blue bonnets were bound for the Border," he spoke angrily and disdainfully to his officers, and upbraided them that they had not brought him tidings o' the movements o' his enemies; and, calling for his prospect-glass, he stood upon the bank o' the river--and there, sure enough, to his sorrow and consternation, he beheld the camp, and the multitude o' armed men. He even to a nearness counted their numbers. Now, Dunse, as the crow flies, not being quite seven miles to where the Tweed forms the border line between Ladykirk and Norham, his Majesty spoke o' punishing the Covenanters for having broken the compact that they had entered into not to approach within ten miles--forgetting, be it remembered, that he was the first aggressor, in having sent his troops to attack a party o' the Covenanters at Kelso; and forgetting, also, that his army was unable to stand up, even for a single hour, against the host who stood over against them. He soon, however, became sensible o' his weakness, and he again began to offer liberal and generous terms to his armed subjects; but no sooner did he find them ready to accept them, than his kingly word became like a whuff o' reek that has vanished out o' sight in the air!--ye may seek it, but where will ye find it? The Covenanters were not willing to bathe their swords in the blood o' their fellow-subjects, and the king was feared to measure the strength o' his army against the blue-bonneted host. But, as it is not my intention to narrate to ye a history o' the wars o' the Covenant, I shall only say that the king, seeing he had no chance if it came to a battle, consented to summon a parliament, and that everything should be settled as the Covenanters desired. Both armies were accordingly disbanded, and Alexander Cockburn and his five sons returned home to their own house, and laid their weapons aside. The old man said that "he trusted the time had come when in this country the sword should be turned into a ploughshare, and the spear into a pruning-hook." But Alice answered him, saying, "O Alexander! a foolish thing has been done by our rulers. They have got an assurance from the king; but they ought to have made assurance doubly sure. You have read, and they must have read--'Put not your trust in princes.' The day is not distant when they will rue that they overlooked that text." There was too much o' the nature o' prophecy in the words which Alice spoke; for twelve months had not passed, when the mischief-making little churchman, Bishop Laud, and other evil spirits o' a similar stamp, egged up the simple king to break a' the promises he had made to the people o' Scotland, and wi' a strong hand carry war and revenge into the country. But, poor man, he reckoned without his host. His advisers were like the counsellors o' Solomon's son--they advised him to his ruin. The news o' his intention ran through Scotland like wildfire. Beacons burned on the mountains--men gathered on the plains--and before the king was in readiness to leave London, all Scotland was in arms. Old Leslie was once more chosen commander-in-chief; and the same valiant men that the year before had encamped upon Dunse Law, gathered together, and marched towards the Borders. They had reached Chousely, which is between three and four miles west o' Dunse, when Alexander Cockburn and his sons again joined them, and brought with them an offering o' provisions, as before. The general again remembered and welcomed them; and he recollected them the more readily, because Alice accompanied them. On the following morning, when the army began to march towards the south, she took her leave o' them, saying, "Fareweel, husband! bairns!--to the protection o' Him whose battles ye go forth to fight, I resign ye. Pray ye that, whate'er betide, I may be strengthened to bow my head, and say, '_His will be done_!' Go, then, acquit yoursels valiantly; think on the sacred cause in which ye are engaged, and trust in the Hand that will sustain ye. Bairns, fareweel!--your mother blesses you!--she will pray for you! Husband, fareweel!--look after our bairns. Alexander! ye are the youngling o' my flock; and oh, hinny, my heart yearns for ye, lest ye permit unworthy thoughts to arise in yer breast, that may deprive yer young arm o' its strength." "Fear not for me, mother," replied the youth. She therefore returned home; and they proceeded wi' the army towards Coldstream, from whence they crossed the Tweed, and proceeded, by way o' Wooler and Longframlington, towards Newcastle, o' which town they came within sight on the tenth day after entering Northumberland; but, finding Newcastle strongly fortified and garrisoned by the king's troops, under General Conway, they proceeded a few miles up the Tyne to Newburn, where the civil war in reality began, and the first battle was fought. When the king's troopers heard that the Covenanters were encamped at Newburn, they galloped out o' Newcastle, sword in hand; each man swearing lustily that he would kill a dozen o' the blue-bonnetted Jockies--as they called the Covenanters in derision--and boasting that they would make prisoners o' all who escaped the sword. But when the inhabitants o' the canny toon heard the braggadocio o' the redcoats, as they galloped through the streets, flourishing their swords, "Dinna brag tow fast, lads," said they, shaking their heads; "words arena deeds; and tak care that each ane o' ye doesna catch a Tartar." Next morning, the battle o' Newburn was fought; and the tone o' the king's soldiers was indeed lowered. They were routed at every point, they ran to and fro in confusion, and their panic was like a whirlwind in a barn-yard. "The road to Durham--show us, show us the road to Durham!" they cried; and, helter-skelter, neck-or-nought, leaving swords, pistols, carbines, muskets, everything they could throw away, by the roadside, away to Durham, and far beyond it, they ran. Only five o' the army o' the Covenant were left dead on the field, but among those five was old Alexander Cockburn, the husband o' Alice. After the battle, his sons found his mangled and lifeless body in a narrow lane, between two gardens, surrounded by a heap o' dead Loyalists, who had sunk beneath his sword before he fell. It is said that the first blow is half the battle; and it was so wi' the Covenanters upon this occasion; their sudden victory at Newburn not only struck dismay into the hearts o' the royal troops, but reason and fear baith began to whisper their warnings in the ears o' the monarch. He once more became a negotiator and seeker for peace with his thrice-cheated and injured subjects. They remembered the divine precept, to forgive their brother though he offended against them seven times in a day, and they kept this commandment before their eyes in all their dealings with the king. They forgave him his lack o' faith, and the hollowness o' his promises; and, extending to him the right hand o' allegiance, he once more gave his kingly pledge to grant them all that they desired, and to ratify it by the acts o' a parliament. Puir man! he had lang been baith king and parliament in his ain person; and he conceived that in him dwelt absolute power, and absolute wisdom; but little did he dree what a dear parliament the ane that he then spoke o' was to be to him. It is distinguished by the emphatic appellation o' "THE PARLIAMENT" even unto this day; and by that designation it will continue to be known. Thus the arms and the cause o' the Covenant again triumphed; and, the objects for which the army took the field being accomplished, they were dismissed, and returned every man to his own house. With afflicted hearts, while they rejoiced at the accomplishment o' the object for which they had taken up arms, the five sons o' Alice Cockburn returned to Dunse. She was yet ignorant o' her husband's death, and having been informed o' their approach, she met them at the door. She stretched out her arms to welcome them, but they fell, as if suddenly stricken wi' palsy, by her side; and wi' a trembling voice, and a look that bespoke her forebodings, she inquired, "Where is _he_?" They looked sadly one towards another, as if each were anxious that the other should communicate the tidings. Her eldest son took her hand, and said mournfully, "Come into the house, mother." Their sorrowfu looks, their dejected manner, told her but too plainly her husband's fate. "He is dead!" she cried, in a tone o' heart-piercing solitariness and sorrow, as she accompanied them into the house, where she had beheld them equip themselves for battle. "My father is dead," said Alexander, her youngest; "but he died bravely, mother, in the cause in which ye glory, and in which a' Scotland glories; and, to the deeds done by his hand on the day he fell, we, in a great measure, owe the freedom o' our country, and the security o' the Covenant." She clasped her hands together, and sat down and wept. "Mother," said her sons, gathering round her, "dinna mourn." She rose, she wept upon their necks from the eldest to the youngest. "Ye hae lost a faither," said she, "whose loss to ye nane but thae wha kenned him at his ain fireside can estimate; and I hae lost hae husband, who, for eight-and-thirty years, has been dearer to me than the licht o' the sun, for wherever he was, there was aye sunlicht upon my heart. But his life has been laid down in a cause worthy o' the first martyrs. I hae endeavoured to pray--'THY will be done;' and pray for me, bairns, that I may submit to that will without repining, for the stroke is heavy, and nature is weak." Again she sat down and wept, and now she lifted her hands in prayer, and again she wrung them in the bereavement o' widowhood, saying, "O my Alexander!--my husband!--shall I never, never see ye again?" And her sons gathered round her, to comfort her. On the day following, Alexander, the youngest o' the sons o' Alice, went towards Polwarth, in the hope o' obtaining an interview with Flora Stuart, whom he had not seen for several months; for, from the time that he had joined the Covenanting army on Dunse Law, her father had forbidden him his house. He spoke o' him as the young traitor, and forbade Flora, at her peril, to speak to him again. But, as the sang says, Love will venture in where it daurna weel be seen; and Alexander again ventured to see her whose image was for ever present wi' his thoughts, as if her portrait were engraven on his heart. It was about the back end o' harvest, and the full moon was shining bright upon the stubble fields and the brown hills; he was passing by Chousely (or, as some call it, Choicelee), the very place where his father, his brothers, and himself, had last joined the army o' the Covenant, when he observed a figure tripping along the road before him. One glance was sufficient. He knew it was she whom he sought--his own Flora. He ran forward. "Flora!" he cried, "stop, dear--stop--it is me!" She turned round and said, "Sir!" The cold abruptness of that word "sir!" was like a dagger driven through his bosom, and for a moment he stood before her, in silence and confusion, as one who has been detected o' some offence. But true affection is never long either in finding words or an equivalent for them. "Flora," said he, holding out his hand, "it is long since we met, I hae suffered affliction since then, and encountered danger, and considering the long, long friendship--the more than friendship, Flora--that has been between us, and the vows we have exchanged wi' each other, I think I micht have expected something mair frae ye now than--'Sir!' Is your heart changed, Flora--hae ye forgot me--or do ye wish to forget me?" "No, Alexander," said she, "I hae not forgotten ye; nor hae I forgotten the vows that hae passed between us, as my unhappy heart is a secret witness; and if I did wish to forget ye, it wouldna be possible. For, wherever I micht be, the remembrance o' you would come o'er my thoughts like the shadow o' a cloud passing across a river." "And after it had passed, would it leave as little impression upon your heart, Flora, as the shadow o' a cloud does upon a river?" "Alexander," she replied, "I am not gaun to argue wi' ye, for I canna. But oh, man, ye hae drawn your sword against your king--ye hae fought against him, ye hae been a traitor in the land that gave ye birth; and, as my faither says, they who are rebellious subjects will never mak good husbands, or be regulated by the ties o' domestic life." "Flora," returned he, "I deny altogether that what your faither says is correct. But, even allowing that it were, I deny that I hae taken up arms against my king, or that I am a rebellious subject. We took up arms against injustice, tyranny, and oppression; and the king had previously taken up arms against us. Look at the whole conduct o' the Covenant army--hae they not always listened to every proposal o' the king, and trusted to his royal word as faithful subjects who were wishful to prove their attachment to his throne and person? But where can ye point out the instance that he has not fled from his engagement and deceived us, and showed us that his promises and his pledges were not stronger than burned straw? Even the last engagement which he has made, and by which he is to secure to us the rights we have sought for, prayed for, fought for, I believe he will break--he will try to evade it, and give us vengeance in its stead--and if he does so, I am no longer his subject, but his enemy, even though it be at the sacrifice o' you, Flora; and rather than part wi' you, were it in my power, I would ten thousand times lay down my own life." "Alexander," added she, "I haena forgotten the days when we were happy thegither, and when we neither thought o' kings nor o' onything else, but our twa sels. But now my faither forbids me to speak to ye; and I maun obey him. And though I think that, in the principles ye are following, ye are wrong, very wrong--yet, Alexander, be ye rebel, be ye what you will, there shall never be another name but yours dear to my heart--though we ne'er meet again." "Dinna meet again, dearest!" cried he; "we will meet--we shall meet!--we shall be happy too! Never talk o' no meeting again." And they clung round each other's necks and wept. They wandered lang backward and forward, forgetting how the hours flew during their lang, fond whispers; and Flora's father, attended by a servant man, came forth to seek her. He vehemently upbraided and threatened his daughter, and he as vehemently reviled Alexander. He called him by names that I couldna mention, and that he bore patiently; but he also spoke disrespectfully o' his mother--he heaped insults on the memory o' his dead faither. Alexander could endure no more; he sprang forward, he grasped him by the throat. He placed his hand upon his sword, which he still wore, and exclaimed, "Sir! there is a point to all endurance, and you have passed it!" Flora rushed forward, she placed her hand on Alexander's arm--"Forbear!--what would you do?" she cried; "it is my faither!" "Nothing!" he replied, calmly, yet sternly; "I would do nothing; I have borne much provocation, and acted rashly--for which rashness forgie me, Flora. When I first drew my sword to resist oppression, I vowed that, should I meet one that was dear to you in the ranks o' the oppressor, though his sword should pierce my body, mine should no be raised against him. Fareweel, dearest--happier days may come." Four years had not passed, when the Covenanters found that they had but small cause to be satisfied wi' the promises and assurances o' the king. Provoked by his exactions, and his attempts at despotism, the people o' England had taken up arms against him. Montrose, who had been one o' the leaders o' the Covenant party, though a man possessed o' wonderfu' military talents, was to the full as ambitious as he was clever; and he hadna principle aneugh to withstand royal promises, smiles, and flattery, he therefore turned traitor to the cause in which he had at first embarked, and he turned the arms o' his Highlanders, and a body o' fierce Irishmen, against the men whom, three years before, he had led to battle. Again many o' the Covenanters rushed to arms, and amongst them the sons o' Alice Cockburn. They served as musketeers under Sir James Scott, and fought side by side at the battle of Tippermuir. When, through the treachery o' some, and the want o' management o' others, the Covenanters were put to flight, the little band o' musketeers, seeking refuge in some ruined buildings, kept up an incessant fire upon the forces o' Montrose, as if resolved to sell their lives at the dearest price. Montrose, after many efforts finding that they would not surrender, put himself at the head o' a powerful body o' Athole men, and rushed upon the gallant band, who defended themselves like lions at bay. O' the five brothers, who fought side by side, four fell; and the youngest only was left, like a servant o' Job of old, to tell the tidings. When Alexander beheld the dead bodies o' his brothers lying around him, sorrow and revenge raged in his breast together. His fury became as the fury o' a tiger that is robbed o' its young. He dashed into the midst o' his enemies--he pressed forward to where Montrose was, crying, "Vengeance! vengeance!" he reached him--they engaged hand to hand. Montrose was pressed against a wall o' the ruins. "Fause traitor! renegade!" exclaimed Alexander--"here shall I die, the avenger o' my country and my brothers' blood!" His sword was uplifted to strike, when a body o' Athole men rushing to the rescue o' their commander, the sword was shivered in Alexander's hand, and he was made prisoner. Several who had heard the words which he had applied to their leader, and had seen his hand raised against his life, insisted that his punishment should be death; and in justification o' their demand, they urged the threat o' the Covenanters to do the same by whosoever Montrose might send to treat wi' them. A sort o' court-martial was accordingly held, and the fettered prisoner was brought forth before a tribunal who had already agreed upon his sentence. He, however, looked his judges boldly in the face. His cheeks were not blanched, nor did his lips move with fear; he heard the charges read against him--the epithets that had been applied to Montrose, who was the king's representative--and that he had raised his sword against his life. He daringly admitted his having applied the epithets--he repeated them again; and, raising his clenched and fettered hands in the face of his judges, he justified what he had said; and he regretted that his sword had been broken in his hand before it had accomplished the deed which he desired. Montrose drew his brows together, and glanced upon him sternly; but the young prisoner met his gaze with a look of scorn. "Away with him," said his judges; "to-morrow, let him be brought forth for execution. His fate shall be an example to all rebels." During the night which he had heard to be pronounced the last o' his existence, and throughout which he heard the heavy tramp o' the sentinel pacing before the place o' his confinement, he mourned not for his own fate; but the tears ran down his cheeks when he thought o' his poor widowed, desolate, and unfriended mother! "Oh, who," he exclaimed--"who will tell her that her bairns are wi' the dead!--that there's not one left, from the auldest to the youngest!--but that her husband and her sons are gone--a' gone! My mother!--my poor mother!" Then he would pause, strike his hand upon his bosom, lean his brow against the wall o' the apartment, and raising it again, say, "And Flora, too--my ain betrothed! who will tell, who will comfort her? Her father may bear the tidings to her; but there will be nae sympathy for me in his words, nae compassion for her sorrow. Oh! could I only have seen her before I died--had there been any ane by whom I could hae sent her some token o' my remembrance in death, I would hae bared my breast to the muskets that are to destroy me without regret. But to die in the manner I am to do, and not three-and-twenty yet! Oh, what will my poor Flora say?" Then, folding his arms in wretchedness, he threw himself upon the straw which had been spread as a bed for his last night's repose. Early on the following day he was brought forth for execution. Hundreds o' armed men attended as spectators o' the scene; and, as he was passing through the midst o' them, he started, as he approached one of them who stood near to Montrose, and he exclaimed, "Mr. Stuart!" He stood still for a few moments, and approaching the person whose appearance had startled him--"Mr. Stuart," he added, "ye hae long regarded me as an enemy, and as a destroyer o' your peace; but, as one, the very minutes o' whose existence are numbered and as one for whom ye once professed to hae a regard, I would make one sma' request to ye--a dying request--and that is, that ye would take this watch, which is all I hae to leave, and present it to your daughter, my ain betrothed Flora, as the last bequest and token o' remembrance o' him to whom her first, her only vow was plighted." It was indeed the father o' Flora he addressed, whose loyalty had induced him to take up arms with Montrose; but he turned away his head, and waved back his hand, as Alexander addressed him, as though he knew him not. Montrose heard the words which the prisoner had spoken, and, approaching Mr. Stuart, he said, "Sir, our young prisoner seems to know ye--yea, by his words, it seems that ye were likely to be more than friends. Fear not to countenance him; if ye can urge aught in his favour--yea, for the services ye have rendered, if ye desire that he should be pardoned--speak but the word, and he shall be pardoned. Montrose has said it." "My lord," said Stuart, "I will not stand in the way o' justice--I would not, to save a brother! I have nothing to say for the young man." And, as he turned away, he muttered, loud enough to be heard, "Let him meet his appointed doom, and ye will extinguish the last o' a race o' incorrigible rebels." "Youth," said Montrose, addressing Alexander, "from the manner in which ye addressed Mr Stuart, and the way in which he has answered my inquiries respecting ye, it is evident to me that the turbulent spirit o' the times has begotten a feeling between ye which ought not to exist; and, through your quarrel, the heart o' a gentle maiden may be broken. But I shall have no part in it. I think," he added, in a low tone, "I have seen your face before. When the lot fell upon me to be the first to cross the Tweed at Hirselhaugh into England, are ye not the stripling that was the first to follow me?" "I am," replied Alexander; "but what signifies that, my lord? _ye have since crossed the water in an opposite direction!_" Montrose frowned for a moment; but his better nature forced him to admire the heroism of his prisoner; and he added, "Consent to leave the rebellious cause into which you have plunged--embrace the service of your king, and you are pardoned--you shall be promoted--the hand of the maiden whom you love shall be yours. I will be surety for what I have said." Alexander remained silent for a few minutes, as though there were a struggle in his bosom what he would say; at length, turning his eyes towards Montrose, he answered, "What, my lord! turn renegrade like you!--desert the cause for which my father and my brethren have laid down their lives! Wi' a' the offers which ye hold out--and tempting one o' them is--I scorn life at such a price. Let them lead me to execution; and I have but one request to make to ye. Ye have heard the favour which I besought o' that man, and which he refused to grant"--as he spoke he pointed to the father of Flora. "Will ye inform his daughter that Alexander Cockburn met death as became a man--that his last thoughts were o' her--that his last breath breathed her name!" "You shall not die!" exclaimed Montrose, impatiently; "I will not so far gratify your pride. Conduct him to Perth," added he, addressing those who guarded the prisoner; "and let him be held in safe keeping till our further pleasure is known concerning him." He had admired the dauntless spirit which young Cockburn displayed, and he sought not his life, but he resolved, if it were possible, to engaged him in his service. For many weeks, Alexander remained as a prisoner in Perth, without hope of rescue, and without being able to learn which cause prevailed--the King, the Parliament, or the Covenant--for the Civil war was now carried on by three parties. At length, by daily rubbing the iron bars o' his prison window wi' some sort o' soap which he contrived to get, they became so corroded, that the stanchels yielded to his hands as rotten wood. He tore the blankets that covered him into ribands, and, fastening them to a portion o' ane o' the broken bars, lowered himself to the street. It was night and he fled to the quay--and found concealment in the hold of a vessel, which, on the following day, sailed for London. But it is time to return to Alice--the widowed, the all but childless mother. Day after day she prayed, she yearned, that she might obtain tidings of her children; but no tidings came. Sleep forsook her solitary pillow, and, like Rachel, she wept for her children because they were not. But a messenger of evil at length arrived, bearing intelligence that four of her sons had fallen in battle, and that the fifth, her youngest, had been made prisoner, and was sentenced to die. "My cup o' wretchedness is full," cried the bereaved mother; "have I none left--not one--not even my Alexander, my youngest, the comfort o' my age? But I must submit. It is for the best--it is a' for the best, or it wadna be. I should rejoice that I hae been chastened, and that my affliction has been for a cause that will confer liberty o' conscience on posterity, and freedom on our poor distracted country. But oh, I canna forget, my heart winna do it, that I was ance a wife--that I was a mother, and had five sons, the marrow o' whom ye wouldna hae found in a' the Merse, but now my husband is not, and my bairns are not, and I am a lone widow, wearying to be wi' them, and wi' no ane here to speak to me! Yet I ought not to murmur!--no! no! It was me that urged them to go forth and fight the good fight; but, strong as my zeal then was--oh, human nature and a wife's, a mother's feelings, are strong also!" But Alice, in the day o' her distress, found a comforter, and one that sympathised wi' her in all her sorrows, in one whom she had but small right to expect to be a freend. When she was left to mourn in solitude, wi' but few to visit her, there was one who came to condole wi' her, and who, having once visited her, was seldom absent from her side--and that was Flora Stuart, the betrothed o' her youngest son, o' whom she had spoken rashly. "Oh, bairn," said she, addressing Flora, "little, little indeed, does Alice Cockburn deserve at yer hands!--for but for me, and my puir Alexander might this day hae been in life, and held yer hand in his. But forgie me, hinny! It was in a guid cause that I hae sacrificed a' that was dear to me in this warld--only, it was a sair, sair stroke upon a mother!" Flora strove to comfort her; but it was in vain. She didna repine, neither did she murmur as those who have no hope; but her health, which had never been what doctors would call robust, was unable to stand the shock which her feelings had met wi'; and, in a few weeks after hearing o' the deaths o' her children, Alice Cockburn was gathered wi' the dead, and Flora Stuart accompanied her body mourning to the grave. I have mentioned that Alexander concealed himself on board a vessel which sailed for London. He had been three days at sea before he ventured from the place o' his concealment, and the captain himself being the son o' a Covenanter, he was conveyed to the great city in safety. He had been but a short time in London, when, meeting with a gentleman who belonged to the neighbourhood o' Dunse, he learned that his mother was dead, and that his father's brother, believing that he was dead also, had taken possession o' the property. Alexander had never had the same religious feelings in the cause in which he had been engaged, that his father and his brothers had. He fought for the sake o' what he called liberty, rather than for any feeling o' conscience; and his ruling passion was a love o' warlike adventures. He, therefore, had been but a short time in London, when he joined the Parliamentary army; and his courage and talents soon drew upon him the notice o' Cromwell, and others o' the Parliamentary leaders. It was about six years after the battle o' Tippermuir, when one, who was supposed to be a spy from the royalists, fell into the hands o' a party belonging to the Parliamentary army. He was examined, and evidence bearing strongly against him, that he had come amongst them secretly to pry out where the army would be most vulnerable, and, if possible, to entrap them into the hands o' their enemies, was produced against him. He was examined a second time, and letters were found concealed about his person which left no doubt o' his being a spy. Some voted that he should be immediately punished with death; but, while all agreed in the nature o' the punishment that ought to be inflicted, there were some who proposed that the execution o' his sentence should be deferred for a few days, until the arrival o' their commanding officer, who was then absent. During the days that he was thus respited, a daughter o' the spy arrived, and flinging herself upon her knees before the officers who had condemned him, she besought them, with tears, that they would spare her father's life. Her distress might have moved a heart o' stone. Before them they beheld youth, beauty, loveliness, bathed in misery--bowed down wi' distress. They saw her tears falling at their feet--but they had been used to tears o' blood, and her wretchedness moved them not. All that they could say to her was that their superior officer was not present, and, with the evidence which they had to submit before him, they could not revoke the sentence they had passed. On the third day, the chief officer o' the party arrived. All that had been proved against the prisoner was told to him, and the papers that had been concealed about him were placed before him. He was about to pronounce the words, "He shall surely die," when, pausing, he commanded that the prisoner should be brought before him. The doomed one was accordingly ushered into his presence. When the officer beheld him approach, he started up. "Can it be possible?" he exclaimed--"Mr Stuart?" and gasped as he spoke. The prisoner also started at hearing his true name, and raising his head said, "It is possible! Alexander Cockburn, I am your prisoner--_It is your turn now_!" The officer, who was chief in command o' the party, was none other than Alexander Cockburn, the young Covenanter, and the doomed spy was Mr Robert Stuart, the father o' Flora. "Sir," said Alexander, "my turn is indeed come--it is come to prove to you, that as generous feelings may kindle in the eyes that are barely shaded by the blue bonnet o' a Covenanter as in those that look proudly from beneath the gay beaver o' a cavalier. There was a time when I stood as you were like to have done now, wi' but a few ticks o' a watch between me and eternity--the watch that ye refused to take from my hand; and when but the expression o' a wish from your lips was all that was required to obtain my pardon, my freedom--and that wish ye wouldna express." "I ken it, lad! I ken it!" cried the prisoner; "but I am in your power now; take your revenge--do by me as I would have done by you!" "No, Mr Stuart!" replied the other, "vengeance belongs not to me. But I rejoice that, in this instance, for the sake o' one whose name I dare not mention here, I have the power o' pardoning. Soldiers, unloose his hands--he is free--he is forgiven." The soldiers did as they were commanded. "Alexander Cockburn!" exclaimed the late captive, "will you make me appear more contemptible than a worm in my own eyes? A minute has not passed since you reminded me how I hated you, and how deadly I showed my hatred. The remembrance o' the occasion on which I showed that feeling has been like a biting adder in my breast ever since; and now to receive life at your hands would be to make my future existence a mixture o' wormwood and gall." "Say not so," said Alexander, stepping forward, and taking his hand. "I would speak with you in private." At that moment a voice was heard without, crying, "Let me pass!--pray, let me pass!--let a daughter intercede with your officer for the life of a father!" "Sir, sir!" exclaimed Alexander, "it is _her_!--it is _her_! My Flora's voice!" And he rushed to the door to meet her. "Flora!--my own Flora!" he continued; "your father is free--he is forgiven--he shall live! What! do you not know me? I am your own Alexander." "Alexander!" she cried, springing forward to meet him, and, yielding to the natural feelings o' the man, her father ran towards them, and embraced them both. My story (said the schoolmaster) is now at a close. Alexander gave up his commission in the Parliamentary army. It was low-water mark wi' the king's people, and Mr Stuart accompanied him; and need I tell ye, that so did Flora. They had abundance to keep them comfortable; and, on the day after they arrived at Dunse, she took them to the kirkyard, and showed them the clean white headstone o' Alice Cockburn. "Bless ye for this, my ain wife," said Alexander, while the tears were in his een, and he raised her hand to his lips. I have only to add (continued the narrator), that I, Simon Cockburn, am the great-grandson o' Alexander Cockburn and Flora Stuart. THE OLD CHRONICLER'S TALES. THE PRINCE OF SCOTLAND. The character of David, Earl of Carrick, better known by the title of Duke of Rothsay, is one of those which nature seems to delight in distributing among nations at distant periods, apparently with the view of teaching mankind, that, however brilliant may be the powers of mind with which an individual is endowed, however captivating the qualities of his person, his sparkling wit, his graceful manners, and polite conversation; and however amiable the generosity, liberality, and feeling of his heart--though all combined with high rank, and even the station of a king--he has no charter of immunity from the obligations of ordinary life; and that, if he endeavours, by the aid of these, to turn serious things into frolic, and force a pastime from the sanctions of religious or moral duty, he must pay the usual forfeit of a departure from the rights of nature, and suffer destruction. This young prince, it is well known, was the son of Robert III. of Scotland, who allowed the reins of government to be wrested from his feeble hands by the cunning and powerful Duke of Albany. The feebleness of the father was not inherited by the son. Rothsay had powers of mind which were equal to the management of a kingdom; and these, there is reason to suppose, he would have displayed for the advantage of his country, if the current of events in which he was involved had not been influenced by his uncle, Albany, and turned to suit his schemes of ambition. The indications of great talent which, in early youth, he exhibited, were hailed by his father with pride and satisfaction; but by his uncle, the governor, with well-founded fear and suspicion. Unfortunately, it soon appeared that the fertility of the soil did not limit its powers of production to the nobler and more useful plants. Along with the prince's great powers of intellect, there arose a love of pleasure which could be gratified only--such was its insatiable character--by every species of extravagant sally and wild frolic. His heart was untainted by any inclination to injure seriously the health, reputation, or interests of any individual, however humble; but, unfortunately, when a love of enjoyment took possession of him, all his intellectual powers, as well as some of his moral perceptions, were abused or overlooked, and a character naturally generous was shaded by the faults of vicious intemperance. To make all this the more to be regretted, young Rothsay was a beautiful youth. His voice was full and melodious, capable of being exerted--and he had the art to do it--in exciting, by the strains of exquisite music, the tenderest feelings of the heart. His manner had in it the affability of a free romping girl, with the grace and dignity of a young prince. His hilarity seemed to have no interval, and his good-humour was scarcely capable of being disturbed. His love of amusement, and his genius in contriving schemes for the promotion of the happiness of his friends and associates, made his company the desire of the aged and the envy of the young. Yet, amidst all this, it was remarked as wonderful, that he seldom lowered the dignity of his rank. Even his frolics were those of a prince, and his humblest acts were performed with that consummate grace which can lend a charm to what, in other hands, would incur the charge of vulgarity. But, while these fair features often set off with greater effect the faults which inevitably flow from the indulgence of unlawful passions, Rothsay had the power of combining his good and evil, and so mixing up his passionate sallies of intemperance or vicious sport with traits of generosity, humanity, and feeling, that it was often impossible to say whether some of his actions were good or bad, or whether the people who had apparently suffered from his unrestrained licentiousness would have escaped the injury to be deprived of the benefit which it produced from the calm reflection of the generous youth. The friendship of Rothsay was extended to most of the young nobles of that period; but no one was so successful in securing his affections as Sir John de Ramorgny--a young man supposed to have come originally from France, and certainly justifying his extraction by his character. Originally bred to the church, he was learned beyond the nobles with whom he associated; and, while few could boast his erudition and knowledge, fewer still could cope with him in original powers of mind. But these powers were ill directed; for they were used only in base intrigues and vicious projects. A more dangerous friend or fatal enemy could not be found among insidious Frenchmen or the still savage Scots. His dissimulation, address, and elegance of personal appearance and manners, were all used, as occasion required, to cover or aid his designs of ambition, or his base seductions and purposes of revenge. Able for the weightier projects of war or diplomacy, and admirably adapted for court intrigue, he did not hesitate to descend to the most trifling and vulgar pleasures. He could play the murderer, the insidious betrayer, and the buffoon or mountebank, with equal address and with equal satisfaction. With these qualities, the more wicked and dangerous of which he could conceal, Ramorgny was easily able to recommend himself to Rothsay; and the affection with which he was treated by the prince was no doubt the effect of a similarity in manners and accomplishments, and a congeniality of humour, which the unsuspecting and generous prince mistook for an agreement of disposition. Scotland is said to have been used from one end to the other, by these dissolute companions, as the theatre of their amusements. They wandered about in disguise, laying rich and poor, old and young, under contributions for their wild pastime. They were often for weeks associated with bands of wandering minstrels and female dancers, entering into their humours, playing on their instruments, learning the secrets of their wandering professions, and imitating their performances. The protean versatility of their powers rendered their extravagant exhibitions of easy accomplishment; while their hilarity and boisterous merriment, recommended by a profusion of money, made them welcome into whatever society of vagabonds they were ambitious of entering. Nor was it by merely courting the favours of these tribes that the companions were permitted to join in their revels. They were able to stand their ground on an equal footing of reckless hardihood, and, where occasion required, of pugilistic authority. They could sing and dance, swear and bawl, get drunk and fight, with the most profligate members of these outlawed associations. These extravagances soon became known; and Queen Arabella, the young duke's mother, was greatly grieved that her eldest son, and the object of her dearest hopes and most anxious solicitudes, should act a part which, while it would alienate from him the hearts of the people, would enable his uncle Albany to continue longer his usurped dominion as governor of Scotland. An attempt was therefore made to unite him to the cares and solicitudes of office; and he was soon installed into that of lieutenant of the kingdom--a council being, at the same time, appointed to advise with him. This step was not followed by its expected benefits; for the governor did not consider it either as incompatible with the duties of his situation, or derogatory to the dignity of his high place, to resort to his old modes of pleasure and amusement. All that was required was a greater degree of care employed upon the habiliments of his disguises; and the lord-lieutenant might have been detected joining in a rondeau with a singing girl, acting the fanfaron with a Hector, performing a daring croupade with a rope-dancer, or tripping to the sound of an Italian theorbo. In all these things he was still kept in countenance by Ramorgny; who, however, while he was joining him in his revels, was meditating schemes of villany and selfishness. The affairs of state having thus little power in withdrawing the prince from his licentious companions and unbecoming practices, it was next suggested by the queen, that the restraining influence of a wife's affections might overcome his propensity for the outlawed pleasures to which he had become enslaved. The king seconded this measure; and without consulting the duke's sentiments, or ascertaining his taste in the choice of a wife, it was communicated to him that the interests of the nation required him to marry and provide an heir to the throne, and that his choice of a wife lay between Elizabeth Douglas, daughter of Archibald, Earl of Douglas, and Elizabeth of Dunbar, daughter of the powerful Earl of March. Neither of these ladies had ever been seen by the prince. It was surmised that he had a special favourite of his own, selected no doubt from a host of willing beauties with whom he associated; and the intelligence that he was called upon to resign his liberty into the hands of a woman he had never seen, could not be expected to be highly relished by a person of his spirit and habits of life. Seeking Ramorgny, Rothsay communicated to him the intentions of his mother, and the commands of his father and the nation, and asked his advice in so trying an emergency. "By your father's crown," cried Ramorgny, "I see nothing for it but to obey. The difficulty lies in the selection; for, if I am able to appreciate the beauty of woman, thou wilt have to choose between a crow and a rook. Elizabeth of Dunbar is the descendant of Black Agnes, who defended that old castle, in the days of the Second David, against the arms of the Duke of Salisbury; and Elizabeth of Douglas cannot fail to have in her some portion of the blood of the Black Earl, who fell in Spain, trusting to the protecting charm of Robert's heart, which he carried with him in a casket. So thou seest the black choice thou hast got; and the matter is not mended by having two in thy option, if the old proverb carries faith, which sayeth, that 'Two blacks will not make a white.'" "By the faith of a prince," replied the duke, "it is a black business; but thou hast been talking genealogically, good Ramorgny, while I wished to have thy opinion physically. Blood doth not follow the law of the mountain stream, by getting more muddy as it descends; neither are men and women of the nature of the gaffled cocks we use to fight at the mains on the Inch of Perth, which send down their fighting propensities to the tenth gallinaceous generation. The two Besses may be whiter than their progenitors, and of less pugnacious propensities!" "Thy argument, good lieutenant," cried Sir John, "hath the goodly property of proving two things:--In the first place, it proves that the two Besses may have white skins; and, secondly, that thou mayest have a white liver; for, if courage hath no descent but in cocks, thou canst not boast of having the heart of the first Robert!" "Hold! thou art too severe," cried Rothsay, "and not logical. Thou art mixing up actuality with potentiality--for that my liver is not white, is proved by the blue evidences I painted on thy back, when, in the gipsy tent at Bothwell, I fought thee for a kiss of the Brown morris-dancer, Marion of Leghorn, who, having given me the reward of my victory, dressed thy wounds for pity's sake, and then cudgelled thee for mine." "I could turn thy argument against thee," answered Ramorgny; "for thy courage was so much at fault, that thou didst require the aid of an Italian morris-dancer to do that which good King Robert would have done himself. But we have wandered from the two Besses, whom it now behoves us to take up, and treat with more respect. What is thy course?" "As lieutenant of Scotland, I commission thee, Sir John de Ramorgny, to repair to the castle of Dunbar, and thereafter to that of Douglas, to inquire into the qualities of Elizabeth of Dunbar and Elizabeth Douglas--to note the height of their persons--the hue of their skins--the colour of their eyes, and the nature of their dispositions; and thereafter to report as becometh a trusty and faithful commissioner of the king." "Thou shalt be obeyed," answered Ramorgny; "but, if the commissioner may be allowed to judge of the matter of his mission, I would suggest that, in my opinion, thou hast left out the most important part of my instructions." "What is that?" inquired the prince. "The dowery, to be sure," answered Ramorgny. "What are complexions and dispositions, to golden acres? What careth the housewife, who wanteth strong broth, for the colour of the capon's tail?" "We will leave that to the queen," said the duke. "Her Majesty wisheth to put me up to sale, and to knock me down to the highest bidder. We can bring the earls up to within a few acres of each other, and of the two pigeons, both equally fat, and brought thus equally within shot, I, to please my fancy, may strike the fairest." Ramorgny was satisfied, and proceeded on his mission. He first went to the residence of March, which at that time was in a castle situated near the town of Dunse; the castle of Dunbar having been, during the late wars, so much shattered, that it required to be put in a state of repair. Ramorgny's rank procured him admittance to the family of the earl, and his intimacy with Rothsay was a sufficient recommendation to entitle him to the greatest attention and respect. March viewed his visit as one of examination and discovery, and took the precaution to prepare his daughter to treat him as the friend and confidant of her future husband. A great dinner was got up in honour of the knight, at which Gawin, the earl's son, and Maitland, his nephew, were present, and all endeavoured, by every means in their power, to acquire the good-will of the prince's favourite. It was not these, however, that Ramorgny wished to study or to please. The daughter was his subject; and his knowledge of human nature soon enabled him to form an estimate of her character not far wide of the truth. She was dark, but beautiful; with a clear, burning eye, which occasionally exhibited flashes of the spirit of her ancestor, Black Agnes. Her temper was clearly that of a demon; her spirit, wild and untamed. When contradicted, her anger, notwithstanding the indications of the displeasure of her parents, burst forth with ungovernable energy. She disregarded the rules of ordinary politeness, by applying to her brother Gawin indecorous names. She scolded the servants; and even, on one occasion, when she had risen from table, and thought she was unobserved, she applied her fingers to the ears of a female, and pinched her till she screamed. The earl, who suspected what was going forward, beckoned to her; the lady winked; the son pulled her by the gown. Their efforts were unavailing. Ramorgny was satisfied that Elizabeth of Dunbar was a true scion of the stock of old Agnes. The experience which Ramorgny had thus acquired was completely corroborated by the common report of the Borders, where the young lady went by the name of Black Bess of Dunbar. She was represented as an incarnation of Mahoun--a fiend, whom all the efforts of her father and mother, aided by their relatives, had not been able to subdue, or soften into the ordinary flexile consistence of mortals. The excuses which were made to the knight by the parents, that she was ill, and had a headache, and so forth, only tended to corroborate his experience and the report of others. His only wonder was, that the Earl of March could have thought of recommending such a female to the arms of a civilised man--to a prince. No one but March could have dared! Ramorgny next directed his steps to the Castle of Douglas, to make his survey and examination in that quarter. He was received by Earl Archibald, who was now an old man, with much cordiality, and in a short time introduced to Elizabeth. The contrast between this lady and the one he had left was remarkable at first sight, and before she had opened her mouth to reply to the elegantly-polished compliments of the most accomplished man of his time. She was fair, with auburn hair and blue eyes; tall, and elegantly formed; imbued with so much of the spirit of a gentlewoman, that her whole figure, in its easy, flexile movements, seemed to obey the slightest touch of the presiding genius of grace and beauty. Ramorgny felt and acknowledged, with that rapidity with which men of the world can detect the indications of an elevated soul, the power of the mute eloquence of this exquisitely-formed complex piece of nature's machinery. But when the spirit spoke, and the combination of so many charms started into new life, responding in every turn and lineament to music that seemed to have been formed to give them additional grace, and apparently claiming the voice as their own individual expression, the effect was completed, to the disturbance of Ramorgny's feelings, and the flight of his peace. Her soft and gentle tones went straight to his heart. The silken cords of love were cast around him by every look, motion, and expression; and the prince's deputy became, in spite of himself, his rival. Ramorgny felt disinclined to leave the castle. Every additional circumstance that came under his observation increased his passion. The prevailing character of Elizabeth's mind and feelings was extreme gentleness, softness, and sensibility, in which could be discovered no affectation of sentimentality. Her manner was natural and easy; and it was impossible to behold her for a moment, without being sensible that she was a creature formed to sacrifice herself, and her individual thoughts, wishes, and aspirations, to the happiness of the man who should be so fortunate as to secure her affections. This softness of manner extended itself to the style of her speech, which was slow, smooth, and natural, seeming to derive its sweetness from the perennial smile that played upon her lips. Struck with an intense passion, Ramorgny forgot the object of his mission. The prince was only recollected as an unpleasant object that came between him and the object of his affections. He resorted to every means of cultivating the good opinion, if not the love, of the lady; but, handsome and gallant as he was--invested with the powers of French love-making, in all its details of conversation, protestation, and badinage--he could not satisfy himself that the gentle and bewitching manners of the lady received any accession, from any increase, in his favour, of the regard and attention she seemed to extend to all the visiters who frequented her father's castle. Ramorgny surveyed this equability of enchanting manner, with the pain of one who, fired with, a strong passion, sees ordinary companions basking in the sunshine of favour which he wishes to be confined to himself. He felt pained, but the pain was an increase of passion, with a diminution of hope. His violent temper hurried him into secret cursing of the day on which he entered in so thankless an expedition; determinations to escape from his duty; and vows that he would secure Elizabeth's love, die, or sacrifice his prince. Ramorgny's threats were no empty sounds. Restrained by no religion--no respect for laws--no terror of punishments--no fear of man--and despising reputation and honour as gewgaws for old women and children--he was fit for the execution of any measure, executed through treachery and blood, to gratify his passions. Chagrined by the manner of Elizabeth, which retained its torturing equability of gentleness and kindness, without any exhibition of partiality, he was ill prepared for a letter which arrived from the prince, chiding him for his delay; hinting, in his manner, that the rooks of Dunbar and Douglas had flown away with his heart, and requesting him to give up the chase, and return to his friend. He added, that he understood that his mother, the queen, had declared for the Douglas; and that he would take her, if she was as black as the good Sir James himself. "If thou wilt," ejaculated Ramorgny, as he perused the letter, "thou shalt at least have the dowery of Ramorgny's sword!" The incensed knight saw, in the midst of his passion, that little good would result from remaining at present longer at the castle. His efforts to produce a corresponding affection in the bosom of Elizabeth were unavailing. He resolved, therefore, to take his departure; and, having kissed the hand of his cruel mistress, and bid adieu to Lord Archibald, he departed. As he journeyed to Linlithgow, where he was to meet the duke, he occupied himself in deep meditation. His thoughts reverted continually to Elizabeth Douglas, whom he pictured to himself the loving and beloved wife of Rothsay, whose success with the fair he envied, but whose openness and generosity he despised as weakness. There already existed a rivalship between them as to the affections of a young lady who had eloped with Ramorgny from her father's house, but who afterwards left him for the more enchanting society of the young duke. This Ramorgny had borne with apparent indifference; but, though he was satisfied that the love of the damsel had not first been solicited by Rothsay, he could not forgive him his superiority of attraction, and imputed to him as a fault, what might, with more propriety, have been termed a misfortune. To lose another object of his affections, and that, too, by ministering to his own discomfiture, would ill become his character for intrigue, and ill accord with the present state of his love for the lady, and hatred for the rival. He must, therefore, endeavour to prevent the union between Rothsay and Elizabeth Douglas; and if that should fail, he was resolved that the loss of the lady would not involve the loss of his victim. His first step was to falsify his account of the two women; and in this he could not do better than reverse their attributes, and substitute Bess of Dunbar for the fair Douglas. "Well, Ramorgny," cried the prince, as he met the knight in the audience-chamber of the palace, "what progress hast thou made in the south? Thy tarrying indicates enjoyment; for when did Ramorgny wait, when there was not something to afford him pleasure and amusement?" "Your grace is right," answered Ramorgny. "The pleasures of March's castle are indeed intoxicating. But thou it was who didst send me in the way of temptation; and if Elizabeth of Dunbar has, by her enchantment, drawn largely on the time of thy commissioner, thou hast thyself to blame. Lord Salisbury, thou knowest, said that her predecessor's love-shafts--meaning the arrows she sent from the old castle walls--went straight to the heart; and, as the lieutenant of this kingdom, and the protector of its subjects, it was thy duty to guard me against a power which seems to be hereditary in the family of March." "Oh, then, Black Bess is fair, after all!" cried the duke. "Give me thy hand. I am right glad on't; for I thought I had no choice--the one being fair, the other ugly; and to have been forced to marry one woman, to the exclusion of the darling liberty of selection, would, though she had been as fair as Venus, have made her like the famed daughter of Phoreus, whose face was as beautiful as that of the sister of Apollo, but whose hair was writhing serpents." "Thy choice, I fear, is not extended by the beauty of Elizabeth of Dunbar," said Ramorgny; "for what she has, Elizabeth Douglas wants. March's daughter is a dark beauty, but her colour is not derived from the dingy hues of earth; it owes a higher origin, even the beams of the son of Latona himself. Yet the jet eyes from which she sends her hereditary love-shafts are the softest engines of death I have ever witnessed. The fire she steals from heaven comes from her as it does from her cognate thief, Phoebe, as soft as moonbeams. Her gentleness is that of the lamb, and the tones of her voice are like the soft strains that come from an AEolian harp, making the heart chase them as they steal away into death-like silence." "Bravo!" cried the prince--"a right good wench. I have ever admired softness in a woman; and I still maintain that there is the same natural fitness in that ordination, as existeth in the connection between heat and fire, light and flame, mirth and life, darkness and death! What sayest thou now to the other Bess?" "Hast thou ever read of Omphale," replied the knight, "who took from Hercules his club, and gave him a spindle, and when he complained, chastised him with her slipper? It was well for the hero that he did not live in Scotland in these days, when brogues, filled with nails, cover the soft feet of some of our damsels. Elizabeth Douglas would certainly imitate Omphale; but, I fear, her slipper would be a brogue; and she farther differeth from her, in being as ugly as she was fair. She seemeth to me to be a limb of the devil, which, in its hurry to escape from the region of fire and brimstone, carried along with it some of these elements of wrath, of which, I doubt not, she would make good use, if a husband dared to say to her nay, in place of yea. Thou hast said that thou lovest softness in woman; but I have heard thee say, in thy mad freaks--wherein, doubtless, reason had no part--that thou wouldst rejoice in an opportunity of taming a shrew. Truly, thy wish, at least to the extent of making an attempt, may be gratified by marrying Bess Douglas; but I would rede thee to consider, that she might tame _thee_. Dost thou observe the difference there? Ha! the noble and high-spirited Rothsay pinned, like a silken nose-cloth, to the skirt of the linsey-woolsey tunic of a modern Xantippe!" "Never fear, Ramorgny," cried the duke, impatiently; "thy efforts in my behalf will save me this degradation. I am obliged to thee for thy warning, and would repay thee, according to the measure of my gratitude and thy desert, by recommending to thee as a wife Elizabeth Douglas, while I will wed her of Dunbar." The art by which Ramorgny thus sustained, apparently with good-humour, his conversations with the duke regarding subjects which lay very near his heart, and invested with serious import, was one of his cleverest but most deceitful qualities. The duke himself treated everything lightly; the unrestrainable buoyancy of his mind cast off with resilient power everything which partook of a sombre character; but Ramorgny was naturally dark, gloomy, and thoughtful; and his efforts at frolic, successful as they were, were resorted to only as a means to accomplish an end. In the present instance, he was necessitated, notwithstanding the intensity of his passion, his vexation, and disappointment, to keep up his old manner; for, where truth was generally arrayed in the trappings of frivolity, deceit might have been suspected in an appearance of sincerity. Fortunately, however, the prince was not left altogether to the advice of Ramorgny; but such is the fate of princes--he got counsel otherwise, only in the suspicions he entertained of an enemy, his uncle Albany. Having heard that he wished him to marry Elizabeth Douglas, and to accompany him to Douglas Castle to see the lady on a certain day, the prince, to escape the importunities of his uncle, and to gall him--a pastime in which he took some pleasure--rode off precipitately to March's castle, to enjoy the society of Elizabeth, in whom he expected to find all the qualities described by his friend, who enjoyed his absolute confidence. When Rothsay arrived at the castle of March, the earl was on the eve of setting out for Linlithgow, for the purpose of seeing him. The behaviour of Elizabeth in presence of Ramorgny had filled March with solicitude as to the issue of the projected match; and he wished to counteract, as far as possible, the accounts which the favourite would, in all likelihood, give of his self-willed daughter. On seeing the prince, he began to entertain hopes that Ramorgny's account was not so unfavourable as he suspected; but his surprise may be imagined, when, in a short conversation he had with the prince previous to his introduction to the ladies, he ascertained that Ramorgny's eulogistic description of Elizabeth had filled him with an irresistible desire to see so beautiful and gentle a creature. March looked askance at the prince, conceiving that he was making him and his family the subject of an ill-timed frolic; but he saw nothing in the face of the prince but the gravest sincerity that his versatile temperament could exhibit. It is not difficult to make doubtful facts quadrate with wishes; and March soon became satisfied that the prince had received a favourable account, and was deeply impressed with a sense of the beauty and merits of his daughter. He immediately introduced him to Elizabeth, according to the request of the prince; but it was not until he had got a gentle hint, that he showed any inclination to leave them together--a piece of etiquette reckoned due to a lover who had been proposed as the husband of his daughter. Pleased with the dark beauty, though unable to observe in her eye the Cynthian beam so elaborately described by Ramorgny, the prince approached the damsel, and, with that air of gallantry for which he was so remarkable, fell at her feet, and, seizing her hand, said, in one of his sweetest accents-- "I know not, gentle damsel, whether I have any authority thus to sue for a slight indication of thy favour; but what may be refused by thy goodness to a lover not yet permitted to approach thee with confidence, may perhaps be granted to the lieutenant of the king. The triumphs of beauty are best celebrated by favour; and condescension, which is the prettiest foil of excellence, is exhibited to the kneeling knight, by extending a hand to grace the act of his rising to receive it." "Thou mayst e'en rise how and when thou wilt," replied Elizabeth, snatching from him her hand; "or thou mayst kneel there till brown Marion of Leghorn or Jean Lindsay of Rossie comes to help thee up. I care no more for a general lover than I do for a general lieutenant. The only difference I see between them is, that the one hath many female slaves, and the other many male ones. By the soul of Black Agnes, I shall love no man who loveth more than one woman!" This speech soon raised the prince to his feet. He stared at the damsel, doubtful if she was serious, or if he had his senses. Her seriousness was clear enough; for she finished her speech by a stamp of her foot and a clenching of the hand, suitable accompaniments of a female's oath. "Art thou Elizabeth of Dunbar, the gentle daughter of the Earl of March?" said the prince, hesitatingly. "They say so," replied Elizabeth: "and it is to that reputation I owe a prince's visit. I was born shortly after the sacking of Roxburgh by my father; and, if I have any reputation for being gentle, as thou termest me, it may be owing to my birth having followed so close upon that famous occasion, on which mothers mourned the murder of their children, and children hung at the breasts of their dying or dead mothers. There is none of these things in our days: the world gets effeminate; and, in place of women defending castles, and wiping the dust from the battlements with their white handkerchiefs, as my ancestor did at Dunbar, they teach the arts of spinning and knitting to the men, who, with the Prince of Scotland at their head, vie with each other in the softness of their skin and the smoothness of their speeches. How would Black Agnes have answered to the speech thou didst now address to her descendant, thinkest thou?" "Very likely," replied the prince, "in the way in which she answered the English who attacked her castle, or perhaps in the gentle way in which thou hast done." "Would that all men-spinsters were answered in the same way!" rejoined Elizabeth. "But I would make a distinction: to men who have the boldness to court women as they would attack a castle, I would speak softly; but to the white-lipped simperers of smooth sayings, who attack the heart with a tempest of sighs, and sap its foundations with floods of tears, I would open the sally-port of my indignation, and kill them with a look." "Then, I suppose," said the prince, "I owe my life to thy ladyship's mercy, extended by way of tender exception to my individual case?" "Say rather that thou owest it to my contempt," replied Elizabeth. "Thou hast not yet experienced one of my looks. I have treated thee tenderly because of the love I bear to Queen Arabella, thy mother, to whom I would beg leave to commit thee for a farther supply of that milk-and-breadberry, of which, as thy sallow cheeks indicate, thou hast been cheated in thy infancy. Do not object that thou art too old; for thy present condition is but an extension of childhood--even now I have heard thy rattle." "Women are privileged," replied the prince, losing temper. "So are children," rejoined Elizabeth, smartly; "when thou hast arrived at manhood, thou mayest then claim my indignation; meantime I recommend thee to the queen." And, saying this, she left the astonished prince standing in the chamber like a statue. Recovering himself, he left the castle precipitately, without seeing the earl, biting his lips, and muttering curses against Ramorgny, who had deceived him, and Elizabeth, who had insulted him. As he proceeded on his way homewards, he bethought himself of the different characters Ramorgny gave the two ladies; and wishing to give him credit for having confounded the attributes applicable to each, he resolved to see Elizabeth Douglas; and, changing his course, proceeded in the direction of Castle Douglas. His arrival at the residence of the old earl, who had contributed to place his family on the throne, brought into the mind of the prince some recollections which evolved feelings which were deeply planted in his nature, and only prevented from producing useful and amiable effects, by lawless habits borrowed from dissolute companions. With his mind elevated by noble aspirations, and high hopes of being one day an ornament to his country, which he sincerely loved, he was in an excellent mood for appreciating the virtues and beauty of a woman who could, as a consort, make him a better and a happier man, and, by a necessary consequence, a better governor, and subsequently a good king. He met Elizabeth Douglas at a distance from the castle, and introducing himself in the easy and elegant manner of which no man of his time was more capable, was delighted with her conversation, and inspired by her personal charms. Proceeding together to the castle, they were met at the gate by the old earl, who complimented Rothsay, as well as his daughter, by saying that all he had sighed for was that they should meet and be able to appreciate each other's qualities; for he was assured that one hour's conversation between persons so accomplished, actuated by such motives, and inspired with such sentiments, would do more to procure an attachment than a year's diplomacy and court intrigue. Rothsay willingly remained for some time at the castle, and had frequent opportunities of conversing with Elizabeth alone, and of appreciating her noble qualities. "I had got thee misrepresented to me," said the prince; "but I believe unintentionally, and by a transposition of names. What would Elizabeth Douglas think, if she were informed that she was likened to the wife of Socrates, and the slipper-castigator of Hercules?" "I should conceive that the reporter did not know me," answered Elizabeth, "or wished to deceive. I am not an admirer of either of these ladies, of whom I have before heard; but I plume not myself upon any other quality than a wish to use my wealth and station for the benefit of those who, though better and holier than I am, have, by the force of dire necessity, been obliged to bow their necks under the yoke of poverty and misfortune. Yet I fear all I can take credit for is a wish to do good. My actions and my aspirations have not that accordance I could wish; but, by the blessing of God, I hope to improve in my self-discipline; and, in the meantime, I trust no one will be able to accuse me of injuring the humblest of God's creatures." "How seldom do these sentiments reach the ears of royalty," said Rothsay, whose heart swelled with his genuine sentiments, long concealed, "and especially from the lips of nobility! Yet, pleasant as it is to contemplate goodness in mortals born of sin, it is difficult to estimate the extent of the influence of generous sympathy when it is found in the bosom of beauty. Do not pain me by saying I flatter thee. At present I am not the gay son of King Robert; but by the wand of enchantment changed for a season--would it were for ever!--into a sober reasoner on the rights and claims of suffering humanity." "Report hath not belied thee, good prince, though it hath me; for I have ever heard that thy sentiments were generous--though, excuse my boldness, they were not allowed to be called forth into action by the scenes of common life. Believe a simple maiden, when she taketh the liberty humbly to suggest, that royalty itself may be more ennobled by one act of charity than by a glorious victory." "Sweet maiden," cried the prince, seizing rapturously her hands, "thou shalt be my counsellor. Thy sentiments shall be enforced by thy beauty, and my heart and my exchequer be equally under the power of thy generous feelings." By such conversations, Rothsay gained an insight into the heart of his mistress. He recurred frequently to the report of Ramorgny, and hinted to the earl that he had found his daughter the very reverse of what she had been represented to him. The earl paid particular attention to the hint, and seemed inclined to insinuate that Ramorgny might have had some cause to misrepresent Elizabeth. The duke, having proceeded so far, felt his curiosity excited to get an explanation of the earl's remark; and, upon further question, ascertained that, according to the earl's opinion, which had been corroborated by his daughter, Ramorgny had been inspired with a strong passion for Elizabeth, which showed itself in various forms, and was the cause of his protracted stay at the castle. This discovery changed, in a great measure, all the prince's feelings towards his old friend. He had thus convicted him of deception, practised with a view to his injury, and for the purpose of gratifying a passion cherished for the intended wife of his friend and his prince. Amidst all their departures from the rules of sober life, the prince had never himself been guilty, or patronised in his friend, any breach of truth and good faith; and this was the first occasion on which this great cementing principle of mankind had been sacrificed to private interest. Seriously, however, as he felt it, he resolved upon stating it to Ramorgny in such a way as might not produce his enmity; for he had seen enough of him, to be satisfied that he was more capable of forming a worse enemy than he was of becoming a true friend. While the prince had thus been engaged in the south, Ramorgny had been in the north, enjoying his favourite pastime of hunting the red deer among the hills surrounding the water of Islay. The friends arrived in Edinburgh about the same time, ignorant of each other's motions--Ramorgny still labouring under the effect of the passion with which Elizabeth Douglas had inspired him, and for a partial relief from whose engrossing influence he had gone to the hills; and the duke smarting under the pain of a breach of confidence and friendship in one on whom he had so long placed his affections, and bestowed many favours. "The hills of Scotland," said Ramorgny, "are exquisite renovators of a town-worn constitution. The roes of the Highlands supply the strength which has been wasted on the town hinds. Thou hadst better have been with me, exerting the powers of a master over the inhabitants of the forest, than stooping to the counsel of that grave batch of seniors appointed to advise with thee--that is, to dictate to thee--on the affairs of the state. Believe me, prince, thou shouldst cashier these greybeards. Thy own judgment, aided by mine, is quite sufficient to enable thee to govern this small barbarous kingdom." "Thy advice," replied the prince, smiling, with some indication of satire, "if followed, by rejecting the counsel of my constituted advisers, would be an advice to reject advice contrary to thy advice; for my council recommend me to marry Elizabeth Douglas, and to reject the March. Dost thou think that any of the greybeards--Albany is too ambitious to marry again--have any private intentions on Bess of Dunbar. If I thought that, I would reject the Douglas, and betake myself to the March." "And thou wouldst act sagely in so doing," replied Ramorgny, who did not yet see the prince's satire. "If any one of these counsellors act from such a motive--and I am not sure of Arran--he ought to lose his mistress and his head at the same time." "Sayest thou so, Ramorgny?" replied the prince. "Is it thy heart that so speaketh, or thy judgment? Thou hast recommended me to the March, whom I have seen and conversed with, and well know, and hast endeavoured to terrify me from the Douglas, whom I have also seen, and can well appreciate. Art thou quite sure thy advice is purer, sounder, truer, and wiser, than that of my council?" This question produced an evident effect upon Ramorgny. He endeavoured to escape the prince's eye; but he found that no easy matter. Rothsay kept looking at him intensely, and plainly showed that he was master of the secret purpose for which he had endeavoured to precipitate him into a connection that would have made him miserable for life. It was now, however, too late for Ramorgny to retreat; and, boldly facing his danger, he replied-- "Thy question carries with it more than meets the ear. If I depreciated Elizabeth Douglas, and overrated Elizabeth Dunbar, a spirit of liberal construction would give me credit for having been myself deceived." "Stop!" said the prince, interrupting him. "I did not say that thou didst depreciate the one and overrate the other. Why take guilt to thyself?" "By St Duthos," cried Ramorgny, who now saw he was caught, and resolved upon another tack, "it is time now to be grave! Will that cursed spirit of devilish frolic which I learned from thee cling to me, even after the dreadful apparition of the first grey hair, which this morning appeared to me in my glass? But thou art thyself to blame. A master of mirth thyself--the prime minister of Momus, as well as of King Robert, and my professor in the science of fun--wert thou unable to discover, in my outrageous and elaborate description of the two damsels, the traces of the pencil--for Momus could paint--of the laughing god? If thou wert not, didst thou not deserve the harmless deception? Say, now, good prince, condemn, if thou darest, thy scholar of a proficiency which thou hast taught. Struck by thy own sword of lath, wilt thou amputate the offending hand? Say, and if thou wilt, strike. A philosopher would laugh--what shall the merry-making Rothsay do?" The bold, dashing, laughing manner in which Ramorgny delivered this speech, joined to a recollection of the high-flown and not serious account he had given of the two damsels, drove out of the duke's mind the suspicions roused by the communications of Earl Douglas, and with it his anger. The boisterous good-humour of his friend carried him along with him; and, answering the knight in his own way, he cried-- "Why, laugh too, perhaps, good Ramorgny. Thou hast certainly defeated me in the first instance, but I have conquered thee in the second. I found in the women what thou hast described them; only I was obliged to substitute the name of Elizabeth Douglas for Bess of Dunbar. That descendant of old Agnes is most certainly the devil, or at least his viceregent. What dost thou think she recommended to me, to increase the powers of my manhood? Why, milk and panado! The only woman, she thought, I would be safe in the keeping of was my mother Arabella; the age, of which she considered me a fair example, had retrograded from the days of the sacking of Roxburgh by her father, into a state of mature infancy; and as for our talents for war, she would scarcely allow us the mighty power of infanticide. In short, thy description of Elizabeth Douglas applied to her; and, when I say that thy description of her applied to the other, why should I say that I was charmed with the fair Douglas? Thou hast painted better than I can. She must be my wife; and I am glad that my council, my mother, and myself, thus agree on a point which they believe concerns the nation, but which I opine concerns only myself." Ramorgny was at the moment well pleased to perceive that he had thus got out of the scrape; but to have his snare twisted round his own limbs--to have his description of his own lover adopted by a rival, in describing her perfections, and thus to have, in a manner, precipitated his own ruin--for he could not survive the marriage of Elizabeth Douglas with another--touched him, as an accomplished intriguer, on the tenderest parts of his nature. A second time deprived of the object of his affections by his own disciple in the art of love, he determined that, at least, there should never be a third opportunity for inflicting upon him such degradation. His revenge deepened, but his smiles and apparent good-humour quadrated with the increased necessity of concealing his designs. These and their fatal issue are unfortunately but too well known. Untold to Rothsay, certain schemes had, in the meantime, been in agitation between the Earl of March and a party at court, the object of which was to get a match brought about between Rothsay and Elizabeth of Dunbar. These, for a time, wrought so favourably, that March, who never knew what had taken place between Rothsay and his daughter, entertained the strongest hopes of success. He had offered an immense dowry, which the great extent of his estates near the Borders enabled him to pay, as the price of the connection with royalty; and it would seem that he had received from head-quarters strong pledges that his wishes would be gratified. Ramorgny secretly joined the March party; but all their endeavours could not prevent the final triumph of the Douglas, who had also offered a large sum with his daughter, and who was, besides, backed by the queen, and by the secret wishes of Rothsay himself. The nuptials of the prince with Elizabeth Douglas were celebrated with great rejoicings at Edinburgh. They were graced by the presence of the king and the queen, and all the principal nobility of the land. Among the rest were to be seen two persons destined to supply afterwards the materials of an extraordinary chapter in the history of Scotland; the shadows of which, if presentiment had thrown them before, would have wrapped the gay scene of the marriage in the gloomy mantle of the dismal Atropos. The first of these was Rothsay's uncle Albany, who, ever since he was displaced from his governorship by the faction who awarded to the young prince the lieutenantcy of the kingdom, had prayed fervently for the death of the royal stripling, that had, with precocious audacity, dared to compete with disciplined age in the management of the affairs of the kingdom. The other was Ramorgny, who appeared at the celebration of the nuptials, dressed in the gayest style, and wearing on his lips the fallacious smile of the treacherous courtier, while his heart was filled with rage and jealousy, and his fancy teemed with schemes of deadly revenge. The picture, to one who could have seen into futurity, would have presented the extraordinary foreground of an apparent universal joy, filling all hearts and making all glad; and, close behind, the grinning furies of revenge writhing in their agonies of a wild desire to break in upon the unconscious victims, and spread death and desolation where pleasure was alone to be found. Ramorgny, who knew the volatile nature of the prince, waited patiently until the pleasures of the first moon were experienced and exhausted. He cultivated more than formerly the good opinion of one who retained no longer any suspicion of the treachery of his friend. Ramorgny knew the prince's sentiments of his uncle--that there existed between the two relatives an inimical feeling, amounting, on the side of the uncle, to a hatred which, derived from thwarted political ambition, would not hesitate at short and ready measures of removing the object to which it was directed, and, on that of the nephew, to a youthful impatience of the surveillance and restraint which his late governor had exercised over him, and was still ready to employ, when his selfish purposes required their application. That Rothsay, who, in reality, possessed a noble and generous spirit, would stoop to any base purpose to get quit of the authority and interference of his uncle, Ramorgny did not suppose; but he hoped so far to implicate the thoughtless prince in a scheme of his devising, as to make his act appear, by misconstruction, of such a nature to Albany, as would give his revenge the specious appearance of self-defence, and accelerate the fate of his victim. In accordance with this scheme, Ramorgny continued, as he had done formerly, to fill the prince's mind with details of his uncle's inimical feelings towards him; which was of the more easy accomplishment, that the prince was already aware of his uncle's disposition. The choleric youth listened to these tales with impatience, and often allowed himself to be hurried into extravagant expressions of indignation, which a servant of Ramorgny's, a servile creature, ready to commit any crime for money, was instructed, when occasion offered, to note and remember. For a time, Ramorgny limited his details to such acts as occasionally occurred, and which the unrestrainable hatred of Albany furnished in such abundance, that he found no great necessity to have recourse to invention, unless it were, indeed, to add the colouring, which was generally of the most extravagant kind, and best suited to reach the heart of the prince, and influence his anger and indignation. Farther Ramorgny could not venture for a long time to go. The generous youth sometimes got wearied with the recital of his uncle's indignities; and, willing to leave him to his own heart, kept on in the tenor of his own path; which, however, was none of the straightest--his aberrations after his marriage being, as before, the result of every new fancy which such men as Ramorgny, acting on an excited and irregular imagination, chose, by their consummate arts, to introduce into his mind. This did not suit Ramorgny. He required stronger materials to work with, and did not hesitate to use them. It is easy to work for evil in a heart originally corrupt; but to corrupt, and then to seduce, is a work of time; and it is to the credit of human nature that virtue is often strong enough to maintain its place against the attacks of the most insidious schemers. It was now Ramorgny's effort to rouse the suspicions of the prince as to his personal safety from the designs of his uncle. He invented a story of a conversation which had been overheard between Albany and a ruffian often employed by him to execute his purposes of revenge. The import of this conversation was, that Albany, having been superseded in his office of governor, had resolved upon acquiring it again, and that he could not succeed in that resolution so long as the prince was alive--that he accordingly hinted to the ruffian that it would be pleasant to him if he heard that the duke no longer lived--and that, for such information, a reward would be given sufficient to stimulate the most scrupulous executioner that ever aided an unhappy man across the Stygian stream. All this was communicated to Rothsay by Ramorgny in a whisper, and with an appearance, tone, and manner suited to the awful nature of the intelligence. The duke believed the story, and, bursting forth into an extravagant sally of indignation, cried-- "It is time that princes of the blood-royal should exert the power in defence of themselves, which is intrusted to them for the defence of others, when villains, in broad day, lay schemes for their lives. I can plainly see, and have long seen, that this man and I cannot live in the same age. Scotland is too narrow for us; and the viceroyal chair must be polluted with blood! Yet shall age supplant youth? Is it meet that time should go backwards, and that, by force and through blood, the order of nature should be changed? It shall not be so! If one is to fall, nature herself points out the victim--and that victim is Albany!" These words, uttered in anger, and intended merely to indicate the injustice of Albany's scheme, and the necessity of self-defence, in the event of its being attempted to be carried into execution, were carefully noted by Ramorgny's creature, who was in hearing. They were plainly capable, however, of another construction by a person who did not hear the rest of the conversation, and understand their application. They might mean that Rothsay intended to get his uncle out of the way--a construction which did not ill accord with the feelings which existed in the prince's mind against the disturber of his peace, if these had been formed in another bosom, but unjustified by the prince's noble disposition, which would have despised any underhand scheme to rid himself of his bitterest enemy. The words were, however, uttered, and noted, and remembered; and they were not uttered in vain. Ramorgny having thus procured evidence of the prince's designs against the life of his uncle, repaired to Albany, and narrated to him the statements made by the duke, and referred him, for corroboration, to his servant. Albany wished nothing more ardently than this communication; and, even without it, he would have been glad to have joined Ramorgny in any scheme for the removal of his rival. Other enemies were brought into action. Sir William Lindsay of Rossie, whose sister the duke had loved and deserted; and Archibald Douglas, the brother of Elizabeth, piqued by some private feeling, were willing to aid in the death of one who had courted the relative of one of them to desert her, and married that of the other to treat her with neglect. That the prince was unkind or unfaithful to his wife, who bore a reputation of being so fair and amiable, has been treated by some historians as a mere fable, resorted to by the unnatural earl, her brother, as a palliative of conduct which it was not suited to render in the slightest degree less revolting. There is reason, however, to suppose that Lindsay had some cause for his resentment in the desertion of his sister, who loved the duke, and never recovered from the effects of his unfaithful conduct. The first project of these conspirators was worthy of the talents of the individuals who had determined to prostitute the best of the gifts of God to destroy one of his creatures. It was resolved to work upon the king in such a way as to procure from him some token of his disapprobation of the conduct of his son. It is difficult now to ascertain how this was effected, as there is no doubt that Rothsay still held a strong claim on the affections of his father. The result, however, shows that the means must have been of an extraordinary nature; for King Robert was got to sign a writ for the confinement of the prince. It is very probable that nothing more was intended by this than to show the king's displeasure, which would gradually relax as the slight punishment wrought the expected amendment. It has been doubted whether such writ was ever truly signed by the king; and surely it is not difficult to suppose that the men who, holding the gates of the palace in their hands, could admit or deny whom they chose to the royal presence, would not stop at forgery which they could conceal, if they had made up their minds to murder, which has seldom or ever been successfully concealed. But it matters not, in so far as regards the fate of the prince, whether the writ was genuine or not. It was acted upon, and the unfortunate son of a king was seized by his enemies, Douglas and Ramorgny, lashed in his royal robes to the back of a sorry horse, and hurried through Fife, to a prison adjoining to the palace of Falkland. The unhappy prince now saw that his death was determined; but he little suspected what was to be its cruel nature. The work of his enemies was done, but they had delegated what even their hard hearts could not accomplish to ruffians, from whose bosoms every humane feeling had been long eradicated. He was put under the charge of two men, brought, it is supposed, from Aberdeen--a locality as far from the scene of the tragedy they were to perform as possible--called John Wright and John Selkirk, names that remained infamous in Scotland for many a day. The faces of these men, filled with the expression of a determination to resist every feeling of humanity, contrasted strangely with the countenance of the royal youth, formed by nature, and moulded by his sympathies, to speak eloquently the language of affection, and reflect the fair lineaments of the most beautiful of the graces. It required only one glance of the prince's inquiring eye, to see that, if his fate depended upon the feelings of these men, he had no chance of salvation in this world. The ruffians, having thrown the unfortunate youth into one of the low dungeons of the prison, without speaking a word, were preparing to leave him, when, urged by feelings of despair, he fell on his knees, and besought them to tell him what commission they had got from his enemies for the fulfilment of his fate. "Tell me, good friends," he cried, "in what shape death is to come to the son of a king, that he may prepare his mind to meet his end as becometh a man. Grant me, at least, the privilege of dying by my own hand, that the descendant of Bruce may escape the fate of malefactors, or the mangled termination of the devoted victim of revenge. You are not, you cannot be, so bad as the sternness of office makes you appear. Shall the Prince of Scotland sue in vain to the subjects of his father for the boon of a dagger? Merciful Heaven! am I refused this request? Then is cruelty to be added to injustice; and perhaps starvation--dreadful thought--awaits me, with its attendant agonies." As the unfortunate prince uttered these words, he fell on the damp floor of the dungeon. His appeal produced nothing but a hollow growl, more like the sound of a mastiff's anger than the voice of a human being. Turning abruptly from him, they left him extended on the ground, and in an instant seemed to be entirely occupied about the manner in which they should secure, with double certainty, the door of the dungeon. On lifting his head, the victim heard nothing but the harsh expostulations of the two men, as they differed about the expediency of riveting the iron bars by which the door was fastened. The wretched youth had truly anticipated his fate. Starvation was the mode of death fixed upon by his cowardly murderers. What might have been accomplished in an instant, was prolonged for many days. Cruelty was, indeed, as he had said, added to injustice; and the merciful death of the malefactor on the gallows was denied to the heartrending entreaties of a prince. For fifteen days, according to a historian, he was suffered to remain without food, under the charge of Wright and Selkirk, whose task it was to watch the agony of their victim till it ended in death. It is said that, for awhile, the wretched prisoner was preserved in a remarkable manner, by the kindness of a poor woman, who, in passing through the garden of Falkland, was attracted by his groans to the grated window of his dungeon, which was level with the ground, and became acquainted with his story. It was her custom to steal thither at night, and bring him food, by dropping small cakes through the grating, whilst milk, conducted through a pipe to his mouth, was the only way he could be supplied with drink. But Wright and Selkirk, suspecting from his appearance that he had some secret supply, watched, and detected the charitable visitant, and the prince was abandoned to his fate. Such was the death assigned to the son of a king, the most favoured by nature, the most engaging, the most generous--what pity is it to add, the most volatile and irregular--that ever was born to a kingdom, amidst the acclamations of a loving people! RETRIBUTION. In these days, when a factitious style is made the vehicle of factitious feelings, we offer to our readers a simple story; and when we say that it is a true one, we may hope to claim an interest very different from that which is inspired by ingenious fiction. There may be some who yet remember Fanny Rutherford, of the Parish of Carwhinn. She was one of the most gentle and amiable creatures that ever breathed--warm in her attachments, confiding in her love, and mild and kind in her dispositions. The daughter of a country gentleman, of small estate, but of great respectability, she was, at the period of our story, in her nineteenth year. Her father, though by no means wealthy, had spared no expense in her education; and her quick natural parts enabled her to derive all the benefit which that education was intended to confer. She was also the joy of two brothers, both intelligent, clever young men, bred to agricultural pursuits, in which they were largely and extensively engaged. Mr Rutherford was a widower; and his household duties therefore devolved upon Fanny, who discharged them with exemplary propriety. Hitherto, though of an ardent, susceptible, and even romantic disposition, Fanny's peace had never been disturbed by love. The quiet tenor of her days had passed away in the enjoyment of domestic happiness, and in the interchange of endearments with her father and brothers, to whom she was devotedly attached, and by whom she was most sincerely and tenderly loved in return. Neither a thought nor a wish beyond the sphere of this little round of felicity ever entered the pure and unsophisticated mind of the happy and innocent girl. But this was a happiness that was not to last. Love, that bane or blessing of woman's existence, as its object is unworthy or otherwise, at length found its way into the guileless bosom of Fanny Rutherford; and, oh, what a consummation awaited that unfortunate attachment! At the distance of about a mile from Mr Rutherford's, there lived a young man of the name of Raeburn, the son of a gentleman in similar circumstances with the former--that is, a small landed proprietor. This young man, who had received a very liberal education, was possessed of an agreeable person and of exceedingly pleasing manners; but there were occasional developments of character that but very indifferently harmonised with these qualities; and there were, besides, more than one little incident in his life that betrayed a degree of selfishness, not to say heartlessness, that would by no means have been expected in one of so frank and cheerful a disposition. Still these symptoms were, after all, of so trifling a character, that they could scarcely be said to have affected the reputation which Raeburn aimed at, and succeeded with a great many in acquiring--namely, that of a dashing, careless, good-hearted, and liberal-minded young fellow. At this period, Henry Raeburn was residing at home, waiting for an appointment in the civil service of the East India Company, which had been promised him by a friend of his father's; and much of the spare time which his present circumstances placed at his disposal he spent at Mr Rutherford's, where his agreeable manners and general intelligence made him at all times a welcome visiter. But to none of the members of the family were these visits more agreeable than to Fanny, over whose affections his insinuating address and handsome exterior had made a complete conquest. Nor was Raeburn himself apparently less the victim of this passion than she was. He took every opportunity of pouring into her ear the most ardent expressions of attachment. A thousand times he swore that he was hers for ever--that the sun would change his course, the stars forget to shine, ere he became inconstant to his Fanny. To all these professions of love the unsuspecting and confiding girl lent a willing ear, and listened and listened to the fascinating tale again and again, till her whole soul became absorbed by one single idea--until she found, in short, that she lived for Henry Raeburn alone. Whether Raeburn was sincere in his professions of attachment to Fanny Rutherford, at this stage of their acquaintance, we cannot say, and have no means of ascertaining. That was a circumstance known to his Creator and himself alone. The young people, however, made no attempts to conceal their mutual attachment--at least Fanny made none to conceal hers. Indeed, the guileless simplicity, and open and candid nature, of the amiable girl rendered her incapable of concealing it. Neither, though she could, would she have done it: her sense of propriety and delicacy of feeling would not have permitted her. Fanny's father and brothers, therefore, were perfectly aware of the attachment alluded to; and although, of course, the marriage of the parties was a thing not to be thought of in their present circumstances, yet, as Henry was likely soon to obtain a lucrative situation in India, it was a very probable and very desirable contingency; and with this prospective consideration, Fanny's father did not disapprove of her choice, as young Raeburn was otherwise, by birth and education, a perfectly eligible match for his daughter. All that was wanting was fortune; and this was a desideratum which there was a reasonable probability of Henry soon supplying. When we said, however, that the visits of Fanny's lover were acceptable to all the members of Mr Rutherford's family, we said fully more than the facts warranted. There was one, at any rate, of that family to whom these visits were not only not acceptable, but positively disagreeable. This person was Fanny's eldest brother, Edward. Possessed of more penetration than his father or younger brother, he had perceived something in the character of Raeburn which he did not like, and which struck him as being strangely at variance with his general pretensions and professions. He had, in short, discovered several instances of selfishness and want of principle in the young man, which, though they were but of a trifling nature, had early imbued him with a secret prejudice against him; and this he did not hesitate to avow to his own family, and particularly to Fanny; but, in the latter case, his avowal was always accompanied by the most tender expressions of affection for herself, as if to convince her that it was on her account alone that he feared. One day, on her returning from Mr Raeburn's, where she had been to an entertainment, and when Henry, who had accompanied her home, had just left the house-- "My dear Fanny," said her brother, addressing her in the blunt way peculiar to him, and taking her affectionately by the hand, "I don't like that fellow Raeburn. I would not willingly or needlessly say any thing harsh of anyone whom you esteem; but you are guileless, Fanny, and ignorant of the ways of the world, still more so of the faithlessness of man, and therefore liable to have your judgment misled by your heart. Be cautious--be guarded, then, Fanny. Do, for your own sake, my dear sister, be cautious how you admit this man to tamper with your affections." "Edward!" replied Fanny, bursting into tears, "what is the meaning of this solemn objurgation? I have never done, and never will do, anything without my father's consent and yours, Edward. But surely, surely you judge unfairly of Henry, Edward. He is far too honourable and upright to deceive any one, much less----" "You, you would say," interrupted her brother. Fanny blushed slightly, and went on: "If you had heard him, as I have often done, express his sentiments on the duties we owe to each other, and speak of the rules which ought to regulate our conduct, you would entertain a very different opinion of him--I am sure you would, Edward." "Simple girl, simple girl!" said her brother. "He speak of the duties we owe to each other! He speak of the rules which ought to regulate our conduct!" he added, with a bitter sneer. "Well, perhaps it is all right, Fanny," he went on; "I may have judged harshly of Raeburn, and may be doing him an injustice; but, if I am, I never was more mistaken in a man in my life. But, Fanny," he added, with a sudden energy of manner, "here I swear--and I wish Raeburn heard the oath--that, if he deceive or injure you, I will pursue him to the ends of the earth--ay, through the snows of Greenland, or the burning deserts of the tropics--and seek a reparation that will cost the lives of one or both of us." "Mercy, mercy!" exclaimed the weeping girl, terrified at the fierce looks and manner of her brother, yet at the same time throwing herself into his arms. "What dreadful language is this, Edward? What grounds on earth have you for anticipating so dreadful a catastrophe? I am sure you have seen nothing to warrant your expressing yourself in this frightful manner." "I have not said that I anticipated anything, Fanny, regarding this attachment of yours," replied her brother. "I spoke only hypothetically. But, from this hour, I say no more on the subject. I trust, however, that what I have said will not be without its effect upon you, Fanny. You will perceive, my dear sister," he added, embracing her tenderly, "that it is my affection, and, I will add, my fears, for you, that have prompted all I have said." "I know it, Edward--I know it," replied Fanny; "and I am grateful to you. But you will soon learn to like Henry better than you now do." "Woman, woman--still woman to the last," said her brother, smiling. "But do, Fanny, permit what I have said to make some impression on you." And Edward left the apartment. Woman, woman still, as her brother had said, the warmhearted girl's affections for Raeburn suffered no diminution whatever from what had just passed between her and her brother. In truth, as such interferences almost always do, it had the effect rather of increasing her love, by placing the object of her affections--in her sight, at any rate--in the light of one who is injured by being harshly judged of. "My Henry deceive me!" she thought within herself on this occasion--"impossible! impossible! That kind and gentle look!--can that deceive? That benignant smile!--can there be treachery there? That frank and open manner!--is that assumed? No, no, Edward--you wrong Henry; you do indeed, Edward. You wrong him grievously." Such were the reflections in which Fanny Rutherford indulged when her brother had left her, and such was the effect which his fears and suspicions had upon her unsuspecting and confiding heart. We have already informed the reader that Raeburn was at this time waiting for an appointment in the civil service of the East India Company. This appointment he at length obtained, and he was, at the same time, ordered to proceed immediately to London, to embark for his new destination; and with this order he complied, after taking an affectionate leave of Fanny, to whom he once more, and for the last time, vowed eternal constancy and love. It is almost unnecessary to add, that a mutual promise to maintain a frequent and regular correspondence during the period of their separation was also given by the lovers. But, besides all this, a distinct arrangement, to which Fanny's father and brothers were privy, was likewise made, that, so soon as Henry should be fairly settled in India, and should have ascertained that his income was sufficient to warrant such a step, Fanny, being previously informed of this, was to join him, when their destinies should be united. These matters arranged, Henry proceeded to London, where he soon after embarked for Calcutta, which he eventually reached in safety, at the end of the usual period occupied in that voyage. Faithful to his promise, Henry, soon after his arrival, wrote to Fanny, and gave a very flattering account of his situation and prospects, expressing, at the same time, a hope that he would soon be in a condition to invite her to come out and partake his good fortune. This letter was followed in due time by another, in which the same sentiments of love and affection were expressed; but it contained a less flattering account of his circumstances. These, the writer said, had scarcely answered the expectations he had formed from them on his first arrival; and he feared, if they did not improve, that, however painful their separation was to him, he would be compelled to submit to its continuance for some time, as he could not think of bringing her there, so far from her home and her friends, until he should be able to receive her in a manner that would more unequivocally bespeak the sincerity of his love than his present means would admit of. These two letters, as we have said, came in due time; and, notwithstanding the discouraging tenor of the last, were received by poor Fanny with the most unfeigned delight. But, when the time came round that another letter should have reached her from her lover, it was in vain that the affectionate girl looked for that solace to her wearied spirit. Week after week passed away, month succeeded month, and, finally, year followed year, and still no letter came, to raise the prostrate and withering hopes of poor Fanny Rutherford. For some time she was impressed with a conviction that her lover was dead; for she could not, and would not, believe that her Henry was faithless. But in this belief--perhaps the least afflicting of the two--she was not permitted long to remain; for it was ascertained, through Henry's father, not only that he was still living, but that he was getting on prosperously, and in a fair way of soon realising a fortune. Unwilling, unwilling, indeed, was poor Fanny to believe this account of Henry--but it was certain; and this certainty of the neglectfulness, or, yet worse, faithlessness, of her lover threatened to hurry her to a premature grave. Nearly three years had now passed away since the receipt of her last letter from Henry; and she had long given up all hopes of ever hearing from him again, or of ever being more to him than she then was. While sitting alone, however, one morning about this period, her head leaning upon her hand, and listlessly gazing through a window that overlooked the approach to her father's house, her curiosity was slightly excited by observing the person who usually brought the letters from the neighbouring village hurrying with unwonted speed towards the house, and, as she approached nearer, waving a letter which she held in her hand towards Fanny. In an instant the blood, which had long forsaken the poor girl's cheeks, rushed back to its forgotten repositories. Her heart beat fast and thick, and a violent tremor seized on her whole emaciated frame. The letter was, and she now knew it, from Henry Raeburn. Having got possession of the intensely-interesting document, she rushed with it up-stairs to her own apartment, bolted the door, and flung herself down on a bed; laying, at the same time, the letter, which, from excessive agitation, she was unable at the moment to open, on a small table beside her. Having, however, in a few minutes regained as much composure as she conceived would enable her to venture on the exciting task of perusing the letter, she arose, seized it convulsively, and staggered with it unfolded in her grasp towards the window, where she began to read. The letter commenced thus-- "MY DEAREST, DEAREST FANNY,--What is the meaning of this? Cruel, cruel girl, it is now precisely two years and a-half since I received your last letter, although I have written to you at least six or seven times during that period. What a relief, Fanny, it would be to my mind, to know that these letters of mine had miscarried--that they had never reached you!--for, in that case, I might still hope, still believe, that my Fanny was faithful. Indeed, it is in this hope that I live; for, as I have been for the last two years going from place to place, at a great distance in the interior, I think it not improbable that my letters--all of which were despatched from these remote residences--have never found their way to you." The writer then went on, praying Fanny not to lose a moment in relieving his mind on this, to him, he said, most painful subject. After a good deal more to similar purpose, he continued-- "Will my Fanny not take it amiss--she will not, I know, if she still be to me as she once was, and what I still am to her--if I request her to send me her portrait?--that, since fortune still denies me the happiness of contemplating the original, I may, as I assuredly will, find some consolation in possessing the copy. I will then," continued the writer, "have you present to my corporeal eye, as you are, and have constantly been, to my mental vision. Enclosed, my dearest Fanny, you have a draft for twenty guineas, which please apply to the purpose just expressed, and let there not be a moment lost in forwarding me your beloved picture." The writer then went on to say, that he expected to be in a condition to invite her out in the course of a twelvemonth or so; and ultimately finished by a repetition of the most tender expressions of affection and love. When Fanny had completed the perusal of this, to her, most gratifying letter--that is, after she had read it at least six times over--she rushed wildly down-stairs in quest of her brother Edward; and having found him, "See, see, Edward!" exclaimed the delighted girl, forcing the letter into his hands; "read that, Edward, and acknowledge, my brother, the injustice which you and all of us have done to Henry. I knew, I knew," she went on, "my Henry would not deceive me. I felt assured that his silence and seeming neglect would one day be satisfactorily accounted for, and without impugning his honour." To these expressions of joy, and delight, and confidence, Fanny's brother made no reply, but sat down coolly to read the letter that had been put into his hands; and greatly disappointed was the poor girl, who was watching his countenance with the most intense interest, while he read, to find that the contents seemed to excite in him no emotion whatever. When he finished--"Well, Fanny," he said, dryly, at the same time carelessly returning her the letter, "it's all very well. I am glad to find that Raeburn is not altogether the man I feared he was. He seems to think of you with unabated regard still, Fanny." "Oh yes, Edward!--oh yes! I knew Henry would not deceive me!" again repeated the unsuspecting and delighted girl. Edward, as we have already said, tenderly loved Fanny; and it was this regard for her that prevented him saying all he thought of the letter he had just read. He would not, for any consideration, have damped the feelings of joy and happiness which it had inspired in the bosom of his sister, by making any remarks that might have a tendency of that kind; but he could not help observing sufficient grounds for such observations. He saw, in the first place, that Raeburn's assertion that he had written several letters to Fanny was a downright falsehood, or, at best, of a very suspicious character; for his father--who lived, as the reader will recollect we have already said, in the immediate neighbourhood, and whom he frequently met with--had never made any complaint of any interruption in his son's correspondence; and he (Edward), moreover, knew that Henry's father had received many letters from him during the very period of the suspension of his correspondence with Fanny. It therefore appeared extremely odd to him that all the letters addressed to the one should have miscarried, while all those addressed to the other had reached their destination in safety, and in due course of time. In the next place, Edward saw, or thought he saw, that the general tenor of the letter was forced and unnatural; and, lastly, that procrastination was apparently still the object of the writer, notwithstanding his having vaguely named a period when he should invite Fanny to share his fortunes as his wife. All this Edward perceived in the letter in question; but the worst he thought of it was, that Raeburn had for a time forgotten his sister, probably in a temporary regard for another, and that his affection for her having returned, he was now anxious to atone for his negligence or infidelity; and, under this impression, he was willing to overlook the subterfuge to which Raeburn had had recourse, to account for his silence; and, in these views of the matter, Edward's father and brother concurred. Two or three days after the receipt of Henry's letter, Fanny, though in a very indifferent state of health, proceeded to Edinburgh, and had her likeness taken there in miniature. On her return, the picture was carefully packed in a small box or case, and, accompanied by a letter from Fanny, despatched to its remote destination. In this letter, the poor girl, in allusion to the portrait, said--"I have, in compliance with your wishes, Henry, sent you my portrait; but I fear it will sadly disappoint you; for a more unpropitious time for transferring my miserable countenance to canvas (I believe, however, in this case it is ivory) could scarcely have been chosen; for I have been extremely ill for a long time past, and am yet very far from being well. I have been broken-hearted, Henry, and have been labouring under the worst and most hopeless of all diseases--a crushed and broken spirit." Thus did the poor girl allude to the misery which Raeburn's neglect had entailed on her. Her delicacy forbade her saying more, and her candid and confiding disposition would not permit her to say less. Leaving matters in this state at Rose Vale (the name of Mr Rutherford's residence), we will, with the reader's consent, embark in the same ship with Fanny's portrait, and proceed to the East Indies, to see with our own eyes what, at this period, was the general conduct, character, and circumstances of him for whom that picture was intended. Having done this--an easy matter with you and us, good reader, though no trifling affair to others--we shall find Raeburn residing in a very handsome house at Calcutta; and in one of the most conspicuous places in one of the principal rooms in that house, we shall find the portrait of Fanny Rutherford suspended--and well worthy of the distinction was this likeness of the lovely girl. Beautiful! exceedingly beautiful in her sadness!--for the painter had been faithful; and but too plainly did that picture tell of sorrow and of suffering--"of hope deferred, that maketh the heart sick." Nor did Henry Raeburn seem insensible to the beauty expressed in that little picture. To every one who visited him he showed it, with an air of exultation and triumph; pressed on their notice the soft expression of the fine dark eye, the light, delicate, and well-arched eyebrow, the ruby lip, and elegantly-formed nose and chin. But, be it remarked--and it was an odd circumstance--it was to the young unmarried men alone who visited him that he showed the picture, and that he thus dwelt on the details of its beauties. Strange distinction this--to the unmarried alone that he showed the picture, and enlarged on the attractions of its subject! What does this mean? Much, much it means; and a darker or more atrocious meaning never disgraced the act of man. But we will leave the full explanation of this atrocity to be developed by the progress of our story. "Ah! you dogs, you!" Raeburn would say, with well-affected jocularity, to his friends of the description already mentioned, when showing them Fanny's portrait, "isn't that a pretty girl, now? and am not I a lucky fellow to have secured the affections of so charming a woman? What would you give, you rogues, you, for such a creature as that for a wife?" Then, holding the portrait aloft, "Come, say now, gentlemen, what would you give for her, suppose I was willing to part with her; which, perhaps, I am, if I could get a fair price for my right. Bid for her, gentlemen, bid for her!" he would say, laughingly, and _affecting_ to make a joke of the matter. "I will put her up to sale, and warrant the stock to be equal to the sample!" "A thousand rupees!" "Thank you, John. Very well for a beginning! Get on, gentlemen, get on." "Two thousand! three thousand!" "That's it. Go it, my spirited lads, go it; but she's worth six times the money yet." "Eight thousand! ten thousand!" "Ay, now you get on bravely, and are approaching the mark, though still at a great distance from it." "Fifteen thousand! twenty thousand!" "Very well--twenty thousand! Twenty thousand, gentlemen! Will no one bid more! Why, Tom, I thought you were a better judge of female beauty than to allow such a bargain as this to slip through your fingers!" "Twenty-five thousand!" "Well done, Tom; I knew you were a lad of spirit, and had too much of the knight-errant in you to allow a fair lady like this to be knocked down below her value. Twenty-five thousand rupees--once, twice, thrice! There, down she goes--she's yours, Tom; pay me the money, and I'll order her out for you by the first ship." This was a scene of frequent occurrence in Raeburn's house, when a number of young fellows had got together there, and something very like it was repeated to each of them individually when they chanced to call alone; particularly in the case of one of them--a Mr Cressingham, the son of a gentleman who held one of the highest civil situations in India, and who was enormously wealthy. This was Raeburn's friend, Tom, as he familiarly called him; and to him he was especially eloquent and importunate on the subject of Fanny's beauty. "Well, hang me if she an't a devilish pretty creature that, after all!" said Tom Cressingham to Raeburn, as they one day sat alone smoking their hookahs in the apartment in which Fanny's portrait hung, and on which he was listlessly gazing. "That she is, Tom," replied Raeburn; "wouldn't you fancy such a girl as that, now, for a wife, Tom?" "Faith and I would, Harry; I'd give ten thousand rupees for such a wife." "You're coming down in your price, Tom," replied Raeburn; "you offered twenty-five thousand for her the other night." "Well, I don't know but I would give that sum for her, after all, Harry; for she's certainly a delightful-looking creature. But why don't you bring out the girl, and marry her at once yourself, Harry?" "Umph!" ejaculated Raeburn, "that wouldn't be altogether so convenient just now. You know I'm confoundedly in debt, Tom" (this was but too true; for he was grossly dissipated, and was living in a style far beyond his income), "and must clear my feet a bit before I think of marrying. Besides, to tell you a secret, Tom, I don't care much about standing to my Scotch bargain in that matter; and, to be plain with you, I wish you, or some one else, would relieve me of it, by taking the girl off my hands; giving me, of course, a handsome consideration for my right in the property." This was said jokingly; but it was very easy to see that the speaker would not care to be thought serious; and this Cressingham perceived. "Harry," he said, "are you in earnest?" "To be sure I am," replied Raeburn; "never was more in earnest in my life." "Then I'm your man, Harry, if we can agree about the terms," rejoined Cressingham. "What say you about the consideration." "Why, I don't know; you see she is a very handsome girl, Tom; and, on the word of a _gentleman_, I assure you, she is as amiable as she is lovely." "Well, at a word, Harry," said Cressingham, "I'll give you five thousand pounds sterling money, the day that woman becomes my wife; you being at the expense of bringing her out, and managing all that part of the business." "Done!" said Raeburn. "Done!" said Cressingham. And they struck hands upon the bargain. Raeburn's villany, good reader, is now before you fully and fairly. The conversation just recorded was no joke, but, as he himself acknowledged, downright earnest; and it will readily be conceded, we think, that a piece of more heartless depravity is not upon record. Neither, we beg to assure the reader, is this villany imaginary, nor the character of Raeburn the invention of fancy. The villany was actually perpetrated, and the villain actually lived. Fanny's portrait had been sent for for the express purpose of turning it to the account to which we have seen it applied. He had sent for it that he might exhibit it as a sample of goods which he had to dispose of, and which he meant to sell to the highest bidder; and it was with this view--with the view of finding a purchaser--that he had hung the portrait of his victim in a conspicuous place, and had urged on the notice of his visiters the various beauties which it displayed. To return to our tale. Raeburn and Cressingham--the latter, we need hardly say, being nearly as unprincipled as the former--having come to the understanding which we have just detailed, Raeburn insisted that their bargain should be expressed on paper; that is, that Cressingham should bind himself by a written document to fulfil his part of the transaction--in other words, should bind himself to pay the £5000 on the day Fanny became his wife; although with what face he could produce such a document in a court of justice to enforce his claim, in the event of Cressingham evading it, it certainly is not easy to conceive. But, desirous of being secure in the meantime, on such a document as that alluded to, he insisted; and it was instantly given him. This part of the transaction settled, it was Raeburn's business to manage the rest:--the first step of which was to get Fanny out; the next, to get her palmed upon Cressingham; and he lost no time in setting about it. As the subsequent proceedings of the villain, however, will be more strikingly exhibited by shifting the scene once more to Rose Vale, we request the reader to accompany us thither for a moment. The year had a good while expired, which Raeburn had fixed on, in his last letter to Fanny, as the period when he should send for her to join him at Calcutta; and the poor girl was looking fondly and anxiously for the promised invitation; but, for several months, she was again doomed to suffer all the pains of suspense and disappointment. From this, however, she was at length relieved by the appearance of the long-expected letter. This, like all its predecessors, was filled with the most tender expressions of regard and esteem. "It is now," said the writer, "with the most heartfelt--nay, this is far too tame a phrase--it is with a delight, my beloved Fanny, which I cannot find language to express--that I inform you, that the circumstances in which I now find myself warrant me in inviting you out to share my fortunes. I enclose a draft for £150, to defray the expense of your passage, and other contingencies connected with it; and I beg of you, my dearest, dearest Fanny, as you value my happiness, nay, my existence, to lose no time in coming out to me; for I will be miserable till you arrive." To this was added a great many particular directions, as to Fanny's best mode of proceeding in the business of her embarkation; and again the writer resumed the strain of adulation with which he had begun; and with this strain, also, he finally ended. As in the former case, Fanny instantly put this letter into the hands of her brother Edward; and again she was disappointed to find that it was read without the smallest appearance of satisfaction. Neither was it much more gratifying to her father and younger brother. But their feelings regarding it proceeded chiefly from their reluctance to part with Fanny, and to her going alone on so long and dreary a voyage; but neither they, nor Edward, even with his more serious grounds of dissatisfaction, felt that they would be warranted in preventing Fanny from availing herself of the apparent good fortune which she was now invited to partake. They felt that it would be an act of injustice towards the amiable girl, to exercise any such authority over her fortunes and affections; and, therefore, though it was not without great reluctance, they finally consented to her departure. This conceded, and every necessary preparation for the voyage being in a few days completed, Edward accompanied Fanny to London, saw her on board of an East Indiaman that was about to sail for Calcutta, and having consigned her to the care of the captain, bade her an affectionate adieu. In less than an hour afterwards, the ship was under weigh; and Fanny Rutherford had commenced her ill-starred voyage to the East. On the ship's arrival at Calcutta, which she reached in safety and in due course of time, amongst the first persons who came on board of her were Raeburn and Cressingham. Fanny was down below in the cabin, and in the act of packing a small trunk, preparatory to her going ashore, when Raeburn entered. The moment the poor girl saw him, she flew towards him, with an expression of the wildest delight. But, oh! fond and confiding heart, what a shock was it to thee--what a withering sensation was thine--when you found your warm and generous impulses received with a cold and distant civility!--for in such manner did Raeburn now receive the gentle, affectionate, and unsuspecting girl, who had crossed the "rude ocean," left kindred and home, to follow his fortunes--the fortunes of the man she loved--in a far distant land. In this atrocious conduct of Raeburn's there was policy as well as natural heartlessness; for he was desirous of disgusting her with his coldness, and thus preparing the way for the addresses of Cressingham. Of this part of the villain's design, Fanny was, of course, utterly ignorant; but the quick discerning eye of love enabled her instantly to detect the brutal and ungracious manner of Raeburn, so different from what she had expected; and the discovery fell upon her spirit with the most deadly effect. She, however, made no complaint; but it was evident that the manner of her reception by her deceiver had sunk deep into her heart. Poor Fanny proceeded with the packing of her little trunk in silence--a silence interrupted only by an occasional sigh, long drawn, and heavy laden with grief. Tears, too, might have been detected stealing down her cheeks, were it not that she kept her head, purposely, too closely over the trunk to permit their being seen. In the work, too, in which she was employed, be it observed, Raeburn did not offer her the smallest assistance, but continued walking up and down the cabin, whistling carelessly, and looking at the prints with which the walls were hung. This was the scene, then, in the cabin, when Raeburn, after the lapse of a quarter-an-hour or so from the time of his first descending, suddenly, and without giving Fanny the least previous notice of his intention, went to the foot of the cabin-stair, and called loudly on Cressingham, who was on deck. Cressingham appeared at the cabin-door. "Why don't you come down?" said Raeburn. And he followed up this query with a significant wink. "Why, I waited till I should be called," replied Cressingham, with a knowing smile; at the same time commencing his descent into the cabin. "Mr Cressingham, Fanny," said Raeburn, when the former came down--"a very particular friend of mine." Fanny, before raising her head from the trunk, hurriedly wiped her eyes, and stood up to receive the stranger; but it was wholly out of the poor girl's power thus suddenly to regain her composure, or to obliterate from her countenance the traces of the miserable feelings with which her soul was agonised. These remained but too plain; and were at once detected by Cressingham, who, in place of being moved to compassion by them for the unhappy girl, looked on them as welcome indications of feelings that promised to favour his own advances; inasmuch as they bespoke a dissatisfaction on the part of Fanny, at once with her situation and with Raeburn. It being now Cressingham's time to begin the performance of his part of the nefarious plot, he advanced towards Miss Rutherford with one of his most gracious looks, and welcomed her to Calcutta. Then, placing himself in a chair directly opposite to her, and leaning forward towards her, till he had nearly thrust his head into her face, he began a strain of the most impertinent adulation, not unmingled with expressions of a less harmless character. These last did not escape Fanny, who deeply felt the insult they involved, although she was already too much humbled in spirit to resent them. When Cressingham had taken up the position described, and had begun the nauseous badinage alluded to, Raeburn, on some trifling pretence, left the cabin and went on deck. The motive for this proceeding will at once present itself to the reader. Cressingham, finding himself thus left alone with Fanny, was proceeding to use other liberties than those of speech; and had already, with the most impudent familiarity, thrown one of his arms around Miss Rutherford's neck, when, with a violent effort, she extricated herself from him, and rushed, in a state of great agitation and alarm, up the cabin-stair, calling on Henry, who was at the moment standing at the stern of the vessel, and directly opposite the cabin-door. Guessing, or rather knowing very well, the cause of Fanny's outcry and terror, he went towards her, and sternly and angrily asked her, "What she made all this noise for!" "O Henry! Henry!" exclaimed the agitated girl, "take me out of this, take me out of this. Let us go on shore, Henry, directly. Do, do, let us go on shore; for I will not go down into that cabin again." "Pooh, you silly fool, you!" replied Raeburn, harshly. "What are you afraid of? Don't you like Cressingham? He's an excellent fellow, only a little rough or so, now and then; but not a pin the worse for that. Why, he's one of the handsomest and richest fellows in Calcutta, and half the girls in the town are cocking their caps at him." "I have nothing to say to or of Mr Cressingham, Henry," replied Fanny. "All that I ask of you is, to take me immediately ashore." With this request Raeburn, seeing that it would not be advisable to push matters further at that moment, sulkily complied. A boat was ordered alongside. Fanny's luggage was placed in it, and she, Raeburn, and Cressingham, were forthwith rowed on shore, where, the moment they landed, the latter, after whispering something into Raeburn's ear, and offering some ineffectual attempts at making his peace with Miss Rutherford, left them. Where, now, does the reader imagine, did Raeburn conduct the unhappy victim of his villany. To his own splendid mansion? No. To a decent hotel, then?--or, probably, he consigned her to the care of some respectable female friend or acquaintance? Neither of these did the heartless ruffian do. He took her to a mean lodging, in one of the meanest parts of the town, pleading some lame apology for not taking her to his own house; and there left her in the hands of strangers, without a word of consolation or comfort, or of kindness. He said, however, before going away, that he would again call in the evening, and would, in the meantime, send a female domestic from his own house, to attend her, together with some necessaries. It would be a vain, an idle task, to attempt to describe what were the unfortunate girl's feelings, now that the hideous truth, that she had been deceived and betrayed, though with what view she could not conjecture, stood undisguised before her. They were dreadful, too excruciating, too exquisitely agonising, to be expressed in words or in wailing. Their effect was to benumb every faculty, and to prostrate every sense; and, as one thus afflicted, sat poor Fanny Rutherford in a chair, at the window of her shabby apartment. That evening, the first of her arrival, Raeburn, contrary to his promise, did not again visit her; but Cressingham came in his place, and dreadful was the result of this unwelcome visit on the poor girl's frame. It instantly brought on a crisis in that disease of the mind under which she was already labouring. The moment he entered the apartment, she uttered a piercing shriek, and rushed frantically to the furthest corner of the room, in the greatest terror, calling on the intruder in the name of Heaven not to come near her--not to approach her. "Leave me, leave me!" she exclaimed, in a tone of bitter agony. "If there be the smallest portion of humanity in your nature, you will leave me instantly. For the love of Heaven," she again repeated, "and of all that you hold dear, leave me! I am deceived and betrayed by him in whom I put all my earthly trust. Oh! my father, my brothers, if ye knew of this. But you will never know it: for I will never see you again. Never, never, never!" The extreme agitation, the terror and outcries of the unfortunate girl, at once arrested Cressingham's progress, and brought several persons that were in the house around her; and by these last--Cressingham having sneaked off, without saying a word--it was judged advisable to send immediately for medical assistance, which was accordingly done. Nor was it unnecessary; for a strong fever had already seized on the poor young lady, and was rapidly exhausting her strength. The medical gentleman sent for instantly attended, and ordered Miss Rutherford to be put to bed. He then prescribed for her as for one whose danger he considered imminent; and he was not mistaken. Deeply interested in the unfortunate girl, from whom he had learned a good deal of her melancholy story, the medical gentleman who had been called in did all that man could do to arrest the progress of the fatal disease under which she was labouring. Night and day he attended her, during her severe but brief illness, and not only employed his own skill to save her, but that of some of the most eminent of his professional brethren in the town, whom he brought to his assistance. But all human efforts were vain. From hour to hour, the fever went on, increasing alarmingly, accompanied by a proportionable diminution of the poor patient's strength, until, at length, the awful and fatal crisis arrived. On the evening of the third day after her arrival in Calcutta, Fanny Rutherford breathed her last, surrounded with strangers, and in a foreign land. But where was the master ruffian all this time? How was he employed, and how did he feel, while this dreadful and affecting scene was enacting? Why, he was giving himself very little concern about it, further than that which proceeded from his fears for his £5000. He had indeed called two or three times at Fanny's lodgings during her illness, to inquire for her, and had even sent her some cordials--cordials, alas! of which she had never partaken--from his own house; but more than this he had not done, nor in any other way had he evinced the smallest sympathy for the unhappy victim of his villany. Raeburn knew that Fanny's illness was of a dangerous nature--but he had no idea that it was to terminate as it did so soon; and it was under this mistaken impression that he and Cressingham called at Fanny's lodgings on the very evening on which she died, and, as it happened, within a few minutes after that melancholy event had taken place. Having tapped gently at the door, which was slowly opened to him by the lodging-house-keeper herself-- "How is your patient to-night, lady?" he said, addressing the latter, smilingly. "She is well, sir--she is well," replied the woman, in whom Fanny's gentle nature and hard fate--of which she, too, had gathered something during the unfortunate girl's fits of delirium--had excited a strong feeling of sympathy. "She is well!--she is well!" she said, wiping her eyes with her apron as she spoke. "She's in heaven, sir!" "What!" exclaimed Raeburn, in a tone of voice startling from its hollowness, and becoming deadly pale; his mean and dastardly soul instantly sinking under the weight of guilt with which he felt this dreadful intelligence burdening it. "What! she's not dead?" "But she is though," replied the woman; "and there's an avenging God above that will seek out and make a terror and example of those who have been the cause of this poor girl's death." "What do you mean, woman?" said Raeburn, in an alarm which he could not conceal, and which the slightest allusion to his villany was now sufficient to excite to an overwhelming degree; "you do not mean to say that she died by violence?" "I know what I know, Mr Raeburn," rejoined the lodging-house-keeper, "and that's all I have to say about the matter." And she turned into the house. Having by no means any wish to renew the conversation, Raeburn availed himself of the opportunity presented by the woman's retiring into the house, to sneak off, which he did, and joined his friend Cressingham, who was waiting for him at a little distance. "She's dead, Cressingham!--she's dead!" he said, in great agitation, as he approached the latter. "Dead!" exclaimed Cressingham--"is it possible? Why, then, Harry, your £5000 are gone, and you have been a villain for nothing." "A villain, did you say, Cressingham?" repeated Raeburn, his lips pale and quivering as he spoke. "Yes; surely a villain--a double-dyed villain!" reiterated the former. "Did you ever imagine you were anything else? My share in the transaction is bad enough--I allow it; but it's nothing to yours, Raeburn--nothing; for I would assuredly have married the girl, if she would have had me. My conduct in the business was perhaps that of a profligate: but yours--yours, Raeburn--was unquestionably that," repeated Cressingham, coolly and considerately--"that of a double-dyed villain." Saying this, he turned on his heel and left him. The instances just mentioned were the first and the only ones in which Raeburn had yet suffered the martyrdom of hearing the opinion of others of his conduct with regard to Miss Rutherford; but this was a species of torture to which he was now to be frequently exposed. On this very occasion, he had not proceeded twenty yards from the place where Cressingham had left him, when he encountered the medical gentleman who had been attending his victim. This person, conjecturing, from the direction whence Raeburn was coming, that he had been inquiring for his patient, accosted him, and asked him how she was. Raeburn, it will readily be believed, would have gone fifty miles about--ay, even on his bare knees--rather than have exposed himself to this meeting; but it had taken place, and he now, therefore, endeavoured to suppress his agitation, and tried to look as composed as possible; and it was with this forced and affected calmness that he replied to the physician's inquiry, that his patient was dead. "Dead!" said the kind-hearted man; "ah, poor girl! I knew it was at hand, but I thought she might have lived for at least twenty-four hours yet. Well, then," he went on, and now looking Raeburn sternly in the face, "since it is so, I will tell you, Mr Raeburn, my opinion of what your conduct has been in this most heartrending affair; for you are deeply implicated in it. My opinion, then, is, sir, that it has been most infamous, most atrocious; and, regarding yourself, sir, I certainly think you one of the most heartless ruffians that ever lived." "Ruffian, sir!" repeated Raeburn, affecting to feel insulted, although he was quaking in every limb--"ruffian, sir! I shall have satisfaction for this, sir, you may depend upon it." "Satisfaction, you scoundrel!" exclaimed Dr Henderson--the name of Fanny's medical attendant--"what right have you to satisfaction? Who would condescend to fight such a dastardly and disgraceful villain as you are? But, mark me, sir," he went on; "I know who the lady's friends are; and you may depend upon it, I shall not lose a moment in writing to inform them of everything connected with this shocking affair, and of your conduct towards the deceased. Take my word for that, sir. And, sir, not only will I do this, but I will inform every one I know of your conduct, until you are scouted from all society." To this Raeburn made no other reply than by turning on his heel, and muttering the words, "Dr Henderson, you shall hear from me." "Hear from you, you basest and most infamous of men!" said the doctor, looking with an expression of the most profound contempt and hatred after Raeburn, as he receded; "the less we hear of you or from you, the better for yourself, you ruffian." Faithfully redeeming his pledge, Dr Henderson, on the following day, wrote to Fanny's father, whose address he had learned from her while attending her, and detailed all he knew--and this was nearly all that was to be known--regarding Raeburn's conduct to his daughter; for, although the latter had never accused Raeburn to him of ill-treatment, the doctor had, by connecting the broken hints which she had dropped from time to time, and especially by marking certain expressions which escaped her during her temporary fits of delirium, arrived at a knowledge of the whole truth. Having executed this part of his threat, Dr Henderson set diligently about the remaining portion, which was to give all the publicity he could to the story of Raeburn's infamy; and so successful was he in his efforts in this way, that he had the satisfaction in a very short time of seeing him shunned by all his acquaintances, and completely debarred from respectable society. After Fanny's death, Raeburn had evinced a disposition to take an active part in her obsequies; and even expressed a willingness to defray the whole of the funeral charges. But this Dr Henderson would on no account permit. Neither would he suffer him to interfere in any way whatever with the funeral rites; the whole expense of which he insisted on paying out of his own pocket; and Raeburn knew too well the advantage the doctor possessed over him, to offer any resistance to these peremptory objections. Thus stood matters, then, with Raeburn, and thus they remained for about eighteen months afterwards. He still, during all this time, continued in possession of his situation; but his superiors, who were well acquainted with the story of his villany to Miss Rutherford, were eagerly and anxiously watching for an opportunity to dismiss him. They did not feel that they would have been warranted in discharging him for his infamous conduct on the occasion alluded to, as it was a matter of which they had no right, officially, to take cognisance; but they had determined that the slightest dereliction of duty on his part should cost him his situation. Of this Raeburn was perfectly aware; and it required all his diligence, care, and attention, to avoid the visitation with which he was threatened. Such, we say, then, was the state of matters with Raeburn for about eighteen months after Fanny Rutherford's death. At the expiry of this period, however, that event occurred which winds up this tragic tale. One evening, about nine o'clock, Raeburn was sitting solitary in his room, musing on the miseries to which his villany had subjected him, and no doubt indulging, as all villains do, in imaginary schemes of vengeance against his enemies, when a waiter from one of the hotels in town called, and said that a gentleman there desired to see him immediately on a matter of importance. Raeburn, conceiving that it might be on some official business that he was wanted, instantly repaired to the hotel, and was ushered into the room where the person was who wished to see him. That person kept his back towards Raeburn till he had fairly entered the apartment, and until the waiter who had shown him in had retired. This done, he suddenly rushed towards the door, snatching up at the same time one of a pair of pistols which lay on a table in the middle of the room, and having locked the door in the inside, he fiercely confronted Raeburn, who, horror-struck at the sight, instantly recognised, in the person before him, Edward Rutherford, the brother of the unfortunate Fanny. "Do you know me, villain? Do you know me?" shouted out Edward, first seizing him by the breast, and then dashing him from him with a violence that sent him reeling to the farther end of the apartment. "Do you know the brother of Fanny Rutherford, murderer? Did you think, ruffian, that you were safe from my vengeance, because the half of the globe lay between us? If you did, you mistook Edward Rutherford. But I will waste no more words on you, villain! The shade of my murdered sister--murdered by the cruellest of all deaths--is calling aloud for retribution, and, in her name, I am here to demand it! Here, dastard!" he said, taking up the other pistol, and presenting it to Raeburn--"here, take this, and stand to me like a man; for I would not imbrue my hands in your filthy blood but upon equal terms. Although you but little deserve it, I will give you a chance for your life! Come, sir," he went on, Raeburn declining to take the pistol, "take it--take it; for, by the heaven above us, one or other of us, or both, must die; and your only chance is in opposing me; for, if you do not fire, I will! By all that's sacred, I will!" At this moment, Raeburn rushed to the window, with the view of calling for assistance; and one supplicatory cry, which, however, was unattended to, he did emit. But, ere he could fully effect his object, Edward had him by the throat, and, holding his pistol within a few inches of his head, threatened, if he stirred or repeated his outcry, that that moment should be his last. Seeing the desperate situation in which he was placed, the trembling wretch now took the pistol from Rutherford's hand, being aware, as he had been told, that it was indeed his only chance for life. The parties now took their stations, one at each end of the room, and confronted each other. "Raise your weapon, Raeburn; raise your weapon!" exclaimed Rutherford, on observing that his antagonist was not proceeding to assume a hostile attitude. "Your not firing will not save you from mine. I give you fair warning!" Raeburn elevated, and levelled his pistol. "Are you ready?" said his terrible opponent. "Yes," replied Raeburn, faintly. "Then fire, villain!" exclaimed Rutherford; and both pistols went off at the same instant, but with very different effect. A retributive power had directed the fatal engines of destruction. Raeburn's bullet struck the wall wide of its mark, while Rutherford's passed through the heart of him at whom it was aimed, and he fell lifeless on the floor. Rutherford threw himself on his knees, and holding aloft the still reeking weapon of death, thanked Heaven that he had been permitted to be the avenger of his sister's wrongs. The house in which this dreadful scene took place was a large one, and the apartment, especially selected on that account by Rutherford, was a remote one; so that the firing was not heard by any of the inmates--at least not so distinctly as to inform them that it was the noise of firearms. No one, therefore, appeared to interrupt the escape which Rutherford now meditated, and lost no time in effecting. He left the apartment, and, unheeded by any one, descended the great staircase which led to it and to others, and fled from the house. Although, however, Rutherford effected his escape in safety, the transaction which rendered his flight necessary did not long remain unknown. It came to the ears of justice, and she uncoupled her bloodhounds after the offender; but, as the whole circumstances of the case gradually transpired, it is supposed that the pursuit was neither a very eager nor a very willing one. Certain it is, at any rate, that Rutherford could nowhere be found, although it is equally certain that several persons knew very well where he was for nearly two months after the death of Raeburn. To these it was known that, immediately after the fatal occurrence in the hotel, a person closely wrapped up in a travelling-cloak called at Dr Henderson's, and desired to have a private interview with the doctor. When that gentleman entered the apartment into which the stranger had been shown, the latter announced himself to be Edward Rutherford, the brother of Fanny Rutherford, with whose melancholy story he said the doctor was so well acquainted. "The brother of poor Fanny!" said the doctor, in amazement, and at the same time taking his visiter kindly by the hand. "I am happy to see you, sir, on your poor unfortunate sister's account. Did you come with the ship that arrived from England to-day, sir?" "I did, sir," replied Edward. "And pray, my dear sir," said the doctor, "if it be not an impertinent question--I assure you it is put with the most friendly intentions--what may be your purpose and views in coming out to India?" "Vengeance, doctor! vengeance!" replied Rutherford, fiercely, "was my sole object--and I have already had it." "Raeburn!" exclaimed the doctor, eagerly. "Yes, sir, Raeburn is no more--his villanous career is ended. I have killed the ruffian; but, thank God! I killed him in fair fight. Villain as he was, I took no advantage of him, farther than compelling him to fight me." Edward then went on to detail the whole proceedings connected with the duel in the hotel. When he had concluded-- "On my word, sir," said Dr Henderson, smiling--he could not help it--"you have made quick work of it indeed; and I assure you, I for one am not sorry that the villain has met with his deserts. But we must now care for your safety, Mr Rutherford, from the vengeance of the laws," added the doctor; "although I do not see how they can be very severe in such a case as this. Yet it will be as well for you to keep out of harm's way for a little. You must remain for some time in concealment; and a fitter or more secure place than I shall provide for you in my house here, you could not readily find anywhere; and I must insist on your availing yourself of it." Edward did not know how to express the gratitude he felt for the singular and most disinterested kindness of his worthy host. He was, in truth, too strongly impressed with it to be able to acknowledge it otherwise than by a few broken sentences; but there was in these, and still more in the manner in which they were spoken, enough to show Dr Henderson that his friendly conduct was properly appreciated. "Nothing at all, my dear sir!--nothing at all!" said the doctor, in reply to Edward's attempts at acknowledgment of the generous part he was acting towards him. "I'm very sure you would do the same for me, were I placed in your situation. You have, besides, Mr Rutherford--although, perhaps, a strict morality might question your right to the step you have taken--you have, I say, notwithstanding this, a claim on the friendly services of every man who can feel for the wrongs of another, especially--most especially--such grievous wrongs as yours. It was a just, and, on the part of him who has suffered, a well-merited retribution." Edward was shortly afterwards introduced into the place of concealment--a comfortable little apartment, which had been prepared for him by the kindness of the worthy doctor; and here he remained for about seven weeks, experiencing every kindness and attention from his benevolent host, when he was secretly conveyed on board of a ship about to sail for London, where he arrived in safety, at the expiry of somewhere about the usual period occupied in such a voyage. On his return home, Edward found his father at the point of death. The fate of his unfortunate daughter was hurrying him to the grave. Edward had not told him what was his object in going out to India; but the old man had guessed it, and had made several ineffectual attempts to dissuade him from his purpose. On the former now approaching his bedside, therefore, "Thank God!'" he said, stretching out his hand to Edward, "that I see you safe again, my son;" and added--afraid to be more particular in his inquiries--"have you seen Raeburn?" "I have, father," was the only reply of his son; but it was said in a manner, and accompanied by a look, which assured him of what had taken place. "I cannot approve, Edward, of what you have done," said his father; "but God will forgive you!" They were the last words he spoke; and Raeburn's villany boasted yet another victim. THE PROFESSOR'S TALES. THE ENTHUSIAST. There is a splendid book written, called "The Enthusiast;" but, though it discovers the author's talents, to my apprehension and feelings, it fails, after a few pages, to keep alive the attention--and why? Just because the author, portraying the general character of enthusiasm, steps beyond himself and his own personal observations, and talks about the workings of the principle in a new and untried combination of circumstances. From the law which regulates projectiles in _aere_, he reasons to what should regulate them _in vacuo_; he reasons from things seen to things unseen; and then leaves both himself and his reader in the mud and the mist of mere supposition. But, in what I mean to say of enthusiasm, I pledge myself to state nothing but what I have felt or seen; and I shall separate this principle from all others, only marking its influence when it is in a state of intensity, as one marks the electric spark, not in the cloud or the machine, but as it passes from one locality to another. Enthusiasm is, in fact, the electrical element of life. It is more or less everywhere, and often where it is least suspected. It bursts forth, occasionally, in the character of the warrior, the scholar, the poet, the speculator; but it remains as substantially, perhaps, though not so ostensibly, in the bosom of the parent, the husband, the wife, the child, the friend, the kinsman. The tradesman is an enthusiast, if he hopes to succeed; the merchant, the labourer, the mechanic. I have seen a shoemaker as enthusiastic in making his shoes fit neatly without pinching, as the scholar would be in divining the meaning of a difficult passage. Without enthusiasm man had never been what he is. It found him in the world naked, and it clothed him; houseless, and it covered him; defenceless, and it armed him. It run him up through the pastoral, the agricultural, to the commercial state. It composed the "Idylls" of Theocritus, the "Georgics" of Virgil, and the "Fleece" of Dyer. Without this there had been no shepherds to sing, and no poets to sing of their singing; no husbandmen to labour, and no Virgils and Hesiods to speak of their labour and argonautic expeditions; and no sacred bard to celebrate their pursuit of the golden fleece, commerce. But, though all this is true, in the enlarged and diluted sense of the word, it is not so in that sense in which the term is commonly understood. He is quite an enthusiast in the pursuit of knowledge--of a fox--or of hoped-for discovery--or of fame or of fortune--anybody knows to be terms applied to an unusually spirited pursuit of any or all of these. But the enthusiasm of which I speak is more limited still. It is a glow which originates and cools in the same bosom; which has no view beyond itself. It is not a mean to an end, but mean and end in one. Look at that boy: he is never to be found at a leisure hour without a fishing-rod in his hand; at that other youth--his book is his constant companion by the fountain and the hill; at that religious devotee--prayer and Bible-reading are his heaven; at that butcher's boy, who is now killing a lamb--his father has put the knife into his hand to please him--he is an enthusiast in butchery--his passion feeds on itself: it is, like virtue, its own reward--he cares not for cutlets or brown roasts. Having thus narrowed the field to a class, I shall now select an individual, and that individual shall be one with whom I have had many opportunities of becoming well acquainted. Curious reader, it is not you, nor your brother Robert, nor your uncle Andrew, nor any, so far as I know, of your kindred--it is "myself." And how has enthusiasm wrought in me? That I am just going to tell you. It has made me, in the first place, miserable--most miserable; and I'll tell you how. I took it into my head, when a boy of about eight or nine years of age, that my mother--my only living parent--was mortal; nay, that she was so old and infirm--though she was not more than fifty, and in perfect health--that she would drop down dead, even before my eyes. I followed her wherever she went; held on by her apron-string, roaring aloud most mournfully, and shedding, besides, a world of tears. In vain did my kind mother endeavour to rally me, to reason me, to scold me, and even to chastise me, out of my dream: it had taken such hold of my imagination, that, sleeping or waking, it was there. When my mother travelled anywhere abroad, I was sure to be after her, like a domestic cur. When she went to offer up her private oblations to a throne of mercy, I crept in under her plaid, and heard every audible aspiration. In my sleep she was still before me as I had seen my grandmother--the lips parted, the eyes open, and set in night. It was horrible. I started into real life, and wept aloud. I rushed into my mother's apartment, felt her face all over, and cried bitterly. Reader, have you always been made of pot-mettle? Have you never experienced any such nervous enthusiasm as this? Have you been at all times a child of realities--a very steady, thinking, prudent person; slept like a top, ate like a raven, and talked to the amazement even of the minister himself? You may be a steady, good person now. You may even be married, with a family of thirteen children. You may have succeeded in the world, and feathered your nest. You may have presided well at various public dinners, and "Never wrote One line which, dying, you would wish to blot;" and for this simple and best of all reasons, that you have never written, as far as the public is concerned, any lines at all. You may be a sound-headed lawyer, a calculating merchant, an honest shopkeeper, or, what is still more commendable, because more rare, an honest judge. You may sole shoes or make greatcoats to a nicety--fabricate chairs, or nails, or pins, or periwigs, to a thought; but you are no enthusiast. Do you see that poor maniac, who is just receiving a visit from his mother in his cell, whose eyes are turned up in wild uproar to the roof of his dungeon, and who, in the damp icicles, is apostrophising sun, moon, and stars, Venus, Jupiter, and Aldubaran? That emaciated form of scarcely twenty years of age, which a weeping mother clasps, and whom a frenzied son convulsively strains to his bare and fleshless breast--that is Ferguson, the poet, the prince of enthusiasts--he at whose genius Burns lighted that torch which has filled the world with light. Do you mark that form sitting amongst the sands of Syracuse? The city is taken by the Roman armies. The enemy are within the walls; pillage and murder are the order of the hour. But what is that to him?--he is only an enthusiast. The soldier has challenged him to surrender; his sword is uplifted, and the challenge is repeated. He heeds it not; the sword descends--and the greatest mathematician, the most complete enthusiast, which the world has ever seen, lies before you, a gashed and mangled corpse. The world--its wonders, its atoms, its various formations!--the laws--the eternal laws of its construction and form!--there is one who sung sweetly--oh, how divinely! There is one who sung sublimely--yes, as one overpowered with the spirit of Him who said, "Let there be light, and there was light;" but the cord which was overstrained is snapped, and the bow is unstrung; the pressure upon the delicate fibres of the brain has been too much, and the building of God has given way. Poor Lucretius! the disease of which thou didst expire was "enthusiasm." But it is time to shift the scene--to resort to that exquisite happiness, and extensive benefit to society, which enthusiasm is calculated to produce. Poetry is the language of nature. All languages originated in poetry; the ballad is the mother of all living and dead books. Whether it be repeated in the shape of Fescenine catches on the banks of the Tiber, of glorious epic on those of the Scamander, of chivalrous narrative by the rapid Rhone or sweet Liger--whether it employ the time and the enthusiastic efforts of the bard, the troubadour, the harper, or the minstrel--whether it resound through the recesses of Pindus, of Arcady, or of Yarrow--still, still the ballad presents the first germ of literature. What are the earlier pages of Livy's "History" but popular ballads, connected and narratived? What the history of our own Scotland--of her Bruces, and Wallaces, and all her many and valorous achievements--but ballads? And "How canst thou resist the boundless store Of charms which Nature to her votaries yields-- The warbling woodland--the resounding shore-- The pomp of groves--and garniture of fields-- Oh, how canst thou resist, and hope to be forgiven!" But who can or does resist? Not even the robber Moor, who soliloquises so poetically the setting sun. Not "The swain who, journeying homeward from A day's long labour, feels The form of beauty smiling on his soul." Poetry is spread as widely through the human heart as is electricity through all the works of nature. Man can no more help being poetical, than he can new-model his frame. But what is the love--the passion of poetry--but enthusiasm--enthusiasm which converts everything it looks upon into beauty and sublimity? The man is born desert and lonely: and is there no beauty in solitude--no grandeur in expansion? The mountains are highland, wild, heathy, and tempest-beaten: and is there no sublimity in their cliffs, their scarred fronts, and scarred sides? The landscape is covered with wood, or there is at least a pleasing alternation of forest and glade, of peopled levels and wooded hills: and does not the soul nestle softly and lovingly amidst these pleasing varieties? But you are making faces, and there is something like an incipient yawn beginning to travel over your beauteous lips, my dearest madam. Well, I'll have done with advising you to wed the "spirit of poetry," if you wish to be completely happy. You need not write poems, ma'am--that is not necessary; Livy never wrote poetry, and yet he is every inch a poet. Robertson never wrote verse, and yet he is essentially poetical. Witness Mexico and Montezuma. "Am I lying on a bed of roses?"--There, for example, is me _now_--ay, just me--I am every inch a poet! and yet, with the exception of a few things which need not be excepted, I never wrote any poetry:--yet I see you want a story, and you say, am I not reading "The Tales of the Borders, and of Scotland?"--I cry you mercy, and shall give you the results of my enthusiasm. When in Edinburgh, at the college, while others prolonged the debauch, it might be, till two or three of a fine moonlight night, I have stolen away about twelve, taken my course through the King's Park to the Echoing Rock, and from thence to that long hollow valley of Bagdad, which runs betwixt Arthur Seat and Salisbury Craigs, and there I have seen the Island of Inchkeith lying, like a glittering diamond, on the face of the deep and the silver sea, and hazy shores of Fife, and the fleecy heavens, and the stars, and the "bonny lady moon," and two figures in the moonlight; they are walking away from me, and are busily engaged in conversation--they do not perceive me--I will ensconce myself behind this large stone till I see what may happen. They have now sat down on the greensward, and I hear their voices very much elevated. The woman is reproaching the man in loud and angry tones--the man makes no reply; or, if he does, it is in an under tone--Ha! he has sprung upon the woman all at once, like a tiger, and she screams, "Murder, murder!" aloud. Shall I allow a poor woman to be murdered in the solitude of nature, without making an effort, even at the risk of my own life, to save her? My resolution, nerved by the wine I had drunk, was taken in an instant--I sprang forward, crying loudly to my _companions_ to assist me. When the horrible object understood how things were going, and imagining, no doubt, that there were more than _one_ witness of its horrible doings, it took to its heels with the speed of lightning. I did not pursue; in fact, I had no inclination to do so; it was sufficient for me if I could save life--I did not wish to take it, either personally or legally. When I went up to the poor woman, she was all astonishment, and her first accents were uttered in thanksgiving to Almighty God for sending me into the desert for her rescue. I found that, although the villain had clutched her by the throat, he had not had time to suffocate her. Her throat was indeed sore from the pressure, and she breathed for some time with difficulty; but there were no deadly symptoms about her. What a mysterious Providence is about us!--and we often know it not. I had originally no intention of taking a moonlight walk that evening, or rather morning, had it not been to avoid the impertinence of a fellow-member of the Dialectic Society, who manifestly wished, in his cups, to fasten a quarrel upon me. I stepped out from Young's, and was off. I was manifestly the messenger of Heaven, and could not help regarding myself with a kind of reverence. The poor woman, who was in fact the wife of this worthless man, gave me her history, to the following purpose:-- That brute, as you very properly call him, is my husband, and was once as kind and affectionate to me as I could wish. Ours was what is called a pure love marriage, for I was born to better circumstances and prospects than, from my present condition and appearance, you may well imagine. (Here the poor woman shed tears, and proceeded.) I was the daughter of a small proprietor in the neighbourhood of Durham, where the Princess of Wales' regiment of Light Dragoons was raised, and was then lying, under the command of Lord Darlington. We--that is to say, my father, my mother, my sister, and myself--used to go frequently into a field adjoining the city, and see this really handsome regiment reviewed, and go through their exercise. One day there was a mock battle represented, in the very field adjoining to my father's house. Several regiments were collected together, from Newcastle and elsewhere, for the purpose. It was to be a great show; and the whole town of Durham, as well as all the country round, were congregated to see the battle. Cannons were fired, charges of cavalry were made, and a detachment of the Darlington troop rode, in pursuit of the supposed enemy, past our door. My father and I were at the upper window when the troop came dashing along, clearing fences and springing over ditches in the finest style imaginable. Just as they came opposite to my father's door, a pig, which had escaped from its confinement in the back-court, dashed headlong forward amongst the feet of the horses. One of the horses fell; and the rider, having pitched on his head, was seemingly killed on the spot. He was immediately carried into our house, and surgical aid was at hand. It was a dislocation of the neck-bone, and was immediately put to rights; but the patient was bled, and ordered to be kept quiet for some days. I naturally became the young gentleman's nurse; for he was the son of a poor but titled family in the neighbourhood of Darlington. Mr Fitzwilliam was a handsome man, about my own age; but he was penniless, and a soldier of fortune. My father, early seeing the danger of my remaining in the way of temptation, had sent me off to a grand house in the neighbourhood of Newcastle. But William Fitzwilliam had won my heart, and, in spite of all watchings and lookings, we were man and wife in less than a fortnight after my departure for Newcastle. We were married at Gretna Green; and I have accompanied him ever since, through Carlisle and Dumfries, Ayr, Glasgow, and ultimately to Jock's Lodge, where the regiment is now lying. He has taken lodgings for me in Edinburgh; but of late has sadly deserted me. I have been enabled, by taking up linen, and sewing articles for the ladies' exhibition, to do something in aid of our scanty funds. But William has of late undergone a sad change. He has become addicted to gambling; has even introduced improper characters, both male and female, into my presence; and has talked, particularly in his cups, about a divorce and separation. He wishes _me_, he says, to divorce him; and takes every method of giving me sufficient grounds for so doing; but, with all his errors and vices, I love him still, nor can I think, now that I have time to reflect on it, he would have murdered me outright, even though you had not so providentially interfered. He has of late succeeded to a title, by the death of an uncle, who has disinherited him, and left his vast property past him. This preyed upon his spirits of late; and I have reason to know that he has been making love, and even offers of marriage, to a rich widow lady, who dwells not far from York Place, Edinburgh. But my marriage-lines lie sadly in his way; and it was to attain by force what he could not otherwise, that he had almost, and, but for you, would have perhaps altogether, murdered me, a few minutes ago. Poor William! my heart still bleeds for him; but I will never give up, whilst I live, the only means which I have of proving myself an honest woman. All Edinburgh rang next morning with the news--Lord M---- had shot himself dead in his bedroom. In the year 1831, I had occasion to be several days in Durham. It occurred to me, one day, whilst I was sauntering about the cathedral, that the house, where probably still lived the father of the poor unfortunate Mrs, or rather _Lady_ M----, might be in the neighbourhood. I made inquiry; and, without much difficulty, found it out. From what I learned in the neighbourhood, the poor woman had never taken up her husband's title. Her father, on hearing of her husband's tragical end, had relented, and taken her home, to keep his house, and comfort him in his old age. I asked for her father, and was shown into a neat parlour, where the old man sat, comfortably pillowed, but terribly pained with gout and a complication of diseases. I introduced myself as an acquaintance of Mrs Fitzwilliam, who was immediately sent for, and entered the parlour. She did not know me, nor was it wonderful; for, as I went to the country next day after the night adventure, I had no opportunity of calling upon her. Indeed, I should scarcely have known her either--her dress and manner were so much more imposing than they had been at our first and only interview. However, upon my referring to the circumstances, she immediately took me by the hand, burst into tears, and, presenting me to her father, who was almost blind, "Papa," said she, "this is the gentleman who saved my life." I had the old man's blessing. A bottle of home-made wine was called for, and discussed, and I was pressed to come back to dinner; which, however, I politely refused, for I did not know how far my enthusiastic temperament might have gone, in the case of a truly beautiful woman, whom I had saved from death, and whose gratitude led her to think very favourably of me. I have not heard of her lately; but mean to write to my brother-in-law, who lives in Durham, about her, and to ascertain whether she is still living or dead; whether she is yet unmarried, or has again ventured to face the blacksmith. Such was one of my moonlight adventures; which, if you are so disposed, you are at liberty to denominate a "matter of moonshine." But my enthusiasm has not been limited to moonbeams. I am the mountain child, and wedded even up to this hour to the mountain-land, with all its wild, striking, and expanding associations. To meet a fair maiden in a _fair_ is pleasant, as also to replenish her lap with sweet-meats and trinkets. To get a "canny hour at een, your arms about your deary," is snug, comfortable, and something more. Burns prefers "rigs of barley," and the "green rush bushes," as a courting parlour; whilst, "Last night, in my late rambles, All in the Isle of Sky, I met a lovely creature Up in the mountains high." Now the Isle of Sky, and its high mountains, are entire strangers to me; but I am well acquainted with two pretty decent hills, not above twenty miles from Dumfries, called Queensberry, _little_ and _big_; and, amidst their elevated and retired glens, the following incident took place. I have from my boyhood been distractedly fond of fishing; and, up to this hour, whenever I visit my native glen, the mania returns; and, though things are sadly changed, and trouts are diminished both in number and size, yet still, in spite of all disadvantages, I fish. It was on an excursion on my way (whilst a young man of twenty) from college, that I found myself, one dark and misty day, amidst the deep and mazy windings of the _Brawn_. I was quickly and successively basketing trout after trout, humming all the while some old Scottish sonnet, and calling in my little dog, _Don_, from the sheep who were pasturing on the adjoining hill, named the Dod, when a voice from the depths of the mist and the solitude reached my ear. It was a voice of wo and deep lamentation. Having chid Don's impertinence in giving tongue somewhat too freely, I found, seated upon a grey stone, and weeping aloud, a young woman, about my own age, with dark blue eyes, and a countenance of the most prepossessing expression. She sat beside an infant, which she had deposited on a bed of collected fern or braken, and who was fast asleep. When she saw me, she started, and seemed disposed to fly; but when I used my means to reassure her, she ventured to accost me, by informing me that she had lost her way--that she was nurserymaid at Mitchelslacks, and had wandered that morning with her charge beyond her accustomed range, and, the mist coming suddenly on, she found it impossible to retrace her steps. I thought myself quite in possession of the information which she wanted, and told her that I would see her and her little charge safely and immediately home. So, giving up my sport for the time, I took up the sleeping infant, and immediately addressed myself, accompanied by the fair wanderer, to the journey. We were several miles distant from Mitchelslacks; but, as I considered myself quite familiar with the ground, I struck immediately over the pathless hill, by what I termed a _near cut_, instead of retracing the stream for a couple of miles, and then crossing the Dod by a cart track. The child awoke, and finding itself in strange hands, screamed violently; so I was soon compelled to place the infant in the loveliest bosom I had ever seen. I felt my frame tremble all over, as I came into contact with pretty Peggy's person; and yet, for all the wealth of old Q----, I would not have even conceived anything which might occasion alarm to so beautiful and manifestly so innocent a creature. Yet I could not keep my eyes off her, and found out, in spite of a dark and crawling mist, that her frame was perfect symmetry, and rounded into that ripened plumpness which bespeaks the fully-matured woman. We conversed freely as we travelled; and my romantic feelings became so excited with my position, that I thought but occasionally, and then indistinctly, of the direction, right or wrong, in which we were advancing. Peggy from time to time admonished me, that she trusted to me alone, as she was totally unacquainted with the hill. Having attained at last the summit of the steep, I expected to have found a cairn of stones, and, alongside of it a shepherd's shieling or turf hut, where he reposed at noonday, and shared his bread and milk with his faithful curs; but no such shieling or cairn was to be seen. It then became manifest to me, all at once, that I as well as my fair companion of the mist had lost my way, and that, unless the day, which was still becoming darker and darker, should clear up, we should be in danger of increasing instead of lessening the distance betwixt us and Mitchelslacks. To increase our embarrassment, the child cried continually, evidently from hunger, and great drops of rain came down like hail-stones amidst the close and crawling mist. It was evident that a thunderstorm was brooding--nor were we long kept in suspense; for, all at once, the mist was kindled into flame around us, and a sharp, smart crack, followed by the roar of a thousand hills, told us that we were in the very centre of the electric cloud. Poor Peggy sank down at once, overcome with terror; whilst I, immediately and intuitively, squatted down beside her, clasping her to my bosom, child and all. I may truly say with Patie, in regard to another lovely Peggy-- "Whilst hard and fast I held her in my grips, My very soul cam loupin to my lips." But the awful flash and peal were repeated, and then, in very truth, and not metaphorically, "Down rush'd a deluge of sonorous hail." Peggy fainted outright, and the child screamed itself into hysterics, when all at once a couple of shaggy shepherd's dogs gave tongue in the neighbourhood. A young, yellow haired shepherd lad stood over us in an instant; and, guessing at once how matters really stood, had us all removed, as soon as Peggy had recovered her senses, into the small shieling, in the immediate neighbourhood of which we were unconsciously wandering. We had to stoop, and enter upon our hands and knees; and, when we were all stowed away, there was not an inch of house room which was not occupied either by human beings or dogs. But, though sitting, or rather lying, on rushes, these rushes were dry, and our humble shelter warded off the merciless pelting, whilst the thunder-cloud gradually took to the top of the higher Queensberry, and left us with a clear sunny day, and two miles to walk to the child's home. The truth was, that the family at Mitchelslacks had become alarmed by the absence of maid and child, and had sent nearly half-a-score of shepherds, and a full score of dogs, to the hills and glens, on a voyage of discovery; whilst Mr and Mrs Harkness, the parents, were in a state which may more easily be imagined than described. All were now well; and I accompanied the young shepherd, with his sweetheart--for such I soon discovered they were--home, and had the happiness, by running on before, to be the first to announce the safety of their child to the worthy and distracted parents. They had, indeed, given up both the nurse and child for lost, and their despair had been at least equal to their joy, when I ran forward and threw the child in the mother's lap. Now, who could doubt that enthusiasm was abounding in the breast, and shining in the tear-wet eye of the mother, as she pressed the little lost one to her bosom? It was, verily. But, after all I have said of the nature of this extraordinary feeling, I know not if it is ever experienced in a stronger and purer form than in that of _joy_. I care nothing for the cause--it may be any one you please. All I insist for is, that it shall be capable of stimulating, or rather exciting--for the former is a phrenological word--the mind of the individual, however stupid, obese, or phlegmatic, to the boiling-point of that most intense species of human happiness. All the many forms of the feeling seem to tend to this as the point of their realisation. Pythagoras and his proposition, Argand and his lamp, Mungo Park and the waters of the Joliba, Mrs Harkness and her child, and the child, probably, next day with a butterfly, are all instances of the feeling in the point of gratification. But I have been again wandering from my story--all enthusiasm together; for there was love in the affair, which many insist upon being the strongest, if not the purest, example that can be presented of this mysterious and pervading essence. Those who think so can take their own view; I retain mine; and it is very probable that we are both wrong; and you, ma'am, to whom I formerly addressed myself, will put us right, by telling us that poetry is the only genuine and pure form in which this moral electricity can exhibit itself. Let it be as you say, though I would advise you to be on your guard against your friend Miss ----, who lost her lover last week, and will insist that _hope_ is the soul of the feeling; and that, when that is gone, enthusiasm has no more chance of getting into the mind or heart than I have of getting into your favour by this digression from a story of love, originating in, or perfected by, _mist_, one of the most romantic mediums of the tender passion. So, to make a speedy conclusion, about a fortnight after this incident, I was again at my old sport, when I was accosted by my young friend, the shepherd, who now figured in holiday-attire, and informed me that, as this was his wedding-day, my company would be acceptable _owre by yonder_ at two o'clock. I pursued my sport till then, and, in the old chamber of Mitchelslacks, saw Joseph Robson and Margaret Gibson made man and wife. There was neither dancing nor revelment of any kind, but there was a plentiful meal, many songs, and as much punch, prepared in a large bowl, as the company chose to make use of. All went merry as a marriage-bell. And now I find I am checked by want of space, at the moment when the _jar_ is fully charged, and the subtle spirit might have exploded in many more pretty coruscations. TREES AND BURNS. Woods, natural woods, are most beautiful. To wander all day long amongst bushes, hazels, oaks, thorns, of every hue and fruit--the haw, crab, and sloe--is most delightful. To lose one's-self, as it were, at every turn, and to be arrested by some new feature, ever and anon, as you thread your mazy course through the pathless wood, is a pleasure, the recollection of which still haunts and sweetens my dreams of early being-- "In life's morning march, When my bosom was young." I don't like forests--they are too stiff and stately--they are like a tea-and-turn-out party--sombre, silent, and affected. They have not the easy negligence, the elegant simplicity, the "_simplex munditiis_," of woods. They are always on their high horses, and darken whilst they look down upon and despise the underwood. I had as rather associate with a conclave of high churchmen or consulting doctors, as with a regular, well-planted, and well-fenced plantation. Here man has played the tailor with nature; and, in cutting down her skirts, has deprived her of all that is graceful in drapery and folding. He has made a Bond Street exquisite of the subject. But, far and beyond all other inanimate objects, I have always been in love with single, individual, separate trees. You cannot be truly--as the song has it--in love with many _fair dames_ at one and the same time; I can never, on that account, bear to hear the song sung, which begins thus-- "I'm in love with twenty, I'm in love with twenty, And I adore as many more-- There's nothing like a plenty." I absolutely quarrelled with an old friend for his frequent singing of this abominable and heretical song, and am scarcely reconciled to him to this hour, though he has long ago limited his love to one object--he has been married these thirty years. In the same spirit, and on the same principle, I affirm, that no child, boy, girl, man, or woman, can be truly in love with _two trees_ at one and the same time. Oh! I remember well the old ash-tree that occupied the corner of our kail-yard. There the same pyet built yearly her nest, and brought _out_ and _up_ her young. To be sure I _tithed_ them occasionally, and taught her offspring to imitate speaking most abominably; but still the old lady and gentleman returned to their tree and their branch, and even to the same cleft of the branch, annually; and my spirit rejoiced within me, as I lifted up mine eyes and beheld the black-and-white tail of the dam, as she sat, from morn to night, upon her beautifully-spotted, black-and-white eggs. There, underneath that very tree, I did sit and construct my first paper kite; there did I play from morn to night with the cat and her kitten; there did I shelter myself from the shower, and from the meridian heat; there did I repeat my morning and evening prayer (short, it is true, but pithy--it was the Lord's Prayer, with an additional petition in behalf of my only surviving parent, my mother); there did I count my slain on returning from fishing expeditions; and there, my dear departed friend and cousin, did you and I associate, eve after eve, in true and holy affection. Alas! the cold earth has closed over one of the kindest hearts and clearest heads I ever had occasion to know anything about; but God's will be done. We all hasten to the same place, however different our courses. Peace, my dear companion, to thy manes! We shall meet, I hope, anon. In the meantime, I was speaking of the old ash-tree at Auldwa's, which I have taken the liberty to transplant to Dunsyett. But our common friend, and the friend of many past generations, is now laid prostrate (as I am informed) with the earth. How is the mighty fallen, and the lofty laid low, and the strong one broken and smashed in his strength! The storm, the dreadful, unexampled storm, which lately swept over our island with a whirlwind's impetuosity and a hurricane's strength, has bent the gallant mast, and sunk the noble ship, and buried its thousands and thousands of fathers, and brothers, and husbands, and wives, and daughters in the deep sea. It has uptorn forests, scattered woods to the heavens, and (_inter alia_) has stooped from its altitude to lay my old and dear companion prostrate. How many tempests, my poor uprooted friend, hast thou not braved!--nay, when the fire of heaven split and splintered the adjoining oak and ash, thou didst escape unhurt. The awful tempest of winter 1794-5, deprived thee, indeed, of a branch or two; but thou wert still in the manhood of thy being, when the west wind blew as "'twad blaw its last"--and M'Diarmid's newspaper is enriched with thy remains. My next associate of the tree species was the "_Castle Beech_." Oh, what a tree it was, and still (I humbly hope) is!--for the hand of man is not yet formed in the womb which will dare to cut it down; and it stands mighty in its individual girth, awful in its spread, and sheltered in its position. This tree is the chronicler of my school days at Wallacehall: on the smooth and ample bark of that tree are imprinted or obliterated recollections of a fearful nature. Oh! who dares to take a peep into the charnel-house of fifty years? There they are, playing it hard and happy, at dools toosty, or England and Scotland. "Alas! regardless of their doom, The little victims play: No sense have they of ills to come-- No cares beyond to-day!" But let forty years, with Juggernaut wheels, crash and creak over us, and where are the happy hearts and merry voices? The sea will answer; for she has had her full share. The river, the bloody river _Nith_, will and must answer; for in its deceitful waters was lost my old and kind class-fellow and companion, Richard Reid. The west must give up its dead, and the east answer to my call. Where am I? My dear schoolfellows, where are you? Why don't you answer? Alas! _at sixty_, I can scarcely count six contemporaries who still breathe with me the breath of heaven, and rejoice in a protracted though misimproved existence. But the old beech, my kind friend Mr Watt of the castle informs me, is still standing, though almost by a miracle, for his branches are so large and numerous that he groaned, and creaked, and swung most dreadfully under the tempest's shock. But it would not do; even the prince of the aerial powers was foiled at last, and was compelled to desist from his unhallowed attempt. The Castle Beech has weathered the storm; and there are hearts in every land which will rejoice in the information which I now convey. But the "Three Brethren," the friends and companions of my more mature years, are now no more. They have fallen with those cedars of Lebanon, the mighty monarchs of Arbigland--_they_ have perished, and in their fate have nearly involved that of their intelligent and benevolent proprietor. But my heart reverts to Collestoun, and to the banks of the blue and silver Nith, and to the Three Brethren. The pages of the intelligent "Times" (county newspaper) are wet with the tears of lamentation. But the "Times" knows not--it could not, and it cannot know--the one-half that honest Allan Cunningham and I know about these remarkable trees. Their traditional history is this:-- Prior to the discovery of Virginia, and of the consequent tobacco trade, by means of which Glasgow, from being a comparatively insignificant town, became a large and a prosperous mercantile city, and whilst Manchester, in England, was almost equally obscure and unimportant, there was no properly-constructed highway through Dumfries-shire betwixt these two mercantile depôts. There was, indeed, along the banks of the Nith, the trace of the old Roman road; but this was obscure, in many places obliterated, and in all narrow and unaccommodating to wheel-carriages. Indeed, the road in many cases was impracticable, unless on horses; and these, too, in some places, were in danger of disappearing in mosses and quagmires. In this state of things, to talk of or think of inns, or public-houses of accommodation, was out of the question. _Where there is no demand, there can be no supply_--that is a clear case; yet still a certain overland intercourse was carried on betwixt these two great national marts, Glasgow and Manchester; and a merchant from the one city was in the habit of mounting a strong nag, and meeting with a merchant from the other city at what was deemed the _half-way point_--at the place, namely, where a large tree, with three outspread and sheltering branches, not only marked the spot of tryst, but afforded partial shade and shelter. (The reason why these branches were afterwards denominated the Three Brethren has already formed the subject of a tale.) Well, by previous arrangement and appointment, the Glasgow and the Manchester merchants met and transacted business under this tree, and then retraced their steps homewards; and this continued for many years to be the nearest and the most commonly-frequented line of communication betwixt Glasgow and Manchester. It was in this way, originally, that the benevolent founder of the free school of Closeburn, Mr Wallace, a native of that parish, and a Glasgow merchant, carried on this extensive business with Manchester. Many a time has the worthy founder of the most celebrated institution in the south of Scotland (with which the name of Mundell will be associated till latest ages) been seen sitting upon a stone rolled to the foot of this immense tree, and transacting business with a Manchester merchant, similarly placed with himself. In process of time, the international intercourse increased--post-chaises succeeded to strong saddle horses, the roads were improved, and an inn, or house of accommodation, became absolutely necessary. It was on this occasion that the once famous, though now comparatively obscure inn, called of late years Brownhill, arose--an inn resorted to by travellers of all ranks, in preference to any which even Dumfries in former times could afford--an inn celebrated as the frequent resort of Robert Burns, who used to hold high carousal here with its former convivial landlord, Mr Bacon; in whose house, and on one of the panes of glass in the window, were originally written those well-known lines of Burns, beginning-- "Cursed be the man, the veriest wretch in life, The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife, Who has no will but by her high permission-- Who has not sixpence but in her possession.... I'd charm her with the magic of a switch," &c. As I happen to know the particular circumstances which accompanied the writing of these lines, I shall conclude this chapter on trees, by relating them. Burns lived at this time at Ellisland, about two miles lower down the vale than the Three Brethren, and about three miles from Brownhill. Much of his duty as a gauger lay about the village of Brownhill. Now, Brownhill was a very convenient half-way house betwixt Thornhill and his home at Ellisland; and, accordingly, Burns' little stout pony (which I remember well, though I forget the name) would seldom pass Brownhill. One day, whilst a boy at the free school of Wallacehall, I chanced to be lingering about the stable-door at Brownhill, when Burns alighted from his pony, _wet and weary_, and, giving the beast a slap on the hinder extremity, exclaimed, "There! make you comfortable for the night, in the best way you can--and so will the poor gauger!" Burns looked at me very closely; but I was unknown to him at that time (though I knew him personally afterwards); and muttering, "One of Mundell's," passed on. What follows is from undoubted authority; namely, one of the party of three, who enjoyed this very merry evening. Bacon and Burns were their bowl of punch a-piece, as well as my friend, and were in high talk and song; but Mrs Bacon, who did not partake of the festivity, and who, in fact, was the support of the house, refused to produce the materials for the fourth bowl. High words arose betwixt her and her husband; who, as well as Burns and my friend, had by this time given indications of their having "A wee drap in their ee;" and Mrs Bacon hid the keys and went to bed. Ere Burns went to repose (or next morning), he inscribed, with his ready wit, and equally ready diamond, the lines mentioned on the window-pane. KIRKYARDS. Kirkyards are to me exceedingly interesting. Alas! those nearest and dearest to me are now the tenants of these silent retirements. They contain subjects of intense and protracted recollection. Whenever I have an hour to spare after dinner in my pedestrian wanderings, I am sure to deviate into a churchyard, and there to spell and stumble my way through and over a multiplicity of graves and monuments. But, instead of dealing in generalities, I shall speak of two particular cases, known to myself, in the churchyard of the parish of Closeburn. One is on your right hand as you enter and pass Elder Boe, on Sunday, at the church stile. The stone is merely an erect headstone, and of considerable dimensions. The inscription is--"Here lies Richard Reid, aged 16, who perished in crossing the water of Nith in 1794." Richard, as well as his brother Stephen, now Colonel Reid, were my particular companions at Wallacehall School. We were class-fellows. Oh! what fun and frolic we have had together! The Castle Wood, Barmuir Wood, Gilchrist Land Wood, the Pothouse Wood, the Whitston Cleughs, and the Gravel Walk, could tell, if they were permitted, many tales of us three. What nests did we not find! what nuts did we not gather! what sloes did we not pocket! what brambles did we not eat! and what _hind_ or raspberries did we not bruise and convert into _red wine_. And, then, what tree so tall as not to admit our ascent! what thicket so dense as not to be penetrated! what eel so lively as not to be decapitated and skinned! and what trout so cunning as to escape the temptation of our nicely-prepared baits! At England and Scotland, too--that most expressive game of former Border feuds--we were most expert; and have seen many suns descend on our protracted contests at shinty. But, alas! harvest arrived, and with it the vacation; the oats ripened, and so did the hazel-nuts. The report was, that the Barjarg Woods were most splendidly supplied with ripe and brown _leamers_. We could not--we never tried to resist the temptation. But the rapid river Nith lay betwixt us and the object of our travel. It had rained, but was now fair; and the water, when we arrived at its banks, did not seem even moved or swollen. Stephen and I hesitated; Richard was a bold, manly lad, somewhat older. He plunged at once into the stream, and bade us follow; so, indeed, we did. Ere we had gained one-third of the way, upon the stream we observed bits of wood and various floating substances in it. We became alarmed, and called aloud on Richard; but he turned round, and laughed us to scorn. We would not stand this, but pushed on, he still keeping in advance. The powerful current had now reached his waist, and, even though he had wished to turn, he could not. The stones were beginning to creep from beneath our feet. All at once, a large piece of floating timber came down upon poor Richard's position, and he was borne away by the united force of the obstructed wood and the stream. He fell; the timber floated over him, and he again rose; but he was in much deeper water, and manifestly apprehended danger. He screamed aloud, and we rushed forward--his brother Stephen and I--to the rescue; but we were all instantly hurled along into a deep and whirling pool. Over the banks of this eddy there grew and hung a broom bush; more by accident than management, I got a hold of it. Stephen was struggling near me, and I caught him with the other hand. I struggled desperately, and got myself and my companion into the face of a soft and clay brow. I held like grim death, and at last surmounted the steep. Though stupified, I saw that one was awanting, and I rushed--for Stephen was insensible--along the brink of the pool. At the foot of it, and where the water began to shallow, I saw poor Richard tumbling over without any signs of life. In an instant I had a hold of his garment, and had actually pulled him considerably to one side, when, my feet coming in contact with a large stone, I fell backwards, lost my hold, and the body of poor Richard was found, next day, a mile and a-half below, at the bottom of Porter's Hole. On the opposite side of this churchyard there is a flat flagstone, with the following inscription--"Here lie the mortal remains of William Herdman, weaver in Auldwa's of Gilchristland." Poor Willie Herdman! What associations do not these two magic words awaken! When Gibraltar stood nobly out, under the command of an Elliot, against the combined strength of France and Spain, thou wast there to send the hissing-hot cannon-balls into the hulls of the enemy's floating-batteries. But, on returning to thy native Nottingham, to taste of its pure and salubrious ales, thy house was desolate--father, mother, and sister, all dead--and the place which knew them owned another tenant. Thy heart sank within thee; and having been bred a weaver in thy youth, thou didst take the road for Glasgow; but, at Brownhill, chance brought thee acquainted with Archy Tait of Auldwa's, and with him didst thou ply thy trade till the mournful end of thy days. But it was neither as a soldier, nor as a weaver, that I remember thee with so much interest. It was as the best bait-fisher in the south of Scotland--it was as my first preceptor in that most delightful art. I see thee still, before sunrise, ten miles amidst the mountains, and I hear the plash of the large new-run sea-trout, as it "turns up its silver scaling to the light" amidst the dark-brown flood. At all times, and almost in all states of the weather and the water, thy skill was triumphant, and from thee I derived that art which no man knows, unless instructed by me, to this hour--the art of fishing _up_, and not _down_, a mountain stream, with prepared bait. But the hour of thy destiny at last arrived, and it was a mournful one. It was one of thy triumphs to kill a dish of trouts, even in the midst of frost, and at New-year's Day. A wager was laid, and a considerable sum of money was risked, on thy killing a dozen for a New-year's-day feast. On the last day of the old year, as the time approached, the weather had become boisterous, and snow-blasts, mixed with hail, were coursing along the skirts of Queensberry. I was a stout lad in the high class then, and, being in the constant habit of accompanying thee on thy fishing expeditions, I made a point of not being absent on this critical trial of thy skill. Accordingly, when the last day of December, 179-, dawned, I was by thee aroused from my slumbers, and, in spite of all maternal remonstrances, I agreed to accompany thee to Caple. The day was dark and somewhat cloudy; but there was only a sprinkling of snow on the lower grounds, though the higher seemed to be much whiter. To fortify himself against the inclemency of the weather, poor Willie had provided himself with a supply of what he used to term "his comforter"--namely, some whisky in a bottle. We fished for about two hours in the deeper and unfrozen pools of Caple, and with amazing success. Willie had just killed his eleventh trout, when he turned up the bottom of a pint bottle, quite empty. He was not intoxicated, but confused. I had not enjoyed the advantage of "the comforter," and was consequently much more collected, and aware of our danger. It was betwixt twelve and one when the day suddenly darkened down, and a terrible snow-drift came up the glen. Mitchelslacks was at about a mile and a-half's distance. I strongly urged our retreat to that hospitable mansion in the wilderness; but Willie wanted one trout of his tale, and he persevered for about half-an-hour longer, when he was so fortunate as to complete his number. But by this time the snow-drift and wind were absolutely choking, and I could see that his eyes were half-shut. He was manifestly in a state of approaching stupor or sleep. I became exceedingly alarmed, when he sat, or rather fell, down suddenly beneath a projecting rock, saying that he would rest and sleep for a little, and then he would accompany me to Mitchelslacks, as I proposed. I tried to pull him along; but he was incapable of motion. What was to be done? Poor Willie, who had taught me to fish, and told me so many stories about the wars, and about Nottingham, and England, and who was really a kind-hearted, good-natured creature--poor Willie to perish thus helpless in the drift! I sprang on with renewed strength; but when I reached Mitchelslacks I fainted, and it was not till I recovered that Willie's dangerous state was learned. Three shepherds, with Mr. Harkness at their head, and a suitable accompaniment of dogs, sallied forth, and in a short time reached the spot; but it was too late. There was still heat in the interior, but no motion; the pulse had stopped, and the body was sitting in a reclining posture, leaning against the stone. There were no marks of previous suffering--all was calm and placid in the marble countenance--the eyes shut, and the hands reposing on the fish-basket, as if the last thing he had done was to count his fish! He was dead! POLWARTH ON THE GREEN. Peradventure there are few of our readers who have not heard of "Polwarth on the Green," and the "Polwarth Thorn." The song bearing the former title is certainly founded upon one of the most popular traditions on the Borders. Since the commencement of this publication, we have been many times requested to write a tale upon the subject, and not less than thrice, from different quarters, within the last seven days; and as we are at all times anxious to meet the wishes of our readers, we shall now endeavour to fulfil the request which has been made to us. There are none to whom the traditions of other days are not interesting. They save from oblivion the memory, the deeds, and the manners, of our fathers. No nation is so sunk in barbarity as to disregard them: the civilised European and the Indian savage alike cherish them; and the poets of every land have wed them with song. Yet, nowhere are traditions more general or more interesting than upon the Borders. Every grey ruin has its tale of wonder and of war. The solitary cairn on the hillside speaks of one who died for religion, or for liberty, or belike for both. The very schoolboy passes it with reverence, and can tell the history of him whose memory it perpetuates. The hill on which it stands is a monument of daring deeds, where the sword was raised against oppression, and where heroes sleep. Every castle hath its legends, its tales of terror and of blood, "of goblin, ghost, or fairy." The mountain glen, too, hath its records of love and war. There history has let fall its romantic fragments, and the hills enclose them. The forest trees whisper of the past; and, beneath the shadow of their branches, the silent spirit of other years seems to sleep. The ancient cottage, also, hath its traditions, and recounts "The short and simple annals of the poor." Every family hath its legends, which record to posterity the actions of their ancestors, when the sword was law, and even the payment of rent upon the Borders was a thing which no man understood; but, as Sir Walter Scott saith, "all that the landlord could gain from those residing upon his estate was their personal service in battle, their assistance in labouring the land retained in his natural possession, some petty quit-rents of a nature resembling the feudal casualties, and perhaps a share in the spoil which they acquired by rapine." Many of those traditions are calculated to melt the maiden's heart, to fill age with enthusiasm, and youth with love of country. But to our story. In the year 1470, John Sinclair of Herdmanstone, in East Lothian, who was also Lord of Kimmerghame and Polwarth, dying without male issue, the estate of Kimmerghame descended to his daughter Marion, and that of Polwarth to her sister Margaret. His heir-male was his brother, Sir William Sinclair, to whom the estate of Herdmanstone fell. Sir William, as the uncle of the co-heiresses, though not appointed as their guardian by their father, for they were both well-nigh of woman's estate when he died, craftily took upon himself that duty. He whispered to them that their estates were not managed as they ought to be--that their bondmen did not perform the duty required of them--that those they had set over their grounds as stewards did not render them a faithful account of their stewardship. He insinuated a thousand suspicions into their young minds, until their affairs gradually fell into his hands, and he at length succeeded in gaining the entire management of their estates; and he now required only to have the disposal of their personal freedom. Men of power in those days were not very scrupulous as to the means which they employed to obtain their object; he who had a score of retainers weighed the scales of life and death in his hands. Nevertheless, aware of the rank which his nieces held in the estimation of his country, Sir William knew that it would not be safe to venture upon making them prisoners by open violence. He therefore courteously invited them to his house at Herdmanstone, where he stated that the gayest and the proudest company in broad Scotland would be present to delight them. Marion, who was fond of amusements, was overjoyed at the invitation; but her sister Margaret, who was of a graver disposition, said-- "Well, sister, I like not our uncle's kindness--something sinful seems to laugh in his looks; the very movement of his lips bespeaks more than it reveals; confide in _me_, dear sister, and distrust _him_. When I was but a child, playing around our mother's knee, I have heard her say unto my father, 'Ah, John! I like not your brother; there is a cunning in his looks, in his very words; he cannot meet you with the straightforward gaze of an honest man; and methinks he looks upon me as though he distrusted and hated me; yea, I have often thought, as though he were plotting evil against me.' So our mother was wont to say; and my father would reply, 'Dear Elizabeth, think not so cruelly of one who is so near and dear to me; trust me, that he loves you and yours.'--'It may be so,' she would reply, 'but there is that in his manner which I cannot overcome.' Then our father would remain silent for a time, and add, 'Well, there is a want of frankness in Sir William which becomes not a brother.'" "Lull your suspicions, my demure sister," the light-hearted Marion replied; "a thousand times have I heard him say that no one but the boldest baron in Scotland should wed his niece, Marion." "And he said truly," replied Margaret; "for, if he have us once within his power, not even the boldest knight in Scotland will be able to receive our hands, unless he sue for it with gallant bowmen at his back, and the unsheathed sword to enforce his suit." "Oh, then, sister," subjoined Marion, "I suppose you have a knight at hand who would delight in such handiwork; for is not Sir Patrick Hume of Wedderburn reputed to be the most valorous knight upon the Borders, and withal the humble worshipper of fair Margaret Sinclair of Polwarth?" And as the maiden spoke, she laughed, and tapped her sister good-naturedly upon the cheek. Margaret blushed, and playfully replied, "Well, sister, is there no valorous knight at Wedderburn but Sir Patrick? What think ye of George Hume?" "No more of this," cried Marion; "let us accept our uncle's invitation, and mingle with the gay company he has invited to meet us." "If you will have it so, let it be so," replied Margaret; "but, trust me, I fear that good will not come of it." On the following day they set out upon their journey towards Herdmanstone, accompanied by only two men-servants. The uncle received them with a show of cordial friendship; but the guests whom they expected to meet they saw not; and they had been but a few minutes beneath his roof, when they found themselves prisoners, secured by gratings, bolts, and bars. On discovering the situation into which they had been entrapped, Marion wept aloud, and accused herself of being the unwitting author of her sister's captivity. "Fear not," said Margaret. "Our uncle is a stern man, he is a man of blood; but there are as strong hands as his, that will be raised to deliver the sisters of Kimmerghame and Polwarth, when their captivity becomes known." "But how will it be known?" asked Marion; "for who knows that we are here?" "Let us trust in him who is the orphan's father," replied her sister, "and leave all to his good providence." "Amen!" said the other; but she sobbed bitterly as she spoke. On the second day of their imprisonment, their uncle entered the apartment where they were confined. "Weel, maidens," said he, sternly, "how like ye your abode at Herdmanstone? I have observed the slightfu een with which baith o' you have looked upon your uncle; and now that ye are in my power, ye shall repent the airs o' disdain that ye hae taken upon ye. It becomes nae the blood o' Polwarths to assume a superiority over the house o' Sinclair. So choose ye--there are twa cousins, who are not very auld, but they're growing; ye shall hae your choice to marry them, or the deepest dungeon in Herdmanstone shall be your doom. Your destiny is placed in your own hands--decide it as ye will; but remember that it is a Sinclair that never broke his word that wags the finger o' fate over your heads. Eight days--eight days, remember!" he repeated, and left them. "Now you will despise me, Margaret," said Marion; "for my maiden ambition has led us into this trouble. Yet will I rather be an inmate in our uncle's dungeon than be the wife of the boy-husband he would assign me. Sister, will you not upbraid me?" "Upbraid you!" said the calm and gentle Margaret; "stern as is our uncle, deadly as is his wrath, I fear him not. The other day you spoke to me jeeringly of Sir Patrick Hume--in the same strain I answered you respecting his brother George. Eight days will not pass until Sir Patrick misses me from Polwarth; and, powerful as my uncle may be, bold and desperate as he is, I know that one stone of Herdmanstone Castle will not be left standing upon another till we are freed." "You have a brave heart, sister," said Marion; "but it is small comfort to me, who must look upon myself as the author of this disaster. And how think ye that Sir Patrick or his brother George (if ye will speak of him) are to hear of our confinement? Wot ye not that they know not where we are; or, if they should know, they will not apprehend that evil could befall us in the house of our relative?" "I believe, Marion," answered Margaret, "that within the eight days which our uncle has named, we shall either be at liberty, or have ceased to live. It is our lives that he seeks, not that we should be the wives of his sons. Rather than be so wed, I will die--so will you. But, if we should die, our deaths would not be unavenged. He would neither enjoy our estates, nor the triumph of his guilt. Ye have heard the names of Patrick and George Hume of Wedderburn spoken of as sounds of terror upon the Borders--their swords have avenged the injured, and released the captive. Marion, they will avenge our wrongs! Dear sister, be not afraid." It was about daybreak on the fourth day after their imprisonment, that a musician, who played upon the union or Northumbrian pipe of those days, approached beneath the window of their apartment, and softly playing an air, accompanied it with his voice, as follows:-- "My heart is divided between them, I dinna ken which I wad hae; Right willing my heart I wad gie them-- But how can I gie it to twae? There's Meggy, a fairer or better I'm certain there couldna weel be; Dumfounder'd the first time I met her, What was sweet Marion to me! "Yet Marion is gentle and bonny, I liked her ere Meggy I saw, And they say it is sinfu for on Man upon earth to like twa. My heart it is rugg'd and tormented, I'd live wi' or die for them baith; I've done what I've often repented, To baith I have plighted my aith. "And oft when I'm walkin wi' Meggy I'll say, 'Dear Marion,' and start; While fearfu she'll say, 'Weel, I ken ye Hae ithers mair dear to your heart.' Was ever a man sae confounded? I dinna ken what will be dune; Baith sides o' my bosom are wounded, And they'll be the death o' me sune." "Hark!" said Marion, as she listened to the strain of the minstrel; "it is the song of the Egyptian thief, Johnny Faa. Mind ye since he sang it beneath our window at Kimmerghame?" "I remember it weel," replied Margaret; "but dinna call him thief, sister; for, be Johnny a king or no a king, he is one that King James is glad to lift his bonnet to; and I am sure that he means weel to us at present. Wheesht ye, Marion, and I will whisper to him a low chant over the window." And, in a low voice, she sung-- "O, saw ye my laddie comin, Johnny? O, saw ye my laddie comin? If ye've no seen him, tell him frae me, That I'm a waefu woman. We here are sisters twa, Johnny, Confined within this tower; And ilka time the sun gaes down It points to our death-hour." "I heard it rumoured, gentle maiden," said the gypsy, gazing eagerly towards the window from whence they looked, "that no good was intended ye in this place; and though it be not in the power o' Johnny Faa to bring to ye the assistance o' his own men, yet it strikes me there is _ane_, if no _twa_, maidens, that I could bring to your rescue, and that wad make a clap o' thunder ring through the deepest cell in Herdmanstone." "Thank ye, Johnny," replied Margaret; "ye're kind--ye're very kind; and if ye wad carry a bit scrap o' paper to Wedderburn Castle, greatly would ye aid a distressed damsel." "I thank ye, my doo, for relying on the word and promise o' John, king and lord o' Little Egypt. Little do they ken me, and less is their knowledge o' our race, who think that we would look upon those who are wronged without seeing them righted. How I heard o' your imprisonment or the wrong intended ye, never fash your thumb; though a bird waffed it in my lugs wi' its wings, though it chirped it in them as it chirmed past me, it is aneugh that I ken o' your wrongs, and that I will assist ye. Trust me, maidens." "I will trust ye," answered Margaret. "Dinna trust him, sister," said Marion; "he may be some spy of our uncle's." "Of being a spy," cried the other, "I dinna believe him capable. Stop, Johnny, or king, or whatever ye be," she added, "and I will throw ye a word or two, to carry to Sir Patrick Hume of Wedderburn." She addressed to him a few words, and threw the paper which contained them into the hands of the gipsy. "Bless ye for your confidence, my bonny lassie!" said Johnny Faa; "and before the sun gae down, Sir Patrick Hume shall ken that there is ane that likes him pining in a captive's prison, wi' nane but ane that his brother likes to bear her company." The gipsy king was mounted on an active pony, and although it was without a saddle, and reined only by a hempen bridle, he dashed off with it, at the pace of a fleet racer, and directed his course toward the Lammermuirs. It was not noon when he arrived at the Castle Wedderburn. The porter at the gate retreated in terror, as he beheld him, for the name of the Faa king had become terrible on the Borders, and even the king had been glad to grant him terms on his own choosing. On being admitted to the presence of the knight--"What is it, ye vagrant loon," asked Sir Patrick, "that brings ye to venture within the roof o' honest men?" "Honest!" said the gipsy--"ha! ha! ha! I daresay your honesty and mine are muckle about a par. Between us twa it is, tak who can. Ye hae the bit land, Sir Patrick, but ye havena a stronger or a more cunning hand, nor yet a sharper sword, than the lord o' Little Egypt. Therefore, speak at evens wi' me, lest ye rue it." "And wherefore should I speak at evens," answered Hume, "with the like o' you, who are at best but the king o' gaberlunzie men?" "The mischief light on ye!" said the gipsy; "ye have provoked me sair, and I have tholed wi' your slights and taunting; but try me not wi' another word, lest ye rue it, Sir Patrick Hume, and your brother rue it, and every Hume o' the house o' Wedderburn shall be brought to cry dool, for refusing to listen to the words o' Johnny Faa." "And what wad ye say if ye had your will, ye braggart knave?" cried the knight. "Merely," retorted the gipsy, "that there is a bonny lassie, ane wha is owre guid to be the bride o' sae uncivil an individual as yoursel, now lying in durance, wi' death or perpetual imprisonment before her, while ye havena the courage to lift your hand to her rescue." "Of whom speak ye?" vociferated the Laird of Wedderburn. "Who," rejoined the gipsy, slyly, "is nearest to your heart?--who nearest to your door? Have you seen her within these four days?" "What!" exclaimed Sir Patrick, "speak ye of my Margaret?" "Of whom does your heart tell you that I speak?" said Faa. "It is then to her that ye allude?" cried Sir Patrick. "Ay, it is to her," was the reply; "and what knight are ye that would remain here idly within your castle, while death threatens the maiden o' your love?" "Pardon me, stranger," said Sir Patrick; "tell me where she is." "Ye ask me to pardon ye now," answered the gipsy, proudly; "ye knew me before, when the insult was offered, ye know me still. It is not because ye bear a name powerful in arms, nor yet that I have heard of your deeds of war, that I come to you; but it is because of the maiden who loves you as the Mayfly does the summer sun. Margaret Sinclair and her sister are the prisoners of their uncle, Sir William Sinclair of Herdmanstone. He has looked with an eye of covetousness upon their estates--he longs to possess them; and, if they be not yielded to him, the life of the fair owners now in his power must pay the forfeit." The knight clasped the hand of the gipsy. "Thank ye, thank ye," he cried; "I will reward ye for this act of kindness." "You reward me!" shouted the gipsy king, disdainfully. "Think ye that, when the King of Little Egypt does an act of humanity or generosity, he is to be rewarded for it by a Scottish knight! Away with ye, man! I spurn your thanks! I am as far above them as the moon is above the glow-worm that glimmers on the ground--ay, as the sun above the fetid matter from which it draws life. Know, then, that Margaret Sinclair and her sister will die unless ye have courage to release them, and that before another Sabbath shine a holiday to you." Wedderburn held his hand in thankfulness. "Forgive me, forgive me," he cried; "I have spoken unjustly to one that has a soul within him and who has sympathised for those in whom my happiness is bound up. Again, I say, forgive me." "Ye are forgiven," said the Faa; "and, if assistance be needed in the hour of peril, ye shall find willing hands ready to help ye, though ye deserve it not." So saying, the Faa beckoned his hand, and withdrew from the presence of Hume. Sir Patrick bore the tidings instantly to his brother; and, within two hours, a hundred of their retainers stood armed around Wedderburn Castle. "To Herdmanstone!" was the cry; "and the rescue of the lady-love of the Lord of Wedderburn!" "Ay, and for Marion, the maid of Kimmerghame!" cried George, the brother of Sir Patrick; "and the Sinclairs shall wear stout bucklers and belts to boot, that this sword pierce not." The party being marshalled, they took their way across the Lammermuirs with the brothers Sir Patrick and George Hume at their head. It was shortly after daybreak when they appeared before Herdmanstone Castle; and the Lady Margaret was the first to perceive their approach. "Sister!" she cried; "see! see! aid is at hand--the banner of the Humes is waving over the fields of Herdmanstone." "Ye dream, sister!" said Marion, starting from her couch. "Nay, I dream not," retorted Margaret. "Arise; through the grey light I perceive the plume of Sir Patrick Hume, and the gay jacket which my sister wrought for his brother." Marion sprang forward to the place where her sister stood; they thrust their hands from the window, to encourage their deliverers to the rescue, while Sir Patrick and his brother answered them back, crying, "We come! we come! The haughty and cruel Sinclair shall repent in blood." The trumpets of the Humes sounded; and, as if prepared for the approaching conflict, within a few minutes, more than fifty retainers of Sir William Sinclair were in arms. Ignorant of the number of their foes, they rushed forth to meet them, hand to hand, and sword to sword. Long the strife was desperate--it was even doubtful; but, at length, superiority of numbers, on the part of the Humes, prevailed; the retainers of Sir William were routed in all directions, and his castle was assailed, even to its threshold. "To the rescue of the fair maidens!" shouted the Humes. Independent of the immediate retainers of Sir William Sinclair, however, his neighbours came to his aid; and although they were at first as two to one, the conflict had not lasted long when the Humes became the weaker party. The battle raged keenly--swords were broken in the grasp of their owners--the strong war-horse kicked upon the ground, in the agony of death, indenting the earth with its hoofs as it died, leaving the impression of its agony--their wounded men grappled with, and reviled each other, as though they had been foreigners or aliens--spears were broken, and shields clanked against each other--while the war-shout and the dying groan mingled together. Victory seemed still to be doubtful; for, though the Humes fought bravely, and their leaders led them on as with the heroism of despair, yet every minute the numbers of their adversaries increased, while theirs, if the expression might be used, became fewer and more few. Yet there were two spectators of the conflict who beheld it with feelings that may not, that cannot be described. Now, the one beheld the plume which she had adorned for her betrothed husband severed by the sword of an enemy; while the other saw the gay jerkin which she had weaved for hers tarnished with blood. They perceived also what we might term the ebbing and flowing of the deadly feud--the retreating and the driving back; and they were spectators also of the wounded, the dying, and the dead. They saw the party in whom their hopes were fixed gradually overpowered--they beheld them fall back beneath the swords of their opponents, disputing inch by inch as they retired, and their hearts fell within them. When hope, fear, and anxiety were wrought to their highest point of endurance, and the party in whom their trust lay seemed to be vanquished, and were driven back, at that period, Johnny Faa, and a number of his followers, rushed to their succour. "Hurrah!" exclaimed the wanderer, "for the braw lasses o' Polwarth and Kimmerghame! Fight, ye Humes! fight! There is a prize before ye worthy a clour on the crown, or even a stab through the brisket." The approach of the Faa king turned the tide of victory, and his followers shouted, "The bonny lasses o' Polwarth and Kimmerghame shall be free!" "For ever, ay, and a day after it," cried Sir William, "shall the man inherit a cow's mailing, and a cow to boot, upon the lands o' Herdmanstone, who this day brings me upon his sword the head o' ane o' the birkies o' Wedderburn." Sir William, however, became a suppliant for mercy beneath the red sword of Patrick Hume; and his life being granted, the Sinclairs gave their arms into the hands of their opponents. The young brothers each rushed into the house, to the rescue of the captive damsels; and Margaret and Marion each fell upon the neck of the man she loved. On arriving at Polwarth, they were met by the glad villagers, with whom the fair ladies joined hands, and they danced together in joy around a thorn-tree, upon the village green. In a few weeks, each of the maidens gave her hand to her deliverer--Margaret to Sir Patrick, and Marion to his brother George. On their marriage-day, the gay dance at the thorn upon the green was resumed, and a festive crowd tripped joyously around it, blessing the bride of Polwarth and her fair sister, Marion of Kimmerghame; and the music to which they that day danced proceeded from the pipes of King Johnny Faa, who, with half-a-dozen of his people, sat each with a pair of union pipes beneath his arm, and discoursing "most eloquent music," without "fee, favour, or reward," save that they were partakers of the good things which were that day plentifully circulated upon Polwarth Green. In concluding this account of the co-heiresses of Polwarth and Kimmerghame, it is only necessary to add, that, from her union with Hume of Wedderburn, the fair Margaret became the progenitor of the future Earls of Marchmont. THE FESTIVAL. In most of the villages on the southern Border, and particularly in part of Northumberland, together with Norham and Islandshires, there are what are called annual feasts. In the manner in which they are now kept, they resemble the _Wakes_ or _Revels_ which are held in various parts of England. They were originally religious festivals, and are still commemorated upon the anniversary of the saint to which the church or religious house in the village, or with which it was connected, was in olden times dedicated. They have long ago lost their religious character, and joviality has assumed the place of seriousness. Nevertheless, although, for more than a century, these feasts have been attended with much boisterous merriment, there is still much connected with them that we respect and revere. They came, as it were, whispering the good, the godlike admonition of Scripture--"Let brotherly love continue." For in those days, brethren and the children of a family meet together from afar beneath a father's or a brother's roof--the grandsire and the grandson sit at the table together--and the words of the inspired royal bard, that it is good and pleasant for brethren to dwell together in unity, are exemplified. They are seasons of mutual forgiveness, and of the exchange of family love. They are also seasons for which a many a parent's heart longs eagerly; and although they are what may be termed changeable feasts, they fall on days which they all know without the aid of an almanack; for there is no calendar so true as a father's or mother's heart. They are days to which many a mother looks forward, as to the time when she will press an absent son or daughter to her bosom--when a father shall give them the right hand of welcome, and in the fulness of his joy press his teeth upon his lip to conceal his emotion, while a stranger tear steals out, and seeks a home upon his cheek. They are, in every house, days in which the "fatted calf" is killed; and each village or feast has its own particular dainty, according to the season. At one is the luscious grilse (on that occasion baked instead of boiled); at another, dishes of fruit; and at a third, the roast goose. But each feast has its particular viands, and of them the poorest make an effort to partake. They are not as the Christmas feast was of old, when the rich fed the poor and their dependants at their table, and regaled each with a "smack of the good black jack;" but they are days on which the very poorest strive to make a feast for themselves, and to see _their own_ around their humble board. We confess, however, that these feasts do not present sunny pictures exclusively; there are many who, as we have hinted, crown them with boisterous merriment. It was an ancient custom to elect, on the morning after the feast, a _Mayor_, or _Lord of the Festival_, whose word was law, and who was the sovereign dispenser of fun and frolic, and against whose command there was no appeal. The farce of "_The Mayor of Garret_" furnishes a correct example of this species of rustic revelry. We are not yet very old; but are old enough to remember the time when the mayor, or lord of the festivities referred to, was chosen in accordance with the words of Burns-- "Wha first beside his chair shall fa', Let him be king among us a'!" But it is long since the treatment of a master of the revels ceased even to be decent--we would say merciful. In most places he is no longer paraded as an absolute monarch upon the shoulders of his subjects, but as the slave of the multitude, of whom they delight to make pastime. The mayor of the village feast, "has fallen from his high estate," of dictating imperious commands for his short hour of power; and now he is generally placed in the condition of the frog in the fable, and what may be sport to his tormentors, is well-nigh death to him. The festival from which our present story takes its rise was held in Tweedmouth (the southern suburb of Berwick), nearly seventy years ago; and, according to custom, on Margaret's day, or the following Monday. For, although most of them are in some degree held upon the Sunday (a celebration which would "be more honoured in the breach than in the observance"), Monday may always be considered as the chief day of the feast. Now at that period there resided at Tweedmouth a Mrs Mordington, the widow of the commander of a coasting sloop, who had left her with two children, a son and daughter. The son, at the period our tale begins, was about one-and-twenty; his sister, two years younger. The son's name was George, and he was then a clerk in the office of a merchant in Gateshead. At the feast of St Margaret's, therefore--which is commemorated in Tweedmouth in July, when the sun is in the plenitude of its strength, and when the very birds, oppressed with its heat, leave the thin air and the upper branches, and, folding their wings, sit silently in the umbrageous shades, enjoying, well pleased, the coolness of their leafy shelter--George Mordington returned to Tweedside, to see his mother and his sister; yea, and there was another whom he longed not less eagerly to behold, and that was Marion Weatherly, a fair-headed maiden of nineteen, and the daughter of a master fisherman, who had the lease of some two hundred yards upon the Tweed, somewhere between where the Whitadder joins it and the bridge; but whether on the south or north side I cannot tell. As there may be thousands of the readers of these tales unacquainted with the nature of salmon fisheries, or of what is meant by having been a master fisherman in those days, I shall simply state that Mr Weatherly had taken a lease of a particular spot on one side of the Tweed, and which was in length about two hundred yards, and on that space he had the right of casting out and dragging in his nets. He had this river-farm at a very small sum annually; though, within a mile from the spot where he held it, we have known a lesser portion of fishing right in the river let for nearly two thousand pounds sterling per annum; and that, too, when the wisdom of the present generation (perhaps I ought to put the generation in the past tense) almost threw a _dyke_ across the mouth of the river, which built up what was called the _Meadow Haven_, and which haven was a gut in the rocks, by which the fish, coming in shoals from the north, entered the river; and this being built up by the _dyke_ or _pier_ aforesaid, after running their noses against a stone wall, instead of meeting with the _natural_ entrance to the river which _nature_ dictated to them to pursue, they were left, like a pack of fox-hounds that had been thrown off their scent, to seek the artificial entrance where they might find it, or for another river if they chose. Thus, the good old Tweed being half blocked up, fishing waters, in the present day, do not abound with the silver-mailed salmon, as they did in the days of Mr Weatherly. Besides, the river was then _fished_, not _harried_! It is not, therefore, wonderful that the father of Marion became a man of property. Now, George Mordington and Marion Weatherly had known each other from childhood. I do not say that they had loved each other from that period; but they were at the same school together, and even before they left it, they were _equalled_ to each other. This _equalling_, or, as it is sometimes called, _evening_ to each other, by schoolmates or acquaintances, often goes far towards producing the wedded love of riper years. Many a match would never have been made, but for the schoolboy's or the comrade's jeer. Once name young hearts in the same breath, and you draw a magic circle round them; and, however little they may be acquainted with each other, whoever of the two may break through that circle, strikes a passing pang into the bosom of the other. Pride feels wounded, if nothing else does; but there is a feeling deeper and more tender than pride that has been rudely touched. It does not last long; but it is keen while it lasts. I am perfectly aware that there are many who may say, "Pshaw! it is all nonsense; who cares anything about these things _now_?" No middle-aged person, I grant you. Individuals of such an age like some home truth--something that comes home to their business and their bosoms as they are; and when such a thing meets them they say, "Oh, it is very natural." Granted that _it_ is natural, why should people of middle age, yea, or of grey hairs, forget that they were once young; and that what is now "stale, flat, and unprofitable" to them, is still the feelings of thousands--is still delightful to thousands--was once _their_ feelings, and delightful to _them_? Though past the sunny heyday ourselves, we like not to hear either man or woman cry out, with the Preacher, "all is vanity!" For light is beautiful--so is the sun that sheds it forth. The fair earth, with its buds, its flowers, its leaves, its fruits, and its trees with their singing birds--they are all beautiful--exquisitely beautiful! No man can look upon the works of his Maker, without adoring, worshipping, and loving the Power that formed them. Oh, when we so look abroad upon the glorious creation that is above, beneath, and around us--when we see so much that is measureless, magnificent, and that steals forth in beauty as a bud opens, until its loveliness is revealed before the very soul; and, above all, when we think also of the kind hearts that share our sorrows and our joys, that watch over us and that throb for us, that mourn with us and rejoice with us, and that are one with us in all things--we are tempted to say that all is "not vanity," but that man is the author of his own "vexation of spirit." Now George Mordington was one who loved all the works of nature for their loveliness. He saw nothing to which his young heart would respond, "it is vanity!" He loved the very worm that crawled--writhing and dying as it crawled--over his path, and pushed it gently with his foot upon its parent earth, that it might live. Was there nothing in the scenery of his birthplace that he should admire it? There was neither the sublimity of mountains to awe him into remembrance--the majesty of wooded hills (which there might be), nor lakes where echoes died in music; but there was the Tweed, the stream of his nativity, which rushes into the arms of the ocean, like a beautiful bride that has been cast off by her parent, and falls upon the neck of her lover without adornments; and there was the rich lands of the Merse and Islandshire, for ever spread out before him, with the everlasting ocean, its calms and its storms, its placid stillness and its terrible waves--forming together a scene such as he that has once looked upon can never forget. Through such scenes George Mordington recollected Marion Weatherly. It has been mentioned that he was a clerk in Gateshead, and at the annual festival held in Tweedmouth, he went to visit his mother, his sister, and the fair Marion. I might--for I have often been a witness of such a scene--describe the joy of the doating mother as she beheld her son, in the youthful bloom of manhood, seated at her table. With delight sparkling in her eyes, she sat gazing on his face, until the tear of affection rose and bedimmed their radiance. On her left hand sat her son, and on her right her daughter, and her intended daughter, Marion Weatherly. Their dinner passed over in happiness--the mother smiled to look upon her children's joy; and when "a gentle tap came to the door," which the daughter best understood, and blushing, responded to it, George and Marion also arose, and they went into the fields together. They wandered to and fro in a narrow pathway, the length of which was rather less than a mile, while on each side of them the ripening grain formed _a waving wall_, giving promise of an abundant harvest. They wandered backward and forward, hand locked in hand, until the sun was lost behind Hallidon, and the stars began to steal out through the grey twilight. When they shook hands at parting--"Now, George," said Marion, "you have your acquaintances to see, but do not remain late with them; for my sake and your mother's, do not." "Dear Marion," said he, "wherefore remind me of this? I know that I must meet my acquaintances to-night, all of whom are my old friends, many of them my schoolfellows; I have promised to meet them--I have to leave for Newcastle to-morrow--and wherefore remind me that I should not remain late with them?" "Oh!" she replied, "only that you will remember your character, George." "Do not be interested about my character," said he; "I have hitherto supported it with credit to myself, and, I think, dear Marion, I may do also for the future." He pressed his lips to hers, and, shaking her hand fervidly, they parted for the night; but before they parted, they had renewed their young vows, beneath an ash-tree, where they had sat down together (upon the footpath which is now known by the name of the "_Willow Back_"), and where he had carved their names four years before, and there he deepened the incision which recorded their initials; and, as Virgil somewhere hath it (though neither of them knew anything about Virgil), they vowed that, as the "bark expanded, their love would grow." This is a very common idea amongst love-engravers upon trees; but though a Mantuan swain might so write, a British peasant would frequently have cause to say, that, as the tree grew, and the bark expanded, so did his initials spread, and become vague, and more vague, until fog grew over them; and upon the heart, as on the tree where he had first carved his name, there was no trace left. But George Mordington parted with Marion, and went to a street called the Kiln Hill, in which there then was an inn, known by the name of "THE SALMON." In it all the associates of his youth were assembled; and when he entered they rose simultaneously, each offering his hand, and exclaiming, "Ah! George! my dear fellow, how are you?" They sat long, and they drank deeply; and, while the song, the story, the jest, or the argument went round, they forgot how time and reason were flying together. It was usual for such companies not to break up until they had witnessed the election of the mayor. The heads of several of the party began to go round as well as the glass; and of this number was George Mordington. He was a youth of the most sober and temperate habits; and before he had drank off his third glass, he might have said, in the words of the song, "This is no me!" His very countenance was changed; his manner, which was, in general, backward and retiring, became bold and boisterous. Instead of his wonted silence, he was the chief orator of the company. He spoke of things of which he ought not to have spoken, and as glass succeeded glass, so did one act of folly succeed another. Some of the more sober of the company said, they "were sorry for poor Mordington--but his head could stand nothing; and," added they, "it is a pity, for he is an excellent fellow." This, however, was only the sentiment of a part of them; and as he began to exhibit fantastic tricks, and to declaim with violent gestures upon all subjects, some said that he would make an excellent _mayor_, and proposed that a cart should be procured. Against this proposal some of his acquaintances protested; but the idea pleased his own disordered fancy, and as the madness of intoxication increased, he insisted that the bacchanalian honour should be conferred upon him. "Well done, George!" cried the more thoughtless of the party; "he is the king of good fellows, every inch of him!" So saying, they rushed into the street, bearing him upon their shoulders; and amidst the shouts and laughter of men and boys, he was placed in a cart, his face rubbed over with soot, his hair bedaubed with flour, and a broomstick was placed in his hand as his rod of office. "Hurrah! George Mordington is mayor!" was the cry upon the streets; and followed by a noisy multitude, he was paraded round the village, and, in conformity with ancient custom, delivered a speech at every public-house and baker's door in the place. Old and young leave their pillows, to "see the mayor," as they term it, and hasten to the door or window, to witness his procession as he is hurled along. There were many who, as they perceived him, expressed regret to see George Mordington in such a situation, and said it would break his mother's heart. But, as they passed the door of Mr Weatherly, a sudden cry was heard. It was a woman's scream of agony, and as it burst forth, the maddened shout of the multitude was hushed. It struck upon the ear of George Mordington in the midst of his madness and degradation--it entered his heart. It was the cry of his betrothed Marion. He struck his hand upon his brow, and fell back in the cart as if an arrow had entered his breast. Her voice had startled him, as from a trance, into a consciousness of his shame and folly. "He is dead!" cried the crowd--for he fell as if dead, and in a state of unconsciousness he was conveyed to his mother's house. The poor widow wept as she beheld her joy turned into shame; and as he opened his eyes and began to gaze vacantly around, his sister said unto him, but rather sorrowfully than reproachfully, "Brother! brother! who could have thought that you would have been guilty of this?" A groan of anguish was his only reply. "Daughter," said his mother, "do not upbraid him; he will feel anguish enough for the shame he has brought upon himself and on us, without our reproaches." He started to his feet as he heard her voice, he thrust his fingers in his hair, he gnashed his teeth together, and howling as one in a paroxysm of insanity, exclaimed-- "What have I done? I am lost--disgraced for ever!" "No, my son! no!" said his mother; "you have acted foolishly, very foolishly; but in time it will be forgotten." "Never! never!" he answered; "would that the earth would swallow me up! I am worse than a madman or a villain--I am ashamed of my existence!" They endeavoured to soothe him; and for a few hours he forgot his shame in sleep--though not wholly, for his slumber was troubled, and in the midst of it he groaned, clenched his hands, and grated his teeth together. The remembrance of his folly was stronger than sleep. He awoke, and a sensation of horror awoke with him. The extravagance and the madness of which he had been guilty in the morning were at first only remembered as a disagreeable and confused dream, which he wished to chase from his thoughts, and was afraid to remember more vividly. But, as he saw the tears on the cheeks of his mother and his sister, as they sat weeping by his bedside, all the absurdities in which he had been an actor rushed painfully, if not distinctly, across his memory; and he covered his face with his hands, ashamed to look upon the light, or on his kindred's face. He was sick and fevered, and his throat was parched; yet the sense of shame lay on his heart so keenly, that he would not ask for a drop of water to cool his tongue. For five days he was confined to his bed; and the physician who had been called in to attend him dreaded an attack of brain fever. It was ordered that he should be kept calm; but there was a troubled fire in his breast that burned and denied him rest. On the sixth day, he ventured to whisper something in his sister's ear regarding Marion. "Poor Marion!" she replied; "though she forgives you, her father forbids her to speak to you again, and has sent her to the north of Scotland, that she may not have an opportunity of seeing you." He sat in agony and in silence for a few moments, and rising and taking his hat, walked feebly towards the door. But, ere he had opened it, he turned back, and throwing himself upon his seat, cried-- "I am ashamed for the sunlight to fall upon my face, or for the eyes of any one that I know to look upon me." When the sun had set, and night began to fall grey upon the river, he again rose, and went towards the house of Marion's father. "What want ye?" said the old man, angrily, as he entered; "away, ye disgrace o' kith and kin, and dinna let the shamefu shadow o' sic a ne'er-do-weel darken my door! Away wi' ye! Dinna come here--and let ae telling be as good as a hundred--for daughter o' mine shall never speak to ye again!" "You will not," said George, "deal with me so harshly, because I have been guilty of one act of folly. They have a steady foot who never make a slip; and, ashamed as I am of my conduct, it certainly has not been so disgraceful as never to be forgiven." "I have told ye once, and I tell ye again," cried the old man, more wrathfully, "that my daughter shanna speak to ye while she breathes. I hope she has a spirit above it. It would be a fine story for folk to talk about, that she had married a blackguard that was mayor at Tweedmouth feast!" "I deserve your censure," returned George; "but surely there is nothing so heinous in what I have done as to merit the epithet you apply to me. I acknowledge and am ashamed of my folly; what can I do more? And I have also suffered for it." "Ye acknowledge your folly!" exclaimed the fisherman; "pray, sir, how could ye deny it? I saw it--the whole toun saw it--my poor daughter was a witness o' it; and yet ye have the impudence to stand there before me and say ye acknowledge it! And muckle mends it makes to say ye are sorry for it! I suppose, sir, the very murderer is sorry for his crime, when he stands condemned before the judge; but his sorrow, I reckon, is but a poor reason why he should be pardoned. Away wi' ye, I say--ye shall find no admission here. At ony rate, I have taken good care to have my silly bairn out o' your reach, and that she may be out o' the way o' the disgrace and the scandal that ye have brought upon us." So saying, the speaker rudely closed the door in the face of his visiter. George Mordington returned to his mother's house, gliding silently, as a ghost is said to move; for his cheek burned lest any one should look upon his face. On the following day, he prepared to set out for Gateshead; but before he went he placed the following letter, addressed to Marion Weatherly, into the hands of his sister, and which she was to give to her on her return:-- "MARION,--I cannot now call you _my_ Marion--I have disgraced you, I have dishonoured myself. Your advice, which I deemed unnecessary, was not only forgotten, but you know how it was insulted. I know you must despise me; and I blame you not--you have a right to do so. I have made myself contemptible in your eyes, but not more contemptible than my conduct has rendered me in my own. I blush to think of you, and your excellence renders my folly more despicable. Call it madness--call it what you will--for it was the infatuation, the frenzy, the insanity of an hour. Yet, dear Marion, by all the hours and scenes of happiness that are gone, by all that we have known together, and that we might yet know, cast me not off for ever! Had I been familiar with the nightly debauch, my degradation would have been less, my conduct not so extravagant. Think of me as one degraded by folly, but not abandoned to it. I have sinned, and that deeply; but my repentance is as bitter as my crime was ridiculous. Its remembrance chokes me. _Forgive me, Marion._ I write the words, but I could not utter them, for I find that I could not stand in your presence, and support the weight of the debasement which presses upon me as a galling load. Your father has treated me cruelly--I would say that he has insulted me, if it were possible to insult one who has so insulted himself. The only apology I can, or should, offer for the part I have acted ought to be, and must be, found in my future conduct. It is on this ground only that I ask and hope for your forgiveness." So ran his letter; and having delivered it to his sister, under the promise that it should be given to Marion immediately on her return, he left his mother's house, and took his journey towards Gateshead. On arriving at the office of his employers, they looked upon him as though they knew him not, and he perceived that the place at the desk which he had formerly occupied was filled by another; for there the tale of his follies had already reached: so true is it that evil rideth upon wings which outstrip the wind. His late master sent one of the junior clerks to inform him that he had no farther occasion for his services. George stood as if a thunderbolt had smitten him; and he went forth disconsolate, and began to wander towards South Shields, while the thought haunted him what he should do, and to whom he should apply for assistance. He had ruined his character--he was without friends, almost without money, and he wandered in wretchedness, the martyr of his own folly. He thought of his mother, of his sister, and of the fair Marion, and wept; for he not only had drawn down misery upon his own head, but he had made them miserable also. He took up his lodgings in a mean public-house by the side of the river, and went round the public offices in Newcastle and Shields, seeking for employment, but without success. In all of them he was known; in each, the tale of his indiscretion seemed to have been heard, for his entrance was greeted with a smile. In a short time he began to be in want; and, like the prodigal, he would have "arisen and gone unto his father"--but he had no father's roof to receive him--no home, save the lowly habitation of his widowed mother--and he found himself left as an outcast on the earth. In his despair he applied to the captain of a vessel which was about to sail for America. During his father's lifetime, he had made some voyages with him, and obtained a knowledge of a seaman's duty. The skipper of the American trader, also, to whom he applied, having known him when a clerk in the merchant's office at Gateshead, agreed to take him on board, and give him, as he called it, a trial. George Mordington, accordingly, sailed for America, and several years passed, and his mother heard nothing concerning him. The letter which he had left with his sister for Marion had been delivered to her, and as she read it she wept, and her heart whispered forgiveness. But days, months, and years dragged their slow course along, and no one heard tidings of him. She began to feel that, although she had forgiven him, he had forgotten her. Her father said she "was weel quit o' the ne'er-do-weel--that he had always determined that he should not speak to her again, and he was glad that he had not attempted it." But his poor mother mourned for him as a stricken dove that is robbed of its young; the tears fell upon her pillow at midnight, as she wept for her son, her only son, the child of her heart and hopes. Anxious and fruitless were her inquiries after him. As the mist of morning vanisheth, so had he departed from her sight; and, like it, when the sun melteth it away, he was not. Mrs Mordington had a brother who had been many years in India, and having returned to Britain, he took up his residence in Ayrshire. Being a widower, and without children, he sent for his sister and her daughter to reside with him. They remained as the inmates of his roof for more than ten years, and during that period she heard nothing of her lost son. But her brother, who was now an old man, died, leaving to her his property; and, regarding the place where her husband's bones lay as her home, she returned to Tweedmouth. There, however, she had not been long, when disease fell, as a withering blight, on the cheeks of her remaining child. Year followed year, and, as the leaves dropped from the trees, her daughter seemed ready to drop into the grave. Over her face consumption's fitful rainbow spread its beautiful but deadly streaks; and, though the widow now possessed affluence, she knew not happiness. Her son was not, and her fair daughter was withering before her, as a flower on which the cankerworm had fixed its teeth. Yet, long the maiden lingered, until her aged mother almost hoped that they would go down into the grave together. Eighteen years had passed since the festival which had proved fatal to the early promise and the fond prospects of George Mordington. Margaret's day had again come round, and the neighbours of the widow, with their children and friends around them, held a holiday. A slow and unwieldy vehicle, which was then the only land conveyance between Berwick and London, stopped in the village. A sunburned stranger alighted from it, and as he left the coach, a young maiden crossed his path. She seemed to be seventeen or eighteen years of age, and was dressed in a mourning-gown, with a white sarcenet hood over her head, being in the dress of one who was inviting guests to a funeral. "Maiden," said the stranger, accosting her, "can you inform me where Mrs Mordington resides?" "Yes, sir," she replied; "I am bidding for the funeral." "For what funeral?" he exclaimed, eagerly. "For her daughter's, sir," answered the maiden. "My sister--my poor sister!" cried the stranger, clasping his hands together. "Your sister!" said she, inquiringly gazing in his face, and throwing back her hood as she spoke. "Heaven!" he exclaimed, and starting back; "your name, maiden--your name!" But he added, "I need not ask it; it is written on your features. Your mother's name is Marion?" "It is," replied the astonished and half-terrified girl. "Show me to my mother's!" he cried, smiting his hand suddenly on his bosom. "Would that I had this day to be buried in the grave prepared for my sister!" Afraid to cast upon him another glance, she conducted him to the house. "It is here, sir," said she, pointing to the house. His frame, his features were convulsed; they shook with agitation. He raised his hand and struck upon the door. It was opened by a woman dressed in the garb of mourning, and whose years might be described as being between youth and middle-age. "Do I dream!" he exclaimed, starting back as he beheld her. "I am punished!--yes, I am now punished beyond the measure of my crime! Marion, I am George Mordington!" She clasped her hands together, a wild shriek escaped her lips, and she fell back as dead upon the floor. Others who sat with the corpse ran to her assistance; but his voice had reached an ear where its tones had lived as a memory that might never die. "My son! my son!" cried the aged widow, and pressed forward to throw her arms around his neck. "My mother!" he cried, springing from the ground, where he had sunk by the side of Marion. The widow fell upon the breast of her son, and he wept aloud upon her neck. Strangers raised Marion and conveyed her from the house. She had long believed George Mordington, the object of her early affections, was with the dead; and under this conviction, and in obedience to her father's command, she had given her hand to another. The maiden whom the betrothed husband of her youth had met on alighting from the coach was her daughter, and the features of the girl then were as the mother's had been when they last parted. George Mordington accompanied his sister's corpse, as chief mourner, to the grave. The friends of his boyhood had forgotten the tale of his folly; but its consequences gnawed with fiercer agony in his heart than when he was first ashamed to behold his own face in a glass because of it. On the following day, it was stated that Marion was not expected to live, and she requested to speak with him before she died. He approached her bedside--she stretched her hand towards him. "Forgive me, George!" she cried. "I knew not that you yet lived. I am the wife of one who has long deserted me; my heart has long been broken, and your appearance has severed the last cord that linked me with existence. But I leave behind me a daughter. When I am gone, there will be no parent to provide for her--no father whose roof will shelter or hand defend her. As you once loved me, protect my poor child!" "I will! I will!" he exclaimed. "Farewell, Marion!" And he rushed from the house. She lingered for a few weeks, and he followed her to the grave, as he had done his sister. Yet the remembrance of his early shame still haunted him, and he imagined that every eye in the place of his birth looked on him with derision. He gave his mother's furniture in presents to her neighbours; and, with her and the daughter of Marion, proceeded to London. The widow lived for a few years, and, at her death, he bequeathed upon the daughter of his adoption all that his mother possessed. "Maiden," he said, "I cannot look upon thy face, but it reminds me of the happiness I have lost, of the misery I have brought on myself and upon others. Child of my Marion, farewell! I leave you, if not rich, above want. Be virtuous, as your mother was." And again crying, "Farewell!" he left her; and George Mordington was no more heard of by any who had known him. But, after the lapse of many years, there appeared in an American newspaper the following paragraph:-- "Died, at Washington, in the seventieth year of his age, George Mordington, Esq., a native of Berwick-upon-Tweed, a patriotic senator, and an upright judge." A LEGEND OF HOLYROOD. Once upon a time, when a good story had not ceased to have a beginning in this way, there lived a person called William Glenday, who was a sort of sub-equerry to Mary Queen of Scots; or rather he assumed that title, because it sounded better than "head groom." This man was a widower, and lived with his daughter Mary, a very interesting young maiden, of about twenty years of age, in one of the houses within the precincts of the Abbey set apart for the Queen's household. William was a quaint Scotsman, shrewd and caustic in his remarks, like many of his nation. He was reputed rich, and somewhat addicted to making more than a proper display of his riches; in other words, he was "purse-proud." He was, however, a most loyal subject of the queen, whom he held to be a paragon of beauty. His daughter bore the same name; and it was even whispered that he had sought to trace a likeness between Mary Glenday and Mary Queen of Scots. What will the partiality of a father's love not accomplish? On the other side of the Abbey strand--that is, on the unprivileged side--there was a house kept as a tavern or ale-house by a person of the name of Peter Connal, very well known in those days as a place of resort for the humble retainers about the palace. Instead of placing a dry picture of a type of his trade over his door, in the shape of stoups or bickers overflowing with his famous beverage, Peter conceived that he would be nearer his purpose of letting the public know the nature of his calling, by showing them the liquor itself, in a real quaigh, and in the act of being swallowed by a real toper; at least Peter gave out as a reason for his sitting on a barrel at his door during a great part of the day, drinking his ale, that he was merely showing the public a good example, and exercising the functions of his calling in such a manner as to fill his purse and his stomach at the same time--a reason which possessed so much of plausibility, that his wife, Janet Wilkinson, was not, by the mere power of logic alone, able to show any fallacy attached to it. Peter had a son named John--a very fine young man, who followed his father's trade, but demurred somewhat as to the propriety of imitating his father, when he should come to succeed him, in making himself a living signboard; a piece of self-willed precocious conceit on the part of the lad which Peter despised. Nor did Peter Connal stand in any want of individuals to approve of these sentiments. Among others who collected at this door, and took their station on the seat on which he sat, were William Glenday, and an Italian called Giulio Massetto, a servant in the employ of the famous David Rizzio. These three were often seen sitting together at the door of the tavern, drinking Peter's ale, and discussing any point of interest which the strange proceedings of the palace at that time offered to their curiosity. Peter did not approve of the intimacy which existed between Rizzio and the queen; Giulio defended his master; and William stood up for the unfortunate Mary. "I canna see what our royal mistress can mean," said Peter, "by a' this walkin, and ridin, and talkin, and singin, and playin on psalters and sackbuts, and pipes and whistles, wi' that Italian. It's nae farther gane than yesterday, that my son John--wha despises his ain drink, fule that he is--saw the queen and him sittin in the bonny green bower, at the corner o' the King's Orchard yonder, skirlin ane o' their Italian sangs, like twa mavises. Is that like a Queen o' Scotland and the wife o' Darnley? Na! na!" "Cattivo!" ejaculated the choleric Italian, "thy son doth lie in his throat. My noble master is the only accomplished gentleman in this barbarous land; and my royal mistress hath made him her secretary, because thy kilted barons can only write with their swords." "And maybe thae kilted barons may write wi' that guidly pen the word '_death_' on yer noble master's silken sash," answered Peter. "By my troth, lad, ye had better be at Cremona, playing an Italian strathspey, than here in our abbey, if ony o' our kilted barons be within hearin." "Wheesht! wheesht! baith o' ye," said William Glenday; "ye are baith wrang. It may be ill for Giulio to speak in this fashion; but it may be waur for you, Peter, wha's living comes frae the palace, if ye are heard speakin ill o' Rizzio and the queen." "I just say what I think," said Peter, pertinaciously. "That Italian piper would be better dangling at the black wuddy up the way yonder, than at oor queen's tail." And he quietly quaffed off a jug of his ale. On hearing these words, Giulio could no longer restrain himself. He started from his seat, and shaking his fist in the face of Peter, turned on his heel and disappeared. This scene, though made a little ominous by the fierce expression of the Italian's face and manner, was not long remembered. Peter continued to drink his ale, and did not hesitate to speak his mind on a subject which had, apparently, become of more than ordinary interest to him. The intimacy between him and William Glenday continued; and their children, as will appear, had good reasons that it should not be interrupted. Now John Connal and Mary Glenday were of nearly the same age, and their sentiments accorded as closely as their years. From their earliest childhood they had associated together; and the feelings which were generated in the games and amusements of schoolmates, ripened, as they grew up, into sentiments of the heart. When the same blue-bell, which divided their affections at the "Wells o' Weary," was cast away, it was only to give place to another object of mutual sympathy. The natural elements of love, thus reinforced by early congenial habits, mutual enjoyments, and the daily intercourse of an inseparable connection, produced, in a short time, a strong attachment in the youthful pair, which had been pledged and re-pledged as often as their fears suggested any impediment to their ultimate union. These lovers had now arrived at an age when they might have been united; and they looked forward to this happy consummation with confidence and delight. John Connal, however, did not want rivals, who sued in vain for the hand of Mary. Among these was Giulio Massetto, the Italian, who had for some time solicited the favour of the maiden. He trusted much to his superior appearance and polished manners, and looked with contempt on the poor Scot who dared to dispute with him the hand of his love. Mary was much annoyed by the Italian's importunate method of wooing; partaking more, she thought, of the impassioned character of a madman's ravings, than of the quiet, rational, and sincere mode of a Scottish courtship. She had repeatedly told him that his suit was in vain; but every repulse seemed only to increase his assiduity, and add to the pathos of his protestations and serenades. This man had earned for himself, since he came to Scotland, a reputation for every wickedness. He had been concerned in many disgraceful amours, and violent and bloody quarrels with the inhabitants of Edinburgh, which brought upon him a hatred equal to that which his master, by his imprudent conduct with the queen, had produced against himself. It was, in consequence, suspected that his passion for Mary was a mere ebullition of that kind of love for which his countrymen were then and are to this day remarkable; and that, even if he were so fortunate as to secure the object of his desires on condition of resigning his liberty, he would, when his passion cooled, leave her to follow some other equally faithless and disgraceful amour. Having been unsuccessful in every effort he had made with Mary, Giulio at last resolved to make an application to her father; and he trusted that the show of wealth which, by the misplaced kindness of the royal favourite, he was enabled to make, might have the effect of tempting William Glenday to endeavour to influence the affections of his daughter. "Thou knowest, William Glenday," said the Italian, one morning, "that I love thy daughter Mary with the force of affection which a true and ardent lover ought to bear towards the devoted of his heart; and I have taken every method known in our country to induce her to forego the gratification of the infliction of her cruelty on her lover; yet she continues obdurate and determined that I shall die the victim of a passion which I cannot control. Yet, if she would but relent, how happy could I make her! My jewels amount in value to a hundred merks; and my master, on our marriage, will present me with a hundred more. Wilt thou aid me in my suit, and endeavour to persuade thy daughter that she ought to yield to the influence of my love?" William Glenday, who was himself a little purse-proud and conceited, was by no means taken on the right side by this high-flown speech, which was, like all Giulio's conversation and manners, a gross imitation of the style of his master. William was adverse to his suit on many grounds; but the rhodomontade of this address, and the attempt to bribe him by a display of ill-gotten wealth, roused him beyond his natural bearing. "Ye seem, sir, to hae yersel stated aneugh," answered William. "Ye admit that my dochter winna hae ye; and wharfore should I endeavour to force her luve? Besides, ye're no o' our country, man; and the lasses o' Scotland dinna like foreigners. Tak an Italian! tak an Italian! Birds o' a feather gree best thegither; and the kite and the doo winna assort ava. I carena a bodle for your merks. If they were in their richt place, they should maybe be in our ain Scotch exchequer. Neither care I sae muckle as an auld sang for yer fine speech, which nea doot comes, like yer merks, frae yer maister. Ye needna, therefore, pursue ony mair this fruitless wark--which, it would seem, ye continue by nicht in the shape o' something they ca' serenades--or, as we would say, nicht-waits--as weel as in the licht o' day, by a constant use o' thae black een o' yours, aneugh o' themsels to terrify ony young leddy. In addition to a' this, John Connal has lang been my dochter's lover; and if they wish to mak a match o't, it shanna be me that'll prevent it." This calm and self-sufficient oration produced on the fiery and impatient temper of Giulio that rage which burned on the application of every spark. It must be confessed that even a Scotchman would have resented the hints of William, rendered more provoking by the manner in which they were uttered--a wink or a smile being always at hand to give piquancy to an innuendo; while an imperturbable, calm, and self-confident assurance gave the whole an aspect of dictation, mixed with contempt. Giulio rose suddenly, and without so much as uttering a word, went away. In the meantime, the two lovers had got matters in considerable advancement for their marriage, which was fixed to take place in the following month. The inhabitants of the Abbey were promised a grand entertainment in William Glenday's house; and the day was looked forward to by all and sundry as a kind of holiday. There was, indeed, something in the match of more than an ordinary character; for, as a pair of twigs which have fallen connected from a tree into a stream seldom find their way together to the ocean, it seldom happens that the loves of childhood can withstand the severing impulses of the conflicting and distracting interests of a selfish and calculating world. It was even whispered that one of the maids of honour of the queen intended to grace and dignify the union by being present at the ceremony. The preparations went on with spirit. The day approached, and everything seemed to conspire to add to the happiness of a union apparently under the influence of smiling and auspicious powers. On the evening of the day preceding that on which their marriage was to take place, one of those events occurred which arrest the attention of thousands. Peter Connal, when coming out of the house of William Glenday, was stabbed to the heart. A number of persons immediately collected on hearing his cries--the guard of the palace was roused, and search made in every direction for the perpetrator of so bloody and unaccountable an act. Amongst those who rushed out when the cry was heard, was Mary Glenday and John Connal. The latter was entirely occupied in getting his father's body carried home, in the hope of his being only wounded, and with a view to get medical aid. Mary and some neighbours remained upon the spot, searching about for any trace, by footsteps or otherwise, which might lead to the discovery of the murderer. When engaged in this search, her eye fell upon a small sword lying at a little distance from the spot where the crime was committed. Upon taking it up, she discovered, to her astonishment, that it was her father's sword, which she had not missed from the house. She instantly secreted it under her clothes, and looked about to see if she could discover her parent. He had not, however, been seen during the tumult; and, though many inquiries were made for him, no person could tell where he was. She now flew to the house, and, upon getting into the inner chamber, applied water to the instrument to wash off the blood, threw the washings into a place where they could not be seen, and, by means of ashes from the fire, scoured the instrument, so as to bring back its brightness. Having hung it up in the spot which it usually occupied, she turned to leave the room, with a view to go again to the street, to avoid any suspicion which her absence might suggest as to where she had been. As she turned, she started on observing the eyes of some person fixed on her through the window. She trembled from head to foot; and, unable to proceed a step, fell back into a chair which stood near her, and again shook with an apprehension which she could not account for. All these acts which she had performed during the last ten minutes, appeared to her as wanting the reality of life. She had done them intuitively; and as no proper, well-defined motive had been present to her mind during the time she was occupied, she was now equally at a loss to account for an apprehension which it was impossible there could be the least ground for. She questioned herself why did she secrete the sword--run home with it--wash it and scour it? Was she afraid of her father being charged as the murderer? Impossible! She was not afraid of that. She could defy the world even to suspect that her father was guilty of such a crime; and the idea of it was so absurd that it could not be entertained for a moment. Yet, was she not in fact alarmed? This was not to be denied. She tried to run over the acts which she had, as in a dream, performed by the impulse of a power external to herself; but, on looking to the window again, she saw the same eyes staring in at her. At this moment the door opened, and a person came from John Connal to inform her that Peter was dead, and requesting to know if her father had yet been seen. She was unable to speak to the messenger, who went away without an answer. Mary continued to sit waiting with breathless impatience for the return of her parent. She heard the bustle in the street gradually die away. Occasional inquiries were made by the passengers for William Glenday, from whom they wished to get some explanation of the extraordinary case; but the servant answered them, and stated that he was not come back, and Mary was indisposed. Eleven o'clock came, and still no word of her father. She heard some people on the street going home, remarking it as strange that William Glenday should be absent, when the father of his daughter's intended husband had been stabbed dead at his door. About half-past eleven, William Glenday returned home. He was met by several people, who told him what had happened. He said he had been conveying a hound to a gentleman who lived in Leith, and that he had been detained beyond his usual time. He seemed to be very much affected by the death; and the more so, he said, that he and Peter had that day had some words about his daughter's tocher, which had very nearly broken off the match. He inquired particularly if any clue had been found to the murderer; and being informed that no trace had yet been got, returned home. He found Mary sitting in the state already noticed, and attributed her apparent sorrow to the circumstance which had occurred. She looked up, and asked him where he had been when such awful doings had been going on at his own door. He answered her in the same way he had done the neighbours. She then asked him if he had been over at Peter's house. He said that he had not, but would go immediately. On turning to go out, she observed that his coat was all wet; and, on examining it more narrowly, discovered that it was wet with blood. At the sight of this extraordinary coincidence with the circumstances attending the finding of the sword, she screamed and fainted. Her father, alarmed for his daughter, hung over her with every demonstration of affection; but, attributing her illness and the faint to the shock produced by the death of Peter Connal, he trusted to her speedy recovery when the nervous excitement under which she laboured had abated. On recovering herself, Mary looked round her, endeavouring to recollect some painful idea which she knew had been the cause of her illness. The moment the thought again struck her, she started up, as if she had found there was a necessity for something being done. Calming her speech and manner, by an effort she made for that purpose, she desired her father to take off his coat, which was wet, and put on another, for the purpose of going over to Peter Connal's house. William complied, remarking (without examining the marks of blood which were behind) that Marion Gray--a woman of irregular habits, who lived in the precincts of the Abbey, and was well known at that time by the name of Mary's Marion, in consequence of having, in her better days, received some attention from the queen--had, as he passed her door, thrown a basin of water upon him, and instantly disappeared. William Glenday having gone over to Peter Connal's house, Mary, who had said nothing to him of the blood, shut the window-shutters, and washed the coat. The basin in which the bloody water was contained was standing on the table; and, just as she was about to lift it, she saw that the window-shutters had been gently opened, and the face of some person was there gazing in upon her. This apparition again disconcerted the poor girl, and threw her into fits of trembling; but she got the water emptied out, and hung up the coat to dry upon a screen at the fire. When her father returned, Mary asked him how Peter's wife was sustaining her affliction. She did not ask if any clue had been got to the murderer. She trembled as the words were on her lips. The circumstances of the evening bore heavy upon her. She knew that William and Peter had quarrelled about the tocher, but still she did not suspect her father. She felt it even impious to say to herself that she did not suspect him; for she conceived that the mere connection of the ideas of the murder and of her parent could be nothing but a freak of the devil. Yet she could not ask her father if any clue had been got to the murderer, and she could not tell why she felt unable to do that. William talked about certain probabilities as to this one or that one being the guilty person, but came to no very satisfactory conclusion. His first idea, he said, was, that the Italian had done the deed; but he could see no proper motive that could induce him to commit the crime; and, besides, Giulio had been seen running out of the palace along with the rest of the people--no sword had been seen upon him, and none had been found by the persons who had gone to search for evidence. After indulging in some conversation of the same kind, and lamenting the death, and the consequent interference with the marriage, they retired to rest. The search for the murderer of Peter Connal was continued for many days without effect. The funeral of the unfortunate man was attended by a great crowd of people, attracted by the respect in which Peter was held, and the unusual circumstances of his death. John Connal now took up the business, carrying his resolution into effect, not to imitate his father in the matter of the sign-post. He accordingly got a very imposing one erected, in which he fell into the error which his father had condemned in such indignant terms; for it was filled up with mere pictures of casks, bottles, and bickers--things in themselves so sacred in the estimation of Peter, that he hated all representation of them as a species of idolatry. The very barrel on which he had so often sat was turned in. The jaunty and gaudy signboard was not received as a compensation for the comfortable personalty of Peter. The inhabitants of the neighbourhood, who had formerly been so delighted with his portly figure, in the very attitude of doing almost continually that which it was their wish to imitate, turned away their eyes from the dry contrast afforded by a mere picture, and sighed over all the vanities of this fleeting world. The intercourse between William Glenday and John Connal was not interrupted by the unaccountable circumstance that had occurred; but it was soon observed that Mary was not what she used to be. Even John Connal observed a difference in her manner. She felt a reluctance to fix another day for the marriage; and the importunities of John seemed only to increase it. "Now, my dear Mary," said John, "when our grief for my father is, by the course o' nature, somewhat moderated, may we no accomplish that which was interrupted by that melancholy catastrophe? Twenty summers hae gane owre our heads, and fifteen o' thae hae been cheered by the beating o' our twa hearts, as by the sangs o' birds on a sunny day. The licht o' yer lauchin ee has been my only solace amang mony waes; and even on the occasion which has filled our houses wi' sackcloth, and our hearts wi' grief, and dashed frae our uplifted hands the cups o' pleasure which hae been a promise and a covenant between us for a fourth part o' the ordinary term o' man's pilgrimage on earth, I hae had nae staff o' support but ye, and nae beam o' hope but what ye hae pleased to vouchsafe to me. It canna be, then, that this misfortune, which, God knows, was nane o' my doing, should be turned frae the purpose which it was by Heaven intended to serve--nae doot to check our joy, which was owre bricht for mortals, into a total extinguisher o' a' our pleasures, and a final end to a' our hopes! Na, na, Mary, ye canna think that Providence will deal wi' us in that gate. And oh, tell me, dearest, for the sake o' heaven, why ye hae been sae changed to me o' late, and why ye winna again prepare to gang wi' me to the altar?" "It's no for me," said Mary, "to interfere wi' the ways o' God--wha, having allowed us, in his high pleasure, to be joined in our hearts for sae lang a time--even our hail lives--thocht proper to part us in the end by sic an awfu token as the death o' yer faither, on the very day afore our marriage. There was a sign and a meaning in that token which my heart has read in tears, and interpreted in agony; and sae lang as it pleases Heaven to conceal frae us the hand which struck the fatal blow at yer faither's life and our hopes, sae lang, my heart whispers, maun our union be delayed!" "That may be for ever, Mary," said the young man. "No," answered she. "But when that time shall come--and oh, that it may come sune! for it will be as the dew o' heaven to the parched and gaping earth--when the bloody hand shall be stretched forth, and the guilty ane made to stand out in the searching sun o' a bright evidence--then shall I be able to say whether it may again be that there is any chance for our being united in the bonds o' matrimony. Till that time shall come, never mention to me the subject o' this conversation." "Oh Mary, Mary, take back thae terrible words!" said he. "No; my heart is filled wi' a grief which nane on earth can lessen; and it is a sad change that has come owre me, when I can hae a sorrow which ye canna ken, and though ye kenned it, couldna relieve. Yet sae it is: yer puir Mary is nae langer what she was, and may never be what she was again. The flowers o' Arthur's Seat hae lost their colours and their scents--the bluebells o' the Hunter's Bog ring nae mair peals--and the water o' St Anthony's spring is drumly and dark, as it is when the spirit o' the storms sits on the tap o' the 'Lion's Head.' 'Waly, waly,' is now my sang, the joys o' a bricht morning hae fa'en to the bottom, like the lees o' a vessel o' wine; and I maun drink thae lees, bitter as they may be; for Heaven has said the word, and Mary Glenday is obedient to its behests." The high-toned determination of the maiden satisfied John that it would be vain to press a suit at present, which was so clearly interdicted by some hidden circumstance. What that could be was a subject of intense interest and curiosity; but, though he thought of it daily and nightly, he could not even approach the mysterious reason which could change a human being so entirely, as to make a light-laughing maiden, high in the hope of being married, a sorrowful and sentimental woman, giving grave injunctions that her intended nuptials should not be broached in her presence. At times John thought that her mind was tinged with a superstitious melancholy, arising from some presentiment that, as their marriage was interrupted in such an awful manner, Heaven had set its decree against it. This opinion deserved weight, from the circumstance that the condition attached by Mary to their union still taking place was the discovery of the author of the murder; but even that condition was itself qualified, as if it depended upon the nature of that discovery whether she would consent to become a wife. The whole matter appeared a mystery, and John could make nothing of it. The people in the Abbey discovered that Mary Glenday was entirely changed. Her cheek became blanched, and her blue eyes dim; while her general appearance was that of a person labouring under a consumption. She was seldom seen going out, except to church; and even there she never looked up. Many questions were put to her, as to the cause of her dejection, but no satisfactory answers could be got from her. Towards her father, her kindness continued. It was indeed a kindness altogether overdone--the result of a wish to heap attentions on him, as if from a morbid fear that he would not long be preserved to receive or she to impart them. William Glenday was extremely pained by the change which had taken place on his daughter. He could not go out without producing terror in her mind. She was even at times seen following him; and, when he would turn round and perceive her, she would, as if caught and ashamed, slip out of his sight. If any person knocked at the door, she trembled; and if a question was put to her, as to where her father was, her answer was so confused, that very often the inquirer was obliged to go away without the information sought. If any one approached the place where the sword hung, she betrayed uneasiness; and, on one occasion, one of the grooms under her father having taken down the sword to look at it, she fainted. She never allowed her father to wear the coat he had on that night when the murder was committed; and, when he asked for it, she said she could not find it, although it was carefully secreted in one of her drawers. This state of mind in the unhappy girl was not unknown to Giulio Massetto. He observed her changed appearance, and was well pleased to hear that there was at present no great likelihood of a union between her and John Connal. He was observed often to be watching about the door of the house; and his bold and blustering manner towards John, and his readiness to speak in his presence about Mary, betrayed a kind of triumph, mixed with a hope that he might yet succeed where his most ardent wishes still pointed. He had the boldness, indeed, one day to make up to her, as she came from church; but she shrank away from him, and left him in conversation with her father, who still kept on friendly terms with him. William Glenday took every method of dispelling his daughter's melancholy. He proposed, one afternoon, a walk to Duddingston, which she reluctantly agreed to. They set off accordingly, and visited an acquaintance who resided there. After they had been there for some time, a messenger, on horseback, and holding another horse, saddled and bridled, in his hand, inquired at the door if William Glenday was within. Mary heard the question, and, having seen the messenger and the horses from the window, rushed out, and cried that her father was not within. Her manner betrayed the utmost agitation. She endeavoured to prevent the servant from stating that William Glenday was in the house; and it was not until her father, who heard the noise, came out, that the messenger could know what was the truth. The people of the house could not account for her conduct on any other principle than that she was deranged. The messenger bore a request that William Glenday should instantly repair to the palace; and having committed Mary to the charge of his friends, he departed. Mary returned home in the evening. The weather was calm and delightful, and the sun was setting in that fine amber-coloured radiance, which, in Scotland, is often so remarkable on an autumn evening. Wearied by her day's fatigues, she sat down to rest herself. A train of images rose in her mind, which took away all perception of time, or of the increasing shades of evening that gradually closed over her. In the midst of her reverie, she was suddenly startled by a human voice. It was that of Giulio Massetto. "Anima mia!" cried the Italian, when he saw her. "Mary Glenday here, on the brow of the hill, in the gloom of approaching night! Io Godo! Io Godo! I am well pleased. And now we shall, if it please thee, have some conversation on a subject which, notwithstanding thy coldness, still lies next my heart. Thou knowest how I love thee, my sweet Mary; and I am well pleased to know that thou hast discarded thy old lover, Connal, who was not, indeed, worthy of the love of such a maiden. Thy father I shall yet appease and persuade, if thou wilt but answer to my love." And he held out his hands to embrace her. "Stand back, sir," said the indignant Mary. "The power does not exist on this earth that can e'er mak Mary Glenday love Giulio Massetto; and Heaven winna interfere in sic an affair. I hae tauld ye aften--and this, I hope, will be the last time--that it is waur than useless to persevere in a suit which I can ne'er gie ony favour or countenance to. Ye may perceive, sir, that I am very far frae being in a guid state o' bodily health; the bloom has gane frae my cheek, and sorrow has flung her gloomy mantle owre the heart whar joy loved ance to dwell. Ye may, if it be yer pleasure, continue to persecute ane wha ne'er wranged ye--ye may shake doun the few lingering grains that remain in the sand-glass o' my life, and hasten the end o' a miserable existence. Ye may do a' this, sir; and when ye hae dune it, what will ye hae accomplished? When ye see the green turf lying on the grave ye hae helped to dig, will that be ony cause o' pride, or exultation, or thanksgiving? If it will, or if it can, then I truly say that the heart o' an Italian is no like that o' a Scotsman. Let me gang, sir, or I will wauken the spirit o' this place wi' the cries o' a determined and desperate woman." "I cry thee mercy, maiden," replied Giulio, perfectly unmoved, except by hurt pride and bitterness. "I'osservo something troubles thee, and thou makest that a reason for rejecting my love; but what wouldst thou say if Giulio Massetto, whom thou despisest so much, could tell thee of the cause of thy illness. It is sometimes more easy to take the grief from the heart of an unwilling maiden, than to wash the gore from a sword, or from a garment which has been drenched in the heart's blood of a friend." These words operated like lightning on the unhappy Mary. She intuitively fell on her knees, clasped the Italian's legs, clinging to them with the grasp of death--struggled for breath and power to speak, and convulsively screamed, "Tak--tak back thae words, and tell me that ye never uttered them--say that ye didna see me wash the sword, and scoor it, and hang it up i' my faither's room--say that I didna wash the bluid frae my faither's coat, and dry it at the fire--say that, and--and--Mary Glenday will----" "What?" said the cold-blooded Italian; "wilt thou become my wife?" These words recalled Mary's wandering senses, but only to consign them to the power of exhausted nature. She fell senseless at the feet of her perfidious persecutor. Approaching footsteps were at this instant heard, which caused the Italian to retreat; and, when Mary recovered, she found herself in the arms of her father, who led her slowly home. When examined by her father, Mary pretended that some unknown person had surprised her on the hill. Her father stated that he thought he perceived Giulio Massetto part from her when he came up. To this she gave no very distinct answer, pretending that she was not very sure whether it was Giulio or not. This was not at all satisfactory to her father, because he was aware that she had fainted in consequence of the violence of the person who had suddenly left her on his approach; and if Giulio had been the individual, she could not have failed to know him. He felt unwilling, however, to press his daughter farther, because she seemed quite incapable of supporting any lengthened conversation on this subject, which seemed to be one of great pain to her. The weight upon the mind of Mary increased; for she was now overcome by a feeling of total dependence upon the will of another. The depression of spirits produced by this accession to her disquietude acted with increased force on her frame, which daily became more attenuated. It was observed that she now ceased entirely from speaking of Giulio Massetto with disrespect or anger. When his name was mentioned, she was spell-bound and silent. One night a noise was heard at the window, as if some person had tapped at it in a peculiar and concerted way. William Glenday looked at his daughter, and asked what it was; she replied it was rats, and that she had heard the sound often. In a short interval, however, she arose from her seat, and signified to her father that she had occasion to leave the house for a few minutes. The latter asked her whither she intended to go, adding, that, in her present weak state, she had better remain in the house. She replied, she was just going to visit a neighbour; and her father not having suspected any connection between the sound at the window and the departure of his daughter, offered no further opposition to her expressed wish. It was about ten o'clock when Mary went out; eleven struck, and she was no yet come home. William Glenday became alarmed, and sent to inquire if she was in the neighbour's house she had mentioned. The servant came back, and informed him that she had not called there for many months. This increased her father's alarm, and he ran immediately over to the house of John Connal, to inquire if she was there. John said that he had not seen her for some days; but his affection for her suggested stronger dread than that felt even by her father; and seizing his hat, he rushed out of the house to search for the object nearest to his heart. On going round the King's Park, he thought he observed two people standing in the shadow of a house at the corner of the clump of trees, called at that time the "King's Orchard." On coming nearer, he heard the voice of Giulio Massetto, and then that of Mary Glenday. He was struck with intense agony. Could it be that he was now, in his turn, the unsuccessful rival of the Italian? Everything indicated that fact; and his fancy, fired by jealousy, now saw distinctly the reason why Mary would not consent to name another day for their marriage. Her statements about the murder of his father were used as a device to get quit of her obligation and pledge to him, and leave her at liberty to wed his rival. Her bad health was produced by the intensity of a new passion, and the struggle between conscience and inclination. Her distress, on being surprised by her father on the night of their visit to Duddingston, was all affectation; for, as her father himself had stated, she had been in the company of the Italian, and wished to conceal it. Stung to the heart by this supposed baseness on the part of his lover, John went forward, determined that either he or Giulio should die on the spot. Before he came up, however, the pair separated--the Italian going one way, and Mary another. John followed Mary, and overtook her. "Is that you, Mary Glenday?" he cried. "What are ye doing here at this time o' nicht?" "O John, dinna ask me what I'm doing here," answered Mary; "but let me get hame, where I hae mair need to be than in this place at sic an untimous hour." "Why are ye here, then, Mary?" said John, with asperity. "Because I have need to be here," answered she. "And if ye love me, dinna, for heaven's sake, ask me ony mair aboot it." "Had Giulio, the Italian, need to be here too?" asked John, significantly. "I winna answer that question, John," answered Mary, "nor ony ither ye may put to me. I can only say, that, if ye wish to add to the misery o' ane wha loves ye wi' a' the force o' a breakin heart--wha is worn down to the weakness o' a silly thread, by what she canna reveal to mortal--ye hae it in yer power noo to snap it asunder, and send yer ain Mary to sleep wi' yer murdered faither, in the Canongate kirkyard. Speak but ane or twa mair o' thae sharp words ye hae noo spoken, and ye will hae nae mair to do. I hae only to beg, that if ye love me, ye will say naething o' what ye hae seen or heard this nicht. The chough and the craw are gane to their rest--gae awa to yours; and, as they were heedless o' what was said and heard by me as I stood yonder under their sheltering tree, be ye equally heedless and equally mute. Nae mair. The life o' Mary Glenday depends on yer discretion!" As she said these words, she beckoned to John not to go with her. She went in the direction of home; and he, with a heavy heart, stung with jealousy--and yet satisfied by her extraordinary conduct that there was something unexplained, feeling himself bound to conceal his emotions and obey her commands--went home also. In the morning, William Glenday called at John's house, to inquire if he had seen Mary on the previous night. She had been, he said, late in returning--her spirits were getting worse, her health fast declining, and everything indicated some mental disease, or some secret of an extraordinary character, preying upon her mind. John denied having seen her, and gave a confused assent to what her father stated. This account did not agree with that given by Mary, who had said that she saw John Connal on the previous night. William Glenday became, in his turn, suspicious of John, and now began to think that he was acting dishonourably by his daughter--a circumstance that would, of itself, account for her state of health and spirits. He, however, said nothing, and departed. Two nights afterwards, when William Glenday returned home about ten o'clock at night, he was told that Mary had gone out; and the servant said she thought there was some strange noise at the window before she departed. Her father was now satisfied that she had left the house to meet John, and resolved to go himself and ascertain the truth of his suspicions. He went and called at John's house; and having found that he had not yet come in, went away to the darkest parts of the neighbourhood, to see if he could discover whither they had gone. He had not proceeded far when he met two men carrying a female. This was his daughter, in a state of insensibility. She was supported by John and another person. They conveyed her to the house; and having applied some stimulants, she recovered. William Glenday, with much asperity, blamed young Connal for not acting honourably towards his daughter, whose affections he said he was trampling on. The other defended himself as far as he could, without betraying Mary. He said he had met the stranger bearing her in his arms, and that he assisted him merely in carrying her homewards. The stranger, on his part, said he belonged to Leith, and that, as he went along by the entry from the south back of the Canongate to the Abbey, he saw the young woman standing with a man--that she was supplicating him not to do something which he threatened to do; whereupon he said, in a threatening and angry tone, that, unless she yielded to him within an hour, he would lodge an information the next day; and he swore that he would fulfil his threat. On his swearing, the young girl fell into a swoon; and her companion suddenly disappeared on seeing the narrator come up to her assistance. William Glenday could make nothing of this story, and Mary refused to say anything in explanation. On the following day, two officers called at William Glenday's house, and showed him a warrant for his apprehension upon a charge for the murder of Peter Connal. Mary heard the statement of the men, and went again into a swoon. When she recovered, her father had been taken to prison. A precognition was now led by the crown lawyers. Giulio Massetto was examined, and stated that, on the night of the murder, he saw Mary Glenday pick up a sword, which she found lying on the ground near the place where Peter Connal was slain; that he afterwards saw her, through the window, washing the blood from her father's sword and coat. Glenday's servant was next examined, who stated that she saw Mary washing the sword and her father's coat, by looking through the key-hole of the door. Mary was next called; but she refused to say anything against her father; and she was not pressed. Several witnesses, however, were examined, who asserted that a quarrel took place between Peter Connal and William Glenday, on the day of the murder, respecting the amount of the tocher which Peter's son was to get from William Glenday with his daughter. This evidence the crown-officers conceived to be very strong, and nothing that the prisoner could say tended to affect it. The gentleman to whom, on the night that the murder was perpetrated, he said he conveyed the hound, was a Frenchman, then living at Leith, who wished to introduce a breed into France, for which country he had departed. He therefore could not prove an _alibi_. In addition to all this, the sword itself was produced, and a coat was found in Mary's cabinet, which presented all the appearances of having been washed. It was proved, too, that her father was never seen to wear that coat; and the groom referred to in a previous part of this narrative, said that Mary Glenday had nearly fainted one day when he took down the sword to look at it. As the evidence gradually transpired and came to the ears of Mary, the effect produced upon her was of a character so intense, that no person thought she could support life under its influence. A series of swoons for many days seemed to divide her life with death. Her nerves suffered alternations of high excitement and the lowest depression; and, at times, her screams were heard far from the house, and by passengers going along the street. In quieter moments, she cried for Giulio Massetto, and said she would now consent to his conditions. The people around her conceived she was raving, and paid no attention to her wild request; though they could not restrain their tears, when they thought of the extraordinary fate of the unfortunate girl. Her early and romantic love for John Connal--the interruption of her marriage by the death of her intended father-in-law--her sufferings under the terror, very far from being causeless, that her father would expiate on the scaffold the crime of murdering her lover's parent;--these things became topics of ordinary conversation, and brought tears to the eyes of many; but no one on earth knew all the sufferings of Mary Glenday. Her restless nights--her frightful dreams--her cold shivering fears, real and imaginary--her dependence on the word of a villain for the life of a parent--the conduct she was obliged to pursue towards her lover, for whom her affection had not diminished--and the nervous state of body into which she had fallen, formed a load of misery which would have bowed the head of an ordinary mortal to the grave. Nor was the poor maiden now far from that place of rest. No extenuating evidence could be procured for her father, and the trial was fixed to take place within a fortnight. Every day of this period brought her more near to the termination of a mortal's career. She gradually sank to the last stage of life. The medical gentleman who attended her saw that she could not survive the period of the trial. John Connal was continually by her bedside. He had forgotten and forgiven all; though he had not got a proper explanation of her mysterious conduct. A faint glimmering of light, however, found its way into his mind; but any hope produced by it was in a moment clouded by the dreadful thought, that she had all along suspected her father to be the murderer of his parent, and had even taken means to conceal it, if she did not, by washing the sword and her father's coat, absolutely approve of it. When these thoughts came across young Connal's mind, he flew from the object of his love, beating his breast in agony; but pity again recalled him; and between so many conflicting passions, he was next to being a madman. One night he had been sitting with her to a late hour. She was too far reduced to enter into anything like conversation--a few words being all that ever passed; and these were of the most ominous character. After a long pause, and when she seemed to be occupied with thoughts of her approaching death, she started up in an instant, and laid hold of John, who was sitting by her bedside. "Ken ye Mary Gray, John?" she cried, with a wild scream--"ken ye that woman that is ca'ed Mary's Marion?" "I do," answered John; "what aboot her, my dear Mary?" "Awa to her!" she cried--"awa to her! wi' the flicht o' light. A thocht has come into my head--why has it been sae lang o' comin? Ask her if she threw ony bluid on my faither's coat on that awfu nicht when yer faither was murdered?" With the effort produced by speaking these words, she fell back exhausted. John went in search of Mary Gray. She was not in the house; but a young girl told him that she had met her with a man in the Hunter's Bog. He hurried away to that lonely place. It was now dark, but the night was quiet; and, though he could not see far, he could hear with the greatest distinctness. About the middle of the glen, he heard two persons engaged in conversation. "For the twa gowd pieces ye gied to me," said a woman, "for assistin ye in the matter o' fat Peter's death, I dinna thank ye, Giulio, because I wrocht for it! Hang ye for an Italian dog! do ye think that Scotch lasses are sae blate as to forget their bargains! Na, na--I hae got naething frae ye for this last fortnicht, and I'm this nicht in want--so gie me the silver pieces ye are awin me." "It is neither gold nor silver that insolence will get out of an Italian, Mary Gray," said Giulio. "It is another metal that he gives--at least to a male." "And did puir Peter Connal," answered she, "gie ye ony insolence when ye slew him sae unmercifully wi' William Glenday's sword, that ye got me to steal for ye frae his house, as if ye hadna had ane o' yer ain." "Yes," answered the Italian. "He was insolent to me when he abused my master, calling him an Italian piper, and saying he should be hanged for his services to our gracious queen." "And wherefore did ye put the crime on William Glenday," asked Mary, "by using his sword, and getting me to throw bluid on the puir man's coat when he passed my hoose?" "Because," said Giulio, "he was also insolent to me. He refused me his daughter--taunted me about my money, my speech, and my country. Besides, I wished to stop his daughter's marriage with John Connal, which the suspicion attaching to him could not fail to do. I was, besides, freed from any suspicion of doing the deed myself. Other circumstances arose from chance, favourable to me; for I did not count upon Mary's secreting the sword, and washing her father's coat, which thou knowest has come out in evidence against her." "And it is a strange thing, Giulio," said she, "seeing that yer life is in my hands, that ye should treat me as ye are noo doin, denyin me the silver piece sae justly due to me. Are ye no feared I gang up the street yonder, to the council chaumer, and mak a contract atween you and the black knave wha hugs his freends sae closely aboot the craig?" "Thy life would answer for it," said Giulio, sternly. "And what would Mary's Marion," answered she, "care for a spark, whilk only noo throws oot a glimmer to show her her shame?" "Thou jokest, I presume," answered Giulio. "I will tell ye that," answered Mary, "when I get my silver piece. Tempt nae mair the wrath o' an angry woman, wha has only to say the word that will mak yer feet dance i' the air, to a tune o' your ain whistling. It winna be Davie Rizzio that will save ye if Mary says the word." The Italian struck the woman violently, who fell, uttering a loud scream. As John Connal rushed forward, Giulio fled, pursued by the threats and imprecations of Mary, who, upon returning, was grateful to John for delivering her from his violence. Next day Mary Gray was examined by the procurator-fiscal. She gave a detailed account of Giulio's having bribed her to steal William Glenday's sword; and afterwards, when he had killed Peter Connal, to throw blood on Glenday's coat as he passed her door. John Connal gave next his account of the conversation he had heard between the Italian and Mary Gray. Other witnesses were examined to prove Giulio's quarrel with Peter, and also with William Glenday; and one man stated, that when Giulio joined the people who were rushing out of the palace to see the fray, he seemed to approach them at an angle, as if he had not come direct from the palace. In addition to all this, Mary Glenday, who was examined in bed, gave a satisfactory account of her actings, as they have been already detailed. The aspect of matters was now changed. William Glenday was liberated, and the Italian put in his place. He was afterwards tried, condemned, and hanged. Mary Glenday recovered, and explained everything to the satisfaction of her lover to whom she was afterwards married. THE RESTORED SON. On the banks of the Esk, in the County of Dumfries, stood, some years since, a handsome, substantial-looking mansion, bearing all the marks of plenty and comfort; while the neat and elegant arrangement of the grounds around bore evidence to the refined and chaste taste of its proprietor, Gavin Douglas. He was a gentleman by birth, and, "if merit gave titles, he might be a lord," for a more kind-hearted, amiable Christian never existed. He had succeeded to his father's property nearly thirty years before the time of which we write, and had constantly resided upon it ever since, growing daily in the love and respect of all who knew him. His appearance and address were particularly prepossessing: he was tall and upright in his person; his manners were bland and gentleman-like; and his fine expanded forehead and mild expressive eye told of a warm and benevolent heart. He was a widower; and his family were at a distance--the sons in the pursuit of their respective professions, and the daughters all happily and comfortably married, with the exception of the eldest, who resided under his roof with her three fatherless children. His eldest son, Edward, had been for some years settled in a mercantile house in Calcutta, where he had lately married, and had been admitted as one of the partners of the firm. Gavin Douglas well supplied the place of a father to his little grandchildren; his whole aim seemed to be, to study _their_ happiness, and to soothe the sorrow of their bereaved parent. One summer evening, the family party at Eskhall were seated in their comfortable drawing-room, engaged in that cheerful, affectionate conversation which forms the peculiar charm of a well-educated, well-regulated family circle. The day had been one of the most sultry and oppressive of the season; but the clouds, which gathered round the setting sun in dark and gloomy masses, seemed as if waiting in sullen silence for his disappearance, to pour their fury upon the scenes to which his rays had given beauty. Nor did they threaten in vain; all the wrathful energies of nature seemed to have awakened at the very hour when man and beast were about to seek repose. The rain descended in torrents, and poured forth, more like a continued stream than a collection of single drops. The vivid forked lightning appeared, in its ragged and eccentric course, to tear asunder the veil of darkness, only to render it doubly visible, while, glancing ten thousand reflections from the falling rain-drops, it flashed across the eyes of the family party, startling and dazzling them with its sudden and excessive brilliancy. The children clung to their grandfather in mute and breathless awe, and the whole party sat in silence, uninterrupted, save by involuntary ejaculations, which escaped them at each successive flash. Not a breath of wind was stirring, not a sound was to be heard, but the dull, monotonous, incessant pattering of the rain, and the loud, clear, crackling burst of the thunder, as it rolled peal after peal over their heads, and apparently in dangerous proximity. At length, the rain began to relax in its violence, the flashes of lightning became less and less vivid, and the thunder died away in faint and distant murmurings. "Grandfather!" said little Gavin, leaving his stronghold between Douglas's knees, "was not that an awful storm?" "Yes, my boy," replied the old man; "awful, indeed! and thankful ought we to be to the good Providence which has blessed us with a roof to shelter us, while many an uncovered head has been exposed to its violence. Such a night as this ought to awaken in us a spirit of gratitude for the blessings we ourselves enjoy, and of charity towards the wants of others." "Did you hear that strange noise during the storm, grandfather!" said little Emma; "it sounded like the bleating of a lamb close by; but I was so much frightened by the lightning at the time, that I did not mention it to you, and----There it is again!" A low, wailing, stifled kind of cry was heard, which almost immediately ceased, and the whole party started up, with looks of surprise and alarm, and gazed at each other, as if mutely inquiring from whence the strange sound could proceed. Again the cry was heard; and Mr Douglas, seizing one of the candles, rushed to the front-door, to ascertain the cause of their alarm. Great was his surprise to find, under the porch, a small wicker-basket, covered with a coarse, ragged shawl, on removing which, he started to behold the little chubby features of an infant, which stretched out its little arms, and crowed with delight at the sight of the candle. Mr Douglas's first impulse was to hurry into the parlour, where our little hero was safely deposited on a sofa, and exposed to the curious and inquiring gaze of the assembled party. "O grandpapa!" shouted little Gavin, clapping his hands, and dancing round the baby, "I have often heard you say, 'It is an ill wind that blows nobody good;' and now see what a nice little brother the thunderstorm has blown us." "Inhuman wretches!" exclaimed Douglas, "to expose such a sweet infant in a night like this! But they cannot be far off." And, ringing the bell violently, he went out with some of the servants in pursuit of the supposed fugitives: but vain was their search; every nook and corner of the grounds were examined, but no traces of any such could be discovered; and Douglas returned, fatigued and disappointed, to the parlour. On examining the basket in which the child had been laid, a crumpled and dirty piece of paper was discovered, on which was written, in a trembling and almost illegible hand, "Be kind to the boy--he comes of a good family. His name is Philip F. May Heaven prosper you as you behave to him!" There was likewise a signet ring, with a few Persian characters engraved upon it. The clothes in which the infant was dressed were formed of the best materials, neatly and plainly made, but bore evident tokens of neglect and dirt. "Poor boy," muttered Gavin; "since your own unnatural father has deserted you, I will be a father to you. Here, Jane, my love," addressing his daughter, "I commit this stray lamb to your charge for the present; see that he is comfortably settled in the little crib in your room." Years passed on; the little foundling had become a tall, handsome stripling of thirteen, as much beloved for his kind and amiable disposition, as he was admired for his handsome form and bold and manly spirit, when Gavin Douglas received a letter from his son Edward in Calcutta, informing him that by the next ship he intended to send his eldest daughter, who was now seven years old, home to his care. The ship by which this letter had been forwarded, having met with a succession of light and baffling winds, had made so long a passage, that the little stranger whose approach it announced might be now daily expected. At length the newspapers gave notice of the arrival off the Start of the ship Cornwallis; and Gavin Douglas prepared to hasten up to town to receive his grand-daughter. Philip, who was at home for his school holidays, and who was now as dear to Douglas as if he had been his own flesh and blood, entreated and obtained permission to accompany him. Owing to a long continuance of easterly winds, the Cornwallis made a tedious passage up the Channel, and our travellers were detained for some days at Gravesend, awaiting her arrival. To Philip this delay was most welcome; the bustling scenes around him seemed to arouse the latent energies of his nature. Accustomed to the quiet and peaceful monotony of a country life, he felt as if a new sphere of existence was opened to him; and everything he beheld bore, in his eyes, the stamp of novelty and excitement. His great delight was to loiter for hours at the stairs (Gravesend did not then boast of the handsome jetty which now adorns it), and to gaze at the numerous craft floating on the bosom of the majestic Thames; some lying at anchor, and others taking advantage of the tide to hasten towards their various destinations. Frank and open in his manner, eager and anxious in his thirst for information, the watermen, who were always lounging in numbers about the stairs, felt a pleasure in gratifying his curiosity, and in initiating him into all the mysteries of river seamanship; and he soon learned to distinguish the different "riggs" of the passing vessels, from the lowly "peter-boat" to the majestic ship. One morning there was a dead calm; the river was gliding past unruffled by the slightest air; the cheerful "Yo, heave oh!" of the sailors, and the loud clanking of the windlass "pauls," were heard distinctly from some of the distant colliers, shortening in cable, preparatory to making a start; while the rattling, clattering sounds of the chains were heard from others which were just "bringing up"--for it was high-water, and the upward-bound vessels were obliged to come to anchor. Philip had been at his usual post for some time, when his attention was attracted by the heavy, sluggish cloud of smoke which hung in the wake of two steamers, whose low painted chimneys were seen over the land, which they flitted past with great rapidity, while the tall, naked spars of a large ship towered far above them. At length their hulls became distinctly visible. "Hand here the glass, Jem," said a waterman who was anxiously observing them, to his comrade; "let me have a squint at her. Ah, I'd swear to her among a thousand! That's the old Cornwallis! Jump into the boat, Jem, and let's push out into the stream." Away flew our friend Philip to the inn, to tell his father, as he called him, the welcome news. The old gentleman hurried down to the stairs, and the Cornwallis had hardly let go her anchor in Gravesend Reach, before he and Philip were on her quarterdeck, inquiring for Catherine Douglas. Captain M'Dougall of the Cornwallis received them with the greatest politeness, and, upon Gavin Douglas informing him of the cause of his visit, he was immediately ushered into one of the round-house cabins, where a little dark-eyed girl was playing with her ayah. "Catherine, my dear," said Captain M'Dougall, "here is your grandpapa come to visit you." Little Catherine, as we said before, was seven years old, and, like most Indian children, quick and clever beyond her years. She was a brunette in complexion--so much so, indeed, that she might have been mistaken for a descendant from parentage of the climate in which she had been reared. Her eyes were dark, lively, and brilliant, and a profusion of rich black hair fell in clusters upon her shoulders. The moment she heard Captain M'Dougall's announcement, she dropped the toy with which she was playing, and ran eagerly up to Douglas:-- "Are you really grandpapa Gavin?" "Yes, my love," said the old gentleman, almost smothering her with kisses. "Are you quite sure?" said she: "then," looking smilingly up in his face, "I think I love you very much, grandpapa." Philip was now introduced, and, in five minutes' time the two young people were sworn friends. Catherine had shown Philip all her rich store of toys, and had answered all his eager questions about the voyage, the ship, the uses of various things in the cabin, &c. Be not impatient, gentle reader, at the details of this childish meeting; the happiness or misery of life often depends upon trifles light as air, and our friend Philip's future destiny took its hue from the consequences of that intimacy of which we have just been describing the commencement. In the course of a fortnight, the travellers with their young charge returned to Eskhall, where the little stranger met with the most affectionate welcome. The banks of the Esk were beautiful as ever; but, to Philip's eyes, they had lost great part of their attraction; he had had a glimpse of the scenes of active life, and he was eager to engage in them. The country sports in which he used to take such delight began to lose their relish; and his principal amusement now was to wander in the green fields with little Catherine, and to listen to the tales she told of her recollections of the distant lands she had left. His curiosity was excited, and he burned with impatience to visit them, and to judge for himself; and he expressed to Gavin Douglas his predilection for a sailor's life, and his eager wish to commence his career as soon as circumstances would allow. Gavin's heart yearned towards the handsome and spirited boy, whose eye sparkled, and whose tongue became eloquent, as he urged his suit; and he felt that the time was come, which he had long looked forward to with pain, when this young and ardent spirit must leave his guardian care, and be intrusted to its own impulses. He talked seriously and affectionately to the boy on the subject of his wishes; told him--what had hitherto been kept a secret from him--the history of his first appearance at Eskhall; assured him that he always would be, as he hitherto had been, in the place of a father to him; and concluded with saying--"Reflect seriously upon what I have pointed out to you, my dear boy; I have laid before you, as far as my experience goes, all the advantages and disadvantages of the profession which you wish to adopt; weigh the matter carefully in your thoughts; and if, at the end of a week, you continue in the same mind, I will do all in my power to promote your wishes." Poor Philip's astonishment and distress was unbounded, when Gavin informed him of the mystery that hung over his birth. He had always hitherto been known by the name of Douglas, and had been accustomed to consider himself as Gavin's grandson; and the truth burst upon him with the astounding effect of a thunderbolt. Pale as ashes, with the tears streaming down his cheeks, he exclaimed-- "Not your grandson, sir? Then who am I? Good heavens! have I been living from my earliest years a poor dependant upon your bounty? O my generous benefactor! my more than father! how can I ever prove my gratitude to you for your unvaried affection and kindness?" "You have already proved it, Philip, by repaying affection with affection; by your steady obedience, and constant attention to my slightest wish. I have a father's love for you, Philip; and, poor, and unknown, and alien as you are, you have made yourself as dear to me as if you were my own flesh and blood. I feared that this disclosure would fall like a blight upon your young spirit; but, painful as it is, it was necessary that it should be made. Cheer up, my boy! brighter days will come. I feel a conviction that the secret of your birth will be one day discovered, and that you will have no reason to blush for your parentage." "Heaven grant it may be so, sir! but I dare not hope. If I had not been a cause of shame to my parents, would they have deserted me?" Douglas shook his head, and said-- "Time will show. At all events, my dear Philip, look upon me as your father until you find a better." "That can never be, my dear, dear gr----benefactor." The week of reflection passed away; but not so Philip's resolution, which was now confirmed and strengthened by his eager desire to relieve Mr. Douglas from the burden of his support, and by the hope that he might by some fortunate chance be guided to the discovery of his true parents. On his making known his decision, Gavin Douglas immediately wrote to a friend in town, through whose interest he obtained for him an appointment as midshipman on board an Indiaman which was on the point of sailing for Bengal and China, and which it was necessary for him to "join" immediately. Before he left Eskhall, Gavin delivered into his hands the ring and other articles that had been found in the basket in which he was exposed when an infant, that he might have some clue whereby to endeavour to trace out his parents. Delighted as Philip was at the prospect of entering upon his new profession, he felt the greatest sorrow at parting from his kind and liberal benefactor, and from those whom he had been so long accustomed to look upon as near and dear relations; but still more deeply was he affected at leaving his beloved little playmate, Catherine. _Her_ grief on the occasion was excessive. Philip had been her constant companion in all her little rambles, and her resource and comfort in all her childish difficulties and sorrows. He had scarcely ever left her side; and now she was to part with him--perhaps for ever! Poor Philip himself was obliged to exert all the pride of precocious manhood to resist the contagious example of her tears; but he did all in his power to comfort the little mourner, and at last partially succeeded, by reminding her that in a few months the voyage would be over. "And _then_, dear Phil, will you come back again?" "That I will." "Oh, how glad I shall be to see you again!" And she jumped about, clapping her little hands for joy, till the recollection of the long separation that must intervene called forth a fresh torrent of tears. At length the parting scene was over; and, freighted with the blessings and good wishes of all who knew him, Philip was fairly launched into the rough ocean of life, to be exposed to all its storms and quicksands, from which he had been hitherto safely sheltered in the calm haven of domestic peace. The first voyage passed safely and happily; and some years flew by in the same routine of leave-takings and glad meetings. Philip loved his profession enthusiastically; but, at every successive parting, he felt more and more unwilling to tear himself from Eskhall and its beloved inmates. Catherine was now a lovely, elegant girl of eighteen; her childish preference for Philip had been gradually and imperceptibly gaining strength, till it had become the ruling passion of her heart. _He_ loved _her_ fondly and tenderly; but his fears were excited by her constantly-increasing reserve towards him; there was such apparent inconsistency between the attentive kindness of her actions, and the distance and almost coldness of her manner, that he was puzzled as well as surprised. But the eyes of Gavin Douglas's experience were open, and he had for some time read--in the changing complexion of Catherine whenever Philip approached her, in the embarrassment of her manner whenever she addressed him, and in the suppressed eagerness of her interest in whatever concerned him--that secret which she shrunk from confessing even to her own heart. Though he dreaded the consequence of an attachment which he thought might be productive of only misery and disappointment, yet he had too much confidence in Philip's honour and discretion to fear any clandestine avowal of love on his part. He wrote to his son Edward in Calcutta, informing him of his suspicions and fears as to the state of Catherine's affections--telling him all the particulars of Philip's history, and leaving it to his own judgment to act as he thought circumstances required. "In the meantime," wrote he, "I cannot openly interfere, lest, by striving to remedy, I should only increase the evil; but I will endeavour, quietly and unobtrusively, to keep the young people apart until I hear your decision. My opinion is, that a final separation will be the only means of weaning them from each other. Catherine has a father's home to receive her--when poor _Philip_ leaves _me_, he leaves his only earthly protector; and, even for my grand-daughter's sake, I cannot part with one whose amiable and affectionate dispositions have rendered him dear to me as a son." The result of this communication was a letter to Catherine from her father, telling her that he was obliged to visit England for a few months, on business, and begging her to hold herself in readiness to accompany him on his return to Calcutta. Philip had just arrived from abroad when he received this news; and, as is often the case, it was not till he feared he was going to part with Catherine for ever, that he felt how deeply and fondly he loved her. He became restless and unhappy; and wandered away, day after day, alone, under pretence of seeking amusement in rural sports, but in reality for the sake of indulging the sorrow that was preying upon his mind. He shunned all society, even that of her whose image was ever present to him, and absented himself as much as he possibly could from the family meetings at meals. His dejection began to have an evident effect upon his health, and the kind-hearted Gavin grieved to see his young favourite pining under the influence of his hidden sorrow. "Philip, my son," said he to him, one day, "why have you not confided in me, your oldest and dearest friend? I have penetrated your secret, Philip, and I honour you for endeavouring to confine it to your own bosom; but you must rouse all your energies to shake off the tyranny of a passion which your high sense of principle must tell you cannot safely be indulged in, and is only likely to be productive of sorrow and disappointment." He then proceeded to remind him delicately of the cloud that hung over his birth, of his want of means to maintain the woman of his choice in comfort, and of the absolute necessity for his strenuous exertions to rise in his profession, as the only chance of bettering his condition in life; "for though," added the generous man, "it is my intention to make some provision for you in my will, yet there are so many claims of relationship upon me, that your proportion will, I fear, be but small." Philip's heart swelled, and his eye glistened, as he pressed the old man's hand, in mute acknowledgment of his kindness; and some moments elapsed ere he could sufficiently command his feelings to give expression to them in words. At length, in broken and hurried accents, he expressed his heartfelt gratitude; he confessed that he had long loved Catherine, but said that he had never "told his love," hoping that his prospects might brighten, and that he might then be enabled to prove himself worthy of the happiness he sought. He acknowledged the justice and propriety of all Mr Douglas had said, and expressed his conviction that it was his duty, however painful it might be to his feelings, to tear himself from the society of one whose presence was so dangerous to his peace, and to endeavour, however vain that endeavour might be, for _her_ sake as well as for his own, to conceal, though he could not stifle, the passion which reigned in his heart. It was agreed upon between the two friends that Philip should employ his time while on shore in travelling, till his ship was again ready for sea, and that he should then join her, without taking leave a second time of his friends, except by letter. Poor Philip could hardly command his feelings, when taking what he considered to be his final farewell of Catherine. He knew that, when he next returned home, Eskhall would have lost its principal charm in his eyes--that _she_ would no longer be there, and that, in all human probability, they might never meet again. Catherine only felt, or appeared to feel, the uneasiness attending a temporary parting; but her voice trembled slightly as, with a pale but steady countenance, she bade him adieu; and, leaving the room, with a calm though melancholy manner, she hurried to her chamber, and, securing the door, gave way to the sorrow which in his presence she had successfully endeavoured to restrain. Time passed slowly and heavily with Philip during a rambling tour which he made through different parts of England and Wales. He fought manfully against the sorrow that oppressed him, and endeavoured, by rapidity of motion, and constant variation of scene, to turn his thoughts into another channel; but in vain--the arrow was fixed too deeply in his heart. He hurried from place to place, and from change to change; but he could not fly from himself. In vain did nature present her varied beauties to his eyes; he gazed listlessly and vacantly upon all he beheld--he looked as though he saw not, for his heart was elsewhere, and he felt that for him the charm of existence was over. In the meantime, Catherine's father had arrived at Eskhall, and had been informed by Gavin Douglas of Philip's noble struggle with his unfortunately-placed passion, and of the anguish of mind which his resolution had cost him. "Generous young man!" exclaimed Edward Douglas; "he deserves a happier fate. Would that I could favour his suit! But, poor, unknown, and perhaps basely born as he is, it is my duty as a father to oppose it." Shortly before Philip's ship _came afloat_, Edward Douglas was obliged to go to London on business; and there he found out and introduced himself to our young friend. Few young men of his age possessed greater powers of pleasing than Philip; there was a frank ingenuousness in his manner and address which, seconded by the remarkable beauty of his features, immediately made a favourable impression upon a stranger--an impression which a further intimacy seldom failed to strengthen into affection and esteem. Such was the effect of his introduction to Edward Douglas. They were mutually pleased with each other, and every hour that Philip could spare from professional duties was devoted to his new friend, rendered doubly dear to him by his near connection with her whose name he dared not mention, though ever in his thoughts. "My dear fellow," said Douglas to him one day, "I am aware of the sacrifice you have made of feeling to principle, and I honour and esteem you for it. Would to heaven your circumstances and my own were different! Situated as you are, without the means of supporting even _yourself_, I think I know you too well already to imagine that you would willingly expose her you love to poverty and humiliation. Were my circumstances such as to enable me to enrich my daughter, and to follow the inclinations of my own heart, I know no one for whom I would more willingly use a father's influence than yourself." Philip's heart was too full for words; yet, though he felt the hardship, he acknowledged the justice, of Edward Douglas's objections, and felt greatly affected by his kind expressions of friendly feeling towards him. They parted with mutual regret; Edward to return to Eskhall, and Philip to join his ship at Gravesend. "Ah!" said Gavin Douglas, one morning, about a fortnight after the above parting, as the family were seated round the breakfast-table, "there is the post-bag. Bring it here, James" (to the servant). "It looks too thin to contain anything, I am afraid. Yes; here is a letter from dear Phil." "When is he to return, grandfather?" asked Emma, now a full-grown woman. Catherine was seized with a sudden curiosity to look at a pamphlet which lay upon the table, and which she held very close to her eyes. "Return, my love!" said Gavin; "when his voyage is over, I hope. This letter was sent on shore by the pilot, and is dated 'Off Scilly.' But, mercy upon us! what is the matter with Catherine?" The pamphlet had fallen from her hand; the cheek which had flushed to crimson at the mention of Philip's name was now of death-like paleness; and she was leaning back in her chair, with her eyes closed, and panting for breath. "Thoughtless blockhead that I was!" muttered Gavin Douglas. And he then set himself to repair the mischief he had done, by bustling about to procure the necessary remedies, which at last succeeded in restoring Catherine to consciousness. "It was a sudden spasm," said she; "I shall soon recover from it." "Poor girl!" thought Gavin, "I fear not; the evil is more deeply rooted than I imagined." From this period, Catherine became quite an altered character. A settled melancholy seemed to weigh upon her heart. She was mild, gentle, and affectionate as ever; but the buoyancy of her spirit was gone, and the smile, which now but seldom brightened her countenance, was evidently but grief in disguise. Her friends, with delicate consideration, avoided all allusion to the cause of her sorrow, which was but too well known to them all; and her fond and grieving father hoped that time and absence, and the novel scenes she was about to enter into, might work, imperceptibly to herself, a gradual cure. Nearly nine months had elapsed since Philip's departure; Catherine, half broken-hearted, had accompanied her father on shipboard, and was far on her way to the East; and the Recovery, Philip's ship, was on her homeward voyage. One fine night in March, the Recovery was running along the Lagullas Bank, taking advantage of the current which sweeps round the Cape of Good Hope to the eastward. The wind was light but steady from the S.E., and the night cloudy, when the look-out man on the forecastle called out, "A light on the larboard bow, sir!" A small glimmering light was seen on the horizon to windward, which gradually enlarged to a broad flame, wavering and flickering in the breeze; and almost immediately the dull sound of a gun came faintly moaning over the waters, and a long train of arrowy light went rushing up into the sky, where it hung for a moment, and then burst into separate flashes, which gradually died away as they descended. The officer of the deck ran in to the captain immediately. "I am afraid, sir, there is a ship on fire to windward. There is a strong light on our weather-beam, and I heard the report of a gun, and saw the flash of a rocket." "Indeed! Tell the gunner to clear away one of the guns. Call the hands out. I will be out in a minute." The light, in the meantime, was gradually increasing in size, and it was evident, from the wavering outline which it presented, that the first conjecture respecting its origin was a correct one; and gun after gun confirmed it. The captain speedily made his appearance on deck, and, after a moment's glance to windward, called to the chief mate, "Run the stunsails in, Mr Waring. Brace sharp up, and bring the ship to the wind. Are you all ready with that gun, Mr Wad?" "All ready, sir!" "Then, fire! Bear a hand, clear away another gun." The Recovery was now hauled close to the wind, and was slipping rapidly through the water in the direction of the light; all hands were on deck, and, after the bustle of taking in and stowing the studdingsails had subsided, the eyes of all were directed with the greatest anxiety towards the horizon on the weather-bow, where the flame was now distinctly seen, sometimes barely visible above the water, and then bursting upward in broad and vivid jets, waving fitfully in the breeze. All at once it disappeared, and half suppressed murmurs and ejaculations burst from the excited crew of the Recovery. "I fear we are too late, sir!" said Waring, the mate; "the light has disappeared." "Very strange!" replied the captain, straining his eyes through the night-glass. "I hope not! Oh no! I see how it is. Don't you observe that the red fiery haze still hangs round the spot?--and, hark! there is another gun! She is on fire abaft, and is running down before the wind. She has heard our signals. Fire another gun!" The vessel to windward still continued firing minute-guns, by the louder report of which it was evident she was rapidly approaching; and in a short time the dark mass of her canvas was distinctly visible, standing out in bold relief from its fiery background. "Have the quarter cutters clear for lowering, Mr Waring," said the captain. "Away aloft there, topmen; send down whips for the yard tackles, and have the large cutter all clear for tossing out." These orders were instantly and actively obeyed; the crew seemed to vie with each other in their exertions, and strained every nerve in their eager emulation. They could now clearly discern the dark hull of the ship, the sails forward hiding the body of the flame, broad masses of which were seen, with every roll she took, flaring out from each side, alternately, of the dark screen of canvas. "Man the gear of the courses!--up courses!--in royals and topgallantsails!--back the mainyard!" were the orders which now rapidly succeeded each other; and, in a few moments, the Recovery lay as motionless as a log on the water. "Call the hands--out boats!" The large cutter was quickly hoisted out, the quarter-boats were lowered and manned, and kept alongside, in readiness to push off at a moment's warning. The burning ship was rapidly approaching, and was now within two miles of the Recovery. "Fire a gun to windward, and burn a blue light," exclaimed the captain; "she is quite near enough." The stranger now came slowly and gradually up to the wind, and hove to, with her maintopsail to the mast, about a mile ahead, and to windward of the Recovery. An involuntary shout of horror and admiration burst from the crew of that ship, when the change in the position of the stranger revealed to them the terrific extent of her danger--of horror for the imminent peril of her crew, and of irrepressible admiration of the splendid scene so suddenly unveiled to them. Broad masses of flame were bursting apparently from her gun-room, and waving over her quarter; while thick clouds of smoke, glittering with sparks, shot upwards, and were borne far off to leeward by the breeze. Every rope in the ship was as distinctly traceable by the glare of the flame, as if it had been broad daylight. Her mainsail was hauled close up; and her crew, seeming to have been aware that their only chance of rescue was in flight, had been actively employed in keeping her headsails wet with streams of water from the fire-engine, for it was very evident that no earthly power could check the progress of the flames abaft. The dark forms of the crew were seen hurrying about her decks, apparently employed in clearing away the boats, one of which soon pushed off from her, loaded till her gunwales were within a few inches of the water, and pulled slowly towards them. "Shove off in the boats," shouted the captain of the Recovery, "and give way, my hearties, with a will." There was not a moment to lose; a spark caught the maintopsail; the canvas, as dry as tinder with the excessive heat, was in a blaze in a moment; and, with lightning-like rapidity, sail after sail on the mainmast caught fire, and blazing for a moment with a broad and brilliant glare, shrivelled up, and flew in burning tatters to leeward. It was an awful sight, that pyramid of flame, rising as it were from the bosom of the deep. Not a sound was to be heard, but that of the rapidly-moving oars, and the rushing, moaning, and crackling sound of the flame. The men tugged at their oars in the silence of desperate energy; life and death depended upon their exertions, and their voices seemed to be hushed by the extremity of the danger. In the meantime, sail was made upon the Recovery, and the breeze having partially died away, she crawled slowly up on the weather-quarter of the stranger, and again hove to. Boat after boat soon joined her, and, having deposited their freight, hastened back to the scene of danger for more. The greater part of the crew of the burning ship were soon safely bestowed on board of the Recovery, when Philip, who had already made two trips to the stranger with the boat under his command, pulled towards her again, to bring off the remainder of her men. He was fast approaching her when he was hailed by the officer of one of the other boats, who told him that he had taken off the last of the crew. He was just on the point of returning to his ship, when he heard sounds of remonstrance and entreaty from another boat which was slowly approaching; the crew seemed undecided whether to proceed or return; and, at the same time, he observed by the light of the fire the officer of the boat struggling with a man in the stern-sheets, who was apparently endeavouring to jump overboard. "It would be madness--downright madness to return," exclaimed the officer; "I will not risk the lives of my men--she will blow up immediately." "Let me go!" shouted the stranger; "if I cannot save her, let me die with her." At this moment the stranger's eye caught sight of Philip, who was standing up in the boat, and, with a loud and startling cry, he shouted, "Philip, Philip, save her! Save Catherine!" It was Edward Douglas! At the same time a shrill scream came over the water, and a female form was seen at the gangway, waving her hands over her head, and wringing them in all the anguish of despair. For a moment Philip was paralysed; it was but for a moment. "We will save her or perish!" shouted he; "what say you, my lads?" The men answered him with a cheer, as the boat sprung through the water under the impulse of their bending oars; and a few vigorous strokes brought them alongside the blazing ship. It was but the work of a moment for Philip and one of the boat's crew to spring up the ship's side, and to lower the fainting Catherine into the arms of the men below. With careful haste she was laid down in the stern-sheets, and the water foamed beneath the bows of the boat as her gallant crew bent desperately to their oars. A handful of water sprinkled on Catherine's face revived her for a moment; she opened her eyes upon her deliverer, and, murmuring "Philip!" closed them again, with a shudder, and relapsed into unconsciousness. The moment the boat reached the Recovery, the ship's mainyard was filled, the lower tacks were hauled on board, the small sails set, and she stood to windward, to widen her distance. The precaution, however, was scarcely necessary, as the blazing wreck was drifting fast to leeward. Almost immediately after the boat had left her, she had paid off before the wind, the sails on the foremast caught fire, and in a very short time the blazing wreck of spars fell forward over the bows. All eyes were now eagerly directed towards her, to watch the finale of the catastrophe. They were not kept long in suspense: a dense cloud of smoke burst from her fore-hatchway, followed by a rush of bright flame, and a loud and deafening explosion, and then all was darkness--the hull had disappeared, and not a vestige of the unfortunate vessel remained, except the fragments of the wreck, which fell far and wide, pattering and hissing in the water. It was with a feeling of breathless awe and silent thanksgiving that the rescued crew gazed upon the scene; and many a cheek among them was blanched with shuddering horror at the thought of the miserable fate they had so providentially and narrowly escaped. The most daring and reckless among them were sobered for a time, and many a half-suppressed expression of thankfulness to an overruling Providence burst from lips to which oaths and curses had been but too familiar. As soon as all was over, sail was made upon the Recovery, the watch was called out, and arrangements were made for the accommodation of the unexpected addition to her crew. The name of the unfortunate ship was the Victory--a fine vessel of six hundred tons. The fire had been occasioned by the negligence of the steward, who, while unpacking a case of wine, had left a light burning in the after orlop, which had set fire to the loose straw, from which the flame was soon communicated to the spirit-room. "All that men _could_ do, we did," said the captain, when telling the story; "but, from the first, I had no hope of saving the ship, and slight was our chance of escape in the boats. When the sound of your gun reached us, it was as a messenger of hope--a promise of rescue; and three cheers burst from our crew, as we put our helm up, and stood away to join you. My men behaved nobly; with death staring them in the face, they never for a moment failed in their duty, or flinched from the danger, and exerted themselves to the utmost to keep the fire under, and to prevent its communicating to the sails. Thanks to a merciful Providence, and to you, its gallant agents, we have been rescued from a dreadful doom!" In the meantime, our friend Philip had hastened to the cabin which had been appropriated to Edward Douglas, and, knocking at the door, was immediately admitted. "Philip!" exclaimed Edward, grasping his hand, while the tears stood in his eyes, and his voice trembled with emotion; "my dear, my gallant deliverer!--what an awful fate have you saved us from! If I had lost my child, how valueless would have been my own preservation! To you, under Heaven, I owe both: how can I express my gratitude?" "Oh, speak not thus to me, dear sir; I but did my duty, and am I not already more than repaid? But how is Miss Douglas?" "Miss Douglas!" said Edward; "cold and formal indeed! Why not Catherine?--your Catherine? Have you not earned a right to call her yours?" Philip trembled, and turned pale; and then, when the warm blood, rushing to his cheeks again, flushed them with emotion, he exclaimed-- "Oh, Mr Douglas! My whole efforts, since we parted, have been to smother feelings and wishes which your words have again called into life." "And long may they live, my dear Philip!--my dear son I hope soon to call you. I will no longer strive against fate. You have saved Catherine's life; and, if you still retain her love, you have a grateful father's full and free permission to avail yourself of it. For the rest, we will trust to Providence, and to the exertions of your own active and energetic spirit." "Mr Douglas," said Philip, "your kindness overpowers me. I would risk a thousand lives, if I had them, for such a recompense; but I must not take advantage of your excited feelings to obtain a boon, however dear to me, which your prudence would deny. The same obstacles remain which at first existed. I am still poor and friendless; the obscurity of my birth has not been cleared up; and, circumstanced as I am at present, ought I to avail myself of an accidental advantage, and of your too generous appreciation of it, to fetter the free choice of your daughter, who probably may now see those obstacles with far different eyes than in her early days?" "Better times may come, Philip; and, in the meanwhile, my daughter's dowery will be sufficient to afford you both all the comforts, though not the luxuries of life; your own energy and industry must do the rest. But you must consult Catherine on the subject--gain her consent; mine you have, without further condition, already." After a consultation with his officers, the captain of the Recovery deemed it expedient to put into the Cape; and the ship's course was accordingly altered. The wind continuing fair and steady, on the evening of the fourth day from the disaster, she was close in with the coast; and the breeze dying away, and a thick fog coming on, she was hove to for the night. The next morning the fog still continued; nothing was to be seen of the land, though every eye was strained to penetrate the gloom, till at last the glad cry was heard from the mast-head, "High land ahead, sir! Close aboard of us!" All eyes were now turned upwards; and there, frowning above the bank of fog, appeared the dark outline of the Table-land. The fog soon cleared off; and, in an hour or two, the ship rounded Green Point, and came to an anchor in Table Bay. After Edward Douglas and the rest of the passengers were landed at Cape Town, Philip, being second officer and _idler_, obtained leave of absence for a couple of days, and went on shore to join his friends. The boarding-houses were all crowded; for there were several ships in the roads, one of which, full of passengers from Bengal, had arrived the day after the Recovery; but Edward Douglas had contrived to secure accommodation for Philip in the same house with himself. Several passengers by the newly-arrived ship had taken up their quarters there; and among them a fine-looking, elderly man, a General Fortescue, of the Bengal army. This gentleman happened, on his first arrival, to be shown into the room where Philip and Edward Douglas were conversing together. They both rose at his entrance, and he returned the salutation of the latter with the free and unembarrassed air of a man of the world; but, when he turned to Philip, he started, and gazed at him for some moments with a look so fixed and earnest as to call the colour into his cheek. "Excuse me, sir," said he, at length--"excuse my involuntary rudeness. Your features awakened recollections of other times, and of long-lost and dearly-loved friends; and, for the moment, my thoughts wandered into forgetfulness of the courtesy due to a stranger." "I hope at least, sir, that the recollections I recalled were not unpleasing ones?" "When you have lived to my age, young sir, bitter experience will have taught you that the 'thread of life is woven of mingled yarn;' and that shades of sorrow and disappointment may darken the brightest pictures in memory's retrospect. Few, very few, can look back to the past years of life with unmingled pleasure, or forward to the future with unmixed hope." Both Edward Douglas and Philip became greatly interested in this new acquaintance, especially the latter, who in turn seemed to be the object of the general's almost exclusive attention. He seemed to watch Philip's every movement with eager interest, often cast upon him earnest and inquiring looks, and would then, with a heavy sigh, withdraw his gaze, as if his features had recalled some faint and shadowy image of the past, which his memory was in vain endeavouring to realise. A party was formed to visit the far-famed farm of Constantia, on which the well-known choice wine of that name is manufactured; and the three friends set off together on horseback after breakfast next morning. General Fortescue, notwithstanding the habitual shade of melancholy which clouded his countenance, proved himself to be an animated and most agreeable companion. His mind was stored with varied knowledge, and his conversation was enlivened with anecdotes of events and characters which had come under the personal observation of a keen and penetrating mind. "I know not how it is, Mr Douglas," said he, "but I have not felt for years such a springiness of spirit as I experience to-day. I suppose it is because this beautiful country recalls to my recollection our own dear England. Suppose we dismount, and ramble for awhile among the trees; with our feet upon the soft grass, and under the cooling shade, our recollections of our distant home will return with greater warmth and freshness." This proposal was gladly acceded to by his companions; and, having given their horses to the care of their attendant, they wandered about for some time, and at last finding a grassy spot sheltered from the rays of the sun, they seated themselves, and entered into an animated and cheerful conversation. "Pray, Mr Douglas," said General Fortescue, addressing himself to Philip, "is your father a Scotchman? I should think so from the name." Philip coloured painfully; and the general, perceiving his confusion, added, "Excuse the liberty I have taken in asking the question--it did not arise from idle curiosity. The dearest friend of my early days was a Douglas, and the name is connected in my remembrance with scenes in which I spent many of my happiest days, when hope gilded my visions of the future, alas! only to deceive me. Yes, if Gavin Douglas still survives, I must find him out." "Gavin Douglas!" said Edward, in surprise; "was he a Douglas of Eskhall?" "The same," replied he. "My father!" said Edward. "Is it possible! And art thou really the son of my dearest and earliest friend? Wonderful are the mysterious sympathies of nature! How strangely was I attracted towards you both, but more especially towards your friend, whom I presume to be your younger brother?" "No, he is not even a connection, though I hope he soon will be one." "Then whose son is he?" Philip, with cheeks glowing, and eyes flashing with vainly-resisted emotion, answered, in rapid and passionate accents-- "The son of one who was ashamed to own him; who deserted him in his infancy, and cast him shelterless upon the casual bounty of strangers; the nameless son of a nameless father; perhaps"--and his eye fell, and his voice trembled--"the offspring of shame, as of misfortune." "Never, Philip!" said Edward; "the pure stream rises from the pure spring. Whoever your father may be, were he the highest in the land, did he know his son, he would be proud, not ashamed, to own him as such. But, as we have excited the general's curiosity, have you any objection to my gratifying it, by reciting the history of your life?" Philip made a movement of assent; and Edward proceeded to give a rapid sketch of the events which we have already narrated, from the time of Philip's desertion down to his gallant conduct on board the Recovery. The general had listened to his narrative with breathless interest; and, when it was concluded, asked, in a hurried and agitated manner-- "Was there no clue by which to trace his parentage? No writing, or other notice of his birth?" "Yes--a paper, stating his name to be Philip, and that he was born of good family; and a ring." "Here it is," said Philip, producing it. The moment the general's eyes glanced upon it, his cheek turned deadly pale, he leaned for a moment backward against a tree, and then, with an eager and trembling hand, he touched a spring at the back of the seal, and the shield flying open, the initials "P. & M. F." appeared engraved behind. "My son!" exclaimed the general, embracing Philip, while the tears poured down his cheeks--"my long-lost Philip! Merciful Heaven! I thank thee! How blind I was, not to trace before the resemblance to your sainted mother! The very eyes and forehead of my beloved Mary! My son, my son! This hour repays me for years saddened by the misery of uncertainty!" Philip, with tears of grateful joy, warmly returned the embraces of his newly-found parent, and, even in that moment of agitation, his thoughts gladly reverted to the removal of that which had been the principal obstacle to Catherine, the mystery of his birth. Edward Douglas, much affected by the unexpected recognition, had retired to some little distance, to leave the father and son to the free expression of their mutual feelings; but he was soon recalled to his former station by the general, who, shaking him heartily by the hand, said-- "Son of my dearest friend, I owe it to myself and to my boy to narrate to you the history of my past life, and to account to you both for what must appear my culpable and unpardonable neglect of him whose uncertain fate has caused me so many bitter moments." The tale which followed we give in our own words, as our space will not allow us to be so diffuse as was the excited narrator. The father of General Fortescue was a man of high family and extensive landed property in Ireland; proud of his only son, but prouder still of the ancient name and large possessions which he fondly hoped that son was destined to inherit. His mother had died in his early childhood, and his education was prosecuted under the superintendence of a worthy and excellent tutor, a Scotchman of the name of Campbell. The elder Fortescue, who had himself been brought up at Eton, and who had a strong prejudice in favour of public education, sent his boy, when he was sufficiently old, to finish his education at that college. There it was his good fortune to be associated with Gavin Douglas, who was two years his senior, and immeasurably his superior in talent and character. Mild and gentle in demeanour, but firm and uncompromising in principle, Gavin was generally respected and beloved; his society was courted by all his fellow-students--but he distinguished young Fortescue with his particular friendship; and to the influence of that friendship the latter was indebted for all the better traits that adorned his character. Philip, in his letters, had often written, in the most glowing terms of youthful enthusiasm, of his talented and estimable friend; and his father, ever anxious to administer to his gratification, invited Gavin, whose parents were at the time on the Continent, to spend his vacation at Mount Fortescue, where he spent some weeks, delighted with his hospitable reception, but surprised at the luxury and profusion that surrounded him. But the scene was soon to change. Fortescue had been for years living in a style of splendid and careless hospitality, which had from time to time called forth ineffectual remonstrances from his faithful steward, and at last affairs were brought to a crisis by the villany of one for whom he had become security to a very considerable amount. To meet the demands of his creditors, his estates were sold; and, with about ten thousand pounds saved from their wreck, he retired to a small town on the shores of the Frith of Clyde, and, having procured a cadetship for his boy, sent him out to Bengal. This was a severe trial to old Fortescue. The loss of his estates he could have borne with comparative firmness, as far as his own comforts were concerned; but his pride as well as his affection was wounded, when he thought that his son would be obliged to seek in a _foreign_ land that fortune which, but for his careless negligence and profusion, he would have inherited in his _own_. Philip, full of the energy of youthful hope, was but little affected by the change in his father's circumstances, for the future was to him bright of promise; but he was greatly grieved at parting with his father, whose many excellent qualities had endeared him to his son's affection, and whose chief weakness was his high aristocratic pride. After ten years' residence in India, young Fortescue returned home on furlough, with the rank of captain, and found his father much altered in person, but equally unchanged in affection towards him, and in that pride of birth which had ever been his besetting sin--one of the fruits of which was, frequent invectives against ill-assorted marriages between those whose rank in life was unequal. After staying with his father for a short time, Captain Fortescue hastened to pay a long-promised visit to his friend Gavin Douglas, whose wife had lately died, and who was now living with his family at Eskhall. On his return, Gavin accompanied him, and remained for several weeks at Mr Fortescue's. During one of their rambles in the neighbourhood, they discovered, accidentally, that a daughter of Mr Campbell, Fortescue's former tutor, was living near them, under the protection of a maternal aunt. The young men soon sought and obtained an introduction to these ladies, by whom they were most cordially received, as friends of the departed Campbell. Mary Campbell was a beautiful, highly-accomplished girl of eighteen, perfectly natural and unaffected, and unconscious of the power of her charms. Not so young Fortescue. In vain did his more quick-sighted and prudent friend, Douglas, warn him of his danger; in vain did he remind him of the obstacle which his father's pride would offer to the prosperous indulgence of his growing passion: he renewed his visits day after day; and, though he had not spoken of love, his heart was no longer his own. She who was ever present to his thoughts became naturally the frequent theme of his conversation, until his father remarked it, and scornfully and bitterly taunted him with his love for one so much his inferior in rank. "Think no more of her, Philip," said he; "for, with my consent, you shall never degrade yourself by marrying one so much beneath you." It was easier, however, for the father to command than for the son to obey; love prevailed over duty, and the young people were privately married; the only persons in the secret being the minister who officiated, and Mrs Morgan, Mary's maternal aunt. When the time of Mary's confinement approached, she removed with her aunt to an obscure village in a distant part of the country, where she died in giving birth to the hero of our tale. Her husband was inconsolable, and it was some time before he could bear to look upon the innocent cause of his bereavement. After performing the last duties to his wife, and witnessing the baptism of the infant Philip, whom he left under the care of his grand-aunt, Captain Fortescue went over to the Continent, hoping by travel to dissipate his grief. For a few months he heard regularly of his boy's welfare from Mrs Morgan; but soon her correspondence ceased; and, alarmed by her long-continued silence, he hastened home to ascertain the cause. On his arrival in Scotland, he heard of the sudden and dangerous illness of his father. He just reached home in time to attend his death-bed; and by his unexpected return and filial affections, cheered his last moments, and received his dying blessing. But another trial awaited him. He set off as soon as possible to the village where Mrs Morgan resided, little dreaming of the sad intelligence that awaited him. She had died about six weeks before, bequeathing all her small property to little Philip, who had always been considered as her adopted son, and the orphan child of a distant relation. The morning after her decease, it was discovered that the nurse and child were missing, and that an escritoire, which was known to have contained a large sum of money, had been broken open and ransacked. Active search had been immediately made after them at first; but was discontinued, when a woman's bonnet, known to have belonged to the nurse, and part of a child's dress, were found on the banks of a neighbouring swollen stream. Poor Fortescue was in despair; but at length a gleam of hope broke upon him. The _bodies_ had not been found; and his child might still be in existence. Advertisements were inserted in all the papers, offering a large reward for the discovery of the infant; but in vain. The heart-broken father lost all hope; and, settling his affairs, hastened again to the East. As is too often the case, fortune smiled upon one who had ceased to value her favours; and he rose steadily and gradually to the highest grades of his profession. The object of envy to others, he was miserable in himself. His thoughts brooded over the past; and at last, after nearly a thirty years' residence abroad, his heart yearned to revisit before his death the scene of his past joys and sorrows; and he was thus far on his voyage when Providence threw in his way his long-lost son. When the general had finished his narrative, the day was too far advanced, and the feelings of the party were too much interested otherwise, to allow them to prosecute their intended visit to Constantia; they therefore returned to Cape Town, where Catherine was anxiously expecting their return. "Catherine, my love," said her father, "I expect a friend to visit me almost immediately. He is a young man of wealth and rank; and I beg you will give him a cordial welcome, as you must look upon him as your future husband, and think no more of Philip Douglas." "Sir!" said she with the colour fading in her cheek; "forget Philip! Never!" At this moment the door opened, and a servant announced, "Mr Fortescue." Great was Catherine's surprise, when she raised her eyes, and beheld Philip. "Philip!" exclaimed she; then, looking timidly and inquiringly around, she added, "But where is Mr Fortescue?" "Here he stands, my dear Catherine; no longer the foundling Philip Douglas, but Philip Fortescue, the son of one whom he is proud to call father. Next to the joy of discovering _him_, is that of finding that you have bestowed your love on one whose birth will cast no discredit upon yours." "The heart acknowledges no distinctions of rank or fortune," replied she, blushing; "whether Douglas or Fortescue, you would still be my own dear Philip--the friend of my childhood--the preserver of my life." "Nobly spoken, my fair young friend," said General Fortescue, who had entered unperceived. "Although I am not yet your father, allow me to claim a father's privilege." And he fondly kissed the blushing Catherine. But we must hasten to the conclusion of our voyage, and of our tale. The following announcement appeared two months afterwards in the papers--"Married, at Eskhall, in Dumfries-shire, on the 13th inst., Philip, eldest son of General Fortescue of the Bengal army, to Catherine, daughter of Edward Douglas, Esq., of Calcutta." THE SKEAN DHU. "Bless me, Angus! do you wear a weapon of that kind about you? I never knew it before," said John Sommerville to his friend Angus M'Intyre, as he sat looking at him one morning performing his toilet; an operation which discovered the latter thrusting a _skean dhu_--which all our readers know is a short knife, with a black horn handle, once a favourite weapon of the Highlanders--beneath the breast of his coat, into a sheath which seemed to have been placed there for the especial purpose. "Did you not know that before, John?" said Angus, with a faint smile, but at the same time evidently desiring that there should be no more remarks made on the subject; for he hastily buttoned up his coat, after having placed the weapon in its sheath, as if to cut the conversation short by putting its subject out of sight. "No, indeed, I did not," replied Sommerville. "I never saw it before, and never heard you carried such a thing about you. It's a dangerous weapon, Angus; and you are a more dangerous man than I thought you," he added, smiling. "Tuts! nonsense, man!" said M'Intyre, impatiently. "It'll never harm you, at any rate, John." "No, no; I daresay not," replied his friend, good-humouredly; "but it may hurt others, though. Let me see it, Mac." Angus reluctantly complied with his request, and put the tiny but formidable weapon into his hands. "It has my initials, I declare, on the handle!" exclaimed Sommerville, as he looked at the letters J. S. which were engraved on the butt-end of the knife. "Yes," replied his friend; "it belonged to my maternal grandfather, John Stewart of Ardnahulish." Sommerville returned the weapon without further remark, and here the conversation dropped. We will avail ourselves of the opportunity to say who the parties were whom we have thus somewhat abruptly introduced to the reader. Angus M'Intyre was a native of the Island of Skye, in the West Highlands of Scotland, and was, at the period of our story (now a pretty old one, as it happened in the year 17--), an officer of excise in Glasgow. At this period, the Highland character had not lost all its original ferocity, and, consequently, the circumstance of an officer of excise, who was a Highlander, wearing a dirk, even in the discharge of the peaceable duties--though they were not always so either--that fell to his lot in a large town, was not by any means considered so very extraordinary a thing as it would be now. M'Intyre, as we have said, was a native of the West Highlands of Scotland, and an admirable specimen of the hardy and intrepid race from which he sprang. He was a very handsome man, and of the most daring courage, as had been often proved in the perilous adventures in which his profession occasionally engaged him. He was, however, of a remarkably quiet disposition, though fiery and irascible when provoked; but so much did the former prevail in his nature, that no one who did not know him intimately would have guessed how fiery a spirit lay couched underneath this thin covering of placidity, nor deemed, unless they saw that spirit roused, how formidable a man in his anger its possessor was. Yet, withal, was he a man of a kind and generous heart. The habit of carrying the deadly weapon to which we have alluded, Angus had acquired when a youth in the Highlands, where it was then common to be so armed; and this habit had adhered to him, notwithstanding the entire change of life to which his new occupation as an excise officer had introduced him. Angus, in short, although they had made him a clergyman, would, it was believed by those who knew him, have carried his skean dhu with him to the pulpit. He made no boast, however, of being possessed of this weapon. On the contrary, as we have already in part shown, he very much disliked any allusion to it; for it was known by a few of his most intimate friends that he did carry such a thing about with him, and by these such allusions were sometimes made; but the former, although they had often seen his naturally fiery temper put to very severe test, never knew an instance of his having taken advantage of his concealed arms, even to the extent of a threat, excepting in the single instance of which we are about to speak; but that alone is sufficient to show--in a very striking light, we think--the miserable effects of introducing or maintaining barbarous habits--more especially that of wearing secret weapons--into civilised and social life. Of Sommerville, we have not much to say in the way of description. He was in the same service with M'Intyre--that is, the excise; and was about the same age--thirty-two or thirty-three. They were intimate friends, and as frequently together as the nature of their duties would permit; and were both unmarried. On the same day on which the conversation with which we opened our story took place, it happened that Angus and Sommerville were invited together to a tavern-dinner in the Saltmarket, with some mutual friends. About an hour previous to that appointed for the festive meeting, Sommerville called on M'Intyre at his lodgings, with the view of waiting for him, that they might go together to the house where they were to dine. A few minutes before they left M'Intyre's lodgings for this purpose, Sommerville said, playfully, "By the by, Mac, I hope you do not intend taking that infernal weapon with you to-night?" "Tuts, man," replied M'Intyre, somewhat testily, "never mind it. What need ye always harp on that string? Did you never know of a gentleman wearing a dirk before? It's no such extraordinary or terrible thing, surely." "Terrible enough in reckless hands," said Sommerville. M'Intyre looked more and more displeased, as his friend continued to cling to the subject; but his only reply was, "Nonsense, John! Come, let us be going--it's near the hour." "Well, I tell you what it is, Angus," remarked his friend, banteringly, and still pertinaciously dwelling on the skean dhu, "I won't sit beside you to-night--I'll take care of that; no, nor within arm's-length of you either." "Sit where you please," replied M'Intyre, angrily, and he flung out of the apartment, followed by Sommerville. On their reaching the tavern, the company were already assembled, and were waiting their presence before sitting down to table. As soon as they entered, however, places were taken; and it happened by chance that the only vacant chair left for Sommerville was one next his friend M'Intyre. On observing this, the former jokingly declined it, saying, "No, no, Mac--I won't sit near you, as I said before. Ye're no canny--I have discovered that." And he winked significantly; and, following up the jesting resolution which he had just expressed, he eventually took his place at a different part of the table. M'Intyre said nothing in reply to his friend's remarks; but there was a frown upon his brow that showed pretty plainly, though none present observed it, that he was very far from being pleased with them. In truth, he was highly irritated at what appeared to him the it; and that this, instead of being considered by him as a reason for refraining, was deemed directly the reverse--an excellent source of small annoyance. What followed on this fatal night will, we think, be most graphically related in the words of a person, another intimate friend of M'Intyre's, who was present:-- At the close of the entertainment (said the person alluded to), which was protracted to a pretty late hour, some high words suddenly arose between M'Intyre and Sommerville; the former being evidently predisposed, from some cause or other, to quarrel with the latter; but so few were they, that I paid but little attention to them, and had no difficulty in reconciling the parties, as I imagined; but in this, at least in so far as regarded M'Intyre, I was mistaken. No more words, however, of an angry nature passed between them. At length the party broke up--M'Intyre, Sommerville, and myself remaining a short time behind, when we also left. Sommerville went first, M'Intyre followed, and I went last. In this order we were passing through the entrance, which was quite dark, to gain the street, when I was suddenly horror-struck by hearing Sommerville utter a loud shriek, and, in a moment after, saying, in a hoarse, unearthly tone, as he staggered against the wall, "I am a murdered man!--M'Intyre has stabbed me!" Guessing precisely what had taken place, I rushed to the mouth of the entrance, and saw M'Intyre crossing the street with as calm and deliberate a step as if nothing had happened; and, immediately after, he turned a corner and disappeared. I now returned to Sommerville, whom I found still leaning against the wall, with his hand upon his wound. In an instant after, he fell, groaned heavily, and, when I stooped down to assist him, I found he was gone. Several persons had, by this time, assembled round us; and, by the assistance of two or three of these, we had the body of the unfortunate man conveyed to his lodgings. Next morning, having occasion to be abroad very early, and to pass the residence of the procurator-fiscal, I saw three men, whom I knew to be criminal officers, just entering the house. In an instant it crossed my mind that this untimous visit of these gentlemen to the functionary above named was, in some way or other, connected with the melancholy event of the preceding night, and that my unfortunate friend M'Intyre was about to be apprehended. Fully impressed with this idea, I instantly hastened to his lodgings, taking such short cuts and by-ways as I knew would give me several minutes' start of his pursuers--if the men I saw really were to become such--and the sequel will show they did. On entering M'Intyre's room, which I did in considerable agitation, I found him, to my great amazement, sound asleep. "M'Intyre," said I, shaking him violently by the shoulder, "I fear there is a warrant out against you, or at least that there will be one out immediately; so, for God's sake, rise, and let us see whether we cannot find a hiding-place for you." I then hastily mentioned to him the grounds of my suspicions of such being the case. While I was speaking, the unhappy man looked at me with an expression of extreme surprise, and as if he did not at all comprehend what I meant. In truth, neither he did; for he had at the moment no recollection whatever of the dreadful deed he had perpetrated--a circumstance which left no doubt of his having been greatly under the influence of liquor when it was done, although I did not at the time think so. By degrees, however, the horrible truth flashed upon him; and the painful realities of the preceding night stood before him. His, however, was a stout heart. His firm nerves shook not under the pressure of the dreadful circumstances in which he was placed. He made no remarks on my communication, but immediately rose, and put on his clothes; and this he did with a coolness and deliberation that both amazed and irritated me; for I was afraid that the officers of justice would be in upon us every moment. Having at length dressed, we both sallied out, although I did not at all know which direction I should recommend my unfortunate friend to take; neither had he himself any idea whither he should go. We, however, proceeded down the street in which he lived; and, just as we were about turning the corner at the foot, happening to look round, we saw the officers in the act of entering the street at the opposite end. At this alarming sight, we of course quickened our pace, although we calculated that some time would be gained by the search to which we did not doubt the officers would subject the house in which M'Intyre lived. I could not but admire the coolness and presence of mind which my unfortunate friend exhibited under these trying circumstances, although I certainly could have wished the exhibition made in a better cause, and on a more honourable occasion. In his manner there was not the least flurry nor agitation. He remained perfectly calm and collected, although an ignominious death was now staring him in the face. After we had proceeded a little way, M'Intyre suddenly stopped, and, addressing me, remarked that my accompanying him could serve no good end, but rather increase the difficulty of his escape, and that therefore I had better leave him. To the propriety of this remark I could not but subscribe; and I therefore, though reluctantly--for, notwithstanding the rash and indefensible act he had committed, I could not forget the character which my unfortunate friend had formerly borne, which was that of an honest, honourable, and warmhearted man--agreed to leave him. Before we parted, he told me that he now recollected that, previously to his returning to his lodgings, after he had stabbed Sommerville, he had gone down to the Clyde, and tossed the fatal weapon with which he had done the deed as far as he could throw it into the river; but whether this was merely a precautionary measure, to break at least one link in the chain of evidence, or the result of a feeling of horror at what he had done, he did not explain; but my impression was, that it was the latter. Having agreed in the propriety of my friend's remark as to the additional danger to which my accompanying him further would expose him, we parted--I to return to my lodgings, and he to seek shelter where he might, for he had not at the moment the smallest idea whither he should direct his steps. For about ten days after this, I heard nothing of my unhappy friend; but, at the end of that period, I learned that he had been apprehended, and was then in Glasgow Jail. This intelligence was subsequently confirmed by a note from himself, which I received, intimating his apprehension, and requesting me to call upon him. With this request I complied, and found my unfortunate friend in the dreadful circumstances of an imprisoned criminal. He was, however, still calm and collected; and appeared perfectly resigned to the fate which, he had not the smallest doubt, awaited him--namely, that he should die upon the scaffold; and, indeed, no reasonable man could have expected any other issue; nor could it be denied that he deserved it. Our interview was short, as it was necessarily carried on in the presence of a turnkey, and therefore confined to merely general topics. The unhappy man himself, besides, showed no disposition to prolong it; and, observing this, I withdrew, after obtaining his promise to apply to me for anything he might want, and for any service it might be in my power to render him. About three weeks after this, while I was at breakfast one morning, my landlady came into my room, to inform me that there was a young woman at the door who wished to speak with me. I desired her to be shown in. She entered; and a more interesting-looking girl I have rarely seen. She appeared to me about one-and-twenty years of age, and was extremely graceful, both in person and manner. The latter, indeed, bespoke a much more elevated condition than her dress--which was that of a domestic servant--seemed to indicate. Her style of language, too, discovered the same contradiction to appearances. Curtseying as she entered, and blushing as she spoke--"You are, sir, I believe," said she "a friend of poor M'Intyre's, just now in Glasgow Jail, for--for----" And here her emotion prevented her further utterance. "I was," replied I, interposing to save her feelings, which I saw were painfully excited, "and I still am, his friend. Would to God I had some way of showing him, in his misfortune, how sincerely I am so!" This I said with a degree of earnestness and fervour that seemed to make a strong impression on my fair, but mysterious visiter. She became pale and agitated, and I thought I could even discover a tear glittering in her eye. When this momentary emotion had passed away-- "Then," she said, "I need not hesitate to trust you with a secret." And she glanced towards the door, to see that it was shut. "This night," she resumed, "M'Intyre will escape from prison." "Escape!--how?--by what means?" I exclaimed, in amazement. "By mine," she replied, calmly. "By yours!" I said, with increased astonishment. "Yes, sir, by mine. This night at twelve o'clock he will be without the prison walls, and at liberty, and you must then do him the last service he is ever likely to require at your hands. You will have a chaise waiting at the hour I have mentioned, at the first mile-stone on the Greenock road. Will you do this, and save the life of your unfortunate friend?" Although a good deal confused by the suddenness and singularity of the whole affair, I, without a moment's hesitation or reflection, replied that I would; and, having made this promise, I asked my visiter if she would further confide in me, by telling me all the particulars connected with the proposed escape of my friend. "Not now--not now," she said, gathering a tartan plaid, which she wore, round her, as if to depart; "but you will probably learn all afterwards. In the meantime, farewell! and, as you would have a friend do to you in similar circumstances, so do you to your friend. Be faithful to your promise." And, ere I could make any further remark, or put any other question, she hurried out of the apartment, hastily opened the street door, rushed out, and disappeared. Interrupting this personal narrative for a time, we will shift the scene, on the eventful night in question--eventful, at least, to the unfortunate subject of our story--to the house of the jailer in whose custody he was; and here we shall find, in the capacity of a domestic servant, a young woman, bearing a very striking resemblance to her who visited M'Intyre's friend, as above described. Indeed, there can be no doubt that they are the same. It was the jailer's custom, at this time, to make the rounds of the prison precisely at nine o'clock every night, to see that all was secure; and when this survey was completed, to carry all the keys with him to his own house, which was included in the general building, and had interior communication with that portion of it where prisoners were confined. On bringing up the keys, as usual, on the night of which we are speaking, the jailer gave them in charge to his wife, as he was invited out to join a party of friends on some occasion of merry-making--a circumstance which had been previously known to his family, and, amongst the rest, to the servant girl a short while since alluded to. Having received the keys from her husband, the jailer's wife carried them to her own bedroom for greater safety, and there deposited them in a drawer. In less than two hours after, this drawer was secretly visited by the young woman just spoken of, and a particular key carefully selected, detached from the rest, and transferred from the drawer in which it had lain into her pocket, when she withdrew with her prize. Shortly after this, the jailer returned, and retired to bed. When the whole was still, the purloiner of the key might have been seen stealing, with cautious steps, down the staircase that led into the principal passage of the prison, where were stationed two turnkeys--one at the outer door, and one at the inner. Advancing to the former-- "James," said the girl, "Mr Simpson" (the name of the jailer) "desires to see you up-stairs immediately. Go to the little parlour, and wait for him there, and he'll come to you directly." "Lassie," said the man, "I canna leave the door richtly; but if he wants me, I suppose I maun gang." "I'll keep the key till you return," said the former, "and tell Andrew" (meaning the inner turnkey) "to look after the door till you return, James." "Ay, do, like a dear," replied the unsuspecting turnkey, handing her the key, and hastening away to attend the call of his superior. On his departure, the girl went, as she had promised, to the other turnkey; but it was to deliver a very different message from that she had undertaken. To him, in truth, she made precisely the same communication as she had done to his neighbour, with a difference of destination--him she directed to wait his master in the kitchen. This guardian, trusting in the vigilance of him of the outer door, of whose absence he was unaware, made no difficulty whatever of obeying, but instantly ascended to the jailer's kitchen, where he patiently awaited the appearance of his superior. Having thus disposed of the two turnkeys, the girl now, with a beating heart, flew to the door of the apartment in which M'Intyre was confined, applied the key to the lock, turned its huge bolt, and the way was clear. "Angus M'Intyre," she said, on flinging up the door, "come forth, come forth, and fly instantly for your life! There are none to oppose you." "In the name of God, who are you?" said M'Intyre, instinctively obeying the call to liberty and freedom. "I should know that voice," he added, endeavouring to obtain a glimpse of the face of his deliverer, but in vain, as she was carefully hooded, and the place profoundly dark. "Hush! hush!--not a word!" said the latter. "What does it signify to you who I am? Off, off instantly!--you have not a moment to lose. This way, this way." And she hurried the astonished prisoner, though now no longer so, through the deserted passage of the jail, till they reached the outer door, to which she applied the key with which its simple guardian had intrusted her, and in the next instant M'Intyre and his deliverer were in the street. On gaining it-- "Now, fly, Angus," said the latter, thrusting, at the same time, a purse of money into his hand. "At the first mile-stone on the Greenock road, you will find a chaise waiting you. In that you will proceed to Greenock, where you will find a ship to sail to-morrow for New York. Embark on board of her; and you will then, I trust, escape the vengeance of man--it must be your own business, Angus, to deprecate that of your God." And without waiting for any reply, or permitting herself to be known to her companion, she hastened away in the opposite direction to that she had pointed out to M'Intyre, and disappeared. The latter, bewildered with the suddenness and strangeness of the proceeding which had thus so mysteriously led to his liberation, stood for a second confused, irresolute, and undetermined. His first idea was to pursue this deliverer, and to insist on ascertaining who she was; but even the moment he took to deliberate had put this out of his power, for the night was dark, and she was already out of sight; and where there were so many ready places of concealment, the pursuit was a hopeless one. M'Intyre perceived this; and aware, at the same time, how necessary it was that he should instantly quit the vicinity of the jail, he hastened to the place where he had been told a chaise would be waiting him. The chaise was there; M'Intyre flung himself into it, reached Greenock in about four hours afterwards, and, before another sun had sunk in the west, he was sailing down the Frith of Clyde, on his way to the opposite shores of the Atlantic. Three years after the occurrence of the events just related (continued the narrator whom we have already quoted), during which time I had heard nothing more of M'Intyre than that he had effected his escape, nor anything whatever of his deliverer, I was removed, by order of the Board of Excise, to the Island of Skye, where I was settled, perhaps, about a year, when, one day, as I was crossing the country from Portree to Meystead--a place celebrated in the wanderings of Prince Charles--I met a party of ladies and gentlemen coming in the opposite direction. They were a merry squad, with the exception of one of the ladies, who seemed to take but little share in the obstreperous mirth of her companions; and it was owing to this circumstance, perhaps, that I found her engrossing a greater share of my attention than the others; for, in that hospitable country, we were friends the moment we met, although we had never seen each other before; and the party, having some provisions with them, I was requested to favour them with my company to a dejeune, which, they informed me, they had been on the eve of making before I joined them. Readily accepting their kind invitation, I accompanied my new friends in search of a suitable spot for the proposed entertainment. This was soon found; and we all sat down on the grass to partake of the good things provided for the occasion. During the repast, I could not keep my eyes off the lady whose melancholy had first attracted my attention; for I felt an impression that I had seen the face somewhere before; but when, where, or under what circumstances, I could not at all recollect. She seemed also to recognise me; for there was a marked confusion and agitation, both in her countenance and manner, from the moment I joined the party to which she belonged. Guessing, from these expressions, that it would not be agreeable to her that I should make any attempt at renewing our acquaintance, of whatever nature that might have been, in the presence of her friends, I forbore; but determined, if an opportunity was afforded me, of doing so before we parted, as I felt all that curiosity and uneasiness which such vague and imperfect recognition of a person's identity is so apt to create. The opportunity I desired, the lady, of her own accord, subsequently afforded me. When our repast was concluded, she said, addressing me-- "We are going, sir, to see the falls of Lubdearg, about a mile from this. It is a very magnificent one; and, if you have never seen it before, and are in no great hurry to prosecute your journey, you will perhaps accompany us. My friends here, I am sure, will be glad of such an addition to their party." The falls she alluded to I had never seen; and for this reason, but still more for that before hinted at, I gladly accepted the proposal of becoming one of the party to Lubdearg. While we were proceeding thither, my inviter contrived to drop a little way behind her friends; which perceiving, and conjecturing that she did so for the especial purpose of affording me an opportunity of speaking with her, I availed myself of it, with a degree of caution that prevented all appearance of connivance, and joined her. Being considerably apart from the others, she said, smiling-- "You have recognised me, I rather think, sir; but do you recollect where and under what circumstances it was that you saw me?" "I do not indeed; I have not the most distant idea," I said; "but I certainly do recollect having seen you before." "And I, too, recollect well of having seen you. It is impossible I should ever forget either you or the occasion that introduced me to you. Do you," she added, "recollect of a young woman calling on you one morning at your lodgings, to request of you to have a chaise in readiness, on the Greenock road, to aid"--and here she paused a moment, and betrayed great emotion--"the escape," she resumed, "of Angus M'Intyre." I need hardly say that, short as this sentence was, I knew ere it was half concluded that it was the deliverer of my unhappy friend who stood before me. "I do, I do, perfectly," I replied--"you are the very person. This is, indeed, strange--most singular--our meeting here again, and in this way. But who, in Heaven's name, are you?" I added; "that I have never yet known." The lady smiled sadly. "Did you ever hear your unfortunate friend speak of one Miss Eliza Stewart?" she said. "Often, often," I replied; "to that lady I always understood he was to have been married, had not that deplorable occurrence taken place, which so miserably changed his destiny, and marred all his prospects in life." "It was so," said my fair companion, with increased emotion. "I am that person." "Impossible!" "It is true; I am Eliza Stewart." "Then, here is more perplexity and mystery," said I. "How, in all the world, came you to appear to me in the dress and character of a servant girl--you, who are a lady both by birth and education?" (this I knew from M'Intyre) "and how, above all, did you effect the escape of our unfortunate friend?" The lady again smiled with a melancholy air. "I will inform you of all," she said, "in a very few words. At the time of Angus' misfortune, I lived, as you may probably know, with my father at ----, in Skye here. On hearing of what had taken place, and of Angus' apprehension, I hastened to Glasgow on pretence of visiting a friend, and got into the house of the jailer in the character of a domestic servant. I will not say by whose means I effected this, as it might still bring ruin on their heads." And here my fair informant gave me the details which are already before the reader. "On effecting his escape," she went on, "I immediately resumed my own dress, and returned to my father's house, where it was next to impossible to detect, in his daughter, the servant girl of the Glasgow jailer. Our remote situation, besides, further secured me from the chance of discovery; and I have not yet been discovered, nor do I suppose I ever will now." "And why," said I, laughingly, "did you not share the fortunes of the man in whom you thus took so deep an interest?" "No, no," said the heroic girl, with an expression of deep feeling; "I loved M'Intyre, I confess it, with the most sincere and devoted affection--what I did for him proves it; but I could not think of uniting myself to a man whose hand was red with the blood of a fellow-creature; for it cannot be denied that our unfortunate friend, notwithstanding all his good qualities, was--there is no disguising it--a----" Here her emotions prevented her finishing the sentence--nor did she afterwards finish it; but I had no doubt the word she would have supplied was "murderer." "Now, sir, you know all," she continued, on recovering from her perturbation; "but you will make no allusion, I beg of you, to anything I have told you, to my friends here, amongst whom are my father, mother, and a sister, who know nothing whatever of the part I acted in effecting M'Intyre's escape." With this request I promised compliance. We reached the falls of Lubdearg. I parted with Eliza Stewart; and we never met again, as, in a few days afterwards, I left the island; and with this event terminated all connecting circumstances on my part with "The Skean Dhu." THE SEVEN YEARS' DEARTH. It was a good many years before the accession of King William III. to the throne of Britain, that a farmer of the name of William Kerr rented a farm in the parish of Minniegaff, in the county of Wigton, on the great road to Port-Patrick. The farm lay at some distance from the road, at the foot of the hills--a wild and secluded spot, possessing few beauties, save to a person who had been reared in the neighbourhood, whose earliest associations were blended with the scenes of his youth. This farm of Kerr's was of far greater extent than importance, only a few acres of it being in cultivation; but his flock of sheep was pretty extensive, and his black cattle numerous. He was looked upon as a wealthy man at the period of which we speak, had been married for many years, but had no children to enjoy that wealth which increased from year to year. This was the only drawback to his earthly happiness; but he never repined, or let a word escape his lips, to betray the wish of his heart. Even the rude taunts of his more fortunate neighbours he bore with unruffled countenance, though he felt them keenly; and he still loved Grizzel his wife with all the fervour of his first affection--an affection that was returned with usury. Such was the situation of the worthy farmer, when, one morning in harvest, he went out with the earliest dawn to look after some sheep he had upon a hill in a distant part of the farm. He had counted them, and was returning to join the reapers, accompanied by Colin, his faithful dog, who, in devious excursions, circled round the large grey stones that lay scattered about. He had proceeded for some way without missing the animal, when he stopped and whistled for him. Colin, contrary to his usual custom, did not come bounding to his side, but answered by a loud barking--a circumstance which a little surprised him; but he proceeded homeward, thinking that he was amusing himself with some animal he had discovered; and being in haste to join his reapers, paid no further attention to this act of disobedience in his favourite. Breakfast passed, and mid-day came, and still Colin did not make his appearance. His master was both angry and uneasy at his absence; but, in the bustle and laughter of the harvest field, again forgot the occasional thoughts of his useful dog that obtruded themselves on his mind. It drew towards evening, and still no Colin came. The circumstance was becoming unaccountable; none had seen the dog; and uneasiness succeeded to anger. He now left his reapers, and went to the house to inquire of Grizzel if the animal had been in the house; but she answered that she had only seen him once in the early part of the day, for a minute or two, when, after receiving a piece of cake, he had ran off with it in his mouth, nor stopped to eat it, contrary to his usual custom. This, with the circumstance of his leaving him in the morning, and his unaccountable absence, confirmed William Kerr in his opinion that something uncommon must have happened to him. As he could ill do without his assistance to gather his sheep for the night, without returning to his reapers, he set out for the spot where the dog had left him, ever and anon calling him by his well-known whistle and name. The large grey stones and barren muir echoed the call; but no Colin appeared. At length he came to the place, and was surprised and overtaken with fear, as he observed the animal stretched upon the ground, with something close beside him, which he seemed to watch. "Colin, Colin!" he called; "poor Colin!" The dog did not rise: he gave every mute token of joy and pleasure at the sight of his master, looking over his bushy shoulder, and wagging his tail; but he made no effort to stir--fearful, apparently, of disturbing the object that lay beside him. "Surely," said his master, "my poor dog is bewitched. Colin, you rascal, what have you there? Come with me to the sheep." But Colin moved not. The farmer stood rooted to the spot; he had neither the power to advance nor retreat; a superstitious fear took possession of him; his hair moved upon his head; a tingling feeling seemed to excite every muscle of his body, and deprive it of voluntary motion. The fear, in fact, of the fairies was upon him; he conceived himself the victim of fascination--a conception well justified by his own conduct, for he could not, for a time, withdraw his eyes from the object of his alarm. When the subject was considered, there was ground for his fear. Before him, under the shadow of a large grey boulder stone, within a few yards, lay his faithful dog--a creature that had never before required a second call from him--now deaf to that voice it was his former pleasure to obey at every hazard. He was supporting something that had the appearance of a lovely child sound asleep, nestled close into his bosom, the head resting upon his shaggy side, and its curly, golden hair appearing like rays of light on the pillow upon which it rested. The face appeared more beauteous than anything of this earth he had ever seen--so delicate, so clear, so beautifully blended was rose and lily; but the eyes were swollen and red with weeping, pearly drops stole in slow succession from its dark eyelashes, while a heavy sob swelled its little bosom as if it would awaken it. The farmer, with his eyes almost starting from their sockets, incapable of motion or cool reflection, stood gazing upon the pair as they lay before him--the one unconscious, the other, while showing every symptom of joy he could silently express at sight of his master, yet seemingly fearful as an anxious mother of disturbing his sleeping charge. As William Kerr's surprise began to abate, his fears, if possible, increased. "Surely," he said to himself, "this is one of the children of the fairies. God protect me! I am bewitched as well as my poor dog. I never felt thus before in the presence of mere earthly being. I cannot move--my knees can scarce support me--I cannot withdraw my eyes from that fearful object. God deliver me from the power of the enemy!" And he shut his eyelids by a convulsive effort. He then attempted to pray, but memory had fled; nor psalm nor prayer could he call up to his aid, the palsy of fear had so completely unhinged him. The very beauty of the object increased his alarm; for he had heard that Satan is never more to be feared than when he appears as an angel of light. With his eyes shut by a nervous effort, he turned himself round, and ran to his reapers. As he approached them, and the distance increased between him and the object of his fears, his natural firmness returned; but his countenance still betrayed the agitation of his mind. The reapers were just quitting the field, having accomplished the labours of the day; and, seeing him running towards them, crowded round him, eagerly inquiring the cause of his alarm. It was some time before he could recover his breath (so swiftly had he run), to give them an account of what he had seen, and express his regret for the loss of Colin, whom he never more expected to see. The whole group were struck with fear and amazement, gazing alternately at the farmer and each other--not knowing what to think of the strange case; but all agreed that some effort ought to be made for the recovery of the dog. John Bell, an elder of the church, and a neighbour farmer, spoke and said-- "My brethren, the power of the evil one is great; but it is overruled by One greater and more glorious. Let us employ His aid; then we shall go forth in the strength of our faith, and Satan shall flee from before us." He then prayed, and the reapers kneeled. When his address was finished, he arose with a firm assurance in the divine protection. "I will go forth," said he, "in the strength of His name, and see what new delusion of Satan this is. William Kerr, send to the house for the ha' Bible, that I may carry it as a shield between us and the wiles of him who will vanish before the holy Book, like mist before the wind." One of the young men ran to the house, and soon returned, with his mistress, she herself carrying the important volume, which she delivered into the hands of John Bell; and the latter, opening it, read aloud to them that beautiful chapter, the fourteenth of St John's Gospel. They then proceeded to the spot pointed out by the farmer, chanting a psalm, which the elder gave out, as they walked behind him. All, excepting the elder, were unnerved by fear--casting many a timid glance around, and ready, at the least alarm, to run back. Curiosity to see the conclusion, and shame, more than firmness, compelled them to advance. Before they reached the stone where the farmer had seen his dog and his charge, Colin came bounding to them, barking for joy, and fawning upon his master and mistress; while the former, in a burst of joy at the recovery of his favourite, exclaimed-- "Great is the power of the Word! The charm is broken! Colin, Colin, I am rejoiced to have rescued you from the evil powers. Come, lad, let us to the hill, and weer in the ewes." And, with his usual whistle, he pointed to the hill. Colin would not yet obey the wonted order, but ran back towards the large grey stone, barking in an unusual manner, returning, again running towards it, and looking back as if he wished his master to follow. The whole group were in amazement, and knew not what to think of these strange actions of the dog; but they had yet more to be surprised at; for, taking the end of his master's plaid in his mouth, the creature endeavoured gently to drag him towards the stone. As the party thus stood irresolute, the faint wailing of a child was distinctly heard, and a babe, supporting its feeble arms upon the stone, was seen to emerge from the other side of it. It was the same the farmer had previously seen: his fears returned--several of the most timid fled; but Colin ran to the little stranger, and licked the tears that streamed down its cheeks, while the child put its arms around his neck, and leaned its head upon its new friend. That they witnessed something out of the usual order of nature, no one present had the smallest doubt; for how, by earthly means, could a child of man have reached a spot so lonely and secluded? The farmer and his wife both endeavoured, by the most endearing terms, to induce Colin to leave it; but in vain. "What can this mean?" exclaimed Grizzel. "Colin, Colin, you never before refused to obey my voice; surely nothing good could induce you to disregard it. Come, come, and leave that unearthly creature." John Bell, who had been occupied in mental devotion, at length broke silence-- "Let us not judge harshly," said he; "perhaps it is a Christian child, dropped here by the fairies as they were bearing it away from its parents, who now mourn for its loss, and nurse a changeling in its place. It may have been rescued by the prayer of faith, or some other means, from their power. In the strength of His name, I will be convinced of its real nature, either by putting it to flight if it is unearthly, or rescuing it from death if it is human; for we must not leave it here to perish through cold and want, and prove ourselves more cruel than the dumb animal." As he spoke, the eye of the child turned towards them; it gave a feeble cry, and stretched out its arms, still supported by the dog. The elder advanced to it, and placing the Bible upon its head, it smiled in his face, and grasped his leg. The tears came into the good man's eyes, while Colin bounded for joy, and licked his hand as it rested upon the head of the child. "Come forward, my friends," he said; "it is a lovely child, a Christian babe, for it smiles at the touch of the blessed Word. It is weak and sore spent, and calls for attention and kindness." All the woman was kindled in the heart of the farmer's wife; she ran to the babe, and pressed it to her bosom, kissing it as it smiled in her face, and lisped a few words in a language none present could understand. The fears of all were now nearly dissipated; those who had fled returned; all the females in turn embraced the babe; but the fondness of William Kerr for the foundling was now equal to his former fears. He at once resolved to adopt it as his own, until its sorrowing parents should reclaim it. Grizzel concurred in the sentiment and resolution; and he and Colin, who now had resumed all his wonted obedience, set off for the hill, while the other returned to the house. As Grizzel carried the child home, she felt her love for it increase; and the void that had existed in her bosom ever since her marriage was fast filling up. The child's eyes were of a deep hazel, and gave indications of beauty; and its clothes were of a far finer texture than those worn by children of humble rank, and bespoke a good origin. Of all the females present, she alone felt assured that it was a proper child, because she wished it to be so; the others looked upon it still with some misgivings; revolving, doubtless, in their minds, the strangeness of all the circumstances attending the affair--and not the least of these was the locality of the child's position. It was a lonely spot, bearing no good name, close by a beautiful green knoll, standing by a spring of pure water, and covered with daisies; while all around was heather or stunted grass, resembling an oasis in the desert. Strange sights were reported to have been seen near it; and the shepherd lads, in the still evenings of summer, were wont to hear there strange humming noises, mixed with faint tinklings--sure signs, of course, of the presence of the fairies. It was called the Fairy Knowe, while the stone was called the Eldrich Stone--names of bad omen, and sufficient to scare all visiters after nightfall. The newly-awakened feelings of Grizzel deprived all these ideas and recollections of that weight which operated with the other females, and warped their opinions; and, while they concluded that nothing good could be found in such a spot, they cautioned Grizzel, in their kindness, to be wary that the creature did her no harm. Grizzel herself was not without some misgivings; but she clung to the babe that lay in her bosom, and resolved to put to the test, as soon as she reached home, whether it was really a fairy, or a child stolen by these kidnappers. She believed her test to be sufficient to make it, if a fairy, leave her presence; if a human babe, to place it beyond their power to recover it, cleanse it from any spell they might have put upon it, secure it from the evil eye, and prevent its being forespoken. For these most important purposes she borrowed a piece of money (without assigning a reason for wanting it) from one of her neighbours, and, as soon as she reached home, secured herself in the spence with the babe (for no one must see her in the act), put the piece of money into some clean water with salt, stripped the child to the skin, washed it carefully, then took its shift and passed it thrice through the smoke of the fire, and put it on again, with the wrong side out. All this was done not without fear and trembling on the part of Grizzel; but her new-found treasure was unchanged, and smiled sweetly in her face as she proceeded in her superstitious operation. Having supplied its little wants, now fully assured, she put it to bed with joy and satisfaction, and looked on it till it fell into a sweet sleep. Scarce had she accomplished this, when William Kerr entered with John Bell, upon whom he had called as he returned from the hill, to aid him with his counsel and advice. "Well, Grizzel," said he, "is it a lad or a lass bairn we hae found; for I am convinced (for a' the fear it gae me), by what our elder has said, that it is nae fairy, but an unchristened wean the elves had been carryin awa frae its parents, wha, I hae nae doot, are noo mournin its loss." "Indeed, guidman," replied Grizzel, "it is as sonsie a lass bairn as ever I saw in my life, and a's richt. It is nae fairy, I'm satisfied, and I'm richt glad on't; for she'll be a great comfort to us, now that we are getting up in years, if her ain mother doesna come to take her to her ain bosom; but o' that I think there is little chance; for, by the few words it spoke, it is nae child o' oor land." "William Kerr," said the elder, "if, as your wife proposes, you mean to keep this child, there is one duty to perform, both for its sake and your own--and that is, it must be baptised; for there is no doubt this sacred right has either been withheld or neglected, or the enemy would not have had the power to do as he has done. To-morrow I will go myself to the minister and talk with him; and next Lord's-day you or I must present it to be admitted into the visible church, of which I pray it may be a worthy member. Are you content?" "Far mair than content," replied the farmer; "I will rejoice, and bless God, for the occasion as fervently as if she were my ain. While I hae a bit or a bield she shall neither feel hunger nor cold." The parties separated for the night, and the new-found stranger slept in the bosom of the farmer's wife. On the following Sabbath it was taken to the church of Minniegaff to be baptised. The church was crowded to excess. Every one that could, by any effort, get there, attended to witness the christening of a fairy, all expecting something uncommon to occur. The farmer and his wife, they thought, were too rash to harbour it in their house, for it was not chancy to be at feud with "the good people," who, out of revenge, might shoot his cattle; and, verily, during that summer, a good many had already died of elve shots. As the christening party approached the church, every one was anxious to get a peep at the young creature. It was so beautiful that it could not, they said, be a common child; neither was it a changeling, for changelings are weazened, yammering, ill-looking things, that greet night and day, and never grow bigger. Contrary to the expectations of almost all the congregation, when the farmer and his party entered the church, the child neither screamed nor flew off in a flash of fire, but smiled as beautiful as a cherub. The service went on as usual. The farmer stood up and took the holy vows upon himself, and gave the lovely babe the name of Helen. The girl throve, and became the pride of her foster-parents, who loved her as intensely as if she had been their own child; and Colin became, if possible, more beloved by them, as Helen's playfellow. A few months after the finding of Helen, as Grizzel was one day examining the silken dress which she wore when discovered on the muir, and which had never been put on since--being soiled and damp when taken off--she discovered a piece of paper in one of the folds, much creased, as if it had been placed there by some one in a state of great agitation. It was written in French. Neither the farmer nor herself could read it, but William, on the first opportunity, took and showed it to the minister, who translated it as follows:--"Merciful God! protect me and my child from the fury of my husband, who has returned, after his long absence, more gloomy than ever. Alas! in what have I offended him? If I have, without any intention, done so, my dear baby, you cannot have given offence. Good God! there are preparations for a journey making in the court-yard--horse, saddle, and pillion. Where am I to be carried to? My babe! I will not be parted from you but by death. His feet are on the stairs: I hear his voice. Alas! I tremble at that sound which was once music to my soul. Holy Virgin! he approaches!" Here the writing ceased. It threw no light upon the event, further than it showed that the mother of the child was unhappy, and above the lower ranks of life. The paper William left with the minister, at his request. The little Helen grew, and became even more lovely and engaging--the delight and joy of the farmer and his wife. Yet their happiness had in it a mixture of pain; for they never thought of her but with a fear lest, as not being their own child, she should be claimed and taken from them. Years rolled on, and Helen grew apace. She was of quick parts, and learned with facility everything she was taught--a circumstance which induced many to believe that the fairies were her private tutors. The opinion was justified by other circumstances. She was thoughtful and solitary for a child. The Eldrich Stone was her favourite haunt. She seldom joined in the sports of the other children of her age--having, indeed, little inducement; for they were always fearful of her, and felt constraint in her presence. Some of the most forward taunted her with the cognomen of Fairy Helen; and if she was successful (as she often was) in their childish sports, they left her, saying, "Who could win with a fairy?" This chilled the joyous heart of the fair Helen, and was the cause of many tears, which the kind Grizzel would kiss off with more than maternal love. As she grew up, she withdrew herself from the society of those who thus grieved her; but there was one individual who ever took her part, and boldly stood forth in her defence. This was Willie, "the widow's son," as he was familiarly called, for no one knew his surname. He lived with an aged woman, who passed as his mother; but the more knowing females of the village said she could not, from her apparent age, bear that character. She had come there no one knew from whence, and inhabited a lone cottage with the boy. She appeared to be extremely poor, yet sought no aid from any one. William was better clad than any child in the parish, and much care had been taken in his education. She had (by the proper legitimate right) the name of being a witch. She sought not the acquaintance of her neighbours; and, when addressed by any of them, was very reserved, but civil; while the only thing that saved her from persecution was her regular and devout attendance at church, along with the child William, and the good opinion of the worthy minister. Yet this scarcely saved her; for, when anything untoward occurred in the neighbourhood, it was always laid to her charge. William was six or seven years older than Helen, and, still smarting under the taunts he had himself endured, was her champion, and none dared offer her insult in his presence. Her timid heart clung to him and loved him as a brother, and they were ever together--as he accompanied her to and from school, as if she had been his sister. He was now about eighteen, tall and athletic for his age, and of a firm and resolute mind. It was in the autumn of the year 1688, that a strange horseman, with a servant behind him, was seen to approach the lone cottage of the widow--to dismount and enter it. He remained for several hours, during which his servant was busy purchasing a horse, and the necessary furniture for an immediate departure. Willie was afterwards seen bounding across the fields towards the house of William Kerr, which he entered, with a face beaming with joy. "Helen," said he, "I am come to bid you farewell; for I am going to leave Minniegaff for a long time, and I could not think of going without seeing you, and letting you know my good fortune." Helen burst into tears, and sobbed. "O Willie!" she cried, "who will take my part when you are gone? I will have no friend left but my dear father and mother, and I will miss you so much. But it is wrong for me to be grieved for your departure, if your fortune is good." And she tried to subdue her tears. "Yes, Helen," said he, "my fortune is good. I have found, what I hope you will soon find, a long-lost father--a parent I knew not existed. I now know that Elizabeth is not my mother, but has only had the charge of me during my father's exile in a foreign land. He is now returned with William, Prince of Orange, and is restored to his estate. I am going to London to join him, where I will often think of you, Helen. Farewell!" And clasping the weeping Helen to his bosom, he ran back to his cottage, took farewell of Elizabeth, and, full of hope and joyous expectation, soon was out of sight. After the departure of Willie, Helen felt for long a loneliness she had never felt before. The Eldrich Stone used to be her favourite resort; but she was now much dedicated to Elizabeth, who, being left alone, became fond of her company, passing the greater part of the day in the farmer's house, but continuing as reserved and taciturn as she had always been. In vain Grizzel endeavoured to know from her who Willie's father was, or his name. All she ever would communicate was, that his was a gallant name; and the time, she hoped, was now come when he might pronounce it with the best of the land. Thus time passed on, and Willie was almost forgotten by every one save Elizabeth and Helen--the one dwelling on the loved theme with all the fondness of a parent; the other with that of a beloved brother. But no news of him had as yet reached the cottage of Elizabeth, who was now become very frail, while Helen paid her every attention in her power. The seasons had, for the last three years, been most unpropitious; the poor were suffering from famine, and the more wealthy were much straitened in their circumstances, and impoverished by the death of their cattle from want of fodder. In summer--if it could be called summer--when the sun was not seen for weeks together, when the whole atmosphere was surcharged by fogs, when the ground was deluged by rain, and the wind blew piercing cold, the grain that was sown did not ripen sufficiently either for food to man or seed to sow; while the cattle, seized by unknown diseases, languished and died. Money, in those distant parts, was of small avail; for none had grain to dispose of, or help to bestow upon the numerous applicants who thronged the doors of the larger farmers. Nettles, marsh mallows, and every weed that was not immediately hurtful, were eagerly sought after and devoured by the famished people. Among all this suffering, William Kerr did not escape. The lengthened and unprecedentedly deep snowstorms were fatal to his flocks, and, before the fourth winter, he had not one left to take care of. His black cattle died, until he was equally bereft of all; and that house where plenty had always been, and from whence the beggar was never sent away hungry, was now the abode of want bordering on famine. Yet despondency never clouded his brow, and his heart was strong in Christian faith, and resigned to the will of God. Evening and morning his simple sacrifice was offered up to the throne of grace with as fervent love and adoration as in the days of his greatest prosperity; while the assiduous and gentle Helen mingled her tears with those of Grizzel, as much for the misery that was around them as their own. The winter of the fifth year had set in with unusual severity, long before its usual time, and all that William had secured of his crop was a few bushels of oats, so black and bitter, that nothing but the extreme of hunger would have compelled a human being to have tasted the flour they produced. Their only cow--the last of six which had in former years abundantly supplied their dairy--now lean and shrunk, had long since withheld her nourishing stream. It was a beautiful animal, the pride of Helen and Grizzel, was reared upon the farm, and obeyed Helen's voice like a dog. With great exertion and assiduity she had procured for it support; but the grass did not give its wonted nourishment, being stinted and sour, and in vain was now all her care. The snow lay deep on the ground, and the animal was pining with hunger, and must inevitably die from want. Great was the struggle, and bitter the tears they shed, before they gave consent to have their favourite put to death. Yet it was reasonable; for the carcase was requisite to sustain their own existence and that of Elizabeth, whom the good farmer had removed to his own home, lest she had died for want, or been plundered in those times of suffering and distress--when even the bands of natural affection were rent asunder by famine, and children were devouring in secret any little eatable they found, without giving a share to their more famished parents, while parents grudged a morsel to their expiring children. Thus passed another miserable winter, and death was now busy around them; numbers died from want and unwholesome food, and among the rest old Elizabeth sickened and paid the debt of nature; but, to her last moment, she never divulged to Helen, much as she loved her, any circumstance regarding Willie. Helen, indeed, in the present distress thought not of him; and when Elizabeth used to regret his neglect of her, she only remembered him as a former playfellow and generous school companion. A few days before she died, as Helen sat by her bedside, administering to her wants, she put forth her emaciated and withered hands, and taking Helen's, kissed them, and blessed her for the care and attention she had paid her. Pointing to a small chest in which her clothes were kept, she gave Helen the key, and requested her to open it, and bring a small ebony box to her. Helen did as desired; and, when she received the box, she opened it by touching a concealed spring. Helen looked on in amazement; for in the box were many jewels, and several valuable rings. The old woman took them out, one by one, and laid them upon the bed, in a careless manner, as if they had been of no value; then took out a small bundle of letters, which she kissed and wept over for a few moments; then, looking up, she said-- "O great Author of my being! pardon this, my last thought of earth, when my whole soul ought to be employed in thanking thee for thy mercies, and imploring pardon for my many sins. Oh, how I now lament my infirmities!--but there is still hope for even the chief of sinners, which I am, in the blood of Jesus." She then sunk overpowered upon her pillow for a time, and at length recovering, continued--"Dear Helen, when I am gone, keep these baubles to yourself. Alas! they were purchased by me by years of misery. These papers you will keep for William, should he ever return to inquire after me; if not, destroy them; you are at liberty to look over them if you choose, when I am no more. In this box you will also find a small sum in gold. When it pleases God to give his sinful creatures more favourable seasons, it will restock this present desolate farm, and in part only restore the debt of gratitude we owe a worthy man." Helen, with tears, accepted the bequest, and restored it to the oaken chest; then kneeled by the bedside of the sufferer, and prayed with all her heart for her recovery; but the hand of death was upon Elizabeth--she fell into stupor, and never spoke again. Helen and her foster-parents felt real sorrow at the death of their inmate, for she was a pleasant companion to a pious auditory. Though taciturn on every subject but what was of a spiritual nature, her soul became as if on fire when she conversed on her favourite theme, and a sublimity was in her language that carried away her hearers, and forced conviction upon the cold and indifferent. As soon as the funeral was over, Helen showed to William and his wife the magnificent bequest of the old lady. Although they knew not the exact value of the gems, they knew it must be considerable; and the guineas were above two hundred. Their astonishment was great at the good fortune of Helen; for they had always thought, from her dress and humility, that Elizabeth was poor, although she never sought relief, but lived principally upon the produce of her little kail-yard, and the meal she purchased each year, in the beginning of winter, along with her meat. This unexpected wealth added not to their happiness, nor in the least abated their grief for the loss of the giver. Scanty as the necessaries of life were, William Kerr was far from poor; but at this time money could not procure food in many of the distant parts of Scotland. By strict economy, they contrived to put over the next long and dismal winter, and even to have something to spare for the more necessitous of their neighbours, in hopes that the ensuing spring would put an end to their privations; but it proved cold and barren as the others had been, and the more necessitous of the surviving population had retired to the sea-shore, to eke out a scanty subsistence by picking the shellfish from the rocks, and eating the softer sea-weeds. Often in vain the most dexterous fisher essayed his skill, and returned without a single fish; for even those had forsaken the shores of the famishing land, driven off by the storms, and the swell, and surge that for weeks together beat upon the coast. In this, the extreme of their distress, William Kerr heard that a vessel had arrived at Stranraer with grain. Without delay he mounted his sole remaining horse, now so much reduced that it could scarce bear his weight, and set off for the port--a distance of twenty miles. Short as it was, it was late in the evening ere he arrived; and he found, to his regret, that all had been disposed of in a few hours--being dispersed about the town and immediate neighbourhood. Through much importunity, and by paying a great price, he procured a scanty supply; and next morning, laying it on his horse, went back to his home, rejoicing that he had procured it; for what he had reaped the harvest before was now nearly all consumed. As there was no appearance of the present summer being better than the preceding one, he resolved to shut up his house, and retire to Stranraer, until it should please God to remove His wrath from the land. He took this step because there he could procure subsistence for money, although the price was exorbitant. With regret they bade adieu to the scenes of their former happiness; and, taking all their valuables and cash, locked up their home; and, with their one horse, which carried the load, accompanied by Colin, now old and blind, led by Helen, the sad procession moved on their dull and weary way. The land was desolate; it was the beginning of June, yet not a bud was to be seen; the whins showed only their gaudy yellow flowers, as if in mockery of the surrounding dreary scenes. Arrived at Stranraer, they found their situation much more comfortable; as provisions could be had there, although the prices were exorbitant. Several of the inhabitants imported grain from England and Ireland, in small quantities, for themselves and such as could purchase at the price they demanded for it--which comparatively few could; and what was thus brought was in a manner concealed, for the magistrate, by act of the Estates of Scotland, had the power to seize any store of grain, either in passing through the borough or concealed in it, and sell it to the people at their own price. This prevented those who could from importing it from a distance, save in small quantities. Helen's heart bled to see the famishing multitudes wandering along the beach at high water, like shadows--so thin, so wasted--looking with longing eyes for the retreat of the tide, that they might commence their search for any shellfish they could find upon the rocks, or any other substance which the ingenuity of man could convert to food, however loathsome, to satisfy the hunger that was consuming them. There were to be seen mothers, bearing their infants--unmindful of the rain that for days poured down, more or less; and fathers, more resembling spectres than men, either upon their knees in the middle of their family, imploring Heaven for aid, or following the wave in its slow retreat to the utmost bound with anxious looks, exulting if their search procured them a few limpets or whelks. During this tedious summer, William Kerr returned occasionally to his deserted farm; but it lay waste and uninviting, more resembling a swamp than arable land. His heart fell within him at the sight. No one had called; everything remained as it was; even the direction he had written upon his door, telling where he was to be found, remained undefaced, save by the pelting rain. Towards autumn the weather became more warm and dry, and promised a change for the better. The family, with joy, returned once more to the farm, to prepare for better seasons. As soon as they entered the cold damp house, where fire had not been kindled for many months, Colin, the faithful and sagacious dog, blind as he was, gave a feeble bark for joy, ran tottering round each well-remembered spot; then, stretching himself on his wonted lair beside the fire, which Helen was busy kindling, licked her hand as she patted his head, stretched his limbs, gave a faint howl, and expired. All felt as if they had lost a friend. This winter was more mild than any that had been remembered for many years, and gave token of an early and genial spring. The famine was still very severe; but hope began to appear in the faces of the most reduced and desponding. William Kerr procured seed corn from Stranraer, and distributed some among his less wealthy neighbours to sow their lands. For eleven long years no word had been received of Willie, the widow's son, as he had been called, although he had been often the subject of discourse at William Kerr's fireside. The little ebony box had never been opened since the day of the funeral. There was now little chance of his ever returning to receive its contents, and far less of Helen's ever leaving Minniegaff in quest of him; and, as Elizabeth had allowed Helen, if she chose, to read the papers, William and Grizzel proposed that she should do so. She immediately opened it, and took out the packet, which was neatly sealed, and tied by a riband. There was no direction upon it. Having broken it open, the first paper was found to be directed "To William B---- of B----;" and ran thus:-- "MY DEAR WILLIAM,--You will not have seen this until I am in the world of spirits, and I hope the communion of saints in heaven, through Jesus our Lord. You have ever believed that I am your parent; but I am not. I am only your aunt--your father being a much younger brother, who was the delight of his mother and myself; for, from his earliest dawning of reason, his mind was of a pious turn, and we loved him as much as he was the aversion of his father. His elder brother had engrossed all his parent's love; for he was more like himself, and cared not for anything that savoured of the fear of God. My father had been a cavalier, and suffered a share of his sovereign's misfortunes, and hated the Covenanters with a perfect hatred; but he interfered not with his pious wife in her mode of worship, until your father showed an aversion, when yet a boy, to join in the profanity and revelry which he and his elder son delighted in. It was after this that he began to storm and threaten his wife, for instilling her Puritanical notions, as he called them, into his children. We were immediately taken from her. I was sent to an aunt of his own opinion; and Andrew, your father, to the university in Paris. Your father I never heard of for some years. My mother I never saw again until she was upon her death-bed, when she gave me the jewels you will find in the box with this. Make a good use of them, and may they prove a blessing, in placing you above want, if I am taken away before you are claimed by your father, which he will do if he lives, and is allowed to return to Scotland; if not, you will be enabled to trace him out by their means. But I must proceed:--I was still residing with my father's aunt when your father returned to Scotland, bringing with him, from France, a Scottish lady of family, whom he had married there. Being very uncomfortably situated, I went to reside with him. The troubles about religion, which distracted the country, had been laying it waste for some time. Your father took a leading part for the Covenant, and joined the insurgents. The fatal battle of Bothwell Bridge was fought. Your father was dangerously wounded; but escaped. He was concealed by a faithful servant, and brought home, where we concealed him from the search that was made, until his recovery. Your mother, who was of a delicate constitution, never recovered the shock. She sickened, and died, before her husband was convalescent. Your father was obliged to fly his country in disguise; his property was confiscated, and a price set upon his head; for, though he had been seen to fall, his body had not been found. I was driven from his house, and retired to this wild as a place of security, of which I informed your father. He was, when I wrote this, at the Hague, a merchant, and wealthy. You were too young to remember any of these events, and I was as familiar in your sight as your sainted mother. If you apply to the Prince of Orange, should your father be dead, he will be your friend for his sake. "ELIZABETH B----." The next paper was a letter in a neat female hand, which had evidently been blotted by the tears either of the writer or the reader; for it was blistered in many places, and the ink effaced:-- "MY LOVING ELIZABETH,--Pity me, for my heart is broken. I am weighed down by many sorrows, and have no one to whom I can relieve this bursting heart but you. Alas! the illusions of love are gone. I am now the aversion of my lord. I fear his love for me is fled for ever, in spite of all my endeavours to please him. At the birth of my beauteous babe, he left the castle in displeasure. Unfeeling Charles! when I expected rapture in his eye at the sight of his child, he turned from it as if he loathed it, because it was not a boy. For eighteen months he has been in London, at the court, and returned only a few weeks since. Alas! how his manner is changed! I am treated with harshness and scorn. The only consolation I have now left he threatens to deprive me of, and send her, young as she is, to a nunnery in France, and make her profess. I have been on my knees again and again to my cruel lord, to allow me to be her companion. This he sternly refuses. Oh, teach me, my dear Eliza, how I may soften his obdurate heart! for, cruel as he is, I love him still, and would die a thousand deaths rather than offend him. Had I never loved him so sincerely, I never had been so miserable. Holy Virgin, be my aid! and all the saints befriend me! I know it is not because I am an unworthy daughter of the universal church that he now has ceased to love me; for he knew I was so before we wed. He, alas! cares for nothing holy; and, in his conversation, even favours the church of my faith. Again, I implore, advise and pity me, your poor and heart-broken "LOUISA B----." The only other paper was also a letter in the same hand, as follows:-- "MY DEAR ELIZABETH,--Fate has done its worst, and my heart is not broken, neither am I distracted. I am bereft of my treasure; it was torn from me by its unnatural father, with threats and imprecations. I know no more; for nature sank under his cruelty. When I recovered, my lord--now _my_ lord no longer--had left the castle. I would have followed, though I knew not whither; but I was detained a prisoner in my room, and denied the presence of every one, except strange menials he had appointed as my keepers. I have succeeded in my attempt, and am now with my uncle. I leave this land, in which I have suffered so much, for France, in search of my heart's treasure; nor will I cease my wanderings until I find my child. Farewell! perhaps for ever! "LOUISA B----." Helen and the now aged Grizzel shed tears over the sufferings of Louisa, replaced the papers, and wished that William might once more return, if it were for no more than to inquire if he could say whether his relation had found her child or not. The packet could reveal nothing to him but what he already knew. The following summer was genial and warm, and the crops luxuriant to profusion. Nature appeared anxious to make amends for the barrenness of the preceding years. Famine had disappeared, but poverty had laid its cold hand upon many a family who before had never known want. The more fortunate William Kerr and Helen distributed their aid with a liberal hand to all around them; his farm had resumed its wonted cheerful appearance; and Helen occasionally visited the Eldrich Stone, as she went out of a summer evening to meet the worthy farmer on his return from the hill. The harvest had been gathered in, and a public thanksgiving made in all the churches for its abundance, when, towards the end of the year, the worthy old minister died, beloved and regretted by all. His executor sent to William Kerr the small piece of paper his wife had found in the clothes of Helen, with a certificate of the date and circumstances carefully written out at the time. So little had they thought of it, as of any importance, that its existence was almost forgotten. Helen put it into the same box with the papers left in her charge by Elizabeth, and thought no more of it. Happy, loving and beloved by her foster parents, she had no other wish on earth but to see them happy by contributing to their comfort. The new incumbent of the parish, a pious young man, was most assiduous in the performance of his public duties--visiting all his parishioners with a parent's care, speaking consolation to the afflicted, and soothing down any little animosities that arose among them; but it was observed that he called oftener at William Kerr's, and remained longer there, than at any other of the houses in the parish; and it was whispered by the young maidens that Helen was, more than the old man and his wife, the inducement for these numerous and protracted visits. The truth was, that he loved Helen, and was not looked upon by her with indifference; his many virtues had won her esteem, which is near akin to love, and she received his attentions with a secret pleasure, though no declaration of love had yet been made by him. In one of their walks, which had been protracted more than usual, they were returning homewards by the Eldrich Stone. The evening was mild and serene for the season; Helen's arm was in his. She felt no fatigue, but stopped from habit at the much-loved spot. A thought of Willie passed through her mind; a faint wish to know if he were dead or alive rose in her bosom; and her head dropped with a sigh as she thought of his being numbered with the dead. The anxious lover remarked the change; and, taking Helen by the hand, inquired, with a tremulous voice, the cause of her melancholy. The ingenuous girl laid open to him the cause, and a pang of jealousy wrung his heart as he dropped her hand. "Helen," he would have said, "you love another;" but such was the agitation of his mind, that his tongue refused utterance to his thoughts. In silence they walked side by side to the farmer's, as if the faculty of speech had been taken from them. Contrary to his wont, the minister did not enter the gate to the enclosure, but, stopping short, wrung Helen's hand as he bade her good-night, and hurried away, before she could inquire the cause of his agitation. She burst into tears, and stood looking after him. He stopped, and with a quick step she saw him returning. She still stood in the same spot, her eyes following his every motion. Again he approached, and, leaning upon the gate where she still stood, said, in a voice almost choked-- "Helen, do you love that person?" "As a brother I love him, and cherish his memory," the agitated Helen replied. A groan burst from the minister, as he ran from the spot. Helen entered the house, for the first time in her life, a prey to anguish. What could be the cause of the sudden change in the manners of the minister, she was at a loss to conceive. She retired to bed, but not to rest. For several days she saw nothing of her lover. He had never left the manse. On the Sabbath following, Helen and her parents were in their usual place in the church; but she had a shade of care upon her lovely countenance which no one had ever seen there before. Contrary to her wont, her eyes were never once directed to the pulpit; while the preacher sought her face with more than usual anxiety. Although there was a tremulousness in his voice at the commencement of the service, he preached with more than his usual eloquence and fervour. At the conclusion of the service, the pious hearers crowded round their pastor; but it was remarked that, although William Kerr and his wife shook hands with him, Helen passed on out of the churchyard unaccompanied by him, and without being recognised. The worthy pair were not less astonished than the rest of the spectators, and wondered much what could have caused the change. On their way home, they inquired at Helen, who, without reserve, gave them an account of all that had occurred at their last interview. The good dame smiled. "He will soon come back again," said she; "it's a good sign--only a little jealousy of Willie." "I am sure," replied Helen, "he need not be jealous of my loving my brother; for I shall always love him as such." Grizzel was right: in the course of the following week the minister was as much abroad as ever, and spent more than his usual time with the Kerrs. All was explained to the satisfaction of both parties, and a mutual declaration of love followed. Helen Kerr was soon after led a bride to the manse, and became its ornament and boast. With the plenishing of the bride, the old carved oak chest of Elizabeth was also taken, the ebony box was opened, and, for the first time, her husband knew of the treasure possessed by his wife. With a playful violence he pushed it from him, and clasped her in his arms. "Helen," said he, "you are the jewel I prize; put away from my sight these baubles. But what papers are these?" "I am afraid to let you look upon them," said she, "for they are Willie's; and it is dangerous for me, you know, to speak of _him_." She undid the riband, and handed them to him. He read them over with care, along with the slip of paper written in French, and compared the hand in which it was written with the two letters. Resting his head upon his hand, he mused for some time, then again compared them, and seemed lost in thought. "Helen," said he, at length, "a strange fancy has taken possession of me--that you are, in some way or other, connected with these papers. It is so improbable, that I am greatly at a loss to conceive how it can be; yet the conviction is not the less strong upon my mind. There is a similarity in the handwriting of the letters that struck me at once. Their date, and the date of my predecessor's certificate, are very near each other; there is not a month between the first letter and the certificate; and the second letter is a short time after the date of that document. It is very strange; and God, in his good time, if agreeable to his will, may bring all to light." About eighteen months after this conversation, Helen, one day, as was her wont, had walked over to William Kerr's, with her young son in her arms, to spend an hour or two with them, and wait until her husband called, on his return to the manse from his visits. William had the babe in his arms, and was talking, with all the fondness of age, about its mother, when he first had her on his knees in the same chair and at the same hearth. Their attention was excited by the tramp of horses' feet approaching the house. Helen started up, and ran to the window to see who it might be. She could not recognise them: it was a gentleman in a military undress, attended by a servant. The first dismounted, and, giving his horse to the attendant, stepped hastily to the door, which he opened with the freedom of an old acquaintance, and, before she could leave the window, he was in the room. Helen recognised him at a glance. "It is Willie, father!" she cried, in a voice of joy. "I am so happy to see you again, and well!--for we all thought you had been dead." It was indeed Willie; but he appeared not to partake of the joy of those who greeted him with such fervour. He gazed at Helen, and then at the babe she now held in her arms, in silence; and a deep shade of disappointment clouded his brow. He had stood thus for a minute or two in silence, with a hand of each of the old people grasped in his. Helen felt awkward and abashed at his melancholy and imploring glance, and, turning from it, appeared busy with her son. Willie seated himself, and seemed as if in a fit of abstraction, his eyes still fixed on the object of his early love, and strong emotion depicted on his countenance. The sight of the child had awakened suspicions which he was not for a time able to confirm or dissipate by a simple question; and his agitation was so extreme, that no one present could call up resolution enough to explain to him how or when Helen had changed her situation. The silence was painful to all, but to none more than to Willie himself; for he could read in the looks of William and Grizzel the reason why they were unwilling to speak. They felt for him; and Helen's eye was filled with a tear, as she looked up blushingly into the face of one who had claimed the first love offering of her virgin heart. This state of painful and too eloquent silence was put an end to by him who had most to dread from a disclosure. Starting, as if by an effort forcing himself out of a train of thoughts, he held out his finger, and pointed to the babe that was looking up smiling into the face of Helen, in whose eye the tear still stood-- "Is it possible, Helen?" said he, in a voice choking with strong emotion, and unable to get out the rest of the sentence, the meaning of which his pointed finger sufficiently indicated. Helen was silent; the blush rose higher on her face, and the tear dropped on the face of the child. William and Grizzel looked at each other, as if each wished the other to speak. "Speak, Helen," said Willie, partly recovering himself. "Can it be----?" and he again faltered. His emotion stopped still more effectually the voice of Helen, who hid her face on the breast of her child. "Indeed, and it is just sae," at last said Grizzel. "That is Helen's bairn, and as bonny a ane it is as she was hersel when we found her by the Eldrich Stane, wi' her head restin on the side o' puir auld Colin, wha is since dead. Ah, Willie! ye hae yersel to blame; for ye never let us ken whether ye were dead or alive." Willie drew his hand over his eyes, and was silent. There was another subject that pressed upon his heart, and one which he equally feared to broach by a question. "And Elizabeth--my more than mother!" he ejaculated, in a broken voice--"what of her?" "She's in the kirkyard o' Minniegaff," answered Grizzel. "The sods are again grown thegither, and the grass is hail and green owre her grave." "Oh, did I expect to meet all this!" muttered the unhappy man, as he held his hands upon his face. There was again silence in the cottage. "Had my dear friend plenty, and was she well cared for in her last moments?" he continued, with the same broken voice. "Nane o' us had plenty at that dreadfu time," answered Grizzel; "death was the only creature that seemed to hae aneugh. We killed auld Hawky to save the life o' puir Elizabeth; but her time was come. She died i' the fear o' God; and you, Willie, that was her only love on earth, was her last thought, as she left this warld for that better ane whar friends dinna forget their auld benefactors." "You are unkind, Grizzel," said he, "to add to my present sorrow by the reproof contained in that hint. I have to you the appearance of being undutiful; but I was so situated that it was not in my power to communicate with her by letter; and to visit her in person was impossible. I would have been here years since, if I could have accomplished it; for I can solemnly declare my heart has been ever here." "I believe ye, Willie," replied Grizzel. "I was owre hasty. Ye could hae dune her nae guid, even if ye had been here; for at that time the hand o' God was upon our sinfu land, and the assistance o' man was o' nae avail. But your Helen mightna hae been the minister's wife this day, if ye had been mair mindfu o' Minniegaff and yer auld friends." The secret which was paining Willie was now fully revealed. The sad truth that he had lost her of whom he had dreamed for years in foreign lands, and to see whom he had journeyed night and day, with the hope of being blessed at the termination of his journey, was fully disclosed. With not again seeing Elizabeth, he had laid his account; but that he should lose Helen had never once entered his mind; and the intelligence, accompanied as it was with the painful vision of seeing her a mother, with the pledge of her love for another sitting smiling on her knee, was too painful to be endured. For some time he again sat silent and moody; but the evil was of that irremediable nature that often contributes to its cure; and, as the first emotion wore off, he gratified his auditors with a statement of what had befallen himself since he left Minniegaff. "It was with a trusty servant I left Elizabeth to join my father in London, who had come over from his long exile in the train of King William. Upon my arrival, I was received with rapture by my beloved parent, and introduced to my sovereign. Proper masters were engaged to finish my education. As soon as I was thought ready, I received a captain's commission in the army, and set out with my regiment for Ireland. I was present at the battle of the Boyne, where my uncle fell--he having joined the army of James; and my father became, by this event, the representative of the family. Being in favour with the court, the attainder was reversed. I rose rapidly, and had important trusts committed to my charge, which required my utmost vigilance. My mind was so occupied with public affairs, that I had little time for indulging in my own private feelings. I heard of the sufferings in Scotland, and wrote twice; but these letters appear not to have reached, as I received no answer. I could not send a special messenger, as I was in another country, and had no one I could with confidence trust. I was also in hopes, from year to year, of being relieved, and coming in person; and thus twelve tedious years have rolled on." Willie had just finished, when Helen's husband entered, and was introduced by her. Willie shook hands with him, but not with that cordiality he had done with the former. There was during tea a constraint, which gradually wore off; and mutual confidence being restored, they were as open with each other and kind, as if they had long been friends. The minister said that he had papers in his possession which Elizabeth had left in Helen's charge, and which he and Helen had read, as Elizabeth had allowed; and mentioned the strange surmises he had regarding the connection his wife had with them. Willie listened in mute astonishment, and the conflict that was passing in his mind was strongly marked upon his open and generous countenance. "It cannot be," he said at length; "for my uncle always declared that he had sent his child to France by a trusty agent, from whence he had letters of their safe arrival. He showed these letters to the relations of his wife, my aunt-in-law, but never would inform them where he had placed her, or who the agent was. My aunt, who is still alive, has used every effort to learn its fate, in vain, and still mourns the loss of her babe." The minister afterwards walked over to the manse and brought the papers. Willie at once recognised the handwriting as that of his aunt. Rising, he embraced Helen, kissed her cheek, and owned her for his cousin. Next morning his servant was sent off express to H---- Castle, with a packet to his aunt, who had for several years resided there--having given up her fruitless search on the Continent. In a few days she arrived at the manse, and embraced Helen as her long-lost daughter. The scrap of paper she kissed again and again, as the means of her present happiness. The silken dress in which Helen was found had been carefully preserved. She had sewed it with her own hand, and it had been last put on by herself; for Grizzel thought it too fine for her to wear. Not a doubt remained. Willie, the widow's son, joined the army again, and made a conspicuous figure in the wars of Queen Anne. Helen's mother took up her residence in the manse, and once more, in the close of her life, enjoyed that happiness in her grandchildren's infancy she had been denied in her own. The unfeigned piety and example of her daughter and her husband gradually weaned her from her early faith, which had been much shaken, in her melancholy hours, by the studies she had pursued to solace her grief. Till her death she was a devout member of her son-in-law's flock, and is yet remembered to have been heard talked of as the Good Lady. THE ORDER OF THE GARTER. A STORY OF WARK CASTLE. A little above Coldstream, on the south side of the Tweed, stands the village of Wark, where a walled mound is all that remains to point out where its proud castle once stood. "We know that," some dweller on the Borders may exclaim; "but what has Wark Castle to do with the Order of the Garter?" Our answer to this question simply is, that, if tradition may be trusted, or the historian Froissart believed, but for Wark Castle, and there would have been no Order of the Garter. But this the following story will show:--It was early in the autumn of 1342 that David Bruce, King of Scotland, led an army across the Borders, and laid waste the towns and villages of Northumberland, as far as Newcastle. The invading army seized upon the cattle, the flocks, the goods, and the gold of the Northumbrians; and they were returning, overladen with spoils, when they passed within two miles of Wark Castle, which was then the property of the Earl of Salisbury. The earl was absent; but, on the highest turret of the castle, stood his countess, the peerless Joan Plantagenet, daughter of the Earl of Kent, and cousin of King Edward. Her fair cheeks glowed, and her bright eyes flashed indignation, as she beheld the long line of the Scottish army pass by, laden with the plunder of her countrymen. "Am not I a Plantagenet?" she exclaimed--"flows not the blood of England in my veins?--and shall I tamely behold our enemies parade the spoils of my country before mine eyes? Ho! warden!" she continued, in a louder tone, "send hither Sir William Montague." Sir William was the brother of her husband, and the governor of the castle. "Behold!" said she, sternly, as the governor approached, and pointing towards the Scottish army. "Is it well that we should look like imprisoned doves upon yon rebel host? Or shall ye, Sir Governor, discharge your duty to your sovereign, if ye strike not one blow for England and revenge?" "Fair sister," returned the knight, "ere an hour after nightfall, and the cry, 'For England and the Rose of Wark!' shall burst as the shout of death upon the ears of our enemies. A troop of forty horsemen wait but my word to become the messengers of vengeance." "Good, my brother," she replied, while her former frown relaxed into a smile; "and each man who hath done his duty shall, on his return, drink a cup of wine from the hands of Joan Plantagenet." Darkness began to gather round the turrets of the castle, and on the highest the gentle figure of the countess was still indistinctly visible; now walking round it with impatient steps, and again gazing eagerly to obtain another glance of the Scottish army, or counting the fires which sprung up along the lines where it had encamped for the night, when Sir William and forty of the garrison, mounted on fleet steeds, sallied from the gate of the outer wall. "Our ladye speed ye, gallant hearts!" said the fair Joan, as she beheld them sweep past like a dark cloud on their work of blood. The Scottish army were encamped a little beyond Carham, carousing around their fires from flagons filled with the best wine they had found in the cellars of the Northumbrian nobility; over the fires, suspended from poles, were skins of sheep and of bullocks, rudely sewed into the form of bags, and filled with water--these served them as pots, and the flesh of the animals was boiled in their own skins. Amongst the revellers were veterans who had fought by the side of Wallace and Bruce; and, while some recounted the deeds of the patriot, and inspired their comrades with accounts of his lion-like courage and prodigious strength, others, with the goblet in hand, fought Bannockburn o'er again. Thus the song, the jest, the laugh, the tale of war, and the wine-cup went round, amidst the bustle of culinary preparations, and each man laid his arms aside, and gave himself up to enjoyment and security. Suddenly there arose upon their mirth the trampling and the neighing of war-steeds, the clang of shields, and the shouts of armed men, and naked swords gleamed through the fire-light. "For England and the Rose of Wark!" exclaimed Sir William Montague--"For England and our ladye!" echoed his followers. They rushed through the Scottish lines like a whirlwind, trampling the late revellers beneath their horses' feet, and fleshing their swords in the bodies of unarmed men. For a time they left carnage behind them, and spread consternation before them. The surprise and panic of the Scottish army, however, were of short duration. "To horse!--to horse!" rang through the camp, and they began to enclose the small but desperate band of assailants on every side. "England is revenged! To the castle with our spoils!" cried Sir William; and they retreated towards Wark, carrying with them a hundred and sixty horses laden with plunder, while the Scots pursued them to the very gates. The countess hastened to the outer gate to meet them; and as, by the torches borne by her attendants, she surveyed the number of horses they had taken, and the rich booty which they bore-- "Thanks, Sir William!" cried she--"thanks, my gallant countrymen--ye have done bravely; merry England hath still its chivalrous and stout hearts upon the Borders. To-night shall each man pledge his ladye love in the ruddy wine." But there was one who welcomed Sir William Montague's return with silent tears--the gentle Madeline Aubrey, the companion of Joan Plantagenet, and the orphan daughter of a valiant knight, who had won his golden spurs by the side of the first Edward, and laid down his life in defence of his imbecile son. Madeline was, perhaps, less beautiful than the countess; but her very looks spoke love--love, ardent, tender, and sincere. Hers was the beauty of the summer moon kissing the quiet lake, when the nightingale offers up its song--lovely and serene; Joan's was as the sun flashing upon the gilded sea--receiving the morning worship of the lark, and demanding admiration. "Wherefore are ye sad, my sweet Madeline?" said Sir William, tenderly, as he drew off his gauntlet, and took her fair hand in his. "Joy ye not that I have returned sound in life and limb?" "Yes, I joy that my William is safe," answered Madeline; "but will our safety last? Think ye not that ye have done desperately, and that the Scottish king, with to-morrow's sun, will avenge the attack ye have made on his camp to-night?" "St George! and I pray he may!" added Sir William. "I am the dependant of my brother, with no fortune but my sword; and I should glory, beneath the eyes of my Madeline, to win such renown as would gain a dowery worthy of her hand." "When that hand is given," added she, "your Madeline will seek no honour but her William's heart." "Well, sweetest," rejoined he, "I know that ye rejoice not in the tournament, nor delight in the battle-field; yet would ye mourn to see your own true knight vanquished in the one, or turn craven on the other. Let Scotland's king besiege us if he will, and then with this good sword shall I prove my love for Madeline." "Madeline is an orphan," added she, "and the sword hath made her such. She knows your courage as she knows your love, and she asks no farther proofs. The deed of chivalry may make the ladye proud of her knight, but it cannot win her affection." "Well, sweet one," said he, playfully, "I should love to see thy pretty face in a monk's cowl, for thou dost preach of peace right potently. But come, love, wherefore are ye so sad--what troubles thee?" "'Tis for you I fear," she replied. "I know your daring, and I know that danger threatens us; and oh! Madeline's hands could not deck your bosom for the battle; though, in her own breast, she would receive the stroke of death to shield it. For my sake, be not too rash; for oh! in the silent hours of midnight--when the spirits of the dead visit the earth, and the souls of the living mingle with them in dreams--I have seen my father and my mother, and they have seemed to weep over their orphan--they have called on me to follow them; and I have thought of you, and the shout of the battle, and the clash of swords have mingled in my ears; and when I would have clasped your hands, the shroud has appeared my bridal garment." "Come, love, 'tis an idle fancy," said he, tenderly; "dream no more. But that they have mewed me up in this dull castle, where honour seeks me not, and reward awaits not, and ere now my Madeline had worn her wedding-garment. But cheer up; for your sake I will not be rash, though, for that fair brow I would win a coronet." "'Tis an honour that I covet not," said she; "nor would I risk thy safety for a moment to wear a crown." Madeline was right in her apprehension that King David would revenge the attack that had been made upon the rear of his army. When, with the morning sun, he beheld two hundred of his soldiers lying dead upon the ground--"Now, by my halidome," said he, "and for this outrage, I will not leave one stone of Wark Castle upon another, but its ruins shall rise as a cairn over the graves of these men." Before noon, the entire Scottish host were encamped around the castle; and the young king sent a messenger to the gates, demanding the countess and Sir William to surrender. "Surrender! boasting Scot!" said the chivalrous Joan; "doth your boy king think that a Plantagenet will yield to a Bruce! Back and tell him that, ere a Scot among ye enter these gates, ye shall tread Joan Plantagenet in the dust; and the bodies of the bravest of your army shall fill the ditches of the castle, that their comrades may pass over." "I take not my answer from a woman's tongue," replied the herald; "what say ye, Sir Governor? Do ye surrender in peace, or choose ye that we raze Wark Castle with the ground?" "If King David can, he may," was the brief and bold reply of Sir William Montague; "yet it were better for him that he should have tarried in Scotland until his beard be grown, than that he should attempt it." "Ye speak boldly," answered the herald; "but ye shall not fare the worse, by reason of your free speech, when a passage shall be made through these walls for the Scottish army to enter." The messenger having intimated the refusal of the governor to surrender to his prince, preparations were instantly made to commence the siege. The besieged, however, did not behold the preparations of their enemies and remain inactive. Every means of defence was got in readiness. The countess hastened from post to post, inspiring the garrison with words of heroism, and stimulating them with rewards. Even the gentle Madeline showed that her soul could rise with the occasion worthy of a soldier's love; and she, too, went from man to man, cheering them on, and with her sweet and silver tones seemed to rob even death of half its terror. Sir William's heart swelled with delight as he beheld her mild eye lighted up with enthusiasm, and heard her voice, which was as music to his ear, giving courage to the faint-hearted, and heroism to the brave. "Heaven bless my Madeline!" said he, taking her hand; "ye have taught me to know what true courage is, and our besiegers shall feel it. They may raze the walls of the castle with the ground, as they have threatened; but it shall be at a price that Scotland can never forget; and even then, my Madeline shall be safe. Farewell now, love, but as night gathers round, we must again prepare to assume the part of assailants." "You must!--I know you must!" she replied; "yet be not too rash--attempt not more than a brave man ought--or all may be lost; you, too, may perish, and who, then, would protect your Madeline?" He pressed her hand to his breast--again he cried, "Farewell!" and, hastening to a troop of horsemen who only waited his commands to sally from the gate upon the camp of their besiegers, the drawbridge was let down, and, at the head of his followers, he dashed upon the nearest point of the Scottish army. Deadly was the carnage which, for a time, they spread around; and, as they were again driven back and pursued to the gate, their own dead and their wounded were left behind. Frequently and suddenly were such sallies made, as the falcon watcheth its opportunity and darteth on its prey, and as frequently were they driven back, but never without leaving proof to the Scottish monarch at what a desperate price Wark Castle was to be purchased. Frequently, too, as they rushed forth, the countess eagerly and impatiently beheld them from the turrets; and, as the harvest-moon broke upon their armour, she seemed to watch every flash of their swords, waving her hand with exultation, or raising her voice in a strain of triumph. But by her side stood Madeline, gazing, not less eagerly, and not less interested, on the work of danger and despair; but her eyes were fixed upon one only--the young leader of the chivalrous band who braved death for England and their ladye's sake. She also watched the flashing of the swords; but her eyes sought those only which glanced where the brightest helmet gleamed and the proudest plume waved. Often the contest was beneath the very walls of the castle, and she could hear her lover's voice, and behold him dashing as a thunderbolt into the midst of his enemies. Obstinate, however, as the resistance of the garrison was, and bloody as the price, indeed, seemed at which the castle was to be purchased, David had too much of the Bruce in his blood to abandon the siege. He began to fill the ditches, and he ordered engines to be prepared to batter down the walls. The ditches were filled, and, before the heavy and ponderous blows of the engines, a breach was made in the outer wall, and with a wild shout a thousand of the Scottish troops rushed into the outer court. "Joan Plantagenet disdains ye still!" cried the dauntless countess. "Quail not, brave hearts," she exclaimed, addressing the garrison, who, with deadly aim, continued showering their arrows upon the besiegers; "before I yield, Wark Castle shall be my funeral pile!" "And mine!" cried Sir William, as an arrow glanced from his hand, and became transfixed in the visor of one of the Scottish leaders. Madeline glanced towards him, and her eyes, yet beaming with courage, seemed to say, "_And mine!_" "And ours!" exclaimed the garrison--"and ours!" they repeated more vehemently; and, waving their swords, "Hurrah!" cried they, "for our ladye, St George, and merry England!" It was the shout of valiant but despairing men. Yet, as the danger rose, and as hope became less and less, so rose the determination of the countess. She was present to animate at every place of assault. She distributed gold amongst them; her very jewels she gave in presents to the bravest; but, though they had shed much of the best blood in the Scottish army, their defence was hopeless, and their courage could not save them. Almost their last arrow was expended, and they were repelling their assailants from the inner wall with their spears, when _Want_, the most formidable enemy of the besieged, began to assail them from within. It was now that the gentle Madeline, when Sir William endeavoured to inspire her with hope, replied, "I fear not to die--to die with you!--but tell me not of hope--it is not to be found in the courage of the brave garrison, whom famine is depriving of their strength. There is one hope for us--only one; but it is a desperate hope, and I would rather die than risk the life of another." "Nay, name it, dearest," said Sir William, eagerly; "and if the heart or hand of man can accomplish it, it shall be attempted." Madeline hesitated. "Speak, silly one," said the countess, who had overheard them--"where lies your hope? Could true knight die in nobler cause? Name it: for I wot ye have a wiser head than a bold heart." "Name it, do, dear Madeline," entreated Sir William. "King Edward is now in Yorkshire," she replied; "could a messenger be despatched to him, the castle might hold out until he hastened to our assistance." "St George! and 'tis a happy thought!" replied the countess. "I have not seen my cousin Edward since we were children together; but how know ye that he is in Yorkshire? I expected that, ere now, he was conquering the hearts of the dark-eyed dames of Brittany, while his arms conquered the country." "In dressing the wounds of the aged Scottish nobleman," answered Madeline, "who was yesterday brought into the castle, he informed me." "What think _ye_ of _your_ fair ladye's plan for our deliverance, good brother?" inquired the countess, addressing the governor. "Madeline said it would be a desperate attempt," replied he, thoughtfully--"and it would, indeed, be desperate--it is impossible." "Out on thy knighthood, man!" rejoined the countess. "Is this the far-famed chivalry of Sir William Montague? Why, it is the proposition of your own fair ladye, whom, verily, ye cannot believe chivalrous to a fault. But is it to Joan Plantagenet that ye talk of impossibilities? I will stake thee my dowery against fair Madeline's, I find a hundred men in this poor garrison ready to dare and do what you declare impossible." "You find not _two_, fair sister," said Sir William, proudly. "Oh, say not _one_--not _one_!" whispered Madeline, earnestly. Upon every man in the castle did the countess urge the dangerous mission--she entreated, she threatened, she offered the most liberal, the most tempting rewards; but the boldest rejected them with dismay. The Scottish army lay encompassing them around--their sentinels were upon the watch almost at every step, and to venture beyond the gate of the castle seemed but to meet death and to seek it. "At midnight have my fleetest horse in readiness," said Sir William, addressing his attendant--"what no man dare, I will!" "My brother!--thanks!--thanks!" exclaimed the countess, in a tone of joy. Madeline clasped her hands together--her cheeks became pale--her voice faltered--she burst into tears. "Weep not, loved one," said Sir William; "the heavens favour the enterprise which my Madeline conceived. Should the storm increase, there is hope--it is possible--it will be accomplished." And, while he yet spoke, the lightning glared along the walls of the castle, and the loud thunder pealed over the battlements. Yet Madeline wept, and repented that she had spoken of the possibility of deliverance. As it drew towards midnight, the terrors of the storm increased, and the fierce hail poured down in sheets and rattled upon the earth; the thunder almost incessantly roared louder and more loud; or, when it ceased, the angry wind moaned through the woods, like a chained giant in the grasp of an enemy; and the impenetrable darkness was rendered more dismal by the blue glare of the lightning flashing to and fro. Silently the castle gate was unbarred; and Sir William, throwing himself into the saddle, dashed his spurs into the sides of his courser, which bounded off at its utmost speed, followed by the adieux of his countrymen, and the prayers and the tears of Madeline. The gate was scarce barred behind him ere he was dashing through the midst of the Scottish host. But the noise of the warring elements drowned the trampling of his horse's feet, or where they were indistinctly heard for a few moments, the sound had ceased, and the horse and its rider were invisible, ere the sentinels, who had sought refuge from the fury of the storm in the tents, could perceive them. He passed through the Scottish lines in safety; and, proceeding by way of Morpeth and Newcastle, on the third day he reached the camp of King Edward, near Knaresborough. The gay and chivalrous monarch, at the head of a portion of his army, like a true knight, hastened to the relief of his distressed cousin. David, however, having heard of the approach of Edward, at the head of an army more numerous than his own, and his nobles representing to him that the rich and weighty booty which they had taken in their inroad into England, together with the oxen and the horses, would be awkward encumbrances in a battle, he reluctantly abandoned the siege of the castle, and commenced his march towards Jed Forest, about six hours before the arrival of Edward and Sir William Montague. Madeline took the hand of her lover as he entered, and tears of silent joy fell down her cheeks; but the countess forgot to thank him, in her eagerness to display her beauty and her gratitude in the eyes of her sovereign and kinsman. The young monarch gazed, enraptured, on the fair face of his lovely cousin; and it was evident, while he gazed in her eyes, he thought not of gentle Philippa, the wife of his boyhood; nor was it less evident that she, flattered by the gallantry of her princely relative, forgot her absent husband, though in the presence of his brother. Edward, finding that it would be imprudent to follow the Scottish army into the forest, addressing the countess, said, "Our knights expected, fair coz, to have tried the fair temper of their lances on the Scottish shields, but, as it may not be, in honour of your deliverance, to-morrow we proclaim a tournament to be held in the castle-yard, when each true knight shall prove on the morion of his antagonist whose ladye-love is the fairest." The eyes of the countess flashed joy; and she smiled, well pleased at the proposal of the sovereign; but Madeline trembled as she heard it. Early on the following morning the castle-yard was fitted up for the tournament. The monarch and the countess were seated on a dais covered with a purple canopy, and the latter held in her hand a ring which gleamed as a morning star, and which the monarch had taken from his finger, that she might bestow it upon the victor. Near their feet sat Madeline, an unwilling spectator of the conflict. The names of the combatants were known to the pursuivants only, and each entered the lists armed with lance and spear, with their visors down, and having, for defence, a shield, a sort of cuirass, the helmet, gauntlet, and gorget. Several knights had been wounded, and many dismounted; but the interest of the day turned upon the combat of two who already had each discomfited three. They contended long and keenly; their strength, their skill, their activity seemed equal. Victory hung suspended between them. "Our ladye!" exclaimed the monarch, rising with delight; "but they fight bravely! Who may they be? Were it not that he cannot yet be in England, I should say the knight in dark armour is Sir John Aubrey." Madeline uttered a suppressed scream, and cast round a look of mingled agony and surprise at the monarch; but the half-stifled cry was drowned by the spectators, who, at that moment, burst into a shout; the knight in dark armour was unhorsed--his conqueror suddenly placed his lance to his breast, but as suddenly withdrew it; and, stretching out his mailed hand to the other, said, "Rise, mine equal! 'twas thy horse's fault, and none of thine, that chance gave me the victory, though I wished it much." The conqueror of the day approached the canopy beneath which the monarch and the countess sat, and, kneeling before the dais, received the ring from her hands. While she had held the splendid bauble in her hands during the contest, conscious of her own beauty, of which Border minstrel and foreign troubadour had sung, she expected, on placing it in those of the victor, to behold it in homage laid again at her feet. But it was not so. The knight, on receiving it, bowed his head, and, stepping back again, knelt before the more lowly seat of Madeline. "Accept this, dear Madeline," whispered he; and she blushed and startled at the voice which she knew and loved. The countess cast a glance of envy on her companion as she beheld the victor at her feet; yet it was but one, which passed away as the young monarch poured his practised flatteries in her ear. The king commanded that the two last combatants should raise their visors. The victor, still standing by the side of Madeline, obeyed. It was Sir William Montague. "Ha! Montague!" said the monarch, "it is you! Well, for your gallant bearing to-day, you shall accompany us to France--we shall need such hands as thine to secure the sceptre of our lawful kingdom. But what modest flower is this that ye deck with your hard-won diamond?" added he, glancing towards Madeline; and, without waiting a reply, he turned to the countess, saying, "Is she of thy suite, dear coz? She hath a fair face, worthy the hand-maiden of beauty's queen." The countess liked not his inquiries, but, nevertheless, was flattered by the compliment with which he concluded; and she replied that she was the orphan daughter of her father's friend, and the worshipful divinity of Sir William. The other combatant now approached also; and, kneeling in front of the dais, raised his visor. "Aubrey!" exclaimed the monarch. "My brother!" cried Madeline, starting to his side. "Your brother?" responded Sir William. "What! my little Madeline a woman?" replied the stranger. "Bless thee, my own sister!" "What!" exclaimed the monarch, "the paragon of our tournament the sister of bold Aubrey? And you, too, the combatant against her chosen champion! Had ye spilled blood on either side, this day's sport might have spoiled a bridal. But whence come ye, Aubrey, and when?" "My liege," replied the other, "having arrived at Knaresborough on the day after the departure of your majesty, I hastened hither to inform your grace that France lies open to our arms, and our troops are eager to embark." In a few days Edward left Wark, leaving behind him a powerful garrison for the defence of the castle; but he had left it desolate to poor Madeline, for he had taken to accompany him, on his invasion of France, her betrothed husband and her brother. That brother whom she had met but three days before, she had not seen from childhood--nor was she certain that he lived--for he had been a soldier from his boyhood, and his life had been spent in the camp and in foreign wars; while she had been nurtured under the protection of the Countess of Salisbury. It was about seven years after the events we have alluded to had occurred, that Edward, covered with all the fame of a conqueror, if not the advantages of conquest, returned to England. During his victories and the din of war, however, he had not forgotten the beauty of his fair cousin, whose glances had bewildered him at Wark Castle; and now, when he returned, his admiration was renewed, and she appeared as the first favourite of his court. He had provided a royal banquet for the nobles and the knights who had distinguished themselves during the French wars. A thousand lights blazed in the noble hall--martial music pealed around--and hundreds of the brightest eyes in England looked love and delight. The fairest and the noblest in the land thronged the assembly. Jewels sparkled and studded the gorgeous apparel of the crowd. In the midst of the hall walked the gay and courtly monarch, with the fair Joan of Salisbury resting on his arm. They spoke of their first meeting at Wark, of the siege and the tournament, and again they whispered, and hands were pressed, and looks exchanged; and, while they walked together, a blue garter, decked with gold, pearls, and precious stones, and which, with a golden buckle, had fastened the sandal of the fair Joan round the best-turned ankle in the hall, became loose and entangled among her feet. The countess blushed; and the monarch, with the easy unembarrassment and politeness of a practised gallant, stooped to fasten the unfortunate riband. As the nobles beheld the sovereign kneel with the foot of the fair countess on his knee, a hardly suppressed smile ran through the assembly. But, observing the smile upon the face of his nobles, the monarch rose proudly, and, with the garter in his hand, exclaimed, "_Honi soit qui mal y pense_!"--"Shame be to him who thinks ill of it!" and buckling the garter round his left knee, he added, "Be this the Order of St George!--and the proudest monarchs and most valiant knights in Christendom shall be proud to be honoured with the emblem of thy garter, fair coz." Scarce, however, was the royal banquet closed, when the voice of lamentation was heard in every house, though the mourners went not about the streets; for the living feared to follow their dead to the sepulchre. The angel of death breathed upon the land; he stretched out his wings and covered it--at his breath the land sickened--beneath the shadow of his wings the people perished. The green fields became as a wilderness, and death and desolation reigned in the market-places. Along the streets moved cavalcades of the dead--the hearse of the noble and the car of the citizen; and the dead bodies of the poor were picked up upon the streets! The churchyards rose as hills, and fields were turned up for the dead! The husband fled from his dying wife; the mother feared to kiss her own child; and the bridegroom turned in terror from her who was to have been his bride upon the morn. There was no cry heard but "The dead!--the dead!" The plague walked in silence, sweeping its millions from the earth, laughing at the noisy slaughter of the sword, making kings to tremble, and trampling upon conquerors as dust. Such was the state of London, when Sir William Montague and Sir John Aubrey arrived from France. In every street they met the long trains of the dead being borne to their grave; but the living had deserted them; and, if they met an occasional passenger, fear and paleness were upon his face. They hurried along the streets in silence--for each would have concealed his thoughts from the other--but the thoughts of both were of Madeline; and the one trembled lest he should find his betrothed, the other his sister, with the dead! They proceeded to the house of the Duchess of Salisbury; but they were told that she had fled, to seek a place of refuge from the destroying glance of the pestilence. From the domestics, however, they learned that Madeline had ceased to be the companion of the duchess; but they were also directed where they would find her, with a friend in the city--if she yet lived! But, added their informants, they had heard that, in the street which they named, the inhabitants died faster than the living could bury them. When the haughty Joan became the acknowledged favourite of the king, she was no longer a meet friend or protector to the gentle Madeline; and the latter had taken up her residence in the house of a merchant, who, in his youth, had fought by her father's side; and where, if she enjoyed not the splendour and the luxuries of wealth, neither was she clothed with the trappings of shame. With anxious steps the betrothed husband and the brother hastened to the dwelling of the merchant. They reached it. "Doth Madeline Aubrey reside here?" inquired they in the same breath. "Does she live?--does she live?" "She doth reside here," answered the citizen, "and--the saints be praised!--good Madeline hath escaped, with my whole house; and I believe it is for her sake, though she feareth no more the breath of the pestilence, than though it were healthsome as the summer breeze bearing the fragrance of the May-thorn. But, belike, ye would speak with her, gentlemen--ye may step in, good sirs, and wait till her return." Her brother started back. "Gracious Heaven! can my Madeline be abroad at a time like this!" exclaimed Sir William, "when men tremble to meet each other, and the hands of friends convey contagion! Can ye inform us, good man, where we shall find her?" "Nay, that I cannot," answered he; "for, as I have told ye, sweet Madeline feareth not the plague, but walketh abroad as though it existed not; and now, doubtless, she is soothing the afflicted, or handing a cup of water to the dying stranger, whom his own kindred have fled from and forsaken, when the evil came upon him. But, as ye seem acquainted with her, will not ye tarry till she come?" They gazed towards each other with horror and with fear; yet, in the midst of their apprehensions and dismay, each admired the more than courage of her of whom Joan Plantagenet had said that she had more wisdom of head than boldness of heart. They entered the house, and they sat down together in silence. Slowly, wearily the moments passed on, each strengthening anxiety, each pregnant with agony. "She may never return!" groaned Sir William; "for the healthy have been smitten down upon the streets; and the wretched hirelings, who make a harvest of death, have borne to the same grave the dying with the dead!" At length a light footstep was heard upon the stairs. They started to their feet. The door opened, and Madeline, more beautiful than ever they had beheld her, stood before them. "My own!--my Madeline!" cried Sir William, hastening to meet her. "My sister!" exclaimed her brother. Her head rested on the bosom of those she loved; and, in the rapture of the moment, the pestilence and the desolation that reigned around were forgotten. At length, the danger to which she had exposed herself recurring to his mind-- "Let us flee from this horrid charnel-house, dearest," said Sir William, "to where our bridal may not be mingled with sights of wo, and where the pestilence pursueth not its victims. Come, my own--my betrothed--my Madeline, let us haste away." "Wherefore would my William fly?" said she--and a smile of joy and of confidence played upon her lips; "have ye not defied death from the sword and the spear, and braved it as it sped with the swift-flying arrow, and would ye turn and flee from the pestilence which worketh only what the sword performs, and what chivalry requires as a sacrifice to the madness of woman's folly? But whither would you flee to escape it? Be it south or north, it is there; and east or west, it is there also. If ye flee from the pestilence, would ye flee also from the eye of Him who sends it?" Again they urged her to leave the city; and again she endeavoured to smile; but it died languidly on her lip--the rose on her cheek vanished, and her mild eyes in a moment became dim. She sank her head upon the bosom of her lover, and her hand rested on the shoulder of her brother. The contagion had entered her heart. A darkening spot gathered upon her fair cheek--it was the shadow of the finger of death--the seal of eternity! "My Madeline!" cried Sir William. "Merciful Heaven!--spare her! spare her!" "Oh, my sister!" exclaimed her brother, "have I hastened to my native land, but to behold thee die?" She feebly pressed their hands in hers--"Leave me--leave me, loved ones!--my William!--my brother!--flee from me!--there is death in the touch of your Madeline!--We shall meet again!" The disease which at that time desolated England was in some respects peculiar, even as a plague. The dark spots which so clearly indicated the presence of the spoiler began in a mere darkening of some part of the body; but so virulent was the disease, and so rapid its onset and course, that even a visitor might perceive the beginning, and mark the progress towards death, during the short period of a call. The plague-spot darkened on the cheek of Madeline Aubrey, and, in a few hours, she was numbered with its victims. END OF VOL. XIV 
34153	----	WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND. HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE. WITH A GLOSSARY. REVISED BY ALEXANDER LEIGHTON ONE OF THE ORIGINAL EDITORS AND CONTRIBUTORS. VOL. XVI. LONDON: WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE. 1885. CONTENTS. THE LEVELLER, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_ THE OLD CHRONICLER'S TALES, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_ THE DEATH OF JAMES III. GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT. _(PROFESSOR THOMAS GILLESPIE_) V.--THE RESCUE AT ENTERKIN VI.--THE FATAL MISTAKE VII.--BONNY MARY GIBSON VIII.--THE ESKDALEMUIR STORY IX.--THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY THE COUNTESS OF CASSILIS, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_ THE HAPPY CONCLUSION, _(ANON.)_ MR SAMUEL RAMSAY THRIVEN: A TALE OF LOVE AND BANKRUPTCY, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_ THE MAN-OF-WAR'S MAN, _(JOHN HOWELL)_ THE ANGLER'S TALE, _(OLIVER RICHARDSON)_ PERSEVERANCE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF RODERIC GRAY, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_ THE IRISH REAPER, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_ GRACE CAMERON, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_ THE MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE, _(ANON.)_ WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND. THE LEVELLER. How far the term, "A Leveller," is provincial, or confined to the Borders, I am not certain; for before I had left them, to become as a pilgrim on the earth, the phrase had fallen into disuse, and the events, or rather the cause which brought it into existence, had passed away. But, twenty-five or even twenty years ago, in these parts, there was no epithet more familiar to the lips of every schoolboy than that of a _Leveller_. The juvenile lovers of mirth and mischief displayed their loyalty, by _smeeking_ the houses or burning the effigies of the Levellers; and he was a good subject and a perfect gentleman, who, out of his liberality and patriotism, contributed a shilling to purchase powder to make the head of the effigy go off in a rocket, and its fingers start away in squibs. Levellers were persecuted by the young, and suspected by the old. Every town and village in the kingdom had its coterie of Levellers. They did not congregate together; for, as being suspected individuals, their so doing would have been attended with danger; but there was a sympathy and a sort of brotherhood amongst those in the same place, and they met in twos and threes, at the corners of the streets, in the fields, or the workshop, and not unfrequently at the operating rooms of the barber, as though there had been a secret understanding in the growth of their beards. Some of them were generally seen waiting the arrival of the mail, and running across the street, or the highway, as the case might be, eagerly inquiring of the guard--"What news?" But if, on the approach of the vehicle, they perceived it decorated with branches, or a flag displayed from it, away turned the Levellers from the unwelcome symbols of national rejoicing, and condoled one with another in their own places of retirement. They were seldom or never found amongst rosy-faced country gentlemen, who walked in the midst of their fellow-mortals as if measuring their acres. Occasionally they might be found amongst tradesmen; but they were most frequently met with at the loom, or amongst those who had learned the art and mystery of a cordwainer. The Leveller, however, was generally a peaceful and a moral man, and always a man of much reading and extensive information. Many looked upon the Leveller as the enemy of his country, and as wishing the destruction of its institutions: I always regarded them with a more favourable eye. Most of them I have met with were sincerely attached to liberty, though they frequently took strange methods of showing it. They were opposed to the war with France, and they were enthusiastic admirers, almost worshippers, of Napoleon and his glories. They could describe the scene of all his victories--they could repeat his speeches and his bulletins by heart. But the old Jacobins of the last century, the Levellers of the beginning of this, are a race rapidly becoming extinct. I shall give the history of one of them, who was called James Nicholson, and who resided in the village of T----. James was by trade a weaver--a walking history of the wars, and altogether one of the most remarkable men I ever met with. He had an impressive and ready utterance; few could stand before him in an argument, and of him it might have been truly said-- "In reasoning, too, the parson own'd his skill, And, though defeated, he could argue still." He possessed also a bold imagination and a masculine understanding, and both had been improved by extensive reading. With such qualifications, it is not a matter of wonder that he was looked up to as the oracle, the head, or king, of the Levellers in T---- (if, indeed, they admitted the idea of a king). For miles around, he was familiarly known by the designation of Jemmy the Leveller; for though there were others of the name of James who held similar sentiments in the village and neighbourhood, he was Jemmy _par excellence_. But, in order that the reader may have a correct representation of James before him, I shall describe it as I saw him, about five-and-twenty years ago. He then appeared a man approaching to sixty years of age. His shoulders were rather bent, his height about five feet eleven, and he walked with his eyes fixed upon the ground. His arms were generally crossed upon his breast, and he stalked with a long and slow step, like a shepherd toiling up a hill. His forehead was one that Spurzheim would have travelled a hundred miles to finger--it was both broad and lofty; his eyebrows were thick, of a deep brown colour, and met together; his eyes were large, and of a dark greyish hue; his nose appertained to the Roman; his mouth was rather large, and his hair was mixed with grey. His figure was spare and thin. He wore a very low-crowned and a very broad-brimmed hat, a short brown coat, a dark striped waistcoat, with a double breast, corduroy breeches, which buckled at the knees, coarse blue stockings, and strong shoes, or rather brogues, neither of which articles had been new for at least three years; and around his body he wore a coarse half-bleached apron, which was stained with blue, and hung loose before him. Such was James Nicholson as he first appeared to me. For more than forty years he had remained in a state of single blessedness; but whether this arose from his heart having continued insensible to the influence of woman's charms--from his never having met with one whom he thought he could safely take "for better, for worse"--or whether it arose from the maidens being afraid to risk their future happiness, by uniting themselves with such a strange and dangerous character as Jemmy the Jacobin, I cannot tell. It is certain, however, that he became convinced that a bachelor's life was at best a _dowie_ one; and there was another consideration that had considerable weight with him. He had nobody to "_fill his pirns_," or "_give in his webs_;" but he had to hire and pay people to do these things, and this made a great drawback on his earnings, particularly when the price of weaving became low. James therefore resolved to do as his father had done before him, and to take unto himself a wife. He cast his eyes abroad, and they rested on a decent spinster, who was beginning to be what is called a "_stayed lass_"--that is, very near approaching to the years when the phrase, a "_stayed lass_," is about to be exchanged for that of an old maid. In a word, the object of his choice was but a very few years younger than himself. Her name was Peggy Purves, and it is possible she was inclined to adopt the language of the song, and say-- "O mother, onybody!" for when James made his proposal, she smirked and blushed--said she "didna ken what to say till't"--took the corners of her apron in her fingers--hung her head--smiled well pleased, and added, she "would see!" but within three months became the wife of Jemmy the Leveller. James became the father of two children, a son and daughter; and we may here notice a circumstance attending the baptism of the son. About three weeks after the birth of the child, his mother began to inquire-- "What shall we ca' him, James? Do ye think we should ca' him Alexander, after your faither and mine?" "Haud yer tongue, woman," replied James, somewhat testily. "Goodness me! where's the use in everlastingly yatter-yattering about what I will ca' him? The bairn shall hae a name--a name that will be like a deed o' virtue and greatness engraven on his memory as often as he hears it." "Oh, James, James!" returned Peggy, "ye're the strangest and perversest man that ever I met wi' in my born days. I'm sure ye'll ne'er think o' giein ony o' yer heathenish Jacobin names to my bairn!" "Just content yersel, Peggy," replied he--"just rest contented, if ye please. I'll gie the bairn a name that neither you nor him will ever hae cause to be ashamed o'." Now, James was a rigid Dissenter, and caused the child to be taken to the meeting-house; and he stood up with it in his arms, in the midst of the congregation, that his infant might publicly receive baptism. The minister inquired, in a low voice, "What is the child's name?" His neighbours were anxious to hear the answer; and, in his deep, sonorous tones, he replied aloud-- "GEORGE WASHINGTON!" There was a sort of buzz and a movement throughout the congregation, and the minister himself looked surprised. When her daughter was born, the choice of the name was left to Peggy, and she called her Catherine, in remembrance of her mother. Shortly after the birth of his children, the French Revolution began to lour in the political horizon, and James Nicholson, the weaver, with a fevered anxiety, watched its progress. "It is a bursting forth o' the first seed o' the tree o' liberty, which the Americans planted, and George Washington reared," cried James, with enthusiasm; "the seeds o' that tree will spread owre the earth, as if scattered by the winds o' heaven--they will cover it as the waters do the sea--they will take root--they will spring up in every land: beneath the burning sun o' the West Indies, on the frozen deserts o' Siberia, the slave and the exile will rejoice beneath the shadow o' its branches, and their hearts be gladdened by its fruits." "Ay, man, James, that's noble!" exclaimed some brother Leveller, who retailed the sayings of the weaver at second hand. "Losh! if ye haena a headpiece that wad astonish a privy council!" But, when the storm burst, and the sea of blood gushed forth like a deluge, when the innocent and the guilty were butchered together, James was staggered, his eyes became heavy, and his countenance fell. At length he consoled his companions, saying-- "Weel, it's a pity--it's a great pity--it is bringing disgrace and guilt upon a glorious cause. But knives shouldna be put into the hands o' bairns till they ken how to use them. If the sun were to rise in a flash o' unclouded glory and dazzling brightness in a moment, succeeding the heavy darkness o' midnight, it wad be nae wonder if, for a time, we groped more blindly than we did in the dark. Or, if a blind man had his sight restored in a moment, and were set into the street, he would strike upon every object he met more readily than he did when he was blind; for he had neither acquired the use o' his eyes nor the idea o' distance. So is it wi' our neighbours in France: an instrument has been put into their hands before they ken how to use it--the sun o' liberty has burst upon them in an instant, without an intermediate dawn. They groaned under the tyranny o' blindness; but they hae acquired the power o' sight without being instructed in its use. But hae patience a little--the storm will gie place to the sunshine, the troubled waters will subside into a calm, and liberty will fling her garment o' knowledge and mercy owre her now uninstructed worshippers." "Weel! that's grand, James!--that's really famous!" said one of the coterie of Levellers to whom it was delivered; "odd! ye beat a'thing--ye're a match for _Wheatbread_ himsel." "James," said another, "without meaning to flatter ye, if Billy Pitt had ye to gie him a dressing, I believe he wad offer ye a place the very next day, just to keep yer tongue quiet." James was one of those who denounced, with all the vehemence and indignation of which he was capable, Britain's engaging in a war with France. He raised up his voice against it. He pronounced it to be an unjust and an impious attempt to support oppression, and to stifle freedom in its cradle. "But in that freedom they will find a Hercules," cried he, "which, in its very cradle, will grip tyranny by the throat, and a' the kings in Europe winna be able to slacken its grasp." When the star of Napoleon began to rise, and broke forth with a lustre which dazzled the eyes of a wondering world, the Levellers of Britain, like the Republicans of France, lost sight of their love of liberty, in their admiration of the military glories and rapid triumphs of the hero. James Nicholson was one of those who became blinded with the fame, the splendid success, and the daring genius of the young Corsican. Napoleon became his idol. His deeds, his capacity, his fame, were his daily theme. They became the favourite subject of every Leveller. They did not see in him one who laughed at liberty, and who made it his plaything, who regarded life as stubble, whose ambition circled the globe, and who was the enemy of Britain: they saw in him only a hero, who had burst from obscurity as a meteor from the darkness of night--whose glory had obscured the pomp of princes, and his word consumed their power. The threatened invasion, and the _false alarm_, put the Leveller's admiration of Napoleon, and his love of his native land, to a severe trial; but we rejoice to say, for the sake of James Nicholson, that the latter triumphed, and he accompanied a party of volunteers ten miles along the coast, and remained an entire night, and the greater part of a day, under arms, and even he was then ready to say-- "Let foe come on foe, like wave upon wave, We'll gie them a welcome, we'll gie them a grave." But, as the apprehension of the invasion passed away, his admiration of Napoleon's triumphs, and his reverence for what he termed his stupendous genius, burned with redoubled force. "Princes are as grasshoppers before him," said James; "nations are as spiders' webs. The Alps became as a highway before his spirit--he looked upon Italy, and the land was conquered." I might describe to you the exultation and the rejoicings of James and his brethren, when they heard of the victories of Marengo, Ulm, and Austerlitz; and how, in their little parties of two and three, they walked a mile farther together in the fields or by the sides of the Tweed, or peradventure indulged in an extra pint with one another, though most of them were temperate men: or, I might describe to you how, upon such occasions, they would ask eagerly, "But what is _James_ saying to it?" I, however, shall dwell only upon his conduct when he heard of the battle of Jena. He was standing with a brother Leveller at a corner of the village when the mail arrived which conveyed the important tidings. I think I see him now, as he appeared at that moment. Both were in expectation of momentous information--they ran to the side of the coach together. "What news?--what news?" they inquired of the guard at once. He stooped down, as they ran by the side of the coach, and informed them. The eyes of James glowed with delight--his nostrils were dilated. "Oh, the great, the glorious man!" he exclaimed, rubbing his hands in ecstasy, and turning away from the coach; "the matchless!--the wonderful!--the great Napoleon! There is none like him--there never was--he is a sun among the stars--they cannot twinkle in his presence." He and his friends received a weekly paper amongst them; it was the day on which it arrived. They followed the coach to the post-office to receive it; and I need not tell you with what eagerness the contents of that paper were read. James was the reader; and after he had read an account of the battle, he gave his readers a dissertation upon it. He laid his head upon his pillow, with his thoughts filled with Napoleon and the battle of Jena; and when, on the following morning, he met two or three of his companions at the corner of the village, where they were wont to assemble for ten minutes after breakfast, to discuss the affairs of Europe, James, with a look of even more than his usual importance and sagacity, thus began:-- "I hae dreamed a marvellous dream. I saw the battle of Jena--I beheld the Prussians fly with dismay before the voice of the conqueror. Then did I see the great man, arrayed in his robes of victory, bearing the sword of power in his hand, ascend a throne of gold and of ivory. Over the throne was a gorgeous canopy of purple, and diamonds bespangled the tapestry as a firmament. The crowns of Europe lay before him, and kings, and princes, and nobles, kneeled at his feet. At his nod he made kings and exalted nations. Armies fled and advanced at the moving of his finger--they were machines in his hand. The spirits of Alexander and of Cæsar--all the heroes of antiquity--gazed in wonder upon his throne; each was surrounded by the halo of his victories and the fame of ages; but their haloes became dim before the flash of his sword of power, and the embodiment of their spirits became as a pale mist before the majesty of his eyes and the magnificence of his triumphs. The nations of the earth were also gathered around the throne, and, as with one voice, in the same language, and at the same moment, they waved their hands, and cried, as peals of thunder mingle wi' each other, "Long live the great emperor!" But, while my soul started within me at the mighty shout, and my eyes gazed with wonder and astonishment on the glory and the power of the great man, darkness fell upon the throne, troubled waters dashed around it, and the vision of night and vastness, the emperor, the kneeling kings, the armies, and the people, were encompassed in the dark waves--swallowed as though they had not been; and, with the cold perspiration standing on my forehead, I awoke, and found that I had dreamed."[1] [Footnote 1: Many in this neighbourhood, who read the Leveller's dream, will remember the original. Twenty years ago, I heard it related by the dreamer, with all the enthusiasm of a staunch admirer of Napoleon, and I have preserved his words and imagery as closely as I could recollect them.] "It is a singular dream," said one. "Sleeping or waking, James is the same man," said another, "aye out o' the common run. You and me wad hae sleepit a twelvemonth before we had dreamed the like o' that." But one circumstance arose which troubled James much, and which all his admiration, yea, all his worship of Napoleon could not wholly overcome. James, as we have hinted, was a rigid Presbyterian, and the idea of a man putting away his wife he could not forgive. When, therefore, Napoleon divorced the gentle Josephine, and took the daughter of Austria to his bed-- "He hath done wrong," said James; "he has erred grievously. He has been an instrument in humbling the pope, the instrument foretold in the Revelation; and he has been the glorious means o' levelling and destroying the Inquisition--but this sin o' putting away his wife, and pretending to marry another, casts a blot upon a' his glories; and I fear that humiliation, as a punishment, will follow the foul sin. Yet, after a', as a man, he was subject to temptation; and, as being no common man, we maunna judge his conduct by common rules." "Really, James," said the individual he addressed, "wi' a' my admiration o' the great man,[2] and my respect for you, I'm no just clear upon your last remark--when the Scriptures forbade a man to put away his wife, there was nae exception made for king or emperors." [Footnote 2: I have often remarked that the admirers of Napoleon were wont to speak of him as _the great man_.] "True," said James--"but----" James never finished his "but." His conscience told him that his idol had sinned; and when the disastrous campaign to Russia shortly after followed, he imagined that he beheld in its terrible calamities the punishment he had predicted. The sun of Napoleon had reached its meridian, the fires of Moscow raised a cloud before it, behind which it hastened to its setting. In the events of that memorable invasion and retreat, James Nicholson took an eager and mournful interest. Thoughts of it haunted him in his sleep; and he would dream of Russian deserts which presented to the eye an unbounded waste of snow; or start, exclaiming, "The Cossacks!--the Cossacks!" His temper, too, became irritable, and his family found it hard to bear with it. This, however, was not the only cause which increased the irritability, and provoked the indignation, of James the Leveller; for, as the glory of Napoleon began to wane, and the arms of the British achieved new victories in the Peninsula, he and his brethren in principle became the objects of almost nightly persecution. Never did the mail arrive, bearing tidings of the success of the British or their allies, but as surely was a figure, intended to represent one or other of the Levellers, paraded through the village, and burned before the door of the offender, amidst the shouts, the groans, and laughter, of some two or three hundred boys and young men. The reader may be surprised to hear that one of the principal leaders of these young and mischief-loving loyalists was no other than GEORGE WASHINGTON, the only son of our friend, James Nicholson. To turn him from conduct, and the manifestation of a principle, so unworthy of his name, James spared neither admonition, reproof, nor the rod of correction. But George was now too old for his father to apply the latter, and his advice and reproof in this matter was like throwing water in the sea. The namesake of the great President never took a part in such exhibitions of his father, and in holding his principles up to execration and contempt; on the contrary, he did all in his power to prevent them, and repeatedly did he prevent them--but he entered, with his whole heart, into every proposal to make a mock spectacle of others. The young tormentors knew little or nothing of the principles of the men they delighted to persecute--it was enough for them to know that they were _Levellers_, that _they wished the French to win_; and although James Nicholson was known to be, as I have already said, the very king and oracle of the levelling party in the neighbourhood, yet, for his son's sake, he frequently escaped the persecution intended for him, and it was visited upon the heads of more insignificant characters. One evening, James beheld his son heading the noisy band in a crusade against the peace of a particular friend; moreover, George bore a long pole over his shoulder, to the top of which an intended resemblance of his father's friend was attached. James further saw his hopeful son and the crowd reach his friend's house, he beheld him scale the walls (which were but a single storey in height), he saw him stand upon the roof--the pole, with the effigy attached to it, was again handed to him, and, amidst the shouts of his companions, he put the pole down the chimney, leaving the figure as a smoke-doctor on its top. James could endure no more. "Oh, the villain!--the scoundrel!" he cried--"the--the----" But he could add no more, from excess of indignation. He rushed along the street--he dashed through the crowd--he grasped his son by the throat, at the moment of his springing from the roof. He shook with rage. He struck him violently. He raised his feet and kicked him. "What is a' this for?" said George, sullenly, while he suffered even more from shame than his father's violence. "What is it for!" cried James, half choked with passion; "ye rascal!--ye disgrace!--ye profligate!--how can ye ask what is it for?" and he struck him again. "Faither," said George, more sullenly than before, "I wad advise ye to keep yer hands to yersel--at least on the street and before folk." "Awa wi' ye! ye reprobate!" exclaimed the old man, "and never enter my door again--never while ye breathe--ye thankless----" "Be it sae," said George. James returned to his house, in sorrow and in anger. He was out of humour with everything. He found fault with his daughter--he spoke angrily to his wife. Chairs, stools, tables, and crockery, he kicked to the right and left. He flung his supper behind the fire, when it was set before him. He was grieved at his son's conduct; but he was also angry with himself for his violence towards him. A serjeant of a Highland regiment had been for some time in the village on the recruiting service. He was to leave with his recruits, and proceed to Leith, where they were immediately to embark on the following morning. Amongst the recruits were many of the acquaintances of George and his companions. After the affair of the effigy, they went to have a parting glass with them. George was then about nineteen. He had not yet forgiven his father for the indignity he had openly offered to him--he remembered he had forbidden him his house. One of his companions jestingly alluded to the indignation of the old man--he "wondered how George stood it." The remark made his feelings more bitter. He felt shame upon his face. Another of his companions enlisted; in the excitement of the moment, George followed his example, and, before sunrise on the following morning, was on his road to Leith with the other recruits. Old James arose and went to his loom, unhappy and troubled in his spirit. He longed for a reconciliation with his son--to tell him he was sorry for the length to which his temper had led him, and also calmly to reason with him on the folly, the unreasonableness, and the wickedness, of his own conduct, in running with a crowd at his heels about the street, persecuting honest men, and endangering both the peace of the town and the safety of property. But he had been an hour at the loom, and George took not his place at his (for he had brought him up to his own trade); another hour passed, and breakfast time arrived, but the shuttle which had been driven by the hand of his son sent forth no sound. "Where is George?" inquired he, as he entered the house; "wherefore has he no been ben at his wark?" "Ye ken best," returned Peggy, who thought it her time to be out of humour, "for it lies between ye; but ye'll carry on yer rampaging fits o' passion till ye drive baith the bairns and me frae 'bout the house. Ye may seek for George whar ye saw him last: but there is his bed, untouched, as I made it yesterday morning, and ye see what ye've made o' yer handiwark." "Oh, haud yer tongue, ye wicked woman, ye," said James, "for it wad clip clouts. Had Job been afflicted wi' yer tongue, he wad needed nae other trial!" "My tongue!" retorted she; "ay, gude truly! but if ony woman but mysel had to put up wi' yer temper, they wad ken what it is to be tried." "Puir woman! ye dinna ken ye're born," replied James; and, turning to his daughter, added, "Rin awa out, Katie, and see if yer brother is wi' ony o' his acquaintances--he'll hae been sleeping wi' some o' them. Tell him to come hame to his breakfast." She left the house, and returned in about ten minutes, weeping, sobbing, wringing her hands, and exclaiming-- "George is listed and awa!--he's listed and awa! Oh, my poor George!" "Listed!" exclaimed James, and he fell back against the wall, as though a bullet had entered his bosom. "Listed! my bairn, my darling bairn, listed!" cried Peggy. "O James! James!--ye cruel man! see what ye've done!--ye hae driven my bairn to destruction!" "Woman! woman!" added he, "dinna torment me beyond what I am able to endure. Do you no think I am suffering aneugh, and mair than aneugh, without you aggravating my misery? Oh, the rash, the thoughtless callant! Could he no forgie his faither for ae fault?--a faither that could lay down his life for him. Haste ye, Katie, get me my stick and my Sunday coat, and I'll follow him; he canna be far yet--I'll bring him back. Wheesht now, Peggy," he added, "let us hae nae mair reflections--just compose yersel. George shall be hame the night--and we'll let byganes be byganes." "Oh, then, James, rin every foot," said Peggy, whose ill-humour had yielded to her maternal anxiety; "bring him back whether he will or no; tell him how ill Katie is; and that, if he persists in being a sodger, he will be the death o' his mother." With a heavy and an anxious heart, James set out in pursuit of his son; but the serjeant and his recruits had taken the road six hours before him. On arriving at Dunbar, where he expected they would halt for the night, he was informed that the serjeant, being ordered to push forward to Leith with all possible expedition, as the vessel in which they were to embark was to sail with the morning tide, had, with his recruits, taken one of the coaches, and would then be within a few miles of Edinburgh. This was another blow to James. But, after resting for a space, not exceeding five minutes, he hastened forward to Leith. It was midnight when he arrived, and he could learn nothing of his son or the vessel in which he was to embark; but, weary as he was, he wandered along the shore and the pier till morning. Day began to break; the shores of the Frith became dimly visible; the Bass, like a fixed cloud, appeared on the distant horizon; it was more than half-tide; and, as he stood upon the pier, he heard the _yo-heave-ho!_ of seamen proceeding from a smack which lay on the south side of the harbour, by the lowest bridge. He hastened towards the vessel; but before he approached it, and while the cry of the seamen yet continued, a party of soldiers and recruits issued from a tavern on the shore. They tossed their caps in the air, they huzzaed, and proceeded towards the smack. With a throbbing heart, James hurried forward, and in the midst of them, through the grey light, he beheld his son. "O George!" cried the anxious parent, "what a journey ye hae gien yer faither!" George started at his father's voice, and for a moment he was silent and sullen, as though he had not yet forgiven him. "Come, George," said the old man, affectionately, "let us forget and forgie. Come awa hame again, my man, and I'll pay the _smart_ money. Dinna persist in bringing yer mother to her grave, in breaking yer sister's heart, puir thing, and in making me miserable." "O faither! faither!" groaned George, grasping his father's hand, "it's owre late--it's owre late now! What's done canna be undone!" "Why for no, bairn?" cried James; "and how is it owre late? The ship's no sailed, and I've the smart-money in my pocket." "But I've ta'en the bounty, faither--I'm sworn in!" replied the son. "Sworn in!" exclaimed the unhappy father. "Oh mercy me! what's this o't! My happiness is destroyed for ever. O George! George, man! what is this that ye've done? How shall I meet your puir wretched mother without ye?" George laid his head upon his father's shoulder, and wrung his hand. He was beginning to experience what hours, what years of misery may proceed from the want of a minute's calm reflection. The thought of buying him off could not be entertained. The vessel was to sail within an hour--men were needed; but, even had no other obstacles attended the taking of such a step, there was one that was insurmountable--James Nicholson had never in his life been possessed of half the sum necessary to accomplish it, nor could he have raised it by the sale of his entire goods and chattels; and his nature forbade him to solicit a loan from others, even to redeem a son. They were beginning to haul off the vessel; and poor George, he now felt all the bitterness of remorse, added to the anguish of parting from a parent, thrust his hand into his pocket, and, as he bade him farewell, attempted to put his bounty-money in his father's hand. The old man sprung back, as if a poisonous snake had touched him. The principles of the Leveller rose superior to the feelings of the father. "George!" he cried, "George! can my ain son insult me, and in a moment like this? Me tak yer blood-money!--me!--me! Ye dinna ken yer faither! Before I wad touch money gotten in such a cause, I wad starve by a dyke-side. Fling it into the sea, George!--fling it into the sea!--that's the only favour ye can confer upon yer faither." But, again, the parent gained the ascendency in his heart, and he added--"But, poor chield, ye meant it kindly. Fareweel, then, my man!--Oh, fareweel, George! Heaven be wi' my misguided bairn! Oh! what shall I say to yer puir mother? Fareweel, lad!--fareweel!" The vessel was pulled off--and thus parted the father and his son. I shall not describe the feelings of James on his solitary journey homewards, nor dwell upon the grief of his wife and daughter, when they beheld that he returned alone, and that George "was not." It was about two years after his son had enlisted, that the news of the peace and the abdication of Napoleon arrived. James was not one of those who partook of the general joy; but while he mourned over the fall of the man whom he had all but worshipped, he denounced the conduct of the allied sovereigns in strong and bitter terms of indignation. The bellman went round the village, calling upon the inhabitants to demonstrate their rejoicing by an illumination. The Levellers consulted James upon the subject, and his advice was, that they ought not, let the consequences be what they would, comply with the request or command of the authorities, and which had been proclaimed by the town-crier; on the contrary, he recommended, that at the hour when the illumination was to commence, every man of them should extinguish the fires in his house, and leave not a lamp or a rushlight burning. His advice was always akin to a command, and it was implicitly followed. The houses were lighted up--the illumination was general, save only the windows of the Levellers, which appeared as in mourning; and soon attracted the attention of the crowd, the most unruly amongst whom raised the cry of "Smash them!--send them in!" and the cry was no sooner made than it was obeyed; stones flew thick as hail, panes were shivered, sashes broken, and they ran from one house to another carrying on their work of destruction. In its turn, they came to the dwelling of James--they raised a yell before it--a stone was thrown, and the crash of broken glass was heard. James opened the door, and stood before them. They yelled louder. "Break away!" said he, contemptuously; "ye puir infatuated sauls that ye are--break away, and dinna leave a hale pane, if it's yer sovereign will and pleasure! Ye silly, thoughtless, senseless idiots, how mony hunder millions has it cost this country to cram the precious Bourbons on the people o' France again?--and wha's to pay it, think ye?" "No you, Jemmy," cried a voice from the crowd. "But I maun toil frae mornin till night to help to do it, ye blockhead ye," answered James; "and ye hae to do the same, and yer back has to gang bare, and yer bairns to be hungered for it! Certes, friends, ye hae great cause for an illumination! But, as if the hunders o' millions which yer assistance o' the Bourbons has added to the national debt were but a trifle, ye, forsooth, must increase yer county burdens by breaking decent people's windows, for their sake, out o' pure mischief. Break awa, freends, if it's yer pleasure, the damage winna come out o' my pocket; and if yer siller is sae plentifu that ye can afford to throw it awa in chucky-stanes!--fling! fling!" and withdrawing into the house, he shut the door. "Odd! I dinna ken," said one of the crowd, "but there's a deal o' truth in what he says." "It was too bad to touch his windows," said another; "his son George has been in the wars, and the life o' a son is o' mair value than a pund o' candles." "Ye're richt," cried a third. "Hurrah for Jemmy the Leveller!" cried another. The crowd gave a loud cheer, and left the house in good humour; nor was there another window in the village broken throughout the night. Next day, James received the following letter from his son. It was dated "_Toulouse, April 14, 1814._ "HONOURED FATHER AND MOTHER,--I hope this will find you and my dear sister well, as it leaves me, thank Providence for it. I think this war will soon be over now; for, whatever you may think of the French and their fighting, father, we have driven them from pillar to post, and from post to pillar, as the saying is. Not but that they are brave fellows, and clever fellows, too; but we can beat them, and that is everything. Soult is one of their best generals, if not their very best; and though he was in his own country, and had his positions all of his own choosing, I assure you, upon the word of a soldier, that we have beaten him out and out twice within this fortnight; but if you still get the newspaper, you will have seen something about it. You must not expect me to give you any very particular account about what has taken place; for a single soldier just sees and knows as much about a battle as the spoke of a mill-wheel knows about the corn which it causes to be ground. I may, here, also, while I remember, tell you what my notions of bravery are. Some people talk about courageous men, and braving death, and this and that; but, so far as I have seen and felt, it is all talk--nothing but talk. There are very few such cowards as to run away, or not to do their duty (indeed, to run away from the ranks during an action would be no easy matter), but I believe I am no coward--I daresay you think the same thing; and the best man in all T---- durst not call me one; but I will tell you how I felt when I first entered a battle. We were under arms--I saw a part of the enemy's lines before us--we were ordered to advance--I knew that in ten minutes the work of death would begin, and I felt--not faintish, but some way confoundedly like it. The first firing commenced by the advanced wing; at the report, my knees shook (not visibly), and my heart leaped within me. A cold sweat (a slight one) broke over me. I remember the sensation. A second discharge took place--the work was at hand--something seemed to _crack_ within my ears. I felt I don't know how; but it was not courageous, though, as to running away or being beaten, the thought never entered my head. Only I did not feel like what you read about _heroes_. Well, the word '_Fire_' was given to our own regiment. The drum of my ear actually felt as if it were split. My heart gave one terrible bound, and I felt it no more. For a few moments all was ringing of the ears, smoke, and confusion. I forgot everything about death. The roar of the action had become general--through its din I at intervals heard the sounds of the drum and the fife. But my ears instantly became, as it were, '_cased_.' I could hear nothing but the word of command, save a hum, hum, something like a swarm of bees about to settle round my head. I saw nothing, and I just loaded as I was ordered, and fired--fired--fired!--as insensible, for all the world, as if I had been on a parade. Two or three of my neighbours were shot to the right and left; but the ranks were filled up in a twinkling, and it was not every time that I observed whether they were killed or wounded. But, as I say, after the third firing or so, I hardly knew whether I was dead or living; I acted in a kind of way mechanically, as it were, through a sort of dumfoundered desperation, or anything else ye like to call it; and if this be courage, it's not the sort of courage that I've heard and read about--but it's the only kind of courage I felt on entering on my first engagement, and, as I have said, there are none that would dare to call me _coward_! But as I was telling ye, we have twice completely beaten Soult within these fourteen days. We have driven them out of Spain; and, but for the bad winter weather, we would have driven them through France before now. But we have driven them into France; and as I said, even in their own country, we have beaten them twice. Soult had his army all drawn up and ready, upon a rising ground, before a town they call Orthes. I have no doubt but ye have some idea of what sort of winter it has been, and that may lead you to judge of what sort of roads we have had to wade through in a country like this; and that we've come from where nobody ever had to complain of being imprisoned for the destroying of toll-bars! I think that was the most foolish and diabolical action ever any person in our country was guilty of. But, besides the state of the roads, we had three rivers to cross before we could reach the French. However, we did cross them. General Picton, with the third division of the army, crossed or forded what they call the _Cave de Pau_ on the 26th of last month, and we got over the river on the following day. Our army completed their positions early in the afternoon, and Lord Wellington (for he is a prompt man) immediately began to give Soult notice that he must seek different quarters for the night. Well, the action began, and a dreadful and sanguinary battle it was. Our third division suffered terribly. But we drove the French from their heights--we routed them. We thus obtained possession of the navigation of the Adour, one of the principal commercial passages in France; and Soult found there was nothing left but to retreat, as he best might, to Toulouse (from whence I write this letter), and there we followed him; and from here, too, though after hard fighting, we forced him to run for it. You may say what you like, father, but Lord Wellington is a first-rate general--though none of us over-and-above like him, for he is terribly severe; he is a disciplinarian, soul and body of him, and a rigid one. We have beaten all Bonaparte's generals; and I should like to meet with him, just to see if we can beat him too. You used to talk so much about him, that if I live to get to Paris, I shall see him, though I give a shilling for it. What I mean by that is, that I think the game is up with him; and four or five Irish soldiers, of my acquaintance, have thought it an excellent speculation to club together, and to offer the Emperor Alexander and the rest of them (who, I daresay, will be very glad to get rid of him on cheap terms), a price for him, and to bring him over to Britain, and exhibit him round the country at so much a-head----" "Oh depravity!--depravity!" cried James, rising in a fury, and flinging the letter from him. "Oh, that a bairn o' mine should be capable o' pennin sic disgracefu language!" He would allow no more of the letter to be read--he said his son had turned a mere reprobate; he would never own him more. A few weeks after this, Catherine, the daughter of our old Leveller, was married to a young weaver, named William Crawford, who then wrought in the neighbourhood of Stirling. He was a man according to James' own heart; for he had wrought in the same shop with him, and, when a boy, received his principles from him. James, therefore, rejoiced in his daughter's marriage; and he said "there was ane o' his family--which wasna large--that hadna disgraced him." Yet he took the abdication and the exile of Napoleon to heart grievously. Many said that, if he could have raised the money, he would have gone to Elba to condole with the exiled emperor, though he should have begged for the remainder of his days. He went about mourning for his fate; but, as the proverb says, they who mourn for trifles or strangers may soon have more to mourn for--and so it was with James Nicholson. His son was abroad--his daughter had left his house, and removed to another part of the country--and his wife fell sick and died. He felt all the solitariness of being left alone--he became fretful and unhappy. He said, that now he "hadna ane to do onything for him." His health also began to fail, and to him peace brought neither plenty nor prosperity. The weaving trade grew worse and worse every day. James said he believed that prices would come to nothing. He gradually became less able to work, and his earnings were less and less. He was evidently drooping fast. But the news arrived that Napoleon had left Elba--that he had landed in France--that he was on his way to Paris--that he had entered it--that the Bourbons had fled; and the eyes of James again sparkled with joy, and he went about rubbing his hands, and again exclaiming, "Oh, the great--the godlike man!--the beloved of the people!--the conqueror of hearts as well as countries! he is returned! he is returned! Everything will go well again!" During "the hundred days," James forgot all his sorrow and all his solitariness; like the eagle, he seemed to have renewed his youth. But the tidings of Waterloo arrived. "Treachery! foul treachery!" cried the old man, when he heard them; and he smote his hand upon his breast. But he remembered that his son was in that battle. He had not heard from him--he knew not but that he was numbered with the slain--he feared it, and he became tenfold more unhappy and miserable than before. A few months after the battle, a wounded soldier arrived at T---- to recruit his health amongst his friends. He had enlisted with George, he had served in the same regiment, and seen him fall at the moment the cry of "The Prussians!" was raised. "My son!--my poor son!" cried the miserable father, "and it is my doing--it is a' mine--I drove him to list; and how can I live wi' the murder o' my poor George upon my head?" His distress became deeper and more deep; his health and strength more rapidly declined; he was unable to work, and he began to be in want. About this period, also, he was attacked with a paralytic stroke, which deprived him of the use of his right arm; and he was reluctantly compelled to remove to Stirlingshire, and become an inmate in the house of his daughter. It was a sad grief to his proud spirit to feel himself a burden upon his child; but she and her husband strove anxiously to soothe him and to render him happy. He was still residing with them when the radical meetings took place in various parts of the country, and especially in the west of Scotland, in 1819. James contemplated them with delight. He said the spirit of liberty was casting its face upon his countrymen--they were beginning to think like men, and to understand the principles which he had gloried in, through good report and through bad report--yea, and through persecution, for more than half-a-century. A meeting was to take place near Stirling, and James was sorrowful that he was unable to attend; but his son-in-law was to be present, and James charged him that he would bring him a faithful account of all the proceedings. Catherine knew little about the principles of her father, or her husband, or the object of the meeting. She asked if it would make wages any higher; but she had heard that the military would be called out to disperse it--that government would punish those who attended it, and her fears were excited. "Tak my advice, Willie," said she to her husband, as he went towards the door; "tak a wife's advice for ance, and dinna gang near it. There will nae guid come out o't. Ye can mak naething by it, but will lose baith time and money; and I understand that it is likely great danger will attend it, and ye may be brought into trouble. Sae, dinna gang, Willie, like a guid lad--if ye hae ony regard for me, dinna gang." "Really, Katie," said Willie, who was a good-natured man, "ye talk very silly. But ye're just like a' the women, hinny--their outcry is aye about expense and danger. But dinna ye trouble yersel--it's o' nae use to be put about for the death ye'll ne'er die. I'll be hame to my four-hours." "The lassie's silly," said her father; "wherefore should he no gang? It is the duty o' every man to gang that is able; and sorry am I that I am not, or I wad hae rejoiced to hae stood forth this day as a champion in the great cause o' liberty." So William Crawford, disregarding the remonstrances of his wife, went to the meeting. But while the people were yet assembling, the military were called out--the riot act was read--and the soldiers fired at or over the multitude. Instant confusion took place; there was a running to and fro, and the soldiers pursued. Several were wounded, and some seriously. The news that the meeting had been dispersed, and that several were wounded, were brought to James Nicholson and his daughter as they sat waiting the return of her husband. "Oh, I trust in goodness that naething has happened to William!" she exclaimed. "But what can be stopping him? Oh, had he but ta'en my advice!--had ye no persuaded him, faither! But ye was waur than him." James made no reply. A gloomy apprehension that "something had happened" was stealing over his mind. He took his staff, and walked forward, as far as he was able, upon the road; but, after waiting for two hours, and after fruitless inquiries at every one he met, he returned, having heard nothing of his son-in-law. His daughter, with three children around her, sat weeping before the fire. He endeavoured to comfort her, and to inspire her with hopes which he did not himself feel, and to banish fears from her breast which he himself entertained. Night set in, and, with its darkness, their fears and their anxiety increased. The children wept more bitterly as the distress of their mother became stronger; they raised their little hands, they pulled her gown, and they called for their father. A cart stopped at the door; and William Crawford, with his arm bound up, was carried into his house by strangers. Catherine screamed when she beheld him, and the children cried wildly. Old James met them at the door, and said, "O William!" He had been found by the side of a hedge, fainting from loss of blood. A bullet had entered his arm below the shoulder--the bone was splintered; and on a surgeon's being sent for, he declared that immediate amputation was necessary. Poor Catherine and her little ones were taken into the house of a neighbour while the operation was to be performed, and even her father had not nerve to look on it. William sat calmly, and beheld the surgeon and his assistant make their preparations, and when the former took the knife in his hand, the wounded man thought not of bodily pain, but the feelings of the father and the husband gushed forth. "Oh!" he exclaimed, "had it been my leg, it wad hae been naething; but my arm--I will be helpless for life! What am I to do now for my puir Katie and my bits o' bairns? Guid gracious! I canna beg!--and auld James, puir body, what will come owre him! Oh, sir," added he, addressing the surgeon, "I could bear to hae my arm cut through in twenty different places, were it not that it deprives me o' the power o' working for bread for my family!" "Keep a stout heart, my good fellow," said the surgeon, as he began his task; "they will be provided for in some way." "Grant it may be sae!" answered William; "but I see naething for as but to beg!" I must here, however, take back my reader to 1815, and from the neighbourhood of Stirling direct their attention to Brussels and Waterloo. George Washington Nicholson, after the battle of Toulouse, had been appointed to the rank of serjeant. For several months he was an inmate in the house of a thriving merchant in Brussels; he had assisted him in his business; he, in fact, acted as his chief clerk and his confidant; he became as one of the family, and nothing was done by the Belgian trader without consulting Serjeant Nicholson. But the fearful night of the 15th of June arrived, when the sounds of the pibroch rang through the streets of Brussels, startling soldier and citizen, and the raven and the owl were invited to a feast. The name of Napoleon was pronounced by tongues of every nation. "He comes!--he comes!" was the cry. George Nicholson was one of the first to array himself for battle, and rush forth to join his regiment. He bade a hurried farewell to his host; but there was one in the house whose hand trembled when he touched it, and on whose lips he passionately breathed his abrupt adieu. It was the gentle Louise, the sole daughter of his host. The three following days were dreadful days in Brussels; confusion, anxiety, dismay, prevailed in every street; they were pictured in every countenance. On one hand were crowded the wounded from the battle, on the other were citizens flying from the town to save their goods and themselves, and, in their general eagerness to escape, blocking up their flight. Shops were shut, houses deserted, and churches turned into hospitals. But, in the midst of all--every hour, and more frequently--there went a messenger from the house of the merchant with whom Serjeant Nicholson had lodged, to the _Porte de Namur_, to inquire how fared it with the Highlanders, to examine the caravans with the wounded as they arrived, and to inquire at the hospitals, if _one whom Louise named_ had been brought there. Never was a Sabbath spent in a more unchristian manner than that of the 18th June, 1815, on the plains of Waterloo. At night the news of the success of the British arrived in Brussels, and before sunrise on the following morning the merchant in whose house George Nicholson had been lodged, drove through the _Porte de Namur_, with his daughter Louise by his side. At every step of their journey appalling spectacles presented themselves before them; and, as they proceeded, they became more and more horrible. They were compelled to quit their vehicle, for the roads were blocked up, and proceeded through the forest _de Soignes_, into which many of the wounded had crawled to die, or to escape being trampled on by the pain-maddened horses. On emerging from the forest, the disgusting shambles of war, with its human carcases, its blood, its wounded, and its dying, spread all its horrors before them. From the late rains, the field was as a morass. Conquerors and the conquered were covered with mud. Here lay heaps of dead--there, soldier and citizen dug pits to bury them in crowds, and they were hurled into a common grave, "Unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown." Let the eyes turn where they would, there the ghastly sight of the wounded met them; nor could the ear be rendered deaf to the groans of the dying, and the cry from every quarter and in every tongue of "Water! water!"--for the wounded were perishing from thirst, and their throats were parched and their tongues dry. There, too, prowled the plunderer, robbing the dead--the new-made widow sought her husband, and the mother her son. To and fro rushed hundreds of war-horses, in foam and in agony, without curb or rider--others lay kicking and snorting on the ground, their broad chests heaving with the throes of departing life, and struggling as though they thought themselves stronger than death. Louise and her father were shown to the positions that had been occupied by the Highland regiments. They inquired of every one whom they met, and who wore the garb of Old Scotland, if they could tell them aught of the fate of Serjeant Nicholson; but they shook their heads, and answered, "No." Louise was a beautiful and interesting girl, and the bloom of nineteen summers blushed on her cheeks; but they were now pale, and her dark eyes were bedimmed with tears. She leaned upon her father's arm, and they were passing near a field of rye, which was trodden down as though a scythe had been passed over it. Many dead and dying Highlanders lay near it. Before them lay a wounded man, whose face was covered and disfigured with blood--he was gasping for water, and his glazed eyes were unconscious of the earnestness and affection with which they gazed on him. "It is he!--it is he!" cried Louise. It was indeed George Nicholson. "He lives!--he breathes!" she continued. She bent over him--she raised his head--she applied a cordial to his lips. He swallowed it eagerly. His eyes began to move--a glow of consciousness kindled in them. With the assistance of her father, she washed and bound up his wounds, and the latter having procured a litter, he had him conveyed to his house at Brussels, and they accompanied him by the way. Louise watched over him; and in a few days his wounds were pronounced to be no longer dangerous, though he recovered slowly, and he acknowledged the affection of his gentle deliverer with the tears of gratitude and the glance of love. As soon as he had acquired strength to use a pen, he wrote a letter to his father, but he received no answer--a second time he wrote, and the result was the same. He now believed that, because he had been a humble instrument in contributing to the fall of a man, in whose greatness his father's soul was wrapped up, he had cast him off, and disowned him. The father of Louise obtained his discharge, and intrusted him with the management of his business. He knew that his daughter's heart was attached, with all a woman's devotedness, to the young Scotchman, and he knew that his affection for her was not less ardent. He knew also his worth; he had profited by his integrity and activity in business; and when the next anniversary of Waterloo came, he bade them be happy, and their hands were united. There was now but one cloud which threw a shade over the felicity of George Nicholson, and that was, that he had never heard from his parents, and that his father would not acknowledge his letters; yet he suspected not the cause. Almost six years had passed since he became the husband of Louise, yet his heart yearned after the place of his birth, and in the dreams of the night his spirit revisited it. He longed once more to hear his mother's voice, to grasp his father's hand, to receive a sister's welcome. But, more than these, he was now rich, and he wished to remove them from penury, to crown their declining years with ease and with plenty; nor could a son entertain a more honourable ambition, or one more meriting the blessing of Heaven. Taking Louise with him, they sailed from Antwerp, and in a few days arrived in London; from thence they proceeded towards the Borders, and the place of his birth. They had reached Alnwick, where they intended to remain for a few hours, and they went out to visit the castle. They had entered the square in front of the proud palace of the Percys, and in the midst of the square they observed a one-handed flute-player, with a young wife and three ragged children by his side, and the poor woman was soliciting alms for her husband's music. The heart of Louise was touched; she had drawn out her purse, and the wife of the flute-player, with her children in her hand, modestly, and without speaking, curtsied before her. George shook--he started--he raised his hands. "Catherine!--my sister!--my own sister!" he exclaimed, grasping the hand of the supplicant. "Oh, George!--my brother!" cried Catherine, and wept. The flute-player looked around. The instrument fell from his hand. "What!--William!--and without an arm, too!" added George, extending his hand to the musician. Louise took the hand of her new-found sister, and smiled, and wept, and bent down, and kissed the cheeks of her children. "My father--my mother, Catherine?" inquired George, in a tone that told how he trembled to ask the question. She informed him of their mother's death, of their father's infirmities, and that he was then an out-door pauper in T----. He relieved his sister's wants, and, with Louise, hastened to his birth-place. He found his father almost bedridden--a boarder at half-a-crown a-week in a miserable hovel, the occupants of which were as poor as their parish lodger. Old James was sitting reading a newspaper, which he had borrowed, when they entered; for his ruling passion remained strong in the midst of his age and infirmities. The rays of the setting sun were falling on his grey hairs. Tears had gathered in the eyes of his son, and he inquired-- "Do you know me?" James suddenly raised his eyes--they flashed with eager joy--he dropped his paper. "Ken ye! ken ye!--my son! my son! my lost George!" and he sank on his son's bosom. When the first burst of joy had subsided-- "And wha is this sweet leddy?" inquired James, gazing fondly at Louise. "Your daughter," replied George, placing her hand in his. I need not further dwell upon the history of the Leveller. From that hour he ceased to be a pauper--he accompanied his son to Brussels, and spent the remainder of his days in peace, and amidst many of the scenes which he had long before read of with enthusiasm. But, some reader may ask, what became of poor Catherine and her flute-player? A linendraper's shop was taken and stocked for them by her brother, and in it prosperity became a constant customer. Such is the history of James Nicholson the Leveller and his children. THE OLD CHRONICLER'S TALES. THE DEATH OF JAMES III. In these enlightened times, when man has become so wise that he thinks he knows everything, it is a practice with writers of legends which border on the supernatural, to give a plausible solution of any difficulty which occurs, and to reconcile, if possible, all mysterious appearances with the ascertained and familiar ways of God's providence. We are very far from discountenancing the study of physical causes, recommended by Lord Bacon, and followed now-a-days with so much zeal, and we might say, with so much impatience of what was at one time called the wisdom of the world; but we may very humbly remark, that, as all extremes transcend truth, the stickler for the old philosophy and the exclusive supporter of the new are equally wide of their aim, if they think that these respective studies comprehend severally all the ways of Providence. The votary of superstition, who trembles at an omen, is not farther distant from the path to eternal and immutable truth, than is the conceited biped who, with rule and compass, dynamics, and differential calculus, thinks he can measure and define all the powers of nature. How little is it known to him who makes the _visible_ the measure of nature's existence and power, that every step he makes, or thinks he makes, in his progress, the farther he removes from the great landmarks of those great truths on which is founded our holy religion. James III. was killed in open day: who killed him? History is mute; but tradition is eloquent, and fearfully impressive. The reign of this unfortunate monarch was marked by more rebellion and murder than any period of the same extent in the history of Scotland. Other reigns exhibited, perhaps, more attacks on the part of England--more battles and greater devastation; but the period we have mentioned stands unrivalled for intestine commotion, faction, rebellion, plotting, and counterplotting, and all the other effects that flow from a weakly-exercised authority on the part of a king over subjects, the greater part of whom, trained to arms and tournaments, and taught to hate and despise humane attainments, could find no relief from the ennui of idleness but in the stir of strife, whether exercised against their external enemies, or their internal compeers, who stood in the way of their ambition. Many have been the complaints which Scotland has made against the invasions of England, and the sordid views of the English monarchs which produced them; but little has been said against the renegade conduct of many of her sons, who, with matricidal views, endeavoured to put an end to her independence as a nation, by leaguing with her enemies, and corrupting the loyalty of their brethren. It may be doubted whether the successive treasons and rebellions of Mar, Douglas, and Albany, and their consequent alliances with the King of England, did not produce more evil to Scotland than ever resulted from the unaided invasions of all the English monarchs together; yet such is the inconsistency of man, that, even at this day, the cadets and scions of these renegade families presume upon the honours of their birth, and get their presumption admitted and countenanced by those who would despise the industrious benefactor of his country. There cannot be a doubt that it was entirely owing to the weakness of the third James, that the noble enemies of order and justice, the high barons, wrought so much evil to their country. A late historian, of some beauty of diction, and great command of historical erudition, but perhaps deficient in what is called the philosophy of history, has endeavoured to support James against the censures of Leslie and Buchanan; but his own narrative disproves his arguments, and leaves the responsibility of a nation's sorrow at the debit of the weakness, favouritism, and tergiversation of that unfortunate king. The rebellion at Lauder--where his favourites, Crighton the mason, Rogers the musician, and Ireland the man of letters, or rather of magic, were hanged over the buttress of the bridge--was entirely produced by the disappointment of the lords, who saw their places at court occupied by mechanics, while they, too much inclined for tumult at any rate, were left without civil distinctions and employments to occupy their minds and incline them to peace. But, although the weakness of James may have formed an excuse for the nobles to rise against him, what shall be said for the conduct of his son, James IV., who headed the subsequent rebellion against his own father, which ended so mournfully at the battle of Sauchie Burn? It was unnecessary to add the cry of public reprobation to the voice of a crying conscience; the prince conceived himself to have been the murderer of his father, and never had a day's rest or happiness on earth after the mysterious death which his rebellious conduct had produced. We have outlived the days of superstition, and we do not, we dare not, believe what has been handed down to us on the subject of this self-imputed parricide--but we are at liberty, as veracious chroniclers of tradition, to narrate what were at one time supposed to be the ways of a mysterious Providence, in punishing the unfilial conduct of a son who, after experiencing the unlimited kindness of a parent, took into his hand arms, which, by another, though unknown hand, were used against that parent's life. Let the sceptical sons of modern philosophy repudiate our narrative, as their sublime knowledge of the workings of physical powers inclines them to shut their eyes against the dark obscure beyond. We profess to believe that negation of light is not exclusive of existences, and that, though light may be necessary to enable us to see what is permitted us to see by the decree of Him who made us, there is also ordained an alternation of darkness, whose dominion being co-extensive with the light, carries a borrowed conviction of existences, which, extended by analogy to unknown things and regions, may make us abate our scepticism and humble our pride of knowledge. When the nobles who had committed the daring acts of rebellion and murder at the Bridge of Lauder--among whom were Lords Gray and Hailes, the Master of Hume, and Shaw of Sauchie--found that the king was not inclined to extend to them letters of pardon, they set about devising a scheme whereby they might force that safety to themselves and their property, which they had not been able to procure by entreaty and supplication. Their plan was subtle in its nature, and dexterously executed; but, like all schemes of a similar kind, failed of that success which the high hopes of political schemers point to, as the mean of their elevation to rank and power. They resolved upon taking advantage of the youth and versatility of the young prince, James, Duke of Rothsay, and endeavouring to overcome his sentiments of filial love and duty by the engrossing passion of political ambition, get him to join them in their designs against the power and authority of his father. By setting, in this way, the son against the parent, they would give weight and power to their faction, and take away the responsibility and guilt of rebellious leaders, which could not attach to operations commanded by the heir-apparent of the throne. Unfortunately the disposition of the young prince was predisposed to the reception of the insidious whisperings of ambition. All the faculties of his mind were in a high degree precocious; and his sentiments kept pace with his intellectual powers, in suggesting wishes which his abilities might gratify, and which his prudence was not able to suppress. These tendencies had, it is supposed, been noticed by the rebellious schemers, who, with the example of a prior Duke of Rothsay before them, could not well have calculated upon overcoming the instinctive feelings of a son, without some indications that these were weaker than they are even generally found to be in the sons of kings. This plan was begun to be put into execution, by getting the prince prevailed upon to visit the Castle of Stirling, at that time under the governorship of Shaw of Sauchie. He had no sooner arrived, than a great display was made by the lords, who were assembled there for the purpose of the most obsequious homage and the most impassioned affection, with the view of stimulating those feelings of a desire of power, which already had vindicated too much force in his youthful mind. A banquet was prepared in honour of the heir-apparent, at which there were assembled almost all those nobles who stood in fear of his father, from having had a participation in the murder of the favourites at Lauder. The most fulsome flattery was poured into his youthful ear; and the conduct of his father, in resigning himself to the studies of astrology and to the power of the professors of that occult science, treated with a levity which bordered on derision and laughter. This was the true chord to strike in the heart of the prince, who, filled with the highest enthusiasm of chivalry, despised, as worthy of the supremest contempt of an honourable man-at-arms, and far more of a king, all such applications of the human intellect. He did not hesitate to declare, in the midst of the nobles, that he did not approve of the conduct of his father, who ought, as he thought, to have cultivated the knowledge of arms, and left witchcraft to old wives, and astrology to old men. These sentiments were lauded by the company, and the young man, buoyed up with the conceit of a knowledge superior to that of his father, seemed to be far advanced in the preparation he was undergoing for bolder sentiments and unfilial resolutions. Well may philosophers lament the evil nature of man. Few criminal purposes can be suggested to the human heart, without finding in its hidden recesses some chord which, with eldrich notes, gives a response often unknown to the will, but affording good proof that the attuning and predisposing power of an evil angel has been at work in that organ on which depends the salvation or perdition of mortals. When the designing nobles saw that the young prince was so far prepared for their purposes, they got him engaged, under cover of a recess of the great hall, in a conversation with some of the leaders, and, in particular, with Gray and Hume, who took the active part in the demoralisation of the youth. The plan adopted by Gray, in conducting the conversation, was the result of experience, and the very triumph of cunning. He had noticed the self-complacent smile of the flattered prince, when the elder nobles conceded to him their opinion, and deferred a subtle point to the analysing powers of his boyish judgment; and he took advantage of the weakness of vanity, to forward his schemes of ambition. "Your highness has doubtless been informed," said the arch diplomatist to the royal boy, "of the reason why your royal father hath refused to us, in this last parliament, the satisfaction of an act of pardon for our conduct at Lauder, now five years old--notwithstanding that we have been all that time in his power, and have not been troubled with any trial for our crime or misdemeanour." "I have understood," said the prince, "that my father's imprisonment and misfortunes originated from the affair at Lauder. Is not that a good enough reason for refusing the pardon?" "When I tell thee, young prince," said Gray, "that at Lauder the king lost his architect, his musician, his astrologer, and magician, all of whom I assisted in hanging over the buttress of Lauder Bridge, will your highness remain longer of opinion that our refusal of a pardon is owing to the imprisonment of the king?" "No, my lord," replied the prince; "I believe I must renounce that opinion upon second thoughts; and I do it upon my recollection of what I have seen and heard of my father's sorrow for the fate of his favourites, and resentment against their executioners. He sigheth by night and by day for his brave and stately draughtsman, Earl Cochrane, his sweet-toned Rogers, and his erudite Ireland. I do, on my conscience, believe he sorrows more for these men than for his own imprisonment." "And doth your highness approve or condemn our conduct, in hanging these favourites over Lauder Bridge?" said Hume. "Why, I think a rope was too good for them, and a pardon not enough for the executioners," replied the prince; "you should have had a bounty on each head of the varlets. If my exchequer were not so empty, I would award ye a recompense myself. But I have heard that some of ye played into the hands of Gloucester, Albany, and Douglas, in that affair of Lauder. What say ye?" "Thou hast been deceived," said Gray. "Archibald Bell-the-Cat was, doubtless, for the English king, but we stood true to our country. It was the favourites alone we wanted to punish--and we did punish them; an act which, apparently, thy father is determined not to forgive. What then are we to do? Wilt thou, the heir-apparent, stand aside and see those who freed thy father from the shackles of favouritism, and saved our country from the domination of a court of mechanics, consigned to a cruel punishment, or what is worse, to the terrors of Damocles?" "Never!" cried the fiery youth; "I applaud your conduct, and could recommend to you some more work of the same kind; for my father has got another court of mechanics. Scarcely a nobleman is allowed to approach him. The Archbishop of St Andrew's, Schevez, has not forgotten his rudiments of astrology he learned from Spernicus at Louvaine--for the teaching of the king keeps up his own knowledge; and Cochrane, Rogers, Hemmil, Torphichen, Leonard, and Preston, whom you so beautifully suspended over the old bridge, have been replaced by others, no less elevated in their birth, and no less learned in the arts. My father is lost. Scotland is ruled by the stars. The birth of every year hath its horoscope. Chivalry declineth in the land. The glory of the Bruce is forgotten. There is much work before me, and I wish it were well begun, for I cannot doubt that by your services it will be well ended." "Thou speakest like the wisdom of the oldest of us," said Gray; "and I am urged, by some of the concluding words of thy speech, to put a question to your highness--yet I tremble at my own boldness." "Speak, good Gray," said the prince; "my father will not pardon you and your associates, after your work of good service is finished--I will pardon thee before thou beginnest." "Is it the opinion of your highness," said the wily baron, "that a king who is ruled by the stars (the _moon_ as a _fixed_ one not excepted) is fit to govern this kingdom, which has heretofore obeyed the statutes of parliament and the sword of the knight?" "Upon the honour of my order of knighthood," cried the prince, "thy question goeth home into the heart and marrow of the matter, and my answer shall not be behind it: I opine not." "And doth not the situation in which we stand," said Hume--"we, the greater number of the nobles in the land, liable every instant to forfeit our lives to an aspect of the heavens--to be hanged for hanging the favourites of the king five years ago--render it imperative on us to seek, in the spirited and knightly heir-apparent, a substitute for him who is declared unfit to rule, without danger to the country and ruin to us?" "Assuredly," answered the flattered prince. "If the king is not deposed, you will be deposed, and I shall be scandalised by the sight of a star-gazing king, and a host of dangling nobles at the end of ropes not so fine as the silk cords of Cochrane the mason's tent, which he requested for the special convenience of his noble craig. What will ye?" "That thou shouldst head our party," said Gray, "and be our king in place of thy father, who is unfit to govern this kingdom, and unwilling to pardon his friends." "I object not," replied the prince. "The king, my father, can be cared for tenderly. Let him be sent to my palace of Rothsay, where he can gaze on the heavens from sunset to sunrise, and send me daily an astrological express, to enable me to govern the kingdom by this heavenly wisdom." "All hail, our king!" now cried the voices of a hundred knights and nobles, who, on a signal, had hurried from the table, and surrounded the prince. "All hail, James the Fourth, King of Scotland, and our lawful sovereign!" And the whole assemblage kneeled before the young prince, who received the homage with every feeling of gratified pride. While this extraordinary scene was in the course of being enacted, in the midst of a brilliant assemblage, and the eulogistic flattery of the interested actors, James felt no compunctions of broken filial duty and ruptured affection. Swelled with the pride of his new and suddenly-acquired honour, the thought of the price at which its confirmation must be bought--the deposition and degradation of an up-right and humane, though weak, king, and that king his father--never interfered with the flow of his gratified and excited feelings. Everything was now grand, hilarious, and hopeful; and a far vista of wise legislative and noble knightly achievements, claimed the rapt eye of his mind, when his attention could be taken off the brilliant scene before him. His experience of the mind of man and the operations of fate did not inform him that there is a mysterious agreement between the one and the other, whereby their results are mutually and wonderfully magnified, and the individual who studies himself is brought to tremble at the height of joy, as the precursor of a cause ready to plunge him into the depths of melancholy anticipation and sorrow. We are told that kings are great examples in the hands of a teaching Providence; and hence our authority for approaching, with greater confidence than we could do in relation to ordinary individuals, the cause of the change that awaited the feelings and aspirations of the young prince on the night of his anticipated honour. About twelve o'clock he was attended to his chamber, the royal apartment of the castle, by Shaw of Sauchie, the governor, and several of the nobles, who, after conversing with him for some time, left him, locking the door after them as they departed--a measure, they explained to him, as being necessary for his own safety, in the midst of so much dissension and distrust as prevailed at that time among the nobility. The circumstance did not alarm the royal prisoner, though he could not but think it strange that, on the first night of his installation, his palace should be converted into a jail, and the king of his country should be the jail-bird of the seneschal of one of his own castles. Free of all sense of personal danger, he contemplated the temporary privation of his liberty rather with a disposition to being amused than annoyed, and lay down to court that rest which joy, equally as sorrow, banishes from the pillow of mortals. His thoughts took now a direction the very reverse of what they had followed during the day. The image of his deceased mother, Queen Margaret, forced itself on his mind. Her pious, reserved, and meek manners, with her devotion to her consort and her affection to her eldest son, all sanctified and made more lovely and interesting by her death, softened his heart, and filled his eyes with the tears of a son's love; while his undutiful conduct that night, in agreeing to the dethronement of his father, silently censured, as it appeared to be, by her gentle spirit, called up a feeling of remorse, which wrung his heart with pain, and added to the tears which he was already shedding in profusion. If left to his choice, he would now have undone what he had been so ready to perform at the request of factious and interested men; and, if the door of his apartment had not been locked, the strength of his feelings might have urged him to seek for safety and forgiveness at the feet of his injured parent. The hour was far advanced, but the restlessness of his fevered fancy still prevented all rest. The apartment was dark, no attendant was within call, and he was necessitated, though a king, to yield obedience to a power which no mortal can resist; the feelings of love, sorrow, regret, remorse, and repentance--as applicable to the parent who was lying in a royal sepulchre, and to another who was virtually, in so far as regarded his intention, deposed and degraded--alternated, became stronger, decayed, and revived again with a painful and harassing vacillation. He heard the warder call two o'clock; again all was silent as before, and his thoughts were about to fall into the same painful train, when he heard the iron bar of the door of his apartment gently drawn, and saw enter the figure of an old man, with a long grey beard, a grey cloak, which reached to his feet, and was bound by a blue belt, and holding in his hand a taper, which, glimmering with a fitful light, exposed very imperfectly the strange and fearful-looking object who held it. James's eyes were fixed upon him intensely, and the lustreless orbs of his visiter repaid the looks with as intent a gaze, and made a thrill of superstitious terror run over his body. The figure continued the gaze as it approached the bed, which, having reached, it stood silent, holding up the lamp in the face of the trembling youth, and apparently taking care not to change the set of its features, or the direction or manner of its look. This attitude enabled James to scan narrowly the features of the individual: they appeared to be somewhat sinister, though he could not say where the precise expression lay, or what it truly was--seriousness seemed to degenerate into sternness, and that again into malignity, which was again relieved by some traces of kindness and patronising protection. A deep scar on the right cheek, and what by doctors is called a staphylomatic eye, in consequence of its resemblance to a white grape, had a great share in the production of the uncertain expression which was so difficult to read. Having thus stood for some time at the side of the bed, looking into the face of the prince, and holding the glimmering lamp so as to suit its imperfect vision, the figure lifted solemnly its left hand, and, in a low and somewhat guttural tone of voice, said-- "What is the duty of a son to a parent, of a subject to a king, of a creature to the Creator?" James was silent; the question was threefold, and implied censure, which, co-operating with his fear, prevented reply. "What doth he deserve," proceeded the figure, "who disobeyeth his parent, deposeth his king, and rebelleth against the laws of God?" The terror of an apparition working on a predisposed mind was every moment receiving an augmentation of strength; and the young prince, in place of replying, grasped the bedclothes firmly around him, and eyed the speaker with nervous looks. "Thou answerest not," continued the speaker--"and why? Pride and self-approbation are gifted with the loquacity of the joy which, they say, chattereth only when the sun shineth; but wisdom is represented by the owl, whose reign is in the still hours of night. Yesterday thou couldst speak of being a king--ay, a king over thy father and thy father's subjects--and a king in the verity of traitors' tongues thou art; yet where is thy authority, when even the tongue of royalty cleaveth slavishly to the parched mouth of the conscience-stricken, and preventeth thee from seizing these dry bones" (holding forth his hands), "and consigning this head of grey hairs to the Heading Hill of Stirling? The king or the prince who is enslaved by his conscience oweth the duties of villeinage to the worst and hardest of masters. The chain is forging, the forge is in action, the hammer and the anvil hold in their embrace the connecting link of a king's bondage. The eagle flies over Schiehallion to-day, and to-morrow the spurning pinions quiver in the grasp of the hand. The exulting, swelling heart of virtue hath not yet collapsed. There is time to rouse thyself, and throw off the tyrant whose power thou feelest even now. Return to thy allegiance. Love and obey thy father; aid him against his foes. Refuse--and be thrice miserably damned." The figure turned, and retreated from the bed. The door was opened, shut and locked. Nothing was to be seen, and nothing heard. Roused from his fear, James sprung up, and cried-- "Whether of mortal mould, or a mere borrower on occasion of our rude forms of earth, return, and say whence thy commission, and of what import. If a mere messenger of man, I'll heed thee not; but, if thou'lt give me proof that James of Scotland, my royal father, enjoys the protection of the King of All, I'll on the instant renounce my new-born honours, hail him king, thee my good angel, and be once more plain James of Rothsay." No answer was returned to the call of the prince; he listened for a time at the door of the apartment, and, hearing no sound, returned to bed, where, after tossing about for several hours, he fell into a sound sleep. Towards morning he dreamed that the figure again visited him, and communed with him on the crime of filial disobedience--the fancied apparition and the supposed conversation being in the dream so clearly developed, that, when he awoke, he felt the greatest difficulty in endeavouring to segregate the real from the imaginary appearances. He had even doubts whether he had actually seen the figure, or whether the first scene was not that of a dream as well as the second; and he knew of no mode other than that of having recourse to simple conviction, of satisfying himself on this interesting point. He was not contented with the proof afforded by his consciousness, the very _ne plus ultra_ of human probation, and resolved on making an application to the warder, with the view of getting some confirmation of the evidence of his senses. He had scarcely made his resolution, when Governor Shaw unlocked the door, and entered the apartment. Full of the thoughts he had been indulging and canvassing with so much anxiety since he arose, the prince told his visiter what he thought he had seen during the night, but candidly admitted that he had had also a vision in a dream approaching so nearly to the reality of the waking sense, that he could not take upon him to say that the first appearance was _undoubtedly_ a real natural exhibition of a mortal existence. The governor listened with great attention, and anxiously inquired what was the subject of the conversation that passed between him and the old man. The prince narrated to him, as nearly as possible, the words used by the figure, and admitted that he himself had no power to reply, till after the visiter was gone and the door locked. Shaw was evidently much moved by the recital, and, in a confused and hurried manner, endeavoured to convince James that he had had a visit of nightmare--an affection with which he was probably, in consequence of his extreme youth, as yet unacquainted, but a mysterious operation of nature, quite sufficient to produce in a young and fervent mind that semi-consciousness of reality which had apparently perplexed him so much. He recommended to him to banish the affair from his mind, and, above all, to say nothing of it to the warlike nobles in the castle, whose very objection to the rule of his father was founded on the latter's faith in dreams, auguries, and astrological nostrums--a true sign of a weak intellect. This latter part of the governor's statement, which was delivered with much gravity, produced a great effect upon the mind of James, whose contempt of his father's occult, astrological, and oneirocritical practices was the cause of his disobedience, as well as its apology. He trembled at the thought of incurring, on his own part, the censure which had been heaped on his parent, and felt anxious to escape precipitately from the subject he had broached, as well as from his own thoughts, which, mixing up reality and imagination in inextricable confusion, produced nothing but doubt, irresolution, and anxiety. If he had been anxious, on the entry of Shaw, to tell him the wonders of the night, he was now more anxious to undo what he had done, and remove from the mind of the governor any suspicion that he inherited from his father his hairbrained propensity to believe in dreams and divinations. Changing the style of his speech, as well as the expression of his countenance, he attempted to make light of his nocturnal adventure, and laughed off the clinging belief with an effort which was not unnoticed by his wily visiter. The power of early prejudices in overcoming the convictions of truth, effected a partial triumph; but there still clung to the mind of the youth a feeling of a struggling conviction, which his forced laugh and his expressed contempt of all supernatural beliefs had little power to affect. He felt, however, the necessity of maintaining absolute silence on a subject so intimately connected with his dispute with his father, and Shaw undertook to say nothing of the occurrence, which he affected to think had been properly treated by the noble mind of the young prince. The scheme of this unnatural rebellion being persevered in with great determination and asperity, a court was held next day in the Castle of Stirling, where all the ceremonies of a royal levee were gone through with studied state and affected etiquette. The Earl of Argyle was reinstated in the office of chancellor, which had been conferred by his father on Elphinston, Bishop of Aberdeen. A negotiation was opened with the English king, Henry VII., who, having had a dispute with the old king as to the restoration of Berwick, very readily entered into the views of the son, and agreed to grant passports to his ambassadors, the Bishops of Glasgow and Dunkeld, the Earl of Argyle, Lords Lyle and Hailes, with the Master of Hume, who were, in fact, the heads of the rebellious party. The boldness of these proceedings, quadrating with the weakness of the king's actions, spread disaffection among the people of Scotland far and wide; and it was soon rumoured that the monarch, afraid of the disposition of his subjects towards the south, had proceeded to Aberdeen, and issued orders for the array of Strathearn and Angus, and all his friends in the north who still retained their allegiance. If the son soon found himself at the head of a large force in the south, the father was as successful in the north. Athole, Huntly, Crawford, and Lindsay of Byres, joined his standard; and to these were soon added Buchan, Errol, Glammis, Forbes, and Kilmaurs--so that the two ends of the kingdom were completely arrayed against each other, and the antagonist forces were headed by a father and a son. The monarch having thus vacated the capital, and betaken himself to the north, an opportunity was held out to the son to lay siege to the Castle of Edinburgh; and orders were given to the troops to proceed in that direction. During all this time the mind of the prince had been kept up by the insidious counsels of the rebel lords, who represented the unfilial work in which he was engaged as conducive to the benefit of the kingdom, which would receive the blessings of his wise legislation. The youth was flattered by these statements; and the details of an army, by occupying his thoughts, banished from his recollection the night scene of the Castle of Stirling, which, as time aided the efforts of his sceptical wishes, gradually appeared to assume more and more the character of a false and delusive dream. Meanwhile, Hume and Hailes, and others who had been sent as ambassadors to England, returned with intelligence that Henry was favourable to their cause--a circumstance which still farther flattered the vanity of the youth, and prevented him from giving way to the feelings of instinctive duty and affection towards his father. Proceeding gradually forward, the rebel army came to Blackness, near Linlithgow, where they encamped. The army of the king, in the meantime, came up, and the unusual sight was exhibited of two parts of a nation, headed by a father and a son, contending for a throne, arrayed against each other, with reciprocal feelings of enmity and views of mortal conflict. The benevolent heart of the father relented, and terms of accommodation, as prepared by Huntly and Errol, were sanctioned by his signature, but prevented from being properly submitted to the son by the rash conduct of Buchan, who thought he would be able to extinguish the rebellion by one blow. A skirmish was the consequence, in which the earl gained some advantage; but, though the triumph was magnified into a victory, the rebel forces were as strong as ever, while the sight of kindred blood on the swords of the warriors of either side of the field sickened the hearts of brave men, who, in other circumstances, would have been fired by the token of an advantage over an enemy. The wish for an accommodation was increased on the side of the king and his troops, and the former terms of accommodation were submitted to the rebel prince, who was still under the leading-strings of the arch traitors by whom he had been led into this unseemly and unnatural position. The terms of accommodation were extremely favourable to the insurgent forces, as, without exacting any condition but that of laying down their arms, the king agreed to admit them to favour and grant them pardons for present and bygone offences; yet great dissension existed amongst the rebels on the subject of the acceptance of the offer of peace, and the prince, urged on by Gray, in whom he had the greatest confidence, headed the party who were inclined to stand out. "I for one," said the youth, "receive nothing by these terms but the mighty boon of forgiveness, which will neither add to my honours nor contribute to my ambition. By being the friend of my royal father, I may be gratified by getting a view of Venus through his astrolabe; but I would rather, upon the honour of a knight, be his lieutenant in the government of this part of the planet Earth called Scotland. It is clear that my father is as unfit to rule the kingdom as was the father of the former holder of my title of Duke of Rothsay, Robert III, who made his son lieutenant-general--and why should I be debarred from what is my natural and legitimate right? It will be for the good of you all that I am appointed to that office, insomuch as the friendship of a ruler invested with all the power is better than the pardon of a king who has none." These sentiments were opposed by many of the lords, and in particular by the Earl of Argyle. "By these terms of accommodation," said he, "we get all we have been fighting for, or can expect from a victory gained through the blood of our countrymen and kinsmen--a free pardon for the execution of the favourites at the Bridge of Lauder, and a restoration to the favour and confidence of the king. We cannot force a lieutenantcy in favour of the prince who is at present our king, otherwise than by committing his royal father to close confinement--for what self-denying ordinance could prevent a sane and free king, not deposed by his subjects, from exercising his authority in opposition to that of a lieutenant forced upon him against his will, and acting against his wishes? The crown, as surely as a coffin, will come to one prince by the course of nature, and better wait for a regular inheritance, than anticipate a right by rebellion, spoliation, and force." Other arguments were used by other nobles, and the convention retired to their tents without coming to any determination. The night was clear and beautiful; the sky shone with cerulean brightness; a clear full moon shot her silvery rays "over tower and tree;" and every twinkling star in the blue firmament seemed to rejoice in the opportunity of getting its weak beam thrown upon the green earth, and adding its small mite to the general exuberance of the smiles of the whole heavenly host. The noise of the convention of angry nobles having ceased, and the men, wearied by bearing arms all day, having retired to rest, there was nothing to disturb the silence which reigned coordinately with the serene light, and made the scene more impressively beautiful. When left to himself, the young prince felt the contrast between the appearance of nature, thus arrayed in her fairest smiles, and beautified by calmness and composure, and the position of a father and a son, lying in wait for an opportunity of engaging in the strife of war, and of even shedding each other's blood, by the vicarious hands of those they were leading on to the fight of kindred against kindred. His heart softened; the feelings of nature returned for a time, and vindicated the authority they should never have lost. His versatility was exclusive of a permanent establishment in his bosom of affection and duty, but it was, as it generally is, a pledge of the strength of the reigning emotion, for the time, which, in proportion to the shortness of its duration, was intense in its action, and engrossing in its extent. Having thrown himself on his couch, he resigned himself to the influence of these feelings; the poetical enthusiasm which is generated by a contemplation of nature in her beautiful moods, and, in his instance, called forth by a survey (through the opening of his tent) of the shining heavens and the sleeping earth, came in aid of the instinctive emotions which occupied his bosom; and he could not restrain the expression of what he felt. "I have sat on the knee of him against whom I am arrayed in preparation for mortal fight, and I have seen the tear rise in his eye, as, looking first at me, and then at my departed mother (bless her pure spirit, which dwelleth in that ether!), he felt proud of the pledge of their loves, and hopeful of the virtues of a good king, to succeed him when he died. What would have been his emotions, if he had been told by some of his occult divinations that the boy he cherished and wept over would lift his hand against his life, and endeavour to pluck the crown from his living head? How dreadful, at this moment, appears to me my position and my conduct! Almost in my view, my parent lays his head on the pillow of a field-tent, uncertain whether his son and his son's friends may permit him to awake again, to view the beauties of that moon, and all that she discovers to the eye of man! Heavens! and I, conscious of my ingratitude, know its baneful effects on a parent's mind, and yet do not rise instantly and throw myself at his feet! Cruel versatility of nature under which I stand accursed! Where shall I find the elements of consistency, the true parent of happiness? Alas! I obey only the impulses of constitution. Would that, at this auspicious moment, I had an opportunity of acquiring again the matter of these terms of peace! The feelings of a son, roused by conscience, would suggest an eloquence before which all the specious views and paradoxes of Gray and Hume would disappear, like vapours before the light of that shining queen of the heavens." He lifted his eyes as he spoke, to look again at the bright moon, and saw before him, palpable to his waking intelligence, the identical figure which had appeared to him in the Castle of Stirling. The light brought out his form in full perfection, and a long shadow thrown upon the floor of the tent gave an additional evidence of his presence; the scar upon his cheek and the staphylomatic orb were apparent, and proved his identity; and his look and manner indicated a purpose similar to that he had announced on the occasion of his prior appearance. "He whom the gods wish to destroy," said the figure, "is first by them deprived of reason; and thy disregard of my counsel showeth that thou art bent on thine own ruin. Thy father lieth there" (pointing his finger)--"I will lead thee to his tent; and, see! there lieth beside thee on that couch a sword. What need of more? Why not in pity end his woes and life together? That bright moon will glory in the sight of a son imbruing his hand in the blood of a parent--her light will be incarnadined by the running stream of life--but water will wash the hands of the parricide. Come, follow! Dost thou hesitate? Why, then, this warlike array?" "Fiend or angel," cried the prince, "which art thou? Are the counsels of heaven couched in irony, or am I advised by a messenger of hell? Give thy thoughts another and a clearer form, and satisfy me that thou art well commissioned for the counsel of youth, and I will hail thee friend. Of sage advisers, with hair as white as thine, and speech as strange, circuitous, and wild, I have enough--my soul is torn by their contests for the mastership of my royal will. I'd give an earldom of ten thousand acres for ten words winged with the wisdom of above. Speak!--what art thou?" "All that is good comes from the skies," replied the man; "and mortals, to attain it, are not required to trust alone to the vicarious powers which live in that blue light of the moon's silver glory. The triumph of God's wisdom soundeth through man's heart. Thou hast heard it, and heeded it not. The soft and solemn notes of goodness, suited to the gravity of knowledge that tendeth to salvation, have not awakened thee; and the harsh tones of stimulating irony have, as a last resource, been tried on the obdurate heart of filial disobedience. Why more? Hast thou forgot our meeting in the Castle of Stirling? Renounce thy vain speculations on the origin of my mission and the nature of this form, which, thou seest, casteth a shadow on the ground, and listen to the counsel which is independent of the tongue of man or angel that pronounceth it. Agree to thy father's terms; hasten to his bosom, fall on it, weep away the dregs of thy disobedience, and rejoice in the composing and healing virtues of the fatted calf." Having said these words, the figure glided quickly out of the tent; and, though James immediately rose and followed, he could see no trace of the extraordinary being who thus haunted him, and counselled him, apparently for his good. He called some of his attendants, and asked of them if they had seen any person leave his tent; but they answered in the negative; and, though he personally searched among the tents, and even visited the camp of the sutlers, he could find no trace of the mysterious counsellor. He returned to his tent, and again threw himself on his couch. This vision was at least no dream. All the powers of Shaw, and all the sceptical raillery of those who laughed his father's credulous belief in dreams and divinations to scorn, could not, he was satisfied, drive from his mind the effects produced by the appearance and language of this extraordinary visiter. He began to think that the wisdom of his father, whose maxim was, that there is more in nature than man's shallow philosophy can fathom, was truer and better lore than the self-sufficient and profane knowledge of his noble advisers; and, though he had no evidence that the figure was an unincorporated essence, but rather suspected that it was made of flesh and blood like himself, there was an impressiveness and solemnity in his thoughts and manner of delivering them, which justified the maxim he had himself delivered, that wisdom may come from heaven by other means than the mediation of celestial messengers. The train of reflections which followed were grave and sage; the feelings of a son who had injured his father, and wished to make amends, acquired an ascendency where they should never have lost their power, and a resolution to agree on the morn to the terms of accommodation offered, and thus obey the counsel of the mysterious visiter, was formed before slumber overtook his distracted mind. Early in the morning, the council of nobles again met, and the discussions were resumed as to the expediency of accepting the offers of peace. The prince sat listening to the arguments in a mood of gloomy abstraction, from which he appeared to struggle to get free, and, at last starting up, he put an end to the strife of contending tongues by delivering solemnly his changed opinion. "We have all heard," he said, "that there is great wisdom in night counsel (_consilium in nocte_)--forgive me--I do not say in dreams, or visions, or consultations of the heavens, but in the weighing of rational arguments in the balance of the judgment, when there is no disturbing cause to shake the scales, and no prejudice to add a false weight to the deductions of a biassed reasoning. I stand in a position different from you all. You are fighting against your king, I against my father. You are seeking what is offered to you by the terms in question; I am fighting for what death or superannuation alone can bestow--a king's crown or a vice-regent's tiara; and I am offered what I scarcely deserve--an indulgent father's forgiveness and affection. Why should I hesitate, when, by standing out, I may lose the crown and my father's love, while, by acquiescing, I insure the one at present, and retain the other by a sure expectancy? The words of Argyle have sat on my heart all night. If I live till my father die, a crown and a coffin are equally certain to me; and I shall put on the one and lie down in the other with feelings better befitting the heir of a kingdom on earth, and one in heaven, by acting as becometh a good son, than those that can result from a consciousness of disobedience. Our commissioners, therefore, have my authority for agreeing to the terms of peace." This speech, so different from the one of the previous day, was received with loud murmurs of dissatisfaction from the leading rebels, who calculated with certainty on the steadiness of a youth, who, having been untrue to his father, might safely have been suspected of a tendency to a dangerous vacillation as regarded his new colleagues. The numbers on the side of the prince were, however, great--perhaps amounting to a majority--so that the discontented nobles were obliged to suppress their chagrin, and permit the commissioners to go through the ceremony of accepting the terms of accommodation. The treaty was therefore concluded in the course of the day. The monarch, acting upon the supposition that everything was amicably settled, withdrew his army, and retired back upon Edinburgh, where, in the excess of his gratitude to those who had brought about a result so beneficial to the kingdom, and so gratifying to the feelings of a father, he bestowed upon several of the nobles and knights substantial marks of his royal favour. The Earl of Crawford was created Duke of Montrose, Lord Kilmaurs was raised to the rank of Earl Glencairn, and the Lairds of Balnamoon, Lag, Balyard, and others, received grants of land. All was settled, as the weak, but good, monarch thought, amicably and lastingly. Yet how vain are the anticipations of mortals! At the very time when a species of jubilee was celebrating in Edinburgh, on the re-organisation of the court and the restoration of peace and tranquillity, the uncompromising rebel lords were triumphing in another victory over the mind and sentiments of the prince. The versatile youth having survived the solemn impression made on his mind by his nocturnal counsellor, was as ready as ever to listen to the rebellious advice of the nobles, who, trusting to their power over him, had secretly kept together the army, which they had merely cantoned in various parts of the south. The monarch had scarcely rested himself in the Castle of Edinburgh, when he was informed that the same fierce faction had resumed their ambitious schemes, and were again assembled, with the prince at their head, in more formidable array than before. The instant this intelligence reached Edinburgh, the king's friends who had remained in the city urged him to re-assemble his army without delay, and put a total end to the insurrection, by a quick and decisive blow. The loyal nobles were active in their measures, and collected, in a very short time, their retainers; while summonses were issued to all those who had returned home, and especially the lords of the north, to assemble their clans, and meet the king's troops at Stirling, whither his majesty intended to repair in person. The commands were most readily obeyed; the popularity of the cause of the father against the son was very great, and had considerably increased since the breach of faith which the latter and his rebel colleagues had displayed in not adhering to the late solemn treaty; and in a very short time the royal army exhibited an enlargement of its ranks, which justified expectations of a speedy settlement of this unnatural strife. Abandoning the Castle of Edinburgh, the monarch approached Stirling, where, having placed himself at the head of his army, he met and attacked with considerable spirit the forces of his son, which having dispersed, he forced them across the Forth, and immediately after demanded admittance into his Castle of Stirling. This request was refused by Shaw, the governor; and before preparations could be made for forcing a surrender, or, indeed, before a decision was come to whether an attack should, in the circumstances, be resorted to, intelligence was brought that the antagonist forces had re-assembled, and were encamped in strong array on the level plain above the bridge of the Torwood. Upon hearing this intelligence, the monarch immediately advanced against the insurgents; and having no longer any faith in the breakers of solemn covenants, encountered them on a track of ground known at present by the name of Little Canglar, situated upon the east side of a small brook called Sauchie Burn, about two miles from Stirling, and one from the field of Bannockburn. The royal army was drawn up in three divisions, under the advice of Lord Lindsay--the first composed of the northern clans, under Athole and Huntly, forming an advance of Highlandmen, armed with bows, daggers, swords, and targets; the rear division, consisting of Westland and Stirling men, under Menteith, Erskine, and Graham; and the main battle, composed of burghers and commons, being led by the king himself. On the right of the king, who was splendidly armed, and rode a tall grey horse, presented to him by Lord Lindsay, was that venerable warrior and the Earl of Crawford, commanding a noble body of cavalry, consisting of the chivalry of Fife and Angus; while on his left Lord Ruthven, with the men of Strathearn and Stormont, formed a body of nearly five thousand spearmen. On the other hand, the rebel lords formed themselves also into three battles: the first division, composed of the hardy spearmen of East Lothian and Merse, being led by Lord Hailes and the Master of Hume; the second, formed of Galwegians and the hardy Borderers of Liddesdale and Annandale, being led by Lord Gray; while the middle, composed of the rebel lords, was led by the prince, whose mind, recurring again to the vision of Stirling and Blackness, was torn with remorse, and compelled him to seek some relief--alas! how small could the means afford!--by issuing an order that no one should dare, in the ensuing conflict, to lay violent hands on his father. A shower of arrows (as usual) began the battle, and did little execution on either side; and it was not till the Borderers, with that steady and determined valour which practice in war from their infancy enabled them to turn to so good account, advanced, and attacked the royal army, that the serious work of the engagement could be said to have begun. But the beginning was more like an ending than the incipient skirmishing of men not yet warmed into the heat of strife. The onset was terrible, and the slaughter so great, that the Earls of Huntly and Menteith retreated in confusion upon the main body, commanded by the king, and threw it into an alarm from which it did not recover. After making a desperate stand, the royal forces began to waver; and the tumult having reached the spot where the king was stationed, he was implored by his attendant lords not to run the risk of death, which would bring ruin on their cause, but to leave the field while yet he had any chance of doing so with safety. The monarch consented reluctantly, and, while his nobles continued the battle, put spurs to his horse, and fled at full speed through the village of Bannockburn. On crossing the Bannock, at a hamlet called Milltown, he came suddenly upon a woman drawing water, who, surprised and terrified by the sight of an armed horseman, threw down her pitcher, and flew into her house. The noise terrified the noble steed, which, flying off and swerving to a side, cast his rider. The king fell heavily, with his armour bearing him to the ground, and being much bruised by the concussion, swooned, and lay senseless on the earth. He was instantly carried into a miller's cottage by people who knew nothing of his rank, but, compassionating his distress, treated him with great humanity. Having put the unfortunate monarch to bed, the inmates of the house brought him such cordials as their poverty could command. In a short time he opened his eyes, and earnestly requested the presence of a priest. "Who are you?" inquired the good woman who attended him, "that we may tell who it is that requires the assistance of the holy man." "Alas! I was your sovereign this morning," replied he. On this the poor woman ran out of the cottage, wringing her hands, and calling aloud for some one to come and confess the king. "I will confess him," answered an old man in a grey cloak, tied round the waist with a blue sash. "Where is his majesty?" The woman led him to the house, where the monarch was found lying on a flock-bed, with a coarse cloth thrown over him, in an obscure corner of the room. The old man knelt down, and asked him tenderly what ailed him, and whether he thought that, by the aid of medical remedies, he might recover? The king assured him there was no hope, and begged the supposed priest to receive his confession; whereupon the old man, bending over him, under pretence of discharging his holy office, drew a dagger, and stabbed the unresisting victim to the heart; repeating deliberately his thrusts, till he thought life was extinct. On hearing of the death of his father, James was inconsolable. He ordered all search to be made for the murderer. No trace of him could be found--the only evidence that could be procured against him was the description of his person by the old woman of the cottage, and the dagger with which the deed had been committed. The woman was taken before James, that he might receive the evidence with his own ears. The room in which he led the evidence was purposely darkened. The dreadful state of mind into which the _quasi_ parricide was cast, exhibiting alternately remorse, terror, grief, and shame, would have consigned him to absolute seclusion, had he not thought that he would make some amends for his crime, by endeavouring to discover the murderer of his parent. He threatened the most exemplary vengeance; and, while he sat wrapped in gloom, in an apartment darkened almost to night, his emissaries were active on every hand, in endeavouring to find some clue to the murder. The old woman was placed before the king, and the dagger put into his hands. "What is this?" he exclaimed, as he looked at the instrument, which still retained upon its blade the blood of his father's heart. "God's mercy! It is my own dagger!--ay, that very dagger I wore and lost upon that dreadful day!" The words were uttered in a low tone, and rendered, by the king's dreadful excitement, unintelligible. Partly recovering himself, he cast his eyes on the woman and the two courtiers that sat beside, and seeing them occupied in arranging the materials for taking down the precognition, he thrust the dagger among the folds of his robes, and sat and trembled, as if the finger of an avenging God was pointing him out to the world as the murderer of his father. He was several times on the point of swooning, as he thought he observed Lord Gray, who was present, following with his eye his extraordinary motions, and searching with a keen look for the dagger. "We had better have the dagger for the woman to speak to," said Gray. "Your majesty hath examined it, I opine." "Proceed with the precognition, my lord," said James, hesitatingly. "I shall retain the dagger, and examine it in private. My grief chokes me. I cannot put the questions. Proceed, my lord." The king trembled as he uttered these words, and Gray and the other courtier looked at each other, as if they held a mental colloquy as to his strange conduct. They proceeded in the examination of the woman, in which they went over several incidents already communicated. "Are you sure the dagger was that carried by the old priest who stabbed the king?" said Gray. "I'm sure it is," answered the woman. "It fell frae him as he hastened out o' the cottage. It was the bluid on't that first tauld me o' his cruel act; for I thought the king's granes cam frae the pains o' his distress." "You got a good sight of the old man, then, I presume?" continued Gray. "A far better sight than thae closed shutters will allow me to hae o' his majesty, wha sits there," replied she. James started, and looked fearfully at the witness. "Describe the man," said Gray. "He was a tall man," replied she, "dressed in a lang grey cloak, which was bound round the middle by a blue belt. I observed a deep scar on his right cheek, and his left ee was like a white grape." This description, which was exactly that of James's night-visiter, came upon him like the ghost of his murdered father. He fainted. Lord Gray ran to his assistance; and, as he supported him, the dagger fell out from among the folds of the robes. James remained insensible for some time. As he recovered, his eye fell upon the bloodstained instrument, that was now in the hands of Gray; and, stretching out his right hand, he convulsively seized it, took it from the baron, and again secreted it in the folds of his robes. His manner was wild and confused. "Take away that woman," he cried; "she has no more to say; and if she had, I am not in a condition to hear it. She talks strange things about a man that hath a gash on his cheek and an eye like a grape. I cannot listen to these things. The words burn my brain. She must be a sorceress. I shall have her sent to the stake." "She is an honest dame, your majesty," said the other courtiers, "and beareth an excellent reputation where she resideth." "Thou liest!" cried the king. "Take her away! take her away! I must be alone. These windows are not darkened enough. Hath the smith forged my penance-belt? See to it, Gray. My soul crieth for pain, as he who hath been burned crieth for fire to cure the pain of fire. I did not lose my dagger at Sauchie. It was a lie forged by a renegade. I have it still, and will show it thee on the morrow. Let me rest. This brain requireth repose." The lords hurried away the witness, and left the king to his meditations. He was seized with one of those extraordinary fits of terror and remorse that afterwards visited him at regular intervals. When the fit left him, he summoned up courage to publish an account of the person who killed the king, and offered a large reward for his apprehension. In this description, he followed the account of the woman as well as his own experience; the fearful marks were set forth with great care; and no one doubted but that an individual, so strangely pointed out by nature, as differing from other men, would be instantly seized and brought before the throne. While this hope was vigorous, the king was in misery. He feared a meeting with the mysterious being who had tracked him in his rebellious course. Every sound roused him, and made him tremble. But the time passed, and the hope died. No such person was ever seen or heard of; and James was left, during the remainder of his life, to the terrors of a conscience that never slept. We do not pretend to reconcile the conduct of this mysterious personage, in first dissuading the prince from opposing his father, and then killing the latter with the former's dagger; but James himself put a construction upon it which accorded with the state of his mind and feelings. He wore around him, ever after, an iron chain, as penance for being the cause of the death of his father--conceiving that Providence followed that extraordinary course we have detailed for punishing him for his filial disobedience. Some say the same figure appeared to him before he went to Flodden. A reference to our forthcoming story, "The Death of James IV.," may clear up this point. The legends are clearly connected, and make one history. They are, however, both equally mysterious and obscure. In both, the figures boded for good, and yet evil came. They were fearful demonstrations of a secret power, that worketh "in strange ways." Inscrutable at the time, the mystery has never been cleared up. We have done something--yet how much remains in darkness! GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT. V.--THE RESCUE AT ENTERKIN. The Pass of Enterkin is well known to us. How often have we passed through it in the joyous season of youth, when travelling to and from the College of Edinburgh! It is a deep and steep ravine among the Lowther Hills, which separate Dumfries from Lanarkshire; through which a torrent pours its thousand-and-one cascades-- "Amidst the rocks around, Devalling and falling into a pit profound." The road, which is a mere track, winds along the banks of the torrent, ever and anon covered and flanked by huge masses of rock, which have been shaken from the brow of the mountain, or been excavated, as it were, and brought into high relief, by the roaring flood. About the middle of this pass, as if it were for the express purpose of relieving the thirst of the weary traveller, in a wilderness "unknown to public view," and at a distance from any human habitation, there sparkles out, from beneath a huge mass of grey-stone, a most plentiful and refreshing fount or well of spring-water. How often have we enjoyed the refreshment of this spring, in the society of the companions of our travel and of our early days! Here we reposed at noon, making use of refreshments, and indulging in all the wild and ungoverned hilarity of high spirits and bosoms void of care. Yet, even amidst our madness, we could not help viewing, or at least imagining that we viewed, a blood-spot on the very rock from which the water burst in such purity and abundance, and recollecting the sad narrative with which that stone was connected--for we were all Closeburn lads, and had heard the tale of the Pass of Enterkin repeated by our nearest and dearest relatives. Fletcher of Saltoun says, "Let me make the popular songs of a country, and any one who pleases may make the laws." We would go a little farther, and say that, in youth, the character is decidedly formed by traditionary lore; and that thus mothers contribute, far more than they are aware of at the time, to the formation of the future character--to the happiness or misery, through life, of their children. At least we know this, that we would not give what we learned from our mother, for all that we have ever attained either by private or public study. But to our story. It was during a drifty night in the month of February, 168-, that a party of ten individuals were travelling up this awful pass. The party consisted of six dragoons, who had dismounted from and were leading their horses, and four country people, three males and one female, whom they were driving before them, bound as prisoners, on their way to Edinburgh. The drift was choking, and they had ever and again to turn round to prevent suffocation. There were other and imminent dangers. At every turn, the road, from the eddies of the drift, became invisible; and they were in danger of losing footing, and of being precipitated many fathoms down into the bottom of the roaring linn beneath. The soldiers were loud in their curses against their commanding officer, Captain Douglas, who had sent them, under command of a serjeant, on this business, at such an unseasonable hour, in such a tempest, and along such a difficult road; whilst the poor nonconformists--for such they were--employed their breath, in the intervals of the blast, in singing a part of the 121st Psalm:-- "I to the hills will lift mine eyes, From whence doth come mine aid; My safety cometh from the Lord, Who heaven and earth hath made." This employment was matter of scoffing and merriment to the soldiers, who said they would prefer a good fire and a warm supper, with a kind landlady, to all the hills in Scotland. They continued, however, captive and guard, to advance, till they arrived at a spot somewhat sheltered by a rock, beneath which the snow had melted, and presented a black appearance amidst the surrounding whiteness. It was manifest that this was a well of spring-water; and the serjeant called a halt, that the soldiers might partake of some refreshment from a flask of brandy which he had wisely provided. The poor prisoners were not so well supplied, and were admonished by the licentious and cruel-hearted soldiers to refresh themselves with a stave. Amidst the prisoners there was a young woman of great beauty, the daughter of the Laird of Stennis, or Stonehouse; whom, because she had refused to betray her own father, and had intercommuned, as they termed it, with a young man in her neighbourhood, to whom she was promised in marriage, they were dragging onward to Edinburgh, to stand her trial, along with her uncle, Thomas Harkness, Peter M'Kechnie, and John Gibson. After the soldiers had made several applications to the flask, one of them, manifestly intoxicated, put his arms around the maiden's waist, and, using language improper to be mentioned, was in the act of compelling her to admit his unseemly and dishonourable addresses, when all at once a musket was fired, and the soldier fell down, gave one groan, and expired. This was clearly a signal which had been anticipated by the survivors, for in an instant they were out of sight, with the exception of poor John Gibson, who was shot through the head as he was making for the linn beneath. There was an intended rescue; for several more shots were fired from behind the rock, and one of the surviving soldiers was severely wounded. However, the three remaining prisoners had escaped for the time, probably through their better knowledge of the road, which at this point leads to a fordable part of the torrent. This was the famous rescue of Enterkin, mentioned in Woodrow, in consequence of which the whole lower district of Dumfries-shire was laid under military law; and Grierson, and Douglas, and Dalzell of Binns, went about like roaring lions, devouring and murdering at their pleasure. The rescue had been planned and conducted by William M'Dougal, the young Laird of Glenross, who, knowing the route the soldiers would take, and arranging the thing with Mary Maxwell, had resolved upon a rescue at this very spot. The impertinence, however, of the soldier had accelerated the catastrophe; for Robert M'Turk, one of his own servants--whom, along with a young band of seven or eight from Monihive, he had associated with himself in the plot--observing the indignity to which Miss Maxwell was exposed, could not wait orders, but killed the brute on the spot. Poor Robert suffered for his rashness; for a volley was immediately fired in the direction of the shot, which proved immediately fatal to him, and wounded, though slightly, one or two of his associates. William M'Dougal, immediately observing the affray, followed Mary, who, according to a preconcerted scheme, had fled into the linn; and, detaching themselves from the other two, for purposes of safety, they, with great difficulty, gained the summit of the Lowther Hills, from which the snow had drifted into the hollows; and, after various efforts to secure shelter, were compelled to sit down amidst the cold drift, and under the scoug of a peat-brow. Poor Mary was entirely overcome; but her lover was strong and resolute; and, having provided himself with sufficient refreshments, these two attached lovers felt themselves comparatively comfortable, even amidst the snow and the tempest. Burns talks of "a canny hour at een," and Goldsmith of "the hawthorn shade, for whispering lovers made;" but here was the bare fell; the cold snow accumulating in drifted wreaths around their persons; and yet Will never kissed his Mary with greater good-will; nor did Mary at any other time--not even in the snug "chaumer ayont the close"--cling so closely to the breast or to the lips of her faithful lover and the saviour of her life. But what was to be done? The tempest continued unabated. It was twelve o'clock, and the moon was up, though only visible at intervals. There was no house known to them nearer than the shieling at Lowtherslacks, about two miles distant. The hollows were heaped up with drift, and it was scarcely possible to clear or to avoid them, in directing their course towards Lowtherslacks. What was to be done? They might have kindled a fire with Will's musket; but where were the combustibles? In spite of French brandy, a chilliness was gradually coming over them; and they were upon the point of falling into that fatal state in such a situation--namely, into a sound sleep--when their attention was aroused by the barking, or rather howling, of a dog in their immediate neighbourhood. At first Will sprung to his gun; but, upon reflection, he began to divine the cause; and, whilst raising his voice to invite the approach of the dog, the animal was literally betwixt his shoulders. It was manifestly in a great state of alarm, and looked and pulled at his clothes, as if inviting him to follow it. This was immediately done; and the couple were led on, across the moss, into a ravine or hollow, on the further side of which, where the snow lay deep, the dog began to scrape and work most vigorously. In a little the end or corner of a shepherd's plaid made its appearance, and ultimately the full-length figure of a man, who was still warm, and breathed as in a deep and refreshing sleep. With much difficulty the reclining body was aroused into perception, and he was made aware of his danger, and help which had thus miraculously arrived. There being still some of the cordial remaining, it was immediately applied to the awakened sleeper's lips; and, after a few minutes of mutual inquiry, it was resolved to attempt the road to Lowtherslacks, whence the shepherd had come, in quest, and to secure the safety, of his master's flocks. This, however, would have been almost impossible, had not the shepherd's son, with a young and stout lad, been in the neighbourhood, and actually in quest of the perishing man. With much difficulty, however, and through some danger from scaurs and deep wreaths, the party at last reached the shieling, where a half-distracted wife and a daughter, woman-grown, were thrown into ecstasy by their safe arrival. Such accommodation and refreshment as the house could afford was freely and kindly given; and Mary Maxwell slept soundly, after all her troubles and escapes, in the arms of the shepherd's daughter. Next morning brought light, a keen frost, a clear sky, and many serious thoughts regarding the safety of all concerned. The shepherd was not ignorant of the risk which he ran; and the guests were equally aware of the danger to which this hospitable family was exposed, in consequence of an act of humanity, or rather of gratitude. It was resolved at last, that, till the weather mitigated, Mary Maxwell should remain in hiding, in the corner of a ewe bught, in the neighbourhood, having her food supplied from the house, and coming out occasionally, during the darkness of night in particular, to join the family party. This small erection had been made to shelter one or two ewes, which had felt the severities of a late spring, during lambing time. It was lined with rushes, built of turf, and scarcely visible even when you were close upon it, in consequence of a high wall, into a corner or angle of which it was fixed, like a limpet to a rock. William M'Dougal bore away by a glen which opened into the Clyde; and, having promised to return for his beloved Mary when occasion should suit, he was seen no more for the present. Leadhills was the nearest inhabited abode to this lonely shieling; and any little necessaries which so humble a cottage required were obtained from this village. In consequence of this intercourse, it was early known at the shieling of Lowtherslacks, that the strictest search had been made, and was still making, for the prisoners, and for the rescuers at the Pass of Enterkin; that several had been taken, and marched off to Edinburgh; but whether William Macdougal was of the number or not was not ascertained. In fact, it was more than dangerous to make any direct inquiry respecting any particular individual, as attention was thus drawn to his case; and informers were kept and paid all over the country (under the superintendence of the Aberdeen curates), to give information to the military, even of the most casual surmise. It was during a dark night, about a fortnight after Will M'Dougal's disappearance, that he reappeared at Lowtherslacks, and spent the whole evening in company with his beloved Mary and her kind entertainers. He had learned, he said, whilst in hiding at Crawfordjohn, that the soldiers had been called off to quell an apprehended insurrection at Glencairn, and had taken this opportunity of revisiting the spot which was so pleasantly associated in his mind. He had been observed, however, in crossing the hills, which had now escaped from a part of their covering, and information had been lodged with Grierson at Wanlockhead of the fact. The truth was, that the report of the absence of the dragoons from the hill country was a mere device to bring forth the poor nonconformist from his hiding-place, and to expose him the more readily to surprise. The fireside of Lowtherslacks was never more cheerfully encircled than on this memorable evening. The peats burned brightly, and the sooty rafters looked down from their smoky recesses, with a placid gleam, on the happy group. About twelve o'clock, it was judged safe to separate--Mary to return to her straw bed in the sheepfold, and William to make the best of his way back to his retreat at Crawfordjohn. Next morning, an hour before daybreak, and under the dim light of a waning moon, saw this solitary cottage surrounded with armed men on horseback. The inmates were immediately summoned from their beds, and a strict and unceremonious search for William M'Dougal commenced. The father, the son, the wife, the daughters, and the herd-lad, were all turned out, half naked, to the croft before the door. Never, perhaps, was there a more fearful and melancholy gathering. That moon, "Well known to hynd and matron old," in her last quarter, hung on the southern horizon, ready to shroud herself from such unhallowed doings in the mountain shadow. Above them was the famous burial-ground, where, time out of mind, the suicides of two counties had been enearthed. The earth was partially blackened by a thaw, which still continued; but vast wreaths lay in the hollows, and looked out in cold and chilly brightness from their mountain recesses. Grierson insisted, in terms peculiar to himself, on the old shepherd and his family giving information of the retreat of M'Dougal, who had been traced but last night to the neighbourhood. It was mentioned by one of the dragoons, that he even saw the herd-lad foregather with a figure, which he took to be William M'Dougal, on the hill-top; but he was too distant, and without his horse, else he would have given chase. The young man was interrogated, but refused to give any information on the subject. Grierson lost all patience, swore a round oath, and, presenting his pistol, shot him dead on the spot. The report of firearms brought up two figures, scarcely discernible in the dubious light, from the fold-dyke. The one was a female, the other a male. O God! they were those of Mary and William, who, being unable to withdraw himself from his beloved, had ensconced himself, along with her, amongst the rushes of the little cot. They came rushing on in frenzy, exclaiming that they were there to suffer--to be shot--to be tortured; but entreating that their kind and innocent entertainers might not suffer on their account. "So ho!" exclaimed Grierson, "we have unkennelled the foxes at last; secure them, lambs, and let us march for the guid town of Biggar; we will reach it ere night; and then, ho! my jolly lovers, for Edinburgh--sweet Edinburgh! Can you sing, my sweet maiden, 'Now wat ye wha I met yestreen?' It's a pretty song, my neat one; and all about Edinburgh, and Arthur's Seat, and love, and sweet William. You will certainly give us a stanza or two by the way? It beats your covenanting psalm-singing hollow." And then he sang out, in a whining covenanting tone-- "'Wo's me, that I in Meschech am A sojourner so long; Or that I in the tents do dwell To Grierson that belong.' March, march, devils and devil's dams; we have now picked up a goodly company of these heather-bleats--these whistling miresnipes of the hills--no less than eight; we will march them, every clute, in at the West Port, to glorify God at the head of the Grassmarket. March! It is broad day, and we have a pretty long journey. As for you" (speaking to the shepherd), "old sheep's-head and Moniplies, we will leave you and your good friends to do the duties of sepulture to this bit of treason. There is good ground, I am told, hard by, where the weary rest. You can all cut your own throats, to save us the trouble, and your churchyard accommodation is secured to you. Good-by, old Lucky and young Chucky! I have no time at present to doff my bonnet and do the polite; and your joe, there, is past speaking, I suspect, much more past kissing. Good-by! good-by!" said the monster, waving his sword, and laughing immoderately at his own savage wit. The body of Sandy Laidlaw was indeed carefully interred--not where pointed out by Lag, but in the churchyard of Leadhills, over which a small headstone still retains the letters, "A. L., murdered 1687." Poor Leezy Lawson, who was indeed the betrothed of Sandy, never saw a day to thrive after this dreadful morning. She went out of one strong convulsion into another for many hours; and then sank into a lethargic unconsciousness, which terminated in mental and bodily imbecility, which ended, in less than twelve months, in death. Her body lies alongside of that of her lover; but there is no intimation of this fact on the stone; and all marks of the presence on earth of these two once living and happy beings has passed away--_etiam periere ruinæ_--their very dust has perished. The court at Edinburgh was crowded on the trial of the state prisoners, particularly of those who had been concerned in the rescue at Enterkin. There Lauderdale sat, after an evening's debauch, with his long hair hanging uncombed about his shoulders and over his brow; with his waistcoat unbuttoned towards the bottom; his face round, swollen, red, and fiery, and his eyes swimming in every cruel and unhallowed imagining. Poor Mary Maxwell, trembling, weak, and worn out with travelling on foot, was placed at the bar, and M'Kenzie, the king's advocate, proceeded against her. Her indictment was in the usual style. She was accused of harbouring nonconformists; of intercommuning with outlaws; of conspiring and aiding in the hellish rescue at Enterkin, where murder had been committed; and in continuing, after all due warning, to hold intercourse with the king's enemies. But the proof of all this was somewhat deficient; and even in these awful times, such was the respect for public opinion, that the court durst not, in the absence of some direct evidence, pronounce sentence of death. She, as well as William M'Dougal, against whom there was still less evidence, were remitted to Dunnottar Castle--of which march and unheard-of misery we have already told the tale--and were to have been exported thence, in due time, to America; but mercy and King William intercepted the cruel sentence: and William M'Dougal and Mary Maxwell were permitted to return to their native glen in peace. The M'Dougals of Glenross are sprung from this root, and still continue a respected name in the valley. VI.--THE FATAL MISTAKE. Old Elspeth Wallace lived, at the time of which I am about to speak, in a sequestered spot in the Parish of Dalry, in the district of Carrick, Ayrshire. She was a widow woman, but not in indigent circumstances. Through the kindness of the family of Cassilis, she had a cow's grass, a small croft, a pickle barley, which, in due time, and under the usual process, was converted into small drink, or tippenny, as it was called in those days. "Wi' tippeny," says Burns, "I fear nae evil." She had, besides, a good large kailyard, from which she contrived to support her cow during the winter season. In fact, Elspeth's whole riches consisted in her cow and an only daughter, who, however, was out at service in a neighbouring farm town. This cow and Elspeth were constant companions, and it was difficult to say which was most essential to the other's happiness. The first thing Elspeth did, after her duty to her God, was to attend to Doddy; and the first look Doddy gave over her shoulder was towards the door through which Elspeth was expected to enter. During the fine days of summer, Elspeth might be seen conversing with her cow as with a rational being, whilst Doddy was engaged in plucking, or in ruminating. If Elspeth went for a day from home, Doddy was quite disconsolate, and would roam about the house and park, as if in quest of her companion. In fact, these two sentient beings had become, as it were, essential to each other's happiness. The small circumstance of rationality had been overlooked, and the common instinct of kindly feeling had united them completely. There was just one other inmate of this sequestered apartment--a large, sonsy, gaucy cat. This animal partook in all Elspeth's meals and movements; ceased purring when Elspeth prayed, and went afield and returned at Elspeth's heels like a colly-dog. To be sure, there was a little jealousy on Doddy's side, when pussy seemed to occupy too much attention, for she (_videlicet_ Doddy) would come up and smell at pussy as she sat on Elspeth's knee, and then, shaking her head and snorting, make off quick-step to a distance. Nevertheless, these three--we dare not say this triumvirate, for fear of the etymologists--got on exceedingly well, and with fewer disputations and quarrellings than generally occur amongst the same number of rationals. Elspeth had been married for one single year and fifteen days, as she often mentioned. Her husband had been gardener at Collean, and had been killed on the spot by the fall of a tree, which he was assisting in felling. Jenny, or, as she was familiarly called, Jessy, Wallace was born a few days after this mournful accident, and had been reared with much care and affection. Necessity, however, removed her, at the age of fifteen, from her mother's roof, but to no great distance; and she would frequently come to visit her mother of a Saturday evening, and return next day to her post of duty. Such was the state of things at Blairquhan, in the year of our Lord 1678, when the Highland Host was let loose upon the western district of Scotland, in particular. Bonds! bonds! bonds! were then the order of the day; the proprietor must give bond for his tenantry, the tenantry for their servants, the father and mother for their children, and the brother, even, for his sister. These bonds were certifications to prevent those who were, or were presumed to be, under your authority, from attending conventicles, hill-preachings, and prayer-meetings--in short, from committing any act which could be construed into a resistance to the most despotic and cruel executions that ever vexed an oppressed people. This Highland Host, as it was familiarly called, consisted of an army of half-naked and wholly savage Highlanders of the name and clan of Campbell, from the County of Argyle. Their only object was pillage, their only law the gratification of the lowest propensities, and their only restraint their officers' pleasure. "When the Highlanders went back," says Woodrow, "one would have thought that they had been at the sacking of some besieged town, by their baggage and luggage. They were loaded with spoil; they carried away a great many horses, cows, and no small quantity of goods out of merchant ships. You would have seen them with loads of bedclothes, carpets, men and women's wearing apparel, pots and pans, gridirons, shoes, and other furniture," &c. Such was the nature and character of the Highland Host, which, at the date to which we have referred, overspread, and oppressed, and outraged from Greenock to Galloway, from Lanark to the town of Ayr. Elspeth Wallace and her daughter were sitting, of a Saturday's night, by the side of a comfortable peat-fire. It was a hard frost, moonlight, and in the month of February. Their supper consisted of boiled sowans, with a small accompaniment, on such occasions, as that of beer and bannock. Elspeth had just got her pipe lighted, and was beginning to weigh the propriety of her daughter accepting of a proposal of marriage, when the door opened, or rather gave way, and in burst "her nane sel," in all the glory of filth and nakedness. There were two figures on the floor, in Highland plaids; but with a very scanty appointment of nether garments. There was no commanding officer present; and these two helpless women were left to the mercy, or rather the merciless pleasure, of these two Highland savages. In vain did Elspeth expostulate, and represent the cruelty of their conduct. They but partially understood what she said, and replied in broken English. Their actions, however, were sufficiently demonstrative: for the one laid hold of the poor girl, who screamed and expostulated in vain; and the other unloosed the cow from the stake, and tying the old helpless woman to the same stake from which they had unloosed the cow, they immediately began their march up the Glen of Blairquhan. Poor Jessie Wallace soon learned that she was destined for the closet of my Lord Airley, then commanding in the district, who had unfortunately seen her, marked her beauty, and destined her to ruin; and that the cow was the price at which the services of these two savages had been procured. It was difficult to say which of these brothers (for brethren they were, not only in iniquity, but by blood) had the more difficult task--he who dragged onwards the camstairy and unwilling brute, or he who half-dragged, half-carried, the resisting and struggling maiden. The Sabine rape was playwork to this. Donald swore, and Archibald cursed; but still the progress which they made was little, and the trouble and labour which they were subjected to were immense. At last matters came to a dead stand: Doddy absolutely refused to march one inch further; and Donald proposed that, since "matters might no better be," they should "slay te prute" at once. So, having secured Jessie's ankles by means of her napkin, and placed her upon a rock in the midst of the mountain stream, with all suitable admonitions respecting the folly of even meditating an escape, Archibald and Donald set to work to carry their deadly purpose into execution on Doddy. But how was this to be effected? Doddy, very unaccountably, as it seemed to her nightly visiters, would neither lead nor drive, nor in any way be art and part in her own destruction. Having held a council of death, and having resolved to carry over the hill as much as they could of Doddy's flesh, they immediately set to work in compassing the means of destruction. But these were not so much at hand as might have been wished. They had neither nail nor hammer, else they would have given Doddy a Sisera exit; nor had they even an ordinary pocket-knife. They were totally destitute of arms, by order of their officer, as their duty was not to kill, but to keep alive--not to conquer, but to spoil. What was to be done? "Deil tak them wha hae nae shifts," says the old proverb; but then it unfortunately adds, "Deil tak them, again, that hae owre mony." So, at the suggestion of Donald, a large water-worn stone was selected from the channel of the burn, and being tied up firmly into the corner or poke of the Highland plaid, it was judged an efficient instrument of death. Doddy, however, observed, and appeared, at least to Jessie, to understand what was going on, and had taken her measures accordingly. There they stood--Donald holding _on_ by the horns, and Archy swinging and aiming, but hesitating, from the instability of the object to be struck, to inflict the fatal blow. Again and again the stone was swung, and the blow was meditated; but again and again did Doddy twist and twine herself almost out of Donald's hands. At last, losing all patience, Archy swung the great stone round his head, which, when in mid-air, took a different direction from that which was intended--or it might be that the error was owing to the sudden wresting of Doddy; but so it was, and of verity, that the stone came ultimately full swing, not upon the forehead of the cow, but upon the temples of Donald, and felled him to the ground. "Wi' glowering een and lifted hands," says Burns, "Poor Hughoc like a statue stands." It would be impossible, by any similitude or quotation, to give an accurate picture of Archy Campbell, when he saw Doddy, free as air, taking the bent and crooning defiance, and his own brother lying a corpse at his feet, and all by his own hands. It is needless to say that, in all bosoms, there are sympathies and calls of affection. The trade upon which Donald and Archy were employed was a bad one; but they had great brotherly affection; and it was indeed, as has been repeated to us, an affecting sight to behold Archy's grief on this occasion. He leaned over, he embraced, he kissed his brother, he raised up the dead body to the wind, he braided back the hair, he wiped the foam from the lips, he burst at last into tears, and fell down, apparently lifeless, on his brother's corpse. So deeply has God imprinted himself on our natures, nothing--not even Lauderdale cruelty--could entirely erase his image. Poor Jessy escaped, in the meantime, to her mother, and was married in the course of a month. The present member of Parliament for the Ayr Burghs is her lineal descendant. VII.--BONNY MARY GIBSON. The summer of 168- was wet and ungenial; the little grain which Scotland at that time produced had never ripened, and men and women would shear all day, and carry home the greater part of the thin and scanty upland crop on their backs. The winter was issued in by strange and marvellous reports--men fighting in the air--showers of Highland bonnets--and eclipses of no ordinary occurrence. In fact, the northern lights, which for centuries had disappeared, had again returned, and were viewed by a superstitious people with much dread and amazement. The end of the world was anticipated and confidently predicted, and the soul of man sank within him under the pressure of an awakened conscience. Besides, political events were sufficiently distressing: the battle of Bothwell Brig had been fought and lost by the friends of Presbytery and religious freedom; and strong parties, under the command of demons, denominated Grierson, Johnstone, Douglas, and Clavers, scoured the west country, and Dumfries-shire in particular, making sad and fearful havoc amongst God's covenanted flock. It appeared to many, and to Walter Gibson of Auchincairn in particular, that, what betwixt the pestilence induced by want and bad provisions, and the devastations brought on the earth by the hand of man, life was not only precarious, but a burden. Men rose, went about their wonted employment, and retired again to rest, without a smile, and often without exchanging a word. Young men and young women were seen constantly perusing the Bible, and taking farewell of each other, with the feeling that they were never to meet again. The cattle were driven into the farmer's stores from the outfields, and there bled every three weeks. The blood thus obtained was mixed and boiled with green kail from the yard, and this, with a mere sprinkling of meal, was all the subsistence which could be afforded to master and servant, to guest and beggar. A capacious pot, filled with this supply, stood from morn to night in the farmer's kitchen, with a large horn spoon stuck into the centre of it; and every one who entered helped himself to a heaped spoonful, and retired, making way for a successor. If the summer had been ungenial, the winter was unusually severe. Snow and frost had set in long before Christmas, with awful severity. The sheep were starving and dying by scores on the hills; and the farmer, with his servant band, were employed all day in digging out the half and wholly dead from the snow wreaths. The strength of man failed him; and the very dogs deserted their masters, and lived wild on the hills, feeding on the dead and dying. It was indeed an awful time, and a judgment-like season, unparalleled (unless perhaps by the year '40 of the last century) in the annals of Scotland. Five hundred human beings are said to have perished of hunger merely within the limited district of Dumfries-shire, besides many hundreds whom the plague (for such it was deemed and called) cut off. It was on a cold frosty night, with intervals of drifting and falling snow, that a strange apparition made its way into the kitchen of Auchincairn, in the hill district of the Parish of Closeburn. It was naked, emaciated, and extremely feeble, and rolled itself into the langsettle with extreme difficulty. "In the name of God," said Mrs Gibson, "who and what art thou?" But the apparition only stretched out its hand, and pointing to its mouth, signified that it was dumb. Food, such as has been described, was immediately administered; and a glass of French brandy seemed to revive the skeleton greatly. Walter Gibson, and his wife Janet Harkness, were not the persons to deny shelter on such a night and to such an object. Warm blankets and a great peat-fire were resorted to; and the next morning saw the stranger much recovered. But he was manifestly deaf and dumb, and could only converse by signs;--his features, now that they could be clearly marked, were regular, and a superior air marked his movements. He was apparently young; but he refused to make known, by means of writing, his previous history. There he was, and there he seemed disposed to remain; and it was not possible to eject by force a being at once so dependent and so interesting. As he gained strength, he would walk out with an old musket, which hung suspended from the roofing of the kitchen, and return with valuable and acceptable provisions--hares, miresnipes, woodcocks, partridges, and even crows, were welcome visiters in the kitchen of Auchincairn. Without the aid of a dog, and with ammunition which nobody knew how he procured, he contrived to contribute largely to the alleviation of the winter's sufferings. The family, consisting of one daughter about eighteen years of age, a son about twenty-two, and four or five male and female servants, were deeply impressed with the notion that he possessed some unearthly powers, and was actually sent by Heaven for the purpose of preserving them alive during the asperities and deprivations of the famine and the storm. The winter gradually and slowly passed away, and it was succeeded by a spring, and a summer, and a harvest of unusual beauty and productiveness. The stranger was a wanderer in the fields, and in the linns, and in the dark places of the mountains; and it was observed that he had read all the little library of Auchincairn--consisting of Knox's History, "The Holy War," "The Pilgrim's Progress," and a volume of sermons--again and again. He had clearly been well educated, and, as his frame resumed a healthy aspect, he looked every inch a gentleman. Mary Gibson was a kind-hearted, bonny lassie. There were no pretensions to ladyhood about her; but her sweet face beamed with benevolence, and her warm heart beat with goodness and affection. She had all along been most kind and attentive to the poor dumb gentleman (as she called him), for it early struck her that the stranger had been born such. But, all at once, the stranger disappeared; and, though search was made in all his haunts, not a trace of him could be found. It was feared that, in some of his reveries, he had stumbled over the Whiteside Linn; but his body was not to be found. Newspapers, in these days, there were none, at least in Dumfries-shire; and in a month or two the family of Auchincairn seemed to have made up their mind to regard their mysterious visiter in the light of a benevolent messenger of God--in short, of an angel. Into this opinion, however, Mary, it was observed, did not fully enter. But she _said_ little, and _sung_ much, and seemed but little affected by the stranger's departure. It was in the month of November of this destructive season, that, one morning, long ere daylight, the close of Auchincairn was filled with dragoons. There were fearful oaths, and plunging of swords into bed-covers and wool-sacks, in quest of some one after whom they were searching. At length Walter Gibson and his son were roused from their beds, and placed, half-naked, in the presence of Grierson of Lag, to be interrogated respecting a stranger whom they had sheltered for months past, and whom Grierson described as an enemy to the king and his government. Of this, both son and father declared, and truly, their ignorance; but they were disbelieved, and immediately marched off, under a guard, to Lag Castle, to Dumfries, and ultimately to Edinburgh, there to await a mock trial, for harbouring a traitor. In vain was all remonstrance on the part of the wife and daughter. Resistance was impossible, and tears were regarded as a subject of merriment. "Ay, pipe away there," said the infamous Lag, "and scream and howl your bellyfuls; but it will be long ere such music will reach the ear or soften the heart of my Lord Lauderdale. There is a maiden in Edinburgh, my gentle wood-dove," familiarly grasping Mary Gibson's chin, and squeezing it even to agony--"there is a maiden in Edinburgh more loving, by far, than thou canst be; and to this lady of the sharp tongue and heavy hand shall thy dainty brother soon be wedded. As to the old cock, a new pair of boots and a touch of the thumbikins will probably awaken his recollections and clear his judgment. But march, my lads!--we are wasting time." And the cavalcade rode off, having eaten and drunk all eatables and drinkables in the dwelling. Mrs Gibson was a person of mild and submissive manners; but there was a strength in her character, which rose with the occasion. She immediately dried up her tears, spoke kindly, and in words of comforting, to her daughter; and, taking her plaid about her shoulders, retired to the barn, where she had long been in the habit of offering up her supplication and thanksgiving to the God of her fathers. When she came forth, after some hours of private communion with herself, she seemed cheered and resolved, and addressed herself to the arrangement of family matters as if nothing particular had happened. In a few days information was conveyed to her that her husband and son had been marched off to Edinburgh, there to await their trial, for the state offence of harbouring a rebel, but really to gratify the resentment of the parish curate, who had taken mortal offence at their nonconformity. Helen Gibson had already resolved in what manner she was to act; and, leaving her daughter to superintend domestic affairs, she set out, like her successor, Jeanie Deans, on foot and unprotected, to Edinburgh, there to visit her husband and son in their confinement, and intercede, should opportunity occur, with the superior and ruling powers, for their life and freedom. As she wandered up the wild path which conducts to Leadhills, it began to snow, and it was with infinite difficulty that she reached the highest town in Scotland, then an insignificant village. Fever was the consequence of this exertion; but, after a few days' rest, she recovered, and, though still feeble, pursued her way. At Biggar, news reached her that four individuals had, a few days before, been executed at the Gallowlee; and she retired to rest with an alarmed and a dispirited mind. The snow having thawed, she pursued her way under the Pentlands next day, and had advanced as far as Brighouse, at the foot of these hills, when, overcome by fatigue, she was compelled to seek for shelter under the excavation of a rock, upon the banks of a mountain torrent, which works its way through rock and over precipice at this place. Being engaged in prayer, she did not observe, for some time, a figure which stood behind her; but what was her surprise, when, on looking around, she recognised at once the well-known countenance of the poor dumb lad! He was now no longer dumb, but immediately informed her that he lived in the neighbourhood; and entreated his former mistress to accompany him home to his habitation. Surprise and astonishment had their play in her bosom--but comfort and something like confidence succeeded; for Mrs Gibson could not help seeing the finger of her God in this matter. She was conveyed by her guide, now a well-dressed and well-spoken gentleman, to his abode at Pentland Tower--a strongly-built edifice, well fitted for defence, and indicating the antiquity of the family by which it had been possessed. The place was to her a palace, and she looked with amazement on the looking-glasses and pictures which it contained; but, what was of more moment and interest than all other considerations, she learned that King James had fled, and King William had given "liberty to the captive, and the opening of the prison-doors to those who were bound." Nay more, her mysterious landlord informed her, that, having himself just obtained his pardon, he had only returned from skulking about, from place to place, to his paternal inheritance, a few days ago, and that, having heard of her family's misfortunes, occasioned in some measure by himself, he had immediately repaired to Edinburgh, had seen her husband and son, who were actually at that moment in another chamber of the same house, on their return home to Auchincairn. His rencounter with her had undoubtedly been providential, as he had not the slightest idea that she could possibly be in his neighbourhood. The interview which followed, with all its interesting and fond recognisances, I shall leave to the reader's imagination--only noticing the kindness of the young Laird of Pentland Tower, in consequence of which the father and son were compelled to delay their return to Auchincairn for a few days, in the course of which a chaise one evening drove up to the door, from which alighted, dressed in her newest attire, and in all the pride of beauty and of a gentle nature, Mary Gibson. The sequel can be easily anticipated. To all but Mary the poor persecuted stranger had been dumb; but to her he had formerly confided the secret of his birth, and his subsequent history; and in places "whar warl saw na," they had again and again sworn truth and fealty to each other. But, having learned that a search was going on in his neighbourhood, the young "Laird of Pentland Tower" had assumed a new disguise, and betaken himself to another locality, from which he was drawn by the blessed change of government already alluded to, as well as by his wish to dignify and adorn, with the name and the honour of wife, "a bonny, virtuous, kind-hearted lassie," who long continued to share and add to his happiness, and to secure the inheritance of Pentland Tower, with its domains, to the name of "Lindsay." Among the claimants who, a few years ago, contended for the honours of the lordship of Lindsay, I observed a lineal descendant of BONNY MARY GIBSON. VIII.--THE ESKDALEMUIR STORY. In the rural retreats of Eskdalemuir, the following narrative still exists in tradition:-- A soldier belonging to Johnstone of Westerhall's company had a fall from his horse, in consequence of which he was disabled for a time from service. He was committed to the charge of a poor but honest family in Eskdalemuir, near Yettbyres, where he was carefully nursed and well attended to. This family consisted of a mother, a daughter, and two sons, who were shepherds on the property of Yettbyres. The daughter's name was Jean Wilson; and the soldier's heart was lost to Jean, ere he was aware. In truth, Jean was a beauteous rosebud, a flower of the wilderness, in her seventeenth year, and most kind and attentive to their guest. To own more truth, Jean was likewise in love with the brave and manly figure and bearing of her patient; but she never told him so, being greatly averse to his profession and his politics--for he was one of the persecutors of God's people, and Jean's father had been shot on Dumfries Sands for his adherence to the Covenant. At last, however, and after many fruitless attempts on Jean's part to convert the soldier, and convince him of the evil of his profession, he was again summoned to his post--and the shieling of Yettbyres assumed its wonted peaceful aspect. In the midst of the Eskdale mountains a scene was exhibited of no ordinary interest. A poor captive stood bound and blinded; a party of five soldiers, under the command of a serjeant, was ordered out to shoot him. The poor man had asked for five minutes of indulgence, which was granted; during which time he had sung some verses of a psalm, and prayed. It was night and full moon. It was in the midst of a mountain glen, and by the side of a mountain stream; all was still, and peaceful, and lonely around--but the passions of men were awake. There was a voice--it was the voice of Johnstone of Westerhall--which commanded the men to do their duty, and to blow out the brains of the poor kneeling captive. "If I do, may I be hanged!" exclaimed the serjeant, standing out before his men, and looking defiance on his captain. "What!" exclaimed Johnstone, "do you dare to disobey my orders? Soldiers, seize Serjeant Watson, and bind him!" In the meantime, partly through the connivance of the men, and partly from the confusion which ensued, the captive had made his escape. To him the localities of this glen were all familiar; and, by ensconcing himself beneath and beyond a sheet of foaming water which was projected from an apron-fall in the linn, John Wilson effected his escape for the time. The serjeant was immediately carried to head-quarters at Lockerby, and tried by a court-martial for disobedience of orders. The court consisted of Grierson of Lag, Winram of Wigton, Douglas of Drumlanrig, and Bruce of Bunyean. The fact of disobedience was not denied; but the soldier pled the obligations which he had been under to the Wilson family during his distress; and his consequent unwillingness to become the instrument of John Wilson's murder. Even Clavers was somewhat softened by the statement, and was half-inclined to sustain the reason, when Johnstone struck in, and urged strongly the necessity of preserving subordination at all times in the army--and particularly in these times, when instances of disobedience to orders were anything but uncommon. Douglas of Drumlanrig seemed likewise to be on the point of yielding to the better feelings of humanity, when Grierson, Winram, and Bruce decided, by a majority, that Serjeant Watson should be carried back to the ground where the act had been committed, and shot dead on the spot. The poor serjeant's eyes were tied up, and the muskets of four soldiers levelled at his head, when a scream was heard, and a lovely girl, in the most frantic manner, threw herself into the arms of the victim. "You shall not murder him!" she exclaimed; "or, if ye do, ye shall murder us both. What!--did he not save the life of my poor brother, and shall I scruple to lay down my life for him? Oh no, no! Level your murderous weapons, and bury us both, when your wish is done, in one grave! Oh, you never knew what woman's love was till now!" He strained her to his bosom in reply. "Keep off! keep off!" exclaimed a man's voice from behind. "Save, for Heaven and a Saviour's sake, oh, save innocent life! I am the victim you are in quest of--bind me, blindfold me, shoot me dead--but spare, oh, spare, in mercy and in justice, youth and innocence, the humane heart and the warm young bosom! Is not she my sister, ye men of blood?--and have none of ye a sister? Is not he my saviour, ye messengers of evil?--and have none of ye gratitude for deeds of mercy done? Surely, surely" (addressing himself to Westerhall), "ye will not, ye cannot, pronounce that fearful word which must prove fatal to three at once; for, as God is my hope, this day, and on this spot, will I die, if not to avert, at least to share, the fate of these two!" It was remarked that a tear stood in the eye of Clavers, who turned his horse's head about, and galloped off the field. The men looked to Westerhall for orders; but he had turned his head aside, to look after his superior officer. It was evidently a fearful moment of suspense. The muskets shook in the men's hands; and, without saying one word, Johnstone turned his horse's head around, and rode over the hill after his superior. The case was tried at Dumfries, and, hardened as bosoms were in these awful times, many an eye, unwont to weep, was filled with tears, as the circumstances of this fearful case unfolded themselves. Jean Wilson never looked so lovely as when, with a boldness altogether foreign to her general conduct, she confessed and exulted in her crime. The serjeant admitted the justice of his sentence, but pled his inability to avoid the guilt. John Wilson admitted his want of conformity, and urged his father's murder as sufficient ground for his rooted hatred of the murderers. The jury were not divided. They pronounced a sentence of acquittal, and the court rang with shouts of applause. From that day and hour Johnstone of Westerhall resigned his commission, and, betaking himself to private life, is said to have exhibited marks of genuine repentance. The woods around Closeburn Castle are indeed most beautiful; and that winding glen which leads to Gilchristland is romantic in no ordinary degree. That is the land of the Watsons, the lineal descendants of this poor serjeant, who, immediately after the trial, married sweet Jeanie Wilson, and settled ultimately in the farm of Gilchristland, where they and theirs, many sons and daughters, have lived in respectability and independence ever since. That three-storey house which overlooks the valley of the Nith, and is visible from Drumlanrig to the Stepends of Closeburn, is tenanted by Alexander Watson, one of the wealthiest farmers and cattle-dealers in the south of Scotland. IX.--THE DOUGLAS TRAGEDY. Upon the banks or shore of the Frith of Cree, at that point where it would be difficult to say whether the sea or the river prevailed, stood, in old times, a mud cottage, surrounded by a clump of trees. It was quite a nest of a thing; and beautifully did the blue smoke ascend, strongly relieved and brought out by the dark woodland. The ships in passing and repassing, sailed close to the door of this lonely dwelling, and would often, in fine weather, exchange salutations with its inmates. These inmates were Janet Smith and Nanny Nivison--the one old, and almost bedrid; the other young, and beautiful, and kind-hearted. Nanny, who was an orphan, lived with her grandmother; and, whilst she discharged the duties of a nurse, she was extremely efficient in earning their mutual subsistence. In these days, spinning-jennies were not; and many a fireside was enlivened by the whirr of the "big" or the birr of the "wee" wheel. The check-reel, with its cheerful click or challenge at every sixtieth revolution, was there; and the kitchen rafters were ornamented by suspended hanks of sale yarn. There sat, by a good, warm peat-fire, the aged and sleepy cat, winking contentment in both eyes, and prognosticating rain, by carefully washing her face with her fore-paw. There, too, in close alliance and perfect peacefulness, lay a blind cur-dog, who had known other days, and had followed to the field, if not some warlike lord, at least one of the lords of the creation, in the shape of John Nivison, who had been shot on the south range of the Galloway Hills for his adherence to the Covenant. His son Thomas, the brother of Nanny, had been long outlawed, and was supposed, even by his sister--his only sister--to have effected his escape to America. It was a beautiful and peaceful evening in the months of harvest--all was cheerfulness around. The mirthful band was employed, at no great distance, in cutting down and collecting into sheaves and stooks the abundant crop; and the husbandman, with his coat deposited in the hedge at the end of the field, was as busily employed as any of his band. The voice of man and woman, lad and lass, master and servant, was mixed in one continuous flow of rustic wit and rural jest. The surface of the Frith was smooth as glass, and the Galloway Hills looked down from heaven, and up from beneath, with brows of serenity and friendship. One or two vessels were tiding it up in the midst of the stream, with a motion scarcely perceptible. They had all sails set, and looked as if suspended in a glassy network, half-way betwixt heaven and earth. The sun shone westward, near to his setting, and the white and softly-rolled clouds only served to make the blue of a clear sky still more deep and lovely. The lassie wi' the lint-white locks spread over an eye of bonny blue-- "The little halcyon's azure plume Was never half so blue!"-- might well assimilate to this sunny sky. Nature seemed to say to man, from above and from beneath--from hill and from dale--from land and from sea--from a thousand portals of beauty and blessedness--"Thou stranger on earth, enjoy the happiness which thy God prepares for thee. For thee, he hath hung the heavens in a drapery of light and love--for thee, he hath clothed the earth in fragrance and plenty--for thee, he hath spread out the waters of the great sea, and made them carriers of thy wealth and thy will from land to land, and from the broad sea to the city and the hamlet on the narrow frith." Thus spake, or seemed to speak, God to man, in the beautiful manifestations of his love. But what said "man to man?" Alas! true it is, and of verity, that "Man's inhumanity to man Makes countless thousands mourn." The whole of the south of Scotland was, at this peaceful hour, overrun with locusts and caterpillars--with all that can hurt and destroy--that can mar, mangle, and torture--with rage, persecution, and violence--profanity, bloodshed, and death. Oh, what a contrast!--Look, only look, on this picture and on that:--Here all peace; there, Douglas, Grierson, Johnstone, Clavers: here, all mercy and love; there, the red dragoons, stained and besmeared with blood and with brains: here, the comforts, and fellowship, and affection of home and of kindred; there, the mountain solitude, the trembling refugee, the damp cave, and the bed of stone! Truly, God hath made man in innocence, but he hath found out many inventions, and, amongst others, the instruments of torture and of death--the bloody maiden--the accursed boots--and the thumbikin and torch, to twist and burn with anguish the writhing soul. And all this, for what? To _convert_ the nation into a land of hypocrites--to stifle the dictates of conscience--to extinguish liberty, and establish despotism. But _tempora mutantur_: thank God! it is otherwise now with the people of Scotland--and the sword of oppressive violence has been sheathed for ever. It was night, it was twelve o'clock, and all was silence, save that, at intervals, the grating crake of the landrail or corncraik was heard, like some importunate creditor craving payment, from breath to breath, of his due. An image stood in the passage of the clay-built dwelling--it was not visible, but there was silence and a voice--it was a well-known voice. "Oh, my God, it is my brother!" Thus exclaimed Nancy Nivison, whilst she threw herself, naked as she was, into the arms of her long-lost and sore-lamented brother. The old woman was gradually aroused to a conception of what was going forward; but her spirit was troubled within her, and she groaned, whilst she articulated, "Beware, I pray ye!--beware what ye're doing!--Douglas is as near as Wigton with his band o' murderers. They have shot the father, and they will not scruple to murder, by law or without law, the son. Oh sirs, I'm unco distressed to think o' the danger which this unexpected visit must occasion!" Thomas Nivison had, indeed, sailed for America; but he had been shipwrecked on the Isle of Arran, not far from the coast of Ireland, and had lived for months with the fishermen, by assisting them in their labour. But hame is hame-- "Oh, hame, hame, hame, fain wad I be! Oh, hame, hame, hame to my ain countrie!" So breathes, in perfect nature and simplicity, the old song; and so felt, amidst the bare rocks and stormy inlets of Arran, poor Thomas Nivison. And for the sake of this humble home, this poor outlaw, upon whose head a price had been set (as he had wounded, almost to death, one of his father's murderers), had run, and was now running, incalculable risks. Long ere daylight Thomas Nivison had betaken himself to a hiding-place in the linns of Cree; but his visit had not escaped observation. A smuggler of brandy and tea from the Isle of Man, being engaged in what he denominated the free-trade, chanced to mark his approach, and fled immediately with the news to Douglas at Wigton. The troop surrounded the house by break of day; but the bird was flown. What a scene was exhibited, in a few days, on this peaceful shore! Two women, the one old, and scarcely able to support her head, and the other young, beautiful, but stripped down to the waist, and tied to a stake within flood-mark on the Frith of Cree; a guard of dragoons surrounding the spot, and an officer of rank riding, ever and anon, to the saddlegirths into the swelling flood, and questioning the poor sufferers very hard. But it was all in vain; Thomas Nivison was neither betrayed by sister nor by grandmother. In fact, they knew not, though they might have their suspicions, of his retreat. Can it be believed in the present times--and yet this is a fact attested by history as well as by tradition--that these two helpless and guiltless beings were permitted to perish, to be suffocated by inches and gulps amidst the tide? The poor old woman died first. Her stake was mercifully sunk farther into the stream. She died, however, speaking encouragement to her grandchild. "It will soon be over, Nanny--it will not last long--it will not be ill to bear--and there we shall be free" (looking up to heaven)--"_there_, there is nothing to hurt or to destroy; and my father is there, Nanny; and my mother is there; and my son--oh, my poor murdered boy!--is there! and you and I will be there, and he, too, will soon, soon follow; but his blood be on the guilty, Nanny, and not on us! We will not shed one drop of it for all that man can give--for all that man can do-- 'For anything that man can do I shall not be afraid.'" These were the last words which she spoke, at least which were heard; for, in the beautiful language of Scripture, "she bowed her head, and gave up the ghost." She was not drowned, but chilled to death. The case was different with youth, strength, and beauty. Again and again was the offer made to her, to spare her life, on condition of her betraying a brother. Nature pled hard for life and length of days; and one of the dragoons, more humane, or rather less brutal, than the rest, was heard to exclaim-- "Oh, sir, she has said it--she has said it!" "Said what?" responded Douglas, in a sharp voice. "Has she said where her renegade brother is to be found?" Hearing this question thus fearfully put, she exclaimed, in an agony-- "Oh no--no--no!--never--never! Let me go--let me go!" "The waters wild Come o'er the child!" THE COUNTESS OF CASSILIS. At a short distance from the ancient castle of Tyningham--the seat, at the period of our story (the beginning of the seventeenth century), of Thomas, first Earl of Haddington, a man remarkable at once for his talents and successful ambition--there is a sequestered little spot, enclosed with steep banks, now cleared and cultivated, but then covered with natural wood, which, together with the abruptness of the rising ground, excluded all view of the smooth strip of green sward that lay between, until approached within a few yards' distance. Here, in this lovely and retired spot, met, every evening, or at least as often as circumstances would permit, two fond and happy lovers; and here had they vowed a thousand times to remain true to each other while life endured, under all changes of circumstance and time. One of these personages was a remarkably stout and tall young man, of about three-and-twenty, of a frank, bold, and sanguine expression of countenance; the other was a young lady in the nineteenth year of her age, possessing more than ordinary beauty, together with a singularly graceful form and carriage. The first was no other--a personage of no meaner note--than Sir John Faa of Dunbar; a gentleman who had already established a high reputation for bravery and for superior prowess and dexterity in all manly exercises. The other, more than his equal in rank, was the Lady Jane Hamilton, daughter of the Earl of Haddington, already spoken of. It may be thought that such clandestine meetings between persons of such condition as this was not altogether becoming in either. But there was a reason for it. The addresses of Sir John to the earl's daughter were not approved of by her father, who, desirous of connecting himself with the older peers--his own title being but a recent one--intended that Lady Jane should marry the Earl of Cassilis: a stern Covenanter, and a man, besides, of haughty and imperious temper, who had already made some overtures for the hand of the Lady Jane. The interviews between the lovers, therefore, were--no uncommon thing--stolen ones; as the earl, aware of their attachment, had peremptorily forbidden Sir John his house, and had as peremptorily forbidden his daughter ever to see or hold any correspondence with him. But love was stronger than the sense of duty; and the fair lady continued to evade her father's injunctions, to elude his vigilance, and to meet with her lover in the little dell between the woods as often as occasion permitted or opportunity offered. This intercourse, however, was carried on, on the part of the young knight, at the imminent risk of his life; since, had his stern rival, the Earl of Cassilis (who already considered himself as the affianced husband of the Lady Jane, although he had never deigned to consult the lady herself on the subject), been aware of his perseverance in his suit, his death would have been inevitable. The proud earl would not have brooked the insult; and it is not unlikely, had he known what was going forward, that others besides Sir John would have felt his vengeance. The lovers, therefore, were perfectly aware of the dangerous game they were playing; but this circumstance, instead of damping the ardour of their passion, had the effect only of increasing it, and of endearing them still more and more to each other. It will readily be conceived, from what has been related, that the two rivals for the hand of the Lady Jane Hamilton entertained the most deadly dislike of each other--for the Earl of Cassilis was not ignorant of Sir John's pretensions; and this feeling never failed to evince itself when by any chance they happened to meet--a circumstance which more than once occurred. On one of these occasions, they had even gone so far as to draw upon each other, and were prevented from closing in deadly strife only by the determined interference of some mutual friends who chanced to be present. "Beware, Sir John," said the stern earl, on the occasion we allude to, at the same time returning his sword with violence into its scabbard--"beware, Sir John, of crossing my path--you know the quarter I mean--otherwise you may rue it. Remember, young man," he added, "I have cautioned you." "And remember, I have defied you," replied the undaunted youth whom he addressed, "earl though ye be!" And he turned haughtily on his heel, and left the apartment which was the scene of this occurrence. To this defiance the earl made no reply; but those who were near him saw an expression of deadly wrath on his dark stern countenance, that made them at once congratulate themselves on not being the objects of it, and fear the worst for him who was, should he ever be unfortunate enough to fall into his power. "And when, Sir John, will you return?" was a question put in a gentle and faint voice--faint with emotion--by the Lady Jane Hamilton to her lover, as they walked arm in arm in the little sequestered dell of which we have already spoken, one beautiful summer evening shortly after the occurrence of the circumstance just related. "When do you think you will return?" she said, sadly, on being informed by her lover that the following day was fixed upon for his departure for the Continent, whither he had, for some time previously, intended going--an intention of which the Lady Jane had been perfectly aware--to improve himself by a few months' travel. "This is June," said the young knight, in a voice scarcely less tremulous than that of his fair companion. And he paused a moment, and then added, "I will be home, my love, God willing, about the latter end of October; and, believe me, Lady Jane, short as this time is, it looks an eternity to me." A lengthened silence succeeded, for both were too much engrossed by the melancholy thoughts which their approaching separation gave rise to, to prosecute the conversation. Another short, but sad and yet happy hour quickly flew over the lovers, when the gathering shades of night intimated to them that their interview must terminate. Feeling this, the fond pair, for the thousandth time, solemnly pledged themselves, in the face of heaven, to continue faithful to their vows, tenderly embraced each other, and parted. On the day following, Sir John set out for London, from whence he proceeded to Paris, thence to Madrid, where suddenly all traces of him were lost; and no after inquiries could ever elicit the slightest explanation of his mysterious disappearance. Weeks, months, and years passed away, but they brought no intelligence of the fate of the unfortunate young knight. It was the universal belief that he had perished by the hands of assassins; and in this conviction all further inquiry regarding him finally ceased; while time, as it passed on, produced its usual effects in lessening the general interest in his fate, and in gradually obliterating the recollection of him from the minds of his acquaintance. But there was one over whose memory time had no such power--one who did not only fondly remember him, but who, night and day, sorrowed for his loss through long tedious years. Lady Jane Hamilton, although circumstances subsequently changed her destiny, never forgot the first love of her young and affectionate heart. Soon after the departure of Sir John Faa, the Earl of Haddington, taking advantage of that circumstance, resolved, if possible, to accomplish the marriage of his daughter to the Earl of Cassilis before the return of the former; and fortunately, as he conceived, the latter himself, as if actuated by the same motive, renewed at this moment certain overtures connected with this matter which had lain for some time in abeyance, and pressed his suit with the lady's father with an urgency that would admit of no evasion or delay. For full two years, however, after the departure of her lover, and fully a year and a-half after the period when he was first believed to have perished, neither the threats of her father, nor the importunities of her noble suitor, could prevail on the Lady Jane to become the Countess of Cassilis. At the end of this period, however, the broken-hearted maiden--believing in the death of her lover, and unable longer to withstand the incessant and remorseless persecution with which she was assailed, daily and hourly, by her ambitious father--permitted herself to be dragged to the altar, but not before she had been shown a letter, whether forged or not is not known, from the English ambassador at the Spanish court, giving assurance of the death of Sir John Faa, whom he represented as having perished in the way generally believed--namely, by the daggers of some bravos. The marriage of the Lady Jane Hamilton to the Earl of Cassilis was celebrated at Tyningham Castle, with all the magnificence and pomp which the magic wand of wealth could call into existence. Its tall and numerous windows blazed with light. Its liveried lackeys flew through its illuminated halls, preciously burdened with silver trenchers, on which smoked the rarest and the richest viands; or bore massive flagons of the same precious metal, filled with the choicest wines; while its gorgeous apartments rung with the joyous sounds of mirth and music. But it was a striking thing to note, in the midst of all this splendid pageantry, and in the midst of this crowd of merry faces, that the only one who wore sad looks, the only one who appeared unmoved by this stirring scene, and who took no share in the rejoicing that was going forward, was she on whose account, and whom to honour, all this bustle and magnificence had been created. In a corner of the principal hall, where all the _élite_ of the night were assembled, the Countess of Cassilis sat all alone, pale as death, gazing with vacant eye on the moving and glittering spectacle before her, and looking only the more wretched and unhappy for the splendour with which she was attired. All the efforts of her father and her husband were unable to compel her even to assume the appearance of a becoming happiness; and, finding this, they at length refrained (from a fear that perseverance on their part would lead to some more awkward exposures) from insisting upon her taking any share in doing the honours of the evening, and allowed her to occupy undisturbed the retired seat which she had chosen, and to which, though frequently brought forward to receive the congratulations of newcomers, she seized every opportunity of instantly returning. Nor was the conduct of the unhappy bride during the ceremony of these congratulations, brief though they were, less marked by indications of the wretched feelings which overwhelmed her, than on other more important occasions. Her pale and emaciated countenance, the faint, forced smile, and the slight, cold, formal courtesy, with which she acknowledged the wishes of the guests for long life and happiness to the Countess of Cassilis, but too plainly showed how little of the latter she anticipated, and how little of the former she desired. All the stirring and joyous revelry usual on such occasions, nevertheless, went on; but it was soon interrupted by an occurrence that threw a damp on the revellers, and finally hastened their departure. In the very midst of the mirth and rejoicing, and at the moment when those seemed to have attained their height, the whole assembly was suddenly thrown into the utmost consternation, by a loud and piercing shriek proceeding from that end of the hall where the Countess of Cassilis was seated. All hurried towards the spot--some leaving the dance unfinished, others hastily throwing down the untasted goblet--and crowded around the sufferer from whom the alarming cry had proceeded. It was the bride. Senseless, and extended on the floor, there lay the miserable Countess of Cassilis. But what had happened to cause this extraordinary accident no one could tell. It was ascertained that she had been sitting quite alone when the illness, of whatever nature it was, under which she was now suffering, had seized her; so that no sudden injury of any kind could have befallen her. Her illness, in short, was quite inexplicable. But, as she was about being removed, which was instantly done, there were one or two around her who, hearing her muttering, as she was being raised from the floor, "I've seen him! I've seen him!" more than guessed the cause of the poor lady's sudden illness. On the removal of the countess, there were some attempts made to revive the revelries of the evening, and to re-infuse the spirit of mirth into the revellers, which the occurrence just related seemed to have dissipated; but in vain. After some ineffectual efforts of this kind, the company broke up; and, long before the anticipated hour, the guests were gone, the lights extinguished, and silence reigned in the halls of Tyningham Castle. On the day following this event, the Countess of Cassilis was removed by her husband to Cassilis Castle, an old, heavy, gloomy-looking fortalice on the banks of the Doon, in the shire of Ayr, where the unhappy lady remained for four years, heart-broken, crushed in spirit, and looking forward to the grave as the only termination of her sorrows. Her stern husband took no pains to reconcile her to her destiny, nor did he even show her any of those little kindnesses and attentions which are so well calculated to win on the female heart, and which, had they been employed in this case, might have induced the Countess of Cassilis, since she could not love, at least to esteem, her lord. But the earl had obtained, in a large accession of wealth, all that he desired or cared for in uniting himself to the unfortunate Lady Jane; and the consequence was, that, soon after his marriage, he neglected her, to pursue his schemes of ambition and personal aggrandisement. Thus left alone, as she often was, for weeks, nay, for months, in the lonely castle in which she had been immured, the Countess of Cassilis might often be seen walking on the battlements--almost the only species of recreation within her power--in solitary sadness; at one time stopping to gaze, but with listless eye, on the wide and romantic scene that lay around her; at another, to look on the leaping and foaming waters of the Doon, immortalised by the poet's song, and to think of the days that were past, of her blighted hopes and untoward destiny. Most appropriate to her, to her feelings and circumstances, would have been the melancholy song of Burns, of which her present locality was long afterwards to be the scene. Well might the poor Countess of Cassilis have exclaimed-- "Ye banks and braes o'bonny Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair! How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary fu' o'care!" But this beautiful lyric was not then in existence, nor for nearly two centuries after. It was about the end of the fourth year after her marriage, and while leading this solitary and melancholy life, that the Countess of Cassilis, as she walked one evening, as was her wont, on the battlements of the castle, was suddenly alarmed by seeing a numerous band of gipsies approaching the building; and she was the more alarmed, that the earl, with nearly all his immediate retainers, was at that moment from home, the former being then in attendance on the Assembly of Divines at Westminster. The countess, however, would have felt but little uneasiness at the threatened visit of these wanderers, although they had been even much more numerous than they were--for such visitations were then of ordinary occurrence--had they presented the usual appearance, and had the band been composed of the usual materials--that is, of men, women, and children. But in this case there were none of the latter. The whole were men--and all young, stout, active-looking men they were: and hence the alarm of the countess. Her fears, however, did not prevent her watching their motions for some time, ere she descended from the battlements; and this surveillance discovered to her that they were under the conduct of a leader, and that they were approaching the castle with a very suspicious degree of caution, and yet with a still more startling haste. Strongly suspecting that the designs of the gipsies were evil, the Countess of Cassilis hastened down from the battlements, and secured herself within the walls of the castle. In the meantime, the band of gipsies approached; but, instead of attempting any violence, they began to sing some of the wild strains with which they usually sought to attract the notice and excite the charity of those to whom they appealed. Her apprehensions somewhat allayed by this pacific indication, the countess ventured towards a window that overlooked the rude minstrels, and was about to fling them a suitable guerdon, when, on obtaining the nearer view of their leader which this step afforded, she uttered a piercing shriek, and fell senseless on the floor. His disguise had not been able to conceal from her--for sharp, sharp are the eyes of love--that in the leader of the gipsies she had met with the lost knight of Dunbar. In the next instant, the countess was in the arms of the lover of her youth. He it was who acted as leader of the gipsies; and the purpose for which he now came was to carry off, in the absence of her husband--of whose absence he was aware--the betrothed of his early years. In place of having been assassinated, as was generally believed, Sir John had been consigned to the dungeons of the Inquisition, in consequence of some unguarded expressions regarding the holy office which he had allowed to escape him when in Madrid; and in these dungeons had he lain, from the time he was first lost sight of, till within about six weeks of his appearance at Cassilis Castle. On his return home, he had learned, for the first time, of the marriage of the Lady Jane to the Earl of Cassilis; and this information having been accompanied by the intelligence that the latter was then in London, had determined him on the desperate enterprise in which he was now engaged. All this Sir John now communicated to the countess, and ended with proposing that she should fly with him. "No, no, Sir John," said the now weeping and dreadfully-agitated lady--"I cannot, I will not, do anything so unbecoming the daughter of the Earl of Haddington and the wife of Cassilis. However unwillingly I may have become the latter, I feel myself equally bound to consult his honour as my own, and do nothing that might sully either. Go then, Sir John," she continued; "oh, do depart from me--do leave me, and take with you an assurance of my continued and unabated"--she paused for a moment, and added--"esteem." But vain, vain were the good resolutions of the unfortunate countess--vain her determination not to take so hazardous, and perhaps it ought to be added, so infamous a step as that proposed by her desperate and unthinking lover. Love, almighty love, finally prevailed--all the countess's resolutions melted away before the energetic importunities of her lover, like snow beneath the midsummer sun; and the succeeding hour saw her mounted on the mettled steed which he had brought for the express purpose of carrying her away-- "So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung." This done, exactly as the poet has described it, the ill-starred pair commenced their flight, still attended, however, by the gipsy band which Sir John had employed to aid him in the abduction, and which he thought it necessary to keep around him till he should have got to a sufficient distance to be relieved from all apprehensions of pursuit. Leaving the guilty lovers to pursue their way, we shall return to Cassilis Castle, destined to be almost instantly afterwards the scene of another interesting and most ominous event. This was the unexpected return of the earl, who, with a large body of retainers, suddenly rode into the castle yard, within less than half-an-hour after the departure of the countess and her lover. Before he had yet got his foot to the ground, the earl was informed of what had occurred. "Gone, said you!--the countess gone, and with Sir John Faa!" exclaimed the amazed and now infuriated nobleman, to the person who gave the intelligence. "Impossible! Thou liest, knave!--thou wouldst deceive me, and thou shalt hang for it." But, exhibiting a strange contradiction between his conduct and his language, the earl, even while he spoke, sprang again into his saddle, and fiercely calling on his retainers to follow him, set off at full speed in the direction which the fugitives had taken. Nor was his ride, though a rapid, a long one. At a ford across the Doon, not many miles from Cassilis Castle, and still called from the circumstance we are about to relate the "Gipsies' Steps," the earl and his party overtook his unfortunate countess and her still more unfortunate seducer. On seeing the former approach, which the fugitives did with a degree of amazement which could only have been equalled had they seen them drop from the clouds, Sir John, his natural intrepidity not permitting him to reckon on the fearful odds that were coming against him, prepared to offer resistance; and in this hopeless resolution he persisted, although aware that he could place but little reliance on the co-operation of those around him--the gipsies showing but little inclination to fight, from a well-grounded fear that such a proceeding would increase the severity of their treatment in the event of their being taken; and of this, from the overwhelming superiority in point of numbers of the party coming down upon them, they had no doubt. Dismounting now from his horse, Sir John assisted the countess to alight; and, placing her at a sufficient distance to insure her safety from any instant danger, the brave young man leaped again into his saddle, and, drawing his sword, awaited the onset of his enemies, determined to defend the fair companion of his flight so long as he could continue to wield the good weapon which he now so resolutely and proudly grasped. In a few minutes after, the pursuing party were down upon the fugitives, when the earl, singling out Sir John, exclaimed, as he rushed upon him, "Have at thee, villain!" and with these words discharged a blow at him which would have immediately unhorsed him, had it not been adroitly warded off. But of what avail was the averting the stroke of one sword, when there were many to contend with, and one single arm only to oppose them; for the gipsies had not offered the slightest resistance. In an instant, a score of weapons were flashing around the head of the solitary combatant; yet long and obstinately did he continue the unequal fight, and well did he prove his manhood, although it could have been wished that it had been exhibited in a better cause. More than one of Sir John's assailants fell beneath his sword, and numbers felt the keenness of its edge, and the dexterity with which it was handled, in their gaping wounds. Such a contest as this, however, when it was one to fifty, could be but of short duration. In a few minutes, Sir John was severely wounded, unhorsed, and borne, or rather dragged down, bleeding and exhausted, to the earth. The moment he fell, the points of some eight or ten swords were levelled at his heart, and would have instantly transfixed it, had not the earl called out to those who wielded them to desist. "Don't kill him--don't kill him!" he shouted out, at the same time forcing his way through the crowd that surrounded him. "I will clear scores with him in another way," he added. "A dog's death is more befitting him than a gentleman's." These were ominous words, and well understood by all who heard them. The earl now rode up, for the first time, to where his unhappy countess stood, and assuming a mock gallantry as he approached her, but with a bitter smile on his countenance, took off his hat, and pointing to Sir John, who was now bound and placed on horseback, informed her that her lover intended honouring his castle with another visit, and had commissioned him to say that he would be glad of the Countess of Cassilis' company. Having said this, he desired some of his attendants to assist his wretched wife to get on horseback, when, leaving her under their care, with instructions to see her safely conveyed to the castle, he left her without farther remark or observation, to join the party who surrounded the prisoners. The whole cavalcade--the captives, consisting of Sir John and the whole of the gipsy gang, being placed in the middle--now set forward for Cassilis Castle. On their arrival there, the prisoners were halted beneath a large plane-tree, which grew, and, we believe, still flourishes, on a little knoll in front of the castle gate. All, both the prisoners and their captors, knew full well what the earl meant by his selection of their halting-place. The tree alluded to was one of dismal notoriety; it was known far and wide by the name of the "Dule Tree"--a name which it had acquired from its having been used by the Earl of Cassilis as a gallows on which all offenders, within his jurisdiction, who were condemned to death, were executed. The prisoners were now drawn up in a line, and there kept until they had witnessed, what was immediately exhibited, the fatal preparations for execution; which consisted simply in fastening a rope, with a running noose, to one of the lower branches, and placing a cart underneath it, with a person standing in readiness by the horse's head to drive off at a given signal. When these very primitive preliminaries were gone through, all the prisoners, including Sir John Faa, with the exception of one who was left for instant execution, were marched into the castle, and shut up with a strong guard in one of its apartments. Everything being now ready for the performance of the dreadful tragedy which was about to be enacted, the Earl of Cassilis proceeded to the countess's chamber, and again assuming the mock air of politeness of which we have already spoken, he bowed low as he entered the apartment, and begged to inform the Countess of Cassilis that he had got up a play for her divertisement, in which her lover, Sir John, had obligingly undertaken to perform a principal part, and desired that she would condescend to witness the pastime. Saying this, he rudely seized the countess by the arm, and dragged her to an apartment where there was a window that overlooked the place of execution. Having placed the countess at this window, the earl made a signal to those assembled beneath the "Dule Tree," and in an instant afterwards the first of the unhappy captives was seen suspended by the neck, struggling in the agonies of death. Another and another of these miserable men followed in due time, until of the whole party their unfortunate leader, Sir John, only remained. On this ill-fated gentleman being brought out for execution, the earl roused the attention of his unhappy wife, by calling out to her, with savage glee, to look attentively, as her lover Sir John was now about to play his part; and he had no doubt, he said, that he would do it handsomely. The wretched lady glanced towards the fatal tree, and saw him who had been her first, and was yet her only, love about to suffer an ignominious death. The fatal rope was already about the neck of the gallant, but erring young man, whose bearing, in this dreadful situation, evinced all that unflinching fortitude for which he had always been remarkable. Just before being thrown off, he caught a glimpse of the countess's figure at the window. He bowed gracefully towards her, kissed his hand to her, and waved an eternal adieu. In the next instant he was insensible to all earthly objects. These last proofs of the undaunted young man's unalterable affection, however, of which we have just spoken, were not seen by her for whom they were intended; for, although at the window (she was forcibly held there by her savage husband), her eyes were closed on the dreadful scene, and she herself wholly unconscious of what at that fatal instant was passing before her. The apartment from which the miserable Countess of Cassilis was compelled to witness this dreadful tragedy is still pointed out by the name of the "Countess's Room." In this chamber the unhappy lady was kept a prisoner for several days after the execution of Sir John and his followers, when she was removed to another of the family residences in the town of Maybole, in Ayrshire, where she was confined during the remainder of her life--the earl her husband, in the meantime, marrying another wife. Such is the story of the Countess of Cassilis and a veritable tale it is. THE HAPPY CONCLUSION. "It's a' owre wi' us noo, guidwife," said William Waterstone, throwing himself down in an arm-chair that stood by his own kitchen fireside, and at the same time laying aside his staff and bonnet; for William had just returned from a journey of ten or twelve miles, on which he had set out that morning--"it's a' owre wi' us noo, guidwife," he said, in a voice and with a look and manner of the deepest despair. "He'll no listen to ony terms," he went on, "or to ony delay, but insists on haein the money doun on the nail, and to the last farthin, or he says he'll roup us to the door, and that within fourteen days." But what misfortune was this that threatened William Waterstone? And who was he? Why, we will tell you, good reader, beginning with your last query first. William Waterstone was a small farmer in Teviotdale, and one of the most honest, laborious, and worthy men in that part of the country. But all his industry, prudence, economy, and integrity had not enabled him, as, indeed, they could not, to cope with the disadvantages of falling markets and a poor and over-rented farm; and he fell into arrears with his landlord. It was in vain that poor William, who was now getting up in years, being close upon sixty, toiled late and early, assisted by his wife and daughter (his whole household), to reduce or keep down the debt that was growing up against him. It was in vain that he and they denied themselves every comfort to attain this desirable end. The arrears, in place of diminishing, went on increasing; for the farm, with all this toil and privation, could scarcely pay the current expenses, let alone enabling its occupant to liquidate an extra debt. But this state of matters with William, though sad enough, and such as must, in any circumstances, have made him unhappy, would not have ended in his utter ruin, as it now threatened to do, had the property which he rented remained in the hands of his old landlord; for that person knew his excellent character, respected his worth, and, perfectly aware that he was doing all that man could do to discharge the claims he had on him, showed him every lenity and indulgence; and would, in all probability (indeed he had actually said as much), have forgiven him his arrears altogether. Unfortunately for William, however, his generous landlord just about this time died; and the property fell into other and very different hands. The first step of the new proprietor, or rather of his factor, though of course done with the former's consent, was to ferret out all outstanding debts; the next, to enforce their payment, without distinction of persons or consideration of circumstances, by the most summary measures which the law allowed. On this black list, and amongst the foremost, stood the name of William Waterstone. It was on the day preceding that on which our story opens, that William first received intimation by a threatening letter, of the determination of the new proprietor regarding the arrears which he was owing; and on the next he went himself to the factor, who lived at the distance of about ten miles, to endeavour to avert the proceedings with which he was threatened, by entering into some arrangements regarding the debt. The result of this interview is announced in the expressions with which William seated himself in his arm-chair, as quoted at the outset of our tale; for he had just at that moment returned from his unsuccessful mission. He had addressed himself to his wife; but what he said was equally meant for the ear of his daughter--a young, beautiful, and interesting girl of about nineteen, who was also present at the time. On William's announcing the determination of the factor regarding them, his wife, without saying a word, but looking the very picture of grief and despair, flung herself into a chair opposite her husband, where she sat for some time in silence, wiping away at intervals, with the corner of her apron, the tears that forced themselves into her eyes. After a short time, during which neither father, mother, nor daughter had spoken a syllable, each being wrapped up in the contemplation of the miserable prospects which lay before them, Mrs Waterstone at length said-- "And is there, then, nae hope for us now, William, after a' oor toil and oor fecht?" "Nane--nane that I can see," replied the husband, after a lengthened pause, in a voice rendered stern by despair, and at the same time glancing towards his daughter, who, with her face buried in her apron, was sobbing and weeping in a distant corner of the apartment. "Nane that I can see," he again repeated. "There's nae help for us under heaven. Naething for us noo, Betsy, but the meal pock." "Weel, God's will be dune, William," replied the broken-hearted woman; "since it is sae, we maun submit; although it is hard, at oor time o' life, and after the lang and sair struggle we hae had to do justice to everybody, to be thrown destitute on the warld. But ye ken it is said, William, by the Psalmist, 'I have been young, and now am old; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread;' and I've nae doot that, wi' God's assistance, we'll find these soothing and comforting words verified in oor ain case." To this William Waterstone made no reply, but remained gloomily absorbed in his own dismal reflections. These were indeed bitter enough--and bitter also were those of the partner of his bosom, on this melancholy occasion; but they were light compared with those of their unhappy daughter. It was on her that the threatened calamity was to fall with its fullest force, and it was to her that it was to bring the largest share of misery. But this requires explanation; and we proceed to give it. Marion--for such was her name--had long been wooed in vain by a wealthy suitor who resided at a short distance from her father's house. This person, whose name was Maitland, was a miller to business, and a sufficiently respectable man; but he was precisely three times the age of the young creature whose hand he sought. He was, besides, a widower, with several children, and was otherwise by no means such an object as was likely to attract the eye or engage the affections of a woman younger than the youngest of his own daughters. But John Maitland was wealthy--a circumstance which, though it was of no weight whatever in the eyes of Marion herself, was of great consequence in those of her parents. They, however, although they secretly wished that their daughter would give a favourable ear to the miller's suit, did not urge her, at least otherwise than by indirect allusions and hints, to admit his addresses; and from even this, seeing that her repugnance to him was unconquerable, they had latterly abstained altogether. Notwithstanding Marion's coldness to him, however, and her dislike of him, which she could not conceal, Maitland continued his visits, and persevered in his suit, although to all but himself it seemed an utterly hopeless one. But Marion's conduct in this matter did not proceed solely from a dislike to Maitland. It was influenced by a double motive--a repugnance to him, and love for another. The favoured suitor, whose name was Richard Spalding, was a young man, the son of a neighbouring farmer, who had everything to recommend him but wealth, of which he had none. His father was in straitened circumstances; and their united labours--for they tilled and sowed the same fields together--were unable to improve them. Indeed, the situation of the former was almost precisely that of Waterstone. They were tenants of the same proprietor, and old Spalding was also in arrears--arrears which he could not pay--to his landlord. Having given this sketch of the situation in which Marion stood with regard to affairs of the heart, at the period of our story, we recur to the scene which that digression interrupted. After another long and silent pause, broken only by the suppressed sobs of the poor girl, and at times by heavy and deep-drawn sighs from her mother, the latter again spoke. "Oh, my John--my John," she said, "if ye but kent o' this, I'm sure, for a' that's come and gane yet, ye wad stretch out a helping hand to us in this hour o' distress!" "Betsy!" exclaimed her husband, angrily interrupting her, and starting to his feet with an unwonted energy of manner, "havena I often tell't ye never to name that ingrate, that undutiful son, in my presence?--and how comes it that ye have dared to disregard my injunctions, and that at a time, too, when I'm overwhelmed, rendered desperate, wi' other cares? How could ye, woman, add to my distress, by naming the base fallow before me?" These were harsh words from a father of his own child; but, so far as circumstances could enable that father to judge, they were not unmerited. William Waterstone's son--his only son--who had been bred a millwright, had gone out to the West Indies some five or six years previous to the period of which we write; and during the last three years of that time his parents had never heard from him, although they had learned that he was not only living, but rapidly accumulating a fortune. A score of letters, at least, his father had written him through the medium of the mercantile house by which he had been first sent out (and which kindly undertook not only to have all his letters forwarded to his son, but offered the same obliging services in the case of communications from the latter to the former), without ever receiving any answer; and this was the more unpardonable, that more than one of these letters contained requests from John Waterstone's father for a little pecuniary assistance to help him out of his difficulties. These, however, were equally unattended to with the others; and it is not, therefore, to be wondered at that old Waterstone should have charged his son with ingratitude, and considered his conduct undutiful and unnatural. This was, in truth, as we have shown, his father's opinion of the young man; but, oh! what can weaken a mother's love? What can wither the strong and deep-rooted affections of her bosom for the child of her love? The conduct must be infamous indeed that could do this. Mrs Waterstone, although she did allow that her son ought to have at least written them, yet thought, and, when she dared, spoke, of him with the most tender regard. For his apparent neglect of them, she said, she was sure there was some good reason, that would one day be explained to the satisfaction of them all. What this reason could be she owned she could not conjecture; but that was a circumstance which did not in the least shake her faith in its existence. When her husband, therefore, on the present occasion, upbraided her for naming her son, and accused him of ingratitude and undutiful conduct, she, as she always did in similar circumstances, stepped forward with the ready but unsatisfactory defence alluded to. "Be patient, guidman, I beseech you," she said--"be patient; and, oh, man, dinna think sae unkindly o' the puir laddie. He'll be able, I warrant, to gie a guid reason for a' this when----" "Let me hear nae mair o't, Betsy," again interrupted William Waterstone. "We've ither things to think o' enow. Here's ruin staring us in the face, woman--ruin! ruin! utter ruin!" he repeated, in a tone of the deepest and most bitter despair. "Naething can avert it. Without a house to shelter us, as we will sune be, our auld heads maun be exposed to the winds o' heaven and to the pelting o' the storm." "Never, never, never!" at this moment suddenly exclaimed Marion, who had hitherto been sitting, as already described, absorbed in grief, at the further end of the apartment, with her face buried in her apron. "Never, never, never!" she exclaimed, rushing towards her father, and throwing her arms about his neck; "ye shall never be driven to that strait, sae lang as the means are in my power o' preventing it! Mother, mother, dear mother," she added--and now turning to the parent she named, and throwing herself on her knees before her--"I can stand this nae langer! I'll marry John Maitland, mother, and he'll lend as muckle siller as 'ill tak ye out o' this difficulty. He has often said that he wad help my faither, if I wad promise to become his wife." "My bairn, my bairn!" replied her mother, overcome with this instance of her child's devoted affection; for well she knew the fearful extent of the sacrifice she had offered to make. "My bairn, my bairn!" she said, bursting into tears, and clasping her daughter closely in her arms--"God's blessing be wi' ye for this dutifu conduct to your puir parents, although it grieves me to the heart, my puir lassie, to see ye driven by oor necessities to become an unwillin bride. But ye see, my bairn, there is nae ither way o' savin us frae beggary in our auld days." "I ken it, mother--I see it," replied Marion, weeping, and as pale as death; "and my mind's made up. Onything, onything will I endure rather than see ye turned oot o' yer ain house, and thrown destitute on the world." "A faither's blessin and the blessin o' God be wi' ye, my dochter, for this!" said her father, now interfering for the first time, and laying his hand upon her head as she knelt before her mother. "Ye canna but prosper, my bairn, for such conduct as this; and your marriage, though in the meantime it mayna seem to you to promise much felicity, maun in the end be a happy ane. It canna be otherwise. But, Marion," he added, "I winna let ye mak this sacrifice till a' ither means hae failed me, and till I find that the factor is really determined to carry his threats into execution." At this moment the latch of the outer door was raised, and Richard Spalding, wholly unaware of the state of matters in William Waterstone's, suddenly walked into the midst of the sorrowing family; and great was his surprise on witnessing the scene of disconsolation which presented itself. He guessed, indeed, in part the cause--for his father, as has been already said, was also under the ban of the new factor; but he little dreamed of the resolution to which it had driven his beloved Marion. This was now, however, soon to be made known to him. On Richard's entrance, her father, who, as well as his wife, knew well of the attachment between the young couple, after hastily saluting him, left the apartment, and was speedily followed by Marion's mother; their object being to give their daughter an opportunity of informing her lover, with her own mouth, of the resolution she had come to regarding his rival. On being left to themselves, Richard went up to Marion, who, seated in a chair, with her pale cheek resting on the back, looked the very image of hopeless despair. On Richard's first entrance, she had not looked towards him at all, nor exhibited any other symptom of a consciousness of his presence. Neither did she yet offer any signs of welcome. Astonished and alarmed at such unusual conduct, Richard took her affectionately by the hand, and anxiously inquired what was the matter. The poor girl burst into tears. "Marion," said her lover, now greatly agitated and perplexed, "what in all the earth is wrong? Will you not tell _me_, Marion?" "O Richard, Richard, do not ask me. I cannot, I will not tell you," said the distracted girl. "Then you desire to make me miserable too, Marion," was the reply. "No, no, Richard; but I cannot tell you what I know will break your heart, as it has already broken mine. My peace is gone for ever, Richard, but it has gone in a good cause." "For Heaven's sake, Marion," said her agonised lover, "tell me, tell me at once what you mean, and do not torture me longer with this strange and unintelligible conduct. It's not using him well, Marion, who hopes to be more to you, one day, than any other person on the face of the earth." "Never, Richard!--never, You can never now be more to me than you are at this moment. That's a' owre, Richard. We maun meet nae mair. I'm gaun to be the wife o' anither." "Marion!" said Richard, his face now overspread with a deadly paleness, and his lips quivering with emotion, "in God's name, what does this mean? Have I done anything to offend you--anything to change your opinion of me?" "No, no, Richard, you have not," said the weeping girl; "but I maun marry John Maitland, to save my puir father and mother frae ruin--to save them frae bein thrown on the cauld charity o' the warld in quest o' their bread." And she now went on to detail the particulars of the situation in which they stood, and concluded by mentioning the promise she had made to her parents to accept of Maitland's addresses. Poor Spalding stood the very personification of misery and wretchedness during the recital of these circumstances, that laid prostrate all his dearest hopes, and wrested from him that happiness which he had fondly believed was within his grasp. For some time he made no reply to, or remark on, what had just been communicated to him; but at length, taking Marion again by the hand. "Well, Marion," he said, with a strong effort to suppress the emotion with which he was struggling, "this is dreadful news to me; but I do not blame you; or, rather, I cannot but commend you for the step you are going to take, although it be to the destruction of my peace and happiness in this world. But is there no way of averting this evil? Is there no way of saving your father but by your----" Here he suddenly stopped short. His feelings overcame him; and he could not come out with the two words necessary to finish the sentence; he could not bring himself to add, "marrying Maitland." "Nane, nane, Richard," said Marion, who well knew what he would have said; "there's nae ither way left us--nane, nane, Richard." "But," replied the latter, "your father said, Marion, you told me, that he will not ask you to make this sacrifice, until he sees that the factor is determined to proceed against him, and that there is no other means of satisfying his demands. Now, as it will be some days before he can ascertain the former, will ye promise me, Marion, that ye will take all the time that circumstances will afford you before you commit yourself further with Maitland? Will you promise me this, Marion?--and, in the meantime, I'll stir heaven and earth to save you from the fate that's threatening you." This promise poor Marion readily gave; and, somewhat comforted by it, Richard left the house, to try every method he could think of, to avert the misfortune that threatened him. But, alas! what could he do? Where was he to raise £150 some odds, which was the amount of William Waterstone's debt to his landlord? Under the excitation of the moment during his interview with Marion, and under the blind and bewildering impulses excited by it, he thought he might, by some means or other, accomplish it. But, on coming to act on the vague and indefinite notions on this subject which first presented themselves to him, he found them burst like soap-bells in his grasp, until even he himself, sanguine as he was, became convinced that the pursuit was hopeless, and that his Marion was indeed lost to him for ever. In the meantime, the dreaded crisis approached. Step after step had been taken by the factor in the process against William Waterstone, until at length it arrived at a consummation. His effects were sequestrated, and a day of sale announced. Still the poor man entertained hopes that the last and final proceeding would not be had recourse to--that, in short, no sale would actually take place; and in this desperate belief he had still delayed committing himself with Maitland regarding his daughter, although he had dropped some hints to that person of a tendency to encourage his hopes. From this delusion, however, he was now about to be roughly awakened. The day of sale arrived, and with it came the auctioneer; and, as the morning advanced, several persons were seen hovering about at a little distance. These were intending purchasers, whose respect for poor Waterstone, and whose sympathy for his unhappy situation, induced them thus to keep aloof, with the view of saving his feelings as much as possible, until their purpose there should render it necessary for them to approach nearer to the melancholy scene. These appearances were far too serious to leave the slightest ground for the indulgence of any further hopes from the lenity of the prosecutor; and William Waterstone felt this. He saw now that the sacrifice which he had thus delayed till the twelfth hour must be made--that his daughter must pledge herself to become the wife of John Maitland; and with a heavy heart he now put on his bonnet to go down to that person, to enter into a full and final explanation with regard to this matter, and his own distressed situation. Poor Marion's doom was now, then, about to be irrevocably sealed. Her father was already at the door, on his way to fix her destiny, when he was suddenly arrested by a person, wrapped up in a travelling mantle, and who was about entering the house at the same moment, seizing him by the hand. "Father!" exclaimed the apparent stranger. William Waterstone looked unconsciously for an instant at the person who addressed him. It was his son. "John!" said the father, at length, coldly, and returning the former's eager salutation with marked indifference. "Yes, John," replied his son, in a tone of surprise at his father's reception of him; "and I thought you would have been more happy than you seem to be to have seen him, father?" "Why should I be happy to see you, John?" said the latter, gravely. "What have you done for me that I should rejoice in the sight of you?" "Not much, father, I confess," rejoined his son; "but I did for you what I could; and it is my intention to do more." William Waterstone smiled satirically. It was the only reply he vouchsafed. At this moment, John's mother, who had heard and recognised his voice, rushed out and enfolded her son in her arms. "My son--my son!" she exclaimed. "Thank God, I see you once more before I die! Ye'll explain a' noo. I'm sure, my John, and mak guid your mother's words." To her son, part of this address was wholly unintelligible. What explanation was wanted he could not comprehend; and he therefore merely said, smiling as he spoke, that if anything in his conduct wanted explanation he would very readily give it. "That ye will, my son," said his mother, "to the shame and confusion o' them that entertained ill thochts o' ye." "Well, well, mother," replied John, more puzzled than ever--"we'll put all that to rights, whatever it is, by and by; but, in the meantime, pray tell me what is the meaning of all this?" And he pointed to the collection of farming implements and other articles, which had been placed in front of the house, preparatory to the sale, and which, with some other no less unequivocal circumstances, but too plainly intimated what was about to take place. "The meanin o' that, sir," said his father, sternly, "is very sune tell't. We are gaun to be roupit out the day for arrear o' rent--that's a'--a thing very easy understood; and ye're just come in time to see't. Just in time," he added, bitterly, "to see your father and mother turned out beggars on the world." "What! rouped out! beggared!" replied his son, with a look of the utmost consternation. "Then, surely, father, some great and sudden pecuniary misfortune must have befallen you; or there has been grievous mismanagement of some kind or other, to reduce you to this unhappy state." "Oh no," said the father, in a dry, sarcastic tone, "nae sudden misfortune has befa'en me, nor has there been any mismanagement either. Naething has happened but what ye a' alang kent very weel about. The arrears o' rent, at least the greater part o' that debt, was standin against me before ye went abroad; and I suppose ye ken very weel that the prices o' farm produce hae been fa'in ever since; so that I dinna see, sir, that ye need be sae very much surprised at my situation as you seem, or pretend to be." "I do not pretend, father. I assure you, to be more surprised than I really am," said his son, "and I think I have some reason. Surely what I sent you might have kept you out of debt at any rate." "What _you_ sent me, sir," rejoined his father, sternly: "I should like to ken what that was." And he again smiled sarcastically. "My troth, my debts wadna hae been ill to pay, if that could hae dune't." "And I must say," replied his son, "that they must have been very considerable, and, I will add, more than they ought, if it could not." "What do you mean, sirrah?" exclaimed William Waterstone, fiercely. "I mean, father," replied John, now getting displeased in his turn, "that the three hundred pounds, which I have been sending you regularly every year, for the last three years, ought to have placed you in a better situation than I now find you." "_You_ been sendin me three hundred pounds every year, for the last three years!" said his father, with a look of amazement; and then, suddenly dropping this warmth of expression--"It may be sae, John," he added, coolly and doubtingly, "and I hope, for yer ain sake, ye speak truth; but I hae never seen a farthin o't." "What! not of the money I have been remitting you?" "Not a penny; but, _if_ ye sent me the money, as ye say, John," he added, "how comes it that ye never answered ane o' my letters?" "Your letters, father!" replied the latter. "Why, you have not written me for the last three years, although I have despatched at least a score of letters to you in that time, and have never had an answer to one of them." "Never saw ane o' your letters," said William Waterstone, dryly. "This is a most extraordinary and unaccountable business," exclaimed John. "Queer aneugh," said his father, coolly, and plainly evincing by his manner that he did not believe a word of what his son had said to him. "The money I sent you, father," rejoined the young man, "was transmitted you through the house of M., P., L., & Co., Glasgow. My letters were also sent to their care, and how it has happened that neither have reached you I cannot at all conjecture; but I will see into that matter immediately. How were your letters to me sent father?" he added. "Ou, of course, to thae folks, too," replied the latter. "It was yer ain desire in the last letter I had frae ye." "So it was, I recollect. Well, we shall have all this explained presently; but, in the meantime, father, let me know what is the amount of the debt that is just now pressing on you, that I may discharge it, and put a stop to these proceedings." "I'm no sure if we'll need your assistance noo," said his father, coldly. "Your sister's gaun to be married to John Maitland, and I believe he'll lend me as muckle siller as 'll clear my feet o' this mischief, at ony rate." "What! my sister going to marry old John Maitland!" said her brother, in amazement. "Impossible! He cannot have been her own free choice." "I did not say he was," replied his father; "but Marion's a dutifu child, and would do that and mair to save her father frae ruin. But there she is comin," he added (pointing to Marion, who was now approaching the house, from which she had been absent since her brother's arrival, of which, therefore, she knew nothing), "and ye may speak to her yersel on the subject." John ran towards his sister, and clasped her in his arms. She did not recognise him for a second or two; but when she did, she burst into tears, and-- "O John, John," she said, "this is a sorrowfu hoose ye hae come to; but yer faither 'll hae tell't ye a'?" "He has, Marion; and, amongst the rest, he has told me, what has surprised me more than all, that you intend marrying old John Maitland." Marion burst afresh into tears. "It maun he sae, brother," she said--"it maun be sae. There's nae ither way o' savin my puir faither and mother frae ruin." "But there is, though, Marion," replied her brother. "Ye need not now give your hand where your heart is not, for any such purpose. I have the means of saving you from the necessity of making this sacrifice, and gladly shall I employ them. I will pay our father's debts, Marion, and make you once more a free woman." We would fain describe the joy--the rapturous, the inexpressible joy--with which these delightful words filled the bosom of the poor girl on whose ravished ear they fell; but we are sure that such an attempt would only interfere with the reader's more lively and vivid conceptions, and we therefore refrain from it. On the same day on which these events occurred, John Waterstone, having previously settled his father's debt to his landlord with those sent to look after the latter's interest at the intended sale, wrote to the house through which the money he had transmitted to his father had been sent, mentioning its non-delivery, and requesting an explanation of the circumstance. To this letter Mr Waterstone received, two days afterwards, the following reply:-- "SIR,--We have received, with very painful feelings, though not with surprise, yours of the 10th instant. The misconduct of our junior partner, which has placed us in a similarly distressing predicament with several others as with you, has been the cause of the gross irregularity of which you demand an explanation. Your remittances, together with other moneys to a large amount, were appropriated by this person (who has lately absconded) to his own use--a practice which we have since discovered he has been long addicted to. As we, however, consider ourselves bound in honour to make good all such claims as yours--the sums you transmitted having been advised to the firm, and the responsibility accepted--we beg to inform you that the money alluded to will be paid to your order, at our counting-house, on demand. We need scarcely remark, that the circumstance above mentioned will sufficiently account for the suppression of letters of which you also complain.--We are, sir," &c. This letter John Waterstone lost no time in laying before his father, whom it at once convinced of his son's veracity, and consequently of the injustice he had done him. But it was to his mother that this proof of her son's integrity and dutiful conduct brought the most triumphant joy. "I was sure my John," she said, "wad never either forget or deceive us; and weel did I ken, as aften I have said, that it wad a' be satisfactorily accounted for, and that my laddie wad yet triumph owre a' his backbiters, and shame them that misdooted him." We have only now to add, that John's generosity, on the occasion of this visit to his parents, which was only temporary, was not confined to the latter, but extended to his sister, on whom he bestowed a portion that enabled her and Richard Spalding to unite their destinies. John returned shortly after to the West Indies, where he pursued a prosperous career for ten years longer, when he came home an independent man, and spent the remainder of his life in the place of his nativity. MR SAMUEL RAMSAY THRIVEN: A TALE OF LOVE AND BANKRUPTCY. CHAP I.--A WAY OF MAKING MONEY. All the world knows that Mandeville, the author of the "Fable of the Bees," and Shaftesbury, the author of the "Characteristics," divided a great portion of mankind on a question which is now no question at all. That there are, assuredly, some instances to be met with of rational bipeds, who exhibit scarcely any traces of a moral sense, and act altogether upon the principle of selfishness, we do not deny; but this admission does not bind us to the selfish theory, for the very good reason, that we hold these creatures to be nothing better than a species of monsters. Nor do we think the world, with the tendency to self-love that prevails in it, would have been the better for the want of these living, walking exemplars of their patron--the devil; for, of a surety, they show us the fallen creature in all his naked deformity, and make us hate the principle of evil through the ugly flesh-case in which it works, and the noisome overt acts it turns up in the repugnant nostrils of good men. Now, if you are an inhabitant of that scandalous freestone village that lies near Arthur Seat, and took its name from the Northumbrian king, Edwin--corrupted, by the conceit of the inhabitants, into Edin--you will say that we mean something personal in these remarks; and, very probably, when we mention the name of Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven, who, about twenty years after Mr John Neal introduced to the admiring eyes of the inhabitants of the Scottish metropolis the term haberdasher, carried on that trade in one of the principal streets of the city, our intention will be held manifest. And what then? We will only share the fate, without exhibiting the talent, of Horace, and shall care nothing if we return his good-humour--a quality of far greater importance to mankind than even that knowledge "which is versant with the stars." Now, this Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven, who took up, as we have already signified, the trade designated by the strange appellative introduced by the said John Neal, was one of those dabblers in morals who endeavour to make the whole system of morality accord with their own wishes. As to the moral sense, so strongly insisted for by the noble author of the "Characteristics," he considered it as a _taste_ something like that for _vertù_, which a man might have or not have, just as it pleased Dame Nature or Mr Syntax Pedagogue, but which he could pretend to have as often and in as great profusion as it pleased himself. It was, he acknowledged, a very good thing to have, sometimes, about one, but there were many things in the world far better--such as money, a good house, good victuals, good clothing, and so forth. It was again, sometimes, a thing a man might be much better without. It formed a stumbling-block to prosperity; and when, at the long run, a man had made to it many sacrifices, and become a beggar, "rich in the virtue of good offices," he did not find that it got him a softer bed in an almshouse, or a whiter piece of bread at the door of the rich. These sentiments were probably strengthened by the view he took of the world, and especially of our great country, where there is a mighty crying, and a mighty printing, about virtue, magnanimity, and honesty, in the abstract, while there is, probably, less real active honesty than might be found among the Karomantyns--yea, or the Hottentots or Cherokees. Then, too, it could not be denied that "riches cover a multitude of sins;" why, then, should not Mr Thriven strive to get rich? Upon such a theory did Mr Samuel Thriven propose to act. It had clearly an advantage over theories in general, insomuch as it was every day reduced to practice by a great proportion of mankind, and so proved to be a good workable speculation. That he intended to follow out the practical part of his scheme with the same wisdom he had exhibited in choosing his theory of morals, may be safely doubted. Caution, which is of great use to all men in a densely-populated country, is an indispensable element in the composition of one who would be rich at the expense of others. A good-natured man will often allow himself to be cheated out of a sum which is not greater than the price of his ease; and there are a great number of such good-natured men in all communities. It is upon these that clever men operate--without them a great portion of the cleverest would starve. They are the lambs with sweet flesh and soft wool, making the plains a paradise for the wolves. A system of successful operations carried on against these quiet subjects, for a number of years, might have enabled Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven to have retired, with his feelings of enjoyment blunted, and his conscience quickened, to some romantic spot, where he might have turned poetical. An idle man is always, to some extent, a poet; and a rogue makes often a good sentimentalist. This ought clearly to have been the course which worldly caution should have suggested as the legitimate working out of the theory of selfishness. But Mr Thriven was not gifted with the virtue of patience to the same extent that he was with the spirit of theorising on the great process of getting rich. He wanted to seize Plutus by a _coup de main_, and hug the god until he got out of him a liberal allowance. The plan has been attended with success; but it is always a dangerous one. The great deity of wealth has been painted lame, blind, and foolish, because he gives, without distinction, to the undeserving as well as to the worthy--to the bad often more than to the good. It is seldom his godship will be coaxed into a gift; and if he is attempted to be forced, he can use his lame leg, and send the rough worshipper to the devil. Neither can we say that Mr Thriven's scheme was new or ingenious, being no other than to "_break_ with the full hand"--a project of great antiquity in Scotland, and struck at for the first time by the act 1621, cap. 18. It existed, indeed, in ancient Rome, and was comprehended under the general term of stellionate, from stelio, a little subtle serpent, common in Italy. Always in great vogue in our country, it at one time roused the choler of our judges to such an extent, that they condemned the culprits either to wear the yellow cap and stockings of different colours, or be for ever at the mercy of their creditors. But these times had gone by, and a man might make a very respectable thing of a break, if he could manage it adroitly enough to make it appear that he had himself been the victim of misplaced confidence. So Mr Samuel having given large orders to the English houses for goods, at a pretty long credit, got himself in debt to an amount proportioned to the sum he wished to make by his failure. There is no place in the world where a man may get more easily in debt than in Scotland. We go for a decent, composed, shrewd, honest people; and, though we are very adequately and sufficiently hated by the volatile English, whom we so often beat on their own ground, and at their own weapons, we enjoy a greater share of their confidence in mercantile matters than their own countrymen. Vouchsafe to John the privilege of abusing Sawney, and calling him all manner of hard names, and he will allow his English neck to be placed in the Scottish noose with a civility and decorum that is just as commendable as his abuse of our countryman is ungenerous and unmanly. Mr Thriven's warehouses were accordingly soon filled with goods from both England and Scotland; and it is no inconsiderable indication of a man's respectability that he is able to get pretty largely in debt. When a man is to enter upon the speculation of failing, the step we have now mentioned is the first and most important preliminary. Debt is the Ossa from which the successful speculator rolls into the rich vale of Tempe. There are some rugged rocks in the side of his descent to independence--such as the examinations under the statutes--that are next to be guarded against, and the getting over these is a more difficult achievement than the getting himself regularly constituted a debtor. The running away of a trusty servant with a hundred pounds, especially if he has forged the cheque, may be the making of a good speculator in bankruptcy, because the loss of a thousand or two may be safely laid to the charge of one who dare not appear to defend himself. The failure and flight of a relation, to whom one gives a hundred pounds to leave him in his books a creditor in a thousand, is also a very good mode of overcoming some of the difficulties of failing; and a clever man, with a sharp foresight, ought to be working assiduously for a length of time in collecting the names of removing families, every one of whom will make a good "bad debtor." These things were not unknown to Mr Thriven; but accident did what the devil was essaying to do for him, or rather, speaking in a more orthodox manner, the great enemy, taking the form of the mighty power yclept Chance, set the neighbouring uninsured premises, belonging to Miss Fortune, the milliner, in a blaze; and a large back warehouse, in which there was scarcely anything save Mr Thriven's ledgers, was burned so effectually, that no person could have told whether they were full of Manchester goods or merely atmospheric air of the ordinary weight--that is, thirty-one grains to a hundred cubic inches. When a respectable man wishes ardently for a calamity, he arrays his face in comely melancholy, because he has too much respect for public decorum to outrage the decencies of life. Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven accordingly _looked_ the loss he had sustained with a propriety that might have done honour to a widower between whom and a bad wife the cold grave has been shut for the space of a day, and then set about writing circulars to his creditors, stating that, owing to his having sustained a loss through the burning of a warehouse where he had deposited three thousand pounds' worth of goods, he was under the necessity of stopping payment. No attorney ever made more of letter-writing than Mr Samuel did on that day: in place of three shillings and fourpence for two pages, every word he penned was equal to a pound. CHAP. II.--THE INSCRIPTION. "Well," said Mr Samuel Thriven, after he had retired to his house, "this has been hard and hot work; but a man has a satisfaction in doing his duty, and that satisfaction may not be diminished by a bottle of port." Now the port was as good as Ofleys; and Mr Thriven's thirst was nothing the less for the fire of the previous night, which he had done his utmost not to extinguish, and as he was in good spirits, he, like those people in good health who, to make themselves better, begin to take in a load of Morrison's pills, drew another cork, with that increased sound which belongs peculiarly to second bottles, and in a short time was well through with his potation. "How much, now," said he, as he pretended, in a knowing way, to look for a dead fly in the glass, which he held up between him and the candle, shutting, in the operation, the left eye, according to the practice of connoisseurs--"how much may I make of this transanction in the way of business?--Let me see--let me see." And, as he accordingly tried to see, he took down from the mantelpiece an ink-bottle and a pen, and, having no paper within reach--he laid hold of a small book, well known to serious-minded people, and which was no other, in fact, than the "Pilgrim's Progress." But it was all one to Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven, in the middle of his second bottle, what the book was, provided it had a blank leaf at the beginning or end thereof. It might, indeed, have been the "Louping-on-Stone for Heavy-Bottomed Believers," or the "Economy of Human Life," or the "Young Man's Best Companion," or "A New Way to Pay Old Debts;" or any other book or brochure in the wide republic of letters which the wisdom or wit of man has ever produced. It may verily be much doubted if he knew himself what book it was. "Well, let me see," he said again, as he seized the pen, and held the blank leaf open before him. "The three thousand pounds lost by the fire is a very good item; I can easily make a very good list of very bad debts to the extent of five hundred pounds; I have three thousand of good banknotes in the house; and if I get off with a dividend of five shillings in the pound, which I can pay out of my stock, I may clear by this single transaction, in the way of business, as much as may make me comfortable for the whole period of my natural life." And having made some monologue of this kind, he began to jot down particulars; laying on the table his pen, occasionally, to take another glass of the port wine, and resuming his operation again, with that peculiar zest which accompanies a playfulness of the fancy on a subject of darling interest. So he finished his arithmetical operation and dream, just about the time when the wine finished him; fell sound asleep; and awoke about two in the morning, with a headache, and no more recollection of having committed his secret to the blank leaf of the "Pilgrim's Progress," than if he had never written a word thereon at all. CHAP. III.--THE FACING OF CREDITORS. Of all men in the world, a bankrupt requires to wear a lugubrious look. It is proper, too, that he should keep the house, hold out the flag of distress, and pretend that he is an unfortunate mortal, who has been the prey either of adverse fate or designing rogues. Of all this Mr Thriven was well aware as ever man could be; no man could have acted the dyvour better than he, even though he had been upon the pillory, with the bankrupt's yellow cap on his head. Creditors kept calling upon him--some threatening imprisonment, and some trying to cajole him out of a preference; but Mr Samuel was a match for them all. "It is all very well to look thus concernedly," said Mr Horner, a large creditor; "but will this pay the two hundred pounds you owe me?" "Would to heaven that it might!" replied Mr Thriven, drawing his hand over his eyes; "but, alas! it is the peculiar feature of the misfortune of bankruptcy, that a man who has been himself ruined--ay, burned out of his stock by a fire that he had no hand in raising, and thus made a beggar of, probably for ever--receives not a single drop of sympathy in return for all the tears he sheds for his unfortunate creditors. Your case concerns me, sir, most of all; and, were it for nothing in the wide world but to make up your loss, I will strive with all my energies, even to the urging of the blood from the ends of my laborious fingers, and to the latest period of a wretched existence." And Mr Horner being mollified, he was next attacked by Mr Wrench. "It is but fair to inform you, sir," said the vulture-faced dealer in ginghams, "that I intend to try the effect of the prison upon you." "That is because the most wicked of nature's elements-fire--has rendered me a beggar," replied Mr Samuel, rubbing again his eyes. "It is just the way of this world; when fate has rendered a man unfortunate, his fellow-creature, man, falls upon him to complete his wretchedness; even like the creatures of the forest, who fall upon the poor stag that has been wounded by the fall from the crags, man is ever cruellest to him who is already down. Yet you, who threaten to put me in jail, are the creditor of all others whose case concerns me most. The feeling for my own loss is nothing to what I suffer for yours; and I will never be satisfied till, by hard labour, I make up to you what I have been the unwilling and unconscious instrument of depriving you of." And having got quit of Wrench, who declared himself not satisfied, though his threat, as he departed, was more feebly expressed, he was accosted by Mr Bairnsfather. "Your face, sir, tortures me," said Mr Samuel, turning away his head, "even as one is tortured by the ghost of the friend he has murdered with a bloody and relentless hand. All my creditors put together do not furnish me matter of grief equal to your individual case. Do not I know that you are the father of ten children, whom probably I have ruined. Yet am I not also ruined, and all by a misfortune whose origin is beyond the ken of mortals?" "You have spoken a melancholy truth, Mr Thriven," replied the father; "but will that truth feed my children?" "No, sir; but I will feed them, when once discharged under a sequestration," rejoined Mr Thriven. "Your case above all the others, it shall be my care to assuage. Nor night nor day shall see my energies relaxed, till this wrong shall be made right." "Our present necessities must be relieved," rejoined "the parent." "Could you not give us a part of our debt, in the meantime." "And be dishonest in addition to being unfortunate!" ejaculated Mr Samuel. "That, sir, is the worst cut of all. No, no. I may be imprisoned, I may be fed on bread and water, I may be denied the benefit of the act of grace, but I shall never be forced to give an undue preference to one creditor over another. You forget, Mr Bairnsfather, that a bankrupt may have a conscience." After much more of such converse, Mr Bairnsfather retired. And the next who came for the relief which she was not destined to receive, was Widow Mercer. "This is a dreadful business, Mr Thriven," said she, as she ran forward in the confusion of unfeigned anguish. "Dreadful, indeed, my good lady," answered he; "and who can feel it more than myself--that is, after you." "You are a man, and I am a woman," rejoined the disconsolate creditor; "a woman who has struggled, since the death of her good husband, to support herself and a headless family, who, but for their mother's industry, might have, ere now, been reduced to seek their bread as the boon of pity. But ah, sir, it cannot be that you are to class me with the rest of your creditors. They are men, and may make up their losses in some other way. To me the loss of fifty pounds would be total ruin. Oh, sir, you will!--I know by that face of sympathy, you will make me an exception. Heaven will bless you for it; and my children will pray for you to the end of our lives." "All this just adds to my misery," replied Mr Samuel; "and that misery, Heaven knows, is great enough already. Your case is that of the mother and the widow; and what need is there for a single word to tell me that it stands apart from all the others. But, madam, were I to pay your debt, do not you see that both you and I would be acting against the laws of our country. What supports me, think ye, under my misfortune, but the consciousness of innocence. Now, you would cruelly take away from me that consciousness, whereby, for the sake of a fifty-pound note, you would render me miserable here, and a condemned man hereafter. A hotter fire, of a verity, there is than that which burned up my stock. But I am bound to make amends for the loss I have brought upon you; and you may rest assured that, as soon as I am discharged, I will do my best for you and your poor bereaved sons and daughters." And thus Mr Thriven managed these importunate beings, termed creditors, in a manner that he, doubtless, considered highly creditable to himself, in so far as he thereby spread more widely the fact that he had been ruined by no fault of his own, at the same time that he proved himself to be a man of feeling, justice, and sentiment. Meanwhile, his agent, Mr Sharp, was as busy as ever an attorney could be, in getting out a sequestration, with the indispensable adjunct of a personal protection, which the lords very willingly granted upon the lugubrious appeal, set forth in the petition, that Mr Thriven's misfortunes were attributable to the element of fire. A fifty-pound note, too, sent his shopman, Mr Joseph Clossmuns, over the Atlantic; and, the coast being clear, Mr Thriven went through his examinations with considerable eclat. CHAP. IV.--THE WINDFALL. "These men," said Mr Thriven, after he got home to dinner, "have worried me so by their questions, that they have imposed upon me the necessity of taking some cooling liquor to allay the fervour of my blood. I must drink to them, besides, for they were, upon the whole, less severe than they might have been; and a bottle of cool claret will answer both ends. And now," he continued, after he drank off a bumper to the long lives of his creditors--"the greatest part of my danger being over, I can see no great risk of my failing in getting them to accept a composition of five shillings in the pound. But what then? I have no great fancy to the counter. After all, a haberdasher is at best but a species of man-milliner; and I do no see why I should not, when I get my discharge in my pocket, act the gentleman as well as the best of them. All that is necessary is to get the devout Miss Angelina M'Falzen, who regenerates the species by distributing good books, to consent to be my wife. She has a spare figure, a sharp face, and a round thousand. Her fortune will be a cover to my idleness; and then I can draw upon the sum I have made by my failure, just as occasion requires." At the end of this monologue, a sharp broken voice was heard in the passage; and Mr Samuel Thriven's bottle of claret was, in the twinkling of an eye, replaced by a jug of cool spring water. "Ah, how do you do, my clear Miss M'Falzen?" cried Mr Samuel, as he rose to meet his devout sweetheart. "Sir," responded the devout distributor of tracts, stiffly and coldly, "you are in far better spirits than becomes one who is the means of bringing ruin on so many families. I expected to have found you contrite of heart, and of a comely sadness of spirits and seriousness of look." "And yet I am only feasting on cold water," replied Samuel, letting the muscles of his face fall, as he looked at the jug. "But you know, Miss Angelina, that I am innocent of the consequences of the fire, and, when one has a clear conscience, he may be as happy in adversity over a cup of water, as he may be in prosperity over a bottle of claret." "A pretty sentiment, Mr Thriven--la! a beautiful sentiment," replied Miss Angelina; "and satisfied as I am of your purity, let me tell you that our intercourse shall not, with my will, be interrupted by your misfortune. I would rather, indeed, feel a delight in soothing you under your affliction, and administering the balm of friendship to the heart that is contrite, under the stroke which cannot be averted." "And does my Angelina," cried Samuel, "regard me with the same kindness and tenderness in my present reduced circumstances, as when I was engaged in a flourishing trade, which might have emboldened me to hope for a still more intimate, ay, and sacred connection?" "Mr Thriven," replied the other, gravely, "I have called in behalf of Mrs Mercer." Samuel's face underwent some considerable change. "I have called in behalf of Mrs Mercer, who has reported to me some sentiments stated by you to her, of so beautiful and amiable a character, and so becoming a Christian, that I admire you for them. You promised to do your utmost, after you are discharged, to make amends to her and her poor family for the loss she will sustain by your bankruptcy. Ah, sir, that alone proves to me that you are an honest, innocent, and merely unfortunate insolvent; and to show you that I am not behind you in magnanimity, I have paid her the fifty pounds wherein you were indebted to her, and got an assignation to her debt. You may pay me when you please; and, meanwhile, I will accept of the composition you intend to offer to your creditors." "Fifty pounds off her tocher," muttered Samuel between his teeth, and then took a drink of the cold water, in the full memory of the claret. "It scarcely beseems a man," said he, "to be aught but a silent listener, when his praise is spoken by one he loves and respects. But, is it possible, Miss M'Falzen, that my misfortune has not changed those feelings--those--excuse me, Miss Angelina--those intentions with which, I had reason to believe, you regarded me." And, with great gallantry, he seized the fair spinster round the waist, as he had been in the habit of doing before he was a bankrupt, to show, at least, that he was now no bankrupt in affection. "To be plain with you, sir," replied she, wriggling herself out of his hands, "my intention once was to wait until I saw whether you would come unscathed and pure out of the fiery ordeal; but, on second thoughts, I conceived that this would be unfair to one whom I had always looked upon as an honest man, though, probably, not so seriously-minded a Christian as I could have wished; therefore," she added, smiling--yet no smiling matter to Samuel--"I have, you see, trusted you fifty pounds--a pretty good earnest--he! he!--that my heart is just where it was." Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven kissed Miss Angelina M'Falzen. "But oh, sir," she added, by way of protest, "I hope and trust that not one single spot shall be detected in your fair fame and reputation, and that you will come forth out of trial as unsullied in the eyes of good men, as you were pure in the estimation of one who thus proves for you her attachment." "Never doubt it," replied Mr Samuel. "Innocence gives me courage and confidence." He placed, theatrically, his hand on his heart. "And what think you," added Miss Angelina, "of John Bunyan's book, which I lent you, and which I now see lying here? Is it not a devout performance--an extraordinary allegory? How much good I do by that kind of books! Ha, by the by, Mrs Bairnsfather, good creature, wishes to read it. So I shall just put it in my pocket. To be plain with you, she is much cast down, poor creature, by the loss her husband has sustained through your involuntary failure; and I have said that she will find much comfort in the 'Pilgrim's Progress.'" "A staunch book, madam," replied Samuel, seriously--"an extraordinary allegory, worth a piece of the vellum of the old Covenant. I have derived great satisfaction and much good from it. I have no doubt it will support her, as it has done me, under our mutual affliction." "Oh, how I do love to hear you talk that way," replied Miss Angelina. "It is so becoming your situation. When do you think you will get a discharge? I will answer for Mr Bairnsfather agreeing to the composition; and you know I am now a creditor myself in fifty pounds. Of course you have my vote; but you will tell me all about it afterwards. Good-day, Mr Thriven." "Good-day, Miss M'Falzen." The which lady was no sooner out, than was the bottle of claret. In a few minutes more Mr Thriven was laughing over his replenished glass, as totally oblivious of the secret carried away by his lover, on the blank leaf of the good old tinker's book, as he was on that night when he made free with the two bottles of port as good as Ofleys. "The matter looks well enough," said he. "I can make no manner of doubt that my composition will be accepted; and then, with the two thousand five hundred, at least, that I will make of my bankruptcy, and the round thousand possessed by Miss Angelina M'Falzen, I can perform the part of a walking gentleman on the great stage of the world." "Is Mr Thriven within?" he now heard asked at the door. "Ho, it is Sharp!" muttered he, as he shoved the bottle and the glass into a recess, and laid again hold of the water-jug. "Water, Thriven!" cried the attorney, as he bounded forward, and seized the bankrupt by the hand. "Water! and Mrs Grizel M'Whirter of Cockenzie dead, of a dead certainty, this forenoon; and you her nephew, and a will in her drawers, written by Jem Birtwhistle, in your favour, and her fortune ten thousand; and the never a mortal thought the old harridan had more than a five hundred." "The devil a drop!" cried Mr Samuel Thriven. "The devil a drop of water; for, have I not in this press a half bottle of claret, which I laid past there that day of the fire, and never had the courage to touch it since. But _me_ her heir! Ho, Mr Joseph Sharp, you are, of a verity, fooling a poor bankrupt, who has not a penny in the world after setting aside his composition of five shillings in the pound. _Me_ her heir! Why, I was told by herself that I was cut off with a shilling; and you must say it seriously ere I believe a word on't." "I say it as seriously," replied the writer, "as ever you answered a homethrust to-day in the sheriff's office, as to the amount of stock you lost by the burning of your premises--as sure as a decree of the Fifteen. I say your loss had made her repent; so come away with the claret." Mr Thriven emptied the whole of the half bottle, at one throw, into a tumbler. "Drink, thou pink of an attorney!" said he, and then fell back into his chair, his mouth wide open, his eyes fixed on the roof, and his two hands closed in each other, as if they had been two notes for five thousand each. "Are you mad, Mr Thriven?" cried Sharp, after he had bolted the whole tumbler of claret. "Yes!" answered Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven. "Have you any more of this Bordeaux water in the house?" "Yes!" answered Mr Thriven. "Open that lockfast" (pointing to a press), "and drink till you are only able to shout 'M'Whirter'--'Cockenzie'--'Thriven'--'ten thousand'--'hurra!'--and never let a word more come out of you, till you fall dead drunk on the floor." The first part of the request, at least, was very quickly obeyed, and two bottles were placed on the table, one of which the attorney bored in an instant, and had a good portion of it rebottled in his stomach by the time that Mr Thriven got his eyes taken off the roof of the chamber. "Hand me half-a-tumbler!" cried he, "that I may gather my senses, and see the full extent of my misfortune." "Misfortune!" echoed Sharp. "Ay!" rejoined Samuel, as he turned the bottom of the tumbler to the roof. "Why did Grizel M'Whirter die, sir, until I got my discharge?" "Ah, sir!" replied Sharp, on whom the wine was already beginning to operate, "you have thus a noble opportunity of being the architect of a reputation that might be the envy of the world. You can now pay your creditors in full--twenty shillings in the pound, and retain five thousand to yourself, with the character of being that noblest work of nature--an honest man.' "When a thing is utterly beyond one's reach," rejoined Samuel, looking, with a wry face, right into the soul of the attorney, "how beautiful it appears." Sharp accepted coolly the cut, because he had claret to heal it, otherwise he would have assuredly knocked down Mr Samuel Thriven. "I beg your pardon, Mr Sharp!" continued his friend; "but I felt a little pained, sir, at the high-flown expression of the great good that awaits me, as if I were not already conscious of being, and known to be, that noblest work of nature. The cut came from you, Mr Sharp, and I only returned it. All I regret, sir, is, that my aunt did not live till I got my discharge, because then, not being bound to pay my creditors one farthing, I might have paid them in full, without obligation at all, and thereby have proved myself what I am--a _generous_ man. No more of the claret. You must away with me to Cockenzie, to see that the repositories are sealed, and the will safe." "By my faith, I forgot that!" replied Sharp; "a pretty good sign that, if you are a generous man, I am not a selfish one. We had better," he added, "let the claret alone till we return from Cockenzie. What think you?" Now Samuel had already told Sharp that he was to have no more of the wine; and the question of the attorney, which was a clear forestaller, would have angered any man who was not an heir (five minutes old) of ten thousand. But Samuel knew better than to quarrel with the attorney at that juncture; so he answered him in the affirmative; and, in five minutes afterwards, the heir and the lawyer were in a coach, driving off to Cockenzie. The bankrupt was, in a few minutes more, in a dream--the principal vision of which was himself in the act of paying his creditors in full with their own money, and earning a splendid reputation for honesty. The sooner he performed the glorious act, the greater credit he would secure by it; his name would be in the "Courant" and "Mercury," headed by the large letters--"Praiseworthy instance of honesty coming out, in full strength, from the ordeal of fire." "What has Miss Angelina M'Falzen been doing at the house of Mrs Bairnsfather?" cried Sharp, as he turned from the window of the carriage (now in the Canongate) to the face of Samuel, whose eyes were fixed by the charm of his glorious hallucination. "Lending her the 'Pilgrim's Progress!'" answered Samuel, as he started from his dream. Now Sharp could not for the life of him understand this ready answer of his friend, for he had put the query to awaken him from his dream, and without the slightest hope of receiving a reply to a question which savoured so much of the character of questions in general; so he left him to his dream, and, in a short time, they were at Cockenzie. CHAP. V.--THE TEA-PARTY. "Well, my dear," said Mr Bairnsfather to his wife, when he came home to tea on that same afternoon of which we have now been narrating the incidents, "I hope you are getting over our losses; yet I have no very good news for you to-day--for all that Thriven intends to offer of dividend is five shillings in the pound." "It is but a weary world this we live in," said the disconsolate wife. "We are all pilgrims; and there is for each of us some slough of despond, through which we must struggle to the happy valley." "What, ho!" rejoined the husband; "I have come home to tea, and you are giving me a piece of Bunyan. Come, lay down your book, for Mr Wrench and Mr Horner are to be here to get some of your souchong." "And I," replied the good-wife, "asked Miss Angelina M'Falzen to come back and get a cup with us. I could not do less to the devout creature; for she took the trouble of going to Mr Thriven's to-day, and getting from him the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' that she might bring it to me, to reconcile me to the evils of life, and, among the rest, the loss which we have sustained by her friend's failure." "Poh! I hate all 'Pilgrim's-Progress'-reading insolvents!" rejoined the husband, taking the book out of his wife's hands. "Go, love, and get ready the tea, while I sojourn with the Elstow tinker in the valley of humiliation, out of which a cup of China brown stout and some converse will transport me to the 'house beautiful.'" And Mr Bairnsfather, while his wife went to prepare tea, and his many children were dispersed here and there and everywhere, got very rapidly into "Vanity Fair," of the which, being somewhat aweary, as he said, with a yawn, he turned the leaves over and over, and at last fixed his eyes on the leaf that had once been, though it was now no longer, blank. The awl of the Elstow tinker himself never could have gone with greater determination through the leather of a pair of bellows, than did Mr Bairnsfather's eye seem to penetrate that written page. Like the seer of the vision of a ghost in the night, he drew his head back, and he removed it forwards, and he shut his eyes, and opened his eyes, and rubbed his eyes; and the more he did all this, the more he was at a loss to comprehend what the writing on the said blank leaf was intended to carry to the eyes of mortals. It was of the handwriting of Mr Samuel Ramsay Thriven, for a certainty--he could swear to it; for the bill he had in his possession--and whereby he would lose three-fourth parts of two hundred pounds--was written in the same character. What _could_ it mean? "What _can_ it mean?" he said, again and again. "How should I, if you, who are a cleverer man, do not know, Mr Bairnsfather," said Mr Wrench, who was standing at his back, having entered in the meantime. "I have read the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' which Mrs B. says you are reading, more than once, and fairly admit that there are obscure passages in it. But here comes Mr Horner, who can perhaps unravel the mystery, if you can point out what limb of the centipede allegory it is which appears to you to have a limp." "By my faith, it is in the tail," said Mr Bairnsfather, as he still bored his eyes into the end of the book. "Let me see the passage," said Mr Horner. And all the three began to look at the writing, which set forth the heads and particulars of Mr Samuel Thriven's gain by his bankruptcy. "A very good progress for a pilgrim," said Mr Horner; and they looked at each other knowingly, and winked their six eyes, and nodded their three heads. Miss M'Falzen and the tea came in at this moment. The three creditors were mute, and the devout spinster was talkative. Mrs Bairnsfather then filled up and handed round the tea-cups (they sat all close to the table), and her husband handed round to his two friends the book. "What an interest that book _does_ produce," said Miss Angelina, apparently piqued by the attention shown to the genius of the tinker. "Come, now, Miss Angelina," said Mrs Bairnsfather, "confess that that copy produces no small interest in yourself, considering the hands it was in to-day." "Fie! fie, ma'am!" rejoined the blushing spinster. "How could the touch of a man's fingers impart a charm to mere paper. If Mr Thriven had appended some pretty piece of devout or poetical sentiment to it, why, you know, that would have made all the difference in the world, ma'am. He is really an excellent man, Mr Thriven; though we have all suffered in consequence of his loss, yet, I daresay, we all feel for his unmerited misfortune." The three creditors were too much absorbed in Bunyan even to smile. "When did you lend this copy to Mr Thriven?" inquired Mr Wrench; and the two others fixed their eyes, filled with awful import, on the face of the devout spinster. "Just the day before the fire," replied she; "and ah, sir! how delighted I am that I did it! for he assures me that it has sustained him wonderfully in his affliction." The three men smiled, rose simultaneously, and retired to a parlour, taking Bunyan with them. Their looks were ominous; and Mrs Bairnsfather could not, for the world, understand the mystery. After some time, they returned, and looked more ominously than before. "It is worth three thousand pounds, if it is worth a penny," said Mr Horner, seriously. "Every farthing of it," rejoined Mr Wrench. "The most extraordinary book I ever saw in my life." "An exposition miraculous, through the agency of Heaven," added Mr Bairnsfather. Now all this time their tea was cooling, and the hostess examined and searched the eyes of her husband and guests. Have they all got inspired or mad, thought she; but her thought produced no change, for the men still looked and whispered, and shook their heads, and nodded, and winked, and left their tea standing, till she began to think of the state of the moon. "How delighted I am," ejaculated Miss M'Falzen; "for I never saw such an effect produced by the famous allegory in any family into which I ever introduced it. You see the effect of agitation in devout matters, Mrs Bairnsfather." "You know not half the effect it has produced on us, ma'am," said Mr Horner. "It has electrified us--so much so, indeed, that we cannot remain longer to enjoy your excellent society. You will, therefore, ladies, excuse us if we swallow our tea cleverly, and go to promulgate in the proper quarters the information afforded us by this wonderful production." "The sooner we are away the better," added Mr Wrench, drinking off his cup. "We must call a private meeting, and lay it secretly before them." "Certainly," added Mr Bairnsfather; "and you, Miss M'Falzen, authorise us to tell the peregrinations of the book--into whose hands it has been--and how it came here." "Bless you, sir!" cried the devout spinster; while Mrs Bairnsfather kept staring at her husband and guests, unable to solve the strange mystery, "you do not know a tithe of the good that this little book has achieved. It has been in half the houses in the Cowgate and Canongate. It is relished by the poor, and sought after by the rich; it mends the heart, improves the understanding, and binds up the wounds of those that are struck by the hands of the archers. Oh! I agitate in the good work mightily with it, and others of the same class; and may all success attend your efforts, also, in so excellent a cause. Call meetings by all means, read, expound, examine, exhort, entreat, and, hark ye, take Mr Samuel Thriven with you, for his heart is in the cause of the improvement of his fellow-creatures, and he knows the value of the allegory of the devout tinker of Elstow. "We cannot do without Mr Thriven," replied Mr Bairnsfather, with a smile; and while Mrs Bairnsfather was calling out to them to take another cup, and explain to her the meaning of their conduct, the creditors rose all together, and, taking their hats and Bunyan, were on the point of leaving the room, in great haste and manifest excitement, when the door opened, and the soft voice of Widow Mercer saluted them. "Have you heard the news?" said she. "Does it concern Mr Thriven?" replied more than one. "Yes, to be sure it does," rejoined she. "We will all now get full payment of our debts; what think ye of that, sirs?" "Hush, hush," said Mr Bairnsfather, in the ear of the widow. "Say nothing of the 'Pilgrim's Progress.' You know Miss M'Falzen is a friend of Mr Thriven's." "The 'Pilgrim's Progress!'" ejaculated the widow. "Alas! he is, of a verity, mad," rejoined Mrs Bairnsfather. "The 'Pilgrim's Progress,'" again cried Mrs Mercer. "Tush, we knew all about it," whispered Mr Wrench. "You also have seen the book?" "Yes," replied the widow, "I have, as who hasn't? but Lord bless me!"--and she whispered in his ear--"what, in the name of wonder, has the 'Pilgrim's Progress' to do with Mr Thriven having got ten thousand pounds left him by Mrs Grizel M'Whirter." The whisper was communicated to the two other creditors by Mr Wrench. The three merchants, stimulated at the same moment by the same impulse of joy, laid hold of the good widow, and whirled her like a top round the room, snapping their fingers the while, and exhibiting other perfectly innocent demonstrations of gladness. "The most extraordinary method of proselytising," said the spinster, "that I, who have carried on the trade of mending the species for many years, have ever yet seen." "It is all beyond my poor wits together," added the wife. And beyond her poor wits the creditors allowed it to remain; for they immediately went forth upon their intended mission. In some hours afterwards, accordingly, there was a secret meeting in the "White Horse," not less dangerous to Mr Samuel Thriven than was that held in the Trojan one to old Troy. CHAP. VI.--THE PAYMENT. Now all this time, while Mr Thriven's creditors were in the "White Horse," he himself was in heaven; for Sharp and he having found all right at Cockenzie, returned, and sat down to finish the claret which had been forestalled by the attorney before setting out. They resolved upon consigning Mrs Grizel M'Whirter to the cold earth a day sooner than custom might have warranted; and the reason for this especial care was simply that Mr Samuel wished, with all the ardour inspired by the Bordeaux waters, to make a grand and glorious display of his honesty, by calling all his creditors together, and paying them principal and interest--twenty shillings in the pound. They even, at this early period, set about making a draft of the circular letter which was to announce the thrilling intelligence. "Heavens! what a commotion this will produce among the trade!" said Samuel, as he threw himself back in his chair, and fixed his enchanted eye on Sharp's copy. "It will electrify them; and, sir, the editors of the newspapers are bound, as patrons of public virtue, to set it forth as an example to others, to induce them to do the same in time coming. And now, since we have discussed so much business and claret, we will retire to our beds; I to enjoy the satisfaction of having resolved on a noble action, and you the hope of making a few six-and-eightpences by the death of Grizel M'Whirter of Cockenzie." "_A few!_" cried Sharp, in an attorney's heroics. "You will see, when you count them, I am not less honest or generous than yourself." The friends thereupon separated, to enjoy in their beds the two pleasures incident to their peculiar situations. At the end of the period--less by one day than the customary time of corpses being allowed to remain on the face of the earth--Mrs Grizel M'Whirter was buried; and as her will contained a specific assignation to the greater part of her money, the same was in a day or two afterwards got hold of by Mr Thriven, and out went the round of circulars to the creditors, announcing that on the following Thursday, Mr Thriven would be seated in his house, ready to pay all his creditors their debts, and requesting them to attend and bring with them their receipts. Among these circulars was one to Miss Angelina M'Falzen--the very woman he had promised, before he succeeded to Mrs Grizel M'Whirter's fortune, to make a wife of; a pretty plain proof that now, when he had become rich, he intended to shake off the devout spinster who had attempted to reform him by lending him the allegory of the Tinker of Elstow. The eventful day at length arrived, when Mr Thriven was to enjoy the great triumph he had panted for--namely to pay the creditors in full every farthing, with their own money; and at the hour appointed a considerable number arrived at his house, among whom not a few knew, as well as they did the contents of their own Bibles, the nefarious device of the haberdasher. When the creditors were seated-- "It ill becomes a man," said Mr Thriven, affecting a comely modesty--"it ill becomes one who resolves merely to do an act of ordinary justice, to take credit to himself for the possession of uncommon honesty. Therefore, I say, away with all egotistical assumption of principles, which ought to belong to a man, merely (as we say in trade), as part and parcel of humanity; for, were it a miracle to be honest, why should we not tolerate dishonesty, which yet is, by the voice of all good men, condemned and put down. The debts due to you I incurred, why then should I not pay them? It makes not a _nail_ of difference that I lost three-fourths of the amount thereof by fire; because, what had you to do with the fire? _You_ were not the incendiaries. No; the fault lay with me; I should have insured my stock, in gratitude for the credit with which you honoured me. It is for these reasons that I now disdain to take any credit to myself for coming thus cleverly forward to do you an act of justice, which the will of Heaven has put in my power, by the demise of that lamented woman, Mrs Grizel M'Whirter, and which you could by law have forced me to do, though, probably, not so soon as I now propose to do of my own free will and accord." Mr Thriven paused, for a burst of applause; and Mr Bairnsfather, with a smile on his face, stood up. "It is all very well," said he, glancing to his friends, "for Mr Thriven to pretend that no merit attaches to one who acts in the noble and generous way he has resolved to follow on this occasion. Every honest act deserves applause, were it for nothing else in the world than to keep up the credit of honesty. No doubt we might have compelled Mr Thriven to pay us out of the money to which he has succeeded, and to this extent we may admit his plea of no merit; but the readiness, if not precipitancy, he has exhibited on the measure, is not only in itself worthy of high commendation, but, by a reflex effect, it satisfies us all of that of which we probably were not very sceptical, that his failure was an honest one, and that he is not now making a display of paying us out of any other money than his own." "Shall we not accord to these sentiments of our brother creditor?" said Mr Wrench, rising with great seriousness. "How seldom is it, in the ordinary affairs of life, that we find the true Mr Greatheart of the 'Pilgrim's Progress!' But when we do find him, shall we not say to him, let him have his reward--and what shall that reward be? Empty praise? No! Mr Thriven needs not that, because he has the voice of conscience sounding within him--far more musical, I deem, to the ear of honesty than the hollow notes of external applause. A piece of plate? Very good for praise-devouring politicians to place on the table when the clique is carousing and settling the affairs of the state, but altogether unsuitable for the gratification of meek, self-denied, retiring honesty. A book of morals? What say ye to that, friends? I throw it out merely as a hint." "And I second the suggestion," said Mr Horner, "with the amendment, that there shall be an _inscription on a blank leaf_, setting forth in detail the merits of the individual; and where could we find a better than the allegory of the progress of the pilgrim, written by the tinker of Elstow?" A round of applause, fully suitable to the appetite of Mr Samuel, followed Mr Horner's amendment. The process of payment commenced, and was completed to the satisfaction of all parties; and when the creditors went away, Mr Thriven sat down to consider the position in which he stood. He had got applause; but he did not well understand it. Above all, he could not comprehend the allusion to the book written by John Bunyan. "Well," he said, as he took up the "Mercury," "it is beyond my comprehension; and, after all, the good people may only mean to present me with some suitable gift, in consideration of the act of justice I have this day done them. Let me see if there be any news." And he fell back in his chair in that delightful _langueur d'esprit_ to which a newspaper of all things is the most acceptable. "Why," he continued, as he still searched for some racy bit, "did not Sharp undertake to get a notice inserted, by way of an editor's advertisement of three lines, to immortalise me, and pave my way to the hand of Miss Clarinda Pott?" And he wrung the muscles of his face as if they had been a dish-clout filled with the humour of his bile. At length his eye stood in his head, his mouth opened, and he became what artists would call "a living picture." The part of the paper which produced this strange effect consisted of merely a few lines, to this import:-- "_New Light._--The matter which the fire in ----- Street failed to illumine has, we understand, been illustrated by no less an individual than John Bunyan, Tinker at Elstow. Everything may be reduced to an allegory; the world itself is an allegory; and this scrap of ours is nothing but an allegory." Samuel laid down the paper. "What can this mean?" said he. "If this be not an allegory, I know not what is." "Ah, sir, you are a man this day to be envied," said Miss M'Falzen, who now entered. "You have proved yourself to be an honest man. I was sure of it; and you know, Samuel, when all deserted you, I stuck fast by you, and even gave the--the--excuse me, sir--the consent you asked of me, while you had no prospect before you in this bad world other than beggary." "What consent, ma'am?" replied Mr Thriven, with a face that displayed no more curiosity than it did love. "Bless me, Mr Thriven, do you forget?--Is it possible that you can have forgotten so _interesting_ an occasion?" "I believe, by the by, ma'am, you have called for your debts," said Mr Thriven. "Debt!" ejaculated the devout spinster. "Why should there be any debt between two people situated as we are. Why should not all claims be extinguished by the mixture of what Mr Sharp calls _the goods in communion_. If I take this money from you to-day, won't I be giving it back after the ceremony. True, my small fortune is now nothing to yours; yet I will remember with pleasure, and you will never surely forget, that all I had was at your service when you had lost all you had in the world; so, you see, my dear Samuel, if you have this day proved yourself to have a noble spirit, I am not behind you." "What is the exact amount of your claim, Miss M'Falzen?" said Mr Thriven, with a determination to distance sentiment. "And would you really pay it, cruel, cruel man?" said she, somewhat alarmed. "Certainly, ma'am," replied he, dryly. "Are you serious?" said she again, looking him full and searchingly in the face. "Yes," answered he, more dryly than ever. "Can it be possible that your sentiments towards me have undergone a change, Mr Thriven?" rejoined she. "Ah! I forgot. You are now a man of ten thousand pounds, and I have only one. The film is falling off my eyes. O deluded Angelina!" "Then you will see the better to count the money I am to pay you," said he, attempting to laugh. "Fifty pounds, ma'am. Here it is; I will thank you for Mr Mercer's bill." "Well, sir, since it has come to this, I will none of the money. Alas! this is the effect of John Bunyan's famous book. Good-day--good-day, Mr Samuel;" and the spinster, covering her face with her handkerchief, rushed out of the room. CHAP. VII.--THE DENOUEMENT. "Thus have I got quit of the spinster," said Mr Thriven, "and thus have I too got quit of my creditors. But how comes this? She also talks of Bunyan; everybody talks of Bunyan. But this paper? No, spite--spite--let them present me with an inscription on a blank leaf. It will do as well as a piece of plate. I will get the words of praise inserted in another newspaper, and then begin to act the gentleman in earnest on my ten thousand. I shall instantly engage a buggy with a bright bay; and a man-servant, with a stripe of silver lace round his hat, shall sit on my sinister side. Let them stare and point at me. They can only say, there rides an honest man, who failed, and paid his creditors twenty shillings the pound. Ho! here comes Sharp." "What is the meaning of this?" said he, holding out the paper. "Some wretched joke of an editor who would take from me the honour intended for me by my creditors. I see by your face that you smell an action of damages." "Joke!" echoed Sharp. "That copy of Bunyan which Miss M'Falzen was lending to Mrs Bairnsfather that day when we went to Cockenzie, is now in the hands of the procurator-fiscal." "Oh, the devout maiden lends it to everybody," replied Samuel. "She will be to get the fiscal to reclaim sinners by it, rather than to punish them by the arm of the law." "Is it possible, Mr Thriven, that you can thus make light of an affair that involves banishment?" said Sharp. "Did you really write on a blank leaf of that book the details of the profit you were to make of the burning?" Samuel jumped at least three feet from the floor; and when he came down again, he muttered strange things, and did strange things, which no pen could describe, because they were unique, had no appropriate symbols in language, had never been muttered or done before since the beginning of the world, and, probably, will never be again. It might, however, have been gathered from his ravings, that he _had_ some recollection of having scribbled something about his failure, but that he thought it was in the blank leaf of a pocket-book, the which book he grasped and examined, but all was a dead blank. He then threw himself on a chair, and twisted himself into all possible shapes, cursing Miss Angelina M'Falzen, himself, his creditors, every one who had the smallest share in this tremendous revolution from wealth, hopes of a high match, buggy, servant with silver lace, even to disgrace, confiscation, and banishment. "You are renowned for the quickness, loopiness, subtleness, of thy profession. Can you not assist me, Sharp? A man's scrawls are not evidence of themselves." "But, with the testimony of Clossmuns, who has returned from Liverpool, they will be conclusive," replied the attorney, whose game now lay in Mr Samuel's misfortunes. "Such evidence never went before a jury since the time of the _regiam majestatem_. "What then is to be done?" inquired Samuel. "Fly! fly! and leave me a power of attorney to collect your moneys. There is two thousand of Grizel M'Whirter's fortune still to uplift--your stock in trade is to be disposed of--I will manage it beautifully for you, and, in spite of an outlawry, get the proceeds sent to you wheresoever you go." "Dreadful relief!" ejaculated the other, "to fly one's country, and leave one's affairs in the hands of an attorney!" "Better than banishment," replied Sharp, grinding his teeth as if sharp set for the quarry that lay before him. "What do you resolve on? Shall I write out the power of attorney, or will you wait till the officers are on you?" muttering to himself, in conclusion, "A few six-and-eight-pences! I'faith I have him now!" "Then there is no alternative?" rejoined Samuel. "None," replied Sharp. "I have it on good authority that the warrant against you was in the act of being written out, when I hurried here, as you find, to save you. Shall I prepare the commission?" "Yes, yes! as quick as an ellwand that leaps three inches short of the yard." And, while he continued in this extremity of his despair, Sharp set about writing out the factory--short and general--giving all powers of uplifting money, and reserving none. It was signed. In a few minutes more, Mr Thriven was in a post-chaise, driving on to a seaport in England. The news of the flight of the honest merchant, with all the circumstances, soon reached the ear of the devout spinster, even as she was weeping over the result of the interview she had had with her cruel lover. She wiped her eyes and repressed her sobs, and congratulated herself on the consequences of her devout labours. Mr Thriven was not heard of again; neither was his cash. THE MAN-OF-WAR'S MAN. In the calm clear evenings of June and July, when the heat of the day has been abated, it has been my custom to walk forth to brace my nerves after the cares and fatigues of the day. Pent up for these thirty years in one of the dingy shops of the Luckenbooths, I have toiled to gain wealth enough to enable me to exchange the chimes of St Giles' bells for the singing of the larks; but, alas! I fear my ears will be too hard, and my eyes too dim, ere that time come when I may seek to enjoy the melody of the songsters, or the verdure of their habitations. Gradually already have they been becoming less cheering to me than they were in those young sunny days of my apprenticeship, when I used to sally forth as soon as I had given the keys to my master. I have still, however, the impressions of memory; and this summer they are as vivid as when they were real perceptions. While sitting at my desk, I wander, in fond recollection, around Arthur Seat, and fondly think that such evenings in June may be yet for me as I have enjoyed them. Such is the folly of men of business. From the month I commenced for myself, the lark has been singing less sweetly, and my loved haunts have been becoming less and less engaging. Have the vocalists of these times degenerated, and the fields become aged? The change cannot be in me; I am still in my vigour, and a bachelor. Fifty-two is not an old man--so spoke the heart's wishes--yet this fact is otherwise. Since that period when I took the cares of the world upon my own shoulders, I have, in general, been lost to everything else around me. The incubus of the counter and desk mounts upon my shoulders, and whispers in my ears of bills and debts unpaid, or to pay; and immediately, in place of the visions of my youth, ledgers and slips of paper, spangled with columns of figures, occupy what were once the sad recesses of love. Thus hag-ridden, yet still in search of happiness, have I stalked over the loveliest of the lovely scenes that abound around Edinburgh, almost unconscious of where I have been. And what has been the reward of all my cares? I have accumulated three thousand pounds, and some properties that yield what some would call good interest; and the making of this has been the unmaking of the sensibilities of enjoyment, without which it is nothing. Such were my reflections before I had reached the last stile next to Samson's Ribs. Early visions of Duddingston Loch had haunted me through the day; and hence I had sought again the scene that so sweetly combines the Alpine and champaign, as if they here met to embrace. I had passed up through the valley between the Craigs and Arthur Seat, and continued sauntering along the narrow road, like one cast forth by all the world, gloomy and dissatisfied--my head leaning forward, my eyes fixed vacantly upon the ground, and my hands at my back. Some maidens and their swains were dancing beneath at the Wells of Weary,[3] to the measure of their own "wood-notes wild." My heart was touched almost to tears. The demon that drove enjoyment from my walks fled, and a flood of tender recollections flowed in upon it. On that verdant spot, thirty-two years before, I had been as happy and as joyous as the group before me, dancing to the same heart-stirring air, with one I had loved with all the fervour of a youthful heart, until the chilling influence of what the world calls prudence damped my flame, but could not extinguish it. She was now the dispenser of happiness and comfort to another, and the mother of a lovely family--not so rich in what the world calls wealth; how much richer was she in peace and joy! I had for years kept her heart in suspense, until it sickened at my undecided courtship and shuffling delays. I know she loved me better than all the world beside, and would have consented to be mine, whatever had been my lot--faithful and kind to me, also a soother of my soul, in all conditions, she would have been. To riches I had sacrificed her and myself. Alas! I found now their heart-searing consolations. Again and again have I striven to persuade myself that I acted wisely in delaying our union. I at the time even took praise for vanquishing the warmth of my love, that we might feel less the delay. Alas! I knew not woman's heart. My coolness pained and piqued her; and while I was all-intent upon acquiring wealth which she was to enjoy with me, another was warming that heart which I had chilled. She was wed unknown to me. I met the marriage party in the church. What would I have given, to have been able to roll back the wheels of Time, and throw upon them all my hopes of wealth, with the curse which they deserved. [Footnote 3: The Wells of Weary are now numbered with the things that were. The terminus of the Dalkeith and Edinburgh Railway tunnel, at the eastern end, has swept them away. They were the favourite resort, in the olden time, of the love-sick swains and maidens of the city. Many a soft tale of love was breathed there. It was a wild, sequestered spot--in our recollection like an oasis in a desert, rendered lovely by the neighbouring stillness and desolation.] In this reverie I stumbled upon an artist. He was drawing the scene of my dreams. A few words passed. He resumed; and I gazed upon the happy group which he was ably sketching, till early recollections raised a sigh almost amounting to a groan. The stranger started, and inquired if I was unwell. The sincere and sympathising tone of his voice interested me, and I requested to have the pleasure of looking at his sketch. "You are most welcome," he replied: "but it is a mere scratch. I will be enabled to do much better soon. I mean it for the foreground of a picture I am painting, sir. I am one of the most fortunate fellows in the world; I always get what I wish just at the moment I want it, or at least soon after it." This speech struck me as a most singular one from the person who made it. He was apparently about thirty years of age, with an open, generous countenance, which, though not handsome, exhibited the glance of the eye and lofty brow that spoke intellect and feeling. "I am no judge of painting or drawing further than of what gives me pleasure," said I; and I looked upon his sketch with a melancholy delight; for he had drawn the group as they really were--true to nature--and fancy enabled me to see, in one of the females, her I had lost. I spoke my praise in the warmth of my feelings; for I again enjoyed the scene so much, that it conquered my love of money, and I at once, and for the first time in my life, resolved to purchase a picture. I looked from the sketch to the artist, to examine the man I was to deal with, that I might judge how to make my bargain; for, strong as my inclination was to have the picture, my mercantile habits were equally strong. His dress was much the worse for the service it had seen; and there was an appearance of penury about him that made me anticipate a good bargain. "Do you paint for amusement only," said I, "or do you dispose of them?" "I paint for fame and fortune, my good sir," said he; "but I am yet only a novice in the noble art, however long I may have been an admirer." "Is your present work bespoke?" again said I. "Oh no, sir," replied he; "but I will soon get it off my hands when it is finished; for I am, as I told you, a fortunate man." "How much do you expect for it?" "If I had as much money as purchase a frame for it," said he, "I might get five pounds; but, as that is not the case, I must take what I can get from a dealer--perhaps a pound, or less." For the first time for many years, I felt the generous glow of doing good to a fellow-creature at the expense of my cash; but, if the truth will be told, it was the recollection of the good and gentle Helen that at this moment operated upon me. "Well, sir, if you will sell me this sketch and the finished picture for two pounds, I will be the purchaser," said I. "I accept your offer," was his reply, "and I feel grateful for your patronage, as I am yet unknown; but I feel confident I shall succeed at length in this my present aim at fame and fortune. The goddess has eluded me often, doubtless even when I was sure I held her in my grasp. But that is nothing. I was happy, as I am at present, in the pursuit; for all my life has been a series of anticipations supremely happy." We had stood during this discourse; my eye was on him; and I could see the glow that was upon his face. How strange to me it seemed: I, too, had lived in anticipation of being rich, yet never felt the thrill, the full joy, of hope which possession banishes. How justly may anticipation and fruition be compared to youth and age!--the one, joyous and buoyant, moves along the rough walks of life, with hope pointing the way and smoothing his path; fruition, like an aged traveller, feeble and spent, sees ever a length of way before him, rendered rougher by cares for what he has attained, while all behind him is nothing. One of my gloomy fits was coming over me--my mind was turning in upon itself, when he aroused me, by inquiring where he should have the pleasure of bringing his work to me. I gave him my address, and we began to return to the city. Long before we reached the last stile, he had so won upon my regard, that I invited him home with me to supper, under promise that he should give me an outline of his life. He redeemed his pledge thus:-- My father, Andrew Elder (said he), lived in one of the villages not far from town, where I was born. He was not rich, but well enough to do; by trade a joiner, tolerably well read, of a shrewd and argumentative turn of mind, and the oracle of the village, at a time when it was distracted by the politics of the period, which ran high between the aristocrats and democrats. The French Revolution had attained the climax of its horrors, and the best blood of France was poured forth as water. Once a democrat, he had changed his former opinions, and his antipathy was as intense against the bloody miscreants who, in the public commotion, had wriggled themselves into their bad pre-eminence, as his sympathy had been strong at the commencement in favour of an enslaved people. I was scarce seventeen--an anxious listener to all that passed in the shop between my father and his opponents. All he said was to me true as holy writ; and those hearers who doubted one word he said were deemed worthy only of my pity. Well do I recollect--it was the beginning of May, 1794, and our dinner hour; the newspaper had just arrived; a number of neighbours were seated on or standing around the bench on which the all-engrossing paper was spread. My father gave a shout of triumph, and looked contempt upon the democratic part of his audience, who were ranged on the opposite side. They again looked, their anxiety not unmixed with fear. "Hurrah!" cried my father, "the bloody monsters will soon be put down and die by their own accursed guillotine. James, run into the house and bring me my Gazetteer; I wish to see the map." I was not slow to obey, for I was as eager to learn the cause of my father's joy as the oldest politician present. He read, with exultation, the arrival of the Emperor of Germany at Brussels on the 9th of April, and his advance to Valenciennes, to join the Duke of York, who lay there with the Allied Army under his command. Then, opening Guthrie's well-thumbed volume, and laying it before his auditors, he seized his compasses, as a marshal would his truncheon, waved them in triumph, then spread out the map, measuring on the scale a number of leagues to illustrate his demonstration. "Now, attention, you blacknebs," he said, "and do not interrupt me;" and immediately all eyes were bent upon the map. "Now, here is Valenciennes," said he; "and here is Paris, the den of the murderers. The Allies will be there in three weeks at farthest; what can stay them? Tell me, ye democrats!" They hung their heads, as he struck the bench, to give his demonstration force. "In four months," he continued, "the king, Louis XVII., will be in Paris, to avenge his brother's blood; and peace will be restored before the corn is off the ground. Hurrah!" There might have been some grave humour in his earnestness, but his prophecy made an impression on me he little dreamed of; while he spoke, a voice seemed to sound in my ear that made me start--"Here is an opportunity for you to see the world you have often wished for. The contest will not last four months; you may enter the navy, which will be paid off at the end of the war; be home before winter, and boast to your father of all you have seen and done." The impulse was so strong that I left the politicians in keen debate--for the dinner hour was not expired--and, putting on my coat and hat, set off for Leith as quick as I could walk. My only fear was that I might be too late to be received; the account of the Allies having entered Paris might have arrived; peace might be made before I could join, and my golden dreams be dissipated. It was nearly dark before I reached the rendezvous upon the shore. A throb of joy gave new spirit to me when I saw the union-jack hanging over the door. I entered at once, and inquired if I was not too late to go on board of a man-of-war? "By no means," said the active Captain Nash, who was present at the time. "Were you ever at sea, my spirited lad?" "No, sir," said I; "but I hope that will be no objection." "Oh, none in the least," said he. "You shall, in an hour or two, be put on board the tender which sails for the Nore to-morrow. Here, mate, give this volunteer something to drink his majesty's health." I was now seated at a long table, at which were some of the most forbidding individuals I had ever seen: several were evidently intoxicated, spoke in phrases I could not comprehend, and uttered oaths that made my heart tremble. I became bewildered; the situation in which I had placed myself was not what I had anticipated. I loathed the liquor they offered me, began to think I had done a foolish action, and wished to be at my bench again, a free agent. How long my mind continued in this state I know not; but I was soon roused to a fuller sense of the situation in which I had so rashly placed myself. I soon saw enough to make me weep. Six of the gang entered, swearing, and threatening two young sailors, whom they dragged in with them, and who, as well as several of their captors, were severely cut, bruised, and bleeding. They had, doubtless, fought stoutly to escape the gang. I was there a voluntary victim, and any little fortitude that had until now sustained me fled, as I gazed upon the painful sight. They were both about the same age, and stout, active young men; they spoke not one word; but their countenances were sad, gloomy, and desponding; and, at times, I could perceive a shade of sullenness, bordering on ferocity, pass over their faces, as they lifted their eyes from the floor towards the men who were busy removing the stains of the conflict. In a short time after, we were taken to the Ferry Stairs, and put into their boat. It was now, for the first time, that I began to doubt if my father was correct in his eulogiums of British liberty. I soon understood that the cases of these lads were peculiarly hard; yet, after all, not so very hard as that of many I afterwards knew. They were brothers, and belonged to Leith, where their parents still lived. They had been absent three years upon a whaling expedition in the South Seas; and, anxious to see their father and mother (the former of whom was stretched on a sick-bed), had, with circumspection, and in disguise, reached their home, when, only after a few hours, some unfeeling wretch, for the paltry reward, became informer, and the gang secured their prey. The sick, if not dying, parent entreated in vain; and the mother's tears and groans, as she saw her loved and manly sons struggling against an overwhelming force (for what, my father oft had said, was the birthright of every British subject), were equally unavailing. I kept my eyes on the two youths who, for no offence, were thus treated as felons, and compelled, against their wills and interests, to leave their homes, and all that they held dear; yet, so strangely are we constituted, this train of thought passed off, as I surveyed the clear night, with the full moon shining in a cloudless sky, and reflected by the waters of the placid Frith. My young heart even felt a glow of pleasure: I hoped the worst of my new life was past, and that I would soon be again with my father, to recount to him the sights I had seen. When we reached the tall dark sides of the (to my inexperienced mind) gigantic tender, all my regrets were fled, and expectation again filled my breast. Having hailed, and been answered by the watch on board, the two pressed men were forced to ascend from the boat, which they did with an ease and facility that astonished me. I attempted to stand up, but fell across the thwarts--the motion of the boat, inconsiderable as it was, throwing me off my balance at every effort. Forced to hold on by one of the gang, I had my ears filled with a volley of oaths. A rope was at last lowered from the deck, and made fast under my arms, and thus I partly climbed, and was partly hoisted up, until I could hold on by the bulwarks--furnishing merriment to those on board, and greeted by no kindly voice, my feelings were again damped. For the first time in my life I felt that I was alone in the world, and must rely upon my own energies for protection. Ordered below, I staggered, as I moved upon the deck, like one intoxicated, still grasping at everything to prevent me falling, and bewildered at all I saw and heard. How unlike were these things to what I had found in books, or dreamed of in my enthusiasm, of the noble navy of my country. My mind was all confusion. My native language, spoken by those around me, was mixed with such terms and phrases, that it was all but incomprehensible. When I reached the hatch, and was in the act of descending the ladder, I missed my hold, fell to the deck, and a laugh sounded in my ears--all the pity I received, though I lay sick, stunned, and bruised among my fellow-creatures. I crawled out of the way, lest I should be trampled upon by those who had occasion to pass up and down. No kindly hand was held out to me; and there upon the bare boards I passed my first night from home. Youth and health triumphed, and I soon fell sound asleep. Well, not to be too circumstantial, this rough initiation into my naval adventures was of immense advantage to me. Follow out my course I must, whether I now willed or not. I had the consolation of my father's prophecy, that the war would terminate before the winter commenced; and if I wished to see the world, I must take things as they come. It has ever been my nature to look upon every event on the sunny side. I anticipate pleasure even amidst privations and discomfort; and I have thus enjoyed hours and days of happiness, when those who suffered with me have been driven almost to despair. When day dawned, I was awakened by the noise and bustle around me. I looked at the murky den in which I had passed the night close by a gun-carriage. Some were extended on the deck here and there; a greater number snugly hung in their hammocks were the regular seamen; the others were landsmen like myself, unprovided with anything--their all on their backs, and as ignorant of life at sea as their purses were empty. I will not say that I was pleased with the turn my adventure had assumed; yet I was not discouraged; I knew that thousands passed their lives in the navy, and I would not be worse off than my equals in rank. I arose, and, seated upon the gun-carriage, began to be amused by what was passing around. As the day advanced, my interest began to increase, and I formed a few friendships with my fellows. One of these, a young seaman who had been impressed a few days before out of a West Indiaman, was of vast service to me, in giving me instruction how to conduct myself, and allowed me to sleep with him. I had left home without one shilling; was provided with nothing, and must remain so until rated in some ship after we reached the Nore. No person who has not seen, can conceive the scenes of wickedness and folly that are acted on board a tender, where all are crowded together with no regular messes formed, and no routine of duty laid down to engage the mind or dispel the tedium. The careless act their parts, but the thoughts are forced in upon the serious thinker. Some sat in deep abstraction, unconscious of all that was passing around them, fetching a deep sigh occasionally, and looking mournfully at their merry mates; others were walking backwards and forwards, with a restless cast of countenance, like a caged animal; while here and there were small groups, deep plunged in the excitement of gambling for small sums, and swearing over their well-thumbed dirty cards; others were carousing in secret, with ardent spirits, brought secretly on board, by boats which were continually arriving from or departing for the shore with the friends of those on board; and very many passed their time listlessly leaning over the nettings, gazing upon the shore they were so soon to see, perhaps, for the last time, yet caring not whether they ever saw it again or not. At length the boatswain piped to weigh anchor. The foresheet was shaken out, and we stood down the Frith. As the shores receded from us, some became more sad, but the greater number seemed as if a load had been taken from their minds. As for myself, I felt my spirits increase as we gallantly bounded over the waters. When we reached the Nore, I, along with several others, was draughted into a frigate, which had received orders to sail for the West Indies. As soon as I was rated, I received from the purser what necessaries I required, which was placed to my account to be deducted from my wages. I felt my importance much increased as I put on my new dress and got my station on board; yet a qualm of disappointment came over me as I thought of the distance I was to be carried from home, and I began to doubt if I could return to Scotland before winter, when the peace I had anticipated would take place. My sailor life presented many features that belied my expectations. At this time a war-ship was managed in the most tyrannical manner, by the caprice of the captain and first-lieutenant. The rattan of the boatswain was in constant play; and it often seemed as if he struck the men more for his own gratification than their correction. Standing at the foot of the rattlins when they were ordered aloft, he invariably struck the last, whether in ascending or descending. This was to make them look sharp. The same course was followed in regard to every duty to which he called them; and a dozen or more of lashes were often given for what the most microscopic eye could not have detected as a fault: the cat was seldom out of use, and never a day passed without several punishments. A chit of a midshipman, if he took an umbrage at a man, would order him to stand while he mounted a gun-carriage to strike him about the head or face; and if the gallant fellow moved on, he was reported to the officer on duty as mutinous, tied to the grating, and received a dozen or two. Our provisions too were very scanty, and not of the best quality; while a complaint would have been mutiny. Before we reached the Island of Jamaica, custom overcame disgust. I saw, besides, that it was the rule of the service--officers were not, in their station, better off than the men; midshipmen were cobbed or ordered aloft with as little compunction or inquiry as the men were flogged. The only individual on board who stood not in fear of some other alongside was the captain; yet he feared the admiral, and the admiral crouched to the Lords of the Admiralty, who succumbed to the ministry, who crouched to the king; and, as a landsman on board a man-of-war, all being in a circle, I was next to him again to complete it. The whole I saw to be an intricate system of coercion and discipline; and I submitted with all the cheerfulness I could; but there was a messmate of mine, who claimed the sympathy I disregarded. Poor James! I am to this hour sad when I think of him. Who or what he was I never knew; for his years, he was the best learned and most intelligent person I have ever met with in the world. Every genteel accomplishment was his. About two years my senior, he was an age in advance of me; and I looked up to him with a reverence I have never felt since for any human being, as we have sat on a gun-carriage, I listening to the knowledge that flowed from his lips, and which he took a pleasure in imparting to me. Thus, when it was not our watch, he stored my mind with truths and information, both ancient and modern, the benefit of which I feel even now. An exquisite draughtsman, he taught me the rudiments of the art, and practice has done the rest. Yet he was secret as the grave as to the cause of his sorrows; and though he knew that I wished to be acquainted with his history, not through idle curiosity, but to console him, if in my power, he shunned the subject. That he was born to a rank far above that in which I knew him, both the officers and the men allowed. He was prompt in his duties from an innate sense of honour; and there was a lofty bearing in all he did--not the effect of an effort, but of natural impulse--that extorted the respect of his shipmates; though, of all men, sailors are the quickest at perceiving peculiarity of character among themselves, and an appropriate sobriquet is generally the consequence. To his officers he was as politely humble as the strictest rules could require; but this manner was so different from the uncouth and crouching humility of the other men, that a stranger would have conceived he was the superior returning the civility. His soul was, indeed, truly Roman, and superior to his fate. Whether that fall was the effect of circumstances over which he had no control, or voluntarily chosen, from some secret reason, he would never avow. Once I heard him sigh heavily in his sleep, and murmur the name Matilda; from which I suspected he had been crossed in love, and was now a victim of consuming melancholy, which seemed only lightened by his activity, or when he was storing my mind with information. Books we had none; but I felt not the want. His memory was well stored and tenacious, and he was always ready for whatever subject was the study of the time for which we were at leisure. I feel conscious I learned much more, and infinitely faster, by this oral method, than if I had had the volumes, and read them myself. His vigorous and intelligent mind epitomised and digested my mental food--imparting to me thus the spirit of volumes, which I might in vain have endeavoured to comprehend after long study. But, to proceed:-- With this mixture of pleasure and suffering, we reached Kingston and cast anchor off the harbour, where we had remained only for a few days, when we sailed to cruise in quest of a French frigate, which had taken several of our merchantmen. We continued to range the seas for nearly three weeks, in quest of the enemy, without gaining either sight or intelligence of him, and had almost given up all hope, when, one afternoon, a dense fog came on, which obscured the horizon, and we could not see two lengths of the ship from her decks. It continued thus until a little after sunrise next morning, when a gentle breeze sprung up, which cleared all around, and, to our surprise, we saw a French forty-gun frigate about six or seven leagues to windward. We mounted only thirty guns. The odds were fearfully against us; but the captain resolved to engage the enemy. The boatswain piped all hands to quarters, the drum beat to arms, the bulkheads were taken down, and all was clear for action in a few minutes--every gun double-shotted, and the match waiting the orders to fire. James and I were stationed at the same gun on the quarterdeck, when I saw the enemy, under a cloud of sail, bearing down, with his formidable range of guns bristling his sides. I felt my breathing become short, and a strange sensation took hold of me, as if I doubted whether I could command another full respiration. I looked at James--there was a melancholy shade of satisfaction on his countenance, and I thought I saw a languid smile lurking around his lips, along with a sternness in his eye, that imparted to me a bold feeling of assurance. I stood with the ramrod in my hand. The interval of suspense was short. The Frenchman, as he ranged alongside, within pistol-shot, hailed us in good English to strike. The captain, who stood near me, looking over the nettings, with his speaking-trumpet in his hand, lifted it to his mouth, and roared-- "Ay! ay! I'll strike by and by;" then passed the word--"Now, my lads, give them a broadside." Scarcely was the order given, when our little frigate quivered from the recoil, and we were enveloped in smoke; but I could hear the crash of our shot on the sides and rigging of the Frenchman, which did not return the fire for a minute or two. "Well done," shouted the captain. "Another of the same." And by the time the Frenchman fired his first volley, we were ready. The salute was simultaneous and fearful. The enemy did awful execution: five of our gun-ports were torn into one, and several of our men killed and wounded. I have little recollection of what followed for some time--the smoke was too dense for observation, and my exertions in working our gun were too unremitting to allow of extraneous attentions. At length the shot in the locker being expended, I called for more; and, on looking round, saw my companion, James, lying extended behind the gun, bleeding. There was not one moment to spare--the balls were supplied as quick as called for--and, at the sight of my wounded friend, my dogged resolution was roused to revenge. I urged those who were still able for duty to redouble their fire. "Well done, Elder!" said the captain; "you are a noble fellow." At this moment, a small splinter struck my hand, as I withdrew the rammer, and almost divided my forefinger and thumb. I plucked it out--the blood poured--but I felt less pain from that source than from my mouth, which was so dry and parched, that I would have given worlds for a drop of water. "For God's sake," I cried, "bring me a mouthful of water, for I will not leave my gun." You may smile at my folly, for who was there to serve me? Yet, patience--the captain, who kept the quarterdeck, as cool as if we had been lying at anchor; nay, cooler, for he was then always finding fault, or in a passion--heard me, and taking a lime from his pocket, cut it in two, and put one-half into my mouth, as I was ramming home the charge. "Here, my lad," said he, "you deserve it, were it a diamond;" and put the other half into my cut hand. The sting of the pain almost made me cry out. He smiled, and said it would cure it; then remarked to the first lieutenant, who had just come up to him, "I have often heard that the Scots fight best when they are hungry, or see their own blood; there is an instance; look at Elder's hand, and see how he works at his gun." At this moment I heard a crash--it was our foremast nearly gone by the board. "These Frenchmen fire well," he said, with the greatest coolness. "That stroke is very unfortunate," replied the first lieutenant; "but it cannot last long." "No," said the captain; "they must either strike soon, or blow us out of the water. How is my ship below." "Much cut up, sir; but our remaining hands work their guns well. The enemy must have suffered severely." I can convey no impression of the calmness with which these few words were spoken in the middle of this carnage and noise. We had already, as I afterwards learned, been engaged two glasses. All conception of the time, from the first broadside until the last gun was fired, seemed to have been banished from our minds. Scarcely had the conversation between the captain and lieutenant finished, when the Frenchman's mizzenmast fell forward, their fire began to slacken, and we, in a clear interval, could see a bustling on board. "Boarders, arm," shouted the captain; then, in a lower voice, to one of the officers--"They are either going to run for it, or board us; were our rigging not so much cut up, she might be ours." It was at this moment he first showed his impatience:--"Aim at her rigging," he cried--"she shuns the contest--ten guineas to the gun that disables her;" but her sails began to fill, and she bore away before the wind, leaving us too much disabled to follow her. When the first firing ceased, I felt so fatigued and faint, from the loss of blood and the pain of my hand, that I leaned upon my gun, almost incapable of exertion. A double allowance of grog was now served out to the survivors. I felt revived, though still unable for duty, and went to the cockpit to see James, who had been carried there, and to have my own hand dressed. A cockpit scene has been often described, but description is a burlesque of the reality. We had twelve killed, and twenty wounded, more or less severely. I found my poor friend lying upon a mattress, calm and resigned--no groan or sob escaped him. One of his legs had been broken and cut by a splinter, and there was a wound from a musket-ball in his shoulder. Both had been dressed by the surgeon, who was a humane, active, and skilful man. When my own scratch was cleaned and dressed, all my attention was bestowed upon James and others. An hospital was rigged out, and every care humanity could suggest paid to the wounded; and our otherwise austere captain was as mild and kindly by the side of the victims as a nurse. James lay, for the most part, silent and in deep thought. When he did speak, it was of indifferent subjects; and, to my frequent inquiries how he felt his wounds, he replied, that they engaged not his thoughts further than that he feared he might recover. "That I do not wish," said he. "It is long since I received the wound that is destined to prove mortal, independently of these disruptions of the flesh, which merely confine me to this sick-bed, and are come rather as a remedy. Elder, think not I am ungrateful for your kindness: I thank you from my heart. There is one favour you must promise to do me; and I feel assured I may trust you." "Name it," answered I; "and if I should die in the attempt, I shall not fail to do all in my power to accomplish your smallest wish." He pressed my hand, which was grasped in his. "Enough, Elder," said he; "all I request is easily done; yet I was not the less anxious to find one whom I could confide in. As soon as this oppressed heart ceases to beat, you must take this locket and ring"--and he uncovered his bosom, upon which they lay, besmeared with his blood. Smiling, he continued: "The blood is a proper envelope for them; and I am only so far happy that I was not killed out-right--for then they might have fallen into hands which would have done them no justice. These baubles and I must be forgotten together, whether I die here at sea, or survive until we reach Jamaica. You must, when I am to be consigned to my abode of peace and rest, place them where they lie at present. You will do this for me?" I pressed his hand, for words were denied me. My tears fell upon his pale face, as I stooped to kiss his forehead; a sigh was all that passed between us; but our eyes told more than our lips could have uttered. I left him alone, to enjoy his own reflections, and went upon deck. In a few hours the surgeon's worst fears were realised; tetanus came on, and he died the following morning in my arms. I fulfilled his last request, and his body was launched into the restless ocean on the day before we reached Kingston. His man-of-war's name, as the seamen call it, when one--a different from their real one--is assumed for any reason that requires concealment, was James Walden, by which he was rated in the ship's books. Next day, when his effects, scanty as they were, were put up for sale, I bought a small prayer-book, which I had often seen him use, for less money than I have seen a few needles and a little thread bring at the mainmast. Amongst all that he possessed, there was not a single scrap of paper, or anything by which I could be led to guess who he was. On a blank page of the prayer-book there was written, in a small, beautiful female hand, "Matilda Everard;" but whether it was written by the individual he had once mentioned in his sleep, or some other, it was impossible to say. We had spoken, on our return to Jamaica, several merchant vessels, so that the account of our action with the French frigate was before us. We were, accordingly, received as conquerors--the sailors complimented in the streets, and our officers invited to all entertainments. As for myself, I felt alone after the loss of my friend, and fretted a little at the news of peace not having been yet received. I had not yet called my father's political sagacity in question. It was now the month of September; our frigate was once more, if possible, in better trim than she was before the action; we had our water on board, and everything ready for sea to cruise amongst the French islands. All was joy and hope of prize-money. We were to have sailed next morning, when the accounts of Admiral Howe's glorious victory of the first of June arrived, when all became a scene of excitement and exultation. Salutes were fired; every vessel was hung with as many flags as she could muster, along her stays, from the bowsprit to the taffrail. Kingston was to be illuminated in the evening; and we requested leave, and were allowed, to have an illumination on board of our ship. My spirits recovered in some degree--every one was of opinion that the republicans of France never could recover the blow they had received--my father's prediction was verified--and I would soon be free, and at home. During the afternoon, which was as lovely as a warm day in Jamaica can be, all was bustle on board, each mess procuring candles, and each striving who could exhibit the greatest number. The ingenuity of one of our number was exercised on some empty barrels, which, with their bottoms pierced, filled with lights, and placed opposite the port-holes, shamed the bottles and candles of the others, and gave us the victory. Just before sundown, all was ready. As soon as all the candles were lit, every port was opened; and our little frigate and the other ships of war produced a sight truly beautiful--sitting upon the waters, which reflected the glare like glowing furnaces, and sending all around their so regular and intense beams. Meanwhile our decks were crowded with dancers, who, footing it away to the music of our fiddles, exhibited, in the strange mixture of white European and dark Kingston girls, all brought out in full relief by the lights, one of the most extraordinary scenes I had ever seen. At a late hour the lights were doused, and all was as still as death; and the late refulgent vessels floated a number of black masses under the moonbeams. Next morning found us under weigh, and the Island of Jamaica sinking under our stern. I missed my friend sadly, having formed no new intimacy; for there was not one on board, in my estimation, to supply his place. He had formed my mind for higher enjoyments than could have been relished or shared with me by any of my shipmates; yet we had on board a mass of talent, in all its variety, debased, no doubt, by evil passions and low dissipation. There were, indeed, among us some rough but honest, unsophisticated children of nature; but they were like jewels dug from the mine, placed in a package with flints, and shaken on a rough road, losing by attrition their asperities, but taking no polish. A few, too, there were who had, with care, been bred by their parents for higher objects, but had sunk from their station, by vice and folly, even to a lower level than the standard of our crew. I had thus small choice, and fell back on the memory of the pleasures I had enjoyed in the conversation of my friend. We had been out from port about three weeks, without seeing anything save one or two of our merchant ships, and one from Liverpool bound for New York, with passengers, from the latter of which we impressed six stout young men, who were on their way for the New World. Such are the miseries of war, that liberty is invaded and all human ties severed by the necessity it engenders. The case of one of these young men was truly hard. He was on his way to New York, to take possession of some property left him by an uncle, who had died there the year before; and his intention was to remain and settle upon his late uncle's farm. A few days before he had left his native village, in Ayrshire, with a young woman whom he had long loved, and at last married. Their all had been expended in their passage money and outfit, but young hope, love, and joy, were the companions of their voyage, until our boat, under the command of our second lieutenant, appeared as the demon that was to put these to flight. The crew and passengers were mustered upon the deck, and many forced from their hiding-places, where they had stowed themselves away below among the cargo. George Wilson (for that was his name), fearful for his Jane, had remained by her side; he was ordered into the boat; his supplications were as nothing; and the tears and agonies of his young wife, if possible, less. It is a fact worthy of the consideration of the philosopher, that the actions of men, forced to perform an unpleasant duty, are often fretted into greater harshness by appeals to feeling. We were short of hands, and, goaded by necessity and duty, I verily believe that some who seized the youth more sharply when he was attempted to be taken from them by the female, would not have been slow to weep for her in other circumstances. There was another case not less cruel--that of an only son of a family, called Grant, who were emigrating, consisting of a father and mother, two sisters, and this young lad, their hope and stay. He too was ordered into the boat. I noticed the two as they came up the ship's side. It is seldom that human nature is exhibited under such circumstances of trial. Description, in such cases, is almost impertinent. It may be doubted if the young men themselves are then conscious of one-half of the evil that had befallen them: they were stupid with despair. But I did not know what was awaiting myself. Some few days after this event, we were standing under easy sail, listlessly gazing over the immense expanse of waters, with all eyes sharp for a sail of some kind or other, to break the monotony of our listless life. The look-out from the mast-head sang out-- "Sail, ahoy!" "Where away?" cried the officer on duty. "Nor-west, on our lee-beam." "Can you make her out?" "Nay, sir; she is yet hull down; but she appears English rig, as her top-royals rise out of the water." "Stretch every inch of canvas; haul taut," cried the officer. And her bows were crowded by the anxious seamen. There was now an object to engage their attention, while the captain and officers kept their glasses steady in the direction pointed out. In a short time, the points of her masts and sails began to appear above the horizon, like black patches, where the bounding line between the ocean and sky terminates. We continued our progress for several hours, manifestly not making fast on her; yet we could see that her sails rose almost imperceptibly out of the water. She kept her distance so well that the captain became excited and piqued. The wind blew pretty fresh, and we were both on a wind. She was now made out to be either a privateer or a merchant vessel; but her superior sailing led strongly to the opinion that she was the former. Our deck guns were now run aft to raise our bows, and every effort that skill could put to account was tried. Still we gained but slowly upon her; and the afternoon was far advanced without our being satisfied of more than that she was an enemy; for she must have seen us for some hours, and our ensign was flying at our royal mast-head. Now great masses of gorgeously-coloured clouds began to gather around the brilliant luminary in the far west. It was close upon sundown, when the darkness almost immediately follows in the twilightless latitudes. The tall masts of the chase were between us and the brilliant scene, like a dark spirit crossing the path of heaven. The captain, striking the bulwarks of the quarterdeck with his hand, said aloud-- "I'd give a hundred guineas to have her within range of my long eighteens at this moment, or when I shall see your beams again in the morning." He looked to the broad disk of the sun, which was just sinking in the dense mass of resplendent clouds, while his last rays shot like long broad ribands over the edge of the highest, and undulated upon the long swell that was raised by the breeze, which covered its top with masses of white foam, resembling flocks at play in an immense meadow. Anxious to obtain the last glance of this magnificent panorama, I had got upon the nettings in which the hammocks are stowed, and stood so long holding on by the mizzen-rattlins, absorbed in pleasing dreamy thoughts, not unmixed with regret, that it was quite dark before I was conscious of the change. My mind had again turned in upon itself, and the lovely harvest nights of my regretted home came before me, more chastened in their grandeur, but not the less lovely on that account. Wilson and Grant were conversing in whispers near the spot where I stood, talking of their blighted hopes, as if they felt that nature, in the grand aspect she now exhibited, looked lovely in mockery of their woes. We still held on as we had done through the afternoon--the surges rising and sprinkling our foredeck as we passed swiftly through the waters, urged on by an increasing gale. Weary of my position, I was in the act of descending to the deck, when, by some accident, I lost my hold, and fell overboard, striking against the dead-eyes, and wounding my tongue so severely in my fall that it was bit through. When I rose to the surface, stunned and confused, the water was hissing in my ears, and my mouth full of blood. I attempted to call out for help; but my efforts were vain. My tongue was unfit for its office; I only uttered unintelligible sounds, not to be distinguished amidst the noise of the waves. Still hope was strong in me, for I could hear the cries on deck, "A man overboard!" though I could distinguish no object in the darkness. The sounds became faint and more faint. The vessel's way was so great, she shot from the spot like a bird; and I could at intervals see the lights that they had hung out as I rose to the top of the waves, which I buffeted with all my energies. The frigate had evidently laid to. I strove to make for the lights. I saw, far astern, a boat had been lowered, and hope again braced my nerves. Could I have called out, I had been saved; for I heard their voices shouting for me, and even the plash of their oars; but I was dumb. My tongue had almost instantly swelled so as to fill my mouth; yet still I struggled amidst the waves to reach the source of the sounds. At that moment they could not have been many yards distant from me, if I could have judged from the distinctness with which I heard them call. At last they ceased for a few minutes, as if in consultation. Moment of horrid agony! I was in the grasp of inevitable death, and those who were anxious for my rescue were within hail, and that hail I could not utter. The struggle for life is not easily terminated, and my exertions were almost superhuman. A flash, and the report of a gun now fell on my ears, and it came as my doom; it was a signal for the boats to return. I felt as if my arms had become powerless. My heart failed, and I was sinking, when again the stroke of the oars revived me. Again I attempted to shout--vain effort! "Poor Elder!" I heard uttered by my shipmates, amidst the sweltering of the waves that were about to engulf me. The oar-dip gradually died away--and where was I? Tired and exhausted, and almost suffocated by the water and blood that flowed from my tongue, I turned upon my back, but sunk deep in the water from the weight of my jacket and trousers, and thus floated at the will of the swell, that often almost turned me over. I attempted to pray, but could not collect my thoughts. All I could say was, "Lord be merciful to me--a sinner!" I almost felt as if already dead; for all energy had fled, both mental and bodily; and the little I did to place me on my back, when the surge turned me over, seemed the involuntary efforts of sinking nature. In this state I was aroused from my stupor by my coming in contact with a hard body. I stretched forth one of my hands, which had been crossed upon my breast, and grasped it with the energy of despair. It was a large hencoop, which had been thrown over in the hope that I might reach it until the boat arrived. New life began to revive in my heart. I got upon it; and, taking my silk neckerchief from my neck, which I fortunately had on when I fell, lashed myself to it. My thoughts now became, in some degree, collected, and a slight beam cheered the gloom of that fearful night, as I floated, a miserable speck of human nature, on that boundless, unfathomable waste of troubled waters. I thought that I was not forgot by my Creator, who had in his mercy sent me this assurance in my last extremity, frail as it was, to be the means of my deliverance. It was now that my whole soul poured forth in prayer; and tears, not of anguish, but of love and gratitude, flowed from my eyes, as I was drifted along before the wind, and tossed by the waves. Through that long and dreadful night, nothing but this pious feeling could have sustained me; for my limbs were benumbed and cramped; my tongue still almost filled my mouth, and pained me. Day at length dawned; but it did not bring with it renewed hope. I had prayed and longed for it, in the expectation that I might be seen and picked up by some vessel; but my heart did not rise in my bosom as the beams of the sun shot over the waters around me. No sight met my eyes but the sky, bounded at a short distance around by my low position in the water. The breeze had considerably abated, the sea was much smoother, and the fears of a lingering death by hunger and thirst began to assail me. As the morning advanced, my faith in my deliverance began to fail, and terrible thoughts crowded upon my mind. I tremble yet when I revert to them. It seemed as if the great tempter of mankind had been with me in this hour of trial, and whispered in my ears thoughts foreign to my nature. I even began to doubt the mercy and goodness of God; despair was again busy with me, and my clasp-knife suggested a short and ready remedy for my misery. I clutched it in my hand, and opened it; but my hand was stayed; my feelings had again undergone a revolution. I dropped the instrument, and wept. I now thought I heard a rushing sound in the air, and looked up. An immense albatross, with his huge extended wings, was suspended over me, attracted by the strange sight I exhibited. In any other situation, would I have been alarmed at the sight of a bird? Now, my heart sunk when I saw the creature circling high above my head. I thought he was examining the object previous to his pouncing upon it. I thought he might strike my head, and my woes would be ended: he might alight, and tear me piece by piece with his strong-hooked bill. The terror of the waters was merged in that of my new enemy; and such is man, that, though I had reconciled myself to the one, I felt my courage and resolution rise within me when I saw a visible and tangible enemy to grapple with. His circles round me became more and more narrow; and, as he descended, I seized my open knife. This precaution was, doubtless, unnecessary. The bird probably only wanted to ascertain what strange inhabitant of the waters now appeared to it. Still, however, it kept up its surveillance, receding now by large circles, and again approaching me, only again to betake itself to a greater distance, and again to renew its approach. I cannot tell how long this continued: but a full hour, at least, must have passed--during all which time I remained under the unaccountable apprehension that I would, unless I defended myself, fall a victim to this gigantic bird of prey. At length he took a long sweep, and I saw him sailing away on his solitary journey, as if he despised the poor object he had left alone on the waste of waters. From the scorching rays upon the exposed part of my body, I began to suffer much, and my thirst became excessive; my strength gradually declined, and by the time the sun reached his meridian, I had again made up my mind to my fate, commending my soul to its Maker, through my Redeemer. I closed my eyes, as I thought, for ever upon all earthly things. I had lain thus only a short time, when, raising myself up as far as I could upon my raft, and gazing around upon what I thought was to be my tomb, an involuntary cry of joy burst from me. There was a vessel in sight; my weakness and misery were forgot. I saw them lower a boat; and from that moment my mind became a tumult of thoughts and sensations, which I have often since attempted in vain to analyse. The horrors of my late situation were still upon me, and I could with difficulty persuade myself that my delivery was real. So exquisitely soothing was the feeling that now possessed me, that I feared to open my eyes or move, lest I might break the spell that was upon me, and awaken in the misery I had so lately endured. But I even tired of enjoyment, for my position became irksome. I attempted to turn, but the effort was so painful, that a groan escaped me. A gentle hand wiped the perspiration from my brow, and inquired if I wished to be turned. The sound of that voice was like a beam of light upon my bewildered mind. I opened my eyes, and saw a young female in widow's weeds standing by the side of my cot. "Generous being," I said, "is it to you that I owe my deliverance?" A sad smile passed over her face as she gazed at me, and said, "I am happy to see you restored to recollection; but you must not speak." And she gently withdrew from the side of the cot. I wished much to make inquiries; but felt so weak that I did not persist, but sunk again into the same dreamy state. It is of no use detailing the events of the few days that were passed in this helpless state. By the kind nursing of the female and the kindness of the captain, I slowly recovered, and learned that, by the merest accident, I had been discovered by them as I floated upon the waves; and that, had I not been seen to move when I had raised myself up, they would have passed me; and that I was now on board the Betsy and Ann of Leith, bound from Quebec to that port. My heart overflowed with love and gratitude to that merciful God who had delivered me; for what the kind captain called accident, I felt in my heart was his loving-kindness; now I firmly believe there is no such thing as what men call chance or accident. We are taught by Scripture that all things are ordered and directed by the Creator of the universe, from the fall of a sparrow to the fall of an empire; and, in the eye of Omnipotence, nothing is great or small, all being directed to one great end. I was now able to leave my cot for a short time, but not the cabin. The young widow was ever by my side, to minister to my wants. I felt much for her sorrows, which she bore with pious resignation; but I had no power to minister to her comforts as my gratitude prompted me, when I observed her, as I lay in my cot, weeping in silence, when she thought me asleep. It was the third day after I was picked up, as I sat in the cabin, and felt myself much recovered, that I gave her an account of my leaving home, and my adventures since. She sat and listened with interest, and seemed much affected by my account of my friend, James Walden. She sighed heavily as I proceeded, and her tears fell fast. When I mentioned his untimely death, she uttered a piercing cry, and fell insensible upon the floor. I cried loudly for help; and her servant and the captain, who were on deck, came quickly to my aid. After some time she recovered, but was so ill that she was forced to be put to bed by her maid. Her mind seemed quite unsettled by what I had said of my friend's death; for she spoke strangely and incoherently, unconscious of what she uttered; often repeating, "James, I shall never see you more. How could I hope? I wished, but dared not hope, humbled as I was--yet frown not on me so; I am more to be pitied than hated." Thus she continued during the greater part of the day. Towards evening, she became more composed, but was so ill that she could not leave the state-room without the support of her servant, which she did contrary to the remonstrances of the captain; only replying-- "What is life now to me but a dreary blank? O that I were at rest under these rolling waves! O Mr Elder! have you strength to tell me all you know of James before my heart bursts?" I could myself have wept; but her eyes were dry, yet heavy and languid; her face pale as marble, with a ghastly composure upon it, more heart-moving than clamorous grief. Again I went over every circumstance, and concluded by regretting the prayer-book, as the only article I valued, left on board. She heard me the second time without altering a muscle of her face. When I finished, she said-- "I was Matilda Everard; these fingers wrote the name upon the prayer-book, which I gave to James Everard, my cousin. Walden was the name of his mother; he was an orphan, the ward of my father; I am an only daughter. We were brought up together. I was my father's only child--an heiress; he had little more than his own abilities to depend upon. I was a spoiled child, thoughtless and volatile. I loved him then as a brother. He was some years older than I; he loved me as never man loved woman. I sported with his misery; for I knew not love. My father discovered his passion, and banished him from the house. I regretted him as a brother--no, not as a brother--as a playmate. His feelings of honour were so high, he took no covert means to meet me again; but I saw him often at church, and elsewhere. I used to kiss my hand to him; but we never exchanged words. Urged by my father, I married a rich merchant. He was much older than I. The cold, haughty, and money-making habits of my husband first turned my thoughts to James. I contrasted the joy that used to beam in his eyes, when I smiled upon him, with the indifference of my husband; and my love, once that of a sister, became all that James could have desired, had I been still a maid. Upon my marriage, James disappeared. Neither my father nor any one else knew where he had gone. It is now three years--long, long years--since then. Circumstances called my husband to Quebec, that, if not looked after, might involve him in ruin. Jealous and morose, he took me with him. Months of misery I dragged on there. My husband sickened and died. I am now on my way to my father; but I feel we shall never meet. My heart, I feel, is broken, and life ebbs fast. Farewell! and may you be blessed for your kindness to James. Bury me in the waves; I long to sleep by his side." Having taken farewell of the captain, she retired, and we never saw her again in life. Some time after, agreeable to her request, she slept with James under the waves of the Atlantic. For some days I was much affected by the melancholy event; but my spirits, with my health, gradually returned. A few weeks more would bring me to my father's house, and I resolved never again to trust to any political prognosticator, even of my own father, for I had never known him so much deceived before. I had been eighteen months away, and the war, so far from being over, was, if possible, fiercer than ever; and the democrats of France were carrying murder and desolation wherever their armies went. THE ANGLER'S TALE. Never did boy long more anxiously for the arrival of the happy day which was to free him from the trammels of school discipline than I, a grey-haired man, always do for the return of bright and beautiful summer--that happy season when all nature seems to sympathise with the fortunate citizen who can escape from the confinement, bustle, and excitement of the crowded haunts of men, to soothe his spirit and forget his cares amid the beautiful scenery and calm retirement of the country. I always allow myself, if possible, a holiday in the summer months; and with rod in hand, and knapsack on back, I wander wherever whim or chance may lead me. Oh! the delight I experience, when the city is left far behind me!--the buoyancy, the springiness of feeling, with which I whistle along my path, rejoicing in my freedom! The very birds seem to welcome me with their song; the fields, the streams, all seem breathing of delight; I forget my grey hairs; and the spirit of youth and the freshness of youthful feeling are again upon me. In one of my fishing excursions, a few years since, I became accidentally acquainted with a worthy farmer of the name of Thompson, who lived on the banks of the Esk, in the neighbourhood of the beautifully-situated town of Langholm. He was a good, though by no means a rare, specimen of the class of men to which he belonged--a shrewd, sensible, well-informed man, frank and friendly in his address, and with an air of quiet, unobtrusive independence. He made up to me with such kindness and hospitality, and was so cordial and pressing in urging me to repeat my visit, that I have ever since made his comfortable house my head-quarters during the fishing season. His cottage was beautifully situated on a gentle rise, surrounded by lofty trees; immediately below ran the winding Esk, dashing and foaming over a bed of limestone, and spanned, at a short distance, by a lofty bridge of one arch, commanding a view of the ruins of the famed tower of Gilnockie. The neat and cheerful exterior of the cottage bespoke comfort and plenty within; and kinder and more hospitable people never existed than its inmates. Elsie Thompson, the good-wife, in her plain but neat "mournings," and her close white mutch, mild and gentle in her manner, looked the very personification of benevolence and hospitality. She had been a very handsome woman; but the hand of affliction had been heavy upon her, and had left its marks upon her careworn features: four of her children had been carried off by a contagious disorder, and her sole remaining comfort, besides her husband, was her daughter. Ellen was one of the loveliest creatures my eye ever rested upon. Hers was a face of sunny beauty. The braids of her rich brown hair rested upon a brow of more than common whiteness, from beneath which her large blue eyes sparkled with the light of pure and innocent joyousness. The whole of her features bore the impress of light-hearted mirth; and yet at times a passing shade of sadness flitted across them, which, while it softened their beauty, gave an additional charm to their expression. But it was not Ellen's beauty alone that rendered her interesting: a kinder-hearted, more attentive and affectionate daughter never existed; her whole soul seemed to be wrapped up in her parents; her every action had reference to some wish or habit of theirs. She was equally exemplary in the performance of all her household duties, and was the pride and blessing of her parents. Ellen and I soon became intimate; for, in the country, untrammelled by the forms of etiquette, acquaintance soon ripens into friendship. Fortunate was it for me that my days of romance were over, or she would have been a dangerous companion; as it was, I could gaze upon her as I would upon a beautiful picture, admiringly, not lovingly. Many a happy evening have I spent, sitting in the mild summer sunset, under the shade of the large beech-tree at Edward Thompson's door, listening to the brawling of the foaming waters, with Ellen by my side. It was at such times that I more particularly remarked the melancholy I have before mentioned. Her thoughts were evidently far from the scene she looked upon, and a tear would sometimes steal down her cheek. Whenever I asked her the occasion of her grief, she would answer, with a languid attempt at a smile, "Oh, naething ava!" and immediately began to talk in a strain of forced liveliness and indifference. I saw that she had some secret cause of unhappiness; but, as she did not volunteer her confidence, I did not consider myself justified in attempting to force it, and set her unhappiness down in my own mind to that general and all-powerful disturber of youthful feelings--love for some absent one. Last summer, I had been engaged in my favourite amusement of fishing, and had wandered some distance down the Esk, when certain inner warnings admonished me that it was time to recruit my energies. As I am rather an epicure, however, and enjoy my crust with more _gout_, the more beautiful the scenery by which I am surrounded, I resisted the cravings of appetite until I had reached a situation the beauty of which tempted my stay, and then, laying my rod on the bank, I proceeded to examine the contents of my knapsack. It was high noon; but the sun was partially shrouded by light fleecy clouds, and threw a softened light on the green bank on which I seated myself. Immediately at my feet ran the clear stream, fringed a little higher up with willows and trees of a larger growth; opposite to me were the rich woods and lawns of Netherby; to the left, on the other side of the river, was a picturesque, ivy-covered, turreted building, called the fishing tower; to the right, far down the river, were seen the bridge and buildings of Longtown; and in the distance, the beautiful hills of Cumberland. The high-road was only a few yards distant, immediately behind me; but I was shut out from its view by a substantial stone wall, with a neat gate opening to the water-side. Scarcely had I seated myself, when I heard the sound of coming footsteps on the high-road. The sound ceased; and, turning round, I saw a traveller looking over the green gate behind me. I am a great disciple of Lavater, and flatter myself, notwithstanding the many mistakes I have been led into, that I can sometimes read a man's countenance, almost as well as a "written book." To me, a good countenance is always a letter of recommendation, and one to which, in spite of the whisperings of prudence, I always pay instant attention. There was something particularly prepossessing in the countenance and appearance of the stranger. He was a young man of about six-and-twenty, with a laughing dark eye, hair black as the raven's wing, and a complexion bronzed by exposure to sun and clime. He was dressed like a sailor, in a neat blue jacket, a narrow-rimmed glazed hat, and with a small bundle on the stick over his shoulder. Seeing me look round, and encouraged, I suppose, by the friendly interest with which I regarded him, he remarked upon the fineness of the day, and asked if I had had good sport. "Yes," replied I, "tolerable; and now I have a tolerable appetite. Will you come and join my mess?" "Thank ye kindly, sir--wi' a' my heart. I've travelled far to-day, and I'll be a' the better of an _elevener_."[4] [Footnote 4: A nautical term for a forenoon whet.] After a hearty and simple meal, washed down with a dram of Connal's best,[5] and a draught of pure river water, I lighted my cigar, and, giving my new messmate one, to keep me in countenance, I lounged in luxurious ease upon my grassy couch, while he seated himself with modest frankness beside me. [Footnote 5: Langholm Distillery.] "Your face tells of other climates, my friend," says I; "it was not an English sun that bronzed it thus." "It's five years noo, sir, sin' I left the banks o' the bonny Esk; and weel ye ken that a wanderer by land and sea sees mair in a year than a man that aye sits at the ingle-cheek will in his lifetime. Gude be thankit, I haena felt muckle care or sorrow mysel! but I hae had my ain share o' hardships." "You seem not to have forgot your mother-tongue, however. You are a native of this part of the country, I suppose?" "I am, sir; and though I've been lang aneugh amang the Englishers to hae been half English mysel, I couldna mak up my mouth to speak their daft-like lingo; and noo the sicht o' my ain dear river, the thocht that I'm but a few miles frae my ain hame, has dung what little I did ken o't clean oot o' my head." "I wonder you are not in a greater hurry to get onwards," said I. "I think, if I were in your situation, I should be eager to reach my home as soon as possible." "Oh, sir, I maun gang and see puir Geordie Gordon's folk before I gang hame. It's ill news I hae to tell them, and I maun wait till the gloamin." "And who is Geordie Gordon?" "He was the kindest-hearted o' messmates, and the best o' freends. A better seaman, or a kinder, never stepped atween stem and stern o' a ship. Puir Geordie!" And he hastily passed the sleeve of his jacket over his eyes. "Suppose you let me hear some of your adventures," said I; "it will pass away the time, and I should like much to know something of the ways of you sailors, and the customs on board a ship." "Oh, sir, I hae nae adventures to tell. Could you but hae heard puir Geordie--he was the lad for spinning yarns, as we ca' it." "Well, but you can tell me what took you first to sea, and what you thought of the life of a sailor after you had joined a ship." "Weel, sir! I'll just begin at the beginning, and tell ye a' aboot it; and if ye're wearied wi' my clavers, ye maun just tell me:--" There was a large family o' us, and a happy family we were--for my faither was an industrious farmer, weel to do in the world, and weel respeckit by a' wha kenned him; and my mither was a kind-hearted, worthy woman, wha dearly lo'ed us a', but never let her luve blind her to our fauts. She aye taught us that idleness was the root o' a' mischief, and that we needna fear man as lang's we did our duty to our Maker. I was about seventeen when Geordie Gordon cam hame frae the sea, to see his folk, wha lived in our parishen. A heartsome and a weel-faured lad was Geordie, wi' a merry ee, and a laugh--I maist think I hear't noo--that cam ringing frae the heart. He was a favourite wi' auld and young; and mony was the bright ee that blinked o'er on him as he sat in the kirk wi' his roun blue jacket, and his checkit sark, and his smiling happy face. Jenny Birrel was his sweetheart; a blithe lass and a bonny was Jenny, and guid as she was bonny. Wae'll be her heart when she hears what has happened her Joe! Weel, sir, I was like the lave--I likit Geordie, and Geordie likit me, and we were aye thegither. It garred my vera heart loup to hear him spin yarns, as he ca'd it, about the dangers he had escapit, and the unco sichts he had seen; till, frae less to mair, I felt an eager wish to gang wi' him on his neist voyage, and to witness the wonders o' the deep, and to veesit forran lands. Besides, I saw that a' the lassies thocht mair o'ane who had been leading a life o' danger and hardship, than o' the douce lads wha keepit following the pleuch, or thumping wi' the flail a' the days o' their lives. And I thocht that my ain wee Joe wad lo'e me better, and that I micht earn something to mak us comfortable; and that, after I had seen a' the ferlies o' forran lans, I wad come hame laden wi' braws to mak her my wife. Bonny wee thing! I wonder if she minds me yet! In storm, in darkness, in danger, I never forgot _her_. Sair did my mither greet when I tell't her I was for awa wi' Geordie; and aft, aft did she beg me to change my min'. "Stay at hame, Tam, my bairn," said she, "and tak care o' yer auld mither. A' the lave are gane but yersel, and if ye gang too, what'll become o' us!" But I wadna be persuaded; the spirit o' change was upon me, and gang I wad. "I winna hinder ye, my bairn," said my faither; "if yer min' is made up to gang for a sailor, gang, and His blessing gang wi' ye. Ye'll be as safe in the midst o' the raging sea as ye wad be by yer ain fireside, as lang's ye trust in Him." But the warst was to come. I maist repented o' my determination when I gaed for the last time to the trysting tree, whar I had sae aft met my dear lassie. She was there, wi' her face buried in her hans, sabbing as if her young heart would break. Oh, sir, it was a sad sicht to me! It was a bonny nicht: the moon was at the full, and the stars were a' glinting roun' her; there wasna a cloud, but on our ain hearts; the hail holm was ae bleeze o' licht, amaist as licht as day; the leaves were just soughing o'er our heads; and the soun' o' the burn wimpling near us cam clear upon our ears. Our hearts were owre sair for muckle speaking; she sabbit, and I tried to comfort her--but a' in vain. I wanted comfort mysel; and at last I could stan' it nae langer--I just grat in company. But this couldna last for lang. We vowed to be leal to ilk ither; and, wi' ae last kiss, I forced mysel awa. Neist morn, Geordie Gordon and I took foot in han' and awa to Leith, and frae that worked our passage to Lunnon. Weel, sir, it's an awsome bit that Lunnon! The streets just like hedgeraws, and the kirk steeples like poplar-trees; and then the folk as thrang on the planestanes on a week-day as if a' the kirks were scaling at ance! Ye'll hae been in Lunnon, I'se warran, sir? Min', I'm just telling ye hoo I thocht and felt then, for I ken better sin' syne. Then the ships a' crooding on ane anither, like sheep in a fauld, their masts as thick as the trees in yon wud: and the muckle barges wi' but ae man to guide them; and the wee bit cockleshells o' wherries skimming alang, loaded wi' passengers sitting amaist upon the water; and the noise o' men, and the thunner o' carriages, and the smoke o' ten thousand chimlas! 'Od, sir, I used to think Car'il a grand toun, but it's naething ava to Lunnon. Weel, sir, ae day, Geordie and me were walkin on a place they ca' Tower Hill--whar there's a grand auld castle they ca' the Tower o' Lunnon, where they say a sodger chiel, o' the name o' Julius Cæsar, was beheadit langsyne, in the time o' ane o' our auld Scottish kings--when a weel-faured, sonsy-looking chiel, dressed like a provost, wi' a hat on his head might serve a duke, cam up till us, and seeing us glowering aboot, and just doing naething ava, began colloquying wi' us. "It's a fine day, my lads," said he, looking as blithe as the sun in a May morning. "You seem to be strangers in London. I like your honest looks; and, as I am an idler myself, I will go with you, if you like, and show you the lions." "The lions! 'od, sir, are there ony lions hereawa?" said I. "Many that you know nothing of," said he, stuffing his pocket-napkin into his mouth, to keep the dust oot, I thocht. "Come with me, and we'll drink to our better acquaintance." Wi' that he taks us into a bit public near by, and tells us to ca' for what we likit; and then he crackit awa, and was unco jocose and blithe. "Have you got plenty of money, lads?" said he at last. And we lookit like twa fules, for Geordie had but twa shillins left, and I had nae mair mysel. He saw, for he had a gleg ee in his head, that we werna weel provided; so cried he, "Never mind, my boys--I'll stand treat; the landlord o' this house is my friend; you can have whatever you call for, and stay with him as long as you like." Wi' that he ca'ed for mair drink; and, frae ae thing to anither, what wi' laughing and drinking, we got gey and fou, and were weel pleased to win till oor beds. "Troth, Geordie, lad," says I, "I think we've lichted on oor feet this time; it's no every day in the week we'll meet sic a freend." "I dinna ken what to mak o' him," said Geordie, wha kenned mair aboot the warld than mysel, as he had been three years sailing atween Dumfries and America; "he's owre ceevil by half. I've aye heard tell that there's a set o' born deevils in Lunnon. It's a' vera weel as far as it's gane; but I'm feared for the aftercome." Weel, the neist morning, oor kind freend ordered breakfast for us, and then asked us if we'd like to tak a walk and look aboot us. "But," said he, "you must have better _toggery_ than that you have on." And wi' that he took us into a shop, where he ordered a jacket and trousers for each o' us; and, when we had putten them on, we cam oot, looking as braw as the best. In the coorse o' oor cracks, we had tell't him we wanted to go to forran parts. "Well," said he, "there's a fine East Indiaman at Gravesend, just going to sail for China. I can get you a berth on board of her." Now, though Geordie and I were baith keen to gang to sea, yet we wanted to choose oor ain ship; and, besides, we had resolved no to gang in ane o' the East India Company's ships; for the lads on board the smack, coming frae Leith, had tell't us to keep clear o' the Indiamen, for that they were manned wi' the sweepings o' Newgate, and that there was mair flogging on board o' them than in the navy. "We're no for sailing in a Company's ship, sir," said I; "we'll choose for oursels." "Very well, lads," said he; "but before we part, we must '_square yards_,' if you please. Pay me what you owe me." And, wi' that, he pulls oot a bill as lang's my airm, for sae muckle meat, sae lang lodging, and sae muckle for claithes. "'Od, sir," said I, "did ye no treat us? Ye ken vera weel we haena a bodle to pay ye wi'." "Then you must either tramp to prison, or go on board the Indiaman. What say you?" "Weel, if we maun gang, we maun, and there's an end o't; but ye ha'ena behaved to us like a gentleman and a Christian." "A gentleman and a Christian!" said he, girning; "why, you Scotch noodle, I'm a crimp!" ("And what, in the name of wonder, is a crimp?" said I, interrupting Tom in his long-winded story. "A crimp, sir!" said Tom; "d'ye no ken what's a crimp? Why, sir, a crimp is, ye ken--a crimp _is_--hoot, he's just a crimp."[6] "Very satisfactory, certainly," replied I. "However, go on with your story.") [Footnote 6: A crimp is a person who receives a certain sum of money from shipowners for procuring sailors to man their vessels.] Neist morning, Geordie and I, wi' mony ithers, were put into a Gravesend boat, and sent down tae a bit ca'ed Northfleet, whar the Indiaman was lying at the buoys. She was the first large ship I'd ever seen--and eh! but I was astonished. I hae seen mony a ane since, and far bigger anes; but she aye seems to my min' the biggest o' them a'. She was ca'd the True Briton; and grand she did look, wi' her tall masts, and her colours a' fleeing abroad, and the muckle guns peeping out o' the holes in her sides they ca' ports. When we speeled up her sides, it was maist like munting a hill; and when we got on board, I was fairly 'mazed, and stood glowring frae the gangway as if I were bewitched, till a chiel, wi' a face like a foumart, and a siller pipe hanging round his neck wi' a black riband (he was a boatswain's mate), ca'd out to me-- "What are you staring at, you great fool? Come down from the gangway!" And wi' that he gied me a pu' by the jacket, that maist garred me fa' on the deck. My bluid was up in a moment; and I was just gaun to gie him as guid's he brocht, when Geordie, wha was at my elbow, said-- "Haud yer hand, Tam! Never heed him. Do as ye see me do." Wi' that he touched his hat to an officer who was walking the deck and tell't him that we wished to ship as seamen. "Can you hand, reef, steer, and heave the lead, my man?" said he. "Yes, sir," said George; "but this callant has never been to sea afore." "Oh, then, he won't do for us; besides, he is too light a hand. How long have _you_ been at sea?" "Six years, sir--three in a collier, and three in a Dumfries trader to America. But, if Tom here is not shipped, I'll no go either." "Well, you are a smart, stout-looking fellow yourself; and, as we want a boy or two, we'll take Tom, too, as you call him. Midshipman, take these men to the doctor." "Ay, ay, sir!" said a smart wee boy, wi' a gilt loop and cockade in his hat--"follow me, my lads!" "What in a' the yirth is the doctor gaun to do till us? He's no gaun to put a mark upon us, is he, Geordie?" whispered I. "Whisht, ye great gowk!" was a' the answer I got; and I followed, as I thocht, like a lamb to the slaughter, doun a ladder, till anither flat deck, where a' the officers' cabins were. 'Od, sir, I never was sae astonished in a' my days! It was just like a street in a toun; the cabins, on each side, like raws o' houses; and, farder on, as far as ane could see, a raw o' muckle guns a' standing abreast. It was unco low o'erhead, and I maist brak my head twice or thrice or I won to the doctor's cabin. 'Od, I've aften laughed sin' syne, to think how queer everything lookit to me then! Weel, sir, the doctor felt our pulses, and lookit in our mouths, and punchit us in the ribs, and examined us just as a horse-dealer wad a beast, to see gin we war sound, wind and limb. And when he was satisfied-- "Mr Noodle," said he to the midshipman, "tell Mr Douglas these men will do." And awa we gaed up the ladder again. The ship was only waiting for men to mak up her complement; and, as we were the last, we signed the contract for the voyage, and received twa months' pay as arles. Our kind freend, the crimp, was waiting at the pay-table wi' his bill, and sune eased us o' maist o' our money. The morning after, two steamboats cam alangside, and were lashed to the ship; we cut from the buoy, and in a few minutes the ship was whirring doun the water wi' twa lang cluds o' smoke fleeing awa ahint, and the red ensign just glinting now and then through them in the sunshine. We cam to anchor at a place they ca' the Lower Hope; and in the afternoon the boatswain and his three mates went about chirping wi' their siller pipes, and ca'in, "All hands to muster, ahoy!" and the men a' cam skelping up frae below, and went on the quarterdeck, where the officers were a' standing on the ane side, and the men ranged themsels on the ither. "All up, sir," said the third mate, touching his hat to the chief. "Very well--go on, steward." And the ship's steward ca'd out the names o' a' the men, and they went round the capstan, touching their hats as they answered. The chief mate afterwards tell't them a' their stations, for reefing, furling, and tacking, and divided them into starboard and larboard watches. Geordie Gordon being an able seaman, and a smart, active chiel, was made a forecastle-man, and I was stationed in the mizzentop. At daylight neist morning we were roused out o' our hammocks by the boatswain and his mates calling out on the upper-deck, "All hands up anchor, ahoy! Up all hammocks, ahoy!" And then they cam doun below, and made noise aneugh to wauken the dead or my auld deaf grannie, crying, "Tumble up! tumble up!--show a leg!--lash and carry!" (Meaning the hammocks.) Then the men jumpit out, and began hurrying on their claes, and lashing up their hammocks. I had never been in a hammock afore that nicht, and I had just been dreaming o' hame, when I was waukened by the noise as if a' the deevils had broken loose, and I started up and jumpit out o' my ain bed at hame, as I thocht, but I cam doun wi' sic a thud on the deck as maist brak my head. As soon as the hammocks were a' up, and put awa in the nettings on deck, the capstan bars were shipped and manned, and the chief mate shouted down the hatchway-- "Are you all ready there below?" "All ready, sir!" replied the third mate. "Heave taut for unbitting!" As soon as the cable was unbitted, "Heave round!" was the cry from the lower-deck. "Heave round!" said the mate; "step out, my hearts!" The fifes struck up "The girl I left behind me," the men stamped round the capstan with a cheerful, steady step, and in a very short time the cable was nearly up and doun. "Up and down, sir!" shouted the boatswain from the forecastle. "Heave and paul!" cried the chief mate. "Out bars, out bars! bear a hand, my lads!--Up there, topmen--loose sails! Send everybody up from below to make sail!" "Ay, ay, sir!" Eh! but I was dumfoundered to see the lads rinning up the rigging like sae mony monkeys. And while I was standing glowering at them, a young midshipman ca'd to me, "Holloa! you, Wilson!--don't you know you're a mizzentopman?--Spin up and loose the topsail!" "Me gang up, sir!--I canna, sir, I'd tumble." "Can't, sir! there's no such word on board ship. Up you go; and if you're afraid of falling, hold on with your teeth!" "So I was obleeged to gang up; but I was a' in a tremble, and just was up to the top in time to creep doun again; for the sails were a' loose, and a' the lads coming doun. Eh! hoo the sailors did laugh at me! But, in a fortnight's time, there wasna ane amang them could lay saut on my tail. But what's the use o' my fashing yer honour wi' a' thae idle clavers? Nae doot ye're tired o' them already." "Oh no, Tom!" said I, "go on; I am much amused, I assure you; but you'd better moisten your lips out of my flask before you go on." "Thank ye, sir!" Eh, but I thocht it a bonny sicht, when I lookit frae the rigging, where I was hauding on wi' a' my fingers, like a fleyed kitlin, to see the men a' lying oot on the different yards, loosening the rapes that keep the sails rowed up--(they ca' them gaskets). Then the chief mate cried oot, "Are you all ready there, forward!" "All ready, sir." "Are you ready in the maintop?" "All ready, sir." "Ready abaft?" "All ready, sir." "Let fall!"--And then the boatswain and his mates gied a loud skirl wi' their pipes, and doun cam a' the sails flaffing at ane and the same time; and in five minutes the masts that lookit afore as bare as trees in winter, were a' cled in canvas frae tap to bottom. Weel, sir, the sails were a' set, and just swelled out bonnily wi' the light breeze, and the yards were trimmed, as they ca' it, for casting. "Man the capstan bars!" shouted the chief mate. "Hold on there below!" "All ready, sir!--heave round!" And away went the men again to the soun o' the fife, till the boatswain gied a loud chirrup wi' his pipe, as much as to say the anchor was up; and the paul o' the capstan clinkit, and the bars were ta'en oot, and the men ran aboot a' gaets as they war ordered, and the anchor was made fast, and in a short time the ship was snooving through the water, bobbing and frisking like a fine leddy dressed in a' her braws in a kintra dance. 'Od, sir, a muckle ship's a queer thing when ye come to think on't; it's just, for a' the warl, like a toun afloat. If ye gang to the ane end, ye hear the quacking o' ducks, and the cheep-cheeping o' turkeys, and the crawing o' cocks;--gang to the ither, and there's the baaing o' sheep, and the grumphing o' pigs, and the kye rowting as natural like as if they war in a farm-steading at hame. Then there's Jemmy Ducks, a kind o' henwife, only he's a man; and a butcher, and a baker, and cooks, and carpenters, and joiners, and sail-makers, and blacksmiths (armourers they ca' them), and a smiddy, and a' things like a place on shore. Then, if ye want yer shoon clouted, or yer jacket mendit, or yer hair clippit, ye're safe to fin' tailors, and cobblers, and shavers amang the crew. We had a vera crooded ship; there war near five hundred sodgers, wi' some o' their wives, on board; and an awfu time we had on't at first. We had just got fairly oot into the Channel, whan it beguid to blaw great guns, as they say, and the sail was a' taen in but the maintopsail, and the ship tossed and tumbled in the water like a strong man warstlin wi' his enemy. Whiles an awfu sea, as big's a hill-side, wad come rampaging and raining doun upon her, as if it was gaun to swallow her up a'thegither; and, wi' an awsome thud agen her bow, wad send a shower o' thick spray owre her hail length; then she tumbled owre, graining and maning like a leeving thing, till her side went deep into the water, as if she war never gaun to rise mair; then up she wad come again, whirring, and roll owre the tither way, dauring the sea, as 'twere, to anither tussle, while the lang masts were whisking aboot as if they wad sweep the heavens abune oor heads. The sodgers, puir bodies, were doun on the lowest deck--they ca't the hollup (orlop)--wi' nae licht nor air but what cam doun the hatchways, so that we were obliged to keep the hatch off, and every time a sea struck the ship, a great body o' water ran doun below, till the hollup was rinning maist foot deep; and there were the puir mithers sitting hauding on by the stanchions in the midst o' the deck, and trying to catch the helpless bit weans as they were carried frae side to side by the rolling o' the ship and the rushing o' the water. Eh, it was a sad sicht to see the bits o' things! Mony a puir wean died afterwards. I could tell ye a feck o' queer things about the voyage; but I hae nae time enow. But I'll just tell ye twa bit stories, ane about a sodger, and the ither about puir Geordie Gordon; they baith affected me much at the time. Amang the sodgers there was a serjeant--a colour-serjeant, they ca'd him--wha was weel likit by a' the crew. His name was George Hastie; he was a weel-faured, douce, canny body, wi' twa mitherless weans. Oh, but it was a pleasant sicht to see how carefu he was o' the bairns!--and bonny bairns they were. He kamed their hair, and washed the bit faces and hands, and keepit them aye as trig and clean as their ain mither could hae dune. There was a wee bit shuffling luftennan on board, wha likit his glass weel, and aye lookit twa inches taller after denner, and as proud as a wee bantam cock. Weel, ae day the puir serjeant, what wi' the heat o' the day and the strength o' the grog, was a thocht the waur o' drink, and was maybe no exactly sae respectfu to the bit offisher as he sud hae been; and--I kenna hoo it was, but he was had afore a court-martial, and the stripes were taen aff the airm o' his coat, and he was reduced to the ranks to do duty as a common sentry. Puir fallow! we were a' terrible ill-pleased about it, and nane mair than the vera offishers that condemned him. Eight days after cam the 23d of April, when the king's birth-day, that's dead, was keepit. At daylicht in the morning, in place o' the drums and fifes striking up what the sodgers ca' the revilly, the hail band o' music--twenty-twa instruments, forby drums--beguid playing, "God Save the King," the colours o' the regiment were fleeing on the poop, and the offishers a' dressed oot in their gran coats. After breakfast, the leddies--bless their blithe looks and bonny faces!--war a' walking up and doun the poop, when the bugles sounded to parade, and a' the sodgers fell in on the quarterdeck. A grand set o' fallows they war--as neat and clean as if they'd just turned oot o' a barrack-yard, wi' their belts as white as snaw, and their brass muntings glinting in the sun, quite dazzling to look at. They war formed into three sides o' a square, as near as micht be, and the colonel and a' the offishers were standing at the open end, a' in full dress. The colonel's breast was just covered a' owre wi' orders. When the men war a' settled, there was a dead silence; and the onlookers wondered what was coming neist. "Call Private George Hastie of Captain Thomas's company to the front," said the colonel. And oot afore them a' steppit puir Hastie, pale as a sheet, but firm, erect, and sodger-like. "George Hastie," said the colonel, "I have been induced, by the solicitations of the ladies, and of the captain and officers of the ship, as well as by the wishes of your own officers, to pardon the transgression of military discipline of which you have been guilty, and to restore you to the rank of flag-serjeant. I hope your temporary degradation will act as a warning to you for the future, and that you will not again run the risk of forfeiting the good opinion which, I am happy to say, your officers have hitherto had of you." Wi' that, oot whiskit the regimental tailor, and in a jiffey the bit stripes war on Geordie's arm, and he was a made man again. He just touched his cap to the colonel, puir chiel, and said nought; but a tear cam intil his ee, and gaed stealing owre his cheek, that spak mair and better than words could hae dune. Everybody was delighted at his restoration; it was an act o' mercy wordy o' the occasion;--the king's birth-day couldna hae been better celebrated. The sodgers war then dismissed, and gaed below; and in the evening the band was up, and an extra pint o' grog, to drink the king's health, was served out; and there was naething but joy and diversion from ae end o' the ship to the ither. Sae much for George Hastie! And noo I maun tell ye aboot puir Geordie. One evening we war comin near ane o' the shoals that's put doun in the chart--but it wasna weel kent whether there really was ane there or no--and the captain cam oot aboot sax in the evening, and tell't the offisher o' the watch to shorten sail, and hae a' ready for lowering the larboard cutter. I was standing on the poop at the time, and heard him gie the order. Weel, sir, we beguid to shorten sail, while the cutter's crew were clearing awa the boat. We took in a' the stun-sails, and hauled up the courses, and furled the royals; then the mainyard was laid aback, and the boat was lowered and hauled up to the gangway. Geordie Gordon was ane o' the crew o' the boat--and sax o' the finest young lads in the ship they war. Ane o' the mates and a midshipman were sent in the boat, wi' orders to mak sail, and keep ahead o' the ship, sounding for the shoal. They had a compass, twa or three muskets, and some blue lichts for signals, wi' them. It was a fine evening; a licht, steady breeze was blawing, and the ship, under her topgallantsails, was gaun aboot four knots an hour through the water; and the wee boat danced merrily owre the waves a gey bit ahead, wi' her white sails glinting in the sun, like the wings o' a bonny sea-bird. Whan the darkening cam on, the captain, afore he _turned in_, said to the offisher o' the watch, "Keep your eye on the boat, Mr Bowline, and on no account let the ship go faster through the water than she does at present. Let me know if the boat makes any signal, or if the breeze should freshen." "Ay, ay, sir!--Keep a good look-out for the boat there, forward!" Weel, sir, the breeze keepit steady, and the ship gaed cannily through the water, and the boat was easy to be seen--till aboot seven-bells--that's half-past eleven--the sky beguid to be o'ercast, and the breeze to freshen; but still through the darkness the bit white sail was seen. At eight-bells, that's twal o'clock, the watch was relieved, and anither officer came up to tak charge o' the ship. "A cloudy night, Bowline. What are the orders?" "You're to keep the ship the same course" (I dinna just min' what it was), "and not to lose sight of the boat on any account." "Very well. But where _is_ the _boat_?" "There she is, just under that dark cloud. Good-night!" "Don't be in such a hurry. I can't see the boat!" "Why, there she is!" "I can't see her," said the other; "and what's more, I won't take charge of the deck till I do." "I'm sure I saw her two minutes ago," said Bowline. Weel, sir, they lookit and lookit, and we a' lookit, and they gat up their nicht-glasses; but a' in vain, for the boat wasna to be seen. The offisher o' the deck was maist demented, and ran in to the captain--"We've lost sight of the boat, sir!" "The devil!" said he, starting oot o' his cot, and rinning on deck--"burn a blue light directly!" The gunner's mate ran doun for a blue licht; and, in a minute, it was fizzing awa on the quarter, throwing a bricht glare o' licht a' owre the ship. The nicht was dark by this time; but you could see every rape in her, and the faces o' the men at the far end looking a' blue and ghaist-like. Lang and sair we lookit for an answer to the signal; ye micht hae heard a whisper, we war sae quiet wi' fear and hope; but there was nowther sicht nor sound in reply. Anither was burned--but still nae answer. A gloom fell upon us a', a fear o' we didna ken what. We durstna speak our thochts to ane anither; and, as for our captain, I thocht he wad hae gane clean oot o' his mind--for a kinder-hearted man never steppit a quarterdeck. We hove the ship to, as they ca't, and fired guns every two or three minutes, in hopes the lads in the boat wad hear; and sair and sadly we langed for the morning licht. It cam at last; but there was naething to be seen but the lift and the water. The ship was hauled to the wind; and the hail o' that day we made short tacks backward and forward across our auld course, wi' signals fleeing at our mastheads, and firing guns every hauf-hour, and a' the men straining their een to get a gliff o' the boat--but a' for nocht--we never saw them mair! Whether the boat was capsised in a sudden squall, or the ship had struck her, or whatever it was, will never be kent till the sea gies up her dead! Oh, sir, was it no an awfu thing to think that sae mony fine lads, wha had left us a few hours afore, fu' o' life and speerit, should be hurried awa at a moment's warning, and buried in the waves o' the sea! There was an unco gloom owre the ship a' that day and the neist--the men gaed about whispering to ilk ither, as if they were feared to hear the sound o' their ain voices--and the bauldest amang them were sobered for a time. But oh, sir, to see how sune the dearest and best are forgotten! In a few days the maist o' the men were as heartsome and blithe as if naething had happened. Puir Geordie! aft hae I thocht o' you when it was my look-out on deck, and o' the merry ee and the heartsome laugh that I'll ne'er see or hear mair. But it's getting weel on in the day, sir; so I maun cut short my yarn, as we sailors say, and leave ye. I left the ship in China, and volunteered on board a man-o'-war, and, after being three years on a forran station, I was paid aff a fort-nicht past, and am now on my way hame, to share my savings wi' my wee lass, if she hasna forgotten me. Guid afternoon, sir. I'll maybe meet ye again ere lang, and then, if ye like to listen to them, I'll gie ye mair o' my cracks. I maun awa to puir Geordie's faither. And, before I had time to question him as to the whereabouts of his home, and how or when I was to meet him again, he bounded over the gate, and disappeared. That same evening, I was sitting in Edward Thompson's comfortable parlour, reading my favourite, Burns; Elsie was knitting near me, and Ellen was preparing some of the trout that I had brought home for supper. The sun had long set, and the twilight was only just beginning to fade into night; the window was open to admit the mild evening air; and the song of the thrush and blackbird had usurped the place of all other sounds with sweet melody. Just as we were about to seat ourselves at the plain but comfortable board, we heard some one at a short distance whistling the air of "Dinna think, bonny lass, I'm gaun to leave you." And immediately afterwards, a fine, clear, manly voice sang-- "I'll tak my stick into my hand, And come again and see you." Ellen started, and turned pale. "What ails the lass?" said her father, when the door burst open, and, glowing with health and exercise, my friend of the morning stood before us. The old people stared with surprise; their memory was at fault. Not so Ellen: she blushed, turned pale; and burst into tears. "Faither, d'ye no mind Tam?--Tam Wilson?" And the next moment Tom--_her_ Tom--was at her side, and fondling her to his heart. That was a happy night at Fairyknowe. Tom was in all his glory; the old man indulged in an extra glass of toddy while listening to his _yarns_; and Ellen _looked_ the joy she felt--there was no shade on her features now. Next Sunday, which was only two days afterwards, the gossips of the parish were quite astonished when they heard the names of Tom Wilson and Ellen Thompson cried three times in the kirk. "Whatna Tam Wilson can that be, I wonder?" Nobody knew. But next Sabbath-day all their "wonderings" were satisfactorily silenced, by witnessing the gay kirking party, with Tom and Ellen at their head--the handsomest couple, so they all said, they had seen this "mony a lang day." I was present at the wedding, which took place on the Friday preceding, and a happy scene it was. Tom has left ploughing the sea, to follow the plough on shore, and he and Ellen are settled in a small and comfortable farm with every prospect of happiness before them. PERSEVERANCE; OR, THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF RODERIC GRAY. Courteous reader, thou must be aware that there is no virtue which conferreth greater benefits upon its possessor than the virtue of perseverance. It can scale precipices, overtop mountains, encompass seas. Perseverance is a mighty conqueror; it fighteth against odds, and neither turneth its back nor is dismayed. Its progress may be slow, but in the end it is sure. As a snail ascendeth a perpendicular wall, it may fall or be driven back to the ground, but it will renew the attempt. It suffereth longer than charity, and hence came the adage, that "they who look for a silk gown always get a sleeve o't." It has been said, "Great is truth, and it will prevail;" and in addition thereunto, I would say, "Great is perseverance, for it also will prevail." The motto of every man should be, "_nil desperandum_." Every one should remember that real honour and esteem do not seek a man on whom they are to alight--the man must seek them; he must win them, and then wear them. Instead, however, of detaining the reader with dull and general remarks on perseverance, I shall at once lay before them a copy of the autobiography of Roderic Gray, whose history will illustrate its effects in particulars:-- I was the son of poor but of honest parents. (With this stereotyped piece of history concerning poverty and honesty, Roderic Gray began his autobiography.) Yes, I repeat that my father and my mother were very poor, but they were sterlingly honest. They had a numerous family, and many privations to contend with; and the first thing I remember of my father was a constant, I may say a daily, expression of his, "Set a stout heart to a stey brae." Another great phrase of his, when any of us were like to be beaten by ought that we were attempting, was, "Try it again--never be beat--step by step brings the mountain low." My mother was of a disposition precisely similar to my father. Almost the first thing I remember of her is, what was her favourite expression, "Try it again, as your faither says--practice makes _perfiteness_."[7] [Footnote 7: Perfection] These expressions of my honoured parents were the rudiments of my education. They left an impression upon my heart and upon my brain, before I was sensible of what an impression was. There is often a great deal more conveyed through a single sentence, than we are apt to imagine. Our future destiny may be swayed by the hearing of one little word, and that word may be spoken in our hearing at a very early period of our lives. Many a father, when years began to sober down the buoyant tumult of his spirits, has wondered at and grieved over the disposition and actions of his son, marvelling whence they came; whereas the son received the feelings which gave birth to such actions, while he was but an infant, from the lips of his father, as he heard that father recount the deeds, the exploits, the feats of bravery of his young manhood. From the hour that a child begins to notice the objects around it, or to be sensible of kind or of harsh treatment, from that moment every one who takes it in their arms, every object around it, become its instructors. I find I am digressing from my autobiography, but I shall go on with it by and by, and as I have mentioned the subject of education, I shall say a few more words upon that topic, and especially on the education of the young, which, though it detain the reader for a short space from my history, will neither be uninstructive, nor without interest. Some years ago, I met with a modern Job, who said he had read through the large edition of Johnson's Dictionary; and I do regret, with considerable sincerity, having neglected to ask the gentleman whether, in the course of his highly entertaining reading, he met with any word so murdered, butchered, abused, and misunderstood, as the poor polysyllable--education. Many wise people conceive it to signify many multitudes of words--of dead words and of living words, of words without symbols; or, in plain language, they say (or they act as if they said) that education means to make a man's head a portable lexicon of all languages. This is what they term the education classical. Some very wise men go a step farther with the meaning of the term. They shake their heads in contempt at the mere word-men. They mingle more of utility with their idea of the signification. They maintain that education meaneth also certain figures, whereby something is learned concerning pounds and pence, and square inches and solid inches. Here the general idea of education terminates; and this is the education mercantile and mathematical. There are, however, a third class of philosophically-wise men, who affirm that education means the macadamising, on a small scale, of blue stones and grey ones; in describing comets with tails, and planets without tails; in making the invisible gases give forth light in darkness, as the invisible mind lighteth mortality. This is the education scientific. Thus the artillery of all the three is directed against the head. The head is made a gentleman, a scholar, a philosopher, while the poor heart is suffered to remain in a state of untutored, uncared-for barbarity and ignorance. And in all this parade, concerning what education in reality imports, it is overlooked, that the heart from whence all evil proceeds--the heart where all good is received--is the soil where the first seeds of education ought to be sown, watered, watched over, pruned, and reared with tenderness. And it is not until the heart has become a sturdy savage, hardened in ignorance, that any attempts are made to curb it within the limits of moral obligation. A more insane idea cannot be conceived by a rational man, than supposing that education begins by learning to know that one letter is called A, a second B, and a third C. Education begins with the first glance which the mother bestows upon her child in answer to its first smile. Before the infant has lisped its first word, the work of education has made progress. The mother is the first, the fondest, the most important and responsible teacher. It is hers to draw out the young soul, which dreams in the smiles and the laughing eyes of her infant; it is hers to subdue, and in gentleness to root up, the first germ of evil that springs into existence; it is hers to unfold, by a thousand ways and a thousand tendernesses, which a mother's heart can only conceive, and a mother's eye only can express, the first shadows of right and of wrong; it is hers to teach feelings of love, of gentleness, and gratitude--to give a direction and a colouring to the embryo passions which shall mark the future character and destiny of her yet sucking child. Nor is there an object upon earth more worthy the admiration, we had almost said the envy, of an angel, than a Christian mother gazing, in the depth of her affection, upon the babe of her bosom, watching its faculties expand like young flowers--bending them to the sun of truth, gently as the linnet bends the twig where it thrills its little song to cheer its partner. But, when the infant leaves the lap of its mother, and other duties divide her care, it is then necessary that a teacher, equally affectionate and equally efficient, be provided; for children seek, and will find, teachers of good or of evil in every scene, and in every playmate. It is now that the Infant School must mature the education which the mother has, or ought to have, begun. Some disciple of moth-eaten customs, whose ideas are like the flight of a bat, and whose imagination is hung round with cobwebs, may snarl out his mouthfuls of broken humanity, and inquire, what could be learned by infants of two or of five years of age, to compensate for blighting their ruddy cheeks like tender plants in a frost-wind, by mewing them up and crowding them together within the dismal walls of a noxious schoolroom, through the midst of which a male or a female tyrant continue their dreary tramp, tramping to and fro within the hated circle of their terror, and flourishing fear and trembling in their hand, in the shape of a birch, the bark of which has yielded to their work of punishment? I readily admit that, in such a place, and under such a teacher, nothing could be learned--nothing experienced--but an early foretaste of future misery. This is no picture of an infant school--this is no part of its discipline. Never would I confine the little innocents within the walls of a prison-house--never would I behold them trembling beneath the frown of a taskmaster. I would not curtail one of their infant joys, nor cut off one of their young pleasures. I would not mar their merry play, nor curb the glee that wantons in their little clubs. But I would mingle education with their joy and with their pleasures--health and lessons with their play--and affection and forgiveness in their little bands. Thus their joys or their pleasures, their play and their companions, become their teachers. By an infant school I would not mean a room where a hundred children may be crowded together in an unhealthy atmosphere. The situation and comforts of the school are almost as important as the nature of the instruction, or the character and disposition of the teacher. The situation should be airy and healthy, and the room well ventilated, with a small play-ground attached. For the play-ground is almost as necessary as the school, and both are regarded by the pupils as places of loved amusement, where the presence of the teacher inspires no terror, no restraint, but where he mingles in their sports and directs them as an elder playmate, while they regard him as such, and in return love him as a parent. And while all appears unrestrained mirth on the little yard, or the little green; and exercise gives play to the lungs, vigour to the system, and health to the blood, and the small gymnasium rings with the joy of the happy beings, no incident, however trifling, is suffered to pass unimproved, to "lead them from nature up to nature's God," to eradicate evil propensities, and cherish a love of truth, justice, mercy, and mutual love. Their sports, their tempers, their little wrongs, or quarrels, all become monitors in the hands of the teacher, to render his infant charges the future good men, or the excellent women. The schoolroom is only changing the scene of amusement, and tasks which I remember were to me the very essence of purgatory, pain, and punishment, are rendered to them an exquisite pastime. The pence table they carol merrily to the tune of "Nancy Dawson." With two or three sets of merry motions, they chant the formidable multiplication table, which affords them all the hilarity of chasing a butterfly, or romping on the meadow. Nothing is given them in the shape of a task, but every new lesson is a new pleasure. They are not so much taught by words, as by bringing the thing signified under their observation. I should be sorry if the objects of infant schools should ever be so perverted as to attempt making them nurseries for infant prodigies. I care no more for precocity of talent than I do for a tree that has blossomed before its time, the fruit of which is sure not to be worth the gathering. The design of infant schools is not to make ignorant parents _vain_ of their children, but to make all parents _happy_ in their children. It is not so much the _quantity_ of what they learn that is to be regarded, as the _quality_ of what they learn. They will learn cheerful obedience to their parents, their instructors, and their future masters; they will learn the most important of all lessons to their after happiness, the government of their temper; they will learn conscientiousness in all that they do; they will learn sincerity; they will learn habits of order, of cleanliness, and of courtesy; they will learn method and dislike confusion; they will learn to bestow neatness, without vanity, on their persons; and order in all things. They will acquire a knowledge of geography, of the animal, the vegetable, and the mineral kingdoms, not as words but as things that exist, and of which they have an understanding. They will acquire much to amuse and delight the fireside of their parents--much to surround it with edification and instruction. And instances have been, where they have there conveyed upon their lisping tongues conviction and conversion to a parent's heart; while their Maker from the lips of babes and of sucklings perfected praise. They will be taught to feel that there is ever in the midst of them a God of love, of mercy, and of power, who is angry with the wicked every day. They will be taught to love the creatures He has framed, to know his Word, and revere its precepts--to love virtue for virtue's sake. It may be urged that much of the good produced by infant schools will be afterwards destroyed, by their mingling in other schools in riper years, with children whose passions have been permitted to run wild, and especially where evil examples may exist on the part of the parents. That these will have a prejudicial effect to a certain extent, is not to be denied. But for them there is also a preventive and a remedy. The infant school is the nursery of the Sabbath school, where all the good begun will be strengthened and confirmed. Great as the moral and religious change is which Sabbath schools have effected upon society, their effect would have been tenfold, had not the moral culture of the child been so unheeded before sending it to the school, and its heart so hardened by years and neglect, as to render an abiding impression impossible. But religious instruction, whether implanted in our minds by our father's fireside, in the infant school, or the Sabbath school, will never be forgotten. It will not depart from us. We may endeavour to shake it off, but it will struggle with us as Jacob with the angel. It will be a whisper in our souls for ever. We may grow up, and we may mingle with the world, and we may cast our Bibles far from us--and we may become wicked men and thoughtless women, but these whispers of eternal truth, though even thought to be forgotten by ourselves, will return and return again; and, when we wander in solitude, or lie sleepless on our pillow in the darkness of midnight, they will rush back upon our guilty minds, in texts, in verses, and in chapters, long, long forgotten. But to return to my history. I have said that the first of my education was the sayings which I heard from the lips of my father and mother. They gave an inclination to my spirit, as the hand bendeth the twig. They became to me as monitors that were always present. I often think that I hear the voice of my honoured father saying unto me still, "Whatsoever ye take in hand, _persevere_ until ye accomplish it." That maxim became with me a principle, which has continued with me from childhood unto this day. Before proceeding farther, it is necessary for me to say that my father was not only a poor man, but his occupation was one of the humblest which a peasant could occupy. He filled no higher situation than that of occasional barnman, and hedger and ditcher, upon a farm near Thornhill, in Dumfries-shire. Neither was he what some would call a strong-minded man, nor did he know much of what the world calls education; but, if he did not know what education was, he knew what the want of it was, and he was resolved that that was a knowledge which his children should never acquire. It was therefore his ambition to make them scholars to the extent of his means. But, when I state that his income did not exceed six shillings, you will agree with me that those means were not great. But my father's maxim, _persevere_, carried him over every difficulty. When my mother had said to him, as a quarter's wages became due--"Robin, I will never be able to stand thir bairns' schooling--sae mony o' them is a perfect ruination to me." "Nonsense, Jenny," he would have said, in his own half-laughing, good-natured way; "the back is aye made fit for the burden. Just try anither quarter, though we have to be put to our shifts to make it out. I'm no feared but that we will make it out some way or other. We have always done it yet, and what we have done, we can do again. Let us give them a' the schooling we can, poor things; and the day will come when they will thank us, or mair than thank us, for a' that we have wared upon them. O Jenny, woman! had I been a scholar, as I am not, instead o' being the wife o' a labouring man the day, ye would have been my wife--but a leddy." A thousand times since, it has been a matter of wonder to me how my parents, out of their niggard income, provided food, clothing, and education for their family, which consisted of five sons and four daughters, all of whom could not only read, write, and cast accounts; but, though I say it who perhaps ought not to say it, his sons, in point of "_schooling_" in higher branches, were the equals, and perhaps more than the equals, of the richest farmer's sons in the neighbourhood. And never did a quarter-day arrive, on which any of the nine children of Robert and Janet Gray went before his teacher without his money in their hand, even as the brethren of Joseph, the patriarch, carried the money in their sacks' mouth. For it was not with my revered parents, as now-a-days it is with too many, who regard paying a schoolmaster his fees somewhat in the same light as paying a physician after his patient is dead, or a lawyer when the cause is lost. Every Saturday night my father, though no scholar himself, caused us to bring home our books and our slates, and in his homely way he examined us--or rather he examined _them_ (the books and the slates)--as to the proficiency we had made. Of figures he did know something: grammar, he said, was a new invention, and there, for a time, his examinations were at fault, and he knew not how to judge or to decide. But (I being the eldest) as I grew up, he transferred the examination of my younger brothers, as regarded grammatical proficiency, to me. And well do I remember, that every weekly examination closed with the admonition--"Now, bairns, _persevere_. Ye see how your mother and me have to fecht late and early to keep ye at the schule; and it is my greatest ambition to see ye a' scholars. Learning is a grand thing; it is a fortune equal to the best estate in the kingdom--ay, even to the Duke o' Buccleugh's; but oh, the want o' it is a great calamity, as nane can tell ye better than your faither. Therefore, bairns, _persevere_; always strive to be at the head o' your class, and if I live to be an auld man, I shall see some o' ye leddies and gentlemen." Thus the word _persevere_ was for ever rung in our ears; and I believe, before any of us knew its meaning, we one and all put it in practice. And often, when the frost lay white upon the ground, before the sun got up, and even when the ice drew itself together like a piece of lace-work on the shallow pools, at the head of all the classes in our school, which were just like stepping-stairs, a barefooted and barelegged laddie, but with hands and face as clean as the linen on his back, might have been seen as the dux of every class: and all those barefeeted or barelegged laddies were the bairns of Robert Gray. "Persevere as ye are doing, Roderic," my old teacher used to say, "and ye will live to be an ornament to your country yet." I doubt all the ornament I have been to my country is hardly of a higher kind than that of a stucco or a paste-board figure on a mantelpiece, and perhaps not so much. However, be that as it may, I have the consolation to think that I have not passed through the world exactly as if I had been a cipher. I know it is a difficult and a delicate thing for a man to write a sketch of his own life, without committing shipwreck on the shoals and quicksands of egotism; but I will endeavour to steer clear of this, and while it is certain that I will "set down nought in malice," I trust that I shall be able to show that I will "nothing extenuate." My father's precept of _perseverance_ carried me through my schoolboy days gloriously, even as it had borne him through the expense of paying out of his scanty earnings for the education of nine children. I wanted three days of completing my thirteenth year when I left the school, but then I had begun to read Homer in Greek--I had read Horace in Latin, and I was acquainted with Euclid. My father was proud of me, my master was proud of me, for I had _persevered_. It was seldom that the son of a cottar, or the son of any one else, left the school at such an age so far advanced. Many said that before I was twenty they would see me in a pulpit--but they were mistaken. My father's habitual word, _persevere_, had taken too deep root in my heart, until it produced a sort of mental perpetual motion, which ever urged me onward--onward! and I found that the limits of a pulpit would never confine or contain me. I felt like a thing of life and happiness, that rejoiced and shook its wings beneath the sunshine of freedom, and I longed to expand my wings, even though they should fall or break under me. I have said that I left school three days before I had completed my thirteenth year, and on the day that I did so, I was to become tutor in the family of a Colonel Mortimer, of the Honourable the East India Company's service. I was to be at once the playmate and instructor of two children; the one five, the other seven years of age--both boys. But his family contained another child--Jessy Mortimer--a lovely, dark-eyed girl of fifteen. The sun of an eastern clime had early drawn forth her beauty into ripeness, and although but two years older than myself, she was as a woman, while I was not only a mere boy, but, if I might use the expression, something between what might be termed a boy and a child; and certainly at the very age when children are most disagreeable to persons of a riper age. Yet, young as I was, from the very day that I beheld her, my soul took up its habitation in her eyes. I was dumb in her presence, I opened not my mouth. I was as a whisper, a shadow, in the family--a piece of mechanism that performed the task designed for it. It was a presumptuous thing in the son of a humble barnman to fix his eyes and his heart upon the daughter of an East India colonel, and one two years older than himself; but the heart hath its vagaries, even as our actions have. For the first two years that I was in the house of Colonel Mortimer, I may say that, save in my class-room, my voice was not heard above my breath. But, as my voluntary dumbness became more and more oppressive, so also did my affection, my devotion, for Jessy become the more intense. The difference between our ages seemed even to have become more marked, and I felt it. Yet I began to think that her eyes looked upon me more tenderly; and the thought increased the devotion which for two years I had silently cherished. There seemed also a music, a spirit of gentleness and of kindness, in her voice, which first inspired me with hope. Thus did five years pass on, and during that period I hardly ventured to lift up my eyes in her presence; though throughout that period I had said within my heart, Jessy Mortimer _shall be my wife_, and that was a bold thought for the son of a barnman to entertain towards the daughter of a wealthy nabob. But throughout my whole life I had endeavoured to put into practice my father's counsel concerning perseverance; and most of all was I determined to follow it in the subject which was deepest in my heart. I remember the first time I ever spoke to Jessy. When I say the first time I spoke to her, I mean the first time that my soul spoke to her through my lips. For more than five years we had exchanged the common civilities of society with each other; but the language of the heart is ever a sealed volume, when the cold-fashioned ceremonies of society have to be observed. But to proceed. I was now upwards of eighteen, and the children under my tuition were to be removed to a public school. It was no disgrace to me that they were to be so removed, for I knew it from the beginning of my engagement. Yet I felt it as disgrace--as more than disgrace--because that it would tear me from the side of Jessy, on whom my eyes lived and my mind dreamed. I had no wish to be a teacher, no ambition to become a minister; and her father had procured for me a situation as a clerk to a broker in London. But to me the thoughts of departure were terrible. Everything within and around the colonel's establishment had become things that I loved. I loved them because Jessy loved them, because she saw them, touched them, was familiar with and in the midst of them. They had become a portion of my _home_. I was unhappy at the thought of leaving them; but, beyond every other cause, my mind was without comfort at the thought of leaving her--it was hopeless, desolate. It was like causing a memory by force to perish in my heart. It was in the month of September; I was wandering amidst the wooded walks upon her father's grounds. The rainbowed bronze of autumn lay upon the trees, deepening as it lay. The sun hung over the western hills; and the lark, after its summer silence, carolled over the heads of the last reapers of the season, to cheer their toil. A few solitary swallows twittered together, as if crying, "Come--come!" to summon them to a gathering and departure. The wood-pigeon cooed in the plantations, and as the twilight deepened, the plaintiveness of its strain increased. As I have said, I was then wandering in the wooded walks upon Colonel Mortimer's grounds, and my thoughts were far too deep for words. While I so wandered in lonely melancholy, my attention was aroused by the sound of footsteps approaching. I looked up, and Jessy Mortimer stood before me. I was too bashful to advance--too proud, too attached towards her, to retire. We stood as though an electric spark had stricken both. I trembled, and my eyes grew dim; but I saw the rose die upon her cheeks. I beheld her ready to fall upon the ground, and, half unconscious of what I did, I sprang forward, and my arm encircled her waist. "Jessy!--Miss Mortimer!" I cried. "Pardon me--speak to me." "Sir!" she exclaimed--"Roderic!" I approached her--I took her hand. We stood before each other in silence. She drew herself up--she fixed her eyes upon me. "Sir," she returned, "I will not pretend to misunderstand your meaning; but remember the difference that exists in our situations." "I remember it, Miss Mortimer--I do. I will remember it, Jessy. There _is_ a difference in our situations." I sprang from her--I thought I felt her hand detaining mine; and, as I rushed away, I heard her exclaiming, "Stay, Roderick! stay!" But wounded pride forbade me--it withheld me. I thought of my father's and of my mother's words--"Persevere! persevere!" And while I thought, I felt a something within, which whispered that I should one day speak to the daughter of Colonel Mortimer as her equal. As I rushed away, I turned round for a moment to exclaim, "Farewell, Jessy!--we shall meet again!" Me-thought, as I hurried onward, I heard the accents of broken-hearted agony following after me; and through all, and over all, her voice was there. But I would not, I could not return. It was better to feel the arrow in my soul, than to have a new one thrust into it. In a few days I took my departure towards London. I carried with me the letters of introduction which her father had given me. The broker to whom he recommended me was a Mr Stafford. He received me civilly, but at the same time most coldly, and pointing with his finger to the desk, said, "You will take your place there." I did so, and in a very few weeks I became acquainted with the minutiæ of a broker's office. I perceived the situation which my senior clerks occupied, and I trusted one day to be as they were. I had heard them tell of our master having come to London with only half-a-crown in his pocket; and I thought of my father's maxim, "persevere," and that I might do even as my master had done. There were a dozen clerks; and three years had not passed, until I occupied one of the chief seats in the counting-house. I became a favourite with my employer, and one in whom he trusted. During that period I had heard nothing of my early benefactor--nothing of Jessy; but my thoughts were full of them. Now it came to pass, somewhat more than three years after I had arrived in London, that, one day as I was passing up Oldgate, a person stopped me, and exclaimed, "Roderic!" "Esau!" I returned; for his name was Esau Taylor. "The same," he replied, "your old schoolfellow." Hunger sat upon his cheeks--starvation glared from his eyeballs--necessity fluttered around him as a ragged robe. The shoes upon his feet were the ghost of what they had been. His whole apparel was the laughingstock of the wind; but my father had taught me to despise no one, however humble. It was a saying of his, "Look to the heart within a breast, and not to the coat that covers it;" and therefore I received Esau Taylor kindly. He was the son of an extensive farmer in our neighbourhood, and although I wondered to find him in a situation so distressed, I recollected that in London such things were matter of everyday occurrence. Therefore I did not receive him coldly, because of the shabbiness of his coat, and the misery of his appearance. I knew that I was the son of a barnman, and that my father's coat might be out at the elbows. "Ha, Esau! my dear fellow," said I to him, "when did you come to town?" "Several weeks ago," he replied. "And what have you been doing?" said I. "Nothing, nothing," he rejoined. "Well," said I, "will you meet me in this house to-morrow? You were always good at figures, Esau; you can keep accounts. I think I can do something for you; and if you _persevere_, I doubt not but that you may arrive at the top of the tree, and become the managing clerk of the establishment." "Thank you! thank you! thank you!" said Esau, grasping my hands as he spoke. "Ah!" said I, "there is no necessity for thanks; I am a plain, blunt person. I did not know you personally in the place of my nativity, but I remember having seen you. I remember also your friends; and as a townsman it will give me pleasure to know that I can be of service to you." Esau grasped my hand, and he shook it as though he would have taken it from the elbow. I was certain that he would obtain the situation which I had in view for him. We sat down together--we talked of old times, when the feelings of our hearts were young; and, amongst other things, we spoke of Jessy Mortimer. I sat--I drank with him--we became happy together--we became mad together. My Jessy--Jessy Mortimer was before me. Her presence filled my thoughts--it overshadowed me. I could think of nothing else--I could speak of nothing else. I drank to her in bumpers; but Esau sat as calm as a judge with the black cap upon his head. I marvelled that the man had so little of what is called sympathy in his soul. He appeared before me as a dead man--a thing that moved merely as it was moved. I almost despised, and yet I trusted him, because he was connected with the part of the country to which I belonged. Now, as I have informed you, we sat together, we drank together, and the name of Jessy Mortimer overcame me; but I sat till I forgot her, until I forgot myself--my companion--everything! In this state I was left sitting; and when consciousness returned, I was alone, bewildered. My companion had left me. My first sensation was that of shame--of burning shame. I felt that I had abused the time and the confidence of my employer, and the thought rendered me wretched. It was two days before I ventured to call again at the office, where I had become a confidential clerk. My master passed me as I entered, but he neither spoke to nor noticed me. His coldness stung me. I felt my guiltiness burning over me. But my confusion was increased, when I learned that I was not only discharged, but that my place was to be supplied by Esau Taylor! "Impossible!" I exclaimed. "Deem it so," said my informant. "But you have cherished an adder that has stung you; and, with all your knowledge, you are ignorant of the world, and of the people that live, breathe, and act in it. Take my counsel, and regard every man as though he were your enemy, until you have proved him to be your friend." There was something in his words that more than restored my wandering thoughts into their proper channel. I found that I had performed an act of kindness towards a villain--for I had not only treated Esau Taylor hospitably, but knowing that in London a good coat is of as much importance as a good character, I had furnished him with wearing apparel from my own wardrobe. A few days afterwards I met him in the Strand, arrayed in my garments, and he passed me with a supercilious air, as though I were a being only fit to be despised. I walked on as though I saw him not, conscious that, if he had a soul within him, it must be burning with the coals of fire which I had heaped upon his head. I soon found it was much easier to lose a good situation than to obtain an indifferent one, and that one act of folly might accomplish what a thousand of repentances could not retrieve. In a few months I found myself in a state of destitution; and while the coat which I had given to Esau Taylor was still glossy upon his back, mine--my last remaining one--hung loose and forlorn upon my shoulders. Yet, although I then suffered from both cold and hunger, the words which my parents had made a portion of my character departed not from me, and the words "_persevere!--persevere!_" were ever in my heart, kindling, glowing as a flame, until, in solitary enthusiasm, I have exclaimed aloud, as I wandered (not having a roof to shelter me) upon the streets at midnight, "I will persevere." I was glad to accept of employment as copying clerk to a law stationer, at a salary of seven shillings a-week. It was a small sum, and I have often thoughtlessly wasted many times the amount since; but it made me happy then. It snatched, or rather it bought from the gripe of death--it relieved me from the pains and the terrors of want. My situation was now sufficiently humble, but my spirit was not broken; neither had I forgotten Jessy Mortimer, nor did I despair of one day calling her mine. During the days of humiliation which I am recording, I was struck with an incident, which, although trifling in itself, I shall here relate; for from it I drew a lesson which encouraged me, and made me resolve, if possible, to carry my maxim into more active practice. Frequently on a Saturday afternoon, when the labours of the week were over, instead of returning to my wretched garret (for which I paid a shilling a-week, and which contained no furniture save a shake-down bed and a broken chair), I was wont to go out in the country, and to seek the silence and solitude of the woods and the green lanes. On such occasions "My lodging was on the cold ground," and on the Sabbath mornings, I was wont to steal, as if unobserved, into the first country church, or rather place of worship, which I found open. I was there unknown; and in a congregation of English peasantry, the one-half of whom were in their smock-frocks, there were none to observe the shabbiness of my garments. And in the plainness of everything around me, there was something that accorded with my frame of mind, and in the midst of which I felt happier, and more at ease, than I could in the splendid cathedral or the gaudy chapel of a great city. It was in the month of May, and the sweet blossom, like odoriferous snow, lay on the hawthorn. The lark sang over me its Sabbath hymn. The sun had just risen, and, like the canopy of a celestial couch on which an angel might have reposed, the clouds, like curtains of red and gold, seemed drawn asunder. I sat beneath a venerable elm-tree, over which more than a hundred winters had passed; but their frosts had not nipped the majesty of its beauty. Above me a goldfinch chirmed and fed its young, and they seemed ready to break away upon the wing. It chirped to them, it fluttered from branch to branch, to allure them from the nest. One bolder than the rest ventured to follow, but ignorant of the strength of its wings, it fell upon the ground. The parent bird descended, and with strange motions mourned over it, anxiously striving again to teach it to ascend and regain its nest. My first impulse was to take up the little flutterer, to climb the tree, and replace it in the home which its first parent had built; but I lay and watched its motions for a few minutes. Again and again by a bold effort it endeavoured to reach the lofty branch where its parent had poised its nest, but as often it fell upon the ground, and its little breast panted on the earth. At length it perched upon the lowest twig, and from it got to others higher and higher, turning round proudly as it ascended, as if conversing with its parent, happy in what it was achieving, until the nest was regained. "There," I exclaimed--"there is an example of perseverance; and a lesson is taught me by that little bird. It attempted too much at once, and its efforts were unsuccessful; it endeavoured to rise step by step, and it has gained the object it desired. That bird shall be my monitor, and I will endeavour to rise step by step, even as it has done." I returned to London, and as I went, the attempts of the little bird were the text on which my thoughts dwelt. By sedulous attention to my duties, I began to rise in the esteem of my employer, the law stationer, and he increased my salary from seven shillings to a guinea a-week. I said unto myself, that, like the young bird, I had gained a higher branch. Within twelve months he obtained me a situation in the office of an eminent solicitor, where I was engaged at a salary of a hundred pounds a-year. This was the scaling of another branch; and I again found myself in circumstances equal to those I had enjoyed previous to the treachery of Esau Taylor. I did not, in order to ingratiate myself with my employer, practise the _bowing_ system, with which my countrymen have at times been accused; but I strove to be useful, I studied to oblige, and was rewarded with his confidence and favour. It became a part of my employment to draw up abstracts of pleadings. On one occasion, I had drawn out a brief, which was to be placed in the hands of one of the most eminent counsel at the bar. He was struck with the manner in which the task was executed, and was pleased to pronounce it the clearest, the ablest, and best arranged brief that had ever been placed in his hands. He inquired who had drawn it out; and my employer introduced me to him. He spoke to me kindly and encouragingly, and recommended me to _persevere_. The word rekindled every slumbering energy of my soul. I had always endeavoured to do so, but now stronger impulses seemed to stir within me, and there was a confidence in my hopes that I had never felt before. He suggested that I should prepare myself for the bar, and generously offered to assist me. Through his interest, and the liberality of my master, I was admitted a student of the Inner Temple. My perseverance was now more necessary than ever, and again I thought of the little bird and its successful efforts. I had gained another branch, and the topmost bough to which I aspired was now visible. I allowed myself but five hours out of the twenty-four for repose; the rest I devoted to hard study, and to the duties of assistant reporter to a daily newspaper. But often, in the midst of my studies, and even while noting down the strife of words in Parliament, thoughts of Jessy Mortimer came over me, and her image was pictured on my mind, like a guardian angel revealing for a moment the brightness of its countenance. My hopes became more sanguine, and I felt an assurance that the day would come when I should call her mine. I had many privations to encounter, and many difficulties to overcome, but for none did I turn aside; my watch-word was "onward," and in due time I was called to the bar. I expected to struggle for years with the genteel misery of a briefless barrister, but the thought dismayed me not. Before, however, I proceed farther with my own career, I shall notice that of Esau Taylor. There was no species of cunning, of treachery, or of meanness, of which he was not capable. There was none to which he did not resort. His brother clerks hated him; for, to his other properties, he added that of a low tale-bearer. But he was plausible as Lucifer, and with his smooth tongue, and fair professions, he succeeded in ingratiating himself into the chief place in his master's confidence; and eventually was placed by him at the head of his establishment; and, in order further to reward what he considered his singular worth and honesty, he permitted him to have a small share in the firm. But Esau was not one of those whom a small share, or any portion short of the whole, would satisfy. This he accomplished more easily and more speedily than it is possible that even he, with all his guilty cunning, had anticipated. The merchant from whose employment he had supplanted me, and over whom his plausibility and pretended honesty had gained such an ascendency, had a daughter--an only child--who, about the time of Taylor's being admitted into a sort of partnership, returned from a boarding-school in Yorkshire. He immediately conceived that the easiest way to obtain both the father's business and his wealth would be by first securing the daughter's hand. Of anything even bordering upon affection his sordid soul was incapable: but to obtain his object he could assume its appearance, and he could employ the rhapsodies which at times pass for its language. The maiden was young and inexperienced, and with just as much of affectation as made her the more likely to be entangled in the snares of a plausible hypocrite, who adapted his conversation to her taste. The girl began to imagine that she loved him--perhaps she did--but more possibly it was a morbid fancy which she mistook for affection, and which he well knew how to encourage. She became pensive, sighed, and drooped like a lily that is nipped by the frost, and seemed ready to leave her father childless; and the merchant, to save his daughter, consented to her union with Esau Taylor, his managing clerk and nominal partner. The old man lived but a few months after their union, bequeathing to them his fortune and his business; and within a year and a-half his daughter followed him to the grave; to which, it was said, she was hurried through the cruelty and neglect of her husband. Esau was now a rich man, a great man, and withal a bad man--one whose heart was blacker than the darkness of the grave, where his injured, I believe I may say his murdered, wife was buried. We had not met each other for more than five years, and it is possible that he had half forgotten me, or, if he remembered me, considered me unworthy of a thought. I have told you that I was called to the bar, and for ten months I attended the courts in my gown and wig, sitting in the back benches, and listening to the eloquence of my seniors, with a light pocket, and frequently a heavy heart. I was sitting one evening in my chambers, as they were called--though they contained nothing but an old writing-desk, two chairs, and a few law books; I was poring over a volume of olden statutes, mincing a biscuit, and sipping a glass of cold water, when the bell rang, and on opening the door, my old master, the solicitor, stood before me, and he had what appeared to be a brief in his hand. My heart began to beat audibly in my bosom. "Well, Roderic," said he, entering, "I always promised that I would do what I could for you, and now I am determined to bring you out. Here is a case that may make your fortune. You will have scope for argument, feeling, declamation. If you do not produce an impression in it, you are not the person I take you for. Don't tremble, don't be too diffident; but, as I say to you, throw your soul into it, and I will answer for it making your fortune. Here are fifty guineas as a retaining fee, and it is not unlikely that my fair client to-morrow may give you fifty more as a refresher." "Fifty guineas!" I involuntarily exclaimed, and my eyes glanced upon the money. I felt as though my fortune were already made, and that I should be rich for ever. "Come, Roderic," said he, "don't think about the retainer, but think of the case--think of getting another." "What is the case?" I inquired. "That," replied he, "your brief, which is as clearly and fully drawn up as if you had done it yourself, will explain to you. In the meantime, I may state, that your client, the defendant, is a young lady of matchless beauty, great fortune and accomplishments. When you see her, you will be inspired. She is the orphan daughter, and now the sole surviving child, of an officer who had extensive dealings with a house in the city. Of late years the prosecutor was his broker. Some time after the father's death, the prosecutor made overtures of marriage to the defendant, which she rejected. He has now, stimulated by revenge, set up a fictitious claim for twenty thousand pounds, which he alleges her father owed to the house of which he is now at the head; and for this claim he now drags my client into court. Now, I trust that we shall not only be able to prove that the debt is fictitious, but to establish that the documents which he holds, bearing the colonel's signature, are forgeries. It is a glorious case for you--here is your brief, and I shall call on you again in the morning." I took the brief from his hand, glanced my eyes upon the back of it, and read the words--"_Taylor_ against _Mortimer_." "Taylor against Mortimer!" I exclaimed, starting from my seat; "what Taylor?--what Mortimer? Not Jessy--my Jessy? Not the villain, Esau?--the supplanter----the----" "Hold, hold," said the solicitor, in surprise; "such are, indeed, the names of the parties; but, if you are in an ecstasy already, I must take the brief to one who will read it soberly." "No!" I cried, grasping the brief in my hand--"take back your fee--I will plead this cause for love." "Keep the money--keep the money," said he, dryly; "it will be of as much service to you in the meantime as love. But let me know the cause of this enthusiasm." I unbosomed my soul to him. I did not see Miss Mortimer until the day of trial, in the court; and, when I rose to plead for her, she started, the word "Roderic!" escaped from her lips, and tears gushed into her bright eyes. It was at the same moment that Esau Taylor saw and recognised me--his eyes quailed beneath my gaze; his guilt gushed to his face. I commenced my address to the jury--I drew the picture of a fiend. Taylor trembled. Every individual in the court was already convinced of his guilt. He endeavoured to escape amidst the crowd. I called upon the officers to seize him. I gained the cause, and with it, also, won the hand of Jessy Mortimer, to obtain which, from boy-hood I had persevered. Taylor was committed to prison, to stand his trial for the forgeries; but, before the day of trial came, he was buried within the prison walls, with disgrace for his epitaph. THE IRISH REAPER. Some years ago, I was proceeding from Runcorn to Manchester, in one of the passage-boats which ply upon the Duke of Bridgewater's canal. There could not be less than a hundred passengers, and they were of as motley a description as the imagination of man could conceive even in a dream. The boats exactly resemble a long, low, flat-roofed wooden house; but sufficiently lofty for a middle-sized person to stand erect between the floor and the roof, or rather the deck. At one end sat about a dozen Primitive Methodists, alternately reading passages of Scripture, or bursting forth, at the extreme pitch of their voice, into a squall of music, singing hymn upon hymn, till my very ears ached, and the timbers of the boat might have started. Near them sat a number of young, rosy-cheeked Welsh women, staring at the vocalists with a look of wondering vacancy, that the goats on their own mountains could not have surpassed. There were, also, manufacturers' wives and children returning from a seven days' visit to Runcorn, for the benefit of a salt-water dip in the Mersey; and six or eight prim, sober, sleek, silent, well-dressed Quakers; with a more than sprinkling of the boys of the Emerald Isle. The loud laugh of one of them was ever and anon heard above the shrill music of the Ranters. He was about five feet seven inches high, and exceedingly strong and well made. He wore an old greatcoat, of a yellowish blanket colour, and a hat, the crown of which had fallen in with service, and its brim was equally turned up before and behind, and on both sides. His feet were thrust into a pair of brogues of true Irish manufacture, which, with a pair of coarse blue worsted stockings and corduroy inexpressibles, completed his outward man. He carried an apparently empty sack under his arm, and was surrounded by about a dozen of his countrymen, who seemed to regard him as an oracle, heartily echoing back his boisterous laughter, and exclaiming, "Well done, Mister M'Carthy!--faith, and it's you that's your mother's own son, at any rate." O'Connell had sailed from Liverpool on the previous day, and his countrymen were discussing his political merits. "Why, bad luck to ye," exclaimed our hero with the greatcoat, in answer to one who had held forth in praise of the counsellor; "and it is you, Mick Behan, that says every man in Ireland should pay the O'Connell rint?--but I'll tell you a bit of a parable, as Father O'Shee says, and a parable, too, of my own natural mother's making. 'Larry,' says she to me--'Larry M'Carthy, don't be after planting those big potaties for seed; for they've a hole in their heart a little Christian might slape in?" "You're no better thin a Sassenach, Larry," interrupted the aforesaid Mick; "can't you spake your maneing like a man, if you have any maneing at all, at all." This was like to have ended in an Irish row in reality; though the majority evidently sided with Mister Larry M'Carthy, not because they agreed with him in opinion, but because, as afterwards appeared, he was their master or employer. The disputants paused for a moment, and a loud groan, as if from one in great bodily pain, mingled with the wailings of a woman, was heard from the farther corner of the boat. Larry turned round, to use his own expression, "like a flash of lightning," and the next moment he stood by the side of the sufferer, who was a tall, bony-looking figure; but, save the skin that covered them, there was little of his mortal man but the bones left. It was only necessary to look on his features, wasted as they were, to tell that he, too, was an Irishman. A young wife sat beside him, whose countenance resembled beauty personifying sorrow; she had a child at her breast, and two others, the eldest not more than five years of age, stood by her knee Larry looked upon the group, and his heart was touched. "Och! and what may be ailing ye, countryman?" said he; "sure and ye wouldn't be after dying among friends would ye?" "Ohon! and is it a friend that would be asking after my own Patrick!" replied the poor wife. "Sure, then, and he is ill, and we're all ill togidder; and it is six blessed months since he earned the bridth of tinpinny. Oh, blackness on the day that the rheumatiz came on him----" "Shure now, and is that all?" interrupted Larry; "and, belike, the doctors have been chating you; for I tell you, honey, and you, too, Patrick, those 'natomy chaps know no more about the rheumatiz than holy Solomon knew about stameboats. But, belike, I'm the lad that disn't know neither; but maybe your chating yoursilf if ye think so. I'll tell ye what it is: the rheumatiz is a wandering wind between the flesh and the bone; and, more than that, there is no way to cure it but to squaze it out at the ends of the fingers or toes." "Oh, my childer's sorrow on it, thin!" replied the suffering man's wife; "but, more and above the rheumatiz, Patrick got his leg broke last Fibruary----" "Ay, splintered, honey," added the husband; "and the doctors--bad luck be wid them!--can't make nothing on't; and I am now goin to the great Salford bone-doctor." "And maybe he won't be curing the bit bone without the money?" said Larry, with an expression of sympathy. The sufferer shook his head, and was silent; his wife burst into tears. "I will work, I will beg, I will die, for my Patrick," she exclaimed, and pressed the child closer to her breast. "You had better be barring the dying, honey," returned Larry; "and wouldn't a raffle, think ye, among friends, be more gintale thin begging among strangers?" "Ohon! and is it _friends_ you say?" replied she. "Yes, shure, and it is _friends_ that I say," answered Larry; "and a raffle is what no gintleman need be ashamed on." The boat at this moment stopped opposite an inn at the side of the canal; Larry borrowed a quart measure from the skipper, and sprang ashore. In a few minutes he returned with a quantity of rum, and, handing it first to the wife, and then to her lame husband, said, "Come, warm up thy ould bones with a drop of the cratur." He called the rest of his countrymen around him, and handed the liquor to each. When gathered together, there might be about sixteen or eighteen of them in all. "Arrah, now, and these are all my men," said Mister Larry M'Carthy, with a look of comical consequence, to his infirm countryman; "and where would you be finding better? We are goin up to a bit of work in Lancashire; for the Inglish are no better than born childer at _our_ work;[8] and," raising the liquor to his head, he added, "here's the Holy Virgin be with us, countryman, and better luck to your bad leg; and, should it ever be mended at all--though you mayn't be good for much at _hood-work_ iny more, you have still a stout bone for a _barrow_--and you won't be forgetting to ask for Larry M'Carthy. And, now, boys," continued he, turning to his workmen, "here is this poor man, and more than this, I'm saying, our own lawful countryman, with the rheumatiz and a broken leg, and his wife, too, as you see, and those three little cherubims, all starving, to be sure, and he going to the doctor's without a penny! Sure you won't disgrace Ould Ireland--just look at the childer--and I say that a raffle is the gintale way of doing the thing." [Footnote 8: Larry and his countrymen were all _navigators_, as they are called, or rather excavators, employed in digging canals, railways, docks, &c.] So saying, he thrust his hand into his pocket, and pulled out a small canvas bag well filled with silver, and tied round the mouth with a strong cord. He took off his indescribable brown hat; he threw in a piece or two of silver, and went round, shaking it among his countrymen. Each took out a bag similar to Larry's, and threw his mite into the hat. He then, without counting them, emptied its contents into the lap of the poor woman; and I should think, from their appearance, they must have amounted to thirty or forty shillings. She burst into tears. The lame man grasped his hand, and endeavoured to thank him. "Don't be after spakeing," said Larry; "did you think we warn't Christians?" Such was the Irish raffle. Larry instantly resumed his jokes, his jests, and his arguments; but I could do nothing during the rest of the passage but think of the good Samaritan, and admire Mister Larry M'Carthy. * * * * * In the September of 1834, I was wandering by the side of a country churchyard, situated near the banks of the Tyne. The sun had gone down, and the twilight was falling grey upon the graves. I saw a poor-looking man, whose garments fluttered in tatters with the evening breeze, and who, by his appearance, seemed to be an Irish reaper, rise from among the tombs. He repeatedly drew the sleeve of his coat across his eyes, and I could hear him sobbing heavily, as though his heart would burst. As we approached each other, I discovered that he was my old canal-boat companion, the then merry and kind-hearted Larry M'Carthy; but no more like the Larry I had then seen him than a funeral to a bridal. His frame was wasted to a skeleton, and hunger and misery glistened in his eyes together. "Ha!" said I, accosting him, "is it possible that sorrow can have laid its heavy hand upon the light heart of Larry M'Carthy?" "Shure," said he, drying away the tears that ran down his wan and wantworn cheeks, "and it is true, and too true, and heavy is the hand, shure enough; but not so heavy as it should be, or it would be weighing me into that grave." He pointed to the grave I had seen him leave, and added, "But how do you know me, sir--and who tould ye my name?--as I don't know yours--for, shure, and mine is Larry M'Carthy, as my father and mother, and his rivirence, wid my natarel sponsors, to boot, all, every one of thim, say and affirm." I reminded him of the canal-boat and the raffle, and inquired the cause of his distress, and his visit to the grave. "Arrah, master," said he, "and you touch a sore place when you ask me to tell it. Perhaps you don't know--for how should you--that, not long after the time you spake of in the canal-boat, I came down to what ye call the Borders here, to a bit o' navigating work that was to be a long job. I lodged wid a widow--a dacent ould woman, that had a daughter they called Mary--and, och! you may be thinking that ever Mary had an equal, but it's wrong that ye are, if ye think so. Her eyes were like drops of dew upon the shamrock; and, although she was not Irish but Scotch, it was all one; for, ye know, the Scotch and Irish are one man's childer. But, at any rate, she had a true Irish heart; and, but for the sae or the Channel, as they call it, she would have been Irish as well as me. The more I saw of Mary, I loved her the more--better than a bird loves the green tree. She loved me, too; and we were married. The ould woman died a few weeks before Mary presented me with two little Larrys. I might have called them both Larry; for they were as like each other as your two eyes, and both of them as like me, too, as any two stars in the blessed firmament are like each other, where nobody can see a difference. "Mary made the best wife in Christendom; and, when our little cherubs began to run about our knees, and to lisp and spake to us, a thousand times have I clasped Mary to my breast, and blessed her as though my heart would burst with joy. 'Sure,' I used to say, 'what would my own mother have said, had her ould eyes been witness to the happiness of her son, Larry M'Carthy?' "But often the thought came staleing over me, that my happiness was too like a drame to last long; and sure and it was a drame, and a short one, too. A cruel, mortal fever came to the village, and who should it seize upon but my little darlints. It was hard to see them dying together, and my Mary wept her bright eyes blind over them. But bad luck was upon me. The 'pothecary tould us as how our lovely childer would die; and on the very day that he said so, the wife that was dearer to me than Ould Ireland to Saint Patrick, lay down on the bed beside them--and och, sir! before another sun looked in at our window, a dying mother lay between her dead childer. I wished that I might die, too; and, within three days, I followed my wife and my little ones together to the same grave. It was this arm that lowered them into the cold earth--into the narrow house--and, sure, it has been weak as a child's since. My strength is buried in their grave. I have wrought but little since; for I cannot. I have no home now; and I take a light job anywhere when it comes in my way. Every year, at reaping time, I visit their grave, and bring with me a bit of shamrock to place over it, and that it may be a mark where to bury me, should I die here, as I hope I will." Within ten days after this, I beheld the body of the once lively and generous-hearted Larry M'Carthy consigned to the grave, by the side of his wife and children. GRACE CAMERON. In the centre of a remote glen or strath, in the West Highlands of Scotland, stands the old mansion-house of the family of Duntruskin. At the time of the rebellion of 1745-6, this house was the residence of Ewan Cameron, Esq., a gentleman of considerable landed property and extensive influence in the country. Mr Cameron was, at the period of our story, a widower, with an only child. This child was Grace Cameron, a fine, blooming girl of nineteen, with a bosom filled with all the romance and high-souled sentiment of her mountain birth and education. In the commotions of the unhappy period above alluded to, Mr Cameron, although warmly attached to the cause of the Pretender, took personally no active part; but he assisted in its promotion by secret supplies of money, proportioned in amount to his means. In the result of the struggle--which, although he was not yet aware of it, had already arrived at a consummation on Culloden Muir--neither he nor his daughter had anything to fear for themselves; but this did not by any means relieve them from all anxiety on the momentous occasion. The father had to fear for many dear and intimate friends, and the daughter for the fate of a lover, who were in the ranks of the rebel army. This lover was Malcolm M'Gregor of Strontian--a warmhearted, high-spirited young man, the son of a neighbouring tacksman, to whom Grace had been long attached, and by whom she was most sincerely and tenderly loved in return. M'Gregor at this period held a captain's commission in the service of the Prince, and had distinguished himself by his bravery in the various contests with the royal troops that had occurred during the rebellion. Having given this brief preliminary sketch, and advising the reader that the precise period at which our tale opens is on the second day after the battle of Culloden, and the locality a certain little parlour in Duntruskin House, we proceed with our story. Seated in this little parlour, on the day in question, Grace Cameron--occasionally employing her needle, but more frequently pausing to muse on the absent, to reflect on the past, or to anticipate the future--awaited, with intense anxiety, some intelligence regarding the movements and fortunes of the rebel army, with whose fate she deemed her own connected, since it was shared by one who was dearer to her than all the earth besides. Grace did not expect any special communication on this important subject; but she knew that common fame would soon bring a rumour of every occurrence of consequence which should take place at this interesting crisis. With this expectation, she anxiously watched from her window the approach of every stranger to the house; and, when one appeared, was the first to meet and to question him regarding the events of the day. At length a report reached her, in which all agreed--for her informers had differed widely in others--that a great event had taken place, that a sanguinary battle had been fought; but, this admitted, the usual discrepancies and contradictions followed. Some declared that the Prince's army was defeated, and that a number of his leading men had been killed and taken prisoners; others, with equal confidence, asserted that the rebels were victorious, and that the king's troops were flying in all directions. Elated and depressed by turns by these conflicting rumours, Grace awaited, in dreadful anxiety, some certain intelligence regarding what had taken place. It was while in this state of mind, and while gazing listlessly, and almost unconsciously, from her little parlour window on the wide prospect which it commanded, that her eye was suddenly riveted on one particular spot. This was an abrupt turn in the great road leading to Inverness, which passed Duntruskin House at the distance of about half-a-mile, and from which, at this moment, the sun's rays were suddenly reflected, in bright, brief, and frequent flashes, as if from many surfaces of polished steel. Grace's heart beat violently; for she instantly and rightly conjectured that the dark body which now gradually, but rapidly, came in sight, and from which the coruscations which had first attracted her attention emanated, was composed of armed men; but whether they were rebels or king's troops, the distance prevented her from ascertaining. In this state of doubt, however, she did not long remain. Their rapid approach soon showed her that they were a party of royalist dragoons--a circumstance which threw her into the utmost terror. Nor was this feeling lessened by her perceiving them leave the highway, and make directly for the house. On seeing this, Grace, in the greatest alarm, hastened to seek out her father, whom she found busily engaged in writing, and utterly unconscious of the threatened visit. When informed of it, his countenance became pale, and his whole frame agitated; for he dreaded that his secret connection with the rebels had been discovered, and that he was now about to be apprehended; and these were also the fears of his daughter. Without saying a word, however, in reply to what had just been communicated to him, Mr Cameron threw down his pen, started hastily to his feet, and hurried to the window, beneath which, so rapid had been their motions, the troopers were already drawn up. The commander of the party--for there was only one officer--was a little thickset man, about forty-two years of age, with a red, florid, vulgar countenance, expressive at once of gross sensuality, much indulgence in the bottle, and a total absence of all feeling. In the manner of his dress he evidently affected the military dandy: his shirt neck reached nearly to the point of his nose; his gloves were of the purest white; a showy silk handkerchief was carelessly thrust into his breast, with just enough left projecting to indicate its presence. Notwithstanding this display of finery, however, and in despite of a splendid uniform made after the smartest military fashion of the time, Captain Stubbs was still exceedingly unlike a gentleman, and still more unlike a soldier. The first he was not, either by birth or education; the latter he had neither talents nor energy of character sufficient ever to become. The absence, however, of these qualities in Captain Stubbs was amply supplied by others. He was vain, irascible, conceited, and cruel; brutal and overbearing in his manners; and coarse and utterly regardless of the feelings of others in his language. He was, moreover, both an epicure and a glutton; and, to complete his very amiable character, a most egregious coward. Having drawn up his party in front of the house as already mentioned, Captain Stubbs, before dismounting, threw a scrutinising glance at several of the windows of the building, as if to ascertain what sort of quarters he might expect--a point with him of the last importance. In the course of this brief survey, his eye alighted on that occupied by Mr Cameron and his daughter, whom he saluted with an insolent and familiar nod. In the next instant he was at the door, where he was met by Mr Cameron himself, with a countenance strongly expressive of the alarm and uncertainty which he felt, and could not conceal, regarding the issue of the interview now about to take place. On their meeting--"Ha," said Stubbs, addressing the latter, "you are, I presume, Mr--Mr----Hang me, I forget your name, sir! Mine, sir, is Captain Stubbs, of the ---- regiment of dragoons. I find your name is in my list of--of"--here the captain (who had by this time been conducted to the dining-room), perfectly indifferent as to the particular of finishing his sentence, began to pull off his gloves, and to detach his spurs from his boots, with the air of one who is determined to be quite at home--"of--of," he continued to repeat, with the utmost disregard of ordinary politeness, and with the most profound contempt for the feelings of his host, who, taking alarm at the ominous hiatus, which he fully expected would be filled up by his being ranked amongst the proscribed, waited patiently and meekly the conveniency of Captain Stubbs--"of--of," repeated the captain slowly, after having divested himself of his accoutrements, and otherwise prepared himself for an hour or two's enjoyment--"of the friends of the government," he at length said; and the words instantly relieved both his host and his daughter from the most dreadful apprehensions. "So I have just beat you up," continued Captain Stubbs, "_en passant_, as 'twere, to tell you of the total defeat of the rebels, at a place called Culloden, and to have a morsel of dinner--eh, old boy?--and an hour or two's quarters for the men and horses." "Much obliged for the honour," replied Mr Cameron, ironically, and accompanying the expression with a polite and formal bow; but, at the same time, cautiously guarding against any expression of his real feelings on this occasion, amongst which was a strong inclination to kick the redoubted Captain Stubbs to the door. His prudence, however, prevented him embroiling himself in this or any other way with a visiter who had the means of retaliation so much in his power. Immediately after making the announcement above recorded, Captain Stubbs added, "And now, Mr--A--a----Pray, what the devil's your name, sir?" "My name, sir," replied the party interrogated, "is Cameron--Ewan Cameron." "Ah! Cameron--ay, Cameron," repeated Captain Stubbs, knitting his brows, and endeavouring to look very dignified. "Why, then, sir, I want some brandy and water; and pray, see that some of your fellows look after my horses." Having been provided with, and having swallowed a very handsome modicum of the beverage he had called for, Captain Stubbs went on--"I say, Cameron, can any of your brutes, your Hottentots, prepare me a fowl, _à la Condé_?" "Why, Captain Stubbs," replied Mr Cameron, whose anxiety to keep well with the government and all connected with it induced him to suppress the resentment which the amazing insolence of his guest was so well calculated to excite--"our cookery is in general of a very plain sort." "Ay, oh! boiled beef and cabbage, I suppose," interrupted Captain Stubbs, with a sneer. "But my daughter," continued Mr Cameron, without noticing the impertinent interruption, "has, I believe, some little skill in these matters, and will be happy, I doubt not, to make some attempt to produce the dish you speak of; I will not, however, answer for her success." "Your daughter, Mr A--a--a; ay, your daughter," said Captain Stubbs; "why, let me see--yes, let her try it; but, zounds, if she spoil it, it shall be at her peril. No, no," he added, after a moment's thought--"I'll tell you what, Mr Cameron--as it would be a devil of a business to have the thing botched, I suppose I must give instructions about it myself: so, pray, order every one out of your kitchen but your cook, and I shall go down-stairs presently, and see the thing properly done. In the meantime, Mr Thingumbob, call in your daughter, that I may have some conversation with her on the subject, that I may learn how far she may be trusted in this affair." Mr Cameron immediately rung the bell, and desired the servant who obeyed the summons to inform his daughter that he wished to see her immediately. "And, that she may not be altogether unprepared," he added, "say to her that I wish to introduce her to Captain Stubbs." "Ah!" ejaculated the latter, with a supercilious nod, in acknowledgment of his acquiescence in the terms of the message. In a few minutes, Miss Cameron entered the apartment. "Ah! Miss Cameron, I presume," said the captain, with a haughty inclination of his head, but without moving from his seat. "Your father, madam," he continued, "tells me that you know something of _le grand cuisine_. Now, pray, madam, how do you compound your sauce for a fowl, _à la Condé_? Eh, ma'am? Answer me that, if you please. Do you use chopped veal or not? If you don't, you spoil the dish--that's all. I've seen mutton used, but it's downright abomination." "Why, sir," replied Miss Cameron, haughtily, shocked and disgusted with the insolence and gross epicureanism of the brute, "I am not accustomed to be catechised on these subjects, or on any other, in the very peculiar manner which you seem to have adopted." "No!" exclaimed the gallant captain, starting up to a sitting posture, and at the same time seizing his shirt-collars with finger and thumb, and tugging them up at least another inch higher on his face. "I say, you are uncivil, and confoundedly unpolite, madam. I am a king's officer, madam--and a soldier, madam--and, by heavens, neither man nor woman shall insult Captain Stubbs with impunity!" "Nobly said, captain!" replied Miss Cameron, with an air of the mock heroic; "draw your sword, sir, and lay your insulter dead at your feet; or, if you are not altogether so sanguinary, you may send me a challenge by my waiting-maid, who, I daresay, will have no objection to act as my second in any little affair of honour--such as this is likely to be." "Miss Cameron, madam--Mr Cameron," stuttered and sputtered out Captain Stubbs, starting to his feet, his face reddening with rage, and every feature exhibiting symptoms of the high indignation which he felt--"Mr Cameron, sir, I command you, sir, in the king's name, to turn your daughter out of this apartment, otherwise I shall order up half-a-dozen of my fellows, with pistol and sabre, to drive her from my presence; and it is not improbable, sir, that I may have her apprehended, and tried, and shot as a rebel, sir." Whilst delivering himself of this appalling speech, Captain Stubbs strutted up and down the apartment, chafing with rage; at one time impatiently tugging on his gloves, at another buttoning up his coat with an air of determination, which he thought, no doubt, would strike terror into the breasts of his auditors. Mr Cameron, unwilling that matters should be carried any farther, and still desirous to keep up appearances with his guest, now approached his daughter; and, taking her gently by the hand, and at the same time leading her towards the door-- "Grace," he said, "I think you had better retire. You do not appear disposed," he added--smiling in his daughter's face as he spoke, but taking care to conceal this expression of his real feelings from the enraged captain--"to make yourself agreeable to-day; and therefore it may be as well that you carry your temper to some other quarter." "Oh, certainly, sir, since it is your pleasure," replied Miss Cameron, tripping towards the door, where she stood for an instant--looked full at the captain--said she would expect to hear from him at his convenience, as to time, place, and weapons--made him a stately curtsey, and left the apartment. When she had gone--"Don't think I am _afraid_ of her, Mr Cameron," said Captain Stubbs. "I am a man, sir, and a soldier, sir," he continued, still pacing the room, in great indignation at the treatment he had received from his fair antagonist, "and not to be frightened with trifles; but I say, Mr A--a--," he added, in a more subdued tone, "as I am not a man to permit such small occurrences as this to direct my attention from any important object I may have in view, I beg to know distinctly what you have for dinner, and I insist upon you, at the same time, recollecting, sir, that I am a king's officer, sir, and have a right to civil treatment." "What sort of dinner you are to have, Captain Stubbs," replied Mr Cameron, "I really do not exactly know; but you may rest assured that, in so far as it lies with me, you shall have civil treatment; and I request of you to point out to me in what way I may contribute to your comfort." "Ah! well--very well," replied Captain Stubbs. "Am I, then, or am I not, to have a fowl _à la Condé_, sir--eh?" "Surely, sir," said his host; "if any of my people can prepare such a dish as you speak of, you shall have it." "What the devil, then!" exclaimed Stubbs, passionately; "and am I to lose my dinner if your Hottentots shouldn't happen to know how to cook it? No! hang me, sir, I'll superintend the thing myself. I'll do it with my own hands, if you will show me the way to your kitchen." With this request Mr Cameron immediately complied, by marshalling the captain to the scene of his proposed labours. On arriving in the kitchen, he forthwith prepared himself for the work he was about to undertake, by throwing off his regimental coat, rolling up his shirt-sleeves to his shoulders, and seizing on a large carving-knife which happened to be lying within his reach. Thus prepared, Captain Stubbs, after having been provided, by his own special orders, with a pair of choice fowls, lemon juice, bacon, parsley, thyme, bay-leaf, cloves, &c. &c., commenced operations; and, forgetting his dignity in his devotion to good living, he might now be seen smeared, from finger-ends to elbows, with grease and offal, earnestly engaged in disembowelling, with his own hands, the fowls on which he meant to exercise his gastronomic skill. Leaving Captain Stubbs, of his majesty's ---- regiment of horse, thus becomingly employed, we shall return to a personage who, we should suppose, will be fully more interesting to the reader. This is Grace Cameron. That lady, on leaving the presence of her father, and him of the fowl _à la Condé_, returned to her own apartment, when, recollecting that the dragoons were still in front of the house, she walked up to the window, to gratify her curiosity by taking another peep at the warlike display; and it was while thus employed that Miss Cameron, for the first time, perceived that there was a prisoner amongst the soldiers. The prisoner was a boy of about thirteen or fourteen years of age. He was mounted behind one of the dragoons, to whom he was secured by a cord, which was passed round the bodies of both. Grace thought she perceived that the boy looked up at the windows of the house with more earnestness and anxiety than curiosity; and, when his eye at length rested on that she occupied, he threw a peculiar intelligence into his look, accompanied by certain expressive but almost imperceptible signs, that convinced her that he was desirous of holding some communication with her. Satisfied of this, Grace raised the window at which she stood, and beckoned to the serjeant of the troop to approach nearer. He rode up to within a few yards of the house. "Is that poor boy a prisoner, sir?" inquired Miss Cameron. "Yes, ma'am," replied the serjeant, touching his hat. "For what has he been taken up? What has he done?" "Done, ma'am! Lord love you, ma'am--excuse me--he has done nothing as I knows of; but our captain suspects him of being a rebel." "Where did you fall in with him?" "Why, ma'am, we picked him up on the road as we came along this morning. Captain saw him skulking behind a hedge. 'There's a blackguard-looking rascal, serjeant,' says he. 'He has the rebel cut about him as perfect as a picture. Pick him up, and strap him to one of the fellows, and we'll see what the cat-o'-nine-tails will bring out of him.'" "Gracious heaven!" exclaimed Grace, shocked at this instance of military despotism, "is it possible that such a state of things exists--that you can apprehend and punish whomsoever you please, without a shadow of crime being established against them? You cannot have such a power, serjeant. It is impossible." "Oh, bless you, ma'am, but we have, though," replied the serjeant. "Captain may hang or shoot a dozen every day, if he has a mind, without ever axing them a question. We could never get through our work otherwise; and, as to this young rogue's being a rebel, there's no doubt of it. He's all in rags; and, as captain says, every poor-looking ragged rascal is sure to be a rebel." "Pretty grounds, truly, on which to subject a man to the treatment of a felon!" said Miss Cameron. "However," she continued, "will it be any dereliction of your duty, serjeant, to permit me to speak for a moment with the unfortunate lad?" "By no means, ma'am," replied the serjeant. "Provided he's kept fast till captain's pleasure is known regarding him, I don't see it signifies a pinch of gunpowder who speaks to him." Availing herself of the permission granted her, Grace was in an instant afterwards beside the prisoner, whose looks brightened up with an expression of extreme delight as she approached him. After asking the lad a few trivial questions, she observed him cautiously stealing something forth from a concealment in his dress. It was a letter. Watching an opportunity, he slipped this document unperceived into her hand. Trembling with agitation, although she knew not well for what, Grace crammed the letter into her bosom, and saying to its bearer that she would speak with him again, she hurried into the house, and sought a retired apartment, when, pulling it from her bosom, she discovered, from the handwriting of the address, that it was from Malcolm M'Gregor. With a beating heart and trembling hand, she opened it, and read-- "DEAREST GRACE,--All is lost. The Prince's army is defeated and dispersed, and I am now a wandering fugitive in my native land, with the axe of the executioner suspended over my neck. This is a dreadful reverse, and carries with it destruction to all our hopes--to mine, individually, utter annihilation. I have only time to add, dearest Grace, that, if I can escape the bloodhounds that are in pursuit of us, I must seek safety in a foreign land. I will, however, endeavour to see you before I go. I _must_ see you, Grace, and shall do so at all hazards. I have hitherto escaped unhurt. God bless you," &c. &c. With mingled feelings of joy and grief--joy to find that her lover still lived, and had escaped the dangers of the battle-field, and grief for the unfortunate position in which he was now placed--Grace returned the letter to her bosom, and hastily left the apartment, when she was met by her father, who insisted upon her joining Captain Stubbs and himself at dinner; requesting her, at the same time, to conduct herself in a conciliatory way to the captain, and thus to endeavour to make her peace with him, as he was such a man, he said, as might occasion them trouble, if allowed to leave the house with any feelings of irritation towards them. Obedient to her father's commands, Grace joined the party, and not only avoided giving Stubbs any farther offence, but got so far into his good graces that she actually prevailed on him to order the release of the boy who had been the bearer of Malcolm's letter--an order which Grace took care to see immediately fulfilled; nay, Captain Stubbs not only did this, but began, after dinner, when his temper had been mollified by the good things of which he had partaken, to play the gallant--and in this character he was standing at a window with Miss Cameron, when, suddenly dropping the awkward badinage which he had been attempting-- "But who the devil have we got here?" he exclaimed, his eye having caught a man in a mean dress, who, on discovering the dragoons as he approached the house, suddenly stopped short, and, in evident surprise and alarm, sprung to one side of the road, and endeavoured to conceal himself behind a low and rather thin hedge that ran parallel to the house, and directly in front of it. Stubbs pointed him out to Miss Cameron; she started, and turned pale; for, meanly dressed as he was, she at once recognised in the stranger her lover, Malcolm M'Gregor. He had come, she doubted not, in this disguise, to pay the visit which his letter had promised. In the meantime, Stubbs, flushed with the wine he had drunk, and desirous of showing Miss Cameron his promptitude and energy on sudden emergencies, threw up the window violently, and called out to the soldiers to pursue the fugitive, and to fire upon him, if he did not surrender himself. It was in vain that Miss Cameron--at this trying moment forgetting the additional danger to which the warm and earnest expressions of her interest in the fate of her lover would subject him--implored Captain Stubbs to allow him to escape. "For Heaven's sake," she exclaimed, in the agony of her feelings, and seizing him almost convulsively by the hand as she spoke, "do not commit murder! Do not send the soldiers after him, captain. I will do anything for you--I will go on my bended knees to you," said the distracted girl, "if you will call your men back, and allow him to escape." To this appeal Stubbs made no other reply than by repeating, with additional vehemence, his orders to the soldiers; half-a-dozen of whom, with the serjeant at their head, now galloped furiously off in the direction which he pointed out. Then, turning round to Miss Cameron, with a look of mingled triumph and self-complacency-- "Why, madam," he said, "we must do our duty. We soldiers mustn't stand on trifles. The fellow must be shot; and, if he isn't shot, he must be hanged--that's all; so there's but two ways of it--eh? Tight work that, madam, isn't it--eh?" At this instant, the report of a carbine was heard, and immediately after, another and another. "Oh heavens! they have killed him, they have killed him!" exclaimed Miss Cameron, covering her face with her hands, and throwing herself into a seat, in an agony of horror and despair. "They have murdered him, the ruthless savages. Oh Malcolm, my beloved Malcolm! that you had never loved me, that you had never looked on this fatal face!--for it is I, and I alone, that have been the cause of your cruel and untimely death." And here the violence of her feelings choked her utterance, and she burst into a flood of tears. Fortunately Captain Stubbs was too intently occupied in watching the proceedings of the party who were in pursuit of the fugitive, to hear all that Miss Cameron had permitted to escape her in her agony; or, indeed, to notice her distress at all. Quizzing-glass in hand, he was employed in looking at the chase, and ever and anon giving utterance to the various feelings which its various turns excited. "Ha, you've pinned him at last, serjeant," muttered the captain, in his own peculiar and elegant phraseology, on perceiving the fugitive stumble and fall, immediately after a carbine had been discharged at him by the officer just named. "No, you blind rascal," again muttered Stubbs, on seeing the fallen man taking once more to his feet, and clearing hedges and ditches with an activity that sufficiently showed he had sustained, at any rate, no serious injury. "You haven't touched him. I'll have you back to the ranks again for that, you scoundrel, or my name's not Stubbs." And, after a moment's pause--"Ay, ay, you villain," he added, "he's off, he's off; you'll never get within shot of him again. Hang me, if I don't get every man of you flogged to death for this!" When Captain Stubbs said the fugitive had escaped, he was right. The nature of the ground had been all along greatly in his favour, being so interspersed and encumbered with hedges, ditches, walls, and trees, that the dragoons had little or no chance of ever being able to overtake him, should he escape their carbines; and these had hitherto been discharged at him without effect. The last effort of the fugitive--that which secured his final escape, and which had called forth the expressions of Captain Stubbs' displeasure--was his plunging into a thick plantation that grew on the face of a steep and rocky hill, where it was impossible for the troopers to pursue him. The latter finding this, two or three shots were discharged at random into the wood; a volley of oaths followed, and the pursuit was abandoned. The dragoons turned their horses' heads towards Duntruskin House, where they soon after rejoined their comrades. During the pursuit, Miss Cameron awaited its result in deep but silent wretchedness, till, aroused by the delightful intelligence communicated involuntarily by Stubbs, that the fugitive yet lived-- "He is not killed, then!" she exclaimed, in a paroxysm of rapture, starting from her seat, her face flushed with joy, and her soft dark eye beaming with inexpressible happiness. "He is not killed, then!" she said, rushing wildly to the window. "Oh, thank God, thank God for his mercies!" she exclaimed, on perceiving that the fugitive appeared to be still unhurt, and that he was continuing his exertions to escape, with unabated energy. Unable, however, to look longer upon the doubtful and critical struggle between the pursuers and the pursued, she had again retired from the window, and again her fears for the eventual safety of her lover had returned. These, however, Captain Stubbs' latter exclamations had once more removed. "Off! is he off?" she wildly repeated, taking up the words in which the joyful event had been communicated; and she again flew to the window. "Dear Captain Stubbs," she exclaimed--forgetting in the excitation of the moment all former feelings and antipathies regarding him she addressed--"is he indeed off? Has--has"--and she was about to pronounce the name of M'Gregor, when a sudden recollection of the imprudence of doing so struck her, and she merely added, "has the man really escaped?" Having quickly satisfied herself that it was so, Miss Cameron, unable longer to control the warm and overflowing sense of gratitude which she felt towards the Omnipotent Being who had protected the beloved object of her affections in the moment of peril, clasped her hands together, looked upwards with a countenance strongly expressive of thankfulness and joy, and breathed a short but fervent prayer of thanksgiving. The scene was one which Stubbs could not comprehend. He thought it very odd, but he said nothing. In a few seconds after, Grace left the apartment--a step to which she was urged by two motives. Captain Stubbs had threatened that he would instantly go himself, with his whole troop, on foot, to search the wood in which the fugitive had concealed himself--a measure which, if executed, would almost certainly secure the capture of M'Gregor, or, at least, render it a very probable event. The other motive, proceeding from this circumstance, was, to see whether she could not fall on any means of preventing the threatened expedition. On leaving the apartment, Grace met the serjeant on his way to Captain Stubbs, to make his report of the proceeding in which he had just been engaged. Without well knowing for what precise purpose, but with some general idea that she might prevail on him, by some means or other, to second her views in defeating the object of Stubbs' proposed search, she stopped him, and hurriedly conducted him into an unoccupied apartment. "Oh, serjeant!" she exclaimed, in great agitation, and scarcely knowing what she said, "will you--will you do me a favour--a great favour, serjeant? For God's sake, do not refuse me!" The man looked at her in utter amazement. "Your captain," continued Grace, "proposes renewing the pursuit of the person that has just escaped you. I am interested in that person. Now, serjeant, will you do what you can to prevent this search taking place, or to render it unavailing if it does?" And with these last words she put a purse, containing ten guineas, into the serjeant's hand. The man looked from the gift to the giver, and again from the latter to the former, in silent astonishment, for several seconds. At length-- "Why, miss," he said, "since you _are_ in such a taking about this matter, and as I don't mind a poor fellow's escaping now and then, I _will_ do what I can to serve you in the case." And he put the purse into his pocket. "Oh, thank you, serjeant, thank you!--God bless you for these words!" said Grace, in a rapture of joy. "But how--how, serjeant, will you manage it?" "Oh, leave me alone for that, miss," replied the latter; "I knows how to manage it, and I'll do it effectually, I warrant you. I can send captain in any direction I please on the shortest notice. He don't like the smell of gunpowder, though he be a soldier; and, when he can, always follows the wind that brings it." In a few minutes after, Serjeant Higginbotham was in the presence of the pink of chivalry, Captain Stubbs. Having informed the latter briefly of the result of the pursuit, he added, that, when he was out, he had seen "something suspicious." "What was it?" inquired Stubbs, in a tone and with a look of alarm. "Why, sir," responded the serjeant, "a crowd of people assembled on the face of the hill where the fellow escaped us." "The devil! Are they rebels, think you, serjeant?" said the captain, with increased perturbation. "And, please your honour, I think as how there is no doubt of it," replied Higginbotham. "In great force, you say, serjeant?" added Stubbs; "in overwhelming force--madness to attack them--you can depone on oath before a court-martial?" "To be sure I can, sir," rejoined the former. "That's a good fellow; order my horse to the door instantly, and let the men fall in." These orders were immediately obeyed; and in the next instant Captain Stubbs appeared at the door. "In what direction are these rascals?" he said, addressing the serjeant, as he was about to mount his charger. "In that direction, your honour," replied the latter, pointing towards the place of M'Gregor's concealment. "Ah!" ejaculated Captain Stubbs; and, in a moment after, he was in full gallop, followed by his whole troop, in the opposite direction. We should certainly fail, were we to attempt to describe the joy of Grace Cameron when she beheld the departure of the dragoons. That joy, as will readily be believed, was extreme. For some time after the troopers had left the house, Grace continued to keep her eye on the spot where M'Gregor had disappeared, in the hope that he would again show himself. Nor was she mistaken. Malcolm appeared also to have been able to see from his hiding-place the departure of the soldiers; for they had not been more than a quarter-of-an-hour gone, when he again appeared at the skirts of the wood where he had been concealed, and made towards the house. On recognising him, Grace hastened out to meet him. This meeting we need not describe, as it very much resembled all other meetings of a similar kind--only that it was, perhaps, a little more interesting, from the peculiar situation of the parties. The lovers had much to say to each other, and much was said in a very small space of time. Amongst other things, Malcolm informed Grace that it was his intention to request her father for an asylum for three or four days, when, he said, it was his intention to proceed to the coast, and to endeavour to effect his escape from thence to France. The asylum that Malcolm requested was readily granted by Mr Cameron, and a place of concealment was found for him, which promised every security--and there was need that it should; for, on the following day, the surrounding country was filled with soldiers, who were everywhere making the strictest search for the fugitive insurgents; and of these several parties had already paid domiciliary visits to Duntruskin House. The constant state of terror and alarm for the safety of her lover, in which these visits kept Grace Cameron, and the imminent risk he ran of being discovered, at length suggested to the romantic girl an undertaking which well accorded with her strong affection and noble spirit; but which certainly, had it been known, must have appeared to all but herself as utterly hopeless. On the second day after the occurrence just related, Grace, seizing such an opportunity as she thought favourable for her purpose, suddenly flung her arms around her father's neck, and said, smiling affectionately in his face as she spoke-- "Father, I am going to ask you a favour." "Well, Grace, my dear," replied he, "I tell you, before you ask it, that, if it be reasonable in itself, and within my power, I shall grant it." "Thank you, my dear father," said Grace; "but I am afraid you will _not_ think it reasonable. Nevertheless, you must grant it." "Nay, Grace, that's more than I bargain for," rejoined Mr Cameron, laughing. "But let me know what it is you want, and I shall then be better able to judge of its propriety." "Well, then, father," replied Grace, "will you allow me to go from home for two days, to take my pony with me--for I mean to travel--and allow Macpherson to accompany me?" "Where do you propose going to, Grace?" inquired her father, rather gravely. "That's a question, father," said his daughter, "that relates to a part of the bargain I mean to drive with you which I have not yet arrived at, and which will seem to you the most unreasonable of the whole, I daresay. You must not ask me where I am going to, nor what I'm going to do. On my return, you shall know all." "Indeed!" exclaimed Mr Cameron; "why, this is certainly strange, Grace--I don't understand it; and, what is more, I must say I do not like it; but, as I have every reliance on your good sense and discretion, my child, I will grant your request. But I really wish you would tell me what it means; for you cannot suppose that I can be otherwise than uneasy till you return." "I have your unconditional consent, father, to my terms," said Grace, playfully; "so you must not put any questions; and, as to your being uneasy about me, I assure you there is not the slightest occasion; for my project involves no chance whatever of personal injury to myself." "Well, well, Grace," replied her father, "since you assure me of that, and since I have certainly given my consent to your request, I will keep my word. You may go when you please." Delighted with her success, Grace flew to give the necessary orders regarding her intended journey; and amongst these were instructions to Macpherson--a favourite servant of long standing in the family--to have her pony, and a horse for himself, in readiness at an early hour on the following morning. When this hour arrived, it found Grace and her attendant jogging forward, at a pretty round pace, on the road leading to the town of Inverness. Leaving her to prosecute her mysterious journey, we shall return to Duntruskin House, where a scene was about to occur of no ordinary interest. On the second day after Grace's departure, a young Irish officer, who had been in the service of the Pretender, and who was well acquainted with both Mr Cameron and M'Gregor--with the latter intimately, as they had served together--arrived at Duntruskin House. He, too, was a fugitive, and was now endeavouring to find his way back to Ireland, and to avoid the numerous military parties that were scouring the country. This gentleman, whose name was Terence Sullivan, was a genuine Milesian. He was frank, open, generous, warmhearted, and brave to a fault; for he was rash and impetuous, and never stopped an instant to reckon on the odds that might be against him in any case, either of love or war. On he went, reckless of consequences and fearless of results. Terence was thus, in truth, rather a dangerous ally in cases where either caution, deliberation, or forbearance, was necessary, and where their opposites were attended with peril. Such as he was, however, he now appeared at Duntruskin, on his way to the coast for the purpose already mentioned. But Mr Sullivan brought a piece of intelligence with him which it was rather singular he should have fallen in with; and it was intelligence that greatly surprised and alarmed both Cameron and M'Gregor. This was, that the place of concealment of the latter was known, and that he might every moment expect to be apprehended; and, to show that his information was well founded, he described the place of M'Gregor's retreat with such accuracy that it was instantly recognised, and left no doubt that a special information on the subject had been laid by some person or other. Sullivan said that the way in which he came by the intelligence was this:--He had slept on the preceding night in a small public-house, and having been much fatigued, had retired early to bed. This bed was in a recess in the wall, with a sliding-door on its front, which he drew close. Soon after he had lain down, a party of military came to the house in quest of refreshments; and, being shown into the apartment where he lay, he overheard all that passed amongst them; and part of this conversation, he said, was what he had just communicated. On receiving this startling intelligence, Mr Cameron hastened to inform M'Gregor of his danger, when an earnest conversation ensued between them as to what steps the latter ought now to take to secure his safety. Leaving them for an instant thus employed, we will return to Terence, who, having been left alone by Mr Cameron while he went to speak with his protegé, had taken his station at a window which overlooked the approach to the house, and was there humming away, with great spirit, one of his lively national airs, when his eye was suddenly caught by the red coats of a party of dragoons advancing towards the house. Terence's eye instantly brightened up with an almost joyous expression when he saw them; for he anticipated some amusement in the way of fighting, as he took it for granted that the house was to be defended to the last extremity. Having at once settled this point, he hurriedly looked about the apartment, to see whether he could not find any eligible weapon wherewith to resist the approaching foe; and in this particular his luck was singularly great indeed. Over the fireplace there hung a rifle gun and a flask of powder, and on the mantelpiece were several bullets that fitted to a hair--the very things wanted. Never was man so fortunate. Delighted beyond measure with his good luck, Terence seized the rifle, loaded it in a twinkling, and again took his place at the window, which he now banged up to its utmost height, and stood ready for mischief; never dreaming that it was at all necessary to consult the master of the house as to the manner in which he meant to receive his visiters, or conceiving that anything else could be thought of in the case but fighting. "Blessings on them, the darlings! There they are," said Terence to himself, as he stood at the window in the way already described, "as large as life, and as lively as two-year olds." Muttering this, he raised his rifle, and, putting it on full cock, "You'll see now, my jewels," he added, "how beautifully I'll turn over that fellow on the white charger." He fired, and almost in the same instant the unfortunate man whom he had selected fell lifeless from his horse. Terence gave a shout of joy and triumph at the success of his shot, and was proceeding with the utmost expedition to reload, when his arm was suddenly seized from behind by Mr Cameron, who, in amazement at his proceedings, and in great distress for their very serious result, which he had seen from another part of the house, had hastened to the apartment where he was. "Good heavens, Mr Sullivan! what is the meaning of this?--what are you doing?--what have you done?" he exclaimed, in great agitation. "We shall be all put to the sword--by the laws of war, our lives are forfeited. It was foolish--it was madness, Mr Sullivan!" "Faith, my dear fellow," replied Terence, not a little astonished that his proceedings should have been found fault with, "you may call it what you please; but no man shall ever convince Terence Sullivan that it's either folly or madness to kill an enemy when you can." At this moment they were joined by M'Gregor; and in the next instant the commanding officer of the troop--a very different man from Stubbs--entered the apartment, with his drawn sword in one hand, and a pistol in the other, and followed by about a dozen of his men; the remainder being drawn up in front of the house. "Gentlemen," said the officer, on his entrance, "you perceive, I trust, that further resistance will be vain, and can only bring down destruction on your own heads." "Not so fast, my good fellow--we perceive nothing of the kind," exclaimed Terence, forcibly releasing himself from the grip which Mr Cameron still held of him, and, in the next instant, preparing his rifle for another charge. "Just keep off a bit, and let us have fair play for our money. Shot about, my beautiful fellows. It's all I ask, and no gentleman can refuse so reasonable a request." "Terence, Terence!" exclaimed Mr Cameron, again laying his hand on the right arm of his hot-headed friend, "listen to me, I beseech you, as a special favour. I request of you, I beg of you, to desist." "Well, well, my dear fellow," replied Terence, somewhat doggedly, and at the same time resting the butt of his rifle on the floor, "do as you please, only it's a cursed pity you wouldn't allow a few shots to be exchanged between these gentlemen and me, if it were only for the respectability of your own house." "Don't you know, sir," here interposed the commanding officer of the party, addressing Terence, "that by the laws of war I could----" "Och, no more of that blarney, if you please, my dear fellow," interrupted Terence, impatiently. "Mr Cameron has told me all about that already." "If he has, then, sir," said the officer, haughtily, "you know the extent of the obligation you lie under to my clemency." Terence was about to reply to this insinuation, and probably in no very measured terms, when he was stopped short by Mr Cameron, who dreaded that some immediate act of violence would result from the continuance of this irritating conversation. "Mr Cameron," said the officer, now proceeding to the real purpose of his visit, "my business here is to make this gentleman"--and he bowed slightly to M'Gregor--"my prisoner, although this is not precisely the spot in which I expected to find him. I feel it to be a painful duty, sir," he said, now directly addressing Malcolm; "but it is unavoidable." "I am aware of it, sir," replied the latter, "and am obliged by the consideration which induces you to say it is unpleasant to you. I have no doubt it is. I am ready to attend you, sir." The officer bowed, and now turning to Terence, "You will please, also, sir, consider yourself as my prisoner. Your rashness and folly have placed you in a very precarious predicament. Serjeant," he added, addressing a non-commissioned officer, "remain here, keeping six men with you, with these gentlemen, till I return; and see that you guard against escape." Saying this, he again bowed, and left the apartment. In a minute after he was mounted, and off with his troop, in pursuit of some object of a similar kind with that which had brought him to Duntruskin. "This is a devil of a business, Mac," said Terence, when the officer had left the apartment; then sinking his voice, so as to be heard only by Malcolm--"but I think we three might clear the room of these fellows, if we set to it with right good-will. What say you to try? I'll begin." "Hush," said M'Gregor, under his breath--"madness, Terence, madness. We are fairly in for it, and must just abide the consequences. Our doom is sealed. In plain English, we must hang for it, Terence." "Faith, and that we won't, if we can help it, Mac; and we'll try whether it can be helped or not," said Terence. "We'll get the fellows drunk, if we can, and that will be always one step gained.--I say, serjeant," he added, now speaking out, and confronting the person he addressed, "I think you're a countryman of my own." "I don't know, sir," replied the serjeant, in a brogue that at once showed Terence's conjecture was right--"I am from Ireland." "I thought so," rejoined the latter. "I saw potatoes and butter-milk written on your sweet countenance as plain as a pike-staff. Perhaps, now, you wouldn't have any objection to take a small matter of refreshment yourself, nor to allow your men to partake of it, if our friend, Mr Cameron here, would be kind enough to offer it." "No, certainly not, sir," replied the serjeant. "Mr Cameron," continued Terence, and now turning to the person he named, "would ye be good enough to order a little whisky for the lads here; for we'll have a long march of it by and by, and they'll be the better of something to help them over the stones." A large black bottle of the stimulative spoken of by Terence was instantly brought; when the latter, installing himself master of the ceremonies, seized it, and began to deal about its contents with unsparing liberality. "Come now, my lads," he said, after having completed three rounds of the black-jack, "make yourselves as comfortable as a rat in a corn-chest. Here's the stuff," he continued, slapping the bottle, and commencing a fourth progress with it, "that'll make ye forget the sins and sorrows of your wicked, lives. Won't it now, serjeant?" "Troth and it will, sir, I'll be sworn," replied the latter, whose eyes were already twinkling in his head, and his articulation fast thickening into utter unintelligibility; "it's as good for one as a sight of the quartermaster at pay-day." "Right, serjeant, right," exclaimed Terence; "I see your education hasn't been neglected. You have had some experience of the world, serjeant, and know some of its hardships." "Faith, and it's yourself, sir, may say that of a man who has been hundreds of times in the saddle thirteen days out of the fortnight; living in the air, as one may say, night and day, and never allowed to put his foot on the ground, no more than if it had been covered with china tea-cups." "No joke, serjeant--by my faith, no joke," replied Terence; and again he made a round with the bottle, a proceeding which brought matters fairly to a crisis. The faces of the soldiers suddenly became as red as their coats; their eyes began to dance in their heads; and they were now all talking together at the tops of their voices, shouting out at intervals, "Long life and glory" to their entertainer. Nor was the serjeant himself in any better condition than his men; but his genius, under the influence of liquor, took a musical direction, and he began trolling scraps of songs; for, as his memory failed him in almost every instance in these attempts, he was compelled to make up by variety what he wanted in continuous matter. Thus favourably, then, were affairs going on for Terence's design; and there was every appearance that the men would soon be in such a state as should render escape from them a matter of no very difficult accomplishment. But lo! just as the flow of mirth and good-fellowship had attained its height, another serjeant, detached with an additional half-dozen of men, from the troop that had visited the house in the morning, suddenly entered the apartment, with orders from the commanding officer, to the effect that the party which had been left with the prisoners should proceed immediately to Fort George with Sullivan, and that they themselves were to remain with M'Gregor till their officer came. This, as will readily be believed, was by no means welcome intelligence, as it threatened to render the attempt to unfit the soldiers for their duty abortive, in so far as the object of doing so was concerned. This, indeed, it fully effected as regarded Malcolm's escape, since he was to be left behind; while it rendered Terence's much more precarious than if the debauch had been allowed to proceed. Terence, however, did not feel that all chance of escape was yet lost. He hoped that what he had not had time to effect at Duntruskin, he should be able to accomplish while they were on the march; and he resolved to watch with the utmost vigilance for such an opportunity as was necessary to success in his intended attempt. In the meantime, preparations were made, in obedience to the order just received, for the march of Terence's escort with their prisoner. An affecting parting now took place between M'Gregor and Sullivan, especially on the part of the former, who deemed it a last farewell--an opinion, however, in which he was by no means joined by his friend, who, with the natural buoyancy of his disposition, and cheerful and sanguine temper, entertained strong hopes of being able to give his guards the slip; and he bade Malcolm good-by with all the hilarity of manner and brightness of countenance which these hopes inspired. The drunken troopers now staggered out of the apartment one after the other--their swords tripping them at every step, and several of them with their caps turned the wrong way--next came Terence, and lastly the serjeant, trolling, as he left the room-- "I'm bother'd with whisky, I'm bother'd with love; I'm bother'd with this, and I'm bother'd with that; I'm bother'd at home, and I'm bother'd abroad; And it's all botheration together, says Pat." M'Gregor went to the window, to see what he had no doubt was the last of his poor friend, Sullivan--and he soon had this melancholy satisfaction. In a few minutes, the party appeared proceeding down the avenue, with Terence in the centre, mounted on one of the dragoon's horses--a favour which his uproarious good-fellowship at Duntruskin had procured for him. He caught a sight of Malcolm just as he and his escort were about to take a turn in the road that would conceal them from each other, and waved an adieu, accompanied by one of his characteristic shouts, which, though plainly enough indicated by his gestures, was, from the distance, unheard by him for whose edification it was intended. In about an hour after the departure of Terence Sullivan, the commanding officer of the party, who had been at Duntruskin House in the morning, appeared riding up the avenue at the head of his troop. In a few minutes afterward, he was again in the apartment with M'Gregor. "We will now proceed, sir, if you please," he said, on entering. "Are you ready?" "I believe I must say I am, sir," replied Malcolm, with as much composure as he could command. "Nay," said the officer, who marked his agitation; "you need not say you are, if you are not. Is there anything you wish yet done before you go? Any one you wish to see?" "There is--there is one I wish to see, sir--one to whom I should have wished to have bidden farewell," said Malcolm, with an emotion which he could not conceal; "but I know not when she may be here, and----" "She is here, Malcolm--she is here," said Grace, at this instant rushing into the apartment. Malcolm flew towards her. "God be thanked, Grace, you are come! I would have been miserable, if I had not seen you before I went. A few minutes later, Grace, and we should never have beheld each other more. We have now met," he added, "for the last time." "No, no, Malcolm; we have not, we have not," said Grace, hurriedly, and in great agitation, taking a letter from her bosom, which, with a blush and a curtsey, she presented to Major Ormsby--the name of the officer already so often alluded to. He bowed as he received it; and, unfolding it, began to read. The perusal did not occupy him an instant. The matter was short but effective. Having read it, he advanced towards Malcolm with extended hand, and said-- "Allow me, sir, to congratulate you on your restoration to freedom, and to an immunity from all danger on account of certain late transactions which you wot of." And, as he said this, he smiled significantly. "You are at liberty, Mr M'Gregor. I have no more control over you, and have therefore to regret that I shall not have the pleasure of your company to Fort-George, as I expected." "What does all this mean, sir?" inquired Malcolm, in the utmost amazement. "Why, sir, it means simply that you are a free man," replied Major Ormsby. "And here is at once my authority for saying so and my warrant for releasing you." And he read:-- "This is to discharge all officers of his majesty's government, civil and military, and all other persons whatsoever, from apprehending, or in any other ways molesting, Malcolm M'Gregor, Esq. of Strontian, for his concern in the late rebellion; and, if he be already taken, this shall be sufficient warrant for those detaining him to set him at liberty, which they are hereby required to do forthwith. "CUMBERLAND. "_At Inverness, the 19th day of April, 1746._" "Grace," exclaimed Malcolm, in a transport of joy, when Major Ormsby had concluded, "this is your doing, noble and generous girl. It is to you, and to you alone, that I am indebted for life and liberty. But how, how on earth, Grace, did you accomplish it?" he added, taking her affectionately by the hand. The explanation was a brief one. She had gone to Inverness--had sought and obtained an interview with the Duke of Cumberland--had implored him for a pardon to her lover, and to the amazement of those who were present on the occasion, had succeeded. Her youth, her beauty, the natural eloquence of her appeal, and the romance of the circumstance altogether, had touched the merciless conqueror, and had betrayed him for once into an act of humanity and generosity. After partaking of some refreshment, Major Ormsby with his troop left Duntruskin, and the happiness of Malcolm would have been complete only for one circumstance. This was the miserable situation of his poor friend, Sullivan; presenting, as it did, such a contrast to his own. This, however, was a ground of unhappiness which was soon and most unexpectedly to be removed. In less than two hours after the departure of Major Ormsby, as Malcolm, Miss Cameron, and her father were sitting together, talking over the events of the preceding two or three days, to their inexpressible amazement, Sullivan suddenly burst into the apartment, with a loud shout. "Haven't I done them, after all, Malcolm?" He exclaimed--"done them beautifully! Didn't I tell you, now, I would give the drunken rogues the slip somewhere? Och! and just give me a bottle of whisky in my fist, and I'll take in hand to bother a saint, let alone a serjeant of dragoons." We need not describe the joy of the party whom Terence on this occasion addressed, when he appeared amongst them. It was very great, and very sincere. Terence, however, was immediately hurried off by M'Gregor, who dreaded an instant return of the dragoons in quest of him, to a place of concealment at a little distance from the house, where he remained for two days, when he was secretly conveyed by his friend to the coast, and embarked on board a small wherry, hired for the purpose, for his native land, where he arrived in safety on the evening of the following day. Within a year after these occurrences, Grace Cameron was fully better known in the country by the name of Mrs M'Gregor, than by that which we have just written. THE MYSTERIOUS DISAPPEARANCE. In the very midst of apparent contentedness and happiness, W---- B----, a merchant in Dumfermline, disappeared all at once. No one could tell whither he had gone; and his wife was just as ignorant of his destination or fate as any one else. That he had left the country, could not be supposed, because he had taken nothing with him; that he had made away with himself, was almost as unlikely, seeing that it is not generally in the midst of gaiety and good humour that people commit suicide. Every search, however, was made for him, but all in vain--no trace could be found of him, except that a person who had been near the old ruin called the Magazine, part of the old castle in the neighbourhood of the town, reported that, on the night when he disappeared, he, the narrator, heard in that quarter a very extraordinary soliloquy from the lips of some one in great agony; but that all his efforts (for it was dark) could not enable him to ascertain who or where he was. So far as he could recollect, the words of the person were as follows:-- "The self-destroyer has nae richt to expect a better place." (Groans.) "A' is dark and dismal--a thousand times mair sae than what my fancy ever pictured upon earth. But there will be licht sune, ay, and scorchin fires, and a' the ither terrors o' the place whar the wicked receive the reward o' their sins. If I had again the days to begin, which, when in the body, I spent sae fruitlessly and sinfully, hoo wad I be benefited by this sicht o' the very entrance to the regions o' the miserable? and yet does not the great Author o' guid strive, wi' a never-wearyin energy, by dreams and visions, and revelations and thoughts, which vain man tries to measure and value by the gauge o' his insignificant reason, to show him what I now see, and turn him to the practice o' a better life. This is a narrow pit--there is neither room for the voice o' lamentation, nor for the struggle o' the restless limbs o' the miserable; the light, and the air, and the space, and the view o' the blue heavens, and the fair earth, which mak men proud, as if they were proprietors o' the upper world, and sinfu, as if its joys were made for them, are vanished, and a narrow cell, nae bigger than my body, wi' nae air, nae licht, nae warmth--cauld, dark, lonely, and dismal--is the last and eternal place appointed for the wicked." (Groans.) "On earth men, though sinners, hae the companionship o' men; here my only companion is a gnawin conscience, the true fire o' the lower pit, and a thousand times waur than a' the imagined flames which haunt the minds o' the doers o' evil." These dreadful words were spoken at intervals, and loud groans bespoke the agony of the sufferer. The individual who heard them, at a loss what to conceive, became alarmed, ran away to get assistance, and, in a short time, returned, with a companion and a light, to search among the old ruins for the individual who was thus apparently suffering under the imagined terrors of the last place of punishment. They looked carefully up and down throughout the place called the Magazine, among the ruins of the castle, and in every hole and cranny of the neighbourhood, but neither could they see any human being, nor hear again any of the extraordinary sounds which had chained the ear of the listener, and roused his terrors. The idea of a supernatural presence was the first that presented itself; and a ghost giving its hollow utterance to the lamentations of its suffering spirit, confined, doubtless, in some of the vaults of the castle, and struggling for that liberty which depends upon the performance of some penance upon earth, was the ready solution of a difficulty which defied all recourse to ordinary means of explanation. Having ascertained that nothing was to be seen or heard, the two friends returned to the town, where they told what had happened. The disappearance about that time of W---- B---- suggested to many a more rational explanation of the mysterious affair; and a number of people adjourned to the Magazine, for the purpose of exploring its dark recesses more thoroughly, under the conviction that the missing individual might be concealed in some part that had not been searched. Every effort was employed, in vain. They penetrated all the holes, and explored all the dark corners--nothing was to be seen, nothing heard; and the conclusion was arrived at, either that the narrator was deceiving or deceived, or that the spirit had ceased to issue its lamentations. For many days and many years afterwards, no trace could be had of W----B----, nor was there ever even so much as whispered a single statement of any one who had seen him either alive or dead. The food for speculation which the mysterious affair afforded to the minds of the inhabitants was for a time increased by the total want of success which attended all the efforts of inquiry; and, after the fancies of all had been exhausted by the vain work of endeavouring to discover that which seemed to be hid by a higher power from human knowledge, the circumstance degenerated into one of the wonders of nature, supplying the old women with the material of a fireside tale, for the amusement or terror of children. But it would seem that the energies of vulgar everyday life are arrayed with inveterate hostility against the luxury of a mystery so greedily grasped at by all people, however thoroughly liberated from the prejudices of early education or of late sanctification; and accordingly, one day many years after the occurrences now mentioned, as some boys were amusing themselves among the ruins of the old castle, they discovered lying in a hole--called the Piper's Hole, from the circumstance of a piper having once entered it with a pair of bagpipes, which he intended to play on till he reached the end of it, but never returned--the body of a man, reduced to a skeleton, but retaining on his bare bones the clothes which he had worn when in life. It was the body of W---- B----. On searching his pockets, there was found in one of them a few pence, and in another a bottle, with a paper label, marked "Laudanum." This discovery cleared up all mystery. The unfortunate man had intended to kill himself in such a way as would put his suicidal act beyond the knowledge of his friends, and had resorted to the extraordinary plan of creeping up into the dark and narrow passage, where the action of the fatal soporific had produced the delusion that he was in the place appointed for the wicked, with the soliloquy already detailed, and then death. The physical mystery was cleared up; but a mystery of a moral nature remains, which will bid defiance to the revealing efforts of philosophers--the strength and peculiarity of feeling which, working on a sane mind, produced a purpose so extraordinary, and the resolution to carry it into effect. END OF VOL. XVI 
37217	----	Wilson's Tales of the Borders AND OF SCOTLAND. HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE. WITH A GLOSSARY. REVISED BY ALEXANDER LEIGHTON, _One of the Original Editors and Contributors._ VOL. XX. LONDON: WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE, AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE. 1884. CONTENTS. THE DOMINIE OF ST FILLAN'S, (_Alexander Leighton_) 1 SAYINGS AND DOINGS OF PETER PATERSON, (_John Mackay Wilson_) 34 THE HEROINE: A LEGEND OF THE CANONGATE, (_Alexander Leighton_) 66 THE BARLEY BANNOCK, (_Alexander Campbell_) 93 GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT, (_Professor Thomas Gillespie_)-- xx. JOHN GOVAN'S NARRATIVE 111 xxi. "OLD BLUNTIE" 120 xxii. THOMAS HARKNESS OF LOCKERBEN 124 xxiii. THE SHOES REVERSED 132 THE LOST HEIR OF THE HOUSE OF ELPHINSTONE, (_Rev. G. Thomson_) 143 TRIALS AND TRIUMPHS, (_John Mackay Wilson_) 194 THE MISER OF NEWABBEY, (_Alexander Leighton_) 226 THE SEA SKIRMISH, (_Anon._) 258 WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND. THE DOMINIE OF ST FILLAN'S. CHAPTER I. PLEASANT REMINISCENCES OF MY FATHER. It is now about twenty years sin' I first raised my voice in the desk o' the kirk o' St Fillan's, in the parish o' that name, and He wha out o' the mouths o' babes and sucklins did ordain praise, hath never thought meet, by means o' ony catarrh, cynanche, quinsy, toothache, or lock-jaw, to close up my mouth, and prevent me frae leadin the congregation in a clear, melodious strain, to the worship o' the Chief Musician. When I was ordained session clerk, schoolmaster, and precentor, I had already passed about thirty years o' my pilgrimage; yet filled wi' Latin and Greek, till my _pia mater_ was absolutely like to burst, I had, notwithstanding, nae trade by the hand. The reason was this. My father, who had been for forty years sexton o' the parish, had seen, wi' an e'e lang practised in searchin for traces o' death in the faces o' parishioners--for the labourer maun live by his hire, and the merchant by his customers, "and thou shalt eat the labour of thine hands"--a pleasant leucophlegmatic tinge about the gills o' Jedediah Cameron, my predecessor in the three offices already mentioned. Weel, as the husbandman in dry weather, when his fields are parched, and his braird thin and weak, watches the clouds that contain rain--mair precious to him than the ointment that ran down upon the beard, even Aaron's dry beard--my guid father watched the dropsical signs or indications in Jedediah's face, daily and hourly, in the fair and legitimate hope o' gettin the aridity o' my starvin condition quenched and satisfied. He was an argute sexton, and had learned, in his younger days, some smatterin o' Latin, though I never could ascertain that he retained more of the humane lear, than the twa proverbs, "_Vita mortalium brevis_," "Life is short," which comes originally frae Homer; and "_Pecuniæ obediunt omnia_," which comes frae the sixth chapter o' Ecclesiastes--"Money answereth all things." But my father was never contented wi' his ain _prognosis_. His ain ee for death was as gleg as that o' the hawk for its quarry; but the glegness wasna a mere junction or combination o' a keen and praiseworthy desire to live, and a lang experience o' lookin for death in ithers; he had science to guide him; he knew a' the Latin names comprehended in Dr Cullen's "Nosology;" an' Buchan's "Domestic Medicine" was scarcely ever out o' his hands, except when there was a spade in them. I hae the auld, thumed, and faulded, and marked copy o' our domestic Æsculapius yet; and, as I look at the store from which he used to draw the lore that enabled him to see, as if by a kind o' necromantic divination, a guid lucrative death, though still lodged in the wame o' futurity, I canna but drap a tear to the memory o' ane wha toiled sae hard for the sake o' his son. But I examine the book, sometimes, in a mair philosophic way--to mark the train o' my auld parent's mind, as he had perused his text-book; for it was his practice, when he saw ony o' the parishioners exhibiting favourable symptoms--such as a hard, dry cough, puffed legs, white liver lips, or even some o' the mair dubious indications, such as a pale cheek, spare body, drooping head, difficulty in walking, morbid appetite, or bulimia, the _delirium tremens_ o' dram-drinkers, the yellow o' the white o' the ee o' hypochondriacs, and the like--to search in Buchan for the diseases portended by thae appearances, and, when he was sure he had caught them, to draw a pencil stroke along the margin opposite to the pleasantest parts o' the doctor's descriptions. I never saw mony marks opposite the common and innocuous complaints--_cholica_, or pain in the stamach; _catarrhs_, or cauld; _arthritis_, or gout; _rheumatismus_, or rheumatism; _odontalgia_, or toothache; and sae forth: thae were beneath his notice. Neither did I ever observe ony marks o' attention to what are called prophylactics, or remedies, to prevent diseases comin on: thae nostrums he plainly despised. But, sae far as I could discover, he had a very marked abhorrence o' what the doctors ca' therapeutics, or means and processes o' curin diseases, and keepin awa death; and as for what are denominated _specifics_, or infallible remedies, he wouldna hear o' them ava--showin his despite o' them by the exclamation--"Psha!" scribbled with contemptuous haste on the margin. The soul and marrow o' the book to the guid man--bless him!--were the mortal symptoms--the _facies Hippocraticus_, the Hippocratic face; the _raucitus mortis_, or rattle in the throat; _subsultus tendinum_, or twitching o' the hands and fingers; the glazing o' the ee, and the stoppin o' the breath, and the like o' thae serious signs and appearances. A strong, determined stroke o' the pencil marked his attention to and interest in the Doctor's touchin account o' thae turns o' the spindle wharby the thread o' our existence is wound up for ever. It may be easily and safely supposed, that the melancholy words, descriptive o' the oncome o' the grim tyrant himsel--"_and death closes the tragic scene_"--sae touchingly and feelingly introduced by the eloquent author werena lost on my respectit parent. Guid man as he was, however, (I shall return presently to his study o' my predecessor's dropsy,) it is painfu for his son to hae to say that, though very generally respectit by people when they were in health and prosperity, he hadna the same veneration extended to him by the same individuals when they fell into disease. But though rejectin his visits, sae lang as a patient was in life and capable o' bein benefited by his lively manners, the breath was nae sooner out o' the body, than he was sent for, ye might almost say by express. It is some consolation to me, that my parent was far abune shewin resentment at conduct sae contradictory and offensive. In place o' bein angry when invited to the house o' a dead patient, from which he had been expelled during his illness, he uniformly appeared well pleased--repairin, wi' the greatest good humour, to the residence o' the deceased, and disdainin to exhibit the slightest indication o' pique or anger. There are some men wha brak the prophet's command--"Rejoice not over thy greatest enemy being dead, but remember that we die all;" but I can safely and upon my honour and parole say, that my parent shewed nae greater signs o' happiness on the death o' an enemy than he did on the death o' a friend. A man has a pleasure in statin thae things o' a father. These early associations hae a charm about them that's very apt to lead a person off his direct road; "_Patriæ fumus igne alieno luculentior_"--the very smoke o' our father's fireside is clearer than anither's flame. How bright, then, maun the virtue and honour o' a father and mother appear to a dutiful and affectionate son! I was stating, at the time when I was seduced into that pleasant episode, that my father kept up a daily inspection o' the leucophlegmatic face o' my predecessor, Jedediah Cameron; comparing, with, the greatest diligence, the aqueous symptoms there discernible, with the description given by his oracle, Dr Buchan; and, as his hopes strengthened, edging me, by slow degrees, into the dominie's desk, and the schoolmaster's chair o' authority, as the friendly and gratuitous assistant o' the dying man. But my father had mair sense than to trust, entirely and allenarly, in an affair o' sae gigantic importance, to ony dead authority. He was at the heels o' Dr Dennistoun, our parish physician, as often as that worthy man would permit his approach; and it was sometimes said, though in a jocular way--and nae man likes a joke better than I do--that he consulted the doctor as the farmer does the barometer, with a view to a guid crop. But, were this even _vero verius, certo certius_, how could my parent be blamed for being industrious? Unless ye thresh and grind, ye hae little chance o' a dinner--"_Ni purgas et molas, non comedes_;" an auld saying o' Diogenianus, particularly applicable to my father, who had to support, by his industry, an idle sou--_bos in stabulo_--long, bare-boned, ill-filled up, as hungry and voracious as a Cyclops, and never weel-dined but on the day o' a dead-chack. I might blame my respectable parent for consulting Dr Dennistoun about expected deaths and burials, if mortals could avoid ony o' the twa; but we hae nae Elijahs in thae days, "to be taken up in a whirlwind of fire, and in a chariot of fiery horses." Death comes to a'--_mors omnibus communis_; and Jedediah Cameron--bless him!--had nae chance o' bein made an exception; otherwise my lank wame and lean cheeks stood a puir chance o' bein sae weel filled up as they afterwards came to be, when I held his three offices. CHAPTER II. A KIND PROVIDENCE SMILES ON MY PARENT'S SOLICITUDE. If it hadna been to make certainty doubly sure, my father had nae occasion to hound after Dr Dennistoun in the way he did, to ascertain the probability o' the death o' Jedediah Cameron, or ony other mortal that stood a chance o' needin a bit turf and a kindly clap o' his spade. His ee was as sure as a cockatrice's. He needed nae howling o' the moon-baying tyke, nae' death-watch, nae whip-lash on the table, nae dead-drap, nae dead-shaving at the candle, nae coffin-spark frae the fire, nae powers o second-sight, dreams, or divinations, to tell him when he was to hae a guid job. He came to be able to read death in men's faces, as he could do a printed book. Now, Jedediah Cameron didna deceive him. Ae day, when I was busy teachin the puir man's scholars, he came in, and whispered in my ear, that the parish clerk, schoolmaster, and precentor o' St Fillan's, was dead. I was, at the time, in the very act o' flogging an urchin wha had disputed my authority. The ferula fell from my hands; the urchin's rebellion was, I thought, ominous o' the rejection o' my claims o' succession; but, after a', there's nae oracle like the presentiments o' a man's ain soul, speaking frae the inspired tripod that is set owre the hollow-sounding, murmuring gulf o' an empty stamach; and so the ancient Pythonissa o' Apollo's temple at Delphi, judiciously took her seat over the abyss called the _umbilicus orbis terrarum_. Being an honest man, I confess frankly that the first feeling produced by my father's lively whisper, was a kind o' pleasure, approaching as near to delight as any sensation I had yet discovered in my microcosm. But I remembered the seventh verse o' the eighth chapter o' Ecclesiasticus, directed against rejoicing over the dead; and, upon the very instant, set vigorously to work, either to expel the delightful emotion frae my mind, or, at least, to push the sweet rebel off the cerebral throne--the pineal gland--and plunge him into some o' the deep ventricles, or dungeons, lying in the lower part of the brain, or ben in the cerebellum. It was a considerable struggle; but I succeeded to a perfect miracle--a circumstance I am the more pleased with, as I hate mortally that abominable cant of the Calvinists, about necessity, as if a man hadna the whip-hand, direction, and guidance of his own will. The grave o' Jedediah Cameron was, in due time, dog by my parent--wi' what feeling, whether o' sorrow or satisfaction, I am not bound to say, because a sense o' delicacy prevented me frae being present at the breaking o' the earth; but I consider myself under an obligation to state, that I never saw my respected parent cover up a mortal body so cleverly. Lest, however, ony hasty-minded, sanguine individual, should, from this admission o' mine, suppose that that cleverness, or nimbleness, had ony connection with the alacrity o' joy, or the morbid quickness o' a sorrow that wishes to get an unpleasant job out of hands, I must explain that my father merely wanted--surely a most legitimate object--to catch as many o' the parochial heritors present at the funeral as remained on the ground, reading grave-stanes, or laughing and chatting thegither, after the body was clappit down--with the view o' securing their votes for me, as the singular successor (to speak as the lawyers do) to the three vacant offices held by the now dead dominie. But this is a sair subject--I can scarcely write upon it. My brain whirls like an old woman's spindle the moment I think on't. Guidness! what a risk I ran o' losin my three offices by the mere paternal fondness o' that honest man. Some o' the heritors had remarked the vivacity and agility o' my parent in throwin in the heavy moil on the clatterin coffin, wi' mair noise, force, and fervor than was ever used on an occasion o' the same kind afore; pushin and shovellin great hillocks o' stanes and banes at a mighty effort, usin his very feet in the process; sweatin, pechin, stumblin, and producin a noise frae the coffin lid like distant thunner; and mair, peradventure, resemblin the risin than the lyin doun o' the dead. The thing couldna be concealed. My father was excited beyond a' prudence or decent decorum; and, when he had finished the wark, or rather pretended to finish it--for it was at best a clumsy business--and, drawin near, wi' the shovel in his hand, to a knot o' the heritors, standin on a flat gravestane, they asked him, wi' a significant expression, why he was in sae great a hurry in coverin up the puir dominie, a laugh rang amang the grave-stanes--a guid answer to my father's request--that stuck in his throat; and, in place o' gettin a vote, he hadna the courage to ask ane. The thing deed awa afore the meetin o' the heritors, an' I was saved frae ruin--an escape for which I hae offered up many thanks to the Author o' our mercies. The pleasant duty o' filial love is sae fu' o' artfu' seduction, and winnin, pauky guile, that it has carried me awa frae my ain merits an' successes. The first thing I had to do was to keep a guid firm grip o' the schule, the parish books, and the dominie's desk; for I knew that possession is nine points o' the law. I got ready my testimonials wi' the greatest despatch; the mair by token, that some o' them were in a very forward state before Jedediah Cameron's breath was out. I ca'ed at the houses o' a' the heritors wha had bairns at the schule, and praised wi' decent pride the progress they had made under my care--music mair sweet to their ears than even the Bangor itsel. Meanwhile, I exerted mysel on the Sabbaths, to sing, wi' the greatest pith and clearness, the psalm tunes. I kenned the folks were fondest o' such as the Auld Hunder, Mount Pleasant, and that excellent favourite the Bangor. My execution, pathos, quavers, semi-quavers, were wonderfu. The parishioners were astonished, and followin my leadin tenor into the altitudes o' the highest inspiration, flew awa into the very Elysian fields o' enthusiastic devotion. Nae doubt, some o' the auld, cunnin foxes, that never sang a stave looked at me as if they saw through my drift; but I was far abune their envy, and was conscious o' the purity o' my heart. In the meantime, my most excellent and much-respected parent was hawking aboot amang the heritors my testimonials; and at the next meetin o' the heritors, I was duly elected parish-clerk, schoolmaster, and precentor o' St Fillan's. Weel do I recollect that joyfu occasion. Our dinner exceeded far ony dead-chack I ever saw. My father took a free glass; and, inspired wi' the generous liquor, made a speech to me as lang as a funeral oration. "Noo, Gideon," he began, "yer namesake, the son o' Joash got his fortune read by a dream o' a barley cake that fell frae heaven, as we find i' the Book o' Judges. Yer barley-cake hath come frae heaven, and the forces o' Midian are delivered owre to ye. I can do nae mair for ye. I hae fed ye, clad ye, made ye. In yer mouth I hae put men's lear, in yer heart God's fear. For yer sake I watched, as the husbandman does the clouds, for signs o' mortality in the face o' Jedediah Cameron; and the first symptom o' water I saw in his body, comin atween me and the sun o' my hope, made a glitterin rainbow in my paternal ee. Muckle do ye owe me, Gideon; but I'll no be ill to satisfy. I'll be pleased if ye measure yer gratitude by the size o' that lank, toom wame, whilk I never saw filled to satisfaction till this blessed day, when ye hauld the three principal offices o' this parish." CHAPTER III. I EXERT MY GREAT ABILITIES ON A GREAT OCCASION. When I had fairly made up my mind to tak a wife, I set mysel to the wark systematically. The first thing to be dune was to put mysel in a convenient position for being struck; but a knowledge o' my combustible nature suggested caution against mere love at first sight--_ex aspectu nascitur amor_--lest I might be caught in yarn toils in place o' a goold chain. After a', there's nae place like a dominie's desk, for showing aff to the greatest advantage a man's personalities and graces. The openin o' the chest to let out the wind, naturally produces an erection o' the hail man. The keepin o' the time wi' the arm brings out a gracefu movement, just as ane were to set aff in a minuet. The lightin up o' the ee, and the fine attenuation o' a' the sma' limber muscles o' the face, wi' the power o' the music, is a direct expression o' the pure pathetic, showing at ance baith yer sentiment and yer beauty. Then singin itsel--and love, Augustinus says, will mak a musician out o' an ass--_musicam docet amor_--is a great grace and accomplishment, whether it be in warbling "Dundee's" wild measures, the "plaintive Martyrs," or "noble Elgin"--a' the very pick o' Psalm tunes--ranting "Tullochgorum," or spinnin out the lang, plaintive notes o' "The Flowers o' the Forest." It may very safely be supposed, that I never lost sight o' thae advantages. A dominie, in urgent celibacy, has a' the invention aboot him o' a man in extreme hunger. In fact, I felt as keen to get a wife as I ever did to get my three offices. But I was weel aware that a' my dress--and Mr Meiklejohn himsel, the minister, hadna a finer gloss on his black coat, or a brighter white in his cravat--a' my posture-makin, my attitudes and smiles--a' my sentimental looks, and turnin up o' the white o' my een--could avail me little, unless I picked out some female as the object and mark o' a weel-directed and significant _glowr_. In case o' failure, I fixed upon twa--May Walker, the dochter o' Gilbert Walker, an auld cattle-dealer, wha rented Langacres frae a chief heritor; and Agnes Lowrie, the dochter o' Benjamin Lowrie, feuar o' Muirbank. Twa or three guid _glowrs_ were a' that was necessary, in the first instance, to show that I, the dominie o' St Fillan's, wanted a wife, and that I was even in a state o' great exigency. The moment I thought I had impressed my twa damosels with this idea, I laboured assiduously in my vocation of endeavourin to produce, by my gracefu attitudes and sweet singin, a favourable impression on their hearts. I am a weel-disposed man, but love is a terrible thing, and it now hangs heavy on my conscience, that I did little else, during the duration o' Mr Meiklejohn's discourses, than to cast the glamour o' my attractions owre the een o' my dulcineas. There was ae particular occasion, however, beyond a', for expressin the pressure and exigency o' my situation, and, as it were, forcin attention to my wants and wishes. I used to gie out the purposed marriages at an early hour, before the congregation was half assembled; but I now took especial care, that the twa objects o' my affections should be calmly seated before I executed this part o' my duties. I began first by fixin my een on the ane I intended to devote that particular Sabbath to, (for I alternated my preferences;) and, as I looked at her as significantly as I could, I pronounced the emphatic words--"There is a purpose o' marriage between"--wi' sae muckle strong, heart-felt pathos--sometimes even inclinin my right hand a little in the direction o' my heart--that baith look and word maun hae pierced her very gizzard. It was perfectly impossible that this could fail. These preliminary operations I persevered in for sixteen Sabbaths. Having prepared matters in this effectual--I may say irresistible way--I bethought mysel o' the maist efficient way o' followin up the advantage I had gained. I asked my respected parent which o' the twa lasses he thought I should attack first. He answered, wi' that wisdom for which he was sae remarkable, that that depended upon circumstances. Twa or three days afterwards, he said he was prepared to answer my question--the interval being, I presume, occupied in gettin intelligence about the wealth o' the respective fathers o' the young women. He said, that, sae far as he could answer, May Walker was the preferable damsel. I asked him his reason. He replied, that he had taen the trouble o' ascertainin the hail circumstances o' her condition; and, though her father wasna sae rich as Agnes Lowrie's, he was paler, and a guid deal mair cadaverous looking. If my parent hadna been speakin professionally, as the sexton o' St Fillans, I might hae been inclined to think he was jokin, but he never was mair serious in his life; and, in fact, he had that very mornin been _Buchaneezing_, as he caed it, on Gilbert Walker's _prognosis_, and had come to a conclusion on his case, very favourable to my prospects in life. The saxteen Sabbaths I had spent _in limine_, as it were, o' Cupid's temple, drove me sae _hard up_--in other words, increased the exigency o' my celibacy to such an extent--that, actin on my father's advice, I determined upon fa'in foul o' her the very first time I met her in an unprotected situation, and in a secret, sequestered, and convenient place. My respected parent aye said, that love was just like death. The twa powers are aye best, baith for themsels and their victims, when they tak them by storm, or, as the French say, by a _coup de main_. A lingerin death and a lingerin love (said the guidman) make the heart sick, and, for his part, (laying aside his professional feelings), he detested baith. He seized my mither, he said, just like an apoplexy, and she succumbed in a single groan o' consent. "Gideon, take example by me," he continued; "never seize a woman like what Buchan ca's a _hemiplegia_--that is, by halves; comprehend in your embrace liver, pancreas, stamach, heart, spleen, and then ye're sure to move her compassion, and settle the affair in an instant." Following my worthy genitor's advice, I watched for May Walker, the next Sabbath, as she left the kirk after the afternoon's service. She was alane, and took the quietest road to Langacres. I dogged her most determinedly up the Willow Loan that leads into a solitary and sequestered howe, ca'ed the Warlocks' Glen, a place sae intensely romantic, sae completely sacred to the high feelins o' love and poetry, that it seemed impossible there for a woman to resist a man; and, if she might attempt it, she could look for nae mortal assistance. Having ogled her into a perfect state o' preparation, or predisposition to receive the attack, as the doctors say, I was quite certain o' success; and, just as an experienced sportsman lets a bird tak a lang flight afore he fires, to shew his ease, coolness, and confidence in his powers, I allowed her to be half-way up the Willow Loan afore I should pounce upon her. By some misfortune, however, she had got a glimpse o' me; for, just when I was meditating on the surest way o' makin my point guid, she took to her heels, like a springbok, and was off through the Warlocks' Glen in as short a time as I tak to gie out the first line o' a heroic Psalm verse. I cam hame and reported my progress to my parent; but he wasna in the slightest degree dispirited; and next Sabbath, I got Andrew Waugh, a singin weaver o' the village, to officiate for me, under a pretence that I had caught a severe cauld. I repaired to the Warlocks' Glen, and sat doun on a stump o' an auld aik tree, allowin freely the inspiration o' the place to seize me, and nerve my energies for the bauld project I had in hand. In a short time, I espied the streamers o' a woman's bannet wavin amang the willows in the distance. Slouchin doun, like a tiger, behind a large broom bush, I watched the onward progress o' the sweet nymph, doubtless my beloved May. It was absolutely and indispensably requisite that I should take her by ambuscade; for, if she had seen even the hem o' my garment, I'm satisfied her ambulation would hae been reversed, and in speed very considerably increased. I'm vexed to be obliged to mak this admission, which grates sae harshly against my self-conceit; but verity transcends, in beauty and importance, vanity; and I consider this biography to be naething but a confession frae beginnin to end. Keepin my slouchin, sneakin attitude as weel as my lang gaunt body would permit, I had at least the exorbitant satisfaction o' seein the dear young woman walkin mournfully alang, unconscious o' the danger that awaited her. At a little distance from my lurkin place, she stood, as if she feared there was a snake in the grass; for the anxiety and solicitude I felt to get a glimpse o' her fair face, forced me to twist my body into unpleasant contortions, which produced a kind of a rustling amang the sere-leaves that lay on the ground. Findin a' quiet again, she seemed to renounce a' fear; though I secretly suspected that she kenned weel aneugh the cause o' the noise, for I had detected the hinder part o' my body in a higher state o' elevation than my will or security warranted, being considerably abune the broom, and, therefore, plainly in her ee. Keepin my suspicion to mysel, I watched her motions wi' still greater curiosity and intensity; because, if my suspicions were true that she kenned I was lyin sneakin there, her conduct, of course, required frae me a different rule o' construction. At last she sat doon, quite close to me--a circumstance that satisfied me still mair that she was aware o' my position, condition, and intentions--for it seemed to be a kind o' an invitation to me to dart upon her, and secure my prey. She spoke. "Noo, this is no usin me quite weel," said she, "no to be here," (a mere blind, thinks I, to mak me think she doesna ken I'm lyin slouchin at her very side), "when I had sae muckle to say to him. Though I was shy to him the last time I saw him, he might hae learned eneugh o' the heart o' woman to ken that we hae certain arts and wiles, and guiles about us--a kind o' secret charms--to increase an affection that we think over languid, and bring it out o' the dead-thraw o' a starved love into the warm life o' a lively passion. It canna be, that, after sae lang a period o' lookin, followin, and languishin, he doesna like me. If he only kenned the condition o' this puir, flutterin, beatin heart, that fears to listen to its ain timid voice, as if it were treason to love--how muckle mair wad he prize my sittin here, invitin--wae's my puir prudence!--thae very attractions I used to flee frae! But woman, weak woman, is doomed to be the sport o' men, as weel as o' her ain heart." It was noo clearly my time to pounce. In fack, the young woman was invitin me. Up I sprang, like a jungle thief. "How can you sit there, May," said I, "kennin I was lyin sneakin there under that broom bush, and yet abusin a faithfu creature for being slow and languid in his love, when last Sabbath ye flew frae him wi' a' the pith o' a bitter hatred disgust, and scorn! Languid in _my_ affection! Is _that_ like languidness?" (Throwing my arms fully around her, so as to include, if possible, the hail body in my ample embrace.) "Is _that_, dear May, like love in the dead-thraw? If _that's_ no a sign" (still pressing her, as she struggled and cried) "o' the warm life o' a lively passion, as ye ca'd it, I kenna what it is?" As I thus held her in my impassioned grasp--as firm as a tiger's--she screamed most inordinately, makin the hail Warlocks' Glen ring frae end to end, rousin the mawkins on every side, and makin them skip over the whin bushes as if they had been followed by a pack o' harriers. But I wasna to be deceived. She had, when I was sneakin under the bush o' broom, gien me the key to this conduct, in her cunnin monologue. This was ane o' the arts, wiles, guiles, and secret charms, to increase a languid affection, and bring it out o' the dead-thraw o' a starved love into the warm love o' a lively passion. Her words still rung in my ears, and I was as determined as the very deevil to show her that her efforts to increase my love were perfectly effectual. I hugged her closer and closer. Heart, liver, pancreas, a'thegither, as recommended by my father, were in my embrace. I squeezed the dear creature like a vice, sae strong was my determination, increased every minute by her screams, to prove to her entire satisfaction--in fack, to demonstrate, beyond the possibility of a doubt--that there was nae mair occasion for her female guile or charm, and that she might rest assured that my affection could, nae mair than my grasp, be increased in point o' intensity. But a' wouldna do--her heart seemed to be insatiable. In addition to my squeezing grasp, I kissed her ruby lips. She cried the louder and the louder; and--oh! hae I lived to write it?--she actually spat on the face that was glowin red hot wi' affection for her. Still I persevered; for I thought that even the _sputum_ might be ane o' her secret charms. The struggle continued, and her cries increased. She had recourse to her nails, and I felt the blude streamin doun my cheeks. We fell on the ground. A man's voice behind me cried--"My love, my love! knock doun the spoiler!" A tremendous blow on the head took frae me my senses; and, when I recovered, I was in my ain bed, with my respectit parents sitting by me, watchin, with the greatest and tenderest care, the return o' consciousness to their beloved son. CHAPTER IV. LIGHT STRUGGLES THROUGH A CLOUD TO GET TO ME IN MY MISFORTUNE. I sune recovered my health, but my reputation and fair fame were for a time under a cloud. The parishioners, in place o' shakin me by the hand, looked at me with averted eyes. I was treated as a dog that had been in bad company. A sough went throughout the parish, that Simon Begley--or, as the folks ca'ed him, with a humorous application to his craft, that of procurator-fiscal o' the county, Beagle--was busy takin a precognition with a view to layin the case before the Lord Advocate. But I was gien to understand, and privately, that the authorities didna intend, in the meantime, to lay hold o' me, as they had nae suspicion I would flee the country. Their object was to ascertain the truth o' the charge, and, if they found there was any real _delictum_, and Gilbert Walker and May persevered in their determination, to apprehend me then, and try me as an example and a warnin. This misfortune brought upon me an attack o' hypochondriacism; and Melancholy, wi' a' her attendant hags, hounded me, as they say, frae house to hame. Wearied o' concealin myself within doors, I sought the by-ways, the loans, and the unfrequented paths--still, however, doin my duties, and facin the public whar I couldna weel sneak out o' the way. Ae day, I was sittin on a fence, no far frae my ain door, musin on the curious turn my love affair had taen, and generally on the "vanity of human wishes." I thought o' the poem o' that name by the only poet whose works I could ever thole to read, and cured, in some degree, my despondency, by repeatin to mysel the lines-- "Still raise for good the supplicating voice, But leave to Heaven the measure and the choice." "I hae dune baith," said a saft voice in my ear; "but the guid I hae prayed for is lang o' comin." "It has a lang road to come, my bonny lass," said I to a young woman with a child in her arms, wha stood before me. "I, mysel, ken what it is to suffer; for a pickled rod is at this very moment on my puir back--sending, as it cuts its way, the nippin brine into my very marrow. But I am exercisin patience. What may your compliant be?" "My complaint," said she, wipin a clear, shinin tear frae her bonny blue ee, "lies owre near my puir broken heart to be tauld to a stranger; for wha but Him wha is 'the saul's portion,' should hear the secrets, or is able to cure the waes o' a deserted wife? Ken ye the session-clerk o' this parish?" "Owre weel," said I, "guid woman; for, personally, I am noo sufferin for that officer. I, mysel, hold that honoured office, wi' its twa appurtenances." "You are, then, the very man I wanted to see," said she; "but I maun speak privately to ye. I hae come far to see ye, and heavy are the burdens I hae carried, baith at this bosom (lookin at her child) and in it; an' maybe ye may be the means o' relievin me o' ane o' them." "Which o' them mean ye, woman?" said I, no a'thegither at ease. "I hope ye dinna mean the bairn. Ae misfortune's enough at a time." "Na, na," replied she; "I dinna mean that you should be the faither o' the child; but ye may be the means, in higher hands, o' gettin back its faither, and thereby relievin me o' a' my burdens and a' my sorrows thegither." "Nae man likes to do guid better than I do," replied I, wi' a decent complacency, "though I hae been sair defamed. Come awa wi' me, an' tell me your story." I took the puir woman hame, and, seein she was filled wi' naething but sorrow, ane o' the maist inflatin o' a' the _non-naturals_ (for Hippocrates himsel couldna doubt that it's ane o' them,) I supplied her wi' as muckle victuals o' ae kind or anither--no bein very particular about the agreement or concurrence o' the elemental parts o' the polymixia or combination--as I thought would hae the double effeck o' gettin quit o' her hunger and her sorrow thegither. The puir creature ate like a rhinoceros. I doubt if she had had any meat for a week. Cakes, milk, cheese, herrings, tea, and honey, a' disappeared; and naething remained but a blush o' shame on her bonny cheek, to tell how muckle abashed she was at her good appetite. Some ungracefu minded folks wad ha ta'en the sweet suffusion that covered her face, for the mere effect o' the fecht or warstle o' devouring sae muckle meat; but my delicacy suggested a truer, a mair feminine, and a mair gallant conclusion. I was sae muckle pleased with the refinement o' mind that led to this discovery, that I couldna help bringing't oot--for nae man should hide his candle under a bushel-- "Ye needna be ashamed, my bonny woman," said I, "at eating sae muckle; for, though it's no paid for, ye're perfectly welcome to it, ample and multitudinous as it is." This had the desired effect; for the blush was instantly succeeded by a deadly paleness. I then asked her what was her particular object, in wishin to see and speak to me privately. It was some time afore she could answer--overcome, I fancy, by her admiration o' my delicacy o' sentiment; but at last, takin out a ragged handkerchief, as a kind o' preparation for a scene, a thing I like abune a' things--exceptin, maybe, that in the Warlocks' Glen--she began-- "I am the dochter o' an honest farmer, that lives down near the Tweed. His name is Arthur Græme; and my name--that is my maiden name--is Lucy Græme. He was ance accounted rich, and I was--no lang syne yet--considered to hae some claims to beauty--twa things that hae produced a' my wae. I was courted by the neighbourin farmers, wha vied wi' ane anither for my hand and my affections; but, as a prophet has nae credit in his ain country, sae neeborin lovers were little respeckit. The gree was born awa frae them by a perfect stranger, kenned neither to them nor to me. A young man, ca'ed, at that time at least, Hugh Kennedy, whase looks were, alas! his best recommendation, if I shouldna speak of a soft honeyed tongue, whase sounds were music to my ear, recommended himsel to me at a neighbouring fair, and took frae me, whether I wad or no, my silly affections. He had heard o' my father's siller, and he saw my blooming face; but he never had the courage to come to our house and court me honourably, as my other wooers were glad and proud to do. Yet--strange backslidin o' the human heart!--I wadna hae gien a stowen kiss o' Hugh Kennedy, among the beech groves o' Sunnybrae, for a' the flatterin, wooin, and braw presents o' the rest o' my lovers thegither. The mere circumstance o' the puir youth being banned, as he was (for his secret courtship was sune kenned), frae the very neeborin woods, bound him to my heart the closer and the firmer. Though twenty een were upon me as gleg as hawks, and I was watched like a convicted thief, I saw him, spoke to him, wept wi' him, lay in his dear arms, and got my tears kissed awa wi' his burning lips." Her throat got thick, and she paused. After some sobbing, she continued-- "Oh, forgie me, sir! To ye alane, wha hae my fortune in yer hands, wad I speak in this wild strain, for my heart is fu' o' love, grief, and a still revivin hope that winna dee. I never asked him a question, sae worthless and silly in the thoughts o' a lover, whar he wad tak me, and what he wad do wi' me, if I ran frae my faither's house, and married him. What cared I for things that were to come, when a' my joys were centred in the single moment when I was in his arms? Na, I never asked him whar was to be our bed--whar we were to get our dinner. Love had made me as light, as gay, as free, as thoughtless, as the birds o' the grove, whose food and raiment, hoose an' ha', are provided by nature, wha is kinder to them than to us proud human creatures. I need say nae mair. I flew frae my faither's hoose, was married and ruined. My husband had nae trade by the hand, nae friends, nae hame. He trusted to my faither's wealth; but that took wings and flew away as fast as his dochter. We lived thegither, Gude kens hoo, for twa years, when, ae mornin aboot six months syne, he rose frae my side an' left me, an' I hae never seen him since. A month after, I bore this babe, wha hasna yet seen its faither. I inquired for him in every direction, an' at last I heard that he was livin in this parish, an' was on the eve o' bein married to a braw lass, wi' a better tocher than I could bring to him." "This is a sad story, Lucy--Mrs Kennedy, I mean"--said I. "Your treacherous husband, and his unconscious victim, this second wife, whoever she may be, haena gien in their names to me yet, as clerk o' this parish; and Mr Meiklejohn is owre correct a man to marry them against the rules." "Heaven be praised!" cried the poor woman. "I was afraid I might be owre late." "Yer in braw time," said I; "but, if Mr Kennedy taks anither name, how will I ken him?--for he may forge certificates o' residence, or bribe some residenters to certify him--tricks no uncommon in the traffic o' matrimony." "But maybe ye may ken his _sweetheart_," said she, wi a big heart, as she wrung the bitter name out o' her dry throat. "It's no unlikely," said I; "I ken the maist o' the leevin folks o' the parish, and my faither kens a' the dead anes." "Did you ever hear o' a young woman bearing the name o' May Walker?" said she. "I think I hae," said I, hesitatingly, as if trying to recollect mysel; and, lookin suspiciously at her, for I thocht she had heard o' my misfortune, and was suspicious o' every individual that mentioned that charmed, dear, yet terrible name. "I think I hae," repeated I, drawing my hand owre my weel-shaved chin, as if to try my beard; and, satisfied o' the ignorance and innocence o' the creature, wishin to keep my secret. "Did ye ever see her, or speak to her?" continued Mrs Kennedy. "Is she bonny?--has she a sweet voice?--is she like--like me?" And she burst into tears. "I hae seen her," replied I, tryin to keep mysel frae greetin too; but a loud blubber burst frae me, in spite o' a' my efforts to keep it amang the lower pairt o' my lungs. "I hae seen her--I hae kissed--hum--I mean I hae spoken to her. She _is_ bonny--O ay!" (with an increased blubber); "she _is_ indeed bonny." My answer increased the weepin o' the jealous wife, and we baith grat thegither. "Has she muckle siller?" said she, calming a little. "She _will_ hae," replied I; "she _maun_ hae, for her faither is in _very_ bad health." This new cause o' sorrow increased my paroxysm to a perfect buller. "Ye are a maist sympathetic creature," said Mrs Kennedy, "to greet that way for anither's misfortunes." "It's just my way," said I; "we canna restrain our heart or our stamach." The mention o' the last word made the puir creature blush. It even stopped her tears. On hoo little springs do our passions depend! This scene bein acted in the way I hae thus (I hope pretty graphically) described, I began to tak a mair philosophical view o' this important business. With an acuteness as natural to me as to a snip's tool, I penetrated the prudential course o' my operations in an instant o' inspired intuition. I fancy it wad smack considerably o' the _inane gotium_ o' supererogation, besides being exposed to the charge o' anticipation, to lay my plan before my readers in the clumsy way o' a chart, where there's sae guid a pilot. I like to seize a subject as my father did my mother when he courted and won her; or as I did May Walker, when I courted and lost her. To the heart at ance! I premised my operations, by askin Mrs Kennedy, in spite o' the gladiator-like way she had o' handlin her knife and fork, to remain in my house for a day or twa, till we saw whether her husband would ca' upon me, to gie in the names o' him and _his_--alas! what a change!--_his_ dulcinea! In the meantime, Beagle's precognition was still proceedin; and Gilbert Walker and his dochter wouldna, it was said, relent. For about eight days, Mrs Kennedy sat and watched at the window, to see if she could espy her faithless husband; while I sneaked about, to try if I could ascertain the absolute truth of her story, and the real facks o' my ain deplorable case. My inquiries, conducted under the disadvantage o' being obliged to skulk, and beg, as it were, an answer to my questions, were not very successful. I, however, discovered that a young man, wi' black routhy whiskers, and a long romantic nose juttin out frae amang them, like a promontory frae the side o' a thick wud, was busy courtin May Walker, whase heart had got entangled in the forest o' his face, and couldna be liberated by a' the ruggin o' her father and her friends. This description o' him agreed wi' that I got frae Mrs Kennedy, wha couldna describe the coverin o' his face without tears. I was satisfied it was the man; and my satisfaction was confirmed by a kind o' recollection--strugglin through the inspissated gloom o' the oblivion I experienced after being knocked doon in the Warlocks' Glen--o' the figure o' an Orson-like individual, wi' a great rung in his hand, mixed with the evanescent sounds o' "My love!--my love!--knock doun the spoiler!" which produced, thegither, the conviction that Mr Hugh Kennedy was the very man on whom May Walker was waitin on that eventfu Sabbath, and who felled me sae unmercifully to the earth. CHAPTER V. MY TALENTS BROUGHT STILL MORE IN REQUISITION. Mrs Kennedy and I persevered, with the asperity o' hedgehogs, _echini asperitate_, (Pliny,) in our watch. Ae day, as I was sitting ben the house, where the parish register lies, the puir woman cam rinnin into the room, in a state of dreadful agitation, crying-- "There he's--there he's passing the very window--comin in, nae doubt, to gie in the names. Ah, traitor!" "Be quiet, foolish woman," said I. "Awa again to the kitchen. There he is!" (there was now a loud knocking at the door;) "awa wi' ye to the kitchen!" And I hurried her, _obtorto collo_, by the neck and shoulders, (for the exigency of the case obliterated every trace of my usual gallantry,) to the kitchen, whereinto I locked her, as firmly as guid smith's wark would permit. The prudence o' this preliminary step needs nae elucidation to them wha ken the nature o' a deserted wife. I then walked calmly to the door, which I opened slowly and decently, as became a session clerk. "How do you do, Mr Willison?" said a man, with large, black, routhy whiskers, and a prominent nose, o' the aquiline, or romantic cut. It was the very apparition o' the fever I caught in the Warlocks' Glen. He pretended never to have seen me before; but a blue mark on my forehead tingled the moment it caught his eye; and, as I unconsciously raised my hand to gie it the relief it asked, he smiled--a fair detection; but I said naething to shew that I recognised him. "As weel as can be expected," answered I, without mair significancy or intelligence than a babe or suckling would have exhibited. "That is the answer of a lying-in wife in Scotland," said he, still smiling. "Unfortunately, nane o' us hae ony experience o' that yet," said I, "if I can guess your errand to a parish clerk." "You do guess rightly," said he. "I came here to request you, sir, to publish these banns, on the next three successive Sabbaths." I received the paper he held out. It contained the names and designation o' the twa parties--George Webster, residing at Burnfoot; and May Walker, dochter o' Gilbert Walker, residing at Langacres. "Where are your certificates o' residence?" said I. He handed me a certificate, signed and attested wi' apparent regularity, but which I was predetermined to doubt, wi' a' the obstinacy o' a guid dogmatic sceptic. "I fancy you'll be the George Webster mentioned here yersel, Mr Hugh Kennedy," said I. He started, at the very least, three guid thumb-measured inches, frae my floor. The stroke was nearly as pithy as that he applied to me in the Warlocks' Glen. "That is my name in the certificate, there," said he, recovering. "I ken that brawly, Mr Kennedy," said I. "George Webster's your _present_ name; but I forget neither auld names nor auld friends. Some folk, wi' new-fangled notions, hae, now-a-days, three names. Even Mr Meiklejohn, guid man, baptized his son Finlay Johnstone Meiklejohn, to the admiration o' the twa-named congregation o' St Fillan's; but it canna be expected that, when the laddie comes up, we are aye to address him by his three names. It would be owre great an expense o' wind and time." "I have neither wind nor time to spend in this foolery," said he. "That is my name in the paper, and there are your fees." "I dinna want to quarrel wi' you, Mr Kennedy," said I, "because I hae owre muckle respect for Mrs Kennedy--Lucy Græme, the dochter o' Arthur Græme o' Sunnybrae, on Tweedside--and her bonny bairn, to get into a dispute wi' the husband o' the ane and the father o' the other. But I can keep a secret, man. What are ye alarmed about? Though ye knocked me doun in the Warlocks' Glen, I hae nae ill-will to ye. I dinna object to cry ye next Sabbath, wi' May Walker; but ae gude turn deserves anither--ye can do me a service." This statement utterly confounded Mr Kennedy. He tried first to bluster and swear, denied the truth of my assertion, calmed, blustered again; in short, gaed through a' thae useless and affected turns and movements that a hooked salmon taks the unnecessary trouble to do before it turns up the white o' its wame. "Calm yoursel, my dear sir," said I. "Mrs Lucy Kennedy is in my power, under my key. She daurna stir. Ye may be married and awa lang afore she kens onything about it, puir thing. We can settle a bit o' ordinar business without the interference o' a woman. I pledge ye ye'll neither hear nor see her, if ye'll promise to do me the favour I want aff ye." He fell back again into a rantin fit--swore he didna understand me--threatened to lick me--seized me by the cravat--took awa his hand again--gaed to the door--returned--calmed--rose, and calmed again. "What a trouble ye put yersel to, Mr Kennedy!" said I, calmly. "I want naething frae ye o' ony consequence. Ye're quite welcome to May Walker." (A sentimental whine here treacherously insinuated itself into my speech.) "She's a braw lass, and will be a rich lass. Her faither's ga' blether's fu' o' ga' stanes, or as my faither ca'es them, ga' nuts--a decided _icterus_ or jaundice. My parent (ye ken he's sexton) says he's sure o' him in sax weeks, and, consequently, ye're sure o' yer tocher in that sma' period o' time. I dinna want to deprive ye o' a' thae blessings, though it's in my power, and I might be urged to't by baith love and revenge." "What is't ye want, then?" roared he, at last, in a voice higher than Stentor's, while the fire flashed frae his ee in almost palpable scintillations o' fury. "Just get yer sweetheart, May Walker," said I, softly, "to write twa lines to Simon Begley, or Beagle, as they ca' him, the fiscal o' the shire, passin frae her charge against me; and ye'll be cried on Sabbath, afore the congregation meets, and Mrs Kennedy will never hear o't." "I'll admit naething aboot Mrs Kennedy," said he, as doggedly as a mule--"it's all an invention of the brain of a subtle dominie; but I'll get ye the line ye want, on condition that these idle fancies are lodged again safely in the addle-noddle where subtlety or folly engendered them, and when self-interest brought them to aid ye in a bad cause." "It's dune," said I; "but mark ye, nae cryin till I get the discharge; at least, if I'm forced, as I may be, to do my duty, and ca' the names, there'll be somebody in the front seat o' the gallery to answer me. Ye understand, Mr Kennedy?" Dartin a furious look at me, no unlike what a person might fancy o' the minotaur, he flew oot o' the hoose. As he passed the window, the yells o' Mrs Kennedy resounded through the house, and even, I believe, followed hard on the heels o' her husband, if they didna owretak him a'thegither, as he birred through the neeborin plantin like an incorporated personification o' fear. The moment he was oot o' sight, I liberated the puir, unfortunate woman frae her place o' confinement. "Whar is my husband?" she cried--"whar is that dear man, wha, in spite o' a' his guile and treachery, I maun see ance mair, though it were only to hauld up in his face this bairn, and then drap doun at his feet, and dee?" "Calm yersel, my bonny woman," said I, dautin her on the back like a bairn. "It's time enough to talk o' deein--a subject my faither likes better than I do--when I hae renounced my endeavours to get ye back yer husband. It's a' in a fair way. He's got the shot. Ye may see by the way he ran, he's got something better than sparrow hail. Be assured he'll come doun. A deevil couldna flee wi' the weight o' cauld lead he carries under his wing." "God bless ye!" said she, "and prosper yer efforts! I'll wait yer time." In twa hours after this, a man on horseback, bespattered wi' the red loam o' the Warlocks' Glen up to the chin, arrived at my door. He cam frae Langacres, and carried a letter, he said, for the session-clerk o' St Fillan's. I snatched the letter frae his hands in an instant; tearin it open wi' a' the anxiety o' a creature strugglin for his precious reputation. It was just what I wanted. I asked the man to come in and get some refreshment; and the very instant I had him fairly within the house, I shut the door on him, and, mountin his swift, roan-coloured mare, flew like lightnin to Simon Begley's. He was at hame. I handed him the letter. He said it was just the very thing he wanted, for he acknowledged that the public authorities had no wish to prosecute a case involvin the ruin o' a puir man; but, until they got out the discharge o' the private prosecutor, they had nae power to relinquish their proceedins. He assured me that everything was now at an end, and the sough o' the country would dree the fate o' a seven days' wonder. CHAPTER VI. A SUCCESSFUL ISSUE TO THE EFFORTS OF MY GENIUS. Next day, I tauld Mrs Kennedy to dress hersel, and be ready, wi' her bairn and her marriage-lines, to accompany me to a neighbour's house. We departed thegither. We took the road to Langacres. I felt the necessity here o' the maist inordinate caution--for I never could have been answerable for the effects o' my bein seen at a distance, walkin in my ordinary, erect, bauld, and somewhat martial manner, upon the house o' a jaundiced invalid, wha possessed the idea that I had already assaulted, and endeavoured to abduct his dochter. He might, in the first place, either be placed in a situation o' intense fear and alarm--prejudicial, if not fatal, to an invalid--or he might fire upon me from the windows, wi' ane o' his auld sportin guns, for he was ance a great sportsman. At same time it was necessary to conceal Mrs Kennedy, in case she might hae been recognised by her faithless spouse. We took, therefore, a circuitous route, under the cover o' a wood, that led up to the kitchen door. The moment I entered, the women in the kitchen began to scream and flee awa; but I soon shewed them I was perfectly canny, and even got the length o' bein allowed to daut ane o' them (but she was a little advanced in life) on the back. I was nae langer impeded in my endeavour to see Mr Gilbert Walker, whom I discovered in an arm-chair, as yellow as saffron, and as cankered as a nettle. He tried to start up when I entered; but, heaven be praised! his jaundice sune brought him to his seat again. "I am come, sir," said I, "in a matter o' the maist interest in nature to you and your dochter May." "How, sir," screamed he, "can ye dare to sully the name o' that innocent creature, by makin't run the gauntlet o' thae treacherous lips! Awa wi' ye, ye vile Nicanor! ye wolf that carries woo on your back in place o' hair! Alas! what a warld is this! 'Baith prophet and priest are profane; yea, in my house have I found their wickedness.'" "Gilbert Walker," said I, calmly, "my intentions towards your dochter were honourable, and I am come here this day--little thanks to me!--to put you on your guard against one whose intentions are false, treacherous, and abominable. When I made love to May Walker, I wasna a married man; but I was scorned, knocked down, and nearly prosecuted, for merely bein owre warm and lovin in my chaste embrace; while the husband o' anither woman comes in and carries awa the prize frae the scorned though honourable Coelebs. May Walker may, if she likes, despise me, her faithfu lover. Ninety-nine out o' a hunder would, for that mad act, convict her o' a vitiated and corrupt taste; but, if she had ane to side wi' her, she may, in a sense, be justified. But wha, save a Turk, could justify the taste o' a bonny maiden, wha married anither woman's man? There's no ane, there's no a leg o' ane, frae Buchaness to Ardnamurchan, frae the Mull o' Galloway to John o' Groat's, that would justify that taste in ane o' the chaste dochters o' virtuous Scotland." "What is this?" cried May Walker, openin a side-door, and strugglin, in the arms of Mr Hugh Kennedy, to get forward. "What do I hear? Who says that George Webster is a married man?" "Your greatest enemy!" cried Mr Hugh Kennedy; pointin theatrically with his outstretched hand. "Ha! ha! ha! Your spoiler, your rejected, dejected, envious, poisonous, adder-tongued lover, is he who has dared to spurt his venom on the meat destined for his rival. This is gratitude. He solicited me to get him discharged from your just vengeance, and now he endeavours to gnaw the fingers of the hand that awarded him his safety." "I see, I see it a'," cried May. "I ken the fox, or rather wolf, i' the auld. I hae met him in the Warlocks' Glen. He can sneak under broom bushes like the hairy adder, or lurk in the green moss like the yellow-wamed ask. It's no i' the wud alane that thae creatures carry their poison. They dinna cast it aff at the threshold o' the farmer's ha, whar they can crawl, an' spit, an' wound, an' kill, as weel as in the green wud. Dinna trouble yersel wi' the reptile, dear George. I gie him nae faith noo, ony mair than I did when he attacked me in the Warlocks' Glen." I sadna a word. I turned, and ran out, and, as I departed, I heard spinnin after me, frae a' their lips at ance-- "Ay, ay, awa wi' ye!--it is your time, fause, treacherous dog; never shew your face in this house again." In three minutes, I opened the door again, wi' my peculiar gentleness and calmness o' touch, and, wi' a jaunty manner, tinged wi' a kind of native etiquette, handed in, bowin the while amaist to the very carpet, Mrs Hugh Kennedy, wi' her bairn in her arms and her marriage-lines in her pouch. "I beg leave to introduce to you," said I, "Mrs Hugh Kennedy, the lawfu wedded wife o' this man, whase real name is Hugh Kennedy, and no George Webster, which is a mere cover--a vile deceit, and an imposition." I hadna time to get thae words fairly out, when Mrs Kennedy threw her bairn into my arms, and, fleein forward wi' the keenness and fire o a love that had been lang repressed and now burst its chains, seized, wi' her longing, greedy arms, her husband round the neck, like a ferocious mastiff. It's a' safe noo, thinks I. He may try and shake her aff if he can. The thing was just as impossible as it was for Prometheus to shake the king o' birds frae his liver. He shook, pulled, rugged, tore, kicked, and pinched her. Her grasp waxed firmer and firmer. She stuck like a horse leech, whase blude rins fair through, it. Guid sense micht hae dictated submission, whar the evil was clearly beyond mortal remeid. But the foolish man struggled--vain, trebly vain, foolish, insane effort! O pithless man! The struggle continued. He wrestled, and blew, and puffed. She grasped him closer and mair close. At first his struggle was for liberty; but now it turned mair serious; it seemed to be for life. Her grip had extended to his neck, and, choking up his windpipe, impeded respiration. His face waxed blue. His tongue began to jut out, as if inclined to hang. Foam came frae his mouth. His een were turned up, to show their whites. A hollow _raucitus_, or rattle, began in his throat. "Save the man frae strangulation," cried Gilbert Walker. "Haud the young Kennedy, May," said I, throwin the bairn into her arms, squallin wi' a great noise. I flew to save the man's life. Gettin behind him, I unclosed the woman's hands, which were fixed as if in the grasp o' death. The moment she was deprived of her hold, she fell senseless on the ground, and Kennedy, staggerin back, leaned on the wa', and tried to recover himsel. In a short time, the puir woman cam to hersel. "Hugh, dearest Hugh," she cried, strugglin to get to her knees, "can it be possible that ye hae tried to desert me for anither--me, wha left, for yer sake, my dotin father, my hame, an' a' the comforts o' hame; the bonny holms o' Sunnybrae, whar we courted sae lang in secret; the scene o' my youthfu' pleasures and my maiden loves--for ay and for ever?" "I know you not, woman," said he, doggedly. "Dinna ken yer wedded wife!" cried she, weepin, an' searchin for her marriage-lines, which she held up in her hand. "Dinna ken Lucy Græme, dochter o' Arthur Græme, o' Sunnybrae, whase heart I hae broken by marryin you! Mercy on me! Does he wha, by thae holy bands, is bound to cherish and protect me, his wedded wife, deny a' knowledge o' me? This is the last, the warst, the maist unbearable o' a' the ills ye hae brought on my puir head. That bairn," (risin an' seizin the child,) "that babe, that hadna seen the licht o' day when ye cowardly deserted its houseless, starvin mither looks to ye as its father, and mocks your cauld, cruel ignorance wi' its knowledge--got, dootless, frae heaven--o' its natural protector. O maiden, maiden," (lookin to May Walker,) "tak example by me. Yer hame here is warm and comfortable. Dinna leave it, dinna renounce it, but for ane ye ken, in heart, soul, name, pedigree, and means. He wha has ruined me wad hae trebly ruined ye; for he has taen frae me only my hame, my daily bread, and peace--he wad hae taen frae ye a' thae, and, ayont them a', your honour." Kennedy had seen it was a' up wi' him before the termination o' his wife's speech, for his ee began to play about the door o' the room. I watched him, but he was an over-match for me. Runnin forward, he jostled me to a side--I stumbled and fell--the women screamed--and, before I got up, he had completely and finally bolted. The puir woman, wi' her bairn still in her arms, shrieked as she saw him depart, perhaps for ever. Nae power wad restrain her--she flew, wi' a' the force o' her feeble limbs, after her faithless husband, and we never heard o' them mair. Gratitude for this return, on my part, o' guid for ill, in a short time completely changed the heart o' May Walker. I had saved her frae ruin. We were wed. I may some day write the fate o' my first-born, for that famous wark, "The Border Tales." SAYINGS AND DOINGS OF PETER PATERSON. An every-day biographer would have said that Peter Paterson was the son of pious and respectable parents; and he would have been perfectly right, for the parents of Peter were both pious and respectable. I say they were pious; for, every week-night, as duly as the clock struck nine, and every Sabbath morning and evening, Robin Paterson and his wife Betty called in their man-servant and their maid-servant into what now-a-days would be styled their parlour, and there the voice of Psalms, of reading the Word, and of prayer, was heard; and, moreover, their actions corresponded with their profession. I say also they were respectable; for Robin Paterson rented a farm called Foxlaw, consisting of fifty acres, in which, as his neighbours said, he was "making money like hay"--for land was not three or four guineas an acre in those days. Foxlaw was in the south of Scotland, upon the east coast, and the farm-house stood on the brae-side, within a stone-throw of the sea. The brae on which Foxlaw stood, formed one side of a sort of deep valley or ravine; and at the foot of the valley was a small village, with a few respectable-looking houses scattered here and there in its neighbourhood. Robin and Betty had been married about six years, when, to the exceeding joy of both, Betty brought forth a son, and they called his name Peter--that having been the Christian name of his paternal grandfather. Before he was six weeks old, his mother protested he would be a prodigy; and was heard to say--"See, Robin, man, see!--did ye ever ken the like o' that?--see how he laughs!--he kens his name already!" And Betty and Robin kissed their child alternately, and gloried in his smile. "O Betty," said Robin--for Robin was no common man--"that smile was the first spark o' reason glimmerin' in our infant's soul!--Thank God! the bairn has a' its faculties." At five years old Peter was sent to the village school, where he continued till he was fifteen; and there he was more distinguished as a pugilist than as a book-worm. Nevertheless, Peter contrived almost invariably to remain dux of his class; but this was accounted for by the fact, that, when he made a blunder, no one dared to _trap_ him, well knowing that if they had done so, the moment they were out of school, Peter would have made his knuckles acquainted with their seat of superior knowledge. On occasions when he was fairly puzzled, and the teacher would put the question to a boy lower in the class, the latter would tremble and stammer, and look now at his teacher, and now squint at Peter, stammer again, and again look from the one to the other, while Peter would draw his book before his face, and, giving a scowling glent at the stammerer, would give a sort of significant nod to his fist suddenly clenched upon the open page; and when the teacher stamped his foot, and cried, "Speak, sir!" the trembler whimpered, "I daurna, sir." "Ye daurna!" the enraged dominie would cry--"Why?" "Because--because, sir," was slowly stammered out--"Peter Paterson wud _lick_ me!" Then would the incensed disciplinarian spring upon Peter; and, grasping him by the collar, whirl his _taws_ in the air, and bring them with his utmost strength round the back, sides, and limbs of Peter; but Peter was like a rock, and his eyes more stubborn than a rock; and, in the midst of all, he gazed in the face of his tormentor with a look of imperturbable defiance and contempt. Notwithstanding this course of education, when Peter had attained the age of fifteen, the village instructor found it necessary to call at Foxlaw, and inform Robin Paterson that he could do no more for his son, adding that--"He was fit for the college; and, though he said it, that should not say it, as fit for it as any student that ever entered it." These were glad tidings to a father's heart, and Robin treated the dominie to an extra tumbler. He, however, thought his son was young enough for the college--"We'll wait anither year," said he; "an' Peter can be improvin' himsel at hame; an' ye can gie a look in, Maister, an' advise us to ony kind o' books ye think he should hae--we'll aye be happy to see ye, for ye've done yer duty to him, I'll say that for ye." So another year passed on, and Peter remained about the farm. He was now sometimes seen with a book in his hand; but more frequently with a gun, and more frequently still with a fishing rod. At the end of the twelve months, Peter positively refused to go to the college. His mother entreated, and his father threatened; but it was labour in vain. At last--"It's o' nae use striving against the stream," said Robin--"ye canna gather berries off a whin bush. Let him e'en tak his ain way, an' he may live to rue it." Thus, Peter went on reading, shooting, fishing, and working about the farm, till he was eighteen. He now began to receive a number of epithets from his neighbours. His old schoolmaster called him "Ne'er-do-weel Peter;" but the dominie was a mere proser; he knew the moods and tenses of a Greek or Latin sentence, but he was incapable of appreciating its soul. Some called him "Poetical Peter," and a few "Prosing Peter;" but the latter were downright bargain-making, pounds-shillings-and-pence men, whose souls were dead to "The music of sweet sounds;" and sensible only of the jink of the coin of the realm. Others called him "_Daft_ Peter," for he was the leader of frolic, fun, and harmless mischief; but now the maidens of the village also began to call him "Handsome Peter." Yet he of whom they thus spoke would wander for hours alone by the beach of the solitary sea, gazing upon its army of waves warring with the winds, till his very spirit took part in the conflict; or he could look till his eyes got blind on its unruffled bosom, when the morning sun flung over it, from the horizon to the shore, a flash of glory; or, when the moon-beams, like a million torches shooting from the deep, danced on its undulating billows--then would he stand, like an entranced being, listening to its everlasting anthem, while his soul, awed and elevated by the magnificence of the scene, worshipped God, the Creator of the great sea. With all his reputed wildness, and with all his thoughtlessness, even on the sea-banks, by the wood, and by the brae-side, Peter found voiceless, yet to him eloquent companions. To him the tender primrose was sacred as the first blush of opening womanhood; and he would converse with the lowly daisy, till his gaze seemed to draw out the very soul of the "Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower." It, however, grieved his mother's spirit to see him, as she said, "Just idling awa his time, and leaving his learning at his heels." His father now said--"Let him just tak his fling an' find his ain weight--an he'll either mak a spoon or spoil a horn, or my name's no Robin Paterson." But, from Peter's infancy, it had been his mother's ambition and desire to live to see him, as she expressed it, "wag his pow in a poopit," or, at any rate, to see him a gentleman. On one occasion, therefore, when Robin was at Dunse hiring-market, the schoolmaster having called on his old pupil, "Ne'er-do-weel Peter," the two entered into a controversy in the presence of Peter's mother, and, in the course of the discussion, the man of letters was dumfoundered by the fluency and force of the arguments of his young antagonist. Silent tears of exultation stole into Betty's eyes, to hear, as she said, "her bairn expawtiate equal--ay, superior to ony minister;" and no sooner had the teacher withdrawn, than, fixing her admiring eyes on her son, she said-- "O Peter, man, what a delivery ye hae?--an' sae fu' o' the dictioner'! Troth but ye wad cut a figure i' the poopit! There wad nae dust gather on your cushion--there wad be nae sleeping, nodding, or snoring, while my Peter was preachin'. An', oh, hinny, but ye will mak me a glad mother, if ye'll consent to gang to the college! Ye wadna be lang o' gettin a kirk, my man--I can tell ye that; an', if ye'll only consent to gang, ye shanna want pocket-money that your faither kens naething about--my bairn shall appear wi' the best o' them. For syne ever ye was an infant, it has aye been my hope an' my prayer, Peter, to see ye a minister; an' I ne'er sent a hunder eggs or a basket o' butter to the market, but Peter's pennies were aye laid aside, to keep his pockets at the college." Peter was, in the main, a most dutiful and most affectionate son; but on this point he was strangely stubborn; and he replied-- "Wheesht, mother! wheesht!--nae mair aboot it." "Nae mair aboot it, bairn!" said she; "but I maun say mair aboot it. Man! wad ye fling awa yer learnin' at a dyke-side, an' yer talents at a pleugh-tail? Wad ye just break yer mother an' faither's heart? O Peter! Peter, man, hae ye nae spirit ava?--What is yer objection?" "Weel, keep your temper, mother," said he, "an' I'll tell ye candidly:--The kirk puts a strait-jacket on a body that I wadna hae elbow-room in!" "What do ye mean, ye graceless?" added she, in a voice betokening a sort of horror. "Oh, naething particular; only, for example, sic bits o' scandal as--the Reverend Peter Paterson was called before the session for shooting on his ain glebe--or, the Reverend Peter Paterson was summoned before the presbytery for leistering a salmon at the foot o' Tammy the Miller's dam--or, the Reverend Peter Paterson was ordered to appear before the General Assembly for clappin' Tammy the Miller's servant lassie on the shouther, an' ca'ing her a winsome quean--or"---- "Or!"--exclaimed his impatient and mortified mother--"Oh, ye forward an' profane rascal ye! how daur ye speak in sic a strain--or wad ye be guilty o' sic unministerial conduct?--wad ye disgrace _the coat_ by sic ungodly behaviour?" "There's nae sayin', mother," added he; "but dinna be angry--I'm sure, if I did either shoot, leister, or clap a bonny lassie on the shouther, ye wadna think it unlike your son Peter." "Weel, weel," said the good-natured matron, softened down by his manner; "it's true your faither says--it's nae use striving against the stream; an' a' gifts arena graces. But if ye'll no be a minister, what will ye be? Wad ye no like to be a writer or an advocate?" "Worse an' worse, mother! I wad rather beg than live on the misery of another." "Then, callant," added Betty, shaking her head, and sighing as she spoke--"I dinna ken what we'll do wi' ye. Will ye no be a doctor?" "What!" said Peter, laughing, and assuming a theatrical attitude--"an apothecary!--make an apothecary of _me_, and cramp _my_ genius over a pestle and mortar? No, mother--I'll be a farmer, like my father before me." "Oh, ye ne'er-do-weel, as your maister ca's ye!" said his mother, as she rose and left the room in a passion; "ye'll be a play-actor yet, an' that will be baith seen an' heard tell o', an' bring disgrace on us a'." Peter was, however, spell-bound to the vicinity of Foxlaw by stronger ties than an aversion to the college or a love for farming. He was about seventeen, when a Mr Graham, with his wife and family, came and took up his residence in one of the respectable-looking houses adjacent to the village. Mr Graham had been a seafaring man--it was reported the master of a small privateer; and in that capacity had acquired, as the villagers expressed it, "a sort o' money." He had a family of several children, but the eldest was a lovely girl called Ann, about the same age as Peter Paterson. Mr Graham was fond of his gun, and so was Peter; they frequently met on the neighbouring moors, and an intimacy sprang up between them. The old sailor also began to love his young companion; for, though a landsman, he had a bold, reckless spirit: he could row, reef, and steer, and swim like an amphibious animal; and, though only a boy, he was acknowledged to be the only boxer, and the best leaper, runner, and wrestler in the country side--moreover, he could listen to a long yarn, and, over a glass of old grog, toss off his heel-taps like a man; and these qualifications drawing the heart of the skipper towards him, he invited him to his house. But here a change came over the spirit of reckless, roving Peter. He saw Ann; and an invisible hand seemed suddenly to strike him on the breast. His heart leaped to his throat. His eyes were riveted. He felt as if a flame passed over his face. Mr Graham told his longest stories, and Peter sat like a simpleton--hearing every word, indeed, but not comprehending a single sentence. His entire soul was fixed on the fair being before him--every sense was swallowed up in sight. Ringlets of a shining brown were parted over her fair brow; but Peter could not have told their colour--her soft blue eyes occasionally met his, but he noted not their hue. He beheld her lovely face, where the rose and the lily were blended--he saw the almost sculptured elegance of her form; yet it was neither on these--on the shining ringlets, nor the soft blue eyes--that his spirit dwelt; but on Ann Graham, their gentle possessor. He felt as he had never felt before; and he knew not wherefore. Next day, and every day, found Peter at the house of Captain Graham; and often as love's own hour threw its grey mantle over the hills, he was to be seen wandering with the gentle Ann by his side, on the sea-banks, by the beach, and in the unfrequented paths. Again and again, when no eye saw them, and when no ear heard them, he had revealed the fulness of his heart before her; and, in the rapture of the moment, sealed his truth upon her lips; while she, with affection too deep for words, would fling her arm across his shoulder, and hide her face on his breast to conceal the tear of joy and of love. His parents looked upon Ann as their future daughter; and, with Peter, the course of "true love ran smooth." A farm had been taken in an adjoining parish, on which he was to enter at the following Whitsunday; and, on taking possession of his farm, Ann Graham was to become his bride. Never did exile long more ardently for his native land, than did Peter Paterson for the coming Whitsunday; but, ere it came, the poetical truth was verified, that "The course of true love _never did_ run smooth." Contiguous to the farm of Foxlaw, lay the estate of one Laird Horslie--a young gentleman but little known in the neighbourhood; for he had visited it but once, and that only for a few weeks, since it came into his possession. All that was known of him was, that he wrote J.P. after his name--that he was a hard landlord, and had the reputation of spending his rents faster than his factor could forward them to him. To him belonged the farm that had been taken for Peter; and it so happened, that, before the Whitsunday which was to make the latter happy arrived, the laird paid a second visit to his estate. At the kirk, on the Sunday, all eyes were fixed on the young laird. Captain Graham was one of his tenants, and occupied a pew immediately behind the square seat of the squire. But, while all eyes were fixed upon Laird Horslie, he turned his back upon the minister, and gazed, and gazed again, upon the lovely countenance of Ann Graham. All the congregation observed it. Ann blushed and hung her head; but the young squire, with the privilege of a man of property, gazed on unabashed. What was observed by all the rest of the congregation, was not unobserved by Peter. Many, with a questionable expression in their eyes, turned them from the laird, and fixed them upon him. Peter observed this also and his soul was wroth. His face glowed like a furnace; he stood up in his seat, and his teeth were clenched together. His fist was once or twice observed to be clenched also; and he continued scowling on the laird, wishing in his heart for ability to annihilate him with a glance. Next day, the squire called upon the old skipper, and he praised the beauty of Ann in her own presence, and in the presence of her parents. But there was nothing particular in this; for he called upon all his tenants, he chatted with them, tasted their bottle, paid compliments to their daughters, and declared that their sons did honour to "Scotland's glorious peasantry." Many began to say, that the laird was "a nice young gentleman"--that he had been "wickedly misca'ed;" and the factor "got the wyte o' a'." His visits to Mr Graham's cottage, however, were continued day after day; and his attentions to Ann became more and more marked. A keen sportsman himself, he was the implacable enemy of poachers, and had strictly prohibited shooting on his estate; but, to the old skipper, the privilege was granted of shooting when and where he pleased. Instead, therefore, of seeing Peter Paterson and the old seaman in the fields together, it was no uncommon thing to meet the skipper and the squire. The affection of the former, indeed, had wonderfully cooled towards his intended son-in-law. Peter saw and felt this; and the visits of the squire were wormwood to his spirit. If they did not make him jealous, they rendered him impatient, impetuous, miserable. He was wandering alone upon the shore, at the hour which Hogg calls "between the gloamin' and the mirk," in one of those impatient, impetuous, and unhappy moods, when he resolved not to live in a state of torture and anxiety until Whitsunday, but to have the sacred knot tied at once. Having so determined, Peter turned towards Graham's cottage. He had not proceeded far, when he observed a figure gliding before him on the footpath, leading from the village to the cottage. Darkness was gathering fast, but he at once recognised the form before him to be that of his own Ann. She was not a hundred yards before him, and he hastened forward to overtake her; but, as the proverb has it, there is much between the cup and the lip. A part of the footpath ran through a young plantation, and this plantation Ann Graham was just entering, when observed by Peter. He also had entered the wood, when his progress was arrested for a moment by the sudden sound of voices. It was Ann's voice, and it reached his ear in tones of anger and reproach; and these were tones so new to him, as proceeding from one whom he regarded as all gentleness and love, that he stood involuntarily still. The words he could not distinguish; but, after halting for an instant, he pushed softly but hastily forward, and heard the voice of the young laird reply-- "A rose-bud in a fury, by the goddesses!--Nay, frown not, fairest," continued he, throwing his arm around her, and adding-- "What pity that so delicate a form Should be devoted to the rude embrace Of some indecent clown!" Peter heard this, and muttered an oath or an ejaculation which we will not write. "Sir," said Ann, indignantly, and struggling as she spoke, "if you have the fortune of a gentleman, have, at least, the decency of a man." "Nay, sweetest; but you, having the beauty of an angel, have the heart of a woman." And he attempted to kiss her cheek. "Laird Horslie!" shouted Peter, as if an earthquake had burst at the heels of the squire--"hands off!--I say, hands off!" Now, Peter did not exactly suit the action to the word; for, while he yet exclaimed "hands off!" he, with both hands, clutched the laird by the collar, and hurling him across the path, caused him to roll like a ball at the foot of a tree. "Fellow!" exclaimed Horslie, furiously, rising on his knee, and rubbing his sores-- "Fellow!" interrupted Peter--"confound ye, sir, dinna _fellow_ me, or there'll be _fellin_' in the way. You can keep yer farm, and be hanged to ye; and let me tell ye, sir, if ye were ten thousand lairds, if ye dared to lay yer ill-faur'd lips on a sweetheart o' mine, I wad twist yer neck about like a turnip-shaw! Come awa, Annie, love," added he, tenderly, "and be thankfu' I cam in the way." Before they entered the house, he had obtained her consent to their immediate union; but the acquiescence of the old skipper was still wanting; and when Peter made known his wishes to him-- "Belay," cried the old boy; "not so fast, Master Peter; a craft such as my girl is worth a longer run, lad. Time enough to take her in tow, when you've a harbour to moor her in, Master Peter. There may be other cutters upon the coast, too, that will give you a race for her, and that have got what I call _shot_ in their lockers. So you can take in a reef, my lad; and, if you don't like it, why--helm about--that's all." "Captain Graham," said Peter, proudly and earnestly, "I both understand and feel your remarks; and, but for Ann's sake, I would resent them also. But, sir, you are a faither--you are an affectionate one--dinna be a deluded one. By a side-wind, ye hae flung my poverty in my teeth; but, sir, if I hae poverty, and Laird Horslie riches, I hae loved yer dochter as a man--he seeks to destroy her like a villain." "'Vast, Peter, 'vast!" cried the old man; "mind I am Ann's father--tell me what you mean." "I mean, sir, that ye hae been hoodwinked," added the other--"that ye hae been flung aff yer guard, and led to the precipice o' the deep, dark sea o' destruction an' disgrace; that a villain has hovered round yer house, like a hawk round a wood-pigeon's nest, waiting an opportunity to destroy yer peace for ever! Sir, to use a phrase o' yer ain, wad ye behold yer dochter driven a ruined wreck upon the world's bleak shore, the discarded property o' the lord o' the manor? If ye doubt me, as to the rascal's intentions, ask Ann hersel." "'Sdeath, Peter, man!" cried the old tar, "do you say that the fellow has tried to make a marine of me?--that a lubber has got the weathergage of Bill Graham? Call in Ann." Ann entered the room where her father and Peter sat. "Ann, love," said the old man, "I know you are a true girl; you know Squire Horslie, and you know he comes here for you; now, tell me at once, dear--I say, tell me what you think of him?" "I think," replied she, bursting into tears--"I _know_ he is a villain!" "You know it!" returned he; "blow me, have I harboured a shark! What! the salt water in my girl's eyes, too! If I thought he had whispered a word in your ear, but the thing that was honourable--hang me! I would warm the puppy's back with a round dozen with my own hand." "You have to thank Peter," said she, sobbing, "for rescuing me to-night from his unmanly rudeness." "What! saved you from his rudeness!--you didn't tell me that, Peter; well, well, my lad, you have saved an old sailor from being drifted on a rock. There's my hand--forgive me--get Ann's, and God bless you!" Within three weeks, all was in readiness for the wedding. At Foxlaw, old Betty was, as she said, up to the elbows in preparation, and Robin was almost as happy as his son; for Ann was loved by every one. It was Monday evening, and the wedding was to take place next day. Peter was too much of a sportsman not to have game upon the table at his marriage feast. He took his gun, and went among the fields. He had traversed over the fifty acres of Foxlaw in vain, when, in an adjoining field, the property of his rival, he perceived a full-grown hare holding his circuitous gambols. It was a noble-looking animal. The temptation was irresistible. He took aim; and the next moment bounded over the low hedge. He was a dead shot; and he had taken up the prize, and was holding it, surveying it before him, when Mr Horslie and his gamekeeper sprang upon him, and, ere he was aware, their hands were on his breast. Angry words passed, and words rose to blows. Peter threw the hare over his shoulder, and left the squire and his gamekeeper to console each other on the ground. He returned home; but nothing said he of his second adventure with Laird Horslie. The wedding-day dawned; and, though the village had no bells to ring, there were not wanting demonstrations of rejoicing; and, as the marriage party passed through its little street to the manse, children shouted, waved ribbons, and smiled, and every fowling-piece and pistol in the place sent forth a joyful noise; yea, the village Vulcan himself, as they passed his smithy, stood with a rod of red-hot iron in his hand, and having his stithies arranged before him like a battery, and charged with powder, saluted them with a rustic but hearty _feu d'joie_. There was not a countenance but seemed to bless them. Peter was the very picture of manly joy--Ann of modesty and love. They were within five yards of the manse, where the minister waited to pronounce over them the charmed and holy words, when Squire Horslie's gamekeeper and two constables intercepted the party. "You are our prisoner," said one of the latter, producing his warrant, and laying his hand upon Peter. Peter's cheek grew pale; he stood silent and motionless, as if palsy had smitten his very soul. Ann uttered a short, sudden scream of despair, and fell senseless at the feet of the best-man. Her cry of agony recalled the bridegroom to instant consciousness; he started round--he raised her in his arms, he held her to his bosom. "Ann!--my ain Ann!" he cried; "look up--oh, look up, dear! It is me, Ann--they canna, they daurna harm me." Confusion and dismay took possession of the whole party. "What is the meaning o' this, sirs?" said Robin Paterson, his voice half-choked with agitation; "what has my son done, that ye choose sic an untimeous hour to bring a warrant against him?" "He has done, old boy, what will give him employment for seven years," said the gamekeeper, insolently. "Constables, do your duty." "Sirs," said Robin, as they again attempted to lay hands upon his son, "I am sure he has been guilty o' nae crime--leave us noo, an' whatever be his offence, I, his faither, will be answerable for his forthcoming to the last penny in my possession." "And I will be bail to the same amount, master constables," said the old skipper; "for, blow me, d'ye see, if there an't black work at the bottom o' this, and somebody shall hear about it, that's all." Consciousness had returned to the fair bride. She threw her arms around Peter's neck--"They shall not--no, they shall not take you from me!" exclaimed she. "No, no, dear," returned he; "dinna put yersel' about." The minister had come out of the manse, and offered to join the old men as security for Peter's appearance on the following day. "To the devil with your bail!--you are no justices, master constables," replied the inexorable gamekeeper--"seize him instantly." "Slave!" cried Peter, raising his hand and grasping the other by the throat. "Help! help, in the king's name!" shouted the provincial executors of the law, each seizing him by the arm. "Be quiet, Peter, my man," said his father, clapping his shoulder, and a tear stole down his cheek as he spoke, "dinna mak bad worse." "A rescue, by Harry!--a rescue!" cried the old skipper. "No, no," returned Peter--"no rescue; if it cam to that, I wad need nae assistance. Quit my arms, sirs, and I'll accompany ye in peace. Ann, love--fareweel the noo, an' Heaven bless you, dearest!--but dinna greet, hinny--dinna greet!" And he pressed his lips to hers. "Help her, faither--help her," added he; "see her hame, and try to comfort her." The old man placed his arm tenderly round her waist--she clung closer to her bridegroom's neck; and, as they gently lifted up her hands, she uttered a heart-piercing, and it seemed, a heart-broken scream, that rang down the valley like the wail o' desolation. Her head dropped upon her bosom. Peter hastily raised her hand to his lips; then turning to the myrmidons of the law, said sternly--"I am ready, sirs; lead me where you will." I might describe to you the fears, the anguish, and the agony of Peter's mother, as, from the door of Foxlaw, she beheld the bridal party return to the village. "Bless me, are they back already!--can anything hae happened the minister?" was her first exclamation; but she saw the villagers collecting around them in silent crowds; she beheld the women raising their hands, as if stricken with dismay; the joy that had greeted them a few minutes before was dead, and the very children seemed to follow in sorrow. "Oh, bairn!" said she to the serving maid, who stood beside her, "saw ye e'er the like o' yon? Rin doun an' see what's happened; for my knees are sinking under me." The next moment she beheld her husband and Captain Graham supporting the unwedded bride in their arms. They approached not to Foxlaw, but turned to the direction of the Captain's cottage. A dimness came over the mother's eyes--for a moment they sought her son, but found him not. "Gracious Heaven!" she cried, wringing her hands, "what's this come owre us!" She rushed forward--the valley, the village, and the joyless bridal party, floated round before her--her heart was sick with agony, and she fell with her face upon the earth. The next day found Peter in Greenlaw jail. He had not only been detected in the act of poaching; but a violent assault, as it was termed, against one of his Majesty's Justices of the Peace, was proved against him; and, before his father or his friends could visit him, he was hurried to Leith, and placed on board a frigate about to sail from the Roads. He was made of sterner stuff than to sink beneath oppression; and, though his heart yearned for the mourning bride from whose arms he had been torn, and he found it hard to brook the imperious commands and even insolence of men "dressed in a little brief authority;" yet, as the awkwardness of a landsman began to wear away, and the tumult of his feelings to subside, his situation became less disagreeable; and, before twelve months had passed, Peter Paterson was a favourite with every one on board. At the time we speak of, some French privateers had annoyed the fishing smacks employed in carrying salmon from Scotland to London; and the frigate on board of which Peter had been sent, was cruising to and fro in quest of them. One beautiful summer evening, when the blue sea was smooth as a mirror, the winds seemed dead, and the very clouds slept motionless beneath the blue sky, the frigate lay becalmed in a sort of bay within two miles of the shore. Well was that shore known to Peter; he was familiar with the appearance of every rock--with the form of every hill--with the situation of every tree--with the name of every house and its inhabitants. It was the place of his birth; and, before him, the setting sun shed its evening rays upon his father's house, and upon the habitation of her whom he regarded as his wife. He leaned anxiously over the proud bulwarks of the vessel, gazing till his imprisoned soul seemed ready to burst from his body, and mingle with the objects it loved. The sun sank behind the hills--the big tears swelled in his eyes--indistinctness gathered over the shore--he wrung his hands in silence and in bitterness. He muttered in agony the name of his parents, and the name of her he loved. He felt himself a slave. He dashed his hand against his forehead--"O Heaven!" he exclaimed aloud, "thy curse upon mine enemy!" "Paterson!" cried an officer, who had observed him, and overheard his exclamation; "are you mad? See him below," continued he, addressing another seaman; "the fellow appears deranged." "I am not mad, your honour," returned Peter, though his look and his late manner almost belied his words; and, briefly telling his story, he begged permission to go on shore. The frigate, however, was considered as his prison, and his place of punishment; when sent on board, he had been described as "a dangerous character"--his recent bitter prayer or imprecation went far in confirmation of that description; and his earnest request was refused. Darkness silently stretched its dull curtain over earth and sea--still the wind slept as a cradled child, and the evening star, like a gem on the bosom of night, threw its pale light upon the land. Peter had again crept upon the deck; and, while the tears yet glistened in his eyes, he gazed eagerly towards the shore, and on the star of hope and of love. It seemed like a lamp from Heaven suspended over his father's house--the home of his heart, and of his childhood. He felt as though it at once invited him to the scene of his young affections, and lighted the way. For the first time, the gathering tears rolled down his cheeks. He bent his knees--he clasped his hands in silent prayer--one desperate resolution had taken possession of his soul; and the next moment he descended gently into the silent sea. He dived by the side of the vessel; and, ascending at the distance of about twenty yards, strained every nerve for the shore. It was about day-dawn, when Robin Paterson and his wife were aroused by the loud barking of their farm-dog; but the sound suddenly ceased, as if the watch-dog were familiar with the intruder; and a gentle tapping was heard at the window of the room where they slept. "Wha's there?" inquired Betty. "A friend--an old friend," was replied in a low, and seemingly disguised voice. But there was no disguising the voice of a lost son to a mother's ear. "Robin! Robin!" she exclaimed--"it is _him_!--Oh, it is _him_!--Peter!--my bairn!" In an instant, the door flew open, and Peter Paterson stood on his parents' hearth, with their arms around his neck, while their tears were mingled together. After a brief space wasted in hurried exclamations, inquiries, and tears of joy and surprise--"Come, hinny," said the anxious mother, "let me get ye changed, for ye're wet through and through. Oh, come, my man, and we'll hear a' thing by and by--or ye'll get yer death o' cauld, for ye're droukit into the very skin. But, preserve us, bairn! ye hae neither a hat to yer head, nor a coat to yer back! O Peter, hinny, what is't--what's the matter?--tell me what's the meaning o't." "O mother, do not ask me!--I have but a few minutes to stop. Faither, ye can understand me--I maun go back to the ship again; if I stay, they will be after me." "O Peter!--Peter, man!" exclaimed Robin, weeping as he spoke, and pressing his son's hand between his--"what's this o't!--yes, yes, yer faither understands ye! But is it no possible to hide?" "No, no, faither!" replied he--"dinna think o't." "O bairn!" cried Betty, "what is't ye mean? Wad ye leave yer mother again? Oh! if ye kenned what I've suffered for yer sake, ye wadna speak o't." "O mother!" exclaimed Peter, dashing his hand before his face, "this is worse than death! But I must!--I must go back, or they would tear me from you. Yet, before I do go, I would see my poor Ann." "Ye shall see her--see her presently," cried Betty; "and baith her and yer mother will gang doon on oor knees to ye, Peter, if ye'll promise no to leave us." "Haste ye, then, Betty," said Robin, anxiously; "rin awa owre to Mr Graham's as quick as ye can; for, though ye no understand it, I see there's nae chance for poor Peter but to tak horse for it before the sun's up." Hastily the weeping mother flew towards Mr Graham's. Robin, in spite of the remonstrances of his son, went out to saddle a horse on which he might fly. The sun had not yet risen when Peter beheld his mother, his betrothed bride, and her father, hurrying towards Foxlaw. He rushed out to meet them--to press the object of his love to his heart. They met--their arms were flung around each other. A loud huzza burst from a rising ground between them and the beach. The old skipper started round. He beheld a boat's crew of the frigate, with their pistols levelled towards himself, his unhappy daughter, and her hapless bridegroom! "O Ann, woman!" exclaimed Peter, wildly, "this is terrible! it is mair than flesh and blood can stand!" "Peter! O Peter!" cried the wretched girl, clinging around him. The party from the frigate approached them. Even their hearts were touched. "From my soul, I feel for you, Paterson," said the lieutenant commanding them; "and I am sorry to see these old people and that lovely girl in distress; but you know I must do my duty, lad." "O sir! sir!" cried his mother, wringing her hands, and addressing the lieutenant, "if ye hae a drap o' compassion in yer heart, spare my puir bairn! O sir! I implore ye, as ye wad expect mercy here or hereafter, dinna tear him frae the door o' the mother that bore him." "Good woman," replied the officer, "your son must go with us; but I shall do all that I can to render his punishment as light as possible." Ann uttered a shriek of horror. "Punishment!" exclaimed Betty, grasping the arm of the lieutenant--"O, sir, what do ye mean by punishment? Surely, though your heart was harder than a nether mill-stane, ye couldna be sae cruel as to hurt my bairn for comin to see his ain mother?" "Sir," said Robin, "my son never intended to rin awa frae your ship. He told me he was gaun to return immediately--I assure ye o' that. But, sir, if ye could only leave him, and if siller can do anything in the case, ye shall hae the savings o' thirty years, an' a faither's blessing into the bargain." "Oh, ay, sir!" cried his mother; "ye shall hae the last penny we hae i' the world--ye shall hae the very stock of the farm, if ye'll leave my bairn!" The officer shook his head. The sailors attempted to pinion Peter's arms. "'Vast there, shipmates! 'vast!" said Peter, sorrowfully; "there is no need for that; had I intended to run for it, you would not have found me here. Ann, love"----he added--his heart was too full for words--he groaned--he pressed his teeth upon his lip--he wrung her hand. He grasped the hands of his parents and of Mr Graham--he burst into tears, and in bitterness exclaimed, "Farewell!" I will not describe the painful scene, nor paint the silent agony of the father, the heart-rending lamentations of the bereaved mother, nor the tears and anguish of the miserable maiden who refused to be comforted. Peter was taken to the boat, and conveyed again to the frigate. His officer sat in judgment upon his offence, and Peter stood as a culprit before them. He begged to be heard in his defence, and his prayer was granted. "I know, your honours," said Peter, "that I have been guilty of a breach of discipline; but I deny that I had any intention of running from the service. Who amongst you, that has a heart to feel, would not, under the same circumstances, have acted as I did? Who that has been torn from a faither's hearth, would not brave danger, or death itself, again to take a faither by the hand, or to fling his arms around a mother's neck? Or who that has plighted his heart and his troth to one that is dearer than life, would not risk life for her sake? Gentlemen, it becomes not man to punish an act which Heaven has not registered as a crime. You may flog, torture, and degrade me--I do not supplicate for mercy--but will degradation prompt me to serve my king more faithfully? I know you must do your duty, but I know also you will do it as British officers--as men who have hearts to feel." During this address, Peter had laid aside his wonted provincial accent. There was an evident leaning amongst the officers in his favour, and the punishment they awarded him was a few days' confinement. It was during the second war between Britain and the United States. The frigate was ordered to the coast of Newfoundland. She had cruised upon the station about three months; and, during that time, as the seamen said--"not a lubber of the enemy had dared to show his face--there was no _life_ going at all;" and they were becoming impatient for a friendly set-to with their brother Jonathan. It was Peter's watch at the mast-head. "A sail!--a Yankee!" shouted Peter. A sort of wild hurra burst from his comrades on the deck. An officer hastily ascended the rigging to ascertain the fact. "All's right," he cried--"a sixty-gun ship, at least." "Clear the deck, my boys," cried the commander; "get the guns in order--active--be steady, and down upon her." Within ten minutes, all was in readiness for action. "Then down on the deck, my lads," cried the captain; "not a word amongst you--give them a British welcome." The brave fellows silently knelt by the guns, glowing with impatience for the command to be given to open their fire upon the enemy. The Americans seemed nothing loath to meet them half-way. Like winged engines of death rushing to shower destruction on each other, the proud vessels came within gunshot. The American opened the first fire upon the frigate. Several shot had passed over her, and some of the crew were already wounded. Still no word escaped from the lips of the British commander. At length he spoke a word in the ear of the man at the helm, and the next moment the frigate was brought across the bow of the enemy. "Now, my lads," cried the captain, "now give them it." An earthquake seemed to burst at his words--the American was raked fore and aft, and the dead and dying, and limbs of the wounded, strewed her deck. The enemy quickly brought their vessel round--then followed the random gun, and anon the heavy broadsides were poured into each other. For an hour the action had continued, but victory or death seemed the determination of both parties. Both ships were crippled, and had become almost unmanageable, and in each, equal courage and seamanship were displayed. It was drawing towards nightfall, they became entangled, and the word "to board!" was given by the commander of the frigate. Peter Paterson was the first man who, cutlass in hand, sprang upon the deck of the American. He seemed to possess a lion's strength, and more than a lion's ferocity. In a few minutes, four of the enemy had sunk beneath his weapon. "On, my hearties!--follow Paterson!" cried an officer; "Peter's a hero!" Fifty Englishmen were engaged hand to hand with the crew of the American; and for a time they gained ground; but they were opposed with a determination equal to their own, and, overpowered by a superiority of numbers, they were driven back and compelled to leap again into the frigate. At the moment his comrades were repulsed, Peter was engaged with the first lieutenant of the American--"Stop a minute!" shouted Peter, as he beheld them driven back; "keep your ground till I finish this fellow!" His request was made in vain, and he was left alone on the enemy's deck; but Peter could turn his back upon no man. "It lies between you and me now, friend," said he to his antagonist. He had shivered the sword of the lieutenant by the hilt, when a Yankee seaman, armed with a crowbar, felled Peter to the deck. Darkness came on, and the vessels separated. The Americans were flinging their dead into the sea--they lifted the body of Peter. His hands moved--the supposed dead man groaned. They again placed him on the deck. He at length looked round in bewilderment. He raised himself on his side. "I say, neighbours," said he to the group around him, "is this _our_ ship or _yours_?" The Americans made merry at Peter's question. "Well," continued he, "if it be yours, I can only tell you it was foul play that did it. It was a low, cowardly action, to fell a man behind his back; but come face to face, and twa at a time if ye like, and I'll clear the decks o' the whole ship's crew o' you." "You are a noble fellow," said the lieutenant whom he had encountered, "and if you will join our service, I guess your merit shan't be long without promotion." "What!" cried Peter, "raise my right hand against my ain country! Gude gracious, sir! I wud sooner eat it as my next meal!" In a few weeks the vessel put into Boston for repairs; and, on her arrival, it was ascertained that peace had been concluded between the two countries. Peter found himself once more at liberty; but with liberty he found himself in a strange land, without a sixpence in his pocket. This was no enviable situation to be placed in, even in America, renowned as it is as the paradise of the unfortunate; and he was standing, on the second morning after his being put on shore, counting the picturesque islands which stud Boston harbour, for his breakfast, poor fellow, when a person accosted him--"Well, my lad, how is the new world using you?" Peter started round--it was his old adversary the lieutenant. "A weel-filled pocket, sir," returned Peter, "will mak either the new warld or the auld use you weel; and without that, I reckon your usage in either the ane or the ither wad be naething to mak a sang about." The lieutenant pulled out his purse--"I am not rich, Paterson," said he; "but, perhaps, I can assist a brave man in need." Peter was prevailed upon to accept a few dollars. He knew that to return to Berwickshire was again to throw himself into the power of his persecutor, and he communed with himself what to do. He could plough--he could manage a farm--he was master of all field-work; and, within a week, he engaged himself as a farm-servant to a proprietor in the neighbourhood of Charleston. He had small reason, however, to be in love with his new employment. Peter was proud and high-minded, (in the English, not the American acceptation of the word,) and he found his master an imperious, avaricious, republican tyrant. The man's conduct ill-accorded with his professions of universal liberty. His wish seemed to be, to level all down to his own standard, that he might the more easily trample on all beneath him. His incessant cry, from the rising of the sun until its setting, was, "Work! work!" and with an oath he again called upon his servants to "work!" He treated them as beasts of burden. "Work! hang ye, work!" and a few oaths, seemed to be the principal words in the man's vocabulary. Peter had not been overwrought in the frigate--he had been his own master at Foxlaw--and, when doing his utmost, he hated to hear those words everlastingly rung in his ear. But he had another cause for abhorring his employment; his master had a number of slaves, on whom he wreaked the full measure of his cruelty. There was one, an old man, in particular, on whom he almost every day gratified his savageness. Peter had beheld the brutal treatment of the old negro till he could stand it no longer; and one day, when he was vainly imploring the man who called himself the owner of his flesh for mercy, Peter rushed forward, he seized the savage by the breast, and exclaimed--"Confound ye, sir, if I see ye strike that poor auld black creature again, I'll cleave ye to the chin." The slave-owner trembled with rage. "What!" said he--"it's a fine thing, indeed, if we've wollopped the English for liberty, and after all, a man an't to have the liberty of wollopping his own neeger!" He drew out his purse, and flung Peter's wages contemptuously on the ground. Peter, stooping, placed the money in his pocket, and, turning towards Charleston, proceeded along the bridge to Boston. He had seen enough of tilling another man's fields in America, and resolved to try his fortune in some other way, but was at a loss how to begin. I have already told you how Peter's mother praised his delivery in his debate with the schoolmaster; and Peter himself thought that he could deliver a passage from Shakspeare in a manner that would make the fortune of any hero of the sock and buskin; and he was passing along the Mall, counting the number of trees on every row, much in the same manner, and for the same reason, as he had formerly counted the islands in the harbour, when the thought struck him that the Americans were fond of theatricals; and he resolved to try the stage. He called at the lodgings of the manager in Franklin Place. He gave a specimen of his abilities; and, at a salary of eighteen dollars a-week, Peter Paterson was engaged as leader of the "heavy business" of the Boston _corps dramatique_. The tidings would have killed his mother. Lear was chosen as the part in which he was to make his first appearance. The curtain was drawn up. "Peter, what would your mother say?" whispered his conscience, as he looked in the glass, just as the bell rung and the prompter called him; and what, indeed, would Betty Paterson have said to have seen her own son Peter, with a red cloak, a painted face, a grey wig, and a white beard falling on his breast! Lear--Peter--entered. He looked above, below, and around him. The audience clapped their hands, shouted, and clapped their hands again. It was to cheer the new performer. Peter thought they would bring down the theatre. The lights dazzled his eyes. The gallery began to swim--the pit moved--the boxes appeared to wave backward and forward. Peter became pale through the very rouge that bedaubed his face, and sweat, cold as icicles, rained down his temples. The shouting and the clapping of hands was resumed--he felt a trembling about his limbs--he endeavoured to look upon the audience--he could discern only a confused mass. The noise again ceased. "Attend----France----Burgundy----hem!----Gloster!" faltered out poor Peter. The laughter became louder than the clapping of hands had been before. The manager led Peter off the stage, paid him the half of his week's salary, and wished him good-by. It is unnecessary to tell you how Peter, after this disappointment, laid out eight dollars in the purchase of a pack, and how, as pedlar, he travelled for two years among the Indians and back-settlers of Canada, and how he made money in his new calling. He had written to his parents and to Ann Graham; but, in his unsettled way of life, it is no wonder that he had not received an answer. He had written again to say, that, in the course of four months, he would have to be in New York _in the way of business_--for Peter's pride would not permit him to acknowledge that he carried a pack--and if they addressed their letters to him at the Post-office there, he would receive them. He had been some weeks in New York, and called every day, with an anxious heart, at the Post-office. But his time was not lost; he had obtained many rare and valuable skins from the Indians, and, with his shop upon his back, he was doing more business than the most fashionable store-keeper in the Broadway. At length, a letter arrived. Peter hastily opened the seal, which bore the impress of his mother's thimble, and read:--"My dear bairn,--This comes to inform ye that baith your faither and me are weel--thanks to the Giver o' a' good--and hoping to find ye the same. O Peter, hinny, could ye only come hame--did you only ken what sleepless nights I spend on your account, ye wad leave America as soon as ye get my letter. I wonder that ye no ken that Ann, poor woman, an' her faither an her mother, an' the family, a' gaed to about America mair than a year and a half syne, and I'm surprised ye haena seen them." "Ann in America!" cried Peter. He was unable to read the remainder of his mother's letter. He again flung his pack upon his shoulder, but not so much to barter and to sell, as to seek his betrothed bride. He visited almost every city in the States, and in the provinces of British America. He advertised for her in more than fifty newspapers; but his search was fruitless--it was "Love's labour lost." Yet, during his search, the world prospered with Peter. His pack had made him rich. He opened a store in New York. He became also a shareholder in canals, and a proprietor of steam-boats; in short he was looked upon as one of the most prosperous men in the city. But his heart yearned for his native land; and Peter Paterson, Esq., turned his property into cash, and embarked for Liverpool. Ten long years had passed since the eyes of Betty Paterson had looked upon her son; and she was busied, on a winter day, feeding her poultry in the barn-yard, when she observed a post-chaise drive through the village, and begin to ascend the hill towards Foxlaw. "Preserve us, Robin!" she cried, as she bustled into the house, "there's a coach comin' here--what can folk in a coach want wi' the like o' us? Haud awa out an' see what they want, till I fling on a clean mutch an' an apron, an' mak mysel wiselike." "I watna wha it can be," said Robin, as he rose and went towards the door. The chaise drew up--a tall genteel-looking man alighted from it--at the first glance he seemed nearly forty years of age, but he was much younger. As he approached Robin started back--his heart sprang to his throat--his tongue faltered. "Pe--Pe--Peter!" he exclaimed. The stranger leaped forward, and fell upon the old man's neck. Betty heard the word _Peter!_--the clean cap fell from her hand, she uttered a scream of joy, and rushed to the door, her grey hairs falling over her face; and the next moment her arms encircled her son. I need not tell you of the thousand anxious questions of the fond mother, and how she wept as he hinted at the misfortunes he had encountered, and smiled, and wept, and grasped his hand again, as he dwelt upon his prosperity. "Did I no aye say," exclaimed she, "that I would live to see my Peter a gentleman?" "Yet, mother," said Peter, "riches cannot bring happiness--at least not to me, while I can hear nothing of poor Ann. Can no one tell to what part of America her father went?--for I have sought them everywhere." "Oh, forgie me, hinny," cried Betty, bitterly; "it was a mistake o' yer mother's a'thegither. I understand, now, it wasna Ameri_ca_, they gaed to; but it was Jamai_ca_, or some _ca_, and we hear they're back again." "Not America," said Peter: "and back again!--then, where--where shall I find her?" "When we wrote to you, that, after leaving here, they had gaen to America," said Robin, "it was understood they had gaen there--at ony rate, they went abroad someway--and we never heard, till the other week, that they were back to this country, and are now about Liverpool, where I'm very sorry to hear they are very ill off; for the warld, they say, has gaen a' wrang wi' the auld man." This was the only information Peter could obtain. They were bitter tidings; but they brought hope with them. "Ye were saying that ye was in Liverpool the other day," added his mother; "I wonder ye didna see some o' them!" Peter's spirit was sad, yet he almost smiled at the simplicity of his parent; and he resolved to set out in quest of his betrothed on the following day. Leaving Foxlaw, we shall introduce the reader to Sparling Street, in Liverpool. Amongst the miserable cellars where the poor are crowded together, and where they are almost without light and without air, one near the foot of the street was distinguished by its outward cleanliness; and in the window was a ticket with the words--"_A Girl's School kept here, by_ A. GRAHAM." Over this humble cellar was a boarding-house, from which, ever and anon, the loud laugh of jolly seamen rang boisterous as on their own element. By a feeble fire in the comfortless cellar, sat an emaciated, and apparently dying man; near him sat his wife, engaged in making such articles of apparel as the slop-dealers send to the West Indies, and near the window was a pale but beautiful young woman, instructing a few children in needle-work and the rudiments of education. The children being dismissed, she began to assist her mother; and, addressing her father, said-- "Come, cheer up, dear father--do not give way to despondency--we shall see better times. Come, smile now, and I will sing your favourite song." "Heaven bless thee, my own sweet child!" said the old man, while the tears trickled down his cheeks. "Thou wilt sing to cheer me, wilt thou?--bless thee!--bless thee! It is enough that, in my old age, I eat thy bread, my child!--sing not!--sing not!--there is no music now for thy father's heart." "Oh, speak not--think not thus," she cried, tenderly; "you make me sad, too." "I would not make thee sad, love," returned he, "but it is hard--it is very hard--that, after cruising till I had made a fortune, as I may say, and after being anchored in safety, to be tempted to make another voyage, where my all was wrecked--and not only all wrecked, but my little ones too--thy brothers and thy sisters, Ann--to see them struck down one after another, and I hardly left wherewith to bury them--it is hard to bear, child!--and, worse than all, to be knocked up like a useless hulk, and see thee and thy mother toiling and killing themselves for me--it is more than a father's heart can stand, Ann." "Nay, repine not, father," said she: "He who tempereth the wind to the shorn lamb, will not permit adversity to press on us more hardly than he gives us strength to endure it. Though we suffer poverty, our exertions keep us above want." The old woman turned aside her head and wept. "True, dear," added he, "thy exertions keep us from charity; but those exertions, my child, will not long be able to make--I see it--I feel it? And, oh, Ann, shall I see thee and thy mother inmates of a workhouse--shall I hear men call thy father, Bill Graham, the old pauper?" The sweat broke upon the old man's brow from his excitement; his daughter strove to soothe him, and, with an assumed playfulness, commenced singing Skinner's beautiful old man's song, beginning-- "Oh, why should old age so much wound us!" Now, Peter Paterson had been several days in Liverpool anxiously inquiring for Captain Graham, but without obtaining any information of him or of his daughter, or where they dwelt. Again and again he had wandered along the docks; and he was disconsolately passing up Sparling Street, when the loud revelry of the seamen in the boarding-house attracted his attention. It reminded him of old associations; he paused for a moment, and glanced upon the house and, as the pealing laughter ceased, a low, sweet voice, pouring forth a simple Scottish air, reached his ear. Peter now stood still. He listened--"That voice!" he exclaimed audibly, and he shook as he spoke. He looked down towards the cellar--the ticket in the window caught his eye. He read the words, "_A Girl's School kept here, by_ A. GRAHAM." "I have found her!" he cried, clasping his hands together. He rushed down the few steps, he stood in the midst of them--"I have found her!" he repeated, as he entered. His voice fell like a sunbeam on the cheerless heart of the fair vocalist. "Peter!--My own"----she exclaimed, starting to her feet. She could not utter more; she would have fallen to the ground, but Peter caught her in his arms. I need not describe the scene that followed: that night they left the hovel which had served as a grave for their misfortunes. Within a week they had arrived at Foxlaw, and within a week old and young in the village danced at a joyful wedding. I may only add, that, a few weeks after his marriage, Peter read in the papers an advertisement, headed--"UPSET PRICE GREATLY REDUCED.--_Desirable Property in the neighbourhood of Foxlaw, &c._" It was the very farm now offered for sale of which Peter was to have become a tenant some twelve years before, and was the remnant of the estates of the hopeful Laird Horslie; and Peter became the purchaser. The old skipper regained his wonted health and cheerfulness; and Betty Paterson lived to tell her grandchildren, "she aye said their faither wad be a gentleman, and her words cam true." Even the old schoolmaster, who had styled him "Ne'er-do-weel Peter," said, he "had aye predicted o' Mr Paterson, even when a callant, that he would turn out an extraordinary man." THE HEROINE. A LEGEND OF THE CANONGATE. After it became known that the wily Sir Robert Carey had hurried away from the deathbed of Queen Elizabeth, to announce to the delighted monarch of Scotland his succession to the crown of England, a great many English noblemen and gentlemen came north on much the same errand that brings so many of them at this day--viz., to hunt; the game, in the one case, being place and favour, and in the other, blackcock and grouse. Among the rest, was one Sir Willoughby Somerset, of Somerset-Hall, in Devonshire, a knight of gay and chivalric manners, excellently set off by an exterior on which nature and art had expended their best favours, but exhibiting, at same time, in his total want of true honour and mental acquirements, that tendency to a fair distribution, which nature, in all her departments, delights to display--suggesting, as it did, to an ancient philosopher, that the _pulchrum_ and the _utile_ are dealt out in equal portions under a whimsical law against their union in one person. Having arrived, with his gay suit of servants and splendid equipage, at the palace of Holyrood, Sir Willoughby was informed that there were no apartments close to the palace which could be given to him for his accommodation, in consequence of the great influx of noble visiters who had come from all parts of Scotland and England to testify their allegiance, and express their satisfaction, whether real or assumed, on the occasion of King James' succession. Sir Willoughby, therefore, took up his abode in a house in the Canongate, which was pulled down more than a hundred years ago--at that time known by the name of the House of Gordon, in consequence, it is supposed, of having at one time been occupied by the ducal family of that name. It was situated on the south side of the street, and nearly opposite to the close called Big Loch-end Close, which possessed at that time a very different appearance from what it does at present; for the double row of low Flemish-looking huts which lined the narrow entry, have given place to modern buildings, which do not look half so well as their more humble predecessors. Now, in one of these little huts there lived, at that time--unconscious, doubtless, that their names would thus become of historical interest centuries after they were gathered to their fathers--a man called Adam Hunter, and his wife, Janet, both of some importance in the small sphere of their own little gossiping world; but, if these humble individuals had been all that their lowly mansion contained, the chronicler would scarcely have stooped to notice either it or its inhabitants. There was a third inmate in that house--an orphan girl, called Margaret Williamson--a young, slender, azure-eyed creature, about seventeen years of age, of bewitching beauty, and of a simplicity, kindness, and meekness of disposition, that endeared her to thousands. Producing that kind of interest and sensation in her own limited circle, which is so often found to be the effect of the mysterious power of beauty, though allied to poverty, which, indeed, sometimes enhances it, Margaret seemed as unconscious of the magic influence of her charms, as she was of the singular fate that awaited her. She had been heard of where she was not seen; and, innocent and harmless as she was, she had not been passed unheeded by the "wise women" of her day, who, in spite of fire and King James' wrath, provided her, according to their love or their spite, with a prison or a palace, as her lot upon earth. As already hinted, Margaret was represented as being an orphan, brought up by the gratuitous kindness of Adam Hunter and his wife, though there were not wanting some who thought that her parentage was not of the equivocal kind that was represented. Scotland was not, at that time, so far behind in the love and practice of gossiping, as that there should be any want of the usual kind and number of remarks on the new-comers to the house of Gordon; and the family of Adam Hunter were not behind their neighbours in their curiosity. "He's a braw knight that wha has come to the House o' Gordon," said Janet Hunter, one night when they were sitting round the fire. "Ken ye wha, or what, or whence he is," inquired Adam, "atour the mere title an' form o' his knighthood?" "I ken naething aboot him," replied Janet, "save that his name is Sir Willoughby Somerset, and that he has a great number o' servitors, wham he treats like princes. They say he is gallant and weel-favoured, and Elspet Craig, the wise woman o' the Watergate, says, in her fashion o' speech, that he is a rock whereon the happiness, and peace o' mind, and honour o' mony a bonny maiden may perish, like the silly boats that trust to the smiles o' an autumn day. But, if I'm no cheated, Peggy Williamson can tell mair aboot the knight than a' the 'wise women' frae the Watergate to St. Mary's." "An' if she can," said Adam, "it may be waur for her than if she were as deep learned as Elspet Craig in the mysteries o' that art, whereby she works sae meikle mischief to her faes, and may, peradventure, bring upon her head the vengeance o' the law. I houp better things o' Peggy." "I ken naething aboot the Knight o' the White Feather," said Margaret, with a deep sigh; "and wherefore should I?--he's far abune my degree." "But ye ken, at least," rejoined Adam, "that he wears a white feather, my bonny bird--and feathered creatures are flichtie, especially when they're far frae their ain countrie. Even our ain robin, wha condescends to come and eat our crumbs, when the snaw is on the hill, leaves us in summer; and, mair than a' that, he's a bird o' prey, and doesna hesitate, when he has a guid opportunity, to soil his bonny red breast wi' the blood o' his companions." It was apparent that both Adam Hunter and Janet were suspicious of Margaret's limited knowledge of the knight, and they had good reason to be so; for Janet had been told that, one night, when Margaret had said she was going to meet a person of the name of Simon Frazer--a tradesman who had been making honourable proposals to her, along with many others who were proud to be called her suitors--she had been seen walking with a gentleman wrapped up in a Spanish cloak, supposed to be Sir Willoughby, in the glen of St Arthur's Seat, called the Hunter's Bog. On another occasion, she had been followed by Simon Frazer to a trysting place, known by the name of the Hunter's Rest--a large boulder of basalt lying on the side of the bog, and remarkable to geologists by its unaccountable position. On this stone Margaret had sat till the moon had concealed her horns behind the top of St Arthur's, and the glen had gradually become enveloped in the shade of the hill. Simon Frazer took advantage of the gloom, and concealed himself near to the spot where Margaret sat; and, amidst the silence which reigned in this secluded place, he could distinctly hear the sighs of the maiden, as the hope of seeing the person she had come to meet became fainter and fainter. "Wae's my puir, deluded heart!" she said, in a desponding and tremulous voice; "what is it that drives me, like a charmed bird or a dementit thing, into the power o' this braw knight, in spite o' the warnings o' Elspet Craig, the admonition o' Adam Hunter, and, what's abune a', the fearsome visions o' my ain wild dreams? Can it be that I, wha hae seen, and may still see, sae mony bended knees o' lovers o' my ain country supplicating my favours as if their condition here and in anither warld depended on a blink o' these worthless een, sit here, even noo, at the Hunter's Rest, a mile frae my ain hame, and when naething but spirits are in the glen, to meet a lover frae a strange land, wha speaks a strange language, and mak's love in a strange fashion? But it is even sae. My heart is nae langer my ain. He has ta'en it into his ain keeping, and he may, in his ain pleasure, as easily break it as he may crush the bonny blue bells that flower there i' the glen." At the termination of Margaret's simple soliloquy, the sound of footsteps was heard, and there soon followed the greeting of lovers. Margaret's spirits soon revived, and, having taken Sir Willoughby's arm, she said, playfully, as she looked up into his face--"The faithless moon has been truer this nicht than ye hae been; for she left the tap o' the hill half an hour syne, and ye are only here noo." "Upbraid me not, my fair Margaret," answered Sir Willoughby; "for I was scared at the Friar's Path by some person who seemed inclined to follow me, and I was obliged to change my road; but thou knowest that love is fed by hindrances, and its course is none of the straightest." "I didna think," answered the simple maiden, "that true love stood in need o' onything else in this warld, than the company and kindness o' the twa lovers to ane anither." "By my feather, Margaret, that is a true maiden's speech! But I do not think that St Arthur, who must surely be the lover's saint, will thank us for an argument, instead of a love-token, on such a beautiful night as this. Observe these gleams of Cynthian glory, falling like streaks of silver on the tops of the crags, investing the darkness of this glen with a mystery in which love delights, and thou wilt forget thy argument, in the sweets of our accustomed dalliance." "That is a licht aith, Sir Willoughby, that ye hae sworn," answered the maiden; "but every land, as the sang says, has its ain laugh, and it may also hae its ain aith; and I may weel forgie ye that, for the bonny words ye hae now spoken. Foreign lands hae finer words than puir Scotland; but dinna think that I canna enjoy the beauty o' these silvery rocks and that mirky glen, because my silly heart can find nae utterance to its feelings, but by its ain unmeaning thrabs." "And that is nature's best and most beautiful language, my sweet bird," said Sir Willoughby, kissing the yielding maiden; "nor would I give one throb of thy fair bosom for all the eloquence of poetry." Holding such conversation, the lovers passed deeper into the shades of the hill, and disappeared; but the death-like silence of the place discovered, to the disappointed Simon Frazer, many sighs and protestations which otherwise would have been sacred to the happy pair. Well, many such meetings had Sir Willoughby and Margaret. Their walks became more frequent, and of longer duration; and it was often a late hour before Margaret returned to her home. It could not be that such a change in the habits of the girl could escape the keen eye of public curiosity, and far less the suspicious guardianship of Adam Hunter. Wide spread, and generally known, as was the beauty of the maiden, so, in proportion, was the voice of scandal heard over the town, whispering the strange tidings, that Peggy Williamson had been seduced by the great knight who lived in the House of Gordon. The circumstance, indeed, very soon became apparent, from the appearance of the unhappy girl, who could no longer conceal her condition. She was, in consequence, sorely beset by Adam Hunter, and interrogated whether she had received any promise of marriage, or any pledge whereon she could found any expectation or hope that the knight's intentions towards her were of an honourable nature. On this subject, no satisfaction could be got from Margaret, who persisted in a dogged silence, whenever any question was put to her, tending to implicate, in any way, the man who, to all appearance, had ruined her. But chance brought to light what Margaret had been so anxious to conceal; for one evening, Janet Hunter discovered in Margaret's sleeping apartment a small scented paper, curiously folded up, which she instantly carried to her husband. Adam took the paper to a learned clerk, in Blackfriars' Hospital--(for few persons, at that day, could either write, or read writing)--who read it to him; and he was surprised to find that it contained a promise, on the faith of a knight, that Sir Willoughby Somerset would make, when time and circumstances afforded opportunity, Margaret Williamson his wedded wife. The paper was again returned to the place from which it was taken. This paper, combined with Margaret's condition, having satisfied Adam Hunter of the truth of the general report and his own suspicions, he lost no time in waiting upon the knight. Being a man of hasty and even furious temper, he taxed Sir Willoughby, in unmeasured terms, with the seduction of his ward, and demanded, with a stern determination, satisfaction to the maiden and to himself. Touched to the quick, and wounded in his pride by the pertinacious manner of Adam Hunter, Sir Willoughby lost in turn his temper, and seizing a baton which lay near him, he struck the choleric Scot a heavy blow on the head, and, with the aid of his servants, kicked him out of the house. One of Sir Willoughby's servants, who aided in this ejection and outrage, was Richard Foster; the person who, it was supposed, first procured a meeting between his master and Margaret. He was possessed of his master's secrets, in this and many other dishonourable amours; and, though he now, by his master's orders, assisted in the expulsion of Adam Hunter, he hated him in his heart, in consequence of a blow which he had some time before received from him, on which occasion he had threatened to report his master's practices to Sir Robert Carey, who would not have failed to communicate them to King James, whereby Sir Willoughby's status at Court would have been lost, and his ruin accomplished. The knight wished, therefore, to get quit of Richard; but to part with him living was to part with his secrets; and he had accordingly made up his mind to get him disposed of in such a manner as that he could tell no tales. An opportunity for this occurred sooner than might have been expected. Stung with an ungovernable rage, Adam Hunter, on passing the threshold of the house of Gordon, threw himself on his knees, and vowed to Almighty God that he would take the first opportunity that fortune afforded him of depriving his enemy of life. This dreadful purpose, thus definitively and impiously settled, calmed Adam Hunter's rage; for he felt, as if by anticipation, that he was revenged. He walked deliberately home, and without hinting anything of his deadly intention to his wife, sent for Simon Frazer, Margaret's rejected suitor, communicated to him his design, and requested his co-operation. Frazer entered into the scheme with all the spirit of his clan, and all the rage of a disappointed lover towards his successful rival. They resolved to fix the manner of accomplishing their purpose that evening, after Janet and Margaret had retired to rest. In the evening, when Adam Hunter and Simon Frazer met, Margaret had just retired to bed, but not to sleep. Her mind was occupied with the thoughts of her situation. She had now become suspicious of Sir Willoughby's intentions. In her late interviews with him, he had been distant and shy; and he had even refused, on one occasion, to meet her, alleging, as an excuse, that he was engaged to go to an evening entertainment, to which it was ascertained he never went. He had, besides, endeavoured to get back from her the letter, which, in an unguarded moment, when intoxicated with love and wine, he had given to her. All these circumstances satisfied the unhappy maiden that she was about to become, or rather had already become, the dupe of a heartless villain. She now considered herself standing on the very verge of ruin; about to become, as Elspet Craig had foreboded, the victim of a passion insidiously introduced into her young heart; and left to the scorn of an unfeeling world, or the unavailing pity of a conceited and unfruitful philanthropy. These reflections were passing through her mind, when she heard Simon Frazer come into the house; for her bed was so situated that she could hear everything that occurred in the adjoining apartment. She soon ascertained the object of this late meeting of the two friends; and with feelings that shook her whole frame, she heard it fixed that, on the following evening, when Sir Willoughby was expected to go to an evening entertainment at the palace, Adam Hunter should gain the staircase window of Widow Hutchison, fire upon his enemy, and, upon seeing him fall, make his escape, along with his friend, by a back passage that led to the North Back of the Canongate. This resolved upon, the two friends parted. The agitation which the knowledge of this fierce and bloody purpose produced in the mind of Margaret, was proportioned to the love which she still bore to her seducer, and to the gentle character of the maiden, who shrunk from the very thought of violence. Her nerves had, moreover, been severely affected by the train of sorrowful thoughts which, at the moment when she heard the fatal resolution, were passing through her mind. But a new feeling soon arose. She was now called upon to act, and the urgency of the case requiring the most prompt communication to Sir Willoughby, assuaged, in some degree, her nervous excitement, by forcing her ideas into a train calculated to the contrivance of some method of meeting him in the morning. At daybreak, Margaret rose from her sleepless pillow, wrapt herself up in her plaid, and went and secreted herself behind a large tree, which stood in the garden at the back of the House of Gordon, from which she could observe the bedroom window of Sir Willoughby. It was a cold raw morning; the rain was pouring in torrents, and bursts of distant thunder shook the heavens. In this situation, Margaret sat for two hours, wet, wearied, and disconsolate. Her attention was, in some degree, arrested by a new equipage that stood in the court-yard, apparently newly arrived from a distance; and she concluded that Sir Willoughby had visitors--a prediction which she had good reason to verify. Her eye sought continually the casement of the knight's sleeping apartment, which was at last opened, and to her surprise and mortification, she saw standing behind the dressing-glass, the form of a gay and fashionable lady, with Sir Willoughby standing behind her--his head leaning on her left shoulder, and his right hand patting, with playful fondness, her cheek, and arranging her ringlets with the sportive gaiety and confidence of a professed libertine. Overcome by this apparition, which so completely justified Margaret's suspicions of the character of her lover, and wearied and wasted as she was by the scene of the previous night, the fevered vigil which succeeded, and the cold and wet position she had so long occupied on this morning, she became faint; and, being unable longer to stand, leant herself, in a stooping posture, against the stem of the tree under which she stood. Sir Willoughby now entered the garden; he had observed her from the window, and came with marked displeasure in his countenance. "Why this early visit, young maiden?" he said, with a querulous tone of voice, and without making any effort to assist her to rise. "I dinna come here this morning, Sir Willoughby Somerset," replied Margaret, with the warmth of offended pride, and standing up, nerved by her feelings, which were roused as far as the gentleness of her nature permitted--"I dinna come here this morning on my ain account, though maybe I hae as meikle reason to do that as the braw leddie wha sits, even noo, in your sleepin chamber, and whose braw hair ye were pleased, in a fashion of merriment, to put in disorder. Oh, that it had pleased heaven that ye had deranged nae mair o' me than my worthless locks, I might this morning hae been the blithe, thochtless, and innocent Peggy Williamson, that I was when my stray wits left me to mysel' at the Hunter's Rest! Na, Sir Willoughby, I dinna come to tell ye o' your broken troth, and my lost love, and the ruin o' a puir lassie, wha wad gladly hae laid down her worthless life to save yours. These things--though, by our memories, whilk are but as the quicksand to the finger-marks of the drowning sailor, they may ance be forgotten--are recorded, doubtless, whar' they shall remain, ay, as the graving on adamant. Yet, though these things, in this world at least, concern only me, wha am, doubtless, o' sma concernment to ony living mortal; and though they may cost me _my_ life, may be o' sma avail, they are o' less importance to me at this time than what I cam' to tell ye, being naething less than how to save your ain. Adam Hunter has resolved to slay ye this night, as ye gang to Holyrood. Tak' anither road than the Canongate; or, what is better, stay at hame, and save a life that is dearer to Peggy Williamson than her ain.--Fareweel, fareweel!" And before Sir Willoughby could reply, she had left him, waving her hand to him as she went. But, on looking back, as she opened the wicket, she saw the same lady--whom she afterwards ascertained to be lady Arabella Winford, a person of bad repute, with whom Sir Willoughby had resided for some time on the continent--enter the garden, and greet him in a manner very different from the modest custom of Scotland at that day. After the departure of Margaret, Sir Willoughby, instead of being in any degree affected by gratitude for the preservation of his life, or by compassion for the kind maiden who had been instrumental in doing him that service, projected, from her information, a scheme marked by cowardice and cruelty, whereby he might get rid of his servant Richard Forster, and put an end to him and the secrets with which he had entrusted him, at the same moment. He resolved, and true to the character he bore--a combination of cruelty and frivolity--he resolved, amidst the blandishments of meretricious affection, and the imbecile badinage and persiflage of a strumpet's conversation, to send Richard down the Canongate in the evening, wrapped up in his cloak, and wearing his hat and white plume, by which he had become so remarkable. The project was executed as it was planned; and a deed was done with which Edinburgh, and indeed Scotland, rang for many a day. Richard Forster, wearing the cloak and plumed hat of his master, was shot dead in the Canongate, opposite the house of the widow Hutchison, by the unerring hand of Adam Hunter, who, seeing his supposed victim fall, flew in the direction of the Calton Hill, leaving the gun, with which he had done the deed, lying in a hedge, which at that time skirted a part of the north back of the Canongate. A hue and cry was soon raised against Adam Hunter who, about a week after the crime was committed, was laid hold of by the officers of the law, and lodged in prison. Sufficient evidence having, in the opinion of the crown authorities, been procured for a conviction, the unfortunate man was, in due course of time, brought to trial before the High Court of Justiciary. The court met on the 15th day of November; and Adam Hunter, guarded on each side by members of the City Guard, sat, with the stoical indifference which marked his character, to hear the evidence to be brought forward against him, and, in all probability, to receive sentence of death. The august appearance of the judges, sitting in their silk robes, the venerable and even dignified aspect of the unfortunate culprit, and the strange and mysterious crime with which he stood charged, joined with the fate of the well-known Canongate beauty, with which that crime was unaccountably associated, produced a sensation in the Justiciary Court which had not been experienced for many years. The deepest silence prevailed when the indictment was read; and the Lord Justice-Clerk, having put the ordinary question to the pannel of guilty or not guilty, Adam Hunter rose with firmness, and calmly and respectfully answered--"Not guilty, my Lord, of the murder of Richard Forster." The trial proceeded, and the crown advocate spoke:-- "My Lords, and gentlemen of the jury, this is a case of murder, whereto, so far as I can see, no defence or plea of justification, or even palliation, can be set up by the prisoner at the bar, unless it be that which is indeed an aggravation, that he did intend to kill one man against whom he entertained _malice prepense_, and slew another against whom he had no cause of quarrel. On the day preceding the commission of this murder, the prisoner at the bar was, in consequence of his outrageous and brutal conduct in the House of Gordon, occupied at present by Sir Willoughby Somerset, kicked by that honourable knight out of doors, whereby, being fiercely enraged, he impiously vowed a desperate revenge, the which, though he had taken it instanter and killed his enemy, _percitus rixa_, would still, by the just laws of this land, which make no distinction between forethought felony, and _chaude melée_, have been murder, and sufficient to subject the prisoner to the penal consequences of that heinous crime. But, my Lords, the prisoner cannot even plead _homicidium in rixa_; for he went home and meditated upon his crime; settled deliberately the _modus trucidandi_ in cool blood--or, as we say, _sanguine frigida_; and, on the following day, watched, _sanguinem sitiens_, for his victim; and more like a bloodhound, _canis vestigator_, than a human being, deprived him, whom he supposed to be his victim, of life. But revenge is known to be blind, and, instead of his enemy, the prisoner murdered, by shooting him through the body, a person who was not in any degree guilty of having offended him; but who was going about his private affairs, as any of us might have been, unconscious of meriting, standing in no fear of receiving, and knowing no reason for expecting such an awful fate as that which awaited him. This, I say, is an aggravation of the crime of murder, in so far as, while in the ordinary case there may, in man's estimation, be some palliation in consequence of the infliction of an injury--in this there can be none." The witnesses for the crown were then called. The death of Richard Forster, caused by a shot from a gun, was proved. It was also proved, that the gun found in the hedge was Adam Hunter's. The quarrel with Sir Willoughby Somerset was next established, as also the fact that the deceased wore, on that evening, the dress of his master. The macer of court then called out the name of the next witness, which was that of Margaret Williamson; but, before she had time to make her appearance, Adam Hunter rose from his seat and addressed the court in the following terms:-- "My Lords, it doesna appear to me, that, in the eye o' God, or even in that o' man, it can abide the twitch o' natural reason that a puir bairn should, in ignorance o' the relation she bears to him against whom she is to swear, be entrapped by cunning men o' the law, to gie evidence against the life o' him wha gave her life. The veins o' Margaret Williamson are filled wi' my bluid, albeit her heart mayna beat wi' the ordinary feelings o' a bairn to a father; for she, puir thing, has nae knowledge that Adam Hunter is her parent, whom she is bound to love and respect, and therefore she may this day, in that unseemly ignorance which I and my wife Janet have imposed upon her, say what at some future time she may repent wi' tears o' bitterness, whilk winna recall to her the parent she has slain. I canna think, therefore, my Lords, that ye can consider it unreasonable in a parent--a character maybe some o' yourselves bear, and, if ye do, oh, think what it is to be doomed by your ain bairn!--that this puir lassie be tauld, before she be examined, that she is bane o' the bane, and flesh o' the flesh, o' him whom she is about to arraign o' murder." As soon as Adam Hunter had finished his speech, which, delivered with much emphasis, produced a great sensation in all the persons present, who never understood that Margaret Williamson was in any way related to him, the crown counsel stood up and said-- "My Lords, this is an ingenious device, on the part of the prisoner at the bar, to deprive the law of its evidence. This girl, who is about to be brought forward as a witness, has been held out to the world as an orphan--a fact that may be testified by hundreds of persons, and is, indeed, admitted by the culprit himself. The story now fabricated by the prisoner is, indeed, improbable--as what father would deny his child? I cannot, therefore, consent to allow any communication to be made to the witness, whereby the fountain of evidence may be contaminated by prejudice, and truth itself sacrificed to the false feelings and hysterical emotions of a relationship which, in my opinion, has no foundation in fact." The judges, having disbelieved the statement of Adam Hunter, refused to comply with his request. Margaret Williamson was, accordingly, brought in and placed in the witnesses' box. Upon being examined, she gave, in evidence, the substance of the conversation which took place between Adam Hunter and Simon Frazer on that night when the death of Sir Willoughby Somerset was resolved upon. She was then asked whether she had, between that period and the death of Richard Forster, any communication with Sir Willoughby; but to this question she refused to give any answer, or rather she, by the effect of her simplicity--in this instance, however, made subservient to something approaching to cunning--so completely baffled the men of law that they were obliged to give up the question in despair. On the part of Adam Hunter, an attempt was made to prove an alibi; but that having failed, the jury, upon the charge of the judge, who considered the crime proved, returned a verdict of guilty, and Adam Hunter received sentence of death. The speech which Adam Hunter had made on the occasion of his trial, as already said, excited much sensation, and the truth of the fact stated by him was subjected to investigation. It was found to be perfectly true, though no notice is taken of it in the books of adjournal. Margaret Williamson was the illegitimate child of Adam Hunter, by the daughter of Elspet Craig, who died in giving birth to the infant; and it was to gratify the prejudices of Janet Hunter, who refused to bring up the child on any other condition, that the parentage had been so industriously concealed. The unfortunate Adam Hunter was executed according to his sentence. At the time of his execution, considerable uproar was observed among the populace, who, displaying the usual shrewdness of the lower orders in Scotland, perceived that, although Adam could not be justified, he was only one of the actors in the tragedy; and that, while their unfortunate countryman was expiating his crime by an ignominious death, the English knight, whose enmity towards Richard Forster, and shameful conduct towards Adam's daughter, were now generally known, was allowed to escape. The rumours thus circulated by the crowd at the execution of Adam Hunter were not unknown to the crown officers, who felt the force of the extraordinary circumstance, that Richard Forster should, on that fatal night, have worn the clothes of his master. That fact was, moreover, in a considerable degree, explained by another, which had been elicited from one of Sir Willoughby's servants, of the name of William Evans, viz., that Sir Willoughby and Richard had had a quarrel, which produced high words between the parties, and some threats on the part of the knight. The crown officers were, besides, moved by the curious circumstance, that Margaret Williamson had so artfully evaded the question put to her on the occasion of the trial of Adam Hunter; while it was almost impossible to believe that she would not have communicated to Sir Willoughby the plot that was laid for his life, notwithstanding of the injury she had received by being made the victim of his seduction. A warrant was accordingly issued for the apprehension of Sir Willoughby Somerset. He was found by the officers in the company of Lady Arabella Winford, torn from her arms, and lodged in jail. The charge against him was the murder of Richard Forster, perpetrated by his having, _sciens et prudens_, sent him where death awaited him. Application was, in the meantime, again made by the crown officers to Margaret Williamson, for information as to whether she had had any communication with Sir Willoughby on the day on which Richard Forster was slain. Margaret's answers were still of an evasive character, and her examinators left her, stating that they would visit her again, and use some other means of extorting the truth. Before this threat was put in execution, the knight, having heard that Margaret was in the hands of the examinators, overcome by fear and cowardice, and indulging the mean and despicable hope of being able to persuade his victim to save his life a second time, still without rendering her justice, sent for her to visit him in prison--a request with which she instantly complied. "My fair Margaret," commenced the knight, "I have sent for thee to know what are still thy feelings towards one who loves thee, and now requires some aid and consolation, such as only thou canst render him. I flatter myself that, at one time, I was not indifferent to thee; and, if my present peril were past (and thou art the arbiter of my fate), I may find a suitable opportunity of showing thee that I still love thee as fervently as I did when I used to meet thee, by the light of the moon, at the Hunter's Rest. I understand that my persecutors have been with thee, and it is my pleasure to be informed, from thy own fair lips, that it is not thy intention to communicate to them what passed between thee and me in my garden, on the day of the death of my worthless servant." "I didna think," replied Margaret, with calmness and dignity, "that Sir Willoughby Somerset could hae mistaken sae far the heart of Margaret Williamson as to find, in the compass o' his ain, any doubt sufficient to cause him to put that question to her. Aince already hae I saved your life, and I would be laith to throw that awa now which I had before sae meikle pains--though wae's my heart! sae little thanks or reward--to preserve. Na, na; let the officers of the law tak' their course--mine has been lang fixed; and a' the hand-screws and stocks o' Scotland, and even the black wuddy itsel', winna wrest frae me sae meikle as would injure a single hair o' your head. It may be that I only preserve ye for the love o' anither; but I will at least hae that satisfaction--and it is better to the broken heart than a fause love that has now nae power to bind it--that I hae rendered, as our holy religion inculcates, good for evil." These sentiments only interested or concerned Sir Willoughby in so far as they told him that the fair maiden would not betray him. He mistook entirely the Scotch character generally; and he had not himself any of those high-minded qualities which could enable him to appreciate Margaret's. Betrayed, by her determination to do justice to her own standard of female duty, into an idea that the sacrifices she had thrown, and was again to throw, on the shrine of that duty which she had, in her fervid imagination, defied, were mere indications of a wish to oblige and conciliate him, Sir Willoughby thought he might safely go a step further, and endeavour to wring out of her the written promise of marriage he had so unguardedly given her. He began by using some more of the bland language by which he had originally beguiled her; but he had scarcely approached the subject on which her mind was fixed, when Margaret, with the perspicacity of her sex in these tender points, interrupted him; and, raising herself to the utmost extent of her height, while the fire flashed from her dark blue eye, said-- "If ye can tak' frae me the burden o' shame I hae carried for six moons under my broken heart, and restore to me my lost repute, aince pure as the snaw that the winds o' heaven hae driven o'er muir and mountain, and tear from my puir crazy brain the image I hae made an idol o', and on whose unholy alter I hae sacrificed my maiden virtue--and maybe that eternal life that hasna been promised to the trafficker in sin--then, Sir Willoughby, ye may ask me for that whilk stands to me in the place of ane haly covenant. It is the only solace left to bind up my broken spirit, and be a sign and a token to your bairn whom I hae yet to bear, that its puir mother, though doubtless guilty o' a great sin, was the victim o' a knight's broken troth, and maybe entitled to a drap o' mercy in her burning cup. Tell me, sir to keep frae the officers o' the law the secret that would bring ye to a shamefu' death, and I will part wi' it as sune as I will part wi' the written testimonial of what a merciful God, and the less merciful laws o' my countrie, may, peradventure, deal wi' as ane haly bond o' marriage." With these words, Margaret abruptly left the prison, and Sir Willoughby, concerned only for his liberation, denied access to his heart to the sentiments which reflected so much honour on the feelings of his victim, from whom he was entitled to expect nothing but revenge. Margaret was soon again visited by the officers of the law; but she remained firm to her resolution, not to say anything tending to implicate Sir Willoughby. Recourse was therefore had, according to the usages of that period, to the ordinary mode of dealing with an unwilling witness. She was now told, that, as a person refractory, and disobedient to the laws of her country, she must go to prison, where the means of extorting her withholden testimony would be more in the power of the crown officials. She was, accordingly, conveyed to the prison in which Sir Willoughby was confined, and intimation was solemnly made to her that, on the following morning, she would be subjected to the rack of the thumbikins. The threat was fulfilled with fidelity and vigour. On the first application of this cruel instrument, the poor girl screamed with agony; but the unstability of her frame, attenuated and weakened by her previous sufferings, and her pregnancy, loosened, under the effect of the torture, that connection between agony and resolution, without which all tortured methods of extorting testimony must be unavailing. Every increased pressure produced an agonized scream, succeeded by a state of insensibility, or faint, which these deluded searchers for truth had as much difficulty in bringing her out of, as they had in producing. The torture continued to be applied, at stated intervals, for days, and the screams of the unfortunate maiden could not fail to find their way to the ears, if not to the heart, of the wretch by whom her sufferings had been occasioned. Little impression, however, was produced on Margaret's resolution to die with her secret; and, upon the occasion of one application of the instrument, the syncope produced had so long a period of duration, that the medical man who was present declared that it could not be applied without danger of producing death. The officers were now inclined to allow the period of Margaret's pregnancy to pass before they again applied the instrument--a circumstance of rather an anamolous nature in the proceedings of these lovers of truth; for a true medical philalethes would naturally have conceived, that the weaker the habit of the patient, the more certain was the chance of a recovery. In the meantime, however, a circumstance came to the ears of the king's prosecutor, which induced him to relax his energies in the prosecution of Sir Willoughby. Several of his servants now declared, (no doubt by the aid of concealed bribery), that Richard Forster was in the habit of attiring himself in his master's garments, and personating him in the prosecution of amours. In addition to this, Janet Hunter, though called upon, could not swear that Margaret Williamson had stirred from the house on the day of the murder. Unable to force Margaret to speak, and influenced by the testimony of these witnesses, the public prosecutor came to the resolution of liberating Sir Willoughby, and the knight was accordingly let out of gaol. Within a few hours after his liberation, he was on his way to England, in company with Lady Arabella. He had devoted the whole period of his imprisonment to writing letters to her, and venting curses against Scotland. Margaret Williamson was forgotten, in the hope of finding in the arms of Lady Arabella a panacea for his wrongs, and a solace of his sufferings--for it is as true as it is remarkable, that the truly wicked are the most querulous of justice, and the most impatient of her retributions. Nothing was, for a long time, heard of Sir Willoughby; but she whom he had ruined and deserted, remained to the inhabitants of Edinburgh as an object of their pity, and an example to their children. Margaret bore a son, and Janet Hunter soon died of a broken heart, for the loss of Adam. Margaret was thus left to the charity of a world which is often moved to pity only through the selfish conceit of a comparison between the alms-giver and the alms-receiver, and begged her bread from the doors of the inhabitants of Edinburgh. Now, it was five years after the transactions I have detailed, and when King James had been nearly as long seated on the throne of England, that Lionel Apsley, a gentleman in the confidence of the king, arrived in Edinburgh. He was observed to make inquiries after a person of the name of Margaret or Peggy Williamson, who, he was informed, resided in a small ground room in the White Horse Close, in the Canongate of Edinburgh. A man who was standing at the top of Leith Wynd took him to Margaret's residence. Upon entering the humble abode, he found the object of his search making porridge for the son of the English knight. Lionel entered into conversation with Margaret, and endeavoured to draw her into a recital of the story of her life; but she evaded, though in the gentlest manner, his efforts, stating, that her griefs and her secrets were her own, and that the making the one known would not make the other unfelt. She had been much annoyed, she said, by the impertinent interrogations of gossiping people, who often insulted her by withholding their charity when they found their love of gossip ungratified. Lionel made many visits to Margaret, and, by degrees, succeeded in breaking down her reluctance to speak of herself. He told her, that he had been commissioned to visit her, and had come down to Scotland for the sole purpose of seeing and serving her, and pledged his honour, as a gentleman, that the only use he would make of her information would be in turning it to her advantage. He was evidently already well acquainted with many parts of her story; but the chief object of his inquiry related to the written promise of marriage which, he had been given to understand, she had got from Sir Willoughby. Margaret, at first, would not admit that any such document existed, and appeared to feel acute pain from Lionel's urgent solicitation to see it. Overcome, at last, by his importunity, she went to a little chest, which was secreted in a recess dug into the wall of her apartment, and having drawn it out, and opened it with trembling hands, she took from it the small, but curiously folded piece of paper, still retaining the fragrance with which Sir Willoughby's gallantry had invested it. With conclusive sobs, Margaret looked at the paper, and handed it to the stranger. Lionel read it, and found it to contain the following words, written in a small affected character, which bore evident traces of having been penned by the writer when in a state bordering at least on intoxication. "Sir Willoughby Somerset, of Somerset Hall, knight of the noble order of--(here there was drawn a rude image of George and the dragon)--doth, by these lines, declare that he doth truly intend to wed Margaret Williamson, and this he promises to do on the faith of a knight of the order to which he belongs. Given at the Hunter's Rest, this 26th day of April, in the year of the succession of King James to the throne of England." This document Lionel copied, and having returned the original to Margaret, he asked her if she would accompany him to London. "If it be to meet Sir Willoughby Somerset," answered she, "I will sooner walk to the graves o' Sir Patrick Spence and the Scottish lords wha lie between Leith and Aberdour." "It is not to meet Sir Willoughby, my fair maiden," said Sir Lionel; "and if thou wilt trust to the honour of one who is your friend, I promise thee thou shalt not have cause to regret thy journey." After much solicitation, Margaret agreed to go to London and take her child with her; and Lionel having got her equipped in a manner so as to escape observation, they departed for London, where they arrived after ten days' travelling. On their arrival, Margaret and her child were taken to respectable lodgings, where she was requested to remain till Lionel called for her. After some days, a coach drove up to the door, and a lady, carrying a bundle, came out, and asked to be shown to the apartment occupied by the Scotch lady. This was the wife of Lionel, who brought with her a number of specimens of tartan, which she exhibited to Margaret, requesting her to point out the kind she wore when she lived with Adam Hunter. This Margaret did; and the next request made by the lady was, that Margaret should describe to her the shape of the garments, and the manner in which she wore them; all of which Margaret complied with, and the lady departed. In two days more, the same lady called with the garment made, and requested Margaret to put them on, and, with the child, accompany her to the place where she was going. Margaret complied, and they departed together in a coach. After driving for some little time, the coach stopped at a large house, into which they entered. The lady led Margaret and her child up a great many stairs, and round winding passages, until they came to a room, where she was requested to remain. After waiting about ten minutes, a gentleman of a fair complexion entered, and shook her kindly by the hand, launching, at the same time, and without any explanation, into a quick spoken and confused speech, which formed a part of his salutation. "Why, woman, didna ye mak' some legal use o' the bit paper ye got frae your braw lover, Sir Willoughby Somerset? Can it be possible that ye didna ken, that by the law o' your country, a promise o' marriage, coupled wi' a--a--hem! hem!--a bairn, is, to a' intents and purposes, as gude a marriage as if it were celebrated wi' a' the solemnities o' haly kirk? By my royal troth, ye hae been a blate and silly lassie, whatever folk may sae o' ye, praising ye for the hich and michtie honour ye made sae meikle fashion o', to save the life o' a ne'er-do-weel villain, wha ruined ye, and slew his servant, and cheated the wuddy o' my countrie, though made o' guid aik, a mair suitable wife to him, God wot, than the like o' ye. But lat that alane--_tempus reparabit_--ha! ha! ye ken naething o' Latin, I fancy, but I meant only by that flicht to tell ye that ye will be revenged." While in the act of delivering this strange speech, the gentleman began to drag Margaret, somewhat rudely, out of the room where they were, into another; his speech and the dragging operation going on at the same time. She now found herself in a large hall, where she saw an elevated chair overshaded by a canopy of crimson velvet, on the top of which was a crown. The gentleman, still in the same confused manner--speaking sometimes to himself, and sometimes to her--shoved her behind a small screen, apparently placed there for the purpose of concealing some one, telling her to remain there until she was called for. The folding doors of the apartment now opened, and Margaret heard the voices of heralds, and saw a great number of high-dressed ladies and gentlemen come in, and stand round the elevated chair. Among these she observed Sir Willoughby Somerset, and a lady (the same she had seen in the garden of the House of Gordon) leaning upon his arm. "Come forth, Margaret Williamson," cried the gentleman who had first spoken to her; and Margaret, with her tartan plaid around her, and her child at her foot, stood before King James. Opposite to her stood Sir Willoughby Somerset and his lady, dressed in the most gorgeous style, and forming a strange and striking contrast with the plaided stranger. "I am right glad," said James, "to see my auld subjects o' my native kingdom; and I greet ye weel, Peggy Williamson, and wish ye and your bairn mony braw days. I also greet ye weel, Sir Willoughby Somerset, Knight, and your braw leddie, wha is, nevertheless, only your wife, in sae meikle as she is nearest your heart, in the fashion o' the connection whilk exists between our auld Scotch wuddy and the heart o' Mid-Loudon. But awa wi' this--_Et nunc labores exantlare_--whilk means, to wark, to wark. Ken ye this Scotch lassie, Sir Willoughby Somerset?" "No, sire," answered the knight, in evident confusion, but still retaining a portion of his natural impudence. "It's fause, sir," answered the King, whose choler now rose to the boiling point of his royal fervour--"It's fause, sir; ye ken her as weel as did our royal faither our royal mither, or as Hamman did his wuddy, whilk was made o' sweet-smelling cedar, as is clearly made out by the learned Chrysostom. I canna believe you; for our royal brither Solomon hath said, that if a ruler hearken to lies, all his servants shall be wicked. But, maybe, ye may ken your ain handwriting better than ye do the lassie. Look at that, man; do ye ken that?" Sir Willoughby was silent. "I will take your silence, man, for an ill-favoured confession; and now, sir, let it be understood by ye, that that bit writing and that bit callant--wha doesna ken ye sae weel as ye ken his mither--maks a gude marriage by the law o' Scotland. I dinna mean, sir, in the presence o' this assembly, to disgrace ye, mair than will serve the purposes o' justice; and I leave ye to reflect, if ye hae sic a thing about ye as reflection, how ye treated this po'r lassie, wham ye ruined, and wha, though fire, and famine, and death, and scorpions, are given, as Ecclesiasticus says, for vengeance, sat quietly and--seeking nae other satisfaction--sucked, wi' her honied lips, the poison which your shaft carried to her broken heart; and wha, though exposed to terrible and racking tortures, saved, on twa occasions, your life, regardless o' her ain. Now, sir, though the lassie can claim ye as her husband, she alane has the power o' severing that connection on the ground o' your cohabitation wi' that leddie, wham ye call your wife; whilk power, by my advice, she will doubtless exercise. But, sir, there maun here be a _solatium_; and I ask you if you are willing to sign that paper whilk Lionel Apsley is ready to shaw ye?" Sir Willoughby took the document, which purported to be a conveyance to Margaret Williamson, in liferent, and her son in fee, of one-half of the domain of Somerset Hall, calculated to amount to £2,000 a year; and, having read it, he seemed to hesitate to sign it. During his hesitation, James whispered in his ear the name of Richard Foster. His manner changed, and he signed the deed. Margaret Williamson received the deed from the King, giving, in return, one of her best curtsies. She came down to Scotland, prosecuted a divorce against Sir Willoughby Somerset, and lived a much honoured and respected lady, in Edinburgh, for many years. THE BARLEY BANNOCK Between Falkirk and Stirling are the remains of a wood, even yet pretty extensive, which existed in the times of Wallace and Bruce. It is the well-known Torwood, so frequently mentioned in the histories of these Scottish heroes, and so celebrated for the shelter and concealment it afforded them on frequent occasions during their seasons of adversity. In those days, however, if we may believe old chronicles, the Torwood covered a great deal more ground than it does now, extending, on its northern side, it is said, to the banks of the Forth, a distance of about four miles. Experiencing the fate of our other ancient woods, the progress of cultivation and improvement has now greatly lessened its extent; but it forms even in the present day, a singularly striking and impressive piece of sylvian scenery. Its outward characteristics, striking as they are, may not differ from those of other forests; but there are associations connected with the Torwood, which fill its sombre, solitary depths and recesses with a profound and solemn mystery, and which diffuse throughout its picturesque glades a golden atmosphere of poetry and romance. The spirit of the olden time is there, and has flung its bewitching glamoury around the forest scene. There are few who have wandered through its green arcades, and have penetrated its far and gloomy depths, with a knowledge and recollection of the scenes which they have witnessed, and the sounds they have heard--the mustering of Wallace's patriot bands, and the stirring strains of the bugle of Bruce--few, we say, who have roamed through the dark solitudes of the Torwood, and who have thought of these things, but must have felt the fullest, the deepest effect of those sacred associations and recollections which enshrine the memory of the mighty dead. At the period we refer to, namely, the glorious period when Bruce was struggling to complete the work which his great predecessor Wallace had begun--to compass the independence of Scotland--a rude little cottage or bothy reared its humble form on the eastern skirts of the Torwood, or rather a little way within the verge of the forest. This lowly and lonely domicile was then occupied by a widow woman of the name of Margaret Grahame. Her husband had been killed, some years previous to the period at which we introduce her to the notice of the reader, in a skirmish with a party of the English garrison from Stirling; and she was thus left to bring up, as she best might, a family of young children; the eldest of whom, a beautiful girl, named after her mother, was only nine years of age at the time of her husband's death. Margaret, however, was not one of those women who sink under misfortune--who unresistingly yield to the pressure of calamity. In that which had befallen her, she only saw an additional reason for redoubling those exertions in behalf of her family which had never, at any time, been wanting. After her husband's death, she continued to cultivate, with the assistance of her children, the little patch of ground, which, together with a small track of pasturage, on which two cows, her whole stock of bestial, grazed, formed her only means of subsistence. Small and humble as these means were, however, the industry and thrifty management of Margaret Grahame rendered them sufficient to place herself and family beyond the reach of want. The fare, indeed, which she could put before her children, was homely enough in quality, but it was abundant. In character, Margaret, who had been a remarkably good-looking woman in her day, and who was even yet a comely dame to look upon, was what we, in Scotland here, call "furthy." She was a lively, rattling, kind-hearted, out-spoken person; warm in her feelings, active in all her habits, and possessing a natural courage and presence of mind, that singularly fitted her for performing the duties of friendship in cases of difficulty, danger, or distress. Such, then, was Margaret Grahame, and such were the circumstances in which she was placed at the period when we bring her before the reader. These essential preliminary matters recorded, we proceed to say, that, on a certain evening, a wet and stormy one, in the month of October, 1307, as Margaret was busily employed, with the assistance of her eldest daughter--the younger children having been put to bed--in toasting some barley meal bannocks before the fire, some one rapped smartly at the door. "Wha's there?" exclaimed Margaret, in some surprise at the lateness of the visit, and little accustomed to the calls of either friends or foes at her remote and solitary dwelling, wondering who the person could be who sought admittance. To her inquiry, a mellow-toned, but masculine voice replied--that the person without was one who had no other place of shelter to go to for the night, and who would cheerfully pay for a little refreshment, and an hour or two's shelter from the storm. "A houseless stranger! Rin Margaret and open the door and let him in." "I'm feart, mother," replied the timid girl, holding back, and putting her finger to her mouth. "Feart, ye little cowardly thing; what are ye feart for?" exclaimed Mrs Grahame, hastening herself to the door. "Wha wad do us ony harm, ye gowk," she continued, as she undid the fastenings of the door; "and is't feer, think ye, that's to hinder us frae gien shelter to the shelterless, or food to the hungry?" As she uttered the last word, she flung the door widely and boldly open; and there entered a figure which might well have appalled even the stout heart of Margaret Grahame. This figure was that of a man of gigantic stature and powerful frame, wearing a steel cap and shirt of mail that glanced through the openings of a leathern doublet by which it was covered, and in some measure concealed. From a belt which passed over his right shoulder, depended a sword of dimension corresponding to the tremendous strength indicated by the proportions of the wearer; and in another belt, which passed round his middle, and which was joined in front by a silver clasp, part of whose fashioning displayed two lion's heads, was stuck a richly hilted dagger. A small silver bugle horn, which was suspended from his neck by a chain of the same metal, completed his appointments. On the entrance of this formidable figure, the little girl uttered a scream of terror, and flew to a remote corner of the apartment. The gigantic stranger smiled, and, turning to her mother, said-- "I am sorry that my appearance is so alarming as to make young ladies fly me. I would have them believe that I would much sooner protect than injure them. God forbid it should ever be otherwise. Come hither, my little primrose, and let me assure thee of all safety at my hands." And the stranger drew out a silken purse and took from it a small gold coin, which he seemed desirous of presenting to the little fugitive fair one. He was, however, interrupted. "Never mind her, sir; never mind her," said her mother, who now perceived that her guest was a person apparently of some note; "she'll sune learn no to be sae frichtened for the men. Sit doon, sir, sit doon. Tak a seat, and throw aff your wat jerkin, and I'll gie ye a pair o' my puir gude-man's stockins to draw on, for I'm sure ye're soakit to the skin; and a pair o' slippers to yer feet." And while the kindly-hearted and hospitable woman was thus rattling away, she was actively employed in seeking out the various comforts which she enumerated. In a very few minutes after, the portly figure of the stranger filled the favourite arm-chair, by the fire, of Mrs Grahame's late husband, in as comfortable a plight as the hospitable attentions of his hostess could place him. Several of these, however, he declined. He would not part with his boots, nor divest himself of any part of his apparel or appointments, excepting his steel cap and sword, both of which he placed on the floor close by his chair, as if desirous that they should be within reach on the slightest appearance of emergency. "Now, my good dame," said the stranger, after enjoying for a few minutes the invigorating warmth of a blazing fire, which his hostess had heaped with faggots for his comfort, "I must be plain enough to tell ye that I am famishing of hunger, and that these barley bannocks of yours look most tempting." "And do ye think, sir, I wasna gaun to mak ye an offer o' a tastin o' them? That wad be a gay churlish like thing, I think; I was but waiting till they war ready, to place some o' them before ye, wi' a soup milk, and a bit butter, cheese, and a cauler egg or twa. Ye'll hae them a' in ten minutes, and welcome." "Thank you, my kind lady, thank you; and now, with your leave," added Margaret's guest, whose hunger seemed to be in one of its most active moods--"I'll just see what state the bannocks are in," and he stretched out his hand, took one from the fire, blew on it, tossed it quickly to and fro in his hands--for it was too hot to hold steadily--and, finally, when it had cooled a little, broke it, took a mouthful, pronounced it nearly ready, and, with great gusto, despatched the remainder. "Dear me, man," said Mrs Grahame, who witnessed this gastronomic feat of her guest with a feeling of increased compassion for his condition; "but ye are awfu' hungry, I dare say, or ye wadna hae eaten a half-raw barley bannock that way." "The sweetest morsel ever I ate in my life!" replied the stranger, smiling. "I'll never forget it; nor you either, my good dame." "Pho, nonsense, man; but I see you're dreadfu' hungry;" and she commenced an active turn of the bannocks, to expedite the process of toasting. This done, she redoubled her exertions in general preparation, and with such effect, that in a few minutes, a little round table, spread with a clean white cloth, which she placed by the elbow of her guest, was covered with the homely but wholesome edibles which she had enumerated--namely, a small basin of fresh eggs, a quarter of a cheese, a plate of butter, a large bowl of milk, and a heaped-up platter of warm smoking barley bread. "Noo, sir, set to, and do me and yoursel credit by makin a hearty supper. I'm sure ye're welcome; and I houp I needna say that again." Obeying, without hesitation or further ceremony, the kind and cordial invitation of his hostess, the stalworth stranger commenced a vigorous attack on the tempting viands placed before him; and, had the credit of Mrs Grahame been dependant on the quantity he might consume, it was safe, for he did, indeed, make a splendid meal of it. The stranger had completed his repast, but his hostess had scarcely removed the surplus and other traces of the meal, when both were suddenly alarmed by the sound of the trampling of horses' feet from without, mingled with occasional shouts by the riders, some of mirth, and some of imprecation. "No sound of bugle--they cannot be friends!" exclaimed Mrs Grahame's guest, starting to his feet and seizing his sword. "Now, my good weapon," he added, as he unsheathed the shining blade, "stand me in as good stead this night as thou hast hitherto done, and thou shalt find that I will do my duty by thee." "Fecht, sir! ye'll fecht nane here," exclaimed Margaret Grahame, who had been, during the previous instant, listening eagerly with her ear close to the door, endeavouring to make out who or what the approaching party of horsemen were. "Fecht! ye'll fecht nane," she exclaimed, rushing up to her guest, and seizing him by the sword arm. "It wad be madness, perfect madness. It's a party o' Englishers frae Stirlin Castle--a dizzen at least. And what could your single arm, strong as it is, do against sae mony? No, no, come here--here wi' me," she added, in a state of great excitement. "Leave me to fecht the Englishers; I ken how to do't. I'll fecht them wi' barley bannocks and dauds o' butter. Keep thae chiels chowan, and deil haet else they'll think o'." By this time Margaret Grahame had conducted, or rather dragged her guest, who passively, and, it may be added, prudently yielded to her proceeding, into a dark back apartment. This gained, she hastily threw aside the curtain of a bed, which occupied a corner of the room, opened a _press_ or closet, the door of which the former concealed, and unceremoniously thrust her guest, without saying another word, into the unoccupied receptacle, fastened the door, and drew the curtains of the bed again before it. All this was the work of but an instant, and there was need that it should be so; for the English troopers--such they were--were already thundering at the door for admittance. "Comin this moment!" exclaimed Margaret Grahame. "Dear me, will ye no gie folk time to throw on their claes," she added, as she undid the fastenings of the door. "To raise folk out o' their beds this way at this time o' nicht." As she said this, she threw the door open, and, in the same instant, six or eight dismounted troopers, who had given their horses in charge to two or three comrades remaining mounted outside, entered. On the entrance of the soldiers, Margaret Grahame, in pursuance of the particular line of tactics which she had laid down for herself, commenced, with great volubility of speech, to overwhelm her visiters with both words and deeds of hospitality--she stirred the fire to warm them, and covered her homely board with the best she had to regale them, and all this with such expedition, accompanied by such an outpouring of expressions of kindness, that the soldiers could do nothing but look at each other in surprise, and, by their smiles, express the perplexity into which such an unexpected reception had placed them. One obvious general effect, however, was produced on them all by Margaret's proceedings; this was the completely disarming them of all vindictive feeling, and substituting in its place one of kindness and sympathy. Pressed by their hostess, and nothing loth themselves, the soldiers now sat down to the well-spread board which the former's hospitality had prepared for them, and ate heartily; those first served giving place to their comrades, until the whole had partaken of the widow's good cheer. This done, the soldiers, though not without apologies for the rudeness which their duty imposed on them, informed Margaret Grahame that the purpose of their visit was to search her house for a certain important personage--not naming him--who, they had information, had been seen in that neighbourhood in the course of the day. Having given her this intimation, the soldiers, attended by Margaret herself, proceeded to search the house, but in a temper so mollified by the kind treatment they had received, that they went through the process more as a matter of form than duty. On completing their brief and cursory search, the troopers, after thanking their hostess for her hospitality, remounted their horses, and departed. It was not for some time after they were gone, that Margaret Grahame ventured to seek the hiding-place of her first guest of the evening. There were two reasons for this delay. The first was to ensure the perfect safety of the latter, by allowing her late visiters to get to a secure distance; the other was one of a less definite and more perplexing nature. From some expressions which had dropped from the troopers in the course of their search, she had now no doubt that her concealed guest was no other than Robert Bruce. It was under this impression, then, and under the feeling of reverential awe it inspired, that Margaret Grahame at length went to intimate to her concealed guest that the troopers were gone, and that he might now come forth from his hiding-place. On the latter's stepping from his concealment, Margaret flung herself on her knees, and calling him her King, implored his pardon for the homely and familiar manner in which, in ignorance of his quality, she had treated him. "So, my good dame," replied Bruce, smiling--for it was indeed he--and taking his hostess kindly by the hand, and raising her from her humble position, "so you have discovered me? These troopers have blabbed, I fancy. Well, my secret could not be in safer keeping, I feel assured, than in thine, my kind hostess. It is even so. I _am_ Robert Bruce, and none other." Overcome by the various and tumultuous feelings which the incident, altogether, was so well calculated to excite, Margaret Grahame burst into tears, and, raising the corner of her apron to her eyes, stood thus for some seconds without uttering a word. Bruce, affected, even to the starting of a tear, took his hostess again by the hand, and, not without very evident emotion, said--"Come, my good dame, why those tears?" "I canna richtly tell mysel, sir. I dinna ken. I canna help it. Maybe it is to see you in this plight--to see Scotland's chief without a single attendant, and glad o' the shelter o' sae lowly a roof as mine." "Pho, pho, my kind hostess, and what is in that?" replied Bruce, in a cheering tone. "We must all rough it out as we best can in these times, king and cobbler, baron and beggar. Better days are coming, and we will then think of our present hardships only to laugh at them. As to attendants," he added, with a look of peculiar intelligence, "I am not, perhaps, so destitute of them as I may seem; although they are not, it may be, within calling at this moment. Half-an-hour's walk into the Torwood, however, and half-a-dozen blasts of this little horn would bring around me a band of as stalworth, nay, as brave hearts as Scotland can boast." "God be thankit for that!" said Bruce's enthusiastic hostess. "Then there is hope yet." "There is, there is. A day of reckoning is coming. But now, my good dame," he added, glancing at a little window, through which the dull, faint light of the breaking day had just begun to gleam, "I must take my departure. I must be at the mustering place an hour after daybreak." Saying this the redoubted warrior drew out a leathern purse, from whence he took several pieces of gold coin, which he vainly endeavoured to press on the acceptance of his hostess. "Well, well, my good dame," he said, on finding his urgency only gave offence; "we'll settle all this on some future day. Depend upon it, _I_ will not forget the score which stands against me here. In the meantime, farewell; and fare ye well too, my little maiden," he said, taking his hostess's daughter by the hand; "you and I will meet again." Having said this, and having once more bid mother and daughter adieu, Bruce left the house, and soon after disappeared in the depths of the Torwood. Margaret Grahame stood at the door, and, with the corner of her apron at her eye, looked after the stately figure of the patriot chief, as long as it remained in sight. When it had disappeared, she returned into the house, and began, as she busied herself in brushing up, or, as she would herself have called it, "redding" up her little cottage, after the hospitalities of which it had been the scene, in _crooning_ a popular Scottish ditty of the day, of which the two first verses ran thus, "Guid speed the wark o' bow and brand That's raised for Scotland's weal, And blessins on the heart and hand O' the ever true and leal." "Come frae the east, come frae the wast, Come frae the south and north; For Bruce's horn has blawn a blast That's heard frae Clyde to Forth." "Guid speed the wark," &c. Here, we beg to apprise the reader, the first act of our little drama closes--the curtain drops; and when we again raise it, years have passed away, and many things have undergone those changes which the lapse of time so certainly produces. During the interval to which we allude--an interval of eight or ten years, Scotland, after a long and arduous struggle, had achieved her independence, and Bruce was now in secure and peaceable possession of the Scottish crown. To all, however, the changes which had taken place had not been equally fortunate or favourable. On many the sanguinary and ruthless warfare which had desolated the country brought poverty and ruin. Amongst the sufferers of this description was Margaret Grahame. About three years after the occurrence of the incidents which occupy the preceding pages, a party of English soldiers had first plundered and then burned her little cottage, driving herself and family forth on the world, to earn a livelihood as they best might, or to subsist, if other means failed, on the scanty doles of charity. On being driven from her home, Margaret Grahame, followed by her children, in melancholy procession, wandered she knew nor cared not whither; but, instinctively, taking that direction which promised to leave further danger at the greatest distance behind her. This direction was westward, and on this route she continued; subsisting by the way on the benevolence of the humane; most of whom, however, were more willing than able to relieve her, till she reached the neighbourhood of the village of Kilpatrick, on the Clyde. Exhausted with fatigue, and famishing with hunger, the widow and her children here applied at a respectable farm-house, which stood a little way off the road, for relief. The door was opened by the farmer himself, a man of mild and benevolent disposition. To him, therefore, the petition of the destitute widow was not proffered in vain. Herself and children were instantly admitted, and a plenteous meal of bread, and cheese, and milk, placed before them. When the famishing family had satisfied the cravings of hunger, the farmer, whose name was Blackadder, inquired, but in the most delicate manner possible, into the history of the widow. She told him her story. When she had concluded, Blackadder, looking at her two sons, said that they were fine stout boys, and that he thought, if she chose, he could find them employment about his farm. "Ye're kind, sir, very kind," replied the widow; "but I'm sweart to pairt wi' my bairns. Destitute as I am, I canna think o' separatin frae them." "But there's no occasion for that either," replied the farmer. "I'm willin, in consideration o' their services, to gie ye a bit sma cot to live in, and ye'll never want a pickle meal, and a soup o' milk forbye. And for this bonnie lassie, here," he added, and now looking at Margaret, who had grown into a tall and handsome girl, "she micht mak herself useful about my house too, for which, of course, I wad gie her the wages gaun. Ye micht then be a' comfortable aneuch, for a wee, at ony rate." Need we say that the kind offers of Blackadder were readily closed with. We think we need not. The grateful family, the children, by looks of glee and satisfaction, and the mother by broken sentences and tears of joy, acknowledged their deep sense of the obligation proposed to be conferred on them. "And wha kens," said the farmer, on this matter being settled, "an wha kens," he said, smiling; "but this bonny lassie here," laying his hand on Margaret's shoulder, "may sune fa' in wi' a bit canny guidman hereawa, wi' a weel-stocked mailin." "I doot, sir, that's a' settled already," replied the widow, smiling, "although there's but little gear in the case. Margaret, I'm jalousin, has left her heart at the Torwood. There's a certain young lad, a farmer's son there, that I'm thinkin she wadna willingly forget. But want o' warl's gear aften sunders fond hearts." "Better times may come roun, guidwife," replied Mr Blackadder; "an' the lass may get her leman for a'." During this conversation, the subject of it seemed in an agony of maidenly distress. With a face burning with blushes, she vainly attempted, with a series of unconnected interjections, amongst which were several _denials_ of the _fact_, to arrest her mother's communications regarding the secrets of her heart. Finding these efforts ineffectual, the bashful girl retreated behind her mother's chair, and there, concealing herself as much as possible, awaited, in suffering silence, the conclusion of the, to her, most annoying discussion. In less than a week from this period, Widow Grahame was comfortably domiciled in a small cot-house at a little distance from the residence of her benefactor, Blackadder. Here, contented with her humble lot, and grateful to a kind Providence, which had so timeously interposed in her behalf, Margaret Grahame plied her wheel the livelong day, singing as merrily, the while, as the "laverock in the lift." Her boys were giving every satisfaction to their employer, and her daughter was no less successful in pleasing in her department. She was thus in the enjoyment of one of the greatest happinesses of which her condition was susceptible, and she fully appreciated the blessing. It was while matters were in this state with Widow Grahame, and somewhere about two years after she had settled at Kilpatrick, that her eldest son said to her one evening, on returning home after the labours of the day were over:-- "Mother, they say the King has come to Cardross Castle and I believe it's true; for I saw, frae the braes, a great cavalcade o' knights and gentlemen on horseback, doon on the Glasgow road, gaun towards Dumbarton as hard's they could bir." "An' what's that to me, laddie, whar the King, God bless him, is?" replied his mother. "I'm aye blithe to hear o' his weelfare, for auld lang syne; but what mair is there aboot it?" "I dinna ken, mother," said the boy; "but I've been thinkin that if he kent you were here, or kent whar to fin ye, he wad maybe let you see that he hadna forgotten the barley meal bannocks o' the Torwood, that ye hae sae aften tell't us aboot." "Tuts, ye foolish boy," replied his mother, plying away at her wheel. "Whatna notion is that? The King, honest man, has, I daresay, forgotten baith me and my bannocks many a day syne. He had owre muckle to do and owre muckle to think o' after that, to keep ony mind o' sae sma' and ordinary a matter as that. The _recollection_ o' that nicht, Jamie, is, at onyrate, reward aneuch for me." "Feth, I dinna ken, mither," said the pertinacious youngster; "but I think ye micht do waur than try. Ye micht do waur than tak a step doun to Cardross Castle--it's only about seven or aucht miles frae this, and get a sicht o' the King, an' tell him wha ye are. It micht do us a' guid." To this very distinct and rational proposition, Margaret made no reply. It threw her into a musing mood, in which she continued for some time; making the wheel revolve, the while, with redoubled velocity. At length, studiously, as it appeared, avoiding all recurrence to the subject on which her son and herself had been speaking, "Tak your bread and milk, Jamie, and gang to your bed. Ye ken ye hae to rise by three the morn's mornin." The boy, without further urging his proposal, or saying anything more regarding it, did as he was desired--ate his bread and milk, and retired to bed, where he quickly fell fast asleep. His mother, on ascertaining that he had done so, got up from her wheel, went to a small wooden tub that stood in a corner of the cottage, and filled from it a small basin of barley-meal. With this meal she forthwith proceeded to bake a bannock of small size, which she subsequently toasted with great care. This done, she placed it in a cupboard, and soon after retired to bed. On the following morning, at an early hour, Margaret Grahame, dressed in her best, and carrying in her hand the identical barley meal bannock above spoken of, neatly wrapped up in a snow-white towel, was seen posting stoutly along the Dumbarton road, and evidently bent on a journey of some length. It was so: Margaret was making for Cardross Castle, where she arrived about three hours after leaving her own house. On reaching the outer gate of the castle, Margaret addressed herself to a sentinel who was walking backwards and forwards with a drawn sword in his hand. "Is the King here, sir, just now?" she said. "He is," replied the man, shortly. "Could I see him, sir, do you think?" "Indeed, mistress, I think you could _not_," replied the sentinel, peremptorily. "None but properly accredited persons can obtain access to him at present." "I'm sure, however, he wad be glad aneuch to see me," said Margaret; "for him and I are auld acquantance." "Perhaps so," replied the soldier. "Of that I know nothing; but I know my duty, and that is to keep out all unknown and unaccredited persons. But here's Balcanquhail, the King's confidential personal attendant, and you may speak to him if you like. Ho, Balcanquhail, here's a woman who claims _old acquaintanceship_" (a smile accompanying, and intelligent emphasis laid on these two words) "with the King, and who wants admittance to his Majesty," added the sentinel, beckoning her towards him, and now addressing the person whom he named. "You cannot be admitted, honest woman," said Balcanquhail, scanning the supplicant with something of a contemptuous expression of face. "You cannot, on any account, so it's no use insisting." "Weel, sir," replied Margaret, calmly, "if ye winna let mysel in, will ye tak in this to the King?" and she presented the white towel with its inclosure to the "chaumer chiel" of Robert Bruce. "Let the King hae that, and, if I'm no mista'en, ye'll sune hae orders to fling a' the gates o' the castle open to me." "What is it?" said Balcanquhail, peering curiously into the folds of the towel. "Atweel it's neither mair nor less," replied the widow, "than a barley-meal bannock. Nae very rare nor costly commodity; but place ye't before the King, and he'll understand what it means. I'll wait here till ye come back." Accustomed to such symbolical communications, which were much resorted to in these days, and sometimes on very important occasions, Balcanquhail readily agreed, without further inquiry or remark, to comply with the widow's request. Hastening to the King's private apartment--the King being at the moment at breakfast--Balcanquhail placed his charge on the table before him, in the precise state in which he received it, without saying a word. "What's this, Balcanquhail?" said Bruce, opening out the towel as he spoke, and without waiting for a reply. "Ah! a barley bannock. What can this mean?" and he mused for an instant. Then suddenly starting from his seat--"I have it!--I have it!" he exclaimed, with eager delight. "How should I forget the barley bannocks of the 'Torwood?' Who brought this bannock, Balcanquhail? Where is the person who brought it?" Balcanquhail informed him. "Send her up to me instantly--instantly!" rejoined the excited monarch. "This is the good woman about whom I have been so anxiously, but vainly, inquiring for these two or three years back. Quick, quick, bring her hither, Balcanquhail?" In less than two minutes afterwards, Margaret Grahame was in the presence of her Sovereign. On her entrance, the King hastened towards her with extended hand, and after giving her a cordial welcome:-- "Where in all the world hast thou been, my good dame?" he said, "that I have not been able to find thee, although I have had emissaries employed from time to time, in all directions, for the last two or three years, to trace thee out, with the offer of a reward to him who should first discover thee? No one about thy old place of residence--whither I went myself to seek thee--could tell aught of thee. They knew not what had become of thee, nor where thou hadst gone to. Where, on earth, hast thou been?" Margaret gave the history of her whole proceedings, and of all that had happened her since the eventful night on which she had entertained the king in her little cot on the skirts of the Torwood. When she was done, Bruce, with many expressions of kindness, presented her with a large purse of gold for her present exigencies. He subsequently built her a handsome mansion-house, where she lived in comfort and independence for many years, on the site of her ruined cottage--a locality which he chose in order to commemorate the event which forms the ground of this tale--gave her a charter of three or four extensive farms that lay around it, dowered her daughter Margaret Grahame, who was by this means enabled to wed the man of her choice, and, finally, placed her two sons in situations of profit and trust about his own person. And so, gentle reader, ends the story of the "Barley Bannock." GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT. XX.--JOHN GOVAN'S NARRATIVE. In the Greyfriars' Churchyard of Edinburgh I have often spent a solitary hour, during what, in Scotland, is called the "gloaming." The large and handsome monument which still records the sufferings of the covenanted friends of freedom, always occupied my deepest thoughts; and when I looked around me on the quiet solitude of the scene, on the modest and unassuming style of the sacred edifice, and on the old and scarcely-visible fort,[1] which had stood so many sieges, and witnessed so many changes, I have often let the moon peep upon my meditative movements, over the top of the Calton Hill, Arthur's Seat, or Salisbury Crags. There passed, on the outside of the wall, the light-hearted carter, whistling alongside of his horse; or the fish-wife, proclaiming the caller commodity she wished to sell; or the merry school boy, indicating his relish of freedom from school restraint by boisterous mirth and unrestrained motion;--and yet, on the inner side of the wall, all was alone and peaceful, as if I had taken up my station in a far-off Highland glen. These were the days of my youthful feelings, and warm and generous emotion. If my blood did not _boil_ within me, it warmed exceedingly, as the vision of other times and far different scenes crossed my brain, and was reflected from my heart. From the works of our historians--of Knox and Woodrow in particular--I had early become acquainted with the history of those times, (which are still continuing to interest our feelings and influence our judgment;) and I could not fail to image out more particularly the dismal aspect which this very locality presented in 1679. Whilst engaged one evening in these reveries, I inadvertently wandered away behind the church, and stood looking out upon the moonshine, which, "o'er the dark a silver mantle threw;" whilst the officer of the Greyfriars' Church, seeing nobody in the yard, quietly and unperceived by me, locked the door, and retired to his home in the Netherbow. Accordingly, when I began to think, about eleven o'clock, of home and repose, I was not a little surprised to find all egress by the customary outlet impossible. The night was indeed lovely--mild and still; but yet there was something not altogether satisfactory in being compelled to enjoy it in company with the dead of many generations. A large mastiff, too, which had concealed itself for some time under the wall, came forth into the moonlight, with a bone in his jaws--manifestly a human skull. [Footnote 1: Edinburgh Castle] "And I saw the lean dog, _beneath the wall_, Hold o'er the dead its carnival; And its white tusks crunched o'er the whiter skull As it slipped through its jaws, when the edge grew dull, As it lazily mumbled the bones of the dead." The sight was not only jarring to all my more composed and soothing reflections, but not unaccompanied with a certain indefinite apprehension of evil. The season had been hot, and hydrophobia had shewn its dreadful existence in Leith Walk and in the Canongate. Two persons had died of it raving mad. I was, therefore, exceedingly anxious to place the high wall which surrounded the Greyfriars' Churchyard betwixt my companion and myself. But how was this to be effected? I ventured to raise my voice, and shout aloud; but no notice was taken of my call. Nay, my growling and crunching neighbour approached me--offering seeming defiance. He was a fearful animal, of that very breed which I have all my life trusted the least--I may say feared and abhorred the most. I began to speak soothingly to him; but, to all my "poor fellows," and other accents of friendly intercourse, he only answered with a deeper growl. What was to be done? I was afraid to renew my shout; for that manifestly annoyed him; and yet he seemed evidently approaching me. Merciful God! I could see the very glare of his eyes, even in the softened moonlight. I looked up, in perfect despair, to the moon and to the stars, and could not help envying them their secure positions. I would have become anything heavenly, even a star of the very least magnitude, to have secured my retreat from this bull-headed monster. I edged myself towards the monument of the Martyrs; and, with some difficulty, got myself elevated a considerable way up one of the pillars. I clung to every projection like one perishing; and, being young, slender, and full of elastic vigour, I at last gained the top of the wall, from whence I immediately informed a night watch, then passing along, of my terrible situation. In the meantime, the hideous monster made a spring from a tombstone to the top of the same wall; but, instead of visiting me, he dropped himself quietly into a carrier's cart, to which he belonged, and which stood near the doorway of the "Harrow" public house. I was immediately relieved both from my fears and my position, by the assistance of John Brown, the Greyfriars' Church officer, who opened the gate, and assisted me in my descent. The incident was somewhat singular; and, as I stood in need of some refreshment, and honest Johnny Dowie's shop did not shut till twelve, I asked the pleasure of John Brown's company to a red herring and a glass "Of as guid nappy liquor As ever reamed in horn or bicker." During the discussion of these viands, (and, maybe, a wee drap of Highland whisky made into warm todd,) John Brown and I became exceedingly well acquainted. He had occupied his present office for upwards of forty years, was an enthusiast about the Covenanters, and possessed, in fact, some written documents on the subject, which he promised to shew me. He was a lineal descendant, he informed me, of the famous Thomas Brown, who suffered, along with John Waddel, Andrew Sword, John Clide, and James Wood, on Magus Muir. The documents, as I afterwards found, were nothing more nor less than some scattered and pencilled notices by one John Govan, in the parish of Kirkliston, of his share in the affair of Bothwell Brig, and his sufferings in consequence thereof. I shall avail myself partially of these pencillings, in the following narrative:-- "O Lord, thy mercies are manifold! Thou wilt not desert thine ancient inheritance--thy puir, suffering, persecuted remnant. O Lord! thou wilt, and thou _must_ stand by thy servants, godly Hamilton, and Cargill, and Rathillet, and by us and our cause--which, guid Lord, is, after all, thine own--in this awful day. I see the Duke's men on the hill-side opposite. They are now, even now, making downwards towards the bridge. They have opened their guns. I must up and do my duty. Lord, stand by the righteous!" The battle, as is here anticipated, began; and (owing to the sad divisions in the camp of the nonconformists) was won by the Duke of Buccleuch and Monmouth, almost without any resistance. Notwithstanding the humane exertions of the Duke--owing to the sanguinary revenge of Clavers in particular--the slaughter after the battle, in what may be termed the wantonness of cruelty, was very great indeed. The next extract from Govan's diary, confirms this historical truth:-- "And thou, O Lord, hast yet more work to do for poor John Govan. But poor Samuel Logan lies dead in the next field there--I saw him run when I fell into a ditch, and just lay still; but the destroyer was hard behind him. Sam _darned_ at last in a corn-field; and there I saw him shot through the head by that terrible Clavers. He did not give him an instant to make his peace wi' his Maker. O Lord! wherefore is it thus with thy Zion? But it belongs not to poor John Govan to find fault wi' sic a Master--thy ways are not as our ways, nor thy thoughts as ours." Poor John Govan was, however, at last taken prisoner, whilst endeavouring to conceal himself in an outhouse of a farm-steading in Strathavon, but not till after a whole volley of balls had been poured in upon his retreat, only one of which, however, had taken effect, and that on the fleshy part of his leg. Notwithstanding his wound, and the stiffness, which, after it had bled profusely, was induced upon the limb, he was compelled to march on foot, along with upwards of three hundred prisoners--many of them badly wounded--towards Edinburgh. Mr Reid and Mr King--both of whom were afterwards tried, tortured, hanged, and quartered--were of the number. To avoid the commiseration and sympathy of the more populous districts, Clavers marched the prisoners through the upper district of Lanarkshire. At Lanark the first halt was made for the night; and there the men were tied together by twos and threes, and compelled to bivouac in the open air, in a barn-yard. In vain were all their groanings and complainings--some from their wounds, others from hunger or thirst, and not a few from the dismal fate which had overtaken the cause which they supported. The infamous soldiery, urged on, or at least not properly checked by their leaders, only laughed at their calamities, telling them to be patient--that patience was a d----d good supper--a great deal too good for a covenanter, &c., &c. Upon this I found the following reflections in Govan:-- "O Lord! when will their ire be stayed?--when will thy face return and shine again upon thy heritage? This night has been an awful night: my sufferings, all our sufferings, have been great, great beyond bearing--four of our number have died of their wounds and fatigue. My own cousin, William Young, has paid the debt of nature; he has gone to the bosom of his God; for William was a just, and a good, and a holy man. I held his head till he expired; it was a sore struggle, but he quailed not; he repeated as long as he could speak--'Though he slay me, yet will I trust in him; my heart and my flesh may faint and fail--oh, yes! the earthly house of our tabernacle must be dissolved; but we have a house, John, not made with hands, eternal in the heavens; and the Spirit and the bride say, Come;' and, with these words, he bowed his head and he gave up the ghost. He and I were tied together by the legs, and I sat till morning light with his dead body in my arms. These dreadful men only scoffed when I spoke of death, and bade me take my supper off the dead man's bones. O Lord! how long? O Lord! how long?" The next resting-place seems to have been in the midst of the "Lang Whang"--a barren and bleak muir, which stretches eastward ten or eleven miles beyond Carnwath. Here an enclosure was effected by means of stakes and ropes, as the binding system had been found ineffectual, there being generally some method adopted by the fettered sufferers to relieve themselves. Within this enclosure these three hundred men stood or lay during a dark and a rainy night, without fire, and with very scanty provisions; whilst the demons on the outside of the enclosure lighted up fires of the heath, and of some peats which were found ready dried in the neighbourhood, and spent the night in roasting all manner of barn-door fowls, pigs, and even sheep, which they had captured as they passed along. Refreshment of a spirituous character was not denied them; and their songs, and their blasphemies, and their insulting language, "rose up in the midst of the wilderness" as Govan expresses it--"to the throne of the Most High, calling for vengeance in the day of retribution, on the head of the oppressor." "This," continues he, "is a second morning, and a cold, and a gloomy, and a dreadful one it is. Clavers and his attendants are galloping up from Carnwath, where they have been spending the night in jollification wi' the laird; and we are just about to renew our dismal march. My leg is exceedingly troublesome; but, as we advance but slowly, I make a shift to get on. One man died last night raving mad; and another, I much fear, has put an end, with his own hand, to an unendurable existence. O Lord, give me strength to bear whatever thy wisdom sees meet to inflict!" From the Lang Whang, the Grass Market was reached on the succeeding evening, and, after being united with two hundred prisoners from Stirling, they were all marched from the Grass Market; and, after some seasonable refreshment, ordered by the humane and kind-hearted Duke of Monmouth, into the Greyfriars' Churchyard, there to abide--from the month of June to that of December following--all the peltings of the pitiless storm, without a sufficiency of food, and entirely without covering. Men of Scotland, was there ever anything like this? Can the remembrance of such atrocities ever be obliterated? Can century upon century, as they slowly roll on their course, ever place these events, and this event in particular, beyond the range of your interest? We read with horror of the scaffold and the guillotine; but what immediate death could equal in atrocity their protracted sufferings? Friends have they, indeed, within these walls, but they cannot, or but seldom, and at great risk, obtain an entrance. Many are disposed to supply the houseless prisoner with couch and covering, but they only supply additional means of debauchery to the ruffian soldiery. The chambers of the _many dead_ are defiled and rendered pestilential by the presence of the _many living_. Death, in ordinary circumstances, is a boon to this. Winter approaching--(nay, has arrived)--the sleety shower plashing over the Castle--the whirling drifts, eddying about, amongst, and beneath the tombstones--the wild, long, endless night, to which succeeds no dawn of comfort--no warm chamber--no invigorating and cheering meal. Oh, honest and fearless shades, tell us all! how did you stand it? How was it that you did not sell your remaining strength as dearly as possible?--that you did not rush like tigers upon your guards, and perish whilst rending them with your teeth and nails? But ye are silent as becomes ye; so I must apply to honest John Govan's MS. "This is now the sixth week that I have dwelt in this dreary place. Oh, happy they who lie beneath! they are covered, and feel not our privations, and pains, and sufferings; and yet freedom and home is offered to us, and accepted by many. God forgive them, if it be His will!--but John Govan will never accept his liberty on such terms. His mother's shade would rise up in judgment. Shall I take their infamous oaths, or subscribe their no less infamous bonds? Shall I swear that the Bishop's death is murder, and that the resistance of an oppressed and persecuted people is rebellion? Shall I 'bind, oblige, and enact myself,' that I shall not hereafter take up arms in so good a cause? No! I will sooner perish, inch by inch; I will sooner suffer the tortures of the boot, and the final cruel judgment of the maiden. Men are yet unborn that will bless us--a whole people, happy in a pure religion and a free government, will adore the memory of the most humble son of the Covenant; they will build and erect pillars and monuments to our memory; they will count, anxiously count, kindred with us; they will record and register our deeds and our sufferings; and, when this world, with all its interests, shall have ceased to exist, we shall be in everlasting remembrance." Thus reasoned, and thus were supported, these men, who set at defiance threats, and entreaties, and insidious reasonings; who valued the approbation of their own consciences above every other; who feared their God, and had no other fear. As winter drew on, the intercourse with the inhabitants of Edinburgh became more frequent and less easily obstructed. It was absolutely necessary that brothers, and even sisters, and wives, and mothers, should be permitted occasionally to carry some warm broth, or some still stronger stimulants, to those whose rations were so limited, and whose exposure to the cold air was so dismally protracted. Even partial scaffoldings were erected around the churchyard, and towards the east, or town side in particular; and some imperfect, no doubt, but still acceptable shelter, was thus extended to the perishing inmates. It was not possible that disease should not walk in the train of so much deprivation. Many died of fever; some of consumption or bad colds; and not a few of downright debility. The guards, too, became tired of the monotony of their task, and often retired into adjoining taverns to keep up their spirits. Some escaped by one means and some by another; one in the dress of a sister, and another in the garb of a mason. An Act of Indemnity was at last passed, from which, however, about twenty were exempted, and perhaps nine or ten executed. John Govan seems to have survived these dismal times by some years; for I find him next on Magus Muir, encouraging and supporting his friends who suffered. His concluding sentences are these:-- "I have seen, I have seen--mine eyes have seen thy salvation; Presbytery, my beloved Presbytery, established by law; freedom of conscience secured to all; a Protestant King; a Protestant government; every man dwelling in peace, under his own vine and his own fig-tree; mine own son delivering the word of God to a Protestant congregation, and protected by law. My old age has been soothed by many comforts; the partner of my fortunes and sharer of all my trials still alive, and capable of uniting with me in the song of thanksgiving--verily, the Lord has been merciful and gracious, and I now await his divine pleasure with perfect resignation. I am old, and have had my day. I trust I have not altogether neglected my duty; and when it shall be His blessed will to call me, I will depart cheerfully home, and appear in his presence. My sins and imperfections are indeed many; but I know in whom I have believed, and to whom I have committed the soul, my immortal part. Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace." Thus far honest John Govan, who seems to have slept with his fathers a year or two after the Revolution, in the eighty-fourth year of his age. The papers, John Brown informed me, passed into his grandfather's keeping, in consequence of the friendship which continued to exist betwixt the Govans and the Browns; the Govans having long ago emigrated to America, and left the Browns a bequest of books, and these papers besides. XXI.--"OLD BLUNTIE." Creehope Linn was a well-known retreat of the old Covenanters in Dumfriesshire. The water, in the course of successive ages, has cut itself a smooth, winding, and extremely deep passage, through an immense bed of sandstone; and so capricious have been its excavations, that, whilst the rock beneath is hollowed out into vast recesses, or natural caves and chambers, the rock above almost meets, and spreads a gloom, approaching to complete darkness, all around the caverns below. In these caverns--as I already, more than once, have had occasion to mention--the poor persecuted flock found a temporary shelter and safety. There was something in the natural gloom which induced melancholy and even fearful cogitations. One of these caves, immediately over what is still known by the appropriate designation of "Hell's Cauldron," was, long after the Revolution, tenanted by an old man of singular aspect and character, who cobbled shoes for the peasantry around. His residence is still shown, and known as the "Sutor's Seat." You may still see the hollow in the rock where he lay himself, and another which contained his implements. Tradition gives but few notices of his habits, but these few are perhaps worth recording. He was manifestly crazy; but still there was a method in his madness; and nothing would persuade him, after the Revolution, that he might ever safely visit the upper world. He still talked of Clavers, and Johnston, and Douglas, and Lag; and the rocks retain to this day, it is said, the names of some of these worthies, engraved by Sutor Bluntie's awl. Whether this appellation of "Bluntie" was his own original name, or whether it was only a cognomen, I cannot positively aver, though I think the _last_ is more than probable, as I never heard of any person of this name in Dumfriesshire, or, indeed, anywhere else. He would, whilst in the act of mending a shoe or cobbling a boot, suddenly spring to his legs, look fearfully around him, and aver that he was not alone--that the pursuer was present--that a fearfully disfigured, mangled carcase stood in the very centre of Hell's Caldron. "There it stands!" he would say--"there! there! One jaw hanging down, and one eye out; its legs broken; its skull in pieces; its belly ripped up; and yet it looks terribly at me. But the foul fiend will be here by and by--ay will he. He will soon settle your jabbering, Donald Cameron. There--there he comes: he is rushing, like a tempest, among these trees!--he is sweeping like a whirlwind amongst these rocks! Yes--he comes, like a lion, roaring for his prey. But you are gone, Donald Cameron; it was as well. You sank into the Caldron to award the foul fiend, did you?--out of the frying-pan into the fire, lad! But now all's quiet again--I will finish my job in spite of you!" Even at mid-day, he kept a lamp constantly burning; and the rock is still blackened by the smoke. Thus, doubtless, his mind had taken a gloomy tint, which gradually diverged into downright insanity. But there was, after all, a method in his madness. There was a particular reason for the peculiar usages which his imagination conjured up; and it was this:--During the hottest period of the Persecution, Old Bluntie, who was by profession a shoemaker, had taken to this (to him) well-known and familiar recess. There he remained during the day; but at night he stole out, with the beasts of prey, to obtain food. His wife (for he had no children) had been shot, one day, by a dragoon, as she stood in her doorway. The man simply exclaimed--"That's the Covenanting b----!" fired his pistol, and the woman fell. Bluntie became, ever after this, altogether reckless; his only object was, by one means or another, by hook or by crook, to lead or decoy the persecutors into ambushes and danger. It was he mainly who decoyed the party into the Pass of Enterkin, already described in these papers. He pretended to turn informer; but when the cave was searched, the inmate was flown; but a rifle-gun, from behind a hedge, seldom missed its mark. Another plan of his was of a somewhat original character. Creehope Linn divides, as I have already described, a sandstone rock, over which there lies a deep layer of moss, surmounted by close and tall heather--at least this was the case formerly, and may be so still. For a considerable way below the fall known by the name of the "Grey Mare's Tail," the linn _almost_ meets above, and the heather _altogether_--to an inexperienced stranger, there is no evidence whatever of the dreadful abyss, of sixty feet depth, which yawns beneath. The ground around is level, and the water moves on at such a distance from the surface, that, unless in floods, it is quite inaudible. Clavers at this time was a stranger in the southern district, to which, in consequence of Turner's rising at Dumfries, he had been recently appointed; and his men were, of course, equally strangers. Old Bluntie caused a report to be conveyed to Clavers, whilst stationed at Croalchapel, in the neighbourhood, that a number of the friends of the Covenant, with old Cargill at their head, were to have a meeting, or conventicle, in a hollow glen, fifty yards south of the Linn. It was, of course, to take place at night, and by favour of a harvest moon. Having been deceived by false intelligence on other occasions, Clavers ordered Red Rob to lead a troop of ten men into an adjoining cleugh, and there to dismiss one of them on foot to reconnoitre the ground. All this was done. But when the soldier came within sight of the place of meeting, he found only one man, whom he immediately hailed. The figure started, and ran swiftly away, whilst a ball went fully more swiftly in pursuit, but missed its mark. The soldier pursued sword in hand, and Bluntie made the best of his way onward towards the mountain pass of Bellybught. But, all at once, the soldier disappeared. He had sunk through the heather, and was not to be seen. The other nine dragoons, who had heard the report, now followed in hot pursuit, and, coming inadvertently on the same concealed danger, horse and man went over at once. The legs of several of the horses were broken; two stuck in the jaws of the ravine, which was not wide enough to allow them to sink; and one rider went plump to the bottom; whilst another had his neck broken, by being pitched on his head to some distance. This person's name was John Campbell; and the spot retains the name of "Jock's Step" to this hour. XXII.--THOMAS HARKNESS OF LOCKERBEN. I have already given some account of the famous rescue at Enterkin--I am now about to follow out one of the consequences of that rescue:-- Amongst those who were engaged in this affair, was Thomas Harkness of Lockerben, parish of Dalgarno. Immediately after the affray, the various individuals who were principally concerned in it separated. Andrew Clerk, in Leadhills, fled to Annandale; Samuel M'Ewan, in Glencairn, made off towards Cumnock; and Thomas Harkness hovered for some time amongst the Lowther heights, and then took refuge in a widow woman's house in Leadhills. Marion Morrison was the widow of David Douglas, a miner, who had lost his life in one of the shafts. She lived in a small cottage on the heathy muir, and at a considerable distance from the other houses, which, in these times, were not numerous. She had one only daughter--now woman-grown and comely--who, by spinning sale-yarn for the Lanark and Douglas market, supported herself and her mother, if not in comfort, at least in competence and peace. They were both religious persons, and took a deep interest in the persecuted remnant. Many a prayer had Marion put up in behalf of God's own people, to which her daughter May, as she was called, responded with deep sincerity. As the old song says, "It was in and about the Martinmas time," when Marion and her daughter were engaged, the one in carding and the other in spinning wool, the tarry-woo of the mountain land. May was blythe and cheerful, half-singing and half-chanting the now old, but then popular song-- "Oh, tarry woo is ill to spin! Card it weel ere ye begin-- Card it weel, and draw it sma'-- Tarry woo is the best of a'!" when the cat was observed to make a sudden movement across the hearth, and in stepped a tall figure, wrapped up in a shepherd's plaid. Marion started, and May all but screamed. But the figure soon unfolded itself, exclaiming-- "Be not afeared--be not afeared, honest Christian women. I am a poor, pursued, persecuted bird, flying into your hut from the claws of the kite. I have neither slept nor broken bread for these three days and three nights; but, now that the moon has waned, I have ventured down, in the dark, to beg a morsel of meal and water, a night's shelter, and a few hours' rest. My name is Thomas Harkness of Lockerben, where my forbears have lived for these three hundred years bygane; and it's e'en a richt sair case that, wi' thae grey hairs and wrinkles, I should be compelled to sleep wi' the peaseweep, and to sup wi' the fox on the mountain fell." "Indeed, and sae it is," responded Marion; "and welcome, thrice welcome, I trow, are ye, or ony o' the name and the lineage o' the Harknesses, to puir Marion Morrison's best; and, oh, that it was better, for your sake! Ye hae forgotten the bit whilking lassie, nae doubt, that drave oot yer worthy faither's stirks to the calf-park and back again, that helpit the mistress wi' the bairns, and whiles scrapit potatoes, and sic like. Weel, that bit young, thoughtless cummer, is now the auld, decrepit body--bonny May, as yer mother used to ca' me, is now auld Marion, wham the folks hereabout deeply suspect o' witchcraft, and I kenna what ither craft, I'm turned sae unwarl and pookit-like. But, May, my bairn, the guid man's sleeping wi' downright fatigue. Get on the pot; there's a wee pickle barley in the auld barrel, and there's a bit o' the meat that I was keeping for our Sabbath meal; but the Lord is a rich provider, and we winna want; sae just put in the bit meat wi' the barley, and get broth and mutton for my auld master's son. The mashlom bannock is amang the meal, in the kist. Bring it oot, wi' a bit saut butter, in the meantime; for oh, sirs! hunger's ill to bide. But, dear, and be wi' me! if the guidman bena as sound as a tap! It wad be a'maist a pity to waken him, till the broth pot be fairly set a poppling at least." May executed her mother's orders with alacrity; and, ere an hour had escaped, Thomas Harkness was aroused to a most delicious meal, which he devoured more like a famished wolf than a Christian man; not, however, hungry and ravenous as he was, before doffing his blue bonnet, and asking of his Maker a blessing with the offered mercy. He was soon after conveyed ben the house, and put into possession of the only bed which the cottage contained; the mother and daughter sleeping and watching alternately, the one in a large elbow chair, and the other upon a sack of tarry woo. Day dawned, beautiful and sweet, over the wild mountains of Leadhills, and May Douglas stood without the low and confined door of her little cottage, when she was startled by the firing of muskets on the opposite hill-side. The smoke directed her eye to the spot, and she saw a poor boy, who had been running hard for the old shafts, fall immediately forward amongst the long rank heather. "Let the cursed dog lie there and bleed to death," was uttered aloud, in the most horrid tone of voice. "Where the watch has been set, the enemy must be lurking; we'll search, my lads, the village from corner to corner; and, if we cannot start the game otherwise, we'll put a blazing peat to it, and smoke out the old fox from his den." It was manifest to May Douglas that Thomas Harkness was now placed in the utmost jeopardy; and she flew ben the house, and, with that unconsciousness of impropriety so natural to her age and innocence, immediately roused the guidman of Lockerben, and made him sensible of his situation. What was to be done?--An instant more, and all might be lost. It struck the good girl that there was an old shaft mouth, within a few yards of the back part of the house, into which the pursued fugitive might pass through a window, or hole, which opened, to let out the smoke and _in_ the light, backwards. No sooner thought of than said--and Thomas, with the greater part of his clothing under his arm, thrust himself through the opening with some difficulty, and found himself in a second or two within the hiding of the old shaft. In an instant after, the house was surrounded, and armed men, with swords and holster pistols, rushed into the house of this poor unprotected woman. "Turn out the old b---- with her whelp," said Clavers to the band, "and cast her Bible and Psalm-Book after, that she may amuse herself and her beauty, whilst we secure the stray sheep of the house of Israel. So ho! here is trail, here is trail; tally-ho!--a shepherd's plaid, and a pair of good large shoes, well soled and tacketed. The guidman himself is not far off--he will be at his devotions, Rob; see you do not disturb him, you unmannerly rascal." "Oh no," replied the well-known corporal, Rob Douglas, "I will only join in the psalmody." And then he bawled out, in stentorian whine, mimicking the voice and manner of a Covenanter-- "'In Judah's land God is well-known, His name in Israel great, In Salem is his tabernacle, In Zion is his seat.' But no, no, my sweet chick of canticles, not so fast, dear, not so fast--neither you nor old grunty must budge a foot-length from the place where you now stand--sit or lie, as you please--till you get permission from this here person with the King's authority on both his shoulders." In the meantime, everything in the house had been turned topsy-turvy, and the eleventh commandment, as they facetiously denominated the broadsword, had been passed through all manner of pierceables; when, enraged at being foiled of his prey when so nearly securing it, Clavers ordered the hut to be set on fire, and the old hunks to be thrown into the midst of it. "As to this young chick," said he, giving her chin a rude blow upwards, "why, I do not know that I shall burn her till Halloween, and then she will skip and flame on the hearth-stane amongst the nuts." No sooner said than done--the house was immediately set fire to at all the four corners, whilst the brutal soldiery stood round watching, and making sport of some mice, whom their instinct led to escape. Marion Morrison was actually in the rude hands of the soldiers, when fear of the consequences, or, it may be, something resembling humanity, led Clavers to give orders to let the b---- live, to plague the whole village for half a century to come. In the meantime, Mr Robert Ramsay, the manager of the lead-mines, appeared, to remonstrate with Clavers for his very unhandsome treatment of the women, and his destruction of property which belonged to the family of Hopetoun. It being the time, too, when the workmen shifted their labours, the hill-side poured forth, its fifties and hundreds, as if it had actually teemed with life. Clavers and his men were immediately surrounded with a grim and an incensed crowd, headed by their much-esteemed manager--the father, as was afterwards the case, of the celebrated Allan Ramsay, who thus celebrates the place of his birth-- "Of Crawford Moor--born in Leadhill-- Where mineral springs Glengonner fill, Which joins sweet-flowing Clyde, Between auld Crawford Lindsay's towers And where Duneaton rapid pours His stream to Glotta's tide." In vain did Ramsay remonstrate with Clavers. He boasted his Orders in Council; defied all remonstrance; ordered his men to charge; and, firing on the crowd right and left, made his escape to the hills. Providentially no one was even hurt; and it was strongly suspected that, knowing he had already rather exceeded his commission, he had ordered the dragoons to charge without ball-cartridge. After this affair was over, the district was freed, for a time, from the hateful presence of the King's troops, as they were known to be occupied on a similar office in Annandale, and the higher district of Nithsdale. Thomas Harkness being duly informed of his safety, came forth from his hiding, which was nearly covered over by spret and long heather, and was welcomed (though not without apprehension) to the manager's dwelling, which stood then, where the manager's house still stands, in the midst of the town, and was and still is surrounded by trees--the only ones to be seen for many miles around. The old woman, Marion Morrison, with her bonny May, were likewise taken home to the same hospitable dwelling, till some arrangement could be made, with the generous and noble-minded family of Hopetoun, for their future accommodation. Mr Robert Ramsay was a young, unmarried man of family--as his name implies--and he felt the impropriety of keeping a young, unmarried woman under his roof. Whether it was that he and May understood each other before this time, or that their unexpected juxtaposition, now accelerated the consummation, I know not; but so it was, that, in a few days, preparations were agoing forward of a somewhat demonstrative nature. A fine black-faced sheep was killed; ale barrels were seen travelling up Glengonner; four dozen of good port wine were placed on the sideboard, whilst a cask of strong Nantz brandy slept quietly beneath. On Sabbath, the names of Robert Ramsay and May Douglas, both of this parish, were read aloud by the precentor, schoolmaster, and manager's clerk; and the Friday following was fixed upon for the marriage. Any festivity amongst these congregated children of the mountains, is anticipated by them with peculiar relish and excitement. Miles beneath the ground, the voice of joy and jest, and colloquy, penetrated; and, whilst the jumper penetrated the rock, and the hammer fell ponderous and frequent, the tongue was not idle, and the heart was not sad. Every one spoke well of the bride; most of them knew her father and esteemed him. Old Marion, to be sure, was a _quisquis_ character; but then, she was now to be the manager's stepmother, honest man; and it was deemed that, if ever old Marion had dealt with the old gentleman, she would now prefer the young one. The long-looked-for, wished-for day, at last arrived, and the nonconforming minister of the parish of Crawford--the godly Mr Austin--was brought from his retreat, at the town of Douglas, to perform the marriage ceremony. All was gay as a marriage bell; the men had a full holiday, by order of Lord Hopetoun, with full wages, on the occasion. They, with their wives and daughters, were all arranged on the green plot in front of the manager's house; whilst viands, of a most substantial nature, were served out to them in abundance--amongst which, sheep-heads, haggises, and Irish stews, were not forgotten. The tankards circulated; the wine was handed round in queghs and skuties, or timber shells; and brandy followed in abundance. The heart of the poor labourer was gladdened, whilst, glowing as it did with gratitude and kindly feeling, it was made better; and the young and handsome couple walked round amongst the people with pride and honest delight. One mother was sad, because her son lay still in a bed of sickness. He had fallen when wounded (as was before mentioned) on the hill, and having been shot through the knee-joint, his wound was long of healing--still there was a certainty that, though lame for life, he would not die of the injury, and the mother ventured out, though with a clouded aspect. A Highland bagpiper made his appearance, (probably from a previous arrangement,) and, having taken his seat and his draught-- "He screwed his pipes, and gart them skirl, Till glen and mountain a' did dirl." The lads sprung to their feet-- "Wi' wooer babs At their blue-bonnet lugs." "The lasses--bonny witches-- Were a' dressed up in aprons clean, And braw white Sunday mutches." So to it they went; and round and round the green they reeled it, and country-danced it, and shouted it, and flapped it, and jumped it--and "Haverel Jean her hanging stocking ties, And to the dance with maddening fury flies," till nature could hold out no longer, and wearied limbs were stretched out full length on the soft greensward. In the meantime, _in_ came two pilgrims from the Holy Land, and they spoke of Eastern lands and Eastern manners; and, being wearied with travel, they behoved to partake of the cheer. Next to them succeeded Auld Glenae, tied all round with straw ropes, and making love to every bonny lassie present, clapping the old women on the back, and kissing the young lassies. Even Thomas Harkness has laid aside, for a season, his nonconformity, and absolutely foots it away with old Marion Morrison. Laughter goes round in peals, and punch in pailfuls; and the jolly god shakes his sides as he contemplates his happy worshippers. Never did Mount Nysa resound to more genuine revelment. But whom have we here? A horseman--a dragoon! Let me look through the trees. Oh, my God! we are surrounded by a troop of horse, and all means of resistance of escape is cut off from us! Clavers advances very coolly into the midst of the festive circle; and, making his obeisance in the most polite manner, takes up a full tankard, and drinks to the health of the new-married couple--nay, nothing will serve him but he must dance a reel with the bride, who, though reluctant, is forced to comply. Then, turning round, in the most playful manner, to Mr Robert Ramsay-- "I know," said he, "you are an honest man, and a true, and trouble yourself mighty little with conformity or nonconformity; and, therefore, my business is not with you. As to you, Mr Austin, your day is coming; but the pear is not ripe yet. I have my eyes upon you; and the first conventicle which you hold at the old town of Douglas shall seal your fate. At present, you are free. But with you, Mr Thomas Lockerben, I must hold some private communing; and, with the permission of this jolly company, and with all thanks to our hospitable entertainers, we shall now withdraw. Soldiers, see the prisoner secured, and his hands tied firm behind his back. Bundle him up there behind the sergeant. One file on each side, and one behind! All ready! March!" The next appearance which poor Thomas Harkness made was in the Grassmarket of Edinburgh, where he emitted the testimony to be found in Wodrow--(Burns' edition, vol. iv., p. 68.) XXIII.--THE SHOES REVERSED. The banks of the Liddel are green, peaceful, and productive. The stream itself is all which a pastoral stream ever ought to aspire to: it is neither turbid nor calm; neither precipitous nor sluggish. When chafed, indeed, by the flood, it can assert, and boldly, its independence; and sometimes, just by way of showing its strength and general forbearance, you may see a hay-stack, or a stray sheep, floating on the railway of its current. But, in general, it winds its course along a narrow, indeed, but a sweet pastoral valley, with all becoming moderation, and even modesty--retiring occasionally, like the coquette in Virgil, _ad salices_, and, like her, too, _cupiens ante videri_; now passing from behind a steep, and again trotting it off in graceful and visible windings. Yet, peaceful and beautiful as this Scottish Tempe now is, it was for ages the scene of rapine, blood, and battle--of all those Border feuds which, from age to age, concentrated on this point, till the waters of the Liddel ran red, and its green banks were dyed with the blood of vassal and lord, of Scotchman and Englishman, of Douglas, Hume, Howard, Graham, and Percy. During these bold and stirring times, characters were formed which remained long after reiving had ceased. The Elliot, the Armstrong, the Jardine, and the Johnstone, entailed upon their posterity a spirit of fearless independence and wassail hospitality, which remains, though in a greatly diluted state, to this hour. At the time to which this narrative points, it was still in full vigour; and the incidents of the story are illustrative of such a character. The property of Whithaugh has been in the possession of the ancestors of the venerable and kind-hearted present proprietor for at least four centuries. Its produce has always been sufficient for the necessaries, and even some of the luxuries of life; and, what is somewhat singular, no miser and no spendthrift has ever increased or diminished its extent. What it was in the days of James V. of Scotland, (who once lodged a night in the mansion-house,) it continues to be. The rental may be somewhat about L. 600 per annum; and, with the income free and unincumbered, the present proprietor is just as rich as he wishes to be, and can afford to exercise that immemorial bias towards hospitality for which the Elliots of Whithaugh are, and have always been, quite celebrated. My tale--which is, indeed, too true in all its general outline--I heard, a few years ago, from old Elliot himself, in the presence of the worthy minister of Castleton, my old and good friend, the Rev. Mr Barton, to whom I can safely appeal for the truth of the facts related. Sir James Johnstone of Westerhall was a well-known persecutor during the reign of the detestable Second Charles; and, as his mansion was at no great distance from Liddesdale, he treated himself occasionally to a Border chase, as he termed it--riding with a troop of dragoons up and down the dale, levying heavy fines, and shooting occasionally, a stray son of the Covenant, as he fled to the cave or the morass. In one of these excursions Johnstone encountered the Laird of Whithaugh's poor, fatuous brother, who had, by some means, escaped into the mountains from the hands of a stout man, to whose care and protection the inoffensive, but perfectly fatuous creature was committed. Archy Elliot (known in the neighbourhood by the familiar designation, "_A but_ Archy," from his commencing every sentence with the words "A but") had wandered into a mountain dell; and, at last, unable to extricate himself, he had sat down to rest him upon a rock, which overhung a small stream, over which the branches of the rowan tree, or mountain ash, were spread. Johnstone and his party were in quest, at the time, of poor Gilbert Watson, against whom the curate of the parish of Applegirth had lodged an information, on the score of his having got his child baptized by the lately ousted minister of the parish. Gilbert had been compelled to betake him to the mountain passes on this account, and was supposed to have taken up his abode in what was called "Fox Den," on the water of Tarras. Johnstone immediately dismounted from his horse, (upon seeing the figure of a man by the stream-side,) and, with two dragoons to assist him, proceeded to descend into the hollow where poor Archy Elliot was seated. "Hollo!" vociferated Johnstone, in a loud and harsh tone of voice--"hollo! brother brush-the-heather, what have we here? A Bible, no doubt, and a psalm-tune, and Covenanting dirge, made up of profanity and high treason in equal proportions. Stir your stumps, old Gibby! Ye're wanted, man, by the guidwife. She can get nae rest without you; and the vile, roaring _get_ which ye sae lately made a Christian o', took a taste o' the caller air this morning at the top o' Sergeant Pagan's sword. Look, man! glour, man!--you, Gibby, wi' or without the _girds_--there's the blood o' the yelping brat on the sword yet. Pat Pagan tells me it won't come off; so we'll e'en see if the Tarras water winna wash it oot"--pulling the sword out of the hands of the grim sergeant, and swinging it backwards and forwards in the adjoining pool. In the meantime, Daft Archy had sprung to his feet, and was staring wildly at the company by which he was surrounded. "A but, man--a but, man--I'm Archy, ye ken--Archy Elliot, ye ken--a but, no kill Archy--a but--a but--a but!" &c. "None of your Whiggery slang here, ye manting, shamming fool! D'ye think we dinna see that all this foolery is put on, man? D'ye think we dinna ken Gibby Watson o' the Goosedub? Men, do your duty, and secure the traitor!" Thus saying, the dragoons were proceeding to execute their orders, when one of them interfered, and assured his Honour that he was mistaken in the person--for this was the daft brither o' the Laird o' Whithaugh, "owre by yonder." "Elliot o' Whithaugh!" exclaimed Johnstone, with a demoniacal grin. "Auld, canting, traitor-hiding Elliot! I have a good mind to set his house in a lunt about his lugs, and toss this lump of idiocy into the fire, just to beet the flame. Tie the creature with cords to a tree, and let us proceed to Elliot's of Whithaugh. It is a thousand to one that 'Gibby God-be-thanked' is not snugly lodged in the laird's pantry; or, maybe, luggit into the heart o' a peat-stack." Altogether reckless of the screams and struggles of the poor innocent, away the party scampered, as if on a holiday excursion, towards the old house of Whithaugh. It had rained hard over night, and the Liddel was running dark, smooth, and foam-belled. Instead, however, of going about a mile round by the old stone bridge, the whole party dashed at once fearlessly into the swollen stream, and made furiously forward towards the opposite bank. The bank however was steep; and, as Sergeant Pagan's horse was trying to clear an ascent of some feet, it fairly fell back, with its rider beneath, into the turbid and boiling water. At once rider and man were tumbled over by the flood, and lodged in a deep pool under a steep cliff, some yards lower down. The horse and man, for some time, seemed entangled with each other; but, at last, the horse escaped, and made for the further shore, which was shelvy and hard. The man was never again seen alive. His body was afterwards found some miles lower down. Having ascertained that one of his troop--one of the most tried and trustworthy--in other words, of the most cruel and daring--had paid the forfeit of his own temerity, Johnstone uttered a curse or two in reference to the departed's soul, and swore that he would make old Whithaugh suffer for this. Up, accordingly, the band trotted towards the front door, which faced southward upon a green lawn. But, upon demanding entrance, he was told from a window that none would be permitted. In fact, the party had been seen advancing, and their purpose guessed at; and Whithaugh had resolved, by the assistance of two stout sons, an only daughter of singular beauty, and nearly half-a-dozen ploughmen, to defend Gilbert Watson and his own premises by force. This altered somewhat the aspect of things; and Johnstone, after bestowing his usual allowance of curses upon the old man, the house, and all its inmates, drew from his pocket what he termed a "Lauderdale," or high commission, by which he was entitled to search out, sack, and if necessary, put to the sword all manner of traitors and conventiclers in these parts. Having read as it were the "riot act," he was proceeding to open the front door by force, when poor Archy was heard fast approaching under the conduct of his keeper. "A but, a but," said Archy--"a but--no kill, no kill--ah, but tie--ah, but tie--tree! tree! tree!"--pointing to the trees which surrounded the green. "Give the old cutter a broadside," said Johnstone, retreating from the door to give freedom to the men; and immediately the whole front windows were lying in shining fragments inside and outside of the apartments. Luckily, seeing the preparation that was made, everybody had stood aside from the windows, and no one in the house was injured. His keeper had a strong hold of Archy, and was endeavouring to keep him out of harm's way, by thrusting his back against a tree in the orchard, when, by a sudden effort, he escaped, and, armed with a pitchfork, which he had found in the stack-yard, he rushed instantly upon the assailants, lodging the weapon in the flanks of one of the trooper's horses, ere his rider could turn him round. This so incensed the soldier, that he instantly pulled out his holster pistol, and shot the poor half-witted creature through the head. He fell, repeating his well-known exclamation, "a but," and was dead in an instant. Seeing how matters were going on without, old Whithaugh, who had hitherto acted merely upon the defensive, discharged a fowling-piece, which he had ready loaded, at the captain of the band. The ball grazed his bridle hand, and blood followed the slight injury. This so incensed the leader that he immediately ordered the stack-yard and out-houses to be set fire to, vowing that if the traitor were not given up, he would burn down the Ha' house likewise, and not leave a combustible unconsumed about the steading. Already had the poor cattle begun to roar at the stake, and the hens and turkeys to escape from the flaming stack-yard, when out Whithaugh issued, surrounded by his resolute supporters, armed with grapes, pitchforks, and such other lethal weapons as the place and the occasion admitted of. Seeing matters come to this pass, poor Gilbert, who had actually been built up into a hay-stack, the farther extremity of which was now on fire, immediately sprung forth, and, throwing himself betwixt the combatants, called aloud for an armistice, and at once offered to surrender. Meanwhile, the fair but distracted Helen Elliot rushed likewise betwixt the parties, and prayed, on her knees, that her father's grey hairs might be spared. This somewhat altered the state of matters. The cattle were got extricated from the burning--in some cases the flames were extinguished--and, Johnstone having gained his object, though at the expense of life and much valuable property, gave orders for a retreat. Placing poor Gilbert Watson, upon a dragoon's saddle, in a very inconvenient position, whilst the rider sat comfortably in the saddle behind him, and bestowing some extravagant, but unwelcome praises upon the personal charms of fair Helen--the whole party, with the exception of the wounded horse, which was speared to death, and the man who had lost his life in the water, marched up the dale, being resolved that, now at least, they should not risk their lives in the swollen flood. There stood at this time, and probably there stands still, a little public-house at the bridge, and about half a mile from the manse of Castleton. Into this public-house the party betook themselves to refresh, whilst the curate of Castleton was sent for, to have an interview with Johnstone, to whom he was intimately known, and to whom he had often given private information respecting the poor HIDING people, who fled to the mountain and glen, and the moss and the cave, for life and for conscience-sake. This curate of Castleton was a somewhat singular personage in appearance. He gave one a pretty correct idea of Æsop. He was a little bandy-legged body, with a large aquiline nose, a hunched back, and a most sinister squint. His church, indeed, was deserted, unless by the family in the small change-house, and one or two farmers, who, for fear of suspicion and consequent spoliation, were in the habit of occasionally attending. He, like his neighbours of the curacy, had been imported, _ready made_, from Aberdeen, with all its strange dialect, and all its stranger leanings to oppression and Episcopacy. Just at the moment when Johnstone's messenger arrived at the manse, then situated high up the hill, upon the brink of a precipice, the curate was in private converse with a person who was giving him the important information, that a conventicle was this very evening to be held at the Dead-Water--a large mountain-moss, situated on the Borders, and giving rise to the river Tyne on the one side, and the Liddel on the other. This information having been obtained, the curate, commonly designated Clatterwallet, hastened away, in company with Johnstone's messenger, for the Brig change-house. An interview with Johnstone was immediately obtained; and, in a few minutes, orders were given to his men to hold themselves in readiness to march. Meanwhile, the prisoner, Watson, was put under the guardianship of a dragoon, and lodged in a small byre attached to the gavel of the dwelling-house. Several attempts were made by _seeming_ travellers, to get the soldier withdrawn from his station, but they proved ineffectual. Meantime, the night began to darken in, with a soft-falling snow shower, which rendered the ground all white around. Poor Gilbert Watson had said his prayers, sung the 121st Psalm, and was preparing to rest himself, with a cow and her calf for his companions, when he thought he heard a voice whispering to him from the roof of the thatched byre. It was indeed a voice, and a friendly one; for it said, "_Here! Here!_" A staff was thrust through a small aperture in the thatch. Gilbert moved towards the place, and heard, in whispers exceedingly low, that an opening in the roof was about to be made for his escape. Meanwhile, Gilbert kept constantly moving about, so that the watch at the door might be assured that he was still in his keeping. All at once, when a hole large enough had been made, Gilbert was pulled up by the arms and shoulders, and carried on the back of a strong man, with amazing velocity down the glen. The soldier had heard the noise which this occasioned, and immediately hailed his prisoner. No answer being returned, he entered, and discovered at once the trick which had been played upon him. He immediately _rounded_ the byre; but, in doing so, felt his feet entangled in a strong rope, which, when he had put down his hands to disentangle, he was caught by the waist in a strong fox-trap. This made him roar aloud for help; but ere the innkeeper could give him the desired assistance, the prisoner had considerable time to escape. In fact, in noiseless speed, the strong man had borne Gilbert to a considerable distance, and then setting him down, he _untied his shoes, and putting the heels foremost, fastened them, thus reversed, by strings to his feet_. "Now," said the voice, in parting--"now for Castle-Hermitage and its dungeon! till to-morrow morning, when assistance will be rendered." And, saying thus, the strong man took his immediate departure, and disappeared amongst the woods. Poor Gilbert did as he was instructed, and, in about an hour, reached the dismal solitude of Castle-Hermitage. There, on some straw which still remained from the time when poor Sir Alexander Ramsay of Dalhousie had been starved to death by Sir William Douglas, did this poor persecuted man remain till the following morning. In the meantime, Johnstone having discovered that he had been sent on a fool's errand, and that no such meeting was about to take place, as the curate had been advertised of, at the Dead-Water-Moss, returned in no very good humour--first, to the manse of Castleton, from which he proposed ejecting the curate over the precipice, which lay underneath his window, and then, about midnight, to the inn at the Brig-end of Liddel Water. Here his rage was converted into fury at the trick which had now manifestly been played upon him; and he stamped, and swore, and blasphemed during the remainder of the night; drinking, however, and eating mutton ham, by turns, and warning his man that, so soon as day broke, they should give chase to the old fox. Day broke, and chase was given. Some were dismissed in one direction, and some in another; and, as the snow had been undisturbed from the time of the escape till morning, it was naturally guessed that the footsteps of the pursued might still be traced. Accordingly, Johnstone, with three of his men, set out in the track from the back of the byre, and made sure work of it till they came to the bottom of the glen--their footsteps were confused, and the party seemed to have made off towards Whithaugh. Having, however, despatched a strong body to trace those footsteps, Johnstone and his men rode immediately over the rising ground, and came down at once on the old towers of Castle-Hermitage. Here the truth appeared to be manifest. There were double footsteps--those of one approaching and one departing--and the inference was immediately drawn, that the pursued had betaken himself to the castle keep, but had again effected his escape. In fact, the strong man of last evening had advanced, towards morning, with provisions and refreshment to the dungeon; and his shoes being nailed and formed very much like those of Gilbert, they very naturally took the two foot-prints, the one advancing and the other retreating, for one--and off they set at full gallop--whilst Gilbert and one of Whithaugh's ploughmen made the best of their way in the opposite direction, and ultimately separated within sight of Hawick--the honest ploughman returning, not a little satisfied with his dexterity to the broad and fertile acres of Whithaugh; whilst Gilbert Watson ultimately reached some friends who lived in the Cowgate of Edinburgh--by which means he escaped. The shoes which contributed so greatly to the escape of Gilbert Watson, were presented as a memorial to the family of Elliot, and are still shown to the curious in such matters, by the present hospitable and worthy proprietor of Whithaugh. It was remarked, that, after this unfortunate _raid_, Johnstone became morose and peevish, beyond his usual; seemed to suffer great mental agony; and was one morning found dead in his bed. Helen Elliot, the fair maid of Whithaugh, was wooed and won by a Charteris of Empsfield; and from her are the present honourable family of that title descended. So ends my Hysteron Proteron or, "the Shoes Reversed." THE LOST HEIR OF THE HOUSE OF ELPHINSTONE.[2] [Footnote 2: This tale is the production of the Rev. George Thomson, "the happy Dominie Thomson of the happy days of Abbotsford," as Lockhart designates him in the last volume of his "Life of Scott," when alluding to the sad inroads of death into the family circle where Thomson had been Tutor for many years. He was a son of the late minister of Melrose, and much respected for his sterling worth, amiability, and sound learning--particularly noted, also, for the eccentricity of his wit, and the humour of his sayings and doings. The above, and another tale, are, so far as I can learn, the only contributions to literature by the amanuensis of Scott.--ED.] "There are few men," says a peculiar moralist, "however much they may have been loved and esteemed in their day, whose return to life, after any considerable interval, would not be regarded with feelings of regret." In this observation there is some truth. The places once occupied by the departed have been supplied by others; their return to life would be regretted by those whom they would "push from their stools;" and it may be very well believed that, if the rightful heir of a great estate were to make his appearance in life, after having been long lost and regarded as dead, the feelings of the person whom he would supplant, whose possessions, prerogatives, and ostensibility, he would take away, would not be particularly pleasant. But, when no personal interests are at stake, and no feelings of malign selfishness are awakened, there are few things from which a person well constituted in heart and mind, will derive a more vivid delight, or a more exquisite excitement, than the return, and an unexpected meeting with, a long lost and long absent friend. Mark, in proof, the stare of astonishment, the eyes eagerly looking into each other, while the mind gradually opens into recognition, and such exclamations as, "Guide me! it's no possible! can this be really you?--eh, it's lang since I hae seen ye!--hoo hae ye been a' this time?" In no place are such feelings more vivid, or such exclamations more rife, than on the Scottish Borders, whose good-humoured natives have always been distinguished for enterprising energy, as well as warmth of heart, producing a disposition both to rove and to return. On the east coast--somewhere between Berwick and St Abb's Head--a village is situated at the mouth of a small stream, which gives it an immediate access to, and egress from the open sea. Its harbour does not admit vessels of any considerable burthen; but there is good anchorage ground in the offing, and its situation being favourable for the irregular discharge of a cargo, it is said to have been, in former times, notorious for the contraband trade. It continued to enjoy an honourable prosperity, however, after this infamous and most pernicious traffic had been put down by the vigilance of government, owing to its permanent local advantages. The chief employment of its inhabitants is fishing; and its coasting trade is considerable, affording to the tenantry of the adjoining country a ready market for farm produce of all kinds--grazing, pastoral, and agricultural. In this village, long before the formation of those regularly constituted clubs which now exist in every considerable market town, a number of persons, whom business had brought together, used to hold regular meetings in the evening of the market day. These meetings, of which, when a young man, I was a constant attender, were generally composed of nearly the same persons, who, by tacit agreement, used to assemble at the same time and in the same place; one particular apartment of the principal inn being always reserved for their use. On these occasions, there was much innocent enjoyment and little variety. In allusion to the chief avocations of the persons present, and the commodities which formed the staple of the market, it was customary to give, as the toast of the evening-- "The life of man, the death of fish, The boat, the crook, the plough; Horn, corn, lint, and yarn, Flax, and tarry woo." The chief transactions of the day having been talked over, and the party having gradually diminished as the evening advanced, to a few intimates who dwelt in the immediate neighbourhood, many a tale, anecdote, and legend used to be told, while the glass circled round. The appetite for legendary lore, orally delivered, had not begun to abate in the days of my youth. I remember well a particular evening in which many stories were told, of "hair-breadth 'scapes," strange coincidences, and remarkable incidents of various kinds; but gene rally connected with the departure and return of Scottish adventurers. Mr Plainworth, and the patient butt of his playful humour, Mr Wonderlove, two respectable Septuagenarians, and the venerable fathers of the club, occupied, as usual, the two arm chairs which stood one on each side of the fire. At length, after having been long a silent listener, Mr Plainworth stated that an incident as remarkable as any that had yet been told, had occurred in the very apartment in which we were sitting, and when he himself was present. "Did any of you," said he, "know the late William Elphinstone, Esq.?" "I for one knew him well, for a most excellent and worthy man," said Wonderlove; "and his family is said to be the first of their line that ever did well. I have heard of a dule (doom) which was formerly laid upon that house, by a mother cursing, in the anguish of her heart, and on her bare knees, the bearing of which was, that the sword would never be off the race, till their pride had been humbled--till their head had wedded a maiden of low degree." "That," said Plainworth, "I regarded as a mere folly of the olden time. Some aggravated case of seduction, in which family pride was exhibited, and innocence ruined and forsaken, had suggested the idea of a suitable doom, which was supposed to hang over the house; or a curse may have been pronounced under such awful circumstances; and as there would be no black and white upon the matter, its import and bearing might easily be made to correspond with subsequent events. An obliquity of disposition--a transmitted depravity of character--will sometimes be hereditary for two or three generations in a particular race; on the removal of which, the evils to which, by natural consequence, it had led, and which might seem to flow from a hereditary fatality or doom, will also pass away. The fortunes of the house of Elphinstone seem to have improved with the improved character of the race." "You are a deep thinker, Mr Plainworth," said the other; "but it is well-known that, for a long period of time, the sword never was off that house. Deeply involved in the troubles that preceded and followed the civil wars, they always came off with the worst. Some fell in battle; some bled on the scaffold; and when others ceased to kill them, they began to put an end to themselves." "You allude," said Plainworth, "to the death of Edward Elphinstone, the brother of the laird. Poor unhappy young man! I knew him well." "Sir," said Wonderlove, "I could tell you of a strange thing, which I cannot help thinking is somehow connected with his death. I was acquainted with the son of the parish minister. He and his father had occasion to go down to the churchyard, on account of something which had gone wrong with the cattle. A loud scream was heard at the west-end of the church, in a little while followed by another. The son, who hurried forward to see what was the matter, beheld a light streaming from the window of the Elphinstone aisle; and, on looking in, he could perceive a human figure, lying on the central grave-stone, under a white sheet. He stood and gazed till, from below the white sheet, another scream came pealing exactly like the two he had heard before; and then he ran back in terror to his father, and both made the best of their way home. Next morning, Edward Elphinstone was found dead in the neighbouring woods. He had fired his own gun through his head, by means of a string attached to the trigger, and passed round the butt end. Now, sir, what is your opinion as to that?" "I would say," replied Plainworth, "that it must have been the poor youth stretching himself in life, in the place where he was shortly to lie dead--put down, alas! by his own hand--one of the strange fancies of a mind meditating suicide, and therefore labouring under a degree of frenzied excitement. Had he been conveyed home, the catastrophe might have been prevented." "An admirable explanation," said the other, "and a true." "What!" cried Plainworth, "and is Wonderlove so ready to give up such a likely and well-authenticated tale of diablerie? Well, in return for your candour, I assure you that William Elphinstone, the first of the line who seems to have been freed from the dread hereditary doom, really did marry 'a maiden of low degree.' I was his friend, and the confidant of his innocent and honourable love." "And the thing you mean to tell us of--does it concern him?" asked Wonderlove. "It does, as you shall hear," replied Plainworth. "After the death of Edward, the second son," continued Plainworth, "there remained of the family of Elphinstone, only the Laird, and William, the youngest son, my particular friend. The health of the laird had been irreparably injured, both by early excesses, and by a fall which he got from his horse while hunting. After this accident, his life was despaired of; and, although he partially recovered, his constitution, owing to an injury in the head, was ruined for ever. A cousin, who would have succeeded to the estates, failing him and his brother, made various abortive attempts to sow dissension between them; which, being ascribed to their true motive, caused the laird to hate him most cordially. To defeat the crooked policy of this bad man, he was anxious to keep William at home; and he endeavoured to effect a marriage between him and an heiress of good family, great fortune, and greater expectations. The lady was favourable--her friends not less so. But William had placed his affections in a lower sphere. He had long loved the only daughter of a Mr Constant, the humble proprietor of about fifty acres of poor land, called Sanditofts. Mary Constant was a young woman who had everything to recommend her, except fortune. William had succeeded in gaining her heart; but, with a noble disinterestedness, she persisted in discouraging his addresses to herself, and did her utmost to prevail on him to gratify his elder brother, by preferring the more advantageous match. "Of this ground of difference, the first which had existed between the brothers, the wicked cousin endeavoured to make the most. He contrived to have unworthy suspicions of the innocent object of William's love, insinuated into the mind of the laird; and that there might be some foundation for these suspicions, the fiend had insidiously pointed her out to the notice of a Sir Charles Ranger--a man of fashion and profligate manners, who happened at the time to be resident in this part of the country. Observing something peculiar in William's manner one day, I wrung from him the secret cause, which was, that he had been given to understand that Mary was in the habit of receiving, and with encouragement, the attentions of Sir Charles. 'If that should be true,' said he, with a sigh, 'how inconsistent in a creature who, in mind as well as in person, seems to be all perfection!' On my demanding his authority, he stated that his brother had been his first informer, who had got his information from one lady, who had got it from another, and so on; but that he thought he had been able, very nearly, to run up the slander to his cousin, with whom it must have originated." "'What can be the villain's motive?' cried I, indignantly. "'Evidently,' said he, 'to give my brother an unfavourable opinion of Mary, that he may be induced to set his face, like flint, against my being united to her in marriage; in which case he may anticipate that such a quarrel might arise between him and me as would admit of no reconciliation; and that, as I might then have to lead the precarious unsettled life of an adventurer, the extinction of the elder branch of the family would become more likely. That may be his policy, for, in my brother's infirm state, I am certainly the chief obstruction to his hope of eventually succeeding to the family inheritance; but why speculate about the motives of such a man? I beat him soundly on the occasion you know of, when he attempted to do me ill offices with my brother.' "'Beat him, did you?' cried I. "'That I did,' said he, 'and with right good will. I began with mild expostulation, which was all I intended at first; but his shameless attempts at justification, and at maintaining the character of a mutual friend, made him appear so vile in my eyes, that I threw him on the ground, told him that I would make an impression on his body, if not on his mind, and beat him with a sapling, till I had tired my arm, rather than exhausted my wrath." "'He well deserved all he got,' said I; 'but a mind like his will never forgive a blow--far less a long succession of blows, most energetically laid on--although he may not have the spirit to show his resentment openly.' "'He hates me from his soul,' said he, 'while he fawns upon me; and he well knows that to let fly an envenomed shaft at poor Mary, is the likeliest way to give me a deadly wound.' "'You have acted most rashly towards him,' said I; 'for he is a dark, deep, dangerous man; the deadly enmity of such as he ought never to be unnecessarily provoked; under the sting of a reptile will a lion die.' "'He is indeed a reptile,' replied he, 'whom I pity and despise, and whom you will have some difficulty in persuading me to fear. I am not free,' he added with perceptible agitation, 'I am not free from the hereditary imperfection of our ill-fated race; but I endeavour to restrain my mind by those means by which the mind can best be restrained. As for the inheritance of our house, which seems to excite my wretched cousin's cupidity, I could almost wish he had it, with the hereditary curse along with it; so that I had only a moderate competence, with God's blessing, a peaceful mind, and Mary's love.' "A few days after the above conversation took place, as William Elphinstone and I were sauntering about, without any particular object, who should we see coming over the hill but Mary herself, along with Sir Charles Ranger? 'Now, Elphinstone,' said I, on observing them, 'keep your temper, and don't allow yourself to be flung off your guard--that is indeed Sir Charles; but the meeting has been unintentional on Mary's part. The poor girl could not drive such an intruder away, as easily as the wind would a piece of thistle-down.' "'They are walking wide apart, on opposite sides of the road,' said he, with considerable emotion. "As we moved towards them, keeping on the inside of a hedge, which afforded us concealment, we lost sight of them for a little while; but, on turning a corner, they again came in view. She was evidently walking too fast for her gallant attendant; and William seemed to be amused with his efforts to maintain his fashionable swagger at the unusual pace. As we continued to follow them unobserved, we could see him in several instances come over to her side of the road; but she always crossed to the other, and quickened her pace. At length having come to a turn of the road, where Sir Charles perhaps thought that he behoved either to desist, or to make a bold effort, he sprung forward, and placed himself before her, so as to obstruct her passage, and began to pour forth all manner of professions, protestations, and unmeaning extravagances. Mary, with indignation and disdain in her every look, peremptorily demanded to be permitted to pass on unmolested. At length he went so far as to catch her in his arms, earnestly imploring that she would give him for one moment a hearing. Upon which she screamed in terror; and young Elphinstone springing over the hedge, seized the unprincipled libertine by the collar, and dashed him to the ground. On my coming forward, he delivered the trembling girl into my care; and then turning to Sir Charles, as he was attempting to rise, he quietly begged to know who it was that had pointed out that young woman to him, as a fit person for such as he to accost.' "'Well thought of, Elphinstone,' cried I; 'wring an answer to that question out of him, one way or other.' "Mary did her utmost to put a stop to further violence, but I prevented her from interfering, and encouraged William to proceed. Upon which, fixing on his prostrate foe, a look, in which was expressed all the fire of his race, he repeated his question. Sir Charles refused to answer--William threatened! the one hesitated--the other kept holding him down. At length, finding himself compelled to speak, Sir Charles pronounced the name of William Elphinstone's cousin. "'All's well,' cried the latter, assisting him to rise. 'You may now go away, sir; and if you should think that the punishment inflicted has been in this case greater than the evil you have been able to do, you will perhaps remember passages in your life, in which the balance was the other way.' "As the baffled profligate withdrew, he tried to put on a menacing look, and hinted that, as Elphinstone's conduct was dissonant to the usages of society, he was determined to demand the satisfaction of a gentleman, and that he should hear from him shortly. This threat, however, was never put into effect; for, although bold enough toward an unprotected female, he was not over-fond of confronting an antagonist such as Elphinstone. "In excuse for our having continued violent measures ill-suited to her presence, after protection had been afforded, I shewed to Mary, as we were escorting her home, the importance of the disclosure which had been wrung from Sir Charles, which would enable us to ascribe not merely the insults to which she had been exposed, but also the slanders by which her good name had been secretly assailed, to the malice of William's cousin, whose name Sir Charles had been compelled to give up. I spoke, also, of the distress which we had both had on her account for some time past. Whenever she became aware of the painful fact, that she had been an object of suspicion, she stopped, her features became agitated, and she burst into tears. Nothing that we could say would pacify her--stung to the heart with the anguish of offended female pride. When she had somewhat recovered from this agitation, young Elphinstone began to press his suit with impassioned earnestness; while Mary, on her part, persisted in giving him no encouragement, but pointed out the great advantages of the other match intended for him by his brother; and extolled the lady as being far superior to herself in every respect. She spoke firmly, but yet with the air of one who is rather acting on high principle than from inclination. William had evidently a powerful advocate in her heart. Long did she hesitate, nevertheless; and much did she say about the impropriety of her allowing him to sacrifice to his passion for her, the favour of his elder brother, and such great expectations. But at last the lover's importunities were successful. Mary--her countenance becoming pale and then crimson--faintly, yet distinctly pronounced the words--'Speak to my father.' "Soon after this, we heard the sound of a horseman, who was coming up behind us at a rapid trot. This was none other than Mr Elphinstone, the brother of William, who began with accusing him of having acted in a most ruffian-like manner toward Sir Charles Ranger, whom he had met, and by whose representations a most unfavourable impression had been made upon his mind. William attempted to explain; the former, however, would not hear; but harshly added, with a look of cruel meaning, directed to the most interesting person present--'I find you, sir, in most improper society.' "William, forgetting himself for an instant, made a grasp at his brother's rein, and also at his collar, saying--'Not one disrespectful word, sir, of that young woman; a more innocent and a nobler the world does not hold.' "'Unloose your hand from my rein and collar,' vociferated the elder Elphinstone, fiercely; 'after this insolence, we can never meet more.' With that he immediately rode off. "'The laird will soon be informed of the true state of matters,' said I, soothingly; 'and he is not a man to retain his anger long.' "'This is the first time,' replied William, 'that a harsh word ever passed between my brother and me; and I can only regret that our feud should have originated in such a cause.' "The humble habitation of Mary now came in sight--a low cottage-looking building, with agricultural appurtenances behind it--neat and comfortable, though plain in its appearance, and betokening the residence of a person in easy circumstances, who was not disposed to live above his sphere. On our approaching the house, Mary's father came out to welcome us; and, perceiving, from our appearance, that something more than ordinary had happened, he looked inquiringly. Mary and her lover entered the house, each, with a look, devolving the task of explanation upon me; and, between Mr Constant and myself, a long conversation followed, in which everything was told. Entering then the house where he was anxiously waited for, he bent over the chair which William Elphinstone occupied, and exclaimed--'My dear young man, accept a father's thanks for the protection which ye have this day afforded to his only child. As for what ye further intend, there are difficulties, but none shall arise from me. Had ye been of our own sphere of life, there is none in the country on whom I would have been more willing to have bestowed my daughter.' "We spent the evening there; and I never saw William appear to such advantage. If he could not raise his wife to the sphere in which he had been bred and born, he was to go down contentedly into hers; to constitute her happiness was to be the delight of his life. Mr Constant--who had long esteemed him highly, but had never before seen him open, throwing forth in rich profusion, the treasures of his noble heart and vigorous understanding--was in amazement. As for Mary, her heart seemed to be overflowing with happiness, while she contemplated, with a woman's pride, the high qualities of the man who had chosen her for his own. Every doubt as to the propriety of the momentous step which she had taken, having been removed by her father's knowledge, concurrence, and approbation-- "'----she, pleased, resigned To tender feelings all her lovely mind.' "Next day, William sent to his brother a plain unvarnished statement of all that had happened, expressed in a fair manly style--asking for nothing, apologizing for nothing, and conceding nothing; and, after having discharged this act of fraternal duty, he came and met me early in the afternoon in the town here, for the purpose of bringing me back with him to Sanditofts. It was the market day, and, wherever he went, his old friends gathered in congratulating groups around him; for he was a universal favourite. On our proposing to leave them, they absolutely laid violent hands on us; and so having sent off a card to apologize, and bring Mr Constant to meet us, we sat down along with them to their usual dinner in this same room. I could easily see that poor William would rather have been at Sanditofts, where his heart was; but, making a virtue of necessity, he exerted himself to please, and was successful. His affair with Sir Charles was brought on, or rather it insensibly stole upon the carpet. One person accidentally made a very distant allusion to it; a second reproved him for so doing; a third, a fourth, a fifth made observations, pointing, though from afar, to what had happened. Pleased and amused at the delicacy which was so visibly restraining the general feeling, William threw open the subject at once, by giving a modest statement of the whole affair. He added--'I would have done as much for any other young woman under the like circumstances; and what could I have done less for her who has been for long the object of my fondest love--a love now sanctioned by her father!' "The importance of this disclosure, and the deep pathos of his voice, produced an instant silence, which was first broken by Mr Macquil, the lawyer, who gave his opinion as to the legal bearings of the case. He assured us that Sir Charles had no ground for an action whatsoever, having been guilty of accosting rudely, and with evil intent, a lone woman--the most sacred of all objects in the eye of the law. "'I remember a case,' said he, 'in which a rude person having merely used, in female society, some expressions not suitable for a female ear, a young officer of the army present, seized upon and twisted his nose. Upon which an action was raised against the officer; and, the case having come before the fifteen, sixpence of damages only was awarded, with no expenses at all.' "Thus did the evening pass on, none of us apprehending that it was to have such a woful termination. As the party separated, each, as he retired, came and grasped William by the hand, testifying the highest approbation of the part which he had acted, in simple warm-hearted language. In these feelings, all the great proprietors around participated. They are strictly moral, the _real_ gentry, and they have noble hearts. They detested Sir Charles for his dissolute life; and they suspected him of being, what he afterwards really proved to be, a ruined profligate, flying from English creditors to this side of the Border. "All those members of the company whose homes were at any distance had now retired; and the party had become such a one as we have at present. The fine spirits which William had maintained throughout the evening, had vanished; his attitude, and the expression of his countenance, had become thoughtful and strangely sad; and I thought he looked fearfully like his brother Edward. At length he started up from his reverie; and I, approaching him, looked anxiously into his countenance, and asked him how he did. He assured me that he had never been better in his life--that he had never enjoyed so much of the best happiness which can irradiate the heart. 'But,' said he, 'my quarrel with my brother hurts me. I never loved him so much in my life as when that spark of his old fire, which my rude grasp struck out of him, made him look so like what he was in other days. And, Mary--to think of her having at length given up her opposition to my wishes, in such a manner! Altogether, it is too much for me; and I have been silly enough to allow shadowy imaginations of evils, which may affect my relations with her and my poor brother, and mar the happiness of us all, to disturb my ruminations. That is the fact; and I apprehend that you, regarding my foolish features with friendly anxiety, have been speculating thereon.' "This explanation, which agreed well with what I knew of the character of his mind, in which there was not a little of an undue ascendency of the imagination, seemed to me quite satisfactory; and I said to him--'Everything is to go right; you and your brother will soon be reconciled.' "'I am not entirely dependent on my brother,' said he; 'as I shall show you all to-night, when we talk seriously over certain arrangements.' "'Where are you going just now?' said I to him, as he was moving toward the door. "'Merely to have a look at the evening,' said he--'I will be back to you in five seconds.' "Thus did he retire; and I, relieved from apprehensions which, in the issue, seemed to be very like 'coming events casting their shadows before,' fell fast asleep on resuming my chair. Meanwhile, Mr. Constant came in and awoke me, to inquire after William. He told me that he had received his card, but had been prevented from being with us earlier, by a visit which he had received from Mr Elphinstone, the laird, who had spent the day with them, and was with them still; and he gave me the gratifying information that the letter which William had that day sent to his brother had removed every bad impression from his mind, that, instead of opposing his inclinations, he was anxious that his marriage with Mary might take place as soon as possible; and that he was impatient to see himself personally, that everything might be satisfactorily arranged for it, and that they might be reconciled after the unpleasant affair of yesterday, which, he said, was the only serious difference they had ever had. "'I have just come down,' continued he, 'to bring you both to Sanditofts, for that purpose.' "'In that case,' said I, 'every obstacle to my friend's happiness is completely removed;' and I assured him that William had just gone out, but that he would return immediately. He did not return, however, although, as one of the company observed, he must have intended to do so, his hat having been left behind him. After waiting for some minutes longer, I became very uneasy; a feeling of apprehension began to steal over my mind, and I hurried out to make inquiries, followed by Mr Constant. On reaching the foot of the stairs, we were informed that William had gone out by a back passage which led down to the sea-beach, and we turned our steps thither. "The evening was pleasant. A gentle breeze was blowing off the land, and a yellow radiance faintly tinging the east, and sharply cutting far the black water in the offing, showed that the darkness was on the point of being lightened by the rising of an unclouded moon. We proceeded onward, my anxious friend and I, for a great way along the rocky margin of the sea, until we gained a commanding station, and the moon more than half-risen threw a clearer light upon our view. But no traces did we discover of the object of our search. As a last resource, raising our voices together, we shouted aloud the name of William. As we stood long and anxiously listening, we became aware of a sound which came booming over the water, and which after having been once heard, we could again distinguish as it ever and anon recurred, at irregular intervals. While looking toward the point from which these sounds seemed to come, we beheld for an instant the upper spars of a two-masted lugger distinctly pourtrayed on the face of the moon. She was so diminished by distance, as not to do more than fill the moon's disk, and she seemed to be crowding all sail. Shortly after the single mast of a fore-and-aft rigged vessel, also under a press of canvass, was beheld in the same way; and the smoke, curling in wreaths among her rigging, seemed to indicate that it was from the latter vessel that the sounds which we heard proceeded. "'I wonder,' said my companion, 'if that can have any connection with the disappearance of Mr. William.' "'It's merely a revenue cutter,' replied I, 'in chase of some smuggling vessel.' "Having returned to the apartment in the inn, we found the company still assembled, and reported to them our want of success, my poor friend casting a long and wistful look at the hat of William, which was hanging, and which long continued to hang, on that very pin. On its being suggested that there was a chance that he might be found in some house in the town, all with one accord separated to make inquiries. The whole place was soon in commotion, and so was the whole country side. Every place in which it was possible for William to be, dead or alive, was searched in vain. "'They sought him that night, and they sought him next day, Oh! vainly they sought him, till a week past away:-- And years flew by, and their sorrow at last, Was told as a mournful tale that is past.' "If among the friends of him who had so strangely disappeared, his intended bride felt the most acutely, it was on his brother that the blow fell most heavily. Mary long refused to be comforted; and was only sustained by young health, and by hopes which we all laboured to infuse into her dejected heart; but the sickly frame of William's brother never recovered from the shook it received. He always reflected on himself for having parted from his brother in anger; the fate of Edward, which was ever before his eyes, seemed to afford too natural an explanation of the mystery of William's disappearance; and his exhausted frame yielded at last to death, after an interval of about three years, during which his chief solace was the society and the kind attentions of the amiable family of Sanditofts. His last words were-- "'Whither is he gone?--what accident Hath rapt him from us?' "The title of his wicked cousin was contested by another claimant, which kept matters in abeyance, else he never could have been prevented by us, the executors, from entering into possession. At last, after a long litigation, the case went in his favour, of which I was first informed while engaged in the market here; and, although I had long anticipated such a result, the impression which the intelligence made upon my mind was most painful. At the weekly dinner, whither I repaired as usual, from long habitude rather than inclination, I felt feverish and uncomfortable; an insatiable thirst made me drink rather more than my wont, and in the course of the evening I sank into a heavy bilious slumber. How long I remained in that state I know not. But I remember well, that, feeling a hand laid on my arm, which kept tightening its grasp till it awoke me, I turned to my next neighbour, who was staring as if at some object of terror; and that, following his affrighted look, I beheld William sitting before me, with features wasted, care-worn, and wofully sad, and in the well-remembered attitude in which I had seen him, a little before his strange disappearance. Confounded, incapable of speech and action, did I remain for some time. At length, having caught his eye, we both started up together. "'William,' cried I, 'can this be really you?--O man! where hae ye been a' this time?' "'Mary! Mary!' cried he; 'tell me about her!' "I told him that she was alive and well. "'But, but!' said he. "'She is still unmarried,' said I, 'and as devoted to you as ever, which is more than you were entitled to expect, after having left her in the manner you did.' "'I have been a prisoner,' said he, in a mournful tone, 'in a land of which till lately I knew not the name, and I was carried away by force.' "Amid exclamations of wrath, which came from all parts of the room, and the tumultuous flocking of his old friends around him, his voice was again heard. "'And my brother?' said he; 'tell me also about him.' "'He has been dead,' said I, 'for about two years. In the arms of your beloved did he breathe his last sigh.' "Upon this his tears began to flow; but he checked them immediately, adding--'Enough for the present. In a little while, my kind friends, I will tell you all. But my heart is now heavy, and the crisis is urgent. Will you, for old friendship's sake, have the goodness either to go or to send down the coast, a little to the northward of this. A party of poor fellows will be found in the same plight as I am. Bring them all hither, and provide for them, in my name, dry clothing, a good supper, plenty of drink, and comfortable bedding.' All with one accord readily undertook the charge. 'And now, then,' said he, 'this old hat shall be again fitted to my head; for the billows are sporting with the one I lately wore.' Perceiving his clothes to be wet, we adverted to the circumstance. 'Pooh,' said he, 'I have just been shipwrecked, that's all.' With that he hurried me out of this house, and entering that of a mutual friend, where comfortable dry clothing was provided for him, and a chaise having been procured, we flung ourselves into it, and drove off to Sanditofts. "As we drew near the house, painful feelings began to arise in his mind, as to the reception he would meet with, and the construction which might have been put upon his involuntary absence. Dismissing the carriage, therefore, I hurried on before him, at his earnest request, and finding, on entering the house, the father and daughter by themselves, my first words were--'William has been a prisoner in a strange land--he was carried away by force, poor fellow. Amazement, mingled with many other feelings, was visibly depicted in each countenance. Poor Mary began to weep profusely. Diffidently, and with her eyes earnestly fixed on mine, she was just inquiring when they might expect to see him or to hear from him, when her ear was caught by the sound of an approaching foot; and, immediately, the door opening, William stood before her. With a cry of joy, she and her father flew to welcome him. For long did she remain clasped in his arms; and what a scene was exhibited in the outpourings of their innocent and faithful love--a love which had withstood the most perilous of all trials--a long separation, which had been connected with so many doubts and anxious fears, and over which so thick a veil of mystery had hung! The father and I stood silently regarding them, as they wept in sadness and were rapturously joyful by turns. "'Weel,' said the father, rubbing his hands together, with a look of inexpressible satisfaction, 'that's really a sight guid for sair een. Poor things!--lang hae they loved each other, and sair has their love been tried.' "When our excited feelings had a little subsided, curiosity became the prevailing sentiment. Mr. Constant and I began by detailing the particulars of our ineffectual search along the coast. William, on his part, declared that, when he left me on going out, it really was his intention to have come back immediately, and to have returned to Sanditofts, where he had been invited and had promised to pass the night; but he stated that, having felt somewhat oppressed by the heat of the crowded apartment, he had been unhappily induced, by the refreshing coolness of the evening, to walk a little way by the sea-side, where he had apprehended no evil. * * * * * "To all appearance," said he, "there was nothing but solitude around me; only, I heard carts at a distance which seemed to be driven inland; and my curiosity was excited by a low rumbling sound which came from the other side of a small projecting promontory. I ran hastily in the direction of the latter sound. After having proceeded a little way, I heard footsteps coming up behind me; but I continued to move on, without slackening my pace, until there came a shrill whistle, followed by the sound as of a number of men rushing towards me. I then attempted to fly, but was prevented by two stout fellows, who placed themselves right in my way, and a numerous party of men quickly surrounded me, one of whom, eyeing me attentively, exclaimed--'The very man we want. We shall be able to do our friend's work with very little trouble.' On my attempting to expostulate and resist, I was overpowered and forced into a boat. The boat rowed off to a smuggling vessel which was lying to in the offing; and which, soon after I was put on board, stood out to sea under a press of canvass--chased, as it soon appeared, by a revenue cutter, which continued for long to fire at her." Here he was interrupted by our mentioning the two vessels which we had seen passing over the moon. "I was in the first of these vessels," said he; "the two-masted lugger, which, unfortunately, was able to escape, by superior sailing, from the second vessel (a revenue cutter, fore-and-aft rigged, with one mast) by which she was pursued. "My captors continued, for two or three weeks, to land goods on different parts of the eastern coasts, sustaining so many losses that I could not help saying that, if their trade was a paying one, the goods which they could afford to lose in such quantities could not be honestly come by--an observation at which great offence was taken. After having parted with her original cargo, and shipped another, which was chiefly composed of provisions of all sorts, the vessel left the German Ocean, going north about; and she then pursued a south-westerly course across the Atlantic for many weeks, until she was accosted by a notorious pirate, Gonsalvo by name, the terror of the West Indian seas; for whom, as I could observe, a careful look-out had long been kept. This ferocious ruffian, having come on board our vessel, had a long interview with our captain--the two worthies being, to all appearance, on terms of most courteous and familiar intimacy--and our cargo of provisions was put on board the pirate's vessel; while hogsheads of sugar, puncheons of rum, and other articles of West Indian produce, were received in exchange. This transaction clearly explained the mystery of the contraband trade. The smugglers of the present day are connected with the Buccaneers, who, not daring to bring their ill-gotten goods to a regular market, willingly barter the bulky part of them on any terms, for the necessaries of life. These goods having been taken originally for nothing, and subsequently sold for little or nothing, if one cargo out of three escapes seizure, the concern will pay. Hence it is, that the contraband trade is maintained in spite of every effort to put it down. "After another long interview which our captain had with this Gonsalvo, some of my shipmates came to me with joyful countenances, looking like men from whose minds some heavy burden had just been removed; and they told me, that 'my life was to be safe; only,' said they, 'take care of your tongue.' "'My life!' cried I, in astonishment. Hitherto I had been under no apprehensions about my life; although I had discovered, in course of conversation with the men, that my villanous cousin, to whose secret stores the carts I had heard were no doubt proceeding, had been long and deeply engaged with the smugglers--that he had been of immense service to them--and that it was to gratify him, and, at his request, that I had been carried away." Gently checking, with his upraised hand, the exclamations which this disclosure drew from his hearers, he thus proceeded:--"You may guess what my feelings were, when I was put on board the vessel of the odious Gonsalvo. All my former shipmates regarded me with compassion; and a poor fellow, from this part of the country, called James Stray, who, in an evil hour, had been tempted to engage in the illegal traffic, told me at parting, with tears in his eyes, that he would regret what had happened to the last day of his life; for that I was 'the best o' the twa.' "After cruising about for some time, Gonsalvo made for a numerous group of small rocky islands, which were scattered over a great extent of sea; and, entering them by a labyrinth of intricate passages, he moored hard by one larger than the rest, and pleasantly wooded, which had a good roadstead, where the hulks of several captured vessels were observable, seemingly in the act of being broken up for firewood. Here I was put ashore. Before leaving the pirate vessel, I made bold to enter--and it was for the first time--the principal cabin, where I collected a number of books in the Spanish language; loaded with which, and moved by restrained indignation to do something ludicrous, I presented myself before Gonsalvo on the quarter-deck, with the easy confident air of a gentleman gifted with considerable assurance, who has been presuming somewhat too far upon the good nature of another. Never shall I forget the look of cold, cruel, malign contemptuousness, with which the ruffian regarded me. That look said, as plainly as any look could do--'Wretched creature, I see you have been making very free with my property; but it matters not.' "In this unknown spot, and within the power of this ruffian, did I remain for about four years, more or less. My chief employment was fishing. I became an expert boat-man--I made occasional visits to another piratical station to the south of us; thus did I endeavour to pass my lonely hours. I sometimes found a kind of pleasure in exploring the intricate navigation of the islands; and, in time, became acquainted with many a place where a boat could pass in certain states of the tide, through rocks which had the appearance of being continuous. The sheet of water at the back of our island, was bounded, on the north-west, by a long and seemingly unbroken chain of high precipitous rocks, through a cleft in which I discovered a winding passage of this nature, leading to a small secluded island, not distinguishable from numberless others which lay scattered, like black sea fowl, over the surface of the water. With all my thoughts bent on escape, I endeavoured to attach to me a lad of sixteen, residing on the island, along with his widowed mother; having, with the aid of Gonsalvo's books, mastered the Spanish language. He was a stupid cub; manageable when we went out together a-fishing; but without any character of his own. I therefore trusted him in nothing. I once carried him far west into the open sea beyond the islands; but, when we found the formidable high-heaving swell below our frail bark, he began to cry; and, my own nerves being somewhat shaken, I returned with a heavy heart, while on the point of attempting something great--of running off with the boat and boy altogether. "This incident made me anxious to have a vessel of larger dimensions; and a barge of peculiar construction, high raised, and with a deck at bow and stern, occurred to me, which I had seen at the other station. Proceeding thither by myself, and saying that we had need of such a thing, I offered to purchase it with part of a sum of gold, which I had on me when carried away, and had carefully preserved. The men regarded me with a stare, but seemed quite willing to sell a thing which was not their own, and for which they had no use. The bargain being struck, they assisted me in navigating it, by a long circuitous course of many weeks, by which I brought them to the small secluded island, which was my favourite place of refuge. While carrying them back in my boat by the same road, we became very friendly; and, at their suggestion, I purchased, with the rest of my gold, a large cargo of such things as were of use for repairing the barge, and perfecting her equipment. On returning to Gonsalvo's station after this perilous transaction, I found the mother of the boy on whom I had formed designs, in tears. He had been taken on board Gonsalvo's ship, who had effected a return and a departure in my absence. During the period of my stay, the pirate had kept ever and anon returning at irregular intervals; but his arrival was the signal for my flight; and, that flight might at all times be in my power, for the boat which I had been allowed to appropriate on account of my fishing services, always lay at the back of the island, over against the secret opening through the north-western line of rocks. Gonsalvo, on his part, never, so far as I could learn, inquired after me; and, as years had slipped away, during which I had never seen him, nor he me, I had insensibly become less cautious, concluding that he had forgotten me altogether. Narrow was the escape which I in consequence made. "Motives of humanity had led me to pay some attention to the widowed mother, after the loss of her son, for which she seemed to be very grateful. On one occasion, when I had secured my boat in its usual place at the back of the island, I was not deterred by the sight of the pirate's pendant glancing above the trees, which showed that his ship was in the roadstead, from paying her visit, and making inquiries after her son. There was much embarrassment in her manner when she saw me; she seemed to be agitated by conflicting feelings; and, at length, she hesitatingly stated that Gonsalvo had been inquiring after me, and, as she believed, for no good. 'Your son,' said I, 'would he befriend me?' "'He is now become as bad as the rest of them,' said she; 'much I said to him on your account; and oh, what usage he gave his mother!' "The information of the poor woman made me anticipate the worst. Leaving her some fish, I hastily ran to the highest point of the island, and threw myself on the ground under cover of the hill, where I had immediate access to my boat, and could observe every movement of the enemy. I was in a state of desperation; gall and wormwood were in my heart. Had I then stood by Gonsalvo's magazine, with a lighted match in my hand, I would have blown them all up, that they might have perished along with me. While in this state of feeling, the thought flashed like lightning upon my mind, that I might go to the other station; that I might join the other piratical crew, to whose leader I was unknown; that, having gained their confidence, I might betray and hang them all, and return home. The new idea giving a new excitement to hope, I was presently meditating upon the result, rather than upon the means; and, in a little while, sinking into slumber, I was dreaming of my distant home and betrothed love. Meanwhile, the sound of British voices had so softly entered my dreaming ear, that it was some time before the reality awoke me. Awaking at last, I was startled to find myself surrounded by a number of the pirate's men, when I gave myself up for lost. But there was a compassion in their looks, and tears in their eyes. 'My good friends,' said I, in confusion. "'O sir,' said they, 'you have small reasons to call friends, the persons by whom you were so villanously carried away. We thought we knew you as you lay asleep; now that you have spoken, we are certain.' "'My dear fellows,' said I, recognising them for part of the crew of the smuggling vessel. I only remember now your former kindness, and your anxiety that my life should be safe.' "'God bless you!' said one of them, by name Jack Fid, 'could you bring your noble heart to taste with us?' "Willing to gratify him, I received his offered flask, and drank from it a mouthful of rum. "In the course of the long conversation which followed this act of courtesy, I learned that the captain of the smuggling vessel in which I had been carried away, had fallen in an affray with the revenue officers; that his crew, having been so ill advised as to aid the illegal traffic by firearms, and thus to become guilty of a capital crime, had been induced to betake themselves in their perplexity, to Gonsalvo; and that he, making very light of what had happened, had received part of them on board his own vessel, and put the rest of them on board another smaller armed vessel, which he had fitted out. "'Poor James Stray,' said I, 'what has become of him?' "'Hanged, sir, at New York. The other small vessel in which he sailed was taken, and he suffered along with all the rest.' "They stated farther, that their late captain, a little before his death, had got a letter from my cousin to Gonsalvo, which they had been careful to deliver, supposing that it might respect my return. Having explained the motives by which my cousin had been actuated in having me carried away, and mentioned the ominous words of the poor widow, from which it appeared that Gonsalvo was seeking my life, I made them sensible that my cousin's letter must have had a very different object in view from what they had supposed; and then they growled deep execrations against my unnatural kinsman. I soon found that they had not yet received on board a sufficiency of depravity for the kind of service in which they were engaged; that they were all most anxious to return to an honest course of life; and that they could not bear to live with the abominable wretches among whom they were. With unfeigned horror, they spoke of the miserable end of a poor young woman, who had lately fallen into the hands of the monsters, and whose body--after she had died under their outrages--they had carelessly flung into the sea, like a soiled garment. They gave a most woful account, also, of two captives of superior rank, whom the pirates at that moment had in their power--a father and his daughter; and they said that the daughter, if not speedily rescued, would meet the same fate as the other woman; for that Gonsalvo restrained neither himself nor his crew. One of them, whose name was Tom Clewgarnet, and who had a singularly soft expression in the rough outlines of his weather-beaten features, declared that he would willingly peril his life at any time, to deliver the innocent young creature out of their hands. Regarding the poor fellows, first with compassion, then with love, and then with confidence, I told them of all my plans for escaping; of my boat; of the secret passage through the rocks to the secluded island; and of the bark which I had there. 'Like the Yorkshireman,' said I, 'who is in possession of saddle, bridle, whip, and spurs, and wants nought but a horse, I have long had a vessel, and everything necessary for her equipment. It remains with you to determine whether I am still in want of a gallant crew.' Upon this they joyfully declared, one and all, that they would faithfully follow me to the death; and immediate flight was resolved on. "'If we could but carry that poor young woman along with us,' said Tom Clewgarnet, 'what a blessed deed it would be!' "He spoke with great earnestness of manner; and my observation was, 'Could we not try?' "While commenting upon the fearful danger and the utter madness of such an undertaking, we observed a boat leaving the pirate vessel, and moving toward the shore. A pocket telescope having been directed to it, we discovered Gonsalvo and the identical girl who had excited our commiseration, seated in the stern. 'My life on't,' cried I, 'she will be removed to some secluded spot in these woods below.' And I was right. We saw Gonsalvo land with a small party, and move inland from the shore. Marking well the road he took, we then ranged ourselves in a long line across the woods, so as to communicate with each other; and, having received intelligence which enabled me, well acquainted as I was with the locality, to guess at the exact spot where Gonsalvo and his party would halt, I stationed myself near by, along with Tom Clewgarnet, so as to see without being seen. Onward, in a little while, came the darkly-scowling villain with the poor trembling girl dragged along by two armed attendants. My heart burned within me. The attendants were dismissed; she remained struggling in his arms; and then, laying my hand on Tom's cutlass, giving him at the same time a sidelong look, I softly drew out the weapon, and, bounding forward toward Gonsalvo, I plunged it into his side. He uttered a stifled groan, which brought back his two attendants; when Tom, having taken up the sword of the fallen miscreant, he and I furiously set upon them, and in a moment they also lay dead at our feet. Turning now compassionately to the girl, while our weapons were red and reeking with blood, I addressed her in French, which she seemed to understand, assuring her that she was now in honest hands, where she would find honourable protection. Our companions having rejoined us, with the gratifying intelligence that our fell deed had escaped observation, we were on the point of proceeding toward my boat, which was lying ready to receive us, when a most vexatious difficulty occurred. Nothing that we could say would persuade the girl to move without her father, whom she long and earnestly implored us to save. I mentioned to her the horrid end of the other poor woman, and somewhat angrily showed to her how ungenerous it was to urge her deliverers on to certain death, in vainly attempting to deal with more than two hundred armed ruffians; upon which she sunk to the ground sobbing piteously. She was an uncommonly interesting-looking creature, delicately formed, wofully wasted with suffering, and very young. My heart was melted. A scheme occurred to me by which it was at least possible that her father might be saved; and, having spoken soothingly to the girl, and applauded the heroism of her devoted filial love, I declared that we really would make the fearful attempt to which she urged us, if, in return, she would promise to follow and be obedient to Tom, in whose care I meant to leave her for a time. Having obtained from her assurances to that effect, I unfolded my plan, first to her in French, and then to the men in English;--which was, that, having rowed off to the pirate vessel in the very boat from which Gonsalvo had just landed, and which then lay awaiting his return, I would endeavour to pass myself off for a French officer, belonging to the pirate ship known to be at the other station, who, being on a visit to Gonsalvo, had been deputed by him to bring the father of the girl ashore, for the purpose of extorting an exorbitant ransom; and, that on our return, we would double the south-eastern point of the island, where there was an intricate passage well known to me, through which we could find our way into the sheet of water on the north-west side of it, where Tom and the girl might wait for us in my boat. "To this perilous scheme the men agreed, although with visible reluctance; and it was immediately put in execution. The body of Gonsalvo was stript of its gay vestments, which I shudderingly drew on, while wet and warm with his blood; and from which every distinctive ornament was carefully removed. It was a fearful venture; but the squalid rags which I previously wore, would have worse accorded with the character I had to sustain. Tom was then sent off, along with the girl, toward my boat, while I and the rest of the men ran down to the opposite shore, sprang into the boat of Gonsalvo, rudely tumbled out three men who had been left in charge of her, and rowed off to the pirate vessel, leaving the men standing on the beach and looking after us in stupid amazement. While on our way, we were deeply meditating upon, and carefully arranging all that was to be said and done, feeling how perilous it would be in a matter which required such extreme delicacy, to be compelled '_capere consilium ex improviso_.' A boat cloak, thrown negligently around me, aided in concealing my borrowed and bloody garments; several of the men who seemed to have the firmest nerves were instructed to go on board and remain carelessly sauntering about; while one of them brought off the father of the girl, and I endeavoured to keep the chief officer in play. On approaching, I gallantly hailed; begged to see the chief officer; gave up my assumed name; spoke of my pretended visit to, and of the pretended errand on which I had been sent by Gonsalvo; and mightily wondered how he, Gonsalvo, should have thought such a poor squalling wretch of a creature good for anything, but to extort an exorbitant ransom from her father, whom for that purpose I was forthwith to bring ashore. I began with speaking in French, in which the foreign accent would be less perceptible to a Spaniard, and then in such imperfect Spanish as a French officer might be expected to use. My masquerade escaped detection, and the bait took. The father of the girl, with his wobegone, yet noble-looking features, was received into the boat; all my companions leisurely followed one after another and resumed their oars. Jack Fid came last of all, carrying in his hand a huge greybeard of liquor, and having in his features a peculiar twist, which seemed to say--'How we are doing the scoundrels!' and at which we afterwards laughed very heartily. It was no time for laughter then. "'I see a boat putting off yonder,' cried the chief officer, applying a telescope to his eye, 'with a dead body lying in her stern.' "A deadly terror struck through my heart; but, with assumed indifference, I replied--'Ay, Gonsalvo has got that fellow at last;' making it seem that the dead body seen from afar was my own. "'It is fortunate that he has been caught,' said the other, laying down his telescope; 'Gonsalvo has made the widow and her son answerable for him with their lives.' "The last words were scarcely audible, by reason of the distance which we interposed between us and the vessel. With the strokes of our oars gradually increased both in frequency and in length, we flew rapidly through the water. As we receded from, the other boat with Gonsalvo's blood-boltered carcase, which the chief officer had seen from afar, drew near the vessel. When far beyond the reach of small arms and of grape, although still within the longest range of the cannon, we could see her come alongside of the vessel; and then multitudes of faces were stretched over, or thrust out of bulwark and port-hole; a great commotion was observable on board; the vessel, making a yaw round, turned her broadside towards us; twelve columns of smoke darted from her side, and as many thunders opened their voices, while through the air a shower of iron came hurling towards us. Every bullet fell beyond, or short, or wide of us; and in a little while the projecting south-eastern point of the island screened us from the fire and from the view of the enemy. "After having doubled this point, two passages opened before us--one wide and inviting, which led eastward into the Atlantic--the other narrow, and not distinguishable from numberless other similar openings in the rocks, which led to nothing. Into the former, we threw our hats, that our pursuers might be led to suppose that our boat, injured by a random shot had foundered; through the intricacies of the latter, to me well known, we wound our way north-westward, until we had gained the sheet of water on the other side of the island, where we found Tom and the girl in my boat awaiting our approach in the deepest anxiety, their ears having been startled by the thunder of the broadside, while they knew not the result. At the sight of the lonely, desolate girl, sitting in terror, by the side of her rough-looking, but kind-hearted conductor, my heart was thrilled with compassion; and, when we drew near, I pointed, delightedly, to her father, on whom she continued to fix an eager, wistful look, until Tom, lightly lifting her up, and leaping on board of us, as we brushed by, had placed her in his arms. Tom, at my instance, came and seated himself by me in the stern, where he kept gazing for some time at the outporings of the purest of all affections--filial and parental love; and then turning to me, and speaking with deep emotion, he told me that it was by him that James Stray had been first led away; that, since his miserable end he had made frequent attempts at prayer, but that then an awful pang had always shot through his head and heart. 'If,' continued he, 'we shall be able to save that father and daughter, will that pass away?' Anxious to give the poor fellow useful and innocent advice, I told him that what he spoke of arose from conscience, which, slumbering at other times, always awoke during prayer; and there was nothing pacified the conscience like a good deed, humbly offered to God in the Redeemer's name; that, after having returned to an honest course of life, he would obtain what good people called peace of conscience; and that then his devotions would be as soft and sweet as they had ever been when a child at his mother's knee. He seemed very grateful for these words of instruction, declaring that he was ready to shed for me the last drop of his blood. Bending forward now toward the father, and addressing him for the first time, I assured him that his daughter had been restored to him unsullied, that we were ourselves in the act of escaping from the pirates, and that we would either save him or perish along with him. "A little before sunset we came under the north-western line of rocks, whose long shadows concealed us from distant observation; and, entering the passage through them, which I had so often traversed, we soon arrived at the place where my bark was lying snug in the secluded island. At the sight of her, the seamen were delighted. They all leaped on board simultaneously, and began tumultuously to examine her in every part. 'To work, lads,' cried I, 'that she may be made ready for sea as soon as possible.' To work accordingly we fell. Fires were kindled, pitch melted, oakum, and all things necessary, were found in my stores. The work was continued during the night--when the ebbing tide left her high and dry--by the light of torches of pinewood, smeared with tar, which were stuck around, or borne in the hands of the father and daughter; and, after seven or eight hours of unremitted labour, the outer planking of the vessel was carefully cauked, and her hull, thoroughly repaired in every part. Leaving the carpenter and two other hands to keep watch and repair the water casks, the rest of us turned in to enjoy a few hours of sleep. The light of day beheld us again at work; and several hours behoved still to elapse before the masts could be hoisted, the sails bent, and the running rigging rove. Meanwhile, an anchor was carried out to sea, and the cable laid over the windlass; my long hoarded stores of biscuit, junk, and dried fish, were put on board, with a few culinary utensils, a sufficiency of loose timber for fuel, and of ballast for trimming the vessel; and the water casks, filled at a neighbouring fountain by the father and daughter, were rolled down to the beach, one by one. The work being nearly over in every department, we continued, some on board, and some on shore, patiently to await the rising of the tide, now nearly at the full; and the father had very judiciously thought of climbing a neighbouring height to reconnoitre. On gaining the summit, he was observed to return in all haste, and seemingly in great terror. The daughter was running off to meet him, but arrested by me, she was given in charge to her old protector; while I cried out--'To the water casks, one and all.' So, while they were in the act of being swung on board, she continued to struggle and to scream in Tom's arms. The poor girl's agitation proceeded from an interesting cause; but it was very provoking to be unnecessarily deprived, at such a time, of a valuable hand. However, the last water cask was safely stowed, when the father arrived with the alarming intelligence, that a number of boats, full of men, were on the east coast of the island; and that a party, landed from one of them, were in the act of ascending the opposite acclivity. The daughter was on the point of springing into his arms; but I had her very unceremoniously swung on board, calling her an unmanageable vixen. The father, and all the rest of us immediately followed; and then, having thrust our handspikes into the windlass--just as the party of which we had received information were seen on the top of the neighbouring height--we made, with our united strength, one desperate heave. A grinding sound, heard at the bottom of the vessel, shewed she had been dislodged; but the cable had snapped, and I threw myself down in despair, giving up all for lost. The dexterity of the seamen saved us. The cable, while on the point of escaping, was caught, jammed, and held fast, until it was spliced in such a manner as to be capable of enduring as great a strain as ever. Laying our strength on more cautiously, the grinding sound was again heard, and we affected a quarter turn of the windlass. Coil after coil of the cable now passed over the revolving beam, without farther incident; and at length the vessel, floating smoothly in deep water, was hauled out to the offing, just as a hundred armed ruffians, having surmounted the neighbouring heights, were rushing down, with infuriated yells, towards us. The ample folds of our pointed lateen sails were then spread to the winds; and we joyfully proceeded on our way, while the baffled scoundrels stood looking at us from afar; and we sat in safety looking at them, with the prey that we had rescued out of their merciless hands. "When our feelings had a little subsided after this excitement, and while the most skilful seamen were superintending the adjustment of the ballast, and studying the properties of the vessel, I went and sat down by the father and daughter. I begged of the daughter that she would excuse the hasty words which I had been led to use, in my anxiety to leave such a dangerous shore. Her father assured me that he could easily see the kindness of my heart amid the prompt decided manner which the hour of danger required; and I assured him that there was not a man on board who did not regard the saving of him and of his daughter as the best part of the enterprise. He began to pour forth the warmest expressions of gratitude, when my attention was called to the pilotage of the vessel, and nothing more passed between us at that time. To conduct the vessel through such intricate and precarious passages, required the utmost care and unremitted attention; but at length, just as the sun was gilding the watery waste with its setting radiance, we reached the open sea, at the very place where I had been some years before with the Spanish boy. I now asked the father where he would wish to be carried. "'To Havannah,' said he, with tears gushing down his cheeks. "Upon this we directed our course, at a venture, a good way southward from the point at which the sun was setting; and, as we had no compass, we resolved to steer by the wind which was blowing steadily from one point. We then made all snug for the night, keeping as much sail up as the little vessel could safely carry; and, a proper watch having been set, the remainder of the weary crew were sent to rest. "The father and daughter were led by me into a small cabin under the stern deck; and they, aware of the scantiness of our accommodation, insisted that I should stay with them, when I was on the point of withdrawing that they might be left by themselves. The father was placed in the middle, the daughter on one side of him, and I stretched my weary limbs on the other. I remained for long supine, motionless, and unable to sleep; and thus I came to overhear the following dialogue, which was carried on in the purest Spanish, between the father and his daughter:-- "'Papa,' said she, 'are the French all so much better than the Spanish?' "'My dear Carolina, why that question?' "'He spoke to me first in French.' "'He speaks French well, but with a strong English accent. His companions are all British sailors; certainly the most extraordinary people in the world. A party of these men, lately landing in a drunken frolic, took one of the strongest fortresses in Spain, which the Spanish King would give half the wealth of his dominions to recover.' "She then gave him a detailed account of all that had befallen her--greatly exaggerating my prowess and that of Tom--and dwelling much on our kindness, in having, at her instance, made such a perilous attempt to save him. "'Well,' said he, 'the British are truly a noble people; I feel easy now that I am in their hands, although there is a mystery in our deliverance, and in that extraordinary young man to whom his companions seem so devoted, which I cannot fathom.' Having joined in their discourse with an apology, I fully explained the mystery he spoke of, telling him who I was, and under what unhappy circumstances I had been carried away from my native land, while on the very eve of marriage. I told him also of his daughter's devoted filial love; how she had refused to escape, unless he could be saved along with her; and how she had absolutely forced us on to do what we did, when we were all shrinking from the risk, and unwilling to incur further danger. While straining to his heart his dutiful child, he made me acquainted with his own history. It appeared that he, Don Pedro by name, was a Spanish gentleman well known in Havannah, who, notwithstanding the war between our countries, could easily procure for me a speedy return home; that an attachment having arisen between his daughter Carolina, and Alonzo, the eldest son of a noble family, at whose haughty bearing he had taken offence, he had sent her away to a sister of his, resident in one of the Windward Islands; that Alonzo's father and he, having afterwards come to a better understanding, he had gone, in person, to bring back his daughter, with a view to her immediate marriage, and that, while on their way home, they had the misfortune to be taken by the pirates. 'What became of the vessel in which we sailed,' added he, 'and her crew, I know not; but I apprehend the worst.' "After this exchange of confidence, gratitude on their parts, and the inexpressible satisfaction of having achieved such a deliverance on mine, united our hearts together; and in the society of the noble Spaniard and his amiable daughter, I, after my long years of lonely wretchedness, felt for a time the hours pass rapidly away. There was I know not what of romantic interest in our peculiar situation. A hurricane would soon have drowned us all; but the wind blew fair and steady. The prospect around us was unvarying, but one of which the eye could not soon grow weary. At noon, when the sun, vertical in that latitude, poured down his irradiation from the zenith, he appeared like a glorious ornament in the centre of the canopy of the heavens, from which they descended in a uniform arch of unclouded blue until they rested on the farthest edge of the waste of water, over whose billows our little bark was gallantly bounding, and which, wherever the eye was turned, seemed to stretch 'Far into silent regions, blue and pale.' One cloud there was which rested on my mind. All seemed to regard me with confidence--to look on me for direction; but I had no confidence in myself. Unaided by compass or nautical science, we were steering almost at random, vaguely guessing at a south-westerly course, from the position of the rising and setting sun. "In this manner, week after week passed away, until one morning, when I was awakened by the hand of Don Pedro laid on my shoulder. He seemed to be in great agitation; and I hastily arose and followed him forward. When we reached the open part of the vessel, he raised his arm and pointed to where, over a little aft the weather-bow, we could observe, hung high in air, the inverted images of a number of ships, with a large vessel in the centre, and a line of coast stretching hard by. "'Sir,' said he, 'I know that to be the coast and shipping of Havannah.' "'All's well,' cried I; 'who is at the helm?' "'Bill Bowline, your honour.' "'Bill, lay your bows right upon the main-mast of that large vessel which you see looming in the distance.' 'Ay, ay, sir.' 'Steer directly towards her, and try to keep your course exactly, guided, as usual, by the position of your sails, relatively to the wind.' 'Ay, ay, sir.' Turning now to Don Pedro, I said--'Admirably has he done his work; he seems a perfect sailing made easy, or every mariner his own compass.' Without noticing my pleasantry, my poor friend said, with a very serious look--'You see the care with which the mother of God watches over the children of the true church.' Carolina having asked me the day before, what I would do to my wicked cousin; and I having said that I would merely give him a long forgiving look, she farther asked if I belonged to the _true church_; and on my saying that I belonged to a very humble church, which, however, was faithful in teaching all her children to look up to God, in the Redeemer's name, with the desire of being good, that they might obtain good, Don Pedro seemed to wish that such a delicate subject should be dropped. Now, however, he conceived himself to stand on high vantage ground, and appealed to the aerial reflection as a splendid miracle wrought for his behoof. I told him that what he saw was a common natural phenomenon, with which our able seamen were all quite familiar; but he shook his head, doubting or disbelieving. 'Noble sir,' said I, 'you understand English, listen;--Bill Bowline, at what distance may these ships be, on which you are now steering?' "'Sure to raise them, sir, in the course of the day.' "'Mark that,' said I, assuring Don Pedro that in all likelihood he would be at home and in the bosom of his family before night. If the blush of shame which the children of the true church are wont to exhibit when their supposed or pretended miracles are most satisfactorily accounted for on natural principles, did for a moment pass over the features of Don Pedro, it was soon chased away by excessive joy. During the day, he suffered much from impatience; hope and fear had by turns the possession of his mind. But, at length, after many a long tedious hour of watching, he beheld a line of blue land rising above the edge of the horizon, which gradually unfolded itself into the town, coast, and shipping of Havannah. "At the request of her father, no information as to what we had seen and were led to expect was given to Carolina. He was afraid that our hopes might not be realized, and that she might have to endure the pangs of disappointment. Accordingly, she was in the very act of speaking of her home, of her family, and of her lover, as dear objects that she might never again see, when her father entered the cabin in an ecstasy of joy, crying--'Here they are all now, just as we saw them in the morning; only, their masts point upward, and not down. Not a moment longer,' cried he, 'shall my dear daughter be kept in ignorance.' So catching her in his arms, he led her forward to the bows, and pointed out to her the distinct outlines of her native shore. She silently gazed on it for an instant; then tears of joy flowed down her cheek. To me, to Tom, to all our companions, severally, she testified her gratitude in broken accents, calling us her dear deliverers, and invoking the blessings of Heaven upon our heads. The men were in raptures with her; and, wishing to improve the opportunity afforded for drawing vividly forth their best affections, I said to them--'Only to think, now, that there should be hearts, either in earth or hell, capable of misusing a fine creature like that!' A low murmuring sound, as if of profound deliberation, followed these words; after which Bill Bowline arose as the orator of the party, and, having given his trousers a hitch, he said that it was the contraband trade that had thrown them among such abominable wretches as the Buccaneers; and that they were resolved never to break the laws of Old England any more, for that they now saw, that when once people began to do evil, there was no saying where they might end; which resolution gave to Don Pedro great satisfaction. The greybeard of Jack Fid was now handed round as long as it contained a drop of liquor; after which it was broken, its fragments, along with a variety of other moveables, were thrown into the sea, and three hearty cheers were given. "In a little while, the bark lay alongside of the quay of Havannah. Don Pedro and his daughter, having been safely handed out, sunk down on their knees, and the men went and sat down at a little distance, as if anxious to avoid the appearance of wishing to intrude. Feeling sympathy for the brave fellows, and admiring their motives, I went and seated myself in the midst of them, saying--'From me, at least, you shall not be parted;' while an unpleasant suspicion arose in my mind, lest we should, after all, be left in a land of strangers, lonely and unowned. In this I did our kind friends wrong. Having devoutly rendered their thanks to Heaven, they came and begged us to follow them. By way of giving effect to the feelings of my companions, I said that we would be sorry to distress their hospitality; upon which Carolina looked first amazed, then angry, and then burst into tears--'This from you!' said she--'from my preserver--from my second father!' Forthwith she and her natural father drove us all before them, like a flock of reluctant geese, to their residence--a splendid one it was, in which we met as warm a reception as grateful hearts could give, or the unfriended desire. "Next day several high officers of the Spanish army and navy waited upon me, and made particular inquiries respecting the pirate islands, with whose locality my long residence had made me well acquainted. Our nations were at war, but my heart took fire at the idea of terminating my exile by a noble stroke--by contributing to the fall of the Buccaneer, the common enemy of the civilized world. I, therefore, offered my own services, and those of my companions, on the express condition that, having left our large armed vessels so soon as we had arrived off the islands, we should venture among their intricacies in boats, with a sufficient force, and endeavour to take the enemy by surprise, and to carry him by boarding. This plan having, after some hesitation, been agreed to, off we set immediately; and, in three weeks, we returned in triumph, having captured both the pirate vessels, which were found lying, in supposed security, at their two stations, and completely destroyed that nest of odious ruffians, to the great joy of all the West Indian islands. My companions fought like lions; two of them fell, and several were wounded. On our return, we were loaded with honours; a great sum of money was given to me, for the purpose, as was said, of buying a sword; handsome sums were also given to each of my companions, which they put into my hands, and which, with what I shall add to them out of mine, will enable me to settle them all comfortably in life. During our absence, Don Pedro and his daughter had suffered much from anxiety on our account; they received us with the liveliest joy on our return--they mourned for the slain--they nursed the wounded with the tenderest care, and their house became, for a time, our home. Their kindness led us to prolong our stay far beyond the time necessary for the recovery of the wounded; and I had the satisfaction of assisting at the marriage and of being assured of the happiness of Alonzo and Carolina. At length, we parted from our grateful and warm-hearted friends; and a government packet conveyed us all safely across the Atlantic to Cadiz. "At Cadiz, I found that the letters which Don Pedro had given to me, and procured for me, would enable us all, notwithstanding the war with France and Spain, to pass unmolested through both countries; and so, having converted our wealth into bills, payable in Antwerp, I travelled over land to this neutral port, along with my companions, as the readiest way to obtain a safe and a speedy passage to Britain. At Antwerp, I again converted my foreign bills into others which were payable in England; while my companions went down to the quay at my request, to look out for an immediate passage thither. On finding that no immediate passage could be procured, I purchased, at their suggestion, a small sloop, which was lying in one of the docks for sale; on board of which, confident in my lately acquired nautical science, and in the long-tried seamanship of my companions, I proceeded straight across the German Ocean; steering direct, not for the latitude of any of England's great seaports, but for that of the home of my fathers, and the mouth of my native river. Having a good wind, we drove our little vessel, at a gallant rate, through the water. Our hearts being gay, our spirits high, and our stores supplied with abundance of everything, our voyage became one continued scene of fun, festivity, and folly, in which I largely participated, until an event occurred which brought us to our senses. On the sixth morning of our passage, it was found that the vessel had sprung a leak--that there were four feet of water in the hold. The pumps enabled us to sink it a little; but it afterwards gained upon us to such an alarming degree that the carpenter was in doubt whether the vessel could be kept afloat for twenty-four hours longer. The wind also began to die away, and so thick a fog settled around us that we could see nothing but our foundering vessel, and the water into which she was ready to sink, looking black and dismal below. While matters were in this state, a thickening of the darkness came to be observable right a-head at the lower part of the fog; which, while every eye was fixed upon it, rose higher, and showed an irregular outline. It was declared to be land; and we were not long kept in suspense. In a little while, a grinding sound was heard at the bottom of the vessel, followed by a slight concussion; and, in about fifteen minutes, during which the vessel, stripped of every inch of canvass, continued to grind and to strike, she settled down and remained fast. I immediately secured my valuable papers on my person, and the men set about making preparations for leaving the vessel. We had neglected to provide ourselves with a boat; but two or three of the men swam to the shore, which proved to be at no great distance, carrying the end of a rope along with them; by the aid of which all the rest of us were enabled to reach the land in safety. "Thus did my seven companions and I terminate our adventures. Once in safety, I began to laugh heartily at our mishap. '_O passi graviora mecum_,' cried I, gaily, as they seemed to stand down-hearted in their dripping garments; 'it is on no desolate or inhospitable shore that we are now cast. Stay there for a little, till I see where we are, and look out for shelter.' With that I went a little way inland, until, having observed the appearance of distant lights on my left, I ran in all haste in that direction, scarcely feeling the ground under my feet. In about half an hour, I came to a number of buildings which I seemed to know; I found a narrow lane, at the end of it a door, and within the door a stair, which I seemed to know. My heart began to beat violently. Having mounted the stair, and gone along a dark passage at the head of it, I came to a door, on opening which, the forms of the very friends, after leaving whom I was carried away, seemed to appear before me, as at their usual meeting. All gazed on me; but none of them spoke except old Adam Muzzy, who was in his usual state of inebriety, which so strangely brightens one part of his faculties, and darkens another. Recognising me, and having some very indistinct perception of circumstances, he exclaimed, in the usual style of his address to a retired and returned bottle-companion--'Guide me! ye hae been lang away; but we hae thocht that ye would be back, for ye left yer hat ahint ye. Sit doon, man, and tak aff yer glass.' "The sight of my hat hanging where I left it, and the daized dreamy look of the creature, with his half-shut eye, so affected me, that I sunk unconsciously down into the chair to which he had pointed, painfully impressed with the idea that I had only been dreaming of home, as I had often done, in the lonely isles of the West Indian seas. It was my name loudly pronounced by the friendly voice of Plainworth which first awoke me from my stupor. "'My dear Mary,' said he, as he concluded, 'he will tell you what were the first questions which I asked.' "'Indeed,' said I, addressing her, 'his two first questions were both about you; and the second of them was, whether you were still unmarried?'" * * * * * "Amid the deep silence which followed this narrative; the effect of which was heightened by the near interest which each had in the principal actor, a soft diffident tap was heard at the outer door; which, having been opened, the whole party of old friends, whom William had so startled by his unlooked-for appearance among them that evening, came pouring in tumultuously, with the trampling of many feet, and the sound of many voices mingled together. We could have seen them far enough off, being in that quiet kind of heart-absorbing felicity, to which boisterous intrusion is most irksome. But it presently appeared, that, in their coming, there was no want of consideration. Besides attending to the wants of the shipwrecked mariners, as they had undertaken, they had employed a number of the resident fishermen, with their boats, to look after the wreck now lying dry upon a ledge of rocks, with her bottom staved in, by whom every article of value on board had been saved. They described William's companions as the strangest set of fellows whom they had ever met with. 'They were close enough at first,' said they. 'Many significant looks having been exchanged between them when the glass began to circle round; but when they did open, what strange stories they told of the scenes which they had passed through! And, oh, how they spoke of you, Mr. William! They said that you were the best and bravest of landsmen--one whom no dangers could daunt, whom no difficulties could subdue, and who had so kind a heart withal, that you were always more attentive to their wants than your own. One of them, whom they called Tom Clewgarnet, declared it to be his firm belief that you were just a kind of an angel, who had been sent down to save them all from the pit.' It appeared, in short, that our kind friends had been most attentive to the poor fellows; and that, with the powerful aid of the fishermen whom they had employed, and who had joined them after having finished their work, they had succeeded in sending them all to bed in a very comfortable state of inebriety; they themselves, also, as their appearance strongly testified, having suffered somewhat in the cause. "After this gratifying intelligence had been given, which was received with the warmest acknowledgments, the whole party earnestly entreated William to consent to act his part in a notable ploy of Mr Macquils; which was, that, as his cousin was taking steps for entering into possession, and was to visit Elphinstone House the next day, he should make his first public appearance in the very heart of his proceedings. "'The people of the house where you threw off your wet garments,' said they, 'enter heartily into the plan; and, as we have been careful in keeping the secret, there is no person, either in town or country, who has any knowledge of your return.' "William gratified them by a ready acquiescence; indeed, the proposal coincided exactly with his own previous intentions; the mortification which his cousin would receive being all the punishment which he intended for him. The necessary arrangements having been agreed on, and committed to Mr Macquil, the first projector of the plan, the whole party were permitted to withdraw, on condition that they would favour us with their company to dinner next day, when William promised to make a full disclosure of all that had befallen him. When we were again by ourselves, William said to me, in a whisper--'You must aid me, my friend, in making immediate arrangements for facilitating the escape of my cousin. The testimony of those people whom I have with me, would be sure to convict him; and, as they hate him most cordially on my account, that testimony, though it would implicate themselves, would be given with great good-will. Heaven knows, that I have no wish that, on the scaffold, kindred blood should flow!' "Mary expressed an extreme desire to see the men who had passed through such strange scenes; and she begged of William, that he would take her with him for that purpose; adding, diffidently--'I believe that, after this, I will always be afraid when you are out of my sight.' "Early next morning, the long disused wardrobe of William was procured from the mansion of the Elphinstones. While William was still sleeping profoundly, exhausted with the toils of the preceding day, Mr Macquil and I made a careful selection of such articles of dress as we judged most suitable for him to appear in, on the approaching great occasion. We made choice of a suit which nearly resembled his ordinary forenoon attire--clothed in which, it was impossible for any one who knew him to mistake his identity. His features were thinner than before; but he was immensely improved in his general appearance. His person was more firmly set--his carriage more staid and dignified; and, while he retained the same winning mildness of manner, there was in his eye that manly, resolute look, indicating energy, intrepidity, and force of character--which familiarity with toils and dangers, gallently borne and nobly triumphed over, alone can give. Of the feelings of Mary, when she beheld her lover arrayed once more in his former vestments, looking so noble, so kind, and so like what he was before, it is impossible to speak. Their happiness, when they met next morning, was more tranquil than the evening before, but not less profound. At breakfast, Mr Macquil was the principal speaker--full of the all-engrossing project which he had in view. Immediately after breakfast, we were to have set out; but, hour after hour passed away, while the lovers remained together, 'all the world forgot;' and while poor Mr Macquil and I and the horses were waiting impatiently at the door. The impatience of Mr Macquil began to exceed all bounds; and a scout having brought intelligence that the chariots and horsemen of the enemy had been beheld approaching at a distance, he became very angry. He broke in abruptly upon the lovers--he took William by the arm, and led him off--promising, however, by way of comfort, that that separation should not be of longer duration than half an hour. "Once in the saddle, off we set at full gallop, through by-roads, which brought us to a thicket in the rear of Elphinstone House, where some old domestics of the family, with delight vividly expressed in their countenances, were ready to receive our horses. Entering the house by a back door, and ascending the stairs, we heard, as we were passing the main entrance hall, the party without loudly thundering for admittance at the front door, while a little urchin of a boy, evidently in the secret, was pertly screaming to them through the key-hole--'The key--the key! Can ye no stop a wee? What signifies a bit minute or twa?' Proceeding forthwith into a spacious apartment, which directly opened into the entrance hall, and which had been fixed upon as the most proper place for the scene which was to be enacted, Mr Macquil conveyed William into a small by-room, where he was to remain in concealment until the proper time for his appearance: and shutting the door with a triumphant bang, locked it, and put the key in his pocket. "Events now rapidly followed each other. The preconcerted signal that all was prepared was given--the impatient party at the front door were admitted--and presently the cousin stalked into the room, followed by the sheriff, his officers, and our friends, with many other spectators whom they had brought along with them. I was standing at the window; Mr Macquil was pacing up and down the room with a huge white handkerchief applied to his eyes, and uttering uncouth sounds of wo, which, however, sometimes had a greater resemblance to laughter than to lamentation. "'Sir,' said the cousin, 'we come here for business, and have no time for nonsense.' "'I assure you,' said the other, 'that it is far from being my wish that the proper heir of this house should be longer kept out of his goodly heritage. You will find the only obstacle to your being put into immediate possession in that closet; and there is the key.' "'Hold,' cries the sheriff; 'too fast, sir, by one half.' "A look of peculiar meaning from Mr Macquil arrested for an instant the sheriff's attention. "Meanwhile the cousin having received the key, hurried to the closet, opened wide the door, and William walked forward into the room. He was recognised in an instant, as was evident from the acclamations which followed his appearance. "'Ha! ha! ha!' quoth the sheriff, 'who could have expected this from you, Mr Macquil? You are positively become as arch as a romping, roguish young boarding-school girl of fifteen. Mr Elphinstone, give me leave to say that I never was more delighted--never more happy.' Briefly returning the compliments of the worthy sheriff, William fixed his eyes upon his cousin with a look in which there was reproach but no malignity. "'Cousin,' said he--'one with me in lineage, in kindred, and in blood--I have been indebted to you for a long and involuntary excursion abroad, which has been attended with most woful results. Sir, while I abhor, I forgive--I pity; in proof of which, I give you timeous warning that there is intelligence from the other side of the Atlantic, which concerns you more nearly than any farther interest which you can possibly have in my inheritance.' With that, the bad man grew deadly pale--he trembled from head to foot--he looked fearfully at the sheriff--and he hurried out, followed by me. After a long pause, during which he seemed to be thinking profoundly, the sheriff said--'There is really a strange meaning in your words, Mr Elphinstone!'-- "'Which,' replied William, 'I will fully explain in a few days.' "Whenever the facts of the case came to be known, the officers of justice were sent in full cry after the criminal; but, with the aid of the generous kinsman whom he had so foully wronged, he effected his escape, and was never heard of more. "In a short time Elphinstone House again became the residence of its rightful proprietor; and, within less than a fortnight from the date of his return, William and Mary were united in the holy bands of wedlock, to be separated no more. I was the best-man; and a happier pair never was seen. They were happy in themselves and in their family." "Yes," said Wonderlove, "from that family the dule passed away." "And you observe," replied the other with a smile, "that the head of that house really did marry a maiden of low degree!" "Well, now, is not that a strange--a strange--a very strange!"-- "It is a strange coincidence," said Plainworth, "but nothing more. What more natural than that such a woman should engage the affections of such a man? and as for the subsequent prosperity of their numerous and bonny family, it is an old saying and a true--'That being good, naturally leads to the obtaining of good.'" TRIALS AND TRIUMPHS. It was in the autumn of 1825, that a stranger was wandering by the side of the silver lakes and over the majestic mountains of romantic Cumberland. He was near the side of blue Keswick, and the light wind was scattering, in showers, the death-touched leaves upon the bright waters. Suddenly, the face of the lake became troubled, and dark ripples rose upon its bosom, as if the chained spirit of a storm struggled thereon to be free, and moved them. A louder rustling and a sound of agitation was heard among the trees, as though it were there also. Thick clouds gathered before the face of the sun, and darkness, like an angel's wrath, rolled along the brow of the mighty Skiddaw. In a few moments the thunder was heard bursting from the mountain sides, and its echoes reverbed, as the groaning of the great hills, through the glens. Thunder, lightning, and tempest, gathered round, and burst over the stranger. The cattle crowded together upon the hills, and the birds of heaven sought shelter in the woods. The stranger, also, looked around for a place of refuge. Before him, at the distance of about a quarter of a mile, lay a sequestered and beautiful villa--round which mountain, wood, and water, and craggy cliff, were gathered--with a sloping lawn before it. It was a spot which the genius of romance might have made its habitation. The mansion was in keeping with the scenery, and towards it the stranger repaired for shelter. He was requesting permission of a servant of the household, to be sheltered until the storm passed over, when the occupier of the mansion came himself to the door, and, with the frankness of an old friend, held out his hand, saying--"Come in--thou art welcome. At such a time the birds of heaven seek shelter, and find it in the thick branches of the woods; and surely man has a right to expect refuge in the habitations of his fellow-men. Follow me, friend, and rest here until the storm be past." The stranger bowed, thanked him, and followed him; but, ere they had sat down, the owner of the mansion again addressed his visitant, saying--"The inhabitants of the East ask no questions of strangers until they have given them water to wash their feet, and a change of garments, if required. I know no excuse which the people of the West can offer, why they should be less hospitable. I perceive that thy apparel is already drenched; therefore, my servant will provide thee with a change of raiment. Go, do as I request, that no harm overtake thee; and, in the meantime, I will order refreshment, after which, thou and I shall converse together." There was a kindness in the manner, and an expression of benevolence in the aspect of his entertainer, which at once gratified and interested the stranger. The latter appeared to be about forty; but his hospitable entertainer was at least threescore. Care had engraven some wrinkles upon his brow, and the "silverings" of age were beginning to mingle thickly with his once brown hair; but his ruddy and open countenance spoke of the generosity of his disposition and the health of his constitution. When the stranger had put on dry raiment and partaken of food, his host ordered liquors to be brought; and when they were placed upon the table, he again addressed his guest, and said--"Here, sir, thou hast claret, port, and sherry--my cellar affords no other wines. Therefore, take thy choice. Be merry and wise; but, above all--be at home. The wayfaring man, and the man whom a storm drives into our house among the mountains, should need no second invitation. With me he is welcome to whatsoever is set before him. Therefore, use no ceremony, but consult thine own taste. For myself I am no wine-drinker. Its coldness agrees not with my stomach, and I prefer the distillation of our northern hills to the juice of the grapes of the sunny south. Therefore, friend, while I brew my punch, help thyself to whatsoever best pleaseth thee." The stranger again thanked him, and having something of nationality about him, preferred joining him in a bowl prepared from the "mountain dew." They quickly discovered that they were what the world calls "kindred spirits," and, before an hour had passed, the stranger told whence he came, what he had been, and what his intentions, in visiting that part of the country, were; but his name, he said, he did not intend to divulge to any one for a time. He might make it known in a few days, should he remain in the neighbourhood, and, perhaps, he never would. "Well," said his host, "thou hast told me a considerable part of thy history, but thou hast withheld thy name: I will tell thee _all_ mine; but, to be even with thee, thou shalt not know my name either, (provided thou dost not know it already,) beyond that my Christian name is Robert. "I am (continued he) the first-born of a numerous family, and am twenty-four years older than the youngest of my parents' children. My father was what is called a statesman in this part of the country; by which you are not to understand that he was in any way connected with politics, or had any part in governing the affairs of the nation, but, simply, that he was the possessor of an estate containing some eighty acres, and which had descended to him from his ancestors, unimpaired and unencumbered. He was a kind husband and an indulgent father; but he was provident as neither. A better-hearted man never breathed. He was generous even to the committing of a crime against his own family; and the misfortune, the error--I might say the curse of his life--was, that he never knew the value of a shilling. It has been said that I possess my father's failing in this respect; but, through his example at all times as a warning before me, I have been enabled to regulate it, and to keep it within controllable limits. You have often heard it said, 'Take care of the shillings, and the pounds will take care of themselves;' but this will not hold good in every instance--as was the case with my father. He appeared to be one of those who did not stop to consider the value between a pound and a shilling. He was naturally a man of a strong intellect and a sound judgment; but his impulses were stronger still. He was a being of impulses. They hurried him away, and he stopped not to consult with calmer reason. With him to feel was to act. He generally saw and repented his error, before another had an opportunity of telling him of it, but not before it was too late; and these self-made discoveries never prevented him from falling into the same errors again. In the kindliness of his own heart he took _all_ mankind to be good; he believed them to be better than they really were; or rather he believed no man to be a bad man until he had found him to be so. Now, sir, when I say that in this respect my father exercised too much both of faith and charity, thou must not think that I am shut up here like a cynic in this mountain solitude, to inflict upon every passenger my railings against his race. On the contrary, I have seen much of the world, and experienced much of its buffetings, of its storms, its calms, and its sunshine; I have also seen much of men; and I have seldom, I would almost say, I have never, met with one who had no redeeming quality. But, sir, I have seen and felt enough, to trust no man far until I have proved him. Yet my father was many times deceived, and he trusted again; and, if not the same parties, others under the same circumstances. He could not pass a beggar on the highway without relieving him; and, where he saw or heard that distress or misery existed, it was enough for him--he never inquired into the cause He was bringing up his family, not certainly in affluence, but in respectability; but his unthinking generosity, his open hand, and his open-heartedness, were frequently bringing him into trouble. One instance I will relate; it took place when I was a lad of eighteen. There resided in our neighbourhood an extensive manufacturer, who employed many people, and who was reputed to be very rich. He was also a man of ostentatious piety; and, young as I then was, his dragging forward religion in every conversation, and upon all occasions, led me to doubt whether he really had anything of religion in his heart. There were many, also, who disputed his wealth. But my father and he were as brothers. We perceived that he had gained an ascendancy over him in all things; and often did my mother remonstrate with him, for being, as she said, led by a stranger, and caution him against what might be the consequences. For I ought to inform you, that the manufacturer had been but a few years in Cumberland, and no one knew his previous history. But my father would not hear the whisper of suspicion breathed against him. "My mother was a native of Dumfriesshire; her ancestors had taken a distinguished part in the wars of the Covenant; and, one evening, I was reading to her from her favourite volume, "_The Lives of the Scots Worthies_," when my father entered, and sat down in a corner of the room in silence, and evidently in deep sorrow. He leaned his brow upon his hand, and his spirit seemed troubled." "William," said my mother, addressing him, "why do ye sit there? What has happened? There is something putting ye about." He returned no answer to her inquiries; and approaching him, and taking his hand in hers, she added--"Oh! there is something the matter, or ye would never sit in that way, and have such a look. Are ye weel enough, William--or what is it?" "Nothing! nothing!" said he. But the very manner in which he said it, and the trembling and quavering of his voice, were equivalent to saying--"Something! something!" "Oh, dinna say to me, nothing!" said she; "for there is a something, and that is evident, or ye would never sit as ye are doing." He struck his clenched hands upon his brow, and exclaimed--"Do not torment me!--do not add to my misery!" "William! William!" cried my mother, "there is something wrong, and why will ye hide it from me? Have I been your wife for twenty years, and ye say I torment ye now, by my anxiety for your weelfare? O William! I am certain I didna deserve this treatment from you, neither did I think that ye were capable of acting in such a manner. What is it that is troubling ye?" "Nancy," he cried, in the vehemence of despair, "I have ruined you!--I have ruined my family! I have ruined my earthly comfort, my peace of mind, and my own soul!" "Oh, dinna talk in that way, William!" she cried; "I ken now that something serious has happened; but, oh! whatever it be, let us bear it like Christians, and remember that we are Christians. What is it, William? Ye may confide in your wife now?" "Nancy," said he, "I never was worthy of such a wife. But neither look on me, nor speak to me with kindness. I have brought you to beggary--I have brought my family to beggary--and I have brought myself to everlasting misery and despair!" "O my dear!" said she, "dinna talk in such a heathen-like manner. If it be the case that we have lost all that we had, there is no help for it now; but I trust, and am assured, that ye will not have lost it in such a way as to make your family hang their head among folk, in remembrance of their faither's transaction. I am certain, already, that it is your foolish disposition to be everybody's friend, that has brought this upon ye. A thousand times have I warned ye of what, some day or other, would be the upshot; but ye would take no admonition from me." "Oh!" added he, "I have misery enough, and more than enough, without your aggravating it by your dagger-drawing reflections." He sat groaning, throughout the night, with his hand upon his brow; but the real cause of his misery he would not explain, farther than that he had brought himself and his family to ruin. But, with sunrise, the tale of our undoing was on every tongue; and all its particulars, and more than all, were not long in being conveyed to us. For a tale of distress hath the power of taking unto itself wings, and every wind of heaven will echo it, let it come whence it may, and let it go where it may. I beheld, and I heard my mother doomed to receive the doleful _congratulations_ of her friends--the prompt expression of their sympathy for her calamities. It was the first time, and it was the last, that many of them ever felt for human wo. But there are people in this world, who delight to go abroad with the tidings of tribulation on their tongue, and whose chief pleasure is to act the part of Job's comforters, or, I might say, of his messengers. We learned that my father's bosom friend, the professedly wealthy and pious manufacturer, had been declared a bankrupt, and that my father had become liable on his account to the amount of two thousand pounds. His unguided generosity had previously compelled him to mortgage his property, and this calamity swallowed it up. Never will I forget the calmness, I might call it the philosophy, with which my mother received the tidings. "I am glad," said she to the individual who first communicated to her the tidings, "that my children will have no cause to blush for their father's misfortunes; and I would rather endure the privations which those misfortunes may bring upon us, than feel the pangs of his conscience who has brought them upon his friend." My father sank into a state of despondency, from which it required all our efforts to arouse him; and his despondency increased, when it was necessary that the money for which he had become liable, should be paid. The estate, which had been in the possession of his ancestors for a hundred and fifty years, it became necessary to sell; and when it was sold, not only to the last acre, but even to our household furniture, it did not bring a sum sufficient to discharge the liabilities which he had incurred. Well do I remember the soul-harrowing day on which that sale took place. My father went out into the fields, and, in a small plantation, which before sunset was no longer to be his, sat down and wept. Even my mother, who hitherto had borne our trials with more than mere fortitude, sat down in a corner of the house, upon the humblest chair that was in it, and which she perhaps thought they would not sell, or that it would not be worth their selling, and there, with an infant child at her bosom, she rocked her head in misery, and her secret tears bedewed the cheeks of her babe. That night, my father, my mother, and their children, sought refuge in a miserable garret in Carlisle. I, as I have already said, was the eldest, and perhaps the change in their circumstances affected me most deeply, and by me was most keenly felt. Through yielding to the influence of feelings that were too susceptible, my father beheld his family suddenly plunged into destitution. It was a sad sight to behold my brothers and my sisters, who had ever been used to plenty, crying around him and around my mother, for bread to eat, when they were without credit, and their last coin was expended. My father did not shew the extreme agony of his spirit before his children, but he could not conceal that it lay like a cankerworm in his breast, preying upon his vitals. His strength withered away like a leaf in autumn; and what went most deeply to my mother's heart was, that he seemed as if ashamed to look his family in the face; and he appeared even as one who had committed a crime which he was anxious to conceal. My mother, however, was a woman amongst ten thousand. Never did the slightest murmur escape her lips, to upbraid my father for what he had brought upon us; but, on the contrary, she daily, hourly, strove to cheer him, and to render him happy--to make him forget the past. But it was a vain task; misery haunted him by night and by day; there was despair in his very smile, and the teeth of self-reproach entered his soul. He was a man who had received more than what is called a common education; and a gentleman who had been his schoolfellow, and known him from his childhood, and who resided much abroad, appointed him to be his land steward. The emoluments of the office were not great, but they were sufficient to keep his family from want. Under the circumstances in which they were now placed, I was too old to remain longer as a burden upon my parents. I therefore bade them a fond, a heart-rending farewell; and with less than four pounds in my pocket, took my passage from Whitehaven to Liverpool, from whence I was to proceed by land to London. Liverpool was then only beginning to emerge into its present commercial magnitude; and I carried with me letters to two merchants there, the one residing in Poole Lane, the other in Dale Street. Both received me civilly, and both asked me _what I could do?_ It was a question which I believe had never occurred to me before, nor even to my father, up to the period of my shaking hands with him and bidding him farewell. I hesitated for a few seconds, and I believe that upon both occasions I stammered out the word--"_anything_." "You can do _anything_, can you?" said the first merchant, sarcastically; "then you are a great deal too clever for me; and I suspect the situation of a servant of _all work_ will suit you better than that of a clerk in a counting-house. Pray, are you acquainted with keeping books?" I replied that I was not. "Then," added he, "though you can do everything, that is one thing which I find you cannot do; and as it is the only thing that would be of any service to me, I shall not be able to avail myself of your otherwise universal attainments." The cold, the sarcastic manner of this gentleman, made my very blood to freeze within my veins; a cold shivering (I might call it the mantle of despair) came over me, and my heart failed within me. I, however, proceeded to Dale Street, and delivered my letter to the other gentleman. He, as I have already intimated to you, inquired at me what I could do. And to him, also, my unfortunate answer was "_anything_." He smiled, but there was a kindness in his smile, and he good-humouredly asked me what I meant by anything. I was as much at a loss to answer him, as I had been to answer the merchant I had left. "Have you ever been in a merchant's office?" he inquired, "or had any practice as an accountant?" "No," I replied. "Then," added he, "I fear it will be difficult to find anything in Liverpool to answer your expectations, and I would not recommend you to waste time in it. If I could have promoted your views, I would have done so most cheerfully; but, as I cannot, here are three guineas--(for from the manner in which my friend speaks of you in his letter I believe you to be a deserving youth)--they will help you onward in your journey, and in London you will meet with many chances of obtaining a situation, that you cannot find in Liverpool." I burst into tears as he spoke, and put the money in my hands. The kindness of the one merchant had affected me more than the chilling irony of the other. The one roused my indignation, the other melted my heart. But I was indebted to both; for both had given me a lesson of what the world was, and both had rendered me more sensible of the dependence and hopelessness of my situation. In order to husband my resources, I proceeded to London on foot, and when I arrived there, I found myself to be like a bird in a wilderness, or a helmless vessel on a dark sea. The magnitude of the city, its busy thousands, its groaning warehouses, where the treasures and luxuries of every corner of the globe are piled together, the splendour of its shops, the magnificence of its squares, and the lordly equipages which glittered in the midst of them, moved me not. They scarcely excited my observation. My soul was filled with thoughts of my own prospects; and I wandered, dreaming, from street to street, moving at a pace as though I had been sauntering by the side of one of my native lakes, and I appeared as the only individual in the great city who had no aim, and no urgent business which required me to move rapidly, as others did. I delivered all the letters that I brought with me, and I was again asked, as I had been in Liverpool--_what I could do?_ But I did not, as I did there, reply, _anything_. I, however, was puzzled how to answer the question. The truth was, I was utterly ignorant of business. I had been brought up amongst those mountains, with merely a knowledge that there was such a thing. In fact, my ideas of it hardly extended beyond giving out goods with one hand, and receiving money for them in the other. The word _commerce_ was to me as a phrase in a dead language. I had fancied to myself that the sea was a great lake, over the whole expanse of which I should be able to gaze at once, and see the four quarters of the globe around it: and my ideas of what ships were, were gathered from the boats which I had seen upon Keswick. On the day on which I left my parents' roof, I heard my old schoolmaster console them with the assurance, that "there was no fear of me, for _I was fit for anything_." While such testimony, from his lips, comforted them, it cheered me also, and it caused me to look upon myself as a youth of high promise, and of yet higher expectations. But now, when I was left to myself, with all my talents and acquirements ready to be disposed of in any market, I found that my general qualifications, my fitness for anything, amounted to being qualified for nothing, when reduced to particulars. Days, weeks, months passed away, and I was still a wanderer upon the streets of the modern Babylon. At length, when ready to lie down and die from hunger and from hopelessness, I obtained a situation as copying-clerk to a solicitor, at a salary of ten shillings a-week. In such a city as London, and where it was necessary to keep up a respectable appearance, this sum might be considered as inadequate to my wants. But it was not so. During the first ten weeks, I transmitted two pounds to my parents, to assist them. I always kept the proverb before my memory, that "a penny hained is a penny gained;" and I never took one from my pocket, until I had considered whether or not it was absolutely necessary to spend it. My food was of the simplest kind; and finding that I could not afford the expense of an eating-house, it consisted of a half-quartern loaf in the twenty-four hours, the one half of which was eaten in the morning; the other in the evening. I "_kitchened_" my loaf, as they say in Scotland, with a pennyworth of butter, and occasionally with lettuce or a few radishes in their season; and the beverage with which I regaled myself, after my meals, was a glass of water from the nearest pump. Upon this diet I became stouter, and was more healthy for the time, than ever I had been before; though I believe I have suffered for it since. It was my duty to lock up the office (or chambers, as they were called) at night, and to open them in the morning. I had not been many days in my situation, when the thought struck me, that, by locking myself within the chambers at night, instead of locking myself out, I might save the expense of a lodging. Again I said to myself that "a penny hained was a penny gained," and four chairs in the chambers became my couch, while the money which I would have given for a lodging was transmitted to my parents. I had not been many months in this situation, when it was my fortune to render what he considered a service to a rich merchant in the city, who was a client of my employers. He made inquiry at me respecting the amount of my salary, and concerning my home and relatives. I found that he was from Westmoreland, and he offered me a situation in his counting-house, with a salary of eighty pounds a-year. My heart sprang in joy and in gratitude to my throat at his proposal. I seized his hand as though he had been my brother. I pressed it to my breast. A tear ran down my cheek and fell upon it. Even while I held his hand, I fancied to myself, that I beheld my parents and their children again sitting beneath the sunshine of independence, and blessing their first-born, who was "fit for anything." I entered upon my new situation, and upon my income of eighty pounds a-year, in a few days, and received a quarter's salary in advance. I well knew that my father was still oppressed by liabilities, which he was endeavouring to discharge out of forty pounds a-year, which he received for his stewardship. I knew, and I felt also, that let a son do for a parent what he will, he can never repay a parent's love and a parent's cares. Who could repay a mother for her unceasing and anxious watchings over us in the helplessness of infancy, or a father, in providing for all our wants, in teaching us to know good from evil? I fancied that thirty pounds a-year was enough and more than enough for all my wants, and I dwelt with fondness on the thought of remitting them fifty pounds out of my annual salary. Previous to entering the counting-house of the merchant, my delight at the pleasing anticipations before me robbed me of sleep, and for the first time caused me to feel the hardness of my bed upon the chairs of the solicitor's chambers. However, with a heart overflowing with joy, I entered upon my mercantile avocations. Then, as I bustled along the streets, I felt within my heart as though in all London there was none greater than I; I was independent as the Lord Mayor--as happy as his Majesty. But there was one thing, a small matter, which I forgot--it was the proverb which I have twice quoted already, that "a penny hained is a penny gained." On leaving my occupation as a copying-clerk, I almost unconsciously left also my cheap and humble diet. My fellow-clerks in the merchant's counting-house dined every day at a chop-house in Milk Street, and they requested me to join them. I had no longer an opportunity of eating my half-loaf in secret, and I accompanied them. Each of us had generally a chop, for which we paid eight-pence; a fried sole, for which we were charged a shilling; with a glass of porter during dinner, and a "go" of gin, as it was called, and sometimes _two_, afterwards. I did not wish to be singular, neither did I see how I could avoid doing as others did; and, moreover, I reasoned that, with eighty pounds a-year, I was justified in living comfortably. But this was not all. My associates were in the habit of having their crust and cheese, and their glass of porter, in the forenoons; and I had to join them in this also. And this, too, ran away with pence which might have been saved. But I had not been long amongst them, when I found that they had also evening clubs, where they met to enjoy a pipe and a glass, and hear the news of the day. Unless I joined one of these clubs, I found that I would be considered as--nobody. I accompanied a comrade to one of them, and as the glass, the song, and the merry jest went round, I was as a person ushered into a new world, delighted with all I saw. I became a nightly attender of the club; and although I never indulged to excess, I had completely forgotten the proverb which enabled me to assist my parents when I had but ten shillings a-week; and therefore it forgot me. My landlady also informed me, that it was the rule of her establishment for her lodgers to breakfast in the house, and with this proposal, also, I deemed it necessary to comply. I had begun to yield to circumstances, and when, in such a case, the head is once bent, the whole body imperceptibly becomes prostrate. But twelve months passed away, and instead of fifty pounds being sent to my parents, I found my entire eighty not only expended, but that I was ten pounds in debt. I called myself a fool, a madman, and many other names; for conscience burned within my bosom, and the glow of shame upon my cheek. But it was fruitless; a habit had been formed, and that habit was my master. I had involuntarily become its slave, and wanted resolution to become its master. On entering upon my second year, my employer, who still retained a favourable opinion of me, increased my salary to a hundred a-year. But even when it had expired, instead of having assisted my parents, I still found myself in debt. I had left my twenty pounds of additional salary to take care of themselves, and at the same time I had forgotten to take care not only of the shillings which composed them, but of the pence which made up my whole income. I forgot that a hundred pounds quickly disappears in a free hand, and leaves its owner wondering whither it has gone. At this period, the letters which I received from my parents sometimes indirectly hinted at the privations which they were enduring; but they never requested, or seemed to expect assistance from me. The consciousness of their circumstances, however, stung me to the soul; but it did not reclaim me, or turn me from the dark sea of thoughtless expenditure on which I had embarked. I experienced that a slight thread is sufficient to lead a man to temptation, but it requireth a strong cord and a strong hand to drag him again to repentance. I seldom laid my head upon my pillow but I resolved that, on the following day, I would reform my course of life, and again practise economy. But, alas! I "resolved and re-resolved," and lived the same. At this period, however, my own conscience was my only accuser and tormentor. For although in a country town my habit of spending every evening with a club, at a tavern, might have been registered against me as a vice, in London it did not so militate, and was neither noted nor regarded. I was punctual in my attendance at the counting-house--always clean, and rather particular in my person; (and I must say, that I do not know a town on the face of the habitable globe, where the certificate of dandyism, or of something approaching to it, will be of greater service to a young man than in London. It has struck me a hundred times, that the two chief recommendations for obtaining a situation there, are _dress_ and _address_.) I was not exactly what could be called a good-natured person, but there was a free and easy something about my disposition, which rendered me a favourite with my fellow-clerks. I also was pleased with their society, and it was seldom that I could resist the temptation of accompanying them wheresoever they went when solicited, and which was in general to all their parties of pleasure. When I said to myself, in the language of Burns--"Come, go to, I will be wise," and began to practise retrenchment in one item of my expenditure, I heedlessly plunged into other sources equally extravagant. For my old maxim, which had proved a friend to me on my first coming to London, was completely forgotten; and I neither thought of saving a penny nor taking care of a shilling. Indeed, so far had I forgotten these maxims, that on many occasions I reasoned with myself, saying--"Oh, it is _only_ a shilling or two--there is nothing in that. I will go, or I will do it." But I forgot the sum to which that _only_, repeated three hundred and odd times in the year, amounted. In short, I had fallen into a habit which would have prevented me, had my salary been a thousand a-year, from being either richer or happier than I was when I had but ten shillings a-week. I, however, retained the good opinion of my employer; and in the third year of my engagement with him, I was sent as supercargo with a vessel to South America. It was to be a trading voyage, and the appointment conferred upon me was an honour which caused me to be envied by the other clerks in the counting-house. Some of my seniors sneered at my inexperience, and said I would bring home a "precious cargo, and a profitable account of my transactions." Those who were nearer my own age saw nothing in me that I should have been chosen by our employer, and they agreed that he had preferred me, merely because I was a Border man like himself. In truth, I wondered at his choice myself; for I was conscious of but few qualifications for the task imposed on me, although, three years before, I was thought, and considered myself--"fit for anything." It was understood that our voyage would occupy between two and three years; and in order that I might provide myself with everything necessary for my lengthened travels on the sea, and my dealings on shore, my employer placed in my hands two hundred and fifty pounds, independent of letters of credit to foreign merchants, in various ports, in which I was to transact business. But, on the very day on which I received the two hundred and fifty pounds, and about five days before I was to leave England, I received a letter from my father, to the following import:-- "MY DEAR SON,--It pains me to be the bearer to you of evil tidings, and the more so, as I know that they can only grieve you, and that it is not in your power to remove their cause. Yet it is meet that you should know of them. You knew, and felt the the effects of the misfortunes which, a few years ago, overwhelmed me; but you knew not their extent. They still weigh me to the earth--they blast my prospects, and render powerless my energies. Yet there is no one whom I can accuse for my misfortunes; they, and the distresses of my family, are the work of my own hands. To-morrow I will be the inmate of a prison, for a debt of two hundred pounds, which still hangs over me. Your poor mother, and your brothers and sisters, will be left with no one to provide for them. Think of them, my dear son, and, if it be in your power, assist them." Such was my father's letter, and every word in it went to my bosom as a sharp instrument. I took two hundred pounds from the two hundred and fifty that had been given to me to provide for my voyage, and transmitted them to my father, to relieve him from his distress. I perhaps acted unthinkingly, and sent more than I ought to have sent--but what will not a son do for a parent when his heart is touched?--and at all events I acted as he to whom the money was sent would have acted--from the impulse of the moment; in obedience to the first, the natural dictates of the heart. I found that I had deprived myself of the power of obtaining many things which were necessary for the voyage; but I rejoiced in the thought of having given liberty to a parent, and happiness to his family; and my spirit enjoyed a secret triumph, which more than counterbalanced any trials I might have to endure. But the day on which I was to leave Old England arrived, and within four days I saw its white cliffs sink and die away in the distance as a far-off cloud. We had been seven weeks at sea, when a strange vessel hove in sight, and made alongside of us. She had a suspicious appearance, and our captain pronounced her to be a pirate. As she drew nearer, we could perceive that her crew crowded her deck; and as she continued to bear down upon us, there could be little doubt of her intentions. Our deck was cleared, and our few guns put in readiness for action. We were the heavier vessel of the two, but she carried three guns for our one, and it was evident that her crew were almost as ten to one. When the captain had seen everything made ready for action, he requested me to follow him to the cabin for a few moments, and when there he said--"Robert," for my Christian name I will communicate to you, "the pirate which is now bearing down upon us, is making three knots for our two. Within a quarter of an hour you will hear her shot whiz over us. I don't care so much for both our lives being endangered, for I know that already both our lives are _sold_; but I regret the issue of this _venture_ for your sake and for my own, and also for that of our owner, for I am certain it would have proved a good one to us all. However, we must all heave-to in deep water or in shallow water some time or other, and the tide has overtaken you and me to-day. Therefore, my lad, don't let us look miserable about the matter. Only I have to tell you, (lest I should be one of the first to be swept off the deck when the business of the day begins,) that our old owner who, Heaven bless him! is a regular trump, said to me, just as I had got my papers from the Custom House, and he was shaking hands with me--'Tom,' said he, (for the old fellow always called me Tom,) 'look after that supercargo of mine that you've got on board. He is a countryman of my own. He does not know it, but his father and I used to paddle on Keswick lake together. I have liked him on that account since the first day I clapped my eyes on him, and therefore I took him into my employ. But, though he didn't think that I saw it, I saw that the chaps of London were too much for him. Therefore, I say, Tom,' said he, 'if you see him like to go too far, for the love I bear the boy, bring him up with a short cable.' Such, you see, my lad, is the love which our old owner has for you; and though you may have found him a little gruff now and then, (as I have done myself,) depend upon it he is a regular trump at the bottom. Therefore, I say, let us fight for him now, as better is not to be, until we go to the bottom." I felt a glow about my heart on account of the kindness of my master, and especially when I found that he was aware of more than I thought he had discovered of my conduct while in London; but it was no time to indulge in a reverie of gratitude, when every moment I expected to hear a twenty-four pounder boom over our deck, and that, too, from the deck of a pirate, who did not chalk up mercy as one of his attributes. I went upon deck with our captain, and I had not been there for five minutes, when a shot from the pirate damaged our rigging. At the same time she hoisted the black flag. "It is all up, Bob," said our commander, addressing me; "let us die manfully. If I die first, sink the vessel before she fall into their hands." "Trust to me, captain," cried I; "I will see that all is right. We shall win the day, or go to the bottom." "Bravo! my hearty!" he exclaimed; "I wish you had been a sailor!" The action now began in good earnest, and was kept up on either side with unyielding determination. But they fired three guns for our one, and ever and anon they made an attempt to board us. Our crew consisted of but fourteen men and three boys--the commander, the mate, and myself included. The mate fell at the first broadside which our enemy poured into us. We maintained the unequal fight for near an hour, when our captain also fell, calling out to me--"Stand out, Bob!--sink her, or beat them!" "I will, captain!" cried I; but I don't believe that he lived to hear what I said to him. Our ship's company was reduced to five able men, and I lay amongst the wounded upon deck. We were boarded, overpowered in a moment, and our vessel became the prize of the pirates. The dead, and some of the wounded amongst our crew, were thrown overboard upon the instant. My appearance pleaded for me with the murderers, (even as I have said, appearance pleads with a prevailing intercession on most occasions in London,) and in a state of unconsciousness I was borne on board their vessel. When I raised my eyes and became conscious of my situation, the pirate captain stood over me. My wounds had been bound up, and I aroused myself, and rose up in pain as one awoke from a dream. "Your name!--your name!" said he, addressing me. "Ha! we are captured, then!" replied I; "my name is of small consequence--I am your victim." "Speak!" he cried vehemently--"you wrong me. You are our captives, but I wish to know _your_ name. You are an Englishman--are you from Cumberland?--Were you not at the school of old Dominie Lindores?" "I am--I was!" I gasped in agony. "And do you," he continued, "do you remember the boy, who, before he was eighteen, and while he was a boarder at the school, ran to Gretna with an heiress from a neighbouring seminary." "I do!--I do remember it!" I cried. "And what," he exclaimed--"_what was his name_?" "Belford!" said I. "Belford!" he cried--"it was indeed Belford. I am not deceived! You are, indeed, my countryman. You are younger than I, but I remember you; I am the Belford of whom you have spoken. For auld lang syne, and for the sake of bonny Cumberland, no harm shall happen unto you, nor to any of your comrades. I have but one thing to say to you--_be obedient_." Pained and wounded as I was, I remembered him. I recollected him as having been a boy, some six years older than myself, at the same school, and in a senior class. But when I would have questioned him, he placed his fingers upon his lips, and said--"Speak no more to me at present. Do as I have said--_be obedient_." I thought it a strange thing to be placed a prisoner under the hatches of an old schoolfellow; but the assurance that he and I had trembled under the same birch, and played on the same hill-side together, gave me, with his promise of safety, some consolation. My hands were permitted to be at liberty, but my feet were ordered to be kept in irons; and when I went upon the deck I could not step more than six inches at a time. I knew not how my fellow-prisoners fared, for I never saw them. One day I was requested, or rather I ought to say, ordered, to dine with the pirate-captain. "Your name is Robert," said he to me; and I answered that it was. "Well," he continued, "I wish to save your life, and if it were possible I would spare also your comrades. But there would be danger in doing so, and my fellows, whom I must sometimes humour, are to a man against it. I will try however, either to place you on board a vessel that is not worth shot, or on some island where you are certain of being picked up. In the meantime, here is a purse for you, which, you will find will do you more good on shore than any services of mine. A father and a mother's care," he added, "I have never known, and from rumour only do I suppose who my parents were. I owe mankind nothing for the kindness they have shewn me; and the same love and mercy which I have received from them, I have measured out to them again. Farewell!" he said, and left me. I knew that he was the reputed son of a gentleman who had held extensive possessions in Cumberland, but that something of mystery hung over his birth, and that it was reported cruel and unjust means had been resorted to, to deprive him of his lawful inheritance. His words produced no pleasant feeling in my mind. I found myself in the situation of a person who was pinioned to a certain spot, with a sword suspended over his head by a single hair. But while he spoke I fancied that I heard the sighs of a female in distress. When he left me they were repeated more audibly. I went towards a door in the cabin, which led to an apartment from whence the sound seemed to proceed. I attempted to open the door of the chamber, which was unlocked, and I entered it. Before me sat a lady whose age appeared to be below twenty. She raised her eyes towards me as I entered, and tears ran down her cheeks. Till then I had never seen a face so beautiful, and, I will add, or felt beauty's power--I felt as if suddenly ushered into the presence of a being who was more than mortal. Our interview I will not describe. We spoke little; and the words which we did speak were in low and hurried whispers. For we heard the sound of our tyrant's feet pacing over our head, and to have found us in conversation together might have been death to both. Almost without knowing what I said, or for lack of other words, I spoke of the possibility of our escape. A faint smile broke through her tears, and she twice waved her hand silently, as if to say, "It is hopeless!--it is hopeless!" From that moment she was present in all my thoughts, when awake she became the one idea of my mind, and in sleep she was the object of my dreams. As I was indulged with some degree of liberty, we met frequently, and although our interviews were short, they were as "stolen water," or as "bread eaten in secret." Their existence was brief, but their memory long. I had informed her of my early acquaintance with the pirate commander, and of all that passed between us from the time of my becoming his prisoner. And when she had heard all, even she indulged in the dream that our escape might be possible. It was about a week after my discovery of the fair captive, that I ascertained that two of those who had become prisoners with myself had joined the pirates, and the others had been cast into the sea. My fate their captain still left undecided. My anxiety to escape increased tenfold; but how it was to be accomplished, was a question which for ever haunted me, but which I could never answer. One day we came in contact with a Dutch lugger, laden with Hollands. The pirates boarded her, but they only _bled_ the vessel, as they termed it; they did not take the whole cargo. With what they did take, however, they made a merry carousal; they first became uproarious in their mirth, and eventually they sobered down into a state in which a child might have bound them. I observed the change that was wrought upon them--I saw the advantage I had gained. My thoughts became fixed upon how to profit by it. It was midnight--the moon of an eastern sky flashed upon the sea--the very waters of the mighty deep moved in silence. The few stars that were in the heavens were reflected back from its bosom. On board the vessel not a living creature stirred; the very man at the helm had fallen down as if dead. With the fetters upon my feet, I stood alone, the master of a dead crew. I seized an instrument that lay upon the deck, and endeavoured to unfasten the irons that fettered me. I succeeded in the attempt. It was with difficulty that I restrained from bursting into a shout of joy. But I recollected my situation. I stole on tiptoe to the cabin--I opened the door of the apartment where the fair captive was confined. "Our hour is come," I whispered in her ear; "we must escape--follow me." She started, and would have spoken aloud, but I placed my fingers on her lips, and whispered--"Be silent." "I come, I come," she said. She followed me, and we ascended to the deck, and stood alone in the midst of the wild ocean, without knowing whither to direct our course. I unfastened the stern-boat, and lowered it into the sea. I descended into it with her beneath my arm, and cutting asunder the rope with which I had fastened it, I pulled away from the vessel, which was unto us both a prison-house. My arm was nerved with the strength of despair, and within a few hours I had lost sight of the pirate-ship. At daybreak on the following day, we were alone in the midst of the vast and solitary sea; and desperate as our situation then was, I felt a glow of happiness at the thought that I should be enabled either to save her life, or to risk mine to save her in whom, from the time that I had first seen her, my whole soul had become involved. I now felt and knew that it was in my power to serve her, that our fates were united; and, when I beheld her alone with me upon the wide ocean, I felt as though her life had been given into my hands, and we both were secure. The thought in which I indulged was realized. We had scarce been twelve hours upon the sea, when a vessel passed us at the distance of scarce a mile. I made signals, that she might discover us, and they were observed. She was bound for London, and we were taken on board. I may say that it was now that my acquaintance with the fair being whom I had rescued from the hands of those who would have destroyed her began. Her beauty grew upon my sight as a summer sun increaseth in glory; and the more that I beheld it, the more did I become enchained by its power. It was now, for the first time, that I ventured to make inquiry concerning her name and birth; when I ascertained that her name was Charlotte Hastings; and, upon further inquiry, discovered that she was the niece, and the supposed heiress, of the merchant in whose employment I was. On making this discovery, my tongue became dumb. I felt that I loved her because I had delivered her from death, or from what would have been worse than death. But when I knew that she was my superior in circumstances--the heiress of him in whose employment I was--I stood before her and was dumb. But there was a language in my eyes, while my tongue was silent; and though I spoke not, I had reason to know that she understood its meaning--for often I found her dark eyes anxiously fastened upon me; and while she gazed, the tears stole down her cheeks. We arrived in London. On the day of our arrival, I went towards her, and said--"Madam, we must part." "Part!" she exclaimed, "wherefore?--tell me wherefore?" "There is a gulf between our stations," I answered, "which I cannot pass." She then knew nothing of my being but a clerk in her uncle's office, and I was resolved that she never should know. "Charlotte," I said, on first addressing her after landing, "fate has cast us together--in some degree it has mingled our destiny; yet we must part. Fate has gamboled with us--it has mocked us with a child's game. We must part now, not to meet again. Farewell! I could have dreamed in your eyes--yea, I could have lived in the light that fell from them; but, Charlotte, it was not to be my lot--that happiness was reserved for others. We came to this country together; the wind and the waves spared us, and wed us. The troubled sea did not divide us. We escaped from the hands of our destroyers, and fate recorded us as one. But it may be necessary that we should part--for I know the difference between our stations; and, if it be so, despise not him that saved you." Her uncle heard of our captivity and escape with the coldest indifference. Not a muscle of his face moved. The variation of a fraction in the price of the funds would have interested him more. "I thank you," said he, "for having restored my kinswoman to freedom. Hereafter, it may be in my power to reward you for the act. In the meantime, you must undertake another voyage to the Brazils, which I trust will prove more fortunate than your last." I had only been fourteen days in London, when, another vessel being fitted out, I was ordered again to embark. During that period, and from the day that I conducted her to her uncle's house, had not been permitted to see the fair being whom I had rescued; nor did my employer, though I saw him daily, once mention her name to me, or in any way allude to her. Yet, during that period, by day and by night, her image had been ever present to my thoughts. There was a singularity in the conduct of the merchant, with regard to her, which surprised me. I resolved, before my departure, to ask his permission to bid her farewell. I did so. "Young man," replied he, "romantic thoughts do not accord with the success of a merchant, and with romantic adventures he has but little to do. You imagine that you love my niece, and she perhaps entertains the same foolish thoughts concerning you. It is a delusion arising from the circumstances under which you became acquainted; but it will pass away as a reflection from the face of a mirror, and leave no trace of existence. When you return you may see her again, but not now." Lovers are proverbial for their lack of patience, and this assuredly was putting mine to trial. But I knew the temper of the man with whom I had to deal, and, yielding to necessity, I sailed without seeing her. I had been absent for more than two years, and prospered exceedingly in all my dealings. On my return homeward, I had to visit Genoa. On the day of my arrival there, a person accosted me on the street by name. Without seeing the speaker when he accosted me, I started at his voice, for I remembered it well. It was Belford the pirate. "Well," said he, in a sort of whisper, "I give you credit for the manner in which you effected your escape. But you robbed me of a prize which should not have been ransomed for less than a thousand pounds. And, before we part," added he gravely, "you shall give me your hand and seal to pay me that sum on the day that she becomes your wife." I could not forbear a smile at the strange demand, and said that it should be readily complied with, if ever the event of which he spoke took place; but of that, I assured him, there was but small hope. "Fool!" said he, "know you not that the old merchant, her father, intends that you shall be wed on your arrival in England? And think you that I know not that you are to succeed him in business?" "Her father!" I exclaimed--"of whom do you speak? I know him not. Or do you speak only to mock me?" "By my right hand," said he, "I speak seriously, and the truth. She believes, and you believe that she is the niece of old Hastings, your master. She is his daughter--the only daughter of a fair but frail wife, who eloped from him while his child was yet an infant, leaving it to his care. In order to forget the shame which his frail partner had brought upon him, he, from that day, refused to see his child, lest her features should remind him of her mother. The girl was sent to Boulogne, where she remained till within two months of the time when you saw her on board of my good privateer. You look astonished," added he--"does my narrative surprise you?" "It does indeed surprise me," I replied; "but how come you to know these things?" "Oh," replied he, "I know them, and require but small help from divination. Nine years ago, I was commander of one of old Hasting's vessels; and because I was a native of the Borders, forsooth, I, like you, was a favourite with him. He entrusted me with the secret of his having a daughter. Frequently, when I had occasion to put into Boulogne, I carried her presents from him. He also ordered me to bring him over her portrait, and when the old boy took it in his hands, and held it before his face, he wept as though he had been a child. He used me crookedly at last, however; for he accused me of dishonesty, and attempted to bring me to punishment. I was then as honest as noonday, and on land I am honest still, although I have done some bold business upon the high seas. I made a vow that I would be revenged upon him, and, but that you thwarted me, I would have been revenged. I ran my brig into Boulogne. I pretended that I had a message to Miss Hastings from her father, or, as I termed him, her uncle, and that she was to accompany me to England. As I had frequently been the bearer of communications from him before, my tale was believed. She accompanied me on board the brig; and we sailed, not for England, but on a roving cruise, as a king of the open sea. I was resolved that no harm should befal her; but I had also determined that she should not again set her foot upon land, until her father came down with a thousand pounds as a ransom. Of that thousand pounds you deprived me. But on your marriage day--at the very altar--payment will be demanded. It is not for myself that I desire it," said he, seriously, "for I am a careless fellow, and am content with what the sea gives to me; but I have a son in Cumberland, who will now be about seven years of age. His mother is dead, for my forsaking her broke the poor thing's heart, and hurried her to the grave. My son, I believe, is now the inmate of a workhouse. It is better that he should remain there, than be trained to the gallows by his father. Yet I should wish to see him provided for, and your wife's ransom shall be his inheritance. Give me your bond, and when you again see this dagger, be ready to fulfil it." As he spoke, he exhibited a small poniard, which he carried concealed beneath his coat. I conceived that his brain was affected, and merely to humour him I agreed to his strange demand. His words gave birth to wild thoughts, and with an anxious heart I hastened to return to England. My employer received me as though I had not been absent for a week. "You have done well," he said; "I am satisfied with your undertaking. You did not this time meet with pirates, nor captive damsels to rescue." I hesitated to reply, and I mentioned that I had met and spoken with the pirate commander at Genoa. He glanced at me sharply for a moment, and added--"Merchants should not converse with robbers." He sat thoughtful for the space of half an hour, and then requested me to accompany him into his private office. When there, he said-- "You inform me that you have again seen Belford, the pirate, and that you have spoken with him. What said he to you? Tell me all--conceal nothing." I again hesitated, and sought to evade the subject. But he added, more decisively--"Speak on--hide nothing--fear nothing." I did tell him all, and he sat and heard me unmoved. When I concluded, he took my hand and said--"It well you have spoken honestly. Listen to me. Charlotte is indeed my daughter. Time has not diminished your affection for each other, which I was afraid was too romantic in its origin to endure. I have put your attachment to each other to severe trials; let it now triumph. Follow me," he added, "and I will conduct you to her." I was blind with happiness, and almost believed that what I heard was but a dream--the fond whispering of an excited brain. I will not describe to you my interview with my Charlotte; I could not--words could not. It was an hour of breathless, of measureless joy. She was more beautiful than ever, and love and joy beamed from her eyes. Our wedding-day came--her father placed her hands in mine, and blessed us. We were leaving the church, when a person in the porch, whose figure was rapt up in a cloak, approached me, and revealing the point of a dagger, whispered--"Remember your bond!" It was Belford, the daring pirate. I kept faith with him, and he received the money. I will not detain you longer with my history, with my Trials and Triumphs. One of the first acts of my Charlotte was to purchase the estate which had been torn from my father, and she presented it to him as his daughter's gift. On retiring from business, I came to reside on it, and built on it this house, which has sheltered you from the storm. "And your name," said the listener, "is Mr Melvin?" "It is," replied the host. "Then startle not," continued the stranger, "when you hear that mine is Belford! I am the son of the pirate. My father died not as he had lived. When upon his deathbed he sent for me, and on leaving me his treasure, which was considerable, he commanded me to repay you the thousand pounds which he so strangely exacted from you. From the day on which he received it, he abandoned his desperate course, and through honest dealings became rich. I have brought you your money, with interest up to the present time." So saying, the stranger placed a pocketbook in the hands of his entertainer, and hastily exclaiming "Farewell!" hurried from the house, and was no more heard of. THE MISER OF NEWABBEY. In the pretty little village of Newabbey, in the south of Scotland, there lived one of those individuals which society sometimes casts up, as the sea does its secret monsters, formed apparently for no other purpose than to show how curiously operose nature can be in her productions, though mankind, ever in search for final causes, may attempt to wrest out of such eccentricities some moral to suit their self-love, and, by producing a contrast, elevate themselves in the scale of moral or physical being. That strange person, Cuthbert Grandison--or, as he was generally termed, Cubby Grindstane, by the corruptive ingenuity of his neighbours--occupied a small mud cottage near the centre of the village we have mentioned. He was considerably advanced in age, and, having come to Newabbey at a late period of his life, the people in that part of the country knew little of his history--a circumstance they regretted in proportion to the interest excited by the strange habits of the individual. He was in person a little man; extremely spare; with a sharp keen, hungry look; a grey hawk's eye, which, like the cat's, seemed to enjoy the best vision collaterally, for the pupil was almost always at the junction of the eyelids. On his back there was a large hump, which being the only rotundity which his spare body presented, gave him the appearance of a skeleton carrying a lump of beef; and, as his mode of walking was quick and hurried, a quaint fancy could not resist the additional suggestion, that he was running home with it in order to satisfy the hunger that shone through his fleshless form. The extraordinary appearance of such a wild and grotesque-looking individual, in so small a village, could not fail to produce the usual speculation among the high-mutched gossips, who, having in vain made inquiries and exerted their wits as to his origin, directed their attention to his habits, and especially to the mode in which he earned his livelihood--for no one could say he was ever seen to beg. But they were not much more successful in these secondary inquiries and investigations; because, (although it was certain that he had a signboard, exhibiting the characters, "Cuthbert Grandison, Cobbler"--an unusual and somewhat affected and gratuitous depreciation of the votary of St Crispin--and sometimes sat at his small window, perforating soles with his awl, and filling up the holes with "tackets,") no one in the village employed him, and he never condescended to ask any one for work. If his operations thus afforded no proper clue to his means of life, his conversation was, if possible, still more sterile; for, in place of associating with the other "snabs" of the village, or joining the quidnunes who assembled in Widow Cruickshanks', to drink beer and "twine political arguments"--a much harder labour than their day's work, though they thought it a recreation--he locked himself, and another individual now to be mentioned, into the house at an early hour of the evening, and refused to open it again to however urgent a visiter. The other individual who lived in Cuthbert's house, was no other than a daughter, about eighteen years of age, called Jean, as unlike her grotesque and mysterious parent as any of God's creatures could be; though every effort was exerted, on his part, to make her as silent and incommunicative as himself. She appeared to have received no education; her dress was of the most wretched kind; and it was even alleged by the neighbours, whose espionage extended even to the calculation of the quantity of meal and milk purchased for the support of the father and the daughter, that she did not get sufficient food. These circumstances regarding the girl were the more readily remarked, that, as all admitted, Jean, or, as she was familiarly called, Jeanie Grandison, would, if she had been treated like other individuals of her age, have excelled the greater number of young women of the village, not only in personal appearance, but in the qualities of her mind and heart. She apparently stood in great awe of her strange parent, and uniformly rejected all solicitations, on the part of the villagers, to join them in their sports, or partake of their little entertainments. The story of the mysterious treatment to which she was subjected, excited the sympathies of the neighbours; and her own amiable manners and meek deportment, exhibiting the indications of a crushed spirit, riveted the regard which had been first elicited by her apparent misfortunes. The studied seclusion which Grindstane observed, and seemed determined to vindicate against all attempts on the part of the neighbours to "draw him out," rendered it difficult to obtain any insight into the domestic economy of his strange domicile; but accident, at last, brought about what might otherwise not have been easily accomplished. It was observed that, for a considerable time, his daughter had been ailing. She made no complaints to any one; but the quick eye of sympathy soon discovered what was apparently attempted to be concealed. The wife of John Monilaws, a grocer and meal-dealer, from whom Jeanie bought the small portion of provisions her father required, observed and noticed the change that had taken place upon her, and urged her to reveal her complaint, and apply to the surgeon of the village for relief. She smiled sorrowfully at the exhibition of a sympathy to which she was so much a stranger, and which she was not permitted to avail herself of; thanked Mrs Monilaws for her kind intentions; and assured her she was not much out of her usual condition of health. Two days afterwards, the good dame was astonished by the grotesque appearance of the mysterious Cubby himself, standing by the side of her counter. It was seldom he was to be seen, far less spoken to; and, as she looked on the man whom report had invested with attributes of an unusual kind, a shiver came over her, which the presence of her husband, who, having seen Cubby enter the shop, followed him from mere curiosity, was required to counteract. "I want to buy some bread," said he, slowly. "What kind?" said Mrs Monilaws. "A kind I hae aften asked Jeanie to get," replied he; "but my een are never blessed wi' the sight o't." "Te may hae't, if we hae't, Cuthbert Grindstane," said John. "Hae ye ony auld, weathered bread," said he, "that has seen the sun for a week, and fules winna buy frae ye?" "Ay hae we," replied the mistress--"owre muckle o that. There's some our John is to boil up for the pigs. It's moulded as green as turf-sod. But ye hae nae pigs, Cuthbert?" "Pigs anew--pigs anew," replied he. "What's the price o' that?" "It's scarce worth onything," replied the honest woman. "It's seldom I sell whinstanes covered wi' green moss. Ye may hae't a'thegither for a penny." "That's owre muckle, guid woman," said Cubby. "A bawbee, eke a farthin, is the hail value o't. I'll gie nae mair." "I dinna deal in farthins," replied she. "Dinna deal in farthins!" ejaculated Cubby with surprise. "Is a farthin no the fourth part o' yer ain price o' a' that bread, sufficient to keep a moderate man for a week?" "He would be a very moderate man that wad eat it," said John. "I was even dootin if I wad hurt the stamach o' my pigs wi't, though boiled in whey." "Whey!" ejaculated Cubby again--"do ye gie yer pigs whey? They maun hae a routhy stye. Will ye hae my bode?" "Ye may tak it for naething," said the mistress. "Hoo is Jeanie?--she was complainin last time I saw her." "Complainin!" said he, as he with the greatest avidity seized the bread, and stuffed it into his pockets. "Did the lassie complain? What did she complain o'? No surely that she didna get her meat." And he looked fearfully and inquiringly into the face of Mrs Monilaws. "She looked in an ailing way," said the mistress; "an' I thought she was ill." "She's owre fat--an ill complaint," replied he, apparently wishing to get away. "I dinna see that," said Mrs Monilaws. "But I baith see't an' feel't," replied he with a grin. "Guid nicht." "I pity the puir lassie," said Mrs Monilaws, after Cubby went away, "wha's doomed to live wi' that man. That's a puir supper for the stamach o' an unweel cratur; an' I've a' my doots if she's no at this moment confined to her strae bed. Is there nae way o' getting her out o' his hands? The Laird o' Cubbertscroft wants a servant, an' I promised to get ane to him. Jeanie wad answer better than ony other lass in Newabbey, but I canna see her to speak to her; for, though she comes here, naebody can gae to her." "There seemed to be something strange," replied John, "in Cubby's manner, when ye asked him about Jeanie. If he gaes lang his ain errands, an' she doesna make her appearance, I'll conclude, frae what I hae seen and heard, that there's something wrang. That man has the heart to starve ane o' God's creatures--ay, his ain dochter--to death. What mortal could live on that meat he has taen hame wi' him this nicht? Keep an ee on them, Marion; an', if Jeanie doesna sune shew hersel, I'll mak sma' scruple in visitin the lion's den." Some days afterwards, Cubby again made his appearance at the counter of John Monilaws; and there being no more old bread for him, he struck a long-contested bargain about some "fuisted" meal that had been long in the shop, and for which he offered far beneath its real value; but Mrs Monilaws, thinking him poor and miserable, accepted his offer, though she had scarcely done so when she repented of her generosity, for she immediately concluded that her kindness was a species of cruelty, in so far as she was accessory to sending, in all likelihood to an invalid, food that was not suited even to a robust beggar. As he greedily grasped, and carried away like a thief, the article he had purchased, she asked again for his daughter; but she got less satisfaction on this occasion than even on the last, for his only answer was--"What's the use o' speerin for weel foik?" The suspicions of Mrs Monilaws were roused, rather than allayed, by this answer, and the manner in which it was delivered, and she lost no time in telling her husband, that he might get some of the neighbours to accompany him, and go and inquire for the young girl, who, if ill, ought to be taken from the house; or, if well, might be feed--whether old Grindstane was agreeable or not--for the service at Cubbertscroft. At the moment that Mrs Monilaws and her husband were engaged talking about this strange individual and his daughter, Carey Cuthbert--the third son of William Cuthbert of Cuthbert's, or, as it was called, Cubbertscroft, a fine property in the neighbourhood--entered the shop, with a message from Mrs Cuthbert, for articles for the use of the family, and a request to know if any suitable servant had yet been procured by Mrs Monilaws. This young man, who was about eighteen years of age, was reputed by his parents as unfit for sustaining, even so far as a third son might sustain, the honour and respectability of the Cuthberts of Cubbertscroft. He was represented as being so dull that he would learn nothing; and, at the same time, so fond of associating with inferior people, that he could scarcely have been recognised, either from his conversation or manners, as the son of a gentleman. His bluntness, kindness, and humility, however, pleased all those with whom his father did not wish him to associate. With many of the humble inhabitants of Newabbey he was on the most familiar footing; and nothing pleased him better than to get into the village, where, on every side, he could find companions of the grade that suited his (as his father termed it) depraved taste. In these humbler societies, however, Carey learned what perhaps he would not have done from the Greek and Latin books which, at school, were eternally in his hands, and never in his head. Like most other individuals, whether fools or wits, he had a genius of his own; and, as the worms on which the mole feeds are larger and fatter than the flying insects that form the food of the swallow, humility, and a taste for the common sense that, like water, is best and purest the farther down you go, may be vindicated on the grand principle of utility and interest. We do not give a young man of eighteen credit for an _a priori_ knowledge that his interests lay in searching among the humble for that "lear" that could not be got among the sons of the great; but we may safely assert that nature had placed in him an instinctive liking for the simple and the natural, and he might soon perceive, without any spirit of divination, that, by following nature as his guide, he might arrive at a more satisfactory termination of his journey, than his horse-racing brothers, William and George, who were fast flying through their father's estate. He had nearly already, however, been given up as untractable; his speech, as his mother said, had been Scotch from the first lisp; his ideas had been of the earth, from the first moment he crawled upon it; and the servants his companions, from the time he was able to escape, by the aid of his own feet, from the nursery. As soon as Carey had delivered his message, he conceived he had thrown off the servitude imposed upon him by his mother, who considered him of no other use than to carry a verbal communication to the village. Entertaining a very different opinion of Carey's powers, John Monilaws told him of the strange conduct of Cubby Grindstane, (whom he also well knew, as indeed every person in the neighbourhood,) in endeavouring to conceal the illness of his daughter, who was the individual to be recommended to his mother as a servant. Carey confessed he thought the conduct of Cubby very suspicious, and, with a knowing look, hinted that it had been long his intention to endeavour to ascertain something more of the old cobbler than the people of Newabbey yet knew. "It is just you callants," said John, "wha are best at thae things. When I was like ye, there wasna a house-tap in a' Newabbey I didna ken as weel as the sparrows that biggit their nests in them. There are queerer sights seen i' the warld, by lookin _down_ than by lookin _up_, for a that astronomers may say on the subject. It was I that discovered Marion Muschet killin her new-born bairn wi' a pack-thread. I saw her through her ain skylicht; an', though I had nae power to speak, I had plenty o' pith i' my legs; but, fule that I was, I forgot that, lang afore I could get assistance, the pack-thread wad hae dune its wark. Sae it was--the face o' the bairn was as blue as my bannet, when, by my means, it was discovered." "An' muckle ye got for yer sky-larkin," said Mrs Monilaws. "Ye hanged the puir woman, an' got the name o' Skylicht Johnnie, whilk ye hae carried about wi' ye ever since, and will do till the day ye dee." "Ay, Marion," answered the good-natured husband, "I hae taen nane o' thae flights sin' I married ye. Ye keep me weel down. I suffered weel i' my young days for lookin down; but I fear I wad suffer mair noo for lookin up. But the deil's no buried i' Kirkaldy, if I wadna hae a blink through Cubby Grindstane's skylicht, were my legs as soople as Mr Carey Cuthbert's there, an' I had nae wife on my back." Carey looked and smiled, and said nothing; but his mind was not so inactive as his tongue. "Ye wad be nearer yer purpose, John," said Marion, "if ye wad tak wi' ye our neebor, John Willison, a godly elder o' the kirk, and gae bauldly in at the door. John will tak wi' him prayers, an' ye some o' my jellies. I never kenned ony guid come by a skylicht--except, maybe, Widow Gairdner's; wha was sittin ae nicht, thinkin whar she wad get her supper; an', as she thought, an' thought, an' was nae better or fu'er for thinkin, a man fell frae the roof at her feet, an', throwing frae him sixteen gowd guineas wi' pure fear, flew out at the door as if Beelzebub an' a' his angels had been after him. Widow Gairdner got her supper that nicht. Naebody ever asked for the guineas; but it was weel kenned frae whase hoose they were stown." "Ah, Marion, Marion," said John, laughing; "an' sae ye forget yer ain mither's skylicht, through whilk I used to gae to court ye." "An' I do nae sic things, John," replied Mrs Monilaws, jocularly; "ye never brocht sixteen gowd guineas wi' ye when ye cam doon through my mither's skylicht, to court her dochter." This conversation was not lost upon Carey Cuthbert, although he said nothing. He laughed heartily at the dry humour of the honest, happy couple, and went to visit his other friends in the village. In the afternoon, he was seen studying like a painter the form and appearance of old Grindstane's house, and did not leave the village till the evening. As soon as it was sufficiently dark, he repaired again to the old black domicile; and having during daylight taken his eye-draughts, he tried if he could observe what was going on in the inside of the house from the small window in the side-wall, or from a small round hole in the gable. Both apertures were, however, completely closed, the greatest care having apparently been taken, not only to shut the crazy shutters, but to stuff up the holes with pieces of rags, and to cover up all with a cloth hung from the inside so as to cover all the interior part of the windows. Carey saw, however, enough to satisfy him that the inmates had not retired to rest; for there was light in the cottage, and he thought he observed that it moved as if some one were carrying a lamp from one part of the interior to another. He heard no sounds; for the individual who moved the light walked softly, as if he wished to avoid making any disturbance. "We hae nae hope upon earth," said Carey to himself, quaintly; "I maun tak for ance my mither's counsel, an' _soar_--though, I fear, crawlin on thatched roofs is no the kind o' ambition she wants me to flee at." With these words, and a smile on his face, Carey went along, and, by the aid of a tree, mounted to the top of the house adjacent to Cubby's. Resisting a strong temptation to peep into the interior of this house, which presented a very clear, open, and convenient skylight, through which many secrets might have been discovered, he slipped softly along, and laid himself on the thatch of Cubby's house, with his feet in the spout, and his head on the small aperture, covered with one pane of yelked glass, through which, if any light had been in the interior, he could very easily have seen all that went on in the inside of the cottage. All, however, was dark as pitch--a circumstance which appeared to him somewhat strange, as he was certain he had seen light in the house before he mounted; but to be accounted for sufficiently easily, by supposing that the light had been extinguished during the time he had been occupied in getting up. He had no hopes now of seeing anything that night; but, as he was there at any rate, (so he argued,) he might as well rest himself a little, after the fatigues of a day spent running about in various directions, and he might perhaps hear something, if he could see nothing; a mode of acquiring knowledge he had less objection to than to the ocular exercises on printed paper, so much recommended by his parents and Dominie Blackletter--a creature he hated. Having lain quietly for some time, he heard, very distinctly, hollow moans, coming from the lower part of the house. They were of the most unearthly kind he had ever heard, suggesting, as they struck the pained ear, the idea of some one suffering the last pangs of mortal agony. These were mixed, or alternated, with, occasional harsh objurgatory notes, coming from another person, apparently a man, and supposed, by Carey, to be Cubby Grandison himself. These were followed by a scream, which appeared to be stifled towards its conclusion, as if some one had applied a cloth or other obstruction to the mouth of the individual giving vent to the unbearable agony. The scream marked the individual as a female, and Carey set her down as the unfortunate daughter of whom he had heard John Monilaws and his wife talking in the fore-part of the day. These sounds continued for a considerable time. The groans, the objurgations, the scream stifled as before, succeeded each other; and, then, for a time, a deep silence reigned throughout the interior, only to be interrupted again, by a repetition of the same sounds. At last, a louder scream than any he had yet heard, burst from the mouth of the sufferer, and, in an instant, a noise, as of some one falling over chairs, was heard, and then a sudden stifling of the scream, accompanied by the objurgatory and menacing voice of a man, whose anger seemed to increase with the necessity of an increase of his efforts to stop the complaint of the sufferer. This scream was the last that Carey heard. A deep silence again reigned, and a full quarter of an hour passed without any indications being perceived of the presence of a living person in the cottage. Having waited for a considerable time without hearing anything further, Carey concluded that the suffering individual had been suffocated, and was on the eve of getting down to give an alarm. His attention was again arrested by a new phenomenon. A light was now observable through the chinks of an apparent partition between the skylight and the under or main part of the house, an unusual occurrence in Scotch cottages, which have generally no garret, or any other apartment than what extends from roof to ceiling. A noise was now heard, as of some one trying to open a locked door. Success attended his efforts, and, in a little time, a small door, sufficient to let in the body of a man in a crawling posture, opened, and discovered the face and upper part of the body of Cuthbert Grandison, holding in his hands a small cruisie, which sent forth a doubtful, glimmering light, scarcely sufficient to do more than show the high bones and grey eye of the strange individual who held it. The door being opened he placed the cruisie into the small apartment into which it led; whereby Carey was enabled to see the nature of the place, and its extraordinary contents. As he surveyed them, he shook with terror, and was once afraid that his perturbation would discover him. The apartment was a place in the form of a small garret, extending to about half the size of the under apartment of the cottage; and seemed to have been formed after the house was built, for the purpose to which it was devoted. Casting his eye around and round, what struck the fearful observer first, was a skeleton of a human being, lying extended along the floor, and half enveloped in the darkness, which the glimmering taper only partially illuminated. It had been the first human skeleton Carey had ever seen; and the circumstances under which he now beheld it, shining principally by the borrowed light of its bleached bones, and suggesting some mysterious connection between the being whose physical system it once supported, and the extraordinary individual who held this strange piece of household furniture, rendered the sight appalling and horripalant. On a chest at the other side of the apartment lay another skeleton, apparently that of a new-born child, whose tiny shanks, worm-like finger bones, and small head, formed a striking and painful contrast to its full-grown companion--suggesting the probability of some kindred blood having once warmed the sapless bones, and some kindred fate having dried it up, leaving these dry tokens as the only monument of their sorrows and misfortunes. Around, on all sides were large packages cased with iron, and sitting on a small hook attached to the wall near the ceiling was another inhabitant of this living cemetery, which, from the singularity of its aspect, its silence, and its locality, excited as much terror in Carey as even the skeleton. This was no other than a large grey owl, sitting as demure as grimalkin, with its goggle eyes at their utmost stretch, glaring in the light of the taper like fiery balls, and rolling as if in anger at being interrupted by the intruder in its enjoyment of eating a mouse, which, dead and mangled, was firmly clenched in its claws. The few minutes that served Carey to examine these extraordinary appearances, whose reality he doubted against all the clearness of his rubbed eyes, enabled Cuthbert Grandison to crawl into the place, through the limited aperture opening in its side. The moment he got in, he shut the door carefully, and threw his eyes up to the pane of glass through which Carey was looking, without, however, observing him, as he instantly drew back his head. When Carey again directed his eyes to the object of his curiosity and awe, he was lying prostrate by the side of the bones of the larger skeleton. He then rose up, threw a look of recognition to the owl, who went on with his repast, heedless of the ceremony with which he had been honoured. The necromantic appearance, attitude, and acts of the hunchbacked living skeleton, who thus stood, as it were, in the midst of the dead, communing with them by a secret and mysterious power, realized in the mind of the neophite all the stories he had heard and read of the wonderful and the terrific. The subsequent conduct of the performer was not less extraordinary. His ceremonies and operations occupied a full hour. Everything was noticed by Carey; and if what we have attempted to describe produced wonder, what we have at present abstained from narrating, from a regard to what is due to the importance of other circumstances waiting for detail, was not calculated to lessen that feeling. Carey having got down again from the roof top, hurried away home at the top of his speed; for he had staid too long, and was certain of a scold from his parents, for having been seduced into low practices, by the vulgar inhabitants of the village. A confusion in the house, produced by a poinding having been that day executed, but removed by payment of the debt which had been incurred by the eldest son, William, and corroborated by the indulgent father, saved him from the abuse which awaited him. Though young, he had sense enough to see the folly of the proceedings of his father and brothers, and sighed as he retired to his couch, in the anticipation of a greater evil impending over the house of Cuthbert, than the humble-mindedness of its third son. The anticipated misfortunes of his father, and the recollection of the extraordinary sights he had witnessed from the roof top of Cubby Grandison, kept him awake during the greater part of the night. His meditations took various turns. The abuse to which he was daily exposed at the hands of his parents and brothers, produced an ambition of shewing himself worthy of their regard, and even of saving them from the ruin that seemed to await them; but the schemes whereby that was to be accomplished, formed in a youthful mind, fell far short of the wishes which produced them. In the morning, he was duly catechised as to the cause of his being so late in coming home; but he chose rather to be subjected to the suspicion of having been in the company of Sandy Ferrier the smith, or Geordie Mactubbie the cooper, or any other humble, but witty denizen of Newabbey, whose laugh caught his ready sympathies, than divulge the secrets of his evening's adventures, on the house top of Cubby Grindstane the cobbler. Next day it was absolutely necessary--so at least thought Carey Cuthbert--that he should again see John Monilaws, about his mother's servant, though he had no new commission from her to execute, connected with that affair; and giving Gideon Blackletter and his Greek and Latin books the slip, he hastened again to Newabbey, now become a much more interesting place than Cubbertscroft. "Ye've got nae intelligence yet, I fancy, Mrs Monilaws, aboot my mither's servant?" he said, as he entered the shop of the gaucy dealer in many wares. "No yet, Mr Carey," replied she. "There's been a consultation atween Elder Willison an' John, as to the time o' their visit to Cubby's den, as they ca' it. They're speakin o' four o'clock. They want a stout young chiel wi' them, for fear o' accidents. As you're a little interested i' the affair, and fond o' sichts, maybe ye may condescend to accompany them?" "I've nae objections," answered Carey. "Is there ony other livin creature supposed to be i' the house, but Cubby an' his dochter?" "No," answered the mistress, "if indeed ane o' thae two even be livin; but few folk can tell muckle aboot the inside o' Cubby Grindstane's house, for he has a way o' meetin visitors at the door, an', stanin richt i' the gap, speaks them fair, an' gets them awa as sune as he can." "Was he ever married, ken ye?" said Carey, "or did ye ever hear o' ony ither body that lived wi' him?" "I dinna ken," replied she. "He hasna had a wife sin' he cam to Newabbey." "Is his dochter Jeanie, wham ye intend for my mither's servant, like her father?" said Carey. "As unlike as ony twa creatures can be," replied Mrs Monilaws. "He's a hunchbacked scarecraw, an' she's a bonny young lassie, whase beauty, a' the ill usage and starvation she has suffered, hasna been able to tak the blume frae; but, I fear, that bonny blume winna stand muckle langer, if indeed death hasna already blawn the witherin gouch o' his breath on't. But this day will expose a' the secrets o' the inside o' that house." "I see nae great reason," replied Carey, "for supposin there's ony great secret aboot it." "What maks him keep a'body oot, then, Mr Carey, man?" said the mistress. "What gies him that side-look, that fearfu girn, an' his slouchin walk! What maintains him?--for he works nane; and why winna Jeanie speak abune her breath when she sees him, or answer, when he's awa, ony question aboot him or his hoose?" "A' prejudice, Mrs Monilaws," replied Carey; "auld wive's wind eggs, hatched, nae doot, by a covey o' them, as they sit thegither till they clock. The puir man doesna want to be fashed wi' a set o' meddlin neebors." At four o'clock, Elder Willison, John Monilaws, and Carey, went to the house of Cubby Grindstane. The door was locked. They knocked, and asked admittance. "What want ye?" said a rough voice from within. "We hae some shoes to get mended," said John Monilaws. "I'm ill, an' no in a mendin way the day," replied Cubby, "Gang awa to Jamie Goodawls." "Jamie has owre muckle to do, and tauld us to gang to Cubby Grindstane," said the godly elder. "My awl's my ain," said Cubby, in worse humour; "an' sae lang as it's no thirled to the _soles_ o' men, I'm free frae the power o' their bodies. Awa wi' ye!" "You're in my district, Cubby," said the elder, "an' I hae the command o' Mr Singer, oor minister, to ca' upon ye, and inquire for the state o' yer soul, whilk, to reverse yer puir pun, is, we fear, owre closely thirled to yer _all_. Yer dochter has also a soul to be saved; and Mr Singer says he never saw you or her i' the kirk." "Weel, if I dinna trouble him, he has nae richt to trouble me," replied Cubby. "I say again, awa wi' ye! The law says a man's hoose is his castle, an' it says true." "That's an unfortunate allusion," whispered Carey to John Monilaws. "Castles are made to be attacked." "An' to be defended," answered Cubby, who had overheard the remark. Carey applied his powerful back to the crazy door, and, in an instant, threw it open, overturning at the back of it a number of pieces of old furniture, placed as props or defences, to prevent its being opened. The party entered, and, in an instant, were in the middle of the cottage, which was in two divisions--one end being occupied by a small truckle bed, on which a human body lay extended; and the other which Carey remarked was under the small garret where he had observed the nocturnal rites, presented nothing but a few broken stools; some straw in one corner, over which a dirty sheet and a blanket were spread; a fire, with about as much live coal in it as a hand might hold, as well for quantity as activity of heat; a small cupboard, with a padlock on it of twice the value of the articles it guarded, presenting some bones that had once, and while another's property, been covered with roasted meat, and seemed by their whiteness to have been four or five times boiled, with the remnant of the fuisted meal purchased from Mrs Monilaws. "This is a strange way," said Cubby, as he went to what might have been called the butt end of the cottage--"this is a strange fashion o' bringin the word o' God to folk that dinna want it." "We are tauld," replied the elder, "to strive for the repentance o' sinners." "Ay, but ye're no tauld to brak open folk's doors, to force them to repent," replied Cubby. "Besides, Mr Willison, whar's the shoon Jamie Goodawl said he couldna mend, and sent ye to me wi'? Amang sins to be repented o', a lee is a very guid ane to begin wi'." "Hoo's Jeanie, yer dochter?" said the elder, who was fairly caught by Cubby. "What should ail her?" said Cubby, looking suspiciously, and moving between them and the other apartment. "That's just what we want to ken," said John Monilaws, pushing Cubby a little to the side, and moving slowly into the other division, followed by the elder and Carey. The sight that here presented itself to them, as they approached the small truckle bed, and folded down the top of the only blanket that covered the body of a female, was of the most wretched and pitiful character. It was with the greatest difficulty that John Monilaws could recognise the features of Jeannie Grandison, (for such the invalid was,) reduced, by the ill-matched pair, famine and disease, to the last stage of existence. The bloom which Mrs Monilaws feared for was indeed withered, and the stalk which supported the flower attenuated to a fibre. Pale as a corpse, and emaciated beyond the lowest state of body that keeps burning the lamp of life, it appeared doubtful, in the absence of motion, whether she should be classed among living mortals. The approach of strangers seemed to produce no effect upon her; for her eyelids, which about half covered the glazed orbs, remained stationary, and no symptoms of breathing could be discovered. At the side of the bed, stood a three-footed stool, on which was placed a tin tankard, containing some cold water, and a small bowl, with about an ounce of cold porridge (made, no doubt, of part of the meal seen in the press) in the bottom of it, no part of which seemed marked by the rusty iron spoon that lay alongside of the dish. "Why did ye say to my wife, Cubby, that that lassie was weel, when it's scarcely possible to observe in her a spark o' life?" "And what guid wad it hae dune to hae said she was ill?" replied Cubby. "I canna pay for possets an' puddins recommended by auld wives; an' a doctor is far ayont my degree or ability." "Ye micht hae begged assistance, then," said John. "Naebody wad hae refused a bite or a sup to ane o' God's creatures, lyin at the point o' death." "The folk hereabout," replied Cubby, "are owre proud o' their bites and sups, no to come an' enjoy the luxury o' seem their charity applied, and gettin their lugs lined wi' the return o' gratitude. A house fu' o' folk, an' a pouch wi' three farthins i' the corner o't, dinna sort weel thegither. Besides, what mair can ony sick body get than meat and drink?" "An' do ye ca' that meat and drink?" said John, pointing to the porridge and water. "What wad you ca' it?" replied Cubby, grinnin. "I wish I may get nae waur to comfort me when I come to dee." "If the fear of expense," said Carey, "has prevented ye frae lettin the neebors ken o' yer daughter's illness, wadna the same cause hae prevented ye frae tellin o' her death? A funeral costs siller--what wad ye hae dune wi' the body?" Cubby seemed moved by this question, and eyed the speaker suspiciously and fearfully. "What's that to ye, callant?" he said at last. "A man's nae great mechanic wha canna ca' thegither four white deals; and they that carry to the grave dinna trouble are by coming back to ask for their fare, as other carriers do." "She'll no be ill to carry, puir thing," said John Monilaws. "The only weight aboot her will be that o' death, whilk they say is great even in a bird. Whar does her mither lie?" "Whar should she lie?" replied Cubby, again put into a state of agitation, remarked particularly by Carey. "Think ye she's no in her grave?" "I hae little doot o' that, Cubby," said the other; "but I hope puir Jeanie hears naething o' a' this." On looking at the invalid, all parties were surprised to see her looking up in their faces, apparently comprehending every word they said. "Ye're better, I think, Jeanie," said John. "I dinna ken," replied the poor maiden. "Ask my faither. I can say naething about mysel. He'll answer for me." "Hae ye been gettin ony meat except this crowdy an Adam's wine?" again said the other. "My faither kens best what kind o' wine I hae been gettin," replied she. "Wine!" ejaculated Cubby--"God keep me an' my house frae sic extravagance! Mair souls an' siller hae been drooned in that liquor than in the Dead Sea, whilk hauds Sodom and Gomorrah." "An' some bodies hae been saved wi't," said John, taking out a small bottle and a glass, and emptying some wine, which, by holding up the poor invalid, he endeavoured to prevail upon her to taste. Cubby turned up his eyes and his hands to heaven. Jeannie looked fearfully at her father, and refused to taste the wine, though her lips were as withered leaves. "The taste o't will never leave her mouth," ejaculated Cubby. "Awa wi' you an' your wine! Is my bairn to be corrupted, an' her father lookin on? What can be expected o' ane wha has swallowed three hail pennies at ae gulp? God hae mercy on us!" "You seem to want yer dochter dead," said the elder. "The Lord has sent us thae things to be used, and no abused. Paul says, 'Drink no longer water, but use a little wine for thy stomach's sake, and thine often infirmities.'" "I'll no tak that," replied Cubby, "on the faith o' are wha said he cam here wi' shune to mend, when his true errand was to corrupt the stamach o' my dochter. Paul had mair sense than learn folk thae evil habits." "Shew me a Bible, an' I'll point ye out the passage," said the elder. "I may thank the Bible," replied Cubby; "for the auld ane I ance had, an' whilk I sauld for half-a-crown to Geordie Bookless o' Dumfries, kept me and Jeannie livin for five weeks--sae I hae naething to say against that guid buik; but I haena been able to buy a second. Ye may noo gang yer ways. Ye see that neither yer wine nor yer text is o' ony use in this house." "Will you alloo her to tak onything else, then, Cubby, if my wife sends it to ye?" said John Monilaws. "It's no often ye hear o' a puir penniless cratur like me refusin onything that wad save his stock o' three guid farthins. I wad tak ony gift but luxuries, provided the giver didna want entrance to my house; but that's impossible. A' that gie think they hae a richt to enter yer house as they like. Sae I dispense wi' yer gifts. Awa wi' you and them baith!" "Its in vain to fecht wi' him," whispered Carey into the ear of John Monilaws. "It's clear the lassie will dee if she's no removed. I'll hand Cubby, if you an' the elder will lift the truckle-bed bodily, an' carry the lassie an' it thegither into yer ain house." This communication was approved of, and conveyed to the elder. A sign was given by Carey, who instantly seized Cubby by the shoulders; while, the door being opened, the two others lifted with the greatest ease the small couch, and, to the great surprise of the neighbours, who rejoiced in the proceeding, carried it with the poor victim into John's house, where the humane mistress, who had a liking for Jeanie, received her with pleasure, and proceeded to contribute to her ease and recovery. The greatest terror was evinced by Cubby on being let free from the powerful grasp of Carey. He flew out of the cottage like one distracted, (yet locking, even in his hurry, the door,) forced himself through the crowd into John Monilaws' house, and, by threats, imprecations, supplications, and even bribes, endeavoured to get possession of his daughter. His conduct appeared to the people inexplicable. The starvation of his daughter, and the affection (for what else could have produced his anxiety?) that suggested such means of regaining possession of her, appeared inconsistent; and if the sanity of the individual had not, by his conversation, been well established, he would have been considered a madman. His violence arose to such a pitch that it was found necessary to guard the door; and it was only after some feigned attempt to break into his own house, which seemed to terrify him even more than the detention of his daughter, that he was forced home, and the poor girl was left unmolested under the charge of Mrs Monilaws. Meanwhile, Jeanie, being kindly treated and attended by a surgeon, recovered with a quickness proportioned to the powers of reaction of a youthful constitution, acting on a system once more restored to the enjoyment of what Dr Leechman called the _non-naturals_. Her natural beauty which had never yet got fair play, began to shew itself; and her simple and timid manners, produced by the dreadful tyranny under which she had lived, excited a deep interest in her protectors and preservers. She never, however, could be prevailed upon to speak of her father, or of anything connected with the house. A shudder passed over her when his name was mentioned; and she expressed an anxiety either to be put beyond his power or again restored to him, an alternative which was not well understood by her protectors, but sufficiently explained by the dangers to which she would be exposed if she were made accessible to him when he was under the influence of the fits of terror, excitement, and anxiety, he had exhibited already on more than one occasion, and, perhaps, partly to be accounted for by some secret cause which she could not be prevailed upon to divulge. She was quite agreeable to go to Cubbertscroft as a servant; and it was arranged that she should accordingly proceed there as soon as she had totally recovered. Grieved for her want of education, Mrs Monilaws procured, for her instruction in reading and writing, the services of the village schoolmaster, who attended her daily after she was able for the exercise, and was much gratified by the rapid progress she made (for she was of quick parts) under his zealous tuition. During all this period, Jeanie Grandison was regularly visited by Carey Cuthbert, whose interest in her, though he had not then seen her, commenced from the eventful evening when he made the awful discoveries we have partly detailed, through her father's skylight; and had increased from the moment he saw the first tint of the bloom of returning health on her pallid cheek, and heard the sounds of her clear melodious voice, though exercised only in the expressions of the sentiments of a half-broken, timid, yet grateful heart. When properly restored to health, Jeanie was sent out under the protection of John Monilaws and Carey, (who, however, left them before he approached the house,) to Cubbertscroft, where she entered upon her service. Nothing was said to any one of her parentage; all that was told to Mrs Cuthbert or the other servants, being, that she had, after having come to Mrs Monilaws to be engaged, been seized with a fever, which prevented her sooner from entering upon her service. This caution had been observed in accordance with Jeanie's own wish; but her curious history reached the ears of one of the servants, and very soon became known to the family, who did not treat her any better, because she was reputed to be the daughter of one already notorious in that part of the country for squalid beggary and extraordinary and mysterious conduct. Mrs Cuthbert, an unfeeling woman, whose contempt was measured by the humbleness of the birth, circumstances, and education of every one around her, treated her harshly--not hesitating, in her moods of spleen and passion, to taunt her with her father's abject poverty, and her own origin. The protection and kindness she received from Carey, were limited by his want of opportunity and power; but the early interest he felt in her soon assumed a new character, and an affection, pure and honourable as the heart that entertained it, took possession of him, with all the energy of a youthful passion. The opportunities he had of conversing with her, were stolen from the watchful surveillance of his parents; who, acquainted with his habits of humble companionship, had threatened to turn him from the house if he did not renounce them; but, as the mountains, piled by the daring hand of Titan, are not able to stop the mountain stream, many devices were fallen upon by Carey, to give vent to a passion whose course, though proverbially crooked, is also proverbially irresistible. When Jeanie was supposed to be visiting her friends in Newabbey--a place she dared not enter--she was along with Carey, in the Wolf's Brake, a very retired place in the neighbourhood, where they conceived they were perfectly safe from the disturbance of their enemies; but they were discovered by Carey's parents, who cruelly dismissed them both from the house. Carey was true to his love; and they proceeded together to the village, where they were received by John Monilaws and his wife, to whom they related their strange story, with kindness. Some time afterwards, they were married, and Carey paid little attention to the remarks of the neighbours, who could not see "hoo the young gentleman, without a trade in his hand," was to support himself and a wife. Even John Monilaws thought the match, in the meantime, imprudent, and recommended that it should be postponed until Carey had learned some trade or profession. Carey smiled in reply, and thought of what he had seen from the skylight of his father-in-law's cottage. In a short time it was currently reported, that the laird of Cubbertscroft was over head and ears in debt, and that the property was to be brought to the hammer. This news was soon but too well corroborated by large printed bills, posted in various parts of the county, advertising the sale of the property of Cubbertscroft, in the town-hall of Dumfries, on a day and hour set forth. One of these fell into the hands of Carey. He sallied out of the house; and it being at the time dark, he sought, and forcibly entered the dark and dismal habitation of Cubby Grindstane, now his father-in-law. "Ken ye the law against hamesucken, sir?" said Cubby, recognising him. "I do," said Carey; "but it is a subtle point wi' the lawyers hoo strong a rap (intended to let folk hear ye, but haein the by effect o' openin the door) amounts to forcible entry. I cam to ask hoo ye are, Cubby Grindstane." "A' sort o' impudence," said Cubby, "is comprehended by that cant. If folk want to borrow frae ye, (whilk, God be praised! I'm far ayont,) if they want to steal yer time, if they want to see what's i' yer hoose, or what's intended to be in yer stamach, they aye cloak their intentions wi' askin hoo ye are--the maist unmeaning o' a' questions. Gang yer ways the way ye cam sir; an' I'll send ye a weekly bulletin o' my health." "Bulletins hae been issued about the health o' folk o' less consequence," said Carey, pointing his finger to the small garret. "What mean ye, sir?" said Cubby, staring at him with his eyes at their full stretch, and shewing signs of great agitation. "Sit down, Cubby," said Carey--"I want to speak to ye, for a short time, rationally an' quietly. I hae nae ill intentions towards ye; an', if ye're discreet, ye'll find me a mair sicker freen than a safe fae." Cubby hesitated to sit down. He had never been seen in that position when any one was in his house; for he found he got any people who had been lucky enough to get in, out again, more readily by keeping on his legs. "I'm no used sittin wi' strangers," said he. Carey again lifted his finger to the roof of the house, and Cubby's agitation increased. Trembling from head to foot, he at last sat down on a three-footed stool, opposite to Carey. "Hae ye heard ony news o' late?" began Carey. "I'm no i' the way o' hearin news," replied Cubby, "an' care little for the warld's clavers besides." "But when things concern oorsels," said Carey, "we maun care aboot them." "What mean ye?" said Cubby. "It's said," replied Carey, looking at him attentively, "that in a hoose no a hunder miles frae the sma' village o' Newabbey, there lie the banes o' a woman an' a bairn, whase coffins never saw the mortclaith o' ony parish, or filled the graves o' ony buryin place. When deaths are concealed, suspicions o' murder are aye rife; and I hae heard it even said that simple concealment itsel, at least in ae case, is a guid, if no the only proof o' wilfu' slaughter." "What hae I to do wi' that, sir?" said Cubby, whose agitation still increased. "Silence!" said Carey, holding up his hand to the roof--"ye may at least hear the gossip o' the village. The banes are in the hoose o' an auld cobbler; and it's also said, that, in the place whar they lie, there is an extraordinary collection o' a miser's treasure, filling nae fewer than five big kists, strongly clasped wi' bands o' iron, to protect the gowd guineas, nae less in amount than fifteen thousand pounds. To mak the story mair wonderfu', the gossips hae added to the inhabitants o' the strange hoose, a grey owl--nae doot, an invention o' their ain brains." "It's a' an invention thegither," ejaculated Cubby, rising from his seat, and trying to walk through the apartment, which, however, his trembling and agitation prevented him from doing, otherwise than by a zig-zag motion, from one side to another. "I think sae mysel," said Carey; "but we'll see." And he rose and seized, in an instant, a ladder used by Cubby, for the purpose of mounting to his Golgotha. "Hauld, sir!" cried the frantic Cubby, as he flew and seized Carey by the legs, falling at the same time on his knees, and turning up his grey eyes, now, like his own owl's, darting forth fire. "What is this ye're aboot? Wha are ye? What ken ye o' thae dark things?--I mean there is naething there. Hauld, sir! or ye'll kill an auld man wha micht be yer faither." And he fell on the floor, groaning and rolling about, like one in a convulsion. "I will lay down this ladder," said Carey, "if you will rise, an' sit down, an' speak to me on certain subjects that concern me an' you." "I will, I will," replied Cubby, recovering slightly; "I'll sit quietly an' hear ye speak o' onything but thae village gossips. Nae lamb will be mair peaceable; an'--an' ye'll hae something, too--to tak wi' ye when ye gae awa." "Ye mean ane o' yer three guid farthins, I suppose?" said Carey, with a smile. "Ay, I'll mak it a gowd guinea," said the other, with an effort like to choke him. "Weel, let that alane," said Carey; "we'll maybe mak it mair. Ye now see that I ken a' the secret that lies i' that garret. I hae seen it wi' my ain een, an heard it frae yer dochter, wha is noo my lawfu married wife--a guid match to her, seein I am the third son o' William Cuthbert o' Cubbertscroft." "My dochter married to ane o' the Cubberts o' Cubbertscroft!" ejaculated Cubby. "Then hae the twa stocks at last joined? Heaven be praised!" "It is clear, then," continued Carey, "that you are completely in my power. On going to Gilbert Sleuthie, the fiscal o' the county, an' layin my statement afore him, his first step will be to seize the banes an' the gowd. Ye will be tried for the murder o' the unhappy beings whase bodies they ance supported; an', whether ye be guilty or innocent, ye'll hae some difficulty o' gettin oot o' the hands o' the law the fifteen thousand guineas I saw ye count wi' my ain een; an', even were ye to get it back, it will spread throughout the country that Cubby Grindstane has £15,000, an' a' the stouthrievers o' the country will be on ye like bluidhounds, to ease ye o' the burden o' keepin't." "But ye'll no gang to Gilbert Sleuthie, the fiscal?" cried Cubby, rising again into one of his paroxysms of terror, and seizing Carey by the knees. "It's no in the heart o' ane wi' that face o' yours to ruin a puir auld man wha you say is your faither-in-law. I ken ye winna do't. The guinea I'll mak twa, an' maybe a half mair. Say ye winua gang an' I'll mak it three. Mercy! mercy!" With the greatest difficulty, Carey got him to let go the firm grasp he had of his legs; and which he seemed inclined to hold till he got his request granted. "It isna by ony sic bribes as thae, Cuthbert Grandison, that I will be diverted from my purpose." "What will please ye then?" cried Cubby, earnestly. "A condition for yer ain benefit," replied Carey. "Have ye no sense enough to see that the money ye hoard in thae kists yields ye nae interest, and, besides, rins the risk o' bein taen frae ye the very moment it's kenned (an' its already suspected) ye hae't." A groan was all the answer Cubby could give; for denying the money was now out of the question. "Now I am to put you on a plan," continued Carey, "wharby ye may get a guid return for yer money, an' nae man can tak it frae ye." Another groan evinced the agony of the sufferer. "Hear," continued Carey, taking from his pocket the advertisement of Cubbertscroft. "Here is my father's property for sale on Wednesday next. It will, in all likelihood, be thrown awa. Tak yer siller to the bank o' Dumfries, an' lodge it there, then gang to the Hall, an' buy Cubbertscroft; an' wha will venture to rin awa wi' that frae ye?" "But ye are wrang aboot the siller," cried Cubby--"there's no sae muckle o't as ye say." "I will count it mysel," cried Carey, pointing to the ladder. "I heard ye count it before." "Weel, weel," replied Cubby, "I'll think o' what ye've said." "I'll wait yer answer the morn," said Carey. "If ye dinna agree, I write instantly to Sleuthie." Carey then left him; but, with the determination of watching the house during the night, to prevent any attempt at removing the chests. "Mercy on me!" said Cubby to himself, when Carey went out, "what am I to do? I canna remove thae kists, an' whar can I tak them. My secret's oot; an', whether that callant tells Sleuthie or no, it's clear I canna keep langer this siller in a thatched cottage. Let me see--buy Cubbertscroft, the property o' the freens o' my mither, whase name I bear? Aften hae I heard her say, puir cratur! that she couldna live an' see Cubbertscroft sauld and gien awa to strangers; and noo that is aboot to be--at a time, too, when, strange to say! my dochter is married to a Cubbert--the callant's no far wrang. The banes o' my wife an' bairn, wham I couldna find in my heart to bury, hae kept my gowd lang safe frae the ee o' my dochter; but they may noo lead Sleuthie to my coffers. What's to be done? My gowd! my gowd! I canna part wi' ye; for ye are dearer to me than my heart's blude! But, if it wad pain me to gie ye awa for land whilk has nae king's face on't, what wad I feel to hae ye taen frae me by force! I canna bear that thought. Buy Cubbertscroft! Cubby Grindstane gie awa his gowd for Cubbertscroft!--awfu thought! But it was my mither's wish--an' better land than naething. I maun think mair on't." Carey called next day, and again laid before the old man the danger of not complying with his request. Cubby himself had been shaken fearfully during the night with the terror of losing altogether his wealth; and the arguments of Carey almost decided him. He said he would consider again of it, and if he came to the conclusion of buying Cubbertscroft, he would be at the place of sale on the day and hour appointed. Carey left him, and continued his watch at night. About twelve o'clock he observed a cart and a horse standing at the door of the cottage; and when all the inhabitants of the village were at rest, he observed the miser carrying out his coffers and placing them on the cart. He allowed him to proceed. The cart was loaded; and, in a short time, he saw it take the road to Dumfries. He followed close behind, and was surprised to find that Cubby drove straight up to the house of the cashier of the principal bank of the town. By knocking hard, he roused the servants; in a little time the banker came out, the cart was unloaded, and a transaction finished. The day arrived on which the sale of Cubbertscroft was to take place. A great number of people was collected. Carey was there, and he was surprised to find his father; who, however, had attended with the hope of getting some friend to buy in the property on his account. The two looked at each other without speaking. John Monilaws was also present, as well as some others of the inhabitants of Newabbey. The auctioneer mounted into his desk; and £12,000 had been offered for the property by a neighbouring laird, who wished to incorporate it with his own land. Some other individuals bade, and the bodes had arrived at £14,000--no one being inclined to go beyond it. At this moment the door of the room opened, with a harsh noise, and the people looked around, to observe the cause of the interruption. Cubby Grindstane entered. A feeling of surprise ran through the crowd. John Monilaws stared, and Carey smiled. Stepping forward, Cubby watched the voice of the auctioneer. The latter called out £14,000. "Five shillings mair!" cried Cubby. "You must make it five pounds, sir," said the auctioneer. "Aweel, aweel, then," said Cubby--"let it be five pounds." The surprise of the people increased to wonder. Every one whispered to his neighbour--"Is he mad? Why does the auctioneer take his bode?" No one bade higher, and the hammer fell. "Are you able to find caution, sir?" said the auctioneer. "No," replied Cubby. "Why did you bid for the land, then?" rejoined the other. "Because I wanted it," replied Cubby. "Will ye no tak' the siller in place o' caution." "Assuredly," replied the auctioneer, smiling--"where is it?" "There," said Cubby, "is the banker's check for £14,000. The moment I get a complete right to the land, ye may hae the siller." The bargain was, accordingly, soon arranged; and, to the surprise of all that part of the country, Cuthbert Grandison became the laird of Cubbertscroft. His feelings subsequently underwent some change for the better, and he took home his daughter Jeanie and her husband, to live with him in the mansion-house, where, however, he still exhibited a great portion of his original avarice. He soon died, and the property was left to Jeanie. Carey Cuthbert had, by the right of courtesy, all the power of the property. He received with welcome his father and mother, and maintained them during their lives in the mansion-house from which they had formerly expelled him, and from which their own extravagance had driven themselves. THE SEA SKIRMISH. "The boatswain, piping, loudly thunders-- To your quarters fore and aft! The great guns sponge, prepare for wonders, While, my lads, the wind's abaft. With grape we can nine-pounders rattle-- Naval heroes, fight and sing-- He that bravely falls in battle, Nobly serves his prince or king." _Sea Song._ The days of war are now gone by, and the events consequent upon them have now become but as "the tales of other years;" while those who were then the principal agents in carrying on hostile operations, have either gone the way of all the earth, or remain as the connecting links between the last race and the present. But the time will never come when the naval history of Great Britain shall not be that on which Britons look with the greatest interest; and certainly if there is one page in our history more than another calculated to afford pleasure, and, we may add, profit to the reader, it is that which records the matchless achievements of our daring tars during the last French war. How many are the accounts of storms and battles, of hardships and perils undergone, which, in the days of our boyhood, we were accustomed to hear from the mouths of old tars, now no more, and whose memories are preserved only in the recollections of a few of their old associates! There still stands on the east side of the village of T----, a whitewashed house, at the door of which hangs a huge ship, indicating that this is the village ale-house. This house, in our early days, was the resort of some half-dozen old sailors, who had retired, after their best years had been spent in their country's service, to spend their days in their native village. At the door of "The Ship," as the ale-house was called, stood an immense ash-tree, the wide-spreading branches of which, covered with foliage, afforded, in summer, an agreeable shade from the heat of the sun. Under this tree, a long seat was placed, in front of which stood a white fir-table, upon which rested the jugs of foaming ale with which those who chose were wont to regale themselves. That seat is still there, and we hope it will remain for ages. It was the constant resort of the old tars already mentioned; and there, with their jug of ale, and their never-failing pipe, were they wont to fight all their battles o'er again. Many of the yarns which we then heard, we have since forgotten; some of them, however, still survive in our recollection. One of these we shall communicate, if not in the very words in which it was delivered, yet in substance, to the reader. If a spectator were to stand on almost any part of the seacoast of Great Britain, and cast his eyes over the sea, he would behold numerous white specks upon the ocean, passing in every direction; these specks he knows to be vessels, freighted with stores of various descriptions, and destined to various ports, to supply the deficiency in certain articles existing in one place, from the superabundance of another. These vessels, in our day, creep along their respective ways, without fear of molestation. The case was different, however, at the time in which our story begins. Then it was necessary for several vessels bound for the same port, to be armed for defence, and to sail in company, for the sake of mutual protection from the assaults of French privateers, who frequently attacked and captured merchantmen, consigning their crews to the horrors of a French prison. It was on a beautiful morning in June, that three of the smacks which ply between London and Berwick, were lying in the Thames, with the signal for sailing at their topmast heads. The sails were all loosed from the lashings which had bound them down whilst in harbour, whilst the sailors were all busily employed in preparations for hoisting them to the breeze. At the command of the masters, the mainsails rose slowly from the large folds into which they had been compressed; the gaffs were alternately elevated and depressed, as the strength of the seamen was applied to the peak or main haulyards, whilst the tars, employed in such operations, bellowed out, in guttural sounds, their favourite song of "O cheerily." At length, the command to "belay" was given, and the mainsails were stretched to their full dimensions; whilst the cry of "Clear away the gaff topsail there!" was responded to by the cheerful "Ay, ay, sir!" of the sailors. A couple of younkers flew up the rigging of each smack, with the agility of monkeys, to execute the order. "All clear!" shouted out a voice from the crosstrees. "Then, hoist away, my lads!" cried the master. And the long, tapering sails rose up to their places. "Sheet them home! and belay all!" bawled out the captain. And the topsailsheet was fastened to the belaying pins. "Clap on the jib-out-haul!" was the next order, which was as speedily obeyed. And the ample jib was also extended to the breeze, whilst some of the sailors were, at the same time, employed in bousing down the bobstay, which secured the bowsprit from yielding too far to the influence of the jib. All now seemed ready for starting; the ropes were coiled up out of the way, and the smacks held to the wharf by a single rope; the pilot was also on board; and the sailors were wondering what could be the reason why the word was not given to cast off. Minute after minute, however, rolled on, and still no order, whilst the sailors, leaning against the bulwarks, were whiling away the time in trying to divine the cause of delay. At last, voices were heard from the two sternmost smacks, hailing the one a-head--"_Tweed_, ahoy!" "Hillo!" sung out the master of the _Tweed_, a fine, hard-a-weather looking old seaman, who was pacing up and down his deck, and ever and anon casting an impatient glance at the corner of the wharf. "Aren't your passengers coming yet, Mr Jones? We are losing this fine air of wind down the river." "They promised to be down at half-past three," responded the old tar; "and you see it is scarcely that yet; but we must wait no longer. Tom," continued he, addressing his son, a fine young man of five-and-twenty, "run up, my boy, and see if they aren't coming yet." Tom, obeying his father, sprung over the ship's side; and, in a few minutes, returned, accompanied by an old gentleman dressed in black, on whose arm leaned a young lady, closely wrapped up in a cloak, which defended her from the morning air. The old man seemed worn down by years and infirmities; but, though over his head more than seventy winters had shed their snows, yet in his eye, at times, there shone a slight spark of animation, shewing the fire which had lightened up his face in other days. His daughter seemed to lean on his arm for support; but she, in reality, afforded him assistance. Under the guidance of old Jones, they proceeded to the cabin of the _Tweed_, which was fitted up in a style of neatness, and what, in those days, might be reckoned splendour. After seeing them seated, old Jones mounted the companion, and proceeded on deck, to get his vessel under way. On reaching the deck, he overheard two of the seamen and his son Tom, who was also his mate, in close conversation. "I tell you what it is, Tom," said one of them, hitching up his trowsers--"I tell you what it is, the leddy may be as bonny as Molly Jackson, but the old man is a priest; and there is never luck when a priest is on board." "I have sailed the salt sea," said the other sailor--a fine-looking, upright figure--"for thirty years now, man and boy, and never yet sailed with a priest without some misfortune or other happening--I suppose, 'cause the ould fellow's so spiteful at sight of them holy men, that he tries to do all the mischief he can; but we, poor devils! are sure to bear it all." "That's all in my eye and Betty Martin," replied Tom. "There was no later than the voyage before last, we took up half-a-dozen priests; and the only thing which happened was, that, when they came on board, a fresh hand was sent to the bellows, to blow more wind; but it was fair; so, instead of doing us ill, the ould fellow only cheated himself, as we made our passage in forty-eight hours. But what significates talking? Didn't you see his pretty little daughter?" "I couldn't get a right look at her," replied Bill Mossman, the seaman who spoke last; "but as she was stepping over the hauser, I got a squint at a prettty little foot--that was all I could see." "Oh, Bill," interrupted Tom, "had you seen her as I did, last night, when I went, with old dad, to call at their lodgings. My eye, what a beautiful run!--a pair of cheeks fit for the bow of a frigate--a waist as fine and tapering as the royal of a gun brig--and a quarter fit for a man-of-war. But her eyes"---- "Have burned a hole in your heart," interrupted Mossman. "Well, it's of no use denying it," replied Tom. "I will defy any one, to see her and not fall in love with her; but what struck me more than her beauty, was her kindness and attention to her old father, who, poor man, seems to need it all. The tears trickled down the old man's face as he related all his sufferings and trials, and his daughter's affection; and, shiver my timbers, if I could help piping my eye to keep him company!" "That's always the way with you," replied Jem Ward, the other sailor; "you're always taken in tow by some girl or other; but you can never be true to one. I had never but one sweetheart--Peggy Dawson, the prettiest girl in Berwick." "Your Peggy Dawson," replied Tom, "is no more to be compared to Miss Keveley, than a keelman's barge is fit to be compared with the _Royal George_." "Well, well," said Bill Mossman, "the girl is well enough; but I wish, as the priest is aboard, that the voyage were well over. But, let me see--this is Friday too--worse and worse!" "Keep yourself easy," replied Tom. "As long as Miss Keveley's on board, you needn't fear. Such a kind creature as she is, will be in the place of 'the sweet little cherub which,' as the song says, 'sits up aloft, and takes care of the life of poor Jack.'" "But," asked Bill Mossman, "do you know anything of their history?" "Very little," answered Tom, "except what the old gentleman himself told us last night: That he has been a missionary abroad for many years, and that his wife has died in a foreign country, leaving him and his only daughter, who accompanies him; and that, worn out with the fatigues which he has undergone, and his constitution broken down by an unhealthy climate, he is returning to his native village, to lay his bones, as he expressed it, beside the ashes of his fathers." Their conversation was here interrupted by old Jones, who gave the word to cast off the warp which held them to the quay--an order which was speedily obeyed by the seamen; and the vessel soon _paid off_, under the influence of the jib. The same orders were given on board of the _Princess Charlotte_ and the _Olive_, the other two smacks; and, in a few minutes more, all the three vessels were holding their course, smoothly and peaceably, down the river. It was a beautiful morning. A slight breath of wind was stirring, just sufficient to fill the sails of the vessels: light, however, as it was, it was fresh and invigorating. The sun was just rising; and his upper limb only was as yet visible, peering above the cloud with which his body was enveloped, as if to take a peep at the ocean and the land before rising from his couch. Gradually, however, the king of day emerged from the cloud, and again his upper limb was concealed in another cloud higher up in the heavens, leaving a broad band of light alone visible. These alternations of light and shade continued for a short time, till the sun ascended higher in the sky, and then the middle of his body was covered by a dark vapour, which was passed round him like a ribbon. This also passed off; and the "father of ten thousand days" burst forth in a flood of glory--of bright, effulgent light--making the gentle undulations of the waves to glitter as if studded with millions of gems; whilst the dewdrops of the morning, hanging from the sails and cordage of the vessels, glistening in the sun, assumed various fantastic forms, as the head of the vessel dipped and rose at intervals, upon the gentle waves. Miss Keveley had left her father reclining upon a sofa in the cabin of the _Tweed_, and had come upon deck to enjoy the beauty of the scene; and, as she gazed upon the rising luminary and the silent waters of the Thames, the queen of rivers, she felt that elevation of spirits, and that devotion, which such a scene is calculated to inspire. Catherine Keveley had been peculiarly the child of misfortune. Her mother was of a noble family, and her alliance had been sought by many rich and noble youths. Preferring, however, the hand of a man, who, though much her inferior in birth, yet in high and lofty feeling was, at least, her equal, she chose Mr Keveley as her companion for life--a licensed minister of the Church of Scotland, and at that time appointed as superintendent of a missionary station in a distant country. Happy in each other's love, they lived in a foreign land till the birth of Catherine; which event was succeeded by her mother's death. Catherine, though from childhood a delicate flower, and though deprived of the fostering care of a mother's love, yet, under the tender management of her doting father, rose up to be the prop and staff of his declining years. Her form was of the slightest kind; her eyes, of that light, heavenly blue, which is the sure index of deep feeling, were protected by high, arched eyebrows; her forehead was broad rather than lofty, but of an alabaster whiteness; her clear brown hair was parted over her brow in graceful curls, whilst her long tresses hung in flowing ringlets down her shoulders. Her air was usually of that pensive cast which never fails to interest the beholder; but, of late, a shade of deeper melancholy had been seated on her features, called up by anxiety for her father's declining health, and the sad prospect which then lay before her, an unprotected orphan. It was impossible to look upon that lovely creature without emotion, as she stood leaning against the bulwark of the vessel, and beholding the glories of the rising sun, and the places upon the river, as the vessel passed them, one after another, in its course. Nor was she unobserved; for Tom Jones, seated upon the windlass, with his hands crossed upon his breast, was silently beholding her. She was here joined by her father, who had come upon deck, and without speaking, took her hand. Catherine silently pointed to the sun.--"This, indeed," said her father, breaking silence, "is a glorious spectacle. I have travelled in many lands, and beheld many splendid sights--I have seen the most gorgeous spectacles of eastern magnificence, where everything was combined that could please the eye or captivate the fancy--but all of these fall short, very far short, of this display. How many people," continued the old gentleman, "travel into other countries, for the sake of seeing fine sights, who are ignorant that they might behold, at home, a sight grander than the finest of these!" "I don't wonder," said Catherine, "that the Persians, and many other Eastern nations, worship the sun--contributing, as he does, so much to our comfort and happiness; in so doing, they are thankful for the blessings conferred, and only mistake the secondary, for the first cause of their enjoyment." They continued thus talking to each other for some time, while Tom Jones was devouring every word which was uttered. After enjoying the coolness of the morning breeze, they again descended to the cabin, where they continued till breakfast-time, when they were joined by the old captain and his son Tom. The old tar was full of spirits--told them some of his best yarns--and, by his kindness, endeavoured to make his guests as comfortable as possible. Tom was engaged in the same labour of love; and, by several little acts of attention to the old gentleman, he gained what, to him, was the sweetest reward on earth--an approving smile from Catherine. "Are we your only passengers?" asked Mr Keveley. "Yes," replied Tom. "People now-a-days prefer going by land, to running the risk of being taken by the French privateers, which swarm along the coast." "I hope there is no danger of being attacked?" asked Catherine, turning pale with alarm. "Why, as to that," replied old Bill, "one can't say for sartin--I have seed such sights as that before now; but never fear, my bonny Miss--if they were to attack three smacks armed as we are, they might mayhap catch a Tar-tar--that's all." "I am not afraid for myself," said Catherine, casting an affectionate look at her father--"but my father"---- "Is now under that protecting Power which has preserved his life in the midst of so many perils by land." When they again ascended to the deck, the vessels were going with a fine breeze, which was taking them quickly down the river. After passing the Nore, they stood out to the open sea; and, the wind continuing fair, they proceeded speedily on their voyage, which promised to be pleasant and expeditious. On the second morning after sailing, the _Tweed_ was passing Yarmouth Roads. In the roadstead was lying a large vessel, whose taunt, raking masts, and square, lightly-rigged yards, proved her to be a man-of-war. The seamen of the _Tweed_ were pointing out to each other the various fair properties of the vessel as they passed; and Tom, thinking that Miss Keveley would be pleased with the sight, went below, to ask her if she wished to see a man-of-war. Catherine thanked him for his attention, and followed him upon deck. "What a beautiful vessel!" exclaimed Catherine, unable to contain her delight--"what exquisite symmetry!--what neatness in the arrangements of the various ropes, which appear as complicated as the gossamer's web, and, at this distance, almost as fine! What an intricate maze do all these appear to an ignorant spectator!--and yet, I dare say," continued she, addressing Tom, "there is not one amongst the number which has not its use." "Not one," said Tom; "and, however confused they may appear to your eye, yet there is not one which, at a moment's notice, may not be laid hold of by the seamen." During this conversation, Tom asked the name of the village in which Miss Keveley was going to reside. She informed him that they proposed settling, for some time at least, in Norham. "That's lucky," replied Tom; "my old aunt, Mrs Burton, lives there, who may be of service to you in settling, and who will be the most pleasant companion in the world. Her husband was the curate of the village, but he has been dead this many a day; she is, however, in most comfortable circumstances, and can afford you accommodation for a short time, till you get settled." "You are very kind, indeed," said Catherine, with emotion, "and I trust that my father and I will both feel grateful for the offer. However, we shall be guided by circumstances." Tom lost no time in informing his father of the destination of his passengers, and of the offer which he had made them. "That's right, my boy," said the old tar--"it's our duty to assist our fellow-men as much as is in our power--and never have I seed two persons whom I would be inclined to assist so much as that old man and his daughter." The wind, which had been favourable for them hitherto, now chopped about, by degrees, till at last it blew in a direction exactly opposite to their course. "This is unfortunate," said old Bill, as he gave his reluctant orders to alter the vessel's course, and to take in the studding-sails, which were hanging flapping in wild disorder, as the wind headed them. These, however, were speedily taken in, and the other evolutions performed, so as to enable the vessel to ply to windward. On the morning of the third day, the _Tweed_ was abreast of Boston Deeps, with the wind still at north-east. To leeward of her, about five miles, were the _Olive_ and the _Princess Charlotte_, the other two smacks. Tom had the watch on deck, and was steering the vessel--whilst the sailors were sitting forward on the windlass, with their hands across their breasts, and uttering, at intervals, a few words to each other. One man alone stood apart from the rest, upon the starboard quarter, who seemed, by his intense gaze, to be trying to make out some vessel at a distance. After gazing for a few moments, he took two or three hasty steps along the deck, and again came back to his place, and gave another look. At length, apparently not able to satisfy himself as to the object of his scrutiny, he came up to the companion, and took from thence the glass, which, having adjusted, he made a sweep across the horizon, till it bore upon the object of his search. "What do you see there?" asked Tom, of the sailor. "Something that I doesn't like," replied Bill Mossman; "I am much mistaken if there isn't a ship shaping a course to cut us off from the other smacks." The other sailors, hearing the conversation, now came aft, and took part in it. "Here," said Tom, "take the helm a moment, and give me the glass." Tom accordingly, seizing the glass, took a look at the vessel, and continued, for a few moments, silently scanning her, in spite of the interrogatories which were poured in upon him by the sailors, as to the appearance of the stranger. "Call up my father," were the first words of Tom; "I don't like the look of that vessel. Although she is at a great distance, yet I can make her out not to be a merchantman; and, besides, what does she mean by steering direct for us? Her movements are, at all events, suspicious." At this moment, old Bill came upon deck, and, after a scrutinizing glance through the glass, he ascended the rigging. There he had not continued long, when he bawled down to the deck, in a voice of thunder--"That he might be blowed if he didn't think that she was one of the rascally French privateers." This announcement threw the whole of the seamen into the utmost dismay, and then ensued a scene of confusion which would baffle all description. Half-a-dozen voices were heard at once, recommending different things, whilst each appeared too fond of delivering his own opinion, to listen to that of his neighbour. The voice of old Bill, however, who had again descended, soon restored order. "This is most unlucky," said he. "This blackguard means to cut us off from our comrades; he has got the weather gage of them, and for us to run down to them would be to run ourselves into the lion's mouth. But never fear, my lads," continued the old tar, in a more cheerful tone; "we may contrive to give the Frenchman the slip, for all that." "Had we not better make the signal for the other smacks to join as fast as possible?" asked Tom. "That's right," said his father. "Bend the signal haulyards, and send up the ensign, with the union down." "Ay, ay, sir," responded the men, in whose minds the assured tone of their captain had inspired confidence; and, in a minute, the British ensign was unfurled to the breeze; but, as the captain had ordered, with the union downwards, which had been the preconcerted signal for joining. The signal was immediately answered by the smacks; but they were too far astern to afford any reasonable hope of immediate assistance. Nevertheless, old Bill proceeded, with his accustomed coolness, to give his order for clearing his ship for action. The _Tweed_ was a large, powerful smack; and although, of course, not fitted out for war, yet, on her deck were displayed half-a-dozen twelve-pound carronades, which, however unfitted for an engagement at a great distance, yet, in a running fight, and at a short stretch, were capable of doing, what brother Jonathan would call, "pretty considerable execution." They were also well provided with ammunition of all sorts; and, although not a match in the number of men for the Frenchmen--which would, if a privateer, in all probability be crowded--yet old Bill, as he glanced his eye over his thirteen hardy fellows, who were looking to him for orders, felt assured that, if not victory, at least escape might be possible. "Get the ship clear, my lads," shouted he; "take in the jibtopsail--it will do more harm than good--slue round the guns, and get the lashings off them." These orders were speedily executed; and everything which was not absolutely necessary was removed off the deck. The ropes were all coiled out of the way, and the men took off their upper jackets, and remained in their trowsers and shirts. The ammunition was now handed upon deck, and the guns were soon loaded with a full dose of grape and canister. "Now, my lads, keep the ports closed, till I give you the word. I want to make the privateer think we are not armed, or that we have not made him out." Two of the sailors, at this moment, came from below, bringing, each of them, a couple of muskets, which old Bill immediately ordered again to be taken below, adding, that they could only be useful in case of close quarters, in which they could never hope to cope with the Frenchman, so that they would only be an encumbrance. Every arrangement seemed now made, which prudence could suggest. Two men were ordered forward, to work the head-sails, and one to stand aft by the main sheet, to assist the vessel in stays; the rest he stationed at the guns; the steering he took upon himself. The excitement attendant upon the clearing of the vessel for action, had driven the remembrance of his passengers from old Bill's mind. The case, however, was different with Tom; for his anxiety for the safety of the sweet pensive girl who had been committed to their care, had completely banished from his mind all thoughts of himself. As soon as the arrangements for engaging had been made, Tom entered the cabin, and acquainted Mr Keveley and his daughter, as delicately as possible, how matters went. Catherine stood for some moments like one stupified; at last her grief found utterance in a flood of tears, and she sobbed convulsively on the bosom of her father. "Oh, my father!" she exclaimed, "was it for this that you left the swamps of the Ganges? Better that you had died there in peace, than be made the captive of lawless and abandoned men, and be subjected to all the horrors of a French prison!" Mr Keveley strove to comfort her. "Be patient, my daughter!" he exclaimed; "the same Being who has protected as in times that are past, is still watching over us." Tom also strove to comfort her with the hopes of escape. "But are you sure it is a French vessel?" asked Mr Keveley. "I am sorry to say," replied Tom, "there is not the least doubt of that, as she is approaching us rapidly, and we can plainly discern her colours." "I will go upon deck," said Mr Keveley; "and do you, Catherine, remain here." But Catherine resolved to accompany him; and, in spite of Tom's solicitations to the contrary, they both ascended. "I had completely forgot them," exclaimed old Bill to himself, when he saw them ascend. "Poor things! I wish they were well on shore." Mr Keveley cast his eyes on the hostile vessel. Her hull was fast rising, for the breeze was fresh, and the French tri-coloured flag was plainly distinguishable at her _fore-royal_ mast-head. Tom endeavoured to persuade them to go again below, and he was joined in his entreaty by old Bill, who told him that they were only exposing themselves to needless danger--"Besides," added the tar in his rough way, "you are only live lumber here. So you had better go below, and get the Bible under way as fast as possible." They allowed themselves to be prevailed upon--and Tom again took leave of them. "Good-by!" said Catherine, stretching out her hand. "We may never meet again. May God bless you, for all your kindness to us! Take care and don't expose yourself, to unnecessary danger."--Tom took her proffered hand; and, as he looked upon her mild, beautiful eyes, suffused with tears, he vowed that the last drop of his blood should be spilt before harm should come upon that lovely creature. When Tom again came upon deck, the Frenchman was within half a mile's distance. She appeared to be a long, black brig; and her guns were pointing onward on each side, shewing, as the sailors term it, two beautiful rows of teeth. The seamen of the _Tweed_, as they stood looking at her, counted seven guns on each side; and, from their size, they appeared twelve-pounders. "If we can only keep her off," said Bill to his son Tom, "we shall do capitally; but, if she once gets alongside of us, it's all up." "Hadn't we better, sir," said Bill Mossman, coming aft, "cut away the boat from the davits? The vessel is too much by the stern already." "That's a good idea," said old Bill; and the order was executed accordingly. "Now, my lads," shouted the old tar, "be ready with your ports; and, when I give you the word, burst them open, and fire away; but keep out of sight, in the meantime, except one or two of you." The deck of the Frenchman was now plainly visible to those an board the _Tweed_--a dense mass of men were seen--but they seemed clustered thickest near the fore-chains; from which place old Bill thought they intended to board. "I'll cut you out of that, anyhow," exclaimed he, with glee. "I'll show you that a smack can be fought as well as a cursed French privateer, any day." So saying, he gave orders to ease off the sheets; and, keeping the vessel _away_, he made it appear to the Frenchman as if he had discovered him for the first time to be an enemy, and was endeavouring to escape. The Frenchman took the bait, and, making more sail, pursued him, under a press of canvass; and, as old Bill expected, came rapidly up with him, and was now within pistol-shot, when Bill suddenly shifted his helm, and hauled his wind right across the privateer's bows. "Now, my boys," shouted the old tar, "blaze away!" when the men, who were eager for the order, burst open the ports, and poured a rattling broadside into her. The smoke which ensued hid everything from the sight; but the horrid shriek which arose on board the Frenchman, and the crashing of wood splintered by the shot, gave indications how fearfully the "twelves" had told. The sailors on board the _Tweed_, were themselves, for a moment, awed by the sight of the work of destruction which they had made; but the voice of their old commander quickly recalled them to their duty; and they again, without a moment's delay, proceeded to load their instruments of death. The smoke had cleared away; but the distance was too great to allow them to perceive the extent of the Frenchman's loss. Escape now appeared possible; but old Bill's blood was up; and though, by carrying on a press of sail, he might have got off, he resolved to give the Frenchman another smell of his powder. "Cheerily, my lads!" sung out the old man; "keep steady, and we'll give Mr Monseer a hearty breakfast, different from what he expected." So saying, he sung out a few lines of a forecastle ditty, at the top of his voice:-- "They sailed from the Bay of St Peter, Five hundred and fifty on board; And we were all ready to meet her-- Conquer or die was the word." The spirit of their captain seemed contagious; and the crew, one and all, took up the two last lines, and bellowed it out a second time, in full chorus. "All ready, 'bout ship there?" sung out Bill. "All ready, sir," shouted the men. "'Bout there, then!" And, in one moment, the helm was put hard a starboard, and the vessel's head came round to the wind in fine style. "All's about, there, my boys!--let go the fore-bowline!" And this order being executed, the _Tweed_ was bowling along on the other tack, standing towards the Frenchman, who, having now recovered from his confusion, was again coming up rapidly. The privateer again attempted to board, but was again defeated, by the skill and dexterity of old Bill in working his vessel. Again they passed each other, and the Frenchman's broadside of seven guns told heavily on the _Tweed_'s sides and rigging; but the men had so well obeyed Bill's orders of keeping out of sight till the fire of the Frenchman was received, that none of them was hurt, save old Bill himself, who was severely wounded. The old tar, nothing daunted at the accident, again gave his orders to fire. A dense mass of smoke immediately rose up in huge columns to the sky as the order was obeyed, and the deadly instruments again belched forth their contents into the hull of the Frenchman. When the smoke cleared away, the crew of the _Tweed_ were dismayed to behold their gallant old commander standing at the helm, pale and bleeding, but still keeping his post. Tom rushed aft to support him, and asked him if he was much hurt. "I fear," replied the old tar, "that your poor old father has received a shot between wind and water; but never mind, my boy; while I can stand I'll never flinch; it shall never be said that ould Bill Jones flinched from his post in the hour of danger; and mind, my boy, Tom, if I fall, never surrender to a rascally Frenchman, but fight it out; be sure to keep him off, and there is no fear. Never yield, Tom!" The old tar, quite exhausted by his exertions and by loss of blood, dropped down upon the deck; but, notwithstanding the solicitations of his son and the crew, he persisted in not being carried below. They, therefore, wrapped a boat cloak around him, and laid him along the deck, with his head supported against a coil of rope. Tom now took the command, and it required all his exertions and skill to save him from the privateer; for the crew of the _Tweed_, regardless of everything else, had been looking at their commander like persons stupified, allowing the vessel to go as she pleased. The Frenchman had perceived their confusion, and was pressing on to take advantage of it; and the crew of the _Tweed_ could perceive the men clustering along the yards as thick as bees. Tom, however, again passed him without allowing the Frenchman to board; but, unfortunately, the broadside which was poured into the _Tweed_ shot away the jib-hal-yards, and the large sail came down into the water. Three cheers from the Frenchmen followed this accident, which promised them a certain victory; for not only was the smack deprived of the assistance of the jib in sailing, but the dragging of the sail through the water impeded materially her progress. All now seemed lost, when Tom, resigning the helm to one of the men, sprung forward; and, seizing hold of the end of the halyards, mounted the rigging, and, in spite of the showers of shot fired at him from the Frenchman's tops, succeeded in again reeving it through the block; and, by the assistance of the wynch, the jib again rose to its former place. The Frenchman, thus baffled in all his attempts, resolved to make a last effort; and, crowding all sail, came rapidly upon the weather or starboard quarter. "Ready about!" sung out Tom; and, as the smack shot up head to the wind, he gave the order to fire--which order was no sooner obeyed than a dreadful shriek rose from the privateer; and the first sight which greeted the eyes of the _Tweed_'s crew after the smoke had cleared, was their enemy, standing away before the wind under a press of sail. Simultaneous cheers burst from the lips of the men, as they beheld this not less pleasing than unexpected sight, and they were joined by old Bill, who, weak and faint as he was, raised his hand, and cheered with his crew. "We've given him a parting salute," said Bill Mossman, grinning with delight, through a face all begrimed with powder and smoke. "My eye, only look there!--he seems to be in as great a hurry as a dog with a kettle at his tail." "Ay, we have peppered his cannister for him," said Jem Ward--"the lousy rascal that he is! I am only sorry that we did not take him." The crew being now free from danger, crowded round old Bill, who was still lying on the deck, with Tom at his side; and, in their own, hearty, honest, though blunt manner, inquired how he felt. "Better than ever I did in my life," answered the old sailor. "No doubt, I have got a shot which may compel me to lay up in ordinary a sheer hulk for the rest of my life, if it don't make me kick the bucket altogether; but haven't we beat a French privateer nearly three times our size, and with ten times our men? I tell you, my brave fellows, that this is the proudest and happiest day of my life. And you, Tom," said he, addressing his son, "have behaved like your father's son--and that's saying something." The sailors now proceeded to remove Bill below; and Tom, whose eagerness to inform Catherine and her father of their success, had only been restrained by his filial affection, rushed down to the cabin to tell them the joyful news. When he entered, he found Mr Keveley and his daughter seated, with their hands locked together; and, as he entered, they clung closer to each other, as if preparing for the worst. It would be impossible to describe the joy which animated Catherine's face when Tom told them the happy tidings--joy danced in her blue eyes, which were alternately fixed upon him or her father. Surprise, at first, prevented her speech, till her emotion found vent in a flood of tears. Mr Keveley bore the news more composedly than his daughter. He first embraced her, then came and shook Tom heartily by the hand. "And has the Frenchman really run off?" asked Catherine, when she had recovered her speech. "You must have had warm work of it, if we may judge from your appearance," added she, with a playful smile. Tom turned his head for an instant to a mirror, which was hanging up on one side of the cabin, and in it beheld his countenance, so soiled with powder and perspiration, that he scarcely recognised his own features. After wiping away the drops of sweat, which were coursing each other down his cheeks, and ploughing up large furrows on the indented soot, Tom took his departure to attend his father, whom he found pretty well, though much exhausted from loss of blood. After the old man's wound had been dressed, as well as circumstances would admit, a warm soothing potion, administered by Mr Keveley, who understood something of medicine, was given, which, having drunk, he fell into a comfortable sleep. A consultation was now held upon deck, as to the course to be pursued. Some advised that they should proceed on their voyage, whilst some were for running back to Yarmouth Roads, to see if the frigate, which they had passed on the previous morning, still remained, in order that they might give intelligence as to the route of the Frenchman. The last plan was adopted, and the vessel was put before the wind--only stopping, as she passed, to inform each of her consorts of the particulars of the engagement. The crews of the vessels cheered the _Tweed_, as she passed with her flag at her gaff, and with the union now upwards, instead of being inverted as formerly. The wind being fair, they soon reached the Roads, and to their great joy beheld the frigate still lying in the same situation as when they had passed her. Tom immediately bore down upon her; and the watch on board the frigate hailed--"What ship, ahoy?"--"The _Tweed_, from London to Leith and Berwick--have been engaged for two hours with a large French privateer, and have beaten him off." "What direction did he steer?" was the next question asked. "Direct S.E.," was the answer, "and, if you look sharp, you may still catch her--she is a large black brig, low in the water, with her main-mast raking over her stern." The boatswain's whistle was now heard on board the frigate, calling all hands to weigh anchor; in an instant, the ship was all life and animation; and such is the effect of strict discipline, that, in a few minutes, the frigate was under way, with every inch of canvass set which could be crowded upon her spars, in pursuit of the privateer. Tom, seeing that everything had been done as he wished, again made sail to the northward. After a short time, he arrived at Leith, where his consorts had already conveyed the news of the engagement. As the _Tweed_ entered the harbour, crowds of people, attracted by the news of the victory, lined the shore; whilst the crews of every vessel cheered her as she passed. Old Bill, whose wound was not at all dangerous, was able to come upon deck; and the old man's gratification was complete, on observing the joy which their arrival diffused amongst all classes. After the _Tweed_ had been moored alongside of the wharf, a coach was provided, into which old Bill, with Mr Keveley and his daughter, entered, and proceeded to the old man's house; but the populace, who observed what was going forward, took out the horses, and drew the coach along the streets, with the loudest acclamations. During the whole time that the _Tweed_ lay at Leith, her decks were never free from people, who, most of them, brought brandy and whisky to regale the sailors. In such abundance were these articles supplied, that they not only were sufficient for the _Tweed_'s own crew, but served for a jollification to every sailor in the harbour; and such a scene of feasting, dancing, and merriment went on, as was never witnessed by Leith either before or since. The same reception awaited the _Tweed_ on her arrival at London, where they found the privateer with whom they had been engaged, lying alongside of the frigate, who had taken her, after a long chase. On making inquiries, they learned that the Frenchman had lost twenty-five men, with nine wounded--their last broadside having killed the lieutenant. Old Bill rapidly recovered from his wound, which was not dangerous; and he was soon enabled to take command of his vessel, which had made two or three voyages to London under the command of Tom. Mr and Miss Keveley had retired to the village of Norham, beautifully situated on the banks of the Tweed, where they continued for some time with Tom's aunt, Mrs Burton. The old gentleman, finding that his native air was beneficial to his wasted constitution, resolved to settle there for the remainder of his days; and he accordingly rented a neat cottage at the extremity of the village. Here Tom had frequent opportunities of becoming better acquainted with Catherine; and every time he beheld her, she improved in his regard. It was on the second voyage, after old Bill had again taken possession of his vessel, that he and his son Tom were conversing together on deck. After a few preliminary hems, the old man began:-- "Tom, my boy, I have been thinking that it is now time you had a wife--a sailor is never comfortable till he gets married." Tom replied, that he thought it time enough. "What would you think of Miss Keveley for a wife?" asked Bill, without attending to his son's reply. "The only fault I could find with her is, that she is too good for me. Do you think," continued he, "that Miss Keveley would ever marry a sailor?" "As unlikely ships as that have come to land before now," replied Bill; "and wherefore should Miss Keveley not marry you? Haven't you seventy pounds a-year left you by your grandmother? and an't you my only son? And you know I've several shares in the company's vessels, besides something else that you know of; and when the old woman and myself are brought up in the next world, sha'nt you have it all?" Tom assented to all this, but shook his head. "Try her, my boy," said Bill--"faint heart never won fair lady, as they say at the fairs, when they wish you to try your luck at the 'rouly-pouly.' I was talking about it myself to the old gentleman not long ago; he highly approves of the match, provided you and his daughter could agree; and Mr Keveley added, that he believed you would not meet a refusal, as his daughter seemed never tired of talking about your exploits, or of hearing of them; so that you see it all depends upon yourself." Tom, encouraged by these words, resolved, when the vessel should reach Berwick, to set out for Norham; which design he put in execution, a few days after, setting out from Berwick about six in the evening. After reaching the village, he quickly passed through it to where Mr Keveley's cottage stood. It was a sweet summer evening; and when Tom approached the house, the setting sun was illuminating the windows with his departing rays. A little garden fronted the cottage; and the honeysuckle and jessamine, which had crept up its front, were spreading their fragrance all around. The window of the little parlour looked to the west; it was opened, and Tom heard the sound of a musical instrument, accompanied by a low female voice. He listened for a moment to catch if possible the air, but it seemed a foreign song which the musician was playing. At last, he went up to the door and knocked, whilst his heart went pit-a-pat with emotion. Mr Keveley had gone out, and he found Catherine alone in the parlour. She received him with her usual sweet smile of welcome, and bade him be seated. Tom strove to appear at ease, but his anxiety prevented him, and his confusion was such as to attract the notice of Catherine, who asked him if he was unwell. "Not exactly that," said Tom; "but"----Here he made a full pause. "But what?" asked Catherine, unable to divine the cause of his uneasiness. "Well," said Tom, at length taking courage, "I may as well out with it at once. The truth is, Miss Keveley, I love you dearly; but could never have had the courage to make this declaration, had your father not approved of it." It was now Catherine's turn to blush, and be silent; at length, regaining the use of her tongue, she replied--"It would not only be affectation, but ingratitude in me, to affect indifference, where my heart is really interested; and, as you say my father sanctions your addresses, there is my hand;--if you think it worth your acceptance, it is at your service." Tom, unable to contain himself, took her hand, and pressed it to his lips. "I leave you to yourself," said he "for a few minutes, to recover from your confusion"--so saying, he went out for a little; and met Mr Keveley, just returning from a visit to a friend at a little distance, to whom he communicated the pleasing intelligence of his happiness. Mr Keveley took Tom by the hand, and, having embraced him-- "I shall now leave this world," said he, "without a wish unsatisfied. It was the only desire of my heart, before bidding a final adieu to all sublunary things, to see my daughter with a protector for life; and I am glad she has made choice of an honest man, and one every way so deserving of her." So saying, he led Tom back to the parlour, where Catherine still remained seated. After joining their hands, the old gentleman uttered a benediction over them, and embraced them both with much tenderness. After a short time, Tom took his leave, but not before Catherine had promised that their marriage should take place on an early day. About a fortnight after, on a fine forenoon, the village grocer at Norham was standing at his door, and gazing after a crowd which had passed; as he stood looking, a man dressed like a grazier came up, and, after the accustomed salutation of "How's a' wi' ye the day?" asked him what he was "glowrin" at. "I have just been lookin at the weddin which has passed," answered the grocer; "an' sic a braw sicht hasna been seen in the village for mony a day." "Wha's weddin is it?" asked the grazier. "It's the daughter of ane Mr Keveley, who has settled in this place for some time--and a bonny lassie she is; and they say, she's as guid as she's bonny. She's married to ane Jones, son o' auld Bill Jones, maister o' the smack which beat the Frenchman no very lang syne yet. Every one o' the smack's crew are at the weddin; an' sic a set o' merry jovial blades were never thegither in this place afore. The folks are like to stifle them wi' kindness. But what's the queerest thing of a' is, that they a' cam oot here, this mornin, in a boat." "In a boat!" exclaimed the grazier, in amazement--"on dry land?" "Ay, in a boat," replied the grocer--"a lang boat, mounted upon a lang cart; an' there were they a' seated in it, wi' ribbons fleein; an' wi' the Union, as they ca' the flag which hung at the ship's mast when they beat the Frenchman; an' the folks a' shoutin, an' the bairns skirling. I declare, thae sailors are a wheen born deevils for fun and frolic; but they are sic canty chiels, that ane canna help likin them the better for a' their nonsense. They ca' the lang boat the _Whim_; an', faith, she's weel named--for it's a whimsical idea." The grocer and the grazier stood talking thus to each other, till the cavalcade returned from the church--Tom and his bride in an open, four-wheeled carriage, whilst the rest all followed in the boat already mentioned. Little of our story now remains to be told. After his marriage, Tom went to sea for a few years, in command of the _Tweed_; but, on the death of Mr Keveley, he retired to Norham, where he took the cottage which the old gentleman had inhabited. Passing lately through the churchyard of T----, we went up to the grave of old Bill Jones. A neat, marble tombstone had been raised to his memory, by his son and daughter. At the bottom was the following epitaph:-- "Though Neptune's waves and Boreas' storms Have tossed me to and fro, In spite of all, by God's decree, I anchor here below." 
45778	----	MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER: CONSISTING OF HISTORICAL AND ROMANTIC BALLADS, COLLECTED IN THE SOUTHERN COUNTIES OF SCOTLAND; WITH A FEW OF MODERN DATE, FOUNDED UPON LOCAL TRADITION. IN THREE VOLUMES. VOL. III. * * * * * The songs, to savage virtue dear, That won of yore the public ear, Ere Polity, sedate and sage, Had quench'd the fires of feudal rage.--WARTON. * * * * * THIRD EDITION. EDINBURGH: =Printed by James Ballantyne and Co.= FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES AND ORME, PATERNOSTER-ROW, LONDON; AND A. CONSTABLE AND CO. EDINBURGH. 1806. CONTENTS TO THE THIRD VOLUME. * * * * * PAGE. Fause Foodrage 4 Kempion 15 Lord Thomas and Fair Annie 36 The Wife of Usher's Well 45 Cospatrick 51 Prince Robert 58 King Henrie 63 Annan Water 72 The Cruel Sister 78 The Queen's Marie 86 The Bonny Hynd 98 O gin my Love were yon Red Rose 104 O tell me how to woo thee 106 The Souters of Selkirk 108 The Flowers of the Forest, Part I. 125 Part II. 130 The Laird of Muirhead 134 Ode on visiting Flodden 136 PART THIRD. _IMITATIONS OF THE ANCIENT BALLAD._ Christie's Will 147 Thomas the Rhymer, Part I. 166 Part II. 186 Part III. 213 The Eve of St John 229 Lord Soulis 245 The Cout of Keeldar 284 Glenfinlas, or Lord Ronald's Coronach 303 The Mermaid 323 The Lord Herries his Complaint 348 The Murder of Caerlaveroc 355 Sir Agilthorn 368 Rich Auld Willie's Farewell 380 Water Kelpie 383 Ellandonan Castle 399 Cadyow Castle 410 The Gray Brother 432 War Song of the Royal Edinburgh Light Dragoons 446 The Feast of Spurs 452 On a Visit paid to the Ruins of Melrose Abbey by the Countess of Dalkeith, and her Son, Lord Scott. 457 Archie Armstrong's Aith 460 MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER. PART SECOND--CONTINUED. * * * * * _ROMANTIC BALLADS._ FAUSE FOODRAGE. * * * * * King Easter has courted her for her lands, King Wester for her fee; King Honour for her comely face, And for her fair bodie. They had not been four months married, As I have heard them tell, Until the nobles of the land Against them did rebel. And they cast kevils[1] them amang, And kevils them between; And they cast kevils them amang, Wha suld gae kill the king. O some said yea, and some said nay, Their words did not agree; Till up and got him, Fause Foodrage, And swore it suld be he. When bells were rung, and mass was sung, And a' men bound to bed, King Honour and his gaye ladye In a hie chamber were laid. Then up and raise him, Fause Foodrage, When a' were fast asleep, And slew the porter in his lodge, That watch and ward did keep. O four and twenty silver keys Hang hie upon a pin; And aye, as ae door he did unlock, He has fastened it him behind. Then up and raise him, King Honour, Says--"What means a' this din? "Or what's the matter, Fause Foodrage, "Or wha has loot you in?" "O ye my errand weel sall learn, "Before that I depart." Then drew a knife, baith lang and sharp, And pierced him to the heart. Then up and got the queen hersell, And fell low down on her knee: "O spare my life, now, Fause Foodrage! "For I never injured thee. "O spare my life, now, Fause Foodrage, "Until I lighter be! "And see gin it be lad or lass, "King Honour has left me wi'." "O gin it be a lass," he says, "Weel nursed it sall be; "But gin it be a lad bairn, "He sall be hanged hie. "I winna spare for his tender age, "Nor yet for his hie hie kin; "But soon as e'er he born is, "He sall mount the gallows pin." O four and twenty valiant knights Were set the queen to guard; And four stood aye at her bour door, To keep both watch and ward. But when the time drew near an end, That she suld lighter be, She cast about to find a wile, To set her body free. O she has birled these merry young men With the ale but and the wine, Until they were as deadly drunk As any wild wood swine. "O narrow, narrow, is this window, "And big, big, am I grown!" Yet, through the might of Our Ladye, Out at it she has gone. She wandered up, she wandered down, She wandered out and in; And, at last, into the very swine's stythe, The queen brought forth a son. Then they cast kevils them amang, Which suld gae seek the queen; And the kevil fell upon Wise William, And he sent his wife for him. O when she saw Wise William's wife, The queen fell on her knee; "Win up, win up, madame!" she says: "What needs this courtesie?" "O out o' this I winna rise, "Till a boon ye grant to me; "To change your lass for this lad bairn, "King Honour left me wi'. "And ye maun learn my gay goss hawk "Right weel to breast a steed; "And I sall learn your turtle dow[2] "As weel to write and read. "And ye maun learn my gay goss hawk "To wield baith bow and brand; "And I sall learn your turtle dow "To lay gowd[3] wi' her hand. "At kirk and market when we meet, "We'll dare make nae avowe, "But--'Dame, how does my gay goss hawk?' "Madame, how does my dow?" When days were gane, and years came on, Wise William he thought lang; And he has ta'en King Honour's son A hunting for to gang. It sae fell out, at this hunting, Upon a simmer's day, That they came by a fair castell, Stood on a sunny brae. "O dinna ye see that bonny castell, "Wi' halls and towers sae fair? "Gin ilka man had back his ain, "Of it ye suld be heir." "How I suld be heir of that castell, "In sooth I canna see; "For it belangs to Fause Foodrage, "And he is na kin to me." "O gin ye suld kill him, Fause Foodrage, "You would do but what was right; "For I wot he kill'd your father dear, "Or ever ye saw the light. "And gin ye suld kill him, Fause Foodrage, "There is no man durst you blame; "For he keeps your mother a prisoner, "And she darna take ye hame." The boy stared wild like a gray goss hawk: Says--"What may a' this mean?" "My boy, ye are King Honour's son, "And your mother's our lawful queen." "O gin I be king Honour's son, "By Our Ladye I swear, "This night I will that traitor slay, "And relieve my mother dear!" He has set his bent bow to his breast, And leaped the castell wa'; And soon he has seized on Fause Foodrage, Wha loud for help 'gan ca'. "O haud your tongue, now, Fause Foodrage! "Frae me ye shanna flee." Syne pierc'd him thro' the fause fause heart, And set his mother free. And he has rewarded Wise William Wi' the best half of his land; And sae has he the turtle dow, Wi' the truth o' his right hand. NOTES ON FAUSE FOODRAGE. * * * * * _King Easter has courted her for her lands,_ _King Wester for her fee;_ _King Honour, &c._--P. 4. v. 1. King Easter and King Wester were probably the petty princes of Northumberland and Westmoreland. In the _Complaynt of Scotland_, an ancient romance is mentioned, under the title, "_How the king of Estmureland married the king's daughter of Westmureland_," which may possibly be the original of the beautiful legend of _King Estmere_, in the _Reliques of Ancient English Poetry_, Vol. I. p. 62 4th edit. From this it may be conjectured, with some degree of plausibility, that the independent kingdoms of the east and west coast were, at an early period, thus denominated, according to the Saxon mode of naming districts, from their relative positions; as Essex, Wessex, Sussex. But the geography of the metrical romances sets all system at defiance; and in some of these, as _Clariodus_ and _Meliades_, Estmureland undoubtedly signifies the land of the Easterlings, or the Flemish provinces at which vessels arrived in three days from England, and to which they are represented as exporting wool.--_Vide Notes on the Tale of Kempion._ On this subject I have, since publication of the first edition, been favoured with the following remarks by Mr Ritson, in opposition to the opinion above expressed:-- "Estmureland and Westmureland have no sort of relation to Northumberland and Westmoreland. The former was never called Eastmoreland, nor were there ever any kings of Westmoreland; unless we admit the authority of an old rhyme, cited by Usher:-- "Here the king Westmer "Slow the king Rothinger." "There is, likewise, a 'king Estmere, of Spain,' in one of Percy's ballads. "In the old metrical romance of _Kyng Horn_, or _Horn Child_, we find both Westnesse and Estnesse; and it is somewhat singular, that two places, so called, actually exist in Yorkshire at this day. But _ness_, in that quarter, is the name given to an inlet from a river. There is, however, great confusion in this poem, as _Horn_ is called king sometimes of one country, and sometimes of the other. In the French original, Westir is said to have been the old name of Hirland, or Ireland; which, occasionally at least, is called Westnesse, in the translation, in which Britain is named Sudene; but here, again, it is inconsistent and confused. "It is, at any rate, highly probable, that the story, cited in the _Complaynt of Scotland_, was a romance of _King Horn_, whether prose or verse; and, consequently, that Estmureland and Westmureland should there mean England and Ireland; though it is possible that no other instance can be found of those two names occurring with the same sense." _And they cast kevils them amang._--P. 4. v. 3. _Kevils_--Lots. Both words originally meant only a portion, or share, of any thing.--_Leges Burgorum_, cap. 59, _de lot, cut, or kavil_. _Statuta Gildæ_, cap. 20. _Nullus emat lanam, &c. nisi fuerit confrater Gildæ, &c._ _Neque_ lot _neque_ cavil _habeat cum aliquo confratre nostro._ In both these laws, _lot_ and _cavil_ signify a share in trade. _Dame, how does my gay goss hawk?_--P. 9. v. 1. This metaphorical language was customary among the northern nations. In 925, king Adelstein sent an embassy to Harald Harfagar, king of Norway, the chief of which presented that prince with an elegant sword, ornamented with precious stones. As it was presented by the point, the Norwegian chief, in receiving it, unwarily laid hold of the hilt. The English ambassador declared, in the name of his master, that he accepted the act as a deed of homage; for, touching the hilt of a warrior's sword was regarded as an acknowledgement of subjection. The Norwegian prince, resolving to circumvent his rival by a similar artifice, suppressed his resentment, and sent, next summer, an embassy to Adelstein, the chief of which presented Haco, the son of Harald, to the English prince; and, placing him on his knees, made the following declaration:--"_Haraldus, Normannorum rex, amice te salutat;_ albamque _hunc avem, bene institutam mittit, utque melius deinceps erudias, postulat._" The king received young Haco on his knees; which the Norwegian ambassador immediately accepted, in the name of his master, as a declaration of inferiority; according to the proverb, "_Is minor semper habetur, qui alterius filium educat._"--Pontoppidani Vestigia Danor. Vol. II. p. 67. FOOTNOTES: [1] _Kevils_--Lots. [2] _Dow_--Dove. [3] _Lay gowd_--To embroider in gold. KEMPION. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED * * * * * The tale of _Kempion_ seems, from the names of the personages, and the nature of the adventure, to have been an old metrical romance, degraded into a ballad, by the lapse of time, and the corruption of reciters. The change in the structure of the last verses, from the common ballad stanza, to that which is proper to the metrical romance, adds force to this conjecture. Such transformations, as the song narrates, are common in the annals of chivalry. In the 25th and 26th cantos of the second book of the _Orlando Inamorato_, the paladin, _Brandimarte_, after surmounting many obstacles, penetrates into the recesses of an enchanted palace. Here he finds a fair damsel, seated upon a tomb, who announces to him, that, in order to achieve her deliverance, he must raise the lid of the sepulchre, and kiss whatever being should issue forth. The knight, having pledged his faith, proceeds to open the tomb, out of which a monstrous snake issues forth, with a tremendous hiss. _Brandimarte_, with much reluctance, fulfils the _bizarre_ conditions of the adventure; and the monster is instantly changed into a beautiful Fairy, who loads her deliverer with benefits. For the satisfaction of those, who may wish to compare the tale of the Italian poet with that of _Kempion_, a part of the original of Boiardo is given below.[4] There is a ballad, somewhat resembling _Kempion_, called the _Laidley Worm of Spindleston-heuch_, which is very popular upon the borders; but, having been often published, it was thought unnecessary to insert it in this collection. The most common version was either entirely composed, or re-written, by the Reverend Mr Lamb, of Norham. A similar tradition is, by Heywood and Delrio, said to have existed at Basil. A tailor, in an adventurous mood, chose to descend into an obscure cavern, in the vicinity of the city. After many windings, he came to an iron door, through which he passed into a splendid chamber. Here he found, seated upon a stately throne, a lady, whose countenance was surprisingly beautiful, but whose shape terminated in a dragon's train, which wrapped around the chair on which she was placed. Before her stood a brazen chest, trebly barred and bolted; at each end of which lay couched a huge black ban-dog, who rose up, as if to tear the intruder in pieces. But the lady appeased them; and, opening the chest, displayed an immense treasure, out of which she bestowed upon the visitor some small pieces of money, informing him, that she was enchanted by her step-dame, but should recover her natural shape, on being kissed thrice by a mortal. The tailor assayed to fulfil the conditions of the adventure; but her face assumed such an altered, wild, and grim expression, that his courage failed, and he was fain to fly from the place. A kinsman of his, some years after, penetrated into the cavern, with the purpose of repairing a desperate fortune. But, finding nothing but dead men's bones, he ran mad, and died. Sir John Mandeville tells a similar story of a Grecian island. There are numerous traditions, upon the borders, concerning huge and destructive snakes, and also of a poisonous reptile called a _man-keeper_; although the common adder, and blind worm, are the only reptiles of that _genus_ now known to haunt our wilds. Whether it be possible, that, at an early period, before the country was drained, and cleared of wood, serpents of a larger size may have existed, is a question which the editor leaves to the naturalist. But, not to mention the fabulous dragon, slain in Northumberland by _Sir Bevis_, the fame still survives of many a _preux chevalier_, supposed to have distinguished himself by similar atchievements. The manor of Sockburne, in the bishopric of Durham, anciently the seat of the family of Conyers, or Cogniers, is held of the bishop by the service of presenting, or showing to him, upon his first entrance into his diocese, an antique sword, or faulchion. The origin of this peculiar service is thus stated in Beckwith's edition of _Blount's Ancient Tenures_, p. 200. "Sir Edward Blackett (the proprietor of the manor) now represents the person of Sir John Conyers, who, as tradition says, in the fields of Sockburne, slew, with this faulchion, a monstrous creature, a dragon, a worm, or flying serpent, that devoured men, women, and children. The then owner of Sockburne, as a reward for his bravery, gave him the manor, with its appurtenances, to hold for ever, on condition that he meets the lord bishop of Durham, with this faulchion, on his first entrance into his diocese, after his election to that see. "And, in confirmation of this tradition, there is painted, in a window of Sockburne church, the faulchion we just now spoke of: and it is also cut in marble, upon the tomb of the great ancestor of the Conyers', together with a dog, and the monstrous worm, or serpent, lying at his feet, of his own killing, of which the history of the family gives the above account. "When the bishop first comes into his diocese, he crosses the river Tees, either at the ford at Nesham, or Croft-bridge, where the counties of York and Durham divide; at one of which places Sir Edward Blackett, either in person, or by his representative, if the bishop comes by Nesham, rides into the middle of the river Tees, with the ancient faulchion drawn in his hand, or upon the middle of Croft-bridge; and then presents the faulchion to the bishop, addressing him in the ancient form of words; upon which the bishop takes the faulchion into his hand, looks at it, and returns it back again, wishing the lord of the manor his health, and the enjoyment of his estate." The faulchion, above alluded to, has upon its hilt the arms of England, in the reign of King John, and an eagle, supposed to be the ensign of Morcar, earl of Northumberland.--GOUGH'S _Camden's Britannia_, Vol. III. p. 114. Mr Gough, with great appearance of probability, conjectures, the dragon, engraved on the tomb, to be an emblematical, or heraldric ornament. The property, called Pollard's Lands, near Bishop Auckland, is held by a similar tenure; and we are informed, in the work just quoted, that "Dr Johnson of Newcastle met the present bishop, Dr Egerton, in September, 1771, at his first arrival there, and presented a faulchion upon his knee, and addressed him in the old form of words, saying, "_My lord, in behalf of myself, as well as of the several other tenants of Pollard's Lands, I do humbly present your lordship with this faulchion, at your first coming here, wherewith, as the tradition goeth, Pollard slew of old a great and venomous serpent, which did much harm to man and beast: and, by the performance of this service, these lands are holden._"--Ancient Tenures, p. 201. Above the south entrance of the ancient parish church of Linton, in Roxburghshire, is a rude piece of sculpture, representing a knight, with a falcon on his arm, encountering with his lance, in full career, a sort of monster, which the common people call a _worm_, or snake. Tradition bears, that this animal inhabited a den, or hollow, at some distance from the church, whence it was wont to issue forth, and ravage the country, or, by the fascination of its eyes and breath, draw its prey into its jaws. Large rewards were in vain offered for the destruction of this monster, which had grown to so huge a bulk, that it used to twist itself, in spiral folds, round a green hillock of considerable height, still called Wormeston, and marked by a clump of trees. When sleeping in this place, with its mouth open, popular credulity affirms, that it was slain by the laird of Lariston, a man, brave even to madness, who, coming upon the snake at full gallop, thrust down its throat a _peat_ (a piece of turf dried for fuel), dipt in scalding pitch, and fixed to the point of his lance. The aromatic quality of the peat is said to have preserved the champion from the effects of the monster's poisonous breath, while, at the same time, it clogged its jaws. In dying, the serpent contracted his folds with so much violence, that their spiral impression is still discernible round the hillock where it lay. The noble family of Somerville are said to be descended from this adventurous knight, in memory of whose atchievement, they bear a dragon as their crest. The sculpture itself gives no countenance to this fine story; for the animal, whom the knight appears to be in the act of slaying, has no resemblance to a serpent, but rather to a wolf, or boar, with which the neighbouring Cheviot mountains must in early times have abounded;[6] and there remain vestiges of another monster, of the same species, attacking the horse of the champion. An inscription, which might have thrown light upon this exploit, is now totally defaced. The vulgar, adapting it to their own tradition, tell us that it ran thus: The wode laird of Lariestoun Slew the wode worm of Wormiestoune, And wan all Linton paroschine. It is most probable, that the animal, destroyed by the ancestor of Lord Somerville, was one of those beasts of prey, by which Caledonia was formerly infested; but which, now, Razed out of all her woods, as trophies hung, Grin high emblazon'd on her children's shields. Since publishing the first edition of this work, I have found the following account of Somerville's atchievement, in a MS. of some antiquity: "John Somerville (son to Roger de Somerville, baron of Whichenever, in Staffordshire) was made, by King William (the Lion), his principal falconer, and got from that king the lands and baronie of Linton, in Tiviotdale, for an extraordinarie and valiant action; which, according to the manuscript of the family of Drum, was thus: In the parochen of Lintoun, within the sheriffdom of Roxburgh, there happened to breed a monster, in form of a serpent, or worme; in length, three Scots yards, and somewhat bigger than an ordinarie man's leg, with a head more proportionable to its length than greatness. It had its den in a hollow piece of ground, a mile south-east from Lintoun church; it destroyed both men and beast that came in its way. Several attempts were made to destroy it, by shooting of arrows, and throwing of darts, none daring to approach so near as to make use of a sword or lance. John Somerville undertakes to kill it, and being well mounted, and attended with a stout servant, he cam, before the sun-rising, before the dragon's den, having prepared some long, small, and hard peats (bog-turf dried for fuel), be-dabbed with pitch, rosette, and brimstone, fixed with small wire upon a wheel, at the point of his lance: these, being touched with fire, would instantly break out into flames; and, there being a breath of air, that served to his purpose, about the sun-rising, the serpent, dragon, or worme, so called by tradition, appeared with her head, and some part of her body, without the den; whereupon his servant set fire to the peats upon the wheel, at the top of the lance, and John Somerville, advancing with a full gallop, thrust the same with the wheel, and a great part of the lance, directly into the serpent's mouthe, which wente down its throat, into the belly, and was left there, the lance breaking by the rebounding of the horse, and giving a deadly wound to the dragoun; for which action he was knighted by King William; and his effigies was cut in ston in the posture he performed this actione, and placed above the principal church door of Lintoun, where it is yet to be seen, with his name and sirname: and the place, where this monster was killed, is at this day called, by the common people, who have the foresaid story by tradition, the Wormes Glen. And further to perpetuate this actione, the barons of Lintoun, Cowthally, and Drum, did always carry for crest, a wheel, and thereon a dragoun." Extracted from a genealogical MS. in the Advocates' Library, written about 1680. The falcon on the champion's arm, in the monument, may be supposed to allude to his office of falconer to William of Scotland. The ballad of _Kempion_ is given chiefly from Mrs Brown's MS., with corrections from a recited fragment. KEMPION. * * * * * "Cum heir, cum heir, ye freely feed, "And lay your head low on my knee; "The heaviest weird I will you read, "That ever was read to gaye ladye. "O meikle dolour sall ye dree, "And aye the salt seas o'er ye'se swim; "And far mair dolour sall ye dree "On Estmere crags, when ye them climb. "I weird ye to a fiery beast, "And relieved sall ye never be, "Till Kempion, the kingis son, "Cum to the crag, and thrice kiss thee." O meikle dolour did she dree, And aye the salt seas o'er she swam; And far mair dolour did she dree On Estmere crags, e'er she them clamb. And aye she cried for Kempion, Gin he would but cum to her hand: Now word has gane to Kempion, That sicken a beast was in his land. "Now, by my sooth," said Kempion, "This fiery beast I'll gang and see." "And, by my sooth," said Segramour, "My ae brother, I'll gang wi' thee." Then bigged hae they a bonny boat, And they hae set her to the sea; But a mile before they reached the shore, Around them she gar'd the red fire flee. "O Segramour, keep the boat afloat, "And lat her na the land o'er near; "For this wicked beast will sure gae mad, "And set fire to a' the land and mair." Syne has he bent an arblast bow, And aim'd an arrow at her head; And swore if she didna quit the land, Wi' that same shaft to shoot her dead. "O out of my stythe I winna rise, "(And it is not for the awe o' thee) "Till Kempion, the kingis son, "Cum to the crag, and thrice kiss me." He has louted him o'er the dizzy crag, And gien the monster kisses ane: Awa she gaed, and again she cam, The fieryest beast that ever was seen. "O out o' my stythe I winna rise, "(And not for a' thy bow nor thee) "Till Kempion, the kingis son, "Cum to the crag, and thrice kiss me." He's louted him o'er the Estmere crags, And he has gien her kisses twa: Awa she gaed, and again she cam, The fieryest beast that ever you saw. "O out of my den I winna rise, "Nor flee it for the fear o' thee, "Till Kempion, that courteous knight, "Cum to the crag, and thrice kiss me." He's louted him o'er the lofty crag, And he has gien her kisses three: Awa she gaed, and again she cam, The loveliest ladye e'er could be! "And by my sooth," says Kempion, "My ain true love (for this is she) "They surely had a heart o' stane, "Could put thee to such misery. "O was it warwolf in the wood? "Or was it mermaid in the sea? "Or was it man, or vile woman, "My ain true love, that mishaped thee?" "It was na warwolf in the wood, "Nor was it mermaid in the sea; "But it was my wicked step-mother, "And wae and weary may she be!" "O a heavier weird[7] shall light her on, "Than ever fell on vile woman; "Her hair shall grow rough, and her teeth grow lang, "And on her four feet shall she gang. "None shall take pity her upon; "In Wormeswood she aye shall won; "And relieved shall she never be, "Till St Mungo[8] come over the sea." And sighing said that weary wight, "I doubt that day I'll never see!" NOTES ON KEMPION. * * * * * _On Estmere crags, when ye them climb._--P. 26. v. 2. If by Estmere crags we are to understand the rocky cliffs of Northumberland, in opposition to Westmoreland, we may bring our scene of action near Bamborough, and thereby almost identify the tale of _Kempion_ with that of the _Laidley Worm of Spindleston_, to which it bears so strong a resemblance. _I weird ye to a fiery beast._--P. 26. v. 3. Our ideas of dragons and serpents are probably derived from the Scandinavians. The legends of _Regnar Lodbrog_, and of the huge snake in the Edda, by whose folds the world is encircled, are well known. Griffins and dragons were fabled, by the Danes, as watching over, and defending, hoards of gold.--_Bartholin. de caus. cont. mortis_, p. 490. _Saxo Grammaticus_, lib. 2. The Edda also mentions one Fafner, who, transformed into a serpent, brooded over his hidden treasures. From these authorities, and that of Herodotus, our Milton draws his simile-- As when a Gryphon, through the wilderness, With winged course, o'er hill or moory dale, Pursues the Arimaspian, who, by stealth, Had from his wakeful custody purloin'd The guarded gold. _O was it warwolf in the wood?_--P. 29. v. 4. Warwolf, or Lycanthropus, signifies a magician, possessing the power of transforming himself into a wolf, for the purpose of ravage and devastation. It is probable the word was first used symbolically, to distinguish those, who, by means of intoxicating herbs, could work their passions into a frantic state, and throw themselves upon their enemies with the fury and temerity of ravenous wolves. Such were the noted _Berserker_ of the Scandinavians, who, in their fits of voluntary frenzy, were wont to perform the most astonishing exploits of strength, and to perpetrate the most horrible excesses, although, in their natural state, they neither were capable of greater crimes nor exertions than ordinary men. This quality they ascribed to Odin. "_Odinus efficere valuit, ut hostes ipsius inter bellandum cæci vel surdi vel attoniti fierent, armaque illorum instar baculorum obtusa essent. Sui vero milites sine loricis incedebant, ac instar_ canum vel luporum furebant, _scuta sua arrodentes: et robusti ut ursi vel tauri, adversarios trucidabant: ipsis vero neque ignis neque ferrum nocuit. Ea qualitas vocatur furor Berserkicus."--Snorro Sturleson,_ quoted by _Bartholin. de causis contemptæ mortis_, p. 344. For a fuller account of these frantic champions, see the _Hervorar Saga_ published by Suhm; also the _Christni Saga_, and most of the ancient Norwegian histories and romances. Camden explains the tales of the Irish, concerning men transformed into wolves, upon nearly the same principle.--GOUGH'S _edition of Camden's Britannia_, Vol. III. p. 520. But, in process of time, the transformation into a wolf was believed to be real, and to affect the body as well as the mind; and to such transformations our faithful Gervase of Tilbury bears evidence, as an eye-witness. "_Vidimus frequenter in Anglia per lunationes homines in lupos mutari, quod hominum genus Gerulfos Galli vocunt, Angli vero_ WER-WLF _dicunt._ WER _enim Anglice virum sonat,_ WLF _lupum." Ot. Imp. De oculis apertis post peccatum._ The learned commentators, upon the art of sorcery, differ widely concerning the manner in which the arch fiend effects this change upon the persons of his vassals; whether by surrounding their bodies with a sort of pellice of condensed air, having the form of an wolf; or whether by some delusion, affecting the eyes of the spectators; or, finally, by an actual corporeal transformation. The curious reader may consult _Delrii Disquisitiones Magicæ_, p. 188; and (if he pleases) Evvichius _de natura Sagarum_.--Fincelius, _lib. 2. de Mirac._--Remigius. _lib. 2. de Dæmonolat._--Binsfeld. _de confession, maleficarum_. Not to mention Spondanus, Bodinus, Peucerus, Philippus Camerarius, Condronchus, Petrus Thyræus, Bartholomeus Spineus, Sir George Mackenzie, and King James I., with the sapient Monsieur Oufle of Bayle. The editor presumes, it is only since the extirpation of wolves, that our British sorceresses have adopted the disguise of hares, cats, and such more familiar animals. A wild story of a warwolf, or rather a war-bear, is told in Torfoeus' History of Hrolfe Kraka. As the original is a scarce book, little known in this country, some readers may be interested by a short analysis of the tale. Hringo, king of Upland, had an only son, called Biorno, the most beautiful and most gallant of the Norwegian youth. At an advanced period of life, the king became enamoured of a "_witch lady_," whom he chose for his second wife. A mutual and tender affection had, from infancy, subsisted betwixt Biorno, and Bera, the lovely daughter of an ancient warrior. But the new queen cast upon her step-son an eye of incestuous passion; to gratify which, she prevailed upon her husband, when he set out upon one of those piratical expeditions, which formed the summer campaign of a Scandinavian monarch, to leave the prince at home. In the absence of Hringo, she communicated to Biorno her impure affection, and was repulsed with disdain and violence. The rage of the weird step-mother was boundless. "Hence to the woods!" she exclaimed, striking the prince with a glove of wolf-skin; "Hence to the woods! subsist only on thy father's herds; live pursuing, and die pursued!" From this time the prince Biorno was no more seen, and the herdsmen of the king's cattle soon observed, that astonishing devastation was nightly made among their flocks, by a black bear, of immense size, and unusual ferocity. Every attempt to snare or destroy this animal was found vain; and much was the unavailing regret for the absence of Biorno, whose delight had been in extirpating beasts of prey. Bera, the faithful mistress of the young prince, added her tears to the sorrow of the people. As she was indulging her melancholy, apart from society, she was alarmed by the approach of the monstrous bear, which was the dread of the whole country. Unable to escape, she waited its approach, in expectation of instant death; when, to her astonishment, the animal fawned upon her, rolled himself at her feet, and regarded her with eyes, in which, spite of the horrible transformation, she still recognized the glances of her lost lover. Bera had the courage to follow the bear to his cavern, where, during certain hours, the spell permitted him to resume his human shape. Her love overcame her repugnance at so strange a mode of life, and she continued to inhabit the cavern of Biorno, enjoying his society during the periods of his freedom from enchantment. One day, looking sadly upon his wife, "Bera," said the prince, "the end of my life approaches. My flesh will soon serve for the repast of my father and his courtiers. But, do thou beware lest either the threats or entreaties of my diabolical step-mother induce thee to partake of the horrid banquet. So shalt thou safely bring forth three sons, who shall be the wonder of the North." The spell now operated, and the unfortunate prince sallied from his cavern to prowl among the herds. Bera followed him, weeping, and at a distance. The clamour of the chace was now heard. It was the old king, who, returned from his piratical excursion, had collected a strong force to destroy the devouring animal which ravaged his country. The poor bear defended himself gallantly, slaying many dogs, and some huntsmen. At length, wearied out, he sought protection at the feet of his father. But his supplicating gestures were in vain, and the eyes of paternal affection proved more dull than those of love. Biorno died by the lance of his father, and his flesh was prepared for the royal banquet. Bera was recognised, and hurried into the queen's presence. The sorceress, as Biorno had predicted, endeavoured to prevail upon Bera to eat of what was then esteemed a regal dainty. Entreaties and threats being in vain, force was, by the queen's command, employed for this purpose, and Bera was compelled to swallow one morsel of the bear's flesh. A second was put into her mouth, but she had an opportunity of putting it aside. She was then dismissed to her father's house. Here, in process of time, she was delivered of three sons, two of whom were affected variously, in person and disposition, by the share their mother had been compelled to take in the feast of the king. The eldest, from his middle downwards, resembled an elk, whence he derived the name of Elgfrod. He proved a man of uncommon strength, but of savage manners, and adopted the profession of a robber. Thorer, the second son of Bera, was handsome and well shaped, saving that he had the foot of a dog; from which he obtained the appellation of Houndsfoot. But Bodvar, the third son, was a model of perfection in mind and body. He revenged upon the necromantic queen the death of his father, and became the most celebrated champion of his age. _Historia Hrolfi Krakæ, Haffniæ, 1715._ FOOTNOTES: [4] Poich' ebbe il verso Brandimarte letto, La lapida pesante in aria alzava: Ecco fuor una serpe insin' al petto, La qual, forte stridendo, zufolava, Di spaventoso, e terribil' aspetto, A prendo il muso gran denti mostrava, De' quali il cavalier non si fidando, Si trasse a dietro, et mise mano al brando. Ma quella Donna gridava "non fate" Col viso smorto, e grido tremebondo, "Non far, che ci farai pericolare, E cadrem' tutti quanti nel profondo: A te convien quella serpe baciare, O far pensier di non esser' al Mondo, Accostar la tua bocca con la sua, O perduta tener la vita tua." "Come? non vedi, che i denti degrigna, Che pajon fatti a posta a spiccar' nasi, E fammi un certo viso de matrigna," Disse il Guerrier, "ch'io me spavento quassi." "Anzi t' invita con faccia benigna;" Disse la Donna, "e molti altri rimasi Per vilta sono a questa sepolture: Or la t' accosta, e non aver paura." Il cavalier s' accosta, ma di passo, Che troppo grato quel baciar non gli era, Verso la serpe chinandosi basso, Gli parvo tanto orrenda, e tanto fera, Che venne in viso freddo, com' un sasso; E disse "si fortuna vuol' ch'io pera, Fia tanto un altra volta, quanto addeso Ma cagion dar non me ne voglio io stesso." "Fuss' io certo d'andare in paradiso, Come son' certo, chinandomi un poco, Che quella bestia mi s'avvento al viso, E mi piglia nel naso, o altro loco: Egli e proprio cosi, com' io m'avviso, Ch' altri ch'io stato e colto a questo gioco, E che costei mi da questo conforto Per vindicarsi di colui, ch'ho morto."[5] Cosi dicendo, a rinculare attende, Deliberato piu non s'accostare: La Donna si dispera, e lo reprende, "Ah codardo," dicea, "che credi fare? Perche tanta vilta, l'alma t'offende, Che ti fara alla fin mal capitare? Infinita paura e poca fede, La salute gli mostro, e non mi crede." Punto il Guerrier de questi agre parole, Torna de nuovo ver la sepoltura, Tinsegli in rose il color de viole, In vergogna mutata la paura: Pur stando ancor' fra due, vuole, e non vuole, Un pensier lo spaventa, un l'assicura Al fin tra l'animoso, e'l disperato, A lei s'accosta, ed halle un bacio dato. Un ghiaccio proprio gli parse a toccare La bocca, che parea prima di foco: La serpe se commincia a tramutare E diventa donzella a poco a poco: Febosilla costei si fa chiamare, Un fata, che fece quel bel loco, E quel giardino, e quella sepoltura, Ove gran tempo e stato in pena dura, &c. [5] _Un cavalier occiso per Brandimarte nel entrare del palazzo incantato._ [6] An altar, dedicated to Sylvan Mars, was found in a glen in Weardale, in the bishopric of Durham. From the following votive inscription, it appears to have been erected by C. T. V. Micianus, a Roman general, upon taking an immense boar, which none of his predecessors could destroy: "_Silvano invicto sacrum. C. Tetius Veturius Micianus Præf. Alae Sebosinae ob aprum eximiæ formæ captum, quem multi antecessores ejus prædari non potuerunt, Votum solvens lubenter possuit._" LAMB'S Notes on Battle of Flodden, 1774, p. 67. [7] _Weird_--From the German auxiliary verb _werden_, "to become." [8] _St Mungo_--Saint Kentigern. LORD THOMAS AND FAIR ANNIE. NOW FIRST PUBLISHED IN A PERFECT STATE. * * * * * This ballad is now, for the first time, published in a perfect state. A fragment, comprehending the 2d, 4th, 5th, and 6th verses, as also the 17th, has appeared in several collections. The present copy is chiefly taken from the recitation of an old woman, residing near Kirkhill, in West Lothian; the same from whom were obtained the variations in the tale of _Tamlane_, and the fragment of the _Wife of Usher's Well_, which is the next in order. The tale is much the same with the Breton romance, called _Lay le Frain_, or the _Song of the Ash_. Indeed, the editor is convinced, that the farther our researches are extended, the more we shall see ground to believe, that the romantic ballads of later times are, for the most part, abridgments of the ancient metrical romances, narrated in a smoother stanza, and more modern language. A copy of the ancient romance, alluded to, is preserved in the invaluable collection (W. 4. 1.) of the Advocates' Library, and begins thus: We redeth oft and findeth ywrite And this clerkes wele it wite Layes that ben in harping Ben yfound of ferli thing Sum beth of wer and sum of wo Sum of joye and mirthe also And sum of trecherie and of gile Of old aventours that fel while And sum of bourdes and ribaudy And many ther beth of faery Of al thinges that men seth Maist o' love forsoth yai beth In Breteyne bi hold time This layes were wrought so seithe this rime When kinges might our y here Of ani mervailes that ther wer They token a harp in glee and game And maked a lay and gaf it name Now of this aventours that weren y falle Y can tel sum ac nought alle Ac herkeneth Lordinges sothe to sain I chil you tel _Lay le Frain_ Bifel a cas in Breteyne Whereof was made Lay le Frain In Ingliche for to tellen y wis Of ane asche forsothe it is On ane ensammple fair with alle That sum time was bi falle &c. LORD THOMAS AND FAIR ANNIE. * * * * * "Its narrow, narrow, make your bed, "And learn to lie your lane; "For I'm ga'n o'er the sea, Fair Annie, "A braw bride to bring hame. "Wi' her I will get gowd and gear; "Wi' you I ne'er got nane. "But wha will bake my bridal bread, "Or brew my bridal ale? "And wha will welcome my brisk bride, "That I bring o'er the dale?" "Its I will bake your bridal bread, "And brew your bridal ale; "And I will welcome your brisk bride, "That you bring o'er the dale." "But she that welcomes my brisk bride, "Maun gang like maiden fair; "She maun lace on her robe sae jimp, "And braid her yellow hair." "But how can I gang maiden-like, "When maiden I am nane? "Have I not borne seven sons to thee, "And am with child again?" She's ta'en her young son in her arms, Another in her hand; And she's up to the highest tower, To see him come to land. "Come up, come up, my eldest son, "And look o'er yon sea-strand, "And see your father's new-come bride, "Before she come to land." "Come down, come down, my mother dear! "Come frae the castle-wa'! "I fear, if langer ye stand there, "Ye'll let yoursell down fa'." And she gaed down, and farther down, Her love's ship for to see; And the top-mast and the main-mast Shone like the silver free. And she's gane down, and farther down, The bride's ship to behold; And the top-mast and the main-mast They shone just like the gold. She's ta'en her seven sons in her hand; I wot she didna fail! She met Lord Thomas and his bride, As they cam o'er the dale. "You're welcome to your house, Lord Thomas; "You're welcome to your land; "You're welcome, with your fair ladye, "That you lead by the hand. "You're welcome to your ha's, ladye; "You're welcome to your bowers; "You're welcome to your hame, ladye: "For a' that's here is yours." "I thank thee, Annie; I thank thee, Annie; "Sae dearly as I thank thee; "You're the likest to my sister, Annie, "That ever I did see. "There came a knight out o'er the sea, "And steal'd my sister away; "The shame scoup[9] in his company, "And land where'er he gae!" She hang ae napkin at the door, Another in the ha'; And a' to wipe the trickling tears, Sae fast as they did fa'. And aye she served the lang tables, With white bread and with wine; And aye she drank the wan water, To had her colour fine.[10] And aye she served the lang tables, With white bread and with brown; And aye she turned her round about, Sae fast the tears fall down. And he's ta'en down the silk napkin, Hung on a silver pin; And aye he wipes the tear trickling Adown her cheik and chin. And aye he turned him round about, And smil'd amang his men: Says--"Like ye best the old ladye, "Or her that's new come hame?" When bells were rung, and mass was sung, And a' men bound to bed, Lord Thomas and his new-come bride, To their chamber they were gaed. Annie made her bed a little forebye, To hear what they might say; "And ever alas!" fair Annie cried, "That I should see this day! "Gin my seven sons were seven young rats, "Running on the castle-wa', "And I were a grey cat mysell! "I soon would worry them a'. "Gin my seven sons were seven young hares, "Running o'er yon lilly lee, "And I were a grew hound mysell! "Soon worried they a' should be." And wae and sad fair Annie sat, And drearie was her sang; And ever, as she sobb'd and grat, "Wae to the man that did the wrang!" "My gown is on," said the new-come bride, "My shoes are on my feet, "And I will to fair Annie's chamber, "And see what gars her greet. "What ails ye, what ails ye, Fair Annie, "That ye make sic a moan? "Has your wine barrels cast the girds, "Or is your white bread gone? "O wha was't was your father, Annie, "Or wha was't was your mother? "And had ye ony sister, Annie, "Or had ye ony brother?" "The Earl of Wemyss was my father, "The Countess of Wemyss my mother; "And a' the folk about the house, "To me were sister and brother." "If the Earl of Wemyss was your father, "I wot sae was he mine; "And it shall not be for lack o' gowd, "That ye your love sall tyne. "For I have seven ships o' mine ain, "A' loaded to the brim; "And I will gie them a' to thee, "Wi' four to thine eldest son. "But thanks to a' the powers in heaven, "That I gae maiden hame!" FOOTNOTES: [9] _Scoup_--Go, or rather fly. [10] To keep her from changing countenance. THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL. A FRAGMENT. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. * * * * * There lived a wife at Usher's Well, And a wealthy wife was she; She had three stout and stalwart sons, And sent them o'er the sea. They hadna been a week from her, A week but barely ane, Whan word came to the carline wife, That her three sons were gane. They hadna been a week from her, A week but barely three, Whan word came to the carline wife, That her sons she'd never see. "I wish the wind may never cease, "Nor fishes in the flood, "Till my three sons come hame to me, "In earthly flesh and blood!" It fell about the Martinmass, Whan nights are lang and mirk, The carline wife's three sons came hame, And their hats were o' the birk. It neither grew in syke nor ditch, Nor yet in ony sheugh; But at the gates o' Paradise, That birk grew fair eneugh. * * * * * "Blow up the fire, my maidens! "Bring water from the well! "For a' my house shall feast this night, "Since my three sons are well." And she has made to them a bed, She's made it large and wide; And she's ta'en her mantle her about, Sat down at the bed-side. * * * * * Up then crew the red red cock, And up and crew the gray; The eldest to the youngest said, "'Tis time we were away." The cock he hadna craw'd but once, And clapp'd his wings at a', Whan the youngest to the eldest said, "Brother, we must awa. "The cock doth craw, the day doth daw, "The channerin'[11] worm doth chide; "Gin we be mist out o' our place, "A sair pain we maun bide. "Fare ye weel, my mother dear! "Fareweel to barn and byre! "And fare ye weel, the bonny lass, "That kindles my mother's fire." * * * * * NOTES ON THE WIFE OF USHER'S WELL. * * * * * _I wish the wind may never cease, &c._--P. 46. v. 2. The sense of this verse is obscure, owing, probably, to corruption by reciters. It would appear, that the mother had sinned in the same degree with the celebrated _Lenoré_. _And their hats were o' the birk._--P. 46. v. 3. The notion, that the souls of the blessed wear garlands, seems to be of Jewish origin. At least, in the _Maase-book_, there is a Rabbinical tradition, to the following effect:-- "It fell out, that a Jew, whose name was Ponim, an ancient man, whose business was altogether about the dead, coming to the door of the school, saw one standing there, who had a garland upon his head. Then was Rabbi Ponim afraid, imagining it was a spirit. Whereupon he, whom the Rabbi saw, called out to him, saying, 'Be not afraid, but pass forward. Dost thou not know me?' Then said Rabbi Ponim, 'Art not thou he whom I buried yesterday?' And he was answered, 'Yea, I am he.' Upon which Rabbi Ponim said, 'Why comest thou hither? How fareth it with thee in the other world?' And the apparition made answer, 'It goeth well with me, and I am in high esteem in paradise.' Then said the Rabbi, 'Thou wert but looked upon in the world as an insignificant Jew. What good work didst thou do, that thou art thus esteemed?' The apparition answered, 'I will tell thee: the reason of the esteem I am in, is, that I rose every morning early, and with fervency uttered my prayer, and offered the grace from the bottom of my heart: for which reason I now pronounce grace in paradise, and am well respected. If thou doubtest whether I am the person, I will show thee a token that shall convince thee of it. Yesterday, when thou didst clothe me in my funeral attire, thou didst tear my sleeve.' Then asked Rabbi Ponim, 'What is the meaning of that garland?' The apparition answered, 'I wear it, to the end the wind of the world may not have power over me; for it consists of excellent herbs of paradise.' Then did Rabbi Ponim mend the sleeve of the deceased: for the deceased had said, that if it was not mended, he should be ashamed to be seen amongst others, whose apparel was whole. And then the apparition vanished. Wherefore, let every one utter his prayer with fervency; for then it shall go well with him in the other world. And let care be taken that no rent, nor tearing, be left in the apparel in which the deceased are interred."--_Jewish Traditions, abridged from Buxtorf_, London, 1732, Vol. II. p. 19. _Gin we be mist out o' our place,_ _A sair pain we maun bide._--P. 48. v. 1. This will remind the German reader of the comic adieu of a heavenly apparition:-- Doch sieh! man schliesst die himmels thür Adieu! der himmlische Portier Ist streng und hält auf ordnung. _Blumauer._ FOOTNOTES: [11] _Channerin'_--Fretting. COSPATRICK. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. * * * * * _A copy of this Ballad, materially different from that which follows, appeared in_ "Scottish Songs," _2 vols. Edinburgh, 1792, under the title of_ Lord Bothwell. _Some stanzas have been transferred from thence to the present copy, which is taken down from the recitation of a Lady, nearly related to the Editor. Some readings have been also adopted from a third copy, in Mrs_ BROWN'S _MS., under the title of_ Child Brenton. _Cospatrick_ (Comes Patricius) _was the designation of the Earl of Dunbar, in the days of_ WALLACE _and_ BRUCE. * * * * * Cospatrick has sent o'er the faem; Cospatrick brought his ladye hame; And fourscore ships have come her wi', The ladye by the grene-wood tree. There were twal' and twal' wi' baken bread, And twal' and twal' wi' gowd sae reid, And twal' and twal' wi' bouted flour, And twal' and twal' wi' the paramour. Sweet Willy was a widow's son, And at her stirrup he did run; And she was clad in the finest pall, But aye she let the tears down fall. "O is your saddle set awrye? "Or rides your steed for you owre high? "Or are you mourning, in your tide, "That you suld be Cospatrick's bride?" "I am not mourning, at this tide, "That I suld be Cospatrick's bride; "But I am sorrowing, in my mood, "That I suld leave my mother good. "But, gentle boy, come tell to me, "What is the custom of thy countrie?" "The custom thereof, my dame," he says, "Will ill a gentle ladye please. "Seven king's daughters has our lord wedded, "And seven king's daughters has our lord bedded; "But he's cutted their breasts frae their breast-bane, "And sent them mourning hame again. "Yet, gin you're sure that you're a maid, "Ye may gae safely to his bed; "But gif o' that ye be na sure, "Then hire some damsell o' your bour." The ladye's called her bour maiden, That waiting was into her train; "Five thousand merks I'll gie to thee, "To sleep this night with my lord for me." When bells were rung, and mass was sayne, And a' men unto bed were gane, Cospatrick and the bonny maid, Into ae chamber they were laid. "Now, speak to me, blankets, and speak to me, bed, "And speak, thou sheet, enchanted web; "And speak up, my bonny brown sword, that winna lie, "Is this a true maiden that lies by me?" "It is not a maid that you hae wedded, "But it is a maid that you hae bedded; "It is a leal maiden that lies by thee, "But not the maiden that it should be." O wrathful he left the bed, And wrathfully his claiths on did; And he has ta'en him through the ha', And on his mother he did ca'. "I am the most unhappy man, "That ever was in christen land! "I courted a maiden, meik and mild, "And I hae gotten naething but a woman wi' child." "O stay, my son, into this ha', "And sport ye wi' your merrymen a'; "And I will to the secret bour, "To see how it fares wi' your paramour." The carline she was stark and sture, She aff the hinges dang the dure; "O is your bairn to laird or loun, "Or is it to your father's groom?" "O! hear me, mother, on my knee, "Till my sad story I tell thee: "O we were sisters, sisters seven, "We were the fairest under heaven. "It fell on a summer's afternoon, "When a' our toilsome task was done, "We cast the kevils us amang, "To see which suld to the grene-wood gang. "O hon! alas, for I was youngest, "And aye my weird it was the hardest! "The kevil it on me did fa', "Whilk was the cause of a' my woe, "For to the grene-wood I maun gae, "To pu' the red rose and the slae; "To pu' the red rose and the thyme, "To deck my mother's bour and mine. "I hadna pu'd a flower but ane, "When by there came a gallant hende, "Wi' high coll'd hose and laigh coll'd shoon, "And he seemed to be sum king's son. "And be I maid, or be I nae, "He kept me there till the close o' day; "And be I maid, or be I nane, "He kept me there till the day was done. "He gae me a lock o' his yellow hair, "And bade me keep it ever mair; "He gae me a carknet[12] o' bonny beads, "And bade me keep it against my needs. "He gae to me a gay gold ring, "And bade me keep it abune a' thing." "What did ye wi' the tokens rare, "That ye gat frae that gallant there?" "O bring that coffer unto me, "And a' the tokens ye sall see." "Now stay, daughter, your bour within, "While I gae parley wi' my son." O she has ta'en her thro' the ha', And on her son began to ca'; "What did you wi' the bonny beads, "I bade ye keep against your needs? "What did you wi' the gay gold ring, "I bade ye keep abune a' thing?" "I gae them to a ladye gay, "I met in grene-wood on a day. "But I wad gie a' my halls and tours, "I had that ladye within my bours; "But I wad gie my very life, "I had that ladye to my wife." "Now keep, my son, your ha's and tours; "Ye have that bright burd in your bours: "And keep, my son, your very life; "Ye have that lady to your wife." Now, or a month was cum and gane, The ladye bore a bonny son; And 'twas weel written on his breast bane, "Cospatrick is my father's name." O row my ladye in satin and silk, And wash my son in the morning milk. FOOTNOTES: [12] _Carknet_--A necklace. Thus: "She threw away her rings and _carknet_ cleen."--Harrison's Translation of _Orlando Furioso--Notes on book 37th._ PRINCE ROBERT, NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. FROM THE RECITATION OF A LADY, NEARLY RELATED TO THE EDITOR. * * * * * Prince Robert has wedded a gay ladye, He has wedded her with a ring; Prince Robert has wedded a gay ladye, But he darna bring her hame. "Your blessing, your blessing, my mother dear! "Your blessing now grant to me!" "Instead of a blessing ye sall have my curse, "And you'll get nae blessing frae me." She has called upon her waiting maid, To fill a glass of wine; She has called upon her fause steward, To put rank poison in. She has put it to her roudes[13] lip, And to her roudes chin; She has put it to her fause fause mouth, But the never a drap gaed in. He has put it to his bonny mouth, And to his bonny chin, He's put it to his cherry lip, And sae fast the rank poison ran in. "O ye hae poisoned your ae son, mother, "Your ae son and your heir; O ye hae poisoned your ae son, mother, "And sons you'll never hae mair. "O where will I get a little boy, "That will win hose and shoon, To run sae fast to Darlinton, "And bid fair Eleanor come?" Then up and spake a little boy, That wad win hose and shoon,-- "O I'll away to Darlinton, "And bid fair Eleanor come." O he has run to Darlinton, And tirled at the pin; And wha was sae ready as Eleanor's sell To let the bonny boy in. "Your gude-mother has made ye a rare dinour, "She's made it baith gude and fine; "Your gude-mother has made ye a gay dinour, "And ye maun cum till her and dine." Its twenty lang miles to Sillertoun town, The langest that ever were gane; But the steed it was wight, and the ladye was light, And she cam linkin'[14] in. But when she cam to Sillertoun town, And into Sillertoun ha', The torches were burning, the ladies were mourning, And they were weeping a'. "O where is now my wedded lord, "And where now can he be? "O where is now my wedded lord? "For him I canna see." "Your wedded lord is dead," she says, "And just gane to be laid in the clay; "Your wedded lord is dead," she says, "And just gane to be buried the day. "Ye'se get nane o' his gowd, ye'se get nane o' his gear, "Ye'se get nae thing frae me; "Ye'se no get an inch o' his gude broad land, "Tho' your heart suld burst in three." "I want nane o' his gowd, I want nane o' his gear, "I want nae land frae thee; "But I'll hae the ring that's on his finger, "For them he did promise to me." "Ye'se no get the ring that's on his finger, "Ye'se no get them frae me; "Ye'se no get the ring that's on his finger, "An' your heart suld burst in three." She's turned her back unto the wa', And her face unto a rock; And there, before the mother's face, Her very heart it broke. The tane was buried in Mary's kirk, The tother in Marie's quair; And out o' the tane there sprang a birk, And out o' the tother a brier. And thae twa met, and thae twa plat, The birk but and the brier; And by that ye may very weel ken They were twa lovers dear.[15] FOOTNOTES: [13] _Roudes_--Haggard. [14] _Linkin'_--Riding briskly. [15] The last two verses are common to many ballads, and are probably derived from some old metrical romance, since we find the idea occur in the conclusion of the voluminous history of Sir Tristrem. "_Ores veitil que de la tumbe Tristan yssoit une belle ronce verte et feuilleue, qui alloit par la chapelle, et descendoit le bout de la ronce sur la tumbe d'Ysseult et entroit dedans._" This marvellous plant was three times cut down; but, continues Rusticien de Puise, "_Le lendemain estoit aussi belle comme elle avoit cy-devant ètè, et ce miracle ètoit sur Tristan et sur Ysseult a tout jamais advenir_." KING HENRIE. THE ANCIENT COPY. * * * * * This ballad is edited from the MS. of Mrs Brown, corrected by a recited fragment. A modernized copy has been published, under the title of "Courteous King Jamie."--_Tales of Wonder_, Vol. II. p. 451. The legend will remind the reader of the "Marriage of Sir Gawain," in the _Reliques of Ancient Poetry_, and of the "Wife of Bath's Tale," in Father Chaucer. But the original, as appears from the following quotation from Torfoeus, is to be found in an Icelandic Saga: "_Hellgius, Rex Daniæ, moerore ob amissam conjugem vexatus, solus agebat, et subducens se hominum commercio, segregem domum, omnis famulitii impatiens, incolebat. Accidit autem, ut nocte concubia, lamentabilis cujusdam ante fores ejulantis sonus auribus ejus obreperet. Expergefactus igitur, recluso ostio, informe quoddam mulieris simulacrum,_ "_habitu corporis foedum, veste squalore obsita, pallore, macie frigorisque tyrannide prope modum peremptum, deprehendit; quod precibus obsecratus, ut qui jam miserorum ærumnas ex propria calamitate pensare didicisset, in domum intromisit; ipse lectum petit. At mulier, ne hac quidem benignitate contenta, thori consortium obnixè flagitabat, addens id tanti referre, ut nisi impetraret, omnino sibi moriendum esset. Quod, ea lege, ne ipsum attingeret, concessum est. Ideo nec complexu eam dignatus rex, avertit sese. Cum autem prima luce forte oculos ultro citroque converteret, eximiæ formæ virginem lecto receptam animadvertit; quæ statim ipsi placere coepit: causam igitur tam repentinæ mutationis curiosius indaganti, respondit virgo, se unam e subterraneorum hominum genere diris novercalibus devotam, tam tetra et execrabili specie, quali primo comparuit, damnatam, quoad thori cujusdam principis socia fieret, multos reges hac de re sollicitasse. Jam actis pro præstito beneficio gratiis, discessum maturans, a rege formæ ejus illecebris capto comprimitur. Deinde petit, si prolem ex hoc congressu progigni contigerit, sequente hyeme, eodem anni tempore, ante fores positam in ædes reciperet, seque ejus patrem profiteri non gravaretur, secus non leve infortunium insecuturum prædixit: a quo præcepto cum rex postea exorbitasset, nec præ foribus jacentem infantem pro suo agnoscere voluisset, ad eum iterum, sed corrugata fronte, accessit, obque violatam fidem acrius objurgatum ab imminente periculo, præstiti olim beneficii gratia, exempturam pollicebatur, ita tamen ut tota ultionis rabies in filium ejus_ "_effusa graves aliquando levitatis illius pænas exigeret. Ex hac tam dissimilium naturarum commixtione, Skulda, versuti et versatilis animi mulier, nata fuisse memoratur; quæ utramque naturam participans prodigiosorum operum effectrix perhibetur._"--Hrolffi Krakii, Hist. p. 49, Hafn. 1715. KING HENRIE. ANCIENT COPY. * * * * * Let never a man a wooing wend, That lacketh thingis thrie: A rowth o' gold, an open heart, And fu' o' courtesey. And this was seen o' King Henrie, For he lay burd alane; And he has ta'en him to a haunted hunt's ha', Was seven miles frae a toun. He's chaced the dun deer thro' the wood, And the roe doun by the den, Till the fattest buck, in a' the herd, King Henrie he has slain. He's ta'en him to his hunting ha', For to make burly cheir; When loud the wind was heard to sound, And an earthquake rocked the floor. And darkness cover'd a' the hall, Where they sat at their meat: The gray dogs, youling, left their food, And crept to Henrie's feet. And louder houled the rising wind, And burst the fast'ned door; And in there came a griesly ghost, Stood stamping on the floor. Her head touched the roof-tree of the house; Her middle ye weel mot span: Each frighted huntsman fled the ha', And left the king alone. Her teeth were a' like tether stakes, Her nose like club or mell; And I ken naething she appeared to be, But the fiend that wons in hell. "Sum meat, sum meat, ye King Henrie! "Sum meat ye gie to me!" "And what meat's in this house, ladye, "That ye're na wellcum tee?"[16] "O ye'se gae kill your berry-brown steed, "And serve him up to me." O when he killed his berry-brown steed, Wow gin his heart was sair! She eat him a' up, skin and bane, Left naething but hide and hair. "Mair meat, mair meat, ye King Henrie! "Mair meat ye gie to me!" "And what meat's i' this house, ladye, "That ye're na wellcum tee?" "O ye do slay your gude gray houndes, "And bring them a' to me." O when he slew his gude gray houndes, Wow but his heart was sair! She's ate them a' up, ane by ane, Left naething but hide and hair. "Mair meat, mair meat, ye King Henrie! "Mair meat ye gie to me!" "And what meat's i' this house, ladye, "That I hae left to gie?" "O ye do fell your gay goss-hawks, "And bring them a' to me." O when he felled his gay goss-hawks, Wow but his heart was sair! She's ate them a' up, bane by bane, Left naething but feathers bare. "Some drink, some drink, ye King Henrie! "Sum drink ye gie to me!" "And what drink's in this house, ladye, "That ye're na wellcum tee?" "O ye sew up your horse's hide, "And bring in a drink to me." O he has sewed up the bluidy hide, And put in a pipe of wine; She drank it a' up at ae draught, Left na a drap therein. "A bed, a bed, ye King Henrie! "A bed ye mak to me!" "And what's the bed i' this house, ladye, "That ye're na wellcum tee?" "O ye maun pu' the green heather, "And mak a bed to me." O pu'd has he the heather green, And made to her a bed; And up he has ta'en his gay mantle, And o'er it he has spread. "Now swear, now swear, ye King Henrie, "To take me for your bride!" "O God forbid," King Henrie said, "That e'er the like betide! "That e'er the fiend, that wons in hell, "Should streak down by my side." * * * * * When day was come, and night was gane, And the sun shone through the ha', The fairest ladye, that e'er was seen, Lay atween him and the wa'. "O weel is me!" King Henrie said, "How lang will this last wi' me?" And out and spak that ladye fair, "E'en till the day ye die. "For I was witched to a ghastly shape, "All by my stepdame's skill, "Till I should meet wi' a courteous knight, "Wad gie me a' my will." FOOTNOTES: [16] _Tee_, for _to_, is the Buchanshire and Gallovidian pronunciation. ANNAN WATER. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. * * * * * The following verses are the original words of the tune of "_Allan Water_," by which name the song is mentioned in Ramsay's _Tea Table Miscellany_. The ballad is given from tradition; and it is said, that a bridge, over the Annan, was built in consequence of the melancholy catastrophe which it narrates. Two verses are added in this edition, from another copy of the ballad, in which the conclusion proves fortunate. By the _Gatehope Slack_, is perhaps meant the _Gate Slack_, a pass in Annandale. The Annan, and the Frith of Solway, into which it falls, are the frequent scenes of tragical accidents. The editor trusts he will be pardoned for inserting the following awfully impressive account of such an event, contained in a letter from Dr Currie, of Liverpool, by whose correspondence, while in the course of preparing these volumes for the press, he has been alike honoured and instructed. After stating, that he had some recollection of the ballad which follows, the biographer of Burns proceeds thus: "I once in my early days heard (for it was night, and I could not see) a traveller drowning; not in the Annan itself, but in the Frith of Solway, close by the mouth of that river. The influx of the tide had unhorsed him, in the night, as he was passing the sands from Cumberland. The west wind blew a tempest, and, according to the common expression, brought in the water, _three foot a-breast_. The traveller got upon a standing net, a little way from the shore. There he lashed himself to the post, shouting for half an hour for assistance--till the tide rose over his head! In the darkness of night, and amid the pauses of the hurricane, his voice, heard at intervals, was exquisitely mournful. No one could go to his assistance--no one knew where he was--the sound seemed to proceed from the spirit of the waters. But morning rose--the tide had ebbed--and the poor traveller was found lashed to the pole of the net, and bleaching in the wind." ANNAN WATER. * * * * * "Annan water's wading deep, "And my love Annie's wondrous bonny; "And I am laith she suld weet her feet, "Because I love her best of ony. "Gar saddle me the bonny black; "Gar saddle sune, and make him ready: "For I will down the Gatehope-slack, "And all to see my bonny ladye." He has loupen on the bonny black, He stirr'd him wi' the spur right sairly; But, or he wan the Gatehope-slack, I think the steed was wae and weary. He has loupen on the bonny gray, He rade the right gate and the ready; I trow he would neither stint nor stay, For he was seeking his bonny ladye. O he has ridden ower field and fell, Through muir and moss, and mony a mire; His spurs o' steel were sair to bide, And frae her fore-feet flew the fire. "Now, bonny gray, now play your part! "Gin ye be the steed that wins my deary, "Wi' corn and hay ye'se be fed for aye, "And never spur sall make you wearie." The gray was a mare, and a right good mare; But when she wan the Annan water, She could na hae ridden a furlong mair, Had a thousand merks been wadded[17] at her. "O boatman, boatman, put off your boat! "Put off your boat for gowden monie! "I cross the drumly stream the night, "Or never mair I see my honey." "O I was sworn sae late yestreen, "And not by ae aith, but by many; "And for a' the gowd in fair Scotland, "I dare na take ye through to Annie." The side was stey, and the bottom deep, Frae bank to brae the water pouring; And the bonny gray mare did sweat for fear, For she heard the water kelpy roaring. O he has pou'd aff his dapperpy[18] coat, The silver buttons glanced bonny; The waistcoat bursted aff his breast, He was sae full of melancholy. He has ta'en the ford at that stream tail; I wot he swam both strong and steady; But the stream was broad, and his strength did fail, And he never saw his bonny ladye. "O wae betide the frush[19] saugh wand! "And wae betide the bush of briar! "It brake into my true love's hand, "When his strength did fail, and his limbs did tire. "And wae betide ye, Annan water, "This night that ye are a drumlie river! "For over thee I'll build a bridge, "That ye never more true love may sever." FOOTNOTES: [17] _Wadded_--Wagered. [18] _Quære_--Cap-a-pee? [19] _Frush_--Brittle. THE CRUEL SISTER. * * * * * This ballad differs essentially from that which has been published in various collections, under the title of _Binnorie_. It is compiled from a copy in Mrs Brown's MSS., intermixed with a beautiful fragment, of fourteen verses, transmitted to the editor by J. C. Walker, Esq. the ingenious historian of the Irish bards. Mr Walker, at the same time, favoured the editor with the following note:--"I am indebted to my departed friend, Miss Brook, for the foregoing pathetic fragment. Her account of it was as follows: This song was transcribed, several years ago, from the memory of an old woman, who had no recollection of the concluding verses: probably the beginning may also be lost, as it seems to commence abruptly." The first verse and burden of the fragment run thus:-- O sister, sister, reach thy hand! Hey ho, my Nanny, O; And you shall be heir of all my land, While the swan swims bonny, O. The first part of this chorus seems to be corrupted from the common burden of _Hey, Nonny, Nonny_, alluded to in the song, beginning, "_Sigh no more, ladye_." The chorus, retained in this edition, is the most common and popular; but Mrs Brown's copy bears a yet different burden, beginning thus:-- There were twa sisters sat in a bour, Edinborough, Edinborough; There were twa sisters sat in a bour, Stirling for aye; There were twa sisters sat in a bour, There cam a knight to be their wooer, Bonny St Johnston stands upon Tay. THE CRUEL SISTER. * * * * * There were two sisters sat in a bour; Binnorie, O Binnorie; There came a knight to be their wooer; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. He courted the eldest with glove and ring; Binnorie, O Binnorie; But he lo'ed the youngest aboon a' thing; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. He courted the eldest with broach and knife; Binnorie, O Binnorie; But he lo'ed the youngest abune his life; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. The eldest she was vexed sair; Binnorie, O Binnorie; And sore envied her sister fair; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. The eldest said to the youngest ane, Binnorie, O Binnorie; "Will ye go and see our father's ships come in?" By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. She's ta'en her by the lilly hand, Binnorie, O Binnorie; And led her down to the river strand; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. The youngest stude upon a stane, Binnorie, O Binnorie; The eldest came and pushed her in; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. She took her by the middle sma', Binnorie, O Binnorie; And dashed her bonny back to the jaw, By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. "O sister, sister, reach your hand, Binnorie, O Binnorie; "And ye shall be heir of half my land." By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. "O sister, I'll not reach my hand, Binnorie, O Binnorie; "And I'll be heir of all your land; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. "Shame fa' the hand that I should take, Binnorie, O Binnorie; "Its twin'd me, and my world's make." By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. "O sister, reach me but your glove, Binnorie, O Binnorie; "And sweet William shall be your love." By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. "Sink on, nor hope for hand or glove! Binnorie, O Binnorie; "And sweet William shall better be my love." By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. "Your cherry cheeks and your yellow hair, Binnorie, O Binnorie; "Garr'd me gang maiden evermair." By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. Sometimes she sunk, and sometimes she swam, Binnorie, O Binnorie; Until she cam to the miller's dam, By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. "O father, father, draw your dam! Binnorie, O Binnorie; "There's either a mermaid, or a milk-white swan." By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. The miller hasted and drew his dam, Binnorie, O Binnorie; And there he found a drowned woman, By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. You could not see her yellow hair, Binnorie, O Binnorie; For gowd and pearls that were sae rare, By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. You could na see her middle sma', Binnorie, O Binnorie; Her gowden girdle was sae bra'; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. A famous harper passing by, Binnorie, O Binnorie; The sweet pale face he chanced to spy; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. And when he looked that lady on, Binnorie, O Binnorie; He sighed, and made a heavy moan; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. He made a harp of her breast-bone, Binnorie, O Binnorie; Whose sounds would melt a heart of stone; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. The strings he framed of her yellow hair, Binnorie, O Binnorie; Whose notes made sad the listening ear; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. He brought it to her father's hall; Binnorie, O Binnorie; And there was the court assembled all; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. He laid this harp upon a stone, Binnorie, O Binnorie; And straight it began to play alone; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. "O yonder sits my father, the king, Binnorie, O Binnorie; "And yonder sits my mother, the queen; By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. "And yonder stands my brother Hugh, Binnorie, O Binnorie; "And by him my William sweet and true." By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. But the last tune that the harp play'd then, Binnorie, O Binnorie; Was--"Woe to my sister, false Helen!" By the bonny milldams of Binnorie. THE QUEEN'S MARIE. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. * * * * * "In the very time of the General Assembly, there comes to public knowledge a haynous murther, committed in the court; yea, not far from the queen's lap: for a French woman, that served in the queen's chamber, had played the whore with the queen's own apothecary.--The woman conceived and bare a childe, whom, with common consent, the father and mother murthered; yet were the cries of a new-borne childe hearde, searche was made, the childe and the mother were both apprehended, and so was the man and the woman condemned to be hanged in the publicke street of Edinburgh.--The punishment was suitable, because the crime was haynous. But yet was not the court purged of whores and whoredoms, which was the fountaine of such enormities; for it was well known that shame hasted marriage betwixt John Sempill, called the Dancer, and Mary Leringston[20], sirnamed the Lusty. What bruit the Maries, and the rest of the dancers of the court had, the ballads of that age do witnesse, which we, for modestie's sake, omit: but this was the common complaint of all godly and wise men, that, if they thought such a court could long continue, and if they looked for no better life to come, they would have wished their sonnes and daughters rather to have been brought up with fiddlers and dancers, and to have been exercised with flinging upon a floore, and in the rest that thereof followes, than to have been exercised in the company of the godly, and exercised in virtue, which, in that court was hated, and filthenesse not only maintained, but also rewarded; witnesse the abbey of Abercorne, the barony of Auchvermuchtie, and divers others, pertaining to the patrimony of the crown, given in heritage to skippers and dancers, and dalliers with dames. This was the beginning of the regiment of Mary, queen of Scots, and these were the fruits that she brought forth of France.--_Lord! look on our miseries! and deliver us from_ _the wickednesse of this corrupt court!_"--KNOX's _History of the Reformation_, p. 373-4. Such seems to be the subject of the following ballad, as narrated by the stern apostle of presbytery. It will readily strike the reader, that the tale has suffered great alterations, as handed down by tradition; the French waiting-woman being changed into Mary Hamilton,[21] and the queen's apothecary, into Henry Darnley. Yet this is less surprising, when we recollect, that one of the heaviest of the queen's complaints against her ill-fated husband, was his infidelity, and that even with her personal attendants. I have been enabled to publish the following complete edition of the ballad, by copies from various quarters; that principally used, was communicated to me, in the most polite manner, by Mr Kirkpatricke Sharpe, of Hoddom, to whom I am indebted for many similar favours. THE QUEEN'S MARIE. * * * * * Marie Hamilton's to the kirk gane, Wi' ribbons on her hair; The king thought mair o' Marie Hamilton, Than ony that were there. Marie Hamilton's to the kirk gane, Wi' ribbons on her breast; The king thought mair o' Marie Hamilton, Than he listen'd to the priest. Marie Hamilton's to the kirk gane, Wi' gluves upon her hands; The king thought mair o' Marie Hamilton, Than the queen and a' her lands. She hadna been about the king's court A month, but barely one, Till she was beloved by a' the king's court, And the king the only man. She hadna been about the king's court A month, but barely three, Till frae the king's court Marie Hamilton, Marie Hamilton durst na be. The king is to the Abbey gane, To pu' the Abbey tree, To scale the babe frae Marie's heart; But the thing it wadna be. O she has row'd it in her apron, And set it on the sea,-- "Gae sink ye, or swim ye, bonny babe, "Ye'se get na mair o' me." Word is to the kitchen gane, And word is to the ha', And word is to the noble room, Amang the ladyes a', That Marie Hamilton's brought-to-bed, And the bonny babe's mist and awa. Scarcely had she lain down again, And scarcely fa'n asleep, When up then started our gude queen, Just at her bed-feet; Saying--"Marie Hamilton, where's your babe? "For I'm sure I heard it greet." "O no, O no, my noble queen! "Think no such thing to be; "'Twas but a stitch into my side, "And sair it troubles me." "Get up, get up, Marie Hamilton; "Get up, and follow me; "For I am going to Edinburgh town, "A rich wedding for to see." O slowly, slowly, raise she up, And slowly put she on; And slowly rode she out the way, Wi' mony a weary groan. The queen was clad in scarlet, Her merry maids all in green; And every town that they cam to, They took Marie for the queen. "Ride hooly, hooly, gentlemen, "Ride hooly now wi' me! "For never, I am sure, a wearier burd "Rade in your cumpanie." But little wist Marie Hamilton, When she rade on the brown, That she was ga'en to Edinburgh town, And a' to be put down. "Why weep ye so, ye burgess wives, "Why look ye so on me? "O, I am going to Edinburgh town, "A rich wedding for to see." When she gaed up the tolbooth stairs, The corks frae her heels did flee; And lang or e'er she cam down again, She was condemned to die. When she cam to the Netherbow port, She laughed loud laughters three; But when she cam to the gallows foot, The tears blinded her e'e. "Yestreen the queen had four Maries, "The night she'll hae but three; "There was Marie Seaton, and Marie Beaton, "And Marie Carmichael, and me. "O, often have I dress'd my queen, "And put gold upon her hair; "But now I've gotten for my reward, "The gallows to be my share; "Often have I dress'd my queen, "And often made her bed; "But now I've gotten for my reward "The gallows tree to tread. "I charge ye all, ye mariners, "When ye sail ower the faem, "Let neither my father nor mother get wit, "But that I'm coming hame. "I charge ye all, ye mariners, "That sail upon the sea, "Let neither my father nor mother get wit "This dog's death I'm to die. "For if my father and mother got wit, "And my bold brethren three, "O, mickle wad be the gude red blude, "This day wad be spilt for me! "O little did my mother ken, "The day she cradled me, "The lands I was to travel in, "Or the death I was to die!" NOTES ON THE QUEEN'S MARIE. * * * * * _When she cam to the Netherbow port._--P. 93, v. 1. The Netherbow port was the gate which divided the city of Edinburgh from the suburb, called the Canongate. It had towers and a spire, which formed a fine termination to the view from the Cross. The gate was pulled down, in one of those fits of rage for indiscriminate destruction, with which the magistrates of a corporation are sometimes visited. _Yestreen the queen had four Maries,_ _The night she'll hae but three, &c._--P. 93. v. 2. The queen's Maries were four young ladies of the highest families in Scotland, who were sent to France in her train, and returned with her to Scotland. They are mentioned by Knox, in the quotation introductory to this ballad. Keith gives us their names, p. 55. "The young queen, Mary, embarked at Dunbarton for France, ... and with her went ..., and four young virgins, all of the name of Mary, viz. Livingston, Fleming, Seaton, and Beatoun." The queen's Maries are mentioned again by the same author, p. 288, and 291, in the note. Neither Mary Livingston, nor Mary Fleming, are mentioned in the ballad; nor are the Mary Hamilton, and Mary Carmichael, of the ballad mentioned by Keith. But if this corps continued to consist of young virgins, as when originally raised, it could hardly have subsisted without occasional recruits; especially if we trust our old bard, and John Knox. The following additional notices of the queen's Maries occur, in MONTEITH's _Translation of Buchanan's Epigrams, &c._ Page 60. _Pomp of the Gods at the Marriage of Queen Mary, 29th July, 1565, a Dialogue._ DIANA. "Great father, Maries[22] five late served me, "Were of my quire the glorious dignitie: "With these dear five the heaven I'd regain, "The happiness of other gods to stain; "At my lot, Juno, Venus, were in ire, "And stole away one----" P. 61. APOLLO. "Fear not, Diana, I good tidings bring, "And unto you glad oracles I sing; "Juno commands your Maries to be married, "And, in all state, to marriage-bed be carried." P. 62. JUPITER. "Five Maries thine; "One Marie now remains of Delia's five, "And she at wedlock o'er shortly will arrive." P. 64. To Mary Fleming, the king's valentyn-- 65. To Mary Beton, queen by lot, the day before the coronation. _Sundry Verses._ The queen's Maries are mentioned in many ballads, and the name seems to have passed into a general denomination for female attendants: Now bear a hand, my Maries a', And busk me brave, and make me fine. _Old Ballad._ FOOTNOTES: [20] The name should be Livingston. "John Semple, son of Robert, Lord Semple, (by Elizabeth Carlisle, a daughter of the Lord Torthorald) was ancestor of the Semples of Beltrees. He was married to Mary, sister to William Livingston, and one of the maids of honour to Queen Mary; by whom he had Sir James Semple of Beltrees, his son and heir," &c.; afterwards ambassador to England, for King James VI. in 1599.--CRAWFORD's _History of Renfrew_, p. 101. [21] One copy bears, "_Mary Miles_." [22] The queen seems to be included in this number. THE BONNY HYND. * * * * * _From Mr_ HERD's _MS., where the following Note is prefixed to it_--"Copied from the mouth of a Milkmaid, 1771, by W. L." * * * * * It was originally the intention of the Editor to have omitted this ballad, on account of the disagreeable nature of the subject. Upon consideration, however, it seemed a fair sample of a certain class of songs and tales, turning upon incidents the most horrible and unnatural, with which the vulgar in Scotland are greatly delighted, and of which they have current amongst them an ample store. Such, indeed, are the subjects of composition in most nations, during the early period of society; when the feelings, rude and callous, can only be affected by the strongest stimuli, and where the mind does not, as in a more refined age, recoil, disgusted, from the means by which interest has been excited. Hence incest, parricide--crimes, in fine, the foulest and most enormous, were the early themes of the Grecian muse. Whether that delicacy, which precludes the modern bard from the choice of such impressive and dreadful themes, be favourable to the higher classes of poetic composition, may perhaps be questioned; but there can be little doubt, that the more important cause of virtue and morality is advanced by this exclusion. The knowledge, that enormities are not without precedent, may promote, and even suggest, them. Hence, the publication of the _Newgate Register_ has been prohibited by the wisdom of the legislature; having been found to encourage those very crimes, of which it recorded the punishment. Hence, too, the wise maxim of the Romans, _Facinora ostendi dum puniantur, flagitia autem abscondi debent_. The ballad has a high degree of poetical merit. THE BONNY HYND. COPIED FROM THE MOUTH OF A MILKMAID, IN 1771. * * * * * O May she comes, and May she goes, Down by yon gardens green; And there she spied a gallant squire, As squire had ever been. And May she comes, and May she goes, Down by yon hollin tree; And there she spied a brisk young squire, And a brisk young squire was he. "Give me your green manteel, fair maid; "Give me your maidenhead! "Gin ye winna give me your green manteel, "Give me your maidenhead!" * * * * * "Perhaps there may be bairns, kind sir; "Perhaps there may be nane; "But, if you be a courtier, "You'll tell me soon your name." "I am nae courtier, fair maid, "But new come frae the sea; "I am nae courtier, fair maid, "But when I court with thee. "They call me Jack, when I'm abroad; "Sometimes they call me John; "But, when I'm in my father's bower, "Jock Randal is my name." "Ye lee, ye lee, ye bonny lad! "Sae loud's I hear you lee! "For I'm Lord Randal's ae daughter, "He has nae mair nor me." "Ye lee, ye lee, ye bonny May! "Sae loud's I hear ye lee! "For I'm Lord Randal's ae ae son, "Just now come o'er the sea." She's putten her hand down by her gare, And out she's ta'en a knife; And she has put it in her heart's bleed, And ta'en away her life. And he has ta'en up his bonny sister, With the big tear in his e'en; And he has buried his bonny sister Amang the hollins green. And syne he's hyed him o'er the dale, His father dear to see-- "Sing, Oh! and Oh! for my bonny hind, "Beneath yon hollin tree!" "What needs you care for your bonny hind? "For it you needna care; "Take you the best, gi' me the warst, "Since plenty is to spare." "I carena for your hinds, my lord; "I carena for your fee; "But, Oh! and Oh! for my bonny hind, "Beneath the hollin tree!" "O were ye at your sister's bower, "Your sister fair to see, "You'll think nae mair o' your bonny hind, "Beneath the hollin tree." * * * * * O GIN MY LOVE WERE YON RED ROSE. FROM MR HERD'S MS. * * * * * O gin my love were yon red rose, That grows upon the castle wa', And I mysell a drap of dew, Down on that red rose I would fa'. O my love's bonny, bonny, bonny; My love's bonny and fair to see: Whene'er I look on her weel far'd face, She looks and smiles again to me. O gin my love were a pickle of wheat, And growing upon yon lily lee, And I mysell a bonny wee bird, Awa wi' that pickle o' wheat I wad flee. O my love's bonny, &c. O gin my love were a coffer o' gowd, And I the keeper of the key, I wad open the kist whene'er I list, And in that coffer I wad be. O my love's bonny, &c. O TELL ME HOW TO WOO THEE. * * * * * _The following verses are taken down from recitation, and are averred to be of the age of_ CHARLES I. _They have, indeed, much of the romantic expression of passion, common to the poets of that period, whose lays still reflected the setting beams of chivalry; but, since their publication in the first edition of this work, the Editor has been informed, that they were composed by the late Mr_ GRAHAM _of Gartmore._ * * * * * If doughty deeds my ladye please, Right soon I'll mount my steed; And strong his arm, and fast his seat, That bears frae me the meed. I'll wear thy colours in my cap, Thy picture in my heart; And he, that bends not to thine eye, Shall rue it to his smart. Then tell me how to woo thee, love; O tell me how to woo thee! For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, Tho' ne'er another trow me. If gay attire delight thine eye, I'll dight me in array; I'll tend thy chamber door all night, And squire thee all the day. If sweetest sounds can win thy ear, These sounds I'll strive to catch; Thy voice I'll steal to woo thysell, That voice that nane can match. Then tell me how to woo thee, love; O tell me how to woo thee! For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, Tho' ne'er another trow me. But if fond love thy heart can gain, I never broke a vow; Nae maiden lays her skaith to me, I never loved but you. For you alone I ride the ring, For you I wear the blue; For you alone I strive to sing, O tell me how to woo. O tell me how to woo thee, love; O tell me how to woo thee! For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, Tho' ne'er another trow me. THE SOUTERS OF SELKIRK. * * * * * This little lyric piece, with those which immediately follow in the collection, relates to the fatal battle of Flodden, in which the flower of the Scottish nobility fell around their sovereign, James IV. The ancient and received tradition of the burgh of Selkirk affirms, that the citizens of that town distinguished themselves by their gallantry on that disastrous occasion. Eighty in number, and headed by their town-clerk, they joined their monarch on his entrance into England. James, pleased with the appearance of this gallant troop, knighted their leader, William Brydone, upon the field of battle, from which few of the men of Selkirk were destined to return. They distinguished themselves in the conflict, and were almost all slain. The few survivors, on their return home, found, by the side of Lady-Wood Edge, the corpse of a female, wife to one of their fallen comrades, with a child sucking at her breast. In memory of this latter event, continues the tradition, the present arms of the burgh bear, a female, holding a child in her arms, and seated on a sarcophagus, decorated with the Scottish lion; in the back-ground a wood. A learned antiquary, whose judgment and accuracy claim respect, has made some observations upon the probability of this tradition, which the editor shall take the liberty of quoting, as an introduction to what he has to offer upon the same subject. And, if he shall have the misfortune to differ from the learned gentleman, he will at least lay candidly before the public the grounds of his opinion. "That the souters of Selkirk should, in 1513, amount to fourscore fighting men, is a circumstance utterly incredible. It is scarcely to be supposed, that all the shoemakers in Scotland could have produced such an army, at a period when shoes must have been still less worn than they are at present. Dr Johnson, indeed, was told at Aberdeen, that the people learned the art of making shoes from Cromwell's soldiers.--'The numbers,' he adds, 'that go barefoot, are still sufficient to show that shoes may be spared: they are not yet considered as necessaries of life; for tall boys, not otherwise meanly dressed, run without them in the streets; and, in the islands, the sons of gentlemen pass several of their first years with naked feet.'--(_Journey to the Western Islands_, p. 55.) Away, then, with the fable of the souters of Selkirk. Mr Tytler, though he mentions it as the subject of a song, or ballad, 'does not remember ever to have seen the original genuine words,'--as he obligingly acknowledged in a letter to the editor. Mr Robertson, however, who gives the statistical account of the parish of Selkirk, seems to know something more of the matter--'Some,' says he, 'have _very falsely_ attributed to this event (the battle of Flowden), that song, 'Up wi' the souters of Selkirk, 'And down with the Earl of Hume.' "There was no Earl of Hume,' he adds, 'at that time, nor was this song composed till long after. It arose from a bet betwixt the Philiphaugh and Hume families; the souters (or shoemakers) of Selkirk, against the men of Hume, at a match of foot-ball, in which the souters of Selkirk completely gained, and afterwards perpetuated their victory in that song.'--This is decisive; and so much for Scottish tradition."--Note to _Historical Essay on Scotish Song_, prefixed to _Scotish Songs_ in 2 vols. 1794. It is proper to remark, that the passage of Mr Robertson's statistical account, above quoted, does not relate to the authenticity of the tradition, but to the origin of the song, which is obviously a separate and distinct question. The entire passage in the statistical account (of which a part only is quoted in the essay) runs thus: "Here, too, the inhabitants of the town of Selkirk, who breathed the manly spirit of real freedom, justly merit particular attention. Of one hundred citizens, who followed the fortunes of James IV. on the plains of Flowden, a few returned, loaded with the spoils taken from the enemy. Some of these trophies still survive the rust of time, and the effects of negligence. The desperate valour of the citizens of Selkirk, which, on that fatal day, was eminently conspicuous to both armies, produced very opposite effects. The implacable resentment of the English reduced their defenceless town to ashes; while their grateful sovereign (James V.) showed his sense of their valour, by a grant of an extensive portion of the forest, the trees for building their houses, and the property as the reward of their heroism."--A note is added by Mr Robertson.--"A standard, the appearance of which bespeaks its antiquity, is still carried annually (on the day of riding their common) by the corporation of weavers, by a member of which it was taken from the English in the field of Flowden. It may be added, that the sword of William Brydone, the town clerk, who led the citizens to the battle (and who is said to have been knighted for his valour), is still in the possession of John Brydon, a citizen of Selkirk, his lineal descendant."--An additional note contains the passage quoted in the _Essay on Scotish Song_. If the testimony of Mr Robertson is to be received as decisive of the question, the learned author of the essay will surely admit, upon re-perusal, that the passage in the statistical account contains the most positive and unequivocal declaration of his belief in the tradition. Neither does the story itself, upon close examination, contain any thing inconsistent with probability. The towns upon the border, and especially Selkirk and Jedburgh, were inhabited by a race of citizens, who, from the necessity of their situation, and from the nature of their possessions (held by burgage tenure), were inured to the use of arms. Selkirk was a county town, and a royal burgh; and when the array of the kingdom, amounting to no less than one hundred thousand warriors, was marshalled by the royal command, eighty men seems no unreasonable proportion from a place of consequence, lying so very near the scene of action. Neither is it necessary to suppose, literally, that the men of Selkirk were all _souters_. This appellation was obviously bestowed on them, because it was the trade most generally practised in the town, and therefore passed into a general epithet. Even the existence of such a craft, however, is accounted improbable by the learned essayist, who seems hardly to allow, that the Scottish nation was, at that period, acquainted with the art "of accommodating their feet with shoes." And here he attacks us with our own weapons, and wields the tradition of Aberdeen against that of Selkirk. We shall not stop to enquire, in what respect Cromwell's regiment of missionary cobblers deserves, in point of probability, to take precedence of the souters of Selkirk. But, allowing that all the shoemakers in England, with _Praise-the-Lord Barebones_ at their head, had generously combined to instruct the men of Aberdeen in the arts of psalmody and cobbling, it by no means bears upon the present question. If instruction was at all necessary, it must have been in teaching the natives how to make _shoes_, properly so called, in opposition to _brogues_: For there were cordiners in Aberdeen long before Cromwell's visit, and several fell in the battle of the bridge of Dee, as appears from Spalding's _History of the Troubles in Scotland_, Vol. II. p. 140. Now, the "single-soaled shoon," made by the souters of Selkirk, were a sort of brogues, with a single thin soal; the purchaser himself performing the further operation of sewing on another of thick leather. The rude and imperfect state of this manufacture sufficiently evinces the antiquity of the craft. Thus, the profession of the citizens of Selkirk, instead of invalidating, confirms the traditional account of their valour. The total devastation of this unfortunate burgh, after the fatal battle of Flodden, is ascertained by the charters under which the corporation hold their privileges. The first of these is granted by James V., and is dated 4th March, 1535-6. The narrative, or inductive clause of the deed, is in these words: "_Sciatis quia nos considerantes et intelligentes quod Carte Evidencie et litere veteris fundacionis et infeofamenti burgi nostri de Selkirk et libertatum ejusdem burgensibus et communitati ipsius per nobilissimos progenitores nostros quorum animabus propicietur Deus dat. et concess. per guerrarum assultus pestem combustionem et alias pro majore parte vastantur et distruuntur unde mercantiarum usus inter ipsos burgenses cessavit in eorum magnam lesionem ac reipublice et libertatis Burgi nostri antedict. destruccionem et prejudicium ac ingens nobis dampnum penes nostras Custumas et firmas burgales et eodem nobis debit. si subitumin eisdem remedium minime habitum fuerit NOS igitur pietati et justicia moti ac pro policia et edificiis infra regnum nostrum habend. de novo infeodamus_," &c. The charter proceeds, in common form, to erect anew the town of Selkirk into a royal burgh, with all the privileges annexed to such corporations. This mark of royal favour was confirmed by a second charter, executed by the same monarch, after he had attained the age of majority, and dated April 8, 1538. This deed of confirmation first narrates the charter, which has been already quoted, and then proceeds to mention other grants, which had been conferred upon the burgh, during the minority of James V., and which are thus expressed: "We for the gude trew and thankful service done and to be done to ws be owre lovittis the baillies burgesses and communite of our burgh of Selkirk and for certaine otheris reasonable causis and considerationis moving ws be the tennor hereof grantis and gevis license to thame and thair successors to ryfe out breke and teil yeirlie ane thousand[23] acres of thair common landis of our said burgh in what part thairof thea pleas for polecy strengthing and bigging of the samyn for the wele of ws and of liegis repairand thairto and defence againis owre auld innemyis of Ingland and other wayis and will and grantis that thai sall nocht be callit accusit nor incur ony danger or skaith thairthrow in thair personis landis nor gudis in ony wise in time cuming NOCHTWITHSTANDING ony owre actis or statutis maid or to be maid in the contrar in ony panys contenit tharein anent the quhilkis we dispens with thame be thir owre letters with power to them to occupy the saidis landis with thare awne gudis or to set theme to tenentis as thai sall think maist expedient for the wele of our said burgh with frei ische and entri and with all and sindry utheris commoditeis freedomes asiamentis and richtuis pertinentis whatsumever pertenyng or that rychtuisly may pertene thairto perpetually in tyme cuming frelie quietlie wele and in peace but ony revocatioun or agane calling whatsumever Gevin under owre signet and subscrivit with owre hand at Striveling the twenty day of Junii The yere of God ane thousand five hundreth and thretty six yeris and of our regne the twenti thre yere." Here follows another grant: "We UNDERSTANDING that owre burgh of Selkirk and inhabitants thairof CONTINUALIE SEN THE FIELD OF FLODOUNE hes been oppressiit heriit and owre runin be theves and traitors whairthrow the hant of merchandice has cessit amangis thame of langtyme bygane and thai heriit thairthrow and we defraudit of owre custumis and dewites THAIRFOR and for divers utheris resonable causis and considerationes moving us be the tenor heirof of our kinglie power fre motive and autorite ryall grantis and gevis to thame and thair successors ane fair day begynand at the feist of the Conception of owre Lady next to cum aftere the day of the date hereof and be the octavis of the sammyn perpetualy in time cuming To be usit and exercit be thame als frelie in time cuming as ony uther fair is usit or exercit be ony otheris owre burrowis within our realme payand yeirlie custumis and doweities aucht and wont as effeiris frelie quietlie wele and in pece but ony revocation obstakill impediment or agane calling whatsumever subscrivet with owre hand and gevin under owre Signet at KIRKCALDY the secund day of September The yere of God ane thousand five huudreth and threty sex yeris and of our regne the twenty three yeir." The charter of confirmation, in which all these deeds and letters of donation are engrossed, proceeds to ratify and confirm them in the most ample manner. The testing clause, as it is termed in law language, is in these words: "_In cujus rei Testimonium huic presente carte nostre confirmationis magnum sigillum nostrum apponi precepimus_ TESTIBUS _Reverendissimo reverendisque in Christo Patribus Gawino Archiepisco Glasguen. Cancellario nostro Georgio Episcopo Dunkelden. Henrico Episcopo Candide Case nostreque Capelle regie Strivilengen. dilectis nostris consanguineis Jacobo Moravie Comite &c. Archibaldo Comite de Ergile Domino Campbell et Lorne Magistro Hospicii nostri Hugone Comite de Eglinton Domino Montgomery Malcolmo Domino Flemyng magno Camerario nostro Venerabilibus in Christo Patribus Patricio Priore Ecclesie Metropolitane Sanctiandree Alexandro Abbate Monasterii nostri de Cambuskynneth dilectis familiaribus nostris Thoma Erskin de Brechin Secretario nostro Jocobo Colville de Estwemis compotorum nostrorum rotulatore et nostre cancellarie directore militibus et Magistro Jacobo Foulis de Colintoun nostrorum rotulorum Registri et Concilii clerico apud Edinburgh octavo die mensis Aprilis Anno Domini millesimo quingentesimo trigesimo octavo et regni nostri vicesimo quinto._" From these extracts, which are accurately copied from the original charters,[24] it may be safely concluded, 1st, that Selkirk was a place of importance before it was ruined by the English; and, 2d, "that the voice of merchants had ceased in her streets," in consequence of the fatal field of Flodden. But further, it seems reasonable to infer, that so many marks of royal favour, granted within so short a time of each other, evince the gratitude, as well as the compassion, of the monarch, and were intended to reward the valour, as well as to relieve the distress, of the men of Selkirk. Thus, every circumstance of the written evidence, as far as it goes, tallies with the oral tradition of the inhabitants; and, therefore, though the latter may be exaggerated, it surely cannot be dismissed as entirely void of foundation. That William Brydone actually enjoyed the honour of knighthood, is ascertained by many of the deeds, in which his name appears as a notary public. John Brydone, lineal descendant of the gallant town-clerk, is still alive, and possessed of the reliques mentioned by Mr Robertson. The old man, though in an inferior station of life, receives considerable attention from his fellow-citizens, and claims no small merit to himself on account of his brave ancestor. Thus far concerning the tradition of the exploits of the men of Selkirk, at Flodden field. Whether the following verses do, or do not, bear any allusion to that event, is a separate and less interesting question. The opinion of Mr Robertson, referring them to a different origin, has been already mentioned; but his authority, though highly respectable, is not absolutely decisive of the question. The late Mr Plummer, sheriff-depute of the county of Selkirk, a faithful and accurate antiquary, entertained a very opposite opinion. He has thus expressed himself, upon the subject, in the course of his literary correspondence with Mr Herd: "Of the Souters of Selkirk, I never heard any words but the following verse: 'Up with the Sutors of Selkirk, 'And down wi' the Earl of Home; 'And up wi' a' the bra' lads 'That sew the single-soled shoon.' "It is evident, that these words cannot be so ancient as to come near the time when the battle was fought; as Lord Home was not created an earl till near a century after that period. "Our clergyman, in the "Statistical Account," Vol. II. p. 48, note, says, that these words were composed upon a match at foot-ball, between the Philiphaugh and Home families. I was five years at school at Selkirk, have lived all my days within two miles of that town, and never once heard a tradition of this imaginary contest till I saw it in print. "Although the words are not very ancient, there is every reason to believe, that they allude to the battle of Flodden, and to the different behaviour of the souters, and Lord Home, upon that occasion. At election dinners, &c. when the Selkirk folks begin to get _fou'_, (merry) they always call for music, and for that tune in particular.[25] At such times I never heard a souter hint at the foot-ball, but many times speak of the battle of "Flodden."--_Letter from Mr Plummer to Mr Herd, 13th January, 1793._ The editor has taken every opportunity, which his situation[26] has afforded him, to obtain information on this point, and has been enabled to recover two additional verses of the song. The yellow and green, mentioned in the second verse, are the liveries of the house of Home. When the Lord Home came to attend the governor, Albany, his attendants were arrayed in Kendal-green.--GODSCROFT. THE SOUTERS OF SELKIRK. * * * * * Up wi' the Souters of Selkirk, And down wi' the Earl of Home; And up wi' a' the braw lads, That sew the single-soled shoon. Fye upon yellow and yellow, And fye upon yellow and green; But up with the true blue and scarlet, And up wi' the single-soled sheen. Up wi' the Souters of Selkirk, For they are baith trusty and leal; And up wi' the men of the Forest,[27] And down with the Merse[28] to the deil. NOTE ON THE SOUTERS OF SELKIRK. * * * * * It is unnecessary here to enter into a formal refutation of the popular calumny, which taxed Lord Home with being the murderer of his sovereign, and the cause of the defeat at Flodden. So far from exhibiting any marks of cowardice or disaffection, the division, headed by that unfortunate nobleman, was the only part of the Scottish army which was conducted with common prudence on that fatal day. This body formed the vanguard, and entirely routed the division of Sir Edmund Howard, to which they were opposed; but the reserve of the English cavalry rendered it impossible for Home, notwithstanding his success, to come to the aid of the king, who was irretrievably ruined by his own impetuosity of temper.--PINKERTON'S _History_, Vol II. p. 105. The escape of James from the field of battle, has been long deservedly ranked with that of King Sebastian, and similar _speciosa miracula_ with which the vulgar have been amused in all ages. Indeed, the Scottish nation were so very unwilling to admit any advantage on the English part, that they seem actually to have set up pretensions to the victory.[29] The same temper of mind led them eagerly to ascribe the loss of their monarch, and his army, to any cause, rather than to his own misconduct, and the superior military skill of the English. There can be no doubt, that James actually fell on the field of battle, the slaughter-place of his nobles.--_Pinkerton, ibid._ His dead body was interred in the monastery of Sheen, in Surrey; and Stowe mentions, with regard to it, the following degrading circumstances. "After the battle, the bodie of the said king, being found, was closed in lead, and conveyed from thence to London, and to the monasterie of Sheyne, in Surry, where it remained for a time, in what order I am not certaine; but, since the dissolution of that house, in the reigne of Edward VI., Henry Gray, Duke of Norfolke, being lodged, and keeping house there, I have been shewed the same bodie, so lapped in lead, close to the head and bodie, throwne into a waste room, amongst the old timber, lead, and other rubble. Since the which time, workmen there, for their foolish pleasure, hewed off his head; and Lancelot Young, master glazier to Queen Elizabeth, feeling a sweet savour to come from thence, and seeing the same dried from all moisture, and yet the form remaining, with haire of the head, and beard red, brought it to London, to his house in Wood-street, where, for a time, he kept it, for its sweetness, but, in the end, caused the sexton of that church (St Michael's, Wood-street) to bury it amongst other bones taken out of their charnell."--STOWE'S _Survey of London_, p. 539. FOOTNOTES: [23] It is probable that Mr Robertson had not seen this deed, when he wrote his statistical account of the parish of Selkirk; for it appears, that, instead of a grant of lands, the privilege granted to the community was a right of tilling one thousand acres of those which already belonged to the burgh. Hence it follows, that, previous to the field of Flodden, the town must have been possessed of a spacious domain, to which a thousand acres in tillage might bear a due proportion. This circumstance ascertains the antiquity and power of the burgh; for, had this large tract of land been granted during the minority of James V., the donation, to be effectual, must have been included in the charters of confirmation. [24] The charters are preserved in the records of the burgh. [25] A singular custom is observed at conferring the freedom of the burgh. Four or five bristles, such as are used by shoemakers, are attached to the seal of the burgess ticket. These the new-made burgess must dip in his wine, and pass through his mouth, in token of respect for the souters of Selkirk. This ceremony is on no account dispensed with. [26] That the editor succeeded Mr Plummer in his office of sheriff-depute, and has himself the honour to be a souter of Selkirk, may perhaps form the best apology for the length of this dissertation. [27] Selkirkshire, otherwise called Ettrick Forest. [28] Berwickshire, otherwise called the Merse. [29] "Against the proud Scottes' clattering, That never wyll leave their tratlying; Wan they the field and lost theyr kinge? They may well say, fie on that winning! Lo these fond sottes and tratlying Scottes, How they are blinde in theyr own minde, And will not know theyr overthrow. At Branxton moore they are so stowre, So frantike mad, they say they had, And wan the field with speare and shielde: That is as true as black is blue, &c. _Skelton Laureate against the Scottes._ THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. PART FIRST. * * * * * The following well known, and beautiful stanzas, were composed many years ago, by a lady of family, in Roxburghshire. The manner of the ancient minstrels is so happily imitated, that it required the most positive evidence to convince the editor that the song was of modern date. Such evidence, however, he has been able to procure; having been favoured, through the kind intervention of Dr Somerville (well known to the literary world, as the historian of King William, &c.), with the following authentic copy of the _Flowers of the Forest_. From the same respectable authority, the editor is enabled to state, that the tune of the ballad is ancient, as well as the two following lines of the first stanza: I've heard them lilting at the ewes milking, · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · The flowers of the forest are a' wede away. Some years after the song was composed, a lady, who is now dead, repeated to the author another imperfect line of the original ballad, which presents a simple and affecting image to the mind: "I ride single on my saddle, "For the flowers of the forest are a' wede away." The first of these trifling fragments, joined to the remembrance of the fatal battle of Flodden (in the calamities accompanying which, the inhabitants of Ettrick Forest suffered a distinguished share), and to the present solitary and desolate appearance of the country, excited, in the mind of the author, the ideas, which she has expressed in a strain of elegiac simplicity and tenderness, which has seldom been equalled. THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. PART FIRST. * * * * * I've heard them lilting, at the ewe milking, Lasses a' lilting, before dawn of day; But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning; The flowers of the forest are a' wede awae. At bughts, in the morning, nae blithe lads are scorning; Lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae; Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing; Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her awae. In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jearing; Bandsters are runkled, and lyart or gray; At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching; The flowers of the forest are a' wede awae. At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming 'Bout stacks, with the lasses at bogle to play; But ilk maid sits dreary, lamenting her deary-- The flowers of the forest are weded awae. Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the border! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; The flowers of the forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay. We'll hear nae mair lilting, at the ewe milking; Women and bairns are heartless and wae: Sighing and moaning, on ilka green loaning-- The flowers of the forest are a' wede awae. The following explanation of provincial terms may be found useful. _Lilting_--Singing cheerfully. _Loaning_--A broad lane. _Wede awae_--Weeded out. _Scorning_--Rallying. _Dowie_--Dreary. _Daffing and gabbing_--Joking and chatting. _Leglin_--Milk-pail. _Har'st_--Harvest. _Shearing_--Reaping. _Bandsters_--Sheaf-binders. _Runkled_--Wrinkled. _Lyart_--Inclining to grey. _Fleeching_--Coaxing. _Gloaming_--Twilight. NOTE ON THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. * * * * * _At fair, or at preaching_, &c.--P. 127. v. 3. These lines have been said to contain an anachronism; the supposed date of the lamentation being about the period of the field of Flodden. The editor can see no ground for this charge. Fairs were held in Scotland from the most remote antiquity; and are, from their very nature, scenes of pleasure and gallantry. The preachings of the friars were, indeed, professedly, meetings for a graver purpose; but we have the authority of the _Wife of Bath_ (surely most unquestionable in such a point), that they were frequently perverted to places of rendezvous: I had the better leisur for to pleie, And for to see, and eke for to be seie Of lusty folk. What wist I where my grace Was shapen for to be, or in what place? Therefore I made my visitations To vigilies and to processions: _To preachings eke_, and to thise pilgrimages, To plays of miracles, and marriages, &c. _Canterbury Tales._ THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. PART SECOND. * * * * * The following verses, adapted to the ancient air of the _Flowers of the Forest_, are, like the elegy which precedes them, the production of a lady. The late Mrs Cockburn, daughter of Rutherford of Fairnalie, in Selkirkshire, and relict of Mr Cockburn of Ormiston (whose father was lord justice-clerk of Scotland), was the authoress. Mrs Cockburn has been dead but a few years. Even at an age, advanced beyond the usual bounds of humanity, she retained a play of imagination, and an activity of intellect, which must have been attractive and delightful in youth, but was almost preternatural at her period of life. Her active benevolence, keeping pace with her genius, rendered her equally an object of love and admiration. The editor, who knew her well, takes this opportunity of doing justice to his own feelings; and they are in unison with those of all who knew his regretted friend. The verses, which follow, were written at an early period of life, and without peculiar relation to any event, unless it were the depopulation of Ettrick Forest. THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. PART SECOND. * * * * * I've seen the smiling of fortune beguiling, I've tasted her favours, and felt her decay; Sweet is her blessing, and kind her caressing, But soon it is fled--it is fled far away. I've seen the forest adorned of the foremost, With flowers of the fairest, both pleasant and gay: Full sweet was their blooming, their scent the air perfuming, But now they are wither'd, and a' wede awae. I've seen the morning, with gold the hills adorning, And the red storm roaring, before the parting day; I've seen Tweed's silver streams, glittering in the sunny beams, Turn drumly[30] and dark, as they rolled on their way. O fickle fortune! why this cruel sporting? Why thus perplex us poor sons of a day? Thy frowns cannot fear me, thy smiles cannot cheer me, Since the flowers of the forest are a' wede awae. FOOTNOTES: [30] _Drumly_--Discoloured. THE LAIRD OF MUIRHEAD. * * * * * _This Ballad is a fragment from_ MR HERD'S _MS., communicated to him by_ J. GROSSETT MUIRHEAD, _at Breadesholm, near Glasgow; who stated, that he extracted it, as relating to his own Family, from the complete Song, in which the names of twenty or thirty gentlemen were mentioned, contained in a large Collection, belonging to_ MR ALEXANDER MONRO, _merchant in Lisbon, supposed now to be lost._ _It appears, from the Appendix to_ NESBIT'S _Heraldry,_ p. 264, _that_ MUIRHEAD _of Lachop and Bullis, the person here called the Laird of_ MUIRHEAD, _was a man of rank, being rentaller, or perhaps feuar, of many crown lands in Galloway; and was, in truth, slain_ "in Campo Belli de Northumberland sub vexillo Regis," _i.e. in the Field of Flodden._ * * * * * Afore the king in order stude The stout laird of Muirhead, Wi' that sam twa-hand muckle sword That Bartram felled stark deid. He sware he wadna lose his right To fight in ilka field; Nor budge him from his liege's sight, Till his last gasp should yield. Twa hunder mair, of his ain name, Frae Torwood and the Clyde, Sware they would never gang to hame, But a' die by his syde. And wond'rous weil they kept their troth; This sturdy royal band Rush'd down the brae, wi' sic a pith, That nane cou'd them withstand. Mony a bludey blow they delt, The like was never seen; And hadna that braw leader fallen, They ne'er had slain the king. ODE ON VISITING FLODDEN. BY J. LEYDEN. * * * * * Green Flodden! on thy blood-stained head Descend no rain nor vernal dew; But still, thou charnel of the dead, May whitening bones thy surface strew! Soon as I tread thy rush-clad vale, Wild fancy feels the clasping mail; The rancour of a thousand years Glows in my breast; again I burn To see the bannered pomp of war return, And mark, beneath the moon, the silver light of spears. Lo! bursting from their common tomb, The spirits of the ancient dead Dimly streak the parted gloom, With awful faces, ghastly red; As once, around their martial king, They closed the death-devoted ring, With dauntless hearts, unknown to yield; In slow procession round the pile Of heaving corses, moves each shadowy file, And chaunts, in solemn strain, the dirge of Flodden field. What youth, of graceful form and mien, Foremost leads the spectred brave, While o'er his mantle's folds of green His amber locks redundant wave? When slow returns the fated day, That viewed their chieftain's long array, Wild to the harp's deep, plaintive string, The virgins raise the funeral strain, From Ord's black mountain to the northern main, And mourn the emerald hue which paints the vest of spring. Alas! that Scottish maid should sing The combat where her lover fell! That Scottish bard should wake the string, The triumph of our foes to tell! Yet Teviot's sons, with high disdain, Have kindled at the thrilling strain That mourned their martial fathers' bier; And, at the sacred font, the priest, Through ages left the master-hand unblest, To urge, with keener aim, the blood-encrusted spear. Red Flodden! when thy plaintive strain, In early youth, rose soft and sweet, My life-blood, through each throbbing vein, With wild tumultuous passion beat. And oft, in fancied might, I trod The spear-strewn path to Fame's abode, Encircled with a sanguine flood; And thought I heard the mingling hum, When, croaking hoarse, the birds of carrion come Afar, on rustling wing, to feast on English blood. Rude border chiefs, of mighty name, And iron soul; who sternly tore The blossoms from the tree of fame, And purpled deep their tints with gore, Rush from brown ruins, scarred with age, That frown o'er haunted Hermitage; Where, long by spells mysterious bound, They pace their round, with lifeless smile, And shake, with restless foot, the guilty pile, Till sink the mouldering towers beneath the burdened ground. Shades of the dead! on Alfer's plain, Who scorned with backward step to move, But, struggling mid the hills of slain, Against the sacred standard strove; Amid the lanes of war I trace Each broad claymore and ponderous mace: Where'er the surge of arms is tost, Your glittering spears, in close array, Sweep, like the spider's filmy web, away The flower of Norman pride, and England's victor host. But distant fleets each warrior ghost, With surly sounds, that murmur far; Such sounds were heard when Syria's host Roll'd from the walls of proud Samàr Around my solitary head Gleam the blue lightnings of the dead, While murmur low the shadowy band-- "Lament no more the warrior's doom! Blood, blood alone, should dew the hero's tomb, Who falls, 'mid circling spears, to save his native land." NOTES ON THE ODE TO FLODDEN. * * * * * _And mourn the emerald hue which paints the vest of spring._ P. 137. v. 2. Under the vigorous administration of James IV. the young Earl of Caithness incurred the penalty of outlawry and forfeiture, for revenging an ancient feud. On the evening preceding the battle of Flodden, accompanied by 300 young warriors, arrayed in green, he presented himself before the king, and submitted to his mercy. This mark of attachment was so agreeable to that warlike prince, that he granted an immunity to the Earl and all his followers. The parchment, on which this immunity was inscribed, is said to be still preserved in the archives of the earls of Caithness, and is marked with the drum-strings, having been cut out of a drum-head, as no other parchment could be found in the army. The Earl, and his gallant band, perished to a man in the battle of Flodden; since which period, it has been reckoned unlucky in Caithness _to wear green_, or _cross the Ord on a Monday_, the day of the week on which the chieftain advanced into Sutherland. _Through ages left the master-hand unblest_, &c.--P. 138. v. 1. In the border counties of Scotland, it was formerly customary, when any rancorous enmity subsisted between two clans, to leave the right hand of male children unchristened, that it might deal the more deadly, or, according to the popular phrase, "unhallowed" blows, to their enemies. By this superstitious rite, they were devoted to bear the family feud, or enmity. The same practice subsisted in Ireland, as appears from the following passage in _Campion's History of Ireland_, published in 1633. "In some corners of the land they used a damnable superstition, leaving the right armes of their infants, males, unchristened (as they termed it), to the end it might give a more ungracious and deadly blow." P. 15. _Till sink the mouldering towers beneath the burdened ground._ P. 139. v. 1. Popular superstition in Scotland still retains so formidable an idea of the _guilt of blood_, that those ancient edifices, or castles, where enormous crimes have been committed, are supposed to sink gradually into the ground. With regard to the castle of Hermitage, in particular, the common people believe, that thirty feet of the walls sunk, thirty feet fell, and thirty feet remain standing. _Against the sacred standard strove_, &c.--P. 139. v. 2. The fatal battle of the standard was fought on Cowton Moor, near Northallerton (A.S. Ealfertun), in Yorkshire, 1138. David I. commanded the Scottish army. He was opposed by Thurston, archbishop of York, who, to animate his followers, had recourse to the impressions of religious enthusiasm. The mast of a ship was fitted into the perch of a four-wheeled carriage; on its top was placed a little casket, containing a consecrated host. It also contained the banner of St Cuthbert, round which were displayed those of St Peter of York, St John of Beverly, and St Wilfred of Rippon. This was the English standard, and was stationed in the centre of the army. Prince Henry, son of David, at the head of the men of arms, chiefly from Cumberland and Teviotdale, charged, broke, and completely dispersed, the centre; but unfortunately was not supported by the other divisions of the Scottish army. The expression of Aldred (p. 345), describing this encounter, is more spirited than the general tenor of monkish historians;--"_Ipsa globi australis parte, instar cassis araneæ dissipata_"--that division of the phalanx was dispersed like a cobweb. MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER. PART THIRD. * * * * * _IMITATIONS_ OF THE ANCIENT BALLAD. CHRISTIE'S WILL. * * * * * In the reign of Charles I., when the moss-trooping practices were not entirely discontinued, the tower of Gilnockie, in the parish of Cannoby, was occupied by William Armstrong, called, for distinction's sake, _Christie's Will_, a lineal descendant of the famous John Armstrong, of Gilnockie, executed by James V.[31] The hereditary love of plunder had descended to this person with the family mansion; and, upon some marauding party, he was seized, and imprisoned in the tolbooth of Jedburgh. The Earl of Traquair, lord high treasurer, happening to visit Jedburgh, and knowing Christie's Will, enquired the cause of his confinement. Will replied, he was imprisoned for stealing two _tethers_ (halters); but, upon being more closely interrogated, acknowledged, there were two _delicate colts_ at the end of them. The joke, such as it was, amused the Earl, who exerted his interest, and succeeded in releasing Christie's Will from bondage. Some time afterwards, a law-suit, of importance to Lord Traquair, was to be decided in the Court of Session; and there was every reason to believe, that the judgment would turn upon the voice of the presiding judge, who has a casting vote, in case of an equal division among his brethren. The opinion of the president was unfavourable to Lord Traquair; and the point was, therefore, to keep him out of the way, when the question should be tried. In this dilemma, the Earl had recourse to Christie's Will; who, at once, offered his service, to kidnap the president. Upon due scrutiny, he found it was the judge's practice frequently to take the air, on horseback, on the sands of Leith, without an attendant. In one of these excursions, Christie's Will, who had long watched his opportunity, ventured to accost the president, and engage him in conversation. His address and language were so amusing, that he decoyed the president into an unfrequented and furzy common, called the Frigate Whins, where, riding suddenly up to him, he pulled him from his horse, muffled him in a large cloak, which he had provided, and rode off, with the luckless judge trussed up behind him. Will crossed the country with great expedition, by paths, only known to persons of his description, and deposited his weary and terrified burden in an old castle, in Annandale, called the Tower of Graham.[32] The judge's horse being found, it was concluded he had thrown his rider into the sea; his friends went into mourning, and a successor was appointed to his office. Meanwhile, the poor president spent a heavy time in the vault of the castle. He was imprisoned, and solitary; receiving his food through an aperture in the wall, and never hearing the sound of a human voice, save when a shepherd called his dog, by the name of _Batty_, and when a female domestic called upon _Maudge_, the cat. These, he concluded, were invocations of spirits; for he held himself to be in the dungeon of a sorcerer. At length, after three months had elapsed, the law-suit was decided in favour of Lord Traquair; and Will was directed to set the president at liberty. Accordingly, he entered the vault, at dead of night, seized the president, muffled him once more in the cloak, without speaking a single word, and, using the same mode of transportation, conveyed him to Leith sands, and set down the astonished judge on the very spot where he had taken him up. The joy of his friends, and the less agreeable surprise of his successor, may be easily conceived, when he appeared in court, to reclaim his office and honours. All embraced his own persuasion, that he had been spirited away by witchcraft; nor could he himself be convinced of the contrary, until, many years afterwards, happening to travel in Annandale, his ears were saluted, once more, with the sounds of _Maudge_ and _Batty_--the only notes which had solaced his long confinement. This led to a discovery of the whole story; but, in these disorderly times, it was only laughed at, as a fair _ruse de guerre_. Wild and strange as this tradition may seem, there is little doubt of its foundation in fact. The judge, upon whose person this extraordinary stratagem was practised, was Sir Alexander Gibson, Lord Durie, collector of the reports, well known in the Scottish law, under the title of _Durie's Decisions_. He was advanced to the station of an ordinary lord of session, 10th July, 1621, and died, at his own house of Durie, July 1646. Betwixt these periods his whimsical adventure must have happened; a date which corresponds with that of the tradition. "We may frame," says Forbes, "a rational conjecture of his great learning and parts, not only from his collection of the decisions of the session, from July 1621 till July 1642, but also from the following circumstances: 1. In a tract of more as twenty years, he was frequently chosen vice-president, and no other lord in that time. 2. 'Tis commonly reported, that some party, in a considerable action before the session, finding, that the Lord Durie could not be persuaded to think his plea good, fell upon a stratagem to prevent the influence and weight, which his lordship might have to his prejudice, by causing some strong masked men kidnap him, in the links of Leith, at his diversion on a Saturday afternoon, and transport him to some blind and obscure room in the country, where he was detained captive, without the benefit of day-light, a matter of three months (though otherways civilly and well entertained); during which time his lady and children went in mourning for him, as dead. But, after the cause aforesaid was decided, the Lord Durie was carried back by incognitos, and dropt in the same place where he had been taken up."--FORBES'S _Journal of the Session_, Edin. 1714. _Preface_, p. 28. Tradition ascribes to Christie's Will another memorable feat, which seems worthy of being recorded. It is well known, that, during the troubles of Charles I., the Earl of Traquair continued unalterably fixed in his attachment to his unfortunate master, in whose service he hazarded his person, and impoverished his estate. It was of consequence, it is said, to the king's service, that a certain packet, containing papers of importance, should be transmitted to him from Scotland. But the task was a difficult one, as the parliamentary leaders used their utmost endeavours to prevent any communication betwixt the king and his Scottish friends. Traquair, in this strait, again had recourse to the services of Christie's Will; who undertook the commission, conveyed the papers safely to his majesty, and received an answer, to be delivered to Lord Traquair. But, in the mean time, his embassy had taken air, and Cromwell had dispatched orders to intercept him at Carlisle. Christie's Will, unconscious of his danger, halted in the town to refresh his horse, and then pursued his journey. But, as soon as he began to pass the long, high, and narrow bridge, which crosses the Eden at Carlisle, either end of the pass was occupied by a party of parliamentary soldiers, who were lying in wait for him. The borderer disdained to resign his enterprise, even in these desperate circumstances; and at once forming his resolution, spurred his horse over the parapet. The river was in high flood. Will sunk--the soldiers shouted--he emerged again, and, guiding his horse to a steep bank, called the Stanners, or Stanhouse, endeavoured to land, but ineffectually, owing to his heavy horseman's cloak, now drenched in water. Will cut the loop, and the horse, feeling himself disembarrassed, made a desperate exertion, and succeeded in gaining the bank. Our hero set off, at full speed, pursued by the troopers, who had for a time stood motionless, in astonishment at his temerity. Will, however, was well mounted; and, having got the start, he kept it, menacing, with his pistols, any pursuer, who seemed likely to gain on him--an artifice which succeeded, although the arms were wet and useless. He was chaced to the river Eske, which he swam without hesitation; and, finding himself on Scottish ground, and in the neighbourhood of friends, he turned on the northern bank, and, in the true spirit of a border rider, invited his followers to come through, and drink with him. After this taunt, he proceeded on his journey, and faithfully accomplished his mission. Such were the exploits of the very last border freebooter of any note. The reader is not to regard the ballad as of genuine and unmixed antiquity, though some stanzas are current upon the border, in a corrupted state. They have been eked and joined together, in the rude and ludicrous manner of the original; but as it is to be considered as a modern ballad, it is transferred to this department of the work. CHRISTIE'S WILL. * * * * * Traquair has ridden up Chapelhope, And sae has he down by the Gray Mare's Tail;[33] He never stinted the light gallop, Untill he speer'd for Christie's Will. Now Christie's Will peep'd frae the tower, And out at the shot-hole keeked he; "And ever unlucky," quo' he, "is the hour, "That the warden comes to speer for me!" "Good Christie's Will, now, have na fear! "Nae harm, good Will, shall hap to thee: "I saved thy life at the Jeddart air, "At the Jeddart air frae the justice tree. "Bethink how ye sware, by the salt and the bread,[34] "By the lightning, the wind, and the rain, "That if ever of Christie's Will I had need, "He would pay me my service again." "Gramercy, my lord," quo' Christie's Will, "Gramercy, my lord, for your grace to me! "When I turn my cheek, and claw my neck, "I think of Traquair, and the Jeddart tree." And he has opened the fair tower yate, To Traquair and a' his companie; The spule o' the deer on the board he has set, The fattest that ran on the Hutton Lee. "Now, wherefore sit ye sad, my lord? "And wherefore sit ye mournfullie? "And why eat ye not of the venison I shot, "At the dead of night, on Hutton Lee?" "O weel may I stint of feast and sport, "And in my mind be vexed sair! "A vote of the canker'd Session Court, "Of land and living will make me bair. "But if auld Durie to heaven were flown, "Or if auld Durie to hell were gane, "Or ... if he could be but ten days stown.... "My bonny braid lands would still be my ain." "O mony a time, my lord," he said, "I've stown the horse frae the sleeping loun; "But for you I'll steal a beast as braid, "For I'll steal Lord Durie frae Edinburgh town. "O mony a time, my lord," he said, "I've stown a kiss frae a sleeping wench; "But for you I'll do as kittle a deed, "For I'll steal an auld lurdane aff the bench." And Christie's Will is to Edinburgh gane; At the Borough Muir then entered he; And as he pass'd the gallow-stane, He cross'd his brow, and he bent his knee. He lighted at Lord Durie's door, And there he knocked most manfullie; And up and spake Lord Durie, sae stoor, "What tidings, thou stalward groom, to me?" "The fairest lady in Teviotdale, "Has sent, maist reverent Sir, for thee; "She pleas at the session for her land, a' haill, "And fain she wad plead her cause to thee." "But how can I to that lady ride, "With saving of my dignitie?" "O a curch and mantle ye may wear, "And in my cloak ye sall muffled be." Wi' curch on head, and cloak ower face, He mounted the judge on a palfrey fyne; He rode away, a right round pace, And Christie's Will held the bridle reyn. The Lothian Edge they were not o'er, When they heard bugles bauldly ring, And, hunting over Middleton Moor, They met, I ween, our noble king. When Willie look'd upon our king, I wot a frightened man was he! But ever auld Durie was startled more, For tyning of his dignitie. The king he cross'd himself, I wis, When as the pair came riding bye-- "An uglier crone, and a sturdier lown, "I think, were never seen with eye!" Willie has hied to the tower of Græme, He took auld Durie on his back, He shot him down to the dungeon deep, Which garr'd his auld banes gie mony a crack. For nineteen days, and nineteen nights, Of sun, or moon, or midnight stern, Auld Durie never saw a blink, The lodging was sae dark and dern. He thought the warlocks o' the rosy cross Had fang'd him in their nets sae fast; Or that the gypsies' glamour'd gang, Had lair'd[35] his learning at the last. "Hey! Batty, lad! far yaud! far yaud!"[36] These were the morning sounds heard he; And "ever alack!" auld Durie cried, "The deil is hounding his tykes on me!" And whiles a voice on _Baudrons_ cried, With sound uncouth, and sharp, and hie; "I have tar-barrell'd mony a witch, "But now, I think, they'll clear scores wi' me!" The king has caused a bill be wrote, And he has set it on the Tron,-- "He that will bring Lord Durie back, "Shall have five hundred merks and one." Traquair has written a braid letter, And he has seal'd it wi' his seal,-- "Ye may let the auld brock[37] out o' the poke; "The land's my ain, and a's gane weel." O Will has mounted his bonny black, And to the tower of Græme did trudge, And once again, on his sturdy back, Has he hente up the weary judge. He brought him to the council stairs, And there full loudly shouted he, "Gie me my guerdon, my sovereign liege, "And take ye back your auld Durie!" NOTES ON CHRISTIE'S WILL. * * * * * _He thought the warlocks o' the rosy cross._--P. 158. v. 4. "As for the rencounter betwixt Mr Williamson, schoolmaster at Cowper (who has wrote a grammar), and the Rosicrucians, I never trusted it, till I heard it from his own son, who is present minister of Kirkaldy. He tells, that a stranger came to Cowper, and called for him: after they had drank a little, and the reckoning came to be paid, he whistled for spirits; one, in the shape of a boy, came, and gave him gold in abundance; no servant was seen riding with him to the town, nor enter with him into the inn. He caused his spirits, against next day, bring him noble Greek wine, from the Pope's cellar, and tell the freshest news then at Rome; then trysted Mr Williamson at London, who met the same man, in a coach, near to London bridge, and who called on him by his name; he marvelled to see any know him there; at last he found it was his Rosicrucian. He pointed to a tavern, and desired Mr Williamson to do him the favour to dine with him at that house; whither he came at twelve o'clock, and found him, and many others of good fashion there, and a most splendid and magnificent table, furnished with all the varieties of delicate meats, where they are all served by spirits. At dinner, they debated upon the excellency of being attended by spirits; and, after dinner, they proposed to him to assume him into their society, and make him participant of their happy life; but, among the other conditions and qualifications requisite, this was one, that they demanded his abstracting his spirit from all materiality, and renouncing his baptismal engagements. Being amazed at this proposal, he falls a praying; whereat they all disappear, and leave him alone. Then he began to forethink what would become of him, if he were left to pay that vast reckoning; not having as much on him as would defray it. He calls the boy, and asks, what was become of these gentlemen, and what was to pay? He answered, there was nothing to pay, for they had done it, and were gone about their affairs in the city."--FOUNTAINHALL's _Decisions_, Vol. I. p. 15. With great deference to the learned reporter, this story has all the appearance of a joke upon the poor schoolmaster, calculated at once to operate upon his credulity, and upon his fears of being left in pawn for the reckoning. _Or that the gypsies' glamour'd gang, &c._--P. 158. v. 4. Besides the prophetic powers, ascribed to the gypsies in most European countries, the Scottish peasants believe them possessed of the power of throwing upon by-standers a spell, to fascinate their eyes, and cause them to see the thing that is not. Thus, in the old ballad of Johnie Faa, the elopement of the countess of Cassillis, with a gypsey leader, is imputed to fascination: As sune as they saw her weel-far'd face, They cast the _glamour_ ower her. Saxo Grammaticus mentions a particular sect of _Mathematicians_, as he is pleased to call them, who "_per summam ludificandorum oculorum peritiam, proprios alienosque vultus, variis rerum imaginibus, adumbrare callebant; illicibusque formis veros obscurare conspectus_." Merlin, the son of Ambrose, was particularly skilled in this art, and displays it often in the old metrical romance of _Arthour and Merlin_: Tho' thai com the kinges neighe Merlin hef his heued on heighe And kest on hem enchauntement That he hem alle allmest blent That non other sen no might A gret while y you plight &c. The _jongleurs_ were also great professors of this mystery, which has in some degree descended, with their name, on the modern jugglers. But durst Breslaw, the Sieur Boaz, or Katterfelto himself, have encountered, in magical slight, the _tregetoures_ of father Chaucer, who ---- within a hall large Have made come in a water and a barge, And in the halle rowen up and down; Somtime hath semed come a grim leoun, And somtime flowres spring as in a mede; Somtime a vine and grapes white and rede, Somtime a castel al of lime and ston; And when hem liketh voideth it anon. Thus seemeth it to every mannes sight.-- _Frankeleene's Tale._ And, again, the prodigies exhibited by the clerk of Orleans to Aurelius:-- He shewd him or they went to soupere Forestes, parkes, ful of wilde dere; Ther saw he hartes with hir hornes hie, The gretest that were ever seen with eie: He saw of hem an hundred slain with houndes, And some with arwes blede of bitter woundes: He saw, when voided were the wilde dere, Thise fauconers upon a fair rivere, That with hir haukes han the heron slain: Tho saw he knightes justen on a plain; And after this he did him swiche plesance, That he him shewd his lady on a dance, On which himselven danced, as him thought: And whan this maister that this magike wrought, Saw it was time, he clapt his handes two, And farewell! all the revel is ago. And yet remued they never out of the house, While they saw all thise sights merveillous: But in his studie ther his bookes be, They saten still and no wight but this three. _Ibidem._ Our modern professors of the _magic natural_ would likewise have been sorely put down by the _Jogulours_ and _Enchantours_ of the _Grete Chan_; "for they maken to come in the air the sone and the mone, beseminge to every mannes sight; and aftre, they maken the nyght so dirke, that no man may se no thing; and aftre, they maken the day to come agen, fair and plesant, with bright sone to every mannes sight; and than, they bringin in daunces of the fairest damyselles of the world, and richest arrayed; and after, they maken to comen in other damyselles, bringing coupes of gold, fulle of mylke of diverse bestes; and geven drinke to lordes and to ladyes; and than they maken knyghtes to justen in arms fulle lustyly; and they rennen togidre a gret randoun, and they frusschen togidere full fiercely, and they broken her speres so rudely, that the trenchouns flen in sprotis and pieces alle aboute the halle; and than they make to come in hunting for the hert and for the boor, with houndes renning with open mouthe: and many other things they dow of her enchauntements, that it is marveyle for to se."--_Sir_ JOHN MANDEVILLE's _Travels_, p. 285. I question much, also, if the most artful _illuminatus_ of Germany could have matched the prodigies exhibited by Pacolet and Adramain. "_Adonc Adramain leva une cappe par dessus une pillier, et en telle sort, qu'il sembla a ceux qui furent presens, que parmi la place couroit, une riviere fort grande et terrible. Et en icelle riviere sembloit avoir poissons en grand abondance, grands et petits. Et quand ceux de palaís virent l'eau si grande, ils commencerent tous a lever leur robes et a crier fort, comme sils eussent eu peur d'estre noye; et Pacolet, qui l'enchantement regarda, commenca a chanter, et fit un sort si subtil en son chant qui sembla a tous ceux de lieu que parmy la riviere couroit un cerf grand et cornu, qui jettoit et abbatoit a terre tout ce que devant lui trouvoit, puis leur fut advis que voyoyent chasseurs et veneurs courir apris le Cerf, avec grande puissance de levriers et des chiens. Lors y eut plusieurs de la compagnie qui saillirent au devant pour le Cerf attraper et cuyder prendre; mais Pacolet fist tost le Cerf sailler. "Bien avez joué," dit Orson, "et bien scavez vostre art user."_--L'Histoire des Valentin et Orson, a Rouen, 1631. The receipt, to prevent the operation of these deceptions, was, to use a sprig of four-leaved clover. I remember to have heard (certainly very long ago, for, at the time, I believed the legend), that a gypsey exercised his _glamour_ over a number of people at Haddington, to whom he exhibited a common dung-hill cock, trailing, what appeared to the spectators, a massy oaken trunk. An old man passed with a cart of clover; he stopped, and picked out a four-leaved blade; the eyes of the spectators were opened, and the oaken trunk appeared to be a bulrush. _I have tar-barrell'd mony a witch._--P. 159. v. 1. Human nature shrinks from the brutal scenes, produced by the belief in witchcraft. Under the idea, that the devil imprinted upon the body of his miserable vassals a mark, which was insensible to pain, persons were employed to run needles into the bodies of the old women who were suspected of witchcraft. In the dawning of common sense upon this subject, a complaint was made before the Privy Council of Scotland, 11th September, 1678, by Catherine Liddell, a poor woman, against the baron-bailie of Preston-Grange, and David Cowan (a professed pricker), for having imprisoned, and most cruelly tortured her. They answered, 1st, She was searched by her own consent, _et volenti non fit injuria_; 2d, The pricker had learned his trade from Kincaid, a famed pricker; 3d, He never acted, but when called upon by magistrates or clergymen, so what he did was _auctore prætore_; 4th, His trade was lawful; 5th, Perkins, Delrio, and all divines and lawyers, who treat of witchcraft, assert the existence of the marks, or _stigmata sagarum_; and, 6thly, Were it otherwise, _Error communis facit jus_.--Answered, 1st, Denies consent; 2d, Nobody can validly consent to their own torture; for, _Nemo est dominus membrorum suorum_; 3d, The pricker was a common cheat. The last arguments prevailed; and it was found, that inferior judges "might not use any torture, by pricking, or by with-holding them from sleep;" the council reserving all that to themselves, the justices, and those acting by commission from them. But Lord Durie, a lord of session, could have no share in these inflictions. FOOTNOTES: [31] For his pedigree, the reader may consult the Appendix to the ballad of Johnie Armstrong, Vol. I. [32] It stands upon the water of Dryfe, not far from Moffat. [33] _Gray Mare's Tail_--A cataract above Moffat, so called. [34] "He took bread and salt by this light, that he would never open his lips." _The Honest Whore_, act 5, scene 12. [35] _Lair'd_--Bogged. [36] _Far yaud._ The signal made by a shepherd to his dog, when he is to drive away some sheep at a distance. From Yoden, to go. _Ang. Sax._ [37] _Brock_--Badger. THOMAS THE RHYMER. IN THREE PARTS. * * * * * PART FIRST.--ANCIENT. Few personages are so renowned in tradition as Thomas of Erceldoune, known by the appellation of _The Rhymer_. Uniting, or supposed to unite, in his person, the powers of poetical composition, and of vaticination, his memory, even after the lapse of five hundred years, is regarded with veneration by his countrymen. To give any thing like a certain history of this remarkable man, would be indeed difficult; but the curious may derive some satisfaction from the particulars here brought together. It is agreed, on all hands, that the residence, and probably the birth-place, of this ancient bard, was Erceldoune, a village situated upon the Leader, two miles above its junction with the Tweed. The ruins of an ancient tower are still pointed out as the Rhymer's castle. The uniform tradition bears, that his sirname was Lermont, or Learmont; and that the appellation of _The Rhymer_ was conferred on him in consequence of his poetical compositions. There remains, nevertheless, some doubt upon this subject. In a charter, which is subjoined at length,[38] the son of our poet designs himself "Thomas of Ercildoun, son and heir of Thomas Rymour of Ercildoun," which seems to imply, that the father did not bear the hereditary name of Learmont; or, at least, was better known and distinguished by the epithet, which he had acquired by his personal accomplishments. I must, however, remark, that, down to a very late period, the practice of distinguishing the parties, even in formal writings, by the epithets which had been bestowed on them from personal circumstances, instead of the proper sirnames of their families, was common, and indeed necessary, among the border clans. So early as the end of the thirteenth century, when sirnames were hardly introduced in Scotland, this custom must have been universal. There is, therefore, nothing inconsistent in supposing our poet's name to have been actually Learmont, although, in this charter, he is distinguished by the popular appellation of _The Rhymer_. We are better able to ascertain the period at which Thomas of Ercildoune lived, being the latter end of the thirteenth century. I am inclined to place his death a little farther back than Mr Pinkerton, who supposes that he was alive in 1300 (_List of Scottish Poets_); which is hardly, I think, consistent with the charter already quoted, by which his son, in 1299, for himself and his heirs, conveys to the convent of the Trinity of Soltre, the tenement which he possessed by inheritance (_hereditarie_) in Ercildoun, with all claim which he, or his predecessors, could pretend thereto. From this we may infer, that the Rhymer was now dead; since we find his son disposing of the family property. Still, however, the argument of the learned historian will remain unimpeached, as to the time of the poet's birth. For if, as we learn from Barbour, his prophecies were held in reputation[39] as early as 1306, when Bruce slew the Red Cummin, the sanctity, and (let me add to Mr Pinkerton's words) the uncertainty of antiquity, must have already involved his character and writings. In a charter of Peter de Haga de Bemersyde, which unfortunately wants a date, the Rhymer, a near neighbour, and, if we may trust tradition, a friend of the family, appears as a witness.--_Cartulary of Melrose._ It cannot be doubted, that Thomas of Ercildoun was a remarkable and important person in his own time, since, very shortly after his death, we find him celebrated as a prophet, and as a poet. Whether he himself made any pretensions to the first of these characters, or whether it was gratuitously conferred upon him by the credulity of posterity, it seems difficult to decide. If we may believe Mackenzie, Learmont only versified the prophecies delivered by Eliza, an inspired nun, of a convent at Haddington. But of this there seems not to be the most distant proof. On the contrary, all ancient authors, who quote the Rhymer's prophecies, uniformly suppose them to have been emitted by himself. Thus, in Wintown's _Chronicle_, Of this fycht quilum spak Thomas Of Ersyldoune, that sayd in Derne, Thare suld meit stalwartly, starke and sterne. He sayd it in his prophecy; But how he wist it was _ferly_. _Book_ VIII. _chap._ 32. There could have been no _ferly_ (marvel) in Wintown's eyes, at least, how Thomas came by his knowledge of future events, had he ever heard of the inspired nun of Haddington; which, it cannot be doubted, would have been a solution of the mystery, much to the taste of the prior of Lochleven.[40] Whatever doubts, however, the learned might have, as to the source of the Rhymer's prophetic skill, the vulgar had no hesitation to ascribe the whole to the intercourse between the bard and the queen of Faëry. The popular tale bears, that Thomas was carried off, at an early age, to the Fairy Land, where he acquired all the knowledge, which made him afterwards so famous. After seven years residence, he was permitted to return to the earth, to enlighten and astonish his countrymen by his prophetic powers; still, however, remaining bound to return to his royal mistress, when she should intimate her pleasure.[41] Accordingly, while Thomas was making merry with his friends, in the tower of Ercildoun, a person came running in, and told, with marks of fear and astonishment, that a hart and hind had left the neighbouring forest, and were, composedly and slowly, parading the street of the village.[42] The prophet instantly arose, left his habitation, and followed the wonderful animals to the forest, whence he was never seen to return. According to the popular belief, he still "drees his weird" in Fairy Land, and is one day expected to revisit earth. In the meanwhile, his memory is held in the most profound respect. The Eildon Tree, from beneath the shade of which he delivered his prophecies, now no longer exists; but the spot is marked by a large stone, called Eildon Tree Stone. A neighbouring rivulet takes the name of the Bogle Burn (Goblin Brook) from the Rhymer's supernatural visitants. The veneration paid to his dwelling place, even attached itself in some degree to a person, who, within the memory of man, chose to set up his residence in the ruins of Learmont's tower. The name of this man was Murray, a kind of herbalist; who, by dint of some knowledge in simples, the possession of a musical clock, an electrical machine, and a stuffed aligator, added to a supposed communication with Thomas the Rhymer, lived for many years in very good credit as a wizard. It seemed to the editor unpardonable to dismiss a person, so important in border tradition as the Rhymer, without some farther notice than a simple commentary upon the following ballad. It is given from a copy, obtained from a lady, residing not far from Ercildoun, corrected and enlarged by one in Mrs Brown's MSS. The former copy, however, as might be expected, is far more minute as to local description. To this old tale the editor has ventured to add a Second Part, consisting of a kind of Cento, from the printed prophecies vulgarly ascribed to the Rhymer; and a Third Part, entirely modern, founded upon the tradition of his having returned with the hart and hind, to the land of Faërie. To make his peace with the more severe antiquaries, the editor has prefixed to the second part some remarks on Learmont's prophecies. THOMAS THE RHYMER. PART FIRST. ANCIENT. * * * * * True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank; A ferlie he spied wi' his e'e; And there he saw a ladye bright, Come riding down by the Eildon Tree. Her shirt was o' the grass-green silk, Her mantle o' the velvet fyne; At ilka tett of her horse's mane, Hang fifty siller bells and nine. True Thomas, he pull'd aff his cap, And louted low down to his knee, "All hail, thou mighty queen of heav'n! "For thy peer on earth I never did see." "O no, O no, Thomas," she said; "That name does not belang to me; "I am but the queen of fair Elfland, "That am hither come to visit thee. "Harp and carp, Thomas," she said; "Harp and carp along wi' me; "And if ye dare to kiss my lips, "Sure of your bodie I will be." "Betide me weal, betide me woe, "That weird[43] shall never danton me." Syne he has kissed her rosy lips, All underneath the Eildon Tree. "Now, ye maun go wi' me," she said; "True Thomas ye maun go wi' me; "And ye maun serve me seven years, "Thro' weal or woe as may chance to be." She mounted on her milk-white steed; She's ta'en true Thomas up behind; And aye, whene'er her bridle rung, The steed flew swifter than the wind. O they rade on, and farther on; The steed gaed swifter than the wind; Until they reached a desart wide, And living land was left behind. "Light down, light down, now, true Thomas, "And lean your head upon my knee: "Abide and rest a little space, "And I will shew you ferlies three. "O see ye not yon narrow road, "So thick beset with thorns and briers? "That is the path of righteousness, "Though after it but few enquires. "And see not ye that braid braid road, "That lies across that lily leven? "That is the path of wickedness, "Though some call it the road to heaven. "And see not ye that bonny road, "That winds about the fernie brae? "That is the road to fair Elfland, "Where thou and I this night maun gae. "But, Thomas, ye maun hold your tongue, "Whatever ye may hear or see; "For, if you speak word in Elflyn land, "Ye'll ne'er get back to your ain countrie." O they rade on, and farther on, And they waded through rivers aboon the knee, And they saw neither sun nor moon, But they heard the roaring of the sea. It was mirk mirk night, and there was nae stern light, And they waded through red blude to the knee; For a' the blude, that's shed on earth, Rins through the springs o' that countrie. Syne they came on to a garden green, And she pu'd an apple frae a tree-- "Take this for thy wages, true Thomas; "It will give thee the tongue that can never lie." "My tongue is mine ain," true Thomas said; "A gudely gift ye wad gie to me! "I neither dought to buy nor sell, "At fair or tryst where I may be. "I dought neither speak to prince or peer, "Nor ask of grace from fair ladye." "Now hold thy peace!" the lady said, "For, as I say, so must it be." He has gotten a coat of the even cloth, And a pair of shoes of velvet green; And, till seven years were gane and past, True Thomas on earth was never seen. NOTE AND APPENDIX TO THOMAS THE RHYMER. PART FIRST. * * * * * _She pu'd an apple frae a tree_, &c.--P. 176. v. 5. The traditional commentary upon this ballad informs us, that the apple was the produce of the fatal Tree of Knowledge, and that the garden was the terrestrial paradise. The repugnance of Thomas to be debarred the use of falsehood, when he might find it convenient, has a comic effect. * * * * * The reader is here presented, from an old, and unfortunately an imperfect MS., with the undoubted original of Thomas the Rhymer's intrigue with the queen of Faëry. It will afford great amusement to those who would study the nature of traditional poetry, and the changes effected by oral tradition, to compare this ancient romance with the foregoing ballad. The same incidents are narrated, even the expression is often the same; yet the poems are as different in appearance, as if the older tale had been regularly and systematically modernized by a poet of the present day. _Incipit Prophesia Thomæ de Erseldoun._ In a lande as I was lent, In the gryking of the day, Ay alone as I went, In Huntle bankys me for to play: I saw the throstyl, and the jay, Ye mawes movyde of her song, Ye wodwale sange notes gay, That al the wod about range. In that longyng as I lay, Undir nethe a dern tre, I was war of a lady gay, Come rydyng ouyr a fair le; Zogh I suld sitt to domysday, With my tong to wrabbe and wry, Certenly all hyr aray, It beth neuyr discryuyd for me. Hyr palfra was dappyll gray, Sycke on say neuer none, As the son in somers day, All abowte that lady shone; Hyr sadyl was of a rewel bone, A semly syght it was to se, Bryht with many a precyous stone, And compasyd all with crapste; Stones of oryens gret plente, Her hair about her hede it hang, She rode ouer the farnyle. A while she blew a while she sang, Her girths of nobil silke they were, Her boculs were of beryl stone, Sadyll and brydil war----: With sylk and sendel about bedone, Hyr patyrel was of a pall fyne, And hyr croper of the arase, Hyr brydil was of gold fyne, On euery syde forsothe hong bells thre, Hyr brydil reynes--- A semly syzt---- Crop and patyrel--- In every joynt---- She led thre grew houndes in a leash, And ratches cowpled by her ran; She bar an horn about her halse, And undir her gyrdil mene flene. Thomas lay and sa--- In the bankes of---- He sayd yonder is Mary of Might, That bar the child that died for me, Certes bot I may speke with that lady bright, Myd my hert will breke in three; I schal me hye with all my might, Hyr to mete at Eldyn Tree. Thomas rathly up he rase, And ran ouer mountayn hye, If it be sothe the story says, He met her euyn at Eldyn Tre. Thomas knelyd down on his kne Undir nethe the grenewood spray, And sayd, lovely lady thou rue on me, Queen of heaven as you well may be; But I am a lady of another countrie, If I be pareld most of prise, I ride after the wild fee, My ratches rinnen at my devys. If thou be pareld most of prise, And rides a lady in strang foly, Lovely lady as thou art wise, Giue you me leue to lige ye by. Do way Thomas, that wert foly, I pray ye Thomas late me be, That sin will forde all my bewtie: Lovely ladye rewe on me, And euer more I shall with ye dwell, Here my trowth I plyght to thee, Where you beleues in heuin or hell. Thomas, and you myght lyge me by, Undir nethe this grene wode spray, Thou would tell full hastely, That thou had layn by a lady gay. Lady I mote lyg by the, Under nethe the grene wode tre, For all the gold in chrystenty, Suld you neuer be wryede for me. Man on molde you will me marre, And yet bot you may haf you will, Trow you well Thomas, you cheuyst ye warre; For all my bewtie wilt you spill. Down lyghtyd that lady bryzt, Undir nethe the grene wode spray, And as ye story sayth full ryzt, Seuyn tymes by her he lay. She seyd, man you lyste thi play, What berde in bouyr may dele with thee, That maries me all this long day; I pray ye Thomas lat me be. Thomas stode up in the stede, And behelde the lady gay, Her heyre hang down about hyr hede, The tone was blak, the other gray. Her eyn semyt onte before was gray, Her gay clethyng was all away, That he before had sene in that stede; Hyr body as blow as ony bede. Thomas sighede, and sayd allas, Me thynke this a dullfull syght, That thou art fadyd in the face, Before you shone as son so bryzt. Tak thy leue Thomas, at son and mone, At gresse, and at euery tre. This twelmonth sall you with me gone, Medyl erth you sall not se. Alas he seyd, ful wo is me, I trow my dedes will werke me care, Jesu my sole tak to ye, Whedir so euyr my body sal fare. She rode furth with all her myzt, Undir nethe the derne lee, It was as derke as at mydnizt, And euyr in water unto the kne; Through the space of days thre, He herde but swowyng of a flode; Thomas sayd, ful wo is me, Nowe I spyll for fawte of fode; To a garden she lede him tyte, There was fruyte in grete plente, Peyres and appless ther were rype, The date and the damese, The figge and als fylbert tre; The nyghtyngale bredyng in her neste, The papigaye about gan fle, The throstylcok sang wold hafe no rest. He pressed to pulle fruyt with his hand As man for faute that was faynt; She seyd, Thomas lat al stand, Or els the deuyl wil the ataynt. Sche said, Thomas I the hyzt, To lay thi hede upon my kne, And thou shalt see fayrer syght, Than euyr sawe man in their kintre. Sees thou, Thomas, yon fayr way, That lyggs ouyr yone fayr playn? Yonder is the way to heuyn for ay, Whan synful sawles haf derayed their payne. Sees thou, Thomas, yon secund way, That lygges lawe undir the ryse? Streight is the way sothly to say, To the joyes of paradyce. Sees thou, Thomas, yon thyrd way, That ligges ouyr yone how? Wide is the way sothly to say, To the brynyng fyres of hell. Sees thou, Thomas, yone fayr castell, That standes ouyr yone fayr hill? Of town and tower it beereth the belle, In middell erth is non like theretill. Whan thou comyst in yone castell gaye, I pray thu curteis man to be; What so any man to you say, Soke thu answer non but me. My lord is servyd at yche messe, With xxx kniztes feir and fre; I sall say syttyng on the dese, I toke thy speche beyonde the le. Thomas stode as still as stone, And behelde that ladye gaye; Than was sche fayr and ryche anone, And also ryal on hir palfreye. The grewhoundes had fylde them on the dere, The raches coupled, by my fay, She blewe her horn Thomas to chere, To the castell she went her way. The ladye into the hall went, Thomas folowyd at her hand; Thar kept hyr mony a lady gent, With curtasy and lawe. Harp and fedyl both he fande, The getern and the sawtry, Lut and rybid ther gon gan, Thair was al maner of mynstralsy. The most fertly that Thomas thoght, When he com emyddes the flore, Fourty hertes to quarry were broght, That had ben befor both long and store. Lymors lay lappyng blode, And kokes standyng with dressyng knyfe, And dressyd dere as thai wer wode, And rewell was thair wonder Knyghtes dansyd by two and thre, All that leue long day. Ladyes that wer gret of gre, Sat and sang of rych aray. Thomas sawe much more in that place, Than I can descryve, Til on a day alas, alas, My lovelye ladye sayd to me, Busk ye Thomas you must agayn, Here you may no longer be: Hy then zerne that you were at hame, I sal ye bryng to Eldyn Tre. Thomas answerd with heuy cher, And sayd, lowely ladye lat me be, For I say ye certenly here Haf I be bot the space of dayes three. Sothely Thomas as I telle ye, You hath ben here thre yeres, And here you may no longer be; And I sal tele ye a skele, To-morowe of helle ye foule fende Amang our folke shall chuse his fee; For you art a larg man and an hende, Trowe you wele he will chuse thee. Fore all the golde that may be, Fro hens unto the worldes ende, Sall you not be betrayed for me, And thairfor sall you hens wend. She broght hym euyn to Eldon Tre, Undir nethe the grene wode spray, In Huntle bankes was fayr to be, Ther breddes syng both nyzt and day. Ferre ouyr yon montayns gray, Ther hathe my facon; Fare wele, Thomas, I wende my way. * * * * * [The elfin queen, after restoring Thomas to earth, pours forth a string of prophecies, in which we distinguish references to the events and personages of the Scottish wars of Edward III. The battles of Duplin and Halidon are mentioned, and also Black Agnes, Countess of Dunbar. There is a copy of this poem in the museum in the cathedral of Lincoln, another in the collection in Peterborough, but unfortunately they are all in an imperfect state. Mr Jamieson, in his curious Collection of Scottish Ballads and Songs, has an entire copy of this ancient poem, with all the collations, which is now in the press, and will be soon given to the public. The _lacunæ_ of the former edition have been supplied from his copy.] FOOTNOTES: [38] _From the Chartulary of the Trinity House of Soltra, Advocates' Library_, W. 4. 14. ERSYLTON. Omnibus has literas visuris vel audituris Thomas de Ercildoun filius et heres Thomæ Rymour de Ercildoun salutem in Domino.--Noveritis me per fustem et baculum in pleno judicio resignasse ac per presentes quietem clamasse pro me et heredibus meis Magistro domus Sanctæ Trinitatis de Soltre et fratribus ejusdem domus totam terram meam cum omnibus pertinentibus suis quam in tenemento de Ercildoun hereditarie tenui renunciando de toto pro me et heredibus meis omni jure et clameo que ego seu antecessores mei in eadem terra alioque tempore de perpetua habuimus sive de futuro habere possumus. In cujus rei testimonio presentibus his sigillum meum apposui data apud Ercildoun die Martis proximo post festum Sanctorum Apostolorum Symonis et Jude Anno Domini Millessimo cc. Nonagesimo Nono. [39] The lines alluded to are these:-- I hope that Tomas's prophesie, Of Erceldoun, shall truly be. In him, &c. [40] Henry the Minstrel, who introduces Thomas into the history of Wallace, expresses the same doubt as to the source of his prophetic knowledge: Thomas Rhymer into the faile was than With the minister, which was a worthy man. He used oft to that religious place; The people deemed of wit he meikle can, And so he told, though that they bless or ban, Which happened sooth in many divers case; I cannot say by wrong or righteousness. In rule of war whether they tint or wan: It may be deemed by division of grace, &c. _History of Wallace_, Book II. [41] See the Dissertation on Fairies, prefixed to _Tamlane_, Vol. II. p. 109. [42] There is a singular resemblance betwixt this tradition, and an incident occurring in the life of Merlin Caledonius, which, the reader will find a few pages onward. [43] _That weird_, &c.--That destiny shall never frighten me. THOMAS THE RHYMER. PART SECOND. * * * * * ALTERED FROM ANCIENT PROPHECIES. * * * * * The prophecies, ascribed to Thomas of Ercildoune, have been the principal means of securing to him remembrance "amongst the sons of his people." The author of _Sir Tristrem_ would long ago have joined, in the vale of oblivion, Clerk of Tranent, who wrote the adventure of "_Schir Gawain_," if, by good hap, the same current of ideas respecting antiquity, which causes Virgil to be regarded as a magician by the Lazaroni of Naples, had not exalted the bard of Ercildoune to the prophetic character. Perhaps, indeed, he himself affected it during his life. We know at least, for certain, that a belief in his supernatural knowledge was current soon after his death. His prophecies are alluded to by Barbour, by Wintoun, and by Henry the Minstrel, or _Blind Harry_, as he is usually termed. None of these authors, however, give the words of any of the Rhymer's vaticinations, but merely narrate, historically, his having predicted the events of which they speak. The earliest of the prophecies ascribed to him, which is now extant, is quoted by Mr Pinkerton from a MS. It is supposed to be a response from Thomas of Ercildoune, to a question from the heroic Countess of March, renowned for the defence of the castle of Dunbar against the English, and termed, in the familiar dialect of her time, _Black Agnes_ of Dunbar. This prophecy is remarkable, in so far as it bears very little resemblance to any verses published in the printed copy of the Rhymer's supposed prophecies. The verses are as follows: "_La Countesse de Donbar demande a Thomas de Essedoune quant la guerre d'Escoce prendreit fyn. E yl l'a repoundy et dyt,_ "When man is mad a kyng of a capped man; "When man is lever other mones thyng than is owen; "When londe thouys forest, ant forest is felde; "When hares kendles o' the her'ston; "When Wyt and Wille weres togedere: "When mon makes stables of kyrkes; and steles castels with styes; "When Rokesboroughe nys no burgh ant market is at Forwyleye: "When Bambourne is donged with dede men; "When men ledes men in ropes to buyen and to sellen; "When a quarter of whaty whete is chaunged for a colt of ten markes; "When prude (pride) prikes and pees is leyd in prisoun; "When a Scot ne me hym hude ase hare in forme that the English ne shall hym fynde; "When rycht ant wronge astente the togedere; "When laddes weddeth lovedies; "When Scottes flen so faste, that for faute of shep, hy drowneth hemselve; "When shall this be? "Nouther in thine tyme ne in mine; "Ah comen ant gone "Withinne twenty winter ant one." _Pinkerton's Poems, from Maitland's MSS. quoting from Harl. Lib. 2253. F. 127._ As I have never seen the MS. from which Mr Pinkerton makes this extract, and as the date of it is fixed by him (certainly one of the most able antiquaries of our age), to the reign of Edward I. or II., it is with great diffidence that I hazard a contrary opinion. There can, however, I believe, be little doubt, that these prophetic verses are a forgery, and not the production of our Thomas the Rhymer. But I am inclined to believe them of a later date than the reign of Edward I. or II. The gallant defence of the castle of Dunbar, by Black Agnes, took place in the year 1337. The Rhymer died previous to the year 1299 (see the charter, by his son, in the introduction to the foregoing ballad). It seems, therefore, very improbable, that the Countess of Dunbar could ever have an opportunity of consulting Thomas the Rhymer, since that would infer that she was married, or at least engaged in state matters, previous to 1299; whereas she is described as a young, or a middle-aged, woman, at the period of her being besieged in the fortress, which she so well defended. If the editor might indulge a conjecture, he would suppose, that the prophecy was contrived for the encouragement of the English invaders, during the Scottish wars; and that the names of the Countess of Dunbar, and of Thomas of Ercildoune, were used for the greater credit of the forgery. According to this hypothesis, it seems likely to have been composed after the siege of Dunbar, which had made the name of the Countess well known, and consequently in the reign of Edward III. The whole tendency of the prophecy is to aver, "that there shall be no end of the Scottish war (concerning which the question was proposed), till a final conquest of the country by England, attended by all the usual severities of war. When the cultivated country shall become forest--says the prophecy;--when the wild animals shall inhabit the abode of men;--when Scots shall not be able to escape the English, should they crouch as hares in their form--all these denunciations seem to refer to the time of Edward III., upon whose victories the prediction was probably founded." The mention of the exchange betwixt a colt worth ten markes, and a quarter of "whaty (indifferent) wheat," seems to allude to the dreadful famine, about the year 1388. The independence of Scotland was, however, as impregnable to the mines of superstition, as to the steel of our more powerful and more wealthy neighbours. The war of Scotland is, thank God, at an end; but it is ended without her people having either crouched, like hares, in their form, or being drowned in their flight "for faute of ships,"--thank God for that too. The prophecy, quoted in p. 179., is probably of the same date, and intended for the same purpose. A minute search of the records of the time would, probably, throw additional light upon the allusions contained in these ancient legends. Among various rhymes of prophetic import, which are at this day current amongst the people of Teviotdale, is one, supposed to be pronounced by Thomas the Rhymer, presaging the destruction of his habitation and family: The hare sall kittle (litter) on my hearth stane, And there will never be a laird Learmont again. The first of these lines is obviously borrowed from that in the MS, of the Harl. Library.--"When hares kendles o' the her'stane"--an emphatic image of desolation. It is also inaccurately quoted in the prophecy of Waldhave, published by Andro Hart, 1613: "This is a true talking that Thomas of tells, The hare shall hirple on the hard (hearth) stane." Spottiswoode, an honest, but credulous historian, seems to have been a firm believer in the authenticity of the prophetic wares, vended in the name of Thomas of Ercildoun. "The prophecies, yet extant in Scottish rhymes, whereupon he was commonly called _Thomas the Rhymer_, may justly be admired; having foretold, so many ages before, the union of England and Scotland in the ninth degree of the Bruce's blood, with the succession of Bruce himself to the crown, being yet a child, and other divers particulars, which the event hath ratified and made good. Boethius, in his story, relateth his prediction of King Alexander's death, and that he did foretell the same to the Earl of March, the day before it fell out; saying, 'That before the next day at noon, such a tempest should blow, as Scotland had not felt for many years before.' The next morning, the day being clear, and no change appearing in the air, the nobleman did challenge Thomas of his saying, calling him an impostor. He replied, that noon was not yet passed. About which time, a post came to advertise the earl, of the king his sudden death. 'Then,' said Thomas, 'this is the tempest I foretold; and so it shall prove to Scotland.' Whence, or how, he had this knowledge, can hardly be affirmed; but sure it is, that he did divine and answer truly of many things to come."--_Spottiswoode_, p. 47. Besides that notable voucher, master Hector Boece, the good archbishop might, had he been so minded, have referred to Fordun for the prophecy of King Alexander's death. That historian calls our bard "_ruralis ille vates_."--_Fordun_, lib. x. cap. 40. What Spottiswoode calls "the prophecies extant in "Scottish rhyme," are the metrical predictions ascribed to the prophet of Ercildoun, which, with many other compositions of the same nature, bearing the names of Bede, Merlin, Gildas, and other approved soothsayers, are contained in one small volume, published by Andro Hart, at Edinburgh, 1615. The late excellent Lord Hailes made these compositions the subject of a dissertation, published in his _Remarks on the History of Scotland_. His attention is chiefly directed to the celebrated prophecy of our bard, mentioned by Bishop Spottiswoode, bearing, that the crowns of England and Scotland should be united in the person of a king, son of a French queen, and related to Bruce in the ninth degree. Lord Hailes plainly proves, that this prophecy is perverted from its original purpose, in order to apply it to the succession of James VI. The ground-work of the forgery is to be found in the prophecies of Berlington, contained in the same collection, and runs thus: Of Bruce's left side shall spring out as a leafe, As neere as the ninth degree; And shall be fleemed of faire Scotland, In France farre beyond the sea. And then shall come againe ryding, With eyes that many men may see. At Aberladie he shall light, With hempen helteres and horse of tre. · · · · · · · · However it happen for to fall, The lyon shall be lord of all; The French quen shal bearre the sonne, Shal rule all Britainne to the sea; Ane from the Bruce's blood shal come also, As neere as the ninth degree. · · · · · · · · Yet shal there come a keene knight over the salt sea, A keene man of courage and bold man of armes; A duke's son dowbled (_i.e._ dubbed), a borne mon in France, That shall our mirths augment, and mend all our harmes; After the date of our Lord 1513, and thrice three thereafter; Which shall brooke all the broad isle to himself, Between 13 and thrice three the threip shal be ended, The Saxons sall never recover after. There cannot be any doubt, that this prophecy was intended to excite the confidence of the Scottish nation in the Duke of Albany, regent of Scotland, who arrived from France in 1515, two years after the death of James IV. in the fatal field of Flodden. The regent was descended of Bruce by the left, _i.e._ by the female side, within the ninth degree. His mother was daughter of the Earl of Boulogne, his father banished from his country--"fleemit of fair Scotland." His arrival must necessarily be by sea, and his landing was expected at Aberlady, in the Frith of Forth. He was a duke's son, dubbed knight; and nine years, from 1513, are allowed him, by the pretended prophet, for the accomplishment of the salvation of his country, and the exaltation of Scotland over her sister and rival. All this was a pious fraud, to excite the confidence and spirit of the country. The prophecy, put in the name of our Thomas the Rhymer, as it stands in Hart's book, refers to a later period. The narrator meets the Rhymer upon a land beside a lee, who shows him many emblematical visions, described in no mean strain of poetry. They chiefly relate to the fields of Flodden and Pinkie, to the national distress which followed these defeats, and to future halcyon days, which are promised to Scotland. One quotation or two will be sufficient to establish this fully: Our Scottish king sal come ful keene, The red lyon beareth he; A feddered arrow sharp, I weene, Shall make him winke and warre to see. Out of the field he shall be led, When he is bludie and woe for blood; Yet to his men shall he say, "For God's luve, turn you againe, "And give yon sutherne folk a frey! "Why should I lose the right is mine? "My date is not to die this day."-- Who can doubt, for a moment, that this refers to the battle of Flodden, and to the popular reports concerning the doubtful fate of James IV.? Allusion is immediately afterwards made to the death of George Douglas, heir apparent of Angus, who fought and fell with his sovereign: The sternes three that day shall die, That bears the harte in silver sheen. The well-known arms of the Douglas family are the heart and three stars. In another place, the battle of Pinkie is expressly mentioned by name: At Pinken Cluch there shall be spilt, Much gentle blood that day; There shall the bear lose the guilt, And the eagill bear it away. To the end of all this allegorical and mystical rhapsody, is interpolated, in the later edition by Andro Hart, a new edition of Berlington's verses, before quoted, altered and manufactured so as to bear reference to the accession of James VI., which had just then taken place. The insertion is made with a peculiar degree of awkwardness, betwixt a question, put by the narrator, concerning the name and abode of the person who shewed him these strange matters, and the answer of the prophet to that question: "Then to the Bairne could I say, "Where dwells thou, or in what countrie? "[Or who shall rule the isle of Britane, "From the north to the south sey? "A French queene shall beare the sonne, "Shall rule all Britaine to the sea; "Which of the Bruce's blood shall come, "As neere as the nint degree: "I frained fast what was his name, "Where that he came, from what country.] "In Erslingtoun I dwell at hame, "Thomas Rymour men cals me." There is surely no one, who will not conclude, with Lord Hailes, that the eight lines, inclosed in brackets, are a clumsy interpolation, borrowed from Berlington, with such alterations as might render the supposed prophecy applicable to the union of the crowns. While we are on this subject, it may be proper briefly to notice the scope of some of the other predictions, in Hart's Collection. As the prophecy of Berlington was intended to raise the spirits of the nation, during the regency of Albany, so those of Sybilla and Eltraine refer to that of the Earl of Arran, afterwards Duke of Chatelherault, during the minority of Mary, a period of similar calamity. This is obvious from the following verses: Take a thousand in calculation, And the longest of the lyon, Four crescents under one crowne, With Saint Andrew's croce thrise, Then threescore and thrise three: Take tent to Merling truely, Then shall the warres ended be, And never againe rise. In that yere there shall a king, A duke, and no crowned king; Becaus the prince shall be yong, And tender of yeares. The date, above hinted at, seems to be 1549, when the Scottish regent, by means of some succours derived from France, was endeavouring to repair the consequences of the fatal battle of Pinkie. Allusion is made to the supply given to the "Moldwarte" (England) by the fained "hart" (the Earl of Angus). The regent is described by his bearing the antelope; large supplies are promised from France, and complete conquest predicted to Scotland and her allies. Thus was the same hackneyed stratagem repeated, whenever the interest of the rulers appeared to stand in need of it. The regent was not, indeed, till after this period, created Duke of Chatelherault; but that honour was the object of his hopes and expectations. The name of our renowned soothsayer is liberally used as an authority, throughout all the prophecies published by Andro Hart. Besides those expressly put in his name, Gildas, another assumed personage, is supposed to derive his knowledge from him; for he concludes thus: "True Thomas me told in a troublesome time, "In a harvest morn at Eldoun hills." _The Prophecy of Gildas._ In the prophecy of Berlington, already quoted, we are told, "Marvellous Merlin, that many men of tells, "And Thomas's sayings comes all at once." While I am upon the subject of these prophecies, may I be permitted to call the attention of antiquaries to Merdwynn Wyllt, or _Merlin the Wild_, in whose name, and by no means in that of Ambrose Merlin, the friend of Arthur, the Scottish prophecies are issued. That this personage resided at Drummelziar, and roamed, like a second Nebuchadnezzar, the woods of Tweeddale, in remorse for the death of his nephew, we learn from Fordun. In the _Scotichronicon_, lib. 3, cap. 31, is an account of an interview betwixt St Kentigern and Merlin, then in this distracted and miserable state. He is said to have been called _Lailoken_, from his mode of life. On being commanded by the saint to give an account of himself, he says, that the penance, which he performs, was imposed on him by a voice from heaven, during a bloody contest betwixt Lidel and Carwanolow, of which battle he had been the cause. According to his own prediction, he perished at once by wood, earth, and water; for, being pursued with stones by the rustics, he fell from a rock into the river Tweed, and was transfixed by a sharp stake, fixed there for the purpose of extending a fishing-net: _Sude perfossus, lapide percussus et unda_ _Haec tria Merlinum fertur inire necem._ _Sicque ruit, mersusque fuit lignoque perpendi,_ _Et fecit vatem per terna pericula verum._ But, in a metrical history of Merlin of Caledonia, compiled by Geoffrey of Monmouth, from the traditions of the Welch bards, this mode of death is attributed to a page, whom Merlin's sister, desirous to convict the prophet of falsehood, because he had betrayed her intrigues, introduced to him, under three various disguises, enquiring each time in what manner the person should die. To the first demand Merlin answered, the party should perish by a fall from a rock; to the second, that he should die by a tree; and to the third, that he should be drowned. The youth perished, while hunting, in the mode imputed by Fordun to Merlin himself. Fordun, contrary to the Welch authorities, confounds this person with the Merlin of Arthur; but concludes by informing us, that many believed him to be a different person. The grave of Merlin is pointed out at Drummelziar, in Tweeddale, beneath an aged thorn-tree. On the east side of the church-yard, the brook, called Pausayl, falls into the Tweed; and the following prophecy is said to have been current concerning their union: When Tweed and Pausayl join at Merlin's grave, Scotland and England shall one monarch have. On the day of the coronation of James VI. the Tweed accordingly overflowed, and joined the Pausayl at the prophet's grave.--PENNYCUICK's _History of Tweeddale_, p. 26. These circumstances would seem to infer a communication betwixt the south-west of Scotland and Wales, of a nature peculiarly intimate; for I presume that Merlin would retain sense enough to chuse, for the scene of his wanderings, a country, having a language and manners similar to his own. Be this as it may, the memory of Merlin Sylvester, or the Wild, was fresh among the Scots during the reign of James V. Waldhave,[44] under whose name a set of prophecies was published, describes himself as lying upon Lomond Law; he hears a voice, which bids him stand to his defence; he looks around, and beholds a flock of hares and foxes[45] pursued over the mountain by a savage figure, to whom he can hardly give the name of man. At the sight of Waldhave, the apparition leaves the objects of his pursuit, and assaults him with a club. Waldhave defends himself with his sword, throws the savage to the earth, and refuses to let him arise till he swear, by the law and lead he lives upon, "to do him no harm." This done, he permits him to arise, and marvels at his strange appearance: "He was formed like a freike (man) all his four quarters; "And then his chin and his face haired so thick, "With haire growing so grime, fearful to see." He answers briefly to Waldhave's enquiry, concerning his name and nature, that he "drees his weird," _i.e._ does penance, in that wood; and, having hinted that questions as to his own state are offensive, he pours forth an obscure rhapsody concerning futurity, and concludes, "Go musing upon Merlin if thou wilt; "For I mean no more man at this time." This is exactly similar to the meeting betwixt Merlin and Kentigern in Fordun. These prophecies of Merlin seem to have been in request in the minority of James V.; for, among the amusements, with which Sir David Lindsay diverted that prince during his infancy, are, The prophecies of Rymer, Bede, and Merlin. _Sir David Lindsay's Epistle to the King._ And we find, in Waldhave, at least one allusion to the very ancient prophecy, addressed to the countess of Dunbar: This is a true token that Thomas of tells, When a ladde with a ladye shall go over the fields. The original stands thus: When laddes weddeth lovedies. Another prophecy of Merlin seems to have been current about the time of the regent Morton's execution.--When that nobleman was committed to the charge of his accuser, captain James Stewart, newly created Earl of Arran, to be conducted to his trial at Edinburgh, Spottiswoode says, that he asked, "Who was earl of Arran?" "and being answered that Captain James was the man, after a short pause he said, 'And is it so? I know then what I may look for!' meaning, as was thought, that the old prophecy of the 'Falling of the heart[46] by the mouth of Arran,' should then be fulfilled. Whether this was his mind or not, it is not known; but some spared not, at the time when the Hamiltons were banished, in which business he was held too earnest, to say, that he stood in fear of that prediction, and went that course only to disappoint it. But, if so it was, he did find himself now deluded; for he fell by the mouth of another Arran than he imagined."--_Spottiswoode_, 313. The fatal words, alluded to, seem to be these in the prophecy of Merlin: "In the mouth of Arrane a selcouth shall fall, "Two bloodie hearts shall be taken with a false traine, "And derfly dung down without any dome." To return from these desultory remarks, into which the editor has been led by the celebrated name of Merlin, the style of all these prophecies, published by Hart, is very much the same. The measure is alliterative, and somewhat similar to that of _Pierce Plowman's Visions_; a circumstance, which might entitle us to ascribe to some of them an earlier date than the reign of James V., did we not know that _Sir Galloran of Galloway_, and _Gawaine and Gologras_, two romances rendered almost unintelligible by the extremity of affected alliteration, are perhaps not prior to that period. Indeed, although we may allow, that, during much earlier times, prophecies, under the names of those celebrated soothsayers, have been current in Scotland, yet those published by Hart have obviously been so often vamped and re-vamped, to serve the political purposes of different periods, that it may be shrewdly suspected, that, as in the case of Sir John Cutler's transmigrated stockings, very little of the original materials now remains. I cannot refrain from indulging my readers with the publisher's title to the last prophecy; as it contains certain curious information concerning the queen of Sheba, who is identified with the Cumæan Sybil: "Here followeth a prophecie, pronounced by a noble queene and matron, called Sybilla, Regina Austri, that came to Solomon. Through the which she compiled four bookes, at the instance and request of the said king Sol. and others divers: and the fourth book was directed to a noble king, called Baldwine, king of the broad isle of Britain; in the which she maketh mention of two noble princes and emperours, the which is called Leones. How these two shall subdue, and overcome all earthlie princes to their diademe and crowne, and also be glorified and crowned in the heaven among saints. The first of these two is Constantinus Magnus; that was Leprosus, the son of Saint Helene, that found the croce. The second is the sixty king of the name of Steward of Scotland, the which is our most noble king." With such editors and commentators, what wonder that the text became unintelligible, even beyond the usual oracular obscurity of prediction? If there still remain, therefore, among these predictions, any verses having a claim to real antiquity, it seems now impossible to discover them from those which are comparatively modern. Nevertheless, as there are to be found, in these compositions, some uncommonly wild and masculine expressions, the editor has been induced to throw a few passages together, into the sort of ballad to which this disquisition is prefixed. It would, indeed, have been no difficult matter for him, by a judicious selection, to have excited, in favour of Thomas of Erceldoune, a share of the admiration, bestowed by sundry wise persons upon Mass Robert Fleming. For example: "But then the lilye shal be loused when they least think; Then clear king's blood shal quake for fear of death; For churls shal chop off heads of their chief beirns, And carfe of the crowns that Christ hath appointed. · · · · · · · · Thereafter, on every side, sorrow shal arise; The barges of clear barons down shal be sunken; Seculars shal sit in spiritual seats, Occupying offices anointed as they were." Taking the lilye for the emblem of France, can there be a more plain prophecy of the murder of her monarch, the destruction of her nobility, and the desolation of her hierarchy? But, without looking farther into the signs of the times, the editor, though the least of all the prophets, cannot help thinking, that every true Briton will approve of his application of the last prophecy quoted in the ballad. Hart's collection of prophecies was frequently reprinted during the last century, probably to favour the pretensions of the unfortunate family of Stewart. For the prophetic renown of Gildas and Bede, see _Fordun_, lib. 3. Before leaving the subject of Thomas's predictions, it may be noticed, that sundry rhymes, passing for his prophetic effusions, are still current among the vulgar. Thus, he is said to have prophecied of the very ancient family of Haig of Bemerside, Betide, betide, whate'er betide, Haig shall be Haig of Bemerside. The grandfather of the present proprietor of Bemerside had twelve daughters, before his lady brought him a male heir. The common people trembled for the credit of their favourite soothsayer. The late Mr Haig was at length born, and their belief in the prophecy confirmed beyond a shadow of doubt. Another memorable prophecy bore, that the Old Kirk at Kelso, constructed out of the ruins of the abbey, should fall when "at the fullest." At a very crowded sermon, about thirty years ago, a piece of lime fell from the roof of the church. The alarm, for the fulfilment of the words of the seer, became universal; and happy were they, who were nearest the door of the predestined edifice. The church was in consequence deserted, and has never since had an opportunity of tumbling upon a full congregation. I hope, for the sake of a beautiful specimen of Saxo-Gothick architecture, that the accomplishment of this prophecy is far distant. Another prediction, ascribed to the Rhymer, seems to have been founded on that sort of insight into futurity, possessed by most men of a sound and combining judgement. It runs thus: At Eildon Tree if you shall be, A brigg ower Tweed you there may see. The spot in question commands an extensive prospect of the course of the river; and it was easy to foresee, that, when the country should become in the least degree improved, a bridge would be somewhere thrown over the stream. In fact, you now see no less than three bridges from that elevated situation. Corspatrick (Comes Patrick), Earl of March, but more commonly taking his title from his castle of Dunbar, acted a noted part during the wars of Edward I. in Scotland. As Thomas of Erceldoune is said to have delivered to him his famous prophecy of King Alexander's death, the editor has chosen to introduce him into the following ballad. All the prophetic verses are selected from Hart's publication. THOMAS THE RHYMER. PART SECOND. * * * * * When seven years were come and gane, The sun blinked fair on pool and stream; And Thomas lay on Huntlie bank, Like one awakened from a dream. He heard the trampling of a steed, He saw the flash of armour flee, And he beheld a gallant knight, Come riding down by the Eildon-tree. He was a stalwart knight, and strong; Of giant make he 'peared to be: He stirr'd his horse, as he were wode, Wi' gilded spurs, of faushion free. Says--"Well met, well met, true Thomas! Some uncouth ferlies shew to me." Says--"Christ thee save, Corspatrick brave! Thrice welcome, good Dunbar, to me! "Light down, light down, Corspatrick brave, "And I will shew thee curses three, "Shall gar fair Scotland greet and grane, "And change the green to the black livery. "A storm shall roar, this very hour, "From Rosse's Hills to Solway sea. "Ye lied, ye lied, ye warlock hoar! "For the sun shines sweet on fauld and lea." He put his hand on the earlie's head; He shewed him a rock, beside the sea, Where a king lay stiff, beneath his steed,[47] And steel-dight nobles wiped their e'e. "The neist curse lights on Branxton hills: "By Flodden's high and heathery side, "Shall wave a banner, red as blude, "And chieftains throng wi' meikle pride. "A Scottish king shall come full keen; "The ruddy lion beareth he: "A feather'd arrow sharp, I ween, "Shall make him wink and warre to see. "When he is bloody, and all to bledde, "Thus to his men he still shall say-- 'For God's sake, turn ye back again, 'And give yon southern folk a fray! 'Why should I lose the right is mine? 'My doom is not to die this day.'[48] "Yet turn ye to the eastern hand, "And woe and wonder ye sall see; "How forty thousand spearmen stand, "Where yon rank river meets the sea. "There shall the lion lose the gylte, "And the libbards bear it clean away; "At Pinkyn Cleuch there shall be spilt "Much gentil blude that day." "Enough, enough, of curse and ban; "Some blessing shew thou now to me, "Or, by the faith o' my bodie," Corspatrick said, "Ye shall rue the day ye e'er saw me!" "The first of blessings I shall thee shew, "Is by a burn, that's call'd of bread;[49] "Where Saxon men shall tine the bow, "And find their arrows lack the head. "Beside that brigg, out ower that burn, "Where the water bickereth bright and sheen, "Shall many a falling courser spurn, "And knights shall die in battle keen. "Beside a headless cross of stone, "The libbards there shall lose the gree; "The raven shall come, the erne shall go, "And drink the Saxon blude sae free. "The cross of stone they shall not know, "So thick the corses there shall be." "But tell me now," said brave Dunbar, "True Thomas, tell now unto me, "What man shall rule the isle Britain, "Even from the north to the southern sea?" "A French queen shall bear the son, "Shall rule all Britain to the sea: "He of the Bruce's blude shall come, "As near as in the ninth degree. "The waters worship shall his race; "Likewise the waves of the farthest sea; "For they shall ride ower ocean wide, "With hempen bridles, and horse of tree." FOOTNOTES: [44] I do not know, whether the person here meant be Waldhave, an abbot of Melrose, who died in the odour of sanctity, about 1160. [45] The strange occupation, in which Waldhave beholds Merlin engaged, derives some illustration from a curious passage in Geoffrey of Monmouth's life of Merlin, above quoted. The poem, after narrating, that the prophet had fled to the forests in a state of distraction, proceeds to mention, that, looking upon the stars one clear evening, he discerned, from his astrological knowledge, that his wife, Guendolen, had resolved, upon the next morning, to take another husband. As he had presaged to her that this would happen, and had promised her a nuptial gift (cautioning her, however, to keep the bridegroom out of his sight), he now resolved to make good his word. Accordingly, he collected all the stags and lesser game in his neighbourhood; and, having seated himself upon a buck, drove the herd before him to the capital of Cumberland, where Guendolen resided. But her lover's curiosity leading him to inspect too nearly this extraordinary cavalcade, Merlin's rage was awakened, and he slew him with the stroke of an antler of the stag. The original runs thus: _Dixerat: et silvas et saltus circuit omnes,_ _Cervorumque greges agmen collegit in unum,_ _Et damas, capreasque simul, cervoque resedit;_ _Et veniente die, compellens agmina præ se,_ _Festinans vadit quo nubit Guendolna._ _Postquam venit eo, pacienter coegit_ _Cervos ante fores, proclamans, "Guendolna,_ _"Guendolna, veni, te talia munera spectant."_ _Ocius ergo venit subridens Guendolna_ _Gestarique virum cervo miratur, et illum_ _Sic parere viro, tantum quoque posse ferarum_ _Uniri numerum quas præ se solus agebat,_ _Sicut pastor oves, quas ducere suevit ad herbas._ _Stabat ab excelsa, sponsus spectando fenestra_ _In solio mirans equitem risumque movebat._ _Ast ubi vidit eum vates, animoque quis esset,_ _Calluit, extemplo divulsit cornua cervo_ _Quo gestabatur, vibrataque jecit in illum_ _Et caput illius penitus contrivit, eumque_ _Reddidit exanimem, vitamque fugavit in auras;_ _Ocius inde suum, talorum verbere, cervum_ _Diffugiens egit, silvasque redire paravit._ For a perusal of this curious poem, accurately copied from a MS. in the Cotton Library, nearly coeval with the author, I was indebted to my learned friend, the late Mr Ritson. There is an excellent paraphrase of it in the curious and entertaining _Specimens of Early English Romances_, lately published by Mr Ellis. [46] The heart was the cognizance of Morton. [47] King Alexander; killed by a fall from his horse, near Kinghorn. [48] The uncertainty which long prevailed in Scotland, concerning the fate of James IV., is well known. [49] One of Thomas's rhymes, preserved by tradition, runs thus: The burn of breid Shall run fow reid." Bannockburn is the brook here meant. The Scots give the name of _bannock_ to a thick round cake of unleavened bread. THOMAS THE RHYMER. PART THIRD--MODERN. BY THE EDITOR. * * * * * Thomas the Rhymer was renowned among his contemporaries, as the author of the celebrated romance of _Sir Tristrem_. Of this once admired poem only one copy is now known to exist, which is in the Advocates' Library. The editor, in 1804, published a small edition of this curious work; which, if it does not revive the reputation of the bard of Ercildoune, will be at least the earliest specimen of Scottish poetry, hitherto published. Some account of this romance has already been given to the world in MR ELLIS's _Specimens of Ancient Poetry_, Vol. I. p. 165, 3d. p. 410; a work, to which our predecessors and our posterity are alike obliged; the former, for the preservation of the best selected examples of their poetical taste; and the latter, for a history of the English language, which will only cease to be interesting with the existence of our mother-tongue, and all that genius and learning have recorded in it. It is sufficient here to mention, that, so great was the reputation of the romance of _Sir Tristrem_, that few were thought capable of reciting it after the manner of the author--a circumstance alluded to by Robert de Brunne, the annalist: I see in song, in sedgeyng tale, Of Erceldoun, and of Kendale. Now thame says as they thame wroght, And in thare saying it semes nocht. That thou may here in Sir Tristrem, Over gestes it has the steme, Over all that is or was; If men it said as made Thomas, &c. It appears, from a very curious MS. of the thirteenth century, _penes_ Mr Douce, of London, containing a French metrical romance of _Sir Tristrem_, that the work of our Thomas the Rhymer was known, and referred to, by the minstrels of Normandy and Bretagne. Having arrived at a part of the romance, where reciters were wont to differ in the mode of telling the story, the French bard expressly cites the authority of the poet of Erceldoune: _Plusurs de nos granter ne volent,_ _Co que del naim dire se solent,_ _Ki femme Kaherdin dut aimer,_ _Li naim redut Tristram narrer,_ _E entusché par grant engin,_ _Quant il afole Kaherdin;_ _Pur cest plaie e pur cest mal,_ _Enveiad Tristran Guvernal,_ _En Engleterre pur Ysolt_ THOMAS _ico granter ne volt,_ _Et si volt par raisun mostrer,_ _Qu' ico ne put pas esteer_, &c. The tale of _Sir Tristrem_, as narrated in the Edinburgh MS., is totally different from the voluminous romance in prose, originally compiled on the same subject by Rusticien de Puise, and analysed by M. de Tressan; but agrees in every essential particular with the metrical performance, just quoted, which is a work of much higher antiquity. The following attempt to commemorate the Rhymer's poetical fame, and the traditional account of his marvellous return to Fairy Land, being entirely modern, would have been placed with greater propriety among the class of Modern Ballads, had it not been for its immediate connection with the first and second parts of the same story. THOMAS THE RHYMER. PART THIRD. * * * * * When seven years more were come and gone, Was war through Scotland spread, And Ruberslaw shew'd high Dunyon, His beacon blazing red. Then all by bonny Coldingknow, Pitched palliouns took their room, And crested helms, and spears a rowe, Glanced gaily through the broom. The Leader, rolling to the Tweed, Resounds the ensenzie;[50] They roused the deer from Caddenhead, To distant Torwoodlee. The feast was spread in Ercildoune, In Learmont's high and ancient hall; And there were knights of great renown, And ladies, laced in pall. Nor lacked they, while they sat at dine, The music, nor the tale, Nor goblets of the blood-red wine, Nor mantling quaighs[51] of ale. True Thomas rose, with harp in hand, When as the feast was done; (In minstrel strife, in Fairy Land, The elfin harp he won.) Hush'd were the throng, both limb and tongue, And harpers for envy pale; And armed lords lean'd on their swords, And hearken'd to the tale. In numbers high, the witching tale The prophet pour'd along; No after bard might e'er avail[52] Those numbers to prolong. Yet fragments of the lofty strain Float down the tide of years, As, buoyant on the stormy main, A parted wreck appears. He sung King Arthur's table round: The warrior of the lake; How courteous Gawaine met the wound, And bled for ladies' sake. But chief, in gentle Tristrem's praise, The notes melodious swell; Was none excelled, in Arthur's days, The knight of Lionelle. For Marke, his cowardly uncle's right, A venomed wound he bore; When fierce Morholde he slew in fight, Upon the Irish shore. No art the poison might withstand; No medicine could be found, Till lovely Isolde's lilye hand Had probed the rankling wound. With gentle hand and soothing tongue, She bore the leech's part; And, while she o'er his sick-bed hung, He paid her with his heart. O fatal was the gift, I ween! For, doom'd in evil tide, The maid must be rude Cornwall's queen, His cowardly uncle's bride. Their loves, their woes, the gifted bard In fairy tissue wove; Where lords, and knights, and ladies bright, In gay confusion strove. The Garde Joyeuse, amid the tale, High rear'd its glittering head; And Avalon's enchanted vale In all its wonders spread. Brangwain was there, and Segramore, And fiend-born Merlin's gramarye; Of that fam'd wizard's mighty lore, O who could sing but he? Through many a maze the winning song In changeful passion led, Till bent at length the listening throng O'er Tristrem's dying bed. His ancient wounds their scars expand, With agony his heart is wrung: O where is Isolde's lilye hand, And where her soothing tongue? She comes! she comes!--like flash of flame Can lovers' footsteps fly: She comes! she comes!--she only came To see her Tristrem die. She saw him die: her latest sigh Joined in a kiss his parting breath: The gentlest pair, that Britain bare, United are in death. There paused the harp: its lingering sound Died slowly on the ear; The silent guests still bent around, For still they seem'd to hear. Then woe broke forth in murmurs weak; Nor ladies heaved alone the sigh; But, half ashamed, the rugged cheek Did many a gauntlet dry. On Leader's stream, and Learmont's tower, The mists of evening close; In camp, in castle, or in bower, Each warrior sought repose. Lord Douglas, in his lofty tent, Dream'd o'er the woeful tale; When footsteps light, across the bent, The warrior's ears assail. He starts, he wakes:--"What, Richard, ho! "Arise, my page, arise! "What venturous wight, at dead of night, "Dare step where Douglas lies!" Then forth they rushed: by Leader's tide, A selcouth[53] sight they see-- A hart and hind pace side by side. As white as snow on Fairnalie. Beneath the moon, with gesture proud, They stately move and slow; Nor scare they at the gathering crowd, Who marvel as they go. To Learmont's tower a message sped, As fast as page might run; And Thomas started from his bed, And soon his cloaths did on. First he woxe pale, and then woxe red; Never a word he spake but three;-- "My sand is run; my thread is spun; "This sign regardeth me." The elfin harp his neck around, In minstrel guise, he hung; And on the wind, in doleful sound, Its dying accents rung. Then forth he went; yet turned him oft To view his ancient hall; On the grey tower, in lustre soft, The autumn moon-beams fall. And Leader's waves, like silver sheen, Danced shimmering in the ray: In deepening mass, at distance seen, Broad Soltra's mountains lay. "Farewell, my father's ancient tower! "A long farewell," said he: "The scene of pleasure, pomp, or power, "Thou never more shalt be. "To Learmont's name no foot of earth "Shall here again belong, "And, on thy hospitable hearth, "The hare shall leave her young. "Adieu! Adieu!" again he cried, All as he turned him roun'-- "Farewell to Leader's silver tide! "Farewell to Ercildoune!"-- The hart and hind approached the place, As lingering yet he stood; And there, before Lord Douglas' face, With them he cross'd the flood. Lord Douglas leaped on his berry-brown steed, And spurr'd him the Leader o'er; But, though he rode with lightning speed, He never saw them more. Some sayd to hill, and some to glen, Their wondrous course had been; But ne'er in haunts of living men Again was Thomas seen. NOTES ON THOMAS THE RHYMER. PART THIRD. * * * * * _And Ruberslaw shew'd high Dunyon._--P. 216. v. 1. Ruberslaw and Dunyon are two hills above Jedburgh. _Then all by bonny Coldingknow._--P. 216. v. 2. An ancient tower near Ercildoune, belonging to a family of the name of Home: One of Thomas's prophecies is said to have run thus: Vengeance! vengeance! when and where? On the house of Coldingknow, now and ever mair! The spot is rendered classical by its having given name to the beautiful melody, called the _Broom o' the Cowdenknows_. _They roused the deer from Caddenhead,_ _To distant Torwoodlee._--P. 216. v. 3. Torwoodlee and Caddenhead are places in Selkirkshire. _How courteous Gawaine met the wound._--P. 218. v. 2. See, in the _Fabliaux_ of Monsieur le Grand, elegantly translated by the late Gregory Way, Esq. the tale of the _Knight and the Sword_. _As white as snow on Fairnalie._--P. 221. v. 5. An ancient seat upon the Tweed, in Selkirkshire. In a popular edition of the first part of Thomas the Rhymer, the Fairy Queen thus addresses him: "Gin ye wad meet wi' me again, Gang to the bonny banks of Fairnalie." FOOTNOTES: [50] _Ensenzie_--War-cry, or gathering word. [51] _Quaighs_--Wooden cups, composed of staves hooped together. [52] See introduction to this ballad. [53] _Selcouth_--Wondrous. THE EVE OF SAINT JOHN. BY THE EDITOR. * * * * * Smaylho'me, or Smallholm Tower, the scene of the following ballad, is situated on the northern boundary of Roxburghshire, among a cluster of wild rocks, called Sandiknow-Crags, the property of Hugh Scott, Esq. of Harden. The tower is a high square building, surrounded by an outer wall, now ruinous. The circuit of the outer court, being defended, on three sides, by a precipice and morass, is accessible only from the west, by a steep and rocky path. The apartments, as is usual in a border-keep, or fortress, are placed one above another, and communicate by a narrow stair; on the roof are two bartizans, or platforms, for defence or pleasure. The inner door of the tower is wood, the outer an iron gate; the distance between them being nine feet, the thickness, namely, of the wall. From the elevated situation of Smaylho'me Tower, it is seen many miles in every direction. Among the crags, by which it is surrounded, one, more eminent, is called the _Watchfold_, and is said to have been the station of a beacon, in the times of war with England. Without the tower-court is a ruined chapel. Brotherstone is a heath, in the neighbourhood of Smaylho'me Tower. This ballad was first printed in Mr LEWIS's _Tales of Wonder_. It is here published, with some additional illustrations, particularly an account of the battle of Ancram Moor; which seemed proper in a work upon border antiquities. The catastrophe of the tale is founded upon a well-known Irish tradition.[54] This ancient fortress and its vicinity formed the scene of the editor's infancy, and seemed to claim from him this attempt to celebrate them in a Border Tale. THE EVE OF ST JOHN. * * * * * The Baron of Smaylho'me rose with day, He spurr'd his courser on, Without stop or stay, down the rocky way, That leads to Brotherstone. He went not with the bold Buccleuch, His banner broad to rear; He went not 'gainst the English yew, To lift the Scottish spear. Yet his plate-jack[55] was braced, and his helmet was laced, And his vaunt-brace of proof he wore; At his saddle-gerthe was a good steel sperthe, Full ten pound weight and more. The Baron return'd in three days space, And his looks were sad and sour; And weary was his courser's pace, As he reached his rocky tower. He came not from where Ancram Moor[56] Ran red with English blood; Where the Douglas true, and the bold Buccleuch, 'Gainst keen Lord Evers stood. Yet was his helmet hack'd and hew'd, His acton pierc'd and tore; His axe and his dagger with blood embrued, But it was not English gore. He lighted at the Chapellage, He held him close and still; And he whistled thrice for his little foot-page, His name was English Will. "Come thou hither, my little foot-page; "Come hither to my knee; "Though thou art young, and tender of age, "I think thou art true to me. "Come, tell me all that thou hast seen, "And look thou tell me true! "Since I from Smaylho'me tower have been, "What did thy lady do?" "My lady, each night, sought the lonely light, "That burns on the wild Watchfold; "For, from height to height, the beacons bright "Of the English foemen told. "The bittern clamour'd from the moss, "The wind blew loud and shrill; "Yet the craggy pathway she did cross, "To the eiry Beacon Hill. "I watched her steps, and silent came "Where she sat her on a stone; "No watchman stood by the dreary flame; "It burned all alone. "The second night I kept her in sight, "Till to the fire she came, "And, by Mary's might! an armed Knight "Stood by the lonely flame. "And many a word that warlike lord "Did speak to my lady there; "But the rain fell fast, and loud blew the blast, "And I heard not what they were. "The third night there the sky was fair, "And the mountain-blast was still, "As again I watched the secret pair, "On the lonesome Beacon Hill. "And I heard her name the midnight hour, "And name this holy eve; "And say, 'Come this night to thy lady's bower; "Ask no bold Baron's leave. 'He lifts his spear with the bold Buccleuch; 'His lady is all alone; 'The door she'll undo, to her knight so true, 'On the eve of good St John.' 'I cannot come; I must not come; 'I dare not come to thee; 'On the eve of St John I must wander alone: 'In thy bower I may not be.' 'Now, out on thee, faint-hearted knight! 'Thou should'st not say me nay; 'For the eve is sweet, and when lovers meet, 'Is worth the whole summer's day.' 'And I'll chain the blood-hound, and the warder shall not sound, 'And rushes shall be strewed on the stair; "So, by the black rood-stone,[57] and by holy St John, 'I conjure thee, my love, to be there!' 'Though the blood-hound be mute, and the rush beneath my foot, 'And the warder his bugle should not blow, 'Yet there sleepeth a priest in the chamber to the east, 'And my foot-step he would know.' 'O fear not the priest, who sleepeth to the east! "For to Dryburgh[58] the way he has ta'en; 'And there to say mass, till three days do pass, "For the soul of a knight that is slayne.' "He turn'd him around, and grimly he frown'd; "Then he laughed right scornfully-- 'He who says the mass-rite for the soul of that knight, 'May as well say mass for me. 'At the lone midnight-hour, when bad spirits have power, 'In thy chamber will I be.' "With that he was gone, and my lady left alone, "And no more did I see."-- Then changed, I trow, was that bold Baron's brow, From the dark to the blood-red high; "Now, tell me the mien of the knight thou hast seen, "For, by Mary, he shall die!" "His arms shone full bright, in the beacon's red light; "His plume it was scarlet and blue; "On his shield was a hound, in a silver leash bound, "And his crest was a branch of the yew." "Thou liest, thou liest, thou little foot-page, "Loud dost thou lie to me! "For that knight is cold, and low laid in the mould, "All under the Eildon-tree."[59] "Yet hear but my word, my noble lord! "For I heard her name his name; "And that lady bright, she called the knight, "Sir Richard of Coldinghame." The bold Baron's brow then chang'd, I trow, From high blood-red to pale-- "The grave is deep and dark--and the corpse is stiff and stark-- "So I may not trust thy tale." "Where fair Tweed flows round holy Melrose, "And Eildon slopes to the plain, "Full three nights ago, by some secret foe, "That gay gallant was slain." "The varying light deceived thy sight, "And the wild winds drown'd the name; "For the Dryburgh bells ring, and the white monks do sing, "For Sir Richard of Coldinghame!" He pass'd the court-gate, and he oped the tower grate, And he mounted the narrow stair, To the bartizan-seat, where, with maids that on her wait, He found his lady fair. That lady sat in mournful mood; Look'd over hill and vale; Over Tweed's fair flood, and Mertoun's[60] wood, And all down Tiviotdale. "Now hail, now hail, thou lady bright!" "Now hail, thou Baron true! "What news, what news, from Ancram fight? "What news from the bold Buccleuch?" "The Ancram Moor is red with gore, "For many a southern fell; "And Buccleuch has charged us, evermore, "To watch our beacons well." The lady blush'd red, but nothing she said; Nor added the Baron a word: Then she stepp'd down the stair to her chamber fair, And so did her moody lord. In sleep the lady mourn'd, and the Baron toss'd and turn'd, And oft to himself he said-- "The worms around him creep, and his bloody grave is deep..... It cannot give up the dead!" It was near the ringing of matin-bell, The night was well nigh done, When a heavy sleep on that Baron fell, On the eve of good St John. The lady looked through the chamber fair, By the light of a dying flame; And she was aware of a knight stood there-- Sir Richard of Coldinghame! "Alas! away, away!" she cried, "For the holy Virgin's sake!" "Lady, I know who sleeps by thy side; But, lady, he will not awake. "By Eildon-tree, for long nights three, "In bloody grave have I lain; "The mass and the death-prayer are said for me, "But, lady, they are said in vain. "By the Baron's brand, near Tweed's fair strand, "Most foully slain I fell; "And my restless sprite on the beacon's height, "For a space is doom'd to dwell. "At our trysting-place,[61] for a certain space, "I must wander to and fro; "But I had not had power to come to thy bower, "Had'st thou not conjured me so." Love master'd fear--her brow she crossed; "How, Richard, hast thou sped? "And art thou saved, or art thou lost?" The Vision shook his head! "Who spilleth life, shall forfeit life; "So bid thy lord believe: "That lawless love is guilt above, "This awful sign receive." He laid his left palm on an oaken beam; His right upon her hand: The lady shrunk, and fainting sunk, For it scorch'd like a fiery brand. The sable score, of fingers four, Remains on that board impress'd; And for evermore that lady wore A covering on her wrist. There is a nun in Dryburgh bower, Ne'er looks upon the sun: There is a monk in Melrose tower, He speaketh word to none. That nun, who ne'er beholds the day, That monk, who speaks to none-- That nun was Smaylho'me's Lady gay, That monk the bold Baron. NOTES ON THE EVE OF ST JOHN. * * * * * _BATTLE OF ANCRUM MOOR._ Lord Evers, and Sir Brian Latoun, during the year 1544, committed the most dreadful ravages upon the Scottish frontiers, compelling most of the inhabitants, and especially the men of Liddesdale, to take assurance under the king of England. Upon the 17th November, in that year, the sum total of their depredations stood thus, in the bloody ledger of Lord Evers: Towns, towers, barnekynes, parish churches, bastille houses, burned and destroyed 192 Scots slain 403 Prisoners taken 816 Nolt (cattle) 10,386 Sheep 12,492 Nags and geldings 1,296 Gayt 200 Bolls of corn 850 Insight gear, &c. (furniture) an incalculable quantity. MURDIN's _State Papers_, Vol. I. p. 51. The king of England had promised to these two barons a feudal grant of the country, which they had thus reduced to a desert; upon hearing which, Archibald Douglas, the seventh Earl of Angus, is said to have sworn to write the deed of investiture upon their skins, with sharp pens and bloody ink, in resentment for their having defaced the tombs of his ancestors, at Melrose.--_Godscroft._ In 1545, Lord Evers and Latoun again entered Scotland, with an army consisting of 3000 mercenaries, 1500 English borderers, and 700 assured Scottish-men, chiefly Armstrongs, Turnbulls, and other broken clans. In this second incursion, the English generals even exceeded their former cruelty. Evers burned the tower of Broomhouse, with its lady (a noble and aged woman, says Lesley), and her whole family. The English penetrated as far as Melrose, which they had destroyed last year, and which they now again pillaged. As they returned towards Jedburgh, they were followed by Angus, at the head of 1000 horse, who was shortly after joined by the famous Norman Lesley, with a body of Fife-men. The English, being probably unwilling to cross the Teviot, while the Scots hung upon their rear, halted upon Ancram Moor, above the village of that name; and the Scottish general was deliberating whether to advance or retire, when Sir Walter Scott,[62] of Buccleuch, came up at full speed, with a small, but chosen body of his retainers, the rest of whom were near at hand. By the advice of this experienced warrior (to whose conduct Pitscottie and Buchanan ascribe the success of the engagement), Angus withdrew from the height which he occupied, and drew up his forces behind it, upon a piece of low flat ground, called Panier-heugh, or Peniel-heugh. The spare horses being sent to an eminence in their rear, appeared to the English to be the main body of the Scots, in the act of flight. Under this persuasion, Evers and Latoun hurried precipitately forwards, and, having ascended the hill, which their foes had abandoned, were no less dismayed than astonished, to find the phalanx of Scottish Spearmen drawn up, in firm array, upon the flat ground below. The Scots in their turn became the assailants. A heron, roused from the marshes by the tumult, soared away betwixt the encountering armies: "O!" exclaimed Angus, "that I had here my white goss-hawk, that we might all yoke at once!"--_Godscroft._ The English, breathless and fatigued, having the setting sun and wind full in their faces, were unable to withstand the resolute and desperate charge of the Scottish lances. No sooner had they begun to waver, than their own allies, the assured borderers, who had been waiting the event, threw aside their red crosses, and, joining their countrymen, made a most merciless slaughter among the English fugitives, the pursuers calling upon each other to "remember Broomhouse!"--_Lesley_, p. 478. In the battle fell Lord Evers, and his son, together with Sir Brian Latoun, and 800 Englishmen, many of whom were persons of rank. A thousand prisoners were taken. Among these was a patriotic alderman of London, Read by name, who, having contumaciously refused to pay his portion of a benevolence, demanded from the city by Henry VIII., was sent by royal authority to serve against the Scots. These, at settling his ransom, he found still more exorbitant in their exactions than the monarch.--REDPATH's _Border History_, p. 553. Evers was much regretted by King Henry, who swore to avenge his death upon Angus, against whom he conceived himself to have particular grounds of resentment, on account of favours received by the Earl at his hands. The answer of Angus was worthy of a Douglas: "Is our brother-in-law offended,"[63] said he, "that I, as a good Scotsman, have avenged my ravaged country, and the defaced tombs of my ancestors, upon Ralph Evers? They were better men than he, and I was bound to do no less--and will he take my life for that? Little knows King Henry the skirts of Kirnetable:[64] I can keep myself there against all his English host."--_Godscroft._ Such was the noted battle of Ancram Moor. The spot, on which it was fought, is called Lyliard's Edge, from an Amazonian Scottish woman of that name, who is reported, by tradition, to have distinguished herself in the same manner as squire Witherington. The old people point out her monument, now broken and defaced. The inscription is said to have been legible within this century, and to have run thus: Fair maiden Lylliard lies under this stane, Little was her stature, but great was her fame; Upon the English louns she laid mony thumps, And, when her legs were cutted off, she fought upon her stumps. _Vide Account of the Parish of Melrose._ It appears, from a passage in Stowe, that an ancestor of Lord Evers held also a grant of Scottish lands from an English monarch. "I have seen," says the historian, "under the broad-seale of the said King Edward I., a manor, called Ketnes, in the countie of Ferfare, in Scotland, and neere the furthest part of the same nation northward, given to John Eure and his heiress, ancestor to the Lord Eure, that now is, for his service done in these partes, with market, &c. dated at Lanercost, the 20th day of October, anno regis, 34."--STOWE's _Annals_, p. 210. This grant, like that of Henry, must have been dangerous to the receiver. _There is a nun in Dryburgh bower._--P. 239. v. 3. The circumstance of the nun, "who never saw the day," is not entirely imaginary. About fifty years ago, an unfortunate female-wanderer took up her residence in a dark vault, among the ruins of Dryburgh abbey, which, during the day, she never quitted. When night fell, she issued from this miserable habitation, and went to the house of Mr Halliburton of Newmains, the editor's great-grandfather, or to that of Mr Erskine of Sheilfield, two gentlemen of the neighbourhood. From their charity, she obtained such necessaries as she could be prevailed upon to accept. At twelve, each night, she lighted her candle, and returned to her vault; assuring her friendly neighbours, that, during her absence, her habitation was arranged by a spirit, to whom she gave the uncouth name of _Fatlips_; describing him as a little man, wearing heavy iron shoes, with which he trampled the clay floor of the vault, to dispel the damps. This circumstance caused her to be regarded, by the well-informed, with compassion, as deranged in her understanding; and by the vulgar, with some degree of terror. The cause of her adopting this extraordinary mode of life she would never explain. It was, however, believed to have been occasioned by a vow, that, during the absence of a man, to whom she was attached, she would never look upon the sun. Her lover never returned. He fell during the civil-war of 1745-6, and she never more would behold the light of day. The vault, or rather dungeon, in which this unfortunate woman lived and died, passes still by the name of the supernatural being, with which its gloom was tenanted by her disturbed imagination, and few of the neighbouring peasants dare enter it by night. FOOTNOTES: [54] The following passage, in DR HENRY MORE's _Appendix to the Antidote against Atheism_, relates to a similar phenomenon: "I confess, that the bodies of devils may not only be warm, but sindgingly hot, as it was in him that took one of Melanchthon's relations by the hand, and so scorched her, that she bare the mark of it to her dying day. But the examples of cold are more frequent; as in that famous story of Cuntius, when he touched the arm of a certain woman of Pentoch, as she lay in her bed, he felt as cold as ice; and so did the spirit's claw to Anne Styles."--_Ed._ 1662. p. 135. [55] The plate-jack is coat-armour; the vaunt-brace, or wam-brace, armour for the body; the sperthe, a battle-axe. [56] See an account of the battle of Ancram Moor, subjoined to the ballad. [57] The black-rood of Melrose was a crucifix of black marble, and of superior sanctity. [58] Dryburgh Abbey is beautifully situated on the banks of the Tweed. After its dissolution, it became the property of the Halliburtons of Newmains, and is now the seat of the Right Honourable the Earl of Buchan. It belonged to the order of Premonstratenses. [59] Eildon is a high hill, terminating in three conical summits, immediately above the town of Melrose, where are the admired ruins of a magnificent monastery. Eildon-tree is said to be the spot where Thomas the Rhymer uttered his prophecies. See p. 173. [60] Mertoun is the beautiful seat of Hugh Scott, Esq. of Harden. [61] _Trysting-place_--Place of rendezvous. [62] The editor has found in no instance upon record, of this family having taken assurance with England. Hence, they usually suffered dreadfully from the English forays. In August, 1544 (the year preceding the battle), the whole lands belonging to Buccleuch, in West Teviotdale, were harried by Evers; the outworks, or barmkin, of the tower of Branxholm, burned; eight Scotts slain, thirty made prisoners, and an immense prey of horses, cattle, and sheep, carried off. The lands upon Kale water, belonging to the same chieftain, were also plundered, and much spoil obtained; 30 Scotts slain, and the Moss Tower (a fortress near Eckford), _smoked very sore_. Thus Buccleuch had a long account to settle at Ancram Moor.--MURDIN's _State Papers_, pp. 45, 46. [63] Angus had married the widow of James IV., sister to King Henry VIII. [64] Kirnetable, now called Cairntable, is a mountainous tract at the head of Douglasdale. LORD SOULIS. BY J. LEYDEN. * * * * * The subject of the following ballad is a popular tale of the Scottish borders. It refers to transactions of a period so important, as to have left an indelible impression on the popular mind, and almost to have effaced the traditions of earlier times. The fame of Arthur, and the Knights of the Round Table, always more illustrious among the Scottish borderers, from their Welch origin, than Fin Maccoul, and Gow Macmorne, who seem not, however, to have been totally unknown, yielded gradually to the renown of Wallace, Bruce, Douglas, and the other patriots, who so nobly asserted the liberty of their country.--Beyond that period, numerous, but obscure and varying legends, refer to the marvellous Merlin, or Myrrdin _the Wild_, and Michael Scot, both magicians of notorious fame. In this instance the enchanters have triumphed over the _true man_. But the charge of magic was transferred from the ancient sorcerers to the objects of popular resentment of every age; and the partizans of the Baliols, the abettors of the English faction, and the enemies of the protestant, and of the presbyterian reformation, have been indiscriminately stigmatized as necromancers and _warlocks_. Thus, Lord Soulis, Archbishop Sharp, Grierson of Lagg, and Graham of Claverhouse, Viscount Dundee, receive from tradition the same supernatural attributes. According to Dalrymple,[65] the family of Soulis seem to have been powerful during the contest between Bruce and Baliol; for adhering to the latter of whom they incurred forfeiture. Their power extended over the south and west marches; and near Deadrigs,[66] in the parish of Eccles, in the east marches, their family-bearings still appear on an obelisk. William de Soulis, Justiciarius Laodoniæ, in 1281, subscribed the famous obligation, by which the nobility of Scotland bound themselves to acknowledge the sovereignty of the Maid of Norway, and her descendants. RHYMER, Tom. II. pp. 266, 279; and, in 1291, Nicholas de Soulis appears as a competitor for the crown of Scotland, which he claimed as the heir of Margery, a bastard daughter of Alexander II., and wife of Allan Durward, or Chuissier.--CARTE, p. 177. DALRYMPLE'S _Annals_, Vol. I. p. 203. But their power was not confined to the marches; for the barony of Saltoun, in the shire of Haddington, derived its name from the family; being designed Soulistoun, in a charter to the predecessors of Nevoy of that ilk, seen by Dalrymple; and the same frequently appears among those of the benefactors and witnesses in the chartularies of abbeys, particularly in that of Newbottle. Ranulphus de Soulis occurs as a witness, in a charter, granted by King David, of the teindis of Stirling; and he, or one of his successors, had afterwards the appellation of _Pincerna Regis_. The following notices of the family and its decline, are extracted from Robertson's _Index of Lost Charters_.[67] Various repetitions occur, as the index is copied from different rolls, which appear to have never been accurately arranged. Charter to the Abbacie of Melross, of that part of the barony of Westerker, quhilk perteint to Lord Soulis--a Rob. I. in vicecom. Melrose. ---- To the abbey of Craigelton, quhilkis perteint to Lord Soulis--ab eodem--Candidæ Casæ. ---- To John Soullis, knight of the lands of Kirkanders and Brettalach--ab eodem--Dumfries. ---- To John Soullis, knight of the baronie of Torthorald, ab eodem--Dumfries. Charter To John Soullis, of the lands of Kirkanders--ab eodem--Dumfries. ---- To John Soullis, of the barony of Kirkanders--quæ fuit quondam Johannis de Wak, Militis--ab eodem. ---- To James Lord Douglas, the half-lands of the barony of Westerker, in valle de Esk, quilk William Soullis forisfecit--ab eodem. ---- To Robert Stewart, the son and heir of Walter Stewart, the barony of Nisbit, the barony of Longnewton, and Mertoun, and the barony of Cavirton, invicecomitatu de Roxburgh, quhilk William Soulis forisfecit. ---- To Murdoch Menteith, of the lands of Gilmerton, whilk was William Soullis, in vicecom. de Edinburgh--ab eodem. ---- To Robert Bruce, of the lands of Liddesdale, whilk William Soulis erga nos forisfecit--ab eodem. ---- To Robert Bruce, son to the king, the lands of Liddesdail, whilk William Soullis forisfecit erga nos, ab eodem--anno regni 16. ---- To Archibald Douglas, of the baronie of Kirkanders, quilk were John Soullis, in vicecom. de Dumfries. ---- To Murdoch Menteith, of the lands of Gilmerton, quilk Soullis forisfecit, in vicecom. de Edinburgh. ---- Waltero Senescallo Scotiæ of Nesbit (except and the valley of Liddell) the barony of Langnewton and Maxtoun, the barony of Cavertoun, in vicecom. de Roxburgh, quas Soullis forisfecit. Charter To James Lord Douglas, of the barony of Westerker, quam Willielmus de Soullis forisfecit. ---- To William Lord Douglas, of the lands of Lyddal, whilkis William Soullis forisfecit, a Davide secundo. The hero of tradition seems to be William, Lord Soullis, whose name occurs so frequently in the foregoing list of forfeitures; by which he appears to have possessed the whole district of Liddesdale, with Westerkirk and Kirkandrews, in Dumfries-shire, the lands of Gilmertoun, near Edinburgh, and the rich baronies of Nisbet, Longnewton, Caverton, Maxtoun, and Mertoun, in Roxburghshire. He was of royal descent, being the grandson of Nicholas de Soulis, who claimed the crown of Scotland, in right of his grandmother, daughter to Alexander II.; and who, could her legitimacy have been ascertained, must have excluded the other competitors. The elder brother of William, was John de Soulis, a gallant warrior, warmly attached to the interests of his country, who, with fifty borderers, defeated and made prisoner Sir Andrew Harclay, at the head of three hundred Englishmen; and was himself slain, fighting in the cause of Edward the Bruce, at the battle of Dundalk, in Ireland, 1318. He had been joint-warden of the kingdom with John Cummin, after the abdication of the immortal Wallace, in 1300; in which character he was recognised by John Baliol, who, in a charter granted after his dethronement, and dated at Rutherglen, in the ninth year of his reign (1302), styles him "_Custos regni "nostri_." The treason of William, his successor, occasioned the downfall of the family. This powerful baron entered into a conspiracy against Robert the Bruce, in which many persons of rank were engaged. The object, according to Barbour, was to elevate Lord Soulis to the Scottish throne. The plot was discovered by the Countess of Strathern. Lord Soulis was seized at Berwick, although he was attended, says Barbour, by three hundred and sixty squires, besides many gallant knights. Having confessed his guilt, in full parliament, his life was spared by the king; but his domains were forfeited, and he himself confined in the castle of Dumbarton, where he died. Many of his accomplices were executed; among others, the gallant David de Brechin, nephew to the king, whose sole crime was having concealed the treason, in which he disdained to participate.[68] The parliament, in which so much noble blood was shed, was long remembered by the name of the _Black Parliament_. It was held in the year 1320. From this period the family of Soulis makes no figure in our annals. Local tradition, however, more faithful to the popular sentiment than history, has recorded the character of their chief, and attributed to him many actions which seem to correspond with that character. His portrait is by no means flattering; uniting every quality which could render strength formidable, and cruelty detestable. Combining prodigious bodily strength with cruelty, avarice, dissimulation, and treachery, is it surprising that a people, who attributed every event of life, in a great measure, to the interference of good or evil spirits, should have added to such a character the mystical horrors of sorcery? Thus, he is represented as a cruel tyrant and sorcerer; constantly employed in oppressing his vassals, harassing his neighbours, and fortifying his castle of Hermitage against the king of Scotland; for which purpose he employed all means, human and infernal: invoking the fiends, by his incantations, and forcing his vassals to drag materials, like beasts of burden. Tradition proceeds to relate, that the Scottish king, irritated by reiterated complaints, peevishly exclaimed to the petitioners, "Boil him, if you please, but let me hear no more of him." Satisfied with this answer, they proceeded with the utmost haste to execute the commission; which they accomplished, by boiling him alive on the Nine-stane Rig, in a cauldron, said to have been long preserved at Skelf-hill, a hamlet betwixt Hawick and the Hermitage. Messengers, it is said, were immediately dispatched by the king, to prevent the effects of such a hasty declaration; but they only arrived in time to witness the conclusion of the ceremony. The castle of Hermitage, unable to support the load of iniquity, which had been long accumulating within its walls, is supposed to have partly sunk beneath the ground; and its ruins are still regarded by the peasants with peculiar aversion and terror. The door of the chamber, where Lord Soulis is said to have held his conferences with the evil spirits, is supposed to be opened once in seven years, by that dæmon, to which, when he left the castle, never to return, he committed the keys, by throwing them over his left shoulder, and desiring it to keep them till his return. Into this chamber, which is really the dungeon of the castle, the peasant is afraid to look; for such is the active malignity of its inmate, that a willow, inserted at the chinks of the door, is found peeled, or stripped of its bark, when drawn back. The Nine-stane Rig, where Lord Soulis was boiled, is a declivity, about one mile in breadth, and four in length, descending upon the water of Hermitage, from the range of hills which separate Liddesdale and Teviotdale. It derives its name from one of those circles of large stones, which are termed Druidical, nine of which remained to a late period. Five of these stones are still visible; and two are particularly pointed out, as those which supported the iron bar, upon which the fatal cauldron was suspended. The formation of ropes of sand, according to popular tradition, was a work of such difficulty, that it was assigned by Michael Scot to a number of spirits, for which it was necessary for him to find some interminable employment. Upon discovering the futility of their attempts to accomplish the work assigned, they petitioned their task-master to be allowed to mingle a few handfuls of barley-chaff with the sand. On his refusal, they were forced to leave untwisted the ropes which they had shaped. Such is the traditionary hypothesis of the vermicular ridges of the sand on the shore of the sea. _Redcap_ is a popular appellation of that class of spirits which haunt old castles. Every ruined tower in the south of Scotland is supposed to have an inhabitant of this species. LORD SOULIS. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. * * * * * Lord Soulis he sat in Hermitage castle, And beside him Old Redcap sly;-- "Now, tell me, thou sprite, who art meikle of might, "The death that I must die?" "While thou shalt bear a charmed life, "And hold that life of me, "'Gainst lance and arrow, sword and knife, "I shall thy warrant be. "Nor forged steel, nor hempen band, "Shall e'er thy limbs confine, "Till threefold ropes, of sifted sand, "Around thy body twine. "If danger press fast, knock thrice on the chest, "With rusty padlocks bound; "Turn away your eyes, when the lid shall rise, "And listen to the sound." Lord Soulis he sat in Hermitage castle, And Redcap was not by; And he called on a page, who was witty and sage, To go to the barmkin high. "And look thou east, and look thou west, "And quickly come tell to me, "What troopers haste along the waste, "And what may their livery be." He looked o'er fell, and he looked o'er flat, But nothing, I wist, he saw, Save a pyot on a turret that sat Beside a corby craw. The page he look'd at the skrieh[69] of day, But nothing, I wist, he saw, Till a horseman gray, in the royal array, Rode down the Hazel-shaw. "Say, why do you cross o'er moor and moss?" So loudly cried the page; "I tidings bring, from Scotland's king, "To Soulis of Hermitage. "He bids me tell that bloody warden, "Oppressor of low and high, "If ever again his lieges complain, "The cruel Soulis shall die." By traitorous slight they seized the knight, Before he rode or ran, And through the key-stone of the vault, They plunged him, horse and man. * * * * * O May she came, and May she gaed, By Goranberry green; And May she was the fairest maid, That ever yet was seen. O May she came, and May she gaed, By Goranberry tower; And who was it but cruel Lord Soulis, That carried her from her bower? He brought her to his castle gray, By Hermitage's side; Says--"Be content, my lovely May, "For thou shalt be my bride." With her yellow hair, that glittered fair, She dried the trickling tear; She sighed the name of Branxholm's heir, The youth that loved her dear. "Now, be content, my bonny May, "And take it for your hame; "Or ever and ay shall ye rue the day, "You heard young Branxholm's name. "O'er Branxholm tower, ere the morning hour, "When the lift[70] is like lead so blue; "The smoke shall roll white on the weary night, "And the flame shine dimly through." Syne he's ca'd on him Ringan Red, A sturdy kemp was he; From friend or foe, in border feid, Who never a foot would flee. Red Ringan sped, and the spearmen led, Up Goranberry slack; Aye, many a wight, unmatched in fight, Who never more came back. And bloody set the westering sun, And bloody rose he up; But little thought young Branxholm's heir, Where he that night should sup. He shot the roe-buck on the lee, The dun deer on the law; The glamour[71] sure was in his e'e, When Ringan nigh did draw. O'er heathy edge, through rustling sedge, He sped till day was set; And he thought it was his merrymen true, When he the spearmen met. Far from relief, they seized the chief; His men were far away; Through Hermitage slack, they sent him back, To Soulis' castle gray; Syne onward fure for Branxholm tower, Where all his merry men lay. "Now, welcome, noble Branxholm's heir! "Thrice welcome," quoth Soulis, "to me! "Say, dost thou repair to my castle fair, "My wedding guest to be? "And lovely May deserves, per fay, "A brideman such as thee!" And broad and bloody rose the sun, And on the barmkin shone; When the page was aware of Red Ringan there, Who came riding all alone. To the gate of the tower Lord Soulis he speeds, As he lighted at the wall, Says--"Where did ye stable my stalwart steeds, "And where do they tarry all?" "We stabled them sure, on the Tarras Muir; "We stabled them sure," quoth he: "Before we could cross that quaking moss, "They all were lost but me." He clenched his fist, and he knocked on the chest, And he heard a stifled groan; And at the third knock, each rusty lock Did open one by one. He turned away his eyes, as the lid did rise, And he listen'd silentlie; And he heard breathed slow, in murmurs low, "Beware of a coming tree!" In muttering sound the rest was drowned; No other word heard he; But slow as it rose the lid did close, With the rusty padlocks three. * * * * * Now rose with Branxholm's ae brother, The Teviot, high and low; Bauld Walter by name, of meikle fame, For none could bend his bow. O'er glen and glade, to Soulis there sped The fame of his array, And that Tiviotdale would soon assail His towers and castle gray. With clenched fist, he knocked on the chest, And again he heard a groan; And he raised his eyes as the lid did rise, But answer heard he none. The charm was broke, when the spirit spoke, And it murmur'd sullenlie,-- "Shut fast the door, and for evermore, "Commit to me the key. "Alas! that ever thou raised'st thine eyes, "Thine eyes to look on me! "Till seven years are o'er, return no more, "For here thou must not be." Think not but Soulis was wae to yield His warlock chamber o'er; He took the keys from the rusty lock, That never was ta'en before. He threw them o'er his left shoulder, With meikle care and pain; And he bade it keep them, fathoms deep, Till he returned again. And still, when seven years are o'er, Is heard the jarring sound; When slowly opes the charmed door Of the chamber under ground. And some within the chamber door Have cast a curious eye; But none dare tell, for the spirits in hell, The fearful sights they spy. * * * * * When Soulis thought on his merry men now, A woeful wight was he; Says--"Vengeance is mine, and I will not repine! "But Branxholm's heir shall die." Says--"What would ye do, young Branxholm, "Gin ye had me, as I have thee?" "I would take you to the good greenwood, "And gar your ain hand wale[72] the tree." "Now shall thine ain hand wale the tree, "For all thy mirth and meikle pride; "And May shall chuse, if my love she refuse, "A scrog bush thee beside." They carried him to the good greenwood, Where the green pines grew in a row; And they heard the cry, from the branches high, Of the hungry carrion crow. They carried him on from tree to tree, The spiry boughs below; "Say, shall it be thine, on the tapering pine, "To feed the hooded crow?" "The fir-tops fall by Branxholm wall, "When the night blast stirs the tree, "And it shall not be mine to die on the pine, "I loved in infancie." Young Branxholm turned him, and oft looked back, And aye he passed from tree to tree; Young Branxholm peeped, and puirly[73] spake, "O sic a death is no for me!" And next they passed the aspin gray; Its leaves were rustling mournfullie: "Now, chuse thee, chuse thee, Branxholm gay! "Say, wilt thou never chuse the tree?" "More dear to me is the aspin gray, "More dear than any other tree; "For beneath the shade, that its branches made, "Have past the vows of my love and me." Young Branxholm peeped, and puirly spake, Until he did his ain men see, With witches' hazel in each steel cap, In scorn of Soulis gramarye; Then shoulder height for glee he lap, "Methinks I spye a coming tree!" "Aye, many may come, but few return," Quo' Soulis, the lord of gramarye; "No warrior's hand in fair Scotland "Shall ever dint a wound on me!" "Now, by my sooth," quo' bauld Walter, "If that be true we soon shall see." His bent bow he drew, and the arrow was true, But never a wound or scar had he. Then up bespake him, true Thomas, He was the lord of Ersyltoun: "The wizard's spell no steel can quell, "Till once your lances bear him down." They bore him down with lances bright, But never a wound or scar had he; With hempen bands they bound him tight, Both hands and feet on the Nine-stane lee. That wizard accurst, the bands he burst; They mouldered at his magic spell; And neck and heel, in the forged steel, They bound him against the charms of hell. That wizard accurst, the bands he burst; No forged steel his charms could bide; Then up bespake him, true Thomas, "We'll bind him yet, whate'er betide." The black spae-book from his breast he took, Impressed with many a warlock spell: And the book it was wrote by Michael Scott, Who held in awe the fiends of hell. They buried it deep, where his bones they sleep, That mortal man might never it see: But Thomas did save it from the grave, When he returned from Faërie. The black spae-book from his breast he took, And turned the leaves with curious hand; No ropes, did he find, the wizard could bind, But threefold ropes of sifted sand. They sifted the sand from the Nine-stane burn, And shaped the ropes so curiouslie; But the ropes would neither twist nor twine, For Thomas true and his gramarye. The black spae-book from his breast he took, And again he turned it with his hand; And he bade each lad of Teviot add The barley chaff to the sifted sand. The barley chaff to the sifted sand They added still by handfulls nine; But Redcap sly unseen was by, And the ropes would neither twist nor twine. And still beside the Nine-stane burn, Ribbed like the sand at mark of sea, The ropes, that would not twist nor turn, Shaped of the sifted sand you see. The black spae-book true Thomas he took; Again its magic leaves he spread; And he found that to quell the powerful spell, The wizard must be boiled in lead. On a circle of stones they placed the pot, On a circle of stones but barely nine; They heated it red and fiery hot, Till the burnished brass did glimmer and shine. They rolled him up in a sheat of lead, A sheat of lead for a funeral pall; They plunged him in the cauldron red, And melted him, lead, and bones, and all. At the Skelf-hill, the cauldron still The men of Liddesdale can shew; And on the spot, where they boiled the pot, The spreat[74] and the deer-hair[75] ne'er shall grow. NOTES ON LORD SOULIS. BY THE EDITOR. * * * * * The tradition regarding the death of Lord Soulis, however singular, is not without a parallel in the real history of Scotland. The same extraordinary mode of cookery was actually practised (_horresco referens_) upon the body of a sheriff of the Mearns. This person, whose name was Melville of Glenbervie, bore his faculties so harshly, that he became detested by the barons of the country. Reiterated complaints of his conduct having been made to James I. (or, as others say, to the Duke of Albany), the monarch answered, in a moment of unguarded impatience, "Sorrow gin the sheriff were sodden, and supped in broo'!" The complainers retired, perfectly satisfied. Shortly after, the lairds of Arbuthnot, Mather, Laurestoun, and Pittaraw, decoyed Melville to the top of the hill of Garvock, above Lawrencekirk, under pretence of a grand hunting party. Upon this place (still called the _Sheriff's Pot_), the barons had prepared a fire and a boiling cauldron, into which they plunged the unlucky sheriff. After he was _sodden_ (as the king termed it), for a sufficient time, the savages, that they might literally observe the royal mandate, concluded the scene of abomination, by actually partaking of the hell-broth. The three lairds were outlawed for this offence; and Barclay, one of their number, to screen himself from justice, erected the kaim (_i.e._ the camp, or fortress) of Mathers, which stands upon a rocky, and almost inaccessible peninsula, overhanging the German ocean. The laird of Arbuthnot is said to have eluded the royal vengeance, by claiming the benefit of the law of clan Macduff, concerning which the curious reader will find some particulars subjoined. A pardon, or perhaps a deed of replegiation, founded upon that law, is said to be still extant among the records of the viscount of Arbuthnot. Pellow narrates a similar instance of atrocity, perpetrated after the death of Muley Ismael, emperor of Morocco, in 1727, when the inhabitants of Old Fez, throwing off all allegiance to his successor, slew "Alchyde Boel le Rosea, their old governor, boiling his flesh, and many, through spite, eating thereof, and throwing what they could not eat of it to the dogs."--See PELLOW'S _Travels in South Barbary_. And we may add, to such tales, the oriental tyranny of Zenghis Khan, who immersed seventy Tartar Khans in as many boiling cauldrons. The punishment of boiling seems to have been in use among the English at a very late period, as appears from the following passage in STOWE'S _Chronicle_:--"The 17th of March (1524), Margaret Davy, a maid, was boiled at Smithfield, for poisoning of three households that she had dwelled in." But unquestionably the usual practice of Smithfield cookery, about that period, was by a different application of fire. LAW OF CLAN MACDUFF. Though it is rather foreign to the proper subject of this work, many readers may not be displeased to have some account of the curious privilege enjoyed by the descendants of the famous Macduff, thane of Fife, and thence called the Law of the Clan, or family, bearing his name. When the revolution was accomplished, in which Macbeth was dethroned and slain, Malcolm, sensible of the high services of the thane of Fife, is said, by our historians, to have promised to grant the first three requests he should make. Macduff accordingly demanded, and obtained, first, that he and his successors, lords of Fife, should place the crown on the king's head at his coronation; secondly, that they should lead the vanguard of the army, whenever the royal banner was displayed; and, lastly, this privilege of clan Macduff, whereby any person, being related to Macduff within the ninth degree, and having committed homicide in _chaude melle_ (without premeditation), should, upon flying to Macduff's Cross, and paying a certain fine, obtain remission of their guilt. Such, at least, is the account given of the law by all our historians. Nevertheless, there seems ground to suspect, that the privilege did not amount to an actual and total remission of the crime, but only to a right of being exempted from all other courts of jurisdiction, except that of the lord of Fife. The reader is presented with an old document, in which the law of clan Macduff is pleaded on behalf of one of the ancestors of Moray of Abercairny; and it is remarkable that he does not claim any immunity, but solely a right of being re-pledged, because his cause had already been tried by Robert earl of Fife, the sole competent judge. But the privilege of being answerable only to the chief of their own clan, was, to the descendants of Macduff, almost equivalent to an absolute indemnity. Macduff's Cross was situated near Lindores, on the march dividing Fife from Strathern. The form of this venerable monument unfortunately offended the zeal of the reformer, Knox, and it was totally demolished by his followers. The pedestal, a solid block of stone, alone escaped the besom of destruction. It bore an inscription, which, according to the apocryphal account of Sir Robert Sibbald, was a mixture of Latin, Saxon, Danish, and old French. Skene has preserved two lines:-- Propter Makgridim et hoc oblatum, Accipe Smeleridem super lampade limpidæ labrum _Skene, de verb. sig. voce Clan Macduff._ The full inscription, real or pretended, may be found in Sir Robert Sibbald's _History of Fife_, and in James Cunninghame's _Essay upon Macduff's Cross_, together with what is called a translation, or rather paraphrase, of the piebald jargon which composes it. In Gough's edition of Camden's Britannia, a different and more intelligible version is given, on the authority of a Mr Douglas of Newburgh. The cross was dedicated to a St Macgider. Around the pedestal are tumuli, said to be the graves of those, who, having claimed the privilege of the law, failed in proving their consanguinity to the thane of Fife. Such persons were instantly executed. The people of Newburgh believe, that the spectres of these criminals still haunt the ruined cross, and claim that mercy for their souls, which they had failed to obtain for their mortal existence. The late Lord Hailes gives it as his opinion, that the indulgence was only to last till the tenth generation from Macduff. Fordun and Wintoun state, that the fine, to be paid by the person taking sanctuary, was twenty-four merks for a gentleman, and twelve merks for a yeoman. Skene affirms it to be nine cows, and a colpindach (_i.e._ a quey, or cow of one or two years old).--_Fordun_, lib. 5, cap. 9.; _Wintoun's Cronykel_, b. 6, ch. 19.; _Skene, ut supra._ The last cited author avers, that he has seen an old evident, bearing, that Spens of Wormestoun, being of Macduff's kin, enjoyed this privilege for the slaughter of one Kinnermonth. The following deed, of a like nature, is published from a copy, accurately transcribed from an original deed, in the hands of the late Mr Cuming, of the Herald-Office, Edinburgh, by Messrs Brown and Gibb, librarians to the Faculty of Advocates. The blanks are occasioned by some parts of the deed having been obliterated. "In nomine domini amen. Per presens publicum instrumentum, cunctis pateat evidenter quod anno ejusdem domini mo. cco. nonagesimo primo, indictione quinta decima Pontificatus sanctissimi in Christo Patris, ac domini nostri Clementis divina providentia Papæ septimi anno quarto decimo mensis Decembris die septimo. In mei notarii publici et testium subscriptorum presentia personaliter constitutus, nobilis et potens vir dominus Alexander de Moravia, miles, cum prolucutoribus suis, domino Bernardo de Howden, milite, et Johanne de Logie, vocatus per rotulos indictamentorum super interfectione Willielmi de Spalden coram Justiciariis; viz. Johanne de Drummond milite, Mauricio de Drummond. "Filium Willielmi in judicio sedentibus apud Foulis et potestatus erat, quod ex quo semel pro interfectione dicti hominis antea fuit per indictamentum judicio vocatus et replegiatus ad legem de clan Macduff, per dominum Robertum comitem de Fyfe non tenebatur coram quocunque alio de dicta interfectione judiciari, quosque dicta lex de clan Macduff suo intemerata privilegio de ipso ut prædicitur ad ipsam legem atto. Petens ipsum legaliter deliberari, et per ipsos vel eorum indictamentis sic indebite ulterius non vexari. Quiquidem judicis nolle dictum dominum Alexandrum deliberarie si ipsum bene vellent respectuare eousque quod dominus de Brochepen justiciarius capitalis dicta actione ordinaverunt quod sibi et suo concilio expedientius videretur, quiquidem dominus Alexander et sui prolucutores eorum petitione et prestatione et predictorum judicum responsione, petierunt a me notario publico infra scripto præsentium acta fuerunt hæc apud Foulis in itinere justiciario ibidem tento anno mense die et pontificatu prescriptis per nobilibus et discretis viris dominis Mauricio archidiacono Dumblan, Willielmo de Grame, Vinfrido de Cunyngham, David de Militibus, Moritio de Drummond, Waltero de Drummond, Walter de Moravia, Scutiferis testibus ad præmissa vocatis specialiter et rogatis. "Et ego Johannes Symonis Clericus Dunkeldensis publicus imperial notarius prædicti domini Alexandri comparitione ipsius petitione et protestatione desuper justiciariorum responsione omnibusque aliis et singulis dum sic ut priusquam et agerentur una cum prenominatis testibus presens interfui eaque sic fieri vidi et in hanc forman publicam, redegi manuque mea propria scripsi requisitus et roga om omnium premissorum signo meo consueto signavi." _Alas! that e'er thou raised'st thine eyes,_ _Thine eyes to look on me._--P. 261. v. 5. The idea of Lord Soulis' familiar seems to be derived from the curious story of the spirit Orthone and the lord of Corasse, which, I think, the reader will be pleased to see, in all its Gothic simplicity, as translated from Froissart, by the lord of Berners. "It is great marveyle to consyder one thynge, the whiche was shewed to me in the earl of Foix house at Ortayse, of hym that enfourmed me of the busynesse at Juberothe (Aljubarota, where the Spaniards, with their French allies, were defeated by the Portugueze, A.D. 1385). He showed me one thyng that I have oftentymes thought on sithe, and shall do as longe as I live. As thys squyer told me that of trouthe the next day after the battayl was thus fought, at Juberoth, the erle of Foiz knewe it, whereof I had gret marveyle; for the said Sonday, Monday, and Tuesday, the erle was very pensyf, and so sadde of chere, that no man could have a worde of hym. And all the same three days he wold nat issue out of his chambre, nor speke to any man, though they were never so nere about hym. And, on the Tuesday night, he called to him his brother Arnault Guyllyam, and sayd to hym, with a soft voice, 'Our men hath had to do, whereof I am sorrie; for it is come of them, by their voyage, as I sayd or they departed.' Arnault Guyllyam, who was a sage knight, and knewe right well his brother's condicions (_i.e._ temper), stode still and gave none answere. And than the erle, who thought to declare his mind more plainlye, for long he had borne the trouble thereof in his herte, spake agayn more higher than he dyd before, and sayd, 'By God, Sir Arnault, it is as I saye, and shortely ye shall here tidynges thereof; but the countrey of Byerne, this hundred yere, never lost such a losse, at no journey, as they have done now in Portugal.'--Dyvers knyghtes and squyers, that were there present, and herde hym say so, stode styll, and durst nat speke, but they remembered his wordes. And within a ten days after, they knewe the trouthe thereof, by such as had been at the busynesse, and there they shewed every thinge as it was fortuned at Juberoth. Than the erle renewed agayn his dolour, and all the countreye were in sorrowe, for they had lost their parentes, brethren, chyldren, and frendes. 'Saint Mary!' quod I to the squyer that shewed me thys tale, 'how is it, that the earl of Foiz could know, on one daye, what was done, within a day or two before, beyng so farre off?'--'By my faythe, Sir,' quod he, 'as it appeared well, he knewe it.'--Than he is a diviner,' quod I, 'or els he hath messangers, that flyethe with the wynde, or he must needs have some craft.' The squyer began to laugh, and sayd, "Surely he must know it, by some art of negromansye or otherwyse. To saye the trouthe, we cannot tell how it is, but by our ymaginacions.'--'Sir,' quod I, 'suche ymaginacions as ye have therein, if it please you to shew me, I wold be gladde therof; and if it be suche a thynge as ought to be secrete, I shall nat publysshe it, nor as long as I am in thys countrey I shall never speke worde thereof.'--'I praye you therof,' quod the squyer, 'for I wolde nat it shulde be knowen, that I shulde speke thereof. But I shall shewe you, as dyvers men speketh secretelye, whan they be togyder as frendes.' Than he drew me aparte into a corner of the chapell at Ortayse, and then began his tale, and sayd: "It is well a twenty yeares paste, that there was, in this countre, a barone, called Raymond, lorde of Corasse, whyche is a sevyn leagues from this towne of Ortayse. Thys lord of Corasse had that same tyme, a plee at Avygnon before the Pope, for the dysmes (_i.e._ tithes) of his churche, against a clerk, curate there; the whiche priest was of Catelogne. He was a grete clerk, and claymed to have ryghte of the dysmes, in the towne of Corasse, which was valued to a hundred florens by the yere, and the ryghte that he had, he shewed and proved it; and, by sentence diffynitive, Pope Urbane the fythe, in consistory generall, condempned the knighte, and gave judgement wyth the preest, and of this last judgment he had letters of the Pope, for his possession, and so rode tyll he came into Berne, and there shewed his letters and bulles of the Popes for his possession of his dysmes. The lord of Corasse had gret indignacion at this preest, and came to hym, and said, 'Maister Pers, or Maister Martin (as his name was) thinkest thou, that by reason of thy letters I will lose mine herytage--be nat so hardy, that thou take any thynge that is myne; if thou do, it shall cost thee thy life. Go thy waye into some other place to get thee a benefyce, for of myne herytage thou gettest no parte, and ones for alwayes, I defende thee.' The clerk douted the knight, for he was a cruell man, therefore he durst nat parceyver.--Than he thoughte to return to Avignon, as he dyde; but, whan he departed, he came to the knight, the lord of Corasse, and sayd, 'Sir, by force, and nat by ryght, ye take away from me the ryght of my churche, wherein you greatly hurt your conscience.--I am not so strong in this countrey as ye be; but, sir, knowe, for trouthe, that as soon as I maye, I shall sende to you suche a champyon, whom ye shall doubte more than me.' The knight, who doubted nothyng his thretynges, said, 'God be with thee; do what thou mayst; I doute no more dethe than lyfe; for all thy wordes, I wyll not lese mine herytage.' Thus, the clerk departed from the lord of Corasse, and went I cannot tell wheder to Avygnon or into Catalogne, and forgat nat the promise that he had made to the lord of Corasse or he departed. For whan the knight thoughte leest on hym, about a three monethes after, as the knyght laye on a nyght a-bedde in his castelle of Corasse, with the lady, there came to hym messangers invisible, and made a marvellous tempest and noise in the castell, that it seemed as thoughe the castell shulde have fallen downe, and strak gret strokes at his chambre dore, that the goode ladye, his wife, was soore afrayde. The knight herd alle, but he spoke no word thereof; bycause he wolde shewe no abasshed corage, for he was hardy to abyde all adventures. Thys noyse and tempest was in sundry places of the castell, and dured a long space, and, at length, cessed for that nyght. Than the nexte mornyng, all the servants of the house came to the lord, whan he was risen, and sayd, 'Sir, have you nat herde this night, that we have done?' The lord dissembled, and sayd, 'No! I herd nothyng--what have you herde?' Than they shewed him what noyse they hadde herde, and howe alle the vessel in the kechyn was overtowrned. Than the lord began to laugh, and sayd, 'Yea, sirs! ye dremed, it was nothynge but the wynde.'--'In the name of God!' quod the ladye, 'I herde it well.' The next nyght there was as great noyse and greatter, and suche strokes gyven at his chambre dore and windows, as alle shulde have broken in pieces. The knyghte starte up out of his bedde, and wolde not lette, to demaunde who was at his chambre dore that tyme of the nyght; and anone he was answered by a voyce that sayd, 'I am here.' Quod the knyght, 'Who sent thee hyder?'--'The clerk of Catelogne sent me hyder,' quod the voice, 'to whom thou dost gret wronge, for thou hast taken from hym the ryghtes of his benefyce; I will nat leave thee in rest tylle thou haste made hym a good accompte, so that he be pleased.' Quod the knight, 'What is thy name, that thou art so good a messangere?' Quod he, 'I am called Orthone.'--'Orthone!' quod the knight, 'the servyce of a clerke is lytell profyte for thee. He will putte thee to moche payne if thou beleve hym. I pray thee leave hym, and come and serve me; and I shall give thee goode thanke.' Orthone was redy to aunswere, for he was inamours with the knyghte, and sayde, 'Woldest thou fayne have my servyce?'--'Yea, truly,' quod the knyghte, 'so thou do no hurte to any persone in this house.'--'No more I will do,' quod Orthone, 'for I have no power to do any other yvell, but to awake thee out of thy slepe, or some other.'--'Well,' quod the knyght, 'do as I telle thee, and we shall soone agree, and leave the yvill clerke, for there is no good thyng in him, but to put thee to payne; therefore, come and serve me.'--'Well,' quod Orthone, 'and sythe thou wilt have me, we are agreed.' "So this spyrite Orthone loved so the knight, that oftentymes he wold come and vysyte hym, while he lay in his bedde aslepe, and outher pull him by the eare, or els stryke at his chambre dore or windowe. And, whan the knyght awoke, than he wolde saye, 'Orthone, lat me slepe.'--'Nay,' quod Orthone, 'that will I nat do, tyll I have shewed thee such tydinges as are fallen a-late.' The ladye, the knyghtes wyfe, wolde be sore afrayed, that her heer wald stand up, and hyde herself under the clothes. Than the knyght wolde saye, 'Why, what tidynges hast thou brought me?'--Quod Orthone, 'I am come out of England, or out of Hungry, or some other place, and yesterday I came hens, and such things are fallen, or such other.' So thus the lord of Corasse knewe, by Orthone, every thing that was done in any part of the worlde. And in this case he contynued a fyve yere, and could not kepe his own counsayle, but at last discovered it to the Erle of Foiz. I shall shewe you howe. "The firste yere, the lord of Corasse came on a day to Ortayse, to the Erle of Foiz, and sayd to him, 'Sir, such things are done in England, or in Scotland, or in Almagne, or in any other countrey.' And ever the Erle of Foiz found his sayeing true, and had great marveyle how he shulde knowe such things so shortly. And, on a tyme the Erle of Foiz examined him so straitly, that the lord of Corasse shewed hym alle toguyder howe he knewe it, and howe he came to hym firste. When the Erle of Foiz hard that, he was joyfull, and said, Sir of Corasse, kepe him well in your love; I wolde I hadd suche an messanger; he costeth you nothyng, and ye knowe by him every thynge that is done in the worlde.' The knyght answered, and sayd, 'Sir, that is true.' Thus, the lord of Corasse was served with Orthone a long season. I can nat saye if this Orthone hadde any more masters or nat; but every weke, twise or thrisse, he wolde come and vysite the lord of Corasse, and wolde shewe hym such tidyngs of any thing that was fallen fro whens he came. And ever the lord of Corasse, when he knewe any thynge, he wrote thereof to the Erle of Foiz, who had great joy thereof; for he was the lord, of all the worlde, that most desyred to here news out of straunge places. And, on a tyme, the lord of Corasse was wyth the Erle of Foiz, and the erle demaunded of hym, and sayd, 'Sir of Corasse, dyd ye ever as yet se your messengere?'--'Nay, surely, sir,' quod the knyghte, 'nor I never desyred it.'--'That is marveyle,' quod the erle; 'if I were as well acquainted with him as ye be, I wolde have desyred to have sene hym; wherefore, I pray you, desyre it of hym, and then telle me what form and facyon he is of. I have herd you say howe he speketh as good Gascon as outher you or I.'--'Truely, sir,' quod the knyght, 'so it is: he speketh as well, and as fayr, as any of us both do. And surely, sir, sithe ye counsayle me, I shall do my payne to see him as I can.' And so, on a night, as he lay in his bedde, with the ladye his wife, who was so inured to here Orthone, that she was no longer afrayd of him; than cam Orthone, and pulled the lord by the eare, who was fast asleep, and therewith he awoke, and asked who was there? 'I am here,' quod Orthone. Then he demaunded, 'From whens comest thou nowe?'--'I come,' quod Orthone, 'from Prague, in Eoesme.'--'How farre is that hens?' quod the knyght. 'A threescore days journey,' quod Orthone. 'And art thou come hens so soon?' quod the knyght. 'Yea truely,' quod Orthone, 'I come as fast as the wynde, or faster.'--'Hast thou than winges?' quod the knyght. 'Nay, truely,' quod he. 'How canst thou than flye so fast?' quod the knyght. 'Ye have nothing to do to knowe that,' quod Orthone. 'No?' quod the knyght, 'I wolde gladly se thee, to know what forme thou art of.'--'Well,' quod Orthone, 'ye have nothing to do to knowe: it sufficeth you to here me, and to shewe you tidynges.'--'In faythe,' quod the knyght, 'I wolde love the moche better an I myght se thee ones.'--'Well,' quod Orthone, 'sir, sithe ye have so gret desyre to se me, the first thynge that ye se to-morrowe, whan ye ryse out of your bedde, the same shall be I.'--'That is sufficient,' quod the lorde. 'Go thy way; I gyve thee leave to departe for this nyght.' And the next mornynge the lord rose, and the ladye his wyfe was so afrayd, that she durst not ryse, but fayned herself sicke, and sayd she wolde not ryse. Her husband wolde have had her to have rysen. 'Sir,' quod she, 'than shall I se Orthone, and I wolde not se him by my gode wille.'--'Well,' quod the knyght, 'I wolde gladly se hym.' And so he arose, fayre and easily, out of his bedde, and sat down on his bedde-syde, wenying to have sene Orthone in his owne proper form; but he sawe nothynge wherbye he myght saye, 'Lo, yonder is Orthone.' So that day past, and the next night came, and when the knyght was in his bedde, Orthone came, and began to speke, as he was accustomed. 'Go thy waye,' quod the knyght, 'thou arte but a lyer; thou promysest that I shuld have sene the, and it was not so.'--'No?' quod he, 'and I shewed myself to the.'--'That is not so,' quod the lord. 'Why,' quod Orthone, 'whan ye rose out of your bedde, sawe ye nothynge?' Than the lorde studyed a lytell, and advysed himself well. 'Yes, truely,' quod the knyght, 'now I remember me, as I sate on my bedde-syde, thynking on thee, I sawe two strawes upon the pavement, tumblynge one upon another.'--'That same was I,' quod Orthone, 'into that fourme I dyd putte myself as than.'--'That is not enough to me,' quod the lord; 'I pray thee putte thyselfe into same other fourme, that I may better se and knowe thee.'--'Well,' quod Orthone, 'ye will do so muche, that ye will lose me, and I to go fro you, for ye desyre to moch of me.'--'Nay,' quod the knyght, 'thou shalt not go fro me, let me se thee ones, and I will desyre no more.'--'Well,' quod Orthone, 'ye shall se me to-morrowe; take hede, the first thyng that ye se after ye be out of your chamber, it shall be I.'--'Well,' quod the knyght, 'I am then content. Go thy way, lette me slepe.' And so Orthone departed, and the next mornyng the lord arose, and yssued oute of his chambre, and wente to a windowe, and looked downe into the courte of the castell, and cast about his eyen. And the firste thyng he sawe was a sowe, the greattest that ever he sawe; and she seemed to be so leane and yvell-favoured, that there was nothyng on her but the skynne, and the bones, with long eares, and a long leane snout. The lord of Corasse had marveyle of that leane sowe, and was wery of the sighte of her, and comaunded his men to fetch his houndes, and sayd, 'Let the dogges hunt her to dethe, and devour her.' His servaunts opened the kenells, and lette oute his houndes, and dyd sette them on this sowe. And, at the last, the sowe made a great crye, and looked up to the lord of Corasse as he looked out at a windowe, and so sodaynely vanyshed awaye, no man wyste howe. Than the lord of Corasse entred into his chambre, right pensyve, and than he remembered hym of Orthone, his messangere, and sayd, 'I repent me that I set my houndes on him. It is an adventure, an I here any more of hym; for he sayd to me oftentymes, that if I displeased hym, I shulde lose hym.' The lord sayd trouthe, for never after he came into the castell of Corasse, and also the knyght dyed the same yere next followinge." "So, sir," said the squyer, "thus have I shewed you the lyfe of Orthone, and howe, for a season, he served the lord of Corasse with newe tidynges."--"It is true, sir," sayd I, "but nowe, as to your firste purpose. Is the Earl of Foiz served with suche an messangere?"--"Surely," quod the squyer, it is the ymaginacion of many, that he hath such messengers, for ther is nothynge done in any place, but and he sette his mynde thereto, he will knowe it, and whan men thynke leest thereof. And so dyd he, when the goode knightes and squyers of this country were slayne in Portugale at Juberothe. Some saythe, the knowledge of such thynges hath done hym moche profyte, for and there be but the value of a spone lost in his house, anone he will know where it is.' So, thus, then I toke leave of the squyer, and went to other company; but I bare well away his tale."--BOURCHIER'S _Translation of Froissart's Chronycle_, Vol. II. chap. 37. _He took the keys from the rusty lock,_ _That never was ta'en before._ _He threw them o'er his left shoulder,_ _With mickle care and pain;_ _And he bade it keep them, fathoms deep,_ _Till he returned again._--P. 262, v. 1. 2. The circumstance of Lord Soulis having thrown the key over his left shoulder, and bid the fiend keep it till his return, is noted in the introduction, as a part of his traditionary history. In the course of this autumn (1806), the Earl of Dalkeith being encamped near the Hermitage Castle, for the amusement of shooting, directed some workmen to clear away the rubbish from the door of the dungeon, in order to ascertain its ancient dimensions and architecture. To the great astonishment of the labourers, and of the country people who were watching their proceedings, a rusty iron key, of considerable size, was found among the ruins, a little way from the dungeon door. The well-known tradition instantly passed from one to another; and it was generally agreed, that the malevolent dæmon, who had so long retained possession of the key of the castle, now found himself obliged to resign it to the heir-apparent of the domain. In the course of their researches, a large iron ladle, somewhat resembling that used by plumbers, was also discovered; and both the reliques are now in Lord Dalkeith's possession. In the summer of 1805, another discovery was made in the haunted ruins of Hermitage. In a recess of the wall of the castle, intended apparently for receiving the end of a beam or joist, a boy, seeking for birds nests, found a very curious antique silver-ring, embossed with hearts, the well-known cognisance of the Douglas family, placed interchangeably with quatre-foils all round the circle. The workmanship has an uncommonly rude and ancient appearance, and warrants our believing that it may have belonged to one of the Earls of Angus, who carried the heart and quatre-foils[76] in their arms. They parted with the castle and lordship of Liddesdale, in exchange for that of Bothwell, in the beginning of the 16th century. This ring is now in the editor's possession, by the obliging gift of Mr John Ballantyne, of the house of Ballantyne and Company, so distinguished for typography. FOOTNOTES: [65] Dalrymple's Collections concerning the Scottish History, p. 395. [66] Transactions of the Antiquarian Society of Scotland, Vol. I, p. 269. [67] Index of many records of charters granted between 1309 and 1413, published by W. Robertson, Esq. [68] As the people thronged to the execution of the gallant youth, they were bitterly rebuked by Sir Ingram de Umfraville, an English or Norman knight, then a favourite follower of Robert Bruce. "Why press you," said he, "to see the dismal catastrophe of so generous a knight? I have seen ye throng as eagerly around him to share his bounty, as now to behold his death." With these words he turned from the scene of blood, and, repairing to the king, craved leave to sell his Scottish possessions, and to retire from the country. "My heart," said Umfraville, "will not, for the wealth of the world, permit me to dwell any longer, where I have seen such a knight die by the hands of the executioner." With the king's leave, he interred the body of David de Brechin, sold his lands, and left Scotland for ever. The story is beautifully told by Barbour, book 19th. [69] _Skrieh_--Peep. [70] _Lift_--Sky. [71] _Glamour_--Magical delusion. [72] _Wale_--Chuse. [73] _Puirly_--Softly. [74] _Spreat_--The spreat is a species of water-rush. [75] _Deer-hair_--The deer-hair is a coarse species of pointed grass, which, in May, bears a very minute, but beautiful yellow flower. [76] Some heralds say, that they carried cinque-foils, others trefoils; but all agree they bore some such distinction to mark their cadency from the elder branch of Douglas. THE COUT OF KEELDAR. BY J. LEYDEN. * * * * * The tradition on which the following ballad is founded, derives considerable illustration from the argument of the preceding. It is necessary to add, that the most redoubted adversary of Lord Soulis was the Chief of Keeldar, a Northumbrian district, adjacent to Cumberland, who perished in a sudden encounter on the banks of the Hermitage. Being arrayed in armour of proof, he sustained no hurt in the combat; but stumbling in retreating across the river, the hostile party held him down below water with their lances till he died; and the eddy, in which he perished, is still called the Cout of Keeldar's Pool. His grave, of gigantic size, is pointed out on the banks of the Hermitage, at the western corner of a wall, surrounding the burial-ground of a ruined chapel. As an enemy of Lord Soulis, his memory is revered; and the popular epithet of _Cout_, _i.e._ Colt, is expressive of his strength, stature, and activity. Tradition likewise relates, that the young chief of Mangerton, to whose protection Lord Soulis had, in some eminent jeopardy, been indebted for his life, was decoyed by that faithless tyrant into his castle of Hermitage, and insidiously murdered at a feast. The Keeldar Stone, by which the Northumbrian chief passed in his incursion, is still pointed out, as a boundary mark, on the confines of Jed forest, and Northumberland. It is a rough insulated mass, of considerable dimensions, and it is held unlucky to ride thrice _withershins_[77] around it. Keeldar Castle is now a hunting seat, belonging to the Duke of Northumberland. The _Brown Man of the Muirs_ is a Fairy of the most malignant order, the genuine _duergar_. Walsingham mentions a story of an unfortunate youth, whose brains were extracted from his skull, during his sleep, by this malicious being. Owing to this operation, he remained insane many years, till the virgin Mary courteously restored his brains to their station. THE COUT OF KEELDAR. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED--J. LEYDEN. * * * * * The eiry blood-hound howled by night, The streamers[78] flaunted red, Till broken streaks of flaky light O'er Keeldar's mountains spread. The lady sigh'd as Keeldar rose: "Come tell me, dear love mine, "Go you to hunt where Keeldar flows, "Or on the banks of Tyne?" "The heath-bell blows where Keeldar flows, "By Tyne the primrose pale; "But now we ride on the Scottish side, "To hunt in Liddesdale." "Gin you will ride on the Scottish side, "Sore must thy Margaret mourn; "For Soulis abhorred is Lyddall's lord, "And I fear you'll ne'er return. "The axe he bears, it hacks and tears; "'Tis formed of an earth-fast flint; "No armour of knight, tho' ever so wight, "Can bear its deadly dint. "No danger he fears, for a charm'd sword he wears; "Of adderstone the hilt; "No Tynedale knight had ever such might, "But his heart-blood was spilt." "In my plume is seen the holly green, "With the leaves of the rowan tree; "And my casque of sand, by a mermaid's hand, "Was formed beneath the sea. "Then, Margaret dear, have thou no fear! "That bodes no ill to me, "Though never a knight, by mortal might, "Could match his gramarye."-- Then forward bound both horse and hound, And rattle o'er the vale; As the wintry breeze, through leafless trees, Drives on the pattering hail. Behind their course the English fells In deepening blue retire; Till soon before them boldly swells The muir of dun Redswire. And when they reached the Redswire high, Soft beam'd the rising sun; But formless shadows seemed to fly Along the muir-land dun. And when he reached the Redswire high, His bugle Keeldar blew; And round did float, with clamorous note And scream, the hoarse curlew. The next blast that young Keeldar blew, The wind grew deadly still; But the sleek fern, with fingery leaves, Waved wildly o'er the hill. The third blast that young Keeldar blew, Still stood the limber fern; And a wee man, of swarthy hue, Up started by a cairn. His russet weeds were brown as heath, That clothes the upland fell; And the hair of his head was frizzly red, As the purple heather bell. An urchin,[79] clad in prickles red, Clung cowring to his arm; The hounds they howl'd, and backward fled, As struck by Fairy charm. "Why rises high the stag-hound's cry, "Where stag-hound ne'er should be? "Why wakes that horn the silent morn, "Without the leave of me?" "Brown dwarf, that o'er the muir-land strays, "Thy name to Keeldar tell!"-- "The Brown Man of the Muirs, who stays "Beneath the heather bell. "'Tis sweet, beneath the heather-bell, "To live in autumn brown; "And sweet to hear the lav'rocks swell "Far far from tower and town. "But woe betide the shrilling horn, "The chace's surly cheer! "And ever that hunter is forlorn, "Whom first at morn I hear." Says, "Weal nor woe, nor friend nor foe, "In thee we hope nor dread." But, ere the bugles green could blow, The Wee Brown Man had fled. And onward, onward, hound and horse, Young Keeldar's band have gone; And soon they wheel, in rapid course, Around the Keeldar Stone. Green vervain round its base did creep, A powerful seed that bore; And oft, of yore, its channels deep Were stained with human gore. And still, when blood-drops, clotted thin, Hang the grey moss upon, The spirit murmurs from within, And shakes the rocking stone. Around, around, young Keeldar wound, And called, in scornful tone, With him to pass the barrier ground, The Spirit of the Stone. The rude crag rocked; "I come for death! "I come to work thy woe!" And 'twas the Brown Man of the Heath, That murmured from below. But onward, onward, Keeldar past, Swift as the winter wind, When, hovering on the driving blast, The snow-flakes fall behind. They passed the muir of berries blae, The stone cross on the lee; They reached the green, the bonny brae, Beneath the birchen tree. This is the bonny brae, the green, Yet sacred to the brave, Where still, of ancient size, is seen Gigantic Keeldar's grave. The lonely shepherd loves to mark The daisy springing fair, Where weeps the birch of silver bark, With long dishevelled hair. The grave is green, and round is spread The curling lady-fern; That fatal day the mould was red, No moss was on the cairn. And next they passed the chapel there; The holy ground was by, Where many a stone is sculptured fair, To mark where warriors lie. And here, beside the mountain flood, A massy castle frown'd, Since first the Pictish race in blood The haunted pile did found. The restless stream its rocky base Assails with ceaseless din; And many a troubled spirit strays The dungeons dark within. Soon from the lofty tower there hied A knight across the vale; "I greet your master well," he cried, "From Soulis of Liddesdale. "He heard your bugle's echoing call, "In his green garden bower; "And bids you to his festive hall, "Within his ancient tower." Young Keeldar called his hunter train; "For doubtful cheer prepare! "And, as you open force disdain, "Of secret guile beware. "'Twas here for Mangerton's brave lord "A bloody feast was set; "Who, weetless, at the festal board, "The bull's broad frontlet met. "Then ever, at uncourteous feast, "Keep every man his brand; "And, as you mid his friends are placed, "Range on the better hand. "And, if the bull's ill-omened head "Appear to grace the feast, "Your whingers, with unerring speed, "Plunge in each neighbour's breast." In Hermitage they sat at dine, In pomp and proud array; And oft they filled the blood-red wine, While merry minstrels play. And many a hunting song they sung, And song of game and glee; Then tuned to plaintive strains their tongue, "Of Scotland's luve and lee." To wilder measures next they turn: "The Black Black Bull of Noroway!" Sudden the tapers cease to burn, The minstrels cease to play. Each hunter bold, of Keeldar's train, Sat an enchanted man; For cold as ice, through every vein, The freezing life-blood ran. Each rigid hand the whinger wrung, Each gazed with glaring eye; But Keeldar from the table sprung, Unharmed by gramarye. He burst the door; the roofs resound; With yells the castle rung; Before him, with a sudden bound, His favourite blood-hound sprung. Ere he could pass, the door was barr'd; And, grating harsh from under, With creaking, jarring noise, was heard A sound like distant thunder. The iron clash, the grinding sound, Announce the dire sword-mill; The piteous howlings of the hound The dreadful dungeon fill. With breath drawn in, the murderous crew Stood listening to the yell; And greater still their wonder grew, As on their ear it fell. They listen'd for a human shriek Amid the jarring sound; They only heard, in echoes weak, The murmurs of the hound. The death-bell rung, and wide were flung The castle gates amain; While hurry out the armed rout, And marshal on the plain. Ah! ne'er before in border feud Was seen so dire a fray! Through glittering lances Keeldar hewed A red corse-paven way. His helmet, formed of mermaid sand, No lethal brand could dint; No other arms could e'er withstand The axe of earth-fast flint. In Keeldar's plume the holly green, And rowan leaves, nod on, And vain Lord Soulis's sword was seen, Though the hilt was adderstone. Then up the Wee Brown Man he rose, By Soulis of Liddesdale; "In vain," he said, "a thousand blows "Assail the charmed mail. "In vain by land your arrows glide, "In vain your faulchions gleam-- "No spell can stay the living tide, "Or charm the rushing stream." And now, young Keeldar reached the stream, Above the foamy lin; The border lances round him gleam, And force the warrior in. The holly floated to the side, And the leaf of the rowan pale: Alas! no spell could charm the tide, Nor the lance of Liddesdale. Swift was the Cout o' Keeldar's course, Along the lily lee; But home came never hound nor horse, And never home came he. Where weeps the birch with branches green, Without the holy ground, Between two old gray stones is seen The warrior's ridgy mound. And the hunters bold, of Keeldar's train, Within yon castle's wall, In a deadly sleep must ay remain, Till the ruined towers down fall. Each in his hunter's garb array'd, Each holds his bugle horn; Their keen hounds at their feet are laid, That ne'er shall wake the morn. NOTES ON THE COUT OF KEELDAR. * * * * * _'Tis formed of an earth-fast flint._--P. 287. v. 2. An earth-fast stone, or an insulated stone, inclosed in a bed of earth, is supposed to possess peculiar properties. It is frequently applied to sprains and bruises, and used to dissipate swellings; but its blow is reckoned uncommonly severe. _Of adderstone the hilt._--P. 287. v. 3. The adderstone, among the Scottish peasantry, is held in almost as high veneration, as, among the Gauls, the _ovum anguinum_, described by Pliny.--_Natural History_, l. xxix. c. 3. The name is applied to celts, and other round perforated stones. The vulgar suppose them to be perforated by the stings of adders. _With the leaves of the rowan tree._--P. 287. v. 4. The rowan tree, or mountain ash, is still used by the peasantry, to avert the effects of charms and witchcraft. An inferior degree of the same influence is supposed to reside in many evergreens; as the holly, and the bay. With the leaves of the bay, the English and Welch peasants were lately accustomed to adorn their doors at midsummer.--Vide BRAND's _Vulgar Antiquities_. _And shakes the rocking stone._--P. 291. v. 1. The rocking stone, commonly reckoned a Druidical monument, has always been held in superstitious veneration by the people. The popular opinion, which supposes them to be inhabited by a spirit, coincides with that of the ancient Icelanders, who worshipped the dæmons, which they believed to inhabit great stones. It is related in the _Kristni Saga_, chap. 2, that the first Icelandic bishop, by chaunting a hymn over one of these sacred stones, immediately after his arrival in the island, split it, expelled the spirit, and converted its worshippers to Christianity. The herb vervain, revered by the Druids, was also reckoned a powerful charm by the common people; and the author recollects a popular rhyme, supposed to be addressed to a young woman by the devil, who attempted to seduce her in the shape of a handsome young man: Gin ye wish to be leman mine, Lay off the St John's wort, and the vervine. By his repugnance to these sacred plants, his mistress discovered the cloven foot. _Since first the Pictish race in blood._--P. 292. v. 5. Castles, remarkable for size, strength, and antiquity, are, by the common people, commonly attributed to the Picts, or Pechs, who are not supposed to have trusted solely to their skill in masonry, in constructing these edifices, but are believed to have bathed the foundation-stone with human blood, in order to propitiate the spirit of the soil. Similar to this is the Gaelic tradition, according to which St Columba is supposed to have been forced to bury St Oran alive, beneath the foundation of his monastery, in order to propitiate the spirits of the soil, who demolished by night what was built during the day. _And, if the bull's ill-omened head, &c._--P. 294. v. 2. To present a bull's head before a person at a feast, was, in the ancient turbulent times of Scotland, a common signal for his assassination. Thus, Lindsay of Pitscottie relates in his History, p. 17, that "efter the dinner was endit, once alle the delicate courses taken away, the chancellor (Sir William Crichton) presentit the bullis head befoir the Earle of Douglas, in signe and toaken of condemnation to the death." _Then tuned to plaintive strains their tongue,_ _"Of Scotland's luve and lee."_--P. 294. v. 4. The most ancient Scottish song known is that which is here alluded to, and is thus given by Wintoun, in his Chronykil, Vol. I. p. 401. Quhen Alysandyr our kyng wes dede, That Scotland led in luve and le, Away wes sons of ale and brede, Of wyne and wax, of gamyn and gle: Oure gold wes changyd into lede, Cryst, borne into virgynyte, Succour Scotland and remede, That stad is in perplexyte. That alluded to in the following verse, is a wild fanciful popular tale of enchantment, termed "_The Black Bull of Noroway_." The author is inclined to believe it the same story with the romance of the "_Three Futtit Dog of Noroway_," the title of which is mentioned in the _Complaynt of Scotland_. _The iron clash, the grinding sound,_ _Announce the dire sword-mill._--P. 295. v. 5. The author is unable to produce any authority, that the execrable machine, the sword-mill, so well known on the continent, was ever employed in Scotland; but he believes the vestiges of something very similar have been discovered in the ruins of old castles. _No spell can stay the living tide._--P. 297. v. 3. That no species of magic had any effect over a running stream, was a common opinion among the vulgar, and is alluded to in Burns's admirable tale of _Tam o' Shanter_. FOOTNOTES: [77] _Withershins._--German, _widdersins_. A direction contrary to the course of the sun; from left, namely, to right. [78] _Streamers_--Northern lights. [79] _Urchin_--Hedge-hog. GLENFINLAS, OR LORD RONALD'S CORONACH.[80] BY THE EDITOR. * * * * * The simple tradition, upon which the following stanzas are founded, runs thus: While two Highland hunters were passing the night in a solitary _bathy_ (a hut, built for the purpose of hunting), and making merry over their venison and whisky, one of them expressed a wish, that they had pretty lasses to complete their party. The words were scarcely uttered, when two beautiful young women, habited in green, entered the hut, dancing and singing. One of the hunters was seduced by the syren, who attached herself particularly to him, to leave the hut: the other remained, and, suspicious of the fair seducers, continued to play upon a trump, or Jew's harp, some strain, consecrated to the Virgin Mary. Day at length came, and the temptress vanished. Searching in the forest, he found the bones of his unfortunate friend, who had been torn to pieces and devoured by the fiend, into whose toils he had fallen. The place was from thence called the Glen of the Green Women. Glenfinlas is a tract of forest-ground, lying in the Highlands of Perthshire, not far from Callender, in Menteith. It was formerly a royal forest, and now belongs to the Earl of Moray. This country, as well as the adjacent district of Balquidder, was, in times of yore, chiefly inhabited by the Macgregors. To the west of the forest of Glenfinlas lies Loch Katrine, and its romantic avenue, called the Troshachs. Benledi, Benmore, and Benvoirlich, are mountains in the same district, and at no great distance from Glenfinlas. The river Teith passes Callender and the castle of Doune, and joins the Forth near Stirling. The pass of Lenny is immediately above Callender, and is the principal access to the Highlands, from that town. Glenartney is a forest, near Benvoirlich. The whole forms a sublime tract of Alpine scenery. This ballad first appeared in the _Tales of Wonder_. GLENFINLAS, OR LORD RONALD'S CORONACH. * * * * * "For them the viewless forms of air obey, "Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair; "They know what spirit brews the stormful day, "And heartless oft, like moody madness, stare, "To see the phantom-train their secret work prepare."[81] * * * * * "O hone a rie'! O hone a rie'![82] "The pride of Albin's line is o'er, "And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree; "We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more! O, sprung from great Macgillianore, The chief that never feared a foe, How matchless was thy broad claymore, How deadly thine unerring bow! Well can the Saxon widows tell, How, on the Teith's resounding shore, The boldest Lowland warriors fell, As down from Lenny's pass you bore. But o'er his hills, on festal day, How blazed Lord Ronald's beltane-tree; While youths and maids the light strathspey So nimbly danced with Highland glee. Cheer'd by the strength of Ronald's shell, E'en age forgot his tresses hoar; But now the loud lament we swell, O ne'er to see Lord Ronald more! From distant isles a Chieftain came, The joys of Ronald's halls to find, And chase with him the dark-brown game, That bounds o'er Albin's hills of wind. 'Twas Moy; whom in Columba's isle The seer's prophetic spirit found, As, with a minstrel's fire the while, He waked his harp's harmonious sound. Full many a spell to him was known, Which wandering spirits shrink to hear; And many a lay of potent tone, Was never meant for mortal ear. For there, 'tis said, in mystic mood, High converse with the dead they hold, And oft espy the fated shroud, That shall the future corpse enfold. O so it fell, that on a day, To rouse the red deer from their den, The chiefs have ta'en their distant way, And scour'd the deep Glenfinlas glen. No vassals wait their sports to aid, To watch their safety, deck their board? Their simple dress, the Highland plaid, Their trusty guard, the Highland sword. Three summer days, through brake and dell, Their whistling shafts successful flew; And still, when dewy evening fell, The quarry to their hut they drew. In grey Glenfinlas' deepest nook The solitary cabin stood, Fast by Moneira's sullen brook, Which murmurs through that lonely wood. Soft fell the night, the sky was calm, When three successive days had flown; And summer mist in dewy balm Steep'd heathy bank, and mossy stone. The moon, half-hid in silvery flakes, Afar her dubious radiance shed, Quivering on Katrine's distant lakes, And resting on Benledi's head. Now in their hut, in social guise, Their sylvan fare the chiefs enjoy; And pleasure laughs in Ronald's eyes, As many a pledge he quaffs to Moy. --"What lack we here to crown our bliss, "While thus the pulse of joy beats high? "What, but fair woman's yielding kiss, "Her panting breath, and melting eye? "To chase the deer of yonder shades, "This morning left their father's pile "The fairest of our mountain maids, "The daughters of the proud Glengyle. "Long have I sought sweet Mary's heart, "And dropp'd the tear, and heav'd the sigh; "But vain the lover's wily art, "Beneath a sister's watchful eye. "But thou may'st teach that guardian fair, "While far with Mary I am flown, "Of other hearts to cease her care, "And find it hard to guard her own. "Touch but thy harp, thou soon shalt see "The lovely Flora of Glengyle, "Unmindful of her charge and me, "Hang on thy notes, 'twixt tear and smile. "Or, if she chuse a melting tale, "All underneath the greenwood bough, "Will good St Oran's rule prevail, "Stern huntsman of the rigid brow?"-- --"Since Enrick's fight, since Morna's death, "No more on me shall rapture rise, "Responsive to the panting breath, "Or yielding kiss, or melting eyes. "E'en then, when o'er the heath of woe, "Where sunk my hopes of love and fame, "I bade my harp's wild wailings flow, "On me the Seer's sad spirit came. "The last dread curse of angry heaven, "With ghastly sights and sounds of woe, "To dash each glimpse of joy, was given-- "The gift, the future ill to know. "The bark thou saw'st, yon summer morn, "So gaily part from Oban's bay, "My eye beheld her dash'd and torn, "Far on the rocky Colonsay. "Thy Fergus too--thy sister's son, "Thou saw'st, with pride, the gallant's power, "As marching 'gainst the Lord of Downe, "He left the skirts of huge Benmore. "Thou only saw'st their tartans[83] wave, "As down Benvoirlich's side they wound, "Heard'st but the pibroch[84], answering brave "To many a target clanking round. "I heard the groans, I mark'd the tears, "I saw the wound his bosom bore, "When on the serried Saxon spears "He pour'd his clan's resistless roar. "And thou, who bidst me think of bliss, "And bidst my heart awake to glee, "And court, like thee, the wanton kiss-- "That heart, O Ronald, bleeds for thee! "I see the death damps chill thy brow; "I hear thy Warning Spirit cry; "The corpse-lights dance--they're gone, and now.... "No more is given to gifted eye!"---- ----"Alone enjoy thy dreary dreams, "Sad prophet of the evil hour! "Say, should we scorn joy's transient beams, "Because to-morrow's storm may lour? "Or false, or sooth, thy words of woe, "Clangillian's chieftain ne'er shall fear; "His blood shall bound at rapture's glow, "Though doom'd to stain the Saxon spear. "E'en now, to meet me in yon dell, "My Mary's buskins brush the dew;" He spoke, nor bade the chief farewell, But call'd his dogs, and gay withdrew. Within an hour return'd each hound; In rush'd the rouzers of the deer; They howl'd in melancholy sound, Then closely couch beside the seer. No Ronald yet; though midnight came, And sad were Moy's prophetic dreams, As, bending o'er the dying flame, He fed the watch-fire's quivering gleams. Sudden the hounds erect their ears, And sudden cease their moaning howl; Close press'd to Moy, they mark their fears By shivering limbs, and stifled growl. Untouch'd, the harp began to ring, As softly, slowly, oped the door; And shook responsive every string, As light a footstep press'd the floor. And, by the watch-fire's glimmering light, Close by the minstrel's side was seen An huntress maid, in beauty bright, All dropping wet her robes of green. All dropping wet her garments seem; Chill'd was her cheek, her bosom bare, As, bending o'er the dying gleam, She wrung the moisture from her hair. With maiden blush she softly said, "O gentle huntsman, hast thou seen, "In deep Glenfinlas' moon-light glade, "A lovely maid in vest of green: "With her a chief in Highland pride; "His shoulders bear the hunter's bow, "The mountain dirk adorns his side, "Far on the wind his tartans flow?" "And who art thou? and who are they?" All ghastly gazing, Moy replied: "And why, beneath the moon's pale ray, "Dare ye thus roam Glenfinlas' side?" "Where wild Loch Katrine pours her tide, "Blue, dark, and deep, round many an isle, "Our father's towers o'erhang her side, "The castle of the bold Glengyle. "To chase the dun Glenfinlas deer, "Our woodland course this morn we bore, "And haply met, while wandering here, "The son of great Macgillianore. "O aid me, then, to seek the pair, "Whom, loitering in the woods, I lost; "Alone, I dare not venture there, "Where walks, they say, the shrieking ghost." "Yes, many a shrieking ghost walks there; "Then, first, my own sad vow to keep, "Here will I pour my midnight prayer, "Which still must rise when mortals sleep." "O first, for pity's gentle sake, "Guide a lone wanderer on her way! "For I must cross the haunted brake, "And reach my father's towers ere day." "First, three times tell each Ave-bead, "And thrice a Pater-noster say; "Then kiss with me the holy reed; "So shall we safely wind our way." "O shame to knighthood, strange and foul! "Go, doff the bonnet from thy brow, "And shroud thee in the monkish cowl, "Which best befits thy sullen vow. "Not so, by high Dunlathmon's fire, "Thy heart was froze to love and joy, "When gaily rung thy raptured lyre, "To wanton Morna's melting eye." Wild stared the Minstrel's eyes of flame, And high his sable locks arose, And quick his colour went and came, As fear and rage alternate rose. "And thou! when by the blazing oak "I lay, to her and love resign'd, "Say, rode ye on the eddying smoke, "Or sailed ye on the midnight wind! "Not thine a race of mortal blood, "Nor old Glengyle's pretended line; "Thy dame, the Lady of the Flood, "Thy sire, the Monarch of the Mine." He mutter'd thrice St Oran's rhyme, And thrice St Fillan's powerful prayer; Then turn'd him to the eastern clime, And sternly shook his coal-black hair. And, bending o'er his harp, he flung His wildest witch-notes on the wind; And loud, and high, and strange, they rung, As many a magic change they find. Tall wax'd the Spirit's altering form, Till to the roof her stature grew; Then, mingling with the rising storm, With one wild yell, away she flew. Rain beats, hail rattles, whirlwinds tear: The slender hut in fragments flew; But not a lock of Moy's loose hair Was waved by wind, or wet by dew. Wild mingling with the howling gale, Loud bursts of ghastly laughter rise; High o'er the minstrel's head they sail, And die amid the northern skies. The voice of thunder shook the wood, As ceased the more than mortal yell; And, spattering foul, a shower of blood Upon the hissing firebrands fell. Next, dropp'd from high a mangled arm; The fingers strain'd an half-drawn blade: And last, the life-blood streaming warm, Torn from the trunk, a gasping head. Oft o'er that head, in battling field, Stream'd the proud crest of high Benmore; That arm the broad claymore could wield, Which dyed the Teith with Saxon gore. Woe to Moneira's sullen rills! Woe to Glenfinlas' dreary glen! There never son of Albin's hills Shall draw the hunter's shaft agen! E'en the tired pilgrim's burning feet At noon shall shun that sheltering den, Lest, journeying in their rage, he meet The wayward Ladies of the Glen. And we--behind the chieftain's shield, No more shall we in safety dwell; None leads the people to the field-- And we the loud lament must swell. O hone a rie'! O hone a rie'! The pride of Albin's line is o'er, And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree; We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more! NOTES ON GLENFINLAS. * * * * * _Well can the Saxon widows tell._--P. 306. v. 2. The term Sassenach, or Saxon, is applied by the Highlanders to their low-country neighbours. _How blazed Lord Ronald's beltane-tree._--P. 306. v. 3. The fires lighted by the Highlanders on the first of May, in compliance with a custom derived from the Pagan times, are termed, _The Beltane-Tree_. It is a festival celebrated with various superstitious rites, both in the north of Scotland and in Wales. _The seer's prophetic spirit found, &c._--P. 307. v. 1. I can only describe the second sight, by adopting Dr Johnson's definition, who calls it "An impression, either by the mind upon the eye, or by the eye upon the mind, by which things distant and future are perceived and seen as if they were present." To which I would only add, that the spectral appearances, thus presented, usually presage misfortune; that the faculty is painful to those who suppose they possess it; and that they usually acquire it, while themselves under the pressure of melancholy. _Will good St Oran's rule prevail._--P. 310. v. 1. St Oran was a friend and follower of St Columba, and was buried in Icolmkill. His pretensions to be a saint were rather dubious. According to the legend, he consented to be buried alive, in order to propitiate certain dæmons of the soil, who obstructed the attempts of Columba to build a chapel. Columba caused the body of his friend to be dug up, after three days had elapsed; when Oran, to the horror and scandal of the assistants, declared, that there was neither a God, a judgment, nor a future state! He had no time to make further discoveries, for Columba caused the earth once more to be shovelled over him with the utmost dispatch. The chapel, however, and the cemetery, was called _Reilig Ouran_; and, in memory of his rigid celibacy, no female was permitted to pay her devotions, or be buried, in that place. This is the rule alluded to in the poem. _And thrice St Fillan's powerful prayer._--P. 316. v. 5. St Fillan has given his name to many chapels, holy fountains, &c. in Scotland. He was, according to Camerarius, an abbot of Pittenweem, in Fife; from which situation he retired, and died a hermit in the wilds of Glenurchy, A.D. 649. While engaged in transcribing the Scriptures, his left hand was observed to send forth such a splendour, as to afford light to that with which he wrote; a miracle which saved many candles to the convent, as St Fillan used to spend whole nights in that exercise. The 9th of January was dedicated to this saint, who gave his name to Kilfillan, in Renfrew, and St Phillans, or Forgend, in Fife. Lesley, lib. 7., tells us, that Robert the Bruce was possessed of Fillan's miraculous and luminous arm, which he inclosed in a silver shrine, and had it carried at the head of his army. Previous to the battle of Bannockburn, the king's chaplain, a man of little faith, abstracted the relique, and deposited it in some place of security, lest it should fall into the hands of the English. But, lo! while Robert was addressing his prayers to the empty casket, it was observed to open and shut suddenly; and, on inspection, the saint was found to have himself deposited his arm in the shrine, as an assurance of victory. Such is the tale of Lesley. But though Bruce little needed that the arm of St Fillan should assist his own, he dedicated to him, in gratitude, a priory at Killin, upon Loch Tay. In the Scots Magazine for July 1802, (a national periodical publication, which has lately revived with considerable energy,) there is a copy of a very curious crown grant, dated 11th July, 1487, by which James III. confirms to Malice Doire, an inhabitant of Strathfillan, in Perthshire, the peaceable exercise and enjoyment of a relique of St Fillan, called the Quegrich, which he, and his predecessors, are said to have possessed since the days of Robert Bruce. As the Quegrich was used to cure diseases, this document is, probably, the most ancient patent ever granted for a quack medicine. The ingenious correspondent, by whom it is furnished, further observes, that additional particulars, concerning St Fillan, are to be found in _Ballenden's Boece_, Book 4. folio ccxiii., and in PENNANT's _Tour in Scotland_, 1772, pp. 11. 15. FOOTNOTES: [80] _Coronach_ is the lamentation for a deceased warrior, sung by the aged of the clan. [81] [Transcriber: Citation from a poem by William Collins] [82] _O hone a rie'_ signifies--"Alas for the prince, or chief." [83] _Tartans_--The full Highland dress, made of the chequered stuff so termed. [84] _Pibroch_--A piece of martial music, adapted to the Highland bag-pipe. THE MERMAID. J. LEYDEN. * * * * * The following poem is founded upon a Gaelic traditional ballad, called _Macphail of Colonsay, and the Mermaid of Corrivrekin_. The dangerous gulf of Corrivrekin lies between the islands of Jura and Scarba, and the superstition of the islanders has tenanted its shelves and eddies with all the fabulous monsters and dæmons of the ocean. Among these, according to a universal tradition, the Mermaid is the most remarkable. In her dwelling, and in her appearance, the mermaid of the northern nations resembles the syren of the ancients. The appendages of a comb and mirror are probably of Celtic invention. The Gaelic story bears, that Macphail of Colonsay was carried off by a mermaid, while passing the gulf above mentioned: that they resided together, in a grotto beneath the sea, for several years, during which time she bore him five children: but, finally, he tired of her society, and, having prevailed upon her to carry him near the shore of Colonsay, he escaped to land. The inhabitants of the Isle of Man have a number of such stories, which may be found in Waldron. One bears, that a very beautiful mermaid fell in love with a young shepherd, who kept his flocks beside a creek, much frequented by these marine people. She frequently caressed him, and brought him presents of coral, fine pearls, and every valuable production of the ocean. Once upon a time, as she threw her arms eagerly round him, he suspected her of a design to draw him into the sea, and, struggling hard, disengaged himself from her embrace, and ran away. But the mermaid resented either the suspicion, or the disappointment, so highly, that she threw a stone after him, and flung herself into the sea, whence she never returned. The youth, though but slightly struck with the pebble, felt, from that moment, the most excruciating agony, and died at the end of seven days.--_Waldron's Works_, p. 176. Another tradition of the same island affirms, that one of these amphibious damsels was caught in a net, and brought to land, by some fishers, who had spread a snare for the denizens of the ocean. She was shaped like the most beautiful female down to the waist, but below trailed a voluminous fish's tail, with spreading fins. As she would neither eat nor speak, (though they knew she had the power of language), they became apprehensive that the island would be visited with some strange calamity, if she should die for want of food; and therefore, on the third night, they left the door open, that she might escape. Accordingly, she did not fail to embrace the opportunity; but, gliding with incredible swiftness to the sea-side, she plunged herself into the waters, and was welcomed by a number of her own species, who were heard to enquire, what she had seen among the natives of the earth; "Nothing," she answered, "wonderful, except that they were silly enough to throw away the water in which they had boiled their eggs." Collins, in his notes upon the line, "Mona, long hid from those who sail the main," explains it, by a similar Celtic tradition. It seems, a mermaid had become so much charmed with a young man, who walked upon the beach, that she made love to him; and, being rejected with scorn, she excited, by enchantment, a mist, which long concealed the island from all navigators. I must mention another Mankish tradition, because, being derived from the common source of Celtic mythology, they appear the most natural illustrations of the Hebridean tale. About fifty years before Waldron went to reside in Man (for there were living witnesses of the legend, when he was upon the island), a project was undertaken, to fish treasures up from the deep, by means of a diving-bell. A venturous fellow, accordingly, descended, and kept pulling for more rope, till all they had on board was expended. This must have been no small quantity, for a skilful mathematician, who was on board, judging from the proportion of line let down, declared, that the adventurer must have descended at least double the number of leagues which the moon is computed to be distant from the earth. At such a depth, wonders might be expected, and wonderful was the account given by the adventurer, when drawn up to the air. "After," said he, "I had passed the region of fishes, I descended into a pure element, clear as the air in the serenest and most unclouded day, through which, as I passed, I saw the bottom of the watery world, paved with coral, and a shining kind of pebbles, which glittered like the sun-beams, reflected on a glass. I longed to tread the delightful paths, and never felt more exquisite delight, than when the machine, I was inclosed in, grazed upon it. "On looking through the little windows of my prison, I saw large streets and squares on every side, ornamented with huge pyramids of crystal, not inferior in brightness to the finest diamonds; and the most beautiful building, not of stone, nor brick, but of mother-of-pearl, and embossed in various figures, with shells of all colours. The passage, which led to one of these magnificent apartments, being open, I endeavoured, with my whole strength, to move my enclosure towards it; which I did, though with great difficulty, and very slowly. At last, however, I got entrance into a very spacious room, in the midst of which stood a large amber table, with several chairs round, of the same. The floor of it was composed of rough diamonds, topazes, emeralds, rubies, and pearls. Here I doubted not but to make my voyage as profitable as it was pleasant; for, could I have brought with me but a few of these, they would have been of more value than all we could hope for in a thousand wrecks; but they were so closely wedged in, and so strongly cemented by time, that they were not to be unfastened. I saw several chains, carcanets, and rings, of all manner of precious stones, finely cut, and set after our manner; which I suppose had been the prize of the winds and waves: these were hanging loosely on the jasper walls, by strings made of rushes, which I might easily have taken down; but, as I had edged myself within half a foot reach of them, I was unfortunately drawn back through your want of line. In my return, I saw several comely _mermen_, and beautiful _mermaids_, the inhabitants of this blissful realm, swiftly descending towards it; but they seemed frighted at my appearance, and glided at a distance from me, taking me, no doubt, for some monstrous and new-created species."--_Waldron_, _ibidem_. It would be very easy to enlarge this introduction, by quoting a variety of authors, concerning the supposed existence of these marine people. The reader may consult the _Telliamed_ of M. Maillet, who, in support of the Neptunist system of geology, has collected a variety of legends, respecting mermen and mermaids, p. 230, _et sequen._ Much information may also be derived from Pontoppidan's _Natural History of Norway_, who fails not to people her seas with this amphibious race.[85] An older authority is to be found in the _Kongs skugg-sio_, or Royal Mirror, written, as it is believed, about 1170. The mermen, there mentioned, are termed _hafstrambur_ (sea-giants), and are said to have the upper parts resembling the human race; but the author, with becoming diffidence, declines to state, positively, whether they are equipped with a dolphin's tail. The female monster is called _Mar-Gyga_ (sea-giantess), and is averred, certainly, to drag a fish's train. She appears, generally, in the act of devouring fish, which she has caught. According to the apparent voracity of her appetite, the sailors pretended to guess what chance they had of saving their lives in the tempests, which always followed her appearance.--_Speculum Regale_, 1768, p. 166. Mermaids were sometimes supposed to be possessed of supernatural powers. Resenius, in his life of Frederick II., gives us an account of a syren, who not only prophesied future events, but, as might have been expected from the element in which she dwelt, preached vehemently against the sin of drunkenness. The mermaid of Corrivrekin possessed the power of occasionally resigning her scaly train; and the Celtic tradition bears, that when, from choice or necessity, she was invested with that appendage, her manners were more stern and savage than when her form was entirely human. Of course, she warned her lover not to come into her presence, when she was thus transformed. This belief is alluded to in the following ballad. The beauty of the syrens is celebrated in the old romances of chivalry. Doolin, upon beholding, for the first time in his life, a beautiful female, exclaims, "_Par sainte Marie, si belle creature ne vis je oncque en ma vie! Je crois que c'est un ange du ciel, ou une seraine de mer; Je crois que homme n'engendra oncque si belle creature._"--La Fleur de Battailles. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY CHARLOTTE CAMPBELL, WITH _THE MERMAID_. * * * * * To brighter charms depart, my simple lay, Than graced of old the maid of Colonsay, When her fond lover, lessening from her view, With eyes reverted, o'er the surge withdrew! But, happier still, should lovely Campbell sing Thy plaintive numbers to the trembling string, The mermaid's melting strains would yield to thee, Though poured diffusive o'er the silver sea. Go boldly forth--but ah! the listening throng, Rapt by the syren, would forget the song! Lo! while they pause, nor dare to gaze around, Afraid to break the soft enchanting sound, While swells to sympathy each fluttering heart, 'Tis not the poet's, but the syren's art. Go forth, devoid of fear, my simple lay! First heard, returning from Iona's bay, When round our bark the shades of evening drew, And broken slumbers prest our weary crew; While round the prow the sea-fire, flashing bright, Shed a strange lustre o'er the waste of night; While harsh and dismal screamed the diving gull, Round the dark rocks that wall the coast of Mull; As through black reefs we held our venturous way, I caught the wild traditionary lay. A wreath, no more in black Iona's isle To bloom--but graced by high-born Beauty's smile. THE MERMAID. * * * * * On Jura's heath how sweetly swell The murmurs of the mountain bee, How softly mourns the writhed shell Of Jura's shore, its parent sea! But softer, floating o'er the deep, The mermaid's sweet sea-soothing lay, That charmed the dancing waves to sleep, Before the bark of Colonsay. Aloft the purple pennons wave, As parting gay from Crinan's shore, From Morven's wars the seamen brave Their gallant chieftain homeward bore. In youth's gay bloom, the brave Macphail Still blamed the lingering bark's delay; For her he chid the flagging sail, The lovely maid of Colonsay. "And raise," he cried, "the song of love, "The maiden sung with tearful smile, "When first, o'er Jura's hills to rove, "We left afar the lonely isle! 'When on this ring of ruby red 'Shall die,' she said, 'the crimson hue, 'Know that thy favourite fair is dead, 'Or proves to thee and love untrue.' Now, lightly poised, the rising oar Disperses wide the foamy spray, And, echoing far o'er Crinan's shore, Resounds the song of Colonsay. "Softly blow, thou western breeze, "Softly rustle through the sail, "Sooth to rest the furrowy seas, "Before my love, sweet western gale! "Where the wave is tinged with red, "And the russet sea-leaves grow, "Mariners, with prudent dread, "Shun the shelving reefs below. "As you pass through Jura's sound, "Bend your course by Scarba's shore, "Shun, O shun, the gulf profound, "Where Corrivrekin's surges roar! "If, from that unbottomed deep, "With wrinkled form and writhed train, "O'er the verge of Scarba's steep, "The sea-snake heave his snowy mane, "Unwarp, unwind his oozy coils, "Sea-green sisters of the main, "And in the gulf, where ocean boils, "The unwieldy wallowing monster chain. "Softly blow, thou western breeze, "Softly rustle through the sail, "Sooth to rest the furrowed seas, "Before my love, sweet western gale!" Thus, all to sooth the chieftain's woe, Far from the maid he loved so dear, The song arose, so soft and slow, He seemed her parting sigh to hear. The lonely deck he paces o'er, Impatient for the rising day, And still, from Crinan's moonlight shore, He turns his eyes to Colonsay. The moonbeams crisp the curling surge, That streaks with foam the ocean green; While forward still the rowers urge Their course, a female form was seen. That sea-maid's form, of pearly light, Was whiter than the downy spray, And round her bosom, heaving bright, Her glossy, yellow ringlets play. Borne on a foamy-crested wave, She reached amain the bounding prow, Then, clasping fast the chieftain brave, She, plunging, sought the deep below. Ah! long beside thy feigned bier, The monks the prayers of death shall say, And long for thee, the fruitless tear Shall weep the maid of Colonsay! But downwards, like a powerless corse, The eddying waves the chieftain bear; He only heard the moaning hoarse Of waters, murmuring in his ear. The murmurs sink, by slow degrees; No more the surges round him rave; Lulled by the music of the seas, He lies within a coral cave. In dreamy mood reclines he long, Nor dares his tranced eyes unclose, Till, warbling wild, the sea-maid's song, Far in the crystal cavern, rose; Soft as that harp's unseen controul, In morning dreams that lovers hear, Whose strains steal sweetly o'er the soul, But never reach the waking ear. As sunbeams, through the tepid air, When clouds dissolve in dews unseen, Smile on the flowers, that bloom more fair, And fields, that glow with livelier green-- So melting soft the music fell; It seemed to soothe the fluttering spray-- "Say, heardst thou not these wild notes swell?" "Ah! 'tis the song of Colonsay." Like one that from a fearful dream Awakes, the morning light to view, And joys to see the purple beam, Yet fears to find the vision true. He heard that strain, so wildly sweet, Which bade his torpid languor fly; He feared some spell had bound his feet, And hardly dared his limbs to try. "This yellow sand, this sparry cave, "Shall bend thy soul to beauty's sway; "Can'st thou the maiden of the wave "Compare to her of Colonsay?" Roused by that voice, of silver sound, From the paved floor he lightly sprung, And, glancing wild his eyes around, Where the fair nymph her tresses wrung, No form he saw of mortal mould; It shone like ocean's snowy foam; Her ringlets waved in living gold, Her mirror crystal, pearl her comb. Her pearly comb the syren took, And careless bound her tresses wild; Still o'er the mirror stole her look, As on the wondering youth she smiled. Like music from the greenwood tree, Again she raised the melting lay; --"Fair warrior, wilt thou dwell with me, "And leave the maid of Colonsay? "Fair is the crystal hall for me, "With rubies and with emeralds set, "And sweet the music of the sea "Shall sing, when we for love are met. "How sweet to dance, with gliding feet, "Along the level tide so green, "Responsive to the cadence sweet, "That breathes along the moonlight scene! "And soft the music of the main "Rings from the motley tortoise-shell, "While moonbeams, o'er the watery plain, "Seem trembling in its fitful swell. "How sweet, when billows heave their head, "And shake their snowy crests on high, "Serene in Ocean's sapphire bed, "Beneath the tumbling surge, to lie; "To trace, with tranquil step, the deep, "Where pearly drops of frozen dew "In concave shells, unconscious, sleep, "Or shine with lustre, silvery blue! "Then shall the summer sun, from far, "Pour through the wave a softer ray, "While diamonds, in a bower of spar, "At eve shall shed a brighter day. "Nor stormy wind, nor wintery gale, "That o'er the angry ocean sweep, "Shall e'er our coral groves assail, "Calm in the bosom of the deep. "Through the green meads beneath the sea, "Enamoured, we shall fondly stray-- "Then, gentle warrior, dwell with me, "And leave the maid of Colonsay!"-- "Though bright thy locks of glistering gold, "Fair maiden of the foamy main! "Thy life-blood is the water cold, "While mine beats high in every vein. "If I, beneath thy sparry cave, "Should in thy snowy arms recline, "Inconstant as the restless wave, "My heart would grow as cold as thine." As cygnet down, proud swelled her breast; Her eye confest the pearly tear; His hand she to her bosom prest-- "Is there no heart for rapture here? "These limbs, sprung from the lucid sea, "Does no warm blood their currents fill, "No heart-pulse riot, wild and free, "To joy, to love's delirious thrill?" "Though all the splendour of the sea "Around thy faultless beauty shine, "That heart, that riots wild and free, "Can hold no sympathy with mine. "These sparkling eyes, so wild and gay, "They swim not in the light of love: "The beauteous maid of Colonsay, "Her eyes are milder than the dove! "Even now, within the lonely isle, "Her eyes are dim with tears for me; "And canst thou think that syren smile "Can lure my soul to dwell with thee?" An oozy film her limbs o'erspread; Unfolds in length her scaly train; She tossed, in proud disdain, her head, And lashed, with webbed fin, the main. "Dwell here, alone!" the mermaid cried, "And view far off the sea-nymphs play; "Thy prison-wall, the azure tide, "Shall bar thy steps from Colonsay. "Whene'er, like ocean's scaly brood, "I cleave, with rapid fin, the wave, "Far from the daughter of the flood, "Conceal thee in this coral cave. "I feel my former soul return; "It kindles at thy cold disdain: "And has a mortal dared to spurn "A daughter of the foamy main?" She fled; around the crystal cave The rolling waves resume their road, On the broad portal idly rave, But enter not the nymph's abode. And many a weary night went by, As in the lonely cave he lay, And many a sun rolled through the sky, And poured its beams on Colonsay; And oft, beneath the silver moon, He heard afar the mermaid sing, And oft, to many a melting tune, The shell-formed lyres of ocean ring; And when the moon went down the sky, Still rose, in dreams, his native plain, And oft he thought his love was by, And charmed him with some tender strain; And, heart-sick, oft he waked to weep, When ceased that voice of silver sound, And thought to plunge him in the deep, That walled his crystal cavern round. But still the ring, of ruby red, Retained its vivid crimson hue, And each despairing accent fled, To find his gentle love so true. When seven long lonely months were gone, The mermaid to his cavern came, No more mishapen from the zone, But like a maid of mortal frame. "O give to me that ruby ring, "That on thy finger glances gay, "And thou shalt hear the mermaid sing "The song, thou lovest, of Colonsay." "This ruby ring, of crimson grain, "Shall on thy finger glitter gay, "If thou wilt bear me through the main, "Again to visit Colonsay." "Except thou quit thy former love, "Content to dwell, for ay, with me, "Thy scorn my finny frame might move, "To tear thy limbs amid the sea." "Then bear me swift along the main, "The lonely isle again to see, "And, when I here return again, "I plight my faith to dwell with thee." An oozy film her limbs o'erspread, While slow unfolds her scaly train, With gluey fangs her hands were clad, She lashed with webbed fin the main. He grasps the mermaid's scaly sides, As, with broad fin, she oars her way; Beneath the silent moon she glides, That sweetly sleeps on Colonsay. Proud swells her heart! she deems, at last, To lure him with her silver tongue, And, as the shelving rocks she past, She raised her voice, and sweetly sung. In softer, sweeter strains she sung, Slow gliding o'er the moonlight bay, When light to land the chieftain sprung, To hail the maid of Colonsay. O sad the mermaid's gay notes fell, And sadly sink, remote at sea! So sadly mourns the writhed shell Of Jura's shore, its parent sea. And ever as the year returns, The charm-bound sailors know the day; For sadly still the mermaid mourns The lovely chief of Colonsay. NOTE ON THE MERMAID. * * * * * _The sea-snake heave his snowy mane._--P. 334. v. 3. "They, who, in works of navigation, on the coasts of Norway, employ themselves in fishing or merchandize, do all agree in this strange story, that there is a serpent there, which is of a vast magnitude, namely, two hundred feet long, and moreover twenty feet thick; and is wont to live in rocks and caves, toward the sea-coast about Berge; which will go alone from his holes, in a clear night in summer, and devours calves, lambs, and hogs; or else he goes into the sea to feed on polypus, locusts, and all sorts of sea-crabs. He hath commonly hair hanging from his neck a cubit long, and sharp scales, and is black, and he hath flaming shining eyes. This snake disquiets the skippers, and he puts up his head on high, like a pillar, and catcheth away men, and he devours them; and this hapneth not but it signifies some wonderful change of the kingdom near at hand; namely, that the princes shall die, or be banished; or some tumultuous wars shall presentlie follow."--_Olaus Magnus_, London, 1558, rendered into English by J. S. Much more of the sea-snake may be learned from the credible witnesses cited by Pontoppidan, who saw it raise itself from the sea, twice as high as the mast of their vessel. The tradition probably originates in the immense snake of the Edda, whose folds were supposed to girdle the earth. FOOTNOTES: [85] I believe something to the same purpose may be found in the school editions of Guthrie's _Geographical Grammar_; a work, which, though, in general, as sober and dull as could be desired by the gravest preceptor, becomes of a sudden uncommonly lively, upon the subject of the seas of Norway; the author having thought meet to adopt the Right Reverend Erick Pontopiddon's account of mermen, sea-snakes, and krakens. THE LORD HERRIES HIS COMPLAINT, A FRAGMENT. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. BY CHARLES KIRKPATRICK SHARPE, ESQ. OF HODDOM. * * * * * Hoddom castle is delightfully situated on the banks of the river Annan. It is an ancient structure, said to have been built betwixt the years 1437 and 1484, by John Lord Herries, of Herries, a powerful border baron, who possessed extensive domains in Dumfries-shire. This family continued to flourish until the death of William, Lord Herries, in the middle of the 16th century, when it merged in heirs female. Agnes, the eldest of the daughters of Lord William, was married to John, master of Maxwell, afterwards created Lord Herries, and a strenuous partizan of Queen Mary. The castle and barony of Hoddom were sold, about 1630, and were then, or soon afterwards, acquired by John Sharpe, Esq., in whose family they have ever since continued. Before the accession of James VI. to the English crown, Hoddom castle was appointed to be kept "with ane wise stout man, and to have with him four well-horsed men, and there to have two stark footmen, servants, to keep their horses, and the principal to have ane stout footman."--_Border Laws, Appendix._ On the top of a small, but conspicuous hill, near to Hoddom castle, there is a square tower, built of hewn stone, over the door of which are carved the figures of a dove and a serpent, and betwixt them the word _Repentance_. Hence the building, though its proper name is Trailtrow, is more frequently called the Tower of Repentance. It was anciently used as a beacon, and the border laws direct a watch to be maintained there, with a fire-pan and bell, to give the alarm when the English crossed, or approached, the river Annan. This man was to have a husband-land for his service.--SPOTTISWOODE, p. 306. Various accounts are given of the cause of erecting the Tower of Repentance. The following has been adopted by my ingenious correspondent, as most susceptible of poetical decoration. A certain Lord Herries--about the date of the transaction, tradition is silent--was famous among those who used to rob and steal (_convey_, the wise it call). This lord, returning from England, with many prisoners, whom he had unlawfully enthralled, was overtaken by a storm, while passing the Solway Firth, and, in order to relieve his boat, he cut all their throats, and threw them into the sea. Feeling great qualms of conscience, he built this square tower, carving over the door, which is about half way up the building, and had formerly no stair to it, the figures above mentioned, of a dove and a serpent, emblems of remorse and grace, and the motto--"_Repentance._" I have only to add, that the marauding baron is said, from his rapacity, to have been surnamed John the Reif; probably in allusion to a popular romance; and that another account says, the sin, of which he repented, was the destruction of a church, or chapel, called Trailtrow, with the stones of which he had built the castle of Hoddom.--MACFARLANE's MSS. It is said, that Sir Richard Steele, while riding near this place, saw a shepherd boy reading his Bible, and asked him, what he learned from it? "The way to heaven," answered the boy. "And can you show it to me?" said Sir Richard, in banter. "You must go by that tower," replied the shepherd; and he pointed to the tower of "_Repentance_." THE LORD HERRIES HIS COMPLAINT, A FRAGMENT. * * * * * Bright shone the moon on Hoddom's wall, Bright on Repentance Tower; Mirk was the lord of Hoddom's saul, That chief sae sad and sour. He sat him on Repentance hicht, And glowr'd upon the sea; And sair and heavily he sicht, But nae drap eased his bree. "The night is fair, and calm the air, "No blasts disturb the tree; "Baith men and beast now tak their rest, "And a's at peace but me. "Can wealth and power in princely bower, "Can beauty's rolling e'e, "Can friendship dear, wi' kindly tear, "Bring back my peace to me? "No! lang lang maun the mourner pine, "And meikle penance dree, "Wha has a heavy heart like mine, "Ere light that heart can be. "Under yon silver skimmering waves, "That saftly rise and fa', "Lie mouldering banes in sandy graves, "That fley my peace awa. * * * * * "To help my boat I pierc'd the throat "Of him whom ane lo'ed dear; "Nought did I spare his yellow hair, "And ee'n sae bricht and clear. "She sits her lane, and makith mane, "And sings a waefu sang,-- 'Scotch rievers hae my darling ta'en; 'O Willie tarries lang!' "I plunged an auld man in the sea, "Whase locks were like the snaw; "His hairs sall serve for rapes to me, "In hell my saul to draw. "Soon did thy smile, sweet baby, stint, "Torn frae the nurse's knee, "That smile, that might hae saften'd flint, "And still'd the raging sea. "Alas! twelve precious lives were spilt, "My worthless spark to save; "Bet[86] had I fallen, withouten guilt, "Frae cradle to the grave. "Repentance! signal of my bale, "Built of the lasting stane, "Ye lang shall tell the bluidy tale, "Whan I am dead and gane. "How Hoddom's lord, ye lang sall tell, "By conscience stricken sair, "In life sustain'd the pains of hell, "And perish'd in despair. FOOTNOTES: [86] _Bet_--better. THE MURDER OF CAERLAVEROC. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. BY CHARLES KIRKPATRICK SHARPE, ESQ. * * * * * The tragical event which preceded, or perhaps gave rise to, the successful insurrection of Robert Bruce, against the tyranny of Edward I., is well known. In the year 1304, Bruce abruptly left the court of England, and held an interview, in the Dominical church of Dumfries, with John, surnamed, from the colour of his hair, the Red Cuming, a powerful chieftain, who had formerly held the regency of Scotland. It is said, by the Scottish historians, that he upbraided Cuming with having betrayed to the English monarch a scheme, formed betwixt them, for asserting the independence of Scotland. The English writers maintain, that Bruce proposed such a plan to Cuming, which he rejected with scorn, as inconsistent with the fealty he had sworn to Edward. The dispute, however it began, soon waxed high betwixt two fierce and independent barons. At length, standing before the high altar of the church, Cuming gave Bruce the lie, and Bruce retaliated by a stroke of his poniard. Full of confusion and remorse, for a homicide committed in a sanctuary, the future monarch of Scotland rushed out of the church, with the bloody poniard in his hand. Kirkpatrick and Lindsay, two barons, who faithfully adhered to him, were waiting at the gate. To their earnest and anxious enquiries into the cause of his emotion, Bruce answered, "I doubt I have slain the Red Cuming".--"Doubtest thou?" exclaimed Kirkpatrick, "I make sure!"[87] Accordingly, with Lindsay and a few followers, he rushed into the church, and dispatched the wounded Cuming. A homicide, in such a place, and such an age, could hardly escape embellishment from the fertile genius of the churchmen, whose interest was so closely connected with the inviolability of a divine sanctuary. Accordingly, Bowmaker informs us, that the body of the slaughtered baron was watched, during the night, by the Dominicans, with the usual rites of the church. But, at midnight, the whole assistants fell into a dead sleep, with the exception of one aged father, who heard, with terror and surprise, a voice, like that of a wailing infant, exclaim, "How long, O Lord, shall vengeance be deferred?" it was answered, in an awful tone, "Endure with patience, until the anniversary of this day shall return for the fifty-second time." In the year 1357, fifty-two years after Cuming's death, James of Lindsay was hospitably feasted in the castle of Caerlaveroc, in Dumfries-shire, belonging to Roger Kirkpatrick. They were the sons of the murderers of the regent. In the dead of night, for some unknown cause, Lindsay arose, and poniarded in his bed his unsuspecting host. He then mounted his horse to fly; but guilt and fear had so bewildered his senses, that, after riding all night, he was taken, at break of day, not three miles from the castle, and was afterwards executed, by order of King David II. The story of the murder is thus told by the prior of Lochlevin:-- That ilk yhere in our kynryk Hoge was slayne of Kilpatrik Be schyr Jakkis the Lyndessay In-til Karlaveroc; and away For til have bene with all his mycht This Lyndyssay pressyt all a nycht Forth on hors rycht fast rydand. Nevyrtheless yhit thai hym fand Nocht thre myle fra that ilk place; Thare tane and broucht agane he was Til Karlaveroc, be thai men That frendis war til Kirkpatrik then; Thare was he kepyd rycht straytly. His wyf[88] passyd till the king Dawy, And prayid him of his realté, Of Lauche that scho mycht serwyd be. The kyng Dawy than also fast Till Dumfres with his curt he past, As Lawche wald. Quhat was thare mare? This Lyndessay to deth he gert do thare. WINTOWNIS _Cronykill_, B. viii. cap. 44. THE MURDER OF CAERLAVEROC. * * * * * "Now, come to me, my little page, "Of wit sae wond'rous sly! "Ne'er under flower, o' youthfu' age, "Did mair destruction lie. "I'll dance and revel wi' the rest, "Within this castle rare; "Yet he sall rue the drearie feast, "Bot and his lady fair. "For ye maun drug Kirkpatrick's wine, "Wi' juice o' poppy flowers; "Nae mair he'll see the morning shine "Frae proud Caerlaveroc's towers. "For he has twin'd my love and me, "Ihe maid of mickle scorn-- "She'll welcome, wi' a tearfu' e'e, "Her widowhood the morn. "And saddle weel my milk-white steed, "Prepare my harness bright! "Giff I can mak my rival bleed, "I'll ride awa this night." "Now haste ye, master, to the ha'! "The guests are drinking there; "Kirkpatrick's pride sall be but sma', "For a' his lady fair." * * * * * In came the merry minstrelsy; Shrill harps wi' tinkling string, And bag-pipes, lilting melody, Made proud Caerlaveroc ring. There gallant knights, and ladies bright, Did move to measures fine, Like frolic Fairies, jimp and light, Wha dance in pale moonshine. The ladies glided through the ha', Wi' footing swift and sure-- Kirkpatrick's dame outdid them a', Whan she stood on the floor. And some had tyres of gold sae rare, And pendants[89] eight or nine; And she, wi' but her gowden hair, Did a' the rest outshine. And some, wi' costly diamonds sheen, Did warriors' hearts assail-- But she, wi' her twa sparkling een, Pierc'd through the thickest mail. Kirkpatrick led her by the hand, With gay and courteous air: No stately castle in the land Could shew sae bright a pair. O he was young--and clear the day Of life to youth appears! Alas! how soon his setting ray Was dimm'd wi' showring tears! Fell Lindsay sicken'd at the sight, And sallow grew his cheek; He tried wi' smiles to hide his spite, But word he cou'dna speak. The gorgeous banquet was brought up, On silver and on gold: The page chose out a crystal cup, The sleepy juice to hold. And whan Kirkpatrick call'd for wine, This page the drink wou'd bear; Nor did the knight or dame divine Sic black deceit was near. Then every lady sung a sang; Some gay--some sad and sweet-- Like tunefu' birds the woods amang, Till a' began to greet. E'en cruel Lindsay shed a tear, Forletting malice deep-- As mermaids, wi' their warbles clear, Can sing the waves to sleep. And now to bed they all are dight, Now steek they ilka door: There's nought but stillness o' the night, Whare was sic din before. Fell Lindsay puts his harness on, His steed doth ready stand; And up the stair-case is he gone, Wi' poniard in his hand. The sweat did on his forehead break, He shook wi' guilty fear; In air he heard a joyfu' shriek-- Red Cumin's ghaist was near. Now to the chamber doth he creep-- A lamp, of glimmering ray, Show'd young Kirkpatrick fast asleep, In arms of lady gay. He lay wi' bare unguarded breast, By sleepy juice beguil'd; And sometimes sigh'd, by dreams opprest, And sometimes sweetly smiled. Unclosed her mouth o' rosy hue, Whence issued fragrant air, That gently, in soft motion, blew Stray ringlets o' her hair. "Sleep on, sleep on, ye luvers dear! "The dame may wake to weep-- "But that day's sun maun shine fou clear, "That spills this warrior's sleep." He louted down--her lips he prest-- O! kiss, foreboding woe! Then struck on young Kirkpatrick's breast A deep and deadly blow. Sair, sair, and mickle, did he bleed: His lady slept till day, But dream't the Firth[90] flow'd o'er her head, In bride-bed as she lay. The murderer hasted down the stair, And back'd his courser fleet: Than did the thunder 'gin to rair, Than show'rd the rain and sleet. Ae fire-flaught darted through the rain, Whare a' was mirk before, And glinted o'er the raging main, That shook the sandy shore. But mirk and mirker grew the night, And heavier beat the rain; And quicker Lindsay urged his flight, Some ha' or beild to gain. Lang did he ride o'er hill and dale, Nor mire nor flood he fear'd: I trow his courage 'gan to fail When morning light appear'd. For having hied, the live-lang night, Through hail and heavy showers, He fand himsel, at peep o' light, Hard by Caerlaveroc's towers. The castle bell was ringing out, The ha' was all asteer; And mony a scriech and waefu' shout Appall'd the murderer's ear. Now they hae bound this traitor strang, Wi' curses and wi' blows; And high in air they did him hang, To feed the carrion crows. * * * * * "To sweet Lincluden's[91] haly cells "Fou dowie I'll repair; "There peace wi' gentle patience dwells, "Nae deadly feuds are there." "In tears I'll wither ilka charm, "Like draps o' balefu' yew; "And wail the beauty that cou'd harm "A knight, sae brave and true." FOOTNOTES: [87] Hence the crest of Kirkpatrick is a hand, grasping a dagger, distilling gouts of blood, proper; motto; "_I mak sicker_." [88] That is, Kirkpatrick's wife. [89] _Pendants_--Jewels on the forehead. [90] Caerlaveroc stands near Solway Firth. [91] Lincluden Abbey is situated near Dumfries, on the banks of the river Cluden. It was founded and filled with Benedictine nuns, in the time of Malcolm IV., by Uthred, father to Roland, lord of Galloway--these were expelled by Archibald the Grim, Earl of Douglas.--_Vide_ PENNANT. SIR AGILTHORN. BY M. G. LEWIS ESQ.--NOW FIRST PUBLISHED. * * * * * Oh! gentle huntsman, softly tread, And softly wind thy bugle-horn; Nor rudely break the silence shed Around the grave of Agilthorn! Oh! gentle huntsman, if a tear E'er dimmed for other's woe thine eyes, Thoul't surely dew, with drops sincere, The sod, where Lady Eva lies. Yon crumbling chapel's sainted bound, Their hands and hearts beheld them plight, Long held yon towers, with ivy crowned, The beauteous dame and gallant knight. Alas! the hour of bliss is past, For hark! the din of discord rings; War's clarion sounds, Joy hears the blast, And trembling plies his radiant wings. And must sad Eva lose her lord? And must he seek the martial plain? Oh! see, she brings his casque and sword! Oh! hark, she pours her plaintive strain! "Blest is the village damsel's fate, "Though poor and low her station be; "Safe from the cares which haunt the great, "Safe from the cares which torture me! "No doubting fear, no cruel pain, "No dread suspense her breast alarms; "No tyrant honour rules her swain, "And tears him from her folding arms. "She, careless wandering 'midst the rocks, "In pleasing toil consumes the day; "And tends her goats, or feeds her flocks, "Or joins her rustic lover's lay. "Though hard her couch, each sorrow flies "The pillow which supports her head; "She sleeps, nor fears at morn her eyes "Shall wake, to mourn an husband dead. "Hush, impious fears! the good and brave "Heaven's arm will guard from danger free; "When Death with thousands gluts the grave, "His dart, my love, shall glance from thee: "While thine shall fly direct and sure, "This buckler every blow repell; "This casque from wounds that face secure, "Where all the loves and graces dwell. "This glittering scarf, with tenderest care, "My hands in happier moments wove; "Curst be the wretch, whose sword shall tear "The spell-bound work of wedded love! "Lo! on thy faulchion, keen and bright, "I shed a trembling consort's tears; "Oh! when their traces meet thy sight, "Remember wretched Eva's fears! "Think, how thy lips she fondly prest; "Think, how she wept, compelled to part; "Think, every wound, which scars thy breast, "Is doubly marked on Eva's heart!" "O thou! my mistress, wife, and friend!" Thus Agilthorn with sighs began; "Thy fond complaints my bosom rend, "Thy tears my fainting soul unman: "In pity cease, my gentle dame, "Such sweetness and such grief to join! "Lest I forget the voice of Fame, "And only list to Love's and thine. "Flow, flow, my tears! unbounded gush! "Rise, rise, my sobs! I set ye free; "Bleed, bleed, my heart! I need not blush "To own, that life is dear to me. "The wretch, whose lips have prest the bowl, "The bitter bowl of pain and woe, "May careless reach his mortal goal, "May boldly meet the final blow: "His hopes destroyed, his comfort wreckt, An happier life he hopes to find; But what can I in heaven expect, Beyond the bliss I leave behind? "Oh, no! the joys of yonder skies To prosperous love present no charms; My heaven is placed in Eva's eyes, My paradise in Eva's arms. "Yet mark me, sweet! if Heaven's command Hath doomed my fall in martial strife, Oh! let not anguish tempt thy hand To rashly break the thread of life! "No! let our boy thy care engross, Let him thy stay, thy comfort, be; Supply his luckless father's loss, And love him for thyself and me. "So may oblivion soon efface The grief, which clouds this fatal morn; And soon thy cheeks afford no trace Of tears, which fall for Agilthorn!" He said, and couched his quivering lance; He said, and braced his moony shield; Sealed a last kiss, threw a last glance, Then spurred his steed to Flodden Field. But Eva, of all joy bereft, Stood rooted at the castle gate, And viewed the prints his courser left, While hurrying at the call of fate. Forebodings sad her bosom told, The steed, which bore him thence so light, Her longing eyes would ne'er behold Again bring home her own true knight. While many a sigh her bosom heaves, She thus addrest her orphan page-- "Dear youth, if e'er my love relieved The sorrows of thy infant age; "If e'er I taught thy locks to play, Luxuriant, round thy blooming face; If e'er I wiped thy tears away, And bade them yield to smiles their place; "Oh! speed thee, swift as steed can bear, Where Flodden groans with heaps of dead, And, o'er the combat, home repair, And tell me how my lord has sped. "Till thou return'st, each hour's an age, An age employed in doubt and pain; Oh! haste thee, haste, my little foot-page, Oh! haste, and soon return again!" "Now, lady dear, thy grief assuage! Good tidings soon shall ease thy pain: I'll haste, I'll haste, thy little foot-page, I'll haste, and soon return again." Then Oswy bade his courser fly; But still, while hapless Eva wept, Time scarcely seemed his wings to ply, So slow the tedious moments crept. And oft she kist her baby's cheek, Who slumbered on her throbbing breast; And now she bade the warder speak, And now she lulled her child to rest. "Good warder, say, what meets thy sight? What see'st thou from the castle tower?" "Nought but the rocks of Elginbright, Nought but the shades of Forest-Bower." "Oh! pretty babe! thy mother's joy, Pledge of the purest, fondest flame, To-morrow's sun, dear helpless boy! Must see thee bear an orphan's name. "Perhaps, e'en now, some Scottish sword The life-blood of thy father drains; Perhaps, e'en now, that heart is gor'd, Whose streams supplied thy little veins. "Oh! warder, from the castle tower, Now say, what objects meet thy sight?" "None but the shades of Forest-Bower, None but the rocks of Elginbright." "Smil'st thou, my babe? so smiled thy sire, When gazing on his Eva's face; His eyes shot beams of gentle fire, And joy'd such beams in mine to trace. "Sleep, sleep, my babe! of care devoid; Thy mother breathes this fervent vow-- Oh! never be thy soul employed On thoughts so sad, as her's are now! "Now warder, warder, speak again! What see'st thou from the turret's height?" "Oh! lady, speeding o'er the plain, The little foot-page appears in sight." Quick beat her heart; short grew her breath; Close to her breast the babe she drew-- "Now, Heaven," she cried, "for life or death!" And forth to meet the page she flew. "And is thy lord from danger free? And is the deadly combat o'er?" In silence Oswy bent his knee, And laid a scarf her feet before. The well-known scarf with blood was stained, And tears from Oswy's eye-lids fell; Too truly Eva's heart explained, What meant those silent tears to tell. "Come, come, my babe!" she wildly cried, "We needs must seek the field of woe; Come, come, my babe! cast fear aside! To dig thy father's grave we go." "Stay, lady, stay! a storm impends; Lo! threatening clouds the sky o'erspread; The thunder roars, the rain descends, And lightning streaks the heavens with red. "Hark! hark! the winds tempestuous rave! Oh! be thy dread intent resigned! Or, if resolved the storm to brave, Be this dear infant left behind!" "No! no! with me my baby stays; With me he lives; with me he dies! Flash, lightnings, flash! your friendly blaze Will shew me where my warrior lies." O see she roams the bloody field, And wildly shrieks her husband's name; Oh! see she stops and eyes a shield, An heart, the symbol, wrapt in flame. His armour broke in many a place, A knight lay stretched that shield beside; She raised his vizor, kist his face, Then on his bosom sunk, and died. Huntsman, their rustic grave behold: 'Tis here, at night, the Fairy king, Where sleeps the fair, where sleeps the bold, Oft forms his light fantastic ring. 'Tis here, at eve, each village youth, With freshest flowers the turf adorns; 'Tis here he swears eternal truth, By Eva's faith and Agilthorn's. And here the virgins sadly tell, Each seated by her shepherd's side, How brave the gallant warrior fell, How true his lovely lady died. Ah! gentle huntsman, pitying hear, And mourn the gentle lovers' doom! Oh! gentle huntsman, drop a tear, And dew the turf of Eva's tomb! So ne'er may fate thy hopes oppose; So ne'er may grief to thee be known: They, who can weep for others' woes, Should ne'er have cause to weep their own. RICH AULD WILLIE'S FAREWELL. A FREEBOOTER, TAKEN BY THE ENGLISH IN A BORDER BATTLE, AND CONDEMNED TO BE EXECUTED. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED. BY ANNA SEWARD. * * * * * Farewell my ingle, bleezing bright, When the snell storm's begun; My bouris casements, O! sae light, When glints the bonnie sun! Farewell my deep glens, speck't wi' sloes, O' tangled hazles full! Farewell my thymy lea, where lows My kine, and glourin bull. Farewell my red deer, jutting proud, My rooks, o' murky wing! Farewell my wee birds, lilting loud, A' in the merry spring! Farewell my sheep, that sprattle on In a lang line, sae braw! Or lie on yon cauld cliffs aboon, Like late-left patch o' snaw! Farewell my brook, that wimplin rins, My clattering brig o' yew; My scaly tribes wi' gowden fins, Sae nimbly flickering through! Farewell my boat, and lusty oars, That scelp'd, wi' mickle spray! Farewell my birks o' Teviot shores, That cool the simmer's day! Farewell bauld neighbours, whase swift steed O'er Saxon bounds has scowr'd, Swoom'd drumlie floods when moons were dead, And ilka star was smoor'd. Maist dear for a' ye shar'd wi' me, When skaith and prey did goad, And danger, like a wreath, did flee Alang our moon-dead road. Farewell my winsome wife, sae gay! Fu' fain frae hame to gang, Wi' spunkie lads to geck and play, The flow'rie haughs amang! Farewell my gowk, thy warning note Then aft-times ca'd aloud, Tho' o' the word that thrill'd thy throat, Gude faith, I was na proud! And, pawkie gowk, sae free that mad'st, Or ere I hanged be, Would I might learn if true thou said'st, When sae thou said'st to me! WATER KELPIE. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED--REV. DR JAMIESON. * * * * * The principal design of the author of this piece, was to give a specimen of Scottish writing, more nearly approaching to the classical compositions of our ancient bards, than that which has been generally followed for seventy or eighty years past. As the poem is descriptive of the superstitions of the vulgar, in the county of Angus, the scene is laid on the banks of South Esk, near the castle of Inverquharity, about five miles north from Forfar. It is with pleasure that the editor announces to the literary world, that Dr Jamieson is about to publish a complete Dictionary of the Scottish Dialect; his intimate acquaintance with which is evinced in the following stanzas. WATER KELPIE. * * * * * Aft, owre the bent, with heather blent, And throw the forest brown, I tread the path to yon green strath, Quhare brae-born Esk rins down. Its banks alang, quhilk hazels thrang, Quhare sweet-sair'd hawthorns blow, I lufe to stray, and view the play Of fleckit scales below. Ae summer e'en, upon the green, I laid me down to gaze; The place richt nigh, quhare Carity His humble tribute pays: And Prosen proud, with rippet loud, Cums ravin' frae his glen; As gin he might auld Esk affricht, And drive him back agen. An ancient tour appear't to lour Athort the neibourin plain, Quhais chieftain bauld, in times of auld, The kintre callit his ain. Its honours cowit, its now forhowit, And left the houlat's prey; Its skuggin' wude, aboon the flude, With gloom owrespreads the day. A dreary shade the castle spread, And mirker grew the lift; The croonin' kie the byre drew nigh, The darger left his thrift. The levrock shill on erd was still, The westlin wind fell loun; The fisher's houp forgat to loup, And aw for rest made boun. I seemit to sloom, quhan throw the gloom I saw the river shake, And heard a whush alangis it rush, Gart aw my members quake; Syne, in a stound, the pool profound To cleave in twain appear'd: And huly throw the frichtsom how His form a gaist uprear'd. He rashes bare, and seggs, for hair, Quhare ramper-eels entwin'd; Of filthy gar his ee-brees war, With esks and horse-gells lin'd. And for his een, with dowie sheen, Twa huge horse-mussels glar'd: From his wide mow a torrent flew, And soupt his reedy beard. Twa slauky stanes seemit his spule-banes; His briskit braid, a whin; Ilk rib sae bare, a skelvy skair; Ilk arm a monstrous fin. He frae the wame a fish became, With shells aw coverit owre: And for his tail, the grislie whale Could nevir match its pow'r. With dreddour I, quhen he drew nigh, Had maistly swarfit outricht: Less fleyit at lenth I gatherit strenth, And speirit quhat was this wicht. Syne thrice he shook his fearsum bouk, And thrice he snockerit loud; From ilka ee the fire-flauchts flee, And flash alangis the flude. Quhan words he found, their elritch sound Was like the norlan blast, Frae yon deep glack, at Catla's back, That skeegs the dark-brown waste. The troublit pool conveyit the gowl Down to yon echoin rock; And to his maik, with wilsum skraik, Ilk bird its terror spoke. "Vile droich," he said, "art nocht afraid "Thy mortal life to tyne? "How dar'st thou seik with me till speik, "Sae far aboon thy line? "Yet sen thou hast thai limits past, "That sinder sprites frae men, "Thy life I'll spare, and aw declare, "That worms like thee may ken. "In kintries nar, and distant far, "Is my renoun propalit; "As is the leid, my name ye'll reid, "But here I'm _Kelpie_ callit. "The strypes and burns, throw aw their turns, "As weel's the waters wide, "My laws obey, thair spring heads frae, "Doun till the salt sea tide. "Like some wild staig, I aft stravaig, "And scamper on the wave: "Quha with a bit my mow can fit, "May gar me be his slave. "To him I'll wirk baith morn and mirk "Quhile he has wark to do; "Gin tent he tak I do nae shak "His bridle frae my mow. "Quhan Murphy's laird his biggin rear'd, "I carryit aw the stanes; "And mony a chiell has heard me squeal "For sair-brizz'd back and banes. "Within flude-mark, I aft do wark "Gudewillit, quhan I please; "In quarries deep, quhile uthers sleep, "Greit blocks I win with ease. "Yon bonny brig quhan folk wald big, "To gar my stream look braw; "A sair-toil'd wicht was I be nicht; "I did mair than thaim aw. "And weel thai kent quhat help I lent, "For thai yon image framit, "Aboon the pend quhilk I defend; "And it thai _Kelpie_ namit. "Quhan lads and lasses wauk the clais, "Narby yon whinny hicht, "The sound of me their daffin lays; "Thai dare na mudge for fricht. "Now in the midst of them I scream, "Quhan toozlin' on the haugh; "Than quhihher by thaim doun the stream, "Loud nickerin in a lauch. "Sicklike's my fun, of wark quhan run; "But I do meikle mair: "In pool or ford can nane be smur'd "Gin Kelpie be nae there. "Fow lang, I wat, I ken the spat, "Quhair ane sall meet his deid: "Nor wit nor pow'r put aff the hour, "For his wanweird decreed. "For oulks befoir, alangis the shoir, "Or dancin' down the stream, "My lichts are seen to blaze at een, "With wull wanerthly gleam. "The hind cums in, gif haim he win, "And cries, as he war wode; 'Sum ane sall soon be carryit down 'By that wanchancy flude.' "The taiken leil thai ken fow weel, "On water sides quha won; "And aw but thai, quha's weird I spae, "Fast frae the danger run. "But fremmit fouk I thus provoke "To meit the fate thai flee: "To wilderit wichts thai're waefow lichts, "But lichts of joy to me. "With ruefow cries, that rend the skies, "Thair fate I seem to mourn, "Like crocodile, on banks of Nile; "For I still do the turn. "Douce, cautious men aft fey are seen; "Thai rin as thai war heyrt, "Despise all reid, and court their deid: "By me are thai inspir't. "Yestreen the water was in spate, "The stanners aw war cur'd: "A man, nae stranger to the gate, "Raid up to tak the ford. "The haill town sware it wadna ride; "And Kelpie had been heard: "But nae a gliffin wad he bide, "His shroud I had prepar'd. "The human schaip I sumtimes aip: "As Prosenhaugh raid haim, "Ae starnless nicht, he gat a fricht, "Maist crack't his bustuous frame. "I, in a glint, lap on ahint, "And in my arms him fangit; "To his dore-cheik I keipt the cleik: "The carle was sair bemangit. "My name itsell wirks like a spell, "And quiet the house can keep; "Quhan greits the wean, the nurse in vain, "Thoch tyke-tyrit, tries to sleip. "But gin scho say, 'Lie still, ye skrae, "There's Water-Kelpie's chap;' "It's fleyit to wink, and in a blink "It sleips as sound's a tap." He said, and thrice he rais't his voice, And gaif a horrid gowl: Thrice with his tail, as with a flail, He struck the flying pool. A thunderclap seem't ilka wap, Resoundin' throw the wude: The fire thrice flash't; syne in he plash't, And sunk beneath the flude. NOTES ON WATER KELPIE. * * * * * _The fisher's houp forgat to loup._--P. 385. v. 2. The fishes, the hope of the angler, no more rose to the fly. _And aw for rest made boun._--P. 385. v. 2. _All_ commonly occurs in our old writers. But _aw_ is here used, as corresponding with the general pronunciation in Scotland; especially as it has the authority of Dunbar, in his _Lament for the Deth of the Makaris_. _His form a gaist uprear'd._--P. 385. v. 8. It is believed in Angus, that the spirit of the waters appears sometimes as a man, with a very frightful aspect; and, at other times, as a horse. The description, here given, must therefore be viewed as the offspring of fancy. All that can be said for it is, that such attributes are selected as are appropriate to the scenery. _Twa huge horse-mussells glar'd._--P. 386. v. 1. South-Esk abounds with the fresh water oyster, vulgarly called the horse-mussel; and, in former times, a pearl fishery was carried on here to considerable extent. _Frae yon deep glack, at Catla's back._--P. 387. v. 1. Part of the Grampian mountains. _Catla_ appears as a promontory, jutting out from the principal ridge, towards the plain. The Esk, if I recollect right, issues from behind it. _Thy mortal life to tyne._--P. 387. v. 2. The vulgar idea is, that a spirit, however frequently it appear, will not speak, unless previously addressed. It is, however, at the same time believed, that the person, who ventures to speak to a ghost, will soon forfeit his life, in consequence of his presumption. _His bridle frae my mow._--P. 388. v. 1. The popular tradition is here faithfully described; and, strange to tell! has not yet lost all credit. In the following verses, the principal articles of the vulgar creed in Angus, with respect to this supposed being, are brought together and illustrated by such _facts_ as are yet appealed to by the credulous. If I mistake not, none of the historical circumstances mentioned are older than half a century. It is only about thirty years since the bridge referred to was built. _For sair-brizz'd back and banes._--P. 388. v. 2. It is pretended that _Kelpie_ celebrated this memorable event in rhyme; and that for a long time after he was often heard to cry, with a doleful voice, "Sair back and sair banes, Carryin' the laird of Murphy's stanes." _And it thai Kelpie namit._--P. 388. v. 3. A head, like that of a gorgon, appears above the arch of the bridge. This was hewn in honour of Kelpie. _His shroud I had prepar'd._--P. 390. v. 3. A very common tale in Scotland is here alluded to by the poet. On the banks of a rapid stream the water spirit was heard repeatedly to exclaim, in a dismal tone, "The hour is come, but not the man;" when a person coming up, contrary to all remonstrances, endeavoured to ford the stream, and perished in the attempt. The original story is to be found in Gervase of Tilbury.--In the parish of Castleton, the same story is told, with this variation, that the by-standers prevented, by force, the predestined individual from entering the river, and shut him up in the church, where he was next morning found suffocated, with his face lying immersed in the baptismal font. To a _fey_ person, therefore, Shakespeare's words literally apply: ---- Put but a little water in a spoon, And it shall be as all the ocean, Enough to swallow such a being up. GLOSSARY OF THE WORDS REQUIRING EXPLANATION IN THE FOREGOING POEM. * * * * * _Aboon._ Above. _Ahint._ Behind. _Aip._ Ape, imitate. _Alangis._ Alongst. _Bemangit._ Injured, whether in mind or body; a word much used in Angus. _Be._ By. _Big._ Build. _Biggin._ Building, house. _Blink._ Moment. _Bonny._ Handsome, beautiful. _Boun._ Ready. _Bouk._ Body. _Braw._ Fine. _Briskit._ Breast. _Bustuous._ Huge. _Byre._ Cow-house. _Chap._ Rap. _Chiell._ Fellow. _Cleik._ Hold. _Cowit._ Shorn, cut off. _Croonin._ Bellowing--most properly with a low and mournful sound. _Cur'd._ Covered. _Darger._ Labourer, day-worker. _Daffin._ Sport. _Deid._ Death. _Do the turn._ Accomplish the fatal event. _Dore-cheek._ Door-post. _Dowie._ Melancholy, sad. _Douce._ Sober, sedate. _Dreddour._ Dread, terror. _Droich._ Dwarf, pigmy. _Een._ Eyes. _Eebrees._ Eyebrows. _Elritch._ Wild, hideous, not earthly. _Erd._ Earth. _Esks._ Newts, _or_ efts. _Fey._ Affording presages of approaching death, by acting a part directly the reverse of their proper character. _Fire-flauchts._ Lightnings. _Fleckit-scales._ Spotted shoals, or troops of trouts and other fishes. _Fleyd._ Frighted. _Forhowit._ Forsaken. _Fow._ Full. _Fangit._ Seized. _Fleyit._ Affrighted. _Frightsum._ Frightful. _Fremmit fouk._ Strange folk. _Gaist._ Ghost. _Gaif._ Gave. _Gart._ Caused, made. _Gar._ The slimy vegetable substance in the bed of a river. _Gate._ Road. _Glack._ A hollow between two hills or mountains. _Gliffin._ A moment. _Glint._ Moment. _Gowl._ Yell. _Greits._ Cries, implying the idea of tears. _Gudewillit._ Without constraint, cheerfully. _Haill._ Whole. _Haugh._ Low, flat ground on the side of a river. _Heyrt._ Furious. _Howlat._ Owl. _Horse-gells._ Horse-leeches. _Huly._ Slowly. _Ilk._ Each. _In a stound._ Suddenly. _Ken._ Know. _Kie._ Cows. _Kintrie._ Country. _Lavrock._ Lark. _Lauch._ Laugh. _Leid._ Language. _Leil._ True, not delusive. _Lift._ Sky. _Loun'._ Calm. _Loup._ Leap. _Maik._ Companion, mate. _Mirk._ During night. _Mirker._ Darker. _Mow._ Mouth. _Mudge._ Budge, stir. _Nar._ Near. _Narby._ Near to. _Nickerin._ Neighing. _Nocht._ Not. _Norlan._ Northern. _Oulks._ Weeks. _Pend._ Arch. _Quhihher._ The idea is nearly expressed by _whiz._ _Quhilk._ Which. _Ramper-eels._ Lampreys. _Rashes._ Rushes. _Rede._ Council. _Reid._ Read. _Rippet._ Noise, uproar. _Sair brizz'd._ Sore bruised. _Sall._ Shall. _Sen._ Since. _Seggs._ Sedges. _Sheen._ Shine. _Shill._ Shrill. _Sicklike._ Of this kind. _Sinder._ Separate. _Skelvy skair._ A rock presenting the appearance of a variety of _lamina._ _Skeegs._ Lashes. _Skrae._ Skeleton. _Skuggin._ Overshadowing, protecting wood. _Sloom._ Slumber. _Slauky._ Slimy. _Smur'd._ Smothered. _Snockerit._ Snorted. _Soupt._ Drenched. _Spae._ Predict. _Spat._ Spot. _Spate._ Flood. _Speirit._ Asked. _Spule-banes._ Shoulder-blades. _Stanners._ Gravel on the margin of a river, or any body of water. _Staig. A_ young horse. _Starnless._ Without stars. _Stravaig._ Stray, roam. _Strypes._ Rills of the smallest kind. _Swarfit._ Fainted. _Sweet sair'd._ Sweet savoured. _Syne._ Then. _Taiken._ Token. _Tap._ A child's top. _Tent._ Take care, be attentive. _Thai._ These. _Than._ Then. _Toozlin._ Toying, properly putting any thing in disorder. _Tyke-tyrit._ Tired as a dog after coursing. _Tyne._ Lose. _Waefou._ Fatal, causing woe. _Wald._ Would. _Wanweirid._ Unhappy fate. _Wanchancy._ Unlucky, causing misfortune. _Wanerthly._ Preternatural. _Wap._ Stroke, flap. _War._ Were. _Wauk the claes._ Watch the clothes. _Wean._ Child. _Weird._ Fate. _Whush._ A rustling sound. _Wilsum skraik._ Wild shriek. _Wirk._ Work. _Wode._ Deprived of reason. _Win._ Dig from a quarry. _Wull._ Wild. _Yestreen._ Yesternight. ELLANDONAN CASTLE. A HIGHLAND TALE. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED.--- COLIN MACKENZIE, ESQ. * * * * * Ellandonan Castle stands on a small rocky isle, situated in Loch Duich (on the west coast of Ross), near the point where the western sea divides itself into two branches, forming Loch Duich and Loch Loung. The magnificence of the castle itself, now a roofless ruin, covered with ivy, the beauty of the bay, and the variety of hills and valleys that surround it, and particularly the fine range of hills, between which lie the pastures of Glensheal, with the lofty summit of Skooroora, overtopping the rest, and forming a grand back-ground to the picture; all contribute to make this a piece of very romantic Highland scenery.[92] The castle is the manor-place of the estate of Kintail, which is denominated the barony of Ellandonan. That estate is the property of Francis, Lord Seaforth. It has descended to him, through a long line of gallant ancestors; having been originally conferred on Colin Fitzgerald, son to the Earl of Desmond and Kildare, in the kingdom of Ireland, by a charter, dated 9th January, 1266, granted by King Alexander the third, "_Colino Hybernio_," and bearing, as its inductive cause, "_pro bono et fideli servitio, tam in bello, quam in pace_." He had performed a very recent service in war, having greatly distinguished himself in the battle of Largs, in 1263, in which the invading army of Haco, King of Norway, was defeated. Being pursued in his flight, the king was overtaken in the narrow passage which divides the island of Skye from the coasts of Inverness and Ross, and, along with many of his followers, he himself was killed, in attempting his escape through the channel dividing Skye from Lochalsh. These straits, or _kyles_, bear to this day appellations, commemorating the events by which they were thus distinguished, the former being called Kyle Rhee, or the King's Kyle, and the latter Kyle Haken. The attack on Ellandonan Castle, which forms the subject of the following poem, lives in the tradition of the country, where it is, at this day, a familiar tale, repeated to every stranger, who, in sailing past, is struck with admiration at the sight of that venerable monument of antiquity. But the authenticity of the fact rests not solely on tradition. It is recorded, by Crawford, in his account of the family of Macdonald, Lord of the Isles, and reference is there made to a genealogy of Slate, in the possession of the family, as a warrant for the assertion. The incident took place in 1537. The power of the Lord of the Isles was at that time sufficiently great to give alarm to the crown. It covered not only the whole of the Western Isles, from Bute northwards, but also many extensive districts on the main-land, in the shires of Ayr, Argyle, and Inverness. Accordingly, in 1535, on the failure of heirs-male of the body of John, Lord of the Isles, and Earl of Ross, as well as of two of his natural sons, in whose favour a particular substitution had been made, King James the fifth assumed the lordship of the Isles. The right was, however, claimed by Donald, fifth baron of Slate, descended from the immediate younger brother of John, Lord of the Isles. This bold and high-spirited chieftain lost his life in the attack on Ellandonan Castle, and was buried by his followers on the lands of Ardelve, on the opposite side of Loch Loung. The barony of Ellandonan then belonged to John Mackenzie, ninth baron of Kintail. Kenneth, third baron, who was son to Kenneth, the son of Colin Fitzgerald, received the patronimic appellation of _Mac_ Kenneth, or Mac Kennye, which descended from him to his posterity, as the sirname of the family. John, baron of Kintail, took a very active part in the general affairs of the kingdom. He fought gallantly at the battle of Flodden, under the banners of King James the fourth, was a member of the privy council in the reign of his son, and, at an advanced age, supported the standard of the unfortunate Mary, at the battle of Pinkie. In the sixth generation from John, baron of Kintail, the clan was, by his lineal descendant, William, fifth earl of Seaforth, summoned, in 1715, to take up arms in the cause of the house of Stuart. On the failure of that spirited, but ill-fated enterprize, the earl made his escape to the continent, where he lived for about eleven years. Meantime his estate and honours were forfeited to the crown, and his castle was burnt. A steward was appointed to levy the rents of Kintail, on the king's behalf; but the vassals spurned at his demands, and, while they carried on a successful defensive war, against a body of troops sent to subdue their obstinacy, in the course of which the unlucky steward had the misfortune to be slain, one of their number made a faithful collection of what was due, and carried the money to the earl himself, who was at that time in Spain. The descendants of the man, to whom it was entrusted to convey to his lord this unequivocal proof of the honour, fidelity, and attachment of his people, are at this day distinguished by the designation of _Spaniard_; as Duncan, _the Spaniard_, &c. The estate was, a few years after the forfeiture, purchased from government, for behoof of the family, and re-invested in the person of his son. ELLANDONAN CASTLE. A HIGHLAND TALE. * * * * * O wot ye, ye men of the island of Skye, That your lord lies a corpse on Ardelve's rocky shore? The Lord of the Isles, once so proud and so high, His lands and his vassals shall never see more. None else but the Lord of Kintail was so great; To that lord the green banks of Loch Duich belong, Ellandonan's fair castle and noble estate, And the hills of Glensheal and the coasts of Loch Loung. His vassals are many, and trusty, and brave, Descended from heroes, and worthy their sires; His castle is wash'd by the salt-water wave, And his bosom the ardour of valour inspires. M'Donald, by restless ambition impell'd To extend to the shores of Loch Duich his sway, With awe Ellandonan's strong turrets beheld, And waited occasion to make them his prey. And the moment was come; for M'Kenneth, afar, To the Saxon opposed his victorious arm; Few and old were the vassals, but dauntless in war, Whose courage and skill freed his towers from alarm. M'Donald has chosen the best of his power; On the green plains of Slate were his warriors arrayed; Every Islander came before midnight an hour, With the sword in his hand, and the belt on his plaid. The boats they are ready, in number a score; In each boat twenty men, for the war of Kintail; Iron hooks they all carry, to grapple the shore, And ladders, the walls of the fortress to scale. They have pass'd the strait kyle, thro' whose billowy flood, From the arms of Kintail-men, fled Haco of yore, Whose waves were dyed deep with Norwegian blood, Which was shed by M'Kenneth's resistless claymore. They have enter'd Loch Duich--all silent their course, Save the splash of the oar on the dark-bosom'd wave, Which mingled with murmurs, low, hollow, and hoarse, That issued from many a coralline cave. Either coast they avoid, and right eastward they steer; Nor star, nor the moon, on their passage has shone; Unexpecting assault, and unconscious of fear, All Kintail was asleep, save the watchman alone. "What, ho! my companions! arise, and behold "Where Duich's deep waters with flashes are bright! "Hark! the sound of the oars! rise, my friends, and be bold! "For some foe comes, perhaps, under shadow of night." At the first of the dawn, when the boats reach'd the shore, The sharp ridge of Skooroora with dark mist was crown'd, And the rays, that broke thro' it, seem'd spotted with gore, As M'Donald's bold currach first struck on the ground. Of all the assailants, that sprung on the coast, One of stature and aspect superior was seen; Whatever a lord or a chieftain could boast, Of valour undaunted, appear'd in his mien. His plaid o'er his shoulder was gracefully flung; Its foldings a buckle of silver restrain'd; A massy broad sword on his manly thigh hung, Which defeat or disaster had never sustain'd. Then, under a bonnet of tartan and blue, Whose plumage was toss'd to and fro by the gale, Their glances of lightning his eagle-eyes threw, Which were met by the frowns of the sons of Kintail. 'Twas the Lord of the Isles; whom the chamberlain saw, While a trusty long bow on his bosom reclin'd-- Of stiff yew it was made, which few sinews could draw; Its arrows flew straight, and as swift as the wind. With a just aim he drew--the shaft pierced the bold chief: Indignant he started, nor heeding the smart, While his clan pour'd around him, in clamorous grief, From the wound tore away the deep-rivetted dart. The red stream flowed fast, and his cheek became white: His knees, with a tremor unknown to him, shook, And his once-piercing eyes scarce directed his sight, As he turn'd towards Skye the last lingering look. Surrounded by terror, disgrace, and defeat, From the rocks of Kintail the M'Donalds recoil'd; No order was seen in their hasty retreat, And their looks with dismay and confusion were wild. While thine eyes wander oft from the green plains of Slate, In pursuit of thy lord, O M'Donald's fair dame, Ah! little thou know'st 'tis the hour, mark'd by Fate, To close his ambition, and tarnish his fame. On the shore of Ardelve, far from home, is his grave, And the news of his death swiftly fly o'er the sea-- Thy grief, O fair dame! melts the hearts of the brave, Even the bard of Kintail wafts his pity to thee. And thou, Ellandonan! shall thy tow'rs ere again Be insulted by any adventurous foe, While the tale of the band, whom thy heroes have slain, Excites in their sons an inherited glow? Alas! thou fair isle! my soul's darling and pride! Too sure is the presage, that tells me thy doom, Tho' now thy proud towers all invasion deride, And thy fate lies far hid in futurity's gloom. A time shall arrive, after ages are past, When thy turrets, dismantled, in ruins shall fall, When, alas! thro' thy chambers shall howl the sea-blast, And the thistle shall shake his red head in thy hall. Shall this desolation strike thy towers alone? No, fair Ellandonan! such ruin 'twill bring, That the whirl shall have power to unsettle the throne, And thy fate shall be link'd with the fate of thy king. And great shall thy pride be, amid thy despair; To their chief, and their prince, still thy sons shall be true; The fruits of Kintail never victor shall share, Nor its vales ever gladden an enemy's view. And lovely thou shalt be, even after thy wreck; Thy battlements never shall cease to be grand; Their brown rusty hue the green ivy shall deck, And as long as Skooroora's high top shall they stand. FOOTNOTES: [92] We learn from Wintoun, that, in 1331, this fortress witnessed the severe justice of Randolph, Earl of Murray, then warden of Scotland. Fifty delinquents were there executed, by his orders, and, according to the prior of Lochlevin, the earl had as much pleasure in seeing their ghastly heads encircle the walls of the castle, as if it had been surrounded by a chaplet of roses. CADYOW CASTLE. BY THE EDITOR. * * * * * The ruins of Cadyow, or Cadzow Castle, the ancient baronial residence of the family of Hamilton, are situated upon the precipitous banks of the river Evan, about two miles above its junction with the Clyde. It was dismantled, in the conclusion of the civil wars, during the reign of the unfortunate Mary, to whose cause the house of Hamilton devoted themselves with a generous zeal, which occasioned their temporary obscurity, and, very nearly, their total ruin. The situation of the ruins, embosomed in wood, darkened by ivy and creeping shrubs, and overhanging the brawling torrent, is romantic in the highest degree. In the immediate vicinity of Cadyow is a grove of immense oaks, the remains of the Caledonian Forest, which anciently extended through the south of Scotland, from the eastern to the Atlantic Ocean. Some of these trees measure twenty-five feet, and upwards, in circumference; and the state of decay, in which they now appear, shews, that they may have witnessed the rites of the Druids.--The whole scenery is included in the magnificent and extensive park of the Duke of Hamilton. There was long preserved in this forest the breed of the Scottish wild cattle, until their ferocity occasioned their being extirpated, about forty years ago. Their appearance was beautiful, being milk-white, with black muzzles, horns, and hoofs. The bulls are described by ancient authors, as having white manes; but those of latter days had lost that peculiarity, perhaps by intermixture with the tame breed.[93] In detailing the death of the regent Murray, which is made the subject of the following ballad, it would be injustice to my reader to use other words than those of Dr Robertson, whose account of that memorable event forms a beautiful piece of historical painting. "Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh was the person who committed this barbarous action. He had been condemned to death soon after the battle of Langside, as we have already related, and owed his life to the regent's clemency. But part of his estate had been bestowed upon one of the regent's favourites,[94] who seized his house, and turned out his wife, naked, in a cold night, into the open fields, where, before next morning, she became furiously mad. This injury made a deeper impression on him than the benefit he had received, and from that moment he vowed to be revenged of the regent. Party rage strengthened and inflamed his private resentment. His kinsmen, the Hamiltons, applauded the enterprize. The maxims of that age justified the most desperate course he could take to obtain vengeance. He followed the regent for some time, and watched for an opportunity to strike the blow. He resolved, at last, to wait till his enemy should arrive at Linlithgow, through which he was to pass, in his way from Stirling to Edinburgh. He took his stand in a wooden gallery,[95] which had a window towards the street; spread a feather-bed on the floor, to hinder the noise of his feet from being heard; hung up a black cloth behind him, that his shadow might not be observed from without; and, after all this preparation, calmly expected the regent's approach, who had lodged, during the night, in a house not far distant. Some indistinct information of the danger which threatened him had been conveyed to the regent, and he paid so much regard to it, that he resolved to return by the same gate through which he had entered, and to fetch a compass round the town. But, as the crowd about the gate was great, and he himself unacquainted with fear, he proceeded directly along the street; and the throng of people obliging him to move very slowly, gave the assassin time to take so true an aim, that he shot him, with a single bullet, through the lower part of his belly, and killed the horse of a gentleman, who rode on his other side. His followers instantly endeavoured to break into the house, whence the blow had come; but they found the door strongly barricaded, and, before it could be forced open, Hamilton had mounted a fleet horse,[96] which stood ready for him at a back-passage, and was got far beyond their reach. The regent died the same night of his wound."--_History of Scotland_, book v. Bothwellhaugh rode straight to Hamilton, where he was received in triumph; for the ashes of the houses in Clydesdale, which had been burned by Murray's army, were yet smoking; and party prejudice, the habits of the age, and the enormity of the provocation, seemed, to his kinsmen, to justify his deed. After a short abode at Hamilton, this fierce and determined man left Scotland, and served in France, under the patronage of the family of Guise, to whom he was doubtless recommended by having avenged the cause of their niece, Queen Mary, upon her ungrateful brother. De Thou has recorded, that an attempt was made to engage him to assassinate Gaspar de Coligni, the famous admiral of France, and the buckler of the Huguenot cause. But the character of Bothwellhaugh was mistaken. He was no mercenary trader in blood, and rejected the offer with contempt and indignation. He had no authority, he said, from Scotland, to commit murders in France; he had avenged his own just quarrel, but he would neither, for price nor prayer, avenge that of another man.--_Thaunus_, cap. 46. The regent's death happened 23d January, 1569. It is applauded or stigmatized, by contemporary historians, according to their religious or party prejudices. The triumph of Blackwood is unbounded. He not only extols the pious feat of Bothwellhaugh, "who," he observes, "satisfied, with a single ounce of lead, him, whose sacrilegious avarice had stripped the metropolitan church of St Andrew's of its covering;" but he ascribes it to immediate divine inspiration, and the escape of Hamilton to little less than the miraculous interference of the Deity.--_Jebb_, Vol. II. p. 263. With equal injustice, it was, by others, made the ground of a general national reflection; for, when Mather urged Berney to assassinate Burleigh, and quoted the examples of Poltrot and Bothwellhaugh, the other conspirator answered, "that neyther Poltrot nor Hambleton did attempt their enterpryse, without some reason or consideration to lead them to it; as the one, by hyre, and promise of preferment or rewarde; the other, upon desperate mind of revenge, for a lytle wrong done unto him, as the report goethe, accordinge to the vyle trayterous dysposysyon of the hoole natyon of the Scottes."--_Murdin's State Papers_, Vol. I. p. 197. CADYOW CASTLE. ADDRESSED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY ANNE HAMILTON. * * * * * When princely Hamilton's abode Ennobled Cadyow's Gothic towers, The song went round, the goblet flowed, And revel sped the laughing hours. Then, thrilling to the harp's gay sound, So sweetly rung each vaulted wall, And echoed light the dancer's bound, As mirth and music cheer'd the hall. But Cadyow's towers, in ruins laid, And vaults, by ivy mantled o'er, Thrill to the music of the shade, Or echo Evan's hoarser roar. Yet still, of Cadyow's faded fame, You bid me tell a minstrel tale, And tune my harp, of Border frame, On the wild banks of Evandale. For thou, from scenes of courtly pride, From pleasure's lighter scenes, canst turn, To draw oblivion's pall aside, And mark the long forgotten urn. Then, noble maid! at thy command, Again the crumbled halls shall rise; Lo! as on Evan's banks we stand, The past returns--the present flies.-- Where with the rock's wood-cover'd side Were blended late the ruins green, Rise turrets in fantastic pride, And feudal banners flaunt between: Where the rude torrent's brawling course Was shagg'd with thorn and tangling sloe, The ashler buttress braves its force, And ramparts frown in battled row. 'Tis night--the shade of keep and spire Obscurely dance on Evan's stream, And on the wave the warder's fire Is chequering the moon-light beam. Fades slow their light; the east is grey; The weary warder leaves his tower; Steeds snort; uncoupled stag-hounds bay, And merry hunters quit the bower. The draw-bridge falls--they hurry out-- Clatters each plank and swinging chain, As, dashing o'er, the jovial route Urge the shy steed, and slack the rein. First of his troop, the chief rode on; His shouting merry-men throng behind; The steed of princely Hamilton Was fleeter than the mountain wind. From the thick copse the roe-bucks bound, The startling red-deer scuds the plain, For the hoarse bugle's warrior sound Has rouzed their mountain haunts again. Through the huge oaks of Evandale, Whose limbs a thousand years have worn, What sullen roar comes down the gale, And drowns the hunter's pealing horn? Mightiest of all the beasts of chace, That roam in woody Caledon, Crashing the forest in his race, The Mountain Bull comes thundering on. Fierce, on the hunters' quiver'd band, He rolls his eyes of swarthy glow, Spurns, with black hoof and horn, the sand, And tosses high his mane of snow. Aim'd well, the chieftain's lance has flown; Struggling, in blood the savage lies; His roar is sunk in hollow groan-- Sound, merry huntsmen! sound the _pryse_![97] 'Tis noon--against the knotted oak The hunters rest the idle spear; Curls through the trees the slender smoke, Where yeomen dight the woodland cheer. Proudly the chieftain mark'd his clan, On greenwood lap all careless thrown, Yet miss'd his eye the boldest man, That bore the name of Hamilton. "Why fills not Bothwellhaugh his place, "Still wont our weal and woe to share? "Why comes he not our sport to grace? "Why shares he not our hunter's fare?" Stern Claud replied, with darkening face, (Grey Pasley's haughty lord was he) "At merry feast, or buxom chace, "No more the warrior shalt thou see. "Few suns have set, since Woodhouselee "Saw Bothwellhaugh's bright goblets foam, "When to his hearths, in social glee, "The war-worn soldier turn'd him home. "There, wan from her maternal throes, "His Margaret, beautiful and mild, "Sate in her bower, a pallid rose, "And peaceful nursed her new-born child. "O change accurs'd! past are those days; "False Murray's ruthless spoilers came, "And, for the hearth's domestic blaze, "Ascends destruction's volumed flame. "What sheeted phantom wanders wild, "Where mountain Eske through woodland flows, "Her arms enfold a shadowy child-- "Oh is it she, the pallid rose? "The wildered traveller sees her glide, "And hears her feeble voice with awe-- 'Revenge,' she cries, 'on Murray's pride! 'And woe for injured Bothwellhaugh!' He ceased--and cries of rage and grief Burst mingling from the kindred band, And half arose the kindling chief, And half unsheath'd his Arran brand. But who, o'er bush, o'er stream and rock, Rides headlong, with resistless speed, Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke Drives to the leap his jaded steed; Whose cheek is pale, whose eye-balls glare, As one, some visioned sight that saw, Whose hands are bloody, loose his hair?-- --'Tis he! 'tis he! 'tis Bothwellhaugh. From gory selle,[98] and reeling steed, Sprung the fierce horseman with a bound, And, reeking from the recent deed, He dashed his carbine on the ground. Sternly he spoke--"'Tis sweet to hear In good greenwood the bugle blown, But sweeter to Revenge's ear, To drink a tyrant's dying groan. "Your slaughtered quarry proudly trod, At dawning morn, o'er dale and down, But prouder base-born Murray rode Thro' old Linlithgow's crowded town. "From the wild Border's humbled side, "In haughty triumph, marched he, "While Knox relaxed his bigot pride, "And smiled, the traitorous pomp to see. "But, can stern Power, with all his vaunt, "Or Pomp, with all her courtly glare, "The settled heart of Vengeance daunt, "Or change the purpose of Despair? "With hackbut bent[99], my secret stand, "Dark as the purposed deed, I chose, "And marked, where, mingling in his band, "Troop'd Scottish pikes and English bows. "Dark Morton, girt with many a spear, "Murder's foul minion, led the van; "And clashed their broad-swords in the rear, "The wild Macfarlanes' plaided clan. "Glencairn and stout Parkhead were nigh, "Obsequious at their regent's rein, "And haggard Lindesay's iron eye, "That saw fair Mary weep in vain. "Mid pennon'd spears, a steely grove, "Proud Murray's plumage floated high; "Scarce could his trampling charger move, "So close the minions crowded nigh. "From the raised vizor's shade, his eye, "Dark-rolling, glanced the ranks along, "And his steel truncheon, waved on high, "Seem'd marshalling the iron throng. "But yet his sadden'd brow confess'd "A passing shade of doubt and awe; "Some fiend was whispering in his breast, 'Beware of injured Bothwellhaugh!' "The death-shot parts--the charger springs-- "Wild rises tumult's startling roar!-- "And Murray's plumy helmet rings-- "--Rings on the ground, to rise no more. "What joy the raptured youth can feel, "To hear her love the loved one tell, "Or he, who broaches on his steel "The wolf, by whom his infant fell! "But dearer, to my injured eye, "To see in dust proud Murray roll; "And mine was ten times trebled joy, "To hear him groan his felon soul. "My Margaret's spectre glided near; "With pride her bleeding victim saw; "And shrieked in his death-deafen'd ear, 'Remember injured Bothwellhaugh!' "Then speed thee, noble Chatlerault! "Spread to the wind thy bannered tree! "Each warrior bend his Clydesdale bow!-- "Murray is fallen, and Scotland free." Vaults every warrior to his steed; Loud bugles join their wild acclaim-- "Murray is fallen, and Scotland freed! "Couch, Arran! couch thy spear of flame!" But, see! the minstrel vision fails-- The glimmering spears are seen no more; The shouts of war die on the gales, Or sink in Evan's lonely roar. For the loud bugle, pealing high, The blackbird whistles down the vale, And sunk in ivied ruins lie The banner'd towers of Evandale. For chiefs, intent on bloody deed, And Vengeance, shouting o'er the slain, Lo! high-born Beauty rules the steed, Or graceful guides the silken rein. And long may Peace and Pleasure own The maids, who list the minstrel's tale; Nor e'er a ruder guest be known On the fair banks of Evandale! NOTES ON CADYOW CASTLE. * * * * * _First of his troop, the chief rode on._--P. 418. v. 5. The head of the family of Hamilton, at this period, was James, Earl of Arran, Duke of Chatelherault, in France, and first peer of the Scottish realm. In 1569, he was appointed by Queen Mary her lieutenant-general in Scotland, under the singular title of her adopted father. _The Mountain Bull comes thundering on._--P. 419. v. 3. _In Caledonia olim frequens erat sylvestris quidam bos, nunc vero rarior, qui colore candissimo, jubam densam et demissam instar leonis gestat, truculentus ac ferus ab humano genere abhorrens, ut quæcunque homines vel manibus contrectarint, vel halitu perflaverunt, ab iis multos post dies omnino abstinuerunt. Ad hoc tanta audacia huic bovi indita erat, ut non solum irritatus equites furenter prosterneret, sed ne tantillum lacessitus omnes promiscue homines cornibus, ac ungulis peteret; ac canum, qui apud nos ferocissimi sunt impetus plane contemneret. Ejus carnes cartilaginosæ sed saporis suavissimi. Erat is olim per illam vastissimam Caledoniæ sylvam frequens, sed humana ingluvie jam assumptus tribus tantum locis est reliquus, Strivilingii Cumbernaldiæ et Kincarniæ._--Leslæus Scotiæ Descriptio, p. 13. _Stern Claud replied, with darkening face,_ _(Grey Pasley's haughty lord was he)._--P. 420. v. 4. Lord Claud Hamilton, second son of the Duke of Chatelherault, and commendator of the abbey of Paisley, acted a distinguished part during the troubles of Queen Mary's reign, and remained unalterably attached to the cause of that unfortunate princess. He led the van of her army at the fatal battle of Langside, and was one of the commanders at the Raid of Stirling, which had so nearly given complete success to the queen's faction. He was ancestor of the present Marquis of Abercorn. _Few suns have set since Woodhouselee._--P. 420. v. 5. This barony, stretching along the banks of the Esk, near Auchindinny, belonged to Bothwellhaugh, in right of his wife. The ruins of the mansion, from whence she was expelled in the brutal manner which occasioned her death, are still to be seen in a hollow glen beside the river. Popular report tenants them with the restless ghost of the lady Bothwellhaugh; whom, however, it confounds with Lady Anne Bothwell, whose _Lament_ is so popular. This spectre is so tenacious of her rights, that, a part of the stones of the ancient edifice having been employed in building or repairing the present Woodhouselee, she has deemed it a part of her privilege to haunt that house also; and, even of very late years, has excited considerable disturbance and terror among the domestics. This is a more remarkable vindication of the _rights of ghosts_, as the present Woodhouselee, which gives his title to the honourable Alexander Fraser Tytler, a senator of the college of justice, is situated on the slope of the Pentland hills, distant at least four miles from her proper abode. She always appears in white, and with her child in her arms. _Whose bloody poniard's frantic stroke_ _Drives to the leap his jaded steed._--P. 422. v. 1. Birrell informs us, that Bothwellhaugh, being closely pursued, "after that spur and wand had fail'd him, he drew forth his dagger, and strocke his horse behind, whilk caused the horse to leap a verey brode stanke (_i.e._ ditch), by whilk means he escaipit, and gat away from all the rest of the horses."--BIRREL'S _Diary_, p. 18. _From the wild Border's humbled side,_ _In haughty triumph, marched he._--P. 423. v. 1. Murray's death took place shortly after an expedition to the borders; which is thus commemorated by the author of his elegy: "So having stablischt all thing in this sort, "To Liddisdaill agane he did resort, "Throw Ewisdail, Eskdail, and all the daills rode he, "And also lay three nights in Cannabie, "Whair na prince lay thir hundred yeiris before. "Nae thief durst stir, they did him feir so sair; "And, that thay suld na mair thair thift allege, "Threescore and twelf he brocht of thame in pledge, "Syne wardit thame, whilk maid the rest keep ordour, "Than mycht the rasch-bus keep ky on the bordour." _Scottish Poems, 16th century_, p. 232. _With hackbut bent, my secret stand._--P. 423, v. 3. The carbine, with which the regent was shot, is preserved at Hamilton palace. It is a brass piece, of a middling length, very small in the bore, and, what is rather extraordinary, appears to have been rifled or indented in the barrel. It had a matchlock, for which a modern fire-lock has been injudiciously substituted. _Dark Morton, girt with many a spear._--P. 423. v. 4. Of this noted person it is enough to say, that he was active in the murder of David Rizzio, and at least privy to that of Darnley. _The wild Macfarlanes' plaided clan._--P. 423. v. 4. This clan of Lennox Highlanders were attached to the regent Murray. Holinshed, speaking of the battle of Langsyde, says, "in this batayle the valiancie of an hieland gentleman, named Macfarlane, stood the regent's part in great steede; for, in the hottest brunte of the fighte, he came up with two hundred of his friendes and countrymen, and so manfully gave in upon the flankes of the queen's people, that he was a great cause of the disordering of them. This Macfarlane had been lately before, as I have heard, condemned to die, for some outrage by him committed, and obtayning pardon through suyte of the Countesse of Murray, he recompenced that clemencie by this piece of service now at this batayle." Calderwood's account is less favourable to the Macfarlanes. He states that "Macfarlane, with his highlandmen, fled from the wing where they were set. The Lord Lindsay, who stood nearest to them in the regent's battle, said 'Let them go! I shall fill their place better:' and so, stepping forward, with a company of fresh men, charged the enemy, whose spears were now spent, with long weapons, so that they were driven back by force, being before almost overthrown by the avaunt-guard and harquebusiers, and so were turned to flight."--CALDERWOOD'S _MS._ _apud_ KEITH, p. 480. Melville mentions the flight of the vanguard, but states it to have been commanded by Morton, and composed chiefly of commoners of the barony of Renfrew. _Glencairn and stout Parkhead were nigh,_ _Obsequious at their regent's rein._--P. 423. v. 5. The Earl of Glencairn was a steady adherent of the regent. George Douglas of Parkhead was a natural brother of the Earl of Morton, whose horse was killed by the same ball, by which Murray fell. _And haggard Lindesay's iron eye,_ _That saw fair Mary weep in vain._--P. 423. v. 5. Lord Lindsay, of the Byres, was the most ferocious and brutal of the regent's faction, and, as such, was employed to extort Mary's signature to the deed of resignation, presented to her in Lochleven castle. He discharged his commission with the most savage rigour; and it is even said, that when the weeping captive, in the act of signing, averted her eyes from the fatal deed, he pinched her arm with the grasp of his iron glove. _Scarce could his trampling charger move,_ _So close the minions crowded nigh.--P. 424._ v. 1. Not only had the regent notice of the intended attempt upon his life, but even of the very house from which it was threatened.--With that infatuation, at which men wonder, after such events have happened, he deemed it would be a sufficient precaution to ride briskly past the dangerous spot. But even this was prevented by the crowd: so that Bothwellhaugh had time to take a deliberate aim.--SPOTTISWOODE, p. 233. BUCHANAN. FOOTNOTES: [93] They were formerly kept in the park at Drumlanrig, and are still to be seen at Chillingham Castle in Northumberland. For their nature and ferocity, see Notes. [94] This was Sir James Ballenden, lord justice-clerk, whose shameful and inhuman rapacity occasioned the catastrophe in the text. SPOTTISWOODE. [95] This projecting gallery is still shown. The house, to which it was attached, was the property of the archbishop of St Andrews, a natural brother of the Duke of Chatelherault, and uncle to Bothwellhaugh. This, among many other circumstances, seems to evince the aid which Bothwellhaugh received from his clan in effecting his purpose. [96] The gift of Lord John Hamilton, Commendator of Arbroath. [97] _Pryse_--The note blown at the death of the game. [98] _Selle_--Saddle. A word used by Spenser, and other ancient authors. [99] _Hackbut bent_--Gun cock'd. THE GRAY BROTHER, A FRAGMENT. NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED.--WALTER SCOTT. * * * * * The imperfect state of this ballad, which was written several years ago, is not a circumstance affected for the purpose of giving it that peculiar interest, which is often found to arise from ungratified curiosity. On the contrary, it was the editor's intention to have completed the tale, if he had found himself able to succeed to his own satisfaction. Yielding to the opinion of persons, whose judgment, if not biassed by the partiality of friendship, is entitled to deference, the editor has preferred inserting these verses, as a fragment, to his intention of entirely suppressing them. The tradition, upon which the tale is founded, regards a house, upon the barony of Gilmerton, near Laswade, in Mid-Lothian. This building, now called Gilmerton Grange, was originally named Burndale, from the following tragic adventure. The barony of Gilmerton belonged, of yore, to a gentleman, named Heron, who had one beautiful daughter. This young lady was seduced by the abbot of Newbottle, a richly endowed abbey, upon the banks of the south Esk, now a seat of the marquis of Lothian. Heron came to the knowledge of this circumstance, and learned also, that the lovers carried on their guilty intercourse by the connivance of the lady's nurse, who lived at this house of Gilmerton Grange, or Burndale. He formed a resolution of bloody vengeance, undeterred by the supposed sanctity of the clerical character, or by the stronger claims of natural affection. Chusing, therefore, a dark and windy night, when the objects of his vengeance were engaged in a stolen interview, he set fire to a stack of dried thorns, and other combustibles, which he had caused to be piled against the house, and reduced to a pile of glowing ashes the dwelling, with all its inmates.[100] The scene, with which the ballad opens, was suggested by the following curious passage, extracted from the life of Alexander Peden, one of the wandering and persecuted teachers of the sect of Cameronians, during the reign of Charles II. and his successor, James. This person was supposed by his followers, and, perhaps, really believed himself, to be possessed of supernatural gifts; for the wild scenes, which they frequented, and the constant dangers, which were incurred through their proscription, deepened upon their minds the gloom of superstition, so general in that age. "About the same time he (Peden) came to Andrew Normand's house, in the parish of Alloway, in the shire of Ayr, being to preach at night in his barn. After he came in, he halted a little, leaning upon a chair-back, with his face covered; when he lifted up his head, he said, 'There are in this house that I have not one word of salvation unto;' he halted a little again, saying, 'This is strange, that the devil will not go out, that we may begin our work!' Then there was a woman went out, ill-looked upon almost all her life, and to her dying hour, for a witch, with many presumptions of the same. It escaped me, in the former passages, that John Muirhead (whom I have often mentioned) told me, that when he came from Ireland to Galloway, he was at family-worship, and giving some notes upon the Scripture, when a very ill-looking man came, and sate down within the door, at the back of the _hallan_ (partition of the cottage): immediately he halted, and said, 'There is some unhappy body just now come into this house. I charge him to go out, and not stop my mouth!' The person went out, and he _insisted_ (went on), yet he saw him neither come in nor go out."--_The Life and Prophecies of Mr Alexander Peden, late Minister of the Gospel at New Glenluce, in Galloway_, Part II. § 26. THE GRAY BROTHER. * * * * * The Pope he was saying the high, high mass, All on saint Peter's day, With the power to him given, by the saints in heaven, To wash men's sins away. The pope he was saying the blessed mass, And the people kneel'd around, And from each man's soul his sins did pass, As he kiss'd the holy ground. And all, among the crowded throng, Was still, both limb and tongue, While thro' vaulted roof, and aisles aloof, The holy accents rung. At the holiest word, he quiver'd for fear, And faulter'd in the sound-- And, when he would the chalice rear, He dropp'd it on the ground. "The breath of one of evil deed "Pollutes our sacred day; "He has no portion in our creed, "No part in what I say. "A being, whom no blessed word "To ghostly peace can bring; "A wretch, at whose approach abhorr'd, "Recoils each holy thing. "Up! up! unhappy! haste, arise! "My adjuration fear! "I charge thee not to stop my voice, "Nor longer tarry here!" Amid them all a pilgrim kneel'd, In gown of sackcloth gray; Far journeying from his native field, He first saw Rome that day. For forty days and nights, so drear, I ween, he had not spoke, And, save with bread and water clear, His fast he ne'er had broke. Amid the penitential flock, Seem'd none more bent to pray; But, when the Holy Father spoke, He rose, and went his way. Again unto his native land, His weary course he drew, To Lothian's fair and fertile strand, And Pentland's mountains blue. His unblest feet his native seat, Mid Eske's fair woods, regain; Thro' woods more fair no stream more sweet Rolls to the eastern main. And lords to meet the Pilgrim came, And vassals bent the knee; For all mid Scotland's chiefs of fame, Was none more famed than he. And boldly for his country, still, In battle he had stood, Aye, even when, on the banks of Till, Her noblest pour'd their blood. Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet! By Eske's fair streams that run, O'er airy steep, thro' copsewood deep, Impervious to the sun. There the rapt poet's step may rove, And yield the muse the day; There Beauty, led by timid Love, May shun the tell-tale ray; From that fair dome, where suit is paid, By blast of bugle free, To Auchendinny's hazel glade, And haunted Woodhouselee. Who knows not Melville's beechy grove, And Roslin's rocky glen, Dalkeith, which all the virtues love, And classic Hawthornden? Yet never a path, from day to day, The pilgrim's footsteps range, Save but the solitary way To Burndale's ruin'd Grange. A woeful place was that, I ween, As sorrow could desire; For, nodding to the fall was each crumbling wall, And the roof was scathed with fire. It fell upon a summer's eve, While on Carnethy's head, The last faint gleams of the sun's low beams Had streak'd the gray with red; And the convent-bell did vespers tell, Newbottle's oaks among, And mingled with the solemn knell Our Ladye's evening song: The heavy knell, the choir's faint swell, Came slowly down the wind, And on the pilgrim's ear they fell, As his wonted path he did find. Deep sunk in thought, I ween, he was, Nor ever rais'd his eye, Untill he came to that dreary place, Which did all in ruins lie. He gazed on the walls, so scathed with fire, With many a bitter groan-- And there was aware of a Gray Friar, Resting him on a stone. "Now, Christ thee save!" said the Gray Brother; "Some pilgrim thou seemest to be." But in sore amaze did Lord Albert gaze, Nor answer again made he. "O come ye from east, or come ye from west, "Or bring reliques from over the sea, "Or come ye from the shrine of St James the divine, "Or St John of Beverly?" "I come not from the shrine of St James the divine, "Nor bring reliques from over the sea; "I bring but a curse from our father, the Pope, "Which for ever will cling to me." "Now, woeful pilgrim, say not so! "But kneel thee down by me, "And shrive thee so clean of thy deadly sin, "That absolved thou mayst be." "And who art thou, thou Gray Brother, "That I should shrive to thee, "When he, to whom are giv'n the keys of earth and heav'n, "Has no power to pardon me?" "O I am sent from a distant clime, "Five thousand miles away, "And all to absolve a foul, foul crime, "Done _here_ 'twixt night and day." The pilgrim kneel'd him on the sand, And thus began his saye-- When on his neck an ice-cold hand Did that Gray Brother laye. NOTES ON THE GRAY BROTHER. * * * * * _From that fair dome, where suit is paid,_ _By blast of bugle free._--P. 439. v. 4. The barony of Pennycuik, the property of Sir George Clerk, Bart. is held by a singular tenure; the proprietor being bound to sit upon a large rocky fragment, called the Buckstane, and wind three blasts of a horn, when the king shall come to hunt on the Borough Muir, near Edinburgh. Hence, the family have adopted, as their crest, a demi-forester proper, winding a horn, with the motto, _Free for a Blast_. The beautiful mansion-house of Pennycuik is much admired, both on account of the architecture and surrounding scenery. To Auchendinny's hazel glade.--P. 439. v. 4. Auchendinny, situated upon the Eske, below Pennycuik, the present residence of the ingenious H. Mackenzie, Esq., author of the _Man of Feeling_, &c. _And haunted Woodhouselee._--P. 439. v. 4. For the traditions connected with this ruinous mansion, see the Ballad of _Cadyow Castle_, p. 410. _Who knows not Melville's beechy grove._--P. 439. v. 5. Melville Castle, the seat of the honourable Robert Dundas, member for the county of Mid-Lothian, is delightfully situated upon the Eske, near Laswade. It gives the title of viscount to his father, Lord Melville. _And Roslin's rocky glen._--P. 439. v. 5. The ruins of Roslin Castle, the baronial residence of the ancient family of St Clair, the Gothic chapel, which is still in beautiful preservation, with the romantic and woody dell in which they are situated, belong to the Right Honourable the Earl of Rosslyn, the representative of the former lords of Roslin. _Dalkeith, which all the virtues love._--P. 439. v. 5. The village and castle of Dalkeith belonged, of old, to the famous Earl of Morton, but is now the residence of the noble family of Buccleuch. The park extends along the Esk, which is there joined by its sister stream, of the same name. _And classic Hawthornden._--P. 439. v. 5. Hawthornden, the residence of the poet Drummond. A house, of more modern date, is inclosed, as it were, by the ruins of the ancient castle, and overhangs a tremendous precipice, upon the banks of the Eske, perforated by winding caves, which, in former times, formed a refuge to the oppressed patriots of Scotland. Here Drummond received Ben Jonson, who journeyed from London, on foot, in order to visit him. The beauty of this striking scene has been much injured, of late years, by the indiscriminate use of the axe. The traveller now looks in vain for the leafy bower, "Where Jonson sate in Drummond's social shade." Upon the whole, tracing the Eske from its source, till it joins the sea, at Musselburgh, no stream in Scotland can boast such a varied succession of the most interesting objects, as well as of the most romantic and beautiful scenery. FOOTNOTES: [100] This tradition was communicated to me by John Clerk, Esq. of Eldin, author of an _Essay upon Naval Tactics_, who will be remembered by posterity, as having taught the Genius of Britain to concentrate her thunders, and to launch them against her foes with an unerring aim. WAR-SONG OF THE ROYAL EDINBURGH LIGHT DRAGOONS. BY THE EDITOR. * * * * * "_Nennius._ Is not peace the end of arms? _Caratach._ Not where the cause implies a general conquest. Had we a difference with some petty isle, Or with our neighbours, Britons, for our landmarks, The taking in of some rebellious lord, Or making head against a slight commotion, After a day of blood, peace might be argued: But where we grapple for the land we live on, The liberty we hold more dear than life, The gods we worship, and, next these, our honours, And, with those, swords, that know no end of battle-- Those men, beside themselves, allow no neighbour, Those minds, that, where the day is, claim inheritance, And, where the sun makes ripe the fruit, their harvest, And, where they march, but measure out more ground To add to Rome---- It must not be.--No! as they are our foes, Let's use the peace of honour--that's fair dealing; But in our hands our swords. The hardy Roman, That thinks to graft himself into my stock, Must first begin his kindred under ground, And be allied in ashes."---- BONDUCA. The following War-Song was written during the apprehension of an invasion. The corps of volunteers, to which it was addressed, was raised in 1797, consisting of gentlemen, mounted and armed at their own expence. It still subsists, as the Right Troop of the Royal Mid-Lothian Light Cavalry, commanded by the Honourable Lieutenant-Colonel Dundas. The noble and constitutional measure of arming freemen in defence of their own rights, was no where more successful than in Edinburgh, which furnished a force of 3000 armed and disciplined volunteers, including a Regiment of Cavalry, from the city and county, and two Corps of Artillery, each capable of serving twelve guns. To such a force, above all others, might, in similar circumstances, be applied the exhortation of our ancient Galgacus: "_Proinde ituri in aciem, et majores vestros et posteros cogitate._" WAR-SONG OF THE ROYAL EDINBURGH LIGHT DRAGOONS. * * * * * To horse! to horse! the standard flies, The bugles sound the call; The Gallic navy stems the seas, The voice of battle's on the breeze, Arouse ye, one and all! From high Dunedin's towers we come, A band of brothers true; Our casques the leopard's spoils surround, With Scotland's hardy thistle crown'd; We boast the red and blue.[101] Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown, Dull Holland's tardy train; Their ravish'd toys though Romans mourn, Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn, And, foaming, gnaw the chain; O! had they mark'd the avenging call Their brethren's murder gave, Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown, Nor patriot valour, desperate grown, Sought freedom in the grave! Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head, In Freedom's temple born, Dress our pale cheek in timid smile, To hail a master in our isle, Or brook a victor's scorn? No! though destruction o'er the land Come pouring as a flood, The sun, that sees our falling day, Shall mark our sabres' deadly sway, And set that night in blood. For gold let Gallia's legions fight, Or plunder's bloody gain; Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw, To guard our King, to fence our Law, Nor shall their edge be vain. If ever breath of British gale Shall fan the tri-color, Or footstep of invader rude, With rapine foul, and red with blood, Pollute our happy shore,-- Then farewell home! and farewell friends! Adieu each tender tie! Resolved, we mingle in the tide, Where charging squadrons furious ride, To conquer, or to die. To horse! to horse! the sabres gleam; High sounds our bugle call; Combined by honour's sacred tie, Our word is _Laws and Liberty!_ March forward, one and all! NOTE ON THE WAR-SONG. * * * * * _O! had they mark'd the avenging call_ _Their brethren's murder gave._--P. 449. v. 2. The allusion is to the massacre of the Swiss guards, on the fatal 10th August, 1792. It is painful, but not useless, to remark, that the passive temper with which the Swiss regarded the death of their bravest countrymen, mercilessly slaughtered in discharge of their duty, encouraged and authorized the progressive injustice, by which the Alps, once the seat of the most virtuous and free people upon the continent, have, at length, been converted into the citadel of a foreign and military despot. A state degraded is half enslaved. FOOTNOTES: [101] The Royal Colours. THE FEAST OF SPURS. BY THE REV. JOHN MARRIOTT, A. M. * * * * * _In the account of_ WALTER SCOTT _of Harden's way of living, it is mentioned, that "when the last Bullock was killed and devoured, it was the Lady's custom to place on the table a dish, which, on being uncovered, was found to contain a pair of clean Spurs; a hint to the Riders, that they must shift for their next meal."_ See Introduction, p. 88. _The speakers in the following stanzas are_ WALTER SCOTT _of Harden, and his wife,_ MARY SCOTT, _the Flower of Yarrow._ * * * * * "Haste, ho! my dame, what cheer the night? "I look to see your table dight, "For I ha'e been up since peep o' light, "Driving the dun deer merrilie. "Wow! but the bonnie harts and raes Are fleet o' foot on Ettricke braes; My gude dogs ne'er, in a' their days, Forfoughten were sae wearilie. "Frae Shaws to Rankelburn we ran A score, that neither stint nor blan; And now ahint the breckans[102] stan', And laugh at a' our company. "We've passed through monie a tangled cleugh, We've rade fu' fast o'er haugh and heugh; I trust ye've got gude cheer eneugh To feast us a' right lustilie."-- "Are ye sae keen-set, Wat? 'tis weel; Ye winna find a dainty meal; It's a' o' the gude Rippon steel, Ye maun digest it manfullie. "Nae ky are left in Harden Glen; Ye maun be stirring wi' your men; Gin ye soud bring me less than ten, I winna roose[103] your braverie."-- "Are ye sae modest ten to name? "Syne, an I bring na twenty hame, "I'll freely gi'e ye leave to blame "Baith me, and a' my chyvalrie. "I coud ha'e relished better cheer, "After the chace o' sic-like deer; "But, trust me, rowth o' Southern gear "Shall deck your lard'ner speedilie. "When Stanegirthside I last came by, "A bassened bull allured mine eye, "Feeding amang a herd o' kye; "O gin I looked na wistfullie! "To horse! young Jock shall lead the way; "And soud the warden tak the fray "To mar our riding, I winna say, "But he mote be in jeopardie. "The siller moon now glimmers pale; "But ere we've crossed fair Liddesdale, "She'll shine as brightlie as the bale[104] "That warns the water hastilie. "O leeze me on her bonnie light! "There's nought sae dear to Harden's sight, "Troth, gin she shone but ilka night, "Our clan might live right royallie. "Haste, bring your nagies frae the sta', "And lightlie louping, ane and a', "Intull your saddles, scour awa', "And ranshakle[105] the Southronie. "Let ilka ane his knapscap[106] lace; "Let ilka ane his steil-jack brace; "And deil bless him that sall disgrace "Walter o' Harden's liverie!"-- NOTES ON THE FEAST OF SPURS. * * * * * _Harden Glen._--P. 453. v. 5. "Harden's castle was situated upon the very brink of a dark and precipitous dell, through which a scanty rivulet steals to meet the Borthwick. In the recess of this glen he is said to have kept his spoil, which served for the daily maintenance of his retainers." Notes on the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," Canto IV. stanza 9. _Warns the water._--P. 454. v. 5. This expression signified formerly the giving the alarm to the inhabitants of a district; each district taking its name from the river that flowed through it. _O leeze me,_ &c.--P. 455. v. 1. The esteem in which the moon was held in the Harden family may be traced in the motto they still bear: "_Reparabit cornua Phoebe."_ FOOTNOTES: [102] _Breckans_--Fern. [103] _Roose_--Praise. [104] _Bale_--Beacon-fire. [105] _Ranshakle_--Plunder. [106] _Knapscap_--Helmet. ON A VISIT PAID TO THE RUINS OF MELROSE ABBEY BY THE COUNTESS OF DALKEITH, AND HER SON, LORD SCOTT. BY THE REV. JOHN MARRIOTT, A. M. * * * * * Abbots of Melrose, wont of yore The dire anathema to pour On England's hated name; See, to appease your injured shades, And expiate her Border raids, She sends her fairest Dame. Her fairest Dame those shrines has graced, That once her boldest Lords defaced; Then let your hatred cease; The prayer of import dread revoke, Which erst indignant fury spoke, And pray for England's peace. If, as it seems to Fancy's eye, Your sainted spirits hover nigh, And haunt this once-loved spot; That Youth's fair open front behold, His step of strength, his visage bold, And hail a genuine Scott. Yet think that England claims a part In the rich blood that warms his heart, And let your hatred cease; The prayer of import dread revoke, Which erst indignant fury spoke, And pray for England's peace. Pray, that no proud insulting foe May ever lay her temples low, Or violate her fanes; No moody fanatic deface The works of wondrous art, that grace Antiquity's remains. NOTE ON A VISIT PAID TO THE RUINS OF MELROSE ABBEY. * * * * * Melrose Abbey was reduced to its present ruinous state, partly by the English barons in their hostile inroads, and partly by John Knox and his followers. For a reason why its abbots should be supposed to take an interest in the Buccleuch family, see the Notes to the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," octavo edition, p. 238. ARCHIE ARMSTRONG'S AITH. BY THE REV. JOHN MARRIOTT, A. M. * * * * * As Archie passed the Brockwood-leys, He cursed the blinkan moon, For shouts were borne upo' the breeze Frae a' the hills aboon. A herd had marked his lingering pace That e'enin near the fauld, And warned his fellows to the chace, For he kenn'd him stout and bauld. A light shone frae Gilnockie tower; He thought, as he ran past,-- "O Johnie ance was stiff in stour, "But hangit at the last!"-- His load was heavy, and the way Was rough, and ill to find; But ere he reached the Stubholm brae, His faes were far behind. He clamb the brae, and frae his brow The draps fell fast and free; And when he heard a loud halloo, A waefu' man was he. O'er his left shouther, towards the muir, An anxious e'e he cast; And oh! when he stepped o'er the door, His wife she looked aghast. "Ah wherefore, Archie, wad ye slight "Ilk word o' timely warning? "I trow ye will be ta'en the night, "And hangit i' the morning."-- "Now haud your tongue, ye prating wife, "And help me as ye dow; "I wad be laith to lose my life "For ae poor silly yowe."-- They stript awa the skin aff-hand, Wi' a' the woo' aboon; There's ne'er a flesher[107] i' the land Had done it half sae soon. They took the _haggis-bag_ and heart, The heart, but and the liver; Alake, that siccan a noble part Should win intull the river! But Archie he has ta'en them a', And wrapt them i' the skin; And he has thrown them o'er the wa', And sicht whan they fell in. The cradle stans by the ingle[108] toom,[109] The bairn wi' auntie stays; They clapt the carcase in its room, And smoored it wi' the claes. And down sate Archie daintilie, And rocked it wi' his hand; Siccan a rough nourice as he Was not in a' the land. And saftlie he began to croon,[110] "Hush, hushabye, my dear."-- He had na sang to sic a tune, I trow, for monie a year. Now frae the hills they cam in haste, A' rinning out o' breath;-- "Ah, Archie, we ha' got ye fast, "And ye maun die the death! "Aft ha' ye thinned our master's herds, "And elsewhere cast the blame; "Now ye may spare your wilie words, "For we have traced ye hame."-- "Your sheep for warlds I wad na take; "Deil ha' me if I'm lying; "But haud your tongues for mercie's sake, "The bairn's just at the dying. "If e'er I did sae fause a feat, "As thin my neebor's faulds, "May I be doomed the flesh to eat "This vera cradle halds! "But gin ye reck na what I swear, "Go search the biggin[111] thorow, "And if ye find ae trotter there, "Then hang me up the morrow."-- They thought to find the stolen gear, They searched baith but and ben; But a' was clean, and a' was clear, And naething could they ken. And what to think they could na tell, They glowred at ane anither;-- "Sure, Patie, 'twas the deil himsel "That ye saw rinning hither. "Or aiblins Maggie's ta'en the yowe, "And thus beguiled your e'e."-- "Hey, Robie, man, and like enowe, "For I ha'e nae rowan-tree."-- Awa' they went wi' muckle haste, Convinced 'twas Maggie Brown; And Maggie, ere eight days were past, Got mair nor ae new gown. Then Archie turned him on his heel, And gamesomelie did say,-- "I did na think that half sae weel "The nourice I could play." And Archie didna break his aith, He ate the cradled sheep; I trow he was na vera laith Siccan a vow to keep. And aft sinsyne to England's king The story he has told; And aye when he gan rock and sing, Charlie his sides wad hold. NOTES ON ARCHIE ARMSTRONG'S AITH. * * * * * The hero of this ballad was a native of Eskdale, and contributed not a little towards the raising his clan to that pre-eminence which it long maintained amongst the Border thieves, and which none indeed but the Elliots could dispute. He lived at the Stubholm, immediately below the junction of the Wauchope and the Esk; and there distinguished himself so much by zeal and assiduity in his professional duties, that at length he found it expedient to emigrate, his neighbours not having learned from Sir John Falstaff, that "it is no sin for a man to labour in his vocation." He afterwards became a celebrated jester in the English court. In more modern times, he might have found a court in which his virtues would have entitled him to a higher station. He was dismissed in disgrace in the year 1737, for his insolent wit, of which the following may serve as a specimen. One day when Archbishop Laud was just about to say grace before dinner, Archie begged permission of the king to perform that office in his stead; and having received it, said, "All _praise_ to God, and little _Laud_ to the deil." The exploit detailed in this ballad has been preserved, with many others of the same kind, by tradition, and is at this time current in Eskdale. _Or aiblin's Maggie's ta'en the yowe._--P. 464. v. 4. There is no district wherein witches seem to have maintained a more extensive, or more recent influence than in Eskdale. It is not long since the system of bribery, alluded to in the next stanza, was carried on in that part of the country. The rowan-tree, or mountain-ash, is well known to be a sure preservative against the power of witchcraft. FINIS. FOOTNOTES: [107] _A Flesher_--A Butcher. [108] _Ingle_--Fire. [109] _Toom_--Empty. [110] _Croon_--To hum over a song. [111] _Biggin_--Building. * * * * * EDINBURGH: Printed by James Ballantyne & Co. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed. Simple typographical and spelling errors were corrected. Italics words are denoted by _underscores_. Bold words are denoted by =equals=. P. 310 added footnote attributing unidentified poem to William Collins. 
34152	----	WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND. HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE. WITH A GLOSSARY. REVISED BY ALEXANDER LEIGHTON ONE OF THE ORIGINAL EDITORS AND CONTRIBUTORS. VOL. XV. LONDON: WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE. 1885. CONTENTS THE RECOLLECTIONS OF A VILLAGE PATRIARCH, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_ THE OLD CHRONICLER'S TALES, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_ THE DEATH OF JAMES I THE CURATE OF GOVAN, _(ALEXANDER CAMPBELL)_ GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT, _(PROFESSOR THOMAS GILLESPIE)_ I.--THE GRANDMOTHER'S NARRATIVE II.--THE COVENANTERS' MARCH III.--PEDEN'S FAREWELL SERMON IV.--THE PERSECUTION OF THE M'MICHAELS THE STORY OF TOM BERTRAM, _(OLIVER RICHARDSON)_ THE COTTAR'S DAUGHTER, _(ANON.)_ THE SURGEON'S TALES, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_ THE CASE OF EVIDENCE THE WARNING, _(ALEXANDER BETHUNE)_ GRIZEL COCHRANE. A TALE OF TWEEDMOUTH MUIR, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_ SQUIRE BEN, _(JOHN MACKAY WILSON)_ THE BATTLE OF DRYFFE SANDS, _(ANON.)_ THE CLERICAL MURDERER, _(ALEXANDER LEIGHTON)_ WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND. THE RECOLLECTIONS OF A VILLAGE PATRIARCH. There is no feeling more strongly or more generally implanted in the human breast, than man's love for the place of his nativity. The shivering Icelander sees a beauty, that renders them pleasant, in his mountains of perpetual snow; and the sunburned Moor discovers a loveliness in his sultry and sandy desert. The scenes of our nativity become implanted on our hearts like the memory of undying dreams; and with them the word _home_ is for ever associated, and "Through pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home." We cannot forget the place where our eyes first looked upon the glorious sun; where the moon was a thing of wonder, the evening companion of our childish gambols, joining with us in the race, and flying through the heavens as we ran! where we first listened to the song of the lark, received the outpourings of a mother's love upon our neck, or saw a father's eyes sparkle with joy as he beheld his happy children around him; where we first breathed affection's tale or heard its vows, and perchance were happy, wretched, blessed, or distracted, within a short hour. There is a magic influence about nativity that the soul loves to cherish. Its woods, its rivers, its hills, its old memories, fling their shadows and associations after us, and over us, even to the ends of the earth; and while these whisper of our early joys, or of what we fancied to be care ere we knew what care was--its churchyard tells us we have a portion there--that there our brethren and our kindred sleep. We may be absent from it until our very name is forgotten; yet we love it not the less. The man who loves it not hath his affections "dark as Erebus." It is a common wish, and it hath patriotism in it, too, that where we drew our first breath, there also we should breathe our last. Yet, in this world of changes and vicissitudes, such is not the lot of many. While I thus moralise, however, I detain the reader from the Recollections of the Village Patriarch; and as some of the individuals mentioned in his reminiscences may be yet living, I shall speak of the place in which he dwelt as the village of A----. The name of the patriarch was Roger Rutherford. He was in many respects a singular old man. He was the proprietor of three or four cottages, and of some thirty acres of arable land adjoining to them. He was a man of considerable reading, of some education, and much shrewdness. His years, at the period we speak of, were fourscore and four. By general consent, he was a sort of home-made magistrate in the village, and the umpire in all the disputes which arose amongst his neighbours. It was common with them to say, instead of going to law, "We will leave the matter to old Roger;" and the patriarch so managed or balanced his opinions, that he generally succeeded in pleasing both parties. He was also the living or walking history or chronicle of the village. He could record all the changes that had taken place in it for more than seventy years; and he could speak of all the ups and downs of its inhabitants. What Byron beautifully says of the ocean-- "Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow"-- might have been said of the memory and intellect of the patriarch. He had also a happy art in telling his village tales, which rendered it pleasant to listen to the old man. It was in the month of August, 1830, and just before the crops were ready for the sickle, old Roger was sitting, as his custom was (when the weather permitted), enjoying his afternoon pipe on a stone seat at the door, when a genteel-looking stranger, who might be about fifty years of age, approached him, and entered into conversation with him. The stranger asked many questions concerning the village and its old inhabitants, and Roger, eyeing him attentively for the space of a minute, said, "Weel, ye seem to ken something about the town, but I cannot charge my memory with having the smallest recollection o' ye; however, sit down, and I shall inform ye concerning whatever ye wish to hear." So the stranger sat down beside the patriarch on the stone seat by the door, and he mentioned to him the circumstances respecting which he wished to be informed, and the individuals concerning whom he wished to learn tidings. And thus did the old man narrate his recollections, and the tales of THE VILLAGE. I have often thought, sir (he began), that A---- is one of the bonniest towns on all the Borders--indeed I may say in all broad Scotland. I dinna suppose ye will find its marrow in England; and I dinna say this through any prejudice in its favour, or partiality towards it, because I was born in it, and have lived in it now for the better part o' fourscore and four years; but I will leave your own eyes to be the judge. It is as clean as the hearth-stane of a tidy wife--and there certainly is a great improvement in it, in this respect, since I first knew it. There is the bit garden before almost every door, wi' vegetables in the middle, flowers alang the edges, a pear or cherry tree running up the side o' the house, and the sweet, bonny brier mixing wi' the hedges round about. It lies just in the bosom of woods, too, in the centre of a lovely haugh, where the river soughs along, like the echo of the cooing of the cushats in the plantations. The population is four times what it was when I remember it first, and there are but few of the old original residenters left. There have been a great many alterations, changes, and improvements in it, since I first kenned it; but young folk will have young fashions, and it is of no use talking to them. The first inroad upon our ancient and primitive habits was made by one Lucky Riddle taking out a license to sell whisky, and tippenny, and other liquors. She hadna carried on the trade for six months, until a great alteration was observable in the morals o' several in the parish. It was a sad heart-sore to our worthy minister. He once spoke to me o' having Lucky Riddle summoned before the session. But says I to him--"Sir, I am afraid it is a case in which the session canna interfere. Ye see she has out a king's license, and she is contributing to what they call the revenue o' the country; therefore, if she be only acting up to her regulations, I doubt we canna interfere, and that we would only bring ourselves into trouble if we did." "But, Roger," quoth he, "her strong drink is making weak vessels of some of my parishioners. There is Thomas Elliot, and William Archbold, or Blithe Willie, as some call him for a by-word; those lads, and a dozen o' others, I am creditably informed, are there, drinking, singing, swearing, fighting, or dancing, night after night; and even Johnny Grippy, the miser, that I would have made an elder last year, but on account o' his penuriousness, is said to slip in on the edge o' his foot every morning, to swallow his dram before breakfast! I tell ye, Roger, she is bringing them to ruin faster than I can bring them to a sense o' sin--or whatever impression I may make, her liquor is washing away. She has brought a plague amongst us, and it is entering our habitations--it is thinning the sanctuary, striking down our strong men, and making mothers miserable. Therefore, unless Lucky Riddle will, in the meantime, relinquish her traffic, I think we ought, in duty, to prohibit her from coming forward on the next half-yearly occasion." I was perfectly aware that there was a vast deal o' truth in what the minister said, but I thought he was carrying the case to a length that couldna be justified; and I advised him to remember that he was a minister o' the gospel, but not o' the law. So all proceedings against Mrs Riddle were stopped, and her business went on, doing much injury to the minds, bodies, purses, and families, of many in the village. It was nae great secret that there were folk, both in and about the town, that had small stills concealed and working about their premises, and that there wasna a night but they sent gallons o' spirits owre the hills into England; but, by some means or other, government got wit of these clandestine transactions, and the consequence was, that a gauger was sent to live in the village, and three armed soldiers were billeted on the inhabitants, who had to provide beds for them week about. Naebody cared for having men wi' swords and firearms in their house, and they preferred paying for their bed at Lucky Riddle's. They were regarded as spies, and their appearance caused a great commotion amongst young and old. I often feared that the spirit of murmuring would break out into open rebellion; and one morning the soldiers came down from the hills, carrying the gauger, covered wi' blood, and in a state that ye could hardly ken life in him. One o' the soldiers also was dreadfully bruised about the head, and his sword was broken through the middle. They acknowledged that they had had a terrible battle wi' a party o' smugglers, and rewards were offered for their apprehension. But, though many of our people were then making rapid strides towards depravity, there was none of them so depraved as to sell his neighbour, as Judas did his Master, for a sum of money. None o' us had any great doubts about who had been in the ploy, and some o' our folk werena seen for months after; and, when inquiries were made concerning them, their friends said they were in England, or the dear kens where--places where they could have no more business than wi' the man o' the moon--but when they came back, some o' them were lamiters for life. The next improvement, as they called it, was the building of a strong, square, flat-roofed house, like a castle in miniature, wi' an iron-stancheled window, and an oak door that might have resisted the attack of a battering-ram. This was intended to be a place of confinement for disorderly persons. A constable was appointed to take care of it, and it often furnished some o' Lucky Riddle's customers with a night's lodgings. Persons guilty of offences were also confined there, until they could be removed to the county jail. The next thing that followed certainly was an improvement, but it had its drawbacks. It was the erection of a woollen manufactory, in which a great number o' men, women, and bairns, were employed. But they were mostly strangers; for our folk were ignorant of the work, and the proprietor of the factory brought them someway from the west of England. The auld residenters were swallowed up in the influx of new comers. But it caused a great stir about the town, and gave the street quite a new appearance. The factory hadna commenced three months, when a rival establishment was set up in opposition to Lucky Riddle, and one public-house followed upon the back of another, until now we have ten of them. As a matter of course, there was a great deal of more money spent in the village; and several young lads belonging to it, that had served their time as shopkeepers in the county town, came and commenced business in it, some of them beneath their father's roof, and enlarging the bit window o' six panes--where their mother had exposed thread, biscuits, and gingerbread for sale--into a great bow-window that projected into the street, they there exhibited for sale all that the eye could desire for dress, or the palate to pet it. Yet, with an increase of trade and money, there also came an increase of crime and a laxity of morals, and vices became common among both sexes that were unheard of in my young days. Nevertheless, the evil did not come without a degree of good to counterbalance it; and, in course of time, besides the kirk, the handsome dissenting meeting-house, that ye would observe at the foot of the town, was built. Four schools, besides the parish-school, also sprang up, so that every one had education actually brought to their door; but opposition at that time (which was very singular), instead o' lowering, raised the price o' schooling, and he that charged highest got the genteelest school. Then both the kirk and the meeting-house got libraries attached to them, and Luckie Riddle found the libraries by far the most powerful opposition she had had to contend wi'. Some of the youngsters, also, formed what they called a Mechanics' Institution, and they also got a library, and met for instruction after work hours; and, I declare to ye, that even callants, in a manner, became so learned, that I often had great difficulty to keep my ground wi' them; and I have actually heard some of them have the impudence to tell the dominie that taught them their letters, that he was utterly ignorant of all useful learning, and that he knew nothing of the properties of either chemistry or mechanics. When I was a youth, also, I dinna ken if there was a person in the village, save the minister, kenned what a newspaper was. Politics never were heard tell of until about the year seventy-five or eighty, but ever since then, they have been more and more discussed, until now they have divided the whole town into parties, and keep it in a state of perpetual ferment; and now there are not less than five newspapers come from London by the post every day, besides a score of weekly ones on the Saturday. Ye see, sir, that even in my time very great changes and improvements have taken place; and I am free to give it as my opinion, that society is more intellectual now than it was when I first kenned it; and, upon the whole, I would say, that mankind, instead of degenerating, are improving. I recollect, that even the street there, ye couldna get across it in the winter season, without lairing knee-deep in a dub; and now ye see, it is all what they call macadamised, and as firm, dry, and durable, as a sheet of iron. In fact, sir, within the last forty years, the improvements and changes in this village alone are past all belief--and the alterations in the place are nothing to what I have seen and heard of the ups, and downs, and vicissitudes of its inhabitants. The patriarch having finished his account of the village, thus proceeded with the history of the individuals after whom the stranger had inquired. THE LAIRD. Ye have asked me if auld Laird Cochrane be still living at the Ha', which, for three centuries, was the glory and pride of his ancestors. Listen, sir, and ye shall hear concerning him. He was born and brought up amongst us, and for many years he was a blessing to this part of the country. The good he did was incalculable. He was owner of two thousand acres of as excellent land as ye would have found on all the Borders; and I could have defied ony man to hear a poor mouth made throughout the whole length and breadth of his estate. His tenants were all happy, weel-to-do, and content. There wasna a murmur amongst them, nor amongst all his servants. He was a landlord amongst ten thousand. He was always devising some new scheme or improvement to give employment to the poor; and he would as soon have thought of taking away his own life as distressing a tenant. But the longest day has an end, and so had the goodness and benevolence of Laird Cochrane. It will be eight-and-twenty years ago, just about this present time, that he took a sort of back-going in his health, and somebody got him advised to go to a place in the south that they call Tunbridge Wells--one of the places where people that can afford annually to have fashionable complaints go to drink mineral waters. He would then be about fifty-two years of age; and the distress of both auld and young in the village was very great at his departure. Men, women, and children accompanied him a full mile from the porter's lodge; and when his carriage drove away, there was not one that didna say, "Heaven bless you!" On the Sabbath, also, our minister, Mr Anderson, prayed for him very fervidly. Weel, we heard no more about the laird, nor how the waters agreed wi' his stomach, for the space of about two months, when, to our surprise, a rumour got abroad that he was on the eve of being married. Some folk laughed at the report, and made light of it; but I did no such thing; for I remembered the proverb, that "An auld fool is the worst of all fools." But, to increase our astonishment, cartloads of furniture, and numbers of upholsterers, arrived from Edinburgh; and the housekeeper and butler received orders to have everything in readiness, in the best manner, for the reception of their new leddy. There was nothing else talked about in the village for a fortnight, and, I believe, nothing else dreamed about. A clap of thunder bursting out on a New-year's morning, ushering in the year, and continuing for a day without intermission, could not have surprised us more. There were several widows and auld maids in the parish, that the laird allowed so much a-year to, and their dinner every Sunday and Wednesday from the Ha' kitchen; and they, poor creatures, were in very great distress about the matter. They were principally auld or feckless people; and they were afraid, if their benefactor should stop his bounty, that they would be left to perish. Whether they judged by their own dispositions or not, it is not for me to say; but certain it is, that one and all of them were afraid that his marrying a wife would put an end both to their annuities and the dinners which they received twice a-week from his kitchen. I dinna suppose that there was a great deal the matter wi' the laird when he went to Tunbridge Wells. Like many others, he wasna weel from having owre little to do. But he had not been there many days, when his fancy was attracted by a dashing young leddy of four or five-and-twenty, the daughter of a gentleman who was a dignitary in the church, but who lived up to, and rather beyond, his income, so that, when he should die, his gay family, of whom he had four daughters, would be left penniless. The name of the laird's intended was Jemima, and she certainly was a pretty woman, and what ye would call a handsome one; but there was a haughtiness about her looks, and a boldness in her carriage, which were far from being becoming in a woman. Her looks and carriage, however, were not her worst fault. She had been taken to the Wells by her mamma, as she termed her mother, for the express purpose of being exhibited--much after the same manner as cattle are exhibited at a fair--to see whether any bachelor or widower would make proposals. Our good laird was smitten, sighed, was accepted, and sealed the marriage contract. The marriage took place immediately, but he didna arrive at the Ha' wi' his young wife till the following June. When they did arrive, her father, the divine, was wi' them; and, within a week, there was a complete overturning of the whole establishment, from head to foot. They came in two speck-and-span-new carriages, shining like the sun wi' silver ornaments. They brought also a leddy's-maid wi' them, that wore her veils, and her frills, and her fal-de-rals; and the housekeeper declared that, for the first eight days, she didna ken her mistress from the maid; for miss imitated madam, and both took such airs upon themselves, that the auld body was confounded, and curtsied to both without distinction, for fear of making a mistake. They also brought a man-servant wi' them, that couldna speak a word like a Christian, nor utter a word but in some heathenish foreign tongue. Within a week the auld servants were driven about from the right hand to the left, and from the left to the right. The incomers ordered them to do this and to do that, wi' as much insolence and authority as if he had been a lord and she a leddy. But, in a short time, the leddy discovered that all the auld domestics, from the housekeeper and butler down to the scullion wench, some of whom had been in the house for twenty years, were little better than a den of thieves; and, at the Martinmas term, a new race of servants took possession of the Ha'. But this was not the only change which her young leddyship and her father brought about within a few weeks. Her nerves could not stand the smell of vegetables, which arose from the kitchen when the broth was cooking for the widows and their families, the auld maidens, and other helpless persons in the village and neighbourhood, on the Sundays and Wednesdays, and she gave orders that the _nuisance_ should be discontinued. Thus, sir, for the sake of the gentility and delicacy of her leddyship's organ of smelling, forty stomachs were left twice a-week to yearn with hunger. At that time the labouring men on the estate had seven shillings a-week, with liberty to keep a cow to graze in the plantations; and those that dwelt by the river-side kept ducks and geese, all of which were great helps to them. But her leddyship had an aversion to horned cattle. She never saw them, she said, but she dreamed of them, and to dream of them was to dream of an enemy! The laird endeavoured to laugh her out of such silly notions, and appealed to her father, the dignitary and divine, to prove that belief in dreams was absurd. His reverence agreed that it was ridiculous to place faith in dreams, but he hinted that there were occasions when the wishes of a wife, though a little extravagant, and perhaps absurd, ought to be complied with; and he also stated, that he himself had seen the cattle in question rubbing against the young trees, and nibbling the tender twigs; besides, there were walks through the plantations, and, as there might be running cattle amongst them, he certainly thought, with his daughter, that the grazing in the woods ought to be discontinued. His authority was decisive. Next day, the steward was commanded to issue an order, that every cottar upon the estate must either sell his cow, or pay for its grass to a farmer. This was a sad blow to the poor hedgers and ditchers, and those that work with the spade. There was mourning that day in many a cottage--it was equal to taking a meal a-day off every family. But the change that was taking place in their condition did not end there. The divine, like another great and immortal member of the sacred profession--the illustrious Paley--was fond of angling; but there the resemblance between them stopped. I have said that he was fond of angling--but he was short-sighted, and one of the worst fishers that ever cracked off a hook, or raised a splash in the water. Once, when he might have preached upon the text, that he "had toiled all day, and caught nothing," he was fishing on the river, about a mile above where we now are, when he perceived the geese and ducks of a cottager swimming and diving their heads in the stream. It immediately occurred to the wise man that his want of success arose from the geese and ducks destroying all the fish!--and he forthwith prevailed upon his son-in-law to order his tenants to part with their poultry.[1] This was another sair blow to the poor cottagers, and was the cause of their bairns gaun barelegged in winter and hungry in summer. The gardens, the avenues, the lodge, everything about the place, was altered. But, to crown all, the lease of three or four of the laird's tenants was out at the following Martinmas, and their rents were doubled. Every person marvelled at the change in the conduct and character of the laird. Some thought he had gone out of his wits, and others that he was possessed by the evil one; but the greater part thought, like me, that he was a silly, hen-pecked man. [Footnote 1: Absurd as this may seem, it is a FACT.] A few months after her leddyship arrived, she gave birth to a son and heir, and there were great rejoicings about the Ha' on the occasion, but very little upon the estate; for already it had become a place that every one saw it would be desirable to leave as soon as possible. As the young birkie grew up, he soon gave evidence of being a sad scapegrace. Never a day passed but we heard of his being in some ploy or other; and his worthy mother said, that it showed a spirit becoming his station in life. Before he had reached man's estate, he was considered to be a great proficient in horse-racing, cock-fighting, fox-hunting, gambling, and other gentlemanly amusements; but as to learning, though he had been at both school and college, I dinna suppose that there is a trades lad connected wi' the Mechanics' Institution here that he was fit to hand the candle to. His grandfather, the divine, sometimes lectured him about the little attention which he paid to his learning, but the young hopeful answered, that "There was no necessity for a gentleman who was heir to five or six thousand a-year, and whose father was seventy years of age, boring over books." They generally resided in London, and were never about the Ha', save during a month or two in the shooting season. We heard, however, that they had fine carryings on in the great city; that they kept up a perpetual course of routes parties, and assemblies--that the estate was deeply mortgaged; and the laird, from the course of dissipation into which he had been dragged, had sunk into premature dotage. It was even reported that Johnny Grippy, the miser, had advanced several thousand pounds upon the estate, at a very exorbitant interest. At length their course of extravagance, like a lang tether, came to an end. Creditors grew numerous and clamorous; they would have their money, and nothing but their money would satisfy them. The infatuated auld laird sought refuge in the Abbey at Holyrood; and his son went on racing about and gambling as formerly, borrowing money from John Grippy when down here, and from Jews when in London, and giving them promises and securities that would make the estate disappear, when it came into his possession, like snow in summer. Her leddyship came down to the Ha', and, to my certain knowledge, was refused credit for twenty shillings in a shop in the village here, which was then kept by a son of one of the cottars that she and her father had caused to part wi' their kye and their poultry. This was what the young man called "seeing day about wi' her leddyship." The auld laird hadna been twelve months in the Abbey, when, finding himself utterly deserted by his wife and son, he sank into despondency, and died in misery; rueing, I will make free to say, that ever he had set his foot in Tunbridge Wells. His young successor, in gratitude to his mother for her over indulgence, and the example she had set him, turned her from the Ha' on his taking possession of it, and left her to seek refuge in the house of her father, the divine; and we never heard of her in this part of the country again. The career and end of the young laird I will state to ye, as I notice the histories of the minister and Ne'er-do-weel Tam. And now for that of THE MINISTER. A more excellent, worthy, and sincere man than Mr Anderson never entered a pulpit, or preached words of hope and consolation to sinners. He was not a flowery orator or a fashionable preacher; but he was plain, simple, nervous, earnest. His homeliness and anxious sincerity riveted the attention of the most thoughtless; and, as a poet says, "They who came to scoff remain'd to pray." I remember when he was first placed amongst us as minister of the parish: he was a mere youngster, but as primitive in his manners as if he had just come from the plough instead of a college. His father was a farm-steward upon the estate of the then member for the county; and the patronage being in the crown--as it is called--it was through the interest of the member that he got the kirk. About twelve months after he was placed, he took a wife; and his marriage gave great satisfaction to the whole congregation--at least to the poor and middle classes, who of course were the great majority. And the reason why his marriage gave such satisfaction was, that his wife was the daughter of a poor hind, that he had taken a liking to when he was but a laddie and her a lassie; and he had promised her, when they came from the harvest-field together (for while he was at the college, he always wrought in the harvest-time), that, if he lived, and was spared to be a minister, she should be his wife. I am sorry to say that such promises are owre often neglected by young people, when either the one or the other of them happens to get their head up in the world. But our minister thereby showed that his heart was actuated by right principles, and that he preferred happiness to every mercenary consideration. It showed that he was desirous of domestic comfort, and not ambitious of worldly aggrandisement. She was a bonny, quiet, discreet creature; and, if she hadna what ye may call the manners of a leddy, yet her modesty and good-nature lent an air of politeness to everything she did. Her constant desire to please far more than counterbalanced for her want of being what is called weel-bred; and, if she had not gentility, she had what is of more importance in a preacher's wife--a pious mind, a cheerful and charitable disposition, and a meek spirit; and whatever she was ignorant of, there was one thing she was acquainted with--she "Knew her Bible true." But after their marriage, he took great pains in instructing her in various branches of learning; and in that she made great proficiency, I am qualified to give evidence; for, when I have been present at the dinners after the sacramental occasions, I have heard her dispute wi' the ministers upon points of divinity, history, and other matters, and maintain her ground very manfully, if I may say it. I believe that a happier couple were not to be found in Great Britain. She bore unto him fourteen children, but of these, all save two, a boy and a girl, died in infancy; and in giving birth to the last, the mother perished. It was on a Sunday that she died; and I remember that, on the following Sabbath, her widowed husband entered the pulpit to preach her funeral sermon. His text was, "Why should we mourn as those who have no hope?" He proceeded with his discourse, but every few minutes he paused, he sobbed; the big tears ran down his cheeks; and all the congregation wept with him. At last he quoted the words, "In the morning I preached to the people, and in the evening my wife died!" His heart filled--the tears gushed from his eyes--he could say no more. He sank down on the seat, and covered his face with his hands. Two of the elders went up to the pulpit, and led him to the manse; and the precentor, of his own accord, giving out a psalm, the congregation sang it and dispersed. I have mentioned to ye his two surviving bairns--the name of the laddie was Edward, and of the lassie, Esther. Edward was several years older than his sister; and, from his youth upwards, he was a bold, sprightly, fearless callant. Often have I observed him playing the part of a captain, and drilling the laddies of the village into squares and lines, like a little army; and as often have I heard him say, that he would be nothing but a sodger. His father (as every Christian ought to do) regarded war as a great wickedness, and as an abomination that disgraced the earth; he therefore was grieved to see the military bent of his son's inclination, and did everything in his power to break him from it. He believed, and correctly too, that Edward had too much pride to enter the army as a common soldier, where he would be little better than a slave, and have to lift his hat to every puppy that wore an epaulette on his shoulder or a sash round his waist. The minister, therefore, was resolved that he would not advance the money to buy his son a commission. Here I must notice Johnny Grippy, who had never been kenned to perform a generous action in the whole course of his existence. He was a man that, if he had parted wi' a bawbee, to save a fellow-creature from starvation, wadna, through vexation, have slept again for a week. If ony body had pleaded poverty to him, he would have asked them--"What right they had to be poor?" It would have been more difficult for him to answer--"What right he had to be rich?" Johnny never forgave Mr Anderson for prohibiting him from being made an elder; and, in his own quiet, but cruel way, he said he would see that he got satisfaction, to the last plack, for the insult. Now, what do ye think the miser did? He absolutely offered young Maister Edward money to buy an ensign's commission, at the moderate interest of ten per cent., and on the understanding that he would gie him four years' credit for the interest, and that he wadna request the principal until he was made a captain. This proposal was made for the sole and individual purpose of grieving and afflicting Mr Anderson, and of being revenged on him. The silly laddie, dazzled wi' the bright sword and the gold-laced coat of an officer, and thinking it a grand thing to be a soldier--fancying himself a general, a hero, a conqueror in a hundred fights--swallowed the temptation, took the offered money on the conditions agreed to; and through the assistance of a college acquaintance, the son of a member of parliament, purchased a commission in a foot regiment. All this was done without his father's knowledge; and when Johnny Grippy witnessed the good man's tears as he parted with his son, his cold heart rejoiced that his revenge had been so far successful, and for once he regretted not having parted with his money without a sure bond being made doubly sure. In a very few weeks after Edward Anderson joined his regiment, he accompanied it abroad; and twelve months had not passed when the public papers contained an account of his having been promoted to the rank of lieutenant on the field, on account of his bravery. But listen, sir, to what follows.--It was on our fast-day, that the news arrived concerning a great victory in the Indies. We were all interested in the tidings, and the more particularly, as we knew that our minister's son was at the battle. His father and his sister were in a state of great anxiety concerning him, for whether he was dead or living, they could not tell. The weather was remarkably fine, and as a great preacher was to serve some of the tables, and preach during the afternoon's service, the kirk was crowded almost to suffocation, and it was found necessary to perform the ordinances in the open air. A green plot in front of the manse was chosen for the occasion, and which was capable of accommodating two or three thousand people. It was a grand sight to see such a multitude sitting on the green sward, singing the praises of their Maker, wi' the great heavens aboon them for a canopy! its very glory and immensity rendering them incapable of appreciating its unspeakable magnificence, and rendering as less than the dust in the balance the temples of men's hands. It reminded me of the days of the Covenant, when the pulpit was a mountain side, and its covering a cloud. Mr Anderson was a man whose very existence seemed linked wi' affection for his family. He had had great affection in it, and every death seemed to transfer the love that he had borne for the dead in a stronger degree towards those that were left. His soul was built up in them. All the congregation observed that he was greatly agitated various times during his discourse. It was evident to all that apprehensions for the fate of his son were forcing themselves upon his thoughts. The postman at that time brought the letters from the next town every day about one o'clock. Mr Anderson was serving the first table, and his face was towards the manse, when the postman, approaching the door, waved his hand towards Miss Esther, who sat near it, as much as to say that he had a letter from her brother. The father's voice failed, through agitation and anxiety, as he saw the letter in the postman's hand, and abruptly concluding his exhortation, he sat down trembling, while his eyes remained as if fixed upon the letter. I myself observed, as the postman passed me wi' it in his hand, that it was sealed wi' black. I regarded it as a fatal omen, and I at first looked towards the minister, to see whether he had observed it; but I believe that his eyes were so blinded wi' tears that he could not perceive it; and I then turned round towards Miss Esther; who I observed hastening to take the letter in her hand. At the sight of the black seal, she almost fainted upon the ground; and I saw the poor thing shaking as a leaf that quivers in the wind. But when, wi' a hurried and trembling hand, she had broken the seal, she hadna read three lines until the letter dropped upon the ground, and, clasping her hands together, wi' a wild heart-piercing scream, that sounded wildly through the worship of the people, she exclaimed, "My brother!--my brother!" and fell wi' her face upon the ground. The spectators raised her in their arms. Her father's heart could hold no longer. He rushed through the multitude--he snatched up the fatal letter. It bore the post-mark of Bengal, but it was not the handwriting of his son. He, too, seemed to read but a line, when he smote his hand upon his forehead, and exclaimed, in agony, "My son! my son!--my poor Edward!" His gallant boy was one of those who were slain and buried upon the field; and the letter, which was from his colonel, recorded his courage, his virtues, and his death! All the people rose, and sorrow and sympathy seemed on every countenance save one--and that was the face of the auld miser and hypocrite, Johnny Grippy. The body seemed actually to glut, wi' a malicious delight, over the misery and affliction of which he, in a measure, had been the cause; and, though he did try to screw his mouth into a form of pity or compassion, and squeezed his een together to make them water, I more than once observed the twittering streak of satisfaction and delight pass owre his cheeks, just as ye have seen the shadow of a swift cloud pass owre a field of waving grain. I hated the auld miser for his very looks and his attempted hypocrisy; and, forgive me for saying so, but I believe, if at that moment it had been in my power to have annihilated him, I would have done it. The man who does the work of iniquity openly or through error, I would pray for; but he that does it beneath the mask of virtue or religion, I would exterminate. It was many weeks before Mr Anderson was able to resume his place in the pulpit again; and his daughter, also, took the death of her brother greatly to heart. The whole parish sought to condole wi' them, not even excepting young Laird Cochrane of the Ha', who had not then come to the estate. I firmly believe, sir, that he was a predestinated villain from his cradle, for he showed symptoms of the most disgusting depravity more early than ever laddie did. The aulder he grew, when he was in the country, he went the more about the manse, and Esther was nearly about his own age. She was a lassie that I would call the very perfection of loveliness--simple, artless, confiding, but not without a sprinkling o' woman's vanity. There was a laddie, the son of Thomas Elliot, or Ne'er-do-weel Tam, as he was commonly called, that was very fond of her; he was a fine, deserving callant, and all the town thought she was fond of him. But the young laird put himself forward as his rival, and the one was rich and the other poor. The laird of the Ha' sent daily presents of geese, turkeys, and all sorts of game in their season, to the manse; and he also presented rings, trinkets, and other fine things to Esther; while the other, who was considered a sort of poet in the neighbourhood, could only say, as a sang that I hear them singing now-a-days says-- "My heart and lute are all my store And these I bring to thee." The laird was also an adept in flattery, in its most cunningly-devised forms. Now, sir, it is amazing what an effect the use of such means will ultimately produce upon the best-regulated minds. They are like the constant dropping that weareth away a stone. Though unconscious of it herself, Esther, who was but a young thing, began to listen with more patience to the addresses of the heir of the Ha'; and she occasionally exhibited something like dryness and petulance in the presence of poor Alexander Elliot--for such was his name. At the very first shadow of change upon her countenance, his spirit became bitter wi' jealousy, and he rashly charged her wi' deserting him for the sake of the young laird and the estate to which he was heir. This was a tearing asunder of the silken cords that for years had held their hearts together. He was proud, and so was she--they became distrustful of each other, and at length they quarrelled, and parted never to meet again. I have heard it said, that it was partly to be revenged on Alexander that Esther gave an ear to the addresses of the laird; but that is a subject on which I offer no opinion. All that I know is, that Alexander enlisted, and went out to join his regiment in the West Indies. The laird followed Esther like her shadow; and every one, save myself, said that there would be a marriage between them. Even her worthy father seemed to dream in the golden delusion; and, I am sorry to say, that I believe he was in no small degree the cause of finally breaking off the intimacy between her and Alexander Elliot. She was, as I have informed ye, a sensitive, confiding lassie; and the laird, who had a honeyed tongue, succeeded not only, in the long run, in gaining her affections, but in making her to believe in his very looks; for, being incapable of falsehood herself, she did not suspect it in others, and least of all in those who had obtained a place in her heart. The young villain went so far as, in her presence, to ask her father's consent to their marriage; and the auld laird being then dead, the minister agreed. It was not long after this, that the scapegrace went to London, and Esther began to droop like a flower nipped wi' a frost. Half-a-dozen times in the day her father found her in tears, and he endeavoured to comfort and to cheer her; but his efforts were unavailing. It pained his heart, which had already been sorely chastened by affliction, to behold the youngling, and last of his flock, pining away before him. The young laird neither returned nor wrote, and he suspected not the cause of his daughter's grief. The first hint he got of it was from his elders assembled in session. The old man in agony fell back--he gasped, he smote his breast, and tore his grey hairs. In his agony he cried that his Maker had forsaken him! The elders sought to condole wi' him, but it was in vain; he was carried to the manse, and he never preached more. His heart was broken, and, before a month passed, the thread of life snapped also. Wi' the weight of her own shame and sorrow, and her father's death, poor Esther became demented. About nine weeks after her father's funeral, she gave birth to a still-born child; and it was a happy thing that the infant and its mother were buried at the same time, in the same grave. Such, sir, is all that it is necessary for me to inform ye concerning our late worthy minister; and of the young laird ye shall hear more presently, in the history of NE'ER-DO-WEEL TAM. I never kenned a lad that I entertained a higher regard for than Thomas Elliot. His father left him fifteen hundred pounds, laid out upon a mortgage at five per cent. interest, and bequeathed in such a way that he couldna lift the principal. There was a vast deal of real goodness about his heart--he was frank, liberal, sincere. Every person that kenned him liked him. His first and greatest fault was that he was owre open; he laid bare his breast, as it were, to the attack of every enemy that chose to hurl a shaft at it. He was a fool for his pains; and, I daresay, he saw it in the end. There was always some person taking the advantage of the frankness of his disposition. But the thing that ruined him, and fixed the by-name on him, was, that he became a sort of fixture in Luckie Riddle's parlour. His chief companion was a lad of the name of William Archbold--a blithe, singing chield, that was always happy, and ready at onything. Thomas and he were courting two sisters--Jenny and Peggy Lilly--the daughters of a small farmer in the neighbourhood, and both of them were bonny, weel-respected lasses. The folk in this quarter used to call William Archbold _Blithe Willie_. He was a blacksmith to his trade, but quite a youth; and come upon him by night or by day, Willie was sure to be found laughing, whistling, or singing. He hadna a yearly income like Thomas Elliot; and, strange to say, he got the blame of gieing him a howff at Luckie Riddle's. But that was a doctrine which I always protested against; and I said it was much more likely that, as Thomas was fu'-handed, while his neighbour had to work for his bread, the man of money led the blacksmith to their howff, and not the blacksmith the man of money. One thing is certain, that both of them were far oftener at Luckie's than was either good for their health, wealth, or reputation. One night, it seems, after having drunk until, if "they werena fu', they just had plenty," they reeled away to see the two sisters, their sweethearts. Jenny didna wish to quarrel wi' Thomas, because he had the siller; but Peggy turned away wi' scorn from Blithe Willie, and said, that she "never again would speak to one who was no better than a common blackguard, and who neither had regard for himself, nor for any one connected wi' him." What more passed between them I canna tell, but it is said he turned sober in an instant; and, certain it is, that night he left the town, and has never been more heard tell off. Thomas Elliot and Jenny were married, but she died the second year after their marriage, leaving to his charge an infant son, who was kirsened by the name of Alexander. Thomas, after his wife's death, tried many things (for while she lived she keepit him to rights), but he neglected them all. He began twenty things, and ended nothing. He was to be found in Luckie Riddle's in the morning, and he was to be seen sitting there at night. Before he was forty, he became a perfect sot; and I used to ask, "Wha leads him away now." The fact was, he was miserable save when he was in company; and, for the sake of company, he would have sat sipping and drinking from sunrise to sunset, without ever perceiving that in that time he had been sitting wi' twenty different companies, each of whom had remained maybe half-an-hour, and left him bibbing there to make a crony of the customer that last came in. But this course of life could not last long. He had mortgaged the mortgage that his father left him, until, although he could not lift it, he had almost swallowed it up; and at the age of forty-four he fell into the grave like a lump of diseased flesh--a thing without a soul! I have informed ye that he left a son, named Alexander, behind him. He was a laddie that was beloved by the whole town; and it was him that frae bairnhood was set down as the future husband of Esther Anderson, our minister's daughter. I have already told ye how he enlisted, when he fancied that she was drawing up wi' the young laird, and slighting him. Now, mark ye, sir--for this is one of the most singular things in the history of our village--about three years after the melancholy deaths of Esther and her father, the laird, wi' a pack o' young men as thoughtless and wicked as himself, came down to the Ha'. It was plain as noonday that the murder of a young lassie, her bairn, and her honoured father, had never cost the young libertine a thought. He returned to all his former profligacy, as a sow returns to its wallowing in the mire. He was returning, towards evening, with three or four of his companions from an otter-hunt, and was within a quarter-of-a-mile of the Ha', when he was met by two strangers--the one a youth, and the other a man of middle age. "Stand!" cried the young man, sternly. "What do you want, fellow?" inquired the laird, proudly. "Dismount," retorted the other, "and take this," presenting to him a pistol. "I come to avenge the murder of Esther Anderson and her father; and," added he, "wi' your blood to wash the bruise ye have inflicted on my wounded heart. Did ye think, because her brave brother was with the dead, that there was none left to revenge the ruin of her innocence? Beneath the very tree where we now stand, she plighted me her first vow, and we were happy as the birds that sang upon its branches, until ye, as a serpent, crossed our path. Dismount, Laird Cochrane, if ye be not coward as weel as villain." "Alexander Elliot," replied the laird, "are ye not aware that I am a magistrate, and have power to commit ye even now as a deserter. Begone, sir, and take your hand from my horse's head; for it becomes not a gentleman to quarrel wi' such as you." "Dismount, ye palsy-spirited slave!" cried Alexander, "and choose your weapon and your distance. Let your friends that are wi' you see that ye have fair play. Dismount, or I will shoot ye dead where ye sit." And as he spoke he dragged him from his horse. It was an awful tragedy to take place in a peaceable corner of the earth like this. The stranger that accompanied Alexander took the pistols, and addressing one of the gentlemen that were wi' the laird, said, coolly, "This business must be settled, sir, and the sooner the better. Choose ye one of these weapons, and let the principals take their ground." They did take their ground, as it was termed, and their pistols were levelled at each other's heart. Guilt and surprise made the laird to tremble, but revenge gave steadiness to the hand of young Elliot. Both fired at the same moment, and with a sudden groan the laird fell dead upon the ground. Some said that the earth was weel rid of a prodigal; while others thought it an awful thing that he should have been cut off in such a manner, in the very middle of his iniquities and career of wickedness; and it was generally regretted that he should have fallen by the hand of a lad so universally respected as Alexander Elliot. Such, sir, was the end of the young laird; but what has become of Alexander is more than any one in these parts can tell. I have just now a few words to say concerning JOHNNY GRIPPY. The Grippys were a very remarkable family; and it was a common saying, that they were weel named. There were originally three brothers of them; and when I first kenned them, they were ragged, barelegged callants, but every one of them as keen as a Jew, and as hard as a flinty rock. Two of them were in the cattle line; and, through stinginess, cheatery, and such-like means, they amassed a power of money. But both of them died, and being unmarried, their brother Johnny became sole heir to their property. He was a man that would have walked ten miles to pick up a farthing. He keepit a shop, or what the Americans would call a _store_, in the village, for he sold everything, new and auld, good, bad, and indifferent--eatable and wearable, or for whatever purpose it was wanted; for everything ye could think about was to be had for money at the shop of Johnny Grippy. Of late years, it was weel ascertained that he dealt extensively in sending whisky into England, and in such a way, too, that neither the dirdum, the risk, nor the loss could land at his door. But he had dealings in many concerns, both here and elsewhere. Wherever he heard of anything by which there was money to be made, he always endeavoured to get his finger in. It was affirmed that he was connected wi' some wealthy trading companies about London, and that he had ships upon the sea. I know for a positive fact, that he went up to the great city every year, and that he actually begged his way there and back again. But it is my opinion that he made the greater part of his wealth by lending out money to usury. By this means a great deal of property fell into his possession, for he was as cruel as a starving tiger. He was a despiser of both justice and mercy, and all he cared about was--"_I maun hae my bargain_." That was always his answer, if onybody offered to intercede wi' him for ony poor creature that he was distressing. The auld knave endeavoured to cover his avarice wi' the cloak o' religion, and, as I have already informed ye, sought to be made an elder; and, as ye have been made aware, he never forgave our late worthy minister for the slight and disappointment, but, even against his nature, parted wi' money to obtain a cruel revenge. It would tire you, if I were to inform you of the one-thousandth part of Johnny's meanness, and the instances of his ravening avariciousness, or the misery which he caused in the habitations of both high and low. Indeed, I may say, that he grew rich through the ruin of others; and he sought out objects of misery on which he might fix his devouring talons, even as a vulture seeketh out a dead carcase. At an enormous interest, he lent money to the auld laird; and he cunningly permitted the interest to accumulate, year after year, until the laird's death. He also advanced sums to the young laird at a rate even more usurious, and got the entire title-deeds of the estate into his hands as security; and when the laird fell in the duel wi' Alexander Elliot, he seized and took possession of Ha' estate, and all that was thereon, claiming them as his! The whole parish was thunderstruck wi' astonishment. The next kin to the young laird threatened to throw the case into the Court of Chancery. "Let them," said Johnny, laughing in his sleeve, "they will live lang that live to see it settled there--and _I will hae my bargain_." Weel, the case was thrown into Chancery, and Johnny did not live to see it settled, for settled it is not until this day, and what some one said of eternity might be said of it--it is "beginning to begin." I think ye heard that John had acquired a habit of slipping owre to Luckie Riddle's on the edge of his foot for a dram before breakfast. He took a strong liking for her strong bottle, and by way of saving the expense of the dram, he left off the practice of taking a breakfast; and when the single dram increased to two and three in the day, he confined himself to one meal, and that of the poorest and scantiest kind--a potato and salt, or maybe a herring as a luxury. But it was more than suspected that the potatoes on which he lived were not all honestly came by; for I myself have seen him in a field amongst other folks', stooping down and fingering at the drills, and slipping the potatoes into his coat-pocket; and when asked what he was doing, he would have said (quite collectedly, for there was no possibility of confusing him), "Ou, I am just looking what sort of crop such-a-one is going to have this year." But the miser's love of drink increased upon him, and the more he spent on liquor, the more he hungered himself. He became a living skeleton, and in the depth of a severe winter, he was found sitting dead behind his desk, with the copy of a letter before him, in which he had instructed his man of business to sell off, immediately, the husband of Peggy Lilly. "The husband of Peggy Lilly!" interrupted the stranger, who had hitherto listened to the records of the Patriarch in silence--"who was he?" "That," resumed the old man, "seems to interest you, and wherefore I cannot divine, as I have no recollection of your face; but, if ye have patience and hearken, ye shall hear all that I can tell ye of the history of PEGGY LILLY. Peggy was allowed to be the bonniest lass in all the parish; but she was as prudent and sedate as she was bonny, and everybody wondered that she keepit company wi' William Archbold sae lang as she did, after he had gien himself up to a habit o' dissipation; though she, perhaps, thocht as I did, that it was mere thochtlessness in the young man, that he was just drawn awa by his friend, Thomas Elliot, and that, if he were married, he would reform. Luckie Riddle's sign, however, was a black sight to him, and I doot it has been a heart-sore to puir Peggy. The difference that the subject gave rise to between them, was perhaps unlucky for the happiness o' baith parties. In the vexation o' the moment, she uttered words o' harshness which her heart did not dictate, and, in leaving as he did, he acted rashly. When we heard, however, of William Archbold's having left the town, and the cause of his leaving--that it arose from Peggy having spoken to him as if disgusted at his conduct--we laughed, and said he would soon come back again. She thought the same thing; but weeks and months succeeded each other, and now five-and-twenty years have passed, and the lad has been no more heard of. How deeply Peggy grieved for her conduct, and mourned his absence, was visible in her countenance. About ten years after her sister's death, her parents, who had both become very frail, were thrown out of their bit farm, after several very unfortunate seasons in it, and they were left entirely dependent upon her exertions for their support. They were reduced to very great straits, and many a time it was a wonder to me how they lived; but late and early did she toil for their maintenance; and, poor hizzy, the sorrow that fell upon her face for the loss of William Archbold never left it. At that time a very decent man, who had taken a small farm in the neighbourhood, began to pay attention to her, and often called at her father's house. She heard his request, that she would marry him, wi' a sigh--for she hadna forgotten Blithe Willie. But her father and mither looked at her, wi' the tears in their een, and they besought her night and day, that they might see her settled and provided for. She at length yielded to their solicitations, and gied him her hand; but she was candid enough to confess to him, that her affection couldna accompany it, though her respect and duty should. So far as the world could judge, they seemed to live happily together, and Peggy made an exemplary wife; but there was always like a quiet settled melancholy on her countenance. Their farm was too dear taken, and about a year after they were married, it became the property of Johnny Grippy. Ye have already heard what sort of man he was, reaping where he had not sown. He exacted his rent to the last farthing, or without ceremony paid himself double from the stock upon the farm. Peggy's husband became unable, though he struggled early and late, to make up his rent, and having fought until his strength was exhausted, and his health and heart broken, he sank down upon his bed, a dying man; and Johnny, causing the sheriff's-officer to seize all that was upon the farm, made them seize also the very bed upon which the dying man lay. He in fact died in their hands; and Peggy was turned out upon the world, a friendless widow, with two helpless infants at her knee; and a sore, sore fight she has had to get the bite and the sup for them, poor things, from that day to this. "But," replied the stranger, with emotion, "there is one left who will provide for her and her children." "Who may that be?" inquired the patriarch. "William Archbold," answered the other. "Preserve us!" said the old man, in surprise; "I daresay I have been blind not to have recognised ye before--ye are William!" "I am," replied the other--"Blithe Willie, as you once termed me. Peggy's cutting and just rebuke roused my pride, and filled me with self-abasement at the same instant. In a state of mind bordering on madness, I left the village, where I considered my character to be blasted for ever. I went to London, and there engaged to go out to India. I was there fortunate in business, and in a few years became rich. I there, some years ago, discovered Alexander Elliot (the son of my old companion), whose regiment had gone to the East, and not to the West Indies, as you supposed. I purchased his discharge, and employed him as a clerk. He requested permission to visit this country, and it was granted; but I knew not the deadly nature of his errand. It was during that visit that he so fatally avenged the ruin of poor Esther. He is again in India, and prospering. But you say that Peggy has been married--that she is a widow--a widow!" "Yes; a widow, sir," answered the patriarch; "and if ye be single, I think ye canna do better than make her a wife." "No, no!" said William, drawing his hand across his eyes; "I cannot; I will not glean where another has reaped. But here is a bank-order for five hundred pounds; let it be conveyed to her; but let her never know the hand from whence it came." "Hoots! nonsense, Maister William!" said the old man. "See her again, for auld langsyne, at ony rate, and gie her it yersel." What course William Archbold would have adopted I cannot tell; but at that moment Peggy passed down the street, and spoke to the old man as she passed. William started to his feet, he stretched out his hand, he exclaimed, "Peggy!" She was speechless--tears gushed into her eyes. Old love, it is said, soon kindles again. Be this as it may, within six weeks Peggy left the village in a coach as the wife of William Archbold, and her children accompanied her. THE OLD CHRONICLER'S TALES. THE DEATH OF JAMES I. The scrupulous, we might almost say affected, regard for what they conceive to be historical truth, on the part of many historians, leading them to admit nothing into their veritable histories but what has been "proven," and proven in such a manner as to please themselves, has been productive of at least this effect--that many a fact in history has been consigned to the regions of fable and romance, because supported only by that evidence which has hanged millions of God's creatures--namely, the testimony of witnesses. The weight of tradition, often the very best and truest evidence, in so far as it combines experience and faith, is, in the estimation of historiographers, overbalanced by a fragment of paper, provided it be written upon, and the writing be formed after some old court-hand or black-letter style; though, after all, the valued antiquarian scrap, formed by the operation of one goose quill, moved by one hand, and that hand impelled by the mind of one frail mortal, may be merely a distorted relic of that very tradition which is so much despised. We do not profess to be fastidious in the selection of authorities. Tradition, in our opinion, ought to be tested by the experience of mankind: where it stands that test, it ought to be received as a part of veritable history; and sure we are that, if by this mode anything may be thought to be lost in point of strict truth, it will be well balanced by what is gained in point of amusement. It is upon these principles we have selected, and now lay before our readers, an account of a well-known catastrophe of Scottish history, much more full in its details than any that has yet been offered to the public. In the beginning of the winter 1436, Sir Robert Graham (whose nephew, Patrick Graham, had been married to the daughter of David, Earl of Strathearn, and who himself bore that dignity) appeared at the royal residence of Walter Stuart, Duke of Athol, his kinsman (the latter being uncle to Patrick, Earl of Strathearn's wife), in a state of disguise. The night was far advanced when he arrived, and the duke was called from his bed to see the visiter, who had been for some time under the ban of the stern authority of his sovereign, James I. The duke knew well what was the main object of the knight, though he was entirely ignorant of the special intelligence that the latter had to communicate to him. They met in the large wainscoted hall, which in brighter days had resounded to the merry sounds of the wassail of King Robert's sons, but which, ever since the accession of the reigning king, had echoed nothing but the sighs and groans of the persecuted victims of James' vengeance against all the relatives and supporters of the unfortunate house of Albany. The duke and the knight were now both old men, though the former was much in advance of the latter; they were both grandfathers--the grandson of the duke being Sir Robert Stuart, chamberlain to the king, and the grandson of the latter being Malise Graham, who had been disinherited of his Earldom of Strathearn by the unwise policy of the monarch; but old and grey-headed as they were, they, true to the character of the age in which they lived, retained that fierce spirit of vengeance which was held one of the cardinal virtues of the creed of nobility and knighthood of that extraordinary period. As the duke entered the hall, which was lighted only by a small lamp that stood on the oaken table at which the inhabitants of the castle dined, he required to use well both his eyes and his ears, obtuse as his external senses had become by age, before he was apprised of the situation occupied by the knight, who, musing over his schemes of revenge, did not observe the duke enter. He was roused from his reverie by the hand of his old friend, applied by way of slap to his shoulder, as if for the purpose of wakening him from sleep--a power that seldom overcomes the restless spirit of vengeance. "The arm of King James," said the duke, "reaches farther than mine, and a smaller light than that glimmering taper, that twinkles so mournfully in this ancient hall of the Stuarts, enables him to see farther than is now permitted to these old eyes; and yet you are here on the very borders of the Lowlands, and within a score miles of the court, where the enemy of our families holds undisputed sway. Are you not afraid of the Heading-hill of Stirling, which still shows the marks of the blood of the murdered Stuarts?" "I have come from the fastnesses of the north," said Graham, as he took off his plaid, which was covered with snow, to shake it, and exhibited a belt well stored with daggers and hunting-knives--"I have come from my residence among the eagles, like one of the old grey-headed birds with which I am become familiar, to warm the cold blood of a mountain life with some of the warm stream that nerves the arms of my enemies of the valley." "Or rather," replied the duke, smiling, "you have come to ask an old fox, with a head greyer than that of an eagle, to hunt with you, and guide you to the caves of your foes; but you have destroyed your scheme of vengeance, by advising your principal enemy of your intention. Why, speaking seriously, did you write such an epistle to the king? You have lived among your grey-headed friends to little purpose, when you have used one of their feathers as an instrument for telling your victim that another is to fledge the arrow that is to seek his heart's blood. Such an act may be said to be noble, when the avenger is to give his enemy a fair chance for his life; but that you do not intend to do, for your vengeance (which must be glutted in secret, if it is to be glutted at all) is not to be stayed by the forms of the laws of chivalry. James is now on his guard. You have told him you intend to slay him--and slay him now if you can!" "And, by the arms of the Grahams of Kincardine, I _will_, Athol--I _will_, I _shall_! Is it your grace who would dissuade me from my purpose of revenge, merely because the fire is so furious that it sent forth a gleam on the victim that is destined to feel its scorching heat?--you, who have within these few minutes brought up to our burning imaginations the bloody scene of the Heading-hill of Stirling, whereon perished so many of your kinsmen--you, whose dukedom has been first wrested from you, and then bestowed on you in _liferent_, because you are _old_--you who should" (here he spoke into the ear of the duke) "be _king_!"--pausing. "Who does not know that Robert III., your brother, was born out of lawful wedlock? His father never married Elizabeth More; but who could doubt that Euphemia Ross, your mother, the widow of the famous Randolph, was joined to him in lawful wedlock? The people of Scotland know this, and they are sick of the bastard on the throne"--pausing again, and looking earnestly at the duke through the gloom of the large hall. "Is it to be tolerated that legitimacy is to be longer trampled under foot by bastardy? Too long have you overlooked your right of blood; but it is not yet too late for ample amends. The usurper has done all in his power, by oppressing you and slaying your friends, to force you to assert and vindicate your indefeasible right, and gratify a legitimate revenge. In these veins," seizing the old man's shrivelled wrist, "runs the blood of _the Bruce_! What a thought is that!--what heart could resist its impulse? what brain its fire?" After whispering, with great earnestness, this speech into the ear of the old duke, Graham paused again, and looked at him. The words had produced the effect which they might have been expected to produce on the mind of one who had long dreamed over the same thoughts and purposes, and been fired by the same feelings, but who had been prevented, by unmanly fears, from obeying the dictates of his judgment, the call of his ambition, and the spur of revenge. The energetic manner in which the old fancies had been roused by the wily Graham threw him into a reverie, the result of which the knight did not think fit to wait. He had already, to a certain extent, succeeded in stimulating the lethargy of age, and sending through the shrivelled veins of the scion of royalty the blood that owned the influence of the passion-struck heart; it was now his purpose to keep the ground he had gained, and push for more; and as the duke still stood muffled up in his morning-gown, and his chin upon his folded arms, the tempter proceeded-- "Your grace has often declared to me," he continued, "that you have faith in our Highland seers, and believe the sounds of the _taisch_, as given forth by the inspired visionary." "Who can doubt these things?" replied the old duke, looking seriously, and continuing his musing position. "I certainly never had the hardihood. I have seen too many instances of their verification, to be sceptical on that head. The fate of the family of Albany was foretold by a seer many months before the execution of Duke Murdoch and his sons. But what has this to do with my persecution, or with my being king of Scotland? God knows, I have at this moment visions enough!--your remarks have roused my sleeping mind; yet I could almost say I dream." "This dark hall, that little flickering lamp, and my presence at this late hour, may well produce an illusion; but I deal in no fancies. I have only truths to tell, and deeds to do--ay, and such deeds as may well cross the rapt eyes of the seer; Scotland has not seen such for many a day, sad and sorrowful as have been the fates of her kings. Will your grace hear _your_ fate from the lips of a seer?" "I would rather hear that of my enemy, who rules this kingdom with a rod of iron," replied the duke. "You will hear the fates and fortunes of both," said Graham--"ay, even as is seen the scales of justice, which, as the beam moves, lifts one, only to depress the other. If you will accompany me to a shepherd's hut, back among your own hills of Athol, you will hear what time has in store for you and King James." "I will," replied the duke, anxiously; "but age requires rest. I was hunting all day, and feel weary. Let us postpone our visit till to-morrow evening." "Ah!" cried Graham, "the _hunter_ may say he is wearied, but the _hunted_ has no title to speak the language of nature. If we go at all, we must go _now_. The visions of the seer come on him during night. At the solemn hour of midnight, futurity is revealed to him--to the hunted outlaw, whose bed is among the heather, there is not vouchsafed the ordinary certainty of seeing even another sun. Come, dress--I will lead your grace's horse through the hills. We have no time to lose--the old enemy is beforehand with us, and our grizzled locks mock the tardiness of our revenge. Come!" "My weakness leaves me under the charm of your words, Graham," said the old duke. "Tell Malcolm to get my horse in readiness; meanwhile, I will dress, and be presently with you." The duke went up to his bedroom, and Graham sought the servant, who proceeded to obey his directions. He came again back to the hall, and folding his arms, walked to and fro, muttering to himself, stopping at times, and raising his hand in a menacing attitude, as if he were wholly engrossed by one feeling of revenge, and then resuming his musing attitude. The duke, dressed, belted, and muffled up in a large riding-cloak, again roused him from his reverie. They proceeded to the courtyard, where the duke mounted, and Graham, taking the bridle into his hand, took the horse away into a by-path that led to the hills. After proceeding forward for about an hour in the dark, they observed a small light glimmering in the distance, and coming apparently from the window of some cottage. For this Graham made as directly as the unevenness of the ground would permit; and in a short time they arrived at the door of the small dwelling, from the window of which the beam of light shot out amongst the darkness, suggesting the idea of life, and probably some of its comforts (at least a fire), amidst the dead stillness of a winter night in so dreary a situation. At the door of this cottage, Graham rapped in a peculiar manner; and without a word being spoken, it was opened by a young man clad in the Highland garb. The two friends entered. The scene presented to them was the ordinary appearance of a mountain hut in those days: a small fire of peats burned in the middle of the apartment, and sent out the light which, beaming through the small aperture in place of a window, had attracted the eyes of the guests. In a corner, a small truckle-bed stuffed with heather, part of which protruded at the side and end, and covered with a coarse blanket or two, contained an old woman, with a clear, active eye, which twinkled in the light of the fire, and moved with great rapidity as she scanned narrowly the persons of the guests. In another corner was the bed of the young Highlander, composed simply of a collection of heather, and without blanket or covering of any kind. The guests seated themselves on two coarse stools that stood by the fire; holding their hands over the flame, to receive as much as possible of the heat to thaw their limbs, which the freezing night air, co-operating with their advanced years, had stiffened and benumbed. While they were engaged in this preliminary but indispensable operation, the young man, who appeared restless and confused, placed another stool before the bed of the old woman, so that, when seated upon it, his back would be supported by the side of the bed, and his face in some degree concealed from the gaze of the guests, who, being on the other side of the peat fire, could, through the ascending smoke, see him only indistinctly and at intervals. With the exception of a few words that had passed between the young Highlander and Graham--and which, being in Gaelic, were not understood by the royal duke, who, though formerly Lord of Brechin, and resident in the north, had been too long in leaving the royal residence of his father, Robert II., to acquire the language--there was nothing for some time said. The guests continued their manual applications to the peat fire, and the young Gael, who had for some time been seated on his stool, threw himself occasionally back on the fore part of the bed, then brought himself forward again, and at intervals muttered quickly some words in Gaelic, accompanied with sounds of wonder and surprise, from all which he suddenly relapsed into quietness and silence. While these strange operations were going on, Graham directed the attention of the duke to the uncouth actor, and whispered something in his ear which had the effect of rousing him, and making him look anxiously through the smoke, to get a better view of the strange gestures of the youth. The old woman in the bed made, in the meantime, efforts as if she intended to speak; but these were repressed by a sudden motion of the youth, whose hand, slipped back, was applied as secretly as possible to her mouth, and then, in a menacing attitude, clenched and shaken in her face. "Is your hour come yet, Allan?" said Graham, in a deep and serious voice. "He says no," answered the old woman, with a sharp, clear voice, from the bed, translating the Gaelic response of the youth; "but he sees signs o' an oncome." "Is it to be a mute vision, Allan?" again said Graham; "or see you any signs of a _taisch_?" "He thinks," said the woman again, as translator, "he will see again the face and feir o' a dead king, wha will speak wi' sobs and granes o' him wha will come after him, and sit in the browden and burniest ha' o' Scone's auld palace, whar he will be crowned." Silence again succeeded the clear notes of the woman's voice; the young man's movements and gestures recommenced; and the old duke's attention was riveted by the strange proceedings which, to an absolute believer in the powers of the seer, were fraught with intense interest. The prophetic paroxysm seemed to approach more near: the body of the seer was bent stiffly back, and leaned on the bed; his eyes were wide open, and fixed upon a mental object; his hands were extended forth; his lips were apart; and every gesture indicated that state of the mind when, under the influence of a rapt vision, it takes from the body its nervous energy, and leaves the limbs as if under the power of a trance. He remained in this condition for fully five minutes; and then, throwing his arms about, he cried out some quickly-uttered words in Gaelic, which the old woman translated into--"It comes! it comes!" After a pause of a few minutes, during which the most death-like silence prevailed throughout the cottage, he began to move his hands slowly through the air, from right to left, as if he were following the progress of a passing creation of the mind; and, as he continued this movement, he spoke, in a deep, tremulous voice, with a kind of mournful, singing cadence, the Gaelic words, which were continually translated by the old woman. "There comes slowly, as if frae the womb o' a cloud o' mountain mist, the seim o' a turreted abbey, wi' the tomb o' the Bruce and the monuments o' other kings, amang which a new grave, wi' the moul o' centuries o' rotten banes lying on its edge, and mixed wi' the skulls o' dead kings, and arm-banes that ance bore the sceptre o' Scotland!--It is gane!--the seim has vanished, and my eye is again darkened!" A deep silence succeeded, and lasted for several minutes. The speaker's hands again began to move from right to left, and slowly-uttered words again came from his lips! "The cloud throws back its misty faulds, and shows the wraith o' a gowd-graithit bier, movin to the wast; the Scotch lion is on the lid, and a shinin halbrik, owre whilk waves the royal pennon o' Scotland, begirt wi' gowd, is carried afore, by the king-at-arms. A warlock, auld and shrivelled, wi' a white beard, touches wi' his wand the coffin; the lid lifts, and the head o' a king, wi' a leaden crown, rises frae the bier! A _taisch_! a _taisch_!--hark! the lips o' the dead open and move, and he speaks the weird that never deceives! '_Hail, Walter, King o' the Scots!_'" This extraordinary statement was accompanied by a kind of yell or scream, that rung through the cottage, and pierced the ears of the listeners. Silence again followed, and lasted several minutes, during which the seer was quiet. The duke was apparently entranced, and Graham looked wonder and surprise. The seer began again to move his hands, and speak as before. "The cloud throws back its misty faulds, and my eye follows the seim o' the royal chair o' Scone, wherein sits" (a loud scream of surprise broke from the seer) "Walter, Lord o' Brechin that was, Duke o' Athol that is--King o' Scotland that will be!" These words were no sooner uttered, than the duke started from the stool on which he sat, and showed strong indications of surprise and confusion. His belief in the predictions of a seer was, as was common in that age, unbounded, and when he heard himself pronounced King o' Scotland his mind, freed from all manner of scepticism or doubt, reverted to the circumstance of the doubtful legitimacy of his half-brothers; the aspirations and day-dreams he had so long indulged seemed in an instant to have received the stamp of truth; the prospect of having his ambition at last gratified, by wearing the crown which his enemy now bore, inflamed his mind, and the coldness and lethargy of old age seemed to have been supplanted by the fire and energy of youth. "Is the vision complete?" said he to the old woman, as he saw the seer gradually regaining his upright position, and resulting his natural manner, like one who had come out of a fit. "Ay," replied she. "Allan is himsel again; but, if ye are the Duke o' Athol, as I tak ye to be, I could rede ye, before our reddin, never mair, aiblins, to meet on this side o' time, something that wad make your auld een glimmer through the smeik o' that ingle mair swith and deftly than could a' the visions o' the seers o' Scotland." Graham looked alarmed at this unexpected speech of the old woman; and Allan, the seer, slipping gently his hand behind her back, stopped her mouth, and produced silence. The duke and Graham left the cottage--the latter exhibiting a wish that the former should not remain longer, after the object was attained for which they had made their visit. They returned in the same way they had come; and for some time the duke was so much occupied with the thoughts of the extraordinary vision he had got declared to him, that he rode forward, still led by Graham, without uttering a word. The night was, if possible, darker than it was when they left the castle; and the stillness of a lazy fall of snow reigned among the hills, unbroken by a single sound, even of the night-birds. "It is then ordained above," said the duke at last, in a low tone--"my lot is already cast among the destinies, and all the dreams of a long life are at last to be realised. I can scarcely believe that I have been awake for this last hour; yet what can be more certain than that I am now suffering the cold of these hills, a bodily feeling which dreams cannot simulate? 'Walter, King of Scotland!' Ha! it sounds as well as James--we are both the first of our name. It is tardy justice, but it is justice accompanied by retribution; and when is the blood too thin and cold to feed the fire of revenge? When do the pulses of the old heart cease to quicken at the thought of a just retribution? When is the head too bald to bear a crown lined with purple velvet? My spirits, frozen by age and this cold night, are thawed by the fire of these visions of vengeance, and dance in the wild array of youthful delight. Ha! he took from me the fee of my dukedom, and gave me, because I was _old_, the usufruct, the liferent: I shall now have the usufruct of a _kingdom_--_his_ kingdom by courtesy, _mine_ by right. Hark, Graham! How is this vision to be realised? The seer pointed to James's death--who is to kill the tyrant?" "I with this hand shall strike the blow," replied Graham. "My plans are already laid, and I wanted only your cooperation and assistance; for why, you know, should I be so improvident as to kill one king, until another is ready to take his place?" "I cannot speak lightly of this affair," said the duke, in check of Graham's levity. "What are your plans? The fewer co-operators in a conspiracy the better." "I know it," replied Graham. "Your grandson, Sir Robert Stuart, whom James has foolishly retained as chamberlain, while he has taken from him his chance of succeeding you in your dukedom, waits for your command to give us access to the royal chamber. The king is to celebrate the Christmas holidays at the monastery of the Dominicans in Perth; he comes to the point of our dagger, held by a hand nerved by a thousand wrongs, to plunge it into his bosom. I can command the services of Sir John Hall, and Christopher and Thomas Chambers, who cry for revenge for the murder of their master Albany; three hundred caterans are at my service, ready to do the work of death at my bidding; and all that was required to complete my schemes was the consent of your grace, now happily obtained, to the act which is to right you, to revenge you, to crown you." "If the king is to be at Perth," replied the duke, after a pause, "I shall be at the revels of Christmas. My grandson Sir Robert, who, as chamberlain, may be said to be the keeper of the king, can let your three hundred caterans into the monastery, and the work may be finished with a facility which seldom attends the execution of the purposes of revenge." "Your grace has anticipated my very thoughts and words," replied the wily Graham. "Heaven aids the work of a just retribution on the head of the tyrant. Mark the supernatural coincidences. When was the vision of the seer presented to the living senses of the avenger of his own and his country's wrongs--the executioner of a tyrant, and the successor who is to occupy his throne--as if to urge him to his duty? When did the groaning victims of royal cruelty get a chamberlain to turn for them the key of the tyrant's sleeping room? And when were the suspicions of remorse and guilt of the wrong-doer so opportunely lulled, as to give room to a confidence which brings him to the dagger's point?" "Walter, King of Scotland!" ejaculated the duke, who, during Graham's speech, had been musing over the sudden change in his fortunes. "Ha! how many acts shall I have to repeal! how many nobles to right! how many wounds to bind up of my bleeding country! Graham, you shall be Earl of Menteith, and your grand-nephew, Malise, shall have, instead of that earldom, his own Strathearn. How my mind burns with the thoughts of turning wrong into right, and taking the weight of the royal sceptre out of the scales of justice!" By this time, the pair had arrived again at the palace of Athol. Their plans were completed: the duke retired to dream of his crown and sceptre, and Graham returned to seek a heather bed, in his retreat, beyond the reach of his enemies. Some time after, he met Allan, the seer, whose surname was Mackay, among the hills. The Gael had apparently gone in quest of his employer, and seemed to have some important object to attain, by travelling so far as he had done to meet him. "I peg your honour's pardon," said the seer, as he came up to Graham; "te katherans are to pe at te red stane in te howe o' te hills, on te saxth. I hae seen a' te praw fallows, wha are as keen for te onset as te eagles o' Shehallion. Ye will meet them, dootless, and keep up the fire o' their pluid, pe te three grand powers--te speeches, te peat-reek, and te pay. Hoo did I manage te duke? Te play was weel played, your honour, though Allan Mackay pe te man who says it; and te mair's my credit, that I never pefore acted to seer in presence o' te son o' a king. Ugh--ugh! put it was a praw performance, and are that deserves to pe weel paid for. Hoo muckle did your honour promise to gie me for my remuneration? Te sum has clean escaped my memory." "It was five merks, Allan," said Graham. "I peg your pardon, your honour," said Allan. "It was shust exactly seven; and little aneugh, seein I had my mither's mouth to keep close, for fear she wad peach te secret to te duke, pesides te grand story o' Dumferlin Appey, and te funeral, and te taisch, and te Palace o' Scone, to invent and perform. King Shames's actors are petter paid for performin his 'Peebles to te Play.' Maybe your honour can pay me te seven merks shusht now?" "I cannot quarrel with you, Allan," said Graham; "but our bargain was five. Here's your own sum, however. Since that night, I have had apprehensions about your mother's steadfastness. You must watch her, and prevent her from going from home. Women have been the ruin of all plots, since the beginning of the world." "That was shust what I was to speak aboot, next after the payment, your honour," said Allan. "She's awa owre the hills already, Cot knows whar." "What!" cried Graham, in great agitation--"has she gone away without your knowledge, and without telling you whither she was going?" "That's shust the very thing I hae to inform ye o'," replied the phlegmatic Gael. "Te last time I saw her was on Wednesday morning, when she was warstlin wi' the winds that plaw ower te tap o' te hill o' Gary. A glint o' te risin sun showed me her red cloak is it fluttered in te plast, and, in a moment after, a' my powers o' the second sight couldna discover her. But we've ae satisfaction; she's no awa to the duke. Put maybe" (turning up his eye slyly) "she's awa to King Shames. I would follow her, and pring her pack, put I require te seven merks I hae got frae your honour for other necessary occasions, and purposes, and necessities; and a pody canna travel in the Lowlands, whar there's nae heather to sleep on, without pawpees." "Death and fury!" cried the agitated Graham, "are all my long-meditated schemes of revenge, are the concerted purposes for cutting off a tyrant and righting a nation, to be counteracted by the wag of an old woman's tongue? Allan" (lowering his voice), "you must after your mother--dog her through hill and dale, highway and city vennel; seize her, by force or guile; prevent her from seeking the presence of the king, or those who may have the power of communicating with him; and get her back to her cottage, on the peril of all our lives. Here's money for you" (giving him a purse), "and here is a passport to the confidence of Sir Robert Stuart, the king's chamberlain, one of our friends, who will co-operate with you in preventing her from approaching the royal presence." "She's a Lowlander, your honour," said Allan, putting the money in his pocket; "and maybe she's awa to see her praw freends o' the south, whar she gaes ance a-year, shust about this time; put, to oplige, and favour, and satisfy your honour, I'll awa doon te Strath o' te Tay; and, if I dinna find her wi' her relations in Dundee, there may be some reason, and occasion, and authority for your honour's apprehension, and for my crossin te Tay and te Forth, to prevent her frae payin her respects to Shames, whilk she wad think nae mair o' doin than o' speakin in te way she did to te Duke o' Athol." "Away--away, then!" cried Graham; "and remember that your head's at stake as well as that of the best of us. So look to yourself." Graham went away to an appointed place, where he was to meet Sir John Hall, who was to accompany him to the meeting of the caterans, and Allan went back to the cottage, and, taking out some necessaries, proceeded to Strath Tay. He arrived at the town of Dundee next evening; and, having ascertained that his mother had crossed over to Fife, had no doubt that she was away to Edinburgh for the purpose of communicating to King James what she knew of the conspiracy of the north. He therefore also crossed the Tay, proceeded through Fife, and, after considerable delay, produced by ineffectual inquiries after an old woman in a red cloak, he arrived in Edinburgh on the third day after he had set out from his cottage. He had procured no trace of his mother, and all his wanderings and searchings through the Scottish metropolis were unavailing--he could neither see nor hear of her; and he therefore resolved to wait upon Sir Robert Stuart, to put him on his guard, lest she might, by her cunning, escape also his notice, and get access to the king by means of some subtle story told to the usher. He had no difficulty in getting access to Sir Robert, who was, about that time, too much occupied with secret messengers from the seat of the conspiracy in which he had engaged, to hesitate an instant about consenting to see the Gael, who, he doubted not, came from Sir Robert Graham, or his grandfather, the duke--both, he knew, deeply engaged in the secret affair. Having been admitted, Allan, as he walked up to the end of the apartment where Sir Robert was seated, looked cautiously around; and, seeing no one near, assumed an attitude and demeanour somewhat bolder, but still suited to the secresy of his message. "Has your honour seen an old woman in a red cloak, apoot te precincts o' te king's residence?" said he, in a whispering tone, as he slipped Graham's token--a piece of paper with ciphers on it--into Sir Robert's hand. "Sir Robert has himself written me about that beldam," said the chamberlain. "She is in our secret, I understand--an extraordinary instance of imprudence, which I must have explained to me. Meantime, the danger must be averted. I have not seen her. Have you, sir?" "No," answered Allan. "I wish I could get a climpse o' her. It's te very thing I want. She would never see te face o' te king, if she ance crossed my path--tamn her!" "What would ye do with her?" inquired the chamberlain, eagerly. "I wish we could get her out of the way. You know what I mean; a sum of money is of no importance in comparison of security--real, absolute, undoubted security--from this plague. You understand me?" And he touched his sword, to make himself better understood. "Understand ye!--ugh, ugh, your honour," cried the Gael, "there was nae occasion for touchin te sword; your words are sharp aneugh for gettin to my intellects. You mean" (whispering in the chamberlain's ear) "that for a praw consideration and remuneration, I might kill te auld hag. Eh! isn't that it, your honour?" "Supposing, but not admitting, that that was my meaning," said the chamberlain, cautiously, "what would you say to the proposition?" "Say to't, your honour!" said Allan. "Ugh! ugh! Let your honour say te word and pay te remuneration, and te auld harridan is dead twa hoors after I get a climpse o' her. Of course" (looking knowingly into the chamberlain's face), "your honour would protect me till I got to to hills. Te work itsel is naething--an auld wife's easy kilt--it's no pe tat te remuneration should be measured--it's pe te risk o' hangin. Was it ten merks your honour said?" "I did not mention any sum," said the chamberlain; "but you may have twenty, if you relieve us of this fear in the manner you have yourself mentioned." "Ten in hand, I fancy," said the Gael--"word for word, your honour. If I trust you ten merks, you may trust me te trifle o' killin an auld wife--a mere pagatelle. I hae kilt twenty shust to please te Wolf o' Padenoch's son, Duncan." "But do you know the woman?" said the chamberlain. "I think I do," answered Allan. "There pe nae fear o' a mistake; put, if I should kill ae auld wife for anithor, whar's te harm? The right ane can easily be kilt afterwards." The importance of being entirely relieved from the danger that thus impended over the heads of the conspirators was very apparent to Sir Robert Stuart. He knew well the character of James: a hint was often sufficient for him; and the statement of a woman, if it quadrated with known facts and suspicions, would be believed; inquiry would follow; one fact would lead to another, and the whole scheme be laid open. He therefore eagerly closed with Allan's offer; the ten merks were paid; and it was agreed upon that the murderer should receive his other ten merks, as well as harbourage and protection, upon satisfying the chamberlain that the deed was executed. Well pleased at having made so easily a sum of considerable magnitude in those days, Allan went to look for his mother--not, it may readily be conceived, for the purpose of killing her, but simply with the view of getting her out of the way, until the king had set off for Perth, which he understood he would do in a few days. He wandered round the skirts of the town, musing on his good fortune, looking at the novelties that presented themselves to his view, and keeping a sharp eye for a red cloak. In this way he passed the time until the grey of the twilight; when, as he sauntered along the foot of the Calton Hill, he saw, lying in a sequestered spot, his aged parent, wrapped up in her red cloak, and apparently in a sound sleep, into which she had, in all likelihood, fallen, from the excessive fatigue to which she had been exposed in her long journey to the metropolis. The affection of the son produced only an involuntary sigh, and a musing attitude of a few moments. He hastened to the residence of the chamberlain; and, as he passed the door of a flesher who was killing sheep, ran in, and, without saying a word, dipped his sword in the blood, and then proceeded on his way. He got instant admittance to his employer, who was sitting alone, occupied by the thoughts of the mighty and dangerous enterprise on which he had entered. Slipping up to him, with an air of great secresy, he stood before him. "She's dead!" said Allan, looking into the face of Stuart, with an expression of countenance in which triumph and cunning were strangely blended. "You are a most expeditious workman," replied the chamberlain; "but where is the evidence of our being freed from this plague?" "Will her heart's pluid satisfy ye?" replied Allan, holding up the sword covered with the sheep's blood. "Waur evidence has hanged a shentleman before noo. Ye'll pe ken there's twa kinds o' pluid in te human body--a red and a plack: te ane comes frae flesh wounds o' te skean dhu, when it's bashfu, and winna gang far ben; and te other follows te plow o' te determined dirk, when it seeks te habitation o' life in te heart itsel. Does yer honour ken te difference? What say ye to that?" showing him the sword. "I'm sure ye never saw ponnier plack pluid i' te heart o' a courtier o' King Shames." "You are getting ironical in your probation," said the chamberlain. "I'm no judge of the difference of veinous and arterial blood; but, if I were, how am I to be satisfied that this is the life stream of the old woman?" "Nae other auld plack teevel could hae kept it sae lang in her gizzard," replied the Gael. "Put there pe mair evidence. An honest man's like gowd--he rejoices in te fiery furnace. I'll show ye te pody o' te treacherous hag hersel, wha would hae sent us a' to te head o' her clan, Satan, if I hadna peen beforehand wi' her. She lies on te Calton yonder, as quietly as if she were in the Greyfriars; and if your honour will accompany me, ye may satisfy yersel o' te absolute truth and verity o' my statement." "The dead body cannot be long there," answered Sir Robert, "without being discovered; and by approaching the spot we may subject ourselves to suspicion, especially if you were previously seen hounding about the place." "Ugh! ugh! Is that a' your honour kens o' a Gael's prudence?" replied Allan. "Think ye I wanted to let your Edinburghers see how neatly we Gaels can strike pelow te fifth rib? Na! I was working for te ten merks, and te salvation o' mysel, your honour, and Sir Robert Graham; and if te auld witch hersel wasna inclined to spake o' te affair, it didna pecome me to say a single word. She took it as quietly and decently as I'll receive te ten merks (and whatever mair my expedition merits) frae te hands o' yer honour. Put te night's fa'in, and there's nae danger in lookin at te pody o' a dead wife. Come, your honour, and trust to me for your guide." The chamberlain, pleased with the issue of his negotiation, was notwithstanding fully aware of the danger to which he was exposed by his connection with the murderer. He hesitated about examining the evidence of the murder; but how otherwise could he have any faith in the statement of the Highlander? And his peace of mind, as well as the safety of his colleagues, would repay the slight risk he ran in taking a cursory view of the body of the murdered woman. He resolved, therefore, on accompanying Allan to the spot; and having requested the Gael to go before, he secretly followed him, until he saw his guide stop, and point with his finger to the spot where his mother lay. Still under an alarm, which the increasing gloom might have in some measure allayed, he walked irresolutely forward, and having seen the body of the woman wrapped up in the red cloak lying extended on the ground, he had not the slightest doubt that she was dead, having been killed by the stern Gael. He instantly retreated; and having waited for the approach of Allan, paid him twenty merks (being ten in addition), and requested him to fly with all expedition to the Highlands. Allan received the money, counting it with a nonchalance which surprised the chamberlain, and bidding him good-night, walked away to waken his mother, and take her to a warm bed, while the other went home, delighted that this great danger had been so easily averted. Some days afterwards, the king and queen set out for Perth--Sir Robert Stuart, now freed from all alarm, having preceded them, for the purpose of making the necessary preparations at Dundee for the reception of his royal master and mistress, and for their journey along the north bank of the Tay to Perth. The royal party arrived at Leith about twelve o'clock of the day, for the purpose of embarking in a yacht, which was to carry them across the Forth. A large assemblage of people was present, collected from Edinburgh and Leith, to see the embarkation; among whom, the courtiers, dressed in their gay robes, were conspicuous, as well from their dresses as the air of authority they assumed, on an occasion which some of them might suspect was to be the last in which their monarch would ever require their attendance. The sounds of the carriages and horses, of a tumultuous crowd, and of those actually engaged in the embarkation--with the crushing of anxious spectators, and the efforts of the military to insure order, and make room for the progress of the party towards the yacht--produced the confusion generally attending such a scene. The queen had been escorted forward to the side of the vessel, and been assisted on board; and the king was on the eve of taking the step which was to remove him from the pier into the yacht, when an old woman, wrapped in a red cloak, rushed forward, and, holding up two spare, wrinkled arms in the face of the monarch, cried, in a wild and prophetic manner-- "James Stuart, receive this warning! It is not made in vain, however it may be received. If you cross the Scottish sea, betwixt and the feast o' Christmas, you will never come back again in life." Having said these words, she waved her hands, and disappeared. Struck with her solemn and impressive manner, and her extraordinary appearance, James started, and stood for a moment mute. Recollecting himself, he called out to a knight to follow, and question her. He obeyed; but ere he could make his way among the crowd, Allan Mackay had seized his mother (for such she was), and hurried her beyond the reach of the courtiers. The event struck James forcibly. He concealed it from his queen; but, during the passage to Kirkcaldy, he was remarked to be silent and abstracted--a mood which remained on him during a great part of his journey. At Dundee, he repaired to the palace, in St Margaret's Close, where he still meditated secretly on the strange warning, and compared it with the denunciation and threat contained in the letter he had some time before received from Sir Robert Graham. After retiring to his chamber, he sent for Sir Robert Stuart, to commune with him on matters of importance. The message alarmed the guilty chamberlain, who conceived that the conspiracy of the north had been discovered, in spite of his murderous effort to conceal it, by the death of the Highland woman. He repaired to the presence-chamber, trembling, and full of fearful anticipations. "Sir Robert," said the king, as the chamberlain approached him, "I am filled with gloomy apprehensions of a violent death, that will prevent me from re-crossing the Forth. Have you heard anything of late of my bitter foe, Graham, who has denounced me? Are you certain he is not hatching against me some bloody conspiracy in these fastnesses of the north?" The question went to the heart of the conspirator. He gave up all for lost, and guilt supplied all that was awanting in the king's speech to fix upon him the reproach of plotting against the life of his sovereign. Happily, James did not observe his agitation, having relapsed, after his question, into the gloomy despondency in which he had for several days been immerged. All the resolution of the guilty man was required to enable him to utter a solitary question. "What reason has your majesty," he said, "for entertaining these fears, apparently so unfounded?" "I have been warned," replied the king, in a deep voice, "surely by a messenger from Heaven. As I stood on the pier of Leith, ready to step into the yacht, a strange woman, muffled up in a red cloak, approached me, and holding out her hands, warned me against crossing the Forth, and said that if I did, I would never come back alive. Her manner was supernatural, her voice hollow and grave-like. She disappeared, and, notwithstanding the efforts of my messengers to seize her, could nowhere be found. I cannot shake this vision from my mind. Every one knows that I despise superstitious fears; but that very circumstance makes my gloom and despondency the more remarkable." This speech struck another chord in the mind of the guilty courtier. No doubt had remained in his mind that the old woman in the red cloak, mentioned by Sir Robert Graham, had been by his orders killed; he had seen her blood on the fatal sword, and he had seen her body lying lifeless on the ground. Who, then, was this second old woman in the red cloak, that had made such a fearful impression upon the king? Had Heaven not taken up arms against him, and re-incorporated the departed spirit of the murdered woman, for the purpose of her humane object being still attained? Had not the king himself, the most dauntless of men, said the figure was supernatural? And, above all, was it not certain that there was a just occasion for the interposition of Providence, when one of the rulers of the earth, who have often been protected by Heaven, was about to fall a victim to a cruel purpose, in which he himself was engaged? These thoughts passed through his mind with the rapidity of light, and struck his heart with a remorse and fear which made him quake. James looked at him with surprise; but attributed his agitation to the strange tidings he had communicated regarding the supposed supernatural visitation. Relieved, however, from the fear of personal danger produced by the king's first announcement, the guilty chamberlain endeavoured to shake off his superstitious feelings, and, summoning all his powers, contrived to put together a few sentences of vulgar scepticism, recommending to the king not to allow the ravings of a maniac (as the old woman undoubtedly was) to disturb his tranquillity, or interfere with his sound and philosophical notions of the government of the universe. The king proceeded to Perth, and subsequently overcame the feeling of apprehension and despondency produced by the supposed apparition; and the chamberlain got again so completely entoiled in the details of his conspiracy, that the affair passed from his mind also. By the time the festivities of Christmas came to be celebrated, the apprehensions of evil had died away, just in proportion as the real danger became every day more to be dreaded. The power of the chamberlain was now exercised vigorously, and with ill-merited success. He contrived to gain over to his side many of the royal guards; while Sir Robert Graham was not less successful in his organisation of the external forces, composed of wild and daring caterans, ready, on being let into the palace, to spread death and desolation wherever they came. Meanwhile, the Duke of Athol dreamed his day-dream of royalty, and indulged in all the intoxicating visions of state and power, which he thought were on the point of being realised. Yet the conspiracy was confined to a very few influential individuals--the duke himself, Graham, Stuart, Hall, and Chambers being almost the only persons of any distinction or authority who had been asked to join the bold enterprise; and these, it is supposed, would not have ventured on the scheme, had they not been blindfolded by personal cravings of insatiable revenge, which prevented all prudential calculations of consequences. As the revels approached, the chamberlain took care to prevail upon the king to send an invitation to those of the conspirators who were considered to be so much in favour at court as to be entitled to that mark of the royal favour; while especial care was also taken to get the invitations to the _real_ friends of the king so distributed, that there should, on the night intended for the murder, be collected in the monastery as few as possible of the latter, and as many of the former as the king could be prevailed upon to invite. There would thus be insidious enemies within, at the head of whom would be the Duke of Athol; and fierce foes without, led by the furious and bloodthirsty Graham, to the latter of whom, by the bribing of the guards, a free passage would be opened to the sleeping apartment of the king, where the bloody scene was intended to be enacted in presence of the queen. It was on the night of the 20th of February that the conspirators had resolved to execute their work of death. All things were carefully prepared: wooden boards were placed across the moat which surrounded the monastery, to enable the conspirators to pass unknown to the warders, who were placed only at the entrances; and the extraordinary precaution was taken by the chamberlain, to destroy the locks of the royal bedchamber, and of those of the outer room with which it communicated, whereby it would be impossible for those within to secure the doors, and to prevent the entrance of the party. Meanwhile, in the inside of the monastery, a gay party was collected, consisting of young and gallant nobles and knights, and crowds of fair damsels, dressed in the glowing colours so much beloved by the belles of that age. In the midst of this happy group were the traitors Sir Robert Stuart and his aged grandfather, Athol, who looked and smiled upon the scene, while they knew that, in a few minutes, that presence-chamber would in all likelihood be flowing with the blood of the king who sat beside them, and become, through their means, a scene of massacre and carnage. Of all the individuals in the royal presence-chamber on that night, no one was more joyous than the merry monarch himself. A poet of exquisite humour, as well exemplified in his performance of "Peebles to the Play," he was the life and spirit of the amusements of the evening, which consisted chiefly of the recitation of poetical stories, the reading of romances, the playing on the harp to the plaintive tunes of the old Scottish ballads (the touching words being the suitable accompaniment), the game of tables, and all the other diversions of the age. In all this, the king joined with (it is said) greater pleasure and alacrity than he had exhibited for many years. In the midst of his jests and merry sayings, he even laughed and made light of a prophecy which had foretold his death in that year--an allusion perfectly understood by those who knew of the apparition of the old woman in the red cloak, whose warning, though not forgotten, was now treated with his accustomed levity. In playing at chess with a young knight, over whose shoulder the grey-bearded Athol looked smilingly into the face of the king, his jesting and merriment were kept up and exercised in a manner that suggested the most extraordinary coincidences. He had been accustomed to call the young knight "the king of love;" and, in allusion to the warning, advised him to look well to his safety, as they were the only two kings in the land. The old duke started as he heard this statement come from the mouth of one on the very eve of being consigned to the dagger; and for a moment thought that the conspiracy had been discovered; but a second look at the joyous merry-maker left no doubt on his mind that his jesting was the mere overflow of an exuberance of spirits. At this moment a hundred wild and kilted caterans, armed with swords and knives, and thirsting for blood, were lurking in the dark angles of the court of the monastery, directing their eyes to the blazing windows of the presence-chamber, and listening to the sounds of the revels. The conspirators within knew, by a concerted signal, that Graham and his party were in this situation, and looked anxiously for the breaking up of the entertainment; but the king was inclined to prolong the amusements, and the hour was getting near midnight. While the king was engaged in play with the young knight, Christopher Chambers, one of the conspirators, was seized with a fit of remorse, and repeatedly approached the royal presence, with a view to inform James of his danger; but the crowd of knights and ladies who filled the presence-chamber prevented him from executing his purpose. The amusements continued; it was now long past midnight, and Stuart and Athol heard at length the long-wished-for declaration of the king, that the revels should be concluded. Just as James had uttered this wish, the usher of the presence-chamber approached Stuart, and whispered in his ear that an old woman, wrapped up in a red cloak, was at the door, and requested permission to see and speak with the king. The guilty chamberlain, who was on the point of giving the fatal signal, heard the statement with horror, and recoiled back from the usher; but the die was cast, and even the powers of heaven were disregarded amidst the turmoil of wild thoughts that were then careering through his excited mind. "Bid her begone--thrust her from the door!" he whispered in the ear of the usher, and applied himself again to the dreadful work in which he was engaged. Soon after this, the king called for the parting cup, and the company dispersed--Athol and Stuart being the last to leave the apartment. With the view of going to bed, James and his queen now retired to the sleeping chamber, where the merry monarch, still under the influence of high spirits, stood before the fire in his night-gown, talking gaily with those around him. At that moment, a clang of arms was heard, and a blaze of torches was seen in the court of the monastery. The quick mind of the king saw his danger in an instant; a suspicion of treason, and a dread of his bloodthirsty enemy, Graham, were his first thoughts. Alarm was now the prevailing power; and the ladies of the bedchamber, rushing into the sleeping room, cried that treason was abroad. The queen and her attendants flew to secure the doors; the locks were useless; and the certainty of having been betrayed by his chamberlain now occupied the mind of the king. Yet, though he saw his destruction resolved on, he did not lose presence of mind. He called to his queen and ladies to obstruct all entrance as long as they could, and rushed to the windows. They were firmly secured by iron bars, and all escape in that way was impossible. The clang of arms increased; and the sounds of the approach of armed men along the passages came every instant nearer and nearer. The ladies screamed, and held the doors; the king was in despair; and, seizing a pair of tongs from the fireplace, with unexampled force wrenched up the boards of the floor, and descended into a vault below, while the ladies replaced the covering. A slight hope was now entertained that he might escape. The vault communicated with the outer court; but, unfortunately, the passage had been, shortly before, by the king's own orders, built up, to prevent the tennis-balls of the players in the tennis-court, to which the passage led, from rolling into the vault (as they had often done), and being lost. There was, therefore, no escape. Meanwhile, Graham and his caterans rushed towards the bedchamber, and having slain Walter Straiton, a page they met in the passage, began to force open the door, amidst the shrieks of the women, who still, though weakly, attempted to barricade it. An extraordinary circumstance here occurred: Catherine Douglas, with the heroic resolution of her family, thrust her arm into the staple from which the bolt had been taken by the traitors, and in an instant it was snapped asunder. The conspirators, yelling like fiends, and with bloody daggers and knives in their hands, now rushed into the room, and cowardly stabbed some of the defenceless ladies, as they fled screaming round the apartment, or trying vainly to hide themselves in its corners and beneath the bed. The queen herself never moved: horror had thrown its cataleptic power over her frame; she stood rooted to the floor, a striking spectacle--her hair hanging over her shoulders, and nothing on her but her kirtle and mantle. In this situation, she was stabbed by one of the conspirators, and was only saved from the knives of others and death itself, by a son of Graham, who, impatient for the life of the king, commanded the men to leave such work for that which was more important. The king was not to be found; and a suspicion gained ground that he had escaped from the sleeping room by the door. A search was therefore made throughout the whole monastery, in all the outer rooms along the corridor, and in the court; and had it not been that Stuart assured them that it was impossible the king could have escaped beyond the walls, the search would have been relinquished in despair. Meanwhile, the citizens and the nobles who were quartered in the town heard the tumult, and were hastening to the spot. The king might yet be saved; for his place of escape had not been discovered, and rescue was at hand. Alas! his own impatience brought on his head the ruin that seemed to be averted. Hearing all quiet, he fancied that the traitors had relinquished the search, and called up from the vault to the ladies, to bring the sheets from the bed and draw him up again into the apartment. In attempting this, one of the ladies, Elizabeth Douglas, fell down into the vault. The noise recalled the murderers. Thomas Chambers, who knew all the holes and recesses of the monastery, suddenly remembered the small vault, and concluded that James must be concealed there. He therefore returned; the torn floor caught his eye; the planks were again lifted, and a blazing torch was soon held down into the dark hole. The king and the unfortunate lady, who lay apparently breathless beside him, were seen; and, glorying in his discovery, the relentless ruffian shouted aloud with savage merriment, and called his companions back; "for," as he said, "the bride was found for whom they had sought and carolled all night." A dreadful scene was now enacted in the vault, in the hearing of the queen, who, with her attendants, was still in the apartment. Sir John Hall first leaped down; but James, strong in his agony, throttled him, and flung him beneath his feet. Hall's brother next descended, and met the same fate; and now came the arch-enemy, Sir Robert Graham. Like a roaring tiger, he threw himself into the hole, and James, bleeding sore from the wounds of the Halls' knives, was overcome, and fell, with the stern murderer over him. The wretched monarch implored mercy, and begged his life, should it be at the price of half his kingdom. "Thou cruel tyrant!" said Graham, "never hadst thou compassion on thine own noble kindred; therefore expect none from me." "At least," cried James, "let me have a confessor, for the good of my soul." "None," replied Graham, "but this sword!" Upon which he stabbed him in a vital part; but the king continued to implore so piteously for mercy, that even Graham's nerves were shaken, and he felt inclined to fly from the dreadful scene. His companions above noticed this change; and, as he was scrambling up, leaving the king still breathing, they threatened him with death, if he did not complete the work. He at last obeyed, and struck the king many times, till he died. The story of the Highland woman who appeared to King James, which to historians has so long been a subject of mystery, is thus, by our chronicle, cleared up. We may afterwards do the same good office to other curious and doubtful parts of Scottish history; but, in the meantime, as it may be satisfactory to know the fate of those bold conspirators who executed so desperate a purpose as that we have narrated, we may mention that the queen never rested till she had brought them all to justice. Never was retribution so certain, so ample, so merited, and so satisfactory to a whole nation; for James's alleged harshness was confined to the nobles, and never extended to the people, who loved the royal poet, and revered their king. Sir Robert Stuart and Thomas Chambers were first taken; and, upon a confession of their guilt, were beheaded on a high scaffold raised in the market-place, and their heads fixed on the gates of Perth. Athol next suffered; and, as he had sighed for a crown, his head, when it was severed from his body, was encompassed by an iron one. Graham was next seized; and, after the manner of the times, was tortured before his execution in a manner which we cannot describe. Hall and all the others suffered a similar fate; and it was alleged that not a single individual who had a hand in the terrible tragedy was allowed to escape--thus justifying the ways of God, where vengeance, though sometimes concealed, sooner or later overtakes those who contravene His laws. THE CURATE OF GOVAN. Do any of our east or south country readers know anything of the little village of Govan, within about two miles or so of Glasgow? If they do, they will acknowledge, we daresay, that it is one of the most prettily-situated little hamlets that may be seen. We mean, however, solely that portion of it which stands on the banks of the Clyde. On a summer evening, when the tide is at its height, filling up the channel of the river from side to side in a bumper, and is gliding stilly and gently along between its margins of green, there cannot, we think, be anything prettier than the scene of which the little picturesque village of Govan forms the centre or principal object. The antique row of houses stretching down to the water, widened, at this particular spot, into a little lake, by the confluence of the Kelvin; the rude but picturesque salmon fisher's hut in the foreground; the river winding far to the west, and skirting the base of the beautiful hills of Kilpatrick, that form the boundary of the scene in that direction--all combine to form, as we have already said, a scene of more than ordinary beauty. Such, as nearly as we can describe it, is the local situation and appearance of Govan at the present day; for often, often have we been there in our younger years, and never shall we forget the happy hours we have spent in it. Pleasant, indeed, was the walk of a summer's evening on the banks of the Clyde--pleasant was the feast of kippered salmon, for which the village was celebrated; but pleasanter than all were the looks--the kindly, _pawky_ looks--the civility and the homely but shrewd wit of David Dreghorn, the honest, worthy, and kindhearted landlord of the ----. We are not sure if his house had a name; but it was not necessary; for well and widely was David known, and by none was he known by whom he was not esteemed and respected. But there were other landlords in Govan before David's day--not more worthy or better men, but of older date--yes, as far back as the time of James V. At that period, the principal, indeed the only, hostelry in Govan was kept by one Ninian, or, as he was more commonly called, Ringan Scouler. The house--a small, plain-looking building with marvellously few windows, and these few marvellously small in size and wide apart--was situated at the extreme end of the village, which terminates at or near the margin of the river. All trace of it has long since disappeared; but we have pointed out its precise locality. It commanded, as those who know the spot will at once believe, a delightful view, or rather series of views. The front windows looked up the Clyde, the back windows down; and those in the gable commanded the Kelvin and the woodland scenery (more so then than now) around and beyond. The sign of his calling, which hung above the door of Ringan Scouler's little hostelry, was then, as it still is, that of several of his brethren in trade in the village--the figure of a salmon, painted in its natural colours on a black ground. Ringan's emblematic fish, however, was not a very shapely animal; but there was enough of likeness remaining to place beyond all manner of doubt that it was meant to represent the "monarch of the flood." Mine host himself was a quiet-mannered, good-humoured, and good-natured person, with just such an eye to the one thing needful as admitted of his cherishing this temperament, and of keeping a comfortable house over his head. Perhaps his propensity of the kind just alluded to went even a little further in its objects than this. We will not say that, with all his quiet wit, and good-humour, and kindness, and apparent carelessness about the main chance, he was not a pretty vigilant marker of it. But what then? It was all in a fair and honest way; and he gave his urbanity of manner as an equivalent. Ringan, at the period of our story, was about fifty years of age, of a fresh, healthy complexion, and shrewd cast of countenance; the latter being lighted up by a couple of little, cunning, grey eyes, deep set beneath a pair of shaggy eyebrows, which, again, were surmounted by a head of hair, prematurely grey--a constitutional characteristic; for neither his years nor his cares warranted this usual indication of the pressure of one or other, or both of these causes. Ringan was, moreover, well to pass in the world; for, being a man of at least ordinary prudence, and having as excellent business, his circumstances throve apace. His business, we have said, was excellent. It could not be otherwise; for it was not in the nature of man to pass Ringan's door without entering it. His good things, in the shape of liquor and provender; his quaint, sly jokes, spoken almost under breath, which, in his case, added to their effect; his cunning, smirking, facetious look and manner--were all and each of them wholly irresistible; and all the king's lieges who passed within a mile of his door, and who had a penny in their pockets, felt them to be so. Such was Ringan Scouler, the landlord of the Grilse and Gridiron--for we forgot to say, in its proper place, that the culinary implement just named appropriately figured at one end of the board. The list of Ringan's regular customers, which was a very extensive one, included the curate and schoolmaster of Govan, both drouthy cronies and sworn friends, although there was not a night in the world that they did not quarrel; but this was more the effect of Ringan's ale than of any inherent pugnacity of disposition in the belligerents themselves. This quarrel, however, was so usual and so regular, that Ringan could tell to a measure of liquor when it would commence. In summer, these worthies generally occupied a little room that overlooked the river; but in winter, or when the weather began to get chill, they took possession of a corner of the kitchen, the most cheerful apartment in the house at that season, as it was always kept in most admirable order. The walls were white as snow, the floor strewed with bright white sand; immense rows of shining pewter plates and jugs of the same metal glittered on the rack; and a rousing fire crackled in the old-fashioned chimney. Nothing, in short, could be more tempting to the wayfarer, on a dark, cold, and drizzly night, than a casual peep through the blazing windows into Ringan's cheerful kitchen; and nothing could in reality be more comfortable than that kitchen, when you were once into it. In a corner of this snug apartment was to be found regularly, every evening, say, from October to May, between the hours of seven and ten, Mr Walter Gibson, curate of Govan, and Mr John Craig, schoolmaster there. Before them, and near to the fireplace, stood a small fir table, and on this table invariably stood a large pewter measure of ale, and three horn tumblers with silver rims--one for each of the persons just named, and a spare one for the use of the landlord, who joined their potations as often as the demands on his attention to the duties of the house permitted. Out of all the evenings, however, which the curate and schoolmaster spent in Ringan Scouler's, we can afford to select one only; but this shall be one on which something occurred to diversify the monotony of their meetings, otherwise distinguished only by the usual quarrel, the usual humdrum conversation (which, though sufficiently interesting to themselves, would, if recorded, afford very little entertainment to the reader), and the usual consumption of somewhere about a gallon of mine host's double ale. The particular evening to which we have alluded shall be one in the latter end of the month of October, and the year somewhere about _anno_ 1529. It was a raw, wet, and cold night--circumstances which greatly enhanced the comforts of Ringan's kitchen, as both the curate and schoolmaster very sensibly felt. Having each turned off a couple of horns of their good host's home-brewed, the conversation between the two worthies began to assume a lively, desultory character. "I was up in the toun the day, curate," said the schoolmaster--a thin, hard-visaged personage, with a good deal of the failing said to be inherent in his craft--conceit. "I was up in the toun," he said--meaning Glasgow. "Were ye?" quoth the curate--in personal appearance and manner the very antipodes of his friend; being a stout, homely-looking man, of blunt speech and great good-nature; his age, about forty-five. "And what saw ye strange there, Mr Craig?" "Naething very particular, but the braw new gatehouse o' the archbishop. My certy, yon's a notable piece o' wark! His arms are engraven on the front o't--three cushions within the double tressure. Man, curate, can ye no contrive to warsle up the brae a bit? I'm sure waur than you's been made a bishop." "I'm no sae ambitious, Johnny," replied the curate. "If I were rector o' Govan, I wad be content. But St Mungo himsel wadna get even that length noo-a-days without a pouchfu o' interest--and I hae nane." "The mair's the pity," said the schoolmaster, filling up his horn tumbler; "but there's nae sayin what may happen yet." "Indeed, is there no, Mr Craig," interposed Ringan, who made at this particular moment one of the party. "Ye may get promotion, curate, whan ye least expeck it, and may find a freend whar ye didna look for him. There's mony chances, baith o' guid and ill, befa' folk in this warld." While the curate's friends were endeavouring, by these vague and sufficiently commonplace but well-meant remarks, to inspire him with hopes of better days, it was announced to the party that the ferry-boat was bringing over a passenger. By the way, with regard to this particular, we forgot to say before that there _was_ a ferry across the Clyde, just below Ringan's house; and, as the passengers were not then, as they are now, very numerous, there was always a degree of interest and speculation excited by their appearance. "Wha can he be?" said Ringan. "Some o' oor ain folk, I fancy. It'll be Jamie Dinwoodie frae Glasgow fair, I'll wad a groat. He's come roun by Partick, instead o' comin doun by the water-side." "The deil o' him it's, at ony rate, Ringan," said the schoolmaster. "Jamie's been hame twa hoors since, and as fou's a fiddler." All further speculation on the subject of the passenger was here interrupted by the entrance of that person himself; and it was with some disappointment the speculators found that, to judge by his appearance, he was not worth speculating about; for he was very meanly dressed--nay, worse than meanly--his attire was beggarly; so much so, indeed, that there was a general belief that he was a mendicant by profession, although, perhaps, of a somewhat better order than common. His apparel consisted of a threadbare and patched short coat or surtout, of coarse grey cloth, secured round his middle by a black belt. On his legs he wore a pair of thick blue rig-and-fur hose or stockings, as a certain description of these _wearables_ are called in Scotland. They are now nearly extinct, but may still be seen occasionally. Those on the legs of the stranger were darned in fifty places, and with worsted of various colours. His shoes were in no better condition than his stockings, being patched in nearly as many places. On his head he wore an old broad blue bonnet, which, with a pair of sadly dilapidated inexpressibles, and a rough newly-cut staff, completed his equipment--the whole unequivocally bespeaking a very limited exchequer. On his entrance, the stranger, perceiving the respectable quality of the guests assembled in the kitchen of the Grilse and Gridiron, reverently doffed his bonnet, and apologised for intruding on the "honourable company." "Nae apology necessary, freend," said the curate, rising from his seat, to allow the poor traveller, who was dripping with wet, to approach nearer to the fire. "Come awa--nae apology at a' necessary. This is a public hostelry; and, if ye can birl your bawbee, ye've as guid a richt to accommodation as the best in the land." "Thanks to ye, honourable sir," replied the stranger, meekly. "I wish every ane were o' your way o' thinking; but I find this auld coat and thae clouted shoon nae great recommendations to civility onywhere." Saying this, the stranger planted himself in a chair before the fire, and ordered the landlord to bring him a measure of ale. "Tak a moothfu o' this in the meantime, honest man," said the curate, handing him his own goblet; "for ye seem to be baith wat and weary." "Ou, no--no very weary, sir," replied the stranger, taking the proffered goblet; "but a wee thing wet, certainly. I hae only come frae Glasgow the day." "Nae far'er?" said the curate. "No an inch," replied the other. "Tak it oot, man, tak it oot," said the former, as the latter was about to return the goblet, after merely tasting it. "It'll warm your heart, man, and I'm sure ye're welcome till't." The stranger, without any remark, did as he was bid, and drained out the cup. In the business of this scene, the schoolmaster took no part, but maintained a haughty distance; his pride evidently hurt by the intrusion into his society of a person of such questionable condition--a feeling which he indicated by observing a dignified silence. This difference of disposition between the two gentlemen did not escape the stranger, who might have been detected from time to time throwing expressive glances of inquiry, not unmingled with contempt, at the offended dominie. The displeasure of his friend, however, did not deter the kindhearted curate from prosecuting his conversation with the stranger, who eventually proved to be so intelligent and entertaining a person, that he gradually forced himself into the position of an understood, though not formally acknowledged, member of the party. Being full of anecdote and quaint humour, such as even the schoolmaster could not altogether resist, although he made several ineffectual attempts to do so, the laugh and the liquor both soon began to circulate with great cordiality; and in due time songs were added to the evening's enjoyment. In this species of entertainment the good-humoured curate set the example, at the earnest request of Ringan, who asked him, and not in vain, to "skirl up," as he called it, the following ditty, which he had often heard the worthy churchman sing before:-- "In scarlet hose the bishop he goes, In the best o' braid claith goes the vicar; But the curate, puir soul, has only the bowl To comfort him wi' its drap liquor, drap liquor, To comfort him wi' its drap liquor. "Right substantial, in troth, is the fat prebend's broth, And the bishop's a hantle yet thicker; But muslin kail to the curate they deal, Sae dinna begrudge his drap liquor, drap liquor, Sae dinna begrudge his drap liquor. "Gie the sodger renown, the doctor a gown, And the lover the long looked-for letter; But for me the main chance is a weel-plenish'd manse-- And the sooner I get it the better, the better, And the sooner I get it the better." "Faith, and I say so too with all my heart, sir," said the stranger, laughing loudly, and ruffing applause of the good curate's humorous song on the table. "I'm sure I've known many a one planted in a comfortable living, who, I would take it upon me to say, were less deserving of it than you are." "That may be, honest man," replied the curate; "but, as I said to my freend here a little ago, when he made the same remark, I hae nae interest; and withoot that, ye ken, it's as impossible to get on, as for a milestane to row its lane up a hill." "Indeed, sir, that is but too true, I fear," said the stranger; "yet the king, they say, is very well disposed to reward merit when he finds it, and has often done so with out the interference of influence." "Ou, I daur say," replied the curate; "he's gude aneugh that way--na, very guid, I believe; but I hae nae access to the king, and it'll be lang aneugh before my merits, if I hae ony--which I mysel very much doot--'ll find their way to him. He has owre mony greedy gleds to feed, for the like o' me to hae ony chance o' promotion. No, no, freend-- "Curate o' Govan I was born to be, An' curate o' Govan I'm destined to dee." "Ha, ha!" exclaimed the stranger, laughing; "a bit of a poet, curate." "In an unco sma' way, freend," replied the worthy churchman. "Excuse my freedom, sir," rejoined the stranger; "but pray how long have you been curate of this parish?' "Nine years, come Martinmas next." "And no prospect of advancement yet?" "Just as muckle as ye may see through a whunstane; and ye ken it taks gey sharp een to see onything through that." "Nae doot," replied the stranger; "but the king, though he cannot see through a whunstane farther than ither folk, has pretty sharp eyes, and ears, too, sir, and baith hears and sees things that every one is not aware of. You may, therefore--who knows?--be nearer promotion than you think. Isn't the rectorship of Govan vacant just now?" "Deed is't, freend," said the curate; "and if I had it, I wadna ca' the king my cousin, though he were my uncle's son. But it'll no be lang vacant, I warrant; some o' thae hungry hingers-on aboot the court 'll be clinkin doun intill't in the turnin o' a divot. It's owre canny a seat to be lang withoot a sitter." "It will not be long without an incumbent, I daresay," rejoined the stranger; "but I'm not sure that you're right, curate, as to the description of person that will obtain it. But will your friend here not favour us with a verse or two? It is his turn now." "Ou, I daresay he will," replied the curate. "Come, Johnny, gie's yer auld favourite." With this request, the schoolmaster, who was now considerably mollified by the liquor he had drank, readily complied, and struck up-- 'Let kings their subjects keep in awe, By terror o' the laws; For me, I fin' there's naething like A guid thick pair o' tawse. 'Let doctors think to store the mind, By screeds o' rules and saws-- Commend me to the learning that's Weel whupp'd in wi' the tawse. 'Let lawyers, whan they wad prevail In fine words plead their cause-- The _argumentum_ still wi' mo Is thae bit nine-taed tawse.' Suiting the action to the word, the dominie, on repeating the last line, whipped the formidable and efficacious instrument he spoke of out of his pocket. Whether, however, it had actually nine toes or not, or whether that assertion was merely a poetical flourish, none of those present took the trouble of ascertaining. "By my troth, sir," said the stranger, when the schoolmaster had concluded, "it's a pity that such a thing as tawse was not in use outside the school as well as inside. There are many children of the larger growth in the world who would be greatly improved by its application." "Come, landlord," now said the curate, "it's your turn now;--and it'll be yours belyve, freend," he added, addressing the stranger. "Up wi't, Ringan--up wi't, man." "Ye'se no want that lang," said the jolly, good-natured landlord of the Grilse and Gridiron, with one of his quiet, cunning shrugs of the shoulders and pawky leers of the eye; and off he went with-- "A flowing jug, a reaming jug, 'S a glorious sicht, my dear boys; It waukens love, it lichtens care, And drowns all sorts of fear, boys. "Come, gentlemen, chorus. "Fal de ral, &c. "Your sober man's an arrant fool, His spirits are all sunk, boys; Give me your honest, jovial soul, That night and day is drunk, boys. "Chorus, gentlemen. "Fal de ral, &c. "You tell me that his outward man Is shabby, spare, and thin, boys; But you forget to reckon on The comfort that's within, boys. "Chorus. "Fal de ral, &c. "Then, whether I be here or there, Or this or t'other side, boys, May streams o' ale still round me flow, As broad and deep's the Clyde, boys! "Chorus, gentlemen. "Fal de ral," &c. At the moment the landlord of the Grilse and Gridiron had completed his temperance-society lyric, and ere the tribute of applause which was ready to be paid down on the nail to him for it by his auditors could be tendered him--the feelings of the whole party were directed into another channel, by the information that a boat-load of passengers had just landed at the ferry. On receiving this intelligence, Ringan hurriedly rose from the table, and ran to the door, to see what portion of the human cargo was likely to come his way--and right glad was he to find that he was about to be favoured with the company of the whole. They were one party, and were approaching Ringan's house in a string. On entering the kitchen, they were found to be three men and two women. The former were apparently farmers--two of them elderly men, and one of them a young, loutish-looking fellow, of about two-and-twenty. The women were mother and daughter--the latter a beautiful girl, of about eighteen or twenty years of age. The whole of these persons were well known to the curate, schoolmaster, and landlord; and the consequence was a general cry of recognition, and a tumultuous shaking of hands. "How are ye, curate?" "How are ye, Clayslaps?" "Glad to see you, Mr Craig!" "As glad to see you, Jordanhill!" "And hoo are _ye_, guidwife?" said the curate, advancing towards the elder of the two females, and taking her kindly by the hand--"and you, Meenie, my bonny dear," he said, turning towards the daughter--"hoo are ye? and hoo," he added, with an intelligent smirk, "is Davy Linn o' Partick? But hoo's this?" he said, more seriously, and now peering into her face--"there's a tear in yer ee, Meenie. What's wrang, lassie? Hae ye lost yer leman? Has Davy no been sae kind's he should hae been?" Poor Meenie made no reply to the worthy curate's half-jocular, half-serious remarks. Her heart was sad; and to her dismal and heart-withering was the errand on which she and her friends (for, of the men of the party, one was her father, the other her uncle, and the third her intended husband) had come to Govan. While the curate spoke to her, she held down her head to hide the tears that were fast falling from her beautiful dark hazel eyes; but she could not conceal the heaving of her bosom, from the sobs which she was endeavouring to suppress. "She's a camstairy cutty," said her father, Adam Ritchie of Clayslaps, frowningly, "and most undutifu, no to submit to the wishes o' her parents wi' a better grace." "Surely every bairn is bound to obey with cheerfulness those to whom they owe their being," said the curate; "but there are some cases, Clayslaps, where it wad be cruelty to impose restraint, and unreasonable to expect ungrudged compliance." "Weel, weel, curate," replied Adam Ritchie, impatiently, "we'll speak o' thae things anither time. In the meantime, landlord," he said, turning to Ringan, "bring us in some brandy; for we're baith cauld and wat, and a thumblefu o' the Frenchman'll do us nae harm." This order was speedily complied with. A small pewter measure of the liquor desired, accompanied by a small silver drinking-cup or quaigh, was placed on the table; and the whole party, including the former occupants of the kitchen, soon began to get cheerful and somewhat talkative, with the exception of Meenie Ritchie. In all that had hitherto passed, he of the clouted shoes and darned hose had taken no part, but had kept his eye steadily fixed on Meenie, with a look of deep interest and compassion. At length, as if urged on by the increasing energy of those feelings, he rose, went up to her, and clapping her kindly on the shoulder-- "I wish, my sweet lass," he said, "it were in my power to lighten that bit heartie o' yours; for it seems to me to be sore burdened wi' some grief or other; and I am wae to see't." "And what business hae ye to interfere, freend?" said her father, angrily. "If the lassie's in grief, whilk she has but little reason to be, she has them aboot her here wha hae a deeper interest in her than ye can hae, and a hantle better richt to be her comforters." "Sma' comfort she's like to get amang ye, be ye what ye like to her," replied the stranger, doughtily; "and, if it's onything I can richt her in, tak my word for't, honest man, I'll do it with but small regard to your displeasure." "My troth, ye're no blate, sirrah, to tell me sae--her ain faither," said Clayslaps, reddening with anger; "but I advise ye, freend, neither to mak nor meddle wi' oor affairs, else ye may repent it. That lassie, sir, is my dochter; and there's her mother, and there's her uncle, and there's her husband to be; sae ye may see hoo very little your interference is needed here." "Weel, weel," replied the stranger, now retiring to his seat, "if there's only fair play going, I'm content; but I like to see that everywhere and on all occasions." "So, Clayslaps," said the curate, here interfering, "is't to be a match after a'--is't?" "Indeed is't, curate," replied the former. "Meenie's come roun at last, and is convinced her parents wadna advise her against her interest. Sae we have just come here this nicht for the express purpose o' gettin a cast o' your office; and I consider it the luckiest thing in the world that we hae foregathered wi' ye sae cannily, curate." "Indeed, ay, curate," here chimed in Meenie's mother with that ready volubility and a little of the incoherence of her particular class and character, "we're just gaun to close the business at ance, and be dune wi't. I'm sure, muckle trouble and thocht it has cost us, curate. Ye ken Davy o'Partick, that was rinnin after Meenie, and wha the fulish, thochtless thing had sic a wark wi', hasna a plack in his purse--neither maut nor meal, neither hoose nor ha'; and were we gaun to throw awa oor lassie, wi' fifty merks o' tocher in her pouch, forbye what she may get whan the guidman and me's raked i' the mools, on a landless, penniless chiel like that? Na, my certy--we kent better than that, curate; and we're just gaun to gie her to the young laird o' Goupinsfou there, wha can lay down plack for plack wi' her, and has a bien house to tak her to, forbye." "But," here interrupted the curate, at the same time looking towards Meenie, "are ye quite sure, Mrs Ritchie, that ye hae brocht your dochter to see this matter in the same prudent licht that ye do? I maun say, I doot it. And besides, guidwife, what's a' the hurry in marryin the lassie--she's but young yet." "That's a faut that's aye mendin, curate," replied Meenie's mother; "and we think the suner she's oot o' harm's way the better. He's but a reckless chiel that Davy, and there's nae sayin what he micht do. Maybe rin awa wi' her afore mornin; for he has heard an inklin o' oor intentions. Sae we just cam slippin awa in the dark, to get the business settled withoot his kennin." During all this time, poor Meenie Ritchie sat the picture of misery and suffering. She had never, since she entered, once raised her head, but continued wrapped up in the silent wretchedness of despair; painfully and forcibly showing how little she partook in the anxiety of her parents to accomplish the impending union. Meenie was evidently, in short, a victim to parental authority; and this all present felt and saw, and none with more compassion than the worthy curate who was to be the unwilling instrument of her doom. "To be plain wi' ye, guidwife," said the kindhearted churchman, when the former had gone through her somewhat unconnected, but sufficiently intelligible, story, "and you, Clayslaps, and the rest o' ye that's concerned in this business, I dinna like it, and I will not marry these persons but with the full and free consent of both." "But ye may not refuse, curate," said Meenie's father, somewhat testily. "She has consented already, and will consent again." "In that case, certainly, I may not refuse," said the curate, going up to the afflicted girl, and taking her kindly by the hand. "Meenie, my dear," he now said, addressing her, "are ye here for the purpose o' being united to Goupinsfou, o' yer ain free will and accord?" The poor girl made no reply. The curate repeated his question, when her father sternly called on her to answer. Thus urged, she uttered a scarcely audible affirmative. "Then, since it is so, Meenie," said the curate, dropping her hand, "I may not decline to effect the union. Do you desire, Clayslaps, that the ceremony should be immediately performed?" "As sune's ye like, curate," replied the latter. "And the suner the better," added Meenie's mother. "Our worthy landlord here, then," said the curate, "will prepare an apartment for us, and we will retire thither and unite this young couple. In the meantime, freends," he added, addressing the schoolmaster and he of the darned hose, "we had better settle oor lawin." The schoolmaster instantly drew from his pocket his share of the reckoning, while the stranger pulled out the foot of an old stocking, which had been ingeniously converted into a purse, and was about undoing the bit of twine with which it was secured, when the curate placed his hand on his arm, to arrest his proceedings, saying-- "The ne'er a bodle, freend, ye'll pay. This'll be the schule-maister's and mine." "The ne'er o' that it'll be, curate," replied the schoolmaster. "Every ane for himsel. Plack aboot's fair play. Let every herrin hing by its ain head. The deil a bodle I'll pay for onybody." "Then I will," said the curate. "I'll pay for this honest man here; for it may be he canna sae weel spare't." And he laid down his own and the stranger's share of the reckoning. "Many thanks to ye, curate," said the latter; "but there's no occasion for this kindness. I have, indeed, but little to spare; but that gives me no claim whatever on your generosity." "Say nae mair aboot it, freend," replied the curate--"say nae mair aboot it, man. Ye'll maybe pay for me in a strait, some ither time. It's but a trifle, at ony rate--no worth speakin aboot; sae ye'll obleege me by giein me my ain way." "Well, well, since you insist on it," said the stranger, again tying up the stocking-foot, "I winna press the matter. Many thanks to ye." The important affair of the reckoning settled, a general movement was made amongst the party to adjourn to the apartment which had been prepared for the celebration of the marriage ceremony. Taking advantage of the momentary confusion created by this circumstance, the curate's new friend touched him on the elbow, led him aside, and whispered into his ear, "Delay the ceremony as long as you can. The poor girl, you see, is about to be sacrificed. Perhaps I can prevent it." The curate nodded assent, although it was but the result of an impulse of his kind nature; for he could not conceive how any one--particularly such a very humble personage as he who had spoken to him--should have the power to stay an event of the kind, and under the circumstances of that which was about to take place. Still, as the request was in accordance with his own feelings, and as he did not know what this very odd person might have it in his power to do in the matter, he resolved to do what he could to comply with it. Having made the communication to the curate just recorded, the stranger suddenly and hurriedly left the apartment. Whither, and the purpose for which he went, we shall ascertain by following him. On leaving the house, he hastened down to the river side, and having called the ferryman out of his temporary habitation, a little hut erected on the bank, "Friend," he said, "do you know Davy Linn o'Partick?" "Brawly that," replied the ferryman. "No a better or decenter chiel in the country side than Davy. A warmhearted, honest fellow!" "Glad to hear it," said the inquirer. "Well, then, since that is the case, you will have no objection to do him a service, I daresay?" "It would be ill my part, if I had," replied the man; "for he has done me twa or three services that I wadna willingly forget." "Then across the water with you, and up to Partick as fast as if the old one were after you, and tell Davy to come here directly--to come along with you--if he would not lose Meenie Ritchie for ever." "Feth, that'll mak him rin, if onything will," said the man, who knew of Davy's attachment to Meenie. "And stay, sir," continued the stranger, without noticing the interruption; "take this"--producing a small gold ring--"and go, at the same time, to the bishop's castle, up the way, there, on the Kelvin, and request some one of the domestics to put it into the hands of Sir John Elphingstone, who is residing there just now with the bishop. He will instantly come out to you; and, when he does, tell him that the person who sent it desires to see him here immediately, and requests that he may come along with you. And now, my friend," he continued, "that you may do all these errands with the greater good-will and despatch, here's a gold Jacobus for thee." The man took the coin, though not without a look of surprise at the donor, whom he evidently thought a most unlikely person to deal in gold rings and Jacobuses. He, however, made no remark, but prepared to execute the mission with which he had been intrusted; and was just about to push off his boat, when his employer called out to him-- "I forgot to say, friend, that when you have brought over your passengers, you will desire them to wait in your hut here until you have acquainted me with their arrival. You will find me in Scouler's hostelry." With this order the boatman promised compliance, and pushed off; when his employer returned to the inn, and, planting himself before the kitchen fire, anxiously awaited the return of his messenger. The curate, in the meantime, was faithfully performing his part, in promoting delay, by the aid of story and anecdote, although he felt as if it were a hopeless case. While thus employed, the landlady, a lively, active, bustling body, happening to come into the room, he suddenly stopped in the middle of a story, and exclaimed, laughingly, "Mrs Scouler, hae ye been makin ony brandy parritch lately?" "Tuts, Mr Gibson, will I never hear the end o' that?" replied the hostess of the Grilse and Gridiron, good-naturedly, and hurrying out of the apartment, to escape the further banter of the facetious churchman. "What aboot the brandy parritch, curate?" exclaimed the guidwife of Clayslaps, on the hostess leaving the room. I'll tell you that (replied the curate). Ae morning, pretty early, last summer, there cam a serving man, mounted on horseback, to oor freend Ringan Scouler's door here, and said he belonged to Lord Minto; and that he had been sent forward by his master, who was on the road comin frae Arran through to Edinburgh; to order some breakfast to be prepared for him. But what, think ye, was the breakfast ordered for his lordship? Why, it was parritch--plain, simple parritch; for it seems he prefers it to a' ither kind of food for his morning meal. Weel, however much astonished Mrs Scouler was at this order, she readily undertook to prepare the dish desired, and the man departed. But he had no sooner gone, than it occurred to her, that parritch for a lord ought to be made somewhat differently from those intended for a plebeian stomach. But wherein was this difference to consist? There was no choice of materials, no variety of ingredients, no process of manufacture, but one, that she had ever seen or heard tell of. At length, after racking her brain for some time, to see if she could not strike out something new on the subject, it occurred to her that, if she would substitute brandy for water, the desired object would be accomplished, and a lordly dish produced. Acting on this bright idea, the guidwife immediately emptied a bottle of brandy into the parritch-pot, and proceeded with the remainder of the process in the usual way. By the time his lordship came up, the parritch was ready, and a dish of them placed before him. Little suspecting--although he thocht they looked a wee thing darker than they should do--that there was anything wrong, his lordship took a thumpin spoonfu to begin wi'; but he no sooner fan' the extraordinary taste they had, than he jumped from his seat, threw doon the spune, and sputtered the contents o' his mooth a' owre the table, thinkin he was poisoned. He then ran to the door, and called oot violently for oor guid hostess here. In great alarm she ran hastily up the stair, and inquired what was the matter. "The matter, woman!" exclaimed his lordship, in a towering passion. "What's this you hae gien me?" pointing to the parritch; "what infernal stuff is that?" Mrs Scouler, surprised at his lordship's want of discernment, explained to him what she had dune; when he burst out a-laughing, told her that the taste of a peer and a ploughman were precisely the same, and requested her to make him just such a mess as she made for her ain family. This was accordingly dune; whan his lordship, payin sax prices for his hamely breakfast, set off in great good humour, telling Mrs Scouler, however, at parting, never to put brandy in his parritch again. The curate, having concluded his episodical anecdote, proceeded with the story which he had interrupted to relate it; but was beginning to be secretly uneasy at the long delay which was taking place in the operations of his friend of the darned stockings. From this feeling, however, he was in some measure relieved by the latter's sending for him, after a short while, and begging of him to gain but other fifteen minutes, if he could, when he pledged himself that such an event would occur as would, in all probability, save Meenie Ritchie from the fate that threatened her. "But what is the event ye allude to, freend, and what is't ye propose to do in this matter that'll produce the effect ye speak o'?" said the curate, looking doubtingly at his new acquaintance. "Patience a little, my good sir," replied the latter, smiling, "and ye shall know all. In the meantime, trust to my good faith, and you will find that I can do more, perhaps, than my appearance would promise. "Be it even so, then," said the curate; "but observe I cannot possibly put the ceremony off beyond the time you have mentioned; for a' but the puir lassie hersel are gettin restlessly impatient." The curate now returned to his party, and again had recourse to his store of anecdote, which was an inexhaustible one, to protract the performance of the ceremony. In the meantime, the boatman, faithful to his trust, was diligently executing the missions confided to him. On entering the house of Davy Linn's father, he found Davy sitting disconsolately by the fire, his head resting on his hand, and his eyes fixed, in thoughtful gaze, on the burning embers. He was thinking of Meenie Ritchie--there could be no doubt of that; for poor Davy thought of little else. Formerly, these thoughts had been pleasant to Davy; but at this moment they were sad and heart-withering; for he had heard some rumours of her parents intending to marry her to another; and he now, therefore, considered her as for ever lost to him. "What the mischief, Davy, man, are ye sittin gloomin and glunchin at there?" said the ferryman, whose name was Archy Dawson, slapping the person he addressed on the shoulder--"up, man, up!--I hae guid news for you--at least what I think's likely to turn oot sae." Davy, who had hitherto been so engrossed by his own gloomy reflections, as either not to have heard or not heeded the entrance of Archy Dawson, now rose from his seat, and, confronting the former, asked, with a faint smile, what the news was. "Is there naebody in the hoose but yersel, Davy?" inquired Archy, looking cautiously round the apartment. "Nane at this moment," replied Davy; "but there'll be some of them here belyve, I daursay." "Weel, before they come, Davy, I'll tell you what's brocht me here the nicht." And Archy proceeded to relate the particulars of his mission. Davy made no reply for some time; but the clenching of his teeth showed that some fierce spirit had been roused within him by the intelligence. At length he said--"Ay, I see how it is; they have stolen a march on me. Oh, if I had known this but an hour since, they should have had more guests at the wedding than they counted on, although some of them might not have been very welcome." "Maybe, maybe, Davy," said Archy; "but it's likely no owre late yet; sae come awa as fast's ye can, man, and let's see what this business'll turn oot to, and I'll tell ye the rest o' my story as we gang alang." Davy, although without knowing distinctly why or wherefore now left the house with his friend Archy, when the latter, as promised, acquainted him with the other mission he had to execute--namely, the delivering the ring to Sir John Elphingstone, at the bishop's castle, whither Davy subsequently accompanied him. On arriving at the lordly mansion of the prelate, Archy inquired of a servant if Sir John was there, and was told that he was. "Then," said he, "be sae guid, freend, as tak up this bit trantalum o' a thing till him, and I'll wait whar I am till I hear frae him." In a few minutes after Sir John appeared, and, accosting Archy, said, "Well, my friend, what commands have you brought along with this?" producing the ring. "The person that gied me that, sir," said Archy, "desired me to tell you to come along wi' me." "And, pray, where are you from, friend?" "Ou, no far awa, sir," said Archy; "just frae Govan, owre the way there." "Very well, I'll accompany you. But who's this you have with you?" inquired the knight, looking at Davy Linn, who stood close by. "That lad's name, sir," said Archy, "is Davy Linn; he belangs to Partick, up there, sir. He's a fine lad, Davy--a fine, decent, canny lad, sir." "I have no reason to doubt it," replied Sir John; "but what does he here with you?" "Dear me, sir," said Archy--"he was sent for, too, by the same chield that sent you the ring. I was desired to bring ye baith." "Oh, indeed," replied Sir John--"that's enough; let us proceed, then." And the three immediately set off for Govan. On their arrival on the opposite bank of the river, Archy, leaving them there, hastened up to Ringan Scouler's, and intimated to his employer that he had executed his mission, and that the persons he had sent for waited him in his hut. On receiving this information, the former hastened down to the ferry station; and, after a brief interview and hasty explanation with Sir John and Davy, of which we leave the sequel to show the import, returned with equal haste to the hostelry, and now pushed boldly into the apartment occupied by the marriage party. The time stipulated with the curate had expired; and the latter, finding he could no longer delay the discharge of the duty he was called upon to perform, had already commenced the service. "Friend," said the intruder, with a degree of boldness and familiarity in his manner which he had not before assumed, and at the same time laying his hand on the arm of the curate, to arrest his attention, "pray, stop a moment, if you please, till I speak a word with the bride's father." Saying this, and now turning round to the person to whom he alluded, "May I ask, Clayslaps," he said, "if your objection to your daughter's having the man of her choice is his want of fortune?" Clayslaps looked for a moment at the querist with an expression of extreme surprise, but at length said-- "I dinna see what richt, freend, ye hae to put such questions; nevertheless, I will answer't. It is; and a guid and sufficient ane it'll be allooed, I think." "Is it your only one? Have you no other fault to lay to the young man's charge?" "I hae nae faut to charge him wi'," replied Clayslaps, crustily and reluctantly. "The lad, for ought I ken to the contrary, is weel aneugh in ither respects. But he's nae match for my dochter." "Your wife has said," continued the querist, "that your daughter's portion is fifty merks, which is to be met by a similar sum on the part of the young man whom you intend for her husband. Now, friend, if Davy could produce two merks for her one--that is, a hundred to her fifty--what would you say to having him still for a son-in-law?" "Why," said the bride's father, "that wad certainly hae altered the case at ae time; but it's owre late noo." "Not a bit--not a bit," replied the propounder of the question--"better late than never." "But young Goupinsfou has lands as weel as siller," rejoined Clayslaps. "True, I believe," said the other speaker; "but suppose Davy could produce you evidence of his being a laird, too--say--let me see"--and he paused a moment--"say he could show you that he was laird of a hundred acres of the best land within half-a-dozen miles of Partick, what would you say then, guidman, to having Davy for your daughter's husband?" "What's the use o' talking this nonsense?" said the Laird of Clayslaps, impatiently; "everybody kens that Davy Linn's baith landless and penniless, and likely aye to be. Sae, freend, hae the guidness to retire--for your company's no wanted here--and let the ceremony proceed." "Not so fast, laird, if you please," returned the person addressed; and then, turning to the bride's mother, "What would you say, guidwife, to Davy for a son-in-law, if he had all the property I have mentioned?" "Ou, indeed, man, it wad surely hae altered the case athegither--there's nae doot o' that. I wad hae had nae objection till him, had that been the case--neither wad her faither, I am sure. But, as the guidman has said, what's the use o' speaking o' thae things, now, at ony rate? Davy has naething, and Goupinsfou has plenty, and that maks a' the differ--but, my faith, an unco differ it is." "No doubt; but, if we remove this differ, guidwife," rejoined the stranger, "perhaps we may yet prevent two fond hearts being separated; and, to end this matter at once," continued the speaker, but now in a serious tone, "_I_ will pay down a hundred merks on Davy Linn's account, as a free gift to him, on the day after he has become the husband of your daughter, and _I_ will put him in possession, as a free gift also, of a hundred acres of the best land within six miles of Partick, on the same day, and on the same conditions." "_Ye'll_ pay doon a hunner merks to Davy Linn, and _ye'll_ gie him a hunner acres o' land!" exclaimed Clayslaps, in the utmost amazement, and looking at the threadbare coat, clouted shoes, and darned hose of the man of promises, with the most profound contempt and incredulity. "And whar the deil are _ye_ to get them?" "Never ye fear that, freend," replied the latter, laughing; "I'll find them, I warrant you." "Let's see the siller," said Clayslaps, triumphantly. "Why, you certainly have me there, Clayslaps. I have not the money on me, indeed; but I will find you instant security for it, and for the entire fulfilment of my promises. Landlord," continued the speaker, and now turning to Ringan, who was one of his astonished auditors, "please to say to Sir John Elphingstone, whom I presume you know is to be found in the next room, that it will be obliging if he will step this way a moment." We will not stop to describe the amazement that was felt by all, and expressed on every countenance in the apartment, on the delivery of this extraordinary message. Sir John Elphingstone was well known to every one there as a gentleman of large possessions and highly honourable character; and how he came to be at the call of such a person as he who had sent for him, or how he came to be in the house at all at such a time, was matter of inexpressible surprise to every one present. The whole affair, in short, was one of impenetrable mystery and perplexity to all, including the worthy curate. We will not, however, wait to describe the feelings of the party on this occasion, but go straight on with our story. Neither will we do so, in any case--thinking it much better to leave such matters wholly to the reader's own imagination. The summons that called Sir John into the presence of the marriage-folks was immediately obeyed. In an instant that gentleman entered the apartment, with a smile upon his face, all the party standing up and receiving him with the most marked reverence and respect. "You'll excuse the liberty I have taken in sending for you, Sir John," said the person who had called him, on the former's entrance; "and I certainly would not have taken that liberty, had I not known how much pleasure it gives you when an opportunity is afforded you of doing a generous thing. Here, Sir John, is a young woman about to be sacrificed at the altar of Mammon. Now, I know that you would not permit this if you could help it. Neither will I; and, to prevent it, I have promised to the intended bride's father here, that I will give one hundred merks and one hundred acres of land to the husband of Meenie's choice, Davy Linn of Partick--a very deserving young man, I believe--on the day after she is married to him. Now, Sir John, will you become my security to Clayslaps for the fulfilment of this promise?" "Most assuredly," said Sir John, smiling; "let me have pen, ink, and paper, and I will give him my written obligation to that effect." The materials were brought, and the obligation drawn out; Clayslaps and all the others being too much confounded by what was passing to offer any interruption or make any remark. When the paper was written, it was handed to Meenie's father, who, almost unconsciously--for he did not seem to know very well what he was doing--read it over. On concluding the perusal, "A'richt aneugh," he said--"a'richt aneugh. Od, this _is_ a queer business. But it's a' owre late, guid sirs. We canna be aff wi' Goupinsfou at this stage o' the affair, and in this sort o' way. It wadna be fair nor honest, and wad look unco strange like. Besides, ye canna expeck that he would submit to't himsel." This was certainly a reasonable enough supposition, but it happened to be an unfounded one; for Goupinsfou was not only an ass, but a most abominably mean and selfish one; and Sir John, aware of this, thought he knew a way to reconcile him to the loss of Meenie. Going up to Goupinsfou, he took him aside, and whispered in his ear, "I say, laird, you've long had an eye, I know, to the bit holm on the Kelvin, below the Gorroch Mills." "It's a bonny spot," interrupted Goupinsfou, cocking his ears. "It is," replied Sir John. "Well, then, it shall be yours, if you give up all claim to the hand of Meenie Ritchie, and give me in writing an entire quittance on that score." "Dune!" exclaimed Goupinsfou, instantly, wisely calculating that he could readily find another wife, but might not so readily get another offer of the piece of land he so much coveted. "Dune, Sir John!" he exclaimed, grasping that gentleman by the hand with the selfish eagerness that belonged to his character; but, desirous of glossing over the meanness of the transaction, he placed his acquiescence on another footing than that of bribery, by adding, "I wadna like, I'm sure, to force the lassie to marry me against her will. I gie her up wi' a' my heart." Having obtained the brute's consent to resign the hand of Meenie, Sir John turned to the party, and informed them that their worthy friend, the Laird of Goupinsfou, out of consideration for the feelings of Meenie Ritchie, which he feared were not favourable to him, resigned all claim to her hand, and left her at full liberty to marry whom she pleased. "Weel, that's certainly sae far guid," said Clayslaps; "but still I'm no athegither reconciled to this business. It looks----" "Toots, guidman," here interposed his wife, "the thing's a'richt aneugh. Havena ye Sir John's haun o' vrit for the promise made by this--this"--and she looked at the person she meant, and would have said _gentleman_, but another glimpse of the patched shoes directed her to the words--"_honest man_, to gie Davie the land and siller spoken o'; and what mair wad ye hae? Davie's a discreet, decent, well-doin lad, everybody kens, that will mak, I'm sure, a guid husband to Meenie; sae, just let them e'en gang thegither." She would scarcely have said so much for Davie an hour before; but she said it now, and it was all well enough. "Weel, weel, guidwife," said Clayslaps, "since it is sae, we'll see aboot it. There can be nae harm, however, in delayin a day or twa, at ony rate, till we think owre't." "No, no--no delay," exclaimed the meddling stranger; "delays are dangerous, guidman. Nothing like the present moment. Let us strike while the iron's hot. Landlord," he said, turning round to Ringan, "send Davie Linn here." In a second after, Davie Linn rushed into the apartment, flew to Meenie, and caught her in his arms. "Mine yet! mine yet, Meenie!" he exclaimed, rapturously. It was all he could say; and, little as it was, it was more than she he addressed was able to express. During the whole night, indeed, she had not opened her lips, and seemed to have been scarcely conscious of what was passing around her. This was the effect of deep misery; and the result was now nearly the same from an excess of joy. "No delay now, curate," said the intermeddler. "Set to work as fast as you can, and buckle these two together. No objection, I fancy?" "Oh, none in the world," said the curate; "I'll fix them in a trice. But I say, freend," he added, laughing, "I'm thinkin what a fule I was to pay your reckonin the nicht--ane wha maks the merks flee like drift snaw on a windy day, and gies awa lumps o' land wi' as little thocht as--as--as I settled your lawin. Feth, but it was fulish aneugh o' me, and ye're a queer ane, be ye wha ye like." "Not so very foolish, perhaps, as you think, curate," said the person thus addressed, "and that it's possible ye may find. At any rate, it's no lost what a friend gets, you know, curate; but, in the meantime, will you proceed with the ceremony, if you please. And, guidman," he added, turning to Clayslaps, "will ye allow me to give away the bride?" "I ken nane here that has a better richt," replied the latter, now thoroughly reconciled to the sudden and most unexpected change in his daughter's destiny which had taken place. "Ye may either gie her awa or tak her yersel, just as ye like; for, by my faith, ye seem to be a guid honest chiel, be ye wha ye like, as the curate says." "Well, then, since you place her at my disposal, I here give her to Davie Linn o' Partick--and may he always continue to deserve her!" This conveyance of the fair Meenie, the curate lost no time in legalising and confirming. When the ceremony was completed, "Now," said the stranger, "if there be a fiddler or piper in all Govan who will play to us for love or money, let him be brought here instantly, and we'll finish as well as we've begun. By St Bride, we'll have a night of it! What say you, Sir John?" And he turned to that gentleman with a smile. "Will you condescend to honour us with your presence, and with as much good-humour as you can conveniently spare?" "Oh, most certainly," replied the latter, laughing, "with all my heart." The desired musician was procured, and made his appearance. The room was cleared, creature comforts were ordered in, in unsparing abundance, and such a night of mirth and fun ensued as, we believe, has not been seen since in the little village of Govan, and perhaps not often anywhere else. The curate danced and frisked about like a three-year-old; Sir John conducted himself with no less animation; but neither of them had the smallest chance with the gentleman in the darned hose. He kept the floor almost the whole night, whooping and hallooing in a most spirited manner, and dancing fully half the time with the bride, and the rest with her mother, the guidwife of Clayslaps, relieved occasionally by a turn-out with some young girls of the neighbourhood, whom the landlord of the Grilse and Gridiron had hurriedly brought together, on the principle of "the more the merrier." But time and tide wait on no man. Morning came, and the revellers prepared to depart to their several homes. The marriage party, including the bride and bridegroom, and Sir John Elphingstone, proceeded to the ferry, to which they were accompanied by him who had performed the principal character of the night. Having seen them all embarked, and having wished the young married couple every happiness, he stood on the shore for an instant, waved them a final adieu, retired by the way of the village, and was seen no more. Within a week after the occurrence of the events just related, the worthy curate of Govan was surprised one day by receiving a letter from the Archbishop of Glasgow. "What's wrang now?" said the curate to himself, as he opened it. "My dismissal, I suppose, for the irregularity o' my conduct at Ringan Scouler's the ither nicht." It was not exactly so, as the reader will perceive. The letter ran thus:-- "At the recommendation of a high personage, I intend appointing you to the vacant rectorship of Govan. You will therefore repair immediately to me, either at my palace at Glasgow or my castle at Partick, that I may confer with you farther on the subject. "DUNBAR, A. B. OF G." "Whe-e-e-ou!" ejaculated the curate, with a long-drawn expiration, when he had read this very pleasant document--"I smell a rat. 'Od, but it was stupid o' me no to think o't afore. I'm sure I micht hae kent him; for I've seen him twa or three times; but then he was in a green frock-coat o' the finest claith; a velvet bonnet, wi' ruby and feathers, was on his head; a chain o' gowd, worth five hundred merks, if it was worth a bodle, round his neck, and a gaucy sword by his side. Still I ought to hae kent him, for a' his clouted shoon and darned hose. But the cat's oot o' the pock; and, my word, a bonny beast it is!" What does the good curate's hints and allegorical allusions mean? inquires the reader. Why, it means that the worthy man suspected--and we have no doubt his suspicion was perfectly correct--that the person in the darned hose was no other than James V., King of Scotland. GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT. I.--THE GRANDMOTHER'S NARRATIVE. Notwithstanding the researches of Woodrow, and the more recent enlargement and excellent annotations of Dr Burns, we are quite conscious that a volume somewhat interesting might still be collected of additional and traditional atrocities, of which no written record remains, nor other, save the recollections _of recollections_--in other words, the remembrance which we and a few others possess of the narratives of our grandmothers whilst we were yet children. Our own maternal grandmother died at ninety-six--we ourselves are now in our sixtieth year; so that, deducting eight or nine years for our age previous to our taking an interest in such concerns, we have our grandmother existing before (say) 1695, which, deducting eight years of infancy, brings us to 1703, which is only twenty-five years posterior to the conclusion, and fifty-three to the commencement, of the atrocious twenty-eight years' persecution. It is then manifest, from this arithmetical computation, that our own grandmother, on whose truthful intentions we can rely with confidence, came into contact and conversation with those who were contemporaneous with the events and persons she referred to. This surely is no very violent or unsafe stretch of tradition; but, even though it were much more so, we would be disposed to yield to it somewhat more consideration than is generally done. Now-a-days, the pen and the press are almost the only recorders of passing and past events and circumstances; but, in the age to which we refer, this was not the case. The children of Israel were bound by a holy and inviolate law to record _verbally_ to their children, and those again to theirs, what the Lord had done for their forefathers. And on the same principle, and under the same comparative absence of written records, did our grandmothers receive from their immediate predecessors the revolting disclosures which they have handed down to us. There are here but two links in the chain--those, namely, which connect our grandmothers with their parents, and with us; but, had there been twenty--nay, fifty or a hundred links--we should not, on account of the high antiquity of such a tradition, have been disposed to dismiss it as altogether groundless, and not implying even the slightest authority. In illustration of this, we may adduce the facts, sufficiently well known and authenticated, which were disclosed about thirty years ago at Burgh-head, the ultimate extent of Roman conquest in Scotland. In that promontory, now inhabited by a scattered population, there remained, from age to age, a tradition that a Roman well had existed on the particular spot. There being a lack of water in the place, the inhabitants combined to have the locality opened, with the view of disclosing so useful and essential an element. They dug twenty and even thirty feet downwards, but made no disclosures; and were on the point of giving up the search, when the father of the late Duke of Gordon happening to pass, and to ascertain their object and their want of success, very generously supplied them with the means of making a further excavation. At last, to their no small surprise and delight, they came to a nicely built and rounded well-mouth, with a stair downwards to the bottom, and the bronze statues of Mercury and other heathen gods stuck into niches. This well remains to this hour, and may be visited by the traveller along the Moray Frith, as an indisputable and indelible evidence of the value of traditions in ages when almost no other means of record existed. True, such traditions are deeply coloured and tinged by the prejudices of the age in which they originated--allowance as to exaggeration must be made for excited feelings and outraged opinions; but still the groundwork may in general be depended on. The old, and perhaps vulgar, proverb, "There is aye SOME water where the stirkie drowns!" applies in this case with a conclusive force; and we may rely upon it, even from the collateral and written evidence of parties and partisans on all sides, that nothing which mere tradition has hinted at can exceed, in characters of genuine cruelty and downright bloodshed and murder, those historical statements which have reached us. True, a writer lately deceased, whose memory is immortal, and whose writings will survive whilst national feelings and the vitality of high talent remain, has given us a somewhat chivalrous and attractive character of the most distinguished actor in the atrocities of the fearful time; and it is to be more than lamented--to be deplored--that an early and habitual, and ultimately constitutional, leaning to aristocratic and chivalrous views should have induced such a writer as Sir Walter Scott to draw such an interesting picture of the really infamous "Clavers"--of him who, for a piece of morning pastime, could, with his own pistol, blow out a husband's brains, without law or trial, and that in the presence of his wife and infant family! But the great body of historians are on the side of truth and tradition; and the recently-published, and still publishing, Life by Lockhart has unfolded, and will yet unfold, those leanings of the great novelist which have occasioned so lamentable a deviation from real history. Under the shelter, then, of these preliminary observations, we proceed with such notices and statements as we have heard repeated, or seen in manuscripts which have (as we believe) never been printed. And we shall give these notices and statements as they were given to us--surrounded by a halo of superstition, and involving much belief which is now, happily or unhappily--we do not say which--completely exploded. Oh, my bairn! these were fearful times!--(Grandmother _loquitur_)--ay, and atweel war _they_. My own mother has again and again made my hair stand on end, and my heart-blood run cold at her relations. Ye ken Auchincairn, my bairn; and maybe, whan ye were seeking for hawks' nests, ye hae searched the Whitestane Cleughs. Aweel, ye maybe hae seen, or maybe no--for young hearts and een like yours (O sirs! mine are now dim and sair!) tak little tent o' sic-like things; but, my bonny bairn, though tent it ye didna, true it is, and of verity, that, at the very bottom o' that steep and fearfu linn, there is a rock, a stane like a blue whunstane; and owre that stane the water has run for years and years, and the winds and the rains of heaven hae dashed and plashed against it; but still that stane remains (dear me, I'm amaist greeting!)--it remains stained and spotted _wi' bluid_. And that bluid, my dear bairn, is o' the bluid that rins in yer ain veins--it is the bluid o' William Harkness, my own faither's brother. Weel, and ye shall hear; for my mother used to tell me the langsyne stories sae aft, that I can just repeat them in her ain words. Weel, it was the month of October, and the nights were beginning to lengthen; and the puir persecuted saints, that had taen to the _outside_ a' simmer, and were seldom, if ever, to be seen in the _inside_, were beginning to pop in again nows and thans, when they thought Dalyel, and Johnston, and Clavers, and Douglas, and the rest o' the murdering gang, war elsewhere. Aweel, as I am telling ye, yer granduncle cam hame to his ain brother's house; it might be about the dawn o' the morning, whan a' the house, except his brother, were sleeping, and he had got a cog o' crap whey on his knee, wi' a barley scone--for glad, glad was he to get it; and he had just finished saying the grace, and was conversing quietly like, and in whisper, wi' his ain brother, when what should he hear, but a rap at the kitchen-door, and a voice pouring in through the keyhole-- "Willie Harkness! Willie Harkness! the Philistines are upon ye! They are just now crossing the Pothouseburn." I trow when he heard that, he wasna lang in clearing the closs, and takin doun the shank, straight for the foot of the Whiteside Linn, where the cave was in which he had for weeks and months been concealed. It was now, ye see, the grey o' the morning, and things could be seen moving at some distance. Just as my uncle was about to enter the bramble-bushes at the foot o' the linn, he was met by a trooper on horseback. "Stand!" said a voice, in accents of Satan; "stand, this moment, and surrender; or your life is not worth three snuffs of a Covenanter's mull." My uncle kent weel the consequences of standing, and of being taken captive; and ye see, my bairn, life is sweet to us a'; sae he e'en dashed into the thicket, and, in an instant o' time, and ere the dragoon could shoulder his musket, he was tumbling head-foremost (but holding by the branches) towards the bottom of Whiteside Linn. There lay my worthy uncle, breathless, and motionless, and silent, expecting every moment that the dragoon would dismount and secure him. However, the man o' sin contented himsel wi' firing several times (at random) into the linn. The last shot which was fired took effect on my uncle's knee; the blood sprung from it, and he fainted. As God would have it, at this time no further pursuit was attempted, and my uncle was lame for life. The blood still remains on the stane, as witness against the unholy hand that shed it. But, alas! we are a' erring creatures; and who knows but even a dragoon may get repentance and find mercy! God forbid, my wee man, that we should condemn ony ane, even a persecutor, to eternal damnation! It's awfu--it's fearfu! But that's no a' ye shall hear. When the trooper came up to the house, and joined his party, he repeated what had passed, and a search was set about in the linn for my uncle; but William had by this time crippen into his cauld, dripping cave, over which the water spouted in a cascade, and thus concealed him from their search; sae, after marking the blood, and almost raving like bloodhounds with disappointment, they tied up a servant girl--whom they had first abused in the most unseemly and beastly manner--to a tree, and there they left her, incapable, though she had been able, of freeing herself. She was relieved in an hour; but never recovered either the shame or the cruelty. She died, and her grave is in the east corner, near the large bushy tree in Closeburn kirkyard. "Blessed are the dead which die in the Lord; for they rest from their labours, and their works do follow them." Muckle better, my dear, was her fate, though seemingly a hard one, than that o' the ungodly curate o' Closeburn--o' him wha was informer against the puir persecuted remnant, and wha, through the instrumentality o' his spies and informers, had occasioned a' this murder and cruelty. Ye shall hear. He--I mean, my bairn, the curate--had been hurlin the folk, whether they would or no, to the kirk, for weeks, in carts and hurdles--for oh, they liked his cauld, moral harangues ill, and his conduct far waur. He had even got the laird to refuse burial in the kirkyard to ony who refused to hear his fushionless preaching. Puir Nanny Walker's funeral (she who had been sae horribly murdered) was to tak place on sic a day. The curate had heard o' this, and he was resolved to oppose the interment. But God's ways, my wean, are not as our ways, nor his thoughts as ours; in his hands are the issues of life and of death; he killeth and he maketh alive--blessed be his name, for ever, amen! Weel, as I was telling ye, out cam the curate, raging, running, and stamping like a madman; coming down his ain entry like a roaring lion, and swearing--for he stuck at naething--that Nanny Walker's vile Covenanting heart should never rot in Closeburn kirkyard. Aweel, when he had just reached the kirk stile, and was in the act o' lifting up his hand against them who were bearing the coffin into the kirkyard, what think ye, my bairn, happened? The ungodly man, with his mouth open in cursing, and his hand uplifted to strike, instantly fell down on the flagstanes, uttered but one groan, and expired! Ye see, my bairn, what a fearfu thing it is to persecute, and then to fall into the hands o' an angry and avenging God. Oh, may never descendant o' mine deserve or meet wi' sic a fate! But there is mair to tell ye still. Just at the time when this fearfu visitation o' Providence took place, the family o' Auchincairn war a' engaged wi' the Buik, whan _in_ should rush wha but daft Gibbie Galloway, wha had never spoken a sensible word in his life--for he was a born innocent, he and his mither afore him! Weel, and to be sure, just about this time, for they compared it afterwards, _in_ Gibbie stammered into the kitchen, whar they war a' convened, and interrupted the guidman's prayer, wha happened at the time to be prayin to the Lord for vengeance against the ungodly curate:-- "Haud at him," said Gibby--"haud at him! he's 'ust at the pit-brow!" Ay, fearfu, sirs--thae war awfu times! II.--THE COVENANTERS' MARCH. The narratives of the Rev. Mr Frazer of Alness, as well as those of Quentin Dick, William M'Millan, and Mr Robert M'Lellan, Laird of Balmagechan--all sufferers by, and MS. historians of the same events--we have carefully perused; and it is from a collection of these hitherto unpublished MSS. that the following paper is composed. Mr Frazer had gone to London about the end of the year 1676, and had continued there till 1685, when he was seized, along with the Laird of Balmagechan, in Galloway, whilst they were listening to the instructions of the Rev. Mr Alexander Shields, the celebrated author of the "Hynd let loose," and forwarded by sea, under fetter and hatchway, to Leith. After a variety of tossing and council-questioning, as was the order of the day at this time, they were marched from the Canongate Tolbooth, along with upwards of 200 prisoners, to Dunnottar Castle in Kincardineshire. Of the sudden and unexpected summoning which they experienced, the reverend autobiographer speaks in these terms:-- "We were engaged, as was usual with us in our Babel captivity, in singing a psalm. It was our evening sacrifice, and whilst the sun was sinking ayont the Pentlands. The voice of a godly and much-tried woman, Euphan Thriepland, ascended clear and full of heavenly melody above the rest. The prison-door was suddenly thrown open, and we at first imagined--alas!--that our captivity had ended; but it was not so. The Lord saw meet to put us to still severer trials. We were marched, under the command of Colonel Douglas, to Leith. This poor woman, who was labouring under great bodily weakness, pled hard and strove sair for leave to stay behind. But she was mounted behind a corporal, and, amidst many an obscene jest and much blasphemous language, conveyed to the pier at Leith." Next morning, we find the whole prisoners put up in the most indecent and uncomfortable manner in two rooms of the Tolbooth at Burntisland, and undergoing an examination before the Laird of Gosford, as to their opinions of allegiance and absolute supremacy. Forty acknowledged King James as head of our Presbyterian Church, and superior lord over all law and authority in the kingdom; and the forty-first was standing in the presence of the oath administrator, with his hand uplifted, and in the very act of following the example of his brethren, when his aunt, Euphan Thriepland, _alias_ M'Birnie (for her husband's name was such), advancing with difficulty towards the table, thus proceeded, with violent gesticulation, and in a firm tone of voice, to address her nephew. Here we use the words of the Laird of Balmagechan, who has given the whole scene with singular force and fidelity:-- "Jamie M'Birnie, what's that ye're about? Down wi' yer hand, man!--down wi' yer hand, this moment!--or ye may weel expect it to rot aff by the shackle-bane, man! Ye're but a young man, Jamie, and muckle atweel ye seem to require counsel. Had Peter M'Birnie, yer worthy faither--now with his Maker--stood where I now (though with tottering joints and a feeble voice) stand, he would neither have held his peace nor withheld his admonition. He would rather hae seen that hand--now stretched oot to abjure Christ and his Covenanted Kirk--burning and frying in the hettest flame, than hae witnessed the waefu sicht I now see. It's weel wi' him!--oh, it's weel wi' him, that his eyes are shut on earth, and that, in heaven, there is nae annoyance; otherwise, sair, sair would his heart hae been, to see my sister's wean devoting himsel wi' his ain uplifted hand to Satan. O Jamie, what says the Bible? It says awfu things to you, Jamie--it says, 'If thine eye offend thee, pluck it out, for it is better to go into heaven with one eye, than that the whole body'--Jamie, mark that! the whole body--'should be cast into hell fire.' And is not an eye dearer than a hand, and must not the dearest member be sacrificed, if it stand in the way of the soul's salvation? Ye may own King James, and muckle thanks ye'll get for't; and ye may abjure and renounce Christ, and ye'll sune see wha will gain or lose by that. And ye may adhere to the king's curates, or to the bishops' curates, and starve at the breast o' a _yeld_, a milkless mither; but tak tent that ye dinna feed and nourish in your bosom a fearful _worm_, that winna die nor lie still, but will gnaw and gnaw as lang as the fire burns and isna quenched." Jamie M'Birnie's hand continued to fall gradually during this address, and, when his aunt had concluded, his arm hung pendulous and seemingly powerless by his side. At this instant, a young woman of uncommon personal attractions was seen hurrying from a boat which had just landed. She had scarcely set foot on shore, when a commotion was observed in the court, and a face full of anguish and despair was presented to the party assembled in the Tolbooth. The Laird of Gosford, after cursing the aunt for an old Covenanting hag, had just put the question of abjuration to Jamie for the last time. Jamie now remained inflexible, and was immediately ordered to be handcuffed, and marched with the rest to Dunnottar Castle. Hereupon, as the Laird of Balmagechan expresses it--The maiden, who was fair to look upon, pushed herself suddenly forward, and rushed into the arms of her lover--for such he behoved, from her words and her conduct, to be. "O Jamie, Jamie, tak the oath--tak the oath--tak ony oath--tak onything; do a' that they bid you do; say a' that they bid ye say--rather than leave yer ain Jeanie Wilson to break her heart wi' downright greeting. O Jamie, we were to be married, ye ken, at Martinmas; and I have athing ready, and the bit house is taen, and ye can work outby, and I can spin within, and--and--but, O Jamie, speak, man, just speak, and say ye'll tak the oath. Haud up yer hand!" Hereupon she lifted his seemingly powerless right hand, till it came to a level with his head. "Look there, sir," addressing Gosford; "look there--swear him, man, swear him, man; he's willing, dinna ye see, to swear--what for dinna ye swear him?" Being informed that the oath must be voluntary, and his hand not be propped, with great reluctance, and looking in Jamie's face with a look of inexpressible persuasion, she whispered something in his ear which was inaudible, and retired a few paces from her station. No sooner, however, had she done so, than the hand, as if by the law of gravitation, resumed its former position, and a loud scream indicated that the young heart of Jeanie had found a temporary stillness in insensibility. The poor creature was borne out of court, amidst some sympathy even from the hardened and merciless soldiery; and Jamie, now a stupid, passive clod, was handcuffed, and ordered to march. Lieutenant Beaton of Kilrennie commanded the detachment to which was intrusted the execution of the higher orders. They were all compelled to walk, with the exception of Euphan Thriepland, who was mounted, as formerly, behind a corporal, together with a poor lame schoolmaster, whose feet were closely and most cruelly tied down to the sides of a wild and unbroken colt. Upon these two helpless and tormented beings, principally, did it please and amuse the commander and his men to exercise their wit and expend their jeers. At one time the schoolmaster was likened to a perched radish, and again he was "riding the stang" for his sins. Euphemia was designated "Dame Grunt," in humane allusion, no doubt, to the painful position which she occupied _à la croupe_, and which compelled her frequently to groan. Again she was accosted as the "mother of all saints," and the "true Blue Whigamore." One observed that the dominie would look wonderfully handsome in boots (referring, no doubt, to the instrument of torture); and another observed that the lady would wondrous well become a St Johnstone's cravat--namely, a halter. The foot-soldiers, who were armed with long pikes, made excellent application of their weapons; and ever and anon, as some weary wretch lagged behind, or some hungry or thirsty one seemed inclined to turn aside to procure food or drink, the "_argumentum a posteriori_" was applied vigorously and unsparingly. The people of Fife, who were universally favourably disposed toward the prisoners, flocked in upon their retired and out-of-the-way route with every kind of provision and refreshment; but, instead of being permitted to bestow them where they were needed, they were met with taunts, and in some cases with blows; and the food which was intended for the prisoners was uniformly devoured by their tormentors, or wasted and destroyed in the very presence, and under the very eyes, of those who were almost famishing for hunger. A strolling piper, who happened to be crossing their route, was sportively enlisted into their service, and compelled, like Barton at Bannockburn, to play, very much to his own annoyance, such tunes as "The Whigs o' Fife," well known to be offensive to the friends of the Covenant. "It was, indeed," says the Rev. Mr Frazer, with more of naïvete and good-humour than might have been expected--"it was, indeed, an uncommon sight to behold a large and mixed company of men and women, but indifferently clad and ill-assorted, marching over muirs and hill-sides, with a roaring bagpipe at their tail; the piper puffing and blowing, and ever and anon casting a suspicious look behind, towards the pike points, which were occasionally applied to his person in a manner the least ceremonious possible." Might not this group form an appropriate subject for an Allan, a Wilkie, or a Harvey? About dusk the party had skirted the Lomonts, and were billeted for the night in the poor, but pleasantly-situated, village of Freuchie. Each head of a family was made answerable with his property and life for the persons of those prisoners who were committed to his charge. And it is worthy of notice that not one of those poor oppressed and insulted sufferers--who were all day long endeavouring to escape--once attempted to implicate a single individual amongst all their kind and hospitable landlords. Upon rallying their numbers next morning, it was found that one aged individual, a forebear of ours, of the name of Watson, had died of over-fatigue; and that the poor schoolmaster was so much injured by his horsemanship, that he could not possibly advance farther. When they arrived at the south ferry of the Tay, the tide did not serve, and a most cruel and barbarous scene was exhibited. A young man, the son of the Rev. Mr Frazer, with the view of making interest for his father's release, had endeavoured to escape during the night. He was challenged by a sentinel in passing along the rocks, and not answering instantly, was immediately shot dead on the spot. His head was cut from the body, and with the return of day, presented to the unfortunate and horrified parent, with these words, "There's the gallows face of your son!" Mr Frazer's own reflections on this scene deserve to be extracted from his written manuscripts:--"O my Charles! my dear, heart-broken Charles! thy mother's joy and thy father's hope, and prop, and comfort! To be thus deprived of thee, and for ever! But I am wrong, very wrong: I had thee only as a loan from the Lord; and I know well that he gives-- 'And when he takes away, He takes but what he gave.' Thou hast perished in the ranks amidst the soldiers of Christ; and I doubt not that when the Captain of our salvation shall appear, thou wilt appear with him." It would only fatigue and disgust the reader to give one tithe of the atrocities which were perpetrated during the whole march to Dunnottar Castle. Really, the manuscript narratives here concur in such statements as are calculated to make us conceive favourably of Hottentots and cannibals: children torn from their mothers' arms, and transfixed on pike points; a woman in labour thrown into a pool in the North Esk; lighted matches applied betwixt the fingers of old Euphan Thriepland, because she ventured to denounce such atrocities, &c. &c. &c. Come we, then, after three or four days' march, to Dunnottar Castle. The Castle of Dunnottar stands upon a rocky peninsula; and at the time of which we are writing was only accessible by a drawbridge. It has been in successive years the scene of much contention and bloodshed. It was here that Sir William Wallace is said to have burned to the death not less than four thousand Southrons in one night. It was within these fire-seared and blackened walls that the unfortunate Marquis of Montrose renewed the horrors of conflagration; and it was here, too, that the brave Ogilvy so long and so determinedly defended our Scottish regalia against the soldiers of the Commonwealth. It was, too, from out these walls, that Mrs Granger, wife of the minister of Kinneff, conveyed away, packed up and concealed amidst a bundle of clothes, the emblems of Scottish independence; and that, after having concealed them till the Restoration, at one time beneath the pulpit, and at another betwixt the plies of a double-bottomed bed, she returned them, upon the accession of Charles II., to Mr Ogilvy, who, along with the Earl Marischal and keeper of the regalia, Keith, were rewarded for their fidelity, the one with a baronetcy, and the other with the earldom of Kintire; whilst neither this woman nor her husband, nor any of their posterity, have once yet been visited by any mark of royal or national gratitude:-- "Hos ego versiculos feci, tulit alter honores." It is thus that the great man stands in the light of the small, and that the royal vision is prevented from penetrating beyond the objects in immediate juxtaposition. This Castle of Dunnottar, which had so recently been honoured as the receptacle of the regalia, was now about to be converted into a state prison, and, like the Bass, to become subservient to the views of an alarmed and fluctuating council, at a time when the rebellion of the unfortunate Monmouth in England, and of the haughty and ill-advised Argyle in Scotland, had set the whole kingdom in a ferment, either of hope or apprehension. Mr Frazer's narrative of the entrance of the prisoners into the castle, upon Sabbath the 24th day of May, 1685, is sufficiently graphic and intelligible:-- "We passed along," says he, "a narrow way or drawbridge, and from thence ascended under a covered road towards the castle, which stands high up, and looks down upon the sea from three of its sides. A person in the garb of a jailer, with a bunch of large and rusty keys in his hand, opened a door on the seaward side of the building, and we were very rudely and insultingly commanded to enter. 'Kennel up, there, kennel up, ye dogs of the Covenant!' were amongst the best terms which were applied to us. "The Laird of Balmagechan being amongst the last to penetrate into this abode of stench, damp, darkness, suffocation, and death, a soldier made a lunge at him with the point of his pike. Balmagechan was a peaceable man and a Christian; but this was somewhat too much--so, turning round in an instant, and closing at once with his insulting tormentor, he fairly wrested the pike from the soldier's grasp, and, splintering it in shivers over his head, he added, 'Tak, then, that in the meantime, thou devil's gaet, to teach thee better manners!' The apartment into which, with scarcely room to stand, 177 (our numbers having thus diminished from 200, on the march) human beings were thrust was, in fact, dug out of the rock, and, unless by a small narrow window towards the sea, had no means of admitting either light or air. As the night advanced, the heat became intolerable, and a sense of suffocation, the most painful of any to which our frail nature can be exposed, seemed to threaten an excruciating, if not an immediate death. In vain we knocked, and called upon the guard, and implored a little air, and asked water, for God and mercy's sake. We were only answered by scoffs and jeers. At last nature, in many instances being entirely worn out, gave way. Some turned their heads over upon the shoulder of the persons nearest them, as if in the act of drinking water, and expired--others lost their reason entirely, struck out furiously around them, tore their own hair and that of others, and then went off in strong and hideous convulsions. Happier were they, at this awful midnight hour, who entered this dungeon with a feeble step, and in a wasted state of bodily strength; for _their_ struggle was short, and their death comparatively easy--_they_ died ere midnight. But far otherwise was it with many upon whom God had bestowed youth, health, and unimpaired strength. They stood the contest long; and frequently, after they appeared to be dead, awoke again in renewed strength, and ten times increased suffering. After the fatal discovery was made, that the door was not to be opened, the rush toward the opposite window became absolutely intolerable. The feeble were trodden down, and even the strong wasted their strength in contending with each other. "Morning at last dawned, and our prison-door flew suddenly open. The governor's lady had learned our fate; and, even at the risk of giving offence to her lord, she had ordered us air and water, whilst _he still slept_. 'O woman, woman,' exclaims Mr Quentin Dick, in his MS. before me, 'thou art, and hast ever been, an angel. What does not man--what do not we owe thee?'" In a word, more than the half perished on that dreadful night, and amongst those who were ultimately liberated by order in council, were the individuals who have been particularised in this narrative. Reader, we inquire not into thy political creed--we ask not whether thou art a Whig or a Tory, a Conservative or a Radical--we can allow thee to be an honest and conscientious man, on all these suppositions: all we ask of thee is this, "_Art thou a man?_" The inference is inevitable. Perhaps some may wish to know what became of Euphan Thriepland, Jamie M'Birnie, and Jeanie Wilson. We are happy that, owing to an accidental occurrence, we can throw some light upon the subject. Last time we were in Dumfries-shire, and in Closeburn, our native parish, we read upon the door of a change-house, in the village of Croalchapel, this inscription, "Whisky, Ale, and British Spirits, sold here, by James M'Birnie." The coincidence of the name revived my long-obscured recollection of the past, and led, in fact, ultimately to the whole of this narrative. We learned, from an old bedrid woman, the grandmother of this James, that he of Dunnottar celebrity had returned to Edinburgh and married Jeanie Wilson; that he had taken auld aunt Euphan home to their dwelling; and had been employed for several years after the Revolution, as a nursery and seeds-man, in Edinburgh; that, having realised a competency, they had ultimately retired to their native parish of Closeburn, and had tenanted a small farm called Stepends; that their son had been a drover, and unsuccessful even to bankruptcy; and that the family were now reduced to the condition which we beheld. III.--PEDEN'S FAREWELL SERMON. We believe there never was such a sad Sabbath witnessed, as that upon which nearly four hundred of the Established clergy of Scotland preached their farewell sermons and addresses to their several congregations. It was a day, as the historians of that period express it, of "wailing, and of loud lamentation, as the weeping of Jazer, when the lords of the heathen had broken down her principal plants; and as the mourning of Rachel, who wept for her children, and would not be comforted." On the 4th day of October, 1662, a council, under the commission of the infatuated and ill-advised Middleton, was held at Glasgow; and, in an hour of brutal intoxication, it was resolved and decreed that all those ministers of the Church of Scotland who had, by a popular election, entered upon their cures since the year 1649, should, in the first instance, be arrested, nor permitted to resume their pulpits, or draw their stipends, till they had received a presentation at the hands of the lay patrons, and submitted to induction from the diocesan bishop. In other words, Presbytery, which had been so dearly purchased, and was so acceptable to the people of Scotland, was to be superseded by Prelacy; and the mandate of the prince, or of his privy council, was to be considered in future as _law_, in all matters whether civil or ecclesiastical. It was not to be supposed that the descendants and admirers of Knox, and Hamilton, and Welsh, and Melville could calmly and passively submit to this; and accordingly the 20th day of October--the last Sabbath which, without conformity to the orders in council, the proscribed ministers were permitted to preach--was a day anticipated with anxious feelings, and afterwards remembered to their dying day, by all who witnessed it. It was our fortune, in early life, to be acquainted with an old man, upwards of ninety, an inhabitant of the village of Glenluce, whose grandfather was actually present at the farewell or parting sermon which Mr Peden, the author of the famous prophecies which bear his name, delivered on this occasion to his parishioners. We have conversed with this aged chronicler so frequently and so fully upon the subject, that we believe we can give a pretty faithful report of what was then delivered by Peden. I remember well (continued, according to my authority, the old chronicler)--I mind it well, it seems but as yesterday--the morning of this truly awful and not-to-be-forgotten day. It had been rain in the night-time, and the morning was dark and cloudy--the mist trailed like the smoke o' a furnace, white and ragged, alang the hill-taps. The heavens above seemed, as it were, to scowl upon the earth beneath. I rose early, as was my wont on the Sabbath morning, and hitched away towards the tap o' the Briock. I had only continued, it micht be, an hour in private meditation and prayer, when I heard the eight-o'clock bells beginning to toll. Indeed, I could hear, from the place where I was, I may say, every bell in the presbytery. The sound o' these bells is still in my ears--it was unusually sweet and melodious; and yet there was something very melancholy in the sound. I thought on the blood of the saints by which these bells had been purchased; upon the many souls, now gone to a better place, who had been summoned to a preached gospel by these bells; and I thought, too, on the sad alteration which a few hours would produce, when the pulpits would be deserted by the worthy Presbyterian ministers who filled them, and be filled, it micht be, by Prelatical curates--wolves in sheep's clothing, and fushionless preachers at the best. Even at this early hour, I could see, every here and there, blue bonnets, and black-and-white plaids, and scarlet mantles, mixing with and coming forth every now and then from the broken and creeping mist. The Lord's own covenanted flock were e'en gaun awa to pluck a mouthfu (it micht be the last) o' hale-some and sanctified pasture. The doors o' the kirk o' New Luce had been thrown open early in the morning; but, owing to an immense concourse of people, a tent had been latterly erected on the brow face, immediately opposite to the kirk-stile, and the multitude had settled, and were, when we arrived, settling down, like bees around their queen, on all sides of it. Having advanced suddenly over the height, and come all at once within view of this goodly assembly, I found them engaged, as was their customary, till the minister's appearance, in psalm-singing. A portion of the Thirty-second Psalm had been selected by the precentor, and he was in the act of _giving out_, as it is termed, these appropriate and comforting lines-- "Thou art my hiding-place; thou shalt From trouble set me free; And with songs of deliverance About shall compass me"-- when Peden made his appearance above the brow of the adjoining linn, where he had probably been engaged for some time in preparatory and private devotion. He advanced with the pulpit Bible under his arm, and with a rapid, though occasionally a hesitating, step. All eyes were at once turned upon him; but he seemed lost in meditation, and altogether careless or unconscious of his exposed situation. His figure was diminutive, but his frame athletic and his step elastic. He wore a blue bonnet, from beneath which his dark hair flowed out over his shoulders, long, lank, and dishevelled. His complexion was sallow, but his eyes dark, keen, and penetrating. He had neither gown nor band, but had his shirt-neck tied up with a narrow stock of uncommon whiteness. Thus habited, he approached the congregation, who rose up to make way for him, ascended the ladder attached to the back-door of the tent, and forthwith proceeded to the duties of the day. "Therefore watch and remember; for the space of three years I ceased not to warn every one, night and day, with tears." These words of the text were read out in a firm, though somewhat shrill and squeaking tone of voice; and as he lifted up his eyes from the sacred page, and looked east and west around him, there was a general preparatory cough, and adjustment of position and dress, which clearly bespoke the protracted attention which was about to be given. And, truly, although he continued to discourse from twelve o'clock till dusk, I cannot say that I felt tired or hungry. Nor did it appear that the speaker's strength or matter failed him--nay, he even rose into a degree of fervid and impressive eloquence towards the close which none who were present ever heard equalled. "And now, my friends," continued he, in a concluding appeal to their consciences--"and now I am gaun to warn ye anent the future, as weel as to admonish you o' the past. Ye'll see and hear nae mair o' puir Sandy Peden after this day's wark is owre. See ye that puir bird" (at this moment a hawk had darted down, in view of the whole congregation, in pursuit of its prey)--"see ye that puir panting laverock, which has now crossed into that dark and deep linn, for safety and for refuge from the claws and the beak of its pursuer? I'll tell ye what, my freends--the twasome didna drift down this way frae that dark clud, and along that bleak heathery brae-face, for naething. They were sent, they were commissioned; and if ye had arisen to your feet, ere they passed, and cried, 'Shue!' ye couldna hae frichtened them oot o' their mission. They cam to testify o' a persecuted remnant, and o' a cruel pursuing foe--o' a kirk which will soon hae to betak hersel like a bird to the mountains, and o' an enemy which will not allow her to rest, by night nor by day, even in the dark recesses o' the rocks, or amidst the damp and cauld mosses o' the hills. They cam, and they war welcome, to gie auld Sandy a warning, too, and to bid him tak the bent as fast as possible; to flee, even this very nicht, for the pursuer is even nigh at hand. But, hooly, sirs, we maunna part till our wark is finished; as an auld writer has it--'till our work is finished, we are immortal.' I hae e'en dune my best, as saith an apostle, amang ye; and I hae this day the consolation, and that's no sma', to think that my puir exertions hae been rewarded wi' some sma' success. And had it been _His_ plan, or _His_ pleasure, to have permitted me to lay down my auld banes, when I had nae mair use for them, beneath ane o' the through-stanes there, I canna say but I wad hae been content. But, since it's no His guid and sovereign pleasure, I hae ae request to mak before we separate this nicht, never in this place to meet again." (Hereupon the sobbing and the bursting forth of hitherto suppressed sorrow was almost universal.) "Ye maun a' stand upon your feet, and lift up your hands, and swear, before the great Head and Master o' the Presbyterian Kirk o' Scotland" (there was a general rising and show of hands, whilst the speaker continued), "that, till an independent Presbyterian minister ascend the pulpit, you will never enter the door o' that kirk mair; and let this be the solemn league and covenant betwixt you and me, and betwixt my God and your God, in all time coming! Amen!--so let it be!" In this standing position, which we had thus almost insensibly assumed, the last prayer or benediction was heard, and the concluding psalm was sung-- "For he in his pavilion shall Me hide in evil days, In secret of his tent me hide, And on a rock me raise." I never listened to a sound or beheld a spectacle more overpowering. The night-cloud had come down the hill above us--the sun had set. It was twilight; and the united and full swing of the voice of praise ascended through the veil of evening, from the thousands of lips, even to the gate of heaven. Whilst we continued singing, our venerable pastor descended from the tent--the Word of God in his hand, and the accents of praise on his lips; and at the concluding line he stood fairly and visibly out by himself, upon the entry towards the east door of the kirk. Having shut the door and locked it, in the view and in the hearing of the people, he knocked upon it thrice with the back of the pulpit Bible, accompanying this action with these words, audibly and distinctly pronounced-- "I arrest thee in my Master's name, that none ever enter by thee, save those who enter by the door of Presbytery." So saying, he ascended the wall at the kirk-stile, spread his arms abroad to their utmost stretch, and in the most solemn and impressive manner dismissed the multitude. Although Peden was thus banished from that pulpit to which, during the civil wars, he had been elected by the unanimous voice of a most attached people, he did not thereupon, or therefore, refrain entirely from exercising his function as a minister of the Gospel; but, having betaken himself to those fastnesses which lie betwixt Wigton and Ayrshire, he was in the habit of assembling, occasionally, around him the greater part of his congregation, as well as many belonging to the neighbouring parishes. In the meantime, after several months' vacancy, a young and half-educated lad from Aberdeen was appointed by the government in the capacity of curate. This person was, of course, hated by the parish; but this hatred was exalted to abhorrence, in consequence of his immoral and unclerical life and conversation. William Smith and Jessie Lawson were the children, the first of a respectable farmer, and the other of a pious, though poor widow woman. There had been some difficulties in the way of the lovers-- "For the course of true love never yet run smooth;" but these had at last been removed, and the young couple were about to be united, with the consent of relatives, in the honourable bands of matrimony. But the young and dissolute curate had caught a glimpse of Jessie; and, having been fascinated by her beauty, had not been backward in signifying, both to mother and daughter, his honourable (for they really were so in this case) intentions. Janet, however, was too sound a Covenanter to give her consent. "Na, na," she continued; "my bairn, I wot weel, has been baptised by the holy Mr Welsh, and she has lang sucked in the milk o' the true and Covenanted Word, frae worthy and godly Mr Peden, and it will ill become her to turn her baek on her first lover, for the sake o' ony yearthly concern whatever." In the meantime winter drew on, with its frosts, and its blasts, and its snows, and the lovers became more and more anxious to be united in the bands of hallowed love, in consequence of the pressing and importunate addresses of the curate. Here, however, a difficulty occurred, which was, however, overcome, by bribing the schoolmaster, as session-clerk, to proclaim them to empty benches, and by obtaining Peden's consent to perform the marriage-ceremony on their producing the requisite evidence of proclamation. The place appointed was the Bogle Glen, and the time midnight, on the second day of January, 1684. The night--for such meetings were usually held during night--was stormy; there being a considerable degree of snow-drift; but Peden was not easily diverted from his purpose; nor was his audience unaccustomed to such exposures. So the night-meeting for religious worship took place beneath the Gleds' Craig, from the brow or apron of which the minister officiated. Beneath him, huddled together under plaids, stood his devoted and attentive congregation, whilst the moon looked down at intervals on a landscape over which a frosty wind was ever and anon carrying the snow-drift. Beside the speaker were arranged, on chairs and stools, some young women bearing children to be baptised, and the youthful couple about to be united in marriage. The usual service proceeded, and the voice of psalms was heard amidst the solemn stillness of the midnight hour. The children were next baptised from an adjoining well, which presented itself opportunely, like the waters of Meribah, from a cleft of the rock. The young people had just been united, and Peden was in the act of pronouncing the usual benediction, when the tramp of horses' feet was suddenly heard; and, in an instant, a discharge of muskets indicated but too surely the nature of the assault. All was challenge, capture, and dispersion; through which the screams of the young bride and the menacing voice of the curate were distinctly heard. About four o'clock of the same eventful night, the manse of New Luce was discovered to be on fire, and some hundreds of figures were seen congregated in frantic and menacing attitudes around it. At last a form was discovered, bearing off from the flames something which appeared to be inanimate. The curate's screams were heard from his bedroom-window, and, by the assistance of the military, who had now arrived, he was relieved by a rope from his critical situation; and the young lovers were next morning discovered, safe and uninjured, in their own home, and in each other's arms. IV.--THE PROSECUTION OF THE M'MICHAELS. The miseries of war are not confined to the battle-field and the actual return of the killed and wounded. There is an atmosphere of wo and intense suffering, which hangs dense and heavy over the whole theatre of war--the devastation and horrors of a wide-marching enemy, advancing like the simoom of the desert, and converting into a howling wilderness the peopled and rejoicing district. Life is extinguished by terror and deprivation, as well as by the sword; and with this difference, too, that the former process is so much the more severe that it is protracted and defenceless. Civil war is, in this respect in particular, the most revolting of all. The animosities and resentments of opposing parties are greatly exasperated by proximity of situation and community of country; and the revenge of the stronger directed upon the weaker party is uniformly marked by many atrocities. Of this character was, unhappily, the latter period of the domination of Charles II., together with the whole four years of the Papistical infatuation of the second James. Men, women, and children were not only shot, drowned, and spiked, but thousands who escaped this extreme fate, were so worn out by watchings, and cold, and hunger, and mental anxieties, as to fall under the power of diseases from which they never recovered. An instance illustrative of these remarks occurred, according to invariable tradition (partly oral, and partly written), in the Pass of Dalveen, one of the wildest and most sublime localities in Dumfries-shire. In the days of which we speak, there were no mail-coaches, nor did the public road from Edinburgh to Dumfries pass, as now, through that most fearfully sublime ravine; all _then_ was seclusion and solitude in that mountain retirement, where the winds met and mingled from many a converging glen; and the eagle and the raven divided the supremacy above. The site of the shepherd's shieling is indeed still ascertainable by the depth of verdure which marks the departed walls; and the traveller may see it by the burn-side, almost half-way down the pass. The family which, during the latter period of the eight-and-twenty years' persecution, occupied this humble dwelling was named M'Michael. There were two brothers of that name; Daniel, who was a bachelor, and Gilbert, who was married, and the father of a son, now a lad of ten or twelve, and two daughters, still younger. The mother of these children was a M'Caig, a name immortalised in the annals of persecution. The two brothers, Gilbert and Daniel, had rendered themselves peculiarly obnoxious to the spite and revenge of the curate of Durrisdeer, by their refusing to attend ordinances; and their obtaining baptism, and even, as times and occasions offered, the _sealing_ ordinance of the Supper, from the hands of worthy Mr Welsh. Besides all this, when hard pursued one day in the pass, Daniel and Gilbert had defended themselves against a whole troop of Douglas' dragoons, by occupying the rocky summits of the Lowther Hills, and precipitating loose and rebounding rocks on the pursuers beneath. It was on this occasion that "Red Rob," of persecuting notoriety, had his shoulder-blade dislocated; and that Lieutenant James Douglas himself, in his extreme eagerness to scale the steep, had two of his front teeth dislodged. Winter 1686 was peculiarly severe, and the proximity of Drumlanrig Castle, the residence of the Queensberry Douglases, rendered it exceedingly unsafe for the two obnoxious brothers, in particular, to visit their home, unless it were by snatches, and at the dead hour of night. The natural consequence of all this was, that both brothers lost their health, and that Gilbert, in particular, who was constitutionally infirm, contracted, or rather exasperated, a bad cough, which threatened serious consequences. It is quite true that a warm bed and the comforts of home might have done much for the complaint; but Gilbert's ordinary bedroom was the damp extremity of a hollow in a rock, without fire, and with his plaid alone as a nightly couch and covering. It was on a cold and drifty day in the month of January, that Gilbert, in the presence of his family, and under hourly apprehension of a visit from the barbarous Douglas, called his family around him, and, leaning upon the bosom of his beloved wife, addressed them in words to the following effect:-- "My dearest wife, my dear children, and my beloved Daniel, stand round me, for I am dying." Thereupon there was much weeping, and the poor woman had to be carried out of the room, nearly insensible. This pause was employed by Gilbert in secret prayer and ejaculation-- "Lord, lettest thou thy servant depart in peace!--Lord, comfort the widow and the fatherless!--Lord, give strength for trial, and faith for dying like a Christian!" When the poor widow had been so far recovered as to be able to return to the bedside, the dying man proceeded, with frequent pauses and much weakness, thus:-- "I hope I may say, though at an infinite distance, with the apostle Paul, I have fought a good fight. I have kept the faith--the faith of my Saviour, of his holy apostles, and of our Covenanted Kirk. I have kept it in bad report, as well as in good--in the day of her extreme suffering, as well as when godly Mr Brown was minister of Durrisdeer. They have driven me from my humble but happy home, and from my wife and children, to the mountain and the cave; but I have ever said-- 'I to the hills will lift mine eyes, From whence doth come mine aid, My safety cometh from the Lord.' And I have ever found it so. I have been shot at, pursued, hunted like a wild beast, and exposed to disease, and pain, and extreme weakness--whilst I was, unless at intervals, denied the voice that soothes, the truth that cheers, and the looks of sympathy that mitigate in the extremest suffering; and I am now, if it shall please God to withhold for a little the foot of the merciless and the ungodly--I am now about to close my testimony by sealing it with my latest breath." This exertion was too much for his exhausted strength, and it seemed to all that life had fled; when, after a few short and heavy respirations, he again proceeded--"Lord, give me strength for this last, this parting effort in this our covenanted cause!--Now, my dearly beloved, I leave you; for I hear my Master's call, and the Spirit and the Bride say, Come! I leave you with this last, this dying advice: Let nothing deprive you of your crown, hold fast your integrity; for He whom you will serve will come quickly, and terrible will his coming be to all his enemies." "Enemies, indeed!" vociferated Lieutenant Douglas, who had unperceived entered the apartment: "those enemies, friend Gibby, are nearer, I trow, than ye wot, and ready, with leave of this good company here, to take special care that his majesty's enemies shall be suitably provided for. Come, budge, old Benty, and you too of the lion's den. Come--my lambs, here, will be more difficult to manage than the _lions_ of your Jewish namesake. Come, Mr Dan--up, and be going; for the day breaketh apace, and it will be pleasant pastime just to give us a stave of the death psalm under the old thorn, on the brae face yonder. Red Rob's shoulder, here, has sworn a solemn league and covenant against you; and, as to my two front teeth, they are complete nonconformists to Whigs and Whiggery, through all generations. Amen!" In vain was all this profane barbarity poured on the ears of the dead man; old Gilbert had breathed his last at the very first perception of Douglas' presence--his God had in mercy withdrawn him from his last and most severe trial. "Look there! look there! look there!" were the first articulate accents which crossed the lips of the distracted widow; "look, ye sons o' Belial--ye men o' bluid--on the pale and lifeless victim o' yer horrid persecution. Ay, aff wi' him!" (for Douglas had now approached the bed, as if to ascertain that no deception had been practised upon him)--"aff wi' him, to the croft, or to the maiden, or to the thorn-tree! shoot him, head him, hang him--ah!--ha!--ha!--ha!" (Hysterically screaming.) "He has escaped ye a'. Yer bullets canna pierce him; yer flames canna scorch him; yer malice canna reach him yonder." (Pointing at the same time upwards.) "There, even there, whar ye and yer band shall never enter, the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary, ay, thank God! the weary are at rest. Rest _here_, indeed, they had none; but _there_ they shall rest, when ye shall lie tormented!" "Come, come, Mother Testimony, give us no more of your blarney. Let us only over the shank yonder, and you and your whelps there may yelp and howl till the day of judgment, if you please. But as for you, friend Dan," (speaking ironically, and imitating the Covenanting language and manner), "does the Spirit move thee to budge?--has the Lord dealt bountifully with thee?--and will he 'save thee from six troubles, yea, from seven?' Come, come, friend," taking him rudely by the arm, and pulling him, with the assistance of Red Rob, towards the door. "The Spirit and the Bride say, 'Come;' there is a _maiden_ longing for thy embrace--yea, a maiden whose lovers have been many, and whose embrace is somewhat close. But she, having taken up her residence in the guid town of Edinburgh, is afar off; but, lest thou shouldst feel disappointment, my lambs here have become somewhat frisky of late, and they will be most happy to give thee a little matrimonial music, to the tune of 'Make ready, present, fire!'" Daniel M'Michael had long been accustomed to view death as a messenger of peace. His days--now manifestly numbered--had been sorely troubled. His faith in his Saviour was, with him, not a fluctuating, but a fixed principle; like Stephen, he might ascend to see heaven opened--and his soul was long absent in fervent prayer. He prayed for a persecuted kirk, for a persecuted remnant, for his friends, and for his enemies, even those whose hands were raised against his life. "The guid Lord," said he, "forgive ye, for ye know not what ye do. The thief on the cross was forgiven; David, the murderer, was forgiven; and e'en Judas himself may have obtained mercy. Oh, ye puir, infatuated, godless band! it is not for myself that I pray--it is for you; for, when the day of wrath arrives, where will ye flee to? To the hills?--they will be cast into the sea. To the rocks?--they will have melted with fervent heat. To the linns and the glens?--but where will ye find them, in that great and notable day of the Lord----" Daniel was proceeding thus, when Red Rob struck him over the head with the handle of his sword. "Down to the earth with thee and thy everlasting jaw. We want none of thy prayers and petitionings. We are King Charles' men, and our God is our captain, our reward our pay, our heaven is our mess-room, and our eternity an hour's kissing of a bonny lass." Here the commander interfered, and the poor victim was raised, though scarcely able to stand on his legs, from the stun of the blow. "And now," said Douglas, "for the last time, wilt thou conform, and preserve thy life, or die?" The poor man groaned, and fell on his knees. The band was removed to a distance, and in a few seconds the smoke rose white and whirling from the hill-side. The work of death was done! There is a small clump of old thorns which faces the high-road from Dumfries to Edinburgh, as it enters the Pass of Dalveen from the south. At the lower extremity of this woodland patch, there is a grey rock or stone, covered with a thick coating of moss. It was whilst resting against this stone, that Daniel M'Michael was shot, about half-an-hour posterior to the cruelties which have been narrated. A stone, with a suitable inscription, has been placed over the mangled remains of this good man in the churchyard of Durrisdeer; whilst a marble and gilt monument, of the most elegant and tasteful character, occupies the whole of the aisle or nave of the church. The latter monument perpetuates the memory and the virtues of the noble family of Douglas; whilst the former rude and now mutilated flag-stone mentions an act of atrocity perpetrated by a cadet of the family. In that day when the secrets of families and individuals shall be made known, it shall be manifested whose memory and virtues best deserve to be perpetuated. The eldest daughter of Mrs Janet M'Michael or M'Caig was married, after the Revolution, to the second son (John) of Thomas Harkness of Mitchelslacks, from whom, in a lineal descent, the author of these scraps derives his birth. Is it to be wondered at, then, that we feel, through every drop of blood and ramification of nerves, a devotedness to the great cause of constitutional freedom and rational reform? But we hope the cause of political liberty may never be mixed up with the concerns of that Church which our ancestors founded on the dead bodies of martyrs, and cemented with their blood. We may return to this subject again, for we have yet many recollections to record. THE STORY OF TOM BERTRAM. Poor Tom Bertram! His story is a sad one; and yet I love to talk of it. It affords me a melancholy pleasure, in my old age, to conjure up the memories of the past, and to recall those happy days when Tom and I enjoyed together the freshness of youth and friendship. We were born in the same village of Roxburghshire, educated at the same Border school, entered as reefers together in the Honourable East India Company's service, and for fourteen years we were shipmates and firm friends. _His_ voyage of life has long been over; and my crazy old hulk must founder ere long. But a truce to reflection. I must proceed with my story; and, if I do make myself tedious by my digressions, forgive the fond garrulity of an old sailor, who loves to linger upon every trifling recollection of a lost and valued friend. Tom Bertram was an orphan, the son of a respectable farmer in Roxburghshire, who, on his death-bed, left his boy to the care and protection of my maternal uncle. It was impossible to live long in Tom's company without loving him. He was frank, daring, and active--a stranger to fear, and yet gentle and affectionate in the extreme; and when I add to this, that he was one of the handsomest youths ever beheld, can it be wondered at that he was an object of favour and admiration to all our village belles? Tom, however, laughed and joked, and talked sentiment with them all; but his heart remained untouched--his _time_ had not yet come: and it was with a merry heart, and pleasant anticipations of the future, that he took his seat beside me on the coach that was to convey us to London. I will pass over our first impressions of all the novelties we saw and heard there: suffice it to say, that the consciousness of being among strangers and aliens made us cling with the fonder warmth to each other; and every voyage we made together only served to strengthen the ties of our mutual regard. Years had passed by, and we had both risen gradually, though slowly, in our profession, and had always contrived to get appointed to the same ship. The last voyage we sailed together, I was fourth, and Tom fifth, mate of the Cornwallis, Indiaman; and we were both in the same watch. Every one acquainted with board-ship affairs knows how perfectly compatible the greatest intimacy and familiarity are with the strictest discipline; and how habitually and instantaneously the frankness of friendly intercourse gives place to the formality of nautical etiquette, whenever the duty of the ship requires their alternation. Tom and I were like brothers; but he never forgot that he was my junior officer, and never by any chance took advantage of my friendship for him by ill-timed familiarity. One fine moonlight night, we were lying becalmed within the tropics, whistling and invoking St Antonio in vain, for no breeze came. Beautiful are those calm tropical nights to the lovers of the picturesque, though sadly trying to the patience of the mariner. The _watch_ were all lying in various attitudes about the decks in deep slumber; the helmsman was standing at his post--but whether asleep or awake was of little consequence, for the rudder was powerless; there was not a cloud in the dark blue sky, and the moon and stars were shining with almost dazzling brightness, and looking provokingly placid and happy; the surface of the sea was smooth as the smoothest glass, and in its undulating mirror gave back a vivid reflection of the brilliant canopy above; there was a long silvery path of light from the horizon to the ship; and the scene was altogether uncommonly beautiful, and uncommonly provoking to the officer of the watch. And there, in the midst of all the splendour and beauty of nature, lay our noble ship, one of the finest specimens of man's proud art, helpless and powerless as a new-born babe--rolling, and tossing, and tumbling about--her lofty prow rising and falling as if doing homage to the majesty of ocean; while the moon and stars seemed to smile in quiet scorn at her unwieldy movements. Oh, the tedium and weariness of a calm night-watch at sea!--the anxious look around and aloft, to see if any _cat's-paw_ is ruffling the water, or if any stray air has found its way into the _flying-kites_; the low, impatient whistle; and the common but unintelligible and unaccountable ejaculation of "Blow, good breeze, and I'll give you a soldier!" Bertram was standing at the gangway, with his arm and head resting on the rail, and muttering to himself. I approached him just in time to hear-- "For then sweet dreams of other days arise, And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee." "Ah, Tom, sentimentalising? I have some hopes of you now. Who is the object of your vesper sigh, if it is a fair question?--which of the thousand-and-one flowers in your garden of love has left the memory of its fragrancy in your heart?" "Nonsense, Harry," said he, colouring; "I have something else to do than to pine and sigh for a lady's love. What a lovely night it is!" "Yes," said I--"lovely enough for a high-flying, sentimental lover, but anything but pleasing to a plain, straight-forward fellow like myself. But, joking apart, Tom, you have not been yourself this voyage; you go through your duties actively enough, it is true, but evidently quite mechanically. Your heart is elsewhere. Do not be afraid of making me your confidant--I will not betray you; trust your secret sorrow, whatever it may be, to _me_; if I cannot assist, I can at all events sympathise with you." "Thank you kindly, Harry," said he--"I believe you from my heart. You have made a right guess for once in your life. I _am_ in love." "Well, make a clean breast of it at once, and tell me who your Dulcinea is; that, if I have the felicity of her acquaintance, we may hold eloquent discourse of her charms together." "Well, Harry, you remember Miss ----" "Holloa! there's a breeze coming at last--beg your pardon, Tom," said I, springing up on the poop for a better view; and there it was, sure enough, coming up on the larboard quarter, with a cool, fresh, rippling sound, roughening the surface of the swell before it. "Forecastle there!" "Sir?" replied Tom. "Rig out the foretopmast and topgallant-studdingsail booms, Mr Bertram, and bear a hand with the sails." "Ay, ay, sir." "Maintop there!--rig out the topgallant-studdingsail boom!" "Ay, ay, sir." "All ready with the stunsails forward, sir," cried Bertram. "Very well. Forward there the watch!--run the stunsails up. Forecastle there!--swing the lower boom!" "Ay, ay, sir." In twenty minutes the ship was under a cloud of canvas, and moving rapidly through the water, the ropes were all coiled down, and the watch again on their beam-ends. "Stea-dy!" called the quartermaster. "Steady it is!" answered the man at the helm. "I told you so, Bill," muttered one of the afterguard to his neighbour--"I knowed as how we'd have a breeze when I throwed my old shoe overboard." "Now, Tom," said I, "make an end of your confession. You asked me if I remembered Miss----what's her name?" "Kate Fotheringham." If a thunderbolt had fallen at my feet, it could hardly have startled me more than did the unexpected mention of that name. I _felt_ myself turn pale--the blood seemed to creep and curdle in my veins, and a sensation of mortal sickness and faintness came over me. Tom observed my emotion, and exclaimed, in great alarm-- "Harry, how ill you look! What is the matter with you?" "Nothing," said I--"a sudden spasm--but it is gone." And, with desperate resolution, I gulped down the emotion which almost choked my utterance, and listened with patience while Tom proceeded, with all a lover's enthusiasm, to expatiate upon the charms of his mistress. He had so long confined his feelings to his own bosom, that, when he gave them free vent, their sudden and torrent-like out-pouring was almost overwhelming. Rapidly and fervidly did he depict his first sensations; glowingly and fondly did he dwell upon the personal charms and mental amiabilities of his adored one; and, in _burning_ words, he expressed his happiness in the certainty that he was beloved again. Alas, poor fellow! he little knew that every kind expression of his mistress went like a dagger to the heart of his friend! And yet so it was; for, in the innermost recesses of my heart, hidden from all mortal knowledge save my own, I had enshrined an idol--and that idol was Kate Fotheringham. 'Tis true, I had bowed before it in vain. I had offered up to her the incense of my first love; it had filled the temple, but made no impression upon the divinity. My love was hopeless, but constant. But it is necessary that I should explain myself; and to do so I must go back. The Rev. Thomas Fotheringham was minister of the Parish of L----, and the father of two beauteous daughters, of whom Kate was the youngest. She was indeed a lovely creature--full of life and animation, sparkling and joyous; her complexion was delicately brilliant, and her bright blue eyes shot forth their playful glances from the covert of the most beautiful flaxen ringlets in the world. When she shook back her hair from her forehead, and her laugh, "Without any control But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul," and displayed teeth of pearly whiteness, she was indeed a thing to be wondered at and admired. Mr Fotheringham had been an intimate friend of my father, and I had gone to spend a few weeks at L---- Manse, on my last return home. When I had seen Kate some years before, she was a pretty, interesting child, and used, in her playfulness, to call me her sailor husband: how great was my surprise, when I met her again, to find the playful child transformed into the tall, graceful, elegant woman! It was impossible to see Kate Fotheringham without admiring her beauty: I soon found that it was impossible to know her without loving her. She was as good as she was lovely, and was almost adored by the poor of the parish, to whom she was like a ministering angel. Her great delight was in distributing food and clothing to the poor and needy; and her sweet smile and soothing tone of sympathy were balm to the melancholy mourner, and to the bruised and broken spirit. Was it wonderful that, living as I did in the most friendly intimacy with such a being, listening to her praises from all quarters, hearing the sweet music of her voice as she warbled the simple melodies of her native land--was it wonderful that I loved her? Yes! I more than loved her. Love is too tame, too commonplace a term for my feelings. I adored her--I bowed my heart before her very footsteps: but I felt that I was not loved again. The very frankness and innocent familiarity of her manner towards me, while it fascinated, maddened me; for I knew that I was wilfully deceiving myself; that she looked upon me as a friend--a brother--nothing more. Fool that I was!--knowing all this--knowing, in my own secret heart, that every day, every hour, I was only storing up bitterness for myself--I still fluttered round the flame that was consuming me. At last, one evening, my long-suppressed feelings burst forth. Some expression of Kate acted as a spark to the train of passion that was lying smouldering within my breast, and----I know not what I said--but my heart was in the words; I only know that I was miserable. Kate was agitated, surprised, and affected. She esteemed and admired me, she said; but her heart was not her own. We parted with mutual sorrow, and with a promise, on her part, never to mention the occurrences of that evening; and with a determination on mine to smother my feelings, and with firm resolve to tear her image from my heart for ever. Weak and vain resolution!--that image will go with me to my grave. Tom went on to tell me that he had gone, with my uncle, his guardian, on a visit to L----, three years before, and that he had not been long domesticated there before he felt the influence of those charms which had proved so fatal to my peace. He was the constant companion of the young ladies in all their rambles, had witnessed their various deeds of unostentatious charity and benevolence, and was in the habit of listening with pleasure to the warm and unsophisticated praises lavished upon them by every dependant and cottager around them. His heart had hitherto resisted the fascinations of beauty, and he had learned to look upon it as a "pretty plaything," accompanied, as he had hitherto seen it, with superficial accomplishments and frivolous employment. But here was all his fancy had ever pictured of female loveliness and amiability combined; and he felt that, with such a companion, he might reasonably expect to realise his brightest dreams of mundane happiness. He consulted my uncle, who had always loved him as a son, and who intended him to be his heir; and laying before him the state of his affections, told him that he waited but for his consent to prosecute his suit. My uncle was delighted with his confession, and with the object of his choice, and gave him his consent and blessing; at the same time giving him to understand that Kate should not marry a beggar. Kate's heart, almost unconsciously to herself, had long been his; and she was too frank and artless to attempt to veil it from him when he made his proposals. It was agreed that their marriage was to take place when he returned from his next voyage, and that, in the meantime, their engagement was to be kept secret. Oh, how I had envied my happy rival! How often had I longed, with eager curiosity, to see the man who had gained the heart of such a glorious creature! And now he stood before me--the dearest friend of my heart, from whom I had never had but one concealment--he whom I had loved as a brother, and watched over with more than a brother's love--was the being who, unconsciously, stood between me and happiness--who had blighted and withered the fondest aspirations of my heart. Oh, the conflict of feelings within me! Had he but confided in me sooner, what misery might he not have spared me! Thank Heaven! friendship and justice conquered at last. I resolved to keep my secret, though my heart should break; his knowledge of it could not benefit me, but would only distress and grieve him, and, perhaps, cast a cloud over that friendship which was now the chief remaining solace of my life. It was with a smiling face, therefore, but with an aching bosom, that I shook hands with Tom that night; and well did I keep my secret, for he died in ignorance of it. As we were going into the mess-berth next morning to breakfast, we met Ben, the servant, looking as grave as an owl, with a face as long as the maintop-bowline. "What's the matter, Ben?" said Tom. "O sir! we'll soon know what's the matter: the cow died this morning!" Tom burst into a roar of laughter, and asked what that had to do with his long face. "It's no laughing matter, sir," said the man; "I never knew any good come to a ship when the cow died: but we'll see before long." We were both much amused at the man's newfangled superstition, as we thought it, as we had never before heard of this. "I have been told a story," said I, "of a cat influencing the destinies of a ship, but I never heard a cow so highly honoured before." "A cat!" said Tom--"what do you mean?" "It's an old story," said I; "but, as you seem not to have heard it, I will enlighten you on the subject:-- Some years since, one of His Majesty's crack frigates had greatly distinguished herself, on the Mediterranean station, by the smartness and activity of her crew, her state of excellent discipline, and her great success in capturing prizes. For some time her good fortune seemed to have deserted her; day after day passed away, and not a _tangible_ sail was to be seen; the time began to hang heavy on the hands of the crew, and discontent and disappointment were legible in their countenances. This state of things could not last long. The captain, a good and gallant seaman, perceived that the spirit of disaffection was busy among his crew, and determined to check it in the bud. "Call the hands out, if you please, Mr Steady," said he to the first lieutenant. The hands were called out; and when assembled on the quarterdeck, the captain addressed them to the following effect:-- "My lads, you used to be as active and cheerful a set of fellows as I would wish to command; I used to be proud of you, for you seemed to take pleasure in your duty; but now you go about the decks sullen and discontented, and only work because you dare not disobey. If you have any grievances to complain of, come forward like men and say so, and I will redress them, if I can; but I tell you, once for all, I will have no sulkiness; and by Heaven! if I can't drive it out of you in any other way, I'll flog it out of you." After a short pause, one of the captains of the forecastle stepped out from the crew, and twirling his hat in one hand and scratching the back of his ear with the other, said-- "Please your honour, we haven't no grievances.' "Then what the devil's the matter with you all?" "Why, sir----" said the man, hesitatingly. "Go on," said the captain--"I won't bite you." "Why, then, sir," replied the captain of the forecastle, "we've never had no luck since you took that 'ere black cat on board." The captain could not help laughing. "Well," said he, "that evil can soon be remedied. Midshipman, tell my steward to throw the cat overboard." "O sir!" said the man, in great alarm, "do not throw him overboard--that would be worser still." "Then, what the deuce do you want me to do with him?" "Why, if your honour would send him ashore as he came aboard, in a boat." "What a set of cursed ninnies!" muttered the captain. "Well," said he, "you have often exerted yourselves to please me, and it is but fair that I should do something to please you for once in a way." The frigate stood in shore, and hove to, a boat was lowered, and the unlucky cat, safely deposited in a bread-bag, was sent under charge of a midshipman to be landed at the nearest point. The boat returned in due time, and was hoisted up, the sails were filled and trimmed, when the man at the mast-head hailed the deck-- "A strange sail in sight ahead, sir!" "All hands make sail in chase!" was the cry; and, before night, the cat-haters had taken a valuable prize. "A strange coincidence, certainly," said Tom, "and most unfortunately calculated to strengthen the men in their superstition. I hope we shall have no such confirmation of Ben's panic about the cow." We had a glorious breeze that morning on the quarter; the long swell, which had been so smooth and glassy the day before, was broken into short waves, which came rushing, and curling, and bursting under the ship's counter; the sky was covered with light mackerel clouds; every stitch of canvas we could carry was spread; the sails were all asleep, and the ship snoring through the water;--there was every appearance of a steady breeze, and of continued fine weather. A little after mid-day, the captain came on deck, and said to the officer of the watch, "Mr Freeman, what do you think of the weather?" Mr Freeman, with a look of surprise, replied, "I never saw a finer day, sir; and there is every appearance of a steady breeze." "Well," said he, "that's my opinion too; yet the glass is falling rapidly. I do not understand it. Send for Mr Sneerwell." And the chief mate made his appearance. He agreed in thinking that there was no sign of change in the weather. "Well," said the captain, "my glass has never deceived me yet, and I will believe it now against my own opinion, and in spite of favourable appearances. You will pipe to dinner, if you please; and, when the people have had their time, call the hands out to shorten sail." "Ay, ay, sir! Pipe to dinner!" The breeze began gradually to freshen; and, by the time we had swallowed our dinner, we were glad to get our stunsails and lofty sails in as fast as possible. A small dark cloud had appeared on the weather-beam, which gradually spread and spread, till the whole heaven was covered with an ominous darkness, and the wind increased so rapidly that there was barely time to execute the orders which followed each other in quick succession from the quarterdeck. Before one reef was taken in in the topsails, it was time to take in another; the courses were reefed, the mainsail furled, the topgallantyards sent on deck. Before midnight, we were under reefed foresail and close-reefed driver; and, before the morning watch, were hove to under stormstaysails. Tom had exerted himself greatly during the gale; and, when aloft in the maintop, had been struck on the temple by one of the points of the topsail which was shaking in the wind while reefing. The blow, though from so small a rope, had stunned him; and, when he recovered, he was obliged to be assisted down to his cot, where the doctor took a good quantity of blood from him. About this time, an epidemic disorder had shown itself among the crew, which spread rapidly, and in a short time our sick list amounted to six or seven-and-twenty. At first, the disease was not fatal; but, after a time, death followed in its footsteps, and the mortality became quite alarming and dispiriting to the survivors of the crew. The only officer who was seized with the disorder was my friend Tom, who had hardly recovered from the weakening effect of loss of blood, and whose constitution had been much shaken by severe illness abroad. Long and doubtful was the struggle between life and death; but at length the crisis of the disease was over, and he began slowly to recover. Oh! how often did I vow, while watching by his sick-bed, and bathing his burning hands and brow, never again to go to sea with one for whom I felt more than a common regard! I thought it would be almost better to renounce the communion of intimate friendship altogether, than again to expose myself to the risk of such grief as I now felt in the prospect of losing my friend. Tom did no more duty for the remainder of the passage of five weeks, and was still very feeble when we arrived in the Downs. During that time, however, he used often to come on deck in my watch; and, if there were no particular ship's duty going on, we indulged in long conversations about the past, and in pleasant anticipations of the future. But, on whatever topic our conversations might commence, they always ended in the same subject--L---- Manse and its inmates. Kate Fotheringham, Kate Fotheringham, was the everlasting theme of Tom's tongue; even if I had never seen her, I might almost have painted her picture from his vivid descriptions of her. "You forget, Tom," I have often said, "that I have seen this paragon of yours; you need not give me such a minute description of her." "You _have_ seen her, Harry! I _always_ see her; her image is in my heart. It is out of the fulness of my heart that my mouth speaks. Oh! let me talk of her--the very sound of her name is like music to my ear. Kate, Kate Fotheringham--is it not a sweet name, Harry?" "The name is pretty enough; but, my dear fellow, you are allowing your passion to run away with your senses altogether. For her sake, as well as your own, you must endeavour to restrain the violence of your feelings, which, in the present enfeebled state of your health, might produce fatal effects." "Fatal!" said he--"nothing can be fatal to me as long as Kate Fotheringham's love remains to me. But, oh Harry! if I were to lose that, what would become of me?" I was alarmed and distressed by the depth and violence of Tom's emotions; but I thought it better to allow him to express them unreservedly, than to run the risk of adding to their intensity, by endeavouring to check and repress them. Among other plans for the future, he dwelt with much pleasure upon the prospect of giving our friends at L---- an agreeable surprise, by coming upon them unexpectedly, before they had heard of our arrival in England. Circumstances favoured us in this project. Our passage had been a quick one; and, the wind favouring us after we had passed the Downs, we ran right up the river at once. In consequence of our unexpectedly early arrival, there were no letters awaiting us; but we were not anxious on that score, as our last accounts were favourable. The day after our arrival at Blackwall, we obtained leave of absence, and set off (under the rose) for the north. When we arrived at the nearest town to L----, we left the coach, intending to hire a chaise or gig to take us on to the manse; but there had been a run on the road that day, and there was no conveyance to be obtained. Tom's mortification was extreme. I wished to remain till next day; but his impatience prevented his listening to reason. "It's only a few miles, Harry! We can walk." "In your present state," said I, "such an exertion may be prejudicial to you." "I see you don't like to stretch your legs, Harry. I will go by myself; you can follow to-morrow!" I had nothing further to say; so we ordered our baggage to be sent after us, and set off together. When we arrived near L----, instead of following the sweep of the road, and crossing the river by the bridge, by way of a short cut, we struck across the fields, and waded the stream. The moon was shining brightly, and the whole scene was flooded with light. On the summit of a green bank, sloping down to the river, lay the churchyard, near which stood the church, a venerable Gothic building, shaded by old and solemn-looking trees, standing like sentinels over the slumbers of the tomb. Our path to the manse lay through the churchyard; and a feeling of sadness and of awe crept over us, as we saw the cold beautiful moonlight resting on the well-known graves of many of our early friends. "Ah!" said I, "the churchyard has, at least, _one_ tenant more since our departure. Whose can this handsome monument be?" My eye glanced at the inscription, and a cold shudder came over me. "Come on, Tom!" said I; "we have no time to dawdle here." "Let me read this epitaph first." "No, no," said I, trying to force him away. But it was too late--he had seen enough: and with a cry of unutterable anguish, he fell fainting in my arms. Poor Tom Bertram! Long years have passed, but that scene is fresh in my memory--my heart bleeds for him still! I laid him gently on the grass beside the tomb--the dying, as I thought, beside the dead. The tears blinded my eyes, as I endeavoured to read the sad inscription on the stone--"Sacred to the memory of Catherine, youngest daughter of the Rev. Thomas Fotheringham, minister of this parish." The long panegyric that followed--what had I to do with it then? I ran down to the river, and bringing some water in my hat, I dashed it in Tom's face, and after some time had the happiness to see him revive. He stared wildly at me, and exclaimed-- "Where am I?--Harry!" "Here I am, dear Tom!" "Oh! I have had such a dream!" His eye-glance fell upon the tomb.--"Merciful Heaven! is it true?" And leaning his head upon my breast, while his face turned deadly pale, he gasped for breath. At length, a burst of sorrow, such as I had seldom witnessed, relieved his over-wrought feelings; he sobbed and wept as if his heart were flowing out of him. I did not attempt to check or to console him; sorrow like his was, in its first bitterness, too deep and withering for consolation. Alas! I needed comfort for myself! At length, the first violence of his feelings was exhausted, and he suffered me to lead him, unresistingly, to the manse, where we were received with the greatest kindness and sympathy by the sorrowing family. There we heard the sad particulars of our loss. Kate had fallen a victim to consumption some months before; the letter containing the melancholy news had not reached us. Poor Tom, exhausted by previous illness, and overcome by the dreadful shock he had experienced, was obliged to take to his bed. I hastened back to my ship, where I was detained some weeks. When I returned, Tom was dying. He knew me; and with a faint smile, and a hardly perceptible pressure of my hand, he murmured-- "I die happy, Harry. She prayed for me on her death-bed!" THE COTTAR'S DAUGHTER. The parties to whom the following tale refers being still, we believe, alive, we must warn the reader that, though the story be true, the names employed are fictitious; but we beg also to add, that in this circumstance alone is the tale indebted to invention. Young Edington of Wellwood was the son of a gentleman of large fortune, residing in Roxburghshire; but we shall not say in what particular part of that district. The noble residence of Wellwood--a huge castellated pile, rising in the midst of embowering woods and wide-spread lawns of the smoothest and brightest verdure--sufficiently bespoke the wealth of its owner; or, if this was not enough to give such assurance, the crowd of liveried menials that might be seen lounging about its magnificent portals, together with the splendid equipages that were ever and anon rolling to and from the lordly mansion, would have carried this conviction to the mind of the most casual observer. The presumptive heir to all this grandeur was young Wellwood, who was an only child. At the period of our story, Harry (for such was his Christian name) was about four-and-twenty years of age. His education had been completed at Oxford some three years previous to this; and the interval had been spent in a tour on the Continent, from which he had now just returned, to reside some time with his father, before going abroad, to fill a high official situation, which the latter's great influence in the political world had procured for him. Young Wellwood was a man of elegant figure, accomplished, and of singularly fascinating manners--recommendations of which he too often availed himself to accomplish very discreditable purposes, as the sequel of our story will show. He was not naturally of bad dispositions--we could almost say quite the contrary; nor did he love evil for its own sake; but his passions were too powerful for his moral principles--unsupported as these were by any auxiliary resolutions of his own. Such, then, was young Edington of Wellwood; and, having thus briefly sketched his circumstances, situation, and character, we proceed to advert to the humble heroine of our tale. At a short distance from Wellwood House, there is a pretty little village, which we shall take the liberty of calling Springfield. It is situated in a romantic dell or hollow, and occupies either side of a broad, clear, but shallow stream, that runs brawling through its very centre. Steep rocks, and in other places abrupt acclivities covered with verdure, and the whole overhung with "wild woods thick'ning green," form the boundaries of the narrow glen in which the village is situated. From this village, bands of young maidens--daughters of the labouring people by whom it is inhabited, and of others in poor circumstances--were in the habit of repairing to Wellwood House every morning during the summer season for supplies of milk; the excess of the dairy being sold at little more than a nominal value to every one in the neighbourhood who chose to apply for it. Amongst the young girls who used to frequent Wellwood House on this errand was Helen Gardenstone, the daughter of a poor widow woman who resided in Springfield. She was a girl with an appearance and manners of a kind rarely to be met with amongst those in her humble station in life. Her beauty did not lie in the mere glow of health, or in regularity of feature alone. Both of these, indeed, she possessed in an eminent degree; but the chief captivations of her truly lovely countenance were to be found in the peculiar sweetness, grace, and native dignity of its expression, which the meanness of her circumstances had been unable to abase. In short, even the style of Helen Gardenstone's beauty, unaided by fashion, art, or education, as it was, was such as the daughter of the haughtiest peer of the realm might have been proud to own. But nature had not expended all her skill and pains on the countenance alone. She added a figure every way worthy of its loveliness; a figure whose elegance and fine proportions the simple but coarse garments she wore might impair, but could not conceal; and she finished the work by bestowing on this favoured creature a mild, gentle, and generous disposition; a heart formed for cherishing all the better qualities of female nature; and a degree of intelligence much surpassing that usually found amongst those of her years and class. Such was Helen Gardenstone, the daughter of the widow. To resume our narrative. It was on a fine summer's morning, at the period to which our story refers, that Helen's mother came to her bedside, and, shaking her gently by the shoulder--for she was sound asleep--said, in a kindly tone-- "Helen, dear, it's time ye were awa to Wellwood for the milk." Helen opened her bright eyes, smiled in her mother's face, started from her couch, and was soon ready to perform the morning duty to which she had been called. "But I'm thinkin I'm late this mornin, mother," she said, on observing the advanced appearance of the day. "Ou, ye're time aneugh, dear," replied her mother; "I didna like to wauken ye sooner, as ye were up sae late last nicht, and sae sair fatigued wi' the washin." "Tuts, mother," rejoined Helen, "that was naething. Ye should hae made me jump at the usual time. I declare, there they're comin back!" she abruptly added, having caught a glimpse of some of the village maidens returning with their pitchers of milk; and with this she hurried out of the house, with her little tin can, and, tripping lightly over the road, she soon reached the avenue leading to Wellwood House. Helen was, indeed, later than usual on this morning; and one consequence of this was, that she had to go alone--for all those who used to accompany her had already been to Wellwood, and had returned; another consequence, and one fraught with much that was deeply interwoven with the future destiny of the unsuspecting girl--that all the inmates of Wellwood House were astir, and amongst these young Wellwood himself, who was sauntering in the avenue that led to the house at the very moment Helen entered it. They met. Wellwood, who had never happened to see her before, was struck with her extraordinary beauty. He threw himself in her way. He addressed her in flattering language. He watched her return from the house, learned everything from the artless girl regarding her situation and circumstances; and, from that hour, she engrossed all his thoughts, and became the sole object to which he devoted the dangerous powers of fascination which nature had given him, and art had improved. Nor did he exercise these powers in vain. Helen ultimately fell a victim to his wiles, and became the prey of the spoiler. The story of the poor girl's misfortune soon spread abroad. It became the talk of the village; and many a burning face, and many an agonising pang, it cost her as she passed along, and heard the sneers, and taunts, and heartless jests to which that misfortune subjected her. "The graceless cutty!" said one--and we must here remark that the merciless persecutions of this kind to which she was exposed proceeded almost entirely from those of her own sex--"nae better could happen her wi' her dressin and her airs. No a madam in a' the land could be at mair pains snoodin her hair than she was." "Atweel, that's true," said a second; "and see what she has made o't, the vain, silly thing!" "Made o't!" exclaimed another of these vulgar and heartless traducers; "my certie, she'll mak weel o't, I warrant ye. Young Wellwood 'll gie her silks and satins by the wab, and siller in gowpens. She'll no want--tak my word for that. We maun toil late and early, cummers, for our scanty mouthfu, and our bits o' duds; while the like o' her eats and drinks o' the best, without ever fylin her fingers." "This'll bring doun her pride, I'm thinkin," said a fourth. "I aye thocht she wad hae a fa', and was ne'er owre fond o' oor Mary gaun wi' her. Folk speak o' her beauty; but, for my part, I never could see ony beauty about her." "Nor me either," chimed in a fifth; "I aye thocht her a puir, glaikit, silly-looking thing." Much of such conversation as this the poor unfortunate girl frequently overheard; and much more of a similar kind was said which she did not hear. In short, there was not one, at least of her own sex, who expressed the smallest sympathy for her unhappy condition, or felt for her misfortune--not one who attempted to soothe her sorrows, or to lighten the burden of the poor girl's miseries--not one to treat her error with the lenity which their own liability to deviate from the straight path of moral rectitude ought to have inspired:--no, the poor girl's persecutors seemed to think that the abuse and defamation of her character shed an additional lustre on their own, and that, by her fall, they themselves were exalted. Strangers were they to the god-like sentiments expressed by him who says-- "Teach me to feel another's wo, To hide the fault I see; That mercy I to others show, Such mercy show to me." When we said, however, that there was not one who felt for poor Helen's unhappy situation, we ought to have made a single exception. There was _one_ who felt for her, and that most acutely. This one was her mother. The widow sorrowed, indeed, over the fall of her child, and many a bitter tear unseen did it cost her--but she pitied and forgave. "Dinna mourn that way, my puir lassie," she would say, when she found Helen, as she often did, weeping in secret. "God 'll gie ye strength to bear up wi' your sorrows. He tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, Helen, and e'en will He saften the grief in which your young heart is steeped. Though a' the warld should abuse ye, Helen, and desert ye, and scorn ye, your mother's arms and your mother's bosom will aye be open to receive ye; for weel do I ken, though everybody else should be blin' to't, that, for a' that has happened, ye're guileless, Helen, and far mair sinned against than sinning." The uniform kindness of her mother, and the charitable and Christian-like spirit in which she treated her erring daughter, greatly consoled the unfortunate girl under her affliction, and was the means of saving her, for a time, at any rate, from utter despair--we have said for a time only, because it was ultimately unequal to support poor Helen's spirit against the sneers of an unfeeling world. Returning home one evening from a place at a little distance, where she had been on an errand of her mother's, Helen overheard, from amongst a group of women, some such conversation regarding her as we have already quoted; but more severe things still were said on this occasion than we have recorded, and, amongst these, the last and worst name which can be given to the erring of her sex was applied to her. Helen heard the horrifying word; and no sooner had it reached her ear, than a sense of self-debasement, of shame, and despair, which she had never felt so acutely before, seized upon her, and nearly deprived her of her reason. The ground seemed to reel under her feet, and it was with the utmost difficulty she was able to make out her mother's house. Her walk was unsteady, and she was pale as death when she entered. "Mercy on me, Helen! what's the matter?" exclaimed her mother, running, in the utmost alarm, to the bed, on which the latter had flung herself, in an agony of shame and horror, the moment she had entered the house. "What's the matter, Helen?" repeated the latter, in a soothing tone. "Has onybody been using you ill?" she inquired; for she knew that her unfortunate daughter was often exposed to such insult and abuse as we have already noticed. "O mother! mother! I can stand this nae langer," was the indirect, but sufficiently intelligible, reply of the weeping girl, who, with her face buried in the bedclothes, was now sobbing her heart out. "I can stand it nae langer. I canna live, mother--I canna live under this load o' shame and reproach. I ken I am a guilty and a sinfu creature; but, oh! will they no hae mercy on me, and leave me to the punishment o' my ain thochts and feelings? Is there nae compassion in them, nae pity, nae charity, that they will thus continue to persecute me wi' their merciless tongues? I hae offended my God; but, I'm sure, I hae never offended them in thocht, word, or deed; and why, then, will they drive me to distraction this way? I canna live under it, mother--I canna live under it!" again exclaimed the unfortunate girl. "They can hae but little o' the milk o' human kindness in their bosoms, Helen, that wad add a pang to them ye are already endurin, my poor lassie," said her mother, leaning over her with the utmost tenderness and affection. "They surely canna be mothers themsels that wad do a thing sae cruel and unfeelin. I'm sure it wad melt the heart o' a whunstane to look on that puir wae-begone face o' yours. But never mind them, Helen, dear--keep up your heart. Guid has come before noo oot o' evil; and there's nae sayin what may be in store for you yet." To this attempt at consolation Helen made no reply; but that night--and it was a wild and a wet one--she left her mother's house, stealing out while she slept; and, when morning came, she had not returned, and no one knew whither she had gone. Days, weeks, and months passed away, and still Helen Gardenstone came not, nor was any trace of her discovered; but it came at length to be generally believed that the poor deluded and distracted girl had terminated her miseries by committing suicide--that she had buried her sorrows in the waters of the Molendinar--the name of the stream or river that ran through the village, and which had many deep pools both below and above it. These were, indeed, actually searched for her body, but to no purpose; though this was accounted for by the circumstance of the river's having been much swollen at the time of Helen's disappearance, by several previous days' rain. The body, then, was conjectured to have been carried down to the sea. The report of Helen's sudden disappearance, together with rumours of the supposed catastrophe which it involved, soon reached young Wellwood; and, libertine as he was, the appalling intelligence plunged him into the deepest distress. When first informed of it, he grew deadly pale, and would fain have disbelieved the horrid tale, which made him virtually and morally, though not legally, poor Helen's murderer. But, when he found he could no longer doubt the truth of the rumour, remorse and contrition seized him, and, for some days thereafter, he confined himself to his room on pretence of sudden indisposition, to conceal the distraction of his mind, which wholly unfitted him to mingle in society. The vision of Helen, invested with all the personal beauty and mental innocence in which she had first met his sight, appeared before him during the feverish reveries of the day, and in the disturbed slumbers of the night. Anon, the scene would change, and the dead form of the victim of his lawless passion would stand before him, bearing all the horrid marks of the peculiar death she had died--her face rigid and ghastly pale--her wet dishevelled hair hanging wildly around it; and her clothes drenched with the waters in which her miseries had been terminated. Such were the harrowing pictures which the disturbed imagination and guilty soul of young Wellwood summoned before his mental eye, to madden and distract him. In time, however, these dreadful visions began to abate, both in frequency and force, and he was gradually enabled to take his place again in society; but a settled melancholy was now visible on his countenance--for the fatal catastrophe of poor Helen's death, though latterly less vividly present to him than at first, still pressed upon his spirits with a weight and constancy that produced a very marked change on his general demeanour. Soon after the period to which we have now brought our story, Wellwood proceeded to the place of his destination abroad, to occupy the official situation which his father's influence had procured for him. Here he remained for two years, when some business connected with the duties of his appointment called him to London. One of the first persons on whom he called, on his arrival in the metropolis, was a gentleman of the name of Middleton--a young man of fortune, and of excessively dissipated habits, whom he had known at Oxford, and who had been the companion of all his debaucheries (and they were frequent and deep) during his residence at that seat of learning. In this last respect young Wellwood was now somewhat improved; but it was otherwise with his old friend, who still pursued, with unabated vigour and unsated appetite, the wild career of dissipation in which Wellwood had so far accompanied him. The renewal of their acquaintance on this occasion terminated in the renewal of the scenes at Oxford; and, led on by his companion, Harry largely indulged in all the fashionable excesses of the capital. These excesses, however, even with all the outrageous mirth and jollity with which they were associated, could not restore to him the peace of mind he had lost, nor even banish from his countenance that expression of melancholy to which it had now become habituated, and which did not escape his friend Middleton, who frequently urged him to tell him the cause of it; but for some time Wellwood evaded the inquiry. At length, however, the secret was wrung from him. "I say, now, Harry," said Middleton to him one evening, as they sat together over a bottle of wine, "won't you tell us how you came by that Puritanical face of yours. It's not the one you used to wear at Oxford, I'll be sworn, and where you have picked it up I can't imagine; but it certainly does become you amazingly. That melancholy gives you quite a sentimental air. Couldn't you help me to a touch of it? I think it would improve me vastly." "Middleton," replied Wellwood, gravely, "I wish you may never have such cause as I have, both to look and to think seriously; and, in order that you may judge for yourself whether I have not good reason, I _will_ now inform you of the cause of that melancholy which has so frequently attracted your notice, and has so much excited your curiosity." Having said this, Wellwood proceeded to tell his friend of the dismal story of Helen Gardenstone; and, when he had concluded, "Worlds on worlds," he exclaimed, energetically, "would I give, Middleton, were I possessed of them, to restore that sweet unfortunate girl again to life; and these, ten times told, would I part with, to be relieved of the guilt of having wronged her." To the melancholy tale of Helen's death, and to the repentant exclamations with which it was wound up, Middleton replied with a loud laugh. "And is this all?" he cried out. "Is this the cause of that most lachrymose countenance of yours, Harry? Shame, shame, man! I thought you were a fellow of more spirit, a man of more mettle, than to be affected by such a very trifling affair as that. Why, how the deuce could you help the silly wench drowning herself? You did not push her into the water. Tuts, man! fill up your glass, and think no more of it; and now, 'pon my soul, Harry," he continued, "that I know the cause of your dismal phiz, and find it to be a matter of moonshine, I'll cut you for ever, if you don't, after this night, hold up your head, and look like a man. There, fill up," he said, pushing the bottle, from which he had just helped himself largely, towards his companion, who, without making any remark on what had just been addressed to him, seized it with avidity, and, as if in desperation, poured out and swallowed an entire tumbler of the liquor it contained. We need not follow out the scene. The night terminated, as it usually did with those boon companions, in a deep debauch; but it was ultimately marked by an event for which the reader will be as little prepared as Wellwood was. On returning to his lodgings, accompanied by Middleton, who slept at the same hotel, at an early hour of the morning--and a bitterly cold and snowy one it was, for it was the depth of winter--the two friends, as they came shouting and bawling along, under the influence of the wine they had drunk, were attracted by seeing four or five persons gathered together on the street, and evidently surrounding some object of interest. "I say, Harry, let's see what this is?" said Middleton; "perhaps we may knock some sport out of it." "Why, I don't mind," replied the former; "but doubtless it's some drunken or starving wretch, enjoying the cool night air." "Why, what's the matter here?" said Middleton, bustling into the middle of the assemblage, followed by Wellwood. "Vy, it's a young voman and a child as is a-starving, and has never a home to go to," said one of the bystanders. And such, indeed, was the truth. A miserable being--not, however, in her attire, which, though bespeaking poverty, was yet clean, whole, and even decent--was seen sitting on the steps of a stair, seemingly in the last stage of exhaustion, with a child, a boy of about two years of age, closely wrapped up in her cloak, and strained to her bosom, to protect it from the piercing cold of the night. "My good woman," said Middleton, stooping down close to her--for even he was affected by the piteous sight--"where are you from?" "I'm frae Scotland, sir," was the reply, in a voice of singular sweetness, but evidently enfeebled by suffering. Wellwood caught in an instant the dialect of his native land; and he did not hear it without emotion--neither were the soft musical tones of the voice lost upon him. They resembled, strongly resembled, those of one whom he dared not even think of; and these circumstances combined, instantly excited in him a deep interest in the unhappy being before him. He now also approached her, and, taking her kindly by the hand, was about to address her in soothing language, looking at the same time closely to her face, when, without saying what he intended, or indeed saying anything, he slowly raised himself again from the stooping posture to which he had had recourse, his face as pale as death, and trembling violently in every limb. In the next instant, he staggered as if he would have fallen. Middleton ran to support him, and, thinking he had been seized with some sudden illness, slowly led him to the distance of a few paces from the persons assembled round the destitute female. "What's the matter? what's the matter, Harry?" said the former, on their getting out of hearing of any one. "My troth, but you do look ill, Wellwood!" "_That_," replied the latter, in a sepulchral voice, and with a look that increased the alarm of his companion--"_that_," he said, pointing to the spot where the unhappy woman sat, and without noticing Middleton's inquiry, "is no being of flesh and blood. It is a vexed spirit, Middleton, come to haunt me for the injuries I did it when in the body--come to destroy my peace, and to realise the horrid dreams of my guilt. It is--it is, Middleton"--and he gasped for breath as he spoke--"the spirit of Helen Gardenstone." "Nay, that I'll be sworn it isn't," replied his friend, who now thought he had gone deranged. "It's a _bona fide_ human being, I warrant you, Harry, and I'll bring you proof of that directly." Saying this, he ran to the object of his friend's terror, and inquired her name. She gave it. Middleton was confounded--he hastened back to Wellwood, and, as he approached him, "By Heaven, Harry!" he said, "you are so far right--the woman's name is really Helen Gardenstone." Regardless of the situation in which he was, and equally so of those who might witness the strong expression of feeling which he meditated, Wellwood instantly dropped on his knees, and, in one brief sentence of mingled piety and joy, thanked God that he was not altogether the guilty wretch that he had conceived himself to be; for he now felt assured that, whatever might have been the train of circumstances that had led to this singular occurrence, the person whom he had thus found a houseless and destitute wanderer on the streets of the metropolis was, indeed, no other than Helen Gardenstone. On recovering a little from the tumultuous feelings which had at first overwhelmed him, Wellwood's next thought was how to succour the unfortunate girl and _his_ child, as he had no doubt it was. The first idea which occurred to him on this point was to have Helen instantly conveyed to his hotel--and on this idea he subsequently acted; but, thinking the present neither a fit time nor place to discover himself to her, or to give her an opportunity of recognising him, he deputed the task to his friend Middleton, who readily undertook it, whilst he himself kept aloof. On reaching the inn, Wellwood retired to his own apartment, while Middleton saw to the comforts of his unfortunate charge. These provided for, he rejoined his friend, whom he found wrapped in profound meditation, with his elbow resting on a table. "Well, Harry," he said, on entering the apartment, "this is a devilish queer affair, an't it? But, in the name of all that's perplexing, what do you propose doing now?" "I'll tell you all about that in the morning, Middleton," replied Wellwood, gravely, "after I shall have slept on it. In the meantime, I thank you for your attention to the poor girl." "Faith, to tell you a truth, Harry," rejoined Middleton, "I would have done as much, and a great deal more, too, on her own account, let alone yours; for she's certainly as pretty a girl as ever I clapped eye upon. A gentle, beautiful creature 'tis, Harry. But what the deuce are you to do with her, again say I." "Why, I have not quite made up my mind on that subject," said Wellwood; "but I'll think of it, and we'll see what the morning brings forth." Saying this, he retired to his own sleeping-apartment, where he spent half the night in thinking what should be his next proceeding with regard to Helen; and the result of his cogitations on this subject was a resolution of a very extraordinary kind. On the following morning, when he and Middleton met-- "Well, Harry," said the latter, "what's to be done now? What has been the result of your night's reflections regarding Helen? What do you now propose doing with her?" "I propose to marry her, Middleton," replied Wellwood, gravely. "It is the least thing I can do in reparation of the injury I have done her--the misery and scorn I have entailed on her; and besides, Middleton," he went on, "I should be perjured in the face of Heaven if I did not, for I swore a sacred and binding oath that I should make her mine; and it was by trusting to that oath that poor Helen fell." "Ha! ha!--a particular good joke, Harry," exclaimed Middleton; "and----" "No joke whatever, Middleton," said Wellwood, interrupting him; "I am in serious earnest. I will do the girl the only justice now in my power. I will do what my heart and my conscience tell me is right in this matter, and defy the sneers of a selfish and censorious world. On this I am firmly determined, let the consequences be what they may. My mind is made up, Middleton." "You're mad, Harry," said the latter, now becoming serious in his turn, on seeing that his friend was really in earnest--"absolutely and absurdly mad." "It may be so, Middleton," replied Wellwood, calmly. "That is a point I will not dispute with you; but I am nevertheless firmly resolved to do what I have said. I will take my poor little boy to my bosom, and his mother shall become lady of Wellwood. It is all the reparation I can make her, and it shall be made. Will you assist me in going through with this romantic business, Middleton?" he added, smiling. "Why, Harry," replied the latter, "I certainly should not like to desert you in a time of need; but----" "No buts, Middleton," interrupted his friend. "Will you, or will you not?" "Why, then, if you _are_ resolved, Harry, on this desperate, and, I must call it, singularly absurd step, I will," rejoined Middleton. "But what will your father say to it?" "Why, from him, certainly, my marriage must, far a time, at any rate, be concealed; but of this more afterwards. In the meantime, will you go to Helen, and tell her that an old acquaintance desires to see her; and conduct her hither?" Middleton readily undertook the mission, and departed to execute it. In a minute afterwards he returned, leading in Helen by the hand. On seeing Wellwood, she uttered a piercing shriek, and fainted in the arms of Middleton, her little boy clinging to her in all the terror of childish affright. Wellwood rushed to her assistance, and, in the tenderest and most soothing language he could command, endeavoured to restore her to consciousness. This of itself gradually returned, and a scene followed which we will not attempt to describe. Wellwood, pressing Helen to his bosom, told the bewildered but delighted girl that it was his intention to repair the injury he had done her, by offering her his hand. He next flew to his boy, took him up in his arms, bathed him with his tears, and bestowed upon him, while he caressed him, every tender epithet he could think of. Our story is now coming naturally to a close; and we will not prolong it by any unnecessary or extraneous details. In three days after this, Helen--having been previously provided with everything suitable to the rank in life to which she was thus suddenly and most unexpectedly promoted from the lowest depths of wretchedness and destitution--became the wife of Henry Edington, Esq. of Wellwood. In three days more, Mr Edington received intelligence of his father's sudden demise, which rendered it necessary that he should proceed instantly to Wellwood. In this journey his wife and child accompanied him; and the next appearance of Helen Gardenstone in her native village was in a splendid carriage, as the lady of Wellwood, in which character she subsequently acquired an extensive reputation for benevolence, and for the practice of every social virtue. Helen, in short, became an exemplary wife, and conferred on her husband, who continued to regard her with unabated affection till the day of his death, all the happiness of which the marriage state is capable. THE SURGEON'S TALES. THE CASE OF EVIDENCE. The following narrative was given to me by the executors of Miss Ballingal, whom I attended for a short time previous to her death:-- I shall not now, I hope, be long upon the face of this earth. It is sinful to wish to die; but, when the spirit is weary of the trials of this evil world, and the body broken, and the bones stricken to their dried marrow with pains, surely a poor mortal may indulge the wish, that God's time of release may not be postponed beyond the power of bearing the weight of life. My years, if mentioned, would not, perhaps, appear to be many; but _age_, in the sense in which I take it, cannot be calculated by circumvolutions of the sun. There is an age of the spirit independently of that of the body; and to calculate that, we must have a measure of the effects of misfortune, and pain, and injury, on nerves toned in all the keys that rise in gradation, from the sensations of creatures a little above the brutes, to the sensibilities of individuals a little lower than the angels. In this view, I am indeed aged as the sons of Levi; for my soul, like the people of Pharaoh, has been smitten with boils and blains, by the poisoned bite of the serpent tongue of civilisation. The spirit of the Indian under his plantain-tree, lives till the body is sick of it; and with a mistaken humanity, he is exposed in the desert, that the wants of the flesh may kill the spirit that yearns to live, and to rejoice again in the return of the seasons, with their fruits and flowers; but the spirit of civilised man or woman is often dead long before the mortal tenement exhibits any decay; for, though spotted fever and limping palsy have passed on, and touched not the flesh, the spirit has been visited by plagues a thousand times more deadly, that rise from the refinements of civilised life. It is these that have made me aged, and weary of remaining longer here; and I am not doubtful that, when I record what I have suffered from two causes--first, my own--yes, I affirm it--my own goodness; and, secondly, the evils inherent in the state of society in which we live--every one will acknowledge that I have little more to wait for on this side of time, and that the sooner I am dissolved, the better it may be for myself, and those who sympathise in griefs that death alone can alleviate. Brought up in the manse of C----, by a pious father, the clergyman of the parish, a learned man--and by a mother, a woman of many virtues, who wished her daughter to be as good as herself--I enjoyed all the advantages of breeding and education; which, if turned to good account, make the ornaments of society. I cannot, and never will, admit that these advantages were lost upon me, though they have tended to make me miserable. I was accounted fair; and I believe that my beauty--a gift so much valued--has had also a share, and no inconsiderable one, in the production of the peculiar evils under which I have suffered, and still suffer. I was--what none knew so well as myself--sensitive to a degree bordering on diseased irritability; but my sensitiveness was of that higher kind, which, courting and receiving impressions and impulses from virtuous thoughts and elevated feelings, tends to elevate rather than depress. The fine culture I received from my father, co-operating with my refined sensibilities, produced in me the most exquisitely minute perceptions of moral good and evil; so that I came to have the same delicate feeling of the graceful or the distorted in morals, that some _born_ musicians are said to possess in regard to the tones of harmony in the world of sounds. This is not self-praise--it is truth wrung out of me; for, though possessed of many qualities which might have nourished vanity, the disrelish I ever felt of the exhibitions of a vain spirit in others would have been effectual in quelling my own, even if I had had any to quell, which assuredly I never had. I believe that the strong view in which morals were presented to me by the precepts of my father, would have operated to the production of a fine and healthy effect in one formed for the busy world; but in me, who seemed to have been formed with a connate, aspen-like, trembling sensitiveness of the traces of good and evil, his instructions, continued from day to day, and enforced by the power of his own example and that of my sainted mother, tended to give my original perceptions so strong and holy a sanction, that, at a very early period, I had become a kind of worshipper of good. Virtue has a lovely aspect to all, even to those who tremble at her beauty, from the contrast of their own ugliness; religion has the power of making her more beautiful; and systems of morals, clothed in fine language, are effective in training many hearts to a high love of this emanation from God. But I was, and I am yet, different from any individual whose moral perceptions are merely strengthened by these aids. I do not know if I make myself intelligible, but I myself feel the distinction I wish to impress: morals were to me that species of passion which in many exhibits itself only more perceptibly in regard to some other object--such as poetry, painting, sculpture, or music--with perhaps this difference, that while these natural _illuminati_ are merely annoyed by an exhibition of distortion, I was pained--sorely, miserably pained--by vice, in whatever form it was exhibited to me. I was not contented with the ordinary appearances of purity. The jealousy-offering was ever in my hand; and I was always sighing to see it waving before the goddess, and offered upon the altar of virtue. I looked upon the individual in whom the "water that causes the curse" became bitter, as a creature who was rotten, and had become a curse among the people. Entertaining these sentiments, I loved to expatiate upon the beauties of my favourite subject, with a glow of eloquence that struck even the godly visiters of the manse with surprise and admiration. I often, also, in my visits among my father's parishioners, exhibited the same warm enthusiasm, couching my sentiments in the gorgeous clothing of a young fancy enamoured of a deified personification of what I conceived to be the only true good and the only true beauty upon earth. But I was no apostle under the influence of a proselytising spirit; for I only visited the virtuous, because I loved them, and those of an evil reputation I avoided with a thrilling horror, as creatures diseased and dangerous to approach. Those who believed me a religious enthusiast--and there were many who entertained that opinion of me--knew nothing of my real nature; for, though my father's precepts had had all due effect upon me, religion, far from being the origin of my feelings, lent merely a sanction to them, showing the final cause of my enthusiastic views, and turning them to that account in the contemplation of an after world, that ought to have been at all times their end and object. I was rather a lover of virtue for its beauty: my feeling was an impassioned taste, luxuriating on every virtuous act, and dwelling with inexpressible delight on every cultivator of my favourite subject. A consequence of this was the horror of vicious persons, which I possessed to a degree that made my father suspect that my passion was not the religious one, which is unavoidably accompanied with pity for the misguided votary of sin, and a straining effort to reclaim him to the paths of virtue. He was to a certain extent right; but I question much if, with all his learning, he possessed knowledge enough of the various peculiarities of human nature, to enable him to analyse my character, or to understand the peculiarities of one under the dominion of a passion for ethics. I was, moreover, of a remarkably tender constitution of body--the consequence of early weakness, as well, perhaps, as of that irritable temperament which fed and was nourished in turn by the high-strung sensibilities of my spirit. Up to the age of fifteen, I was subject to a species of fit, or nervous syncope; and I always found that, after an attack of these enervating prostrations of my physical powers, my mind recurred to my favourite subject with greater keenness, supplying my excited fancy with brilliant images of virtuous sacrifices, such as I had read of in the old classic authors, which I could read in the original; and these, again, swelled my heart, lighted my eye, and lent an eloquence to my tongue, which dwelt on the daring of Mutius, the sacrifice of Lucretia, the heroism of Brutus, the friendship of Damon, and the determination of Virginius. Exhausted by the swell of emotions produced by these subjects, I fell back upon the quieter, but no less delicious, theme of a Howard's philanthropy; and ended with the contemplation of those instances of private charity which had come under my own eye. I never felt happier than when in these moods; and my mother, who knew my passion, contributed to its gratification, by directing me to such recorded examples of worth as she knew where to find among my father's books. Possessed of these views and feelings, so unsuitable to the cold maxims of the world, and with a weak and irritable constitution, I was ill prepared for the loss which was now, when I was in my twentieth year, impending over me--the death of both my parents, who, attacked by the same disease--some putrid species of typhus--died within a week of each other, leaving me, their only child, as much unprovided for in regard to worldly wants, as I was unfitted for making up the deficiency by my personal exertions. My father left nothing but the furniture in the manse, which was all required to pay up some advances of stipend which had been made to him by several of the heritors, and which the extreme scantiness of his income necessitated him to have recourse to. I was a beggar, imbued with notions to make the people of the world admire and pity, and gifted with a countenance so beautiful (why need I spare the vain word, when I now admit that age and pain have made me ugly?), that, with art, might have realised a fortune, or, with folly, might have ruined me. I sought the protection of a spendthrift uncle and a good aunt--the latter resident in the town of Stirling, an old lady of fortune, a Mrs Greville, who admired my principles, and possessed generosity enough to enable her to offer to repay the pleasures of my companionship by her house and her friendship. My tender frame, operated upon by the intense grief I had felt in the loss of my parents, sustained a shock which would have proved fatal to me, if the assuasive attentions of that angelic being had not contributed to the recovery of my health. Her protection was much, her kindness valuable; but above all was I blessed in the possession of a friend who reduced to practice, though she could not _feel_ as I felt, the principles of virtue I had so long cherished with the fondness of a ruling passion. But my situation was now changed. In my father's manse I saw little of the world; but what came under my observation was congenial to my mind, and gratified my feelings by the exhibition of goodness as well of deed as of sentiment. The evil I saw was out-of-doors, and I eschewed it as a serpent which would beguile by the spiral turns of its insidious lines of beauty, and the shining hues of the colours of false loveliness. In our society at home, or in the houses of the parishioners, it never came under my experience, except by the report of crimes which grated on my irritable feelings, and pained me to a much greater extent than people of ordinary sensibilities may well comprehend. In my new residence, I was necessitated to mix with the world. My aunt saw much company, composed of the mixed inhabitants of the town, and I accompanied her to various parties where the _fashionable_ vices were cultivated, as all fashionable things are, with an affected contempt of honest plainness and unadorned simplicity. Though my aunt was herself a good woman, and admired the high-coloured, and, it may be, unnatural views I took of human life, she never understood the secret parts of my mental constitution, but took me simply for one who entertained a somewhat strong sense of the beauty of a good life, and who therefore could mix with society of acknowledged honesty as the world goes, without allowing the frailty of human nature to interfere with my own views, and far less with my comfort and peace of mind. My beauty made her proud of me; and I was soon introduced to scenes which stirred all the antipathies that, as the result of my past modes of thinking and feeling, lay strong within my heart, and ready to be called forth by a departure in others from the rules of life I had so long loved. The first view I got of the mysteries of card-playing--in the house of Captain Semple, of Tennet, who lived in town, only a few doors removed from where I lived--produced an effect of pain upon me similar to that which Mozart declared he felt when his harmony was lost in discordance. They played for what they called high stakes; and there was exhibited, on a lesser scale, the keen avaricious eye, the forced, choking laugh, the lying smile, the trembling hand, and burning brow of the gambler of the London grade. The whole family engaged in this play. I recollect, at this distant period, the effect produced upon me by the agonised countenance of the beautiful Catherine Semple, the eldest daughter, when she lost a high stake, and yet turned the expression of the worst look of the devil into a smile far more hideous than that which it concealed. Nor was the effect less painful that was produced upon my high-wrought sensibilities by the cruel triumph that burned in the beautiful blue eye of Esther her sister, who had pocketed the hard-won earnings of a poor surgeon, and seemed to feed on the poisoned garbage of his depression and disappointment. The face of her mother, who looked on, partook alternately of the expression of those of her daughters; and while I, a stranger, beheld with pain the first principles of goodness subverted, and the fairest samples of God's creatures penetrated to the core by the worst feelings of our fallen nature, she, their parent, sympathised with a daughter's deceit and revenge, or gloried in her triumph over what might be the approaches of ruin to a fallen creature. I went home after that exhibition dispirited and miserable; the chords of the moral harp, that had so long responded to the sweet sounds of a virtue imagined, felt, and dreamed of, as a beatific vision, were disrupted and torn asunder; and I imagined that the individuals who had thus laid upon it their sacrilegious hands were worthy of a hatred unqualified by pity, as destroyers of the most beautiful fabric ever erected by God's love. These were not the gloomy views of the monastic ascetic, or the religious enthusiast--for I was neither. I was, indeed, peculiarly formed; but I knew not my peculiarity, and even now I could scarcely abate one ray of the effulgence that, if you please, blinded me to the factitious virtues of the _juste milieu_ of a bad world's morality. Some nights afterwards, I accompanied my aunt to the house of Mrs Ball, also a neighbour, and one who could afford to live in a style that, in such a town as Stirling, might be conceived to be high. She had a daughter, Anne, and a son, George, an attorney, both accomplished and handsome, and wearing on their faces the external appearances of simplicity and goodness. The recollections of Semple's family were still busy with my heart, and I trembled to approach another assemblage of fashionable people. I was placed in the midst of a large tea _coterie_, and expected to hear a conversation suited to the views of human life I so fondly cherished. Stories of generosity, of age assuaged, bereavement ameliorated, want supplied, and hunger and nakedness fed and clothed, must, I thought, issue from such a quiet-looking assemblage of people, brought together apparently for no other purpose than to promote the cause of their own happiness, which surely might be best done by contemplating the means of the happiness of others. Having had one of my fits in the fore part of the day, I was more irritable than usual; but having got, in some measure, quit of the pain produced by the moral discordance that had, some days before, grated so painfully on my weak nerves, I expected to be able to join in a conversation which could not fail to embrace a part of my favourite theme. I was again destined to be made miserable. I was placed in the midst of a species of moral cannibals, who preyed ruthlessly and jestingly on the misfortunes and miseries of their fellow-creatures. Pecuniary embarrassments, matrimonial disagreements, detections of dishonesty, elopements, infidelities--everything that might render an individual worthy of pity or hatred--was treated in the same tone of concealed satisfaction. The burst of loud laughter followed on the heels of the whine of hollow sympathy; the sneer mixed its cutting sarcasm with the lying tribute to suffering worth; and through all, over all, in all, there was the spirit of evil, in its worst, its ugliest form, rejoicing--secretly, no doubt, but not the less certainly--in the defection of mortals from God's law, and their devarication from my standard of moral beauty. I experience a difficulty now, though then it would have been easy for me to describe what I felt on the occasion of this new display of this, to me, the ugliest parts of the hated system of evil which prevails in the world. The beautiful visions I had formed in my day-dreams, and which I had cherished as the source of my greatest happiness, appeared to me to have little or no relation to earth, or to earth's inhabitants; and a gloomy melancholy stole over me, and retained the dominion of my mind, in spite of every effort to shake it off. I endeavoured to make my feelings understood by Mrs Greville; but she, though participant in my views of moral perfection, could not comprehend why the turpitude of men should have the effect of making a good person incapable of enjoying what was truly virtuous in nature, and far less why it should produce a gloomy misery in those who were themselves truly good. What people cannot comprehend, they sometimes state to others, for the sake of assistance to their understandings; and my aunt, in the openness of her heart, stated my peculiarities to some friends, who coloured them to suit their fancies, and then communicated them to the families of the Semples, the Balls, and several others. My views, as I afterwards learned, were considered by these people as an impeachment of their morals; and I was set down as an arch-hypocrite, who wished to rear a character for goodness on the ruin of the reputation of others. The state of despondency into which I fell, precipitated me into a succession of my old nervous fits, and it was not for some time that I was again prevailed upon to visit the scenes where my feelings were exposed to such causes of laceration; but when I did again accompany my friend in her accustomed visits, I found that I had become unwelcome: oblique sneers, short, cutting taunts, and pointed insinuations, were directed against me; and though I then knew nothing of the cause, I felt, with that trembling sensitiveness which was peculiar to me, the poignancy of the poison of a hatred that was scarcely attempted to be concealed. In the little intercourse I had as yet had with the new world of sad reality into which I had entered, I had heard the characters of good people so fearfully belied and reviled, that I attributed the painful treatment I thus received to the same malevolent spirit that dictated the malicious scandal which seemed to penetrate almost every family I had yet visited. I inquired for no cause in myself; for I had done or said nothing to create merited individual hatred. It was the working of the same spirit of evil that generally prevailed, extended to me, a poor orphan, living on the dependence of a kind relation. It was one thing to see evil done towards others, and to feel it applied to one's-self; and the pain I formerly felt was increased by the dread that I might yet be thrown upon that world which presented to me such fearful indications of cruelty and vice. It will soon be seen whether it was my good or evil fortune, at this gloomy period, to meet with one who appeared really to understand the constitution of my mind, to appreciate the exalted views I entertained of virtue, and to sympathise with me in the pain produced by the discordance between the actual state of society and what I so fondly wished it to be. Augustus Merling, proprietor of a fine property called the Park, yielding him about £1500 a-year, and who lived, for a great part of the year, in town with his widowed mother, visited my aunt, and often saw me. I have said I was possessed of much beauty, and the fact is undoubted; but there was still about me that aspen-like sensitiveness, derived from the nervous attacks to which I was enslaved, operating on a mind of originally fine structure, that the very look of man or woman, if boldly thrown upon me, whether from curiosity or confidence, made me shrink intuitively, and look confused or abashed; and I never could conceive that all the beauty I possessed could make amends for or overcome the prejudices against me originating in that cause. I was in this respect, however, entirely wrong. My sensitiveness gave me an interest in the eyes of Augustus, who, the moment he saw me, was so struck with the beauty of my face, and that very shrinking of my manner, that he inquired at Mrs Greville every particular concerning me; and got such an account as, he himself afterwards confessed, increased his curiosity by the mystic obscurity in which my aunt's inability to understand me had wrapped all the peculiar attributes of my mind. He had felt some anticipative impression of a sympathy between our thoughts and feelings; and our intercourse--for he sought me the more fervently the more I retired from him--soon satisfied him he was right in his estimate of my character. I am certain he understood me thoroughly, and I believe he was the only individual I had yet met who fathomed the mysteries of a heart only too good and pure for the world in which we live. But, if I was surprised and pleased with this, what may be conceived to be my feelings, when I at last found, in a beautiful youth of fortune, the very moral counterpart of myself, with all my exalted views of my beloved and cherished goodness and moral loveliness! Often as the pen of poet has been employed in the description of the feelings of mortals under the influence of the tender passion, sublimed by the elevating power of virtuous purity, I am satisfied that small approach has been made to the reality of the love that soon bound me and Augustus together as creatures made after the same model, and yet different from all mankind. If other matters did not hurry me forward, I could exhibit the thrilling details of a bliss which is thought to be peculiar to the regions above. I would only be afraid that the analysis would require to be carried so deep into the attenuated fibres of constitutions so seldom seen and so little understood, that I would be charged with my imputed error of applying unearthly visions to things of earthly mould. Love has become a by-word, because it is too often mixed with the impurities of vulgar natures; but such love as ours might tend to elevate and throw over the rapt fancies of imaginative beings a forecast of that exquisite bliss which awaits mankind in the regions of heaven. But, even in this sweet dream, the evil of the world was destined to follow me. I had taken from two ladies the object of their love or ambition. Catherine Semple and Anne Ball, whom I have already mentioned, had been severally intended by their mothers as the wife of Augustus--a match to which the young rivals themselves were as much inclined as their mothers, as well from the personal qualities of Augustus, as from his wealth and property. I was hated by these ladies before as a hypocrite. I was now the successful rival apparently destined to blast all the cherished hopes of their love or ambition--and yet guiltless of even the thought of the earthly and debased feelings of what is known as rivalship. Our love was soon known to both the families, chiefly through the medium of George Ball, who acted as the man of business of Mrs Greville, and in that capacity was often a visiter at the house. The effect of the intelligence was intense and stirring; and, through the simple medium of my aunt, I heard myself denounced as one who carried virtue on my face and tongue; simulated nervous sensibility, to give effect to my affected distaste of vice; and who yet bore within my bosom, for a heart, the poisonous cockatrice, whose eggs were the guile and deceit that work more evil in the world than open-faced, unblushing vice. These statements were corroborated by what I myself saw; for when I again met the young ladies--and it was more by chance than intention--I was struck by the intensity with which they, even in the presence of others, expressed by look and manner the hatred they carried in their hearts against me, guiltless as I was of thought or deed inimical to them or any other mortal on earth. The enmity thus flared upon me, with such strength of feeling, was experienced in the height of the delicious dream of love in which I was entranced; and, softened and mellowed as I was with the sweet enjoyment of the actual experience in Augustus of the visions of perfection I had so devotedly cherished, I felt again, and in an increased degree, the pain which the workings of evil seemed fated to produce in me. About the same time, another source of uneasiness rose at my side, in the person of George Ball. Whether actuated by love, or interest, or both, I know not--but I afterwards had reason to suppose he wished Augustus detached from me, to be free for his sister--this individual took the opportunity of my aunt's absence, and made, on his knees, warm professions of attachment to me. He declared that he was dying for me, and implored me to give him a test of his affection. I looked at him and trembled. He it was who had reported the affection of me and Augustus, and, with the knowledge that I loved and was beloved by another, he thus attempted to burst the bonds of a holy and elevated connection--to make me ungrateful, perfidious, and base; and to render him in whom all my happiness was centred miserable and wretched. My frame of mind was too delicate for indignation; a slow creeping feeling of loathing was the form in which the contemplation of evil produced an effect on me, and the sickening influence seldom failed in reducing me, for a time, to gloom and nervousness. I cannot describe my conduct on the occasion of this new discovery of the workings of the prevailing demon; but I believe that I hurried from the apartment with such an expression of my feelings depicted upon my countenance, as must have told him, more eloquently than words, the disgust he had roused in me, and the pain with which I was penetrated. The former he might understand, the latter was beyond the reach of his intelligence. I found an assuagement of these evils in the bosom of Augustus, where lay the microcosm, that pure moral world I delighted to contemplate; but the illness of Mrs Greville, which shortly after supervened, called upon me to exercise actively those virtues of gratitude and kindness which formed a part of the scheme of my morality. Night and day I waited upon my benefactress, with the fondness of affection, and the fidelity and unwearied steadfastness of principle. Between her and my Augustus my time was passed; and I know not whether I felt more satisfaction in the theoretical contemplation I enjoyed along with him, of the beauties of a good life, than in the practical application of our views to the amelioration of my aunt's feelings in her illness, and to the contribution to her ease and satisfaction. Yet all my assiduity seemed to be of little avail; she gradually grew worse; and there seemed to come over her, at times, sorrowful anticipations of what might befall me, in the event of her death, mixed with, if not suggested by, recollections of the manner in which I had been treated by the families whose daughters aspired to the hand of Augustus. These thoughts were busy with her one day, and she had sent for George Ball to make her will. Before he came, she was visited by the mother of Augustus; and before the latter departed, Miss Catherine Semple and Miss Anne Ball also came. I sat by her bedside, watching, through tears of sympathy, every indication of pain or solicitude. It was a strange meeting, and presented an opportunity for a declaration of sentiment on the part of my aunt, that, ill as she was, she could not let escape. "Martha," she said, looking in my face, and taking my hand into hers, "oh, that I possessed the virtues of your clear, untainted mind!--for then I should be prepared to meet the bright beams of that light of heavenly glory which searches to purify, and shines to enlighten, and bless, and make happy. Your trial may be now, or rather when I am gone; but your triumph will come when you are as I now am. People have tried to injure you" (she looked steadfastly at the two young ladies); "but, if Mrs Merling remains your friend, the viper-tongue of scandal or reproach cannot touch you. The terms on which you stand with Augustus I know, though I never can be able to comprehend all the beauty of your mutual views and sentiments on that subject which is gradually opening upon me by the medium of a light from above. You have rivals" (looking again at the two young ladies); "but they are bold mortals who would dispute the victory with angels." These words came to me like the "fountain which was opened to the house of David," for it banished from me many fears; but to Catherine Semple and Anne Ball they were as adders' tongues; and the eliminated poison, indigested, was thrown out upon me by every expression of hatred they could call up into their countenances. Mrs Merling was silent, but looked upon me with that sweetness which resulted from those angelic views of heaven-born goodness she had communicated to Augustus. That look was to me an ample panoply against the scorching, revengeful fire of the eyes of my rivals, who, having expended all the force of their malevolence by the side of their prostrate and apparently dying friend, departed in wrath. In a short time, a servant came from George Ball, and stated that he was from home, and would not return till next day. My aunt appeared disconcerted by the intelligence, but said she would not employ another, as he alone knew the state of her affairs. Mrs Merling kissed me, and told me to be of good heart, for that, while she loved her Augustus, she must continue to love me, who was his counterpart, and therefore (she added, with a soft smile) more of heaven than of earth. She departed, stating that she would return in the evening, to ascertain how my aunt then was. These assurances of friendship I required to sustain me amidst this trying scene; for my old complaint had been exhibiting an activity among my nerves, which shook me to the heart, and predisposed me for the pain of the endurance of enmity on the one side, and the solicitude of a friendship, on the eve of being ended for ever, on the other. I was sitting convulsed by conflicting emotions, with my hand on my forehead, when Mrs Greville again spoke. "I feel worse, my beloved Martha," she said, "and am solicitous about the return of George Ball. I would send for another, but that I would so much prefer my usual man of business. So far, at least, I can insure your safety, my love, in the event of anything happening to me before his return. Hand me that box that lies on the top of my escritoire." I complied, by fetching and laying the box on the bed. My aunt took a key that lay under her pillow, and, opening the secretary, exhibited a great number of jewels, which she had got on the death of her husband, who had been a jeweller on a great extent in London, and left her the treasure as her share of his fortune. Some of these she had disposed of, and laid out the proceeds in the purchase of heritable property, on the rents of which she lived; and the remainder, along with an inventory, written in her own hand, she had deposited in the box, of which she had always taken the greatest care. There were other valuable articles besides the jewels in the box; her title-deeds were there, and some bank-cheques, for money she had saved out of her rents. She lifted up two or three pearl-necklaces, and other articles, to enable her to get to a string of diamonds, apparently of great value. "These," she said, "were valued by James" (so she always spoke of her husband) "at four thousand pounds. They were intended as the portion of my little Agnes, who died only one week before her father. Who has a better right to them than you, my dear Martha?--take them, and along with them the necklaces, which I think are worth a hundred guineas each. The loose jewels in this interior box you may also take; they are of no great value, but they will suit you as articles of dress, when you become the wife of Augustus Merling. Take and place them all in your own trunk. If I get better, I will trust to your returning them to me _without a request on my part_, and the inventory may be left here, to show what you have got. When George Ball comes, I shall make him put a clause in my will, to accord with this act and my sentiments." She then locked the box, and I, with tears of gratitude in my eyes, went and placed the jewels in my trunk, and returned to the bed of my benefactress. "You must look to your treasure, Martha," she continued. "I have guarded it well, having had occasion to doubt the honesty of Magdalene" (the maid-servant), "who, I fear, knew too well what that box contained. I missed a beautiful brooch last year, and would have discharged her, but that I had no evidence against her. Look well to the key of your trunk." I could not reply to these statements of my aunt. My heart was full, and my tongue would not express the feelings of gratitude with which I was penetrated; but she understood me, and was content. Shortly afterwards, she said she felt worse, and I despatched Magdalene for Mrs Merling, who came within half-an-hour, accompanied by Augustus, who sat in an antechamber, anxious to see me. The first look that Mrs Merling directed to her old friend detected the symptoms of approaching death, and she communicated to me secretly the melancholy information. She seemed anxious about the attorney; but the situation in which I, who would be benefited by the will, and her son, who was so near, stood in relation to each other, produced a delicacy which prevented her from showing any anxiety on the subject. The medical man, who came soon after, held out to us a very faint hope, and even hinted that he himself was surprised at the sudden change that had taken place upon her. The unfavourable symptoms increased towards night, and the intelligence of her illness brought Mrs Ball, to get her curiosity satisfied, and her feelings of humanity excited. She had been informed by her daughter of what had taken place in the forenoon, and had scarcely entered, when she alluded, in a sneering tone, to Augustus, whom she had seen in the anteroom as she passed. We sat round the bed of my dear relative, who began to exhibit symptoms of a wandering state of mind--a circumstance less noticed by the others than by me; and having heard that Augustus was in the house, she requested to see him. I ran for him--he came and bent himself over the sick-bed, to administer some of the soothing sentiments of a mind replete with the balm of "the spirit of grace and supplications" which was poured on the house of David. She asked him to be seated, and, raising a little her body, she pointed to the box, which stood on the top of the escritoire, and wished it brought to her, that she might give Augustus a ring as a keepsake. Mrs Merling, who sat next to it, obeyed the request, and brought the box. With trembling hands the patient sought for the key, and having found it, tried to insert it in the lock; but she was unable, and Mrs Merling assisted her. The box was opened, and my aunt, now in a state of delirium, ran a wild eye over its contents, and, raising her hands to heaven, cried-- "Where are my jewels? I have been robbed. Wretches, tell me where are those jewels which I have guarded for twenty years?" The excitement was fatal--she fell back, and expired. The confusion which followed this sudden and as yet unexpected event drowned for a time the effect resulting from the extraordinary exclamation. The women were busy in various ways, and Augustus ran to support me, who at first, staggered by the exclamations, was rendered senseless by what so immediately followed. I swooned in his arms, and, when I recovered, found myself in my own parlour, with Mrs Ball leaning over me. Augustus, alarmed by the length of time I remained insensible, had hastened away for the doctor, and left me to the tender mercies of the mother of my rival. When I looked up, the first object that met my eyes was my trunk, where were deposited the jewels I had got gifted to me by my aunt; and, by the power of association, I heard ringing in my ears the words, "I have been robbed." The air seemed thick, from the impediment which my swelling heart offered to my powers of respiration, and, holding out my hand, I pushed away her who held me. The resistance offered to my hands directed my attention to the face of Mrs Ball, who, smiling, with a cutting satire, which spoke her suspicions-- "Who robbed your aunt, Miss Martha?" inquired she. "Why did you faint when she mentioned the loss of her jewels?" "Ha!" answered I, with an exclamation, rubbing my forehead, and still searching in my mind for a full recollection of all that had taken place; "I wish my aunt to explain, in presence of Mrs Merling, and you, and Augustus, her extraordinary words. Come, come--let us go to her--she must explain, she must free me of the imputation." "Your aunt is dead, young woman; you saw her die," she replied, with more bitter irony. "You have not yet recovered yourself. It was her death-bed confession. Why did it shake you so? _You_ never can be suspected." In an instant the full truth flashed upon me, and I saw that the death of my aunt precluded all hope of getting her statement recalled. I felt a horrible load upon my heart, and gasped for breath. The thought that I had _already_ allowed to pass the proper opportunity of stating the truth burned my brain with the pain of a seething iron. The force of truth was strong in me, and I struggled at this late period to tell all that had occurred; but, when I looked up in the face of my malicious tormentor, I could not speak, and I now felt that those sensibilities which made me so exquisitely alive to the sense of virtue had become my enemies. The thought of being suspected--and my confession that the jewels were in my trunk would amount almost to a conviction--seemed worse than death in its direst form; yet I essayed again and again to tell the truth, and still I failed to pronounce one intelligible word of explanation. Mrs Ball, finding me recovered, left me, as she said, with her accustomed satire, to the attentions of Augustus Merling, who at that moment entered the room with the surgeon. He was delighted to see me recovered, and asked me, in tones that sounded in my ears more grating than risped iron, how I felt. I answered, with difficulty, that I was better. The doctor gave me some stimulant, and he and Augustus sat down by my side, talking on the subject of the sudden change that had taken place in my aunt's disease, which no one had thought fatal. I sat silent, and expected every moment that Augustus would have mentioned something regarding the statement made by my aunt in reference to her jewels; but he never approached the subject--a circumstance which seemed to me extraordinary; for it was impossible, I thought, that so striking an incident could have escaped his memory; and as the presence of the doctor could form no reason (but rather the opposite) against a recurrence to the subject in his presence, I thought I had grounds for supposing that my presence formed the cause. The moment this thought entered my mind, I shook throughout my whole system. The question rose incessantly upon me, Why does my presence prevent him from disclosing so startling and important a circumstance? The answer appeared plain and simple--Because he suspects me. At the time these thoughts were passing through my mind, my eye caught again my trunk, and I now saw very plainly, from the position of the key, which, having been handled carelessly, was hanging from the keyhole, that some one had been there. I recollected that, when my aunt grew worse, I ran to her, and left the key in the lock, and now suspected that Mrs Ball had opened it while I was in a state of insensibility. As I fixed my eye on the trunk, I heard Augustus stop in the middle of a sentence; and, turning upon him a timid, furtive glance, I thought I saw him look at me earnestly, with a different expression of countenance from any I had ever yet seen him assume. The doctor seemed to notice the break in the conversation, and to take it as a hint to retire, which he did almost immediately, to the great increase of my misery. I was now left alone with Augustus, and my whole mind became, as it were, concentrated in my ear, to hear him break the subject which had become so awfully interesting to me. I was silent, and he, too, apparently, was inclined to be gloomy--a state of mind so inconsistent with the usual habitudes of a spirit ever in the contemplation of the fair side of human nature, that I looked upon it as inauspicious. I had forgotten entirely--so completely was my mind absorbed by the frightful subject before me--that he might respect the sorrow incident to my situation, and hold it too sacred for an abrupt and officious condolence. At length the soft accents of sympathy stole from his lips; and had they been as "the ointment of spikenard," they would have aggravated my pain; for he avoided--it appeared to me studiously--all reference to the conduct of my aunt. I knew not what words to use in my inane replies; and the more studiously he seemed to avoid the subject, the more difficult, the more certainly impossible, I felt the task of approaching it myself. I felt now, more heavily than when in the presence of Mrs Ball, the weight of the _time_ that had already been allowed to elapse without an explanation; and every minute that passed added to it immeasurably. My aunt's statement, standing alone, was powerful, almost insuperable; but, joined to the lapse of time between the charge and the denial--for what could it be now but a denial?--it would appear to be proof strong as holy writ. All this I felt with such soul-prostrating effect, that every effort I made to broach the subject was strangled in my throat, by the sympathetic power of a heart loaded with the shame of a suspicion that _never_ could be disproved. In addition to all this, what I had already suffered had produced indications of a coming accession of my nervous affections; and thus overcome by shame, terror, and physical debility, I sat beside my comforter as one in whose ears are knelling the strokes of the hour of execution. Augustus rose to depart; and, at this moment, his mother, who had been occupied dressing the dead body, came in to ascertain how I was. She looked wistfully at me as I sat pale and trembling, and I thought I saw her motion to Augustus to leave us together. He went out, and shortly after, my fit came upon me, and retained me in its ruthless grasp for a considerable period. I never had recovered from an attack to a perception of such realities as were now before me; and the more conscious I became, the more dreadful seemed my condition. My first thoughts were directed to the speech of Mrs Merling; and I soon found that she too avoided making the slightest allusion to my aunt's death-bed declaration. If the circumstance was strange in Augustus, it was more so in his mother, a female, not so apt to be forgetful of a matter where curiosity might have been expected to be roused to the highest pitch. I was now more and more convinced that both acted from a sense of delicacy towards me, on whom the whole weight of the suspicion of my aunt's declaration doubtless rested. I felt the same load on my breast as before--the same difficulty to approach the fearful subject; but now my energies were overcome by another cause, for the moment I began to struggle with myself, with a view to overcome the choking impediment presented to a declaration, I was attacked by my nervous ailment, and laid senseless in the arms of my friend. This occurred several times within an hour, at the end of which period--with the fatal secret still in my bosom--I was so overcome with misery and pain, that I was obliged to be consigned to my night-couch. I lay for several days in a state of weakness, which was continued by occasional attacks of my complaint, by the weight of the peculiar misery with which I was affected, and, by the disturbing effects of horrid dreams, the consequence of the states of both my mind and body. These last assumed often the character of nightmare, in which the form of my aunt was always (though dreadfully distorted) apparent among others; but, dreadful as these were, I would have borne all their weight, and endured all their agony, rather than have suffered what always awaited me when I succeeded in wrenching my consciousness out of the grasp of the nocturnal fiend. Mrs Merling attended me, and Augustus was incessant in his requests to know how I was. My aunt was, in the meantime, buried; and Mrs Merling, who communicated to me the intelligence, seated herself by my bedside, with the view, apparently, of opening to me some subject that lay near her heart. I looked at her and trembled. "Martha," said she, "I am going to speak to you on a subject of great delicacy; and it is because I know you are possessed of as much good sense as generous feeling, that I will take the liberty of doing it after the manner of a friend." She paused, and looked at me, as if her heart had been overpowered with pity. I expected now the long-dreaded announcement, and lay motionless, almost senseless, to hear the pronunciation of my doom. "Your aunt was no sooner laid under the ground," began Mrs Merling, "than her heir-at-law--who is, as you know, your uncle by the mother's side, James Battie, one of the worst men that our part of the country has ever seen--came and demanded possession of the house, with the articles therein; to all which, and indeed to everything which belonged to the good old lady, he has an undoubted right, seeing that she left no will. The keys are accordingly to be delivered this evening to his agent, who, by the by, is Mr George Ball, and who has likely been selected in consequence of his having acted in that capacity for your aunt, and therefore acquainted with her concerns. Every lock and drawer in the other parts of the house was sealed up before the funeral; and it was only on the representation that you were lying here in a state of distress, that this room has not been entered. It is therefore necessary that you remove from this house this evening; and as I and my son know you have no home, no friends, and, I fear, no means, we have resolved to take from you no denial to our request that you permit yourself to be removed to our house, where, allow me to say, my dear Martha, I hope to see you in the character of a respected and beloved daughter-in-law." This announcement satisfied me that neither Mrs Merling nor her son had any suspicions of my being possessed of my aunt's jewels; and, so far as regarded these individuals, I had no reason for the apprehensions that had assailed me; but alas! how long could they remain in that state of mind, when, as it had appeared, Mrs Ball's son was appointed the attorney of the heir-at-law? That fact appeared decisive of my ruin. I could not contemplate the probable evils that might result from it, without exposing myself to the danger of another fit of my ailment; and making an effort to reply suitably to Mrs Merling, I, with great difficulty, rose and got myself dressed, and removed with my trunks to the residence of my new benefactress, where I might have enjoyed all the happiness of which my nature was capable of, had I not taken with me the burden that still pressed upon my heart. Augustus seemed to realise some fond dream in having me under his mother's roof as his intended wife. He renewed our former studies and conversations; wooed my heart, in many forms, and with numerous allurements, to the calm, virtuous enjoyments of love; and seemed to make a total sacrifice of himself, his pursuits and feelings, to the reclamation of me to my wonted participation in his sentiments, and sympathy with his high-souled aspirations. These benefits, this worship, that offer of happiness, only tended to render me from hour to hour more incapable to unburden to him my mind. The burden pressed upon me with the weight and horror of an incubus. I forced myself repeatedly from the presence of him I loved above all earthly things, and wept in my closet over a fate which held before my eyes a fair heaven, imparted the capabilities of enjoying it, and the burning wish to reach it--and yet guarded it with a demon whose visage was the chosen birthplace of terror. My struggles to impart the intelligence had become weaker and weaker, as the lapse of time rendered any declaration I could make less and less worthy of credit. If I had had the feeling of guilt, I would have naturally taken means, by removing the articles, to avoid detection; but, filled though I was with the forebodings of ruin and shame, none of the ordinary means of avoiding my fate ever occurred to me; and, though they had, my mind, filled with pure and elevated sentiments, would have shrank aghast at the devices of guilt. What I had already suffered produced such an effect upon me, that I was reduced to the condition of a sickly, lingering creature, destitute of the sustaining power that enables the most wretched of mortals to support their existence, and continue on this stage of crime and misery. Even my cherished views of the grace and beauty of my favourite ethics ceased to yield me any pleasure; all my thoughts, hopes, and feelings were absorbed by the one great and ever-present conviction, that I was liable to be suspected--nay, proved--a robber; and every ring of the door-bell sounded in my ears as the prelude to my ruin. My condition was soon noticed by the solicitude of my benefactors, who, by inviting company to the house, endeavoured to drive away what they termed my sorrow for my aunt. Mrs Ball and Anne Ball were of these parties. They looked at me as if they enjoyed some signal triumph; and though, by crouching into the corner of the room, I tried to avoid them, they seemed to take a delight in following me, and contrasting the hilarity of their joy with the gloom of my melancholy. Shall I ever forget the looks of these women? When shall their words fade from my ear? Anne Ball put a question to me--Why did I not wear my aunt's diamond necklace? I swooned, and was carried out. What a night was that! In the morning I forced myself to the breakfast table, though I could scarcely walk that length. Augustus had, for several hours, been studying some portions of Plato, where that philosopher, as he said, arrays, in the most beautiful language of any nation on earth, the most exalted ideas of man's capabilities in the great field of heaven-directed virtue that ever fired the brain of the philosophic philanthropist. Ill as I was, I listened to his description of what he had read; but every word was a dagger whose hilt was set with rubies, whose point sought my heart. The thrilling and swelling emotions which would, at one time, have obeyed the sounds of his voice, attuned to such music of moral spheres, seemed to fall back upon my heart and suffocate me. The bell of the outer door now rang with considerable vehemence, and I heard the steps of several individuals enter. I thought I heard my own name mentioned, and shortly the step of one person, the others apparently remaining below, was heard upon the stair. The parlour-door opened, and George Ball, holding in his hand a paper, stood before us. He bowed to Augustus and his mother; but to me he threw only the glance of a cunning, triumphant eye. My heart was still; every muscle, voluntary and involuntary, seemed bound up in the grasp of a spasm; and freezing fear, in place of breath, when my lungs played not, sustained me as a statue is sustained. George Ball spoke-- "I trouble your family this morning, Mr Merling, on a matter of business. I hold in my hand a warrant of the sheriff to search the repositories of Miss Martha Ballingal, resident in your house, for certain jewels of great value, which belonged to Mrs Greville, her aunt, and an inventory of which was found in the empty box where the articles were deposited. Mrs Greville, as you and your mother both know, declared on her death-bed that she had been robbed of these jewels; there was another witness who heard the same declaration; and the empty box, with the inventory, corroborated the statement of Mrs Greville, who, indeed, could not have been wrong in a matter which so nearly concerned herself. Now, the heir-at-law has good reason to suppose that these jewels, and particularly a diamond necklace, several pearl ones, and a number of loose jewels, all as set forth in the inventory, are in the trunks of Miss Ballingal; and the sheriff has accordingly granted a warrant for the purpose of having her repositories examined. I have stated these things to you at once, because the lady is under your protection, and I would not have conceived it fair to search lockfast places in your house, without first making this intimation to you personally." Augustus looked at George Ball for some moments without speaking. He had been taken by surprise, and the communication had roused in him such a conflict of feelings, that he was entirely unmanned. A short time brought him to the power of a reply. Mrs Merling sat as one entranced. I was still able to maintain my position, but was ready to fall at a single turn of this extraordinary ceremony. "We were aware, sir," replied Augustus, "that Mrs Greville had lost or been robbed of her jewels, because we heard her declare so; but, in duty to the feelings of Miss Ballingal, who is beyond suspicion, we have refrained from alluding to the subject, until some light should be thrown upon the manner in which the articles were carried off. The repositories of the maid should have been searched. As to Miss Ballingal, that lady, I will take upon me to say, will cheerfully lay hers open to your inspection." I heard no more that I could understand. A confused sound of men's voices, and of their feet passing and repassing, fell on my ear, and stifled screams of a female mixed at times with them, and died away into hollow moans. I do not know what time elapsed; but I found myself in my own apartment alone. I tried to lift myself up and look around. My trunks were open; the place where the jewels had been was ransacked; the jewels themselves were gone. I went to the door, and tried to open it; but it was locked, and the rough voice of a man answered by requesting me to remain quiet. It was not the voice of Augustus or of George Ball. I had never heard it before. Presently the door was opened with a loud noise, and three men entered. They threw a shawl over me, and placed on my head my bonnet, which was lying near me; for they said that I was unable to do these offices for myself. They took hold of my arms, and proceeded to direct me outwards. I passed through the room where we had been breakfasting. Mrs Merling sat in one corner, with a handkerchief over her face, and loud sobs burst from her. Augustus had buried his face in his hands, and I heard heavy groans forcing themselves from his convulsed bosom, in spite of all his efforts to restrain them. They never looked at me. A feeble cry of "Augustus!" came involuntarily from me as I was hurried forward, and I could see his hand waving as if he disowned me in sorrow. In a few minutes more, I was lodged in a prison. The cell to which I was consigned was dark and loathsome, as all Scotch jails then were, and as many of them still are. A small grating looked out into a yard, where sick debtors were allowed space to walk. A small stream of light came in at this aperture, and exhibited to me all the horrors of my place of confinement--the pallet of straw, a broken chair, and fragments of iron chains, which had been used for the purpose of binding felons. I cannot describe what I felt, as my eye glanced, in the dim light of the cell, over these articles; yet they added nothing to my pain. I may even say with truth, that they had rather the power of diminishing it--the lowest condition of despair sometimes drawing from an additional evil a species of frozen insensibility, which is felt as a relief. For two or three days I scarcely moved; my meat lay by the side of my pallet, and I saw crowds of hungry rats come and eat of it--fighting with each other over the vessel, and turning, at times, and looking at me, apparently without terror. The sight of these creatures at one time would have made me fly and scream, from an involuntary fear of them, to which I had all my life been subject; but I now sat and looked at them with apathy, though they approached so near to me that I could have seized them with my extended hand. This fit of inanity gradually wore off; but it was succeeded by a condition a thousand times more fearful; for, as if the restrained blood had obeyed some impulse of reacting nature, my veins began to beat violently, my temples throbbed, and the thoughts that had been frozen or fixed in one gloomy direction began to career violently--touching all subjects in their progress; retracing every painful circumstance of my lot; contrasting my former happiness with my present misery; foreshadowing my trial, my condemnation, my execution or banishment; and then, again, mixing up a thousand images, leaving me in a state of wild confusion, incapable of distinguishing one thing from another. This was the beginning of a fever. I was insensible for many days--had been bled and blistered--despaired of--and recovered from the brink of death, to meet a fate a thousand times more dreadful. My trial, as I understood, was put off until I should be in a condition to be able to sit upright in the dock. When I became able to speak, I was waited on by a man of the law. I knew not who sent him, but suspected that he came at the bidding of Augustus, who probably thought I might yet be brought off. I told the man the truth; and requested him to ascertain whether my aunt was in her senses when she made the declaration on her death-bed. He answered, that he had already made inquiries on that subject, but that none of the witnesses would admit that she was otherwise than sane; and the circumstance of her having been on her death-bed militated against me. He seemed to pity me, but held out no hope. I asked to have one meeting with Augustus, but knew not whether my message reached him. He never came; and I had no relatives to take a part for me in my defence. The day of trial came; and I was removed in a carriage to the justice-hall, and placed at the bar. No one could have known me. I was the mere ghost of what I was; and would have fallen from my seat, had I not been supported by two officers who sat by my side. I answered the judge's question of guilty or not guilty without rising, according to custom; and the words were no sooner out of my mouth, than I fainted. When I recovered, the trial had begun. The sound of the witnesses' voices seemed to come to me through some other medium than the ear; for, though seemingly unconscious, I yet heard. Mrs Ball appeared, and swore to the statement of Mrs Greville. The maid-servant identified the jewels. Augustus Merling was put into the witness-box. He spoke the truth--what he had heard my aunt declare. His mother was also there, and she spoke the truth--what she had heard my aunt declare. What availed my story against such evidence? What jury could hesitate on a point so clear? I was condemned, and sentenced to transportation beyond seas for seven years; but my sentence was commuted for a year's imprisonment. How I bore that--where I have lived since my release--under what name, what privations, what agency, what madness--is it necessary for me to say? Twenty years have passed; and I am still a living, sensitive being. I have seen the children of Anne Ball and Augustus Merling, and I have also seen their parents, though they knew me not. O God! when shall I be relieved? Such is the narrative of Miss Ballingal. I have no reason to think she was ever righted. I saw her die. I believe in the expression of an eye fixed on a world of spirits. I have also often seen a smile of triumph as the soul fluttered to depart. THE WARNING. Among the inhabitants of Blackenburn, which was once the scene of some incidents in the following story, Nanny Ferly was perhaps the most extraordinary. If man, woman, or child had caught a cold of a week's standing, she never failed to discover a strong similarity between their case and the case of some one else who had died of consumption. Whether the complaint were toothache, or headache, or heartache, she seemed always certain that the symptoms were fatal; though sometimes she rather left people to infer the truth from certain significant hints which she gave them, than told it plain out. Upon these occasions, she would shake her head, turn up her eyes, groan audibly, and say, "Ay, ay, a fever often begins that way; and I've kenned mony a ane carried to their end by a sma' beginning." She believed as firmly in the existence of ghosts, wraiths, warnings before death, and, in short, all sorts of supernatural agency, as she believed in the truth of her Bible; and in these, along with her talk of "illnesses," "deaths," and "burials" (births and baptisms were not among her favourite subjects), she found the means of satisfying the craving of a morbid appetite for excitement, which she possessed in an eminent degree. In the house which stood next to Nanny's lived Nelly Jackson, who was rather a shrewd, thinking woman, and in some respects the very antithesis of the former. She had brought her husband four children, most of whom were grown up. They had, however, upon several occasions, been seriously indisposed; but their mother, who already knew Nanny's propensity for peopling the other world, and who, with a creditable degree of penetration, guessed the effect which the ominous shake of her head, and her usual "ay, ay," were likely to have upon the mind of a distressed person, carefully prevented her from getting to their presence while they were ill; and though Nanny did not fail to foretell their fate, in her usual significant way, among her other neighbours, by some mistake they all recovered. Nanny accounted herself not only neglected but insulted, by not being allowed to exercise her benevolence in visiting the sick at all seasons; Nelly, on the other hand, having seen her predictions falsified in the case of her own children, began to doubt that neither her foresight nor her piety were superior to those of others; she even ventured to speak rather slightingly of both, affirming that "nothing gave Nanny greater pleasure than to see her neighbours dying;" which speeches were borne to the ears of Nanny; and thus, though they neither came to fistycuffs nor high words, there was little love between them. Next to Nelly, on the other side, lived Margaret M'Kenzie, her husband, and a daughter, whose name was Mary. Margaret was an honest, industrious, and, in most respects, a sensible woman; but, from the circumstance of having been accustomed to listen to it for a length of time, her neighbour Nanny's belief in the preternatural had acquired a considerable ascendency in her mind, and often influenced her thoughts; so that she might be regarded as a sort of medium between the two characters already described. She had born to her husband a son and a daughter; the former of whom had learned a trade and left them: but Mary, who when young was rather a delicate girl, had always been kept at home. To accommodate and keep her as comfortable as possible, a small apartment, with a chimney and a back window, had been fitted up in the _ben end_ of the house; and in this little sanctum, besides assisting her mother with the household concerns, she had earned her own subsistence with her needle for several years. Her constitution, of late, however, had greatly improved; and at nineteen--the time at which our story commences--she was a healthy, handsome, and, upon the whole, rather a good-looking young woman. From the days of their childhood, a close intimacy had subsisted between her and Jenny Jackson, who had been her playmate and confidant from the earliest period of her recollection. But somewhat more than a year previous to the time here referred to, Jenny had arrived at that age when it is common for parents in a certain station to send their daughters to "service out amang the farmers round," as Burns has phrased it, that they "may learn something of the world." This, at least, is almost always assigned as a general reason for such a step, and almost as often taken for granted. There are, however, several adjuncts, which nobody ever thinks of mentioning, and sundry little motives of a private or personal nature, which are not without their influence in determining both the parents and the girls themselves upon the propriety of going abroad. In the first place, when a young woman comes to be married--and most of them have a sort of presentiment that, at one time or other, they will have the _misfortune_ to be so--she is always expected to provide, or bring along with her, a certain share of the furnishing of a house. Her share having been fixed by a sort of conventional laws, there is no escaping from it: at least there can be but little prospect of an honourable settlement in life without it--the other sex having, in general, enough to do with their own part of the concern, and being by no means more disinterested than the "true love" ballad-makers have represented them. To enable her to make this provision, the parents of a portionless lass can seldom do more than lend her some little assistance in the way of advice and management, leaving her to procure the wherewithal, or, in other words, the money with which the furnishing of houses, and everything else, must be purchased by her own industry. Thus left, service in the country, and some regular occupation, such as the art of weaving in the towns, are the only alternatives; and to one or other of these she must early devote her attention, if she intends to be in the field of matrimony within a reasonable time. To those who are acquainted with the tactics of the tender passion, it is, moreover, known that a bashful lover seldom cares for seeking the society of his fair one in the presence of her parents, while the fair one herself as seldom cares for being seen in the society of a lover by these relations. In such matters, a great deal of deceit, or, to speak more properly, of concealment, must be practised. There is a luxury in keeping all those delightful feelings, hopes, fears, fancies, and follies to one's-self; more than half the excitement of the thing, and consequently more than half its pleasure, would be destroyed if the secret were too soon divulged; and for some such reason, perhaps, your enamoured swain fears the eye of a mother, as being an interested party, and likely to be quick-sighted, more than that of any other human being. Whatever be the cause, the effect which it produces seems to be tolerably well understood by a very great majority of marriageable young women; and out of pity, as it would appear, for the failings of the other sex in general, and those of bashful young men in particular, they are sometimes willing to afford wooers an opportunity of seeing them in a less embarrassing situation. Influenced by one or other, or both or neither of these reasons, motives, or whatever the reader chooses to call them, Jenny Jackson, with her mother's consent, engaged herself as a servant at a place called Heatherinch; and after having been nearly three quarters of a year in her place, she represented the advantages of "going to service" in so favourable a light, that her young friend, Mary M'Kenzie, felt inclined to listen to any proposal which might give her a chance of similar advantages. Such a proposal was not long awanting; for it appeared that Jenny really had a situation in her eye, and that her previous discourse had been intended to prepare her friend for accepting it. Shortly thereafter, Mary was accordingly engaged to go at the ensuing Martinmas in the capacity of a servant girl to Cairnybraes, which was a farm lying at the distance of only a mile or so from Heatherinch; and she promised herself a whole world of satisfaction in being again so near her friend. Here the reader will, no doubt, be inclined to think that Jenny was perfectly disinterested in these matters, and that she could have no motive for doing as she had done, except a wish to promote Mary's happiness. But, alas! how much of disinterestedness, charity, benevolence, and even piety itself, would disappear, if we could only apply the science of chemistry to the heart! Neither acids nor alkalis, however, can be brought to act upon it; and as for the crucible, the copple, and the fusing-pot, they are out of the question, so that a chemical analysis is not to be expected; and in the absence of such tests, we can only judge of causes from effects; or, in other words, we must judge of the heart from actions and appearances. Be it known then, that, within the first half-year of Jenny's service, two young men, who were also servants on the farm, had taken it into their heads to manifest rather more than an ordinary attachment to her. This she told not; but people do not expect to be told of such matters, and in the present instance they ascertained, or rather guessed, the truth, without any evidence from her. Their names were Andrew Angus and James Duff. Like herself, they were both engaged to remain for another year; and though Jenny might have managed their attentions and their addresses without much trouble, had they been only lodged at a tolerable distance, she found it rather distressing to have them constantly so near her. In this emergency, it occurred to her that it were better to have one of them "taken off her hand;" for the performance of this feat, her friend, Mary M'Kenzie, was the most likely individual she could think of; and for Mary's future lover Andrew was set apart. At the appointed time, Mary came to reside at Cairnybraes; but, as seeds cannot vegetate unless they are put into the ground, so neither can young people acquire an affection for each other unless they are brought together. Jenny could not muster courage enough to tell Andrew to "go and see Mary;" she did not like to bid Mary "come and see him;" and, therefore, she had recourse to manoeuvring. The host of the Gazling Inn, on considering the case of his humble brethren, and the few opportunities they had of enjoying themselves, had agreed to give a New-year's entertainment to as many of them as could afford to pay half-a-crown. According to the advertisement on this occasion put forth, the said brethren, for their half-crowns, were to have the privilege of bringing an equal number of _sistren_ along with them. It was farther stipulated, that they should have a sufficiency of tea, sugar, bread, and butter set before them, or rather dealt out to them; a man with a fiddle and a fiddlestick was also to be provided, for those who might be inclined to dance; after which, all and sundry were to have as much liquor as they should choose to drink and _pay for_. Such an opportunity was by no means to be neglected, and the only matter of importance which Jenny had now to decide upon was, how she might procure a partner for Mary with whom _she_ was not likely to fall in love. Andrew must be managed cautiously, lest he should become restive, and more stubbornly attached to herself than he had been before. He had no previous acquaintance of Mary, and it were both awkward and indelicate, she argued, to send him off to seek a woman to whom he had not so much as spoken on any former occasion. She, moreover, did not like the idea of _dismissing_ him, which would have been implied in such a proceeding. She therefore deemed it best to bring the _candle to the moth_, as if by accident, and allow him to flutter around it till he was fairly singed. For this purpose, a neighbouring rustic, called Ritchie Drycraig, was selected as one who was likely to perform his part, and, at the same time, leave Mary's heart free to be impressed with the image of another. By a slight exercise of maiden ingenuity, a little coaxing, and some sly hints, Ritchie was induced to set forth on his mission. The expected evening came--the various parties made their appearance--and so far all was right. Burns has told us, that "there is an ending quote. The best-laid schemes o' mice and men Gang aft agley;" and fortunate it were for the world, if mice and men were the only portions of society to whose schemes accident might give a wrong direction; but, alas! there is no perfection on this earth, and the schemes of women miscarry almost as often as those of their neighbours. Contrary to all reasonable expectation, and to everything like rational conduct, Andrew took no notice of Mary, while James Duff seemed to regard her with considerable attention, and "puir drucken Ritchie" appeared to be perfectly bewitched by her presence. With respect to Mary herself, it was easy to see that she was rather pleased than otherwise with those indirect attentions and little notices which, in the course of the evening, she received from the said James Duff; and, notwithstanding his previous attachment to Jenny, it almost appeared that he would have volunteered his service to conduct her home. But vain was every attempt of the kind. Even if the maiden had been willing to accept of such service, from Ritchie there was no possibility of escaping. Mary had little skill in these matters; she could not manage them after the manner of well-bred damsels, and her only alternative was to allow him to carry her off. At first Ritchie was "a' crack thegither;" but scarcely had they got beyond the precincts of the Gazling Inn, when the conversation began to flag, and, after a considerable silence, which his companion had in vain endeavoured to break-- "Mary," said he, prefacing his discourse with sundry hiccups, "I've fa'n in love wi' ye." "Fa' out o't as fast as possible, then," said Mary, attempting to laugh, though she really began to feel alarmed. "Oh, Mary, Mary!" again began the maudlin young man most pathetically to plead. "Oh, Mary, if ye only kenned what a heart I have, and how aften I've lookit at you when I never spake a word, ye wad never bid me do that." "Lookit at _me_," rejoined the other, affecting to be greatly surprised; "and pray what may the price of a _look_ be? If looks are to be made debts, I doubt my little property, which consists only of the claes on my back, will soon fail, and I must become a bankrupt." "Ah, Mary," persevered her undaunted wooer, "ye ken brawly what I mean; but you surely never kenned what it was to be in love, or ye wad never jeer a body that way." "Love, they say, is warm," replied Mary, "and I would rather be _in it_, or in my master's kitchen, or in my bed, or anywhere else, than _out_ in this cauld night; so, if you do not walk faster, I shall be forced to run away and leave you." "My dear Mary," said he of the Drycraig, mending his pace a little, though it was evident he did so with great reluctance--"my dear Mary, I could gang at the gallop, or I could gang like a snail, or I could gang owre a linn and drown mysel, or owre a craig and brak my neck, or speak, or haud my tongue, or do ony other thing on earth, for your sake, if ye would only allow me to love ye, and say ye loved me again." "Weel, I must confess you would do a great deal for me," said Mary, beginning to enjoy his extravagance--teasing as he had become--and scarcely able to refrain from laughing at him; "you would really do a great deal; but take my advice for the present: keep your head above water, and your neck hale as lang as ye can; neither gang owre the linn nor the craig, but the neist time you are in a company, let fewer linns gang owre your _ain_ craig; and, in the meantime, neither speak of love, nor haud your tongue a'thegither, but _gang at the gallop_!--that will please me best; for my mistress must be angry at me for staying out sae late. Or, stop! I might run a race with you for a penny--the loser to pay the stake--and then, I can tell you some other time whether you are to love me or not. Maidens, they say, should aye be mealy-mouthed at first." As she uttered these words, she secretly determined, if possible, never to give him another opportunity of making such a proposition. She also resolved to bear with him for the present, and leave him to learn her real sentiments from her future conduct. A crisis, however, was approaching which she had not foreseen, and for which she was wholly unprepared. Her protector, who had drank rather too liberally at the Gazling Inn, was now beginning to be in such a state that he would have almost required a protector himself. The moment he heard Mary's light-hearted declaration, his emotion seemed to overcome him, he made a dead stand, and exclaimed, in the most piteous accents-- "I canna gang anither fit!" "Foul fa' you and your feet baith," said Mary, forgetting the resolution which she had formed only a minute ago, and nearly losing her good-humour at the same time. "I tell ye," she continued, "that I should been hame lang syne, and d'ye think that I can bide here the hale night to hear you haver nonsense." "O Mary, Mary!" rejoined the man of exclamations, "this sets the crown on a' my misfortunes, and I'll never do mair guid. Twice owre this same night I saw you looking at Jamie Duff: ye love him, and no me. O Mary, Mary, Mary!" and therewith he threw himself down upon the earth, or rather in a puddle of dirty water by the road-side, at full length, and began to weep and groan, in great tribulation. When his inarticulate wailings would permit, he again muttered half sentences about walking over the linn or the craig, and he even threw out hints of an intention to leave the world in that most ungentlemanly manner in which the law sometimes disposes of very dissolute characters. As the liquor with which he had been drenching his system had no doubt heightened the effects of his sensibility, his sensibility now heightened the effects of the liquor; and between them he was soon in a sad state of mental as well as bodily distemperature. Mary, who had little experience in these matters, would have readily given all the worlds which all the Alexanders and Cæsars on earth ever conquered, had she been mistress of them, for some one to assist her in conducting him to any house where he might find shelter for the night, or perhaps, as she thought, a bed on which he might breathe his last. Fortunately for her, she soon heard the noise of footsteps approaching; and, in a few minutes more, she had the satisfaction of seeing, or rather hearing, James Duff, with his convoy, which was not a merchantman, but a marriageable woman, bear down upon her. James had been left in quiet possession of Jenny Jackson, in consequence of Andrew--who was certainly the most enamoured lover--having got rather fuddled; from which circumstance he had been left at the inn to sleep off his debauch; and, though the hands of the former were already full, he did not appear offended, nor even greatly distressed, at the accident which gave him an opportunity of again meeting Mary. He immediately lifted the fallen man from the ground, on which he was still lying in a half-senseless state, and, with the assistance of the two maidens, who, in this instance, lent their aid, "nothing loth," conducted him to the nearest house, where they left him to recover from his drench. Mary was now for running home as fast as possible, but the gallantry of her new acquaintance would not permit him to think of allowing her to go alone; he therefore proposed that she should go with them to Heatherinch, which was but a short way out of her road, and, after seeing Jenny safely lodged, he would accompany her at least a part of her journey. To this proposal Jenny was far from giving a hearty sanction, but the other seemed determined for once to take his own way. She had her own reasons for wishing not to thwart him openly, and, after some trifling demurs, she acquiesced. James, accordingly, escorted Mary as far as her master's barn-yard, which was certainly the most considerable part of her journey; and here, notwithstanding the lateness, or rather earliness of the hour, and her previous hurry to get home, they spent they knew not how long on the leeward side of a _strae stack_, conversing on various subjects, which to them, and to the whole world, might have been deemed of very little importance; and, though neither of them spoke one word of love, or made the slightest allusion to that interesting subject, it was almost morning before they thought of separating. The night adventure, thus happily got over, produced no bad consequences; but it was not long before Mary was again threatened with the addresses of Ritchie Drycraig. To these, however, she had sagely determined not to listen, if she could by any possibility do otherwise; and when, according to the established rules of society, he presented himself at her bedroom window between the hours of ten and twelve P.M., making his presence known by a gentle rap upon the glass and a low whistle, she was under the necessity of feigning sickness oftener than once to get quit of him. But this, as it afforded her an excuse for not seeing him, so it gave him a pretext for returning to inquire after her health; and to avoid him, in a short time, it would have become absolutely necessary for her to lie constantly in bed. This would not do, and a new expedient was tried. Next time he made his appearance, the new moon gave a faint and uncertain light, which seemed to suit her purpose very well; and from the half-opened window she whispered in his ear a terrifying tale of a ghost, which had been lately seen walking under the shelter of a hedge immediately in front of the house. She pointed out the very bush from which it had emerged; and just as she concluded, the obedient ghost made its appearance, wrapped up in as much white drapery as the wardrobe of any ordinary ghost could be supposed to contain. But the terrified lover, instead of taking to his heels, as the damsel had expected, thrust his head and shoulders in at the window, which she had raised a little for the purpose of speaking to him; and the next moment he stood bolt upright in the room beside her. This was mending matters with a vengeance. The very plan which she had adopted to drive him from the _outside_ of the house, had driven him to the _inside_ of it; and, what was worse, she was left with him alone. From the odour of his breath, it was evident that he did not lack inspiration; and finding himself snugly housed, with the "maid of his heart" beside him, notwithstanding the terrors of the ghost, he was beginning to talk of love; and had it not been for the other servant girl, who came in shortly after, it is probable he might have reached the "linns" and the "craigs," as he had done on a former occasion, before he had thought of stopping. She, however, assured him that she had heard her master stirring above-stairs--which, by the by, is always a formidable announcement to an enamoured swain--and warned him to make what haste he could in getting home. But this information, though it increased his perplexity to an immeasurable extent, and effectually silenced him upon the former subject, gave him neither strength nor courage to face an inhabitant of the other world alone, and at the ominous hour of midnight. Judging that it were better to fight within walls than without them, whether the enemies were spiritual or temporal, he continued to keep his position; nor was it till the other servant girl had persuaded one of the young men who slept in the house, and who was supposed to set some value on her own good opinion, to leave his bed, and promise to conduct Ritchie beyond the haunted neighbourhood, that he could be prevailed upon to depart. The hiring time at last came round; the whole of the servants on Cairnybraes were engaged for another year, and Mary's master and mistress were anxious that she should remain also. They had every reason to be satisfied with her integrity, industry, and general good conduct; and when she did not readily accept of their terms, they even went so far as to offer her a slight advance of wages, but to no purpose. Application was next made to her father and mother, in the expectation that they might succeed in persuading her to remain where she was. They readily consented to use their influence, never dreaming that she would reject any request which they might proffer; but, for the first time in their lives, they had the mortification of seeing their wishes disregarded. For no persuasion, and upon no condition, could she be prevailed on to engage for another year; and, what was still more strange, she would assign no reason for leaving her place. Her unaccountable humour in this respect gave rise to a number of conjectures as to its cause, of which one or two may be noticed in passing. Some people said that the ghost had scared her as well as Ritchie Drycraig; others supposed that she must have a "lad" about the bleachfield, who found it inconvenient to come so far to see her; but the most general opinion was, that she wished to bring either the foresaid Ritchie, or James Duff, both of whom were regarded as a sort of _danglers_, or distant admirers, to an explanation. Here be it remarked, that this is a subject upon which young women in general can only endure silence with any degree of patience for a limited time. Some, as a matter of course, will hold out for a longer and some for a shorter season, just as their natural temper may chance to be ardent or otherwise. But, assuredly, the patience of the most plodding maiden on earth, if her heart should happen to be infected with the tender passion, will come to an end; and then, neither man, woman, young, old, or middle-aged, can tell what measures she may adopt, or what agency she may employ to bring forth the important secret. Some novelist or other has said--in spleen it would almost appear--"that in the higher circles there is a regular system of managing these matters--that the whole had been reduced to a science; and that an initiated damsel understands how to play her part in the important concern of getting a husband nearly as well as she understands a game at cards!" This, if true, must be an immense acquisition to young ladies; but, as the "schoolmaster" has not yet been so far "abroad" as to bring the discovery down to the country girl and the village maiden, these are wholly left to their own shifts--and shifts, at times, they must try. But, as to these, the present writer would be almost wholly ignorant, were it not for certain of the sex themselves, whom he has heard declare that a quarrel about something or nothing is one of their most natural expedients, and, as such, is frequently resorted to with good effect. Next in order, according to the above-mentioned authorities, is a _flitting_ or separation, which is to last for a length of time: such a step seems to throw the parties concerned at once upon their beam-ends; and before they can trim their ballast again, the secret may chance to "spunk out." Thus there was, at least, a show of reason in some of the conjectures just alluded to. But after having noticed these things, that the reader may judge of their probabilities and improbabilities for himself, to keep up the dignity and the veracity of history, he must now be told the truth. By this time, Mary was completely tired of the tricks and shifts by which she had endeavoured to evade the persevering _Ritchie_, who, whenever his _dry-craig_ was moistened with the _water of life_, or any other strong water, was certain to pester her with his visits and importunities. She also considered it highly dishonourable in herself to encourage any feelings in James Duff which might have a tendency to seduce him from his allegiance to another; and, to be free from these annoyances and temptations, with which she knew not how to contend, she honourably and resolutely determined to return home. At the Martinmas term Mary accordingly took up her abode again with her parents at Blackenburn. The day on which she returned was wet and stormy, and she caught a cold, which kept her rather indisposed for three weeks. The most fearful in such cases, however, could have seen no reason for apprehending the slightest danger, till Sabbath morning ushered in the fourth week. But, on this particular morning, though Mary felt much better, her mother appeared uncommonly thoughtful, or rather seriously alarmed. From her husband and daughter, however, she endeavoured to conceal her perturbation as much as possible, and as soon as her neighbour's door was opened, she went to inquire for Mrs Jackson. "How are ye this morning?" said she, as she entered. "No that ill!" was the reply. "How are ye yoursel?" "I may be thankfu, I've no reason to complain!" said the other, in a tone which was in itself a complaint. "Dear me, Margate," rejoined Nelly, "what's wrang? I have not seen ye look so ill for many a day, as ye do this precious morning. Something is distressing ye, I doubt." "May the Lord have mercy upon me and mine!" ejaculated Margaret, wiping away a tear as she spoke; "but, saving His holy will, I fear I have _owre_ guid reason to be distressed." "Sorry am I to hear that!" responded Nelly, catching almost unintentionally the low impressive tone of her neighbour. "But what is't, woman, if I may speer?" This was exactly what Margaret wanted, to enable her to unburden her mind; and she now proceeded to tell the cause of her distress. Some time about midnight, or it might be toward morning, she could not be certain which, she had been awakened from her sleep, by what she described as "a sharp rap upon the window, followed by a lang laigh sough, like the wind whistling in a toom house." She rose stealthily from her bed, to ascertain, if possible, the cause of these unwonted noises, and, while she stood irresolute in the middle of the floor, she heard a low, husky, indistinct voice, which, she said, "resembled that of a dying man," pronounce the word _Mary_. "At hearing that voice," she continued, "every hair on my head stood on end, and my very flesh shook as if it would have fa'n from my banes; but a mother's affection for her ain bairn, and my anxiety anent Mary's distress, made me desperate; and, to be satisfied whether it was onything earthly which had uttered that word, I opened the door, and there I saw her wraith standing at the window as clear as ever I saw hersel!--Oh sirs! oh sirs! That sight gars my flesh a' creep whenever I think on't! It was a' dressed in white except the head, and that was as black as our Mary's, and it's black aneugh, ye ken. It was just about her size, too, as nearly as I could guess; but as soon as it saw me it glided round by the end of the house, without moving foot or hand, and was out of sight in an instant. And now, let a' the doctors, and a' the neighbours on earth say what they will, I believe that my Mary, poor thing, is fa'en into a decline, and that this was naething but a _warning_!--Wo's me!--wo's me!" "Hout, woman!" said Nelly, who had listened to this mournful recapitulation, not without some indications of doubt as to its authenticity--"hout, woman; yesterday was _pay-day_, as they ca't, among the bleachers, and I'll warrant the wraith was just some scamp frae the bleachfield, wha had gotten himself half-fou, and wanted to get a while's daffin wi' the lassie, Sabbath morning though it was." "O Nelly, Nelly!" rejoined the other, "I wonder to hear ye speak at that rate, after what happened in Nanny Ferly's last summer!" Finding that she was not likely to meet with much sympathy here, Margaret left the house rather abruptly. But her mind was in a state of perturbation which forbade her to rest, and she hastened forthwith to Nanny Ferry, her next neighbour, to whom she told the same story, word for word, and had the satisfaction--if satisfaction it can be called--of seeing every circumstance listened to with the deepest attention, and every syllable believed as readily as if it had been part of a sermon. "Ay, ay, Margate," said her auditor, when she had heard the story to an end, "it's a warning, shure aneugh; and that will be seen before lang; for I never kenned a warning fail. I'll mind that nicht as lang as I live, when the warning came for my sister's dochter, Lizzy Lawmont; and weel I wat she was as dear to me as if she had been my ain bairn--though I've aye been spared the fashery o' bairns. Aweel, the doctor said she was greatly better; and sae, as I was complainin at the time, she was taen ben the house, to let me get some rest; and Lizzy Duncan--glaikit hizzy! as she has turned oot--cam to sit up for the nicht. The doors were baith steekit, and the lamp was blawn out in the expectation that she would fa' asleep, and I was lying waukin, with the _worm in my lug_, when I hears a rap at the windock, just as ye heard it, and something said _Lizzy_, as laigh and as plain as I'm saying it enoo. Aweel, I startit up, expecting to find the dear lassie a corpse, but it was some time before I could gang ben to see; and when I did gang ben, I found her waukening frae a sleep; and Lizzy Duncan said she had sleepit mair than twa hours. But, from that minute, I kenned brawly what was to happen, and from that minute she grew waur and waur, till the neist nicht about ten o'clock, when the speerit left her weel-faured clay to the worms. Sae, Margate, never build yoursel up in Nelly's nonsense about _lads_; she's a puir haverin body; and, as shure as the sun rises and sets, your Mary is gaun fast from this world, e'en as my Lizzy gaed before her." The poor mother was affected to tears by these lugubrious observations. The propriety of apprising Mary of her approaching fate was next adverted to by Nanny. Margaret did not adopt her views of the matter at first; but when the culpability of allowing her daughter to indulge in the vanities of the world, when so near her end, was represented to her, she gave her consent, with a flood of tears; and, after making some arrangements for communicating the necessary information, they parted. The day, for one in the middle of winter, appeared to be uncommonly inviting, and Mary, who now fancied herself quite well, proposed going to church. To this proposal she expected a number of objections from her mother, but she was rather agreeably disappointed, for Margaret only observed, in an unusually solemn tone, that "folk should gang to the kirk as lang as they were able," and she accordingly went. When the congregation was dismissed, the air was almost as mild as if it had been summer; the sun shone faintly but cheerfully upon the faded scene, giving an unwonted appearance of warmth to the southern slopes and sunny side of the hedges. Some feathery songsters were still warbling their "wilde notes" from the leafless trees, and, on her way home, Mary felt her spirits cheered, and her whole frame invigorated, by the fresh air and the universal calm. The scene, the season, and the sacred day, alike seemed to "woo the heart to meditation;" and she was proceeding a short way in advance of the other worshippers, doubtless wrapped in some reverie, when her thoughts, whatever they might be, were dissipated by Nanny Ferly, who, puffing and panting from the effects of rapid travelling, now came up and addressed her from behind. "That's a braw gown ye have on the day, Mary," were her first words, uttered in a tone of more than sepulchral solemnity. "Nae brawer than ordinary," was Mary's reply. This did not appear to be exactly the answer which had been anticipated, and Nanny--who, like other far-sighted individuals, had no doubt calculated the chances of the conversation, and provided herself with sentiments suitable to the occasion--seemed to feel rather _out_. She soon recovered, however, and adjusting her sails to the wind, proceeded upon a new tack. "I was just thinking, as I came up behint you," she went on, "what vain and frail creatures we a' are! We labour to deck out our bodies in dainty claes, and to appear strong and healthful, and engaging in the eyes of others, when we should be thinking of our winding-sheets and our coffins, and meditating on the worms which are shortly to prey upon us in darkness. And maybe at the very time when we are bestowing the greatest care upon thae worldly vanities, death may be hovering owre us, with his hand stretched out to smite, and giving us _warning_ to prepare for our last gasp, and that sma' house which is theekit wi' the lang grass o' the kirkyard." "A' that may be true," rejoined Mary; "but what, if I may speir, has gi'en sic a kirkyard turn to your conversation the day? I am better now, I assure you, and I hope you dinna think that, because I had the cauld aught days since, and because I have on a new gown the day, I maun die neist week." "That's just the way with foolish young creatures in general, and you amang the lave," resumed her companion, waxing yet more solemn in her tone and manner of speaking. "They aye keep the day of distress and of death far away from themselves: but death stays not his dart for their folly, and the messenger will come at his time, whether they will think of his coming, or whether they will keep their thoughts fixed upon worldly vanity." "What _is_ the meaning of all this?" said Mary, who now began to feel somewhat alarmed. "Has anybody persuaded you that I am really dying, or that I am not as likely to live as others of my age, because I have had a slight cold, from which I am now perfectly recovered? Tell me at once for I can endure your mysterious hints no longer." "Then I must tell you the truth," said Nanny, whose voice had now reached the uttermost pitch of solemnity which it could compass--"I must tell you the truth, though I had meant to prepare you, but in part, for what is before you. And think not lightly of it, I beseech you, for it is indeed a terrible thing to go down to the grave in the bloom of youth, and to be a feast for _snails_ and worms, when we are promising ourselves many days of worldly enjoyment. But, as I said, I maun e'en tell you the truth, as I telled my ain dear Lizzy Lawmont, when she was on her death-bed; and weel it was that I did tell her without delay; for, from that minute, puir Lizzy postit to her grave." Here she went over the whole story of the _warning_, with such additions, emendations, and exaggeration, as were necessary to give it its full effect. In this department of literary science she displayed a power of contrivance and an ingenuity which might have done honour to a professed _story-teller_. But in the present instance her art seemed to be almost thrown away; for, after she had given the finishing touch to the picture--and she did it with a master-hand-- "Is that a'?" said Mary, with a smile, which showed that her heart was greatly, if not wholly relieved--"is that a'?" she repeated, in a tone which made her fellow-traveller turn her eyes to heaven with a feeling of pious indignation. "Ay, that's a'," rejoined Nanny, with a degree of pique in her manner which she could not conceal; "and little effect it _a'_ seems to hae upon you! But I maun go and spier for auld John Gavel, wha has been sair distressed for mair than a fortnight; and sae, guid-day." As she spoke the last word, she left Mary to pursue her journey alone, and turned down another road, with the friendly intention, no doubt, of persuading Mr Gavel that he was beyond all hope of recovery. Wonderful as it may seem, after what had happened, Mary continued to enjoy good health, and what was still more unaccountable, excellent spirits, for a whole fortnight. Without making any direct allusion to the _warning_, from which she evidently wished to keep at as great a distance as possible, she did everything in her power to dissipate her mother's apprehensions on that subject; but at the end of this period, the fears of the latter were again awakened in all their force, and as soon as the neighbours were astir, she again hastened to lay the burden of her distress before Nanny Ferly. "O Nanny, Nanny!" said she, wringing her hands, as she entered the domicile, "sic a night as I've passed? If the Lord should give me strength to endure, I must not complain; but, I fear, if thae awfu things continue to happen about our house, I'll no stand it lang, or if I do stand it, I'll surely lose my reason." "What have you seen or heard?" inquired Nanny, eagerly, as soon as she could get in a word. "I've heard as muckle as micht drive a mither oot o' her senses," was the reply; "and it has driven rest frae my bed, and ilka Sabbath-day's thocht out o' my head. But, to tell ye what it was:--Some time after midnight, I heard the very same sharp rap at the window that I heard yesternight was a fortnight; and, as I've never sleepit sound since that awfu nicht, I started up, and listened. Aweel, after awhile, the rap was repeated, but naething spake; and then I heard a deep, low sound upon the window-frame, which I could compare to naething save the noise of bringing in an empty coffin; and then Nelly Jackson's dog gae a bark, and I heard nae mair. I was aye trying to convince mysel that it micht be only a trick the first time, and this conviction gathered strength when I saw the lassie keep her health frae day to day; but I doubt, I doubt, something _is_ gaun to happen now!" "Ay, ay!" was Nanny's response; and as she spoke her voice assumed its gravest tone; "it's owre like something _will_ happen, and that before it's lang. Puir John Gavel's wife heard a soughing i' the lum twa nichts afore he died; and I telled baith her and him what wad happen, and happen it did, sure aneugh." Unquestionable as these warnings had been considered, their fulfilment, to Nanny's great discomfiture, did not follow so speedily as had been expected. The new-year season again came round, without anything extraordinary having happened; and with it came Jenny Jackson's wedding. Jenny's scheme, like the "schemes" of the before-mentioned "mice and men," had entirely failed. With a degree of vanity which may be easily pardoned, she had been led to suppose that James Duff was really attached to her, while he, in reality, only bestowed some attention upon her for the purpose of _plaguing_ Andrew, and to amuse himself when he had nothing else to do; but, from the evening on which he first saw Mary M'Kenzie, he had become less and less assiduous in these attentions, till, in the end, she began to grow fearful of "losing the market" altogether, and was glad to accept an offer of marriage from Andrew, almost as soon as it was made. But, though the said James, in country phrase, had _drawn back_, he had carefully avoided everything like a quarrel; and, as they had been fellow-servants, and had, moreover, been upon the most friendly terms up to the very day on which they parted, he was invited to the wedding. Passing over the ceremony, and all that concerned it, Mary Mackenzie was also among the wedding guests, and she did not appear to be forgotten by James Duff; for he embraced the first opportunity which presented itself of renewing their old acquaintance, by placing himself beside her. Upon this occasion, she appeared to receive him with more open frankness than she had ever done before, while he appeared highly gratified with the change of sentiment which she now manifested towards him. For a time, they carried on a sort of exclusive conversation, in very low and confidential tones; and, when Mary afterwards complained that she felt uncomfortably warm, from the number of people congregated in the small room, James proposed to take a walk in the open air. This proposal was readily agreed to; and, the evening being calm and still, though dark and cloudy, they sauntered for some distance along the road, in the direction which led out of the village. James did not seem to suppose that any one would expect their return; he seemed to have forgotten everything except his companion; and he would have wandered on, neglectful alike of the distance from home and the lapse of time, had not Mary ventured to remind him of the possibility of their being missed from the company, if they should prolong their walk, and hinted the propriety of immediately returning. This hint--gentle in itself, and sounded, or rather whispered in his ear, by a voice the very gentlest imaginable--nevertheless, seemed to strike him as something wholly unexpected; and, while they turned to retrace their steps, he appeared rather at a loss what to say. The truth was, he had been thinking for some time past of introducing a subject in which he felt he was deeply interested; but, as he had never in his life before had occasion to introduce such a subject to the notice of a woman, he knew not how to begin, and hence his inattention to the matter of miles and furlongs, and the length of their walk. Fearing, however, that another opportunity equally favourable might not soon occur, or perhaps he might be influenced by the idea that some one more favourably situated might supersede him--it matters little which--at length he did make out to declare his affection; with what tones, or in what words, has not been recorded. The days, at this season of the year, being nearly at the shortest, and the nights at the longest, the evening's festivity was early begun, and the bridal merriment had lasted at least five hours before ten o'clock. By this time, James Duff, who had a number of miles to travel before he could reach his master's farm, and who, moreover, had to attend his work next day, began to think of taking his departure. But, while the mirth and festivity had been proceeding within, the weather had been getting gradually more and more stormy without. For the last half-hour, the wind had been howling furiously and loud around the house; the few stars which were visible "sent down a sklintin light;" the clouds, previously accumulated, had begun to career overhead; and, at the time spoken of, a blinding fall of snow came on. James, however, would have proceeded on his journey; but Mary, as soon as she saw the state of the weather, insisted on the propriety, or rather necessity, of his stopping till morning. With her wishes in this respect he declared himself ready to comply, if she could only find some place of shelter where they might pass what remained of the night, and promise to keep him company. But with this she was not to be satisfied. Though he seemed to set little value on his health, she said that she could not consent to see him wilfully throwing it away. The night was now piercing cold; and as he must be fatigued with his previous journey, and would have to work hard next day, she insisted on being allowed to provide him with a bed. Beds, however, were not easy to be found in the neighbourhood--there being in most of the houses no more accommodation than what was necessary for the families they contained; but the ingenuity of woman, when really and fairly set to work, is seldom baffled. She soon recollected a female acquaintance who slept alone; and, by taking up her quarters with this individual, her own bed would be left for the reception of him for whose comfort she now seemed to consider it her duty to provide. This arrangement completed, she conducted him to her mother's, where no opposition was offered to her scheme; and, after placing a light for him in her own little room, and bidding him an affectionate good-night, she left him to his repose, which, as the sequel will show, was not destined to be unbroken. Both pleased and excited by the occurrences of the evening, the blood coursed his veins too rapidly to admit of sleep for a time. He had, however, closed his eyes, and a dream had begun to operate upon his imagination. It was a dream of a house which he could call his own, a clean hearth, and a cheerful fire, with himself snugly seated in an arm-chair on one side of it, and Mary sitting on the other, knitting a stocking; and, ever as he addressed her, bending on him a pair of smiling eyes. Alas! what is the happiness of man, in most instances, save a dream--sometimes a waking one, sometimes a sleeping one--but seldom real! From this pleasing illusion he was awakened by a noise at the window; and the house, clean hearth, cheerful fire, arm-chair, along with Mary and her stocking, at once disappeared in darkness. He heard her name repeated in a low whisper; and, after a considerable pause, the noise increased. Upon this occasion, it appeared to be something worse than an ordinary _warning_--bad as that might be--for it continued. At first jealousy took possession of his heart. "Could it be possible that Mary was making a dupe of him, while she really preferred another? And could it be that _other_ who was now making a noise for the purpose of awakening her?" These were questions which, in his first surprise, he naturally put to himself, without being exactly able to answer them. Something more serious, however, than the awakening of young women seemed to be in the wind, and his next thought was of robbers. This idea, upon farther consideration, he was also forced to reject; for he had remarked that, except the bed upon which he was lying, a table, a small mirror, and some trifling articles of female attire, there was neither chest, chest of drawers, nor anything else in the apartment which could possibly conceal treasure; and it was not likely that practised robbers would put themselves to much trouble for beds, tables, and six-inch mirrors. Upon these things he had ample time to reflect; for the operations at the window neither appeared to be scientific nor successful. They consisted of a sort of half-cautious rubbing and scratching, which was kept up with little intermission; and at last he felt inclined to think that the whole might be the work of some one who had sat too long at the bottle, and, after being deserted by his companions, had forgotten to go to bed. But, then, unless he were in some way or other connected with Mary, or unless his visits at least had, on some former occasion, been sanctioned by her, what reason could he have for selecting that particular window as the scene of his nocturnal operations? A certain degree of reviving jealousy, mingled with a strong feeling of curiosity, now took full possession of the doubtful lover's mind; and having, to his own astonishment, remained so long silent, he resolved to await the issue without uttering a word. Fortunately he had heard nothing of warnings, and but little of ghosts; the little which he had heard he entirely discredited; and, by attributing the whole directly to _natural_ and not _supernatural_ agency, he felt strengthened to abide by his resolution--a circumstance which could have hardly occurred, had he held, in its full perfection, the doctrine of the _visibility_ of spirits. The noise continued for nearly an hour and a-half; and when it ceased, after something like a gentle wrench bestowed upon the window-frame, he heard a foot cautiously approaching the bed on which he lay; and, by compressing his lips with a desperate effort, and almost stifling his very breath, he suppressed an involuntary inclination to start up, and either place himself in a posture of defence, or give the alarm. In half-a-minute more, he felt a cold, rough, clammy hand pass over his face. A freezing sense of terror, which had nearly converted him from his scepticism with respect to ghosts, shot directly to his heart, and a chill perspiration was bursting from his brow; with the next breath he had probably started to his feet, and attempted to fly; but at that instant he was relieved by hearing a voice with which he was well acquainted, in soft and tremulous accents, pronounce the word _Mary_. That he might be certain as to the identity of the speaker, he waited till he heard the name repeated, and then spoke. "Friend," said he, in a stern voice, "I doubt you seek one who is not here;" and, as he spoke, he made an attempt to grasp the former speaker. But his words, few and commonplace as they were, had produced a more instantaneous effect upon that individual than the most powerful exorcism of a Catholic priest ever produced upon rats, mice, or any other pest of humanity. The moment the first syllable sounded in his ears, he made a hasty retreat; and after the intruder was gone, the little that remained of the night passed without farther disturbance. Mary had felt too much oppressed with tumultuous, yet happy feelings, to sleep during the night, so that there was little danger of her being late in rising; and, according to a promise made on the previous evening, she was at her mother's cottage some hours before daylight. In a few minutes the fire was lighted up, and she was proceeding to cook a slight repast for the stranger, when he himself made his appearance in that apartment which might be called the kitchen. She saluted him by inquiring "how he had rested?" and he answered her with an attempt at civility; but his eye did not meet hers as it had done on the previous evening; and altogether there was an alteration in his manner which struck her forcibly. She next begged him to be seated; but, instead of complying with her request, he looked at his watch, and then represented to her the necessity of his being gone immediately. She seemed anxious that he should stop till she could set before him the victuals which she had been preparing, simply, as she said, "that he might not go abroad so early with an empty stomach;" but her entreaties were thrown away; and, when nothing could persuade him to delay his journey only for a few minutes, she accompanied him out in a state of perplexed feeling not easily described. She had walked by his side to some distance without anything having passed between them, except some trite observations concerning the weather, which was now fair--the fall of snow having only lasted for a short time--when, unable longer to endure this state of suspense, she asked, in a hesitating tone, if "anything had occurred during the night to disturb him?" "I have been a fool!" was his tart reply; "but I am at least wise enough to repent of my folly in time. I was loth to believe the evidence of my own senses when they testified against you, and I even tried to argue myself into a belief of your innocence, but your question puts the matter beyond a doubt; and now, farewell for ever!" Mary would have remonstrated with him as to the rashness of his conduct--she would have told him what she knew. The warmth of a lately awakened affection, a woman's pride, a woman's delicacy, and a feeling of indignation at being thus suspected, were all at strife in her bosom; and it can scarcely be matter of surprise, if for some seconds they deprived her of the use of speech. As he was turning to depart, however, she mustered as much resolution as to repeat the word "farewell" firmly, which was all she could say. When left alone, Mary felt so much agitated, that it was some time before she could endure the thought of being seen. Darkness and solitude seemed to accord best with the state of her feelings, and to afford her the only consolation which she was capable of receiving. In this state of mind, it was some time before she could think of returning home; and, when she did return, a new scene of mystery and confusion awaited her. At the door she met her mother, who, with a countenance uncommonly solemn, was just coming out. Margaret, who, from having slept more soundly than was her usual, had only heard the concluding part of the nocturnal noises, was again in a great distress. She believed them nothing less than a _third warning_; which, according to vulgar superstition, is an infallible proof; and on the present, as on former occasions, she was hastening to communicate this fresh confirmation of her fears to Nanny Ferly. But she was immediately recalled by her husband, who, on returning from the yard, whither he had been to reconnoitre the morning sky, for the purpose of ascertaining what sort of weather they were likely to have for the day, declared, "that their back-window had been taken out, and that Mary's room had certainly been robbed." On being made acquainted with this circumstance, great was the good dame's consternation; and yet it were difficult to say whether she would not have preferred the loss of her daughter's property, or any other property which might be in the house, to those distressing fears which she had hitherto entertained for the loss of that daughter herself. "God be thankit!" she exclaimed, after a short pause--"there was but little to rob." A strict examination was now instituted, to ascertain if property had not been abstracted from other parts of the house; but in this examination Mary took little share. "What's the lassie doin dreamin there, as if she were bewildered?" cried her mother at last, with some impatience. "Ye're a bonny ane indeed, to stand as unconcerned as if ye were the steeple, when the hale house is turned heels owre head to see how muckle that scoundrel has carried aff wi' him." This seemed to awaken her from her reverie. "Mother," said she, firmly, "you may spare your bad names; for whatever he _may do_, he will neither rob nor steal; and, so far as I can see, the scoundrel of whom _you_ complain has carried off but little." Mary's assertion was strictly and literally true; for, after the closest search, it was found that the whole of the mortar which secured the little window on the outside had been carefully displaced by means of a large nail, or some other iron instrument, and the window itself set down upon the ground without any of the glass being broken; but nothing was missing, and not a single article seemed to have been so much as moved from its place. Great was the wonder which now rose as to who the depredator could be, and what motive he could possibly have had for acting so strange a part. Mary was strictly questioned as to the time and manner of her guest's departure; but her evidence tended in no way to clear up the mystery. After much conjecture had been wasted to no purpose, as daylight grew broad, a hat was discovered under a low-growing apple-tree, which appeared to have been brushed by the branches from the head of the depredator while he was making his escape. It was carefully examined; but it bore no distinctive mark except the letters "A. A.," and "R. D.," in the crown, neither of which could be deciphered. Mary was again questioned as to its owner; but she only said, "It might belong to anybody, for anything she knew;" and, in the true spirit of discovery, it was carried by her mother to the house of the new-married pair. No sooner had Jenny Jackson--now Mrs Angus--seen it, than she exclaimed, "Whaur is Mary? whaur is Mary?" Mary was sent for. "Whether is Ritchie or Jamie gaun to get ye noo, Mary?" she inquired, in an ecstasy of triumphant feeling. "I doubt it's Ritchie, after a', for this is his hat--the very hat he bought from Andrew before he gaed to the bleachfield; and Andrew said it was naething but you that took him there. See, there is baith their names--A. for Andrew, A. for Angus, R. for Ritchie, D. for Drycraig." The whole was now out. Ritchie, from having lain down and fallen asleep without his hat, was thrown into a fever, which, after having brought him very near the grave, cured him effectually of his drunken habits and his maudlin affection at the same time. Though James Duff had departed in wrath, he soon returned in softened feeling; and, in less than a year, he was married to Mary Mackenzie. Nanny Ferly was an incurable; but the ridicule to which she was subjected upon this occasion made her more cautious in the selection of her subjects And thus ends our story of The Warning. GRIZEL COCHRANE. A TALE OF TWEEDMOUTH MUIR. When the tyranny and bigotry of the last James drove his subjects to take up arms against him, one of the most formidable enemies to his dangerous usurpations was Sir John Cochrane, ancestor of the present Earl of Dundonald. He was one of the most prominent actors in Argyle's rebellion, and for ages a destructive doom seemed to have hung over the house of Campbell, enveloping in a common ruin all who united their fortunes to the cause of its chieftains. The same doom encompassed Sir John Cochrane. He was surrounded by the king's troops--long, deadly, and desperate was his resistance; but at length, overpowered by numbers, he was taken prisoner, tried, and condemned to die upon the scaffold. He had but a few days to live, and his jailer waited but the arrival of his death-warrant to lead him forth to execution. His family and his friends had visited him in prison, and exchanged with him the last, the long, the heart-yearning farewell. But there was one who came not with the rest to receive his blessing--one who was the pride of his eyes, and of his house--even Grizel, the daughter of his love. Twilight was casting a deeper gloom over the gratings of his prison-house, he was mourning for a last look of his favourite child, and his head was pressed against the cold damp walls of his cell, to cool the feverish pulsations that shot through it like stings of fire, when the door of his apartment turned slowly on its unwilling hinges, and his keeper entered, followed by a young and beautiful lady. Her person was tall and commanding, her eyes dark, bright, and tearless; but their very brightness spoke of sorrow--of sorrow too deep to be wept away; and her raven tresses were parted over an open brow, clear and pure as the polished marble. The unhappy captive raised his head as they entered-- "My child! my own Grizel!" he exclaimed, and she fell upon his bosom. "My father! my dear father!" sobbed the miserable maiden, and she dashed away the tear that accompanied the words. "Your interview must be short--very short,", said the jailer, as he turned and left them for a few minutes together. "God help and comfort thee, my daughter!" added the unhappy father, as he held her to his breast, and printed a kiss upon her brow. "I had feared that I should die without bestowing my blessing on the head of my own child, and that stung me more than death. But thou art come, my love--thou art come! and the last blessing of thy wretched father----" "Nay! forbear! forbear!" she exclaimed; "not thy last blessing!--not thy last! My father shall not die!" "Be calm! be calm, my child!" returned he; "would to Heaven that I could comfort thee!--my own! my own! But there is no hope--within three days, and thou and all my little ones will be----" Fatherless--he would have said, but the words died on his tongue. "Three days!" repeated she, raising her head from his breast, but eagerly pressing his hand--"three days! Then there _is_ hope--my father _shall_ live! Is not my grandfather the friend of Father Petre, the confessor and the master of the king? From him he shall beg the life of his son, and my father shall not die." "Nay! nay, my Grizel," returned he; "be not deceived--there is no hope--already my doom is sealed--already the king has signed the order for my execution, and the messenger of death is now on the way." "Yet my father SHALL not!--SHALL not die!" she repeated, emphatically, and, clasping her hands together. "Heaven speed a daughter's purpose!" she exclaimed; and, turning to her father, said, calmly--"We part now, but we shall meet again." "What would my child?" inquired he eagerly, gazing anxiously on her face. "Ask not now," she replied, "my father--ask not now; but pray for me and bless me--but not with thy _last_ blessing." He again pressed her to his heart, and wept upon her neck. In a few moments the jailer entered, and they were torn from the arms of each other. On the evening of the second day after the interview we have mentioned, a wayfaring man crossed the drawbridge at Berwick, from the north, and proceeding down Marygate, sat down to rest upon a bench by the door of an hostelry on the south side of the street, nearly fronting where what was called the "Main-guard" then stood. He did not enter the inn; for it was above his apparent condition, being that which Oliver Cromwell had made his head-quarters a few years before, and where, at a somewhat earlier period, James the Sixth had taken up his residence when on his way to enter on the sovereignty of England. The traveller wore a coarse jerkin fastened round his body by a leathern girdle, and over it a short cloak, composed of equally plain materials. He was evidently a young man; but his beaver was drawn down, so as almost to conceal his features. In the one hand he carried a small bundle, and in the other a pilgrim's staff. Having called for a glass of wine, he took a crust of bread from his bundle, and, after resting for a few minutes, rose to depart. The shades of night were setting in, and it threatened to be a night of storms. The heavens were gathering black, the clouds rushing from the sea, sudden gusts of wind were moaning along the streets, accompanied by heavy drops of rain, and the face of the Tweed was troubled. "Heaven help thee, if thou intendest to travel far in such a night as this!" said the sentinel at the English gate, as the traveller passed him and proceeded to cross the bridge. In a few minutes, he was upon the borders of the wide, desolate, and dreary muir of Tweedmouth, which, for miles, presented a desert of whins, fern, and stunted heath, with here and there a dingle covered with thick brushwood. He slowly toiled over the steep hill, braving the storm, which now raged in wildest fury. The rain fell in torrents, and the wind howled as a legion of famished wolves, hurling its doleful and angry echoes over the heath. Still the stranger pushed onward, until he had proceeded about two or three miles from Berwick, when, as if unable longer to brave the storm, he sought shelter amidst some crab and bramble bushes by the wayside. Nearly an hour had passed since he sought this imperfect refuge, and the darkness of the night and the storm had increased together, when the sound of a horse's feet was heard, hurriedly plashing along the road. The rider bent his head to the blast. Suddenly his horse was grasped by the bridle, the rider raised his head, and the traveller stood before him, holding a pistol to his breast. "Dismount!" cried the stranger, sternly. The horseman, benumbed, and stricken with fear, made an effort to reach his arms; but, in a moment, the hand of the robber, quitting the bridle, grasped the breast of the rider, and dragged him to the ground. He fell heavily on his face, and for several minutes remained senseless. The stranger seized the leathern bag which contained the mail for the north, and flinging it on his shoulder, rushed across the heath. Early on the following morning, the inhabitants of Berwick were seen hurrying in groups to the spot where the robbery had been committed, and were scattered in every direction around the muir; but no trace of the robber could be obtained. Three days had passed, and Sir John Cochrane yet lived. The mail which contained his death-warrant had been robbed; and, before another order for his execution could be given, the intercession of his father, the Earl of Dundonald, with the king's confessor, might be successful. Grizel now became almost his constant companion in prison, and spoke to him words of comfort. Nearly fourteen days had passed since the robbery of the mail had been committed, and protracted hope in the bosom of the prisoner became more bitter than his first despair. But even that hope, bitter as it was, perished. The intercession of his father had been unsuccessful--and a second time the bigoted and would-be despotic monarch had signed the warrant for his death, and within little more than another day that warrant would reach his prison. "The will of Heaven be done!" groaned the captive. "Amen!" returned Grizel, with wild vehemence; "but my father _shall_ not die!" Again the rider with the mail had reached the muir of Tweedmouth, and a second time he bore with him the doom of Cochrane. He spurred his horse to its utmost speed, he looked cautiously before, behind, and around him; and in his right hand he carried a pistol ready to defend himself. The moon shed a ghostly light across the heath, rendering desolation visible, and giving a spiritual embodiment to every shrub. He was turning the angle of a straggling copse, when his horse reared at the report of a pistol, the fire of which seemed to dash into its very eyes. At the same moment, his own pistol flashed, and the horse rearing more violently, he was driven from the saddle. In a moment, the foot of the robber was upon his breast, who, bending over him, and brandishing a short dagger in his hand, said-- "Give me thine arms, or die!" The heart of the king's servant failed within him, and, without venturing to reply, he did as he was commanded. "Now, go thy way," said the robber, sternly, "but leave with me the horse, and leave with me the mail--lest a worse thing come upon thee." The man therefore arose, and proceeded towards Berwick, trembling; and the robber, mounting the horse which he had left, rode rapidly across the heath. Preparations were making for the execution of Sir John Cochrane, and the officers of the law waited only for the arrival of the mail with his second death-warrant, to lead him forth to the scaffold, when the tidings arrived that the mail had again been robbed. For yet fourteen days, and the life of the prisoner would be again prolonged. He again fell on the neck of his daughter, and wept, and said-- "It is good--the hand of Heaven is in this!" "Said I not," replied the maiden--and for the first time she wept aloud--"that my father should not die." The fourteen days were not yet past, when the prison-doors flew open, and the old Earl of Dundonald rushed to the arms of his son. His intercession with the confessor had been at length successful; and, after twice signing the warrant for the execution of Sir John, which had as often failed in reaching its destination, the king had sealed his pardon. He had hurried with his father from the prison to his own house--his family were clinging around him shedding tears of joy--and they were marvelling with gratitude at the mysterious providence that had twice intercepted the mail, and saved his life, when a stranger craved an audience. Sir John desired him to be admitted--and the robber entered. He was habited, as we have before described, with the coarse cloak and coarser jerkin; but his bearing was above his condition. On entering, he slightly touched his beaver, but remained Covered. "When you have perused these," said he, taking two papers from his bosom, "cast them into the fire!" Sir John glanced on them, started, and became pale--they were his death-warrants. "My deliverer," exclaimed he, "how shall I thank thee--how repay the saviour of my life! My father--my children--thank him for me!" The old earl grasped the hand of the stranger; the children embraced his knees; and he burst into tears. "By what name," eagerly inquired Sir John, "shall I thank my deliverer?" The stranger wept aloud; and raising his beaver, the raven tresses of Grizel Cochrane fell upon the coarse cloak. "Gracious Heaven!" exclaimed the astonished and enraptured father--"my own child!--my saviour!--my own Grizel!" It is unnecessary to add more--the imagination of the reader can supply the rest; and, we may only add, that Grizel Cochrane, whose heroism and noble affection we have here hurriedly and imperfectly sketched, was, tradition says, the grandmother of the late Sir John Stuart of Allanbank, and great-great-grandmother of Mr Coutts, the celebrated banker.[2] [Footnote 2: Since the author of the "Tales of the Borders" first published the tale of "Grizel Cochrane," a slightly different version of it appeared in "Chambers' Journal." There is no reason to doubt the fact of her heroism; but we believe it is incorrect, as is generally affirmed, to say that she was the grandmother of the late Sir John Stuart of Allanbank. We may state that the author of these tales received a letter from Sir Hugh Stuart, son of Sir John referred to, stating that his family would be glad to have such a heroine as Grizel connected with their genealogy, but that they were unable to prove such connection.] SQUIRE BEN. Before introducing my readers to the narrative of Squire Ben, it may be proper to inform them who Squire Ben was. In the year 1816, when the piping times of peace had begun, and our heroes, like Othello, "found their occupation gone," a thickset, bluff, burly-headed little man, whose every word and look reminded you of Incledon's "_Cease, rude Boreas_," and bespoke him to be one of those who had "sailed with noble Jervis," or, "In gallant Duncan's fleet Had sung out, yo heave ho!"-- purchased a small estate in Northumberland, a few miles from the banks of the Coquet. He might be fifty years of age; but his weatherbeaten countenance gave him the appearance of a man of sixty. Around the collar of a Newfoundland dog, which followed him more faithfully than his shadow, were engraved the words, "Captain Benjamin Cookson;" but, after he had purchased the estate to which I have alluded, his poorer neighbours called him Squire Ben. He was a strange mixture of enthusiasm, shrewdness, courage, comicality, generosity, and humanity. Ben, on becoming a country gentleman, became a keen fisher; and, as it is said, "a fellow feeling makes one wondrous kind," I also, being fond of the sport, became a mighty favourite with the bluff-faced squire. It was on a fine bracing day in March, after a tolerable day's fishing, we went to dine and spend the afternoon in the Angler's Inn, which stands at the north end of the bridge over the Coquet, at the foot of the hill leading up to Longframlington. Observing that Ben was in good sailing trim, I dropped a hint that an account of his voyages and cruises on the ocean of life would be interesting. Ah, my boy (said Ben), you are there with your soundings, are you? Well, you shall have a long story by the shortest tack. Somebody was my father (continued he), but whom I know not. This much I know about my mother: she was cook in a gentleman's family in this county, and being a fat, portly body--something of the build of her son, I take it--no one suspected that she was in a certain delicate situation, until within a few days before I was born. Then, with very grief and shame, the poor thing became delirious; and, as an old servant of the family has since told me, you could see the very flesh melting off her bones. While she continued in a state of delirium, your humble servant, poor Benjamin, was born; and without recovering her senses, she died within an hour after my birth, leaving me--a beautiful orphan, as you see me now--a legacy to the workhouse and the world. Benjamin was my mother's family name--from which I suppose they had something of the Jew in their blood; though, Heaven knows, I have none in my composition. So they who had the christening of me gave me my mother's name of Benjamin, as my Christian name: and from her occupation as _cook_, they surnamed me Cookson--that is, "Benjamin the Cook's son," simply Benjamin Cookson, more simply, Squire Ben. Well, you see, my boy, I was born beneath the roof of an English squire, and before I was three hours old was handed over to the workhouse. This was the beginning of my life. The first thing I remember was hating the workhouse--the second was loving the sea. Yes, sir, before I was seven years old, I used to steal away in the noble company of my own good self, and sit down upon a rock on the solitary beach, watching the ships, the waves, and the sea-birds--wishing to be a wave, a ship, or a bird--ay, sir, wishing to be anything but poor orphan Ben. The sea was to me what my parents should have been--a thing I delighted to look upon. I loved the very music of its maddest storms; though, quietly, I have since had enough of them. I began my career before I was ten years of age, as cabin-boy in a collier. My skipper was a dare-devil, tear-away sort of fellow, who cared no more for running down one of your coasting craft than for turning a quid in his mouth. But he was a good, honest, kindhearted sort of a chap, for all that--barring that the rope's-end was too often in his hand. "Ben," says he to me one misty day, when we were taking coals across the herring pond to the Dutchmen, and the man at the helm could not see half-way to the mast-head--"Ben, my little fellow, can you cipher?" "Yes, sir," says I. "The deuce you can!" says he; "then you're just the lad for me. And do you understand logarithms?" "No, sir," says I; "what sort of wood be they?" "Wood be hanged! you blockhead!" said he, raising his foot in a passion, but a smile on the corners of his mouth shoved it to the deck again before it reached me. "But come, Ben, you can cipher, you say; well, I know all about the radius and tangents, and them sort of things, and stating the question; but blow me if I have a multiplication-table on board--my fingers are of no use at a long number, and I am always getting out of it counting by chalks;--so come below, Ben, and look over the question, and let us find where we are. I know I have made a mistake some way; and mark ye, Ben, if you don't find it out--ye that can cipher--there's a rope's-end to your supper, and that's all." Howsever, sir, I did find it out, and I was regarded as a prodigy in the ship ever after. The year before I was out of my apprenticeship, our vessel was laid up for four months, and the skipper sent me to school during the time, at his own expense, saying-- "Get navigation, Ben, my boy, and you will one day be a commodore--by Jupiter, you'll be an honour to the navy." I got as far as "_Dead Reckoning_" and there, I reckon, I made a dead stand, or rather, I ceased to do anything but study "_Lunar Observations_." Our owner had a daughter, my own age to a day. I can't describe her, sir; I haven't enough of what I suppose you would call poetry about me for that, but, upon the word of a sailor, her hair was like night rendered transparent--black, jet black; her neck white as the spray on the bosom of a billow; her face was lovelier than a rainbow; and her figure handsome as a frigate in full sail. But she had twenty thousand pounds--she was no bargain for orphan Ben! However, I saw her, and that was enough--learning and I shook hands. Her father had a small yacht--he proposed taking a pleasure party to the Coquet. Jess--for that was her name--was one of the passengers, and the management of the yacht was intrusted to me. In spite of myself, I gazed upon her by the hour--I was intoxicated with passion--my heart swelled as if it would burst from my bosom. I saw a titled puppy touch her fingers--I heard him prattle love in her ears. My first impulse was to dash him overboard. I wished the sea which I loved might rise and swallow us. I thought it would be happiness to die in her company--perhaps to sink with her arm clinging round my neck for protection. The wish of my madness was verified. We were returning. We were five miles from the shore. A squall, then a hurricane, came on--every sail was reefed--the mast was snapped as I would snap that pipe between my fingers (here the old squire, suiting the action to the word, broke the end off his pipe)--the sea rose--the hurricane increased, the yacht capsised, as a feather twirls in the wind. Every soul that had been on board was now struggling for life--buffeting the billows. At that moment I had but one thought, and that was of Jess; but one wish, and that was to die with her. I saw my fellow-creatures in their death agonies, but I looked only for her. At the moment we were upset, she was clinging to the arm of the titled puppy for protection; and now I saw her within five yards of me still clinging to the skirts of his coat, calling on him and on her father to save her; and I saw him--yes, sir, I saw the monster, while struggling with one hand, raise the other to strike her on the face, that he might extricate himself from her grasp. "Brute!--monster!" I exclaimed; and the next moment I had fixed my clenched hands in the hair of his head. Then, with one hand, I grasped the arm of her I loved; and, with the other, uttering a fiendish yell, I endeavoured to hurl the coward to the bottom of the sea. The yacht still lay bottom up, but was now a hundred yards from us; however, getting my arm round the waist of my adored Jess--I laughed at the sea--I defied the hurricane. We reached the yacht. Her keel was not three feet out of the water; and with my right hand I managed to obtain a hold of it. I saw two of the crew and six of the passengers perish; but her father, and the coward who had struck her from him, still struggled with the waves. They were borne far from us. Within half-an-hour I saw a vessel pick them up. It tried to reach us, but could not. Two hours more had passed, and night was coming on--my strength gave way--my hold loosened. I made one more desperate effort; I fixed my teeth in the keel--but the burden under my left arm was still sacred--I felt her breath upon my cheek--it inspired me with a lion's strength, and for another hour I clung to the keel. Then the fury of the storm slackened;--a boat from the vessel that had picked up her father reached us--we were taken on board. She was senseless, but still breathed--my arm seemed glued round her waist. I was almost unconscious of everything, but an attempt to take her from me. My teeth gnashed when they touched my hand to do so. As we approached the vessel, those on board hailed us with three cheers. We were lifted on deck. She was conveyed to the cabin. In a few minutes I became fully conscious of our situation. Some one gave me brandy--my brain became on fire. "Where is she?" I exclaimed--"did I not save her?--save her from the coward who would have murdered her?" I rushed to the cabin--she was recovering--her father stood over her--strangers were rubbing her bosom. Her father took my hand to thank me; but I was frantic--I rushed towards her--I bent over her--I pressed my lips to hers--I called her mine. Her father grasped me by the collar. "Boy, beggar, bastard!" he exclaimed. With his last word, half of my frenzy vanished; for a moment I seized him by the throat--I cried, "Repeat the word!" I groaned in the agony of shame and madness. I rushed upon the deck--we were then within a quarter-of-a-mile from the shore--I plunged overboard--I swam to the beach--I reached it. I became interested in the narrative of the squire, and I begged he would continue it with less rapidity. Rapidity! (said he, fixing upon me a glance in which I thought there was something like disdain). Youngster, if you cast a feather into the stream, it will be borne on with it. But (added he, in a less hurried tone, after pausing to breathe for a few moments), after struggling with the strong surge for a good half-hour, I reached the shore. My utmost strength was spent, and I was scarce able to drag myself a dozen yards beyond tide-mark, when I sank exhausted on the beach. I lay, as though in sleep, until night had gathered round me, and when I arose, cold and benumbed, my delirium had passed away. My bosom, however, like a galley manned with criminals, was still the prison-house of agonising feelings, each more unruly than another. Every scene in which I had borne a part during the day rushed before me in a moment--her image--the image of my Jess, mingled with each. I hated existence--I almost despised myself; but tears started from my eyes--the suffocation in my breast passed away, and I again breathed freely. I will not trouble you with details. I will pass over the next five years of my life, during which I was man-of-war's man, privateer, and smuggler. But I will tell you how I became a smuggler, for that calling I only followed for a week, and that was from necessity; but, as you shall hear, it well-nigh cost me my life. Britain had just launched into a war with France, and I was first mate of a small privateer, carrying two guns and a long Tom. We were trying our fortune within six leagues of the Dutch coast, when two French merchantmen hove in sight. They were too heavy metal for us, and we saw that it would be necessary to deal with them warily. So, hoisting the republican flag, we bore down upon them; but the Frenchmen were not to be had; and no sooner had we come within gunshot, than one of them saluted our little craft with a broadside that made her dance in the water. It was evident there was no chance for us but at close quarters. "Cookson," says our commander to me, "what's to be done, my lad?" "Leave the privateer," says I. "What!" says he, "take the long boat and run, without singeing a Frenchman's whisker! No, blow me," says he. "No, sir," says I; "board them--give them a touch of the cold steel." "Right, Ben, my boy," says he. "Helm about there--look to your cutlasses, my hearties--and now for the Frenchman's deck, and French wine to supper." The next moment we had tacked about, and were under the Frenchman's bow. In turning round, long Tom had been discharged, and clipped the rigging of the other vessel beautifully. The commander, myself, and a dozen more, sprang upon the enemy's deck, cutlass in hand. Our reception was as warm as powder and steel could make it--the Frenchmen fought like devils, and disputed with us every inch of the deck hand to hand. But, d'ye see, we beat them aft, though their numbers were two to one; yet, as bad luck would have it, out of the twelve of us who had boarded her, only seven were now able to handle a cutlass; and amongst those who lay dying on the enemy's deck was our gallant commander. He was a noble fellow, sir--a regular fire-eater, even in death. Bleeding, dying as he was, he endeavoured to drag his body along the deck to assist us--and when finding it would not do, and he could move no farther, he drew a pistol from his belt, and raising himself on one hand, he discharged it at the head of the French captain with the other, and shouting out, "Go it, my hearties!--Ben! never yield!" his head fell upon the deck; and "he died like a true British sailor." But, sir, the other vessel that had been crippled at that moment made alongside. Her crew also boarded to assist their countrymen, and we were attacked fore and aft. There was nothing now left for us but to cut our way to the privateer, which had been brought round to the other side of the vessel we had boarded. She had been left to the care of the second mate and six seamen; but the traitor, seeing our commander fall, and the hopelessness of our success, cut the lashings and bore off, leaving us to our fate on the deck of the enemy. Our number was now reduced to five, and we were hemmed in on all sides--but we fought like tigers bereaved of their cubs. We placed ourselves heel to heel, we formed a little circle of death. I know not whether it was admiration of our courage, or the cowardice of the enemy, that induced them to proclaim a truce, and to offer us a boat, oars, and provisions, and to depart with our arms. We agreed to their proposal, after fighting an hour upon their deck. And here begins my short, but eventful history as a smuggler. We had been six hours at sea in the open boat, when we were picked up by a smuggling lugger named the Wildfire. Her captain was an Englishman, and her cargo, which consisted principally of brandy and Hollands, was to be delivered at Spittal and Boomer. It was about daybreak on the third morning after we had been picked up; we were again within sight of the Coquet Isle. I had not seen it for five years. It called up a thousand recollections--I became entranced in the past. My Jess seemed again clinging to my neck--I again thought I felt her breath upon my cheek--and again involuntarily I exclaimed aloud, "_She shall be mine_." But I was aroused from my reverie by a cry--"A cruiser--a cutter ahead!" In a moment the deck of the lugger became a scene of consternation. The cutter was making upon us rapidly; and though the Wildfire sailed nobly, her pursuer skimmed over the sea like a swallow. The skipper of the lugger seemed to become insane as the danger increased. He ordered every gun to be loaded, and a six-oared gig to be got in readiness. The cutter fired on us, the Wildfire returned the salute, and three of the cutter's men fell. A few more shots were exchanged, and the lugger was disabled; her skipper and the Englishmen of his crew took the gig, and made for the shore. In a few minutes more, we were boarded by the commander of the cutter, and a part of her crew. I knew the commander's face; his countenance, his name, were engraved as with a sharp instrument on my heart. His name was Melton--the Honourable Lieutenant Melton--my enemy--the man I hated--the titled puppy of whom I spoke--my rival for the hand of my Jess. He approached me--he knew me as I did him. We lost no love between us--I heard his teeth grate as he fixed his eyes on me, and mine echoed to the sound. "Slave! scoundrel!" were his first words, "we have met again at last, and your life shall pay the forfeit! Place him in irons!" "Coward!" I hurled in his teeth a second time, and my hand grasped my cutlass, which in a moment flashed in the air. His armed crew sprang between us--I defied them all--he grew bold under their protection. "Strike him down!" he exclaimed; and, springing forward, his sword entered my side--but scarce was it withdrawn, ere _his_ blood streamed from the point of my cutlass to my hand. Suffice it to say, I was overpowered and disarmed--I was taken on board his cutter, and put in irons. And now, sir (continued the squire, raising his voice, for the subject seemed to wound him), know that you are in the company of a man who has been condemned to die--yes, sir, to die like a common murderer on the gallows! You start--but it is true; and, if you do not like the company of a man for whom the hangman once provided a neckerchief, I will drop my story. I requested him to proceed. Well, sir (continued he), I was lodged in prison. I was accused of being a smuggler--of having drawn my sword against one of His Majesty's officers--of having wounded him. On the testimony of my enemy and his crew, I was tried and condemned--condemned to die without hope of pardon. I had but a day to live, when a lady entered my miserable cell. She came to comfort the criminal, to administer consolation in his last hour. I was in no mood to listen to the admonitions of the female Samaritan, and I was about to bid her depart from me. Her face was veiled, and in the dim light of my dungeon I saw it not. But she spoke, and her voice went through my soul like the remembrance of a national air which we have sung in childhood, and hear in a foreign land. "Lady!" I exclaimed, "what fiend hath sent thee? Come ye to ask me to forgive my murderer? If _you_ command it, I will." "I would ask you to forgive your enemies," replied she, mildly; "but not for my sake." "Yet it can only be for _your_ sake," said I; "but tell me, lady, are you the _wife_ of the man who has pursued me to death?" "No--not his wife." "But you will be?" cried I, hastily; "and you love him--tell me, do you not love him?" She sighed--she burst into tears. "Unhappy man," she returned, "what know you of me, that you torment me with questions that torture me?" I thrust forth my fettered hand--I grasped hers. "Tell me, lady," I exclaimed, "before my soul can receive the words of repentance which you come to preach--tell me--do you _love_ him?" "No!" she pronounced, emphatically; and her whole frame shook. "Thank God!" I cried, and clasped my fettered hands together. "Forgive me, lady!--forgive me! Do you know me? I am Ben!--orphan Ben!--the boy who saved you!" She screamed aloud--she fell upon my bosom, and my chained arm once more circled the neck of my Jess. Yes, sir, it was my own Jess, who, without being conscious who I was, had come to visit the doomed one in his miserable cell, to prepare him for death, by pointing out the necessity of repentance and the way to heaven. I need not tell you that, the moment my name was told, she forgot her mission; and as, with my fettered arms, I held her to my breast, and felt her burning tears drop upon my cheek, I forgot imprisonment, I forgot death--my very dungeon became a heaven that I would not have exchanged for a throne--for, oh! as her tears fell, and her heaving bosom throbbed upon my heart, each throb told me that Jess loved the persecuted orphan--the boy who saved her. I cannot tell you what a trance is; but, as I clung round her neck, and her arms encircled mine, I felt as if my very soul would have burst from my body in ecstasy. She was soon convinced that I was no criminal--that I had been guilty of no actual crime--that I was innocent, and doomed to die. "No! no! you shall not die!" sobbed my heroic girl--"hope! hope! hope! The man who saved me shall not die!" She hurried to the door of my cell--it was opened by the keeper, and she left me, exclaiming, "Hope!--hope!" On that day his then Majesty George III. was to prorogue Parliament in person. He was returning from the House of Lords; crowds were following the royal procession, and thousands of spectators lined Parliament Street, some showing their loyalty by shouts and the waving of hats and handkerchiefs, and others manifesting their discontent in sullen silence or half-suppressed murmurs. In the midst of the multitude, and opposite Whitehall, stood a private carriage, the door of which was open, and out of it, as the royal retinue approached, issued a female, and, with a paper in her hand, knelt before the window of His Majesty's carriage, clasping her hands together as she knelt, and crying-- "Look upon me, sire!" "Stop! stop!" said the king--"coachman, stop! What! a lady kneeling, eh--eh? A young lady, too! Poor thing--poor thing--give me the paper." His Majesty glanced at it--he desired her to follow him to St James's. I need not dwell upon particulars: that very night my Jess returned to my prison with my pardon in her hand, and I left its gloomy walls with her arm locked in mine. And now you may think that I was the happiest dog alive--that I had nothing more to do but to ask and obtain the hand of my Jess--but you are wrong; and I will go over the rest of my life as briefly as I can. No sooner did her father become acquainted with what she had done, than he threatened to disinherit her--and he removed her, I know not where. I became first desperate, then gloomy, and eventually sank into lassitude. Even the sea, which I had loved from my first thought, lost its charms for me. I fancied that money only stood between me and happiness--and I saw no prospect of making the sum I thought necessary at sea. While in the privateer service, I had saved about two hundred pounds in prize-money. With this sum as a foundation, I determined to try my fortune on shore. I embarked in many schemes; in some I was partially successful; but I persevered in none. It was the curse of my life that I had no settled plan--I wanted method; and let me tell you, sir, that the want of a systematic plan, the want of method, has ruined many a wise man. It was my ruin. From this cause, though I neither drank nor gamed, nor seemed more foolish than my neighbours, my money wasted like a snowball in the sun. Though I say it myself, I was not an ignorant man; for, considering my opportunities, I had read much, and I had as much worldly wisdom as most of people. In short, I was an excellent framer of plans at night; but I wanted decision and activity to put them into execution in the morning. I had also a dash of false pride and generosity in my composition, and did actions without considering the consequences, by which I was continually bringing myself into difficulties. This system, or rather this want of system, quickly stripped me of my last shilling, and left me the world's debtor into the bargain. Then, sir, I gnashed my teeth together--I clenched my fist--I could have cut the throat of my own conscience, had it been a thing of flesh and blood, for spitting my thoughtlessness and folly in my teeth. I took no oath--but I resolved, firmly, resolutely, deeply resolved, to be wise for the future; and, let me tell you, my good fellow, such a resolution is worth twenty hasty oaths. I sold my watch, the only piece of property worth twenty shillings that I had left, and with the money it produced in my pocket, I set out for Liverpool. That town, or city, or whatever you have a mind to call it, was not then what it is now. I was strolling along by the Duke's Little Dock, and saw a schooner of about a hundred and sixty tons burden. Her masts lay well back, and I observed her decks were double laid. I saw her character in a moment. I went on board--I inquired of the commander if he would ship a hand. He gave me a knowing look, and inquired if ever I had been in the _trade_ before. I mentioned my name and the ship in which I had last served. "The deuce you are!" he said; "what! you Cookson!--ship you, ay, and a hundred like you, if I could get them." I need hardly tell you the vessel was a privateer. Within three days the schooner left the Mersey, and I had the good fortune to be shipped as mate. For two years we boxed about the Mediterranean, and I had cleared, as my share of prize-money, nearly a thousand pounds. At that period, our skipper, thinking he had made enough, resigned the command in favour of me. My first cruise was so successful, that I was enabled to purchase a privateer of my own, which I named the Jess. For, d'ye see, her idea was like a never-waning moonlight in my brain--her emphatic words, "Hope!--hope!--hope!" whispered eternally in my breast--and I did hope. Sleeping or waking, on sea or on shore, a day never passed but the image of my Jess arose on my sight, smiling and saying, "Hope!" In four years more, I had cleared ten thousand pounds, and I sold the schooner for another thousand. I now thought myself a match for Jess, and resolved to go to the old man--her father, I mean--and offer to take her without a shilling. Well, I had sold my craft at Plymouth, and, before proceeding to the north, was stopping a few days in a small town in the south-west of England, to breathe the land air--for my face, you see, had become a little rough, by constant exposure to the weather. Well, sir, the windows of my lodging faced the jail, and, for three days, I observed the handsomest figure that ever graced a woman enter the prison at meal-times. It was the very figure--the very gait of my Jess--only her appearance was not genteel enough. But I had never seen her face. On the fourth day I got a glimpse of it. Powers of earth! it was her!--it was my Jess! I rushed downstairs like a madman--I flew to the prison-door, and knocked. The jailer opened it. I eagerly inquired who the young lady was that had just entered. He abruptly replied-- "The daughter of a debtor." "For Heaven's sake!" I returned, "let me speak with them!" He refused. I pushed a guinea into his hand, and he led me to the debtors' room. And there, sir--there stood my Jess--my saviour--my angel--there she stood, administering to the wants of her grey-haired father! I won't, because I can't, describe to you the tragedy scene that ensued. The old man had lost all that he possessed in the world--his thousands had taken wings, and flown away, and he was now pining in jail for fifty--and his daughter, my noble Jess, supported him by the labours of her needle. I paid the debt before I left the prison, and out I came, with Jess upon one arm, and the old man on the other. We were married within a month. I went to sea again--but I will pass over that; and, when the peace was made, we came down here to Northumberland, and purchased a bit of ground and a snug cabin, about five miles from this; and there six little Cooksons are romping about, and calling my Jess their mother, and none of them orphans, like their father, thank Heaven! And now, sir, you have heard the narrative of Squire Ben--what do you think of it? THE BATTLE OF DRYFFE SANDS. The power of custom to render the mind indifferent or insensible to danger, has never been better exemplified than by the mothers, and wives, and daughters of the ancient Borderers. They were wont to regard without apprehension the departure of their dearest relatives upon perilous expeditions--neither expressing nor experiencing any feeling except a wish for the success of the _raid_. Nay, as we have elsewhere stated, the fair dames of these stern warriors and marauders not unfrequently hinted that the larder needed replenishing, by placing on the table a dish, which, on being uncovered, was found to contain a pair of clean spurs; or by making the announcement that "hough's i' the pot;" or by calling, within hearing of the laird, on the herds to bring out THE COW; or, in short, by the thousand-and-one means which the ready wit of woman could devise. Rapine and war were the sole business of the chiefs and their retainers; and matrons and maidens, if they had wept and wailed whenever their natural protectors went "to take a prey," would have been thought just as unreasonable as some of our modern ladies, who will not allow their husbands to proceed about their daily avocations, without bestowing on them tears, kisses, and embraces, in superabundance. The mistress of Thrieve Castle, Lady Maxwell, possessed her full share of that masculine character which was deemed befitting in a Borderer's wife; and, although she had mingled in the gaieties of the unhappy Mary's court, that sternness which was part of her inheritance as a daughter of the house of Douglas had not been perceptibly diminished in the course of her residence at Holyrood. The aggrandisement of her husband's family was the perpetual subject of her thoughts; and whatever affected their honour or their interest was felt as keenly by Lady Maxwell as by the most devoted follower. At the time to which this narrative relates, her meditations ran even more frequently and fully than usual in their accustomed channel. About ten years before James VI. succeeded to the throne of England, the hereditary feud which had for generations subsisted betwixt the Maxwells of Nithsdale and the Johnstones of Annandale broke forth with redoubled violence. Several of the lairds, whose possessions lay within the district which was disturbed by the contentions of these two races, had sustained serious injury from the incursions of marauders from Annandale, and, in consequence, had entered into a secret compact, offensive and defensive, with Lord Maxwell. This transaction reached the ears of Sir James Johnstone, who forthwith endeavoured to break the league which had so greatly extended his rival's power. The petty warfare betwixt the two barons was carried on for some time, without producing any very decisive result. The compact was still unbroken, and, to all appearance, the Maxwells were rapidly acquiring that ascendency which would soon render resistance hopeless. But the worsted party obtained the aid of the Scotts and other clans from the midland district. Lord Maxwell, on the other hand, rallied around him the barons of Nithsdale, displayed his banner as the king's lieutenant, and hastened to attack his opponents in their fastnesses. Although Lady Maxwell entertained no extravagant dread with regard to the safety of her husband and son, or even with regard to the result of a conflict for which such ample preparations had been made, she could not suppress a feeling of impatience, when the afternoon of the second day after the departure of the expedition arrived without bringing any intelligence of the result. She endeavoured, however, to check the melancholy course of her thoughts, by supposing that the pursuit of the enemy had occasioned the delay; but then she deemed it strange that her husband had sent no messenger with the tidings of his success; and again she pleased herself with the reflection, that he had reserved for himself the agreeable duty of announcing the happy issue of the conflict. The shades of evening were descending, when Lady Maxwell, with her little daughters and younger son, proceeded to the battlements of the Thrieve. This ancient stronghold--which was a royal castle, though the keeping of it was intrusted to the family of Maxwell--was situated on a small island formed by the river Dee, in the centre of a muirish tract of country. Its gloomy appearance was, and still is, in harmony with the surrounding desolation; but it is now no longer the abode of man, and is left, a monument of departed greatness, to moulder away. Lady Maxwell had not continued long to gaze over the wilderness which stretched around, when she observed a band of mosstroopers approaching from the east; and the light was still strong enough to show that these warriors had not the appearance of a host returning victorious from battle. On the contrary, their steeds were jaded; they seemed themselves to be exhausted with toil; and, instead of the shouts of laughter which usually burst from the merry bands of Borderers, silence seemed to prevail in their ranks. "Pray God nothing evil hath happened!" exclaimed the lady, in alarm. And scarcely had she descended to the hall of the castle, when her eldest son, a youth of twenty years, stood in her presence--but he stood alone. The loss which she had sustained flashed across her mind in an instant. "Your father! where is my husband?" ejaculated Lady Maxwell, wildly. "But I need not ask--I know it all--he will return no more. Is it not so?" The silence of her son showed her that she had guessed aright. But, although her heart grew sick, and her limbs waxed weak, she suppressed her emotion, and hastened to her chamber, there to give vent to her grief in solitude. Meanwhile, preparations for the evening meal were made; the exhausted soldiers ranged themselves beside the table which extended through the baronial hall; and their young master occupied the seat of his father--though, at the moment, he could have wished that some less trying proof of his self-command had been exacted. But it would have been deemed a want of hospitality, had he not remained beside his guests, of whom some were barons inferior only to himself in consequence. When the hunger of the half-famished troopers was somewhat appeased, the events of the morning began to form the topic of conversation--which, however, was carried on only in whispers. Lord Maxwell, it seems, had encountered his opponents at the Dryffe Sands, not far from Lockerby, in Annandale, and had been defeated, partly in consequence of the cowardice of his confederates, whose alliance with him had been the sole cause of the renewed hostility. He was struck from his horse in his flight; and although he sued for quarter, the miscreant by whom he was assailed struck off his hand, which had been stretched forth as the sign of entreaty, and mercilessly slaughtered the unfortunate baron. Many of his followers perished in the fight, and most of them were cruelly wounded, especially by slashes in the face.[3] The young Lord Maxwell and his friends (having left a sufficient body of men to repel any immediate invasion) proceeded to the castle of the Thrieve, situated in the recesses of his family possessions, and a very considerable distance from the scene of the conflict, for the purpose of concerting measures with regard to the further prosecution of hostilities. [Footnote 3: This kind of wound is called a "Lockerby lick"--the place which bears that name being in the immediate vicinity of the field of battle.] After the deliberations of the evening were concluded, and the wearied soldiers had gone to rest, Lady Maxwell summoned her son to her presence, and asked what course it was intended to adopt. "Orchardstone talks of a bond," replied young Maxwell. "A bond of alliance! And did you listen to him?" said the lady, looking keenly at her son; "did you let him repeat the word? An eye that shrinks from the gaze of another tells no good tale; a cheek in which the blood ebbs and flows within a moment, betrays no stout heart. It must not be. Peace! who would talk of peace to one who has just suffered bereavement? Talk not to me of peace--talk not to me of bonds. Talk of revenge. Remember that the blood of him who has been treacherously slain flows in your veins. You had no craven heart from him--you have none from me. Why then do you stand mute and wavering?" "Madam, you have forestalled me," said the youth. "I will have revenge. The king----" "What! would you play the spaniel to James?--a craven sovereign, worthy of a craven suitor. Boy, will you break my heart outright? Will you doom me to disgrace, as the mother of a coward?--make me curse the day in which I was wedded, and the hour in which you were born? This comes of the monkish tricks taught you by that old man whom your father brought to his house, not to make a coward of his son, but to shelter a trembling priest from persecution." "Madam, let me speak, if it please you. I am no coward--no craven," exclaimed the young lord, proudly. "I am not a child that needs to be chidden with the rod or with harsh speeches; and my father's blood boils as fiercely in my veins as the blood of the Douglas in yours. Our deliberations are not at an end, and by daybreak to-morrow they will be resumed." "Nay, but, my son, you say not that you will seek revenge," cried Lady Maxwell; "you speak of those petty barons, whom you demean yourself so far as to consult. Your father told them what was his will, and never asked what was theirs. It was theirs to obey." "Why do you speak so hardly of me?" asked the youth. "Have I not borne myself like my equals and my race? But you shall not want revenge--you shall not want the heart's blood that you ask. This house, these lands, these vassals, are yours, until revenge is yours. They will be employed in the pursuit of revenge. No lady shall hold your place; my life shall have but one object, till that object is accomplished; my being shall have but one end; my thoughts shall have only one aim; my heart will delight in only one hope." "Stay, stay, my son," interrupted Lady Maxwell, in a calmer tone than had hitherto marked her address; "you have said enough--ay, more than enough--to satisfy my doubts. I would not remain sole lady of this castle." "The oath is recorded in heaven, and may not be recalled," was the answer of the young lord. Lord Maxwell, after receiving a maternal benediction, retired to his chamber; and, notwithstanding the difficulties which he knew it would be his lot immediately to encounter, the fatigue of the day was more than enough to insure him a good night's rest. His slumbers continued undisturbed, until the old man to whom reference has already been made came to his bedside early on the following morning. This person was a clansman, who had entered the church, and had embraced the doctrines of the Reformation. About ten years before the death of Lord Maxwell, that nobleman had quarrelled with the Earl of Arran, who at that time was the reigning favourite of James VI; and he had then brought his learned clansman to the Castle of the Thrieve. The rude warden of the west marches--for Lord Maxwell held that office--had no taste for the religious exercises which his namesake, John, wished to introduce into the household; and it may be said that the baron's favour for Presbyterianism was owing to the single circumstance that Arran was an object of detestation common to him and to the ministers. But, although few listeners could be found for the discourses of the aged preacher, his assiduity had enabled him to impart a share of his knowledge to his patron's son and heir, who in some measure repaid him for his care, by regarding him with strong feelings of respect and attachment. When Lord Maxwell had dressed himself, he proceeded to the study of his aged friend, who had requested an interview with him at that early hour. "I fear your rest has been broken by my impatience," said the minister; "but, as I was anxious to see you before your comrades were astir, it was not easy to do otherwise." The young baron assured him that he was completely refreshed, and begged him to mention the cause of his anxiety. "You will pardon me," said the old man, "if I intrude a word or two of advice upon you. The rules of Border morality require you to avenge the death of your father. I have oftentimes shown you wherein these rules were wrong; and you have owned that what I have said was true. Are you now ready to act upon your own independent judgment, to forego your desire for revenge, and to enter into alliance with Johnstone? Will you permit those barons who are now asleep beneath the roof-tree of your house to make you do what you know and feel to be wrong?" "It may not be," said the other; "my fathers have died on the battle-field, and I must not die in my bed. But I am bound by a solemn vow--by all that I hope and enjoy--to seek revenge, by day and by night, by all honourable means; to risk life, lands, liberty--ay, happiness in this world and the next--before I abandon the pursuit." "Ay, but, my son," replied the aged minister--"for so would I call thee, who are dearer to me than life--a vow or oath which has an evil object in view may be honourably broken. The honour is in breaking, not in keeping it." "The oath is no longer in mine own keeping; and I would not break it, even if I could. It may be that an evil oath should be broken; I pretend not to skill in these matters. But I feel," said Lord Maxwell, in an energetic tone--"I feel that this oath of mine cannot be broken. I have not taken it in haste; and sooner would I wish that my head, severed from my body, were placed over the gate of Johnstone's castle of Lochwood, there by turns to blacken in the sun and bleach in the rain, than I would now break my vow in one particular." "Alas! for thee, my son!" exclaimed the minister, in the tremulous accents of age and of distress. "I deemed that thou wouldst prove an honour to thy kind and thy country; that for thee might be reserved the task of healing the wounds of this distracted land." "Forgive me, my second father," said the young baron, taking his aged friend by the hand; "my doom is fixed, but my deeds must be done within a narrower sphere. My objects are not like those of princes. Blood has been shed, and it must be wiped away; life has been lost, and it must be avenged. My father has perished miserably--yet not miserably, for he died on the field of battle. His blood cries aloud for vengeance." The aged minister's grief would not allow him to utter the prayer that passed from his heart to heaven on behalf of his erring pupil. Lord Maxwell silently wrung the hand that was enclosed in his own, and hastened to meet the barons, who had now assembled in the hall, and only waited until their host should assume his place, before beginning their morning's repast. Considerable division of opinion existed in the councils of the Nithsdale barons, with regard to the propriety of putting an end to the disturbances, by entering into league with Sir James Johnstone; but the determination with which Lord Maxwell avowed his intention of calling upon them all to act in conformity with their previous letters of _manrent_, soon put an end to the deliberations of the morning, and immediate steps were taken for pursuing the warfare with renewed vigour. Sir Robert Maxwell of Orchardstone, who was married to a sister of Sir James Johnstone, but who had, nevertheless, taken the part of his chief, Lord Maxwell, in the recent disputes, was permitted to remain inactive; but his contingency of men was required as rigorously as that of any other baron who had bound himself to give all support to the head of the clan. Day after day incursions were made by these hostile tribes into the territory of each other; their hatred hourly waxed stronger; those courtesies which even mosstroopers sometimes practised were thrown aside with shameful indifference. Rapine and crimes of every complexion were of daily occurrence; villages were burned without compunction; neither age nor sex was spared; slaughter and conflagration were now the end and aim of the freebooters, instead of plunder. No redeeming ray was cast over the horrors of this continued warfare, by any of those circumstances which sometimes show the hearts of men in their more favourable aspects; and to describe the progress of events in this district of country for the course of many succeeding years, would serve only to weary and disgust with a repetition of the most fearful atrocities. Is it wonderful that a familiarity with scenes of blood should steel the heart of the young baron, and make him deaf to the voice of compassion or remonstrance? Need it be said that cruelty became the characteristic of his mind? that his temper became harsh, his disposition imperious, and his spirit as untameable as it was fiery? Neither the threats nor the entreaties of his sovereign himself could make Lord Maxwell lay aside his vindictive purpose: the former were despised, because they could not be executed; the latter were unheeded, because they were as dust in the balance, compared with the revenge which the young chief had vowed to obtain. The appointment of his experienced rival to the wardenry of the middle marches, about five or six years after the battle of Dryffe Sands, made the cup of bitterness overflow. Lord Maxwell took advantage of Sir James Johnstone's absence to ravage that baron's territory with greater ferocity than ever; and, on the pretext afforded by this last fearful inroad, he was prohibited from approaching the Border counties. The mandate was scorned, because it could not be carried into effect; and these hostile tribes continued to lay waste the territories of each other, until King James ascended the English throne, when, in the course of a year or two, the power of that monarch was so much strengthened, that he was, ere long, enabled to place under the command of Sir James Johnstone a force which was found sufficient for the purpose of expelling the refractory Lord Maxwell. The fugitive baron, half-frenzied with anger and disappointment, was invited by his kinsman, the Marquis of Hamilton, to take up his abode in Craignethan Castle, a stronghold situated in the most fertile district of Clydesdale, upon a rock which overhangs the river. The marquis and his father (who had died a short time before the arrival of Lord Maxwell at Craignethan) had always supported their relative whenever differences arose betwixt him and the court of King James; and this support was tendered, not so much from the coarser motives which, for the most part, lay at the foundation of noble friendships in those days, as from regard to Lord Maxwell, whose better qualities had not been so totally obscured in the course of his brief but bloody career, as to prevent him from becoming an object of affection among his own kindred and dependants. But neither the marquis, nor his mother (who still lived to relate, rather for her own amusement than for the edification of her hearers, the achievements of her race), nor his sister, the Lady Margaret, could devise any means of dispelling the gloom which marked the countenance and deportment of their guest; and he seemed even to hate the very amusements with which his friends endeavoured to draw his thoughts away from the bitter recollections that were the daily subject of his contemplation. His only enjoyment seemed to consist in traversing the romantic scenes which lay around; and scarcely a day passed without a visit to some of those spots in which the rude magnificence exhibited by nature in the rocks and ravines, was contested with the gentleness and beauty that characterised many patches reclaimed from the waste by the industry of the neighbouring husbandmen. At other times he would roam through the woods until he lost himself in their mazes, and his mind was roused into activity by the effort to retrace his steps. A beautiful dell, in which all sorts of scenery were harmoniously combined, was a favourite haunt of the baron; and here he often stretched himself at mid-day beneath the shadow of some vast oak or beech, that he might meditate in solitude and in silence on schemes for retrieving his affairs--for restoring him to his possessions in their full extent and without restraint--and, above all, for consummating that revenge which was still ungratified, notwithstanding all the rapine and slaughter of eight years. As he was one day engaged in such contemplations--profaning with evil thoughts the retreats which seemed to have been consecrated by nature to peace, and holiness, and all good affections--his attention was arrested by a song familiar to Borderers, and composed by one of the men who had been executed for the murder of Sir James Johnstone's predecessor in the wardenship of the middle marches. But, although the associations which were awakened in the mind of Lord Maxwell on hearing "Johnnie Armstrong's Last Good-night,"[4] were of a mixed nature, the sweet tones of the singer, and the allusions to the Border, made him forget, in the delight of the moment, the more painful meditations which had been thus agreeably interrupted. The delicious dream lasted only for a minute; the voice of song was hushed; and although the baron, with curiosity to which he had for years remained a stranger, started alertly from the ground, that he might discover the sweet disturber of his thoughts, he was too late; for no one save himself stood within the dell, where he had sought solitude, though, as it turned out, he had not altogether found it. [Footnote 4: "The music of the most accomplished singer," says Goldsmith, in his "Essays," "is dissonance to what I felt when an old dairymaid sang me into tears with 'Johnnie Armstrong's Last Good-night.'" Of this ballad only two stanzas (which are subjoined) have survived till modern times. The beauty of these only deepens the feeling of regret at the loss of the rest. "This night is my departing night, For here nae langer must I stay; There's neither friend nor foe o' mine But wishes me away. "What I have done, through lack o' wit, I never, never can recall: I hope ye're a' my friends as yet-- Good-night, and joy be with you all!"] His reveries were now at an end for the time; and he returned to the castle with that reluctance which every man feels when he is about to mingle in society, without possessing the power of deriving delight from his intercourse with human-kind. In the course of the evening--which was usually devoted by the guests of the marquis to sports, varied by occasional conversations on all sorts of subjects, from lively to severe--a keen dispute arose betwixt a young French count and one of his comrades with regard to the merits of Scottish music. After arguing, and stating, and re-stating their opinions, until they found that the one could not convince the other, they agreed to refer the point to Lord Maxwell, who seemed to be the only person not talking, or listening to talk, at the moment; and they then proceeded to give specimens at once of their own vocal powers and of the beauty of the music peculiarly prevalent in their respective countries. After the trial was completed, a round of laughter greeted the competitors, whose performance, it may be supposed from this reception, was none of the most beautiful. The umpire, when asked to deliver his award, only shook his head. "Though I don't pretend to say which is the _better_ singer," said Lord Maxwell, "I will undertake to convince our foreign friend that Scottish melodies are at least equal to the music which he adores; but you, my lord, must aid me, otherwise this mighty dispute must remain unsettled." "Speak your wish," said the marquis, "and it shall be gratified, if I can help you." "You have sometimes told me that I do nothing but mope about your woods and ravines, scarcely opening my eyes or my ears; but to-day, at least, it was not so. My day-dreams were agreeably dispelled by some songstress, who had escaped, however, before I could discover whether the lips which breathed such melody were as sweet as the song. Could you only hear "Armstrong's Good-night" warbled as I heard it to-day, your disputes would soon be at an end. Perhaps some of the village girls may----" "No village girl, my lord," exclaimed the defender of Scottish music. All eyes were in a moment fixed upon Lady Margaret, whose blushes had betrayed her. The ballad was once more sung; and need it be said that the disbeliever in Scottish melody became a convert, and, like other converts, became even more zealous than his old antagonist in praises of the song and of the songstress? Lord Maxwell began to chide himself for not having sooner discovered that Lady Margaret was not only endowed with a sweet voice, but possessed of great personal attractions. He had, indeed, frequently heard her sing, but the right chord had never been touched before; and it was only when the ballads with which he was familiar, and which were the native growth of his own province, fell upon his ear, that attention was awakened, and the full beauty of the vocal powers possessed by his unseen charmer was perceived. Margaret Hamilton was now in her eighteenth year, and possessed that irregular beauty, glowing with life and health, which wins the heart more readily than the most faultless but chilling perfection of feature. The high intelligence and elevated feeling which met "in her aspect and her eyes," her bright complexion and raven ringlets, made her such a being as the imagination delights to portray and contemplate, though the beautiful vision which flits across the mind seldom has a living, and breathing, and moving counterpart in the material world. The excursions of Lord Maxwell were not now so solitary as they had been before the occurrence of the incident already mentioned; and a walk without a companion was now the exception from the general rule. That companion--need it be recorded--was Margaret Hamilton. Every scene that deserved a visit--every wondrous work of nature or curious work of man, within a range of several miles around Craignethan Castle--was pointed out by Lady Margaret for the admiration of her brother's guest. Nor was it long before the admiration bestowed upon the lifeless scenes which they contemplated in common was transferred to each other by the animated observers themselves. They rapidly proceeded through all the stages of that fever which, in its crisis, is called love. The feuds, and animosities, and revenge, of the Nithsdale baron were for a time forgotten; those better affections which had been cherished by the preceptor of his youth--the gentler feelings which produce the courtesies and kindnesses of life--the intellectual tastes which had long lain uncultivated, and had indeed borne many weeds under the influence of harsh passions--all these began in some measure to revive; his spirit, freed for a season from the operation of those motives which had hitherto guided it with so much power, appeared to be softened; his demeanour lost somewhat of its sternness; and a new passion seemed gradually to be expelling all those fiercer emotions by which he had hitherto been governed. But these delightful days could not last for ever; and the marquis, although he was pleased when he first saw the change in the deportment of his relative, felt that the intimacy of his sister and his kinsman could not last long without ripening into attachment. Yet he attempted to soothe his disquietude by the usual excuse that his apprehensions were outrunning the reality; and he delayed all interference until interference was in vain. Besides, he was himself about to enter into the state of wedlock, and could not be in a very fit condition for treating the affections of others with anything like severity. Autumn had arrived before the marquis introduced the subject. He rallied his kinsman on his bachelorship. "But why may not I remain a bachelor, and be as happy as you?" "What!--I would Lady Margaret heard you. Could _she_ not make you change your mind?" said the marquis, keenly eyeing Lord Maxwell. The baron gave no reply; for the words died on his lips. The blood forsook his cheek; the fire was quenched in his eye; even his stature seemed to lessen; and he looked as if Heaven in its wrath had struck him with its thunderbolt. The oath which he had sworn, and which he had broken even by his sloth in lingering at Craignethan Castle, recurred to his mind in all its force:--one aim, one hope, one affection, one object--revenge, bloody revenge, on the head of the clan that had slain his father, was all for which he had vowed to live, until the deed of death was accomplished, or he himself was laid in the dust. He remembered, with loathing unspeakable, the words which he had uttered; his heart felt crushed within him; and he stood without speaking a word, until his horrorstricken friend seized him by the hand, and roused him from the fearful reverie into which he had so suddenly fallen. "I thank you--I thank you," cried Maxwell, abstractedly; "but I forget. Your roof can shelter me no more. I must leave you now--ay, this very instant." "But, my dear friend," said the marquis, interrupting him, "why do you speak of departure? I did not mean offence, and let none be taken." "Nay, nay, I am not offended at aught: you have reminded me of my duty; and every moment that I stay here is a moment lost. I must to horse." "But not without telling me why you leave me so abruptly. You say I have not offended you; and yet you talked not of departure until this moment. If the reason be one that can be told, why should you conceal it from your warmest friend?" "My father's death is unavenged. I have loitered here like a dull slave shrinking from his task. I have forfeited my faith--I have broken my oath. I must redeem the one, and fulfil the other." "What task? what faith? what oath?" ejaculated the marquis, hurriedly. "I have told you the task--to revenge my father's death! I have sworn that, until the life's-blood of his foe be sprinkled on the earth, I will not rest by day or by night--I will not enjoy land, power, or life itself, except as the means of accomplishing my purpose. I will remain unwedded--I will possess no hope in earth or in heaven, save one--the hope of revenge. I have broken my faith; for I have not laboured without ceasing, but have lazily sojourned under this roof. That faith must be redeemed by the fulfilment of my vow. Should the fair lady of whom you spoke," he added, in a tone little elevated above a whisper, "deign to look down on one so unworthy, she will see me a suitor at her feet whenever my first duty has been discharged." The remonstrances of the marquis could avail nothing, and Lord Maxwell sallied forth from Craignethan Castle. The prohibitions of his sovereign had no power to prevent the baron and his vassals from renewing hostilities against their hereditary enemies. The awakened chief hastened, despite the royal mandate, to his native possessions; the joyous news of his return spread, in a day, from Thrieve Castle to the remotest hamlet in Eskdale--for the authority of the Maxwells extended over the vast district of country which lies on the Scottish side of the Solway. Immediate preparations were made for an incursion into Annandale. But these movements did not take place without the knowledge of Sir James Johnstone, who, on his side, mustered his vassals, and obtained reinforcements of royal troops, for the purpose of protecting his own territory, as well as enforcing obedience to the will of his sovereign, by compelling Lord Maxwell once more to retire from the Borders. The Lord of Nithsdale proceeded on his expedition, with the view of pursuing his opponent into his fastnesses in the hills; but his schemes were baffled by Sir James Johnstone, who selected a rising ground not very far from the scene of the bloody conflict of Dryffe Sands, as an advantageous position for receiving the attack of his enemy. Lord Maxwell had expected that he would have taken his opponent unawares--that he would have found Johnstone's retainers scattered, and his territory undefended; but, nevertheless, with characteristic impetuosity, he resolved to risk a battle; the disgrace of retreating without striking a blow, the dismay which anything like vacillation was likely to produce among his retainers, and those motives which addressed themselves more directly to his passions, all weighed with him, even though he learned that his force was inferior to that of his foe. The conflict was severe and protracted; but, although Lord Maxwell's followers fought with desperate courage, they were unable to keep their ground against the large and well-appointed force arrayed against them. Their leader rallied them once and again; animated them by his own example; called on them to bear themselves as they were wont; reminded them, by one or two words, of former conflicts bravely fought; and did all that he could to secure victory. But his efforts were in vain, and his retainers fled on every side, after the battle had been contested until not a man remained without a wound. He, however, did not join his followers, though they tried to hurry him from the field; but he disengaged himself from their grasp, and, frantic with disappointment, rushed into the midst of his adversaries. The cry, "Take him alive," was instantly heard; and Lord Maxwell, overwhelmed by numbers, and exhausted by his unremitting exertions, was the prisoner of Sir James Johnstone. But he was not now permitted to choose his own place of retirement; and, after remaining for some days in Annandale, he was conveyed to Edinburgh, and immured in the castle. Solitude, instead of soothing his passions, made them more vehement than ever; and the desire of revenge, which had been originally produced on the death of his father, now derived additional energy from his sense of personal injury and suffering. It could not be supposed that the fate of Lord Maxwell could be regarded by his friends with that cold indifference which is the general feeling among men when misfortune overtakes their neighbours. The ties of clanship had not lost their strength in the days of King James; and other ties, which had been knit under happier circumstances, were not forgotten in the hour of danger. Lady Margaret Hamilton, who, like persons of the same rank, usually resided in Edinburgh during the winter and spring, heard of the imprisonment of the baron with grief, which, it may be, was not ummingled with joy at the anticipation of his presence in the same city; and the resolution that she would endeavour to procure his release was scarcely formed, when she found an agent and coadjutor in the person of a retainer of Lord Maxwell, commonly called Charlie o' Kirkhouse. This freebooter, who was the baron's foster brother, was devotedly attached to his chief; and he would have earnestly petitioned the authorities to place him in attendance on Lord Maxwell, had he not recollected that he would thereby, in a great measure, be prevented from assisting that nobleman to escape. Charlie, though a shrewd fellow, had been more in the practice of executing than devising schemes; and as he thought it scarcely possible for himself, single-handed, to effect his object, he proceeded to the Marquis of Hamilton's, for the purpose of obtaining an interview with Lady Margaret, who, as he supposed, would readily give him all the aid in her power. Charlie made his application on the pretext that he wished to visit his chief, and suggested that the marquis could facilitate his free and frequent admission. But Lady Margaret recommended him rather to enlist in the royal service; and, as he would then be received into the castle, he would be better able to assist Lord Maxwell in any attempt to escape; while, at the same time, he would be able to co-operate with her in any schemes which she might devise for effecting the same object. By dint of perseverance, Charlie overcame the proverbial and preliminary difficulty of making the first step; and, by abusing his chief for a tyrant and everything that was bad (his peculiar dialect told too many tales), he next endeavoured to win the confidence of his superiors, and thus remove the only obstacles which prevented him from obtaining access to the prisoner. This, however, was a much more tedious process than he imagined. Will o'Gunmerlie, a follower of Johnstone, who was stationed in the castle by his chief, with the view of making up for the deficiencies in point of vigilance on the part of the constituted authorities, retained the clannish dislike of the Nithsdale soldier, and thwarted him so often, that he began almost to despair of success; but he still hoped, by ingratiating himself with some of the superior officers in the garrison, that all obstacles would ere long be overcome. While he was one day on guard, in the immediate neighbourhood of Lord Maxwell's prison, one of his comrades approached, accompanied by a youth, whose bonnet was pulled down upon his brows, and whose face was, in consequence, for the most part concealed from view. "Wha's this, Charlie, think ye?" said the soldier, laconically. "I canna say I ken," replied Charlie, closely scrutinising the stranger. "Hae ye nae guess wha he is?" repeated the soldier. Charlie shook his head. "Am I not," said the youth, stepping up to the perplexed sentinel--"am I not Lord Maxwell's brother?" "His brither!!!" exclaimed Charlie, in a tone which can only be represented by a regiment of notes of admiration. "Yes--his brother," repeated the youth, at the same time slightly raising his bonnet so as to give Charlie a peep of a very fair complexion. "Look at me again." Charlie's wonder ceased in a moment. "I daurna dispute what you say." "Then he is Lord's Maxwell's brother!" said the conductor of the youth. "Wha else should he be?" replied Charlie o' Kirkhouse, at the same time resuming his duties. Leave of admission was soon obtained for the youth; and, in the course of a few minutes, he stood in the presence of Lord Maxwell. The room into which he was introduced was small and gloomy--for the light was admitted only by a single loophole, guarded by a bar of iron; and everything showed that this was, indeed, a prison. The tenant of this apartment was engaged at a table, placed as near the scanty window as possible, and covered with books and papers, which he seemed to be intently studying. "Your brother, my lord," said the jailer. "I will return in half-an-hour," he added, turning to the youth, whom he then left standing in the middle of the room. "My brother Charlie?" exclaimed Lord Maxwell, starting up, and hastening to meet his visiter. "I thought you had been in London. But how? you are not my brother. Charlie was a strapping fellow when last I saw him, and--excuse me--you have the advantage." But, instead of answering, the youth blushed "celestial rosy red, love's proper hue"--and that so deeply, that even through the gloom the baron saw the glow on the cheek. "What! a youth--and to blush!" said he, eyeing his visiter keenly; "it cannot be; and yet who should it be but----" "You have not forgotten 'Johnny Armstrong's Good-night,'" whispered the youth. "Nor that voice," added the baron, saluting his pretended brother. "What good spirit has brought you here, my dear Lady Margaret?" "I have brought you the means of escape: you can disguise yourself in my cloak and hat; the jailer will not know the difference in this dismal light, or rather darkness; the sentinel at the end of the court is Charlie o'Kirkhouse, who may be sent as your guide and guard to the gate; the cloak and hat will deceive the rest, whose recollection is doubtless by this time faint enough to favour the attempt." "It must not be; for, even though no evil were to result from the attempt, I would not have you subjected to the rudeness of menials." "Say not so, my lord, for nobody will dare to injure me. I never made a request before, and I may never make another." "Nay--not so, I hope; but it cannot be that I should meanly leave you in my stead. Forgive me, my dear lady, if I refuse to avail myself of the means of escape which you propose; but deem me not so selfish as to value my own freedom above yours--as to skulk in disguise from these walls, and leave you here exposed to the insults of the angry underlings deputed by a suspicious enemy to watch my every movement." "Would that I could prevail upon you, my dear lord," said Lady Margaret, affectionately, "to make the attempt; and would that I could prevail upon you to cast aside your schemes of vengeance, to devote your energies to the cause of your country, and to hear in your halls the sounds of merriment rather than the wailings of sorrow over friends whose lives have been lost in feudal warfare." "Would that I could prevail upon myself," rejoined Lord Maxwell, "and be content to pass my years in peace and in happiness, with none save one to care for. But I forget myself: these things cannot come to pass." "And why not?--why may they not now? If you will sign a bond, disavowing all intent of renewing your hereditary warfare with your hereditary foes, you would be placed at liberty; and my brother will pledge his life and land for your word." "No more--tempt me no more; my will was weak and wavering; but I have not yet renounced my vow. You have spoken of my hereditary foes--shall I be the first of my race to cast away my heritage? Happiness is a dream: I know it now--for this moment--though bolts and bars retain me here--though the sun's blessed ray scarce reaches me--though I have passed my days in tumult and trouble, which will accompany me till life has reached its close. But this is all a dream: in a little while, you, my dear lady, will leave me; and with you, the dream will depart." "Is there no hope left? Is your heart closed against me? Is your ear deaf to my prayer? Will you not hasten from these horrid walls? Will you sign no bond?" "Never--never: I would as soon sign my own death-warrant, or yours; for to sign my own would not wring my heart. I will sign no bond: I will give no pledge. I need no man's honour to be gauged for my forbearance. Pardon me, if I seem rude, and rough, and stern. I would that the time were come when it might not be so--that my destiny were accomplished; for it may be that, by brooding over schemes of vengeance, our minds are filled with strange presentiments. When one deed has been done--when my first task has been completed--when my vow is fulfilled--happiness may yet be in store." Neither the tears nor the entreaties of Lady Margaret could prevail on the inflexible baron; who, however, declared his resolution to try some other means of escape; and with this view suggested the propriety of ascertaining what assistance could now be rendered by Charlie o' Kirkhouse. Lady Margaret, as she was conducted from the baron's cell, communicated to the trooper the joint wishes of his chief and of herself. Lord Maxwell now occupied his mind with projects of escape; and closely examined the aperture which admitted a scanty portion of light into the apartment; but its construction presented almost insuperable obstacles. Nothing daunted, however, he resolved to try whether, by displacing a part of the wall, he might not be able to open a passage; but the rate at which the work advanced was so slow, that a whole lifetime would have been required to accomplish his object. As he had one evening arranged the rubbish according to his usual custom before meal-times, so that his operations might not be visible to the jailer, that functionary entered; but, instead of quietly placing on the table the viands which he bore, he addressed himself, in an under tone, to Lord Maxwell: "Would you like to escape, my lord?" "Charlie o' Kirkhouse, as I'm a living man!" exclaimed the baron. "How got you here?" "Hush--you shall know afterwards. Let us change dresses; I will remain in your stead." "But you must not run into danger on my account." "Danger! What danger? They dinna care to meddle wi' sma' gentry like me. You maun do as I bid you." "Well, well, Charlie," said the baron, nothing loth to seize the opportunity of escape, undeterred by any feeling of delicacy in the event of his substitute being discovered, and satisfying his scruples with the reflection that Charlie's insignificance would protect him from insult or injury. The exchange was forthwith made; and so well had Charlie selected the hour, that Lord Maxwell received no interruption, except from the sentry at the outer gate, who wanted to crack a joke with his friend Charlie o'Kirkhouse. Though the soldier looked somewhat suspicious when his joke was acknowledged only by a "humph," yet nothing further occurring to strengthen his suspicions, he quietly resumed his measured tread. The baron soon provided himself with a horse; and the following morning found him at Thrieve Castle. Meanwhile, Charlie o'Kirkhouse, who remained the tenant of Lord Maxwell's apartment, was missed by his comrades; but the story of the sentinel, that he had seen "the Nithsdale trooper in a huff trampin' doun the toun," satisfied them for the night. The jailer--who had a second key, and thus was able to obtain admission--was taken aback on visiting the cell on the following morning, when he found himself rather roughly hugged by the prisoner, who thrust him head over heels into a recess filled with what was, in courtesy, called a bed. Before the astounded functionary could open his mouth, he heard the door locked, and found himself a prisoner. He shouted, kicked, and thumped on the door, and made all the din in his power. Charlie found the key in the door at the end of a passage which led to the cell, and which had prevented him from making his escape in the night-time; but his dress attracted the notice and suspicion of some officers. He was seized without delay. His excuse, however, that he had been "a guizardin" would have served his purpose, had not the imprisoned jailer, by dint of clamour, brought some of his comrades to the door, and let them know the state of the case. Charlie was immediately pursued; and, as he had not reached the castle gate, he was captured without difficulty. "A pretty fellow you are," said Will o'Gunmerlie, "ye leein scoon'rel! but yese get your ser'in for lattin aff yon villain, that ye used to misca' waur nor ony Johnstone. Here. Habbie, Dandie, gie him a roun' dizzen--and sync arither--and sync anither." Charlie o' Kirkhouse fidgeted a little on hearing this order issued, and he would fain have made another attempt to escape; but it was in vain. "Come ane, come a'," he recklessly cried, when no hope was left, "I carena; four dizzen's nae waur nor ane." The punishment was inflicted with full vigour by Will o' Gunmerlie's ministers of justice; and the luckless Charlie was thrust out of the castle, to find comfort and shelter where he might. Meanwhile, Lord Maxwell tried to raise the barons of Nithsdale; but the times had changed so greatly since the accession of James to the English throne, that the lairds felt themselves more independent than they were of old, when their only choice was either to join the standard of some powerful chief, or to suffer their possessions to be spoiled by his retainers. Besides, they were weary of contests with their neighbours; and most of them peremptorily refused to comply with the baron's wishes. His wrath may be more easily conceived than described. After spending some weeks in ineffectual attempts to overcome the resolution of his refractory vassals, he applied to Sir Robert Maxwell of Orchardstone (who, as has already been stated, was connected by marriage with Sir James Johnstone), for the purpose of obtaining an interview with his antagonist, and of trying whether that baron could not be prevailed upon to intercede for him with the king. The aged knight, gratified at the conciliatory disposition shown by Lord Maxwell, fixed time and place for a meeting between the two chiefs, who accordingly hastened, each with a small body of attendants, to the confines of their respective territories, with the view of holding an amicable conference. Leaving most of their attendants at some distance, Sir Robert Maxwell of Orchardstone, Sir James Johnstone, accompanied by Will o' Gunmerlie, and Lord Maxwell, accompanied by Charlie o' Kirkhouse (who had recovered from the effects of his whipping), proceeded to enter on the business which had called them together. "I houp ye're nane the waur o' bein i' the castle, Charlie," cried Will o'Gunmerlie, sneeringly. "Nae thanks to you; I'll hae it oot o' yer hide some day. Tak ye tent, ma man; ye've taen gude whangs o' ither folk's leather--look to yer ain." "Ha! ha! ha!" was the only reply of the other. "Dinna anger me," vociferated Charlie, in a nettled tone, looking at his pistol; "I tauld ye ye would get yer ser'in. There's nocht to hinder me frae giein ye't noo. There--tak that!" And in a moment the freebooter raised his pistol, and shot the unsuspecting Will o'Gunmerlie, who rolled from his horse in the agonies of death. Sir James Johnstone, on hearing the shot and the groans of his murdered attendant, turned about to see what had happened, and (in the words of the old chronicler) "immediately Maxwell shot him behind his back with ane pistoll chairgit with two poysonit bullets." The unfortunate chief fell from his horse; and, although he lingered for some time, his wound was mortal. He lived, however, so long as to declare his wishes with regard to various weighty matters, and to utter a word of consolation to Orchardstone, whose grief was rendered agonising by the recollection that his credulity had been the means of hastening the death of Sir James. Lord Maxwell immediately proceeded to the Castle of the Thrieve, where a large company was assembled, for the purpose, as they thought, of celebrating the reconciliation betwixt the two clans, and also the marriage of the chief with Lady Margaret Hamilton, who had been conducted thither by her brother. On Lord Maxwell's return, he sought a private interview with the marquis--told him what he had done--asked him to communicate the circumstances to the bride, and learn whether she would be wedded to a man whose hand was newly stained with blood. "But he has slain his enemy in honourable battle," said Lady Margaret; "he has borne himself like a true knight; and, even though he may now depart for a season, the king has pardoned more heinous offences." When the reply was reported to the baron, he muttered, with that sneering the which betrays the bitterness of the heart--"In honourable fight!--most honourable! Would it had been so!--But I will not now undeceive her." The nuptials proceeded; the festivities were commenced, and continued to a late hour. Early on the following morning, the baron left his weeping bride, and, with his faithful retainer, Charlie o'Kirkhouse, hastened in disguise from his own home and country. Notwithstanding all the efforts of the Marquis of Hamilton and other friends of the expatriated Baron of Nithsdale, no pardon could be extorted from King James--whose virtue seems for once to have been proof against all the temptations and threats which his most powerful Scottish subjects could hold forth. Lord Maxwell's peace of mind was gone; for all that was dear to him--his country and kindred--were at a distance; the engrossing object of his thought for many years past had been attained; and his memory would not allow him to forget that his revenge had been accomplished by meanly assassinating his enemy. After he had remained for about three or four years, wasting the prime of his days in exile and in misery, he learned that Lady Margaret was in bad spirits; then in bad health; then that her life was despaired of; and he resolved, at all hazards, to revisit Scotland. But, before his voyage was ended, Lady Margaret had breathed her last--heart-broken in the midst of those enjoyments--wealth, power, and rank--which are fondly supposed, by those who possess them not, and by not a few who do possess them, to be the infallible means of securing human felicity. The only object which made life worth retaining, in the estimation of Lord Maxwell, was thus snatched from him; and he would have immediately delivered himself up to justice, had it not been for the remonstrances of his faithful attendant, Charlie o'Kirkhouse. The family of Sir James Johnstone, as well as the constituted authorities, hunted the baron over the whole country; until, after frequently enduring the extremity of distress, he was seized in the wilds of Caithness, to which he had ultimately been driven. The indefatigable industry of his hereditary foes pursued him even to this distant retreat; and he was brought to Edinburgh, where, once more, he returned to his old quarters in the castle. Among the friends who came to visit him, with the view of concerting measures for his defence, was the Marquis of Hamilton. "Do you know that they mean to rob Charles of his birthright?" said the baron, on the entrance of his friend. "Oh, my good lord, such deeds would never have been done, had some of your ancestors filled the seat of the mean-spirited prince who rules this unhappy country." "Hush, hush, my friend!" said the marquis; "speak nought like treason. I know it all. My lord treasurer, or his deputy, cannot want the estates; and you must therefore submit to a charge of fire-raising as well as of murder." "May my curse or my blessing--for I know not which is more likely to bring the worse consequences--rest upon them all, if they take from my race their own inheritance, because I, forsooth, have sent a hoary villain a little before his time to his account!" "Speak not so harshly, kinsman; your sense of your own sufferings makes you unjust. Men say that these sufferings have been self-inflicted; but I will not say so. I come to learn if in aught I can mitigate them." "Mitigate them, did you say? I ask no mitigation; for my life is now a burden. I ask no pity; I ask no sympathy I have but one possession which I can still call my own; it is not inherited; I cannot transmit it; it is my sole luxury, my sole treasure--and it is one which you will not covet. I have nought but my own misery that I can call my own--self-inflicted it may be; I dispute not about a word. But if it be self-inflicted, so much the more is it my own property. Forgive me, my lord, if I seem rude and hasty in temper; but I have scarce slept under a roof since, after long absence, I last touched my native soil, until last night, indeed, when I harboured here. I have been hunted by hounds of human breed; I have skulked in mosses, forests, and caverns, as familiarly as you have trodden the courts of palaces. Need you wonder I am worn to what I am--a mere skeleton-a wretched, decrepid thing--more like a being returned from the grave, than a living man?" "It is but too true," said the marquis; "yet is there nought you would wish me to do? No token of affection to send to your friends----" "Nothing--nothing." The time of trial at length arrived, and Lord Maxwell was indicted for the crimes of murder and of fire-raising. The introduction of the latter charge was the cause of bitter complaint on the part of the prisoner; for he well knew that the object of the public authorities was to obtain the forfeiture of his estates; and the treasurer-depute, Sir Gideon Murray, was supposed to have instigated them to combine this minor accusation with the other. The crime of fire-raising, according to the ancient Scottish law, if perpetrated by a landed man, constituted a species of treason, and inferred forfeiture. The purpose of public justice, however, was, on this, as an other occasions in the same reign, sullied by being united with that of enriching some needy favourite. No difficulty was felt in proving either of the charges; the former, indeed, was not denied; and the latter was established by the evidence of some sufferers in the course of the first outrages committed after the battle of Dryffe Sands. The baron was found guilty of both crimes, and sentenced to be beheaded. Every effort was made to obtain pardon for him; but the king and his counsellors were inexorable. On the night before the execution, Sir Robert Maxwell of Orchardstone, who was now very far advanced in years, visited his kinsman and chief, under the guidance of the Marquis of Hamilton. "And it has come to this at last!" exclaimed the old man. "Would to heaven, my dear lord, you had listened to the prayer of your humble clansman, eighteen years ago. Brief time is left to make your peace. Some holy man may be able to soothe your mind, ruffled though it be." "Mock me not, dear uncle," said the baron, in a tone of bitterness which startled the old man with horror. "Torture me not with talk about peace and holy men. They cannot give me peace--they cannot give me happiness on earth or in heaven. I am content with the share I have enjoyed. One gleam of sunshine has crossed my path--one fair flowret has blessed my sight--one spring has gladdened the weary wilderness--one human heart has been mine; and though it is mine no longer--though the flower has been blighted, and the bright gleam of happiness, now departed, has only made me more sensitive to the succeeding darkness, and the spring is dried, and the human heart lies in the dust--I ask no more. My cup of bliss is full--one drop has filled it. My heaven has been already enjoyed--no dotard can bring me tidings of weal or wo; I cannot part with it. Leave me, good uncle and good cousin. I would bless you, but my blessing might prove a curse." His sorrowing friends left him as he wished. He was beheaded on the following morning. His estates, which had been forfeited, were granted in part to the treasurer-depute, a favourite of the king; but, after the lapse of a few years, the attainder was reversed, and the honours and estates conferred upon his brother. THE CLERICAL MURDERER. The story which has been told of John Smithson, the minister of Berwick, who was, in the year 1672, executed for committing a crime which has seldom stained the hands of the ministers of the religion of Christ, is as true as it is extraordinary. There are connected with it some circumstances which have communicated to it a character of even deeper interest than what generally invests tales of blood. Sympathy for the victim, disgust and hatred towards the perpetrator, and a general feeling of horror at the contemplation of the crime, are the usual emotions excited by the commission of an aggravated murder; but there are sometimes afforded, by these melancholy exhibitions of the weakness and sinfulness of our fallen nature, certain lights, "burning blue," which lay open, with their mysterious glare, recesses in the heart of man which no philosophy has ever been able to reach and develop. It was remarked that Smithson was one of the best of sons. His aged mother was supported by him for a long period, and at a time when he could very ill spare the means. Indeed, such was his filial affection, that he once travelled fifty miles in one day, to get payment of a small sum of money that had been due to his father; and to procure which for his mother he required to beg his way to the residence of the creditor. When he returned, he presented to her the whole sum; and when asked upon what he had supported himself on the journey, he replied that the cause in which he was engaged procured him the means of subsistence, for he was not refused alms by a single individual whom he had solicited. It was in consequence of his kindness to his father and mother that he was assisted by a rich friend to acquire education fitted for his becoming a clergyman. For this patron he ever afterwards felt the strongest esteem; and his gratitude kept pace with his affection. He attended his friend on his death-bed, and administered to him that knowledge and consolation which the clerical education he had received enabled him to bestow on his dying benefactor. Nor did he consider that the gratuitous assistance which had thus been extended to him could be repaid alone by affection towards the vicarious giver, but declared that, as it came from Heaven, so ought the gratitude of his heart to be directed to the origin of all gifts that are bestowed on the deserving. Gratitude is not only its own reward, but the cause often of the means of its own increase; for Smithson's benefactor was so pleased with his attention to him when dying, that he left him a large legacy in his will, which relieved him from that state of dependence which he found had limited his means of doing good. He soon afterwards married a very beautiful woman, and got himself placed in the church of Berwick. His ministerial duties were performed with the greatest devotion and zeal for the welfare of the people intrusted to his charge. His attention to his parishioners was unremitting--his prayers for the dying or the sorrow-smitten were fervent--and the poor and aged not only tasted of the consolations afforded by his pious sympathy, but often had their wants relieved by his charitable hand. No mortal eye could discover in this any insincerity, far less any cloak put on to cover evil already done, or any false assumption of a good and devout character, to avert the eye of suspicion from deeds intended to be perpetrated. His character had indeed, in other respects, been tried, and found not awanting. A relation of his had died, and left a large sum of money to be divided among his nephews and nieces. The money was recovered by Smithson, and upon the young heirs arriving at majority, was divided among them with so much honesty, that they all combined in addressing to him a letter, wherein they extolled his character for justice, honour, and piety, and attributed to him all the qualities of a saint. In addition to all this, his conjugal character was unspotted. His attentions to his wife were what might have been expected from a good husband and a minister of the gospel; the breath of scandal never dimmed the purity of his fidelity; nor could the most querulous exacter of conjugal obligations have found any fault with the manner in which he fulfilled, not only the duties of a husband, but the more generous and less easily counterfeited attentions of the lover. His wife seemed to be grateful for his kindness, and respected his official character as much as she loved those private virtues, from which she was much benefited. On a Sunday previous to that on which the Sacrament was to be dispensed, he preached in the church of Berwick. His text was the sixth Commandment--"Thou shalt not kill." His sermons, always animated and vigorous, and possessing even a tint of devout enthusiasm, were much relished by his congregation; but on that day he outshone all his former efforts of pulpit eloquence. He painted the character of the murderer with colours drawn from the palette of inspired truth; the cruel, remorseless, bloodthirsty heart of the son of Cain was laid open to the eyes of his entranced audience; the feelings of the victim were described with such power of sympathy, that the tears of the congregation fell in ready and heartfelt tribute to the power of his delineation; his own emotion, equalling that of his people, filled his eyes with tears, and lent to his voice that peculiar thrilling sound which calls forth, while it expresses, the strongest pity. The man of God seemed inspired, and he communicated the inspiration to those who heard him. His hand was observed to tremble; his eye was bloodshot; his manner nervous, tremulous, excited, and enthusiastic; his voice "broken with pity," and at times discordant with the overpowering excess of his emotion. His whole soul seemed under the influence of divine power; and his body, quailing under the energies of its nobler partner, shook like a thing touched by the hand of the Almighty. On that morning the preacher had murdered his wife. By the time the congregation came out, the news had begun to spread. Nobody would credit what they heard, while they exclaimed that his sermon was strange, and his manner remarkable. A determination not to believe was mixed with strange insinuations, and the town of Berwick was suspended between extravagant incredulity and unaccountable suspicions. But the report was true, and the fact remains as one of those occurrences in life which no knowledge of the heart of man, though dignified with the proud name of philosophy, has been, or perhaps ever will be, able to explain. END OF VOL. XV. 
37336	----	Wilson's Tales of the Borders AND OF SCOTLAND. HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE. WITH A GLOSSARY. REVISED BY ALEXANDER LEIGHTON, _One of the Original Editors and Contributors._ VOL. XXI. LONDON: WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE, AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE. 1884. CONTENTS. THE BURGHER'S TALES, (_Alexander Leighton_)-- THE HOUSE IN BELL'S WYND, 5 THE PRODIGAL SON, (_John Mackay Wilson_), 39 THE LAWYER'S TALES, (_Alexander Leighton_)-- THE WOMAN WITH THE WHITE MICE, 56 GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT, (_Prof. Thos. Gillespie_)-- THE EARLY DAYS OF A FRIEND OF THE COVENANT, 84 THE DETECTIVE'S TALE, (_Alexander Leighton_)-- THE CHANCE QUESTION, 119 THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER, (_Alexander Campbell_), 139 THE BRIDE OF BELL'S TOWER, (_Alexander Leighton_), 173 DOCTOR DOBBIE, (_Alexander Campbell_), 206 THE SEEKER, (_John Mackay Wilson_), 235 THE SURGEON'S TALES, (_Alexander Leighton_)-- THE WAGER, 244 WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS, AND OF SCOTLAND. THE BURGHER'S TALES. THE HOUSE IN BELL'S WYND. Some reference has been made by Mr. Chambers, in his _Traditions of Edinburgh_, to a story which looks very like fiction, but the foundation of which, I dare to say, is the following, derived at most third-hand, from George Gourlay, a blacksmith, whose shop was in the Luckenbooths, his dwelling-house in Bell's Wynd, and who was himself an actor in the drama. It is not saying much for the topography of an Edinburgh wynd, to tell that it contained a flat such as that occupied by this blacksmith; but he who would describe one of these peculiar features of the Old Town, would be qualified to come after him who gave a graphic account of the Dædalian Labyrinth, or pictured Menander. Such a wynd has been likened to the vestibule to a certain place, more hot than cozy--at another time, to two long tiers of catacombs with living mummies piled row over row; but, resigning such extravagances, we may be within the bounds of moderation, and not beyond the attributes of fair similitude, when we say that one of these wynds is like a perpendicular town where the long, narrow, dark streets, in place of extending themselves, as they ought, on the earth's surface, proceed upwards to the sky. And which sky is scarcely visible--not that, if the perpendicular line were maintained, the empyrean would be so very much obscured, but that the inhabitants, in proportion as they rise away from mother earth and society, make amends by jutting out their dwellings in the form of Dutch gables, so as to be able to converse with their neighbours opposite on the affairs of the world below--that world above, to which they are so much nearer, being despised, on the principle of familiarity producing contempt. Then the sky-line would so much delight a Gothic architect, composed as it is of a long multiplicity on either side of pointed gables, lum-tops venting reek and smoke, dried women's heads venting something of the same kind. Next, the dark boles of openings to these perpendicular passages--so like entries to coal cellars,--yet where myriads of human beings pass and repass up to and down from these skyward streets, which have no name; being the only streets in the wide world without a nomenclature. We picture the said George Gourlay and his wife, of an evening, at the time of the history of Bell's Wynd, and other such wynds, when a change was taking place among the masses there. The New Town was beginning to hold out its aristocratic attractions to the grandees and wealthy merchants, who had chosen to live so long in so pent-up a place. Ay, many had left years before, or were leaving their lairs to be occupied by those who never thought they would live in houses with armorial bearings over the door. So it was that flats were shut up, and little wonder was created by the circumstance of windows being closed by inside shutters for years. The explanation simply was, that the good old family would come back to its old _lares_, or that no tenant could be got for the empty house. And then, of course, the furniture had flitted to the palaces beyond the North Loch; and what interest could there be in an empty house with the bare walls overhung by cobwebs, or gnawed into sinuosities by hungry rats, thus cruelly deserted by the cooks who ought to have fed them? Yet, in that same stair where Gourlay lived, there was a _door_ with a history that could not be explained in that easy way. "I say it puzzles me, guidwife Christian, and has done for years." "And mair it should me, George. You have been here only nine years, but 'tis now twenty-one since my father was carried to the West Kirk; and a year afore that I heard him say the house was left o' a morning: nor sound nor sigh o' human being has been heard in't since that hour." "And then the changes," said Geordie, "hae ta'en awa the auld folk whase gleg een would hae noticed it. As for Bailie or Dean o' Guild, nane o' them hae ever tirled the padlock." "But the factor, auld Dallas o' Lady Stair's Close, dee'd shortly after my father, and that will partly account for't." "It accounts for naething, guidwife Christian," rejoined he. "Whar's the laird? Men are sometimes forgetfu'; but what man, or woman either, ever forgets their property or heirlooms? Ye ken, love Christian," he continued, looking askance at her, half in seriousness and half in humour, "I am a blacksmith, and hae routh o' skeleton keys." "And never ane o' them will touch that padlock while I'm in your keeping, Geordie. I took ye for an honest man." An opposition or check which Gourlay did not altogether like; for, in secret truth, he had long contemplated an entry by these said skeleton keys, and, like all people who want a justification for some act they wish to perform, not altogether consistent with what is right, he had often in serious playfulness knocked his foot against the old worm-eaten, wood-rusted, dry-rotted door, as if he expected some confined ghost to shriek, like that unhappy spirit of the Buchan Caves, "Let me out, let me out!" whereupon Mr. Gourlay would have been, we doubt not, more humane than his old father-god, who would not let the pretty mother of love out of his iron net. "Honest! there's twa-three kinds o' honesty, wife Christian. There's the cauld iron or steel kind, that will neither brak nor bend--the lukewarm, that is stiff--and the red hot, which canna be handled, but may be twisted by a bribe o' the hammer, or the cajoling o' the nippers. What kind would ye wish mine to be?" "The cauld, that winna bend." "And canna be fashioned to man's purposes, and made a picklock o'? Weel, weel, Christian, I'm content." But George Gourlay was not content, neither then nor for several nights; nor even in that hour when, having watched guidwife Christian as she lay on the liver side, and heard the "snurr, snurr," of her deepest sleep, and listened to the corresponding knurr of the old timepiece as it beat hoarsely the key-stone hour between the night and the day, he slipt noiselessly out of bed, and listened again to ascertain whether his stealthy movement had disturbed his wife. All safe--nor sound anywhere within the house, or even in the Wynd, where midnight orgies of the new-comers sometimes annoyed the remaining grandees not yet gone over the Loch; no, nor rap, rap, upwards from the spirits in the deserted house right below him, inviting him by the call of "Let me out." Most opportune silence,--not even broken by guidwife Christian's Baudron watching with brain-lighted eyes at some hole in a meat-press. And dark too, not less than Cimmerian, save only for a small rule of moonlight, which, penetrating a circular hole in the shutter, played fitfully, as the clouds went over its source, on a point of the red curtains--sometimes disappearing altogether. By a little groping he got his hose; nor more would he venture to search for, but finding his way by touch of the finger, he reached the kitchen, where he lighted the end of a small dip. A sorry glimmer indeed; but it enabled him to lay his hands on a bunch of crooked instruments, which he lifted so stealthily that even a mouse would have continued nibbling forbidden cheese, and been not a whit alarmed. Then there was the more dangerous opening of the door leading to the tortuous stair--dangerous, for that quick ear ben the house, which knew the creak as well as she did the accents of Geordie Gourlay. Ah, _tutum silentii præmium_! has he not gone through all this, and reached the stair without a sneeze or sigh of mortal to disturb him! So far was he fortunate; and slipshod in worsted of wife Christian's own working, who so little thought, as she pleased herself with the reflection of the softness for his feet, that she was to be cheated thereby, he slipped gently down the steps on this enterprise he had revolved in his mind for years and years of bygone time. Come to the identical old door. He had examined it often by candle-light before; and as for the rusty hasp and staple, and appended padlock, he knew them well, with all their difficulties to even smith's hands of his horny manipulation. He laid down the glimmering candle and paused. What a formidable object of occlusion, that door by which no one had entered for twenty years! Geordie knew nothing of the old notion, that time fills secret and vacant recesses with terrified ghosts, frightened away from the haunts of men; yet he had strange misgivings, which, being the instinctive suggestions of a rude mind, had a better chance for being true to nature. Perhaps the cold night air, to which his shirt offered small impediment, helped his tremulousness; and that was not diminished when, on seizing the padlock, a scream from some drunken unfortunate in the Wynd struck on his ear and died away in the midnight silence. Nor was he free from the pangs of conscience, as he thought of the injunctions of guidwife Christian, and, more than these, the sanctions of morality and the laws; but then he was not a thief,--only an antiquary, searching into a dungeon of time-hallowed curiosities and relics. He laid his hard hand on the rusty padlock. He was accustomed to the screech of old bolts, but that now was as if it came from some of Vulcan's chains whereby he caught the old thieves. The key-hole was entirely filled up with red rust, which, like silence stuffing up the mouth, had kept the brain-works unimpaired; so it needed no long time till, through his cunning crooks, he heard the nick of the receding bolt. A tug brought up the hasp, and now all ought to have been clear; but it was otherwise. Time, with his warpings and accumulating glues, had been there too long--the door would not give way, even to a smith's right hand; but Geordie had a potency in his back, before which other unwilling impediments of the same kind, sometimes with a debtor's resistance at the other side, had given way. That potency he applied; and the groan of the hinges responding fearfully to his ears, the vision was at length realized, of that door standing open for the passage of human beings. So far committed, Geordie's courage came with a drawing up of his muscles; and muttering between his teeth, which risped like files, "I will face any one except the devil," he lifted the candle, the glimmer of which paled in the thick air of the opening. He waved it up and down before he entered; but it seemed as if the weak rays could not find their way in the dense atmosphere--enough, notwithstanding, to show him dimly a long lobby. He snorted as the accumulated must stimulated his nostrils; but there was more than must--the smell was that of an opened grave which had been covered with moil for a century. Yet his step was instinctively forward,--the small light flitting here and there like the fitful gleam of a magic lantern. Half groping with the left hand, as he held the candle with his right, he soon began to discover particulars. There were three doors, opening no doubt to rooms, on his left; and as the light--becoming accustomed, like men's eyes, to the dark--shone forwards towards the end, he saw another door, which was open. Desperate men--and Geordie was now wound up--aim at the farthest extremities. He made his way forward, laying down each stocking-clad foot as if in fear of being heard by the family below, whose hysterics at a tread above them at midnight, and in that house, would lead to inquiry and detection. He came at length to the open door at the end of the lobby, and ventured in. He was presently in the middle of the kitchen, holding the candle up to see as far around him as he could. Geordie had never read of those scenes of enchantment where veritable men and women, with warm blood in their veins, were, on being touched by a wand, changed into statues with the very smile on their faces which they wore at the moment of transmutation; in which state they were to remain for a hundred years, till the wand was broken by a fairy, when they would all start into their old life. No matter if he had not, for here there was no change: the kitchen was as it had been left, twenty years before. The plate-rack, with the china set all along in regular order--no change there; nor on the row of pewter jugs, one of which stood on the dresser, with a bottle alongside, and a screw with the cork still on its spiral end. No doubt some one had been drinking just on the eve of the cessation of the living economy. A square fir-table stood in the middle, supplied with plates ready to be carried to the dining-room; and these plates were certainly not to have been supplied with imaginary meals, like those in the Eastern tale, for, as he held the candle down towards the grate, yet half filled with cinders, he saw the horizontal spit with the skeleton of a goose stuck on it. The motion of the spit had been suspended when the works ran out, and Baudron had feasted upon the flesh when it became cold. Nay, that cat, no doubt cherished, lay extended in anatomy before the fireplace. Nor could it be doubted that the roast had not been ready; for the axe lay beside a piece of coal half splintered, for the necessities of the diminished fire. An industrious house too, wherein the birr of the wheel and the sneck of the reel had sounded: the pirn was half filled, and the wisp, from which the thread had been drawn, lay over the back of a chair, as it had been taken from the waist of the servant maid. But why should not the sluttish girl's bed have been made at a time of the day when a goose was roasting for dinner? Nor did Geordie try to answer, because the question was as far from his wondering mind, as the time when he stood there himself enchanted was from the period of that marvellous dereliction. With eyes rounder, and wider, and considerably glegger, than when he left goodwife Christian snoring in her bed, so unconscious of what her husband was to see, he retraced his steps to the kitchen-door, and turning to the right, opened that next to him. It was the dining-room. He peered about as his wonder still grew. The long oak-table, in place of the modern sideboard, ran along the farther end, whereon were decanters and two silver cups; and not far from these a salver, with a shrivelled lump, hard as whinstone, and of the form of a loaf, with a knife lying alongside. The very cushion of the settee opposite to the fireplace had preserved upon it the indentation of a human head. But much less wonderful was the cloth-covered table, with salt-cellars and spice-boxes, and plates, with knives and forks appropriated to each; for had not Geordie seen the goose at the fire in the kitchen! The indispensable pictures, too, were all round on the dingy walls--every one a portrait--staring through dust; and a special one of a female, with voluminous silks, and a high flour-starched toupee, claimed the charmed eye of the blacksmith. Even in the vertigo of his wonder, he looked stedfastly at that beautiful face; nor did the painted eye look less stedfastly at him, as if, after twenty years, it was again charmed by the vision of a living man, to the withdrawing of that eye from the figure alongside of her, so clearly that of her husband. That they were master and mistress of this very house he would have concluded, if he had been calm enough to think; but he was, alas, still under the soufflé of the bellows of romantic wonder. Where next, if he could take his eye off that beautiful countenance? There was a middle door leading into another room: he would persevere and still explore. Holding up the fast-diminishing candle, he looked in. There was a female figure there, standing in the dark, beside a bed. It was arrayed in a long gown, reaching to the feet, of pure white (as accords). It moved. Geordie could see it plainly: it was the only thing with living motion in all that still and dreary habitation. Hitherto his hair had kept wonderfully flat and sleek, but now it began to crisp, and swirm, and rise on end; while his legs shook, and the trembling had made the glimmer oscillate in every direction, whereby sometimes it turned away from the figure, again to illuminate it sparingly, and again to vibrate off. He could not, notwithstanding his terror, recede; nay, he tried ineffectually to fix the ray on the very thing that thrilled him through every nerve. Verily, he would even go forward, under the charm of his fear, which, like other morbid feelings, would feed on the object which produced it. First a step, and then a step. The glimmer was again off the mark; and when he got to the bed, the figure was gone--according to the old law. But the bed was too certainly there, with its deep green curtains, which were drawn close, indicating midnight; and yet the goose at the fire, and the table laid! Nor could Geordie explain the physical anomaly, probably for the reason that he did not try. His candle was wasting away with those endless oscillations: the figure in white itself had run off with the half of the short stump; and he feared again to be left in the dark, where he would have a difficulty in finding his way out. Yet he felt he must draw these deep green curtains: the broad hand of Fate was upon his shoulders. He seized them hysterically, and pulled them aside far enough to let in his head and the candle hand. A dark counterpane was covered quarter-inch thick with dust; but the odour was not now of must, it was a choking flesh and bone rot, scarcely bearable; even the light felt the heaviness, and almost died away in his tremulous fingers. There were clothes beneath the counterpane, and a long, narrow tumulus down the middle, as if a body were there, of half its usual size; but little more was visible, till the eye was turned to the top where the pillow lay, half up which the dark counterpane was drawn. There was a head on the pillow, partly covered by the coverlet, partly by a round-eared mutch--once, no doubt, white as snow, now brown as a Norway rat's back; yet Geordie would peer, and peer, till he saw an orbless socket of pure white bone, and a portion of two rows of white teeth clenched. An undoing of the clothes would have shown him--how much more? But his shaking was now a palsy of the brain, and he could not undo the suspected horror. He turned suddenly; and, as the green curtain fell with a flap, the dip lost its flame, and a black reek vied with that heavy cadaverousness. He was in the dark. Such is the effect of degrees, that, as he groped and groped in a place where he had lost all landmarks, and the topography had become a confusion, he could have wished to see again the figure in white; which, from its own light, could surely, as a spirit, lead him out. His brain got into a swirl. If the white figure was the spirit of that thing which he had seen so partially in the bed, would it not return to flit about its own old tenement? yet not a trail of that white light cast a glance anywhere. Groping and groping, knocking his head against unknown things, he turned and turned, but could not find the lobby. He had got through another door, but not that leading outwards. He must have got into another room; for he felt and grasped things he had not heretofore seen. Then the noise he had made had such a dreary sound, falling on his strained, nerve-strung ear! His hand shrunk at everything he touched, as if it had been a deaf adder, or deadly nag--above all, a shock of hair, from which he recoiled more than ever yet, till the devious turns round and round obliterated every recollection of what he had understood of localities. So far he must have retraced his steps; for he had again the green curtain in his left hand without knowing it, and the right went slap upon that round-eared mutch, and the bone that was under the same. Recalled a little to his senses, he got at length to the kitchen, circumambulated and circummanipulated the table, and groped his way to the door in the end of the lobby, through which he had first entered. All safe now by the lines of the two walls, he hugged the outer door as if it had been a twenty years' absent friend, a father, or a wife. Nor did he take time to relock the padlock. He had, besides, lost his crooked instruments. Ah! how sweet to get into a warm bed safe and sound, after having fancied that from such a white figure hovering round dry bones he had heard--for Geordie had read plays-- "I am that body's spirit, Doomed for a certain time to walk the night; And for the day confined, to fast in fires, Till the foul crimes done in my days of nature Are burnt and purged away." How delightful to Geordie was that snore of wife Christian, as she still lay on the liver side, perhaps dreaming of seraphim! The adventure of that midnight hour dated the beginning of a change on George Gourlay. One might have said of him, with the older playwright who never pictured a ghost, _quod scis nescis_; for then never a word scarcely would he speak to man or beast, nay, not even to a woman, who has a power of breaking the charm of that silence in others of which their sex are themselves incapable--even, we say, wife Christian. There are many Trophonian caves in the world about us, only known to ourselves, out of which, when we come, we are mute, because we have seen something different from the objects of the sunlight; yea, if, as the Indians say, the animals are the dumb of earth, these are the dumb of heaven. Certain at least it is, that while Geordie did not hesitate before that night to use his voice in asking an extravagant price for an old lock, or even damning him who below made more noise than nails, he never now used that tongue in such dishonesties and irreverences. But, what was even more strange, wife Christian did not seem to have any inclination to break his silent mood; nay, if he was moody, so was she. Then her eyelight was so changed to him, that he could not thereby, as formerly, read her thoughts. Perhaps she took all this on from imitation; but she was not one of the imitative children of genius--rather a hard-grained Cameronian, to whom others' thoughts are only as a snare; yet, might she not have had suspicions of her husband's silence? All facts were against such a supposition, except one: that, on the following morning, she observed dryly, that the dip she had left in the kitchen had burnt away of its own special accord. Vain thoughts all. Geordie was simply "born again;" and old women do not speak to infants, until, at least, they can hear. Nor did this mood promise amendment even up to that night, when a rap having come to the door, Geordie started, while guidwife Christian went undismayed to open the same; for, moody as she was, she was not affected by evening raps as he was, and had been since that eventful midnight. But if the sturdy blacksmith was afraid before she obeyed the call, he was greatly more so after she had opened the door, and when she led into the parlour an old man, with hair more than usually grey even for his years, with a staff in his hand, bearing up, as he came in, a tall, wasted body--so wasted, that he might have been supposed to have waited all this time for a leg of that goose which had been so very long at the fire. The grief of years had eaten up his face, and only left untouched the corrugations itself had made. Yet withal he was a gentleman; for his bow to Geordie was just that which the grandees of the Wynd made to each other as they passed and repassed. No sooner was he seated, holding his cane between his shrivelled legs, and his sharp grey eye fixed on the blacksmith, than the latter became as one enchanted for a second time, with all the horrors of the first catalepsy upon him, by the process of the double sense insisted for by Abercromby, but thus known in Bell's Wynd before his day. Yes, Geordie was entranced again, nor less guidwife Christian--both staring at the stranger, as if their minds had gone back through long bygone years to catch the features of a prototype for comparison with that long, withered face, so yellow and grave-like; then Christian looked stealthily, and concealed her face. "You are a blacksmith, Mr. Gourlay?" "Yes, sir." "How long have you been here in Bell's Wynd?" "Nine years, come Beltane Feast." "Not so much as the half of twenty," said the stranger, more inwards than outwards. "Twenty!" ejaculated Christian, as if she could not just help herself. And Geordie searched her rigid face for a stray sympathy, repeating within the teeth that very same word--"Twenty." "Then," continued the old man, "you cannot tell who occupied the flat below at that long period back?" "No." "And who occupies it now?" Geordie was as dumb as the white figure, or as the head on the pillow with the rat-brown mutch; and this time Christian answered for him: "It hasna been occupied for twenty years, sir; and it has been shut up a' that lang time." "Twenty years!" ejaculated the old man, pondering deeply, and sighing heavily and painfully. "Do any of you know Mr. Thomas Dallas, the Clerk to the Signet, who lived once in Lady Stair's Close?" "Dead eighteen years since," replied the wife. "Ah, I see," rejoined the stranger; "and so the house has been thus long closed!" Then musingly, "But then it will be empty--no furniture, nothing but bare walls." "Naebody kens," replied George, still busy examining the face of the questioner, as if he could not get it to be steady alongside the image in his own mind. "You can, of course, open a padlock?" "Ou ay, when it's no owre auld, and the brass slide has been well kept on the key-hole." Then, as if recollecting himself, "I hinna tried an auld ane for years." "One twenty years unopened?" rejoined the stranger. Geordie was again dumb and rigid. "Indeed, sir," replied Christian, who saw that her husband was under some strong feeling, "he can pick ony lock." "The very man," said the mysterious visitor. "And now, madam, will you allow me to take the liberty of requesting to be for a few moments the only one present in this room with your husband, as I have some business of a very secret nature to transact with him, which it would not be proper for a woman, even of your evident discretion and confidence, to be acquainted with?" "I dinna want ye to gang," whispered George. "And what for no?" muttered she. "Let evil-doers dree the shame o' their deeds. Didna ye say to me ye were an honest man, ay, even as cauld iron or steel, and what ought ye to hae to fear? And now, sir," turning round, "I will e'en tak me to the kitchen, that what ye want wi' George Gourlay you may do in secret, even as he has been secret wi' me." Then guidwife Christian went out, casting, as she went, a look of something like triumph at her husband. "And now, George Gourlay," said the stranger, "the secret thing I have to transact with you, and for which I have come three thousand miles, is to ask you to go with me this night and open the padlock of the door of that house below, which has not been opened for twenty years." "I winna, I canna, I daurna, sir. Gang to the Dean o' Guild. There's a dead body in the green bed, and there's a spirit in a lang white goun that watches it." The hand of the stranger shook, as he grasped spasmodically his staff; his teeth for a moment were clenched; and he plainly showed a resolution not to seem moved by that which as clearly did move him to the innermost parts of his being. Nor did it now escape Gourlay, as he sat and gazed at him, that he was the original of that picture in the dining-room, which hung by the side of the beautiful lady. "Then you must have been in?" Geordie was silent, meditating on some new light gradually breaking in upon him. "You must have been in, and--and--know the secret?" "I ken nae secret, except it be that the goose which has been at the fire for twenty years is no roasted yet." "That goose at the fire even yet!" ejaculated the stranger. "Ay, and the thread still on the pirn." "Pirn!" responded he mechanically. "Ay, and the bottle standing on the dresser along by the pewter mug." "Mug!" "Ay, and the half-cut loaf on the oaken table, with alongside o't the knife." "Knife!" "Ay, and to cap a', the green bed with the dark red counterpane, and in it still the corpse." "Corpse!" "So, so," continued the stranger, "I have been wandering the wide world for twenty years to escape from myself, as if a man could leave his shadow in the east when he has gone to the west, and all that time found the vanity of a forced forgetfulness where the touch of God's finger still burned in the heart. Ay, nor long prairies, nor savannahs where objects are cast behind and not seen, nor thick woods which exclude the sun, nor rocky caves by the sea-shore, where there is only heard the roaring of the waves, could untwine the dark soul from its recollections. But other things of earth and human workmanship rot and pass away, as if all were vanity, but man's spirit; and yet here it has been decreed by Heaven, and wrought by miracle, that things of flesh, and bone, and wood, and dried grass should be enchanted for duration, yea, kept in the very place, and form, and lineaments they possessed in a terrible hour, the memory of which they must conserve for a purpose. Speak man: Have those sights and things taught you aught of a purpose? Why look ye at me as if you saw into my heart, and grin as if you were gifted with the right of revenge? What thoughts have you--what wishes? What do you premeditate?" "Just nae mair than that you'll no get me to enter that house again." The stranger's head was bent down in heavy sorrow; and, after being silent for a while, he rose, and bidding Gourlay good night, went away, saying he would get another locksmith. The strange manner of Christian was now made even more remarkable, as, taking her bonnet and cloak, she sallied forth, late as the hour was, proceeding up the Wynd, and muttering as she went, "The very man, the very man," she made direct for Blackfriars Wynd, where she stopt, and looked up to a small window on the right hand. There was light in it; and ascending a narrow stair she reached a door, which she quietly opened. A woman was there, busily spinning. The birr ceased as the door opened. "Ann Hall," cried Christian, as she entered, "he is come, he is come! I kent his face the moment I saw it." "Patience, patience, Christian," replied the woman, "what are you to do?" "There maun be nae patience, when God says haste." "Canny, canny. The wa's are thin and ears are gleg. I can hear a whisper frae the next room. Now, I'll spin and you'll speak." And so she began to produce the dirl by turning the wheel and plying the thread. "What although ye hae seen him? that maks nae difference. Your aith is still afore the Lord; and though we are forbidden to swear, when we hae sworn we hae nae right to brak that aith, as if it were a silly wand, to be broken and cast awa' at the end o' our journey. And then ye maun keep in mind, if you brak your word, ye stretch his neck." "I carena," replied Christian. "The Lord maun hae His ain for reward, and Satan maun hae his ain, too, for punishment. Sin' ever that eery night when in my night-shirt I followed George into the house, and saw what I saw, the Spirit o' the Lord has been busy in my heart; and my aith has been to me nae mair than a windlestrae in the east wind, to be blawn awa' where it listeth. Ye are, like mysel', o' the Auld Light, and ken what it is to hae the finger o' command laid upon ye." "We maun obey; but we maun ken whether the finger is for the will o' the auld rebel o' pride, wha rebelled in heaven, or Him wha says to the murderer, Get ye among the rocks or caves o' secrecy, and I will search ye out, and rug ye into the licht." "And what for should I no ken whase finger it is?" said wife Christian. "Have I no seen what I have seen? For what are a' thae things keepit, as man keeps the apple o' his e'e? Is na the rust and the worm, ay, and Time's teeth, aye eating, and gnawing, and tearing, so that everything passes awa' to make room for others, as if the hail warld were a whirligig turning round like your ain wheel there for ever and ever?" "Ay, the Lord's hand, na doubt. The deil doesna keep the instruments and signs o' his evil, but shuffles them awa' in nooks and corners to be out o' the een o' his victims." "But hae I no laid my very hand on the fleshless head o' the bonny misguided creature? Wae tak the man wha brought sae muckle beauty to the earth to rot, and yet hae nae grave to cover it!" "Weel mind I o' her," said Ann, as she still made the wheel go round. "How she sailed up the Wynd wi' her load o' silks and satins, and the ribbons that waved in the wind, as if to say, Look here; saw ye ever the like among the daughters o' men?" "It was left to testify, woman, naething else; but the glimmer o' Geordie's candle showed me a' the lave. Ay, the very goose I plucked, and drew, and singed, and put on the spit--what for is it there, think ye, cummer, but to testify? and the pewter jug I drank out o' that forenoon, and my ain bed I hadna time to mak--what for but to testify?" "And punish. But oh, woman, he had sair provocations. Wha was that goose for?" "For her lover, nae doubt; for my master wasna expected hame for a week. And was I no guilty mysel', wha played into her hands, and was fause to him wha fed me?" "Haud your peace, then, and say naething. The Lord will forgi'e you." "Oh God, hae mercy on me, a sinner; and tak awa' frae me this transgression, that I may lift up my voice in the tabernacle without fear or trembling!" The wheel turned with greater celerity and more noise, and wife Christian was on her knees, beating her bosom and crying for mercy. "Say nae mair, woman," cried the spinner, "and do nae mair. Let the corpse lie in the green bed, and a' thing be in the wud-dream o' that dreary house; do nae mair." "But the Lord drives me." "Just sae; and he wham you would hang on the wuddy will stand up against ye, and swear ye were the cause o' the death o' his braw leddie, for that ye concealed her trothlessness, and winked at her wickedness." "Haud your tongue, cummer," cried the Old Light Sinner; "haud your tongue, or you'll drive me mad. Is my heart no like aneugh to brak its strings, but ye maun tug at them? Is my brain no het aneugh, but ye maun set lowe to it, and burn it? And my conscience, ken ye na what it is to hae that terrible thing within ye, when it's waukened up like a fiend o' hell, chasing ye wi' a red-het brand, and nae escape, for the angel o' the Lord hauds ye agen? Ann Hall, my auldest friend, will ye do this thing for me?" "What is it?" "Gang to Mr B----, the fiscal, and tell him that the corpse is there, and that the man is here, and say naething o' me; do this, or I'll never haud up my hands again for grace and mercy." Ann was silent, only driving the wheel, the sound of which in the silent house--dark enough, too, in the small light of the oil cruise over the fireplace--was all that was heard, save the occasional sobs of the unhappy victim of conscience. "I canna, Christian; I canna, lass. I'll hang nae man for the death o' a light-o'-love limmer, and to save the conscience o' ane wha, if she didna see something wrang when it _was_ wrang, ought to hae seen it." "I repent and am sair in the spirit," replied Christian; "but if I had tauld him what I suspected was wrang between Spynie--and ye ken he was a lord, and titles cast glamour ower the een o' maidens--and my mistress, it would hae been a' the same. But wae's me!" she added, as she sighed from the depths of the heart, and wrung her hands, "I had a lichtness about me myself. A woman's no in her ain keeping at wild happy nineteen. The heart is aye jumping against the head. But oh, how changed when the Auld Licht shone ower me! And hae I no been a guid wife to Geordie Gourlay? Will you no help me, woman?" "I hae said it," replied Mrs Hall, as the energy of her resolution passed into the moving power of the wheel, and the revolutions became quicker and quicker. The Cameronian stood for a moment looking at her--the lips compressed, the brow knit, the hand firmly bound up, and striking it upon the wall. "Ye're o' my faith," said she bitterly; "and may the Evil One help ye when ye're in need o' the Lord!" And with these words she left her old friend, drawing the door after her with a clang, which shook the crazy tenement. In a moment she was in the street, now beginning to be deserted. The wooden-pillared lamps, so thinly distributed, and their small dreary spunk of life, showed only the darkness they were perhaps intended to illumine; and here and there was seen a gay-dressed sprig of aristocracy, with his gold-headed cane, cocked hat, and braided vest, strolling unsteadily home, after having drunk his couple of claret. Solitary city guardsmen were lounging about, as if waiting for the peace being broken, when an encounter occurred between some such ornamented braggadocio and a low Wynd blackguard--ready to use his quarter-staff against the silver-handled sword of the aristocrat; and here and there the high-pattened, short-gowned light-o'-love, regardless of the loud-screamed "gardy-loo," frolicked with "gold lace and wine," or swore the Edinburgh oaths at untrue and discarded lovers of their own degree. But guidwife Christian saw none of all these things; only one engrossing vision was in her mind, that of the sleeping scene of enchantment in the old flat, associated with the figure of the stranger;--one feeling only was paramount in her heart, the inspired awe of the conviction that these petrified relics of another time, so long back, were there waiting for her to touch them, that they should be disenchanted, and speak and tell their tale, and then rot and depart, according to the usual law of change, and corruption, and decay. In this mood she got to the top of the Wynd, and was hurrying along the first or covered portion, overspread by the front lands, and therefore dark, when she encountered a man rolled up in a cloak. Even in the dim light coming from the street lamp on the main pavement, she recognised him in a moment. He was slouching down by the side of the wall, and did not seem to notice her. So Christian held back, until he had got farther on. She felt herself concentrated upon his movements, and observed that he hung about her own stair, standing in the middle of the close, with his eye fixed on the dark windows of the deserted flat. There was no meaning in his action. It seemed simply that his eye was bound to that house. So far Christian understood the ways of the world; but there are deeper mysteries there than she wotted of or dreamed just then. A man will examine a gangrene if it is hopeful; and will hope, and shrink, and be alarmed, when the hope fails only but a little; nay, he will dread the undoing of the bandages, lest the hope of the prior undoing should be changed by the new aspect into a conviction of aggravation; but there is a state of that ailment, as of moral ills, where all hope having vanished, despair comes to be reconciled to its own terrors, and the eye will peer into the hopeless thing, ay, and be charmed with it, and dally with it, as an irremediable condition, which is his own peculium, a part of his nature, so far changed. He then becomes a lover of pity, as before he was a seeker for hope; and, like a desperate bankrupt, will hawk the balance-sheet of his ills, to make up for the subtraction from his credit by the sympathy of the world. So did that man look upon that house, a hopeless sore, after twenty years pain and agony, with these green spots, and the caustic-defying "proud flesh." Was not the fleshless corpse of his dead wife still there? She was a skeleton; but he could only fancy her as he had seen her twenty years before, a young and beautiful woman. Nor was he alarmed as Christian, weary of waiting but not unsteeled now for a recognition, stept forward and confronted him. "Mrs. Gourlay!" he said, as he peered into her hard face. "Ay, guidwife Christian, as my husband says. Christian Gourlay that is--Christian Dempster that was." "Dempster!" ejaculated he, as he staggered and sustained himself against the side of the close. "Yes, sir--Patrick Guthrie that was when I was Dempster, and is--ay, and will be till you are born again, and baptized with fire." "Patrick Guthrie!" he repeated. "Yes, the man, the very man. And here, too, is the evidence kept and preserved, perhaps more than once snatched from death, to be here at this hour to see me, and lay your hand on me, and be certain that I am the man, the very man. And," after a pause, "you have kept your sworn promise?" "Till this day. Look up there, and see thae closed shutters; go in, and behold, and say whether or not." "Too faithful!" groaned he. "To an aith wrung out o' me by a money-bribe and terror." "And to be repaid by a money-reward and penitence." "The ane, sir, but never the other. Another day--another day," she repeated, "will try a'." "What mean you, Christian?" "Mean I? Why are you here?" "Because I am weary wandering over the face of the earth, an exile and a criminal, for twenty long--oh long years!" "And now want rest and peace! And how can ye get them but through the fire of the law, and the waters of the gospel? Where are you living?" "Why should I conceal from you, Christian?" said he, thoughtfully. "No--at the White Horse in the Canongate, under the name of Douglas." "_Her_ name! Then look ye to it; for there will be human voices where none have been for twenty years, and cries o' wonder, and tears o' pity. Yes, yes, the long sleep is ended, for the charm is broken. Good night." And hurrying away, she mounted the stair, leaving the man even more amazed than he was heart-broken and miserable. Nor will we be far wrong in supposing that Patrick Guthrie sought the White Horse probably not to sleep, but if to sleep, as probably to dream. As for guidwife Christian, she was soon on that side so propitious to her snoring; and as for her dreams, they were not more of seraphim, nor of Urim and Thummim, than they were on that night when she was the disembodied spirit of her who had lain so long in the bed with green curtains. Yet, no doubt, Geordie was just as certain that she slept as he was on that same night when he saw the said disembodied spirit; and as for himself, there could be little doubt that, sleeping or waking, his mind was occupied in tracing the marked resemblance of the stranger to the picture on the wall, which would lead him again to the beautiful lady, and which, again, would remind him of the bones below the red coverlet; and then there is as little doubt as there is about all these wonderful things, that he would fancy himself beridden with a terrible nightmare. Oppressed and tortured by thoughts which he could not bring to bear on any probable event, he turned and turned; but all his restlessness would produce no effect on guidwife Christian, who seemed as dead asleep as ever was he of the Cretan cave in the middle of the seventy years. Nor could he understand this: heretofore a slight cough, even slighter than that which brought the Doctor in the "Devil on Two Sticks," used to awaken the faithful wife; and now nothing would awaken her. He dodged, he cried; but she wouldn't help to take off the nightmare, which, with its old characteristic of tailor-folded legs and grinning aspect, sat upon his chest, as it heaved, but could not throw off the imp. But what was more extraordinary, this strange conduct of Christian was the continuation of--nay, a climax to--her inexplicable conduct since ever that night when he caught up in his mind, as in a prism, that midnight vision which he had seen, and the fiery coruscations of which still careered through his brain. Honest Geordie had no guile; and if he had had any, the new birth he had undergone, with the consequent baptism, would have taken it clean away, so that there was no chance of a suspicion of the part which guidwife Christian had played on the said occasion. Yet, wonder as he might, if he had known all, he would have wondered more how any woman, even with the advantage of a "New Light," could have snored under the purpose she had revolved in her mind, and which she had so darkly revealed to her old master. Ah yes, that female member, of which so much has been said--even that it contains on the subtle point thereof a little nerve which anatomists cannot find in the corresponding organ in man--can swim lightly _tanquam suber_, and yet never give an indication of the depths below. But Geordie became wild;--was she dead outright? Dead people do not snore, but the dying do in apoplexy. He took her by the shoulders, and shook her. "Christian, woman, will ye no speak, when I can get nae rest? Wha was that man wha called here yestreen?" No, she wouldn't. "And did I no see you look at him as ye never looked at man before?" No avail. "And what took ye out so soon after he was awa'?" No reply. "And what's mair"--the murder was now out,--"did ye no meet him secretly at the stair-foot, and stand and speak to him in strange words and strange signs?" Not yet. "And what, in the name o' Heaven, and a' the ither powers up and down and round and round, was the aith that ye swore to him?" Another pause. "And what money-bribe was it ye spak o' sae secretly and darkly?" All in vain. At length the knurr of the clock, and the most solemn of all the hours, "one," sounded hoarsely. Wearied, exhausted, and sorely troubled, Geordie fell asleep, greatly aided thereto by the eternal oscillation of that little tongue at the back of the greater and mute one, the sound of which ceased when the blacksmith was fairly and certainly over, just as if its services had been no longer needed that night. Surely the next of these eventful days was destined, either by the Furies or the good goddess, to be that day that "would try a'." Even these words Geordie had heard, if he had not caught up many other broken sentences, which showed to his distracted mind that guidwife Christian was in some mysterious way mixed up with the events and things of the charmed house. The comparatively sleepless night induced a later than usual rising; but with what wonder did Geordie Gourlay ascertain, that late as Christian had been out on the previous night, she was already again forth of the house, leaving him to the bachelor work of making his own breakfast! Where she had gone he could not even venture to suppose; but certain he was that her absence was in some way connected with that stranger with whom he had seen her in communication the night before. The business did not admit of his waiting; so he took his morning meal of porridge and milk, and with thoughts anxious and deep, yet deeper in mere feeling than portrayment of outward coming events, he sallied forth for the Luckenbooths. On descending the stair, he found to his dire amazement the door of the portentous flat--that grave above ground of so many things that should have been either under the earth, in the sinless regions of mortality, or in the mendicant bag of Time, rolled away beyond the ken of mortal--open. Yes, that door, with the rusty padlock, and the creaking hinge, and the worm-eaten panels, was open. He shuddered: yet he looked ben into the old dark lobby, where he had groped and so nearly lost himself; and what did he see? His wife, guidwife Christian, standing in the middle thereof in her white short-gown, so like, to his imperfect vision, that spirit he had encountered in that house before! There seemed to be others there also; for he heard inside doors creaking, and by and by saw come out of the far-end door that very man--yea, the very man. The reflection of a light shone out upon him. To escape observation, he slipt to a side; and when he peered in again, no one was to be seen. They had passed together into some of the rooms, probably that bedroom where stood the bed with the green curtains. Resolved as he had been never to enter that door-way again, he would have rushed forward, had not a hand been laid on his shoulder. "George Gourlay," said a voice behind him. "Ay, nae doubt I'm weel kenned." "You are in the meantime my prisoner," said an officer, with the indispensable blue coat, and the red collar, and the cocked hat. "For what?" said Geordie. "Ye'll ken that by and by," replied the officer; "the fiscal will tell ye. Awa' wi' me to the office." "Humph! for picking a lock," said the blacksmith. "The deil put my left fingers between my hammer and the stiddy when I meddle again wi' rusty padlocks." "There's naething dune on earth but what is seen," said the man, as with something like a smile on his left cheek, the other retaining its gravity, he held up his finger as if pointing to heaven. "Ay, ay, there's an e'e there." "And to break open a house," continued the officer, "is death en the wuddy up yonder at the 'Auld Heart.'" "But wha, in God's name, is the witness against me?" "Guidwife Christian," said the officer again, seriously enough at least for Geordie's belief of his sincerity. "And the woman has turned against her husband! This is the warst blow ava. But, Lord, man, I stowe naething." "Thieves are no generally at the trouble of picking locks, rummaging a house, and going away empty-handed, as if out o' a kirk. But come, you can tell the Lord Advocate's deputy a' that." And George Gourlay was taken away, muttering to himself, as he went, "This explains a'. Nae wonder she wadna speak to the man she intended to hang. Woman, woman, verily from the beginning hae ye been we to man, and will be to the end." Led up the High Street, yet in such a way as to avoid any suspicion that he was in the hands of an officer, George Gourlay was placed safely in the room of Mr. B----, the procurator-fiscal of that time, for reasons unknown to us, in the Old Tolbooth. The entry through the thick iron-knobbed door to the inside of this dark and dreary pile, which borrowed its light only through openings left by the irregularities of the high masses of St. Giles, and the parallel rows of overshadowing houses, flanked by the booths and the Crames, was enough to vanquish the heart of the strongest and the most innocent. Nor was it the darkness and the squalor alone that were so formidable. Thick air, loaded with the breath and exhalations from unhealthiness and disease itself, had made livid faces and bloodshot eyes; drunken, uproarious voices, and bacchanalian songs, oaths, denunciations, and peals of laughter, mixed with groans. Only awanting that inscription seen by the Hermet shadow who led the Florentine. Up a stair--through the midst of these children of evil or victims of misfortune, the innocent rendered guilty by infection, the condemned to death made drearily jolly by despair, imitating the recklessness of mirth,--and now the unfortunate George Gourlay is before his examinator. "Mr. Gourlay," said the officer. "Sit down, sir," said Mr. B----, "and wait till the others come. We cannot want Mrs. Gourlay, though no doubt you can swear to the man. In the meantime, hold your peace, lest you commit yourself. Say nothing till you are asked. Most strange affair." Thus at once doomed to silence, George sat and listened to the mixed buzz of this misery become ludibund. Nor was his unhappiness thus limited: a fearful conviction seized him, that long before he was hanged he would take on the likeness of the wretches he had passed through;--he would become sleazy; his eyes would be red, fiery, or bleared with tears, dried up in the heat of his fevered blood; his cheeks would be pale-yellow or blue, his voice husky, and his nose red; he would sing, swear, dance--ay, douce Geordie would sing even as they. Better be hanged at once than sent hence thus deteriorated,--an unpleasant customer in the other world. Nay, one half of them had greasy, furzy, red nightcaps; and the chance was therefore a half that he would be thrown off in one of these, to the eternal disgrace of the Gourlays of Gersholm, from whom he was descended. A full hour passed, bringing no comfort on its heavy wings. At length another red-necked official entered, and introduced guidwife Christian herself, and--Patrick Guthrie. When these parties entered, Geordie's eyes and mouth had relapsed into that condition they presented on that occasion when he saw the wraith by the bed with the green curtains. "Mrs. Gourlay," said Mr. B----, "you are the wife of George Gourlay, blacksmith?" "Ay, and have been for nine years, come the time, the day, and the hour." "Please throw your mind back twenty years." "It ower aften gaes back to that time o' its ain accord, sir." "Well, tell us where you lived, and what you did about that time." "I was servant to Mr. Patrick Guthrie,--this gentleman sitting at my right hand." "Was Mr. Guthrie a married man?" "Ay, sir, he was married to a young lady, whose maiden name was Henrietta Douglas, ane o' the Brigstons, as I hae heard." "What kind of woman was she?" "Bonny, sir, as ony that ever walked the High Street or the Canongate; and the mair wae, sir. Cheerfu', too, and light-hearted and merry as the lavrock when it rises in the morning; ay, and the mair wae!" "Why do you add these words?" continued Mr. B----. "What do you mean?" "Because thae things brought gay gallants about the house when master was awa' in Angus, whaur he had a property near Gaigie; but he was nane, I think, o' the four Guthries." "Then you knew that they came without the knowledge and against the wishes of your master?" "Ower weel, sir, for my peace these twenty years bygane." "Then you think there was more than indiscretion in Mrs. Guthrie?" "Muckle mair, I doubt." "Do you recollect the names of any of these gay gallants?" "There was Lord Spynie, a wild dare-the-deil; but sae merry, and jovial, and pleasant, that his very een were nets to catch women's hearts." "Do you remember anything happening when Lord Spynie was in the house in Bell's Wynd?" "Ay; on the last day o' my service, yea, the last day o' my leddie's life. My maister had gane to Gaigie, as I thought; but I aye doubted if he had been farther than the White Horse. He wouldna return for a week, not he; and so my leddie thought, for the next day she ordered me to get a goose, and roast it on the spit; and weel I kenned wha the goose was for. But I didna like the business, for I had my pirns to finish--no, gude forgie me, that I was against this deception o' my master. The goose was bought, and plucket, and singed, and put to the fire. The dinner was to be at twa o'clock, and Lord Spynie was there by ane. In half an hour after, wha comes rushing in but my master? And the moment he saw Spynie, he drew his sword, and so did his lordship his. My mistress screamed, and ran between them; and oh! sir, the sword that was thrust at Spynie gaed clean through my mistress's fair body. She was dead. Then Lord Spynie lost a' his courage, and flew out o' the house; and just as he was passing through the door, my master thrust at him, and his bluidy sword snapt and was broken clean through. He came back and looked on my leddy, and kissed her, ay, and grat like a bairn; but oh! he was composed too. 'Christy,' said he, 'lay your mistress on the green bed.' And so I did, and streeked her, and drew the coverlet over her, and put a mutch upon her head. Oh how fair she was in death! 'Christy,' said master, 'come hither.' I obeyed. 'Get the Bible,' he said. I got it. 'Get on your knees,' he said. I knelt. 'Here,' said he, 'is twenty gowden guineas; and now swear upon the Laws and the Prophets, and the four Gospels, that you will never, by word, or look, or pen, reveal to man, or woman, or wean what has been done--in this house this day.' I swore. 'Now go,' said he; 'for I am to lock up the house, and go far away, where no man can know me.' So I took my little trunk, and went away sobbing. Nor was he a moment after me. I saw him shut the shutters and lock the door, and walk quickly away. Nor was he ever heard of more till yesterday; and there he is." "Is all this true, Mr. Guthrie?" "All true as God's word." "And all this happened twenty years ago?" "Yes." "Then by the law of Scotland you are a free man, even were this murder or homicide; for twenty years is the period of our prescription. You may all go." Then they rose to depart. "Mr. Guthrie," cried Mr. B----, "bury your wife. And, hark ye, the goose has been at the fire for twenty years, and must now, I think, be roasted." THE PRODIGAL SON. The early sun was melting away the coronets of grey clouds on the brows of the mountains, and the lark, as if proud of its plumage, and surveying itself in an illuminated mirror, carolled over the bright water of Keswick, when two strangers met upon the side of the lofty Skiddaw. Each carried a small bag and a hammer, betokening that their common errand was to search for objects of geological interest. The one appeared about fifty, the other some twenty years younger. There is something in the solitude of the everlasting hills, which makes men who are strangers to each other despise the ceremonious introductions of the drawing-room. So it was with our geologists--their place of meeting, their common pursuit, produced an instantaneous familiarity. They spent the day, and dined on the mountain-side together. They shared the contents of their flasks with each other; and, ere they began to descend the hill, they felt, the one towards the other, as though they had been old friends. They had begun to take the road towards Keswick, when the elder said to the younger, "My meeting with you to-day recalls to my recollection a singular meeting which took place between a friend of mine and a stranger, about seven years ago, upon the same mountain. But, sir, I will relate to you the circumstances connected with it; and they might be called the History of the Prodigal Son." He paused for a few moments, and proceeded:--About thirty years ago a Mr. Fen-wick was possessed of property in Bamboroughshire worth about three hundred per annum. He had married while young, and seven fair children cheered the hearth of a glad father and a happy mother. Many years of joy and of peace had flown over them, when Death visited their domestic circle, and passed his icy hand over the cheek of the first-born; and, for five successive years, as their children opened into manhood and womanhood, the unwelcome visitor entered their dwelling, till of their little flock there was but one, the youngest, left. And O, sir, in the leaving of that one, lay the cruelty of Death--to have taken him, too, would have been an act of mercy. His name was Edward; and the love, the fondness, and the care which his parents had borne for all their children, were concentrated on him. His father, whose soul was stricken with affliction, yielded to his every wish; and his poor mother "Would not permit The winds of heaven to visit his cheek too roughly." But you shall hear how cruelly he repaid their love--how murderously he returned their kindness. He was headstrong and wayward; and though the small still voice of affection was never wholly silent in his breast, it was stifled by the storm of his passions and propensities. His first manifestation of open viciousness was a delight in the brutal practice of cock-fighting; and he became a constant attender at every "_main_" that took place at Northumberland. He was a habitual "_bettor_," and his losses were frequent; but hitherto his father, partly through fear, and partly from a too tender affection, had supplied him with money. A "main" was to take place in the neighbourhood of Morpeth, and he was present. Two noble birds were disfigured, the savage instruments of death were fixed upon them, and they were pitted against each other. "A hundred to one on the Felton Grey!" shouted Fen-wick. "Done! for guineas!" replied another. "Done! for guineas!--done!" repeated the prodigal--and the next moment the Felton Grey lay dead on the ground, pierced through the skull with the spur of the other. He rushed out of the cockpit--"I shall expect payment to-morrow, Fen-wick," cried the other. The prodigal mounted his horse, and rode homeward with the fury of a madman. Kind as his father was, and had been, he feared to meet him or tell him the amount of his loss. His mother perceived his agony, and strove to soothe him. "What is't that troubles thee, my bird?" inquired she. "Come, tell thy mother, darling." With an oath he cursed the mention of birds, and threatened to destroy himself. "O Edward, love! thou wilt kill thy poor mother. What can I do for thee?" "Do for me!" he exclaimed, wildly tearing his hair as he spoke--"do for me, mother. Get me a hundred pounds, or my heart's blood shall flow at your feet." "Child! child!" said she, "thou hast been at thy black trade of betting again. Thou wilt ruin thy father, Edward, and break thy mother's heart. But give me thy hand on't, dear, that thou'lt bet no more, and I'll get thy father to give thee the money." "My father must not know," he exclaimed; "I will die rather." "Love! love!" replied she; "but, without asking thy father, where could I get thee a hundred pounds?" "You have some money, mother," added he; "and you have trinkets--jewellery!" he gasped, and hid his face as he spoke. "Thou shalt have them!--thou shalt have them, child!" said she, "and all the money thy mother has--only say thou wilt bet no more. Dost thou promise, Edward--oh, dost thou promise thy poor mother this?" "Yes, yes!" he cried. And he burst into tears as he spoke. He received the money, and the trinkets, which his mother had not worn for thirty years, and hurried from the house, and with them discharged a portion of his dishonourable debt. He, however, did bet again; and I might tell you how he became a horse-racer also; but you shall hear that too. He was now about two-and-twenty, and for several years he had been acquainted with Eleanor Robinson--a fair being, made up of gentleness and love, if ever woman was. She was an orphan, and had a fortune at her own disposal of three thousand pounds. Her friends had often warned her against the dangerous habits of Edward Fen-wick. But she had given him her young heart--to him she had plighted her first vow--and, though she beheld his follies, she trusted that time and affection would wean him from them; and, with a heart full of hope and love, she bestowed on him her hand and fortune. Poor Eleanor! her hopes were vain, her love unworthily bestowed. Marriage produced no change on the habits of the prodigal son and thoughtless husband. For weeks he was absent from his own house, betting and carousing with his companions of the turf; while one vice led the way to another, and, by almost imperceptible degrees, he unconsciously sunk into all the habits of a profligate. It was about four years after his marriage, when, according to his custom, he took leave of his wife for a few days, to attend the meeting at Doncaster. "Good-bye, Eleanor, dear," he said gaily, as he rose to depart, and kissed her cheek; "I shall be back within five days." "Well, Edward," said she, tenderly, "if you will go, you must; but think of me, and think of these our little ones." And, with a tear in her eye, she desired a lovely boy and girl to kiss their father. "Now, think of us, Edward," she added; "and do not bet, dearest, do not bet!" "Nonsense, duck! nonsense!" said he; "did you ever see me lose?--do you suppose that Ned Fen-wick is not 'wide awake?' I know my horse, and its rider too--Barrymore's Highlander can distance everything. But, if it could not, I have it from a sure hand--the other horses are all '_safe_.' Do you understand that--eh?" "No, I do not understand it, Edward, nor do I wish to understand it," added she; "but, dearest, as you love me--as you love our children--risk nothing." "Love you, little gipsy! you know I'd die for you," said he--and, with all his sins, the prodigal spoke the truth. "Come, Nell, kiss me again, my dear--no long faces--don't take a leaf out of my old mother's book; you know the saying, 'Never venture, never win--faint heart never won fair ladye!' Good-bye, love--'bye, Ned--good-bye, mother's darling," said he, addressing the children as he left the house. He reached Doncaster; he had paid his guinea for admission to the betting-rooms; he had whispered with, and slipped a fee to all the shrivelled, skin-and-bone, half-melted little manikins, called jockeys, to ascertain the secrets of their horses. "All's safe!" said the prodigal to himself, rejoicing in his heart. The great day of the festival--the important St. Leger--arrived. Hundreds were ready to back Highlander against the field: amongst them was Edward Fen-wick; he would take any odds--he did take them--he staked his all. "A thousand to five hundred on Highlander against the field," he cried, as he stood near a betting-post. "Done!" shouted a mustachioed peer of the realm, in a barouche by his side. "Done!" cried Fen-wick, "for the double, if you like, my lord." "Done!" added the peer; "and I'll treble it if you dare!" "Done!" rejoined the prodigal, in the confidence and excitement of the moment--"Done! my lord." The eventful hour arrived. There was not a false start. The horses took the ground beautifully. Highlander led the way at his ease; and his rider, in a tartan jacket and mazarine cap, looked confident. Fen-wick stood near the winning-post, grasping the rails with his hands; he was still confident, but he could not chase the admonition of his wife from his mind. The horses were not to be seen. His very soul became like a solid and sharp-edged substance within his breast. Of the twenty horses that started, four again appeared in sight. "The tartan yet! the tartan yet!" shouted the crowd. Fen-wick raised his eyes--he was blind with anxiety--he could not discern them; still he heard the cry of "The tartan! the tartan!" and his heart sprang to his mouth. "Well done, orange!--the orange will have it!" was the next cry. He again looked up, but he was more blind than before. "Beautiful!--beautiful! Go it, tartan! Well done, orange!" shouted the spectators; "a noble race!--neck and neck; six to five on the orange!" He became almost deaf as well as blind. "Now for it!--now for it!--it won't do, tartan!--hurrah!--hurrah!--orange has it!" "Liar!" exclaimed Fen-wick, starting as if from a trance, and grasping the spectator who stood next him by the throat--"I am not ruined!"--In a moment he dropped his hands by his side, he leaned over the railing, and gazed vacantly on the ground. His flesh writhed, and his soul groaned in agony. "Eleanor!--my poor Eleanor!" cried the prodigal. The crowd hurried towards the winning-post--he was left alone. The peer with whom he had betted, came behind him; he touched him on the shoulder with his whip--"Well, my covey," said the nobleman, "you have lost it." Fen-wick gazed on him with a look of fury and despair, and repeated--"Lost it!--I am ruined--soul and body!--wife and children ruined!" "Well, Mr. Fen-wick," said the sporting peer, "I suppose, if that be the case, you won't come to Doncaster again in a hurry. But my settling day is to-morrow--you know I keep sharp accounts; and if you have not the '_ready_' at hand, I shall expect an equivalent--you understand me." So saying, he rode off, leaving the prodigal to commit suicide if he chose. It is enough for me to tell you that, in his madness and his misery, and from the influence of what he called his sense of honour, he gave the winner a bill for the money--payable at sight. My feelings will not permit me to tell you how the poor infatuated madman more than once made attempts upon his own life; but the latent love of his wife and of his children prevailed over the rash thought, and, in a state bordering on insanity, he presented himself before the beings he had so deeply injured. I might describe to you how poor Eleanor was sitting in their little parlour, with her boy upon a stool by her side, and her little girl on her knee, telling them fondly that their father would be home soon, and anon singing to them the simple nursery rhyme-- "Hush, my babe, baby bunting, Your father's at the hunting," etc.; when the door opened, and the guilty father entered, his hair clotted, his eyes rolling with the wildness of despair, and the cold sweat running down his pale cheeks. "Eleanor! Eleanor!" he cried, as he flung himself upon a sofa. She placed her little daughter on the floor--she flew towards him--"My Edward!--oh my Edward!" she cried--"what is it, love?--something troubles you." "Curse me, Eleanor!" exclaimed the wretched prodigal, turning his face from her. "I have ruined you I--I have ruined my children!--I am lost for ever!" "No, my husband!" exclaimed the best of wives; "your Eleanor will not curse you. Tell me the worst, and I will bear it--cheerfully bear it, for my Edward's sake." "You will not--you cannot," cried he; "I have sinned against you as never man sinned against woman. Oh! if you would spit upon the very ground where I tread, I would feel it as an alleviation of my sufferings; but your sympathy, your affection, makes my very soul destroy itself! Eleanor!--Eleanor-!--if you have mercy, hate me--tell me--show me that you do!" "O Edward!" said she, imploringly, "was it thus when your Eleanor spurned every offer for your sake, when you pledged to her everlasting love? She has none but you, and can you speak thus? O husband! if you will forsake _me_, forsake not my poor children--tell me! only tell me the worst--and I will rejoice to endure it with my Edward!" "Then," cried Fen-wick, "if you will add to my misery by professing to love a wretch like me--know you are a beggar!--and I have made you one! Now, can you share beggary with me?" She repeated the word "Beggary!"--she clasped her hands together--for a few moments she stood in silent anguish--her bosom heaved--the tears gushed forth--she flung her arms around her husband's neck--"Yes!" she cried, "I can meet even beggary with my Edward!" "O Heaven!" cried the prodigal, "would that the earth would swallow me! I cannot stand this!" I will not dwell upon the endeavours of the fond, forgiving wife, to soothe and to comfort her unworthy husband; nor yet will I describe to you the anguish of the prodigal's father and of his mother, when they heard the extent of his folly and of his guilt. Already he had cost the old man much, and, with a heavy and sorrowful heart, he proceeded to his son's house to comfort his daughter-in-law. When he entered, she was endeavouring to cheer her husband with a tune upon the harpsichord--though, Heaven knows, there was no music in her breast, save that of love--enduring love! "Well, Edward," said the old man, as he took a seat, "what is this that thou hast done now?" The prodigal was silent. "Edward," continued the grey-haired parent, "I have had deaths in my family--many deaths, and thou knowest it--but I never had to blush for a child but thee! I have felt sorrow, but thou hast added shame to sorrow--" "O father!" cried Eleanor, imploringly, "do not upbraid my poor husband." The old man wept--he pressed her hand, and, with a groan, said, "I am ashamed that thou shouldst call me father, sweetest; but if thou canst forgive him, I should. He is all that is left to me--all that the hand of death has spared me in this world! Yet, Eleanor, his conduct is a living death to me--it is worse than all that I have suffered. When affliction pressed heavily upon me, and, year after year, I followed my dear children to the grave, my neighbours sympathized with me--they mingled their tears with mine; but now, child--oh, now, I am ashamed to hold up my head amongst them! O Edward, man! if thou hast no regard for thy father or thy heart-broken mother, hast thou no affection for thy poor wife?--canst thou bring her and thy helpless children to ruin? But that, I may say, thou hast done already! Son! son! if thou wilt murder thy parents, hast thou no mercy for thine own flesh and blood?--wilt thou destroy thine own offspring? O Edward! if there be any sin that I will repent upon my death-bed, it will be that I have been a too indulgent father to thee--that I am the author of thy crimes!" "No, father! no!" cried the prodigal; "my sins are my own! I am their author, and my soul carries its own punishment! Spurn me! cast me off!--disown me for ever!--it is all I ask of you! You despise me--hate me too, and I will be less miserable!" "O Edward!" said the old man, "thou art a father, but little dost thou know a father's heart! Disown thee! Cast thee off, sayest thou! As soon could the graves of thy brothers give up their dead! Never, Edward! never! O son, wouldst thou but reform thy ways--wouldst thou but become a husband worthy of our dear Eleanor; and, after all the suffering thou hast brought upon her, and the shame thou hast brought upon thy family, I would part with my last shilling for thee, Edward, though I should go into the workhouse myself." You are affected, sir--I will not harrow up your feelings by further describing the interview between the father and his son. The misery of the prodigal was remorse, not penitence. It is sufficient for me to say, that the old man took a heavy mortgage on his property, and Edward Fen-wick commenced business as a wine and spirit merchant in Newcastle. But, sir, he did not attend upon business; and I need not tell you that such being the case, business was too proud a customer to attend upon him. Neither did he forsake his old habits, and, within two years, he became involved--deeply involved. Already, to sustain his tottering credit, his father had been brought to the verge of ruin. During his residence in Bamboroughshire, he had become acquainted with many individuals carrying on a contraband trade with Holland. To amend his desperate fortunes, he recklessly embarked in it. In order to obtain a part in the ownership of a lugger, he _used his father's name_! This was the crowning evil in the prodigal's drama. He made the voyage himself. They were pursued and overtaken when attempting to effect a landing near the Coquet. He escaped. But the papers of the vessel bespoke her as being chiefly the property of his father. Need I tell you that this was a finishing blow to the old man? Edward Fen-wick had ruined his wife and family--he had brought ruin upon his father, and was himself a fugitive. He was pursued by the law; he fled from them; and he would have fled from their remembrance if he could. It was now, sir, that the wrath of Heaven was showered upon the head, and began to touch the heart of the prodigal: Like Cain, he was a fugitive and a vagabond on the face of the earth. For many months he wandered in a distant part of the country; his body was emaciated and clothed with rags, and hunger preyed upon his very heart-strings. It is a vulgar thing, sir, to talk of hunger; but they who have never felt it know not what it means. He was fainting by the wayside, his teeth were grating together, the tears were rolling down his cheeks. "The servants of my father's house," he cried, "have bread enough and to spare, while I perish with hunger;" and continuing the language of the prodigal in the Scriptures, he said, "I will arise and go unto my father, and say, I have sinned against Heaven, and in thy sight." With a slow and tottering step, he arose to proceed on his journey to his father's house. A month had passed--for every day he made less progress--ere the home of his infancy appeared in sight. It was noon, and, when he saw it, he sat down in a little wood by a hill-side and wept, until it had become dusk; for he was ashamed of his rags. He drew near the house, but none came forth to welcome him. With a timid hand he rapped at the door, but none answered him. A stranger came from one of the outhouses and inquired, "What dost thou want, man?" "Mr Fen-wick," feebly answered the prodigal. "Why, naebody lives there," said the other; "and auld Fen-wick died in Morpeth jail mair than three months sin'!" "Died in Morpeth jail!" groaned the miserable being, and fell against the door of the house that had been his father's. "I tell ye, ye cannot get in there," continued the other. "Sir," replied Edward, "pity me; and, oh, tell me is Mrs Fen-wick here--or her daughter-in-law?" "I know nought about them," said the stranger. "I'm put in charge here by the trustees." Want and misery kindled all their fires in the breast of the fugitive. He groaned, and, partly from exhaustion, partly from agony, sank upon the ground. The other lifted him to a shed, where cattle were wont to be fed. His lips were parched, his languid eyes rolled vacantly. "Water! give me water!" he muttered in a feeble voice; and a cup of water was brought to him. He gazed wistfully in the face of the person who stood over him--he would have asked for bread; but, in the midst of his sufferings, pride was yet strong in his heart, and he could not. The stranger, however, was not wholly destitute of humanity. "Poor wretch!" said he, "ye look very fatigued; dow ye think ye cud eat a bit bread, if I were gi'en it to thee?" Tears gathered in the lustreless eyes of the prodigal; but he could not speak. The stranger left him, and returning, placed a piece of coarse bread in his hand. He ate a morsel; but his very soul was sick, and his heart loathed to receive the food for lack of which he was perishing. Vain, sir, were the inquiries after his wife, his children, and his mother; all that he could learn was, that they had kept their sorrow and their shame to themselves, and had left Northumberland together, but where, none knew. He also learned that it was understood amongst his acquaintances that he had put a period to his existence, and that this belief was entertained by his family. Months of wretchedness followed, and Fen-wick, in despair, enlisted into a foot regiment, which, within twelve months, was ordered to embark for Egypt. At that period the British were anxious to hide the remembrance of their unsuccessful attack upon Cadiz, and resolved to wrench the ancient kingdom of the Pharaohs from the grasp of the proud armies of Napoleon. The Cabinet, therefore, on the surrender of Malta, having seconded the views of Sir Ralph Abercrombie, several transports were fitted out to join the squadron under Lord Keith. In one of those transports the penitent prodigal embarked. You are too young to remember it, sir; but at that period a love of country was more widely than ever becoming the ruling passion of every man in Britain; and, with all his sins, his follies, and his miseries, such a feeling glowed in the breast of Edward Fen-wick. He was weary of existence, and he longed to listen to the neighing of the war-horse, and the shout of its rider, and as they might rush on the invulnerable phalanx, and its breastwork of bayonets, to mingle in the rank of heroes; and, rather than pine in inglorious grief, to sell his life for the welfare of his country; or, like the gallant Graham, amidst the din of war, and the confusion of glory, to forget his sorrows. The regiment to which he belonged joined the main army off the Bay of Marmorice, and was the first that, with the gallant Moore at its head, on the memorable seventh of March, raised the shout of victory on the shores of Aboukir. In the moment of victory, Fen-wick fell wounded on the field, and his comrades, in their triumph, passed over him. He had some skill in surgery, and he was enabled to bind up his wound. He was fainting upon the burning sand, and he was creeping amongst the bodies of the slain, for a drop of moisture to cool his parched tongue, when he perceived a small bottle in the hands of a dead officer. It was half-filled with wine--he eagerly raised it to his lips--"Englishman!" cried a feeble voice, "for the love of Heaven! give me one drop--only one!--or I die!" He looked around--a French officer, apparently in the agonies of death, was vainly endeavouring to raise himself on his side, and stretching his hand towards him. "Why should I live?" cried the wretched prodigal; "take it, take it, and live, if you desire life!" He raised the wounded Frenchman's head from the sand--he placed the bottle to his lips--he untied his sash, and bound up his wounds. The other pressed his hand in gratitude. They were conveyed from the field together. Fen-wick was unable to follow the army, and he was disabled from continuing in the service. The French officer recovered, and he was grateful for the poor service that had been rendered to him; and, previous to his being sent off with other prisoners, he gave a present of a thousand francs to the joyless being whom he called his deliverer. I have told you that Fen-wick had some skill in surgery; he had studied some years for the medical profession, but abandoned it for the turf and its vices. He proceeded to Alexandria, where he began to practise as a surgeon, and, amongst an ignorant people, gained reputation. Many years passed, and he had acquired, if not riches, at least an independency. Repentance also had penetrated his soul. He had inquired long and anxiously after his family. He had but few other relatives; and to all of them he had anxiously written, imploring them to acquaint him with the residence of the beings whom he had brought to ruin, but whom he still loved. Some returned no answer to his applications, and others only said that they knew nothing of his wife, or his mother, or of his children, nor whether they yet lived; all they knew was, that they had endeavoured to hide the shame he had brought upon them from the world. These words were daggers to his bruised spirit; but he knew he deserved them, and he prayed that Heaven would grant him the consolation and the mercy that were denied him on earth. Somewhat more than seven years ago he returned to his native country, and he was wandering on the very mountain where, to-day, I met you, when he entered into conversation with a youth apparently about three or four and twenty years of age; and they spent the day together as we have done. Fen-wick was lodging in Keswick, and as, towards evening, they proceeded along the road together, they were overtaken by a storm. "You must accompany me home," said the young man, "until the storm be passed; my mother's house is at hand,"--and he conducted him to yonder lonely cottage, whose white walls you perceive peering through the trees by the water-side. It was dusk when the youth ushered him into a little parlour where two ladies sat; the one appeared about forty, the other threescore and ten. They welcomed the stranger graciously. He ascertained that they let out the rooms of their cottage to visitors to the lakes during the summer season. He expressed a wish to become their lodger, and made some observations on the beauty of the situation. "Yes, sir," said the younger lady, "the situation is indeed beautiful; but I have seen it when the water, and the mountains around it, could impart no charm to its dwellers. Providence has, indeed, been kind to us, and our lodgings have seldom been empty; but, sir, when we entered it, it was a sad house indeed. My poor mother-in-law and myself had experienced many sorrows; yet my poor fatherless children--for I might call them fatherless"--and she wept as she spoke--"with their innocent prattle, soothed our affliction. But my little Eleanor, who was loved by every one, began to droop day by day. It was a winter night--the snow was on the ground--I heard my little darling give a deep sigh upon my bosom. I started up. I called to my poor mother. She brought a light to the bedside--and I found my sweet child dead upon my breast. It was a long and sad night, as we sat by the dead body of my Eleanor, with no one near us; and after she =was= buried, my poor Edward there, as he sat by our side at night, would draw forward to his knee the stool on which his sister sat--while his grandmother would glance at him fondly, and push aside the stool with her foot, that I might not see it;--but I saw it all." The twilight had deepened in the little parlour, and its inmates could not perfectly distinguish the features of each other; but as the lady spoke, the soul of Edward Fen-wick glowed within him--his heart throbbed--his breathing became thick--the sweat burst upon his brow. "Pardon me, lady!" he cried, in agony; "but, oh! tell me your name?" "Fen-wick, sir," replied she. "Eleanor! my injured Eleanor!" he exclaimed, flinging himself at her feet. "I am Edward, your guilty husband! Mother! can you forgive me? My son! my son! intercede for your guilty father!" Ah, sir, there needed no intercession--their arms were around his neck--the prodigal was forgiven! "Behold," continued the narrator, "yonder from the cottage comes the mother, the wife, and the son of whom I have spoken! I will introduce you to them--you shall witness the happiness and the penitence of the prodigal--you must stop with me to-night. Start not, sir--I am Edward Fen-wick the Prodigal Son!" THE LAWYER'S TALES. THE WOMAN WITH THE WHITE MICE. Many have, doubtless, both heard and read of the case of murder in which Jeffrey performed his greatest feat of oratory and power over a jury, and in which, while engaged in his grand speech of more than six hours, he caught, from an open window, the aphony which threatened to close up his voice for ever afterwards. I have had occasion to notice the wants in reported cases tried before courts; and in reference to the one I have now mentioned, I have reason, from my inquiries, to know that the most curious details of the transaction are not only not to be found in the report, but not even suggested, if they do not, in some particulars, appear to be opposed to the public testimony. The agent of the panel sits behind the counsel, delivering to him sometimes very crude materials for the defence, and the counsel sifts that matter; sometimes taking a handful of the chaff to blind a juryman or a judge, but more often casting it away as either useless or dangerous. In that unused chaff there are often pickles not of the kind put into the sack, and again laid as an offering before the blind goddess, but of a different kind of grain--nor often less pleasant, or, if applied, less acceptable to justice. In a certain month in the year 18--, a writer in Dundee, of the name of David M----, was busy in his office, in a dark street off the High Street--busy, no doubt, in discharging the functions of that office represented by Æsop as occupied by a monkey, holding the scales between the litigating cats. He heard a horse stop at his office door, as if brought suddenly up by a jerk of the rein. "There is haste here," he thought; "what is up?" And presently the door opened, and there came, or rather rushed, in a man, of the appearance of a country farmer, greatly more excited than these douce men generally are--except, perhaps, in the midst of a plentiful harvest-home--splashed up with mud to the back of the neck, and breathing as hard as, no doubt, the horse was that carried him. "What is it, Mr. S----?" inquired the writer, as he looked at his client. "A dreadful business!" replied he; and he turned, went back to the door, shut it, and tested the hold of the lock; then laying down his hat and whip, and pulling off his big-coat, he drew a chair so near the writer, that the man of law, _brusque_ and even jolly as he was, instinctively withdrew his, as if he feared an appeal for money. "What is the business?" again asked the writer, as he saw the man in a spasmodic difficulty to begin. "We are all ruined at D----!" he at length said; "Mrs. S----is in your jail, hard by, on a charge of murder." "Mrs. S----! of all the women in the world!" ejaculated the writer in unfeigned amazement: "murder of whom?" "Of a servant at D----," replied Mr. S----; "one of our own women." "And what could be the motive?" "The young woman," continued S----, "had been observed to be pregnant, and the report was got up that my son was the party responsible and blameable. Then the charge is, that my wife gave the girl poison, either to procure abortion, or to take away her life. The woman is dead and buried; but, I believe, her body has been taken up out of the grave and examined, and poison found in the stomach." "An ugly account," said the writer. "I mean not ugly as regards the evidence, of which, as yet, I have heard nothing. I could say beforehand that I don't believe the authorities will be able to bring home an act of this kind to so rational and respectable a woman, as I have known Mrs. S----to be; but if you wish me to get her off, you must allow me to look at the case as if she were guilty." "Guilty!" echoed the man, with a shudder. "Yes. Were I to go fumbling about in an affair of this kind, acting upon a notion--whatever I may think or feel--that Mrs. S----, though your wife, _could not_ possibly do an act of that kind, I would neither hound up, as I ought, the investigations of the prosecutor, nor get up proper evidence--not to meet their proofs only, but to overturn them." "I would have thought you would have been keener to get off an innocent person--a wife, and the mother of a family, too--than a guilty one," said S----. "We cannot get you people to understand these things," replied the writer; "but so it is, at least with me, and I rather think a good number of my brethren. We have a pride in getting off a guilty person; whereas we have only a spice of satisfaction in saving an innocent one. Perhaps I have an object, for your own sake, in speaking thus frankly to you; and I tell you at once, that if you intend to help me to get off your wife, you must, as soon as you can--even here, at this moment--renounce all blind confidence in her innocence." "Terrible condition!" said the farmer. "Not pleasant, but useful. How, in God's name, am I to know how to doctor, purge, or scarify, or anoint a testimony against you, unless I know that it exists, and where to find it?" "Very true," rejoined the farmer, trying to follow the clever "limb." "Don't hesitate. I will have more pleasure, and not, maybe, much less hope, in hearing you detail all the grounds of your suspicion against your wife, than in listening to your nasaling and canting about her innocence. All this is for your good, my dear sir, take it as you will." "I believe it," said the farmer, "and will try to act up to what you say; but I cannot, of my own knowledge, say much, as yet. These things are done privately, within the house, and a farmer is mostly out of doors." "Well, away, get access to your wife, ferret everything out of her, as well for her as against her. If she bought poison, where she bought it, what rats were to be poisoned, how it was applied, how she communicated with the girl, and where, and all, and everything you can gather. Question your servants all they saw or heard; your son, what he has to say; ascertain who came about the house, how affected towards the girl, whether there were more lovers than your son, whether the girl was melancholy, or hopeful, and likely to do the thing or not; but, above all, keep it ever in view that your wife is in prison, and suspected, and let me know every item you can bring against her. Away, and lose no time, for I see it's a matter of neck and neck between her and the prosecutor, and, consequently, neck and noose, or neck and no noose, between her and the hangman." Utterly confounded by this array of instructions, the poor farmer sat and looked blank. It was impossible he could remember all he had been requested to do; and the duty of finding out facts to criminate the wife who had lived with him so long in love and confidence, bore down upon him with a weight he could hardly sustain. "I will do what I can," he said. "You must do _more_ than you can," said the writer; "but, again I say, let me know every, the smallest item you can discover against your wife." And, thus charged, Mr. S----mounted his horse, and rode home to a miserable house with a miserable heart. Extraordinary as the case was, it was entrusted to the charge of an extraordinary man, well remembered yet throughout that county, and much beyond it. In personal respects he was strong, broad, and muscular, with a florid countenance never out of humour, and an eye that flashed in so many different directions, that it was impossible to arrest it for two moments at a time. All action, nothing resisted him; all impulse and sensibility, nothing escaped his observation; yet no one could say that any subject retained his mind for more time than would have sufficed another merely to glance at it. He could speak to a hundred men in a day upon a hundred topics, and sit down and run off twenty pages of a paper without an hour of previous meditation; break off at a pronoun, at a call to the further end of the town; drink as much in a few minutes' conversation with a client as would have taken another an hour to enjoy, and return and finish his paper in less time than another would take to think of it. Always, to appearance, off his guard, he was always master of his position, nor could any obstacle make him stand and calculate its dimensions--it must be surmounted or broken, if his head or the laws should be broken with it; always pressing, he never seemed to be impressed, and the gain or loss of a case was equally indifferent to him. His passion was action, his desire money; but the money went as it came--made without effort and spent without reason. Yet no man hated him; most loved him; few admired him; and even those he might injure by his apparent recklessness could not resist the good nature by which he warded off every attack. He saw at once, after he had dismissed S----, that he had got hold of a desperate case, and also that he behoved to have recourse to desperate means; but it seemed to take no grip of his mind for more than a few minutes, by the end of which he was full swing in some other matter of business, to be followed with the same rapidity by something else, and, probably, after that, pleasure till three in the morning, when he would be carried home to an elegant house in a certain species of carriage with one wheel. Nor had even that consummation any effect on to-morrow's avocations, for which he would be ready at the earliest hour; and in this case he _was_ ready. He set about his inquiries, first proceeded to D----to get a view of the premises--the room where the young woman lay, where the son slept, and the bedroom of the mother--and ascertain whether the premises permitted of intercourse with the servants unknown to the farmer and his wife. He next began his precognition of those connected with the house, and, on returning to town, procured access to Mrs. S----. The jail of Dundee was at that time over the courthouse, a miserable den of a few dark rooms, presenting the appearance of displenished garrets, with small grated windows and a few benches. Here the woman sat revolving, no doubt, in her mind all the events of a life of comfort and respectability, and now under the risk of being brought to a termination by her body being suspended in the front of that building where she had seen before this terrible consummation of justice enacted with the familiar and dismal forms of the tragedy of the gallows. We write of these things as parrots gabble, we read of them as monkeys ogle the, to them, strange actions of human beings; but what is all that comes by the eye or the ear of the experiences of an exterior spirit to the workings of that spirit in its own interior world, where thought follows thought with endless ramifications, weaving and interweaving scenes of love and joy and pain, contrasting and mixing, dissolving and remixing--bright lights and dark shadows--all seen through the blue-tinged and distorting lens of present shame? We cannot realize these things, nor did the writer try. He had only the practical work to do--if possible, to get this woman's neck kept out of a kench; nor did it signify much to him how that was effected; but effected it would be, if the invention of one man could do it, and if that failed, and the woman was suspended, it would trouble him no more than would the loss of a small-debt case. "Sorry to see you in this infernal place, Mrs. S----," he said, as he threw himself upon a bench. "I must get you out, that's certain; but I can promise you that certainty only upon the condition of making a clean breast--only to me, you know." "I know only that I never poisoned the woman," replied she. "Do you want to be hanged?" said he, with the reckless abruptness so peculiar a feature of his character, at the same time taking a rapid glance of her demeanour. He knew all about the firmness derived from the confidence of innocence, of which a certain class of rhapsodists make so much in a heroic way, and yet he had always entertained the heterodoxical notion that guilt is a firmer and often more composed condition than innocence, inasmuch as his experience led him to know that the latter is shaky, anxious, and sensitive, and the former stern and imperturbable. Nor did his quick mind want reasons for showing that such ought, by natural laws, to be the case; for it is never to be lost sight of, that, in so far as regards murder, which requires for its perpetration a peculiar form of mind and a most unnatural condition of the feelings, the same hardness of nerve which enables a man or woman to do the deed, serves equally well the purpose of helping them to stand up against the shame, while the innocent person, in nine hundred and ninety-nine cases out of a thousand--the probable proportion of those who _cannot_ kill--has not the fortitude to withstand the ignominy, simply because he wants the power to slay. So without in his heart prejudging the woman, he drew his conclusions, true or false, from the impassibility of her demeanour. Her answer was ready---- "How could they hang an innocent woman?" "But they _do_ hang hundreds, who say just what you say," replied he. "What are you to make of that riddle? Come, did you ever buy any poison?--please leave out the rats." "No; neither for rats nor servants," was the composed reply. "And you never gave the woman a dose?" "Yes; I have given her medicine more than once." "Oh, a capital thing to save life; but you know her life was not saved. She died and was buried, and has been taken up; and I suspect it was not your jalap that was found in the body. But what interest had you in being so very kind to the woman who was to bring shame on your family by bearing a child to your son?" "I never knew she was in that way; but though I had known it, I could not have taken away her life." "Then, who gave her the poison?" "I do not know." "And cannot even suspect any one?" "No." "Good-bye!" he said, as he started up and hurried away; muttering to himself, as the jailer undid the bolts, "Always the same!--the women are always innocent; and yet we see them stretching ropes other than clothes' ropes every now and then." Defeated, but as little discomfited, as we might gather from his pithy soliloquy, his next step was to double up, as he termed it, the authorities, who, he knew, would never have gone the length of apprehending the woman without having got hold of evidence sufficient to justify Sir William Rae, the Lord Advocate, a considerate and prudent man, that the charge lay heavy on the prisoner. He had no right of access, at this stage, to the names of the intended witnesses; but to a man of his activity it is no difficult matter to find these out, from the natural garrulity of the people, and a kind of self-importance in being a Crown testimony. Then to find them out was next to drawing them out; for it may be safely said for our writer that there was no man, from the time of John Wilkes, who could exercise a more winning persuasion. One by one he ferreted them out, wheedled, threatened, adjured, but found himself resisted in every attempt to break them down or to turn them to him. At every stage of his inquiry he saw the case for the prisoner assuming a dark aspect--as dark, he so termed it, as the face of a hanged culprit. "The beagles have got a track. There are more foxes in the cover than one; and shall it be said I, David M----, cannot beat out another as stimulating to the nose?" In a quarter of an hour after having made this observation to himself, he was posting on horseback to the farm of D----, where he arrived in as short a time as he generally took on his journeys. "I am afraid to ask you for intelligence," said the farmer, as he stood by the horse's side, and addressed the writer, who kept his seat. "Get me two and five-eighths of a glass of whisky in a jug of milk, and I'll tell you then what I want. I have no time to dismount." The farmer complied. "The case looks ugly," said the writer, as he handed back the jug. "These witnesses would hang a calendared saint of a hundred miracles. Are any tramps in the habit of coming about you?" "Too many." "Do you know any of them?" "Scarcely--not by name." "Any women?--never mind the men," said the writer impatiently. "Yes; there is one who used to come often; she sold small things." "Is that all you know of her? Has she no mark, man? Is her nose long or short? no squint, lame leg, or pock-pits?" "She had usually a small cage, in which she kept a couple of white mice." "White mice!" ejaculated the writer; "never was a better mark." "You don't know her name?" "No; nor do I think any of my present people do." "When was she here last?" "About a month ago." "Anywhere near the time of the girl's death?" "Ay, just about that time, or maybe a week before." "And you can give me no trace of her?" "None whatever, except that I think I saw her take to the east, in the way to Arbroath. But I do not see how she can be of any use." "I don't want you to see that she can be of any use," said the writer, laughing; "but I want you to hear whereabout she is." "I will try what I can," said the farmer. "And let me know by some messenger who can ride as fast as I can." Then adding, "Gilderoy was saved by a _brown_ mouse, which gnawed the string by which the key of the jail door of Forfar hung on a nail, whereby the key fell to the ground, and was pulled by him through an opening at the bottom. Heard you ever the story?" "No." "But it's true, nevertheless. What would you say if a _white_ mouse, or two of them, should save the life of your wife?" "I would say it was wonderful," replied the farmer, with eyes a-goggled by amazement. "And so would I," answered Mr. M----, as he put the rowels into the side of his horse and began a hard trot, which he would not slacken till he was at the Cowgate port, and not even then, for he made his way generally through the streets of the town with equal rapidity, and always the safer that he was the "fresher." On arriving at his office he sat down, and, without apparently any premeditation, unless what he had indulged in during his trot, wrote off with his usual rapidity four letters to the following effect:--"Dear Sir,--As agent for Mrs. S----, who now lies in our jail on a charge of murder, I request you will endeavour to find some trace of a woman who goes through the country with a cage and two white mice. Grave suspicions attach to her, as the person who administered the poison, and I wish your energies to be employed in aiding me to search her out." The letters were directed to agents in Arbroath, Forfar, Kirriemuir, and Montrose, and immediately committed to a clerk to be taken to the post-office, with a good-natured laugh on the lips of the writer--and, within the teeth, the little monologue--"The wrinkled skin easily conceals a scar." From some source or another, probably the true one may be guessed, an _uberrima fides_ began to hang round a report that a new feature had spread over the face of Mrs. S----'s case; and that, in place of her being the guilty person, the culprit was a tramp, with white mice in a cage. Nor were the authorities long in being startled by the report; but where that woman was no one could tell, and a vague report was no foundation for authoritative action. But if it was not for a Lord Advocate to seek out or hunt after white mice, that was no reason why the prisoner's agent should not condescend to so very humble an office; and, accordingly, two days after the despatch of the letters I have mentioned, the same horse that carried the writer on the former occasion, and knew so well the prick of his rowels, was ready saddled at the door of the office. The head of the agent was instantly drawn out of some other deep well of legal truth, some score of directions given to clerks, and he was off on the road to Glammis, but not before some flash had shown him what he was to do when he got there. The same rapid trot was commenced, and continued, to the great diminution of the sap of the animal, until the place he was destined for loomed before him. He now commenced inquiries upon inquiries. Every traveller was questioned, every door got a touch of his whip, until at length he got a trace, and he was again in full pursuit. I think it is Suidas who says that these pretty little animals, called white mice, are very amatory, and have a strong odour, but this must be only to their mates. I doubt if even the nostrils of a writer are equal to this perception, whatever sense they may possess in the case of pigeons with a pluckable covering. But, however this may be, it was soon observable that our pursuer had at least something in his eye. The spurs were active; and, by and by, he drew up at a small road-side change-house, into the kitchen of which he tumbled, without a premonitory question, and there, before him, sat the veritable mistress of these very white mice, spaeing the fortunes of some laughing girls, who saw the illuminated figures of their lovers in the future.[A] "Can you read me _my_ fortune?" he said, in his own peculiar way. "Na; I ken ye owre weel," was the quick reply, as she turned a pair of keen, grey eyes on him. "Well, you'll speak to me at any rate," he said. "I have something to say to you." And, going into the adjoining parlour, he called for a half-mutchkin. He needed some himself, and he knew the tramp was not an abstainer. "Tell the woman to come ben," he said, as the man placed the whisky on the table. "What can you want, Mr. M----, with that old, never-mend vagabond?" "Perhaps an uncle has left her five hundred pounds," said the writer with a chuckle. "Gude save us! the creature will go mad," said the man, as he went out, not knowing whether his guest was in humour or earnest. But, whatever he said to the woman, there she was, presently, white mice and all, seated alongside of the writer, who could make a beggar or a baron at home with him, with equal ease, and in an equally short time. "You're obliged to me, I think, if I can trust to a pretty long memory," he said, handing her a glass of the spirits. "Ay; but it doesna need a lang memory to mind gi'en me this," she replied, not wishing any other reason for her obligation. "And you've forgotten the pirn scrape?" "The deil's in a lang memory; but I hinna," she replied, with more confidence, for by this time the whisky had disappeared in the accustomed bourne of departed spirits. "Weel, it's a bad business that at your auld freend's at D----," said he, getting into his Scotch, for familiarity. "Hae ye heard?" "Wha hasna heard? I kenned the lassie brawly; but I didna like her--she was never gude to a puir cratur like me." "But they say ye ken mair than ither folk?" said he. "Maybe I do," replied the woman, getting proud of the impeachment. "Hae we nae lugs and een, ay, and stamachs, like ither folk?" "And could ye do naething to save this puir woman, the wife o' a gude buirdly man, wi' an open hand to your kin, and the mither o' a family?" "I care naething about her being the wife o' a man, or the mither o' a family; but I ken what I ken." "And sometimes what ye dinna ken, when you tell the lasses o' their lovers ye never saw." "The deil tak their louping hearts into his hand for silly gawkies; if they werena a' red-wood about lads, they wadna heed me a whistle. But though I might try to get Mrs. S----'s head out o' the loop, I wadna like to put my ain in." "I'll tak gude care o' that," said the writer. "I got ye out o' a scrape before." "Weel than----" "And weel than," echoed he. "And better than weel than; suppose I swore I did it mysel'--and maybe I did; that's no your business--they wadna hang a puir wretch like me for her ain words, wad they, when there's nae proof I did it but my ain tongue?" "No likely," replied he; "and then a hunder gowden guineas as a present, no as a bribe----" "I want nae bribes--I gie value for my fortunes. If it's wind, wind is the breath o' life; a present!" "Would make your een jump," added he, finishing his sentence. "Jump! ay, loup! Whar are they?" "You'll get the half when you come into the town, and the other when Mrs. S----is safe. You will ca' at my office on Wednesday; and, after that, I'll tak care o' you. In the meantime, ye maun sell your mice." "Geordie Cameron offered me five shillings for them; I'll gie them to him." "No," replied the writer; "no to a _man_. Ken ye nae woman-tramp-will tak them, and show them about as you do?" "Ou ay; I'll gie them to Meg Davidson, wha's to be here the night. But whaurfor no Geordie?" "Never ye mind that, I ken the difference; and if Meg doesna give you the five shillings, I will." "Well, buy them yoursel'," said the woman. "Done," said he; "there's five guineas for them, and you can gie them to Meg as a present. Now, are ye firm?" "Firm!" she cried, as she clutched the money, and gave a shrill laugh, from a nerve that was never softened by pity or penitence. "I think nae mair on't, man--sir, I mean, for ye proved yoursel' a gentleman to me afore--than I do now in spaeing twins to your wife at her next doun-lying." A rap on the table, from the bottom of the pewter measure, brought in the landlord. "Fill that again," said the writer. And the man having re-entered with the pewter measure---- "You're to give this woman board and lodging for a day or two, and I will pay you before I start." "That will be oot o' the five hundred frae her uncle," said the man, laughing. "She's my lady noo; but what will become o' the mice?" "There's Meg Davidson passing the window e'en noo," said the woman. "Send her in," said the writer to the change-house keeper. The woman going under this name was immediately introduced by the man, with a kind of mock formality; for he could not get quit of the impression that his old customer had really succeeded to the five hundred pounds--a sum, in his estimation, sufficiently large to insure respect. "Maggy," said the writer, "tak this chair, and here's a dram. What think ye?" "I dinna ken." "Ye're to get the twa white mice and the cage for naething, and this dram to boot." Meg's face cleared up like a June sun come out in a burst. "Na," she said; "ye're joking." "But it's upon a condition," rejoined he. "Weel, what is't--that I'm to feed them weel, and keep them clean?" "You'll do that too," said he, laughing, "for they're valuable creatures, and bonny; but you're to say you've had them for a year." "For twa, if you like," replied the woman; "a puir fusionless lee that, and no worth sending a body to the deil for." "Here they are," said the tramp; "and you're to tak care o' them. They've been my staff for mony a day, and they're the only creatures on earth I care for and like; for they never said to me, 'Get out, ye wretch,' or banned me for a witch; but were aye sae happy wi' their pickles o' barley, and maybe a knot o' sugar, when I could get at a farmer's wife's bowl." Even hags have pathetic moods. Meg was affected; and the writer, having appreciated the virtue, whispered in the ear of his _protegée_, "Seven o'clock on Wednesday night," and left them to the remainder of the whisky. At the door he settled with the man, and, mounting his horse, which he had ordered a bottle of strong ale for, in addition to his oats, he set off at his old trot. "Now let the Crown blood-hounds catch Meg Davidson and her mice," he said, as he pushed on. The writer was, no doubt, bent eagerly for home, but he seldom got to his intended destination, though we have given one or two examples of an uninterrupted course, without undergoing several stoppages, either from the sudden calls of business, which lay in every direction, or the seductions of conviviality, equally ubiquitous; and on this occasion he was hailed from the window of the inn by some ten-tumbler men of Forfar, whose plan for draining the loch, by making toddy of it, had not, to their discomfort, been realized, but who made due retaliation by very clean drainings elsewhere. The moment he heard the shout he understood the meaning thereof, because he knew the house, the locality, and the men; and Meg Davidson and her mice were passed into the wallet-bag of time, till he should give these revellers their satisfaction in a boon companion who could see them under the table, and then mount his horse, with a power of retention of his seat unexampled in a county famous for revolutions of heads as well as of bodies. Dismounting from his horse, he got his dinner, a meal he had expected at Dundee; and, in spite of the distance of fourteen miles which lay before him, he despatched tumbler after tumbler without being once tempted to the imprudence of letting out his extraordinary hunt, but rather with the prudence of sending, through his compotators, to the county town the fact that a woman who perambulated the country with white mice was really the murderer of the country girl. This statement he was able to make, even at that acme of his dithyrambics, when, as usual, he got upon the head of the table to make his speech of the evening. It was now eleven, and he had swallowed eight tumblers, yet he was comparatively steady when he mounted; and, though during the fourteen miles he swung like a well-ballasted barque in a gale of wind, he made sufficient headway to be home by half-past twelve. Next morning, as ready and able as usual for the work of the day, he was at his desk about eleven, and when engaged with one client, while others were waiting to be despatched in the way in which he alone could discharge clients, he was waited on by a gentleman connected with the Crown Office. Having been yielded a preference, the official took his seat. "I understand you are employed for Mrs. S----?" he said. "We have thought it necessary, as disinterested protectors of the lives of the king's subjects, to apprehend this woman. I need not say that our precognitions are our guarantee; but I have heard a report which would seem to impugn our discretion, if it do not shame our judgment, insomuch that, if it be true, we have seized the wrong person. Do you know anything of this woman with the white mice, who takes upon herself the burden of a self-accusation? Of course it is for you to help us to her as the salvation of your client." "Too evident that for a parade of candour," replied Mr. M----. "Her name is Margaret Davidson. Her white companions will identify her. Her residence is where you may chance to find her." "Very vague, considering your interest," replied the other. "Where did you find her?" "Ask me first, my dear sir, whether I have found her. Perhaps not. If it is my interest to search her out, it is not less your duty to catch her. A vagrant with white mice is a kenspeckle, and surely you can have no difficulty in tracing her. I need scarcely add, that when you do find her, you will substitute her for my client, and make amends for the disgrace you have brought upon an innocent woman and a respectable family." "I won't say that," replied the other, shaking his head. "The evidence against Mrs. S---- is too heavy to admit of our believing a vagrant, influenced by the desire of, perhaps, a paid martyrdom, or the excitement of a mania." "Then, why ask me to help you to find her?" "For our satisfaction as public officers." "And to my detriment as a private agent." "Not at all." "Yes; if I choose to make her a witness for the defence, and leave the jury to judge of _paid_ martyrdom, or her real madness. Paid martyrdom!--paid by whom?" "Not necessarily by you." "But you want me to help you to be able to prove the bribe out of her own mouth, don't you?" "Of course we would examine her." "Yes, and cook her; but you must catch her first. Really, my dear sir, a very useful recipe in cuisine; and, hark ye, you can put the mice in the pan also. But, really, I am not bound, and cannot in justice be expected to do more. I have given you her name; and when had a culprit so peculiar and striking a designation as being the proprietor of a peripatetic menagerie?" "Ridiculous!" "Yes, _ridiculus mus_! But are you not the labouring mountain yourself, and do you not wish me to become the midwife?" "I perceive I can make nothing of you," at length said the gentleman. "You either don't want to save your client, or the means you trust to cannot stand the test." "God bless my soul!" roared the writer; "must I tell you again that I have given you her name and occupation? Even a cat, with nose-instinct put awry by the colour of the white race of victims, would smell her out." Bowing the official to the door with these words, he was presently in some other ravelled web, which he disentangled with equal success and apparent ease; but, following him in his great scheme, we find him in the afternoon posting again to the farm. He found the farmer in the same collapse of hope, sitting in the arm-chair so long pressed by his wife, with his chin upon his breast, and his eyes dim and dead. The evidence had got piece by piece to his ear, paralyzing more and more the tissues of his brain; and hope had assumed the character of an impossibility in the moral world of God's government. "You must cheer up," said the writer. "Come, some milk and whisky. Move about; I have got good news for you, but cannot trust you." The head of the man was raised up, and a slight beam was, as it were, struck from his eye by the jerk of a sudden impulse. His step, as he moved to gratify the agent, seemed to have acquired even a spring. "Why are you here," he said, as he brought the indispensable jug, with something even more than the five-eighths of the spiritual element added to the two glasses, "if you cannot tell me the grounds of my hope? I could not comprehend what you meant about the woman and the white mice." "Nor do I want you to understand it; it is enough if I do," replied Mr. M----, as he put the jug to his mouth; "but this I want you to understand, in the first place, that I want an order for fifty pounds from you." The farmer was too happy to write an order for any amount within the limits of his last farthing, and getting pen and ink, he wrote the cheque. "And you couldn't tell me the name of the woman with the mice; but I can tell you," he continued. "It is Margaret Davidson; and, hark ye--come near me, man--if you are called upon by any one with the appearance of a sheriff's beagle, or whatever he may be like, for the name of that woman, say it is Margaret Davidson, and that they will find her between Lerwick and Berwick. Do you comprehend?" "Perfectly." "And, moreover, you are to tell every living soul within ear-shot, servants or strangers, that it was that very woman who gave the dose to the lass, and that the woman herself does not deny it." "Gude Lord! but is all this true, Mr. M----?" "Is it true your wife did it, then, you d----d idiot?" cried the writer, using thus one of his most familiar terms, but with perfect good-nature. "Don't you in your heart--or hope, at any rate--think the Lord Advocate a liar? and has his lordship a better right to lie than I or Meg Davidson? Isn't the world a great leavened lump of lies from the Cape of Good Hope to the Cape of Wrath? And you want your wife hanged, because the nose of truth is out of joint a bit! Ay, what though it were cut off altogether, if you get your wife's back without being coloured blue by the hangman? But, I tell you, it's not a lie: the woman with the white mice says it of her own accord." "Wonderful! the woman with the white mice!" "The woman with the white mice!" echoed the writer. And, getting again upon his legs, he hurried out, throwing back his injunctions upon S---- to obey his instructions. In a few minutes more he was again upon the road, leaving the clatter of his horse's hoofs to mingle with the confused thoughts of his mystified client. Arrived at the High Street, where, as used to be said of him, he could not be ten minutes without having seized some five or six persons by the breast of the coat, and put as many questions on various matters of business, just as the thought struck him on the instant, he pounced upon one, no other than the confidential clerk of the fiscal. "I say, man," seizing and holding him in the usual way, "have you catched the woman yet?" "What woman?" replied the clerk. "The woman with the white mice." "Oh," cried the young man, "we have no faith in that quarter--a mere get-up; but we're looking about for her, notwithstanding." "Well, tell your master that Meg Davidson was last seen on the Muir of Rannoch, and that the Highlanders in that outlandish quarter, having never seen white mice before, are in a state of perfect amazement." A bolt at some other person left the clerk probably in as great amazement as the Highlanders; but our man of the law did not stop to see the extent of it. All his avocations, however, did not prevent the coming round of that seven o'clock on Wednesday evening, which he had appointed as the hour of meeting with the woman on whom his hopes of saving his client almost altogether rested. He was at his desk at the hour, and the woman, no doubt eager for the phenomenon of the "louping ee," was as true as the time itself. The writer locked the door of his office, and drawing her as near him as possible, inquired first whether any knew she was in town. "Deil are," she replied; "naebody cares for me ony mair than I were an auld glandered spavin, ready for the knackers." "And you've been remembering a' ye are to say?" Now, the woman did not answer this question immediately. She had been, for some days, busy in the repository of her memory--a crazy box of shattered spunk-wood, through the crevices of which came the lurid lights sent from another box, called the imagination, and such was the close intimacy, or rather mixture, of the revelations of these two magic centres, that they could not be distinguished from one another; but the habit of fortune-telling had so quickened the light of the one, as to make it predominate over, and almost extinguish that of the other, so that she was at a loss to get a stray glimmer of the memory, to make her ready, on the instant, for the answer. "Remembering! Ay," she said, "there's no muckle to remember. The lass was under the burden of shame, and couldna bear it: she wanted some doctor's trash to tak that burden aff her, if it should carry her life alang wi' 't. I got the stuff, and the woman dee'd." All which was carefully written down--but the writer had his own way of doing his work. He would have day and date, the place where the doctor's trash was bought, the price thereof, the manner of administering the same, and many other particulars, every one of which was so carefully recorded, that the whole, no doubt, looked like a veritable precognition of facts, got from the said box called the memory, as if it had been that not one tint of light, from the conterminous chamber, had mixed with the pure spirit of truth. "Now," said he, "regaining his English, when his purpose was served, "you'll stand firm to this, in the face of judge, jury, justice, and all her angels?" "Never ye fear." "Then, you will go with me to a private lodging, where I wish you to remain, seen by as few as you can. You're a widow; your name is Mrs. Anderson; your husband was drowned in the Maelstrom. Get weeds, a veil, and look respectable." "A' save the last, for that's impossible." "Try; and, as you will need to pay for your board and lodgings, and your dress, here's the sum I promised ye; the other half when Mrs. S---- is saved." "A' right; and did I no say my ee would loup?--but 'ae gude turn deserves anither,' as the deil said to the loon o' Culloden, when he hauled him doun, screaming, to a place ye maybe ken o', and whaur I hae nae wish to be." "Where is Meg Davidson?" he then asked. "Oh ay!" she replied, "that puts me in mind o' a man wha met me on the road, and asked me if I was the woman wi' the twa white mice? I tauld him she was awa east to Montrose, and sae it is." "Not a cheep of the sale," added he. "Na, na, nor o' ony thing else, but just Mrs. Anderson, the widow, whase man was drouned in the Maelstream." And, having thus finished, the writer led the woman to her place of safety, there to lie _in retentis_ till the court-day. That eventful day came round. In the meantime, the prosecution never got access to the real white mouse tramp, and whatever they got out of Meg Davidson, satisfied them that she knew nothing of the murder. Large sums were given to secure the services of Jeffrey, then in the full blaze of his power, and Cockburn, so useful in examinations. The Lord Advocate led his proof, which was no darker than our writer had ascertained it to be, when he found himself driven to his clever expedient. The proof for the defence began; and, after some other witnesses were examined, the name of the woman with the white mice was called by the macer; and here occurred a circumstance, at the time known to very few. Cockburn turned round to our country agent, who was sitting behind him, and said, in a whisper-- "M----, if the angel Gabriel were at this moment to come down and blow a trumpet, and tell me that what this woman is going to swear to is truth, I would not believe her." Nor is there any doubt to be entertained that the woman's testimony took the court and the audience by surprise. The judges looked at each other, and the jury were perplexed. There was only one thing that produced any solicitude in our writer. He feared the Lord Advocate would lay hands upon her, as either a murderer or a perjurer, the moment she left the witness-box. At that instant was he prepared. Quietly slipping out, he got hold of the woman, led her to the outer door, through a crowd, called to the door-keeper, who stood sentry, to open for the purpose of letting in a fresh witness of great importance to the accused; and having succeeded, as he seldom failed, he got the woman outside. A cab was in readiness--no time lost--the woman was pushed in, followed by her guardian, and in a short time was safely disposed of. Meanwhile, the Crown authorities had been preparing their warrant, and the woman was only saved from their mercies by a very few minutes. It is well known, as I have already mentioned, that Jeffrey's speech for Mrs. S---- was the greatest of all modern orations, yet it was delivered under peculiar circumstances. When he rose and began, he seemed languid and unwell. The wonted sparkle was not seen in his eye, the usually compressed lip was loose and flaccid, and his words, though all his beginnings were generally marked with a subdued tone, came with difficulty. Cockburn looked at him inquiringly, anxious and troubled. There was something wrong, and those interested in the defence augured ominously. All of a sudden the little man stopped, fixed his eye on one of the walls of the court-room, and cried out, "Shut that window." Through that opening a cold wind had been blowing-upon and chilling a body which, though firm and compact, was thin, wiry, and delicately toned to the refined requirements of the spirit that animated and moved it with a grace peculiarly his own. The chill, in consonance with well-known pathological laws, produced first depression, and then a feverish reaction, which latter was even morbidly favourable to the development of his powers. He began to revive; the blood, pulsing with more than natural activity, warmed still more at the call of his enthusiasm. He analyzed every part of the cause, tore up the characters of the prosecutor's witnesses, held up microscopic flaws, and passed them through the lens of his ingenious exaggeration, till they appeared serious in the eyes of the jury. Then how touching, if not noble, was the conduct of that strange witness for the defence--who, a wretched criminal herself, would yet, under a secret power, so far expiate her guilt by offering herself as a sacrifice for innocence! Beyond all was the pathos of his peroration, where he brought home the case to the jury, as loving husbands of loving wives, and tender fathers of beloved children. A woman sat there before them--a wife and a mother. She had undergone an ordeal not much less trying than death itself, and even then she was trembling under the agony of suspense, extended beyond mortal powers of endurance--to be terminated by the breath of their mouths, either for life and a restoration to a previously happy family, or for a death on a gallows, with all its ignominy. That speech, which nearly cost Jeffrey his life, saved that of another. The jury found the libel not proven; Mrs. S---- was free; Jeffrey was made more famous; but no one ever heard more of the woman with the white mice. GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT. THE EARLY DAYS OF A FRIEND OF THE COVENANT. I was born in the upper district and amidst the mountains of Dumfriesshire. My father, who died ere I had attained my second birthday, had seen better times; but, having engaged in mercantile speculations, had been overreached or unfortunate, or both, and during the latter years of his life had carried a gun, kept an amazing pointer bitch (of which my mother used to discourse largely), and had ultimately married in a fit of despondency. My mother, to whom he had long been affianced, was nearly connected with the Lairds of Clauchry, of which relationship she was vain; and in all her trials, of which she had no ordinary share, she still retained somewhat of the feelings, as well as the appearance of a gentlewoman. I remember, for example, a pair of high-heeled red Morocco shoes, overhung by the ample drapery of a quilted silk gown, in which habiliments she appeared on great occasions. Soon after my father's decease, my mother found it convenient and advisable to remove from the neighbourhood of the Clauchry to a cottage, or cottier as it was called, on her brother's farm, in the upper division of the parish of Closeburn. Few situations could be better fitted for the purpose of a quiet and sequestered retreat. The scene is now as vividly before me as it was on that day when I last saw it, and felt that, in all probability, I viewed it for the last time. A snug kailyard, surrounded by a fullgrown bushy hedge of bourtree, saugh, and thorn, lay along the border of a small mountain stream, and hard by a thatched cottage, with a peat-stack at the one end and a small byre at the other. All this was nestled as it were in the bosom of mountains, which, to the north and the east in particular, presented a defence against all winds, and an outline of bold grandeur exceedingly impressive. The south and the west were more open; consequently the mid-day and afternoon sun reposed, with delightful and unobstructed radiance, on the green border of the stream, and the flowery foliage of the brae. And when the evening was calm, and the season suitable, the blue smoke winded upwards, and the birds sang delightfully amidst hazel, and oak, and birch, with a profusion of which the eastern bank was covered. It was here that I spent my early days; and it was in this scene of mountain solitude, with no immediate associate but my mother, and for a few years of my existence my grandmother, that my "feelings and fortunes were formed and shaped out." To be brought up amidst mountain scenery, apart and afar from the busy or polluted haunts of man; to place one's little bare foot, with its first movement, on the greensward, the brown heath, or in the pure stream; to live in the retired glen, a perceptible part of all that lives and enjoys; to feel the bracing air of freedom in every breeze; to be possessed of elbow room from ridge to summit, from bank to brae,--this is, indeed, the most delightful of all infant schools, and, above all, prepares the young and infant mind for enlarged conception and resolute daring. "To sit on rocks; to muse o'er flood and fell; To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, Where things that own not man's dominion dwell, And mortal foot hath ne'er or seldom been; To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, With the wild flock that never needs a fold; Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean: This is not solitude--'tis but to hold Converse with Nature's God, and see his works unrolled." Here, indeed, are the things that own not the dominion of man! The everlasting hills, in their outlines of rock and heath; the floods that leap in freedom, or rush in defiance from steep to steep, from gullet to pool, and from pool to plain; the very tempest that overpowers; and heaven, through which the fowls of air sail with supreme and unchallenged dominion,--all these inspire the young heart with independence and self-reliance. True it is that the child, and even the boy, reflects not at all on the advantages of his situation; and this is the very reason that his whole imagination and heart are under their influence. He that is ever arresting and analyzing the current of his thoughts, will seldom think correctly; and he who examines with a microscopic eye the sources of beauty and sublimity, will seldom feel the full force and sway of such impressions. Early and lasting friendships are the fruit of accident, rather than of calculation--of feeling, rather than of reflection; and the circumstances of scenery and habit, which modify the child, and give a bent, a bias, and a character to the after-life, pass all unestimated in regard to such tendency at the time. The bulrush is not less unconscious of the marsh which modifies its growth, or the wallflower of the decay to which it clings, and by which alone its nature and growth would be most advantageously marked and perfected, than is the mountain child of that moral as well as physical development, which such peculiar circumstances are calculated to effect. If, through all the vicissitudes and trials of my past life, I have ever retained a spirit of independence, a spirit which has not, as the sequel (which I may yet give) will evince, proved at all times advantageous to my worldly advancement--if such has been the case, I owe it, in a great measure, to the impression which the home of my youth was calculated to make. My mother had originally received a better education than in those days was customary with individuals of her class; and, in addition to this advantage, she had long acted as housekeeper to an unmarried brother, the minister of a parish in Galloway. In this situation, she had access to a large and well-chosen library; and at leisure intervals had improved the opportunity thus presented. She was quite familiar with Young, and Pope, and Dryden, as well as with Tate's translation of Ovid's Epistles. These latter, in particular, she used to repeat to me during the winter evenings, with a tone of plaintiveness which I felt at the time, and the impression of which can never be obliterated. From these early associations and impressions I am enabled to deduce a taste for poetry, which, while it has served to beguile many an otherwise unsupportable sorrow, has largely contributed to the actual enjoyments of life. There are, indeed, moments of sadness and of joy, to which poetry can bring neither alleviation nor zest; but these, when compared with the more softening shadings, are but rare; and when the intensity of grief or of delight has yielded, or is in the act of yielding, to time or reflection, it is then, in the gloaming or the twilight, as darkness passes into light, or light into darkness, that the soothing and softening notes of poesy come over the soul like the blessed south. In religion, or rather in politics--in as far, at least, as they are interwoven with and inseparable from the Presbyterian faith--my mother was a staunch Covenanter. Nor was it at all surprising that one whose forefathers had suffered so severely in defence of the Covenant, and in opposition to oppression, should imbibe their sentiments. Her maternal grandfather had suffered at the Gallowlee; and her grandmother, who refused to give information to Clavers respecting the retreat of her husband, had her new-born babe plucked from her breast, dashed upon the floor, and the very bed, from which, to rescue her babe, she had sprung, pierced and perforated in a thousand places by the swords of the ruffians. Whilst this tragedy was enacting within doors, and in what, in these simple times, was denominated the _chaumer_, her eldest son, a boy of about twelve years of age, was arrested, and because he would not, or in all probability could not, disclose his father's retreat, he was blindfolded, tied to a tree, and taught to expect that every ball which he heard whizzing past his ear was aimed at his head. The boy was left bound; and, upon his being released by a menial, it was discovered that his reason had fled--and for ever! He died a few years afterwards, being known in the neighbourhood by the name of the Martyred Innocent! I have often looked at the bloody stone (for such stains are well known to be like those upon Lady Macbeth's hand, indelible,) where fell, after being perforated by a brace of bullets, Daniel M'Michael, a faithful witness to the truth, whose tomb, with its primitive and expressive inscription, is still to be seen in the churchyard of Durisdeer. Grierson of Lag made a conspicuous figure in the parish of Closeburn in particular; nor did my mother neglect to point out to me the ruined tower and the waste domain around it, which bespoke, according to her creed, the curse of God upon the seed of the persecutor. His elegy--somewhat lengthy and dull--I could once repeat. I can now only recall the striking lines where the Devil is introduced as lamenting over the death of his faithful and unflinching ally:-- "What fatal news is this I hear?-- On earth who shall my standard bear?-- For Lag, who was my champion brave, Is dead, and now laid in his grave. "The want of him is a great grief-- He was my manager-in-chief, Who sought my kingdom to improve; And to my laws he had great love," etc. * * * * * And so on, through at least two hundred lines, composing a pamphlet, hawked about, in my younger days, in every huckster's basket, and sold in thousands to the peasantry of Dumfriesshire and Galloway, at the price of one penny. Whilst, however, the storm of evil passions raged with such fury in what was termed the western districts in particular, the poor, shelterless, and persecuted Covenanter was not altogether destitute of help or comfort. According to his own apprehension, at least, his Maker was on his side; his prayers, offered up on the mountain and in the cave, were heard and answered; and a watchful Providence often interfered, miraculously, both to punish his oppressors, and warn him against the approach of danger. In evidence of this, my mother was wont, amongst many others, to quote the following instances, respecting which she herself entertained no doubt whatever--instances which, having never before been committed to paper, have at least the recommendation of novelty in their favour. One of the chief rendezvous of the Covenant was Auchincairn, in the eastern district of Closeburn. To this friendly, but, on that account, suspected roof, did the poor wanderer of the mist, the glen, and the mountain repair, at dead of night, to obtain what was barely necessary for the support of nature. Grierson of Lag was not ignorant of the fact, and accordingly, by a sudden movement, was often found surrounding the steading with men and horses before daybreak; yet, prompt and well arranged as his measures were, they were never successful. The objects of his search uniformly escaped before the search was made. And this singular good fortune was owing, according to my authority, to the following circumstance. On the night previous to such an unwelcome visit, a little bird, of a peculiar feather and note, such as are not to be found in this country, came, and perching upon the topmost branch of the old ash tree in the corner of the garden, poured forth its notes of friendly intimation. To these the poor skulking friend of the Covenant listened, by these he was warned, lifted his eyes and his feet to the mountain, and was safe. The curate of Closeburn was eminently active in distressing his flock. He was one of those Aberdeen divines whom the wisdom of the Glasgow council had placed in the three hundred pulpits vacated in consequence of a drunken and absurd decree. As his church was deserted, he had had recourse to compulsory measures to enforce attendance, and had actually dragged servants and children, in carts and hurdles, to hear his spiritual and edifying addresses; whilst, on the other hand, his spies and emissaries were busied in giving information against such masters and parents as fled from his grasp, or resisted it. He had even gone so far, under the countenance and sanction of the infamous Lauderdale, as to forbid Christian burial in every case where there was no attendance on his ministry. Such was the character, and such the conduct of the man against whom the prayers of a private meeting of the friends of Presbytery were earnestly directed on the following occasion. The eldest son of the guidman of Auchincairn had paid the debt of nature, and behooved to be buried with his fathers in the churchyard of the parish. To this, from the well-known character both of curate and father, it was anticipated that resistance would be made. Against this resistance, however, measures were taken of a somewhat decided character. The body was to be borne to the churchyard by men in arms, whilst a part of the attendants were to remain at home, for the purpose of addressing their Maker in united prayer and supplication. Thus, doubly armed and prepared, the funeral advanced towards the church and manse. Meanwhile the prayer and supplication were warm, and almost expostulatory, that _His_ arm might be stretched forth in behalf of His own covenanted servants. A poor idiot, who had not been judged a proper person to join in this service, was heard to approach, and, after listening with great seeming attention to the strain of the petitions which were made, he, at length, unable to constrain himself any longer, was heard to exclaim, "Haud at him, sirs, haud at him--he's just at the pit brow!" Surprising as it may appear, and incredulous as some may be, there is sufficient evidence to prove that, just about the time when this prediction was uttered, the curate of Closeburn, whilst endeavouring to head and hurry on a party of the military, suddenly dropped down and expired. Is it, then, matter of surprise that with my mother's milk I imbibed a strong aversion to all manner of oppression, and that, in the broadest and best sense of the word, I became "a Whig?" To the mountain, then, and the flood, I owe my spirit of independence--that shelly-coat covering against which many arrows have been directed; to my mother, and her Cameronian and political bias, I owe my detestation of oppression--in other words, my political creed--together with my poetical leanings. But to my venerated grandmother, in particular, I am indebted for my early acquaintance with the whole history and economy of the spiritual kingdoms, divided as they are into bogle, ghost, and fairy-land. I shall probably be regarded as an enthusiast whose feelings no future evidence can reclaim from early impressions, when I express my regret that the dreams of my infancy and boyhood have fled--those dreams of dark and bright agency, which shall probably never again return, to agitate and interest--those dreams which charmed me in the midst of a spiritual world, and taught me to consider mere matter as only the visible and tangible instrument through which spirit was constantly acting--those dreams which appear as the shadow and reflection of sacred intimation, and which serve to guard the young heart, in particular, from the cold and revolting tenets of materialism. From the malevolence of him who walks and who works in darkness--who goes about like a roaring lion (but, in our climate and country, more frequently like a bull-dog, or a nondescript bogle), seeking whom he may terrify--I was taught to fly into the protecting arms of the omnipotent Jehovah; that no class of beings could break loose upon another without His high permission; that the Evil One, under whatever disguise or shape he might appear, was still restrained and over-mastered by the Source of all good and of all safety; whilst with the green-coated fairy, the laborious brownie, and the nocturnal hearth-bairn, I almost desired to live upon more intimate and friendly terms! How poor, comparatively speaking, are the incidents, how uninteresting is the machinery, of a modern fictitious narrative!--sudden and unlooked-for reappearances of those who were thought to be dead, discoveries of substituted births, with various chances and misnomers--"antres vast, and deserts wild!" One good, tall, stalking ghost, with its compressed lips and pointed fingers, with its glazed eye and measured step, is worth them all! Oh for a real "_white lady_" under the twilight of the year seventeen hundred and forty! When the elegant Greek or warlike Roman walked abroad or dined at home, he was surrounded by all the influences of an interesting and captivating mythology--by nymphs of the oak, of the mountain, and of the spring--by the Lares and Penates of his fireside and gateway--by the genius, the Ceres and the Bacchus of his banquet. When our forefathers contended for religious and civil liberty on the mountain--when they prayed for it in the glen, and in the silent darkness of the damp and cheerless cave--they were surrounded, not by material images, but by popular conceptions. The tempter was still in the wilderness, with his suggestions and his promises; and there, too, was the good angel, to warn and to comfort, to strengthen and to cheer. The very fowls of heaven bore on their wing and in their note a message of warning or a voice of comforting; and when the sound of psalms commingled with the swelling rush of the cascade, there were often heard, as it were, the harping of angels, the commingling of heavenly with earthly melody. All this was elevating and comforting precisely in proportion to the belief by which it was supported; and it may fairly be questioned whether such men as Peden and Cameron would have maintained the struggle with so much nerve and resolution if the sun of their faith had not been surrounded by a halo--if the noonday of the gospel had not shaded away imperceptibly into the twilight of superstition. In fact, superstition, in its softer and milder modifications, seems to form a kind of barrier or fence around the "sacred territory;" and it seldom if ever fails to happen that, when the outworks are driven in, the citadel is in danger; when the good old woman has been completely disabused of her harmless fancies, she may then aspire to the faith and the religious comforts of the philosophy of Volney. In confirmation of these observations, I may adduce the belief and life of my nearest relatives. To them, amidst all their superstitious impressions, religion, pure and undefiled, was still the main hold--the sheet anchor, stayed and steadied by which they were enabled to bear up amidst the turmoils and tempests of life. To an intimate acquaintance with, and a frequent reading of the sacred volume, was added, under our humble roof, family prayer both morning and evening--an exercise which was performed by mother and daughter alternately, and in a manner which, had I not actually thought them inspired, would have surprised me. Those who are unacquainted with the ancient Doric of our devotional and intelligent peasantry, and with that musical accentuation or chant of which it is not only susceptible, but upon which it is in a manner constructed, can have but a very imperfect notion of family prayer, performed in the manner I refer to. Many there are who smile at that familiarity of address and homeliness of expression which are generally made use of; but under that homely address there lie a sincerity and earnestness, a soothing, arousing, and penetrating eloquence, which neither in public nor in private prayer have ever been excelled. Again and again I have felt my breast swell and my eyes fill whilst the prayer of a parent was presented at a throne of grace in words to the following purpose:--"Help him, good Lord!" (speaking in reference to myself), "oh help my puir, faitherless bairn in the day of frowardness and in the hour of folly--in the season of forgetfulness and of unforeseen danger--in trial and in difficulty--in life and in death. Good Lord, for his sainted father's sake (who is now, we trust, with Thee), for my puir sake, who am unworthy to ask the favour, and, far aboon and above a', for thine own well-beloved Son's sake, do _Thou_ be pleased to keep, counsel, and support my puir helpless wean, when mine eyes shall be closed, and my lips shall be shut, and my hands shall have ceased to labour. Thou that didst visit Hagar and her child in the thirsty wilderness--Thou that didst bring thy servant Joseph from the pit and the miry clay--Thou that didst carry thy beloved people Israel through a barren desert to a promised and fruitful land--do Thou be a husband and a father to me and mine; and oh forbid that, in adversity or in prosperity, by day or by night, in the solitude or in the city, we should ever forget Thee!" In an age when, amongst our peasantry in particular, family prayer is so extensively and mournfully neglected--when the farmer, the manufacturer, the mechanic, not to mention the more elevated orders, have ceased to obey the injunction laid upon all Presbyterian parents in baptism--it is refreshing to look back to the time when the taking of the book, as it was termed, returned as regularly as the rising and the setting of the sun--when the whole household convened together, morning and evening, to worship the God of their fathers. In public worship, as well as in private prayer, there is much of comforting and spiritual support. It is pleasing, as well as useful, to unite voice with voice, and heart with heart; it is consolatory, as well as comforting, to retire from the world to commune with one's heart and be still; but it is not the less delightful and refreshing to unite in family prayer the charities and sympathies of life--to come to the throne of mercy and of pardon in the attitude and capacity of parent and child, brother and sister, husband and wife, master and servant, and to express, in the common confession, petition, and thanksgiving, our united feelings of sinfulness, resignation, and gratitude. Milton paints beautifully the first impressions which death made upon Eve; and sure I am that, though conceived in sin and brought forth in iniquity, I remember the time when I was entirely ignorant of death. I had indeed been informed that I had a father; but as to any change which had been effected upon him by death, I was as ignorant as if I had been embowered from my birth amidst the evergreens of paradise. Everything around me appeared to be permanent and undying, almost unchanging. The sun set only to rise again; the moon waned, and then reappeared, reassured in strength and repaired in form; the stars, in their courses, walked steadily and uniformly over my head; the flowers faded and nourished; the birds exchanged silence for song; the domestic animals were all my acquaintances from the dawn of memory. To me, and to those associated with me, similar events happened: we ate, drank, went to sleep, and arose again, with the utmost regularity. I had, indeed, heard of death as of some inconceivable evil; but, in my imagination, its operation had no figure. I had not even seen a dog die; for my father's favourite Gipsy lived for nine years after his death--a cherished and respected pensioner. At last, however, the period arrived when the spell was to be broken for ever--when I was to be let into the secret of the house of corruption, and made acquainted with the change which death induces upon the human countenance. My grandmother had attained a very advanced old age, yet was she straight in person, and perfect in all her mental faculties. Her countenance, which I still see distinctly, was expressive of good-will; and the wrinkles on her brow served to add a kind of intellectual activity to a face naturally soft, and even comely. She had told me so many stories, given me so many good advices, initiated me so carefully in the elements of all learning, "the small and capital letters," and, lastly, had so frequently interposed betwixt me and parental chastisement, that I bore her as much good-will and kindly feeling as a boy of seven years could reasonably be expected to exhibit. True it is, and of verity, that this kindly feeling was not incompatible with many acts of annoyance, for which I now take shame and express regret; but these acts were anything but malevolent, being committed under the view of self-indulgence merely. It was, therefore, with infinite concern that I received the intelligence from my mother that grannie was, in all probability, on the point of leaving us, and for ever. "Leaving us, and for ever," sounded in my ears like a dream of the night, in which I had seen the stream which passed our door swell suddenly into a torrent, and the torrent into a flood, carrying me, and everything around me, away in its waters. I felt unassured in regard to my condition, and was half disposed to believe that I was still asleep and imagining horrors! But when my mother told me that the disease which had for days confined my grandmother to bed would end in death--in other words, would place her alongside of my father's grave in the churchyard of Closeburn--I felt that I was not asleep, but awake to some dreadful reality, which was about to overtake us. From this period till within a few hours of her dissolution, I kept cautiously and carefully aloof from all intercourse with my grandmother--I felt, as it were, unwilling to renew an intercourse which was so certainly, and so soon, and so permanently to be interrupted; so I betook myself to the hills, and to the pursuit of all manner of bees and butterflies. I would not, in fact, rest; and as I lay extended on my back amidst the heath, and marked the soft and filmy cloud swimming slowly along, "making the blue one white," I thought of her who was dying, and of some holy and happy residence far beyond the utmost elevation of cloud, or sun, or sky. Again and again I have risen from such reveries to plunge myself headlong into the pool, or pursue with increased activity the winged insects which buzzed and flitted around me. Strange indeed are the impressions made upon our yet unstamped, unbiassed nature; and could we in every instance recall them, their history would be so unlike our more recent experience, as to make us suspect our personal identity. I do not remember any more recent feeling which corresponded in character and degree with this, whose wayward and strange workings I am endeavouring to describe; and yet in this case, and in all its accompaniments, I have as perfect a recollection of facts, and reverence of feeling, as if I were yet the child of seven, visited for the first time with tidings of death. My grandmother's end drew nigh, and I was commanded, or rather dragged, to her bedside. There I still see her lying, calm, but emaciated, in remarkably white sheets, and a head dress which seemed to speak of some approaching change. It was drawn closely over her brow, and covered the chin up to her lips. Nature had manifestly given up the contest; and although her voice was scarcely audible, her reason evidently continued unclouded and entire. She spoke to me slowly and solemnly of religion, obedience to my mother, and being obliging to every one; laid, by my mother's assistance, her hand upon my head, as I kneeled at her bedside, and in a few instants had ceased to breathe. I lifted up my head at my mother's bidding, and beheld a corpse. What I saw or what I felt, I can never express in words. I can only recollect that I sprang immediately, horror-struck, to my feet, rushed out at the door, made for the closest and thickest part of the brushwood of the adjoining brae, and, casting myself headlong into the midst of it, burst into tears. I wept, nay, roared aloud; my grief and astonishment were intense whilst they lasted, but they did not last long; for when I returned home about dusk, I found a small table spread over with a clean cloth, upon which was placed a bottle with spirits, a loaf of bread, and cheese cut into pretty large pieces. Around this table sat my mother, with two old women from the nearest hamlet. They were talking in a low but in a wonderfully cheerful tone, as I thought, and had evidently been partaking of refreshment. Being asked to join them, I did so; but ever and anon the white sheet in the bed, which shaped itself out most fearfully into the human form, drew my attention, and excited something of the feeling which a ghost might have occasioned. I had ceased in a great measure to feel for my grandmother's death. I now felt the alarms and agitations of superstition. It was not because she had fled from us that I was agitated, but because that, though dead, she still seemed present, in all the inconceivable mystery of a dead life! The funeral called forth, from the adjoining glens and cottages, a respectable attendance, and at the same time gave me an opportunity of partaking, unnoticed, of more refreshment than suited the occasion or my years; in fact, I became little less than intoxicated, and was exceedingly surprised at finding myself, towards evening, in the midst of the same bush where I had experienced my paroxysm of grief, singing aloud, in all the exultation of exhilarated spirits. Such is infancy and boyhood-- "The tear forgot, as soon as shed." I returned, however, home, thoughtful and sad, and never, but once, thought the house so deserted and solitary as during that evening. My mother was not a Cameronian by communion, but she was in fact one in spirit. This spirit she had by inheritance, and it was kept alive by an occasional visit from "Fairly." This redoubted champion of the Covenant drew me one day towards him, and, placing me betwixt his knees, proceeded to question me how I would like to be a minister; and as I preserved silence, he proceeded to explain that he did not mean a parish minister, with a manse and glebe and stipend, but a poor Cameronian hill-preacher like himself. As he uttered these last words, I looked up, and saw before me an austere countenance, and a threadbare black coat hung loosely over what is termed a hunchback. I had often heard Fairly mentioned, not only with respect, but enthusiasm, and had already identified him and his followers with the "guid auld persecuted folks" of whom I had heard so much. Yet there was something so strange, not to say forbidding, in Fairly's appearance, that I hesitated to give my consent, and continued silent; whereupon Fairly rose to depart, observing to my mother, that "my time was not come yet." I did not then fully comprehend the meaning of this expression, nor do I perhaps now, but it passed over my heart like an awakening breeze over the strings of an Æolian harp. I immediately sprang forward, and catching Fairly by the skirt of his coat, exclaimed-- "Oh stay, sir!--dinna gang and leave us, and I will do onything ye like." "But then mind, my wee man," continued Fairly in return, "mind that, if ye join us, ye will have neither house nor hame, and will often be cauld and hungry, without a bed to lie on." "I dinna care," was my uncouth, but resolute response. "There's mair metal in that callant than ye're aware o'," rejoined Fairly, addressing himself to my mother, and looking all the while most affectionately into my countenance. "Here, my little fellow, here's a penny for ye, to buy a _charitcher_; and gin ye leeve to be a man, ye'll aiblins be honoured wi' upholding the doctrines which it contains, on the mountain and in the glen, when my auld banes are mixed wi' the clods." I looked again at Fairly as he pronounced these words, and had an angel descended from heaven in all the radiance and benignity of undimmed glory, such a presence would not have impressed me more deeply with feelings of love, veneration, and esteem. This colloquy, short as it was, exercised considerable influence over my future life. I cannot suppose anything more imposing, and better calculated to excite the imagination, than the meetings of these Cameronians or hill-men. They are still vividly under my view: the precipitous and green hills of Durrisdeer on each side--the tent adjoining to the pure mountain stream beneath--the communion table stretching away in double rows from the tent towards the acclivity--the vast multitude in one wide amphitheatre round and above--the spring gushing solemnly and copiously from the rock, like that of Meribah, for the refreshment of the people--the still or whispering silence when Fairly appeared, with the Bible under his arm, without gown, or band, or any other clerical badge of distinction--the tent-ladder, ascended by the bald-headed and venerable old man, and his almost divine regard of benevolence, cast abroad upon a countless multitude--his earnestness in prayer--his plain and colloquial style of address--the deep and pious attention paid to him, from the plaided old woman at the front of the tent to the gaily dressed lad and lass on the extremity of the ground--his descent, and the communion service--his solemn and powerful consecration prayer, over which the passing cloud seemed to hover, and the sheep on the hill-side to forego for a time their pasture--his bald head (like a bare rock encompassed with furze) slightly fringed with grey hairs, remaining uncovered under the plashing of a descending torrent, and his right hand thrust upward, in holy indignation against the proffered umbrella;--all this I see under the alternating splendours and darkenings, lights and shadows, of a sultry summer's day. The thunder is heard in its awful sublimity; and whilst the hearts of man and of beast are quaking around and above, Fairly's voice is louder and more confirmed, his countenance is brighter, and his eye more assured, and stedfastly fixed on the muttering heaven. "Thou, O Lord, art ever near us, but we perceive Thee not; Thou speakest from Zion, and in a still small voice, but it is drowned in the world's murmurings. Then Thou comest forth as now, in thy throne of darkness, and encompassest thy Sinai with thunderings and lightnings; and then it is, that like silly and timid sheep who have strayed from their pasture, we stand afar off and tremble. _This_ flash of thy indignant majesty, which has now crossed these aged eyes, might, hadst Thou but so willed it, have dimmed them for ever; and this vast assemblage of sinful life might have been, in the twinkling of an eye, as the hosts of Assyria, or the inhabitants of Admah and Zeboim; but Thou knowest, O Lord, that Thou hast more work for me, and more mercy for them, and that the prayers of penitence which are now knocking hard for entrance and answer, must have time and trial to prove their sincerity. So be it, good Lord! for thine ire, that hath suddenly kindled, hath passed; and the Sun of Righteousness himself hath bid his own best image come forth from the cloud to enliven our assembly." In fact, the thunder-cloud had passed, and under the strong relief of a renewed effulgence, was wrapping in its trailing ascent the summits of the more distant mountains. "I to the hills will lift mine eyes, From whence doth come mine aid: My safety cometh from the Lord"---- These were the notes which pealed in the after-service of that memorable occasion from at least ten thousand hearts. Nor is there any object in nature better calculated to call forth the most elevated sentiments of devotion, than such a simultaneous concordant union of voice and purpose, in praise of Him "who heaven and earth hath made." "All people that on earth do dwell, Sing to the Lord"---- So says the divine monitor; but what says modern fashion and refinement? Let them answer in succession for themselves. And first, then, in reference to fashion. When examined and duly purged, she deposeth that the time was when men were not ashamed to praise their God "before his people all;" when they even rejoiced with what tones they might to unite their tributary stream of praise to that vast flood which rolled, in accumulated efficacy, towards the throne on high; when lord and lady, husbandman and mechanic, learned and unlearned, prince and people, sent forth their hearts in their united voices towards Him who is the God over all and the Saviour of all. She further deposeth that the venerated founders of our Presbyterian Church were wont to scare the curlew and the bittern of the mountain and the marsh by their nightly songs of solemn and combined thanksgiving and praise; and that, with the view of securing a continuance of this delightful exercise, our Confession of Faith strictly enjoins us, providing, by the reading of "the line," against cases of extreme ignorance or bodily infirmity; and yet she averreth that, in defiance of law and practice, of reason and revelation, of good feeling and common-sense, hath it become unfashionable to be seen or to be heard praising God. It is vulgar and unseemly, it would appear, in the extreme, to modulate the voice or to compose the countenance into any form or expression which might imply an interest in the exercise of praise. The young Miss in her teens, whose tender and susceptible heart is as wax to impressions, is half betrayed into a spontaneous exhibition of devotional feeling; but she looks at the marble countenance and changeless aspect of Mamma, and is silent. The home-bred, unadulterated peasant would willingly persevere in a practice to which he has been accustomed from his first entrance at the church stile; but his superiors, from pew and gallery, discountenance his feelings, and indicate by the carelessness--I had almost added the levity--of their demeanour, that they are thinking of anything, of everything, but God's praise; whilst the voices of the hired precentor and of a few old women and rustics are heard uniting in suppressed and feeble symphony. Nay, there is a case still more revolting than any which has been hitherto denounced--that, namely, of our young probationers and ministers, who, in many instances, refuse even in the pulpit that example which, with their last breath, they were perhaps employed in recommending. There they sit or stoop whilst the psalm is singing, busily employed in revising their MS., or in reviewing the congregation, in selecting and marking for emphasis the splendid passages, or in noting for observation whatever of interesting the dress or the countenances of the people may suggest. So much for _fashion_; and now for the deposition of _refinement_ on the same subject. Refinement has indeed much to answer for; she has brushed the coat threadbare; she has wiredrawn the thread till it can scarcely support its own weight; and in no one instance has her besetting sin been more conspicuous than in her intercommunings with our church psalmody. The old women who, from the original establishment of Presbytery, have continued to occupy and grace our pulpit stairs, are oftentimes defective in point of sweetness and delicacy of voice; in fact, they do not sing, but croon, and in some instances they have even been known to outrun the precentor by several measures, and to return upon him a second time ere the conclusion of the line. What then?--they always croon in a low key; and if _they_ are gratified, their Maker pleased, and the congregation in general undisturbed, the principal parties are disposed of. There is no doubt something unpleasing to a refined ear in the jarring concord of a rustic euphony, when, in full voice, of a sacramental Sabbath evening, they are inclined to hold on with irresistible swing. But what they want in harmony, they have in good-will; what they lose in melody, they gain in the ringing echo of their voices from roof and ceiling. And were it possible, without silencing the uninstructed, to gratify and encourage the refined and the disciplined, then were there at once a union and a unison of agreeables; but as this object has never been effected, or even attempted, and as refinement has at once laid aside all regard for the humble and untrained worshipper, and has set her stamp and seal upon a trained band of vocal performers, it becomes the duty of all rightly constituted minds to oppose, if they cannot stem the tide--to mark and stigmatize that as unbecoming and absurd which the folly of the age would have us consider as improvement. It is of little moment whether the office of psalm-singing be committed to a select band, who surround, with their merry faces and tenor pipes, the precentor's seat, or be entrusted to separate parties scattered through the congregation; still, so long as the _taught_ alone are expected to sing, the original end of psalm-singing is lost sight of, the habits of a Presbyterian congregation are violated, and _manner_ being preferred to _matter_--an attuned voice to a fervent spirit--a manifest violence is done to the feelings of the truly devout. No two things are probably more distinct and separate in the reader's mind than preaching and fishing; yet in mine they are closely associated. And is not fishing or angling with the rod a most fascinating amusement? There is just enough of address required to admit and imply a gratifying admixture of self-approbation; and enough, at the same time, of chance or circumstance, over which the fisher has no control, to keep expectation alive even during the most deplorable luck. Hence a real fisher is seldom found, from want of success merely, to relinquish his rod in disgust; but, with the spirit of a true hill-man of the old school, he is patient in tribulation, rejoicing in hope. "_Meliore opera_" is written upon his countenance; and whilst mischance and misfortune haunt him, it may be, from stream to stream, or from pool to pool, he still looks down the glen and along the river's course; he still regards in anxious expectation the alluring and more promising curl, the circulating and creamy froth, the suddenly broken and hesitating gullet, and the dark clayey bank, under which the water runs thick and the foam-bells figure bright and starry. He knows that one single hour of successful adventure, when the cloud has ascended and the shadow is deep, and the breeze comes upwards on the stream, and the whole finny race are in eager expectation of the approaching shower--that one single hour of this description will amply repay him for every discouragement and misfortune. And who that has enjoyed this one little hour of success would consider the purchase as dearly made? Is it with bait that you are angling?--and in the solitude of a mountain glen can you discover the stream of your hope, stretching away like a blue pennant waving into the distance, and escaping from view behind some projecting angle of the hill? Your fishing-rod is tight and right, your line is in order, your hook penetrates your finger to the barb; other companions than the plover, the lark, and the water-wagtail you have none. This is no hour for chirping grasshopper, or flaunting butterfly, or booming bee; the overshaded and ruffled water receives your bait with a plump; and ere it has travelled to the distance of six feet, it is nailed down to the leeward of a stone. You pull recklessly and fearlessly, and flash after flash, and flap after flap, comes there in upon your hull the spotted and ponderous inmate of the flood! Or is it the fly with which you are plying the river's fuller and more seaward flow? The wide extent of streamy pool is before you, and beyond your reach. Fathom after fathom goes reeling from your pirn, but still you are barely able to drop the far fly into the distant curl. "Habet!" he has it; and proudly does he bear himself in the plenitudes of strength, space, and freedom. Your line cuts and carves the water into all manner of squares, triangles, and parallelograms. Now he makes a few capers in the air, and shows you, as an opera dancer would do, his proportions and agility: now again he is sulky and restive, and gives you to understand that the _vis inertiæ_ is strong within him. But fate is in all his operations, and his last convulsive effort makes the sand and the water commingle at the landing-place. The resort of the fisher is amidst the retirements of what, and what alone, can be justly denominated undegraded nature. The furnace, and the manufactory, and the bleaching-green, and the tall red smoke-vomiting chimney are his utter aversion. The village, the clachan, the city, he avoids: he flies from them as something intolerably hostile to his hopes. He holds no voluntary intercourse with man, or with his petty and insignificant achievements. "He lifts his eyes to the hills," and his steps lie through the retired glen, and winding vale, and smiling strath, up to the misty eminence and cairn-topped peak. He catches the first beams of the sun, not through the dim and disfiguring smoke of a city, but over the sparkling and diamonded mountain, above the unbroken and undulating line of the distant horizon. His conversation is with heaven, with the mist, and the cloud, and the sky; the great, the unmeasured, the incomprehensible are around him; and all the agitation and excitement to which his hopes and fears as a mere fisher subject him, cannot completely withdraw his soul from that character of sublimity by which the mountain solitude is so perceptibly impressed. I shall never forget one day's sport. The morning was warm, and in fact somewhat sultry; and swarms of insects arose on my path. As every gullet was gushing with water, it behoved me to ascend, even beyond my former travel, to the purest streams or feeders, which ran unseen, in general, among the hills. The clouds, as I hurried on my way, began to gather up into a dense and darkening awning. There was a slight and somewhat hesitating breeze on the hill-side, for I could see the heath and bracken bending under it, but it was scarcely perceptible beneath. This, however, I regretted the less, as the mountain torrent to which I had attached myself was too precipitous and streamy in its course to require the aids of wind and curl to forward the sport. Let the true fisher--for he only can appreciate the circumstances--say what must have been my delight, my rapture, as I proceeded to prepare my rod, open out my line over the brink of a gullet, along which the water rushed like porter through the neck of a bottle, and at the lower extremity of which the froth tilted round and round in most inviting eddies! Here there was no springing of trouts to the surface, nor coursing of alarmed shoals beneath. The darkened heaven was reflected back by the darker water; and the torrent kept dashing, tumbling, and brawling along under the impulse and agitation of a swiftly ebbing flood. I had hit upon that very critical shade, betwixt the high brown and soft blue colour, which every mountain angler knows well how to appreciate; and I felt as if every turn and entanglement of my line formed a barrier betwixt me and paradise. The very first throw was successful, ere the bait had travelled twice round the eddy at the bottom of the gullet. When trouts in such circumstances take at all, they do so in good earnest. They are all on the outlook for food, and dash at the swiftly-descending bait with a freedom and good-will which almost uniformly insures their capture. And here, for the benefit of bait fishers, it may be proper to mention, that success depends not so much on the choosing and preparing of the worms--though these undoubtedly are important points--as in the throwing and drawing, or rather dragging of the line. In such mountain rapids, the trout always turn their heads to the current, and never gorge the bait till they have placed themselves lower down in the water; consequently, by pulling _downwards_, two manifest advantages are gained: the trout is often hooked without gorging, or even biting at all, and the current assists the fisher in landing his prize, which, in such circumstances, may be done in an instant, and at a single pull. But to return. My success on this occasion was altogether beyond precedent: at every turn and wheel of the winding torrent, I was sure to grace the green turf or sandy channel with another and another yellow-sided and brightly-spotted half-pounder. The very sheep, as they travelled along their mountain pathway, stopped and gazed down on the sport. The season was harvest, and the Lammas floods had brought up the bull or sea trouts. I had all along hoped that one or two stragglers might have reached my position; and this hope had animated every pull. It was not, however, till the day was well advanced, that I had the good fortune to succeed in hooking a large, powerful, active, and new-run "milter." In fisher weight he might seem _five_, but in imperial he would possibly not exceed two or three pounds. Immediately upon his feeling the steel he plunged madly, flung himself into the air, dived again into the depths, and flounced about in the most active and courageous style imaginable. At last, taking the stream-head somewhat suddenly, he showed tail and fin above the surface of the water, brought his two extremities almost into contact, shot himself upwards like an arrow, and was off with the hook and a yard of line ere I had time to prepare against the danger; but as unforeseen circumstances led to this catastrophe, occurrences equally unlooked-for repaired the loss; for in an instant I secured the disengaged captive whilst floundering upon the sand, having, by his headlong precipitancy, fairly pitched himself out of his native element. There he lay, like a ship in the shallows, exhibiting scale and fin, and shoulder and spot, of the most fascinating hue; and, ever and anon, as the recollection of the fatal precipitancy seemed to return upon him, he cut a few capers and exhibited a few somersets, which contributed materially to insure his capture, and increase my delight. By this time I had ascended nearly to the source of the stream; and at every opening up of the glen I could perceive a sensible diminution of the current. I was quite alone in the solitude; and my unwonted success had rendered me insensible to the escape of time. The glen terminated at last in a linn and scaur, beyond which it did not appear probable that trouts would ascend. Whilst I was engaged in the consideration of the objects around me, with a reference to my return home, I became all at once enveloped in mist and darkness. The mist was dense and close and suffocating, while the darkness increased every instant. I felt a difficulty in breathing, as if I had been shut up in an empty oven; my situation stared me at once in the face, and I took to my heels over the heath, in what I considered a homeward direction. Now that my ears were relieved from the gurgling sound of the water, I could perceive, through the stillness of the air, that the thunder was behind me. I had been taught to consider thunder as the voice of the "Most High," when He speaks in his wrath, and felt my whole soul prostrated under the divine rebuke. Some passages of the 18th Psalm rushed on my remembrance; and as the lightnings began to kindle, and the thunder to advance, I could hear myself involuntarily repeating-- "Up from his nostrils came a smoke, And from his mouth there came Devouring fire; and coals by it Were turned into flame. "The Lord God also in the heavens Did thunder in his _ire_, And there the Highest gave his voice-- Hail-stones and coals of fire." Such was the subject of my meditation, as the muttering and seemingly subterraneous thunder boomed and quavered behind me. At last, one broad and whizzing flash passed over, around, beneath, and I could almost imagine, _through_ me. The clap followed instantly, and, by its deafening knell, drove me head foremost into the heathy moss. Had the earth now opened (as to Curtius of old) before me, I should certainly have dashed into the crater, in order to escape from that explosive omnipotence which seemed to overtake me. Peal after peal pitched, with a rending and tearing sound, upon the drum of my ear and the parapet of my brain; whilst the mist and the darkness were kindled up around me into an open glow. I could hear a strange rush upon the mountain, and along the glen, as if the Solway had overleaped all bounds, and was careering some thousand feet abreast over Criffel and Queenberry. Down it came at last, in a swirl and a roar, as if rocks and cairns and heath were commingled in its sweep. This terrible blast was only the immediate precursor of a hail-storm, which, descending at first in separate and distinct pieces, as if the powers of darkness and uproar had been pitching marbles, came on at last with a rush, as if Satan himself had been dumriddling the elements. The water in the moss-hag rose up, and boiled and sputtered in the face of heaven, and a rock, underneath the hollow corner of which I had now crept on hands and knees, rattled all over, as if assailed by musketry. I lay now altogether invisible to mortal eye, amidst the mighty movements of the elements--a thing of nought, endeavouring to crawl into nonentity--a tiny percipient amidst the blind urgency of nature. I lay in all the prostration of a bruised and subdued spirit, praying fervently and loudly unto God that He might be pleased to cover me with his hand till his wrath was overpast. And, to my persuasion at the time, my prayers were not altogether insufficient: the storm softened, rain succeeded hail, a pause followed the hurricane, and the thunder's voice had already travelled away over the brow of the onward mountain. Whilst I was debating with myself whether it were safer, now that the night had fairly closed in upon the pathless moor, to remain all night in my present position, or to attempt once more my return home, I heard, all of a sudden, the sound of human voices, which the violence of the storm had prevented me from sooner perceiving. I scarcely knew whether I was more alarmed or comforted by this discovery. From my previous state of agitation, combined with my early and rooted belief in all manner of supernaturals, I was strongly disposed to terror; but the accents were so manifestly human, that, in spite of my apprehensions, they tended to cheer me. As I continued, therefore, to listen with mouth and ears, the voices became louder and louder, and more numerous, mixed and commingled as they appeared at last to be with the tread and the plash of horses' feet. These demonstrations of an approaching cavalcade naturally called upon me to narrow, as much and as speedily as possible, my circumference; in other words, to creep, as it were, into my shell, by occupying the farthest extremity of the recess, to which I betook myself at first for shelter, and now for concealment. There I lay like a limpet stuck to the rock, against which I could feel my heart beat with accelerated rapidity. In this situation I could distinguish voices and expressions, and ultimately unravel the import of a conversation interlarded with oaths and similar ornamental flourishes. There was a proposal to halt, alight, and refresh in this sequestered situation. Such a proposal, as may readily be supposed, was to me anything but agreeable. Here was I, according to my reckoning, surrounded by a band of robbers, and liable every instant to detection. Firearms were talked of, and preparations, offensive and defensive, were proposed. I could distinctly smell gunpowder. In the meantime, a fire was struck up at no great distance, under the glare of which I could distinguish horses heavily panniered, and strange-looking countenances, congregating within fifty paces of my retreat. The shadow of the intervening corner of the rock covered me, otherwise immediate detection would have been inevitable. The thunder and lightnings with all their terrors were nothing to this. In the one case, I was placed at the immediate disposal of a merciful, as well as a mighty Being; but at present I ran every risk of falling into the hands of those whose counsels I had overheard, and whose tender mercies were only cruelty. As I lay--rod, basket, and fish crumpled up into a corner of contracted dimensions--all ear, however, and eye towards the light--I could mark the shadows of several individuals who were manifestly engaged in the peaceful and ordinary process of eating and drinking; hands, arms, and flagons projected in lengthened obscurity over the mass, and intimated, by the rapidity and character of their movements, that jaws were likewise in motion. The long pull, with the accompanying _smack_, were likewise audible; and it was manifest that the repast was not more substantial than the beverage was exhilarating. "Word follows word, from question answer flows." Dangers and contingencies--which, while the flame was kindling and the flagon was filling, seemed to agitate and interest all--were now talked of as bugbears; and oaths of heavy and horrifying defiance were hurled into the ear of night, with many concomitant expressions of security and self-reliance. The night, though dark, had now become still and warm; and the ground which they occupied, like my own retreat, had been partially protected from the hail and the rain by the projecting rock. The stunted roots of burnt heath, or "brins," served them plentifully for fuel; and altogether their situation was not so uncomfortable as might have been expected. Still, however, their character, employment, and conversation appeared to me a fearful mystery. One thing, however, was evident, that they conceived themselves as engaged in some illegal transactions. Their whole revel was tainted with treason and insubordination: kings and rulers were disposed of with little ceremony; and excise officers, in particular, were visited with anathemas not to be mentioned. At this critical moment, when the whole party seemed verging towards downright intoxication, a pistol bullet burst itself to atoms on the projecting corner of the rock; and the report which accompanied this demonstration was followed up by oaths of challenge and imprecation. The fire went out as if by magic, and an immediate rush to arms, accompanied by shots and clashing of lethal weapons, indicated a struggle for life. "Stand and surrender, you smuggling scoundrels! or by all that is sacred, not one of you shall quit this spot in life!" This salutation was answered by a renewed discharge of musketry; and the darkness, which was relieved by the momentary flash, became instantly more impenetrable than ever. Men evidently pursued men, and horses were held by the bridle, or driven into speed as circumstances permitted. How it happened that I neither screamed, fainted, nor died outright, I am yet at a loss to determine. The darkness, however, was my covering; and even amidst the unknown horrors of the onset, I felt in some degree assured by the extinction of the fire. But this assurance was not of long continuance: the assailing party had evidently taken possession of the field; and, after a few questions of mutual recognition and congratulation, proceeded to secure their booty, which consisted of one horse, with a considerable assortment of barrels and panniers. This was done under the light of the rekindled fire, around which a repetition of the former festivities was immediately commenced. The fire, however, now flared full in my face, and led to my immediate detection. I was summoned to come forth, with the muzzle of a pistol placed within a few inches of my ear--an injunction which I was by no means prepared to resist. I rolled immediately outwards from under the rock, displaying my basket and rod, and screaming all the while heartily for mercy. At this critical moment a horse was heard to approach, and a challenge was immediately sent through the darkness,--every musket was levelled in the direction of the apprehended danger,--when a voice, to which I was by no means a stranger, immediately restored matters to their former bearing. "Now, what is the meaning o' a' this, my lads? And how come the king's servants to be sae ill lodged at this time o' night? He must be a shabby landlord that has naething better than the bare heath and the hard rock to accommodate his guests wi'." "Oh, Fairly, my old man of the Covenant," vociferated the leader of the party, "how come you to be keeping company with the whaup and the curlew at this time o' night? But a drink is shorter than a tale; fling the bridle owre the grey yad's shoulders, an' ca' her to the bent, till we mak ourselves better acquainted with this little natty gentleman, whom we have so opportunely encountered on the moor"--displaying, at the same time, a keg or small flask of liquor referred to, and shaking it joyously till it clunked again. In an instant Fairly was stationed by the side of the fire, with a can of Martin's brandy in his hands, and an expression of exceeding surprise on his countenance as he perceived my mother's son in full length exhibited before him. I did not, however, use the ceremony of a formal recognition; but, rushing on his person, I clung to it with all the convulsive desperation of a person drowning. Matters were now adjusted by mutual recognitions and explanations; and I learned that I had been the unconscious spectator of a scuffle betwixt the "king's officers" and a "band of smugglers;" and that Fairly, who had been preaching and baptizing that day at Burnfoot, and was on his return towards Durrisdeer (where he was next day to officiate), had heard and been attracted to the spot by the firing. In these times to which I refer, the Isle of Man formed a depot for illegal traffic. Tea, brandy, and tobacco, in particular, found their way from the Calf of Man to the Rinns of Galloway, Richmaden, and the mouth of the Solway. From the latter depot the said articles were smuggled, during night marches, into the interior, through such byways and mountain passes as were unfrequented or inaccessible. After suitable libations had been made, I was mounted betwixt a couple of panniers, and soon found myself in my own bed, some time before "That hour o' night's black arch the keystane!" THE DETECTIVE'S TALE. THE CHANCE QUESTION. It is not long since the cleverest of these strangely constituted men called detectives [_entre nous_ myself] went up to his superintendent with a very rueful face, and told him that all his energies were vain in discovering a clue to an extensive robbery of plate which had occurred in ---- Street some short time before. "I confess myself fairly baffled," he said; and could say no more. "With that singular foxhound organ of yours?" replied his superior. "The herring must have been well smoked." "At the devil's own fire of pitch and brimstone," said the detective. "But the worst is, I have had no trail to be taken off. I never was so disconcerted before. Generally some object to point direction, if even only a dead crow or smothered sheep; but here, not even that." "No trace of P---- or any of the English gang?" "None; all beyond the bounds, or up chimneys, or down in cellars, or covered up in coal-bunkers. I am beginning to think the job to be of home manufacture." "Generally a clumsy affair; and therefore very easy for a man of your parts. What reason have you?" "Absolutely none." "That is, I fancy," said the superintendent, "the thousand pounds of good silver, watches, and rings, are absolutely gone." "You know my conditions," said the officer: "give me the thing stolen, and I will find to a living certainty the man who stole it; or give me the man who stole it, and I will find you to a dead certainty the thing stolen. But it's a deuced unfortunate thing that a man can't get even a sniff." "Yes, especially when, as in your case, all his soul is in his nose." "And with such a reward!" continued the chagrined officer; "scarcely anything so liberal has been offered in my time; but, after all, the reward is nothing--it is the honour of the force and one's character. It is well up for the night anyhow, and I rather think altogether, unless some flash come by telegraph." "You have no other place you can go to now?" said the superintendent musingly, and not altogether satisfied. "None," replied the officer resolutely. "I have been out of bed for ten nights--every den scoured, and every 'soup-kitchen'[B] visited, every swell watched and dogged, and every trull searched; I can do no more. It is now eleven, my eyes will hardly hold open, and I request to be allowed to go and rest for the present." "As you like," replied the superintendent. "We are neither omniscient nor omnipotent." "The people who get robbed think us both," said the officer; and taking his hat, left the office, and began to trudge slowly down the street. The orderly people had mostly retired to their homes. The midnight ghouls from the deep wynds and closes were beginning to form their gossiping clusters; the perambulators had begun their courses; and fast youths from the precincts of the College or the New Town were resuming their search for sprees, or determined to make them. There were among them many clients of our officer, whom he knew, and had hopes of at some future day; but now he surveyed them with the eye of one whose occupation for the time was gone. His sadness was of the colour of Jacques', but there was a difference: the one wove out of his melancholy golden verses in the forest of Arden; our hero could not draw out of his even silver plate in the dens of Edinburgh. He had come to the Tron Kirk, and hesitated whether, after all, he should renounce his hunt for the night--true to the peculiarity of this species of men, whose game are wretched and wicked beings, always less or more between them and the wind's eye, and therefore always stimulating to pursuit; but again he resolved upon home, or, rather, his heavy eyes and worn-out spirits resolved him, in spite of himself, and he turned south, in which direction his residence was. So on he trudged till he came about the middle part of the street called the South Bridge, when he heard pattering behind him the feet of a woman. She came up to him, and passed him, or rather was in the act of passing him, when, from something no better than a desire to stimulate activity, or rather to free himself from the conviction that he was utterly and entirely defeated, he turned round to the girl, whom he saw in an instant was a street-walker, and threw carelessly a question at her. "Where are you going?" "Home," was the reply. "Where do you live?" "In Simon Square." Here he was at first inclined to make a stop, having put the questions more as common routine than with any defined intention; but just as the girl came opposite to a lamp-post, and was on the eve of outstripping him, he said, "Oh, by-the-bye, do you know any one thereabouts, or anywhere else, who mends rings?" "Yes." "Who is it?" "Abram." "What more?" "I don't know his other name; we just call him Abram, and sometimes Jew Abram." "Did you ever get anything mended by him?" "No; but I bought a ring from him once." "And what did you do with it?" "I have it on my finger," she replied. "Will you let me see it?" he continued. "Oh yes." And as they came forward to another lamp-post, he was shown the ring. He examined it carefully, taking from his waistcoat another, and comparing the two--"Won't do." "How long is it since you made this purchase?" "About ten days ago." "And what did you pay for it?" "Three and sixpence." By this time they had got opposite the square where the girl lived. She crossed, and he followed, in the meantime asking her name. "There is Abram's house," she said; "there's light in the window." And the officer, standing a little to see where she went, now began to examine the outside of Abram's premises. A chink in the shutters showed him a part of the person of some one inside, whom he conjectured to be Abram sitting at his work. He opened the door, and it was as he thought. An old man was sitting at a bench, with a pair of nippers in his hand, peering into some small object. "Can you mend that?" said the officer abruptly, and, without a word of prelocution, pressing into his hands a ring. "Anything," was the prompt reply. But no sooner had the ring come under the glance of his far-ben eye-- "Yes--ah! ye-es--well--no--no." And the peering eye came, as it were, forward out of its recess, and scanned the face of the officer, who, on the other hand, was busy watching every turn of the Jew's features. "No; I cannot mend that." "Why? You said you could mend anything." "Ye-es, anything; but not that." "No matter--no harm in asking," replied the officer, as he looked round the apartment, and fixed his eye on the back wall, where, in utter opposition to all convenience, let alone taste, and even to the exclusion of required space, there were battered two or three coarse engravings. "Good night!" "Goo-ood night!" "Now what, in the name of decoration, are these prints hung up on that wall for?" asked the officer of himself, without making any question of the import of the Jew's look, and his yes and no. He was now standing in the middle of the square, and, turning round, he saw the light put out. Another thought struck him, but whatever it was, it was the cause of a laugh that took hold of him, even in the grasp of his anxiety; yea, he laughed, for a detective, greatly more heartily than could be authorized by anything I have recorded. "Why, the lower print is absolutely the old Jewish subject of the cup in the sack," he muttered, and laughed again. "Was ever detective so favoured?--a representation of concealed treasure on the very wall where that treasure is! Were the brethren fools enough to put the representation of a cup on Benjamin's sack?" "Robertson!" he called to one of his men, whom, by the light at the street-end of the entry, he saw passing, "send two men here upon the instant." "Yes, sir." And then he began to examine more thoroughly the premises, to ascertain whether there were any exit-openings besides the door and window. There were none. He had a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes to wait, and five of these had not passed before he observed some one go up and tap at Abram's door. A question, though he did not hear it, must have been put by the Jew, for an answer, in a low voice, responded, "Slabberdash!" "The crack name of that fellow Clinch, whom I've been after for a week," said the officer to himself, as he kept in the shadow of a cellar which jutted out from the other houses. The Jew had again answered, for the visitor repeated to himself, as if in fear and surprise, "Red-light," and, looking cautiously about him, made off. "It is not my cue to follow," muttered the detective; "but I will do next best." And hurrying out of the mouth of the entry at the heels of the visitor, he caught the policeman on the Nicolson Street beat almost immediately. "Track that fellow," he said; "there--there, you see him--'tis Slabberdash; do not leave him or the front of his den till sunrise. I'll get a man for your beat." "Yes, sir," replied the policeman, adroitly blowing out his bull's-eye and making off at a canter. The officer returned to his post, and within the time the two assistants arrived. "Go you, Reid, to the office, and send a man to supply Nicolson Street beat till Ogilvy return; he's on commission; come back instantly." The man obeyed with alacrity. "And now, Jones, you and your neighbour take charge of that door--keep seeing it without it seeing; you understand? Keep watch; and if any one approach, scan him for Slabberdash, but take care he doesn't see you. I will relieve you at shutters-down in the morning; meanwhile, I'm at home for report or exigency." "I comprehend," replied the man, "and will be careful." The officer took for home, weary and drowsy, though a little awakened by the events of one half-hour. There was sight of game, as well as scent. The Jew's look by itself was not much, yet greatly more to the eye of a detective than even an expert physiognomist could imagine. The picture-plastered wall was more; the cup in the sack was merely an enlivening joke; but Slabberdash was no joke, as many a douce burgher in Edinburgh knew to his cost. The fellow was a match for the father of cheats and lies himself; and therefore it could be no dishonour to our clever detective that hitherto he had had no chance with him, any more than if he had been James Maccoul, or the great Mahoun. Meanwhile, the other watch having arrived, the two kept up their surveillance; nor would they be without something to report to their officer, were it nothing more than that little Abram--for he was very diminutive--about one in the morning rather surprised one of the guard, who was incautiously too near the house, by slowly opening the door, and looking out with an inquiring eye, in his shirt; and upon getting a glimpse of the dark figure of the policeman, saying, as if to himself, though intended for the said dark figure, whoever it might be, "I vash wondering if it vash moonlight." And, shutting the door hurriedly, he disappeared. About an hour afterwards, a tall female figure, coming up the entry from North Richmond Street, made a full stop, at about three yards from Abram's door, and then darted off, but not before one of the guard had seen enough, as he thought, to enable him to swear that it was Slabberdash's companion, a woman known by the slang name of Four-toed Mary, once one of the most dashing and beautiful of the local street-sirens. About an hour after that the two guards forgathered to compare notes. "The devil is surely in that little man," said the one who had heard the soliloquy about the moon; "for, whether or not he wanted light outside or in to drive away the shadows of his conscience, he served his purpose a few minutes since by lighting his lamp. I saw the light through the chinks, and venturing to listen, heard noises as of working. He is labouring at something, if not sweating." "Perhaps _melting_," said the other, with a laugh. "But here comes our officer; there is never rest for that man when there's a bird on the moor or a fox in the covert." The truth was, as the man said, the detective had gone home to sleep; but no sooner had he lain down than the little traces he had discovered began to excite his imagination, and that faculty, so suggestive in his class, getting inflamed, developed so many images in the camera of his mind, that he soon found sleep an impossibility, and he was now there to know whether anything further had transpired. The men made their report, and he soon saw there was something more than ordinary in Abram's curiosity about the moon, and still more in the coincidence of the visits of Slabberdash and Four-toes. He had a theory, too, about the working, though it did not admit the melting. He knew better what to augur. But he had a fault to find, and he was not slow to find it. "Why didn't one of you track Four-toes? One of you could have served here. She has been off the scene for three weeks, and is hiding. You ought to have known that a woman is a good subject for a detective. Her strength is her weakness, and her weakness our opportunity. But there's no help for it now. We must trace the links we have. If she come again, be more on the alert, and follow up the track. Keep your guard, and let not a circumstance escape you." "The light is out again," remarked one of the men; "he has gone to bed." "But not to sleep, I warrant," said his superior. "Look sharp and listen quick, and I will be with you when I promised." He now proceeded to the office in the High Street, where he found the superintendent waiting for a report in another case. He recounted all he had seen and heard. "You have a chance here," said the latter; "and, to confirm our hopes, I can tell you that Four-toes' mother gave yesterday to a shebeen-master in Toddrick's Close, one of the rings for a mutchkin of whisky; and, what is more, Clinch has been traced to the old woman's house in Blackfriars Wynd. I suspect that the picture's true after all. The cup is verily in Benjamin's sack." Thus fortified, our detective sought his way again down the High Street; and as he had time to kill between that and the opening of the shutters in Simon Square, he paid a visit to Blackfriars Wynd, where he found his faithful myrmidon keeping watch over the old mother's house, like a Skye terrier at the mouth of a rat-hole. He here learned that Mary with the deficient toe had also been seen to go upstairs to her mother's garret, which circumstance accorded perfectly with the statement of the guard in the square, as no doubt she had returned home after being startled at the door of Abram. But then she was seen to go out again, about an hour before, though whither she went the watch could not say. The hour of appointment was now approaching. The day had broken amidst watery clouds, driven about by a fitful, gusty wind, and every now and then sending stiff showers of rain, sufficient to have cooled the enthusiasm of any one but a hunter after the doers of evil. He had been drenched two or three times, and now he felt that a glass of brandy was necessary as an auxiliary to internal resistance against external aggression. He was soon supplied, and, wending his way to the old rendezvous, he found his guard, but without any addition to their report of midnight. Abram was long of getting up, and it seemed that he was first roused by the clink of a milkwoman's tankard on the window-shutter. The door was slowly opened, but in place of the vendor of milk handing in to her solitary customer the small half-pint, she went in herself, pails, and tankard, and all. Our detective marked the circumstance as being unusual, and, more than unusual still, the door was partly closed upon her as she entered. Then he began to think that she had nothing about her of the appearance of that class of young women. "Has not that woman the appearance of Four-toes?" said the officer. "I'm blowed if she's not the very woman I saw in the dark," said one of the men. "Split," said the lieutenant; "but be within sign." The precaution was wise. In a few minutes Abram's face was peering out at the door, not this time looking for the moon--more probably for the enemies of her minions; and what immediately succeeded showed that he had got a glimpse of the men, for by-and-by the milk-maid came forth and proceeded along the square. "Go and look into her pails," said the lieutenant to Reid, as he hastened up to him. "Jones and I will remain for a moment here." Reid set off, and disappeared in the narrow passage leading to West Richmond Street; but he remained only a short time. "Crumbie is yeld! there's not a drop of milk in her pitchers," said he, on his return; "and it's no other than Four-toes." "Ah, we've been seen by Abram," said the officer; "and the pitchers are sent away empty, which otherwise would have contained something more valuable than milk. After her again, and track her. Jones and I will pay Abram a morning visit." The man again set off; and the officer and Jones having hung about a few minutes till Abram came out to open the shutters and afford them light inside, they caught their opportunity, and, just as the Jew was taking down the shattered boards, they darted into the house. Abram was at their heels in a moment. "Vat ish it, gentlemen?" "A robbery of plate has been committed," said the officer at once; "and I am here, with your permission no doubt, to search this house." "Very goo-ood; there ish nothing but vat ish my property." The officer had even already seen a half of the bench--which had consisted of two parts put together, probably originally intended for some other purpose than mending jewellery--had been removed and placed against the wall where Joseph and his brethren were standing round the cup in the sack, so that it was more difficult to reach the wall, though the device was clearly only the half of an idea, as the prints still stood above the bench, and might, by a sharp eye, have still suggested the suspicion that they were intended for something else than decoration, or even the gratification of a Jew's love for the legends of his country. But the officer did not go first to the suspected part. He took a hammer from his pocket, and began rapping all round the wall. "Stone, stone--lath, lath; ah, a compact house." "Very goo-ood. Vash only three weeks a tenant." The officer recollected the estimate of the time given by the street-walker, the _fons et origo_ of all, and his hammer went more briskly till he came to the patriarchs. "Good head, that, of Joseph," he said with a laugh; "hollow, eh?" "Vash a good head--not hollow; the best at the court of Pharaoh." In an instant, a long chisel was through the picture; and in another, the poker, driven into the chisel-hole, and wrenched to a side, sent a thin covering of fir lath into a dozen of splinters. The hand did the rest. A cupboard was exposed to the eyes of the apparently wondering Israelite, containing, closely packed, an array of plate, watches, rings, and bijouterie, sufficient to make any eye besides a Jew's leap for the wish of possession. Abram held up his hands in affected wonderment as the lieutenant stood gazing at the treasure, and almost himself entranced. Jones was fixed to the ground; at one time looking at the costly treasure, at another at his superior, who had already, in this department of his art, acquired an envied reputation. "Very goo-ood!" exclaimed Abram; "vash only here three weeks. What fools to leave here all this wonderful treasure!" "Abram, will you be so good as take a walk up the High Street? Jones will show you the way. Breakfast will be waiting you. And do you," looking to Jones, "send down a box large enough to hold this silver, and two of our men to remove it to the office." "Vash the other tenant," cried Abram, as he saw the plight he had got into--"vash not me, so help me the God of my forefathers, even Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, who were just men, as I am a just man; it vash not me. Vash not the cup put in Benjamin's sack?" The officer laughed--at this time inside, for it behoved him now to be grave--at the recollection of the strange coincidence of the picture and the stolen plate. "Come," said Jones, "let us start;" and, clapping the Jew's old hat on the head of the little man, he took him under the arm to lead him out. "After depositing him," whispered the officer into Jones' ear, "get help; proceed to Blackfriars, where Ogilvy is on the watch, and lay hold of Clinch. Some others will start in search of Reid, who may have tracked Four-toes, and seize her. You comprehend?" "Perfectly. Come, Abram--unless you would like to walk at a safe distance?" "Surely I would," replied Abram; "and so would every man who vash as innocent as the child vash born yesterday, or this minute." When the prisoner had departed, the officer sat down on the Jew's stool to rest himself, previous to making a survey of the articles, with reference to an inventory he had in his pocket. In this attitude, he took up a pair of Abram's nippers to fasten a link in his watch chain, which threatened to give way, so that he might very well have represented the master of the establishment sitting at his work. This observation is here made, as explanatory of another circumstance which presently occurred in this altogether remarkable case. The door, which Jones had closed after him, was opened stealthily; an old woman, wrapped up in a duffle cloak, slipped quietly and timidly in, and going round the end of the bench, whispered into the ear of the lieutenant-- "You'll be Abram, nae doubt?" "Ay," replied he. "Ye're early at wark." "Ay." "Weel, the milk-woman--ye ken wha I mean?" "Oh yes; Four-toes." "Ha! ha! ay, just Four-toes, that's Mary Burt; ah! she _was_ a buxom lass in my kennin'. Weel, she has sent me to you, in a quiet way, ye ken, to tell ye that the p'lice have an e'e on you. That ill-lookin' scoondrel, the cleverest o' the 'tectives, as they ca' them--I never saw him mysel, but dootless you'll ken him--has been seen in the coort here, wi' twa o' his beagles, and you're to tak tent." "Yes, I know the ill-looking Christian dog. Vat ish your name?" "Chirsty Anderson." "Where do you live, Christian?" "In Wardrop's Coort, at the tap o' the lang stair. And the milk-maid--ha! ha!--says you're to shift the things to my room i' the dark'nin', whaur Geordie, my laddie, will hae a plank lifted, and you can stow them awa, ayont the ken o' the cleverest o' them." "And where ish the milk-woman?" "In my room, pitchers an' a'." "Well, tell her to keep there, as vash a prisoner, till I come to her place." "I will." "Isn't Geordie, my good woman, called Squint?" "Just the same," she replied with a laugh; "and, ye ken, he has a right to a silver jug or twa, for he risked his neck for't as weel as Clinch." "Surely, surely." "But you're to gie me a ring to tak to her, for she's hard up, and I'll try Mr. E----e wi' 't at night, and get some shillings on't." "Certainly, Christian--not a good name that; but here," taking her by the shoulders, and turning sharply in the direction of the door--for he was afraid she might notice the wreck made in the recess,--"look out at the door, and be on the good watch for the ill-looking dog." "Ah, Abram, ye're sae clever! The deil's in them if they put saut on _your_ tail." "Here, give that to Four-toes, and tell her to keep good prisoner till I come." "Just sae--a bonny ring!" "Quick! turn to your right, and go by the Pleasance, along St. Mary's Wynd, up the High Street, to your home." "Ay," replied the woman as she departed. Not five minutes elapsed, when Jones and the two assistants with the box arrived; when the officer cried-- "Jones, follow up an old woman, in a grey duffle cloak, Christian Anderson by name, who is this moment gone down by the Pleasance, to take St. Mary's Wynd and the High Street on her way to her room, in Wardrop's Court, at the top of the stair. Having seen her landed, stop five minutes at the door, to give her time to deliver a ring to Four-toes, then step in, and take the young woman to the office. You will find Geordie Anderson there also, the notorious Squint; so pick up a man as you go, and make Squint sure." "At once, sir," replied the man, and was off. By-and-by, and just as our officer was beginning to compare the plate with the inventory, the superintendent, who had got intelligence of the discovery, came hurrying in. They found, to their astonishment, that every article was there, excepting two rings--the one, probably, that offered to the shebeen-man by Four-toes' mother, and the other that which had been presently sent to Four-toes herself. A more complete recovery was perhaps never achieved; and it was all the more wonderful from the small beginning from which the trace had been detected. Having completed the examination and packed the treasure, which was presently removed to the office, the discoverer set about examining Abram's room; but so cunningly had the whole affair of the resettership been conducted, that there was not found a trace of any kind to show his connection with the burglars. The joke of the man in reference to the process of melting had, however, had a narrow escape from being realized; for a kind of furnace had been erected with bricks, and a large crucible, sufficient to hold a Scotch pint of the "silver soup," was lying in what had been used as a coal-bunker. Meanwhile, Reid hurried in in great dejection, because the milk-woman had baffled him by going into a house in one of the wynds, and emerging by the back, and escaping. "She's provided for," said the officer, "and you may go. I don't need you here; but you may go to Wardrop's Court, top of stair, and help Jones to take care of Four-toes and George Anderson called Squint; you know him?" "Who that has once seen him will ever forget him?" replied the other. "When will Jones be there?" "Just when you will arrive, giving you time to walk slow, like a good detective." "And now," said our officer, as he proceeded to fasten up the door, "so much for a casual question,--a good night's work, and a reward of a hundred for recovering a thousand. I think I am entitled to my breakfast. It's not often a man makes so much of a morning." And resuming his deliberate walk--a characteristic, as he himself acknowledged, of a true thief-catcher--he repaired to a coffee-house in Nicolson Street, and allayed his hunger by coffee and a pound of chops. It was about ten o'clock when he reached the office, where he had the pleasant scene presented to him of a well-assorted bag of game--the last victims, Four-toes and Squint, being in the act of being deposited as he entered. The principals secure, the accessories were of less consequence. There were there Abram, Slabberdash, Squint, and Four-toes. "To complete our complement we must have Four-toes' mother and Mrs. Anderson," he said to the superintendent, "and Reid and Jones will go and fetch them." In the course of an hour both these ladies were brought into the already considerable company. That they were all surprised at the unexpected meeting, belongs to reasonable conjecture; and that Christian Anderson was more surprised than any of them, when she discovered her mistake in trusting her secrets to the "ill-looking scoundrel" of a detective in place of Abram, is not less reasonable. Our officer was, in truth, too gallant a man to traverse those laws of etiquette which demand respect for the feelings of females, and he never once alluded to the _contretemps_. But Chirsty did not feel the same delicacy in regard to him, who she feared would hang her for misplaced confidence. She had no sooner recovered from her surprise than she cried out to him, in a shrill, piercing voice-- "I hope you'll hae mercy on me, sir. It wad do ye nae guid to stretch the wizzened craig o' an auld woman, because some silly words--I wish they had choket me--cam oot o't." "They will never be brought against you," said he; "make yourself easy on that score." "Then what am I here for?" she growled, as, relieved somewhat from her fear, she got into her natural temper. "For agreeing to hide stolen property." "Stolen property!" she replied. "And did ye no steal from me my secret about my puir laddie, that ye may string him to a wuddy? There's an auld sayin' that speech is silvern, but silence is gowden. Whaur is the difference between stealing frae me the siller o' my speech, and robbing a man o' the siller o' his jugs and teaspoons?" "Quiet," he said calmly. "Abram, I want to speak with you. Separate these," he added, addressing one of the men. And having got Abram by himself, he asked him if he was inclined to run the risk of a trial and condemnation, or tell the truth, and trust to the Royal mercy. The Jew hesitated; but our officer knew that a hesitating criminal is like a hesitating woman--each waits for an argument to resolve them against their faith and honour. He knew that misfortune breaks up the bonds of etiquette, even among the virtuous; and that the honour among themselves, of which thieves boast, and a portion of mankind, for some strange reason, secretly approve, becomes weak in proportion to the danger of retributive justice. Not much given to speculate, he yet sometimes wondered why it was that one should be despised and treated harshly because he comes forward to serve the ends of justice and benefit society; but a less acute mind may feel no difficulty in accounting for the anomaly. The king's-evidence, while he proves himself a coward and false to his faith, acts from pure selfishness; and though he offers a boon to society, it is in reality a bargain which he drives for self-preservation. These speculations certainly did not pass through the mind of Abram, if his prevailing thought was not more likely in the form-- "If I can't get my pound of silver out of the Christian, I can at least keep my own pound of flesh." But whether he thought in this Jewish form or not, it is certain that he was not long in making as clean a breast as a Jew might be expected to make of the whole secret of the robbery. It was planned and executed, he said, by Slabberdash and Squint, and he agreed to become resetter on the condition of being allowed to retain a half of the proceeds. Four-toes brought the plate to him at half a dozen courses of her pitchers, and he had intended on that very day to melt all that was meltable. The watches and rings were to be reserved for opportunities, as occasions presented. I give this story by way of an example of those strange workings in a close society, whereby often great events are discovered from what is termed chance. Such occurrences, however they may startle us, are all explainable by the laws of probabilities. They occur often just in proportion to the increase of ramifications in civilised conditions. More people come into the plot; the increased activity drives the culprits to shifts, and these shifts are perilous from the very circumstance of being forced. We thus find detection often more easy and certain in populous towns, with a good staff of criminal officers, than in quieter places, where both plotters and shifts are proportionally fewer. If nature is always true to her purpose, so art, which is second nature, is equally true to hers, and man is better provided for than he deserves. I do not concern myself with the vulgar subject of punishments, never very agreeable to polite minds, and not at all times useful to those who gloat over descriptions of them. It is enough to say that the law was justly applied. Two got clear off--the mothers of Squint and Four-toes; and I may add that Chirsty Anderson probably afterwards acted up more to her own proverb, that "speech is silvern, but silence is golden." THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER. On the western skirts of the Torwood--famous in Scottish story for its association with the names of Wallace and Bruce--there stood, in the middle of the sixteenth century, a farm-house of rather superior appearance for the period. This house was occupied at the time of which we speak by a person of the name of Henderson, who farmed a pretty extensive tract of land in the neighbourhood. Henderson was a respectable man; and although not affluent, was in tolerably easy circumstances. The night on which our story opens, which was in the September of the year 1530, was a remarkably wild and stormy one. The ancient oaks of the Torwood were bending and groaning beneath the pressure of the storm; and, ever and anon, large portions of the dark forest were rendered visible, and a wild light thrown into its deepest recesses by the flashing lightning. The night, too, was pitch-dark; and, to add to its dismal character, a heavy drenching rain, borne on the furious blast, deluged the earth, and beat with violence on all opposing objects. "A terrible night this, goodwife," said Henderson to his helpmate, as he double-barred the outer door, while she stood behind him with a candle to afford him the necessary light to perform this operation. "I wish these streamers that have been dancing all night in the north may not bode some ill to poor Scotland. They were seen, I mind, just as they are now, eight nights precisely before that cursed battle of Flodden; and it was well judged by them that some serious disaster was at hand." "But I have heard you say, goodman," replied David Henderson's better-half, who--the former finding some difficulty in thrusting a bar into its place--was still detained in her situation of candle-holder, "that the fight of Flodden was lost by the king's descending from his vantage-ground." "True, goodwife," said David; "but was not his doing so but a means of fulfilling the prognostication? How could it have been brought about else?" The door being now secured, Henderson and his wife returned without further colloquy into the house; and shortly after, it being now late, retired to bed. In the meantime, the storm continued to rage with unabated violence. The rush of the wind amongst the trees was deafening; and at first faintly, but gradually waxing louder, as the stream swelled with the descending deluge of rain, came the hoarse voice of the adjoining river on the blast as it boiled and raged along. Henderson had been in bed about an hour--it was now midnight--but had been kept awake by the tremendous sounds of the tempest, when, gently jogging his slumbering helpmate-- "Goodwife," he said, "listen a moment. Don't you hear the voice of some one shouting without?" They now both listened intently; and loudly as the storm roared, soon distinguished the tramp of horses' feet approaching the house. In the next moment, a rapid succession of thundering strokes on the door, as if from the butt end of a heavy whip, accompanied by the exclamations of--"Ho! within there! house, house!" gave intimation that the rider sought admittance. "Who can this be?" said Henderson, making an attempt to rise; in which, however, he was resisted by his wife, who held him back, saying-- "Never mind them, David; let them just rap on. This is no time to admit visitors. Who can tell who they may be?" "And who cares who they may be?" replied the sturdy farmer, throwing himself out of bed. "I'll just see how they look from the window, Mary;" and he proceeded to the window, threw it up, looked over, and saw beneath him a man of large stature, mounted on a powerful black horse, with a lady seated behind him. "Dreadful night, friend," said the stranger, looking up to the window occupied by Henderson, and to which he had been attracted by the noise made in raising it. "Can you give my fellow-traveller here shelter till the morning? She is so benumbed with cold, so drenched with wet, and so exhausted by the fatigue of a long day's ride, that she can proceed no further; and we have yet a good fifteen miles to make out." "This is no hostel, friend, for the accommodation of travellers," replied the farmer. "I am not in the habit of admitting strangers into my house, especially at so late an hour of the night as this." "Had I been asking for myself," rejoined the horseman, "I should not have complained of your wariness; but surely you won't be so churlish as refuse quarters to a lady on such a night as this. She can scarce retain her seat on the saddle. Besides, you shall be handsomely paid for any trouble you may be put to." "Oh do, good sir, allow me to remain with you for the night, for I am indeed very much fatigued," came up to the ear of Henderson, in feeble but silvery tones, from the fair companion of the horseman, with the addition, after a short pause, of "You shall be well rewarded for the kindness." At a loss what to do, Henderson made no immediate reply, but, scratching his head, withdrew from the window a moment to consult his wife. Learning that there was a lady in the case, and judging from this circumstance that no violence or mischief of any kind was likely to be intended, the latter agreed, although still with some reluctance, to her husband's suggestion that the benighted travellers should be admitted. On this resolution being come to, Henderson returned to the window, and thrusting out his head, exclaimed, "Wait there a moment, and I will admit you." In the next instant he had unbarred the outer door, and had stepped out to assist the lady in dismounting; but was anticipated in this courtesy by her companion, who had already placed her on the ground. "Shall I put up your horse, sir?" said Henderson, addressing the stranger, but now with more deference than before; as, from his dress and manner, which he had now an opportunity of observing more closely, he had no doubt he was a man of rank. "Oh no, thank you, friend," replied the latter. "My business is pressing, and I must go on; but allow me to recommend this fair lady to your kindest attention. To-morrow I will return and carry her away." Saying this, he again threw himself on his horse--a noble-looking charger--took bridle in hand, struck his spurs into his side, and regardless of all obstacles, and of the profound darkness of the night, darted off with the speed of the wind. In an instant after, both horse and rider were lost in the gloom; but their furious career might for some time be tracked, even after they had disappeared, by the streams of fire which poured from the fierce collision of the horse's hoofs with the stony road over which he was tearing his way with such desperate velocity. Henderson in the meantime had conducted his fair charge into the house, and had consigned her to the care of his wife, who had now risen for the purpose of attending her. A servant having been also called up, a cheerful fire soon blazed on the hearth of the best apartment in the house--that into which the strange lady had been ushered. The kind-hearted farmer's wife now also supplied her fair guest with dry clothing and other necessaries, and did everything in her power to render her as comfortable as possible. To this kindness her natural benevolence alone would have prompted her; but an additional motive presented itself in the youth and extreme beauty of the fair traveller, who was, as the farmer's wife afterwards remarked to her husband, the loveliest creature her eyes ever beheld. Nor was her manner less captivating: it was mild and gentle, while the sweet silvery tones of her voice imparted an additional charm to the graces of her person. Her apparel, too, the good woman observed, was of the richest description; and the jewellery with which she was adorned, in the shape of rings, bracelets, etc., and which she deposited one after another on a table that stood beside her, with the careless manner of one accustomed to the possession of such things, seemed of great value. A purse, also, well stored with golden guineas, as the sound indicated, was likewise thrown on the table with the same indifferent manner. The wealth of the fair stranger, in short, seemed boundless in the eyes of her humble, unsophisticated attendant. The comfort of the young lady attended to in every way, including the offer of some homely refreshment, of which, however, she scarcely partook, pleading excessive fatigue as an apology, she was left alone in the apartment to retire to rest when she thought proper; the room containing a clean and neat bed, which had always been reserved for strangers. On rejoining her husband, after leaving her fair guest, a long and earnest conversation took place between the worthy couple as to who or what the strangers could be. They supposed, they conjectured, they imagined, but all to no purpose. They could make nothing of it beyond the conviction that they were persons of rank; for the natural politeness of the "guidwife" had prevented her asking the young lady any questions touching her history; and she had made no communication whatever on the subject herself. As to the lady's companion, all that Henderson, who was the only one of the family who had seen him, could tell, was, that he was a tall, dark man, attired as a gentleman, but so muffled up in a large cloak, that he could not, owing to that circumstance and the extreme darkness of the night, make out his features distinctly. Henderson, however, expressed some surprise at the abruptness of his departure, and still more at the wild and desperate speed with which he had ridden away, regardless of the darkness of the night and of all obstacles that might be in the way. It was what he himself, a good horseman, and who knew every inch of the ground, would not have done for a thousand merks; and a great marvel he held it, that the reckless rider had got a hundred yards without horse and man coming down, to the utter destruction of both. Such was the substance of Henderson's communications to his wife regarding the horseman. The latter's to him was of the youth and exceeding beauty of his fair companion, and of her apparently prodigious wealth. The worthy man drank in with greedy ears, and looks of excessive wonderment, her glowing descriptions of the sparkling jewels and heavily laden purse which she had seen the strange lady deposit on the table; and greatly did these descriptions add to his perplexity as to who or what this lady could possibly be. Tired of conjecturing, the worthy couple now again retired to rest, trusting that the morning would bring some light on a subject which so sadly puzzled them. In due time that morning came, and, like many of those mornings that succeed a night of storm, it came fair and beautiful. The wind was laid, the rain had ceased, and the unclouded sun poured his cheerful light through the dark green glades of the Torwood. On the same morning another sun arose, although to shine on a more limited scene. This was the fair guest of David Henderson of Woodlands, whose beauty, remarkable as it had seemed on the previous night under all disadvantages, now appeared to surpass all that can be conceived of female perfection. Mrs. Henderson looked, and, we may say, gazed on the fair stranger with a degree of wonder and delight, that for some time prevented her tendering the civilities which she came for the express purpose of offering. For some seconds she could do nothing but obey a species of charm, for which, perhaps, she could not have very well accounted. The gentle smile, too, and melodious voice of her guest, seemed still more fascinating than on the previous evening. In the meantime the day wore on, and there was yet no appearance of the lady's companion of the former night, who, as the reader will recollect, had promised to Henderson to return and carry away his fair lodger. Night came, and still he appeared not. Another day and another night passed away, and still he of the black charger was not forthcoming. The circumstance greatly surprised both Henderson and his wife; but it did not surprise them more than the lady's apparent indifference on the subject. She indeed joined, in words at least, in the wonder which they once or twice distantly hinted at the conduct of the recreant knight; but it was evident that she did not feel much of either astonishment or disappointment at his delay. Again and again, another and another day came and passed away, and still no one appeared to inquire after the fair inmate of Woodlands. It will readily be believed that the surprise of Henderson and his wife at this circumstance increased with the lapse of time. It certainly did. But however much they might be surprised, they had little reason to complain, so far, at any rate, as their interest was concerned, for their fair lodger paid them handsomely for the trouble she put them to. She dealt out the contents of her ample and well-stocked purse with unsparing liberality, besides presenting her hostess with several valuable jewels. On this score, therefore, they had nothing to complain of; and neither needed to care, nor did care, how long it continued. During all this time the unknown beauty continued to maintain the most profound silence regarding her history,--whence she had come, whither she was going, or in what relation the person stood to her who had brought her to Woodlands, and who now seemed to have deserted her. All that the most ingeniously-put queries on the subject could elicit was, that she was an entire stranger in that part of the country; and an assurance that the person who brought her would return for her one day, although there were reasons why it might be some little time distant. What these reasons were, however, she never would give the most remote idea; and with this measure of information were her host and hostess compelled to remain satisfied. The habits of the fair stranger, in the meantime, were extremely retired. She would never go abroad until towards the dusk of the evening; and when she did, she always took the most sequestered routes; her favourite, indeed only resort on these occasions, being a certain little retired grove of elms, at the distance of about a quarter of a mile from Woodlands. The extreme caution the young lady observed in all her movements when she went abroad, a good deal surprised both Henderson and his wife; but, from a feeling of delicacy towards their fair lodger, who had won their esteem by her affable and amiable manners, they avoided all remark on the subject, and would neither themselves interfere in any way with her proceedings, nor allow any other member of their family to do so. Thus was she permitted to go out and return whensoever she pleased, without inquiry or remark. Although, however, neither Henderson nor his wife would allow of any one watching the motions of their fair but mysterious lodger when she went abroad, there is nothing to hinder us from doing this. We shall therefore follow her to the little elm grove by the wayside, on a certain evening two or three days after her arrival in Woodlands. Doing this, we shall find the mysterious stranger seated beside a clear sparkling fountain, situated a little way within the grove, that, first forming itself into a little pellucid lake in the midst of the greensward, afterwards glided away down a mossy channel bedecked with primroses. All alone by this fountain sat the young lady, looking, in her surpassing features and the exquisite symmetry of her light and graceful form, the very nymph of the crystal waters of the spring--the goddess of the grove. As she thus sat on the evening in question--it being now towards the dusk--the bushes, by which the fountain was in part shut in, were suddenly and roughly parted, and in the next moment a young man of elegant exterior, attired in the best fashion of the period, and leading a horse behind him by the bridle, stood before the half-alarmed and blushing damsel. The embarrassment of the lady, however, was not much greater than that of the intruder, who appeared to have little expected to find so fair and delicate a creature in such a situation, or indeed to find any one else. He himself had sought the fountain, which he knew well, and had often visited, merely to quench his thirst. After contemplating each other for an instant with looks of surprise and embarrassment, the stranger doffed his bonnet with an air of great gallantry, and apologised for his intrusion. The lady, smiling and blushing, replied, that his appearance there could be no intrusion, as the place was free to all. "True, madam," said the former, again bowing low; "but your presence should have made it sacred, and I should have so deemed it, had I been aware of your being here." The only reply of the young lady to this gallant speech, was a profound curtsey, and a smile of winning sweetness which was natural to her. Unable to withdraw himself from the fascinations of the fair stranger, yet without any apology for remaining longer where he was, the young man appeared for a moment not to know precisely what he should say or do next. At length, however, after having vainly hinted a desire to know the young lady's name and place of residence, his courtesy prevailed over every other more selfish feeling, and he mounted his horse, and, bidding the fair wood-nymph a respectful adieu, rode off. The young gallant, however, did not carry all away with him that he brought,--he left his heart behind him; and he had not ridden far before he found that he had done so. The surpassing beauty of the fair stranger, and the captivating sweetness of her manner, had made an impression upon him which was destined never to be effaced. His, in short, was one of those cases in the matter of love, which, it is said, are laughed at in France, doubted in England, and true only of the warm-tempered sons and daughters of the sunny south,--love at first sight. It was so. From that hour the image of the lovely nymph of the grove was to remain for ever enshrined in the inmost heart of the young cavalier. He had met with no encouragement to follow up the accidental acquaintance he had made. Indeed, the lady's reluctance to give him any information whatever as to her name or residence, he could not but consider as an indirect intimation that she desired no further correspondence with him. But, recollecting the old adage, that "faint heart never won fair lady," he resolved, although unbidden, to seek, very soon again, the fountain in the elm grove. Having brought our story to this point, we shall retrace our steps a little way, and take note of certain incidents that occurred in the city of Glasgow on the day after the visit of him of the black charger at Woodlands. Early on the forenoon of that day, the Drygate, then one of the principal streets of the city above named, exhibited an unusual degree of stir and bustle. The causeway was thronged with idlers, who were ever and anon dashed aside, like the wave that is thrown from the prow of a vessel, by some prancing horseman, who made his way towards an open space formed by the junction of three different streets. At this point were mustering a band of riders, consisting of the civil authorities of the city, together with a number of its principal inhabitants, and other gentlemen from the neighbourhood. The horsemen were all attired in their best,--hat and feathers, long cloaks of Flemish broad-cloth, and glittering steel-handed rapiers by their sides. Having mustered to about the number of thirty, they formed themselves into something like regular order, and seemed now to be but awaiting the word to march. And it was indeed so; but they were also awaiting he who was to give it. They waited the appearance of their leader. A shout from the populace soon after announced his approach. "The Provost! the Provost!" exclaimed a hundred voices at once, as a man of large stature, and of a bold and martial bearing, mounted on a "coal-black steed," came prancing alongst the Drygate-head, and made for the point at which the horsemen were assembled. On his approach, the latter doffed their hats respectfully--a civility which was gracefully returned by him to whom it was addressed. Taking his place at the head of the cavalcade, the Provost gave the word to march, when the whole party moved onwards; and after cautiously footing it down the steep and ill-paved descent of the Drygate, took, at a slow pace, the road towards Hamilton. The chief magistrate of Glasgow, who led the party of horsemen on the present occasion, was Sir Robert Lindsay of Dunrod,--a powerful and wealthy baron of the neighbourhood, who had been chosen to that appointment, as all chief magistrates were chosen in those wild and turbulent times, on account of his ability to protect the inhabitants from those insults and injuries to which they were constantly liable at the hands of unprincipled power, and from which the laws were too feeble to shield them. And to better hands than those of Sir Robert Lindsay, who was a man of bold and determined character, the welfare of the city and the safety of the citizens could not have been entrusted. In return for the honour conferred on him, and the confidence reposed in him, he watched over the interests of the city with the utmost vigilance. But it was not to the general interest alone that he confined the benefits of his guardianship. Individuals, also, who were wronged, or threatened to be wronged, found in him a ready and efficient protector, let the oppressor or wrongdoer be whom he might. Having given this brief sketch of the leader of the cavalcade, we resume the detail of its proceedings. Holding on its way in a south-easterly direction, the party soon reached and passed Rutherglen Bridge; the road connecting Hamilton with Glasgow being then on the south side of the Clyde. But a little way farther had they proceeded, when the faint sound of a bugle was heard, coming apparently from a considerable distance. "There he comes at last," said Sir David Lindsay, suddenly checking his horse to await the coming up of his party, of which he had been riding a little way in advance, immersed in a brown study. "There he comes at last," he exclaimed, recalled from his reverie by the sound of the bugle. "Look to your paces, gentlemen, and let us show some order and regularity as well as respect." Obeying this hint, the horsemen, who had been before jogging along in a confused and careless manner, now drew together into a closer body; the laggards coming forward, and those in advance holding back. In this order, with the Provost at their head, the party continued to move slowly onwards; but they had not done so for many minutes, when they descried, at the farther extremity of a long level reach of the road, a numerous party of horse approaching at a rapid, ambling pace, and seemingly straining hard to keep up with one who rode a little way in their front. The contrast between this party and the Provost's was striking enough. The latter, though exceedingly respectable and citizen-like, was of extremely sober hue compared to the former, in which flaunted all the gayest dresses of the gayest courtiers of the time. Long plumes of feathers waved and nodded in velvet bonnets, looped with gold bands; and rich and brilliant colours, mingling with the glitter of steel and silver, gave to the gallant cavalcade at once an imposing and magnificent appearance. In point of horsemanship, too, with the exception of Sir Robert Lindsay himself, and one or two other men of rank who had joined his party, the approaching cavaliers greatly surpassed the worthy citizens of St. Mungo,--coming on at a showy and dashing pace, while the latter kept advancing with the sober, steady gait assimilative of their character. On the two parties coming within about fifty paces of each other, Sir Robert Lindsay made a signal to his followers to halt, while he himself rode forward, hat in hand, towards the leader of the opposite party. "Our good Sir Robert of Dunrod," said the latter, who was no other than James V., advancing half-way to meet the Provost, and taking him kindly and familiarly by the hand as he spoke. "How did'st learn of our coming?" "The movements of kings are not easily kept secret," replied Sir Robert, evasively. "By St. Bridget, it would seem not," replied James, laughingly. "My visit to your good city, Sir Robert, I did not mean to be a formal one, and therefore had mentioned it only to one or two. In truth, I--I"--added James, with some embarrassment of manner--"I had just one particular purpose, and that of a private nature, in view. No state matter at all, Sir Robert--nothing of a public character. So that, to be plain with you, Sir Robert, I could have dispensed with the honour you have done me in bringing out these good citizens to receive me; that being, I presume, your purpose. Not but that I should have been most happy to meet yourself, Sir Robert; but it was quite unnecessary to trouble these worthy people." "It was our bounden duty, your Grace," replied Sir Robert, not at all disconcerted by this royal damper on his loyalty. "It was our bounden duty, on learning that your Grace was at Bothwell Castle, and that you intended visiting our poor town of Glasgow, to acknowledge the favour in the best way in our power. And these worthy gentlemen and myself could think of no better than coming out to meet and welcome your Grace." "Well, well, since it is so, Sir Robert," replied the king, good-humouredly, "we shall take the kindness as it is meant. Let us proceed." Riding side by side, and followed by their respective parties, James and the Provost now resumed their progress towards Glasgow, where they shortly after arrived, and where they were received with noisy acclamations by the populace, whom rumour had informed of the king's approach. On reaching the city, the latter proceeded to the Bishop's Castle,--an edifice which has long since disappeared, but which at this time stood on or near the site of the infirmary,--in which he intended taking up his residence. Having seen the king within the castle gates, his citizen escort dispersed, and sought their several homes; going off, in twos and threes, in different directions. "Ken ye, Sir Robert, what has brought his Grace here at present?" said an old wealthy merchant, who had been one of the cavalcade that went to meet James, and whom the Provost overtook as he was leisurely jogging down the High Street, on his way home. "Hem," ejaculated Sir Robert. "Perhaps I have half a guess, Mr, Morton. The king visits places on very particular sorts of errands sometimes. His Grace didn't above half thank us for our attendance to-day. He would rather have got somewhat more quietly into the city; but I had reasons for desiring it to be otherwise, so did not mind his hints about his wish for privacy." "And no doubt he had his reasons for the privacy he hinted at," said Sir Robert's companion. "You may swear that," replied the latter, laughingly. "Heard ye ever, Mr. Morton, of a certain fair and wealthy young lady of the name of Jessie Craig?" "John Craig's daughter?" rejoined the old merchant. "The same," said Sir Robert. "The prettiest girl in Scotland, and one of the wealthiest too." "Well; what if the king should have been smitten with her beauty, having seen her accidentally in Edinburgh, where she was lately? and what, if his visit to Glasgow just now should be for the express purpose of seeing this fair maiden? and what, if I should not exactly approve of such a proceeding, seeing that the young lady in question has, as you know, neither father nor mother to protect her, both being dead?" "Well, Sir Robert, and what then?" here interposed Mr. Morton, availing himself of a pause in the former's supposititious case. "Why, then, wouldn't it be my bounden duty, worthy sir, as Provost of this city, to act the part of guardian towards this young maiden in such emergency, and to see that she came by no wrong?" "Truly, it would be a worthy part, Sir Robert," replied the old merchant; "but the king is strong, and you may not resist him openly." "Nay, that I would not attempt," replied the Provost. "I have taken quieter and more effectual measures. Made aware, though somewhat late, through a trusty channel, of the king's intended visit and its purpose, I have removed her out of the reach of danger, to where his Grace will, I rather think, have some difficulty in finding her." "So, so. And this, then, is the true secret of the honour which has just been conferred on us!" replied Sir Robert's companion, with some indignation. "But the matter is in good hands when it is in yours, Provost. In your keeping we consider our honours and our interests are safe. I wish you a good day, Provost." And the interlocutors having by this time arrived at the foot of the High Street, where four streets joined, the old merchant took that which conducted to his residence, Sir Robert's route lying in an opposite direction. From the conversation just recorded, the reader will at once trace a connection between Sir Robert Lindsay of Dunrod and he of the black charger who brought to Woodlands the fair damsel whom we left there. They were the same; and that fair damsel was the daughter of John Craig, late merchant of the city of Glasgow, who left an immense fortune, of which this girl was the sole heir. In carrying the young lady to Woodlands, and leaving her there, Sir Robert, although apparently under the compulsion of circumstances, was acting advisedly. He knew Henderson to be a man of excellent character and great respectability; and in the secrecy and mystery he observed, he sought to preclude all possibility of his interference in the affair ever reaching the ears of the king. What he had told to old Morton, he knew would go no further; that person having been an intimate friend of the young lady's father, and of course interested in all that concerned her welfare. The palace of a bishop was not very appropriate quarters for one who came on such an errand as that which brought James to Glasgow. But this was a circumstance that did not give much concern to that merry and somewhat eccentric monarch; and the less so, that the bishop himself happened to be from home at the time, on a visit to his brother of St. Andrews. Having the house thus to himself, James did not hesitate to make as free use of it as if he had been at Holyrood. It was not many hours after his arrival at the castle, that he summoned to his presence a certain trusty attendant of the name of William Buchanan, and thus schooled him in the duties of a particular mission in which he desired his services. "Willie," said the good-humoured monarch, "at the further end of the Rottenrow of this good city of Glasgow--that is, at the western end of the said row--there stands a fair mansion on the edge of the brae, and overlooking the strath of the Clyde. It is the residence of a certain fair young lady of the name of Craig. Now, Willie, what I desire of you to do is this: you will go to this young lady from me, carrying her this gold ring, and say to her that I intend, with her permission, doing myself the honour of paying her a visit in the course of this afternoon. "Make your observations, Willie, and let me know how the land lies when you return. But, pray thee, keep out of the way of our worthy knight of Dunrod; and if thou shouldst chance to meet him, and he should question thee, seeing that you wear our livery, breathe no syllable of what thou art about, otherwise he may prove somewhat troublesome to both of us. At any rate, to a certainty, he would crop thy ears, Willie; and thou knowest, king though I be, I could not put them on again, nor give thee another pair in their stead. So keep those thou hast out of the hands of Sir Robert Lindsay of Dunrod, I pray thee." Charged with his mission, Willie, who had been often employed on matters of this kind before, proceeded to the street with the unsavoury name already mentioned; but, not knowing exactly where to find the house he wanted, he looked around him to see if he could see any one to whom he might apply for information. There happened to be nobody on the street at the time; but his eye at length fell on an old weaver--as, from the short green apron he wore, he appeared to be--standing at a door. Towards this person Willie now advanced, discarding, however, as much as possible, all appearance of having any particular object in view; for he prided himself on the caution and dexterity with which he managed all such matters as that he was now engaged in. "Fine day, honest man," said Willie, approaching the old weaver. "Gran wather for the hairst." "It's just that, noo," replied the old man, gazing at Willie with a look of inquiry. "Just uncommon pleesant wather." "A bit nice airy place up here," remarked the latter. "Ou ay, weel aneuch for that," replied the weaver. "But air 'll no fill the wame." "No very substantially," said Willie. "Some gran hooses up here, though. Wha's is that?" and he pointed to a very handsome mansion-house opposite. "That's the rector o' Hamilton's," replied the weaver. "And that are there?" "That's the rector o' Carstairs'." "And that?" "That's the rector o' Erskine's." "'Od, but ye do leeve in a godly neighbourhood here," said Willie, impatient with these clerical iterations. "Do a' the best houses hereawa belang to the clergy?" "Indeed, the maist feck o' them," said the weaver. "Leave ye them alane for that. The best o' everything fa's to their share." "Yonder's anither handsome hoose, noo," said Willie, pointing to one he had not yet indicated. "Does yon belang to the clergy too?" "Ou no; yon's the late Mr. Craig's," replied the weaver; "ane o' oor walthiest merchants, wha died some time ago." "Ou ay," said Willie, drily; "just sae. Gude mornin', friend." And thinking he had managed his inquiries very dexterously, he sauntered slowly away--still assuming to have no special object in view--towards the particular house just spoken of, and which, we need not say, was precisely the one he wanted. It was a large isolated building, with an extensive garden behind, and stretching down the face of what is now called the Deanside Brae. On the side next the street, the entrance was by a tall, narrow, iron gate. This gate Willie now approached, but found it locked hard and fast. Finding this, he bawled out, at the top of his voice, for some one to come to him. After a time, an old woman made her appearance, and, in no very pleasant mood, asked him what he wanted. "I hae a particular message, frae a very particular person, to the young leddy o' this hoose," replied Willie. "Ye maun gang and seek the young leddy o' this hoose ither whars than here, then," said the old dame, making back to the house again, without intending any further communication on the subject. "Do ye mean to say that she's no in the hoose?" shouted Willie. "Ay, I mean to say that, and mair too," replied the old crone. "She hasna been in't for a gey while, and winna be in't for a guid while langer; and sae ye may tell them that sent ye." Saying this, she passed into the house; and by doing so, would have put an end to all further conference. But Willie was not to be thus baffled in his object. Changing his tactics from the imperative to the wheedling, in which last he believed himself to be exceedingly dexterous-- "Mistress--I say, Mistress," he shouted, in a loud, but coaxing tone; "speak a word, woman--just a word or two. Ye maybe winna fare the waur o't." Whether it was the hint conveyed in the last clause of Willie's address, or that the old woman felt some curiosity to hear what so urgent a visitor had to say, she returned to the door, where, standing fast, and looking across the courtyard at Willie, whose sly though simple-looking face was pressed against the iron bars of the outer gate, she replied to him with a-- "Weel, man, what is't ye want?" "Tuts, woman, come across--come across," said Willie, wagging her towards him with his forefinger. "I canna be roarin' out what I hae to say to ye a' that distance. I micht as weel cry it oot at the cross. See, there's something to bring ye a wee nearer." And he held out several small silver coin through the bars of the gate. The production of the cash had the desired effect. The old woman, who was lame, and who walked by the aid of a short thick stick with a crooked head, hobbled towards him, and, having accepted the proffered coin, again asked, though with much more civility than before, what it was he wanted? "Tuts, woman, open the yett," said Willie in his cagiest manner, "and I'll tell ye a' aboot it. It's hardly ceevil to be keeping a body speakin' this way wi' his nose thrust through atwixt twa cauld bars o' airn, like a rattin atween a pair o' tangs." "Some folks are safest that way, though," replied the old woman, with something like an attempt at a laugh. "Bars o' airn are amang the best freens we hae sometimes. But as ye seem a civil sort o' a chiel, after a', I'll let ye in, although I dinna see what ye'll be the better o' that." So saying, she took a large iron key from her girdle, inserted it in the lock, and in the next moment the gate grated on its hinges; yielding partly to the pressure of Willie from without, and partly to the co-operative efforts of the old woman from within. "Noo," said Willie, on gaining the interior of the courtyard--"Noo," he said, affecting his most coaxing manner, "you and me 'll hae a bit crack thegither, guidwife." And, sitting down on a stone bench that ran along the front of the house, he motioned to the old lady to take a seat beside him, which she did. "I understand, guidwife," began Willie, who meant to be very cunning in his mode of procedure, "that she's just an uncommon bonny leddy your mistress; just wonderfu'." "Whaever tell't ye that, didna misinform ye," replied the old woman drily. "And has mints o' siller?" rejoined Mr. Buchanan. "No ill aff in that way either," said the old woman. "But it's her beauty--it's her extraordinary beauty--that's the wonder, and that I hear everybody speakin' aboot," said Willie. "I wad gie the price o' sax fat hens to see her. Could ye no get me a glisk o' her ony way, just for ae minute?" "Didna I tell ye before that she's no at hame?" said the old dame, threatening again to get restive on Willie's hands. "Od, so ye did; I forgot," said Mr. Buchanan, affecting obliviousness of the fact. "Whaur may she be noo?" he added in his simplest and _couthiest_ manner. "Wad ye like to ken?" replied the old lady with a satirical sneer. "'Deed wad I; and there's mae than me wad like to ken," replied Willie; "and them that wad pay handsomely for the information." "Really," said the old dame, with a continuation of the same sneer, and long ere this guessing what Willie was driving at. "And wha may they be noo, if I may speer?" "They're gey kenspeckled," replied Mr. Buchanan; "but that doesna matter. If ye canna, or winna tell me whaur Mistress Craig is, could ye no gie's a bit inklin' o' whan ye expect her hame?" "No; but I'll gie ye a bit inklin o' whan ye'll walk oot o' this," said the old woman, rising angrily from her seat; "and that's this minute, or I'll set the dug on ye. Hisk, hisk--Teeger, Teeger!" And a huge black dog came bouncing out of the house, and took up a position right in front of Willie; wagging his tail, as if in anticipation of a handsome treat in the way of worrying that worthy. "Gude sake, woman," said Willie, rising in great alarm from his seat, and edging towards the outer gate--"What's a' this for? Ye wadna set that brute on a Christian cratur, wad ye?" "Wadna I? Ye'd better no try me, frien', but troop aff wi' ye. Teeger," she added, with a significant look. The dog understood it, and, springing on Willie, seized him by one of the skirts of his coat, which, with one powerful tug, he at once separated from the body. Pressed closely upon by both the dog and his mistress, Willie keeping, however, his face to the foe, now retreated towards the gate, when, just at the moment of his making his exit, the old lady, raising her staff, hit him a parting blow, which, taking effect on the bridge of his nose, immediately enlarged the dimensions of that organ, besides drawing forth a copious stream of claret. In the next instant the gate was shut and locked in the sufferer's face. "Confound ye, ye auld limmer," shouted Willie furiously, and shaking his fist through the bars of the gate as he spoke, "if I had ye here on the outside o' the yett, as ye're in the in, if I wadna baste the auld hide o' ye. But my name's no Willie Buchanan if I dinna gar ye rue this job yet, some way or anither." To these objurgations of the discomfited messenger the old lady deigned no word of answer, but merely shaking her head, and indulging in a pretty broad smile of satisfaction, hobbled into the house, followed by Tiger, wagging his tail, as much as to say, "I think we've given yon fellow a fright, mistress." Distracted with indignation and resentment, Willie hastened back to the castle, and, too much excited to think of his outward appearance, hurried into the royal presence with his skirtless coat and disfigured countenance, which he had by no means improved by sundry wipes with the sleeve of his coat. On Willie making his appearance in this guise, the merry monarch looked at him for an instant in silent amazement, then burst into an incontrollable fit of laughter, which the grave, serious look of Willie showed he by no means relished. There was even a slight expression of resentment in the manner in which the maltreated messenger bore the merry reception of his light-hearted master. "Willie, man," at length said James, when his mirth had somewhat subsided, "what's this has happened thee? Where gottest thou that enormous nose, man?" "Feth, your Majesty, it may be a joke to you, but it's unco little o' ane to me," replied Willie, whose confidential duties and familiar intercourse with his royal master had led him to assume a freedom of speech which was permitted to no other, and which no other would have dared to attempt. "I hae gotten sic a worryin' the day," he continued, "as I never got in my life before. Between dugs and auld wives, I hae had a bonny time o't. Worried by the tane and smashed by the tither, as my nose and my coat-tails bear witness." "Explain yourself, Willie. What does all this mean?" exclaimed James, again laughing. Willie told his story, finishing with the information that the bird was flown--meaning Jessie Craig. "Aff and awa, naebody kens, or'll tell whaur." "Off--away!" exclaimed the king, with an air of mingled disappointment and surprise. "Very odd," he added, musingly; "and most particularly unlucky. But we shall wait on a day or two, and she will probably reappear in that time; or we may find out where she has gone to." On the day following that on which the incidents just related occurred, the curiosity of the good people in the neighbourhood of the late Mr. Craig's house in Rottenrow was a good deal excited by seeing a person in the dress of a gentleman hovering about the residence just alluded to. Anon he would walk to and fro in front of the house, looking earnestly towards the windows. Now he would descend the Deanside Brae, and do the same by those behind. Again he would return to the front of the mansion, and taking up his station on the opposite side of the street, would resume his scrutiny of the windows. The stranger was thus employed, when he was startled by the appearance of some one advancing towards him, whom, it was evident, he would fain have avoided if he could. But it was too late. There was no escape. So, assuming an air of as much composure and indifference as he could, he awaited the approach of the unwelcome intruder. This person was Sir Robert Lindsay. Coming up to the stranger with a respectful air, and with an expression of countenance as free from all consciousness as that which had been assumed by the former-- "I hope your Grace is well?" he said, bowing profoundly as he spoke. "Thank you, Provost--thank you," replied James; for we need hardly say it was he. "Your Grace has doubtless come hither," said the former gravely, "to enjoy the delightful view which this eminence commands?" "The precise purpose, Sir Robert," replied James, recovering a little from the embarrassment which, after all his efforts, he could not entirely conceal. "The view is truly a fine one, Provost," continued the king. "I had no idea that your good city could boast of anything so fair in the way of landscape. Our city of Edinburgh hath more romantic points about it; but for calm and tranquil beauty, methinks it hath nothing superior to the scene commanded by this eminence." "There are some particular localities on the ridge of the hill here, however," said Sir Robert, "that exhibit the landscape to much better advantage than others, and to which, taking it for granted that your Grace is not over-familiar with the ground, it will afford me much pleasure to conduct you." "Ah! thank you, good Sir Robert--thank you," replied James. "But some other day, if you please. The little spare time I had on my hands is about exhausted, so that I must return to the castle. I have, as you know, Sir Robert, to give audience to some of your worthy councillors, who intend honouring me with a visit. "Amongst the number I will expect to see yourself, Sir Robert." And James, after politely returning the loyal obeisance of the Provost, hurried away towards the castle. On his departure, the latter stood for a moment, and looked after him with a smile of peculiar intelligence; then muttered, as he also left the spot-- "Well do I know what it was brought your Grace to this quarter of the town; and knowing this, I know it was for anything but the sake of its view. Fair maidens have more attractions in your eyes than all the views between this and John o'Groat's. But I have taken care that your pursuit in the present instance will avail thee little." And the good Provost went on his way. For eight entire days after this did James wait in Glasgow for the return of Jessie Craig; but he waited in vain. Neither in that time could he learn anything whatever of the place of her sojournment. His patience at length exhausted, he determined on giving up the pursuit for the time at any rate, and on quitting the city. The king, as elsewhere casually mentioned, had come last from Bothwell Castle. It was now his intention to proceed to Stirling, where he proposed stopping for two or three weeks; thence to Linlithgow, and thereafter returning to Edinburgh. The purpose of James to make this round having reached the ears of a certain Sir James Crawford of Netherton, whose house and estate lay about half-way between Glasgow and Stirling, that gentleman sent a respectful message to James, through Sir Robert Lindsay, to the effect that he would feel much gratified if his Grace would deign to honour his poor house of Netherton with a visit in passing, and accept for himself and followers such refreshment as he could put before them. To this message James returned a gracious answer, saying that he would have much pleasure in accepting the invitation so kindly sent him, and naming the day and hour when he would put the inviter's hospitality to the test. Faithful to his promise, the king and his retinue, amongst whom was now Sir Robert Lindsay, who had been included in the invitation, presented themselves at Netherton gate about noon on the day that had been named. They were received with all honour by the proprietor, a young man of prepossessing appearance, graceful manners, and frank address. On the king and gentlemen of his train entering the house, they were ushered into a large banqueting hall, where was an ample table spread with the choicest edibles, and glittering with the silver goblets and flagons that stood around it in thick array. Everything, in short, betokened at once the loyalty and great wealth of the royal party's entertainer. The king and his followers having taken their places at table, the fullest measure of justice was quickly done to the good things with which it was spread. James was in high spirits, and talked and rattled away with as much glee and as entire an absence of all kingly reserve as the humblest good fellow in his train. Encouraged by the affability of the king, and catching his humour, the whole party gave way to the most unrestrained mirth. The joke and the jest went merrily round with the wine flagon; and he was for a time the best man who could start the most jocund theme. It was while this spirit prevailed that Sir Robert Lindsay, after making a private signal to Sir James Crawford, which had the effect of causing him to quit the apartment on pretence of looking for something he wanted, addressing the king, said-- "May I take the liberty of asking your Grace if you have seen any particularly fair maidens in the course of your present peregrinations? I know your Grace has a good taste in these matters." James coloured a little at this question and the remark which accompanied it; but quickly regaining his self-possession and good-humour-- "No, Sir Robert," he said, laughingly, "I cannot say that I have been so fortunate on the present occasion. As to the commendation which you have been pleased to bestow on my taste, I thank you, and am glad it meets with your approbation." "Yet, your Grace," continued Sir Robert, "excellent judge as I know you to be of female beauty, I deem myself, old and staid as I am, your Grace's equal, craving your Grace's pardon; and, to prove this, will take a bet with your Grace of a good round sum, that you have never seen, and do not know, a more beautiful woman than the lady of our present host." "Take care, Provost," replied James. "Make no rash bets. I know the most beautiful maiden the sun ever shone upon. But it would be ungallant and ungracious to make the lady of our good host the subject of such a bet on the present occasion." "But our host is absent, your Grace," replied the Provost pertinaciously; "and neither he nor any one else, but your Grace's friends present, need know anything at all of the matter. Will your Grace take me up for a thousand merks?" "But suppose I should," replied James, "how is the thing to be managed? and who is to decide?" "Both points are of easy adjustment, your Grace," said Sir Robert. "Your Grace has only to intimate a wish to our host, when he returns, that you would feel gratified by his introducing his lady to you; and as to the matter of decision, I would, with your Grace's permission and approval, put that into the hands of the gentlemen present. Of course, nothing need be said of the purpose of this proceeding to either host or hostess." "Well, be it so," said James, urged on by the madcaps around him, who were delighted with the idea of the thing. "Now then, gentlemen," he continued, "the lady on whose beauty I stake my thousand merks is Jessie Craig, the merchant's daughter, of Glasgow, whom, I think, all of you have seen." "Ha! my townswoman," exclaimed Sir Robert, with every appearance of surprise. "On my word, you have made mine a hard task of it; for a fairer maiden than Jessie Craig may not so readily be found. Nevertheless, I adhere to the terms of my bet." The Provost had just done speaking, when Sir James Crawford entered the apartment, and resumed his seat at table. Shortly after he had done so, James, addressing him, said-- "Sir James, it would complete the satisfaction of these gentlemen and myself with the hospitality you have this day shown us, were you to afford us an opportunity of paying our respects to your good lady; that is, if it be perfectly convenient for and agreeable to her." "Lady Crawford will be but too proud of the honour, your Grace," replied Sir James, rising. "She shall attend your Grace presently." Saying this, the latter again withdrew; and soon after returned, leading a lady, over whose face hung a long and flowing veil, into the royal presence. It would require the painter's art to express adequately the looks of intense and eager interest with which James and his party gazed on the veiled beauty, as she entered the apartment and advanced towards them. Their keen and impatient scrutiny seemed as if it would pierce the tantalizing obstruction that prevented them seeing those features on whose beauty so large a sum had been staked. In this state of annoying suspense, however, they were not long detained. On approaching within a few paces of the king, and at the moment Sir James Crawford said, with a respectful obeisance, "My wife, Lady Crawford, your Grace," she raised her veil, and exhibited to the astonished monarch and his courtiers a surpassingly beautiful countenance indeed; but it was that of Jessie Craig. "A trick! a trick!" exclaimed James, with merry shout, and amidst a peal of laughter from all present, and in which the fair cause of all this stir most cordially joined. "A trick, a trick, Provost! a trick!" repeated James. "Nay, no trick at all, your Grace, craving your Grace's pardon," replied the Provost gravely. "Your Grace betted that Jessie Craig was more beautiful than Lady Crawford. Now, is it so? I refer the matter, as agreed upon, to the gentlemen around us." "Lost! lost!" exclaimed half a dozen gallants at once. "Well, well, gentlemen, since you so decide," said James, "I will instantly give our good Provost here an order upon our treasurer for the sum." "Nay, your Grace, not so fast. The money is as safe in your hands as mine. Let it there remain till I require it. When I do, I shall not fail to demand it." "Be it so, then," said James, when, placing his fair hostess beside him, and after obtaining a brief explanation--which we will, in the sequel, give at more length--of the odd circumstance of finding Jessie Craig converted into Lady Crawford, the mirth and hilarity of the party were resumed, and continued till pretty far in the afternoon, when the king and his courtiers took horse,--the former at parting having presented his hostess with a massive gold chain which he wore about his neck, in token of his good wishes,--and rode off for Stirling. To our tale we have now only to add the two or three explanatory circumstances above alluded to. In Sir James Crawford the reader is requested to recognise the young man who discovered Jessie Craig, then the unknown fair one, by the side of the fountain in the little elm grove at Woodlands. Encouraged by and acting on the adage already quoted,--namely, that "faint heart never won fair lady,"--he followed up his first accidental interview with the fair fugitive from royal importunity with an assiduity that in one short week accomplished the wooing and winning of her. While the first was in progress, Sir James was informed by the young lady of the reasons for her concealment. On this and the part Sir Robert Lindsay had acted towards her being made known to him, he lost no time in opening a communication with that gentleman, riding repeatedly into Glasgow himself to see him on the subject of his fair charge; at the same time informing him of the attachment he had formed for her, and finally obtaining his consent, or at least approbation, to their marriage. The bet, we need hardly add, was a concerted joke between the Provost, Sir James, and his lady. When we have added that the circumstance of Sir Robert Lindsay's delay in returning for Jessie Craig, which excited so much surprise at Woodlands, was owing to the unlooked-for prolongation of the king's stay in Glasgow, we think we have left nothing unexplained that stood in need of such aid. THE BRIDE OF BELL'S TOWER. Some time ago I made inquiry at the editor of _Notes and Queries_ for information as to the whereabouts of an old mansion called Bell's Tower, and whether it was occupied by a family of the name of Bower; but my inquiry was not attended with any success beyond the usual production of surmises and speculations. There was a place so called in Perthshire; but then it never was occupied by people of that name,--the Bowers being an old family in Angus, whose principal messuage was Kincaldrum. Yet I cannot be mistaken in the name, either of the house or the family, as connected with the occurrences of the tradition, the essentials of which have floated in my mind ever since I heard them from one to whom they were also traditional. Then the story has something of an antique air about it, as may be noticed from the application of adjectives to baptismal names, as Devil Isobel and Sweet Marjory,--by no means a modern usage, but easily recognised in analogues of our old poetry. We may say, at least, that whether the Bowers were a very or only a moderately ancient family, Bell's Tower was an old structure--the name being applied to the mansion, which was an addition to a peel or castle-house of many centuries--not without its battlements and barnkin, and all the other appurtenances of a strength, as such places were called. Had we more to do than our subject requires with the _physique_ of this mansion--and we have something; for what romance in the moral world is independent of a _locale_, and of those lights and shadows that play where men live and act all the wondrous things they do?--we might be particular in our description; but our narrator's shade will be sufficiently conciliated, if we say that there was room enough, and ill-lighted chambers enough, and sufficiently tortuous breakneck stairs here and there, as well as those peculiar to castles, lobbies in all conscience long enough--not forgetting a blue parlour with some mysterious associations--to supply elements for genius to weave the many-coloured web of fiction. But we have a humbler part to play; and it begins here,--that Mrs. Bower had in the said blue parlour, a fortnight before our incidents, told her eldest daughter, whom we are, for the sake of the antique nomenclature--discriminative, and therefore kindly, if also sometimes harsh--to call Sweet Marjory, a piece of information, to her unexpected and strange,--no other than that Isobel, her sister, was the accepting and accepted of the rich and chivalrous youth, Hector Ogilvy, a neighbouring laird's son. Nor would it have appeared wonderful, if we had known more of the inside of that heaving breast, wherein a heart was too obedient to those magic chords, with their minute capillaries spread over the tympanum, that Marjory was as mute and pale as a statue of marble. But the truth really was, that Ogilvy had courted Marjory, and won her heart, and Isobel--Devil Isobel--had contrived means to win him to herself, at the expense of a sister's reputation for all the beautiful qualities that adorn human nature. And as all the world knows that both men and women hate those they injure, we may be at no loss to ascertain the feelings by which Isobel regarded Marjory. Nor shall those who know the nature of woman have any difficulty in supposing that not more carefully does nature guard in the bosom the physical organ of the affections, than she concealed the feelings which had for that fortnight eaten into the vital tissues of her being. How swiftly that fortnight had flown for Isobel! how charged with heavy hours for Marjory! and to-morrow was the eventful day. What doings in Bell's Tower during this intervening time! what pattering of feet along the sombre lobbies! what gossiping among servants! what applications to the gate--comings and goings! and the rooms, how bestrewn with clippings of silk, and stray bits of artificial flowers! And, amidst all the triumphing, Isobel displayed her nature in spite of old saws and maxims, which lay upon brides conditions of reserve and humility, held to be so becoming in those who, as it were, occupy the place of a sacrifice; yea, if some tears are shed, so much better is custom obeyed. Then where could Marjory go, in the midst of this confusion of gaiety?--where, as the poet says, "weep her woes" in secret, and listen to the throbbings of a broken heart? Not in her own room, in the lower part of the castle tower, where her mother had still the privilege of chiding her for throwing the shadows of melancholy over a scene of happiness, and where Isobel would force an entrance, to show her, in the very spite of her evil nature, some bridal present from him who was still to the deserted one the idol of her heart. There was scarcely a refuge for grief, where joy was impatient of check, and, like all tyrants, would force reluctant conditions into a unanimity of compliance; but up these castle stairs, in the second room, there was one whom time had shut out from the sympathies of the world, so old, as to be almost forgotten, except by Marjory herself, who, all gentleness and love, delighted to supply vacant hearts with the fervours of her friendship, and to ameliorate evils by the appliances of her humanity. With languid step she ascended the stair, and was presently beside her great-grandaunt, Patricia Bower. Twilight was dropping her wing, and the shadows were fast collecting round the square windows, which, narrow and grated, would scarcely at noonday let in light enough to enliven the human eye. There, solitary and in the gloom, sat the creature of the prior century, whose birth could only be arrived at by going through generations back ninety and five years before; but not gloom to her, to whom the light of memory was as a necromancer, arraying before the gleg eye of her spirit the images of persons and things and circumstances of the far past, with all the vividness of enchantment, and still even raising again those very loves and sympathies they elicited when they were of the passing hour. Yet the doings in this house of Bell's Tower at the time, so far removed from the period of the living archetypes of her dreams, had got to her ear, where still the word marriage was a charm, against which the dry impassable nerve resisted in vain. "I will go to this marriage, Marjory," she said, as the maiden entered, and without appearing to notice her distress. "No, aunt," replied Marjory, as she sat down opposite to her. "And shall I not?" continued the ancient maiden, as her eyes seemed to come forward out of the deep sockets into which they had long sunk, and emitted an unearthly lustre. "And shall I not? It is four times a score of years bating five since I was at a bridal; and when all were waiting, ay, Marjory, expecting the young bridegroom, the door was opened, and four men carried in Walter Ogilvy's bleeding corpse, and laid him in the bridal hall; for he had been stabbed by a rival in the Craig Glen, down by there; and where could they take the body but to Bell's Tower, where his bride waited for him? But she did not go mad, Sweet Marjory; no, no." And as the image grew more distinct in the internal chambers, so did the eyes shine more lustrously, like stars peering through between grey clouds; and the shrivelled muscles, obeying once more the excited nerve, imparted to her almost the appearance of youth. Gradually a humming tone essayed to take form in words; but the wavering treble disconcerted her, till, calming herself by some effort, she recited, in solemn see-saw-- "The guests they came from the grey mountain side,-- The bride she was fair, and the bride she was fain; But where was the lover, who sought not his bride? Oh! a maid she is now, as a maid she was then; And her cheek it is pale, and her hair it is grey, Since the long long time of her bridal day." The last line descended into a quavering whisper. With the effusion, adopted probably from an old ditty, and brought forth from its long-retaining chamber of the brain by the inspiration of one of her often-returning visions, the fervour of the tasked spirit died away, and, reclining her head, she sat before the wondering Marjory--who had heard, as a tale of the family, and applicable to Patricia herself, the circumstances she had related--as one suspended between death and life; nor did it seem that it required more than a rude vibration to decide to which of the two worlds she would in a few minutes belong. Only a short time sufficed to restore her to her ordinary composure, and, waving her shrivelled hand, she said-- "Open the door to the bartisan, Marjory, that I may have air, and see the moon, who, amidst all the changes of life, is ever the same to the miserable and the happy." Marjory obeyed her; and as she looked forth, the moon was rising over the tops of the trees, as if to chase away the envious shades, ready to follow the departure of twilight. There was solace in her soft splendour for the melancholy of the youthful girl, which might be ameliorated by a turn of fortune, as well as for the sadness of her aged friend, which was not only beyond the influence of worldly change, but so like the forecast gloom of the grave, as if the inexorable tyrant, long disappointed, was already rejoicing in his victim. But no sooner was the door casement opened, than the sound of voices entered. Then Marjory stepped out on the bartisan, not to listen, for her spirit was superior to artifice; and, leaning over the bartisan, she soon recognised the voices of Isobel and Ogilvy; nor could she escape the words-- "I loved her for her own sake," said he, "before I loved you, Isobel; and now I love her as your sister. But I shall have no peace in my wedded life with you, save on the condition that you love her also; for my conscience tells me I have not done by Sweet Marjory what is deemed according to the honour of man. You see what your power has been, Isobel. Nor would I have spoken thus on the very evening before our wedding, were it not that I have heard you do not love her, nay, that you hate her." Then Marjory heard Devil Isobel reply; and she knew by the voice that she was in anger, though she cunningly repressed her passion. "Believe them not," said Isobel. "By the pale face of yonder moon, and all those bright stars that are coming out one by one to add honour upon honour to this evening, the last of my maiden life, I love sweet Marjory Bower; and I swear by Him who made all these heavenly orbs, that I shall love her as a sister ought." "It pleases me much to hear my Isobel speak thus," said Ogilvy. "And hark ye, love, I have here a valuable locket, set with diamonds and opals--see, it contains the grey hair of my mother; and, will I or nill I, she will send this by me to Marjory as a love-token. Now I want to convey it to Sweet Marjory through you, because it will make you a party to the love-gift, and so bind us all in a circle of affection." "Give it me," cried Isobel, fixing her piercing eye on the diamonds as they sparkled in the moonlight; "and, on the honour of a bride, I will give it to my sister, whom I love so dearly." And Isobel continued to speak; but the movement of the lovers as they walked prevented Marjory from hearing more. Still she followed them with her weeping eyes, as their figures, clearly revealed to her by the moon, glided among the wide-standing trees of the lawn, and at length disappeared. The moon had now less solace for her. Her wound had been retouched by a hand of all others calculated to irritate, even by that of Ogilvy himself, who, she now knew, felt compunction for the cruelty of his desertion. His regret was too late to save her sorrow, but it was not too late to increase that sorrow; for the words by which he had uttered it reminded her, in their tone, of that unctuous luxury he had so often poured into her heart, and which, in their sincerity, were so unlike the dissimulation of her wicked sister. With a deep-drawn sigh she entered the bartisan casement, shut it after her, and having spoken some kindly words to her aunt, whom she kissed, she sought her way down the bastle stair to her own room below. There she threw herself upon a couch, not to seek assuagement, but only to give rest to limbs that would scarcely support her. Nor did the closed door keep from her ear those notes of preparation, coming in so many shapes; for there was, in addition to the customary rites of the great sacrifice, to be a sumptuous feast, at which, too, she would be expected to attend. Yet all these noisy tokens did not keep from her mind the tones of that remorse she had heard from the lips of Ogilvy, and she fondled them, in her misery, as one would the dead body of a dear friend on whose face still sat the look of love in which he died. By-and-by she heard once more the voice of Isobel, who had returned; and she trembled as she expected the visit in execution of her commission. The door opened, and there entered her sister, with a face, as it appeared in the light of the lamp she carried, beaming with the old exultation, mingled with the smile of a soft deceit. "Look here, Sweet Marjory," she said, as she held out the golden trinket. "Saw you ever so lovely a piece of workmanship? But you cannot discern its value till you know it contains a lock of the hair of _my_ mother-in-law-to-be--Mrs. Ogilvy. That locket was given to me even now by my Hector, the bridegroom----" "To give to me," sighed Marjory faintly. "You lie for a false fiend," cried Devil Isobel. "He gave it to me, and to me it belongs." "You may keep it," said Marjory; "but I heard Hector Ogilvy say to you that it was a gift from his mother to me, and you promised to him to deliver it." Isobel's lips turned white and whiter, as her eye flared with the internal light struck out of the quivering nerve by the brain inflamed by fury. Nor was it the detection alone that produced these effects: she had construed Ogilvy's confession that he once loved Marjory into an admission that the latter was still dear to him, and she considered herself justified in her suspicion by the tones of his regret; then there had shot through her the pang of envy, when she heard that there was a gift for Marjory from the mother, and none to her. All these pent-up passions had been quickened into expression by Marjory's gentle detection; and as Marjory looked at her, she trembled. "Do not be angry at me, Isobel," she said. "I did not go out upon the bartisan to hear you; and as for the gift, I do not want it." But Marjory's simplicity and generosity, in place of appeasing her passion, only gave it a turn into a forced stifling, which suited the purpose of her dissimulation. In an instant the evil features, which, as a moral expression, had changed her into hideousness, gave way, and she stood before her sister the beautiful being who had enchanted Ogilvy out of his first and purest love. "Come, Marjory," she said, as she grasped the faint hand of the almost unresisting girl. "Come." And leading her by a half-dragging effort out of the room and along the passages, she took her to the large hall, where servants were busy laying the long table for the feast. "There will be seventy here," she said, "and all to do honour to me. How would _you_ have liked it, Sweet Marjory? You do not envy me, though you look so sad? But oh! there is more honour for me. Come." And still, with the application of something like force, she led Marjory out by the front door towards the lawn, where a number of men were, with the light of pine torches, piling up fagots over layers of pitch. The glare of the torches was thrown over the dark bastle house, and under the relief of the deep shadows, where the light of the moon did not penetrate, was romantic enough even for the taste of Isobel, whose spirit ever panted for display. To add to the effect, the men were jolly; for their supply of ale had been ample, and the occasion of a marriage in the house of the Bowers warranted a merriment which was acceptable to her for whom all these expensive preparations were made. "This is the marriage-pile, Marjory," said Isobel. "I am not to be put upon it after the manner of Jephthah's daughter; but it will blaze up to the sky, and tell the gods and goddesses that there is one to be honoured here on earth. How would _you_ have liked that honour, Marjory? But you are not envious. Come, there is more." And as she was leading Marjory away, an exclamation from one of the men attracted their attention. On turning round, they saw the men's faces, lighted up by the torches, all directed to the bastle tower on which the glare shone full and red. Their merriment was gone, to give place to the feeling of awe; nor did a syllable escape from their lips. The eyes of the sisters followed those of the men, and were in like manner riveted. "It is the wraith bride o' the peel," said the old forester. "She gaes round about and round about. My mither saw it thirty years syne, when the laird brought hame his leddy; and we ken he broke his leg in coming off his horse to help her down. I have heard her say 'There's evil for the house o' Bower, When the bride gaes round the bastle tower.'" "You are a lying knave," cried Isobel. "It is that old cantrup-working witch, Patricia Bower, who should have been burnt with tar-barrels and tormented by prickers fifty years ago. Nor ghost, nor ghoul, nor demon or devil, shall come between me and my happy destiny." A speech which, spoken in excitement, was cheered by all the men but the unfortunate forester; for, as we have said, they were merry with ale. And they knew by report, as they now saw with their eyes, the beauty of the young woman, who, in addition to her natural charms, appeared, as they whirled the torches round their heads, and the cheers rose and echoed in the woods, to be invested with the dignity of a queen. But as this natural enthusiasm died down, they turned again their wondering eyes to the bastle house; and as the figure still went round the bartisan and round the bartisan, they looked at each other, and shook their heads with a motion which appeared very grotesque in the glare of the torches. At length it disappeared, and they began again to pile the fagots, now in silence, and not with the merry words and snatches of their prior humour, as if each of them had foreseen some evil which he could not define. Meanwhile Isobel had again seized Marjory, to continue the round of her triumphs. "We will now go to my boudoir, nor mind that witch," she said, "and I will show you all the presents I have got from my neighbours and friends. Oh! they are so fine, that did I not know that you are not envious, I would fear that you would tear my eyes out. Oh, but look, there is Ogilvy's horse standing waiting for him to carry him home, and I shall see him only this once before I am made his wife." Then, pausing and becoming meditative, she led her sister into the shade of a gigantic elm, the stem of which sufficed to conceal them from observers. "Kneel down," she continued in a stern tone. "Why so?" replied Marjory, trembling with fear, yet obeying instinctively. "Swear," cried Isobel, "that you will not, before Ogilvy, contradict what I shall say to him about his mother's gift. Swear." "I swear," replied the sister. And rising up, her hand was again grasped by Isobel, as she led her forward to where the horse stood. Nor had they proceeded many paces, when Ogilvy himself was observed coming forward. He could see them by the light of the torches, as they saw him; and upon the instant, Isobel, clasping Marjory in her arms, kissed her with all the fervency of love. "How pleasant this is to me," said Ogilvy, as he came up equipped and spurred for his ride, "to see you so loving and sisterly!" "Did I not swear by Dian and the stars I would love her?" said Devil Isobel; "and is she not called Sweet Marjory?" "Sweet she is," said he, as he timidly scanned the face of his first love, and pressed her hand; but his countenance changed as he felt the silky-skinned hand of the girl tremble within his, as if it shrunk from the touch, and saw her blue eyes turned on the ground, and heard a sigh steal from her breast. A feeling that was new to him thrilled through the circle of his nerves, and made him tremble to the centre of his being. He had never calculated upon that strange emotion, nor could he analyze it: it was inscrutable, but it was terrible; it was not simply a return of his own love under the restraint of the new one, neither was it simple remorse, but a mixture of various thrills which induced no purpose, but only rendered him uncertain, feeble, and miserable. So engrossed for a moment was he, that he did not even seek the eye of Isobel, who was watching him in every turn of his countenance. Then he would seek some relief in words. "You have my mother's love at least, Marjory," he said; and he could not help saying it. "And I shall be pleased to see you wear her gift, which she sent to you through me, who gave it to Isobel." Marjory was silent, and Ogilvy turned his eye upon Isobel. "She rejects it," said Isobel, "and wishes me to return it." "Rejects it!" ejaculated the youth, as he again looked at Marjory. Marjory was still silent, and her eyes were even more timidly turned to the ground. "I did not regard the gift as valuable for the brilliants and opals," continued he, "but as conveying the love of my mother; and surely Marjory cannot reject that love." Yet still was Marjory silent, for she had sworn. "Oh, she is frightened, poor Sweet Marjory," cried Isobel, with a satirical laugh; "for she has seen the wraith bride on the bastle tower." "The wraith bride!" responded Ogilvy, relapsing into silence, and instinctively looking round him, where only glared the torchlight among the trees of the lawn, and the dark bodies of the fagot-pilers were moving backwards and forwards. He had heard the couplet mentioned by the forester, and had of course viewed it as a play of superstition; but reason is a weak thing in the grasp of feeling, and now he was all feeling. The remorse of which he had had premonitions, had now taken him as a fit. His eye sought Marjory's down-turned face, and shrunk from Isobel's watchful stare; but the direction of that organ did not form an index to his mind, for his fancy was, even during these swift instants, busy weaving the many-coloured web of the future of his married life, and clouding it with sombre shades; nor did the active agent hesitate to draw materials from the past fortunes of the house of Bell's Tower, and mix them up as things yet to be repeated. Even the wraith bride performed her part now, where she had feeling to help her weakness, and set her up among realities. At this critical juncture of Ogilvy's thoughts, there came up from the mansion good Dame Bower herself, of portly corporation, often resonant of a comfortable laugh; and now, when flushed with the exercise of her domestic superintendence, looking the very picture of the joyous mother of a happy bride. "I had forgotten," she said as she approached, "to ask you to convey my thanks to Dame Ogilvy for that beautiful locket with her hair therein--more precious, I ween, than the diamonds and opals, though these, I'm told, are worth five thousand good merks--which she has so thoughtfully sent to Isobel." "Isobel!" ejaculated Ogilvy, fixing his eye on the face of his bride, where there were no blushes to reveal the consciousness of deceit. "To Isobel!" he repeated; "and did Isobel say this?" "Yes," replied the mother. "It is false," cried the damsel, precipitated by anger into the terrible imputation. The mother stood aghast, and Marjory held her head away. "Speak, Marjory," said Ogilvy, with lips that in an instant had become white and parched. "I have sworn," said Marjory. "And dare not speak?" said Ogilvy. Then a deep gloom spread over his face, his eye flashed with a sudden flame. He spoke not a word more; but, vaulting into the saddle, he drove his spurs into the side of his horse, and rode off. As he passed the fagot-hewers, he saw them clustered together, and heard high words among them, with names of so potent a charm to him, that, even in his confusion and speed, he could not drive them from his mind. These names were, Sweet Marjory and Devil Isobel. And as if the words had entered the rowels and made them sharper, his horse reared, and he sped on with a whirling tumult in his brain, but yet without uttering a word--nor even to himself did he mutter a remark--still urging his steed, yet unconscious that his journey's end would bring no assuagement of that tumult, nor mean of extricating him from his strange and perilous predicament. Nor was he aware of the speed of his riding, or how far he had gone, till he came to some huts in the outskirts of the Craigwood, which bounds the domain of Bell's Tower on the west, where he saw some cottagers assembled at a door, and again heard words which pierced his ear--no other than those of his own marriage. Again urged by curiosity, he put the question, "Whom do you speak of, good folks?" "Sweet Marjory," said one; and another added, "Devil Isobel." Fain would he have asked more--these were not to him more than sufficient; but pride interposed, and fear aided pride, and away he again sped even at a still quicker pace. Never before had he been so agitated: fear, anger, or remorse had never ruffled the tenor of an existence which passed amidst rural avocations and unsophisticated pleasures,--knew nothing of intrigue, falsehood, or dissimulation--those parasitic plagues that follow the societies of men. The moon that shone over his head was as placid and beautiful, and forest and wold as quiet, as they used to be when his mind was a reflection of the peace that was without; but now, as he rode on and on, wild images arose from the roused autonomy of the spirit, and seemed to be impressed by fire,--the face of Isobel reflecting the light of the moon, and those eyes which, looking up, were in their own expression an adjuration similar to that pronounced by her lips, that she would obey him, and deliver the diamond gift to its rightful owner; then the same eyes when, inflamed by the fire of her wrath, she called her mother a liar, and proved her own falsehood, while she cast off the duty of a daughter. But through all glided the face of Sweet Marjory, with its mildness, beneficence, and timidity; and the eye that, quailing under her sister's tyranny, looked so lovingly in the face of the mother, but dared not chide him who had been false to her. He felt within him that revolution from one feeling to its opposite, which, when it begins in the mind, is so energetic and startling. His love for Isobel--which had been a frenzy, tearing him from another love which had been a sweet dream--began to undergo the wonderful change: her beauty faded before a moral expression which waxed hideous, and grew up in these passing moments into a direct contrast with the gentle loveliness of her sister, which, coming from the heart, beamed through features fitted to enhance it. Nor could he stop this revolution of his sentiments, the full effect of which, aggravated by remorse, shook his frame, as his horse bounded, and added to the turmoil within him. Yet ever the words came from his quivering lips--"Am I fated to be the husband of Devil Isobel? Is Sweet Marjory destined to bless the nuptial bed of another?" And at every repetition he unconsciously drove the spur into the sides of his now foaming steed. But whither all this hot haste--whither was he flying? To his home, where he knew that his mother condemned his choice, though her delicacy had limited her dissatisfaction to that strange but pregnant expression, whereby she had sent her most valuable jewel to her whom she valued and loved, and whom, in the madness of fascination, he had left to sorrow, if not to heartbreaking--perhaps death. He felt that he behoved to be home to make certain preparations for his appearance on the morrow, as a bridegroom by the side of Isobel Bower; and yet he felt that he could not face his mother under the feelings which now ruled him, and the very weakness of his resolution prompted the device of tarrying by the way until she should have gone to bed. He knew where to watch her chamber light, and he began to draw the rein. Yet how unconscious he was of a peculiarity of that power that had been for some time working within him!--yea, even remorse, who, true to her unfailing purpose, was moulding his heart into that yearning to visit the victim on which she insists for ever as a condition of peace to the betrayer. He had come to the cross-road leading eastwards; and even while muttering his purpose of merely prolonging the period of his home-going, he was twitching the rein to the right, so that the obedient steed turned and carried him forward at the old speed. Whither now, versatile and remorseful youth? From this eastern road there goes off, a couple of miles forward, a rough track, leading to the mansion he had so recently left. And it was not long ere he reached the point of turn. Nor was he even decided when there, that he would again draw the rein to the right. But if he was master of his horse, he was not master of himself: the rough track was taken, and Ogilvy was in full swing to Bell's Tower. He did not know that it is only when the act is accomplished that one thinks of the decrees of Fate, though it is true that the purposes of man are equally fated in their beginnings, when reason is battling against feeling, as in their termination. In how short time was he in the pine wood, behind the house, where were his bane, and perhaps his antidote, though he could not divine the latter! And he trembled as through the trees he saw the flitting lights, as they came and went past the windows, indicating the joy of preparation: not for these he looked, only for one, sombre and steady, like Melancholy's dull eye, wherein no tear glistens. Leaving his horse tied to a pine stem, Ogilvy was in an instant kneeling at the low casement at the foot of the bastle house, where glimmered that light for which he had been so intensely looking. Was it that grief, forced into an excitement foreign to its lonely, self-indulgent nature, wooed the evening air, to cool by the open window the fever of her slow-throbbing veins? Certain it is at least that Marjory Bower expected no salutation from without at that hour. "Sweet Marjory, will you listen to one who once dared to love you, and who has now sorrow at his heart, yet Heaven's wrath will not send forth lightnings to kill?" "What terrible words are these?" replied the maiden, as she took her hand from her brow and looked in the direction of the open casement. "Not those," replied he, "which are winged with the hope of a bridegroom. But I am miserable! Marjory Bower, I loved you, and you returned my love; I deserted you, and you never even gloomed on me; and I am now the bridegroom of your sister,--ay, your sister, Devil Isobel! Will you give me hope if I break off this marriage?" "Nay," rejoined she; "that cannot be. You have gone too far to go back with honour." "Or forward with any hope of happiness," said he. "But I will brave all your father's anger, Isobel's revenge, and my loss of honour, if you will consent to be mine within a year." "Nay," repeated the maid with a sigh. "Out of my unhappiness may come the happiness of others. Though I may not live to see it, I may die in the hope that Isobel Bower may, in your keeping, come to deserve a name better than that terrible one she has earned, and which just now sounded so terrible from your lips." "Is she not a liar, who falsified my words?" said he impassionedly. "Is she not a thief, who appropriated the diamond gift of my mother, intended for you? Is she not an undutiful daughter, who first deceived her mother by a falsehood, and then denounced her as herself false? Is that woman, with the form of an angel and the heart of a devil, to be my wife? And does Marjory Bower counsel it? Then Marjory Bower hates Hector Ogilvy!" "Nay," replied she calmly, "I only love your honour. Night and day I will pray for a blessing on your marriage, and that God, who made the heart of my sister, may change it into love and goodness." A repressed spasmodic laugh shook the frame of the youth. "What a hope," he said, "on which to found the happiness of a life, and for which to barter such a creature as you! But, Marjory, you have roused the pride of my honour, while you have appeased my remorse; and I will marry Isobel because you have said that I should. It is thus I shall punish myself by becoming a victim in turn to the honour I was false to." As he pronounced these words, he fixed his eye on the face of Marjory, which at the moment reflected brightly the light of the lamp. Her eyes were swimming in tears. She seemed to struggle with herself, as if she feared that, in thus counselling him, she incurred some heavy responsibility. So Ogilvy thought. But he little knew that there was mixed up with these emotions the keen anguish of a sacrifice; for she had not as yet admitted to him how dear he had been to her, and how bitterly she had felt the transference of his affections from her to her sister. He waited for a few moments. He got no reply, except from these swimming eyes. "Adieu! dear Marjory," he said; and hastened again to the pine wood, where, having flung himself on his steed, he started for home. As he hurried along, he felt that he had appeased one feeling at the expense of a life's happiness, and yet he was satisfied, according to that law whereby the present evil always appears the greatest. About half way up the rough track he met one of the servants of Bell's Tower proceeding homewards, and suspecting that he had been with a message to him or his mother, he stopped and questioned him. "I have been to Dame Ogilvy with a letter from Dame Bower," said the man; "and well I may," he added, as he sided up and whispered, "The fagot-hewers have seen the bride to-night on the top bartisan of the castle tower." "And I now see a fool," replied Ogilvy, and rode on. Not that he thought the man the fool he called him, but that he felt it necessary, as many men do, to make a protest against the weakness of superstition at the very moment when the mysterious power was busy with his heart; and, repeating the word "fool," he went on auguring and condemning in the double way of mortals. How strangely he had been led for the last hour! The terms he had heard applied to his bride, justifying what he had himself seen, had all but resolved him to remain absent from the intended ceremony of the morrow. He had had some lurking hope that Marjory would agree to his resolution, and again inspire him with hope; and he knew that his mother would be pleased with a change which would yield her a chance of having her favourite for her daughter-in-law. He had been proposing as a weak mortal. Another power was purposing as a God; and yet he considered himself as so much master of himself and the occasion as to laugh with bitter scorn at the rustic diviner, and his folly of the apparition bride. And now there was shining before him the light of the lamp from the chamber of his mother, whom he had still stronger reasons than ever for avoiding that night. But even these reasons were unavailing. The spirit of his honour, which had been so fragile a thing when opposed by the advent of a new love, had been breathed upon and increased to a flame by her he had deserted; and he for the moment felt he could face the mild reproof of a mother whom he loved. What a versatile, incomprehensible creature is man, even in those inspired moments, when, with the nerve trembling under the tension of purpose, he appears to himself and others in his highest position! In a few minutes more he was in the presence of his mother. There sat in her painted chamber the fine gentlewoman, with her fixed eye divining in the light of the gilded lamp, as the spirit cast upon the dark curtain of the future the forms which were but as re-adaptations of the signs of what had come and gone in her memory and experience. The two families had been linked by the power of fate, and the connection, which had never been dissolved; was to evolve in some new form. She had grieved for her gentle favourite, Marjory Bower; and had she been as stern as she was mild, she would have interposed a parent's authority against her son's change of purpose. Yea, there might have been true affection in that sternness; but such would have been the resolution of a mental strength which she did not possess, for she was as those whose parental love gratifies wilfulness from a fear of producing pain. Nor even now, when she held in her hand a letter of, to her, strange import, could she call up from her soft heart an energy to save her son from the ruin which seemed to impend over him. He stood for a moment before her, silent, pale, and resolved against all chances,--verily a puppet under the reaction of affections and principles he had dared to tamper with against the injunctions of honour,--and yet he could not see that the soft and trembling hand of her in Bell's Tower, which held the strings that bound him so, held them and straitened them by a spasm. Nor was it of use to him now that the strings trembled, and relaxed only for the time when the soft, reproving, yet loving light of his mother's eye, as it turned from her reverie, fell upon his soul; for his purpose came again, as his lip quivered and he waxed more pale. "What means this letter?" said she, as she held it forth in her hand. "Mrs. Bower thanks me for the gift I sent to your bride." "It means, dear mother," replied he firmly, "what it says. I was weak enough to think that, if I committed your jewelled locket to Isobel's hand as the mean whereby it would reach Marjory, I would do something to cement their love. I saw Isobel's eye light up as she fixed it on the diamonds--their glare had entered her soul and made it avaricious; and envy threw her red glance to fire the passion. Yes, she appropriated the gift. I have other evidence than this, even from my bride." And as he pronounced the word "bride," a scornful laugh escaped from him, and alarmed his mother. "And yet she _is_ your bride, and will be your wife to-morrow?" said she, looking inquiringly. "She will," replied he, in a tone which, though soft, if not pitiful, was firm, if a trait of sarcasm against himself might not have been detected in it. "Strange!" ejaculated the mother, as she still fixed her eyes on him. Then, musing a little, "Do you know that the bride has been seen to-night on the bastle tower?" "Superstition." "An ill-used word, Hector," said she; "as if God was not the Ruler of his own world. When we see unnatural motives swaying men, and all working to an event, are we not to suppose that that event shall also be out of Nature's scheme? and that which is out of Nature's scheme must be in God's immediate hand. What motives impel you to wed a woman with whom you must be miserable, and have that misery enhanced by seeing every day her who would have rendered you happy?" "My honour pledged to the world, which must condemn and laugh at a breach of faith, not to be justified except at the expense of Isobel." "A false reason," continued the mother. "Is there more honour in adhering to a breach of honour than in returning to the honour that was broken?" "There is another reason, mother," said Ogilvy, as he carried his hand over his sorrowful face. "What is that?" "Sweet Marjory commands me." "Ah, Hector, Hector, how little you know of the heart of woman! Know you not that in a forsaken woman the heart has an irony even when it is breaking? Ask her if you should wed her rival, and the breaking heart-string will respond Yes, even as the cord of the harp will twang when it is severed. Well do I know Sweet Marjory, and what she must have felt when she uttered this command. The canker has begun, and she will die. The worm does not seek always the withered leaf. You've heard the song that Patricia used to sing-- "'The dainty worm, it loves the tomb, And gnaws, and gnaws its nightly food; But a daintier worm selects the bloom, And a daintier still affects the bud.'" "Oh, God forgive me!" ejaculated the miserable youth, as, holding his hand on his brow, he rushed out of the room and sought his bed-chamber. Was there ever such a night before the day, of all days auspicious to mortals, of the culminating joy of human life! Could he not find refuge in sleep, where the miserable so often seek to escape from the vibrations of the leaping, palpitating nerve, inflamed by the fever of life? A half-hour's dreamy consciousness, an hour's vision of returning images, rest and unrest, haunting scenes woven by some secret power, so varied, so ephialtic, so monstrous, yet all, somehow or another, however unlike the reality, still vindicating a connection. Why should Sweet Marjory be in the deep recesses of the pine wood, resting by his foaming steed, with his mother sitting and breathing hope's accents in her ear, and ever and again calling on him in sobbing vocables to return from his pursuit of another? He would return. The charm of her sweet voice is felt to be irresistible; yet it is resisted. And though he looks back only to see her by the flaught of the lightning that plays among the trees, his steps are forward, where Devil Isobel charms him with a song, in comparison of which the magic of the sirens is but the rustle of the reed as it swerves in the blast. He struggles, and seizes the stems of the pines to hold him from his progress and keep him steady; and he writhes as he finds he cannot obey the maternal appeal to a son's love. All is still again, and there is rest, only to be alternated by the recurring visions always assuming new forms, changing and disappearing, flaring up again, and then the deep breast-riding oppression, and those hollow moans, which never can be imitated by the waking sense, as if Nature preserved this domain of the spirit as an evidence, in the night of the soul, that there is another world where the limbo of agony is not less certain than the heaven which is simulated by sweet dreams. But, _lucidus die--nocte inutilis_. As the day dawned, and the morning sun, fresh from the east, threw in between the chinks of the shutters the virgin beams, Ogilvy felt the truth of the old saying, that every day vindicates its two conditions of good and evil. There was again a change in the versatile mind of the romantic youth; and Honour, pinkt out in those gaudy decorations woven by the busy spirits that move so cunningly the springs of man's thoughts in a conventional world, appeared before him. If Isobel was still the Devil Isobel, Honour was a smiling angel, even more beautiful than Sweet Marjory. Yet he was not happy--only firm, as he confessed by that lying power of the mind, to the strength of bonds he had himself imposed, and yet repented of--setting necessity as a will-power amidst the wreck and ruin of his affections. The hour advanced, and he must superinduce the happy bridegroom on the dead statue. Unsteady and fitful even in the common actions of life--lifting the wrong thing, and suddenly throwing it down in the wrong place, again to snatch the right thing at the wrong time--he was not so this morning. Every step and manipulation was like the movement of a machine. Composedness was a luxury to him. Ornament after ornament, at a time when a bridegroom's decorations were the expression of a rude refinement, found its place with a steady, nay, affectedly formal hand; yea, a more cool bridegroom had never been seen in the world's history, since that eventful morning when the hero of Bæotia put on his lion's skin, and took up his wooden club, to marry the fifty daughters of the king, though among these, if the wise man is right, there must have been forty-nine devils. As the solemn work went on, he looked again and again into the mirror, where he saw none of the wrinkles of care, no brow-knitting of fractiousness, no sternness of resolute determination,--all quiet, smooth, even mild. Ay, such a mime is man when he is a mome, that he even smiled as he felt his pulse,--how cool was his blood, how regular the vibrations! And so the mummery went on: the flowered-red vest, the braided coat of sky-blue, the cravat, the ruffles, the wrist-bands scolloped and stiff, the indispensable ruff, concealed behind by the long locks of auburn, so beautiful in Isobel's eyes, that flowed over his broad shoulders. The work was finished; Ogilvy was dressed--his body in all the colours of the arc of hope--his mind in the dark midnight weeds of a concealed misery, concealed even from himself. He sought the chamber of his mother, and, taking her hand, kissed it fervently; but could not trust himself to even a broken syllable of speech, and his silence was sympathetic. She looked into the face of her son, and then threw her eye solemnly over the array of his dress. The tear stood apparent, yet her face seemed to have borrowed his composedness, as if she felt that the old doom still followed the house of Ogilvy, and was inevitable, when the evil genius of the Bowers was in the ascendant. There was no reproof now, save that which lies in the dumb expression of sorrow--even that reproof which, melting the obstruction of man's egotism, finds its way to the heart, when even scorn would be only a hardening coruscation. Yet even this he could bear for the sake of that conventionality which is a tyrant. Turning away his head, he again kissed the soft hand, and hurried away. As he issued from the gate and mounted his steed, now refreshed from the rough stress of the previous evening, the sun shone high and flaring, and the face of the country, with its rising hills and heather-bloom, and patches of waving corn, responded--as became it surely on a bridal morning--to the clang of the bell in Bell's Tower,--so like in all but the workings of the heart to the Sabbath morning when the union is to be between the spirit of man and the Lamb without guile. Yet art, self-confident and pragmatic, was not to be cajoled by the solicitations of, to it, a lying nature, however beautiful; and Ogilvy found it convenient, if not manly and heroic, to knit his eyebrows against the sun. So does the Indian hurl his wooden spear against the lightning, because he is a greater being than the Author of the thunder. So he rode on to where the bells rung--for was not he specially called?--the gloom on his countenance, with which his forced determination kept pace, increasing as he proceeded. Nor had he ever ridden thus before. Even his steed might have known, as he opened his nostrils, that there was something more than common in the wind's eye, accustomed as he was to the speed of enthusiasm, or the walk of exhaustion. He was now a solemn stalking-horse, bearing a rigid, buckram-mailed showman, whose only sound or movement resided in the plates of his armour, or his lath sword or gilded spontoon. As Ogilvy had thus enrolled himself among the chivalry of honour, and was consequently, in his own estimation, as we have hinted, a personage of romance, so was it only consistent with the indispensable gloom of his dignity and sternness that he should ride alone: nor was it seeming that he should accost the guests whom he saw on either side, obeying the call of the bell, and riding along to the bridal and the feast. Yet the scene might have enlivened somewhat a very gloomy knight, as, looking around, he saw the lairds rounding the bases of the hills, and heard, as others came into sight, the sound of bagpipes, however little these might be associated with chivalric notions and aspirations. But then it was not easy to act this solitary part; for what more natural than that those passing to his own celebration should salute him? Nor could he avoid those salutations. "Joy to thee, Ogilvy," said one, as he rode up; "the nightshade is sweeter than the rose;" and departed. "A happy day," said another, "when the wolf becomes more innocent than the lamb." "Good morning, bridegroom," said a third. "The sun shines bright, and the moss-brown tarn is more limpid than the running rill." "All happiness," said a fourth rider, "when the merle nestles with the jolly owl, and is not afraid when he sounds his horn." But Ogilvy only compressed his lips the more, and looked the more gloomy, solacing himself with the vision of Honour, the beautiful yet stern virgin, and immaculate as she who shook her mailed petticoats after getting out of Jupiter's head. Nor was the inspiration diminished as he now saw rising before him the rugged pile of Bell's Tower, wherein the bell rang still more lustily as the hour approached. The guests were thronging in a multiform, many-coloured mass, all eager for the honour of a Bower's smile. He was soon among the midst of them, repaying neither compliment, nor salutation, nor mute nod, with a single sign of acknowledgment. And now he entered the great hall, where already the invited numbers were nearly completed. How grand the scene! What silks, and satins, and taffetas, flowerings, braidings, and be-purflings, and hooped inflations! what towering toupees, built up with horse-hair and dyed hemp, stiffened with starch! what nosegays, redolent of heather-bells, and roses, and orange blossoms! There sat Dame Bower herself, fat and jolly, with her ruby dewlap, looking dignity; and Bower, the laird, great in legend. Mess John, too, even fatter than tradition will have him--the sleek bald head and face, where a thousand slynesses could play together without jostling. But what were all these, and the fairest and the proudest there, to Isobel Bower, as, arrayed in her long white veil, she sailed about, heedless of all decorum, showering her triumph upon envious damsels, as if she would blight all their fond hopes to make a rich soil for the flowering of her own! If others sat and looked for being looked at, and others stood for being admired, she walked and moved for worship, as if she claimed the peripatetic honour of the entire round of adoration. Not that she stared for it: she was too intensely magnetized to doubt of the jumping of the steel sparks to be all arranged _rayonnant_, like a horse-shoe, round the centre of her glory. Then, as there is by the domestic law a wearock in every nest, however speckled, and however redolent of balm-leaves or resonant of chirpings, where was Sweet Marjory Bower? Where that law ought to place her, by older legends than the date of Bower pride and power--in a corner, plainly dressed, and trying with downcast eyes to escape observation. But how pallid!--as if all the colours there had vied to steal from her cheeks, not the rosy bloom--for it never was there---but the fresh white of the lily, more beautiful than all the flowers of the garden; and not the colour alone, but the light itself of the lily's eye. Nay, it would seem that the greatest robber of all was her sister, whose look turned upon her as if in scorn of her humility, and in pleasure of her woe. As Ogilvy entered, walking up direct and stedfastly to the midst of the great hall, there arose the welcome buzz, like that humming which makes musical the sphere where comes the reigning queen of the hive. But how soon, as the bell in the tower ceased to ring, was all that noise hushed into a death-like silence, as he stood without sign or movement, with his arms crossed, and his gloomy eyes fixed on the only empty space in that crowded assembly! Would he not look at the bride, or salute the bride's mother, or shake hands with the bride's father, or do any one of all those many things which lay to his duty--far more to his inclination--as a happy bridegroom? Not one of them. And there he stood, as a motionless Grecian god hewn out of veritable panthelion, with its ivory eyes, and the mute worshippers all about. Nay, the likeness was even more perfect; for as these worshippers, from the very fear of reverence and the impression of awe, kept at a distance from that centre of deity, so those guests who were nearest to the strange man moved instinctively away, leaving him in the middle of the charmed ring. But even this did not move him. Then there was business to be done. "Oh! he was only meditative." The greatness of the occasion was the mother of a hundred excuses. Still to all it was oppressive, killing enthusiasm, and so unlike what these gay hopefuls had prefigured of that celestial state in which they wished themselves to be. Only Isobel seemed unchanged. She whispered to Mess John--most unseemly; but was she not the Devil Isobel? Ogilvy, even as a statue, was hers, and could not get away. Then the bridesmaids sought each other, by the clustering sympathy of their gay wreaths and their office, and the bridesman stood in readiness. Mess John was at the altar; and the bell was to ring the celebrating peal after the ceremony was ended, and the guests should fall to their knives and forks; and the retainers on the lawn, where the fire blazed wild to roast the ox and honour the bride, should sit down to their marriage feast. As Solemnity is the mother of Angerona, with her finger on her lip, so here reigned now the utmost stillness that could be enforced by heaving hearts against the buzz of a crowd. Scarcely a sound was heard as the altar was encircled. You might have detected a sigh, if it had not been that every sigh was suppressed. Even Isobel was mute, but not from any cessation of her triumph--rather from the impression of its culmination in possession. She stood grandly, looking around her, in defiance of the inexorable law of down-gazing on the ground, where brides see so much which no one else sees. Nor had she yet expressed by a look any wonder at the statue bridegroom, whose attitude was still unchanged. All is eye, and ear, and throbbing heart, when of a sudden the door of the great hall opened, calling the eye in the direction of the screech. Who dared? Some one more daring than common humanity. A figure entered, in the dress of another bride,--a tall figure, with surely nothing to be covered by the white satin and the long lace mantilla, suspended from the top of a wreathed head white as the driven snows of Salmon, but bones, sheer bones. The face could scarcely be seen for the folds of the veil: only two eyes, with no more light in them than what plays on the surface of untransparent things, and fixed and immoveable as if they saw nothing. The guests were breathless from stupefying amazement. They beheld it pass into the middle of the hall, where, in the space that had been deserted, it began a movement something like dancing. Strange mutterings of a broken-voiced song, with words about long years having passed away, rhyming with bridal day, and so forth, in the cauldron-kettle-and-incantation style, came in snatches. "It is that infernal old witch, Patricia Bower," screamed Devil Isobel. And rushing forward, the impassioned creature threw the weight of her body on the composition of bones and satin. It fell, with a loud shrill scream from a windpipe dried by the breath of ninety-seven years. Dame Bower and Sweet Marjory rushed forward and drew back the veil. It was the antediluvian Patricia. She was dead. The last spark had been offered to Hymen, and the incense canister was broken. Drops of blood issued from her mouth and nose, and sat upon the marble face, with still remains of the old beauty in it which had charmed Walter Ogilvy, like dots on the tiger lily. At this moment the bell began to clang. Devil Isobel was gone. She had hurried out the moment she knew that the spark of life had fled. Nor could she be found. The song says-- "They sought her here, they sought her there, By lochs and streams that scent the main, By forests dark, and gardens fair; But she was never seen again." A trick, this last line, of some of the old legend-mongers of the Bell's Tower minstrels, no doubt to conceal the shame of the family; for Devil Isobel had flown to the tower, where, having concealed herself till the bell-ringers went away to join in the feast of the ox, which they never tasted even after so much pulling and hauling, she mounted to the belfry. Somehow she had contrived to cast the bell-rope round one of the beams by which the bell was suspended, so as to produce no noise, and then, having made a noose of a different kind from that she had that day been busily twining, she suspended herself by the neck. It was some days before she was discovered. The long white figure, still arrayed in the marriage dress with the flowing veil, had been observed by some of the searchers; and then, strange enough, it was remembered that one solitary clang of the bell had been heard after the cessation of the ringing. That was the death-peal of Isobel Bower. But, a year after, that same bell had another peal to sound--no other than the celebration of the marriage of Hector Ogilvy and Sweet Marjory. Some say that Bell's Tower got its name from the contraction of Isobel. Names stick after the things have passed away. They did well at least to change the rope--_finis funis_. DOCTOR DOBBIE. The particular day in the life of the worthy disciple of Esculapius to which we desire to direct the attention of the reader, was raw, coldish, and drizzly in the morning, but cleared up towards noon; and although it never became what could be called warm (it was the latter end of September), it turned out a very passable sort of day on the whole--such a day as no man could reasonably object to, unless he had some particular purpose of his own to serve. In such case he might perhaps have wished more rain, or probably more sunshine, as the one or the other suited his interest; but where no such selfish motives interfered, the day must have been generally allowed to have been a good one. The thermometer stood at--we forget what; and the barometer indicated "Fair." PERSONAL APPEARANCE, CHARACTER, AND PECULIARITIES OF THE DOCTOR. The doctor was a little stout man, not what could be called corpulent, but presenting that sort of plump appearance which gives the idea of a person's being hard-packed, squeezed, crammed into his skin. Such was the doctor, then--not positively fat, but thick, firm, and stumpy; the latter characteristic being considerably heightened by his always wearing a pair of glossy Hessian boots, which, firmly encasing his little thick legs up nearly to the knees, gave a peculiar air of stamina and solidity to his nether person. The doctor stood like a rock in his Hessians, and stumped along in them--for he was excessively vain of them--as proudly as a field-marshal, planting his little iron heels on the flag-stones with a sharpness and decision that told of a firm and vigorous step. The doctor was no great hand at his trade; but this, it is but fair to observe, was not his own opinion. It was the opinion only of those who employed him, and of the little public to whom he was known. He himself entertained wholly different sentiments on the subject. The doctor, in truth, was a vain, conceited little gentleman; but, withal, a pleasant sort of person, and very generally liked. He sung a capital song, and had an inexhaustible fund of animal spirits. One consequence of the latter circumstance was his being much invited out amongst his friends and acquaintances. He was, in fact, a regular guest at all their festivities and merry-makings, and on these occasions used to get himself fully more strongly malted than became a gentleman of his grave profession. When returning home of a night in this state, the little doctor's little iron heels might be heard rap-rapping on the flag-stones at a great distance in the quiet street, for he then planted them with still more decision and vigour than when sober; and so well known in his neighbourhood was the sound of his footsteps, so audible were they in the stillness of the night, and so habitually late was he in returning home--his profession forming an excellent excuse for this--that people, even while sitting at their own firesides, or, it might be, in bed, although at the height of three storeys, became aware, the moment they heard his heels, that the doctor was passing beneath; and the exclamations, "That's the doctor," or "There goes the doctor," announced the important fact to many a family circle. All unconscious, however, of these recognitions, the doctor stumped on his way, reflecting the while, it might be, on the good cheer he had just been enjoying. On these occasions, the doctor, while he kept the open street, got on swimmingly; but the dark and somewhat tortuous staircase which he had to ascend to reach his domicile--the said domicile being on the third flat--used to annoy him sadly. When very much overcome, as, we grieve to say it, the doctor very frequently was, the labour it cost him to make out the three stairs was very serious. It was long protracted, too; it took him an immense time; for, conscious of his unsteady condition, he climbed slowly and deliberately, but we cannot add quietly; for his shuffling, kicking, and blowing, to which he frequently added a muttered objurgation or two on missing a step, as he struggled up the dark stair, were distinctly audible to the whole land. By merely listening, they could trace his whole progress with the utmost accuracy, from the moment he entered the close, until the slam of a door announced that the doctor was housed. They could hear him pass along the close--they could hear him commence his laborious ascent--they could hear him struggling upwards, and, anon, the point of his boot striking against a step, which he had taken more surely than necessary--they could hear him gain the landing-place at his own door, signified by a peculiar shuffle, which almost seemed to express the intelligence that a great work had been accomplished--they could hear the doctor fumbling amongst his keys and loose coin for his check-key, and again fumbling with this check-key about its aperture in the door, the hitting of the latter being a tedious and apparently most difficult achievement--and, lastly, they could hear the door flung to with great violence, announcing the finale of the doctor's progress. Over and above the more ordinary and obvious difficulties attending the doctor's ascent on such occasions, and under such circumstances as those of which we speak, there was one of a peculiar and particularly annoying nature. This was the difficulty he found in discriminating his own landing-place from the others,--a difficulty which was greatly increased by the entire similarity of all the landing-places on the stair, the doors in all of which were perfect counterparts of each other, and stood exactly in the same relative positions. This difficulty often nonplussed him sadly; but he at length fell upon a method of overcoming it, and of ensuring his making attempts on no door but his own. He counted the landing-places as he gained them, pausing a second or two on each to draw breath, and impress its number on his memory,--one, two, three, then out with the check-key. Now this was all very well had the doctor continued to reckon accurately; but, considering the state of obfuscation in which he generally returned home at night, it was very possible that he might miscount on an occasion, and take that for three which, according to Cocker, was only two, or that for two which, by the same authority, was but one. This was perfectly possible, as the sequel of our tale will sufficiently prove. In the meantime, we proceed to other matters; and, to make our history as complete as possible, we start anew with-- THE DOCTOR'S SHOP. It had not a very imposing appearance; for, to tell a truth, the doctor's circumstances were by no means in a palmy state. The shop, therefore, was decidedly a shabby one. It was very small and very dirty, with a little projecting bow window, the lower panes of which were mystified with some sort of light green substance--paint or paper, we don't know which--in order to baffle the curiosity of the prying urchins who used to congregate about it. Not that they were attracted by anything in the window itself, but that it happened to be a favourite station of the boys in the neighbourhood,--a sort of mustering place, or place of call, where they could at any time find each other. The typical display in the doctor's window consisted of a blue bottle, a pound of salts, and a serpent; the second being made up into labelled packages of about an ounce weight each, and built up with nice skill against one of the panes, so as to make as much show as possible. The serpent was a native of the Lammermoor Hills, which a boy, who drove a buttermilk cart, brought in one morning, and sold to the doctor for a shilling. The inside of the doctor's shop, which besides being very dirty was very dark, had a strange, mysterious, equivocal sort of character about it. Everything was dingy, and greasy, and battered, and mutilated. Dirty broken glasses stood in dark and dirty corners; rows of dirty bottles, some without stoppers, and some with the necks chipped off, and containing drops of black, villanous-looking liquids, stood on dirty shelves; rows of battered, unctuous-looking drawers, rising tier above tier, lined one side of the shop, most of which were handled with bits of greasy cord, the brass handles with which they had been originally furnished having long since disappeared, and never having been replaced. What these drawers contained, no human being but the doctor himself could tell. In truth, few of them contained anything at all. Those that did, could be described only as holding mysterious, dirty-looking powders, lumps of incomprehensible substances, or masses of desiccated vegetable matter of powerful and most abominable flavour. For all these, the doctor had, doubtless, very learned names; but such as we have described them was their appearance to the eye of the uninitiated. To complete the charms of the doctor's medical establishment, it was constantly pervaded by a heavy, unearthly smell, that, we verily believe, no man but himself could have inhaled for an hour and lived. Notwithstanding the unpretending and homely character of the doctor's establishment, it boasted a sounding name. The doctor himself called it, and so did the signboard over the door, "The ---- Medical Hall,"--a title which the envious thought absurd enough for a place whose proudest show was a blue bottle, a pound of salts, and a serpent. But these people did not recollect, or did not choose to recollect, the high pretensions of the doctor himself. They did not advert to the numerous degrees, honorary titles, fellowships, etc., which he had acquired, otherwise they would have looked to the man, not to the shop. Probably, however, few of them were aware of the number of these which he boasted; but it is a fact, nevertheless, that the doctor could, and did on particular occasions, sign himself thus:--"David Dobbie, M.D.; E.F.; M.N.O.; U.V.; Z.Y.X.; W.V.U.;" nor did he hesitate sometimes to alter the letters according to the inspiration of the happy moment. Now, had the doctor's right to all these titles been taken into account, and, so taken, been appreciated as it ought, there would have been fewer sneers at his Medical Hall than there was as matters stood. THE INVITATION. In another part of this history we have stated that the doctor, being generally liked, was much invited out to feastings and merry-makings, and convivialities of all sorts, from the aristocratic roast turkey and bottle of port, to the plebeian Findhorn haddock and jug of toddy. But all, in this way, was fish that came in the doctor's net. Provided there was quantity--particularly in the liquor department--he was not much given to shying at quality. He certainly preferred wine, but by no means turned up his nose at a tumbler. Few men, in fact, could empty more at a sitting. It was observed of the doctor, by those who knew him intimately, that he was always in bad humour on what he called blank days. These were days on which he had no invitation on hand for any description of guzzle whatever--either dinner, tea, supper, or a "just come up and take a glass of toddy in the evening." This seldom occurred, but it did sometimes happen; and on these occasions the doctor's short and snappish answers gave sufficient intimation of the provoking fact. In such temper, then, and for such reason, was the doctor in the forenoon of the particular day in his life which we have made the subject of this paper. He was as cross as an old drill-sergeant; and what made him worse, the affair he had been at on the preceding night had been a very poor one. He had been hinted away after the third tumbler--treatment which had driven the doctor to swear, mentally, that he would never enter the house again. How far he would keep this determination, it remained for another invitation to prove. In this mood, then, and at the time already alluded to, was the doctor employed, behind his counter, in measuring off some liquid in a graduated glass, which he held between him and the light, and on which he was looking very intently, as the liquid was precious, the quantity wanted small, and the glass but faintly marked, when a little boy entered the shop, and inquired if Dr. Dobbie was within. "Yes. What do you want?" replied the doctor gruffly, and without taking his eye off the graduated glass. "Here's a line for ye, sir," said the boy, laying a card on the counter. "Who's it from?" roared the doctor. "Frae Mr. Walkinshaw, sir," replied the boy, meekly; "and he would like to ken whether ye can come or no." "Come; oh, surely. Let me see," said the doctor. "Come; ay, certainly," he added, his tone suddenly dropping down to the mild and affable, and speaking from an intuitive knowledge of the tenor of the card. "Surely; let me see." And the doctor opened the note and read, his eyes gloating, and his countenance dissolving into smiles, as he did so:-- "DEAR DOCTOR,--A few friends at half-past eight. Just a haddock and a jug of toddy. Be as pointed as you can. Won't be kept _very_ late. Dear Doctor, yours truly, "R. WALKINSHAW." "My compliments to Mr. Walkinshaw," said the doctor, with a bland smile, and folding up the card with a sort of affectionate air as he spoke, "and tell him I will be pointed. Stop, boy," he added, on the latter's being about to depart with his message; "stop," he said, running towards his till, and thence abstracting threepence, which he put into the boy's hand, with a--"There, my boy, take that to buy marbles." The doctor always rewarded such messengers; but he did so systematically, and by a rule of his own. For an invitation to breakfast he gave a penny, thus estimating that meal at all but the lowest possible rate; for an invitation to dinner he gave sixpence; for one to supper, threepence, as exemplified in the instance above. In possession of Mr. Walkinshaw's invitation, the doctor continued in excellent spirits throughout the remainder of the day. THE GUZZLE. At the height of three stories, in a respectable-looking tenement in a certain quarter of a certain city which shall be nameless, there resided a decent widow woman of the name of Paton, who kept lodgers. At the particular time, and on the particular occasion at and on which we introduce the reader to Mrs. Paton's lodging-house, there was a certain parlour in the said house in a state of unusual tidiness. Not to say that this parlour was not always in good order: it was; but in the present instance, it displayed an extra degree both of _redding_-up and of comfort. An unusually large fire blazed in the polished grate, and a couple of candles, in shining candlesticks, stood on the bright mahogany table. On a small old-fashioned sideboard was exhibited a goodly display of bottles and glasses, flanked by a sugar basin, heaped up with snowy bits of refined sugar; a small plate of cut cheese, another of biscuit, and a third bearing a couple of lemons. Everything about the room, in short, gave indication of an approaching guzzle. The symptoms were unmistakeable. The only occupant of the room at this time was a gentleman, who sat in an arm-chair opposite the fire, carelessly turning over the leaves of a new magazine. His heart, evidently, was not in the employment; he was merely putting off time, and doing so with some impatience of manner, for he was ever and anon pulling out his watch to see how the night sped on. This gentleman was Mr. Walkinshaw, the doctor's inviter, head clerk in a respectable mercantile establishment in the city; and, we need hardly say, one of Mrs. Paton's lodgers. Neither need we say, we fancy, that he was just now waiting, and every moment expecting, the arrival of the doctor, and the other friends he had invited, nor that the preparations above described were intended for the special enjoyment of the party alluded to. "Five-and-twenty minutes to nine," said Mr. Walkinshaw, looking for the twentieth time at the dial of his watch. "I wonder what has become of the doctor! _he_ used to be so pointed." At this moment a ring of the door bell announced a visitor. Mr. Walkinshaw, in his impatience for the appearance of his friends, and not doubting that this was one of them, snatched up the candle, and ran to the door himself. He opened it; when a little thick-set figure, in Hessian boots, wrapped up in an ample blue cloth cloak, with an immense cape, and having a red comforter tied round his throat, presented himself. It was the doctor. "How d'ye do? and how d'ye do? Come away. Glad to see you!" with cordial shaking of hands and joyous smiles, marked the satisfaction with which the inviter and the invited met. The doctor was in high spirits, as he always was on such occasions; that is, when there was a prospect of good eating and drinking, and nothing to pay. Having assisted the doctor to divest himself of his cloak, hat, and comforter, Mr. Walkinshaw ushered him into his room; and having kindly seated him in the arm-chair which he had himself occupied a minute or two before, he ran to the sideboard, took therefrom a small bottle, and very small glass of the shape of a thistle-top, and approaching his guest, said in a coaxing tone, filling up at the same time-- "Thimbleful of brandy, doctor; just to take the chill off." Anything for an excuse in such cases. "Why, no objection, my dear sir," said the doctor, smiling most graciously, taking the proffered glass of ruby-coloured liquid, wishing health and a good wife to his host, and tossing off the tiny bumper. The doctor had scarcely bolted his alcohol, when the door bell again rung violently. "There _they_ are at last!" exclaimed Walkinshaw, joyously. And there they were, to be sure. Half-a-dozen rattling fellows all in a lump. In they poured into Walkinshaw's room with hilarious glee. "Ah, doctor. Oh, doctor. Here too, doctor. Hope you're well, doctor. Glad to see you, doctor!" resounded in all quarters; for they were all intimate acquaintances of our medical friend, and were really delighted to see him. To this running fire of salutation, the doctor replied by a series of becks, bows, and smiles, and a shaking of hands, right and left, in rapid succession. All these, and such like preliminaries, gone through, the party took their seats around the table, and the business of the evening began. It soon did more: it progressed, and that most joyously. Jug followed jug in rapid succession. The doctor got into exuberant spirits, and sung several of his best songs, in his best manner. But alas!-- "Pleasures are," etc. etc. They are, sweet poet, and no man could be more strongly impressed with, or would have more readily allowed the truth and happy application of thy beautiful similes, than the doctor, on the occasion of which we are speaking. Enjoyment was quickly succeeded by satiety; and alert apprehension, and quick perception, by that doziness and obfuscation of the faculties which marks the _quantum suff._ at the festive board. The doctor was a man who could have said with the face of clay-- "And cursed be he who first cries, Hold, enough!" But, being but mortal, after all, his powers were not illimitable. There was a boundary which even he could not pass, and at the same time lay his hand on his breast and say, "I'm sober." That boundary the doctor had now passed by a pretty good way. In plain language, he was cut, very much cut, as was made sufficiently evident by various little symptoms,--such as a certain thickness of speech; a certain diffusion of dull red over the whole countenance, extending to and including the ears, which seemed to become transparent, like a pair of thin, flat, red pebbles; a certain look of stupidity and non-comprehension; and a certain heaviness and lacklustreness of eye, that gave these organs a strong resemblance to a couple of parboiled gooseberries. Sensible of his own condition, sensible that he could hold out no longer, the doctor now moved, in the most intelligible language which he could conveniently command, that the diet should be deserted _pro loco et tempore_. The motion was unanimously approved of; this unanimity having been secured by the inability of several of the party, who had been rendered _hors de combat_, to express dissent. A general break up, then, was the consequence of the doctor's motion. Candle in hand, Mr. Walkinshaw rose and accompanied his guests to the door, towards which they moved in a long irregular file, he leading the way. In the passage, however, a momentary halt was called. It was to allow the doctor to don himself in his walking gear. With some assistance from his host, this was soon accomplished. His hat was stuck on his head, his martial cloak thrown around him, and his immense comforter, like a red blanket, coiled around his neck. Thus accoutred, the doctor and his friends evacuated the premises of their worthy host, Mr. Walkinshaw. THE RETURN HOME, AND INCIDENTS THEREFROM ARISING. The doctor had not proceeded far on his way home, until he found himself alone. One after another, his friends had popped off; some disappearing mysteriously, others giving fair warning of their departure, by shaking him by the hand, and wishing him ----"good night, And rosy dreams and slumbers light." Left to his own reflections, and, we may add, to his own exertions, the doctor stumped bravely homeward, and, without meeting with anything particularly worthy of notice, arrived safely at his own _close_ mouth. In another part of this history, we have mentioned that there were one or two difficulties that always awaited the doctor on his return home when in the particular state in which he was at this moment. The first of these difficulties was to climb the dark tortuous staircase, on the third story of which was his domicile. The second was to discriminate between his neighbours' door and his own. The reader will recollect that, to obviate this last difficulty, the doctor fell upon the ingenious expedient of counting the landing-places as he ascended, his own being number three. The reader's memory refreshed as to these particulars, we proceed to say that the doctor, having traversed the close with a tolerably firm and steady step, commenced his laborious ascent of the stair in his usual manner, but with evidently fully more difficulty, as some of the neighbours, who heard his struggles, remarked, than ordinary,--a circumstance from which they inferred--and correctly enough, as we have seen--that the doctor was more than ordinarily overcome. The first flight of steps the doctor accomplished with perfect success, and with perfect accuracy recorded it as number one. This done, he commenced the ascent of number two; and, after a severe struggle, accomplished it also. But by the time he had done so, the doctor had lost his reckoning, and, believing that he had gained his own landing-place, from which, we need hardly remind the reader, he was yet an entire flight of stairs distant, he deliberately pulled out his check-key, and applied it to the door of the neighbour who lived right under him,--a certain Mr. Thomson, who pursued the intellectual calling of a cheesemonger. Having inserted the key in the lock, the doctor gave it the necessary twitch; and, obedient to the hint, the bolt rose, the door opened, and the doctor walked in. Being pitch-dark, and the two houses--that is, the doctor's and Mr. Thomson's--being of precisely the same construction within, nothing presented itself to the unconscious burglar to inform him of the blunder he had made. Satisfied, or rather never doubting, that all was right, the doctor shut the door, and, groping along the passage, sought the door of a small apartment on the left, which, in his own house, was his bedroom. This room he readily found; and it so happened that in Mr. Thomson's house this same apartment was also a bedroom; so that the doctor, under all circumstances, could not be blamed for feeling perfectly at ease as to his situation. In this feeling, he planted himself down in a chair, and began deliberately to unbutton his waistcoat, preparatory to tumbling in. While thus employed, the doctor indulged in a sort of soliloquy, embracing certain reflections and reminiscences connected with his present condition and recent revelries. "All right, then," said the doctor, referring to his present position. "Snug in my own bedroom. Capital song yon of Ned's; one of Gilfirian's, I think. Writes a beautiful song, Gil--a pretty song--very pretty. Good feeling, sweet natural sentiment, and all that sort of thing. Must get his new edition, and learn half-a-dozen of them. Hah! confoundedly drunk though--that lee-lurch ugly. Never mind: dead sober in the morning; sound as a roach. Take a seidlitz, and all right." While thus expressing the ideas that were crowding through his addled brain, the doctor's attention was suddenly attracted by a noise at the outer door. He paused to listen. It was some one, with a key, endeavouring to gain access. What could it mean? Thieves, robbers, no doubt of it. The doctor did not doubt it. So, grasping a huge, thick crab-stick, which he always carried at night, and which he had on the present occasion laid against the wall close by where he sat, the doctor stole on tiptoe towards the door, and taking up a position about a yard distant from it, raised his crab-stick aloft, and in this attitude slily awaited the entrance of the thief, whom he proposed to knock quietly down the moment he passed the door-way. Leaving the doctor in this gallant position for a few seconds, we step aside to inform the reader of a circumstance or two with which it is right he should be made acquainted. In the first place, he should be, as he now is, informed that the person at the door, and whom the doctor took to be a midnight robber, was no other than the doctor's neighbour, Mr. Thomson himself, the lawful occupant of the house of which the former had taken possession. He had happened, like the doctor, to have been out late that night; and, like the doctor, too, was several sheets in the wind. However, that is neither here nor there to our story. But it is of some consequence to it to add, inasmuch as it accounts for the non-appearance of any one to avert the impending catastrophe, that there was no one residing in Mr. Thomson's house at the particular period of which we speak, but Mr. Thomson himself; his wife, children, and servant, being at sea-bathing quarters. Thus, then, it was that the doctor had been allowed to take and keep such undisturbed possession of the premises. Again, the doctor being a bachelor, kept no servant at all; the domestic duties of his establishment being performed by an old woman, who came at an early hour of the morning, remained all day, and left at night. There was thus no family circumstance connected with his own domestic establishment, the absence of which, on the present occasion, might have excited his suspicions as to his real position. Everything, then, favoured the unlucky chance now in progress. To resume: The doctor having placed himself in the hostile attitude already described, coolly and courageously awaited the entrance of the supposed burglar. He had not to wait long. The door opened; and, all unconscious of what was awaiting him, Thomson entered. It was all he was allowed to do, however; for, in the next instant, a well-directed blow from the doctor's crab-stick laid him senseless on the floor. "Take that, you burglarious villain," shouted the doctor triumphantly, on seeing the success of his assault; "and that, and that, and that," he added, plunging sundry forcible kicks into the body of his prostrate victim with the points of his little stumpy Hessians. Having settled his man, as he imagined, the doctor stooped down, and, seizing him by the neck of his coat, proceeded to drag him to the outside of the door. This was a work of some difficulty, as Thomson was rather a heavy man; but it was accomplished. The doctor exerted himself, and succeeded in hauling the unconscious body of his unfortunate neighbour on to the landing-place on the outside. Having got him there, he edged him towards the descent, and, giving him a shove with his foot, sent him rolling down the stairs. The housebreaker thus disposed of, and put, as the doctor believed, beyond all power of doing any more mischief in this world, the latter, highly satisfied with what he had done, and not a little vain of his prowess, re-entered the house, carefully secured the door after him with chain and bolt, and retired to the little bedroom of which he had been before in possession. Somewhat sobered by the occurrence which had just taken place, the doctor now discovered various little circumstances which rather surprised him. He could not, for instance, find his nightcap; it was not in the place where it used to be. Neither could he find the boot-jack; it was not where it used to be either. The bed, too, he thought, had taken up a strange position; it was not in the same corner of the room, and the head was reversed. The head of his bed used to be towards the door; he now found the foot in that direction. All these little matters the doctor noted, and thought them rather odd; but he set them all down to the debit of his housekeeper,--some as the results of carelessness--such as the absence of the nightcap and boot-jack; others--the shifting of the bed and altering its position--to the whim of some new arrangement. Thus satisfactorily accounting for the little omissions and discrepancies he noted, the doctor began to peel; and, in a short time after, was snugly buried beneath the blankets, with his red comforter round his head in place of a nightcap. Leaving the doctor for a time, thus comfortably quartered, we will look after the unfortunate victim of his prowess, whose rights he was now so complacently usurping. For fully half an hour after he had been bundled down stairs by the doctor in the way already described, poor Thomson lay without sense or motion. At about the end of that time, however, he so far recovered as to be able to emit two or three dismal groans, which happening to be overheard by the policeman on the station, who was at the moment going his rounds, he hastened towards the quarter from whence the alarming sounds proceeded, and found the ill-used cheesemonger lying at full length on the stair, head downwards, and, of course, feet uppermost. The policeman held his lantern close to the face of the unfortunate man, to see if he could recognise him; but this he could not, and that for two reasons: First, being newly come to the station, he did not know Thomson at all; and, second, the countenance of the latter was so covered with blood, and otherwise disfigured, that, suppose he had, he could not possibly have recognised him. Seeing the man in a senseless state, and, as he thought, perhaps mortally injured, the policeman hastened to the office to give notice of his situation, and to procure assistance to have him carried there; all of which was speedily done. A bier was brought, and on this bier the person of the unfortunate cheesemonger was placed, and borne to the police office. Medical aid being here afforded to the sufferer, he was soon brought so far round as to be able to give some account of himself, and of the misfortune which had befallen him. His face, too, having been cleared of the blood by which it was disguised, he was recognised by several persons in the office; and being known to be a respectable man, the wonder was greatly increased to see him in so lamentable a condition. Mr. Thomson's account, however, of the occurrences of the night explained all. He stated that, on returning home to his own house, in which there was no one living at present but himself, he was encountered by some one in the passage, and knocked down the instant he entered the door. Who or what the person was he could not tell, but he had no doubt that it was some one who had entered the house for the purpose of robbing it; and added his belief that the house was filled with robbers, who, he had no doubt, had plundered it of every portable article worth carrying away. How he came to be found on the stair he could not tell, but supposed that he had been dragged there after he had been knocked down--that proceeding having deprived him of all consciousness. Here ended Mr. Thomson's deposition; and great was the sensation, great the commotion which it excited in the police office. So daring a burglary--so daring an assault. The like had not been heard of for years. In a twinkling, eight or ten men were mustered, lanterned, and bludgeoned; and, headed by a sergeant, were on their march to the scene of robbery. On arriving at Mr. Thomson's door, they found it fast, and all quiet within. What was to be done? Force open the door? Perhaps some of the villains were still in the house. At any rate, it was proper to see what state things were in. A smith was accordingly sent for, the lock picked, and the door thrown open, when, headed by the sergeant with a pistol in his hand, in rushed a mob of policemen, a constellation of lanterns, a forest of bludgeons. The guardians of the night now dispersed themselves over the house; but, to their great surprise, found no trace whatever of the thieves. There appeared to have been nothing disturbed, and the doors and windows remained all fast. Puzzled by these circumstances, the police had begun to abate somewhat of that zeal with which they had first commenced their search, and were standing together in knots, some in one room and some in another, discussing the probabilities and likelihoods of the case, when those in the doctor's apartment were suddenly startled by a loud snore or grunt, proceeding from the bed, which was followed by a restless movement, and the exclamation--"Thieves, robbers!" muttered in the thick indistinct way of a person dreaming. In an instant, half a dozen policemen rushed towards the bed, drew aside the curtains, and there beheld the unconscious face of the heroic little doctor just peering out of the blankets, and a section of the red comforter in which his head was entombed in the manner already set forth. We have said that the face on which the astonished policemen now looked was an unconscious one. So it was; for, notwithstanding the grunt he had emitted, the movement he had made, and the exclamations he had uttered, the doctor was still sound asleep; the former having been merely the result of dreamy reminiscences of the past, awakened by an indistinct sense of the presence of some person or persons in the house. In mute surprise, the police, every one holding his lantern aloft, and thus surrounding the bed with a halo of light, gazed for a second or two on the sleeping Esculapius. They had never, in the course of all their experience, seen a burglar take things so coolly and comfortably. That he should enter a house with the intention of robbing it, and should deliberately strip, go to bed, and take a snooze in that house, was a piece of such daring impudence as they had never heard of before. It was no time, however, for making reflections on the subject. The business in hand was to secure the villain; and this was promptly done. Finding his sleep so profound as not to be easily disturbed, half a dozen men, lanterns and sticks in hand, flung themselves on the doctor, and, seizing him by the legs and arms, had him in a twinkling on the floor on the breadth of his back. Confounded and bewildered as he was by the extraordinary and appalling circumstances in which he now found himself--surrounded with what appeared to him to be a mob--lanterns flitting about as thick as the sparks on a piece of burned paper--cudgels bristling around him like a paling--and, to complete all, a clamour and hubbub of tongues that might have been heard three streets off;--we say, confounded and bewildered as he was by these sights and sounds, the doctor's pluck did not desert him. Starting to his feet, and not doubting that he was in the midst of a mob of housebreakers, he seized one of the policemen by the throat, when a deadly struggle ensued, in which the doctor's shirt was, in a twinkling, torn up into ribbons; in another twinkling he was floored by a blow from a baton, and rendered incapable of further resistance. The combat had been a most unequal one, and no other consequence could possibly have arisen from it. Having knocked down the doctor, the next business, as is usual in such and similar cases, was to get him up again. Accordingly, three or four men got hold of him by the arms and shoulders, and having raised him to his feet, planted him, still senseless, in a chair. A clamorous consultation, spoken in half a dozen different dialects, now ensued, as to how the housebreaker was to be disposed of. "We'll teuk him to the office, to pe surely," said a hard-faced, red-whiskered Celt. "What else you'll do wi' ta roke that'll proke into shentleman's hoose, and go to ped as comfortable as a lort. Dam's impitence." "Soul, and it's to the office we'll have him, by all manner o' means, and that in the twinkling of a bedpost," chimed in a tall raw-boned Irishman, with a spotted cotton handkerchief tied so high around the lower part of his face as to bury his mouth. "The thaif o' the world. It's a free passage across the wather he'll now get, anyhow, bad luck to him." "Fat, tiel, would you tak the man stark naked through the street?" said a little thick-set Aberdonian. "It would be verra undecent. There's a bit cloaky there; throw that aboot his shouthers, and then we'll link him awa like a water-stoup." "Od, ye'll no fin that so easy, I'm thinkin!" exclaimed a lumpish, broad-shouldered young fellow. "He's as fat's a Lochrin distillery pig. He's a hantle mair like his meat than his wark, that ane." Hitherto the unfortunate subject of these remarks had been able to take no part in what was passing; but, stupefied by the blow he had received, which had covered his face with blood, and further confounded by the various circumstances of the case--his previous debauch, the violence and suddenness of his awakening, and the extraordinary clamour and uproar that surrounded him--he sat, with drooping head and confused senses, without uttering a word. His physical energies, however, gradually recovering a little, he began to stare about him with a look of bewilderment; and at length, fixing his eye on the Irishman, who happened to be standing directly opposite him, he addressed him with a-- "Pray, friend, what is the meaning of all this?" "Faiks, my purty fellow, and it's yourself that might be after guessing that with your own 'cute genius," replied Paddy. "Haven't you half a notion, now, of what you have been about the same blessed night?" "I have a pretty good notion that my house has been broken into by a parcel of ruffians," said the doctor, "and that I have been half, perhaps wholly, murdered by you." "Capital, ould fellow; capital," said the Irishman. "Tell truth, and shame the devil. Your house! Stick to that, my jewel, and you'll astonish the spalpeens. But come, come, my tight little mannikin, get up wid ye. You'll go and have a peep of _our_ house now. Time about's fair play." And he seized the doctor, who was now wrapped in his cloak, and was forcing him from his seat, when the latter, resisting this movement, called out-- "Does no one here know me? Will no one here protect me? What am I assailed in my own house in this manner for? My name's Dobbie--Doctor Dobbie!" "Your name's no nosin to nobody, you roke," said Duncan M'Kay, seconding the efforts of his colleague to lug the doctor out of his seat. "You'll be one names to-day and anodder names to-morrow. So shust come along to ta office, toctor--since you calls yourselfs a toctor--and teuket a nicht's quarters wi' some o' your frients that's there afore you." "Let's get a grup o' him," exclaimed the broad-shouldered young fellow already spoken of, edging himself in to have a share in the honour of laying a capturing hand on the doctor. "Od, he's as round as a pokmanky. There's nae getting hand o' him. Come awa, doctor; come awa, my man. Bailie Morton 'll be unco glad to see ye," he added, having succeeded in getting hold of one of the doctor's arms, which he seized with a grip like a vice. Undeterred by the overpowering force with which he was assailed, the doctor still resisted, vainly announcing and re-announcing his name and calling. It had the effect only of increasing the clamour and hubbub amongst the police, who now all huddled round him in a mob; and without listening to a word he said, finally succeeded in carrying him bodily out of the house, in despite of some desperate struggling, and a great deal of noisy vociferation on the part of the doctor. THE POLICE OFFICE, AND FINALE. Leading off from and immediately behind the public office, there was a small carpeted room, provided with a sofa, some chairs, and a writing-desk. This room was appropriated to some of the upper functionaries connected with the police establishment of ----, and was the scene of private examinations of culprits, and of other kinds of proceedings of a private nature. At the time at which we introduce the reader to this apartment, there lay extended on the sofa above spoken of, a gentleman who appeared to have seen some recent service, if one might judge from the circumstance of his head being bound up in a blood-stained handkerchief, and his exhibiting some symptoms of languor and debility. This gentleman was Mr. Thomson, who was awaiting the result of the expedition which had gone to examine his house, and whose return he was now momentarily expecting. Awaiting the same issue then, and awaiting it in the same apartment, was another gentleman. This person was a sort of sub-superintendent of the police; and was, at the moment of which we speak, busily engaged writing at the desk formerly mentioned. Both of those persons, then, were anxiously waiting the return of the detachment whose proceedings are already before the reader, beguiling the time, meanwhile, by discussing the probabilities of the case. They were thus engaged, when a tremendous noise in the outer office gave intimation of an arrival, and one of no ordinary kind; for the tramping of feet was immense, and the hubbub astounding. "That's _them_," said Mr. Thomson. "I think it is," said the sub. Ere any other remark could be made, the door of the private apartment was opened, and in marched a short, stout, half-dressed, bloody-faced gentleman, in a blue cloth cloak, between two policemen, and followed by a mob of functionaries of the same description, who stood so thick as to completely block up the door. This stout, half-dressed gentleman in the blue cloth cloak was the doctor. "Dear me, doctor," said Mr. Thomson, advancing towards the former, whom he at once recognised, "what's the matter? What terrible affair is this?" "Terrible indeed--unheard of, monstrous!" exclaimed the doctor, in a towering passion. "My house, sir, has been broken into by these ruffians. I have been torn from my bed, maltreated in the way you see, and dragged here like a felon by them, and for what I know not. But I _will_ know it; and if I don't--" "This is odd, doctor," here interposed Mr. Thomson; "I have been the victim of a similar kind of violence to-night, as you may see by the state of my head, although the case is in other respects somewhat different. My house has been also broken into." "Bless my soul, very strange!" said the doctor, taking a momentary interest in the misfortunes of his neighbour. "By these ruffians?" he added, pointing to the police. "No, no, not them," replied Thomson; "housebreakers. Some villains had got into the house; and I had no sooner entered it, on returning home a little later than usual, than I was knocked down, dragged out to the stair, and thrown down, where I was found in a state of insensibility and brought here." The doctor winced a little at this statement: a vague suspicion, we can hardly say of the fact, but of something akin thereto, began to glimmer dimly on his mental optics. He, however, said nothing; nor, even had he been inclined to say anything, was opportunity afforded him; for here the presiding official of the place, the sub-superintendent, to whom the doctor was well known, and who had impatiently awaited the conclusion of the conversation between the latter and Thomson, interfered with a-- "Good heaven, doctor, how came you to be in this situation? What is the meaning of all this?" he added, turning to his men. "The maining's as plain as a pike-staff, your honour," replied the Irish watchman, to whom we have already introduced the reader. "We found this little gentleman, since he turns out to be a gentleman, where he shouldn't have been." "And where was that, pray?" inquired the sub. "Why, in Mr. Thomson's house, your honour. And not only that, but in bed too, as snug as a fox in a chimbley." "In ta fery peds, ta roke!" here chimed in our friend M'Kay. "What! you don't mean to say that you found the doctor here in _Mr. Thomson's_ house?" said the astonished official, laying a marked emphasis on the name. "To pe surely we do, sir," replied Duncan. "I'll tak my Bible oath till't," added another personage, whom the reader will readily recognise. "In my house! The doctor in _my_ house!" exclaimed Mr. Thomson, in the utmost amazement. "Mr. Thomson's house! Me in Mr. Thomson's house!" said the doctor, with a look of blank dismay; for a tolerably distinct view of the truth had now begun to present itself to his mind's eye. It was, therefore, rather in the desperate hope of there being yet some chance in his favour, than from any conviction that the testimony against him was founded in error, that he added-- "My _own_ house, you scoundrels; you found me in my _own_ house!" Here the whole mob of policemen simultaneously, and as if with one voice, shouted--"It's a lie, it's a lie. We found him in Mr. Thomson's." "How do you explain this, doctor?" said Mr. Thomson mildly, although beginning--he couldn't help it--to think rather queerly of the doctor. "Why, why," replied the crest-fallen and perplexed doctor, "if I really have been in your house, Mr. Thomson, although I can't believe it, I must, I must--in fact, I must have mistaken it for my own. To tell a truth, I came home rather cut last night; and it is possible, quite possible, although I can hardly think probable, that I may have taken your house for my own. That's the fact," added the doctor, with something like an appeal to the lenity of the person whose rights he had so unwittingly usurped, and whose corporeal substance he had so seriously maltreated. "And was it you that knocked me down, doctor?" said Mr. Thomson. "Too bad that, to knock me down in my own house." "Why, my dear sir, I trust I did not. I hope I did not. But really I don't know; perhaps I--you see, I thought thieves were coming in, and I--" Here a burst of laughter from the presiding officer, which was instantly taken up by every one in the apartment, and in which Thomson himself couldn't help joining, interrupted the doctor's further explanations. "Well, doctor," said the latter, who was a good-natured sort of person, and who, like every one else, had a kind of esteem for the little medical gentleman, "I must say that when you broke my head, you were only in the way of your trade; but I think the least thing you can do is to mend it for nothing." "Most gladly, my dear sir," replied the doctor; "for I did the damage,--at least I fear it, however unknowingly,--and am bound to repair it." "Done; let it be a bargain," said Thomson. "But, doctor, be so good as to give me previous notice when you again desire to take possession of my house. At any rate, don't knock me down when I come to seek a share of it." The doctor promised to observe the conditions; and shortly after, the two left the office, arm in arm, in the most friendly way imaginable. It is said, although we cannot vouch for the truth of the report, that the doctor, after this, fell upon the expedient of casting a knot on his handkerchief for each landing-place in the stair as he gained it, when ascending the latter under such circumstances as those that gave rise to the awkward occurrence which has been the subject of these pages. THE SEEKER. Amongst the many thousand readers of these tales, there are perhaps few who have not observed that the object of the writers is frequently of a higher kind than that of merely contributing to their amusement. They would wish "to point a moral," while they endeavour to "adorn a tale." It is with this view that I now lay before them the history of a SEEKER. The first time I remember hearing, or rather of noticing the term, was in a conversation with a living author respecting the merits of a popular poet, when, his religious opinions being adverted to, it was mentioned that, in a letter to a brother poet of equal celebrity, he described himself as a SEEKER. I was struck with the word and its application. I had never met with the fool who saith in his heart that there is no God; and though I had known many deniers of revelation, yet a SEEKER, in the sense in which the word was applied, appeared a new character. But, on reflection, I found it an epithet applicable to thousands, and adopted it as a title to our present story. Richard Storie was the eldest son of a Dissenting minister, who had the pastoral charge of a small congregation a few miles from Hawick. His father was not what the world calls a man of talent, but he possessed what is far beyond talents--piety and humanity. In his own heart he felt his Bible to be true--its words were as a lamp within him; and from his heart he poured forth its doctrines, its hopes, and consolations, to others, with a fervour and an earnestness which Faith only can inspire. It is not the thunder of declamation, the pomp of eloquence, the majesty of rhetoric, the rounded period, and the glow of imagery, which can chain the listening soul, and melt down the heart of the unbeliever, as metals yield to the heat of the furnace. Show me the hoary-headed preacher, who carries sincerity in his very look and in his very tones, who is animated because faith inspires him, and out of the fulness of his own heart his mouth speaketh, and there is the man from whose tongue truth floweth as from the lips of an apostle; and the small still voice of conscience echoes to his words, while hope burns, and the judgment becomes convinced. Where faith is not in the preacher, none will be produced in the hearer. Such a man was the father of Richard Storie. He had fulfilled his vows, and prayed with and for his children. He set before them the example of a Christian parent, and he rejoiced to perceive that that example was not lost upon them. We pass over the earlier years of Richard Storie, as during that period he had not become a SEEKER, nor did he differ from other children of his age. There was indeed a thoughtfulness and sensibility about his character; but these were by no means so remarkable as to require particular notice, nor did they mark his boyhood in a peculiar degree. The truths which from his childhood he had been accustomed to hear from his father's lips, he had never doubted; but he felt their truth as he felt his father's love, for both had been imparted to him together. He had fixed upon the profession of a surgeon, and at the age of eighteen he was sent to Edinburgh to attend the classes. He was a zealous student, and his progress realized the fondest wishes and anticipations of his parent. It was during his second session that Richard was induced, by some of his fellow collegians, to become a member of a debating society. It was composed of many bold and ambitious young men, who, in the confidence of their hearts, rashly dared to meddle with things too high for them. There were many amongst them who regarded it as a proof of manliness to avow their scepticism, and who gloried in scoffing at the eternal truths which had lighted the souls of their fathers when the darkness of death fell upon their eyelids. It is one of the besetting sins of youth to appear wise above what is written. There were many such amongst those with whom Richard Storie now associated. From them he first heard the truths which had been poured into his infant ear from his father's lips attacked, and the tongue of the scoffer rail against them. His first feeling was horror, and he shuddered at the impiety of his friends. He rose to combat their objections and refute their arguments, but he withdrew not from the society of the wicked. Week succeeded week, and he became a leading member of the club. He was no longer filled with horror at the bold assertions of the avowed sceptic, nor did he manifest disgust at the ribald jest. As night silently and imperceptibly creeps through the air, deepening shade on shade, till the earth lies buried in its darkness, so had the gloom of _Doubt_ crept over his mind, deepening and darkening, till his soul was bewildered in the sunless darkness. The members acted as chairman of the society in rotation, and, in his turn, the office fell upon Eichard Storie. For the first time, he seemed to feel conscious of the darkness in which his spirit was enveloped; conscience haunted him as a hound followeth its prey; and still its small still voice whispered, "Who sitteth in the scorner's chair." The words seemed burning on his memory. He tried to forget them, to chase them away--to speak of, to listen to other things; but he could not. "_Who sitteth in the scorner's chair_" rose upon his mind as if printed before him--as if he heard the words from his father's tongue--as though they would rise to his own lips. He was troubled--his conscience smote him--the darkness in which his soul was shrouded was made visible. He left his companions--he hastened to his lodgings, and wept. But his tears brought not back the light which had been extinguished within him, nor restored the hopes which the pride and the rashness of reason had destroyed. He had become the willing prisoner of _Doubt_, and it now held him in its cold and iron grasp, struggling in despair. Reason, or rather the self-sufficient arrogance of fancied talent which frequently assumes its name, endeavoured to suppress the whisperings of conscience in his breast; and in such a state of mind was Richard Storie, when he was summoned to attend the death-bed of his father. It was winter, and the snow lay deep on the ground, and there was no conveyance to Hawick until the following day; but, ere the morrow came, eternity might be between him and his parent. He had wandered from the doctrines that parent had taught, but no blight had yet fallen on the affections of his heart. He hurried forth on foot; and having travelled all night in sorrow and anxiety, before daybreak he arrived at the home of his infancy. Two of the elders of the congregation stood before the door. "Ye are just in time, Mr. Richard," said one of them mournfully, "for he'll no be lang now; and he has prayed earnestly that he might only be spared till ye arrived." Richard wept aloud. "Oh, try and compose yoursel', dear sir," said the elder. "Your distress may break the peace with which he's like to pass away. It's a sair trial, nae doubt--a visitation to us a'; but ye ken, Richard, we must not mourn as those who have no hope." "Hope!" groaned the agonized son as he entered the house. He went towards the room where his father lay; his mother and his brethren sat weeping around the bed. "Richard!" said his afflicted mother as she rose and flung her arms around his neck. The dying man heard the name of his first-born, his languid eyes brightened, he endeavoured to raise himself upon his pillow, he stretched forth his feeble hand. "Richard!--my own Richard!" he exclaimed; "ye hae come, my son; my prayer is heard, and I can die in peace! I longed to see ye, for my spirit was troubled upon yer account--sore and sadly troubled; for there were expressions in yer last letter that made me tremble--that made me fear that the pride o' human learning was lifting up the heart o' my bairn, and leading his judgment into the dark paths o' error and unbelief; but oh! these tears are not the tears of an unbeliever!" He sank back exhausted. Richard trembled. He again raised his head. "Get the books," said he feebly, "and Richard will make worship. It is the last time we shall all join together in praise on this earth, and it will be the last time I shall hear the voice o' my bairn in prayer, and it is long since I heard it. Sing the hymn, 'The hour of my departure's come,' and read the twenty-third psalm." Richard did as his dying parent requested; and as he knelt by the bedside, and lifted up his voice in prayer, his conscience smote him, agony pierced his soul, and his tongue faltered. He now became a Seeker, seeking mercy and truth at the same moment; and, in the agitation of his spirit, his secret thoughts were revealed, his doubts were manifested! A deep groan issued from the dying-bed. The voice of the supplicant failed him--his _amen_ died upon his lips; he started to his feet in confusion. "My son! my son!" feebly cried the dying man, "ye hae lifted yer eyes to the mountains o' vanity, and the pride o' reason has darkened yer heart, but, as yet, it has not hardened it. Oh Richard! remember the last words o' yer dying faither: 'Seek, and ye shall find.' Pray with an humble and a contrite heart, and in yer last hour ye will hae, as I hae now, a licht to guide ye through the dark valley of the shadow of death." He called his wife and his other children around him--he blessed them--he strove to comfort them--he committed them to his care who is the Husband of the widow and the Father of the fatherless. The lustre that lighted up his eyes for a moment, as he besought a blessing on them, vanished away, his head sank back upon his pillow, a low moan was heard, and his spirit passed into peace. His father's death threw a blight upon the prospects of Richard. He no longer possessed the means of prosecuting his studies; and in order to support himself and assist his mother, he engaged himself as tutor in the family of a gentleman in East Lothian. But there his doubts followed him, and melancholy sat upon his breast. He had thoughtlessly, almost imperceptibly, stepped into the gloomy paths of unbelief, and anxiously he groped to retrace his steps; but it was as a blind man stumbles; and in wading through the maze of controversy for a guide, his way became more intricate, and the darkness of his mind more intense. He repented that he had ever listened to the words of the scoffer, or sat in the chair of the scorner; but he had permitted the cold mists of scepticism to gather round his mind, till even the affections of his heart became blighted by their influence. He was now a solitary man, shunning society; and at those hours when his pupils were not under his charge, he would wander alone in the wood or by the river, brooding over unutterable thoughts, and communing with despair; for he sought not, as is the manner of many, to instil the poison that had destroyed his own peace into the minds of others. He carried his punishment in his soul, and was silent--in the soul that was doubting its own existence! Of all hypochondriacs, to me the unbeliever seems the most absurd. For can matter think? can it reason, can it doubt? Is it not the thing that doubts which distrusts its own being? Often when he so wandered, the last words of his father--"Seek, and ye shall find"--were whispered in his heart, as though the spirit of the departed breathed them over him. Then would he raise his hands in agony, and his prayer rose from the solitude of the woods. After acting about two years as tutor, he returned to Edinburgh and completed his studies. Having with difficulty, from the scantiness of his means, obtained his diplomas, he commenced practice in his native village. His brothers and his sisters had arrived at manhood and womanhood, and his mother enjoyed a small annuity. Almost from boyhood he had been deeply attached to Agnes Brown, the daughter of a neighbouring farmer; and about three years after he had commenced practice, she bestowed on him her hand. She was all that his heart could wish--meek, gentle, and affectionate; and her anxious love threw a gleam of sunshine over the melancholy that had settled upon his soul. Often, when he fondly gazed in her eyes, where affection beamed, the hope of immortality would flash through his bosom; for one so good, so made of all that renders virtue dear, but to be born to die and to be no more, he deemed impossible. They had been married about nine years, and Agnes had become the mother of five fair children, when in one day death entered their dwelling, and robbed them of two of their little ones. The neighbours had gathered together to comfort them, and the mother in silent anguish wept over her babes; but the father stood tearless and stricken with grief, as though his hopes were sealed up in the coffin of his children. In his agony he uttered words of strange meaning. The doubts of the Seeker burst forth in the accents of despair. The neighbours gazed at each other. They had before had doubts of the religious principles of Dr. Storie; now those doubts were confirmed. Many began to regard him as an unsafe man to visit a death-bed, where he might attempt to rob the dying of the everlasting hope which enables them to triumph over the last enemy. His practice fell off, and the wants of his family increased. He was no longer able to maintain an appearance of respectability. His circumstances aggravated the gloom of his mind; and for a time he became, not a Seeker, but one who abandoned himself to callousness and despair. Even the affection of his wife--which knew no change, but rather increased as affliction and misfortune came upon them--with the smiles and affection of his children, became irksome. Their love increased his misery. His own house was all but forsaken, and the blacksmith's shop became his consulting room, the village alehouse his laboratory. Misery and contempt heightened the "shadows, clouds, and darkness" which rested on his mind. To his anguish and excitement he had now added habits of intemperance; his health became a wreck, and he sank upon his bed, a miserable and a ruined man. The shadow of death seemed lowering over him, and he lay trembling, shrinking from its approach, shuddering and brooding over the cheerless, the horrible thought--_annihilation_! But, even then, his poor Agnes watched over him with a love stronger than death. She strove to cheer him with the thought that he would still live--that they would again be happy. "Oh my husband!" cried she fondly, "yield not to despair; _seek, and ye shall find_!" "Oh heavens, Agnes!" exclaimed he, "I have sought!--I have sought! I have been a SEEKER until now; but Truth flees from me, Hope mocks me, and the terrors of Death only find me!" "Kneel with me, my children," she cried; "let us pray for mercy and peace of mind for your poor father!" And the fond wife and her offspring knelt around the bed where her husband lay. A gleam of joy passed over the sick man's countenance, as the voice of her supplication rose upon his ear, and a ray of hope fell upon his heart. "_Amen_!" he uttered as she arose; and "_Amen_!" responded their children. On the bed of sickness his heart had been humbled; he had, as it were, seen death face to face; and the nearer it approached, the stronger assurances did he feel of the immortality he had dared to doubt. He arose from his bed a new man; hope illumined, and faith began to glow in his bosom. His doubts were vanquished, his fears dispelled. He had sought, and at length found the hopes of the Christian. THE SURGEON'S TALES. THE WAGER.[C] About thirty years ago, the office of carrier between Edinburgh and a certain town on the north of the Tay was discharged by a person of the name of George Skirving. At the time of which we speak he might be about forty-five years of age, a man of considerable physical strength, and with as much mental firmness as will be found among the generality of mankind. His occupation, in travelling during night, required often the confirming influence of personal courage, to keep him from being alarmed; and his activity, and exposure to the fresh air of both land and water, were conducive to bodily health and elasticity of spirits. He was at once a faithful carrier and a good companion on the road, along which he was generally respected; and, by attention to business and economical habits of living, he had been enabled to realize as much money as might suffice to sustain him, with his wife and three children, in the event of his being disabled, by accident or ill health, from following his ordinary employment. The day in which George Skirving left the northern town for Edinburgh, was Wednesday of each week; and he started at the hour of seven, both in winter and summer. On one occasion, in the month of August, he set out from his quarters at his usual hour; and having crossed the Tay with his goods, proceeded on his way through Fife. He had with him his dog Wolf, who usually served him as a companion; his waggons were loaded with goods, the proceeds of the carriage of which he counted as he trudged along; and he now and then had recourse to a small flask of spirits which his wife had, without his knowledge, and contrary to her usual custom, placed in the breast-pocket of his great-coat. He was thus in good spirits; and as he applied himself with great moderation--for he was a sober man--to his inspiring companion, he jocularly blamed Betty (such was the name of his consort) for defrauding his houses of call on the road of the custom he used to bestow on them. "It was kind o' ye, Betty," he said; "but it saves naething; for if I, wha have travelled this road for sae mony years, were to pass John Sharpe's, or Widow M'Murdo's, or Andrew Gemmel's, without takin' my usual allowance, I would be set doun as fey or mad. I maun gae through a' my usual routine--mak my ca's, order my drams, drink them, and pay for them, as I hae dune for twenty years. Men are just like clocks--some gae owre fast, and some owre slow; but the carrier, beyond a', maun keep to his time aye, and _chap_ at the proper time and place, or idleness and beggary would soon mak time hang weary on his hands." He had trudged onwards in his slow pace for a space of about eight miles, and was at the distance of about three from Cupar, when he was accosted by a person of the name of James Cowie, an inhabitant of Dundee, with whom he had for a long time been in habits of intimacy. "You are weel forward the day, George," said Cowie. "Ye'll be in Cupar before your time. There's rowth a parcels for ye at John Sharpe's door, yonder. But, mercy on me!" he continued, starting and looking amazed, "what's the matter wi' ye, man?" "Naething," replied George. "I hae been takin' a few draps o' Betty's cordial, here," pointing to the flask, "and maybe the colour may have mounted to my face." "The colour mounted to your face, man!" ejaculated Cowie. "Is it whiteness--paleness--ye mean by colour? Ye're like a clout, man--a bleached clout. There's something wrang, rely upon it, George; some o' that intricate machinery o' our fearfu' systems out o' joint. Is it possible ye have felt or feel nae change?" "Nane whatever, Jamie," answered the carrier, somewhat alarmed. "You're surely joking me; I never felt better i' my life. No, no, Jamie, there's naething the matter; thank God, I'm in gude health." "It's weel ye think sae," replied Cowie, with a satirical tone; "but if I'm no cheated, ye're on the brink o' some fearfu' disease. Get up on your cart, man; hasten to Cupar, an' speak to Doctor Lowrie. It's a braw thing to tak diseases in time." "If a white face is a' ye judge by," said George, attempting to make light of the matter, "I can remove it by an application to Betty's cordial." "Ay, do that," said Cowie ironically, "and add fuel to the flame. If I werena your friend, I wadna tak this liberty wi' ye. I assure ye again, an' I hae some judgment o' thae matters, that ye're very ill. That's no an ordinary paleness: your lips are blue, an' your eyes dull an' heavy--sure signs o' an oncome. Haste ye to Cupar an' get advice, an' ye may yet ca' me your best friend." As he finished these words, Cowie turned to proceed onwards towards Newport. "Ye've either said owre little or owre muckle, James," replied George, after a slight pause, and resigning his carelessness. "I hae just said the truth, George," added Cowie; "but I maun be in Dundee by one o'clock, an' canna wait. I'll say naething to Mrs. Skirving to alarm her; but, for God's sake, tak my advice, an' consult Doctor Lowrie." He proceeded on his journey, leaving Skirving in doubt and perplexity. At first he was considerably affected by Cowie's speech and manner, because he knew him to be a serious man, and averse to all manner of joking. It was possible, he admitted, that a disease might be lurking secretly in his vitals, unknown to himself, but discernible to another; and the circumstance of his wife having put the flask of cordial in his coat-pocket, seemed to indicate that she had observed something wrong before he set out, and had been afraid to communicate it to him, in case it might alarm him. His spirits sank, as this confirmation of Cowie's statement came to his mind; he put his right hand to his left wrist, to feel the state of the pulse, and, as might have been expected, discovered (for he overlooked the effects of his fear) that it was much quicker than it used to be when he was in perfect health. Having been taken thus by surprise, he remained in a state of considerable depression for some time; but when he came to think of the inadequate grounds of his alarm, he began to rally; and his mind, rebounding, as it were, on the cessation of the depressing reverie, threw off the fear, and he recovered so far his natural courage as to laugh at the strange fancy that had taken possession of him. "I was a fule," he said to himself. "What though my face be pale, and my eyes heavy, and my pulse a little quicker than usual, am I to dee for a' that? Cowie has probably had his _morning_; and truly his appearance, now when I think of it, didna assort ill wi' that supposition. Johnny Sharpe and he are auld cronies, and they couldna part without some wet pledge o' their auld friendship. I'll wad my best horse on the point. Ha! ha! what a fule I was!" He accompanied these words by again feeling his pulse. The fear was greatly off, the pulsations had become more regular; and this confirmation enabled him to laugh off the effects the extraordinary announcements had made upon him. He proceeded onwards to Cupar, and stopped at John Sharpe's inn. The landlord was at the door. George looked at him narrowly, as he saluted him in the ordinary form. He thought the innkeeper looked also very narrowly at him, as he answered his salutation; but he was afraid to broach the question of his sickly appearance, and hurried away to get the goods packed that stood at the inn door. Having finished his work, during which he thought he saw the landlord looking strangely at him, he called for the quantity of spirits he was usually in the habit of getting, and, as he filled out the glass, asked quickly if James Cowie had been there that morning. The landlord answered that he had; but added, of his own accord, that he did not remain in the house so long as to give time for even drinking to each other. This answer produced a greater effect upon George than he was even then aware of; and it is not unlikely that this, and the impression that the landlord looked at him _strangely_, produced the very paleness that Cowie had mentioned. Be that as it may, he took up the glass of spirits and laid it down again, without almost tasting it; and his reason for this departure from his ordinary course, was, that he had already partaken sufficiently of his wife's cordial; and he had some strange misgivings about drinking ardent spirits, in case, after all, it might turn out that there was hanging about him some disease. The moment he laid down the full glass, the landlord said to him, looking in an inquiring and sympathetic manner into his face-- "George, I haena seen you do that for ten years. Are you well enough?" "What! what! eh, what!" stammered out the carrier confusedly; "do you think I'm ill, John?" The words were scarcely out of his mouth when the inn bell rang, and the landlord was called away, and, being otherwise occupied, did not return. After waiting for him a considerable time, Skirving became impatient, and, making another effort to shake off his fears, applied the whip to his horses, and proceeded on his journey. For a time his mind was so much confused that he could not contemplate the whole import of the extraordinary coincidence he had just witnessed; but as he proceeded and came to a quieter part of the road, his thoughts reverted to the statements of James Cowie--who, he was now satisfied, had been quite sober--to the looks and extraordinary question of John Sharpe, and to the intention of his wife in providing him with the cordial. As he pondered on this strange accumulation of according facts, he again felt his pulse, which had again risen to the height it had attained during the prior paroxysm. The affair had now assumed a new aspect. It was impossible that this concurrence of circumstances could be fortuitous. He was now much afraid that he was ill--very ill indeed; perhaps under the incipient symptoms of typhus or brain fever, or small-pox, or some other dreadful disease. As these thoughts rose in his mind, he grew faint, and would have sat down; but he felt a reluctance to stop his carts, and a feeling of shame struggled against his conviction, and kept him walking. This state of nervous excitement remained, in spite of many efforts he made to throw off his fears. Yet he was bound to admit that he felt no symptoms of pain or sickness. By and by the feeling of alarm began again to decay, and by the time he got eight or ten miles farther on his road, he had conjured up a good many sustaining ideas and arguments, whereby he at least contrived to increase the quantum of _doubt_ of his being really ill. He rallied a little again; but the temporary elevation was destined to be succeeded by another depression, which, in its turn, gave place to another accession of relief; and thus he was kept in a painful alternation of changing fancies, until he was within a mile and a half of the next place of call--a little house at some distance from the Plasterers' Inn. He had hitherto been progressing at a very slow rate, and was in the act of raising his hand to apply the whip to his horses, when he saw before him Archibald Willison, a sort of itinerant cloth merchant, a native of Dundee, with whom he was on terms of intimacy. They had met often on the road, and had gossiped together over a little refreshment at the inns where the carrier stopped. At this particular time, George Skirving would rather have avoided his old friend; for he was under a depression of spirits, and felt also a disinclination or fear, he could not account for, to submit his face and appearance to the lynx eye of the travelling merchant. He had, however, no choice. "Ah, George," cried Archie, "it's lang since I saw ye. How are ye? What!"--starting as if surprised--"have ye been lyin', man--confined--sick?--what, in God's name, has been the matter wi' ye? Some sad complaint, surely, to produce so mighty a change!" This address seemed to George just the very confirmation he now required to make him perfectly satisfied of his danger. It was too much for him to hear and suffer. Staggering back, he leant upon the side of his cart, and drew breath with difficulty, attempting in vain to give his friend some reply. "It's wrang in ye, man," continued Archie, as he saw the carrier labouring to find words to reply to him--"it's wrang in ye, George, to be here in that state o' body. How did Betty permit it? Wha wad guarantee your no lyin' doun an' deein' by the road-side? I'm sure I wadna undertake the suretyship." "I have not been a day confined, Archie," said George, as he slightly recovered from the shock caused by the announcement. "I have not been ill; and left home this morning in my usual health." "Good God!" ejaculated Archie, "is that possible? Then is it sae muckle the waur. I thought it had been a' owre wi' ye--that ye had been ill, an' partly recovered; but now I see the disease is only comin' yet. How deadly pale ye are, man; an' what a strange colour there is on your lips, round the sockets o' your een, an' the edges o' your nostrils!" "I hae been told that the day already, Archie," said George; "I fear there's some truth in't. Yet I feel nae pain; I'm only weak an' nervous." "Ah, ye ken little about fevers o' the putrid kind--typhus, an' the like," continued the other,--"when ye think they show themselves by ordinary symptoms. I had a cousin who died o' typhus last week; an' he looked, when he took it, just as ye look, an' spoke just as ye speak. Tak the advice o' a friend, George. Dinna stop at Widow M'Murdo's; ye can get nae advice there; hurry on to Edinburgh, and apply immediately, on your arrival, to a doctor o' repute. I assure ye a' his skill will be required." After some conversation, all tending to the same effect, Willison parted from him, continuing his route to Cupar. All the doubt that had existed in the mind of the victim was now removed, and a settled conviction took hold of him that he was on the very eve of falling into some terrible illness. A train of gloomy fancies took possession of his mind, and he pictured himself lying extended on a bed of sickness, with the angel of death hanging over him, and an awakened conscience within, wringing him with its agonizing tortures. The nature of the disease which impended over him--the putrid typhus--was fixed, and put beyond doubt; and all the cases he had known of individuals who had died of that disease were brought before the eye of his imagination, to feed the appetite for horrors, which now began to crave food. He endeavoured to analyze his sensations, and discovered, what he never felt before, a hard, fluttering palpitation at his heart, a difficulty of breathing, weakness, trembling of the limbs, and other clear indications of the oncoming attack of a fatal disease. Moving slowly forward, under the load of these thoughts, he arrived at Widow M'Murdo's, where he fed his horses. He was silent and gloomy; and the fear under which he laboured produced a _real_ appearance of illness, which soon struck the eye of the kind dame. "What ails ye?" asked she kindly; and ran and brought out her bottle of cordial, to administer to him that universal medicine. But her question was enough. Moody and miserable, he paid little attention to her kindness, and departed for Kirkcaldy. Under the same load of despondency and apprehension, he arrived at Andrew Gemmel's, where it was his practice to remain all night. He exhibited the appearance of a person labouring under some grievous misfortune; and deputing the feeding of his horses to the ostler, he seemed to be careless whether justice was done to them or not. The landlord noticed the change that had taken place upon him. "What ails ye, George?" was asked repeatedly; and the death-like import of the question prevented him from giving any satisfactory answer. Long before his usual period, he retired to his bed, where he passed a night of fevered dreams, restlessness, and misery. In the morning, he was still under the operation of his apprehension, and was unable to take any breakfast. The ostler managed for him all the details of his business, and he departed in the same gloomy mood for Pettycur. Sauntering along at a slow pace, he met, half-way between the two towns, Duncan Paterson, a Dundee weaver, an old acquaintance, by whom he was hailed in the ordinary form of salutation. But he wished to proceed without standing to speak to his old friend; for he was so sorely depressed, and was so much afraid of another fearful announcement about his sickly appearance, that he could not bear an interview. This strange conduct seemed to rouse the curiosity of his friend, who, running up to him, held forth his hand, crying out-- "Ha! George, man!--this is no like you, to pass auld friends. What ails ye, man?" "I dinna feel altogether weel," answered the carrier in a mournful tone. "I saw that, man, lang before ye cam up," replied the other; "and it was just because ye were looking so grievously ill, that I was determined to speak to ye. When were ye seized?" "I was weel when I left the north, yesterday morning; but I hadna been lang on the road, when I began to gie tokens o' illness," replied the carrier mournfully, and with a drooping head. "If I had met you in that waefu' state," said the other, "with that death-like face and unnatural-like look, I wadna have allowed ye to proceed a mile farther; but now since ye're sae far on the road, it's just as weel that ye hurry on to Edinburgh, whaur ye'll get the best advice. What symptoms do ye feel?" "I'm heavy and dull," replied George; "my pulse rises and fa's, my heart throbs, and my legs hae been shakin' under me, as if I were palsied." "Ah, George, George! these are a' clear signs o' typhus, man," replied Paterson. "My mother died o't. I watched, wi' filial care and affection, a' her maist minute symptoms. They were just yours. I'm vexed for ye; but maybe the hand o' a skilfu' doctor may avert the usual fatal issue." "Was yer mither lang ill?" asked George in a low tone. "Nine days," answered Paterson. "By the seventh she was spotted like a leopard, on the eighth she went mad, and the ninth put an end to her sufferings." "Ay, ay," muttered George, with a deep sigh. "But the power o' medicine's great," rejoined Paterson. "Lose nae time, after ye arrive in Edinburgh, in applying to a doctor. Mind my words." And Paterson, casting upon him a look suited to the parting statement, left the carrier, and proceeded on his way. The victim, now completely immerged in melancholy, progressed slowly onwards to Pettycur. His downcast appearance attracted there the attention of the people who assisted him in the discharge of his business. The question, "What ails ye, George?" was repeated, and answered by silence and a sorrowful look. In the boat in which he crossed the Forth, his unusual sadness was also noticed by the captain and crew, with whom he was intimately acquainted. As he sat in the fore-part of the vessel, silent and gloomy, they repeated the dreadful question--"What ails ye, George?"--that had been so often before put to him. To some he said he felt unwell, to others he replied by a melancholy stare, and relapsed again into his melancholy. When he arrived at Leith, he was assisted, according to custom, by porters, in getting his goods disembarked. The men were not long in noticing the great change that had taken place upon his spirits. "What ails ye, George?" was the uniform question; and every time it was put it went to his heart, for it showed more and more, as he thought, his sick-like appearance, which seemed to escape the eyes of no one. The men assisted him more assiduously than they had ever done before; and having got everything ready, he proceeded up Leith Walk. The toll-man noticed also his dejected appearance, and the same question was put by him. He proceeded to his quarters, and, committing his carts to a man that was in the habit of assisting him, he went into the house and threw himself into a chair. "What ails ye, George?" exclaimed Widow Gilmour, as she saw him exhibiting these indications of illness. He said he felt unwell, and, rising, went away up to his bedroom, where he retired to bed. The torture of mind to which he had been exposed for a day and a night, and a part of another day, with the want of food, and the exercise of his trade, had operated so powerfully on his body, that he was now in reality in a fever. The landlady felt his pulse, and, becoming alarmed, sent for a doctor, a young man, who immediately bled him to a much greater extent than was necessary; but the statements of George himself, and the fevered appearance he presented, convinced the young doctor that nothing but copious bleeding would overcome the disease. The application of the lancet stamped the whole affair with the character of reality; and the sick man, still overcome by gloomy anticipations, was soon in the very height of a dangerous fever. Two days afterwards, his wife was sent for; but the poor man got gradually worse, and, notwithstanding all the efforts of the doctor, was soon pronounced to be in a state of imminent danger. One day James Cowie called at the house, and inquired, in a flurried manner, how George Skirving was. "He is sae ill that I hae very little hope o' him," said Mrs. Skirving. "Good God!" replied the man, "is it possible? I have murdered him." And he groaned in distress. "What do ye mean, James?" "Six o' us wagered, three against three, and twa to ane," he proceeded, "that our side wadna put your husband to his bed. We met him in Fife at different places o' the road, and terrified him, by describing his looks, into an opinion that he was unwell. I'm come to make amends. What is the £10 to me when the life o' a fellow-creature is at jeopardy?" It was too late. We need say no more. The communication was made to the sick man; but he was too far gone to recover, and died in a few days afterwards. This is a true tale, and requires little more explanation. It may have been gathered from our narrative, that Cowie, Willison, and Paterson were the only persons who were in the plot. John Sharpe, Widow M'Murdo, Andrew Gemmel, and the others who merely noticed his dejection, were entirely ignorant of the cruel purpose. * * * * * [Footnote A: One version of the story says that Mr. M---- picked up the tramp at Cammerton, in Fife; but I adhere to my authority.] [Footnote B: Places for melting plate.] [Footnote C: This strange tale is given from materials supplied by the Surgeon with whom I was brought up.] 
47800	----	provided by the Internet Archive HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS IN THE BORDER By Andrew Lang and John Lang With Illustrations by Hugh Thomson [Illustration: 0008] [Illustration: 0009] PREFACE At the time of his death, my brother had proceeded but a little way in this task which he and I began together, and I must frankly own my inability to cope with it on the lines which he would doubtless have followed. It is probable, for example, that his unrivalled knowledge of "the memories, legends, ballads, and nature of the Border" would have led him to show various important events in a light different from that in which my less intimate acquaintance with the past has enabled me to speak of them; whilst, as regards the Ballad literature of the Border, I cannot pretend to that expert knowledge which he possessed, I do not think, therefore, it is fitting that I should attempt to carry out his intention to deal more fully with those of the Ballads which are most closely connected with places treated of in this volume. To him, more perhaps than to any other Borderer, every burn and stream, every glen and hill of that pleasant land was ". . . lull ot ballad notes, Borne out of long ago." It is many a year since he wrote those verses wherein he spoke of " Old songs that sung themselves to me, Sweet through a boy's day-dream." But it was not alone in a boy's day-dream that they sounded. To the end, they echoed and re-echoed in his heart, and no voice ever spoke to him so eloquently as that of Tweed,--by whose banks, indeed, in a spot greatly loved, had it been permitted he would fain have slept his long sleep. JOHN LANG. _The artist wishes to call attention to the fact that his drawings were made during the long drought of 1911, when all the rivers were exceptionally low._ LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS KELSO abbey....................................Frontispiece HALIDON HILL AND THE TWO BRIDGES, BERWICK...............003 OLD BRIDGE AT BERWICK...................................006 BUTTRESSES WITH CANOPIED NICHES AT EDROM................014 AT CHIRNSIBE........................................... 015 DOORWAY IN GRAVEYARD AT EDROM...........................016 NORHAM CASTLE...........................................046 LADY KIRK...............................................047 FORD CASTLE FROM THE ROAD...............................049 LOOKING UP THE TILL FROM TWIZEL BRIDGE..................050 THE RIDGE ON WHICH THE SCOTTISH ARMY WAS ENTRENCHED BEFORE THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN............................051 TWIZEL BRIDGE...........................................052 THE SLOPES AT BRANXTON ON WHICH THE BATTLE OF FLODDEN WAS FOUGHT............................053 SYBIL GREY'S WELL AT FLODDEN............................055 BRIDGE OVER THE LEET, COLDSTREAM........................057 THE CHEVIOTS FROM COLDSTREAM FERRY......................060 FLOORS CASTLE FROM KELSO................................072 KELSO...................................................073 KELSO ABBEY.............................................075 KELSO. TEVIOT IN FOREGROUND.............................076 MEETING OF TWEED AND TEVIOT NEAR KELSO..................077 RUINS OF ROXBURGH CASTLE................................079 JEDBURGH FROM THE PARK..................................091 JEDBURGH ABBEY..........................................103 QUEEN MARY'S HOUSE, JEDBURGH............................105 FERNIHIRST CASTLE.......................................131 CATCLEUCH RESERVOIR LOOKING SOUTH.......................142 BRIDGE OVER JED WATER AT OLD SOUDEN KIRK. THE CHEVIOTS BEHIND.....................................148 OTTERBURNE..............................................162 OTTERBURNE..............................................163 SOUDEN KIRK.............................................166 JOHN LEYDEN'S BIRTHPLACE, DENHOLM.......................179 CAVERS..................................................185 HAWICK..................................................186 THE TOWER INN, HAWICK...................................187 HORNSHOLE BRIDGE........................................188 ST. MARY'S, HAWICK......................................189 VALE OF THE BORTHWICK WATER LOOKING TOWARDS HAWICK......191 A GLIMPSE OF HARDEN.....................................192 GOLDIELANDS TOWER AND THE TEVIOT........................193 BRANKSOME...............................................194 BRANKSOME...............................................196 LOOKING DOWN TEVIOTDALE FROM CAERLANRIG.................197 TEVIOTHEAD KIRK.........................................202 TOMB OF SIR WALTER SCOTT, DRYBURGH......................207 SMAILHOLME TOWER........................................210 THE EILDONS FROM BEMERSYDE HILLS........................211 EARLSTON................................................218 THE RIVER AT DRYBURGH ABBEY.............................221 EILDON HILLS AND GORGE OF THE TWEED FROM LESSUDDEN......223 MELROSE FROM NEWSTEAD...................................224 MELROSE CROSS...........................................225 EAST WINDOW, MELROSE ABBEY..............................226 DARNICK TOWER...........................................228 ABBOTSFORD..............................................230 THE RHYMER'S GLEN.......................................232 GALASHIELS, THE EILDONS IN THE DISTANCE.................238 THE TWEED FROM THE FERRY, ABBOTSFORD....................241 TOR WOOD LEE............................................243 ABBOTSFORD FROM THE LEFT BANK OF THE TWEED. THE EILDON HILLS BEHIND.................................244 WHERE TWEED AND ETTRICK MEET............................245 SELKIRK FROM THE HEATHERLIE.............................250 THE ETTRICK FROM THE OUTSKIRTS OF SELKIRK...............260 SELKIRK.................................................264 THE ETTRICK AT BOWHILL..................................274 OAKWOOD TOWER...........................................277 KIRKHOPE TOWER..........................................279 LOOKING UP ETTRICKDALE FROM HYNDHOPE....................280 ETTRICK WATER AT THE DELORAINES.........................281 THE BRIDGE AT TUSHIELAW.................................283 ETTRICK VALE FROM HYNDHOPE..............................284 BUCCLEUCH...............................................285 A GLIMPSE OF CLEARBURN LOCH.............................286 ETTRICK KIRK............................................288 MILL GANG AT ETTRICK....................................290 HYNDHOPE BURN...........................................291 ST. MARY'S LOCH AND THE LOCH OF THE LOVERS..............293 ST. MARY'S LOCH.........................................295 SITE OF ST. MARY'S CHURCH...............................296 THE DOUGLAS BURN AND BLACKHOUSE TOWER...................297 COCKBURNE'S GRAVE.......................................299 COPPERCLEUCH POST-OFFICE AND A GLIMPSE UP MEGGETDALE....301 TIBBIE SHIEL'S..........................................302 DRYHOPE TOWER...........................................304 THE GORDON ARMS.........................................306 VALE OF YARROW--THE GORDON ARMS IN THE DISTANCE.........307 DEUCHAR BRIDGE..........................................310 THE DOWIE DENS..........................................311 NEWARK..................................................315 YAIR BRIDGE.............................................317 FAIRNILEE...............................................320 CADDONFOOT LOOKING TOWARDS YAIR.........................321 THE INN AT CLOVENFORDS..................................322 THOMAS PURDIE'S GRAVE, MELROSE ABBEY....................323 THE TWEED AT ASHIESTEEL.................................325 THE TWEED BETWEEN ASHIESTEEL AND THORNILEE..............326 TOWER OF ELIBANK........................................328 INNERLEITHEN............................................329 A ROAD BESIDE THE TWEED, NEAR CADDONFOOT................331 THE CLOSED GATES AT TRAQUAIR HOUSE......................332 TRAQUAIR HOUSE..........................................333 WHERE THE QUAIR ENTERS THE TWEED ABOVE INNERLEITHEN.....335 ON THE ROAD TO PEEBLES..................................336 NELDPATH CASTLE.........................................341 PEEBLES FROM NEIDPATH...................................343 THE "BLACK DWARF'S COTTAGE IN THE MANOR VALLEY..........344 LOOKING UP THE MANOR VALLEY.............................346 BRIDGE OVER THE LYNE WATER..............................348 LOOKING UP TALLA FROM TWEEDSMUIR POST-OFFICE............360 BRIDGE OVER TWEED AT TWEEDSMUIR.........................361 TWEEDSMUIR..............................................363 TALLA RESERVOIR FROM TALLA LINN.........................366 A SKETCH ON THE GAMESHOPE BURN..........................368 THE DEVIL'S BEEF TUB....................................376 HERMITAGE CASTLE........................................384 MEETING OF THE HERMITAGE AND LIDDEL.....................386 MILLHOLME OR MILNHOLM CROSS.............................389 ON THE LIDDEL AT MANGERTON..............................390 CARLISLE CASTLE.........................................393 CARLISLE AND THE RIVER EDEN.............................394 CARLISLE FROM THE CASTLE RAMPARTS.......................395 A BYWAY IN CARLISLE.....................................396 THE MARKET CROSS, CARLISLE..............................397 DICK'S TREE. THE BLACKSMITH'S SHOP WHERE KINMONT WILLIE'S FETTERS WERE TAKEN OFF.................399 THE REPUTED GRAVE OF KINMONT WILLIE IN SARK GRAVEYARD...400 SARK BRIDGE AND TOLL-BAR................................402 THE BLACKSMITH'S SHOP, GRETNA GREEN.....................403 SOLWAY MOSS.............................................404 ANCIENT CROSS, ARTHURET.................................405 GORGE ON THE LIDDEL.....................................406 STUDY IN CARLISLE CATHEDRAL.............................407 BRAMPTON................................................408 BEWCASTLE CHURCH AND CASTLE.............................410 BEWCASTLE CROSS.........................................411 NAWORTH CASTLE..........................................412 BEWCASTLE CROSS.........................................414 KIRK ANDREWS TOWER, NETHERBY............................417 THE ARMSTRONG TOWER ON THE ESK..........................419 GILNOCKIE BRIDGE........................................420 ON THE ESK AT HOLLOWS...................................422 LANGHOLM................................................424 MAP--THE ENGLISH AND SCOTTISH BORDER..........End of Volume {001} HIGHWAYS AND BYWAYS IN THE BORDER CHAPTER I BERWICK, TWEED, WHITADDER |The "Border" is a magical word, and on either side of a line that constantly varied in the course of English and Scottish victories and defeats, all is enchanted ground, the home of memories of forays and fairies, of raids and recoveries, of loves and battles long ago. In the most ancient times of which record remains, the English sway, on the east, might extend to and include Edinburgh; and Forth, or even Tay, might be the southern boundary of the kingdom of the Scots. On the west, Strathclyde, originally Cymric or Welsh, might extend over Cumberland; and later Scottish kings might hold a contested superiority over that province. Between east and west, in the Forest of Ettrick, the place-names prove ownership in the past by men of English speech, of Cymric speech, and of Gaelic speech. From a single point of view you may see Penchrise (Welsh) Glengaber (Gaelic) and Skelfhill (English). Once the Border, hereabouts, ran slantwise, from Peel Fell in the Cheviots, across the Slitrig, a water which joins Teviot at{002}Hawick, thence across Teviot to Commonside Hill above Branksome tower, to the Rankle burn, near Buccleuch, an affluent of Ettrick. Thence, across Ettrick and Yarrow, over Minchmuir, where Montrose rode after the disaster at Philiphaugh, across Tweed, past the camp of Rink, to Torwoodlee, goes that ancient Border, marked by the ancient dyke called the Catrail, in which Sir Walter Scott once had a bad fall during his "grand rides among the hills," when he beat out the music of _Marmion_ to the accompaniment of his horse's hooves. The Catrail was a Border, once, and is a puzzle, owing to its ditch between two ramparts. There are many hill forts, mounds even now strong and steep in some places, on the line of the Catrail. The learned derive the word from Welsh _cad_, Gaelic _Cath_, "a battle," and some think that the work defended the Border of the Christian Cymric folk of Strathclyde from the pagan English of Northumbria. In that case, Sir Herbert Maxwell has expressed the pious hope that "the Britons were better Christians than they were military engineers." Is it inconceivable that the word Catrail is a mere old English nickname for a ditch which they did not understand, _the cat's trail_, like Catslack, the wild cat's gap, and other local cat names? I am no philologist! Once when taking a short cut across a hill round which the road runs from Branksome to Skelfhill, I came upon what looked like the deeply cut banks of an extinct burn. There was no water, and the dyke was not continued above or below. Walking on I met an old gentleman sketching a group of hill forts, artificial mounds, and asked him what this inexplicable deep cutting might be. "It is the Catrail," he said: I had often heard of it, and now I had seen it. The old man went on to show that the Border is still a haunted place. "Man, a queer thing happened to me on Friday nicht. I was sleeping at Tushielaw Inn, (on the Upper Ettrick) I had steikit the door and the windows: I woke in the middle o' the nicht,--there {003}was a body in the bed wi' me!" (I made a flippant remark. He took no notice of it.) "I got up and lit the candle, and looked. There was naebody in the bed. I fell asleep, and wakened again. The body was there, it _yammered_. I canna comprehend it." Nor can I, but a pah of amateur psychical researchers hastened to sleep a night at Tushielaw. _They_ were undisturbed; and the experience of the old antiquary was "for this occasion only." "My work seeks digressions," says Herodotus, and mine has already wandered far north of the old Border line of Tweed on the east, and Esk on the western marches, far into what was once the great forest of Ettrick, and now is mainly pasture land, _pastorum loca vasta_. In the old days of the Catrail and the hill forts this territory, "where victual never grew," must have been more thickly populated than it has been in historic times. [Illustration: 0023] We may best penetrate it by following the ancient natural tracks, by the sides of Tweed and its tributaries. We cross the picturesque bridge of Tweed at Berwick to the town which first became part of the kingdom of Scotland, when Malcolm II, at Carham fight, won Lothian from Northumbria. That was in 1018, nine centuries agone. Thenceforward Berwick was one of the four most important places of Scottish {004}trade; the Scots held it while they might, the English took it when they could; the place changed hands several times, to the infinite distress of a people inured to siege and sack. They must have endured much when Malcolm mastered it; and again, in 1172, when Richard de Lacy and Humphrey de Bohun, at war with William the Lion, burned the town. William, after he inadvertently, in a morning mist, charged the whole English army at Alnwick, and was captured, surrendered Berwick to England, by the Treaty of Falaise, when he did homage for his whole kingdom. The English strongly fortified the place, though the fragments of the girdling wall near the railway station, are, I presume, less ancient than the end of the twelfth century. William bought all back again from the crusading Richard of the Lion Heart: the two kings were "well matched for a pair of lions," but William the Lion was old by this time. In 1216, Alexander II attacked England at Norham Castle, but King John, though seldom victorious, was man enough to drive Alexander off, and brute enough to sack Berwick with great cruelty, setting a lighted torch to the thatch of the house in which he had lain; and "making a jolly fire," as a general of Henry VIII later described his own conduct at Edinburgh. Fifty years later the woman-hating friar who wrote _The Chronicle of Lanercost_ describes Berwick as the Alexandria of the period; the Tweed, flowing still and shallow, taking the place of the majestic river of Egypt. One is reminded of the Peebles man who, after returning from a career in India, was seen walking sadly on Peebles Bridge. "I'm a leear," he said, "an unco leear. In India I telled them a' that Tweed at Peebles was wider than the Ganges!" And he had believed it. However, Berwick _was_ the Scottish Alexandria, and paid into the coffers of the last of her "Kings of Peace," Alexander III, an almost incredible amount of customs dues. After three peaceful reigns, Scotland was a wealthy country, and Berwick was her chief emporium. But then came the death of the {005}Maid of Norway, the usurpation by Edward I, the endless wars for Independence: and Berwick became one of the cockpits of the long strife, while Scotland, like St. Francis, was the mate of Poverty. While Edward was in France, his "toom tabard," King John, (Balliol) renounced his allegiance. Edward came home and, in the last days of March 1296, crossed Tweed and beleaguered Berwick, in which were many trading merchants of Flanders. The townsfolk burned several of his ships, and sang songs of which the meaning was coarse, and the language, though libellous, was rather obscure. Edward was not cruel, as a rule, but, irritated by the check, the insults, and the reported murder by the Scots of English merchants, he gave orders for a charge. The ditch and stockade were carried, and a general massacre followed, of which horrible tales are told by a late rhyming chronicler. Hemingburgh, on the English side, says that the women were to some extent protected. The Scots avenged themselves in the same fashion at Corbridge, that old Roman station, but the glory and wealth of Berwick were gone, the place retaining only its military importance. To Berwick Edward II fled after Bannockburn, as rapidly as Sir John Cope sought the same refuge after Prestonpans. Berwick is, for historically minded tourists, (not a large proportion of the whole), a place of many memories. In July, 1318, Bruce took the castle after a long blockade; an English attempt to recover it was defeated mainly through the skill of Crab, a Flemish military engineer. Guns were not yet in use: "crakkis of war," (guns) were first heard in Scotland, near Berwick, in 1327. In 1333, after a terrible defeat of the Scots on the slopes of Halidon Hill, a short distance north of Berwick, the place surrendered to Edward III, and became the chief magazine of the English in their Scottish wars. By 1461, the Scots recovered it, but in 1481, the nobles of James III mutinied at Lauder bridge, hanged his favourites, and made no attempt to drive Crook-backed Richard from his {006}siege of Berwick. Since then the town has been in English hands, and was to them, for Scottish wars, a Calais or a Gibraltar. The present bridge of fifteen arches, the most beautiful surviving relic here of old days, was built under James VI and I. [Illustration: 0026] They say that the centre of the railway station covers the site of the hall of the castle of Edward I, in which that prince righteously awarded the crown of Scotland to John Balliol. The town long used the castle as a quarry, then came the railway, and destroyed all but a few low walls, mere hummocks, and the Bell Tower. Naturally the ancient churches perished after the Blessed Reformation: indeed the castle was used as a quarry for a new church of the period of the Civil War. Immediately above Berwick, and for some distance, Tweed flows between flat banks, diffusely and tamely: the pools are locally styled "dubs," and deserve the title. The anti-Scottish satirist, Churchill, says, {007} "Waft me, some Muse, to Tweed's inspiring stream Where, slowly winding, the dull waters creep And seem themselves to own the power of sleep." "In fact," replies a patriotic Scot, "'the glittering and resolute streams of Tweed,' as an old Cromwellian trooper and angler, Richard Franck, styles them, are only dull and sleepy in the dubs where England provides their flat southern bank." Not flat, however, are the banks on either side of Whitadder, Tweed's first tributary, which joins that river two or three miles above Berwick. From its source in the Lammermuirs, almost to its mouth, a distance of between thirty and forty miles, the Whitadder is quite an ideal trouting stream, "sore fished" indeed, and below Chirnside, injured, one fears, by discharge from Paper Mills there, yet full of rippling streams and boulder-strewn pools that make one itch to throw a fly over them. But most of the water is open to the public, and on days when local angling competitions are held it is no uncommon sight to see three, or maybe four, competitors racing for one stream or pool, the second splashing in and whipping the water in front of the first, regardless of unwritten sporting law; a real case of "deil tak the hindmost." "Free-fishing" no doubt, from some points of view, is a thing to be desired, but to him who can remember old times, when the anglers he met in the course of a day's fishing might easily be counted on the fingers of one hand, the change now is sad. Yet men, they say, do still in the open stretches of Whitadder catch "a pretty dish" now and again. They must be very early birds, one would suppose--and perhaps they fish with the lure that the early bird is known to pick up. On both sides of Whitadder are to be seen places of much interest. First, Edrington Castle, on the left bank a few miles from the river's mouth, once a place of great strength, now crushed by the doom that has wrecked so many of the old strongholds in this part of the country--it was for ages used as {008}a convenient quarry. Then, on the right bank, higher up, on an eminence overhanging the stream, stands Hutton Hall, a picturesque old keep of the fifteenth century, with additions of later date. The original tower was probably built by the Lord Home, who obtained the lands in 1467 by his marriage with the daughter of George Ker of Samuelton. Nearly opposite Hutton, about a mile away, are the ruins of an old castle at Edington. It is remarkable the number of names in this district, all beginning with "Ed":--Edrington, Edington, Ednam, Eden, Edrom, Edinshall, all probably taking their origin from Edwin, king of Northumbria, 626-633. Or does the derivation go still further back, to Odin? Higher up, we come to Allanton and the junction of Whitadder with its tributary, Blackadder. Near this lies Allanbank, haunt for many generations of that apparition so famous in Scotland, "Pearlin Jean." Jean, or rather Jeanne, it is said, was a beautiful young French lady, in Paris or elsewhere loved and left by a wicked Baronet of Allanbank, Sir Robert Stuart. The tale is some hundreds of years old, but "Pearlin Jean" and her pathetic story still retain their hold on the imagination of Border folk. The legend goes that when the false lover, after a violent scene, deserted his bride that should have been, the poor lady accidentally met her death, but not before she had vowed that she would "be in Scotland before him." And sure enough, the first thing that greeted the horrified gaze of the baronet as he crossed the threshold of his home, bringing another bride than her he had loved and left, wras the dim form of Jeanne, all decked, as had ever been her wont, in the rich lace that she loved, and from which the apparition derived the name of Pearlin Jean, "pearlin" being the Scottish term for lace. Tradition says nothing as to the end of the false lover, but the ghost was still known--so say the country people--to have haunted the house until it was pulled down sometime early in last century. Sir Thomas Dick Lauder in his "Scottish Rivers" tells how {009}an old woman then anxiously enquired: "Where will Pearlin Jean gang noo when the house is dismolished?" That is the tale of "Pearlin Jean" as it is generally told. There is another story, however, less known but much more probable. When the reckless extravagance of succeeding generations ended as it always must end; when cards and dire and the facile aid of wine and women had sent bit after bit of the broad lands of an old family into alien keeping, and not tardily the day had come when the last acre slipped through heedless fingers, and even the household furniture--all that remained to the last Baronet of Allanbank--was brought to the hammer, there was one room in the old house into which, ere the gloaming fell, the country folk peered with awe greater even than their curiosity. It was a room in which for near on two generations the dust had been left to lie undisturbed on table and chair and mantel-shelf, a room whose little diamond shaped window panes the storms of more than fifty winters had dimmed, and on whose hearth still lay the ashes of a fire quenched half a century back. Here it was that Pearlin Jean had passed those few not unhappy months of her life, while yet a false lover was not openly untrue to her. But into this chamber, since Jean quilted it for the last time no servant would venture by day or by night, unaccompanied, lest in it might be seen the wraith of that unfortunate and much wronged lady. It is a story common enough, unhappily, that of Jeanne. She was the daughter of a Flemish Jew, very beautiful, very young, very light-hearted and loving, and unsuspecting of evil, of a disposition invincibly generous and self-sacrificing. In an evil hour the Fates threw across her path Sir Robert Stuart of Allanbank, then visiting the Hague during his travels on the Continent. Sir Robert was a man now no longer in his first youth, self-indulgent, callous of the feelings and rights of others where they ran athwart his own wants or desires, one {010}to whom the seamy side of life had long been as an open book. His crop of wild oats, indeed, was ere now of rankest growth, and already on the face of the sower were lines that told of the toil of sowing. But he was a handsome man, with a fluent, honeyed tongue, and it did not take him long to steal the heart from one who, like the poor little Jeanne, suspected no evil. To the Merse and to Allanbank there came word that the land was returning to his home. The house was to be put in order, great preparations to be made. No doubt, folk thought, all pointed to a wedding in the near future; the wild young baronet was about to settle down at last--and not before it was time, if what folk said regarding his last visit to Allanbank might be trusted. But the local newsmongers were wrong, in this instance at least of the home-coming and what might be expected to follow. When Sir Robert's great coach lumbered up to the door of Allanbank, there stepped down, not the baronet alone, but a very beautiful young woman, a vision all in lace and ribbons, whom the wondering servants were instructed to regard in future as their mistress. And though neighbours--with a few male exceptions--of course kept severely aloof, steadily ignoring the scandalous household of Allanbank, yet after a time, in spite of the fact that no plain gold band graced the third finger of Jeanne's left hand, servants, and the country folk generally, came to have a great liking, and even an affection, for the kindly little foreign lass with the merry grey eyes and the sunny hair, and the quaintly tripping tongue. And for a time Jeanne was happy, singing gaily enough from morning to night some one or other of her numberless sweet old French _chansons._ She had the man she adored; what mattered neighbours? And so the summer slid by. But before the autumn there came a change. The merry lass was no longer so merry, songs came less often from her lips, tears that she could not hide more and more often {011}brimmed over from her eyes; and day by day her lover seemed to become more short in the temper and less considerate of her feelings, more inclined to be absent from home. In a word, he was bored, and he was not the man to conceal it. Then when April was come, and the touch of Spring flushed every bare twig in copse or wooded bank down by the pools where trout lay feeding, when thrush and blackbird, perched high on topmost hough, poured out their hearts in a glory of song that rose and fell on the still evening air, a little daughter lay in Jeanne's arms, and happiness again for a brief space was hers. But not for long. The ardour born anew in her man's self-engrossed heart soon died down. To him now it seemed merely that a squalling infant had been added to his already almost insufferable burden of a peevish woman. More and more, Jeanne was left to her own society and to the not inadequate solace of her little child. Then "business" took Stuart to Edinburgh. Months passed, and he did not return; nor did Jeanne once hear of him. But there came at last for her a day black and terrible, when the very foundations of her little world crumbled and became as the dust that drives before the wind. From Edinburgh came a mounted messenger, bearing a letter, written by his man of business, which told the unhappy girl that Sir Robert Stuart was about to be married to one in his own rank of life; that due provision should be made for the child, and sufficient allowance settled on herself, provided that she returned to her own country and refrained from causing further scandal or trouble. She made no outcry, poor lass; none witnessed her bitter grief that night. But in the morning, she and the child were gone, and on her untouched bed lay the lace and the jewels she once had liked to wear because in early days it had pleased her to hear the man she loved say that she looked well in them. Time went by, and Stuart, unheeding of public opinion, brought his bride to Allanbank. Of Jeanne he had had {012}no word; she had disappeared--opportunely enough, he thought. Probably she had long ago gone back to her own land, and by this time the countryside had perhaps found some other nine days' wonder to cackle over. So he returned, driving up to the house in great state--as once before he had driven up. Surely an ill-omened home-coming, this, for the new bride! As the horses dashed up the avenue, past little groups of gaping country people uncertain whether to cheer or to keep silence, suddenly there darted from a clump of shrubbery the flying figure of a woman carrying in her arms a little child, and ere the postilions could pull up, or any bystander stop her, she was down among the feet of the plunging horses, and an iron heel had trodden out the life of the woman. It was the trampled body of that Jeanne whom he had lightly loved for a time and then tossed aside when weary of his toy, that met the horrified gaze of the white-lipped, silent man who got hurriedly down from inside that coach, leaving his terrified bride to shrink unheeded in her corner. And perhaps now he would have given much to undo the past and to make atonement for the wrong he had done. At least, he may have thought, there was the child to look after; and his heart--what there was of it--went out with some show of tenderness towards the helpless infant. But here was the beginning of strife, for Jeanne's baby did by no means appeal to the new-made bride. Nor was that lady best pleased to find in her withdrawing room a fine portrait in oils of her unlawful predecessor. And so there was little peace in that house; and as little comfort as peace, for it came to pass that no servant would remain there. From the day of her death Pearlin Jean "walked", they said, and none dared enter the room which once she had called her own. That, of all places, was where she was most certain to be seen. For one day, when the master entered the room alone, they that were near heard his {013}voice pleading, and when he came out it was with a face drawn and grey, and his eyes, they said, gazed into vacancy like those of one that sees not. So the place got ever an increasingly bad name, and the ghost of the poor unhappy Jeanne could get no rest, but went to and fro continually. And long after that day had arrived when her betrayer, too, slept with his fathers, the notoriety of the affair waxed so great that seven learned ministers, tradition says, united vainly in efforts to lay the unquiet spirit of Pearlin Jean. So long as the old house stood, there, they will tell you, might her ghost be seen, pathetically constant to the place of her sorrow. And there may not be wanting, even now, those who put faith in the possibility of her slender figure being seen as it glides through the trees where the old house of Allanbank once stood. Some miles above Allanton, on the left bank of Whitadder, stands Blanerne, home of a very ancient Scottish family. And farther back from the river are the crumbling fragments of Billie Castle--"Bylie," in twelfth century charters,--and of Bunkle, or, more properly, Bonkyll, Castle. All these have met the fate assigned to them by the old local rhyming prophecy: "Bunkle, Billie, and Blanerne, Three castles Strang as aim, Built whan Davy was a bairn; They'll a' gang doun Wi' Scotland's crown, And ilka ane sail be a cairn." A cairn each has been, without doubt, or rather a quarry, from which material for neighbouring farm buildings has been ruthlessly torn. Of Blanerne, I believe the Keep still exists, as well as some other remains, to tell of what has been; but Billie Castle is now little more than a green mound at foot of which runs a more or less swampy burn, with here and there a fragment of massive wall still standing; whilst Bunkle is a mere rubble of loose stones. AH these were destroyed in Hertford's {014}raid in 1544, when so much of the Border was "birnd and owaiertrown." [Illustration: 0034] More ruthless than Hertford's, however, was the work at Bunkle of our own people in 1820. They pulled down an eleventh century church in order to build the present edifice. Only a fragment of the original building remains, but many of its carved stones may be seen in the walls of the existing {015}church. Possibly the old structure was in a bad state of repair. One does not know for certain; but at date of its demolition the building appears to have been entire. [Illustration: 8035] Our ancestors of a hundred years ago were not to be "lippened to" where ecclesiastical remains were concerned. They had what amounted to a passion for pulling down anything that was old, and where they did not pull down, they generally covered with hideous plaster any inside wall or ornamental work, which to them perhaps might savour of "papistry." Parish ministers, even late in the eighteenth and early in the nineteenth centuries, appear to have taken no interest in those beautiful Norman remains, numerous fragments of which even now exist in Berwickshire; of all those ministers who compiled the old Statistical Account of this county, but one or two make any mention of such things. One fears, indeed, that to some of those reverend gentlemen, or to others like them of later date, we are indebted for the destruction of priceless relics of the past. At Duns, for instance, as late as 1874 the original chancel of an old Norman church was pulled down by order of the incumbent, "to improve the church-yard." Then, as already mentioned, there is Bunkle, an instance of very early Norman work, pulled down in 1820. At Chirnside, the tower of its Norman church was sacrificed in 1750. though great part of the old church walls remain; in the south side is a Norman doorway six feet ten inches in height to the lintel and two feet ten and three-quarter inches wide. Of Edrom church, a very beautiful Norman doorway, said to be "the finest of its style in Scotland," has been preserved, entirely owing, apparently, to {016}the fact that it had been made the entrance to a burial vault. At Legerwood, near Earlstoun, where stands the chancel of a Norman church, the arch is still entire but is defaced with plaster. Berwickshire, however, is not the only part of the Border where such things have been done. [Illustration: 0036] Higher up Tweed, at Stobo in Peeblesshire, there is an interesting old church of Norman structure, with sixteenth and seventeenth century alterations; roof and interior fittings are modern, and the building is still used as the Parish Church. Sixteenth and seventeenth century alterations have now at least age to commend them, but it is difficult to see what plea can be advanced for some of those of comparatively recent date. According to "Ecclesiastical Architecture of Scotland," the most serious injury inflicted on the building was the entire destruction of the Norman chancel arch, in order to insert a modern pointed one, at the restoration of the church in 1868. Over in Teviotdale, too, the same passion for altering, or for sweeping away relics of old times, ran its course. In 1762, the Town Council of Hawick gave orders for the destruction of the Town's Cross. So Popish a thing as a Cross could not be {017}tolerated by those worthy and "unco" pious persons. The treasurer's accounts of the time show that tenpence per day was paid to two men for the work of taking down the Cross, and the carved stones seem to have been sold afterwards for eleven shillings and sixpence. No doubt the worthy bailies congratulated themselves on having not only rid the town of an emblem of Popery, but on having made quite a handsome monetary profit over the transaction. But to return to Whitadder. In his "Scottish Rivers," Sir Thomas Dick Lauder writes of Billy Castle as the scene of a grisly tale connected with the Homes. He tells how, to the best of his reckoning about a century prior to the date at which he wrote, an old lady of that family resided here in a somewhat friendless condition, but with a considerable household of servants, chief of whom was a butler who had been in her service for many years, and in whose integrity she had entire confidence. This old lady, it seems, was in the habit of personally collecting rents from her tenants, and as there were then no country banks in which to deposit the money, it was her custom to count it in presence of the butler, prior to locking the guineas away in a strong cupboard in her bedroom. The door of this room was secured by an ingenious arrangement, whereby a heavy brass bolt, or cylinder, was allowed to fall by its own weight into an opening made exactly to fit it. To an eye in the head of the cylinder was attached a cord which worked through a pulley fastened to the ceiling, and thence by a series of running blocks passed to the bedside. Thus the old lady, without troubling to get out of bed, could bolt or unbolt her door at will, and so long as the cylinder was down, no one could possibly enter the room. Now, the butler had for years witnessed this counting and stowing away of the rent monies, and temptation had never yet assailed him. He might, indeed, plume himself on his honesty, and say with Verges: "I thank God I am as honest as any man living that is an old {018}man and no honester than I." But alas! there came a night when the guineas chinked too seductively, and the devil whispered in the butler's ear. Perhaps some small financial embarrassment of his own was troubling the man. Anyhow, it came to his mind that if he could quietly fill up the hole into which the bolt of his mistress's bedroom door dropped, he might help himself to as much money as he needed. The time of year was the cherry season. What so easy as to fill up the bolt hole with cherry stones? The "geans" grew thick in Scotland, and they were black ripe now. "At midnight," says Sir Thomas, "he stole into his mistress's chamber, cut her throat from ear to ear, broke open her cabinet, and possessed himself of her money; and although he might have walked down stairs and out at the door without exciting either alarm or suspicion, he opened the window and let himself down nearly two stories high, broke his leg, and lay thus among the shrubbery till morning, without ever attempting to crawl away. He was seized, tried, condemned, and executed." It is grisly enough, but hardly so grisly as the real story of what happened. The scene of the murder, however, was not Billy Castle--which, indeed, had then been dismantled and in ruins for two hundred years--but Linthill House, a fine old mansion standing on a "brae" overhanging Eye-water, five or six miles from Billy. Linthill is now inhabited by families of work-people, but it is still in good preservation, and at date of Sir Thomas Dick Lauder's story (1752), must have been a very-fine specimen of the old Scottish château. The old lady's room was entered as Sir Thomas describes, but the butler did not immediately cut her throat. She was awakened by the sound of the stealthy rifling of the cupboard, or strong iron-bound box, in which her valuables were kept, and with that pluck which is characteristic of the old-time Scottish lady, she jumped up to grapple with the robber. Then he cut her throat, and leaving her for dead on the bed, {019}proceeded with his rifling. A slight noise, nowever, disturbed him, and, looking round, a terrifying sight met his gaze; the woman whom he had believed to be dead was on her feet, blindly groping her bloody way along the wall to the bell. Before he could seize her and complete his work, she had pulled the rope with all the strength left to her, and had alarmed the other servants. Thus the murderer had no opportunity to leave by way of the stairs. He jumped from the window--no great feat for an active man with his wits about him. But the butler was flurried; perhaps, also, he was stout, as is not uncommon with pampered servants. In any case, he missed his footing, came down badly, and broke his leg. He did not, however, lie where he fell, inert and helpless. With painful, effort the man dragged himself to a field near by, where, amongst sweet-scented flowering beans, he lay concealed for some days. On the fourth day, as he lay groaning beside a tiny spring of water which still flows near the middle of the field, he chanced to be seen by some children, who gave information. The wretched man was taken, tried, and executed--the last instance in Scotland of a criminal being hung in chains. The blood of a murdered person, they say, refuses to be washed clean from any wood-work into which it may have soaked--witness that ghastly dark patch that disfigures a floor in Holyrood. Here at Linthill at least there is no doubt of the fact that those marks remain; in spite of very visible attempts to remove the stains from the wood-work by planing them out, the prints of the poor lady's bloody hands still cling to the oak wainscoting of the gloomy old room where the deed was committed. About house and grounds there hangs now an air of dejection and decay, though Eye ripples cheerily just beyond the garden foot and the surrounding landscape is bright with pleasant woods and smiling fields. Surely if ever ghost walked, it should be here at Linthill; that midnight bell should clang, a window be thrown open, the thud be heard of a heavy body falling on the ground. {020}But it is not mistress or man that haunts that house. It is of other things they tell who have been there; of an upper chamber, to which nightly comes the shuffling tramp of men bearing from a vehicle which is heard to drive up to the house door, a heavy weight, which they deposit on the floor. More shuffling, a room door quietly closed, the sound of retreating steps, then silence. "Hout!" say the womenfolk of those who now inhabit part of the old house, "it'll no be naething." But they look behind them with a glance not too assured, and the voice that says t is "naething" is not over-steady in tone. A little higher up the river than Blanerne we come to Broomhouse, where also once stood a castle. In a field on this estate is a spot, still called "Bawtie's Grave," where the body of Sir Anthony Darcy--"Le Sieur de la Beauté"--Warden of the Marches in 1517, is said to lie buried. Darcy, or de la Bastie (or de la Beauté), as he was generally called, was a Frenchman, a man possessed of great personal beauty and attraction; but the fact that he had been appointed Warden of the Marches and Captain of Dunbar Castle in room of Lord Home, who had been treacherously put to death in Edinburgh, rendered him very obnoxious to the inhabitants of that part of Berwickshire in which the Homes held sway. It was through Darcy that Lord Home and his brother had been decoyed to Edinburgh, said the kin and supporters of the Home family. Vengeance must be taken. Nor was time wasted over it. An occasion soon arose when Darcy in his capacity of Warden had to visit Langton Tower, (no great distance from Duns), in order to settle some family feud of the Cockburns, relatives by marriage of the Homes. Here, outside the tower, Sir David Home, with a party of horsemen, came up, and speedily picked a quarrel with the Sieur. Swords were out in a minute, and Home's band was too strong for Darcy and his men. Several of the French attendants of the Sieur fell, and as the rest of his party were mostly Borderers, and therefore not very eager to fight for him, the Warden found himself {021}compelled to ride for it. He headed in the direction of Dunbar. But the ground over which he had to gallop was swampy, and de la Beauté's heavy horse sank fetlock deep at every stride, finally "bogging" in a morass some distance to the east of Duns. Darcy is said to have continued his flight on foot, but the chase did not last long; Home and his followers bore down upon him--a well-mounted "little foot-page," they say, the first man up. "The leddies o' France may wail and mourn, May wail and mourn fu' sair, For the Bonny Bawtie's lang broun lucks They'll never see waving mair." They were on him at once; his head was fiercely hewn off, carried in triumph to Home Castle, and there fastened to the end of a spear on the battlements, to gaze blind-eyed over the wide Merse, the land he had tried to govern. Pitscottie says that Sir David Home of Wedderburn cut off Darcy's long flow ing locks, and plaiting them into a wreath, knit them as a trophy to his saddle bow. Perhaps the Sieur in the end got no more than his deserts, or at least no more than he may frequently have dealt out to others. He came of a stock famed in France for cruelty and oppression; and the peasants round Allevard, in the Savoie,--where stand the fragments of what was once his ancestral home--still tell of that dreadful night when Messire Satan himself wras seen to take his stand on the loftiest battlement of the castle. And they relate how then the walls rocked and swayed and with hideous crash toppled to the ground. Perhaps it was this very catastrophe which sent the "Bonny Bawtie" to Scotland. A cairn once marked the spot where the Sieur's body found a resting place. But, unfortunately, such a ready-made quarry of stones attracted the notice of a person who contracted to repair the district roads. It is many years ago now, and there was no {022}one to say him nay. He carted away the interesting land-mark and broke up the cairn into road metal. Home Castle still dominates this part of the Border, but no longer is it the building of "Bawtie's" day. That was pulled down in the time of the Protector, by Cromwell's soldiers under Colonel Fenwick. Thomas Cockburn, Governor in 1650 when Fenwick summoned the castle to surrender, was valiant only on paper; a few rounds from the English guns caused his valour to ooze from his fingers' ends, and sent up the white flag. That was the end of the old castle. Fenwick dismantled it and pulled down the walls; the present building, imposing as it seems, standing grim and erect on its rocky height, is but a dummy fortress, built in the early eighteenth century on the old foundations, from the old material, by the Earl of Marchmont. The original building dated from the thirteenth century, and a stormy life it had, like many Border strongholds alternately in Scottish and in English hands. In 1547, after a gallant defence by the widow of the fourth Lord Home, it was taken by the English under Somerset; two years later it was recaptured by that lady's son, the fifth Lord Home. "Too old at forty," is the cry raised in these days--presumably by those who have not yet attained to that patriarchal age--but when a state of war was the chronic condition of the Border-land, men of vastly greater age than forty were not seldom able to show the way to warriors young enough to be their grandsons. At this taking of Home Castle in the closing days of December 1548, it was a man over sixty, one of the name of Home, who was the first to mount the wall. The attack was made at night, on the side where the castle was both naturally and artificially strongest, and where consequently least vigilant guard might probably be kept. As Home, ahead of his comrades, began to slide his body cautiously over the parapet, the suspicions of a sentry pacing at some little distance were roused, and he challenged and {023}turned out the guard. This man had not actually _seen_ anything, the night was too dark for that, but he had, as it were, _smelt_ danger, with that strange extra sense that sometimes in such circumstances raises man more nearly to the level of his superior in certain things--the wild animal. However, in this case the sentry got no credit, but only ridicule, from his comrades, for examination showed that there was no cause whatever for his having brought the guard out into the cold, looking for mares' nests over the ramparts. Home and his party had dropped hurriedly back, and during the time that the Englishmen were glancing carelessly over the wall, they lay securely hidden close at its base. As soon, however, as the English soldiers had returned to the snug warmth of their guard-room, and the mortified sentry was once more pacing up and down, Home was again the first of the Scots to clamber up and to fall upon the astonished Englishman, whom this time he slew, a fate which overtook most of the castle's garrison. "Treachery helped the assailants," said the English. "Home Castle was taken by night, and treason, by the Scots," is the entry in King Edward's Journal. Again, in 1569, it was battered by the heavy siege guns of the Earl of Sussex and once more for a time was held by-England; finally in 1650 came its last experience of war. It was at Home Castle that Mary of Gueldres, Queen of James II of Scotland, lay whilst her husband besieged Roxburgh in 1460. One hundred and six years later, Mary Queen of Scots was there on her way to Craigmillar from Jedburgh. In days when the bale-fire's red glare on the sky by night, or its heavy column of smoke by day, was the only means of warning the country of coming invasion from the south, Home Castle, with its wide outlook, was the ideal centre of a system of beacon signals on the Scottish border. The position was matchless for such purpose; nothing could escape the watchful eyes of those perched on the lofty battlements of this "Sentinel of the Merse," no flaming signal from the fords over {024}Tweed fail to be seen. In an instant, at need, fires would be flashing their messages over all the land, warning not only the whole Border, but Dunbar, Haddington, Edinburgh, and even the distant shores of life. "A baile is warnyng of ther cumyng quhat power whatever thai be of. Twa bailes togedder at anis thai cumyng in deide. Four balis, ilk ane besyde uther and all at anys as four candills, sal be suthfast knawlege that thai ar of gret power and menys." So ran part of the instructions issued in the fifteenth century. But almost in our own day--at least in the days of the grandfathers of some now living--Home Castle flashed its warning and set half Scotland flying to arms. Britain then lived under the lively apprehension of a French invasion. With an immense army, fully equipped, Napoleon lay at Boulogne waiting a favourable opportunity to embark. Little wonder, therefore, that men were uneasy in their minds, and that ere they turned in to bed of a night country folk cast anxious glances towards some commanding "Law" or Fell, where they knew that a beacon lay ready to be fired by those who kept watch. In the dull blackness of the night of 31st January, 1804, the long-looked-for summons came. All over the Border, on hill after hill where of old those dreaded warnings had been wont to flash, a tiny spark was seen, then a long tongue of flame leaping skyward. The French were coming in earnest at last! Just as ready as it had been in the fiercest days of Border warfare was now the response to the sudden call to arms. Over a country almost roadless, rural members of the various Yeomanry corps galloped through the mirk night, reckless of everything save only that each might reach his assembly point in time to fall in with his comrades. Scarce a man failed to report himself as ready for service--in all the Border I believe there were but two or three. And though it turned out that the alarm fires had been lit through an error of judgment on the part of one of the watchers, there is no doubt that to the bulk of the men who turned out so full of courage and enthusiasm that night, the {025}feeling at first, if mixed with relief, was one of disappointment that they had had no chance of trying a fall with "Boney" and his veterans. The man who was the first to fire his beacon on that 31st of January was a watcher at Home Castle. Peering anxiously through the gloom, he imagined that he saw a light flare up in the direction of Berwick. It was in reality only a fire lit by Northumbrian charcoal-burners that he saw, and its locality was many points to the south of Berwick, but as the blaze sprang higher, and the flames waxed, the excited watcher lost his head, and, forgetting to verify the position, feverishly set a light to his own beacon and sent the summons to arms flying over the Border. Had it not chanced that the watcher by the beacon on St. Abb's Head was a man of cool temperament, all Scotland had been buzzing that night like a hornets' nest. This man, however, reasoned with himself that news of an invasion, if it came at all, must necessarily come from a coastal, and not from an inland station, and therefore he very wisely did not repeat the signal. The spirit shown on the occasion of this false alarm, and the promptitude with which yeomanry and volunteers turned out, are things of which Borderers are justly proud. Many of the yeomanry rode from forty to fifty miles that night in order to be in time; and even greater distances were covered. Sir Walter Scott himself was in Cumberland when word of the firing of the beacons came to him, but within twenty-four hours he and his horse had reached Dalkeith, where his regiment was assembled, a distance of one hundred miles from his starting point. In one or two instances, where members of a corps chanced to be from home, in Edinburgh on private business, mother or wife sent off with the troop when it marched, the horse, uniform, and arms of husband or son, so that nothing might prevent them from joining their regiment at Dalkeith. The substance of the message then sent to her son by the widowed mother of the writer's grandfather, will be found in Sir Walter's Notes to _The Antiquary_. If in our day {026}like cause should unhappily arise, if the dread shadow of invasion should ever again fall on our land, no doubt the response would be as eager as it was in 1804; the same spirit is there that burned in our forefathers. But of what value now-a-days are half-trained men if they come to be pitted against the disciplined troops of a Continental Power? Of no more avail than that herd of wild bulls that the Spaniards in 1670 tried to drive down on Morgan's Buccaneers at Panama. Many a tale is still told of the events of that stirring night of 31st January, 1804. One of the Selkirk volunteers, a man named Chisholm, had been married that day; but there was no hesitation on his part. "Weel, Peggy, my woman," he said in parting with his day-old bride, "if I'm killed, ye'll hear tell o't. And if I'm no killed, I'll come back as sune as I can." A particularly "canny" Scot was another volunteer, whose mother anxiously demanded ere he marched if he had any money with him in case of need. "Na, na!" he said, "they may kill me if they like, but they'll get nae siller off _me_." A few cases of the white feather there were, of course; in so large a body of undisciplined men there could hardly fail to be some who had no stomach for the fight, but instances of cowardice were surprisingly few. One or two there were who hid under beds; and one youth, as he joined the ranks, was heard to blubber, "Oh, mother, mother, I wish I'd been born a woman." But of those who should have mustered at Kelso, only two out of' five hundred failed to answer to their names, and possibly they may have had legitimate cause for their absence. Many of the members of foot regiments were long distances away when the alarm was given. Of the Duns volunteers, for instance, two members were fifteen miles distant when the beacons blazed up. Yet they made all speed into the town, got their arms and accoutrements, marched all through the night, and fell in alongside their comrades at Haddington next forenoon. Many--all the men of Lessudden, for example--marched without uniforms. An{027}unpleasant experience had been theirs had they fallen, in civilian dress, into the hands of the enemy. To return to Whitadder.--Some miles above Broomhouse we come to Cockburn Law, a conical hill of about 1100 feet in height, round three sides of which the river bends sharply. On the northern slope of the hill is the site, and what little remains to be traced, of Edinshall, a circular tower dating probably from the seventh century. According to the oid Statistical Account of the Parish, the walls of this tower,--Edwin's Hall,--measured in diameter 85 feet 10 inches, and in thickness 15 feet 10 inches, enclosing in their depths many cells or chambers. Their height must once have been very considerable, for even at date of the Statistical Account--the end of the eighteenth century--they stood about eight feet high, and were surrounded on all sides by a scattered mass of fallen stones. The ground around shows traces of having been fortified, but the tower itself probably was never a place of strength. The stones of which the building was constructed were large, and close fitting, but not bound together with mortar, which indeed was not in use in Scotland so early as the date of the building of Edinshall,--hence the tower was a quarry too convenient to be respected by agriculturists of a hundred years ago. Most of the material of the ancient build ing has been taken to construct drains, or to build "dry stane dykes." The "rude hand of ignorance" has indeed been heavy on the antiquities of Scotland. Where the stream bends sharply to the left as one fishes up those glorious pools and boulder-strewn rapids, there stands a cottage not far removed from Edinshall, which on the Ordnance Survey maps bears the very un-Scottish name of Elba. It has, however, not even a remote connection with the place of exile of an Emperor. The learned would have us believe that the name is derived from the Gaelic "Eil," a hill, and "both," a dwelling. It may be so; but it seems much more likely that "Elba" is merely the Ordnance Survey people's spelling of the {028}word "elbow," as it is pronounced in Scotland; the river here makes an extremely sharp bend, or elbow. Near Elba is an old copper mine which was worked to advantage by an English company midway in the eighteenth century. Abandoned after a time, it was reopened in 1825, but was soon again closed. Copper was not there in sufficient quantity to pay; probably it had been worked out before. Four or five miles from here we come to Abbey St. Bathans, a name which conjures up visions of peaceful old ruins nestling among whispering elms by clear and swift flowing waters. There is now, however, little of interest to be found. St. Bathans was originally a convent of Cistercian Nuns, with the title of a Priory, and was founded towards the end of the twelfth century by Ada, daughter of William the Lion. As late as 1833, the then recently written Statistical Account of the Parish says that the north and east walls of the church "still bear marks of antiquity," and that in the north wall is "an arched door which communicated with the residence of the Nuns"; but, says the Account, this door "is now built up." "Adjoining the church, and between it: and the Whitadder, remains of the Priory were visible a few years ago." Where are they now? Built into some wall or farm building, no doubt, or broken up, perhaps, to repair roads or field drains. And where is the font, with its leaden pipe, that stood "in the wall near the altar"? Perhaps--if it still exists, unbroken,--it may now be used as a trough for feeding pigs, as has been the fate of many another such vessel. It is hard to forgive the dull, brutish ignorance that wilfully wrecked so much of the beauty and interest that the past bequeathed to us. It is not easy to say who was the saint from whom Abbey St. Bathans inherited its name. Probably it was Bothan, Prior of Old Mailros in the seventh century, a holy man of great fame in the Border. There is a well or spring not far distant from the church of St. Bathans, whose miraculous powers of healing all sickness or disease were doubtless derived {029}from the good Father. These powers have now long decayed, but as late as 1833--possibly even later--some curious beliefs regarding the well were held in the neighbourhood, and its waters, it was well known, would "neither fog nor freeze" in the coldest weather. Shortly after leaving Abbey St. Bathans, as we gradually near the Lammermuirs, the land on both sides of Whitadder begins more to partake of the hill-farm variety, where grouse and blackgame swarm thick on the stooked corn in late autumn. From the south side, a little above Ellemford, there enters a considerable stream, the water of Dye, said to be of good repute as regards its trout. One of these high, round backed hills here is probably the scene of some great battle of old times. "Manslaughter Law" is the satisfying name of the hill. There is a tumulus still remaining on the north side of it, and near at hand weapons have been dug up, says the Statistical Account. One wonders what their fate may have been. They, at any rate, would surely be preserved? It is by no means so sure. One sword, at least, that was found many years ago on the west side of Manslaughter Law, met with the fate one might expect from the kind of people who used to quarry into beautiful old abbeys in order to get material to build a pig-stye. It was taken to the village smithy, and there "improved" out of existence--made into horseshoes perhaps, or a "grape for howkin' tatties." Had it been a helmet that was then unearthed, no doubt a use would have been found for it such as that which the Elizabethan poet sadly suggests for the helmet of the worn out old man-at-arms: "His helmet now shall make a hive for bees." Eastward from the spot where this sword was found is a barrow which, says the Statistical Account, "probably covers more arms"; and on a hill by Waich Water, a tributary of the Dye, are the Twin-Law Cairns, which are supposed to mark the resting place of twin brothers who fell here,--perhaps in pre-historic {030}times. Tradition says that these two were commanders of rival armies, Scottish and Saxon, and that, neither at the time being aware of their relationship, they undertook to fight it out, as champions of the rival hosts. When both lay dead, some old man, who had known the brothers in their childhood, gazing on them, with grief discovered the relationship of the slain men; and to commemorate the tragedy, the soldiers of both hosts formed lines from Waich Water to the hill's summit, and passed up stones wherewith they built these cairns. At Byrecleuch Ridge, towards the head of Dye Water, is another enormous and very remarkable cairn called the Mutiny Stones. This great mass of piled up stone measures two hundred and forty feet in length; where broadest, seventy-five feet; and its greatest height is eighteen feet. What does it commemorate? A great fight, say some, that took place in 1402 between the Earl of Dunbar and Hepburn of Hailes, in which the latter was killed. A prehistoric place of sepulture, hazards Sir Herbert Maxwell. But it was not here that Hepburn fell; that was elsewhere in the Merse. And they were little likely in the fifteenth century to have taken such titanic pains to hand his memory down to posterity. The prehistoric place of sepulture sounds the more probable theory. But why "Mutiny Stones"? There must surely be some local tradition more satisfying than that of the Hepburn-Dunbar fight. The upper part of Whitadder must once have been well fitted to check hostile raids from the south whose object was to strike the fat Lothians through the passes over the Lammermuirs. In the few miles of wild hill country that sweep from its source on Clint's Dod down to its junction with Dye Water, there formerly stood no fewer than six castles, Chambers tells us,--John's Cleuch, Gamelshiel, (the lady of which was killed by a wolf as she walked near her home one evening in the gloaming) Penshiel, Redpath, Harehead, and Cranshaws. Except in the case of Cranshaws, there are now {031}few traces left standing of these strongholds. Cranshaws, a building of the sixteenth century, is in good preservation; of Gamelshiel there remains a bit of wall, of Penshiel a fragment of vaulting; of the others no stone. Cranshaws of old, it is said, was long the haunt of one of those Brownies, or familiar spirits, that were wont in the good old days of our forefathers mysterious ly to do by night, when the household slept, all manner of domestic or farm work for those who humoured them and treated them well in the matter of food, or other indulgence affected by their kind. There was nothing a Brownie would not do for the family he favoured, provided that he was kept in good humour; otherwise, or if he were laughed at or his work lightly spoken of, it were better for that family that it had never been born; their sleep was disturbed o' nights, malevolent ill-luck dogged them by day, until he was propitiated. But leave out for him each night a jug of milk and a barley bannock,--they were not luxurious in their tastes, those Brownies,--and at dawn you would find ".... how the drudging goblin sweat To earn his cream bowl duly set; When in one night, ere glimpse of morn, His shadow'y flail hath threshed the corn That ten day-lab'rers could not end; Then lies him down, the Lubber-fiend, And stretched out all the chimney's length, Basks at the tire his hairy strength; And crop-full out of doors he flings Ere the first cock his matin rings." They tell that this particular Brownie at Cranshaws, being offended at some reflection made on his work, the following night took up an entire crop that he had thrashed, curried it to the Raven Craig, two miles down the river, and threw it over the cliff. Belief in the Brownie died hard in the Border I am not sure that in remote "up the water" districts he did not survive almost till the advent of motor cars and bicycles. CHAPTER II BLACKADDER, NORHAM, FLORDEN, COLDSTREAM, WARR, AND THE EDEN |But {032}a step over the moor from Waich Water, across by Twin-Law Cairns and down by the Harecleuch Hill we come to the head-waters of the most considerable of Whitadder's tributaries--Blackadder, "vulgarly so pronounced," says the old Statistical Account. Its real name is "Blackwater," according to that authority, because it rises out of peaty swamps that impart to its waters a look of sullen gloom. I am unable to say what now may be its reputation as a trout stream, but long years ago it abounded with "a particular species of trout, much larger than the common burn trout, and remarkably fat." The Statistical Account mentions a notable peculiarity of Blackadder, on the accuracy of which one would be inclined to throw doubt. It says that though every other stream in the country which eventually mingles its waters with Tweed, swarms with salmon in the season, yet into Blackwater they do not go; or if they enter at all, it is found that they die before they can ascend many miles. The swampy source of the stream "is commonly ascribed as the reason why the fish cannot frequent the river," says the Account. Drainage, one would be inclined to think, has long ago removed that fatal nature from the water, if it ever existed. Trout throve on it, at all events, red-fleshed beauties, "similar," says the clerical {033}writer of the Statistical Account of the Parish of Fogo--a man and a fisher, surely--"to those of Eden Water, which joins Tweed three miles below Kelso. The Eden rises also in a marshy district, which may be the cause of this similarity of the fish." But most Border streams take their rise in more or less marshy districts, though they may not flow direct from a swamp. Was it in the Eden that Thomson, author of "The Seasons," learned to fish? Or was it in Jed? He was born at Ednam,--Edenham,--a village on the Eden, and he may have loved to revisit it in later years, and to catch the lusty speckled trout for which the stream has always been famous. Probably, however, he learned to throw a fly on Jed, for he passed his boyhood at Southdean--to which parish his father had been transferred as Minister long ere the son was fit to wield a rod--and he himself got his early education at Jedburgh. In Jed or in Eden, then, and perhaps in Teviot and Ale--he was much at Ancrum--he learned the art; and not unskilled in it indeed must he have been. Where in all literature can one find a description of trout-fishing so perfect as the following? "Just in the dubious point, where with the pool Is mix'd the trembling stream, or where it boils Around the stone, or from the hollow'd bank Reverted plays in undulating flow, There throw, nice judging, the delusive fly; And, as you lead it round in artful curve, With eye attentive mark the springing game. Strait as above the surface of the flood They wanton rise, or, urged by hunger, leap, There fix, with gentle twitch, the barbed hook; Some lightly tossing to the grassy bank And to the shelving shore slow dragging some With various hand proportion'd to their force. If yet too young, and easily deceived, A worthless prey scarce bends your pliant rod, Him, piteous of his youth, and the short space He has enjoy'd the vital light of heaven, Soft disengage, and back into the stream {034} The speckled captive throw; but, should you lure From his dark haunt, beneath the tangled roots Of pendent trees, the monarch of the brook, Behoves you then to ply your finest art. Long time he, following cautious, scans the fly, And oft attempts to seize it, but as oft The dimpled water speaks his jealous fear. At last, while haply o'er the shaded sun Passes a cloud, he desperate takes the death With sullen plunge: at once he darts along, Deep struck, and runs out all the lengthen'd line, Then seeks the farthest ooze, the sheltering weed, The cavern'd bank, his old secure abode, And (lies aloft, and flounces round the pool, Indignant of the guile. With yielding hand That feels him still, yet to his furious course Gives way, you, now retiring, following how, Across the stream, exhaust his idle rage, Till floating broad upon his breathless side, And to his fate abandon'd, to the shore You gaily drag your unresisting prize." Many a long day of Spring and Summer must the man who could paint so perfect a picture have passed, rod in hand and creel on back, by the hurrying streams and quiet pools of some Border Water, many a time have listened to the summer breeze whispering in the leafy banks, and heard, as in a dream, the low murmur of Jed or Ale. And what sport must they have had in the old days when Thomson fished--and even in the days when Stoddart fished--when farmers were ignorant, or careless, of the science of drainage, and rivers ran for days, nay, for weeks after rain, clear and brown, dimpled with rising trout. What sport indeed of all kinds must there have been here in the south of Scotland in very ancient days when the country was mostly forest or swamp, and wild animals, now long extinct, roamed free over hill and dale. It has been mentioned a page or two back how the lady of Gamelshiel Tower was killed by a wolf. Here, at the bead waters of Blackadder--as the crow flies not a dozen miles from Gamel{035}shiel--we are in the midst of a district once infested by wolves. Westruther, through which parish Blackadder runs, was originally "Wolfstruther," the "swamp of the wolves." And all over the surrounding country, place names speak of the beasts of the field. An MS. account of Berwickshire tells how Westruther was "a place of old which had great woods, with wild beasts, fra quhilk the dwellings and hills were designed, as Wolfstruther, Raecleuch, Hindside, Hartlaw and Harelaw." "There's hart and hynd, and dae and rae, And of a' wilde hestis grete plentie," as we read in the "Sang of the Outlaw Murray. The last-mentioned name, Harelaw, calls up visions of another chase than that of the hare. Sir Thomas Dick Lauder in his "Scottish Rivers," (written sometime about 1848), mentions that one of the most curious facts connected with Harelaw Moor was that a man, who, Sir Thomas says, died "not long ago," recollected having seen Sir John Cope and his dragoons in full flight across it from the battle of Prestonpans, breathlessly demanding from all the country people they met information as to the shortest road to Coldstream. "Says the Berwickers unto Sir John, 'O what's become o' all your men?' 'In faith,' says he, 'I dinna ken; I left them a' this morning.'" He must have been a very aged man, but if "not long ago" meant any time, as late, say, as the Twenties of last century, no doubt it would be possible that as a boy of eight or ten, he might have seen the panic-stricken dragoons spurring over the moor. Such a sight would remain vivid in the memory of even a very old man. Childhood's incidents outlive all others. Above Harelaw Moor, on a feeder of the Blackadder, is Wedderlie, formerly an old Border keep of the usual pattern, but towards the close of the seventeenth century embodied with a fine building in the Scottish style of that day. It is {036}said to have belonged originally to that family, the Edgars, the graves of two members of which are commemorated by the Twin-Law Cairns. The family name lives still in that of the neighbouring Edgar-burn, near to which streamlet is Gibb's Cross, said to be the scene of a martyrdom for sake of the Reformed Faith; and hard by is Evelaw Tower--a house apparently without a history--still in tolerable preservation. At Wedderlie, of old time, says Sir Thomas Dick Lauder, there stood a very ancient chapel, of which some traces of a vault remain, or remained at a recent date. Local tradition had it that at time of the Reformation the monks hid in this vault all their church plate and other precious possessions, meaning at the first convenient opportunity to remove them to a place of greater safety. The convenient opportunity, it was thought in more modern times, had never come, for in a cave hard by the vault there was one day discovered a great quantity of coins--all of which, by the way, speedily and mysteriously disappeared. It is said, however, that they were not of dates that could in any degree connect this _cache_ with the Reformation, and it is suggested in Sir Thomas's book that they were concealed there by the inhabitants of Wedderlie during the Religious wars of the seventeenth century. Those "in the know" may all have been killed, of course; the secret of the hiding place was not likely to be within the ken of more than one or two. These finds of coins of all dates are by no means rare in the Scottish border counties. One would fain know something of those who hid them, and of the events which were passing at the time when they were buried. Were they the spoil of some reiver, ravished from a roof-tree blackened and left desolate south from Cheviot and Tweed; spoil for convenience sake thus put away by one to whom the chance of a more convenient season to recover it was ended by a bloody death? Or were they, sometimes, store, of coins hastily secreted by quiet country folk fleeing in terror from the violence of English {037}soldiery--men such as they who came north with Hertford in 1544, whose orders were to put man, woman, and child to fire and the sword, without exception, if any resistance should be met with? What wonder if the harmless country people then left all, and fled for their lives and the honour of their women! For what so easy as to find excuse to carry out such orders? A child ill treated, a woman outraged; and a man--husband, father, lover--mad with horror and impotent rage, "resisting!" Coins, in greater or less number, are continually turning up in all sorts of unlikely spots. Sometimes in a marshy field (where one would least expect buried treasure), the spade of an Irish drainer has been known to throw out Elizabethan crowns. How did _they_ get there? Perhaps it might have been when the horse of some rider, bogged and struggling to get clear, in its violent efforts burst the fastenings of a saddle bag or wallet, or unseated its rider, emptying whatever may have been the equivalent of a trousers' pocket in days when men wore mail. Some of these Elizabethan coins, perhaps, found their resting place in 1570, when the English under the Earl of Sussex harried and burnt the border, in "Tyvydale bernyng on bothe hands at the lest two myle, levyng neyther castell, towne, nor tower unbrent, tyll we came to Jedworth." And so on, across by Hawick and Branxholm, up by Oxnain Water and Kale and Bowmont, and round about Kelso, burning and destroying homes, and hanging prisoners. "Thus," says Lord Hunsdon in a letter to Sir W. Cecil, "Thus hathe hyr Majesty had as honorable a revenge of the recevars of hyr rebels, and of all such as have byn common spoylars of hyr pepoll, and burners of her cuntrey, as ever any of hyr predecessors had." They were not weakly addicted to half measures in those days, whichever side was "top dog." "And so we pray to God to send youre Majestie a longe and prosperowse raigne, and all youre enemyes to feare youe as moch as the Scottish Borderers feare youe at this present," {038}ended Lords Sussex and Hunsdon in a despatch written by them to the Queen from "Barwick" on 23rd April, 1570. The lost Pay-chest of Montrose's army at Philiphaugh has given rise to many a story of treasure hunted for or recovered. Sir Walter Scott tells how on the day of the battle the Earl of Traquair and one of his followers, a blacksmith, carrying with them a large sum of money, the pay of the troops, were on their way across the hills to join Montrose at Selkirk. When as far away as Minchmuir, they heard the sound of heavy firing, to which Lord Traquair attached little importance, believing it to be merely Montrose exercising his men, but which, from the long continued and irregular nature of the firing, the blacksmith made certain was an engagement. By the time they reached Broadmeadows, there was no question as to whose conjecture was the correct one. By ones and twos, like the first heavy drops, forerunners of a deluge to follow from some ink-black cloud, came men flying for their lies, on horses pushed beyond the utmost limits of their speed; then more fugitives, and more, and hard on their heels, Leslie's troopers thundering. Lord Traquair and the blacksmith turned and fled with the throng. But the money was in Lord Traquair's saddle-bags, and the weight was great; he was like to be captured, for his horse thus handicapped could not face the hill and the heavy ground. Whether the blacksmith offered to sacrifice himself to save his master, or the master ordered the servant to dismount, one does not know, but the outcome was that Lord Traquair fled over the moor on the blacksmith's comparatively fresh horse, and the blacksmith, on a spent animal, was left to make the best of his way with the silver. Leaving the press of fugitives, he fled up Yarrow at the top speed of his tired horse, but finding himself closely pursued, to save himself and to lighten the animal's load, he flung away the bags of money. He said afterwards that he threw them into a well or pond near Tinnis, a little above Hangingshaw, and many a well and many a pond has since been vainly dragged for the lost treasure. No man {039}has yet recovered it. Probably that blacksmith knew a thing or two, and he was not likely to give away the show. Whether or no, however, it is certain that many silver coins having dates of about the time of the battle were in Sir Walter's day ploughed up on the river haughs of Tinnis. And at a much later date, a quantity of coins and some silver plate were unearthed nearer Philiphaugh, on the actual scene of the fight. These coins were claimed by the Exchequer. A dozen wine bottles, also, of old pattern, were found buried here, but what had been the liquor contained in them it was not possible to say; the bouquet had entirely perished, and even the colour. There is a pool in Yarrow, near Harehead, into which tradition says that Montrose flung his treasure chest, telling the Devil to keep it till he should return to claim it. Up to the present the Foul Fiend has not released his care, for when--as is said,--the pool was run dry, or nearly dry, a good many years ago, only a Lochabar-axe was found in it. A somewhat more probable story of the chest is that the bearer, as he hurried past, flung it into a cottage, near Foulshiels, and then rode for his life. Some of Leslie's men got it there, and looted it. Whose is the portrait that is contained in the little locket which was found, years ago, on the field of Philiphaugh? On the one side is the representation of a heart pierced by darts, and the motto "I dye for Loyalty"; on the other, a long straight sword is engraved. Inside is a portrait, and opposite the portrait, the words "I mourne for Monarchie." Sometimes coins have been found, too, as at Blackcastle Rings, on Blackadder, at its junction with the Faungrist Burn. Here, on the northern bank of the river, is what must once have been a strongly fortified camp; opposite, on the southern side, and running along the river's bank for fully half a mile, after which it branches to the south, is a well marked line of entrenchment. Eighty years ago, or thereabouts, an old silver chain was unearthed in the camp; and in the {040}trench, a little distance away, when turf was being removed, they came upon quite a number of gold and silver coins of the reign of Edward III. It was somewhere in this neighbourhood, (though probably nearer Duns,) that Lord Percy the English Warden, at the head of seven thousand men, lay encamped in the year 1372, when (as is mentioned by Redpath), his host was dispersed, or at least was said to have been compelled to retire across the Tweed, on foot and without their baggage, owing to a simple stratagem of the Scots. To scare away from their poor little crops the deer and wild cattle that were wont when night fell to ravage the ill-cultivated patches, the country folk of that district were accustomed to sound at frequent intervals a primitive kind of drum. To the ends of long poles were fixed what may best be termed huge rattles, made of dried skins tightly stretched over semi-circular ribs of wood. Inside each skin were put a few round pebbles. Obviously, when shaken vigorously, these rattles would give out a noise quite terrifying to any four footed animal, especially when heard in the stillness of night. Accordingly, one pitchy night, in the hour before dawn when sleep lay heavy on the invading force, a certain number of the Scots, bearing with them those unwarlike instruments, stole quietly through the tangled growth to the heights on either side of the English camp. Then broke out a din truly infernal. Picketed horses, mad with terror, strained back on their head-ropes, and breaking loose, stampeded through the camp, trampling over the recumbent forms of men wearied and even yet but halt-awake, many of the younger among them more than ready to share the panic of their horses. If the tale be not exaggerated, daylight showed an army deprived of its transport animals, its horsemen compelled to foot it, their steeds the prey of the wily Scots; a baggageless force compelled to fall back in disorder across Tweed. In this part of Berwickshire you may still faintly trace here and there the outline of a ditch and earthen rampart called {041}Herrits Dyke, which, local tradition says, once ran from Berwick inland to near Legerwood on Leader Water,--a work not dis-similar to the Catrail, (which cuts across something like fifty miles of the Border, from Peel Fell in the Cheviots to Torwoodlee on Gala), but without the double wall of Catrail. There are various sections of defensive works of this nature in the Border--if they were defensive, for instance, on the hill less than half a mile from the old castle of Holydean, near St. Boswells, in Roxburghshire, there is a particularly well-marked ditch and double rampart running for some distance across the moor. It can scarcely be a continuation of Herrits Dyke, for its construction is different, and its course must run almost at a right angle to Herrits, which is, indeed, many miles away from Holydean. This ditch points almost directly towards Torwoodlee, but it is out of the accepted Catrail track, unless the latter, instead of stopping at Torwoodlee, (as one has been taught), turned sharply and swept down the vale-of Gala, and once more crossed Tweed. It is curious, if these works are defensive, that no ancient weapons have ever been found in or near them. Down the water a few miles from Blackcastle Rings stands the little town of Greenlaw, a settlement which dates from very early times, but not on its present site. Originally the village stood about a mile and a half to the south east, on the isolated green "law" or hill from which it takes its name. The history of the present town goes no farther back than the end of the seventeenth century, a date about contemporaneous with that of its Market Cross, which stands now on the west side of the place. This cross is said to have been erected by Sir Patrick Home of Polwarth (afterwards created Earl of March-mont) in the year 1696. In 1829 it was pulled down, to make room for something else--in the maddening fashion that possessed our ancestors of the period--and, in the usual manner, it was chucked aside as "auld world trash." In 1881, however, the cross, or at least the greater part of it, minus the top, which {042}originally bore a lion rampant, was discovered in the basement of the old church tower, and was then re-erected where it now stands. Still farther down the river is the Roman camp at Chesters. But even as long ago as 1798, the writer of the Statistical Account of the Parish of Fogo complained that the old camp was "very much defaced," and that the stones had mostly been "removed to make room for the plough." The rage for agricultural improvement was in 1798 but in extreme infancy; and as no Society for the preservation of ancient monuments came into existence for many a long year afterwards, and interest in such things was confined to the very few, it is safe to infer that not a great deal of this camp now exists. From Chesters to Marchmont is but a step. Marchmont House dates from about 1754, and was built by the third Earl of Marchmont, near the site of Redbraes, the residence of his grandfather, that Sir Patrick Home of Polwarth who erected the cross in Greenlaw. The village and church of Polwarth are at no great distance. The original church was consecrated in the tenth century, and was restored in 1378, from which date it stood till 1703, when Sir Patrick Home (then Earl of Marchmont) rebuilt it. In the family vault of this church, Sir Patrick lay in hiding for several weeks in 1684, when the search for him was hot and discovery would have cost him his head. The secret of his whereabouts was known to three persons--to his wife, his daughter Grisell (whose name as Lady Grisell Baillie, lives still in the affectionate remembrance of the Scottish Border), and to Jamie Winter, a faithful retainer. Grisell Home, then a girl of eighteen, during all the time of his concealment contrived, with very great risk and difficulty, to convey food to her father in his gruesome lodging. Each night, she slipped stealthily from the house, and--sorest trial of all to the nerves of an imaginative Scot,--made her cautious way in the darkness across the "bogle"-haunted churchyard to her father's lair. Many a shift were she and her {043}mother put to in order to get food sufficient for their prisoner without rousing suspicion among the servants, and more than once the situation was all but given away by the innocent hut embarrassing comments of young and irresponsible members of the family. Sometimes the servants cannot have been present at meals, one would think; or else they smelt a rat, and were discreetly blind. One day at dinner, Grisell had with careful cunning succeeded in smuggling an entire sheep's head off the dish on to her own lap, thence presently to be borne surreptitiously from the room, when her young brother, with the maddening candour and persistency of childhood, called the company's attention to his sister's prodigious appetite, which not only enabled her to gobble up in next to no time so much good meat, but even rendered her able to make the very bones vanish. But the scent at length began to grow hot; they had nearly run the fox to his earth. Suspicion hovered over the neighbourhood of the church, and no longer could the vault be deemed even a moderately safe hiding place. A new den was necessary; and a new den was found, one perhaps even more cramped than the old quarters, if a trifle less insanitary. A large deal box was made by the faithful Jamie Winter, and was secretly conveyed into a cellar at Redbraes, of which Lady Home kept the key. But to get the "muckle kist" snugly into its resting place, it was necessary to scrape away the earthen floor of the cellar under the flooring hoards, so that the box might be entirely hidden when the boards were re-laid. This work could not be done with pick and shovel, lest the noise should betray what was going on. Grisell, therefore, and Jamie Winter literally with their own hands carried out the arduous job; the earth was _scraped_ away, and poor Grisell Home's nails had almost entirely disappeared ere the work wyas finished and the hiding place made ready for her father. It was scarcely an ideal place of concealment; water oozed in so quickly that one night when Sir Patrick was about {044}to descend into his narrow lodging, it was found that the bedding on which he was used to lie was afloat. And, with its other drawbacks, it had not even the advantage, as a hiding place, of being above suspicion. Had it not been, indeed, for the presence of mind of a kinsman and namesake, Home of Halyburton, a party of dragoons had certainly captured Sir Patrick one day. But Halyburton's liquor was good, and after their thirty mile march from Edinburgh, the temptation to wet their whistle could not be resisted. It did not take long, but it was long enough; a groom on a fast, powerful horse slipped away over the moor to Redbraes, bearing with him no word of writing, but a letter addressed to Lady Home, of which the contents were nothing but a feather,--a hint sufficiently well understood. Ere the dragoons arrived at Redbraes, Sir Patrick was clear away and well on the road to the coast and Holland, and safety. As we travel down Blackadder towards its junction with the Whitadder, about equidistant between the two rivers we come to the only town of any importance in the district--Duns, or Dunse as it used, not very appropriately, to be spelled from 1740 to 1882, in which latter year the ancient spelling was revived. The original hamlet or settlement stood on the Dun or Law which adjoins the present town. But Hertford wiped that pretty well out of existence in 1545, as he wiped out many another stronghold and township in the south of Scotland. What was left of the place soon fell into utter decay and ruin, and a new settlement on the present site, then guarded On three sides by a more or less impassable swamp, sprung up in 1588. Duns is one of several places which claim the honour of having been the birthplace of the learned Duns Scotus (1265-1338), but even though she be unable quite to substantiate this claim, her record of worthy sons is no short one. And was not that woman, famed in the seventeenth century, she who was possessed of an evil spirit which caused her, an illiterate person, to talk fluently in the Latin tongue, a {045}native of Duns! The Privy Council Record, under date 13th July, 1630, contains an order for bringing before it Margaret Lumsden, "the possessed woman in Duns," along with her father-in-law and her brother, that order might be taken in the case, "as the importance and nature of such a great cause requires." A fast for her benefit was even proposed by sundry clergymen; interest in her case was acute and widespread. Twenty-nine years later, an account of the circumstances was written by the Earl of Lauderdale, and was published in Baxter's "Certainty of the World of Spirits." Lord Lauderdale was a schoolboy in 1630, but he was accustomed to hear the case very fully discussed by his father and the minister of Duns, the latter of whom, at least, firmly believed that the woman was possessed by an evil spirit. The Earl wrote as follows to Baxter: "I will not trouble you with many circumstances; one only I shall tell you, which I think will evince a real possession. The report being spread in the country, a knight of the name of Forbes, who lived in the north of Scotland, being come to Edinburgh, meeting there with a minister of the north, and both of them desirous to see the woman, the northern minister invited the knight to my father's house (which was within ten or twelve miles of the woman), whither they came, and next morning went to see the woman. They found her a poor ignorant creature, and seeing nothing extraordinary, the minister says in Latin to the knight: '_Nondum audivimus spiritum loquentem_.' Presently a voice comes out of the woman's mouth: '_Andis loquentem, audis loquentem_.' This put the minister into some amazement (which I think made him not mind his own Latin); he took off his hat, and said: '_Misereatur Deus peccatoris!_' The voice presently out of the woman's mouth said: '_Dic peccatricis, dic peccatricis_'; whereupon both of them came out of the house fully satisfied, took horse immediately, and returned to my father's house at Thirlestane Castle, in Lauderdale, where they related this passage. This I do exactly remember. Many more particulars {046}might be got in that part of the country; but this Latin criticism, in a most illiterate ignorant woman, where there was no pretence to dispossessing, is enough, I think." It was, of course, an infallible sign of demoniac possession that the victim, mostly an illiterate person, should break out into Latin or Greek, Hebrew or what not. That was how the devil usually betrayed himself; he could by no means control his weakness for talking--generally very badly--in foreign tongues. [Illustration: 0066] The wonders of Duns in the seventeenth century by no means ceased, however, with this demon-possessed Margaret Lumsden. In 1639, when Leslie camped on Duns Law with the Covenanting army and its superfluity of ministers, there occurred a remarkable land-slide which the excited imaginations of those witnessing its effects could not fail to interpret as an assured sign that Providence meant to fight on their side. A bank on the slope of the hill near to the camp slid down,--it had probably become water-logged as the result of heavy rain.--disclosing "innumerable stones, round, for the most part, in shape, and perfectly spherical,... like ball of all sizes, from a pistol to fixed pieces, such as sakers or robenets, or battering pieces upwards." Men looked on them with awe, and bore {047}about with them specimens in their pockets, gravely showing them to excited throngs. "Nor wanted there a few who interpreted this stone magazine at Duns Hill as a miracle, as if God had sent this by ane hid providence for the use of the Covenanters." [Illustration: 0067] We return now to Tweed, where on a steep slope stand the mighty ruins of Norham Castle, guarding the ford; we all know the scene, castle and ford in the gloaming, from Turner's beautiful plate in _Liber Studiorum_. Bishop Flambard of Durham built the castle to bridle the wild Scots, in 1121; some twenty years later it was taken, under David; but the eastern side shows the remains of the warlike prelate's work. "The {048}Norman Keep still frowns across the Merse," and few of the castles of the age of chivalry display more of their ancient strength than Norham. Yet it yielded promptly to James IV. in the first week of the campaign which closed in the terrible defeat of Flodden Edge. In this castle, in the Lent of 1200, William the Lion kept his fast on fourteen kinds of fish, including salmon; he certainly "spelled his fasts with an e." While Berwick yielded to the Scots in the dark days of Edward II., good Sir Thomas de Grey, of that ancient Northumbrian house, held Norham stoutly, with pretty circumstances of chivalry, as his son tells in _Scalacronica_. Over against Norham is Ladykirk, with its ancient church, dedicated, tradition says, by James IV. to the Virgin Mary, in gratitude for his narrow escape from death here when fording the swollen Tweed. A field to the east of the village shows some, remains of military works, ramparts for guns probably, from which to fire on Norham. In a line between this spot and the castle there was found in the river a stone cannon-ball, fifty-seven inches in girth, probably one fired from "Mons Meg" when she was here in 1497. Following the light bank of Tweed we reach Carham burn, where Malcolm II. won Lothian in battle; from Carham to the sea the right bank is English. The next important tributary on the English side, as we ascend the stream is Till, formed by Bowmont and Breamish Waters, which rise in the "Cheeviots," as the Scots pronounce the name. "T weed says to Til' 'What gars ye rin sae still?' Says Till to Tweed, 'Though ye run wi' speed, And I rin slaw, Whaur ye droon ae man, I droon tw'a.'" The ominous rhyme sounds with the slow lap of the green-grey waters of Till among her alders, and appears to hint at {049}the burden of the ruinous fight of Flodden. [Illustration: 0069] On August 22nd, James IV., "a fey man," kept his plighted word to France, which Henry VIII. was invading, and led the whole force of Highlands and Lowlands across the Border. He made his quarters at Ford Castle, where he did not, as legend says, dally with Lady Heron, still less did his young son, the Archbishop of St. Andrews, fleet the time carelessly with her daughter. {050}James cleared his position by capturing Wark (now scarcely visible in ruin), Chillingham, and Eital castles. [Illustration: 0070] Surrey with the English levies, including the Stanleys, sent a challenge from Alnwick. On September 3rd, the Scots are said to have wrecked Ford Castle, now a substantial and comfortable home, still containing the king's rooms. James crossed the Till by a bridge at Ford, as the tourist also does, if he wishes to see the field of the famous battle. We climb to the crest of Flodden Edge; look south to the wooded hills beyond the Till, and northwards note three declivities like steps in a gigantic staircase. The Scots were well provisioned, and should easily have held the hill-crest against Surrey's way-worn and half-starved mutinous men. [Illustration: 0071] They pitched their camp on the wide level of Wooler haugh, six miles to the right of Flodden; and on this plain Surrey challenged James to meet him, "a fair field and no favour." For once chivalry gave place to common sense in James's mind: "he would take and keep his ground at his own pleasure." But he neglected his scouting, though he had hundreds of Border riders under Home, who should never have lost touch of Surrey. That wily "auld decrepit carl in a chariot" as Pitscottie calls him, disappeared; James probably thought that he was retiring to Berwick. Really, he was throwing himself, unseen, on James's line of communication with the north: he camped at Barmoor wood, and then recrossed Till by Twizel bridge. Scott, in _Marmion_ and elsewhere, blames the king for failing to see this manouvre and discuss Surrey before his men could deploy after crossing by Twizel bridge and at Millford. But Twizel bridge you cannot see from Flodden Edge; Sir Walter had forgotten the lie of the ground. Unseen, the English crossed and formed, advancing from the north towards the second of the three great steps in the declivity, called Branxton hill. In the early evening, _Angli se ostentant_, the English come into view. In {072}place of holding his ground, which he is said to have entrenched, James yielded to his impetuous temper, fired his camp, and his men throwing off their boots, for the ground was wet and slippery, rushed down to the Branxton plateau. [Illustration: 0072] "The haggis, Cott pless her, could charge down a hill," like Dundee's men at Killiecrankie, but the expected impetus must have been lost before James's Highlanders under Lennox and Argyll, his right wing, could come to sword-strokes. James's right, in addition to the clans, had a force led by d'Aussi and Both well, with whom may have been the ancestors of John Knox, as the Reformer told the wild Earl, Queen Mary's lover. The main body, the centre, under the flower of Scottish _noblesse_, were with the king; who "always fought before he had given his orders," says Ayala, the ambassador of Spain. His left was led by Crawford and Errol; his extreme left by Huntly with the gay Gordons; and Home with his Border spears, mounted men. {053}The English front appears to have been "refused" so that Edward Howard was nearest to Home, and, slanting back wards to the right of James, were the forces of Edmund Howard, the Admiral, the Constable, Dacre, Surrey with the rear, and the large body of Cheshire and Lancashire, led by Stanley. [Illustration: 0073] The Admiral sent a galloper to bring Surrey forward; and Home and Huntly charged Edward Howard, while Dacre's Tyneside men ran, as he advanced to support Howard. The Borderers, fond of raiding each other, could never be trusted to fight each other in serious war; they were much intermarried. Brian Tunstal fell, Dacre stopped Huntly; Home's men vanished like ghosts, no man knew whither; for they appeared on the field next morning. Probably they were plundering, but "Down wi' the Earl o' Home," says the old song of the Souters of Selkirk. In the centre of the vanguard the Admiral and the Percys clashed with Crawford and Errol. Both leaders fell, and James threw the weight of his centre against Surrey. To slay that general with his own hand was the king's idea of the duty of a leader. But the English guns {054}mowed down his ranks, and the Scots could not work their French artillery. The king pressed in with Herries and Maxwell at his side; the ranks of England reeled, but the Admiral and Dacre charged James's men in flank. "Stanley broke Lennox and Argyll" on the king's right; the noble leaders fell, and the nimble Highlanders rapidly made a strategic movement in the direction of safety. Stanley did not pursue them, but fell on James's right, which now had the enemy on each flank and in front. "The stubborn spearmen still made good Their dark impenetrable wood" under a rain of arrows, against the charging knights, and the terrible bill strokes of the English infantry. The king was not content to remain within the hedge of spears. Running out in advance, he fought his way to "within a lance's length" of Surrey, so Surrey wrote; his body was pierced with arrows, his left arm was half severed by a bill-stroke, his neck was gashed, and he fell. James was not a king to let his followers turn his bridle-rein; he fought on foot, like a Paladin, and died with honour. His nobles advanced; the spears defended the dead, and the bodies of thirteen of his peers and of two Bishops who, like Archbishop Turpin at Roncesvaux, died in harness, lay round him. An episcopal ring with a great sapphire, found at Flodden, is in the Gold Room at the British Museum. Such was the great sorrow of Scotland; there is perhaps not a family of gentle blood in the Lowlands which did not leave a corpse on Branxton slope, where "Groom fought like noble, Squire like Knight, As fearlessly and well." As matter of plain history, this honourable defeat was to my country what, as matter of legend, the rear-guard action of Roncesvaux has been to France. It was too late in literary times for an epic like the _Chanson de Roland_; the burden of {055}the song was left for the author of Marmiott. But Flodden, till my own boyhood, left its mark on Scottish memories. When any national trouble befell us, people said, "There has been nothing like it since Flodden." [Illustration: 0075] My friend the late Lord Napier and Ettrick told me that when his father took him to Flodden in his boyhood, tears stood n the eyes of the senior. This is the difference between us of the north, and you of the south. Along the Border line, my heart, so to speak, bleeds at Halidon and Homildon hills, where our men made a {056}frontal attack, out-flanked on either hand by lines of English archers, and left heaps as high as a lance's length, of corpses on corpses, (as at Dupplin); but an Englishman passes Bannock burn "more than usual calm," and no more rejoices on the scene of the victories ol his ancestors, than he is conscious of their defeats. Pinkie is nothing to him, and a bitter regret to us! Dunbar to him means nothing; to us it means the lost chance which should have been a certainty, of annihilating Cromwell's force. Our preachers ruined our opportunity, bidding Leslie go down, in accordance with some Biblical text, from his safe and commanding position, after they had purged our army of the Royalist swords. Surrey "had his bellyful" at Flodden. In Edinburgh "The old men girt on their old swords, And went to man the wall," which was hastily erected. But the English general had enough, and withdrew southwards. I visited Flodden Edge on my return from the west of Ireland, where I found the living belief in Fairies. I picked up a trifle of the faith at Flodden. The guide, a most intelligent elderly man, named Reidpath, told me this yarn: "A woman came to my brother," (I knew that he meant a woman of the Faery), "and told him to dig in such a place. He would find a stone, below it a stone pillar; and another stone, and beneath it a treasure. My brother and my father dug, found the stone, and the pillar, and the stone below--but no treasure!" Probably you will not find even this last trace of the fairy belief on the Border, but, from notes of my grandfather, it was not quite dead in his day. Here we leave Till to those who choose to fish it up towards the Cheviots, and move up the right bank of Tweed towards its junction with Teviot. Before reaching that point, however, there are one or two places to notice on both sides of the river--Coldstream, for {057}example, where Leet water enters Tweed; Eden water, a few miles higher up; and, on the English side, Wark Castle. [Illustration: 0077] Regarding the Leet, in order to find oneself filled with envy and with longing unutterable, it is only necessary to read Stoddart's account of the fishing to be had in his day in that curious little stream. "Of all streams that I am acquainted with," says Stoddart, "the Leet, which discharges itself into the Tweed above Coldstream, was wont, considering its size, to contain the largest trout. During the summer season it is a mere ditch, in many places not above four or five span in width, and, where broadest, still capable of being leapt across. The run of water is, comparatively speaking, insignificant, not exceeding on the average a cubic foot. This, however, as it proceeds, is every now and then expanded over a considerable surface, and forms a pool of some depth; in fact, the whole stream, from head to foot, pursuing, as it does, a winding course for upwards of twelve miles, is a continued chain of {058}pools, fringed, during the summer, on both sides, with rushes and water-flags, and choked up in many parts with pickerel weed and other aquatic plants. The channel of Leet contains shell marl, and its banks, being hollowed out beneath, afford, independent of occasional vines and tree roots, excellent shelter for trout. Not many years ago the whole course of it was infested with pike, but the visit of some otters, irrespective of the angler's art, has completely cleared them out, and thus allowed the trout, which were formerly scarce, to become more numerous. On the first occasion of my fishing Leet, which happened to be early in April 1841, before the sedge and rushes had assumed the ascendency, I captured, with the fly, twenty-six trout, weighing in all upwards of twenty-nine pounds. Of these, five at least were two-pounders, and there were few, if any, small-sized fish." On another occasion, in June 1846, Stoddart caught in the same water, in four hours, three dozen and five fish, the biggest of which weighed 3 lbs., and a dozen of the others 1 lb. apiece. This stream, in its characteristics so unlike the usual Scottish burn, is not open to the public, but it may be assumed that no such fishing is now obtainable there, any more than it is to be got elsewhere in Scotland. Once they establish themselves and make unchecked headway, pike are very hard to extirpate; it is not in every stream that one finds otters so accommodating, and so careful of the interests of anglers, as they appear to have been in Leet in Stoddart's day. Coldstream, where Leet joins Tweed, was of old chiefly known for its ford, the first of any consequence above Berwick. It was here that the invading army of Edward the First crossed the river into Scotland in 1296; here, indeed, it was that most armies, English or Scottish, plunged into country hostile to them once they had quitted their own bank of the river; it was here that all Scottish travellers, from royalty to peasant, must halt when southward bound, and await the falling of the waters should Tweed chance to be in flood. Consequently, at {059}a very early date a settlement sprang up, and in it many an historical personage has temporarily sojourned. Sir Thomas Dick Lauder says that as late as his own day an old thatched two storied building in the village was pointed out as the house in which "many persons of distinction, including kings and queens of Scotland, are enumerated by tradition as having resided.... occasionally several days at a time," waiting till the river was fordable. It was not till 1766, when Smeaton completed his fine bridge, that any other crossing of the stream than by the ford was possible. In pre-Reformation times, there was in Coldstream a rich Priory of Cistercian Nuns, not a stone of which, however, now remains. But in its little burial ground, between the river and what used to be the garden of the Priory, in 1834 there was dug up a great quantity of human bones, and a stone coffin. The bones were supposed to be probably those of various Scottish persons of rank who fell but a short five or six miles away on the fatal field of Flodden. Tradition tells that the Abbess of that day, anxious to give Christian burial to her slain countrymen, caused the bodies of many Scots of rank and birth to be borne from the field of battle to the Priory, and there laid them to rest in consecrated ground. Till about 1865 there stood in the village another interesting old house, and on the building which now occupies its site may be read the following inscription: "Headquarters of the Coldstream Guards, 1659; rebuilt, 1865." Here it was that General Monk formed that famous regiment, than which there is but one in the British army whose history goes further back, none which in achievements can surpass it. In one of his works on England at the period of the Restoration of Charles the Second, M. Guizot, the French historian, records that Monk "spent about three weeks at Coldstream, which was a favourable spot for the purpose, as the Tweed was there fordable; but he seems to have found it a dismal place to quarter in. On his first arrival, he could get no provisions for his own {060}dinner, and was obliged to content himself with a quid of tobacco. His chaplains, less easily satisfied, roamed about till they obtained a meal at the house of the Earl of Home, near by." This place, to which the fine instinct of those preachers guided them, was no doubt The Hirsel, which is at no great distance from Coldstream. [Illustration: 0080] There is yet another thing for which this little town was famed in former days. In the time of our grandsires, and indeed, down to as late a date as 1856, when clandestine weddings were prohibited by Act of Parliament, it was a common sight to see a post-chaise come racing over Coldstream Bridge, or, in days before a bridge existed, splashing through the water from the English side, bearing in it some fond couple (like Mr. Alfred Jingle and the Spinster Aunt), flying on love's wings from stony-hearted parent or guardian. Coldstream was almost as famous a place for run-away marriages as was Gretna Green itself. At the former place, the ceremony was usually performed in the toll-house at the Scottish end of the bridge, where "priests" were always in readiness to tie up the run-away {061}couples, and to issue to them thereafter a Certificate of Marriage, such as the following, which is a copy of one issued in 1836: "This is to certify that John Chambers, Husbandman, from the Broomhouse, in the Parish of Chatton, with Mary Walker from Kelso, in the Parish of Kelso, in Roxboroughshire, was married by me this Day. As witness to my hand, William Alexander, Coldstream, 15th Dec., 1836. Witnesses' names: Miss Dalgleish, Miss Archer." But though for convenience' sake, and probably for speed of dispatch, the toll-house was chiefly patronised, those who had command of money and were not unduly pressed for time could arrange to have their nuptials celebrated in less public fashion than would probably be the case at the bridge-end. It is I believe an undoubted fact that in 1819 Lord Brougham was married in the chief inn of the village. Those irregular marriages were in the eighteenth century a great source of trouble and annoyance to the Kirk Session of Kelso. A good many of them at one time were celebrated by a certain Mr. Blair, whom the Privy Council had ejected from the incumbency of Coldstream in 1689 because he had refused to pray for the King and Queen, (William and Mary), and would neither read the proclamation of the Estates nor observe the national thanksgiving. Mr. Blair, however, after the loss of his incumbency continued to live in the village, and, it was alleged, was, in the matter of these marriages sometimes over accommodating and good-natured regarding dates; in his certificates he did not always rigidly adhere to the true day of month or year in cases where it might be represented to him that a fictitious date would be less compromising to the contracting parties. Mr. Blair was "sharply rebukit" by the Session. The reverend gentleman was not in Coldstream later than 1728, and he died at Preston, in Northumberland, in 1736, {062}at the age of eighty-five. The following is the epitaph composed on him: "Here lies the Reverend Thomas Blair, A man of worth and merit, Who preached for fifty years and mair, According to the spirit. He preached off book to shun offence, And what was still more rare, He never spoke one word of sense-- So preached Tammy Blair." In examining Scottish Border records of those times, nothing strikes one more than the power of the Kirk Sessions; it is indeed hard to imagine a country more priest ridden than Scotland in the eighteenth century. The "Sabbath" was then as easy to break as a hedge-sparrow's egg, and there were a thousand--to modern eyes not very heinous--ways of breaking it. What in the way of punishment may have been meted out to the unfortunate who fell asleep under the infliction of a long, dull, prosy sermon in a stuffy, ill-ventilated church on a warm summer's day, one hardly cares to conjecture, so rigidly enforced was the duty of listening to sermons; whilst to be abroad "in time of sermon" was sin so heinous that Elders were, so to speak, specially retained to prowl around and nose out offenders. Walking on the Sabbath day--"vaguing," they called it,--was looked on with horror, and called for stern reprimand. In 1710, it was observed that sundry persons in Kelso were "guiltie of profaning the Sabbath by walking abroad in the fields after sermons," and the Session called on the parish minister to "give them a general reproof out of the pulpit the next Loird's Day, and to dehort them from so doing in time coming, with certification that the Session will take strict notice of any one guiltie of it." For less than "vaguing," however, a man might be brought before the Session. In 1710, Alexander Graemslaw of Maxwellheugh was "dilated for bringing in cabbage to his house the last Lord's Day between sermons," {063}and was "cited to the next Session." ("Dilate" is probably less painful than it sounds). He was only "rebuked" about the cabbages: but then they fell on him and demanded an explanation of his not having been at church. Altogether they made things unpleasantly warm for Alexander. In 1708, Alexander Handiside and his son, and a woman named Jean Ker were had up for "walking to and fro on the Sabbath." At first they "compeared not" on being cited, but on a second citation Handiside "compeared," and vainly advanced the plea that his walking to and fro was occasioned by the fact that he had been attending a child who had broken a leg or an arm. He "was exhorted to be a better observer of the Sabbath." A Scot, apparently, might not upon the Scottish Sabbath draw from a pit his ox or his ass which had fallen in. This same year, "those who searched the town" discovered two small boys "playing on the Sabbath day in time of sermon." The Session dealt sternly with the hardened ruffians. Amongst other cases that one reads of there is that of Katherine Thomson. One's sympathies rather go with Katherine, who when reproved by a sleuth-hound Elder for "sitting idly at her door in time of sermon," abused her reprover. But the Session made it warm for a woman who thus not only, as they said, "profaned the Sabbath," but was guilty of "indescreet carriage to the Elder." One trembles to think how easy it was to slip into sin in those days. But over and above this Juggernaut power of the Session, there was another weapon much used by eighteenth century ministers, whereby they kept a heavy hand on the bowed backs of their congregations. It was their habit, where the conduct, real or fancied, of any member of their flock offended them, to speak _at_ the culprit during service on Sundays, and to speak at him in no uncertain voice. The practice is probably now dead, even in remote country parishes, but fifty years ago it was still a favourite weapon in the hands of old-fashioned ministers, and in the eighteenth century it seems to have been in almost {064}universal use. The Reverend Mr. Ramsay, minister of Kelso from 1707 till his death in 1749, was a dexterous and unsparing wielder of this ecclesiastical flail. It chanced once that there "sat under" him--as we say in Scotland--a Highlander, a man who had deserted from the ranks of the rebel army in the '15, and had afterwards managed to get appointed to a post in the Excise at Kelso. This man's seat in church was in the front pew of the gallery, immediately facing Mr. Ramsay, and his every movement, therefore, was likely to catch the minister's eye. Now, the exciseman had a habit which greatly annoyed Mr. Ramsay. As soon as the sermon commenced, the Highlander produced a pencil, with which he proceeded to make marks on a slip of paper. He may, perhaps, have been making calculations not unconnected with his duties as exciseman,--a scandalous proceeding when he should have been all ears for the Word as expounded by the minister; or, again, on the other hand he may really have been devoutly attentive to the sermon, and engaged in making notes on it,--a thing perhaps not over and above likely in an ex-Highland rebel. In any case he annoyed Mr. Ramsay, and one day the irritation became acute. Pausing in his discourse in order to give emphasis to his words, and looking straight at the exciseman, he cried: "My brethren, I tell ye, except ye be born again, it is as impossible for you to enter the Kingdom of Heaven as it is for a Hielander no to be a thief! Man wi' the keel-o-vine," he thundered, "do ye hear _that?_" (For the benefit of non-Scottish readers it may be necessary to explain that a "keel-o-vine" is a pencil). A few miles above Coldstream, after a course of about four and twenty miles, the beautiful little Eden Water joins Tweed. Its capabilities as a trout stream are spoken of elsewhere in this volume, and the little river is now mentioned only to record a tragedy of unusual nature which occurred in it in the earlier half of the nineteenth century. Two young ladies, sisters of the then proprietor of Newton Don, a beautiful estate on the right bank of Eden, had come from Edinburgh to {065}pass the summer and autumn at their brother's house. With them was a friend, a Miss Ramsay. It chanced that one afternoon these three young ladies were walking along the banks of the river, on the side opposite to Newton Don. They had strolled farther than at starting had been their intention, and time had slipped past unnoticed, and while they still had some distance to go on their return way, they were surprised by the sound of the house bell ringing for dinner. Now, a little below the spot where they then were, it was possible to cross the river by stepping stones, an easy, and to every appearance a perfectly safe way by which anybody beyond the age of childhood might gain the other side, without much risk even of wetting a shoe. The three girls, accordingly, started to go over by these stones. The water was low and clear, the weather fine; there had been no thunderstorm that might have been capable of bringing down from the hills a sudden spate; the crossing could have been made a million times in such circumstances without peril greater than is to be met with in stepping across a moorland drain. Yet now the one thing happened that made it dangerous. At some little distance up stream there stood a mill, the water power of which was so arranged, that if the sluice of the mill should for any reason be suddenly closed, that body of water which normally flowed down the mill dam after turning the wheel, was discharged into the river some way above the stepping stones. In the narrow channel of the Eden at this point, this sudden influx of water was quite sufficient to raise the stream's level to a height most dangerous to anyone who at the time might be in the act of crossing by these stones. Unhappily, at the exact moment when the three poor girls were stepping cautiously and with none too certain foot from stone to stone, and had reached to about mid-channel, the miller, ignorant of their situation and unable from where he stood to command a view to any distance down stream, closed his sluice. Down Eden's bed surged a wave crested like some inrushing sea that sweeps far up a shingly beach. In an instant the three girls, {066}afraid to make a dash for the safety of the hank, were swept off the stones where they clung, and were carried shrieking down the swollen stream. One, Miss Ramsay, buoyed to a certain extent by the nature of her dress, floated until she was able to grasp the overhanging branch of a tree, and she succeeded in getting out. The other two, rolled over and over, buffeted by the sudden turmoil of waters, were swept away and drowned. No one was near to give help; none even heard their cries. On the southern bank of Tweed, a mile or two up the river from Coldstream and Cornhill, stands all that is left of Wark Castle, a place once of formidable strength, and greatly famed in Border history. Except a few green mounds, and portions of massive wall, there remains now but little to speak of its former greatness, or to remind one of the mighty feats that were performed here during its countless sieges and bloody fights. But the old Northumbrian saying still tells its tale with grim simplicity: "Auld Wark upon the Tweed Has been mony a man's dead." Regarding this couplet, the following comment is made in the _Denham Tracts_: "Mark's history, from the twelfth down to at least the sixteenth century, is perhaps without a parallel for surprises, assaults, sieges, blockades, surrenders, evacuations, burnings, restorations, slaughters. These quickly recurring events transformed the mount on which the castle stood into a Golgotha, and gave a too truthful origin to the couplet which still occurs on the Borders of the once rival kingdoms." The castle was erected during the reign of King Henry I., by Walter d'Espec, somewhere about the year 1130; and before it had been many years in existence, in 1135, David I. of Scotland captured it. From that time onwards, at least down to 1570, when Sussex spent a night within its walls on his way to harry Teviotdale, there is not one item of that formidable list of "surprises, assaults, sieges, blockades, surrenders, {067}evacuations, burnings, restorations, slaughters," that has not been amply borne out by its history, many of them again and again. David took it in 1135, but restored it to England in the following year. Twice afterwards, the same monarch vainly attempted to take it by storm, but finally, after the fall of Norham, he reduced it by means of a long blockade. After this it remained in Scottish possession till 1157, when England again seized, and at great expense rebuilt, the castle. In 1216 it was destroyed by fire; in 1318, reduced by King Robert the Bruce; in 1385, taken by storm by the Scots. Then in 1419, William Halliburton of Fast Castle surprised the English and took the castle, putting all the garrison to the sword. But the same fate was dealt out to the Scots themselves a few months later; Sir Robert Ogle and his men gained access to the building by way of a sewer from the kitchen, which opened on the bank of Tweed. Creeping up this unsavoury passage, they in their turn surprised and slew the Scotsmen. Again in 1460, after the widow of James II. had dismantled Roxburgh and razed it almost to the foundations, the Scots forded Tweed and retook Wark. But they did not hold it long. More valuable now to the English than ever it had been before, owing to the loss of Roxburgh, it was partially repaired by them, only, however, to be again pulled down by the Scots before the battle of Flodden; after which Surrey for the last time restored and strengthened it. After the accession of James VI to the throne of England, Wark, like other Border strongholds, began to fall into decay; the need for them was gone. Buchanan, the historian, has left a description of Wark as it was in 1523, when he was with the Scottish army at Coldstream, which then besieged it. "In the innermost area," he says, "was a tower of great strength and height; this was encircled by two walls, the outer including the larger space, into which the inhabitants of the country used to fly with their cattle, corn, and flocks in time of war; the inner of much smaller extent, but fortified more strongly by ditches and {068}towers. It had a strong garrison, good store of artillery and ammunition, and other things necessary for defence." On this occasion the Scottish commander sent against the castle a picked force of Scottish and French troops, supported by heavy siege artillery, all under the command of Ker of Fernihurst. "The French," says Sir Walter Scott, "carried the outer enclosure at the first assault, but were dislodged by the garrison setting fire to the corn and straw laid up in it. The besiegers soon recovered their ground, and by their cannon effected a breach in the inner wall. The French with great intrepidity mounted the breach, sustaining great loss from the shot of that part of the garrison who possessed the keep; and being warmly received by the forces that defended the inner vallum, were obliged to retire after great slaughter. The attack was to have been renewed on the succeeding day, but a fall of rain in the night, which swelled the Tweed and threatened to cut off the retreat of the assailants to the main army, and the approach of the Earl of Surrey, who before lay at Alnwick with a large force, obliged the Duke [of Albany] to relinquish his design and return into Scotland." Wark, it is said, once belonged to the Earl of Salisbury, and the tale is told how, in the time of King David Bruce, a gallant deed was done by Sir William Montague, Lord Salisbury's governor of the castle. King David, returning from a successful foray into England, passed close to Wark, making for the ford over Tweed at Coldstream, and his rear-guard, heavily laden with plunder, was seen from the castle walls by Montague's garrison. The rear was straggling. Such an opportunity was not to be wasted. The Governor, with forty mounted men, made a sudden dash, slew a great number of the Scots, cut off one hundred and sixty horses laden with booty, and brought them safely into the castle. David instantly assaulted the place, but without success; and he thereupon determined to take it by siege. There was but one way whereby the place might be saved; a message must be conveyed to King Edward III., {069}who was then on his way north with a great army. The risk was great; failure meant death, and the castle was closely invested. Sir William himself took the risk. In a night dark and windy, with rain falling in torrents, the Governor dashed out on a swift horse and cut his way through the Scottish lines before almost the alarm had been raised; and so rapidly did Edward advance on hearing of the plight of the garrison, that the rear of the Scottish force was barely over the ford before the English van had reached the southern bank of Tweed. It is of this occasion that the more or less mythical tale of King Edward and the Countess of Salisbury's Garter is told. In the great Hall of Wark Castle the story finds a dubious resting place. The countless war-like events that have taken place in and around Wark give to the place an interest which is perhaps hardly appreciated by the majority of us, and that interest is largely added to when one thinks of the many characters noted in history who from time to time sojourned within its walls. King Stephen lay here with a large army in 1137; Henry III remained in the castle for some time with his queen in 1255; in 1296 Edward I paid it a visit: Edward II mustered here his army in 1314 before his crushing defeat at Bannockburn, and, as already stated, Edward III, after he had driven off the Scottish marauding force, was entertained here for a time by the Countess of Salisbury. Wark, one thinks, would be an ideal place in which to conduct excavations,--though, indeed, a little in that line has already been undertaken. In the volume for 1863-68 of the "Proceedings of the Berwickshire Naturalists' Club," it is recorded that a good many years ago Mr. Richard Hodgson had traced a wide sewer to the north of the castle, opening on to the river bank. This sewer is said to be so wide that it might easily have been used for the passage of men or material. Probably it was by this bidden way that Sir Robert Ogle in 1419 forced his way into the interior. But if the opening was so wide, {070}how came it to be undefended? Was there a traitor inside who kept guard that night, a Northumbrian perhaps, masquerading as a Scot, whose burr did not betray him? In the course of his investigations Mr. Hodgson came also on a "long flight of stone steps leading from the keep to the outer court, with a portcullis about half way." Quantities of cannon balls have also been found, but there must surely be unlimited scope for the discovery of such like treasure trove in the fields surrounding the castle, and down by the ford where so many armies of both nations have crossed Tweed. They did not always make a leisurely and altogether unmolested passage. CHAPTER III KELSO, ROXBURGH, TEVIOT, KALE, AND OXNAM |Coming{071} now to Kelso,--with Melrose the most pleasing of the towns on Tweed,--we pass the meeting of the waters of Tweed and its largest affluent, Teviot. Kelso has a fine airy square, good streets, and an air of quiet gentility, neighboured as it is by Floors, the palatial seat of the Duke of Roxburghe, and by the trees of Springwood Park, the residence of Sir George Douglas. We are now in the region of the clan of Ker of Cessford, from which the ducal family descends: while the Lothian branch descends from the Kers of Fernihurst. The name, Ker, is said to mean "left handed," and like the left handed men of the tribe of Benjamin, the Kers were a turbulent and grasping-clan, often at deadly feud with their neighbours and rivals, the Scotts of Buccleugh. These, with the Douglases, for long predominant, were the clans that held the Marches, and freely raided the English Borderers, while they fought like fiends among themselves. It is in the early sixteenth century that the chiefs of the two branches of Ker, or Kerr, and of the Scotts, become more and more prominent in history, both as warriors and politicians. From these Houses the Wardens of the Border were often chosen, and were not to be trusted to keep order; being more disposed to use sword and axe. Within a century the chiefs {072}throve to Earl's estate, and finally "warstled up the brae" to Dukedoms. [Illustration: 0092] Meanwhile the Douglases, for long the most powerful House in Scotland, the rivals of the Crown, were crushed by James II, and of the Douglases, Sir George, of Springwood Park, is descended from the House of Cavers, (on Teviot, below Hawick), scions sprung from Archibald, natural son of the Earl of Douglas who fell at Otterburne (1388) and is immortal in the ballad. The whole land is full of scenes made famous by the adventures of these ancient clans; they may be tracked by blood from Hermitage Castle to the dowie dens of Yarrow and the Peel Tower on the Douglas burn. Sir Herbert Maxwell, in "The Story of the Tweed" (p. 139) not unnaturally laments the "sadly suburban" name of Springwood Park, standing where it ought not, in place of the {073}ancient name of Maxwell, originally "Maccus whele," "the pool of Maccus," on Tweed. [Illustration: 0093] Maccus was a descendant of the primeval Maccus, who, before the Norman Conquest, signed himself, or was described, as Maccus Archipirata, "the leading pirate." To a later Maccus David I gave the salmon fishing at Kelso; the pool, called "Maccus whele" became Maxwell, and the lairds "de Maxwell." The Maxwells moved to the western Border to Caerlaverock and into Galloway; and of all {074}this history only the name, "Max wheel," of a salmon cast below the pretty bridge of Kelso, is left. The name Kelso is of Cymric origin: _calch myadd._ "Chalk hill." To be sure, as the man said of the derivation of _jour_ from _dies_, the name is _diablement change en route_. The ruins of Kelso Abbey are the chief local remains of the Ages of faith. When David I, not yet king, brought French Bénédictines to Scotland, he settled them in Ettrick Forest. Here they raised the schele chirche--the Monastery, on a steep hill above Ettrick (now Selkirk), and here they "felt the breeze down Ettrick break" with its chill showers, and wept as they remembered pleasant Picardy; the climate of Selkirk being peculiarly bitter. David, when king, moved his Benedictines to the far more comfortable region of Kelso, or "Calkow," where they began to build in 1128. The style of their church is late Norman, and the tower was used in war as a keep in the fierce wars of Henry VIII. The place was gutted and the town burned by Dacre, in 1523; and suffered again from Norfolk, in 1542, and Hertford in 1545. Henry VIII chivalrously destroyed this part of the border from the cottage to the castles of the Kers and the pleasant holy places of the Church, during the childhood of his kinswoman, Mary Stuart, Queen of Scots. His aim was always to annex Scotland; and, of course, to introduce the Gospel. In 1545, after overcoming the garrison of the church tower, Hertford's men wrecked the whole place, leaving little more than we see to day; though that little is much compared with what the Reformers have left of St. Andrews and Lindores. Kelso saw more than enough of very ugly fighting in those days; not even her monks stood aloof when blows fell fast and their cloisters were threatened. In 1545, twelve monks and ninety laymen gallantly held the Abbey against the English, and when at length Hertford's guns created a practicable breach, they retreated to the church tower. Hill Burton says, in his History of Scotland, that then "the assault was given to the Spaniards, but, when they rushed in, they found the place Kelso Abbey. {075}cleared. [Illustration: 0095] The nimble garrison had run to the strong square tower of the church, and there again they held out. Night came before they could be dislodged from this their last citadel, {076}so the besiegers had to leave the assault till the morning, setting a good watch all night about the house, which was not so well kept but that a dozen of the Scots in the darkness of the night escaped by ropes out at back windows and corners, with no little danger of their lives. [Illustration: 0096] When the day came, and the steeple eftsoons assaulted, it was immediately won, and as many Scots slain as were within." So may Kelso Abbey be said to have been finally wrecked; though, fifteen years later, the Reformers did their own little bit of work in the same line. The Abbey buildings, however, or part of them, continued to be used long after this date; from 1649 to 1771 the transept, roughly ceiled over, served as the parish church, but it was given up in the year last mentioned owing to a portion of the roof falling in whilst service was being held. The kirk "skailed" that day in something under record time; Thomas the Rhymer's prediction that "the kirk should fall at the fullest" was in the people's mind, and they stood not much upon the order of their going. Kelso was the most southern point reached by Montrose in {077}his efforts to join hands w ith Charles the First after his year of victories. The Border chiefs who had promised aid all deserted him; the Gordons and Colkitto had left him, and he marched north to the junction of Ettrick and Tweed and the fatal day of Philiphaugh. [Illustration: 0097] In 1745, Kelso for two days saw Prince Charlie, in his feint against General Wade; from Kelso he turned to Carlisle, his actual, and by no fault of his, hopeless line of invasion of England. The Prince's own strategy, as he wrote to his father, was "to have a stroke for't," as near the Border and as promptly as possible He therefore wished to cross the Tweed near Kelso, and beat up the quarters of the senile Marshal Wade at Newcastle. If he discussed Wade to the same tune as he had settled Cope, English Jacobites might join him. Holding Newcastle, he could thereby admit French reinforcements, while, if defeated, he was near the sea, and had a better route of retreat than if he were defeated going by Carlisle and the western route, in the heart of England. His council of chiefs, unhappily, forced him to take the western route. Halting at Kelso, he sent the best of the Border {078}cavaliers, Henry Ker of Graden, to make a feint on Wade; he rode as far as Wooler, near Flodden. Next day the Prince marched up Teviot, and up Jed, to Jedburgh, with the flower of the fighting clans; then up Rule water, another of the tributaries of Tweed, to Haggiehaugh on the Liddell, and so into England near Carlisle. Of old he would have picked up the Kers, Elliots, and Scotts; Haggiehaugh, where he slept, is Larriston, the home of the Elliot chief, "the Lion of Liddes-dale." But the tartans waved and the bagpipes shrilled in vain, and the Blue Bonnets did not go over the Border. One of the writers of this book possesses the armchair in which the Prince rested at Haggiehaugh. It was at Kelso, one remembers, that Sir Walter Scott first met James Ballantyne, with whose fortunes his own were afterwards to become so inextricably blended. Scott was then but a growing boy f his health had been giving trouble, and he was sent by his father to stay for six months with an aunt "who resided in a small house, situated very pleasantly in a large garden to the eastward of the churchyard of Kelso, which extended down to the Tweed." During the time of Scott's stay, Ballantyne and he were class-mates under Mr. Lancelot Whale, master of the Kelso Grammar School. The acquaint ance then formed was never quite broken off, and all the world knows the story of its outcome. We now follow Prince Charles into "Pleasant Teviotdale, a land Made blithe with plough and harrow," a rich, well-wooded grassy land, cultivated of old under the Benedictines of Kelso. Little more than a mile from that town, by the road leading to St. Boswells up Tweed's southern bank, on a wooded ridge overhanging Teviot and separated from Tweed by but a narrow flat haugh, stands all that is left of Roxburgh Castle,--a few isolated portions of massive wall defended on the north and, {079}east sides by a ditch. [Illustration: 0099] At the west end a very deep cutting divides this ridge from the high ground farther to the west. Ditch and cutting apparently were in former times flooded with water run in from Teviot, for even as late as the end of the eighteenth century remains of a weir or dam could still be {080}seen stretching across the river. No trace of it now remains. Those who razed the castle took care that the dam should be broken beyond repair, and countless winter floods have long since swept away the little that may have been left. Close to the castle probably stood the once important town of Roxburgh, with its streets and churches, its convent and schools, and its Mint, where many of our Scottish coins were struck. Where are those streets and churches now? Not a trace of them is to be found. The houses were of wood, no doubt, and easily demolished, but the churches, the convent, and the Mint, one would expect to have been of build substantial enough to leave some indication of where they had stood. Roxburgh, more than any other Border town, experienced the horrors of war. Her castle was one of four great Scottish strongholds--Edinburgh, Stirling, Berwick, Roxburgh--and it mattered little whether it were temporarily held by England or by Scotland, on the inhabit ants of the town fell the brunt of those horrors. Castle and town were continually being besieged, continually changing hands, sometimes by stratagem--as when on Shrove Tuesday, 1314, the Good Sir James Douglas, with sixty men, surprised the garrison and took the castle from the English;--sometimes by siege and assault, as when James II was killed by the bursting of "the Lion," one of his own clumsy pieces of ordnance, a gun similar to that ancient weapon, "Mons Meg," which is still to be seen in Edinburgh Castle. To the Queen of James II was due the complete destruction of Roxburgh as a stronghold. The castle had been for something like a hundred years continuously in England's hands,--a rankling sore in Scotland's body. The knife must be used unflinchingly. Under her orders, therefore, when the castle was captured after James's death, the place was thrown down and made entirely untenable; and probably at this time also the dam across Teviot was cut, thus permanently emptying fosse and ditch. Roxburgh ceased then almost entirely to be a place of {081}strength, and time and decay have wiped her out; no man may-say where stood any portion of a town which, in point of population, was once the fourth most important burgh in Scotland. Of the last siege, and the death of James, the historian Pitscottie writes: "The King commanded the souldeouris and men of weir to assault the castell, but the Inglischemen défendit so walieiantlie within, the seige appeirlt so to indure langer nor was beleiffit, quhairthrow the King déterminât to compell them that was within the house be lang tairrie to rander and gif it ower." Reinforcements at this time arrived, "which maid the King so blyth that he commanded to chairge all the gunnis to gif the castell ane new wollie. But quhill this prince, mair curieous nor becam him or the majestie of ane King, did stand neir hand by the gunneris quhan the artaillyerie was dischargeand, his thie bane was doung in twa with ane piece of ane misframit gun that brak in the schutting, be the quhilk he was strickin to the grund and dieit haistilie thereof, quhilk grettumlie discuragit all his nobill gentlemen and freindis that war stand aboot him." Near at hand on the farther bank of Tweed stands, or until lately stood, an old thorn tree which is said to mark the spot where the King fell. The ancient Roxburgh has utterly disappeared; "Fallen are thy lowers, and where the palace stood In gloomy grandeur waves yon hanging wood; Crushed are thy halls, save where the peasant sees One moss-clad ruin rise between the trees." But there lingers yet one relic of the days when her Markets and Trysts were famed throughout the country. St. James's Fair, which w-as held at Roxburgh as long ago as the days of King David I, is still kept each August in the pleasant haugh by the ruins of the castle, between Teviot and Tweed. There, on a little eminence, the Town Clerk of Jedburgh each year reads this Proclamation: "OYEZ, OYEZ, OYEZ." {082}Whereas the Fair of St. James is to be held this ----th day of August 19----, and is to continue for the space of eight days from and after this proclamation. Therefore, in name and authority of Our Sovereign King George V, by the Grace of God of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, King, Defender of the Faith, and in name and authority of the Honourable the Provost and Bailies of the Royal Borough of Jedburgh, and in name and authority of a High and Potent Prince the Duke of Roxburgh, and his Bailie of Kelso, I make due and lawful proclamation that no person or persons shall presume to trouble or molest the present Fair, or offer any injury one to another, or break the King's peace,--Prohibiting all old Feuds and new Feuds, or the doing of anything to disquiet the said Fair, under the highest pains of law. As also--that no person or persons make any private bargains prejudicial to the customs and Proprietors of said Fair,--Certifying those who contravene any part of said customs that they will be prosecuted and fined according to law. "GOD SAVE THE KING." In these degenerate days, the Fair lasts but one day in place of eight, and Feuds, new or old, are unknown. But not so very long ago the rivalry at this Fair of the neighbouring towns of Kelso and Jedburgh was very bitter. Roxburgh had ceased to be, indeed, but the Fair survived, and it chanced that the Provost and Bailies of Jedburgh--like Roxburgh, a Royal burgh,--having under some old charter acquired a right to "proclaim" the Fair and collect the market dues, duly came in state each August in order to exercise this privilege at the ancient stance. Now, Kelso in the course of time became a larger and more important town than Jedburgh; it is, moreover, in close proximity to the ground on which the Fair is held, whereas Jedburgh was no better than a foreign land, miles removed--ten, at least,--from Roxburgh. Hence Kelso resented what it considered to be an outrage on the part of her officious neighbour. What was Jedburgh that she should oust them from those market tolls and dues! A beggarly interloper, no less! The outcome of such a frame of mind was generally what might be expected amongst men whose forebears for many {083}hundreds of years had been fierce fighters. As the procession of Jedburgh magistrates, all in their robes and escorted by a compact body of townsmen, advanced towards the place of proclamation, taunts of "Pride and Poverty!"--"Pride and Poverty!" were hurled at their ears by the irritated men of Kelso. "Doo Tairts an' Herrin' Pies!" fiercely retorted Jedburgh's inhabitants. It is difficult now-a-days to see where came in the sting of the original taunt, or the appositeness of the "Countercheck Quarrelsome." But in those old days they were amply sufficient. Some man, more hasty, or less sober, than his neighbour would follow up the taunt by a push or a blow, and St. James's Fair was speedily as lively a spot as now could be any Fair even in Ireland. Kelso and Jedburgh were "busy at each other"; and sometimes one prevailed, sometimes the other. An attempt that Kelso once made to hold the Fair on its own side of the river was utterly defeated; Jedburgh marched across the bridge and made things so warm that the experiment of shifting the venue of St. James's Fair has never been repeated. No doubt, when Roxburgh ceased to be a Royal Burgh, its rights naturally devolved on Jedburgh, the only other Royal Burgh in the country. But Jedburgh tradition tells of a time when the English, taking advantage of heavy floods which prevented Kelso men from crossing the river, raided the Fair and carried off rich plunder. Then Jedburgh, coming to the rescue, smote the English and recaptured the booty, and for their gallant conduct were awarded those privileges which they still exercise. The Kelso taunt of "Pride and Poverty" may possibly have originated from a custom to which the economical burgesses of Jedburgh seem to have been addicted. In a letter written in 1790, Sir Walter Scott mentions that when he himself visited the Fair in that year, he found that, there not being in possession of the men of Jedburgh enough riding boots to accommodate all the riders in the procession, the magistrates had ruled that only the outside men of each rank should wear boots, or, rather {084}each a boot on his _outer_ leg. Thus, as the men rode in threes, one pair of boots would be sufficient to maintain the dignity of each rank,--a device worthy of Caleb Balderstone himself. It is easy enough to assign an origin to "Pride and Poverty," but the local custom which gave occasion for the bitter taunt of "Doo tairts and Herrin' Pies" is baffling. There are many such taunts in the Border, hurled by town at rival town. "Selkirk craws," is the reproach flung at that burgh by its neighbour, Galashiels; and "Galashiels Herons, lockit in a box, Daurna show their faces, for Selkirk gamecocks," is, or was, the jibe that stung Gala lads to fury. Before quitting the subject of Roxburgh, it may be of interest to mention that in the churchyard of the present village of that name there is a gravestone to the memory of the original of Edie Ochiltree, the bluegown of Sir Walter's _Antiquary_. Andrew Gemmels was his name. He died in 1793 at Roxburgh Newtown, a farm on the banks of Tweed a few mi es from Roxburgh, at the great age of one hundred and six. The first tributary received by Teviot on the right bank is the Kale Water, running through the parish of Linton, which was in King David's time an appanage of Kelso Abbey. The church has been restored, but the walls are, like those of Kelso, Norman work, and in the porch is an enigmatic piece of sculptors' work; apparently somebody is fighting a dragon--Sir Herbert Maxwell suggests St. George, but St. Michael was the more orthodox dragon slayer. About the object grew an aetiological myth; a Somerville of old times "Slew the Worm of Worrnes glen And wan all Lintoun parochine." The dragon-slaying story is found in most parts of the world, from Troy to Dairy in the Glenkens. Here the Worm twisted himself round the Mote, or tumulus (apparently the basis of an old fort), and was killed by the local blacksmith. {085}In 1522-1533, Linton tower was among the scores of such Border Keeps which the English destroyed. They could hold their own against a Border raid; not in face of a regular English army. Roxburghshire was not so deeply tainted by Covenanting principles as Galloway, Lanarkshire, and the south-west, Ayrshire and Renfrewshire. Covenanters needed wild hills and wild wastes. They are said to have held coil venticles in a deep glen of Kale; but, as a rule, they knew enough to preach in places of wide outlook, where they could detect the approach of parties of dragoons. In the bed of a burn they would be at great disadvantage. A tower more interesting than that of Linton, namely Ormistoun, fell when Linton fell; but it must have been rebuilt, for here, in Mary Stuart's day, dwelt the Black Laird of Ormistoun, James, with Hob, his brother, two of Bothwell's most cruel and desperate "Lambs." The Black Laird was with Bothwell, Hay of Talla (on upper Tweed), and one of Bothwell's own clan, Hepburn of Bowton, when they placed the powder under Darnley's chamber in Kirk o'-Field (February 9-10, 1567), and so, in the feeling words of Bothwell, "sent him fleeing through the air." After doing another deed as treacherous as this murder, the Black Laird was taken, tried, and hanged in 1573. Bothwell was Warden of the Border, which he ruled from Hermitage Castle on the Liddel water, and all these loose Border lairds rode and slew at his bidding. They had probably, in that twilight of faith, no religion in particular; Catholicism lingered in the shape of oaths, Calvinism was not yet well settled in these regions. But, probably in prison, the Black Laird "got religion." He professed to be of the Elect, and confident of his salvation, while he drew a dark enough picture of life among lairds of his quality. On the day of his hanging he said, "With God I hope this night to sup.... Of all men on the earth I have been one of the proudest and most high-minded, and most filthy of my body. But specially, I have shed innocent blood {086}of one Michael Hunter with my own hands. Alas, therefore, because the said Michael, having me lying on my back, having a pitchfork in his hand, might have slain me if he pleased, but did it not, which of all things grieves me most in conscience. Within these seven years I never saw two good men, nor one good deed, but all kinds of wickedness." This wretch, once on his feet, must have butchered some poor hind who had spared him. In reading Pitcairn's _Criminal Trials_, and the Register of Privy Council for the period of the Reformation, we find private war, murder, and rapine to have been almost weekly occurrences, from the Upper Tweed to the Esk. The new Gospel Light made the darkness visible, and we see robberies and vendettas among the dwellers in the peel towers, of which the empty shells stand beside every burn in the pleasant lands then clouded with smoke from blazing barn and tower and cottage. The later Ormistouns had "particularly deadly feud" with the Kers of Cessford; the Kers annexed their lands, and the last Ormistoun was a public hangman; the ancestral Orm was a flourishing and pious gentleman of the twelfth century, a benefactor of the early monks of Melrose. Meanwhile, the castle of Cessford, the ancestral hold of that line, is not far from a place called Morbattle in the Black Laird's day, and now, more pleasantly, Morebattle. The name has no connection either with festivity or feud, and "More" is not the Celtic _mor_, "great." "More" is "mere," a lake, and "botl" is Anglo-Saxon, "a dwelling." Cessford Castle had the name to be only second to Bothwell's castle of Dunbar, and Logan of Restalrig's eyrie on a jutting rock above the sea, Fastcastle. In the great English raid of 1523, "Dand Ker," Sir Andrew, the head of the clan, rather feebly surrendered the place, which was secure in walls fourteen feet thick. An interesting find was made at Cessford in 1858. Whilst excavating, a few yards from the north wall of the castle, a workman unearthed a very fine old sword, and a dagger, both in fair preservation. The dagger measured about twenty-six inches, and bore on its blade the Scottish Thistle, surmounted by a crown. The sword was basket hilted, richly carved and embossed in silver. It measured forty inches in length; on one side of the blade was the Scottish Crown; on the other, the date 1511. It was a Ker of Cessford, tradition tells, who in 1622 tried to carry off the goods and gear of Hobbie Hall of Haughhead, father of the famous Covenanter, Henry Hall. Hobbie, apparently, was quite able to take care of himself, as is testified by a large stone which stands on a knoll amid trees, near Kale water, on which is carved: Here Hoby Hall boldly maintained his right 'Gainst reef plain force armed w. lawless might For twenty pleughs harnessed in all their gear Could not this valiant noble heart make fear But w. his sword he cut the formost soam In two: hence drove both pleughs and pleughmen home." 1622. The stone was repaired and restored in 1854 by Lady John Scott. Higher up than Kale comes Oxnam (locally, Ousenam) Water, which joins Teviot hard by Crailing. Once a nice trout stream, there is not left at this day much to tempt the angler whose dreams are of giant fish, though doubtless many a "basket" can be caught of fingerlings. In none of the Border streams, unhappily, is any restriction made as regards the size of the fish that may be taken. Everything goes into the creel of the fisher with worm in "drummly" waters, and of the holiday sportsman; moved by no compunctions, trammelled by no absurd qualms,--to them a fish is a fish; and as the latter, at least, probably never even sees a big trout, he attaches vast importance to the capture of a "Triton of the minnows." The writer, who had one day fished a Border river with all the little skill at his command, and had succeeded neither with dry fly nor with wet in capturing anything worthy to be kept, once came upon a sportsman of this holiday breed, rigged out with all the latest appliances which should inevitably lure the wiliest of trout from his native element. He "had had a splendid day," he said, in reply to enquiries. "What had he got them with? Oh-h, Fly." but what fly, he would not say. It was just "fly." "Might he see the basket?" the baffled enquirer asked Proudly the lid was thrown back, and the contents displayed--a basket half filled with parr, and with trout, not one of which could have been six inches in length. Thus are the streams depleted. It is a pleasant valley, that of the Oxnam. Across it runs the old Roman Road,--in days not very remote a favourite camping place of gipsies,--and up the valley to the south lies that noble sweep of blue hills, the Cheviots, smiling and friendly enough in summer, but dour and forbidding when the north east blast of winter strikes their blurred and gloomy faces. Did those "muggers" and "tinklers," who of old frequented the Roman Road that runs south over Teviot and Jed and Oxnam, and away over the Cheviots down into Rede valley past Bremenium (High Rochester), did they ever come upon buried treasure or hoarded coins, one wonders. It is not many years since a well-known Professor, as he sat resting one day by the side of the old Road a little farther south than Oxnam valley, idly pushed his walking stick into a rabbit hole close to where he was seated. A few scrapes with the point of the stick, and something chinked and fell; then another, and another. But this buried treasure consisted only of copper coins, a vast number, none very rare; and no farther search revealed anything of value. Yet there must be plenty along that route, if one could but chance upon the proper spots. And surely, wherever there befell one of those countless fights or skirmishes that were for ever taking place in these Border hills, both in the days of the Romans and since, there must lie buried weapons. At Bloodylaws, up Oxnam, for instance. The {89}name is suggestive; but what occurred there, one cannot say--though there is the vague tradition of a mighty battle that left Oxnam for three days running red with blood. The country people, if you enquire from them the name of that hill, pronounce it with bated breath;--"Bluidylaws," they say in lowered voice. But I doubt that their tone is less the effect of old unhappy tradition telling how some great slaughter took place here, than the fact that "bluidy" is a word banned by the polite. This "three days red with blood," too, is an expression curiously common in the account given by country folk of any battle of which they may have local tradition. You will rind it used in connection with at least half a dozen other places in the Border-land besides Bloodylaws; and in the ballad of "The Lads of Wamphray" there occurs the line: "When the Biddes-burn ran three days blood." Wamphray is in Annandale, and the fight alluded to was between the Johnstons and the Crichtons in 1593. But the affair was a mere skirmish; "three days blood" is but a figure of speech in this and probably in most other instances. Still, on a spur of Bloodylaws there exists a well-defined circular camp, and there may be foundation for the local tradition of some grim slaughter. CHAPTER IV JEDBURGH, AND THE JED |Two{090} or three miles up Teviot from the junction of Oxnam Water, we come to Jed, a beautiful stream, on whose banks dreams the pleasant county town where, close on ninety years ago, they cried that cry of which they do not now like to think--"Burke Sir Walter!" In all the Border there stands no place more picturesquely situated than Jedburgh, nor in historical interest can any surpass it. And though its ancient castle, and the six strong towers that once defended the town, have long since vanished, there remain still the noble ruins of its magnificent abbey, and other relics of the past, less noticeable but hardly less interesting; whilst the surrounding countryside brims over with the beauty of river, wood, and hill. History gives no very definite information as to the date at which first took place the building of a castle at Jedburgh, but it appears certain that as early as the year 950 a.d. there existed in these parts some great stronghold, if, at least, "Judan-byrig"--where, when he had suppressed an insurrection in Northumbria, King Edred of England confined the rebel Archbishop of York--may be identified with "Jedburgh." Probably, however, there was in this neighbourhood a castle of sorts long prior to the date above mentioned, for both "Gedde-wrdes," or "Jedworths," the old and the new, were known {091}settlements before the expiry of the earlier half of the ninth century, and in those turbulent days no community was rash enough to plant itself in hamlet or town except under the protecting shield of castle or strong place of arms. [Illustration: 0111] In any case, before the end of the eleventh century, there certainly existed at Jedburgh a castle of formidable strength, which at frequent intervals continued to be used by the Scottish kings as a royal residence. Here, in 1165, died Malcolm the Maiden. From Jedvvorth was issued many a Charter by Malcolm's predecessor, David I, by William the Lion, by Alexander II. Here, too, the queen of Alexander III bore him a son in the year 1264; and here at a masque held after Alexander's second marriage in 1285, appeared and vanished the grizzly skeleton that danced a moment before the king, threading its ghastly way through the ranks of dismayed guests; frightened women shrank screaming from its path, men brave to face known dangers yet fell back from this horror, hurriedly crossing themselves. An evil omen, they said, a presage of misfortune or of death to the highest in the land. And surely the portent was borne out, for less than six months saw Scotland mourning the violent death of her King. Like its not distant neighbour, the more famed castle of Roxburgh, Jedburgh castle as time went on became a stronghold continually changing hands; to-day garrisoned by Scots, to-morrow held by English, taken and retaken again and again, too strong and of importance too great to be anything but a continuous bone of contention between the two nations, yet more often, and for longer periods, in English than in Scottish keeping. When in the summer of the year 1316, King Robert the Bruce went to Ireland, Sir James Douglas was one of the wardens left by him in charge of the Scottish Kingdom. Jedburgh Castle, probably with a garrison far from strong, was then in English keeping. Douglas established himself at Lintalee, little more than a mile up the river from Jedburgh, where, by throwing across the neck of a promontory between the river and a precipitous glen, fortifications which even now are not quite destroyed, he converted a post of great natural strength into a position almost unassailable. Here, or in the immediate neighbourhood, in 1317 he inflicted two severe defeats on separate bodies of English troops, detachments from a larger army under the Earl of Arundel. As the outcome of these victories, Jedburgh Castle was probably regained by the Scots, for the English monks in Jedburgh Abbey were expelled by their Scottish brethren in February, 1318, a step they would scarcely have dared to attempt had an English garrison still been in the castle. In 1320 town and castle were bestowed by the Bruce on Sir James Douglas, and five years later the grant was confirmed, with further additions of land. But in 1334 Edward Baliol, who two years earlier had assumed the Crown of Scotland, handed over to King Edward III, to remain for ever in the possession of England, amongst other places, the town, castle, and forest of Jedworth. These Edward now bestowed on Henry Percy, thus providing ground for a very pretty quarrel between the Douglases and {093}Percies. From now onward, practically for seventy-five years, Jedburgh Castle remained in English hands. Ultimately, its fate was as that of a land wilfully devastated by its own people to hamper the march of an invading army. If the Scots could not permanently hold it, neither, they resolved, should it any more harbour those vermin of England. Accordingly, when in 1409 the men of Teviotdale, fierce progenitors of the more modern reiving Border Elliots and Scotts, wiping out the English garrison, retook the castle, they at once set about its final destruction. Burnt, so far as it would burn, cast down bit by bit to its very foundations, with strenuous toil riven asunder stone from stone, ere their work was ended little part of its massive walls remained to speak of former glories. Walter Bower, Abbot of Inchcolm, who was a young man at the time of its destruction writes in the "Scotichronicon" that: "Because the masonry was exceedingly holding and solid, not without great toil was it broken down and demolished." Perched above the town on a commanding eminence that on one side sloped steeply to the river, and on the other to a deep glen or ravine, defended also, doubtless, on the side farthest from the burgh by a deep fosse, the castle must once have been of great strength--how strong as regards position may best be judged from the bird's-eye view of it to be gained if one climbs at the back of Jedburgh the exceedingly steep direct road that runs to Lariton village. From this point, too, one sees to advantage the venerable Abbey nestling among the surrounding houses, and can best appreciate the wisdom of the old monks, who chose for their abode a site so pleasant. A valley smiling in the mellow sunshine; a place to which one may drop down from the heights above where bellows and raves a north westerly gale, to find peace and quiet, undisturbed by any blustering wind; a valley rich in the fruits of the earth, and wandering through it a trout stream more beautiful than almost any of the many beautiful Border "Waters," a stream {094}that once was, and now should be, full of lusty yellow trout rising under the leafy elms in the long, warm, summer evenings. An ideal water for trout in Jed, and many a pretty dish must those old monks have taken from it, by fair means or foul; pity that woollen-mills below, and netting, and the indiscriminate slaughter of fingerlings, above the town, should have so greatly damaged it as a sporting stream. Possibly upper Jed is not now quite so bad as it was a few years ago, but what of the lower part of that beautiful river? The same may be said of it that may be said of Teviot immediately below Hawick, or of Gala, and, alas! of Tweed, below Galashiels. The waters are poisoned by dyes and by sewage, rendered foul by sewage fungus, reeking with all manner of uncleanness, an offence to nostril and to eye. Five and thirty years ago Ruskin wrote: "After seeing the stream of the Teviot as black as ink, a putrid carcase of a sheep lying in the dry channel of the Jed, under Jedburgh Abbey, the entire strength of the summer stream being taken away to supply a single mill, I know finally what value the British mind sets on the beauties of nature." What, indeed, are the 'beauties of nature' that they should interfere with the glories of commerce! Truly we are a Commercial Nation. Here is the condition of things that Ruskin found in the Borderland in the mid-seventies of last century, as described by him in a lecture delivered at Oxford in 1877. "Two years ago," he said, "I went, for the first time since early youth to see Scott's country by the shores of Yarrow, Teviot, and Gala Waters." Then to his hearers he read aloud from "Marmion" that picture of the Border country which is familiar to everyone: " Oft in my mind surh thoughts awake, By lone St. Mary's silent lake; Thou know'st it well,--nor fen, nor sedge, Pollute the clear lake's crystal edge; Abrupt and sheer, the mountains sink At once upon the level brink; {095} And just a trace of silver sand Marks where the water meets the land. Far in the mirror, bright and blue, Each hill's huge outline you may view; Shaggy with heath, but lonely bare, Nor tree, nor bush, nor brake is there, Save where, of land, yon slender line Bears thwart the lake the scatter'd pine. Yet even this nakedness has power, And aids the feeling of the hour: Nor thicket, dell, nor copse you spy, Where living thing conceal'd might lie; Nor point, retiring, hides a dell, Where swain, or woodman lone, might dwell; There's nothing left to fancy's guess, You see that all is loneliness: And silence aids--though the steep hills Send to the lake a thousand rills; In summer tide, so soft they weep, The sound but lulls the ear asleep; Your horse's hoof-tread sounds too rude, So stilly is the solitude. Nought living meets the eye or ear, But well I ween the dead are near; For though, in feudal strife, a foe Hath laid Our Lady's chapel low, Yet still, beneath the hallow'd soil, The peasant rests him from his toil, And, dying, bids his bones be laid, Where erst his simple fathers pray'd." "What I saw myself, in that fair country," continued Ruskin, "of which the sight remains with me, I will next tell you. I saw the Teviot oozing, not flowing, between its wooded banks, a mere sluggish injection, among the poisonous pools of scum-covered ink. And in front of Jedburgh Abbey, where the foaming river used to dash round the sweet ruins as if the rod of Moses had freshly cleft the rock for it, bare and foul nakedness of its bed, the whole stream carried to work in the mills, the dry stones and crags of it festering unseemly in the {096}evening sun, and the carcase of a sheep, brought down in the last flood, lying there in the midst of the children at their play, literal and ghastly symbol, in the sweetest pastoral country in the world, of the lost sheep of the house of Israel." That is how these once fair scenes struck the outraged eye of one who was a sincere lover of our beautiful Border land. What might he say of these rivers now that five and thirty years have passed? Compared to Teviot, ink is a fluid that may claim to be _splendidior vitro_, and Jed below the town is in little better case. However, to return to Jedburgh. Of the old castle no trace now remains; but early in the nineteenth century a small portion of one wall yet stood, some outline of foundations yet met the eye. Probably the fosse was filled up when the buildings were razed--it was a convenient place to shoot rubbish; indeed, when about 1820 the site was being cut down preparatory to the erection of a new "castle" (until recent years used as a County Prison), charred oaken beams and blackened stones were unearthed, relics certainly of the ancient building. A few coins have also been found, and at various dates an iron lock, a key of curious design, a rusty dagger, arrowheads, and portions of a gold chain. Jedburgh, deprived of her castle, was yet a strong place; but if her townsmen and the fierce men of Teviotdale imagined that by harrying and destroying the nest that so long had sheltered them, the English birds of prey would be permanently-scattered down the wind, they made a vast mistake. No more than a year had passed ere the English returned under Sir Robert Umphraville and burned the town about their ears; and in 1416 the same commander repeated the performance of six years earlier. Again and again as the years rolled on were fire and sword the fate of Jedworth. The town, with its flanking towers, was strong, strong in natural position, and, owing to the manner of building of its houses, difficult of access except by one or other of its four ports; but it had no walls or {097}defending fosse, and however brave its men, however skilled in the use of arms, their numbers were generally too meagre to cope with the formidable bands the English could bring against them. Time and again the place was sacked, and on each occasion her magnificent Abbey suffered grievously at the hands of the stormers. Founded about the year 1118, the ancient Abbey occupies the site of a building more ancient still by probably two or three hundred years, a church built in the ninth century by Ecgred, Bishop of Lindisfarne, who died A.D. 845. Osbert was the first Abbot of Jedburgh (1152-1174); previous to his day the establishment ranked merely as a Priory. In the troublous times between 1297 and 1300, the Abbey suffered much. Sacked and partially destroyed, the lead stripped from its roof, the conventual buildings to such an extent gutted that the brethren, fleeing, were forced to seek refuge for a time in Abbeys and Monasteries south of the Border, it can have been but the massiveness of its walls that then preserved it from total destruction. But compared to the treatment later meted out to Abbey and town by the Earl of Surrey, all former chastenings were as a comparatively mild scourging with whips; Surrey chastised with scorpions. In this matter, his little finger was thicker than the loins of those who had preceded him. In 1523, an English force--compared to the meagre number of defenders, a vast army--marched on the town. All that human power could do in defence of hearth and home was done that day by the men of Jedworth. When, since history began, has it ever been recorded of them that they shrank from battle? "And how can man die better Than facing fearful odds," summed up their creed, then and ever. There were of them, now, but two thousand at the most, opposed to an army many times their number one man as against four, or perhaps even {095}as one to five. Yet so stubborn was their resistance, so fiercely they fought, that at the last it was only by the aid of fire that this wasps' nest was laid waste. Driven back at length by superior numbers, forced to retire to the towers and to the Abbey, the attack could be pushed home no farther till Surrey gave orders to set fire to the town. Even then, Jedworth held out till far in the night, when the entire place was little more than a smouldering heap of embers. "I assure your Grace," wrote the Earl to his King, "I fownd the Scottis at this tyme the boldest men and the hottest that ever I sawe any nation, and all the journey upon all parts of the armye kepte us with soo contynual skyrmish that I never sawe the like."... "Could 40,000 such men be assembled," he says in the same letter, "it would bee a dreadful enterprise to withstand them." If valour alone could have won the day, to the men of Jedburgh had now been the victory. They fought like fiends incarnate. The Devil himself, in truth, must have been amongst them, for, says Surrey farther: "I dare not write the wonders that my Lord Dacre and all hys company doo saye they sawe that nyght six tyms of sperits and fereful syghts. And universally all their company saye playnly the devyl was that nyght among theym six tyms." Thus was Jedburgh wiped out, "soo surely brent that no garnysons nor none others shal bee lodged there unto the tyme it bee newe buylded." And to rebuild equal to what it had been, would surely be no light undertaking, for, says Surrey, "the towne was much better than I went (weened) it had been, for there was twoo tymys moo houses therein than in Berwicke, and well buylded, with many honest and faire houses therein sufficiente to have lodged a thousand horsemen in garnyson, and six good towres therein, which towne and towres be clenely destroyed, brent, and throwen downe." The slaughter of Jedworth's defenders no doubt must also have been great. But that the inhabitants were not indiscriminately put to the sword is evidenced by the fact that some time during {099}the night, wlien Lord Dacre's picketed horses--terrified no doubt by the same Scottish devil that had troubled the hearts of the storniers in the town--suddenly stampeding, galloped wildly through Surrey's camp, over two hundred of them, bursting in amongst the still burning houses, were caught and carried off by the Scottish women who still clung to the place--"keening," probably, over their devastated hearths. In all, before this stampede ended, Surrey lost upwards of eight hundred horses; for when the maddened beasts came thundering through his camp, the English soldiers, imagining that they were being attacked by a fresh army of Scots, loosed off into the mob flights of arrows, and fired into the terrified animals with musketry. It is scarcely the method best suited to calm a maddened mob of horses; little wonder that many in their helpless terror plunged over the great "scaurs," or cliffs, that near the town overhang Jedwater, and were dashed to pieces. In his letter of 27th September, to Henry VIII, Surrey thus describes the incident: "And he [Lord Dacre] being with me at souper, about viij a clok, the horses of his company brak lowse, and sodenly ran out of his feld, in such nombre, that it caused a marvellous alarome in our field; and our standing watche being set, the horses cam ronnyng along the campe, at whome were shot above one hundred shief of arrowes, and dyvers gonnys, thinking they had been Scotes that wold have saulted the camp; fynally, the horses w'ere so madde that they ran like wilde dere into the feld, above xv c at the leest, in dyvers companys; and in one place above felle downe a gret rok, and slew theymself, and above it ran into the towne being on fire, and by the women taken, and carried awaye right evill brent, and many were taken agayne. But, fynally, by that I can esteme by the nombre of theym that I sawe goe on foote the next daye, I think there is lost above viij c horses, and all with foly for lak of not lying within the campe." {100}So, for a time, Jedburgh perished. But the recuperative power of settlements in those days was great--like the eels, they were used to the process of skinning--and in no long time a rejuvenated township sprang from the ashes of the old burgh. When Surrey gave orders that the towers should be "throwen downe," possibly his commands were not obeyed to the letter. In a district where a plentiful supply of stone is not lack ing, doubtless these defending towers would be massive buildings constructed of that material, run together--as was the custom in those days--with a semi-liquid mortar, or kind of cement, which, when it hardened, bound the entire mass into a solid block that clung stone to stone with extraordinary tenacity. Probably the towers may not have been so "clenely destroyed" as he supposed them to be. In any case, in twenty years' time the place was again formidable, its men as prone as had been their fathers to shout the old battle-cry of "Jethart's here," and fly at the throat of their hereditary foe. Nor was the hereditary foe in any way reluctant to afford them opportunity. In 1544 Lord Evers stormed and captured the town; and again the roar and crackle of flaming houses smote on the ears of Jedburgh's women. According to an Englishman's account of "The late Expedition in Scotland made by the King's Highness' Army under the Conduct of the Right Honourable the Earl of Hertford, the year of owr Lord God 1544," an account "Sent to the Right Honourable Lord Russell, Lord Privy Seal; from the King's Army there, by a Friend of his," the men of Jedburgh on this occasion did not behave with their wonted valour. But if this writer is to be trusted, nowhere during Hertford's entire campaign of 1544 did the Scots make a stand. It was a sort of triumphal English progress; everywhere the Scots fled almost without striking a blow, everywhere they were cut down. Only occasionally, and almost as it were by accident, was an Englishman hurt, whilst the slaughter among the Scots was prodigious. They "used for their defence their light feet, and fled in so much haste that divers {101}English horses were tired in their pursuit: but overtaken there was a great number, whereof many were slain, partly by the fierceness of the Englishmen, partly by the guilty cowardice of the Scots.... And yet in this skirmish, not one Englishman taken, neither slain: thanks be to God." Everywhere it is the same story--a pleasant picnic for Hertford and his men; death and destruction, and panic flight for the Scots. Men, women, and children, it was all the same apparently in that campaign, if one may judge by incidents such as this at Dunbar: "And by reason that we took them in the mornynge, who, having wautched all nyghte for our comynge and perceyvynge our Army to dislodge and depart, thoughte themselves safe of us, were newly gone to their beds; and in theyr fyrste slepes closed in with fyre, men, women, and children were suffocated and burnt.... In these victories," comments this pious and humane scribe, "who is to bee moste highest lauded but God?" But war is a rough game, and such happenings were the natural outcome at that time of Henry's orders anent the giving of quarter, and to the "putting man, woman and child to fire and sword, without exception, when any resistance shall be made against you." Here, at Jedburgh, "upon the approachment of the men to their entries, the Scots fled from their ordnance, leaving them unshot, into the woods thereabout, with all other people in the same town." Thereafter, having caught and slain something over one hundred and sixty Scots, with "the loss of six English men only," Abbey, and Grey Friars, the town, and "divers hostel and fortified houses" were sacked and given to the flames, "the goods of the same toune being first spoyled, which laded, at their departing, five hundred horses." Again, in his notice of the capture of Skraysburgh, "the greatest towne in all Teviotdale," we are told that "it is a marvellous truth.... not one Englishman was either hurt or wounded." A craven band, those Scots, it would appear, fallen strangely from the level at which Surrey had found them so few years before--{102} "the boldest men and the hottest that ever I sawe any nation"; far sunk, too, beneath the level of their immediate descendants, the men who turned the day in the fight of the Redeswire in 1575. And yet one remembers to have heard of a certain fight about this period, in the near neighbourhood of Jedburgh, at a place called Ancrum Moor, when Angus, Arran, and Scott of Buccleuch, with a force numerically very inferior, turned the tables on the "auld enemy" to a lusty tune. It may all be quite accurate, of course, this story told to Lord Russell, but it smacks somewhat of a tale told by one who himself was not a very bold fighting man. The warrior whose place is ever the forefront of the battle is not the man who belittles his enemies, nor is he usually one who regards with complacency the sufferings of helpless women and children. Accurate, or not, however, Hertford seems to have had a partiality for harrying this district and slaying its hapless people, for he returned the following year with a larger following--a mongrel gang, in which Turks and Russians were almost the only European nations unrepresented--and completed his work of destruction so far as it lay in his power. He could not utterly destroy the glorious Abbey, but the Brethren were scattered, never to return, and so far as it could be done, the building that for four hundred years had sheltered them was wrecked. Mute now the solemn chants that had been wont to echo through its dim lit aisles, gone for ever the day of matins and vespers; in Jedburgh the sway of the Church was over. Black with the smoke of sacrilegious fires, stained by the flames that had licked its desecrated walls, still a rudely fitted fragment of the great Abbey for a little time continued to be used by worshippers; for the rest, the building would appear to have been regarded chiefly as an excellent and useful outlook or watch tower. It was the followers of the Reformed Faith that next held public worship there. Did no one of the old-time Abbots who lie asleep within its ancient walls turn in his grave, one wonders, {103}when in 1793 the south aisle was pulled down, and "a wall built between the pillars to make the church more comfort able"? [Illustration: 0123] They had no room in their compositions for any sentiment of reverence, little use for such a thing as respect for historical buildings, those eighteenth century Scottish ancestors of ours. Our old foes of England at least had the excuse that what they did was done in the heat of conflict; it was left to our own people in cold blood to lay sacrilegious hands on a glorious relic of the past; like monkeys to deface and tear to pieces something the beauty and value of which they had not wit to recognise. All that could be done, however, to atone for past misdeeds was done in 1875 by the Marquess of Lothian. The "comfortable church" of 1793 has {104}been removed, and what remains of the Abbey is reverently cared for. Safe now from further desecration, "The shadows of the convent towers Slant down the snowy sward;" and in the peace of long-drawn summer twilights only the distant cries of children, the scream of swift or song of thrush, may now set the echoes flying through those ruined aisles. The Presbyterian Manse that once stood in the Abbey grounds--itself no doubt, like other houses in the town, built wholly or in part of stone quarried from the Abbey ruins--has long since been removed, and little now remains which may break the tranquil sadness that broods over these relics of past grandeur. A few hundred yards from the Abbey, down a back street, there stands a picturesque old house, robbed now of some of its picturesqueness by the substitution of tiles for the old thatched roof that once was there. It is the house where, in a room in the second story whose window overlooks a pleasant garden and the once crystal Jed, Mary, Queen of Scots lay many days, sick unto death,--a house surely that should now be owned and cared for by the Burgh. Local tradition (for what it may be worth) has it that the Queen lodged first in the house which is now the Spread Eagle Hotel, but that a fire breaking out there, she was hastily removed to that which now goes by the name of "Queen Mary's House." It stands in what must in her day have been a beautiful garden, sloping to the river. Hoary, moss-grown apple trees still blossom there and bear fruit. "With its screen of dull trees in front," says Dr. Robert Chambers, "the house has a somewhat lugubrious appearance, as if conscious of connection with the most melancholy tale that ever occupied the page of history." In those long past days, however, its appearance must have been far from lugubrious; and indeed even now, on a pleasant sunny evening of late spring when thick-clustered {105}apple and pear blossom drape the boughs, and thrushes sing, and Jed ripples musically beneath the worn arches of that fine [Illustration: 0125] {106}old bridge near at hand, (across which they say that the stones for building the Abbey were brought these many centuries agone), it is more of peace than of melancholy that the place speaks. Yet there is sadness too, when one thinks of the--at least on _this_ occasion--sorely maligned woman who lay there in grievous suffering in the darkening days of that October of 1566. "Would that I had died at Jedworth," she sighed in later years. She had been spared much, the Fates had been less unkind, if death had then been her part. And not least, she might have been spared the malignant slanders of the historian Buchanan, who, at any rate in this matter, showed himself a master of the art of suppressing the true and suggesting the false. When, according to Buchanan, news was brought to Mary at Borthwick Castle of the wounding of Bothwell by "a poor thief, that was himself ready to die,"--how, one wonders, would the famous "Little Jock Elliot" have relished that description of himself?--"she flingeth away in haste like a mad woman, by great journeys in post, in the sharp time of winter." As a matter of fact, when the news of Bothwell's mishap reached the Queen, she was already on her way to Jedburgh, to hold there a Circuit Court; and the time, of course, was not winter, but early October, not unusually one of the pleasantest times of the whole year in the south of Scotland. Arrived at Jedburgh, says Buchanan, "though she heard sure news of his life, yet her affection, impatient of delay, could not temper herself, but needs she must bewray her outrageous lust, and in an inconvenient time of the year, despising all discommodities of the way and weather, and all danger of thieves, she betook herself headlong to her journey, with such a company as no man of any honest degree would have adventured his life and his goods among them." Buchanan's estimate of the Queen's escort on this occasion is not flattering to the Earl of Moray, (the "Good Regent," Mary's half-brother,) the Earl ol Huntly, (Bothwell's brother-in-law,) {107}and Mr. Secretary Lethington, who formed part of that escort. These, one would suppose, were scarcely the men most likely to have been selected to accompany her had it been "outrageous lust" that prompted her journey. And as to this "headlong" dash to the side of the wounded Bothwell, of which Buchanan makes so much, they would call now by an ugly name such statements as his if they chanced to be made on oath. Buchanan must have known very well that the Queen transacted business for a week in Jedburgh before she set out to visit her wounded Warden of the Marches,--a visit which, after all, was official, and which under any circumstances it had been ungracious in her to refrain from making. There was no justification for speaking of her visit as "headlong," there is no warrant for such words as "hot haste," and "rode madly," which have been employed by other writers in speaking of her journey. If she made "hot haste" there, (at the end of a week devoted to business,) she made equally hot haste back again that same day. When one has to ride fifty or sixty miles across trackless hills and boggy moors in the course of a day in mid-October, when the sun is above the horizon little more than ten hours, there is not much time for loitering by the way; the minutes are brief in which one may pause to admire the view. Suppose that she left Jedburgh soon after sunrise, (that is to say, at that time of year in Scotland, a few minutes before 7 o'clock) going, as she certainly must have done, across Swinnie Moor into Rule Water, thence across Earlside Moor and over the Slitrig some miles above Hawick, then up and between the hills whose broad backs divide Slitrig from Allan Water, up by the Priesthaugh Burn and over the summit between Cauldcleuch Head and Greatmoor Hill, thence by the Braidlee Burn into Hermitage Water, and so, skirting the Deer Park, on to the Castle,--she would do well, in those days when draining of swamp lands was a thing unknown, and the way, therefore, not easy to pick, if she did the outward journey in{108} anything under five hours. Hawick local tradition claims that the Queen on her way to Hermitage visited that town, and rested for a time in what is now known as the Tower Hotel; and, as corroborative evidence, a room in that inn is said to be known as "Queen Mary's Room." It may be that she did pay a flying visit to Hawick, but the chances are against her having made such a detour. It would have considerably added to the length of her journey, and there can have been small time to spare for resting. In mid-October the sun sets a few minutes after 5 o'clock. Therefore, in returning, the Queen and her escort must have made a reasonably early start; for to find oneself, either on horseback or afoot, among peat bogs and broken, swampy ground after dark is a thing not to be courted. As it was, Mary and her horse were bogged in what has ever since been called the Queen's Mire, where years ago was found a lady's spur of ancient design--perhaps hers. The day had turned out wet and windy,--it is a way that October days have, after fine weather with a touch of frost,--and the Queen and her escort were soaked to the skin, bedraggled, and splashed to the eyes with black peaty mud from the squelching ground through which their horses had been floundering. Even in these days, when the Border hills are thoroughly drained, you cannot ride everywhere across them in "hot haste" without having frequently to draw rein. What must they have been like in the sixteenth century, when, in addition to the rough, broken surface, and the steep braes, every hillock was a soaking mossy sponge, every hollow a possibly treacherous bog, when spots such as the "Queen's Mire" were on every hand, and every burn brimmed over with the clear brown water that the heart of the ardent trout fisher now vainly pants after? Going and coming, between Jedburgh and Hermitage, a party in Mary's day, travelling as she travelled, could not well have done the journey in less that nine hours. Truly it does not leave much time for the dalliance suggested by Buchanan,--{109}more especially as the Privy Seal Register of that date testifies that the Queen transacted a not inconsiderable amount of public business whilst at the castle. But, poor lady, she could do no right in the eyes of certain of her subjects. She was a Catholic; and that was sufficient; even her very tolerance of other people's religion was an offence, a trap set for the unwary. Every suggestion of evil with regard to her conduct was eagerly seized on and greedily swallowed by her enemies and ill-wishers. It is so fatally easy to take away character. Especially, for some reason, in the case of one high in rank are certain people prone to believe evil, strangely gratified if they may be the first to unfold to a neighbour some new scandal against their betters. Away to the winds with Christian charity! All is fish that comes to _their_ net; to them every scandalous tale is true, and needs no enquiry, provided only it be told against one of exalted station. Queen Mary rode that day in the wind and the wet a matter of fifty or sixty miles. She was used to long rides, no doubt,--there was indeed no other means for her to get about the country,--and she was never one who shrank from rough weather. But wet clothes, if worn for too long a time, have a way of finding out any weak spot there may chance to be in one's frame, and the exposure and the wetting dealt hardly this time with the Queen. She was never physically strong, and of late a world of anxiety, worry, and sorrow, caused by the conduct of her husband, had drained the strength she possessed. Moreover, ever since her confinement three months earlier, she had been subject to more or less severe attacks of illness, accompanied by much pain. In her normal condition, probably the fatigue and exposure might have affected her not at all; now, it brought on a serious malady. By the morning of the 17th--the day following her long ride--she was in a high fever, and in great pain. As the disease progressed, she was seized with violent paroxysms, vomiting blood; and day by day her condition gave rise to ever more grave fear. She herself, believing that {110}her end was at hand, took leave of the Earl of Moray and of other noblemen, expressing at the same time great anxiety regarding the affairs of the kingdom and the guardianship of her infant son after her death. But never throughout the illness did her courage falter. Lack of courage, at least, is a thing of which not even her bitterest enemies can accuse Mary Stuart. On the evening of the ninth day of this severe illness, after a particularly acute attack of convulsions, the Queen sank, and her whole body became cold and rigid. "Every one present, especially her domestic servants, thought that she was dead, and they opened the windows. The Earl of Moray began to lay hands on the most precious articles, such as her silver plate and jewels. The mourning dresses were ordered, and arrangements were made for the funeral." * John Leslie, Bishop of Ross, writing from Jedburgh at the time, says that on the Friday "her Majesty became deid and all her memberis cauld, her Eene closit, Mouth fast, and Feit and Armis stiff and cauld." * MS. in British Museum, by Claude Nau, Secretary to Queen Mary, 1575-1587. Buchanan's account is that, after leaving Hermitage, "she returneth again to Jedworth, and with most earnest care and diligence provideth and prepareth all things to remove Bothwel thither. When he was once brought thither, their company and familiar haunt together was such as was smally agreeing with both their honours. There, whether it were by their nightly and daily travels, dishonourable to themselves and infamous among the people, or by some secret providence of God, the Queen fell into such a sore and dangerous sickness that scarcely there remained any hope of her life." It would be hard to conceive anything more poisonous than this, or anything less in accord with the facts. Buchanan's zeal outran his love of the truth; with both hands he flung mud at the Queen. In his eyes, any story against her was worthy of credence--or at least he wished it to appear so. As a matter of {111}fact, before Bothwell reached Jedburgh the Queen had been dangerously ill, and incapable of making any preparation to receive him had she wished to do so, for close on ten days, and the day after his coming she lay for several hours unconscious, and as one dead. Writing on 24th October to the Archbishop of Glasgow, M. Le Groc, the French Ambassador, can only say that he hopes "in five or six days the Queen will be able to sign" a dispatch; but on the following day her illness again took an unfavourable turn. She left Jedburgh within fifteen days of the date of M. Le Croc's letter, not an excessive time in which to recover from an illness which admittedly had brought her to the point of death, and which must have left her in a condition of extreme weakness. Yet, according to Buchanan, this time of convalescence was devoted to "their old pastime again, and that so openly, as they seemed to fear nothing more than lest their wickedness should be unknown." His conscience must have been of an elastic nature, if, having any knowledge of the facts, he could so write; and if he had no knowledge of the farts, one wonders how it is possible that a man of his position and ability should commit himself to statements so foul and uncharitable. But at any cost, and by any means, he wanted to make out his case; and he knew his audience. Buchanan's bias against the unfortunate Queen was very great. It even caused him to lend himself here to the task of bolstering up the case of that petulant, contemptible creature, Darnley. In view of the latter's known degrading habits and evil practices, as well as of his general conduct towards the Queen, the following sentence from the historian's waitings is almost grotesque: "When the King heard thereof," [Mary's illness] "he hasted in post to Jedburgh to visit the Queen, to comfort her in her weakness by all the gentle services that he could, to declare his affection and hearty desire to do her pleasure." Of course Darnley did nothing of the sort. When he did come, (twelve days after her illness began,) he came {112}most reluctantly and tardily from his "halkand and huntand" in the west country. He "has had time enough if he had been willing; this is a fault which I cannot excuse," wrote M. Le Croc on the 24th October. According to Buchanan, Darnley, when he did reach Jedburgh, found no one ready to receive him, or "to do him any reverence at all"; the Queen, he says, had "practised with" the Countess of Moray to feign sickness and keep her bed, as an excuse for not receiving him. "Being thus denied all duties of civil kindness, the next day with great grief of heart he returned to his old solitary corner." A pathetic story, if it were wholly true; a heart-stirring picture, that of the "solitary corner." But all the King's horses and all the King's men could not have set Darnley back again in the place he had forfeited in the esteem of the Nobles, and in the esteem of the country at large. If the nobles were not pleased to welcome him, if he was forsaken of all friends, whose fault was that but Darnley's? "The haughty spirit of Darnley, nursed up in flattery, and accustomed to command, could not bear the contempt into which he had now fallen, and the state of insignificance to which he saw himself reduced." * Darnley was an undisciplined cub. It was the sulky petulance of a spoilt child, that delayed his visit to Jedburgh; it was the offended dignity of an unlicked schoolboy that took him out of it again so hurriedly. The Queen's sufferings were as nought, weighed in the scale against a petty dignity offended by the lack of "reverence" with which he was received in Jedburgh. Truly, Queen Mary at her marriage had "placed her love on a very unworthy object, who requited it with ingratitude and treated her with neglect, with violence, and with brutality." ** * Robertson's History of Scotland. ** Robertson. Buchanan, the historian, Queen Mary's traducer, died in September, 1582. His contemporary, Sir James Melville of Halhill, in writing of him says he was "a man of notable endowments for his learning and knowledge in Latin poesy, {113}much honoured in other countries, pleasant in conversation, rehearsing at all occasions moralities short and instructive, whereof he had abundance, inventing where he wanted. He was also religious, but was easily abused, and so facile that he was led by every company that he haunted, which made him factious in his old days, for he spoke and wrote as those who were about him informed him; for he was become careless, following in many things the vulgar opinion; for he was naturally popular, and extremely revengeful against any man who had offended him, which was his greatest fault." Truly these phrases: "he spoke and wrote as those who were about him informed him"; "inventing where he wanted"; "easily abused, and so facile that he was led by every company that he haunted"; "extremely revengeful against any who had offended him," seem to be not without application to much of what he wrote regarding Mary Stuart. On 9th November Jedburgh saw its last of this most unfortunate among women. On that day the Queen and her Court set out for Craigmillar, travelling on horseback by way of Kelso, Home Castle, Berwick, and Dunbar. But the effects of that grievous sickness at Jedburgh long remained with her. Many, in the days that are long dead, were the Burgh's royal visitors; but no figure more romantic in history has ever trod its streets than his who in 1745 passed one night there on his disastrous march southward. At no great distance from the house where Mary lay ill, stands a fine old building, occupied once by a being no less ill-fated than was the unfortunate Queen of Scots. In a "close" leading from the Castle gate you find the door of this house--on its weather-beaten stone lintel the date 1687. The sorely worn stone steps of a winding old staircase lead to rooms above, all panelled in oak. But as in the case of the "comfortable church" that once took away from the beauty and dignity of the grand old Abbey, so here the ruthless hand of modern "improvement" has been at work. The tenants of the building--there are several--pre{114}sumably finding the sombre oak all too gloomy to meet their view of what is fitting in mural decoration, have remedied this defect by papering the panels, and in some instances by giving them what is call "a lick of paint." Sadly altered, therefore, is the interior of the building from what it was that night in November, 1745, when Bonnie Prince Charlie slept within its massive walls. But the outside, with its quaint double sun-dial set in the wall facing the Castle-gate, is no doubt now as it was then. Of this visit, local tradition has not much to tell. There is the story that the advance guard of that section of the Prince's army which he himself led, marching from Kelso, reached Jedburgh on the Sunday when the entire community was at church, and it is said that a message was sent to the minister of the Abbey church requiring him to close the service and send his congregation home to prepare rations for the main body of the army. The order, if it were really given, was apparently not resented, for when the Prince himself marched in, the women of Jedburgh, at least, flocked into the street to kiss his hand. The regard and homage of the women he got here, as elsewhere, but of that of which he stood most in need, the swords of the men, he got none. As at Kelso, not a single recruit followed him. One, indeed, a neighbouring farmer, did ride in to join the Royal standard, but he was a day after the fair; the army had already marched. Did the sound that tradition says Jedburgh heard long ere the Prince's arrival, the sound as of an army on the march, the distant rumble of moving artillery, the tramp of innumerable feet, and the dull throb of drums pulsing on the still night air, scare Borderers away from his enterprise? Was it superstition, or was it a real lack of interest, or was it merely "canniness," that so effectually damped the ardour of recruits both at Kelso and at Jedburgh? Whatever the cause, no man followed him; only the blessings and good wishes of the women were his wherever he went. After leaving Jedburgh, the Prince's army made over the {115}hills in two divisions, one following the old Whele-Causeway (over which the main Scottish army marched on Carlisle in 1388, what time Douglas's flying column made a dash into England down the Rede valley from Froissart's "Zedon"); the other marching by Note o' the Gate, the neighbouring pass that runs between Dog Knowe and Rushy Rig. These were then the only two practicable ways over the hills into Upper Liddesdale. "Note o' the Gate" is a puzzle. What does the name mean? "Note" may be merely the Cumberland "Knot" or "Knote," a knob or projection on a hillside. I understand the term is common enough in that part of the country, as in Helmside Knot, Hard Knot, etc. But even if this word, though differently spelled, does bear the same meaning both in Cumberland and in Liddesdale, I do not know that it gets us any nearer the "Gate." There is no rugged pass here, no Gate between precipitous mountains. One explanation--for what it may be worth--comes from a tradition that the name was given by Prince Charlie himself, through his misunderstanding a remark made by one of his officers. As they tramped over the moorland pass, the Prince overheard this officer say to another: "Take note of the gait," _i.e._, "Take note of the way." That night, when they were at Larriston, the Prince puzzled everyone by referring to something that had taken place back at "Note of the Gate." The story seems far fetched. Many a tale survives of the doings and iniquities of the Prince's wild Highlanders as they straggled over these lonely Border moors. "Straggled," seems to be a more appropriate term than "marched," for, according to the testimony of eyewitnesses, the men appear to have kept no sort of military formation. Or at least what formation they did keep was of the loosest, and no check on plundering. It is a lonely countryside at best; human habitations were few and widely separated, but from the infrequent cottages, property of an easily portable nature took to itself wings as the army passed, {116}and sheep grazing on the hills melted from sight like snow before the softening breath of spring. Once they caught and killed some sheep in a "stell," and they cooked one of them in an iron pot that lay in the stell, Unfortunately, they did not take the precaution to cleanse the pot, and the resulting brew disagreed so sorely with one of the thieves that the spot is called the Hielandman's Grave to this day. Some others, that evening when they were encamped, forced a man to kill and cut up sheep for them, and for this work he was given a guinea. The pay did not benefit him much; for a part of Highlanders, as the man went towards home, put a pistol to his head and made him refund. They tried the same game on a man named Armstrong, down on the Liddel at Whit-haugh Mill. But Armstrong was too much for them; one who shared the old reiver blood was not to be intimidated, and he knocked the pistol out of the hand of the threatening Highlander, secured it himself, and turned the tables most unpleasantly. One unlooked-for result of the Prince's march through those desolate regions, was a very great increase in the number of illicit stills, and in the consumption of whisky that had paid no revenue to King George. So impressed were the Highlanders with the wild solitude of the glens on all sides of their line of march, and with the facilities presented by the amber-clear burns that tinkle through every cleuch, that when the rebels were returning from Derby, numbers of the men got no farther north than the hills of Liddesdale and the Border, but entered there on the congenial pastime of whisky-making. Though the proportion of Borderers who followed Prince Charlie down into England, or throughout his campaign, was so very meagre, yet there lived among those solemn Border hills many faithful hearts, whose King he was to the end. "Follow thee! Follow thee! Wha wadna follow thee? King o' our Highland hearts, Bonnie Prince Charlie," {117}They were not only Highland hearts that were true to him. In her _Border Sketches_, Mrs. Oliver mentions a Hawick man, named Millar, who accompanied his master, Scott of Gorrenberry, all through the campaign of 1745-46, and who to the end of his days had an undying devotion to his Prince, and till the day of the latter's death, an imperishable faith that he would come to his own again. Long after the '45, Miller became "minister's man" in one of the Hawick churches, and his grief, one Sunday morning in 1788, was overwhelming when the news was told to him that the Prince was dead. "E-eh! Doctor," he cried brokenly to his * reverend informant, "if I'll get nae good o' your sermon the day; I wish ye hadna telled me till this afternoon. If it had been the German Lairdie, now, there wad hae been little mane made for _him_ But there'll be mony a wae heart forby mine this day." Indeed, who even now can read of Bonnie Prince Charlie's end, and _not_ have "a wae heart"? Few of the Scottish Border towns in 1745 showed open hostility, or indeed anything but a luke-warm friendship, for the gallant young Pretender. Dumfries, however, was an exception. The inhabitants of that town, with men from Galloway, Nithsdale, and Annandale, full of zeal for King George and secure in the belief that the fighting men of the Prince's army were all safely over the March into England, hurried to intercept the rebel baggage train as it passed near Lockerbie, and carried off thirty-two carts to Dumfries. The Highlanders, however, getting word of this affair before the army marched from Carlisle, detached a party to Dumfries to demand the return of the waggons or the payment of an indemnity, "the notice of which has put Dumfries in greater fear and confusion than they have since the rebellion broke out, and expect no mercy." But the Prinnce's party was recalled before it had reclaimed the lost baggage-carts or exacted this alternative sum of £2,000, and Dumfries imagined that now all was weil. They had the waggons; and for a little {118}time they triumphed. So triumphant, indeed, were they, and so filled with confidence in their own warlike powers, that when false rumours reached them that the Highlanders had been utterly routed and cut to pieces at Lancaster, not only were there "great rejoicings in Dumfries by ringing of bells and illuminating their windows," but "a considerable party of our light horse were sent off immediately, after the Chevalier," and "about three hundred militia, composed of townspeople and the adjacent paroches... are to go to the water of Esk to stop their passing and to apprehend any small parcels of them flying." Dumfries was not so warlike a couple of weeks or so later, when Lord Elcho at the head of five hundred men of the Prince's advance guard marched in and demanded the immediate payment of £2,000 in money and the delivery of a thousand pairs of shoes, two hundred horses, and a hundred carts. Not all that the Prince demanded was paid before the northward march was resumed, but his visit cost the town something like £4,000--irrespective of what the Highlanders took. Whilst he remained in Dumfries, the Prince lodged in the Market Place, in a private house which is now the Commercial Inn. It is said that when his army marched up Nithsdale, halting for the night at the Duke of Queensberry's property, Drumlanrig, the Highlanders in the morning, to show their loyalty to King James, slashed with their swords portraits of King William and Queen Mary which had been presented to the Duke by Queen Anne,--an inconvenient method of declaring allegiance. Though of minor interest, there are other houses in Jedburgh besides Queen Mary's and that in which Prince Charlie lodged, in which the townsfolk take some pride. There is the building in which Sir David Brewster was born in 1781; that where Burns lodged when he visited Jedburgh in 1787; that in Abbey Close in which Wordsworth and his sister had lodgings in 1803, when Sir (then Mr.) Walter Scott visited them and read to them part of the then unpublished "Lay of the Last {119}Minstrel"; there is the old Black Bull Inn,--no lunger an inn,--and interesting only as the place where in 1726 Sir Gilbert Eliott of Stobs stabbed Colonel Stewart of Stewartfield with his sword one evening as they sat at supper. Claret was plentiful and good in. Scotland in those days, and Colonel Stewart had not given his vote to Sir Gilbert, who was candidate for the county. Swords flew out on slender excuse in the eighteenth century. This particular sword was long kept in the family of Sir Gilbert Elliot's butler, and after passing through the hands of a resident in the village of Denholm, became the property of Mr. Forrest, the well-known gun-maker of Jedburgh, by whom it was finally deposited in the Marquess of Lothian's museum at Monteviot. Jedburgh, of course, amongst other claims to distinction was famed for its witches--as what place was not, indeed, in times when harmless old women were adjudged innocent or guilty of the charge of witchcraft according as they sank or floated when thrown into deep water. If they sank--well and good, that meant that they were innocent, and they went to Heaven, having at any rate the satisfaction of knowing beforehand that, in such case, at least their memory would be cleared of the suspicion under which they had lain; if they floated--again well and good; that proved conclusively that the charge against them was a true one, and they were rescued from the water only to be burned alive. "Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live," was the text which our ancestors regarded as the Eleventh Commandment. We were not a whit better even at as late a date as the seventeenth century, than are those West African tribes of the present day whose medicine-men still "smell out" witches. Only, the West Africans practise the art now more or less in secret, and they are more humane in the death they inflict than were our ancestors; they do not burn. Jedburgh's testing place for witches was a pool below the spot where now the Townfoot Bridge crosses the river. There is a story told of a notorious witch who was ducked here along with {120}a batch of her sinful associates. No doubt _they_ all floated right enough; their reputation as witches of the most mischievous description had long been almost too well established to need such a test as that of the river. But this is what led to their final overthrow. The chief witch of this "covine" had a husband, the village pedagogue, a man of repute for piety and for the rigour of his Sabbath keeping, and it was notorious that in season and out of season this good man would remonstrate with his wife--without doubt, people said, endeavouring to wean the woman from her sinful habits. Now, one must of course admit that such continued efforts to save could not fail to be excessively irksome to any witch, and must goad not only her, but also her accomplices, as well as her Master, the Devil, to revenge. Hence, when the schoolmaster's dead body was found one fine morning floating in the river, the majority of the drowned man's neighbours had no hesitation in believing that his wife and her partners in iniquity had dragged him in the night from his hard-earned rest, and had thrown him into the deepest pool in Jed. And this was the more certain, because the deceased man had several times confided to friends a pitiful tale of how he stood in terror of his life, and how his wife and her "covine," had already more than once hauled him through the roughest streams of Jed. Sundry pious elders, moreover, affirmed that they had attended with him a sederunt of their church rulers the previous evening--when, perhaps, a trifle of something may have been taken in a quiet way to keep out the cold--and that at a late hour afterwards they accompanied him to his own door, whence, they admitted, they had come away in a hurry because of the wrathful and threatening tones in which they heard this witch addressing her husband. And this evidence was to some extent corroborated by the neighbours, who told how they had been awakened from sound sleep that night by the noise made by the poor victim loudly singing the twenty-third Psalm as the horrid troupe hurried him down the street towards the river--a rope {121}about his neck, said some. Moreover, it was told, on evidence which people saw no reason to doubt, that at the time this poor man was being hurried to his death, a company of fairies was seen dancing on the top of the tower of Jedburgh Abbey, where after the drowning of the unfortunate schoolmaster by the witches, the whole company regaled themselves liberally with wine and ale. Certainly, both wine and ale _were_ found to be missing from a neighbouring cellar the following day; and as the door of the cellar had been locked, obviously the loss could only be attributed to the schemes of fairies or witches. The one tale lent an air of truth to the others; therefore people were not backward in crediting both. He who accepted the story of the dancing fairies could have little difficulty in giving credence to that of the witches' "covine" dragging their unresisting prey through the streets. And so another wretched victim or two went to her long home by a fiery death. The schoolmaster was probably insane on some points, and trumped up the story of the witches having repeatedly ducked him. Our ancestors could swallow anything in the way of marvel. This story of the Jedburgh schoolmaster is told in "Historical Notices of the Superstitions of Teviotdale"; and it is added therein that popular tradition says that "a son of Lord Torpichen, who had been taught the art of witchcraft by his nurse," was of the party of witches, and that it was he who first gave information regarding the murderers. The Ettrick Shepherd must have known this story well. Perhaps it suggested some of the verses in "The Witch of Fife," in "The Queen's Wake." "Where have ye been, ye ill woman, These three lang nichts frae hame? What gars the sweit drap frae yer brow, ' Like clots o' the saut sea faem? "It fears me muckle ye have seen What guid man never knew; It fears me muckle ye have been Where the grey cock never crew." {122} "Sit down, sit down, my leal auld man, Sit down and listen to me; I'll gar the hair stand on yer crown And the cauld sweit blind yer e'e. "The first leet nicht, when the new moon set, When all was douf and mirk, We saddled our naigs wi* the moon fern leaf, And rode frae Kilmorran Kirk. "Some horses were of "the broom-cow framed, And some of the green bay tree: But mine was made of a hemlock-shaw, And a stout stallion was he. "We rode the tod doon on the hill, The martin on the law; And we hunted the hoolit out o' breath, And forcit him doon to fa'." "What guid was that, ye ill woman? What guid was that to thee? Ye wad better have been in yer bed at hame Wi' yer dear little bairns and me." "And aye we rade and sae merrylie we rade, Through the merkist gloffs o' the night; And we swam the flood, and we darnit the wood, Till we cam to the Lommond height. "And when we cam to the Lommond height, Sae blythlie we lighted down; And we drank frae the horns that never grew The beer that was never brewin. "And aye we danced on the green Lommond Till the dawn on the ocean grew, Nae wonder I was a weary wicht When I cam hame to you. And we flew ow'r hill, and we flew ow'r dale, And we flew ow'r firth and sea, Until we cam to merry Carlisle, Where we lightit on the lea. {123} "We gaed to the vault beyond the tow'r Where we entered free as air, And we drank, and we drank of the Bishop's wine, Until we could drink nae mair." If, however, our forbears were drastic in their manner of dealing with witches and warlocks, and rigid in the infliction of capital punishment on criminals guilty of very minor offences, they were extraordinarily lax as regards the condition in which they kept their prisons. It is told that, sometime during the eighteenth century, the chief magistrate of Jedburgh was waited on by the burgh gaoler, who complained that the main door of the gaol had parted company with its hinges--which, in fact, had long been eaten through with rust. He had no means of securing his prisoners. What was he to do? It was a question calculated to puzzle any ordinary person. But the magistrate was a man of resource. "Get a harrow," said he. "And set it on end in the doorway, wi' its teeth turned inwards. If that winna keep them in,--'deed then they're no worth the keepin'." To as late a date as 1833, Selkirk also was not much better off than this, as regards its prison. The writer of the Statistical Account of the Parish at that date complains that prisoners "_have been frequently in the practice of coming out in the evening, and returning again before the jailor's visit in the morning._" If by chance there was ever a period of his life when the Poet Burns was _not_ susceptible, it certainly was not at the time when he visited Jedburgh in 1787. Regarding that visit he has left in his diary some very characteristic notes. He was "waited on by the magistrates and presented with the freedom of the burgh," he records; he meets and dines with "a polite soldier-like gentleman, a Captain Rutherfurd, who had been many years in the wilds of America, a prisoner among the Indians," and who apparently rather bored the poet. Captain Rutherfurd's adventures were assuredly such as could not fail to be well worth listening to, but what between Burns' respectful {124}admiration of an armchair that the old soldier possessed, which had been the property of James Thomson, author of "The Seasons," and his latest attack of love's sickness, host and guest do not seem to have been quite in accord. Perhaps the old soldier prosed, and told his battles o'er again to too great an extent--it is a failing not unknown in old gentlemen; perhaps the poet wanted to compose a sonnet to his new mistress's eyebrows.--or whatever may have been Burns' equivalent. (He had just met by the "sylvan banks" of Jed a young lady possessed of charms that ravished his too tender heart). Anyhow, he left the district in a very despondent frame of mind, relieved only by such consolation as might be gleaned from presenting the lady with a copy of his latest portrait. In his diary is the following entry: "Took farewell of Jedburgh with some melancholy, disagreeable sensations. Jed, pure be thy crystal streams and hallowed thy sylvan banks! Sweet Isabella Lindsay, may peace dwell in thy bosom uninterrupted, except by the tumult throbbings of rapturous love! That love enkindling eye must beam on another, not on me; that graceful form must bless another's arms, not mine." Burns' loves were almost as many in number as the birds of the air, and scarcely less trammelled. As one proceeds up Jed from the ancient royal burgh, probably the first thing that forces itself on the mind is that the old coach road was not constructed for present-day traffic. In less than a couple of miles the river is crossed no fewer than four times by bridges which are curiously old fashioned, turning blindly across the stream in some instances almost at right angles to the road, and in the steepness of their ascent and descent conveying to the occupant of a motor car a sensation similar to that given to a bad sailor by a vessel at sea when she is surmounting "the league-long rollers." Nor are some of the gradients on the road a few miles farther out such as entirely commend themselves to motorists, two or three of them being as abrupt as one in twelve, and one in thirteen. {125}Nevertheless the beauties of road and country are great, especially if it should chance that a visit is paid to the district when the tender flush of early Spring lies sweet on Jed's thick-wooded banks, and the trout have begun to think at last of rising again freely to the natural fly. Or better still, perhaps, when the green and gold, the russet and yellow, the crimson of Autumn combine with and melt into the crumbling red cliffs,--surely more generous tinted than ever were cliffs before. Above, a sky of tenderest blue, an air windless yet brisk, and just a leaf here and there fluttering leisurely into the amber clear water that goes wandering by; and from the hushes the sweet thin pipe of a robin, or the crow of pheasant from some copse. That is the Indian Summer of Scotland, her pleasantest time of year,--if it were not for the shortening days, and the recollection that trout fishing is dead till another season. It was a heavily wooded district this in former days, and one or two of the giants of old still survive,--the widespreading "Capon tree," for instance, that you pass on the road a mile from Jedburgh (but why "Capon" it passes the knowledge of man to decide); and the "King of the Woods," near Fernihirst, a beautiful and still vigorous oak, with a girth of 17 feet, four feet from the ground. On the right, across the river, as you begin to quit the precincts of the town, there hangs the precipitous red "scaur" over which, that grim night in 1523, Surrey's horses came streaming, an equine cascade. Farther on, a mile or so, there perches Douglas's camp at Lintalee. But his "fair manor" is gone, and that great cave in the face of the cliff where he kept stock of provisions "till mak gud cher till hys men"; a fall of rock swept away that, or most part of it, in 1866. It was to this cave, within Douglas's camp, that in 1317 a priest named Ellis brought a body of three hundred English soldiers, whilst Douglas was elsewhere, dealing with Sir Thomas Richmond and his men. But, (as the song says), Father Ellis "had better have left that beggar alone." Douglas returned {126}while yet the holy man and his unruly flock were feasting in the cave. And "then"--it is needless to say,--"there began a slaughter grim and great," and whatever else Father Ellis and his men had feasted on, at least they got now a bellyful of fighting. It was the last meal of which the most part of those Englishmen partook. The cave is gone, but there still remain, guarding the neck of the promontory--ruined indeed, and partially filled up, but still prominent to the eye--the double wall and fosse that Douglas threw across it six hundred years ago. Of caves, such as this Douglas cave at Lintalee, there is a vast number scattered along the cliffy banks of Jed and Teviot, and by some of their tributary waters or burns. At Mossburn-foot, on Jed, there is a cave, others are at Hundalee, and elsewhere. Near Cessford Castle, on a small affluent of the Kale there is one, Habbie Ker's Cave, the same wicked Habbie--"a bloodie man in his youth"--whose ghost to this day walks by the old draw-well at the ruined castle of Holydene; on Kale itself there are several of considerable size; in the cliff overhanging Oxnam, near Crailing, are others, and at Ancrum, on the Ale; whilst at Sunlaws, near Roxburgh, in the red sandstone cliffs of Teviot, is a group of five caves, arranged in two tiers, some of them of fair dimensions, the largest about twenty six feet long, with a height of eight feet and a width of eight and a half feet. Another in the upper tier has a length of twenty three feet, but at the mouth is no more than three feet in height. In the lower tier, in one of the caves it is said in the Statistical Account that horses were hid in 1745, to save them from being taken for the use of the rebel army, when the detachment under Prince Charlie's own command marched from Kelso to Jedburgh. Many of the caves in different parts of the country are so well concealed that a stranger might pass very near to the mouth without suspecting their existence; some, on the other hand, force themselves on the eye. But probably in olden times thick undergrowth shut them from view. There {127}is no doubt that most of them at various times have been used as places of concealment; probably during the cruel old English wars they were much resorted to; certainly some of them were places of refuge in Covenanting times. Very efficient places of refuge no doubt they were, so long as the entrance was not discovered, but many of them would probably be easy enough to smoke out. It is mentioned in Patten's "Account of Somerset's Expedition into Scotland," how "a gentleman of my Lord Protector's... happened upon a cave in the grounde, the mouth whereof was so worne with fresh printe of steps, that he seemed to be certayne thear wear some folke within; and gone doune to trie, he was redily receyved with a hakebut or two. He left them not yet, till he had known wheyther thei wold be content to yield and come out, which they fondly refusing, he went to my Lord's grace, and upon utterance of the tbynge, gat licence to deale with them as he coulde; and so returned to them with a skore or two of pioners. Three ventes had that cave, that we wear ware of, whereof he first stopt up one; another he fill'd full of strawe, and set it a fyer, whereat they within cast water apace; but it was so wel maynteyned without, that the fyer prevayled, and thei within fayn to get them belyke into anoothur parler. Then devysed we (for I hapt to be with him) to stop the same up, whereby we should eyther smoother them, or fynd out their ventes, if thei hadde any mor: as this was done at another issue, about XII score of, we moughte see the fume of their smoke to come out: the which continued with so great a force, and so long a while, that we coulde not but thinke they must needs get them out, or smoother within: and forasmuch as we found not that they did the tone, we though it for certain thei wear sure of the toother." Who first made and used those caves, one wonders. The stone is soft, and easy to work, and I do not think it was beyond the skill and the tools of our very remote forbears to have patiently hollow'ed them out, in suitable places, from the {128}solid face of the cliff. Tool marks may yet be plainly seen in some of them, marks not such as would be made by anything in the nature of a chisel, but such as are more suggestive of a pick, of sorts, an implement--single pointed--not unknown to even very primitive races. Scattered all over the Jedburgh district are many ancient camps--hoary even in the day when Douglas fortified Lintalee; many old castles and peel-towers, all, or nearly all, now in ruins, some indeed with very little left save tradition to indicate where once they stood; and here and there are found vestiges of chapels or shrines, of which possibly there may remain hardly more in some instances than the green mounds which cover their fallen walls. The monks wandered far up this pleasant vale of Jed, carrying the Gospel of Peace through a land that knew of little save war, but the history of their resting places is even more vague than is now the outline of their chapel walls. At Old Jed ward, however, five miles up stream from Jedburgh, you may still in some measure trace the line of foundations of that venerable little building which is said to have been built here away back in the ninth century. Of camps, the number is legion. That near Monklaw, the writer has not seen, but it is said to be Roman, and its measurements are something like one hundred and sixty yards each way. At Scraesburgh there is a circular camp, with a diameter of about one hundred and eighty feet, and with ramparts still nearly twenty feet in height,--surely that "Skraysburgh, the greatest towne in all Teviotdale," which, according to the English version, seems in 1544 to have fallen almost as fell Jericho of old, when the enemy shouted and blew their trumpets. Of castles and peel-towers the most are utterly ruined, but Fernihirst (to which we come presently), still stands, and, over the hill towards Teviot, Lanton Tower, the latter now incorporated with a comfortable modern dwelling. Lanton in the twelfth century was the property of Richard Inglis, who also owned the adjacent tower of Hunthill. Both these towers {129}were sacked and burned in 1513, after Flodden, by an English flying column under Sir Roger Fenwicke, and its existence at the present day Lanton Tower may owe to the fact that when Evers swept the country side in 1544, and Hertford brought fire and sword in the following year, it had possibly neither been repaired nor was inhabited. It was over near Jedburgh, too, to have escaped the notice of Surrey in 1523. Hunthill was burned again in 1549, and had Lanton then been anything but dismantled, it could scarcely have escaped the attentions of the party sent from Jedburgh by the Earl of Rutland to attack d'Essé's rear-guard at Ancrum ford. A force coming over the hill from Jedburgh and making for Ancrum would necessarily pass within easy hail of Lanton. In any case, however, there it stands, its solid walls of a tenacity not shared by buildings put together with modern mortar. Strange are the vicissitudes of places and of people. Over this Forest of Jedworth, and here at Lanton, where of old too often were heard the blast of trumpet, shouts and oaths of fiercely striving men, the roar and crackle of burning houses, you will hear now no sound more startling than the "toot-toot" of the Master's horn and the babble of fox hounds; for at Lanton Tower are the kennels of the Jedforest Hunt, and many a glorious run is had with this pack, sometimes in enclosed country, sometimes among the great round backed Border hills towards Carterfell, over country that will tail off all but the best of men and horses. {130} CHAPTER V JED (continued), FERNIHIRST, RAID OK THE REDESWIRE, OTTERBURNE |Across Jed, on a high and leafy bank nearly opposite to Lintalee, stands the picturesque old stronghold of Fernihirst. The original castle was erected by Sir Thomas Ker probably about the year 1476, and the present building dates only from 1598. Its predecessor "stode marvelous strongly within a grete woode," as Daere and Surrey found to their cost in 1523; yet they took it, after "long skirmyshing and moche difficultie," as Surrey reported. Brief and stormy was the existence of this original Fernihirst, stirring, and in some instances horrible, the deeds done within and around its walls. In 1548 the English held it, Shrewsbury, when he returned to the south in that year, having left there a garrison of something like eighty or ninety men. At this period Scotland, still dazed and stricken under the stunning blow of Pinkie in 1547, was in a deplorable, and apparently a very helpless, condition. Most of her strongholds were in English hands; her chief men for the greater part had come in and made submission to Somerset; the poorer sort in most parts of the Border were at the mercy of the hated invader. Here, at Fernihirst, the English garrison was under the command of one whose oppression and cruel lust were devilish, and whose treatment of unprotected country-folk was such as would justify almost any conceivable form of revenge {131}on the part of the men of Jedforest. M. de Beaugué, a French officer who was then in Scotland, and who in his "_Histoire de la Guerre d'Ecosse_" chronicles the campaigns of 1548, 1549, says that during all the time this savage licentious devil remained near Jedburgh "he never came across a young girl but he outraged her, never an old woman but he put her to death with cruel torture." [Illustration: 0151] And, as the proverb has it: "Like master, like man"; where their captain forgot his manhood, and disgraced the name of Englishman, how were the men under his command likely to conduct themselves? The people of the Forest of Jedworth thus had ghastly wrongs to wipe out; and when their chance came, they seized on it with avidity. The cruelties inflicted on each other by both nations at this period were detestable and revolting. "Put men, women, and children to fire and sword without exception, when any {132}resistance shall be made against you," wrote Henry VIII. to Lord Hertford in 1544, instructions which were most faithfully carried out. Here at Femihirst our countrymen went, if possible, "one better," and their treatment of prisoners was of the most inhuman and savage nature. Yet if their wrongs were such as are depicted by de Beaugué, can one wonder that, like wild beasts, they tore and mangled? Early in 1549 there came to Jedburgh a large body of French troops under the Sieur d'Essé, sent to recapture that town, which at the moment was held for the English by a force chiefly composed of Spanish mercenaries. The Spaniards made no great stand, and for the moment the Sieur and his little army were left with time on their hands. To the Sieur went Sir John Ker, then laird of Fernihirst, suggesting that the French general should aid him in recapturing the castle. French and Scots--a small body of the latter, the personal following of Sir John Ker--accordingly made a combined attack and quickly carried the outwork, the garrison retreating to the keep. Here, whilst a party laboured hard to effect a breach in the wall, French arquebusiers were so planted that no man of the garrison could show his face with impunity, or dared to attempt to interfere with the working party, who already in little over one hour had made a practicable breach, large enough at least to admit a man's body. About this time the main French force had come up, and the English garrison could not but see that their position was now desperate. Accordingly they showed a flag of truce, and the English commander, on receiving assurance that he would be allowed to return, came out through the hole in the wall and offered to give up the castle, provided that the lives of the garrison were spared. The Sieur d'Essé, however, would listen to no conditions; the surrender, he said, must be unconditional, and the Englishman therefore returned to his men. Meantime, news of the attack on Fernihirst had flown abroad over the countryside, and men of Jedforest came {133}hurrying to the scene, breathless with the lust of slaughter, panting with unquenchable thirst for a bloody vengeance. Letting their horses go, and, regardless of everything, rushing in, they burst open and swarmed through the doors of the lower court. And now the bowels of the English leader turned indeed to water, for well he knew what fate would be his were he once to fall into the hands of those frenzied men. Therefore once more hurriedly pressing through the breach, he surrendered himself to two French officers, MM. Dussac and de la Mothe-Rouge. Scarcely, however, had he done so, and even as they led him away, a prisoner, there rushed up a Scot, a dweller in the neighbouring forest of Jed, one who had only too terrible a reason to remember the face of this fiend who had outraged his wife and his young daughter. He said no word, but with a roar as of a wounded beast that charges, he smote with all his strength. And the head of a man went trundling and bumping loosely over the trampled grass, as the knees doubled under a headless trunk that sank almost leisurely to the ground. Then those Scots who most had foul reason to execrate the memory of this treacherous brute, joyfully plunged their hands into his blood as it gushed, and with shouts of exultation seizing his head, they placed it on a long pole and stuck it up by a stone cross that stood by the parting of three ways, that all might see and rejoice over their vengeance. That was but the beginning of a scene long drawn and terrible in its ferocity. Prisoners were ruthlessly butchered, and when the Scots had murdered all whom they themselves had taken, their lust for blood was so far from slaked that they brought others from the Frenchmen--bartering even some of their arms in exchange--and slew these also with extreme barbarity. "I myself," writes M. de Beaugué, "sold them a prisoner for a small horse. They tied his hands and feet and head together, and placed him thus trussed in the middle of an open space, and ran upon him with their lances, armed as they were and on horseback.... until he was dead and his {134}body hacked in a thousand pieces, which they divided among them and carried away on the iron points of their spears." "I cannot," naively adds the chronicler, "greatly praise the Scots for this practice, but the truth is the English tyrannised over the Borders in a most barbarous manner, and I think it was but fair to repay them, as the saying goes, in their own coin." So Sir John Ker got back his strong castle. But it did not long remain undisturbed in the family possession. In 1570 there came into Scotland that English expedition under the Earl of Sussex and Lord Hunsdon which played such havoc in the Border, and once more the Merse and Teviotdale were burned and laid waste. "Apon Monday last," writes Lord Hunsdon from Berwick to Sir W. Cecil, under date 23rd April, 1570, "beyng the 17th of thys ynstant, we went owt of thys towne by 6 a cloke at nyght and rode to Warke, where we remayned tyll three or four yn the mornyng; and then sett forward the hole army that was with us att that present, ynto Tyvydale bernyng on bothe hands at the lest two myle; levyng neythercastell, towne, nortowerunburnt tyllwecametojedworth. Many of the townes beyng Bukklews, and a proper tower of hys, called the Mose Howse, wythe three or four caves, wheryn the cuntrey folk had put such stufe as they had: and was very valyantly kept by serten of the cuntrey for two or three owars, but at last taken.... The next day we marchyd to Hawyke; wher by the way we began with Farnhurst and Hunthylle, whose howsys we burnt, and all the howsys about them. We could nott blow up Farnhurst, but have so torne ytt with laborars, as ytt wer as goode ley flatt." The building must have been of remark able solidity, for in spite of its being burnt, and left roofless and dismantled, "torne with laborars," in 1570, there can belittle doubt that in less than two years it was again at least tenable, for in 1572 Lord Ruthven, after dispersing at Hawick the forces of Buccleuch and Fernihirst, (who supported the cause of the abdicated Queen,) on his return march to Jedburgh "tuik the {135}housses of Pherniherst, and put men in them," and the place was held for some time after this by the King's troops. Possibly it was more thoroughly knocked about in 1593 than it had been at any other period of its existence. Sir Andrew Ker, then head of the house, when summoned to appear before James and his Privy Council at Jedburgh to answer for his part in aiding the schemes of the Earl of Both well, and for other acts, had failed to put in an appearance, and had consequently been outlawed and declared a rebel. It was also proposed to render him homeless, for on 16th October of that year Carey reports to Burghley that "the King has proclaimed to remain at Jedworth fifteen days, and summoned the barons, gentlemen and freeholders to attend him, minding this day or tomorrow to pull down the lairds of Fernhirst and Hunthill's houses, and all others who have succoured Bothwell." Probably the threat was carried into execution, to a greater or less extent. In any case, 1598 saw a renovated Fernihirst, much as it stands at the present day, when, according to "Castellated and Domestic Architecture of Scotland," it presents "a charming example of a Scottish mansion of the period." Built into the wall above the main doorway of the mansion, (as may be seen in Mr. Hugh Thomson's sketch,) are two panels, that to the left showing the armorial bearings of the Kers, and above, on a scroll, the words: S. SOLIDEO "forward in y" name of god"; at the foot, a.k. 1.5.9.8 On the panel to the right is the word "forward"; in the centre of the panel the arms of Sir Andrew's wife, Dame Ann D. SOLIDEO Stewart, and beneath, a.s. 1.5.9.8. As late as 1767 the house seems to have been occasionally used by the Lord Lothian of that day, but it was even then showing signs of dilapidation. It was, however, occupied by farming tenants down to a recent date, as late, I believe, as 1889. About that year extensive repairs were carried out; {136}the ivy which--however picturesque it may have been--was slowly throttling the old walls, was removed, the panels were refaced, the roof made wind and weather proof, and the interior to a great extent restored. At Smailcleuchfoot, a little higher up the river, and nearly opposite to Fernilhirst Mill, almost, as one might say, within a stone's cast of the castle, stood once the house of a man greatly famed in Jedforest,--Auld Ringan Oliver. No vestige of the house now remains, but the memory of Ringan and the story of the siege he stood within his cottage here still live in Border lore, and were sung of in James Telfer's "Border Ballads" close on a century ago. "The crystal Jed by Smailcleuchfoot Flows on with murmuring din; It seems to sing a dowie dirge For him that dwelt therein." Ringan's forebears, men of mark all of them in their day, dwelt here at Smailcleuchfoot for many a generation. They were there, no doubt, when the Sieur d'Essé recaptured Ferni-hirst for Sir John Ker; there when Dacre stormed it in 1523; there perhaps, helping Douglas, when Father Ellis and his Englishmen were caught feasting on the good fare at Lintalee in 1317. With ancestors such as these, whose whole lives were passed in the midst of endless strife, men ever ready, and glorying in their readiness, to turn out against invading Southern bands, or to slip over Carterfell into Redesdale to plunder those same Southrons, how could Ringan fail to be, what he was, a born fighter! With his enormous frame, immense personal strength, and dauntless courage, there was none in the Border so famed as he. Endless were the tales told of him,--how he could take "a ten half-fou boll of barley in the wield of his arm and fling it across a horse's back with the utmost ease"; how in his youth he raided Newcastle Jail, and rescued two of his friends, who had been, as he thought, unjustly imprisoned therein. The stories of him are endless. {137}Ringan lived in the stirring times of the Covenant, and with a disposition such as his, dourly religious, it is almost needless to say that he was prominent among the more militant section of the Covenanters of the seventeenth century. He was probably present at Drumclog, and he was certainly present at Both well Brig, in 1679, fighting as few fought that bloody day. His home was in caves and among rocks, beneath dripping peat-hags, and in holes in the ground, for many a day after this, but in 1680 he joined the outlawed Hall of Haughhead, and was in the tussle when that Champion of the Covenant was taken at Queensferry what time "those two bloody hounds the Curates of Borrowstonness and Carriden smelled out Mr. Cargill and his companion." Hall was killed, or at least died of his wounds before he could be brought to Edinburgh; but Ringan Oliver and "worthy Mr. Cargill" escaped the net of the fowler. Then, in 1689, he was with Mackay at Killicrankie; and the following day though exhausted with the precipitate flight from the battlefield, he fought at Dunkeld his famous duel with the Highland champion, Rory Dhu Mhor, whom he slew after a most desperate and bloody fight. Bleeding from half a score of wounds, Ringan had been beaten to his knees, and the affair seemed a certain victory for the Highlander. But the latter was over-confident; he thought he had a beaten man at his mercy, and one instant's carelessness gave Ringan his chance. Before his adversary could recover, the point of the Borderer's sword was out between the Highlander's shoulders, and with a roar of astonishment and wrath he fell dead. But perhaps it was for the siege he stood at Smailcleuchfoot when he was now an old man, that Ringan is best remembered. After a stormy youth and middle age, he had at length settled down in his ancestral home, where he was leading the quiet life of a farmer. As the story is told, it seems that Ringan's strict integrity and high sense of honour had gained for him the respect and friendship of his powerful neighbour at Fernibirst--probably either the first or the second Marquess of {138}Lothian. Perhaps, too, there may have been something in the mutual belief and manner of thought of the two men that drew them together. (There was a Ker of about that date, or a little earlier, who was a zealous Covenanter.) In any case, the friendship was of such a nature that when Lord Lothian found himself, towards the close of his life, compelled to undertake what was then the long and trying journey to London, he left Ringan in charge of his private papers, and entrusted him with the key of a locked room in which valuable documents were kept, and into which he desired that no one should be permitted to enter whilst he himself was absent in the south. As it chanced, after Lord Lothian had started on his journey, his heir, considering, as a matter of course perhaps, that the old lord's prohibition did not apply to him, sent to Ringan demanding the key of the room, into which he had, or said he had, occasion to go. Ringan naturally, but perhaps not very deferentially or even politely, refused to give it up. Thereupon arose hot words, and bitter enmity on the part at least of the younger man, who, with that rather irrational form of vanity not uncommon in youth, imagined himself to be slighted. And hence came serious consequences to the old Covenanter. For the Marquess died, and the man whom Ringan had offended succeeded to the title and estates. He had always--so the story goes--nursed his wrath to keep it warm, and he might be depended on to pay off, with interest, all old scores against him whom he talked of as that "dour old Cameronian devil." So it happened one day, towards the time of harvest, when corn lay waiting for the sickle in the smiling haughs of Jed, the young lord and his friends, attended by servants in charge of several dogs, came on horseback across the river and began to ride up and down through Ringan's crop, ostensibly looking for hares. The old man remonstrated in vain; no heed was paid to him, and at length, goaded to fury as he saw the havoc being played among his good oates and bere, he snatched up an old musket (that perhaps had seen service at Bothwell Brig) {139}and shot one of the dogs dead. That was enough; the old man had put himself now in the wrong. For the Marquess could plead that, after all, he had only been riding on his own land; and he and his friends could assert that the harm they had done, if any, had been infinitesimal. So the young lord rode off to Jedburgh, and had a summons issued by the Sheriff against Ringan. It was one thing, however, to issue the summons, quite another to serve it, or afterwards to get Ringan to obey the call. If he persisted in ignoring the summons, there were not many to be found bold enough to go to Smailcleuehfoot for the purpose of haling him before the Court; old as he now was, Ringan's reputation for strength and courage, and for reckless daring, was still great enough to keep the wolves of the law at bay. "But," said the Sheriff, "the law cannot thus be flouted; if he does not come willingly, then he must be _made_ to come." Which of course was quite the right thing to say, especially if he had at hand the force necessary to carry out his threat. But that was where the difficulty came in. Finally, the Sheriff had to go himself to arrest old Ringan, impressing on his way everybody whom he could find capable of helping, including the Marquess himself. Ringan was warned of their coming, and advised to fly. "No!" said the old man. "I've dune no wrong. Let them touch me wha daur!" But he set about barricading his house, and when the Sheriff and his parry came on the scene they found a building with doors fast and windows shuttered, and no one visible. At their knock, Ringan appeared at a small upper window, but entirely declined to be taken, or to open the door. Then commenced a vigorous assault by the Sheriff and his party. They attempted to break in the door and to rush the building. Ringan opened fire on them with his old musket, and drove them back. And then for a time there occurred nothing more than a fruitless exchange of shots, as one or other of the Sheriff's {140}men left cover or Ringan showed himself at one of the windows. It appears, however, that there was in the house with the old man a young girl, either his adopted daughter or a domestic who looked after household affairs. This girl had been told to keep out of harm's way, to shelter in a "press" or cupboard well out of any possible range of bullet; but in the heat of battle the old man did not notice that curiosity had drawn her from the safety of this hiding place, and had brought her right behind him at the moment that he fired a shot through the window. It was a good shot, for it clipped away a curl from the Sheriff's wig, and perhaps in his satisfaction at going so near to his mark the old man may have showed himself a little too openly. Anyhow, at that moment two or three muskets replied, the heavy bullets coming with sullen "phut" into the woodwork of the little window-frame. But one flew straighter than the others; Ringan heard behind him a sound, half gasp, half sob, and turned just in time to see the lass sink on the floor, blood pouring from her throat. The old man tried to stanch the wound, but it needed hardly more than a glance to tell that it was far beyond his simple skill, and that she was past hope. Then the lust of battle seized him, blind fury filled his breast, and he thought only of revenge. He forgot his age, forgot that his fighting days should have been long over, forgot everything but the mad desire to clutch the throats of his foes and to choke the life out of them. So, tearing down the barricades of his door, he rushed out on his enemies like a wild bull charging. But alas for Ringan! part of the discarded barricade caught his foot as he burst over the threshold, and down he came with a crash. Before he could struggle even to his knees, the enemy was on him, and he was down again on his face, half a dozen men swarming over him. Even yet, however, old and hopelessly outnumbered as he was, the fight for a time was not so very unequal, and he might in the end have cast off the crowd that strove to hold and bind him. {141}An ill day it would have been for some of them had he succeeded. But a treacherous pedlar, who had joined the fray for the sake of hire, watching his chance, came behind, and with a blow from a hammer smashed Ringan's jaw and brought him to the ground, stunned. The old man was taken then, bound hand and foot, and carted off to Edinburgh. There, in the foul air of the Tolbooth he lay for eight weary years, suffering tortures great part of the time, not only from the broken jaw, but from old wounds which had broken out afresh, and which from the insanitary condition of the prison now refused to heal. It was a broken, frail old man who came out from that long imprisonment. And he never got back to his beloved Jed. Ringan Oliver died in Edinburgh in 1736; his huge frame sleeps in Greyfriars Churchyard. As one travels up Jed by the old coach road--whose windings do not invariably desert even the abruptest elbow of the stream--road and river finally part company at the bridge below Camptown. Here the latter's course swings gradually to the right, through leafy banks and under spreading trees, whilst the former, following a straighter route, enters on a long, steady bit of collar-work up the side of a pine-clad brae where, on one hand, lies the old camp from which the adjacent little settlement derives its name, and, on the other, Edgerston, sleeping in its woods. Here once stood Edgerston Castle, which Hertford's men took "by pollicie" in 1544;--someone sold the Rutherfurd of that day. Castle and lands then belonged to the Rutherfurds, one of the most ancient families in Scotland, and still the lands are theirs. A little way past Edgerston the road begins its long two mile climb to an elevation of close on 1500 feet near the summit of Catcleuch Shin. There, immediately after passing the Carter Bar, it crosses the Border line, and drops steadily down into Redesdale, past the new Catcleuch Reservoir that supplies Newcastle with water, a work which has wiped out of existence one of the pleasantest bits of fishing in the kingdom, where trout were many and game, and of enviable size. Perhaps the trout are there still--for those who may take them--but the capture of a dozen fish in still water cannot match the joy experienced in fighting one good Rede trout in the strong rushing stream where he has passed all his days. [Illustration: 0162] Beyond the Catcleuch Reservoir, a road of easy gradients sweeps down the delightful Rede valley, past innumerable old camps, British and Roman; past Rowchester, into whose little school house, that stands solitary in the angle of two ways, are built numerous stones (carved and otherwise) handily quarried from the adjacent old Roman station of Bremenium; and high up, on the roof of the building, from the same source are various large round stone balls that may have formed part of the ammunition for a Roman ballista. It was this route that the Roman legions followed over the Cheviots in their northward march from the mighty wall they had stretched across England from sea to sea. A few miles east from Catcleuch Shin, their military road bursts suddenly into view of that glorious sweep of country where the triple-peaked Eildons dominate the scene, a landmark that no doubt led them first to the site of their famous Newstead camp. {143}In early nineteenth century days, when His Majesty's mail coaches between Newcastle and Edinburgh came jangling over the crest of this bleak, unprotected bit of road at Catcleueh Shin, taking at a gallant trot the long, stiff gradient that faced them whether they were heading to the south or to the north, the trials of outside passengers in winter time must not seldom have been of a nature truly unenviable. Bitter sleet, driving before a westerly gale, lashed their faces and stole chill wet fingers inside their wraps and upturned collars; drifting, blinding snow, swirling on the wings of a wild north-easter, blurred the guiding line of snow-posts, and even at times hid his leaders from the coachman's sight, so that his first warning of being off the road and on the moor, was a heavy lurch as the coach buried its side in some blind hollow; frost, and a thermometer in the neighbourhood of zero, nipped from ears and nose and toes every vestige of feeling, and chilled to the very bone those whom duty or business forced to travel. It was truly a large assortment of evils that our ancestors had to choose from, in the winter, on that road over into England by the Carter Bar. But if winter was bad, surely in the better time of year there were pleasures that atoned for all they had suffered. In the long twilight of a summer's evening, when moorland scents fill all the air and the crow of grouse echoes from the heathery knolls, what pleasure more satisfying could there be in life than to sit behind a free-going team of bays, listening lazily to the rhythm of the chiming hoofs, to the ring of steel bitts and the merry jingle of the splinter-bars? And as the coach breasted the summit, and began to make up time on the down gradient, the glorious view that broke on the eye of the north bound passenger of itself would make amends for halt the ills of life. Away to the west, stretched ever more dim in the fading sunset glow, the long-flung line of Cheviots--Carterfell, the Carlin's Tooth (where springs the infant Jed), Peel Fell, Hartshorn Pyke, all blending, far down, into the round green {144}hills of Liddesdale; then, more to the north-westward, set in the wide expanse, the Windburgh Hill and Cauldcleuch Head; farther off, away over the high land of upper Teviotdale, "The far grey riot of the Ettrick hills," and the dim shapes of the mighty "Laws" of Peeblesshire--Broad Law, Dollar Law, Black Law. Then far below this vantage point on Catcleuch Shin, in middle foreground Edgerston's darkening woods; beyond, Ruberslaw, Minto Crags,--"where falcons hang their giddy nest,"--and the Dunion; then, to the right, Eildon's cloven peak, and, near-by, the Blac k Hill at Earlston, with the Lammermuirs in dimmest background; to the right again, Smailholme Tower, erect and watchful; east of that, the green Merse, wide-spread like a map, stretched almost to the sea, and on the extreme right, far off, Cheviot himself, blocking the view. What a truly magnificent sweep of country it is! A sense of space, and room to breathe, such as one finds seldom in this country. Three hundred and thirty-eight years ago, however, there were Scots and English assembled on that Catcleuch ridge one summer's day, who had no eyes for the view; "The seventh of July, the suith to say, At the Reidswire the tryst was set; Our Wardens they affixed the day, And, as they promised, so they met. Alas! that day I'll ne'er forget!" As was customary, the English and Scottish Wardens of the Marches had met for the discussion and settlement of Border claims and disputes, and for the redressing of wrongs. Sir John Carmichael in this instance acted for Scotland, Sir John Forster for England. The former was accompanied by the young Scott of Buccleuch,--according to Sir Walter the same who, twenty-one years later, was famous for the rescue of Kinmont Willie from Carlisle Castle,--by sundry Armstrongs, {145}Elliots, Douglases, Turnbulls of Rule Water, and other wild Borderers. "Of other clans I cannot tell Because our warning was not wide." But it was a turbulent band, one would think, and not easy of control. Forster had at his back Fenwicks--"five hundred Fenwicks in a flock," says the ballad,--Shaftoes, Collingwoods, and other of the great English Border families, the men from Hexham and thereabout, and many of the fiercest fighters of Redesdale and Tynedale, the two latter said to be then the most lawless people of the North of England. Indeed, their reputation was so evil that the merchants of Newcastle passed a by-law in the year 1564 that no apprentices should be taken "proceeding from such leude and wicked progenitors."; Thus it may be seen that both nations were strongly represented, and that on both sides there was superabundance of most inflammable material waiting but for a spark to set it ablaze. In most promising and peaceful fashion, however, the proceedings opened: "Yett was our meeting meek eneugh; Begun wi' merriment and mowes. Some gaed to drink, and some stude still, And some to cards and dice them sped." And all went smoothly and well, till the case of one Robson, a notorious Redesdale horse and cattle-thief, came up for discussion. The Scottish warden, following the usual Border custom in such cases, demanded that the culprit, having been guilty of theft on the northern side of the March, should be given into Scottish custody till such time as reparation be made to the parties robbed by the Redesdale man. Sir John Forster demurred, giving as his reason for evading the usual practice in such cases, that Robson had fled and could not be captured. "Oh! Play fair!" cried Carmichael contemptuously. Whereupon Forster not unnaturally lost his temper, and made a fierce and insulting reply. Hot words leapt from angry lips, and {146}swords, which in those days were never long idle, began to flash in the warm sunshine as they left the scabbards. And then the Tynedale men--"Fy, Tyndale, to it!"--eager to take time by the forelock, and determined not to stand out of what fray might be going, loosed off a flight of arrows among the Scots. And all the fat was in the fire. Like fiercest wolves, the two sides flew at each other's throats, trampling over the heathery ground, cursing, slashing, stabbing. The Scots at first were getting rather the worst of the affray; Carmichael was down, and a prisoner; others were disabled. The English had the slope of the hill slightly in their favour and made the most of their advantage, gradually forcing their foes to fall back in tardy and sullen retreat. Then came to the hot headed Tynedale men the irresistible temptation to plunder. It was customary at those Wardens' Meetings for pedlars or small tradesmen to erect on the ground selected for the meeting, tents, or, as we say in Scotland, "crames," sort of temporary shop-counters sheltered by canvas, in or on which they displayed the wares they had for sale. So it had been at this Reidswire Meeting. And as the Scots were forced back past those "crames," the desire for loot proved too strong for some of the English combatants. By ones and twos, as opportunity offered, they edged away from the fight, and, like marauding wasps to crop of ripe plums, made for this booty that might be had for the taking. Fighting and plunder were equally congenial to the men of Tynedale. At that very moment, however, in which a large number had so withdrawn themselves, unfortunately for them reinforcements arrived for the Scots. "Jethart's here!" rang out over the roar and stress of the fight, and into the "tulzie" plunged the men of Jedburgh, hot off their ten mile march. "Bauld Rutherfurd, he was fou stout, Wi' a' his nine sons him about; He led the toun o' Jedburgh out, All bravely fought that day." {147}The tables were badly turned on the English; now they in turn began to give way, and to be forced back up the hill down which till now they had been successfully pressing the Scots. Too late the Tynedale men tried to retrieve their error; the Scots got them on the run and gave no breathing space; speedily the run became a rout. Over the crest into Redesdale fled the discomfited English, dropping here a man, there a man, as they fled. "Sir George Hearoune of Schipsydehouse," (Sir George Heron Miles of Chipchase Castle,) fell early in the fight, and four and twenty dead bowmen kept him company. The wounded on both sides were many; and among the prisoners taken by the Scots were the English Warden, Sir James Ogle, Sir Cuthbert Collingwood, Sir Francis Russell (son of the Earl of Bedford), several Fenwicks, and other leading men from the English side of the Border. Carmichael took his prisoners to Edinburgh--not greatly to the comfort of the Scottish Regent, the Earl of Morton; for England and Scotland were then, for once in a way, at peace, and such an incident as this Raid of the Reidswire was but too likely to result in further war between the nations. Therefore, after a day or two's detention, or rather, perhaps, after a day or two's entertainment, Morton, with every expression of regret and of regard, sent all the prisoners back to England, apparently not ill pleased with their treatment. No international complications followed the affair. Carmichael was sent to York to explain matters, and he seems to have been able to show satisfactorily that the Scots were within their rights throughout; that, in fact, as the ballad says: " . . . . pride, and breaking out of feuid Garr'd Tindaill lads begin the quarrel." Some years ago, a very handsome silver mounted sword, and a fine specimen of a dagger, were unearthed by a man employed in cutting drains on the hillside where the battle was fought that July day of 1575. The sword was a beautiful {148}weapon, of fine temper, and it probably belonged to one of the English leaders. Unfortunately it has been lost. Both it and the dagger have, as I understand, mysteriously disappeared from the house in which they were kept. Somebody too greatly admired them, one may suppose, and followed the example set by the men of Tynedale in the heat of battle that day. [Illustration: 0168] The scene of the fight is that fairly level bit of moorland to the left of the road just after you quit the Carter Bar, going south. Harking back now for a moment to Jed,--five or six miles above the bridge at Camptown where we quitted the line of river to follow the old coach road over Carter Fell, we come to Southdean. Here are the ruins of an ancient church, (the foundations, at least, and part of the walls and tower,) which have lately been dug out from the great green mound with its big ash trees atop, which lay these two hundred years and more between hillside and river, down by the little grey {149}bridge. This is the "churche in a fayre launde called Zedon," wherein, says Froissart, Douglas and the other Scottish leaders met on the eve of that expedition into England which ended with the glorious fight of Otterbourne. "I never heard the old song of Percy and Douglas," wrote Sir Philip Sidney, "that I found not my heart more moved than with a trumpet;" and who is there to-day, in spite of lapse of centuries, whose blood does not quicken at the very sound of the word "Otterbourne." It used to be said that the "Zedon" of Froissart was more applicable to Yetholm than to Southdean. Some, indeed, still maintain that, as far at least as _sound_ is concerned, "Zedon" (the "Z", as was formerly not uncommon, being treated as a "Y") bears a much greater resemblance to "Yethoim" than to "Southdean." One may readily admit that as it is spelled, "South-dean" is not in the least like "Zedon." But it is an entirely different affair when we come to a matter of local pronunciation. In this case the pronunciation is, as near as may be, "Seuden." If we very slightly soften the sound of the letter "Z," and allow for the fact that the "e" of Zedon would naturally be used by Froissart with the same value that it bears in his own language, we arrive absolutely at the local pronunciation of the name--"Seuden." In any case, it seems most unlikely that the point of assembly could have been Yetholm, if only for the reason that when marching from there into England,--presumably by way of the Bowmont valley, and so past Wooler and through Northumberland,--Douglas would have exposed himself to be struck in rear and on his left flank from the adjacent vantage points of Roxburgh and Wark, both of which formidable strongholds were then in English hands, and, (seeing that the intention of the Scots to make an invasion had long been known in Northumberland,) probably held in force. And certainly, if the column came by way of Ottercops and Rothely Crags, as it is said to have done, its starting point was not {150}Yetholm. Obviously, too, a Scottish army concentrated at Southdean was in a much better strategical position than any that it could have occupied in the neighbourhood of Yetholm. From Southdean it could strike either way at will, either over the easy, and necessarily well known, pass by Catcleuch Shin, or across the hills by the old Roman way, the Whele Causeway, into Liddesdale, and thence on to Carlisle. This Scottish plan, to assemble an army here at Southdean, was the outcome of a meeting held some time previously at Aberdeen, a city "on the fronter of the Wylde Scottes," and, so far as was possible, the business had been kept secret; even to the King himself no hint was given of what the Nobles designed, "for," said they among themselves, "the King is no manne of warre." But "the Scottes coude nat do their maters so secretly, but the lords of Englande knewe howe men rose in Scotland, and how they shulde mete agayne at Gedeours." Spies brought word to Northumberland of what was afoot, and the English took all necessary steps to upset the Scottish plan of campaign. If the Scots decided to come by way of Carlisle, then the English resolved that they, on their part, would burst into Scotland by way of Berwick, or by Dunbar. Thus, said they, "we shall do them more dommage than they can do us, for their countrey is all open; we maye go where we lyst, and our countre is strong, and the townes and castelles well closed." Now the Scots had gathered at Southdean this August of 1388 so vast an army that "in threscore yere before there was nat assembled toguyder in Scotlande suche a nombre of good men; there were xii hundred speares and xl thousande men besvde with their archers; but in tyme of nede the Scottes can lytell skyll with their bowes; they rather beare axes, wherwith they gyve great strokes." And this army, "whan they were thus mette togyder in the marchesse of Gedours.... were mery, and sayd, they wolde never entre againe into their owne houses tyll they had ben in Englande, and done suche dedes there that it shulde be spoken of xx yere after." {151}To this gathering at Southdean came an English spy, one who "knewe right well the marchesse of Scotlande, and specially the forest of Gedeours." Without arousing suspicion, this man made his way into the church, and overheard the Scottish leaders discuss their plans. And when he had picked up information enough for his purpose, he withdrew quietly from the building and went to get his horse, which he had left in a convenient spot, tied to a tree. But never a trace of horse nor of harness was there now, "for a Scotte, who be great theves, had stollen hym awaye." It was a very tight corner for the spy. He durst make no great outcry, lest he betray himself; so, in default, he started "forthe afote, boted and spurred," thinking maybe to slip out of the camp unobserved and make over the Cheviots into Rede valley. In any other place but the Border, perhaps he might have got clear away. But the Borderers have ever been horse lovers, and now the unwonted sight of a man, booted and spurred, footing it, at once drew eyes to him that might have taken little heed had he been mounted. "A filthie thing," says Bishop Leslie, writing of the Borderers in the sixteenth century, "a filthie thing thay estcime it, and a verie abjecte man thay halde him that gangis upon his fete, ony voyage. Quhairthrough cumis that al are horsmen." So the spy had not gone many furlongs ere he was stopped by two mounted men. "Felowe," said one of the two to the other, "I have sene a marveyle; beholde yonder a man goeth alone, and as I thynke, he hath lost his horse, for he came by and spake no worde; I wene he be none of our company; lette us ryde after him to prove my saying." So, says Froissart, they went after him. And "whane he sawe them commynge, he wolde gladly have ben thens." The spy's answers to questions not being satisfactory, "they brought hym againe to the church of Zedon and presented him to the Erle Duglas and to other lordes." And there "they handled hym in suche wise that he was fayne to shewe all the mater." Their methods were not gentle in {152}those days; one wonders what they did. Anyhow, "they knew by hym that the lordes of Northumberland had sent hym thyder, to know the estate of their enterprise, and whiche waye they wolde drawe. Hereof the Scottes were right joyous, and wolde nat for a great good but that they had spoken with this squyer." Scottish arguments proved too strong for the unhappy Englishman: "Sirs," said he at last, "sithe it behoveth me to saye the truthe, I shall." So he gave information of the whereabouts of the English army, and disclosed the whole of the English plans, telling how, the force at the disposal of the Northumbrian lords not being strong enough to stand up against the Scottish host, the intention of the English leaders was that if the Scots should "take the waye into Gales [Cumberland] they wyll go by Berwike, and so to Dunbare, to Edinborowe, or els to Alquest [Dalkeith]; and if ye take nat that waye, then they wyll go by Carlyle, and into the mountayns of the countrey. Whan the lordes herde that, eche of them regarded other." As indeed they had excellent cause, for this information put into their hands a card that could most effectually trump their adversary's strongest suit. They were "ryght joyfull," says Froissart, and "demannded counsayle what way was best for them to take." Accordingly, the main army was despatched over the hills, probably, and most naturally, up Jed and the Raven Burn, and across into Liddesdale by the old Roman road that leaves Carlin Tooth and Wheelrig Head on its left, and follows down Peel Burn to Liddel Water; thence down the Liddel Valley the marching would be easy to Longtown and on to Carlisle; whilst Douglas, with a flying column consisting of "thre hundred speares of chosen men, and of two thousande other men and archers," went up the Carter Burn and over the easy pass at Catcleuch Shin into Redesdale, with intent to "drawe towardes Newcastell upon Tyne, and passe the ryver and entre into the bysshoprike of Durham, and burne and exyle the country." {153}"Thus these two hoostes departed eche from other, echo of them prayenge other, that if the Englysshmen folowed any of their armyes, nat to fyght with them tyll bothe their armyes were joyned toguyder. Thus in a mornyng they departed fro Gedeours, and toke the feldes." Down the Rede valley--all fairly easy going in the dry August weather, even at that day, one may suppose; Froissart says the weather was "fayre and temperate,"--and across Tyne, Douglas pushed rapidly, pausing neither to burn nor to slay, until he came into Durham, "where they founde a good countrey. Than they beganne to make warre, to slee people, and to brinne vyllages, and to do many sore displeasures." Everyone knows what happened after this; how at length, having skirmished right up to the walls of Durham, and beyond, Douglas and his men turned again northward and halted two days before Newcastle, where lay Percy, and English knights so many that "they wyst not where to lodge"; how, wjilst the Scots remained here, Douglas and Percy fought, and Douglas overthrew Percy and took from him a trophy which the latter swore to redeem before it could be carried from Northumberland; and how Percy, coming up with the Scots at Otterburne, strove to regain that which he had lost at Newcastle, and was defeated and made prisoner; how the fight raged throughout the moon lit night far into the morning, and the trampled heath lay red with more than the bloom of heather; and how Earl Douglas was slain. It is all told in the ballad, and how valiantly each fought where cowards had no place. It fell about the Lammas tide, When the muir-men win their hay, The doughty Douglas bound him to ride Into England to drive a prey. He chose the Gordons and the Graemes, With them the Lindsays, licht and gay, But the Jardines wald not with him ride, And they rue it to this day. {154} And he has harried the dales o' Tyne And half o' Bambroughshire; And three good towers on Reidswire fells, He left them a' on fire. And he march'd up to New Castel, And rade it round about: "O, wha is the lord o' this castel, Or wha is the ladie o't?" But up spak proud Lord Percy then, And O but he spak hie! "It's I am the lord o' this castel, My wife's the ladie gay." "If thou art the lord o' this castel, Sae weel it pleases me! For ere I cross the Border fells, The ane o' us shall dee." He took a lang spear in his hand, Shod with the metal free; And forth to meet the Douglas there, He rade right furiouslie. But O, how pale his ladie look'd Frae aff the castel wall, When down before the Scottish spear She saw proud Percy fa'! "Had we twa been upon the green, And never an eye to see, I wad hae had you, flesh and fell, But your sword shall gae wi' me." "But gae ye up tae Otterbourne, And bide there dayis three; And gin I come not ere they end, A fause knight ca' ye me." "The Otterboume's a bonny burn, 'Tis pleasant there to be; But there is nought at Otterbourne To feed my men and me. {155} "The deer rins wild on hill and dale, The birds fly wild frae tree to tree; But there is neither bread nor kail To fend my men and me. "Yet I will stay at Otterbourne, Where you shall welcome be; And, if you come not at three dayis end, A fause knight I'll ca' thee." "Thither will I come," proud Percy said, "By the micht of Our Ladye!" "There will I bide thee," said the Douglas, "My troth I plight to thee." They lichted high on Otterbourne, Upon the brent sae brown; They lichted high on Otterbourne, And threw their pallions down. And he that had a bonnie boy, Sent out his horse to grass; And he that had not a bonnie boy, His ain servant he was. Then up and spak a little page, Before the peep of dawn: "O waken ye, waken ye, my good lord, For Percy's hard at hand." "Ye lie, ye lie, ye liar loud! Sae loud I hear ye lie; For Percy had not men yestreen To fight my men and me. "But I hae dreamed a dreary dream, Beyond the Isle of Skye: I saw a dead man win a fight, And I think that man was I." He belted on his gude braid sword, And to the field he ran; But he forgot the helmet good That shou'd have kept his brain. {156} When Percy with the Douglas met, I wat he was fu' fain! They swakkit swords till sair they swat, And the blood ran down like rain. But Percy, wi' his good braid sword, That could sae sharply wound, Has wounded Douglas on the brow, Till he fell till the ground. Then he call'd on his little foot-page, And said--"Run speedilie, And fetch my ain dear sister's son, Sir Hugh Montgomerie." "My nephew good," the Douglas said. "What recks the death o' ane! Last nicht I dream'd a dreary dream, And I ken the day's thy ain. "My wound is deep; I fain would sleep; Take thou the vanguard of the three, And hide me by the bracken bush That grows on yonder lily lee. "O, bury me by the bracken bush, Beneath the blooming brier; Let never living mortal ken That a kindly Scot lies here." He lifted up that noble lord, With the saut tear in his ee; He hid him in the bracken bush, That his merrie men might not see. The moon was clear, the day drew near, The spears in flinders flew But mony a gallant Englishman Ere day the Scotsmen slew. The Gordon's gude, in English bluid They steep'd their hose and shoon; The Lindsays flew like fire about, Till a' the fray was dune. {157} The Percy and Montgomerie met, That either of other was fain; They swakkit swords, and they twa swat, And aye the bluid ran down between. "Now yield thee, yield thee, Percy," he said, "Or else I vow I'll lay thee low!" "To whom must I yield," quoth Earl Percy, "Sin' I see that it maun be so?" "Thou shall not yield to lord or loun, Nor yet shalt thou yield to me; But yield ye to the brarken bush That grows upon yon lilye lee!" "I will not yield to a bracken bush, Nor yet will I yield to a brier; But I would yield to Earl Douglas, Or Sir Hugh Montgomerie if he were here." As soon as he knew it was Montgomerie, He stuck his sword's point in the gronde; Montgomerie was a courteous knight, And quickly took him by the hond. This deed was done at Otterbourne, About the breaking o' the day; Earl Douglas was buried by the bracken bush, And the Percy led captive away. Froissart says he was told by two English squires who took part in the fight, "how this batayle was as sore a batayle fought as lyghtly hath been harde of before of such a nombre, and I believe it well. For Englysshmen on the one partye and Scottes on the other party are good men of warre: for whan they mete there is a hard fight without sparvnge; there is no hoo bytwene them as long as speares, swordes, axes, or dagers wyll endure, but lay on eche upon other, and whan they be well beaten, and that the one parte hath optaygned the victory, they than glorifye so in their dedes of armes and are so joyfull, that suche as be taken they shall be raunsomed or {158}they go out of the felde, so that shortly eche of them is so contente with other that at their departynge curtoysly they wyll saye, God thanke you. But in fyghtynge one with another there is no playe nor sparynge; and this is trewe, and that shall well apere by this sayd rencounter, for it was as valyauntly foughten as coulde be devysed." With hand to hand fighting so close and so fierce as here befell at Otterburne, the slaughter could not fail to be very great. According to Godscroft, the English alone lost one thousand eight hundred and forty killed, and over a thousand wounded. The total Scottish loss in killed, wounded and missing appears to have been less than half that of the enemy in killed alone. The English lost also over a thousand men who were captured by the Scots; indeed, the latter had so many prisoners that they were greatly put to it to know what to do with them at the moment when the Bishop of Durham with his ten thousand fresh troops came on the scene and seemed likely to renew the battle. Many of the prisoners were men of distinction. Percy himself was taken by the Earl of Montgomery; his brother, Ralph Percy, by Sir John Maxwell; Sir Matthew Reedman, governor of Berwick, by Sir James Lindsay. And many another Scottish knight or squire held his brother of England to ransom. Froissart describes more than one picturesque incident of the fight, and none, surely, is more vivid and alive than that in which he tells how Sir Matthew Reedman, Governor of Berwick, fled From the field, pursued by Sir James Lindsay. When all was done that man could do, and all was done in vain, Sit Matthew turned to save himself. Lindsay chanced to be near at hand, and saw him gallop out from the stress of battle. "And this Sir James to wyn honour, followed in chase.... and came so nere hym that he myght have stryken him with his speare if he had lyst. Than he said, 'Ah, sir knyght, tourne, it is a shame thus to flye: I am James of Lindsay: if ye wyll nat tourne I shall stryke you on the backe {159}with my speare.' Sir Matthew spake no worde, but strake his horse with the spurrs sorer than he dyde before. In this manner he chased hym more than thre myles, and at lasts sir Mathue Reedman's horse foundred and fell under hym. Than he stept forth on the erthe, and drewe oute hys swerde, and toke corage to defende hymselfe; and the Scotte thought to have stryken hym on the brest, but sir Mathewe Reedman swerved fro the stroke, and the speare poynt entered into the erthe: than sir Mathue strake asonder the speare with his swerde. And whan sir James Lynsay sawe howe he had loste his speare, he caste awaye the trounchon and lyghted afote, and toke a lytell batayle axe that he caryed at his backe, and handeled it with his one hande, quiekely and delyverly, in the whiche feate Scottes be well experte. And than he sette at sir Mathue, and he defended hymselfe properly. Thus they tourneyed toguyder, one with an axe, and the other with a swerde, a longe season, and no man to lette them. Fynally, sir James Lynsay gave the knyght suche strokes, and helde hym so shorte, that he was putte out of brethe, in such wyse that he yelded hymselfe, and sayde: 'Sir James Lynsay, I yelde me to you.' 'Well,' quod he, 'and I receyve you, rescue or no rescue.' 'I am content,' quod Reedman, 'so ye deale with me lyke a good campanyon.' 'I shall not fayle that,' quod Lynsay, and so put up his swerde. 'Well, sir,' quod Reedman, 'what wyll you nowe that I shall do? I am your prisoner, ye have conquered me; I wolde gladly go agayn to Newcastell, and within fyftene dayes I shall come to you into Scotlande, where as ye shall assigne me.' 'I am content,' quod Lynsay: 'ye shall promyse by your faythe to present yourselfe within this iii wekes at Edenborowe, and wheresoever ye go, to repute yourself my prisoner.' All this sir Mathue sware and promysed to fulfyll. Than eche of them toke their horses and toke leave eche of other." They were to meet again, however, in less than the stipulated time. Sir James turned his horse towards Otterburne, {160}intent on rejoining his friends. But a mist came down over the hills and blotted out the moorland; he could only feel his way in the direction he desired to go. And when at length through the haar and thickness there came to his ears the muffled sound of voices, the ring of bridles and snort of horses, in full assurance that the sounds came from a body of his own men returning from pursuit of the broken English, he rode confidently forward, it was to find himself face to face with five hundred horse under the Bishop of Durham. And said the Bishop to Lindsay: "'Ye shall go with me to Newcastell.' 'I may nat chose,' quod Lynsay, 'sithe ye wyll have it so; I have taken, and I am taken, suche is the adventures of armes.' "'Whom have ye taken': quod the bysshop. 'Sir,' quod he, 'I toke in the chase sir Malhue Redman.' 'And where is he?' quod the bysshop. 'By my faythe, sir, he is returned to Newcastell; he desyred me to trust hym on his faythe for thre wekes, and so have I done.' 'Well,' quod the bysshop, 'lette us go to New castell, and there ye shall speke wyth hym.' Thus they rode to Newcastell toguyder, and sir James Lynsay was prisoner to the Bysshop of Durham." So the twain met again, and "'By my faythe, sir Mathewe,' said Lindsay, 'I beleve ye shall nat nede to come to Edenborowe to me to make your fynaunce: I thynke rather we shall make an exchaunge one for another, if the bysshoppe be so contente.'" Whereupon, Reedman---as has ever been the wont of Englishmen--proposed that they should mark the occasion by a dinner; and, says Froissart, "thus these two knyghts dyned toguyder in Newcastell." He was not a valiant person, apparently, this Bishop of Durham. Had he been a very militant Prince of the Church, it had surely gone hard now with the Scots, for, outnumbered as they had been throughout the fight, they were sore spent ere ever the Bishop hove in sight with his ten thousand fresh troops, and it could scarcely have taken very much to drive them from the field in headlong rout. But the English leader was not a very intrepid man; and when he found the Scots {161}drawn together in a position so defended by swamp and morass that entry could be forced only by the one way, the Bishop hesitated. Then the Scottish leaders ordered their "mynstrels to blowe up all at ones, and make the greatest revell of the worlde"; for, as Froissart says, "whan they blowe all at ones, they make suche a noyse that it may be herde nighe iiii myles of; thus they do to abasshe their enemyes, and to rejoyse themselfes." The instruments used were horns, we are told. Had they been bagpipes, one might perhaps have understood the consternation of the English. Says Froissart: "Whan the bysshoppe of Durham, with his baner, and XM men with hym, were aproched within a leage, than the Scottes blew their homes in suche wise that it seemed that all the devyls in hell had been amonge them, so that such as herde them, and knewe nat of their usage, were sore abasshed." Nevertheless, the Bishop, with his host in order of battle, advanced to within about two bow-shot of the Scots, and there came to a halt in order to reconnoitre their position. The more he looked at it, the less he liked it; losses were certain to be heavy, victory by no means assured. So the English drew off; and the Scots, we are told, "wente to their lodgynges and made mery." Then, the next day, having burned their camp, they marched unmolested back up the Rede valley into Scotland; and with them they bore the honoured bodies of Douglas and of others who had fallen in the fight. Percy went with them, a captive, and many another distinguished Englishman against his will sadly followed the victors. But those prisoners who were too badly hurt to endure the march into Scotland were sent under parole back to Newcastle, among them Sir Ralph Percy, who was returned in a horse litter. Huge sums are mentioned as having been paid in ransom by the English prisoners, the estimate of some writers reaching the extravagant figure of £600,000, a sum that in those days would have enriched the entire Scottish nation beyond the dreams of avarice. Even that number of pounds {162}Scots (equal to £50,000) seems beyond reason. Froissart's 200,000 francs (£8,000 in our money) is probably about what was paid--in that day a most handsome sum. [Illustration: 0182] A cheerful little village is the Otterburne of the present day,--even though there are not wanting evidences that some part of it, down by the inn, for example,-has planted itself in too close proximity to a river and a burn which still, as in those early eighteenth century days of "Mad" Jack Hall, are capable of sudden and vindictive flood. As regards the battlefield, however, there is not a great deal to see. The so-called Percy's Cross, which stands in a thin clump of trees to the east of the road three-quarters of a mile on the Scottish side of the village, is a comparatively modern erection. The true site ot the original "Battle Stone," according to maps of date 1769, was about a couple of hundred yards more to the east, and there it stood, or rather, lay, till 1777, when the then proprietor of the land, a {163}Mr. Ellison, put up the cross now standing, within view of the new turnpike road which was then being made up the valley of the Rede. Mr. Ellison used the ancient socket of the original cross, but the rough pedestal on which the socket stands has nothing to do with the old memorial. [Illustration: 0183] Nor has the present shaft, which, says Mr. Robert White in his "History of the Battle of Otterburne" (1857), was nothing but "an old architrave which had been removed from the kitchen fireplace at Otterburne Hall. This stone, the cross-section of which is fifteen and a half by eight inches, still shows a bevelled corner throughout its length; besides, two small pieces of iron project from one of its sides, which, in its former period of usefulness, were probably connected with some culinary apparatus. On its top is another stone, tapering to a point, which completes the erection. The entire length of the shaft above the base is nine and a half feet. The socket is a worn, weather-beaten {164}sandstone, about two feet square, without any tool-marks upon it, and appears to have been in use much longer than any of the stones connected with it." A still more modern memorial of the battle is a large semicircular seat cut in freestone, bearing on darker coloured panels various inscriptions, which stands by the road-side a little farther to the north. This was erected in 1888 by Mr. W. H. James, then M.P. for Gateshead. It may be noted that one of the panels gives the date of the battle as _tenth_ August, 1388, which is almost certainly a mistake. Douglas, of course, had satisfactory reasons for camping that night where he did,--reasons not unconnected probably with the question of shelter from English arrows. A wood protected him, it is said. Had he gone four or five miles farther on up the valley, he might have occupied the old Roman camp of Bremenium, a strong position, not sheltered from arrow-flight by trees, it is true, but protected on two sides by what in old days must have been swamps, and surrounded by a heavy wall which, even in its present condition, would be, to a defending force, a considerable protection in hand to hand fighting. Five hundred years ago, before the day of agricultural improvement and the custom of using ancient monuments as a quarry, such a defence must have made the camp a place of very considerable strength. Portions only now remain of the formidable wall which originally protected Bremenium, but enough stands to show what its strength must have been in the days when the Roman Legions manned it. The face is composed of great blocks of hewn freestone, accurately fitted; in height it must have been about fourteen feet, in thickness something like seventeen,--the inner portion, of course, being rubble work; outside there were two or more fosses. One of the gateways is still intact to a very considerable height, but the camp as a whole has to a most pitiable extent been used as a quarry, perhaps for hundreds of years. Even yet, one doubts if it is held quite sacred from vandal raids. As late as 1881, when {165}members of the Berwickshire Naturalists' Club visited the camp they found masons deliberately quarrying stones from one corner of the wall, in order to build a hideous modern cottage, and I daresay some of the houses in the immediate neighbourhood may be composed entirely of stones taken from the old walls. The writer has not seen the Roman tombs which exist about half a mile to the east of the camp. The largest of these is said to have still two courses of stones standing, besides the flat stones of the foundation. This tomb has in front a small carving, regarding which Dr. Collingwood Bruce, in "The Roman Wall," suggests that it may have been intended to represent "the head of a boar--the emblem of the twentieth legion." The writer is given to understand that the carving bears no resemblance whatever to the head of a boar. A coin of the Emperor Alexander Severus was found in this tomb, together with a jar containing calcined bones, and a coin of the Emperor Trajan was found in the camp. How many of Douglas's wounded, one wonders, were carried from the field of battle over to Southdean, and, succumbing there to their wounds, were buried at the church? Two or three years ago, when the ash-trees were cut down and the grassy mound carted away that had so long concealed the ruins of the old building, quantities of human bones were dug up within and about the walls, some of the skulls showing unmistakably that the owners had died no peaceful death. No doubt the main body of the Scottish army would follow the dead Douglas to his tomb in Melrose Abbey, and would therefore never come so far west as Southdean, but the severely wounded would naturally be left wherever they could be attended to. It is certain that the Southdean district was in old days much less sparsely populated than is now the case; two important yearly fairs, for instance, used formerly to be held at Lethem, (three miles nearer the Border than Southdean,)--where also, on a knoll still called the Chapel Knowe, was a chapel, subsidiary to the church of Southdean. These fairs were for the sale of {166}"horse, nolt, sheep, fish, flesh, malt, meal," and all sorts of merchandise, and in the permit to hold the Fairs Lethem is described as being "by reason of its situation, lying near the Border, a very convenient and fit place for traffic and trade." [Illustration: 0186] The church of Southdean, therefore, as its ruins indicate, was probably of considerable importance, surrounded by a settlement of some size, where wounded men might well be left to take their chance of recovery. Whether the Scots returned from Otterburne up Rede valley and over the pass by way of Catcleuch Shin, or (as is more probable) followed the Roman Road which passes Bremeirum Camp and runs over the Cheviots some miles to the east of Carter-fell, and thence crossing Kale, Oxnam, Jed, and Teviot, goes in more or less direct line towards Newstead and Melrose, it would be easy and natural for them to detach a party with the wounded, and perhaps with the bodies of some of the more notable dead, to {167}Southdean. And those of them who died there would of course be buried in or close to the church. During the excavations, it is of interest to note that numbers of skulls were found all together at one spot, pointing to the probability of many bodies having been, from some common cause, buried in a common grave. The inference seems not illegitimate that this cause was the fight at Otterburne. The English appear to have carried away from the field many of their dead, as well as their wounded: "Then on the morne they mayde them beerys Of birch and haysell graye; Many a wydowe, with wepynge teyrs Ther makes they fette awaye." It is not unlikely that the Scots also brought away some, at least, of their dead, and, as Southdean was the nearest spot in their own country where they could find consecrated ground, the probability is that these bodies, as well as those of the wounded who died later, would find rest there. In his "History and Poetry of the Scottish Border," Professor Veitch mentions that "a recent discovery made at Elsdon Church, about three miles from the scene of conflict, may be regarded as throwing some light on the slaughter. There skulls to the amount of a thousand have been disinterred, all lying together. They are of lads in their teens, and of middle-aged men; but there are no skulls of old men, or of women. Not improbably these are the dead of Otterburne." The length of the old building at Southdean, including tower and chancel, was ninety-seven feet, and the nave was about twenty-three feet in width. Many notable things were unearthed during the work of excavation, those of most interest possibly being a massive octagonal font, cut from one block of stone, and a small stone super-altar incised with the usual five crosses. At Southdean, as elsewhere, the old church has for generations been used as a quarry. The retaining wall of the adjacent {168}Newcastle road is full of dressed stones taken from the building, and others, some of them carved, have been built into the walls of an adjoining barn. Certainly our ancestors in this instance had more excuse than usual to offer for their depredations, for the building was a hopeless ruin. The roof of the church fell in one Sunday in the year 1689, and the walls--not unhelped by human hands--speedily followed suit. Stones from the principal doorway seem to have been used in 1690 in the building of a new church at Chesters. That too is now in ruins. {169} CHAPTER VI ALE, RULE WATER, TEVIOT, HAWICK |As we ascend Teviot, after Jed its next important tributary is the Ale, not so named from the resemblance of its waters, when flooded, to a refreshing beverage. Sir Herbert Maxwell says that the name was originally written "Alne" (as in Aln, Alnwick) and this form survives in the place-name in Ale, Ancrum, the site of a desirable Scottish victory. The word would at first be Alne crumb, the crook of Alne or "Ale." Crom does mean "crook" in Gaelic, I understand, and Ale does make a crook or bend round Ancrum, so the names are tokens of the possession of the dale by Gaelic-speaking people, very long ago. In Timpendean, the name of a ruined tower opposite the point where Ale enters Teviot, we have the English "dene" or "den," as in the neighbouring Hassendoan The places of most historical interest on lower Ale are Ancrum Moor and Lilliard's Edge, the scene of a battle in which the Scots partly avenged the incessant burnings and slayings by the men of Henry VIII, inflicted while the prince was furious at his failure to secure the hand of the baby Queen, Mary Stuart, for his puny son, later Edward VI. Henry first hoped, by the aid of these professional traitors, chiefs of the Douglases,--the Earl of Angus and his brother, Sir George--to obtain the Royal child and the great castles, and the {170}Crown of Scotland, without drawing sword. Baffled in this by the adroitness and patriotic courage of Cardinal Beaton, he sent his forces to rob, burn, and slay through all the eastern and central Marches. In February 1545, Hertford had finished his own work of ruin, despite which the Earl of Angus declared that he loved Henry VIII "best of all men." There followed a breach in this tender sentiment, _amantium irai._ Hertford's lieutenants, Evers and Laiton, with "assured Scots" of Teviotdale, wearing St George's cross, were harrying the Border. The Scottish Regent, the fickle, futile, good-humoured Earl of Arran, called for forces, but met little response, for, as a contemporary diarist writes, all men suspected the treachery of Henry's lover, and of the Douglases, "ever false, as they alleged." Yet Scott, in his ballad of "The Eve of St John," speaks of "the Douglas true and the bold Buccleugh"; the Scotts of Buccleuch, in fact, were ever loyal. The Laird, approached with bribes in English gold, rejected them in language of such pardonable profanity as frightened and astonished the English envoy, accustomed to buy Scottish traitors by the gross. So mixed were affairs that while Wharton was trying to kidnap Sir George Douglas for Henry, Sir George was endeavouring to betray Arran to the English. They worsted the pacific Regent near Melrose, burned town and abbey, and desecrated the ancestral graves there of the Douglases, among them the resting place of the Earl who fell, when "a dead man won a fight," at Otterburne. The English clearly did not understand that Angus and his brother were eager to make their peace with Henry by relieving their treacheries to their country. The ruining of his ancestors' tombs aroused the personal fury of Angus, moreover Henry had made large gifts of Angus's lands to Evers and Laiton. Angus therefore gathered his forces, breathed out threats, and joined hands with Arran, who was also supported by a very brave man, Norman Leslie, {171}presently to be one of the assassins of Cardinal Beaton--in Henry's interest. Norman, however, was patriotic for the moment, and the bold Buccleuch was ever trusty. As Angus and Arran followed the English, Leslie and Buccleuch "came lightly riding in" and the Scots united on the wide airy moor of Ancrum. The English saw their approach, and saw their horses moving to the rear. Supposing that the Scots were in retreat, (they meant to fight on foot, and only sent their mounts to the rear,) the lances of Evers and Laiton galloped gaily in pursuit. But what they found was "the dark impenetrable wood" of stubborn spears. With the sun and the wind and blown smoke in their faces, the English cavalry charged, and were broken on the _schiltroms_ or serried squares as they were broken at Bannockburn. Hereon the clan Ker, the men of Cessford and Ferniehirst, "assured Scots," tore off their crosses of St. George, and charged with Leslie, the Douglases, and Buccleuch. The English were routed, the country people rose against them; Evers and Laiton lost their new lands with their lives, eight hundred of the English were slain, and two thousand were taken alive--which is rather surprising. The English evacuated Jedburgh, and the Scots recovered Coldingham. Meanwhile the good-natured, false, feckless Regent Arran wept over the dead body of Sir Ralph Evers. "God have mercy on him, for he was a fell cruel man, and over cruel. And welaway that ever such a slaughter and blood shed should be among Christian men," sobbed the Regent. His heart was better than his head. Even George Douglas had warned Henry VIII of what would result from "the extreme war that is used in killing women and young children." In my childhood I heard and never forgot, the country rhyme on an Amazon of a girl, who, to avenge her lover, took arms at Ancrum moor. She fell, and on her tomb, which has been many times restored, the following epitaph is {172}engraved: "Fair Maiden Lilliard Lies under this stane; Little was her stature, But muckle was her fame. Upon the English loons She laid many thumps, And when her legs were cuttit oft She fought upon her stumps." Clearly this is a form of "For Widrington I must bewail as one in doleful dumps, For when his legs were cutten off he fought upon his stumps." Lilliard's Edge, the ancient name of the scene of this fair lady's fall, must have suggested the idea of a girl styled Lilliard, and her story was thus suggested to the rhymer and became a local myth. About Ancrum the Ale, like the Jed, and, over the Border, the Eden and Coquet, beautifies itself by cutting a deep channel through the fine red sandstone of which Melrose Abbey is built. These channels are always beautiful, but Ale, otherwise, as we ascend its valley, is a quiet trout stream "that flows the green hills under." In my boyhood, long, long ago, Ale abounded in excellent trout, and was my favourite among all our many streams. It does not require the angler to wade, like Tweed and Ettrick; it is narrow and easily commanded. The trout were almost as guileless as they were beautiful and abundant; but I presume that they are now almost exterminated by fair and unfair methods. The Scot, when he does not use nets, poisons, and dynamite, is too often a fisher with the worm, and, as I remember him, had no idea of returning even tiny fish to the water, as James Thomson, author of The Seasons, himself a Border angler, advises us to do. Guileless, indeed, since old time has been the character of the trout of Ale. Sir Thomas Dick Lauder tells how in his boyhood he went once with a chance-met "souter" from Selkirk to the long pool in Ale above Midlem bridge, and how there, {173}by a most unsporting device, they captured the innocent trout almost by the sack-load. "We came," he says, "to a very long gravelly-bottomed pool, of an equal depth all over of from three to four feet. Here the souter seated himself; and, shortening both our rods, and fitting each of them with the three hooks tied back to back, he desired us to follow him, and then waded right into the middle of the pool. The whole water was sweltering with fine trouts, rushing in all directions from the alarm of our intrusion among them. But after we had stood stock still for a few moments, their alarm went off, and they began to settle each individually in his own place. 'There's a good one there,' said the souter, pointing to one at about three yards from him; and throwing the hooks over him, he jerked him up, and in less than six seconds he was safe in his creel. We had many a failure before we could succeed in catching one, whilst the souter never missed; but at length we hit upon the way; and so we proceeded with our guide, gently shifting our position in the pool as we exhausted each particular spot, until the souter's creel would hold no more, and ours was more than half filled with trouts, most of which were about three-quarters of a pound in weight; and very much delighted with the novelty of our sport, we made our way back to Melrose by the western side of the Eildon hills, and greatly astonished our companion with the slaughter we had made, seeing that he had been out angling for a couple of hours in the Tweed, without catching a single fin." A slaughter of the innocents, indeed! But the most inveterate poacher could not now, in any Border stream, hope to rival a feat so abominable in the eyes of present-day fishers. Nor, if he did attempt it, would he be likely to find trout so utterly devoid of guile as to submit thus quietly to be hooked out of the water one by one till the pool was emptied. Trout are better educated, if fewer in number, than they appear to have been eighty or ninety years ago. It is difficult, too, to see where the fun of this form of fishing comes in, after the rather {174}cheap excitement of catching the first one or two. But they did curious things in the name of Sport in the earlier half of last century. Many of the methods of catching salmon that are written of approvingly by Scrope, that great angler of Sir Walter's day, are now the rankest of poaching, and are prohibited by law. The mid course of Ale is through "ancient Riddel's fair domain," as Scott says in the great rhymes of William of Deloraine's midnight ride from Branksome Tower to Melrose. There is now no Riddel of Riddel. Here I shall mercilessly quote the whole of William of Deloraine's Itinerary from Branksome Tower till he rides Ale when "great and muckle o' spate." "Soon in his saddle sate he fast And soon the steep descent he past, Soon cross'd the sounding barbican, And soon the Teviot side he won. Eastward the wooded path he rode, Green hazels o'er his basnet nod; "He pass'd the Peel of Goldiland, And cross'd old Borthwick's roaring strand; Dimly he view'd the Moat-hill's mound. Where Druid shades still flitted round; In Ilawick twinkled many a light; Behind him soon they set in night; And soon he spurr'd his coarser keen Beneath the tower of hazeldean. "The clattering hoofs the watchmen mark:-- 'Stand, ho! thou courier of the dark.'-- 'For Branksome, ho!' the knight rejoin'd, And left the friendly tower behind. He turn'd him now from Teviotside, And guided by the tinkling rill, Northward the dark ascent did ride, And gained the moor at Horslichill; Broad on the left before him lay, For many a mile, the Roman way. {175} "A moment now he slack'd his speed, A moment breathed his panting steed; Drew saddle-girth and corslet-band, And loosen'd in the sheath his brand. On Minto-crags the moonbeams glint, Where Barnhill hew'd his bed of flint; Who flung his outlaw'd limbs to rest, Where falcons hang their giddy nest, Mid cliffs, from whence his eagle eye From many a league his prey could spy; Cliffs, doubling, on their echoes borne, The terrors of the robbers' horn; Cliffs, which, for many a later year, The warbling Doric reed shall hear, When some sad swain shall teach the grove, Ambition is no cure for love! "Unchallenged, thence pass'd Deloraine, To ancient Riddel's fair domain, Where Aill, from mountains freed, Down from the lakes did raving come; Each wave was crested with tawny foam, Like the mane of a chestnut steed. In vain! no torrent, deep or broad, Might bar the bold moss-trooper's road. At the first plunge the horse sunk low, And the water broke o'er the saddlebow; Above the foaming tide, I ween, Scarce half the charger's neck was seen; For he was barded from counter to tail, And the rider was armed complete in mail; Never heavier man and horse Stemm'd a midnight torrent's force. "The warriors very plume, I say, Was daggled by the dashing spray; Yet, through good heart, and Our Ladye's grace, At length he gained the landing place." Above the point where William rode the water, the scenery is quiet and pastoral; about Ashkirk and Synton we are in the {176}lands of lairds whose genealogies are recounted in the rhymes of old Satchells, who "can write nane But just the letters of his name." Further up, Ale rests in the dull deep loch of Alemuir, which looks as if it held more pike than trout. And so we follow her into the hills and the water-shed that, on one side, contributes feeders to the Ettrick. It is a lofty land of pasture and broken hills, whence you see the airy peaks of Skelfhill, Penchrise, the Dumon, and the ranges of "mountains" as Scott calls the hills through which the Border Waters run, Yarrow, Ettrick, Borthwick Water and Ale Water. A "water" is larger than a "burn," but attains not to the name of a river. Rule, the next tributary as we ascend Teviot, is but a "Water," a pretty trout stream it would be if it had fair play. The question of fishing in this country is knotted. Almost all the trout streams were open to everybody, in my boyhood, when I could fish all day in Tweed or Ale, and never see a rod but my own. The few anglers were sportsmen. "Duffer" as I was, I remember a long summer day on Tweed at Yair, when, having come too late for the ten o'clock "rise" of trout, I had an almost empty creel. Just before sunset I foregathered with old Adam Linton, his large creel three-quarters full of beauties. "What did you get them with?" I asked. At the moment he was using the tiniest midges, and the finest tackle. "Oh, wi' ae thing and another, according to the time o' day," he answered. I daresay he used the clear water worm, fished up stream; deadly sin m Hampshire, but not in the Forest. Since these days the world has gone wild on angling, the waters are crowded like the Regent's canal with rods. Now I am all for letting every man have his cast; but the only present hope for the survival of trout is in the associations of anglers who do their best to put down netting and dynamiting. A close time when trout are out of season, we owe to Sir Herbert Maxwell, opposed as he was by the Radical Member for the Border Burghs. I {177}am not sure that there is a rule against slaying trout under, shall we say, seven inches? However it may be, I had my chance and wasted it; being a duffer. Trout may become extinct like the Dodo; it makes no odds to me. I never cast fly in Rule, nor even examined "the present spiritless parish church," on the site of a Norman church of the early twelfth century. The few relics of carved stone fill Sir Herbert Maxwell's heart with bitterness against the dull destroyers. Our Presbyterian forefathers, as far as in them lay, destroyed every vestige of the noble art whereof these glens were full, when, in the twelfth century, the Border was part of a civilised country. For all that I know, they were innocent of ruin at Bedrule; the English of Henry VIII may here, as all through this region, have been the destroyers. They were Protestants of a sort. Moreover in Rule dwelt the small but fierce clan of Turnbull, who, between Scotts and Kers, fought both of these great clans, and now, as a power, "are a' wede awa'." Perhaps an enemy of theirs took sanctuary in the church, and they "burned the chapel for very rage," as the Scotts burned St. Mary of the Lowes shortly before the Reformation. Somewhere about 1620, Rule Water had her minstrel, named Robin, nick-named "Sweet-milk," from the place of his residence. In my opinion these singers of the late days of James VI and I, were the survivors of the Border minstrels who, says Queen Mary's Bishop of Ross, Lesley, the historian, made their own ballads of raids and rescues, such as _Jock o' the Cow_, and as much as is not Scott's of _Kinmont Willie_. There was a rival minstrel, Willie Henderson, whom I take to have sided with the Scotts, while Robin was the Demodocus of the Eliotts of Stobs. The pair met, drank, fought, and Willie pinked "Sweet-Milk" Robin, the Eliotts' man. "Tuneful hands with blood were dyed," says Sir Walter, but what was the cause of the quarrel? I have a hypothesis. The famous ballad of _Jamie Telfer_ exists in two {178}versions. In one the Scotts are covered with laurels, while Martin Eliott plays the part of a cur. In the other, the Eliotts gain all the glory, while Scott of Buccleuch acts like a mean dastard. One of these versions is the original, the other is a perversion. The ballad itself, which takes us all through the Border, from Bewcastle on the English side, to the fair Dodhead on Upper Ettrick, is not of the period of the incidents described. As far as these are historical, the date is about 1596. The author of the ballad does not know the facts, and makes incredible statements. Consequently he is late, writes years after the Union of the Crowns (1603) and the end of Border raids. I guess that either Will Henderson was the author of the ballad in favour of the Scotts, and that Robin, the minstrel of the Eliotts, perverted it into the Eliott version, or _vice versa_, Robert was the original author, Will the perverter. Here, in any case, was infringement of copyright and deadly insult. The poets fought. Certainly, Robin fell, and the Eliotts hanged Will, gave him "Jeddart justice." To the ballad we shall return; it is, though inaccurate, full of the old Border spirit, and is in itself an itinerary of the Marches. These high powers, the Scott and Eliott clans, like the States of Europe, were now allies, cementing their federacy by intermarriages; and again were bitter foes. The strength of the chief of the Eliotts was in Liddesdale, of the Scotts, in Teviotdale. They were allies for young James V against his Keepers, the Douglases, "When gallant Cessford's life-blood dear Reeked on dark Eliott's Border spear" at "Turn Again," a spot on Scott's estate of Abbotsford. They were foes in 1564-66, in Queen Mary's reign, when Martin Eliott, chief of his clan, plotted with the Armstrongs to betray her strong fortress of Hermitage to the English. In this feud the Eliotts attacked Scott of Hassendean in his tower on Hassendean burn, the next tributary of Teviot, but {179}the ballad of _Kinmont Willie_ makes Gilbert Eliott of Stobs ride with the bold Buccleuch to the rescue of Willie from Carlisle Castle (1596). Unluckily, in 1596 Gilbert Eliott was not yet the Laird of Stobs. [Illustration: 0199] This Gilbert, at all events, married the daughter of the Flower of Yarrow, the wife of Auld Wat Scott of Harden, himself the neighbour and foremost fighting man of the laird of Branksome in Teviot, the bold Buccleuch. His descendant, Sir Walter, has made Auld Wat's name immortal, and, in Jamie Telftr, has certainly interpolated a spirited stanza. In the village of Denholm, on Teviot, opposite to Hassendean, was born John Leyden, the great friend of Scott, a poet in his way, but much more remarkable as a man of amazing energy of character, an Orientalist, and a collector of ballads. But few now know what "distant and deadly shore Holds Leyden's cold remains," His memory is twined with that of Sir Walter, and he is one of {180}the most living figures in Lockhart's Life of Scott. Leyden had the poetic quality, not judiciously cultivated, of the old Border minstrels, while the energy which the clans expended in war was given by him to omnivorous studies. Below Denholm, but on the other side of the river, nearly opposite the junction of Rule Water with Teviot, is Minto, in the fourteenth century a property owned by one of that unruly clan, the Turnbulls. Later, it passed to the family of Stewart, and finally, somewhere about the beginning of the eighteenth century, it was bought by Sir Gilbert Elliot, ancestor of the Minto branch of that family. The present house dates only from 1814, but it has a curious legend attached to it, which is mentioned in Sir Walter Scott's diary, under date 23rd December, 1825. He says: "It is very odd that the common people about Minto and the neighbourhood will not believe at this hour that the first Earl is dead." [He died in June, 1814.] "They think he had done something in India which he could not answer for--that the house was rebuilt on a scale unusually large to give him a suite of secret apartments, and that he often walks about the woods and crags of Minto at night, with a white nightcap and long white beard. The circumstances of his having died on the road down to Scotland is the sole foundation of this absurd legend, which shows how willing the public are to gull themselves when they can find no one else to take the trouble. I have seen people who could read, write, and cipher, shrug their shoulders and look mysterious when this subject was mentioned. One very absurd addition was made on occasion of a great ball at Minto House, which it was said was given to draw all people away from the grounds, that the concealed Earl might have leisure for his exercise." To the east of Minto House are Minto Crags, towering precipitous to a height of over seven hundred feet. On the summit is the ruin called Fatlips Castle, which is said to have been the stronghold of the fourteenth-century owner of Minto, {181}Turnbull of Barnhill, a notorious Border freebooter. A small grassy platform, or level space, a little below the ruin, is called Barnhill's Bed, "Where Barnhill hew'd his bed of flint,"--a convenient spot, no doubt, in old days on which to station a sentry or look-out. The third Sir Gilbert Elliot of Minto was apparently in his own way something of a poet, but the ever tolerant Sir Walter Scott, to whom he used to read his compositions, confesses that the verses were "but middling," Sir Gilbert had, however, a better title, at least to collateral fame; he was the brother of the Jean Elliot who wrote that undying lament, the "Flowers of the Forest." It is curious to note that in 1374 the church of Minto belonged to the diocese of Lincoln. Here at Minto, if credence in the reality of Fairies no longer lingers amongst the people,--one of the writers of this volume records, some chapters back, that he found traces of the belief not very many years ago still surviving at Flodden Edge,--at least but a very few generations have passed since it died. Throughout Teviotdale, perhaps to a greater extent than in any other part of the Border, tales still are told which show how strong was once this belief in the existence of the Little Folk, and many of the customs that, we are told, were followed by country dwellers in order to propitiate the Good People, or to thwart their malevolence, are very quaint, Should it chance, for instance, that at the time a child was born the blue bonnet usually worn by the husband was not kept continually lying on the mother's bed, then there would be the most imminent danger of that child being carried off by the Fairies, and a changeling being left in its place. Many a fine child has been lost through neglect of this simple precaution. Generally, if the abduction took place before the child had been christened, a pig or a hedgehog, or some such animal, was substituted for the infant; but if the Fairies did not succeed in their design till after the child's baptism, then they left another bairn in its {182}place, usually a peevish, ill-thriven, wizen-faced little imp. A tale is told of a woman who lived at Minto Cragfoot, and whose child, in consequence of some trifling lark of precaution in the matter of the blue bonnet, was carried off, and in the end was rescued only by the superior knowledge and power of a Presbyterian minister. Whilst she herself was engaged one day in gathering sticks for her fire, the woman had laid her child beside a bush on the hill side. She neither heard nor saw anything unusual, but on going to pick up her child at the close of her task, instead of her bonny, smiling little son she found only a thin, wasted, weird little creature, which "yammered" and wept continually. Recourse was had to the Reverend Mr. Borland, (first Presbyterian minister of Bedrule after the Reformation,) and that gentleman at once unhesitatingly pronounced that this was no mere human child. The mother must go to the cliffs, said Mr. Borland, and there gather a quantity of the flowers of the fox glove, (locally called "witches thimbles,") and bring them to him. These Mr. Borland boiled, poured some of the extract into the bairn's mouth, scattered the boiled flowers all over its body, then put it in its cradle wrapped in a blanket, and left it all night alone in the barn. Mr. Borland took the key of the door away with him, and gave instructions that under no circumstances was anybody to enter the barn until he returned next day. The anxious mother watched all night by the door, but heard no sound; never once did the child wail. And next morning when Mr. Borland arrived he was able to hand to the mother her own child, fat and smiling as when carried off by the fairies. It was a heroic remedy, but probably the sick child did not swallow much of that decoction of _digitalis_. In any case, they did not have coroners' inquests in those days, and had the worst come to the worst, the uncomplaining fairies would have borne the blame. It was up Teviot, in the days when witches flourished, that a poor woman lived, whose end was rather more merciless than {183}that inflicted on most of her kind. A man's horse had died suddenly,--elf-struck, or overlooked by a witch, of course. To break whatever spell the witch or elf might have cast over other animals the owner of the dead horse cut out and burnt its heart. Whilst the fire was at its fiercest and the heart sizzling in the glow, there rushed up a large black greyhound, flecked all over with foam and evidently in the last stage of fatigue, which tried persistently to snatch the heart from the fire. One of the spectators, suspecting evil, seized a stick and struck the animal a heavy blow over the back, whereupon, with a fearful yell, it fled, and disappeared. Almost at that instant, a villager ran up, saying that his wife had suddenly been taken violently ill; and when those who had been engaged in burning the heart went in to the man's cottage, they found his wife, a dark-haired, black-eyed woman, lying, gasping and breathless, with her back, to their thinking, broken. She, poor woman, was probably suffering from a sudden and particularly acute attack of lumbago. But to those wise men another inference was only too obvious. She was, of course, a witch, and it was _she_ who, in the guise of a greyhound, had tried to snatch the horse's heart from the fire, and who had then got a stroke across her back that broke it. They insisted that she should repeat the Lord's prayer,--an infallible test, for if she were a witch she would be sure to say: "lead us into temptation, and deliver us not from evil." And so, when the poor woman, her pain failed to get through the prayer to their satisfaction, they bound her, carried her away, and burnt her alive in the fire where the horse's heart had been roasted. Two or three miles across the river from Minto is Ruberslaw, a rugged hill, towering dark and solitary, a land-mark for half the Border. More than any of its distant neighbours in the Cheviot range, it seems to draw to itself the hurrying rain clouds, more than any other it seems to nurture storms. About its grim head all Teviotdale {184}may "see with strange delight the snow clouds form When Ruberslaw conceives the mountain storm-- Dark Ruberslaw, that lifts his head sublime, Rugged and hoary with the wrecks of time; On his broad misty front the giant wears The horrid furrows of ten thousand years." Like many another wild Border hill, Ruberslaw was a favourite lurking place for the persecuted Covenanters, and near its top is a craggy chasm from which, it is said, Wodrow's "savoury Mr. Peden" used to preach to his scattered congregation. It was on this hill that the pursuing dragoons all but caught the preacher and his flock one day; they were caught, indeed, like rats in a trap, had it not been for Ruberslaw's well known character for breeding bad weather. The soldiers were advancing in full view of the conventicle. Way of escape there was none, nor time to disperse; mounted men from every quarter were scrambling up the steep face of the hill, and in that clear light what chance was left now to hide among the rocks and boulders!" "O Lord," prayed Peden with extreme fervour, "lap the skirts of thy cloak ower puir auld Sandy." And as if in answer to his petition, there came over the entire hill a thick "Liddesdale drow," so dense that a man might not see two feet around him. When the mist cleared again, there was no one left for the dragoons to take. Above Hassendean, but on the other side of Teviot, is one of the few remaining possessions in this country, namely Cavers, of the great and ancient House of the Black Douglases. The relics are a very old flag; its date and history are variously explained by family legend and by antiquaries. It is not a pennon, therefore not Hotspur's pennon taken by the Earl of Douglas before the battle of Otterburne. It is nothing of the Percys', for it bears the Douglas Heart and a Douglas motto. On the whole it seems to have belonged not to the Black, but to their rivals and successors, the Red Douglases, who were as unruly, and "ill to lippen to" by Scottish kings, as the elder branch. {185}The lady's embroidered glove, with the letters K.P., ought to have belonged to Hotspur's wife, who is Kate in Shakespeare, a better authority than you mere genealogists. [Illustration: 0205] As we ascend, the water of Teviot becomes more and more foul; varying, when last I shuddered at it, from black to a most unwholesome light blue. It is distressing to see such a fluid flowing through beautiful scenes; and possibly since I mingled my tears with the polluted stream, the manufacturers of Hawick have taken some order in the way of more or less filtering their refuse and their dyes. Hawick, to the best of my knowledge, contains no objects of interest to the tourist who "picturesques it everywhere." A {186}hotel is called the Tower Hotel, and contains part of an ancient keep of the Douglases--"Doulanwrack's (Douglas of Drumlanrig's) Castell," which Sussex spared in 1570 when he "made an ende of the rest" of Hawick,--but "you would look at it twice before you thought" of a castle of chivalry. [Illustration: 0206] The people of Hawick have retained many of the characteristics of the old Borderers; they are redoubted foes at football; and are said to be not very scrupulous raiders--of mushrooms. Their local patriotism is fervid, and they sing with passion their song of "Teribus and Teriodden," which refers to "Sons of heroes slain at Flodden,"--among other Flowers of the Forest. And, like their neighbours at Selkirk, they cherish a banner, said to have been captured from the English. The Hawick {187}trophy, however, is not attributed to Flodden, but to a slightly later fight at Hornshole, near Hawick, when those who were left of the townsfolk fell on, and defeated with great slaughter, an English raiding party. [Illustration: 0207] That the mysterious words Teribus {188}and Teriodden, or Odin, are a survival of a pious ejaculation imploring the help of Thor and Odin, I can neither affirm nor deny. [Illustration: 0208] It would be a gratifying thing to prove that the memory of ancient Scandinavian deities has survived the sway of the mediaeval Church and the Kirk of John Knox. But I have not heard that the words occur in documents before the eighteenth century. The town has a site naturally beautiful, as Slitrig, a very rapid stream, here joins Teviot, which, above the mills of Hawick is _electro clarior_; not of a pure crystal translucency, but of a transparent amber hue. Slitrig takes its rise on the Windburgh Hill, on the northern side of the Liddesdale watershed, a hill of old the known resort of the Good People, whose piping and revels might {189}often be heard by the solitary shepherd. [Illustration: 0209] The rivulet is said to well out from a small, black, fathomless little loch high up on the hill. Here, as all knew, dwelt the Keipic, or other irritable spirit prone to resent human intrusion, and if a stone should chance to be thrown into the depths of the lakelet, {190}resentment was pretty sure to be expressed by a sudden dangerous overflow of water into the burn, whereby destruction would be carried down the valley. That, tradition tells, is how Hawick came to be devastated, and all but swept away, early in the eighteenth century. A shepherd, it was said, had quite accidentally rolled a large stone into the lake, and had thus roused the Spirit of the mountain to ungovernable fury. Leyden thus writes of the tradition: "From yon green peak, black haunted Slata brings The gushing torrents of unfathomed springs: In a dead lake, that ever seems to freeze, By sedge enclosed from every ruffling breeze, The fountains lie; and shuddering peasants shrink To plunge the stone within the fearful brink; For here,'tis said, the fairy hosts convene, With noisy talk, and bustling steps unseen; The hill resounds with strange, unearthly cries; And moaning voices from the waters rise. Nor long the time, if village-saws be true, Since in the deep a hardy peasant threw A pondrous stone; when murmuring from below, With gushing sound he heard the lake o'erflow. The mighty torrent, foaming down the hills, Called, with strong voice, on all her subject rills; Rocks drove on jagged rocks with thundering sound, And the red waves, impatient, rent their mound; On Hawick burst the flood's resistless sway, Ploughed the paved streets, and tore the walls away, Floated high roofs, from whelming fabrics torn; While pillared arches down the wave were borne." Borthwick Water, too, as well as Slitrig, was famed for its fairies--and for worse than fairies, if one may judge by the name given to a deep pool; the Deil's Pool, it is called, a place to be shunned by youthful fishers. But probably the youthful fisher of the twentieth century cares neither for deil nor for fairy. Higher up the stream than this pool is the Fairy Knowe, where a shepherd was once flung into the flooded {191}burn by the fairies,--at any rate he was carried down the burn one evening, late, and he _said_ it was the fairies, and no other spirits, that had flung him in. [Illustration: 0211] One very odd relic hard by Hawick is a mote, or huge tumulus, of the kind so common in Galloway. Probably above it was erected a palisaded wooden fortress, perhaps of the twelfth century. The area, as far as an amateur measurement can determine, is not less than that of the tower of Goldielands, an old keep of the Scotts, some two miles further up the water, almost opposite to the point where Borthwick Water flows {192}into Teviot on the left. [Illustration: 0212] If we cross the bridge here and follow the pretty wandering water through a level haugh, and then turn off to the right, we arrive at a deep thickly wooded dene, and from the crest above this excellent hiding place of raided cattle looks down the old low house of Harden, (the Stammschloss of Sir Walter Scott,) now the property of Lord Polwarth, the head of this branch of the Scotts of Buccleuch. The house is more modern than the many square keeps erected in the old days of English invasions and family feuds. The Borthwick Water turns to the left, and descends from the heights of Howpasley, whence the English raiders rode down, "laigh down in Borthwick Water," in the ballad of _Jamie Telfer_. A mile or a little more above Goldielands Tower, on the left side of Teviot is Branksome Tower, the residence of the Lady of Branksome in _The Lay of the Last Minstrel._ {193}At Branksome Tower we are in the precise centre of the Scottish Border of history and romance, the centre of Scott's country. [Illustration: 0213] Yet, looking at Mr. Thompson's excellent sketch, you would scarce guess it. The house stands very near the Teviot, but still nearer the public road. Thanks to the attentions of the English at various periods, especially when the bold {194}Buccleuch stood for the fairest of ladies, Mary Queen of Scots, against preachers, presbyters, puritans, and their southern allies, perhaps no visible part of the echlice older than 1570 remains except the tower. [Illustration: 0214] The Lady of Branksome who finished the actual house after the old stronghold had been burned, appears to have thought that square keeps and barmkyns were obsolete in war, owing to the increasing merits of artillery; and she did not build a house of defence. Manifestly "nine and twenty Knights of fame" never "hung their shields in" _this_ "Branksome Hall," and never were here attended by "nine and twenty Squires of name," and "nine and twenty yeomen tall." {195}There is no room for them, and at Branlcsome, probably, there never was. It is not to be credited that, at any period, ten of the knights went to bed "sheathed in steel," to be ready for the English, or "Carved at the meal, with gloves of steel, And drank the red wine through the helmet barred." * The minstrel gave free play to his fancy. The Laird of Branksome, though Warden of the Marches, never had, never needed, so vast a retinue, and was so far from "Warkworth or Naworth, or merry Carlisle" that no Scrope, or Howard, or Percy, could fall on him at unawares. * The conjectural reading of Srhlopping, "Carved at the veal" though ingenious (for, as he observes, "the ancient Scots did not carve oat-meal") has no manuscript authority. The Scotts, in the reign of James I, already owned the wild upland pastoral region of Buccleuch between Teviot and Ettrick, and Eckford in Teviotdale; also Murdiestone on the lower Clyde, a place now too near the hideous industrial towns and villages near Glasgow. Meanwhile a pacific gentleman named Inglis was laird of Branksome. He grumbled, it is said, to Sir Walter Scott of Murdiestone about the inconveniences caused by English raiders; though, as they had a long way to ride, Inglis probably suffered more at Branksome from the Kers, Douglases, and ferocious Turnbulls. Scott was not a nervous man, and he offered to barter Murdiestone for half of Branksome, which came into his pastoral holdings at Buccleuch. Inglis gladly made the exchange, and Scott's son obtained the remaining half of the barony of Branksome, in reward of his loyalty to James II, during his struggle with the Black Douglases, (during which he dirked his guest, the Earl, at the hospitable table.) The Scott lands, carved out of those of the fallen Douglases, extended from Lanarkshire to Langholm; and as they were loyal to their country, (at least till the reign of Charles I,) and withal were fighting men of the best, they throve to Earl's estate, the dukedom coming in with the ill {196}fated marriage of the heiress to James, son of Charles II, Duke of Monmouth. Of course if Charles II really married Lucy Walters, (as Monmouth's pious Whiggish adherents asserted,) the Duke of Buccleuch would be our rightful king. [Illustration: 0216] But the good king, Charles II, firmly denied the marriage, fond as he was of his handsome son by Lucy Walters; and the good House of Buccleuch has never believed in the Whig fable of the black box which contained the marriage lines of Lucy Walters and Charles II. The marriage of Monmouth with the heiress of Buccleuch was made in their extreme youth and was unhappy. Monmouth was in love, like Lord Ailesbury, with Lady Henrietta Wentworth, whom he (according to Ailesbury,) spoke of as "his wife in the sight of God," which means that she was not his wife at all. The house of Branksome makes a picturesque object in the middle distance of the landscape; but is not otherwise {197}interesting. In front of the door lies, or used to lie, a rusty iron breach-loading culverin of the fourteenth century; of old, no doubt, part of the artillery of the castle, when it was a castle. [Illustration: 0217] Returning from Branksome Tower to the right bank of Teviot, now a clear and musical stream, we cross one of the many Allan Waters so common in Scotland, and arrive at Caerlanrig, where there is a tablet with an inscription bitterly blaming James V, for his treachery to Johnny Armstrong of Gilnockie in Eskdale, hanged in 1530. The Armstrongs, being next neighbours of England on the Border, were a clan of doubtful allegiance, given to intermarrying with the English, and sometimes wearing the cross of St. George as "assured Scots." They were the greatest of reivers on both sides of the Border. In 1530, James V, who had escaped from the Douglases, and driven Angus, their chief, into the service of Henry VIII, tried to bring the country into order. He first arrested the chief men--Bothwell (Hepburn), Ferniehirst (Ker), Max{198}well, Home, Buccleuch (his old ally), Polwarth, and Johnston; and, having kept them out of mischief, led a large force into their region. He caught Scott of Tushielaw in Ettrick, and Cockburn of Henderland on Meggat Water. Cockburn was tried in Edinburgh for theft and treason, and beheaded; not hanged at his own door as legend fables. He was in the conspiracy of Henry VIII and Angus, and had sided with invaders. Tushielaw suffered for oppression of his tenants. Numbers of lairds, Kers, Douglases, Rutherfurds, Turnbulls, Swintons, Veitches, put themselves on the King's mercy and gave sureties for quiet behaviour. Gilnockie, according to the ballad, came to the King at Caerlanrig in royal array, with forty retainers. I find no contemporary account of the circumstances, for Lindsay of Pitscottie gives but late gossip, as he always does. Calderwood, still later, says that Johnie "was enticed by some courtiers." Calderwood adds that one of the sufferers with Johnie had burned a woman and her children in her house. The evidence for Royal treachery is that of the ballad of Johnie Armstrong, which may have been the source and authority of ritscottie. We may quote it. It was a favourite of Sir Walter Scott. JOHNIE ARMSTRANG. Sum speikis of lords, sum speikis of lairds, And sik like men of hie degrie; Of a gentleman I sing a sang, Sum tyme called Laird of Gilnockie. The King he wrytes a luving letter, With his ain hand sae tenderly, And he hath sent it to Johnie Armstrang To cum and speik with him speedily The Eliots and Armstrangs did convene; They were a gallant cumpanie-- "We'll ride and meit our lawful King, And bring him safe to Gilnockie. {199} "Make kinnen * and capon ready, then, And venison in great plentie; We'll wellcum here our royal King; I hope he'll dine at Gilnockie!" They ran their horse on the langholme howm, And brak their spears wi' mickle main; The ladies lukit frae their loft windows-- "God bring our men weel hume again!" When Johnic cam before the King, Wi' a' his men sae brave to see, The King he movit his bonnet to him; He ween'd he was a King as weel as he. "May I rind grace, my sovereign liege, Grace for my loyal men and me? For my name it is Johr.ie Armstrong, And a subject of yours, my liege," said he. "Away, away, thou traitor Strang! Out o' my sight soon may'st thou be! I grantit never a traitor's life, And now I'll not begin wi' thee." "Grant me my life, my liege, my King! And a bonny gift I'll gie to thee-- Full four-and-twenty milk-white steids, Were a' foal'd in ae yeir to me. "I'll gie thee a' these milk-white steids, That prance and nicker at a speir; And as mickle gude Inglish gilt, As four o' their braid backs dow bear." "Away, away, thou traitor strang! Out o' my sight soon may'st thou be! I grantit never a traitor's life, And now I'll not begin wi' thee!" "Grant me my life, my liege, my King! And a bonny gift I'll gie to thee-- Gude four-and-twenty ganging mills, That gang thro' a' the yeir to me. * Rabbits. {200} "These four-and-twenty mills complete Sail gang for thee thro' a' the yeir; And as mickle of gude reid wheit, As a' their happers dow to bear." "Away, away, thou traitor strang! Out o' my sight soon may'st thou be! I grautit never a traitor's life, And now I'll not begin wi' thee!" "Grant me my life, my liege, my King! And a great great gift I'll gie to thee-- Bauld four-and-twenty sisters' sons, Sail for thee fecht, tho' a' should flee!" "Away, away, thou traitor strang! Out o' my sight soon may'st thou be! I grantit never a traitor's life, And now I'll not begin wi' thee!" "Grant me my life, my liege, my King! And a brave gift I'll gie to thee-- All between heir and Newcastle town Sail pay their yeirly rent to thee." "Away, away, thou traitor strang! Out o' my sight soon may'st thou be! I grantit never a traitor's life, And now I'll not begin wi' thee!" "Ye lied, ye lied, now King," he says, T Altho' a King and Prince ye be! For I've luved naething in my life, I weel dare say it, but honesty-- "Save a fat horse, and a fair woman, Twa bonny dogs to kill a deir; But Ingland suld have found me meal and mault,, Gif I had lived this hundred yeir! "She suld have found me meal and mault, And beef and mutton in a' plentie; But never a Scots wyfe could have said, That e'er I skaithed her a puir flee. {201} "To seik het water beneith cauld ice, Surely it is a greit folie-- I have asked grace at a graceless face, But there is nane for my men and me! * "But had I kenn'd ere I cam frae liame, How thou unkind wad'st been to me! 1 wad have keepit the Border side, In spite of all thy force and thee. "Wist England's King that I was ta'en, O gin a blythe man he wad be! For ance I slew his sister's son, And on his breist bane brak a trie." John wore a girdle about his middle, Imbroidered ower wi' burning gold, Bespangled wi' the same metal, Maist beautiful was to behold. There hang nine targats ** at Johnie's hat, And ilk ane worth three hundred pound-- "What wants that knave that a King suld have But the sword of honour and the crown? "O where gat thou these targats, Johnie, That blink sae brawly abune thy brie?" "I gat them in the field fechting, Where, cruel King, thou durst not be. "Had I my horse, and harness gude, And riding as I w ont to be, It suld hae been tauld this hundred yeir, The meeting of my King and me! "God be with thee, Kirsty, my brother, Lang live thou Laird of Mangertoun! Lang may'st thou live on the Border syde Ere thou see thy brother ride up and down! "And God be with thee, Kirsty, my son, Where thou sits on thy nurse's knee! But an' thou live this hundred yeir, Thy father's better thou'lt never be. * This and the three preceding stanzas were among those that Sir Walter Scott most delighted to quote. ** Tassels. {202} "Farewell! my bonny Gilnoek hall, Where on Esk side thou standest stout! Gif I had lived hut seven yeirs mair, I wad hae gilt thee round about." [Illustration: 0222] John murdered was at Carlinrigg, And all his gallant companie; But Scotland's heart was ne'er sae wae, To see sae mony brave men die-- {203} Because they saved their country deir Frae Inglishmen! Nane were sa bauld, Whyle Johnie lived on the Border syde, Nane of them durst cum neir his hauld. It will be observed that Gilnockie puts forward as his claim to respect the very robberies in England for which, says the poet, he was hanged. The only sign of treachery is that Johnnie did come to Caerlanrig, probably in hope of making his peace like many other lairds. Whether he were "enticed by some courtiers," or whether he risked the adventure is not manifest. According to Pitscottie he had held England as far as Newcastle under blackmail. Above Caerlanrig, Teviot winds through the haughs and moors and under the alders to its source at Teviot-stone. {204} CHAPTER VII TWEED, ST. BOSWELLS, DRYBURGH, NEWSTEAD, AND THE LEADER |We now return from Teviotdale to Tweed, which we left at Kelso. The river passes through one of its rock-fenced and narrow defiles at the Trows of Makerstoun, (accent the penultimate,) itself the home from ancient days of a branch of the once great Argyll clan--and generally western clan--of Mac-dougal. How they came so far from their Celtic kindred, potent in Dalriadic Scotland before the Campbells came to the front as allies of Robert Bruce, is not known to me. As foes of Bruce, the Macdougals of Lome suffered much loss of lands after the king's triumph. At the Trows the river splits into very deep and narrow channels, and to shoot one of them in a canoe needs a daring and a fortunate paddler. In former years there were four of these channels, two of very great depth--thirty feet and more, it is said--but so narrow that, with the river at summer level, it was possible for an active man to jump from stone rib to stone rib, across the swift rushing stream. The feat was attempted once too often, however, with fatal result, and since then the middle rib has been blasted out, so that it is no longer possible for any one to tempt fate in this manner. Even an expert and powerful swimmer, filling in there, would have but a slender chance of coming out alive, for if he were not sucked under by the eddies of that boiling current and jammed beneath some sunken ledge, {205}the odds would be very great on his brains being knocked out amongst the rocks that thrust their ugly fangs here and there above the surface of the stream. Both below and above the Trows, the trout fishing--for those who may fish--is extremely good, but the wading is licklish; pot-holes, ledges, and large boulders are apt to trap the unwary to their undoing. There are, too, some excellent salmon casts in the Makerstoun Water, and it was in one of them that the famous Rob o' the Trows--Rob Kerss, a great character in Sir Walter's day,--nigh on a hundred years ago landed a fish so huge, that even a master of the art so skilled as Rob,--Stoddart says he had few equals as a fisher--was utterly spent when at length his silvery prize lay gasping on the bank. Before taking the fly from its mouth, Rob turned half aside to pick up a stone which might conveniently be used as a "priest"; but even as he turned, out of the tail of his eye he saw the monster give a wallop. Rob leapt for the fish. Alas! as he jumped, his foot caught the line and snapped it, and walloping fish and struggling man plunged together off a shelf into the icy water,--from which Rob emerged alone. The rod with which Kerss killed so many hundreds of fish is still in the possession of one of his descendants, near Beattock. Compared with present-day masterpieces of greenheart or split cane, it is a quaint and clumsy weapon, of extraordinary thickness in the butt, and of crushing weight. The writer has handled it, and he is convinced that one hour's use could not fail to choke off for the rest of the day even the most enthusiastic of modern salmon fishers. It is not often that ancient weapons are found in Tweed, but some years ago, when the river was unusually low, a moss-trooper's spear was recovered at a spot a little above Makerstoun. It was lying at the bottom, below what used to be a ford of sorts across the river. Curiously enough, shaft and head were both intact, and in fair preservation after their long immersion. If the spear was not used by some trooper in days when fighting was the Borderer's chief {206}delight and occupation, it is difficult to imagine to what use it could have been put. Salmon cannot be successfully speared with a single-pointed unbarbed weapon; so that it is certain this was no poacher's implement. Above Makerstoun is Rutherford, once the home of the Rutherfurds of that Ilk, but now it knows them no more. A like doom, as I write, hangs over Mertoun, long the beautiful home of the Scotts of Harden, Lord Polwarth's family. "And Minstrel Burne cannot assuage His grief, while life endureth, To see the changes of this age, That fleeting Time procureth; For mony a place stands in hard case, Where blythe folk ken'd nae sorrow, Wi' Homes that dwelt on Leader-side, And Scotts that dwelt in Yarrow!" Mertoun is a modern house; hard by it, across the river, the strong ruins of Littledean tower (once the Kers') speak of old Border wars. Following the curves of Tweed we reach St. Boswells, named after an Anglo-Saxon saint to whom St. Cuthbert came, laying down his spear, and entering religion. At St. Boswells are sheep fairs; Hogg preferred to attend one of these festivals rather than go to London and see the Coronation of George IV. My sympathies are with the shepherd! The paths near Lessudden, hard by, are haunted by a quiet phantasm in costume a minister of the Kirk of the eighteenth century. I know some of the percipients who have seen him individually and collectively. There is no tradition about the origin of this harmless appearance, a vision of a dream of the dead; walking "in that sleep of death." Above Lessudden the Tweed winds round and at the foot of the beautiful ruins of Dryburgh Abbey, softly mourning for him who lies within that sound "the dearest of all to his ear," Sir Walter Scott. The great Magician lies, with Lockhart at {207}his feet, within the ruined walls, in the place which, as he wrote to his bride that was to be, he had already chosen for his rest. The lady replied with spirit that she would not endure any such sepulchral reflections. [Illustration: 0227] This is one of the most sacred places, and most beautiful places in broad Scotland. Approaching Dryburgh, not from the riverside but from the road, we come by such a path through a beautiful wood as {208}that in which proud Maisie was "walking so early," when "bold Robin on the bush singing so rarely," spaed her fortune. The path leads to a place of such unexpected beauty as the ruinous palace where the Sleeping Beauty slumbered through the ages. The beauty is that of Dryburgh itself, delicately fair in her secular decay; fallen from glory, indeed, but still the last home of that peace which dwelt in this much harried Borderland in the days of the first White Friars, and of good St. David the king. They were Englishmen out of Northumberland, teachers of good farming and of other good works. What remains of their dwellings is of the age when the round Norman arch blended with the pointed Gothic, as in the eastern end of the Cathedral of St. Andrews. Thrice the English harmed it, in the days of Bruce (1322) during a malicious and futile attack by Edward II; again, under Robert II, when Richard II played the Vandal; and, lastly, during the wasting of the Border in 1544, which was the eighth Henry's rough wooing for his son, of the babe Mary Stuart. The grounds, the property of a member of the House of Scott's eccentric Earl of Buchan, are kept in charming order. The Earl was the only begetter of a huge statue of Sir William Wallace, who used Ettrick Forest now and again in his guerilla warfare, and from the Forest drew his archers, tall men whom n death the English of Edward I admired on the lost field of Falkirk. The said Earl of Buchan rather amused than consoled Scott, during a severe illness, by promising to attend to his burial in the place so dear to him, which, till the ruin of his paternal grandmother, had belonged to the Haliburtons, also n old days the lords of Dirleton castle. Readers of Lockhart remember the great Border gathering at the funeral of the latest minstrel, and how his horses, which drew the hearse, paused where they had been wont to rest, at a spot where it had been Sir Walter's habit to stop to admire the landscape. His chief, the young Duke of Buccleuch, was prevented by important {209}business from being an attendant. You would never guess what the business was! No man knows but I only; and if Scott could have known, I doubt whether he would have drawn his shaggy brows into a frown, or laughed; for the business was----but I must not reveal so ancient a secret! Moving up the river on the left bank, we reach that ancient House concerning which Thomas of Ercildoune's prophecy is still unbroken. "Betide, Betide, whate'er betide, There shall aye be a Haig in Bemersyde." The family were at home in Bemersyde in the days of Malcolm the Maiden. One of them was condemned to pay a dozen salmon yearly to the monastery of Melrose, for some scathe done to the brethren. It must have been an ill year for the angler when Haig expressed a desire to commute the charge for an equivalent in money as he could not get the fish. There was scarce a Border battle in which the Haigs did not leave a representative on the field of honour. Here, too, befell "the Affliction of Bemersyde," when the laird, after a long fight with a monstrous salmon, lost him in the moment of victory. The head of the fish would not go into the landing net, his last wallop freed him; he was picked up dead, by prowlers,--and he weighed seventy pounds. Probably no salmon so great was ever landed by the rod from Tweed. Only the Keep of the mansion is of great antiquity. It may be worth while to leave the river and climb to Smail-holme 'I'cwer, where Scott's infancy was passed. The tower, standing tall and gaunt above a tarn, is well known from Turner's drawing, and is the scene of Scott's early ballad, _The Eve of St. John_. Perhaps the verses which have lingered longest in my memory are those which tell how "The Baron of Smailholme rose with day, And spurred his charger on, Without stop or stay down the rocky way That leads to Brotherton." {210} [Illustration: 0230] {211}He did not go, as we remember, to Ancrum fight, but he returned with armour sorely dinted, having slain in private quarrel a knight whose cognisance was "A hound in a silver leash bound And his crest was a branch of the yew." And that same eve the dead man was seen with the lady of Smailholme. The story is a version of that ancient tale, the Beresford ghost story, which can be traced from the chronicle of William of Malmesbury to its Irish avatar in the eighteenth century--and later. Do ghosts repeat themselves? It looks like it, for the Irish tale is very well authenticated. It was not actually in the tower, but in the adjacent farmhouse of Sandyknowe, his grandfather's, that Scott, at first a puny child, passed his earliest years, absorbing every ballad and legend that the country people knew, and the story of {212}every battle fought on the wide landscape, from Turn Again to Ancrum Moor. We have reached the most beautiful part ol Tweed, dominated by the triple crest of the pyramidal Eildons, where the river lovingly embraces the woods of Gladswood and Ravens-wood, and the site of Old Melrose, a Celtic foundation of Aidan, while as yet the faith was preached by the Irish mission aries of St. Columba. This is the very garden of Tweed, a vast champaign, from which rise the Eildons, and far away above Rule Water "the stormy skirts of Ruberslaw," with the Lammermuir and Cheviot hills blue and faint on the northern and southern horizons. On the ground of Drygrange, above Bemersyde, but on the right bank of Tweed at Newstead, the greatest stationary camp in Scotland of Agricola's time has been excavated by Mr. Curie, who also describes it in a magnificent and learned volume. Here were found beautiful tilting helmets, in the shape of heads of pretty Greek girls, and here were the enamelled brooches of the native women who dwelt with Roman lovers. But these must be sought, with coins, gems, pottery, weapons and implements of that forgotten day, in the National Museum in Edinburgh. The chief tributary on the northern side as we mount the stream is Leader Water, where Homes had aince commanding." Sing Erslington and Cowdenknowes, Where Humes had aince commanding; And Drygrange, with the milk-white yowes, Twixt Tweed and Leader standing: The bird that flees through Redpath trees And Gladswood banks ilk morrow, May chant and sing sweet Leader Haughs And bonnie howms of Yarrow. It is scarcely possible to conceive a scene more beautiful than that where Leader winds her cheery way through the woods of Drygrange. When the Borderland is starred thick {213}with primroses, and the grassy banks of Leader are carpeted with the blue of speedwell and the red of campion; when a soft air and warm sun hatch out a multitude of flies at which the trout rise greedily, then is the time to see that deep, leafy glen at the bottom of which sparkles the amber-clear water over its gravelly bed. In cliff or steep bank the sides tower up perhaps to the height of a couple of hundred feet, thick clad with rhododendrons and spreading undergrowth, and with mighty larch, beech, elm, or ash, and everywhere the music of Heaven's feathered orchestra smites sweetly on the ear. It is, I think, to this Paradise that good birds go when they die, where the ruthless small boy's raiding hand is kept in check, and every bird may find ideal nesting place. The district is most famous in ballad, song and story, Leaderdale, being apparently equivalent to Lauderdale, giving a title to the Earl of Lauderdale, the chief of the Maitlands. "They call it Leader town," says the enigmatic ballad of _Auld Maitland_, speaking of the stronghold of a Maitland of the days of Wallace, a shadowy figure still well remembered in the folk lore of the reign of Mary Stuart. The ballad has some good and many indifferent verses. It was known to the mother and uncle of James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd. He copied it out for Will Laidlaw, Scott's friend and amanuensis, and this began the long and valuable association of Hogg with the Sheriff. The authenticity of the ballad has been impugned, Hogg and Scott, it has been asserted, composed it and Scott gave it to the world as genuine. This is demonstrably an erroneous conjecture, (as I have shown in _Sir Walter Scott and the Border Minstrelsy_). Letters which had not been published refute all suspicions of forgery by Hogg or Scott or both. But the ballad had, apparently, been touched up, perhaps in the seventeenth or eighteenth century, probably by one of the witty and literary family of Maitland. It came to Hogg's mother from "auld Babby Metlan," (Maitland,) housekeeper to the last of the Scotts of Tushielaw; herself perhaps a reduced {214}member of the impoverished family of "the flower of the wits of Scotland," Queen Mary's Secretary of State, Maitland of Lethington. Though the legendary "Maitland or auld beard grey" may have stoutly held his house of Thirlestane against Edward I, (as he does in the ballad of _Auld Maitland_), I have found no record of the affair in the State Papers of the period. Thereafter the Maitlands of Lethington, though a family of ancient origin, play no conspicuous part in Scottish history, till we reach old Sir Richard, who died at the age of ninety in 1586. He was not openly recalcitrant against, but was no enthusiast for, the new doctrines of Knox and his company. A learned, humorous, peaceful man, he wrote Scottish verses and collected and preserved earlier poetry in manuscripts. Of his sons the eldest, William, was--setting Knox aside--the most extraordinary Scott of his time. Knox was essentially Scottish in the good and not so good of his character, and was essentially an extreme Calvinist of his period; "judged too extreme," he says, by his associates. Young Maitland of Lethington, on the other hand, might have been French or Italian, hardly English. He was an absolutely modern man. In religion, even before the revolution of 1559, he was in favour of the new ideas, but also in favour of compromise and, if possible, of peace. We first meet him i i private discussion with Knox,--pleading for compromise, but yielding, with a smile, or a sigh, to the amazingly confident fallacies of the Reformer. He serves the Queen Mother, Mary of Guise, a brave unhappy lady, as Secretary of State, till he sees that her cause is every way impossible, and goes over to the Reformers, and wins for them the alliance of England, and victory. He had a great ideal, and a lofty motive, a patriotic desire for honourable peace and alliance with England. On all occasions when he encountered Knox, he met him with the "educated insolence" of his wit, with the blandest _persiflage_; Knox writhed and reports his ironies, and--Knox, in the long run, {215}had the better of this smiling modern man, no fanatic, no believer in any preacher's infallibility. Maitland served Queen Mary loyally, while he might; when things went otherwise than he wished, was behind the scenes of the murder of Riccio; but was frankly forgiven as the husband of the dearest of the Four Maries, Mary Fleming, and as Indispensable. He and his brother John, later the able minister of James VI, were in the conspiracy to murder Darnley; that is the central mystery in his career, his part In that brutal, blundering needless crime. He was partner with the violent Bothwell, a brute of culture, who hated, captured, bullied, and threatened him; for Maitland discountenanced, with remarkable and solitary courage, Bothwell's marriage. Escaping from Bothwell's grip, he fled to the nobles who had risen against Bothwell; he corrupted Mary's commander in Edinburgh Castle; when she was a captive, he is said, by the English agent, Randolph, to have urged that she should be slain,--for, as she said, "she had that in black and white which would hang Lethington." She escaped, and his policy was, in his own interests, to appear to prosecute her, and secretly to advise and aid her; to win, if not her forgiveness, an amnesty, if she returned to power, which he believed to be inevitable. She hated no man more bitterly, but she needed no man so much. As he had lost for her Edinburgh Castle, he gained it for her once more by winning to her cause the gallant Kirkcaldy of Grange, commanding therein for her enemies. He lived, a disease-stricken man. through the siege of the castle, meeting Knox once or twice with the old insolent smooth-spoken disdain of the prophet. He escaped the gibbet by a natural death, when the castle surrendered and Kirkcaldy was hanged. This "Michael Wiley," (Scots for Macchiavelli,) had trusted too absolutely to his own wit, his own command over violent men.--trusted too much to sheer intellect; been too contemptuous of honour There is no one who at all resembles him in the history of Scotland; he {216}fascinates and repels us; one likes so much in him, and detests so much. From a brother's descendants came the notorious Lauderdale of the Covenant and the Great Rebellion; a scholar; at one time professedly godly; the natural and deadly opposite of the great Montrose, the coarse voluptuary and greedy governor of Scotland, and the servile buffoon of Charles II during the Restoration. He paid a trifling pension to the descendants of Lethington, who are so impoverished that I guess at one of them in "auld Babby Metlan," "other than a gude ane," who handed on the ballad of _Auld Maitland_ and was housekeeper to the last Scott of Tushielaw on upper Ettrick. These two are the great men of Leader Water (an ideal trout stream if not poached out), Lethington and--St. Cuthbert! It was while he watched his flocks by night on the braes of Leader that Cuthbert saw, either some meteoric phenomenon which he misconstrued, or the soul of Bishop Aidan passing heavenward in glory. Next day he walked or rode to Old Melrose, leaned his spear on the wall at the portal, and confided to Boisil (St. Boswells) his desire to enter into religion. From his noble biography by the Venerable Bede (he has "got his step" now, I think, and is Blessed Bede, _beatus_), we know this great and good man, Cuthbert, chief missionary on the violent Border, who sleeps in Durham Cathedral. The English have captured him, the great glory of Leader Water, but m his region, in his day, the people were already English by blood to a great degree, and in language. Cuthbert, despite the Reformation, continued to be a favourite Christian name north of Tweed, witness Cuddie Headrig, whose mother, Mause, had nothing papistical in her convictions! By a burn that takes its rise far up Leader near a summit of the Lammermuirs called Nine Cairn Edge, is the Well of the Holy Water Cleuch. It was here that St. Cuthbert spent his shepherd boyhood; here that he saw the vision which sent {217}him to Mailros. And here, after Cuthhert's death, they built in his honour, beside the Holy Well, the Childeschirche, the name of which survives to us now as Channelkirk. Were one of Border birth to quit "sweet Leader Haughs," leaving unnoticed "True Thomas," Thomas of Ercildoune, I do not know how he might again face his fellow Borderers. For, though Thomas may not have been a great man, in the same sense that St. Cuthbert and Lethington were great, yet to most of his countrymen he is better known than either. For one at the present day to whom the name of Cuthbert is familiar, or one to whom "Lethington" conveys any very definite idea, you will find a hundred who take an intelligent interest in Thomas the Rhymer, and who believe with Spottis-woode, who wrote of him early in the seventeenth century: "Sure it is that he did divine and answer true of many things to come." Fact regarding the Rhymer is so vague, and so beautifully blended with fiction, that I doubt if most Borderers do not more than half persuade themselves still to accept as fact much of the fiction that they learned of him in childhood. To Border children, not so very long ago, nothing was more real than the existence of a tree, still alive and growing somewhere about the enchanted land of Eildon, which must necessarily be _the_ Eildon Tree: "Syne he has kissed her rosy lips All underneath the Eildon Tree;" nothing was more certain than that True Thomas, at the call of the Queen of Faëry, rose and obediently followed the hart and the hind into the forest, and returned no more. "First he woxe pale, and then woxe red, Never a word he spake but three;-- 'My sand is run, my thread is spun, This sign regardeth me.'" No spot was looked on, in early youth, with more awe than that Bogle Burn whose stony bed crossed over the St. Boswells and Melrose road in the cheerless hollow beside a gloomy wood; it was here that True Thomas beheld things unseen by mere mortal eye. Who could doubt? Was there not still standing in Earlston the remains of his old tower to confute all scoffers! [Illustration: 0238] "The hare sail kittle on my hearth stane, And there never will be a Laird Learmunt again." And, a hundred years ago and more, did not a hare actually produce its young on the shattered, grass-grown hearth-stone of the Rhymer's dwelling? So everybody believed. But if doubt yet lingered anywhere regarding some portion of True Thomas's story, it was easily set at rest by the words cut on that old stone built into the wall ot the church at Earlston. "Auld Rymer's race Lyes in this place," it says; and somehow it gave one a peg to hang one's faith upon. The whole, or at least a sufficient part of it, is quite real in that countryside by the Rhymer's Glen where True Thomas lay "on Huntlie bank." and where flourished the Eildon Tree; and that True Thomas's still unfulfilled prophecies will yet one day come to pass, is a sound article of belief. Though how the ruthless prediction is to come about regarding the house of Cowdenknowes, (which is not far removed from the Rhymers old tower,) one does not quite see. But it was a doom pronounced against a pitiless Home who there "had aince commanding." And the Homes are gone. "Vengeance! Vengeance! when and where? On the house of Coldingknow, now and ever mair!" Perhaps, too, that was not of True Thomas's foretelling. One prefers rather to think of Cowdenknowes in connection with the ballad: "O the broom, and the bonny, bonny broom, And the broom of the Cowdenknowes! And aye sae sweet as the lassie sang, I' the bught, milking the ewes." {220} CHAPTER VIII ST. BOSWELLS GREEN, MELROSE, DARNICK, ABBOTSFORD, AND THE ELLWAND |All the way up Tweed from a mile below Mertoun Bridge, up past the cauld where the pent water spouts and raves ceaselessly, along the bank where lies St. Boswells Golf Course, round that noble sweep where the river holds Dryburgh lovingly in the crook of its arm, up by the boulder-strewn streams above, and round the elbow by the foot suspension-bridge, past the lofty red scaurs and the hanging woods to the Monk's Ford, trout fishing--at least from the right bank--is free. And though it goes without saying that pool and stream are "sore fished," yet it is not possible by fair angling to spoil Tweed. Many a fisher may depart, empty and downcast, but if he persevere, some day he shall have his reward. To him who patiently teaches himself to know the river and the whims of its inhabitants, to him who studies weather and time of day--or, may be, of night--there must at length come success, for many are the trout, and large. The writer has known a yellow trout of 8 lbs. 12 ozs. to be killed with fly hard by the golf course. The weight is of course exceptional, but many a beauty of 2 lbs. and over is there to be taken by him who is possessed of skill and patience; and to me is known no more enticing spectacle than one of these long swift pools of a summer evening, in the gloaming, when the water is alive with the dimples of rising trout. And what a river it is, however you take it! What a series of noble views is there for him who can withdraw his attention from the water. [Illustration: 0241] Let him climb, in the peaceful evening light, to the top of the red and precipitous Braeheads behind the long single street of St. Boswells Green, pleasantest of villages, and there gaze his fill at the beautiful Abbey far beneath his feet, sleeping amongst the trees across the river. Or let him go farther still, up by the leafy path that overhangs the rushing water, till he come to the little suspension-bridge. And let him stop there, midway across, and face towards the western sky and the three peaks of Eildon that stand out beyond the trees clear-cut against the warm after-glow. At his feet, mirroring the glory of the dying day, a broad shining sweep of quiet water broken only by the feeding trout; on his left hand, high in air the young moon floating like lightest feather; above the fretful murmur of some far-off stream, a bird piping to his mate. And over all, a stillness that holds and strangely moves the very soul. I think that if there be one with him attuned to his mood, an hour may pass and the gloaming have deepened almost to dusk, and neither of them shall have spoken a word, or noticed that the time has sped. And still they will linger, unwilling to break the spell. At Leaderfoot the river is crossed by two stone bridges, one, the lofty naked viaduct of the Berwickshire Railway; the other, older and more pleasing, carries the picturesque road that, breaking out from the leafy woods of Drygrange and leaving on its left hand the hallowed site of Old Melrose, leads past St. Boswell's Green and the Kennels of the Buccleuch Hunt, over by Lilliard's Edge to Jedburgh. Between, and immediately above, the bridges at Leaderfoot are some glorious salmon casts, where nigh on a century ago Scrope was wont to throw a fly. Strange that during twenty years, in all that magnificent water fished by him, from Kelso to Caddonfoot, he never once landed a salmon of thirty pounds, and but few as heavy as twenty. There may have been more fish in his day,--one cannot judge; they got more, but then they took them not only with fly, but by "sunning" and by "burning" the water, and by many another means that now is justly considered to be poaching. But they seldom caught a salmon approaching in weight those which are now commonly taken in Tweed every season. Thirty pounds is a weight by no means noticeable now-a-days, and scarcely a year passes that fish of forty pounds and over are not taken by some fortunate angler; even above Melrose cauld, an obstruction that checks the ascent of many big fish, they have been got, far up the river, as heavy as thirty-eight pounds. Floors Water, at Kelso, I believe holds the record as regards size; in 1886 a fish of fifty-seven and a half pounds was captured. And as to numbers, though it is of course possible to labour for a week or more in Tweed--as elsewhere--even with the water apparently in good order, and with plenty of fish up, fresh from the sea, and meet with no manner of success, on the other hand there is on Makerstoun Water the pleasing record of twelve, fourteen, fifteen and sixteen salmon killed by one rod on four consecutive days; fifty seven fish in all, and {223}seventy-three for the week. [Illustration: 0243] And in a similar period in November, 1903, Upper and Lower Floors Water produced between them one hundred and forty-three fish, the average weight for Lower Floors being nineteen pounds. {224}A little above Leaderfoot, on the opposite bank, is Newstead with its Roman camp,--though the visitor will be disappointed with what he may now see; there are no walls, no remains of buildings, such as exist at Bremenium, or down on the Roman Wall in Northumberland. [Illustration: 0244] Behind Newstead, high on the nearest peak of Eildon, are well-defined remains of a Romo-British station. Where they got a sufficient supply of water at that elevation is puzzling: it is a large camp, and could not possibly be held by a numerically weak body of men. From the head of that "brae" by Newstead that overhangs the river, you will look on a scene typical of Tweed. Far through the broad and smiling valley the river winds towards you, like a ribbon shot with silver; a mile away, across green fields, lies the venerable abbey, dreaming in the sunshine--"thy ruins mouldering o'er the dead." And, up stream, the distant belching chimneys of Galashiels cause one fervently {225}to thank Heaven that beside the old monastic pile there are no tweed mills to foul the air, and to pollute the lovely stream more even than is now the case. [Illustration: 0245] Mercifully, as regards trade, it is still at Melrose as it was when the "solemn steps of old departed years" paced through the land with youthful vigour. The little town is yet guiltless of modern iniquities--except as regards the railway and the inevitable Hydropathic, both of which are no doubt necessary evils (or blessings?) of these latter days. And except, also, that the modern villa is overmuch in evidence. A hundred years ago, when there was little of a town but the open Market Place hedging round the Old Cross of Melrose, it must have been a better, or at least a more picturesque place. On to the Abbey itself now the town's houses jostle, treading on its skirts, pertly encroaching. Therefore it lacks the charm and solitude of Dryburgh. Yet is its own charm irresistible, its beauty matchless,--"was never {226}scene so sad and fair." [Illustration: 0246] To the halting pen, it is the indescribable. In the deathless lines of the Wizard himself, its beauty lives to all time. But a thousand years of purgatory might not suffice to wipe from their Record of Sin the guilt {227}incurred by Hertford, and Evers, and Laiton, in 1544 and 1545 when they wantonly profaned and laid waste this dream in stone and lime, wrought by "some fairy's hand." Nor in later days were our own people free from offence in this respect. The number of old houses in the immediate neighbourhood is probably very small into which have not been built stones from the ruined abbey. Even across the river they are found; in the walls of a mouldering old farm house there, pulled down but a few years ago, were discovered many delicate bits of scroll work and of finely chiselled stone. A mile to the west of Melrose lies the village of Darnick. Here is a fine old tower dating from the sixteenth century, the property still of the family that originally built it. Fain would Sir Walter Scott have bought this picturesque old building after he moved to Abbotsford, and many another has looked on it with longing eyes, but no offer has succeeded in divorcing it from the stock of the original owner, though the surrounding lands have melted away. Somewhere about 1425 a Heiton built the earliest tower. That, naturally, could not stand against the all-destroying hand of Hertford in 1544, but the Heiton's descendant repaired, or rebuilt, it in 1569, and ever since it has remained in the possession of the family, still, I believe, is occasionally inhabited by them. It is now probably the finest existing specimen of the old bastel-house. From its watch-tower may be had a glimpse of Tweed at Bridgend, where Father Philip, Sacristan of St. Mary's, took his involuntary bath. This is the Bridgend mentioned in Sir Walter's Notes to _The Monastery_. The ancient and very peculiar bridge over Tweed which gave to the hamlet its name is described in the text of the novel. There is now no trace of such a bridge, but in the early part of the eighteenth century the pillars yet stood. They are described in Gordon's _Itnerarium Septentrionale_ (1726), and in Milne's account of the Parish of Melrose published in 1794, there is a full description. Those pillars yet stood, he says. "It has been a timber bridge; in the {228}middle pillar there has been a chain for a drawbridge, with a little house for the convenience of those that kept the bridge and received the custom. [Illustration: 0248] On this same pillar are the arms of {229}the Pringles of Galashiels." In Sir Walter's day, only the foundations of the piers existed. He tells how, "when drifting down the Tweed at night, for the purpose of killing salmon by torch light," he used to see them. A Heiton of Darnick fell at Flodden. His successor played no inconspicuous part in the bitter fight by his own tower side, on Skirmish Field, scene of that memorable encounter in 1526 between Angus and Huccleuch, when the stake was the person of the young king, James V. Turn-Again, too, is in the immediate neighbourhood, on the lands of Abbotsford, where the Scotts turned fiercely on their pursuers, and Ker of Cessford was slain. It is curious to note that beneath what is now a lawn at Darnick Tower many skeletons were dug up some years ago, and beside them were swords. Doubtless the skeletons were those of men slain in this fight; but why were their swords buried with them? Over the hill, at Holydene, an ancient seat of the Kers of Cessford, there was also unearthed years ago within the walls of the old castle, a gigantic skeleton, by its side a very handsome sword. Were their weapons, in the sixteenth century, laid convenient to the grasp of the dead warriors, as in Pagan times they were wont to be? Bowden Moor and Halidon are but over the hill from Darnick. It was from this direction, by the descent from Halidon (or Halyden, modern Holydene), that Buccleueh came down on Angus, after Cessford and Fernihirst and Home had ridden off. But the Homes and the Kers returned, and spoiled the play for the outnumbered Scotts. "Now Bowden Moor the march-man won, And sternly shook his plumed head, As glanced his eye o'er Halidon; For on his soul the slaughter red Of that unhallowed morn arose, When first the Scott and Carr were foes; When royal James beheld the fray, Prize to the victor of the day; {230} When Home and Douglas, in the van, Bore down Buccleuch's retiring clan, Till gallant Cessford's heart-blood dear Reek'd on dark Elliot's border spear." [0250] Less than a couple of miles to the west from Darnick, we come to that which Ruskin pronounced to be "perhaps the most incongruous pile that gentlemanly modernism ever designed." I fear that even the most devoted Borderer must admit that Abbotsford _is_ an incongruous pile. Nevertheless it is hallowed ground, and one may not judge it by common standards. It reminds only of the gallantest struggle against hopeless odds that ever was made by mortal man; it speaks only of him whom everyone loved, and loves. "The glory-dies not, and the grief is past." But what a marvellous change has been wrought over all {231}that countryside since "the Shirra" bought Abbotsford, a hundred and two years ago. Undrained, unenclosed, treeless and bare, covered for the most part only with its rough native heath--that was the character of the country. And the house; "small and poor, with a common _kail-yard_ on one flank, and a staring barn on the other; while in front appeared a filthy pond covered with ducks and duckweed, from which the whole tenement had derived the unharmonious designation of Clarty Hole." It does not sound enticing; and already offers had been made to him of a property near Selkirk, where, among fields overhanging the river, was a site unsurpassed for natural beauty of prospect, whence Ettrick could be viewed winding past "sweet Bowhill," far into the setting sun. It was Erskine, I think, who urged him to buy this property--land which then belonged to the writer's grandfather and greatgrandfather. But it was too far from Tweed, Scott said; "Tweed was everything to him--a beautiful river, flowing broad and bright over a bed of milk-white pebbles," (pebbles, alas! that, there at least, are no longer milk-white, but rather grey with sewage fungus and the refuse of mills). In spite of all its manifest drawbacks, "Clarty Hole," appealed to Scott. It was near the beautiful old abbey, and the lands had been abbey-lands. An ancient Roman road led through the property from Eildon Hills to that ford over Tweed which adjorned the farm, (and with this ford for sponsor, he changed the name from "Clarty Hole" to "Abbot's Ford.") Over the river, on the rising ground full in his view was the famous Catrail; and through his own land ran the Rhymer's Glen, where True Thomas foregathered with the Queen of Faëry. Bit by bit, Scott added to his land, bit by bit to his cottage, regarding which his first intention was "to have only two spare bedrooms, with dressing-rooms, each of which will on a pinch have a couch-bed." And his tree-planting had begun at once. When the property was first acquired from the Reverend Dr. Douglas of Galashiels, there was on it but one solitary strip of {232}firs, so long and so narrow that Scott likened it to a black hair-comb. [Illustration: 0252] It ran," says Lockhart, "from the precincts of the homestead to near Turn-Again, and has bequeathed the name of _the Doctor's reiding-kame_ to the mass of nobler trees amidst which its dark, straight line can now hardly be traced." I do not think that "the Doctor's redding-kame" now survives {233}as a name, even if the original trees be still to the fore. In any rase they would attract no attention, for what Sir Thomas Dick Lauder says was then "as tame and uninteresting a stretch of ground as could well be met with in any part of the world," is now rich in woods, and everywhere restful and pleasing to the eye--though it may be conceded that Galashiels has stretched a villa-bedecked arm farther up Tweed's left bank than might have been quite acceptable to Sir Walter. At Boldside, of whose "ruined and abandoned churchyard" he writes in his introduction to the _Monastery_, there is now a railway station, and suburban villas, large and small, dot the landscape ever the more plentifully as one approaches that important manufacturing town which a century back was but a tiny village peopled by a few industrious weavers. No longer, I fear, can it be said that Boldside's "scattered and detached groves," combining with "the deep, broad current of the Tweed, wheeling in moonlight round the foot of the steep bank.... fill up the idea which one would form in imagination for a scene that Obcron and Queen Mab might love to revel in." The Fairy Folk have fled from scenes tainted by an atmosphere of railway and modern villa. Even the Water-bull has ceased to shake the hills with his roar around Sir Walter's "small but deep lake" at Cauldshiels. Yet as late as the time of our grandsires people told gravely how, one warm summer's day, a lady and her groom, riding by the sullen shore of this "lochan," ventured a little way from the edge in order to water their thirsty horses, and were immediately engulfed in the Kelpie's insatiable maw. If such a tragedy ever did happen, no doubt the explanation is simple enough. Without any warning the hard upper crust would give way beneath the horses' feet, and, struggling vainly, they would sink in the fathomless, spewing, inky slime below. Once trapped in that, no power on earth could ever bring them out {234}again, dead or alive. A like fate nearly befell the writer when fishing alone one day in a gloomy, forsaken, kelpie-haunted Border hill loch. Dense fog came down, wreathing over the quiet water, hiding the dripping heather and the benty hill. A bird of the bittern kind boomed dismally at intervals, and a snipe bleated. It was a cheerless prospect; and the temperature had fallen with the coming of the fog. But through the mist could be heard the sound of trout rising in the little loch, and one bigger than his fellows persisted in rising far out. The sound was too tempting. The fisher waded out, and still out; and ever the big trout rose, luring him on. Another step, and another; it was no longer stony under foot, and the bottom began to quake, Still the footing was hard enough, and nothing happened; and again the big fish rose just out of casting distance. One more step would do it; and what danger could possibly be added in so small a distance? So one more step was taken, and--without a second's warning the crust broke. Only one thing saved the fisher; instinctively, as he sank through the fetid slime, he threw himself on his back, striking vigorously with his arms. But it took many an agonised, almost despairing, stroke ere his legs _sucked_ out of that death trap. Nor, as long as there was water shoreward deep enough to swim in, did he again attempt to wade. His rod had not been abandoned--which was matter for gratulation; but, soaked to the skin, chilled to the very marrow, and reeking with the stench of putrid swamp, it was no thing of joy that day to make his devious way home over an unfamiliar hill that was wrapped in impenetrable folds of dense mist. There is an origin, likely enough, for the Water-Bull. A great volume of marsh-gas, bursting from the bottom of a swampy loch, might be seen some still, foggy day, or in the uncertain evening light, suddenly to boil up on the surface far out. The wallowing upheaval caused by the belching gas would readily suggest the part-seen back or side of some formless monster, whose gambols were agitating the water and {235}causing billows to surge upon the weed-fringed shore; and a bittern's hollow boom quivering on the still night air, would easily be construed by the credulous and ignorant as the bellow of this fearsome monster that they thought they had seen wheeling and plunging. If he was anything more substantial than gas, what a beast he would have been to troll for! One should not forget that it was by the shore of Cauldshiels Loch that Scott wrote the exquisitely sad lines that yet so vividly paint the scene: "The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, In Eterick's vale is sinking sweet; The westland wind is hushed and still, The lake lies sleeping at my feet. Yet not the landscape to mine eye Bears those bright hues that once it bore; Though evening with her richest dye, Flames o'er the hill of Ettrick's shore. With listless look along the plain, I see Tweed's silver current glide, And coldly mark the holy fane Of Melrose rise in ruined pride. The quiet lake, the balmy air, The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree, Are they still such as once they were, Or is the dreary change in me? It is only a little above "the holy fane of Melrose" that there enters Tweed on the northern side an interesting little burn, the Ellwand, or Allen. Up the glen--the Fairy Dene, or Nameless Dene--formed by this stream, lies Glendearg, the tower described in the opening scenes of the _Monastery_. There are, in fact, three towers in the glen, Hillslap (now called Glendearg), Colmslie, and Langshaw. Over the door of the first is the date 1595, and the letters N. C. and E. L., the initials of Nicolas Cairncross and his wife. Colmslie belonged to the family of Borthwick; their crest, a Goat's Head, is still on the {236}ruin,--or was some years ago. But who in old days owned Langshaw is not known to me. For mutual protection, Border towers were very commonly built thus, in groups of three--as is instanced, indeed, at the neighbouring village of Darnick, where formerly, besides the present existing bastel-house, there stood two others. "In each village or town," says Sir Walter, "were several small towers, having battlements projecting over the side-walls, and usually an advanced angle or two with shot-holes for flanking the door way, which was always defended by a strong door of oak, studded with nails, and often by an exterior grated door of iron. These small peel houses were ordinarily inhabited by the principal feuars and their families; but, upon the alarm of approaching danger, the whole inhabitants thronged from their own miserable cottages, which were situated around, to garrison these points of defence. It was then no easy matter for a hostile party to penetrate into the village, for the men were habituated to the use of bows and fire arms, and the towers being generally so placed that the discharge from one crossed that of another, it was impossible to assault any of them individually." The Nameless Dene is famed for the "fairy" cups and saucers that are still to be found in the streamlet's bed after a flood, little bits of some sort of soft limestone which the washing of the water has formed into shapes so fantastic and delicate that one hardly needs the imagination of childhood to believe they are the work of fingers more than mortal. Up this valley ran the ancient Girthgate, a bridle-way over the hills used of old by the infrequent traveller, and always by the monks of Melrose when duty took them to visit the Hospital which Malcolm IV founded in. 1164 on Soltre, or Soutra, Hill. As late as the middle of last century the grassy track was plainly to be seen winding through the heather; perhaps in parts it is not even yet obliterated. Nature does not readily wipe out those old paths and drove roads that the passing of man and beast traced across the hills many centuries back. {237} CHAPTER IX GALASHIELS AND THE GALA, LINDFAN |And now we come to a once beautiful stream, of which, in the present condition of its lower stretches, it is not easy to speak with due moderation. "Deil take the ditty trading loon Wad gar the water ca' his wheel, And drift his dyes and poisons down By fair Tweed side at Ashiesteel." It is not the Tweed at Ashiesteel, however, that in this instance is injured, but the Gala at Galashiels, and Tweed below that town. "It would," says the Official Report issued in 1906 by H.M. Stationery Office, "be impossible to find a river more grossly polluted than the Gala as it passes through Galashiels,"--a verdict with which no wayfarer along the banks of that dishonoured stream will be inclined to disagree. The grey-blue liquid that sluggishly oozes down the river's bed among stones thick-coated with sewage fungus, is an outrage on nature most saddening to look upon. He does wisely who stands to windward of the abomination. It is true that of late years much has been done, much money spent, in the praiseworthy effort to bring purity into this home of the impure; but to the lay eye improvement is yet barely perceptible. "Fools and bairns," however, they tell us, "should never see half-done work." The filter-beds of the extensive sewage works {238}are said to be not yet in working order, and so one may not despair of even yet living long enough to see Gala as Gala should be. [Illustration: 0258] In the meantime, and till the entire sewage scheme is in full working order, there are--if one may judge from reports in the daily Press,--a few minor improvements not quite out of reach of the inhabitants. On 15th July, 1912, an evening paper published the account of "another" dead pig which at that date was lying in the river "immediately in front of the main entrance to the Technical College." The carcase, we are told, was "much decomposed, and attracted huge swarms of flies." This paper, in commenting on the corpse of an earlier defunct pig, which a few days before had reposed in the same tomb, remarks that "it has been the custom up to now for all kinds of objectional matter to be deposited on the river banks or thrown into the bed of the river to await the first flood to carry it down to the Tweed." "The river," the journal continues, {239}"is at present at its lowest summer ebb, and during the heat wave the smells arising from decomposing matter have been overpowering." In an arctic climate, there may perhaps be some excuse for the proverb: "the clarder the cosier," but it seems scarcely applicable to Gala; and there might, one would imagine, be other and more modern methods of dealing with decomposed pigs than that of floating them into outraged Tweed. The condition of "fishes that tipple in the deep" and quaff cerulean dyes in every stream, is not likely to be improved by a diet of sewage fungus and decayed pig, any more than is the health of human dwellers by the banks likely to benefit by the proximity of decomposing animal matter. The history of Galashiels is mainly industrial, mainly the history of the'"Tweed" trade. There were mills of a sort in the town as early as 1622, but even a hundred and fifty years later the trade cannot have greatly harmed the river; only 170 cwt. of wool were then used in all the mills of Galashiels, and there was no such thing as the manufacture of modern "tweeds." All the wool then used was made into blankets, and "Galashiels Greys," (whatever fearful fowl _they_ may have been). The term "tweeds" came later, one is given to understand, and arose through the mistake of an English correspondent of one of the Galashiels manufacturers. This gentleman misread a letter, in which the Scottish writer spoke of his "tweels." The Englishman, having read the letter somewhat carelessly, and knowing that Galashiels was somewhere near the river Tweed, hastily concluded that the goods under discussion were termed "tweeds," and gave his order accordingly. The name was universally adopted in the trade, and now--as the professional cricketer said about "yorkers,"--"I don't see what else you _could_ call them." Galashiels has a tradition to which it clings, that it was once a royal hunting seat. Mr. Robert Chambers says that the lodge or tower used by the Scottish monarchs when they came here a-hunting was pulled down only so recently as about the {240}year 1830. It was called the Peel, a strong square tower with small windows, "finer in appearance than any other house in the whole barony, that of Gala alone excepted." From it a narrow lane called the King's Shank led to the town. I cannot say it the name survives in Galashiels. But there is another tradition in which perhaps Galashiels takes greater pride, the tradition connected with the plum tree in the Town's Arms. (Though what the little foxes are doing at the foot of the tree, and what they have to do with the legend, none can say. Perhaps they are English foxes; and they got the plums--sour enough, as it turned out.) The incident commemorated is said to be this: During one of the invasions of Edward III, a party of his soldiers had taken up their quarters in Galashiels. The country no doubt had been pretty well harried and laid waste--Edward's men had plenty of practice--and they may have been careless, with the carelessness begotten of overconfidence. Anyhow, they straggled through the? woods, looking for wild plums, the story goes--though one would imagine that the only plums they would be likely to find there would be sloes, not a fruit that one would expect to tempt them far afield. But perhaps, as some say, they were robbing an orchard--if there were orchards in Scotland in the fourteenth century. In any case, a party of Scots, either a passing armed band, or, as Galashiels would fain believe, the inhabitants of the town themselves, swearing that they would give the southern swine sourer plums than any that had yet set their teeth on edge, fell on the English, drove them in headlong rout to the banks of Tweed opposite to where Abbotsford now stands--the Englishmen's Dyke, they call the spot--and slew them to a man. "Soor Plums in Galashiels" has for centuries been a favourite air in the town, though the words of the song have perished. Gala as a stream has been badly misused by man--at and below the town poisoned by sewage and mill refuse, above the town overfished, and poached, almost to the extinction of its {241}trout. Matters now, however, are, I believe, vastly improved as regards sport; the Galashiels Angling Association works with & will to make things what they should be in a stream once so famed, and one hears that its efforts are meeting with the success they deserve. But it can never come back to what it must have been "lang syne," say in Sir Thomas Dick Lauder's day. [Illustration: 0261] That gentleman records that he and a friend fished one day from Bankhouse down to Galashiels, and turning there, fished Gala up to its junction with the Ermit Burn, then followed the latter to its source on Soutra Hill, and found at the end of the day that they had filled three creels; their total catch was over thirty-six dozen trout. A good many were caught in the burn with worm, of course, and most of the trout taken were probably very small, but it shows what possibilities these small Border streams might hold if they were well treated. Nobody, however, one may hope--no reasonable mortal out of his teens, that is--now wants to catch over four hundred trout in a single day under any circumstances. Even to the very juvenile schoolboy there can be but the very minimum of sport in jerking fingerings on to the bank. If a fixed limit of size could be imposed; if the close season were continued for another fortnight or three weeks in Spring; and, above all, if the sale of trout could be prohibited by law until at least the beginning of April, our Border fishing would be improved beyond recognition. Great takes are made now, with worm, early in the season, when the waters are discoloured and the trout lean and ravenous; and long before they are in anything like condition either to give sport or to be decently fit for food, vast quantities of fish from the Border streams are sent off to the English markets. If those markets were kept closed a few weeks longer, many a trout would have a chance to reach maturity that is now sacrificed in extreme youth to put a few "bawbees" into a poacher's pocket. The great takes at the season's opening are not made by fair fishing. The writer was informed, three or four years ago, by the solitary porter of a very small Tweed-side railway station--himself a keen and skilful fisher--that on 2nd March of that year two men had consigned to Manchester from that one little station _one hundred and ten pounds weight_ of trout. How were _they_ caught? Certainly not by fair means. They are not _fishers_ who take trout after this fashion. These are the men who, to suit their immediate wants and their own convenience, would deplete every stream in the Border and put a speedy end to all sport. As things are at present there is practically nothing to prevent them from taking what they please from any water. However, to return to Gala. Here, as everywhere in the Border, vast are the changes that the past sixty or seventy years have wrought on the face of nature. Even at a time so comparatively recent as that when the present North British line of railway from Edinburgh to Carlisle was being constructed down the valley, Sir Thomas Dick Lauder remarks on the revolution that in his own experience a few years had made. "We know of no district," says he, "which has been so com{243}pletely metamorphosed since the days of our youth as that of Gala Water." In his boyhood, the whole wore a pastoral character. Crops were rare, and fences hardly to be met with. [Illustration: 0263] Not a tree was to be seen, except in the neighbourhood of one or two old places, and especially at and around Torwoodlee and Gala House, near the mouth of the river. Everything within sight was green, simple, and bare. Then he contrasts {244}this with the appearance of the valley at date of his writing, when "the whole country is fenced, cultivated, and hedged round. Thriving and extensive plantations appear everywhere." [Illustration: 0264] Could he see it, he would find the change even more marked now, with the "thriving plantations" grown and extended, countless trains thundering up and down the line day and night, and above all with his little village of "two thousand two hundred and nine inhabitants" grown into a great and busy town. In ancient days, this valley through which Gala flows was called Wedale,--the Dale of Woe, the Valley of Weeping, for here says Professor Skene, was fought one of King Arthur's great battles against the Pagans. At what is now the village of Stow--the Stow (old English, "place,") of Wedale--the Bishops of St. Andrews had a palace; and here, by the Lady well at Torsonce, stood in Arthurian days a church famed for its possession of fragments of the True Cross, bestowed, it was {245}said, by King Arthur himself. [Illustration: 0265] Here, too, were preserved in great veneration, long years after Arthur had passed away "to be king among the dead," portions of that miraculous image of the Blessed Virgin which, the old historian Nennius tells us, the king bore into the stress of battle that day among the hills of Wedale. And here, till about 1815, lay a very large stone on whose face was the well marked impression of a foot, said by tradition to have been the imprint of the foot of the Virgin. To be converted into road-metal has doubtless been its fate. There are still, I believe, in Stow, the remains of a very old church, not, however, those of the original church of Wedale. Leaving Galashiels by road past Boldside, with a glimpse of the Eildons and Abbotsford to the left, three miles from the town and immediately above the junction of Tweed with its tributary the Ettrick we cross the former river. Hard by, to the right, in a wood on top of Rink Hill, are the remains of a very fine British camp. {246}Here for the time we again quit the banks of Tweed, and proceed up Ettrick. A mile from the junction of the rivers, we pass near the old churchyard of Lindean, where once stood the ancient church in which, the night after his assassination in 1353, lay the bloody corpse of Sir William Douglas, the Knight of Liddesdale, slain by his kinsman. In connection with this churchyard, there used to exist a belief that greatly troubled the minds of country folk in the surrounding district. Away back in those evil times when the Plague raged through Scotland, very many of its victims were buried in a common grave in Lindean churchyard. But the church was demolished after the Reformation, and the churchyard gradually fell out of use as a place of burial. There came a time when the people had no farther need for it; why, thought some practical person, should it not be ploughed up and cultivated? There was but one thing that saved it from this fate;--not reverence for the ashes of the rude forefathers of the hamlet that lay here at rest, but the sure and certain belief in the minds of their descendants that in the event of the soil being disturbed, there must inevitably be a fresh outbreak of the dreaded Plague. It is curious and interesting to read of the blind horror with which our ancestors in their day regarded this scourge; but their horror is not hard to understand. Sanitation did not exist in those times, medicine as a science was impotent to curb the ravages of the dreaded pestilence. The people were helpless; to save themselves there remained only flight. And in what remote spot might flight avail them in a Plague-swept land! In that outbreak during the seventeenth century, temporary houses, or shelters, were erected in many parts of the Border, and into them were hurried persons smitten by the pestilence--and often, no doubt, persons suffering from some very minor ailment which their panic-stricken neighbours diagnosed as Plague. It is not to be supposed that once there, they would get much, if any, attention; they would simply take their {247}chance--a slender one--of recovery. And if they died, so great was the dread in the minds of the living that, in many instances, to save unnecessary risk, the authorities merely pulled down the building over the dead bodies, and heaped earth on top. At a period even so late as in the writer's boyhood, there were many spots--perhaps in very remote districts there may yet be a few--where the Plague was said to be buried, and where to disturb the soil was believed to be a matter of extreme danger; the pestilence, like some malevolent fiend long held down, would inevitably break loose, and again Grim Death would hurl his darts broadcast at old and young, rich and poor. In his _Scenes of Infancy_ Leyden alludes to the belief: ' "Mark, in yon vale, a solitary stone, Shunned by the swain, with loathsome weeds o'ergruwn! The yellow stonecrop shoots from every pore, With scaly sapless lichens crusted o'er: Beneath the base, where starving hemlocks creep, The yellow Pestilence is buried deep. Here oft, at sunny noon, the peasants pause, While many a tale their mute attention draws; * And, as the younger swains, with active feet, Pace the loose weeds, and the flat tombstone mete, What curse shall seize the guilty wretch, they tell, Who drags the monster from his midnight cell." All manner of precautions were adopted to hinder the spreading of the pestilence. Orders were even issued forbidding the assembling together of more than three or four persons at any one place, but the Privy Council Records of the time show that this regulation was obeyed only when it suited the people to observe it. There were limits to the dread in which the pestilence was held, and even fear of the consequences did not always reconcile the Borderers to such an interference with their liberty. It is on record that, in 1637, when, in the execution of his duty as Convener of the Justices of his county, Sir John Murray of Philiphaugh went to Selkirk, he {248}found that a marriage was about to take place, and that most part of the community had been invited to be present. Sir John at once forbade the assemblage, and, later, he sent for the father of the bride, a man named James Murray, and informed him that on no account would more than four or five guests be permitted. But James was not to be thus coerced. "Na, na!" he cried, "If ye be feared, come not there. But the folk are comin'." So Sir John called on the bailies to commit the offender at once to prison. The bailies, however, were probably included in the number of the wedding guests, and were looking forward to the "ploy" with as great pleasurable anticipation as was even the most irresponsible of those invited. They paid no heed to Sir John's demand; "there was no obedience given thereto," say the Records. And next day, when the postponed wedding took place, "there was about four or five score persons who met and drank together all that day till night." Whether Sir John remained to take any part in the festivities we are not told, but of this at least we may be very sure: his interference did not tend to lessen the amount of liquor consumed on the occasion. CHAPTER X SELKIRK |Two{249} miles up the river from Lindean you come to Selkirk. But this is not the route by which that town should be approached; by the Galashiels road, one is in the heart of Selkirk almost before one is aware of any streets. To see properly the old royal burgh clinging to the steep side of its hill, and to realise the beauty of its situation, it is necessary to come from Galashiels up Tweed by the road diverging at Rink. Thence cross Yair Bridge, go by that beautiful highway through the shaggy woods of Sunderland Hall, past Ettriek-bank and the Nettley Burn, down by Linglie, across Ettrick by the old bridge, and so up into the Market Place of Selkirk by the Green, (which is not anything in the nature of a lawn, but, on the contrary, a rather steep road). This is a route longer, but to those not pressed for time, one infinitely more pleasant and beautiful than the direct way between the two towns. By it you see the exquisite bit of Tweed valley that lies between the junction and Yair Bridge, and, pausing as you cross that bridge, you have on either hand a prospect infinitely fair of heathery hill, green, leafy wood, and glorious river, the latter, above you on the right, hurrying down from Yair Cauld, a glittering sheet of eddying water, sweeping in magnificent curve past its elms at the foot of a mighty tree-clad brae; then passing beneath your feet, chafing and hoarsely roaring, it plunges through between imprisoning rocks, till once more comparative peace is gained in reaches dear to the heart of salmon fishers. Then you leave the bridge at Yair, and climbing an easy gradient, pass along by a pleasant, shady road through rich woods, over the hill to Ettriekbank, where tradition says Queen Mary crossed the Ettrick on her way to Jedburgh in 1566. [Illustration: 0270] In itself, Ettriekbank possesses no feature of interest, but it recalls to mind the fact that here, in 1818, two harmless-looking hawkers with a cart were wont to call at intervals, ostensibly to sell fish. Had their real errand been known, it is little fish they would have sold, and short would have been their shrift at the hands of the roused and horrified country-folk. They were Burke and Hare, the notorious body-snatchers, and the real purpose of the cart in which they brought fish was to carry back to Edinburgh the bodies they might procure in the country. Burke and Blare! Still, after the lapse of close on a century their memory is held in execration in the Border, still is their name a kind of vague horror even to those to whom it may convey little else, and who are almost wholly ignorant of what hideous crimes were committed by the pair. It was, of course, not only _dead_ bodies that they took. These they ravished from new made graves; but they took also living men, drugged or filled with drink, and murdered them for the sake of the price their corpses would bring as subjects for dissection by some of the doctors of that day. Hare turned king's evidence. After the trial and execution of his accomplice, he was smuggled away to the United States. There his identity was discovered, and an infuriated mob threw him into a limekiln, where he was badly burned and his eye sight destroyed. After a time, when the rage and horror aroused by his misdeeds might to some extent be supposed likely to have died away, he returned to England, and as late as 1855 he was alive and in London. A blind, white haired, frouzy, ragged old man, led by a dog, used daily to slouch up Oxford Street, turn at the Circus towards Portland Place, post himself near where the Langham Hotel stands, and beg there from charitable passers-by. How many of them would have given, had they known that this old man was Hare, a ruffian stained with the blood of perhaps half a score of victims? How many of them, shrinking aside, would have stepped into the foulest gutter rather than be contaminated by even brushing against the hem of his filthy old garments? Few then knew who he was; but there are men yet alive who may possibly remember having seen him. An eminent London surgeon, who died, comparatively speaking, but the other day, very well remembered, and occasionally spoke of, the grizzly old ruffian who stood, with tapping stick, holding a bowl for alms. The late Mr. Serjeant Ballantine, too, in his _Reminiscences_ describes the appearance of the man. Immediately after passing Ettriekbank, the road, coming {252}suddenly out from a clump of trees, breaks into view of a wide and pleasant valley, with a goodly prospect of wood and heathery hill stretched far to the west and south. Down this valley sweeps the gravelly bed of Ettrick; on its farther bank, on the flat haugh, stand a long line of mills and the station of a branch line of railway. Above, rising abruptly, tier upon tier in cheerful succession, trees and houses that blend into the smiling face of Selkirk. And perhaps it is by reason of the width of the setting in which they are placed, or because down the mighty funnel of the valley comes rushing the west wind that sweeps all smoke away, but somehow it seems that the mills on the haugh below the town give no air of squalor or of dirt to the landscape. Would that one could say the same with regard to the effect of their dyes and refuse on the condition of the river. By a steep red "scaur" below Linglie there once was a pool clearer than amber, across which in summer weather small boys, breathless but greatly daring, essayed to swim. Farther down, at the back of Lindean Flour Mill, was another, where in the long twilights of June, ". . trout beneath the blossom'd tree, Plashed in the golden stream," and whence many a pounder and half-pounder was drawn by eager young fishers. Where is that seductive amber-clear water now? Alas! in these days it is of a sickly blue tint, smelling evilly; and the stones in its bed, that once were a clear, warm grey, with yellow boulders interspersed that flashed in the stream of a sunny day like burnished copper,--they are slime-covered and loathsome, things to be shunned. Surely more can be done to check this pollution of our beautiful streams. So far as can be ascertained, there is but one of the mills of Selkirk that strives (and I believe it strives successfully,) so to deal with its refuse that the water it uses may be returned to Ettrick in a condition that does not defile that stream. {253}Nevertheless, it has to be admitted that during the autumn floods salmon do run the gauntlet of Ettrick's lower reaches, and in countless numbers congregate below Selkirk Cauld (or weir), where the difficulty of ascent acts as a partial check on their continued migration. On a day in the month of November, if there should happen to be a considerable flood in the river, this cauld is a sight worth going a long way to look at. A wide rushing sea of tawny, foaming water--a hundred yards from bank to bank--races over the sloping face of the cauld, and, where it plunges into the deep pool at foot, rears itself in a mighty wave, with crest that tosses in the wintry breeze "like the mane of a chestnut steed." From daylight till dark you may watch the fish,--big and little, from the thirty-pound leviathan to the little one or two-pound sea trout--in their eagerness to reach the spawning-beds of the upper waters, hurl themselves high in air over this great barrier-wave, then, gallantly struggling, continue for a while their course up the rushing torrent, till gradually they lose way and come tumbling back, head over tail, into the pool from which half a minute before they had emerged. It is like standing by one of the jumps in an endless kind of tinny Grand National Steeple-chase; so many fish are in the air at once at any given moment that one becomes giddy with watching them. Probably a good many do in time accomplish the ascent, or perhaps get up by the salmon-ladders in mid-stream, but the great majority are swept back, over and over again. Those that make their attempt near the side, in the shallow water out of the main force of the current, are frequently taken in landing-nets (by water-bailiffs stationed there for the purpose), and are carried up and set at liberty in the smooth water above the cauld. It must be confessed that a considerable number are also taken in this way, or with the help of a "cleek," by poachers. The bailiffs cannot be everywhere; and a salmon is a temptation before which (in the Border) almost the most virtuous of his sex might conceivably succumb. The average {254}Borderer, indeed, I believe would cheerfully risk his life sometimes, rather than forego his chance of "a Fish."--"The only crime prevalent [in Selkirk] is that of poaching," says the Rev. Mr. Campbell, minister of the parish for fifty years, writing in 1833. There was one, greatly sinning in this respect, of whom nevertheless, because of his gallant end, I cannot think without a feeling almost of affection. He--with a fish where no fish should have been--was hopelessly outmanoeuvred by the bailiffs, escape cut off on every side, and only the river, red, swollen, and cold as ice, open to him. "Here's daith or glory for Jockie!" he cried, and plunged into a torrent from which he came no more alive. A little higher up than the cauld is the Piper's Pool, where, until he was hit by a chance bullet that brought him rolling like a shot rabbit down the brae into the water, a piper stood piping that September morning of 1645, when Montrose and Leslie were striving for the victory. On the bank above, those inhabitants of Selkirk who cared to run some risk--which was probably the whole community--took up their position and watched the fight as from a grand stand. There is no better vantage point imaginable. Leslie, I suppose, crossing opposite the gap called Will's Nick, (not far from Lindean), came up the left bank of Ettrick and, hidden by the fog, skirted along the edge of the hills till he was within striking distance of the Royal camp, when he took them, no doubt, both in flank and in rear. But how did a man of Montrose's experience allow himself to be thus fooled? Montrose passed the night in Selkirk, and he received no information whatever of any hostile movement. It was too late when he and what mounted men he could hastily collect came thundering and foaming through the shallow stream next morning, and went spurring over the flat haugh against the enemy. Someone besides Traquair must have played him false. It is inconceivable that he had no pickets out, or employed none of his cavalry on outpost duty. If they were {255}out, in spite of the fog they could not fail to have got in touch with some part of Leslie's force. No large body of troops could have come undetected by a route so obvious, if those on the look-out for them were doing their duty. Selkirk on this occasion saw war, as it were from the dress circle. The town was burned to the ground by the English after Flodden, and at various other odd times, but I do not think that it ever saw much actual street fighting such as was the experience of Jedburgh again and again. Selkirk was out of the main current of invasion, and it was only odd "spates" that came her way, such as when, in 1304, Edward I passed through the town on his march back to England; and again when in 1309 Edward II, following an unexpected route to the north, took her on his way. Still, Selkirk had always been familiar with at least the pomp and circumstance of war. The town was old when Earl David founded its abbey in 1113; probably it had always been a headquarters of the Scottish Kings and their retinue, when hunting in the Forest. Certainly William the Lion, Alexander II, and Alexander III all passed a good deal of time in his castle, which of old stood on an eminence in what are now the grounds of Haining, near the "head" of the town. Probably the Court came here chiefly for the purpose of hunting; the Forest of Ettrick was famed for its deer, as its men--unlike the majority of their countrymen--were famed for their archery. At Falkirk, in 1298, the English themselves bore witness to the warlike prowess of the men of Selkirk, as well as to their stature and fine appearance. At Bannockburn the sons of the forest distinguished themselves. And again at Flodden. Regarding the part borne by her sons in the last-named great struggle, there are many trad-'fons to which the inhabitants of Selkirk cling tenaciously. Some, I fear, will not bear too close investigation, Traditions are mis-chancey things to handle; it does not always do to enquire too closely if one would retain one's faith. A large body of the men of {256}Selkirk and the Forest went to Flodden, and they fought as they always did fight. That much, at least, is certain. But who shall say how many returned from that fatal field? The Burgh Records are silent. There is a mournful gap of two months in the history of the town; not an entry of any sort for eight weeks in the autumn of 1513. And, says Mr. Craig-Brown in his History of Selkirkshire, "Quite as mournful and significant are the frequent services of heirs recorded after the battle." Selkirk suffered severely at Flodden. There, as elsewhere, her sons did their duty; and they fell gloriously. One could wish that that might suffice: it is an ungrateful task to rake among the dead cinders of time-honoured traditions. But it is the detestable habit of the day to leave none of our ancient beliefs unassailed: the more beloved the tradition, the more likely is some one to remain unsatisfied till he has upset it. Yet it must be admitted that few of our cherished legends emerge triumphant when assailed by the scoffer. That, for instance, of Fletcher and the English standard captured at Flodden, which has been revered in Selkirk by so many generations of Souters, I fear, when it is investigated, must crumble into dust. Certainly the tradition regarding the origin of the town's Arms is impossible of maintenance. The figures are so obviously those of the Virgin and Child; the halo and the glory round their heads forbid any other interpretation. But it is easy to imagine that after the Reformation no Scottish town would care to acknowledge any connection, however remote, with the detested Church of Rome. Hence probably the legend of the dead woman and her still living baby who were found at the Lady-wood Edge by the Selkirk survivors of Flodden. Such a body, of course, may quite possibly have been discovered, and the tradition would be used later to account for the figures that appear in the town's Arms. Just in the same way is a gargoyle in Melrose Abbey, beside the reputed grave of Michael Scott, now pointed out to {257}American and English tourists as an authentic representation in stone of that mighty Wizard. As to the "Souters of Selkirk," there can be no proof either way; but I prefer to believe that the song is old, almost as old as Flodden. Perhaps I have misread Mr. Craig Brown, and am wrong in believing that he regards it as commemorating a famous football match played in 1815 between Souters and men under the leadership of Lord Home. If that were so, it could not have been sung at Dalkeith in 1804, when the Selkirkshire Yeomanry were present at a banquet there after the False Alarm. We read that Lord Home called for the song on that occasion, but that none of the Yeomanry cared to sing it before a man on whose ancestor it reflects, whereupon, amid rapturous applause, Lord Home sang it himself. If it refers to a football match, it must be to one of very ancient date, but one that surely could not fall to have left some mark on the minds of the Souters. Mr. Plummer, of Sunderland Hall, Sheriff Depute of the county prior to Sir Walter Scott, writing in 1793 says that though he had lived all his life within two miles of Selkirk and had known the song from his boyhood, there was not in his day, and he believed there never had been, any tradition connecting the song with anything of the nature of a football match. The verses may not have been written, probably were not written, immediately after the battle, but I am confident that it refers to Flodden--in spite of the fact that there was then no _Earl_ of Home. No doubt the song has had variants from time, to time; probably there was no allusion to an "Earl" in the original verses. Popular calumny shortly after Flodden taxed Lord Home with having been the cause of James's defeat and death; he was unable, as we know, to come to his Sovereign's aid. This popular belief, coupled with the fact that Selkirks representatives suffered more cruelly than did Lord Home's men---and therefore, of course local prejudice would infer, did their duty {258}better--would be quite sufficient to give rise to the sentiment: "Down wi' the Merse to the Deil." In his letter of 1793, referred to above, Mr. Plummer says: "At election dinners, etc., when the Selkirk folks begin to get _fou'_ they always call for music, and for that tune in particular. At such times I never heard a Souter hint at the football, but many times speak of the battle of Flodden." So far as it goes, there is nothing in the evidence to suggest a football origin for "The Souters of Selkirk." It has always seemed to me, (who, being a native, am on that account possibly no impartial witness,) that the people of Selkirk have ever possessed in greater degree than their neighbours the true Spirit of the Sportsman. Of the inhabitants of Yarrow and Selkirk, a seventeenth-century writer recorded that "they are ingenuous, and hate fraud and deceit; theft or robbery are not heard among them, and very rarely a Ly to be heard in any of their mouths, except among them of the baser sort." There has always been in them, I think, little of that "win, tie, or wrangle" disposition which is usually to be found among small communities; and they were never of the sort who "heave half a brick at the head" of the outland wayfarer. In their dealings with the French officers, prisoners of war on parole, who were quartered in the old town from 1811 to 1814, the Selkirk people displayed an admirable generosity and a gratifying amount of good feeling,--though in that respect none of our Border towns can be said to have been lacking. One of these French prisoners afterwards, when an old man, published most interesting reminiscences of his stay, and he writes of his involuntary hosts with appreciation, and almost with affection. In 1811, when the accumulation of prisoners of warm England had become very great, it was decided to distribute a large part of them throughout Scotland. To Selkirk, as its share, came a hundred and ninety men. How it may be now, I cannot say, but in the writer's boyhood the memory of these prisoners still lived, and old people told {259}innumerable tales of the strange habits of "thae Frainch." "They made tea oot o' dried whun (furze) blossoms, an' they skinned the very paddas (frogs)," said one old man. The writer of the reminiscences referred to above makes no allusion to "paddas," but he does mention that "a lake in the neighbour hood supplied abundance of very delicate pike." This lake may have been the Haining Loch, a picturesque sheet of water over which, however, there is, or used to be, at times a nasty vegetable scum. "One of the most beautiful and peaceful lakes that ever was seen," is Sir Thomas Dick Lauder's description of it as it was in his day. I think, however, that the French writer probably refers to the Pot Loch, a small and once very deep lochan, or pond, nestling in a hollow at the foot of the pleasant heathery hills on which is now the Selkirk Golf Course. It is a much more likely spot than the Haining for the prisoners to frequent. The former is on the town's property, the latter on an estate in private hands. And in the former there are, or at least there certainly used to be, many pike of no great size. It was here, too, that tradition told us the prisoners went to catch frogs? That Frenchmen in their own land lived chiefly on a diet of frogs was the firm belief of a majority of the town's inhabitants, ("French frogs" of course was a term of contemptuous reproach,) and that the prisoners went to the Pot Loch for any other purpose than to obtain supplies of what seemed to the townsfolk to be a very loathsome dainty, would never occur to them. The fact that the edible frog did not exist there, would make no difference in their belief. That was no difficulty; frogs were frogs all the world over; and frogs of course included toads. The French ate them all. The writer of the reminiscences, M. Doisy de Villargennes, tells us that some of the prisoners were "passionately fond of fishing, and excelled in it,"--national prejudice of course forbids that we should accept the latter part of the statement as correct!--and that they used to fish in Ettrick and {260}Tweed. Part of the former, close to the town, would be within their "bounds," but the Tweed is far outside the mile radius which was their limit of liberty. [Illustration: 0280] On every road, one mile from the town, was placed a post bearing the words "Limit of the Prisoners of War"; down the road which leads towards Bridgelands there is still a memorial of these unfortunates,--a thorn bush, called the Prisoner's Bush, which marked their limit in that direction. Any prisoner found outside the boundary was liable to be fined one guinea--a process, one would imagine, something akin in certain cases to getting blood from a stone--and the fine was supposed to go to the person who informed on the delinquent. To the credit of Selkirk it must be recorded that no one ever claimed this reward; even when a prisoner uprooted a notice post and carried it a mile farther along the road, it was, we are told, only "to the amusement of the inhabitants," who, M. Doisy adds, "never on any occasion took advantage of a regulation ir virtue of which whoever might see us outside the fixed limits was entitled to one guinea, payable by the delinquent." He himself, he says, "frequently went fishing several miles down the Tweed," and {261}was never fined, never in any way molested. In fact, great and small in Selkirk, from the Sheriff Depute of the county down to the town's bellman, and the "drucken" ne'er-do-weel who is to be found in every small town, and whom one would scarcely expect to be proof against a bribe that would provide him with the wherewithal for a royal spree, all combined to wink at these infringements of the regulations. Sir Walter himself, indeed, who was then living at Abbotsford, used frequently to have some of the prisoners to dine and spend the evening there. It is interesting to read the account of these visits, and to note how Sir Walter impressed his foreign visitors. Says the writer of the Reminiscences: "There was one person just at this time whom I did not then appreciate as I afterwards did--Sir Walter Scott, then plain Mr. Scott. Probably no one knew, unless his publishers, or ever suspected him of being 'The Great Unknown,' the author of 'Waverley.' As for us we only saw in Mr. Scott, the Sheriff of Selkirkshire, a lawyer of some repute in Edinburgh. As sheriff be frequently came to Selkirk, he having his home at Abbotsford, little more than three miles distant from Selkirk. "Mr. Scott became acquainted with one of our comrades, named Tarnier, a young man of brilliant talent, excellent education, and of remarkably exuberant spirits. Shortly after, without the knowledge of the Government agent, or rather, with his tacit approval, Tarnier was invited to Abbotsford, and he gave us on his return a vivid description of his reception there. Later, probably at our countryman's suggestion, he was requested by Mr. Scott to bring with him three of his friends each time he was invited to dinner at Abbotsford. Thus I was present on two or three occasions, invited, not by the host himself, but by my comrade Tarnier. "It would be, as far as I can remember, about the month of February, 1813, and our mode of procedure was as follows:--In the twilight, those who were invited repaired to the boundary the milestone already mentioned--there a carriage {262}awaited us, which took us at a good pace to Abbotsford, where we were most graciously received by our host. We only saw Mrs. Scott during the few moments before the announcement of dinner, at which she was not present. Mrs. Scott was, as we supposed, French, or of French extraction; in fact, she spoke French perfectly: Mr. Scott had married her at Carlisle. Our host appeared to us in quite a different aspect to that under which we had known him passing in the streets of Selkirk. There he gave us the impression of being a cheery good-natured man, whose face was rather ordinary, and whose carriage somewhat common, and halting in his gait, this probably due to his lameness. At Abbotsford, on the contrary, we found him a gentleman full of cordiality and gaiety, receiving his guests in a fashion as amicable as it was delicate. The rooms were spacious and well lighted; the table, without being sumptuous, was on the whole _recherché_. One need not expect me to describe very exactly the surroundings of Abbotsford, as on the occasions I was privileged to be there, we arrived in the twilight, and we returned when it was quite dark by the same means of locomotion. Thus, with the exception of the dining room, and a short glimpse of the salon, all that I know about Abbotsford has been derived from publications which everyone has read. Neither should it be expected that I can give details of repasts to which I was invited sixty-five years ago. But the general theme of our conversation has remained Immutably fixed in my memory. The principal subject of our discussion did not ordinarily turn on politics, but on minute details concerning the French army. All that particularly referred to Napoleon, and above all, traits and anecdotes, appeared to interest our host in the highest degree, who always found the means, we observed, to bring round the conversation to this subject if it happened to have diverged in any way. As can be imagined, we took good care to repeat nothing unfavourable regarding the character of our beloved Emperor. We little suspected that our host was gathering material for a {263}work published ten years later under the title of 'A Life of Napoleon Bonaparte.'" That Sir Walter's estimate of the Emperor greatly displeased M. Doisy, goes almost without saying. It will be remembered, also, that the French General, Gourgaud, was so bitterly incensed by some statements in this book that a challenge to Sir Walter was fully expected; and assuredly it would have been accepted if given. Selkirk in the Time of the French prisoners was a small place of two thousand inhabitants or less, the houses nearly all picturesquely thatched, very few roofed with slate as at present. It must have been matter of no small difficulty in such a community suitably to house a sudden influx of strangers. Indeed there _was_ very great difficulty, until it was discovered that the Frenchmen were to pay for their accommodation, and then the difficulty vanished. But it would be hard at the present day to find in Selkirk lodgings of any sort at the rate (2s. 6d. a week) which then satisfied owners of houses. The following is the French prisoner's description of Selkirk: "The town is encircled by beautiful hills on all sides: in the centre it had a large square adorned with a fountain; a very fine bridge crossed the Ettrick. An ordinary-looking building belonging to the National Church and a much larger one owned by the Presbyterians, or rather the sect known by the name of Anti-Burghers, who had for their pastor an excellent and venerable man named Lawson, were the only two buildings in Selkirk worthy of notice." The hills are still beautiful; perhaps, owing to extensive tree planting, more beautiful now than then; still within a step of Selkirk is the purple heather, and the heartsease and blue-bell a-swing in the summer breeze; still on every side the view lies wide and glorious. And even in the winter, when snow first "grimes" the hills, or when the northern blast has wrapped them in its winding sheet, one can gaze, and repeat with heartfelt and perfect sincerity: "By Yarrow's stream still let me stray, Though none should guide my feeble way; Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, Although it chill my wither'd cheek." [Illustration: 0284] "In {264}the centre it had a large square adorned with a fountain." The "square" of Selkirk is, in effect, a triangle, (in which now stands Sir Walter Scott's monument,) but as to the "fountain," I should have doubts; it was probably what used to be called the "Pant Well," whence was drawn water (supplied from the {265}Haining Loch) of a body and bouquet indescribable. "Hoots!" scornfully cried, in later days, an old woman, apropos of a new and irreproachable supply which had been got for the town from another source, "Hoots! It has naether taste nor smell!" Alas! that one should record the fact,--in old days the drainage of the upper town (what there was of drainage in those times, that is to say), fell into the Haining Loch not a hundred yards from the spot where the town's supply was drawn off! And yet people lived in Selkirk to unusually great ages. Our ancestors were hardy persons; but perhaps it was only the very fit who then survived. It must have been a dull, uneventful, depressing life, that of the prisoners in Selkirk, more especially in those months between October and March, when darkness comes early and the days are chill and grey. What news they got was chiefly of fresh disasters to their country's arms in Spain, and the rejoicing of the townsfolk over Wellington's victories was of necessity exceedingly bitter to the Frenchmen. It was execrable taste on the part of the inhabitants of Selkirk thus to show their joy, says the writer of the Reminiscences--"indelicate," he calls it. But the chances are that they were chiefly mannerless schoolboys who thus misbehaved. I fear he looked for more than poor fallen human nature is prepared to give, if he expected the townspeople entirely to suppress their pleasure. Many a heart in Selkirk was then following with dire anxiety the movements of our Army in the Peninsula, dreading the news that any hour might bring of mishap or death to son, brother, or friend; every soul the place took the profoundest interest in the welfare of those men who had gone from their little community "to fecht the French" and, however desirable it might be that the feelings of prisoners should not be lacerated, it seems too much to expect that the townsfolk should go apart in secret places in order to express, without offence, the joy they must feel when those they loved were covering themselves with glory. {266}Provided that no one was ill-mannered enough to jeer at or to taunt the prisoners, I hardly think they had a right to complain, more especially as they themselves had already sinned in respect of rejoicing openly over victory. On a certain occasion they heard of a great French success in Russia. Two prisoners concealed themselves and were locked up in the church one Sunday after evening service; about midnight these men admitted their comrades, and together they roused sleeping Selkirk by a terrific joy-peal of bells. Honours were easy between the two nations, I think. Both acted under strong feeling; those were strenuous days, and feeling naturally ran high. In the writer's possession are letters sent from Spain to Selkirk at this period by his grand-uncle, an ensign in the Scots Brigade, now the 94th Regiment. One, which gives a vivid picture of the storming and capture of Ciudad Rodrigo on 19th January, 1812, could not have failed to arouse intense enthusiasm in the town. In so small and friendly a community, no doubt everybody was in possession of the chief details of this letter, (and of any other that might chance to come from a soldier at the front,) within a few hours of its receipt, and that a townsman's regiment should be the first to enter the besieged town would be legitimate ground for extreme pride. The following is an extract from the letter: "About 5 in the afternoon orders came that we were to make the attack at 7 in the Evening, the Light Division at one Breach and ours at another. Picks and axes were given to the front rank of the Grenadiers, and to the first Company of our Regt., and also Ropes to swing us down into the Ditch, which we were to clear of any obstructions that were supposed would be laid in our way. Accordingly we moved off about dusk, and got under cover of a Convent, to a short distance from the Ditch; there we remained till the hour of attack; it being come, and everything ready, we rushed forward as fast as our legs could carry us, cheering all the way. On reaching {267}the Ditch, we found it only about six feet high, so we leaped down as quick as possible and made to the Breach with all possible speed, and met with no obstacles. After getting to it, we found ourselves to be the first there; on the front rank getting to the top of it, the Enemy saluted us with a volley of grape shot and shells (the latter they had laid across the top in rows) the explosion of which was so dreadful that I thought we should have been all blown up in the air together.... Some of the Men that had got up to the top came tumbling down, dead as herrings. It stunned us for a moment, but we gave another cheer and rushed on, scrambled to the top and drove the fellows from the Guns opposite the Breach. Our Regt. was about five minutes in the Town (and it is only 200 Men strong) before any other Regt. came to its support; at last the 5th came, and the others followed. The French dogs kept peppering at us with Musketry and Hand-grenades at such a rate that I well thought we would all have been slain together. At last we drove them from the Ramparts into the Town, and then they threw down their Arms and surrendered. I went down from the Ramparts into the Town, but such a scene of confusion I never beheld: there were our troops plundering the houses as fast as they were able, one fellow to be seen with two or three Loaves stuck on his Bayonet, another with as much Pork, and in another place a parcel of fellows knocking out the end of a Wine Cask with their Firelocks and drinking away with the greatest fury; some ravishing the Women, others breaking open doors, and into all such a noise, altogether inconceivable. This continued four or five hours, and our Brigade was shortly after moved out of the Town, at which I was very glad.... We had two Captains killed, but immediately on their falling a Sentry was placed over them, to guard them from being strip't, and had them afterwards brought to the Camp and decently buried.... The Enemy that night blew up the Mines, which killed a great many, both of their {268}own Men and ours. It was a shocking spectacle, the sight of the dead bodies lying at the place where it happened, all bruised and burnt quite black, some wanting both Legs, others blown all to pieces, Legs and Arms mixed together in confusion; it was there where Genl. M'Kinnon was killed. You were always wishing to hear of our Regt. doing something great; Now I think it has done a great deal, but I fear much it will not receive the praise due to it, as it was not intended that it should be the first that should enter the Breach, it was only meant that it should clear the way for the other Brigade; but somehow or other we got to it before them, and of course did not wait their coming." Except on this occasion of the bell-ringing, and one other, when the French officers with some difficulty had induced certain of the townsfolk to drink to the health of the Emperor, and to shout "_Vive l'Empereur_" friendly relations were unbroken. But the latter unpleasantness at one time had threatened to ripen into a very ugly affair. Bloodshed was narrowly averted. Friendship, however, was restored, and the prisoners continued to make the best of their situation. They obtained a billiard table from Edinburgh; they started a café, they opened a theatre, with an excellent orchestra of twenty-five performers "superior to all those to which the echoes of our Scottish residence had ever till then resounded." This theatre was established in a barn which then belonged to the writer's grandfather. Frescoes on the walls, which had been painted by the prisoners, were still fairly fresh in colour though hopelessly obscure as to design, when the writer saw them in his early boyhood. In connection with the time when Peace was proclaimed and the prisoners were being sent back to France, it is pleasant to have to record an incident greatly to the credit of Selkirk. The pockets of the Frenchmen were naturally, in their situation, not very well filled; indeed, amongst the hundred and ninety they could raise no more than £60, a sum not nearly {269}sufficient to provide transport to the sea port of Berwick for the entire party. They resolved, therefore, to march on foot, using what money they had to hire carriages for the few among them who were in bad health. After an excited night (spent by most of the ex-prisoners in the Market-place, where they shouted and sang till daylight, like a pack of schoolboys), just as they were preparing to set out on their long tramp to Berwick, "an altogether unexpected and pleasant sight met our view," writes M. Doisy. "Vehicles of all kinds came pouring in by the streets converging on the centre of the town, carriages, gigs, tilburys, carts, and a few saddle-horses, all of which had been sent by the inhabitants of the surrounding parts to convey us free of expense as far as Kelso, about half-way to Berwick. This delicate attention had been so well calculated, and so neatly accomplished, that we could not do otherwise than avail ourselves of it with many thanks. We therefore separated from our Selkirk friends without carrying away on the one part or the other any particle of grudge that might previously have existed between us." Similar good feeling, however, appears to have been very general between the French prisoners and the people of the many Border towns where the former were quartered--though it was almost too much to expect that no unpleasantnesses should ever occur, when we remember how great a bogie the Emperor Napoleon then was to the majority of British people, and how to hate the French was looked on as almost a virtue. "Bless us, and save us, _and keep the French from us_," was a common form of invocation, then and later. Persons more ignorant or prejudiced than their neighbours were sure, sooner or later, to overstep the mark, and bring disgrace on their nation by boorish or brutal conduct to the defenceless prisoners. Thus, at Jedburgh for instance, not only did schoolboys sometimes jeer at and stone the Frenchmen, but one bitter old man, who no doubt thought that in hating the French he was only carrying out a manifest duty, actually {270}pointed his gun at, and threatened to shoot, a prisoner whom he found outside the mile limit. A very regrettable incident occurred, too, in the same town during rejoicings over a great British victory. An effigy of the Emperor, mounted on a donkey, was paraded by torchlight through the streets and was then publicly burned, in full view of the deeply-pained French officers. Whatever the faults of the Emperor, he was at least adored by his army, and such instances of brutal ill manners were bound to lead to bad blood and to reprisals. Amongst themselves, the prisoners do not seem to have been quarrelsome, nor were duels common--for which fact, of course, the lack of suitable weapons may probably have been responsible. There was, however, a duel at Lauder between two of the prisoners quartered in that town, and one cannot help thinking that it must have suggested to Stevenson the duel in "St. Ives," between prisoners in Edinburgh Castle. In Stevenson's novel, they fought with the separated blades of scissors, securely lashed to sticks. At Lauder, they used the blades of razors secured in similar fashion. But, whereas in "St. Ives" the result was the death of one combatant, in the real duel at Lauder no greater harm came of it than slashed faces. It might be bloody enough, a duel with razor-blades, but it could not be very dangerous, except to the tips of noses. It might perhaps be unseemly to quit the subject of Selkirk without making at least some mention of a custom which has prevailed there for something like four centuries. The great day of the whole year in Selkirk is that of the Common Riding, the Riding of the Marches of the town's property. The custom as yet gives no sign of waning in popularity; indeed, as the years pass, it seems to rise steadily in favour, and where one rode fifty years ago there must now be a good half dozen who follow the cavalcade. It is a cheerful ride and a beautiful, in the sweet air of a sunny June morning. Selkirk needs no awakening that day by the shrill fifes that are so early afoot in the streets; even the old and the scant of breath {271}rise from their beds betimes, and make a push to see the muster of riders in the Market Place. Then it is through the shallows of the gushing river, and away over the breezy hills, for horsemen all filled with enthusiasm if not in all cases very secure of seat. It is a pleasant ride,--away over the hill by "Tibbie Tamson," the lonely grave of a poor eighteenth century Suicide, a Selkirk woman, the victim of religious despair. Of unpardoned sinners the chief, as she imagined, in a pious frenzy she took her own life; therefore must her body be denied Christian burial and the poor privilege of lying beside her friends in "the auld Kirk yaird." Bundled into a pauper's coffin, she was carted out of Selkirk under a hail of stones and of execrations from her righteous neighbours, and here, on the quiet hill, her body found rest. Then the route runs across the heather--where whaups wail eerily and the grouse dash out with sudden whir that sets some horses capering--and away to the cairn of the Three Brethren, overlooking Tweed and Fairnilee; then down by the Nettley Burn and across Ettrick where Queen Mary is said to have forded it, and so home by the Shawburn. to see the Colours "cast" in the Market Place. And then to breakfast with an appetite that in ordinary circumstances comes only "when all the world is young." It is two hundred years and more since it was ordained that the Marches be ridden on the first Tuesday of June in each year--formerly, August had been the month--and that the Deacons of all the Crafts in Selkirk were not only to attend themselves, with their horses, but that they were to see that every man of their trade who had a horse should also ride, "all in their best equipage and furniture." Why the change was made from August to June, I do not know,--unless it was to permit of the introduction of those immense and very famous gooseberry-tarts which are so conspicuous a feature in Common Riding rejoicings. The day's arrangements then and earlier, were much as they are now, no doubt. But there are {272}no Kers now to slay the Provost, as in the sixteenth century days of Provost Muthag. The only danger in these times is that some of the horsemen--unseasoned vessels--may be induced to swallow one or more of the glasses of raw whisky which are passed round with liberal hand as the cavalcade sets out from Selkirk. Whether this is a practice ordained of old with the laudable object of counteracting any possible risk of chill from the nipping air of the early morning, or whether it is done in order to inspire courage in the possible John Gilpins of the assemblage, I know not. Yet of those who partake, the major part seem to thrive well enough on it; they are none the worse in the afternoon, when the great body of the townsfolk stream out southward over the hill to the Gala Rig. Here horse races are run, over a course most gloriously situated, where a matchless view lies widespread to the Cheviots and down to far Liddesdale, and away up among the dim blue hills of Ettrick and Yarrow. There were races held here at least as early as 1720, and I suppose races of a sort have probably taken place annually on the same ground ever since. CHAPTER XI THE ETTRICK, CARTERHAUGH, OAKWOOD, TUSHIELAW, THIRLESTANE, ETTRICK KIRK |And{273} now we shall go--as they say in Selkirk--"up the Watters," a phrase which, to us of "the Forest," used of old to convey the idea of going on a vast journey. "Did ye see the Eclipse, on Monday?" asked a Selkirk man of his crony. "Man, _No!_ I was up the Watters that day." Which reply-conveyed, perhaps not so much the feeling that an eclipse was a frivolous affair pertaining to geographically remote Selkirk alone, as that the answerer had been too deeply engaged up the waters with other business to have leisure to attend to such petty trifles as solar phenomena. Business "up the Watters," one used to understand, was not seldom protracted far into the night, and at times there were lunar phenomena observable, such as double moons, and stars whose place in the heavens was not definitely fixed. Leaving Selkirk by the Ettrick road, in about a couple of miles we come abreast of the spot where Yarrow drowns herself in Ettrick. And here below Bowhill, on the sunny, wooded peninsula formed by the two rivers, lies Carterhaugh, scene of that famous fairy tale "The Young Tamlane." Tamlane when a boy of nine was carried off by the Fairies. "There came a wind out of the north, A sharp wind and a snell; And a deep sleep came over me, And frae my horse I fell." {274}The Queen of the Fairies "keppit" (caught) him as he fell, and bore him off to dwell in Fairyland. There he remained, neither increasing in years nor in stature, but taking at will his human shape, and returning to earth for a time when it pleased him. [Illustration: 0294] Carterhaugh was his special haunt, and here, if they did not altogether shun that neighbourhood, young women too often had cause to repent having met him. "O I forbid ye, maidens a', That wear gowd on your hair, To come or gae by Carterhaugh, For young Tamlane is there." "Fair Janet," however, was one who would take no warning: "I'll cum and gang to Carterhaugh, And ask nae leave o' him," {275}said she. And she went. But "She hadna pu'd a red red rose, A rose but barely three; Till up and starts a wee wee man, At Lady Janet's knee." "He's ta'en her by the milk-white hand, amang the leaves sae green,"--and Janet rued her visit. Later, Tamlane tells her how he may be rescued from Fairyland, and the ballad relates Janet's successful venture: "The night it is good Hallowe'en, When fairy folk will ride; And they that wad their true love win At Miles Cross they maun bide. "Gloomy, gloomy, was the night, And eiry was the way, As fair Janet in her green mantle, To Miles Cross she did gae. "The heavens were black, the night was dark, And dreary was the place; But Janet stood, with eager wish Her lover to embrace. "Betwixt the hours of twelve and one, A north wind tore the bent; And straight she heard strange elritch sounds, Upon that wind which went. "About the dead hour o' the night, She heard the bridles ring; And Janet was as glad o' that As ony earthly thing. "Their oaten pipes blew wondrous shrill, The hemlock small blew clear; And louder notes from hemlock large, And bog-reed, struck the ear. "Fair Janet stood, with mind unmoved, The dreary heath upon; And louder, louder wax'd the sound, As they came riding on. "Will o' the Wisp before them went, Sent forth a twinkling light; And soon she saw the Fairy bands All riding in her sight. "And first gaed by the black, black steed. And then gaed by the brown; But fast she grip't the milk-white steed, And pu'd the rider down. "She pu'd him frae the milk white steed, And loot the bridle fa'; And up there raise an erlish cry-- 'He's won among us a'!' "They shaped him in fair Janet's arms, An esk, but and an adder; She held him fast in every shape-- To be her bairn's father. "Th ey shaped him in her arms at last A mother-naked man: She wrapt him in her green mantle, And sae her true love wan!" A mile or two up the river from Carterhaugh, on Ettrick's right bank, stands the interesting and well-preserved old tower of Oakwood, the property of the Scotts of Harden, in whose possession it has been since 1517. Locally, the belief is implicitly held that this tower was, in the thirteenth century, the residence of the great Michael Scott, the Wizard, out of whose tomb in Melrose Abbey William of Deloraine took "From the cold hand the Mighty Book, With iron clasp'd, and with iron hound: He thought as he took it the dead man frowned." There _was_ a Michael Scott who once owned Oakwood, but that was long after the Wizard's day. In spite of all tradition--for whose birth Sir Walter is probably responsible--it is not {277}likely that the veritable Michael (Thomas the Rhymer's contemporary, and a Fifeshire man) ever was near Oakwood. [Illustration: 0297] Certainly he never lived in the tower that stands now on the steep bank hard by the river. That is no thirteenth century building. I fear, therefore, that the story of Michael and the Witch of Fauldshope, and of how, bursting one day from her cottage in the guise of a hare, he was coursed by his own dogs on Fauldshope Hill, can no more be connected with Selkirkshire than can the legend of his embassy to Paris, to which city he journeyed in a single night, mounted on a great coal-black {278}steed, who indeed was none other than the Foul Fiend himself. There is, however, a Witchie Knowe on Fauldshope; perhaps the Michael who really did live at Oakwood, sometime about the beginning of the seventeenth century, may have had dealings with the woman, which in some way gave rise to the legend. This "witch," by the way, was an ancestress of Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd. Oakwood Tower is not very old, and it never was very strong--as the strength of peel towers is reckoned; its walls are little more than four feet in thickness, which is almost flimsy compared with those of its near neighbour, Newark. Above the dungeons, Oakwood is three stories in height, and its external measurements are thirty-eight by twenty-three and a half feet. Into one wall is built a stone on which are the initals R.S. L.M, initials of Robert Scott and his wife, probably a Murray. Between them is the Harden crescent; and below, the date, and 1602, which is no doubt the true year of the present tower's erection. Tradition tells of a haunted chamber in Oakwood; the "Jingler's Room," it was called, but what the story was, the writer has not been able to learn. The tower now is used chiefly as a farm building, and if there are any hauntings they probably take the unpleasant form of rats. Following up the Ettrick, presently we come to the village of Ettrickbridgend, near to which are the picturesque Kukhope Linns and Kirkhope Tower, a well preserved Border peel. In this tower in old days at times dwelt Auld Wat of Harden, or one of his family. Tradition tells that it was Wat who first spanned Ettrick with a bridge. It was a penance, self-inflicted, because of a mishap that occurred at the ford here to a young boy, heir of the Nevilles, whom Wat had carried off from his home in Northumberland. Wat's bridge stood a little way above the site of that which now crosses Ettrick at Ettrickbridgend, and I am told--though I have not seen it--that a stone from the old bridge, with the Harden coat of arms carved on it, may now be seen built into the present structure. {279} [Illustration: 0299] A little higher up, there falls into Ettrirk the Dodhead Burn, at the head of which is "the fair Dodhead," the reputed residence of Jamie Telfer, hero of the famous ballad. [Illustration: 0300] These Border hills have produced from time to time many a long-distance runner of immense local celebrity,--such for instance, as the far-famed Will of Phaup--but few of them, I imagine, could have "lived" with Jamie Telfer in that burst of his across the trackless heather and the boggy moors from the Dodhead, over by the headwaters of Ale, across Borthwick, across Teviot, on to Slitrig at "Stobs Ha'," and from there back again to Teviot at Coultercleuch. It must be a good sixteen miles at the least, across a country over which no runner could travel at a pace so fast as that with which the ballad credits Jamie. But if anyone did this run, I fear it was no Jamie Telfer. At least in the fair Dodhead up Ettrick there was at the supposed date of the ballad, and for generations before, no Telfer, but a Scott. The Dodhead of the ballad must be some other place of the same name, possibly that near Penchrise, by Skelfhill. Following up Ettrick, past Hyndhope and Singlie, we come to Deloraine, an ancient possession of the Scotts, for ever {281}famed through its association with William of Deloraine and the "Lay of the Last Minstrel": "A stark moss-trooping Scott was he, As e'er couch'd Border lance by knee." There are various theories as to the derivation of the name "Deloraine." [Illustration: 0301] One, in accord with the local pronunciation of the word--"Delorran," with the accent on the second syllable--gives its origin as from the Gaelic, "dal Grain," the place or land of Orain, who, I understand, was a Celtic saint. There is also the explanation given by the Rev. Dr. Russell of Yarrow, in the Statistical Account of the Parish of 1833. "In 1503, James IV endowed his Queen, the Lady Margaret of England, with the Forest of Ettrick and Tower of Newark, which had formerly been the dowry of Mary of Guelders. Hence, probably, our two farms of Deloraine (de la reine) received their name, or afterwards perhaps from Mary of _Lorraine_." One would prefer to adopt Dr. Russell's interpretation of the name, but probably the place was called "Delorran" long before the day of any of the historical characters mentioned. Higher still up Ettrick is Tushielaw, with its fragment of{282} a ruined tower, the home in old days of that formidable freebooter Adam Scott, "the king of the Border," or "king of thieves." Local tradition tells that he was hanged by James V to the branch of an ash tree that grew within his own castle walls--retributive justice on a man who had himself, in like manner, sent to their doom so many poor wretches from the branches of that same tree. The ash no longer stands, but in _Chambers' Gazetteer_ for 1832 there is this note concerning it: "It is curious to observe that along its principal branches there are yet visible a number of nicks, or hollows, over which the ropes had been drawn wherewith he performed his numerous executions." Like too many local traditions, however, the story of his execution will not bear examination. Adam Scott was arrested and hanged in Edinburgh, a full month before the King set out on his memorable expedition to pacify the Border. James certainly laid a heavy hand on the freebooters; and he appears also to have very materially altered the face of things in other ways in these Border hills. The timber which clothed them began from this time to disappear--birch and oak it appears to have been for the most part, interspersed with ash, mountain-ash, thorn, and hazel, to judge by the numbers of stumps and pieces of decayed trees still found in mossy ground. They mostly suggest timber of no great size, but now and again the remains of a fine tree are come upon, even in exposed and high-lying situations. The remains of a very large oak, for instance, were discovered some years ago during draining operations among the wild hills right at the head of Jed. Probably James destroyed a great deal of timber in his efforts to convert the country into a sheep-run. According to Pitscottie, the king soon had "ten thousand sheep going in the forest, under the keeping of Andrew Bell, who made the King as good an account of them as if they had gone in the bounds of Fife." {283}James V no doubt was a good husbandman,--it was his boast that in these wilds he "made the rush bush keep the cow,"--but he was a better husbandman than he was a sportsman, at least as we now understand the word. [Illustration: 0303] We should now probably call him a pot-hunter. It was early in June when he started on his expedition; young calves are then with the hinds, and the harts are yet low in condition, and "in the velvet" as to their horns. Yet Pitscottie says: "I heard say he slew in these bounds eighteen score of harts." However, if his expedition had to be made then, {284}his army--and it was an army--must necessarily be fed; and no doubt if he wanted to run sheep there, the stock of deer had to be cleared out. [Illustration: 0304] But what a place for game of all kinds this forest must then have been. One may learn from the place-names which still linger among the hills what manner of beasts formerly inhabited this part of the Border: Ox-cleuch, Deer-law, Hart-leap, Hynd-hope, Fawn-burn, Wolf-cleuch, Brock-hill, Swine-brae, Boar-cleuch, Cat-slack. The Hart's-leap is said to have got its name owing to an incident that occurred during King James's expedition in 1530; a deer, in sight of the king, is said to have cleared at one bound a distance so remarkable that James directed his followers to leave a memorial of the leap. Two grey whinstones here, twenty-eight feet apart, are said to be those which were then set up. Ox-cleuch was probably so named from some ancient adventure with a Urus, or wild bull, or possibly because it was a favourite haunt of those formidable beasts. Their skulls are still occasionally dug up during the process of draining swampy lands among our Border hills. There is a very fine specimen {285}now at Synton (between Selkirk and Hawick), home of one of the oldest branches of the Scott family. [Illustration: 0305] If one may judge from that skull, the horns must have been something like twice the size of the ox of the present day. He was the ancestor, I suppose, of the fierce wild cattle of Chillingham. {286}Half a mile, or a little more, above the inn at Tushielaw--a comfortable hostelry, and a good fishing centre--the Rankle Burn flows into Ettrick. [Illustration: 0306] Up this burn's right bank, through the lonely vale and over the hills runs a road leading to Hawick, and on your right, as you head in that direction, a few miles up is Buccleuch, one of the earliest possessions in the Border of the great Scott clan. Near the road, in a deep ravine or cleuch, is pointed out the spot where, they say, the buck was slain from which' originated the title of the present ducal house. Farther on, just upon the water-shed between Ettrick and Teviot, is Bellenden, which became the Scotts' mustering place and whose name was the clan's slogan. As Mr. Thomson's sketches show, it is a wild country enough; in winter its bleakness at times is surely past the power of words to tell. It must be a hardy race that can live and thrive here. A land of swamp, and sullen, dark, moss-hag, this must have been in days of old. Still among the hills, bogs and lochs innumerable are scattered: of the latter, Clearburn, Ringside, Crooked Loch, Windylaw, Hellmuir, Alemuir, and various {287}others, all within a few miles, but not many, I think, such as need tempt the wandering fisher. A couple of miles up Ettrick, above Tushielaw, is Thirlestane, the seat of Lord Napier of Ettrick, surrounded by its woods. It is a mansion built something less than a hundred years ago, but close to it are the remains of the old Thirlestane Castle. I do not know if Hertford's long arm was responsible in 1544 for its ruin. It is probable enough. The stronghold belonged then to Sir John Scott, a prominent man in those days, and the only Scottish baron at Fala-muir who did not refuse to follow James V into England, for which reason the king charged "our lion herauld and his deputies for the time be and, to give and to graunt to the said John Scott, ane Border of ffleure de lises about his coatte of armes, sik as is on our royal banner, and alsua ane bundell of launces above his helmet, with thir words, _Readdy, ay Readdy_, that he and all his after-cummers may bruik the samine as a pledge and taiken of our guid will and kyndnes for his true worthines." Lord Napier is this John Scott's descendant. Across the river from Thirlestane are the ruins of another castle--Gamescleuch, built by Simon Scott, named Long Spear, a son of John of Thirlestane. Tradition says that Gamescleuch was never occupied, but was allowed to fall into decay because its owner, Simon of the Spear, was poisoned by his step-mother the night before he should have been married and have taken up his abode there. We are getting far into the wild hills now, near to the head of Ettrick, by Ettrick Pen, Wind Fell, and Capel Fell, all hills considerably over two thousand feet in height. But before crossing over to Yarrow and St. Mary's, there remain to be noticed Ettrick Kirk, and James Hogg's birthplace, Ettrick Hall. Ettrick Kirk, of course, is inalienably associated with the Rev. Thomas Boston, "Boston of Ettrick," minister of the parish for a quarter of a century, a man who left a deep mark on the religious life of Scotland. He died here in 1732, and {288}his monument stands in the little graveyard by the kirk, not lar from the head-stone to the memory of the Ettrick Shepherd, and near to the spot where, as the stone tells us, "lyeth William Laidlaw, the far-famed Will of Phaup, who for feats of Frolic, Agility, and Strength, had no equal in his day." Liaidlaw was Hogg's grandfather. [Illustration: 0308] How many persons now-a-days are familiar with, or indeed, perhaps, ever heard of, Boston's "Fourfold State," or his "Crook in the Lot"? Perhaps in Ettrick there may yet be, in cottages, an odd copy or two, belonging to, and possibly yet read by, very old people. But Boston, who as a theologian had once so marked an influence, is now little more than a name, even to the descendants of his flock in Ettrick, and his books, which {289}formerly were to be found in almost every peasant's house in Scotland, are unknown to later generations. Nor, perhaps, is that great matter for wonder. It must be confessed that these writings, which, up to even quite a recent date, had so great a hold on the Scottish peasant, and which, indeed, with the Bible formed almost his only reading, do not appeal to present day readers. The plums in the pudding to modern eyes seem few and far between. But there _are_ plums to be found, and many a forcible expression. In "The Crook in the Lot," for instance, where his theme is profligacy, the expression is a happy one whereby he warns the vicious man against the possibility of a "leap out of Delilah's lap into Abraham's bosom." Like most of his class and creed in those days, Boston was stern and unbending in his Calvinism, and when he came to Ettrick in 1707, he was faced by a state of affairs that bred for a time great friction between minister and congregation. The flock had been for a while without a shepherd, and laxity had crept into their church-going. Boston had to complain of the "indecent carriage of the people at the kirk, going out and in, and up and down the kirkyard the time of divine service." But he speedily drilled them into a line of conduct more seemly; and whereas when he dispensed the Sacrament for the first time in 1710 there had been present only fifty-seven communicants, in 1731 when he dispensed it for the last time, there were no fewer than seven hundred and seventy-seven. Crowds of people from other parishes came vast distances over the pathless mountains in order to be present. Where did they all find food and accommodation, one wonders. The farmers, then as now the most hospitable and kindly of human beings, fed and housed numbers, as a matter of course, but they could not accommodate all, and there was then no inn at Tushielaw, none indeed nearer than Selkirk. Great must have been the fervour of those many scores of men and women who resolutely tramped so far over {290}the wild hills to be present at "the Sacrament." There were no roads in those days, or practically none. [Illustration: 0310] Even at late as 1792, the Statistical Account of the Parish says: "The roads are almost impassable. The only road that looks like a turnpike is to Selkirk, but even it in many places is so deep as greatly to obstruct travelling. The distance is about sixteen miles, and it requires four hours to ride it. The snow also at times is a great inconvenience; often for many months we can have no intercourse with our neighbours.... Another great disadvantage is the want of bridges. For many hours the traveller is obstructed on his journey when the waters are swelled." Such was the condition of the hill country sixty-years after Boston's death. In his day it must have been even worse; probably the only road that resembled a road in 1792 was a mere track earlier in the century. Close by Ettrick Kirk is Ettrick Hall, where Hogg was born. Though in name suggestive of a lordly mansion, it was in reality but a mean, and rather damp, little cottage, or "butt and ben," of which there are now no remains. I understand that the walls fell down about the year 1830. There is {291}now a monument to "the Shepherd" where the cottage stood; and there is of course the commemorative statue over by St. Mary's, hard by "Tibbie Shiels." Hogg was, as the late Professor Ferrier said: "after Hums (_proximus sed longo intervallo_) the greatest poet that has ever sprung from the bosom of the common people." [Illustration: 0311] But to how many of those who visit his birth place, or look on his monument over in Yarrow, are his works now familiar? How many of us, indeed, have any but the merest nodding acquaintance even with "Kilmeny"? And of his prose waitings, who of the general public, except here and there a one, knows now even the "Brownie of Bodesbeck," a Covenanting story that used to thrill every Scottish boy? CHAPTER XII YARROW |In{282} whatever part you take the vale of Ettrick, there is about it, and about its scenery and its associations, a charm, different perhaps from that of the more widely famed Yarrow, yet almost equally powerful. There is in the summer season a solemnity and a peace brooding over these "round-backed, kindly hills," that act like a charm on the body and mind that are weary. Each vale has its distinctive peculiarities, yet each blends imperceptibly into the other. From the head of Ettrick by Ettrick Kirk over to Yarrow is but little more than a step across the hills, either by the bridle track by Scabcleuch and Penistone Knowe over to the Riskinhope Burn and the head of the Loch of the Lowes, for those afoot; or by the road up Tushielaw Burn, for those on whom time, or years, press unduly, and who prefer to drive. It is not a very good road, but it serves, though the descent to St. Mary's is something of the abruptest,--one in ten, I think. If the bridle track has been followed, as one comes down towards Riskinhope, there, on the opposite side of the valley, is Chapelhope, for ever associated with Hogg's "Brownie of Bodesbeck." And at Riskinhope itself, Renwick, last of the Scottish Covenanting Martyrs, preached no long time before his execution at the Grassmarket in Edinburgh in February, 1688. "When he prayed that day, few of his hearers' cheeks were dry," says the Ettrick Shepherd. [Illustration: 0313] It was here "Where Renwick told of one great sacrifice, For he himself had borne in full his cross, And hearts sublimed were round him in the wild, And faces, God-ward turned in fervent prayer, For deeply smitten, suffering flock of Christ; And clear uprose the plaintive moorland psalm, Heard high above the plover's wailing cry, From simple hearts in whom the spirit strong Of hills was consecrate by heavenly grace, And firmly nerv'd to meet, whene'er it came, In His own time, the call to martyrdom." "The plover's wailing cry."--It is curious to note how even to this day the peewit, or plover, is hated in the Border hills, because its incessant complaining wail when disturbed so often betrayed to the dragoons the presence of lurking Covenanters, or the whereabouts of some Conventicle of the persecuted people. The shepherd or the peasant of to-day will stamp on the eggs of the peewit wherever he comes on them, muttering to himself curses on the bird as it wheels and plunges overhead, wailing dolefully. But of Yarrow, how is one to write? The task is hopeless, whether it be to speak of its beauty, of its legend, its poetry, or of its associations. From Scott and Wordsworth downwards, what poet has not sung its praises? However halting may be his pen, what writer in prose has not tried in words to picture its scenes? It is left to one now only to repeat what has been said by better men; at the best, one may but paraphrase the words of another. There is nothing new to be said of Yarrow, no fresh beauty to be pointed out. Its charm affects each one differently; each must see and feel for himself. But whether the season be sweetest summer-tide, or that when winter's blast comes black and roaring down the glens, fiercely driving before it sheets of water snatched from the tortured bosom of lone Saint Mary's,--there, still, abides the indescribable charm of Yarrow. Yet on the whole, I think almost that I should prefer my visit to be in the winter time, if a few fine days might be assured, or days at least without storm. In the summer season now, and especially since the advent of the motor car, from morning till night so constant a stream of visitors and {295}tourists passes through the vale, and along the lake side, that even Yarrow's deathless charm is broken, her peace disturbed; one's soul can take no rest there now, far from the clamour of the outer world. [Illustration: 0315] No longer may one quote Alexander Anderson's beautiful lines: "What boon to lie, as now I lie, And see in silver at my feet Saint Mary's Lake, as if the sky Had fallen 'tween those hills so sweet. "And this old churchyard on the hill, That keeps the green graves of the dead, So calm and sweet, so lone and still, And but the blue sky overhead." And yet, even in summer, if one can betake oneself to the old churchyard of St. Mary of the Lowes, at an hour when the chattering, picnic-ing tourist is far from the scene, one may still lie there and dream, unvexed by care; and, if fate be kind, one may yet spend long restful days among the hills, beside some crooning burn that ". . . half-hid, sings its song In hidden circlings'neath a grassy fringe"; still rejoice in the unspoilt moorlands and the breezy heights: "There thrown aside all reason-grounded doubts, All narrow aims, and self-regarding thoughts, Out of himself amid the infinitude, Where Earth, and Sky, and God are all in all." [Illustration: 0316] And in these hills, what fitter place can there be for dreams than St. Mary's chapel, overlooking the silent lake, with Yarrow gliding from its bosom? Here you will find a Sabbath peace, as placid as when "... on sweet Sabbath morns long gone, Folks wended to St. Mary's Forest Kirk, Where mass was said and matins, softly sung, Were borne in fitful swell across the Loch; And full of simple vision, there they saw In Kirk and Quire, the brier and red rose, That fondly meet and twin'd o'er lover's graves, Who fled o' night through moor up Black Cleuch heights Pass'd through the horror of the mortal fight, Where Margaret kiss'd a father's ruddy wounds." {297}The ballad of the Douglas tragedy is known to everyone; it need not be quoted. [Illustration: 0317] This is the kirk where the lovers lie buried, almost within distant sight of the ancient tower from which they had fled, and whose ruins are still to be seen near Blackhouse, on the Douglas Burn. The Douglas stones, which, tradition tells us, mark the spot where Lady Margaret's seven brothers fell under the sword of her lover, are out high on the moor: but there are eleven, not seven, stones, though only three are left standing. It was at Blackhouse, one may remember, that Sir Walter first made the acquaintance of Willie Laidlaw, whose father was tenant of the farm. James Hogg was shepherd here from 1790 to 1800, but he had left before Sir Walter's visit, though the two met very shortly after. It was whilst Hogg was in service here that there came the tremendous snow storm of 1794, of which he gave so vivid a description in Blackwood's Magazine of July, 1819. There are now no remains of the chapel of St. Mary; "O lone St. Mary of the waves, In ruin lies thine ancient aisle." {298}It was destroyed about the year 1557, and was never rebuilt. A Cranstoun, flying from the Scotts, sought sanctuary in the holy building, and the Scotts, heedless of the terrors of excommunication, burnt it down. "They burned the Chapel for very rage," says The Lay, because Cranstoun escaped them. The churchyard is little used now, but a few privileged families do still, I understand, bury their dead in that quiet spot. It is an enviable place in which to lie at rest, where the lark sings high in air, and the free wind comes soughing over the hill. Near to the burial ground is the mound called Binram's Coise, the grave, they say, of a wizard priest, whose bones might not find rest in hallowed ground. "Strange stories linger'd in those lonely glens,-- Of that weird eve when wizard Binram old, Was laid in drear unrest, beyond hallow'd ground; How, at bell-tolling by no mortal hand, And voices saying words which no man knew, There rose such shrieks from low depths of the lake, And such wild echoes from the darken'd hill, That holy men fled from the scant fill'd grave, And left bare buried that unholy priest." Across the loch from the quiet grave-yard on the hill, lies "Bowerhope's lonely top," and Bowerhope farm, so loved of its tenant of many years ago. In his "Reminiscences of Yarrow," the late Rev. Dr. Russell mentions that "Bowerhope farmhouse was so low in the roof that my father at the exhortations had to stand between two of the rafters, so that the Kitchen full of people and full of smoke was not the most pleasant place to speak in. Yet old Sandy Cunningham, the tenant, used to say: 'Ministers may talk o' Heevin' as they like; commend me to Bowerhope; I cud tak a tack [lease] o't to a' eternity.'" On our right, on the same side of the loch with us as we stand facing Bowerhope, is Henderland, where, on a spot called the Chapel Knowe, is a grave-slab, and on it, sculptured, a sword and what appear to be armorial bearings, with the inscription: {299}"Here lyis Perys of Cokburne and hys wyfe Marjory." This, we used to be told, was the grave of a famous freebooter, whom King James V, (dropping in, as it were, one day while the unsuspecting reiver sat at dinner,) took, and hanged over the gate of his own castle, the tower whose weather-battered fragments are still to be seen here. [Illustration: 0319] His wife, it was said, fled to the adjacent Dow Glen, a rocky chasm through which rushes the Henderland burn, and there, says Sir Walter Scott, cowering on what is still called the Lady's Seat, she strove "to drown amid the roar of a foaming cataract, the tumultuous noise which announced the close of his existence." But Cokburne of Henderland, like Adam Scott of Tushiealaw, was executed in Edinburgh, before King James set out on his expedition. Moreover, that Cokburn of Henderland's Christian name was {300}William. This, therefore, cannot be the grave of James' victim in 1530. but whatever the real story of "Perys Cokburne and hys wyfe, Marjory," their fate has given rise to a ballad fuller of pathos than all the countless pathetic ballads of Yarrow, "My love he built me a bonny bower, And clad it a' wi' lilye flower, A brawer bower ye ne'er did see, Than my true love he built for me. "There came a man, by middle day, He spied his sport and went away; And brought the King that very night, Who brake my bower, and slew my knight. "He slew my knight, to me sae dear; He slew my knight, and puin'd his gear; My servants all for life did flee, And left me in extremitie. "I sewed his sheet, making my mane; I watch'd the corpse, myself alane; I watch'd his body, night and day; No living creature came that way. "I took his body on my back, And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat; I digged a grave, and laid him in, And happ'd him with the sod sae green. "But think na ye my heart was sair, When I laid the moul' on his yellow hair; O think na ye my heart was wae, When I turn'd about, away to gae? "Nae living man I'll love again, Since that my lovely knight is slain, Wi' ae lock of his yellow hair I'll chain my heart for evermair." Just by Henderland is Coppercleuch, (called Cappercleuch in my boyhood,) and below it, Megget, flowing into the loch--a troutful stream, at least in earlier days. Pike used to bask in {301}the shallows here of a hot summer's day; perhaps even yet they do so. But I think these fish are more numerous now in the Loch of the Lowes than in St. Mary's. [Illustration: 0321] Up Megget's left bank runs a hill road leading over into Tweedsmuir. It has been negotiated by motors, but it is far from being a desirable road for that form of traffic, or indeed for any except foot traffic. The surface is rough and hilly, and where it plunges down past Talla Linns it is exceedingly steep, and n places very soft. Higher up the loch than Coppercleuch is the Rodono Hotel, and beyond, on the isthmus at the very head of St. Mary's, "Tibbie's," that famous little hostelry, haunt lang syne of Christopher North and Hogg; "Tibbie's," with its queer little antiquated box-beds, that I believe even yet exist. But it is not the "Tibbie Shiels" of North's day, or even of much later {302}days; it has not the same simplicity; it has grown, and is no longer the simple little cottage into which Tibbie and her husband entered just ninety years ago this year of 1913. [Illustration: 0322] Robert Chambers described it in 1827 as "a small, neat house, kept by a decent shepherd's widow... It is scarcely possible to conceive anything more truly delightful than a week's ruralizing in this comfortable little mansion, with the means of so much amusement at the very door, and so many interesting objects of sight and sentiment lying closely around." Perhaps in some ways it is as delightful now as ever; but motors and bicycles have changed its air, and its aspect. They seem as inconsistent with the air of "Tibbie's" as would be a railway train, or penny steamers on the loch. Necessarily, there is now about the place a more commercial air; it is no longer the mere cottage, with its simple fare of oatmeal porridge,--cooked as nowhere now it is cooked; milk, rich and frothy; of ham and eggs, the mere whiff of which would bring you in ravenous from loch or hill; of fresh caught trout fried in oatmeal and still sizzling as they were brought in. There are trout now as of {303}old, no doubt, and hens yet lay eggs, and pigs are turned to bacon; but you eat now with a sense of having a train to catch, or a motor hurriedly to jump into; your eye seems to be ever on the clock, and the old air of leisure and of peace is gone. Tibbie Shiel herself departed in time. She who, when all the world was young, listened many a time to that Shepherd who had "Found in youth a harp among the hills, Dropt by the Elfin people," I think could ill have brooked this twentieth century rush and hurry; she was spared the trial of finding the pure air of St. Mary's poisoned by the stench of petrol fumes. A native of Ettrick, born in 1782, Tibbie lived at her home in Yarrow till the summer of 1878, and she lies in the same kirk-yaird that "haps" all that is mortal of James Hogg. And here by the loch, almost at her door, with plaid around him, the Shepherd sits in effigy, as Christopher North predicted to him in 1824, with "honest face looking across St. Mary's Loch and up towards the Grey Mare's Tail, while by moonlight all your own fairies will weave a dance round its pedestal." They were weird things, those box beds, that have been mentioned as still existing in Tibbie Shiel's cottage, weird, and responsible for much ill-health, more especially one would suppose, for consumption. They were built into the wall of a room, and they had wooden doors that could be drawn close at night, entirely cutting them off from the room, and jealously excluding every breath of fresh air. Some had a very small sliding trap, or eyelet hole, in one of the doors, opening at the side just above the pillow, but the custom was, as I understand, to shut even that. The box-bed was of old almost universal in peasants' cottages in the Border. No doubt it gave a certain amount of privacy to the occupant or occupants, but what countless forms of disease it must have fostered! The present writer can remember the case of a young man of twenty-five or so, who, to the puzzled wonder of his friends, {304}died of a galloping consumption. "I canna think hoo he could hae gotten't," said his sister to the daughter of her mistress. "He was aye _that_ carefu' o' himsel'. Od! he wad hap himself up that warm, an' he aye drew the doors o' his bed close, an' shuttit the verra keek-hole. Na! I canna think hoo he could hae catched it." [Illustration: 0324] To add to the sanitary joys of those homes of disease germs, it was, too, the almost universal custom to use the space below the bed as a kind of store house. The writer can remember as a boy to have seen in one of the most decent and respectable of such cottages, bags of potatoes stowed under the sleeping place occupied by a husband and wife! {305}Quitting now the Loch, and following the road that leads down Yarrow to Selkirk, on our left, half a mile or so from the road and overhanging the burn, stands the massive little tower of Dryhope. This was the birthplace, about the year 1550, of the beautiful Mary Scott, the Flower of Yarrow, bride of Scott of Harden. I suppose that Harden must have succeeded his father-in-law in the possession of Dryhope, for in 1592, James VI issued orders to demolish the tower of Dryhope, "pertaining to Walter Scott of Harden who was art and part of the late treasonable act perpetuate against His Highness' own person at Falkland." James' instructions, however, cannot have been carried out very effectually, if at all, for Dryhope, though roofless, is in rather better preservation than are the majority of Border peels. And now, on the far side of Yarrow, we pass Altrive, the farm which, from 1814 till his death in 1835, Hogg leased from the Duke of Buccleuch, at a merely nominal rent. Here, as Allan Cunningham said, he had "the best trout in Yarrow, the finest lambs on its braes, the finest grouse on its hills, and as good as a _sma' still_ besides." Indeed he must almost have needed a "sma' still," in order effectually to entertain the crowds of people who came here unasked, to visit him, once he had established his reputation as a Hon. The tax on him must have been even heavier in proportion than it was on Sir Walter at Abbotsford. Farther down, by the intersection of the cross road that leads over to Traquair and Tweed, there is the Gordon Arms, snuggest of fishing quarters, where in the endless twilights of June and July you may lie long awake, yet half steeped in sleep, listening contentedly to the wavering trill of whaups floating eerily over the hill in the still night air; or in the lightest dreamland you forecast the basket of tomorrow. It was here, at the Gordon Arms, that Scott and Hogg parted for the last time in the autumn of 1830, when the waters were already rising high that were so soon to close over Sir Walter's head. Slowly they {306}walked together a mile down the road, Scott leaning heavily on Hogg's shoulder, and "I cannot tell what it was," wrote the latter afterwards, "but there was something in his manner that distressed me. [Illustration: 0326] He often changed the subject very abruptly, and never laughed. He expressed the deepest concern for my welfare and success in life more than I had ever heard him do before, and all mixed with sorrow for my worldly misfortunes. There is little doubt that his own were then preying on his vitals." In truth Sir Walter then might well "never laugh." He had already had a slight paralytic stroke, and he could not but realise that the end of his titanic labours was approaching. A few miles down stream from the Gordon Arms, we come to Yarrow Kirk, and Yarrow Manse, smiling in a valley that to me in some strange way always speaks of sunshine and of peace. Perhaps it is due to thoughts of those who laboured here so long, and who gave to everyone "That best portion of a good man's life-- His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love." {307}I think I am not mistaken in saying that in this Parish of Yarrow there have been during a hundred and twenty-two years only three ministers. [Illustration: 0327] From 1791 to 1883 there were the Russells, father and son,--the Reverend Dr. Robert Russell and the Reverend Dr. James Russell, whose names were household words far beyond the bounds of Yarrow, and at whose manse old and young, rich and poor, were equally made welcome. And after them came the Reverend Dr. Borland, who died in 1912, and whose "Raids and Reivers" is a Border classic. It is a remarkable record, and a wonderful testimony to the pure air of Yarrow. During his long life Dr. Robert Russell never spent a single day in bed, nor until three days before his death was he ever prescribed for by a doctor. Yarrow Kirk was built in 1640, and the first minister of the {308}Parish after the Revolution was the Reverend John Rutherford, maternal great-grandfather of Sir Walter Scott. Dr. James Russell gives a quaint account of the church as it was in 1826, in the time of his father. "The interments," he says, "which had taken place in the course of nearly two hundred years, and the wish for proximity to Church walls, had had the effect of raising the ground of the graveyard around the church considerably above its level. In front, the earth outside was two feet, and at the corner of the aisle fully four feet higher. In consequence, the lower walls were covered with a green damp, and the rain water flowed into the passages. In winter the water froze, and my father used to say that he often got a slide to the pulpit." This matter, however, was remedied in 1826, when many improvements were made in and around the church. One improvement which Dr. Russell mentions had to do with the shepherds' dogs, which then invariably accompanied their masters to church--a practice which I think died out but recently. "There were no doors on the seats," says Dr. Russell, "and nothing but a narrow deal in each as a footboard, and no separation below between them. The planking on the passages was very deficient, and a great deal of the earthen floor was thus exposed, and it can easily be imagined that when the shepherds from Ettrick, as well as from Yarrow, came to church, each shepherd as regularly accompanied by his dog as encased in his plaid--no matter what the weather or the season--what frequent rows there were. On the slightest growl they all pricked up their ears. If a couple of them fell out and showed fight, it was the signal for a general _mêlée_. The rest that were prowling about, or half asleep at their masters' feet, rushed from their lairs, found a way through below the pews, and among the feet of the occupants, and raised literally such a _dust_ as fairly enveloped them. Then the strife waxed fierce and furious, the noise became deafening, the voice of the minister was literally drowned, and he was fain to pause, whether in preaching or in {309}prayer. Two or three shepherds had to leave their places and use their _nibbies_ unmercifully before the rout was quelled, and the service of the sanctuary resumed." Such a scene as the above was quite an ordinary occurrence in a country church in Scotland, early in the nineteenth century--and in remote districts even later than that; minister and congregation were accustomed to it, and took it as a matter of course. The shepherd's dogs could not be left behind to their own devices; and it was a matter of necessity that their master should go to church. There was no more to be said, not even when the dogs (as they often did) with long-drawn howls joined in the singing of the psalms. And when the benediction was pronounced, (which "to cheat the dowgs," was always done with the congregation seated,) then, at the first movement after it, a perfect storm of barking broke out as the dogs poured out of the building ahead of the people. Just below Yarrow Church are the ruins--I think not much more than the foundations--of Deuchar tower, a Scott stronghold, perhaps, like so many others, or maybe a holding of some descendent of the Outlaw Murray. And hard by Deuchar Mill is the picturesque old bridge with its broken arch stretched, like the stump of a maimed arm, towards the farther shore of Yarrow. It is a bridge that dates from about the year 1653. The burgh records of Peebles for that year show that the magistrates then ordained "that all in the town who have horses shall send the same for a. day, to carry lime for the said brig, under a penalty of forty shillings." That bridge stood till 1734, when the south arch was wrecked by a great flood. To restore the arch was a task at that time beyond the means of the district, and for some years those who lived on the south side of Yarrow and who wished to attend Yarrow Church, could do so only at the cost of wading the water, a feat in flood time impossible, and in the winter season a trial to be endured with difficulty even by the most hardy. The dead, in many instances, could not be buried beside their friends in the {310}old churchyard; children born in parts of the parish south of Yarrow could be baptised only at uncertain times and after indefinite delay; and marriages frequently had to be postponed. [Illustration: 0330] Finally, of the money required for repair of the bridge, owing to various circumstances only the half could be raised, and the arch put in after a delay of several years was of such peculiar construction, and so steep and causeway-like on the south side that it was not without difficulty that even an empty cart could cross. "Besides," says Dr. Russell, "there was little earth on the stones that formed the arch to steady and protect it." Nevertheless, it held together for the best part of a century, and then, suddenly, it collapsed one winter's afternoon, just after the roadman's cart had crossed. A new bridge had been erected just opposite the church, and no farther attempt was {311}made to repair the old one. There it stands, a pathetic and picturesque memorial of old days. [Illustration: 331] It seems always to me that these old broken bridges--there are two in Yarrow--strike a note fittingly attuned to the dirge murmured by the water as it wanders through the vale, strikingly in keeping with its mournful traditions and with the inexplicable sadness that for ever broods here. This is the very heart of the Dowie Dens of Yarrow. Here is the scene of the so-called "duel" between John Scott of Tushielaw and his brother-in-law, Walter Scott, third son of Robert Scott of Thirlestane. "Late at e'en, drinking the wine, And ere they paid the lawing They set a combat them between, To fecht it in the dawing." Assassination, however, rather than duel, seems to have been the word applicable to the combat. "As he gaed up the Tinnies Bank, I wot he gaed wi' sorrow, Till, down in a den he spied nine armed men, On the dowie houms of Yarrow. "'Oh, come ye here to part your land. The bonnie Forest thorough? Or come ye here to wield your brand On the dowie houms of Yarrow?' 'I come not here to part my land, And neither to beg nor borrow; I come to wield my noble brand On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.' 'If I see all, ye're nine to ane, And that's an unequal marrow; Yet will I fight while lasts my brand, On the bonnie banks of Yarrow.' Four has he hurt, and five has slain, On the bludie braes of Yarrow; Till that stubborn knight came him behind And ran his body thorough. 'Yestreen I dreamed a doleful dream; I fear there will be sorrow! I dreamed I pu'd the heather green, Wi my true love on Yarrow. 'O gentle wind that bloweth south, From where my Love repaireth, Convey a kiss frae his dear mouth, And tell me how he faireth!' * But in the glen strove armed men; They've wrought me dule and sorrow; They've slain--the comeliest knight they've slain-- He bleeding lies on Yarrow.' As she sped down yon high, high hill, She gaed wi' dule and sorrow, And in the glen spied ten slain men On the dowie banks of Yarrow. She kissed his cheek, she kaimed his hair, She searched his wounds all thorough; She kissed them till her lips grew red, On the dowie houms of Yarrow." {313}Here too, a little above Deucbar Bridge, and beyond the church, it, the famous "inscribed stone" of Yarrow, on the merits of which, as on the question of its age, I am not qualified to express an opinion. The place where, it stands was waste moorland about the beginning of last century, and the stone was uncovered when the first attempts were being made to reclaim it. In his "Reminiscences of Yarrow," Dr. James Russell says on this subject: "On more than twenty different spots of this moor were large cairns, in many of which fine yellow dust, and in one of which an old spear-head, was found. Two unhewn massive stones still stand, about a hundred yards distant from each other, which doubtless are the monuments of the dead. The real tradition simply bears that here a deadly feud was settled by dint of arms: the upright stones mark the place where the two lords or leaders fell, and the bodies of followers were thrown into a marshy pool called the Dead Lake, in the adjoining haugh. It is probable that this is the locality of "the Dowie Dens of Yarrow." About three hundred yards westward, when the cultivation of this moor began, the plough struck upon a large flat stone of unhewn greywacke bearing a Latin inscription. Bones and ashes lay beneath it, and on every side the surface presented verdant patches of grass." The inscription is difficult to decipher, and readings differ; all, however, seem to agree as to the termination: "_Hic jacent in tumulo duo filli Liberalis_;" and it is supposed to date from about the fifth century. Still following the stream downwards we come to Hangingshaw, in ancient days home of the Murrays. In Hangingshaw tower--long demolished--dwelt the Outlaw Murray, who owned "nae King in Christentie." "Fair Philiphaugh is mine by right, And Lewinshope still mine shall be; Newark, Foulshiells, and Tinnies baith, My bow and arrow purchased me. "And I have native steads to me, The Newark Lee and Hanginshaw." {314}Of the bold Outlaw's stock there remains now in the Border not one representative, and the last of their lands has passed from them. At Foulshiels, a couple of miles farther down, by the roadside stand the walls of the modest dwelling in which was born Mungo Park, the famous African explorer of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, a man of whom another traveller of our own day, himself among the greatest, has said: "For actual hardship undergone, for dangers faced, and difficulties overcome, together with an exhibition of the virtues which make a man great in the rude battle of life, Mungo Park stands without a rival." His dauntless spirit stands out conspicuous in the last words he ever sent home: "Though the Europeans who were with me were dead, and though I myself were half dead, I would still persevere, and if I could not succeed in the object of my journey, I would at last die on the Niger." That, I think, is the same fearless spirit that has so recently touched to the core the inmost heart of the Nation, the spirit displayed in the last message home of another dauntless explorer and his comrades, who have perished also for duty's sake. But Park was less heard of then--more than a century back; news filtered slowly in those days; he did not at the moment become a national hero. And if a man is seldom a prophet in his own country, it is surely from members of his own family that he is apt last of all to receive the honour which is his due. When Mungo came home in 1797 from his first African expedition, his elder brother, then tenant of Foulshiels, ("a man," says Lockhart, "remarkable for strength both of mind and body,") chanced to be in Selkirk when the explorer arrived there. That night, as the worthy farmer lay asleep in bed, he was awakened by his mother, who told him to get up; there was "a man chappin' (knocking) at the door." "Oh, ay!" drowsily muttered the disturbed sleeper, weary from a long day passed at the market, turning himself over in {315}bed, "I daursay that'll be oor Munga. I saw him gettin' aff the coach in Selkirk the day." [Illustration: 0335] It was this Archibald Park who was riding one day with Sir Walter Scott--"the Shirra"--. when, in a desolate part of the country, they came unexpectedly on a desperate gang of gipsies, one of whom was "wanted" for murder. Park did not hesitate an instant, but seized the man and dragged him away from under the very noses of his lawless, threatening comrades. Opposite to Foulshiels, on the farther bank of Yarrow, stands "Newark's stately tower," the most famous, and I think, from its situation, the most beautiful of all the Border strongholds. Situation and surroundings are perfect; I know of no scene more captivating, whether you view it from Foulshiels, or stand by the castle itself, or, climbing high up on its ramparts, gaze around where wood and hill and stream blend in a beauty that is matchless. And from far below comes the voice of Yarrow, chafing among its rocks and boulders, moaning perhaps as it moaned that cruel day after the battle of Philiphaugh, when, on Slain Man's Lea, hard by the castle, Lesly's prisoners were butchered in cold blood. Newark is the best preserved of all the famous Border {316}towers. And this we owe to the House of Buccleuch. Writing of the ancient towers of Ettrick and Yarrow, the Reverend Dr. James Russell says: "Some of them were burned down when clans were in conflict with each other; but what was allowable in the period of Border warfare was without excuse in our times of peace. Even the grim grey ruins were interesting features of the landscape, and worthy of being spared. But, worse than 'time's destroying sway,' the ruthless hand of vandalism has swept the greater part of them away, as standing in the way of some fancied improvement, or to employ the material for building some modern dyke or dwelling. Even Newark Castle, the stateliest of them all, was thus desecrated through the bad taste of the factor of the day, so recently as the beginning of this [the nineteenth] century, and the best of the stones from the walls and enclosing fence pulled down for the building of a farmhouse immediately in front on the Slain Man's Lea. The present noble proprietor [the fifth Duke of Buccleuch, who died in 1884], was so displeased and disgusted with the proceedings, that when he came into power he swept the modern houses away, and restored stones that in an evil hour had been abstracted, and put the ancient pile into a state of perfect preservation." Built sometime before 1423--it is referred to as the "new werke" in a charter of that date to Archibald, Earl of Douglas,--Newark Castle was a royal hunting seat; the royal arms are carved on a stone high up on its western wall. But in its time it has seen war as well as sport; in 1548 Lord Grey captured it for Edward VI, and in 1650 it was garrisoned for a while by Cromwell's men after Dunbar. It is of peace, however, rather than of war that one thinks when wandering here; and one recalls how Anne, Duchess of Monmouth and Buccleuch, quilting the throng of men and the hideous later turmoil of her life, retired here with her children after the execution of her unhappy husband in 1685. To what more beautiful and restful scene could she have carried the burden of her sorrows? {317}It is she to whom, in Newark, the "Last Minstrel" recites his Lay. [Illustration: 0337] "The Duchess mark'd his weary pace, His timid mien, and reverend face, And bade her page the menials tell, That they should tend the old man well: For she had known adversity, Though born in such a high degree; In pride of power, in beauty's bloom, Had wept o'er Monmouth's bloody tomb!" Turning away now from sight of Newark, and from Foulshiels, the road sweeps winding down the Yarrow, high over wooded banks, and "... sweet in Harewood sing the birds, The sound of summer in their chords;" past Harewood, its braes shimmering in the summer sun, Yarrow far below, plunging through deep black pools that seem fathomless, and boiling angrily where hindering rocks essay to check its course. This, I think, is the most beautiful part of all Yarrow, as beautiful as the stream's higher reaches, but {318}wilder, with higher,--almost precipitous--banks, rich draped in woods. Away far over to the right across the river, among the trees lies Bowhill; and down past the "General's Brig" we leave Philiphaugh House on the left, and the cairn that commemorates the battle, pass near the junction pool of Yarrow and Ettrick; then quitting Yarrow, we rejoin the 'Tweed road opposite Selkirk, and once more come to Yair Bridge. "Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass, Yellow on Yarrow's braes the gowan, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan." "Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed, As green its grass, its gowan yellow, As sweet smells on its braes the birk, The apple frae the rock as mellow." CHAPTER XIII UPPER TWEED, YAIR, FAIRNILEE, ASHIESTEEL, EUBANK, INNERLEITHEN, TRAQUAIR |Sweet{319} in truth flows Tweed here, as all will own who leisurely wend their way--it is too beautiful to justify hurried progress--under leafy boughs where the sun slants down in fairy pattern on a road divorced by but a narrow edge of greenest grass from the clear, hurrying river. Here, at your very hand, you may see countless I! ripples of the rising trout, that feed beneath the elms of Yair." There over against you on the far bank of Tweed is Yair itself; and on the hither side, nestling above a lofty bank among its grand old trees, the beautiful ruin of Fairnilee, with its hospitable modern mansion hard by. It was in this line old seventeenth-century Scottish mansion that Alison Rutherfurd wrote her exquisite version of the "Flowers of the Forest." In the old ruined house the little room in which she wrote is still intact, and now is carefully preserved from farther possibility of decay. But why, one wonders vainly, why was a place so fair ever abandoned, and allowed so long to crumble away as if it had been a thing accursed? "Gin ye wad meet wi' me again, Gang to the bonny banks o' Fairnilee;" said the Queen of Faery to True Thomas. And were she here now in the Border land, to no more enchanting spot could she tryst in the sunny slope above the river, the giant limbs of {320}mighty trees green with the leafy crown of June, or flushed with the blood red and orange of autumn; [Illustration: 0340] the ceaseless song of water gushing over the cauld and dashing among the boulders below; the wide expanse that carries the eye through the waving boughs over the gleaming belt of water, and away far up the hill purpling with the bloom of heather,--or late in the season, "grymed" with the new fallen snow,--up and over to the broad summit of the Three Brethren Cairn. In very truth it is itself a fairyland, and, standing here, to the mind comes, {321} [Illustration: 0341] {322}irresistibly, thought of the hidden Gold of Fairnilee that in boyhood one sought for so diligently. [0342] Then, higher up the river a mile or thereby, at the foot of Neidpath Hill, the long deep, swift hurrying stream in which, when autumn floods have done their work, there is not a yard where a lordly salmon may not be hooked. And higher still, there is Caddonfoot, and Clovenfords, in whose little inn Sir Walter used to stay before he lived at Ashiesteel; and the Nest, snug quarters of a famous Edinburgh Fishing Club, among whose members in old days was included the name of many an eminent Scot. Then opposite the Nest, across the river, Ashiesteel, which, almost more eloquently than even Abbotsford itself, speaks of Sir Walter. Here were spent the seven happiest years of his life; here he wrote the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," "Marnuon," and "The Lady of the Lake"; here came into his service those most faithful of followers, Mathieson (his coachman) and Tom Purdie, the latter, before the good fortune that brought him to the notice of "the Shirra," a most accomplished poacher of {323}salmon. Who has not read, and smiled over, the tales that Scrope tells of him in his "Days and Nights of Salmon Fishing in Tweed?" Purdie's eccentricities were many, his tongue free and outspoken to an extent that one would suppose might at times have ruffled the temper even of a man so tolerant and sweet-tempered as Scott. Yet the attachment that sprang up between the three, Sir Walter, Mathieson, and Purdie, was of the deepest and most abiding, ending only with their lives. All men--all living things, one might say--loved Scott; these two adored him, and their master's affection for them, and his trust in them, were profound. Mathieson outlived the others; Purdie was the first to go. The end was very sudden, and the blow affected Sir Walter as if the death had been that of a near and dear relative. A niece of Mungo Park used to tell afterwards of Sir Walter's visit to the widow, as related by Mrs. Purdie herself. There came a tap at the door, she said, and he came silently in, sitting down without a word in the chair that Mrs. Purdie handed to him. And, "he juist grat, an' better grat, the tears rinnin' doon his cheeks." At last the poor woman said brokenly; "Ye mauna tak' on that way, Sir Walter. Ye mauna tak' on. Ye'll maybes get some other body juist as guid as Tam." "_No_, my dear old friend," he said, at length mastering his emotion. "No. There can never be but one Tom Purdie." In truth no one could, and no one ever did, replace him. A very few years, and Mathieson drove his master for the last time, that memorable drive in September, 1832, when the horses of their own accord stopped at his favourite view above Bemersyde; that September when the whole world mourned for him who was gone, who yet lives for ever, not alone in Border hearts, but in the affection of all humanity. In Sir Walter's day, no bridge spanned the river at Ashiesteel, and the ford was not always a safe one; Sir Walter and his horse on at least one occasion, when the water was heavy, had to swim when crossing. But "the Shirra" was always the most reckless of riders, and would plunge in where none dared follow. "The deil's in ye, Shirra," said Mungo Park's brother to him--not on one occasion only--"the deil's in ye. Ye'll never halt till they bring ye hame with your feet foremost." It was at this Ashiesteel ford that Leyden, when Sir Walter's guest, came to grief. He and "the Shirra," and Mr. Laidlaw of Peel were riding one day. Leyden was talking, as one having authority, of the paces and good manners of Arab horses, and telling tales of the marvellous skill with which their owners managed them. "Here," said he, gathering up his reins, "is one of their feats"----; but just at that moment the pony on which he rode (_not_ a docile Arab steed) took it into its head to bolt down the steep bank into Tweed, and Leyden disappeared over its head into the stream. "Ay, ay, Dr. Leyden, is _that_ the way the Arabs ride?" said Laidlaw {325}gravely, when the rider reappeared, dripping like a river-god. [Illustration: 0345] Up the Glenkinnon Burn from Ashiesteel, at Williamhope Ridge, is the spot where Scott said his last farewell to Mungo Park. At the open drain which then separated moor from road, Park's horse stumbled badly. "A bad omen, Mungo, I'm afraid," said Sir Walter. "Freits (omens) follow them that fear them," cried Park, gaily, setting off at a brisk canter. [Illustration: 0346] "I stood and looked after him; but he never looked back," Scott used to tell, afterwards. And they met no more. Ere very many months had passed, Park lay dead, somewhere by that great African river with whose name his own will be for ever linked. But Williamhope has older memories than this; "William's Cross" was the name given to a great stone on the hill here, which marked the spot where the Knight of Liddes-dale fell, slain by his kinsman's sword one August day in 1353. {327}Quilting the neighbourhood of Ashiesteel, the road, in close company now with the railway from Galashiels to Peebles, still winds up the beautiful banks of Tweed, past Thornilee and Holylee, past boulder-strewn reaches and pleasant streams where big trout lie,--"a chancier bit ye canna hae," I think Stoddart says,--on past where, high on the farther side, overhanging the river, stand the crumbling ruins of Elibank Castle. This was a stronghold built--or possibly only enlarged--in 1595 by Sir Gideon Murray, father of Muckle Mouthed Meg, heroine of the story which tells how young Scott of Harden, caught reiving the Murrays' cattle, was given his choice between matrimony and the rope and "dule-tree." Harden, it is said, at first chose the latter, but at the last moment, as a mate scarcely to be preferred to death, took the lady. There was probably a good deal of bravado and "bluff" about Harden's wavering--if indeed the story is a true one. But in any case it was a wedding in which the proverb: "Happy the Wooing that's not long adoing," was well exemplified. All went well with bride and with reluctant bridegroom; they "lived happy ever after," as in the most orthodox fairy tale. And of their descendants, one was our own Sir Walter. And now we come to Walkerbum and Innerleithen, manufacturing townships. The latter, with its famed medicinal well, has been identified, or identifies itself, with St. Ronan's of the Waverley Novels. It is prettily situated on the Leithen, by wide spreading haughs, and the surroundings, like all in Tweedale, cannot fail to attract. But what may be said of Innerleithen, on top of that terrible Report issued in 1906 by H. M. Stationery Office? It will take some living down, if all that was then said by the Tweed Pollution Commission is without exaggeration, and if--as one is informed--nothing has yet been done to sweep away, or at least greatly to improve, the conditions revealed. Here is what the Report says of the river Leithen, a stream in former days called by Sir Thomas Dick Lauder "a fine trouting river." "Occasionally, in time of {328} [Illustration: 0348] {329}heavy rainfall, severe floods occur on the Leithen; when these occur, a large amount of water flows down the bed of the stream, which is usually dry, carrying with it all the rubbish and filth to the Tweed. [Illustration: 0349] The mills are supplied with water from the mill-lade, and one of them obtains water from the Tweed when necessary. The people of the town are entirely engaged in the woollen industry; wool scouring, weaving, and dyeing are all carried on here. The town is sewered. All the sewage is collected in an outfall sewer, which discharges into the mill-lade below the lowermost mill, and about three hundred yards from the Tweed; there is no attempt at purification of {330}the sewage. The liquid refuse from the mills is discharged into the lade. The water of the lade where it discharges to the Tweed is very foul with sewage and dye water... Below the point at which the lade discharges to the Tweed the water of this river is greatly fouled, the bottom of the river is covered with sewage deposit and the stones coated with sewage fungus. The river here contains also a large amount of refuse of all kinds, such as pots and pans, old linoleum, old iron-work, and such like. Although there is a daily collection of rubbish in the town, a great deal of large sized rubbish is thrown into the bed of the Lei then, and the tip to which all refuse is taken, together with offal from the slaughter houses, is situate just where the Lei then falls into the Tweed. In times of flood the water of the Leithen excavates this refuse tip, and carries the refuse into the Tweed. Some of the mill-owners here have tanks for settling the spent liquids after dyeing, and in this way some of the solid refuse is retained, but the coloured liquid is allowed to enter the river. One is thankful for small mercies; "_some_ of the solid refuse is retained." But the "offal from the slaughter houses," and the "tip" to which all refuse is taken! And the sewage which there is "no attempt to purify"! What grizzly nightmare could be more grizzly than this? However, we get soon now above the range of pollution by mill or town. Peebles only remains; thereafter we have really a river as it used in its entirety to be, and, above Peebles, as it may still be called, "the silver Tweed." Before reaching Peebles, however, there is, over against Innerleithen, on the angle between Quair Burn and Tweed, Traquair House to notice; and, nearer to Peebles, on its green knoll the old riven tower of Horsburgh, ancient seat of an ancient family. Of old, Traquair was a royal residence. In the twelfth century. William the Lion hunted from its tower; and other of the Scottish monarchs visited it in later days, the last, I suppose, being Mary and Darnley in August, 1566. The original tower, {331}or some part of it, I believe stands now in the north-east corner of the building, but the house has, of course, been greatly added to at different periods, mostly, however, during the reign of Charles I. [Illustration: 0351] It is a very fine specimen of the old Scottish château, with walls of immense thickness. Probably it is the oldest inhabited mansion house in Scotland; a place full of interest. And not least interesting, the picturesque old gates at the end of the avenue, that have remained so long unopened. The tale used to run that they had been closed after the '45, by an Earl loyal to the Stuart cause, who swore that they should never be opened till the rightful king came back to his own again. As a matter of fact, however, the misfortunes of Prince Charlie and his family had nothing to do with it. The gates were not closed till 1796, when the seventh Earl of Traquair, after the death of his countess, declared that they should remain shut till they opened to admit one worthy to take the dead lady's place. That, at least, is the story. The Earl who lived in the latter part of the seventeenth century belonged to the Church of Rome. "A quiet, inoffensive {332}man," he is said to have been. [Illustration: 0352] But that in no way protected him from the unwelcome attentions of those zealous Presbyterians who at that time "thought it someway belonged to us' to go to all the popish houses and destroy their monuments of idolatry, with their priests' robes, and put in prison the {333}priests themselves." [Illustration: 0353] So a pious mob set out from Edinburgh one grim December day in 1688, and trudged through the snow to Traquair House. Earl and priest, having got word of their coming, had fled before the arrival of this gentle band of Reformers, and though they ransacked all Traquair for "Romish wares," they did not find all they expected. Much had been hidden away. The vestments of the priest this, that, and the other popish emblem could not be found. However, they did get a good deal--an altar, a large brazen crucifix, and several small crucifixes, "a large brodd opening with two leaves, covered within with cloth ot gold of Arras work, having a veil covering the middle part, wherin were sewed several superstitious pictures," a eucharist cup of silver, boxes of relics, "wherin were lying, amongst silk-cotton, several {334}pieces of bone, tied with a red thread, Having written on them the Saint they belonged to," "a harden bag, near full of beads," "Mary and the Babe in a case most curiously wrought in a kind of pearl," a hundred and thirty books--silver-clasped many of them. No doubt the books, Popish or otherwise, excited to frenzy those pious but illiterate persons, almost as effectually as "the pot of holy oil," and the "twelve dozen of wax candles" that they seized. Not content with all this, however, a detachment of the mob invaded the house of a neighbouring clergyman "who had the name of a Presbyterian minister." The orders given by their ringleaders were that this house should be narrowly searched, but that they themselves were to "behave discreetly," advice the latter part of which one might give with equal propriety and effect to the proverbial bull in a china shop. The Reverend Thomas Louis and his wife apparently did not treat the inquisitors with the kindness and consideration to which they thought themselves entitled; they "mocked them," it is complained; and indeed the minister and his wife carried their resentment so far as to offer them "neither food nor drink, though"--it is naively added--"they had much need of it." Undaunted, however, by this shabby conduct on the part of the reverend gentleman, the mob hunted about till they came on two locked trunks, which they demanded should at once be opened. This modest request not being complied with, they "broke up" the trunks--to "behave discreetly," is no doubt when desired, capable of liberal interpretation--and therein "they found a golden cradle, with Mary and the Babe in her bosom; in the other trunk, the priest's robes." So they made a pile of the articles found here and in Traquair House, carried them a distance of seven miles to Peebles, and had them "all solemnly burned at the cross." Such were the enlightened methods of our seventeenth century progenitors. But, one sometimes wonders, is the toleration of the mob now-a-days {353}greatly in advance of what was in 1688? However, they did not also "solemnly burn" Traquair House, though it _was_ a "nest o'paipery." [Illustration: 0355] But the last Countess of Traquair has gone through the old gates; and her son, the eighth Earl, was the last of his line. He died, unmarried, in 1861; and the last of her race, the venerable Lady Louisa Stuart, died in 1875, in her hundredth year. Yet still, a pathetic link with days long dead, the old house stands brooding over the past; and still there sounds the music of the waters, and the sough of the wind in the trees of "the bush aboon Traquair." And perhaps he who has "... heard the cushies croon Thro' the gowden afternoon, And the Quair burn singing down to the vale o' Tweed," may come away steeped in sadness, yet it is a sadness without sting, not wholly unpleasing. CHAPTER XIV PEEBLES, NEIDPATH, MANOR, LYNE, DRUMMELZIER, DAWYCK |Writing{336} of Peebles in the year 1847 or 1848, Sir Thomas Dick Lauder speaks of "the singular air of decayed royalty that hangs over it, and which so strangely blends with its perfect simplicity and rurality." [Illustration: 0356] More than any other of the Scottish border towns, Peebles has a right to talk of "royalty." A royal poet has sung of her Beltane Feast the evidence is at least as much for, as against, acceptance of the time-honoured {337}belief that King James I was author of "Peblis to the Play." Professor Veitch strongly favours that conclusion. And unbroken tradition points to the King as the author. From earliest times the town was a favourite residence of the Scottish monarchs, and to this day its place-names, such as King's Meadows, King's House, King's Orchards, for example, suggest royal traditions. The Burgh Records of Peebles, go back very far--to October 1456, in the reign of James II. It is a town of much interest and of much beauty, beautiful especially as regards its situation and surroundings, and there are still in it many remains that speak eloquently of the past. There is the old five-arched stone bridge, dating from about 1467, altered, of course, and widened since that date, but still the same old bridge. Until the erection of the bridge at Berwick early in the seventeenth century, I suppose that this was the only one spinning Tweed in all its course. Then there Is the ancient Cross of Peebles, which, after various vicissitudes and excursions, at length stands once more on the spot where it was originally placed. It is said by the writer of the Statistical Account of the Parish to have been "erected by one of the Frasers of Neidpath Castle, before the time of Robert the Bruce, and bears the arms of the Frasers." There are still to be seen within the burgh the ruins of the Cross Church, and of the Church of St. Andrew. The former got its name from the fact that in May, 1261, "a magnificent and venerable cross was found at Peblis," which was supposed to have been buried close on a thousand years before that date. Shortly after the unearthing of this cross, there was found near the same spot a stone urn, containing ashes and human bones, and on a stone the words carved: "The place of St. Nicholas the Bishop." On account of the miracles which were reputed to have been wrought where the cross was discovered, Alexander III caused a church to be erected on the spot, "in honour of God, and of the Holy Rood." This Cross Church in some unexplained way escaped practically unscathed during {338}the English invasion of 1548-49, and from 1560 till 1784 it served as the Parish Church--deprived, no doubt, of many an interesting relic of the past. At the last-named date, our zealous forefathers, _more majorum_, pulled it down--all but a fragment--in order, out of the material so obtained, to build a new Parish Church. (They had in those times a perfect genius for wrecking the beautiful and interesting, and for erecting the ugly and the dull.) The other old church, that of St. Andrew, was founded about the year 1195. It, however, unlike its neighbour, suffered badly at the hands of the English in 1548, after which it gradually fell into ruin, and met the fate that was wont to wait on most of our venerable Scottish buildings. The tower alone remained, impervious to wind and weather, defiant of man's destroying hand. Thirty years ago, it was restored by the late Dr. William Chambers,--"more honour to him had he been less successful in concealing the old work," says Sir Herbert Maxwell, in his "Story of the Tweed." It was in the Church of St. Andrew, tradition says, that Cromwell's troopers stabled their horses in 1650 when siege was being laid to Neidpath Castle. Peebles at one time was a walled town, and I believe that some fragments of fortification remain. But the names: "Northgate," "Eastgate," "Portbrae," still recall former days. There was a castle also, a royal residence; but though it yet stood in the end of the seventeenth century, or even a little later, there is now not a vestige of it to be found. Again, no doubt, the ruthless hand of our not very remote ancestors! An interesting and very ancient custom continues to be observed in the town. Annually, on the second day of May, there is chosen from among the youthful beauties of Peebles one who is styled the "Beltane Queen"; and Beltane Sports and Festivities are held. Chambers says: "The festivities of Beltane originated in the ceremonial observances of the original British people, who lighted fires on the tops of hills and other {339}places in honour of their deity Baal; hence Beltane or Beltien, signifying the fire of Baal. The superstitious usage disappeared... but certain festive customs on the occasion were confirmed and amplified, and the rural sports of Beltane at Peebles, including archery and horse-racing... drew crowds not only from the immediate neighbourhood, but from Edinburgh and other places at a distance." "Peblis to the Play" is a description of the Festival as it was held in the day of the author; "a picture of rustic life and festivities, of the humorous and grotesque incidents of a mediaeval Feast Day in an old provincial town, the centre of a rural district," says Professor Veitch. "At Beltane, when ilk bodie bownis 1 To Peblis to the Play, To heir the singin and the soundis, The solace, suth to say; Be firth 2 and forest furth they found, 3 They graythit 4 them full gay; God wot, that wald they do, that stound,5 For it was their Feist Day, They said, Of Peblis to the Play." Space does not permit me to quote more than the opening verse. 1 Makes ready to go. 2 Enclosed wood, or place. 3 Issue, or go forth. 4 Dressed. 5 Time: German stunde. Before moving on up the valley, one may recall the fact that at the Old Cross Keys Inn at Peebles Sir Walter found, in its then landlady, the original of his "Meg Dods" of "St. Ronan's Well." Guests arriving now-a-days at this Inn--which is as often called "the Cleikum" as the Cross Keys--still drive into the yard under the "old-fashioned archway" of the novel; still there is shown "Sir Walter's room," overlooking the yard; and still, it may perhaps be noted, there is to be found at the head of affairs one who, while leaving out Meg's "detestable {340}bad humour" and asperity of tongue, in all essentials is worthy to rank as her successor. "Her kitchen was her pride and glory; she looked to the dressing of every dish herself, and there were some with which she suffered no one to interfere.... Meg's table-linen, bed-linen, and so forth, were always home-made, of the best quality, and in the best order; and a weary day was that to the chambermaid in which her lynx eye discovered any neglect of the strict cleanliness which she constantly enforced." The most fervent patriotism cannot, I fear, blind one to the sad fact that a majority of Scottish country inns do not strive very successfully to vie with Meg in those qualities which made her so shining an ornament of her sex. Too often one is left to the greasy attentions of a waiter of foreign tongue, whose mercies it might be desired were more tender than the scrag-end of the cold beef to which, in a parlour of the lethal-chamber variety, he somewhat tardily introduces tired wayfarers. And the beef itself might in many cases taste none the less of beef, if it were served on table-linen not quite so elaborately decorated with outlines of mustard pots and Worcester Sauce bottles, left by the day-beforeyesterday's commercial traveller. This Cleikum, or Cross Keys Inn, is a building of more than respectable age; it dates from the year 1653, when it was the town house of the Williamsons of Cardrona, a tower a few miles down Tweed, nearly opposite to Horsburgh. Probably both the Cross Keys and its neighbour the Tontine Hotel--. Meg's "Tomteen," the "hottle" of which she spoke so wrathfully--were in Sir Walter's mind when he wrote the novel. And now we may set out once again up Tweed--not forgetting, however, that Peebles with its mills also contributes no small share to the pollution of that much-injured river. A mile or so out of the town, there is the old castle of Neidpath, in very remote days a stronghold of the Frasers of Fruid and Oliver Castle, in Tweedsmuir. A Hay of Yester, ancestor of {341}Lord Tweeddale, succeeded the Frasers in 1312, by marriage with the daughter of Sir Simon Fraser; [Illustration: 0361] and after the Hays, by purchase came the Queensberry family, of whom, the fourth Duke, "Old Q.," Wordsworth's "Degenerate Douglas," {342}"unworthy lord," did his best to wreck the estate in 1795. What he could spoil and disfigure, he did spoil and disfigure. And here at Neidpath he swept off the face of nature every stick of timber, old and young, that could be felled or destroyed, leaving, as far as lay in his power, the landscape bare almost as it was when primeval chaos ended. Replanting could not be set about as long as "Old Q." lived, and a hundred years scarce repaired the damage he did. It is curious to note how one who in all respects during his life was so very far removed from grace, at the end wished to lie (where I believe his body does lie), under the Communion Table of St. James's Church, Piccadilly--in his estimation perhaps a sort of side-gate or private entrance to Heaven. The path is steep and the way thorny to most of us. And how fares "Old Q."? I hardly think that the inhabitants of Peebles, had they been Roman Catholics at the time of his death, would have paid for Masses for the soul of the dead "Old Q.," as they did lang syne for the soul of the dead King James the First. Neidpath Castle is said by old Dr. Pennecuick to have been in reality the stronghold which was anciently called the Castle of Peebles. But there are allusions to the "Castel of Peebles" in the Earl of Tweeddale's Rental book for 1685, and Neidpath was Neidpath centuries before that date. On this subject, Professor Veitch, writing about 1877, says: "The Castle of Peebles was standing and inhabited in the early part of last century. It was afterwards pulled down, and the materials converted, according to the morality and taste of the time, into one of the least architecturally attractive palish edifices in Christendom." As to Neidpath's age, there is no sure record, but as it was a seat of that Sir Simon Fraser who defeated the English three times in one day at Roslin Muir in 1303, its antiquity must be very great. And what a place of immense strength it must originally have been, before the days of artillery. Its walls are ten feet thick, put together with that {343}ancient form of cement which, when dry, became hard as the stones it bound together; and it stands on a high rock overhanging an elbow of Tweed where the water is deep, and was therefore on the river face unassailable. [Illustration: 0363] But the day of artillery came too soon for Neidpath. It fell before the guns of Cromwell in 1650. after a most gallant resistance under the young Lord Yester,--father, I suppose, of the Lord Yester who wrote the fine old ballad "Tweedside." Like every other part of the Yale of Tweed, here also it is beautiful. Looking back towards Peebles from above Neidpath the view is very fine, though perhaps an eyesore may be found in the unwholesome speckled appearance given to the castle by the way in which the "facing" of its walls has been done. Little more than a mile from here, Tweed is joined by Manor Water, a stream now probably best known as that beside which stands the cottage of "Bowed Davie," the original of Scott's "Black Dwarf" of Mucklestane Muir. Sir Walter was staying at Hallyards, on Manor Water, in 1797, with his friend Adam Ferguson, and it was on that occasion that he first saw {344}David Ritchie, a poor mis-shapen dwarf, embittered by the derision which his extraordinary personal appearance everywhere brought on him, and who had retired to this unfrequented valley, where he built himself a cottage of dimensions in keeping with his own stature. [Illustration: 0364] The cottage still stands, "where from his bole the awsome form peer'd grim on passer-bye," but at least the exterior has been modernised, and an addition has been made; his garden wall, with its ponderous stones, is much as Bowed Davie left it. The "Black Dwarf" was not written till a good many years after Ritchie's death. His grave is in Manor Kirkyard, not, as he himself originally meant it to be, in a secluded spot of his own choice, surrounded by the rowan-trees that it comforted him to think could be relied on to keep witches, and evil spirits generally, at a respectable distance. Poor Davie! There were worse things than witches to be taken {345}into account. It is said--Dr. John Brown mentions it--that his body proved a temptation too great to be resisted by resurrectionists. They dug him up, and carried the poor "thrawn" frame to where it could be sold. Perhaps in death he still excites that derision or pity which in life so angered him; his bones may now lie in some city anatomical museum. Within the Vestry of Manor Parish Kirk, there is, accord ing to the Ordnance Gazetteer of Scotland edited by Mr. F. H. Groome, "a table made of oak that had been used for church building not later than the thirteenth century; and a bell in the belfry bears the Latin inscription: 'In honore Sanct. Gordiani MCCCCLXXVIII.'" And far up the vale, near Kirkhope, is the site of this St. Gordian's Kirk, "marked by a granite runic cross, with the old font stone at its base." Manor Valley in days of old must have been a "mischancey" spot for any stranger whose intentions were, so to speak, not "strictly honourable." There were, in and about it, not fewer than nine or ten peel towers, two at least of which--Barns and Castlehill--belonged to the Burnets, than whom none bore higher reputation as reivers and men of action. In 1591 no Borderer was more renowned for his exploits and for his conduct of midnight forays, than William Burnet, the "Hoolet of Barns." His tower, Barns, is rather nearer Tweed than Manor, but it is included in the strongholds of Manor Valley. It is still in excellent preservation, but the roof is modern, and the upper part of the tower has been greatly altered from what it was originally. The accommodation in such towers must have been something of the most cramped; in this instance the outside dimensions of the tower (three stories) are only twenty-eight by twenty feet. On the lintel of the door is the date 1498, but there appears to be some uncertainty as to whether the figures were not added at a later time. Castlehill, now a ruin, "hollow-eyed, owl-haunted," was somewhat larger and stronger than Barns. Higher up the valley is Posso, now mere fragments of walls. It was of old a {346}seat of the Bairds, who were succeeded in the sixteenth century by the Naesmiths. [Illustration: 0366] At Posso Craigs was the eyry whence Henry Ashton in the "Bride of Lammermuir" got his hawks. And here under the craigs is the Ship Stone. The whole valley teems with objects of antiquarian interest--the tumulus called the Giants' Grave, up Glenrath Burn; the "cup-marked fallen monolith," that was once an old woman whom the devil turned into stone; the old Thiefs Road, trodden of old by many a mob of "lifted" cattle; numerous hill forts. And from the bosom of the wild hills springs Manor; a tiny rivulet from Dollar Law--(is "Dollar" a corruption of "Dolour," the Hill of Sorrow?)--from Notman Law another; infantile rills from Shielhope Head, Black Law, Blackhouse Heights, grim round-shouldered hills that rise all of them to a greater altitude than two thousand feet. And everywhere is the music of running water. "In its far glen, Manor outspreads its arms To all the hills, and gathers to itself The burnies breaking from high mossy springs, And white streaks that fall through cleavings of the crags From lonely lochans where the curlews cry." {347}Cademuir, by the way, the hill on Manor's right at its junction with Tweed, is the supposed scene of Arthur's seventh battle against the Pagans. _Cad_ is Welsh for battle,--Gaelic, _cata_, hence _Cad-more_, the "great battle." Professor Veitch hesitates between this site and that of the neighbouring pre-historic hill fort, the Lour, near Dawyck, but thinks the former the more probable. Just below the height of the Lour, till the beginning of the nineteenth century there stood, he says, an almost perfect _cromlech_, consisting of "two or more upright stones, and one flat stone laid across as a roof, all of remarkable size." This _cromlech_ was known in the district as Arthur's Oven. It is humiliating to have to confess that it, the neighbouring old peel tower of Easter Dawyck, the Tower of Posso, and the ancient Kirk of St. Gordian, were all made into road metal, or used as material for building walls or farm buildings, by Sir Walter Scott's father, of all people in the world. One may wonder what were Sir Walter's thoughts when he came to know. A little way up from Manor Valley, and joining Tweed from the northern side, is Lyne Water. It is not possible to pursue all Tweed's tributaries to their source, however full of interest each may be, for their name is legion. But Lyne cannot be passed without note being taken of its little--very little--early seventeenth century Parish Church. And adjoining it are remains of a great Roman camp--Randall's Wa's, i: has been called locally from times long past. Perhaps it was here--at least it was on Lyne Water--that Sir James Douglas captured Randolph before the time came when the latter finally cast in his lot with the Bruce. Farther up, on an eminence at the junction of Lyne and Tartli Waters, stands the massive ivy-clad ruin of Drochil Castle. Built by the Regent Morton in the sixteenth century, Drochil was never completed, and never occupied. Just before the building approached completion, Morton, judged guilty of complicity in the murder of Darnley, was executed, beheaded by "the Maiden"--a sort of Scottish {348}guillotine--on 2nd June, 1581; and the home of a Regent of Scotland, "designed more for a palace than a castle of defence," is now a rum, of use only as a shelter for cattle! [Illustration: 0368] Happrew, on Lyne, is the scene of the defeat "wrought by the lords William de Lalymer, John de Segrave, and Robert de Clifford, upon Simone Fraser and William le Walleys at Hopperowe," in 1304. And on the elevated heathy flat below which Tweed and Lyne meet, there is what is called the Sheriff's Muir, of old a mustering place for Scottish forces during the wars with England. And now, as we run up Tweed's left bank, we have on the one side Stobo, with its ancient church--of which mention has been made earlier in this volume--and its fine woods; on the other bank, Dawyck, and the castles of Tinnies and Drummelzier. From the thirteenth well on into the seventeenth century, Dawyck was the home of a distinguished Tweedside family, the Veitches, once the Le Vaches, of Gascony, of whom one, William le Vache, signed the Ragman Roll at the Castle of Peebles in 1296. At the same time that {349}the Veitches held Dawyck, Drummelzier was the headquarters of another powerful Border family, the Tweedys; and for the delicate questions involved in the origin of this family's name, readers may consult Sir Walter's introduction to "The Betrothed." Of necessity, as things went in those days, these two families quarrelled, and from the quarrel emerged a feud long and bloody, in which, ere it ended, half the countryside was involved. Wherever a Veitch and a Tweedy met, they fought, and fought to kill. On the haughs of the river one summer's day, young Veitch and young Tweedy, each, perhaps, looking for trouble, came together face to face. The grey of next morning saw of the latter but "A face upturned to the breaking dawn, Dead by the Tweed, but honour sav'd." He lay beside the quiet water, and over him, it is said, like a snowy pall drooped the clustering May-blossom. "His mother sought him on the haugh, She found him near the white flower'd thorn; The grass red wet; the heedless birds Pip'd sweet strains to the early morn." In 1590, the head of the Veitches, "the Deil o' Dawyck," an immensely powerful man, had for his ally William Burnet, "the Hoolet o' Barns," a man equally powerful. These two daunted the Tweedy of that day; the feud for a space lay-dormant. But, most unhappily for the Veitches, it chanced that "the Deil's" son rode into Peebles alone one morning. And that was the end of young Veitch. For nine Tweedys, in two parties, trapped him near Neidpath, came on him in front and from the rear as he rode towards home; and it was no fight, but bloody murder that reddened the grass that day. Four days later, two Veitches met John Tweedy, Tutor of Drummelzier, in the High Street of Edinburgh, and young Veitch's bloody death was avenged; "a tooth for a tooth," no matter how many were concerned in its drawing. And so it {350}went on _ad nauseam_, a Veitch killing a Tweedy, a Tweedy a Veitch. The feud was alive even as late as 1611; and for anything that I know to the contrary, it endured as long as the two families were there to neighbour each other on Tweedside. Of Drummelzier Castle only an angle of the tower and a portion of the main building now stand. It was here that there dwelt that arrogant bully, Sir James Tweedy, who of old was wont to exact homage from every passing traveller; and the traveller who omitted to, so to speak, "lower his tops'ls" as he passed the castle, had cause to rue the day the fates took him that way. It was a pretty enough game from Tweedy's point of view. But, as the saying is, one day he "bit off more than he could chew." A stranger, attended by a very small retinue, passed up the valley without taking the smallest notice of the castle or its formidable owner. Foaming with rage, spluttering dire threats, Tweedy and his men went thundering in pursuit; truly, the back of that stranger should smart to some tune. But, just as you may see the birses and tail of a vicious, snarling cur drop when he finds he has inadvertently rushed out against a bigger dog than himself, so here, Tweedy's mood changed with astonishing celerity when he jumped from his horse beside the man he had been cursing and bawling at to stop, and found that the fugitive he was vowing to flog was his king, James V. Tinnies Castle was also a holding of the Tweedys, possibly before the building of Drummelzier. This castle is believed to date from the thirteenth century, or perhaps earlier, and it seems to have been a place of considerable size and of great strength. "In no part of Scotland was there any feudal keep so like a robber's castle on the Rhine, as that of Tinnis," says Chambers. The building was destroyed under royal warrant in 1592, at the time when the King issued orders to raze Dry hope and Harden. The position of Tinnies is immensely strong. Perched on a lofty eminence, three of whose sides are almost perpendicular and the fourth a long steep slope, the {351}castle in its day must have been almost unassailable. Any approach to the walls could only be made in force by a narrow winding pathway, within shot of, and fully exposed to, the castle bowmen, and the building itself, as may even yet be noted, was of a solidity truly formidable. Immense portions of the walls and flanking towers, yet bound by the old imperishable cement, still lie where they were bodily hurled by the exploding gunpowder when James VI's orders were carried out. Of Dawyck and its magnificent woods one must not forget to take note. Here in 1725 were planted the first larches introduced into Scotland, anticipating it is said, by a few years those planted at Dunkeld. And while on the subject of natural history, one may perhaps quote that most notable fact regarding Dawyck which Dr. Pennecuick, writing in the early eighteenth century, vouches for in his "Shire of Tweeddale." "Here," says he, "in an old Orch-yard did the Herons in my time build their Nests upon some old Pear-trees, whereupon in the Harvest time are to be seen much Fruit growing, and Trouts and Iles crauling down the Body of these Trees. These fish the Herons take out of the River of Tweed to their Nests, and as they go in at the Mouth, so they are seen squirt out again at the Draught. And this is the remarkable Riddle they so much talk of, to have Flesh, Fish, and Fruit at the same time upon one tree." There is still a heronry at Dawyck, but not, I think, in an "Orch-yard." In the neighbourhood of Drummelzier there is a spot that takes us back in thought to those dim, far off days when the world was in its infancy. Near to where Powsayl Burn, the "burn of the willows," joins Tweed, you may see the grave of Merlin the Seer, the Wizard Merlin. Fleeing from the field of Arderydd (Arthuret, near Carlisle), after the terrible defeat of the Pagans by the Christians in 573, Merlin found refuge among the hills of Upper Tweed, and there lived for many years, half-crazed, a homeless wanderer. Finally, the fear {352}raised by his supposed possession of supernatural powers, and the dread of his enchantments, caused a mob of ignorant country-folk to club and stone him to death, and he was buried where he fell, by the Powsayl burn. In a poem still extant, Merlin tells how he wandered long in the wild wood of Caledon. "Sweet apple tree, growing by the river! Whereof the keeper shall not thrive on its fruit; Before I lost my wits I used to be around its stem With a fair sportive maid, matchless in slender shape. Ten years and forty, the sport of the lawless ones, Have I been wandering in gloom among sprites, After wealth in abundance and entertaining minstrels. After suffering from disease and despair in the forest of Caledon." The place of the "apple tree" was Tal Ard--Talla of to-day; and somewhere between Drummelzier and Talla, Merlin and St. Kentigern foregathered for a time. High up on the mighty shoulder of broad law, too, there is a spring that gushes out from the hillside clear and cool, that may be the fountain--_fons in summo vertice montis_--beside which Geoffrey of Monmouth in 1150 tells that Merlin was wont to rest. And the "fair sportive maid"--that is Nimiane, Tennyson's "Vivien." A Romance of the fifteenth century tells how "Thei sojourned together longe time, till it fell on a day that thei went thourgh the foreste hande in hande devysing and disportynge, and this was in the foreste of Brochelonde, and fonde a bussh that was feire and high of white hawthorne, full of floures, and ther thei sat in the shadowe; and Merlin leide hys heed in the damesels lappe, and she began to taste softly till he fill on slepe; and when she felt that he was on slepe she aroos softly, and made a cerne (circle) with hys wymple all aboute the bussh and all aboute Merlin, and began hir enchantementes soche as Merlin hadde hir taught, and made the cerne ix tymes, and ix tymes her enchantementes; and after that she wente and satte down by hym and leide hys heed {353}in hir lappe, and hilde hym ther till he dide awake; and then he looked aboute hym, and hym semed he was in the feirest tour of the worlde, and the most stronge, and fonde hym leide in the feirest place that ever he lay beforn.... Ne never after com Merlin out of that fortresse that she hadde hym in sette; but she wente in and oute whan she wolde." Not far from the churchyard of Drummelzier to this day they point out the grave where Merlin lies beneath a thorn tree. And to everyone is known Thomas the Rhymer's prediction: "When Tweed and Powsayl meet at Merlin's grave Scotland and England shall one monarch have," and how the prophecy was fulfilled that same day on which James of Scotland was crowned King of England. For Tweed then so overflowed its banks that burn and river joined beside the spot where Merlin lies, which, as Dr. Pennecuick says, "was never before observed to fall out, nor since that time." Over against Drummelzier, Biggar Water falls into Tweed, and a curious circumstance about this stream is this, that "on the occasion of a large flood... the Clyde actually pours a portion of its water mto one of the tributaries of Tweed." The whole volume of Clyde at Biggar, says Sir Archibald Geikie, could without any difficulty be made to flow into Tweed by way of the Biggar Water. The latter at one point is separated from Clyde by but one and a half miles of almost level ground. All this region of Biggar Water is rich in remains of old towers and camps; but of the most important, that of Boghall Castle at Biggai, seat of the great Fleming family, Lords Fleming in 1460, there is now practically nothing left standing; the customary fate, the fate that so long dogged most Scottish historical buildings overtook in about sixty or seventy years ago. It was a place of strength in 1650, when Cromwell's men held it; a sketch done in 1779 by John Clerk of Eldin, shows that it was then entire, or almost entire, and it stood, a fine ruin, as lately as 1831, when Sir Walter and Lockhart were at Biggar. {354}With what devilish energy since then must the wreckers have laboured to destroy! Of Biggar Moss, Blind Harry tells the wondrous tale of how Wallace, with a diminutive Scottish force, smote here in 1279 a large English army led by Edward I; eleven thousand Englishmen were slain, says the veracious poet. And if corroboration of Blind Harry be needed, why is there not standing here, as witness to this very day, the Cadger's Brig, over which, as local tradition vouches, Wallace, disguised as a hawker, crossed on his way to spy out the weak points in Edward's camp! As with most Border places, there is no lack of interest about Biggar, but considerations of space forbid any attempt to treat of its history. Yet it must not be omitted that here was born a man greatly loved in Scotland, Dr. John Brown, best known to the outside world, perhaps, as the author of "Rab and his Friends." CHAPTER XV BROUGHTON, TWEEDSMUIR, TALLA, GAMESHOPE, TWEED'S WELL |Returning{355} to the neighbourhood of Tweed, on the bank of a little burn tributary to Biggar Water stands the village of Broughton, reminiscent of Mr. "Evidence" Murray, the Prince's Secretary, who saved his own life after the '45 by turning King's Evidence. Broughton House, his old home, was burned to the ground about 1775, (a couple of years prior to Murray's death on the Continent,) and the estate was afterwards sold to the famous Lord Braxfield, the original of Stevenson's "Weir of Hermiston." Higher up Tweed, on the farther bank, is Stanhope, in the eighteenth century the property of Murray of Broughton's nephew, Sir David Murray, who lost his all in the '45; and not many miles farther up the river is Polmood, where the dishonoured uncle lay hid, and was taken, in June 1746, losing thereafter more than the life he saved--honour and the respect of his fellow men. "Neither lip of me nor of mine comes after Mr. Murray of Broughton's!" cried Sir Walter Scott's father as he threw out of window the cup from which the apostate had but then drunk tea. And:--"Do you know this witness?" was asked of Sir John Douglas of Kelhead, a prisoner after the '45, before the Privy Council at St. James's, when Murray was giving evidence. "Not I," said Douglas, "I once knew a person who bore the designation of Murray of Broughton,--but that was a gentleman and a man of honour, and one that could hold up his head!" {356}Of old, Polmood--the name, I believe, means the "wolf's burn," or stream--was a hunting seat of Scottish kings; In times more modern it was chiefly remarkable for an interminable law plea which dragged its weary length along for forty years and more, probably in the end with ruin to both parties to the suit. Before coming to Polmood, however, we pass Mossfennan, sung of in two ballads, one of the seventeenth century, the other (of which but a fragment remains) of much more ancient date. On the roadside a little further up is a sign-post that points dejectedly towards a dilapidated-looking tree which stands solitary on the haugh below. Here, says the legend on the post, was the site of Linkumdoddie, whereof Burns wrote a song. But to find any point of interest in the scene, or in the identity of Linkumdoddie or of the lady celebrated, t requires, I think, that the gazer should be possessed of a most perfervid admiration of the poet. And now we begin to open up the wilder part of Tweed's valley, where not so many years ago you might go a long way, and for miles see no human being but a passing shepherd. It is different now, in these days when motor-cars, leaving behind them a trail of dust as ugly as the smudge of a steamer's smoke low down on the horizon, rush along what used to be the finest of old grass-grown coach-roads, smooth as a billiard-table and free from any loose metal--swept bare now to the very roots of the stones by the constant air-suction of passing cars. But even now, in the winter-time, when the rush of the tourist troubles no more, if one trusts oneself in these wilds, there is a reward to be gleaned in the fresh, inexpressibly _clean_ air, and in the sense of absolute freedom that one gains. You have-left civilisation and its cares behind; here is peace. And in the great hills lying there so solemn and still, black as blackest ink where the heather stands out against the wintry grey sky, or deep-slashed on their sides with heavy drifts of snow from the latest storm, there is rest to the wearied soul and the tired {357}mind. And if the day be windless, what sweeter sound can anywhere be heard than the tinkling melody of innumerable burns blending with the deeper note of Tweed? Nowhere in the world, as it seems to me, is there any scene where Nature lays on man a hand so gentle as here in Tweedsmuir. It is all one, the season; no matter if the air is still, or the west wind bellows down the valley, life is better worth living for the being here. And the glory of it, when snow lies deep over the wide expanse, and the sun shines frostily, and Tweed, black by contrast with the stainless snow, goes roaring his hoarse song seaward! All burns up this part of the valley used to teem with nice, fat, lusty yellow trout--Stanhope Burn, Polmood, Hearthstane, Talla and Gameshope, Menzion, Fruid, Kingledores (with its memories of St. Cuthbert), and the rest. Doubtless the trout are there still, but most of the burns are now in the hands of shooting tenants, and the fishing, probably, is not open to all as of old. Talla and Gameshope (of which more anon) are now the property of the Edinburgh Water Trust Commissioners, and a permit from them is necessary if one would fish in these two streams or in Talla Reservoir. Before reaching Talla, almost equidistant between the Polmood and Hearthstane burns, but on the opposite side of Tweed, we come to what used to be the cheery, clean little Crook Inn, standing in its clump of trees. But its history of two hundred years and more as an inn is ended; modern legislation has seen to that. And there is now on this highroad between Peebles and Moffat--a distance of something like thirty miles--not a single house where man and beast may find accommodation and reasonable refreshment. It is not the so-called "idle rich" who are thus handicapped; fifteen or sixteen miles are of small account to the man who owns a motor-car. It is they who cannot afford the luxury of a car, but who yet desire to be alone here with nature, or to fish in Tweed and in such burns as may yet be fished, it is they who find themselves thus left out in the cold. * * Since this was written, the Crook has reopened its doors as an inn. But they are not any longer content with the homely word "inn"; the place asserts itself now in large letters as the Crook "Hotel." Of old, when the mail-coaches running between Dumfries and Edinburgh came jingling cheerily along this smooth Tweed-side road, it was at the Crook Inn that they changed horses. But I doubt it was not then a spot so inviting as it certainly became in the 'seventies of last century. Sir Thomas Dick Lauder speaks of it as it was in 1807 as "one of the coldest-looking, cheerless places of reception for travellers that we had ever chanced to behold.... It stood isolated and staring in the midst of the great glen of the Tweed, closed in by high green sloping hills on all sides.... No one could look at it without thinking of winter, snow-storms, and associations filled with pity for those whose hard fate it might be to be storm-stayed there." But Sir Thomas Dick Lauder's visit in 1807 was paid in the month of November, when snow hung heavy in the air, threatening the traveller with wearisome and indefinite delay. And the hind wheels of his chaise collapsed like the walls of Jericho as the postillion, having changed horses here, started with too sudden a dash from the door of the inn; and Sir Thomas was bumped most grievously along the road for some hundreds of yards ere the post-boy (who perhaps had made use at the Crook of some far-seeing device to keep out the cold) discovered that anything was amiss. Not unnaturally the nerves of the occupants of the chaise were a trifle rallied; no doubt the place then looked less cheerful than it might otherwise have appeared. Forty years later, he writes that it had, "comparatively speaking, an inviting air of comfort about it.... The road, as you go along, now wears altogether an inhabited look, and little portions of plantations here and there give an air of shelter and civilisation to it." It was a cheerless place enough, no doubt, in the Covenanting {359}days of the seventeenth century, when the dour hill-men were flying from Claverhouse's dragoons, lurking in the black, oozing "peat-hags," hiding by the foaming burns, sheltering on the wild moors, amongst the heather and the wet moss. It was the landlady of this same Crook Inn who found for one fugitive a novel hiding hole; she built him safely into her stack of peats. There has been many a less comfortable and less secure hitting place than that; and where could one drier be found? It was at the Crook that William Black makes his travellers in the "Strange Adventures of a Phaeton" spend a night, and the fare to which in the evening he sets his party down was certainly of the frugalest. But when this present writer knew the inn in the 'seventies, it was far from being only on "whisky and ham and eggs" that he was obliged to subsist. It was then an ideal angler's haunt; and no more gentle lullaby can be imagined than the low murmur of Tweed, and the quiet _hus-s-s sh_ of many waters breathing down the valley on the still night air. A mile or more beyond the Crook, there is the Bield, also once an inn "From Berwick to the Bield," is the Tweedside equivalent of the Scriptural "From Dan even to Beer-sheba." It was here at the Bield that the Covenanters thought once to trap Claverhouse; but that "proud Assyrian" rode not easily into snares. On the hill above is the site of Oliver Castle, home of the Fraser family, once so powerful in this part of the Border--the site, I think, but nothing more. And now, to reach that part of Tweedsmuir which more than any other casts over one a spell, it is necessary to branch off here to the left and follow the road shown in Mr. Thomson's charming sketch. Straight ahead of you, as you stand by the little Tweedsmuir post-office, you look up the beautiful valley of the Talla, where the steep hills lie at first open and green and smiling on either hand, but gradually changing their character, close in, gloomy and scarred, and {360}frowning, as the distant Talla Linn is neared. [Illustration: 0380] But before you leave the little hamlet of Tweedsmuir--it can scarcely be called a village--by the old single-arched bridge that is thrown here across Tweed, where he roars and chafes among his rocks {361}ere plunging down into the deep, black pool below, you will see on your left a spire peering out over the tree-tops. [Illustration: 0381] That is the church of Tweedsmuir, on its strange, tumulus-like mound by the river's brink. And here you will find:n the green grass, under the clustering trees, the graves of some who fell for "The Covenant," one headstone, at least, relettered by "Old {362}Mortality" himself. This is the grave of one John Hunter; but doubless there are others, less noticeable, who rest with him in this quiet spot, far from the world's clash and turmoil, where no sound harsher than the Sabbath bell that calls to prayer or the sighing of the wind in the trees, can ever break the silence. Here is Hunter's epitaph: [Illustration: 0382] "When Zion's King was Robbed of his right His witnesses in Scotland put to flight When popish prelats and Indul- gancie Combin'd 'gainst Christ to Ruine Presbytrie All who would not unto their idols bow They socht them out and whom they found they slew For owning of Christ's cause I then did die My blood for vengeance on his en'mies did cry." And on a stone in another part of the churchyard--perhaps the grave of a grandfather and grandchild--are the quaint words: "Death pities not the aged head, Nor manhood fresh and green, But blends the locks of eighty-five With ringlets of sixteen." The old Session Records of this church are full of references to the trembled times of the Covenant. Here are one or two entries, which I quote from the Rev. W. S. Crockett's "Scott Country."' Mr. Crockett is Minister of the Parish.--"No session kept by reason of the elders being all at conventicles." "No public sermon, soldiers being sent to apprehend the minister, but he, receiving notification of their design, went away and retired." "No meeting this day for fear of the{363} enemy." HERE LYES JOHN HUNTER MARTYR WHO WAS CRUELY MURDERED AT COREHEAD BY COL. JAMES DOUGLAS AND HIS PARTY FOR HIS ADHERANCE TO THE WORD OF GOD AND SCOTLAND'S COVENANTED WORK OF REFORMATION 1688 Erected in the year 1726. "The collection this day to be given to a man for acting as watch during the time of sermon." And so on.-- [Illustration: 0383] Sometimes it strikes one as strange, that passion for listening to a sermon which is inherent in one's countrymen. It is but a sombre pleasure, as a rule. Talla, up to a recent period, flowed through a deep valley, whose bottom for some distance was of a treacherous and swampy nature; its trout, therefore, (in marked contrast to those of the tributary Gameshope,) were dark-coloured and "ill-faured." I do not know that they are anything else now, but there is not much of Talla left. A mile above the church you come to a great barrier thrown across the valley, and beyond that for three miles stretches a Reservoir which supplies distant Edinburgh with water. Picturesque enough in its way is this Reservoir, especially when all trace of man and his work is left behind, and nothing meets the eye but the brown, foam-flecked water, and the hills plunging headlong deep into its bosom. Even more picturesque is the scene when storms gather on the far heights, and come raging down the wild glen of Gameshope, swathing in mist and scourging rain-squall the {364}deep-scarred brows of those eerie hills by Talla Linn-foot. What a spot it must be on a wild December day, when blind ing snow drives down the gullies before the icy blast! This Reservoir has been stocked with Loch Leven trout. But the fishing is not, and never will be, good. There is insufficient food; the water is too deep, and except at the extreme head of the loch there are no shallows where insect life might hatch out. The trout are long and lank, and seldom fight well. Nor are they even very eager to rise to the fly. Yet, it is true, some large fish have been taken. But they have a suspiciously cannibal look, and I think an insurance company would be apt to charge a very high premium on the chances of long life of troutlings now put in. I do not know where Young Hay of Talla lived. If his peel tower was here, no doubt the site is now sixty or seventy feet under water, but I cannot remember any traces of a building, or site of a building, in pre-Reservoir days. Men born and brought up lang syne on the gloomy slopes of Talla, might well be such as he, fierce and cruel, ready for treason and murder, or any crime of violence. "Wild your cradle glen, Young Hay of Talla, Stern the wind's wild roar Round the old peel tower, Young Hay of Talla. "Winter night raving, Young Hay of Talla, Snowy drift smooring, Loud the Linn roaring, Young Hay of Talla. "Winterhope's wild hags, Young Hay of Talla, Gameshope dark foaming, There ever roaming, Young Hay of Talla. Night round Kirk o' Field, Young Hay of Talla, Light faint in the room, Darnley sleeps in gloom, Young Hay of Talla. "Shadow by bedside, Young Hay of Talla, Noise in the dull dark, Does sleeper now hark, Young Hay of Talla? "Ah! the young form moves, Young Hay of Talla, Hold him grim,--hold grim, Till quivers not a limb, Young I lay of Talla. "Now the dread deed's done, Young Hay of Talla, Throw the corpse o'er the wall, Give it dead dog's fall, Young Hay of Talla." Hay was one of two executed on 3rd January 1568 for the murder of Darnley. If you would gain a good idea of this part of Tweedsmuir, climb by the steep, crumbling sheep-path that scales the Linn-side, till you reach the spot where Mr. Thomson has made his sketch of the Reservoir. There, lying on the heather by the sounding waters, or beneath the rowan trees where blaeberries cluster thick among the rocks, you may picture to yourself a meeting that took place by this very spot two hundred and thirty-one years ago. On commanding heights, solitary men keeping jealous watch lest Claver'se's hated dragoons should have smelled out the place of meeting; below, where the Linn's roar muffles the volume of other sounds, a company of blue-bonneted, stern-faced men, singing with intense fervour some militant old Scottish Psalm, followed by long and earnest {366}extempore prayer, and renewed Psalms; and presently then falling into dispute as vehement as before had been their prayer and praise. [Illustration: 0386] This was that celebrated meeting of Covenanters in 1682, of which Sir Walter Scott, writing in {367}"The Heart of Midlothian," says: "Here [at Talla] the leaders among the scattered adherents, to the Covenant, men who, in their banishment from human society, and in the recollection of the severities to which they had been exposed, had become at once sullen in their tempers, and fantastic in their religious opinions, met with arms in their hands, and by the side of the torrent discussed, with a turbulence which the noise of the stream could not drown, points of controversy as empty and unsubstantial as its foam." Dour men they were, and intolerant, our old Covenanting forebears, ready at any moment to "prove their doctrine orthodox By apostolic blows and knocks." Yet who can withhold from them his respect, or, in many points, deny them his admiration? If, as Sydney Smith has said, "it is good for any man to be alone with nature and himself"; if "it is well to be in places where man is little and God is great"; then assuredly it is well to be alone, or with a friend "who knows when silence is more sociable than talk," up in the great solitude by Gameshope Burn. Nowhere in Scotland can one find a glen wilder or more impressive, nowhere chance on a scene which more readily helps the harassed mind to slip from under the burden of worldly cares. For half a mile or more from its mouth hut a commonplace, open, boulder-strewn mountain burn, above that point the broken, craggy hills fall swiftly to the lip of a brawling torrent, which drops foaming by linn after linn deep into the seething black cauldrons below, lingers there a minute, then hurries swiftly onward by cliff and fern-clad mossy bank. Above each pool cling rowan trees, rock rooted, a blaze of scarlet and orange if the month be September, but beautiful always at whatever season you may visit them. Everywhere the air is filled with the deep murmur and crash of falling waters; yet, clamber to that lonely old track which leads to the solitary cottage of a shepherd, and around you is a silence {368}almost oppressive, emphasised rather than broken by the ill-omened croak of a raven, or by the thin anxious bleat of a ewe calling to its lamb from far up the mountain side. [Illustration: 0388] A mile past the shepherd's substantially built little house--it had need be strong of frame to stand intact up here against the winter storms--on your left is Donald's Cleuch, reminiscent of the Reverend Donald Cargill, a hero of the Covenant, Minister of the Barony Church in Glasgow in 1655, who was {369}afterwards deprived of his benefice for denouncing the Restoration. The legend is, I presume, that Cargill hid somewhere in the wild moorland hereabout, up the Donald's Cleuch burn perhaps, or a long mile further on, by Gameshope Loch. A man might have lain long, in the summer time, amongst these rugged hills, safe hidden from any number of prying dragoons; but Heaven help him if he lay out there in the winter season. All is wild, broken country, peat-hags, mosses, and deep cleuchs, over which one goes best a-foot--and, of necessity, best with youth on one's side if the journey be of any great length. From the height at the head of Donald's Cleuch burn, one looks down on that gloomy tarn, Loch Skene, lying but a few short miles on the Yarrow side of the watershed. Mr. Skene of Rubislaw tells--it is in Lockhart's life--how when Sir Walter Scott and he visited this loch, a thick fog came down over the hills, completely bewildering them, and "as we were groping through the maze of bogs, the ground gave way, and down went horse and horsemen pell-mell into a slough of peaty mud and black water, out of which, entangled as we were with our plaids and floundering nags, it was no easy matter to get extricated." Savage and desolate are perhaps the words that best describe Loch Skene; yet, in fine summer weather, how beautiful it may be! How beautiful, indeed, all this wild waste of hills where those dour old Covenanters were wont to lurk, never quite free from dread of the dragoons quartered but a few miles away over the hills at Moffat. Tales of the Covenanting times, such, for instance, as "The Brownie of Bodesbeck," used to possess an intense fascination for Scottish boys; every Covenanter was then an immaculate hero, and, I suppose, few boys took any but the worst view of Claverhouse, or refused credence to any of the countless legends of him. and of his diabolical black charger, of which we firmly believed the story that it could course a hare along the side of a precipice. A point in some of those tales that used to interest and puzzle at {370}least one boy, was the mysterious fashion in which a fugitive would at times disappear from ken when hard pressed on the open moor, and when apparently cut off from all chance of escape. A possible explanation presented itself to me one day, a summer or two back, when making my way across the bleak upland that lies between Gameshope Loch and Gameshope Burn. As I walked over the broken peaty surface of the plateau, but not yet arrived where the land begins to drop abruptly into the Gameshope Glen, a covey of grouse got up almost at my feet. The day was windless and very still, and as I stood watching the flight of the birds, the faint melodious tinkle of underground water somewhere very near to me fell on my ear. Glancing around, I saw on the flat ground in front of me within a yard of my feet, what appeared to be a hole, almost entirely concealed by heather. It was from this direction that the sound of the drip, drip of falling water seemed to come. Kneeling down, I pulled the heather aside, and found a hole two or three feet in diameter, and beneath it a roomy kind of chamber hollowed out of the peaty soil. It was a place perhaps five feet deep, big enough at a pinch to conceal half a dozen men; a place from which--unless there was a way out from below--a man might never find exit, if inadvertently he fell in and in his fall chanced to break a limb. In that wild region the prospect of his ever being discovered by searchers would be very small. Unseen of man, he might lie in that peaty grave till his bones bleached, rest in that lonely spot till the last dread trump called him forth to judgment. The day after I had chanced on this strange cavern, I returned with a friend to whom I wanted to show it, and though we knew that we must be often within a few yards of the spot, search as we might we never again found that hole. Was it in some _cache_ such as this--perhaps in this very spot--that Covenanters sometimes lay hid? Here two or three might have lain for days or weeks at a time, sheltered from wind or rain and secure from hostile eyes; it would be warm enough, {371}and the drip of water into it is so slight as to be hardly worth naming. Doubtless if one took careful landmarks it would be easy to find again, once knowledge of its whereabouts was gained. And so the lurking Covenanters would have had small difficulty; but without such landmarks, to find it except by chance seems hopeless. None of the shepherds knew of the hole, save one old man who said he had heard there was some such place. But one might go a hundred times across that moor, passing close to the hidden mouth, and unless the faint tinkle of water betrayed it, or by remote chance one blundered in, its existence would never even be suspected. It is a place worthy to be the abode of the Brown Man of the Muirs; and the district is wild and lonesome enough to breed the most eerie of superstitions. Harking back now to the Tweed,--a little way above the bridge at Tweedsmuir on the right bank there is a huge standing stone, called the Giant's Stone, of which various legends are told. Two other stones lie close at hand, but these appear to be mere ordinary boulders. According to the Statistical Account of the Parish of 1833, this Giant's Stone is the sole survivor of a Druidical Circle; all its fellows were broken up for various purposes, and carted away; and we may be sure it was from no feeling of compunction that even the one was spared. Residents tell us that it was from behind this stone that a wily little archer in days of old sent an arrow into the heart of a giant on the far side of Tweed. The range is considerable; it must have been a glorious fluke. But I rather think the place that is credited with this event, and with the veritable grave of the slain giant, is higher up Tweed, opposite the Hawkshaw burn. Somewhere up this burn stood Hawkshaw Castle or Tower, home of that Porteous who gained unenviable notoriety for his feat of capturing at I alia Moss, with the aid of some of the moss-trooping fraternity, one of Cromwell's outposts, sixteen horse in all, and in cold blood afterwards executing the unfortunate troopers. A contemporary {372}historian relates that: "The greatest releiff at this tyme was by some gentillmen callit moss-trouperis, quha, haiffing quyetlie convenit in threttis and fourties, did cut off numberis of the Englishes, and seased on thair pockettis and horssis." The "pockettis and horssis" were all in the ordinary way of business; it is another affair when it comes to cutting the throats of defenceless captives. A few miles further on, the road we follow passes Badlieu, a place famed as the home, away back in the eleventh century, of Bonnie Bertha, who captured the roving heart of one of our early Scottish Kings as he hunted here one day in the forest. Unhappily for Bertha, there was already a Scottish Queen, and when news of the King's infatuation came to that lady's ears, she--queens have been known to entertain such prejudices--disapproved so strongly of the new _menage_, that one afternoon when the king (who had been absent on some warlike expedition) arrived at Bertha's bower, he found the nest harried, and Bertha and her month-old babe lying dead. And ever after, they say, to the end the King cared no more to hunt, nor took pride in war, but wandered disconsolate, mourning for this Scottish Fair Rosamond. But how the rightful Queen fared thereafter, tradition does not say. And now we come to Tweed Shaws, and Tweed's Well, the latter by popular repute held to be the source of Tweed. But there is a tributary burn which runs a longer course than this, rising in the hills much nearer to the head-waters of Annan. As is well known, "Annan, Tweed, and Clyde Rise a' cot o' au hill-side," a statement which is sufficiently near the truth to pass muster. Near Tweed's Well of old stood Tweed's Cross, "so called," says Pennecuick, "from a cross which stood, and was erected there in time of Popery, as was ordinary in all the eminent places of public roads in the kingdom before our Reformation." It is needless to say that no trace of any cross now remains. {373}Up here, on this lofty, shelterless plateau, we find one of the few spots now left in Scotland where the old snow-posts still stand by the wayside, mute guides to the traveller when snow lies deep and the road is blotted from existence as effectually as is the track of a ship when she has passed across the ocean. Heaven's pity on those whom duty or necessity took across that wild moorland during a heavy snow storm in the old coaching days! Many a man perished up here, wandered from the track, bewildered; stopped to rest and to take his bearings, then slid gently into a sleep from which there was no wakening. In 1831, the mail-coach from Dumfries to Edinburgh left Moffat late one winter's afternoon. Snow was falling as for years it had not been known to fall, and as the day passed the drifts grew deeper and ever more deep. But the guard, MacGeorge, an old soldier, a man of few words, could not be induced to listen to those who spoke of danger and counselled caution. He had been "quarrelled" once before for being behind rime with the mail, said he; so long as he had power to go forward, never should "they" have occasion to quarrel him again. A matter of three or four miles up that heart-breaking, endless hill out of Moffat the coach toiled slowly, many times stopping to breathe the horses; and then it stuck fast. They took the horses out, loaded them with the mails, and guard and driver in company with a solitary passenger started again for Tweedshaws, leading the tired animals. Then the horses stuck, unable to face the deep drifts and the blinding storm. MacGeorge announced his intention of carrying the mailbags; they _must_ be got through. The driver remonstrated. "Better gang back to Moffat," he said. "Gang ye, or bide ye, _I gang on!_" cried MacGeorge. So the horses were turned loose to shift for themselves, and the two men started on their hopeless undertaking, the passenger, on their advice, turning to make his way back to Moffat. That was the last ever seen alive of the two who went forward. Next {374}day, the mail-bags were found beyond the summit of the hill,--the most shelterless spot of the entire road,--hanging to a snow-post, fastened there by numbed hands that too apparently had been bleeding. But of guard and coachman no trace till three days later, when searchers found them, dead, on Mac-George's face "a kind o' a pleasure," said the man who discovered the body in the deep snow. Some such fate as that ever trod here on the heels of foot passengers who wandered from the track during a snow-storm. In his "Strange Adventures of a Phæton," William Black writes of these hills as "a wilderness of heather and wet moss," even in the summer time; and he speaks of the "utter loneliness," the "profound and melancholy stillness." There is no denying that it is lonely, and often profoundly still. And no doubt to many there is monotony in the low, rolling, treeless, benty hills that here are the chief feature in the scenery. But I do not think it is melancholy. The sense of absolute freedom and of boundless space is too great to admit of melancholy creeping in. The feeling, to me at least, is more akin to that one experiences when standing on the deck of a full-rigged ship running down her Easting in "the Roaring Forties," with the wind drumming hard out of the Sou'West. From the haze, angry grey seas come raging on the weather quarter, snarling as they curl over and leap to fling themselves aboard, then, baffled, spew up in seething turmoil from beneath the racing keel, and hurry off to leeward. There you have a plethora of monotony; each hurrying sea is exactly the mate of his fellow that went before him, twin of that which follows after. Day succeeds day without other variety than what may come from the carrying of less or more sail; hour after hour, day after day, the same gigantic albatrosses, with far-stretched motionless wings soar and wheel leisurely over and around the ship, never hasting, never stopping,--unhasting and relentless as Death himself. Monotony absolute and supreme, but a sense of freedom and of boundless space, and no touch of {375}melancholy. So it is here among these rolling hills where the infant Tweed is born. There is no melancholy in the situation, or at worst it can be but of brief duration. Who could feel melancholy when, at last on the extreme summit and beginning the long descent towards Moffat, he sees spread out on either hand that glorious crescent of hills, rich in the purple bloom of heather; Annan deep beneath his feet wandering far through her quiet valley, and dim in the distance, the English hills asleep in the golden haze of afternoon. For my part, I would fain linger, perched up here, late into the summer gloaming, watching the panorama change with the changing light when the sun has long set and the glow is dying m the west; "For here the peace of heaven hath fallen, and here The earth and sky are mute in sympathy." And this ground is classic ground. It was at Errickstane, not far below, where, more than six hundred years ago, the young Sir James Douglas found Bruce riding on his way to Scone, to be crowned King of Scotland. And to the left of the road shortly after leaving its highest point on the hill, there yawns that tremendous hollow, the Devil's Beef Tub, or, as it is sometimes called, the Marquis of Annandale's Beef Stand. It was here in the '45 that a Highland prisoner, suddenly wrapping himself tight in his plaid, threw himself over the edge ana rolled like a hedgehog to the bottom, escaping, sore bruised indeed, but untouched by the bullets that were sent thudding and whining after him by the outwitted prisoners' guard. He is a desperate man who would attempt a like feat, even minus the chance of a bullet. It is a wild place and a terrible. The reason of its being called the Marquis's Beef Stand is given by Summertrees in "Redgauntlet." It was, said he, "because the Annandale loons used to put their stolen cattle in there." And Summer-tree's description of it is so truthful and vivid that it behoves one to quote it in full: "It looks as if four hills were laying {376}their heads together to shut out daylight from the dark hollow space between them. [Illustration: 0396] A d----d deep, black, blackguard-looking abyss of a hole it is, and goes straight down from the road-side, as perpendicular as it can do, to be a heathery brae. At the bottom there is a small bit of a brook, that you would think {377}could hardly find its way out from the hills that are so closely jammed round it." And so, finally, having overshot the limits of Tweed and her tributaries, we cast back to the hills on the immediate border-line of the two kingdoms, and pass into the country of Dandie Dinmont. CHAPTER XVI LIDDESDALE, HERMITAGE, CASTLETON |Coming{378} into Liddesdale by the route followed by Prince Charlie, over the hills by Note o' the Gate, one finds, a few miles past that curiously-named spot and no great distance from the road, the scene of a momentous battle of ancient times. It is claimed that it was here on Dawstane Rig the mighty struggle took place in the year 603 between Edelfrid, King of the Northumbrians, and Aidan, King of the Scots, the result of which, says Bede, writing a century and a quarter later, was that "from that time no king of the Scots durst come into Britain to make war on the Angles to this day." As written by Bede, the name of the place where the battle was fought is Uaegsastan,--a "famous place," he calls it. Dalston, near Carlisle, also claims the honour of being the true site of this great defeat of the Scots; But Dawstane Rig seems the more probable spot, for, judging from the number of camps in the immediate vicinity, it must assuredly in old days have answered the description of a "famous place." There are numerous signs, also, that a great fight did at some remote period take place here; traces of escarpments are numerous on the hill side, arrowheads and other suggestive implements have frequently been picked up, and over all the hill are low cairns or mounds of stones, probably burial places of the slain. So far as I am aware, no excavations have ever been made here, the dead--{379}if these stones do indeed cover the dead--sleep undisturbed where they fell. But if the work were judiciously done, it would be interesting and instructive to make a systematic search over the reputed battle ground. Not far distant from this ancient field of battle, but a little closer to the base of Peel Fell, runs a Roman road, the old Wheel Causeway, and into, or almost into, this road comes the Catrail, here finally disappearing. I have never heard any suggestion made of a reason why this Picts' Work Dyke should stop abruptly in, or at least on the very verge of, a Roman high-way. It is difficult to accept the theory that the Catrail was a road, because, in places where it crosses streams, no attempt is made to diverge towards a ford, or even to an easy entrance to the river bed; it plunges in where the bank is often most inconveniently precipitous, and emerges again where it is equally steep. Yet if it was not a road, why should it run into and end in a recognised road that must have been in existence when the Catrail was formed? Up the Wheel Causeway, a little distance beyond the spot where the Catrail disappears, and between the Wormscleuch and Peel burns, there stood at one time an ancient ecclesiastical building, the Wheel Chapel, of whose walls faint traces still remain. It was in this building that Edward I of England passed the night of 24th May 1296, during his Bolder Progress; in the record of his expedition the chapel is spoken of as the "Wyel." When the Statistical Account of 1798 was written, probably a considerable part of the ruin yet stood, for the writer of that account speaks of it as being of "excellent workmanship," and "pretty large." And he remarks on the great number of grave-stones in the churchyard, from which he con eludes that the surrounding population must at one rime have been very considerable. Over all this district, indeed, that seems to have been the case. Chapels were numerous among these hills; in this part of Liddesdale there were no fewer than five, and the Wheel Chapel itself is not more than six miles or {380}so, as the crow flies, from Southdean, where it is certain that about the date of the battle of Otterburne the population was much more dense than it is at the present day. What changes little more than one hundred years have wrought in this countryside. Six years before the Statistical Account of 1798 was penned, there were neither roads nor bridges in Liddesdale; "through these deep and broken bogs and mosses we must _crawl_, to the great fatigue of ourselves but the much greater injury of our horses," pathetically says the reverend writer of the account. Every article of merchandise had to be carried on horseback. Sir Walter Scott himself--in August 1800--was the first who ever drove a wheeled vehicle among the Liddesdale hills, and we know from "Guy Mannering," and from Lockhart's "Life," pretty well what a wild country it then was. There was not an inn or a public house in the whole valley, says Lockhart; "the travellers passed from the shepherd's hut to the minister's manse, and again from the cheerful hospitality of the manse to the rough and jolly welcome of the homestead." Inns, to be sure, even now are not to be found, and are not needed, by every roadside, but at least there are excellent main roads down both Liddel and Hermitage, and a main line of railway runs through the valley; the moors are well drained, and the necessity no longer exists to "crawl" through broken bogs and mosses. Yet still the hills in appearance are as they were in Scott's day, still they retain features which render them distinct from any other of the Border hills; they are "greener and more abrupt.... sinking their sides at once upon the river." "They had no pretensions to magnificence of height, or to romantic shapes, nor did their smooth swelling slopes exhibit either rocks or woods. Yet the view was wild, solitary, and pleasingly rural. No enclosures, no roads, almost no tillage,--it seemed a land which a patriarch would have chosen to feed his flocks and herds. The remains of here and there a dismantled and ruined tower showed that it had once harboured beings of a very different description {381}from its present inhabitants,--those freebooters, namely, to whose exploits the wars between England and Scotland bear witness." The description might almost have been written today. The wild, hard riding, hard living freebooter of Johnie Armstrong's day is gone, leaving but a name and a tradition, or at most the mouldering walls of some old peel tower. But Dandie Dinmont himself, I think may still be found here in the flesh, as true a friend, as generous, as brave and steadfast as ever was his prototype,--but no longer as hard drinking. The days of "run" brandy from the Solway Firth are over, and the scene mentioned by Lockhart is now impossible, where Scott's host, a Liddesdale farmer, on a slight noise being heard outside, the evening of the traveller's arrival, _banged_ up from his knees during family prayers, shouting "By----, here's the keg at last!" On hearing the previous day of Scott's proposed visit, he had sent off two men to some smuggler's haunt to obtain a supply of liquor, that his reputation for hospitality might not be shamed. And here it was, to the great prejudice of that evening's family worship! I do not suppose that the present day "Dandie" leisters fish any longer,--though one would not take on oneself rashly to swear that such a thing is even now entirely impossible, but certainly within recent years fox hunts have taken place amongst these hills much after the fashion described in "Guy Mannering." In such a country, indeed, what other means can there he of dealing with the hill foxes? There is another road into Liddesdale from the north, that which comes from Hawick up the Slitrig, past Stohs camp, then through the gap in the hills by Shankend and over the watershed by Limekilnedge, where Whitterhope Burn--tributary of Hermitage Water--takes its rise. As you drop down to heights less elevated, you pass on your left the Nine Stane Rig, a Druidical Circle, but locally more famed as the spot where the cruel and detestable Sorcerer, Lord Soulis, came to his grisly end. "Oh, _BOIL_ him, if you like, but let me be plagued no more," cried (according to tradition) a Scottish {382}Monarch, wearied by the importunities of those who endlessly brought before him their grievances against the wicked lord. So--as Leyden wrote-- "On a circle of stones they placed the pot, On a circle of stones but barely nine; They heated it red and fiery hot, Till the burnished brass did glimmer and shine. "They rolled him up in a sheet of lead-- A sheet of lead for a funeral pall; They plunged him in the cauldron red, And melted him, lead, and bones, and all. "At the Skelf-hill, the cauldron still The men of Liddesdale can show; . And on the spot, where they boiled the pot, The spreat and the deer-hair ne'er shall grow." ("Spreat" is a species of rush, and "deer-hair" a coarse kind of grass.) Not the least painful part of the operation one would think must have been the getting so large a body into so small a cauldron. Some necromancy stronger than his own must have been employed to get him into a pot of the dimensions of that long preserved at Skelf-hill and shown to the curious as the identical cauldron. Of the stones that still remain of the original nine, two used to be pointed out as those between which the muckle pot was suspended on an iron bar, gipsy-kettle fashion. In reality, I believe this last of the de Soulis family died in Dumbarton Castle, a prisoner accused of conspiracy and treason. A little way up Hermitage Water from the junction of Whitterhope Burn, stands the massive and most striking ruin of Hermitage Castle. Externally, the walls of this formidable stronghold are said to be mostly of the fifteenth century, but in part, of course, the building is very much older. The first castle built here is said to have been erected by Nicholas de Soulis in the beginning of the thirteenth century, and on a map of about the year 1300 Hermitage is shown as one of the {383}great frontier fortresses. There were, however, earlier proprietors of these lands than the de Soulis's, who may, presumably, have lived here in some stronghold of their own, to which their successors may have added. About the year 1180, Walter de Bolbeck granted "to God and Saint Mary and Brother William of Mercheley" the hermitage in his "waste" called Mercheley, beside Hermitage Water--then called the Merching burn. But from a much earlier date than this, possibly as early as the sixth century, the place had been famed as the retreat of a succession of holy men, and probably something in the nature of a chapel existed even then. The chapel whose remains still stand, close by the bank of the tumbling stream, a few hundred yards higher up than the castle, is, I understand, of thirteenth century origin. It measures a little over fifty-one feet in length and twenty-four in width, and the ruins are of much interest, if it were only for the thought of those who in their day must have heard mass within its walls, and perhaps there confessed their sins. And surely, if sinners ever required absolution, some of those who must have knelt here had need to ask it. On the shoulders of de Soulis and Both well alone--among those who from time to lime held the castle of Hermitage perhaps the chief of sinners,--there rested a load of iniquity too heavy to be borne by ordinary mortal; and of the others, some perhaps did not lag far behind in cruelty and wickedness. If the tale be all true regarding the last days of Sir Alexander Ramsay in 1342, the Knight of Liddesdale had a good deal to answer for during his tenancy of the castle. The interior of the building is in so much more ruinous a state than the outside, that it is not possible to follow with any degree of accuracy incidents that took place within its walls. It is said that before death ended his pangs, Sir Alexander Ramsay eked out a miserable existence for seventeen days on grains of corn that dribbled down from a granary overhead into the dungeon where he lay. But the small dungeon where he is {384}said to have been confined has a vaulted roof, and the room above was manifestly a guard room; so that--unless there was some other dungeon--probably this story too, so far at least as the grains of corn are concerned, must go the way of other picturesque old tales. [Illustration: 0404] Some interesting relics were found among the rubbish on the floor when the dungeon was opened early in the nineteenth century, but I do not know that there was anything that could in any way be connected with Sir Alexander's fate. Many an unhappy wretch no doubt had occupied the place since his day. But what there was I believe was given to Sir Walter Scott, who also, as readers may see in Lockhart's "Life," got from Dr. Elliot of Cleuchhead "the large old Border war horn, which ye may still see hanging in the armoury at Abbotsford.... One of the doctor's servants had used it many a day as a grease-horn for his scythe, {385}before they discovered its history. When cleaned out, it was never a hair the worse--the original chain, hoop, and mouthpiece of steel, were all entire, just as you now see them. Sir Walter carried it home all the way from Liddesdale to Jedburgh, slung about his neck like Johnny Gilpin's bottle, while I [Shortreed] was intrusted with an ancient bridle-bit which we had likewise picked up." The horn I think had been found in a marshy bit of land near the castle. Since about 1594, Hermitage has been the property of the Scotts of Buccleuch, into whose hands it came through their connection with Francis Stewart, Earl of Bothwell. A sketch done in 1810 shows that at that date one wall of the castle was rent from top to bottom by an enormous fissure, seemingly almost beyond redemption. But about 1821, careful repairs were undertaken by order of the then Duke of Buccleuch, and, externally, the building now seems to be in excellent condition. Many a warrior, no doubt, lies buried in the graveyard of Hermitage chapel, but I do not think any tombstones of very-great age have ever been found. Outside, however, between the wall of the burial ground and the river, there is an interest ing mound, the reputed grave of the famous Cout o' Keilder. Keilder is a district of Northumberland adjoining Peel Fell, and in the day of the wizard Soulis, that iniquitous lord's most noted adversary was the chief of Keilder, locally called, from his great size and strength and activity, "the Cout." In his last desperate fight with Soulis and his followers on the banks of Hermitage Water, the Cout was hewing a bloody path through the press of men, towards his chief enemy, when weight of numbers forced him, like a wounded stag, to take to the water. Here, at bay in the rushing stream, guarding himself from the foes who swarmed on either bank, the Cout stumbled and fell, and, hampered by his armour, he could not regain his feet; for each time that the drowning man got his head above water, Soulis and his band thrust him back with their long spears. Finally, as he became more exhausted, they held him down. And so the Cout perished. Here on the grassy bank, hard by what is still called "The Cout o' Keilder's pool," is his grave. [Illustration: 0406] But one is disappointed to learn that when an examination of it was made some years ago, no gigantic bones were unearthed, nor indeed any bones at all. There is in some of the hills near Hermitage a peculiarity which cannot fail to strike observers; and that is, the deep gashes--you cannot call them glens--that have been cut here and there by the small burns. Scored wide and deep into the smooth sides of the hills, they are yet not so wide as to force themselves on the eye. It would be possible to drive into them, and there effectually to conceal for a time, large mobs of cattle, and I do not doubt that in old days these fissures were often so used when a hostile English force was moving up the valley. As one goes down Hermitage Water towards its junction with the Liddel, the country, one finds, is plentifully sprinkled {387}with the ruins of peel towers,--abandoned rookeries of the Elliot clan, I suppose, for the Armstrong holdings were a little lower down. But in old days, when the de Soulis's held all Liddesdale, there were other strong castles besides Hermitage. Near Dinlabyre there stood the castle of Clintwood, and not far from the meeting of the two streams, on the high bank of Liddel, stood one of their strongholds--Liddel Castle. It was from this castle that the old village of Castleton look its name: the village was at first merely a settlement of de Soulis's followers. The old Statistical Account of the Parish gives an extract from the Session Records of Castleton church which is of interest. It is as follows: "17 January 1649. The English army commanded by Colonels Bright and Pride, and under the conduct of General Cromwell, on their return to England, did lie at the Kirk of Castleton several nights, in which time they brak down and burnt the Communion table and the seats of the Kirk; and at their removing carried away the minister's books, to the value of one thousand merks and above, and also the books of Session, with which they lighted their tobacco pipes, the baptism, marriage, and examination rolls from October 1612 to September 1648, all which were lost and destroyed." Castleton as a village does not now exist, and the old church has disappeared, though the churchyard is still used. The other village, the present Newcastleton, is of course entirely a township of yesterday---to be precise, it dates only from 1793. But it is interesting from the fact that the present railway station occupies the site where once stood the tower of Park, the peel of that "Little Jock Elliot" who so nearly put an end to the life of Bothwell. What a difference it might have made if he had but stabbed in a more vital spot, or a little deeper. Not far from Castleton was the home of the notorious Willie of Westburnflat, last of the old reivers, and--it almost goes {388}without saying--an Armstrong; the last of those of whom it was written: "Of Liddisdail the common thiefis, Sa peartlie stellis now and reifis, That nane may keip Horse, nolt, nor scheip, Nor yett dar sleip For their mischeifis." But Willie lived in degenerate days; the times were out of joint, and reiving as a profession had gone out of fashion. People now resented having their eye "lifted," and meanly invoked the new-fangled aid of the Law in redressing such grievances. Nevertheless, Willie did his best to maintain old customs, and consequently he was feared and hated far beyond the bounds of Liddesdale. Modern prejudice however at length became too strong for him. It so fell out that a dozen or so of cows, raided one night from Teviotdale, were traced to Westburnflat. In the dead of night, when Willie was peacefully asleep, tired perhaps, and soothed by the consciousness of a deed well done, the men of Teviotdale arrived, and, bursting in, before Willie could gather his scattered wits or realise what was happening he was overpowered by numbers, and they had bound him fast, hand and foot. His trial, along with that of nine friends and neighbours, was held at Selkirk, and though the lost cattle had not been found in his possession, and the evidence of this particular theft was in no way conclusive, on the question of general character alone the jury thought it safer to find all the prisoners guilty. Sentence of death was pronounced. Thereupon Willie arose in wrath, seized the heavy oak chair on which he had been seated, broke it in pieces by main strength, kept a strong leg for himself, and passing the remainder to his condemned comrades, called to them to stand by him and they would fight their way out of Selkirk. There is little doubt, too, that he would have succeeded had he been properly backed up. But his friends--{389}poor "fushiunless," spiritless creatures, degenerate Armstrongs surely, if they were Armstrongs--seized his hands and cried to him to "_let them die like Christians_." [Illustration: 0409] Perhaps it was a kind of equivalent to turning King's Evidence; they may have hoped to curry favour and to be treated leniently because of their services in helping to secure the chief villain. But they might better have died fighting; pusillanimity availed them nothing. They were all duly hanged. A few miles down the Liddel from Westburnfiat is the site {390}of Mangerton Castle, home of the chief of the Armstrong clan, Johnie of Gilnockie's brother. [Illustration: 0410] Nothing now is left of the building, but Sir Walter mentions that an old carved stone from its walls is built into a neighbouring mill. Near to Mangerton, in a field between Newcastleton and Ettletown Churchyard, is the interesting Milnholm Cross, said to have been erected somewhere about six hundred years ago to mark the spot where a dead chief of the Armstrongs lay, prior to being buried at Ettletown. The tradition as given in the Statistical Account of 1798, is as follows: "One of the governors of Hermitage Castle, some say Lord Soulis, others Lord Douglas, having entertained a passion for a young woman in the lower part of the parish, went to her house, and was met by her father, who, wishing to conceal his daughter, was instantly killed by the Governor. He was soon pursued by the people, and, in extreme danger, took refuge with Armstrong of Mangerton, who had influence enough to prevail on the {391}people to desist from the pursuit, and by this means saved his life. Seemingly with a view to make a return for this favour, but secretly jealous of the power and influence of Armstrong, he invited him to Hermitage, where he was basely murdered. He himself, in his turn, was killed by Jock of the Side, of famous memory, and brother to Armstrong. The cross was erected in memory of the transaction." Here, too, I fear tradition is untrustworthy. Jock of the Syde--"a greater thief did never ride"--lived long after the day of the de Soulis's or of Douglas; he was, indeed, contemporary with the equally notorious "Johne of the Parke,"--Little Jock Elliot. This Milnholm Cross is a little over eight feet in height. The carving is worn, and not very distinct, but on a shield there is the heraldic device of the Armstrongs, a bent arm; some lettering, i.h.s.; below, the initials m.a., and what appears to be a.a.; and on the shaft is cut a two-handed sword, about four feet in length. In his "History of Liddesdale," (1883). Bruce Armstrong says the shield was added "recently." CHAPTER XVII KERSHOPEFOOT, CARLISLE CASTLE, SOLWAY MOSS |A little{392} further down the river we come to the Kershope Burn, here the boundary between Scotland and England. It was here, at "the Dayholme of Kershoup"--which I take to be the flat land on the Scottish side of Liddel, opposite to the mouth of the burn--that the Wardens' Meeting was held in 1596, which became afterwards so famous owing to the illegal capture by the English of Kinmont Willie. All the world knows the tale, and all the world knows how gallantly Buccleuch rescued the prisoner from Carlisle Castle. But until one goes to Carlisle, and takes note for oneself of the difficulties with which Buccleuch had to contend, and the apparently hopeless nature of his undertaking, it is not possible to appreciate the full measure of the rescuer's gallantry. Kinmont, I suppose, on the day of his capture was riding quietly homeward down the Scottish side of the river, suspecting no evil, for the day was a day of truce. "Upon paine of death, presentlie to be executed, all persones whatsoever that come to these meitings sould be saife fra any proceiding or present occasioun, from the tyme of Meiting of the Wardens, or their Deputies, till the next Day at the sun rysing." The English did not play the game; from their own side of Liddel they had probably kept Kinmont in sight, meaning to seize him if opportunity offered. And they made the opportunity. For the most part, the banks of {393}Liddel here are steep and broken, and the river is devoid of any ford; but a mile or two down from Kershopefoot the land on the Scottish side slopes gently from the water, and it is easily fordable. [Illustration: 0413] Here probably began the chase which ended in Willie's capture. A very fine sword was found near this. The night of Kinmont's release, the 13th of April, 1596, was very dark, with rain falling, and a slight mist rising over the river flats at Carlisle. And the Eden was swollen. It is not possible to form any very definite idea of the initial difficulty Buccleuch must have met with at this point, because the bed of the river is now entirely different from what it was then. In former days, I believe, a long, low island lay in mid-stream, the water flowing swiftly through two channels. Even now there is shallow water part way across, but the stream runs strong and {394}it would be ill to ford, especially on a dark night. Buccleuch, I take it, must have swum his horses across the Eden nearly opposite, but a trifle above, the mouth of the litde river Caldew, the water being at the tyme, through raines that had fallen, weill thick; he comes to the Sacray, a plaine place under the toune and castell, and halts upon the syde of a little water or burn that they call "Caday." [Illustration: 0414] The "Sacray" is of course what now goes by the name of the Sauceries. Buccleuch's scaling ladders proved too short to enable him to get within the castle walls by their means; but there is a small postern gate in the wall (nearly abreast of the present public Abattoirs), and this was forced, or at least one or two men squeezed in here, possibly by removing a stone below the gate, and opened the postern to their comrades. This postern has recently been reopened. After Buccleuch's exploit it had been securely built upon both sides, outside and in; and later, {395}a Cook's galley and other domestic offices were erected on the inner side, against the wall, effectually hiding the old gate. [Illustration: 0415] These buildings and the stonework blocking the postern have now been pulled down, and the identical little oaken gate through which Buccleuch and his men entered, once more has seen the light of day, and, I understand, is now being put in a state of thorough repair. Having made his entry, Buccleuch placed one part of his force between the castle and the town, so that he might not be assailed in rear, and, leaving a few men to guard the postern and secure their retreat, the rest pushed towards Kinmont Willie's place of confinement in the Keep, all making as great a noise as possible, "to terrifie both castell and toune by ane imaginatioun of a greater force." Hitherto they had encountered only the castle sentinels, who were easily scattered and brushed aside; "the rest that was within doors heiring the noyse of the trumpet within, and that the castell was entered, and the noyse of others without, both the Lord {396}Scroope himself and his deputy Salkeld being thair with the garrisone and hys awin retinew, did keep thamselffis close." [Illustration: 0416] It was one thing, however, for the rescuers to have forced their way inside the castle walls, but it should have been quite another, to accomplish the feat of getting the prisoner out of the dungeon. Through a female spy they knew in what part of the castle he lay; but his place of confinement,--inside the Keep,--was quite a hundred yards from the postern gate, and {397}surely a few resolute men might have held so strong a post for a time without much difficulty. Lord Scrope, however, did not emerge from his retreat; and to the others as well, discretion seemed the better part of valour. [Illustration: 0417] Meantime, Buccleuch's trumpets were blaring out the arrogant old Elliot slogan; "_O wha daur meddle wi' me?_"; and his men, falling to with energy, forced the gate of the Keep, burst in the massive door of the outer dungeon, tore away that of the dark and noisome inner prison, a rough, vaulted stone chamber to which no ray of light ever penetrated even on the brightest clay, and there they found Kinmont, chained to the wall. No time now to strike off his fetters; they could but free him from the long iron bar that ran along one side of the wall, and "Then Red Rowan has hente him up, The starkest man in Teviotdale-- 'Abide, abide now, Red Rowan, Till of my Lord Scroope I take farewell.' "'Farewell, farew ell, my gude Lord Scroope! My gude Lord Scroope, farewell!' he cried-- 'I'll pay ye for my lodging maill, When first we meet on the Border side.' "Then shoulder high, with shout and cry, We bore him down the ladder lang; At every stride Red Rowan made, I wot the Kinmont's aims played clang! "We scarce had won the Staneshaw-bank, When a' the Carlisle bells were rung, And a thousand men on horse and foot, Cam' wi' the keen Lord Scroope along." But still they held aloof, hesitating to attack the retreating little Scottish band, and Buccleuch and his men, with Willie in their midst, plunged in and safely recrossed the swollen river. "He turned him on the other side, And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he-- 'If ye likena my visit in merry England, In fair Scotland come visit me!'" But Lord Scrope on this night scarcely merited the term, "keen"; he went no farther towards Scotland than the water's edge. "'He is either himself a devil frae hell, Or else his mother a witch maun be; I wadna have ridden that wan water For a' the gowd in Christentie,'" cried he, according to the ballad. Was he, one cannot help wondering, ashamed of the English breach of Border law entailed in the matter of Kinmont's capture, and was he in a measure wilfully playing into Buccleuch's hands? If that were the case, he took on himself a heavy risk. Elizabeth was not exactly the kind of Sovereign who would be likely to be tender hearted and to make allowances for slackness in such an affair, nor one with whom her servants might safely take liberties. {399}As safely might the gambolling lamb play pranks with the drowsing wolf. [Illustration: 0419] Not far from Longtown, at a place called Dick's Tree, on the farther side of Esk, there still stands the "smiddy" (or smith's shop) where Kinmont's irons were struck off. In one of Sir Walter Scott's M.S. letters of 1826 it is told that: "Tradition preserves the account of the smith's daughter, then a child, how there was a _sair clatter_ at the door about daybreak, and loud crying for the smith; but her father not being on the alert, Buccleueh himself thrust his lance thro' the window, which effectually bestirred him. On looking out, the woman continued, she saw, in the grey of the morning, more gentlemen than she had ever before seen in one place, all on horseback, in armour, and dripping wet--and that Kinmont Willie, who sat woman fashion behind one of them, was the biggest carle she ever saw--and there was much merriment in {400}the company." Except for this event, Dick's Tree is quite uninteresting, and quite unpicturesque; it is merely a cottage like a thousand others to be seen in the Border, possessing no special feature, or even any indication of antiquity. [Illustration: 0420] And no one works the "smiddy" now, except at odd times; modern requirements have, I understand, taken the business away to Longtown. What was the end of Kinmont Willie no one knows, but he {401}certainly lived to pay, to some small extent, for his "lodging maill;" he was engaged in a raid on Lord Scrope's tenants in the year 1600, and doubtless he did not forget the debt incurred at Carlisle. Later than this I think there is no record of him, but it would not be surprising to learn that at the last Lord Scrope was able to give a receipt in full. Many an Armstrong in old days danced at the end of a rope at "Hairribie." Not improbably, Kinmont was one of them. There is a grave in an old churchyard not far from the Tower of Sark, which is pointed out as his. But the date on the tombstone makes it impossible that the veritable Willie of Kinmont lies underneath. The name of "William Armstrong called Kynmount" is in Lord Maxwell's Muster Roll of 1585, together with those of his seven sons. Willie, therefore--if at that date he had seven sons fit to fight--could have been no youth. Now the William Armstrong to whose memory the Sark tombstone is erected died in 1658, which, if he had been the famous Kinmont, would give him an age of considerably over a hundred years. But in any case, it is an interesting old stone. Many years ago steps were taken to preserve it from further decay, and the lettering and other points were retouched. Round the edges of the stone is cut: "_HEIR LYES. ANE. WORTHIE. PERSON. CALLIT. WILLIAM. ARMSTRONG. OF. SARK. WHO. DIED. TE IO. DAY. OF. JUNE. 16. 58. AETATIS. SVAE. 56_." On the body of the stone: "Man as grass to grave he flies. Grass decays and man he dies. Grass revives and man doth rise. Yet few they be who get the prise." Below are the Armstrong bent arm holding a sword, a skull and crossed bones, an hour glass and other emblems, and below all, "memento mora." This William Armstrong, therefore, who died in 1658, aged 56, was not born when Kinmont Willie was rescued by Buccleuch from Carlisle Castle. Here, on the lower part of Sark, we are in a country world {402}famed for its old fashioned run-away marriages, more famed even than was Coldstream. [Illustration: 0422] Down the river is Sark Bridge, with its toll-bar, and adjacent to it, Gretna Green. At the tollhouse alone in the early part of last century, within six years thirteen hundred couples were married--a profitable business for the "priest," (usually the village blacksmith,) for his fee ranged from half a guinea to a hundred pounds, according to the circumstances of each fond couple. But what was charged in a case such as that of Lord Erskine, Lord High Chancellor of England, who, when he was nearly seventy years of age, eloped with a blushing spinster and was married at Gretna--in the Inn, I think--history does not tell. There is a something, part comic, part pathetic, in the thought of the tired old gentle{403}man gallantly propping himself in a corner of his post chaise, flying through the darkness of night on Love's wings, a fond bride by his side. [Illustration: 0423] And when grey dawn at length stole through the breath-dimmed glass of the closed windows, revealing the "elderly morning dew" on his withered cheeks and stubbly chin, with callous disregard emphasizing the wrinkles, the bags below the puffy eyes--bloodshot from want of sleep--and the wig awry, did the young lady begin to repent her bargain, one may wonder. Stretched between Sark and Longtown is the Debateable Land and Solway Moss; the latter "just a muckle black moss," they will tell you here, yet surely not without its own beauty under certain combinations of sun and cloud. "Solway Moss" is a name of evil repute to us of Scotland, for here on 24th {404}November 1542 took place the most miserable of all Border battles--if indeed "battle" is a term in any degree applicable to the affair. [Illustration: 0424] The encounter, such as it was, took place not so much in Solway Moss, however, as over towards Arthuret. The Scots--a strong raiding army, but disorganised, and in a state of incipient mutiny against their newly-appointed leader, Oliver Sinclair, (Ridpath says: "a general murmur and breach of all order immediately ensued" when his appointment was made known,)--at dawn of the 24th were already burning northward through the Debateable Land. Wharton with his compact little English force watched them from Arthuret Howes and skilfully drew them into a hopeless trap between the Esk and an impassable swamp, where there was no room to deploy. Here the English--at most not a sixth part so numerous as the Scots--charging down on the Scottish right flank threw them into hopeless confusion, and from that minute all was over. {405}Panic seized the Scots: men cast aside whatever might hamper their flight, and, plunging into the water, scrambled for what safety they might find among the Grahams and the English borderers of Liddesdale--which, as it turned out, meant little better than scrambling from the frying pan into the fire. [Illustration: 0425] Many were driven into the swamp and perished there miserably, many were drowned in the river, and twelve hundred men--including a large percentage of nobles--were captured. Out of a force variously estimated at from two to three thousand strong--Sir William Musgrave, who was with the cavalry, puts it at the higher figure--the English lost but seven men killed. It was a {406}sorry business, a dreadful day for Scotland; and it ended the life of James V as effectually as if he had been slain on the field of battle. [Illustration: 0426] I do not know if Arthuret church was injured on this occasion; it is recorded in 1597 that it had then been ruinous for about sixty years. Perhaps the Armstrongs may have been responsible; they made a big raid hereaway in 1528. The present building dates, I believe, from 1609. There was another calamity connected with Solway Moss, later than the battle and local in effect, yet sufficiently terrible to cast over the district a black shadow of tragedy, the memory of which time has lightened but even yet has not entirely wiped out. November 1771 was a month of evil note for its storms and ceaseless wet. Day followed day sodden with driving rain, and the country lay smothered under a ragged grey blanket of mist. Firm ground became a quagmire that quaked under foot, pools widened into lakes, and the rivers {407}rose in dreadful spate that yet failed to carry off the superfluous water. [Illustration: 0427] Liddel roared through the rocky gorge of Fenton Linn with a fury such as had never been known; Esk left her bed and wandered at will. Many people living in the low lying flats surrounding the Moss, alarmed for the safety of their cattle, were abroad in the dark of the morning of 16th November, intent on getting the beasts to higher ground, {408}when a long-drawn muffled rumble, as of distant thunder, startled them. [Illustration: 0428] The Moss had burst, spewing out from its maw a putrid mass that spread relentlessly, engulfing house after house, in many cases catching the inhabitants in their beds. For weeks the horrible eruption spread, and ere its advance was stayed thirty families were homeless, their houses, furniture, and live-stock buried twenty feet deep under a black slime that stank like the pit of Tophet. Harking back to Carlisle, (which we left in company of Kinmont Willie,) one would fain linger in that pleasant town, to dream awhile over its alluring past. But Carlisle is a subject too big to introduce at the close of a volume; there is a more than sufficient material in the story of the castle (with its wealth of warlike and other memories), and of the Cathedral, alone to make a fair-sized book. There is too much to tell; for, besides the story of the captivity here of Queen Mary of {409}Scotland, and that of the capture of Carlisle by Prince Charlie, there are a hundred and one other things, if once a beginning were made and space to tell them were available. (What used to be called Queen Mary's Tower, to save cost of repairs was pulled down by Government between 1824 and 1835, together with the Hall in which Edward I held Parliaments, and much else of surpassing interest. Vandalism in those days was a vice which affected not alone the private individual.) Moreover, there would be the question of where to stop, for if the history of Carlisle be touched upon, at once we are mixed up with that of half a score of places in the immediate neighbourhood, all of which are full of profoundest interest. There would be, for example, Naworth, not far from the quaint little town of Brampton, Naworth with its massive walls, and memories of the Dacres, and of Belted Will Howard--a name better known to Border fame, at least to the Borderer of to day, than even that of his predecessors. Then there would necessarily be the fascinating subject of the Roman wall, of Bird-Oswald camp, of Lanercost, and of Gilsland, with its memories of Sir Walter. One must needs make an end somewhere, and it is hopeless to treat of such subjects in small space. But Bewcastle, perhaps, because of its connection with a subject mentioned earlier in this volume, must not be omitted. CHAPTER XVIII BEWCASTLE, LIDDEL MOAT, NETHERBY, KIRK ANDREWS, GILNOCKIE, LANGHOLM |A pilgrimage{410} to Bewcastle cannot be recommended to persons animated by curiosity alone; or even by a passion for the beauties of nature. [Illustration: 0430] From childhood the writer had a desire to behold Bewcastle, because it was the Captain of Bewcastle who, in the ballad of _Jamie Telfer_, in _The Border Minstrelsy_, made such an unlucky raid on the cows of a farmer in Ettrickdale. The very word Bewcastle seemed to re-echo {411}the trumpets of the Wardens' Raids and the battles long ago. [Illustration: 0431] But when you actually find yourself, after a long walk or drive up a succession of long green ascents, in the broad bleak cup of the hills; when you see the grassy heights, with traces of ancient earthworks that surround the blind grey oblong of the ruined castle; the little old church, all modern within, and the {412}tiny hamlet that nestles by the shrunken and prosaic burn; then, unless you be an antiquary and a historian, you feel as if you had come very far to see very little. [Illustration: 0432] But if a secular antiquary and a ballad lover, you fill the landscape with galloping reivers, you restore the royal flag of England to the tower, and your mind is full of the rough riding life of Mus-graves and Grahams, Scotts, Elliots and Armstrongs. If, on the other hand, your tastes are ecclesiastical, and you are an amateur of Runic writing, you can pass hours with the tall headless Runic cross beside the church, a work of art dating from the middle of the seventh century of our era, according to the prevalent opinion. Bewcastle is at least ten miles from the nearest railway at Penton; twelve from Brampton; not easily approached by a fell path from Gilsland; and is most easily if least romantically reached by motor car from Carlisle, a drive of nearly twenty {413}miles. The Elliots and Scotts of the reiving days, got at Bewcastle by riding down Liddel water, crossing it at the Kershope burn ford, and then robbing all and sundry through some four miles. The castle they could not take in a casual expedition. The oldest monument in the place, except the earthworks said to be Roman, is the Cross, which much resembles the more famous Cross of Ruthwell, near Dumfries, with the runes from the Song of the Rood. More fortunate than the Ruthwell relic of early Anglican Christianity, that of Bewcastle was never broken up by the bigots of the Covenant as "a monument of idolatry." The head, however, was removed by Belted Will of Naworth, and sent to Camden the historian, in the reign of James VI and I. The west face is the most interesting. The top panel contains a figure of St. John the Baptist; our Lord is represented in the central panel, inscribed in runes, _Gessus Kristins_. The figure is noble and broad in treatment; done in the latest gloaming of classical art. Beneath is seated a layman, in garb of peace, with his falcon. The runic inscription on the central panel is black, painted black, it seems, by a recent rector, the Rev. Mr. Maughan, who laboured long at deciphering the characters. Professor Stephens read them: This victory-column Thin set up Hwaetred Woth gar Olfwolthu after Alcfrith Once King and son of Oswi Pray for the high sin of his soul. Runes are difficult. Mr. Stephens once read a Greek epitaph in elegiac verse, for a Syrian boy, at Brough, as a Runic lament, in old English, for a martyred Christian lady. I have little confidence in Hwaetred, Olfwolthu, and Wothgar: who were they; the artists employed in making the Cross? _Eac Oswiung_, "and son of Oswin," "the king," is said to be plain enough, and to indicate Alchfrith, son of Oswin, who after a stormy youth accepted, as against the Celtic clerics, the positions of St. Wilfred. [Illustration: 0434] The decorative work, knot work, vine scrolls, birds and little animals among the grapes, is of Byzantine and {415}Northern Italian origin: like the decoration of the Ruthwell Cross. Bewcastle must, it seems, have been a more important and populous place when this monument was erected, than even when the Royal castle was a centre of resistance to the Riddesdale clans in Queen Elizabeth's day. Returning from Bewcastle by Penton, we strike the Riddel near Penton Linn, not distant from the vanished peel of that Judas, Hector Armstrong of Harelaw, who betrayed the Earl of Northumberland into the hands of the Regent Murray in 1569. A little way below, near the junction of Riddel and Esk, on a commanding height that overhangs railway and river, is Riddel Moat. Locally this moat is called "the Roman Camp," but to the average amateur there is certainly nothing Roman about it. No doubt the Romans may have had an outpost here; the position is too strong not to have been held by them, especially as they had a station barely a couple of miles away, at Netherby. But the prominent remains of fortifications now to be seen here manifestly date from long after Roman days. It is, I believe, the site of the earliest Riddel Castle, erected by Ranulph de Soulis before either the Riddel Castle at Castleton, or Hermitage, was built. This Riddel Castle was razed to the ground, wiped out of existence, by the Scottish army under David Bruce, which invaded England in 1346 and was so totally routed at Neville's Cross a few weeks later. On his march southward, says Redpath, Bruce "took the fortress of Riddel and put the garrison to the sword,... spreading terror and desolation all round him in his progress through Cumberland." Liddel Moat is well worthy of a visit, but it is somewhat out of the beaten track and can only be reached by walking a little distance, preferably from the station at Biddings Junction. The position, defended on the landward side by an immensely deep moat, and on the other dropping almost sheer into the river--or rather, now, on to the intervening railway line--is a magnificent one, and the view obtained from the {416}highest point is very fine,--at one's feet, just beyond the two rivers, "Cannobie lea"; "There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan, Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran, There was racing and chasing on Cannobie lea, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see." A short way farther down the Esk is Netherby, headquarters of that clan whose peel towers once dotted this part of Cumberland and all the Debateable Land, and who in the early seventeenth century were so hardly used by James VI and I. They were no better, I suppose, than the others of that day, but they were no worse, and the story of their banishment is not very pleasant reading. Lord Scrope believed that the Grahams were "privy" to Buccleuch's rescue of Kinmont Willie, and certainly the Grahams did not love Lord Scrope, who, I suppose, was not likely to present the clan in a very favourable light to Queen Elizabeth. Their reputation, in any case, became increasingly black, and James I, when he came to the throne, issued a proclamation against them. In fact, the dog was given an exceedingly bad name--not of course wholly without cause--and hung; or, rather, many of their houses were harried, their women and children turned out to fend for themselves in the wet and cold, and their men shipped off to banishment in Ireland and in Holland. Certainly, in driblets they made their way back to their own country again, after a time--those who survived, that is,--but their nests had been harried, their broods scattered down the wind, and, as a clan, their old status was never regained. As has already been told, Netherby was the site of a Roman station, and it is rich in evidences of the old Legions--coins, altars, and what not. The original peel at Netherby--which still forms part of the present mansion--I take to have been such another as the Graham tower of Kirk Andrews, its near neighbour, which stands--still inhabited--just across the Esk, perched on a rising ground overhanging the river. {417}From a sporting point of view at least, the Esk here is a beautiful stream, famous for its salmon, which are plentiful and often of great size. [Illustration: 0437] In his Notes to "Redgauntlet," Sir Walter Scott mentions that "shortly after the close of the American war, Sir James Graham of Netherby constructed a dam-dike, or cauld, across the Esk, at a place where it flowed through his estate, though it has its origin, and the principal part of its course, in Scotland. The new barrier at Netherby was considered as an encroachment calculated to prevent the salmon from ascending into Scotland; and the right of erecting it being an international question of law betwixt the sister kingdoms, there was no court in either competent to its decision. In this dilemma, the Scots people assembled in numbers by signal of rocket-lights, and, rudely armed with fowling-pieces, fish spears and such rustic weapons, marched to the banks of the river for {418}the purpose of pulling down the dam dike objected to. Sir James Graham armed many of his own people to protect his property, and had some military from Carlisle for the same purpose. A renewal of the Border wars had nearly taken place in the eighteenth century, when prudence and moderation on both sides saved much tumult, and perhaps some bloodshed. The English proprietor consented that a breach should be made in his dam-dike sufficient for the passage of the fish, and thus removed the Scottish grievance. I believe the river has since that time taken the matter into its own disposal, and entirely swept away the dam-dike in question." I do not think there is now any trace of the obstruction which so roused the good people of Langholm and their supporters The question, of course, was not a new one. As early as the middle of the fifteenth century, Cumberland folks and Scots were at loggerheads over a "fish-garth" constructed by the former, which the Scots maintained prevented salmon from ascending to the upper waters. The dispute raged for something like a hundred years. Leaving Kirk Andrews, we get at once onto the old London and Edinburgh coach road close to Scot's Dike, and in the course of two or three miles reach the village of Canonbie, where at a little distance from the bridge over Esk stands the comfortable old coaching inn, the Cross Keys, now favoured of anglers. Thence all the way to Langholm the road runs by the river-bank through very delightful scenery, said, in old days, indeed, to be the most beautiful of all between London and Edinburgh. In the twelfth century a Priory stood at Canonbie, and as late as 1576 there was still a resident Prior, but the building itself I think was wrecked by the English in 1542, after the battle of Solway Moss. A few of its stones are still to the fore, but I fear the ruin was used as a quarry during the building of Canonbie Bridge. That also is a fate that waited on another famous building not far from Canonbie--Gilnockie Castle, the residence of the {419}notorious Johnny Armstrong. Hollows Tower, a few hundred yards above the village of Hollows, is often confounded with Gilnockie, probably for the reason that no stone of the latter has been left standing on another, and that Hollows Tower is a conspicuous object in the foreground here. [Illustration: 0439] Perhaps, too, Sir Walter Scott was partly responsible for the belief prevalent in many quarters that the Hollows is Gilnockie. In "Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border," he says: "His [Johny Armstrong's] {420}place of residence (now a roofless tower) was at the Hollows, a few miles from Langholm, where its rains still serve to adorn a scene which, in natural beauty, has few equals in Scotland." [Illustration: 0440] I am not certain, but I do not think that Sir Walter ever visited Gilnockie. If he had done so, it could scarcely have escaped his knowledge that another castle once stood less than half a {421}mile from Hollows Tower, and that towards the end of the eighteenth century the stones from that castle were utilised in the building of Gilnockie Bridge. That they were so used is well authenticated; and I should think it is probable that the ruin was found to be a convenient quarry also when houses in the neighbouring village of Hollows were being built. Hollows lower is a very good example of the old Border Keep, but it is small, much too small to have given anything like sufficient accommodation for Johny Armstrong's "tail," which must necessarily have been of considerable strength. The dining hall, for instance, measures roughly only a little over twenty-two feet by thirteen, and the total outside length of the tower is less than thirty-five feet. I should imagine it to be certain that Johny never lived here; indeed. I should be inclined to doubt if this particular Hollows Tower was even built during Johny Armstrong's life-time. Neither is the position a very strong one,--though on that point it is perhaps not easy to judge, because, in old days no doubt (as in the case of Hermitage Castle,) impassable swamps probably helped to protect it from assault on one or more sides. The place where Gilnockie stood is without any doubt a little lower down the Esk than Hollows Tower, at a point where the river makes a serpentine bend and contracts into a narrow, rocky gorge, impossible to ford. Here, at the Carlisle end of Gilnockie Bridge, on the high tongue of rocky land that projects into the stream, are faint but unmistakeable outlines of a large building, with outworks. The position is magnificent--impregnable, in fact, to any force of olden days unprovided with artillery. On three sides the rocky banks drop nearly sheer to the water, and across the root of the tongue are indications of a protecting fosse. It is impossible to imagine a site more perfect for a freebooter's stronghold. To have neglected it, in favour of such a position as that occupied by the Hollows Tower, would have been on the reiver's part to throw away the most obvious of the gifts of Providence. {422}Local tradition has it that Johny had a drawbridge by which, at will, he could cross the river. [Illustration: 0442] Certainly there is a projecting nose of rock just at the narrowest part of the stream, immediately above the present stone bridge, but one would be inclined to doubt if the engineering skill of Scotland in the {423}sixteenth century was equal to the task of constructing a serviceable drawbridge capable of spanning a width so great. There, is a curious stone that projects _inwards_ from high up in Hollows Tower, the original purpose of which forms to the amateur lover of ancient buildings a quite insolvable puzzle. The stone measures, roughly, from the wall to its tip about three feet in length, and its diameter is perhaps ten or twelve inches. Towards the end farthest from the wall it has a well-marked groove on the upper part and sides, as if heavy weights had frequently been suspended from it by ropes or chains. Its position is on the light of a narrow door that opens two or three feet above the floor-level of the room into which the stone projects, and the stone itself must have been close to the ceiling of the chamber. What was its use? An intelligent but youthful guide, when the writer was at Hollows, suggested with ghoulish delight that it was "a hangin'-stane." But that, surely, would have been wilful waste on the part of the Armstrongs, so long as trees were available. Nor is it likely that they got rid of prisoners in this way with a regularity sufficient to account for the well worn groove in the stone. It does, however, recall Sir Thomas Dick Lauder's feelings, when "at the top of the south-western angle of the Tower [of Neidpath], a large mass of the masonry had fallen, and laid open a chamber roofed with a Gothic arch of stone, from the centre of which swung, vibrating with every heavy gust of wind, an enormous iron ring. To what strange and wild horrors did this not awaken the fancy?" From a little beyond Hollows Tower, all the way to Langholm you catch through the trees glimpses of hurrying, foamfleckcd streams that speak most eloquently of "sea-trout, rushing at the fly." It has never been the writer's fortune to cast a line in this water, but if looks go for anything the sport must be excellent. It is impossible to imagine scenery more pleasing than the woody banks that overhang the river as Langholm is {424}approached; and the position of the town itself, nestling amongst beautiful hills, is singularly inviting. Langholm occupies the site of a famous old battle, that of Arkenholm, where in 1454 the power of the Douglas's was finally broken. [Illustration: 0444] In and about the town there is much to interest those whose tastes lean towards archaeology; the whole countryside, indeed, is sprinkled with towers and the remains of towers. In the burgh itself for example, there is what appears to be the remains of an old peel, now forming part of the wing of a hotel; just above the upper bridge are the ruins--the sorely battered ruins--of Langholm Castle, once an Armstrong stronghold; and most beautifully situated on Wauchope Water, just outside the town, is Wauchope Castle, long ago the seat of the Lindsays. Little now is left of the building, practically nothing, indeed, but two small portions of the outer wall on the rocks {425}immediately overhanging the picturesque water of Wauchope. The position must in the days of its pride have been immensely strong, and the scene now is very beautiful. In close proximity to the castle is an old graveyard, with remains--at least the foundations--of a pre-Reformation church and a few interesting old stones, two, at least, apparently very ancient, if one may judge from the style of sword cut on them. Not far from this are traces of the old Roman Road, and near at hand a stone bridge, also believed to be Roman, once crossed the stream. But it is said--with what truth I know not--to have been destroyed long ago by a Minister, whose care of his flock was such that, to prevent the lads of Langholm strolling that way of an evening, disturbing the peace of mind and pious meditations of his female domestics, he demolished it. As in the case of Selkirk, and of Hawick, the great festival of the year at Langholm is on the occasion of the Fair and Common Riding. In the Proclamation of the Fair, after a statement of the penalties to be imposed on disturbers of the festival, the curious words occur: "They shall sit down on their bare knees and pray seven times for the King, and thrice for the Muckle Laird o' Ralton." The Laird of Ralton was an illegitimate son of Charles II, but what he had to do with Eskdale, or what is the origin of the words, I have been quite unable to learn. To go, even superficially, into the history of Langholm and of the interesting and beautiful country surrounding it, would occupy much space, and neither time nor space is available. Here, amongst the hills and the many waters, we must leave the Border. It is a country whose mountains are seldom grand or awe-inspiring, as in some parts of the Scottish Highlands they may be; its streams do not flow with the rich majesty of Thames, nor with the mighty volume of Tay; and there are, doubtless, rivers possessed of wilder scenery. But to the true Borderer, however long absent he be, into what part {426}soever of the world he may have been driven by the Fates, there are no hills like the Border hills--they are indeed to him "the Delectable Mountains"; there are no waters so loved, none that sing to him so sweetly as Tweed and all the streams of his own land. "If I did not see the heather at least once a year, I think I should die," said Scott. To a greater or less extent it is so with all of us. One of her most loving sons (he who should have guided the course of this volume, and who, had he lived, would have made of it something worthy of the Border), once said, on his return from a visit to famed Killarney: "The beauty of the Irish Lakes is rather that of the Professional Beauty. When one comes back to the Border, there one finds the same beauty one used to see in the face of one's mother, or of one's old nurse." And: "I am never so happy as when I cross the Tweed at Berwick from the South," he writes in an Introduction to Mr. Charles Murray's "Plamewith." It was not only his own, but, I think, every Borderer's sentiments that he voiced when he wrote: "Brief are man's days at best; perchance I waste my own, who have not seen The castled palaces of France Shine on the Loire in summer green. "And clear and fleet Eurotas still, You tell me, laves his reedy shore, And flows beneath his fabled hill Where Dian drave the chase of yore. "And 'like a horse unbroken' yet The yellow" stream with rush and foam, 'Neath tower, and bridge, and parapet, Girdles his ancient mistress, Rome! "I may not see them, but I doubt If seen I'd find them half so fair As ripples of the rising trout That feed beneath the elms of Yair. "Unseen, Eurotas, southward steal, Unknown, Alpheus, westward glide, You never heard the ringing reel, The music of the water side! "Though Gods have walked your woods among, Though nymphs have fled your banks along; You speak not that familiar tongue Tweed murmurs like my cradle song. "My cradle song,--nor other hymn I'd choose, nor gentler requiem dear Than Tweed's, that through death's twilight dim, Mourned in the latest Minstrel's ear!" His love of the Border hills, "the great, round-backed, kindly, solemn hills of Tweed, Yarrow, and Ettrick," his devotion to the streams beside whose banks the summers of his boyhood were spent, never lessened with the passing years. In prose and in verse continually it broke out. Tweed's song is the same that she has ever sung; but now-- "He who so loved her lies asleep, He hears no more her melody." INDEX A Abbey St. Bathans, 028 Abbot of Inchcolm, 093 Abbotsford, 178, 227, 230, 245, 261, 384 Agricola, 212 Aidan, Bishop, 216 Ale, 033, 126, 169, 172, 280 Alemuir, 176, 286 Alexander II., 004, 091, 255 III., 004, 091, 255, 337 Allanbank,008 Allanton, 008 Allan Water, 107, 197 Allen Water, 235 Allevard, 021 Altrive, 305 Ancrum, 033, 126, 129, 169 Moor, 102, 169 Anderson, Alexander, 295 Angus, Earl of, 102, 169, 229 Annan, 375 "Antiquary, The" 25, 084 Argyll, 053 Arkenholm, 424 Armstrong, Johnny, 197, 418 Armstrong of Harelaw, Hector, 413 Armstrongs, 144, 197, 388, 401, 406 Arran, Earl of, 102, 170 Artburet, 351, 404 Arthur's Oven, 347 Arundel, Earl of, 092 Ashiesteel, 237, 322 Ashkiik, 174 Auld Babby Metlan, 213 Auld Maitland, 213 Auld Ringan Oliver, 136 Auld Wat of Harden, 278 Ayala, 052 B Badlieu, 371 Bairds, 346 Baillie, Lady Grisell, 043 Bale-fires, 023 Ballad of Otterburne, 153 Ballantyne, James, 078 Balliol, 006 Edward, 092 Barmoor, 051 Barnhill's Bed, 181 Barns, 345 Battle Stone, 162 Bawtie's Grave, 020 Beaton, Cardinal, 170, 171 Beauté, Sieur de la, 020 Bedrule, 182 Bellenden, 286 Felted Will Howard, 409, 413 Bemersyde, 209 Berwick, 003, 025, 048, 098, 113, 269 Berwickshire Naturalists' Club, Bewcastle, 178, 410 Cross, 413 Bield, The, 359 Biggar, 353 Moss, 354 Water, 353 Billie, 013 Billy Castle, 017 Binram's Corse, 298 Bird-Oswald, 409 Bishop Flambard, 047 Boghall Castle, 353 Bogle Burn, 217 Bohun, Humphrey de, 004 Boldside, 233, 245, 150, 069, 165 Bonny Bertha, 371 Borland, Rev. Dr., 307 Borthwick Water, 190, 280 Castle, 106 Boston of Ettrick, 287 Bothan, 028 Bothwell (Hepburn), Earl of, 052, 085, 106, 215 (Stewart), Earl of, 135, 385 Brig, 137 Bowden Moor, 229 "Bowed Davie," 343 Bowerhope, 298 Bowhill, 231, 273, 318 Bow mont, 048 Valley, 149 Box-beds, 303 Blackadder, 008, 032, 039 Blackcastle Rings, 039 Black Dwarf, 343 Black Hill of Earlstoun, 144 Blackhouse Heights, 346 Tower, 297 Black Law, 144, 346 Black, William, 359, 374 Blair, Rev. Thos., 061 Blanerne, 013 Blind Harry, 354 Bloody Laws, 088 Braidley Burn, 107 Brampton, 409 Branksome, 002, 174, 179, 192 Hall, 194 Branxton, 051 Braxfield, Lord, 355 Breamish, 048 Bremenium, 088, 142, 164, 166 Brewster, Sir David, 188 "Bride of Lammermuir," 346 Bridgelands, 260 Bridgend, 227 Broadlaw, 144, 352 Broadmeadows, 038 Broomhouse, 020 Brougham, Lord, 061 Broughton, 355 Brown, Dr. John, 354 Brownies, 031 "Brownie of Bodesbeck," 291, 369 Bruce, David, 068, 415 Robert the, 067, 092, 208, 347, 375 Buccleuch, 002, 195, 286 Duke of, 196, 208, 305, 316, 385 Hunt, 222 Lairds of, 134, 179, 194, 229, 392, 394, 395 Buchan, Earl of, 208 Buchanan, George, 067, 106, 112 Bunkle, 013, 015 Burghley, 135 Buried Treasure, 056, 088 Burke and Hare, 250 "Burke, Sir Walter!" 090 Burns, Robert, 118, 123 Byrecleuch Ridge, 030 C Caddonfoot, 222, 322 Cademuir, 347 Caerlanrig, 197 Caledon, 352 Camps, 128 Camptown, 141 Cannobie Lea, 416 Canonbie, 418 Capel Fell, 287 "Capon Tree," 125 Cappercleucb, 300 Cardrona, 340 Carey, 135 Cargill, Rev. Donald, 137, 368 Carham, 003 Burn, 048 Carlin's Tooth, 143, 152 Carlisle, 077, 115, 117, 150, 152, 392, 408 Castle, 144, 392 Carmichael, Sir John, 144 Carter Bar, 141, 148 Carterfell, 129, 136, 143, 166 Carterhaugh, 273 Castlebill, 348 Castleton, 387 Catcleuch Reservoir, 141 Shin, 141, 166 Catrail, 002, 041, 231, 379 Cauldcleuch Head, 107, 144 Cauldshiels Loch, 233 Cavers, 072, 184 Caves, 126, 134 Cecil, Sir W., 037, 134 Cessford, 086 Cockburn Law, 026 Thomas, 022 of Henderland, 198, 299 Cockburns, 020 Coldstream, 056 Guards, 050 Collingwood Bruce, Dr., 165 Collingwood, Sir Cuthbert, 147 Colting woods, 145 Colmslie, 235 Commonsiae Hill, 002 Cope, Sir John, 005, 035, 077 Corbridge, 005 Coultercleuch, 280 Cout o' Keilder, 383 Covenanters, 007, 035, 137, 293, 359, 365, 370 Cowdenknowes, 289 Ciudad Rodrigo, 266 Chambers, Dr. Robert 104, 302 Dr. William, 338 Channelkirk, 217 Chapel Knowe, 165 Charles I., 077 Chesters (Berwickshire), 042 (Roxburghshire), 168 Cheviot, 144 Cheviots, 001, 088, 142, 151, 212 Chillingham, 050 Chimside, 007, 015 Chronicle of Lanercost, 004 Churchill, 006 Clandestine Weddings, 060, 402 Clarty Hole, 231 Claverhouse, 359, 365, 369 Clear burn Loch, 286 Cleikum Inn, 339 Clerk of Eldin, John, 353 Clints Dod, 030 Clintwood, 387 Clovenfords, 322 Clyde, 353 Crab, 005 Craigmillar, 023, 113 Crailing, 087, 126 Cranshaws, 030 Crawford, 052 Cromwell, 022, 056, 316, 338, 343, 3S3, 371, 387 Crook-backed Richard, 005 Crook Inn., 357 Crooked Loch, 286 Cumberland, 025 Curie, Mr., 212 D Dacre, 053, 074, 098, 130 Dalkeith, 025, 152, 257 Dandie Dinmont, 377, 381 D'Arcy, Sir Anthony, 020 Darnick, 227 Tower, 227 Darnley, 085, 213, 330, 347, 365 D'Aussi, 052 David I., 066, 073, 081, 084, 091 David, Earl, 255 Dawstane Rig, 378 Dawyck, 347, 348 Woods, 351 Debateable Land, 403 De Beaugué, M., 131 De Bolbec, Walter, 383 "Degenerate Douglas," 341 De Grey, Sir Thomas, 048 Deil o' Dawyck, 349 De la Mothe Rouge, 133 Deloraine, 280 William of, 174, 281 Denham Tracts, 066 Denholm, 119, 179 De Soulis, 382, 387, 4x5 D'Espec, Walter, 066 D'Essé, Sieur, 129, 132 Deuchar Bridge, 309 Devil's Beef Tub, 375 Dick Lauder, Sir Thomas, 008, 017, 035, 059, 172, 233, 241, 259, 327, 336, 358, 423 Dick's Tree, 399 Differences with Prisoners, 266 Dinlabyre, 387 Dodhead, 178, 280 Dog Knowe, 115 Dogs in Church, 308 Dollar Law, 144, 346 Donald's Cleuch, 368 "Doo Tairts and Herrin' Pies," 83 Douglas, Archibald, 072 Douglas Burn, 072, 297 Douglas, Earl, 072, 149, 153 of Kelhead, Sir John, 355 Rev. Dr., 231 Sir George, 071 Sir George, 170 Sir James, 080, 092, 125, 128, 347, 375 Tragedy, 297 Douglas's Wounded, 165 Douglases, 072, 145 Dowie Dens of Yarrow, 072, 311 Drochil Castle, 347 Drumclogj 137 Drum lan rig, 118 Drummelzier, 348, 350 Dryburgh Abbey, 206, 220 Drygrange, 212, 222 Dry hope Tower, 305 Dunbar, 056, 101, 113, 150, 152 Castle, 020, 086 Earl of, 030 Dumbarton Castle, 382 Dunion, 144, 176 Dunkeld, 137 Duns, 015, 026, 044 Law, 046 Scotus, 044 Durham, 153 Bishop of, 158, 160 Cathedral, 216 Dussac, 133 Dye Water, 029 E Earlsihe Moor, 107 Earlstoun, 016, 217 Eden (Carlisle), 393 Water, 008, 033, 057, 064 Edie Ochiltree, 084 Edgar, 035 Burn, 035 Edgerston, 141, 144 Edinburgh, 056, 152, 159, 198, 212, 261, 292 299, 333, 349 Edington, 008 Edinshall, 008, 027 Ednam, 008 Edrington Castle, 007 Edrom, 008, 015 Edward I., 056, 058, 069, 208, 214, 255, 379 409 II., 005, 048, 069, 208, 255 III., 005, 068, 069, 092 VI., 169. 316 Eildon Hills, 142, 144, 212, 221, 224, 231, 245 Eildon Tree, 217 Eital Castle, 050 Elba, 027 Elcho, Lord, 118 Elibank, 327 Eliott of Stobs, Sir Gilbert, 119 Elizabeth, Queen, 398, 416 Elliot of Cleuchhead, Dr., 384 Jean, 181 Elliots, 145 Ellison, Mr., 163 Ellwand, 235 Elsdon Church, 167 Emperor Alexander Severus, 165 Ernckstane, 375 Errol, 052 Erskine, Lord, 402 Esk, 407, 416 Ettrick, 002, 176, 231, 245, 252, 263, 271, 288 Bank, 249 Ettrickbridgend, 278 Ettrick Hall, 287, 290 Kirk, 287 Pen, 287 Shepherd, 121, 283, 278, 288 Evelaw Tower, 035 Evers, Lord (Sir Ralph), 100, 170, 171, 227 Eye Water, 088 F "Fair Maiden Lilliard," 172 Fairies, belief in, 056, 181 Fairnilee, 271, 319 Fairy Dene, 235 Falaise, Treaty of, 004 Falkirk, Battle of, 255 Falla Moss, 371 False alarm, 025 Fast Castle, 086 Father Ellis, 126 Fat Ups Castle, 180 Faungrist Burn, 039 Fenwick, Sir Roger, 129 Fenwicke, Colonel, 022 Ferguson, Adam, 343 Fernihirst, 128, 130, 134, 137 Mill, 136 Flemings, 353 Fluimen, 049, 059, 255 Flodden Edge, 048, 050 Fogo, 033 Ford Castle, 049 Forest of Ettrick, 255 Jedworth, 129, 131 Forster, Sir John, 144 Foulshiels, 039, 314 Floors Castle, 071 Flower of Yarrow, 305 Flowers of the Forest, 181, 319 Franck, Richard, 007 Fraser, Sir Simon, 341, 348 Frasers of Fruid and Oliver, 340 French Invasion, 024 Prisoners in Selkirk, 258 Froissart, 115, 149, 157 Fruid, 357 G Gala, 094, 237, 241 Gala Rig, 272 Galashiels, 094, 224, 233, 237, 248 "Galashiels Herons," 084 Galashiels Town's Arms, 240 Gamelshiel, 030 Gameshope Burn, 357, 370 Glen, 363, 370 Loch, 369, 370 Gamescleuch, 287 Garter, Countess of Salisbury's, 069 Gemmels, Andrew, 084 Giant's Stone, 371 Gibb's Cross, 035 Gilnockie, 197, 418 Bridge, 421 Gjlsland, 409 Girthgate, 236 Godscroft, 158 Goldielands, 191 Gordon Arms, 305 Glendearg, 235 Glengaber, 001 Glenkinnon Burn, 324 Glenrath Burn, 346 Graham, Sir James. 417 Grahams, 405, 416 Greatmoor Hill, 107 Greenlaw, 041 Gretna Green, 060, 402 Grey Friars, 141 Grey Mare's Tail, 303 Guizot, M., 059 "Guy Mannering," 380 H Hahhie Ker's Cave, 126 Haggiehaugh, 078 Haig of Bemersyde, 209 Haining, 255, 259, 265 Halidon Hill, 005, 053 Hall, Hobbie, 087 Henry, 087, 137 Halliburton, Wm,, 067 Hailyards, 343 Hangingshaw, 038, 313 Happrew, 348 Harden, 192 Harecleuch Hill, 032 Hare head, 030 Harelaw, 035 Harewood, 317 Hartlaw, 035 Hartshorn Pyke, 143 Hassendean, 178 Hawick, 094, 107, 185, 381 "Minister's Alan," 117 Mote, 191 Hawkshead Burn, 371 Castle, 371 Hay of Yester, 341 of Talla, 085 Hearthstane Burn, 357 Hellmuir Loch, 286 Hemingburgh, 005 Henderland, 298 Henderson, Willie, 179 Henry I., 066 III., 069 VIII., 004, 049, 074, 099, 132, 169, 170, 177, 197, 208 Hepburn of Bowton, 085 of Hailes, 030 Hermitage Castle, 072, 085, 107, 382 Water, 107, 380, 381 Heron, Lady, 049 Heronry at Dawyck, 351 Herries, 053 Herrit's Dyke, 041 Hertford, 013, 037, 044, 074, 100, 102 129, 132, 141, 170, 227, 287 Hexham, 145 Hielandman's Grave, 116 Hill Burton, 074 Hiltslap, 235 Hindside, 035 Hirsel, The, 060 Hodgson, Richard, 069 Hogg, James, 206, 213, 278, 290, 297, 303, 305 Hollows lower, 419 Holydene, 041, 126, 229 Holylee, 327 Home Castle, 020, 022, 023, 113 Home, Sir David, 020 Family of, 017, 020, 212 Grisell, 042 Lord, 008, 020, 022, 051, 060, 229, 257 of Haliburton, 044 of Polwarth, Patrick, 041 Homildon Hill, 055 Hoolet of Barns, 345 Hornsbole, 187 Horsburgh, 330 Hotspur's Pennon, 184 Howpasley, 192 Howard, Edmund, 053 Edward, 053 Hundalee, 126 Hunsdon, Lord, 037, 134 Hunter, John, 362 Hunthill, 128, 129, 134 "Huntlie Bank," 219 Huntly, Earl of, 052, 106 Hutton Hall, 008 Hyndhope, 280 I Illicit Stills, 116 Innerleithen, 327 J James I., 337, 342 II., 023, 067, 080 III., 005 IV., 048, 049, 281 V., 178, 197, 229, 282, 287, 406 VI. and I., 006, 067, 305, 353, 413, 416 "Jamie Telfer, 377, 192, 280, 410 Jed, 033, 078, 094, 124, 152, 166 Jedburgh, 023, 078, 090, 114, 119, 126, 131, 171, 222 Abbey, 092, 095, 102, 113 Castle, 092, 093 Prison, 123 Jedforest Hunt, 129 "Jethart's here!", 100, 146 John, King, 004 John's Cleuch, 030 K Kale Water, 084, 087, 126, 166 Kelso, 026, 033, 061, 064, 071, 113, 114, 126, 222, 267 Abbey, 074, 084 Ker, Dand, 086 of Cessford, 069, 087, 229 of Pernihirst, 008, 069, 229 of Graden, 078 of Samuelton, George, 008 Sir Andrew, 135 Sir John, 132 Sir Thomas, 130 Kershope Burn, 392 Kerss, Rob., 205 Killiecrankie, 137 "Kilmeny" 271 King Arthur, 244, 347 "King of the Woods," 125 Kingledores Burn, 357 Kingside, 286 Kinmont Willie, 179, 392, 399 Kirk Andrews, 416 Kirk o' Field, 085 Kirkhope Lînn, 278 Tower, 278 Kirk Sessions, 062 Knight of Liddesdale, 246, 326, 383 Knox, John, 052, 214 L Lacy, Richard de, 004 Lads of Wamphray, 089 Lady of Branksome, 194 "Lady of the Lake," 322 Ladykirk, 048 Laidlaw, Will, 213, 297 of Peel, 324 Laiton, 170, 227 Lammermuirs, 007, 029, 144, 212, 216 Lanercost, 409 Langholm, 418, 424 Castle, 424 Langshaw, 235 Langton Tower, 020 Lanton Village, 093 Tower, 128 Larriston, 078, 185 Lauder, French Prisoners at, 270 Bridge, 005 Lauderdale, Earl of, 045, 213, 216 Lawson, Rev. Dr., 263 "Lay of the Last Minstrel, 192, 281, 322 Leader Water, 041, 212 Leaderfoot, 222 Le Croc. M., 111 Leet Water, 057 Legerwood, 016, 041 Lei then, 328 Lennox, 053 Leslie, Bishop of Ross, 151 General, 038, 046, 056, 254 Norman, 170 Lessudden, 026, 206 Lethem, 165 Lethington, 216 Mr. Secretary, 107 Leyden, John, 179, 190, 247, 322 Liddel Castle, 357 Moat, 415 Valley, 152 Water, 078, 116, 152, 380, 386, 393 Liddesdale, 115, 144, 150,152,178,378, 380 Lilliardsedge, 169, 222 Lirnekilnedge, 381 Lincumdoddie, 356 Lindean, 246, 252 Lindisfarne, Bishop of, 097 Lindsay, Sir James, 158 Linglie, 249, 252 Lintalee, 092, 125, 128 Lin thill House, 018 Linton, 084 Tower, 085 Lion of Liddesdale, 078 Littledean, 206 "Little Jock Elliot," 106, 387 Loch of the Lowes, 292, 301 Skene, 369 Lockhart, J. G., 206, 208, 232, 353, 380 Longtown, 152, 399 Lord Maxwell's Muster Roll, 401 Lost Pay Chest, 038 Lothian, Lord, 135, 138 Marquess of, 103 Lumsden, Margaret, 045 Lyne Water, 347 M Maccus Whele, 073 Mackay, 137 "Mad" Jack Hall, 162 Maid of Norway, 005 Maitland of Lethington, 214 Makerstoun, 204, 222 Malcolm II., 003, 048 IV., 236 The Maiden, 001 Mangerton Castle, 390 Manor Kirkyard, 344 Valley, 343 Water, 345 Manslaughter Law, 029 Marchmont, Earl of, 022, 041 House, 042 Alarmion, 051, 055, 094, 322 Marquis of Annandale's Beef Stand, 375 Mary of Gueldres, 023, 081 Guise, 214 Mary Queen of Scots, 023, 052, 074, 104, 169, 194, 208, 250, 330, 408 Mathieson, 322 Maxwell, 053 Sir Herbert, 002, 030, 072, 084, 169, 176, 338 Sir John, 158 Meg Dods, 339 Megget, 300 Melrose, 071, 166, 170, 225, 235 Abbey, 163, 172, 256 Melville of Halhill, Sir James, 112 Menzion, 357 Merlin, 351 Merse, 021, 048, 134, 144 Mertoun, 206 Bridge, 220 Midlem Bridge, 172 Miles, Sir George Heron, 147 Milnholm Cross, 390 Minchmuir, 002, 038 Minto, 180 Crags, 144, 180 Moffat, 369, 373, 375 "Monastery, The" 227, 233, 235 Monk, General, 059 Monks' Ford, 220 Monk law, 128 Monmouth, Duke of, 196 Anne, Duchess of, 316 Mons Meg, 048, 080 Montague, Sir William, 068 Montgomery, Earl of, 158 Montrose, Marquis of, 002, 038, 076, 254 Moray, Earl of, 106 Countess of, 112 Morebattle, 086 Morton, Earl of, 147 Regent, 367 Mossburnfoot, 126 Mossfennan, 336 Muckle Mouthed Meg, 327 Murray of Broughton, 355 Sir David, 355 Sir Gideon, 327 of Philiphaugh, Sir John, 247 Musgrave, Sir William, 405 Muthag, Provost, 272 Mutiny Stones, 030 N Naesmiths, 346 Napier and Ettrick, Lord, 055, 387 Napoleon, 024, 262 Naworth, 409 Neidpath Hill, 322 Castle, 337, 342 Netherby, 416 Nett ley Burn, 249 Neville's Cross, 415 Newark Tower, 278, 315 Newcastle, 077, 141, 145, 159, 160, 203 Newcastleton, 387 Newstead, 142, 166, 212, 224 Newton Don, 064 Nine Cairn Edge, 216 Niue Stane Rig, 381 Norfolk, 074 Norham, 004, 047 North, Christopher, 301 Note o' the Gate, 115, 378 Notman Law, 346 O Oakwood Tower, 276 Ogle, Sir James, 147 Sir Robert, 067, 069 Old Jedward, 128 Mailros, 028 Melrose, 212, 213, 222 "Old Mortality," 362 "Old Q," 341 Oliver, Auld Ringan, 136 Oliver Castle, 359 Ormistoun, 035, 086 Otterburne, 072, 149, 170 Village, 162 Hall, 164 Ottercops, 149 Outlaw Murray, 035, 313 Oxnam Water, 087, 126, 166 P Park, Archibald, 315 Mungo. 314, 326 Pearlin, Jean, 008 "Peblis to the Play," 339 Peebles, 309, 330, 334, 336, 340, 349 Peel Burn, 152, 379 Fell, 001, 143, 379 Penchrise, 001, 176, 280 Pennecuîck, Dr., 342, 353 Pennistone Knowe, 292 Penshiel, 030 Penton, 415 Linn, 407, 415 Percy, 040 Earl, 153, 161 Henry, 092 Ralph, 158 Percy's Cross, 162 Philiphaugh, 002, 038 Piets' Work Dyke, 379 Pinkie, 056 Piper's Pool, 254 Pitcairn's Criminal Priais, 086 Pitscottie, 051, 081, 198, 282 Plague, The, 246 Plummer of Sunderland Hall, 257 Poachers, 173, 242, 254 Pollution of Rivers, 094, 095, 185, 237, 238, 252, 327 Polmood, 356 Burn, 357 Polwarth, 042 Lord, 192 Porteous of Hawkshaw, 371 Possessed Woman in Duns, 045 Posso, 345, 347 Craigs, 346 Pot Loch, 259 Powsayl Burn, 351 "Pride and Poverty !", 083 Priesthaugh Burn, 107 Prince Charlie, 077, 078, 114, 115, 126, 409 Prisoners' Bush, 260 Theatre, 268 Proclamation of St. James's Fair, 082 Purdie, Tom, 322 Q Queen Mary's House, 104 Illness, 109 Queen's Mire, 108 "Queens Wake" 121 Queensberry, Duke of, 118 R Raecleuch, 035 Raid of the Reidswire, 244 Ramsay, Sir Alexander, 383 Rev. Mr., 064 Randall's Wa's, 347 Randolph, 347 Rankleburo, 002, 286 Raven Burn, 152 Craig, 031 Redbraes, 042 Redesdale, 141, 145 R de Valley, 088, 115, 141, 161 "Redgauntlet", 375, 417 Regiment, 94th, 266 Renwick, 292 Richard, King, 004 II., 208 Richmond, Sir Thos., 125 Riddell, 174 Rink, 002, 245, 249 Riskinhope, 292 Rivalry between Kelso and Jedburgh, 082 Rob o' the Trows, 205 Robert II., 208 Rhymer's Glen, 219, 231 Roman Road, 088 Rory dhu Mohr, 137 Rothely Crags, 149 Rowchester, 142 Roxburgh, 023, 067, 126 Castle, 078, 092, 149 Newtown, 085 Roxburghe, Duke of, 071 Ruberslaw, 144, 183, 212 Rule Water, 107, 177, 212 Ruskin, John, 094, 230 Russell, Sir Francis, 147 Russell of Yarrow, Rev. Drs., 281, 298 Rutherford, 206 Alison, 319 Rev. John, 308 "Rutherfurd Bauld," 146 Rutherfurd, Captain, 123 Rutherfurds, 141 Ruthven, Lord, 134 S St. Ahb's Head, 025 St. Andrews, Bishops of, 049 St. Boswells, 078, 206 Green, 221 St. Cuthbert, 206, 216, 357 St. Gordian's Kirk, 344, 347 St. James's Fair, 081 St. Kentigern, 382 St. Mary of the Lowes, 177, 295 St. Mary's Chapel, 296 St. Mary's Loch, 287 St. Ronan's, 327 "St. Ronan's Well," 339 Salisbury, Earl of, 068 Salmon, 209 fishing, 222 Sandyknowe, 211 Sark Bridge, 402 Tower, 401 Satcheils, 176 "Savoury Mr. Peden," 183 Scabcleuch, 292 Scots Brigade, 266 Scots Dyke, 418 Scott, Adam of Tushielaw, 282, 299 Sir John, 287 Lady John, 087 Mary, "the Flower of Yarrow," 305 Scott, Michael, 256, 276 Sir Walter, 002, 025, 038, 051, 068, 078, 083, 118, 144, 174, 179, 180, 198, 206, 208, 227, 236, 257, 305, 322, 325, 339, 343, 347, 353, 355. 369, 380, 384, 399, 419 Scott, Sir Walter and the Border Minstrelsy, 213 Scott of Gorrenberry, 117 of Tushielaw, 213 Scotts of Buccleuch, 071, 102, 144, 170, 192, 195, 286, 384 of Harden, 276, 327 Scrope, 174, 222 Lord, 397, 398, 400, 416 Selkirk, 026, 172, 231, 247, 249, 252, 269, 388 Cauld, 253 Common Riding, 270 "Selkirk Craws," 084 Selkirk Flodden Traditions, 256 Prison, 123 Selkirkshire Yeomanry, 257 Shaftoes, 145 Shielhope Head, 346 Shrewsbury, Lord, 130 Sidney, Sir Philip, 149 Sinclair, Oliver, 404 Singlie, 280 Skelfhill, 001, 002, 176, 280, 382 Skene of Rubislaw, 369 Skirmish Field, 229 Skraysburgh, 101, 128 Slain Man's Lea, 315 Slitrjg, 001, 107, 188, 280, 381 Smailcleuchfoot, 136 Smailholme Tower, 144, 209 Snow Storm of 1831, 373 Solway Moss, 403, 406, 418 Somerset, 022, 127, 130 "Soor Plums in Galashiels," 240 Soulis, Lord, 381 "Souters of Selkirk," 53, 257 Southdean, 033, 148, 150, 165, 167, 380 Soutra Hill, 236, 241 Spirit of Borderers, 025 Spottisw'oode, 217 Springwood Park, 071, 072 Spy at Southdean, 151 Stanhope, 355 Burn, 357 Stanley, 053 Stephen, King, 069 Stewart of Stewartfield, Colonel, 119 Stobo, 016, 348 Stobs Camp, 381 Stoddart, 034, 057 Stow, 244 Stuart, Lady Louisa, 333 Sir Robert, 008 Sunderland Hall, 249, 257 Sunlaws, 126 "Superstitions, Teviotdale, 121 Surrey, Earl of, 051, 054, 068, 097, 129, 130 Sussex, Earl of, 023, 037, 066, 134, 186 "Sweet Leader Haughs," 217 "Sweet Milk" Robin, 177 Swinnie Moor, 107 Synton, 175, 285 T Tall, a, 352, 357, 363 Linn, 360, 365 Reservoir, 357 Tarth Water, 347 Telfer, James, 136 "Teribus and Teriodden," 186 Teviot, 001, 033, 078, 094, 126, 166, 169, 176, 179, 193, 203, 280 Teviotdale, 016, 134, 144, 178, 181, 388 "The Eve of St. John, 209 The Great Unknown, 261 "The Young Tantieme273 Three Brethren, 271, 320 "Three days' blood," 089 Thiefs Road. 346 Thirlestane (Patrick), 287 Castle (Lauderdale), 045 Thomas of Ercildoune, 217 Thomas the Rhymer, 076, 209, 217, 353 Thomson, James, 033, 124, 172 Thornilee, 327 Tibbie Shiels, 291, 301 Tamson, 271 Till, 048, 050 Timpendean, 169 Tinnies, 348, 350 Tinnis (Yarrow), 038 Torsonce, 244 Torwoodlee, 002, 041, 243 Turn Again, 178, 232 Turnbulls of Rule Water, 145, 177 Tushielaw, 002, 281, 289 Traquair, 305, 330 Countess of, 333 Earl of, 038, 254, 331 Trout-fishing, 220, 241 "True Thomas," 217, 219, 319 Tweed, 002, 3, 048, 173, 204, 212, 222, 231, 237, 245, 271 309, 319, 347, 357, 371, 375, 377 Tweeddale, Lord, 341 Tweed Shaws, 372 Tweed's Cross, 372 Well, 372 Tweedsmuir, 301, 340, 357, 371 Church, 361 Kirk Session Records, 362 Post Office, 359 "Tweed" Trade, 239 Tweedys, 349 Twin Law Cairns, 029 Twizell Bridge, 051 V Veitch, Professor, 167, 342, 347 Veitchs of Dawyck, 348 W Wade, Marshall, 077 Waich Water, 029 Walkerburn, 327 Wallace, Sir William, 208, 354 Wamphray, 089 Wark Castle, 050, 057, 066, 134, 149 Water-Bull, 234 Wauchope, 425 Castle, 424 Wedale, 244 Wedderlie, 035 "Weir of Hermiston, 355 Weirdlaw Hill, 235 Well of the Holy Water Cleuch, 216 Wheeling Head, 132 Whele Causeway, 115, 150, 379 Chapel, 379 Whitadder, 007 White, Mr. Robert, 163 Whithaugh Mill, 116 Whitterhope Burn, 381 Will's Nick, 254 Will of Phaup, 280, 288 William the Lion, 004, 048, 091, 255, 330 le Walleys, 348 Williamhope Ridge, 325 Willie of Westburnflat, 387 Windburgh Hill, 144, 188 Wind Pell, 287 Windy Law, 286 Winter, Jamie, 043 Witch of Fauldshope, 277 "Witch of Fife," 121 Woifstruther, 035 Wooler, 051, 078, 149 Wordsworth, 118, 341 Wortnscleuch Burn, 379 Y YAIR, 176, 250, 319 Bridge, 249, 318 Cauld, 249 Yarrow, 002, 038, 039, 094, 176, 273, 287, 292, 294 Dowie Dens of, 072, 311 Kirk, 306, 309 Manse, 306 Yetholm, 149, 150 Young Hay of Talla, 364 
39759	----	Wilson's Tales of the Borders AND OF SCOTLAND. HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE. WITH A GLOSSARY. REVISED BY ALEXANDER LEIGHTON, _One of the Original Editors and Contributors._ VOL. XVIII. LONDON: WALTER SCOTT, 14 PATERNOSTER SQUARE, AND NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE. 1884. CONTENTS Page THOMAS OF CHARTRES, (_Hugh Miller_), 1 THE FUGITIVE, (_John Mackay Wilson_), 33 THE BRIDE OF BRAMBLEHAUGH, (_Alexander Leighton_), 63 GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT, (_Professor Thomas Gillespie_)-- XIV. JAMES RENWICK, 95 XV. OLD ISBEL KIRK, 105 XVI. THE CURLERS, 110 XVII. THE VIOLATED COFFIN, 119 THE SURGEON'S TALES, (_Alexander Leighton_)-- THE MONOMANIAC, 127 THE FOUNDLING AT SEA, (_Alexander Campbell_), 159 THE ASSASSIN, (_Alexander Campbell_), 178 THE PRISONER OF WAR, (_John Howell_), 191 WILLIE WASTLE'S ACCOUNT OF HIS WIFE, (_John Mackay Wilson_), 223 THE STONE-BREAKER, (_Alexander Campbell_), 255 LAIRD RORIESON'S WILL, (_Alexander Leighton_), 276 WILSON'S TALES OF THE BORDERS AND OF SCOTLAND. THOMAS OF CHARTRES. One morning, early in the spring of 1298, a small Scottish vessel lay becalmed in the middle of the Irish Channel, about fifteen leagues to the south of the Isle of Man. During the whole of the previous night, she had been borne steadily southward, by a light breeze from off the fast receding island; but it had sunk as the sun rose, and she was now heaving slowly to the swell, which still continued to roll onward, in long glassy ridges from the north. A thick fog had risen as the wind fell--one of those low sea fogs which, leaving the central heavens comparatively clear, hangs its dense, impervious volumes around the horizon; and the little vessel lay as if imprisoned within a circular wall of darkness, while the sun, reddened by the haze, looked down cheerily upon her from above. She was a small and very rude-looking vessel, furnished with two lug-sails of dark brown, much in the manner of a modern Dutch lugger; with a poop and forecastle singularly high, compared with her height in the waist; and with sides which, attaining their full breadth scarcely a foot over the water, sloped abruptly inwards, towards the deck, like the wall of a mole or pier. The parapet-like bulwarks of both poop and forecastle were cut into deep embrasures, and ran, like those of a tower, all around the areas they enclosed, looking down nearly as loftily on the midships as on the water. The sides were black as pitch could render them--the sails scarcely less dark; but, as if to shew man's love of the ornamental in even the rudest stage of art, a huge misshapen lion flared in vermillion on the prow, and over the stern hung the blue flag of Scotland, with the silver cross of St Andrew stretching from corner to corner. From eight to ten seamen lounged about the decks. They were uncouth-looking men, heavily attired in jerkins and caps of blue woollen, with long, thick beards, and strongly-marked features. The master, a man considerably advanced in life--for, though his eye seemed as bright as ever, his hair and beard had become white as snow--was rather better dressed. He wore above his jerkin a short cloak of blue which confessed, in its finer texture, the superiority of the looms of Flanders over those of his own country; and a slender cord of silver ran round a cap of the same material. His nether garments, however, were coarse and rude as those of his seamen; and the shoes he wore were fashioned, like theirs, of the undressed skin of the deer, with the hair still attached; giving to the foot that brush-like appearance which had acquired to his countrymen of the age, from their more polished neighbours, the appellation of rough-footed Scots. Neither the number, nor the appearance of the crew, singular and wild as the latter was, gave the vessel aught of a warlike aspect; and yet there were appearances that might have led one to doubt whether she was quite so unprepared for attack or defence as at the first view might be premised. There ran round the butt of each mast a rack filled with spears, of more knightly appearance than could have belonged to a few rude seamen--for of some of these the handles were chased with silver, and to some there were strips of pennon attached; and a rich crimson cloak, with several pieces of mail, were spread out to the morning sun, on one of the shrouds. The crew, we have said, were lounging about the deck, unemployed in the calm, when a strong, iron-studded door opened in the poop, and a young and very handsome man stepped forward. "Has my unfortunate cloak escaped stain?" he said to the master. "Your sea-water is no brightener of colour." "It will not yet much ashame you, Clelland," said the master, "even amid the gallants of France; but, were it worse, there is little fear, with these eyes of yours, of being overlooked by the ladies." "Nay, now, Brichan, that's but a light compliment from so grave a man as you," said Clelland. "You forget how small a chance I shall have beside my cousin." "Not jealous of the Governor, Clelland, I hope?" said the old man, gaily. "Nay, trust me, you are in little danger. Sir William is perhaps quite as handsome a man as you, and taller by the head and shoulders; but, trust me, no one will ever think of him as a pretty fellow. He stands too much alone for that. Has he risen yet?" "Risen!--he has been with the chaplain for I know not how long. Their Latin broke in upon my dreams two hours ago. But what have we yonder, on the edge of that bank of fog! Is it one of the mermaidens you were telling me of yesterday?" "Nay," said the master, "it is but a poor seal, risen to take the air. But what have we beyond it? By heavens I see the dim outline of a large vessel, through the fog! and yonder, not half a bow-shot beyond, there is another! Saints forbid that it be not the English fleet, or the ships of Thomas of Chartres! Clelland, good Clelland, do call up the Governor and his company!" Clelland stepped up to the door in the poop, and shouted hastily to his companions within--"Strange sails in sight!--supposed enemies--it were well to don your armours." And then turning to a seaman. "Assist me, good fellow," he said, "in bracing on mine." "Thomas of Chartres, to a certainty!" exclaimed the master--"and not a breath to bear us away! Would to heavens that I were dead and buried, or had never been born!" "Why all this ado, Brichan?" said Clelland, who, assisted by the sailor, was coolly buckling on his mail. "It was never your wont before, to be thus annoyed by danger." "It is not for myself I fear, noble Clelland," said the master, "if the Governor were but away and safe. But, oh, to think that the pride and stay of Scotland should fall into the merciless hands of a pirate dog! Would that my own life, and the lives of all my crew, could but purchase his safety!" "Take heart, old man," said Clelland, with dignity. "Heaven watches over the fortunes of the Governor of Scotland; nor will it suffer him to fall obscurely by the hands of a mere plunderer of merchants and seamen.--Rax me my long spear." As he spoke, the Governor himself stepped forward from the door in the poop, enveloped from head to foot in complete armour. He was a man of more than kingly presence--taller, by nearly a foot, than even the tallest man on deck, and broader across the shoulders by full six inches; but so admirably was his frame moulded, that, though his stature rose to the gigantic, no one could think of him as a giant. His visor was up, and exhibited a set of high handsome features, and two of the finest blue eyes that ever served as indexes to the feelings of a human soul. His chin and upper lip were thickly covered with hair of that golden colour so often sung by the elder poets; and a few curling locks of rather darker shade escaped from under his helmet. A man of middle stature and grave saturnine aspect, who wore a monk's frock over a coat of mail, came up behind him. "What is to befall us now, cousin Clelland?" said the Governor. "Does not the truce extend over the channel, think you?" "Ah, these are not English enemies, noble sir," replied the master. "We have fallen on the fleet of the infamous Thomas of Chartres." "And who is Thomas of Chartres?" asked the Governor. "A cruel and bloodthirsty pirate--the terror of these seas for the last sixteen years. Wo is me!--we have neither force enough to fight, nor wind to bear us away!" "Two large vessels," said the Governor, stepping up to the side, "full of armed men, too; but we muster fifty, besides the sailors; and, if they attempt boarding us, it must be by boat. Is it not so, master? The calm which fixes us here, must prevent them from laying alongside and overmastering us." "Ah, yes, noble sir," said the master; "but we see only a part of the fleet." "Were there ten fleets," exclaimed Clelland, impatiently, "I have met with as great odds ashore--and here comes Crawford." The door in the poop was again thrown open, and from forty to fifty warriors, in complete armour, headed by a tall and powerful-looking man, came crowding out, and then thronged around the masts, to disengage their spears. They were all robust and hardy-looking men--the flower apparently of a country side; and the coolness and promptitude with which they ranged themselves round their leader, to wait his commands, shewed that it was not now for the first time they had been called on to prepare for battle. They were, in truth, tried veterans of the long and bloody struggle which their country had maintained with Edward--men who, ere they had united under a leader worthy to command them, had resisted the enemy individually, and preserved, amid their woods and fastnesses, at least their personal independence. Such a party of such men, however great the odds opposed to them, could not, in any circumstances, be deemed other than formidable. "We are not born for peace, countryman," said the Governor--"war follows us even here. Meanwhile, lie down, that the enemy mark not our numbers. That foremost vessel is lowering her boat, and yonder tall man in scarlet, who takes his seat in the bows, seems to be a leader." "It is Thomas of Chartres, himself," said the master. "I know him well. Some five-and-twenty years ago, we sailed together from Palestine." "And what," asked the Governor, "could have brought a false pirate there?" "He was no false pirate then," replied the master, "but a true Christian knight; and bravely did he fight for the sepulchre. But, on his return to France, where he had been pledged to meet with his lady-love, he fell under the displeasure of the King, his master; and, ever since, he has been a wanderer and a pirate. You will see, as he approaches, the scallop in his basnet; and be sure he will be the first man to board us." "Excellent," exclaimed the Governor, gaily; "we shall hold him hostage for the good behaviour of his fleet. Mark me, cousin Crawford. His barge shoves off, and the men bend to their oars. He will be here in a twinkling. Do you stand by our good Ancient--would there were but wind enough to unfurl it!--and the instant he bids us strike, why, lower it to the deck; but be as sure you hoist it again when you see him fairly aboard. And you, dear Clelland, do you take your stand here on the deck beside me, and see to it, when I am dealing with the pirate, that you keep your long spear between us and his crew. It will be strange if he boast of his victory this bout." The men, at the command of their leader, had prostrated themselves on the deck, while his two brethren in arms, Crawford and Clelland, stationed themselves at his bidding--the one on the vessel's poop, directly under the pennon, the other at his side in the midships. The pirate's barge, glittering to the sun with arms and armour, and crowded with men, rowed lustily towards them; but, while yet a full hundred yards away, a sudden breeze from the west began to murmur through the shrouds, and the bellying sails swelled slowly over the side. "Heaven's mercy be praised!" exclaimed the master, "we shall escape them yet. Lay her easy to the wind, good Crawford--lay her easy to the wind, and we shall bear out through them all." "Nay, cousin, nay," said the Governor, his eyes flashing with eagerness, "the pirate must not escape us so. Lay the vessel to. Turn her head full to the wind. And you, captain, draw off your men to the hold. We must not lose our good sailors; and these woollens of yours will scarcely turn a French arrow. Nay, 'tis I who am master now"--for the old man seemed disposed to linger. "I may resign my charge, perhaps, by and by; but you must obey me now." The master and his sailors left the deck. The barge of the pirate came sweeping onward till within two spears' length of the vessel, and then hailed her with no courtly summons of surrender. "Strike, dogs, strike! or you shall fare the worse!" It was the pirate himself who spoke, and Crawford, at his bidding, pulled down the Ancient. The barge dashed alongside. Thomas of Chartres, a very tall and very powerful man, seized hold of the bulwark rail with one hand, and bearing a naked sword in the other, leaped fearlessly aboard, within half a yard of where the Governor stood, half-concealed by the shrouds and the bulwarks. In a moment the sword was struck down, and the intruder locked in the tremendous grasp of the first champion of his time. Crawford hoisted the Ancient, yard-high, to the new-risen breeze; while Clelland struck his long spear against the pirate who had leaped on the gunwale to follow his leader, with such hearty good-will that the steel passed through targe and corselet, and he fell back a dead man into the boat. In an instant the concealed party had sprung from the deck, and fifty Scottish spears bristled over the gunwale, interposing their impenetrable hedge between the pirate crew and their leader. For a moment, the latter had striven to move his antagonist; but, powerful and sinewy as he was, he might as well have attempted to uproot an oak of an hundred summers. While yet every muscle was strained in the exertion, the Governor swung him from off his feet, suspended him at arm's length for full half a moment in the air, and then dashed him violently against the deck. A stream of blood gushed from mouth and nostril, and he lay stunned and senseless where he fell. Meanwhile, the crew of the barge, taken by surprise, and outnumbered, shoved off a boat's length beyond reach of the spears, and then rested on their oars. "He revives," said the warrior in the monk's frock, going up to the fallen pirate. "Reiver though he be, he has fought for the holy sepulchre, and has worn golden spurs." "I will deal with him right knightly," said the Governor. "Yield thee, Sir Thomas of Chartres," he continued, bending over the prisoner, and holding up a dagger to his face--"yield thee true hostage for the good conduct of thy fleet--or shall I call the confessor?" "I yield me true hostage," said the fallen man. "But who art thou, terrible warrior, that o'ermasterest De Longoville of France as if he were a stripling of twelve summers? Art Wallace, the Scottish Champion!" "Thou yieldest, De Longoville," said the Governor, "to Sir William Wallace of Elderslie. But how is it that I meet, in the infamous Thomas of Chartres, that true soldier of the Cross, De Longoville? I have heard minstrels sing of thy deeds against the Saracen, Sir Knight, while I was yet a boy; and yet here art thou now, the dread of the wandering sailor and the merchant--a chief among thieves and pirates." "Alas! noble Wallace, thou sayest too truly," said Sir Thomas; "but yet wouldst thou deem me as worthy of pity as of censure, didst thou but know all, and the remorse I even now endure. For a full year have I determined to quit this wild, unknightly mode of life, and go a pilgrim as of old; not to fight for the sepulchre--for the battles of the Cross are over--not to fight, but to die for it. But I accept, noble champion, this my first defeat on sea, as a message from heaven. Accept of me as true soldier under thee, and I will fight for thee in thy country's quarrel, to the death." "Most willingly, brave De Longoville," said the Governor, as he raised him from the deck; "Scotland needs sorely the use of such swords as thine." "And deem not her cause less holy," said the monk--for monk he was, the well-known Chaplain Blair--"deem not her cause less holy than that of the sepulchre itself; nor think that thou shalt eradicate the stain of past dishonour less surely in her battles. The cause of justice, De Longoville, is the cause of God, contend for it where we may." Wallace returned to De Longoville the sword of which he had so lately disarmed him; and the pirate admiral, on learning that the champion was bound for Rochelle, issued orders to his fleet, which, now that the mist rose, was found to consist of six large vessels, to follow close in their wake. The breeze blew steadily from the north-west, and the ships went careering along, each in her own long furrow of white, towards the port of their destination; the pirate vessels keeping aloof full two bowshots from the Scotsman--for so De Longoville had ordered, to prevent suspicion of treachery. He had set aside his armour, and now appeared to his new associates as a man of noble and knightly bearing, tall and stalwart as any warrior aboard, save the Governor; and, though his hair was blanched around his temples, and indicated the approach of age, the light step and quick sparkling eye gave evidence that his vigour of frame still remained undiminished. He sat apart, with the Governor and his two kinsmen, Clelland and Crawford, in the cabin under the poop. It was a rude, unornamented apartment, as might be expected, from the general appearance of the vessel; but the profusion of arms and pieces of armour which hung from the sides, glittering to the light that found entrance through a casement in the deck, bestowed on the place an air of higher pretension. A table with food and wine was placed before the warriors. "It is now twenty-six years, or thereby," said De Longoville, "since I quitted Palestine for France, with the good Louis. I had fought by his side on the disastrous field of Massouna, and did all that a man of mould might to rescue him from the Saracens, when he fell into their hands, exhausted by his wounds and his sore sickness. But that day was written a day of defeat and disaster to the soldiers of the Cross. Nor need I say how I took my stand, with the best of my countrymen, on the walls of Damietta, and maintained them for the good cause, despite of the assembled forces of the Moslem, until we had bought back our king from captivity, by yielding up the city we defended for his ransom. It is enough for a disgraced man and a captive to say that my services were not overlooked by those whose notice was most an honour; and that, ere I embarked for France, I received the badge of knighthood from the hand of the good Louis himself. "You all know of how different a character Charles of Anjou was from his brother the king. I had returned from the crusade rich, only in honour, and found the lady of my affections under close thrall by her parents, who had resolved that she should marry Loithaire, Lord of Languedoc. I knew that her heart was all my own; but I knew, besides, that I must become wealthy ere I could hope to compete for her with a rival such as Loithaire; and the good Pope Nicholas having made over the crown of the Two Sicilies to Charles of Anjou, in an evil hour I entered the army with which Charles was to wrest it from the bastard Manfred--having certain assurance, from the tyrant himself, that, if he succeeded, I should become one of the nobles of Sicily. We encountered Manfred at Beneventura, and the bastard was defeated and slain. But I must blush, as a knight, for the honour of knighthood--as a Frenchman, for the fair fame of my country--when I think of the cruelties which followed. Not the worst tyrants of old Rome could have surpassed Charles of Anjou in his butcheries. The blood plashed under the hoofs of his charger as he passed through the cities of his future kingdom; and, when he had borne down all opposition, 'twould seem as if, in his eagerness to destroy all who might resist, he had also determined to extirpate all who could obey. But his policy proved as unsound as 'twas cruel and unjust, as the terrible _Eve of the Vespers_ has since shown. The Princes of Germany, headed by the chivalrous Conradine of Swabia, united against us in the cause of the people. But the arms of France were again triumphant; the confederacy was broken, and the gallant Conradine fell into the hands of Charles. It was I, warriors of Scotland! to whom he surrendered; and I had granted him, as became a knight, an assurance of knightly protection. But would that my arms had been hewn off at the shoulders when I first beat down his sword, and intercepted his retreat! The infamous Charles treated my knightly assurance with scorn; and--can you credit such baseness, noble Wallace!--he ordered Conradine of Swabia--a true knight, and an independent prince--for instant execution, as if he were a common malefactor. My blood boils, even now, when I recall that terrible scene of injustice and cruelty. The soldiers of France crowded round the scaffold; and I was among them, burning with shame and rage. Ere Conradine bent him to the executioner, he took off his glove, and throwing it amongst us, adjured us, if we were not all as dead to honour as our leader, to bear it to some of his kinsmen, who would receive it as a pledge of investiture in his rights, and as beqeathing the obligation to revenge his death. Will you blame me, noble Wallace! that, Frenchman as I was, I seized the glove of Conradine, and fled the army of Charles; and that, ere I returned to France, I delivered it up to Pedro of Arragon, the near kinsman of the last Prince of Swabia? "My king and friend, the good Louis, had sailed from France for Palestine, on his last hapless voyage, ere I had executed my mission. On my return to France, however, I found a galley of Toulon on the eve of quitting port, to join with his fleet, then on the coast of Africa, and, snatching a hurried interview with the lady of my affections, maugre the vigilance of her relatives, I embarked to fight under Louis, as of old, for the blessed sepulchre. We landed near Tunis, and saw the tents of France glittering to the sun. But all was silent as midnight, and the royal standard hung reversed over the pavilion of the good Louis. He had died that morning of the plague; and his base and cruel brother, the false Charles of Anjou, sat beside the corpse. I felt that I had fallen among my enemies; for though the young King was there, he was weak and inexperienced, and open to the influence of his uncle. The first knight I met, as I entered the camp, was Loithaire of Languedoc--now the wily friend and counsellor of Charles. There were lying witnesses suborned against me, who accused me of the most incredible and unheard-of practices; and of these Loithaire was the chief. 'Twas in vain I demanded the combat, as a test of my innocence. The combat was denied me; my sword was broken before the assembled chivalry of France; my shield reversed; and sentence was passed that I should be burnt at a stake, and my ashes scattered to the four winds of heaven. But it was not written that I should perish so. Scarce an hour before the opening of the day appointed for my execution, I broke from prison, assisted by a brother soldier, whose life I had saved in Palestine, and escaped to France. "I was a broken and ruined man. But how wondrous the force of true affection! My Agnes knew this; and yet, knowing all, she contrived to elude her guardians, and fled with me to the sea-shore, where we embarked, in a ship of Normandy, for the south of Ireland. From that hour De Longoville has fought under no banner but his own. I renounced, in my anger, my allegiance to my country-nay, declared war with the sovereign who had so injured me. The years passed, and desperate and dishonoured men like myself came flocking to me as their leader, till not Philip himself, or my old enemy Charles, had more kingly authority on land than De Longoville on the sea. But let no man again deceive himself as I have done. I had reasoned on the lax morality and doubtful honour of kings, and asked myself why I might not, as the admiral and prince of my fleet, achieve a less guilty, though not less splendid glory than the bastard William of Normandy, or Edward of England, or my old enemy Charles of Anjou. But I have long since been taught that what were high achievements and honourable conquest in the admiral of a hundred vessels, is but sheer piracy in the captain of six. I can trust, however, that the last days of De Longoville may yet be deemed equal to the first; and that the middle term of his life may be forgiven him for its beginning and its close. Not a month since, I carried my wife and daughter to France, and took final leave of them, with the purpose of setting out on my pilgrimage to Palestine. That intention, noble Wallace! is now altered; and I must again seek them out, that they may accompany me to Scotland." "The foul stain of treason, brave Longoville, must be removed," said the Governor. "Charles of Anjou has long since gone to his account: does the Lord of Languedoc still survive!" "He still lives," replied the admiral; "his years do not outnumber my own." "Then must he either retract the vile calumny, or grant you the combat. The young Philip has pledged his knightly word, when he solicited the visit I am now voyaging to pay him, that he would grant me the first boon I craved in person, should it involve the alienation of his fairest province. That boon, brave De Longoville, will, at least, present you with the means of regaining your fair fame." De Longoville knelt on the cabin floor, and kissed the hand of the Governor. The conversation glided imperceptibly to other and lighter matters; time passed gaily in the recital of stories of chivalrous endurance or exploit; and the gale, which still blew steadily from the north-west, promised a speedy accomplishment of their voyage. For four days they sailed without shifting back or lowering sail; and, on the morning of the fifth, cast anchor in the harbour of Rochelle. On the evening of the second day after their arrival, a single knight was pricking his steed through one of the glades of the immense forest which, at this period, covered the greater part of the province of Poitiers. He had been passing, ever since morning, through what seemed an interminable wilderness of wood--here clustered into almost impenetrable thickets shagged with an undergrowth of thorn, there opening into long bosky glades and avenues that seemed, however, only to lead into recesses still more solitary and remote than those that darkened around him. During the early part of the day, the sun had looked down gaily among the trees, checkering the sward below with a carpeting of alternate light and shadow; and the knight, a lover of falconry and the chase, had rode jocundly on through the peopled solitude; ever and anon grasping his spear, with the eager spirit of the huntsman, as the fawn started up beside his courser, and shot like a meteor across the avenue, or the wild boar or wolf rustled in the neighbouring brake. Towards evening, however, the eternal sameness of the landscape had begun to fatigue him; the sun, too, had disappeared, long before his setting, in a veil of impenetrable vapour, mottled with grey, ponderous clouds, betokening an approaching storm; and the horseman pressed eagerly onward, in the hope of reaching, ere its bursting, the hostelry in which he had purposed to pass the evening. He had either, however, mistaken his way or miscalculated his distance; for after passing dell and dingle, glade and thicket, in monotonous succession, for hours on hours, the forest still seemed as dense and unending, and the hostelry as distant as ever. A brown and sleepy horror seemed to settle over the trees as the evening darkened; the thunder began to bellow in long peals, far to the south, and a few heavy drops to patter from time to time on the leaves, giving indication of the approaching deluge. The knight had just resigned himself to encounter all the horrors of the storm, when, on descending into a little bosky hollow, through which there passed a minute streamlet, he found himself in front of a deserted hermitage. It was a cell, opening, like an Egyptian tomb, in the face of a low precipice. A rude stone-cross, tapestried with ivy, rose immediately over the narrow door-way. "The saints be praised!" exclaimed the knight, leaping lightly from his horse. "I shall e'en avail myself of the good shelter they have provided. But thou, poor Biscay," he continued, patting his steed, "wouldst that thou wert with thy master, mine host of the Three _Fleurs de Lis!_--there is scant stabling for thee here. This way, however, good Biscay--this way. Thou must bide the storm as thou best may'st in yonder hollow of the rock." And, leading the animal to the hollow, he fastened him to the stem of a huge ivy, and then entered the hermitage. It consisted of one small rude apartment, hewn, apparently with immense labour, in the living rock. A seat and bed of stone occupied the opposite sides; and in the extreme end, fronting the door, there was a rude image of the Virgin, with a small altar of mouldering stone, placed before it. The evening was oppressively sultry, and, taking his seat on the bedside, the knight unlaced and set aside his helmet, exhibiting to the fast-dying light, the brown curling hair and handsome features of our old acquaintance Clelland--for it was no other than he. The thunder began to roll in louder and longer peals, and the lightning to illumine, at brief intervals, every glade and dingle without, and every minute object within; when a loud scream of dismay and terror, blent with the infuriated howl of some wild animal, rose from the upper part of the dell, and Clelland had but snatched up his spear and leaped out into the storm, when a young female, closely pursued by an enormous wolf, came rushing down the declivity, in the direction of the hermitage; but, in crossing the little stream, overcome apparently by fatigue and terror, she stumbled and fell. To interpose his person between the poor girl and her ravenous pursuer was with Clelland the work of one moment; to make such prompt and efficient use of his spear that the steel head passed through and through the monster, and then buried itself in the earth beneath, was his employment in the next. The black blood came spouting out along the shaft, crimsoning both his hands to the wrists; and the transfixed savage, writhing itself round on the wood in its mortal agony, and gnashing its immense fangs, just uttered one tremendous howl that could be heard even above the pealing of the thunder, and then belched out his life at his feet. He raised the fallen girl, who seemed for a moment to have sunk into a state of partial swoon, and, disengaging his good weapon from the bleeding carcass, he supported her to the hermitage in the rock. She was attired in the garb of a common peasant of the age and country; but there was even yet light enough to shew that her beauty was of a more dignified expression than is almost ever to be found in a cottage--exquisite in colour and form as that which we meet with in the latter, may often be. There was a subdued elegance, too, in her few brief, but earnest expressions of gratitude to her deliverer, that consorted equally ill with her attire. On entering the hermitage, she knelt before the altar, and prayed in silence; while Clelland took his seat on the stone couch where he had before placed his helmet, leaving to his new companion the settle on the opposite side. Meanwhile the storm without had increased tenfold. The thunder rolled overhead, peal after peal, without break or pause; so that the outbursting of every fresh clap was mingled with the echoes in which the wide-spread forest had replied to the last. At times, the opposite acclivity, with all its thickets, seemed as if enveloped in an atmosphere of fire--at times one immense seam of forked lightning came ploughing the pitchy gloom of the heavens, from the centre to the horizon. The wild beasts of the forest were abroad. Clelland could hear their fierce howlings mingled with the terrific bellowings of the heavens. The dead sultry calm was suddenly broken. A hurricane went raging through the woods. There was a creaking, crackling, rushing sound among the trees, as they strained and quivered to the blast; and a roaring, like that of some huge cataract, showed that a waterspout had burst in the upper part of the dell, and that the little stream was coming down in thunder--a wide and impetuous torrent. Clelland's fair companion still remained kneeling before the altar. 'Twould seem as her prayer of thanks for her great deliverance had changed into an earnest and oft-reiterated petition for still further protection. In a pause of the storm, the frightful howlings of a flock of wolves were heard rising from over the hermitage, as if hundreds had assembled on its roof of rock. Clelland sprung from his seat, and, grasping his spear, stood in the doorway. "We shall have to bide siege," he said to his companion. "I knew not that these fierce creatures mustered so thickly here." "Heaven be our protection!" said the maiden. "They fill every recess of the forest. I had left my mother's this evening for but an instant--'twas in quest of a tame fawn--when the monster from whose murderous fangs you delivered me, started up between me and my home; and I had to fly from instant destruction into the thick of the forest." "And so your place of residence is quite at hand?" said Clelland. "In the course of a long day's journey, I have not met with a single human habitation." "The hermitage," replied the maiden, "is but a short half-mile from my mother's--would that we were but safe there!" As she spoke, the howling of the wolves burst out again, in frightful chorus, from above, and at least a score of the ravenous animals came leaping down over the rock, brushing in their descent the ivy and the underwood. Clelland couched his spear, so that nothing could enter by the narrow doorway without encountering its sharp point. But the wolves came not to the attack; and their yells and howlings from the hollow of the rock, blent with the terrified snortings and pawings of poor Biscay, shewed that they were bent on an easier conquest, and bulkier, though less noble prey. The animal, in his first struggle, broke loose from his fastenings, and went galloping madly past; and an intensely bright flash of lightning, that illumined the whole scene of terror without, shewed him in the act of straining up the opposite bank, with a huge wolf fastened to his lacerated back, and closely pursued by full twenty more. It was, in truth, a night of dread and terror. Towards morning, however, the storm gradually sunk into a calm as dead as that which had preceded it, and a clear, starry sky looked down on the again silent forest. The maiden, now that there was less of danger, was rendered thoroughly unhappy by thoughts of her mother. She had left her, she said, but for an instant--left her solitary in her dwelling; and how must she have passed so terrible a night! Clelland strove to quiet her fears. There was a little cloud in the east, he said, already reddening on its lower edge; in an hour longer, it would be broad day, and he could then conduct her to her mother's. "You have not always worn such a dress as that which you now wear," he continued; "nor have you spent all your days on the edge of the forest. Does your father still live?" There was a pause for a moment. "I am a native of France," she at length said; "but I have passed most of my time in other countries. My father, in fulfilment of a vow, is now bound on a pilgrimage to Palestine." "And may I not crave your name?" asked Clelland. "My name," she replied, "is Bertha de Longoville. Brave and courtly warrior, but for whose generous and knightly daring I would have found yester-evening a horrid tomb in the ravenous maw of the wolf, do not, I pray you, ask me more. A vow binds me to secrecy for the time." "Nay, fear not, gentle maiden," said Clelland, "that what you but wish to keep secret, I shall once urge you to reveal. But hear me, lady, and then judge how far I am to be trusted. You are the only daughter of Sir Thomas de Longoville, once a true soldier of the blessed Cross, but, in his latter days, less fortunate in his quarrels. Your father is now in France, and in two weeks hence will be in Paris." "Saints and angels!" exclaimed the maiden, "he has fallen into the hands of his enemies!" "Not so, lady; he is among his best friends. The knightly word of Sir William Wallace of Elderslie, who never broke faith with friend or enemy, is pledged for his safe-keeping. With my kinsman, he is secure of at least safety--perhaps even of grace and pardon. But the day has broken, maiden; suffer me to conduct you to your mother's." They left the hermitage together, and ascended the side of the dell. As they passed the hollow in the rock, a bright patch of blood caught the eye of Clelland. "Ah, poor Biscay!" he exclaimed; "there is all that now remains of him; and how to procure another steed in this wild district, I know not. My kinsman will be at Paris long ere his herald gets there. Well, there have been greater mishaps. Yonder is the carcass of the wolf I slew yester-evening, half eaten by his savage companions." The morning, we have said, was calm and still; but the storm of the preceding night had left behind it no doubtful vestiges of its fury. The stream had fallen to its old level, and went tinkling along its channel, with a murmur that only served to shew how complete was the silence; but the banks were torn and hollowed by the recent torrent, and tangled wreaths of brushwood and foliage lay high on the sides of the dell. The broken and ragged appearance of the forest gave evidence of the force of the hurricane. The fallen trees lay thick on the sides of the more exposed acclivities--some reclining like spears, half bent to the charge, athwart the spreading boughs of such of their neighbours as the storm had spared; others lay as if levelled by the woodman, save that their long flexile roots had thrown up vast fragments of turf, resembling the broken ruins of cottages. And, in an opening of the wood, a gigantic oak, the slow growth of centuries, lay scattered over the soil, in raw and splintery fragments, that gave strange evidence of the irresistible force of the agent employed in its destruction. The trees opened as they advanced, and they emerged from the forest as the first beams of the sun had begun to glitter on the topmost boughs. A low, moory plain, walled in by a range of distant hills, and mottled with a few patches of corn, and a few miserable cottages, lay before them. A grey detached tower, somewhat resembling that of an English village church, rose on the forest edge, scarce a hundred yards away. "Yonder tower, Sir Knight," said the maiden, "is the dwelling of my mother. Alas! what must she not have endured during the protracted horrors of the night!" "There is, at least, joy waiting her now," said Clelland; "and all will soon be well." They approached the tower. It was a small and very picturesque erection, of three low stories in height, with projecting turrets at the front corners, connected by a hanging bartizan, over which there rose a sharp serrated gable, to the height of about two stories more. A row of circular shot-holes, and a low, narrow door-way, were the only openings in the lower storey--the few windows in the upper, long and narrow, and scarce equal in size to a Norman shield, were thickly barred with iron. The building had altogether a dilapidated and deserted appearance; for the turrets were broken-edged and mouldering, and some of the large square flags had slidden from off the stone roof, and lay in the moat, which, from a reservoir, had degenerated into a quagmire, mantled over with aquatic plants, and with, here and there, a bush of willow springing out from the sides. A single plank afforded a rather doubtful passage across; and the iron-studded door of the fortalice lay wide open. Clelland hung back as the maiden entered. "My daughter! my Bertha!" exclaimed a female voice from within; "and do you yet live! and are you again restored to me!" The Knight entered, and found the maiden in the embrace of her mother. "That I still live," said Bertha, "I owe it to this brave and courtly knight. But for his generous daring, your daughter would have found strange burial in the ravenous maw of a wolf." The mother turned round to Clelland, and grasped his mailed hand in both hers. "The saints be your blessing and reward!" she exclaimed; "for I cannot repay you. God himself be your reward!--for earth bears no price adequate to the benefit. You have restored to the lonely and the broken in spirit her only stay and comfort." "Nay, madam," said Clelland, "I would have done as much for the meanest serf; for Bertha de Longoville I could have laid down my life." The mother again grasped his hand. She was a tall and a still beautiful woman, though considerably turned of forty, and though she yet bore impressed on her countenance no unequivocal traces of the distress of the night. She told them of her sufferings; and was made acquainted in turn with the frightful adventure in the hermitage, and, more startling still, with the resolution of her husband to confront his calumniators at the court of France. "We must set out instantly on our journey to Paris, Bertha," said the matron; "your father, in his imminent peril, must not lack some one, at least to comfort, if not to assist him." "Nay," said Clelland, "ere your setting out, you must first take rest enough, to recover the fatigues and watching of the night. And, besides, how could two unprotected females travel through such a country as this? Hear me, lady: I was hastening to Paris in advance of my party; but now that I have missed my way and lost my good steed, they will be all there before me. It matters but little. My kinsman can well afford wanting a herald. I shall cast myself on your hospitality for the day; and, to-morrow, should you feel yourself fully recovered, you shall set out for Paris, under such convoy as I can afford you." Both ladies expressed their warmest gratitude for the kind and generous offer; and there was that in the thanks of the younger which Clelland would have deemed price sufficient for a service much less redolent of pleasure than that he had just tendered. She was in truth one of the loveliest women he had ever seen; tall and graceful, and with a countenance exquisite in form and colour. But, with all of the bodily and the material that constitutes beauty, it was mainly to expression, that index of the soul, that she owed her power. There was a steady light in the dark hazel eye, joined to an air of quiet, unobtrusive self-possession, which seemed to sit on the polished and finely formed forehead, that gave evidence of a strong and equable mind; while the sweet smile that seemed to lurk about the mouth, and the air of softness spread over the lower part of the face, shewed that there mingled with the stronger traits of her character the feminine gentleness and sweetness of disposition, so fascinating in the sex. A little girl from one of the distant cottages entered the building with a milking pail in her hands. "Ah, my good Annette," said the matron, "you left me by much too soon yester-evening; but it matters not now. You must busy yourself in getting breakfast for us--meanwhile, good Sir Knight, this way. The tower is a wild ruin, but all its apartments are not equally ruinous." They ascended, by a stair hollowed in the thickness of the wall, to an upper story. There was but one apartment on each floor; so that the entire building consisted but of four, and the two closet-like recesses in the turrets. The apartment they now entered was lined with dark oak; a massy table of the same material occupied the centre; and a row of ponderous stools, like those which Cowper describes in his "Task," ran along the wall. An immense chimney, supported by two rude pillars of stone, and piled with half-charred billets of wood, projected over the floor; the lintel, an oblong tablet about three feet in height, was roughened by uncouth heraldic sculptures of merwomen playing on harps, and two knights in complete armour fronting each other as in the tilt-yard. The windows were small and dark, and barred with iron; and through one of these that opened to the east, the morning sun, now risen half a spear's length over the forest, found entrance, in a square slanting rule of yellow light, which fell on the floor under a square recess in the opposite wall. The little girl entered immediately after the ladies and Clelland, bearing fire and fuel; a cheerful blaze soon roared in the chimney; and, as the morning felt keen and chill after the recent storm, they seated themselves before it. An hour passed in courtly and animated dialogue, and then breakfast was served up. The younger lady would fain have prolonged the conversation--for it had turned on the struggles of the Scots, and the wonderful exploits of Wallace--had not her mother reminded her that they stood much in need of rest to strengthen them for their approaching journey. They both, therefore, retired to their sleeping apartments in the turrets; while the knight, providing himself with a bow and a few arrows, sallied out into the forest. The practice in woodcraft, which he had acquired under his kinsman, who, in his reverses, could levy on only the woods and moors, stood him in so good stead, that, when dinner-time came round, a noble haunch of venison and two plump pheasants smoked on the board. But Bertha alone made her appearance. Her mother, she said, still felt fatigued, and slightly indisposed; but she trusted to be able to join them in the course of the evening. There was nothing Clelland had so anxiously wished for, when spending the earlier part of the day in the wood, as some such opportunity of passing a few hours with Bertha. And yet, now that the opportunity had occurred, he scarce knew how to employ it. The radiant smile of the maiden--her light, elegant form, and lovely features--had haunted him all the morning; and he wisely enough thought there could be but little harm in frankly telling her so. But, now that the fair occasion had offered, he found that all his usual frankness had left him, and that he could scarce say anything, even on matters more indifferent. And, what seemed not a little strange, too, the maiden was scarcely more at her ease than himself, and could find not a great deal more to say. Dinner passed almost in silence; and Bertha, rising to the square recess in the wall, drew from it a flagon filled with wine, which she placed before her guest and a vellum volume, bound in velvet and gold. "This," she said, "is a wonderful romaunt, written by a countryman of yours, of whom I have heard the strangest stories. Can you tell me aught regarding him?" "Ah!" said the knight, taking up the volume, "the book of Tristram. I am not too young, lady, to have seen the writer--the good Thomas of Erceldoune." "Seen Thomas of Erceldoune! Thomas the Rhymer!" exclaimed the lady. "And is it sooth that his prophecies never fail, and that he now lives in Elf-land?" "Nay, lady, the good Thomas sleeps in Lauderdale, with his fathers. But we trust much to his prophecies. They have given us heart and hope amid our darkest reverses. He predicted the years of oppression and suffering which, through the death of our good Alexander, have wasted our country; but he prophesied, also, our deliverance through my kinsman, Sir William of Elderslie. We have already seen much of the evil he foresaw, and much, also, of the good. Scotland, though still threatened by the power of Edward, is at this moment free." "I have long wished," said Bertha, "to see those warriors of Scotland whose fame is filling all Europe. And now that wish is gratified--nay, more than gratified." "You see but one of her minor warriors," said Clelland; "but at Paris you shall meet with the Governor himself. Your father, Bertha, should he succeed in clearing his fair fame--and I know he will--sets out with us for Scotland. Will not you and the lady your mother also accompany us?" "I had deemed my father bound on a pilgrimage to the holy sepulchre," said Bertha. "But he has since thought," said Clelland, "how much better it were to live gloriously fighting in a just quarrel beside the first warrior of the world, than to perish obscurely in some loathsome pesthouse of the Far East. I myself heard him tender his services to my kinsman." "Then be sure," said Bertha, "my mother and I will not be separated from him. Might one find in Scotland, Sir Knight, some such quiet tower as this, where two defenceless women may bide the issue of the contest?" "Why defenceless, lady? There are many gallant swords in Scotland that would needs be beaten down ere you could come to harm. And why not now accept of Clelland's? Scotland has greater warriors and better swords; but, trust me, lady, she cannot boast of a truer heart. Accept of me, lady, as your bounden knight." A rich flush of crimson suffused the face and neck of the maiden, as she held out her hand to Clelland, who raised it respectfully to his lips. "I accept of thee, noble warrior," she said, "as true and faithful knight, seeing that thy own generous tender of service doth but second what Heaven had purposed, when, in my imminent peril in the wood, it sent thee to my rescue. Trust me, warrior, never yet had lady knight whom she respected more." Clelland again raised her hand to his lips. "I have a sister, lady," he said, "whose years do not outnumber your own. She lives lonely, since the death of my mother, in the home of my fathers--a tower roomier and stronger than this, and on the edge of a forest nearly as widely spread. You will be her companion, lady, and her friend; and your mother will be mistress of the mansion. On the morrow, we set out for Paris." The style in which the party travelled was sufficiently humble. Four small and very shaggy palfreys were provided from the neighbouring cottages: the ladies and Clelland were mounted on three of these; and the fourth, led by a hind, carried the luggage of the party. Before setting out, the lady had entrusted to the charge of the knight, a small, but very ponderous casket of ebony. "It needs, in these unsettled times," she said, "some such person to care for it; and Bertha and I would fare all the worse for wanting it." The journey was long and tedious, and the daily stages of the party necessarily short. Their route lay through a wild, half-cultivated country, which seemed to owe much to the hand of nature, but little to that of man. There was an ever-recurring succession, day after day, of dreary, wide-spreading forests, with comparatively narrow spaces between, which, from the imperfect and doubtful traces of industry which they exhibited, seemed as if but lately reclaimed from a state of nature. Groups of miserable serfs, bound to the soil even more rigidly than their fellow-slaves the cattle, were plying their unskilful and unproductive labours in the fields. They passed scattered assemblages of dingy hovels, with here and there a grim feudal tower rising in the midst--giving evidence, by the strength of its defences, of the insecurity and turbulence of the time. The travellers they met with were but few. Occasionally a strolling troubadour or harper accompanied them part of the way, on his journey from one baronial castle to another. At times, they met with armed parties of travelling merchants, bound for some distant fair; at times with disbanded artisans, wandering about in quest of employment; soldiers in search of a master; or pilgrims newly returned from Palestine, attired in cloaks of grey, and bearing the scallop in their caps. The hind, their attendant, bore in his scrip, from stage to stage, their provisions for the day; and their evenings were passed in some rude hostelry by the way-side. The third week had passed, ere, one evening on the edge of twilight, they alighted at the hostel of St Denis, and ascertained, from mine host, that they were now within half a stage of Paris. The hostel was crowded with travellers; and the ladies and Clelland, for the early part of the evening, were fain to take their places in the common room beside the fire. A young and handsome troubadour, whose jemmy jerkin, and cap of green, edged with silver, shewed that he was either one of the more wealthy of his class, or under the patronage of some rich nobleman, and who had courteously risen to yield place to Bertha, had succeeded in reseating himself beside the knight. "The hostel swarms with company," said Clelland, addressing him--"pray, good minstrel, canst tell me the occasion? Is there a fair holds to-morrow?" "Ah, Sir Knight," said the minstrel, "I should rather ask of thee, seeing thy tongue shews thee to be a Scot. Dost not know that thy countryman, the brave Wallace of Elderslie, is at court, and that all who can, in any wise, leave their homes for a season, are leaving them, to see him? It is not once in a lifetime that such a knight may be looked at. And, besides, have you not heard that the combat comes on to-morrow?" "I have heard of nothing," said Clelland; "my route has lain, of late, through the remoter parts of the country. What combat?" "Sir Thomas de Longoville, so long a true soldier of the cross--so long, too, a wandering pirate--has defied to mortal combat, Loithaire of Languedoc; and our fair Philip, through the intercession of Wallace, has granted him the lists." Both the ladies started at the intelligence; and the elder, wrapping up her face in her mantle, bent her head well nigh to her knee. "And how, good minstrel," said Bertha, in a voice tremulous from anxiety, "how is it thought the combat will go?" "That rests with Heaven, fair lady," said the minstrel. "Loithaire is known far and wide, as a striker in the lists; but who has not also heard of De Longoville, and his wars with the fierce Saracen? Many seem to think, too, that he has been foully injured by Loithaire. That soul of knightly honour, the good Lord Jonville, has already renewed his friendship with him, as his friend and comrade in the battles of Palestine, and will attend him to-morrow in the lists." "May all the saints reward him!" ejaculated the elder lady. "And at what hour, Sir Minstrel," asked the knight, "does the combat come on?" "At the turn of noon," replied the minstrel, "when the shadow first veers to the east. I go to Paris, to find new theme for a ballad, and to see the good Wallace, who is himself the theme of so many." The travellers were early on the road. With all their haste and anxiety, however, they saw the sun climbing towards the middle heavens, while the city was yet several miles distant. They spurred on their jaded palfreys, and entered the suburbs about noon. What was properly the city of Paris in this age, occupied one of the larger islands of the Seine, and was surrounded by a high wall, flanked at the angles by massy towers, and strengthened by rows of thickly-set buttresses; but, on either side the river, there were immense assemblages of the dirtiest and meanest hovels that the necessities of man had ever huddled together. The travellers, however, found but little time for remark in passing through. All Paris had poured out her inhabitants, to witness the combat, and they now crowded an upper island of the Seine, which the chivalry of the age had appropriated as a scene of games, tournaments, and duels. Clelland and the ladies had but reached the opposite bank, when a flourish of trumpets told them that the combatants had taken their places in the lists, and were waiting the signal to engage. "No further, ladies, no further," said the knight, "or we shall entangle ourselves in the outer skirts of the crowd, and see nothing. This way; let us ascend this eminence, and the scene, though somewhat distant, will be all before us." They ascended a smooth green knoll, the burial mound of some chieftain of the olden time, that overlooked the river. The island lay but a short furlong away. They could look over the heads of the congregated thousands into the open lists, and see the brilliant assemblage of the beauty and gallantry of France, which the fame of De Longoville and his opponent, and the singular nature of their quarrel, had drawn together. The sun glanced gaily on arms and armour, on many a robe of rich embroidery and many a costly jewel, and high over the whole, the oriflame of France, so famous in story, waved its flames of crimson and gold to the breeze. Knights and squires traversed the area, in gay and glittering confusion; and at either end there sat a warrior on horseback, as still and motionless as if sculptured in bronze. The champion at the northern end was cased from head to foot in sable armour, and beside him, under the blue pennon of Scotland, there stood a group of knights, who, though tall and stately as any in the lists, seemed lessened almost to boys in the presence of a gigantic warrior in bright mail, who, like Saul among the people, raised his head and shoulders over the proud crests of the assembled chivalry of France. "Yonder, ladies--yonder is my kinsman," exclaimed Clelland; "yonder is Wallace of Elderslie; and the champion beside him is Sir Thomas de Longoville." There was a second flourish of trumpets. Bertha flung herself on her knees on the sward, and raised her hands to her eyes. Her mother almost fainted outright. "Nay," said Clelland, "that is but the signal to clear the lists; the knights hurry behind the palisades, and the champions are left alone. Fear not, dearest Bertha!--there is a God in heaven, and----Ah, there is the third flourish! The champions strike their spurs deep into their chargers; and see how they rush forward, like thunder clouds before a hurricane! They close!--they close!--hark to the crash!--their steeds are thrown back on their haunches! Look up, Bertha! look up!--your father has won--he has won! Loithaire is flung from his saddle, the spear of De Longoville has passed through hauberk and corslet; I saw the steel head glitter red at the felon's back. Look up, ladies! look up!--De Longoville is safe; nay, more--restored to the honour and fair fame of his early manhood. Let us hasten and join him, that we may add our congratulations to those of his friends." Why dwell longer on the story of Thomas de Longoville? No Scotsman acquainted with Blind Harry need be told how frequent and honourable the mention of his name occurs in the latter pages of that historian. Scotland became his adopted country, and well and chivalrously did he fight in her battles; till, at length, when well nigh worn out by the fatigues and hardships of a long and active life, the decisive victory at Bannockburn gave him to enjoy an old age of peace and leisure, in the society of his lady, on the lands of his son-in-law. Need we add it was the gallant Clelland who stood in this relation to him? The chosen knight of Bertha had become her favoured lover, and the favoured lover a fond and devoted husband. Of the Governor more anon. There was a time, at least, when Scotsmen did not soon weary of stories of the Wight Wallace. THE FUGITIVE. CHAPTER I. When Prince Charles Edward, at the head of his hardy Highlanders, took up his head-quarters in Edinburgh, issuing proclamations and holding levees, amongst those who attended the latter was a young Englishman, named Henry Blackett, then a student at the university, and the son of a Sir John Blackett of Winburn Priory, in Cheshire. His mother had been a Miss Cameron, a native of Inverness-shire, and the daughter of a poor but proud military officer. From her he had imbibed principles or prejudices in favour of the house of Stuart; and when he had been introduced to the young adventurer at Holyrood, and witnessed the zeal of his army, his enthusiasm was kindled--there was a romance in the undertaking which pleased his love of enterprise, and he resolved to offer his sword to the Prince, and hazard his fortunes with him. The offer was at once graciously and gratefully accepted, and Henry Blackett was enrolled as an officer in the rebel army. He followed the Prince through prosperity and adversity, and when Charles became a fugitive in the land of his fathers, Henry Blackett was one of the last to forsake him. He, too, was hunted from one hiding-place to another; like him whom he had served, he was a fugitive, and a price was set upon his head. As has been stated, he imbibed his principles in favour of the house of Stuart from his mother; but she had been dead for several years. His father was a weak man--one of whom it may be said that he had no principles at all; but being knighted by King George, on the occasion of his performing some civic duty, he became a violent defender of the house of Brunswick, and he vowed that, if the law did not, he would disinherit his son for having taken up arras in defence of Charles. But what chiefly strengthened him in this resolution, was not so much his devotion for the reigning family, as his attachment to one Miss Norton, the daughter of a Squire Norton of Norton Hall. She was a young lady of much beauty, and mistress of what are called accomplishments; but, in saying this much, I have recorded all her virtues. Her father's character might be summed up in one brief sentence--he was a deep, designing, needy villain. He was a gambler--a gentleman by birth--a knave in practice. He had long been on terms of familiarity with Sir John Blackett--he knew his weakness, and he knew his wealth, and he rejoiced in the attachment which he saw him manifesting for his daughter, in the hope that it would be the means of bringing his estates within his control. But the property of Sir John being entailed, it consequently would devolve on Henry as his only surviving son. He, therefore, was an obstacle to the accomplishment of the schemes on which Norton brooded; and when the latter found that he had joined the army of the young Chevalier, he was chiefly instrumental in having his name included in the list of those for whose apprehension rewards were offered; and he privately, and at his own expense, employed spies to go in quest of him. He also endeavoured to excite his father more bitterly against him. Nor did his designs rest here--but, as he beheld the fondness of the knight for his daughter increase, he, with the cunning of a demon, proposed to him to break the entail; and when the other inquired how it could be done, he replied--"Nothing is more simple; deny him to be your heir--pronounce him illegitimate. There is no living witness of your marriage with his mother. The only document to prove it is some thumbed leaf in the register of an obscure parish church in the Highlands of Scotland; and we can secure it." To this most unnatural proposal the weak and wicked old man consented; and I shall now describe the means employed by Norton to become possessed of the parish register referred to. Squire Norton had a son who was in all respects worthy of such a father--he was the image of his mind and person. In short, he was one of the _things_ who, in those days, resembled those who in our own call themselves _men of the world_, forsooth! and who, under that name, infest and corrupt society--making a boast of their worthlessness--poisoning innocence--triumphing in their work of ruin--and laughing, like spirits of desolation, over the daughter's misery and disgrace, the father's anguish, the wretched mother's tears, and the shame of a family, which they have accomplished. There are such creatures, who disgrace both the soul and the shape of man, who are mere shreds and patches of debauchery--sweepings from the shops of the tailor, the milliner, and the hair-dresser--who live upon the plunder obtained under false pretences from the industrious--who giggle, ogle, pat a snuff-box, or affect to nod in a church, to be thought sceptics or fine gentlemen. One of such was young Norton; and he was sent down to Scotland to destroy the only proof which Henry Blackett, in the event of his being pardoned, could bring forward in support of his legitimacy. He arrived at a lonely village in Inverness-shire, near which the cottage formerly occupied by Major Cameron, the grandfather of Henry, was situated; and of whom he found that few of the inhabitants remembered more than that "there lived a man." Finding the only inn that was in the village much more cleanly and comfortable than he had anticipated, he resolved to make it his hotel during his residence, and inquired of the landlady if there were any one in the village with whom a gentleman could spend an evening, and obtain information respecting the neighbourhood. "Fu' shurely! fu' shurely, sir!" replied his Highland hostess--"there pe te auld tominie." "Who?" inquired he, not exactly comprehending her Celtic accent. "Wha put te auld tominie?" returned she; "an' a tiscreet, goot shentleman he pe as in a' te toun." "The dominie?--the dominie?" he repeated, in a tone of perplexity. "Oigh! oigh! te tominie," added she, "tat teaches te pits o' pairns, an' raises te psalm in te kirk." He now comprehended her meaning; and from her coupling the dominie's name with the kirk, believed that he might be of use to him in the accomplishment of his object, and desired that he might be sent for. "Oigh!" returned she, smiling, "an' he no pe lang, for he like te trappie unco weel." Within five minutes, Dugald Mackay, precentor, teacher, and parish-clerk of Glencleugh, entered the parlour of Mrs Macnab. Never was a more striking contrast exhibited in castle or in cottage. Here stood young Norton, bedecked with all the foppery of an exquisite of his day; and there stood Dugald Mackay, his thick bushy grey hair falling on his shoulders, holding in his hand a hat not half the size of his head, which had neither been made nor bought for him, and which had become brown with service, and was now stitched in many places, to keep it together. Round it was wrapped a narrow stripe of crape browner than itself, and over all winded several yards of gut and hair-line, with hooks attached, betokening his angling propensities. Dugald was a thickset old man, with a face blooming like his native heather. His feet were thrust into immense brogues, as brown as his hat, and their formidable patches shewed that their wearer could use the _lingle_ and _elshun_, although his profession was to "teach the young idea how to shoot." He wore tartan hose--black breeches, fastened at the knees by silver gilt buckles, and much the worse for the wear, while, from the accumulation of ink and dust, they might have stood upright. His vest was huge and double-breasted, its colour not recognised by painters; and his shoulders were covered by a very small tartan coat, the tails of which hardly reached his waist. Such was Dugald Mackay; and the youth, plying him with the bottle, endeavoured to ascertain how far he could render him subservient to his purpose. "You appear fond of angling," said Norton. "Fond o' fishing?" returned the man of letters; "ou ay; ou ay!--hur hae mony time filt te creel o' te shentlemen frae Inverness, for te sixpence, and te shilling, and te pig crown, not to let tem gaun pack wi' te empty pasket. And hur will teach your honour, or tress your honour's hooks, should you be stopping to fish. Here pe goot sport to your honour," continued he, raising a bumper to his lips. The other, glad to assign a plausible pretext for his visit, said that he had come a few days for the sake of fishing, and inquired how long his guest had been in the neighbourhood. "Hur peen schulemaister and parish-clerk in Glencleugh for forty year," replied Dugald. "Parish-clerk!" said Norton, eagerly, and checking himself, continued--"that is--in the church you mean, you raise the tunes?" "Ou ay, hur nainsel' pe precenter too," answered Dugald; "put hur be schulemaister and parish-clerk into te pargain." "And what are your duties as parish-clerk?" inquired the other, in a tone of indifference. "Ou, it pe to keep te pooks wi' te marriages, te christenings, and te deaths. Here pe to your honour's very goot luck again," said he, swallowing another bumper. Thus the holder of the birch and parish chronicler began to help himself to one glass after another, until the candles began to dance reels and strathspeys before him. At length the angler, expressing a wish to see such a curiosity as the matrimonial and baptismal register of a hamlet so remote, out sallied Dugald, describing curved lines as he went, and shortly returned, bearing the eventful quartos under his arm. Norton looked through them, laughing, jesting, and professing to be amused, and his eye quickly fell upon the page which he sought. Dugald laughed, drank, and talked, until his rough head sank upon his breast, and certain nasal sounds gave notice that the schoolmaster was abroad. In a moment, Norton transferred the leaf which contained the certificate of Lady Blackett's marriage, from the volume to his pocket. His father had ordered him to destroy it; but the son, vicious as the father, determined to keep it, and to hold it over him as an instrument of terror to extort money. The dominie being roused to take one glass more by way of a night-cap, was led home, as usual, by Mrs Macnab's servant-of-all-work, who carried the volumes. Shortly after this, the marriage between Sir John Blackett and Miss Norton took place; her father rejoiced in the success of his schemes, and Henry was disinherited and disowned. CHAPTER II. While the latter events which we have recorded in the last chapter were taking place, Henry Blackett, the rebel soldier, was a fugitive, flying from hiding-place to hiding-place, seeking concealment in the mountains and in the glens, in the forest and crowded city, assuming every disguise, and hunted from covert to covert. A reward was not offered for his apprehension, in particular by government, but he was included amongst those whom loyal subjects were forbidden to conceal; and two emissaries, sent out by Norton, sought him continually, to deliver him up. Ignorant of his father's marriage, or of the villain's part he had acted towards him, though conscious of his anger at his having joined Prince Charles, he was wandering in Dumfries-shire, by the shores of the Solway, disguised as a sailor, and watching an opportunity to return home, when the hunters after his life suddenly sprang upon him, exclaiming--"Ha! Blackett, the traitor!--the five hundred pounds are ours!" Armed only with the branch of a tree, which he carried partly for defence, and as a walking-stick, he repelled them with the desperate fierceness of a man whose life is at stake. One he disabled, and the other being unable to contend against him singly, permitted him to escape. He rushed at his utmost speed across the fields for many miles, avoiding the highways and public paths, until he sank panting and exhausted on the ground. He had not lain long in this situation when he was discovered by a wealthy farmer, who was known in the neighbourhood by the appellation of "canny Willie Galloway." "Puir young chield," said Willie, casting on him a look of compassion, "ye seem sadly distressed. Do ye think I could be o' ony service to ye? From yer appearance, ye wadna be the waur o' a nicht's lodging, and I can only say that ye are heartily welcome to't." Henry had been so long the object of pursuit and persecution, that he regarded every one with suspicion; and starting to his feet and grasping the branch firmer in his hand, he said--"Know you what you say?--or would you betray the wretched?" "It is o' nae manner o' use gripping your stick," said Willie, calmly, "for I'm allooed to be a first-rate cudgel-player--the best atween Stranraer and Dumfries. But, as to kennin' what I said, I was offerin' ye a nicht's lodgings; and as to betrayin' the wretched, I wadna see a hawk strike doon a sparrow, not a spider a midge, if I could prevent it." "You seem honest," said Henry; "I am miserable, and will trust you." "Be thankit," answered the other; "I dare to say I'm as honest as my neebors; and, as ye seem in distress, I will be very happy to serve ye, if I can do't in a creditable way." Willie Galloway was a bachelor of five and forty, and his house was kept by an old woman, a distant relative, called Janet White. Henry accompanied him home, and communicated to him his story. Willie took a liking for him, and vowed that he would not only shelter him, while he had a roof over his head, but that he would defend him against every enemy, while he had a hand that he could lift; and, the better to ensure his concealment, he proposed that he should pass as his sister's son, and not even write to his father to intimate where he was, until the persecution against those who had "been _out_ with poor Charlie," was past. In the neighbourhood of Willie's farm, there resided an elderly gentleman, named Laird Howison. He was an eccentric but most kind-hearted man, of whom many believed and said that his imagination was stronger then his reason; and in so saying, it was probable that they were not far from the truth. But of that the reader will determine as he sees more of the laird. There resided with him a beautiful orphan girl, named Helen Marshall, the daughter of the late parish clergyman, and to whom he had been left guardian from her childhood. But, as she grew up in loveliness before him, she became as a dream of futurity that soothed and cheered his existence; and, although he was already on the wrong side of fifty, he resolved that, as soon as she was twenty-one, he would offer her his hand and fortune. Janet White, the housekeeper and relative of Willie Galloway, had nursed Helen in infancy; and the lovely maiden was, therefore, a frequent visitor at his house. She there met Henry, and neither saw nor listened to him with indifference; and her beauty, sense, and gentleness, made a like impression upon him. Willie, though a bachelor, had penetration enough to perceive that when they met there was meaning in their eyes; and he began to rally Henry--saying, "Now, there would be a match for ye!--when the storm has blawn owre your head, just tak ye that bonny Scotch lassie hame to England wi' ye as yer wife, and ye will find her a treasure, such as ye may wander the world round and no find her marrow." As their intimacy and affection increased, Henry communicated to Helen the secret of his birth and situation; and, like a true woman, she loved him the more for the dangers to which he was exposed. He had remained more than eight months with his friend and protector; and, imagining that the persecution against himself, and others who had acted in the same cause, was now abated in its fury, he forwarded a letter to his father, at Winburn Priory, announcing his intention of venturing home in a few days, and begging his forgiveness and protection, until his pardon could be procured. He, however, intimated to Willie Galloway, his desire to secure the hand of Helen before he left. "Weel, if she be agreeable," said Willie "--and I hae every reason to believe she is--I wadna blame ye for taking that step ava; for her auld gowk o' a guardian, Laird Howison, (though a very worthy man in some respecks), vows that he is determined to marry her himsel, as soon as she is ane and twenty; and, as he is up aboot London at present, ye couldna hae a better opportunity. Therefore, only ye and Helen say the word, and I'll arrange the business for ye in less than nae time." The fair maiden consented; a clergyman had joined their hands, and pronounced the benediction over them--the ceremony was concluded, but it was only concluded, when the two ruffians, who have been already mentioned as hired by Norton to search for him and secure his apprehension, and who before had met him by the side of the Solway, followed by two soldiers, burst into the apartment, crying--"Secure the traitor! It is he!--Harry Blackett!" Helen screamed aloud and clasped her hands. "Ye lie! ye lie!" cried Willie--"it is my sister's son--meddle wi' him wha daur, and us twa will fecht you four, even in the presence o' the minister." So saying, he seized hold of a chair, and raised it to repel them. Henry followed his example. The soldiers threateningly raised their fire-arms. Willie suddenly swang round the chair with his utmost strength, and dashed down their arms. Henry hastily kissed the brow of his fair bride, and, rushing through the midst of them, darted from the house, while Willie, as rapidly following him, closed the door behind him, and holding it fast, cried--"Run, Harry, my lad!--run for bare life, and I'll keep them fast here!" For several days, the soldiers searched the neighbourhood for the fugitive; but they found him not, and no one knew where he had fled. Within a week, Helen disappeared from Primrose Hall, the seat of her guardian, Laird Howison; and the general belief was, that she had set out for Cheshire, to the father of her bridegroom, to intercede with him to use his influence in his son's behalf. "And," said Willie, "if she doesna move him to forgie his son, and do his duty towards him, then I say that he has a heart harder than a whin-rock." But no one knew the object of her departure, nor whither she had gone. Laird Howison had not returned; and, after several weeks had passed, and Willie Galloway was unable to hear ought of either Helen or Henry, he resolved to proceed to Cheshire, to make inquiries after them; and for this purpose purchased an entire suit of new and fashionable raiment. CHAPTER III. On a beautiful summer morning, an old man, slightly stooping in his gait, was slowly walking down a green lane which led in the direction from Warrington to Winburn Priory. Behind him, at a rapid pace, followed a younger man, of a muscular frame, exceedingly well-dressed, and carrying over his arm a thick chequered plaid, like those worn in the pastoral districts of Scotland. He overtook the elder pedestrian, and accosted him, saying-- "Here's a bonny morning, freend." "Sir?" said the old man inquiringly, slightly lifting his hat, and not exactly comprehending his companion. "Losh, but he's a mannerly auld body that," thought the other; "I see the siller upon this suit o' claes has been weel-wared;" and added aloud, "I was observing it's a delightful morning, sir, and as delightful a country-side; it wad be a paradise, were it no sae flat." "Ah, sir!" replied the old man; "but I fear as how the country looks like a paradise without its innocence." "Ye talk very rationally, honest man," said the other, whom the reader will have recognised to be Willie Galloway; "and, if I am no mistaen, ye maun hae some cause to mak the remark. But, dear me, sir, only look round ye, and see the trees in a' their glory, the flowers in a' their innocence; or just look at the rowing burn there, wimplin alang by oor side, like refined silver, beneath a sun only less glorious than the Hand that made it; and see hoo the bits o' fish are whittering round, wagging their tails, and whisking back and forrit, as happy as kings! Look at the lovely and the cheerfu' face o' a' Nature--or just listen to the music o' thae sinless creatures in the hedges, and in the blue lift--and ye will say that, but for the inventions and deceitfulness o' man's heart, this earth wad be a paradise still. But I tell ye what, freend--I believe that were an irreligious man just to get up before sunrise at a season like this, and gang into the fields and listen to the laverock, and look around on the earth, and on the majesty o' the heavens rising, he wadna stand for half-an-hoor until, if naebody were seeing him, he would drap doun on his knees and pray." Much of Willie's sermon was lost on the old man; he, however, comprehended a part, and said, "Why, sir, I know as how I always find my mind more in tune for the service of the church, by a walk in the fields, and the singing of the birds, than by all the instruments of the orchestra." "Orchestra!" said Willie, "what do ye mean?--that's a strange place to gather devotion frae!" "The orchestra of the church," returned the other. "The orchestra o' the church!" said Willie, in surprise--"what's that? I never heard o't before. There's the poopit, and the precentor's desk, the pews and the square seats, and doun stairs and the gallery--but ye nonplus me about the orchestra." "Why, our lord of the manor," continued the old man, "is one who cares for nothing that's good, and he will give nothing; and as we are not rich enough to buy an organ, we have only a bass viol, two tenors, and a flute." "Fiddles and a flute in a place o' worship!" exclaimed Willie. "Yes, sir," replied the other, marvelling at his manner. "Weel," returned Willie, standing suddenly still, and striking his staff upon the ground, "that beats a'! And will ye tell me, sir, hoo it is possible to worship yer Creator by scraping catgut, or blawing wind through a hollow stick?" "Why, master," said the old man, "the use of instruments in worship is as old as the times of the prophets, and I can't see why it should be given up. But dost thou think, now, that thou couldst go into Chester cathedral at twilight, while the organ filled all round about thee with its deep music, without feeling in thy heart that thou wast in a house of praise. Why, sir, at such a time thou couldst not commit a wicked action. The very sound, while it lifted up thy soul with delight, would awe thee." When their controversy had ended, Willie inquired--"Do ye ken a family o' the name o' Blackett, that lives aboot this neeborhood?" "I should," answered the old man; "forty years did I eat of their bread." "Then, after sic lang service, ye'll just be like ane o' the family?" replied Willie. "Alas!" said the other, shaking his head. "Ye dinna mean to say," resumed Willie, in a tone of surprise, "that they hae turned ye aff, in your auld age, as some heartless wretch wad sell the noble animal that had carried him when a callant, to a cadger, because it had grown howe-backet, and lost its speed o' foot. But I hope that young Mr Henry had nae hand in it?" "Henry!--no! no!" cried the old man eagerly--"bless him! Did you know Mr Henry, your honour?" "I did," said Willie; "and I hae come from Scotland ance errand to see him." "But, sir," inquired the old man, tremulously, "do you know where to find him?" "I expect to find him, by this time, at his father's house." "Alas!" answered the old domestic, "there has been no one at the priory for more than twelve months. I don't know where the old knight is. Henry has not been here since he went to Edinburgh, and that is nigh to five years gone now." "Ye dumfounder me, auld man," exclaimed Willie; "but where, in the name o' guidness, where's the wife?--where's Mrs Blackett?" "You will mean your countrywoman, I suppose," said the other. "To be sure I mean her," said Willie--"wha else could I mean?" "Ah! wo is me!" sighed his companion, and he burst into tears as he spoke, "dost see the churchyard, just before us?--and they have raised no stone to mark the spot." "Dead!" ejaculated Willie, becoming pale with horror, and fixing upon his fellow-pedestrian a look of agony--"Ye dinna say--dead!" "Even so!--even so!" said the old domestic, sobbing aloud. "And hoo was it?" cried Willie; "was it a fair strae death--or just grief, puir thing--just grief?" "Why, I can't say how it was," answered his informant; "but I wish I durst tell all I think." "Say it!--say it!" exclaimed Willie, vehemently, "what do you mean by, if you durst say all you think? If there be the shadow o' foul play, I will sift it to the bottom, though it cost me a thousand pounds; and there is anither that will gie mair." "Ah, sir, I am but a friendless old man," replied the other, "that could not stand the weight of a stronger arm." "Plague take their arms!" cried Willie, handling his cudgel, as if to shew the strength of his own--"tell what ye think, and they'll have strong arms that dare touch a hair o' yer head." "Well, master," was the reply, "I don't like to say too much to strangers, but if thou makest any stay in these parts, I may tell thee something; and I fear that wherever poor Henry is, he is in need of friends. But perhaps your honour would wish to see her grave?" "Her grave!" ejaculated Willie--"yes! yes! yes!--her grave!--O misery! have I come frae Dumfries-shire to see a sicht like this?" The old man led the way over the stile, hanging his head and sighing as he went. Willie followed him, drawing his sleeve across his eyes, as was his custom when his heart was touched, and forgetting the dress of the gentleman which he wore, in the feelings of the man. "The family vault is in yonder corner," said his conductor, as they turned across the churchyard. "Save us, friend!" exclaimed Willie, looking towards the spot, "saw ye ever the like o' yon?--a poor miserable dementit creature, wringing his hands as though his heart would break!" "Tis he! 'tis he!" shouted the old man, springing forward with the alacrity of youth, "my child!--my dear young master!" "Oh! conscience o' man!" exclaimed Willie, "what sort o' a dream is this? It canna be possible! _Her_ dead, and _him_, oot o' his judgment, mourning owre her grave in the garb o' a beggar!" "Ha! discovered again!" cried Henry fiercely, and starting round as he spoke; but immediately recognising the old domestic, on whom time had not wrought such a metamorphosis as dress had upon Willie Galloway--"Ha, Jonathan! old Jonathan Holditch!" he added, "do I again see the face of a friend!" and instantly discovering Willie, he sprang forward and grasped his extended hand in both of his. The old man sat down upon the grave and wept. "Don't weep, Jonathan," said Henry, "I trust that we shall soon have cause to rejoice." "I wish a' may be richt yet," thought Willie; "I took him to be rather dementit at the first glance, and _rejoice_ is rather a strange word to use owre a young wife's grave. Puir fellow!" "Yes, Master Henry," said Jonathan, "I do rejoice that the worst is past; but I must weep too, for there be many things in all this that I do not understand." "Nor me either," said Willie; "but ye say ye think more than ye dare tell." "Why is it, Jonathan," continued Henry, "that there is no stone to mark my mother's grave? There is room enough in our burial place. Why is there nothing to her memory?" he continued, bending his eyes upon her sepulchre. "Her _memory_!" he added; "cold, cruel grave; and is memory all that is left me of such a parent? Is the dumb dust, beneath this unlettered stone--all!--all! that I can now call mother? Has she no monument but the tears of her only surviving child?" "A' about his mother," muttered Willie, "who has been dead for four years, and no a word aboot puir Helen! As sure as I'm a living man this is beyont my comprehension--I dinna think he can be _a'thegither there_!" Henry turned towards him and said, "I have much to ask, my dear friend, but my heart is so filled with griefs and forebodings already, that the words I would utter tremble on my tongue; but what of my Helen--tell me, what of her?" "She--she's--weel," gasped Willie, bewildered; "that is--I--I hope--I trust--that--oh, losh, Mr Blackett, I dinna ken whare I am, nor what I am saying, for my brain is as daized as a body's that is driven owre wi' a drift, and rowed amang the snaw! Has there been onybody buried here lately?" "Mr Galloway!--Mr Galloway!" exclaimed Henry, half-choked with agitation, and wringing his hand in his, while the perspiration burst upon his brow--"in the name of wretchedness--what--what do you mean?" "Oh, dinna speak to me!" said Willie, waving his hand; "ask that auld man." "Jonathan?" exclaimed Henry. "I don't know what the gentleman means," said the old man; "but no one has been buried here since your honoured mother, and that is four years ago." "And whase grave--whase grave did ye bring me to look at?" inquired Willie, eagerly. "My lady's," answered he. "Yer leddy's!" returned Willie--"do you mean Mr Blackett's mother?" "Whom else could I mean?" asked old Jonathan, in a tone of wonder. "Wha else could you mean!" repeated Willie; "then, be thankit! _she's_ no dead!--ye say _she's_ no dead!" and he literally leapt for joy. "Who dead?" inquired the old man, with increased astonishment. "Wha dead, ye stupid auld body!--did I no say _his wife_, as plain as I could speak?" "_Whose_ wife?" inquired Jonathan, looking from Willie to his master in bewilderment. "Whose wife!" reiterated Willie, weeping, laughing, and twirling his stick; "shame fa' ye--ye may ask that noo, after knocking my heart oot o' the place o't wi' yer palaver. Whase wife do ye say?--ask Mr Henry." "Mr Galloway!" interrupted Henry, "am I to understand that you believed this to be the grave of my beloved Helen?--or, how could you suppose it? Has she left Primrose Hall?--or, has our marriage----Tell me all you know, for I wist not what I would ask." Willie then related to him what the reader already knows--namely, that she had left Dumfries-shire, and was supposed to have gone to his father's. "Blessings on the day that these eyes beheld the dear lady, then," exclaimed old Jonathan; "for I could vow that she is under my roof now." "Under _your_ roof!" cried Henry. "Was ye doited, auld man, that ye didna tell me that before?" said Willie. "I knew no more of my young master's marriage, until just now, than these gravestones do," said Jonathan; "the dear lady who is with us told nothing to me. Only my wife told me that she knew she loved our young master." "But why is she lodging with you, Jonathan? I have learned that my father is abroad, and is it that he is soon expected home?" "A fever caused her to be an inmate of my poor roof," answered Jonathan, "after she had been rudely driven from the gate as a common beggar. But I am no longer thy father's servant--and I wish, for thy sake, I could forget he was thy father; for he has done that which might make the blessed bones beneath our feet start from their grave. And there is no one about the Priory now, but the creatures of the villain Norton." Henry entreated that the old man would not speak harshly of his father, though he had so treated them; and he briefly informed them, that, on flying from Scotland to escape his pursuers even at his father's lodge, he again met one of the individuals who had hunted him as "Blackett, the traitor," and who had attempted to seize him in the hour of his marriage--and that even there the cry was again raised against him; and a band, thirsting for his blood-money, joined in the pursuit. He had fled to the churchyard, and found concealment in the family vault, where he had remained until they then discovered him, as, in the early morning, he had ventured out. Willie counselled that there was now small vengeance to be apprehended from the persecution of the government; and when Jonathan stated that Sir John had married the daughter of Norton, and disinherited Henry by denying his marriage with his mother, Willie exclaimed--"I see it a', Mr Henry, just as clear as the A, B, C. This rascal, ye ca' Norton, or your faither, (forgie me for saying sae,) has employed the villains wha hunted for yer life; it has been mair them than the government that has been to blame. Therefore, my advice is, let us go and drive the thieves out o' the house by force." Henry, who was speechless with grief, horror, and disgust, agreed to the proposition of his friend, and they proceeded to the Priory by a shorter road than the lodge. Henry knocked loudly at the door, which was opened by a man-servant, who attempted to shut it in his face; but, in a moment the door was driven back upon its hinges, and the menial lay extended along the lobby; and Henry, with his sturdy ally, and old Jonathan, rushed in. Alarmed by the sound, the other servants, male and female, hurried to the spot; and epithets, too opprobrious to be written, were the mildest they applied to the young heir, as he demanded admission. "Then let us gie them club-law for it," cried Willie, "if they will have it; and they shall have it to their heart's content, if I ance begin it." Armed with such weapons as they could seize at the moment, the servants menacingly opposed their entrance; but Henry, dashing through them, rushed towards the stairs, where he was followed by four men-servants, two armed with swords, and the others with kitchen utensils. But Willie, following at their heels, cried--"Come back!" and, bringing his cudgel round his head, with one tremendous swoop caused it to rattle across the unprotected legs of the two last of the pursuers, and, almost at the same instant, before their comrades had ascended five steps from the ground, they, from the same cause, descended backwards, rolling and roaring over their companions. Within three seconds, all four were conquered, disarmed, and unable to rise. As the discomfited garrison of the Priory gathered themselves together, (much in the attitude of Turks or tailors,) groaning, writhing, and ruefully rubbing their stockings, Willie, with the composed look of a philosopher, addressed to them this consoling and important information--"Noo, sirs, I hope ye are a' _sensibly_ convinced, what guid service a bit hazel may do in a willing hand; and if ony o' yer banes are broken, I would recommend ye to send for the doctor before the swelling gets stiff about them. But ye couldna hae broken banes at a cannier place on a' the leg than just where I gied ye the bits o' clinks; they were hearty licks, and would gie them a clean snap, so that, in the matter o' six weeks, ye may be on your feet again." Old Jonathan had already followed Henry up stairs; and Willie having finished his exhortation, proceeded in quest of them. Henry succeeded in obtaining a change of raiment; and having sent for one who had been long a tenant upon the estate, he left the house in charge to him, with orders that he should immediately turn from it all the creatures of Norton, and engage other servants; and he and his friend, Willie, proceeded to the house of old Jonathan, where, as the latter supposed, a lady that he believed to be the wife of his young master, then was. CHAPTER IV. Mrs Holditch (the wife of old Jonathan) was wandering up the lane in quest of her husband, wondering at the length of his absence, and fretting for his return; for "the sweet lady," as she termed Helen, "would not take breakfast without them." She had proceeded about half a mile from the cottage, when she was met by none other than Laird Howison of Primrose Hall, and the following dialogue took place:-- "Will ye hae the kindness to inform me, ma'am, if the person that used to keep the gate of Sir John Blackett lives ony way aboot here?" "He does, sir," replied she, with low obeisance. "And, oh!" interrupted he, earnestly, "know ye if there be a young leddy frae Scotland stopping there at present--for I have heard that there is? Ye'll no think me inquisitive, ma'am; for really if ye kenned what motive I hae for asking, ye would think it motive enough." "There be, your honour," returned she, "and a dear excellent young lady she is." "Oh! if it be her that I mean," said he, "that she is _dear_, indeed, I have owre guid reason to ken, and her excellence is written on every line o' her beautiful countenance. But, if I'm no detaining ye, ma'am, may I just ask her name?" "She bade us call her Helen, sir," replied she; "we know no other." "Yes! yes!" cried he, "it's just Helen!--Helen, and nothing else to me! Mony a time has that name been offered up wi' my prayers. But I thought, ma'am, ye said she bade _you_ call her Helen." "Yes, your honour," said she; "I be the wife of old Jonathan Holditch, and she be staying with us now." "Bless you!" he exclaimed, "for the shelter which yer roof has afforded to the head o' an orphan. But, oh! what like is _your_ Helen? Is her neck whiter than the drifted snaw? Does her hair fa' in gowden ringlets, like the clouds that curl round the brows o' the setting sun? Is her form delicate as the willow, but stately as the young pine? Is her countenance beautiful as the light o' laughing day, when it chases sickness and darkness together from the chamber o' the invalid? If she isna a' this--if her voice isna sweeter than the sough o' music on a river--dear and excellent she may be, and they may call her Helen--but, oh! she isna my _Helen_!--for there is none in the world like unto _mine_. But, no! no!--she is _not mine now_! O Helen, woman! did I expect this? Excuse me, ma'am, ye'll think my conduct strange; but, when my poor seared-up heart thinks o' past enjoyment, it makes me forget mysel'. Do you think your Helen is the same that I hae come to seek?" "A sweeter and a lovelier lady," said she, "never called Christian man father. She had business at Winburn Priory; but my husband says she was driven away from the gate like a dog." "It is her!" exclaimed he, "and she's no been at the Priory, then?" "No, sir," returned she. "Nor seen ony o' the Blackett family?" added he, eagerly. "No, sir; for there be none of them in the neighbourhood," answered she. "What's this I hear!" cried he:--"Gracious! if I may again hope!--and why for no? But how is it that she is stopping wi' you?--wherefore did she not return to the home where she has been cherished from infancy, and where she will aye be welcome. Has Helen forgot me a'thegither?" "Alas, sir!" said she; "it was partly grief, I believe, that brought on a bad fever, and I had fears the sweet, patient creature would have died in my hands. I sat by her bedside, watching night after night; and, oh! sir, I daresay as how it was about you that she sometimes talked, and wept, and laughed, and talked again, poor thing." "And did _ye_," he inquired, fumbling with, a pocket book; "did _ye_ watch owre her? I'm your debtor for that. And ye think she spoke about _me_--my name's Howison, ma'am--Thomas Howison of Primrose Hall, in the county o' Dumfries. She would, maybe, call me _Thomas_!" "Mr Howison!" replied the old woman: "yes, your honour, she often mentioned such a name--very often." "Did she really," added he; "did she mention me?--and often spoke about me--often? Then she's no forgotten me a'thegither!" He thrust a bank-note into the hands of Mrs Holditch, which she refused to accept, saying that "the dear lady had more than paid her for all that she had done already." But, while she spoke, they had arrived within sight of the cottage, and he suddenly bounded forward, exclaiming--"Oh! haud my heart!" as he beheld Helen, sitting looking from the window--"yonder she is! yonder she is! O Helen! Helen!" he cried, rushing towards the door--"wherefore did ye leave me?--why hae ye forsaken me? But, joy o' my heart, I winna upbraid ye; for I hae found ye again." With an agitated step, she advanced to meet him--she extended her hand towards him--she faltered--"My kind, kind benefactor." He heard the words she uttered--with a glance he beheld the marriage-ring upon her finger--he stood still in the midst of his transport--his outstretched arms fell motionless by his side--"O Helen, woman!" he cried in agony, "do ye really say _benefactor_?--that isna the word I wish to hear frae ye. Ye never ca'ed me _benefactor_ before!" The few words spoken by the old woman had called up his buried hopes; but the word _benefactor_ had again whelmed him in despair. "Oh!" he continued, dashing away the tears from his eyes, "my poor mind is flung away upon a whirlwind, and my brain is the sport o' every shadow! O Helen! I thought ye had forgotten me!" "Forgotten you, my kind dear friend!" said she; "I have not, I will not, I cannot forget you; and wherefore would you forget that I can only remember you as a friend?" "Poor, miserable, and deluded being that I am," added he; "I expected, from what the mistress o' this house told me, that I wouldna be welcomed by the cauldrife names o' _friend_ or _benefactor_. Do ye mind since ye used to call me _Thomas_?" "Mr Howison," answered she, "I know this visit has been made in kindness--let me believe in parental anxiety. You have not now to learn that I am a wife, and you can have heard nothing here to lead you to think otherwise. I will not pretend to misunderstand your language. But by what name can I call you save that of friend?--it was the first and the only one by which I have ever known you." "No, Helen," cried he, wringing her hand; "there was a time when ye only said _Thomas!_ and the sound o' that ae word frae yer lips was a waff o' music, which echoed, like the vibrations o' an angel's harp, about my heart for hours and for hours!" "If," added she, "from having been taught by you to call you by that name in childhood, when I regarded you as my guardian, and you condescended to be my playmate, will you upbraid me with ceasing to use it now, when respect to you and to myself demand the use of another? Or can you, by any act of mine, place another meaning upon my having used it, than obedience to your wishes, and the familiarity of a thoughtless girl? And, knowing this, is it possible that the best of men will heap sorrow upon sorrow on the head of a friendless and afflicted woman?" "Oh, dinna say friendless, Helen," cried he; "friendless ye canna be while I am in existence. Ye hae torn the scales from my eyes, and the first use o' sicht has been to show me that the past has been delusion, and that the future is misery, solitary madness, or despair! And hae I really a' this time mistaen sweetness for love, and familiarity for affection? Do ye really say that it was only familiarity, Helen?" "The feelings of a sister for a brother," she answered; "of a daughter for a father." "True," said he; "I see it now; I was, indeed, older than your father--I didna recollect that." He sat thoughtful for a few minutes, when Helen, to change the subject, inquired after her old nurse, Janet White. "Poor body," said he, raising his head, "her spirits are clean gone. I understand she sits mourning for you by the fire, cowering thegither like a pigeon that's lost its mate, or a ewe whose lamb has been struck dead by its side. It would wring tears from a heart o' stane to hear her lamenting, morning, noon, and night, for her 'dear bairn,' as she aye ca'ed ye--rocking her head and chirming owre her sorrow, like a hen bird owre its rifled nest. I had her owre at the Hall the day after I cam back frae London, and just afore I cam here to seek for ye. But there is naething aboot it that she taks delight in noo. And, when I strove to amuse her, by taking her through the garden and plantations, (though I stood mair in need o' comfort mysel'), she would stand still and lean her head against a tree, in the very middle o' some o' the bonniest spots, while a tear came rowing down her cheeks, and look in my face wi' such a sorrowfu' expression, that a thousand arrows, entering my breast at ance, couldna hae caused me mair agony. I felt that I was a puir, solitary, and despised being, only cast into the midst o' a paradise, that my comfortless bosom might appear the blacker and the more dismal. The puir auld body saw what was passing within me, and she shook her head, saying, 'Oh, sir! had I seen ye leading my bairn down thir bonny avenues as your wife, Janet White would have been a happy woman.' Then she wrung her withered hands, and the tears hailed down her cheeks faster and faster; while I hadna a word o' consolation to say to her, had it been to save my life. For the very chirping o' the birds grew irksome, and the young leaves and the silky flowers painful to look upon. O Helen! if ye only kenned what we a' suffer on yer account! If ye only kenned what it is to have hope spired up, and affection preying upon your ain heart for nourishment, ye wadna be angry at onything I say." "Think not it is possible," she replied, while her tears flowed faster than her words; "but wherefore feed a hopeless passion, the indulgence of which is now criminal?" "Oh! forgie ye!" he exclaimed, vehemently; "dinna say that, Helen! Hopeless it may be, but not _criminal_! That is the only cruel word I ever heard frae yer lips! I didna think onybody would hae said that to me! Did you really say _criminal_? But, oh! as matters stand, if ye'd only alloo me to say anither word or twa anent the subject, and if ye wadna just crush me as a moth, and tak pleasure in my agonies--or hae me to perish wi' the sunless desolation o' my ain breast--ye'll alloo me to say them. They relate to my last consolation--the last tie that links me and the world together!" "Speak," said Helen; "let not me be the cause of misery I can have power to prevent." "Oh, then!" replied he, "be not angry at what I'm going to say; and mind, that, on your answer depends the future happiness or misery o' a fellow-being. Yes, Helen! upon your word depends life and hope--madness and misery; I say life and hope--for, if ye destroy the one, the other winna hand lang oot; and I say madness--for, oh! if ye had been a witness o' the wild and the melancholy days and nights that I hae passed since I learned that ye had left me, and felt my heart burning and beating, and my brain loup, louping for ever, like a living substance, and shooting and stinging through my head, like stings o' fire, till I neither kenned whar I was, nor what I did; but stood still, or rushed out in agony, and screamed to the wind, or gripped at the echo o' my voice!--I say, if ye had seen this, ye wadna think it strange that I made use o' the words. And, now, as ye have heard nothing from----from Henry Blackett, from the night that the ceremony o' marriage was performed--and if ye should hear nothing o' him for seven years to come, ye will then, ye ken, be at liberty--and will ye say that I may hope, then? O Helen, woman! say but the word, and I'll wait the seven years, as Jacob did for Rachel, and count them but a day if my Helen will bless me wi' a smile o' hope!" As he thus spoke, Mrs Holditch bustled into the room, exclaiming--"O sweet lady, here be one coming thee knows--see! see! there be my husband, and our own dear young master Henry, come to make us happy again!" "My Henry!" exclaimed Helen, springing towards the door--"where--oh, where?". "Here, my beloved! here!" replied Henry, meeting her on the threshold. Poor Laird Howison stood dumb, his mouth open, his eyes extended, staring on vacancy. He beheld the object of his delirious love sink into her husband's arms, and saw no more. He clasped his hands together, and, with a deep groan, reeled against the wall. Henry and Helen, in the ecstasy of meeting each other, were unconscious of all around, and Willie Galloway was the first to observe his countryman. "Preserve us! you here, too, Mr Howison!" said he. But the features of the laird remained rivetted in agony, and betrayed no symptom of recognition. The mention of the laird's name by Willie, arrested the attention of Henry, and approaching him, he said--"Sir, to you I ought to offer an apology." The unhappy man wildly grasped the hand of Henry, and seizing also Helen's, he exclaimed--"It is a' owre now! The chain is forged, and the iron is round my soul. But I bless you baith. Tak her! tak her!--and hear me, Henry Blackett--as ye would escape wrath and judgment, be kind to her as the westlin' winds and the morning dews to the leaves o' spring. Let it be your part to clothe her countenance wi' smiles and her bosom wi' joy! Fareweel, Helen!--look up!--let me, for the last time, look upon your face, and I will carry that look upon my memory to the grave!" She gazed upon him wildly, crying--"Stay!--stay!--you must not leave us!" "Now!--now, it is past!" he cried; "it was a sair struggle, but reason mastered it! Fareweel, Helen!--fareweel!" Thus saying, he rushed out of the house, and Willie Galloway followed him; but, although fleet of foot, he was compelled to give up the pursuit. A few minutes after the abrupt and wild departure of the laird, and before Helen had recovered from the shock, the ruffians, who, at the instigation of Norton, had hunted after Henry to deliver him up to the government, and from whom he had already twice escaped, rushed into the room, exclaiming--"Secure the traitor!" Henry sprang back to defend himself, and Willie Galloway, who had returned, threw himself into a pugilistic attitude. But Helen, stepping between her husband and his pursuers, drew a paper from her bosom, and placing it in his hands, said--"My Henry is free! he is pardoned!--the king hath signed it!--laugh at the bloodhounds!" And, as she spoke, she sank upon his breast. He opened the paper; it was his pardon under the royal signature and the royal seal! "My own!--my wife!--my wife!" cried Henry, pressing her to his heart, and weeping on her neck. "That crowns a'!" exclaimed Willie Galloway; "O Helen!--what a lassie ye are!" The ruffians slunk from the room in confusion, and Willie informed them that the sooner they were out of sight it would be the better for them. Helen, on leaving Scotland, had proceeded to London, where, through the interest of a friend of Laird Howison's, she gained access to the Duke of Cumberland, and throwing herself at his feet, had, through him, obtained her husband's pardon, and that pardon she had carried next her bosom to his father's house, hoping to find him there. * * * * * Having divided this tale into chapters, we now come to the CONCLUSION. Henry being now pardoned, Willie Galloway advised that he should take his wife to his father's house, and remain there, adding--"Mind ye, Maister Henry, that possession is nine points o' law--and if ye be in want o' the matter o' five hundred pounds for present use, or for mair to prove your birthright at law, I am the man that will advance it, and that will leave no stone unturned till I see you righted." Willie's suggestion was acted upon; and Henry and Helen took up their abode in the Priory, where they had been but a few weeks, when he obtained information that his father had fallen in a duel, and that his adversary was none other than Squire Norton, the father of his then wife; but with his dying breath he declared, in the presence of his seconds, and invoked them to record it, that his injured son Henry was his only and lawful heir. "That," exclaimed Norton, with a savage laugh over his dying antagonist, "it will cost him some trouble to prove!" The murderer, in the name of a child which his daughter had borne to Sir John, had the hardihood to enter legal proceedings to obtain the estate. Henry applied to the parish of Glencleugh for the register of his mother's marriage; but no such record was found. Old Dugald Mackay had a dreamy recollection of such a marriage taking place; but he said--"It pe very strange that it isna in te pook; hur canna swear to it." Many thought that the day would be given against Henry, and pitied him; but before judgment was pronounced in the case, young Norton was found guilty of forgery, and condemned to undergo the just severity of the law. Previous to his ignominious death, in the presence of witnesses, he confessed the injury he had done to Henry by tearing the leaves from the parish register, and directed where they might be found. They were found--old Norton fled from the country, and Henry obtained undisputed possession of the estate; but on his father's widow and child he settled a competency. Laird Howison's sorrow moderated as his years increased; and when Henry and Helen had children, and when they had grown up to run about, he requested that they should be sent to him every year, to pull the primroses around Primrose Hall; and they were sent. One of them, a girl, the image of her mother, he often wept over, and said, he hoped to live to love her, as he had loved her mother. Willie Galloway often visited his friends in Cheshire, and remained "canny Willie" to the end of the chapter. THE BRIDE OF BRAMBLEHAUGH.[1] It has been stated by the greatest critics the world ever saw--whose names we would mention, if we did not wish to avoid interfering with the simplicity of our humble annals--that no fictitious character ought to be made at once virtuous and unfortunate; and the reason given for it is that mankind, having a natural tendency to a belief of an adjustment, even in this world, of the claims of virtue and the deserts of vice, are displeased with a representation which at once overturns this belief, and creates dissatisfaction with the ways of Providence. This may be very good criticism, and we have no wish to find fault with it as applied to works intended to produce a certain effect on the minds of readers; but, so long as Nature and Providence work with machinery whose secret springs are hid from our view, and evince--doubtless for wise purposes--a disregard of the adjustment of rewards and punishments for virtue and vice, we shall not want a higher authority than critics for exhibiting things as they are, and portraying on the page of truth, wet with unavailing tears, goodness that went to the grave, not only unrewarded, but struck down with griefs that should have dried the heart and grizzled the hairs of the wicked. In a little haugh that runs parallel to the Tweed--at a part of its course not far from Peebles, and through which there creeps, over a bed of white pebbles, a little burn, whose voice is so small, except at certain places where a larger stone raises its "sweet anger" to the height of a tiny "buller," that the lowest note of the goldfinch drowns it and charms it to silence--there stood, about the middle of the last century, a cottage. Its white walls and dark roof, with some white roses and honeysuckle flowering on its walls, bespoke the humble retreat of contentment and comfort. The place went by the name of Bramblehaugh, from the sides of the small burn being lined, for several miles, with the bramble. The sloping collateral ground was covered with shrubs and trees of various kinds, which harboured, in the summer months, a great collection of birds--the blackbird, the starling, the mavis, and others of the tuneful choir--whose notes rendered harmonious the secluded scene where they sang unmolested. The spot is one of those which, scattered sparingly over a wild country, woo the footsteps of lovers of nature, and, by a few months of their simple charms, regenerate the health, while they quicken and gratify the business-clouded fancies of the denizens of smoky towns. The cottage we have now described was occupied by David Mearns, and his wife Elizabeth, called, by our national contraction, Betty. These individuals earned a livelihood, and nothing more, by the mode in which poor cotters in Scotland contrive to spin out an existence; the leading feature of which, contentment, the result of necessity, is often falsely denominated happiness by those whose positive pleasures, chequered by a few misfortunes, are forgotten in the contemplation of a state of life almost entirely negative. Difficulties that cannot be overcome deaden the energies that have in vain been exerted to surmount them; and, when all efforts to better our condition are relinquished, we acquire a credit for contentedness, which is only a forced adaptation of limited means to an unchangeable end. David Mearns, who had, in his younger days, been ruined by a high farm, had learned from misfortune what he would not have been very apt to have received from the much-applauded philosophy which is said to generate a disposition to be pleased with our lot. The bitterness of disappointment, and the wish to get beyond the reach of obligations he could not discharge, suggested the remedy of a reliance simply on his capability of earning a cotter's subsistence; and having procured a cheap lease of the little domicile of Bramblehaugh, he set himself down, with the partner of his hopes and misfortunes, to eat, with that simulated contentment we have noticed, the food of his hard labour, with the relish of health, and to extract from the lot thus forced upon him as much happiness as it would yield. The cottage and the small piece of ground attached to it, was the property of an old man, who, having made a great deal of money by the very means that had failed in the hands of David Mearns, had purchased the property of Burnbank, lying on the side of the small rivulet already mentioned, and, in consequence, it was said, of Betty Mearns bearing the same name, (Cherrytrees,) though there was no relationship between them, had let to David the small premises at a low rent. A single child had blessed the marriage of David Mearns and his wife--a daughter, called Euphemia, though generally, for the sake of brevity and kindliness, called Effie; an interesting girl, who, at the period we speak of, had arrived at the age of sixteen years. In a place where there were few to raise the rude standard of beauty formed in the minds of a limited country population, she was accounted "bonny"--a much-abused word, no doubt, in Scotland, but yet having a very fair and legitimate application to an interesting young creature, whose blue eyes, however little real town beauty they may have expressed or illuminated, gave out much tenderness and feeling, accompanied by that inexpressible look of pure, unaffected modesty, which is the first, but the most difficult gesture of the female manner attempted to be imitated by those who are destitute of the feeling that produces it. An expression of pensiveness--perhaps the fruit of the early misfortunes of her parents operating on the tender mind of infancy, ever quick in catching, with instinctive sympathy, the feeling that saddens or enlivens the spirits of a mother--was seldom abroad from her countenance, imparting to it a deep interest, and, by suggesting a wish to relieve the cause of so early an indication of incipient melancholy, creating an instant friendship, which subsequent intercourse did not diminish. Walter Cherrytrees, the Laird of Burnbank, a man approaching seventy years of age, had a daughter, Lucy, about the same age as Effie Mearns. He had lost his wife about fifteen years before; and--though a feeling of anxiousness often found its way to his heart, suggesting to his vacant mind, as the cure of his listlessness and the balm of his bereavement, another wife--he had for a long time been nearly equally poised between the hope of Lucy becoming his comfort in his old age, and the wish for a tender partner of pleasures which, without participation, lose their relish. His daughter, Lucy, was a sprightly, showy girl, who, having got a good education, might, with the prospect she had of inheriting her father's property, have been entitled to look for a husband among the sons of the neighbouring proprietors, if her father's secluded mode of life, and plain, blunt manners, had not to a great extent limited her intercourse to a few acquaintances, by no means equal to him in point of wealth or status, however estimable they might have been in other respects. A more pleasant companion to the old Laird of Burnbank could not be found, from the one end of Bramblehaugh to the other, than David Mearns, his tenant, whose honesty and bluntness, set off by a fertility of simple anecdote, had charms for one of the same habits of thought and feeling, which all the disadvantages of his poverty could not counterbalance. The intimacy of the fathers produced, at a very early period, a friendship between the daughters, who, notwithstanding, could not boast of the resemblance of thought and manners, and community of feeling, which formed the foundation of the attachment existing between the parents. This friendship was not exclusive of some acquaintanceships with the neighbouring young men and women, which, however, were in general mutual; neither of the two young maidens having formed any intimacy with another without, her friend participating in the friendship. Among others, Lewis Campbell, the son of a neighbouring farmer, who had been a large creditor of David Mearns at the time of his failure, called sometimes at the cottage of Bramblehaugh, and was soon smitten with a strong love for Effie. They sometimes indulged in long walks by the side of the river. We may anticipate, when we say that the hours spent in these excursions--in which the greatest beauties of external nature, and the strongest and purest emotions of two loving hearts, acting in co-operation and harmony, formed a present and a future such as poets dream of, and the world never realizes, but in momentary glimpses--were the happiest of these lovers. Effie's inseparable companion, Lucy, frequently met them as they sauntered along by the house of Burnbank; and the soft breathings of ardent affection were relieved by the gay and innocent prattle of the companions, who enjoyed, though in different degrees, the conversation and manners of the young lover. The simplicity and single-heartedness of Effie were entirely exclusive of a single thought unfavourable to an equal openness and frankness on the part of her companion, whom she had informed, in her artless way, of the state of her affections. But what might not have resulted from a mere acquaintanceship between Lucy and Effie's lover, was called forth by the pride of the former, whose spirit of emulation, excited by the good fortune of her poor friend, suggested a secret wish to alienate the affections of Lewis from her companion, and direct them to herself. The wish to be beloved, though the mere effect of emulation, is the surest of the artificial modes by which love itself is generated in the heart of the wisher; and Lucy soon became, unknown for a time to Effie, as much enamoured of young Lewis as was her unsuspecting friend. The first intimation that Effie received of the state of Lucy's feelings towards her lover, was from Lewis himself. Sitting at a part of the haugh called the Cross Knowe, from the circumstance of an old Romish cruciform stone that stood on the top of a gentle elevation--a place much resorted to by the lovers--Lewis, unable to conceal a single thought or feeling from one who so well deserved his confidence, first told her of the perfidy of her friend. "You are not so well supplied with sweethearts, Effie," he began, "as I am; for I can boast of two besides you." "That speaks little in your favour, Lewie," replied she; "for, if it was my wish, I could hae a' the young men o' the haugh makin love to me frae mornin to e'en." "That remark, Effie," said Lewis, "implies that I have courted, or at least received marks of affection, from others besides you, while I was leading you to suppose that my heart was entirely yours. Now, that is not justified by what I said; for one may have sweethearts, and neither know nor acknowledge them as such." "Maybe I am wrang, Lewie," said Effie; "but what was I to think but that the twa ither sweethearts ye mentioned were acknowledged by ye? It's no in the pooer o' my puir heart to conceive how a young woman could love are that neither kenned nor acknowledged her love. But I speak frae my ain simple, an' maybe worthless thoughts. The world's wide, an' haulds black an' fair, weak an' strong, heigh and laigh; an' wharfore no also hearts an' minds as different as their bodies? The birds o' this haugh hae only their ain single luves; but they're a' coloured alike that belang to ae kind. Would that it had been God's pleasure to mak mankind like thae bonny birds!" "I fear, Effie," replied Lewis, "that a statement of mine, intended to be partly in jest, has been construed by you in such a manner as to produce to you pain. God is my witness that I am as single-hearted in my affection as the birds of this haugh; and gaudier colours, sweeter notes, and better scented bowers will never interfere with the love I bear to Effie Mearns." "What meant ye, then, Lewie, by sayin ye had twa sweethearts besides Effie Mearns?" said she. "That you shall immediately know," replied Lewis "and you will think more highly of me when I shew you, by my revealing secrets, not indeed confided to me, but still secrets, that you have all my heart and the thoughts that it contains. The first of my other lovers you will not be jealous of, for she is old Lizzy Buchanan, or, as she calls herself, Buwhanan, my nurse, who loves me as well as you do, Effie; but the other, I fear, may create in you an unpleasant feeling of confidence misplaced, and friendship repaid by something like treachery. Surely I need say no more." "Is it indeed sae, Lewie?" said she. "It's lang sin I whispered--and my heart beat and my limbs trembled as I did it--in the ear o' Lucy Cherrytrees, that my puir, silly thoughts were never aff Lewie Campbell. And what think ye she said to me? She said I needna look far ayont Bramblehaugh for a bonnier and a brawer lover." "Then," replied Lewis, "I am not much better off than you are; for she told me that your simplicity, she feared, was art, and that your poverty made any beauty you had; and she doubted if that bonny face was not a great snare for the ruin of a penniless lover." "Sae, sae," said she, sighing deeply; "and has the fair face o' life's friendship put on the looks o' the hypocrite at the very time when greater confidence was required? I hae read in Laird Cherrytrees' books he is sae kind as lend me, many an example o' fause and faithless creatures, baith men and women, o' the world, o' the great cities that lie far ayont oor humble sphere; but little did I think that here in Bramblehaugh, where our bughts ken nae nicht-thieves, and our hen-roosts nae reynards, there was ane, and that ane my friend, wha could smile in my face at the very moment she was tryin to ruin me in the eyes o' ane wha is dearest to me on earth." As she thus poured forth her feelings with greater loquacity than she generally exhibited--being for the most part quiet and gentle--the tears flowed down her cheeks in great profusion, and she sobbed bitterly, in spite of all the efforts of Lewis to satisfy her that Lucy's endeavours to lessen her in his estimation were entirely fruitless. "Apprehend nothing, dear Effie, from the discovered treachery of a false friend," said he, as he pressed her to his bosom. "It has less power with me than the whispers of that gentle burn have on the sleeping echoes of the Eagle's Rock that only answers to the voice of the tempest." "It's no that, Lewie," replied she, wiping away her tears, "that gies me pain. I hae nae fear o' faith and troth that has been pledged, and better than pledged; for I hae seen it i' yer looks, and heard it i' the soonds o' yer deep-drawn sighs. Thae tears are for a broken friendship--for the return o' evil for guid--for the withered blossoms o' a bonny flower I hae cherished and watered, in the hope it wad yield me a sweet smell when I kissed its leaves i' the daffin o' youth or the kindliness o' age. If it is sae sair to lose a friend, what, Lewie--what wad it be to lose a lover?" "The very existence of great evils, Effie," said he, "makes us happy, in the thought that they are beyond our reach." "But did I no think," said she, "that I was beyond the reach o' the pain o' experiencing the fauseness o' Lucy Cherrytrees--the very creature o' a' ithers, I hae chosen as my bosom friend--to whom I confided a' my thochts and the very secret o' my love?" "But it is an ill wind that blaws naebody guid, as they say, Effie," said Lewis. "I can better appreciate your goodness, now that I have experienced the faithlessness of another." "An' if I hae lost a friend," replied Effie, "I am the mair sure o' my lover. Ye dinna ken, Lewie, how muckle this has raised you even in my mind, whar ye hae aye occupied the highest place. Ye hae rejected the offered luve o' the braw heiress o' Burnbank, for the humble dochter o' David Mearns, wha earns his bread in the sweat o' his brow. Oh! what can a puir, penniless cottager's dochter gie in return to the man wha, for her sake, turns his back on a big ha', a thoosand braid acres, an' a braw heiress?" "Her simple, genuine, unsophisticated heart," replied Lewis, "with one unchangeable, devoted affection beating in its core. Were Burnbank Hall as big as the Parliament House, and Burnbank itself longer than the lands watered by the Brambleburn, and Lucy Cherrytrees as fair as our unfortunate Mary Stuart, I would not give my simple Effie, with no more property of her own than the bandeau that binds her fair locks, for Lucy Cherrytrees and all her lands." The two lovers continued their evening walks, indulging in conversations which, embracing the subject of their affection, and anticipating the pleasures of their ultimate union, realized that fullest enjoyment of hope which is said to transcend possession. No notice was taken of their mutual sentiments on the subject of Lucy Cherrytrees' affection for Lewis, and her unjustifiable attempts to displace her old friend, to make room for herself in the heart of the contested object of their wishes. Matters continued in this state for some time, Effie being regularly gratified by a visit from Lewis three times a-week. On one occasion a whole week passed without any intelligence of her lover. Her inquiries had produced no satisfactory explanation of the unusual occurrence; and Fancy, under the spell of the genius of Fear, was busy in her vocation of drawing dark pictures of coming evil. At last she was told by her father, who had procured the intelligence from a friend of George Campbell, the father, that young Lewis had been suspected of an intention to marry the poor daughter of the cottager, David Mearns, and had been despatched, without a minute's premonition, 'to an uncle, who was a merchant in Rio de Janeiro. No time had been given to him to write to Effie; and care had been taken to prevent him from sending her any intelligence while he remained at Liverpool, previous to his departure. The statement was corroborated by intelligence to the same effect, procured by one of Laird Cherrytrees' servants from one of the servants of George Campbell, who told it to Lucy, and who again told it to Effie, with tears in her eyes, which she took every care to conceal. The effect produced on the mind of Effie Mearns, by this unexpected misfortune, was proportioned to its magnitude, and the susceptibility of the feelings of the delicate individual on whom it operated. For many days she wept incessantly, refusing the ordinary sustenance of a life which she now deemed of no importance to herself or to any one else. All attempts at comforting a bruised heart were--as they generally are in cases of disappointed love--unavailing; and the effects of time seemed only apparent in a quieter, though not in any degree less poignant sorrow. Every object kept alive the remembrance of the youth who had first made an impression on her heart, and whose image was graven on every spot of the neighbourhood which had been consecrated by the exchange of a mutual passion. The scenes of their wanderings, hallowed as they had been in her memory, were now peopled with undefined terrors; and every time that she was forced abroad to take that air and exercise which latterly seemed indispensable to her existence, her sorrow received an accession of power from every tree under which they had sat, and every knowe or dell where they had listened to the musical loves of the birds, as they exchanged their own in not less eloquent sighs. The first circumstance that produced any effect on the mind of the disconsolate maiden, was a misfortune of another kind, which, realizing the old adage, seemed to follow with all due rapidity the footsteps of its precursor. Her mother, who sat on one side of the fire, while Effie occupied her usual seat in a corner of the cottage in the other, had been using all the force of her rude but impressive eloquence to get her daughter to adopt the means that were in her power for the amelioration of a grief which might render her childless. "I am gettin auld, Effie," she said, "an' you are the only are I can look to for administerin to yer faither an' to me that comfort we hae a richt to expect at the hands o' a dochter wha never yet was deficient in her duty. Our poverty, which winna be made ony less severe, as ye may weel ken, by the income o' years, will mak yer attention to us mair necessary; an' it may even be--God meise the means!--that your weak hands may yet be required to work for the support o' yer auld parents. I hae lang intended to speak to you in this way, and it was only pity for my puir heart-broken Effie that put me aff frae day to day, in the expectation that either some news wad come frae Lewie, or that ye wad get consolation frae anither and a higher source, to support ye for trials ye may yet hae to bear up against, for the sake o' them that brocht ye into the world. A' ither means hae been tried to get ye to determine to live, an' no lay yersel doun to dee, an' they havin failed, what can I do but try the last remedy in my pooer--to speak, as I hae now dune, to yer guid sense, an' lay afore ye the duties o' a dutifu' bairn, which are far aboon the thochts o' a disappointed love. Promise, now, my bonny Effie, that ye will try to gie up yer mournin, for the sake o' parents whase love for ye is nae less than Lewie Campbell's." As Betty finished her impressive admonition to Effie, who acknowledged its force, and inwardly determined on complying with the request of her mother, an unusual noise at the door of the cottage startled her anxious ear. It seemed that a number of people were approaching the cottage, and the groans of one in deep distress and pain were mixed with the low talk of the crowd, who, from those inexpressible indications which the ear can catch and analyse ere the mind is conscious of the operation, seemed already to sympathise with one to whom they were bearing a grief. Housed by that anticipative fear of evil which all unfortunate people feel, Betty ran to the door, followed by her daughter, and opened it--to let in the mangled body of her husband; who, in felling an oak, on the property of Burnbank, had fallen under the weight of the tree, and got his leg broken, and one of his arms dislocated at the shoulder-joint. He was conveyed, by the kind neighbours, to a bed; and, by the time they got him undressed, for the purpose of his wounds being submitted to the curative process of the doctor, that individual arrived, and proceeded to perform the painful operation of setting the broken bones. The full effect of this misfortune to Effie and her mother was for a time suspended by the call made upon them to relieve the sufferings of the father and husband; and it was not till the bustle ceased, and the neighbours (excepting two women, whose services, in addition to those of the wife and daughter, might still be required) went away, that they felt the full force of the gigantic evil that had befallen them, the consequences of which might extend through the remaining years of their existence. A period of no less than eighteen months passed away, and David Mearns was still unable to do more than, with assistance, to rise from his bed, and sit, during a part of the day, by the fire, or at the window. During the whole of this time, he had been tended by his daughter with assiduous care. Her filial sympathies, called into active operation by the sorrows of her parent, filled up the void that had been made in her heart by the departure of her lover; and a new source of grief effected (however paradoxical it may seem) a change in the morbid melancholy to which she had been enslaved, which, although not for mental health or ease, was so much in favour of exertion and remedial exercise, that she came to present the appearance of one inclined to endeavour to sustain her sorrow, rather than resign herself to the fatal power of an irremediable woe. Among the visitors who took an interest in a family reduced by one stroke to want and all its attendant evils, Laird Cherrytrees evinced the strongest concern for the fate of his friend; and, by a timeous contribution of necessary assistance, ameliorated, in so far as man could, the unhappy condition of virtue under the load of misery. The many visits of the good old laird, and the long periods of time he passed by the bedside of the patient, enabled him to see and appreciate the devoted attention of Effie to her parent; and often, as she flew at the slightest indication of a wish for something to assuage pain, or remove the uneasiness produced by the long confinement, he would stop the current of his narrative, and fix his eyes on the kind maiden, so long as her tender office engaged her attention and feelings These long looks, not unaccompanied at times with a deep sigh, were attributed, as they well might, to admiration and approbation of so much filial affection and devotedness exercised towards one whom the old laird respected above all his friends. The visits of Laird Cherrytrees were at first twice or thrice a-week. His infirm body already begun to exhibit the effects of old age, prevented him from walking; and such was the anxiety he felt for the unhappy patient, that he mounted his old pony, Donald, nearly as frail as his master, to enable him to administer consolation so much required. He came always at the same hour; Effie, who expected him, was often at the door ready to receive him; and, while she held old Donald's head till he dismounted, welcomed her father's friend with so much sincerity and pleasure, that if she had failed in her ostlership, he would have felt a disappointment he would not have liked to express. Even when at a distance from the cottage, he strained his eyes to endeavour to catch a glimpse of the faithful attendant; and, if he did not see her, the rein of Donald was relaxed, and he was allowed to saunter along at his own pleasure, or even to eat grass by the roadside, (a luxury he delighted in from his having once belonged to a cadger,) so as to give Effie time to get to her post. The three days of the week on which Laird Cherrytrees was in the habit of visiting David Mearns, were Monday, Thursday, and Saturday; and he seldom came without bringing something to the poor family--either some money for old Betty; some preserves, prepared by Lucy, for the invalid; or a book, or a flower from Burnbank garden, for Effie. When his conversation with David was finished--and every day it seemed to get shorter and shorter, though there seemed no lack of either subjects or ideas--he commenced to talk with Effie, chiefly on the nature and contents of the books he brought her to read; and nothing seemed to delight him more than to sit in the large arm-chair by David's bedside, and hear Effie discoursing, _ex cathedra_, (on a three-footed stool at the foot of the bed, opposite to the Laird's chair,) with her characteristic simplicity and good sense, on the subjects he himself had suggested. But, notwithstanding all her efforts to appear well-pleased in presence of the man who was supporting her family, her train of thoughts was often broken in upon by the recollections of Lewis Campbell, and she would sit for an hour at a time, with the eyes of the Laird fixed on her melancholy face, as if he had been all that time in mute cogitation, suggesting some remedy for her sorrow. His ideas and feelings seemed to be operated upon by the same power that ruled the mind of the maiden; for his face followed, in its changing expressions, the mutations of her countenance. Her melancholy seemed to be communicated by a glance of her watery eye, as the thought of Lewis entered her mind; and when she recovered from her gloomy reverie, a corresponding indication of relief lighted up the grey, twinkling orbs of the old Laird. This custom of "glowrin," for whole hours at a time, on the face of the sensitive girl, at first painful to her, became a matter of indifference; and the position and attitudes of the three individuals--Betty being generally engaged about the house--undergoing, while the Laird was present, no change, came to assume something like the natural properties of the parties, as if they had been fixtures, or lay figures for the study of a painter. Every time the Laird came to the cottage, he extended the period of his stay, and, latterly, he did not stir till a servant from Burnbank, sent by Lucy, came to take him home. It seemed as if he could not get enough of "glowrin;" for, latterly, all his occupation, which at first consisted of rational conversation, merged in that mute eloquence of the eye, or rather in that inebriation of the orb, "drinking of light," which lovers of sights, especially female countenances, are so fond of. The visits had been so regular, not a day being ever missed, that, as Effie held the stirrup till he mounted Donald, during all which time the process of "glowrin" went on as regularly as at the bedside of David, she never thought of asking, and he never thought of stating, when he would call again. Time had stamped the act of calling with the impress of unchangeable custom. The caseless clock of David's cottage was not more regular; the only change being that already observed--that the time of the Laird's stay gradually and gradually lengthened. The homage paid by Effie to Laird Cherrytrees was, as may easily be conceived, the respect, attention, and kindness of an open-hearted girl, filled with gratitude to the preserver of the lives of her and her parents. Every evening she offered up, at her bedside, prayers for the preservation and happiness of the man but for whose kindness starvation might have overtaken the helpless invalid, and not much less helpless wife and daughter. In their prayers the "amen" of David and his wife was the most heart-felt expression of love and gratitude that ever came from the lips of mortal. This feeling, however, did not prevent David Mearns and Betty from sometimes indulging, in the absence of Effie (in all likelihood giving freedom to her tears, as she sat in some favourite retreat of her absent lover,) in some remarks on the extraordinary conduct of Laird Cherrytrees. They soon saw through the secret, and resolved upon drawing him out; for which purpose Effie was to be called away on the occasion of the next visit. The Laird came as he used to do, took his seat, and resumed his gazing. Effie pleased him exceedingly, by an account she gave him of the last book he brought to her; and, throwing himself back in the arm chair, he seemed, for a time, wrapped in meditation. Effie obeyed, in the meantime, her mother's request, to come for a few minutes to the green to assist her in her work; and, when the Laird again applied his eyes to their accustomed vocation, he was surprised, but not (for once) displeased, at her disappearance. A great struggle now commenced between some wish and a restraint. He looked round the cottage, and then turned his eyes on David; acts which he repeated several times. Incipient syllables of words half-formed died away in his struggling throat. He moved restlessly in the large chair, and twirled his silver-headed cane in his hand. He even rose, went to the door, looked out, came back again, and took his seat without saying a word. Holding away his face from David, he at last made out a few words, uttered with great difficulty. "She's a fine lassie, Effie," he said. "A bonnier an' a better never was brocht up in Bramblehaugh, savin yer ain Lucy," replied David. "Hoo auld is she noo?" said the Laird, still holding away his face. "She will be nineteen come the time," replied David. "It's a pity she's sae young," rejoined the Laird, with a great struggle, and making a noise with his cane, as if he had repented of his words, and wished to drown them before they reached the ears of David. "I dinna think sae, beggin yer Honour's pardon," replied David. "We need her assistance, in this trial; an' I'm just thinkin o' some way she micht use her hands--an she's willing aneugh, puir cratur--for our assistance." "Are ye no pleased wi' my assistance?" said the Laird, displeased at something in David's reply. "Yer Honour has saved our lives," replied David, feelingly, "an' it wad only be because we are ashamed o yer guidness that we wad wish our dochter to tak a part o' that burden aff ane wha is under nae obligation to serve us." "If I hae been yer friend, ye hae been mine," said the Laird. "I hae got guid advices frae ye; an', even noo, I hae something to ask ye concernin mysel, that nae ither man i' the haugh could sae weel answer." "What is that, yer Honour?" said David. "What do ye think, David Mearns, I should do," said the Laird, moving about in the chair in evident perplexity, "if my dochter Lucy were to tak a husband an' leave Burnbank? I carena aboot fa'in into the hands o' Jenny Mucklewham, wha, for this some time past, has neither cleaned my buckles nor brushed my coat as I wad wish. She says I'm mair fashious; but that's a mere excuse." "I hae seen aulder men marry again," said David, thinking he would please the Laird, by giving him such an answer as he was clearly fishing for. "Aulder men, David, man!" replied the Laird, looking down at his person, and adjusting his wig. "Did I ask ye onything aboot my age? I wanted merely your advice, what I should do in certain circumstances, an' ye gie me a comparison for an answer.--Do ye think I should marry?" "If yer Honour has ony wish in that way, I think ye should," said David. "I never yet did wrang in following your advice, David Mearns," said the Laird. "--She's a fine lassie, Effie." "Ou, ay," responded David, at a loss what more to say. "Very fine," again said the Laird, turning his face partially from the window, so as the tail of his eye reached David's face, and waiting for something more. David could, however, say nothing. The very circumstance of the Laird's wishing him to say something pertinent to the purpose already so broadly hinted at, prevented him from touching so delicate a subject; and, notwithstanding of another application of the tail of the Laird's eye, he was silent. "Ye hae gien me ae advice, David," said the Laird, in despair of getting anything more out of David without a question: "could ye no tell me _wha_ I should marry, man?" And having achieved this announcement, he rose and walked to the window. "That's owre delicate a subject for me to gie an advice on, yer Honour," replied David. "The doo lays aside ninety-nine guid straes, an' taks the hundredth, though a crooked ane, for its nest. Ye maun judge for yersel." "What say ye to yer ain Effie, then?" said the Laird, relieved at last from a dreadful burden. "If yer Honour likes the lassie, an' she'll tak yer Honour, I can hae nae objections," replied David. The Laird, who seemed twenty years younger after this declaration, took David by the hand, and shook it till the pain of his dislocated arm almost made him cry. "Will ye speak to her aboot it. David!" said he, still holding his hand. "The best farm o' Burnbank will be your reward. Plead for me, David, my best friend. Tell Betty aboot it, and get her to use a mother's pooer. If I can trust my een, Effie doesna dislike me. If a' gaes weel, ye may hae Ravelrigg, or Braidacre, or Muirfield--onything that's in my pooer to gie, David." And the old lover, exhausted by the struggle and excitement he had suffered, sank back into the chair. "I will do my best," replied David. And the old Laird sighed, and absolutely groaned with pure, unmixed satisfaction. At the end of this scene, Effie and her mother came in. The damsel took her old seat on the three-footed stool at the foot of the bed; the eyes of the Laird sought again her face, where he thought they had a better right now to rest. No more was spoken; enough for a day had been said and done; and, with a parting look to David, to keep him in remembrance of his promise, and a purse of money slipped into the hand of Betty, as a solvent of any obstacle that might exist in her mind, the lover went to the door to receive Donald from the soft hands of Effie, who, as was her custom, had gone out before him, to lead the old cadger to the door, and hold the bridle till he with an effort got into the saddle. The only difference Effie could observe in his departure this day, was a kind of mock-gallant wave of the hand, as he, with more than usual spirit, struck his spurless heels into Donald's sides, and tried to rise in the saddle, in response to the hobble of the old Highlander. The Laird had been scarcely out of the house, when David had a communing with his wife, in absence of Effie, on the extraordinary intimation made by the old lover. Betty was agreeable to the match; but the tear came into her eye as she thought of the sacrifice poor Effie was to be called upon to make. Neither of them could answer for the consent of Effie, whose melancholy, though somewhat ameliorated, was little diminished, and whose recollections of Lewis Campbell were as vivid as they were on the day of his departure. When she returned from one of her solitary rambles, which fed her passion and increased her grief, she was delicately told of the intentions of Laird Cherrytrees. The announcement of the extraordinary intelligence produced an effect which neither her father nor mother could have anticipated. A quick operation of her mind placed before her all the affectionate acts of attention she had for years been in the habit of applying to the old friend of her father, and the preserver of their lives. Gratitude, operating in one of the most grateful hearts that ever beat in the bosom of mortal, had produced in her an exuberant kindness, a devotedness of a species of affection due by a child to its godfather, a playful freedom of the confidence of one who relied on the disparity of years for a license from even the suspicion of a possibility of any other relation existing between them. That now came back upon her, loaded with self-reproach and shame, and attributing to her misconstrued attentions the extraordinary passion that had taken hold of the heart of the old Laird. She was totally unable to make any reply to her parents. The image of Lewis Campbell, never absent from her mind, assumed a new form, and swam in the tears which flowed from her eyes. The natural contrast between age and youth, love and gratitude, assumed its legitimate strength. The first feeling of her mind was, that she would suffer the death that had for a time been impending over her, and whose finger was already on her breaking heart, rather than comply with the wishes of her father and mother. They saw the struggle that was in her mind, and abstained from pressing what they had suggested. They did not ask her even to give her sentiments; but the silent tears that stole down her cheek and dropped in her lap from her drooping head, required no spoken commentary to tell them the extent of her grief, and the resolution at least of a heart that might entirely break, as it appeared to be breaking, but never could forget. There was little sleep for the eyes of Effie on the succeeding night. Her sobs reached the ears of her parents, who, unable to yield her consolation, were obliged to leave her to wrestle with her grief; sending up a silent prayer to the Author of all good dispensations, that He might assuage the sorrow of one who had already, with exemplary patience, submitted to the rod of affliction. The sacredness of her feelings was too well appreciated by her parents to admit of any offer of counsel, where deep-seated affection, the work of mysterious instinct, stood in solemn derision of the vulgar ideas of this world's expediency. The struggle in her mind arose from the strength of her love, and the power of her filial devotion. No part of the attendant circumstances or probable consequences of her decision escaped her mind. She knew that she never could be happy as the wife of any other individual, even of suitable age, than Lewis Campbell. But this concerned only herself; and she knew, and trembled as she thought, that the result of her decision might be the destitution, the want, perhaps the death of her parents; their all depended on the breath of the man whom she, by the sign of her finger, might change from a friend to a foe; and she might thereby become the destroyer of those who gave her being. The morning came, but brought neither sleep nor relief to the unhappy maiden. Her parents seemed inclined not to advert to the subject that day, but to let her struggle on with her own thoughts. The hour of the Laird's visit approached, and he was already on the road for the home of his beloved, whom his ardent fancy pictured standing smiling at the door, ready as usual to receive him and lead him into the house. Donald--who knew a reverie in his master bettor than he did himself, and did not fail to take advantage of it--ambled on with diminished speed. The Laird approached the cottage. No Effie was there. His bright visions took flight, and were succeeded by a cold shiver, the precursor of a gloomy train of ideas, which pictured a refusal and all its attendant horrors. He drew up the head of Donald, and even invited him to partake of the long grass which grew by the way-side. He counted the moments as Donald devoured the food; and, from time to time, lifted his eyes to see if Effie was yet at the cottage door. She was not, to be seen--and she had not been absent before for many months. His mind was unprepared for a refusal; the ground-swell of his previous excited fancy distracted him amidst the dead stillness of despair. He looked again, and for the last time that day. Effie was not yet there. He turned the head of the delighted, and no doubt astonished Donald, and quietly sought again the house of Burnbank. The same procedure was gone through on the succeeding day. Laird Cherrytrees again proceeded to the cottage of David Mearns; and, as he sauntered along, he thought it impossible that Effie should again be absent from her post. He was too good a man, and too conceited a lover, as all old lovers are, to allow his mind to dwell on the probable operation of necessity and the fear of injuring her father's patron, on the mind of the daughter; and yet a lurking, rebellious idea suggested that he would rather see Effie at the door, impelled by that cause, than absent altogether. His hopes again beat high, and Donald was pricked on to the goal of his wishes with an asperity he did not relish so well as a reverie. The spot was attained. Effie was still absent. Donald was again remitted to the long grass, and all the resources of a lover's mind were called up, to enable him to face the evil that awaited him. But all was in vain--he found it impossible to proceed. "I am rejected," he muttered to himself, with a sigh; "a cottager's dochter has refused the Laird o' Burnbank; but her cauldness an' cruelty mak me like her the mair. Effie Mearns, Effie Mearns! hoo little do ye ken what commotion ye hae produced in this puir, burstin heart! But, though ye winna hae me, I winna desert yer faither. Hame, Donald, to Burnbank." And, as he pulled up the bridle with his left hand, he wiped away the tears that had collected in his eyes, and, casting many a look back to the cottage, cantered slowly home. These proceedings of the Laird had been noticed by Betty Mearns from the window of the cottage, and she and David were at no loss to guess the cause of them. They knew his timid, sensitive disposition, and truly attributed his return to his not seeing Effie at the door waiting for him as usual. Apprehensions now seized the good mother, that the Laird might withdraw his attentions and assistance from the family, the result of which would be nothing but misery and ruin; as David's fractured limbs were yet far from being healed, and a long period must yet pass before he could earn a penny to keep in their lives. These fears were increased by a third and a fourth day having passed without a visit from the Laird, who had, notwithstanding, been seen reconnoitering as usual at a distance from the cottage. Effie herself saw how matters stood, and learned, from the looks of her father and mother, sentiments they seemed unwilling to declare. She was still much convulsed with the struggle of the antagonist duties, wishes, emotions, and fears, that rose in her mind; and the apprehensions of her parents, which she considered well-founded, added to her sorrow an additional source of anguish. "This house," said David, at last overcome by his feelings, "has become mair like an hospital that has lost its mortification than an honest man's cottage. Effie sits greetin an' sabbin the hail day, an' you, Betty, look forward to starvation, wi' the gruesome face o' despair. I am unhappy mysel, besides being an invalid. What is this to end in? What are we to do? How are we to live withoot meat, now that Burnbank, guid man, has deserted us?" "There has come naething frae Burnbank for five days," replied Betty; "an' the siller I got frae the guid auld man, the last time he was here, I payed awa i' the village for necessaries I had taen on afore we got that help. Our girnel winna haud oot lang against three mous; an' if Laird Cherrytrees bides awa muckle langer, I see naething for it but to beg." The tear started to the eye of David. He looked at Effie. She wept and sobbed, and covered her face with her hands. "Effie, woman," said David, "a' this micht hae been averted if ye had just gane to the door, an' welcomed the auld Laird, as ye were wont. He's a blate man, though a guid carl; an' he has, nae doot, thocht he was unwelcome when yer auld practice o' waitin for him was gien up." "I tauld her that, David," said Betty, "an' pressed her to gang to the door, though it was only to gie the blate Laird a glimpse o' her, whilk was a' he wanted to bring him in; but she only sabbed the mair. Unhappy hour she first saw that callant, wha may now be dead or married for ought she kens!--an yet for his sake maun a hail family dree the dule o' this day's misery. Effie, woman, can ye no forget are wha hasna thocht ye worth the trouble o tellin ye, by ae scrape o' his pen, whether he be i' the land o' the livin!" A sob was the only reply Effie could make to this appeal. "I hae tauld Effie," said David, "what wad save us frae the ruin an' starvation that stare us i' the face; but my mind's made up to suffer to the end, though I should lie here wi' my broken banes, and dree the pains o' hunger, rather than force my dochter to marry a man against her ain choice. But, O Effie, woman, wad ye see yer puir faither, broken as he is baith in mind and body, lie starvin here in his bed, wi' nae mair pooer to earn a bite o' bread than the unspeaned bairn, and no mak a sacrifice to save him?" "Ay, faither," replied Effie, "I wad dee to save ye." "But deein winna save either him or me," said Betty. "Naething will hae that effect but yer agreein to be the leddy o' the braw hoose an' braid acres o' Burnbank. Wae's me! what a difference between that condition, wi' servants at yer nod, an' a' the comforts an' luxuries o' life at yer command, an', abune a', the pooer o' makin happy yer auld faither and mother, an' this awfu prospect o' dreein the very warst an' last o' a' the evils o' life--want an' auld age--ill-matched pair! Effie, woman, my bonny bairn, hae ye nae love in yer heart, but for Lewie Campbell? Wad ye, for his sake, see a' this misfortune fa' on the heads o' yer parents, whom, by the laws o' God an' man, ye are bound to honour, serve, and obey?" It was easier for Effie to say she would die to save her parents, than that she would comply with the wish of her mother; but the feeling appeal of her parent increased her agony, which induced another paroxysm of hysterical sobs--the only answer she could yet make to her mother. "Effie doesna care for either you or me, Betty," said David, "or she wad hae little hesitation aboot marryin a guid, fresh, clean, rich, auld man, to save her faither and mother frae poverty and starvation. I see nae great sacrifice i' the matter. Her young heart mayna rejoice i' the pleasures o' a daft love, but her guid sense will be gratified by a feelin o' duty far aboon the vain, frawart freaks o' a silly, giddy, youthfu passion. Let her refuse Laird Cherrytrees, an' when Lewie Campbell comes hame, the owrecome bread o' the funeral o' her faither may grace a waddin bought wi' the price o' his life." "Dinna speak that way, faither," cried Effie, lifting up her hands; "I canna stand that. You said ye wadna force me, an' ye _are_ forcin me. Oh, my puir heart, wha or what will support ye when grief for my parents turns me against ye? Faither, faither, when I am dead, Laird Cherrytrees will be again yer friend. A little time will do't: will ye no wait?" "Hunger waits only eight days, as the sayin is," replied he, "an ye'll live mair than that time, I hope an' trow. I will be dead afore ye, Effie, an' ye'll hae the consolation, as ye maybe drap a tear on the mossy grey stane that covers the Mearnses i' the kirkyard o' our parish, to think, if ye shouldna like to say, in case ye micht be heard--though thinkin an' speakin's a' ane to God--that 'that stane was lifted ten years suner than it micht hae been, because I liked Lewie Campbell better than auld Laird Cherrytrees.'" "An' it's no likely," said the mother, "that I wad be there to hear Effie mak sae waefu a speech. If I binna lyin wi' the Mearns, I'll be wi' the Cherrytrees o' Mossnook--nae relations o' the Burnbanks, though maybe as guid a family. But, afore I'm mixed wi' the dust o' that auld hoose, Effie--an' it mayna be lang--ye may join the twa Cherrytrees, an' let the gravestanes o' the Mearns, as weel as the Mossnooks, lie yet a score years langer withoot bein moved. It's a pity to disturb the lang grass. Its sough i' the nichtwind keeps the bats frae pickin the auld banes, an' maybe it may save yer mother's, if ye send her there afore her time." Effie's feelings could no longer withstand these appeals. Her sobbing ceased suddenly; and, starting up from her seat, she looked to the old clock that stood against the wall of the cottage. She noticed that it was upon the hour of the Laird's usual visit. "It is twelve o'clock, faither," she said, firmly--"this hoor decides the fate o' Effie Mearns." Walking to the door, she placed herself in the position she used to occupy when she intended to welcome her father's friend. Now she was to welcome a husband. Laird Cherrytrees was, as might have been expected, allowing Donald to take his liberty of the road-side, grazing while he was busy reconnoitering the cottage. The moment he saw the form of Effie standing where he had for several long days wished to see her, he pulled up Donald's bridle with the alacrity of youth, and, striking his sides with his unarmed heels, made all the speed of a bridegroom to get to his bride. The sight of the object he had gazed upon so unceasingly for so long a time, and whom he had strained his eyes in vain to see during these eventful days, operated like a charm on the old lover. He discovered at first sight the red, swollen eyes of Effie; but he was too happy in thinking he had been successful, as he had no doubt he had, to meditate on the struggle which produced his bliss. Having taken a long draught of the fountain of his hopes and happiness, and feasted his eyes on the face of the maiden, who attempted to smile through her tears, which he did sitting on his horse, and, without speaking a word--for, loquacious in politics or rural economy, he was mute in love--he dismounted, while Effie, as usual, held the reins. He lost no time in getting into his chair, falling back into it like a breathless traveller who has at last attained the end of his journey. David and Betty, who construed Effie's conduct into a consent, took an early opportunity, while she was still at the door, of letting the happy Laird know that their daughter, as they conceived, was inclined to the match. The Laird received the intelligence as if it had been too much for mortal to bear. He was at first beyond the vulgar habit of speech. He sighed, turned his eyes in their sockets, groaned, and wrung his hands. On recovering himself, he exclaimed---- "Whar is she, Betty? Let me see the dear creature. David, ye'll hae Ravelrigg; it's the best o' them a'. Whan is't to be, Betty? Ye maun fix the day; an' ye maun brak the thing to Lucy, and to Jenny Mucklewham; for I hae nae pooer. Let me see her--let me see the sweet creature this instant." Effie, at the request of her mother, came in and resumed her seat on the three-footed stool. Her eyes were still swollen, and she looked sorrowfully at her father. The Laird fixed his eyes on her; but his loquacity was gone. He had not a word to say; but his "glowrin" was in some degree changed, being accompanied by a soft smile of self-complacency and contentment, and freed from the nervous irritability with which he used to solicit with his eyes a look from the object of his affections. His visit this day was shorter than it used to be. Next day, Betty was to visit Burnbank, to arrange for the marriage. Meanwhile, the unfortunate girl resigned herself as a self-sacrifice into the hands of her mother. Bound with the silken bands of filial affection, she renounced all desire of exercising her own free-will, or indulging in those feelings of the female heart which are deemed so strong as to demand the sacrifice often of all other earthly considerations. The fate of Iphiginia has occupied the pens and tongues of pitying mortals for thousands of years. A lovely woman sacrificed for a fair wind, doomed to have the blood that mantled in the blushing cheeks of beauty sprinkled on the altar of a false religion, is a spectacle which the imagination cannot contemplate without a participation of the strongest sympathies of the heart; yet there are, in the common every-day world we now live in, many a scene in the act of being performed, where, though there is no bloodshed and no smoking altar exhibited, the sacrifice is not less than that of the Grecian victim. Our blessed, holy altar of matrimony is often, by the wayward feelings of man--for we here say nothing of vice or corrupt conduct--made more cruel than those of Moloch and Chiun. There is many a bloodless Iphiginia in those days, whose sufferings are unknown and unsung, because confined to the heart that broke over them and concealed them in death. The young, tender, and devoted female, who, for the love she bears to her parents, consents to intermarry with rich age, to embrace dry bones, to extend her sympathies to churlishness, caprice, and ill-nature, or, what is worse, to the asthmatic giggle of a superannuated love, while all the while her heart, cheated of its tribute and swelling with indignation, requires to be watched by her with vigilance and firmness, the cruelty of which she herself feels--presents a form of self-sacrifice possessing claims on the pity of mankind beyond those of the boasted self-immolation of ancient devotees. The silence and dejection of our bride were construed, by her parents, into that seemly and becoming sedateness which sensible young women think it proper to assume on the eve of so important a change in their condition as marriage; while the happy bridegroom had come to that time of life when he is pleased with submission, though it be expressed through tears. No chemical menstruum has so much power in the dissolution of the hardest metals as the self-complacency of an old lover has in construing, according to his wishes, the actions, words, or looks of the young woman who is destined to be his bride. Silence and tears are expressive of happiness as well as of grief; and, so long as the desire of the ancient philosopher is uncomplied with by the gods, and there is no window to the heart, that organ in the young victim may break while the sexagenarian bridegroom is enjoying the imputed silent, restrained happiness of the object of his ill-timed affection. The sadness and melancholy of the apparently-resigned Effie Mearns had no effect on the noise and show of the preparations for her marriage with her old lover. The marriages of old men are well known to be celebrated with higher bugle notes from the trumpet of fame than any others. A sumptuous dinner was to be given to the neighbouring lairds, and the cotters were to be fed and regaled on the green opposite to the mansion. Dancing and music were to add their charms to the gay scene; and it was even alleged that the light of a bonfire would lend its peculiar aid, in raising the joy of the guests, predisposed to hilarity by plenteous potations, to the proper height suited to the conquest of the old bridegroom over, at once, a young woman and old Time. For days previous to the eventful one, Effie Mearns was not heard to open her lips. She looked on all the gay preparations for her marriage as if they had been the mournful acts of the undertaker employed in laying the silver trimming on the coffin lid of a lover. The bedside of her sick parent, who was still unable to rise, was the place where she sat "shrouded in silence." She heard the conversations of her father and mother about the progress of the preparations, without exhibiting so much interest as to show that she understood them. Misgivings crossed the minds of the old couple, and brought tears to their eyes, as they contemplated the animated corpse that sat there, waiting the nod of the master of ceremonies, and ready to perform the part assigned to it in the forthcoming orgies of mournful joy; but they had gone too far to recede, and it was even a subject of satisfaction to them that the period of the celebration was so near, for otherwise they might have had reason to fear that their daughter would not have survived the intermediate time. When the bridegroom called, his ears were alarmed by the voices of the parents, who saw the necessity of endeavouring to hide the condition of their daughter; and he was satisfied, if he got, free and unrestrained, "a feast of the eyes." His love was still expressed by silent gazing; for it was too deep in his old heart for either words or tears; if, indeed, there was moisture enough in the seat of his affection for the suppliance of the _softest_ expression of the soft passion. The eventful day arrived. The marriage was to take place in the cottage, where David Mearns still lay confined to bed. The sick man wore a marriage favour attached to the breast of his shirt!--for Laird Cherrytrees would be contented with no less a demonstration of his participation in his unparalleled happiness. The still silent bride _submitted_ passively to all the acts of her nimble dressers, whose laugh seemed to strike her ears like funeral bells; yet she tried--poor victim! to smile, though the clouded beam came through a tear which, by its steadfastness, seemed to belong to the orb. The bridegroom came at the very instant when he ought to have come--the hand of the clock not having had time to leave the mark of notation. He was dressed in the style of his earliest days, with cocked hat, laced coat, and a sky-blue vest, embroidered in the richest manner; while a new wig, ordered from the metropolis, imparted to him the freshness of youth. His cheek was flushed with the blood which joy had forced, for a moment, from where it was more needed, at the drying fountain of life; and his eye spoke a happiness which his parched tongue could not have achieved, without causing shame even to himself. Everything was new, spruce, perking, self-complacent. The clergyman next came, and all was prepared. Throughout all this time and all these preparations, not the slightest change had been observed on the bride. After she was dressed, she took her seat again, silently by the side of her father's sickbed, where she sat like a statue. The ceremony was now to commence, and she stood up, when required by the clergyman, as if she obeyed the command of an executioner. It was noticed that she seemed to incline to be as near as possible to her father's bed; and her unwillingness or inability to come forward forced the clergyman and the bridegroom some paces from the situation they at first held. The ceremony proceeded till it came to the part where the consent of the parties is asked. The happy bridegroom pronounced his response, quick, sharp, and with an air of conceit, which brought a smile to the faces of the parties present. There was now a pause for the consent of the bride. All eyes were fixed on her death-like face. A severe struggle was going on in her bosom; yet her countenance was unmoved, and no one conjectured that she suffered more than sensitive females often do in her situation. The clergyman repeated his question. There was still a pause--the eyes of all were riveted on her. "I _canna_, I _canna_!" at last she exclaimed, in a voice of agony, and fell back on the bed--a corpse! Six months after the death of Effie Mearns, Lucy Cherrytrees was married, without faint or swoon, to Lewis Campbell, who returned home, in spite of his reported death. The union was against the consent of the Laird, who soon died of either a broken heart or old age--no doctor could have told which. [Footnote 1: This story will suggest the remembrance of a popular ballad, but the similarity is casual; for the circumstances are here true, if they may not be found of every-day occurrence somewhere about the temple of Mammon.--ED.] GLEANINGS OF THE COVENANT. XIV.--JAMES RENWICK. In the times in which we live, party spirit is carried very far. Many honest tradesmen, merchants, and shopkeepers, are ruined by their votes at elections. The ordinary intercourse of social life is obstructed and deranged. Friends go up to the polling station with friends, but separate there, and become, it may be, the most inveterate enemies. This, our later reformation of 1832, has cost us much; but our sufferings are nothing to those which marked the two previous reformations from Popery and Prelacy. In the one instance, fire and faggot were the ordinary means adopted for defending political arrangements; in the other, the gallows and the maiden did the same work, and the boots and the thumbikins acted as ministering engines of torture. The whole of society was convulsed; men's blood boiled in their veins at the revolting sights which were almost daily obtruding upon their attention; and their judgments being greatly influenced by their feelings, it is not to be wondered at that they should, in a few instances, have overshot, as it were, the mark--have sacrificed their lives to the support of opinions which appear now not materially different from those which their enemies pressed upon their acceptance. It is a sad mistake to suppose that the friends of Presbytery, during the fearful twenty-eight years' persecution of Charles and James, died in the support of certain doctrines and forms of church government merely. With these were, unhappily, or rather, as things have turned out, fortunately, combined, political or civil liberty, the establishment and support of a supreme power, vested in King, Lords, and Commons--instead of being vested, by usurpation, merely in the King alone. By avoiding to call Parliaments, and by obtaining supplies of money from France and otherwise, the two last of the Stuart Despots had, in fact, broken the compact of Government, and had exposed themselves all along, through the twenty-eight years of persecution, to dethronement for high treason. This was the strong view taken by those who fought and who fell at Bothwell Bridge, and this was the view taken by nine-tenths of the inhabitants of Scotland--of the descendants and admirers of Bruce and Wallace--of Knox and Carstairs. James Renwick, the last of the martyrs in the cause of religion and liberty, was executed in Edinburgh in his twenty-sixth year. He was a young man of liberal education, conducted both at the college of Edinburgh, and Groningen, abroad--of the most amiable disposition, and the most unblemished moral character--yet, simply because he avowed, and supported, and publicly preached doctrines on which, in twelve months after his execution, the British Government was based, he was adjudged to the death, and ignominiously executed in the presence of his poor mother and other relatives, as well as of the Edinburgh public. Mr Woodrow, in his history of this man's life, alludes to some papers which he had seen, containing notices of Mr Renwick's trials and hair-breadth escapes; prior to his capture and execution--which, however, he refrains from giving to the public. It so happens that, from my acquaintance with a lineal descendent of the last of the Martyrs, I have it in my power, in some measure, to supply the deficiency; his own note, or memorandum-book, being still in existence, though it never has been, nor ever will, probably, be published. It was in the month of January 1688, that Mr Renwick was preaching, after nightfall, to a few followers, at Braid Craigs, in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh. The night was stormy--a cold east wind, with occasional blasts of snow--whilst the moon, in her second quarter, looked out, at intervals, on plaids and bonnets nestled to the leeward of rocks and furze. It was a piteous sight to view rational and immortal creatures reduced to a state upon the level with the hares and the foxes. Renwick discoursed to them from the point of a rock which protruded over the lee side of the Craigieknowe. His manner was solemn and impressive. He was a young man of about twenty-five years of age; and his mother, Elspeth Carson, sat immediately before him--an old woman of threescore and upwards--in her tartan plaid and velvet hood. Her son had been born to a larger promise, and had enjoyed an excellent academic education; and much it had originally grieved the old woman's heart to find all her hopes of seeing him minister of her native parish of Glencairn, blasted; but his conscience would not allow him to conform; and she had followed him in his wanderings and field-preachings, through Ayrshire, Renfrewshire, and all along by the Pentland Hills, to Edinburgh, where a sister of hers was married, and lived in a respectable way on the Castle Hill. This evening, after psalm-singing and prayer, Mr. Renwick had chosen for his text these words, in the fourth verse of the eighteenth chapter of the book of Revelation--"Come out of her, my people." The kindly phrase, "my people," was beautifully insisted upon. "There ye are," said Renwick, stretching out his hand to the darkening sleet; "there ye are, a poor, shivering, fainting, despised, persecuted remnant, whom the great ones despise, and the men of might, and of war, and of blood, cut down with their swords, and rack with their tortures. Ye are, like ye'r great Master, despised and rejected of men; but the Master whom ye serve, and whom angels serve with veiled faces, and even He who created and supports the sun, the moon, and the stars, He--blessed be His name!--is not ashamed to acknowledge ye, under all your humiliation, as _His_ people. 'Come out of her,' says He, '_my people_.' O, sirs, this is a sweet and a loving invitation. Ye are '_His people_,' the sheep of His pasture, after all; and who would have thought it, that heard ye, but yesterday, denounced at the cross of Edinburgh as traitors, and rebels, and non-conformists, as the offscourings of the earth, the filth and the abomination in the eyes and in the nostrils of the great and the mighty? 'Come out!' says the text, and out ye have come--'done ere ye bade, guid Lord!' Ye may truly and reverentially say--Here we are, guid Lord; we have come out from the West Port, and from the Grassmarket, and from the Nether Bow, and from the Canongate--out we have come, because we are thy people. We know thy voice, and thy servants' voice, and a stranger and a hireling, with his stipend and his worldly rewards, will we not follow; but we will listen to him whose reward is with him; whose stipend is Thy divine approbation; whose manse is the wilderness; and whose glebe land is the barren rock and the shelterless knowe. Come out of _her_. There _she_ sits," (pointing towards Edinburgh, now visible in the scattered rays of the moon,) "there she sits, like a lady, in her delicacies, and her drawing-rooms, and her ball-rooms, and her closetings, and her abominations. Ye can almost hear the hum of her many voices on the wings of the tempest. There she sits in her easy chair, stretching her feet downwards, from west to east, from castle to palace! But she has lost her first love, and has deserted her covenanted husband. She hath gone astray--she hath gone astray!--and He who made her hath denounced her--He whose she was in the day of her betrothment, hath said--She is no longer mine; 'come out of her, my people'--be not misled by her witcheries, and her dalliance, and her smiles--be not terrified by her threats, and cruelties, and her murderings--she is drunk, she is drunk--and with the most dangerous and intoxicating beverage, too--she is drunk with the blood of the saints. When shipwrecked and famishing sailors kill each other, and drink the blood, it is written that they immediately become mad, and, uttering all manner of blasphemies, expire! Thus it is with the 'Lady of the rock'--she is now in her terrible blasphemies, and will, by and by, expire in her frenzy. And who sits upon her throne?--even the bloody Papist, who misrules these unhappy lands--he, the usurper of a throne from which by law he is debarred--even the cruel and Papistical _Duke_, whom men, in their folly or in their fears, denominate 'KING'--he, too, is doomed--the decree hath gone forth, and he will perish with her, because he would not _come out_." "Will he, indeed, Mr Bletherwell? But there are some here who must perish first." So said the wily and infuriated Claverhouse, as he poured in his men by a signal from the adjoining glen, (where the lonely hermitage now stands in its silent beauty,) and in an instant had made Renwick, and about ten of his followers--the old woman, his mother, included--prisoners. This was done in an instant, for the arrangements had been made prior to the hour of meeting, and Claverhouse, attired in plaid and bonnet, had actually sat during the whole discourse, listening to the speaker till once he should utter something treasonable, when, by rising on a rock, and shaking the corners of his plaid, he brought the troop up from their hiding-places, amidst the whins and the broom by which the glen was at that time covered. Renwick, seeing all resistance useless, and indeed forbidding his followers, who were not unprovided for the occasion, to fire upon the military, marched onwards, in silence, towards Edinburgh. As they passed along by the land now denominated "Canaan," they halted at a small public-house kept by a woman well known at the time by the nickname of "Red-herrings," on account of her making frequent use of these viands to stimulate a desire for her strong drink. Over her door-way, indeed, a red-herring and a foaming tankard were rudely sketched on a sign-board, (like cause and effect, or mere sequence!) in loving unity. The prisoners were accommodated with standing-room in Tibby's kitchen; while the soldiers, with their leader, occupied the ben-room and the only doorway--thus securing their prisoners from all possibility of escape. Refreshments, such as Tibby could muster, consisting principally of brandy and ale, mixed up in about equal proportions of each, were distributed amongst the soldiers--who were, in fact, from their long exposure in the open air, in need of some such stimulants; whilst the poor prisoners were only watched, and made a subject of great merriment by the soldiers. The halt, however, was very temporary; but, temporary as it was, it enabled several of the members of the field-meeting to reach Edinburgh, and to apprise their friends, and what is termed the mob of the streets, of the doings at "Braid Craigs." Onwards advanced the party--soldiers before and behind, and their captives in the middle--till they reached the West Port, at the foot of the Grassmarket. It was near about ten o'clock, and the streets were in a buz with idle 'prentices, bakers' boys, shoemakers' lads, &c. The march along the Grassmarket seemed to alarm Clavers, for he halted his men, made them examine their firelocks, spread themselves all around the prisoners, and, advancing himself in front, and on his famous black horse, with drawn sword and holster pistols, seemed to set all opposition at defiance. The party had already gained the middle of that narrow and winding pass, the West Bow, when a waggon, heavily loaded with stones, was hurled downwards upon the party, with irresistible force and rapidity--Clavers's horse shied, and escaped the moving destruction; but it came full force into the very midst of the soldiers, who, from a natural instinct, turned off into open doors and side closes; in this they were imitated by the poor prisoners, who were better acquainted with the localities of the West Bow than the soldiery. In an instant afterwards, a dense and armed mob rushed headlong down the street, carrying all before them, and shouting aloud, "Renwick for ever! Renwick for ever!" This was taken as a hint by the prisoners, who, in an instant, had mixed with the mob; or sunk, as it were, through the earth, into dark passages and cellars. "Fire!" was Claverhouse's immediate order, so soon as the human torrent had reached him; and _fire_ some of the soldiers did, but not to the injury of any of the prisoners, but to that of a person--a bride, as it turned out--who, in her curiosity or fear, had looked from a window above; she was shot through the head, and died instantly. But, in the meantime, the rescue was complete--Claverhouse, afraid manifestly of being shot from a window, galloped up the brae, and made the best of his way to the Castle, there to demand fresh troops to quell what he called an insurrection: whilst, in the meantime, the men, after a very temporary search or pursuit, marched onwards, with their muskets presented to the open windows, in case any head should protrude. But no heads were to be seen; and the soldiers escaped to the guard-house (to the Heart of Midlothian) in safety. Here, however, a scene ensued of a most heart-rending nature. Scarcely had the men grounded their muskets in the guard-house, when a seeming maniac rushed upon them with an open knife, and cut right and left like a fury. He was immediately secured, but not till after many of the soldiers were bleeding profusely. They thrust him immediately, bound hand and foot, into the black-hole, to await the decision of next morning; but next morning death had decided his fate--he had manifestly died of apoplexy, brought on by extreme excitement. His mother, who had followed her son when he issued forth deprived seemingly of reason, having lost sight of him in the darkness, had learned next morning of his fate and situation. She came, therefore, with the return of light, to the prison door, and had been waiting hours before it was opened. At last Clavers arrived, and ordered the maniac to be brought into his presence, and that of the Court, for examination. But it was all over; and the distorted limbs and features of a young and handsome man were all the mark by which a fond mother could certify the identity of an only son. From this poor woman's examination, it turned out that her son was to have been married on that very day to a young woman whom he had long loved; but that he had been called to see her corpse, after she was shot by the soldiery, and had rushed out in the frantic and armed manner already described. The poor woman, from that hour, became melancholy; refused to take food; and, always calling upon the names of her "bonny murdered bairns," was found dead one morning in her bed. In the meantime, James Renwick had made the best of his way down the Cowgate, and across, by a narrow wynd, into the Canongate, where a friend of his kept a small public-house. He had gone to bed; but his wife was still at the bar, and two men sat drinking in a small side apartment. He asked immediately for her husband, and was recognised, but with a wink and a look which but too plainly spoke her suspicion of the persons who were witnesses of his entrance. Hereupon he called for some refreshment, as if he had been a perfect stranger, and, seating himself at a small table, began to read in a little note-book which he took from his side pocket--"four, five, six, seven--yes, seven," said he--"and it has cost me seven pounds my journey to Edinburgh." This he said so audibly as to be heard by the persons who were sitting in the adjoining box, that they might regard him as a stranger, and unconnected with Edinburgh. But, as he afterwards expressed it, he deeply repented of the attempt to mislead. The Lord, he said, had justly punished him for distrusting his power to extricate him, as he had already done, from his troubles. The men, after one had accosted him in a friendly tone about the weather, or some indifferent subject, took their departure; and Mrs Chalmers and he, now joined by the husband, enjoyed one hour's canny crack ere bedtime, over some warm repast. The whole truth was made known to them; but, though perfectly trustworthy themselves, they expressed a doubt of their customers, who were known to be little better than hired informers, who went about to public-houses, at the expense of the Government, listening and prying if they could find any evidence against the poor Covenanters. Next day, even before daylight, the house was surrounded by armed men, and Renwick was demanded by name. Mr Chalmers did not deny that he was in the house, but said that he came to him as to a distant relation, and that he was no way connected with his doctrines or opinions. In the meantime, Renwick was aroused, and had resolved to sell his life as dearly as possible. He was a young and an active man, and trusted, as he owned with great regret afterwards, to his strength and activity, rather than to the mercy and the wisdom of his Maker. So, rushing suddenly down stairs, and throwing himself, whilst discharging a pistol, (which, however, did no harm), into the street, he was out of sight in a twinkling; but, in passing along, his hat fell off; and this circumstance drew the attention and suspicion of every one whom he passed, to his appearance. One foot, in particular, pressed hard upon him from behind, and a voice kept constantly crying, "Stop thief!--stop thief!" He ran down a blind alley, on the other side of the Canongate, and was at last taken, without resistance, by three men, one of whom--and it was the one who had all along pursued him--was the person who had accosted him last night in the public-house, respecting the weather. He was immediately carried to prison, where he remained--visited indeed by his mother--till next assizes, when he was tried, condemned, and afterwards executed--the Last of the Martyrs! The conversation which he had with his mother, his public confessions of faith, and adherence to the covenanted cause, as well as his last address, drowned at the time in the sound of drums--all these are given at full length in Woodrow, (the edition of Dr Burns of Paisley), to which I must refer the reader who is curious upon such subjects. In this valuable work will likewise be found the inscription placed upon a very handsome cippus, or monument of stone, erected to his memory. We give it to the reader. There is another, if we mistake not, in the Greyfriars of Edinburgh, somewhat in the same style. They are both equally simple and touching. In memory of the late REVEREND JAMES RENWICK, the last who suffered to the death for attachment to the Covenanted Cause of Christ in Scotland. Born near this spot, 15th February, 1662, and executed at the Grassmarket, Edinburgh, 1688. "The righteous shall be in everlasting remembrance." Ps. cxli. and 6. Erected by subscription, 1828. The late James Hastings, Esq. gave a donation of the ground. The subscriptions, amounting to about £100, were collected at large from Christians of all denominations; and the gentleman who took the most active part in suggesting and carrying through the undertaking, was the Rev. Gavin Mowat, minister of the Reformed Presbyterian Congregation at Whithorn, and formerly at Scar-brig, in Penpont, Dumfries-shire. The monument is placed upon the farm of Knees, at no great distance from the farm-house where the martyr was born. It stands upon an eminence, from which it may be seen at the distance of several miles down the glen, in which the village of Monyaive is situated. It was visited last summer by the author of this narrative; when the resolution, which has now been very imperfectly fulfilled, was taken. XV.--OLD ISBEL KIRK. Isbel Kirk lived in Pothouse, Closeburn, in that very house where that distinguished scholar, the late Professor Hunter of St Andrew's, was born. She had never been married, and lived in a small lonely cottage, with no companions but her cat and cricket, which chirped occasionally from beneath the hudstone, against which her peat-fire was built. There sat old, and now nearly blind, Isbel Kirk, spinning or carding wool, crooning occasionally an old Scotch song, or, it might be, one of David's psalms, and enjoying at intervals her pipe, a visit from her next neighbour, Nancy Nivison, or her champit-potatoes--a luxury which the west country, and that alone, has hitherto enjoyed. Two old Irish women had settled some time before this on the skirts of the opposite brae, where they had built a small turf cabin, and lived nobody could well tell how. They were generally understood to make a kind of precarious living, by going about the country periodically, giving _pigs_ or crockery-ware in exchange for wool. Isbel Kirk was a most simple, honest creature, living on little, but procuring that little by her industry in spinning sale yarn, weaving garters, and using her needle occasionally, to assist the guidwife of Gilchristland in shirt-making for a large family. But the M'Dermots were the aversion of everybody, and seldom visited even by the guidman of Barmoor, on whose farm, or rather on the debatable skirts of it, they had sat down, almost in spite of his teeth. He was a humane man; and, though he loved not such visitors, yet he tolerated the nuisance, as his wife reckoned them skilled in curing children's diseases, and in spaeing the young women's fortunes. John Watson pastured sheep, where corn harvests now wave in abundance; and his flocks spread about to the doors of the M'Dermots and Isbel Kirk. These flocks gradually decreased, and much suspicion was attached to his Irish and heathenish neighbours, for they attended no place of worship, not even the conformed Curate's; but there was no proof against them. At last, a search was suddenly and secretly instituted under the authority of the Laird of Closeburn; and, although much wool was found, still there were no entire fleeces, nor any means left of bringing it home to the M'Dermots. "Na, na, guidman," said the elder of the two harridans. "Na--ye needna stir aboot the kail-pot in that way--ye'll find naething there but a fine bit o' the dead braxy I gat frae the guidman o' Gilchristland, for helping the mistress wi' her kirn, that wadna mak butter; but there are folks that ye dinna suspect, and that are maybe no that far off either, wha could very weel tell ye gin they liked whar yer braw gimmer yows gang till." Being pushed to be more particular, they were seemingly compelled at last to intimate that auld Isbel Kirk, she and her friend, Nanny Nivison, could give an account of the stolen sheep, if they liked. The guidman would not credit such allegations; but the old women persisted in their averment, and even offered to give the guidman of Barmoor occular demonstration of the guilt of the twa _saunts_, as they called them. A few days passed, and still a lamb or an old sheep would disappear--they melted away gradually, and the guidman began to think that his flocks must be bewitched, and that the devil himself must keep a kitchen somewhere about the Chaise Craig, over which Archy Tait had often seen the _old gentleman_ driving six-in-hand about twelve o'clock at night. Returning, therefore, one morning to the M'Dermots, and renewing the conversation respecting Isbel Kirk and Nanny Nivison, it was agreed that one of the Irish sisterhood should walk over to Isbel's with him next forenoon, and that she would give him evidence of the fate of his flocks. Isbel was sitting before her door, in the sunshine of a fine spring morning, when the guidman and Esther M'Dermot arrived. She welcomed them kindly into her small but clean and neat cottage; and, with all the despatch which her blindness would permit of, dusted for their use an old-fashioned chair, and a round stool, which served the double purpose of stool and table. The conversation went on as usual about the weather, and the last sufferer in the cause of the Covenant, when Esther M'Dermot went into a dark corner, and forthwith drew out into the guidman's view, and to his infinite astonishment, a sheep's head, which bore the well-known mark of the farm on its ears. "Look there, guidman," said Esther, "isna that proof positive of the way in which your braw hirsel is disposed of? By Jasus and the holy St Patrick! and here is a foot too, and twa horns!" Poor Isbel Kirk could scarcely be made to apprehend the meaning of all this--indeed she could scarcely see the evidences of her guilt--and assured the guidman, in the most unequivocal manner imaginable, that she was innocent as the child unborn; indeed, she said, what should she do with dead sheep, or how should she get hold of them, seeing she was old and blind, and had not enjoyed a bit of mutton, or any other flesh, meat, since the new year? "Ay," responded old Esther; "but ye hae friends that can help ye; dinna I whiles see, after dark, twa tall figures stealing o'er your way frae the Whitside linn yonder! I'se warrant they dinna live on deaf nits, after lying a' day in a dark and damp cave." Isbel held up her hands in prayer, entreating the Lord to be merciful to her and to his ain inheritance, and to discomfit the plans of his and her enemies. "Ye may pray," said Elspat, "as ye like, but ye'll no mak the guidman here distrust his ain een, wi' yer praying and yer Whiggery." This last suggestion of the nightly visitors staggered Mr Watson not a little; he well knew how friendly old Isbel was to the poor Covenanters, and brought himself to conclude, under the weighty and conclusive evidence before him, that Isbel might have persuaded herself that she was rendering God good service by feeding his chosen people with the best of his flock. Isbel could only protest her innocence and ignorance of the way in which these evidences against her came there; whilst the guidman and Esther took their leave--he threatening that the matter should not rest where it was, and the old Irish jade pretending to commiserate Isbel on the unfortunate discovery. Next morning, the pothouse was surrounded, and carefully searched by a detachment of Lag's men, to whom information of Isbel's harbouring rebels had been (the reader may guess how) communicated. Having been unsuccessful in their search, they put the poor blind creature to the torture, because she would not discover, or, perhaps, could not reveal, the retreat of the persecuted people. A burning match was put betwixt her fingers, and she was firmly tied to a bedpost, whilst the fire was blown into a flame by one of the soldiers. Not a feature in Isbel's countenance changed; but her lips moved, and she was evidently deeply absorbed in devotional exercise. "Come, come, old Bleary," said one, "out with it! or we will roast you on the coals, like a red herring, for Beelzebub's breakfast." "Ye can only do what ye're permitted to do," said the poor sufferer, now writhing with pain, and suffering all the agonies of martyrdom. "Ye may burn this poor auld body, and reduce it to its natural dust; but ye will never hear my tongue betray any of the poor persecuted remnant." It is horrible to relate, but the fact cannot be disputed, that these monsters stood by and blew the match till the poor creature's fingers were actually burnt off--yet she only once cried for mercy; but, when they mentioned the conditions, she fainted; and thus nature relieved her from her sufferings. When she came again to herself, she found that they had killed the only living creature which she could call companion, and actually hung the body of the dead cat around her neck; but they were gone, and her hands were untied. During the ensuing night a watch was set upon poor Isbel's house, thinking, as the persecutors did, that they would catch the nightly visitants, who were yet ignorant of their friend's sufferings in their behalf. The men lay concealed among brackens, on the bank opposite to the pothouse, and near to Staffybiggin, the residence of the M'Dermots. To their surprise, a figure, about twelve o'clock, came warily and stealthily around a flock of sheep which lay ruminating in the hollow. It was a female figure, if not the devil in a female garb. They continued to keep silent and lie still. At last they saw the whole flock driven over and across a thick-set bush of fern. One of the sheep immediately began to struggle; but it was manifestly held by the foot--in a few instants, two figures were seen dragging it into M'Dermot's door. This naturally excited their surprise, and, rushing immediately into the hut, they found the two old women in the act of preparing in a pit--which, during the day time, was concealed--mutton for their own use. The murder was now out. These wretched women had been in the habit, for some years, of supplying themselves from the Barmoor flocks; the one lying flat down upon her back amongst the furze, and the other driving the sheep over her breast. Thus the sister who caught, had an opportunity of selecting; and the best of the wedders had thus from time to time disappeared. Poor Isbel Kirk!--her innocence was now fully established; but it was too late. Her kind friend Nanny Nivison attended her in her last illness, and the guidman of Barmoor paid every humane attention. But the ruffians of a mistaken and ill-advised government had deranged her nervous system. Besides, the burn never properly healed; it at last mortified, and she died almost insensible, either of pain or presence. Her soul seemed to have left its frail tabernacle ere life was extinct. The example we have here given is taken from that humble source, which the historian leaves open to the gleaner. Indeed, the histories of those times give but a very imperfect idea of the atrocities of that remarkable period. The cottage door must be opened to get at the truth; but the stately political historian seldom enters. XVI.--THE CURLERS. Winter 1684-5 was, like the last, cold, frosty, and stormy. The ice was on lake and muir from new year's day till the month of March. Curling was then, as it is still, the great winter amusement in the south and west of Scotland. The ploughman lad rose by two o'clock of a frosty morning, had the day's fodder threshed for the cattle, and was on the ice, besom in hand, by nine o'clock. The farmer, after seeing things right in the stable and the byre, was not long behind his servant. The minister left his study and his M.S., his concordance, and his desk, for the loch, and the rink, and the channel-stane. Even the laird himself was not proof against the temptation, but often preferred full twelve hours of rousing game on the ice, to all the fascinations of the drawing or the billiard-room, or the study. Even the schoolmaster was incapable of resisting the tempting and animating sound; and, at every peal of laughter which broke upon his own and his pupils' ears, turned his eyes and his steps towards the window which looked upon the adjoining loch; and, at last, entirely overcome by the shout over a contested shot; off he and his bevy swarmed, helter-skelter, across the Carse Meadow, to the ice. From all accounts which I have heard of it, this was a notable amongst many notable days. The factor was never in such play; the master greatly outdid himself; the laird played hind-hand in beautiful style; and Sutor John came up the rink "like Jehu in time o' need." Shots were laid just a yard, right and left, before and behind the tee; shots were taken out, and run off the ice with wonderful precision; guards, that most ticklish of all plays, were rested just over the hog-score, so as completely to cover the winner; inwicks were taken to a hair, and the player's stone whirled in most gracefully, (like a lady in a country dance), and settled, three-deep-guarded, upon the top of the tee. Chance had her triumphs as well as good play. A random shot, driven with such fury that the stone rebounded and split in two, deprived the opposite side of four shots, and took the game. The sky was blue as indigo, and the sun shot his beams over the Keir Hills in penetrating and invigorating splendour. Old women frequented the loch with baskets; boys and young lads skated gracefully around; the whisky-bottle did its duty; and even the herons at the spring-wells had their necks greatly elongated by the roaring fun. It was a capital day's sport. Little did this happy scene exhibit of the suffering and the misery which was all this while perpetrated by the men of violence. Clavers, the ever-infamous, was in Wigtonshire with his Lambs; Grierson was lying in his den of Lag, like a lion on the spring; Johnstone was on the Annan; and Winram on the Doon; whilst Douglas was here, and there, and everywhere, flying, like a malevolent spirit, from strath to strath, and from hill to dale. The snow lay, and had long been lying, more than a foot deep, crisp and white, over the bleak but beauteous wild; the sheep were perishing for want of pasture; and many poor creatures were in absolute want of the necessaries of life. (The potato, that true friend of the people, had not yet made its way to any extent into Scotland). Caves, dens, and outhouses were crowded with the persecuted flock. The ousted ministers were still lifting up their voice in the wilderness, and the distant hum of psalmody was heard afar amongst the hills, and by the side of the frozen stream and the bare hawthorn. What a contrast did all this present to the fun, frolic, and downright ecstacy of this day's sport! But the night came, with its beef and its greens, and its song, and its punch, and its anecdote, and its thrice-played games, and its warm words, and its half-muttered threats, and its dispersion about three in the morning. "Wha was yon stranger?" said John Harkness to Sandy Gibson, as they met next day on the hill. "I didna like the look o' him; an' yet he played his stane weel, an' took a great lead in the conversation. I wish he mayna be a spy, after a'; for I never heard o' ony Watsons in Ecclefechan, till yon creature cast up." "Indeed," said lang Sandy, "I didna like the creature--it got sae fou an' impudent, late at nicht; an' then that puir haverel, Will Paterson, cam in, an' let oot that the cave at Glencairn had been surprised, an' the auld minister murdered. If it be na the case--as I believe it isna hitherto--there was enough said last nicht to mak it necessary to hae the puir, persecuted saint informed o' his danger." "An' that's as true," responded John; "an' I think you an' I canna do better than wear awa wast o'er whan the sun gaes down, an' let honest Mr Lawson ken that his retreat is known. That Watson creature--didna ye tent?--went aff, wi' the curate, a wee afore the lave; they were heard busy talking together, in a low tone of voice, as they went hame to the manse. I wonder what maks the laird--wha is a perfect gentleman, an' a friend, too, o' the Covenanted truth--keep company, on the ice, or off it, wi' that rotten-hearted, roupit creature, the curate o' Closeburn?" "Indeed," replied the other, "he is sae clean daft aboot playing at channel-stane, that, I believe, baith him, an' the dominie, an' the factor--forby Souter Ferguson--would play wi' auld Symnie himself, provided he was a keen and a guid shot! But it will be mirk dark--an' there's nae moon--ere we mak Glencairn cave o't." John Harkness and Sandy Gibson arrived at Monyaive, in Glencairn, a little after dark. The cave was about a mile distant from the town; and, with the view of refreshment, as well as of concerting the best way of avoiding suspicion, they entered a small ale-house kept by an old woman at the farther end of the bridge. They were shewn into a narrow and meanly-furnished apartment, and called for a bottle of the best beer, with a suitable accompaniment of bread and cheese. The landlady, by-and-by, was sent for, and was asked to partake of her own beverage, and questioned, in a careless and incidental manner, respecting the news. She looked somewhat embarrassed; and, fixing her eyes upon a keyhole, in a door which conducted to an adjoining apartment, she said, in a whisper-- "I ken brawly wha ye are, an maybe, too, what ye're after; but ye hae need to be active, lads; for there are those in that ither room that wadna care though a yer heads, as well as those o' some ither folks that shall be nameless were stuck on the West Port o' Edinbro." In an instant, the two young farmers were _butt_ the house, and beside Tibby Haddow's peat fire. In the course of a short, and, to all but themselves, an inaudible conversation, they learned that Lag himself, disguised as a common soldier, was in the next room, in close colloquy with a person clothed in grey duffle, with a broad bonnet on his head. From the description of the person, the two Closeburnians had no manner of doubt that the information obtained last night, in regard to the existence of a place of refuge in Glencairn, was now in the act of being communicated. "At one o'clock!" said a well-known voice--it was that of Lag, to a certainty. "Yes, at one," responded the stranger, Watson--whose voice was equally well-known to the farmers--"at one!" And they parted--the one going east, and the other west--and were lost in the darkness of night. It was now past seven, with a clear, frosty night. What was to be done? It was manifest that the cave was betrayed--at least, that the _whereabouts_ was known--and it was likewise necessary that this information should be conveyed to the poor inmate. But where was he to find a refuge, after the cave had been vacated? It struck them, in consulting, that if they could get the old woman to be friendly and assisting, the escape might be effected before the time evidently fixed upon for taking the cave by surprise. This was, however, a somewhat dangerous experiment; for, although Tibby M'Murdo was known to be favourable--as who amongst the lower classes was not?--to the non-conformists, yet she might not choose to run the immense risk of ruin and even death, which might result from her knowingly giving harbour to a rebel. So, by way of sounding the old woman--who lived in the house by herself, her granddaughter, who was at service in the town, only visiting her occasionally--they proposed to stay all night in the house, as they were in hourly expectation of a wool-dealer who had made an appointment to meet them here, but who, owing to the heavy roads, had manifestly been detained beyond the appointed time. The old woman had various objections to this arrangement; but was at last persuaded to make an addition to her fire, to put half-a-dozen bottles of her best ale on the table, with a tappit hen, and what she termed "a wee drap o' the creature," and to retire to rest about eight o'clock, her usual hour, they having already paid for all, and promised not to leave the house till she rose in the morning. At this time, about eight o'clock, the night had suddenly became dark and cloudy, and there was a strange noise up amongst the rocks overhead. It was manifest that there was a change of weather fast approaching. At last the snow descended, the wind arose, and it became a perfect tempest. Next morning, there were three human beings in Tibby's small _ben_, busily employed in discussing the good things already purchased, as well as in higgling and bothering about the price of wool. The weather, which had been exceedingly boisterous all night, had again cleared up into frost, and the inhabitants of Monyaive were busied in cutting away the accumulated snow from their doors, when in burst old Tibby's granddaughter, and, all at once, with exceeding animation, made the following communication:-- "Ay, granny, ye never heard what has taen place this last nicht. I had it a' frae Jock Johnston. Ye ken Jock--he's oor maister's foreman, an' unco weel acquent wi' the dragoons that lodge in the Spread Eagle. Weel, Jock tells me that Lag was here last nicht, in disguise like, an' that they had gotten information, frae ane o' their spies like, aboot a cave up by yonder where some o' the puir persecuted folks is concealed; an' that, aboot ane o'clock o' this morning--an' an awsome morning it was--they had marched on, three abreast, through the drift, carrying strae alang wi' them an lighted matches; an' that they gaed straight to the cave, an' immediately summoned the puir folks to come out and be shot; and that they only answered by a groan, which tellt them as plainly as could be, that the puir creatures were there; and that they immediately set fire to the straes at the mooth o' the cave, and fairly smoked them (Jock tells me) to death. Did ye ever hear the like o't?" "O woman!" responded the grandmother, "but that is fearfu'!--these are indeed fearfu' times; there is naebody sure o' their lives for half-an-hour thegither, wha doesna gae to hear the fushionless curates!" At this instant, one of the dragoons drew up his horse at the door, asking if a man, such as he described, with a blue bonnet and a grey duffle coat, had returned late last night, or rather this morning, to bed. Old Tibby answered, in a quavering voice, that the man mentioned had left her house about eight o'clock, and had not yet returned. The dragoon appeared somewhat incredulous; and, giving his horse to the girl to hold, he dashed at once and boldly into the room, where the three persons already mentioned were seated. The young farmers questioned immediately the propriety of his conduct; but he drew his sword, and swore that he would make cats' meat of the first that should lay hold upon him. He had no sooner said so, than a man sprang upon him from the fireside, and, striking his sword-arm down with the poker, immediately secured his person by such means as the place and time presented. The fellow roared like a bull, blaspheming and vociferating mightily of the crime of arresting a king's soldier in the discharge of his duty. But he was hurried into a concealed bed, tied firmly down with ropes and even blankets, and made to know that, unless he was silent, he might have to pay for his disobedience with his life. When old Tibby saw how things were going on, and that her house might suffer by such transactions, she sallied forth as fast as her feeble limbs and well-worn staff would carry her, exclaiming as she went--"We'll a' be slain--we'll a' be slain!--the laird o' Lag will be here--and Clavers will be here--and the King himself will be here--an' we'll a' be murdered--we'll a' be murdered!" At this moment, the trooper appeared in his regimentals, mounted his horse, and was off at full gallop. The granddaughter, now relieved from holding the dragoon's horse, followed her grandmother, and brought her lamp to the house; but, to their infinite surprise, there was nobody there save the very cursing trooper whom she had seen so recently ride off. His voice was loud, and his complainings fearful; but neither Tibby nor her granddaughter durst go near him, as they were fully convinced that he was a devil, and no man, since he had the power at once of mounting a horse and flying rather than riding away, and, at the same time, of lying cursing and swearing in a press bed in the _ben_. At last a neighbour heard the tale, and, being less superstitions, relieved the unfortunate prisoner from his rather awkward predicament. He swore revenge, and to cut poor old Tibby into two with his sword; but he found, upon searching for his weapon, that it was absent, as well as his clothes, which had been forcibly stripped from him when he was tied--and that without leave--and that he had nothing for it but to thrust himself into canonicals--in which garb he actually walked home to his quarters, amidst the shouts of his companions, and to the astonishment of all the staring villagers. As he was making the best of his way to hide his disgrace in the Spread Eagle, he was told that his commanding officer, Sir Robert Grierson, had been wishing to speak with him, for some time past. Upon appearing immediately in the presence of authority, he was questioned in regard to the mission on which he had been despatched, and was scarcely credited when he narrated the treatment which he had met with, and the loss which he had sustained. A detachment was immediately despatched in quest of the thief, the _wool-merchant_, who had so cleverly supplied himself with a passport from the king; and, after our soldier's person had been unrobed, and attired for the present in his stable undress, Lag set out with a few followers, to examine the cave, in order to be assured of Mr Lawson's death. "They may gallop off with our horses," said Lag, in a jocular manner, by the way; "but they will not easily gallop off with the old choked hound, who has led us so many dances over the hills of Queensberry and Auchenleck." At last, they arrived at the mouth of the cave, and entered. Black and blue, and severely bruised, lay the dead body before them. "Ah, ha!" said Lag, making his boot, as he expressed it, acquainted with old Canticle's posteriors. "Ah, ha! my fleet bird of the mountain, and we have caught you at last, and caught you _napping_--ha, ha! Why don't you speak, old fire and brimstone? What! not a word now!--and yet you had plenty when you preached from the Gouk Thorn, to upwards of two thousand of your prick-eared, purse-mouthed, canting followers. Come, my lads, we have less work to do now; we will e'en back to quarters, and drink a safe voyage into the Holy Land, to old Dumb-and-flat there!" So saying, he reined up his horse, and was on the point of withdrawing the men, when one of them, who had eyed the body, which was imperfectly seen in the dark cave, more nearly than the rest, exclaimed--"And, by the Lord Harry, and we are all at fault, and the game is off, on four living legs, after all--off and away! and we standing drivelling here, when we should be many miles off in hot pursuit of this cunning fox who has contrived to give us the slip once more." "What means the idiot?" vociferated Grierson. "Mean!--why, what should I mean, Sir Robert, but that this here piece of carrion is no more the stinking corpse of old Closeburn, than I am a son of the Covenant!" It turned out, upon investigation, that this was the body of the informer Watson, who had preceded Lag to the cave during the terrible drift; had been observed by John Harkness and Sandy Gibson, who were then employed in removing Lawson to the small inn; and, after a drubbing which disabled him from moving, he had been left the only tenant of the cave. When Grierson came, as above mentioned, from the drift and the cold, as well as the beating, he was unable to speak; but his groans brought his miserable death upon him; and Lawson, by assuming the dragoon's garb and steed, was enabled to escape, and to officiate, as has been already mentioned in a former paper, for several years before his death, in his own church, from which he had been so long and so unjustly driven. Thus did it please God to punish the infamous conduct of Watson, and to enable his own servant to effect his escape. The dragoon's horse was found, one morning at day-light, neighing and beating the hoof at old Tibby's door. It soon found an owner, but told no stories respecting its late occupant, who was now snugly lodged in William Graham's parlour in the guid town of Kendal. Graham and he were cousins-german. XVII.--THE VIOLATED COFFIN. AN effort has, of late, been made to repel the allegations which, for past ages, have been made against the infamous instruments of cruelty during the twenty-eight years' persecution. The Covenanters have been represented as factious democrats, setting at defiance all constituted authority, and exposing themselves to the vengeance of law and justice. These sentiments are apt to identify themselves with modern politics; but we hope we will never see our country again devastated by oppression, cruelty, and all the shootings, and headings, and hangings of the Stuart despotism repeated. It becomes, therefore, the duty of every friend of good and equal government to put his hand to the work, and to support those principles under which Britain has flourished so long, and every man has sat in safety and in peace under his own vine and his own fig-tree. No train of reasoning, or of demonstration, however, will suffice for this. The judgment is, in many occasions, convinced of error and injustice, whilst the heart and the conduct remain the same. There must be something in accordance with the decisions of the judgment pressed home upon the feelings. There must be vivid pictures of the workings of a system of misrule placed before the mind's eye, so that a deep and a human interest may be felt in the picture. The reader must open the doors of our suffering peasantry, and witness their family and fireside bereavements. He must become their companion under the snow-wreath and the damp cave--he must mount the scaffold with them, and even listen to their last act and testimony. How vast is the impression which a painter can, in this way, make upon the spirit of the spectator! Let Allan's famous Circassian slave be an instance in point; but the painter is limited to a single point of time, and the relation which that bears and exhibits to what has gone before or will come after; but the writer of narrative possesses the power of shifting his telescope from eminence to eminence--of varying, _ad libitum_, time, place, and circumstances--and thus of making up for the acknowledged inferiority of written description of narratives to what is submitted, as Horace says, "_Oculis fidelibus_," by his vast and unlimited power of variety. The means, therefore, by which past generations have been made to feel and acknowledge the inhumanities, the scandalous atrocities of those blood-stained times, still remain subservient to their original and long tried purposes; and it becomes the imperious duty of every succeeding age to transmit and perpetuate the impressions of abhorrence with which those times were regarded and recollected. This duty, too, becomes so much the more necessary, as the times become the more remote. The object which is rapidly passed and distanced by the speed of the steam-engine, does not more naturally diminish in dimensions to the eye, as it recedes into the depths of distance, than do the events which, in passing, figured largely and impressively, lose their bulk and their interest when removed from us by the dim and darkening interval of successive centuries; and the only method by which their natural and universal law can be modified, or in any degree counteracted, is by a continuous and uninterrupted reference to the past--by making what is old, recent by description and imagination; and by more carefully tracing and acknowledging the connection which past agents and times have, or may be supposed to have, upon the present advancement and happiness of man. Had the devotedness of the Covenanter and Nonconformist been less entire than it was--had the arbitrary desires of a bigoted priesthood and a tyrant prince been submitted to--then had the Duke of York been king to the end of his days--Rome had again triumphed in her priesthood; and we at this hour, if at all awakened from the influence of surrounding advancement to a sense of our degradation, had been only enacting bloody Reformation, instead of bloodless Reform, and suffering the incalculable miseries which our forefathers, centuries ago, anticipated. Nay, more, but for the lesson taught us by the friends of the Covenant and the conventicle, where had been the great encouragement to resist political oppression in all time to come, when the proudly elevated finger may point to the record, which said, and still says, in letters indeed of blood--"A people resolved to be free, can never be ultimately enslaved." The Covenant had its use--and, immense in its own day, and in its immediate efforts, it placed William, and law, and freedom on the throne of Britain; but that is as nothing in the balance, when compared with the less visible and more remote effects of this distinguished triumph:--It, throughout all the last century, maintained a firm and unyielding struggle with despotism, sometimes indeed worsted, but never altogether subdued; and it has, of late years, issued in events and triumphs too recent and too agitating to be now fairly and fully discussed. Nor will the influence of the Covenant cease to be felt in our land, till God shall have deserted her, and left her entirely to the freedom of her own will, to the debasing influence of that luxury and corruption which has formed the grave of every kingdom that has yet lived out its limited period. These Gleanings of the Covenant have been written under the impression, and with the view above expressed; and it is hoped that the following narrative, true in all its leading circumstances, and more than true in the "vraisemblable," may contribute something to the object thus distinctly stated. The funeral of Thomas Thomson had advanced from the Gaitend to the Lakehead. The accompaniment was numerous--the group was denser. Thomas had lived respected, and died regretted. He was the father of five helpless children, all females, and his wife was manifestly about to be delivered of a sixth. Just as the procession had advanced to the house of Will Coultart, a troop of ten men rode up. They had evidently been drinking, and spoke not only blasphemously, but in terms of intimidation.--"Stop, you cursed crew," said the leader. "He has escaped law, but he shall not escape justice. Come here, lad;" and at once they alighted from their horses, seized the coffin, and opening the lid, were about to penetrate the corpse through and through. "Stop a little," said John Ferguson, the famous souter of Closeburn; "there are maybe twa at a bargain-making;" so saying, he lifted an axe which he took up at a wright's door, and dared any one to disturb them in their Christian duty. A "pell-mell" took place, in the midst of which poor Ferguson was killed. He had two sons in the company, who, seeing how their father had been used, rushed upon the dragoons, and were both of them severely wounded. In the meantime, Douglas of Drumlanrig came up, and, understanding how things went, ordered the soldiers to give in, and the wounded men to be taken care off. All this was wondrous well; but what follows is not so. The body of Ferguson was carried to Croalchapel; and the two sons accompanied it, with many tears. Douglas seemed to feel what had happened, and could not avoid accompanying the party home. He entered the house of mourning, where there was a dead father, a weeping widow, and two wounded sons. He entered, but he saw nothing but Peggy. Poor Peggy was an only sister of these lads--an only daughter of her murdered father. Douglas was a man of the world! Oh, my God, what a term that is! and how much misery and horror does it not contain. Peggy was really beautiful; not like Georgina Gordon, or Lady William, or Mrs Norton, or Lady Blessington; for her beauty depended in no degree upon art. Had you arrayed her in rags, and placed her in a poor's-house, she would have appeared to advantage. Peggy, too, (the God who made her knows,) was pure in soul, and innocent in act as is the angel Gabriel! she never once thought of sinning, as a woman may, and does (sometimes) sin; she lived for her father, whom she loved--and for her mother, whom she did not greatly dislike. But her mother was a stepmother, and Peggy liked her father. Guess, then, her grief, when Peggy saw her father murdered, her brothers wounded, and knew the cause thereof. "Lift her," said Douglas to his men, after he had, in seeming humanity, seen the corpse and brothers home; "lift her into Red Hob's saddle, and carry her to Drumlanrig." No sooner said than done. The weeping, screaming girl was lifted into the saddle, and conveyed, per force, to Drumlanrig. At that gate there stood a figure clothed in dyed garments. It was the elder brother of Peggy, he who had been least injured of the two. He stood with his sword in his hand, and dared any one who would conduct his sister into the abode of dishonour. Douglas snapped, and then fired a pistol at him, but neither took effect. In the meantime, the brother was secured, and the sister was carried into the "Blue Room," well known afterwards as the infamous sleeping-chamber of old "Q." The not less infamous, though ultimately repentant Douglas, advanced into the chamber. The poor girl seemed as if she had seen a snake; she shrunk from his approach and from his blandishments. She had previously opened the window into the green walk; she had taken her resolve, and, in a few instants, lay a maimed, almost mangled being, on the beautiful walks of Drumlanrig. Douglas was manifestly struck by the incident, but not converted. He took sufficient care to have the poor girl conveyed home, and to have the brothers provided for, but his hour was not yet come. It was not till after his frequent conversations with the minister of Closeburn, that he came to a proper sense of his horrible conduct. But what was the awful devastation of this family. The poor beauteous flower Peggy, who was about to have been married to a farmer's son, (Kirkpatrick of Auchincairn,) was by him rejected. He called at the house sometime afterwards, with a view to see her; but he came full of suspicion, and therefore unwilling to receive the truth. He had heard the whole story, and must have known that his Peggy was at least as pure in mind as she had been beautiful in person; but he belonged not naturally to the noble stock of the family to which he was to have been allied, and gave himself up to prejudice. The girl was still in bed, to which, from her bruises, she had been confined for months. The meeting might have been one which a poet would have gloried in describing, or a painter in delineating and embellishing, with hues stolen from the arc of Heaven! Alas! it was one only worthy of the pencil of a Ribera--fraught with cruelty, and abounding in selfishness and dishonour. The girl, as she turned her pale yet beautiful face on him, told him the truth, and watched, with tears in her eyes, the effect of her narrative on one whose image had never been absent from her mind, if indeed it had not supported her in her struggle, and nerved her to the purpose which preferred death to dishonour. Her bruises and wounds spoke for her, and, to any one but her lover, would have proved that he was a part of the object of her sacrifice. It was all to no purpose. The eloquence of truth, of love, of nature, were lost upon him; nothing would persuade him that the object of his love had not been degraded. He turned a cold glance of doubt upon her, and turned to leave the room. Peggy rushed out of bed, and, maimed and weak as she was, would have stopped him. Her energies failed her--her lover was gone; and her mother, roused by the cries of her pain, came and assisted her again into bed. Poor Peggy heard no more of Kirkpatrick. She sickened and died?--no! far worse!--she became desperate, married a blackguard, and lived a drunkard; the sons were banished for firing at Douglas, as he passed in his carriage through Thornhill; and the poor mother of the whole family became--shall I tell it I--an object of charity! Thus was, to my certain knowledge, at least to that of my ancestors, a most creditable and well-doing family ruined, root and branch, by the persecutors--or, in other words, by those who, without knowing what they did, regarded the "Covenant" as an unholy thing, and fought the foremost in the ranks of oppression and uniformity. Now, there is not a word of this in Woodrow, or Burns, or even in the MS. of the Advocate's Library; and yet we can assure the reader, that the material facts are as true as is the death of Darnley, or the murder of Rizzio! God bless you, madam! you have, and can have, and ought to have no notion whatever of the united current of _horribility_, which ran through the whole ocean of cruelty during these awful and most terrific times! May the God that made, the Saviour that redeemed, and the Holy Spirit that prepares us for heaven, make us thankful that in _those times_ we do not live; and that such men as Woodrow and Burns (the first and the last) have been raised up, to vindicate and to justify such men as then suffered in their families, or in their persons, for the covenanted cause of the Great Head of our Presbyterian Church! THE SURGEON'S TALES. THE MONOMANIAC. In some of my prior papers, I have had occasion to make some oblique references to that disease called _pseudoblepsis imaginaria_--in other words, a vision of objects not present. Cullen places it among local diseases, as one of a depraved action of the organs contributing to vision; whereby, of course, he would disjoin it from those cases of madness where a depraved action of the brain itself produces the same effect. In this, Cullen displays his ordinary acuteness; for we see many instances where there is a fancied vision of objects not present, without insanity; and, indeed, the whole doctrine of spirits has latterly been founded on this distinction.[2] From the very intimate connection, however, which exists between the visual organs and the brain itself, it must always be a matter of great difficulty--if indeed, in many cases, it be not entirely impossible--to make the distinction available; for there are cases--such as that of the conscience-spectre, and those that generally depend upon thoughts and feelings of more than ordinary intensity--that seem to lie between the two extremes of merely diseased visual organs and diseased brains; and, in so far as my experience goes, I am free to say that I have seen more cases of imaginary visions of distant objects, resulting from some terrible excitement of the emotions, than from the better defined causes set forth by the medical writers. Among the passions and emotions, again, that in their undue influence over the sane condition of the mind, are most likely to give rise to the diseased vision of _phantasmata_, I would be inclined to place that which usually exerts so much absorbing power over the young female heart. The cause lies on the surface. In the case of the passions--of anger, revenge, fear, and so forth--the feeling generally works itself out; and, in many cases, the object is so unpleasant that the mind seeks relief from it, and flies it; while, in the emotions of love, there is a morbid brooding over the cherished image that takes hold of the fancy; the object is called up by the spell of the passion placed before the mind's eye, and held there for hours, days, and years, till the image becomes almost a stationary impression, and is invested with all the attributes of a real presence. I do not feel that I would be justified in saying that I am able to substantiate the remark I have now made by many cases falling under my own observation; the examples of _monomania_ in sane persons are not very often to be met with; and I have heard many of my professional brethren say, that they never experienced a single instance in all their practice. The case I am now to detail, occurred within two miles of the town of ----. The patient was a lady, Mrs C----, an individual of a nervous, irritable temperament, and possessed of a glowing fancy, that, against her will, brought up by-past scenes with a distinctness that was painful to her. She had lately returned from India, whither she had accompanied her husband, whom she left buried in a deep, watery grave in the channel of the Mozambique. I had been attending her for a nervous ailment, which had shattered her frame terribly, while it increased the powers of her creative fancy, as well as the sensibility by which the mental images were invested with their chief powers over her. She suffered also from a tenderness in the _retina_, which forced her to shun the light. How this latter complaint was associated with the other, I cannot explain, unless upon the principle which regulates the connection between the sensibility of the eye and the heated brains of those who labour under inflammation of that organ. I was informed by her mother, Mrs L----, as well as her sister, that she had come from India a perfect wreck, both of mind and body; and, for a period of eighteen months afterwards, could scarcely be prevailed upon to see any of her friends--shutting herself up for whole days in her room, the windows of which were kept dark, to prevent the light, which operated like a sharp sting, from falling upon her irritable eyes. It was chiefly with a view to the removal of this opthalmic affection, that I was requested to visit her; and I could very soon perceive, that the visionary state of her mind was closely connected with the habit of dark seclusion to which she was necessitated to resort, for the purpose of avoiding the pain produced by the rays of the sun. On my first interview, I found her sitting alone in the darkened room, brooding over thoughts that seemed to exert a strong influence over her; but she soon joined me in a conversation which, diverging from the subject of her complaint, embraced topics that brought out the peculiarity of her mind--a strong enthusiastic power of portraying scenes of grief which she had witnessed, and which, as she proceeded, seemed to rise before her with almost the vividness of presence; yet, with her, judgment was as strong and healthy as that of any day-dreamer among the wide class of mute poets, of whom there are more in the world than of philosophers. I could not detect properly her ailment, and resolved to question her mother alone. "Did you not notice anything peculiar about my daughter?" she said. "The love of a shaded room, resulting from an irritability in the organs of sight, is to me no great rarity," I replied. "Though her fit has not been upon her," rejoined she, with an air of melancholy, "it is not an hour gone since her scream rung shrilly through this house, as if she had been in the hands of fiends; and, to be plain with you, I left you to discover yourself what may be too soon apparent. I fear for her mind, sir." "I have seen no reason for the apprehension; but her scream, was it not bodily pain?" "I could wish that it had been mere bodily pain; but it was not. You have not heard Isabella's history," she continued, in a low, whispering tone. "She has experienced what might have turned the brain of any one. I discovered something extraordinary in her about six months ago. One evening, when the candles were shaded for the relief of her eyes, and I and Maria were sitting by her, she stopped suddenly in the midst of our conversation, and sat gazing intensely at something between her and the wall; pointing out her finger, her mouth open, and scarcely drawing her breath. I was terror-struck; for the idea immediately rushed into my mind, that it was a symptom of insanity; but I had no time for thought--a scream burst from her, and she fell at my feet in a faint. When she recovered, she told us that she had seen, in the shaded light of the candle, which assumed the blue tinge of the moonlight, the figure of a dead body sitting upright in the waters, with the sailcloth in which he was committed to the deep wrapped around him, and his pale face directed towards her. At the recollection of the vision, she shuddered, would not recur to the subject again, but betrayed otherwise no wandering of the fancy. Several times since, the same object has presented itself to her; and, what is extraordinary, it is always when the candle is shaded; yet she exhibits the same judgment, and I could never detect the slightest indication of a defect in the workings of her mind. I sent for you to treat her eyes, and left it to you to see if you could discover any symptoms of a diseased mind." "Was the object she thus supposes present to her, ever exposed in reality to the true waking sense?" said I, suspecting a case of _monomania_. "Did she not tell you?" rejoined she. "Come." And leading me again into her daughter's darkened apartment, she whispered something in her ear, retired, and left us together. "Your mother informs, me, madam," said I, "that you have seen _what exists not_; and I am anxious, from professional reasons, to know from yourself whether I am to attribute it to the creative powers of an active fancy, or to an affection of the visual organs, that I have read more of than I have witnessed." She started, and I saw I had touched a tender part--probably that connected with her own suspicions that her mother and sister deemed her insane. "It was for this purpose, then, that you have been called to see me?" she replied, hastily. "It is well; I shall be tested by one who at least is not prejudiced. My mother and sister think that I am deranged. I need not tell you that I consider myself sane, although I confess that this illusion of the sense, to which I am subjected, makes me sometimes suspicious of myself. Will you listen to my story?" I replied that I would; and thus she began:-- Experience, sir, is a world merely to those who live in it--it exists not--its laws cannot be communicated to the heart of youth; the transfusion of the blood of the aged into the veins of the young to produce wisdom, is not more vain than the displacing of the hopes of the young mind by the cold maxims of what man has felt, trembled to feel, and wished he could have anticipated, that he might have been prepared for it. Such has ever been, such is, such will ever be, the history of the sons and daughters of Adam. What but the changes into which I--still comparatively a young woman--have passed--not, it would almost seem, mutations of the same principle, but rather new states of existence--could have wrung from a heart, where hope should still have lighted her lamp, and illuminated my paths, these sentiments of a dearly purchased experience? When I and George Cunningham, my schoolfellow, my first and last lover, and subsequently my husband, passed those brilliant days of youth's sunshine among the green holms and shaggy dells of ----; following the same pursuits--conning the same lessons--indulging in the same dreams of future happiness, and training each other's hearts into a community of feeling and sentiment, till we seemed one being, actuated by the same living principle: in how happy a state of ignorance of those changes that awaited me in the world, did I exist? I would fall into the hackneyed strain of artificial fiction writing, were I to portray the pleasures of a companionship and love that had its beginning in the very first impulses of feeling; with a view to set off by contrast the subsequent events that awaited us, when our happiness should have been realized. When a woman of sensibility says she loves a man, she has told, through a medium that works out the conditions of the responding powers of our common nature, the heart, more than all the eulogistic eloquence of the tongue could achieve, to show the estimate she forms of the qualities of the object of her affections; but when she adds that that love originated in the friendship of children, grew with the increase of the powers of mind and body, and entered as a part into every feeling that actuated the young hearts, she has expressed the terms of an endearment so pure, tender, exclusive, and lasting, that it transcends all the ordinary forms of the communion of spirits on earth. The attachment is different from all others--it stands by itself; and to endeavour to conceive its purity and force by any factitious mixture of friendship, and the ordinary endearments of limited time and favourable circumstances of meeting, would be as vain as all hypothetical investigation into the nature of feeling must ever be. I cannot tell when I first knew the young man whose name I have mentioned under an emotion that shakes my frame; the syllables were a part of my early lispings, and I cannot yet think that they are unconnected with a being that has now no local habitation upon earth. Our parents were intimate neighbours; and the woods and waters of ----, if their voices--sweeter than articulated intelligence--could imitate the accents of man, would tell best when they wooed us into that communion, which they cherished, and witnessed, with an apparent participation of our joy, to open into an early affection. The power of mutual objects of pleasure and interest, especially if they are a part of the lovely province of nature--the rural landscape, secluded and secreted from the eyes of all the world besides, with its dells and fountains, birds and flowers--in increasing the attachment of young hearts, has been often observed and described; but we felt it. These inanimate objects are generally, and were to us, not only a tie, but they shared a part of our love, as if in some mysterious way they had become connected with, and a part of us. The often imputed association of ideas is a poor and inadequate solution of this work of nature: it is the effect put for the cause; the common, boasted philosophy of man, who invents terms of familiar sound to explain secrets eternally hidden from him. If we who felt, as few have ever felt, the influence of these green, umbrageous shades--with their nut-trees, bushes, flowers, and gowany leas; their singing birds, and nests with speckled eggs; their half-concealed fountains of limpid water, and running streams, and beds of white pebbles--in nourishing and increasing our young loves, could not tell how or why they were invested with such power; the philosopher, I deem, may resign the task, and say, with a sigh, that it was nature, and nature alone, who did all this; and the secret will remain unexplained. We enjoyed ten years of this intercourse--I calculate from the fifth to the fifteenth year of our youth--and every one of these years, as it evolved the ripening powers of our minds, so it strengthened the mingling affections of our hearts. We became lovers long before we knew the sanctions and rights, and duties of pledged faith; we were each other's by a troth, a thousand times spoken; exchanged and felt in the throbbing embrace, the burning sighs, and the eloquent looks, that were but the natural impulses of a feeling we rejoiced in, yet scarcely comprehended. My heart, recoiling from the thoughts of after years, luxuriates in the memory of these blissful hours; and, were not the theme exhausted a thousand times by the eloquence of rapt feeling, speaking with the tongue of inspiration, I could dwell on these early rejoicings of unsullied spirits for ever. My dream was not scattered--it was only changed in its form and hues, when my youthful betrothed was removed from home, to go through a course of navigation to fit him for the service of the sea, to which the intentions of his father, and his own early wishes, led him. I could have doubted my existence sooner than the faith of his heart; and he was only gone to make those preparations for attaining a position in society that would enable him to realize those fond and bright prospects we had indulged in contemplating among the woods that resounded to pledges exchanged in the face of heaven. The first place of his destination was London, from whence, for a period of about three years, I heard from him regularly by letters, which breathed with an increased warmth the same sentiments we had repeated and interchanged so often during the long period of our prior intercourse. Some time after this, he sailed to India; then were my thoughts first tinged by the changing hues of solitude; and my hopes and fears bound to the wayward circumstances of a world which had as yet been to me a paradise. I heard nothing from him for two long years after he left London. A portrayment of my thoughts during that period would be a thousand times more difficult than for the painter to seize and represent the changing hues of the gem that, thrown on a tropic strand, reflects the endless hues of the earth and sky. I trembled and hoped by turns but every idea and every feeling were so strongly mingled with reminiscences of former pleasures, the prospects of future happiness, the fears of a change in his affections, or of his death, that I could not pronounce my mind as being, at any given moment, aught but a medium of impressions that I could not seize or fix, so as to contemplate myself. All I can say is, that he was the presiding genius of every emotion with which my heart was influenced; and, to those who have loved, that may be sufficient to shew the utter devotion of every pulse of my being to the deified image enshrined within my bosom. Now came the period of the realizing of my dreams. George Cunninghame came back, and married me. We had scarcely been two months married when my husband, whom I loved more and more every day, got, by the influence of powerful friends, the command of a large vessel--the _Griffin_--engaged in the trade to India. It was arranged that I should accompany him, that, as we had been associated from our earliest infancy, (our separation had been only that of the body, and interfered not with the union of the immaterial essence), we should still be together. In this resolution I rejoiced; and, though by nature a coward, my love overcame all my terrors of the great deep. The day was fixed for our departure. A lady passenger and two servants were to go with us to the Cape, from whose society I expected pleasure; and every preparation which love could suggest was made to render me happy. We left the Downs on a calm day of December, and went down the Channel with a rattling gale from the north. Life on board of an Indiaman has been a thousand times described; and, would to heaven I had nothing to detail but the ordinary conduct of civilized men! Our chief officer was one Crawley, and our second a person of the name of Buist--the only individual my husband had no confidence in being Hans Kreutz, the steward, a German, who was whispered to have been engaged as a maritime venatic, or pirate, in the West Indies: and, if any man's character might be detected in his countenance, this foreigner's disposition might have been read in lineaments marked by the graver of passion. Part of what I have now said may have been the result of after experience; yet I could perceive shadowings of evil at this time, which I had not the knowledge of human nature to enable me to turn to any account. With a series of gentle breezes and fine weather, we came to the Cape, where Mrs Hardy and her two servants were put ashore. One of the servants had agreed to accompany me to Madras, and was to have come on board again, to join us, before we left Table Bay. Whether she had changed her mind, or been detained by some unforeseen cause, I know not, but the boat came off without her; and all the information that I could get was, that she was not to be found. I trembled to be left on board of a vessel without a female companion, and strongly insisted upon George to delay his departure until another effort should be made to endeavour to find a servant in Cape Town; but, a favourable wind having sprung up at that moment, Crawley remonstrated, in his peculiar mode of abject petitioning; and my husband, having himself seen the advantage of seizing the favourable opportunity for taking and accomplishing the passage of the Mozambique, we departed, under a stiff gale; and, in a short time, reached the middle of that famous Channel, where the fears of the seamen have been so often excited by the reputed cannibalism of the natives of Madagascar. At this time I was strangely beset by nightly visions of terror, which I could impute to no other cause than the stories that George had repeated to me of the wild character of these savages. During the day, but more especially during the blue, sulphurous, flame-coloured twilight of that region--I often fixed my eye on the long, dark, umbrageous coast--followed the ranges of receding heights--threaded the deep recesses of the valleys, that seemed to end in dark caves, and peopled every haunt with festive savages performing their unholy rites over a human victim, destined to form food for creatures bearing that external impress of God's finger which marks the lords of the creation. Those visions were always connected, in some way, with myself; and I could not banish the idea, which clung to me with a morbid power of adherence, that I might, alone and unprotected, be cast into some of these cimmerian recesses, and be subjected to the unutterable miseries of a fate a thousand times worse than death, and what might follow death, by the usages of of eaters of human beings. There was no cause for any such apprehensions; and I am now satisfied that these dark creations of my fancy were in some mysterious way connected with a disordered state of my physical economy; but I was not then aware of such predisposing causes of mental gloom, and still brooded over my imagined horrors, till I drove rest and sleep from my pillow, and disturbed my husband with my pictured images of a danger that he said was far removed from me. From him I got some support and relief; but the faces of the men I saw around me, and especially those of Crawley and Kreutz, seemed, to me, rather to reflect a corroboration of my fears, than to afford me encouragement and support. The grim visions retained their power over me; and, the wind having fallen off almost to a dead calm, I found myself fixed in the very midst of the scenes that thus nourished and perpetuated them. The depression of mind produced by these frightful day-dreams and nightmares, made me sickly and weak. I could scarcely take any food; every piece of flesh presented to me, reminded me of the feasts of the inhabitants of that dark, dismal island that lay stretching before me in the vapours of a tropical climate, like a land of enchantment called up by fiends from the great deep; the dyspeptic nausea of sickness was the very food of my gloomy thoughts; and the co-operative powers of mind and body tended to the increase of my misery, till I seemed a victim of confirmed hypochondria. We were still fixed immovably in the same place: all motive powers seemed to have forsaken the elements--the sea was like a sheet of glass, the sails hung loose from the masts, and the men lay listless about, overcome with heat, and yawning in lethargy. It was impossible to keep me below. I required air to keep me breathing, and felt a strange melancholy relief from fixing my eyes on the very scene of my terrors. Every effort to occupy my mind was vain; and I lay, for hours at a time, with my eyes fixed on the shore, piercing the deep, wooded hollows, following the faint traces of the savages as they disappeared among the thick trees, and investing every naked demon with all the characteristics of the followers of the mysterious midnight rites in which I conceived they engaged when the hour of their orgies came. I often saw individuals--rendered gigantic by the magnifying medium of the thick vapour--come down to the beach, and fix their gaze on us for a time, and then pace back again to the wooded recesses. Sometimes, when unable to sleep, I crept up from the cabin, and sat and surveyed the silent scene around me--the hazy moon, throwing her thick beams over the calm sea--the dark shadows of unknown birds sailing slowly through the air, and uttering at intervals sounds I had never heard before--the fires of the inhabitants among the trees on the coast, that sent up a long column of red light through the atmosphere, and exhibited the flitting bodies of the naked beings as they danced round the objects of their rites. It is impossible for me, by any language of which I have the power, to convey an adequate conception of my feelings during these hours. They were realities to me; and, therefore, whatever may be said against fanciful creations, I have a right to claim attention to states of the mind and feelings that belong to our nature in certain positions. At a late hour one night, I was engaged in those gloomy watchings and reveries, when Kreutz came to me, and said the captain had been taken suddenly ill. I turned my eyes from the scene along the shore I was surveying, and fixed them for a moment on his face, where the light of the moon sat in deep contrast with the long bushy hair that flowed round his temples. A shudder--that might have been accounted for from the state of my mind and the nature of the communication he had made to me, but which I instinctively attributed, at the time, to the expression of his face--passed over me, and, starting up, I hurried into the cabin off the cuddy, where I found George under the grasp of relentless spasms of the chest and stomach. He was stretched along on the floor, grasping the carpet, which he had wound up into a coil, and vomiting violently into a bason which he had hurriedly seized before he fell. 'Good God, Isabella!' he exclaimed, 'what is this? I am dying. That villain Cr ----' And, whether from weakness or prudence, he stopped, with the guttural sound of these two letters, Cr, which applied equally to Crawley as to Kreutz, and left me in doubt which of them he meant. At this moment Buist the mate entered the cabin; and my agitation and the necessity of affording relief to the sufferer, took my mind off the fearful subject hinted at by the broken sentence I had heard. With the assistance of Buist, I got him placed on the bed. There was no doctor on board, and I was left to the suggestions of my own mind, for adopting means to save him. These were applied, but without imparting any relief. The painful symptoms continued, and he got every moment worse. Neither Crawley nor Kreutz appeared; and when Buist went out to bring what was deemed necessary for the patient, I hung over him, and asked him what he conceived to have been the cause of his illness; but my question startled him--he looked up wildly in my face; his mind was directed towards heaven; and the means of salvation through the redeeming influence of a believed divinity of Him who died on the cross, was the subject alone on which he would speak. The scene, at this moment, around me was extraordinary, and, though I cannot say I had any distinct perception of the individual circumstances that combined to make up the sum of my horrors, I can now see, as through a dark medium, the co-operating elements. There was no candle in the cabin; the light of the moon through the windows filling the apartment with a blue glare, and tinging his pallid face with its hues. My mind, wrought up by the dreamy visions I had indulged in previously, and labouring under a disease which imparted to every feeling its own eliminated gloom, saw even the darkest circumstances of my condition in a false and unnatural aspect. The scenes of our youth and early love; the impressions of the religious sentiments he was muttering in broken snatches; the view of his approaching death; the dark means by which it was accomplished; my condition after he should die, in the power of men I feared; the orgies of the natives I had been contemplating; the deep grave, so fearful in its dead calmness; and the monsters that revelled in it, to which he would be consigned--all flitted through my brain; but with such rapidity--driving out, by short energies, the more engrossing thoughts concerned in the manner of his recovery--that I could not particularize them, while I drew, by some synthetic process of the mind, their general attributes, and thus increased the terror of the scene. Two hours passed, and every moment made it more apparent that my husband was posting to death. There was no sound heard throughout the ship except the dull tread of the watch; and, at intervals, the whispers of Crawley, as he communed stealthily with Buist, who went out of the cabin repeatedly, to carry intelligence of the state of the sufferer. For about three quarters of an hour he had been raving wildly. The detached words he uttered raised, by their electric power, the working of my fancy which filled up, by a train of thoughts scarcely more within the province of reason, the chain of his wandering ideas. No connected discourse on the subject of his illness, though mixed up with all the reminiscences of an affection that had lasted since the period of infancy, or the prospects that awaited me in the unprecedented position in which I was about to be thrown, could have distracted me in the manner effected by these insulated vocables, wrung by madness from expiring life and reason. They ring in my ears even yet, when the beams of the moon shine through the casements; and, even now, I think I see that dimly lighted cabin, and my husband lying before me in the agonies of death. I became, as if by some secret sympathy, as much deranged as himself. As I watched him, I cast rapid looks around me--out upon the still deep, in the direction of the fearful island--upon the articles of domestic use lying in confusion, and exhibiting dimly-illuminated sides and dark shades. It seemed to me some frightful dream; and, when I turned my eyes again on the pale face which had been the object of my excited fancy for so many years, saw the struggles of expiring nature, and heard the wild accents that still came from his parched lips, I screamed, and tore my hair in handfuls from my head. In that condition, I saw him die; and the increase of my frenzy, produced by that consummation of all evils, made me rush out, and forward to the side of the ship. I felt all the stinging madness of the resolution to die--to fly from the man who, I feared, had murdered him--to escape from that island of cannibals, where I thought I would be left by my relentless foes, by plunging into the deep, when Crawley, who had heard of his demise, seized me, and dragged me back. This paroxysm was succeeded by a kind of stupor that seized my whole mind and body. I sat down on a cot in the side of the cabin, and saw Kreutz bring in a light. The glare of it startled me; but it was only as a vision that could not awake the sleeper. They proceeded to lay out my husband on a table. They undressed him--for his clothes were still on; and I saw them take a large sheet, wrap it round him, and pin it firmly at all the folds. When their labours were finished, they took each a large portion of brandy, and Crawley came forward and offered me a portion. I had no power to push it from me. He held it to my mouth; but my lips were motionless; and, tossing it off himself, he and the others went out of the cabin. No precaution was taken to keep me within; but the frenzy that had previously impelled me to self-destruction had subsided, and I shuddered at what a few moments before appeared to me to be a source of relief. I sat for hours in the position in which they left me, gazing upon the dead body before me, but without the energy to rise and look at the features of him who had formed the object of my earliest devotions, the subject of all my fondest dreams of early youth and matured womanhood, now lying there lifeless. I had scarcely, during that period, consciousness of any object, but of a long, white figure extended on the table, with the moonlight reflected from it. The stupor left me--I cannot tell at what hour; and the first movement of living energy in my brain was a stinging impulse to rush forward and seize the body. I obeyed it, without a power to resist; and, tearing off the folds, laid bare the face, which was as placid as I had ever seen it, when, watching over him, I used to steal a look of him, during the hours of night, as he slept by my side, in the moonlight that stole through the cabin-window. In my agony, I clung to him--kissed the cold lips--called out 'George! George!'--threw the folds of the sheet over the face--again looked round me for some one to comfort me--felt the consciousness of my perilous position--and, as a kind of refuge from the despair that met me on every hand, withdrew again the folds, and acted over again the frenzied parts of a madness that mocked the miseries of the inmates of an asylum. I must have exhausted myself by the excitement into which I was thrown; for, some time afterwards, I found myself lying upon the cot, and wakening again to a consciousness of all the ills that surrounded me. The light of the moon had given place to the dull beams of earliest dawn, which were only sufficient to shew me the extended figure on the table, and the confusion into which the furniture of the cabin was thrown. I heard the sounds of several footsteps in the cuddy. Sounds of voices struck my ear; and, rising up, I crawled forward to a situation where I could hear the communings from which my fate might be known. 'When the wind starts,' said Crawley--'it will be from the north--we should turn and make all speed for Rio, where we may dispose of the cargo, and then run the vessel to the West Indies. How do the men feel disposed, Kreutz--all braced and steady?' 'All but Wingate and Ryder, who are watched by the others,' replied the German. 'These dogs would mutiny, ha! ha!--mein gut friend Buist is against their valking the plank; but they must either come in or go out. Teufel! no mutineers aboard the Griffin.' 'Right, Hans,' said Crawley. 'Get Murdoch to knock together the boards--we will bury him to-morrow; but the wife, man, what is to be done with her?' 'Put her ashore, to be sure,' responded Kreutz. 'There is not von difficulty there. The natives will be glad of her, and we want her not. If this calm were gone, all would be gut and recht. That is the von thing only that troubles me.' 'If there is no wind,' said Crawley, 'to carry us out of the channel, there is none to bring any one to us.' At this moment, I thought they heard some movements, produced by a nervous trembling that came over me, and forced me to hold by a chair. Some whisperings followed. Kreutz went away, and Crawley entered. I had just time to retreat to the other side of the body of my husband. His manner was now that which was natural to him--harsh and repulsive. He ordered me peremptorily to the lower cabin. I had no power to resist, or even to speak; but I saw, in the order, the eternal separation of me and George; and, rushing forward, I withdrew the covering from his face, to take the last look--to imprint the last kiss on his cold lips. The act operated like the stirrings of conscience on the cowardly man of blood. His averted eye glanced for an instant on the body, and, seizing the coverlet, he wrapped up the countenance, and, taking me by the arm, hurried me down to the apartment set apart for passengers. This cabin was darker than the captain's, from some of the windows having been changed into dead lights; and I considered myself pent up in a dungeon. Hitherto my feelings had been, in a great measure, the result of existing moving circumstances; but now I was left to reflection, in so far as that act of the mind could be concerned in the attempt to picture the extremities of a fate that seemed as unavoidable as unparalleled. The diseased visions that had distracted me before any real evil occurred, were changed, from their dreamy, shadowy character, to realities. The lengthened trains of images that were required to satisfy the cravings of hypochondria, fled; and, in their place, there was one general, overwhelming fear, that seemed to engross all my thinking energies, and left no power to particularize the visions of danger that awaited me among the savages. There was only one presiding, prevailing idea that served as the rallying point of my terrors; and that was the dead body of George, with the white sheet in which he was swathed, and the peculiarly-formed oaken table on which he was placed, and at which we used to dine upon all the dainties to be found on board an Indiaman. It was the steadfastness of this idea that excluded the images of the fearful deep recesses--the Bacchanalian orgies of the savages--their anthropophagous rites, their midnight revels; but retained, as it were, hanging round it, the fear they had engendered, as a more complex feeling. After Crawley had left me, I had thrown myself down on a couch--an act of which I retained no consciousness; for afterwards, when daylight began to break in through the only window that was not closed up, I started to my feet, and did not know, for some time, that I was separated from the corpse; the vision of which had, during the interval, been so vivid, that it combined the conditions of figure and locality as perfectly as if the object had been before me. On the deck I now heard the sound of several loud voices, and afterwards a scuffle, accompanied with the tramping of feet. There was then silence for a time; but my ears were stung, on a sudden, by a scream, succeeded by a plash, as if some one had been precipitated into the sea. A gurgling noise, as if the individual were drowning, followed; and the suspicion rushed into my mind, that they had made an example (to terrify the others) of one of the men who had rebelled against the authority of the mutineers. A silence, as deep as that of death, succeeded, which lasted about an hour, at the end of which period the sound of the saw and hammer were distinctly heard. I recollected the orders of Crawley, for Murdoch, the carpenter, to prepare George's coffin. The knocking continued for a considerable time, and produced such an effect upon me that the ideas, which had been, as it were, chained up by the freezing influence of the prevailing vision of the extended and rolled-up body, broke away and careered through my mind with the velocity, unconnectedness, and intensity, that belong to certain states of excited mania. Images of the past and the future were mixed up in confusion; and every succeeding thought stung me with increased pain, till the idea of suicide again suggested itself, bringing in its train that which destroyed it--the terror of an avenging God, who will pass judgment on the takers of their own lives. I started, and sought forgiveness; and, for the first time under this agony, felt the soft action of the balm of a confided trust in Him who has mercy in endless stores for the good, but who poured his fury even upon the house of Israel, for the blood they shed upon the land. But, must I confess it, the relief I felt from this high source was immediately again lost in the cold shiverings of instinctive fear, as I heard the knocking cease, knew the coffin was finished, and perceived, from the sounds in the cabin off the cuddy, that they were putting the body into the rudely constructed box, with a view of burying him in the deep sea. Some indescribable emotion, at this time, forced me towards the cabin window, although the sight of the water was frightful to me. It was still and calm as ever, and the light was already sufficient to enable me to see far down in its green recesses. I could not take my eye from it. There were numerous creatures swimming about in it, some of which I had got described to me, but many of them I had never seen before. They seemed more hideous to me now than they had ever appeared when, on former occasions, I sat and watched their motions. The large bull-mouthed shark was there, rolling his huge body in apparent lethargy, and turning up his white belly in grim playfulness, as if in mockery of my misery. It had a charm about its truculent savageness that riveted my attention, while it shook my frame. It was connected in my mind with the fate of George's body, which, every moment, I expected to hear plash in the sea, in the midst of that shoal of creatures with strange forms and ravenous maws. An exacerbation of these sickly feelings made me lift my eyes; but it was only to fix them on the not less fearful island that lay before in the far distance, and now, in the fogs of the morning, through which the red sun struggled to send his beams, appeared a huge mass of inspissated vapour lying motionless on the surface of the sea. The very indistinctness of this hazy vision stimulated my fancy to its former morbid activity, and I saw again the mystic wooded ravines, sacred to the rights of cannibalism, of which I myself was doomed to be the object. From this dream I was roused by the loud tread of men's feet over my head, as if the individuals were bearing a load that increased the heaviness of their steps. I was at no loss for the cause--they were carrying the coffin with the body in it to midship, where it was to be let down into its watery grave. In a short time afterwards, a gurgling of the waters met my ear, and, struggling to the foot of the companion ladder, I would have rushed upon deck if my strength would have permitted; but I fell upon the steps, and, lying there, heard a cry from some of them. I gathered, from the detached words I heard, that the bottom of the coffin had given way, from its insufficiency and the weight that had been put in it to make it sink; and that the body had gone down, while the chest swam on the surface. Several feet were now heard rapidly in motion, and the voice of Kreutz, who was running aft, fell on my ear. 'Teufel!' I heard him say, 'we shall have that grim corpse when the gallenblase--ha!--ha!--the gall bladder has burst, rising like von geist from the bottom of the deep sea, and staring at us. Hell take the stumper, Murdoch!' These words, uttered by the German, were followed by some expression from Crawley, no part of which I could make out, except the oaths directed against the carpenter. The sounds died away; but I heard enough to satisfy me of the fact that George's body had been consigned to the deep with only the shroud to defend it against the attacks of the ravenous creatures I had been contemplating. My mind was again forced, and with increased energy, into the train of gloomy meditations suggested by what I had heard; and so vivid were the visions that obeyed the excited powers of my imagination, that I forgot, as I lay brooding over them on the sofa to which I had staggered, the danger that next awaited myself. I could not now look at the sea, for I feared to meet the fact which would add probation to my imaginations--that the animals I had seen there had disappeared to crowd round the prey that had been given to them. Yet the actual vision of that dear form, mutilated, torn, and devoured, could not, I am satisfied, have produced more insufferable agony, than accompanied and resulted from the diseased imaginings in which my fancy was engaged. The process that I pictured going on in the bottom of the sea, was coloured by hues so sickly, and attended by circumstances so distorted and grim, that all natural appearances, however harrowing, must have fallen short of the power they exercised over me. The positions in which I imagined him to be placed, were varied in a greater degree than ever I had seen the human body; the expressions of the countenance, though fixed by death, and not likely to be changed, became as Protean as the changing postures of the limbs; and the marine monsters that gambolled or fought around him for the prize, were invested with forms, colours, and attributes, of a kind not limited to what I had ever seen in the deep. The only idea that seemed to remain stationary, and not liable to the mutations into which all the others were every moment gliding, was the colour of the body, which was that of the green medium in which he lay. That sickly hue pervaded all parts; and even the dark or light colours of the inhabitants of the deep, partook, more or less, of the prevailing tint. It seemed to be the universal of all particulars, as time or space is the medium or condition of existence of all thought and matter; I felt the impossibility of any idea being true that did not partake of it; and, so strongly was the feeling of the ex-natural that accompanied it, that even now I cannot look at anything green without shuddering. I cannot tell how long I was under the dominion of this train of thought. I was, in a manner, torn from it by the entrance of Kreutz with some food for me. He growled out a few words of mixed German and English, and left it on the table. It is needless to say that I could eat nothing. Even before these misfortunes overtook me, my appetite had left me; but now I loathed all edibles. After having been roused from the train of morbid imaginings in which I had been engaged, and which I clung to as if they imparted to me some unnatural satisfaction, I felt (and it is a curious fact) a recoiling disinclination to resume the grim subject, and even resorted to some imbecile and despairing efforts to avoid it. It was not that I expected any relief from forbearing: every other subject that could be suggested by my position was equally fraught with tears and pains; but that having, as I now suppose, exhausted, for the time, the diseased workings, the view of an effort to call up again the thoughts that had been as it were supplied by disease, penetrated me with a sensation beyond the powers of endurance. For two or three hours afterwards, my attention was directed to the proceedings upon deck; but I could hear little beyond indistinct mutterings, and occasional sounds of the treading of feet over me. The calm, which had lasted for many days, still continued; and, until a wind sprung up, no effort could be made by the mutineers to retrace their progress through the channel, and proceed to their projected destination. At last the shades of night began to fall; exhausted nature claimed some relief from her sufferings; but the drowsiness that overcame me, was only a medium of a new series of imaginings still more grotesque and unnatural than those that had haunted me during the day. When the morning dawned, I expected every moment the execution of the purpose I had heard declared by Crawley, to put me ashore on the island; and, during moments of more rational reflection, I could not account for my not having been disposed of in this way on the previous day. The terrors of that destiny were as strong upon me as ever; but, I must confess, that the view of real evil, almost unprecedented, as it seemed, in its extent and peculiarity, produced feelings entirely different from what resulted from the prior musings of my hypochondriac fancy: I would not be believed were I to say that the expected reality was not much more painful than the sickly vision. The miseries were of different kinds, proceeding from different causes, operating upon a mind in two different states. There was something in my own power. I was not justified in committing suicide as a mode of escape from an affliction that God might have seen meet to put upon me; but all my reasonings on this subject fled before the view of this next calamity that awaited me. An extraordinary thought seized me, that I was not bound to hold life, when, through my own body and sensibilities, God's laws were to be overturned, and my sufferings were to be made a shame in the face of heaven. I secreted a knife in my bosom, and sat in silent expectation of the issue. I was again supplied with meat; but, on this occasion, Crawley brought it to me--and here began a new evil. He resumed, partially, his former dastardly sneaking manner; made love to me; offered me the honour of being still a captain's wife, and accompanied the offer with, obliquely-hinted threats of a due consequence of my rejection of his suit. I spurned him; but I cannot dwell on the details of this proceeding. His suit was persisted in for two or three days, when, roused to madness, he told me, that next day, if I consented not, I would be wedded to the natives of Madagascar. I traced the outline of the knife through the covering of my bosom, and defied him. The next night was clear, and somewhat chill--indications of a cessation of the calm. The rudeness of Crawley had had the effect of keeping my mind from falling into the grasp of the demon of diseased fantasy; but, now my fate was fixed, I had no more to fear from him; and towards midnight, I fell again into the train of imaginings that had formerly haunted me. I had opened the cabin window for air--having felt a suffocating oppression of the chest during the day, proceeding from the extreme heat and the confined apartment. My eyes were again fixed in the direction of the island. I could see the dark shade of the land lying upon the gilded waters. All was still; my thoughts sought again the deep--the grave of George, the fancied condition of his body; and, as my ideas diverged to the calm scene around, it appeared to me as if all nature were dead, and that my own pulsations were the only living movements on earth. Lights now began to move along the shore, and then a fire blazed up into the firmament. The bodies of the savages flitted before it; I had seen the same appearances before; but I was now connected with these orgies in a more _real_ manner than formerly. They ceased, and my mind again sought the recesses of the green deep, where all I loved on earth lay engulfed. My eye at times wandered over the surface of the waters; but I feared to look downwards into their bosom. My attention was suddenly fixed by an object in the sea. I put up my hands and rubbed my eyes. Was I deceived by a fancy? No! a dead body was there, not four yards distant from where I sat. It was that of my husband, rolled up in the same white sheet in which I had seen him extended on the oak table, and with his head raised somewhat above the surface, by the weights placed in the shroud having, as I afterwards thought, descended to the feet. A part of the sewing had been torn off the head, which was bare--the face was openly exposed to me, the moon shone upon it; I could perceive the very features, and even the lustreless eyes, that seemed fixed on the ship. There was not a breath of wind to ruffle the surface of the sea, which shone with a blue lustre in the light of the moon; and the body was as motionless as if it had been fixed on the earth. I have described, hitherto, what actually befell me, with the various states of my mind under extraordinary circumstances of pain and depression. My fancies belonged as much to nature as the facts which excited and nourished them, and must be believed by those who have studied the workings of the mind, even unconnected with the principles and facts of pathology. This was, however, no vision of the fancy, but a reality resulting from well-known physical laws. I sat, fixed immovably, at the window, and felt no more power of receding from it, than I formerly had of resigning my musings. My eyes were fixed upon that countenance which had been the _beau ideal_ of love's idolatry--the fairest thing on earth, and the archetype of my dreams of heaven. I could not fly from it, horrible as it seemed in its blue glare and ghastly expression. I loved it while it shocked me; and all my powers of thinking were bound up in freezing terror. I felt the hair on my head move as the shrivelling skin became corrugated over my temples. That, and the occasional throbbings of my heart, were the only motions of any part of my being; but the body I gazed at seemed to be as immovable, and its eyes seemed not less steadfastly fixed on me than mine were on it. How long I sat in this position I know not. There was no internal impulse that moved me to desist. I could, I thought, have looked for ever. Certain fearful objects possess a charm over the mind--and this was one of them; but I have sometimes thought that the power lay in producing the negative state of mental paralysis; for the instant my attention was called to a strange noise upon the deck, I was suddenly recalled to a natural sense of the fear it inspired. The sounds I heard were a mixture of exclamations and objections, pronounced in tones of fear and anger. I turned away my face from the dead body, with a strong feeling of repugnance to contemplate it again; and, groping my way to the companion-ladder, listened to what was going on above. Kreutz and Crawley were in communication. 'There is more than chance in that frightful appearance,' I heard Crawley say. 'And this calm too--it will never end. God have mercy on us! Is there no man that will undertake to sink the body? I cannot stand the gaze of these white balls. See! the face is directed towards me; and yet I did not do the deed, though I authorized it. Will no one save me from the glare of the grim avenger? I will give twenty gold pieces to the man who will remove it to the deep. Go forward, Kreutz, and try if you can prevail upon a bold heart to undertake the task!' 'Pho, man!' responded the German--'all von phantasy--anybody would have risen in the same way--Teufel! I heed it not von peterpfenning. But the men are alarmed, and begin to say that the captain has not got fair play. Hush! seize your degen. There is von commotion before the mast.' I now heard a tumult in the fore part of the vessel and began to suspect that the crew had been led to believe that George had died a natural death, and had been by some means prevailed upon to work the vessel, when the wind rose in another direction, under the command of Crawley. The noise increased, and with it the fears of the cowardly villain whose conscience had been awakened by such strange means. Kreutz had left him to try to pacify the men; and the tones of his terror-struck voice continued to murmur around. 'There it still is,' he groaned, as his attention seemed to be divided between the sight he contemplated and the tumult, 'gazing steadfastly with these lack-lustre eyes for revenge. It is on me they are fixed--immovably fixed--as a victim which the spirit that floats over the body in that dead light of the moon demands, and will get. There is a God above in that blue firmament, who sees all things. I am lost. These men obey the call of a power that chooses that grim apparition as its instrument to call down destruction on my head. Ha! Kreutz has no influence here; the avengers are prepared.' A step now came rapidly forward, and Kreutz's voice was again heard. 'If you will not try to quell them,' said he, 'all is lost. They swear the captain has been murdered, and that verdamt traitor Buist heads them on. Donner! shall Hans Kreutz die like one muzzled dog? On with degen in hand, and it may not be too late! We have friends among the caitiffs; strike down the first man; his blut will terrify them more than that staring geist, which is, after all, only von natural body, with no more spirit in it than the bones of my grandmutter. Frisch! frisch! auf, man! come, come, dash in and strike the first mutineer!' The cowardly spirit of Crawley was acted upon by the stern German; for I heard him cry out-- 'Hold there, men! what means this tumult--'sdeath?' The rest of his words were drowned by the noise; but I heard the sounds of his and Kreutz's feet as they rushed forward. In an instant, the sound like that of a man falling prostrate on the deck, met my ear; and then there rose a yell that rung through every cranny of the ship. All seemed engaged in a desperate struggle. The words 'Revenge for our captain!' often rose high above all the other sounds. The clanging of many daggers followed; several bodies fell with a crash upon the deck, and loud groans, as if from persons in the agonies of death, were mixed with the cries of those who were struggling for victory. The tramping and confusion increased, till all distinct sound seemed lost in a general uproar. I got alarmed, and left my station at the foot of the companion-ladder; but I knew not whither to fly. I took again my seat at the window, as if I felt that there was an opening for me from which I might fly from the fearful scene. My agitation had banished from my mind for an instant the vision of the body; and I started again with increased fear as my eyes fell upon the corpse that had apparently been the cause of the uproar. It was still there, as motionless as before; yet, I thought, still nearer to me. I saw the features still more distinctly than ever, and found my mind again chained down by the charm it threw over me. The sounds for a time seemed to come upon my ear from a far, far distance, or like those heard in a dream; and like a dreamer, too, I struggled to get away from a vision that I at once loved and trembled at. The noises on deck seemed as those of the world, and the object before me the creation of the fancy that bound my soul, but left the sense of hearing open to living sounds. While in this state, I was suddenly roused by a rush of several men into the cabin; they held daggers in their hands and their countenances were besmeared with blood. I looked at them, under the impression that they were my enemies, and that the cause of Crawley had triumphed; but I was soon undeceived--they told me that both he and Kreutz lay dead upon the deck, and that the victorious party were determined to complete the voyage and take the ship to Madras. The removal of one evil from a mind borne down by the weight of many, only leaves a greater power of susceptibility of the pain of what remains. The moment I heard of my own personal safety, I recurred again to the subject that affected me more deeply than even the fears of being consigned to the natives of the island--the dead body of George was still in the waters. The men understood and appreciated my sufferings. I again went to the cabin window, and, pointing to the corpse, implored Buist, who was present, to get it taken up and buried. He replied, that that had already been agreed upon, and orders were given to that effect. Several of the men volunteered of themselves to assist. A boat was put out, and I watched the solemn process. I saw them drag up the body from the sea, and would have flown to the deck to embrace once more the dearest object of my earthly affections; but I was restrained from motives of humanity. I had reason to suppose that it had been dreadfully mutilated, and that was the reason why I was saved the pain of the sad sight. That same evening it was consigned again to the deep; and with it sunk the bodies of his murderers, Crawley and Kreutz. Next day, a breeze sprang up, and bore us away from that fatal place. My eyes were fixed on it till I could see no longer any traces of that island which had caused me so many fears. In a short time, we arrived in India, where I remained about two months, and returned again with the Griffin to Britain. "Now, sir," she continued, "all these things are in the course of man's doings in this strange world. It is also very natural that I should think of him. But a more dreadful effect has followed. I shudder when I think of it." She stopped and looked at me, as if she were afraid to touch upon the subject of the visual illusion. I told her that I understood the cause of her fears; and having questioned her, I satisfied myself from her answers that I had at last discovered a case of true _monomania_, in which the patient conceived that she saw, with the same distinctness as when she looked from the cabin window of the _Griffin_ the corpse of her husband swimming in the sea, with the head and chest above the waters, surrounded with the same blue moonlight, and every minute circumstance attending the real presence. I meditated a cure; but I frankly confess that it was my anxious wish to witness her under the influence of the fit; and, with that view, I purposed waiting upon her repeatedly in the evenings, when, under the shaded light of the candle, it generally came over her. I was baffled in this for several weeks, chiefly, I presume, from the circumstance of my presence operating as an engagement of her mind; but one evening when I was sitting with her mother in another room, the sister came suddenly, and beckoned me into that occupied by my patient. The door was opened quietly and, on looking in, I saw, for the first time, a vision-struck victim of this extraordinary disease. She sat as if under a spell, her arms extended, her eyes fixed on the imaginary object, and every sense bound up in that which contemplated the spectre vision. The fit ended with a loud scream; she fell back in her chair, crying wildly--"George!--George!" and lay, for a minute or two, apparently insensible. I continued my study of this extraordinary case for a considerable period; and, while I administered to her relief, I got her to explain to me some things which may be of use to our profession. I need not say that I was able to penetrate the dark secret of the seat of either the pathology or the metaphysique of the disease. That it was connected with the irritability of her nerves, and the affection of the eyes, there can be little doubt; because, as she mended in health, the fits diminished in number, and latterly went off. I may, however, state that, from all I could learn from her, the fit was something of the nature of a dream--all the objects around her, at the time, being as much unnoticed as if they existed not; and although she was possessed with an absolute conviction that the body of her husband was actually at the time present, it was precisely that kind of conviction that we feel in a vivid dream. [Footnote 2: HIBBERT'S _Philosophy of Apparitions_; BREWSTER'S _Letters on Natural Magic_; SCOTT'S _Letters on Witchcraft_, _&c._] THE FOUNDLING AT SEA. About the year 1708 or 1710, the good ship _Isabella_, Captain Hardy, sailed from the port of Greenock for Bombay, being chartered by the East India Company to carry out a quantity of arms and ammunition for the use of the Company's forces. The _Isabella_ carried out with her several passengers; amongst whom were a lady, her child--a girl about three years of age--and a servant-maid. This lady, whose name was Elderslie, was the wife of a lieutenant in the British army, who was then with his regiment at Calcutta, whither she was about to follow him; he having written home that, as he had been fortunate enough to obtain some semi-civil appointments in addition to his military services, he would, in all probability, be a residenter there for many years. The lieutenant added that, under these circumstances, he wished his "dear Betsy, and their darling little Julia, to join him as soon as possible." And this, he said, he had the less hesitation in requiring, that the appointments he alluded to would render their situation easy and comfortable. It was then in obedience to this invitation that Mrs Elderslie and her child were now passengers on board the _Isabella_. For about six weeks the gallant ship pursued her way prosperously--that whole period being marked only by alternatives of temporary calms and fair winds. The vessel was now off the coast of Guinea; and here an inscrutable Providence had decreed that her ill-fated voyage--for it was destined to be so, flattering as had been its outset--should terminate. A storm arose--a dreadful storm--one of those wild bursts of elemental fury which mock the might of man, and hoarsely laugh at his puny and feeble efforts to resist their destructive powers. For two days and nights the vessel, stript of every inch of canvass, drove wildly before the wind; and, on the morning of the third day, struck furiously on a reef of rocks, at about half a mile's distance from the shore. On the ship striking, the crew--not doubting that she would immediately go to pieces, for a dreadful sea was beating over her, and she was, besides, every now and then, surging heavily against the rock on which she now lay--instantly took to their boats, accompanied by the passengers. All the passengers? No, not all. There was one amissing. It was Mrs Elderslie. About ten minutes before the ship struck, that unfortunate lady, together with two men and a boy, were swept from the deck by a huge sea that broke over the stern; sending, with irresistible fury, a rushing deluge of water, of many feet in depth, over the entire length of the ship. Neither Mrs Elderslie nor any of the unhappy participators in her dismal fate were seen again. In the hurry and confusion of taking to the boats, none recollected that there was still a child on board--the child of the unfortunate lady who had just perished; or, if any did recollect this, none chose to run the risk of missing the opportunity of escape presented by the boats, by going in search of the hapless child, who was at that moment below in the cabin. In the meantime, the overloaded boats--for they were much too small to carry the numbers who were now crowded into them, especially in such a sea as was then raging--had pushed off, and were labouring to gain the shore. It was a destination they were doomed never to reach. Before they had got half-way, both boats were swamped--the one immediately after the other--and all on board perished, after a brief struggle with the roaring and tumbling waves that were bellowing around them. From this moment, the storm, as if now satisfied with the mischief it had wrought, began to abate. In half an hour it had altogether subsided; and the waves, though still rolling heavily, had lost the violence and energy of their former motion. They seemed worn out and exhausted by their late fury. The crew of the unfortunate vessel had left her, as we have said, in the expectation that she would shortly go to pieces; but it would have been better for them had they had more confidence in her strength, and remained by her; for, strange to tell, she withstood the fury of the elements, and, though sorely battered and shaken, her dark hull still rested securely on the rock on which she had struck. The wreck of the _Isabella_ had been witnessed from the shore by a crowd of the natives, who had assembled directly opposite the fatal reef on which she had struck. They would fain have gone out in their canoes to the unfortunate vessel when she first struck, as was made evident by some unsuccessful attempts they made to paddle towards her; but whether with a friendly or hostile purpose, cannot be known. On the storm subsiding, however, they renewed their attempts. A score of canoes started for the wreck, reached it, and, in an instant after, the deck of the unfortunate vessel was covered with wild Indians. Whooping and yelling in the savage excitement occasioned by the novelty of everything around, they flew madly about the deck, scrambled down into the hold, tore open bales and packages, and possessed themselves of whatever most attracted their whimsical and capricious fancies. While some were thus occupied in the hold, others were ransacking the cabin. It was here, and at this moment, that a scene of extraordinary interest took place. A huge savage, who was peering curiously into one of the cabin beds, suddenly uttered a yell, so piercing and unusual, that it attracted the notice of all his wild companions; then, plunging his hand into the bed, drew forth, and held up to the wondering gaze of the latter, a beautiful little girl of about three years old. It was the daughter of the unfortunate Mrs Elderslie. The unconscious child had slept during the whole of the catastrophe, which had deprived her, first of her parent, and subsequently of her protectors, and had only awoke with the shout of the savage who now held her in his powerful, but not unfriendly grasp; for he seemed delighted with his prize. He hugged the infant in his bosom, looked at it, laughed over it, and performed a thousand antics expressive of his admiration and affection for the fair and blooming child of which he had thus strangely become possessed. The child, for some time, expressed great terror of her new protector and his sable companions, calling loudly on her mother; but the anxious and eager endearments of the former gradually calmed her fears and quieted her cries. In the meantime, the plunder of the vessel was going on vigorously in all directions--above and below, in the cabin and forecastle, till, at length, as much was collected as the savages thought their canoes would safely carry. These, therefore, were now loaded with the booty; and the whole fleet, shortly after, made for the shore. In one of these canoes was little Julia Elderslie and her new protector, who, by still maintaining his friendly charge over her, shewed that he meant to appropriate her as a part of his share of the plunder. On reaching the shore, the kind-hearted savage, as his whole conduct in the affair shewed him to be, consigned his little protegée to the care of a female--one of the group of women who were on the beach awaiting the arrival of the canoes, and who appeared to be his wife. The woman received the child with similar expressions of surprise and delight with those which had marked her husband's conduct on his first finding her. She turned her gently round and round, examined her with a delighted curiosity, patted her cheeks, felt her legs and arms, and, in short, handled her as if she had been some strange toy, or as if she wished to be assured that she was really a thing of flesh and blood. For two days the natives continued their plunder of the wreck. By the third, the vessel had been cleared of every article of any value that could be carried away; and on this being ascertained, a general division of the spoil, accumulated on the shore, took place. It was a scene of dreadful confusion and uproar, and more than once threatened to terminate in bloodshed; but it eventually closed without any such catastrophe. The partition was effected, the encampment was broken up, and the whole band--men, women, and children, all loaded with plunder--commenced their march into the interior; the little Julia forming part of the burden of the man who had first appropriated her; a labour in which he was from time to time relieved by his wife. From three to four years after the occurrence of the events just related, a Scotch merchant ship, the _Dolphin_ of Ayr, Captain Clydesdale, bound for the Cape of Good Hope, while prosecuting her voyage, unexpectedly run short of water, in consequence of the bursting of a tank, when off the Gold Coast of Africa. On being informed of the accident, the captain determined on running for the land for the purpose of endeavouring to procure a further supply of the indispensable necessary of which he had just sustained so serious a loss. The vessel was, accordingly, directed towards the coast, which she neared in a few hours; and, finally, entered a small bay, which seemed likely to afford at once the article wanted, and a safe anchorage for the ship while she waited for its reception. By a curious chance, the bay which the _Dolphin_ now entered was the same in which the _Isabella_ had been wrecked upwards of three years before. But of that ill-fated vessel there was now no trace; a succession of storms, similar to that which had first hurled her on the rocks, had at length accomplished her entire destruction: she had, in time, been beaten to pieces, and had now wholly disappeared. There was then no appearance of any kind, no memorial nor vestige by which those on board the _Dolphin_ might learn, or at all suspect that the locality they were now in had been the scene of so deep a tragedy as that recorded in the early part of our tale. All unconscious of this, the _Dolphin_ came to within pistol-shot not only of the reef, but of the identical spot on which the _Isabella_ had been wrecked. Having come to anchor, a boat, filled with empty watercasks, was despatched from the ship for the shore. In this boat was the captain, first mate, and a pretty numerous party of men, all well armed, in case of any interruption from the natives. On landing, Captain Clydesdale, the mate, and two men, leaving the others in the boat, set out in quest of water. The search was not a tedious one. When they had walked about a quarter of a mile inland, the gratifying noise of a waterfall struck upon their ears. Following the delightful sound, they quickly reached a rocky dell into which a crystal sheet of water, of considerable breadth, was falling from a height of about fifteen feet; and, after sportively circling about for a moment in a deep but clear pool below, sought the channel which conducted to the sea, found it, and glided noiselessly away. Delighted with this opportune discovery, Captain Clydesdale despatched one of the men who was along with him to the boat, to order the others up with the water casks. Having seen the people commence the task of filling the latter, the captain and mate, each armed with a musket, cutlass, and brace of pistols, started for a walk a little farther inland, in order to obtain a view of the country. For nearly an hour they wandered on, now scaling heights, and now forcing their way through patches of tangled brushwood, without meeting with any adventure, or seeing anything at all extraordinary. They had now gained the banks of the stream which, lower down, formed the cascade at which the water casks were filling; and this they proposed to trace downwards, as its banks presented a clear and open route, till they should reach the point whence they had started. While jogging leisurely along this route, the adventurers, by turning a projecting rock, suddenly opened a small bight or hollow, sheltered on all sides, except towards the river, by the high grounds around it. In the centre of this little glen was an Indian encampment! Alarmed at this unexpected sight, the captain and mate abruptly halted, and would have again retreated behind the projecting rock or knoll which had first concealed them, and taken another route, but they perceived they were seen by a group of male natives who were lolling on the grass in front of the wigwams. On seeing the white men--who now stood fast, aware that it was useless to attempt to retreat--the Indians sprang to their feet with a loud yell, and rushed towards them. The captain and mate instinctively brought down their muskets; for reason would have shown them that resistance was equally useless with flight. The hostile attitude, however, which they had assumed, had the effect of checking the advance of the natives, who suddenly halted, and, to the great relief of the captain and mate, made friendly signs of welcome to them. Confiding in and returning these signs, the latter raised their muskets and advanced towards the party, who now also resumed their march towards the strangers. They met, when, after some attempts at conversation, conducted on the part of the natives with great good-humour, but, on both sides, altogether in vain, one of the former suddenly ran off at full speed towards the wigwams, into one of which he plunged, and instantly reappeared, leading a female child of six or seven years of age by the hand. As he advanced towards the captain and mate, he kept pointing to the child's face, then to his own, then towards those of the strangers, and laughing loudly the while. With an amazement which they would have found it difficult to express, Clydesdale and his companion perceived that the child, now produced, was fair, of regular features, smooth hair, and without any trace of African origin. Exposure to a tropical sun had deeply embrowned her little cheeks; but enough of bloom still remained, as, when coupled with other characteristics, left no doubt on the minds of the captain and his mate that the child, however it had come into its present situation, was of European parentage. His curiosity greatly excited by this extraordinary circumstance, Mr Clydesdale now endeavoured to obtain some account of the child from the natives; but he could make little or nothing of the attempted conference on this subject. From what, however, he did gather, he came to the conclusion--a very accurate one, as the reader may guess--that a shipwreck had taken place on the coast, and that the child had been saved by the natives. Believing this to be the case, Captain Clydesdale now became anxious to know whether any others had escaped; but could not make himself understood. At length one of the savages, of more apt comprehension than the others, seemed to have obtained a glimmering of the import of the captain's queries, and fell upon an ingenious mode of replying to them. Grasping Mr Clydesdale by the arm, he conducted him to a small pool of water that was hard by. He then took a piece of bark that was lying on the ground, placed about a dozen small pebbles on it, and launched it into the pool. Then stooping down, he edged it over, till the stones slid, one after the other, into the water, until one only remained. Allowing the piece of bark now to right itself, and to float on the water, he pointed to the single stone it carried, and then to the child; thus intimating, as Mr Clydesdale understood it, and as it was evidently meant to signify, that all had perished excepting the little girl. While this primitive mode of communication was going on, the man who had brought the child to Captain Clydesdale had returned to his wigwam, and now reappeared, carrying several articles in his hand, which he held up to the former. Mr Clydesdale took them in his hand, and found them to consist of fragments of a child's dress, made, as he thought, after the fashion of those in use in Scotland. On the corner of what appeared to be the remains of a little shift, he discovered the initials, J. E. But the most interesting relic produced on this occasion, was a small locket, containing some rich black hair on one side, and on the other the miniature of a young man in a military uniform, with the same initials, J. E., engraven on the rim. This locket, the man who brought it gave Captain Clydesdale to understand, had been found hanging around the neck of the child when first discovered. Satisfied now, beyond all doubt, of the child's European descent, Mr Clydesdale approached her, took her kindly by the hand, and, hoping to make something of her own testimony, began to put some questions to her; but, to his great disappointment, found that she did not understand him, although he spoke to her both in French and English. The little girl, in truth, he soon discovered, neither understood nor spoke any language but that of the tribe in whose hands she was. It appeared, however, sufficiently clear to Captain Clydesdale, that a shipwreck had taken place on the coast, and that at no very great distance of time, and that the child before him had been on board of the unfortunate vessel. Various circumstances, too, led him to the belief that the ship had been a British one; and in this opinion he was joined by the mate. The result of the Captain's reflections on these points, was a determination to take the child to Scotland with him, if he could prevail upon her present possessors to part with her, and to take his chance of making some discovery regarding her on his return home. Having come to this resolution, he hastened to make known to the natives his wish to have the little girl; and was well pleased to perceive that the proposal, which they seemed at once to comprehend, was not received with any surprise, far less indignation. Encouraged by this reception of his overture, Captain Clydesdale now addressed himself particularly to the man who appeared to be the guardian, or, perhaps, proprietor of the child, and, unbuckling his cutlass from his side, presented it to him--making him, at the same time, to understand that he offered it as the price of the little girl. The man demurred. Captain Clydesdale pulled a clasp-knife out of his pocket, and made signs that he would give that also, provided the locket and fragment of shift, with the initials on it, were given along with the child. This addition to the first offer had the desired effect. The cutlass and knife were accepted, the locket and shift given in exchange, and the little hand of the girl placed in Captain Clydesdale's, to signify that she was now his property. After some farther interchange of civilities with the natives, the captain, his mate, and the little Julia Elderslie--for, we presume, the reader has been all along perfectly aware that the child in question was no other than that unfortunate little personage--proceeded on their way towards the place where the watering party had been left. This spot they reached in safety, after about an hour's walking, and found the men waiting their return--the casks having been already all filled and shipped. In half an hour after, the boat was alongside the _Dolphin_, and little Julia was handed upon deck; and, in less than another hour, the ship was under weigh, and prosecuting her voyage to the Cape, where she ultimately arrived in safety. During this time, Captain Clydesdale had discovered in his Ponakonta--the name given to little Julia by the Africans, and by which he delighted to call her--a disposition so docile and affectionate, and a manner so gentle and unobtrusive, that he already loved her with all the tenderness of a parent, and had secretly resolved that he would adopt her as his own, and as such bring her up and educate her, if no one possessed of a better right to discharge this duty to her should ever appear. In about six months after the occurrence of the events just related, the good ship _Dolphin_ arrived safely at the harbour of Ayr, all well; and the little demi-savage, Ponakonta, in high spirits, and already beginning to jabber very passable English--an acquisition which still more endeared her to her kind-hearted protector, who took great delight in listening to her prattle, and in questioning her regarding her life amongst the Africans--of which she was now able to give a tolerably intelligible account. She had, however, no recollection whatever of the shipwreck, nor of any incident connected with it. Some dreamy reminiscences, indeed, she had of her mother; but, as might have been expected, considering how very young she was when that catastrophe happened which had deprived her of her parent, they were too vague and indefinite to be of the slightest avail towards throwing any light on her parentage. On arriving at Ayr, Captain Clydesdale's first step, with regard to his little charge, was to avail himself of every means he could think of to make her singular history, with all its particulars, publicly known, in the hope that it might bring some one forward who stood in some relationship to her. The worthy man, however, took this step merely as one that was right and proper in the case, and not, by any means, from any desire to get rid of his little protegée. On the contrary, if truth be told, he would have been sadly disappointed had any one appeared to claim her. Nothing of this kind occurring, after a lapse of several weeks, Captain Clydesdale--who, although pretty far advanced in years, was unmarried, and had no domestic establishment of his own, being almost constantly at sea--placed little Julia under the charge of some female relatives, with instructions to give her every sort of education befitting her years; for all of which--boarding, clothing, and tuition--he came under an obligation to pay quarterly--giving a handsome sum, in the meantime, to account. Having thus disposed of his protegée, and satisfied that he had placed her in good hands, which was indeed the case, Captain Clydesdale went again to sea--his destination, on this occasion, being South America. The worthy man, however, did not go away before having a parting interview with his little Ponakonta, whom he kissed a thousand times, nor before he had entreated for her every kindness and attention, during his absence, at the hands of those whom he had now constituted her guardians. It was upwards of two years before Captain Clydesdale returned from this voyage; for it included several trading trips between foreign ports; and thus was his absence prolonged. Great was the good man's delight with the improvement which he found had taken place on his little charge since his departure. She now spoke English fluently; had made rapid progress in her education; and gave promise of being more than ordinarily beautiful. Captain Clydesdale had the farther satisfaction of learning that she was a universal favourite--her gentle manners and affectionate disposition having endeared her to all. On first casting eyes on her protector, after his return from South America, little Julia at once recognised him, flew towards him, flung her arms about his neck, and wept for joy--calling him, in muttered sounds, her father, her dear father. Deeply affected by the warmth of the grateful child's regard, Captain Clydesdale, with streaming eyes, took her up in his arms, hugged her to his bosom, and kissed her with all the fervour of parental love. Soon after, Captain Clydesdale again went to sea; and, by and by, again returned. Voyage after voyage followed, of various lengths; and, after the termination of each, the worthy man found his interesting protegée still advancing in the way of improvement, and still strengthening her hold on the affections of those around her. Time thus passed on, until a period of nine years had slipped away; and when it had, Julia Elderslie--who now bore, and had all along, since her arrival in Scotland, borne, the name of Maria Clydesdale--was a blooming and highly accomplished girl of sixteen. It was about this period that Captain Clydesdale began to think of retiring from the sea, and of settling at home for the remainder of his life. He was now upwards of sixty years of age, and found himself fast getting incompetent to the arduous duties of his profession. Fortunately, he was in a condition, as regarded circumstances, to enable him to effect the retirement he meditated. He was by no means rich; but, having never married, he had accumulated sufficient to live upon, for the few remaining years that might be vouchsafed him. Part of Captain Clydesdale's little plan, on this occasion, was to rent or purchase a small house in the neighbourhood of the village of Fernlee, his native place, in the west of Scotland; to furnish it, and to take his adopted daughter to live with him as his housekeeper. All this was accordingly done; a house, a very pretty little cottage, with garden behind, and flower-plot in front, was taken, furnished, and occupied by Mr Clydesdale and his protegée. Here, for two years, they enjoyed all the happiness of which their position and circumstances were capable--and it was a happiness of a very enviable kind. No daughter, however deep her love, could have conducted herself towards her parent with more tenderness, or with more anxious solicitude for his ease and comfort, than did Maria Clydesdale towards her protector. Nor could any parent more sensibly feel, or more gratefully mark the affectionate attentions of a child, than did Captain Clydesdale those of his Maria. He doated on her, and to such a degree, that he never felt happy when she was out of his sight. More than satisfied with her lot, Maria sought no other scenes of enjoyment than those of her humble home; and coveted no other happiness than what she found in contributing to that of her benefactor. Thus happily, then, flew two delightful years over the old man and his adopted child; and, wrapped up in their felicity, they dreamt not of reverses. But reverses came; Misfortune found her way even into their lonely retirement. Within one week, Captain Clydesdale received intelligence of the total loss of two vessels of which he was the principal owner, and in which nearly all that he was worth was invested. The blow was a severe and unexpected one, and affected the old man deeply. Not on his own account, as he told his Maria, with a tear standing in his eye, but on hers. "I had hoped," he said, "to leave you in independence--an humble one indeed, but more than sufficient to place you far beyond the reach of want. But now----" And the old man wrung his hands in exquisite agony of grief. Infinitely more distressed by the sight of her benefactor's unhappiness than by the misfortune which occasioned it, Maria flung her arms about his neck, and said everything she could think of to assuage his grief and to reconcile him to what had happened. Amongst other things, she told him that the accomplishments which his generosity had put her in possession were more than sufficient to secure her an independence, or, at least, the means of living comfortably; and that she would immediately make them available for their common support. "There are a number of wealthy families around us, my dear father," she said, "from which I have no doubt of obtaining ample employment. I can teach music, drawing, French, sewing, etc.; and will instantly make application to the various quarters where I am likely to succeed in turning them to account. Besides, father," she continued, "it is probable that we shall soon have some great family in Park House; and, in such case, I might calculate on obtaining some employment there--perhaps enough of itself to occupy all my time." To all this the old man made no reply--he could make none. He merely took the amiable girl in his arms, embraced her, and bade God bless her. Although the mention by Miss Clydesdale of the particular residence above named appears a merely incidental circumstance, and one, seemingly, of no great importance, it is yet one, as the sequel will shew, so connected with our story, that a particular or two regarding it may not be deemed superfluous. Park House was a large, a magnificent mansion, with a splendid estate attached, both of which were, at this moment, in the market. The house was within a quarter of a mile of Captain Clydesdale's cottage, and the reference in the advertisements to those who wished to see the house and grounds, was made to the captain, who, with his usual readiness to oblige, had undertaken this duty--a duty which he had already discharged towards several visitors--none of whom, however, had become purchasers. It was about a week after the period last referred to--namely, that marked by the circumstance of Mr Clydesdale's losses--that a gentleman's carriage drove up to the little gate which conducted to that worthy man's residence. From this carriage descended a tall military-looking man, of apparently about sixty years of age, who immediately advanced towards the house. Captain Clydesdale, who saw him approaching, hastened out to meet him. The latter, on seeing the captain, bowed politely, and said-- "Captain Clydesdale, I presume, sir?" "The same, at your service, sir," replied the honest seaman. "You are referred, to, sir, I think, as the person to whom those wishing to see Park House and grounds should apply." "I am," replied Mr Clydesdale; "and will be happy to shew them to you, sir." "Thank you," said the visitor. "It is precisely for that purpose I have taken the liberty of calling on you. I have some idea of purchasing the estate, if I find it to answer my expectations." "Will you have the goodness to step into the house, sir, for a few moments, and I will then be at your service?" said Captain Clydesdale. The gentleman bowed acquiescence, and, conducted by the former, walked into the house, and was ushered into a little front parlour, in which Miss Clydesdale was at the moment engaged in sewing. On the entrance of the visitor, she rose, in some confusion, and was about to retire, when the latter, entreating that he might not be the cause of driving her away, she resumed her seat and her work. Having also seated himself, the stranger now made some remarks of an ordinary character, by way of filling up the interval occasioned by the absence of Captain Clydesdale. Many words, however, had he not spoken, nor long had he looked on the fair countenance of his companion, when he seemed struck by something in her appearance which appeared at once to interest and perplex him. From the moment that this feeling took possession of the stranger, he spoke no more, but continued gazing earnestly at the downcast countenance of Maria Clydesdale; who, conscious of, and abashed by the gaze, kept her face close over the work in which she was engaged. From this awkward situation, however, she was quickly relieved by the entrance of Captain Clydesdale, who came to say that he was now ready to accompany his visitor to Park House. The latter rose, wished Miss Clydesdale a good morning; accompanying the expressions, however, with another of those looks of interest and perplexity with which he had been from time to time contemplating her for the last five or ten minutes, and followed the captain out of the apartment. "That interesting and very beautiful young lady whom I saw at your house is your daughter, sir, I presume?" said the stranger to Captain Clydesdale, as they proceeded together towards Park House. "Yes, sir, she is: that is, I may _say_ she is; for I have brought her up since she was a child; and she has never, at least, not since she was five or six years of age, had any other protector than myself. She never knew her parents." "Ah! a foundling," said the gentleman. "Yes, but under rather extraordinary circumstances. I found her amongst the savages of the coast of Guinea." "On the coast of Guinea!" exclaimed the stranger, in much amazement. "Very extraordinary, indeed. What are the circumstances, if I may inquire?" Captain Clydesdale related them as they are already before the reader; not omitting to mention the fragment of shift, with the initials on it, and the locket with hair and miniature, which he still carefully kept. On Captain Clydesdale concluding, the stranger suddenly stopped short, and, looking at the former with a countenance pale with emotion, said--"Good God, sir, what is this? I am bewildered, confounded. I know not what to think. It is possible. Yet it cannot be. My name, sir, is Elderslie, General Elderslie. I have just returned from the East Indies, where I have been for the last seventeen years. Shortly after my going out, my wife and child, a daughter, embarked on board the _Isabella_ from Greenock, to join me at Calcutta. The ship never reached her destination; she was never more heard of; but there was a report that she was seen, if not bespoken, off the Gold Coast; and from there being no trace of her afterwards, it is more than probable that she was wrecked on these shores; and, O God! it is probable also, although I dare not allow myself to believe it, that this girl is--is my child! Let us return, let us return instantly," he added, with increasing agitation, and now grasping Captain Clydesdale by the arm, "that I may see this locket you speak of. I gave such a trinket to my beloved, my unfortunate wife. The initials you mention correspond exactly. My child's name was Julia Elderslie; my own Christian name is James; and the same initials are thus also on the rim of the locket." "It is precisely so!" said Captain Clydesdale, with a degree of surprise and emotion not less intense than those of the general's. "There _are_ the initials of J. E. also on the locket; and now that my attention is called to the circumstance, there is a strong resemblance between the miniature it encloses, and the person now before me." "Let us hasten to the house, for God's sake! captain," said the general, with breathless eagerness, "and have this matter cleared up, if possible." They returned to the house. Captain Clydesdale put the locket and the fragment of the little shift, which bore the initials J. E., into the hands of the general. He glanced at the latter, examined the former for an instant with trembling hands, staggered backwards a pace or two, and sank into a chair. It was the identical locket which, some twenty years before, he had given to his wife. The miniature it contained, introduced into the trinket at a subsequent period, was his own likeness. "Bring me my child, Captain Clydesdale," said the general, on recovering his composure; "for I can no longer doubt that your adopted daughter is, indeed, my Julia." Captain Clydesdale left the apartment, and in a moment returned leading in Julia Elderslie, who had hitherto been kept in ignorance of what was passing. On her entrance the general rushed towards her, took her by the left hand, gently pushed the sleeve of her gown a little way up the wrist, saw that the latter exhibited a small brown mole, and exclaiming--"The proof is complete; you are--you are my daughter, the image of your darling but ill-fated mother," took her in his arms in a transport of joy. The feelings of Julia Elderslie, on this extraordinary occasion, we need not describe, they will readily be conceived. Neither need we detain the reader with any further detail; seeing that, with the incident just mentioned, the interest of our story terminates. It will be enough now, then, to say, that General Elderslie, who had amassed a princely fortune, bought the estate and mansion of Park House. That he took every opportunity, and adopted every means he could think of, of shewing his gratitude to Captain Clydesdale, for the generous part he had acted towards his daughter. That this daughter ultimately inherited his entire fortune; the general having never married a second time; and that she finally married into a family of high rank and extensive influence in the west of Scotland. THE ASSASSIN. At a late hour of an evening in the beginning of the year 1569, mine host of the Stag and Hounds--the principal hostelry of Linlithgow at the period referred to--was suddenly called from his liquor--the which liquor he was at the moment enjoying with a few select friends who were assembled in the public room of the house--to receive a traveller who had just ridden up to the door. Much as Andrew Nimmo--for such was the name of mine host--much, we say, as Andrew loved custom, it was not without reluctance that he rose to leave his party to attend the duties of his calling on the present occasion. He would rather he had not been disturbed; for he was in the middle of an exceedingly interesting story, when the summons reached him, and was very unwilling to leave it unfinished. But business must be attended to; its demands are imperative; and no man, after all, could be more sensible of this than mine host of the Stag and Hounds. So, however reluctant, from his seat he rose, and, telling his friends he would rejoin them presently, hastened out of the apartment. On reaching the door, Andrew found the traveller had dismounted. He was standing by the head of his horse--a powerful black charger--and seemingly waiting for some one to relieve him of the animal. This duty Andrew now performed; he took hold of the bridle, after a word or two of welcome to his guest, and asked whether he should put up the horse and supper him? "What else have I come here for?" replied the stranger, gruffly. "Surely put him up; but I must see myself to his being properly suppered and tended. If we expect a horse to do his duty, we must do our duty by him. So lead the way, friend!" Damped by the uncourteous manner of the traveller, Andrew made no further reply than a muttered acquiescence in the justice of the remark just made, but instantly led the horse away towards the stable; calling out, as he went, on John Ramsay, the ostler, to come out with the buet--_i.e._ lantern; for it was pitch dark, and a light, of course, indispensable. With the scrutinizing habits of his calling, mine host of the Stag and Hounds had been secretly but anxiously endeavouring to make out his customer; to arrive at some idea of his rank and profession, if he had any; but the darkness of the night had prevented him from noting more than that he was a man of tall stature, and, he thought, of a singularly stern aspect. When Ramsay had brought the light, however, mine host obtained farther and better opportunities of pursuing his study of the stranger; and, besides having his former remarks confirmed, now discovered that he had the appearance of a person of some consideration, his dress being that of a gentleman. "Fine beast that, sir!" adventured mine host, after a silence of some time, during which the latter and his guest had been standing together overlooking the operation of John Ramsay as he fed and littered the animal, whose noble proportions had elicited the remark. "Poorfu' beast, sir," continued Mr Nimmo. "I think I hae never seen a better." "Not often, friend, I daresay," replied the stranger, who was standing erect, with folded arms, and carefully marking every proceeding of the ostler. "For a long run and a swift, he is the animal for a man to trust his life to." Mine host was startled a little by the turn given to this remark: it smelt somewhat, he thought, of the highway; or, at any rate, seemed to carry with it a somewhat suspicious sort of reference. He was, however, much too prudent a man to exhibit any indication of an opinion so injurious to the character of his guest, and, therefore, merely said laughingly-- "That he weel believed that if a man war in sic jeopardy as required his trusting to horse legs for his life, he wad be safe aneuch on sic a beast as that, especially if he got onything o' a reasonable start." "Yes, give him ten minutes of a start, and there's not a witch that ever rode over North Berwick Law on a broomstick that'll throw salt on his tail, let alone a horse and rider of flesh and blood!" replied the stranger, with a grim smile. "_I'll_ trust my life to him," he added, emphatically, "and have no fears for the result." The tendence on the much prized animal which was the subject of these remarks having now been completed, mine host and his guest left the stable, and proceeded to the house, which having entered, the former ushered the latter into the public room, being the best in the house, and the only one fit for the reception, as our worthy landlord deemed it, of a personage of the stranger's apparent quality. The latter at first shewed some reluctance to enter an apartment in which there was already so many people assembled; for it was still occupied by the company formerly alluded to; but, on being told by mine host that he should have a table to himself, in a distant part of the room, if he did not wish for society, he expressed himself reconciled to the arrangement, and, walking into the apartment, took his place at its upper end; then throwing himself down in a chair, having previously laid aside his hat, cloak, and sword, he commenced a vigilant but silent scrutiny of the party by which the table that occupied the centre of the apartment was surrounded. While he was thus employed, the landlord, who had gone for a moment about some household business, approached him to receive his orders regarding his night's entertainment. The result of the conference on this subject, was an order for supper, and for a measure of wine to be brought in, in the meantime, until the former should be prepared. The landlord bowed, and retired to execute his commissions. In a minute after, a pewter measure of claret, with a tall drinking glass, stood before the stranger. He filled up the latter from the former, drank it off, and again set himself to the task of scrutinizing the company before him--a task to which he now added that of listening to their conversation, which seemed to be of a nature to interest him much, if one might judge from the earnest intensity of his look, and the varying but strongly marked expression of countenance with which he listened to the various sentiments of the various speakers. The subject of the conversation was the Regent Murray--his proceedings, government, and character. "Aweel, folk may say what they like o' the Regent," said one of the speakers, "but I think he's managing matters very weel on the whole, and I wish we may never hae a waur in his place. He's no a man to be trifled wi'; and if he keeps a tight rein hand, he doesna o'erride the strength o' his steed. He's a strict, justice-loving man; that I'll say o' him." "Then ye say mair o' him than I wad, deacon," said another of the party. "His strictness I grant ye; but as to his justice, there was unco little o't, I think, in his treatment o' his sister: his conduct to that poor woman has been most unnatural, most savage, selfish, and unfeelin. That's my opinion o't, and it's the opinion o' mony a ane besides me." "Weel, weel; every are has his ain mind o' thae things, Mr Clinkscales," replied the first speaker; "but for my part, I'll ay ride the ford as I find it; that's my creed." "Has ony o' ye heard," here interposed another of the party, "o' that cruel case o' Hamilton's o' Bothwellhaugh? Ane o' the Queen's Hamilton's," added the querist. Some said they had, others that they had not. For the benefit of the latter, the speaker explained. He said that Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh was one of those who had been forfeited for the part he took at the battle of Langside. That the person to whom his property was given by the Regent, had turned Hamilton's wife out of her home, unclothed, and in a wild and stormy night; and that the poor woman had died in consequence of this cruel treatment. "An' what's Hamilton sayin to that?" inquired one of the party. "They say he's in an awfu takin about it," replied the first speaker, "an' threatenin vengeance, richt an' left; particularly against the Regent." "I think little wonder o't," said another of the party. "It's a shamefu business, and aneuch to mak ony man desperate." "But is't true?" here inquired another. The reply to this question came from a very unexpected quarter: it came from the stranger, who, starting fiercely to his feet, and stretching towards the company with a look and gesture of great excitement, exclaimed-- "Yes, gentlemen, true it is--true as God is in heaven--true in every particular. An eternal monument to the justice and clemency of the tyrant Murray. The wife of Bothwellhaugh was turned naked out of her own house in a cold and bitter night, and died of bodily suffering and a broken heart. She did--she did. But"--and the stranger ground his teeth and clenched his fist as he pronounced the word--"there will be a day of count and reckoning. The vengeance, the deadly vengeance of a ruined, deeply injured, and desperate man, will yet overtake the ruthless, remorseless tyrant." Having thus delivered himself, the stranger again retired to his former place, reseated himself, and relapsed into his former silence; although the deep and laboured respiration of recent excitement, which he could not subdue, might still be distinctly heard even from the farthest end of the apartment. It was some time after the stranger had retired to his place before the company felt disposed to resume their conversation. The incident which had just occurred, the energy with which the stranger had spoken, and the extreme excitement he had evinced, had had the effect of throwing them all into that silent and reflective mood which the sudden display of anything surprising or interesting is so apt to produce even in our merriest and most thoughtless moments. At length, however, the chill gradually wore off; the conversation was resumed, at first in an under tone, and by fits and starts; by and by it became more continuous; and, finally, began to flow with all its original volume and freedom. No more allusion, however, was made by any of the party to the case of Bothwellhaugh. This was a subject to which, after what had taken place, none seemed to care about returning. Neither did the stranger evince any desire to hold farther correspondence with the revellers; but, on the contrary, appeared anxious to avoid it; nay, one might almost have supposed that he regretted having obtruded himself upon them at all, and that he could have wished that what he had uttered in an unguarded moment had remained unsaid. Be this as it may, however, he sought no farther intercourse with the party, but having hastily despatched the supper which was placed before him, and finished his measure of wine, he glided unobserved out of the apartment, and, conducted by his host, retired to the sleeping chamber which had been appointed for him. On the following morning, the stranger, who was sojourning at the Stag and Hounds, went out to transact, as he told his landlord, some business in the town; saying, besides, that he would not probably return till evening. Strongly impressed by the manner and appearance of his guest, and not a little awed by his grim and fierce aspect, he of the Stag and Hounds could not help following him to the door, when he departed, and furtively looking after him as he stalked down the main street of the town; and much, as he looked at him, did he marvel what sort of business it could be he was going about. This, however, was a point on which the worthy man had no means of enlightening himself, and he was therefore obliged to be content with the privilege of muttering some expressions of the wonder he felt. In the meantime, the stranger had turned an angle of the street, and disappeared--at least from the view of the landlord of the Stag and Hounds. Not from ours; for we shall follow and keep sight of him, and endeavour to make out what he was so curious to know. Having passed about half-way down the main street of the town, the former suddenly halted before a large unoccupied house, with a balcony in front. It was a residence of the Archbishop of St Andrew's. Standing in front of this house, the stranger seemed to scan it with earnest scrutiny. He looked from window to window with the most cautious and deliberate vigilance, and appeared to be noting carefully their various heights and positions. While pursuing this inquiry, he might also have been frequently observed glancing, from time to time, on either side, as if to see that no one was marking the earnestness of his examination of the building. Having apparently completed his survey of the front of the house, the stranger passed round to the back part of the building, and proceeded to the gate of the garden, which lay behind, and through which only was the house accessible on that side. On reaching the gate, the stranger paused, looked cautiously around him for a few seconds, when, observing no one in sight, he hastily plunged his hand beneath his cloak, drew out a key, applied it to the lock, opened the gate, passed quickly in, and closed the door cautiously behind him. With hurried step the intruder now proceeded to the house, drew forth another key, inserted it into the lock of the main door, turned it round, applied his foot to the latter, pushed it open, and entered the building; having previously, as in the former instance, secured the door behind him. Ascending the stair in the inside of the house, the mysterious visitant now commenced a careful examination of the various apartments on the second floor; and at length adopting one--a small room, with one window to the front--made it the scene of his future operations. These were, the laying on the floor a straw mattress, which he dragged from another apartment, and hanging a piece of black cloth--which he also found in the lumber-room, from whence he had taken the mattress--against the wall of the apartment opposite the window. Having completed these preparations, the secret workman went up to the window, knelt down on the mattress, and levelling a stick, or staff, which he found in the apartment, as if it had been a musket, seemed to be trying where he might be best situated for firing at an object without. This experiment he tried repeatedly; shifting his position from place to place, until he appeared to have hit upon one that promised to suit his purpose. This ascertained, he rose from his knees; threw down the staff; glanced around the apartment, as if to see that all was right; descended the stair; came out of the house, locking the door after him; crossed the garden, and passed out at the gate, locking that also before he left, and with the same precaution that he had used at entering; that is, looking around him to see that no one marked his proceedings. The guest of the Stag and Hounds now returned to his inn, from which he had been absent about two hours. At the door he was met by mine host, who, touching his cap, asked if "his honour intended dining at his house, as it was now about one of the clock," the general dinner-hour of the period. Without noticing the inquiry of his landlord-- "Be there any armourers in this town of yours, friend?" he said, "where I could fit me with some weapons I want." "Yes, indeed, there be one, and a main good one he is," replied the other. "Tom Wilson, I warrant me, will fit your honour with any weapon you can desire, from a pistolet to a culverin; from a two-handed sword of six feet long, to a dagger like a bodkin. And as for armour, you may have anything, everything from head-piece to leg-splent; all of the best material, and first-rate workmanship." "Where is this man Wilson's shop?" inquired the stranger. "See you, sir," replied the other; "see you yonder projecting corner, beyond the palace entrance?" "I do." "Well, sir, three doors beyond that, you will find Wilson's shop; and, if your honour chooses, you may use my name with him, and he will not serve you the worse, or the less reasonably, I warrant me. It is always a recommendation to Tom to be a guest at the Stag and Hounds." Without saying whether or not he would avail himself of the privilege offered him of using his name, the mysterious stranger hastened away in the direction pointed out to him, and, in half a minute after, he was in the workshop of Wilson the armourer. "Your pleasure, sir," said that person, advancing towards his customer from an inner apartment. "Have you a good store of fire-arms, friend?" inquired the latter. "Pretty fair, sir; pretty fair," replied the armourer "What description may you want?" "Why, I want a carbine, friend--something of a sure piece--that will carry its ball well to the mark. None of your bungling articles, that first hang fire, and then throw their shot in every direction but the right one. I would have a piece of good and certain execution." "Here, then, sir, here is your commodity," said the armourer, disengaging a short and heavy gun from an arms'-rack that occupied one side of the shop. "Here is a piece that I can recommend. It will be the fault of the hand or the eye when this barker misses its mark, I warrant ye. I'd take in hand myself to smash an egg with it, with single ball, at fifty yards distance. I have done it before now with a worse gun." "I will not require any such feat from the piece as that, friend," said Wilson's customer, drily; and having taken the gun in his hand, he began to examine the lock, and to see that the piece was otherwise in serviceable condition. Being satisfied that it was, he demanded the price. It was named. The money was tendered, and accepted, and the stranger departed with his purchase; having, however, previously received from the armourer, in lieu of luck's-penny, although he offered to pay for them, half a dozen balls, and a few charges of powder, to put the capability of the gun to immediate trial. This, however, its new proprietor did not think necessary; but, instead, returned to the archbishop's house with it; and, after loading and priming it, placed it in a corner of the apartment, which we have described him as having put into so strange a state of preparation. Leaving the house with the same cautious and stealthy step as before, the stranger again returned to his inn; but it was now to leave it no more for the night. "What news stirring, friend?" said he to the landlord. "Naething, sir," replied he, as he laid the cloth for his dinner; "only that the Regent will pass through the town to-morrow. I hear he'll be this way about twelve o'clock. The magistrates, I understand, hae gotten notice to that effect." "So," replied the stranger. "Then we shall have a sight." "A brave sight, sir, for he is to be accompanied by a gallant cavalcade, and the trades of the town are to turn out with banners and music to do him honour. It will be a stirring day, sir, and I trust a good one for my poor house here; for such doings make people as thirsty as so many dry sponges." To these remarks the guest made no reply, but proceeded with his dinner; the materials for which having, in the meantime, been brought in, and placed on the table by another attendant. On the following morning, the little town of Linlithgow exhibited a scene of unusual bustle. Hosts of idlers were seen gathered here and there, along the whole line of the main street; and persons carrying trades' banners--as yet, however, carefully rolled up--might be seen hurrying in all directions to the various mustering-places of their crafts. An occasional discharge of a culverin too; and, as the morning advanced, a merry peal of bells heightened the promise of some impending event of unusual occurrence. By and by, these symptoms of public rejoicing became more and more marked: the groups of idlers increased; the banners were unfurled; the firing of the culverins became more frequent; and the bells either really did ring, or appeared to ring more furiously. It was when matters thus bespoke the near approach of a crisis--which crisis, we may as well say at once, was the advent of the Regent--that the mysterious lodger at the Stag and Hounds ordered his horse to be brought to the door. The horse was brought; the stranger settled his bill; and, saying to his landlord that he would witness the sight from horseback more advantageously than on foot, mounted, and rode off in the direction of the approaching cavalcade. In this direction, however, he did not ride far; for, on gaining the eastern extremity of the town, he suddenly wheeled round, and rode back in rear of the line of street, until he reached the gate of the garden behind the mansion of the Archbishop of St Andrew's, in which the mysterious preparation before described had been made. Having arrived at the gate, he dismounted, opened it, led in his horse, and fastened him to a tree close by. This done, he removed the lintel, or cross-bar, over the gate. The latter, contrary to his practice on former occasions, he now left wide open, and proceeded towards the house, into which he disappeared. In less than a quarter of an hour after, the Regent had entered the town. He was on horseback, surrounded by a number of friends, also mounted, and followed by a numerous party of armed retainers. As the cavalcade penetrated into the town, the crowd, which the occasion had assembled, gradually became more and more dense, and the progress of the Regent and his party consequently more slow; until, at length, they were so packed in the narrow street, with the human wedges that were forcing themselves around them, that it was with great difficulty they could make any forward progress at all. Becoming impatient with the delay thus occasioned, although carefully concealing this impatience, the Regent, who was now directly opposite the house of the Archbishop of St Andrew's, kept waving his hand to the crowd, as if entreating them not to press so closely, that he might pass on with more speed. The crowd endeavoured to comply with the wishes of the Regent, but their efforts only added to the confusion, without mending the matter in other respects. It was at this moment that all eyes were suddenly directed towards the house of the Archbishop of St Andrew's, in consequence of a shot being fired from one of the windows. When these eyes looked an instant after again towards the Regent, he was not to be seen; he had fallen from his horse, mortally wounded: a ball had passed through his body. It was Hamilton of Bothwellhaugh who had fired the fatal shot. The friends and retainers of the Regent, seconded by the town's people, flew to the house of the archbishop, and endeavoured to force the door, in order to get at the murderer but it had been barricaded by the wily assassin, and resisted their efforts long enough to allow of his escaping from the house, mounting his horse, and darting through the garden gate at the top of his utmost speed. He was pursued; but, thanks to his good steed, pursued in vain, and subsequently escaped to France; having done a deed which the moralist must condemn, but which cannot be looked upon as altogether without palliation. THE PRISONER OF WAR. I had been preserved, through divine mercy, from one of the most lingering and fearful deaths. I was rescued, I scarce knew how, after the grim king of terror held me in his embrace, and all hope had fled. As consciousness returned, my heart thrilled at the recollection of the miseries I had endured while floating, a helpless being, on the bosom of the ocean.[3] I shuddered to think, while I lay feeble as an infant in the cabin of the vessel which was bearing me to my home, and whose humane crew had been the means of my deliverance, that I was still at the mercy of the winds and waves; but kind nursing, aided by youth and a good constitution, quickly brought strength; and I was enabled, after a few days, to come upon deck. On my first attempt, when my head rose above the deck as I ascended the companion-ladder, and my eyes fell upon the boundless waste of waters, a chill of horror shot through my frame. Like a lone traveller who had suddenly met a lion in his path, I stood paralysed; every nerve and muscle refused to act. I must have fallen back into the cabin, had not my hand instinctively clung to their hold for a few seconds. I could not withdraw my fixed gaze, while all I had suffered rushed upon me like a hideous dream. Slowly my faculties returned, when I ascended the deck, where I sat for a few hours. Each day after this brought additional strength; so that, before we made soundings, I was as strong and cheerful as I had ever been in my life. The weather was squally, and I assisted the crew as much as was in my power; and, when not so occupied, lay listlessly looking over the ship's bows that bravely dashed aside the waves that rolled between me and the home I now longed to reach, or walked the deck musing upon the joy my return would impart to my over-indulgent parents. As we neared the shores of Scotland, a circumstance occurred that both greatly surprised and alarmed me. This was a sudden change in the manners and temper of the crew. Care and anxiety took the place of their wonted cheerfulness; the joyous laugh, or snatch of song, no longer broke the monotonous hissing of the waves that rippled along the sides of the vessel, or the dull whistle of the wind through the rigging. At the first appearance of every sail that hove in sight, I could perceive every eye turned to it with a look of alarm until she was made out. Fearful of giving offence to my benefactors, I made no remark on the subject for some time, although I felt disappointed at what I saw--attributing it to cowardice; yet they were all stout, young, resolute-looking fellows at other times. This scene of alarm, and appearance of a wish to skulk below or conceal themselves, had occurred twice in the course of the forenoon. After the last ship we encountered was made out to be a merchant-brig, I could no longer refrain from delivering my sentiments of the greater number of the crew, but addressing the mate, said-- "Mr Ross, it is fortunate for us that these strange sails have turned out to be British merchantmen. Had they proved to be French privateers, we should have made but a poor stand, I fear, notwithstanding our eight carronades." "What makes you think so?" said he. "Why, there is not a vessel that heaves in sight," said I, "but the men look as if they wished themselves anywhere but where they are." "Avast there, my man!" said he. "What! do you mean to say that they would not stand by their guns while there was a chance? Yes, they would, and long after; and, if you think otherwise, all I say is, you form opinions and talk of what you know nothing about." Casting an angry look at me--the only one he ever gave--he squirted his quid over the bulwarks, and was walking away, when I stopped him. "If I have given you offence, Mr Ross, nothing was farther from my intention. I cannot but observe the alarm caused by every sail that heaves in sight until she is made out to be a friend. Now, the little time I was at sea, before I fell overboard and was saved by you, every sail that hove in sight made the hearts of all on board leap for joy." "Ho! ho!" and he laughed aloud. "Are you on that tack, my messmate? You are quite out in your reckoning, and becalmed in a fog; but I shall soon blow it away. There is not a man on board with whom I would not go into action with the fullest reliance upon his courage; and, were we to meet a French privateer, you would quickly see such a change as would satisfy you that my confidence is not misplaced. Every face, that the moment before expressed anxiety and alarm, would brighten up with joy; every man would stand to his gun as cheerfully as to the helm. It is their liberty the poor fellows are afraid of being deprived of by our own men-of-war--the liberty to toil for their parents or wives where they can get better wages than the Government allows. Danger, in any form, they meet undaunted when duty calls; it is for their countrymen they quail. Were the smallest sloop-of-war in the British navy to heave in sight, and a boat put off from her with a boy of a midshipman and eight or ten men, every one on board, who had not a protection, would shake in his shoes at her approach; yet, against an enemy, every man would stand to his gun until his ship was blown out of the water." A new and painful feeling came over me as he spoke. I was myself an entered seaman, and, of course, liable to impressment; but the idea of being taken had never occurred to me. I wondered that it had not, after the scenes I had witnessed in the frigate; but my longing for home had entirely engrossed my mind. I was, indeed, home-sick, and weary of the sea. From this moment, no one on board felt more alarm than I did at the sight of a top-royal rising out of the distant waters. My feelings were near akin to those of a felon in concealment. At length we reached the Moray Firth, in the evening, and arrangements were made for as many of the crew as could be spared to be landed at Cromarty, where the vessel was to put in. This was to avoid the danger of impressment in the Firth of Forth. I gave the captain an order upon my father for my passage, and the expense he had been at on my account, as I was to leave, with the others in the boat, as soon as we were off the town, which we hoped to reach in the morning. My anxiety was so great that I had kept the deck since nightfall. It was intensely dark; nothing broke the gloom but the flashes of light that gleamed for a moment upon the waves, as they rippled along the sides of the vessel, and the dull rays of the binnacle-lamp before the man at the helm. Bell after bell was struck, still I stood at the bows, leaning upon the bowsprit, unmindful of the chill wind from under the foretopsail, anxiously watching for the first tints of dawn. Tediously as the night wore on, I thought, when morning dawned, it had fled far too fast. The dark clouds began at length to melt away in the east, and the distant mountain-tops to rise like grey clouds above the darkness that still hid the shores from our view. Gradually the whole face of nature began to emerge from the morning mists. We were just off the Sutors of Cromarty. My heart leapt for joy at the near prospect of being once more on firm ground, and so near home. Several of the crew had now joined me, and all eyes were directed to the entrance of the bay. Only a few minutes had elapsed in this pleasing hope--for it was still dullish on the horizon--when the report of a gun from seaward of us, so near that I thought it was alongside, made us start and look round. Each of us seemed as if we had been turned into stone by the alarming sound; while, so sudden was the revulsion of feeling, in my own case, that my heart almost ceased to beat. There, not half-a-league to windward of us, lay a frigate, with her sails shaking in the wind, and a boat, well-manned, with an officer in her stern, putting off from her. So completely were we overcome by the sudden appearance of this dreaded object, which seemed to emerge from darkness, as the sun's first rays fell upon and whitened her sails, that we stood incapable of thought or action. The well-manned barge was carried, by the faint breeze and impetus of her oars, almost as swift as a gull on the wing. The report of the gun brought the captain and mate upon deck before we had recovered from our stupor. "Bear a hand, men!" cried Ross, as he sprung upon deck. "Man the tacklefalls! clear the boat! and give them a run for it at least." Roused by his voice, every nerve was strained, the boat lowered, and we in her, ready to push off, when the captain called over the side-- "My lads, do as you think for the best; but it is of no use to try. The frigate's boat will be under our stern ere you can gain way." I stood in the act of pushing off, when the object we were going to strain every nerve to avoid swept round the stern, and grappled us. We hopelessly threw our oars upon the thwarts, and prepared to reascend the vessel, to settle with the captain and bring away our chests. As for myself, I had no call to leave the boat. All I possessed in the world was upon my person, and half-a-guinea given me by the captain to carry me home. The other three were getting their bags and chests ready to lower into the boat, having got their wages from the captain, when he called me to come on deck. I obeyed; when he said to the midshipman in command of the boat-- "Sir, to prevent any unpleasant consequences arising to this poor fellow, Elder, here, I shall let you know how he came on board of us. He belonged to the _Latona_, and is no deserter, I assure you. Ross, bring here our log-book, and satisfy the gentleman if he wishes." Ross obeyed; and having examined it, the captain told the wretched state in which I had been picked up, and the way in which I had accounted to him for the accident. During the recital, he looked hard at me, no muscle of his face indicating either pity or surprise. When the captain ceased to speak, he only said-- "Well, my lad, you have for once had a narrow escape--you must hold better on in future. I shall report to the captain, and get the D from before your name. Tumble into the boat, my lads. Good day, captain." And, in a few minutes afterwards, I was on board the _Edgar_, seventy-four, and standing westwards for the Firth of Forth. It was strange the change that came over the impressed men, when there was no longer any hope of escape. Like true seamen, they bent to the circumstance they could not remedy, and were, as soon as they got on board, as much at home, and more cheerful, than they had been for many days before. As for myself, I took it much to heart, and was very melancholy when we entered the Firth and stood up to the roadstead. I could hardly restrain my feelings when the city of Edinburgh came in sight, and when I thought of the short distance in miles that divided me from my parents and home--that home I had left so foolishly in the hopes of being back at the conclusion of the war, which I now found was raging more furiously, if possible, than when I left, and with much less prospect of its termination. I would stand for hours gazing upon the White Craig, the eastern extremity of the Pentland Hills, and wish I was upon it, until my eyes were suffused with tears. I begged hard for the first lieutenant to give me leave to go on shore, if only for eight-and-forty hours, to visit my parents; but he refused my request, fearful of my not returning. Several of the hands on board, natives of Edinburgh, who had been long in the _Edgar_, obtained leave. With one of them I sent a letter to my father, who came the following day. It was a meeting of sorrow, not unmixed with upbraidings, on his part, for what I had done; but we parted with regret--he to do what he could to obtain my discharge, I under promise not to act so precipitately in future, if I was once more a free agent. What steps were taken I know not, for next morning we received orders to sail for the Nore. We had many faces on board that looked as long as my own, for there were still several who had obtained promise of leave whose turn had not come round. Wallace, one of the mess I was in, had not been in his native city for ten years, having been all that time voluntarily on board of men-of-war, either at home or on foreign stations. He was to have had two days' leave the very morning we sailed, and had doomed ten gold guineas, which he had long kept for such purpose, to be expended in a blow-out in Edinburgh, among his relations and friends. When the boatswain piped to weigh anchor, Wallace, who was captain of the foretop, ran to his berth, opened his chest, took out his long-hoarded store, and came on deck with it in his hand. His looks bespoke rage and disappointment, bordering upon insanity. He gazed upon the distant city that shone upon the gently swelling hills glancing back the sun's rays, then at the purse of gold in his hand. He seemed incapable of speech. A bitter smile curled his lip, bespeaking the most intense scorn. I looked on, wondering what he meant to do. It was but the scene of a minute. Suddenly raising his hand, he threw the purse and gold over the side with all his force, exclaiming:--"Go, vile trash! what use have I for you now? The first action may lay me low!" Then, as if relieved from some oppressive load, he mounted the rattlings to his duty with a smile of satisfaction; and we bore away for the Nore, where I was draughted on board the _Repulse_, sixty-four, and departed upon a cruise along the coast of Brittany; at times lying off Brest harbour, and at others, standing along the coast in search of the enemy. Employed in this monotonous duty, month followed month, and year after year passed away. It was now the year 1799. The century was drawing to a close; but the interminable war seemed only commencing. I had become almost callous to my fate. We were standing along, under a steady breeze, as close in shore as we could with safety to the vessel. It was the dog-watch; and I had only been a short time turned in when our good ship struck upon some sunken rocks with such force that I thought she had gone to pieces. Every one in a moment turned out. The night was as dark as pitch, and the sea breaking over us, while we lay hard and fast. Everything was done to lighten her in vain. She was making water very fast, in spite of all our exertions at the pumps. Still there was not the smallest confusion on board. Our discipline was as strict, and our officers as promptly obeyed, as they were before our accident. As the tide rose, the wind shifted, and blew a gale right upon the shore, causing the ship to beat violently. Day at length dawned, and there, not one hundred fathoms from our deck, lay a rocky and desolate-looking shore. We had been forced over a reef of sunken rocks that were not in our charts; and, during the darkness, as was supposed, had been carried in-shore by some current; but, however it had happened, there we were, in a serious scrape, the sea breaking over our decks, and our hold full of water. Soon after daybreak we could perceive the peasantry crowding down to the water's edge. Everything had been done that skill and resolution could accomplish, to save the vessel, but in vain. We had nothing before our eyes but instant death. The sea ran so high that no boat could live for a moment in the broken water between us and the shore. The French peasantry were making no effort for our safety, but running about and looking on our deplorable situation, with apparently no other feeling than that of curiosity. At this time, James Paterson, an Edinburgh lad, volunteered to make the attempt to swim to the shore with a log-line, and fearlessly let himself over the side. It was, to all appearance, a hopeless attempt; for every one felt assured that he would be beat to death against the rocks that lined the beach, on which the waves were beating with great fury. It was a period of fearful suspense; yet, dreadful as our situation was, there was not the least unnecessary noise on board. All was prompt attention and obedience. The weather was extremely cold, and the sea, at times, making a complete breach over the ship, which we expected every moment to go to pieces. As for myself, I meant to stow below and perish with her, rather than to float about, bruised and maimed, and drown at last. One half of the crew were only dressed in their shirts and trousers, without shoes or stockings, as they had leaped from their hammocks. When she struck, we had no leisure to put on more than our trousers. Thus we stood, holding on by the nettings, or anything we could lay hold of, to prevent our being washed off the decks, with our eyes anxiously watching the progress of the brave Paterson, who swam like an otter, the boatswain and his mates serving out the line to him. We saw him near the rocks, and the people making signs to him. This was the point of greatest danger, but, by the aid of the peasants, he surmounted it. Those on the beach gave a shout, which we replied to from the deck. A hawser was made fast to the line, and secured on shore. It was not until now that we began to hope; and with this hope arose an anxiety on the part of every one to save what they could. I strove to reach my chest, in which were a pair of new shoes and five guineas, but my efforts, like those of the others, were vain; our under decks were flooded several inches, and everything was loose and knocking about in the most furious manner, from the rolling and pitching of the vessel upon the rocks, so that I was but too happy to reach the decks without being crushed to death. All I regretted was my shoes; the money I cared not for, and do not think I would have taken it, as we expected to be plundered as soon as we got to the beach. After a great deal of fatigue, we all got safe to land, and now the plundering began. There were no regular soldiers on the spot, but a great many of the peasantry had firelocks and bayonets, and stood over us, stripping those of the men, who had them, of their jackets and hats. At first, we were disposed to resist, but soon found it to be of no use. One of the fellows seized the chain of the watch belonging to one of our men, and was in the act of pulling it from the pocket, when the owner, Jack Smith, struck him to the ground with a blow of his fist. The next moment poor Smith lay a lifeless corpse upon the sand, felled by a stroke from the butt end of a musket. There was no one present who seemed to have or who assumed any authority, to whom our officers might appeal for protection; they were not more respected than the men; all were searched and robbed as soon as they arrived from the wreck. Poor Smith's fate taught us submission, even while our bosoms burned with a desire for vengeance. One of my messmates said aloud--"I would cheerfully stand before the muzzle of one of the old _Repulse's_ thirty-twos, were she charged to the mouth with grape well laid, to sweep these French robbers from the face of the earth." As for myself, they took nothing from me. I had twopence in the pocket of my trousers; when I saw what was going on, I took it out and held it in my hand while they searched me. I more than once thought they were going to strip me of my nether garments, and give me in exchange a pair of their own gun-mouthed rags, which would scarcely have reached my knees; for several of them looked at them as if they felt inclined to make the exchange; but I escaped, and felt thankful. We stood for several hours shivering upon the beach without food, fire, or water, while the plunderers were busy picking up anything that drifted ashore, but still keeping a strict watch over us; at length, the chief magistrate of a neighbouring small town arrived, and to him our officers complained of the usage we had received. He only shook his head, and shrugged his shoulders, when the body of Smith was pointed out to him. What could we do? A grave was dug for him on the spot where he was murdered, and we were marched off into the interior. It was well on in the afternoon before we reached the place where we were to halt. It was a small poverty-stricken-like town, with an old ruinous church and churchyard, surrounded by high walls, with an iron gate close by. Into this chill, desolate place, we were crowded by the soldiers, the gate locked upon us, and sentinels placed around the building. Here we remained until the evening, when there was served out to every man a small loaf, black as mud; yet, black as it was, I never ate a sweeter morsel; for neither I nor any of my companions had tasted any food since the evening before. But how shall I express the horror we felt when we found we were to remain where we were, in this old, ruined charnel-house of a church, which could scarcely contain us all, unless we stood close together. To lie down was out of the question; and, although we could, there were neither straw, blankets, nor covering of any kind, to screen us from the cold. We implored in vain to be removed; but these privations, bad as they were, did not annoy us so much as the idea of spending the long dark night in such a miserable place. By far the greater number of us believed as firmly in the reality of ghosts as we did in our own existence; and, of all places in the world, a church and churchyard, from time immemorial, have been their favourite haunts, and the terror of all who believe in their reality--even those who affect to disbelieve in the visits of spirits to this earth, feel sensations which they would not choose to own, when in a churchyard, in a dark night, with gravestones and crumbling human bones around them. Of all men seamen are the most superstitious, and give the most ready credence to ghost stories. The unmanning feeling of fear, that had not touched a single heart in the extremity of our danger from the storm, was now strongly marked in every face, exaggerated by a horror of we knew not what. Fear is contagious--we huddled together, and peered fearfully around, expecting every moment to see some appalling vision or hear some dreadful sound. Our sense of hearing was painfully acute--the smallest noise made us start; but our feelings were too much racked to remain long at the same intensity--they gradually became more obtuse as the night wore on, until we at length began to entertain each other with fearful stories of ghosts; feeling a strange satisfaction in increasing the gloomy excitement under which we laboured. Had any of us begun a humorous story, with the view of diverting our thoughts from their present bent, and the circumstances we were in, I am certain he would have been silenced in no gentle manner. We might have been about two hours or less in this state, in the most intense darkness--our own whispers being all that we could recognise of each other, even although in contact--when a low pleasant murmur suddenly fell upon our ears: It was the voice of Dick Bates, who, having either been requested, or, moved by his present situation, had, of his own accord, commenced singing in an under tone his favourite ballad of "Hozier's Ghost." Now, Dick was the best singer in the whole crew, with a voice like a singing bird; it was at this moment so low that, had it been broad daylight, he would have appeared only to have been breathing hard; yet it was at this time distinctly heard by all, and made our flesh creep upon our bones, although a strange kind of pleasure was mingled with the feeling. We scarcely breathed when he came to the lines-- "With three thousand ghosts beside him, And in groans did Vernon hail-- Heed, O heed my fatal story, I am Hozier's injured Ghost." I thought the whole was present before me, and I could see the scene the poet described, and shuddered when he breathed forth-- "See these ghastly spectres sweeping Mournful o'er this hated wave, Whose pale cheeks are stained with weeping-- These were English captains brave. "See these numbers pale and horrid! These were once my seamen bold. Lo! each hangs his drooping forehead While his mournful tale is told." I believe there was not a man in the old church who did not think he saw the ghastly train of spectres flitting before his eyes, and who did not feel every nerve thrill, and every hair of his head stand on end. Many were the tales of superstition and of terror related, until overpowered nature sank into sleep; but I have since often reflected that, of all the accounts of fearful sights I heard, they were all related at second hand, from the authority of others. No one asserted they themselves had ever seen anything out of the ordinary course of nature except Bob Nelson, and his was calculated to lead a more prejudiced observer astray. It was as follows-- "It was during a voyage I made to New York from Greenock, in the brig _Cochrane_, that I once saw, with my own eyes, a strange sight, such as I hope never to witness again. Our cargo consisted of dry goods, and we had several emigrants as passengers; in particular, a family of six in the cabin, the husband and wife, with four children; they were wealthy, and had sold off their farm stock to purchase land, and settle somewhere in America. When they came on board at the quay of Greenock, they were accompanied by a great many relations and friends, who took a most affectionate leave of them; in particular one old woman, the mother of the emigrant's wife. Her wailings were most pitiable; she wrung her hands, and stood as if rooted to our decks. I heard her say more than once-- "'Mary, I feel I shall never see you more, nor these lovely babes. O why will you leave your aged mother to go mourning to her grave?' "Her daughter looked more like one dead than alive, as she lay sobbing upon the breast of her husband, her mother holding one of her hands between both of her's. Poor soul, she looked as if her heart was breaking, but spoke not; at length, the husband said-- "'O woman, have you no feeling for your daughter?' "The old woman's grief seemed, all at once, turned into rage: she let her daughter's hand drop, and, raising her hands, cursed him for depriving her of her daughter; concluding with-- "'But, James, remember what I say; dead or alive, I shall yet see my Mary.' "The poor young woman was carried below in a faint and the old dame was conveyed from the deck by the friends, for we were by this time cast loose, and leaving our berth. For several days I saw nothing of the farmer's family, as they were very sick; but the children had now begun to play about the deck, and their father would leave the cabin for a short time, once or twice a-day, for his wife remained very ill, and confined to her bed. The haglike appearance of the old woman, in her rage, had made a great impression on me, and had evidently sunk the spirits of the young people; for I often saw, when the husband came on deck, that he was much dejected. I felt it strange that the figure of the old woman often occurred to my mind when I looked at him; and I several times dreamed I saw her in my sleep, as I had seen her in Greenock, but her appearance was more pale and hideous, and had so great an effect upon me, that I always awoke in an agony, and cursed her from my heart. "About mid-passage we met with westerly gales and rough weather, which caused the passengers to keep below for several days, and retarded our passage much. It was blowing very hard. It was my turn at the wheel. In the midwatch we had occasional showers. The clouds were scudding along in immense bodies over the face of the moon, which was just at the full, so that we had, at times, bright moonlight for a minute or two, then gloom; but the night was not dark. I might have been at the wheel half my time or so. My eye was fixed ahead to watch the set of the waves, save when I glanced to the compass. I thought I saw something upon the bowsprit in the gloom that was not there a moment before. I looked aloft to see for a break in the clouds that the moon might shew me more distinctly what it was. I looked ahead again, and there it still was, but nearer the bows of the vessel. Still I could not make out what it was. Soon a burst of moonlight shone forth, and I saw it resembled a human figure, but whether man or woman I could not tell, for the moon was as suddenly obscured as it had shone forth. I felt very queer; being certain it was none of the crew--for the whole watch was aft at the time--and I was sure that all the passengers were below, and no one had come on deck since the watch had been changed. I looked at the spot where I had seen it, and it was gone. I felt the greatest inclination to tell what I had seen; but the fear of being laughed at, made me say nothing of it at this time; I, however, never wished so much for anything in my life as that my spell at the wheel was over, and the watch passed. When, at length, I was released, I crept to the foxa, and tumbled into my hammock, but could not close an eye for thinking of what I had seen. "Well, my mates, I was then, as I am now, in a pretty mess, and wished myself as heartily out of the _Cochrane_ as we all do ourselves out of this old foundered hulk of a church. I was fairly aground with fear, and felt all of a tremble for the nights I must pass on board before we reached New York, where I was determined to leave the brig if I saw any more such sights. For a few days the gale continued, sometimes blowing very hard, at others more moderate, but nothing uncommon occurred. At length it abated, and we had pleasant weather. I began to think I had been deceived, and was glad I had not spoken of what I had seen to any of the crew. It was the afternoon, towards evening. I was again at the wheel. The sun was setting in a bed of clouds, as gaily coloured as a ship rejoicing--the colours of all nations floating aloft, from the point of her bowsprit to the end of her jib-boom. The four children were playing upon deck, laughing and full of joy at being once more relieved from their long confinement in the cabin. I looked at their innocent gambols and at the beautiful sky by turns, as much as my duty would allow, and felt more happy than I had done since we sailed. It was so pleasant to look ahead; for every face on deck wore a pleasing and happy aspect. I looked again at the children's gambols; but I almost dropped at the wheel. My hands and limbs refused to do their office. There, before me, close by the children, stood the exact representation of the old woman--so stern, so unearthly was her look, that I cannot express it; but she was pale as the foam on the crest of a wave. I could not call out. I had no power either to move tongue or limb. The yawing of the vessel called the attention of the mate to me, who sung out to hold her steady. I heard him, but could not obey. My whole faculties were engrossed by the fearful vision. My eyes appeared as if they would have started out of my head. One of the crew seized the wheel. All looked at me with astonishment. I stood rivetted to the spot, pointing to where the spectre stood; but no one saw anything but myself. The captain was below in the cabin, with the farmer and his wife--the latter of whom was known to all the crew to be very ill. As I looked to the unearthly figure, attracted by a power I could not resist, the children continued their play. The features of the old woman, I thought, relaxed, and a sadness came over them, but it was of unearthly expression. The figure glided from the children to the cabin-companion, and disappeared below, when it as suddenly came again upon deck, accompanied by the farmer's wife, pale and wasted. Both gazed upon the children. The young woman appeared to wring her hands in great distress, as I had seen her before she was carried below; but the old woman hurried her over the side of the brig, and I saw no more of them. When they disappeared, my faculties returned. I trembled as if I had been in an ague, and the cold sweat stood in large drops upon my forehead. The mate and crew thought that I had been in a fit, until I told them what I had seen. They looked rather serious, but were much inclined to laugh at me. The mate began to jaw me a little on my fancies. All had passed in a minute or two. Scarce had the mate spoken a dozen of words, when the captain hurried upon deck, much affected, and called to one of the female steerage passengers to go instantly to the cabin and assist, as he feared the farmer's wife was dead. The mate ceased to speak, and the rest of the crew looked as amazed as I did at the strange occurrence. The captain came to us. When he heard my strange story, he shook his head, and only said it was a remarkable occurrence; but I had been deceived by some illusion, and commanded us not to speak of it, for distressing the poor husband. We resolved to obey him, as we were by this time nearly in with the land, and expected to make it next day, which we did; and the poor farmer was helped ashore, almost as death-like as the body of his wife, which was buried in New York. I sailed several trips afterwards in the _Cochrane_, but never saw anything out of the common afterwards in her or anywhere else." The first rays of the rising sun shone upon us all sound asleep, as quiet and undisturbed as if we had passed the night under the roofs of our fathers' houses; but I was cold, stiff, and sore when I awoke. I had passed the night upon a flat gravestone outside of the church, for want of room within, without any covering but my shirt and trousers--all I had saved from the wreck. There was not a character engraved on the stone that was not as distinctly marked on my body. It was of no use grumbling or being cast down--we were fairly adrift, and must go with the current. It was now that the buoyancy of a sailor's mind burst forth. The old church and churchyard resounded with shouts and laughter, that made the French sentinels think we had all gone mad. Some were busy at leap-frog, others were pursuing each other among the ruins and tomb-stones--all were in active exertion for the sake of warmth, and to beguile the time; while the French gathered outside wherever they could obtain a sight of us, and looked on in amazement at our frolics. I am certain they were not without fear for us; for a few of the lads had contrived to clamber to the top of the ruins; and were amusing themselves by antics, at the hazard of their necks, and throwing small pieces of lime at us below. The officer in command called to them to come down; but they knew not what he said. Some of them cried out, in answer to his call--"Speak like a Christian if you want us to understand you, and don't wow like a dog." At this moment, Nick Williams, one of our maintop men, had scaled the highest point of the walls, and had, at the risk of his life, contrived to perch himself upon the crumbling stone, and was huzzaing most vociferously. It was a daring and foolhardy feat. A shout of admiration rose from the outside of the walls, when a real British cheer answered it from within. Whether the officer was enraged at the apparent defiance and disobedience to his commands, I know not, but several muskets were fired through the rails of the gate, and the balls recoiled from the walls. A shout of rage burst from us; and a serious conflict was only prevented by the prudence of the petty officers who were among us; for the enraged seamen had begun to collect stones from the base of the ruined walls to hurl at the dastardly guards, who were shouting, _"Vive la Nation!" "Vive la Republique!"_ Our boatswain, who was a cool and resolute old tar, seeing that the storm was still on the verge of bursting out--for we looked upon their cries as insulting as their balls--by a happy thought, struck up the national air, "God save the King," which we sung with an enthusiasm and strength of lungs never, I am certain, surpassed before or since. If it had no melody, it had a tone and sound equivalent to both. Many who still held the stones in their hands, which they had lifted to hurl at the guards, struck them together like cymbals, in regular time, to increase the noise. The effect was most exhilarating and produced the desired effect of turning our angry feeling into good-humour. So pleased were we, that we gave them "Rule Britannia" in the same style, until we forgot, in our enthusiasm, that we were prisoners, hungry, cold, and naked. Scarce had the last loud cadence died away, when the gate was thrown open, and a miserable allowance of the same black bread was served out to us, with plenty of water, and the gate once more shut against us. It was very strange that, among more than five hundred of us, not one knew a word of French, and there were none of those who entered the enclosure could speak a word of English, so that we knew not what those who had the power over us meant to do. We conjectured that they intended to keep us where we were until we were exchanged; and had already begun to canvass the possibility of breaking out of the hated church and yard, and making a bold push for our liberty, in the following night, by overpowering our guards, seizing their arms, and passing along the coast, until we reached some of the small ports, and making prizes of all the vessels in it, and setting sail for England. A council was actually deliberating in the church, composed of the petty officers and a few of our picked hands, when our attention was roused by the sound of martial music approaching the churchyard, where it halted, and we were soon after turned out, and numbered to the officer in command. The party who had just arrived consisted of two companies of soldiers of the line, regularly clothed and armed, as the French troops were; while those under whose charge we had been were only the armed peasantry of the neighbourhood. We hoped the change would be for our advantage. We saw at once we were going to be conveyed into the interior. Go where we must, we felt we could not be worse fed, lodged, or used than we had been. No harsh word was used to us by the regular troops; and, before we had been a few hours on the road, we understood each other well enough by dumb show, and marched on in good humour; we walking in the middle of them like a drove of bullocks, as frolicsome as children, singing, laughing, and putting practical jokes upon each other, to beguile the way. Scarce had we travelled a couple of miles, until my bare feet became sore from the small stones and bruises; yet I limped on in the best manner I could, and as cheerfully as possible. I was in the front as we were on the point of entering a village; the soldiers in file enclosing us on either side, and bringing up the rear, so that we could not walk faster or slower than they chose. A few hundred yards from the entrance of the village, those in front turned round, and pointing to the fowls of various kinds that were feeding on the highway before us, made signs which we readily understood, and nodded significantly; they then drew to each side of the road, and we behind them, leaving a gap in the middle of the way like the prongs of a fork closed at the base. The ducks, hens, and other fowls became alarmed as we came close upon them, and ran for shelter to the vacant space in the middle, when the front closed, and all were secured by those in the centre; the poor people, their owners, calling in vain for restitution of their property. The soldiers would not allow them to come within their ranks; and, at night, when we stopped, the former procured wood for us to dress the stolen fowls, after having received their proportion. This, I confess, was a species of robbery; but we were starved by the allowance of government, and we were in an enemy's country, who had plundered the shipwrecked mariner cast upon their shores. We thought, therefore, although, of course, the reasoning was wrong, that, in appropriating whatever we could lay hands upon, we were merely making fair and just reprisals for the losses we had sustained at the hands of our captors; but, the truth is, we troubled ourselves very little about the right or wrong of the matter, for we were lodged either in large empty barns, or ruined churches, all the way to Rennes, and could, from hunger, have eaten a jackass when we were allowed to rest for the night. Even yet, I remember the relish a small piece of a roast pig or fowl had, without either bread or salt, at this time, for we were not scrupulous what we lifted that would eat, if we could carry it. In one village, five pigs disappeared in this manner, and only the great weight of the parent prevented her following them. At the time, it had not the appearance of theft; there was so much fun in it that it resembled a great hunt, for every eye was in quest of game, and all was done so quietly and dexterously that there was not the least confusion or noise. We closed so rapidly that the prey had no means of escape, nor room to move until it was despatched; yet the people, as we passed, were often very kind to us, so far as was in their power, for they appeared to be miserably poor. When we reached Rennes my feet were so sore, swelled, and cut, that I walked with great pain; numbers of us were in the same situation. We did not pass straight through the town, but were halted, for some time, in the market-place, while the inhabitants came in crowds to gaze at the English prisoners; and a miserable sight we were. We might have been here about half an hour, when a beautiful young lady came to where we were, with a young woman behind her carrying a large basket filled with shoes. I thought she had come to sell them, as so many were barefoot. I saw her giving them to the men, and hirpled to the spot, and looked with an anxious eye at the store which was diminishing fast. I had still retained the twopence, and resolved to make an effort to obtain a pair, but felt backward, conscious I had no equivalent to give for them; holding out my coppers, I pointed to a pair which I thought would answer me; I felt ashamed, and looked to the ground, pointing to my feet when I had attracted her attention, for she was looking in another direction. She took the shoes and gave them to me. I proffered my little cash; she gently put my hand aside, and, by a sign, made me know that I was welcome to them. I never saw a female so lovely as this young lady; her clear, black eyes were swimming in tears, and her face covered with blushes; her looks were so mild, so benevolent, she looked like an angel sent from heaven to administer to our wants. Never before or since have I felt the same sensation so intensely. It was delightful; it was painful. I felt a choking in my throat. I could have wept, and have found relief in it, but I was surrounded by those who would have made sport of my emotion. I retired a few paces to make way for others, in silence. I dared not utter a sound, lest my feelings had overpowered me, but stood and gazed at the lovely creature until she retired. I felt as if everything to be esteemed on earth was concentrated in her person and mind. Had I been an admiral I would have gloried in calling her mine; had it been necessary I could have faced death or any danger, to free her from trouble or grief, with a feeling of joy and exultation. Many a time has this fair creature been embodied in my mind's eye, as fair and lovely as she was then, but I never saw her again. Many others of the good inhabitants of Rennes administered to our wants. I got, besides the shoes, a substitute for a jacket, and a straw hat from an old man. Indeed, we saw in our route scarce any others except old men, women, and boys. Women were driving the carts, and working in the fields, and doing the work done by the men in Britain. From Rennes we were marched to Perche, our final destination, in the same manner as we had been from the coast, and lodged in prison; but I found it no prison to me: men were so scarce at this time in France that we were allowed to work out of prison if we chose, and only visited once a-week to pass muster, and receive our allowance--so I soon found a master, or, more properly, he found me in prison--a cart and plough-wright residing a short distance from town. Citizen Vauquin, in secret, was a staunch Royalist; but, in his common conversation, a Republican. To me he was extremely kind, but our communications were very limited, from my want of knowledge of French; but I was picking it up with rapidity, and we soon contrived to understand each other pretty well. It was now well on in the spring, and the weather warm and agreeable. I was busy at my work, when Vauquin, who was a stout, hale old man, came to me; there was something comic in the expression of his countenance, joy and vexation seemed by turns to pass over it, and at times to struggle for mastery; he looked cautiously around lest any one might overhear us, then said-- "Ah, France! beautiful France! these cursed Democrats have dimmed your glory, and ruined you! We have lost our fleet in Egypt, and we fly before the Germans. What can we have but defeat, while the best blood in France either has been shed by her sons, or languishes in obscurity. Could we be freed from the ruffians that tyrannize over us in any way but this? We have suffered much, and must suffer more, before we see the glories of France shine as they once shone in the courts of her kings. Ha! Elder, your sailors are the devils that humble France; from your riches the seas are covered with your ships, and the brave French, plundered by their rulers, have few. What could be done with sixteen ships when fifty were upon them?" Piqued by his national vanity, I replied-- "Had Nelson had half the number, there would have been no fighting." "Why no fighting, Monsieur?" said he. "Because they would have run if they could," replied I; "or struck when they saw no chance--that's all I have to say on the subject. If you please let us change it, my friend." "By all means," said he, "let us change it. We are a ruined and undone people since we lost our King. The great nation are a people without a head; and, when a house wants the head, all goes wrong." "You and I are at one on this point," replied I. "But how comes it that you are as democratic as any one in the neighbourhood when politics is the subject of discourse? It is not so in Britain. Every man speaks his mind; yet we have a king and a kingly government. I was led to believe, before I left home, that in France alone there was liberty: for all men were equal--freedom and equality being the law of the land." "O Monsieur Elder!" exclaimed he, "freedom and equality are the worst tyranny, as I shall shew you by my sad experience. When all men make the law, who is to obey? Better one tyrant than one million; for, when every one thinks he is a law-maker, no one thinks of obeying the law farther than it pleases himself. Listen to me; and you shall hear the truth as I have experienced it, and many thousands in France as well as I:-- "When first the people of France began to give attention to the writers and haranguers against the oppression which we, no doubt, suffered, no one was more enthusiastic than I was for the removal of the abuses; and I thought no sacrifice could be too great to have them removed. I was, at the time, carpenter to the great chateau which you see in the distance. Our old lord, who was a severe master, had died only a few years before, and had not the love of a single peasant in his wide domains; but his son was the reverse of his parent--the friend and benefactor of every one on his estate; yet he inherited a fund of animosity which it would have taken years of his kindness and humanity to have obliterated. In this state of matters, the troubles broke out. He was on the side of the people, and aided, as far as in him lay, the cause of improvement in the state, until the factions in Paris--who, ruling the silly multitude, led them to believe that they were ruled by them--struck at the root of all good government by insulting and imprisoning the King. From this time, he took no active part in the commotions, but remained at his chateau. I was his overseer, and managed his affairs. I loved him with all my soul, for he was worthy of my love. My ideas went still farther than his went, and I felt not displeased with anything that had as yet occurred; for I knew the tenacity with which the aristocracy clung to their privileges; but the cunning and designing men who, under the faint shew of obeying the people, ruled them at their will for mischief and disorder, ultimately, by taking the life of the King, took the key-stone out of the arch which sheltered the people, and brought the whole fabric of civil order about their ears. I was confounded at the blindness I had laboured under; and, from that hour, my whole ideas changed. But, alas! it was too late; and even those that had lent a willing hand trembled at the mischief they had done. Benefits are soon forgot; but the remembrance of injuries are indelible. Numbers of needy plunderers had arrived from Paris, and overspread these peaceful plains like evil spirits, rousing the worst feeling of our peasantry into action. As yet, no serious outrage had been committed in this quarter; but I too plainly saw that it would not long be deferred. I requested my dear master to fly, as many others had done; for blood had begun to flow like water in Paris and the provinces--not the blood of the guilty, but the blood of the noble and virtuous; for, alas! France had become the arena in the remorseless war of poverty against property. The whole fabric of social order had been dissolved, and men had returned to their original state of barbarism; like jackalls or wolves, only banding together when they scented plunder. To be rich or nobly born was a crime of the deepest dye, only to be atoned by blood. I, with extreme pain, saw the storm gathering, and could only deplore it; and what added to my anguish, was, I dared not argue against them; for our old and worthy magistrates had been deposed, and others, more in the spirit of the times, appointed. As yet, no blood had been shed in Perche, but numbers were immured in prison; and, had I given the least cause of suspicion, I would have been placed beyond the power of lending that aid to the distressed which I was resolved to afford them, or perish in the attempt. Several times I had entreated my young lord to fly, and avoid the storm; but my entreaties were in vain. He thought far too well of his fellow-men. "At length a rumour reached us that two commissioners were on their way to the chateau to sequestrate it for the use of the state: immediately there was a violent commotion amongst the people--fearful of losing their share of the plunder, all marched in a tumultuous manner to assault it. Aware of what might ensue--for blood had begun to flow--I got my young lord disguised as one of my workmen, and set to his bench--that very one at which you work--and joined the crowd as they approached the chateau. To prevent suspicion, no one shouted louder than I, 'Down with the Tyrants!'--'Down with the Aristocrats!'--'_Vive la Nation!_'--'_Vive la Republique!_' We entered the chateau, which was searched in vain for my young lord. It was now that the true spirit of the peasantry shewed itself in all its deformity; everything of value was in a short time carried off or destroyed; while every quarter resounded with execrations and cries for blood--the oppressions of the father were alone remembered. How it occurred I have yet to learn, but the youthful aristocrat was discovered in my shop; this was a severe blow to me, for I was immediately seized by the furious crowd, charged by them with the worst of crimes in their eyes, the concealing from them a victim of their rage. It was a fearful hour. I expected to have been torn to pieces upon the spot. My presence of mind did not forsake me: I begged to be heard before the fatal daggers that were brandished around reached my heart. I stood firm until a pause of the storm, when I appealed to them not for mercy, but for revenge--revenge upon my lord before I died. "I have been betrayed," I cried, "by some one. I appeal to yourselves for my former love of my country. Let me die, but let it be for my country, and let me be revenged upon the tyrants. Fire the chateau!--'_Vive la Nation_,' '_A bas les Aristocrats_,' '_Vive la Republique_'--and let me die by the light of the stronghold of tyranny enveloped in flames." "I now breathed more freely. Shouts rent the air; for like a weathercock is a mob--ever pointing as the last breath of wind blows. '_Vive Vauquin!_' resounded from every lip; the chateau was enveloped in flames; its owner immersed in a dungeon to await his doom, already fixed before the mock forms of justice were gone through. Think not the worse of me for the part I acted; every paper and article of plate had been concealed for some days before. To save, if possible, his life, no one was louder in denouncing my lord than myself, for his having dared to conceal himself in my shop. At my return, I began seriously to turn over in my mind what steps I was next to pursue for his safety, now rendered difficult, almost beyond my power to overcome. I feared not death, nor any danger to myself, could my object have been attained by it. There was not a moment to be lost; the following day was to have been the day of his trial and death. The commissioners had arrived from Paris, and a fête was resolved to be got up to welcome them. In a state of anxiety I can hardly describe, I bustled about and waited upon the commissioners; but my chief object was to ascertain the exact spot where the aristocrats were confined. My lord was my chiefest care, for however much I had, at the commencement of the revolution, wished for the abused power of the nobles to be reduced, I had no wish for their ruin, far less their murder; judge my horror when I learned that he was in the lower dungeon of the prison, to which there was only one entrance through the guard-room, which was constantly filled by the soldiers on guard. With a heart void of hope I returned to my home. In an agony of mind I threw myself upon my couch, that if possible I might exclude every other thought but the one that I wished to fix my whole attention upon: while I walked about, I felt like one distracted. At length, I was so fortunate as to call to mind having, when a boy, heard my father tell that he had assisted my grandfather in securing a door into the lower dungeon, that led into another even more loathsome, where the Huguenots were wont to be confined in the time of Louis the Fourteenth; this had a door which led into the outer court of the prison, the walls of which were in the hinder part, ruinous and neglected, as few of the present people in authority knew of such a dungeon; the old door having been long built up. A faint ray of hope shot through my mind; I started from my bed, and, concealing what tools I judged to be necessary, proceeded to the jail without being perceived--this was rendered the more easy as every one was engaged preparing for the fête. I remained under the shelter of the ruined wall until it was quite dark. A voice of mirth and revelry sounded in the front of that prison, whose gloomy walls and strong iron barred windows might, and no doubt did, enclose hearts more sorrowful than mine, but none more anxious. My situation, solitary as it was, was full of peril--I might be missed at the fête, and suspicion roused if I was so fortunate as to succeed; but I allowed no selfish thought to intrude. I was so fortunate as to find the low arched door I had heard my father speak of; after considerable labour it yielded to my efforts, and I entered the low and noisesome vault which had heard and re-echoed the groans of so many victims of tyranny whose only fault was adhering to the dictates of their consciences against an intolerant priesthood. So baleful was the air I breathed, that I was forced to retire, or I had fallen to the damp floor; again I entered, for I heard the voice of my lord in prayer, and felt a new sort of assurance arise in my mind; there was no distinguishing one object from another, so impenetrable was the darkness, and the faint sound appeared to come from no particular side of the dungeon. I commenced groping with my hands, from the entrance, along the walls; it was a loathsome task, for they were damp and ropy, and loathsome reptiles ever and anon made me withdraw my fingers; still I groped on. At length I succeeded; the door was forced to yield to my skill and efforts; all that divided me from him I sought was the strong planks and plaster. I struck a sharp single blow upon it, and paused--the voice of my master had ceased from the commencement of my work upon the second door. It was a period of intense anxiety, lest he should alarm his guards, if any of them had been in his dungeon. To my first signal no answer was made: he knew not that he had a friend so near, willing to sacrifice everything for his rescue. I struck a second blow, and again listened; I heard him utter a faint exclamation of surprise, and all was again still. The third time I struck, and I heard a movement on the other side: the plaster was struck, piercing a small hole, and we were enabled to communicate. I found he was alone in his dismal dungeon. It was agreed that I was to return in two hours with a disguise for him, after I had appeared at the fête; and, in the meantime, I loosened the fastening so as he could easily force it away should any thing happen to prevent my return; and, these arrangements being made, I took my departure, in the same stealthy manner in which I had reached him. "With my heart still anxious but more at ease, I joined the festive throng, and, joining in the dance for a short time, then retired, got all ready, returned, with a view to relieve my lord from his dungeon, and had the unspeakable pleasure to see him beyond its walls, dressed as a peasant girl. Our parting was brief but sincere, my wishes for his safety were equal to the extent of my love, but I have never heard of him since; whether he went for La Vendee, or joined the allied army, I never knew. As soon as I saw him safe out of the town, I returned to the joyous group, and was among the last to leave it. My share in the escape of my noble master was never even suspected; but from this time I have wished the fall of the tyrants that have ruled France with a rod of iron, and for the return of our King and nobility, until which time we can never hope for tranquillity. I am not displeased at what can assist in aiding their overthrow but I feel, as a true Frenchman, humbled at every defeat our brave forces sustain. I love the beautiful fields of France and all her sons, but I hate the demagogues who at present rule her destinies." Had I not been an exile against my will, I never had been more happy in my life than I was at this time. I, no doubt, was a prisoner of war; but it was only in name. I never saw my prison but once a-week, when I appeared at the muster to receive my jail allowance, and returned to citizen Vauquin's in a few hours after, or strayed where I chose within the proscribed distance. Our visits to the prison always gave rise to an afternoon of merriment and pleasure--a meeting of friends. Not one of us wished to escape, or desired an exchange. I was always a fortunate fellow. The four months I was here I improved much in my drawing, and found the instructions of poor Walden of the utmost service to me; and I was much benefited by a relation of Vauquin's, who had studied the arts at Paris. It was thus I spent my evenings; but I was never as yet allowed to enjoy my good fortune long. We were ordered to be marched to the coast at Saint Malos, where a cartel was to be in readiness to receive us. I bade adieu to my kind friend, Citizen Vauquin, not without regret, and set out for the coast. There was not a trace of pleasure at our release among us; we had no cause, at least nine-tenths of us. For, as Bill Wates had foretold, off Jersey we were brought too by the _Ramillies_, and crowded on board her. The greater part were draughted to other men-of-war, but in her I remained until she was paid off, at the peace. [Footnote 3: See "The Man-of-war's Man."] WILLIE WASTLE'S ACCOUNT OF HIS WIFE. "Sic a wife as Willie had! I wadna gie a button for her." BURNS.[4] "It was a very cruel dune thing in my neebor, Robert Burns, to mak a sang aboot my wife and me," said Mr William Wastle, as he sat with a friend over a jug of reeking toddy, in a tavern near the Bridge-end in Dumfries where he had been attending the cattle market; "I didna think it was neebor-like," he added; "indeed it was a rank libel upon baith her and me; and I took it the worse, inasmuch as I always had a very high respect for Maister Burns. Though he said that I 'dwalt on Tweed,' and that I 'was a wabster,' yet everybody kenned wha the sang was aimed at. Neither did my wife merit the description that has been drawn o' her; for, though she was nae beauty, and hadna a face like a wax-doll, yet there were thousands o' waur looking women to be met wi' than my Kirsty; and to say that her mither was a 'tinkler,' was very unjustifiable, for her parents were as decent and respectable people, in their sphere o' life, as ye would hae found in a' Nithsdale. Her faither had a small farm which joined on with one that I took a lease o', when I was about one-and-twenty. Kirsty was about three years aulder; and, though not a bonny woman, she was, in many respects, as ye shall hear in the coorse o' my story, a very extraordinary one. I was in the habit o' seeing her every day, and as I sometimes was working in a field next to her, I had every opportunity o' observing her industry, and that, frae mornin' till nicht, she was aye eident. This gave me a far higher opinion o' her than if I had seen her gaun about wi' a buskit head; and often, at meal-times, I used to stand and speak to her owre the dyke. But, after we had been acquainted in this manner for some months, when the cheerfu' summer weather came in, and the grass by the dyke-sides was warm and green, and the bonny gowans blossomed among it, I louped owre the dyke, and we sat doun and took our dinners together. I couldna have believed it possible that a bit bare bannock and a drap skim milk wad gang doun sae deliciously, but never before had I partaken o' onything that was sae pleasant to the palate. One day I was quite surprised, when I found that my arm had slipped unconsciously round her waist, and, drawing her closer to my side, I seighed, and said--'O Kirsty, woman!' "She pulled away my hand from her waist, and looking me in the face, said--'Weel, Willie, man, what is't?' "'Kirsty,' said I, 'I like ye.'" "'I thocht as meikle,' quoth she, 'but could ye no hae said sae at ance.'" "'Perhaps I could, dear,' said I; 'but ye ken true love is aye blate; however, if ye hae nae objections, I'll gang yont, after fothering time the micht, and speak to yer faither and mither; and if they hae nae objections, and ye have yer providin' ready, wi' yer guid-will and consent, I shall gie up oor names, and we shall be cried on Sabbath first.' "'Oh,' said she, 'I haena lived for five-and-twenty years without expectin' to get a guidman some day; and I hae had my providin' ready since I was eighteen, an' a' o' my ain spinnin' and bleachin', an' the lint bocht wi' what I had wrocht for; so that I am behauden to naebody. My faither and mither have mair sense than to cast ony obstacle in the way o' my weelfare; and, as ye are far frae bein' disagreeable to me, if we are to be married, it may as weel be sune as syne, and we may be cried on Sunday if ye think proper.' "'O Kirsty, woman!' cried I, and I drew my arm round her waist again, 'ye hae made me as happy as a prince! I hardly ken which end o' me is upmost!' "'Na, Willie,' said she, 'there is nae necessity for ony nonsensical raptures, ye ken perfectly weel that yer head is upmost, though I hae heard my faither talk about some idiots that he ca's philosophers, who say that the world whirls roond aboot like a cart-wheel on an axle-tree, and that ance in every twenty-four hours our feet are upmost, and our head downmost; but it will be lang or onybody get me to believe in sic balderdash! As to yer being happy at present, it shall be nae faut o' mine if ye are not aye sae; and if ye be aye as I would wish ye to be, ye will never be unhappy.' "Such, as near as I can recollect, is not only the history, but the exact words o' oor courtship. Her faither and mither gied their consent without the slightest hesitation. I remember her faither's words to me were--'Weel, William, frae a' that I hae seen o' ye, ye appear to be a very steady and industrious young man, and ane that is likely to do weel in the world. I hae seen, also, wi' great satisfaction, that ye are very regular in yer attendance upon the ordinances; there hasna been a Sabbath, since ye cam to be oor neebor, that I hae missed ye oot o' yer seat in the kirk. Frae a' that I hae heard concernin' ye, also, ye hae always been a serious, sober, and weel-behaved young man. These things are a great satisfaction to a faither when he finds them in the lad that his dochter wishes to marry. Ye hae my consent to tak Kirsty; and, though I say it, I believe ye will find her to mak as industrious, carefu', and kind a wife, as ye would hae found if ye had sought through a' broad Scotland for ane. I will say it, however, and before her face, that there are some things in which she takes it o' her mother, and in which she will hae her ain way. But this is her only faut. I'm sure ye'll ne'er hae cause to complain o' her wasting a bawbee, or o' her allowing even the heel o' a kebbuck to gang to unuse. It is needless for me to say mair; but ye hae my full and free consent to marry when ye like.' "Then up spoke the auld guidwife, and said--'Weel, Willie, lad, if you and Kirsty hae made up yer minds to mak a bargain o' it, I am as little disposed to oppose yer inclinations as her faither is. A guid wife, I sincerely believe, ye will find her prove to ye; and though her faither says that in some things she will be like me, and have her ain way, let me tell ye, lad, that is owre often necessary for a woman to do, wha is striving everything in her power for the guid o' her husband and the family, and sees him, just through foolishness, as it were, striving against her. Ye are strange beings you men-folk to deal wi'. But ye winna find her a bare bride, for she has a kist fu' o' linen o' her ain spinnin', that may serve ye a' yer days, and even when ye are dead, though ye should live for sixty years.' "I thought it rather untimeous that the auld woman should hae spoken aboot linen for oor grave-claes, before we were married; and I suppose my countenance had hinted as much, for Kirsty seemed to hae observed it, and she said--'My mother says what is and ought to be. It is aye best to be provided for whatever may come; and as Death often gies nae warning, I wadna like to be met wi' it, and to hae naething in the house to lay me out in like a Christian.' "I thought there was a vast deal o' sense and discretion in what she said; and though I didna like the idea o' such a premature providing o' winding-sheets, yet, after she spoke, I highly approved o' her prudence and forethought. "It was on a Monday afternoon, about three weeks after the time I have been speaking o', that Kirsty, wi' her faither, and mother, and another young lass, an acquaintance o' hers, that was to be best-maid, cam yont to my house for her and me to be married. I had sent for ane o' my brothers to be best-man, and he was with me waiting when they came. She was not in the least discomposed, but behaved very modestly. In a few minutes the minister arrived, when the ceremony immediately began, and within a quarter of an hour she was mine, and I was hers, for the term o' oor natural lives. "From the time that I took the farm, I had no kind o' dishes in the house, save a wooden bowie or twa, four trenchers, three piggins, and twa bits o' tin cans, that I had bought from a travelling tinker for twopence a-piece, and which Kirsty afterwards told me, were each a halfpenny a-piece aboon their value. I dinna think that I had tasted tea aboon a dozen times in the whole course o' my life; but, as it was coming into general use, I thought it would look respectfu' to my bride, before her faither and mother, if I should hae tea upon oor marriage day, and I could ask the minister to stop and tak a dish wi' us. I thought it would gie a character o' respectability to oor wedding. Therefore, on the Saturday afore the marriage, I went to Dumfries, and bought half a dozen o' bonny blue cups and saucers. I never durst tell Kirsty how meikle I gied for them. It was with great difficulty that I got them carried hame without breaking. I also bought two ounces o' the best tea, and a whole pound o' brown sugar. "I had a servant lassie at the time, the doohter o' a hind in the neighbourhood; she was necessary to me to do the work about the house, and to milk twa kye that I kept, to mak the cheese, and a part o' the day to help the workers out wi' the bondage. "'Lassie,' said I, when I got hame; 'do ye ken hoo to mak tea?' "'I'm no very sure,' said she; 'but I think I do. I ance got a cup when I wasna weel, frae the farmer's wife that my faither lives wi'. I'll try.' "'Here, then,' says I; 'tak care o' thir, and see that ye dinna break them, or it will mak a breaking that ye wouldna like in your quarter's wages.' So I gied her the cups and saucers to put awa carefully into the press. "'O maister,' says she; 'but noo, when I recollect, ye'll need a tea-kettle, and a tea-pat, and a cream-pat, and teaspoons.' "'Preserve me!' quoth I, 'the lassie is surely wrang in the head! Hoo mony articles o' _tea_ and _cream_ hae ye there? The parritch kettle will do as weel as a tea-kettle--where can be the difference? Your tea-pats I ken naething aboot, and as for a cream-pat, set down the cream-bowie; and as for spoons, ye fool, they dinna sip tea--they drink it--just sirple it, as it were, oot o' the saucer.' "'O sir,' said she; 'but they need a little spoon to stir it round to mak the sugar melt--and that is weel minded, ye'll also require a sugar-basin.' "'Hoots! toots! lassie,' cried I, 'do ye intend to ruin me? By yer account o' the matter, it would be almost as expensive to set up a tea equipage, as a chariot equipage. No, no; just do as the miller's wife o' Newmills did.' "'And what way micht that be, sir?' inquired she. "'Why,' said I, 'she took such as she had, and she never wanted! Just ye tak such as ye have--cogie, bowie, or tinniken, never ye mind--show ye your dexterity.' "'Very weel, sir,' said she; 'I'll do the best I can.' "But, just to exemplify another trait in my wife's character, I will tell ye the upshot o' my cups and saucers. I confess that I was in a state of very considerable perturbation; not only on account o' what the lassie had told me about the want o' a tea-kettle, tea-pat, and so forth, but also that, including the minister, there were seven o' us, while I had but six cups; and I consoled mysel by thinking that, as Kirsty and I were now _one_, she might drink oot o' the cup and I wad tak the saucer, so that a cup and saucer would serve us baith; and I was trustin to the ingenuity o' the lassie to find substitutes for the other deficiencies, when she came ben to where we were sitting, and going forward to Kirsty, says she--'Mistress, I have had the twa ounces o' tea on boiling in a chappin o' water, for the last twa hoors--do ye think it will be what is ca'ed _masked_ noo?' "'Tea!' said my new-made wife, wi' a look o' astonishment; 'is the lassie talking aboot _tea_? While I am to be in this house--and I suppose that is to be for my life--there shall nae poisonous foreign weed be used in it, nor come within the door, unless it be some drug that a doctor orders. Take it off the fire, and throw the broo awa. My certes! if young folk like us were to begin wi' sic extravagance, where would be the upshot? Na, na, Willie,' said she, turning round to me, 'let us just begin precisely as we mean to end. At all events, let us rather begin meanly, than end beggarly. I hae seen some folk, no aboon oor condition in life, mak a great dash on their wedding-day; and some o' them even hire gigs and coaches, forsooth, to tak a jaunt awa for a dozen o' miles! Poor things! it was the first and last time that ony o' them was either in gig or coach. But there shall be nae extravagance o' that kind for me. My faither and mither care naething about tea, for they hae never been used to it, and I'm sure that our friends here care as little; and, asking the minister's pardon, I am perfectly sure and certain, that tea can be nae treat to him, for he has it every day, and it will be standing ready for him when he gangs hame. The supper will be ready by eight o'clock, and those who wish it, may tak a glass o' speerits in the meantime--as it isna every day that they are at my wedding.' "Her faither and mother looked remarkable proud and weel-pleased like at what she said, just as if they wished to say to me--'There's a wife for ye!' But I thought the minister seemed a good deal surprised, and in a few minutes he took up his hat, wished us much joy, and went away. For my part, I didna think sae much aboot my bride's lecture, as I rejoiced that she thereby released me from the confusion I should have experienced in exposing the poverty o' my tea equipage. "It was on the very morning after oor marriage, and just as I was gaun oot to my wark--'Willie,' says she, 'I think we should single the turnips in the field west o' the hoose the day. The cotters' twa bondage lasses, and me, will be able to manage it by the morn's nicht.' "'O, my dear,' quoth I, 'but I hae nae intention that ye should gang out into the fields to work, noo that ye are my wife. Let the servant-lass gang out, and ye can look after the meat.' "'Her! the idle taupie!' said she, 'we hae nae mair need for her than a cart has for a third wheel. Mony a time it has grieved me to observe her motions, when ye were out o' the way--and there would she and the other twa wenches been standing, clashing for an hour at a time, and no workin' a stroke. I often had it in my mind to tell ye, but only I thought ye might think it forward in me, as I perceived ye had a kindness for me. But I can baith do all that is to do in-doors, and work out-by also, and at the end o' the quarter she shall leave.' "'Wi' a' my heart,' says I, 'if ye wish it;' for it struck me she micht be a wee thocht jealous o' the lassie; 'but there is no the sma'est necessity for you working out in the fields; for though she leaves, we can get a callant at threepence a-day, that would just do as muckle out-work as she does, and ye would hae naething to attend to but the affairs o' the hoose.' "'O William!' replied she, 'I'm surprised to hear ye speak. Ye talk o' threepence a-day just as if it were naething. Hoo mony starving families are there, that threepence a-day would mak happy? It is my maxim never to spend a penny unless it be laid out to the greatest possible advantage. Ye should always keep that in view, every time ye put yer hand in your pocket. He that saves a penny has as mony thanks, in the lang run, as he that gies it awa. Threepence a-day, not including the Sabbath, is eighteenpence a-week; noo, you that are a scholar, only think how much that comes to in a twelvemonth. There are fifty-twa weeks in the year--that is fifty-twa shillings; and fifty-twa sixpences is--how much?' "'Twenty-six shillings, my dear,' said I, for I was quite amused at her calculation--the thing had never struck me before. "'Weel,' added she, 'fifty-two shillings and twenty-six shillings, put that together, and see how much it comes to.' "'Oh,' says I, after half a minute's calculation, 'it will just be three pounds, eighteen shillings, to a farthing.' "'Noo,' cried she, 'only think o' that!--three pounds eighteen shillings a-year; and ye would throw it away, just as if it were three puffs o' breath! Now, William, just listen to me and tak tent--that is within twa shillings o' four pounds. It would far mair than cleed you and me, out and out, frae head to foot, from year's end to year's end. But at present the wench's meat and wages come to three times that, and therefore I am resolved, William, that while I am able to work, we shall neither throw away the one nor the other. It is best that we should understand each other in time: therefore, I just tell ye plainly, as I said yesterday, that as I wish to end, I mean to begin. This very day, this very morning and hour, I go out wi' the bondage lassies to single the turnips; and, at the end o' the quarter, the lazy taupie butt-a-house maun walk aboot her business.' "'Weel, Kirsty, my darling,' says I, 'your way be it. Only I maun again say, that I had no wish or inclination whatever to see you toiling and thinning turnips beneath a burning sun, or maybe taking them up and shawing them, when the cauld drift was cutting owre the face keener than a razor.' "'Weel, William,' quoth she, 'it is needless saying any more words about it--it is my fixed and determined resolution.' "'Then, hinny,' says I, 'if ye be absolutely resolved upon that, it is o' no manner o' use to say ony mair upon the subject, of course--your way be it.' "So the servant lassie was discharged accordingly, and Kirsty did everything hersel. Wet day and dry day, whatever kind o' wark was to be done, there was she in the middle o' it, by her example spurring on the bondagers. Even when we began to hae a family, I hae seen her working in the fields wi' an infant on her back; and I am certain that for a dozen o' harvests, while she was aye at the head o' the shearers, there was aye our bairn that was youngest at the time, lying rowed up in a blanket at the foot o' the rig, and playing wi' the stubble to amuse itsel. "There were many that said that I was entirely under her thumb, and that she had the maister-skep owre me. But that was a grand mistake, for she by no means exercised onything like maistership owre me; though I am free to confess, that I at all times paid a great degree o' deference to her opinions, and that she had a very particular and powerfu' way o' enforcing them. Yet, although I was in no way cowed by her, there wasna a bairn that we had, from the auldest to the youngest, that durst play _cheep_ before her. She certainly had her family under great subjection, and their bringing up did her great credit. They were allowed time to play like ither bairns--but from the time that they were able to make use o' their hands, ye would hardly hae found it possible to come in upon us, and seen ane o' them idle. All were busy wi' something; and no ane o' them durst hae stepped owre a prin lying on the floor, without stooping doun to tak it up, or passed onything that was out o' its place without putting it right. For I will say for her again, that, if my Kirsty wasna a bonny wife, she was not only a thrifty but a tidy ane, and keepit every ane and every thing tidy around her. "She was a strange woman for abhorring everything that was new-fangled. She was a most devout believer in, and worshipper o' the wisdom o' oor ancestors. She perfectly hated everything like change; and as to onything that implied speculation, ye micht as weel hae spoken o' profanation in her presence. She said she liked auld friends, auld customs, auld fashions; and was the sworn enemy o' a' the innovations on the practices and habits that had been handed doun frae generation to generation. I dinna ken if ever she heard the names Whig or Tory in her life; but if Tory mean an enemy o' change, then my Kirsty certainly was a Tory o' the very purest water. "I dinna suppose that she believed there was such a word as _improvement_ in the whole Dictionary. She would hae allooed everything to stand steadfast as Lot's wife, for ever and for ever. But, however, just to gie ye a specimen or twa o' her remarkable disposition:--I think it was about sixteen years after we were married, that I took a tack o' an adjoining farm, which was much larger than the ane we occupied. I was conscious it would require every penny we had scraped thegither, and that we had saved, to stock it. My wife was by no means favourable to my taking it. She said we kenned what we had done, but we didna ken what we might do; and it was better to go on as we were doing, than to risk oor a'. I acknowledge that there was a vast deal o' truth in what she said; but, however, I saw that the farm was an excellent bargain, and I was resolved to tak it, say what she might; and therefore, though she was said to domineer owre me, yet, just to prove to every person round about that I was not under a wife's government, I did tak it. I had not had it twa years, when I began to find that thrashing wi' the flail would never answer. Often, when the markets were on the rise, and when I could hae turned owre many pounds into my ain pocket, I found it was a'thegither impossible for me to get my corn thrashed in time to catch the markets while they were high; and I am certain that, in the second year that I had the new farm, I lost at least a hundred pounds frae that cause alone--that is, I didna get a hundred pounds that I micht hae got, and that was much the same as losing it oot o' my pocket. Thrashing machines at that period were just beginning to come into vogue, but there was a terrible outcry against them; and mony a ane said that they were an invention o' the Prince o' Darkness; for my part I wish he would never do mair ill upon the earth, than invent sic things as thrashing-machines. Hooever, I saw plain and clearly the advantage that the machine had owre the flail, and I was determined to hae ane. But never did I see a woman in such a steer as the mention o' the thing put Kirsty in! She went perfectly wild aboot it. "'What, William!' she cried, 'what do ye talk aboot?' Losh me, man, have ye nae mair sense?--have ye nae discretion whatever? Will ye really rush upon ruin at a horse-race? Ye talk aboot getting a machine! How, I ask ye, how do ye expect that ever ye could prosper for a single day after, if ye were to throw oor twa decent barn-men oot o' employment, and their families oot o' bread? I just ask ye that question, William. Does na the proverb say--'Live and let live;' and hoo are men to live, if, by an invention o' the Enemy o' mankind, ye tak work oot o' their hands, and bread oot o' their mouths?" "'Dear me, Kirsty!' said I, 'hoo is it possible that a woman o' your excellent sense can talk such nonsense? Ye see very weel that, if I had had a machine, I micht hae made a hundred pounds mair than I did by last year's crops--that, certainly, would hae been a good turn to us--and, tak my word for it, it is neither in the power nor in the nature o' the Evil One to do a guid turn to onybody.' "'Willie,' quoth she, 'ye talk like a silly man--like a very silly man, indeed. If the Enemy o' mankind hadna it in his power to do for us what we tak to be for oor guid, hoo in the warld do ye think he could tempt us to our hurt? I say, that thrashing-machines are an invention o' his, and that they are ane o' the instruments he is bringing up for the ruin o' this country. It is him, and him alone, that is putting it into your head to buy ane o' his infernal devices, in order that he may not only ruin you, baith soul and body, by filling ye wi' a desire o' riches, an' making ye the oppressor and the robber o' the poor, but that, through your oppression and robbery, he may ruin them also, and bring them to shame or the gallows!' "'Forgie me, Kirsty,' said I, 'what in a' the world do ye mean? Hoo is it possible that ye can talk aboot me as likely to be either an oppressor or a robber o' the poor? I'll declare there never was a beggar passed either me or my door, that ever I saw, but I gied him something. I'm sure, guidwife, ye baith ken better o' me, and think better o' me than to talk sae.' "'Yes, William,' said she, 'I did think better o' ye; but I noo see distinctly that the Enemy is leading ye blindfolded to your ruin. First, through the pride o' your heart, he tempted ye to tak this big farm, that, as ye thocht, ye might hasten to be rich; and now he is seducing ye to buy ane o' his diabolical machines for the same end, and in order that ye may not only deprive honest men and their families o' bread, but, belike, rather than starve, tempt them to steal! And what ca' ye that but oppressing and robbing the poor? Hooever, buy a machine!--buy ane, and ye'll see what will be the upshot! If ye dinna repent it, say I'm no your wife.' "I confess her words were onything but agreeable to me, and they rather set me a hesitating hoo to act. Hooever my mind was bent upon buying the machine. I had said to several o' my neebors that I intended to hae ane put up; and I was convinced that, if I drew back o' my word, it would be said that my wife wouldna let me get it, and I would be made a general laughing-stock--and that was a thing that I held in greater dread than even my wife's lectures, severe as they sometimes were; therefore, reason or nane, I got a machine put up. It caused a very general outcry amongst a' the 'datal' men and their wives for miles round. At ae time I even thocht that they would mob me and pull it to pieces. But all their clamour was a mere snaw-flake fa'ing in the sea, compared wi' the perpetual dirdum that Kirsty rang in my ears about it. She actually threatened that judgments would follow, and I didna ken a' what. But, on the morning o' the day that I yoked the horses into it, and began to thrash wi' it for the first time I declare to you that she took the six bairns wi' her, and absolutely went to her faither's, vowing to work for them until the blood sprang from her finger-ends, rather then live wi' a man that would be guilty o' such madness and iniquity. "But having heard before dinner-time that I had had to employ a woman at sixpence a-day to feed into the machine she came back as fast as her feet could carry her, wi' a' the bairns behint her, and ordering the stranger away, began to feed the machine hersel', and the bairns carried her the sheaves. "I saw that out o' a spirit o' pure wickedness, she was distressing hersel' far beyond what there was the sma'est occasion for. It was as clear as day, that indignation was working in her heart, like barm fermenting in a bottle, and just about half an hour before we were to leave off thrashing for the nicht, she was seized with a very alarming pain in the breast. I saw and said it was a hysterical affection, and was altogether the consequence o' the passion that she had given way to on account o' the unlucky machine. She, however, denied that there were such diseases in existence as either hysterical or nervous affections. They were sham disorders, she said, that cam into the country wi' tea and spirit-drinking; and she assuredly was free from indulging in either the ane or the other. But she grew worse and worse, and was at last obliged to sit down upon some straw on the barn-floor. I ventured forward to her, and said--'Kirsty, woman, ye had better gang awa into the house. Ye will do yersel' mair ill by sittin there, for there is a current o' air through the loft, which, after you being warm with working, may gie ye your death o' cauld. Rise up, dear, and gang awa into the house, and try if a glass o' usquebae will do ye ony guid.' "Maister Burns, the poet, has said-- 'She has an ee, she has but _ane_;' but, certes, had he seen the look that she gied me as I then spoke to her, he would hae been satisfied that she had _twa_! I saw it was o' nae manner o' use for me either to offer advice or to express sympathy. The wife o' an auld man that was called John Neilson, and who for several years had been our barn-man, came into the machine-loft at the time, and wi' a great deal o' concern she asked my wife what was like the matter wi' her. Now this auld Peggy Neilson had the reputation, for miles round, o' being an extraordinary _skilly_ woman. There wasna a bairn in the parish took a sair throat, or got a burnt foot, or a cut finger, or took a _dwam_ for a day or twa, but its mother said--'I maun hae Peggy Neilson spoken to aboot that bairn, before it be owre late.' Kirsty, therefore, told her hoo she was affected, when the other, wi' the confidence o' a doctor o' medicine brought up at the first college in the kingdom, said--'Then, ma'am, if that be the way ye feel, there is naething in the warld sae guid for ye as a blast o' the pipe. I aye carry a tinder-box and flint and steel wi' me, and ye are welcome to a whuff o' my cutty.' "Now, Kirsty was a bitter enemy to baith smoking and snuffing in general; but she had great faith in the skill o' Peggy Neilson, and wad far rather hae done whatever she advised than followed the prescription o' the best doctor in a' the land. She took the auld woman's pipe, therefore, and began to blaw through a spirit o' pain and perverseness at the same moment. As I anticipated, it soon made her dizzy in the head, and she had to be led to the house. Hooever, in a short time, the pain she had been suffering was greatly abated, though whether the smoking contributed towards removing it or not, I dinna pretend to say. Just as she had been taen to the house, we were dune wi' thrashing for the day, and I was very highly gratified wi' the day's wark. "But I was very tired, and as soon as I had had my sowens I went to bed. I several times thought, and remarked it, that there was a sort o' burnt smell about. "'Ay,' said Kirsty, who by this time was a great deal better; 'they who will use the engines o' forbidden agents maun expect to smell them, as in the end they will feel them.' "Being conscious it was o' nae use to reason wi' her, for she in general had the better o' me in an argument, I tried to compose mysel' to sleep. But it was in vain to think o' closing my een, for the smell o' burning grew stronger and stronger, and I was rising again, saying--'There is something burning aboot somewhere, and I canna rest until I hae seen what it is.' "'Nor let other folk rest either,' said Kirsty. "Just at that moment, oor eldest dochter, who was as perfect a picture o' beauty as ever man looked upon wi' eyes o' admiration, and who being alarmed by the smell, as well as me, had gane oot to examine from what it proceeded came running oot o' breath, crying--'Faither! faither!-the barn and everything is on fire!' "'O goodness!' cried I, as I threw on part o' my claes in the twinkling o' an ee; 'what wretch can hae been sae wicked as to do it!' "'It's a judgment upon ye,' said Kirsty, 'for having such a thing about the place, after a' the admonitions ye had against it. I said ye would see what would be the upshot, and it hasna been lang o' coming.' "'O ye tormenter o' my life!' cried I, as I ran oot o' the house; 'it's your handy-work!' "'Mine!' exclaimed she. 'O ye heartless man that ye are, how dare ye presume either to say or think sic a thing!' and she followed me out. "The whole stackyard was black wi' smoke--it was hardly possible to breathe--and a great sheet o' fire, like the mouth o' a fiery dragon, was rushing and roaring out at the barn-door. I didna ken what to do; I was ready to rush head foremost into the middle o' the flames, as if that I could hae crushed them out wi' the weight o' my body; and I am persuaded that I would hae darted right into the machine loft, where the flames were bursting through the very tiles, as frae the mouth o' a volcano, had not my wife, and our eldest daughter Janet, flewn after me and held me in their arms, the one crying--'Be calm, William--do naething rashly--let us see to save what can be saved;' and the other saying--'Faither! faither! dinna risk your life.' "Now, there was a hard frost owre the entire face o' the ground, and there wasna a drop o' water to be got within a quarter o' a mile; and the whole o' my year's crop, with, the exception o' what had that day been thrashed, was in the stackyard. I shouted at the pitch of my voice for assistance, but the devouring flames soon roared louder than I did. Kirsty, wi' her usual presence o' mind, began to clear away the straw from around the barn, to prevent the fire from spreading, and she called upon the bairns and me to follow her example. She also ordered a laddie to set the horses out o' the stables, and the nowt oot o' the 'courtine,' and drive them into a field, where they would be oot o' danger. A' our neighbours round aboot, in a short time arrived to our assistance; but a' our combined efforts were unavailing. The wood wark o' the machine was already on fire--the barn roof fell in, and up flew such a volley o' smoke and firmament o' fire as man had never witnessed. The sparks ascended in millions upon millions; and as they poured down again like a shower o' fire, every stack that I had broke into a blaze, and the whole produce o' my farm, corn, straw, and hay became as a burning fiery furnace. It became impossible for ony living thing to remain in the stackyard. From end to end, and round and round, it was one fierce and awful flame. The heat was scorching, and the dense smoke was baith blinding and suffocating. Every person was obliged to flee from it. The very cattle in the field ran about in confusion, and moaned wi' terror, and the horses neighed wi' fright, and pranced to and fro. I stood at a distance, as motionless as a dead man, gazing wi' horror upon the terrific scene o' desolation, beholding the destruction o' my property--the burning up, as I may say, o' a' my prospects. The teeth in my head chattered thegither, and every joint in my body seemed oot o' its socket; and the raging o' destruction in the stackyard was naething to the raging o' misery in my breast; and especially because I coudna banish frae my brain the awfu' thought that the hand o' the wife o' my bosom had lighted the conflagration. While I was standing in this state o' speechless agony, and some around about me were pitying me, while others in whispers said--'He had nae business to get a thrashing machine, and the thing woudna hae happened,' Kirsty came forward to me, and takin' me by the hand, said--'William, dinna be silly--appear like a man before folk. Our loss is nae doubt great, but in time we may get ower it; and be thankfu' that it is nae waur than it is like to be--for your wife and bairns are spared to ye, and we have escaped unskaithed.' "'Awa, ye descendant o' Judas Iscariot!' cried I; 'dinna speak to me!' "'William,' said she, calmly, 'what infatuation possesses ye, man?--dinna mak a fool o' yoursel'.' "'Awa wi' ye!' cried I, perfectly shaking wi' rage. "'Dear me!' I heard a neighbour remark to another; 'how gruffly he speaks to Kirsty! I aye thought that she had the upperhand o' him, but it doesna appear by his manner o' speaking to her.' "Distracted, wretched, and angry as I was, I experienced a sort o' secret pleasure at hearing the observation. I had shewn them that I wasna a slave tied to my wife's apron-strings, as they supposed me to be. Kirsty left me wi' a look that had baith scorn and pity in it. But oor auldest lassie, my bonny fair-haired Janet--to look upon whose face I always delighted beyond everything on earth--came running forward to me; and throwing her arms about my neck, sobbed wi' her face upon my breast, and softly whispered--'Dinna stand that way, faither, a' body is looking at ye; and dinna speak harshly to my poor mother--she is distressed enough without you being angry wi' her.' I bent my head upon my bairn's shouther, and the tears ran doun my cheeks. "By this time, everything was oot o' the house; and the fire was prevented from reaching it, chiefly through the daring exertions o' a hafflins laddie, whose name was James Patrick, who was the son o' a neebor farmer, and who, though no aboon seventeen years o' age, I observed was very fond o' oor bonny Janet; for I had often observed the young creatures wandering in the loaning thegither; and when ye mentioned the name o' the ane before the other, the blood rose to their face. "Next morning, the stackyard, barn, byres, and stables, presented a fearful picture o' devastation. There was naething to be seen but the still smoking heaps o' burnt straw and roofless buildings, wi' wreck and ruin to the richt hand and to the left. Some thought that the calamity would knock me aff my feet, and cause me to become a broken man--and I thought myself that that would be its effect. But Kirsty was determined that we should never sink while we had a finger to wag to keep us aboon the water. Cheap as she had always maintained the house, she now keepit it at almost no expense whatever. For more than two years, nothing was allowed to come into it but what the farm produced, and what we had within ourselves, neither in meat nor in claething. "But though I witnessed all her exertions, nothing could satisfy my mind that she was not the cause o' the destruction o' the machine, and through it o' all that was in and about the stackyard. The idea haunted me perpetually, and rendered me miserable, and I could not look upon my wife without saving to mysel--'Is it possible that she could hae been guilty o' such folly and great wickedness.' I was the more confirmed in my suspicion, because she never again mentioned the subject o' the machine in my hearing, neither would she allow it to be spoken aboot by ony ane else. "What gratified me maist, during the years that we had to undergo privation, was the cheerfulness wi' which all the bairns submitted to it; and I couldna deny that it was solely to her excellent manner o' bringing them up. Our Janet, who was approaching what may be called womanhood, was now talked o' through the hale country-side for her beauty and sweet temper; and it pleased me to observe, that, during our misfortune, the attentions o' James Patrick (through whose skilful exertions oor house was saved frae the conflagration) increased. It was admitted, on all hands, that a more winsome couple were never seen in Nithsdale. "Oor auldest son, David, who was only fifteen months younger than his sister, had also grown to be o' great assistance to me. Before he was seventeen he was capable o' man's work, which enabled me to do with a hind less than I had formerly employed. My landlord, also, was very considerate; and, the first year after the burning, he gave me back the half o' the rent, which I, with great difficulty, had been able to scrape thegether. But when I went hame, and, in the gladness o' my heart, began to count down the money upon the table before Kirsty and the bairns, and to tell them how good the laird had been--'Tak it up, William!' cried she, 'tak it up, and gang back wi' it--he would consider it an obligation a' the days o' our lives. I will be beholden to neither laird nor lord! nor shall ony ane belonging to me--sae, tak back the money, for it isna ours!' "'Bless me!' thought I, 'but this is something very remarkable. This is certainly another proof that she really is at the bottom o' the fire-raising. It is the consciousness o' her guilt that makes her shudder at and refuse the kind kindness o' the laird.' "'It is braw talking, Kirsty,' said I, 'but I see nae necessity for persons that hae been visited wi' a misfortune such as we met wi', and wha hae suffered sae much on account o' it, to let their pride do them an injury or exceed their discretion. Consider that we hae a rising family to provide for.' "'Consider what ye like,' quoth she, 'but, if ye accept the siller, consider what will be the upshot. Ye would hae to be hat in hand to him at all times and on all occasions. Yer very bairns would be, as it were, his bought slaves. No, William, tak back the money--I order ye!' "'Ye _order_ me!' cried I, 'there's a guid ane!--and where got ye authority to order me. If ye will hae the siller taen back, tak it back yersel.' "Without saying another word, she absolutely whipped it off the table, every plack and bawbee, into her apron; and, throwing on her rockelay and hood, set aff to the laird's wi' it, where, as I was afterwards given to understand, she threw it down upon his table wi' as little ceremony as she had sweept it aft' mine. "Ye may weel imagine that baith my astonishment and vexation were very considerable. I had seen a good deal o' Kirsty, but the act o' taking back the siller crowned a'! "'Losh!' said I, in the pure bitterness o' my spirit, 'that caps a'!--that is even worse than destroying the machine, wi' the stacks and stabling into the bargain!' "'What do ye mean about destroying the machine, faither?' inquired Janet and David, almost at the same instant--'who do ye say destroyed it?' "'Naebody,' said I, angrily, 'naebody!'--for I found I had said what I ought not to hae said. "'Really, faither,' said Janet, 'whatever it may be that ye think and hint at, I am certain that ye do my mother a great injustice if ye harbour a single thought to her prejudice. It may appear rather proud-spirited her takin back the siller, though I hae na doubt, in the lang run, but we'll a' approve o' it.' "'That is exactly what I think, too,' said David. "'Oh, nae dout!' said I, 'nae dout o' that!--for she has ye sae learned, that everything she does, or that ony o' ye does, is always right; and whatever I do must be wrang!' and I went oot o' the house in a pet, driving the door behind me, and thinking about the machine and the loss o' the siller. "Hooever, I am happy to say, that although Kirsty did tak back the money to the laird and leave it wi' him, yet, as I have already hinted to ye, through her frugal management, within a few years we got the better o' the burning. But there is a saying, that some folk are no sooner weel than they're ill again--and I'm sure I may say that at that time. I no sooner got the better o' the effects o' ae calamity, until another overtook me. Ye hae heard what a terrible dirdum the erecting o' toll-bars caused throughout the country, and upon the Borders in particular. Kirsty was one o' those who cried oot most bitterly against them. She threatened, that if it were attempted to place ane within ten miles o' oor farm, she would tear it to pieces with her ain hands. "'Here's a bonny time o' day, indeed!' said she, 'that a body canna gang for a cart-load o' coals or peats, or tak their corn, or whatever it may be, to the market, but they must pay whatever a set o' Justices o' the Peace please to charge them for the liberty o' driving along the road. Na, na! the roads did for our faithers before us, and they will do for us. They went alang them free and without payment, and so will we; for I defy any man to claim, what has been a public road for ages, as his property. Only submit to such an imposition, and see what will be the upshot. But, rather than they shall mak sic things in this neighbourhood, I will raise the whole countryside.' "Unfortunately in this, as in everything else, she verified her words. A toll-bar was erected within half-a-mile o' oor door Kirsty was clean mad about it. She threatened not only to break the yett to pieces, but to hang the toll-keeper owre the yett-post if he offered resistance. I thought o' my machine, and said little; and the more especially because every ane, baith auld and young, and through the whole country, so far as I could hear, were o' the same sentiments as Kirsty. There never was onything proposed in this kingdom that was mair unpopular. And, I am free to confess, that, with regard to the injustice o' toll-bars, I was precisely o' the same way o' thinkin' as my wife--only I by no means wished to carry things to the extremes that she wished to bring them to. "I ought to tell ye, that our laird was more than suspected o' being the principal cause o' us having a toll-bar placed so near us, so that we could neither go to lime, coals, nor market, without gaun through it. I was, therefore, almost glad that my wife had taken back the siller to him, lest--as I was against raising a disturbance about the matter--folk should say that my hands and tongue were tied wi' the siller which he had given me back; for, if I didna wish to be considered the slave o' my wife, as little did I desire to be thought the tool o' my landlord. But, ae day, I had been in at Dumfries in the month o' July, selling my wool; I had met wi' an excellent market, and a wool-buyer from Leeds and I got very hearty thegether. He had bought from me before; and, on that day, he bought all that I had. I knew him to be an excellent man, though a keen Yorkshireman--and, ye ken, that the Yorkshire folk and we Scotchmen are a gay tight match for ane anither--though I believe, after a', they rather beat us at keeping the grip o' the siller; but as I intended to say, I treated him, and he treated me, and a very agreeable day we had. I recollect when he was pressing me to hae the other gill, I sang him a bit hamely sang o' my ain composing. Ye shall hear it. Nay, dinna press, I winna stay, For drink shall ne'er abuse me; It's time to rise and gang away-- Sae neibors ye'll excuse me. It's true I like a social gill, A friendly crack wi' cronies; But I like my wifie better still, Our Jennies an' our Johnnies. There's something by my ain fireside-- A saft, a haly sweetness; I see, wi' mair than kingly pride, My hearth a heaven o' neatness Though whisky may gie care the fling, It's triumph's unco noisy; A jiffy it may pleasure bring, But comfort it destroys aye. But I can view my ain fireside Wi' a' a faither's rapture;-- Wee Jenny's hand in mine will slide, While Davy reads his chapter. I like your company and yer crack, But there's ane I loo dearer, Ane wha will sit till I come back, Wi' ne'er a ane to cheer her. A waff o' joy comes owre her face The moment that she hears me; The supper--a' thing's in its place, An' wi' her smiles she cheers me. However, I declare to you, it was very near ten o'clock before I left the house we are sitting in at present, and put my foot in the stirrup. But, as my friend Robin says-- 'Weel mounted on my grey mare Meg,' I feared for naething; and, though I had sixteen lang Scots miles to ride, I thought naething aboot it; for, as he says again-- 'Kings may be great, but I was glorious, Owre a' the ills o' life victorious!' But, just as I had reached within about half a mile o' the toll-bar that had been erected near my farm, I saw a sort o' light rising frae the ground, and reflected on the sky. My heart sank within me in an instant. I remembered the last time I had seen such a light. I thought o' my burning stackyard, o' my ruined machine, and o' Kirsty! My first impulse was to gallop forward, but a thousand thoughts, a thousand fears cam owre me in an instant; and I thought that evil tidings come quick enough o' their ain accord, without galloping to meet them. As I approached the toll-bar, the flame and the reflection grew brighter and brighter; and I heard the sound o' human voices, in loud and discordant clamour. My forebodings told me, to use Kirsty's words, what would be the upshot. I hadna reached within a hundred yards o' the bar, when, aboon a' the shouting and the uproar, I heard her voice, the voice o' my ain wife, crying--'Mak him promise that it shall ne'er be put up again--mak him swear to it--or let his yett gang the gaet o' the toll-yett!' "In a moment all that I had dreaded I found to be true. At the sound o' her voice, hounding on the enraged multitude, (though I didna altogether disapprove o' what they were doing,) I plunged my spurs into my horse, and galloped into the middle o' the outrageous crowd, crying--'Kirsty! I say, Kirsty! awa hame wi' ye! What right or what authority had ye to be there?' "'Hear him! hear him!' cried the crowd, 'Willie has turned a toll-bar man, and a laird man, because the Laird once offered him the half o' his rent back again! Never mind him, Kirsty!--we'll stand yer friends!' "'I thank ye, neighbours,' said she, 'but I require nae body to stand as friends between my guidman and me. I ken it is my duty to obey him, that is, when he is himsel', and comes hame at a reasonable time o' nicht; but not when he is in a way that he doesna ken what he's saying, as he is the nicht.' "'Weel done, Mistress Wastle!' cried a dozen o' them; 'we see ye hae the whip-hand o' him yet!' "'The mischief tak ye!' cried I, 'for a wheen ill-mannered scoundrels; but I'll let every mother's son and dochter among ye ken whase hand the whip is in!' "And, wi' that, I began to lay about me on every side; but, before I had brought the whip half-a-dozen o' times round my head, I found that the horse was out from under me; and there was I wi' my back upon the ground, while, on the one side, was a heavy foot upon my breast, and, on the other, Kirsty threatening ony ane that would injure a hair o' her husband's head; and my son David and James Patrick rushing forward, seized the man by the throat that had his foot upon my breast, and, in an instant, they had him lying where I had lain; for they were stout, powerfu' lads. "But when I got upon my feet, and began to recover from the surprise that I had met wi', there did I see the laird himsel, standing trembling like an ash leaf in the middle o' the unruly mob--and, as ringleader o' the whole, my wife Kirsty shaking her hand in his face, and endeavouring to extort from him a promise, that there never should be another toll-bar erected upon his grounds, while he was laird! "'Kirsty!' I exclaimed, 'what are ye after? Are ye mad?' "'No, William!' cried she, 'I am not mad, but I am standing out for our rights against injustice; and sorry am I to perceive that, at a time when everybody is crying out and raising their hand against the oppression that is attempted to be practised upon them, my guidman should be the only coward in the countryside.' "'William Wastle!' said the terrified laird, whom some o' them were handling very roughly, (and principally, I must confess, at the instigation o' Kirsty,) 'I am glad to see that I have one tenant upon my estate who is a true man; and I ask your protection.' "'Such protection as I can afford, sir,' said I, 'ye shall have; but, after the rough handling winch I have experienced this very moment, I dout it is not much that is in my power to afford ye.' "'Get yer faither awa to his bed, bairns!' cried my wife, as I was driving my way through the crowd to the assistance o' the laird; and I'll declare, if my son David, and James Patrick, didna actually come behind me, and, lifting me aff my feet, carried me shouther-high a' the way to my bedroom; and, in spite o' my threats, expostulations, and commands, locked me into it. "Weel, thought I, as I threw myself down upon the bed, without taking aff my claes, (partly because I found my head wanted ballast to tak them aff,) I said unto mysel--'This comes o' having a wise and headstrong wife, and bairns o' her way o' bringing up. But if ever I marry again and hae a family, I shall ken better how to act.' "Notwithstanding all that I had undergone and witnessed, in the space o' ten minutes, I fell fast asleep; and the first thing that I awoke to recollect--that is, to be conscious o'--was my daughter Janet rushing to my bedside, and crying--'Faither! faither! my mother is a prisoner!--my poor dear mother, and James Patrick also!--and I heard the laird saying that they would baith be transported, as the very least that could happen them for last night's work, which I understand will be punished more severely than even highway robbery!' "I awoke like a man born to a consciousness o' horror, and o' naething but horror. All that I had seen and heard and encountered on the night before, was just as a dream to me, but a dismal dream I trow. "'Where is yer mother?' I gasped, 'or what is it that ye are saying, hinny? and--where is James Patrick?' "'Oh!' cried my darling daughter, 'before this time they are baith in Dumfries jail, for pu'ing down and burning the toll-yetts, and threatening the life o' the laird. But everybody says it will gang particularly hard against my mother and poor James; for, though every one was to blame, they were what they ca' ringleaders.' "I soon recollected enough o' the previous night's proceedings to comprehend what my daughter said. I hurried on my claes, and awa I flew to Dumfries. But I ought to tell ye, that the laird's servants had ridden in every direction for assistance; and having got three or four constables, and about a dozen o' the regular military, all armed wi' swords and pistols, they made poor Kirsty and James Patrick, wi' about a dozen others, prisoners, and conveyed them to Dumfries jail. "When I was shewn into the prison, Kirsty and James, and the whole o' them, were together. 'O Kirsty, woman!' said I, in great distress, 'could ye no hae keepit at hame while my back was turned! Why hae ye brought the like o' this upon us? I'm sure ye kenned better! _Was the destruction o' the machine and the stackyard no a warning to ye!_' "'William,' answered she, 'what is it that ye mean?--is this a time to cast upon me yer low-minded suspicions? Had ye last nicht acted as a man, we micht hae got the laird to comply wi' our request; but it is through you, and such as you, that everything in this unlucky country is gaun to destruction; and sorry am I to say that ill o' ye--for a kind, a good, and a faithfu' husband hae ye been to me, William.' "'O sir!' said James Patrick, coming forward and taking me by the hand, 'may I just beg that ye will tak my respects to yer dochter Janet; and, I hope, that whatever may be the issue o' this awkward affair, that she will in no way look down upon me, because I happen to be as a sort o' prisoner in a jail.' My heart rose to my mouth, and I hadna a word to say to either my wife or him. "'Weel," said I, as I left them, 'I must do the best I can to bring baith o' ye aff; and, to accomplish it, the best lawyers in a' Scotland shall be employed.' "But to go on--at a very great expense, I, and the faither o' James Patrick, had employed the very principal advocates that went upon the Dumfries circuit; and they tauld us that we had naething to fear, and that we might keep ourselves quite at ease. "I was glad that my son David hadna been seized and imprisoned, as weel as his mother and James Patrick, for he also had been ane o' the ringleaders in the breaking doun and burning o' the toll-bars, and in the assault upon the laird. But he escaped apprehension at the time, and I suppose they thought that they had enough in custody to answer the ends o' justice and the law, and, therefore, he was permitted to remain unmolested. "Now, sir, comes the most melancholy part o' my story. I had a quantity o' wool to deliver to the Yorkshire buyer, I hae already mentioned, upon a certain day. My son David was to drive the carts wi' it to Annan. It was sair wark, and he had but little sleep for a fortnight thegether. It caused him to travel night and day, load after load. Now, I needna tell ye, that at that period the roads were literally bottomless. The horse just went plunge, plunging, and the cart jerking, now to ae side, and now to another, or giein a shake sufficient to drive the life out o' ony body that was in it. Now, the one wheel was on a hill, and the other in a hollow; or, again, baith were up to the axle-tree in mud, or the horse half-swimming in water! And yet people cried out against toll-bars! But, as I hae been telling ye, my son David had driven wool to Annan for a fortnight, and he was sair worn out. The roads were in a dreadful state--worse than if, now-a-days, ye were to attempt to drive through a bog. "Ae night, when he was expected hame, his sister Janet, and mysel' sat lang up waiting upon him, and wondering what could be keeping him, when a stranger rode up to the door, and asked if 'one Mr William Wastle lived there?' I replied 'Yes!' And, oh! what think ye were his tidings, but that my name had been seen upon the carts, that the horses had stuck fast in the roads, and that my son David, who had fallen from the shafts, had either been killed, or drowned among the horses' feet! "I thought his brothers and sisters, and especially Janet, would have gane oot o' their judgment. As for me, a' the trials I had had were but as a drap in a bucket when compared wi' this! "But, after I had mourned for a night, the worst was to come. Hoo was I to tell his poor imprisoned mother!--imprisoned as she wis for opposing the very thing that would hae saved her son's life! "Next day I went to Dumfries; but I declare that I never saw the light o' the sun hae sic a dismal appearance. The fields appeared to me as if I saw them through a mist. Even distance wasna as it used to be. I was admitted into the prison, but I winna--oh no! I canna repeat to ye the manner in which I communicated the tidings to his mother! It was too much for her then--it would be the same for me now! for naething in the whole coorse o' my life ever shook me so much as the death o' my poor David. But I remember o' saying to her, and I declare to you upon the word o' a man, unthinkingly--'O Kirsty, woman! had we had toll-bars, David might still hae been living!' "'William, William!' she cried, and fell upon my neck, 'will ye kill me outright!' And, for the first time in my life, I saw the tears gushing down her cheeks. Those tears washed away the very remembrance o' the machine, and the burning o' the stacks. I pressed her to my heart, and my tears mingled wi' hers. "I believe it was partly through our laird that baith Kirsty and James Patrick were liberated without being brought to a trial. Her imprisonment, and the death o' our son, had wrought a great change upon my wife; and I think it was hardly three months after her being set at liberty, that we were baith sent for to auld John Neilson the barnman's, whose wife Peggy lay upon her death-bed. When we approached her bedside, she raised herself upon her elbow, and said--'The burning o' yer barn and stackyard has always been a mystery--hear the real truth from the words o' a dying and guilty woman. Yer machine had thrown my husband out o' employment, and when yer wife there gied me back the pipe, a whuff o' which I said would do her good, _I let the burning dottle drap among the straw_--nane o' ye observed it--ye were a' leaving the barn. Now, ye ken the cause--on my death-bed I make the confession.' "I declare I thought my heart would hae louped out o' my body. I pressed my wife, against whom I had harboured such vile suspicions, to my breast. She saw my meaning--she read my feelings. "'William,' said she, kindly, 'if ye hae onything on yer mind that ye wish to forget, so hae I; let us baith forget and forgie!' "I felt Kirsty's bosom heaving upon mine, and I was happy. "Within six months after this, James Patrick and our dochter Janet were married; and an enviable couple they then were, and such they are unto this day. And, as for my Kirsty, auld though she is, and though the sang says-- 'I wadna gie a button for her,' auld, I say, as she is, and wi' a' her faults, I would gie a' the buttons upon my coat for her still, and a' the siller that ever was in my pouch into the bargain." [Footnote 4: Mr Allan Cunningham, in his Life of Burns, states the following particulars respecting Willie's wife:--viz., that "He was a farmer, who lived near Burns, at Ellisland. She was a very singular woman--tea, she said, would be the ruin of the nation; sugar was a sore evil; wheaten bread was only fit for babes; earthenware was a pickpocket; wooden floors were but fit for thrashing upon; slated roofs, cold; feathers good enough for fowls. In short, she abhorred change: and whenever anything new appeared--such as harrows with iron teeth--'Ay! ay!' she would exclaim, 'ye'll see the upshot!' Of all modern things she disliked china most--she called it 'burnt clay,' and said 'it was only fit for haudin' the broo o' stinkin' weeds,' as she called tea. On one occasion, an English dealer in cups and saucers asked so much for his wares, that he exasperated a peasant, who said, 'I canna purchase, but I ken ane that will. Gang there,' said he, pointing to the house of Willie's wife, 'dinna be blate or burd-moothed; ask a guid penny--she has the siller!' Away went the poor dealer, spread out his wares before her, and summed up all by asking a double price. A blow from her crummock was his instant reward, which not only fell on his person, but damaged his china. 'I'll learn ye,' quoth she, as she heard the saucers jingle, 'to come wi' yer brazent English face, and yer bits o' burnt clay to me!' She was an unlovely dame--her daughters, however, were beautiful."--ED.] THE STONE-BREAKER. If any of our readers had had occasion to go out, for a couple of miles or so, on the road leading from Edinburgh to the village of Carlops, any time during the summer of the year 1836, they would have seen a little old man--very old--employed in breaking metal for the roads. The exact spot where _we_ saw him, was at the turn of the eastern shoulder of the Pentland Hills; but the nature of his employment rendering him somewhat migratory, he may have been seen by others in a different locality. In the appearance of the old stone-breaker, there was nothing particularly interesting--nothing to attract the attention of the passer-by--unless it might be his great age. This, however, certainly was calculated to do so; and when it did, it must have been accompanied by a painful feeling at seeing one so old and feeble still toiling for the day that was passing over him; and toiling, too, at one of the most dreary, laborious, and miserable occupations which can well be conceived. Had the old man no children who could provide for the little wants of their aged parent, without the necessity of his still labouring for them--who could secure him in that ease which exhausted nature demanded? It appeared not. Perhaps it was a spirit of independence that nerved his weak arm, and kept him toiling so far beyond the usual term of human capability. Probably the proud-spirited old man would break no bread but that which he had earned by the sweat of his brow and the labour of his hands. Perhaps it was so. At any rate, this we know, that, at the early hour of five in the morning, as regularly as the morning came, the old stone-breaker had already commenced his monotonous labour. But this was not all. He had also, by this early hour, walked upwards of four miles--for so far distant was the scene of his occupation from the place of his residence, Edinburgh. He must, therefore, have left home between three and four o'clock, and this was his daily round, without intermission, without variation, and without relaxation. A bottle of butter-milk and a penny loaf formed each day's sustenance. His daily earnings, labouring from five in the morning till six at night, averaged about ninepence! Hear ye this, ye who ride in emblazoned carriages! Hear ye this, ye loungers on the well-stuffed couch!--and hear it, ye revellers at the festive board, who have never toiled for the luxuries ye enjoy! Hear it, and think of it! But of this person we have other things to tell; and to these we proceed. One morning, just after he had commenced the labours of the day, a young man, of about four or five and twenty years of age, accosted him, wished him a good morning, and seated himself on the heap of broken metal on which the old man was at work, and did so seemingly with the intention of entering into conversation with him. This was a proceeding to which the latter was much accustomed, it being a frequent practice with the humbler class of wayfarers. The advances of the stranger, therefore, in the present instance, did not for a moment interrupt his labours, or slacken his assiduity. He hammered on without raising his head, even while returning the greetings that were made him. "A delightful view from this spot," said the young man, breaking in upon a silence which had continued for some time after the first salutations had passed between them. "Yes," said the old man, drily; and, continuing his operations, he again relapsed into his usual taciturnity; for, in truth, he was naturally of a morose and uncommunicative disposition. Undeterred by his cold, repulsive manner, the stranger again broke silence, and said, with a deep-drawn sigh-- "How I envy these little birds that hop so joyously from spray to spray! Their life is a happy one. Would to God I were one of them!" The oddness of the expressions, and the earnestness with which they were pronounced, had an effect on the labourer which few things had. They induced him to pause in his work, to raise his head, and to look in the face of the speaker, which he did with a smile of undefinable meaning. It was the first full look he had taken of him, and it discovered to him a countenance open and pleasing in its expression, but marked with deep melancholy, and telling, in language not to be misunderstood, a tale of heart-sickness of the most racking and depressing kind. "Has your lot been ill cast, young man, that ye envy the bits o' burds o' the air the freedom and the liberty that God has gien them?" said the old man, eyeing the stranger scrutinizingly, with a keen, penetrating grey eye, that had not even yet lost all its fire. "It has," replied the latter. "I have been unfortunate in the world. I have struggled hard with my fate, but it has at length overwhelmed me." The old man muttered something unintelligibly, and, without vouchsafing any other reply, resumed his labours. After another pause of some duration, which, however, he had evidently employed in _thinking_ on the declaration of unhappiness which had just been made him-- "Some folly o' your ain, young man, very likely," said he, carelessly, and still knapping the stones, whose bulk it was his employment to reduce. "No," replied the young man, blushing; but it was a blush which he who caused it did not see. "I cannot blame myself." "Nae man does," interposed the stone-breaker; "he aye blames his neighbours." "Perhaps so," rejoined the stranger; "but you will allow that it is perfectly possible for a man to be unfortunate without any fault on his own part." "I hae seldom seen't," replied the ungracious and unaccommodating old man; and he hammered on. "Well, perhaps so," said the youth; "but I hope you will not deny that such things _may_ be." "Canna say," was the brief, but sufficiently discouraging rejoinder. "Then let us drop the subject," said the stranger, smilingly. "Each will still judge of the world by his own experience. But, methinks, your own case, my friend, is a hard enough one. To see a man of your years labouring at this miserable employment, is a painful sight. Your debt to fortune is also light, I should believe." "I hae aye trusted mair to my ain industry than to fortune, young man. I never pat it in her power to jilt me. I never trusted her, and therefore, she has never deceived me; so her and me are quits." And the old man plied away with his long, light hammer. "Yet your earnings must be scanty?" "I dinna compleen o' them." "I daresay not; but will you not take it amiss my offering this small addition to them?" And he tendered him a half-crown piece. "I have but little to spare, and that must be my apology for offering you so trifling a gift." The man here again paused in his operations, and again looked full in the face of the stranger, but without making any motion towards accepting the proffered donation. "I thocht ye said ye war in straits, young man," he said, and now resting his elbow on the end of his hammer. "And I said truly," replied the former, again colouring. "Then hoo come ye to be sportin yer siller sae freely? I wad hae thocht ye wad hae as muckle need o' a half-croon as I hae?" "Perhaps I may," replied the stranger; "but that's not to hinder me from feeling for others, nor from relieving their distresses so far as I can." "Foolish doctrine, young man, an' no' for this warl. It's nae wunner that ye're in difficulties. I guessed the faut was yer ain, and noo I'm sure o't. Put up yer half-croon, sir. I dinna tak charity." "I hope, however, I have not offended you by the offer? It was well meant." "Ou, I daresay--I'm no the least offended; but tak an auld man's advice, an' dinna let yer feelins hae the command o' yer purse-strings, otherwise ye'll never hae muckle in't." And the churlish old stone-breaker resumed his labours, and again relapsed into taciturnity. Silent as he was, however, it was evident that he was busily thinking, although none but himself could possibly tell what was the subject of his thoughts; but this soon discovered itself. After a short time, he again spoke-- "What may the nature an' cause o' yer defeeculties be, young man, an' I may speer?" he said--"and I fancy I may, since ye hae been sae far free on the subject o yer ain accord." "That's soon told," replied the stranger. "Three years ago, an aunt, with whom I was an especial favourite, left me two hundred and fifty pounds. With this sum I set up in business in Edinburgh in the ironmongery line, to which I was bred. My little trade prospered, and gradually attained such an extent that I found I could not do without an efficient assistant, who should look after the shop while I was out on the necessary calls of business. In this predicament I bethought me of my brother, who was a year older than myself, and accordingly sent for him to Selkirkshire, where he resided with our father, assisting him in his small farming operations; this being the business of the latter. My brother came; and, for some time, was everything I could have wished--sober, regular, and attentive; and we thus got on swimmingly. This, however, was a state of matters which was not long to continue. When my brother had about completed a year with me, I began to perceive a gradual falling off in his anxiety about the interests of our little business. I remonstrated with him on one or two occasions of palpable neglect; but this, instead of inducing him to greater vigilance, had the effect only of rendering him more and more careless. But I did not then know the worst. I did not then know that, in place of aiding, he was robbing me. This was the truth, however. He had formed an infamous connection with a woman of disreputable character, and the consequence was the adoption of a regular system of plunder on my little property, to answer the calls which she was constantly making on my unfortunate relative. "About this time I took ill, and, not suspecting the integrity of my brother, although aware of his carelessness, I did not hesitate to trust him with the entire conduct of my affairs. Indeed, I could not help myself in this particular; he best knowing my business, and being, besides, the natural substitute for myself in such a case. For three months was I confined, unable to leave my own room; and, when I did come out, I found myself a ruined man. In this time, my brother had appropriated almost every farthing that had been drawn to his own purposes; and had, moreover, done the same by some of my largest and best outstanding accounts; and, to sum up all, he had fled, I knew not whither, on the day previous to that on which I made my first appearance in my shop after my recovery. That is about ten days since." "Did the rascal harry ye oot an' oot?" here interposed the old stone-breaker, knapping away with great earnestness. "No; there was a little on which he could not lay his hands--some considerable accounts which are payable only yearly; there was also some stock in the shop; but these, of course, are now the property of my creditors." "But could ye no get a settlement wi' them, an' go on?" inquired the other, still knapping away assiduously. "I'm sure if you stated your case, your creditors wadna be owre hard on ye." "Perhaps they might not; but there is one circumstance that puts it out of my power to make any attempt at arrangement. There is one bill of fifty pounds, due to a Sheffield house, on which diligence has been raised, and on which I am threatened with instant incarceration. In truth, it is this proceeding that has brought me here so early this morning. I expected to have been taken in my bed, as the charge was out yesterday, and I am here to keep out of the way of the messengers. I am thus deprived of the power of helping myself--of taking any steps towards the adjustment of my affairs." "An' could ye do any guid, think ye, if that debt wur paid, or in some way arranged?" inquired the other. "I think I could;" said the party questioned. "My good outstanding debts are yet considerable, and so is the stock in the shop; so that, had a little time been allowed me, I could have got round. But all that is knocked on the head, by the impending diligence against me. That settles the matter at once, by depriving me of the necessary liberty to go about my affairs." "It's a pity," said the man, drily. "Wha's the man o' business in Edinburgh that thae Sheffield folk hae employed to prosecute ye? What ca' ye him?" "Mr Langridge." "Ou ay, I hae heard o' him. An will he no gie ye ony indulgence?" "He cannot. His instructions are imperative, otherwise he would, I am convinced; for he is an excellent sort of man, and knows all about me and my affairs. Indeed, so willing was he to have assisted me, that, when the bill was first put into his hands, he wrote to his clients, strongly recommending lenient measures and bearing testimony, on his own knowledge, to the hardship of my case; but their reply was brief and peremptory. It was to proceed against me instantly, and threatening him with the loss of their business if he did not. For this uncompromising severity they assigned as a reason, their having been lately 'taken in,' as they expressed it, to a large extent, by a number of their Scotch customers. So Mr. Langridge had no alternative but to do his duty, and let matters take their course." "True," replied the monosyllabic stone-breaker. It was all he said, or, if he had intended to say more, which, however, is not probable, no opportunity was afforded him; for at this moment three labouring men of his acquaintance, who were on their way to their work, came up and began conversing. On this interruption taking place, the young man rose, wished him a good morning, which was merely replied to by a slight nod, and went his way. At this point in our story, we change the scene to the writing chambers of Mr. Langridge, and the time we advance to the evening of the day on which our tale opens. It will surprise the reader to find our old stone-breaker, still wearing the patched and threadbare clothes, the battered and torn hat, and the coarse, strong shoes, which had never rejoiced in the contact of blacking brush, in which he prosecuted his daily labours, ringing the door-bell of Mr Langridge's house, about eight o'clock in the evening. It will still more surprise him, perhaps, to find this man received, notwithstanding the homeliness, we might have said wretchedness, of his appearance, by Mr Langridge himself with great courtesy, and even with a slight air of deference. On his entering the apartment in which that gentleman was, the latter immediately rose from his seat, and advanced, with extended hand, towards him. "Ah, Mr Lumsden," he exclaimed, "how do you do? I hope I see you well. Come, my dear sir, take a chair." And he ran with eager civility for the convenience he named, and placed it for the accommodation of his visiter. When the old man was seated-- "Well, my dear sir," said Mr Langridge, "I am sorry to say that _your rents_ have not come so well in this last half-year as usual. We are considerably short." And the man of business hurried to a large green painted tin box, that stood amongst some others on a shelf, and bore on its front the name of Lumsden, and from this drew forth what appeared to be a list or rent roll, which he spread out on the table. "We are considerably short," he said. "There's six or eight of your folks who have paid nothing yet, and as many more who have made only partial payments." "Ay," said the man, crustily, "what's the meanin' o' that? Ye maun just screw them up, Mr Langridge; for I canna want my siller, and I winna want it. Hae thae folk Thamsons, paid yet?" "Not a shilling more than you know of," replied Mr Langridge. "Weel, then, Mr Langridge, ye maun just tak the necessary steps to recover; for I'm determined to hae my rent. I'm no gaun to aloo mysel' to be ruined this way. They wadna leave me a sark to my back, if I wad let them. Ye maun just sequestrate, Mr Langridge--ye maun just sequestrate, an' we'll help oorsels to payment, since they winna help us." "Oh, surely, surely, my dear sir. All fair and right. But I would just mention to you, that though, latterly, they have been dilatory payers--I would say, shamefully so--they are yet decent, honest, well-meaning people, these Thomsons; and that, moreover, there is some reason for their having been so remiss of late, although it is, certainly, none whatever why you should want your rent." "No, I fancy no," here interposed the other, with a triumphant chuckle. "No, certainly not," went on Mr Langridge, who seemed to know well how to manage his eccentric client; "but only, I would just mention to you, that the _reason_ of the dilatoriness of the Thomsons, is the husband's having been unable, from illness, to work for the last three months, and that, in that time, they have also lost no less than two children. It is rather a piteous case." "An' what hae I to do wi' a' that?" exclaimed the other, impatiently. "What hae I to do wi' a' that, I wad like to ken? Am I to be ca'ed on to relieve a' the distress in the world? That wad be a bonny set o't. Am I to be robbed o' my richts that others may be at ease? That I winna, I warrant you. See that ye recover me thae folk's arrears, Mr Langridge, by hook or by crook, and that immediately, though ye shouldna leave them a stool to sit upon. That's _my_ instructions to _you_." "And they shall be obeyed, Mr Lumsden," replied the man of business--"obeyed to the letter. I merely mentioned the circumstance to you, in order that you might be fully apprized of everything relating to your tenants, which it is proper you should know." "Weel, weel, but there's nae use in troublin' me wi' thae stories. I dinna want to be plagued wi' folk makin' puir mouths. There's aye a design on ane's pouch below't. By the bye, Mr Langridge," continued he, after a momentary pause, "hae ye a young chield o' an airnmonger in your hauns enow about some bill or anither that he canna pay." "The name?" inquired Mr Langridge, musingly. "Troth that I cannot tell you; for I never heard it, and forgot to speer." "Let me see--oh, ay--you will mean, I dare say, a young man of the name of John Reid, poor fellow?" "Very likely," said the client; "Is he a young man, an airnmonger to business, and hae ye diligence against him enow on a fifty pound bill, due to a Sheffield hoose?" "The same," replied Mr Longridge. "These are exactly the circumstances. How came you, Mr Lumsden," he added, smilingly, "to be so well informed of them?" "I'll maybe explain that afterwards; but, in the meantime, will ye tell me what sort o' a lad this Mr Reid is? Is he a decent, weel-doin' young man?" "Remarkably so," replied Mr Langridge, "remarkably so, Mr Lumsden. I can answer for that; for I have known him now for a good while, and have had many opportunities of estimating his character." "Then hoo cam he into his present difficulties?" "Through the misconduct of a brother--entirely through the misconduct of a brother." And Mr Langridge proceeded to give precisely the same account of the young man's misfortunes, and of the present state of his affairs, that he himself had given to the old stone-breaker, as already detailed to the reader. When he had concluded-- "It seems to me rather a hard sort o' case," said the client. "But could you no help him a wee on the score o' lenity?" "I would willingly do it if I could; but it's not in my power. My instructions are peremptory. I dare not do it but with a certainty of losing the business of the pursuers, the best clients I have." "Naething, then, 'll do but payin' the siller, I suppose?" said the other. "Nothing, nothing, I fear. My clients seem quite determined. They are enraged at some smart losses which they have lately sustained in Scotland, and will give no quarter." "Then I suppose if they _war_ paid, they would be satisfied," said the stone-breaker. "Ha, ha, ha! Mr Lumsden, no doubt of _that_," exclaimed Mr Langridge, laughing. "That would settle the business at once." "I fancy sae," said the other, musingly. Then, after a pause--"An' think ye the lad wad get on if this stane were taen frae aboot his neck?" "I have no doubt of it--not the least," replied Mr Langridge, "for I have every confidence in the young man's industry and uprightness of principle. But he has no friend to back him, poor fellow: no one to help him out of the scrape." "Ye canna be quite sure o' that, Mr Langridge," said the old man. "What if I hae taen a fancy to help him mysel?" "You, Mr Lumsden!--you!" exclaimed Mr Langridge in great surprise. "What motive on earth can you have for assisting him?" "I didna say that I meant to assist him--I only asked ye, what if I took a fancy to do't?" "Why, to that I can only say that, if you have, he is all right, and will get his head above water yet. But you surprise me, Mr Lumsden, by this interest in Reid. May I ask how it comes about?" "I'll tell you a' that presently, but I'll first tell you that I _do_ mean to assist the young man in his straits. I'll advance the money to pay that bill for him. Will ye see to that, then, Mr Langridge? Put me doon for the amount oot o' the funds in your hauns, and stay further proceedins." Mr Langridge could not express the surprise he felt on this extraordinary intimation from a man who, although there were some good points in his character, notwithstanding of the outward crust of churlishness in which it was encased, he never believed capable of any very striking act of generosity. Mr Langridge, we say, could not express the surprise which this unlooked-for instance of that quality in Mr Lumsden inspired, nor did he attempt it; for he justly considered that such expression would be offensive to the old man, as implying a belief that he had been deemed incapable of doing a benevolent thing. Mr Langridge, therefore, kept his feelings, on the occasion, to himself, and contented himself with promising compliance, and venturing a muttered compliment or two, which, however, were ungraciously enough received, on the old man's generosity. "But whar's the young man to be fand?" inquired the latter. "Why, that I cannot well tell you," replied Mr Langridge; "for I was informed, in the course of the day, by the messengers whom I employed to apprehend him, that he had left his lodging early in the morning, no doubt in order to avoid them, and they could not ascertain where he had gone to." "Humph, that's awkward," replied the client. "I wad like to find him." "I fear that will be difficult," replied Mr Langridge; "but I will call off the bloodhounds in the meantime, and terminate proceedings." "Ay, do sae, do sae. But can we no get haud o' the lad ony way?" At this moment, a rap at the door of the apartment in which was Mr Langridge and his client, interrupted further conversation on the subject. "Come in," exclaimed the former. The door opened, and in walked two messengers, with Reid a prisoner between them. We leave it to the reader to conceive the latter's surprise, on beholding his acquaintance of the morning, the old stone-breaker, seated in an arm-chair in Mr Langridge's writing-chamber. But while he looked this surprise, he also seemed to feel acutely the humiliation of his position. After a nod of recognition, he said, with an attempt at a smile, and addressing himself to the old man-- "You see they have got me after all, my friend. But it was my own doing. On reflection, I saw no use in endeavouring to avoid them, and gave myself up, at least, threw myself in their way, in order to encounter the worst at once, and be done with it." "I daresay ye was richt, after a'," replied the stone-breaker; "it was the best way. Mr Langridge," he added, and now rising from his seat, "wad ye speak wi' me for a minnit, in another room?" "Certainly, Mr Lumsden," replied Mr Langridge. "Will we proceed with the prisoner?" inquired one of the messengers. "No, remain where you are a moment, till I return;" and Mr Langridge led the way out of the apartment, followed by the old stone-breaker. When they had reached another room, and the door had been secured-- "Noo, Mr Langridge, anent what I was speaking to ye about regarding this young man wha has come in sae curiously upon us, juist whan we were wanting him--I dinna care to be seen in the matter, sae ye maun juist manag't for me yersel." "Had ye no better enjoy the satisfaction of your own good deed in person, Mr Lumsden, by telling Mr Reid of the important service you intend doing him?" "I'll do naething o' the kind," replied the old stone-breaker, testily. "I dinna want to be bothered wi't. Sae juist pay ye his bill and charges, Mr Langridge, an' keep an e'e on his proceedins afterwards, an' let me ken frae time to time hoo he's gettin on." With these instructions Mr Langridge promised compliance; and, on his having done so, the stone-breaker proposed to depart; but, just as he was about doing so, he turned suddenly round to his man of business, and said-- "About the Tamsons, Mr Langridge, ye needna, for a wee while, tak thae staps again them that I was speakin aboot. Let them alane a wee till they get roun a bit." "I'll do so, Mr Lumsden," replied the worthy writer, who, the reader will observe, had accomplished his generous purpose dexterously. He knew his man, and acted accordingly. "What's their arrears, again?" inquired the other. "Half-a-year's rent--£3, 17s.," replied Mr Langridge. "Ay, it's a heap o' siller--no to be fan at every dyke side. An' then, there's this half-year rinning on, an' very near due. That'll mak--hoo much?" "Just £7, 14s. exactly, Mr Lumsden." "Ay, exactly," replied the latter, who had been making a mental calculation of the amount, and had arrived, although more slowly than his experienced lawyer, at the same result. "A serious soom," added the client. "No trifle, indeed, Mr Lumsden," said Mr Langridge; "but it's safe enough. They're honest people." "Ye'r aye harpin on that string," replied the stone-breaker, surlily; "but what signifies their honesty to me, if they'll no pay me my rent?" "True, very true," said the law agent. "That's the only practical honesty." "See you an' get thae arrears, at ony rate, oot o' them, _if_ ye can, Mr Langridge; an', if ye canna, I suppose we maun juist want them. Ye needna push owre hard for them either, since they're in the state ye say. But ye'll surely mak the present half-year oot o' them. That maun be paid. Mind _that_, at ony rate, maun be paid, Mr Langridge." And saying this, he placed his old tattered hat, which he had hitherto held in his hand, on his head, and left the house. On his departure, Mr Langridge hastily entered the apartment in which, he had left the messengers with their prisoner. "We're just waiting marching orders, Mr Langridge," said the latter, on his entering, and making an attempt at playfulness, with which his spirit but ill accorded. "My friends here are getting tired of their charge, and anxious to be relieved of him." "Are they so, Mr Reid?" replied Mr Langridge, smiling. "Why, then, we had best relieve them at once." Then turning to the principal officer--"Quit your prisoner, Maxwell--the debt is settled. Mr Reid, you are at liberty." The blood rushed to poor Reid's face, and then withdrew, leaving it as pale as death, and yet he could express no part of the feelings which caused these violent alternations. At length-- "Mr Langridge," he said, "what is the meaning of this? How do I come to be liberated?" "By the simplest and most effectual of all processes, Mr Reid," replied the worthy writer, smiling; "by the payment of the debt." "But _I_ have not paid the debt, Mr Langridge. I _could_ not pay the debt." "No; but somebody else might. The short and the long of it is, Mr Reid, that a _friend_ has come forward, and settled the claim on which diligence was raised against you. The bill, with interest and all expenses, _is_ paid, and you are again a free man." Again overwhelmed by his feelings, which were a thousand times more eloquently expressed by a flood of silent tears than they could have been by the most carefully rounded periods, it was some time before the young man could pursue the conversation, or ask for the further information which he yet intensely longed to possess. On recovering from the burst of emotion which had, for the moment, deprived him of the power of utterance-- "And _who_, pray, Mr Langridge, is this friend--this friend indeed?" "Why, I do not know exactly whether I am at liberty to tell you, Mr Reid," replied Mr Langridge. "The friend you allude to declined transacting this matter personally with you, which seems to imply that he did not care that you should know who he was; yet, as he certainly did not expressly forbid me to disclose him, and as I think it but right that you should know to whom you are indebted, I will venture to tell you. Had you some conversation, at an early hour this morning, with an old stone-breaker, on the highway side, about three or four miles from town?" "I had. The old man that was sitting here when I came in." "The same. Well, what would you think if _he_ should have been the friend in question? Would you expect from his manner, that he _would_ do such a thing? or, from his appearance and occupation, that he could?" "Certainly not--certainly not. The old man--the poor old man, to whom I offered half-a-crown--who works for ninepence a-day--who never saw me in his life before this morning--who knows nothing of me! Impossible, Mr Langridge--impossible; he cannot be the man. You do not say that he is?" "But I do though, Mr Reid, and that most distinctly. It is he, and no other, I assure you, who has done you this friendly service." "Then, if it be so, I know not what to say to it, Mr Langridge. I can say nothing. I trust, however, I shall not be found wanting on the score of gratitude. I can say no more. But will you be so good as inform me, if you can, how the good man has come to do me so friendly a service? Who on earth, or what is he?" "Sit down, sit down, Mr Reid, and I'll answer all your questions--I'll tell you all about him," replied Mr Langridge. Mr Reid having complied with this invitation, the latter began:-- "The history of the old stone-breaker, my good sir, is a very short and a very simple one. It contains no vicissitude, and to few, besides ourselves, would be found possessing any particular interest. Your friend was, in his youth, a soldier, and served, I believe, in the American war. At his return home on the conclusion of that war, he was discharged, still a young man, and shortly after married a woman with a fortune" (smilingly) "of some five-and-twenty or thirty pounds. With this sum the thrifty pair purchased two or three cows, and commenced the business of cowfeeders. They prospered; for they were both saving and industrious, and, in time, realized a considerable sum of money, which they went on increasing. This they invested in house property from time to time, till their possessions of this kind became very valuable. "For upwards of forty years they continued in this way, when Mrs Lumsden died, leaving her husband a lonely widower; for they had no children. On the death of the former, the latter, who was now an old man, and unequal to conducting, alone, the business in which his wife's activity and industry had hitherto aided him, sold off his cows, and proposed to live in retirement on the rents of his property; and this he did for some time. Accustomed, however, to a life of constant labour and exertion, the old man soon found the idleness on which he had thrown himself, intolerably irksome. He became miserable from a mere want of having something to do. While in this state of ennui, chancing one day to stroll into the country, (this is what he told me himself,) he saw some labouring men knapping stones by the way-side; and strange as the fancy may seem, he was instantly struck with a desire of taking to this occupation. He did so, and has, from that day to the present, now upwards of ten years, pursued it with as much assiduity as if it was his only resource for a subsistence. He has, as I already told you, no family of his own; neither has he, I believe, any relation living; or, if there be, they must be very remote; and, as he strictly confines his expenditure to his daily earnings as a stone-breaker--some ninepence a-day, I believe--his wealth is rapidly increasing, and is, at this moment, no trifle, I assure you. Now, my good sir, when I tell you that I am the law agent of this strange, eccentric person, and that I manage all his business for him, I have told you everything about him that is worth mentioning." "There is just one thing, Mr Langridge," said Mr Reid, who had been an attentive listener to the tale just told him, "that wants explanation: can you give me the smallest shadow of a reason for the part he has acted towards me?" "Nay, there you puzzle me; I cannot. It appears as unaccountable to me as to you, although I have known Mr Lumsden now for upwards of fifteen years." "Did you ever know him do a thing of this kind before?" "Never! and I must say candidly, that, although he is by no means deficient in kindness of heart, notwithstanding his rough exterior, I did not believe him capable of such an act of generosity." "It is an extraordinary matter," said Mr Reid; "and although I can have but little right to inquire into the _motives_ for an act by which I am so largely benefited--it seems ungracious to do so--yet would I give a good round sum, if I had it to spare, to know the real cause of this good man's friendship towards me." "Why, that I suspect neither you nor I shall ever know. I question much, indeed, if the principal actor in this affair himself could give a reason for what he has done. It seems to me just one of those odd and unaccountable things which eccentric men, like Mr Lumsden, will sometimes do; and with this solution of the mystery, and the benefit it has produced to you, I rather think, Mr Reid, you must be content. I would, however, add, in order to redeem Mr Lumsden's act of generosity from the character of a mere whim, that your case was one eminently calculated to excite any latent feeling of benevolence which he might possess; and that your manner and appearance--no flattery--are equally well calculated to second a claim so established. Yourself, and your peculiar circumstances, in short, had chanced to touch the right chord in a right man's breast, and hence the response on which we are speculating." Having thus discussed the knotty point of the old stonebreaker's sudden act of generosity, Mr Langridge invited Mr Reid to put his affairs into his hands, promising that they should have the advantage, on his part, of something more than mere professional zeal. This friendly invitation the latter gladly accepted, and shortly after consigned all his business matters to the care of the worthy writer, who exerted himself in behalf of his client with an efficiency that soon placed the latter once more in the way of well-doing. And well he did; having subsequently realised a very handsome independency. In the success of the young man, no one rejoiced more than the old stone-breaker, who frequently visited him in his shop; sometimes merely for the purpose of seeing him; at others, to purchase some of those little articles of ironmongery which the due preservation of his dwelling-house property demanded. Let us state, too, that, amongst his purchases, were, at different times, the hammer-heads which he used in his occupation of stone-breaking. In their first transaction in this way, there was something curiously characteristic of the old man's peculiarities of temper. Mr Reid, not yet perfectly aware of these peculiarities, declined, for some time, putting any price on a couple of hammer-heads which his friend had picked out. He would have made him a present of them; and, to the latter's inquiry as to their price, replied, evasively, and laughing while he spoke, that he would tell him that afterwards. "I tak nae credit, young man," said the stone-breaker, crustily, "tell me enow their cost." And he pulled out a small greasy leathern purse, and was undoing its strings, when Mr Reid laid his hand on his arm to prevent him, at the same time telling him that he would do him a favour by accepting the hammer-heads in a present. "What is such a trifle between you and me, Mr Lumsden--you to whom I owe everything?" "You owe me a great deal mair than ye're ever likely to pay me, at ony rate, young man, if this be the way ye transact business," replied the other, with evident signs of displeasure. "Tell me the price o' thae hammer-heads at ance, an' be dune wi't. I hae nae broo o' folk that fling awa their guids as ye seem inclined to do." Mr Reid blushed at the reproof, but, seeing at once how the land lay, with regard to his customer's temper, he now plumply named the price of the hammers, sevenpence each. "Sevenpence!" exclaimed the old man. "I'll gie ye nae such price. Doonricht robbery! I can get them as guid in ony shop in the toon for saxpence ha'penny. If ye like to tak that price for them, ye may hae't. If no, ye can keep them." Mr Reid, now knowing his man somewhat better than he did at first, demurred, but at length agreed to the abatement, and the transaction was thus brought to a close. We need hardly add, that the £50 advanced by the old man to Mr Reid were subsequently repaid; but the call is more imperative on us to state, that, on the former's death, which took place about two years after, the latter found himself named in his will for a very considerable sum. One, somewhat larger, was bequeathed by the same document to Mr Langridge. The remainder was appropriated to various charities. And here, good reader, ends the story of the Stone-Breaker. LAIRD RORIESON'S WILL. In the little town of Maybole there lived, some fifty years ago or more, an old man of the name of George Rorieson, more commonly called Laird Rorieson. He had been a kind of general merchant, or trafficker in any kind of commodities which he thought would yield him a profit; and, by dint of great sagacity, had made some very fortunate hits, and realised a large sum of money. Having begun the world with a penny, he was emphatically the maker of his own fortunes--a circumstance he was very proud of, and loved to sound in the ears of certain individuals who envied him his riches. Having amassed his money by an accumulation of small sums, for a long course of years, he had gradually become narrower and narrower, as his wealth increased; and, by the time he arrived at the age of sixty, his penurious feelings had become so strong and deeprooted that he could scarcely afford himself the means of a comfortable subsistence. It is almost needless to say that Laird Rorieson never had courage or liberality of sentiment sufficient to give him an impulse towards matrimony; and truly it was alleged that he never oven looked on womankind with any feelings different from those with which he contemplated his fellow-creatures generally; and these had always some connection, one way or another, with making profit of them. But, though he had no wife, he had a good store of nephews and nieces--somewhere about twenty--all poor enough, God knows! but all as hopeful as brides and bridegrooms of a great store of wealth and bliss being awaiting them on the death of Uncle Geordie. The affection which these twenty nephews and nieces shewed to Uncle George was remarkable; but, somehow or another, the good uncle hated them mortally, and, the bitterer he became, the more loving they waxed--so that it was very wonderful to see so much human love and sympathy thrown away upon an old churl who could have seen all the devoted creatures at the devil. It was indeed alleged that this crabbed miser had no love for any one, all his affection being expended upon his money-bags: but we are bound to say that this is not quite the truth; for there was a neighbour of the name of Saunders Gibbieson, a bachelor, for whom the Laird really felt some small twinges of human kindness. Saunders Gibbieson was as true a Scotchman as ever threw the pawkie glamour of a twinkling grey eye over the open face of an English victim. He was, as already said, a bachelor; but unlike his friend Geordie, he loved the fair sex, and vowed he would marry the bonniest lass o' Maybole the moment he was able to sustain her "in bed, board, and washing." He had scraped together a few pounds, maybe to the extent of a hundred or two, and looked forward to making himself happy at no very distant period. He was a famous hand at a political argument; and there was not a man in Maybole who could touch him at driving a bargain. As already said, Geordie had a kind of feeling towards Saunders, and there can be no doubt that Saunders had as strong an affection for the "auld rich grub," as he called him in his throat, as ever had any of the twenty nephews and nieces already alluded to. In the evenings he often went in and sat with him; and, by dint of curious jokes, "humorous lees," and political anecdotes, he contrived to wile, for a few minutes, the creature's heart from his money-bags, and unbend his puckered cheeks and lips into a species of compromise between a laugh and a grin. It was no wonder, then, that Geordie had a kind of liking for Saunders--seeing he got value in amusement from him, without so much cost as even a piece of old dry cheese, of a waught of thin ale. On the other hand, it was difficult to see how Saunders could love the laird; and, indeed, it was a matter of gossip what could induce a man so much in request as Saunders Gibbieson to take so much pains in pouring into the "leather lugs" of an old miser the precious jokes that would have set the biggest table in Maybole in a roar. Now the time came when Laird Rorieson began to feel the first touches of that big black angel who loves to hug so fondly the sons of men. He was ill--he was indeed very ill--and it would have done any man's heart good to see the kindness and sympathy which his twenty nephews and nieces paid him. Every hour one or other of them was calling at his house; and his ears were regaled by the sympathetic tones which their love for their dear uncle wrung from their tender hearts. Oh, it was beautiful to behold! Such things do credit to our fallen nature. But the old grub loved it not; and it was even said he cursed and swore in the very faces of the kind creatures, just as if they had had an eye on the heavy coffers of gold that lay in his house. This kindness on the part of his nephews and nieces was thus converted into a kind of poison; for every time they called, their uncle got into such a passion that his remaining strength was well-nigh worn out. But he had still enough left to sign his name; and the ungrateful creature resolved upon leaving all his gold to found an hospital. He sent for a man of the law, and had a consultation with locked doors, and all things seemed in a fair way for the poor nephews and nieces being sacrificed for ever. This circumstance came to the ears of Saunders Gibbieson, who had not been an unattentive spectator of the extraordinary proceedings going on in the house of his neighbour. As soon as he heard the news, he retired and meditated, and communed with himself three hours on matters of deep concernment to him and the generations that might descend from him. The result of all this study was a resolution alike remarkable for its eccentricity and sagacity; but Saunders' spirit dipped generally so deep in the wells of wisdom that there was no wonder it should come forth drunk, as it were, with the golden policy of cunning. Now, all of a sudden, Saunders grew (as he said) very ill--as ill indeed, or nearly as ill, as Laird Rorieson himself, but, so full was he of brotherly love towards his neighbour, that his sudden illness did not prevent him calling upon the latter one night, when there seemed to be no great chance of their being disturbed by any of the sympathetic nephews and nieces. He found Geordie very weakly, and sat down by the bedside, to pour the balm of his friendship and consolation into the sick man's ear. The Laird received him kindly, and as was his custom, Saunders got him into a pleasant humour, by telling him something of a curious nature that had occurred, or had been supposed by Saunders to have occurred, during the day. He then began the more important part of his work. "You are ill, Laird," said he; "but I question muckle if ye're sae ill as I am myself. For a long time I've been in a dwinin way, and, though I hae kept up a fair appearance and good spirits, I've been gradually getting thinner and weaker. I fear I'm in a fair way for anither warld." "I'm sorry to hear't," replied the Laird. "It's a sad thing to dee." And he shook as he uttered the word. "Ay, an' it's a sad thing," said Saunders, "to be tormented in your illness, wi' thae cursed corbies o' puir relations. The moment I began to complain I've been tormented wi' a host o' nephews and nieces, wha come and stare into my hollow een, as if they would count the draps o' blude that are yet left in my heart." "Ay, ay, are you in that plight too, Saunders?" groaned the Laird. "The ravens have been croaking owre me for twa lang years. They come and perch on the very bedposts, they croak, they whet their nebs, they look into my face, and peer into my very heart. It's dreadful--and there's nae remedy. I've tried to terrify them awa; but they come aye back again. They've worn me fairly out." "I've had many a meditation on the subject, Laird," said Saunders; "and, between you and me, if there's a goose quill in a' Scotland, I'll hae a shot at them. I haena muckle i' the warld--a thousand or twa maybe, hard won, Geordie, as a' gowd is in thae hard times; but the deil a plack o't they'll ever touch." "Ye'll be to found an hospital?" said the Laird. "Na, na," answered Saunders. "I'll found nae beggar's palace. I've studied political economy owre lang to be ignorant o' the bad effects o' public charities. They relax the sinews o' industry, and mak learned mendicants. Besides, wha thanks the founder o' an hospital for his charity? Nane!--nane! A puff or twa in the newspapers about Gibbieson's mortification would be the hail upshot o' my reward; and sensible folk would set me doun as an auld curmudgeon, wha hadna heart to love and benefit a friend." "There's some truth in that," muttered the Laird. "It's a pity a body canna tak his gear wi' him. Sair hae I toiled for it, and, oh! it's miserable! cruel! cruel! that I should be obliged to leav't to a thankless warld! But what are ye to do wi'fc, Saivjders?" "Indeed, I'm just to leave it a' to you, Laird," said Saunders. "I have lang liked ye wi' a' the luve o' honest, leal friendship; and, after muckle meditation, I canna fix on a mortal creature wha is mair deservin o't than you, my guid auld freend. You have a fair chance o' recovering; I have nane. Ye may enjoy my gear lang after the turf has grown thegither owre my grave; and God bless the gift!" "Kind, guid man!" cried the Laird, in a voice evincing strong emotion, either of love or greed. "That _is_ kindness--ay, very different frae the friendship o' my sisters' and brothers' bairns. After a', I believe yer richt, Saunders--an hospital has nae gratitude; and what have we to do wi' a cauld and heartless warld?" "There's just ae difficulty I hae," said Saunders. "The will's written and signed; but I dinna weel ken whar to lay it; for, when I'm dead, thae deevils o' corbies may smell the bit paper and put it in the fire. Maybe you would tak the charge o't for me, Laird." "Ou ay," answered the Laird. "I'll keep it. The deil o' are o' them will get it oot o' my clutches." "Weel, weel, my dear friend," said Saunders. "I'll put it into a tin box; the key ye'll find, after my breath's out, in the little cupboard that's at the foot o' my bed--ye ken the place. They can mak naething o' the key without the box; and, if you canna find the key, you can force the box open. Oh, I would like to see you reading the will in the midst o' the harpies." "That's weel arranged, Saunders; ye can set about it as soon as you like." "I intend to do it instantly, Laird," replied the man. "I'll about it this moment." And he rose and went out of the house. In a short time, Saunders returned, holding in his hand a small tin box. He laid it down upon the table, and, taking out a small key, opened it, and took out a paper, entitled--"Last Will and Testament." "There it is, my good friend," he said; and, replacing the paper in the box, he locked it and placed it in an escritoire pointed out by the Laird. He then went away. Next day, the lawyer came to carry into effect the charitable resolution of Laird Rorieson; but he found that a great change had taken place upon the old man's sentiments. He was now adverse to a mortification, and said he was resolved upon leaving his fortune to one whom he considered to be a _real friend_, and, indeed, the only real friend he had upon earth. The lawyer was surprised when he ascertained that this friend was Saunders Gibbieson; but it was not his province to object--so he departed straightway to carry into effect the new resolution of the testator. Two days afterwards, the Laird sent a message to Saunders to come and speak with him. Saunders obeyed; walking in to him slowly, and apparently with great effort, as if he had been labouring under a strong disease. "I have been thinking again and again, Saunders," said the Laird, "o' yer great kindness. You are the first man that ever left me a farthing. The warld has rugged aff me since ever I had a feather to pick. Nane has ever offered me either a bite or a sup. You are the only friend I've ever met upon earth." "I hae only obeyed the dictates o' my heart," replied Saunders; "and I am glad I have dune it, for I feel mysel very weakly, and fear the clock o' this world's time will be wound up wi' me in a very short period." "Maybe no so sune as ye think, Saunders," replied the Laird. "But my purpose is executed. Saunders, you are my heir. Hand me that box there." Saunders took up a small mahogany box that lay on the table, and handed it to him. "Here," continued the Laird, taking out a paper; "here is my will. It's a' in your favour, Saunders--lands, houses, guids, and chattels, heritable and moveable. Say naething; you are my heir. Ha! ha! let the corbies croak. You've dune me a guid service; I winna be ahint ye. Tak the box into yer ain keeping. I'll keep the key. Awa wi't this instant. Ha! ha! let the corbies croak." Saunders obeyed. He carried the box into his own house, placed it in his cupboard, locked the door, and put the key into his pocket. In about a month afterwards, old Laird Rorieson departed this life. On the day of his death, his nephews and nieces were in great commotion, and there was a terrible running to and fro, and much whispering, and wondering, and gossiping--all on the great subject of the death of Uncle Geordie. On the day of his funeral, they were all collected, to see whether there was any will. They, of course, wished that there should be none, because they, being his heirs, would succeed to all, if there was no disposition of the old man's effects. By some means, Saunders Gibbieson contrived to be present along with the expectants. Perhaps he was allowed to be among them in the character of a witness; but indeed, so certain were the nephews and nieces of having succeeded in their efforts to please the dear old man, that they could afford to allow the presence of any number of witnesses who could vouch for the sacred gravity of their countenances, and the deep sorrows of their bereaved hearts. Nor was Saunders less under the affection of lugubriousness himself; so that it was altogether one of those beautiful sights so often witnessed on such melancholy occasions, where every indication of selfishness is banished, and nothing can be observed save that Christian solemnity which proveth that "the devil hath been cast out of the heart of man, even when he did appear to be strong." The nephews and the nieces looked at Saunders, and Saunders looked at them, and so solemn were these looks, that though the writer was searching about for a will, no one seemed to care whether he found one or not. It has been said that "the heart of man is deceitful above all things;" but of a surety the adage could not have been spoken there, except with the determination to get it disproved for once in the world, and the blessed object of shewing to us sons of the seed of Abraham that we are not so wicked as we are called. At length the ominous little box was laid hold of and broken open, amidst a pretty nonchalance, and lo! there was indeed a paper, bearing the fearful word "Will," and the faces of the heirs turned as pale as the paper itself. It was opened; but it was a fair, clean sheet of paper, and not a drop of ink had stained its purity. "All safe, all safe," muttered the heirs. "Here is another box," said Saunders Gibbieson, holding up the mahogany one; "let us try it." And he opened it, and took out Geordie's will. The writer read it aloud. Saunders was sole heir to all the old miser's possessions, amounting to £10,000. No one could tell the reason why there were two papers marked "Will," and one of them a blank sheet; and Saunders, simple man, did not trouble himself to give any explanation. END OF VOL. XVIII. * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Hyphen variations left as printed